So, just as a backstory for this fic: In this version, after the events of Season 7... (House crashing his car into Cuddy's home), Cuddy moves to New York with Rachel. And Wilson survives cancer. Reviews and criticism welcome... Enjoy :)

Cuddy had just shut the door to Rachel's room, when the doorbell rang. It was 8:00pm in Albany, New York. Who the hell was ringing her doorbell? She checked through the blinds quietly, and what she saw made her heart stop. It was Wilson.

She hadn't seen Wilson in a full year. She hadn't seen Wilson since House drove a car into her diningroom. She hadn't seen Wilson since she resigned from Princeton Plainsboro Hospital. She rushed over, and opened the door. Wilson looked exactly the same as he had when she last saw him. He had thickened out a little bit, but only back to what his normal weight had been before his cancer. Wilson stood there awkwardly, "Hi," he said.

Cuddy was still in a state of shock, "Uh, hi. Is everything...okay?"

Wilson breathed in, and then out, "Yeah, everything's fine. How've you been?" Wilson asked; even though he knew very well how she had been. Cuddy called Wilson about once a month, mostly for comfort. Cuddy hadn't made any close friends at her new job, only to fault of her own. Occasionally, Cuddy would put Wilson on the phone, and they wouldn't even talk. Just having someone virtually there, made Cuddy feel less alone.

"I've been...alright. How 'bout you?" Cuddy answered, shifting her weight and leaning against the doorframe.

"Fine," Wilson answered, swallowing hard.

"Um, do you wanna come in? Rachel's sleeping."

"No, that's fine. I have a plane to catch in about an hour."

"Oh, so why are you here?"

"I had a conference in New York City," Wilson said earnestly, and then stared off at a random point to avoid Cuddy's eyes. He continued after a moment, "I flew down here...to visit, I guess. And to give you something." Wilson proceeded to take a white envelope out of his pocket. He handed it to Cuddy.

"This is for you."

"From you?"

"No," Wilson paused for a moment, "From House."

Cuddy felt her knees buckle, and she swear someone had shot a soccerball into her chest. She stood there for a few long moments, not able to speak; just staring at Wilson's outstretched hand.

"What...why?"
"He asked me to give it to you. I haven't read it. I don't know what it says."

Cuddy cautiously took it from him. She felt like she was holding a bomb in her hand. And she felt tears coming into her eyes.

Wilson took a deep breath, "He said he understands if you don't want to read it. You don't-you don't have to take it," he stammered, "if it's too hard."

"No," Cuddy swallowed, "That's okay. I'll-I'll take it."

Wilson nodded quietly, "Well, I better go."

Cuddy put her arms around Wilson suddenly, "You have a safe trip, okay?"

She promised herself silently she wouldn't cry until she'd shut the door.

She watched Wilson leave in a grey Prius, which was obviously a rental car because Wilson disliked Prius's.

In her kitchen, Cuddy put the letter down onto her island. She stared at it for awhile. What was she doing? The whole purpose of moving was to help her move on. This was not helping her move on. This was not helping her move on, at all.

So before she could think anything else about anything, she thew it into the trashcan outside.

Cuddy had developed insomnia since the night House drove a car into her house. Cuddy had developed insomnia since the night she last saw House. And sometimes against her better judgement, she wished House was in bed beside her. Which was completely and utterly stupid.

Cuddy had stopped loving House that day. She was sure that she had stopped loving him. How could she still be in love with him?

She went to bed early, because she couldn't think of anything else she wanted to do. Cuddy lay in bed for five hours, staring at her wall.

Wilson coming to her door had brought back all these memories she had tried so hard to forget. And then there was the letter. She had no idea what was in the letter. House was unpredictable, she knew this.

What could be in there that she didn't already know? That he was sorry? Well no shit, sherlock.

What could be in there that could hurt her more than she already was? Nothing, was her answer.

She bolted downstairs because for some reason she needed to read it right now, in this moment. She ran out to the side of the curb in her nightgown and opened the trashcan, and took out the letter.

Cuddy sat on the side of the curb in the suburbs of New York, in nothing but her nightgown, at 1:00am; and opened up memories. Horrible, wonderful memories.

To Be Continued.