A few preambles: This story is based on a truly great (if a tad far-fetched) prompt from Princess Bossypants. It's yet another S8 fic. For those who think the reunion between House and Cuddy is too rushed or somehow unsatisfying, I direct you to my dozens of other stories set in that time period. (I'm partial to Four Women, Nobody, and 87 Letters.) This story is more about what happens before—and right after—the reunion. Hope you enjoy it. - atd
"House, can I ask you something?"
"Yes, it happens to lots of guys over 40. And yes, I can write you a prescription."
"Very funny," Wilson said. "But I'm serious."
House rolled his eyes a bit.
"When aren't you serious?" he said. Then he sighed. "Go ahead. Ask away."
Wilson leaned toward him in a commiserative way. "How are you?" he said.
"That's your question? You had to ask my permission for small talk?"
"I don't mean it in a small talk kind of way," Wilson said. "I meant it in a genuine way: How are you? You haven't been yourself lately."
House rubbed his chin wearily.
"I'm fine," he said testily.
"You don't seem fine. You don't seem to take any joy in the things you used to. Not in the medical cases. Not in mocking the other doctors. You don't even seem to give me shit with the same amount of . . . gusto."
"You're an insecure mama's boy who seeks unattainable approval from a rotating stream of castrating women. Happy now?"
"I sort of stepped into that, didn't I?"
"Yeah, you sort of did."
"But it's not good enough."
"I am not a trained monkey here for your amusement, Wilson!" House said, with mock indignation.
"I'm serious," Wilson repeated.
"What do you want from me?" House said. "I said I was fine."
"Fine isn't good enough. Let's aim higher. Let's aim for happy."
"What the fuck do I have to be happy about?"
Wilson studied his face.
"Have you talked to her?"
House frowned.
"Of course! All subtexts lead to Cuddy."
"Well, have you?"
House closed his eyes tightly, then opened them.
"I've tried to call her five times. She hangs up every time."
"Have you tried to talk to her. . .sober?"
"No comment."
"You should try that. It's been over 18 months. Maybe she's ready to forgive you."
"You don't just forgive someone when they crash their car into your dining room and destroy your life. I hear that's kind of a relationship dealbreaker. It's actually on page 182 of Dr. Phil's book."
"But she loves you."
"Did. Once. A lifetime ago."
"I'm sure some part of her still loves you."
"You're forgetting one crucial fact, Jimmy Boy. She had fallen out of love with me even before the, uh, incident. Remember? She dumped me."
"Don't be dense House. You know she still loved you."
"Says who?"
"Says. . .Cuddy."
This got House's attention. He put down the potato chip he was about to eat and glanced at Wilson hopefully.
"When?"
"The day after she broke up with you. She told me she still loved you."
House's face fell a bit.
"Oh, then. Circumstances have dramatically changed."
"But what about before the 'incident,' as you so euphemistically refer to it? She sat at your bedside. Had Rachel dictate you that letter. I sensed that you two were finding your way back to each other."
"What part of car through dining room don't you understand?"
"You need her."
"I never said I didn't."
"And if you had a crisis in your life, I still believe that she would be there for you."
"Bullshit, Wilson. She doesn't care if I live or die."
"I wouldn't be so sure about that…" Wilson said, musingly.
"Can we drop the subject? Please?"
Wilson shrugged and took a bite his sandwich.
"How's Dominika?" he said, gamely.
"You don't ever mention her name in the same breath as Cuddy, you understand?" House hissed.
Wilson held up his hands in a "don't shoot" kind of way.
"Just changing the subject."
House sighed.
"She's fine. She's the single most cheerful human being I've ever met. It's. . .alarming."
"But you like having her around?"
"I don't hate having her around. Which is also alarming."
"But she's not making you happy."
"When have I ever been happy? Rumors of my alleged former happiness have been greatly exaggerated."
"House you were happy, when you were with Cuddy. Admit it."
"Is this little talk supposed to be making me feel better? Because if so, you're not doing a very good job of it."
"I'm just saying: Dominika is never going to make you happy. Cuddy did."
"Has it ever occurred to you that maybe I don't deserve to be happy?" House said.
"No House," Wilson said. "That never occurred to me."
######
By the end of the month, everything had changed.
Wilson told House that he had cancer—and was refusing all treatment.
Dominika found out about House's INS subterfuge and had left him (he barely noticed she was gone—just as he had barely noticed she was there.)
And now Wilson found himself sitting in a coffee shop in Scarsdale, New York, about to break the news of his illness to Cuddy.
She strolled in, looking beautiful and important. He really had forgotten how beautiful and important she always looked.
"Hey," she said, sitting down across from him.
"Hey yourself," he said back.
They had kept in touch, peripherally, since the car crash. They were Facebook friends; they liked each other's statuses; Wilson had sent a card on Rachel's birthday.
"How's Scarsdale General treating you?" Wilson said.
Cuddy shrugged.
"It's a hospital. People get sick. Some get better. Others don't."
"You sound thrilled to be there," Wilson said.
"It's a job. I used to have a better one."
"VP of Administration is a big deal. That hospital is twice the size of Princeton Plainsboro."
"I'd rather not talk about it," Cuddy said.
Wilson smiled, in a conciliatory way.
"You look good, Cuddy," he said.
She smiled back, accepting his gesture.
"So do you."
"That's. . . .actually why I'm here."
"To talk about how good you look?"
"To tell you some…upsetting news. About my health."
"Your health?"
She sat up straight in her chair, concerned.
"I have cancer," he said.
"Oh my God. Wilson," she said.
He went on to describe the diagnosis and his own philosophy of withholding treatment.
"That's insane," Cuddy said.
"It may be insane, but it's my choice," Wilson said.
"You're just. . .giving up?"
"Not giving up. Choosing to die on my own terms."
Cuddy squinted at him.
"No shot House is letting you get away with that," she said.
It was the first time she had invoked House's name in a long time. It had just sort of. . . slipped out.
"He resisted like hell at first. But now he's resigned to my decision. He can't force me to do chemo."
"The House I know would bully, wheedle, lay on the guilt, and—if all else failed—dose you in your sleep."
"He's supporting me on this."
"Are we talking about the same Gregory House?"
"He's changed."
"House never changes."
"He has. He's been humbled by recent events."
Cuddy shrugged skeptically.
"Actually, House is the real reason I'm here," Wilson said.
"What about him?" Cuddy said. There was already an edge to her voice.
"He's not taking my dying particularly well."
"Of course he's not Wilson! He loves you. You're his best friend."
"I know… and that's where you come in. I need you to . . . reach out."
"Reach out?"
"Just talk to him. Let him know you still care. That he's not alone in this big bad world.."
"I don't care. And he is alone," Cuddy said.
Wilson gave her one of his patented knowing looks.
"We both know that's not true."
Cuddy contemplated him.
"Wilson, are you sure you don't want to try treatment? If not for you, then for House?"
"No. Some things I need to do for myself, by myself. Even House can't tell me how to die."
"You picked a lousy time to stop doing what he says."
Wilson was about to object her to characterization, but decided to stay on message.
"The point is, without me, he'll have nobody," Wilson said.
"He probably should have considered that before he alienated every single other person in his life."
"He's still in love with you," Wilson said.
That caught Cuddy by surprise. She pursed her lips, looked down at her coffee.
"So how's he handling this?" she said softly.
"Terribly. He's scared and depressed."
"That makes two of us," Cuddy said, truthfully.
"Then seek comfort in each other."
"I don't turn to House for comfort anymore. I never did, to be honest. That was one of our many problems."
"He needs you."
"He needs a lot of things."
"Will you at least think about it? As a favor to a dying friend?"
"You ask a lot Wilson."
"I know I do," he said, peering at her.
"I'll think about it," Cuddy said.
"Thank you," Wilson said. "That's all I ask."
And he heaved a sigh of relief.
######
She had a nightmare that they were burying Wilson and House matter of factly stepped into the open grave.
"What are you doing!" she had screamed at him.
"I'm staying with Wilson," he had said calmly. And they began to shovel dirt on his head.
She woke up in a cold sweat.
The next night, she called him. He didn't pick up. (He was out at Sullivan's, drowning his sorrows, and hadn't noticed her call.)
She heard his voice on the message—"You got House. Please leave me a garbled and incoherent message." It was the first time she had heard his voice in almost two years.
She started to speak, then felt a surge of panic. She hung up.
It wasn't until House got home that night, around 11, that he saw she had called him.
He stared at the phone dumbly for 10 minutes.
Then he paced his apartment, ridiculously.
"It's obviously a mistake," he said out loud. "She called you by mistake."
He paced some more.
Finally, he forced himself to stand still and call her back.
"House?" she said.
"I, uh, saw that you called. I know it was probably by mistake, but just in case it wasn't, I. . ."
"It wasn't a mistake," Cuddy said.
House's breath caught in his throat.
"Is everything okay?" he said. "Do you need something? Is it Rachel?"
"She's fine. We're both fine. I …spoke to Wilson."
"So you know," he said, finally sitting down.
"I know."
"He's a stubborn idiot."
"I agree. What are we going to do about it?"
"Cuddy, I've tried everything. He's completely intractable on this."
"House, I'm so sorry."
"So am I."
"How are you handling it?"
"As well as can be expected. . ."
"Well, in that case. . ." she said.
"I'm a mess," he admitted, hastily.
"I know, House," Cuddy said. "That's why I'm calling."
"I don't know what I'm going to do without him."
"You're going to survive, like you always do."
"Surviving isn't all it's cracked up to be," House said.
"Don't say that!"
"Is there any chance I can see you?" he said, seizing the opening.
"I don't think that's a good idea," Cuddy said.
"There's not a day goes by that I don't think about you. Not a day goes by that I don't wish I had done everything differently."
She closed her eyes.
"I know House, me too."
"Then please give me a chance. Please let me apologize in person."
She thought about House sitting with Wilson while he was dying. House, alone at Wilson's funeral; House driving his motorcycle on a windy road, with nothing left to live for.
"Can you meet me in Scarsdale on Friday night?" she heard herself say.
#####
She got to the restaurant before he did. Not because he was late—she was early. She wanted to be settled in, with a drink, when he arrived.
She saw him before he saw her. He walked up to the hostess, said something as he nervously scanned the room. He gulped a bit.
"I see her," she saw him mouth to the hostess.
Then he steeled himself—straightened his shoulders, inhaled—and limped over.
He looked the same, more or less. A few more lines on his face, his hair a bit shorter, pokier—like he'd gone to a fancy salon, which of course he'd never do. Maybe it just naturally stuck up that way. He had lost some weight.
He approached the table.
"You're here," he said.
"So are you," she said.
"Of course I am," he said.
He continued to stand there, awkwardly, until she realized that he was waiting for an invitation to sit down.
"Have a seat, House," she said. So he sat.
And suddenly there he was: the greatest love—and greatest mistake—of her life. The man who had for so long consumed her waking thoughts. What was strange was how familiar his presence seemed, how inevitable.
She gave a small, sad chuckle.
"What's so funny?" he said, self-consciously. He touched his face, like there might be lint on it.
"It's nothing," she said. "Forget it."
There was a long, uncertain silence.
"What are you thinking about, right now?" he said.
"I'm thinking . . .I'm thinking that all paths in my life seem to lead to Gregory House. Which is why I laughed. You are my lot in life, House, whether I like it or not."
"Sorry about that," he said, genuinely apologetic. "That sucks."
She laughed again.
"And what are you thinking?"
He looked into her eyes.
"I'm thinking about how beautiful you are."
"Not good enough," she said, skeptically.
"I'm being honest. That's all I'm thinking. You seriously overestimate my ability to think about anything else in the face of your beauty."
She looked down at her pinot grigio, smiled a bit.
"I never thought I'd see you again," he continued. "I don't know why you agreed to see me, but I'm incredibly fucking grateful that you did."
"Wilson asked me to," she admitted, take a gulp of her wine.
"I know. . ."
"How is he, anyway?"
"Besides unbelievably stubborn and stupid?"
"Yes, besides that."
"He's strangely fine. No symptoms at all, yet. I guess it's just a matter of time. . ."
"Have you looked at his charts?"
"He won't let me. He keeps saying, 'I'm an oncologist. I know how to read my own damn charts.' I think he just doesn't want me suggesting any alternative treatments. His mind is made up."
"I'm just amazed that you're letting him get away with this," Cuddy said.
"This isn't about me," House said. "It's about Wilson. What he wants. I'm respecting his wishes."
Cuddy's mouth dropped open.
"What?" House said, with a slightly sheepish smile.
"You're respecting his wishes? Since when do you respect anyone's wishes?"
"I've changed," House said.
"That's what Wilson said," Cuddy said. "I didn't believe him."
"A year in prison gives a guy a lot of time to reflect on things," House said.
"And what did you learn about yourself during this period of reflection?"
"That I'm an asshole."
"No arguments here," she said.
He scratched his head.
"That I'm an asshole and selfish and reckless. So I'm trying to be less of those things."
"I wish you the best of luck," Cuddy said, ironically.
"That car accident was the biggest mistake of my life," House said.
"It was no accident," Cuddy said.
"I know. . .Poor choice of words. Car crash. Reckless endangerment. Stupid, moronic, unforgivable behavior. Whatever you want to call it. No matter how angry you are with me, you can't be half as angry as I am with myself."
"I wouldn't be so sure about that," Cuddy said.
House sighed.
"And yet you're here," he said.
"And yet I'm here," she agreed.
The waiter came and took their orders. Eventually, they got off the subject of the car crash and Wilson and began talking about other things—Cuddy's new job, life at PPTH, a local political scandal in the news.
Finally, cautiously, as though dipping a toe into water, House looked down at the table and said, "How's Rachel?"
This threw Cuddy off for a second.
"She's fine," she said finally. "She's in her second semester of kindergarten now."
"Kindergarten? As in rides a yellow school bus and is learning how to read and write kindergarten?"
"More like, gets chauffeured around by a rotating crew of mommies in Mercedes SUVs and is learning how to use an iPad, but yes. That's the basic idea."
"Wow."
"She's 5, House."
"Right. Of course. . .5."
He sat there, looking a bit stunned.
"Does she ever. . . talk about me?" he said.
Cuddy smiled, as she always did when she thought about Rachel.
"Yes, sometimes she does. Like, when we have chicken pot pie she reminds me it was your favorite. Or when that stupid pirate show comes on TV. And she still calls herself the Red Apple Baron."
House smiled despite himself—a nickname due to Rachel's fondness for apple juice. Then he said, "Does she. . .know?"
"Of course she doesn't know!" Cuddy snapped. "What? You think I'm going to break my little girl's heart?"
House put his head in his hands.
"No, of course not," he said. "I didn't think. I'm sorry."
Cuddy sighed.
"You want to see a recent picture?" she said—a peace offering.
"I would," he said eagerly.
She opened her wallet and pulled out Rachel's class photo. She was wearing a blue corduroy smock-like dress and beaming at the camera. She had barrettes in her hair—all dressed up for picture day.
House stared at the picture for a long time.
"Look at how long her hair is," he said, in an awed kind of voice.
Cuddy stared him. For someone—anyone other than Gregory House, actually—looking at a picture of a little girl they hadn't seen in two years and noting the length of her hair, would be completely unremarkable. But for House, it was downright revelatory.
"Hair grows," Cuddy said, mimicking what she imagined House might say under normal circumstances.
But he hadn't really heard her. He was entranced by the photo.
"You can keep it," she said, finally. "I ordered way too many."
He looked at her like he had just received the most precious gift.
"Yeah?" he said, uncertainly.
"Sure."
"Cuddy," he said, his eyes widening. "Thank you."
######
So she started spending more time with him. Dinner here, drinks there. Sometimes they talked about Wilson, sometimes they didn't. He told her about prison, because she was curious, but she sensed he holding back, not telling her all of the gory details.
"Did any of those neo-Nazis ever assault you?" she said.
"I got into a few scuffles," he said casually. "Nothing I couldn't handle."
And she found herself drawn to him, as always. Sometimes she would forget everything: The breakup, the crash, Wilson's illness—and it was just the two of them, House and Cuddy, talking, laughing, basking in each other. And if she didn't know better—because it couldn't possibly be true, right?—she might think that she was falling a little bit in love with him again.
One night, she had dinner with an old PPTH pal in New Brunswick, not too far from Princeton, and she found herself driving to his apartment.
She wanted to check up on him—see him as he really was, not when he was putting on a happy face for her.
It was just past 9 pm. She knocked on his door.
He answered, looking better than she had expected. He was in pajama bottoms and a tee-shirt, yes. And his breath smelled slightly of alcohol, but she had envisioned him in a much more dissipated state.
"What are you doing here?" he said.
"I was in New Brunswick so I thought I'd. . .check up on you," she admitted.
"How do I look?" he asked, holding out his arms for inspection.
"Surprisingly sober," she said.
"The night is young," he said ironically. He jerked his head toward the apartment. "You coming in? Or is this merely a drive-by?"
"I guess I can stay for one drink," Cuddy said.
She stepped inside his apartment—and felt a little chill, as though she had just passed through a ghost.
"You cold?" he said, noticing her. (Always noticing her.)
"I'm fine," she said. "Just a lot of…memories in here."
"Some good I hope," he said.
"Mostly good," she said.
He got her drink—vodka martini with a twist of lemon—and they sat down beside each other on the couch.
"Where's Wilson?" Cuddy said.
"At his parents. He's been spending a lot of time there lately."
"This must be so hard on them," Cuddy said.
House shrugged. "I imagine so," he said.
She looked over at the piano. The lid was closed and there was a lot of mail piled up on the bench.
"Haven't been playing much lately?" she said.
"Haven't really been in the mood," he shrugged.
"I understand," she said. She studied his face. Because he always looked a little sad to her, it was sometimes hard to tell what he was feeling. "How you holding up?"
"I'm. . . it still doesn't quite seem real to me, you know? Especially because he looks so damn hale and hearty. He doesn't look like a man who has four months to live."
"And yet. . ."
"And yet. In four months, he'll be dead. A cruel trick of the universe. The pill popping reprobate lives on and his best friend, the caring and generous oncologist, dies. A cosmic fuck up, if ever I've heard one."
"House, don't say that," she said.
"You know it's true," he said, taking a bitter swig of his drink. "There's not a person alive who thinks the noble Dr. Wilson should die and I should live."
"House, I don't want you to die," Cuddy said. "Even at the peak of my anger—and believe me, I was plenty angry—I didn't want you to die."
House sighed.
"If I was a religious man—and we both know I'm not," he said. "I would say that God is punishing me for my sins. Killing the best man I know and leaving me all alone to take on this miserable fucked up world by myself."
"House, you're not alone."
"Aren't I?"
"No. You have me."
He looked up. There was something so needy and intense in his gaze, she had to look away.
"I could use a glass of water," she said, popping up.
"I'll get it," he said.
"No, you sit. Let me. I know where everything is—unless you redecorated."
"Everything is exactly as you left it," House said. "As you well know, I'm not big on change."
She stepped into the kitchen. He was right. Same cutting board. Same pots and pans. Same sink. But there was one difference, in the otherwise unchanged room. On the Sub-Zero fridge, sealed with a magnet: A 2.5 x 3.5 photo of a smiling little girl in a blue corduroy dress.
She came back out to the living room. Sat beside him.
"I've missed you," she said softly, leaning her head back on the couch.
His eyelashes fluttered.
"I've missed you too. Every day. I've missed you every damn day."
She looked at him for a long time. Then, on impulse, she placed a gentle kiss on his mouth.
He didn't respond. He sat there, frozen, in shock.
So she kissed him again, a little more forcefully this time. He still didn't move. He barely parted his lips.
"Cuddy, what are you doing?" he said, finally.
"This," she said.
Now she crawled on his lap, straddling him. But instead of kissing her, as she expected him to do, he took a lock of her hair and placed it gently behind her ear. He stared into her eyes.
Then he began to caress her face. His hand moved slowly, reverentially, from her jaw, to her neck, to her clavicle. He fingered the top of her bra, teased the area where the lace met her cleavage.
She closed her eyes, enjoying the sensation of his fingers against her skin. He began to kiss her: Her eyelids, her cheekbone, his lips grazing hers. Finally, he kissed her, deeply. She could feel his erection against her leg.
She rocked a bit on his lap. Now his movement became more urgent. He was breathing heavily. He grabbed her ass, pulled her toward him—his tongue became probing and hot in her mouth. He was kneading her ass, reaching under her skirt.
"Oh my God," he kept saying. "Oh my God."
She fumbled for his pajama bottoms, pulled him out, wriggled out of her own skirt.
"Are you sure?" he said hoarsely.
"Yes," she said.
#######
"Why is that I'm dying and you haven't looked this happy in months?" Wilson said, with a knowing smirk.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," House said.
They were sitting in the hospital cafeteria two days after House had slept with Cuddy. She hadn't stayed the night, despite his shameless begging, but she had promised him that it would happen again.
"As if I have any choice in the matter," she had said.
"Anything new?" Wilson said now.
"Cuddy may have come over last night," House said.
"Just happened to be in the neighborhood?" Wilson said, still smirking.
"Something like that."
"So how'd it go?"
"None of your business."
"That good, huh?" Wilson said.
#######
A few days later, Cuddy was sitting in her office at Scarsdale General, going over candidates for The Breyer Fellowship— a London-based think tank for oncologists—with her aide. The Breyer Fellowship was extremely prestigious. Hospitals only nominated their best and brightest for the program, and often didn't bother nominating anyone at all (the admission fee was $500, dissuading unqualified candidates). The fellowship lasted a full year.
"I don't even know why we're bothering," her aide said, looking up from one of the employee files. "I hear that hotshot oncologist from your last hospital applied. What's his name? Watson?"
"Wilson?" Cuddy said, furrowing her brow. "James Wilson?"
"Yeah, that's the one. I hear he practically has it in the bag."
"You must be mistaken," Cuddy said.
"No. Wilson, that's the guy. The Breyer people have been after him for years."
"Dr. Wilson is very sick. Why would he apply for a year long fellowship right now?"
"Ask him, not me," her aide said with a shrug.
After the meeting, Cuddy called up Anita, her old assistant at PPTH.
After exchanging a few pleasantries—"The hospital is just not the same without you," Anita said. "Dr. Foreman is just so. . .boring"—Cuddy got down to business.
"You've heard that Dr. Wilson is sick?" she said.
"I've heard rumors to that effect," Anita said. "Poor guy."
"I need you to do something for me. I know that it's a bit . . unorthodox. I need you to access his patient file."
There was a long, stunned pause.
"Dr. Cuddy! You know I can't do that!"
"I know. And normally I wouldn't ask you to commit such a . . . breach of hospital policy. But there's a great new anti-pain med we're using here at Scarsdale General—it's still in trial—and I want to prescribe it for him, under the table, as it were. But first I need to make sure it doesn't contraindicate any of the other meds he might be taking."
"Why not just asking him yourself?" Anita said, skeptically.
"He's been very secretive about his treatment," Cuddy said. "He doesn't want me and House meddling. I'm not asking for anything except for a list of the meds he's taking. Can you do that for me? As a favor for your old boss?"
Anita hesitated.
"I suppose," she said. "Let me look."
An hour later, she called Cuddy back.
"This is going to completely weird you out," Anita said. "But I can't find any oncology files for Dr. Wilson. Are you sure he's being treated here at Princeton?"
Cuddy slumped back into her chair.
"I'm positive," she said. "He's treating himself. Are you sure there's nothing? No X-rays? No bloodwork? Nothing?"
"I have a file from Wilson's last physical, which was just about a month ago. Everything normal. Slightly elevated cholesterol levels that his doctor wants to keep an eye on. Besides that, as far as his records show, the guy's in perfect physical shape."
######
Late that night, there was loud banging on House's door.
When he opened it and saw Cuddy, he broke into a huge grin.
"Wow, dreams really do come true," he said.
He was, in fact, so happy to see her that he didn't realize that she was furious.
"You bastard," she said, marching into his apartment.
"Wha . . .?" he backed away, not sure if she was messing with him or not.
"I can't believe I let this happen again. I can't believe I let you do this to me again."
"Cuddy, slow down. You're making no sense. What are you talking about?"
"I know," she said, glaring at him.
"Know what?"
"Don't play dumb House. It's beneath you. I know that Wilson isn't sick."
He started a bit.
"Are you . . .on something?" he said.
"Stop it, House. Stop pretending. I figured the whole thing out."
"Cuddy, I honestly have no idea what you're talking about."
"You've done some horrible, destructive things in your life, House, but faking Wilson's cancer to get back in my pants is a new low, even for you."
"Cuddy! You're losing it. Wilson is sick. He's dying. I assure you, no one is deceiving anyone. And as far as getting in your pants, you were the one who. . ."
"I'm such an idiot," Cuddy said, almost to herself. "I get sucked in, every time. When will I learn? You're poison to me, House. You're a monster."
"Cuddy, please sit down. Please just explain to me what the hell you're talking about, because I am totally lost here."
She folded her arms, squinted at him.
"You're good, I'll give you that," she said, with a contemptuous smile. "But I am never going to be taken in by you again. Fuck you for coming up with this ridiculous scheme. Fuck Wilson for going along with you. You can both rot in hell as far as I care."
And she stormed out.
House watched her, his mouth hanging open.
He slumped into an arm chair.
"What the fuck just happened?" he said out loud.
#####
He considered calling Wilson that night, but it was late, past 11, and a guy with cancer needed his sleep.
So he waited until the morning. He limped into Wilson's office first thing, sat down on the chair across from his desk.
"Cuddy has lost her damn mind," he said, shaking his head.
Wilson was filling out a prescription. He looked up.
"What are you talking about?"
"She came over last night and was. . . making no sense. She was ranting and raving. She said you don't have cancer. That you're faking it."
A shadow crossed Wilson's face. He went pale.
House stared at him. His eyes widened.
"Wilson, you have cancer, right? You're dying, right?"
Wilson inhaled, looked down at his desk.
"Not exactly," he said, in a meek voice.
"Not exactly? What the fuck does that mean? Either you have cancer and you're dying or you don't."
"Okay, I don't."
House stood up and took a threatening step toward Wilson. His fists were clenched.
"Are you insane?"
"House, calm down."
"Calm down? Calm down? You had me thinking you were dying of cancer—for what? A social experiment? A malicious prank? To get back at me for being such an asshole all these years?"
"I did it. . .for you," Wilson said.
"Start explaining yourself—fast," House said, still looking like he wanted to punch something—ideally Wilson—hard.
"Can you sit?" Wilson said. "Can you please just sit down a minute?"
Still glaring, House reluctantly sat back down. He folded his arms.
"I applied for the Breyer Fellowship and I have it on very good authority that I'm going to get it. That's when I started noticing how down you seemed. I was worried about leaving you alone for a year."
"I'm a grown man, Wilson. Not a 10-year-old."
"That's debatable. Anyway, once was, if I couldn't look out for you, Cuddy would. It was kind of like. . .joint custody."
"I still don't see what this has anything to do with. . ."
"I realized that you needed Cuddy back in your life. And I knew that she still cared about you, whether she was willing to admit it or not. She just needed a catalyst—something strong enough to break through her anger and remind her how much she really loved you."
"A catalyst like you dying of cancer," House said, finally getting it.
"Exactly. I figured my fake cancer would be like killing two birds with one stone, so to speak. It would prepare you emotionally for a full year without me—what's a year compared to a lifetime? And it would get Cuddy back on your side. I admit, I never expected her to be back in your bed quite so quickly. But I think, as always, I underestimated the bond between you two guys. It's. . ." —he shook his head in amazement—"remarkable."
"She thinks I'm the one behind this!" House sputtered. "She hates my guts."
"I'll tell her the truth as soon as you leave my office."
House still had his arms folded defensively, but his posture had slightly softened.
"Do you know what kind of hell you've put me through?" he said quietly.
"I'm truly sorry about that," Wilson said. "You had to believe it or Cuddy wouldn't believe it."
House put his head in his hands and looked at the floor. He stayed that way, for a long time. Wilson watched him warily.
Finally he gave a grim laugh.
"I suppose I deserved this, didn't I?" he said.
"Deserved what?"
"Fake brain tumors. Fake syphilis. I've pulled my fair share of similar stunts. It would appear the student has surpassed the master."
Wilson gave a small bow.
"Thank you," he said.
"But you're still a dead man," House said.
"I assume you mean that metaphorically at this point," Wilson said.
"We'll see."
#######
That night, another knock at House's door.
He opened it. Cuddy, holding a single white daisy.
"Make love, not war," she said, handing it to him.
He took it, said nothing.
"Wilson told me everything," she said.
He blinked at her.
"He's an idiot," she said.
House continued to stare at her, wordlessly.
"I'm sorry. I know you had nothing to do with Wilson's fake cancer. It just seemed like the kind of thing you would do."
House scratched his head. Now he had to smile, just the slightest bit.
"Yeah, I suppose it did."
"You must've thought I was a crazy woman barging in here the other day with all those accusations," Cuddy said.
"Sort of."
"House. . .I'm so sorry. I don't think you're a monster. I've been castigating myself for allowing myself to . . .fall back in love with you. And when I figured out that Wilson wasn't really sick, it seemed to confirm all of my worst misgivings. I jumped to the worst possible conclusion—and I apologize."
"What did you just say?" House said, a tiny, incredulous smile now on his face.
"I said I apologize," Cuddy repeated.
"No," he said. "Before that."
"Oh," she said, a tiny smile now playing at her lips. "I said I was falling back in love with you."
"Really?"
"House, in a way, I never fell out of love with you."
"Come here," he said.
She swallowed a bit, then melted into his arms. He held her closely, kissed the top of her head.
"I love you, too," he whispered. He leaned down, kissed her softly on the lips.
"I know, House."
"So you think we could maybe . . . try again?"
He kissed her again and again—each kiss a little longer, with deeper tongue. He was beginning to get greedy.
"I think we can try," she said. "If we take it slowly."
"I'm like Wilson," House said, now kissing the hollow of her neck and beginning to unbutton her blouse. "I've got all the time in the world."
He scooped her up, but as they headed to the bedroom, something caught Cuddy's eye: A science project of sorts that he had started on the kitchen table.
"What do you got there?" Cuddy said.
"I'm making a remote operated dye pack," he said.
"A dye pack?"
"Yeah, when I press a button, it explodes—gets blue dye everywhere. It stains skin, too. The victim will look like Papa Smurf for a week."
"And this dye pack is for. . "
"Yup, Wilson. I'm going to put it in his lab coat."
Cuddy smiled, nuzzled House's neck.
"Go get him," she said.
THE END