I would like to thank Babaloo for her expertise in proofreading. And for her patience. She is also a great writer. Check out her stories in FF.

This story will have 4 chapters. All of them are already written.

I

Blue sky. White clouds. Black silhouettes flying, far away. An aeroplane passing, just a thin fading line on the big space. Sounds of people running. Broken conversations. Laughter. Bright sun. Smell of grass. Heat on the skin.

House was stretched out on a picnic table, arms folded under his head, cane next to his right leg. He felt serene, lazy even, lying there, enjoying the first days of summer.

He closed his eyes.

He heard footsteps approaching.

A shadow blocked the sun.

He kept his eyes shut.

"House."

A familiar voice near him. Too familiar. He shuddered inwardly.

"House, I know you are listening. Open your eyes. I want to talk to you."

"Go away. There is nothing to talk about. The dead don't talk to the living. Unless during a séance. And I don't think they perform such a ceremony in a public park, in broad daylight."

"You are not dead and I'm not leaving without talking to you. I'm going to sit down on this bench and I'm not going to move an inch until you give me your full attention."

Damn the woman.

"I thought we had said everything there was to say when I gave you back your brush."

Silence.

She didn't move. House could hear her breathing, could smell her perfume. So sweet. An insect buzzed next to his ear and flew away. His eyes remained closed. Maybe she would get tired and leave. Maybe she was not really there. Maybe she was a hallucination.

Cuddy remained seated.

"Aren't you curious?" She said at last. "Aren't you curious to know why I am here?"

House didn't want to open his eyes. He didn't want to. He wished he could also close his ears. It was better if he didn't answer at all. If he didn't say anything there would be no conversation. No reason for her to stay. That's it. Problem solved.

But he was curious.

With a grunting noise, House opened his eyes, lifted his head and looked at Cuddy's face for the first time in more than two years. He felt like crying. Instead he said:

"Why are you here, then?"

"I know about Wilson."

Ah. House lay down his head again and gazed at the sky, waiting for her to continue. But she didn't.

At last, against his will, House asked:

"How did you find me?"

"When I heard about your death…" She paused. "When I heard about your death, I didn't believe at first. To be honest, it took me some time to believe, despite the fire and the witnesses. Despite the body. One day I went to visit your mother."

"Why?" House turned to Cuddy.

"I don't know. It was a whim. I needed to talk to someone who had known you, and your mother was the only person…"

"With no connection to the hospital."

Cuddy smiled sadly. "Exactly."

House's look became intense, the blue of his eyes more bright.

Cuddy continued. "I caught a plane and went. I wanted to give her my condolences. I wanted to say to her… I didn't know what I wanted to say. I think I wanted to be sure you were dead."

"For you to breathe a sigh of relief."

"No. Not that." Her voice gained a vehement tone. "Never that." She said softly.

Cuddy's eyes followed a couple pushing a baby stroller. "Your mother received me very well. I always liked her. We had tea. She spoke about you, about your childhood…"

"Oh, God!" House turned his eyes to the sky.

"… showed me photographs…"

"Oh, the horror!"

Cuddy laughed. The sound travelled to House's soul and remained there. He had missed that laugh.

"We were together for a long time. At the end of the day, when I was preparing to leave I noticed a postcard on a table. It was a postcard from Venice. It was signed: 'Nemo'. I knew then you were alive."

"I shouldn't have written to her. It was stupid of me."

"It wasn't. Well, maybe it was a little but if you hadn't written I would not be here."

"Like I said, stupid. I wouldn't be surprised if you had called the police. Maybe they are here now, scattering around the park, hidden behind the trees."

"Do you think so?"

House looked at Cuddy. At the sadness in her eyes. A sadness he had put there. He wanted to kiss her.

"No," he said at last.

Cuddy went on. "I was in shock, of course. I didn't tell anyone. I asked myself if other people knew you were alive, if you had told the truth to someone else. I found out Wilson had left the hospital and nobody knew where he was. I added two plus two. I imagined both of you in Europe. The adventures you were having. The troubles you were getting into…" Cuddy smiled mischievously. House too, although he wished he didn't.

"I was happy. You may not believe it but I was happy. Afterwards I heard about Wilson's death. I had to see you."

House and Cuddy looked into each other's eyes for a long time. Trying to find what each other was feeling. Weighting the moment.

Cuddy broke the silence. "Lucas…"

"Oh, crap, Cuddy!" House exploded. "Don't tell me you told him. I don't know why I'm not in prison already." Angrily he rose to his feet and was about to leave when Cuddy held his arm. "Wait," she said. House looked at her hand and remembered the last time Cuddy had touched him in a similar way. A sour taste came to his mouth. Shit, he thought. And to say the day started so well.

"You didn't let me finish. I was going to say: Lucas… taught me one thing or two in the time we were together." House made a mocking sound but Cuddy ignored him. "I found out you had returned to Princeton and that you usually come to this park. You didn't bother to cover your tracks. Aren't you afraid of the police?"

House shrugged.

"I imagine they have more things to worry about chasing old cripples."

Cuddy noticed the bitterness in his voice.

House removed a bottle from his pants pocket, opened it, and took two pills. He showed them to Cuddy. They were Vicodin. "My leg is not hurting," he said emphatically. Then he stared at her waiting for a reaction. Cuddy said nothing. He swallowed the pills. "Come, let's go to the lake. I need to walk."

They walked in silence. Cuddy was careful not to outpace him, to follow his rhythm. She had observed he was limping more than usual.

It seemed strange to be there, walking with him side by side. Sensing his presence. When she had touched him earlier, she had felt his skin under her fingers, his body heat, his well-formed muscles, his protruding veins. The power of his presence. During the last few years she had thought more of him as a ghost, as someone she had once imagined. It was good having him near her, alive. It was good to hear his voice. To see those blue eyes again.

Cuddy and House approached the lake. Ducks, geese and a pair of white swans were on the water. Tree leaves glimmered under the sunlight, wavering in many shades of green. Some kids were throwing pieces of bread into the lake. The ducks approached quickly, hurriedly, leaving an undulating trail in their wake.