A/N: My thanks to everyone who has left comments, especially the guests Abby and Tricia, whom I can't thank personally.

When Rachel wheeled herself into the hospital room, Cuddy greeted her with a wave and a grimace. "Nana," she mouthed, pointing to the phone in her hand. Rachel grimaced back, comprehension on her smooth face.

"It's only been five days since the operation, Mom," Cuddy said, trying to keep the impatience she felt out of her voice. "It's normal to be in the hospital for a week, so I'm doing fine."

"When I got my hip done, I was released from the hospital after five days," her mother said.

"A liver donation is a teensy bit different," Cuddy said. Why had Julia told their mother that she was in the hospital?

"I hope your doctors are competent. When I remember how they messed up my hip …"

"Yes, Mom, I'm sure they know what they're doing." She needed to put an end to this conversation before her mother delved further into the hip replacement, a trip down memory lane that invariably brought up House's name:

"That man was absolutely arrogant and obnoxious, but I have to admit that he was brilliant. He saved my life, I'll give him that, the gonif! You were an idiot to dump him, Lisa. Men like that don't grow on trees. Yes, I know it was a good thing you did dump him – I'd wring his neck with my own hands if I could –, but you didn't do it because he was a total, utter and complete meshugener and a walking time bomb. You did it because nothing and no one is good enough for you."

No, she didn't need a lecture on her shortcomings as a daughter, girlfriend or mother. "Oh, Rachel has come to visit me. I've got to go, Mom. … What?"

"I want to talk to my grandchild, dear."

"To Rachel?" Oh, no! The last thing she needed was her mother finding out who had been looking after her granddaughter for the last five days.

"Yes, obviously!"

Cuddy beckoned to Rachel. "Rachel, Nana wants to talk to you." She covered the speaker with her hand. "Try not to mention Pete; if Nana asks who's looking after you, just say it's Tanja." And there went another parental guideline, Teach your child to be honest, down the drain.

"Sure, Mom," Rachel said. "I'm not stupid!"

No, she wasn't, and she'd realised very quickly that mentions of Pete were absolutely taboo in the Cuddy clan, but she was up against the Grand Inquisition here. She'd be squeezed dry without even noticing it. Hoping for the best, Cuddy handed the phone to Rachel.

Then she got up carefully, planning every movement in advance. Walking was still agony, much more than she'd thought it would be. She hadn't had time to give much thought to the long-term consequences of the operation before consenting to it, but during the course of the past five days she'd had more than enough time on her hands to worry about how she'd cope during the coming weeks, and at the moment the outlook was bleak. How was she going to care for Rachel when she was slowed down to a snail's pace and couldn't even lift a new-born, let alone an eight year old? All it would take was Rachel falling out of bed, and they'd be royally screwed. And that wasn't even taking into account that she wasn't allowed to drive a car for six weeks.

Managing Rachel was complicated at the best of times, as this week had shown. Cuddy had chosen to close her eyes to most of what was going on, but she was aware that Rachel's school attendance had been sketchy and that she wasn't getting enough sleep. At the moment she didn't have the strength to deal with those problems, but she'd have to think of a solution soon. Somehow, however, she didn't have the energy to tackle the problem and solve it.

"Yes, Nana, I'm doing fine," Rachel said. "Yes, I'm eating enough, really, Nana. … Yes, I'm eating my breakfast. … Huh? … I had eggs and bacon today."

Cuddy face-palmed mentally. Pete, you idiot!

Rachel looked confused. "But it was bacon, not pork. … Oh, I didn't know that. … Umm, Tanja cooked breakfast, Nana. …. Tanja's the nurse who's looking after me. … Yeah, I'll give the phone back to Mom, okay? Mom, Nana wants to talk to you." She handed the phone back with alacrity.

"Yes, Mom," Cuddy said, resigning herself to a lengthy cross-examination.

"Lisa, your caregiver is giving your daughter pork," her mother said, censure in her tone.

"It's not going to kill her."

"Aren't you raising her kosher? I know her biological parents weren't Jewish, but …"

"Mom, we've talked about this before. I'm raising Rachel the way Julia raises her children." She hated it when her mother snuck in double digs in this manner, hinting that Cuddy was either a bad Jew or that she didn't care enough about Rachel to raise her the way she would if Rachel was her flesh and blood.

"No, you're not: she's eating pork!"

"It was a one-off, not a regular thing, and she didn't even know …"

Her mother had long ago perfected the art of backtracking in order to launch an attack from a different angle. "Don't prevaricate, Lisa. It's not about what she eats or how often she does so. It's about instilling values, about raising her in the traditions of our nation."

Nation? Our nation? Her mother had converted to Judaism when she'd gotten engaged to her father. She came from a long line of Presbyterians (or was it Lutherans?).

But her mother was on a roll now. "Why didn't you inform that caregiver of yours that we're Jewish?"

"Because it was all a terrible rush and I had my hands full apprising her of Rachel's basic health care issues," Cuddy lied expertly. Telling her mother (a) that she basically didn't know Tanja and (b) that Tanja didn't know enough English for them to communicate effectively would not strengthen her position. "It's not the end of the world, Mom. I'll explain to her later that bacon's off the menu."

"Was all this really necessary?" her mother asked, getting back to her original agenda, the reason she was making the call in the first place. "Your place is with your daughter, not donating body parts to some putz who ruined his liver drinking …"

Cuddy took a deep breath. "Mom, Wilson didn't ruin his liver on purpose; it was the chemo, not alcohol. And I don't believe Rachel would be happier living one hundred percent kosher, but with Wilson dead. Look, I really have to go now."

"What terribly important appointment can you have when you're convalescing in a hospital?" her mother asked peevishly.

That one was easy to field. "Rachel wants to visit Wilson, and the ICU only admits visitors below the age of twelve between five and six p.m. So, I have to take her there now. I'll talk to you some other time, Mom." She ended the call, wondering for the umpteenth time whether she hadn't been happier in the months that she had been estranged from her parent.

"Come on, I'll take you to Wilson," she said to Rachel and walked stiffly to the door.

"You wanna push my wheelchair?" Rachel offered.

Ever since the operation she'd been misusing Rachel's wheelchair as a walker. "No, hon, I'm supposed to walk by myself today."

"I'm sorry about the bacon," Rachel said presently.

"It's no big deal. What did you have for dinner yesterday?" Cuddy asked, more because she wanted to divert Rachel from the 'Nana disapproves of bacon' issue than because she was interested.

"Tanja cooked some soup, but it was yuck-y," Rachel said, wrinkling her nose at the memory. "There was funny stuff swimming in it."

"Oh, dear!" Cuddy said absently.

"But Pete made garden pizza later," Rachel continued.

"Later?" Cuddy queried. "As in 'the middle of the night'?"

Rachel avoided her gaze. "Sort of."

"You had veggie pizza in the middle of the night?" The mind boggled! She'd reckoned with popcorn, chips, nachos, possibly even buffalo wings or Chinese takeaway, but she hadn't thought that Pete was inclined to cook in the middle of the night, let alone put together a healthy meal for a hungry kid.

"Not veggie pizza; garden pizza. You crumble chocolate chip cookies into the bottom of a pan and put nutella on top – that's the sand and the mud. Then you put gummi worms on top of that and M&Ms in flower patterns and gummi bears – those are bugs – and …"

Oh, okay, that made more sense. Rachel would be constipated, but that wasn't her problem. Her mind wandered ahead to what awaited Rachel at the ICU.

"Rachel, Wilson isn't going to be looking good. He got a piece of my liver, and the immune system – that's the stuff that's responsible for fighting off sicknesses – doesn't like it when we stick other people's body parts into our bodies." (Oh dear, that was salaciously ambiguous. Pete would have a field day with that statement if Rachel quoted it to him.) "So it tries to fight the new liver. In addition, he's still fighting his cancer, so he isn't well. He's losing a lot of hair, and he hasn't eaten decently in ages, so don't be surprised that he's looking really, really …." She searched for a word that would convey Wilson's drastic appearance.

"Crappy," Rachel supplemented.

Cuddy decided that this wasn't a suitable moment for enforcing language issues. "Yes. And he won't be fit enough to talk much with you. Just … try not to bother him, okay?"

"Yeah, okay. I'll just read him my Wilbur story." Cuddy searched her mind, but only came up with a blank. "Mo-om, the story I wrote to give Charlotte's Web a happy ending. You said it was really good!"

"Oh yes, of course. Yes, I'm sure he'll love it." Wilson could doze through that without having to do more than hum and haw at the appropriate places.

"Yeah, that's what Pete said too," Rachel said in a self-satisfied tone.

When they got to the ICU, she spotted Wilson in his room, but Pete was nowhere in sight.

"Didn't Pete bring you here?" she asked Rachel.

"Yeah, he did. And he said he was going to visit Wilson," Rachel confirmed.

Odd, that. But maybe Wilson was asleep and Pete hadn't wanted to disturb him. She walked over to the nurses' desk to announce their visit when she caught sight of Pete. He was seated behind the nurses' desk, playing on his phone.

"Is he sleeping?" Cuddy asked.

Pete didn't answer, his attention apparently on the candy he was trying to crush. "Nope," he finally said. "He won't see me."

Cuddy sighed. She'd thought this madness would be over now that Wilson must have realised that he'd have died without Pete's timely interference. Furthermore, she'd assumed that Pete visited Wilson whenever he dropped Rachel off at her room, because he never stayed. "You didn't tell me that …"

"Not your problem," Pete said brusquely.

"I'll talk to him," she said.

Pete's eyes slid away. She took that to mean he assented; besides, there wasn't much he could do to stop her from saying whatever she pleased. She gave her daughter a doubtful look; she'd rather not have Rachel witnessing how she ripped Wilson apart. Then she turned to the nurse on duty. "Would you mind watching her?"

"I'll take her down to the cafeteria, get her something to eat," Pete said, waving his hand vaguely towards the elevator as he got up.

Cuddy stared at him, trying to figure out the reason for his offer, but Pete didn't meet her eyes.

"Can't I see Wilson?" Rachel asked.

"Just … let me talk to him first," Cuddy said. "Pete can get you an ice cream."

Pete grinned knowingly. "Bribery, a staple of good parenting. You got some change?" He held out his hand.

Cuddy grimaced. She wasn't in the habit of taking her purse with her when she tottered to the ICU to visit Wilson. Besides, Pete had money; he just wasn't prepared to spend it if he could avoid it. The nurse on duty looked up, delved in her purse and handed Pete a few bills, which he pocketed without as much as a thank you. The whole transaction had an air of common-place routine.

"Let's go, crip," Pete said to Rachel.

"Peg-leg yourself," Rachel said without rancour.

Cuddy watched them leave, then she turned back to the nurses' desk. "I'll pay you back. How much did you give him?"

"That's okay; we all feed him," the nurse said.

Cuddy was nonplussed. Pete – no, House – had always scrounged off his fellows, but they'd never been particularly keen to support their well-earning boss. Wilson had borne it with grace, but Wilson had been his friend. She hoped the nurses weren't pampering Pete because they thought their dean expected anything of the sort. "Thanks," she said awkwardly. "I appreciate that."

The nurse nodded coolly. No, she definitely wasn't doing it for Cuddy, who couldn't shake off the feeling that there was something going on here that she wasn't aware of.

"Do you want to drop in on Dr Wilson now?" the nurse asked.

"Yes. How is he?"

The nurse checked on the computer. "Stable. Dr Reilly has put him on ciclosporin."

Cuddy nodded. It was what Pete had predicted.

She disinfected her hands, put on a face mask, and knocked on the door lightly before entering. Wilson lay in the bed, a gaunt figure against the white sheets. He was a mere shade of his former self, his cheeks caved in, his lips pale and bloodless, his hair thin and stringy with his scalp shining through.

"Hey," she said.

He turned his head towards her. "Hey," he answered, his mouth twitching in what was supposed to be a smile. "Walked here by yourself today?"

"Yes." She sat down next to his bed and took his hand. The gesture didn't come easily, but a PDA here and there would help to support her claim that Wilson was her boyfriend. To anyone watching from the outside they looked like a devoted couple. "Why aren't you talking to Pete?"

"Let it go, Lisa," Wilson said.

"You would have died!"

"I may still die, if not of liver failure, then of cancer. We have no idea whether the treatment shrank the tumour. See, this is exactly what I didn't want – to spend my remaining days hooked up to machines, being pumped full of pharmaceuticals and painkillers, and then dying a drawn-out, miserable death." He turned his head away from her. "I should be suing you."

"For treating you at my hospital?"

"You knew I didn't want this."

"And you know I didn't have a choice. You were unconscious, and Pete said you'd changed your mind about hospitalisation while I was gone," she retaliated, immensely grateful that Pete had had the sense to knock Wilson unconscious behind her back. She added pointedly, "Which didn't surprise me because it was the sensible thing to do."

She met his suspicious gaze head on; finally he dropped it, picking irritably at the blanket covering him instead. Inwardly, she let out a long sigh of relief. Maybe he wasn't up to his game as yet, weakened as he was, maybe he wanted to be fooled into believing that she hadn't gone behind his back. Whichever it was, she didn't care.

"The sneaky bastard," Wilson muttered.

"You do realise he did this for you," she said.

"He did it because he is intrinsically incapable of accepting anyone's will except his own," Wilson contradicted her. "This is what he's always done: bulldozing over other people in order to prove his point."

Cuddy felt anger bubbling up inside her. "For God's sake, Wilson! Don't you see what you were asking of him? You were demanding that he sit in that apartment watching you die – because, damn you, you would have died if he hadn't brought you here – and then spend the next few years in prison for withholding aid."

"I could have made it."

"No, you couldn't; your liver was failing! He saved your life, and now he's sitting out there not daring to move, because if you do die here in the hospital, he'll never forgive himself for bringing you here." Her breath hitched and she had to turn away to hide the tears in her eyes from him. She looked at the rain streaking down the window, at the grey leaden sky, at the gynaecology ward on the other side of the courtyard.

Wilson spoke after a long silence. "You can't be upset because I'm mad at House; you were expecting that. You're upset because … because he's been here for me when he wasn't there for you."

Oh, wily Wilson! Why had she believed he wasn't up to his game? He was willing to overlook her part in duping him because he couldn't prove it, not when she and Pete had prepared a foolproof story, but that didn't mean that he couldn't punish her in his own way. He could spot an open wound a mile off, and he was rubbing salt into hers.

She was no match for him, never had been.

But she'd be damned if she'd beat a retreat, so she said in measured tones, "Yes, I'm pissed that he wasn't that guy for me." She paused to analyse her feelings. "And I'm even more pissed at myself for believing he could never be that guy, when it's clear now that he can. But most of all, I'm pissed at you for wallowing in self-pity instead of appreciating what he's putting himself through for your sake. If you wanted to die so badly, you should have run your motorcycle into a tree."

She could have bitten her tongue off for saying that, carrying as it did the connotations of Pete's suicide attempt in front of her house and the misery that followed it, but the words were said, so she blundered on, though she wasn't sure what she was trying to say. "That way he wouldn't have been implicated; it would have been an unfortunate accident. But no, you needed proof that he'd risk his freedom and his future for you, the way you did for him, so you had to put him to the test, didn't you?"

"I didn't ask …," Wilson began, but she was on a roll now, making up in resentment what the face mask made her lose in facial expression.

"You did! If you'd died in that apartment, he would have been arrested and tried for withholding medical aid, and I'm reasonably sure that this time he'd have been convicted. He definitely has the medical knowledge to know better, and since he doesn't have a medical licence, he was not allowed to treat you in the first place. Oh, the prosecution would have loved it!"

Indeed, the danger wasn't averted as yet; the prosecution might still have a field day. If Wilson died and her staff refused to cover for her and Pete, there'd be hell to pay. Now that she thought of it, it was her duty to ensure that collateral damage was minimised, no matter what the outcome for Wilson. She took the book that was lying on the nightstand, tore out the fly leaf, and scribbled a few lines on it.

"Here, sign that!" she said, thrusting it at Wilson.

It was only when he squinted at the paper, struggling to decipher what she'd written, that she realised he was in no state to think reasonably, much less be held accountable for the resentful things he'd said. She looked down, biting her lips, wondering whether she needed to apologise. How was it that Pete always brought out a protective streak in both of them, making them take up arms against whatever hurt him, with little regard for the needs of others around them?

Wilson signed laboriously before holding out the paper and pen for Cuddy to take back. "I have no objection to testifying that the whole treatment plan was my idea and that I refused to consider hospitalisation as a treatment option," he said coldly.

"Wilson," Cuddy said, but before she could verbalise an apology that expressed her regret without backing down from her convictions, a babble of voices outside the door caught both their attention.

"I'll take you to your mom, but you do have to disinfect your hands, sweetie," a nurse was saying.

"Mo-om!" It was Rachel, a very unhappy Rachel.

Just as Cuddy rose, the door opened and the nurse pushed Rachel in. Rachel lunged at Cuddy, almost falling out of her wheelchair in the process, tears in her eyes and abject terror in the sliver of her face that was visible above her face mask.

Cuddy knelt painfully, half taking her into her arms.

"What is it, honey?" she said, a dozen possible scenarios flashing through her mind. Where was Pete and what had he done? Had he forgotten Rachel somewhere in the hospital, leaving her to fend for herself?

"Pe-ete," Rachel wailed.

"What did he do?" Cuddy asked, determined to scalp him at the next opportunity. He'd turned teasing Rachel into an art form, but normally her daughter didn't mind, not understanding half of what Pete said and giving as good as she got in response to the half that she did get. But it was possible that in his desolation he had lashed out so viciously as to upset Rachel.

"A man in the cafeteria hit him. There's blood all over him!"

Oh, shit! She looked up at the nurse who had followed Rachel into the room.

"A nose bleed," the nurse said. "He'll be fine. We're seeing to it."

"What happened?" Cuddy asked. She wasn't sure she wanted to know, but Rachel would want to tell her.

"There were people at the next table, and their phone rang. And Pete leaned over and took their phone, saying the call was for him. And then he tugged at the phone, and the woman tugged at the phone, and Pete yelled at her that the call was for him, and then the man who was with the woman hit Pete."

That made no sense whatsoever. "Who were they?"

"I don't know. I've never seen them before." Rachel thought for a moment. "I don't think Pete knew them either. He just thought they had his phone – only it wasn't his, it was theirs! It didn't even look like his phone. But he didn't stop to look. He just grabbed it when it rang."

Had he gone completely crazy, grabbing other people's phones? Cuddy decided she needed to get her facts straight in case security called the police. She recapitulated what she'd understood so far, even though she felt she was missing a large chunk of vital information. "There were people at the next table and their cell phone rang. When Pete tried to take it from them, the owner attacked him, right?"

"Not the owner; her husband."

Whatever. "And Pete didn't hit him first?"

"Pete didn't hit him at all. He was just hanging on to the phone so tight that the man couldn't get it back from him."

Good! Assault was a lot worse than attempted theft. The phone's owner would think twice before calling the police.

"Perhaps it had the same ring tone as House's phone," Wilson said from his bed.

Rachel swivelled towards him. "It didn't. Pete's has 'Brick in the Wall'. They had something from that Mamma Mia musical, that dancing music."

Wilson lifted his head from his pillow. "'Dancing Queen'?" he said, his expression inscrutable.

"Yeah, that's the one," Rachel said. "Hey, Wilson," she added shyly, only now taking notice of him.

Giving her a tired wave, Wilson sank back on his pillow. "Send him in to me," he said to Cuddy.

I don't have to understand this! Cuddy muttered mantra-like to herself as she pushed Rachel out of the room, glad for the support the wheelchair gave her. Pete was outside sitting on a bench, clutching an ice pack to his face. Blood was spattered all over his shirt and there were stains on his hands and those parts of his face that she could see.

"You can go in," she said to him. "It seems that although saving his life makes you a villain, attempted theft and provoking an assault redeems you."