Cuddy didn't get a wink of sleep that night.

She tossed and turned thinking about House. How he had humiliated her, betrayed her, violated her trust. She was furious at him—and herself.

How could she have been so gullible? How could she fallen so easily for his scam?

The clues were there from the start, if she had only paid attention.

Take that day at the hospital, when he was detoxing. Cuddy. He had called her Cuddy. Even a genius like House couldn't keep up such an elaborate ruse while delirious and in pain.

And she had brushed it off— made up the excuse that he had used the informal version of her name (who does that?) because he was so sick. She didn't just ignore the clues. She was complicit in his deception. She actually filled in the blanks for him.

Later, at the height of his anguish, he had moaned that he was a terrible person. In retrospect, that was his true guilt—about the car crash, about faking his own death—coming through. But when she asked about it, he had delivered the perfect line: "I must've been a terrible person to deserve such pain." He made her pity him all over again, want to save him. He played her like a fiddle.

There were other clues: How he knew her drink at the Lancelot Lounge, not just a martini, but a vodka martini (and his switching from scotch to bourbon? Was that all for her benefit? My God, how deep did the deception run?).

Later, he'd "guessed" that she didn't eat red meat, made her vegetarian chili. But of course, he wasn't guessing at all.

Even the sex—dammit, the sex. It wasn't just some new lover's lucky intuition. He knew! The bastard knew exactly where and how to touch her, exactly how to bring her to the peaks of bliss.

Fuck. Gregory. House.

The thing that killed her was—she knew better!

Back at PPTH, she was always alert, on her game. No one could truly keep up with House, of course, but at least she came close. She was virtually the only one who could go toe-to-to with him.

But two years away from him—not to mention the shock of seeing him alive — and she had let her guard down. And who was she trying to kid? She wanted to believe. Wanted to believe in this kinder, gentler, reformed version of House. It had made her the perfect mark.

She promised herself she would never be his fool again.

#######

In the morning, he called her—14 times. She turned off her ringer and buried the phone in her purse.

Rachel was babbling on happily about her visit with House.

"He does the best Wookie voice!" she said. "And he made up new Power Girls! And he said he'd take me to the zoo to pet the lima beans and that they spit!"

"Llamas," Cuddy said, distracted, not even smiling. "Not lima beans."

"Mama, when can House come over to play again?" Rachel trilled.

"House had to. . .go back home to New Jersey," Cuddy improvised—and she watched her daughter's face sink.

Later, she listened to the first two of House's voicemail messages.

"Please call me. I'm begging you. We need to talk," said the first.

"I can explain everything." said the second. "If you'll just let me ex—" and she deleted the rest of that message and then the other 12.

He called her 11 more times. She called Verizon and had his number blocked.

He borrowed someone else's cell phone, called her again. It worked once—she answered.

"Don't hang —" and she hit the end call button. (From then on, whenever she saw a strange number on her phone, she let it go straight to voicemail.)

Two days later, he showed up at her office, with flowers.

"What are you doing here?" she hissed. "We're not even supposed to know each other."

"Just bringing flowers to the kindly stranger who nursed me back to health," he said.

She took the flowers, put them on her desk in disgust. (Throwing them out would only call more attention to them.)

"You gave me the flowers. Now go."

"We need to talk."

"I don't need to do anything."

"Please let's talk."

"Why? So you can lie to me again? Humiliate me again? Laugh at me again?"

"Cuddy, I never laughed at you. . ." he said sincerely. "I was happy again, that's all. For the first time in two years, I was just . . . happy."

"Well, it's a shame their your happiness was built on a foundation of deceit and lies."

"The foundation of my happiness was us," he said. "The lies were just details."

"Details? Details? Tricking me into taking you back into my heart? Into my bed? Fuck you, House. What you call details I call my life."

She must've raised her voice a little too loudly because her assistant came to the door, looking concerned.

"Everything okay Dr. Cuddy?"

"Yes, fine," Cuddy said, smiling through grit teeth. "We're talking about his stingy insurance company. You know how worked up I get over that red tape."

"You do," the assistant said, smiling. Then he turned to House: "She does."

He left.

"Impressive lie, Cuddy," House said, with a smirk.

"Don't even try it, House. Even you are not dense enough to equate this lie with your tsunami of deception."

He looked down.

"No," he said. "Tsunami of deception. Nice turn of phrase."

"I want you to go."

"Not until you agree to talk to me. Come meet at the Lancelot Lounge tonight. Just let me try to explain. You at least owe me that."

"I owe you?" She was stunned by his nerve. "I owe you nothing House. You managed to ooze your way into my life like the slime that you are and now I want to exterminate you permanently."

"My deception has done wonders for your metaphors, Cuddy," he said.

It was amazing how, with just the tiniest shift in his demeanor, he was back to being his old obnoxious self.

"Get out of my office or I'll call the cops and tell them that Gregory House is alive," she said.

"You're bluffing," he said.

"Try me," she said.

So he left.
######

A few days later, at breakfast, Rachel asked again about House.

"Can House come over to play tonight?" she said.

"Rachel, I told you, he's gone. He's back in Jersey."

"But what about playing dollies with me? He promised!"

"Sometimes grownups break promises, Rachel," Cuddy said. "Eat your pancakes."

He sent her a letter. She threw it out.

But that night, she couldn't sleep again. She tossed and turned, her mind racing.

Finally, she crept into the kitchen, and dug the letter out of the trash.

Dear Cuddy

You say you want the truth, but you won't let me talk to you long enough to give it to you.

Please just read this letter. If nothing else, it might give you some closure. And I promise that this is the truth, the whole truth, so help me, well. . . if I said, God we'd be starting this whole "truth thing" off on the wrong foot.

I came to St. Louis to see you one last time. After Wilson died, I knew I was going to off myself, that was always the plan. But I wanted to say goodbye, you know? To you and Rachel both. But I chickened out. Not about the suicide part, about the seeing you. I knew you hated me, because you hadn't come to my funeral. Can't say I blamed you.

So I drove my bike into a tree. Without a helmet, mind you. That might've been your first clue that the suicide attempt was real. Only morons or guys with death wishes don't wear a helmet. And I'm no moron, Cuddy.

Just my fucking luck I'd land in a patch of grass. (The Kennedys aren't the only ones to have bad luck with grassy knolls.)

So I wake up and there you are. And I'm supposed to be dead and if not, there's a warrant out for my arrest and suddenly it was all so simple: A way to get a clean slate: With you, with my life, with everything.

So I lied. Yeah, I did it to save my ass, but I also did it because I love you. Because I thought, I'm getting a second chance to do it all over again, to do it right this time with the woman I love. What guy wouldn't take that chance if given to him?

Gregory House, you wouldn't give the time of day to. But Doc, the guy with no baggage, the guy who never hurt you: That guy you could possibly love.

Yeah, it was a deception. But in my mind at least, the ends justified the means. Because in the end, I'd be with you, Cuddy. Making you happy again. And that's all I've ever wanted.

Signed,

The Lying Asshole Formerly Know As Greg House

She read the letter twice and knew that she believed him. He would never lie about a suicide attempt. It was a sign of weakness, that he'd given up.

But what really was new in that letter? That he loved her? She knew that already. That he wanted a clean slate? That's not how life works. You live with the consequences of your actions.

He lied to her because it served his needs. Because it made his life easier. Same as it ever was.

She balled up the letter, threw it back in the trash, and went back to bed.

#######

She was haunted though, by tiny details. Things the letter didn't address: In particular, the security deposit box and the suicide/love note.

House was right. If she was ever going to get any sleep again, she needed closure. It wasn't fair that he knew everything and she was still in the dark.

So she went to the Lancelot Lounge.

He was at the piano, and the groupies were still there, and she vaguely wondered how many of them he had fucked at this point—now that his good guy impression was ever. (Hell, he may've fucked them before. He lied about everything else.)

When he saw her, for the first time, he actually lost his place in the music, stumbled a bit, played a few errant chords. Then he switched to a new tune: Willie Nelson's "You Were Always On My Mind."

Cute.

"Takin' 5," he said, when he finished the song. He hobbled over to her.

"You're here," he said, happily.

"I just have some questions, that's all," she said, in a slightly officious way.

"You got my letter?"

"I got it."

"And. . .?"

"I believe you, House. But I still have questions. And you're going to answer them. Right now."

"Okay," he said. He glanced for a second at the vacated piano bench. Technically, he wasn't between shifts. He sat down anyway.

"Shoot," he said.

"The note. The safety deposit box. Was that all part of your ruse?"

House began fiddling with a cocktail straw.

"No," he said. "I wrote you that letter before the crash. I figured you'd find the key. Or the authorities would find it and give you the letter. The money was supposed to be for you too," he added, with a rueful smile. "But once I found myself awkwardly alive I decided I needed it more than you did."

Cuddy looked down at the bar, didn't make eye contact with him.

"And the time. . .between my dropping you off at Horizon House and when I first came to see you here. What did you do with yourself?"

She could feel his eyes on her.

"What did I do with myself?" he asked. "I settled into Horizon House and got a job at a hotel bar, hoping you'd eventually turn up."

"But what if I never showed?"

"Cuddy, I waited 25 years to be with you. I could wait 5 weeks."

She had a flash, suddenly, of the look on his face when she had entered the lounge that first time—happiness mixed with relief.

"The bourbon?" she asked. She noticed that he was still drinking the honey-colored whiskey.

"Just a way of getting into costume," House said. "To remind myself that the old Greg House was dead."

She had to know, even though she hated herself for caring: "And the cougarpack? Have many of them have you slept with?"

"Cuddy, none!"

She swallowed.

"Cuddy," he took her chin, maneuvered her face toward him. "Cuddy. . .I would never. You've got to be joking. You've got to be joking. . ."

"Thank you," she said and she stood up. "That's all I needed to know."

#######

She was bleary eyed again at breakfast, after a sleepless night. She didn't even have the energy to make Rachel any real food. She placed a bowl in front of her daughter, absent-mindedly shook in some cereal, poured the milk.

She made black coffee, sat across from her. Her mind was a million miles away.

"Mama," Rachel was saying. "Can we write House a letter? Can we? Can we?"

She looked up.

"Wha?"

"Can we write House a letter?"

"No, we can't."

"Why not?"

"Because I say so," Cuddy snapped.

Rachel pushed her cereal bowl away and began to pout.

Cuddy sighed.

"I'm sorry baby. Mama shouldn't have snapped at you. We can write a letter to someone else, okay? Let's write a letter to nana!"

"Forget it," Rachel muttered under her breath.

######

She had a nightmare that night.

"I want to show you something," House said, taking her hand, leading her up a long flight of stairs. They walked and walked and walked. The staircase seemed endless.

Finally, they got to a roof. There was an enormous gust of wind when they exited the stairwell.

"This is what I want to show you," he said.

He stood at the edge of the roof, facing her, his arms spread. He grinned broadly. And fell back.

"Nooooo!" she screamed—maybe in her sleep, maybe outloud.

She sat up in bed. Her heart was racing. She went to the bathroom, splashed some cold water on her face.

"It's just a dream, it was just a dream," she reminded herself. She felt like she was going to be sick.

She couldn't shake the dream all day, so that night she went back to the Lancelot Lounge.

"It's Doc's night off," the bartender told her.

She drove to the Horizon House. A few of the residents were hanging out in the living room, watching TV. She recognized most of them from the dinner.

"Is Hou—is Doc around?" she asked.

"He's up in his room," Marie said. "He's sure gonna be glad to see you, honey."

She went to his room. Knocked.

House opened the door, looking shocked to see her.

"Cuddy, come in!" he said.

Again, there was a hasty attempt to straighten up. He threw away a candy bar wrapper. He held up a pair of tennis shoes that had been kicked to the floor, not quite knowing what to do with them.

"Don't throw them out," Cuddy said, with a slight smile.

He shoved them under the couch.

"What are you doing here?" he asked. "Can I get you something? Some wine? Some . . . bourbon?"

"I'm not staying long," she said.

She sat down on the couch, smoothed her skirt a little.

He sat down beside her—not too close—looked at her eagerly.

"I want to know how you are," she said.

He gave her a quizzical look. "I'm fine Cuddy. The amnesia thing was made up. I'm not really sick, remember?"

"That's not what I mean. I want to know if you're going to. . ."

"Try to kill myself again," he said, getting it.

"Yeah."

He blinked at her.

"Surprisingly, no. I'm. . .I wouldn't say happy, but I do want to live."

"What are you going to do with yourself?"

"I hadn't thought ahead that far," he said. "For now, live here. Play at the Lancelot."

"Live here? With all these people? In this glorified dorm house? You hate people."

"I like these people," House said, with a shrug. "They're not so bad."

"And what about your gifts House? And I don't mean as a piano player. . . "

"I can't practice medicine anymore," he reminded her.

"But that doesn't mean you can't use your brain. It's such a waste . . ."

He scratched his chin.

"I've been hanging out a bit at the applied physics lab at the university," he said. "They let me poke around, look through the microscope, talk neuroscience and robotics. They even invite me to their brainiac mixers. I was going to take you to one, but. . ." his voice trailed off.

"Good," she said, standing to leave. "Good."

"You still care about me," he said, stubbornly.

"Not wanting you to kill yourself isn't quite the same thing as still caring about you," she said. "I don't want anyone to kill themselves."

"But you're not in just anyone's room. You're in my room."

"And now I'm leaving."

And before he could protest, she got up and left.

######

When she got downstairs, she bumped into Barry, the Gulf War vet.

"I hope this means you and Doc are back together," he said, smiling at her. "He's been pretty depressed these last few weeks."

"No, we're not back together. We were never really together, to be honest."

"Too bad," Barry said. "Because he really lit up when you were around."

"Well, I thought I knew who he was. But I was wrong," Cuddy said. She started to leave, then stopped.

"Speaking of which, has Doc been. . .different these past few weeks?" she asked.

"Different? I told you, he's been moping around like a lovesick puppy."

"No, I mean. Has he been more of an . .. asshole? Insulting people? Wielding his superior intellect like a weapon?"

Barry laughed.

"Doc's always been a bit of an asshole. That's why we love him."
#######

Two mornings later, over breakfast, Rachel said: "Mama, can we call House?"

Cuddy slammed her hand on the table.

"What on earth is this obsession with House all about?" she said.

Rachel looked down, began playing with her oatmeal. Finally she said, softly: "It's just that you smile more when you're with House."

Cuddy felt a lump rise in her throat.

She stood up, knelt in front of Rachel, gave her a hug.

"I'm so sorry, baby. Mama's been unhappy lately. I know that. I'm sorry."

"I don't want your eyes to be so sad all the time," Rachel said.

And Cuddy buried her face in her daughter's cotton dress and hoped she wasn't staining it with her tears.

######

It was the regular Thursday night potluck at the Horizon House and the residents were gathered around the table.

"Scoot over, Doc," Barry said. "I'm expecting a lady friend tonight."

House scooted over, rolling his eyes a bit.

"She better be cute," he cracked.

"She's more than cute," Barry said. "She's a stone cold fox."

Just then, the front door opened and a woman, wielding a crockpot, was standing before them.

Cuddy.

House's mouth dropped open.

"Cuddy!" he said.

She shrugged a bit, smiled wearily in a "what are you gonna do?" sort of way.

He stood up, pulled her chair out for her, not able to wipe the stunned look off his face.

"You look. . .amazing," he said.

"Hope everyone likes okra," Cuddy said, placing her crockpot on the table.

"Nobody likes okra," House said, snapping out of it.

"Shut up, House," Cuddy said, giving him a playful slap.

"Who's House?" Barry said.

House and Cuddy exchanged a look.

"Term of endearment," Cuddy said.

THE END