Special thanks to MystryGAB for helping me come up with the idea for the second half of this fic.

Wilson made up the guest room for Blythe House and brought her a cup of chamomile tea before she went to bed.

"You need anything else?" he asked.

"I'm fine," she said, yawning a bit. "Just tired. It's been a long, frustrating day."

"I know," Wilson said sympathetically "But he'll come around."

"You sure about that?" Blythe said. "I've never seen Greg so upset. I hope we didn't push him too hard."

"Yeah," Wilson said, scratching his head. "But that's how these interventions are supposed to work. I mean, if they were pleasant, they'd call them vacations, right?" He gave a nervous chuckle.

"I guess," Blythe said. "It's just that Greg didn't seem very . . . moved by our pleas."

"But that's House. He's never does what other people tell him to do. At least not when they tell him to do it. He prefers to pretend it was his idea to begin with."

"I hope you're right, James," Blythe said.

"I am," Wilson said, with false brightness. They both knew he was trying to convince himself as much as her.

She smiled sweetly at him.

"You're a nice boy," she said, almost wistfully.

He nodded. "Yup, that's me," he said. "A nice boy."

"It's comforting to know that you're my son's best friend."

"Thanks," Wilson said, feeling strangely choked up by this bit of maternal approval. "Goodnight, Blythe," he said, closing the door behind him.

"Goodnight, James."

He walked into the living room where, only two hours earlier, House had cursed them all and left.

He pressed the first speed dial number on his phone.

"Fuck off," House said, hanging up before Wilson could say a word.

Wilson immediately called back.

"What part of fuck off didn't you understand?" House repeated.

"Don't hang up! I'm just calling to see if you're okay," Wilson said.

"No, actually I'm not okay. You see, earlier today I was betrayed by my best friend. You might know him? Oncologist? Goes by the name of Dr. Judas Iscariot?"

"That wasn't a betrayal, House. It was an intervention."

"Strike one was staging the stink-ervention to begin with. Strike two was inviting my mother. Strike three was inviting the she-devil herself—that was a particularly nice touch, by the way. Three strikes, you're out."

And he hung up again. The next time Wilson called, it went straight to voicemail.

Wilson stared the phone in his hand for a long time. Then he poured himself an overflowing glass of wine.

"Nolan, I hope you know what you're doing," he said out loud.

#####

House sighed, put on his headphones, tried to block out all the voices that were jockeying for position in his head.

His mother, begging him to stay alive.

Wilson, still blaming him for Amber's death. (He always knew that Wilson would never truly get past that. He knew it.)

And Cuddy . . .her role in all of this possibly bugged him the most. How was he supposed to know she'd had a miscarriage if she never told him? What was he, a mind reader? And she knew better than to internalize anything he said when he was strung out like that. He'd lash out at Mother Theresa if she was getting between him and his drugs.

Vaguely, through the music, he heard a banging on his door.

He yanked off his headphones.

"For the third time Wilson, what part of fuck off don't you understand?" he bellowed.

"House, it's me."

Cuddy.

House had this sudden urge to hide under the bed, turn out the lights, pretend he wasn't home. But of course, it was too late for that.

He grit his teeth and limped to the door.

"You here to offer me my job back?" he said, letting her in. "A little 'nudge-nudge, wink-wink, we both know I was just kidding back there' arrangement?"

"No," she said plainly.

He stared at her, folded his arms.

"What then?"

"I couldn't sleep. I was worried about you. My neighbors are watching Rachel."

"The Cornishes?" House said.

"Yeah."

"Rachel says they smell."

Cuddy gave a small laugh.

"I'm actually not supposed to be here," she admitted. "Nolan said not to. Tough love and all that."

"Then go home, Cuddy."

"Not until you tell me you're okay."

"You mean, am I suicidal?" House said. "I guess if I offed myself, the intervention would be categorized as a failure, huh?"

"Not funny, House," Cuddy said, looking at him.

"I'm not suicidal. Do I need to write: 'I will not kill myself' 'I will not kill myself' 100 times on a chalkboard?"

"I need to know you're okay."

"I'm fine," he shrugged. "It was no big deal."

She took his hand.

"House, I just want you to know, I'm here for you."

"How so?" he said, looking quizzically at her hand.

"You're not alone in this. I'll give you all the support you need."

Unexpectedly, and quite swiftly, he pulled her toward him and landed a rough, somewhat greedy kiss on her mouth. His tongue was hot and probing and tasted slightly of scotch.

She pushed him away.

"Jesus, House! Dammit! Why must every gesture of kindness turn into sex with you?" she said.

House looked down. His hands still tightly gripped her waist. He let go.

"I don't get you Cuddy," he said, more confused than hurt. "I don't know what the fuck you want from me."

"I want you to be healthy and safe and not on drugs."

"Fine," House said. "You said your piece. You cleared your conscience. Now go home."

"Why is it so hard for you to believe that I actually want what's best for you?"

"Gee. I don't know, Cuddy. Maybe because you dumped me."

"That again."

"Yeah, that."

"I didn't invent the breakup, House. That's how dating works. Someone usually gets dumped."

"Someone? Ha! We both always knew it was going to be me, didn't we, Cuddy?"

"Actually, I never thought about it. Unlike you, I didn't map our relationship out to its most pessimistic conclusion right from the start."

"No, all you did was bitch and moan about how I wasn't good enough for you."

She shook her head.

"I'm not playing this game, House," she said. "I'm not going to rehash our relationship."

"Of course not," he scoffed. "Because you'd rather pretend that I was the big bad villain in our relationship and that you were this helpless victim who never did anything wrong."

"I tried!" she protested. "I did everything I could to make our relationship work! I gave you one chance after the next!"

"You just keep telling yourself that," House said, sarcastically.

Cuddy put her hands on her hips.

"Alright, go head. Spit it out already, House. I know you want to say something to me."

He hesitated. His eyes widened. Then he finally spoke.

"You always talked about how I didn't care about you," he said. "How I put my needs in front of yours. But you never once. . ."

"Never once what?"

"You never once considered my needs!"

Cuddy recoiled.

"You've got to be joking! All I did was think about you!" she said. "I invested all my time, all my energy, into making our relationship work."

"No. . . you invested your time and energy into thinking about the ways I was failing you."

"Bullshit."

"Did it ever occur to you, Cuddy, that your health scare was as hard on me as it was on you—maybe harder?"

Cuddy closed her eyes and exhaled.

"I know it was, House."

"Did it ever occur to you that I agonized about taking those pills, but that I did it for you—so I could be with you?"

"The fact that you needed drugs to do the right thing just proves that you're a drug addict," Cuddy said.

"BUT YOU KNEW I WAS A DRUG ADDICT!" House yelled. Then he added, under his breath: "Well, except for the part where you conveniently forgot about my pain."

"Don't blame me for the fact that you are a master at hiding your pain."

"You knew that I was scared. Hurt. That I had just relapsed after 2 years of sobriety. And you ditched me anyway, Cuddy. But yeah, I'm the one who didn't care enough."

Cuddy felt dizzy for a second, like she was about to be swallowed up by the floorboards.

Her eyes started to well up.

"Don't fucking cry," House said. "Do not fucking cry. For once, can this not be about you?"

Cuddy blinked hard, the tears stung her eyes—but she didn't cry.

"You're right House," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. "It wasn't fair for me to break up with you when I did. But it wasn't fair when you left me alone to die either. And it sure as hell wasn't fair when you elected to bring drugs into my child's world."

"I never took drugs in front of Rachel!" House said.

"No," Cuddy said. "Because I never gave you the chance. Everybody has a last straw, House. That was mine."

"Fine," House hissed. "Then stop this fucking charade. Stop pretending that you care about me."

Why did he always do this? Cuddy thought. Why did he always distort things—her feelings, his own feelings?— to the point that they were unrecognizable? She refused to follow his lead.

"No matter what you say, I do love you, House. You can choose to believe me or not. But you can't come back to my hospital until you're sober. And you sure as hell can't be in my life—or my daughter's life—in any way. So deal with the consequences of your own behavior. Take some responsibility. And grow the fuck up."

He stared at her, agape.

Turns out she had given him some tough love, after all.

######

The next day, Wilson strolled into Cuddy's office, looking enormously pleased with himself.

"What the hell are you smiling about?" Cuddy said. "Last night was an unmitigated disaster."

"Not so fast. Guess who just checked himself into the rehab center of Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital?"

"He didn't!"

"He did."

"You're kidding. What did he say?"

"That he would do anything to get us to all shut up, including rehab."

"If he doesn't really want to be there, it won't work," Cuddy said, alarmed. "You remember last time he was up there."

"This is different. He's shaken, Cuddy. We got to him. He even admitted that he got no sleep last night."

"That makes two of us," Cuddy sighed.

Wilson squinted at her.

"What's up with you? This is what we both wanted. So why aren't you more pleased about it?"

"It's nothing. It's just that House and I. . ."

"You what?"

"I went over to his apartment last night.'

"Nolan said we couldn't!"

"I know what Nolan said, but I went over anyway."

"And?"

"And we had a rather . . . intense conversation. Things were said. Hurtful things, on both sides. I still feel. . .unsettled about it."

"Huh," Wilson said. "Well, maybe you actually got through to him. House said something pretty telling this morning."

"What's that.?"

"He said, and I quote, 'It's about time I grew the fuck up.'"

To be continued. . .