It was almost better when he was dead.

At least when he was dead there was something to mourn, something finite, absolute. Not this purgatory of Greg House being both alive and dead—both in her life and out of it.

After five weeks, she couldn't take it anymore.

She got a babysitter for Rachel, and went to the Horizon House to visit him.

She strode up to the front desk.

The clerk was a middle-aged black woman, with a pleasant, if slightly pock-marked face.

"I'm looking for a resident here," she said. "They brought him in as a John Doe? He walks with a limp?"

"Oh, you mean Doc!" the woman said, smiling broadly.

Cuddy gave a slight smile.

"Doc. Yeah. . . I guess so."

"He's not here."

"Not here as in. . .moved out?" Cuddy said, panicking a bit.

"Not here as in, he's at work."

Work? There was no way House could practice medicine anymore—he had no record of his education, let alone a license. So what kind of work could he possibly have, especially at this hour?

"He plays piano at a hotel lounge," the woman said, as if reading her thoughts.

So he could still play piano, too. The brain was a fascinating organ.

"Which hotel?"

"The Lancelot. You know the place?"

Cuddy nodded. It was right up House's alley: An historic hotel that had somewhat gone to seed. The Oriental rugs were faded, the lampshades were dusty, the furniture hadn't been in style since 1965. Great bones, but a little rough around the edges—just like House himself.

"Thanks," she said.

She drove to the hotel, took a seat at the lounge bar.

House was sitting at the piano, dressed in a black suit with a white shirt and a black skinny tie. He was playing a kind of tinkering jazz that blended with the murmured conversations and clinking glasses.

Most of the guests in the lounge were ignoring him–or finding the music to be nothing more than a pleasant diversion. But there was a small cadre of bleached blonde, busty middle-aged women—cougars, you might call them—who were gathered around the piano, watching him attentively.

Every time he finished a song, they applauded loudly.

"That was Tears on My Pillow," House said.

"No need to cry, baby. I'll comfort you," one of the ladies said.

The other ladies giggled.

"Our pianist has groupies," the bartender said, noticing Cuddy scowling in their direction. "You know Doc?"

"You could say that," she said. "A lifetime ago."

"He's an enigmatic guy. Doesn't talk much. I think that's part of his appeal to the ladies."

Cuddy nodded. She couldn't exactly disagree.

"Can you send him a drink for me? A Dewars on the rocks?"

"That's not his drink," the bartender said. "He drinks bourbon. Jim Beam."

Another bit of neurological weirdness.

"Jim Beam then," she said.

The bartender sent over the drink, pointed at Cuddy.

It was hard to explain the look on House's face when he saw her—joy mixed with something akin to relief.

"Back in 10," he said to the assembled crowd.

He walked up to her.

"Dr. Cuddy!" he said. "How'd you find me here?"

"The woman at the front desk at Horizon House."

"Dolores," House said. "Nice lady."

Cuddy regarded him curiously. She had never once heard House refer to anyone as a "nice lady."

"It's great to see you, Dr. Cuddy."

"Call me. . .Lisa," she said.

"Okay, Lisa," he said, a tiny, amused half smile playing at his lips.

"And everyone around here has been calling me Doc."

"Because they know you used to be an MD?"

"Guy had a heart attack," House explained. "I stabilized him. I guess it looked like I knew what I was doing. The nickname stuck."

"If you're going to have a heart attack at any hotel lounge . . ." Cuddy said.

"This is the place to have it," they said in unison.

House grinned at her.

"Listen," he said. "I have to get back to my set. But I have something I need to . . .give you. I'll be done in 45 minutes. Can you stick around?"

"Give me?"

"Yeah," he said. "Can you stay?"

She looked at her watch. It was 10:15.

"Okay," she said skeptically.

She noticed that the cougars were eyeing her enviously.

"Figures he'd go for that classy type," she heard one of the women say.

After the set, House limped over, sat down.

"You played beautifully," Cuddy said.

"I'm glad someone was listening," he said.

"Your fan club was rapt," Cuddy protested.

"Yeah, but they're not here for the music," he said.

He ordered a bourbon for himself and a vodka martini for Cuddy.

"So what did you want to give me?" she asked.

He reached into his inside jacket pocket, pulled out two envelopes.

"This," he said.

She furrowed her brow. Took the first envelope, opened it.

It was a cashier's check for $1,500.

"States don't subsidize places as nice as the Horizon House," he said.

She'd forgotten how smart he was. Nothing ever got past him.

"But where did you get this money?" she said.

"Turns out, there was a key in the pocket to my jacket that opened a security deposit box," he said. "There was 75 grand in cash in there. I guess it was my rainy day fund or something."

"Wow," she said. "House thought of everything."

"And there was something else," he said. "This letter. It was addressed to you."

He slid a second envelope toward her.

She looked at it. It was a white envelope with the name "Cuddy" written on the outside, in House's unmistakable chicken scrawl.

A chill went down her spine. She had the strange sensation that she was getting a letter from a ghost. And yet, here House was, sitting right beside her.

"You didn't read it?" she said to him. The envelope was sealed.

"No," he said. "It felt like an invasion of privacy. Which is strange, since I apparently wrote it."

Her hands shaking a bit, she took the envelope, opened it.

Dear Cuddy-

If you're reading this letter, I must be dead. For real this time. That other time I died was a fake—to avoid jail time and have one last hurrah with Wilson. (We hurrahed our asses off, in case you were wondering.)

The reason for this letter is . . .well I'm not quite sure. I was hoping I'd figure it out as I wrote. . .

Obviously I wanted to tell you how sorry I am, for everything. Some tiny, dimwitted part of me hoped that I would see you at my funeral (how often does a guy get to write that sentence, huh?). But of course you weren't there. I guess once I crashed my car through your living room it was the end of our love story. For you, I mean. Not for me. Our love story is never going to be over for me, Cuddy. Ever.

After Wilson died, well, it was rough. I felt alone in this world…mostly because I was.

But I kept this picture of you and Rachel in my wallet and I would look at it from time to time, when I needed cheering up. Why the hell would that picture cheer you up, you might ask. Isn't it just a reminder of how completely and thoroughly you fucked things up? Well, yeah. But it also reminds me that I was in your life once. That I was happy once. That I made you and Rachel happy once (please don't tell me otherwise—I NEED to believe that's true.) And when you think about it, that's really more than a guy like me ever deserved.

Your always,

The world's most talkative dead guy,

Greg House

A tear dripped down Cuddy's cheek and landed on the letter.

House looked at her, horrified.

"Oh my God. Are you okay?" he said.

"Yeah, I'm . . .I just need a minute to collect myself."

She took a breath. Took a sip of her martini. Looked back down at the letter, dabbed her eyes with a cocktail napkin.

"I think you really were planning to kill yourself," she said softly, almost too herself.

"So that was a suicide note?" he asked.

"Suicide note-slash-love letter," Cuddy said. "Typical House."

"Can I. . . see it?" he said.

"I don't know Doc," she said. "It's a lot to absorb. I'm not sure you're ready."

"I was an outlaw from justice with a hole in his leg who lost the girl," House said. "Not that hard to figure out why I wanted to kill myself."

"And your best friend died," Cuddy said sadly.

"I had a best friend?"

"Yeah." She smiled. "Dr. James Wilson. It was a bromance for the ages. . .he died of cancer last month."

"That sucks," House said, trying to process.

Cuddy put her hand on his shoulder. It occurred to her that perhaps his amnesia was as much a psychological manifestation of his grief as it was a neurological condition. Maybe House had PTSD.

"I really don't think you should read the letter," she said, folding it and putting it in her purse. "That's my personal—and medical—opinion."

"Okay," he said, nodding. "I'm sorry that I—that he—made you cry."

"He did that a lot," Cuddy said.

"Then I'm a lot sorry."

She looked at him. He felt guilty for something that wasn't actually his fault.

"But he made me laugh a lot, too," she said.

"I figured he must've done some things right," House said.

"Oh, he did a lot right," Cuddy said, with a slightly dirty smirk.

They both blushed a bit.

"So what happened? Why'd you dump him? And be specific."

House grabbed a pen that was tucked behind the bar. He licked the tip of the pen, as thought poised to write.

"What are you doing?" she asked, chuckling.

"Just wanna take notes so I don't make the same mistake twice," he said.

She smiled. Charming Doc was just like charming House —irresistible. This could get dangerous.

"Maybe I'll tell you the House and Cuddy love story some other time," she said, standing. "It's getting late."

"So we were in love?" House said.

Cuddy nodded, lost in thought.

"Crazy in love," she said. Then she added, under her breath: "Emphasis on crazy."
#####

A week later, she found herself driving to Lancelot Lounge again. She told herself that it was because she felt responsible for "Doc," was checking up on him in an almost clinical way, but of course that wasn't true.

Doc possessed everything she liked about House—his intelligence, his wit, his languorous sex appeal—without any of his darkness and anger. He was sweet and a little helpless, like a puppy dog version of House. (Of course, the old House could be sweet, too—and it was a side he shared with Cuddy more than anyone else—but it was hardly his default state.)

She sat down at the bar, ignoring the withering looks from Doc's bleached-blonde pack of groupies, ordered a martini. House saw her out of the corner of his eye, smiled a bit.

"This next song is dedicated to a lady who held my hand—both literally and figuratively—during a very rough time in my life," he said.

He began to play. The haunting tune, a standard, was very familiar to her, but she couldn't quite place it. Then she realized what it was: Unforgettable by Nat King Cole.

She stifled a laugh. He took note of her amusement, of their shared joke, and looked proud of himself.

After his set, he sat down next to her.

"Hi Lisa," he said.

"Hi Doc," she said. Then she chuckled: "Unforgettable? I see what you did there."

"You liked that, huh?" he said, grinning.

He leaned toward her, so that his face was a few mere inches away from hers.

"Thank you for saving me from the cougar pack," he whispered. "They've been getting increasingly aggressive lately."

"Aggressive how?" Cuddy said, giggling. "Like clawing at you? Pouncing? Attempting to mate?"

"Something like that," he said. "More specifically, putting perfume soaked notes with their room numbers in my jacket pocket."

"I was wondering why you smelled like cheap perfume," she said.

"Occupational hazard," he said. "But trust me when I say, I've steered clear. . . You see, I like someone else."

She smiled, despite herself.

"You do?"

"She's the most beautiful woman in this—or any—room. But I don't want to freak her out by coming on too strong."

"I don't think she freaks out that easily," Cuddy said.

"Then maybe she wants to join me for dinner tomorrow night, at the Horizon House? We're having a little pot luck. It's casual."

"I don't know. Why don't you ask her?" she said, teasingly.

"Hey Wanda!" he yelled across the room. One of the cougarpack looked up, hopefully.

"Yeah, Doc?" she said.

"Uh, forget it," he said, laughing.

"That was mean," Cuddy said, slapping him. Just like old times.

"Dr. Lisa Cuddy, would you do me the distinct honor of being my dinner date tomorrow night at the Horizon House?" he said, positively oozing charm.

Resistance was futile.

"I'd love to."

#####

Everyone at the Horizon House had Doc's strange mixture of optimism and melancholy. They were melancholy, because something had gone wrong, terribly wrong, to get them there in the first place. But they were optimistic, because things were looking up. There was a conviviality and a warmth among the house members that was unmistakable. They bonded over mutual misfortune and hope.

They were all buzzing about the community kitchen together, pouring wine, tasting food, cracking wise. Cuddy had never seen House interacting with "regular" people with such affection. He teased one of the men for wearing a woman's apron, drank wine from another woman's glass, wrote dirty words with magnets on the refrigerator. Not one of these people had an IQ that even approached his, but there was no judgment, no disdain, no secret under-the-breath snark. He seemed to genuinely like them and they liked him back.

There were about 14 of them, including Cuddy, all sitting around a big table, family style—House was ladling the chili he had made into bowls.

"I wasn't sure if you ate meat," House said to Cuddy. "So I made a separate batch of vegetarian chili just for you."

"Awwww," said Barry, a Gulf War vet who was recovering from PTSD. "Doc has a crush."

"Shut up," House said. But he grinned.

"Well we can see why you like her so much," said Marie, a buttoned-down 50something librarian and—surprise!— recovering meth addict. "She's just lovely."

"Yeah, she is. Isn't she?" House said. And he put a dollop of sour cream on Cuddy's chili.

After dinner, they all retired to the living room. House sat next to Cuddy on the one of the ratty couches—put his arm around her.

The gesture seemed so familiar, that she almost forgot how strange it was. He hadn't touched her with such intimacy in years. Still, it felt natural, good.

"Doc here is like a party trick," Barry was saying. "Hey Doc, what's the square root of 4,964?"

"70.4557," House said.

"And what happened on September 20, 1519?"

"Magellan set sail across the Atlantic."

"And what's your birthday?"

House shrugged.

"Haven't a clue."

Cuddy looked at him, "It's June 11, 1959," she said.

"Really?" House said.

"Yeah," she said.

"Damn," he said. "That stings. I'm old."

"You're just figuring this out now?" she said.

"Hey, that's mean!" he said, hitting her.

"Oh, poor baby," she said, stroking his face and giving a fake pout.

He looked back at her, longingly. Their eyes locked for a long time. Everyone noticed. Then he whispered in her ear, "Wanna go upstairs to my room?"

The heady mixture of alcohol, the look in his eyes, and the near-pleading quality to his voice was too much for her. Her nerve endings were positively on fire.

"Okay," she said.

"We're going to call it a night," House said, popping up quickly.

There were a few knowing glances.

"Nice to have met you, Lisa," Marie said.

"See you at breakfast," one of the younger house members said, and everyone laughed.

######

House's room was small, spartan—with a bed, a couch, and a tiny kitchen.

He began straightening up, hastily. There was a newspaper on the floor that he folded and put on the kitchen counter. There was also a stray pair of dirty socks. He picked them up for a second, not quite knowing what to do with them, then threw them in the garbage.

"I have white wine. . ." he said, nervously

"That would be nice," Cuddy said, equally nervous.

He poured the wine into 2 plastic cups and they sat down on the couch.

"To. . . new beginnings," House said.

He took a sip, looked at her. His breathing was somewhat stuttered.

"Would it be okay if I kissed you?" he said.

"Yes," she said.

He put down his cup, leaned in and gave her a tender, open mouthed kiss. His eyes were closed. His long eye lashes fluttered when he kissed her.

"That was nice," she sighed.

He took that as his cue. He leaned toward her again, still breathing heavily, and they kissed for a second time, a longer, more sensual kiss. Her mouth melted into his. She'd forgotten how amazing his lips and tongue felt.

Now his hands were going through her hair and on her back and shoulders—and she helped him unbutton her blouse. He moaned as his hands reached under her bra, found her breasts.

"My God, you're so beautiful," he kept saying, kissing her neck, her collarbone, her breasts. "My God."

She unsnapped his jeans and reached through his boxers. They both gasped as she grabbed his cock—his wonderful, huge cock (she'd missed it, there was no denying that)—and guided him inside her.

They found their rhythm almost instantly. It was like nothing Cuddy had ever experienced before—the giddy thrill of fucking someone new, combined with the familiar taste and feel of her oldest and greatest lover. As they often did back when they were regular lovers, they came simultaneously.

Afterwards, he held her in his arms, looked at her lovingly.

"Not bad for our first time, huh?" he said.

######

There was no point in pretending otherwise. She had fallen back in love with him.

So she decided to invite him over to "meet" Rachel.

That morning, she explained to Rachel that her old friend House was coming over for dinner but he had a brain injury, which made him forget stuff, not completely unlike when Great Uncle Al had Alzheimer's and thought he was back in Normandy.

Rachel nodded sagely. She didn't totally get it, but she was excited to see her old best friend.

He was right on time. 6 o clock. He was dressed up, which was adorable, wearing a tie. He had a bottle of wine, too, a 12-year-old burgundy.

"Hi," he said to Cuddy. He gave her a quick kiss.

Rachel hid somewhat shyly behind her mother's leg.

"Hey Rach," he said. "How's tricks?"

It was such a smart thing for him to do. Not, "you must be Rachel" or "I'm Doc." Just a simple hello.

"Can I see your room?" he asked.

And he held out his hand.

Rachel smiled. This wasn't nearly as weird as mama said it would be.

"I have a Power Girls bedspread!" she said, taking his hand, happily leading him to her room. "And a stuffed Wookie, that makes the Wookie noise when you squeeze his belly."

"Seriously?" House said. "The Wookie noise. Sweet!"

Cuddy smiled, watching them.

She went back to the kitchen, continued cooking the Moroccan stew.

Twenty minutes later, she stood in Rachel's doorway.

"Dinner's ready," she said.

Rachel and House were on the floor, playing "First Day of School" with her dolls. Rachel's doll was the kindly teacher, and House's doll was the scared little girl who needed consoling.

"She told me I always used to play with her dollies all the time," House said, with a slightly embarrassed shrug.

"Actually, you didn't," Cuddy said, laughing.

"Mo-om!" Rachel said. At five, she had just learned the art of rolling her eyes.

"It was fun," he said to Rachel. "I'll play First Day of School with you anytime."

And stood up.

After dinner, they put Rachel to bed and sat together on the couch. They'd had a lot to drink and were both feeling sated and relaxed.

"You were great with her," Cuddy said.

"She's a great kid. It's easy to be great with her," he said.

"She likes you, too. Always did."

House leaned over and kissed her. As always, a single kiss shot straight between her legs.

"We shouldn't, Doc," Cuddy said, reluctantly pulling away. "Not here. Not yet."

"I understand," he said.

He stood to leave.

"I hope you still had a good time," she said apologetically.

"Best night since my accident," he said. Then he smiled, somewhat suggestively, "Well, second best.

"And I hope my Moroccan stew was at least somewhat edible."

"It was delicious. I don't why your mother was always saying you can't cook."

He had said it so casually, it took a second for it to register, for both of them.

"What did you just say?" Cuddy said, feeling her face get hot.

House looked stunned.

"I said. . .I don't know why your mother was always saying you can't cook. But I don't why I said that. I. . I don't even know what that means."

It hit her, like a tidal wave. She felt like she couldn't breathe.

"You fucking bastard," she said.

"What?"

"You fucking lying bastard."

"Lisa, I don't know what you're talking about!"

"Stop it House."

"Did your mother criticize your cooking? I swear I have no idea where that came from!"

"Stop lying," she hissed. "You're making it worse."

He looked at her. Seemed to think about something for a long time, then took a deep breath.

"I'm sorry. . . Cuddy."

Until that moment, she hadn't been sure.

"You're a monster!" she said, and she began pounding on his chest, hitting him as hard as she could.

He stood there, taking it, as she pounded on his chest, again and again, until she was exhausted.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Let me explain."

"Get out!" she screamed "Get out of my house. Get out of my life. For good this time!"

"Cuddy please!" he said. "I didn't mean to lie to you! It just happened. Please let me explain. Nothing that happened between us was a lie. I love you!"

"Get the fuck out," Cuddy said. Her voice was suddenly calm again.

"Cuddy," he said, one more time, pathetically. He looked like he was about to cry.

"House. Get out or I'm calling the cops."

He started toward the door.

When he got outside, he turned back to her.

"Can I at least have my photo of you and Rachel back?"

And she slammed the door in his face.