Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

House is lost in the depths of his own mind, visualizing potential connections between symptoms and solutions, when he's pulled back to reality by the sound of his cell phone ringing. He's expecting to hear from his team, but Cuddy's name flashes across the screen instead. As much as he wants his patient's lab results, he's relieved that she's calling. It's been such a long day and he wants to see her more than anything.

"Why are you calling me from downstairs?" He asks when he picks up. "Since when are you too lazy to get in the elevator to come see me?"

Cuddy is silent for too long in response, as if she's thrown off by his reply. "I'm not calling you from downstairs," she finally says.

He genuinely doesn't understand until he hears the unmistakable sound of a piano in the background and remembers where he's supposed to be.

Rachel's recital. That he signed her up for.

"Oh shit," he says, standing up from his desk and frantically looking towards the clock. "Shit."

"House?"

The time staring back at him doesn't make any sense. "There's no way it's after seven already," he says in disbelief. "It was four o'clock ten minutes ago."

For the last five days, House has been treating an eight-year-old boy named Jack whose immune system is crumbling without explanation. It's one of the rare occasions where House is truly and thoroughly stumped. He's aimlessly running tests in a desperate attempt to uncover some number that triggers an epiphany, but so far he's got nothing.

The only thing House knows for sure is that Jack's father is abusive. He can tell by the way Jack's mother, Violet, reacts every time her husband comes close. He can tell by the way Jack and his sister look at their dad as he hovers outside the hospital room. House doesn't have any physical evidence of abuse, but he would know that haunted, anxious look anywhere. After all, he saw it in his own reflection for years.

He's lost all objectivity, which makes him angry at himself. How many times has he accused Cuddy of not being able to focus on the medical facts because she's too emotionally involved, or because she sees herself in a patient? Now, here he is, trying to pin this kid's illness on a violent parent, even though he has no proof of correlation, let alone causation.

House hates that he can't focus on the medicine because all he can think of is his own father— or, even worse, of Cuddy and Rachel and what he would do if anyone ever so much asthought about hurting them.

Ironically, according to the time, House is the one who hurt Rachel tonight.

"I'm sorry," he manages to get out. "This kid is dying right in front of me. And I…I completely lost track of…"

"House, it's okay," Cuddy interrupts. "I know how hard you're working on this one. I'm not calling because I'm mad, I'm calling to check on you."

"I think I'm losing it."

"It's different when it's a child."

"It shouldn't be," he says with frustration. "Not for me."

Because science is still science, no matter how old someone is. He shouldn't fumble over distractions of his own making. He should be able to drown out the circumstances. He wonders when he lost that ability.

"But it is different," Cuddy insists. "And you're allowed to feel that. It's healthy and normal to feel it."

"I feel like I'm just sitting here with no ideas and it's going to kill an eight-year-old."

"Don't say that. I talked to Foreman before I left. You're looking at every possibility— you'll find the answer."

House closes his eyes and pictures Rachel in her dress — light purple, with small, white flowers at the bottom. He took her to pick it out because Cuddy had to stay late three nights in a row to deal with some drama with the nurses. Even though it sounds ridiculous that he had fun shopping with a five-year-old, that's exactly what happened. Maybe it's because he knows Rachel only gravitated towards the piano after hearing him play, and that link has bred a deep-seated pride within him. Or maybe it's because Rachel appreciates his immature sense of humor better than anyone. Either way, he told her she could get any dress she wanted, but managed to talk her out of one that was so poofy it would've made it hard for her to sit on the piano bench. I don't want to watch you fall over in the middle of the song, he said. You're coming to watch me? Rachel asked him. Of course I am. You're my protégée.

He feels sick to his stomach imagining her waiting for him to show up— he's hoping he still has time to get there. "If I leave the hospital right now, I can be at her school in…"

"Rachel already went on," Cuddy tells him. "They went in age order."

House has let Cuddy down a million times before. He's let Wilson down a million and one. Somehow nothing compares to how it feels to let Rachel down just this once.

"How pissed is she that I missed it?"

"We're taking her for ice cream, I'm sure she'll be over it in a few minutes."

It's not a real answer to his question, so he can draw his own conclusions.

"We?"

"My mom's here. And Wilson."

"Why the hell is Wilson there?"

"Rachel invited him last weekend, remember? When he came over for dinner and you were bragging about her?"

"He couldn't have come get me from my office before he left?"

It would be nice to place blame anywhere else, and Wilson is an easy target.

"We both came straight from the department meeting."

House can't argue because, technically speaking, as the head of diagnostics, he was also supposed to be at that meeting. It's not like he ever shows up to them, but normally he at least sends Foreman or Chase. He didn't even remember to do that today. He didn't do anything he was supposed to do for his boss or girlfriend, who happen to be one in the same.

For Rachel's sake, House should be glad that Wilson is there to support her. Selfishly, he hates it. Almost as much as he hates that Arlene is also there to make her little comments about how she perceives his level of commitment. See, Lisa, this is why you need someone you can count on. It's not that he thinks Cuddy will care what Arlene has to say, but he doesn't want her to endure criticism on his behalf.

"I feel like complete shit about this."

"You shouldn't, but it's sweet that you do. Do you think you're coming home at all tonight?"

"For a few hours, yeah. I need to sleep."

"Good. I'll see you then. I love you."

They're not the kind of couple that declares their love at the end of every phone call, so he really feels the weight of her words. She's trying to reassure him that she isn't mad, and that she supports him even on nights like this one. It's also not lost on him that she calls her house his home.

"I love you," he replies, fully meaning it.

Because Cuddy is the only person on earth who understands exactly what goes on inside his mind when a case burrows this deep. She never holds it against him. Oddly enough, she loves him for it, and gives him a safe place to retreat to when it's tearing him apart.

And if Arlene is standing close enough to hear him say it back, loud and certain and fully committed? Well, that's just an added bonus.

—/——/——/——/—

House gets to Cuddy's a little after nine and heads straight for the bedroom. Every joint in his body aches and he craves the type of deep, restorative sleep that sometimes leads to epiphanies first thing in the morning.

He finds Cuddy sitting on the bed, still dressed in her work clothes, typing out a message on her phone. She looks up and smiles as soon as she hears him. "Hi. Have you eaten?"

"No," he answers. "Not hungry."

"Are you sure? There are plenty of leftovers."

House doesn't care about food. He cares about Rachel, who's never been mad at him for more than five minutes. She's thrown fits in his presence, but he's never been the cause. In fact, he's usually the one she cries to when she's mad at her mom for making her go to bed before Brownbeard, or something equally as trivial.

"Should I go talk to her?" House asks.

"Not now."

"How come?"

"I already tucked her in and it's not worth it when she's in a bad mood."

"She's in a bad mood because of me."

"She just wants your attention and approval," Cuddy says. "It's okay that she's disappointed, but she also needs to learn empathy when it comes to your job. This is a good teaching moment for her— you didn't exactly blow her off for no reason."

"What'd you tell her?"

"I explained that you have a very sick patient and that I couldn't let you leave work."

House is shocked, but maybe he shouldn't be. "You took the blame?"

Cuddy shrugs. "It's not really a lie, is it? If your patient is that sick, you need to be there. Your job can't change because I want you at my daughter's recital."

House kicks off his shoes and sits down on the bed. "How'd she do?"

"She was nervous before she went on, but she looked so comfortable once she got on stage. She played beautifully."

"I told you she's a natural."

"It doesn't hurt that she's learning from the best," Cuddy adds. "I got the whole thing on video. You can watch after you've slept."

"Are you sure I shouldn't…"

"I promise it will be better if you talk to her tomorrow. Nothing good can come from it when you're both exhausted."

"Alright."

"Can I please get you some food now? You must be at least a little hungry. I can't remember the last time I saw you sit down for a meal."

He agrees only because Cuddy will never let it go. He might as well eat to stop her from worrying. He's already caused her enough grief for one night.

While she's in the kitchen, he gets up, changes into his pajamas, and settles back into bed. Jack is still on his mind, and so is Rachel, but being with Cuddy automatically brings his stress level down from a hard ten to soft seven.

A few minutes later, Cuddy walks back into the room with a bowl of pasta in one hand, and her cell phone in the other. He can tell she's annoyed at something by the way she's scrunching her nose. "What's with the face?" he asks, taking the food from her.

"A bunch of our temporary nurses didn't show up at the shift switch. I don't know what the hell went wrong, because I spent all day trying to make sure this wouldn't happen, but now I have to go back in."

"Oh."

It makes him feel like even more of an asshole that he didn't bother to ask about her day, especially since he knows she's been dealing with staffing issues all week.

"It shouldn't take long. I'll probably be back in an hour."

House thinks about how Cuddy went from work, to being the mom in the front row with her camera, and now back to work. He wonders how she shoulders so many responsibilities, but never breaks her promises. Cuddy always shows up for everyone who matters to her. House feels like he can't manage not to hurt the few people he cares about.

—/——/——/——/—

He's trying to sleep, and knows that his body needs it, but even now, amid the deprivation, he can't stop running through ideas. He's thinking about whether the gastric involvement is really gastric, or if maybe it's masking a cardiac issue, when he hears a noise coming from the hallway. He forces himself out of bed, knowing he has to make sure Rachel is okay.

He follows the sound to the kitchen, where he sees Rachel holding a glass cup, standing on her tippy toes, trying to get water from the fridge. She's not supposed to use real glasses, because she tends to drop things, so he quickens his pace to intervene.

"Hey, hey, careful," he warns, grabbing the glass from her. "Where's your plastic cup?"

"Where's mama?" Rachel asks a question of her own.

"She had to go deal with annoying nurses."

Rachel puts her hands on her hips and looks up at him. "You're a liar."

"Am not. The nurses are extremely annoying."

He knows that's not what Rachel is talking about though.

"You said you'd come see me."

"I know I did. I'm really sorry. I wanted to be there, but I had to work."

It's probably the sincerest apology he's ever given, but Rachel isn't buying it. "You leave work all the time when mom doesn't want you to. You have Chase and everyone to help you and I only played for five minutes. How come you couldn't see me and then go back?"

He doesn't know how to make her understand the situation. He doubts she has the capacity to process the complexities of his job. There are adults who don't understand what he does or how he does it, how the hell could she?

"Sometimes I can leave things with my team," he attempts to explain. "But other times people are so sick that I'm the only one who can help them. I never leave work when a patient is that sick."

"It was only five minutes!" Rachel huffs, stubbornly clinging to her argument.

"I know, but I have to focus uninterrupted in order to figure out..."

"You made me play the piano," she accuses. "You made me do it in front of everyone."

"I didn't make you do anything. You love the piano."

"No! I hate it and I hate you."

House understands this is what kids do when they have big emotions they don't know how to handle. It doesn't mean she hates him. It means she's overtired and cranky, just like Cuddy warned. House isn't Cuddy, but he thinks about what she said, about teaching Rachel something valuable.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there tonight," he repeats the sentiment, trying not to show his own frustration. "But you have no idea how lucky you are to be healthy enough to play the piano and have your mom, Wilson, and grandma come watch you. My patient is a boy only three years older than you and he might not get better."

His words penetrate her rage momentarily, her lip pouted and tears threatening to spill from her eyes. "But I wanted you, 'cause you're the one who taught me."

He smiles a little at the admission. "Well then there's a flaw in your logic, because clearly you don't hate me."

"Yes, I do," she whines. This time, instead of angry, she just sounds sad, and she starts to cry. "Hate you."

House knows he lost her. Once the tears start after bedtime, there's no winning her back. He isn't the only one who needs sleep.

"Okay, fine— you can hate me," he concedes. "Let's get you some water and get back to bed."

"I don't want water," Rachel cries harder. "I want mama."

House sympathizes with that feeling, because he wants Cuddy too.

—/——/——/——/—

House knows it's only a stupid five-year-old fit, but Rachel claiming to hate him makes him feel a lot more than he would've expected it to. It takes twenty-five minutes to calm her down enough to get her back to bed. Now, on top of obsessing about the symptoms, House is thinking about how long Rachel will be mad at him for. He's also worried Cuddy will be pissed because she specifically told him not to talk to Rachel even though it technically wasn't his fault and things would've been way worse if she dropped the glass and got hurt.

He's tossing and turning and stressing about all of this when his phone vibrates on the dresser. It's an email from Cuddy with the subject for when you wake up. He opens it then and there because he's not sleeping anyway. She's attached the video from the recital.

He clicks and watches Rachel play with confidence and ease. She didn't stumble on any of the harder parts she struggled with when they practiced. Even though Rachel might not be his biggest fan at the moment, he still taught her how to do that. He doesn't normally spend a lot of time thinking about his influence on her life, but this is calculable. She knew nothing about music until he taught her and now she can play well above average for her age group. That knowledge gives him enough peace to drift off to sleep.

He wakes up three hours later and Cuddy still isn't home, but he has two missed calls and four messages from his team asking him to come in. There's no chance in hell he'll be able to go back to sleep while they're waiting on him, so he gets up and starts to get dressed again. He's almost ready to leave when Cuddy walks back into the room looking completely wiped.

"Hey," she says. "What are you doing up?"

"Team called. They need me back."

"God," Cuddy dramatically drops her stuff on the floor and sighs. "Are we dating, or switching shifts?"

"Ships in the night. Well, super tanker in your case."

"You must still be tired, because that's an old joke."

"It's recycled. Forgot to tell you I'm becoming an environmentalist."

"Did you sleep at all?"

"I napped."

Cuddy slips out of her shoes, steps closer, and hugs him — really hugs him, breathing him in.

"Did you just sniff me?" House can't help but to laugh at how dramatic it is— it's the first time he's laughed in days.

"Can't help it," she says. "I miss you."

"This week really blows."

Cuddy looks up at him, chin resting on his chest. "Next time we're alone for more than five minutes I'll be the one blowing."

He laughs again. The second time in a week. It would be impossible to love her more than he already does. "Despite the last 72 hours of evidence to the contrary, we clearly spend too much time together."

She smirks and let's go. "Keep me updated on what's happening with Jack, okay?"

"Hold on," He grabs her to bring her in for another hug and breathes in the top of her head. "Only fair for me to get a sniff in, too."

He feels rejuvenated.

It's not sleep he needed to feel better.

As usual, all he needed was Cuddy.

—/——/——/——/—

For a little while (and maybe partially because of Cuddy's belief in him), House thinks he's solved it.

But only for a little while.

Jack dies at 7:36 AM.

It happens when House is there, paddles in hand, his team frantic around him. It happens right in front of him because sometimes even Cuddy's belief in him, as beautiful as it is, can't alter the outcome. Jack's monitor beeps uncontrollably until it stops. Until everything stops.

House walks out of the room without saying a word and his team knows better than to follow him. He goes into his office and collapses on the chair and falls asleep because being unconscious is the only way he knows how to handle a failure as monumental as this one.

He dreams of Cuddy and Rachel. Even before they were dating, House's worst nightmares were about losing Cuddy. These days Rachel is always there, too. This time he dreams of Rachel flatlining on the table instead of Jack, and Cuddy standing there yelling his name over and over and over.

Eventually, at the halfway point between dreams and reality, he realizes someone is actually saying his name. He opens his eyes and standing in front of him is the last person he wants to see— Jack's mother. Her eyes are red and the circles under them are so, so big. She looks like she can barely stand on her own two feet— she's holding onto the door handle as if it's the only thing keeping her upright.

"I'm sorry—I didn't mean to wake you," Violet says, voice hoarse and weak. "Dr. Foreman told me you'd be here."

House doesn't say anything because he doesn't want to talk to her. What is he supposed to say now that he's ruined the rest of her life?

"Dr. Foreman also told me you want to do a more extensive autopsy."

"Yes," House confirms. "Need your approval though."

They don't legally need to do one. The cause of death is heart failure, but that's not good enough for House. He wants to dig and dig until he finds a logical answer to why an eight-year-old heart gives out.

"I…can't," Violet tells him, sensing his disappointment. "I don't want to drag out this process. It's not going to change anything."

"It's your decision."

"I hope you can understand, even if you don't agree. I need Jack to be at peace."

House doesn't understand at all. He can't imagine what it's like to be able to let things go, to not want the answer to what killed someone you love. How can there be peace without knowledge? He nods at her anyway because he doesn't have enough energy to try and convince her.

"I hate to ask this, but is there any way you could also write me a prescription before we leave?"

"Sleeping pills?" he assumes.

"Pain killers."

"What for?"

"My back has never been in this much pain and ibuprofen isn't doing anything. Maybe it's from sleeping in that chair for the last week, but I can barely stand and I …I don't have time to fall apart now. I have to plan a funeral and I have to…"

House can tell she isn't lying. He recognizes raw, visceral pain better than most. But he has one concern. "I don't usually write prescriptions to grieving parents who might do something stupid like overdose."

She vigorously shakes her head, like she's appalled at what he's implying. "I may want to die right now— and trust me, I do— but I can't. I have another kid I have to live for. I could never leave Ella alone with…"

House knows the end of that sentence, even though she stops herself like she's been caught. He gets up and goes to his desk to pull out his prescription pad. "For the record, if you use this prescription to kill your husband, I won't testify against you."

She looks startled that someone has acknowledged the truth out loud. "You...know?"

"If I could prove it, I would've already called it in. But I know that 'proof' is a high bar in cases like this. Do you want me to help you prove it?"

"No."

"Are you sure? I'll say anything you need me to, and Cuddy can help get you somewhere safe."

"I appreciate that more than you know, but we're already going somewhere safe."

"You're leaving him?"

"Yes."

House is skeptical at first because, as a kid, he lived through false promises that sounded a lot like this one. "What's your escape plan? What makes you think he won't follow you?"

"I already started to plan it before Jack got sick. I have a family friend in Wyoming. My husband doesn't know anything about her. He's going on a business trip later this month, and we're going to be gone when he gets home. That's why I really can't fall apart. I need every moment I'm alone to make this work and I can't have my back screw things up more than they already are."

House finishes writing the prescription, and then he gets out his checkbook. The very least he can do is help make sure what's left of her family survives.

"I'm gonna go get your pills," he stands up and hands her the check. "Take this."

"What is this?" She asks, shocked by the gesture.

"You can't start over without money. If your husband sees you taking large sums of money from what I'm assuming is a joint account, he'll figure it out and try to stop you."

"I'll get a job when I get there. I can't take this."

"Sure you can."

She looks down at the number of zeros, trying to process them. "It's too much."

"It's really not. Just make sure he doesn't find it."

"You must have children," Violet concludes. "The way you've been so dedicated to Jack and the way you want to help us even now."

House is about to reply that he doesn't have kids, but his nightmares mean something, even if Rachel isn't technically his. "My girlfriend has a daughter."

"Do you have a picture?"

House takes his cell phone out of his pocket and opens a photo of Rachel sitting on Cuddy's lap on the piano bench — he took it a few weeks earlier when Rachel was first learning her recital song.

"Dr. Cuddy is your girlfriend?"

"Yeah."

"She's been so kind to us through everything. What's her daughter's name?"

"Rachel."

"She looks about Ella's age."

"She is."

"In another life, maybe they could've been friends."

"My father was abusive, and my mom didn't leave," House says as if it will explain everything.

Violet looks back at him as if it does. "I'm sorry."

"Me too. About Jack. I couldn't save him."

They're tied together forever by the gut-wrenching guilt they both feel for the things they couldn't change.

"Neither could I," she says.

—/——/——/——/—

House goes downstairs to get the prescription filled himself because he wants it as fast as possible and the young pharmacist who is scared of him always lets him jump to the front of the line. The sooner he gets the prescription, the sooner Violet and Ella can leave. He wants her plan to work. He wants Violet to do what his own mother couldn't.

He's been clean for so long that nobody questions him picking up a prescription of oxycodone. It doesn't even cross his own mind that it may be a dangerous game. But he's eaten one meal in two days, has slept maybe four hours total, and is emotionally overloaded. He pictures Jack's dead body in his mind without even needing to close his eyes. He feels Violet's fear as his own. He sees Rachel's face as she stood in the kitchen and said she hated him. He thinks about how Cuddy never fails him, but all he does is fail her.

Suddenly he's alone in the hallway with a pill bottle in his hand and it's like a reflex, like switching on a light switch when walking into a room. He tilts his head back and swallows two pills. Muscle memory. He doesn't even realize what he's done until he feels the pills rough against his esophagus and the familiar sensation brings reality crashing down.

Before he can begin to register the gravity of it, his phone rings. When Cuddy's name appears on the caller ID he wonders if she might have seen him somehow. He looks over his shoulder. No sign of her. He doesn't answer the first time because he's so paranoid about it, but she calls again and again.

"Hello?" He finally picks up on her fourth call.

"House."

He mentally freezes because it's creeping him out that she called within two seconds of his biggest fuck up in years. Normally he can read the tone of her voice over the phone, but his panic is precluding that skill.

"House? Chase called me. I'm so sorry about Jack."

"It's okay," he says on autopilot.

"No, it isn't. You don't have to pretend with me. Do you want to talk?"

"I want to sleep."

"Where are you right now? I'm taking Rachel to school. I can pick you up and bring you home."

He doesn't want to see her because he's afraid she'll be able to tell what he's done, so he tries to talk her out of it. "You're going to come here, get me, take Rachel to school, take me home, and then come back to work? That doesn't make any sense."

"Who cares about what makes sense? You're in no condition to drive. Plus, Rachel really wants to see you."

"She does?" he asks, surprised given how they left things.

"Yeah, she's been asking for you since she woke up. She told me she was 'mean' to you last night?"

"She wasn't."

"Well, she feels bad."

"Maybe Rachel shouldn't see me like this," he tries again to change her mind. "I'm kind of a mess right now."

"We both know she won't care. It'll only be a few minutes anyway. She might cheer you up and then you can finally get some real sleep."

House can't exactly say 'no, sorry, I'm about to be high' and he figures he can't deny Rachel two days in a row without causing permanent damage to their relationship. "Okay," he agrees, not seeing another option.

"I'll be there in ten minutes. Meet us outside."

—/——/——/——/—

"Hi House!"

Rachel, who is in a much better mood today, grins at him as soon as he opens the car door. He gets in the backseat next to her, which normally Cuddy would probably find weird, but half the point of this was for him to talk to Rachel. It happens to have the additional benefit of being far enough away from Cuddy that she can't see his eyes. He doesn't think they're glassy or red yet, but he'd rather be safe than sorry.

"Hey, kid."

"Sorry I wasn't nice yesterday," she says, looking guilty as hell. "I wanted to say that when I woke up, but you weren't home."

"Don't worry about it. You were being honest about how you felt. You can always be honest with me. I really am sorry that I missed your recital."

"That's okay. I'm not even mad now and there's gonna be another one."

Despite everything that's happened, he can't help but feel relieved at what she's implying. "So, does that mean you want to keep playing?"

"Yes 'cause it's fun and I still wanna be your pro-jay."

"Protégée," House corrects.

"Yeah— I wanna be like you."

The last thing on earth that House wants is for Rachel to be like him. Teaching her to play piano is one thing, but when it comes to the rest of her life, today is a stark reminder that she should only learn what not to do from him. Apparently the change in his demeanor is obvious enough for her to pick up on. "Why are you sad?" she asks.

"House's patient died honey," Cuddy intervenes from the driver's seat. "He's probably going to be sad for a few days and we're going to have to help as best we can, okay?"

"The little boy died?"

House nods. "His name was Jack."

A horrified look washes over Rachel's face. "Did he die because I yelled at you?"

"No, of course not."

"I didn't mean to wake you up when I wanted water."

"Rachel, no," House says firmly. "He was too sick. I was too late. It has nothing to do with you. I don't want you to even think about this."

"Okay," she concedes. "We can play pirates later or tomorrow if you want— to make you feel better?"

"Will you let me be the captain?"

"Yes."

"It's about time."

They pull up to Rachel's school a few minutes later and get in the drop-off line. When they reach the front, Cuddy goes to get out of the car, but House stops her. "I've got her."

He unbuckles Rachel's car seat and hands her the backpack from the floor. The whole mess of the previous night is seemingly behind them, which is at least one less thing for him to worry about.

"Have a good day baby," Cuddy says. "I'll see you tonight."

"Bye, mama."

"Go kick some kindergarten butt," House adds.

Rachel laughs, all the warmth back in her eyes. "I don't hate you," she says, looking right at him. "I love you."

House loves Rachel, too. He probably has for a while, but hearing her say it out loud for the first time crystalizes everything. He doesn't say it back though. Not like this. Not when it would be forever tainted by his bad decisions. Thankfully she jumps out of the car and runs off so fast that he wouldn't have had time to answer even if he wanted to.

Cuddy pulls out of the car line, but meets his gaze in the rearview mirror. "Thank you," she says.

"For what?"

"For being so good to her."

He can't accept the praise under the circumstances— it feels so wrong, even by his low standards. "I think I have to tell you something."

"What is it?"

He's so close to saying it. Cuddy, I took oxy. Cuddy, I'm sorry, it was stupid and an accident. But Rachel loves him — he heard it with his own ears. As much as he wants to be honest, he's terrified of losing everything he's worked so hard for. "I…wrote Jack's mom a check."

It's not a lie, it's just not the most important truth.

"To help with the funeral?"

"No. She's leaving her husband. I was worried he'd catch on and try to stop her if she used her own money."

"Violet's being abused?!" Cuddy surmises. "House, if that's true, I have to call…"

"Trust me, the hospital can't prove anything. There's no proof and she didn't tell me. I just know because I know. I want her and her daughter to have a real shot after what they've been through. I'm not even telling you as the Dean of Medicine, I'm telling you as my girlfriend. I thought I should since our finances are kind of intertwined these days."

"I understand," Cuddy softens. "Thank you for telling me."

"You're welcome."

"That was an amazing thing to do for them. I know it sounds cheesy, which you hate, but I'm proud of how you've handled everything this week."

It's like a knife right to his heart. You shouldn't be, he thinks to himself.

—/——/——/——/—

House sleeps most of the day, wakes up to shower and eat, and then sleeps all night. Cuddy doesn't suspect anything is amiss because he always crashes after a case, but especially one that's gone so horribly wrong. When he gets up the next day, he feels significantly less panicked because Oxy isn't Vicodin. There's no reason for this to be anything more than a one-time screw up after a very bad few days. All addicts have setbacks at some point — if this is his, it could've been a lot worse than two measly pills.

He gets to work around noon and heads straight for Wilson's office. He knows he'll eventually have to come clean to Cuddy about what happened. It's impossible to keep secrets from someone who knows him so well. She always finds out sooner or later, and 'later' is usually worse. He wants Wilson's advice on the best strategy for talking to her— on how and when he should go about it. There's no doubt Wilson is going to overreact, but telling him will be good practice for telling Cuddy— sort of like a test-run for how bad the freak out is going to be.

But then, not on purpose, Wilson makes things ten times worse.

"How are you holding up?" He asks as soon as House sits down across from him.

House shrugs. "What's there to say when you kill an eight-year-old?"

"Don't do that. You didn't kill him."

"I was his doctor, and now he's not alive. I think we can both do the math."

"He was too far gone when he got here. I know you know that."

"I don't want to talk about this," House says, trying to steer the conversation. "I want to talk about Cuddy."

Wilson smirks. "Yes, let's talk about Cuddy."

"Why are you saying it like that?"

"Because she couldn't shut up about you this morning. That should make you feel at least a little better."

"What'd she say?"

"She was going on and on about how much you did for Jack's family, and how selfless it was that you were upset, but still took the time to be there for Rachel."

"Oh."

"Selfless," Wilson repeats with emphasis. "Never thought I'd live to hear 'House' and 'selfless' in the same sentence."

"Me either."

"Cuddy loves you, but it's more than that. She sees what other people can't see in you."

"Yeah."

"I kind of can't believe you haven't screwed it up yet."

It's a joke. Wilson teases to make things seem normal and usually that's the best strategy. On any other day, after any other case, this is exactly what House would need to hear. But what Wilson doesn't know is that he has, in fact, screwed it up. He's screwed it up so badly. In that moment House accepts that no amount of Wilson's advice is going to get him out of the mess he's made.

"I know how hard this case was on you," Wilson continues, getting serious again. "You should take as much time as you need to grieve. But I think you should also try and focus on how lucky you are to have Cuddy and Rachel by your side."

"Trust me, I am focused on that."

Which is exactly the goddamn problem.

—/——/——/——/—

That afternoon, House treats a patient with a severe knee injury. Her rheumatologist is out of the office, so she came to the clinic, desperate for relief. House gives her a cortisone steroid shot and is ready to send her on her way. Then, right before she leaves, she asks for a refill of her Vicodin prescription.

Cuddy believes in fate. She fully believes it was fate that she walked into the University of Michigan bookstore during one of only two shifts House had that week. She also believes it was fate that she found Rachel alive and healthy in that abandoned building, against all odds.

House doesn't believe in fate, but he does believe in choices.

For reasons he may never fully understand, he chooses to pocket ten of his patient's Vicodin.

—/——/——/——/—

He knows it's not worth it in the long run. The more Vicodin he takes, the harder it's going to be to stop, and the more upset everyone is going to be. The last thing he wants is to end up back at Mayfield, especially when he has so much more to lose this time around. For the first time ever, he has a life he feels is worth living every moment of. When he thinks about what it would do to Cuddy and Rachel to see him in a mental institution, he's disgusted by his own behavior. Rationally and intellectually, he knows he's making a mistake.

But physically? Not having leg pain? He's forgotten how great the relief is. Cuddy and Wilson used to tell him that being numb to everything is worse than being in pain— but that's easy for them to say, because they've never felt his pain. Over the last few years of sobriety, there's no question that his happiness has made the burden easier to bear, but his leg still hurts every single day. The absence of that hurt is addicting.

He tries to convince himself he can keep it under control. He won't take that many, he won't let it get out of hand this time, just enough to dull the aches. He tries to time the doses so they don't coincide with him being alone with Rachel or Cuddy. But one afternoon Marina has to unexpectedly leave early, and House is left with Rachel, who was promised a trip to the park. He took three pills with a late lunch and as much of an asshole as he is, he knows he shouldn't drive Rachel while he's high.

"Let's take a walk."

"To the park?" Rachel points to his leg and looks at him with confusion.

They never walk to the park. Or anywhere else for that matter. Rachel is used to driving everywhere with him, even when the destination is down the block.

"My leg doesn't hurt and it's nice out."

In reality it's cloudy and kind of cold but thankfully she doesn't question it.

When they get there, House still feels uneasy. Is he technically supervising Rachel if he's high? He's always been a very high-functioning addict, but what if something happens and he doesn't react fast enough because of the drugs? He decides to call Wilson and make him come to the park under the guise of being bored, but truthfully House is hardly ever bored around Rachel.

Once Wilson arrives, House relaxes, and can do way more than usual. He holds Rachel up to the monkey bars and pushes her on the swing for longer than ever before because his leg doesn't hurt.

Rachel laughs so hard as they run around that he starts to wonder if taking Vicodin is really so bad.

—/——/——/——/—

That night in bed Cuddy straddles him, pulls her shirt off, and tosses it on the floor. "I've been thinking about this all day," she says, before leaning in to kiss him.

House adores aggressive Cuddy, which is why he's so surprised to find he can't focus on her. Instead of thinking about what they're about to do, he's wondering what will happen if she finds out they had sex while he was high.

"What's wrong?" she questions, picking up on his distraction. "I just took my shirt off and you're thinking about something else."

"Am not," he tries to deny. "Patty and Selma have my full attention."

"No. You're being weird. But you don't have a case. Are you mad at me or something?"

"Don't be a moron."

"Hey." She puts both hands on his face, forcing him to look her in the eyes, unsatisfied by his lack of explanation. "Tell me what's going on."

She sounds so genuine and concerned — it's another opportunity to tell the truth, and another time he says something else instead. "My leg is hurting tonight. I was trying not to think about it."

She lifts herself off him so fast it's almost comical. "Oh, god. I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"You should never, ever apologize for being on top of me."

"Do you think it's hurting from the park?"

"Probably."

"Why did you walk there?"

"I don't know. I felt like it. My leg didn't hurt then."

"Wilson said you were chasing Rachel around, too."

He needs to keep in mind that Rachel has a big mouth and Wilson has an even bigger one.

"I was— and she went to bed without any drama tonight because she was so worn out."

"I'd honestly rather spend longer with her at bedtime than have you be in pain. You know you can't push too hard when you feel good, or it blows up in your face later. I get that it must be tempting, but you always end up paying."

"Don't put the shirt back on," he whines as he watches her reach for it. "I can power through."

"I'm sure you can, but I can't live with making your leg worse."

"Which is why I didn't want to tell you!"

"We can do this tomorrow," she promises. "Your body needs to rest tonight."

"Morning sex?"

By then, the Vicodin will be out of his system, and he can feel zero guilt.

"Deal."

"You better wake up with enough time for more than a quickie."

"Me?! You're the one who never wakes up early."

"I can wake up if I'm sufficiently motivated and I fully entrust you with that task."

Cuddy laughs and readjusts so that she's snuggled up against his bare chest. She also reaches down so that she can gently rub his leg. "Let's watch the next episode of that documentary we started."

"If you were fantasizing about doing me all day, I doubt the documentary is going to hit the spot."

"Want to know something? Sometimes when I'm at work I fantasize about this, too —being in bed with you at the end of the day when it's finally just us."

"I…know what you mean."

"You do?"

"Yeah," he says.

"Really? You think about this while you're at work?"

"I'm insanely in love with you—so, yeah."

In that moment, he learns the monumental difference between being high when he was miserable and being high when he's happy. The old House on Vicodin pushed Cuddy away, terrified that his true feelings for her would be exposed. Now he has everything he wants —a full life with her— and Vicodin seems to be dulling any instinct he has left to mask how deep his love for her runs. As if the pills dissolved the walls along with the pain.

Cuddy looks at him with pure adoration. "I still get butterflies when you say things like that."

And again, House has to wonder if Vicodin is really so bad.

—/——/——/——/—

He learns the answer to that question the hard way. It starts to unravel fast and beyond his control, like a spoke in a wheel that won't stop turning.

House falls into a pattern that gives him the illusion of restraint. He takes Vicodin every other day and only while he's at work. But the more he takes, the more he wants— so on the days he's not taking the pills, he's in a horrific mood.

He hides them in his office because it's the safest option. He would never bring drugs home and risk Rachel getting her hands on them. Instead, he tapes them inside book covers and lodges them in between drawers and shelves. For a week the clear-cut lines stay intact, but one night they accidentally blur. He forgets to take two pills out of his pocket and doesn't remember they're there until Cuddy bends down to pick his jeans off the bedroom floor.

"Why are you always touching my stuff?" he complains, grabbing the pants away from her.

"Why do you leave your stuff all over?" She asks, but it's light-hearted and teasing.

"Do you have any idea how fucking annoying you are?"

It comes out way harsher than he means it to. His anger is at himself, but it misfires before he realizes.

She glares at him, annoyed at both his words and tone. "Excuse me?"

"Sorry," he says quickly. "I'm sorry."

"Is this about the surgery?"

Cuddy said no to a procedure he wanted to do earlier that afternoon, so her assumption is that he's holding a grudge.

"No."

"You can be mad at me for rejecting your insane idea if you want, but I won't let you bring work resentment home. What if Rachel overheard you talk to me like that?"

It's a perfectly valid question— but he hears something else instead. What if Rachel found out you're a drug addict, House? Do you know how fast you'd lose us?

"I know," he says, more to his inner monologue than to her. "You're right."

She continues to stare at him, not yet won over.

"You're not annoying," he adds. "You're perfect. That wasn't…I really didn't mean it. I'm sorry."

She exhales and nods.

She lets it go tonight, but next time he won't be so lucky.

Vicodin might make him less scared, but it also makes him irritable and erratic. He can't have the good without the bad, as much as he wants to.

He needs to figure out a plan. Fast.

—/——/——/——/—

Cuddy isn't stupid. She knows something is going on. At first, she tells herself to let it be. She's well aware that Jack's death had a bigger impact on House than he's willing to admit. She watched the case eat away at him, and when she found out Jack and his family were being abused, the reaction made even more sense.

She doesn't want to be overbearing, especially because House's childhood is such a sensitive subject. The truth about his relationship with his father seeped out in tiny bits of information she pieced together during reluctant conversations. Forcing him to talk before he's ready is never a good strategy, but she's growing more concerned with each passing day.

Then one morning, Foreman and Chase come to her office before she's even had time to check her emails.

"We're worried about House," Chase says, skipping the small talk. "This case we're working…"

"He's being reckless?" Cuddy assumes.

"No. He's being overly cautious, which is even weirder."

It's the last thing she expected to hear. "What do you mean?"

"He's rejecting risky procedures that we know would help," Foreman tells her. "The only time I've ever seen him act like this was when you two started dating and he was afraid to piss you off."

"What are we missing here?" Chase asks. "You two get engaged or pregnant or something?"

Cuddy steadies herself. She would never betray House's trust and tell them what she really thinks —that he saw himself in a patient, that he saw Rachel in a patient, that he let himself truly care for his patient's family and only got heartache in return.

"I think…Jack's death got in his head," she shares the most diluted version of it.

"It was one of the worst cases we've ever had," Chase admits. "I still think about him, too."

"You also probably don't realize that House having a child he cares about in his life makes things a little different. I know he doesn't exactly advertise it, but he's gotten close with Rachel."

"He doesn't have to advertise it. It's obvious."

"He missed Rachel's piano recital to save Jack. She was upset with him and then he didn't even save Jack. You should give him time and a little bit of grace."

Foreman is skeptical and impatient. "He wouldn't do the same for us."

"You're wrong," Cuddy says, annoyed by the ignorance of that statement. "He has done the same for you. You just didn't know it."

—/——/——/——/—

She decides she has to talk to him, even if he's reluctant to open up, but she wants to do it the right way. Her plan is to get Marina to watch Rachel Saturday night so they can have true, uninterrupted alone time. In the meantime, she closely watches his behavior and tries to be extra understanding.

When she wakes up on Tuesday morning, House isn't in bed. Still groggy and wearing nothing but his t-shirt, she makes her way to the kitchen where he's silently standing in front of the coffee machine.

"Morning," she says, rubbing his back as she walks by. "Love you."

He turns around, more awake and alert than he usually is this early. "Why?"

"What?" She questions, thinking she must've misheard him.

"Why do you love me?"

At first, she assumes he's joking around, so she answers with sarcasm. "Why do I love my brilliant boyfriend who has never let me go through anything alone?"

"Do you hear yourself? That sounds like I'm smart and kind of a stalker."

She realizes then that he's completely serious, which makes her nervous. It's not a question he would ask randomly— there has to be a reason for it. "Where is this coming from?"

He remains stoic and steely. "Answer the question, Cuddy."

"I love everything about you so it's hard to narrow it down at seven in the morning while I'm pant-less in the kitchen."

House rolls his eyes at her. "You do not love everything about me."

"Yes, I do," she starts to get frustrated, but tries not to show it. "You can't tell me what I feel."

"You love the way I used to play games with you? And purposely mess with your head? And insult you as a person and doctor?"

"I love our story— even the ugly parts," she says stubbornly. "It's ours and if anything were different, we might not be here now."

"I don't need a philosophy lesson on the butterfly effect."

"Why are you even bringing up the past? It's not how you treat me now. Almost everything was different then."

"Yeah," House says. "Almost."

She has no idea what that means, but she tries her best to guess. "Are you doubting that I love you?"

"I never doubt that."

"But you… don't understand why I do?"

Normally House would brush off a question like that by pretending he's immune to insecurities, but today he's honest about it. "Not always."

"Okay," Cuddy accepts, treading lightly. "I promise to get better at reminding you, because there are so many reasons. You make me so happy, and I love you unconditionally."

"Unconditionally? There are no conditions? Nothing could change how you feel about me?"

"No. Why? Do you think there are conditions?"

"I didn't say that."

"But your question implies…"

Rachel runs into the kitchen, interrupting them and beelining straight for House. "Are you making breakfast?"

"I think we know one of the many reasons Rachel loves you is for your breakfast skills," Cuddy attempts to lighten the mood, even though her heart is still pounding in her chest.

"Can I help?" Rachel asks House.

"Sure, kid. Get me the milk?"

House snaps out of it as soon as Rachel pulls his focus, but Cuddy feels like she failed a test somehow.

—/——/——/——/—

Later that day at work, House comes to see her in her office. She's sitting on the couch, legs up on the table, mountains of paperwork in front of her. Worrying about him 24/7 has taken a toll on her schedule, pushing her way behind where she needs to be.

"I'm swamped," she tells him right away, hoping to mitigate potential distraction. "Are you okay?"

"I want to take a nap."

"Me saying you can't nap at work has certainly never stopped you before."

He sits down right next to her, gets in her space, and kisses her. "Hi," he says flirtatiously when they pull apart.

She leans in and gives him a second kiss. She craves the closeness and intimacy after their conversation this morning. The reassurance that he's not mad, that he still wants to be this close to her, is a cool balm to her anxious heart.

In fact, she'd like nothing more than to keep kissing him for the rest of the afternoon, but she comes to her senses after a few minutes. "I really am swamped."

"I know. I'm gonna nap. Those were just pre-nap kisses."

"You're going to nap in here?"

"I checked your schedule, and your meetings are all conference calls, so there's no reason for you to kick me out."

He rests his head in her lap and wraps his arms around her stomach. Clingy House is not new to her. She knows people would be shocked by how affectionate he is with her, but she's happily used to it by now. (She'll never forget how surprised Wilson was the first time they went out together and House grabbed her hand and had his arm around her all night).

But Clingy House at work, where anyone (including his team) could walk in and see him sprawled across her lap like a puppy? That's brand new to her.

It's soft and sweet and she loves it.

It also makes her suspicious as hell.

—/——/——/——/—

It continues like that for a few days. House goes from being weird and distant to being clingier than he's ever been before.

When she gets to work early one morning and has a case for his team, she walks the file upstairs herself. She's hoping to bump into Chase or Foreman and ask if they've noticed anything else out of the ordinary since their last conversation, but the entire office is empty.

She decides to leave the file on House's desk with a note giving them the basic background of her conversation with the family. As she's about to leave, something inside of her — an instinct perhaps — prevents her feet from moving. Before she knows what she's doing, she opens House's desk drawer. She doesn't know what she's looking for, or what she even suspects, but her desperation is mounting.

She finds his prescription pad. And a tiny stuffed turtle that he helped Rachel win at a fair. They named him Raymond after the inventor of the MRI and Rachel said he should keep it at work for good luck. Cuddy also finds the birthday card she gave him last year, which she wouldn't have ever imagined he saved.

She opens it and reminds herself of the words she wrote.

Happy birthday to my partner in everything, the compass for every decision I make, the one person who always tells me the truth no matter what. I couldn't do life without you.

Just a few of the reasons she loves him, staring right back at her. She doesn't understand how he could ever question them.

Nor does she understand why she has this horrific feeling that she's going to have to do life without him. The thought pops into her head and she has no idea where it came from, but it's a feeling she has down to her bones. It happens for no reason, and for every reason.

She gets the chills.

She feels like she's going to throw up.

—/——/——/——/—

There's only one person she can turn to try to make sense of her jumbled thoughts. She walks straight to his office and opens the door without knocking. "Do you have a minute?"

"Of course," Wilson says. "Everything okay?"

"I'm not sure," she admits. "I'm sorry to put you in this position, but I need you to be brutally honest with me because I need to be prepared."

"For what?"

"Has House said anything to you about breaking up with me?"

"What?!" Wilson laughs incredulously. "Are you insane?"

"I hope I am, actually."

"What are you even talking about?"

"House has been acting weird lately," she tells him. "Not in any obvious way, but in little things that I don't even know how to explain. I know he took Jack dying really hard, so I was trying to give him the space to just… be in his head. But I'm worried he got overwhelmed and is pulling away from me."

"Overwhelmed by what?"

"Rachel, maybe? She told him she loves him. You should've seen the look on his face."

"House loves Rachel."

"I know he does. I don't know if he's ready to know that though."

"So you think he's going to break up with you to... avoid it?"

"You say that like it's a ridiculous notion, when we both know it's not."

"He's not going to break up with you."

Cuddy paces, as every theory she's kept inside for the last few weeks spills out of her. "Maybe he thinks Rachel is a distraction. Or maybe losing Jack reminded him that being part of a family means you can get hurt. That's his biggest fear, right? I mean, it makes sense that he would try to…"

"Cuddy," Wilson cuts off her rant. "Can you please sit down and take a deep breath?"

"See, you're not telling me I'm wrong. You're telling me to sit down. Which is not comforting in the least bit."

"I'm telling you to sit down because you're going to burn a hole in my carpet and because I can't get a word in with you."

Cuddy sits and waits for him to say something that convinces her. "Well?"

"House might be scared, and it might've been triggered by Jack," Wilson admits. "But in the end? He'll be brave for you. He always loves you more than he's scared."

The statement makes her want to cry. She needs Wilson to be right. She needs it more than anything. "How pathetic do I sound panicking like this?"

"You don't sound pathetic. You sound like you love him."

"I don't know what to do."

It's a foreign, uncomfortable feeling for her. She usually knows exactly what to do in every facet of her life, but especially when it comes to House.

"Want me to try and gauge the situation? I can invite him to hang out tonight. We haven't gone bowling in a while."

"Okay," Cuddy agrees. "Thank you."

She doesn't feel better, but it's the best she can do for now.

—/——/——/——/—

Wilson asks House to go bowling.

But Wilson is the least subtle person on earth.

House immediately deduces that Wilson either already knows something, or is fishing for information.

The problem is that if Wilson is suspicious, Cuddy probably is too. Cuddy might have even sent Wilson to figure out what's going on.

So House says no to bowling and tries to ignore the nauseating sensation of the walls closing in on him.

—/——/——/——/—

House doesn't come home for dinner, but Cuddy wasn't expecting him too. She plays with Rachel, tries to stay distracted, and trusts that spending time with Wilson is exactly what he needs.

After Rachel's bedtime, she starts to wonder what's taking so long. She texts House and gets no reply. She calls him only to hear his voicemail. She figures maybe House and Wilson are having a real heart to heart at a bar somewhere and the last thing she wants is to interrupt.

But by 10:00 PM she decides she has a right to know what the hell is going on. She gives in and calls Wilson. "Are you still with House?"

"I wasn't with him at all. He said we could get breakfast tomorrow."

Her pulse quickens. "Did he say what he was doing tonight?"

"He said he was spending time with you, and I figured that was a good thing since you thought he was pulling away."

Suddenly she hates herself for not calling sooner. "He lied. He hasn't come home and he's not answering me."

"Okay— don't freak out. He's done this before."

Technically, that's true. But House hasn't done something like this in a very long time. That fact, combined with the way her gut is screaming at her, has her near tears. "Wilson—I have a really bad feeling."

"I promise it will be okay. He's probably brooding at a bar somewhere. I can go check some of his usual places."

"No," Cuddy decides. "I want to be the one to go look."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. Will you come over though? Rachel's asleep, but I need someone here with her."

She hears him grab his keys. "Already on my way."

—/——/——/——/—

House doesn't want to stay at work because when the halls of the hospital are too quiet, he still thinks of Jack. He doesn't want to go to his apartment because he doesn't want to remember the loneliness of living there (without his girls). He already established that he doesn't want to go to Wilson, who will only tell Cuddy. He wants to go to Cuddy, but he's terrified. Not of her, but of her doing what she needs to do to protect Rachel. House wants to protect Rachel, too — he just wishes he wasn't the one she needed to be protected from.

Feeling out of options, he rides his bike around, even though it's raining and he's wearing nothing but a t-shirt and jeans. For a half an hour he rides and thinks and procrastinates deciding what to do next. As he drives by the park, he takes a corner a little too fast for a slippery night. Before he knows it, he's on the ground, the bike's wheels spinning. Thankfully it's a gentle spill— he only has a few scratches on his hands. Still, his leg aches and there's no way the bike isn't going to get him home in its current condition.

He stands up, brushing wet leaves off his pants, tired of everything. He limps slowly into the park, lays down on a familiar picnic table, and closes his eyes.

He feels the rain falling on his face and wishes he could go back to the time before he ruined everything.

—/——/——/——/—

The first place Cuddy checks is House's apartment, but she finds it empty. She makes her way through Wilson's list of bars next, but House isn't in any of them. (At the third one, the bartender recognizes her picture of House, but says she hasn't seen him in over a year).

Cuddy drives his normal route between the hospital and her house, starting to imagine scenarios where he's been seriously hurt. She knows she's his emergency contact, and reasons that if he was in the hospital (especially her hospital), she would already know.

She tries to imagine what he's feeling — alone? angry at the universe for taking Jack? frustrated by his own emotions? She wishes he wouldn't feel alone, because would happily be angry or frustrated with him. She'd give him the space to feel whatever he needs to, if he would only give her the chance.

She drives by the park and spots his bike. On the ground. Dented. Like it hit the tree. She parks her car diagonally and jumps out. She walks with a brittle sort of determination— as a doctor she knows better than most that people are breakable, and so easy to lose. But she refuses to lose House now after how far they've come. She couldn't do life without him. She won't do life without him.

She finds him sprawled out on the picnic table and has flashbacks to coming to this same spot years ago to drag him back to clinic duty. She was already in love with him then and would've done anything to protect him, including commit a crime herself. Amazingly, that love was nothing compared to the kind they have now, layered and rooted so deeply.

"House."

He sits up when he hears her voice, and the first thing she registers is that he's not bleeding.

"Cuddy?"

"Thank god," she exhales. "What the hell are you doing?"

"I crashed my bike," he says way too casually.

"I noticed. You scared the shit out of me. I thought you were dead. Why didn't you call me?"

"My phone died. I was going to wait until the rain stopped to walk home."

She looks up at the clear sky above them. "The rain stopped an hour ago."

"Did it?"

She doesn't like the way he seems spaced out and confused — she wonders if it's possible he has a concussion. "Are you hurt? You don't look hurt. What about internal injuries? Did you hit the tree?"

"I'm fine," he insists. "I lost control for a split second and sort of teetered over. Nothing dramatic."

"Are you sure?"

House looks at her with a bewildered, awe-struck expression that makes her uneasy. "How are you here?"

"You lied to Wilson. You didn't come home. I've been looking everywhere for you."

He reaches out and touches her face— like he's checking if she's real. "You are here, right?"

And then it hits her so violently she's surprised she doesn't fall to her knees. She knows this look, because she's seen it before. It takes her back to such a terrible time— a time when she failed to see every warning sign blaring in her face.

A strangled cry escapes her throat as history repeats itself. "When?"

"What?"

"When did you relapse?"

She swears there's at least a minute of silence where they're just staring at each other, neither wanting to speak, because it will make this real. But it is real and she knows it has to be her who pushes forward.

"Please tell me," she begs. "It's okay, House. You can tell me."

Finally, he relents. "The morning Jack died."

"That was three and a half weeks ago."

"Yeah."

"You've been on Vicodin for three and a half weeks?"

"On and off," he admits. "More on than off this week."

"Oh."

She mentally runs through every interaction they've had since that horrific morning, as a thousand pieces of the puzzle fall perfectly into place.

"How pissed are you?"

"Extremely," she says. "At myself."

"Yourself?"

"For being an idiot. For not realizing."

"In fairness to you, I've been working my ass off to make sure you didn't realize."

"If you're in trouble, I should know about it. Even if you don't want me to. Especially if you don't want me to."

"How'd you find me tonight in the middle of the park, Cuddy? Because it looks like you know exactly what you need to know when I'm in trouble."

She feels selfish and stupid and a million other things. "I was worried about you breaking up with me instead of realizing you relapsed."

"You thought I was breaking up with you?" House scoffs at the very notion. "Maybe you are an idiot. I've been waiting for you to break up with me."

"I'm not going to do that."

"You sure? You might not want to commit to that right now. You're probably still processing."

Should she want to break up with him, she wonders? Because she doesn't. Ten minutes ago, she only wanted him to be alive, she wanted to make sure she didn't lose him, and now he's sitting right in front of her, needing her help. She understands there's a betrayal here somewhere— he's been on drugs and actively hiding it from her. But she has a strong inkling his decision to hide it stems from their shared fear of losing each other. The very same fear she felt as she was driving around frantically searching for him. How could she punish him for something she understands so well?

"Yes," she says. "I'm sure that I'm not breaking up with you."

"You're not lying," he observes, looking for her tell.

"No, I'm not."

"Why? You don't even know what happened yet."

She sits down next to him on the tabletop and puts his arm around him, his t-shirt still damp. "So then tell me. I want to know exactly what happened."

"Let's see— I decided to blow up my whole life."

If he's going to talk, she has to take it step-by-step. "How did it start?"

"Jack's mom needed a prescription for her back. I went to get it for her because I didn't want her to have to wait around after her son just died."

"You wrote her a prescription for Vicodin?"

"No. It started with Oxy. I was so out of it that morning. I hadn't slept and Jack flatlined right in front of me. I kept picturing Rachel in his place, and I couldn't get any of it to stop. I didn't plan on taking anything. I swear it wasn't even a thought in my mind. And I was going to tell you as soon as it happened, but then you called and said Rachel wanted to see me and she said she loved me after I was convinced she hated me for not showing up at the recital."

Cuddy thinks back to that day and tries to recall the details. "I remember you saying you wanted to tell me something. In the car?"

"You said you were proud of me," House reminds her. "Proud."

"But how did it go from Oxy to Vicodin?"

"I don't know. I guess it was easy to get reckless once I started. I wanted my brain to shut up."

"What was it saying?"

"That I failed everyone. Most of all you."

It breaks her heart to hear because she's never once viewed him a failure. He's the strongest person she knows. "You didn't fail anyone. Especially me."

"Jack died. Rachel was waiting to see me. And I decided to be a coward."

"Addicts relapse," Cuddy reminds him. "Especially under extreme emotional stress. I should've… I should've been more attentive that week instead of worrying about the stupid nurse shifts."

"No. I could've talked to you. You offered so many times. It's not your fault I'm a pathetic statistic."

"You're not pathetic."

"Cuddy— look at me," he gestures to his wet clothes. "I'm fucking pathetic."

"Well anyone would look pathetic after they crashed their bike and sat out in the rain for an hour and a half. That doesn't mean you are pathetic."

He gazes at her with bemusement. "You really have no idea how much I love you."

She knows he means it, but there's something gnawing at her. "How can you love me and simultaneously think I'd leave you right now?"

"No. Don't do that. It's not because I don't trust you. Or even because I think you'd want to leave me."

"Then why? I don't get it."

"You're an amazing mom, Cuddy. I couldn't blame you for protecting her, even if it made me suicidal."

"Protecting Rachel…from you?" It's such a ridiculous sentiment that she can't believe he'd even consider it.

"I made sure I was never high when I was alone with her," he adds quickly. "And I didn't bring pills into the house except for once but that was an honest mistake."

"I thought you were avoiding her because she said she loved you."

He shakes his head. "I love her, but I wasn't going to say it back while I was high."

And that's when Cuddy realizes that history isn't repeating itself. Not really. Because House isn't in his apartment hallucinating. She's not sitting at home oblivious to his suffering. He's being honest with her, even though the truth is brutal and ugly. And most of all— what makes it so very different — is the way he's thinking about his actions.

"Do you hear yourself right now? This… it isn't the same as before. You're not the same. You're actively thinking about how you taking Vicodin affects other people. You never used to care. That's… that's so big."

"I still took them. I knew it would hurt you and Rachel and I still took them."

He's not ready to forgive himself, but she's ready to figure out their next steps. "Do you want to get off the Vicodin?"

"Yes. But honestly? Also no."

"Can you explain the no?"

"Yeah. My leg hurts."

She nods, not sure if she should say more.

"Say what you're thinking," House sees right through her.

"According to what you just told me, you didn't relapse because of physical pain. I'm not discounting the physical pain. I'm only saying this would be a different conversation if you relapsed because your leg hurt so much."

"That's… true."

"If you're having significant changes in your leg pain, we need to deal with that medically, but it sounds like that wasn't the reason this started."

"It wasn't why it started, but it makes it so hard to stop."

"I understand, but I promise we can get through this."

"Not we," House corrects. "This is my fuck up. I have to fix it."

"That's not how this works. That's not what a relationship is. I'm not letting you do this alone."

"I don't know if you understand what you're saying," he warns her. "It's not going to require a mental hospital this time, but it's also not going to be pleasant."

"I don't need pleasant. I need to be there for you. I didn't get the chance last time and it's one of my biggest regrets. You have no idea how much I wish you really told me you needed me then."

"I need you now."

"You've got me, House. You do."

That's how it begins, and how it ends. Their weakness, and their strength.

What they've always had in common is how easy it is for both of them, individually, to slip into the vast darkness, comfortably and unnoticed. It's threatened to consume them many times before, but what they've learned the hard way, through experiences Cuddy wouldn't wish on anyone, is that the only way out is through.

And, more importantly, that the only way through is together.

Chapter Text

Cuddy takes charge, which is one of the things she does best. She does it with so much compassion that it makes House feel foolish for not telling her earlier, for creating an entirely false narrative in his mind. Maybe it was the Vicodin lying to him, or maybe he was merely following his oft proven and reliable mantra that it's always best to assume the worst. Either way, it's a relief that she knows, and a bigger one that her commitment to him is apparently unshakable.

When they return to Cuddy's from the park that night, a worried Wilson is waiting for them. House's first priority is to change out of his wet clothes, but he lingers in the hallway for a moment and listens to Cuddy tell his best friend what he's done. The shock and confusion in Wilson's voice is another burden House will have to carry; he won't be able to ease the guilt his two favorite people feel for not catching on and intervening sooner. (Wilson dramatically hugs him before he goes home and tries to apologize for 'not seeing it.')

House is too tired to talk more before bed, even though he can tell Cuddy wants to. She barely takes her eyes off him, like she's afraid he's going to disappear right in front of her. He's grateful that she doesn't push it and that they fall asleep in each other's arms.

The next day at work, House takes his pills out of their hiding places. Cuddy and Wilson are smart enough not to believe he's given them everything (though in this case he has) so they search the office from top to bottom. Cuddy makes him tell his team what happened, and they look almost relieved to hear an explanation for why he's been off his game (there's concern there, too— but they know better than to show too much of it). Cuddy also tells the pharmacist that House can't pick up prescriptions, cutting off a direct line of temptation.

And then she finds him a complicated case to take his mind off the pain that's slowly but surely creeping back in.

—/——/——/—

The puzzle is enough to keep House sober and relatively sane for three days. Cuddy's constant attention doesn't hurt — she checks in on him so many times that it would be embarrassing if he cared what people thought about his girlfriend babysitting him (which he doesn't). But then he solves the case, and it rains again, and his entire body craves the high, and the relief that comes with it. All day at work he grits his teeth and stays as far away from the clinic and pharmacy as possible. By the time he gets home and has dinner (which he can barely stomach), his leg is throbbing.

He's on the couch, with Cuddy resting against his chest, when he starts sweating and shaking. "Are you okay?" she asks, looking up at him.

"No," he tells her, because there's no point in hiding what she can feel for herself. "I need pills."

"Do you want ibuprofen?"

"I've already taken four."

He's furious because he can't catch a damn break. It was a mistake to let himself to believe he could make progress when a simple change in the weather makes the fight insurmountable. Hope only makes it hurt more to remember that he has no control over the rhythm of his pain.

"You can add Tylenol," Cuddy suggests.

"We both know that's a joke for my pain level right now."

She frowns like it's hurting her to deny him, which it probably is. "I'm sorry, House. It might at least take the edge off."

He's sorry, too. Because it's not a good look to beg for drugs from the love of your life, not that it's the first time she's seen him this low. He's also sorry because this is going to be the night they have to get through in order to reach the other side — to get back to the life they had before he ripped it away from them.

"I can't do this," he says, wanting to give up before it gets worse.

"Yes, you can. What can I do to help?"

She tries to reach for his leg, to offer solidarity and comfort, but he pushes her hand away. "Not that."

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have."

He's lightheaded with dependence, a fog that's hard to see through. Cuddy doesn't want him to fight alone, but he doesn't want her to be a casualty of his unintended cruelty. "No. You didn't do anything wrong. This is exactly why I didn't want to do this with you. I should go to my apartment for the night for both of our sakes."

Cuddy grabs his forearm, holding his gaze. "You better not be suggesting that I can't handle you. Where have you been for the last twenty years?"

Of course Cuddy can handle him, like she can do anything— but tonight isn't going to be their usual sarcastic remarks and teasing. "This is different."

"I don't care. You're not leaving this house, where I know there's no Vicodin. I will barricade the door and slash your tires if I have to."

Hasn't he learned by now? He can run from Cuddy, but she'll come running after him. There's no point arguing with a love as fierce as hers. "Okay," he accepts. "I'll stay."

"Where would you be most comfortable? You want to move to the bedroom?"

He's about to make an innuendo about her suggestion, but his entire stomach churns before he can. He's not sure if it's from the blinding pain or from going cold turkey, but he gets up and quickly limps to the bathroom, Cuddy following right behind him.

He throws up three times while Cuddy rubs his back and whispers encouragement. When he stops and takes a breath he thinks of his hallucination and how he was right all along that she'd care for him if only let her.

"Wait here for a second," she instructs. "I'm going to get a washcloth."

"Yeah, because if you hadn't said that, I'd be on my way to run a marathon."

He throws up once more before she returns, holding a mug in one hand and a washcloth in the other. "I brought you tea, too. The ginger should help."

It makes House laugh harder than he should given his current situation. Cuddy furrows her brow, not understanding. "What exactly is so funny right now?"

"It turns out that my drug induced hallucination of how you would help me get off Vicodin was spot on."

She kneels and runs the damp cloth across his forehead, wiping away the sweat. "Oh, yeah? Which part was the most predictable?"

"The stupidity of thinking tea is going to fix it."

Cuddy smiles at him despite the insult. "You can still make fun of me. I'm going to take that as a good sign."

"Give me the damn mug."

He takes small sips and tries to breathe in and out and remind himself he wants his life and freedom more than he wants the pills. He forces himself to picture everything about Mayfield — from the sights to the smells to the pain and claustrophobia he felt. And then he flips the switch and thinks about lazy Saturdays with Cuddy and Rachel and how at peace he feels whenever they're around.

"What if I run the bath?" Cuddy asks, still looking for ways to make this bearable for him.

"Sounds perfect," House quips. "As long as you promise to drown me in it."

"Nope. No drowning. But maybe it will help relax the spasms?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

She turns on the faucet and lets the water run. She fills the bath with the lavender salts she normally uses to relax after a long day. She helps him stand and get undressed — she even has to help him into the tub, which isn't an easy task given their size difference, but they manage to make it work.

The water does help a bit, but pain still comes in ferocious waves, and Cuddy can see it written all over his face. "You can squeeze my hand," she tells him, sitting on the floor next to the tub. "I can take it."

"Thanks, but I don't want to break your tiny, talented fingers."

"You can at least hold them," she laces their hands together on the edge of the tub. "Is it okay if I kiss you?"

"Why the hell would you want to? I've puked like five times."

"I always want to kiss you."

His whole body reacts to the statement, it vibrates through him as he pictures pushing her against the wall of his apartment to kiss her, even though he really didn't. He can still see and feel it so vividly, despite knowing it wasn't real.

"What?" Cuddy asks, gauging his response. "Did I say something wrong?"

"No."

When he was hallucinating, he was trying to reach a world where Cuddy was by his side, where he didn't need Vicodin, where he was a better man. What he's discovered over the last three years is that he's capable of being that man, of making that story his. Reality is so much better than what he imagined, which gives him more motivation to push through.

He leans over and kisses her — quick and light—but enough to make sure she feels his gratitude. When they pull part, House notices Rachel hovering in the doorway in her pajamas.

"Hey, rugrat."

He tries to act as normal as possible, because letting Cuddy see him at his worst is bad enough, but he has to draw the line at Rachel.

Cuddy turns towards her, too. "Hi, sweetheart. Are you okay?"

She nods, but quickly deduces that something isn't right. "What's the matter with House?"

"He isn't feeling well so I'm sitting with him while he takes a bath."

"Oh," she processes and then looks directly at him. "Do you want my bath toys? I have boats and sharks and dolphins."

It's a small but meaningful gesture. Rachel is Cuddy's kid— a caretaker at her core.

"That's so weird, I was just telling your mom that I wish I had some sharks."

Rachel runs off to her room to find the toys. "I can put her to bed while you relax in here," Cuddy says.

She looks worried that the interruption is unwanted, but that couldn't be further from the truth. Rachel grounds him in the here and now— in his after Vicodin timeline. There was no Rachel in his Vicodin life— no pirates or morning talks over cereal or piano lessons. He also knows he'll be on his best behavior so long as Rachel is there to witness it. "Don't make her think I don't want her around. I won't be an asshole to her."

"I know you won't."

Rachel returns with a handful of plastic sharks and Cuddy gets up to get them from her. "Thank you, honey. This is very thoughtful of you. You can stay for a little while before bed as long as you hang back here so House still has privacy, okay?"

"Okay, mama."

Cuddy drops the sharks in the tub and then resumes her spot on the floor. "That's much better," House says as the toys float around him.

"What made you sick?" Rachel asks.

House isn't sure if he's supposed to lie in this instance, but he doesn't. "Medicine."

"No," Rachel reasons. "Medicine makes you better."

"Remember when you had a fever and your mom gave you the medicine in that little cup?"

"Yes."

"Why do you think she used the cup?"

"To know how much to give me."

"Right, because you can't drink the whole bottle. If you do it'll make you sick."

"You drank the whole bottle?"

"Basically."

"Why'd you do that?"

"Because I'm stupid."

"No, you're not."

Cuddy offers a more nuanced explanation. "Sometimes House's leg hurts so much that it's hard for him to make good choices. He'll be okay though."

"It hurts because of the fraction?"

Rachel's attempt at pronouncing infarction gets to him every time. She may not fully understand what happened to him, but she tries so hard. "Yes," he says. "Because of the fraction."

"How do I help?"

"Not much you can do, kid. I have to ride it out. You could tell me about your day if you want — to distract me."

Rachel sits down cross-legged in the doorway. "We had a surprise spelling quiz."

"How'd you do?"

"Good. I had to spell 'change' and 'learn' and I got them right— but so many people did bad and got them wrong."

"That's because they're not as smart as you."

"One of my spelling words for next week is 'house.' But they mean the place you live, not your name."

"It's spelled the same and you better know how to spell it."

"I do."

"Prove it," he challenges.

"H-o-u-s-e," Rachel is happy to show off.

"Looks like you're still my protégée."

The pain doesn't dissipate, but his anger does. When his anger subsides, it's easier to tolerate the pain and recognize that it won't last forever. The three of them sit and talk and it makes the time go by, even though he's still nauseous and miserable. They somehow give him peace within the misery, a feeling he didn't know was possible.

Eventually Cuddy puts Rachel to bed and then helps him out of the bath. She gets him into pajamas and bed and puts the heating pad on his thigh. He lays against her as she runs her fingers through his hair. "Any better?"

"Yes," he says honestly, getting more tired by the second. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, but I feel like we should be thanking Rachel."

"She calms me. I don't know why."

"Because she's yours, House. But that's… a conversation for another day."

He's barely awake when she says it, but he does hear it. He falls asleep thinking about how the story of who he is— who he can be— is up to him and evolving every day.

—/——/——/—

It's still an uphill mental battle, but physically it begins to get easier. As it does, House considers the bigger picture. He worries a lot about the stress Cuddy is carrying and holding in — she's keeping it together for his sake, but he knows she's still consumed with guilt and anxiety about their future. So, he comes up with a plan. When she visits his office (which she's still doing multiple times a day), he sets things in motion.

"Wilson is taking you out to dinner tonight," he informs her.

"He is? Why?"

"Because you deserve a night out."

Predictably, Cuddy objects to the premise. "No offense to Wilson, but if I'm going out, I'd rather it be with you. Why don't we all go out together?"

"Because you both need a break."

"From you?" Cuddy questions, ready to pushback.

"I didn't say that. You two can do your gossiping about all the stupid hospital drama. Plus, he'll pick you up and pay. I don't know why you're being difficult when there's no real downside here."

"Okay," she shrugs, not understanding, but giving in because it seems important to him. "What will you do tonight then?"

"I figured I'd hang out with Rach."

"Oh," Cuddy says. "Of course."

House knows her so well, he can literally see her brain at work. "You hesitated for a second," he points out. "It's okay if you don't trust me alone with her yet. I can call Marina."

"No, I do trust you— especially with Rachel."

"You hesitated, Cuddy. Don't deny it. I know what I saw."

"It's not that I don't trust you," she insists. "I don't trust myself."

"To do what?"

"To figure out if you're… in trouble again. I'm scared I won't know, because I didn't. I wasn't hesitating about leaving you with Rachel. I paused to think about if I noticed any red flags over the last few days."

He hates that she has to live like this, but it's going to take time and consistency on his part for her not to wonder about his sobriety. He hopes there's a way to provide her with at least some peace of mind. "Maybe we need a word where if one of us says it, we both have to tell the truth no matter what."

She looks intrigued by the idea. "Like a truth word instead of a safe word?"

"Exactly."

"Okay," she agrees. "And you'll stick to the rule that you have to tell the truth? No matter what?"

"Yes, because this is going to be a sacred oath and you know how seriously I take those."

"What's the word?"

The perfect one comes to him instantly. "Lobe," he says, earning him a soft smile from her. "You want to try it out first?"

"Lobe," Cuddy repeats back to him. "Have you taken anything this week?"

"No— and if I wanted to get high, I promise I would never use Rachel as an excuse, even at my lowest."

She nods because she doesn't doubt that truth for a single second.

—/——/——/—

Dinner with Wilson ends up being a lot of fun. They do in fact gossip about the hospital— about new relationships and suspected affairs and departmental in-fighting. Wilson also tells her all about his godson and Cuddy gets to go on and on about Rachel to someone who's genuinely interested. It's nice and carefree and familiar.

"Thanks for this," she says in the car on the drive home. "I needed it more than I realized."

"Of course. We have one more stop though."

Cuddy isn't interested in going anywhere else. It's the longest she's been away from House since she found him that night in the park and she's feeling separation anxiety. "But House…"

"House knows about this," Wilson reassures her. "It was his idea."

"It was?" She can't imagine where he would be sending them. "Where are we going?"

"Have a little patience. You'll see."

About ten minutes later they drive into a local community center. Cuddy has passed by it many times before but has never been inside. "What is this? Are you taking me to a cooking class? I swear I'm not as bad as House says. He's joking— for the most part."

"No," Wilson laughs as he pulls into a parking spot. "We're going to a meeting."

"A meeting? For what?"

"It's called Nar-Anon. It's for the loved ones of addicts."

Cuddy clenches her jaw. "Wilson— no."

"Yes."

"Absolutely not," she reiterates, annoyed that her stress-free evening has abruptly ended. "There's no way House wanted you to bring me to this."

"I swear he did."

"Why?!"

"Cuddy, you need an outlet. You need people who understand."

"You understand!" She argues.

"I understand House," Wilson agrees. "I'll always be here for you, but you and I are not in the same situation and we both know that. I'm not in a relationship with an addict. I can't relate to raising a child with one. It would be good for you to hear from people who are in similar situations."

"House wants me to talk about his addiction to a room full of strangers!?" She asks, because she can't fathom the concept.

"House wants to make sure you're not bottling everything up, and so do I. You've been handling everything so well, but you have to take care of yourself or eventually you're going to explode. We're trying to lessen the odds of that."

"Dinner was a trick to get me here," she realizes. "I should've known there was more to this."

"I'm not sorry because you wouldn't have agreed to it if we told you."

She tries to calm down, to shake off the flight or fight instincts buzzing at her fingertips. She's never truly talked to anyone other than Wilson about House's addiction. Not Julia. Not her mom. She knows how those conversations would go, and she's not interested. She's dedicated entire journals to writing out her feelings, but saying it out loud is different. She doesn't know if she can do it.

"Do I have to?"

"I can't make you, but I think you should try it once," Wilson says. "If you don't like it, we'll never talk about it again. I think I know you well enough to know you won't shy away from trying something because it might be hard."

"Well played," she acknowledges—it's a smart way to get to her, because she never backs down from a challenge. "Will you come with me?"

"If that's what you want. Or if you want privacy, I can wait for you in the car."

She doesn't want to do this alone. It's not like she's worried about him judging her and there's nothing she's afraid to say in front of him anyway.

"I want you to come with me."

They get out of the car and walk inside together in silence. Cuddy braces herself, no idea what to expect. For the last three years, she's barely thought of herself as the girlfriend of an addict, which was probably a mistake. She knows and accepts everything about House, but it was naive to act like his past was something that would permanently stay there. Maybe she can learn how to let it bleed into the present in the ways it needs to, without letting it consume or break them.

The meeting is in a small room with about fifteen people. A lot of them appear to already know each other, which makes Cuddy feel even more awkward. The woman running things introduces herself as Amanda and then instructs everyone to sit down in one of the chairs forming a circle.

Cuddy listens to people talk about husbands and wives and children and friends. Some of them have loved ones currently using, some have loved ones in treatment, some talk about loved ones they're worried about slipping back into addiction. The stories crack her heart open through all the ways she can relate. She's been all of those people at different points in time.

As it gets closer and closer to her turn, she starts to panic, because she has no idea what she wants to say. Luckily Wilson comes up in the circle first. She hopes he can break the ice and do some of the work for her.

"I'm James," he begins. "My best friend is a Vicodin addict and he recently relapsed after three years of sobriety. I could talk more about it, but I'm mostly here to support my best friend's girlfriend."

Apparently, he's not going to let her off the hook — she has to will herself to open her mouth and speak. "Hi," she says. "I'm Lisa."

She feels everyone's eyes on her. At work she's used to being at the center of attention— people hang on her every word, and she never thinks twice about it. But here? Amongst a group of perfect strangers that she has something massive in common with? She's utterly uncomfortable with the spotlight. "Sorry, I'm new to this. I'm a little bit nervous."

"Take your time," Amanda encourages. "A relapse after a long period of sobriety is always incredibly difficult on everyone."

She's already here. She's come this far. She decides to give it her all.

"My boyfriend and I are both doctors," she says, opening with the backstory. "He lost an eight-year-old patient and that's what triggered the relapse. He was acting weird, but I assumed it was grief because it was such a horrible situation. When I found out what was really going on, I felt so guilty for not realizing sooner. I mean, I know he's an addict— him being an addict dictated the course of our lives for years and years. It should've been the first thing I thought of, but I've gotten complacent in our happiness. The guilt has worn off a little bit because he keeps telling me it's not my fault. But now I feel like I have to be on high alert all the time, in case I miss something else."

"Hypervigilance is a very common feeling among family members."

"I want to talk to him about how I feel because he's my person and I tell him everything, but I don't want him to internalize it. I don't want him to think I can't handle it, either."

Another woman in the group — Cuddy thinks she said earlier that her name is Melissa — speaks up. "I used to think that way, too. I never told my husband anything about what I was feeling. But holding it in can backfire. I think it helps them to know where we are emotionally. It can make them more likely to share how they're feeling, too."

"That makes sense," Cuddy considers the advice. "I'm just so in my head about everything I do and say. And I'm… terrified. It was so bad last time before he got sober. At the worst of it he was full on hallucinating. It's also different because we have… we have a daughter now. He loves her and he's so good for her and I don't know what either of us would do without him. Does anyone else live in constant fear that today will be the day you lose them for good?"

She's met with resounding yeses and nods and that simple act of validation is worth everything.

Amanda looks at her with empathy. "It's counterproductive to obsess about the future, as hard it is not to. Taking it one day, one small victory, at a time is a good way to go about it."

"She's really not good at that," Wilson cracks.

The joke breaks the tension for her in the best way possible. "He's right. I'm the worst when it comes to not being in control. Does it get any easier?"

"Maybe not easier," Amanda admits. "But with practice you get better at it."

"I'd happily take getting even a little bit better at it."

She's relieved when someone else jumps into the conversation, taking the focus off her— she leans back, and listens to the rest of the group talk and tell their stories, taking in every piece of wisdom or guidance.

When it's over, Wilson puts his arm around her in a show of support.

"Thank you for the ambush," she says.

"You're welcome," he squeezes her shoulder. "If there's one thing our trio is good at, it's tricking each other into doing the right thing."

"What a strange but helpful quality of friendship."

"You think you'll come back next week?"

She's big enough to admit there are more things to learn and ways to grow. There's hard work to do — and that's something she never shies away from. "I'll be here."

—/——/——/—

Cuddy is still raw with emotion when she gets home. She walks inside and sees House reclining on the couch flipping through the channels searching for one of his shows. He looks up as soon as she's through the door. "You should've heard Rach tonight," he says. "I taught her to play the theme from Brownbeard on the piano."

The mental picture of them back on the piano bench together is a welcomed comfort. "She must've loved that."

"She did. Potentially too much. You should probably prepare yourself to hear it a hundred times a day for the next month or two."

Cuddy sits down right in his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck, desperately needing the contact.

"Can I assume from this hands-on greeting that you're not mad about your little detour?"

"I'm not mad," she confirms.

She is somber though — the many stories she heard and her own worries still fresh and running through her mind.

"Then what's the matter? Did it go okay?"

"I didn't realize how scared I feel— not until I said it out loud."

"Scared? Of what?"

She tries to focus on the advice she received, and on how she wants them to communicate going forward. "On the drive home, I was thinking about how much I love waking up next to you in the morning — the way you're the first thing I see and feel. I can't believe I went so many years without that."

"What are you scared of, Cuddy?" House pushes for the real answer to his question.

This time, she's brave enough to tell him. "That I'm going to lose you to Vicodin," she says. "That one day I'm going to find you dead in this house or at work after overdosing. I know it wasn't that bad this time—that you probably weren't in danger of an OD— but it's brought back memories of when you were. We've never talked about this, but before you went to Mayfield, I used to wonder all the time whether it would be me or Wilson who would find you— because it felt so inevitable. Do you have any idea what that would do to me?"

"Yes," he says earnestly. "I don't know how you'd come back from that."

"I wouldn't," Cuddy admits. "I'd have to try for Rachel, but I'd never be the same."

Invoking Rachel's involvement has an obvious impact on him— he shakes his head like he's trying to rid himself of the image. "I wish I was selfless enough to wish you didn't love me," he says. "I know this isn't what you deserve."

But that's not the point she wants him to take away. "I think I deserve the man I love. And you deserve real happiness, which I hope is with me."

"It is," he assures her. "I am happy. The relapse doesn't mean I'm not."

"I know that— I do. I just need you to promise me that you're going to try your absolute hardest. I'm not asking you to be perfect. I know there's a chance you might relapse again one day. I'm only asking you to fight as much as you possibly can and to let me help you do that."

"I promise."

"I want us to be able to talk about everything, even when it's uncomfortable. This conversation sucks but it's healthier than both of us walking around trying to protect the other from our worst thoughts."

"You sure you want to hear all the stuff that goes on in my fucked-up head?"

"Yes — and you get to hear all the insane thoughts that pop into mine."

"Deal," House looks strangely proud of her. "You got all of that out of one meeting, huh?"

"I'm a fast learner," she jokes, but then moves to an important question. "Would you ever consider going to a group like this?"

"Fortunately for me, I'm not in love with an addict."

"I meant a group for addicts."

"You know I don't do well in group settings."

"But shouldn't you talk to a professional about everything that's happened? Even if it's not a group?"

"You want me to go back to therapy," House realizes.

"I want you to have the support you need in whatever form that comes in. I can tell you what I think, but I'm not an expert on addiction. Neither is Wilson."

"I hated therapy the last time, Cuddy. Every second of it."

"But maybe part of you fighting your hardest could mean giving it another chance?"

"Okay," he caves. "I'll think about it."

Small victories, Cuddy thinks.

Each one in its own time.

—/——/——/—

House takes what Cuddy says to heart. He lets go of the idea that he has to protect her from the ugliness that often reaches inside of him. With that acceptance comes accountability and comfort.

A week later he's itching for Vicodin and he doesn't know why — it wasn't a bad day at work, and his leg isn't particularly painful. He craves the pills anyway. Instead of swallowing that feeling whole, he takes a beer out of the fridge and heads outside to the backyard where Cuddy going through paperwork on the patio.

"Lobe," House says, getting her attention. "I want to take Vicodin. More than almost anything."

"Come here," she gestures to the chair next to her, remaining impressively calm. "Did something happen today that I don't know about?"

"No," he sits down. "I have no idea why I even want it, but I'm trying that thing where I talk to you instead of doing it."

"I'm so glad," she says, and then eyes the beer in his hand. "But is that a good idea?"

He knows what she's getting at — that he shouldn't train his body to use alcohol when he wants Vicodin. "Probably not," he admits.

"Can I take it?"

He hands it over to her. "No drugs, no alcohol— what's a guy supposed to do for a good time around here?"

Cuddy opens the center of her robe, showing off her black lace nightie. "How's that?"

She looks so stunning in the fading light of dusk that his brain entirely refocuses on her. "That works."

"I suspected it might."

"You've always known how to get my attention."

She laughs, before getting back to the heart of the matter. "You know, someone at group said it helps their partner to talk about the future— to have things to look forward to that keep them on track and motivated."

"Kind of sounds like Rachel's stupid sticker chart for her chores. Maybe I should get in on some of that action."

"You want a sticker chart for not taking Vicodin?"

"Not really," he says. "It'd be kind of funny though."

"Oh, I'll make you a sticker chart. I'll administer your ass right into sobriety."

"What do I get instead of stickers?" He asks, raising a suggestive brow. "Because I'm hoping it involves this nightie."

"It can," Cuddy smirks. "But I was also thinking we should take a vacation this summer."

"You taking a vacation? Real time off? I'm not going to say no to that. Where do you want to go?

"I don't know," she muses. "What's your dream vacation?"

"It'll be hard to top our week in Mont Saint-Michel."

"Agreed, but that was my dream vacation. I'm asking about yours."

House doesn't care where they go. Mont Saint-Michel was beautiful, but he wasn't focused on their location. He was focused on alone time with her— how it was only them and the banter and the love. "Any vacation I'm on with you is my dream vacation."

"That's a very romantic sentiment," Cuddy says. "I'm going to need a few more specifics though — for the sake of the sticker chart."

"Of course," he plays along.

"Close your eyes and imagine your dream vacation and tell me what you see."

House scoffs. "I'm not doing some weird yoga visualization."

"Okay, drama queen. I didn't ask you to get in downward dog, I asked you to close your eyes."

House makes a show of closing them and holding out his arms like he is actually doing yoga. "I guess I'd want to sit on a beach with you all day. And not have to talk to any other people. Eat good food and have drinks by the water. And at sunset we could lay in a hammock — I'd have you on one side and Rachel on the other and…"

"Wait," Cuddy stops him. "Rachel part of your dream vacation?"

"Why are you interrupting me? I'm pretty sure that's against the yoga rules— a Zen violation, if you will."

"Sorry, it took me by surprise. I'd figured I'd be naked and that would be the end of your description."

He's admittedly a little surprised too, but for whatever reason, his first thought was that it should be a family trip. "If it helps, your bikini is very small."

"Rachel would love it if we took her on vacation. She hasn't ever been on a plane."

"Yeah, but now that I'm thinking about it logistically, I could get into a hammock, but I'm not sure I could get out of one. We might need to rework some of the details."

"No, we don't. I'll get you out of the hammock."

"How?"

"We'll figure it out," Cuddy promises. "We always do."

It's a promise he believes because he never feels limited with her. "I'd say cheers to that, but you took my beer."

She grabs his hand in hers and places it on her barely covered breast. "Cheers, House."

She reminds him every day that he doesn't need an undamaged leg or heart to be able to do what matters— to laugh with her, to solve puzzles and save lives, to care for Rachel, to make their lives better simply by virtue of him being in it.

The itch for Vicodin is gone— and all that's left is them and the love and the night.

—/——/——/—

On the morning of the one-month anniversary of his sobriety, House sits on the floor of the living room, toying with a plastic gold coin. When he thinks about where he was a month and a half ago, he knows it's a profound accomplishment to have made it this far.

"What is that?" Cuddy asks, joining him on the floor with her cup of coffee. She's still in her pajamas, hair up in a messy ponytail.

"A piece of Rachel's pirate treasure," he shows her. "She wrote her initials on it, like it's real treasure and she's afraid someone will steal it."

"Well, it looks like you stole it," Cuddy teases. "Why do you have it?"

"I'm using it as my sobriety chip. I may not be in group, but I do know how these things work. You think Rachel will mind?"

"I'm sure she won't, but don't you want a real coin?"

There's no coin, no matter how valuable, that will keep him on track better than this one. The fact that it has an angry skull with swords coming out of it on one side, and a compass on the other, makes him love it even more. "No, this one is perfect."

"It's a weird choice, but also fitting."

He takes a black sharpie out of his pocket and hands it to her. "I need you to initial it, too."

"Why?

"Because you and Rachel are the reasons. I want to see that clearly whenever I look at this."

Cuddy doesn't say anything at first, she simply adds LC under RC on the coin. Then she looks back at him. "I'll happily be your reason, House. But I want you to remember to do this for yourself, too. Your happiness. Your life. I think you should initial it, too"

She's missing the fact that she is his happiness and his life, but he understands the point she's trying to make. The way she values him is part of how he made it this far. "Fine."

"Besides, it's not a complete family treasure without your initials."

House adds GH to the coin. As soon as he does, Cuddy grabs it from him. "Hey," he objects. "Give it back."

"I was going to present it to you, asshole. To make it official."

He laughs at the name calling. "Well, go ahead then."

"Congratulations on one month sober," she places the coin in the palm of his hand. "I really am proud of you."

This time when she says it, he feels worthy of the praise, but he still wants to acknowledge her role. "You've saved me so many times now, I'm losing count."

"I need you to give yourself a little credit."

If there's one thing House will give himself credit for, it's for falling in love with the right woman. He kisses her shoulder and thinks about what he truly treasures.

Chapter Text

On the sixth month anniversary of his sobriety, House sneaks out of work in the middle of the afternoon. He has plans to ditch clinic duty and go bowling with Wilson to celebrate the milestone. He's certain Cuddy is also planning dinner for him later in the evening, like she's done every month on this particular date. Last month she went all out and baked the most delicious mac and cheese he ever tasted. She perfected the recipe just for the occasion and it was so good that he swore off making fun of her cooking for the foreseeable future.

Plus, there will be dirty-sticker-chart related after-dinner activities once Rachel is asleep, which is unsurprisingly the thing he's most excited for.

When he arrives at Cuddy's to grab his bowling bag from the closet, Marina is in the kitchen, putting away some of the dishes. "Hey," he says as he walks by her towards the bedroom.

"Dr. House— I'm so glad you're here."

"I'm not here," he tells her. "If anyone asks, I'm in the clinic wiping snotty noses and other even more disgusting body parts."

"Right," Marina laughs, used to his antics by now. "Got it."

"Wait," he processes, turning around to face her. "Why are you glad I'm here, even though I'm not?"

"Rachel has been upset all afternoon," she explains. "I have a feeling something happened at school, but she won't tell me what. I sat with her for a while— she's doing her homework now."

His priorities shift instantly, bowling quickly forgotten, an important puzzle in front of him. "She didn't say anything at all?" he asks, on the hunt for clues.

"No, I kept trying, but she wouldn't talk about it. I was hoping maybe she'll tell you. If not, I want to make sure Dr. Cuddy at least knows when she gets home."

Rachel adores Marina and normally talks to her nonstop— if she's so upset that she won't even tell someone she trusts completely, something must be really wrong.

He devises a new plan. "You can head out early," he tells Marina. "I'll stay with Rach for the rest of the afternoon."

"Are you sure? Her nose is probably just as snotty as the ones you were trying to avoid."

"Oh, it definitely is. Probably worse."

"At least it's cuter?"

"Exactly," House agrees. "Her one saving grace."

As Marina gathers her things to leave, he heads towards Rachel's room. He opens the door and sees her sitting on the couch, knees pulled up to her chest. "Hey, kid."

She looks up, surprised to see him. "How come you're here?"

"Uh— that's pretty harsh, dude. I don't know if you've noticed, but I practically live here."

"I meant it's work time."

"Wilson and I are going bowling."

"Oh, okay."

She doesn't ask why they're going in the middle of the day or if she can come with them, which is highly suspicious. He sits down on the couch next to her. "What's up with you?" he asks bluntly.

She gives him a tiny shrug. "Nothing."

"Rachel, come on. I know you better than that. I could tell the second I walked in here that you're upset."

She stares blankly at him, not saying a thing.

"You can tell me," he encourages. "You know all my secrets. It wouldn't be fair if you didn't tell me yours."

"I know your secrets?" Rachel questions, not sure what he's referring to.

"Duh," he says, drawing out the single syllable. "You were there for me when my patient died, and I was being kind of a jerk. You were there when I was sick from being a dummy and taking too much medicine. You know what my 'fraction' looks like even though I try to hide it most of the time. And you know that I like snuggling with your mom all weekend, which no one at work can ever know about."

"How come no one can know?"

"Because then they wouldn't be scared of me anymore. Do I look scary when I'm all snuggled up with her?"

"No," she admits. And then, the truth. "David was being mean today, but I don't know if he's right."

"He was being mean to you?"

"Yes."

Kids are cruel— House believes that's an inevitable part of growing up. But the thought of some brat being cruel to Rachel, who has Cuddy's empathetic heart and would never purposely hurt anyone, fills him with rage. "Before I decide how I'm going to kill him, tell me what he did."

"We're making family trees at school. As our project for this week."

"Right," House follows along.

"Before we started, Ms. Anderson was reading a book about all different kinds of families. She was talking about how some people just have a mom or just a dad or two dads or two moms and some people live with their grandparents and some are adopted."

"Covering all the bases—smart. That's why your mom pays the big bucks."

"I said I was adopted, and David said…" Rachel trails off like it hurts her too much to finish the sentence.

"What did he say?"

"He said that means no one wanted me. He said people get adopted when no one else wants them and so their parents get stuck with them."

As angry as he is, House forces himself to take a breath before he speaks, because he knows this is an important topic. He feels a protective desire to make sure the thought doesn't fester in her brain for one second longer than it already has. "You have no idea how untrue that is. Your mom wanted you so much."

"Are you sure?" Rachel presses.

How could he begin to describe it to her? The days where Cuddy carried around heartbreak so heavy that it made her accessible to him — it made him able to reach her in their shared loneliness and misery.

"I'm very sure," he says. "She wanted you so much it used to drive me crazy. I'd be like 'okay, Cuddy, shut up, we get it already.'"

He has her rapt attention and wants to make good use of it. He doesn't know the last time anyone depended on him for reassurance (that's what Cuddy and Wilson are for)— but sitting with her and talking it through as honestly as possible feels right.

"She wanted to be a mom for a long time, but she didn't have to adopt you," House continues. "She did it because she wanted to. It was like as soon as she saw you she didn't just want to be a mom, she wanted to be your mom specifically."

"Really?"

"Yes, really. And I know for a fact that she's told you this before. You shouldn't ever believe some idiotic kid over your mom. Don't fall for what bullies want you to believe about yourself."

"He is an idiot," Rachel agrees.

"And by the way, not being adopted is extremely overrated. Think about it. Your mom isn't adopted. Is your grandma nice to her?"

Rachel doesn't need long to consider that question. "No. She's so mean to her."

"Exactly. I'm not adopted. My dad was mean to me."

"He was?"

"Yup. All the time. Is your mom nice to you?"

"Yes."

"Other parents are the ones who are 'stuck' with whatever stupid looking baby they pop out. David is probably jealous because his mom doesn't even like him because he's a buttface. And also she's an ugly loser and your mom is a hot boss so..."

She laughs a little at his juvenile rant.

"If David has anything else to say about you, you should tell him that his mom had him on accident and his dad ran for the hills so he's technically the unwanted one."

"What about you?" Rachel asks.

"I'll happily tell David that myself."

"No," she says. "I mean— did you want me?"

It takes House by genuine surprise. Not once in the entire conversation did he ever consider that she could be wondering and worried about him, too. Now that he realizes she is, he feels in way over his head. It's too late to back out, to change the subject, or even call someone else for help.

He thinks about the ugly truth — how he selfishly didn't want Cuddy to have a kid. He wanted her to be happy, he just didn't want her to feel happiness without him. He remembers being shocked at how much he felt that Christmas when he stood next to her over Rachel in the maternity ward — as it turned out, witnessing the woman he loves fulfill her dream was enough to move his normally immovable heart.

If only he knew then how much he'd come to benefit from Cuddy's dream.

"Your mom and I weren't dating when she adopted you," he says honestly. "We were friends, so I wasn't part of the decision. She wanted you so much she wasn't going to wait around for anyone's help, especially mine. She doesn't need anyone's help. For anything. Do you get what I mean?

"I think so," Rachel considers. "But I don't remember not knowing you."

"That makes sense. We started dating when you were still in diapers. Which I changed, by the way. I obviously want you in my life otherwise I wouldn't have done something so gross. That's what matters. The part where I want you in my life now, not that the diapers were gross."

Rachel gets up from the couch and walks over to her backpack. She unzips it, pulls out a folder, and then very carefully removes a piece of construction paper. She runs back to him and hands it over. "But is this wrong?"

He looks down at the family tree she's building, floored by what he sees. The sturdy trunk and flowing branches. On one side— Mommy. Aunt Julia. Grandma. The Grandfather she never got to meet.

And on the other side? House. Uncle Wilson.

House has never felt like he even had his own family tree. Or, if he did, that it was hollow and cracked and unsteady. He's an only child. He loves his mom, but she barely talked about her family (the way she barely talked about anything important). He grew up knowing his dad wasn't really his dad (which wouldn't have mattered if he had bothered to act like a father). His biological dad was a well-guarded secret. To this day he doesn't know anything about that side of the family, and frankly doesn't care to.

He feels comfortable being tethered to Rachel's branch, flanking Cuddy on the other side. He's not sure what Cuddy would think about it, but he's not going to correct Rachel's assumption.

"No," he tells her. "This… isn't wrong."

Rachel smiles, satisfied by his answer.

The moment threatens to overwhelm him, so he tries to steer them back to safety in a way that also might cheer her up. "Do you want to come bowling with us?"

"Yeah!" Rachel exclaims, sounding like herself for the first time in the conversation. "But I'm supposed to do my homework."

"You want my advice? Sometimes when you've had a bad day, it's important to do something fun first— to make yourself feel better. I can help with your homework when we get back."

Rachel lunges forward and hugs him.

—/——/——/—

Wilson is a good sport about the unexpected addition to their outing— the first thing he does is tell Rachel how excited he is that she's joined them.

House doesn't use bumper lanes for Rachel. Instead, he helps her perfectly line up her neon-blue, six-pound ball to take down the pins. The three of them bowl a full game, with House beating Wilson by a measly three points thanks to a well-timed spare.

As they're getting ready to reset for the second game, House can sense Cuddy's arrival. He doesn't know how he does it, but he can always tell when she's in a room, even without seeing her. He turns around, loving the juxtaposition between Cuddy standing in her expensive dress, heels, and pearls and the run-down bowling alley. While Wilson distracts Rachel, House limps over to her.

"I got your text," she says, frantically grabbing his arm. "Is Rachel okay?"

"She's fine," House assures her. "Some dipshit at school was giving her a hard time about being adopted."

He watches as the fierce mama bear rises to the surface. "Are you kidding me? Do you know who? What did they say?"

"It was David. Apparently they were learning about families and he told her adopted kids are unwanted."

"That kid is such a jackass," Cuddy fumes. "Did you know he pushed Lara on the bus last week?"

"Demon."

"I need to talk to Rachel. I don't want her to think…she can't think that…"

"She doesn't," House says. "I talked to her, and she understood. She's been having a really good time for the last hour and I don't know if you want to remind her about it now. Maybe talk to her tonight?"

For perhaps the first time, House has a real parenting opinion that he says out loud. He doesn't know if he's supposed to, but Cuddy doesn't seem to mind. Instead, she appears comforted. "You're right," she agrees. "I'm really glad you were there so she didn't have to worry about it all afternoon."

"See?! So many good things come out of me skipping clinic duty."

"To be clear, that's not the lesson we're taking away from today."

"Speak for yourself," he jokes. "Want to play a game or two with us?"

She glances over at Wilson and Rachel. "I guess since I'm already here, it does look like you're having fun."

He grabs her hand and leads her over to their lane. Rachel lights up when she sees her. "Mom! House helped me get a strike!"

"He did?! That's amazing."

"Let's play in teams," House decides. "Cuddy and Wilson versus me and Rach. Hope you two are ready to lose to a cripple and a five-year-old."

Cuddy sticks her tongue out at him. "Dream on, House. You two are going down."

House sticks his out right back.

There's no way he'd rather celebrate.

Aside from the dirty-sticker-chart, of course.

—/——/——/—

He doesn't sleep well that night even though Cuddy is filled with pride. Not only did he make it to six months sober, but he got through to Rachel at a time it truly mattered. He should feel accomplished in more ways than one, but he feels uneasy instead.

At work the next day, House sneaks into Wilson's office to use his computer (on incognito mode), so that nobody finds out the question he wants answered. It's something he wants to keep to himself for now, given the gravity and potential consequences.

Unfortunately, that plan goes awry when Wilson walks into the office unexpectedly. "What the hell are you doing here?" House asks when he sees him.

"What am I doing in my office? Gee, House, I don't know…"

"I checked your schedule. You're supposed to be in a meeting until noon."

"Got cancelled," Wilson says, walking closer to the desk. "So stop watching porn on my…."

House quickly slams the laptop shut, but not before Wilson sees what's on the screen. "Oh my god. Are you thinking about adopting Rachel?!"

"No," he denies, even though he's been caught red-handed.

"Yes, you are!"

"Shut up. I'm not."

"This is amazing. I might cry."

Hearing it out loud irritates him because he's still working through his own feelings. "No, seriously, shut the hell up. I can't adopt her, so you can't tell Cuddy."

"Why not?"

"Swear you won't tell Cuddy. I'm not kidding around here."

"I swear I won't tell her," Wilson promises. "But why can't you adopt Rachel?"

"Are you kidding me? There are a thousand reasons."

"Name one," he challenges.

"I have a record."

"You mean the Tritter stuff? You weren't convicted of anything."

"Because Rachel's mom perjured herself," House notes ironically.

"Which is one of the many reasons you're perfect together."

"I still have a misdemeanor charge," House reminds him. "I was in contempt of court. I went to jail."

"For one night. Do misdemeanors affect adoption?"

"That's what I was looking into," he reluctantly opens the computer back up to read from the website. "It says 'the department may deny a person's application to adopt a child if either of the prospective adoptive parents has committed an offense for which incarceration is a sentencing option.'"

"I think they're only talking about felonies though," Wilson reads over his shoulder. "It also says it varies by state."

"If a judge looked at me, as a person, they would not conclude that I'm a responsible adult who can care for a child."

"That seems dramatic, especially when you're already caring for this child. You should consult with a lawyer, there are experts on this for a reason."

Maybe House would consider it, if his record was the only thing that made him unsuitable for such an important job. "I relapsed six months ago. That's recent. It wouldn't be fair to anyone when I'm not…stable."

"Six months is a long time when you were sober for three years before that too," Wilson argues. "You can't punish yourself forever for one mistake. And in this case, you'd be punishing Cuddy and Rachel, too."

House doesn't agree, but he also can't get Rachel's words out of his mind. They've been replaying over and over and over. "Yesterday I was telling Rachel about how much Cuddy wanted to adopt her, and she asked me if I did, too. The truth is we all know I didn't want Cuddy to adopt because I wanted all her attention on me."

"Yeah, but it wasn't because you didn't want her to be a mom. It was because you thought it meant you wouldn't get your chance with her. Look how wrong you turned out to be."

House barely hears him though. "I gave Cuddy so much shit about that case, too. I accused her of getting invested for selfish reasons. I never would've gone looking for some random, abandoned baby of my soon-to-be-dead patient."

"I'm not sure that's true," Wilson says. "You connect with patients all the time, even though you pretend you don't. I think maybe you would've gone after Jack or his sister."

His heart sinks at the mention of Jack, reminding him of that failure, and the multitude of failures that surrounded it. "When I didn't show up at Rachel's recital, she was smart enough to ask why I didn't come see her and then go back to work. You think she's not going to eventually ask why I didn't take any kind of real responsibility for her while I lived in her house and relied on her mom for everything?"

"Right," Wilson concedes. "So then take responsibility."

It's too big a step for now, and nothing Wilson says will change that, but maybe there's a compromise to be made. "If I make it to a year sober, I'll consider talking to a lawyer. Just to see if it's an option."

"When you make it a year sober," Wilson corrects.

House hopes he's right. He genuinely hopes he's still sober in another six months. He wants that more than the Vicodin. That's progress, in and of itself.

—/——/——/—

Seven months into his sobriety, House goes to Rachel's piano recital. He's filled with nervous energy and shows up unnecessarily early, but Cuddy goes along with it, encouraging his excitement. They sit shoulder to shoulder, and this time House is the one holding the camera.

Rachel plays beautifully, as he expected, and waves to them as she leaves the stage.

They go out to dinner to celebrate— just the three of them. House tells the waiter it's Cuddy's birthday even though it's not because it's the perfect way to embarrass her and also get a free dessert. Rachel thinks House tricking them into believing it's Cuddy's birthday is the funniest thing that's ever happened. She eats way too much chocolate cake, and House has to wipe it off her fingers and face all the way home.

—/——/——/—

On the eight-month anniversary of his sobriety, House goes to the cemetery to visit Jack's gravesite. Personally, he thinks it's a nonsensical thing to do— what difference could standing above a decomposing body make? But his new therapist thinks it will be cathartic, and Cuddy unfortunately agreed.

So he stands in front of the gravestone, Cuddy a few feet behind him, and mutters two words: 'sorry' and 'thanks.' He feels both of those sentiments equally.

House is still sorry for not saving Jack, even though he's come to accept that he couldn't have medically done anything differently, which has allowed him to slowly let go of the guilt.

He's also grateful. Not that he relapsed, but for the way things turned out. He's not stupid enough to believe everything happens for a reason or selfish enough to think the reason a child died is so he could get closer to Cuddy and Rachel. They are closer, though. They're tested, too.

After a few minutes, Cuddy steps forward, puts a bouquet of flowers down on the grave, and kisses House on the cheek.

He promised he would try.

This is him trying.

—/——/——/—

During the ninth month of House's sobriety, they go on their family trip. Rachel is scared of the plane until House explains the mechanics of flying. She's like him in that way, she needs to understand how things work in order to trust them. House teaches her about the laws of motion, and she listens intently even if it goes a little bit over her head.

For a full week he has the beach, incredible food, Cuddy in a tiny bikini, and drinks in a hammock. They people-watch at the pool while House makes fun of strangers. He takes Rachel on the water slide again and again, even though it involves him carefully limping up to the top, making sure he doesn't slip.

House gets his dream vacation.

And yes, Cuddy gets House out of the hammock.

—/——/——/—

House is struggling during the early weeks of his 10th month of sobriety. He's trying to learn how to identify what triggers bad periods like this, but sometimes it happens without explanation. Sometimes he's simply in a bad mood because his leg hurts and sometimes it makes him angry at no one and everyone all at once.

He's home alone one morning, struggling to get out of bed, because even the simple act of sitting up is a battle. Instead of reaching for something to cut himself with for temporary relief, he grabs his sobriety coin— Rachel's treasure — and twirls it between his fingers.

He looks at the initials written on it.

RC
LC
GH

Suddenly it bothers him— the asymmetry of it. The way the H throws it off the Cs for no good reason.

His phone pings with a message from Cuddy: Are you okay? Take your time coming in. No new case yet anyway.

She makes everything simple and better. She reminds him to put one foot in front of the other, to be brave enough to get up on the days it feels impossible.

For better or worse, she's with him. She's with him even when she's not physically there, in every decision he makes. She's the voice in his head telling him he can do everything he doubts is possible.

Maybe it's time he makes sure she knows exactly how much that means to him. Maybe it's time he makes it clear that he knows she's committed, and that he's committed, too.

Maybe he needs to ask the only question left to ask.

—/——/——/—

He plans a night he knows Cuddy will love — a night that's quintessential them in every way. It'll start with a walk at her favorite waterfront park, the one they often take Rachel to when they need an escape from Princeton. Then dinner at Dominica's, a place that holds so many memories of the early days of their relationship. Afterwards, they'll end up at a jazz club where they've spent several weekend evenings dancing and losing themselves in the music.

But then… his leg. His fucking leg. He's trying to get ready, to put on the suit he's picked out, the one Cuddy loves on him, but he has to bite his lip to stifle the pain. The spasm in the muscle makes the joint stiffen and refuse to cooperate with him.

Cuddy walks into the bedroom and sees him struggling. "We're not going to dinner," she concludes.

"Yes, we are."

He was determined to make this happen, as if he could force the pain away by sheer willpower. He's still holding onto that, even though he should know better by now. The worst pain will always come on the most inconvenient days.

"It's okay, House. We can just go tomorrow."

"No. Not tomorrow. I want to go tonight."

"It's not a big deal," she says casually.

"I hate this. I hate it more than anything."

She recognizes and acknowledges his frustration, even if she doesn't understand why he's so worked up over what she assumes is one, simple dinner. "I know," she says. "Some days what your mind wants isn't going to match what your body can do. The best part about this relationship is that we can have fun together anywhere. I don't care if we go out. We can still have a good night right here."

"You're right," he admits. "We can."

"My dad always said it was important to find someone you can have fun with no matter the circumstances."

"And his 'fun' choice was Arlene?" House scoffs. "I mean, their union obviously worked out for me, but I'm not sure how much I trust his advice in this area. No offense."

"Maybe he gave me that advice because he didn't make a fun choice and he wanted one for me."

If Cuddy's dad were alive, House wouldn't ask for his blessing. But the mention of him now is timely to say the least, and also gives him the insight he needs. They can have fun anywhere, and that's part of what makes them work so well. He should've been focused on that as soon as he made this decision. "If I order take-out from Dominica's, can you go pick it up for us?"

"Of course!" Cuddy says, relieved he's accepted that they're staying in. "Let me go get my phone so we can pull up the menu."

After they order and Cuddy leaves to get the food, House limps into the living room to find their scrabble board. One of his most impressive skills is being able to predict what Cuddy will do before she does it, before she even thinks about doing it. The fact that he's so confident this new idea will work only emphasizes that he's making the right choice. He takes the ring box out of his pocket, and then puts the ring at the very bottom of the bag of scrabble tiles.

When Cuddy gets home, they eat with Rachel, and he realizes it's much better this way. Rachel has been such a big part of their relationship; he doesn't even know what it would look like without her. It's only right for her to be with them for a portion of this night. After dinner they play with her in her room for a little while (House stays seated, and keeps the heating pad on his leg), and then put her to bed together. The nerves set in after that, but House leads Cuddy back to the living room where the scrabble board is already set up on the coffee table.

"You up for a game?" He asks.

"I'm always up for kicking your ass at scrabble."

He sits down on the couch, and she sits on the floor on the other side of the table. In an ideal world, the positions would be reversed so that he could look up at her, but this reminds him of their very first day together. There's something romantic about that.

House plays a normal game at first, because he doesn't want her to get too suspicious too soon. But then he puts his plan into motion and plays the word Will.

"Someone's having a bad night," Cuddy teases, because she's used to him playing obnoxiously big words and rubbing it in her face.

"Don't worry, I'm about to stage a comeback."

But on his next turn, he plays the word You.

"A comeback with a six-point word?" She writes down his score. "You're really off your game."

"Don't get cocky. Pride goeth before the fall."

His next turn is perhaps the most important. He puts the word Marry down on the board.

This time, Cuddy has no witty remark. "What the hell are you doing?"

"What're you talking about?"

She looks panicked, intrigued, and confused all at once. "Fuck off, House. This isn't funny."

He stifles a laugh, because her cursing at him right now is amazing in so many ways.

"Don't read into it," he plays dumb a little too well, admittedly enjoying how he's messing with her head. "I have bad tiles."

"Okay," she concedes, playing the word rummage. She's distracted, though. Never taking her eyes off him. "Your turn."

He adds Me to the board.

"House."

The timing worked out perfectly, because she's just run out of letter tiles. "Looks like you need some more tiles out of the bag. Might want to see what's in there."

She eagerly flips the whole bag upside down, watching the ring fall out. She picks it up, mouth agape. "Lobe," House says, as she examines it in awe. "I want to marry you."

"This is…. a real ring."

"Yup. Got it from a real jewelry store and everything."

Cuddy stands up with so little grace that she almost knocks the board off the table. She walks around to the couch, wanting to be as close to him as possible. She sits down on his lap, avoiding his bad thigh, and buries her face in his neck. "Yes."

He laughs at her excitement, and the pure joy of her energy. "I know you're in shock, but what I just said was a statement. I didn't even get to the question yet."

"I don't care. I want to marry you, too. The answer is yes."

"Typical control-freak-Cuddy. Won't even let me finish my damn proposal."

He takes the ring from her and slips it on her finger. He doesn't ask if she's sure, he doesn't doubt her, he doesn't remind her that she's committing to forever with an addict. He lets them have a moment where they don't worry about what life has thrown at them, or what might be up ahead. He leans forward and kisses her.

"Does your leg really hurt?" She wonders when they part. "Or did you say that to get us to stay home?"

"My leg is killing me. The plan for tonight was originally different. I came up with this when you went to get the food."

"But it was so perfect," she looks at the scrabble board. "We're saving this forever."

Most of the time his leg makes life worse, and forces adjustments that no rational person would want to make.

But, just this once, it may have inspired an improvement.

—/——/——/—

Cuddy is deliriously happy, and she can feel House's happiness, too. She feels it every morning when she wakes up in his arms and every night when they fall asleep talking about the future. Yet she has a heightened awareness that absolute, uninterrupted bliss is inevitably fleeting. It doesn't scare her, nor does it stem from a pessimistic life view. She'll be truly happy as long as she has Rachel and House, but periods where they're this carefree can't last forever. That knowledge emboldens her to grab hold of every moment of it.

Five weeks after House's proposal, bolstered by the confidence she feels in them, she walks into his office with a proposition of her own in mind. "Hi," she says. "I have a question for you."

"What's up?" He asks, putting down lab results.

"Do you want to get married?"

"Nope," he answers sarcastically. "I'm glad you brought this up, because I actually only asked you as a cover to pursue my one true love: Eric Foreman."

"I meant...do you want to get married now?"

"Now?" He glances down at his wrinkled t-shirt. "I'm a little under-dressed."

"Well, obviously not right now. But soon. Like maybe next week?"

"Next week? Why?"

She expected this reaction— she knew he would try to analyze every possible reason she would want to do this sooner rather than later. For her, it's not that complicated. "The real question is why not? What are we waiting for, exactly?"

"You to plan some fancy wedding that will partially bankrupt us, I was assuming."

"I don't want to plan a wedding," she admits. "I want to be your wife. I don't want to waste any more time not being married. I think we deserve this."

The thought of waiting a year just so she can plan a party fills her with exhaustion and dread. She doesn't want to deal with her sister or her mother or the hospital donors and board members who act entitled to the most precious and intimate parts of her life. She doesn't want the superficial. She only wants to celebrate with the people who have believed in them all along.

"Are you sure?" House pushes. "I thought you were a sucker for the white gowns and stuff. I don't want you to have regrets."

"I'm very sure. If there's anything this year has taught me, it's what's really important. I can still find a nice dress before next week. I was thinking we can do it at the house. With Wilson and maybe your team?"

"Yeah," House smirks that mischievous smirk she's fallen so in love with. "That sounds perfect."

—/——/——/—

A week later, during the 11th month of House's sobriety, he vows to forever cherish the only person who has ever truly seen him, the person who taught him what unconditional love means.

Cuddy vows to do the same. And, of course, to love him in sickness and in health.

As if there was any doubt.

—/—

When House hits one year sober, he fulfills the promise he made to himself, the promise that has lingered in the back of his mind for six months. He thought of it often in his darkest moments, picturing what it might be like when he reached this point.

It's a bit easier now because the ring on his finger proves they're already a family and there's only one more official step to take. It's logical and practical, but he also wants it so badly it hurts.

He sets a meeting with a lawyer after work, but it runs late, which in turn makes him late for dinner. When he gets home, Cuddy swings the front door open, looking like she's on the verge of a meltdown. "Where have you been?"

She's not angry, but she is nervous, and he knows exactly why. "I'm sorry. I had a meeting."

"A meeting? You can't disappear on me like that. You know where my mind goes. Especially today of all days."

"I know," he says as he follows her inside.

"The only reason I didn't totally freak out was because Wilson said he knew where you were."

"Did he cave and tell you?"

"No, which is exactly why I've been going so crazy. Where were you that you couldn't tell me?"

"Cuddy, listen…"

"Lobe!" she interrupts, losing patience, and demanding the truth. "Lobe. Lobe. Lobe. Lobe."

House puts his hand on her shoulder, steadying her for what he's about to confess. "I was talking to an adoption lawyer. I didn't want to tell you beforehand, because I didn't want to break your heart if she said I couldn't adopt Rachel."

Cuddy digests the admission, and then she starts laughing, which he's not sure how to take. She drags him out of the living room by the hand. "Where are we going?"

She takes him to the study, where she goes over to her desk and opens the top drawer. She pulls out a bunch of papers and then hands them to him.

House can't believe what he's holding: Adoption papers. Already partially filled out. Somehow they're always on the same page, even when they're not trying to be. "How long have you had these?" he asks in disbelief.

"Since three days after the wedding," she admits. "But I've been thinking about it for a lot longer than that. What did the lawyer say?"

"She said since we're married, everything should go smoothly. I told her what happened with Tritter and being in contempt of court."

"Is that why you went to talk to someone? You were worried about that?"

"Terrified, but she said it shouldn't be an issue."

"So, we're doing this?"

He puts the paperwork down on the desk, takes his sobriety coin out of his pocket, and places it in the palm of Cuddy's hand. "Some days 'this' was the only thing keeping me going."

—/——/——/—

On the morning of Rachel's adoption hearing, House leans over the bathroom sink, looking in the mirror and holding a razor against his facial hair. He can't remember the last time he was clean-shaven, but he wants to look as close to a respectable adult as possible.

"Wait," Cuddy appears in the bathroom just as he's about to start shaving. She looks beautiful, dressed in a pastel blue dress with soft curls framing her face. "What are you doing?"

"Attempting to look presentable."

"Don't. If you get rid of your facial hair, Rachel might not recognize you, which could make today very awkward."

He appreciates that she loves him the way he is, he's just not sure the judge will feel the same. "But…"

"But nothing," she steps closer and takes the razor out of his trembling hands. "Why are you shaking?"

"Because I don't want to screw this up."

"You're not going to. There's no need to be someone you're not. That's not how we've made it this far."

She's right about that. Her belief in him is what's gotten them here. He trusts her, because how could he not? She's never lied to him once on this journey. If she were worried about the hearing going wrong, she would tell him, she wouldn't try to shield him from the truth. Luckily, she's confident enough for the both of them.

They join Rachel in the kitchen, where she's waiting and ready to go. She's been anticipating this day for weeks, marking off the dates on the calendar in the kitchen. They've tried their best to let her feel the bigness of what's happening, while also making sure she knows that House is hers, with or without a piece of paper.

When the three of them get to the courthouse, they're met outside by a small group of people who love them. Wilson is there with flowers for Cuddy and Rachel, and emotional support for House. Arlene and Julia are there, even though they're still mad about the impromptu wedding they missed out on, they've been surprisingly supportive throughout this process. Marina is there, excited for the family she's come to care about as her own. House's team is there, too. Chase. Foreman. Thirteen. Taub. Four teasing smiles that mask feelings dangerously close to pride.

Once inside, they're instructed to briefly wait in the hallway. As they do, House catches a glimpse of the judge walking into chambers, and he swears he recognizes her. "Why does she look familiar?" House leans over to ask Cuddy.

"That's Judge Lee," Cuddy whispers back to him. "We've worked with her before. She was the family court judge on one of your cases. She made me the guardian of your patient. Alice Hartman."

"Oh."

He doesn't always remember his patient's names, but he does remember Alice. He remembers her limp in Cuddy's arms in the shower. He remembers telling Cuddy she would suck as a mother. He remembers how wrong he was, and how he's come to regret those unfounded words ever since. What he doesn't remember, though, is his interaction with the judge, or how badly it might come back to bite him now. "How much of an asshole was I to this woman, on a scale of 1-10?"

"I don't think you were an asshole to her. Your arrogance and impatience were at a solid 8, but it's not like she can hold that against you. Nothing says parents can't be arrogant."

"They're supposed to be patient though."

"Don't overthink it."

"She probably won't remember us," House tries to rationalize. "It's been years and she sees dozens of people a day."

But once they're seated before her in the courtroom, Judge Lee quashes that hope immediately. "Dr. House and Dr. Cuddy," she greets them. "It's good to see you again."

"You too, your honor," Cuddy replies.

"It's been a while, but I'm glad to see I was right about Dr. Cuddy's maternal instincts. And I have to confess, I always suspected there was something between the two of you."

The comment earns a few laughs from the family and friends sitting behind them, because they lived through that suspicion in real time. "You weren't alone in that obviously correct assumption," Cuddy says.

House is uncharacteristically silent, afraid to make a single wrong move. He hopes the comment about their relationship means the judge isn't holding any type of resentment towards him, but he's not yet convinced.

"And this must be Rachel."

"Hi," she answers shyly.

"I have to tell you, I've received an unusual amount of letters about this case. And they all have a common theme— every one of them acknowledged that Dr. House is not necessarily the nicest or friendliest person, which is something I myself have experienced…"

Unexpectedly, Rachel speaks up, interrupting the judge. "But that's not true."

House can't believe what he's hearing. He can't believe that his normally quiet, rule-following Rachel opened her mouth at the worst possible time. "Rachel," Cuddy warns, equally surprised. "Don't be rude."

Judge Lee looks intrigued though. "No, that's alright. I'd like to hear what she has to say about this."

"House is nice," Rachel says emphatically. "Sometimes he tells people the truth and they get mad at him but that's not his fault. The truth is good."

"You're right," Judge Lee agrees. "The truth is good. Can I tell you the truth about these letters?"

"Yes," Rachel nods.

"They all come to the same conclusion — that no matter how brash Dr. House is with everyone else, he is entirely devoted to this family. I heard it from friends, co-workers, from Rachel's grandmother and aunt."

House knew Wilson wrote a letter. He didn't know anyone else did. He certainly didn't expect it from Arlene or Julia.

"Rachel," Judge Lee addresses her directly, "would you like Dr. House to be your father?"

"Yes, please," she answers politely. "He already is, but we need the paper."

Straight to the point, just like her dad. Gracious just like her mom.

"So ordered," Judge Lee says, banging her gavel. "Congratulations. To all three of you."

"We did it," Rachel says grabbing House by sleeve of his jacket.

House thinks the we is fitting, because each of them played a vital role in making each other their home.

—/——/——/—

There's a knock on Cuddy's office door one morning. She isn't expecting anyone, but it's been a relatively slow day so far, her schedule more open than usual, so she doesn't mind the interruption. "Come in," she says.

"Dr. Cuddy?"

There's a woman in her doorway — brunette, hazel eyes, dressed simply in jeans and a black tank-top. Cuddy knows that she knows her, but can't quite place her. That's not unusual, considering the amount of people she meets and works with. "Yes, hi. Can I help you?"

"You probably don't remember me, but…"

"Oh my god," it comes back as soon as she hears the familiar voice, it transports her back in time to over a year ago. "Violet—Jack and Ella's mom. Of course I remember you."

She looks different than the last time Cuddy saw her, healthier and more confident. It only makes sense, because the last time they were together, it was the worst day of Violet's life. That's when Cuddy also remembers that this is a woman who fled from her abusive husband. "Is everything okay? Are you…"

"Safe?" Violet surmises. "Yes, thankfully I am. I have some news that I was hoping to tell Dr. House, but he wasn't in his office. I thought you might know where he is."

Cuddy briefly wonders if this is a good idea. Her instinct is to put House first, and she worries about triggering him. Whatever Violet has to tell him, it will inevitably remind him of his relapse. Should Cuddy try to shield him? Should she make up a lie about him being elsewhere? It's tempting, but trusting House means trusting that he can handle himself, and that if he can't, he'll let her know. She's also sure he would want to know what Violet has to say, and it's not her place to take that away from him.

"I think he's in the clinic, but I can get him in here for you."

She picks her cell phone up to send him a text: Can you come to my office? I have a surprise for you. (Not that kind of surprise.)

Cuddy feels Violet's eyes on her as she types. "Your ring is so beautiful," she observes. "Did you and Dr. House get married?"

"We did. A few months ago."

"That's wonderful. How's Rachel?"

Cuddy doesn't recall telling Violet about Rachel. She doesn't remember telling her she was dating House, for that matter. "She's doing great. House adopted her not too long ago."

"Of course he did," Violet says. "I could tell how much he loves her."

With that simple statement, Cuddy understands more about House's relapse than ever before. House connected with Jack's family enough to share about his own. That's special and incredibly rare.

House opens the door then, and his eyes widen as soon as he sees Violet in the room. "Hi," she greets him. "It's been while."

House looks shocked, but even more so, concerned. "What are you doing here?"

"I was hoping you'd ask that," Violet grins from ear to ear. "Guess who's in jail?"

"What?! Did he come after you?"

"No. He got locked up for assaulting a co-worker. Seven to ten years."

"Finally where he belongs," House says, not hiding his satisfaction. "So, you're back from the wild, wild west then?"

"I don't look that good in cowboy boots. Plus, this is where Jack is."

"Right."

Cuddy doesn't want to interrupt their moment, but as a mom, she feels like Violet would want to know that Jack hasn't been alone. "We've been to cemetery to see him a few times," she says.

Violet is overwhelmed by the gesture. "That's…thank you. You've already done so much for me. And that's why I'm here." She reaches into her purse and pulls out an envelope. "It's not all the money I owe you, but it's a start. I wanted to give it to you person."

House refuses to take it from her, which doesn't surprise Cuddy in the least bit. "That wasn't a loan," he says.

"I know you didn't ask for it back, but I want to have done this myself."

"You did it yourself," House reassures her. "It was your idea. You're the one who left."

"That's a romanticized version of it. I ran and waited it out."

"No. You were brave at the worst moment of your life."

"You have no idea how much the money helped. It gave me the time I needed to grieve before I had to go find a job."

"Good," House says. "That was the point. I'm not taking it back no matter what you say."

"Fine," Violet accepts. "Thank you."

Cuddy wants nothing more than to hug her. So that's exactly what she does. "Welcome home," she says when they let go. "I think being here is going to be great for you and Ella."

"How is she doing?" House asks.

"She's doing well, all things considered. Now that we're back, maybe she can finally get that play date with your daughter?"

Cuddy can sense it's something they've talked about before, that it's an outstanding promise waiting be fulfilled.

"I think we can make that happen," House says.

—/——/——/——/—

One afternoon, five people go to the park.

Violet, who survived. Ella, who lived. House, who recovered. Cuddy, who never gave up. Rachel, who made a home.

Cuddy and Violet become fast friends. They've had drastically different lives, but there's something about them—-at their core—that's the same. They've already been out for coffee and lunch a few times. House is glad because Cuddy needs another mom she can commiserate with.

Oddly enough, House considers Violet a friend, too. He never could've imagined hanging out with the family of his former patient, especially one he lost. He didn't think he could handle something like that, and sometimes it's hard, because he still sees Jack when he looks at Violet.

One day, House tells her that. Violet smiles and says it's a good thing because she wants to keep Jack's memory alive. She wants to remind people of him.

She slips into their lives seamlessly, as if she's always been there. That morning Cuddy made a comment that House knows is going to come back to haunt him: "Do you think Violet would like Wilson?" she asked. House isn't one to play matchmaker, but he can see Cuddy's wheels turning. He considers the question and thinks about how people lie, and they don't change, but they can break destructive patterns. He's living proof of that. Maybe Violet and Wilson could help break each other's cycles. Who better for Violet than gentle, obsessively kind Wilson? Who better for Wilson than someone with such a fearlessly big heart?

At the park, House watches Rachel and Ella play together while Cuddy and Violet talk on a nearby bench. The sun is strong, and he realizes the girls forgot to put on sunscreen. He grabs the bottle out of Cuddy's bag and starts to walk over to them.

As he approaches, he can overhear their conversation.

"Your dad was my brother's doctor," Ella says.

"He was?"

House braces himself for whatever Ella is going to say next, he prepares for her to blame him, the way he blamed himself for so long. Remarkably, she says something else altogether. "My brother died, but it wasn't your dad's fault. I think it was my dad's fault. He was really mean, but we got away from him. My mom says your dad helped us."

House realizes that while there are five people at the park, those who aren't there are felt just as much. House's mom, who didn't leave. Jack, who didn't survive. Both House and Jack's fathers, who failed them so tremendously, whose only contributions were to teach those around them how not to live.

"My dad likes to help people," Rachel says proudly. "But I'm sorry about your brother."

"I miss him, but I'm glad we came home."

"Me, too. I'm happy you're here."

House stops to consider how happy he is to be there, too. There were many different paths he might've taken that would've ended up somewhere very different, and possibly very dark. He could've lost himself to the pills, he could've given into the pain, he could've chosen not to fight.

Instead, he's a doctor who gets it right more than most, but sometimes still doesn't. He's a husband who didn't believe in the power of familial love, until he experienced it for himself. He's a father at the park with a bottle of sunscreen in his hand, because he worries about his daughter all the time.

This is the story about who he is. Although it twisted and cracked in some places, chapters dragging on longer than they should've, it's authentically authored by him.

And this time?

This time it's entirely true.