A/N: Stones allusions, though the title of this chapter is Postal Service inspired, for what it's worth. AU now since we're well into s7 but there are vague references to current events and no Thirteen. Sorry for so much ambiguity in this one, but I want feedback badly. I promise answers in the next.

Thanks for reading! Reviews keep me writing.

Smeared Black Ink

The scrapbook he gave her, as simple and straightforward a gift it is, Cuddy has made a ritual of leafing through at least once a day. There's something in the tangibility, the collection of recollections and the fact it was House who made it, that makes her feel he's always been there, even before she knew him. It helps her remember every idle spell alone, when she'd nearly forgotten the sadness behind his ingenious eyes. He's the thread throughout her personal teleology, the one remaining who might be holding it all together.

House had the same epiphany, Lisa Cuddy as his only existential continuity. The idea has dueled doubt. It's not bulletproof, but they're still standing, side by side by side, Rachel becoming an extension of Cuddy, making him question what he first saw as a teething inconvenience.

His frenetic thoughts can't be calmed since he found the ring. He has to know what it means. She just left for a board meeting though. And even if she were here there's nothing he could say that wouldn't sound angry or defensive or betrayed.

Within minutes he's pounding on Wilson's door. House is holding the ring out to him when it opens.

"It'd be more romantic if you got on one knee," he says, never nonplussed by House's interruptions.

"It's Lucas' ring," he starts. "Cuddy still has it."

"And this obviously bothers you. Have you considered talking to her about this?"

"It's been weeks, why did she keep it? She doesn't still love Lucas, and she can't be attached to the ring…measly three carats."

"You know who could answer your question? Your girlfriend."

House shakes his head, still struggling for the reason.

"Unless she doesn't want to let go of what the ring represents," House says to himself. Then, with a delayed panic he looks at Wilson.

"She still wants to get married."

Wilson squints, only half incredulous at the conclusion.

"That's one possibility. But you might be psychoanalyzing this too much. What if he didn't want it back, and she just didn't know what to do with it?"

"There's a pawn shop a mile away. Ebay at her fingertips. She was holding onto it for a reason."

Then, an intuitive leap.

"She doesn't know if she'll ever get one again."

"Talk to her. Find out what she wants long term, with or without you."

"What if we don't want the same things?"

"You've been negotiating with each other half your lives. You're still together. Every relationship is a compromise. You'll work it out ––if you talk to her."

House finally nods, at some internal solution, Wilson is sure, and not his friend's advice.

"What did all of your ex-wives do with their wedding rings?" He makes Wilson wonder before stepping out.

House spends the next hours contemplating the commitment. There's the legality of it, which can be as simple as two signatures. Then there's the spiritual aspect, that they can easily omit by making the only ceremony a civil one.

Theoretically, marriage might work. The contentious facet of the affair would evaporate; the intimacy would be irrevocable. They could sustain the illusion of permanence indefinitely. Vows might diminish the instinct for self-defense and smugness. His mind wanders away from theory.

Reality is much more ironic. Selfish, even. He realizes marriage might be the solution for relapse. She would be his keeper. She couldn't let him kill himself, wouldn't be able to walk away. It's not his only choice, but it might be his best chance.

At the end of the week, House decides to lie to her as a kind of test. He tells her he got a job at a hospital in the city. It's a long commute, and in nephrology, not diagnostics. Cuddy initially considers he's bluffing.

"Oh, great. I was beginning to think you gave up on looking."

Rather than remind her that he's appeasing her, or dwell on the whole sum of the concession, he focuses on how, between the commute and the almost entry-level hours, he'll have little time to spend with her. And her daughter.

His tactic passes for truth. He tells her he starts Monday.

Sunday night she asks him to call and say he changed his mind and that she'll make them an appointment with human resources. He sprawls smiling, his hands behind his head, safe for now in the knowledge that she's gotten used to this. Professional proximity and domestic presence are going to have to coexist.

now what?

In an effort to initiate his interest in intransience, House makes what he tells himself will be a one-time offer before coffee the next morning.

"Why don't you let me baby sit?"

"You really want to?"

"Sure. I mean I'm living under the same roof and I hardly ever see Rachel. You don't need to keep playing keep-away with your kid. I'm here to play my role in this…partnership."

Her brow furrows. She shakes her head.

"What?" He asks.

"It's just that Rachel is getting older. She'll be in preschool soon, kindergarten. I, I don't know––"

She stands and closes her robe nervously.

"What I'm trying to say is I don't want her getting used to two parents if you have no intention of…"

Wait for it.

"Staying"

"And if I have no intention of leaving?"

A beat. She can feel her hopes rising, and knows she can't let him see it.

"We both know nothing lasts."

"That doesn't mean I don't want this to," he proffers.

"You're serious? You're not just offering to placate me? There's no ulterior motive here?"

"No."

"Fine." She stops biting her lip.

"You can baby sit six to nine on Mondays, Thursdays and Fridays, if you want. That'll give Marina early relief those days."

House nods, she steps away. A certain panic sets in when he realizes everything he just admitted was a turning point and that he has no idea what happens now.

Friday comes fast and bowling with his best friend is the third day forfeited to making sure a toddler doesn't swallow small shiny objects. House is less than fascinated, and he's not forcing any connection. They share few common denominators other than Cuddy's love for them. And their love for cartoons, he discovers Saturday morning.

At the start of his second week of this, he's getting comfortable with the routine. He can dodge clinic duty the second half of the day by saying he has to be home for Rachel, so that in a strange way he's looking forward

to it.

The little girl is less alien than when the first adoption was thwarted and he could only watch as she struggled to settle. Any hope he had of Cuddy returning to IVF and garnering the courage to ask him to help died when she decided to keep her. Even now, she's moving forward, far and fast and he's still pining to repeat history.

Cuddy comes home one night, drops her briefcase, slides out of her heels and turns around to see the two of them cluttering the floor with paper and finger painting. It's long past Rachel's bedtime and Cuddy scowls at him, secretly knowing it's a good sign he hasn't complained about staying late. Her breath catches when House starts dabbling on her ankle. His fingers climbing, his eyes are trying for an upskirt peek.

"House," Cuddy drawls . "We're not alone."

He rises to his feet and carries Rachel into her room.

Before Cuddy knows it, his paint covered palm is pressed to hers and he counters, "We are now."

She smiles against his neck and kisses him, tiptoeing as he leads her into their bedroom and closes the door.

The last weeks have been a barrage of quickies and slow sessions like this, so that when he feels completely drained of bodily fluids, she curls up beside him, sighing asleep and they wake ready to start it all over again.

Both have almost forgotten what this was like. Constant sex, another body always in bed beside them in the morning, conversations that are still nowhere near the border of banal–a place where what they want and what they need are finally the same. And he's wondering if he could make it happen, that one thing she's always wanted, that he's certain she still wants. Would it all fall in place accidentally, or would it not be enough for the three of them to stay this way?

smeared black ink

After, when she is blue and red and yellow every place his hands have held her, and she's too tired to move and wash it off, too post-coitally content to care if they've tie-dyed the sheets, he catches her off guard.

"Do you want to get married?"

"What?" The word comes out clipped. "Is that a proposal?"

"You said yes to Lucas, which means marriage is something you want. Or at least something you think you want."

"And you made this deduction after breaking into my office to find his ring

in my desk."

Wilson told her. Damn.

"I'm sorry, was that a no?" He redirects.

"No. Yes. House," she stutters, frustrated.

"I don't want you doing this because you think it's the only thing that will make me happy, or worse, because you think this can't last unless there's a marriage license binding me––

I'm not going to leave you. No matter where we are next week or next year. I've gone over every worse case scenario too, what if I lose my job because of something you do, what if you relapse. And all I know is…"

She inhales, their eyes meet. Still holding her breath.

"I can't not love you."

He leans in and kisses her softly, hovering.

"We'll go Wednesday."

"Where?" She asks.

"Borough Hall. Get a magistrate, or judge or county clerk to marry us. Or at least apply for a license. It takes what, three days?"

"House!"

"What? It's what you want. If I can give it to you…"

"It's too soon. We've only been dating months."

"But we've been together decades. If marriage were defined by every crisis of conscience, every sleepless night, every hour spent ––"

He can't finish without reminding her of all the struggles and loss

and wasted time.

"We'd be common law by now."

"I can't believe that you want this."

"I want you. And if it means I have to resort to an archaic ritual…tie some metaphorical knot…"

He shrugs. "I'll do it."

"I love you," he whispers, his emotional reticence irreparably shattered. He has to kiss her that moment, long and deep with all the hope left in his heart or else confide his worst fear.

Wednesday they do go apply for a marriage license. House, unwilling to let his matrimonially-impaired buddy be their witness, enlists a clinic patient who owes him a favor.

Then it's just two names and smeared black ink on a white page. Cuddy feels relieved more than anything as they walk out of the registrar's office. She never expected romance or a diamond ring but everything seems more intimate in the light of his readiness to commit.

He's insisting they go back and get solemnized Monday. Quick and painless, he jokes, like pulling off a band aid. But she's starting to imagine a formal ceremony with rice and flowers and bridesmaids, and two gold rings.

After he discovered she still kept Lucas,' House had every intention of finding another ring, a better ring, something tangible that he knows she needs. But the pain has become a formidable distraction. Some days the ibuprofen takes the edge off, others he's grinding his teeth to get through a differential. Jewelry shopping seems less important than the paperwork that actually makes them official.

He tells himself it takes time, and he rationalizes. The pain in his back has moved to his abdomen and is worse than his leg. He did his own labs days ago and eliminated the usual suspects. Whatever this is, horse or zebra, he has to saddle it, grab it by the reins and race to the finish line like his life depends on it.

An MRI is scheduled and he's considering what other tests to run on himself when a case inconveniently lands on his desk. Inconvenient because he's nauseated, aching, wondering how soon he's going to regret everything.

"Forty three year old man passed out last night after a week of what his PCP diagnosed as gastroenteritis," Chase tells him.

"The guy will eat anything," interrupts Taub.

House looks down at the file.

"Roy Kellerman," he says.

"Renowned and retired chef drafted by cable television to travel the globe and sample foreign and fermented, unpasteurized, freshly butchered and sometimes rancid cuisine."

"Food born toxin's most likely," Chases starts but is cut off.

"You think?" House snaps back sarcastic.

"Where was he last?" Taub asks, trying to peek at the file.

"Beijing and…Australia."

"Maybe Chase poisoned him," House suggests flatly.

"I thought this case would interest you. High profile patient, and he's had ten doctors look at him and rule out every food poisoning possible."

"Rerun their tests and when they all come back negative, meet me here with a theory other than it was something he ate," House orders.

He stares at the whiteboard a long while, waiting. He knows he needs a biopsy of his liver, an ultrasound if the MRI doesn't show him what he's looking for. Part of him is scared, not of the truth or the treatment, but that he might have started something with Cuddy that he can't finish. He doesn't want to quit but he can't tell her yet. He can't tell her until he knows what this is. So he shuffles out, this case rerouting his priorities. If he solves it by five, he'll get the MRI.

"Eating wallaby with aborigines, really?" House asks, stepping into the patient's room. His team's already there, standing surprised by his appearance.

"Chase, cover your ears, he might still have your homeland's mascot in his digestive tract."

"Who are you?" Asks Roy.

"I'm the doctor who's going to diagnose you. Accurately," he coughs.

"We reran the tests. He's negative for botulism, malaria, salmonella, e-coli and every other food born illness we could think of. His white count's elevated which points to infection," finishes Chase.

"Forerunners considering where he traveled last would be ––" Starts Taub.

"So, how much do they pay you to risk your life with every

bite?" House interjects.

"More than they need to," Roy grimaces. "I love my job."

"Me too. But that's mostly because I'm banging my boss."

"This might not have anything to do with job."

"You're traveling constantly and eating anything that doesn't crawl away from you faster than you can fry it. I'm thinking it does."

"So you know what this is?" Roy asks.

"No," House answers idly, leafing through Roy's chart.

"Maybe I'll get another opinion."

"Sure. If you really want to be moved to your fifth hospital where a clueless staff runs all the same tests we just did. Or, you could stay here, give us a few more hours and maybe, just maybe try to exercise some dietary discretion," House patronizes.

"My girlfriend's toddler at least knows not to eat things that smell gross."

His gaze is averted with a certain epiphany.

"I know what's wrong with you," he says quietly and walks away unaffected, leaving his team to answer the patient's confusion.

the one worth leaving

House disappears. Foreman, Taub and Chase search every suspect place when he's not in the office. Then they knock on Cuddy's door and explain where they stand with the case and House.

She finds him an hour later in Radiology. He's holding his own file with the same disregard he'd have for a patient's, trying to not seem sick. She catches up to him at the end of the corridor.

"How's your case? The bizarre foods guy going to be okay?"

"Case is solved."

"Your team doesn't seem to agree. They say you never told them what you found wrong with him."

"I'll send a memo in the morning," he winces, feigning annoyance

for agony.

She reaches for the folder. "These aren't his scans?"

"No," he snaps, pulling the file back. "They're not."

"You can't withhold a diagnosis. If you know what's wrong with him, you have to treat or refer him to a doctor who will."

"I don't know what's wrong with him," House's voice levels.

"I think I know."

"Then test, treat."

Shifting his weight and standing still, he sighs deep, despondent.

"You're in pain. I understand if––" Cuddy starts.

"You don't. You never will."

"House, you have been clean for more than a year––"

"That's not what this is about. It's not about relapsing, it's about functioning"

He's tempted to tell her everything when she interrupts with consolation.

"If you need time, if you need space or someone to talk to," she takes his hand. "I'm here."

"I know," he mutters, coldly unclasping and walking past her, a distant distracted look clouding his eyes.

House gets on his bike and flies home, a chill in the air portentous of early winter. Eventually he calls Foreman with the diagnosis. The next hours are spent strangling a bottle of bourbon. When it's dry, he calls someone else.

She knocks and he opens the door and it's like the old hurt come back, heavier than ever. He's always told himself he's better off alone but it's feeble solace.

The blonde comes in smiling, massage oil and other accessories filling her shoulder bag. Another effort to numb the pain, he tells himself and locks the door behind her.

Early morning. Too early and his back aches. A knock on his door and he assumes it's Cuddy but it isn't. It's Brandy. Déjà vu he mutters and she says she forgot her bag. House waves her goodbye again and crawls back into bed.

As Brandy's walking out, Cuddy steps in.

"We have our first big fight and you cheat? Why am I not surprised?"

House closes his eyes tight, hoping this is a nightmare, some fever dream he'll wake up from soon, well and happy and capable of asking for help.

"I knew you offering to baby sit was too good to be true. But some part of me said don't be suspicious, maybe you've changed. This is what I get for giving you the benefit of the doubt."

He sits up, shivering. This isn't a dream but he does have a fever.

"I did not cheat. She massaged my leg, that's it."

"She's a hooker. There's no way you paid her to do what a physical therapist would do on the hospital's dime."

"I understand if you don't believe me, but ––"

"There's no 'but' House. I can't do this. I can't hold my breath waiting for you to sabotage this relationship."

He clenches and releases a fist, exasperated.

"I wanted to have sex with her. I have had sex with her in the past. I did not have sex with her last night."

"I don't believe you," she says, staring at him so disappointed.

The last thing he sees are tears in the corners of her eyes. He forfeits the fight, banging his head against the wall.

The sound of her footsteps leaving him echoes like he knew it would.

It comes to him later, when he's grappling in his desk drawer and finds the tickets he bought weeks ago for what he wanted to be their honeymoon. Mont Saint Michel. Maybe it was a mistake from the start. Maybe she should have stayed with Lucas. House can't make time to buy a ring, he can't convince her he's hasn't cheated, or that he won't go back on drugs..

Maybe he's the one worth leaving.

Late that night, when he knows Marina has left and Cuddy is home and second guessing herself, he drives over despite all his doubt. Unsure if he's going to apologize or explain or just pick up his things, he speeds away. The pain's unbearable now and he doesn't even know how he gets through the last mile, only that he's too compelled to slow down.

She hears him pull into her driveway. Before he can even knock, he hears her say, "Not now, House. I don't want to see you tonight, just go." Her voice fades away and that is all. He turns, leaning heavy on his cane, and with inexpiable defeat his footsteps falter, crunching on the gravel on the way to his bike. He can taste blood in the back of his throat.

Vertigo fades to black, his body falling graceless and alone in the dark. She storms out to tell him it's over one last time and finds him, collapsed unconscious. She cries out his name, saying not now, this isn't how he's supposed to make her change her mind.