Hello everyone! So this is what my brain imagined while I couldn't sleep after watching Everybody Dies. It picks up six months after the episode, contains spoilers for, well, the whole show. It also mentions the horrible Huddy moments we've been through last year. Sorry, but it just had to be dealt with (But you'll see that it is worth it in the end). It is also rated T for language, but nothing serious really. Just a few F words here and there. Since English is (sadly) not my mother tongue, IHeartHouseCuddy took a look at the story. Thank you very much for that :)

If I can give you guys an advice, though... Do not read this if you have no idea how the last episode ended. I would blame myself for ever if you found out by reading this story.

Concerning my other story, From The Cradle To The Grave... I was supposed to update it a while ago, and I didn't, and I'm sorry. The 32nd chapter will be on-line this weekend at the latest, I promise!

Also, I do not own House, MD. Otherwise the show would have ended very differently.

Enjoy! Please don't forget to leave some feedback on your way out. :)

Silence

He liked to take a stroll in the cemetery.

Every day right before night time, so nobody would catch a glimpse of him staring at his best friend's grave, the vase supposed to contain his own ashes sitting at its side. House wondered, though, what if he was actually caught being alive? Would he really have to go to jail? Would society make him pay being alive and faking his own death? Come on, he scoffed to himself. Society was a better place without him. Wilson had confessed he had lived the happiest five months of his life once his cancer had gotten worse. Because House was pronounced dead.

That was four weeks ago. Wilson had passed away three days after. In his bed, with House sitting by his side. In a non-hospital setting, like the diagnostician had promised earlier. It had been ugly, yes, but nobody had witnessed Wilson being so defeated, apart from the only one he trusted truly. His best friend. House.

There he was, limping in the sunset. Tombs bordered the alley, wisterias and beeches and oaks casting their dreadful shadows at them. It was autumn, brown and red leaves were scattered across the path, dancing together at every tiniest blow of the cool wind. He knew the way by heart now. Enter the gate, go straight on until that tree leaning a couple feet above the ground, turn to the right, to the left, and he would reach James Evan Wilson's grave, at the feet of a majestic oak tree.

He always followed the same routine. At daytime, he would keep himself busy, do his best to not let pain win over him. He could not give up. He had a reason to live now: meeting Wilson every night to prove him he was still holding on, as he had sworn. So he would drive his motorcycle to that cemetery, walk to the tomb where James Wilson's name was engraved, along with his birth and death dates.

There were always flowers. Lots of. Chrysanthemums, carnations, sweet peas, lilies, bluebells, forget-me-nots. But House hadn't offered any. Flowers wither, whereas he would be there day after day. What would be the point?

Sometimes, he let out a few words. Because maybe Wilson would answer. He did not believe he would, though. But one month had passed, it still hurt and he would not get over it. Even if he wanted to. He could not pretend to move on, switch to something else, simply because there was nothing left. That was why he would just stare without a word most of the time. To accustom himself to the fact that Wilson was not there anymore. To resign himself to this eternal silence and emptiness. He refused to acknowledge it, however he had no other choice.

Tonight, it was different.

Tonight, a few feet away from him, there was a woman. Standing in front of both his own vase and Wilson's tomb, crying her heart out. She was clad in a black coat, black skirt, black stilettos. Her dark curls were cascading down her shoulders, the red sun lighting them up and caressing her elegant back. He knew her in an instant.

She did not seem to notice him. Her shoulders began to rise and fall along with her silent sobs.

He took a step towards her and said, "Cuddy."

She jumped slightly and turned to him, her tears rolling down her cheeks. But she did not seem surprised or frightened to see him. She stared at his face for a second and returned to the contemplation of Wilson's grave. He waited. She would not push him away nor keep him at bay, so he went to stand by her side, facing the tomb. She calmed herself, wiped her tears with the back of her hand.

"Who are you crying over?" he asked eventually. "Wilson? Me? Both of us?"

"Wilson," she answered, her voice a bit unsure, as if she did not know if it were a good idea to talk with House.

"Do you hate me?" She remained silent. A short moment passed by. "Is that why you didn't show up at my funeral?"

"I didn't show up because I knew you weren't dead. That's also why I'm not crying over you," Cuddy said, not turning to him. "Greg House doesn't die in a building on fire. Just like Sherlock Holmes doesn't die in a waterfall. It just doesn't fit. Moreover, you're a selfish and egocentric bastard. Faking your death does sound like you."

"It wasn't actually planned."

"Sorry?" She turned to him in confusion, but quickly looked back at the tomb when her eyes met House's.

"Holmes' death," he explained. "He was supposed to die with Moriarty at the Reichenbach Falls because Conan Doyle wanted to quit writing. But fans protested, marched down the streets and all that, so he eventually changed his mind and brought Holmes back to life."

She nodded.

"Do you hate me?"

She seemed to take some time to think about it. "You fucked up my whole life. I had been living in Princeton for over ten years, I had a job that I loved, I had memories there, lots of. And you blew it all up," she said in a blank, nevertheless resentful, tone. "I had to move away overnight, just like that."

He felt his throat tighten, knowing that he had not simply destroyed a wall of her house. "I didn't force you to leave."

"We didn't know where you were! You could as well have come back to sneak up on me while I was asleep and smother me with a pillow."

"Come on, you knew I would never hurt you."

"I thought I knew you would never drive your car into my dining-room." The hint of anger had faded away when she added, "I was scared, House. I was scared of you."

"'You still scared?"

She dared look up at him from head to toe. He looked away, afraid of what she would see in his eyes. He seemed much older than he was in reality. His wrinkles were deeper and more numerous than what she recalled. He had let his hair grow a bit longer than usual, probably too careless to get a haircut, and this extra inch made him look ten years older. His knuckles were white clutching his wooden cane. She also noticed he had lost a few pounds, since his clothes seemed looser than before. He was a wreck.

"No," she answered frankly. "Seems like you're not carrying any weapon." At last, their eyes met, briefly. She shivered at the sight of the veil of exhaustion and weariness covering his blue eyes. House shied away before she did. "How are you coping?"

"Not badly," he said. "But I've been better."

"You come here often?"

"Every day. You?"

"It's the first time."

"Why at night?" he asked.

"I wanted to be alone with Wilson. I mean, look at all these flowers," she said, pointing at the mount of various flowers with a sweep of her arms. They were literally piling up. It was the most ornate tomb of all the cemetery. "So many people cared about him. There would always be someone here at any time of the day."

He nodded. "That's why I come at night, too."

Silence. She frowned. "Who's in your vase, by the way?" He shrugged. "What happens if you die now? You won't have a grave."

"I don't care, I'll be dead. For all I know, my corpse may not be found for a while and rot somewhere." She winced. "It's not like everyone will rush to lay flowers on my grave anyway," he continued, using his cane to point at the lack of flowers at the feet of his vase.

"You're not exactly the kind of person who would want flowers on their grave," she said. "You don't like what's conventional." He smirked. She was right. "How do you get along now that you're dead? You can't have a bank account. You can't have a job. You can't rent or own an estate. How do you get your pills?" Cuddy wondered out loud.

"I'm doing fine. How is Rachel?" he asked, dismissing the subject. She accepted to let go and accept his concise answer.

"Good." She grinned. "Very good, actually. She's a brilliant kid. She can already read fluently!"

House smiled. "You got any boyfriend?"

"No."

"Girlfriend?"

"No. Sorry I'm not fulfilling your fantasy." She let out a small chuckle, and immediately regretted it. She was dropping her guard, she was letting him too close to her, nevertheless she could not help it. But her reason won over and she promised herself it would not happen again. Even though she knew she would not keep that promise for long. She missed being with him.

A moment passed by. Eventually, he asked, "Do you miss him?"

"Of course. He was my friend, too."

"Did you miss me?"

"House." She cast him a warning glare. Her feelings were not something she was ready to talk about for the moment. "What about you? Did you miss me?"

"I don't know."

She remained silent for a while, finally answered his question. "Me neither."

"I was busy."

"Me, too."

"With hookers."

"With my daughter."

"With Vicodin."

"With work. You haven't changed," Cuddy sighed.

"Neither have you."

They looked at each other. A sad smile dwelled up on the corner of her lips. She sighed, and looked up at the sky. She had gotten so carried away by their conversation that she had not noticed the sun disappearing far beyond the horizon. It was night time, but it wasn't pitch dark. A starless, inky sky was spreading infinitely above them, enlightened from the very last rays of the dying sun.

"It's late," she stated.

He raised the eyes that he had set on Wilson's grave and saw it for himself. "We should go."

They hesitated, neither of them knowing if it was a good idea to drag the other one away from there. Cuddy looked down at Wilson's gravestone one last time, her glance lingering, and turned away, waiting for House's approval.

"See you tomorrow," he said.

Her heart cringed in pain. She realised that from now on, House only lived to come over to the cemetery every night. His whole life was devoid of anything but hopelessly grieving for Wilson. He was alone now, and because of his fake death, he did not have much choice regarding distractions.

He took a limping step away. She followed him without a word. They drew further and further away slowly, regretting to leave Wilson, not knowing what was ahead of them. Once out of the cemetery, their paths would diverge for sure. But what next? Should they say farewell and pretend they had never met that day? Or should they, perhaps, take a chance and prolong the evening?

Cuddy was desperately trying to find something to talk about. She pouted with melancholy. Not so long ago, it was easy to talk with House, about pretty much anything. They could barely shut up. Sparring matches were something they used to enjoy every day. Now, communication was reduced to an uneasy silence.

House eventually spoke up. He could not help it. He needed to talk to somebody, to let everything out. Wilson was not there anymore to share his memories with him. Every single person who had managed to get close to him was convinced he was dead and buried, except Cuddy. Who could he possibly talk to, if not to her? "Do you know what he did three days before the CT confirming he was dying?" Cuddy shook her head no. "He took me to Cleveland but we didn't make it because he drove his brand new sports car into a fence. And we were so broke that he had to pay bus tickets to Newark with his watch." He smiled and so did she. She listened to him quietly. "Anyway, we stopped by that diner on our way to Ohio, 'The New Olympus'. They've got a seventy-nine dollar eighty-ounce steak which is free if you eat it in an hour. So he gave it a try."

Silence. "And?" she inquired.

"This idiot puked it five seconds after he had swallowed the last bite right in time."

Cuddy burst out laughing, but quickly calmed down as she recalled that she was in a cemetery with dead people around.

"We've spent his last five months in a road trip," he continued. "Riding two gorgeous motorcycles. You should have seen him in a leather jacket. We did go to Cleveland, eventually. And to other cities in other states. We've travelled through Pennsylvania, made a detour in Michigan, Illinois, Iowa, Dakota, all the way to California. And we got back to Princeton via the south of the country."

"Sounds nice," she commented, not really knowing what to say.

"Yeah, Portland is a really nice town." He took a deep breath. "He was exhausted when we reached Virginia. By the end of the trip, he was riding pillion on my bike. The last ride was... Odd. We both knew the adventure had come to an end and it would never happen again. We felt like we should have gone round the world instead, to buy him some more time. Hell, we should have even explored the whole goddamn universe!" She lowered her glance. "He was fond of this song, by the Shadows. Wouldn't stop listening to it. It was the soundtrack of our road trip."

"Apache?"

"Yeah."

"Love it."

"Me, too. Sounds like adventure."

"Unknown, wild and untamed lands."

"Yeah," he conceded.

He would not open up again, she could feel it. She also knew she had to share a bit of her memories. He was not alone dealing with the loss of his friend.

"I hadn't seen him since I've moved out. Last time I had, he hugged me and wished me good luck." Cuddy had no idea if he was listening, but she kept on speaking anyway, needing to unwind as well. She did not really have anyone she could talk to. Her relationship with her mother was still tense, sometimes. Julia was busy with her kids. She did not have any friends, only acquaintances that she did not trust enough to share her feelings with, because she would keep throwing herself into work heart and soul and neglect personal relationships. "We were on the phone sometimes, but we've never really talked about Princeton. Just the usual stuff, you know? 'Hi, how are you, what are you up to?'" She scoffed. "Now I regret spending so little time with him after I've moved away. I keep telling myself that I was busy, but I was just afraid of hearing from you again."

A moment passed by. "I'm sorry," he whispered. Even when he was away from Cuddy, he still managed to interfere with her life. She regretted neglecting Wilson, and he had caused it.

"No," she shook her head. "Don't be. I'm the one who couldn't get over it. You made him happy, House. You've got nothing to apologize for."

"Told me his last months were the happiest of his life," he confirmed. "But it doesn't change a thing."

"Yes, it does. I thank you for that. For offering that to him. I believe this is the way everybody should die. Happy." She turned to him, "Even you."

He did not utter a word, kept on staring down at the gravel.

"You're alone," she stated. No dying happy for him.

"I'm fine." He was being honest with her. He deserved it after all. He had made everyone he had ever known miserable, including Cuddy, including Wilson. Offering him some happiness before he died did not erase his many mistakes."You know, when I was in that building, I..." He pondered about his words. He had admittedly not changed and she knew it, but she had not changed either. Telling her he had hallucinated from being stoned with heroin at that moment was not a good idea. "I thought. I could have been a better person. You and I could have had kids, a big suburban house. We could have been happy."

She shook her head. "It didn't work."

"Because you didn't let me try." He kept on staring down at his shoes. "And that's unfair. You broke up for one Vicodin pill. And what had you said when you had come over to my place that terrible night? 'It's your choice if you want to go back on drugs'," he quoted, then scoffed. "When you woke up after your surgery, I was there. You fell asleep holding my hand the night before. I was with you the whole– "

Cuddy cut him off with tears in her voice. "Don't bring that up."

"I'm sorry for what I did," he insisted.

"No, you're not."

"I went to prison," he argued.

"Then you're not sorry for the good reasons. You have regrets because you wasted a few months of your life in prison like an idiot. Told you you were a selfish and egocentric bastard."

They looked up at each other. "I regret taking drugs in order to be there for you. I regret driving my car into your dining-room. I regret losing you."

A single tear rolled down her cheek. "Why did you do that? I've been wondering for months," she said. "But I've never figured it out."

He shook his head, "I don't know."

"You wanted to make me suffer?"

"You were happy," he said after a beat.

"I wasn't."

"You were having a pretty good time, apparently. You were getting over it. You were moving on and I wasn't, I was still stuck with you," he explained in a low voice. "With all that I had done to get you out of my mind, I still ached. It was unfair."

"You're wrong, House. You're wrong. Do you have any idea how many times I've considered running back to you?"

"Why didn't you do it?"

The question caught her off guard. Why had not she run back to him? Why had not she given them an umpteenth chance? She had no idea. She shook her head. "You did everything you could to forget me, even repulse me. You fucked a dozen hookers, probably more, right after we broke up. You even married one of them. I wasn't sure you would have accepted me back into your arms."

"I would. I was still in pain." Then, he admitted in a lower voice, "I needed you."

"I didn't want to acknowledge that I had hurt you," she explained. "I wanted to believe you were selfish, that I had broken up for the good reasons." She sighed. "But truth is, I've never believed that. I kept on lying to myself." A few seconds passed by in silence. "I regret losing you, too."

They had reached the gate of the cemetery. Night had eventually fallen. They stepped outside of the memorial park, then stopped, facing each other.

"So..." he started. Here they were. She would go back to her life with her adorable daughter, her successful job, her probably gorgeous house, wherever she was living now. And he would stay here, lingering in his misery and his loneliness.

"You don't deserve to be alone," she blurted out. He glanced down at his shoes and did not utter a word. "I know you don't do happy," she carried on, more confidently. "Because you think you don't deserve it, because you think it fucks up this brilliant mind of yours."

She took his hand shyly. Slowly, her fingers slid across his skin. She was amazed that touching him felt the same as before. His hand was soft, strong and callous at the same time. She still felt restless butterflies dancing around in her belly. Even after all this time, in spite of all the barriers she had kept on erecting between them, she was still drawn to him.

"I don't want to let your corpse rot," she said, her eyes misting up with tears as she pictured him dying alone in a hospital bed, in pain and misery. With no one to hold his hand or mop his brow. "We can try this again, House."

He had not dared hold her hand. He was so emotionally fragile that he could not take the plunge and afford the risk of getting hurt again. "I don't know," he mumbled.

She took a step towards him. "If you'd rather be miserable," she continued. "We can be miserable together."

He looked up at her. She seemed sincere. Maybe she was as miserable as he was, after all.

She was alone. His absence in her life had, in spite of her resentment, left a void that only House could fill in again. Maybe their relationship would work if they stopped believing in a happiness they could not attain. She knew he would not be happy because he had lost Wilson, because it's who he is, and she knew she would not be happy either, for she was a perfectionist, and her expectations were so high that she would never be fully satisfied. They would try to reach happiness together, though. Even if they accepted that there was very little hope, that misery would be part of their life. It was worth trying to die happy in the end. But misery was fine after all, as long as they had each other to rely on, and their mutual love to hold on to.

That was what her watery eyes expressed to him when they met his own.

His fingers closed around her own eventually. Without a word, unable to utter what he wanted to tell her, he tugged at her arm gently. Acts carried much more meaning than words after all. He hoped she would understand. Eyes locked, she drew closer to him, until they both could feel each other's breath on their cheek and their torso were brushing one another. On her high heels, Cuddy was almost as tall as he was. His cane dropped to the floor. Hesitantly, he laid his other hand on her shoulder, then let his fingertips slide their way to her waist, then to the small of her back, closing the short distance between their bodies and causing her to gasp faintly. Cuddy wrapped her arm around House's neck, set her chin onto his shoulder. House tilted his head, his cheek resting onto the crown of her head. I want to give it a try with you, his embrace told her.

In each other's arms, holding hands, they cried together in silence.