Even when she was knocked out cold with meds and had a less-than-flattering bandage across her nose, House thought Cuddy was gorgeous. It would take a hell of a lot more than drugs and a healing injury to make him think otherwise.

I'll love you forever.

Even if she wasn't aware that she said it, she meant it. House was sure of it. She loved him and he loved her. It was as simple as that. He would burn everything he owned if he was wrong, and he knew the matches weren't coming out anytime soon. The wait to hear those words had been far too long, and no one else was willing to say them. House was sure of that, too.

I love you too, Lisa.

Cuddy was asleep, but it was a fitful, restless sleep; murmuring nonsense and swatting at some invisible thing in front of her face. House finally had to hold her wrist down before she ended up accidently scratching his eyes out, letting go only when she fell into a deeper sleep and began to lightly snore. Smiling to himself, he gently maneuvered her back onto the pillows. She was as gorgeous as ever. He liked watching her sleep. He liked feeling her body heat, feeling her warm, smooth skin under his fingertips. He liked knowing that she would be there in the morning. Maybe she was dreaming about him. He decided to stay with her for a little while longer in case she woke up and needed anything. Or had anymore declarations of love for him.

A dull ache began to sneak up his right thigh. His pills were in the living room. He would have to go get them soon.

The scar on his leg. It was deep and jagged and the most hideous thing he had ever seen in his life. The soft smile on House's face dissolved into a cringe as he thought about it. More distant memories began to float back up and skim the surface. He had to strain to hear Cuddy insisting that the scar didn't bother her as he pulled a blanket over his leg and snapped at her, telling her not to look at it. Don't look at it. Don't look at it, it's ugly. Will you listen to me? Don't look at it, dammit. His fingers skimmed along the fabric of the sweatpants on his right thigh, feeling the concave shape where the missing muscle once was, the tight, thick scar tissue where the ache began to pound. He pulled his hand away, shuddering.

It didn't bother Cuddy. It didn't bother her at all. She wanted him to move in with her. It didn't bother her at all.

That was easy for her to say. She's not the one who had to live with it.

Another memory. This one all too crystal clear:

Shut up! Just shut up! You stupid bitch, just shut the fuck up already!

-Slap-

Oh, my God...Oh no...

A maniac had waltzed into his office and shot him twice. House reached up and touched the scar on his neck as the haunting memory came back. He had asked for ketamine before going into surgery. For a while everything was alright. The cane was stuffed into a golf bag and hidden in the back of the closet. He was running. He was pain free for the first time in years. Life was good. Very, very good. Then the ketamine treatment failed, big time. The pain came back worse than ever. He went back on the Vicodin. His leg had been killing him. Cuddy tried to help but it wasn't nearly enough. Even after all the patience and comfort she had given him, he still took all his pain and resentment and anger out on her. He wound up throwing his breakfast across the kitchen. Screamed at her, called her a bitch. She had slapped him, good and hard. He had certainly deserved it. The bruise left behind had gotten some interesting looks from colleagues and strangers alike.

She ended up stepping on a piece of the broken dish and had limped for a while. He had been alarmed when he saw that. Thankfully it only lasted a day or two.

And she was still with him. All that drama and she was still with him, in his clothes, in his bed. She wanted to take the plunge and live with him. Seal the deal. Make it permanent.

We belong together.

Yes, they did.

Some of her clothes were hanging in his closet. Some of his were back at her place. She wore his shirts to bed because they reminded her of him. The Jack Daniel's shirt was her favorite. It was a replacement after the old one she had stolen from him got chewed up in an old washing machine. The thought brought the smile back to his face. He remembered how genuinely thrilled she had been when she opened the bag with her new Jack Daniel's shirt in it and smiled even wider. She had made sure he saw her wearing it after taking him back home from New York. Hoping to jog his memory. She wanted him to remember everything, the good times and the bad.

Where would he be without her?

She loved him. It was as simple as that.

She all but lived with him anyway. Was he willing to take the next step? Was that something he really wanted?

A sharp bolt of pain brought him crashing back to reality.

Damn it all to hell, he thought morosely and clutched his bad thigh.

He needed to get his pills. He pulled the blanked up to her shoulder and decided to check on her again in a little while, then limped back out into the living room.