About three hours after they took off on their impromptu road trip, Wilson said he felt a little dizzy and needed to stop. House mockingly called him the "Queasy Rider" but agreed to pull over. They tucked into a little roadside diner, where House insisted on wearing a pair of sunglasses and a trucker hat, pulled low over his eyes.

"That disguise makes you look more conspicuous, not less," Wilson said.

"I disagree," House said. "And besides, I think I'm pretty fly for a dead guy."

They ordered cheeseburgers and fries and contemplated each other.

"You do realize that you can't pay with a credit card. Ever again," Wilson said.

"I took 2 grand out of my bank account. Any more might scream, 'Guy who's faking his own death,'" said House. "So we'll see how long that lasts. After that, I expect you to support me in the manner to which I've grown accustomed."

Wilson shook his head, smiled in exasperation at him. He was still overcome by a heady combination of feelings: Anger at House for faking his death, utter gratitude that his friend would go to such lengths for him, and of course, a Wilsonian awareness that House's plan wasn't really much of a plan at all.

For now, though, he was just glad House was alive.

"I really thought you were dead, you bastard," he said.

"Sucked huh? Just a tiny taste of what I will be dealing with permanently in a few months," House said.

There was an awkward silence—that last comment hit a little too close to home.

"So you got to attend your own funeral," said Wilson, musingly. "The ultimate narcissist's fantasy."

House smiled, proud of himself.

"How'd you do it anyway?" Wilson asked.

"I watched the event with binoculars from a window across the street and I …bugged the cell phone that I put in your pocket."

"A bug? How did you even come to possess such a device?"

"It's possible that I may have swiped it from a certain private eye that you and I both know and loathe."

"Hmmm, pretty crafty, House," Wilson said.

"Thank you."

"Were you happy with the funeral turnout? I thought it was a strong showing for a misanthrope. Tears were even shed. And not just by people you owed money to."

"It wasn't bad," House said, in an unconvincing kind of way.

"But . . .?"

"Well, there was one rather conspicuous absence."

"Cuddy," Wilson said.

"I kinda thought she'd show. If only to confirm that I'm really dead."

"I did too," Wilson admitted.

"Is it possible that she hadn't heard the news? Not everyone knows she's in Chicago."

"She's heard," Wilson said.

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because I'm the one who told her."

"You're in touch with Cuddy?" House said. A tiny edge had crept into his voice.

"Of course," Wilson said. "And how do you know she's in Chicago, by the way?"

"Nevermind that. Why didn't you tell me you were in touch with her?"

"Because my relationship with Cuddy has nothing to do with you."

"Good one," House snorted.

Of course he was right. In some ways, Wilson and Cuddy's friendship was built entirely around their mutual affection for—and frustration with—House.

"How did she react to the news?"

"She was. . .very upset," Wilson said.

In fact, she had listened to him quietly and said nothing.

"I gotta go," she said quickly, her voice shaking.

"Will you at least try to come to the funeral?" he had asked.

"I don't know."

And she hung up.

"I guess she really does hate me after all. . ." House said glumly, scratching his chin.

"Or maybe her flight got delayed," Wilson said.

"Yeah, because that's more likely than her not wanting to go to the funeral of the guy who ruined her life."

He sighed.

Just then, Wilson's phone buzzed with a text message.

He looked down.

"Holy shit!"

House looked at him.

"It's from Cuddy," Wilson said, reading: "'Flight was cancelled. Just landed at LaGuardia.'"

"Shut up," House said.

Wilson showed him the phone.

"Holy shit," House agreed.

"What should I write back?"

"Tell her that you couldn't take it so you took off after the funeral and that you want to see her. And tell her to come here."

"What?" Wilson said. "She's not going to come here. We're 2 and a half hours from LaGuardia."

"She'll come to sit with a dying friend—one she may never see again."

"Huh," Wilson said. "And where will you be during this blessed reunion?"

"Three booths over. With my back to you—and a receiver in my ear. . ."

"Why House?"

"Because then I'll be able to hear your entire conversation," House cracked.

"That's not what I meant."

"Because I want to see her. Because you want to see her."

"I don't know if I can lie to her face," Wilson said. "She's going to be upset. She's going to want to talk about you."

"So don't lie. Just say, 'I can't talk about it.' Which happens to be true."

Wilson sighed, hesitated. Then typed into his phone:

"Had to get away. At the Red Baron diner on Route 1. Can you meet me here?"

He hit send.

Both House and Wilson stared at the phone for what seemed like a very long time.

House drummed his fingers loudly on the table.

Wilson shot him a look.

House stopped drumming his fingers and began jiggling his leg.

"House, you're driving me crazy."

The phone buzzed. Wilson looked at it.

House stopped jiggling.

"What's it say?" he said, anxiously.

"I'll be damned," Wilson said. "She's on her way."
######

Ten cups of coffee, eight games of Words With Friends, and three hours later, Cuddy arrived at the diner.

When House saw her car pull up, he quickly limped to an empty booth, and slumped low, just in case she might recognize the back of his neck.

He watched her get out of her car, from the corner of his eye and felt his heart race just at the sight of her.

He hadn't seen her in two years.

Her hair was longer, wavier than he'd last seen it. And she was wearing a tight black dress—a mourner's dress. God, was it possible she was even more beautiful than he had remembered? He blinked.

She was frowning a bit and looked frazzled, like someone who had been traveling all day.

When she saw Wilson, she gave him a long hug.

House adjusted the ear piece, slumped a bit further, and listened.

"Hi," she said.

"Hi," Wilson said back.

"You okay?"

"I've been . . .better," Wilson said.

"I can't even imagine what you're going through," she said.

"It's been rough."

"So how was the funeral?"

"Unpleasant. . . .They were burying my best friend."

"So you, what? Just needed some space?"

"Something like that," Wilson said.

"I understand," Cuddy said, nodding. "It all must be so horrible for you. You saw him die, right?"

"I. . .don't want to talk about it," Wilson said.

"Sorry."

He looked at her.

"How are you?"

"Furious that I missed it," she said. "I'm seriously thinking of suing that fucking airline."

From his booth, House smiled.

"And besides that," she continued. "Just kind of numb."

"I know what you mean," he said.

"This is going to sound insane, but I always thought House and I would reconcile, you know?"

Wilson almost did a spit take.

"Reconcile?" he said.

"I don't mean romantically," she said. "Not necessarily. I just mean be in each other's lives. In some way. I had this vision of the two of us in the old age home together, insulting the other patients."

"I didn't know you felt that way."

"Yeah," she said. Then she added, in a far away voice: "He used to call me, you know. . ."

House squirmed a bit in his booth. Oh crap.

"Call you?"

"Yeah. When he got drunk. He'd call me, in tears, and tell me how sorry he was. How much he still loved me."

Wilson began to smirk and then realized that smirking was an inappropriate reaction under the circumstances. Instead, he covered his mouth with his hands, as though overcome with emotion.

"Crying?" he sputtered.

You asshole, House thought.

"Yeah. He could be a sloppy drunk, as I'm sure you're well aware," Cuddy said, with a chuckle.

Wilson suddenly had a vision of House the night of the award's gala, stumbling to Cuddy's house in the rain, confessing his undying love to her.

"Yeah," he said. "I guess so."

"I wasn't ready to forgive him yet. . .but now I wish I had," she said.

"I'm sure some part of him"—the part that's sitting 20 feet away and listening to our conversation, Wilson thought—"knows that."

"It just sucks," Cuddy said, swallowing hard. "Everything sucks. You being sick. House dying. The fact that he did something so stupid and unforgivable, he died without knowing that I still love him."

And she burst into tears.

Wilson was about to get up, console her, when a male figure materialized at their table.

"I knew it! I knew you still loved me!" House said.

Cuddy looked up, turned white as a ghost . . . and passed out.

#####

"It's okay, we're doctors," Wilson said, as House cupped his palm under Cuddy's head and Wilson waved his hands in front of her face.

"What the hell are you doing?" Wilson hissed to House.

"I don't know improvised," House said, with a shrug.

"This whole staging your own death thing is going to fall apart if you keep telling people about it," Wilson said.

"She's not anyone, she's Cuddy."

With that, Cuddy's eyes fluttered open.

She saw House and Wilson hovering over her, their faces large and looming.

"Am I dreaming?" she said groggily.

"No," Wilson said. "You just passed out. And he's . . .real."

Cuddy rubbed her eyes and House helped her sit up.

"Is she going to be okay?" the waitress said. "You need me to call 911?"

"No, she's fine," Wilson said. "Maybe a glass of water?"

They helped Cuddy back into the booth.

"You're alive?" she said, looking at House, her eyes still sticky-wet from the tears she had been crying a few minutes earlier.

"Either that, or I'm a remarkably high-functioning ghost," he said.

"You fucking asshole."

"That's my girl," he said, smiling.

"The waitress brought over Cuddy's water. She took a sip and looked at House expectantly.

"So what was this. . .some elaborate scheme to get me back to New Jersey?"

"No," House said. "Everyone really thinks I'm dead . . . well, everyone but Wilson. And Foreman…if he ever looks under his end table."

Wilson gave House a curious look. He didn't know about Foreman.

"But why?"

"Because I got railroaded on some trumped up charges and my parole was revoked," House said. "It was either fake my own death or be in jail while Wilson was— "

"Dying," Wilson helpfully finished for him.

"Those were your only two options?" Cuddy said, skeptically.

The color was beginning to return to her face.

"Pretty much."

"And who's going to take care of Wilson when he gets sick?"

"I am, of course," House said.

"And . . .what happens when he . . ."

"Dies," Wilson said.

"Yeah," Cuddy said.

"Haven't thought ahead that far," House said.

"And what about his body? His funeral?"

"Hadn't thought ahead that far," House said.

"And then what about you? You're a fugitive for life? No identity? No medical license?"

"I hadn't—"

"Thought ahead that far," she said. "I got it. Great plan there, House."

"I switched dental records with a real dead guy," he said, as if to demonstrate that some planning had, in fact, occurred.

Cuddy stood up.

"Wilson, I love you. I'll call you once a week. Good luck with everything."

And she grabbed her purse and started to leave.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" said House. "First of all, you're not going anywhere. You might be concussed. We have to monitor you for 24 hours."

"I'm fine," she said.

"And second. . .that's it? You do realize that if you leave now, you may never see me again. Dead guys are notoriously hard to get in touch with."

"I'll take my chances," she said, angrily.

She headed toward the exit.

"Wilson, do something!" House said, in a panic.

Wilson followed her to her car.

"Please don't go," he said sheepishly.

"I can't believe him. I can't believe you. Do you realize what you put me through?"

"Yes, believe me. Yes," Wilson said. "I was as surprised as you are."

"This little stunt is so. . .House. Except it's extreme, even for him. It's like House on crack."

"His motives are pure," Wilson said. "He did it out of love for me."

"And perhaps one day I'll be able to appreciate the beauty of his gesture. For now, I'm tired and cranky and I just want to find a hotel and get some sleep."

"House is right. You took a pretty hard fall. You need to be monitored," Wilson said.

"Et tu, Wilson?"

He looked at her earnestly.

"Just stick with us for a few days, okay? How long were you planning on staying in Princeton?"

"A week," Cuddy admitted.

"So ride with us for a week. House's death may've been fake, but mine is real. I don't know when we're going to. . .get a chance like this again."

He looked at her sadly.

"I miss you," he said.

"I miss you, too," she said.

"So you'll come with us?"

"And this is really because you want to spend some time with me before you—"

"Die," he said.

"And not because you're secretly hoping that I'll take care of House when you're gone?"

"I assure you, my motives are strictly selfish," he said.

She inhaled. Looked through the diner window, where House was watching them with some concern.

"Okay," she said reluctantly. "I'll come."

#####