Chapter 21

The time he spends with them runs more smoothly than he expected. He feels welcome at their house and accepts Cuddy's offer to spend the nights on the couch. The weekends are filled with activities such as Rachel's soccer games, cooking, playing video games, and accomplishing homework assignments. On the second weekend, House brings his own guitar and teaches John some chords he has not managed to learn from YouTube videos, yet.

Cuddy is softer and more emotional than he remembers her, which he attributes mainly to her children. She is extremely gentle and affectionate with her kids, and he enjoys the warmth and care in their interactions. The loss of her husband adds to her vulnerability, and House frequently finds her staring into space or tearing up when she stumbles across remnants of Michael in the house. With House around to be with the kids, she occasionally uses the opportunity to pay a visit to Michael's grave, returning with red-rimmed eyes. She is still tired and worn out a lot, but is turning more and more into the version he is used to.

One Monday night in the beginning of May, he calls Cuddy after work around nine, wanting to discuss something with her he had not managed to bring up the prior weekend.

"Hey, what's up?" she asks with slight concern in her voice. He hardly ever calls her; their main way to communicate is via texts.

"I know I probably should have mentioned this sooner, but I don't think I can drive John this weekend." He feels guilty for breaking his word to her.

"You think you can't? What does that mean?"

He rubs his forehead, reluctant to tell her. "Could you come down to Princeton to see him? Visit your sister?"

"Yeah. I have to talk to Julia, but I think I can arrange that." She sounds hesitant, but not reproachful. "House, what's going on?"

"It has nothing to do with you, or John." His voice is becoming louder. "I'm not bailing out, okay? It's only this weekend." He knows he is overreacting. She had not accused him of anything.

"Okay." She draws out the 'o', indicating her irritation. "House, I wasn't implying… Why are you so upset?" Her voice is gentle, and he is almost annoyed she is so understanding of him.

He walks around his living room, trying to decide whether or not to confide in her. He feels embarrassed and weak. He wants no sympathy, especially not hers. Comfort he despises even more, mostly because he cannot accept it. He is used to suffering alone. Eventually he stops pacing and takes a deep breath. "It would have been Wilson's birthday this weekend," he says quietly into the receiver. "His fiftieth."

"Oh," is all she manages to say. There is a long pause on the other end.

He does not want her to be uncomfortable, so he tries to end the conversation. "If you… if it's not possible for you, I'll come. Just text me." He hangs up before she can say anything else.

LLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL

On Sunday he sits on the bench by Wilson's grave for a long time. It is cloudy and windy, but the air feels warm, and he listens to the singing leaves and the birds that are fighting to keep up with the noise. He closes his eyes and tries to remember the sound of Wilson's voice, tries to conjure up his face. What would they be doing today to celebrate this special occasion?

He is deeply lost in thought when he hears heels clicking on the pavement. He thinks it might be Sam—he occasionally runs into her here—but when he opens his eyes he sees Cuddy approaching with a candle in her hand.

She stops a few feet in front of him. "Hi," she says earnestly and looks at him with her head slightly tilted.

He realizes she is not here because of him, so he just points with his eyes in the direction of her destination.

She turns around, sees the headstone, and approaches it carefully. House cannot see her face as she stands there, looking at her friend's grave. He watches her measured movements as she pulls out some matches from her pocket, lights the red graveyard candle, and sets it down carefully. She stands there for a long time, and he knows she is silently crying. This is probably the first time she is confronting herself with his death; the first time she is mourning him. She pulls out one tissue after the next. When her supply runs out, he finally brings up the courage to get off the bench and walk up to her. He stands next to her and offers her a napkin he found in his jacket pocket without looking at her. "It's used, but you can take the flipside."

She chuckles briefly. "Thanks," she mumbles with a strained voice as she takes it from him. "I just feel so awful." She wipes at her eyes as more tears run down her cheeks. "That I wasn't there for him. Through any of this."

"He wasn't alone," he says eventually, his eyes sadly following the curves of the letters on the headstone.

She calms down a little and glances up at him. "Tell me what happened?!" It is more a request than a demand. He knows she will accept a 'No' from him in case he does not want to talk about it.

He takes a deep breath as he looks upon the grave once more, and finally turns away. He is not denying her, which she must have read from his face, because she wordlessly follows him. He needs to sit down. Feeling the imprint of the hard bench still on his buttocks, he decides to walk to his car, which he parked closely to the graveyard.

They both get in after he unlocks the doors and, staring out of the windshield most of the time, he shares his memories about the last five months of Wilson's life. He tells her about his impending incarceration, his faked death, their bike trip, and many of the funny moments they shared, which ultimately became fewer and fewer as the cancer took away more and more of Wilson's energy and spirit.

When he finishes they sit quietly for a while, his voice still hovering in the confined space of the car. At some point, she takes his hand and looks at him. "House, I'm so sorry."

Many people had said the exact same words to him at the funeral and in the days that followed, and to him they had sounded hollow and empty. It is different with her: She is the one person in the world who knows how much Wilson meant to him, and suddenly his vision is getting blurry as tears flood his eyes. He pulls his hand away from her, feeling embarrassed and pathetic. He looks out the side window and hopes that his tears remain in his eyes, unwilling to perform the telltale gesture of having to wipe at them.

"You should get going," he says, trying to maintain a grip on his voice. "You still got a long drive ahead of you."

"Yeah." She nods weakly. "I'll see you Friday?"

She looks at him, but he refuses to face her. "Yup. Say hi to the kids."

"Okay, I will," she says, and gets out of his car.

He watches her walk to her car and drive away while he sits there, slowly clenching and unclenching his right hand.

Author notes:

I know this doesn't add much to the plot of the actual story, but I wanted to give Wilson some room. He will play a role in the next chapter as well. No idea if Wilson's age or birthdate was ever mentioned in the series. R.S.L. turned 50 last year, so I guess the timeline could be about right.

I wrote another Huddy fic, btw. Under Her Skin. It's a short story set in season 7. It has nothing to do with this series, but go check it out if you like my writing. ;-)

Feedback is highly appreciated!