Cuddy takes charge, which is one of the things she does best. She does it with so much compassion that it makes House feel foolish for not telling her earlier, for creating an entirely false narrative in his mind. Maybe it was the Vicodin lying to him, or maybe he was merely following his oft proven and reliable mantra that it's always best to assume the worst. Either way, it's a relief that she knows, and a bigger one that her commitment to him is apparently unshakable.

When they return to Cuddy's from the park that night, a worried Wilson is waiting for them. House's first priority is to change out of his wet clothes, but he lingers in the hallway for a moment and listens to Cuddy tell his best friend what he's done. The shock and confusion in Wilson's voice is another burden House will have to carry; he won't be able to ease the guilt his two favorite people feel for not catching on and intervening sooner. (Wilson dramatically hugs him before he goes home and tries to apologize for 'not seeing it.')

House is too tired to talk more before bed, even though he can tell Cuddy wants to. She barely takes her eyes off him, like she's afraid he's going to disappear right in front of her. He's grateful that she doesn't push it and that they fall asleep in each other's arms.

The next day at work, House takes his pills out of their hiding places. Cuddy and Wilson are smart enough not to believe he's given them everything (though in this case he has) so they search the office from top to bottom. Cuddy makes him tell his team what happened, and they look almost relieved to hear an explanation for why he's been off his game (there's concern there, too— but they know better than to show too much of it). Cuddy also tells the pharmacist that House can't pick up prescriptions, cutting off a direct line of temptation.

And then she finds him a complicated case to take his mind off the pain that's slowly but surely creeping back in.

—/—

The puzzle is enough to keep House sober and relatively sane for three days. Cuddy's constant attention doesn't hurt — she checks in on him so many times that it would be embarrassing if he cared what people thought about his girlfriend babysitting him (which he doesn't). But then he solves the case, and it rains again, and his entire body craves the high, and the relief that comes with it. All day at work he grits his teeth and stays as far away from the clinic and pharmacy as possible. By the time he gets home and has dinner (which he can barely stomach), his leg is throbbing.

He's on the couch, with Cuddy resting against his chest, when he starts sweating and shaking. "Are you okay?" she asks, looking up at him.

"No," he tells her, because there's no point in hiding what she can feel for herself. "I need pills."

"Do you want ibuprofen?"

"I've already taken four."

He's furious because he can't catch a damn break. It was a mistake to let himself to believe he could make progress when a simple change in the weather makes the fight insurmountable. Hope only makes it hurt more to remember that he has no control over the rhythm of his pain.

"You can add Tylenol," Cuddy suggests.

"We both know that's a joke for my pain level right now."

She frowns like it's hurting her to deny him, which it probably is. "I'm sorry, House. It might at least take the edge off."

He's sorry, too. Because it's not a good look to beg for drugs from the love of your life, not that it's the first time she's seen him this low. He's also sorry because this is going to be the night they have to get through in order to reach the other side — to get back to the life they had before he ripped it away from them.

"I can't do this," he says, wanting to give up before it gets worse.

"Yes, you can. What can I do to help?"

She tries to reach for his leg, to offer solidarity and comfort, but he pushes her hand away. "Not that."

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have."

He's lightheaded with dependence, a fog that's hard to see through. Cuddy doesn't want him to fight alone, but he doesn't want her to be a casualty of his unintended cruelty. "No. You didn't do anything wrong. This is exactly why I didn't want to do this with you. I should go to my apartment for the night for both of our sakes."

Cuddy grabs his forearm, holding his gaze. "You better not be suggesting that I can't handle you. Where have you been for the last twenty years?"

Of course Cuddy can handle him, like she can do anything— but tonight isn't going to be their usual sarcastic remarks and teasing. "This is different."

"I don't care. You're not leaving this house, where I know there's no Vicodin. I will barricade the door and slash your tires if I have to."

Hasn't he learned by now? He can run from Cuddy, but she'll come running after him. There's no point arguing with a love as fierce as hers. "Okay," he accepts. "I'll stay."

"Where would you be most comfortable? You want to move to the bedroom?"

He's about to make an innuendo about her suggestion, but his entire stomach churns before he can. He's not sure if it's from the blinding pain or from going cold turkey, but he gets up and quickly limps to the bathroom, Cuddy following right behind him.

He throws up three times while Cuddy rubs his back and whispers encouragement. When he stops and takes a breath he thinks of his hallucination and how he was right all along that she'd care for him if only let her.

"Wait here for a second," she instructs. "I'm going to get a washcloth."

"Yeah, because if you hadn't said that, I'd be on my way to run a marathon."

He throws up once more before she returns, holding a mug in one hand and a washcloth in the other. "I brought you tea, too. The ginger should help."

It makes House laugh harder than he should given his current situation. Cuddy furrows her brow, not understanding. "What exactly is so funny right now?"

"It turns out that my drug induced hallucination of how you would help me get off Vicodin was spot on."

She kneels and runs the damp cloth across his forehead, wiping away the sweat. "Oh, yeah? Which part was the most predictable?"

"The stupidity of thinking tea is going to fix it."

Cuddy smiles at him despite the insult. "You can still make fun of me. I'm going to take that as a good sign."

"Give me the damn mug."

He takes small sips and tries to breathe in and out and remind himself he wants his life and freedom more than he wants the pills. He forces himself to picture everything about Mayfield — from the sights to the smells to the pain and claustrophobia he felt. And then he flips the switch and thinks about lazy Saturdays with Cuddy and Rachel and how at peace he feels whenever they're around.

"What if I run the bath?" Cuddy asks, still looking for ways to make this bearable for him.

"Sounds perfect," House quips. "As long as you promise to drown me in it."

"Nope. No drowning. But maybe it will help relax the spasms?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

She turns on the faucet and lets the water run. She fills the bath with the lavender salts she normally uses to relax after a long day. She helps him stand and get undressed — she even has to help him into the tub, which isn't an easy task given their size difference, but they manage to make it work.

The water does help a bit, but pain still comes in ferocious waves, and Cuddy can see it written all over his face. "You can squeeze my hand," she tells him, sitting on the floor next to the tub. "I can take it."

"Thanks, but I don't want to break your tiny, talented fingers."

"You can at least hold them," she laces their hands together on the edge of the tub. "Is it okay if I kiss you?"

"Why the hell would you want to? I've puked like five times."

"I always want to kiss you."

His whole body reacts to the statement, it vibrates through him as he pictures pushing her against the wall of his apartment to kiss her, even though he really didn't. He can still see and feel it so vividly, despite knowing it wasn't real.

"What?" Cuddy asks, gauging his response. "Did I say something wrong?"

"No."

When he was hallucinating, he was trying to reach a world where Cuddy was by his side, where he didn't need Vicodin, where he was a better man. What he's discovered over the last three years is that he's capable of being that man, of making that story his. Reality is so much better than what he imagined, which gives him more motivation to push through.

He leans over and kisses her — quick and light—but enough to make sure she feels his gratitude. When they pull part, House notices Rachel hovering in the doorway in her pajamas.

"Hey, rugrat."

He tries to act as normal as possible, because letting Cuddy see him at his worst is bad enough, but he has to draw the line at Rachel.

Cuddy turns towards her, too. "Hi, sweetheart. Are you okay?"

She nods, but quickly deduces that something isn't right. "What's the matter with House?"

"He isn't feeling well so I'm sitting with him while he takes a bath."

"Oh," she processes and then looks directly at him. "Do you want my bath toys? I have boats and sharks and dolphins."

It's a small but meaningful gesture. Rachel is Cuddy's kid— a caretaker at her core.

"That's so weird, I was just telling your mom that I wish I had some sharks."

Rachel runs off to her room to find the toys. "I can put her to bed while you relax in here," Cuddy says.

She looks worried that the interruption is unwanted, but that couldn't be further from the truth. Rachel grounds him in the here and now— in his after Vicodin timeline. There was no Rachel in his Vicodin life— no pirates or morning talks over cereal or piano lessons. He also knows he'll be on his best behavior so long as Rachel is there to witness it. "Don't make her think I don't want her around. I won't be an asshole to her."

"I know you won't."

Rachel returns with a handful of plastic sharks and Cuddy gets up to get them from her. "Thank you, honey. This is very thoughtful of you. You can stay for a little while before bed as long as you hang back here so House still has privacy, okay?"

"Okay, mama."

Cuddy drops the sharks in the tub and then resumes her spot on the floor. "That's much better," House says as the toys float around him.

"What made you sick?" Rachel asks.

House isn't sure if he's supposed to lie in this instance, but he doesn't. "Medicine."

"No," Rachel reasons. "Medicine makes you better."

"Remember when you had a fever and your mom gave you the medicine in that little cup?"

"Yes."

"Why do you think she used the cup?"

"To know how much to give me."

"Right, because you can't drink the whole bottle. If you do it'll make you sick."

"You drank the whole bottle?"

"Basically."

"Why'd you do that?"

"Because I'm stupid."

"No, you're not."

Cuddy offers a more nuanced explanation. "Sometimes House's leg hurts so much that it's hard for him to make good choices. He'll be okay though."

"It hurts because of the fraction?"

Rachel's attempt at pronouncing infarction gets to him every time. She may not fully understand what happened to him, but she tries so hard. "Yes," he says. "Because of the fraction."

"How do I help?"

"Not much you can do, kid. I have to ride it out. You could tell me about your day if you want — to distract me."

Rachel sits down cross-legged in the doorway. "We had a surprise spelling quiz."

"How'd you do?"

"Good. I had to spell 'change' and 'learn' and I got them right— but so many people did bad and got them wrong."

"That's because they're not as smart as you."

"One of my spelling words for next week is 'house.' But they mean the place you live, not your name."

"It's spelled the same and you better know how to spell it."

"I do."

"Prove it," he challenges.

"H-o-u-s-e," Rachel is happy to show off.

"Looks like you're still my protégée."

The pain doesn't dissipate, but his anger does. When his anger subsides, it's easier to tolerate the pain and recognize that it won't last forever. The three of them sit and talk and it makes the time go by, even though he's still nauseous and miserable. They somehow give him peace within the misery, a feeling he didn't know was possible.

Eventually Cuddy puts Rachel to bed and then helps him out of the bath. She gets him into pajamas and bed and puts the heating pad on his thigh. He lays against her as she runs her fingers through his hair. "Any better?"

"Yes," he says honestly, getting more tired by the second. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, but I feel like we should be thanking Rachel."

"She calms me. I don't know why."

"Because she's yours, House. But that's… a conversation for another day."

He's barely awake when she says it, but he does hear it. He falls asleep thinking about how the story of who he is— who he can be— is up to him and evolving every day.

—/—

It's still an uphill mental battle, but physically it begins to get easier. As it does, House considers the bigger picture. He worries a lot about the stress Cuddy is carrying and holding in — she's keeping it together for his sake, but he knows she's still consumed with guilt and anxiety about their future. So, he comes up with a plan. When she visits his office (which she's still doing multiple times a day), he sets things in motion.

"Wilson is taking you out to dinner tonight," he informs her.

"He is? Why?"

"Because you deserve a night out."

Predictably, Cuddy objects to the premise. "No offense to Wilson, but if I'm going out, I'd rather it be with you. Why don't we all go out together?"

"Because you both need a break."

"From you?" Cuddy questions, ready to pushback.

"I didn't say that. You two can do your gossiping about all the stupid hospital drama. Plus, he'll pick you up and pay. I don't know why you're being difficult when there's no real downside here."

"Okay," she shrugs, not understanding, but giving in because it seems important to him. "What will you do tonight then?"

"I figured I'd hang out with Rach."

"Oh," Cuddy says. "Of course."

House knows her so well, he can literally see her brain at work. "You hesitated for a second," he points out. "It's okay if you don't trust me alone with her yet. I can call Marina."

"No, I do trust you— especially with Rachel."

"You hesitated, Cuddy. Don't deny it. I know what I saw."

"It's not that I don't trust you," she insists. "I don't trust myself."

"To do what?"

"To figure out if you're… in trouble again. I'm scared I won't know, because I didn't. I wasn't hesitating about leaving you with Rachel. I paused to think about if I noticed any red flags over the last few days."

He hates that she has to live like this, but it's going to take time and consistency on his part for her not to wonder about his sobriety. He hopes there's a way to provide her with at least some peace of mind. "Maybe we need a word where if one of us says it, we both have to tell the truth no matter what."

She looks intrigued by the idea. "Like a truth word instead of a safe word?"

"Exactly."

"Okay," she agrees. "And you'll stick to the rule that you have to tell the truth? No matter what?"

"Yes, because this is going to be a sacred oath and you know how seriously I take those."

"What's the word?"

The perfect one comes to him instantly. "Lobe," he says, earning him a soft smile from her. "You want to try it out first?"

"Lobe," Cuddy repeats back to him. "Have you taken anything this week?"

"No— and if I wanted to get high, I promise I would never use Rachel as an excuse, even at my lowest."

She nods because she doesn't doubt that truth for a single second.

—/—

Dinner with Wilson ends up being a lot of fun. They do in fact gossip about the hospital— about new relationships and suspected affairs and departmental in-fighting. Wilson also tells her all about his godson and Cuddy gets to go on and on about Rachel to someone who's genuinely interested. It's nice and carefree and familiar.

"Thanks for this," she says in the car on the drive home. "I needed it more than I realized."

"Of course. We have one more stop though."

Cuddy isn't interested in going anywhere else. It's the longest she's been away from House since she found him that night in the park and she's feeling separation anxiety. "But House…"

"House knows about this," Wilson reassures her. "It was his idea."

"It was?" She can't imagine where he would be sending them. "Where are we going?"

"Have a little patience. You'll see."

About ten minutes later they drive into a local community center. Cuddy has passed by it many times before but has never been inside. "What is this? Are you taking me to a cooking class? I swear I'm not as bad as House says. He's joking— for the most part."

"No," Wilson laughs as he pulls into a parking spot. "We're going to a meeting."

"A meeting? For what?"

"It's called Nar-Anon. It's for the loved ones of addicts."

Cuddy clenches her jaw. "Wilson— no."

"Yes."

"Absolutely not," she reiterates, annoyed that her stress-free evening has abruptly ended. "There's no way House wanted you to bring me to this."

"I swear he did."

"Why?!"

"Cuddy, you need an outlet. You need people who understand."

"You understand!" She argues.

"I understand House," Wilson agrees. "I'll always be here for you, but you and I are not in the same situation and we both know that. I'm not in a relationship with an addict. I can't relate to raising a child with one. It would be good for you to hear from people who are in similar situations."

"House wants me to talk about his addiction to a room full of strangers!?" She asks, because she can't fathom the concept.

"House wants to make sure you're not bottling everything up, and so do I. You've been handling everything so well, but you have to take care of yourself or eventually you're going to explode. We're trying to lessen the odds of that."

"Dinner was a trick to get me here," she realizes. "I should've known there was more to this."

"I'm not sorry because you wouldn't have agreed to it if we told you."

She tries to calm down, to shake off the flight or fight instincts buzzing at her fingertips. She's never truly talked to anyone other than Wilson about House's addiction. Not Julia. Not her mom. She knows how those conversations would go, and she's not interested. She's dedicated entire journals to writing out her feelings, but saying it out loud is different. She doesn't know if she can do it.

"Do I have to?"

"I can't make you, but I think you should try it once," Wilson says. "If you don't like it, we'll never talk about it again. I think I know you well enough to know you won't shy away from trying something because it might be hard."

"Well played," she acknowledges—it's a smart way to get to her, because she never backs down from a challenge. "Will you come with me?"

"If that's what you want. Or if you want privacy, I can wait for you in the car."

She doesn't want to do this alone. It's not like she's worried about him judging her and there's nothing she's afraid to say in front of him anyway.

"I want you to come with me."

They get out of the car and walk inside together in silence. Cuddy braces herself, no idea what to expect. For the last three years, she's barely thought of herself as the girlfriend of an addict, which was probably a mistake. She knows and accepts everything about House, but it was naive to act like his past was something that would permanently stay there. Maybe she can learn how to let it bleed into the present in the ways it needs to, without letting it consume or break them.

The meeting is in a small room with about fifteen people. A lot of them appear to already know each other, which makes Cuddy feel even more awkward. The woman running things introduces herself as Amanda and then instructs everyone to sit down in one of the chairs forming a circle.

Cuddy listens to people talk about husbands and wives and children and friends. Some of them have loved ones currently using, some have loved ones in treatment, some talk about loved ones they're worried about slipping back into addiction. The stories crack her heart open through all the ways she can relate. She's been all of those people at different points in time.

As it gets closer and closer to her turn, she starts to panic, because she has no idea what she wants to say. Luckily Wilson comes up in the circle first. She hopes he can break the ice and do some of the work for her.

"I'm James," he begins. "My best friend is a Vicodin addict and he recently relapsed after three years of sobriety. I could talk more about it, but I'm mostly here to support my best friend's girlfriend."

Apparently, he's not going to let her off the hook — she has to will herself to open her mouth and speak. "Hi," she says. "I'm Lisa."

She feels everyone's eyes on her. At work she's used to being at the center of attention— people hang on her every word, and she never thinks twice about it. But here? Amongst a group of perfect strangers that she has something massive in common with? She's utterly uncomfortable with the spotlight. "Sorry, I'm new to this. I'm a little bit nervous."

"Take your time," Amanda encourages. "A relapse after a long period of sobriety is always incredibly difficult on everyone."

She's already here. She's come this far. She decides to give it her all.

"My boyfriend and I are both doctors," she says, opening with the backstory. "He lost an eight-year-old patient and that's what triggered the relapse. He was acting weird, but I assumed it was grief because it was such a horrible situation. When I found out what was really going on, I felt so guilty for not realizing sooner. I mean, I know he's an addict— him being an addict dictated the course of our lives for years and years. It should've been the first thing I thought of, but I've gotten complacent in our happiness. The guilt has worn off a little bit because he keeps telling me it's not my fault. But now I feel like I have to be on high alert all the time, in case I miss something else."

"Hypervigilance is a very common feeling among family members."

"I want to talk to him about how I feel because he's my person and I tell him everything, but I don't want him to internalize it. I don't want him to think I can't handle it, either."

Another woman in the group — Cuddy thinks she said earlier that her name is Melissa — speaks up. "I used to think that way, too. I never told my husband anything about what I was feeling. But holding it in can backfire. I think it helps them to know where we are emotionally. It can make them more likely to share how they're feeling, too."

"That makes sense," Cuddy considers the advice. "I'm just so in my head about everything I do and say. And I'm… terrified. It was so bad last time before he got sober. At the worst of it he was full on hallucinating. It's also different because we have… we have a daughter now. He loves her and he's so good for her and I don't know what either of us would do without him. Does anyone else live in constant fear that today will be the day you lose them for good?"

She's met with resounding yeses and nods and that simple act of validation is worth everything.

Amanda looks at her with empathy. "It's counterproductive to obsess about the future, as hard it is not to. Taking it one day, one small victory, at a time is a good way to go about it."

"She's really not good at that," Wilson cracks.

The joke breaks the tension for her in the best way possible. "He's right. I'm the worst when it comes to not being in control. Does it get any easier?"

"Maybe not easier," Amanda admits. "But with practice you get better at it."

"I'd happily take getting even a little bit better at it."

She's relieved when someone else jumps into the conversation, taking the focus off her— she leans back, and listens to the rest of the group talk and tell their stories, taking in every piece of wisdom or guidance.

When it's over, Wilson puts his arm around her in a show of support.

"Thank you for the ambush," she says.

"You're welcome," he squeezes her shoulder. "If there's one thing our trio is good at, it's tricking each other into doing the right thing."

"What a strange but helpful quality of friendship."

"You think you'll come back next week?"

She's big enough to admit there are more things to learn and ways to grow. There's hard work to do — and that's something she never shies away from. "I'll be here."

—/—

Cuddy is still raw with emotion when she gets home. She walks inside and sees House reclining on the couch flipping through the channels searching for one of his shows. He looks up as soon as she's through the door. "You should've heard Rach tonight," he says. "I taught her to play the theme from Brownbeard on the piano."

The mental picture of them back on the piano bench together is a welcomed comfort. "She must've loved that."

"She did. Potentially too much. You should probably prepare yourself to hear it a hundred times a day for the next month or two."

Cuddy sits down right in his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck, desperately needing the contact.

"Can I assume from this hands-on greeting that you're not mad about your little detour?"

"I'm not mad," she confirms.

She is somber though — the many stories she heard and her own worries still fresh and running through her mind.

"Then what's the matter? Did it go okay?"

"I didn't realize how scared I feel— not until I said it out loud."

"Scared? Of what?"

She tries to focus on the advice she received, and on how she wants them to communicate going forward. "On the drive home, I was thinking about how much I love waking up next to you in the morning — the way you're the first thing I see and feel. I can't believe I went so many years without that."

"What are you scared of, Cuddy?" House pushes for the real answer to his question.

This time, she's brave enough to tell him. "That I'm going to lose you to Vicodin," she says. "That one day I'm going to find you dead in this house or at work after overdosing. I know it wasn't that bad this time—that you probably weren't in danger of an OD— but it's brought back memories of when you were. We've never talked about this, but before you went to Mayfield, I used to wonder all the time whether it would be me or Wilson who would find you— because it felt so inevitable. Do you have any idea what that would do to me?"

"Yes," he says earnestly. "I don't know how you'd come back from that."

"I wouldn't," Cuddy admits. "I'd have to try for Rachel, but I'd never be the same."

Invoking Rachel's involvement has an obvious impact on him— he shakes his head like he's trying to rid himself of the image. "I wish I was selfless enough to wish you didn't love me," he says. "I know this isn't what you deserve."

But that's not the point she wants him to take away. "I think I deserve the man I love. And you deserve real happiness, which I hope is with me."

"It is," he assures her. "I am happy. The relapse doesn't mean I'm not."

"I know that— I do. I just need you to promise me that you're going to try your absolute hardest. I'm not asking you to be perfect. I know there's a chance you might relapse again one day. I'm only asking you to fight as much as you possibly can and to let me help you do that."

"I promise."

"I want us to be able to talk about everything, even when it's uncomfortable. This conversation sucks but it's healthier than both of us walking around trying to protect the other from our worst thoughts."

"You sure you want to hear all the stuff that goes on in my fucked-up head?"

"Yes — and you get to hear all the insane thoughts that pop into mine."

"Deal," House looks strangely proud of her. "You got all of that out of one meeting, huh?"

"I'm a fast learner," she jokes, but then moves to an important question. "Would you ever consider going to a group like this?"

"Fortunately for me, I'm not in love with an addict."

"I meant a group for addicts."

"You know I don't do well in group settings."

"But shouldn't you talk to a professional about everything that's happened? Even if it's not a group?"

"You want me to go back to therapy," House realizes.

"I want you to have the support you need in whatever form that comes in. I can tell you what I think, but I'm not an expert on addiction. Neither is Wilson."

"I hated therapy the last time, Cuddy. Every second of it."

"But maybe part of you fighting your hardest could mean giving it another chance?"

"Okay," he caves. "I'll think about it."

Small victories, Cuddy thinks.

Each one in its own time.

—/—

House takes what Cuddy says to heart. He lets go of the idea that he has to protect her from the ugliness that often reaches inside of him. With that acceptance comes accountability and comfort.

A week later he's itching for Vicodin and he doesn't know why — it wasn't a bad day at work, and his leg isn't particularly painful. He craves the pills anyway. Instead of swallowing that feeling whole, he takes a beer out of the fridge and heads outside to the backyard where Cuddy going through paperwork on the patio.

"Lobe," House says, getting her attention. "I want to take Vicodin. More than almost anything."

"Come here," she gestures to the chair next to her, remaining impressively calm. "Did something happen today that I don't know about?"

"No," he sits down. "I have no idea why I even want it, but I'm trying that thing where I talk to you instead of doing it."

"I'm so glad," she says, and then eyes the beer in his hand. "But is that a good idea?"

He knows what she's getting at — that he shouldn't train his body to use alcohol when he wants Vicodin. "Probably not," he admits.

"Can I take it?"

He hands it over to her. "No drugs, no alcohol— what's a guy supposed to do for a good time around here?"

Cuddy opens the center of her robe, showing off her black lace nightie. "How's that?"

She looks so stunning in the fading light of dusk that his brain entirely refocuses on her. "That works."

"I suspected it might."

"You've always known how to get my attention."

She laughs, before getting back to the heart of the matter. "You know, someone at group said it helps their partner to talk about the future— to have things to look forward to that keep them on track and motivated."

"Kind of sounds like Rachel's stupid sticker chart for her chores. Maybe I should get in on some of that action."

"You want a sticker chart for not taking Vicodin?"

"Not really," he says. "It'd be kind of funny though."

"Oh, I'll make you a sticker chart. I'll administer your ass right into sobriety."

"What do I get instead of stickers?" He asks, raising a suggestive brow. "Because I'm hoping it involves this nightie."

"It can," Cuddy smirks. "But I was also thinking we should take a vacation this summer."

"You taking a vacation? Real time off? I'm not going to say no to that. Where do you want to go?

"I don't know," she muses. "What's your dream vacation?"

"It'll be hard to top our week in Mont Saint-Michel."

"Agreed, but that was my dream vacation. I'm asking about yours."

House doesn't care where they go. Mont Saint-Michel was beautiful, but he wasn't focused on their location. He was focused on alone time with her— how it was only them and the banter and the love. "Any vacation I'm on with you is my dream vacation."

"That's a very romantic sentiment," Cuddy says. "I'm going to need a few more specifics though — for the sake of the sticker chart."

"Of course," he plays along.

"Close your eyes and imagine your dream vacation and tell me what you see."

House scoffs. "I'm not doing some weird yoga visualization."

"Okay, drama queen. I didn't ask you to get in downward dog, I asked you to close your eyes."

House makes a show of closing them and holding out his arms like he is actually doing yoga. "I guess I'd want to sit on a beach with you all day. And not have to talk to any other people. Eat good food and have drinks by the water. And at sunset we could lay in a hammock — I'd have you on one side and Rachel on the other and…"

"Wait," Cuddy stops him. "Rachel part of your dream vacation?"

"Why are you interrupting me? I'm pretty sure that's against the yoga rules— a Zen violation, if you will."

"Sorry, it took me by surprise. I'd figured I'd be naked and that would be the end of your description."

He's admittedly a little surprised too, but for whatever reason, his first thought was that it should be a family trip. "If it helps, your bikini is very small."

"Rachel would love it if we took her on vacation. She hasn't ever been on a plane."

"Yeah, but now that I'm thinking about it logistically, I could get into a hammock, but I'm not sure I could get out of one. We might need to rework some of the details."

"No, we don't. I'll get you out of the hammock."

"How?"

"We'll figure it out," Cuddy promises. "We always do."

It's a promise he believes because he never feels limited with her. "I'd say cheers to that, but you took my beer."

She grabs his hand in hers and places it on her barely covered breast. "Cheers, House."

She reminds him every day that he doesn't need an undamaged leg or heart to be able to do what matters— to laugh with her, to solve puzzles and save lives, to care for Rachel, to make their lives better simply by virtue of him being in it.

The itch for Vicodin is gone— and all that's left is them and the love and the night.

—/—

On the morning of the one-month anniversary of his sobriety, House sits on the floor of the living room, toying with a plastic gold coin. When he thinks about where he was a month and a half ago, he knows it's a profound accomplishment to have made it this far.

"What is that?" Cuddy asks, joining him on the floor with her cup of coffee. She's still in her pajamas, hair up in a messy ponytail.

"A piece of Rachel's pirate treasure," he shows her. "She wrote her initials on it, like it's real treasure and she's afraid someone will steal it."

"Well, it looks like you stole it," Cuddy teases. "Why do you have it?"

"I'm using it as my sobriety chip. I may not be in group, but I do know how these things work. You think Rachel will mind?"

"I'm sure she won't, but don't you want a real coin?"

There's no coin, no matter how valuable, that will keep him on track better than this one. The fact that it has an angry skull with swords coming out of it on one side, and a compass on the other, makes him love it even more. "No, this one is perfect."

"It's a weird choice, but also fitting."

He takes a black sharpie out of his pocket and hands it to her. "I need you to initial it, too."

"Why?

"Because you and Rachel are the reasons. I want to see that clearly whenever I look at this."

Cuddy doesn't say anything at first, she simply adds LC under RC on the coin. Then she looks back at him. "I'll happily be your reason, House. But I want you to remember to do this for yourself, too. Your happiness. Your life. I think you should initial it, too"

She's missing the fact that she is his happiness and his life, but he understands the point she's trying to make. The way she values him is part of how he made it this far. "Fine."

"Besides, it's not a complete family treasure without your initials."

House adds GH to the coin. As soon as he does, Cuddy grabs it from him. "Hey," he objects. "Give it back."

"I was going to present it to you, asshole. To make it official."

He laughs at the name calling. "Well, go ahead then."

"Congratulations on one month sober," she places the coin in the palm of his hand. "I really am proud of you."

This time when she says it, he feels worthy of the praise, but he still wants to acknowledge her role. "You've saved me so many times now, I'm losing count."

"I need you to give yourself a little credit."

If there's one thing House will give himself credit for, it's for falling in love with the right woman. He kisses her shoulder and thinks about what he truly treasures.