Disclaimer: I don't own [H]ouse M.D. or any of the characters in this story, except for Jake Cuddy (and a couple of other honorable mentions). David Shore and co have the rights to everyone else.

Author's Note: I finally have enough time to post this story, which has been moping around on my laptop for months. It started with me thinking what brilliant, beautiful (if a little damaged) people House and Cuddy are. Naturally (preprogrammed instinct of procreation) I thought of what brilliant, beautiful children they would have. Thus the idea of Jake Cuddy was born, and let me tell you, the kid took a life of his own and was just bursting to be written. The setting of the story takes us to the time of the infarction, which brings Stacy into the picture as well. Some creative license was applied to cannon. For example, House and Stacy don't live in Princeton (yet), but they happen to be there at the time of the infarction. These instances are explained all throughout the story.

The Beautiful Letdown is a prequel to this story, but you don't necessarily have to read it to understand the context of this. Essentially, this is a standalone, but if you're curious about House and Cuddy's college days that led them to this point in time, you can find TBL on my author's page.

I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it!

The Sky Falls

Chapter One: Ten Years Gone
Then as it was, then again it will be
And though the course may change sometimes
Rivers always reach the sea
(Led Zeppelin – Ten Years Gone)

Jake Cuddy was a creature of habit.

On a Wednesday afternoon in mid-February, he strolled down the hallway of Brye Park Elementary School against the current of shuffling students, navy blue hooded sweater zipped up half-way over his preppy costume. Nirvana's Smells Like Teen Spirit blared out of his iPod's earphones, and his fingers absently danced to the guitar tabs against the thigh of his khakis. At ten minutes past school time, the building was nearly empty. A bustle of activity drew his attention to the kids in detention, who were impatiently tapping their green pencils against yellow-brick, recycled paper, waiting for their assignments. He slanted a half-glance in their direction and continued past the classroom, Converse-clad feet light against the linoleum ground, dark gray backpack slung over his right shoulder. Grandma would be late to pick him up – like every other Wednesday. The excuses, he realized with a twinge of guilt, were becoming more elaborate by the week.

Last night when she had found him at the dining room table, obediently solving his math homework, he'd told her he would need to work on an art project after school. Something big, he'd promised. For mom, as a truly inspired afterthought because his mom had walked in just as Grandma was pressing an oblivious kiss to his forehead. Sure thing darling, I'll pick you up at three. His mother's blue-gray eyes had narrowed suspiciously at the tail-end of their conversation, and she had raised a single questioning dark eyebrow at him. Plagued by keen interest with his homework, he had avoided meeting her knowing eyes. With an affectionate sigh of resignation, she had slid a croque-monsieur on the table before him and tousled his hair.

He hurried the last few steps – only twenty minutes left. Tomorrow he would need to come up with something to give his mom just in case Grandma asked, but that was tomorrow's plight. Checking both ends of the hallway for signs of authority, he was relieved to find them empty. The silver doorknob was cool under his hand as he quietly twisted it, breathing out to the smooth swish of the opening door. Jake sneaked inside and shut the heavily padded door. His palm hit the light switch, bathing the spacious music room in pale yellow neon. Dropping his gray backpack on the floor, he wove his way around empty wooden chairs to the piano tucked into the corner of the classroom. The instrument was old and worn but well-kept. The cover was heavy as he lifted it, nimble fingers immediately skimming over the cool white keys. The narrow wooden piano bench croaked in protest under his weight.

He tapped a few notes, flirting with Do Re Mi from The Sound of Music, and then allowed the notes to melt into the opening to Sweet Child of Mine, humming the lyrics under his breath. The Guns N Roses classic was his mother's favorite song. Jake conjured the image of her reaching for the volume dial and turning it up whenever the song played on one of her CDs, like it took her to a beautiful memory he couldn't begin to understand. Sometimes he liked to romanticize that it was something about his biological father that made her eyes sparkle with fond remembrance, but it was not a thought he would ever mention.

He stopped, the pads of his fingers pushing into the keys to elicit a deep, dark note that served to banish his thoughts. He wondered if Grandma would be disappointed with the lies. She always cheated more candy into his room than his mom allowed, winking in the late evenings as she folded the plastic bags under his bed. You're a responsible boy, Jacob. You'll know what to eat. His mom always found them long before he could eat enough to cause any damage – even after he began changing the hiding place. She would roll her eyes good-naturedly, scold him for accepting Grandma's unhealthy food choices and probably scold Grandma for giving them to him. Still, Grandma never stopped bringing them and whispering to him as she tucked the covers around his shoulders. You're my favorite grandchild, darling. Don't tell Sam and Nat.

His mom always outsmarted them both. Jake had the impression she was always one step ahead of everything in life, and he liked it that way. It made him feel safe. Closing his eyes, he cleared his mind of the distractions and heaved forward, hands gliding over the keys, playing the introduction to Supertramp's Don't Leave Me Now. The tune started out quiet and halting, building to a crescendo that resonated in the soundproofed room. As he struck the final note, he leaned away from the instrument and frowned deeply. It was not… perfect. Three Wednesdays of throwing Grandma off his track and sneaking into the music room had not done it.

Someone clapped from the other side of the room.

Jake twisted in his seat, heart hammering in his chest, bright blue eyes wide and guilt-stricken. His mother was standing by the ajar door, her navy blue suit impeccable under a white winter coat, black hair brushing just below her shoulders in gentle waves. Always one step ahead of the world. "Mom," he breathed out in relief.

She raised both dark eyebrows at him and crossed her arms under her chest, but Jake could see the smile teasing the corners of her lips. "I thought I'd find you here," she said, stepping further into the room and gently closing the door.

"I was just…" he trailed off, and even across the room he could read the expectant look on her face. Jake shrugged the narrow line of his shoulders evasively. "You know," he muttered, shambling out of his seat and retracing his path past the scattered chairs.

His mom picked up his backpack with a wry smile shining in her eyes. "You know sneaking in here without permission would get you into detention," she told him.

He grinned up at her, unrepentant in the least, ducking away when she brushed her free hand against his cheek. "I never get caught," he announced proudly, but his mom was far from impressed. Grandma would have been a much more susceptible target to his smiles. As it was, his mother stood before him, staring him down, and Jake wasn't good with the stare. He shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, testing his weight on each shoe, finally settling on a precarious balance. "I just wanted to learn that song," he mumbled, gaze trained on the tips of his scuffed shoes.

"You should ask Mrs. Baker before using this room," she chastised him. Jake gave a barely discernible nod. Her hand touched his chin and this time he allowed the tender caress to lift his face. He found her smiling at him, her features softened. "And no more lying to Grandma," she added firmly – as if she understood the urge – but Jake wasn't about to test his luck. She reached for the door, pulling it open with ease.

Jake followed her even gait down the empty hallway and pulled up the hood of his navy sweater, hiding a finely boned, cockily handsome face framed by short brown hair. "Music is art," he rationalized, giving her the most sincere look he could muster when she shot him an incredulous glance.

"Nice try, babe," she said, placing her hand on his shoulder. "But still, no more half-truths either." Together, they hurried across the deserted parking lot to her sleek black sedan. Jake slipped into the backseat and buckled up. She climbed into the driver's seat, quickly closing the door to ward off the February chill. When she turned the key in the ignition, the heater turned on full blast breathing out traces of her perfume, and the radio burst with theRolling Stones. She met his gaze in the rearview mirror as No Expectations played softly in the background. "That was beautiful, babe," she said sincerely.

He averted her knowing stare in favor of watching the dreary afternoon through the rain-splattered window. "It sucked," he countered in a small voice.

"It was beautiful," she insisted and steered the car away from the school grounds. "Classic Supertramp." At his silence, he heard her sigh, a deep weary sound that told him she worried about him – constantly – as if she was afraid he could somehow hurt himself.

"Where's Grandma?" he asked to break into her train of thought.

She sighed again, but this time it was the half-amused, half-annoyed sound that always brought an answering smile to Jake's face. "Nathalie has chickenpox," she declared dramatically, slowing to a stop at a red light. She looked at him over her shoulder. "Grandma is busy worrying at Julia's house," she said in a matter-of-fact tone because that was what Grandma did. She worried a lot, mostly about the world hurting them. "Of course, she insisted she would pick you up, but I wouldn't trust her to drive when she's this distraught. You know how Grandma overreacts."

Jake chuckled at the understatement. "Chickenpox sounds awesome," he admitted, trying to visualize the symptoms of such an ailment. "Why do they call it chickenpox? Does Nat really look like a chicken now? Can we go see her?" he fired in rapid succession.

"Absolutely, not!" his mom exclaimed in horror. "For starters, I've never had chickenpox and getting it at my age is a terrible idea. And, trust me, babe, you don't want chickenpox."

Jake wasn't too sure about that. It seemed serious enough to warrant missing school but common enough to wring a smile out of his mother. "If I get it, I wouldn't go to school?" he prodded, quietly scheming.

Her eyes met his briefly as an amused smile curled her lips. "You wouldn't go anywhere – including the house. You'd stay with Grandma."

That wasn't nearly as bad as she had wanted it to sound: all the candy he could get, TV before finishing his homework, socks on the floor, music at all times of the day. "I could still play the guitar?" he asked.

"You'd be too busy scratching every inch of accessible skin," she intoned, her expression nonchalant. She was onto him.

Wincing at the thought, he shrank into his seat. "Fine, no chickenpox," he conceded.

"That's my boy," that and a wink of triumph ended the chickenpox argument. "Besides breaking into the music room – again – how was your day, babe?"

"I won first prize at the science fair," he mentioned absently, strumming an air guitar to R.E.M.'s Losing My Religion.

"Jacob Benjamin Cuddy!"

He looked up in alarm, electric blue eyes connecting with blue-gray in the rearview mirror. "Uh-oh, the full name," he whispered severely.

"Why are you downplaying this?" she demanded. "This is amazing! Congratulations, babe. I'm so proud of you!" she exclaimed.

"Thanks, mom," he said and continued to strum his imaginary instrument. The devil was fiddling with Jake Cuddy's mind, and all he could think of as his fingers kept up with the music was what would he think.

"We should call Angie tonight to let her know that one-hundred-and-thirty-two frogs paid off." The wide smile gracing her features was almost contagious, but Jake barely noticed.

At the time that he'd concocted the idea for the Froggy Forecasting project, Angie Wheeler, his mom's best friend from college, had been visiting from D.C.. Like a true trooper and because Angie found everything amusing, she had spent hours helping him collect the frogs, inspect them and record their physical attributes. A photo of the two of them with all one hundred and thirty-two frogs by Lake Carnegie grinned from the mantle in their condo's living room. The snapshot was taken by his mom, who had rushed over from the hospital in her pencil skirt and insensible shoes to join in on the fun. Her high heels had gotten stuck in the muddy bank of the lake, and the three of them had erupted into endless fits of laughter. "Yeah," he agreed, managing a faint smile, but his thoughts drifted again, preoccupied with a man he didn't know – a man who didn't know of him. That, he decided, was what bothered him the most.

Would you be proud - dad?

As his mom pulled into the Palmer Square Residences garage, the rain began to fall, and his lips lifted in a sardonic smile that looked much older than his nine years.

Lisa Cuddy was exhausted.

Her Tuesday morning had begun like any other day. The early morning had brought the usual tiff: two doctors fighting over an OR, thrusting the lives of their patients under her nose to guilt her into making a call. Just before lunch, a patient's family had threatened to sue the hospital for negligence after one of her surgeons accidently popped a glove during a procedure. She had made ten minutes for a seasoned artichoke and sundried tomatoes salad, during which she'd gotten an emergency page from her new assistant because a nurse had sneezed in the OR. By four in the afternoon, the clinic had been crawling with patients. Her cardiothoracic surgeon – who was on clinic duty – had gone missing for three hours. She strongly suspected an affair with his scrub nurse. A moment of peace in the sanctuary of her office had been interrupted by her mother calling to tell her that Nathalie was scratching. She shouldn't be scratching, Lisa! Should she? Then Julia had called to tell her that their mother was driving her up the wall.

It had been grueling but predictable, and Lisa loved the comforting certainty of routine.

At sunset, Gregory House had walked – stumbled – into her little corner of New Jersey like an unseasonal whirlwind, shattering the teetering balance of her ordinary world.

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"Who hires you people?"

The loud voices assaulted her the moment she pushed past the clinic doors and walked up to the nurses' station. The nurse at the reception bit her lip helplessly and gave her a telling look. With a frown and steely resolve, she burst into exam room three angrily, ready to restore order.

Lisa Cuddy did not often experience moments that threw her off her turf. She was a planner. She made it a hobby to foresee obstacles and surprises. She scheduled diligently and everything fell into place, or she coerced it into place. When she walked into exam room three on that Tuesday morning, she had the breath knocked out of her lungs. Doctor Brown, a visiting physician from Princeton-General, was standing at the exam room table, where a furious Gregory House was perched, staring daggers into him. It didn't stop at the staring. He was giving Philip Brown a piece of his mind.

"You're an idiot," he bit out furiously - loudly. He was shouting. "This is the third day in a row I come to this place. Get me a doctor who actually has a functional brain. I'm telling you what's wrong with me. Now, I need you to get me an MRI so I can assess the damage."

She allowed herself ten seconds to take him in – one for every year she hadn't seen him. He was as disheveled as he had always been – dark uncared for stubble lining the strong set of his jaw, vintage gray t-shirt unabashedly tattered under a well-worn leather jacket. He still wore leather beautifully, like it was made for him, for the broad frame of his shoulders and the sullen tilt of his mouth. His hair was darker than when she had last seen him, threads of gray beginning to lick at beautifully tapered sideburns. Ten years had made the blue of his eyes more brilliant, more knowing and sinister.

Lisa snapped out of her thoughts at the sight of his jaw clenched in pain as his long fingers dug into his thigh.

Doctor Brown frowned at him dubiously, the two of them oblivious to her stunned presence. "Doctor House, you have a history of drug-seeking behavior. I will not admit you on the basis of unapparent pain in your leg. Twice over the past two days you have snatched painkillers out of doctors' hands and injected yourself with them. The likelihood of this being something besides an addic…"

She slammed the door shut, and both pairs of eyes snapped to her. As she encountered his gaze, the years seemed to fall away. They were young again in Ann Arbor, bantering at Al's Café over black coffee and a candied latte. She was lending him pens and wondering when they would fall into bed together. It seemed like a lifetime was exchanged but in fact only a few seconds had elapsed.

"Doctor Cuddy," Philip breathed in relief. "The patient…"

House was too impatient to let him continue. "Lisa, finally, someone with a semi-brain. Do you work in this hell-hole? I need an MRI. I have an infarction in my right thigh."

No pleasantries for their first run-in in ten years. On any other occasion, she would have smiled, but he was in such pain that she just nodded and turned to Doctor Brown. "Philip, take Doctor House for an MRI immediately and admit him as a patient. We'll take care of the paperwork later."

Philip's jaw dropped. "But…"

"Now, Philip. And for God's sake, give the man some morphine."

Lisa tied the sash of her robe tighter around her waist, padding into the dark, empty kitchen on bare feet. The electric kettle hissed softly, and she laid her hands on the marble countertop, peering through the foggy window at the gentle snowfall. Who plays golf in February? Gregory House, she thought sardonically, her lips curling in a pained smile.

After getting him an MRI, she had called Stacy at his delirious urging. Lisa had known Stacy Warner for years. They'd worked together on several occasions over medical lawsuits. They were acquaintances. One would even say they were friends who enjoyed the occasional cup of coffee or working lunch. Stacy Warner was House's emergency contact and his girlfriend if his incessant mumbling of her name minutes after she'd given him morphine was any indication.

Stacy had arrived, as poised and Southern as always. She'd cried by his bedside, held his hand and pressed kisses to his pale cheeks. Lisa found herself oddly content knowing he had someone to care for him. His thigh muscle had been necrotic. In typical, erratic House fashion, he had stubbornly wanted to bypass it by circulation. After putting him in a chemically-induced coma to help him cope with the worst of the pain, Stacy had put her medical proxy to use, authorizing Lisa's middle-ground solution that was infinitely saner than House's suggestion.

She had saved his life, but House wouldn't see it that way.

"Mom? Why are you crying?"

Lisa looked up suddenly from her curled position on the living room couch, palms cupped around the ceramic warmth of her mug. The steam rising from the hot liquid smelled soothingly familiar. Her teary gaze latched onto Jake standing by the doorway in his New Jersey Nets pajamas, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. "Come here, babe," she whispered, replacing the mug on the coffee table and opening her arms. He scurried into her embrace, climbing onto the couch beside her, his warm body strangely comforting. She placed her cheek on the crown of his head and sniffled.

"Is Grandma okay?" he asked in the small trembling voice of the child he so often denied.

Heart aching for both him and his father, she stroked his back soothingly and pressed a kiss to his forehead. "Grandma is fine," she reassured him. "She's picking you up from school tomorrow."

She could feel the tension ebb out of his small frame. "Then what's wrong?" he insisted and sat up to stare into her face.

His wide-eyed, innocent gaze was brilliantly blue, and the years had almost dulled the memory of the man responsible for it. His gaze had never been innocent – always jaded, knowing, piercing. His unintentional foray into her life came with a thousand repercussions that made her stomach churn uneasily with long-buried secrets. Biting her lip, she drew in a deep shuddering breath. "A friend of mine hurt his leg," she confessed softly. "It was my hospital's fault. They could've helped him. It could have been stopped," she whispered, another tear squeezing past her will power. "His leg is hurt very badly." She wondered how much a child could understand of a hurt leg. In children's eyes, knees got scraped, ankles got sprained and time healed all wounds.

Jake was frowning, "Why didn't they stop it?" he asked, young features schooled into a severe expression.

She tamped down the stabbing pain in her chest. "They didn't know. They thought it wasn't true."

"Why would he lie?"

Drug-seeking behavior was a concept she did not want to explain to her nine-year-old son. She took a sip of her green tea and shrugged. "I think they just didn't understand the kind of pain he was feeling," she explained, not straying too far from the truth.

He studied her, brow furrowed in disbelief, but he let it go. After a beat of silence, his expression turned solemn with realization. "Will his leg get better?" he asked, voice quieting to a sympathetic whisper.

She shook her head on a muffled sob.

"Is he going to be okay?" he queried gently, his arms reaching for her and encircling her loosely.

Lisa clasped Gregory House's son to her chest and hugged him tightly. A million thoughts and images raced through her mind: their days in Michigan, that one cold night in Boston, House's face buried in her pillow, his eyes sparkling at her with intent, the fleetingness of their time together, and then Jake. She wondered how much House would come to resent her for this but dismissed the thought with resolve. As far as she was concerned, there was no reason he should ever find out. Soon enough, he and Stacy would return to their lives in New York, and it would be as if this had never happened. "I don't know, babe. I hope so," she said honestly, flashing a tearful smile at him.

"I'm sorry, Mom." His earnest face tugged at her heart, and she felt another tear slide down her cheek. Jake swiftly brushed it away, and she kissed his smaller hand tenderly.

"I love you, babe," she whispered.

"Love you, too."

Rising off the couch, she stretched her hand towards him. "Come on, let's get you to bed. It's almost half-past midnight."

He yawned sheepishly at the reminder and slipped his hand into hers.

A/N: Thank you for reading! Reviews are love! :)

Also, I have a clear image of what Jake Cuddy looks like and managed to find a young actor who pretty much personifies that. If you're interested, please PM me and I'd be happy to share a photo with you. For those of you, who would rather keep that part up to their imagination, I wouldn't want to ruin it for you.

Oh and one more thing, the "Froggy Forecasting" science fair project is taken from an awesome website called Science Buddies.