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It happened on a Thursday.
It always had to be a Thursday.. that kind of grey, meaningless day that didn’t even bother pretending to be dramatic.
Lisa Cuddy wasn’t supposed to be there. She’d been invited to a medical conference in some anonymous New Jersey town, the kind of thing she used to fake sick to avoid.
She sat through two lectures, smiled politely, clapped at the right times.
She was halfway through her lukewarm coffee when she saw him.
At first, it was just a shape : tall, unkempt, leaning on a cane that looked too familiar.
Then he turned his head, and the world just... stopped.
She froze. The mug nearly slipped from her hands.
That profile, that stupid walk, that impossible arrogance even from across the room.
Her brain tried to find excuses : coincidence, hallucination, stress.
But no.
You don’t mistake Gregory House.
And the worst part ? He saw her too.
Their eyes met, just a second, before he turned around and walked out.
Just like that.
‹‹ Son of a bitch, ›› she whispered, and she was already moving.
The rain had started by the time she found the house.
Small, wooden, isolated.
She didn’t even know how she’d tracked him : maybe muscle memory.
Maybe something deeper.
She knocked twice, hard enough to hurt her hand.
Silence.
Then, a slow shuffle behind the door.
‹‹ If this is about religion, I already sold my soul. ››
She almost laughed. Almost.
‹‹ You son of a bitch, ›› she said instead.
The door opened.
And he looked… older. Not by years, but by miles.
There were faint lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there before, and the beard didn’t help.
But it was him. Alive. Breathing. Smirking.
‹‹ You’re dead, ›› she said flatly.
‹‹ I get that a lot. ››
Her hand flew before she even realized it : a slap, sharp and fast, that made his head turn.
He didn’t react. Just blinked, once.
‹‹ I deserved that, ›› he muttered.
‹‹ You think ? ›› she shot back. ‹‹ You faked your death. The world thought you were gone. I thought you were gone. ››
‹‹ Technically, I was. For about forty-five seconds. ››
‹‹ Don’t. ›› Her voice cracked a little, and she hated that. ‹‹ Don’t make jokes, not now. ››
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The rain filled the silence.
Then, quietly, almost too casually, he stepped aside.
‹‹ You might as well come in. I don’t think ghosts are supposed to stand in the rain. ››
The house was a mess, obviously.
Piles of books, empty coffee mugs, some piano sheets scattered on the floor.
But it was lived-in, and warm, and so painfully him.
Cuddy didn’t sit. She stood in the middle of the room, arms crossed, watching him limp toward the counter.
He poured two cups of coffee without asking.
‹‹ You knew I’d find you ? ››
‹‹ No. But I knew someone would eventually. Wilson used to call that optimism. ››
The name hit like a punch.
She looked at the single framed photo on the shelf : Wilson and House, both smiling like idiots.
Her throat tightened.
‹‹ He’s gone, isn’t he ? ››
‹‹ Yeah, ›› House said. ‹‹ Cancer doesn’t fake its death. ››
For a moment, the air between them went still.
She wanted to say she was sorry, but the words felt too small. Too late.
‹‹ You could’ve told me you were alive, ›› she said finally.
‹‹ And ruin my grand finale ? ››
‹‹ You’re unbelievable. ››
‹‹ You used to like that. ››
‹‹ I used to like you, ››she said.
Quiet.
She hadn’t meant to say it out loud.
He looked at her then, really looked. The sarcasm faded, replaced by something unreadable.
‹‹ Why are you here, Cuddy ? ››
‹‹ Bbecause I saw a ghost at a conference. Because I didn’t believe it. Because... ›› she stopped, shaking her head. ‹‹ I don’t even know anymore. ››
House leaned against the counter, his cane resting by his side.
‹‹ You hate me. ››
‹‹ Probably. ››
‹‹ Then this is a waste of time. ››
‹‹ Probably. ››
Another silence.
She laughed, suddenly : a soft, broken sound that surprised both of them.
‹‹ You’re still an ass. ››
‹‹ Consistency is key. ››
When she finally moved toward the door, the rain had turned heavier.
He followed her, limping a little slower now.
‹‹ You don’t get to just come back, ›› she said quietly.
‹‹ Didn’t plan to. You found me. ››
She turned to face him.
He was so close she could see the faint tremor in his jaw, the way his eyes didn’t quite meet hers.
‹‹ I spent years hating you for dying. ››
‹‹ You’ll have to start over. ››
Something in her chest twisted. She wanted to say "don’t disappear again", or "I missed you", or "I’m glad you’re alive", but the words refused to leave her throat.
Instead, she nodded once, and stepped outside.
The door closed behind her.
House stood there for a long time, listening to the rain hammer the porch, to the fading sound of her car starting.
Then he went back to the piano.
The same song, the same worn-out melody.
His fingers hesitated halfway through a note : the one she always said was too sharp.
He smiled, barely.
‹‹ Still wrong, ›› he murmured.
And kept playing.