To my nice Guest (hehe, this will be your name from now on): Thanks for catching that, it's exactly what I was trying to point out. It often happens that people who have been through an ordeal manage to keep going only by repressing their emotionsbecause the events are too extreme to process. Once they reach a safe place, all that stuff resurfaces. So what I was getting at in the last chapter (and in this one) is that House finally has so much outside stability and support he can afford to fall apart a little.

To Anon: Nope, this is my first (and only) account, and I just started writing last year. Maybe the chapter reminded you of another story? I suppose mine is not the only one in which Cuddy fears that House might take his life.

Okay guys, this is it: The most important chapter of the story. It's pretty rough and deals with a lot of pain, so please read it in a quiet moment, preferably when you have a room to yourself.

Warning: If you don't deal well with descriptions of abuse (non-sexual), skip the first three very long paragraphs of House monologue. After that, you're pretty safe and should still be able to follow the rest of the chapter.

Chapter 36: House Tells Cuddy

He takes a running start and jumps. "I want to tell you something."

It has been eight months since he started seeing Dr. Nolan, and in the last two months or so, his nightmares and his depression eased up a little. Most of his days are still grey, but he is not stuck in an endlessly dark tunnel anymore. It feels more like being melancholy on a rainy day.

Except that it is summer. All his days are at least cloudy.

It is a warm Sunday afternoon. John is spending time at a friend's house to swim and play in their pool, and Rachel has left for work. Cuddy has made some iced tea, and she and House are both indulging in bumming lazily on the couch. Cuddy is in the middle of binge-watching some Netflix series when he makes his announcement. She immediately turns off the TV, obviously sensing the importance in what he has to say.

"Actually, I don't want to tell you," he elaborates. "It's more of a therapy requirement."

She turns sideways, propping her head up on her elbow on the back of the couch and pulling up her knees sideways in front of her. He has her full attention.

He swallows hard. He is sitting several feet away from her, his back resting firmly against the cushions, his legs out in front of him on the footrest. He looks down at his lap, giving her his profile. He cannot face her for what he is about to say. "Nolan urged me to share this with someone in my life. You know, someone from my actual life. Beside him. To make it real. I tried engaging Lou after work on Friday, but he was kinda busy moppin' the OR." He glances at her briefly.

Her expression remains solemn as she waits patiently for him to continue.

House takes a couple of breaths while he rubs his leg. "I don't need anything from you," he clarifies. "I don't want you to treat me any differently." This is important to him.

"Okay," she nods, her face sincere.

When he talks, his voice is dry and low, avoid of emotion. "I was abused. As a child. Not sexually, and not so much physical violence, but it was physical." He glances at her again to catch her reaction. She does not seem the least bit surprised. He realizes that she must have been expecting something along the lines all the while.

When she does not say anything, he continues talking with his eyes cast down. "My dad was in the Corps, and he liked discipline. There were rules for everything. Rules on how to eat, how to talk, how to sit. Part of them made sense, but most of them were insane. Everything needed to be exactly how he wanted it. For dinner, my mother had to use a ruler to make sure the plates were the exact distance form the edge of the table and from each other. We always ate in the same seats, of course. If I wanted to say something, I needed to ask for permission. I had to address him with 'Sir' at all times. There were so many rules—most of them permanent, some he made up as he went. They were impossible to follow for a child. And when I screwed up, he punished me. When I was little, he'd sometimes use a ruler on my butt. But he was a catholic, and didn't want his hands dirty, so he found other ways to discipline me. He'd lock me up in the cellar for hours, without light or anything to eat or drink, made me spend the night in the yard outside with no shelter, force me under cold showers… When I said something inappropriate or was disrespectful in his eyes, he'd wash my mouth with soap or make me drink a glass of vinegar."

He shakes his head at the absurdity of it all. "I became good at reading him and his moods, knew when to get out of his way and keep quiet, but that didn't always help. At times I thought he only made up rules so that he could punish me in some way. I was afraid all the time, and tried to sidestep the punishments whenever I could. I started hiding something to eat and drink, a book and a flashlight under one of the floorboards in the cellar. That went great for a while, until one time I fell asleep while reading and didn't hear him come down the stairs. Afterward, he'd search the place every time before locking me down there again. When something like this happened, when I tried to duck his punishment, he'd loose control and beat me. Rarely in the face, so it wouldn't be noted at school. After my third ear infection one particularly cold winter, with too many nights outside, I used pliers to cut a small hole in the fence behind a bush, which I could squeeze through at night and hide at a friend's house. I just had to make sure to be back in time. One morning, he waited for me. Either he woke up early or he had suspected something and went to check on me during the night. He must have found the hole, because he stood right on the other side of the bush, and grabbed me before I could react. We had a barrel in our yard, to catch rainwater for the plants. He'd force me in it sometimes when I was younger. He dragged me over there and pushed my head down repeatedly, for minutes. The water must have been ice cold, but I didn't feel it. I was sure that this time he was gonna kill me."

His voice feels hoarse from all the talking. He glances over at her and sees that she is silently crying. She swiftly wipes at her tears when his eyes meet hers. 'This is enough,' he thinks, and decides to stop talking. He is asking too much of her; he should not make her carry his burden.

She swallows against the lump in her throat. "What was your mom's role? In all this?"

He scratches his forehead. "I think she was scared of him. She was excellent at downplaying it all. She assured me that, deep down, my dad loved me, and that he just wanted me to be a good boy. That this was his way of expressing that he cared." House scoffs mildly, hanging his head. "She did take care of me. After the beatings, or when I got sick after another night outside. And she tried to spare me from some of it. When I wet the bed at night, I occasionally managed to only wake her up. She'd quietly change the sheet and superficially clean the one I had ruined. She'd hide it to take care of it the next day when my dad was at work, so that he wouldn't find it hanging on the clothesline in the morning. She couldn't change my PJs, because he'd notice, so she'd dry them with her blow drier after washing them in the sink. One time, she made an attempt to stand up to him. I think I was maybe five, and I'd wet the bed, and he dragged me to the bathroom where he took off my clothes. He peed in the cup I used to rinse my mouth after brushing my teeth, and forced me to drink it. I was crying and puking my guts out when my mom appeared at the doorstep and begged him to stop. He just shoved her out of the room and locked the door. I heard her whimpering in the hallway, so I sucked it up and downed the rest of it." His mouth is dry, and he is running out of energy to say any more.

When he looks at her again, tears are streaming down her face. This time, she makes no attempt to hide them or brush them away. She draws in a shaky breath. "When did it stop?"

"When I was fifteen. In my sophomore year, I had a teacher in PE who I think suspected what was going on. All boys showered together. There was no way to hide my bruises. He never mentioned anything, and back then it wasn't very common to report domestic violence—raising a kid was purely the parents' business—and he must have know that it would have done me more harm than good. But somehow he convinced my dad that I was needed on the football team. I sucked at football! I was a small and skinny kid with no body strength, but he made me train with them. Had me take part in their diet, protein shakes and whatnot, so I'd build some muscle. I gained weight that year and grew at least two feet. When he sent the team on a run to train their condition, he took me aside and taught me how to fight. So I could defend myself, he said. He showed me how to hit, where to hit, how to keep up my guard… He also encouraged me to go away for college and apply for scholarships. I was a good student, and he advocated for me to skip a grade. Finish all my requirements for the Junior and Senior years in one year, so I could leave early. He talked to my other teachers, who approved if I was willing to take courses over the summer. Which I was happy to do. Gave me a reason to be away from home. One day during that summer, my dad came at me. I don't even remember what it was about. I ducked away and punched him so hard he went down. I sat on his chest and blocked his windpipe. Told him that if he ever touched me again, I'd kill him."

They both sit in silence. He has run out of things to say. He supposes she needs some time to process what he told her. Unsure about what to do or say next, he stares at his feet and starts to rub his leg.

Eventually, Cuddy shifts on the couch, and out of the corner of his eye he sees her scooting closer to him. When she is seated right next to him, she takes his hand, stilling his movement. "House, I know you said you don't need me to say anything, and I am sure you already know this, but please listen to me."

He continues staring at his lap. He feels so small and ashamed that he cannot meet her gaze.

"Greg, look at me," she demands gently, her voice barely above a whisper.

His head snaps up in surprise, turning to face her. She never calls him that.

Her eyes are watery, but at least she stopped crying. He knows that when she speaks, she is not only talking to him, but also to the child he used to be. "What happened to you is beyond everything any child should ever experience. What your parents did to you was unacceptable. It was unjust and unfair, and an absolute abomination. They were so in the wrong! You didn't deserve to be punished like that. No child should ever be punished like that. No matter what they did." She squeezes his hand more tightly and raises her eyebrows at him, emphasizing her words. "You were a good boy. You are a good man." New tears start to run down her cheeks, and he averts his eyes.

It is true: His mind is consciously aware of everything she just said. But it does feel good to hear it from someone he loves.

They sit in silence again, and he focuses on her breath and her warm fingers.

Suddenly, she pulls her hand away and clasps it in front of her mouth. "Oh my God," she exclaims, looking as if she just made a horrible discovery.

"What?" he asks.

"That's what I did, isn't it?"

He had not meant to indirectly convey a message to her, and has no idea what she is talking about. He raises his eyebrows at her questioningly.

"When we were dating." She seems to be in shock and has a hard time formulating her thoughts. "I made up all these crazy rules that you were to play by, and in the end I dumped you anyway."

He never drew a parallel between his childhood and their break-up, and finds the comparison a bit far fetched. "You didn't abandon me and lock me up in a dark cellar."

Her breath has turned shallow. "I did. In a way. I locked you out of my house, out of my life. I withdrew our proximity—both physical and emotional; took Rachel away from you." She shakes her head, looking deeply distressed. "I actually told you that you weren't good enough."

He never saw it this way. To him, it had been only a matter of time until she would be fed up with him. It had been insane of her to even want to try being in a relationship with him in the first place. He never blamed her for ending it. "I wasn't," he mumbles, bowing his head and slumping his shoulders.

"According to whose standards?" she asks in a raised voice, furrowing her eyebrows. She sounds angry. "Mine? Who says you need to be willing to take out the trash, attend events you have absolutely no intention to go to, play nice with my mother… Or know perfectly how to act in a crisis, for that matter?" She exhales heavily, a look of disappointment crossing her face. "You never had any such rules for me, and I sure as hell wasn't the perfect girlfriend."

He swallows hard. "You were," he whispers. "To me." This is true. He would have done anything for her, even if that had involved giving up his practice. A flush of sadness rushes through him, remembering the abandonment he felt when she left. "You meant the world to me, Cuddy." He has a lump in his throat and can barely manage to get his next words out. "I tried so hard to be the person you needed me to be."

His words seem to hit her. He is not sure he ever saw her this upset. "I know," she murmurs, her face filled with so much grief she cannot contain it. More tears spill from her eyes; her breath is shaking. "I know that." He sees his pain reflected back upon him.

All the while he was talking about his childhood he barely felt anything. It was all buried so far for so long he has no access to his emotions anymore. He did not realize he still carried the pain from their break-up as well, which now rises up in him, and an ugly sound escapes his throat. He feels a storm forming in his chest, huge grey waves threatening to bury him underneath, and his first instinct is to run. He needs to get away from her and from his emotions. He needs to reach the shore, any shore, before they crash him, but he knows he cannot run anymore, and she would follow him anyways.

So he turns away from her to lie on his side, and grabs a pillow to stuff it into his mouth, muffling the sounds of his screams and sobs as he cries like he never did before in his life. The loss of her had been so utterly devastating. Not only because he had to learn how to live without her again, but also because she took away his hope that anyone would ever put up with him. That he would ever not be alone. She had been the one. She had known him like no other, had loved him like no other, and not even she could stand to be with him for more than a few months.

Wave after wave of pain washes over him, and he thinks that any moment it will split him in half. His heart hurts so much.

He feels her hand on his arm, and eventually she lies down behind him, molding her body to his. Her nose rubs his shoulder blade, and her arm encircles his waist. She presses her hand flat against his chest, right over his aching heart.

In his entire teens, and maybe even into his twenties, he longed to be held like this. He would lie awake in his bed and wish for someone to protect him and keep him safe. She was the only person in his life who ever did. Back when they were dating and he was upset but unable or unwilling to share, he would turn away from her in bed. The first few times this happened, she would leave him alone. Later, she would accept his silence but not his distance, and curl up behind him.

This memory and the bereavement he felt only make him cry harder, and he thinks that his pain is never going to end. Waves of agony keep crashing over him.

"House, I'm so sorry I hurt you like that," she mumbles against his back. He feels her tears dampen his shirt.

After what seems like an eternity, he can breathe again. He has a hard time crying in general. Breaking down like this in front of her embarrasses him so much he cannot even consider facing her. He pulls away from her and gets up swiftly from the couch to hide away in the bathroom. He pees and washes his face, then stares at his reflection in the mirror for a long time.

On his return to the living room, she is standing by the couch, leaning against its back. She looks thoughtful, her eyes cast down to the ground.

"I'm gonna head to my place," he utters as he walks past her towards the entrance. He needs some time to himself.

She seems unhappy about his decision, but acquiesces. "Okay."

He puts on his sneakers.

"House?" she calls out to him before he can pick up his helmet and leave.

He turns to her, avoiding her eyes.

"Are we okay?" She sounds concerned.

He inhales deeply and briefly glances at her. "Yeah," he nods. "Of course."

She takes a few steps toward him, and his arms open up to her on their own accord.

They stand in the living room for minutes, holding onto each other tightly. Her arms are wrapped around his waist; the side of her face is pressed against his chest. His chin is resting on the crown of her head.

He thinks this might be the first time he actually experiences what forgiveness feels like. All that is left in his heart are warmth and love for the woman in his arms. He is so grateful that she is a part of his life; that she is still by his side.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he assures her as he pulls away.

"Okay." She walks him to the door. He is already outside when she adds: "Drive safe. I love you." She sounds casual—as if they were saying this to each other every day.

He turns around to look at her. Her expression is relaxed, and she seems unwilling to elaborate any further. It was a simple statement of fact.

He is not up to having this discussion with her again, unable to pick a fight with her now, so he simply lets his eyes travel over her face and blinks several times before he continues making his way to his bike, trying to accept her words.