Cuddy was in bed reading when she heard the knock on the door. It was close to midnight. As she wrapped a sweater around her and padded cautiously to the peephole, she couldn't help but think of him. Midnight front door rendezvous had been his specialty. So when she peered through to see a hunched tall figure, cane in hand and head bent to reveal a small bald spot, she had the sense she was dreaming. Her breathing stopped short and, trite as it was, she couldn't think of anything to do but pinch herself. As her mind whirled she could only conclude that this was some kind of sick joke. Someone messing with her… She reached into her purse on the small table by the door and found her pepper spray. She unchained the door and slowly opened it, body tense and face twisted into a suspicious glare.

He looked up at her, taking her in for the first time. She was exactly the same – beautiful even at this hour, even in this state.

He saw the confusion on her face, then the pepper spray in her hand. He was so foolish. Mentally preparing for this moment he had been so preoccupied with various scenarios of her emotional reaction to being romantically involved with him again, he'd totally ignored the psychological transition he was asking her to make in a single moment.

He'd forgotten he was dead.

"Now, Cuddy…" he began, trying to calm her down.

She saw his eyes, heard his voice. She couldn't speak. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't understand this. She felt herself start shaking. She pressed her free hand against the doorframe to steady herself.

"What…" was all she could croak out. She thought she might pass out.

"Cuddy, listen," he said. He stepped forward cautiously, seeing her unsteadiness but still nervous about getting sprayed. "I know this is crazy. I… I really don't know what to say except… I'm not dead. And I wanted to see you."

Cuddy shook her head and knit her brows. This was fucking nuts.

"You…" she hissed. She dropped the pepper spray and pointed a finger at him. "You are…" Her knees finally buckled and she sunk down on the stoop.

House exhaled with relief at her disarmament. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm an idiot. I thought… This seemed more romantic in my head."

She looked up at him with an inscrutable expression. She had at least a dozen emotions layered on her face. "Romantic?"

"Cuddy, just…"

"You're insane!" she shouted. She saw a curtain move across the street. Curious neighbors. "House…" - God, she was saying his name again - "…What the hell is going on?"

"Um, well, it's a long story." He sat next to her on the step. She stared at him like he was an alien. "We gotta go back to… well, to when you hit my car with your house." He looked over at her with a tentative smirk, then down at his shoes. "I'm assuming you don't love going back there."

Cuddy bit her lip, tried to regulate her breathing.

"So the short version is, I went to prison, made parole, went back to work, Wilson had five months to live and I was about to have to finish my six month sentence." He let this sink in. "So naturally the obvious thing to do was…" he shrugged.

"You faked your death," she finished for him. He nodded slowly, still staring at his shoes. She had this way of making him realize how ridiculous he was sometimes. "You faked… your death." She was trying to get her head around this. Nothing so shocking had ever occurred in her life – a life filled with House.

"It was a sort-of spontaneous decision," he explained. "I had gotten myself into a situation and it… fit."

"An injecting heroine in an abandoned house kind of situation."

"Yeah."

Cuddy pursed her lips. He couldn't tell if she was angry or relieved.

"And then what? You just… hid out with Wilson?"

He nodded, waited. He knew he needed to give her little pieces, time to process.

"So where have you been for the last year?" she asked.

"Prison. Then rehab," he answered. "In that order."

She looked at him now, calmer. He looked… good… healthy. "A reverse mid-life crisis, huh?"

He grinned. "Wilson. He pulled a Randy Pausch on me."

She blinked at him. "Why are you here?"

House swallowed. "To ask you if you're happy."

"If I'm happy…" she murmured, mind still whirring. "At this precise moment, I'm not sure that's the word I would use."

"I'm not happy, Cuddy," he confessed. "And I have this theory that maybe we can only be happy with each other."

She looked at him and shook her head with disbelief. "So you show up here, like this… and want, what, a relationship with me?"

"A date," he corrected. "A date with you." He raised his eyebrows.

Cuddy was silent. Then, "This is insane."

He said nothing.

"This makes no sense!"

Silence.

"This is crazy!"

"You're just saying the same thing in different ways," he informed her. She gave him the iciest glare. "Look, just stop thinking so much," he pleaded. "I'm about to leave and let you go to sleep… Do you want that to be the end of it or do you want to see me again?" He nudged her knee with his own.

"You were supposed to be dead, House. That changes everything."

"That's the idea." He reached out and took one of her hands. "Will you see me again?" His blue eyes were earnest, hopeful. His hand on hers still sent a surge through her body. It scared her.

"Okay…?" It was a statement and a question. He decided to quit while he was ahead.

"Okay." He squeezed her hand. She stared at him and he stared back.

"I'm not having sex with you, House." It wasn't meant to be funny – she was still in shock - but he laughed.

"Though this would be the most remarkable booty call ever," he teased, "That's not what I'm asking for."

She sighed again. "Okay. Alright."

House gave a highly satisfied nod. "Tomorrow?"

Cuddy was distracted. "Yeah, okay. Um, after the… After Rachel's in bed. Eight-thirty?"

House stood. "If you said no, I was gonna drive my bike into your front door." Cuddy glared at him again. "Too soon?"

"Way."

He nodded and she watched him walk to his motorcycle. "One condition," she called out. House looked up the walk at her. "No blue shirt."

He smiled, remembering. "You'll wear a burka then, right?"

She smiled back.

He drove off and she returned to bed in a daze, to the easily resurrected state of staring into the dark thinking about him. It was, strangely, comforting. His theory was right. No matter what ever happened, he made her happy.