A/N: Sorry again for the pace on this one. Some other folks at work continue to have a truly awful year, and that has majorly impacted demands on me. Then music takes up a lot of what lessened free time I have. This story will be finished, though, and as I've said, there are more in my series. On the positive side, I did spend some time today with my Dad, two and a half years into his battle with stage IV cancer, and he's doing better the last few months than at any other time since he was diagnosed. Happy Thanksgiving to all.

(H/C)

Cuddy woke up disoriented from a dream of music in the shadows. It took her a moment to realize that there actually was music in the shadows. The tune was soft, wandering, mournful yet skilled. It swept under her closed bedroom door and summoned her.

The Maestro. House. It had taken her a long time to get to sleep, lost in the delicious fact that he was here, that the self-imposed prison of ten years had been escaped from at least for now. She vowed to herself that she wouldn't let him retreat from everything again. No, they had to solve this case.

She stood and padded to the door. She had gone to sleep with it open in case he had needed her; he must have closed it to try not to disturb her. She opened it now stealthily and crept out on cat feet. Her small two-bedroom apartment wasn't much, but she was enjoying not having a roommate for the first time in her life. None from school had ever measured up to her organization, dedication, and work ethic, and their habits had driven her crazy, not to mention their opinions that she carried neatness and planning too far ("obsessive" and "anal" were words that had come up frequently). No, she enjoyed her independence. However, like most people living alone in a two-bedroom apartment, she had turned the spare bedroom into storage. It had a twin bed, never until this night occupied, but there was also an assortment of boxes and of things that she rarely used. It was, of course, a logically organized storage space, but it was much more of a storage space than a guest bedroom.

One thing stored there was the guitar. Cuddy didn't play an instrument herself, but her last roommate had gone through a guitar phase, vowing to learn to play for stress relief. It certainly hadn't proven to be stress release for Cuddy, as the other medical student had no talent whatsoever, as even she had to admit before long. However, her roommate had left medical school two days early due to a hospitalized relative, had packed in a hurry, and had forgotten the guitar, which had been tucked under the bed. Cuddy found it later when checking in an organized (but not obsessive, she insisted to herself) way that her roommate had cleared everything out. She contacted the other woman, offering to mail it, but was told no, a trip to the northeast in the next year was a possibility, so the owner would simply drop by to retrieve it when passing through Princeton.

There it had sat for months in the spare room, ignored except by Cuddy's occasional annoyed glances. Obviously, the Maestro had found it tonight when he woke up in the small hours. He had taken it out, closed her bedroom door, and retreated to the living room chair that was farthest from her location, and now he was playing softly.

Cuddy walked with infinite care to the edge of the short hall and looked around. No lights were on, but she could see him vaguely in the street lamp through the window. He didn't notice her, fully absorbed in the music, as focused as he could sometimes get on a case.

She stood silently, listening, and realized quickly that the reason she disliked guitar music was that she had never before heard anyone who could actually play it. This was remarkable. The piano had more depth and texture, but House's dexterous fingers owned this instrument, now caressing it, now demanding more of it. The music wandered through several melodies that she didn't know, but at times, the serenade that he had composed for her and played that day in his lair crept in, making her wonder if the other parts, too, were original.

He stopped, and she tensed up, but he still hadn't realized her presence. He felt along his mutilated leg, not massaging out a spasm but mapping a familiar if detested country. Then he let it go and raised his hands, holding them up before his face and studying them in the dim light. He flexed them, considering them, then reached back down to the leg. Leg. Hands. Leg. Hands. The disability. The ability and coordination that even now remained. His face was a study in differential. Finally, he picked back up the guitar, and the music resumed.

Cuddy, feeling suddenly like a peeping tom, turned away and walked back silently to her room, closing the door again carefully. She lay in bed and listened to the music until it carried her back into dreams - and then followed her on into them.

(H/C)

The next time she woke up, it was early morning. The apartment was silent. She stood and put her robe back on, then opened the door. The door to the other bedroom was shut, but standing there, her ears straining for any sound, she heard soft snores. He was asleep. With a smile, she went on about her morning routine.

She had just finished yoga when the bedroom door opened, and he hobbled out. "Good morning, Maestro!" she greeted him.

He looked at her for a long moment, then replied, "Good morning," as if he hadn't spoken the words in forever, which he probably hadn't. He went into the bathroom, and she headed for the kitchen and made coffee. When he limped in and dropped into a chair at the table a few minutes later, she turned to him. "Coffee's just about ready. How do you like it?"

Again, there was that impression of startled analysis of the question. She wondered how many years it had been since he had heard that. More than just his exile, most likely. The drought probably extended back to before his infarction, when he and Stacy were living normal lives, blissfully unaware of the approaching calamity. "Two sugars, no cream," he replied finally.

She fixed them each a cup, then joined him at the table. "Wilson's coming over for breakfast, and after that, we'll get this case broken today somehow. Have you thought of anything yet?"

He nodded. "I've got a couple of ideas for how to approach it. First, though, before Wilson gets here, I have a question for you."

She heard the implied request for permission. This was House at the moment, not the Maestro. "Sure. What do you want to ask me?"

"Tell me about your father."

She tensed up. Whatever she had expected him to ask, that wasn't it. "He - he was very demanding. Still is."

"In what way?" The words tumbled over each other quickly on the way out.

"He's a quite successful businessman. Everything for him is defined in terms of success, measured not just in money but in status, promotions. For instance, he realizes that I have to go through medical school and residency and all the steps to become a practicing doctor, but even now, he expects me to be at the head of any group I'm in, and within just a few years, I'm sure nothing less than a head of a department would suit him. He wants his daughter to be the best."

House relaxed a little. "Is that all?"

The question annoyed her at first. "Is that all? Do you know what it's like as a kid to never measure up, to -" She skidded to a verbal halt, remembering her own conclusions about John House from her conversation with House's aunt Charity. Yes, as annoying as constant perfectionism was, when compared to outright sadistic violence and intentional cruelty, it wasn't in the same league. He was concerned about her, she realized, wanting to make sure her background didn't match his. "Yes, that's all," she said.

He relaxed some more. "You have nothing to worry about. You are going to be a top-notch doctor."

"What was -" She pulled herself up again with the rest of the sentence unspoken. No, she wasn't going to ask him what his father was like. This morning, with all they had to accomplish today on the murder case, was the wrong time to get him to lock up. She knew the answer anyway, knew from his eyes that her analysis was correct. He didn't need to say it. "It's all right," she said. "You don't have to tell me."

He had been gearing himself up to go into full defensive retreat, and her own retreat startled him. After a moment, he admitted, "I heard you two nights ago on the roof telling your father off."

Her own words replayed in her memory. "This is my life. It's not yours, not any longer. I have the right to live it for myself." She smiled at him. "That was the first time, believe it or not. It took me a lot of years to get to the point of being able to say that. Of course, I wasn't saying it directly to him, but still, saying it at all was a step forward."

He nodded. "A big step forward."

At that moment, Wilson's knock came on the door, and Cuddy drained the last few swallows of her coffee and went to let him in. They had to solve this murder case. They had to solve some other things, too, but at least for those, there was time.