Author's Note: One more to go! This might seem like I'm copying off runs with sissors "Up on the Rooftop," but I had this in the works before I read that.

Oh apologies, no apologies, this apology

Doesn't describe the way it feels to feel for you

Waiting here for you

Wanting to tell you

How I find myself slowly disappearing too

Just the way you do

--The Counting Crows, "High Life"

It's late. Maybe ten, maybe two. Time is inconsequential to me at the moment. The hospital, normally vibrant with dying and ill life, seems quiet except for the noise of my footsteps and the thumping of a cane.

Most of the staff has gone home. At least, the oncology area seems quiet as I pass. I run my hand over his door. The painted name contrasts enough with the glass of the door to give me chills when I run my nails over it.

I bend down and debate whether or not to slip the envelope under the door. It'll fit, I note, but I'm not sure if I'm actually going to go through with this. I push it under the door, anyway. I know I won't go through with this, but James should get the answers he deserves.

I do the same thing when I past the diagnostic conference room. I push my way in and leave two notes on the table: Chase says one and Foreman says the other. I debate whether I should add their first names in as a nice gesture, but we've never been Robert, Eric, and Allison to one another. Always Chase, Foreman, and Cameron. They became our names—first and last spoken in one.

I leave quickly. Rowe doesn't need a note from me (Cuddy'll get my resignation letter). He and I have clashed and have an uneasy relationship. He'll tolerate me because I'm still on House's fellowship (icky hospital politics keeps me on under Rowe, even though he's a different doctor). But he won't get a damn ounce of my pen ink.

When I reach Cuddy's office the light is still on and she's sitting inside with a weary look on her face. I approach the door and slip the envelope underneath. She can accept my resignation and learn the reasoning for my lies, but I don't know if that'll save her from herself. She looks at me without seeing. Without believing.

So I climb the stairs to the roof. There's many stairs and by the time I reach the top I'm a bit winded. I haven't run in a few months because of the baby. My body can't withstand the pounding of running.

I know the door is open because the janitors, interns, and doctors who smoke like to come up here at night. It's peaceful. All stars and city lights with yourself in the middle of a big hospital. It's refreshing. And it's lonely.

My steps echo on the roof. I move along with the cane thinking of how he walked with this cane. My lips form a smile as I listen to these $500 shoes click and clack against the cement. It's an oddly euphonic melody. Click, drag, clack, drag. And I keep my eyes focused on these shoes instead of the stars.

I do want to look at the stars. All I want to do is look. Gaze upon a universe so infinite that no mortal can ever grasp its great width. The stars are gorgeous and that's why I like them. Being able to distinguish them as separate constellations is a bonus; the real joy is that there is a mutual understanding between them and me—they will always be bigger. But I know if I look, then I will think. And I don't need to think.

Because if I think I will weave more lies and continue to trip over them and then tangle everybody else up in them as well. James, poor James. And Cuddy. And Foreman. It's no good being noble—sacrificing yourself for something that doesn't exist. Nobility is an excuse to be killed. Nobility is an excuse to lose.

When I look up at the stars, I finally reach the edge of the roof. I slowly ease myself down to sit on the edge of it. I lay the cane across my lap and trace the wood. The wind blows through my loose hair and I look up at the stars.

If you're going to jump, might as well jump now. I figure that the backdrop of stars and loneliness is a beautiful tableau. The cane, I imagine, will clatter to my side when I fall. We'll be two objects, twirling, spinning, landing…beauty in symmetry and the fear of flying.

So, I stand. I toe the edge of the roof and it's all ground below me. The cane holds me, prevents me from moving any further. He's always prevented me from moving onward with my life.

"If you jump, I'll jump."

It's James. For a moment, I wish it were he—House. To save me, whisk me off to a cloudy palace…him, cane, and me. But it's not. It's his goddamn best friend who I've been trying to placate for months. I walk backwards. I never was going to jump. Cowards don't fly.

"Allison, this is the wrong way to deal with this. Think of the baby," he urges. I take a step towards him and away from the edge. I see his shoulders relax. He apparently snuck up on me while I was stuck in my useless reverie. So, now he and I stand here waiting for the other to make the wrong move.

"Nothing's ever right and nothing's ever wrong. This here—this isn't life and death—this is choice and consequence. I'm not going to jump. Never was. Why jump? I'm already broken."

"And shattering yourself into smaller pieces wouldn't do anything," he quietly responds.

"We waste most of our life sleeping, do you know that?"

"Yeah. Pitiful. Especially for people like us."

I lie down to look at the stars and he comes and lies next to me. The cane is comfortably between us.

"I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For lying."

He turns his head to contemplate the rough cement.

"I just—I just needed something more to hold onto than just that cane and-and in moments of grief and insanity it just came to me."

He doesn't speak.

"And I wasn't going to jump, if you read your letter. How'd you find me up here?"

"Cuddy."

I nod. She saw me and whether she believes anything she sees she is still a smart and strong woman.

"I know it isn't Greg's and I knew it isn't mine. Whose is it?" He asks after several seconds of silence.

"I don't know. Some guy—I don't even remember his name. I think it was Steve from the ER? House was right—beauty gets me places I'd rather not be."

He snorts.

"So, you slept with Cuddy's boy toy. Funny. Kind of ironic. At least we know the person who would be at the start of any STD-related outbreaks. But, Allison…Cuddy, Chase, and Stacy think it's my baby made in a night of passion after House's death. I thought it was House's. And Foreman doesn't know what to believe. So tell me again why you think losing our jobs is worth this?"

I can get lost in the stars. The stars twinkle; the planets are constant lights. This light—it's old. It's history. It's time and change and constant motion. All lies and bullshit.

"It's not. But I'm resigning. I think working somewhere else would be a good idea."

"This is so screwed up."

I sigh and sit up and I do it too fast. A bout of nausea sweeps through and then recedes before I can actually regurgitate anything I've eaten in the past few hours.

"Yeah, it is."

"Why'd you want to meet House that night and why'd you need his cane?"

I purse my lips and think about whether it's easier to lie again or to tell the truth this time.

"I wanted to meet him because I wanted to make sure he was okay. Buy him a drink, you know? And then I walk in and the damn bartender's asking me to help the guy on the floor. And it's House. And there's blood. You know the story," I drift.

James grasps my hand.

"The cane?"

"There's nothing that screams "House" more than that damn cane."

"You didn't have to lie."

"But it made everything mean something, you know? Like it wasn't about House. I didn't think about him. This was a game to keep my mind occupied. Otherwise…I fell apart after my husband died. I didn't want House to be like that."

So the conversation dies on the wind. Manipulation, lies, and meaningless words swarm around our heads like bees droning on about some stupid issue. Here, in the quiet night, somewhere between ten and two, time loses itself and I think House is still alive and I am not pregnant.

In between the stars and James, time becomes irrelevant.

End Part II