A/N: I really enjoyed writing this one. As usal, I owe it all to alias424 who is the most fantastic beta ever. In life. Enjoy, and comment.
The sun was bleeding magenta into the dark blue sky above it as she sipped her tea and sat on her back porch in the pre-dawn light. It was quiet – far too early for anyone to be up – and no noise permeated the solace of her fenced-in yard. No cars passed down her street, there were no voices, no children's laughter, just the hum of crickets and the golden strains of silence.

She sat enjoying the quiet – her fingers laced around the mug as she sank into the weathered boards of her steps. The door slid open behind her, and she smiled slightly and inched to the left to make room.

"Wow, who knew there was even light at this time of night?" His voice was gravelly as he eased down on the step next to her and took the mug from her hands. He took one sip before he pulled a face and handed it back to her. "Ugh – where's the coffee?"

"In the cupboard above the pot – waiting for you to make it. Did I wake you?" Her voice was soft as she watched the pink rising on the horizon, higher and higher, lightening the sky bit by bit. Any minute now, the sun would peek over the edge, dragging streaks of yellow and mauve with it until the whole sky was lit up like a psychedelic morning cocktail.

"No. Couldn't sleep." He shrugged uncomfortably, and she turned her head to study him for a moment. He looked tired – slight shadows under his eyes that probably matched hers. She sighed, moving closer to him until she could feel the heat rising from his skin. He didn't move back, so clearly he either didn't notice or didn't mind. She chose not to think which one it was.

She was having trouble sleeping again – her mind keeping her awake as it finally caught up with everything around her. She had dreams about being there. When he was shot – crimson blood and blue eyes fading. It terrified her. He would disappear, and she would sit in the dark, staring at the red until it seemed colorless – a faded grey against her skin. Then the voice would come – a faint saffron glow and tiny repeated words. Where's my Daddy?

It woke her every single time – heart racing and fear causing her stomach to clench.

She didn't talk to him about it though – because it was irrelevant. It wasn't about the shooting per se – she knew that. It was about her being absolutely terrified of raising this child – his child – alone. Would it hurt more because it was his? His eyes, his expressions, haunting her for the rest of her life? She had been fairly certain when she chose a known donor that it was the best choice.

She hadn't thought ahead though – and it was unlike her and so like her. She wanted to be blind to the obvious flaws in her plan. She wanted them not to exist at all. She wanted him there. In a permanent kind of way – graffitied across her life in bright blues and yellows, unable to be scrubbed away.

She came out of her thoughts when he cleared his throat – the silence having stretched just a touch (or five) too long. She blinked and saw that the sky had turned a pale blue around them; the sun had emerged and she had missed it. "Sorry. Why couldn't you sleep?" His only answer was a shrug and an uncomfortable shake of his head. She decided to drop it – lest he get curious about why she was out here – and stood, offering him a hand.

She headed back into her kitchen, placing her mug on the counter and starting to make coffee as he leaned against the wall, his arms crossed while he observed her. Her hands shook slightly as she shoved the filter in – which was ridiculous because she wasn't nervous. She had no reason to be.

"Are you ever going to – " His voice halted suddenly, and she looked up from measuring coffee with curiosity. "Never mind." He pushed away from the wall and moved slowly until he was behind her as she started the coffee maker, pausing to inhale the scent of coffee before closing the canister and sliding it back into the cupboard.

"Am I ever going to what?" She had turned now, peering up at him as she spoke. He was staring at the cupboard above her, seeing something she clearly couldn't, and when he blinked down at her in surprise, she smiled softly. "I think we both need the coffee," she sighed before picking up her mug and pouring the now-cold tea out.

"No coffee for you." He was mocking her and she growled slightly.

"One cup wouldn't – "

"You gave it up, remember? You have no way of knowing if you're – "

"I know." She sighed with exasperation, pulling a face at her empty mug as the smell of fresh caffeine filled the air. "Can I stand next to you and inhale while you drink?"

"That would be uncomfortable."

"Well that's just icing." She grinned slightly as she pushed away from the counter. "And unlike some people – I have to go get ready for work."

"Sucker," he teased as she moved to the kitchen doorway. She ignored him in favour of a hot shower – which would hopefully ease her aching muscles and rinse this feeling of malcontent away.


Your mother has grown fond of predicting your breakdown. For years she has been saying every time she sees you (which isn't often at all), that 'one of these days, Lisa, you are going to hit a wall and break down'. As you sit on the floor of your shower, you think you must be doing your mother proud.

You arrived home feeling dirtier than you ever have in your whole life. You scrub and you scrub, but you cannot get this feeling off of you, and it clings to your skin, sickly sweet and bitterly vile at the same time. Your skin is raw, red from the washing, and you can still see the bruises – a hand span at you hip and noticeable finger marks on your arms – and you feel sick and weak as you sit under the scalding water and finally cry.

Even here it is not safe – even here there are memories of him everywhere. In this shower – against that tile – in your bedroom – on the couch. Everywhere you look, what you could have had but never will dances around you like shadows thrown from a fire.

Your shoulders won't stop shaking and you cannot stop this feeling, like he has tattooed guilt onto every spare inch of your skin. You are nauseous and you hate yourself.

You hate your choices.

You hate your career.

And oh how desperately you want to hate him.

The water turns cold and you shake as you turn it off – and as cold air hits your skin, you begin to shake violently, pulling the towel roughly across yourself before walking out into your bedroom and pulling out your suitcase.

You have to move on – and the only way to do that is to have a plan. You are good with plans. Never touch him again. Never go to his house again. You shove your clothes into the case absently as your mind races. You'll take a vacation – three weeks–worth and you will go somewhere and wear nothing but black and eat sugar and mourn.

He has died tonight. To you.

You will sell this condo and buy a house as far away from him and within distance of the hospital as you possibly can.

You will mourn him, because he is dead. Has to be for you.

You will come back, and he will be gone from your life, from your skin, from your heart. It's survival of the fittest, and sadly, you are fitter than he is.

You are the one that killed him. Twisted, ugly scars between you prove that.

You slam the suitcase shut and drag on black pants and a sweater. You don't even look back as you shut the door for the last time, don't even think as you take a cab to the airport and call your assistant on the way.

He is dead. You are dying.

And mourning and misery are the only cures.


When she returned from the shower, he was in the middle of the crossword – her morning paper scattered in sections around him. She grabbed a yogurt and a banana from the fridge before sitting kitty-corner to him at the table. He didn't look up, but slid the front page section and world news sections over to her.

He took a slow, noisy sip of coffee and she looked up with a glare. "Ass."

"Addict," he shot back, and she rolled her eyes, glancing down at his crossword puzzle thoughtfully.

"Twelve down is emery," she pointed out as she ripped the blue and gold foil from her yogurt. He sighed in irritation – he hated when she did it – which was why she did it as often as possible.

"Thanks." His sarcasm almost spilled onto the table, sloshing into their breakfast. "Nail file element – I would have figured it out."

"Eventually," she poked slightly, and he glared at her. "So what are you up to today?"

"Well, I was thinking I'd start off by downloading lots of lesbian porn onto your computer. Then once that was done – I would go through all of your things – "

"As long as you don't try anything on this time. You totally stretched out my favourite thongs last time." She spoke with a straight face, and he sighed. A smile twitched the corner of her mouth as she fought not to grin.

"But you loved them on me! Life is about compromise, Cuddy." He drained his cup before standing, and she laughed softly once he left the room. When she had finished her breakfast, she wandered back into the kitchen, spying his mug on the counter above the dishwasher. She tossed her container in the garbage with a sigh and moved over to the counter, picking his cup up and putting it in the almost empty dishwasher.

She was putting her shoes on by the door when he wandered through again. "Lunch?"

"What?" She was distracted, digging through her purse for her keys and coming up empty. 'Where are my damned keys?"

He limped toward her slowly, pausing by the hall table and grabbing her keys before handing them to her. "Lunch, Cuddy."

"Thanks," she said distractedly – her mind already whirling off in a multitude of directions – why her keys had been there, the meeting she had with the CFO today, the performance reviews she had to finish, and somewhere back in the shadowed corners of her mind, tiny voices with terrifying questions and faint glowing lights. "Wait – what?"

"I thought I'd come by for lunch." He spoke in a too-slow voice, and she looked up at him.

"With me? Is that a good idea?" They weren't hiding their... whatever it was… precisely – but it wasn't being broadcast either.

"Well, last I checked you need to eat. And I need any excuse I can get to go spy on the kids and make sure they're not killing anyone – "

"If you want to come back to work – "

"No, no, no!" he protested quickly, and she smiled knowingly. "I mean I had this stitch in my side the other day – and I was feeling weak when I went to bed last night."

"That was the sex, House. And face it – you miss work. But you're entitled to eight weeks – "

"Exactly. I love that word. Entitled. Has a nice ring to it. So – lunch, yes or no?"

She sighed as she pulled open the door and looked back at him. "Yes. But not until one. One-thirty, actually, I have a budgetary meeting and a – "

He pushed the door closed as she was speaking, pressing her against the solid wood. When she opened her mouth, he covered it with his own – kissing her until her skin flushed pink and she could see a golden glow from the lack of oxygen. When he stepped back, she was breathless. She leaned for a moment against the door – pressing her back against the cool wood with her eyes closed. When she opened them, all she could see was the base of his throat – the scar there faded now into a pale white. Unable to think of anything to say – she simply nodded when he stepped back.

She opened the door and exited quickly – her lips still tingling and suddenly extremely hungry for lunch.


You hate her. Sure, you've only met her once – and you had avoided that for almost six months but you ran out of excuses and emergencies, and you were forced to meet her. And you hate her. You know it looks odd that you escaped the pub to come out here – but he is in there with her, and Wilson and his wife – and you are alone. It seems to bitchslap you in the face and you hate it, and her. She's too tall – he probably doesn't have to bend awkwardly to kiss her, like he did with you. Her accent is annoying – grating and flat – and she laughs at his jokes. Nobody laughs at House's jokes. She makes him smile, and her eyes crinkle when she calls him Greg and every time she does, there is an odd stabbing sensation in your sternum. It hurts – you knew it would, but you didn't think it would actually, physically hurt.

So you escape the smoke-filled pub, and you go outside, breathing in the bitter fall air in deep lungfuls. You stumble over to a nearby bench – you aren't drunk, you didn't even finish the one beer you ordered, but you feel nausea churning away in your stomach anyway. The bench is cold, biting against your backside and legs, but it is a welcome sensation after the numbness you felt in there. Your eyes burn and you want to cry – which is ridiculous. You had thought she wouldn't last long. You had stupidly thought he would get tired, or realize she wasn't you and stop this. He hadn't. And he almost seemed happier, more relaxed – you saw it tonight for the first time, and it made you feel sick.

It wasn't like you hadn't dated – you had, but with every guy – every random, faceless guy - you touched you felt the guilt eat away at you. You were more miserable dating than when you were alone. You had thought – shouldn't it be the same for him? You see now that it wasn't – did that mean that the way you felt was – that he didn't….

You sigh harshly and shove a hand roughly through your hair. You should go – but guilt keeps you pinned to this hard metal bench. You press the heels of your hands into your eyes until you see blue – and it only makes you more upset, so you scrub at your eyes instead.

'I got fired today.' He sits on the bench next to you and you stare at him for a moment in shock. You didn't even hear him walk up to you, but you tear your eyes away from his and see the rest of them huddled in a group across the street, laughing. 'So whatever reason you're out here – can't be crappier than mine.'

You can't even speak for the disbelief clawing at your chest. What was left now? If he was serious – and he certainly sounded it – you wouldn't even get to see him at work now. 'What did you do?!' Your voice is angry – and he blinks but youare angry. How could he do this? A small voice in your head whispers insipidly that maybe it's for the best, but your throat is closing and you can't see it right now.

'Do? Cuddy – it wasn't like I was planning on getting fired – '

'No, but did you go to any lengths to avoid it?' Your voice is high and unnatural and he sits up, glaring at you harshly.

'I saved a life.'

'You could have saved that life and still played the politics. You could have – '

'Cuddy!' His voice is sharp and the group across the street is staring at you, but you don't really care at this point.

'And now what? You work somewhere else – where, House?'

'I'm applying to Princeton Gen. I have a good chance – I don't get it – what's the big deal?' He is staring at you like you are crazy, but it feels like the last straw. You are sitting on a stupid bench in the bitter cold, trying desperately not to cry or kill him and you are watching him leave, piece by piece. Your friendship isn't what it used to be. You barely see him socially – and now that you've met her, that slips away almost completely too and now he's telling you that because he was too stubborn or stupid, he's no longer your colleague either. Everything is disappearing so fast, and while you could pinpoint it to one night – one stupid decision followed by other more stupid choices – your eyes land on Stacy across the street and your gaze sharpens. You'd rather have someone to blame it on.

'No big deal.' Your voice is bitter, and even he looks surprised by it as you stand up abruptly, shoving your shaking hands into your coat pockets. 'I'm leaving.' It was a relief to say, and part of you meant it more than you should, but he stands next to you quickly, turning toward you and shielding the others from your view.

'Running again, Cuddy?' He is taunting you now, his eyes sharp like glass as they scrape across you.

'What can I say? I'm a runner,' you respond briefly, almost carelessly, and his gaze zeroes in on your eyes.

'Why did you come out here, Cuddy?' He is pressing you with his words, his eyes and his voice. It almost makes you want to tell him, but makes you want to squirm away at the same time. You open your mouth but Stacy calls his name from across the road impatiently and he lifts a hand in response.

'It's not important, Greg.' You echo Stacy's call bitterly and he frowns at you. 'I just needed some air – and now I need to go home.' You are tired suddenly, and the small voice in your mind is suddenly bigger. Maybe this is the only way to deal with... everything.

'Cuddy...' He seems reluctant to let you go and you smile in sad understanding.

'Goodnight, House.' You can't seem to bring yourself to say goodbye – because neither of you ever do that, and it would seem far too permanent. As you turn and walk away, your hands are still shaking with anger – at him, or yourself, you're not sure - and your eyes are filling with tears again, with no one to hide them from anymore.


She looked over the report in front of her with a sigh. They needed more funding for House's department. Again. It happened roughly once every eighteen months or so – she ran out of readily available cash for his department and was forced to find it elsewhere. Because making cuts was not an option. She would have to throw another fundraiser – an added stress that she didn't particularly want or need – but a necessary one. And somehow she would have to convince House to attend.

There was a knock on her door, and Brenda strode in with two paper cups in her hands and a smile. "It's herbal." Brenda handed her a cup as she spoke, pulling a disgusted face as she sank onto the couch with Cuddy. "I have no idea how you can drink that crap."

Cuddy took a sip and made a face as well before setting the cup down on the table in front of them. "Neither do I. I suppose it's worth it though, in the long run."

"Yes, nothing like someone entirely dependent on you for twenty years to make it all worth it."

Brenda's tone was dry but Cuddy laughed anyway. "You like kids."

"I like other people's kids. I get to give those back and often get paid for dealing with them." She waved at the cup on the table before speaking again. "Should I have just brought decaf? I mean, generally I employ a strict 'what the hell is the point?' policy toward decaf, but desperate times…."

"No, this is great thanks." Cuddy smiled warmly, pushing the papers onto the table beside the paper cup and sinking back with an exhausted sigh.

"You look like crap," Brenda pointed out bluntly.

"Wow – thanks so much. Nothing like friends to keep that self-confidence high." Cuddy spoke with sarcasm and Brenda laughed.

"I think you mean nothing like friends to be concerned about you. What's going on?" She nudged Cuddy's knee with her feet which she had folded under her comfortably – the one advantage of scrubs was comfort. Cuddy couldn't exactly curl up in her own cream-colored pencil skirt.

"I didn't sleep well last night," Cuddy finally disclosed with a sigh, causing Brenda to jerk her foot back as horror crossed her face.

"Ew! Ew, God I do not want to hear about that!"

"Sex didn't keep me up, you idiot! I've just had trouble sleeping," she finished lamely, and Brenda cocked a brow at her disbelievingly.

"Have you two talked at all about the shooting – "

"No," Cuddy ground out before smiling apologetically. "We've talked about what happened to... the guy." She waved her hands expressively and Brenda nodded in understanding. "But House is, well, House. He doesn't talk to me about it really – "

"Oh sure. I mean, why would you? It's not like you're in a committed relationship or anything – "

"We're not," Cuddy interjected, and Brenda rolled her eyes and shook her head in disgust.

"I know, I know. I've seen the matinee performance of this. It's just about the baby, and it's not emotional." Cuddy nodded in agreement as Brenda spoke, only to stare at her next words. "Except... you love him. Lord knows why, but you do. Oh and also, he's totally living with you."

"He's not living with me." Cuddy pointed out, happily side-stepping the first part of Brenda's statement.

"Of course not. Was he there last night?" She waited until Cuddy nodded, narrowing her eyes. "The night before? Does he have a key."

"No, he does not have a key," Cuddy spoke triumphantly.

"Okay then, Cleopatra – he's had a copy of your house and office keys for the last seven years – he just has permission to use them now."

"I hate you," Cuddy muttered, pulling the file off the table as she searched for her shoes.

"And I brought you herbal tea and everything!" Brenda mocked with a laugh as Cuddy mumbled, shoving her feet into her shoes. "Your meeting starts in ten, right? Want to do lunch later?" Brenda was looking down at her watch as she spoke. Cuddy stood, shaking her head.

"I can't I'm having lunch with – "

"The boyfriend?" Brenda offered with a helpful smile. Cuddy glared down at her.

"Not my boyfriend – "

"Lover? Sperm donor? Androgynous life partner – wait that's House and Wilson." Cuddy couldn't quite suppress her laughter as she headed for her office door.

"Lock the office when you're done with your break, please?" Cuddy didn't wait for Brenda's nod – she trusted her implicitly. Brenda's laughter echoed after her as the door closed, and Cuddy headed for the elevators with a small smile gracing her mouth.


You should feel guilty, but you can't bring yourself to. Maybe tomorrow when you see Stacy at work, or maybe once he's gone and you realize once again that you are alone anyway, despite his breath on your neck and his arms around you right now. You've been pretending to hate him for months, and he's been pretending not to care.

When you opened the door earlier, he had barely given you a chance to breathe in your shock before his hands were in your hair and he was consuming you, his lips on your skin and his body pressed against yours. You didn't even protest – not one word was spoken between you, and the silence is almost oppressive as you lie listening to his heartbeat and his hand strokes along your neck and shoulder idly. You don't want to be the first to break it, though – because if you start speaking, you're afraid everything will come pouring out, like pulling the knife out of a stab wound.

'I'm sorry.' His voice is quiet, muffled against your hair, and you freeze, because out of everything – this wasn't what you had expected him to say. 'Cuddy?'

'For what?' Your voice is terse and his hand moves back up along your neck until it's tangled in your hair and holding it tightly. He doesn't speak, and you sigh soundlessly, knowing what he's sorry for. He is too weak to resist the temptation, but he has no intention of leaving Stacy either. 'Don't.' You finally speak and his hand stills at the sound of it. You look up at him – hating yourself and him, too – because you are weaker than he is. Because you are willing to accept this – over anything else.

'Cuddy...' He is protesting now, but you don't want to listen to him so you shut him up by pressing your mouth against his. It is gentler this time – in a way it hasn't been before. His arm curls around you and you know you should feel guilty or hate yourself or him, but you can't bring yourself to feel anything other than relieved as that tiny hope within you flourishes again.

When he leaves several hours later, with a quick kiss and a mumbled apology, you smile and wrap the sheets that still smell like him around you, burying your face in them and pretending you aren't alone.


"House!" She shouted in exasperation, for the third time in a row, knowing full well he could hear her. "I swear to God I am going to kill you – "

"What, woman?" He was standing in the doorway with a scowl, and she pointed at the mug and plate sitting on the counter.

"Are you completely incapable of putting dishes in the dishwasher? It's a dishwasher – you don't have to actually wash them, just open the door and put them in." She demonstrated as she spoke, and he moved over next to her.

"That's not mine."

"Yes, it is."

"No, see, my mug is right there." He pointed at the top rack, and she stared at him incredulously for a beat.

"No." She spoke evenly and slowly. "That's your mug from this morning, which – by the way – I put in there before I left!"

"Oh come on!" he protested with a slight laugh. She found herself smiling in response despite her irritation, because it was like suddenly the room was awash with domesticity. "I took you to lunch today," he offered with a smile, and she nodded grudgingly. He had – and surprisingly enough, he had paid – which had probably caused the spread of more rumours than if he had taken her right there on the cafeteria table. Well – maybe not quite more rumours.

"You did. But if you're staying here – you need to at least do this. I'm not nagging you to take the trash out or anything – "

"Fine." He sighed exaggeratedly, and she laughed as she closed the door of the dishwasher. "Can I go back to the television now?"

"Of course." She waved him off, and he was almost at the door when she spoke again. "If that's how you want to spend your evening." He paused before turning back to her with a sly smile.

"There's an L Word marathon on right now – what's your offer?"

She grinned at his words before turning the dishwasher on and moving past him through the doorway. He was three steps behind her. "Well, I don't know if I can beat fictional lesbians, House."

"You could try. Do you have any close female friends you've touched inappropriately?" he teased as he continued to follow her down the hall toward her bedroom.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" she asked archly, laughing when his outstretched fingers finally came in contact with her skin.

"I would, actually." His hands were turning her to face him, sliding down along her back and pulling her closer as she laughed.

"I'm a good secret keeper," she teased and his smile spread. He lowered his mouth, scraping it along her neck, and she tilted her head back and moaned as he pulled her hips even closer against his own. He lifted his head with a grin, and she looked up at him hazily.

"Good thing I'm an excellent interrogator."