Thank you, as always, to maineac for her help.

Hat Full of Rain

She looked good. This was casual Cuddy. Casual Cuddy looked young, almost girly at times. He used to like casual Cuddy.

She looked good. It had been over two years, but she didn't look it. It would be a few years until the years really began to show.

Two years and thousands of miles – Wilson's overly innocent expression told the story of how.

The moment her eyes fell on him, he got up from the recliner. He would have to pass her on his way out, but that couldn't be helped.

"Cuddy." He nodded in passing.

"House…" she sounded a bit hesitant, as if she hadn't expected him. He was out the door before he could change his mind. A quiet 'whoosh' saved his sanity for now. Slowly making his way down the corridor, he was tempted to look back. But he didn't need confirmation that she was watching his retreat. He knew.

She had been sitting and talking with Wilson for over an hour before the sliding door spit her out again. An hour later and she looked two years older, at least.

Without a word she sat down next to him, didn't even look at him.

His hands were busy twirling his cane.

"Did he guilt you into talking to me? Did he pull the 'last wish of a dying man' card?"

She shook her head. "No, he didn't. And I'm not talking to you."

"And yet you sat down right here and not on the chairs down the corridor. Or the ones in the cafeteria, I hear they're nice and comfy. I'm sure they also have acceptable chairs wherever you live now. You didn't have to come all the way to Seattle to sit."

He didn't have to look up from his hands to know her eyes had turned dark with irritation by now.

They sat in silence for a while.

"He fell asleep, he was tired. How long does he have?"

So she had changed her mind about talking to him after all. Despite his earlier needling he wasn't quite sure how he felt about that.

"He's not dying. Not yet anyway. Not if I have anything to do with it."

She scoffed. "You're still not God, House."

He shook his head slowly. "No, and I never was. But he's hanging in there and according to his doctor he's got a good chance. Last round of chemo finishes today; we're out of here tomorrow if all goes well. At least for a while – until the resection."

He swallowed on his dry throat. "That's if the tumor's shrunk. We'll find out in a few days."

She finally looked right at him. He dropped his eyes down to his feet again, cane still turning between both hands.

"I can't let him die, Cuddy. I can't…" It just burst out of him, against his better judgment.

She sighed and it was like all the antagonism had left her then. "I know, House. You've already done your part. I know that he refused treatment before. I'm not completely cut off from Princeton. People told me he had given up. And then you died. That should have killed him. But it didn't. Were you playing the long game with this? Were you hoping he'd see sense on the road with you – wherever you went?"

So she was still in there, the old Cuddy who knew just what he was up to, who could beat him at nearly every game he chose to play. And even if she couldn't, at least she would give it a damn good shot.

Instead of an answer, he finally put his cane down, ready to get up. "Want to go and grab a coffee? You look like you could use one."

The cafeteria was just like any other hospital cafeteria they had ever seen and therefore just like their old workplace. So they ended up with a takeout cup on a bench outside.

It was one of those fall days that trick you into thinking it is still summer. He rolled his shoulders, closed his eyes and let his head fall back, face towards the sun. It felt like he hadn't seen the sun in weeks. Come to think of it, he actually hadn't. He'd been stuck inside with Wilson for what felt like an eternity.

"Are we even allowed to sit this close? Or is this just a trick so you can call the cops on me?"

"I'm pretty sure the restraining order became void when you died, House. And no, I won't call the cops on you. I'm not here for you, I'm here to see Wilson."

He was going to ask her what she was doing having coffee with him then but thought better of it.

"How's Rachel?"

He felt her tense up next to him. "Are you making small talk now, House? Never was your strong suit."

She must have seen something in his face, though, because when he turned to look at her then, she said, "Rachel is fine, House, just fine. She's at my sister's. And she still watches that horrible pirate cartoon when I'm not paying attention."

He nodded. So there was hope for the kid after all.

The silence that followed felt odd. They had never been silent with each other. Mostly they had argued and bickered. For a short while they had been a couple and attempted to talk couple things with each other. Until things fell apart.

His hands felt for the packet of cigarettes in his pocket. Having stopped all those years ago after his infarction, he had felt an unstoppable urge two weeks ago. Well, not unstoppable. Everything was stoppable; you just had to know how. Except cancer, it seemed. And he hadn't really wanted to stop that sudden yearning for a smoke. He needed the distraction; the short trips outside. His way of dealing with the stress. God, he wished he could light up now. Maybe not such a good move, though.

House sighed.

Why, Wilson, why did you have to ask her to come? But the answer was simple.

"He wants you and me to make up."

It was out before he was sure that was what he wanted to say.

"Is this what you want?" Her voice sounded edgy but not necessarily hostile.

Startled, he realized she was just as confused by this situation as he was. Was this what he wanted? He didn't know.

"Until today I hadn't even thought about it," he finally admitted. "I have a one-track mind these days. Not much space for anything more than Wilson and his treatment, his white cell count, any side effects, whether he's going to make it through the next day. Am I going to sleep tonight? Is he going to be in a lot of pain? Is he going to keep down the stuff they call food here? That's as far as my thoughts go these days, I'm sorry."

He finally looked over at her. Her face had softened, she was looking into the distance, and not seeing anything it seemed.

"One of the things I've always liked in you, and hated at the same time, House: You're honest, even if it's the worst thing you could say. I wasn't sure whether I should come out or not. He didn't tell me you were with him. But I kind of knew. This is Wilson, and you're never far from where he is. Dead or not. But I knew you weren't. Dead, I mean." Her hands were playing with the zipper of her fleece. "People always thought Wilson was there to keep you out of trouble. I don't think many realized you're at least as much his guardian as he is yours."

She looked up and straight into his face.

"So, are you taking your charge, um, home tomorrow?"

Her question seemed to imply a lot more than what it seemed.

"Huh, home." Until this was over he didn't think there was a home for either of them. Anywhere. Especially not him. "Yes, we're heading back to the apartment tomorrow if they let Wilson out of here."