So I wrote this story as a favor to a friend who is convinced that House dies after the finale. I see things different, partly because I truly believe that House is a survivor. This is a little different from my other fics: While it's told from Cuddy's perspective, it's really about House, and how he survives and why. It's a love story, because it always is with them, but not quite a romance. Just be prepared. (I hope you still read it, though!). I'll be posting it in two parts. Look for part 2 tomorrow. -atd

"Look how cute they are together."

Cuddy and her friend Peg were sitting on a bench, watching their daughters in the playground. Right now, the two little girls were huddled in the sandbox whispering intently to each other.

"I always wonder what they're talking about," Peg said. "They seem so deep in conversation."

"Probably glitter," Cuddy suggested. "Glitter is very big in Rachel's world right now."

"Or ponies," Peg offered.

"Rachel is more of a unicorn gal herself."

And they both laughed.

It had been just over four years since Cuddy had moved to Portland and she had to admit, she was bordering on happy.

Rachel was thriving as a second grader at the Starshine Elementary and Cuddy was settled into her job as the Chief Medical Officer of Portland General. She'd be lying if she said she didn't miss New Jersey sometimes—the people in Portland were almost too nice—but for the most part, life was good.

"So are you still seeing that guy?" Peg asked leadingly. "What was his name again?"

"Larry," Cuddy said. "His name was Larry. And no, we broke up."

"Damn, I thought that one had potential."

"Yeah, me too. But I found myself literally nodding off when he spoke. That's probably not a good sign, right?"

Peg laughed.

"Probably not."

She gave Cuddy a reassuring pat on the arm.

"Oh, Lis," she said.

Cuddy shook her head in a "whatchya gonna do?" sort of way, shrugged.

Just then, the two girls came charging over to the bench.

"Mama, we want ice cream!" Rachel said.

"With sprinkles!" her friend Posey agreed.

"And this much whipped cream!" Rachel said, spreading out her arms.

Peg looked over at Cuddy, wrinkled her nose.

"I'll be a horrible mother if you will," she said.

"We're such suckers," Cuddy said.

Peg gestured across the street, where there was an old fashioned diner—the kind that served root beer floats and apple pie with slices of American cheese on it.

"We could go to the HoneyPot," she said.

Cuddy glanced over. Then did a doubletake. There was a shadowy figure in the window, a tall, thin man looking into the park. She blinked. But when she glanced back again, the man was gone.

"Lisa, what's wrong?" Peg said. "You look like you just saw a ghost."

Lisa shook her head, snapped out of it.

"I . . .just had a touch of déjà vu," she said quickly.

"I hate when that happens," Peg said, collecting Posie's things. "Is there any medical explanation for that?"

####

By the time they got to the diner, Cuddy had forgotten all about the man in the window.

Okay, she didn't exactly forget. But she convinced herself that her mind was playing tricks on her. There was no man in the diner. And if there was, he certainly looked nothing like her dead ex boyfriend.

But the following weekend, she was at the park again and stole another look at the window.

And there he was again, staring back—his face almost obscured, but his posture and bearing unmistakably familiar. The man got up from the table. Not in an alarmed way, but calmly, slowly. And then he was gone.

Now she was truly freaked.

Of course, dragging Rachel to the diner was out of the question. For starters, Cuddy was clearly losing her mind—she certainly didn't want to pull Rachel into her delusions. And besides, Rachel didn't even know that House was supposed to be dead. They hadn't spoken about him in years.

But she took a long lunch the next Tuesday and drove to the HoneyPot, sat in the same booth where she had seen the mysterious man.

The waitress, a pleasantly plump young woman, already a diner-lifer in-training, handed her a laminated menu.

"I'll be right with you, hon," she said.

Cuddy glanced at the menu. She wasn't particularly hungry.

The waitress came over. Her name badge read "Rose."

"You know what you want, sweetie?" Rose said.

"I'll have the Dieter's Delight," Cuddy said—cottage cheese and a fruitplate. "And a cup of coffee."

"And that's how skinny girls stay skinny," Rose joked. "Sure I can't get you anything else?"

"No," Cuddy hesitated. "But I do have a question."

"Shoot."

"Do you work on weekends by any chance?"

"Yeah, mostly Saturdays."

"And is this your regular table?"

Rose gave her a curious look.

"Mostly I work this section," she said. "Why?"

"I saw someone I thought I recognized. An old friend. He was sitting at this booth, on Saturday. Tall guy? Blue eyes? Handsome in a craggy sort of way?"

"You mean Greg!" Rose said.

Cuddy's heart began doing flip-flops in her chest.

"Greg," she said. "Yes, that's his name. Do you know his last name?"

"Afraid not, hon."

"Does he come here a lot?"

"He's a regular customer. Usually comes on Saturdays—for a late breakfast. Around 11 am." Exactly when Cuddy usually took Rachel to the park.

"Do you know anything about him?"

Now Rose looked at her suspiciously.

"I thought you said he was your friend."

"To be honest, he's an ex boyfriend," Cuddy said. "I haven't seen him in years. I didn't even know he was in town."

Rose seemed satisfied enough with this.

"Yeah, he works over at the Applied Physics Lab. They say he's some kind of genius."

At this point, Cuddy literally felt like she was going to pass out.

"One more question," Cuddy said. "This Greg fellow. Is he handicapped? Does he walk with a limp?"

Rose laughed a bit.

"A limp?" she said. "No, honey. He's as able-bodied as you or me."

#####

That night, Cuddy did a Google search for the University of Portland Applied Physics Lab.

They were in the news quite a bit, as it turned out. The team was developing a revolutionary new prosthetic that completely mimicked the human leg or arm. It was activated by a chip implanted in the brain. It looked, felt, and moved like a real limb—even toes and fingers moved independently. The hand could grip and write; the leg could run and even dance (a ballerina who had lost a leg in a car crash was given the new prosthetic. Now she was back to doing pirouettes). The team was short-listed for the Nobel Prize in Physics.

There were several articles and each had a picture of the Research Team—lab coats and glasses, proud grins, holding up their inventions. And each time, the same small note on the caption: Not Pictured, Greg Overleve.

Two days later, Cuddy scribbled down the address and drove to the lab.

There was no formal reception area. Just an open space filled with scientists—several hovering over a microscope; a few tinkering with a robot; a few more playing some sort of 3-D video game. No sign of anyone who looked like House.

This is madness, Cuddy thought to herself. He's dead. He's not working in a laboratory in Oregon.

But she had to know.

"Excuse me," Cuddy said, walking up to a young woman with long straight hair, who was writing data on a clipboard as she watched a mouse spinning on a wheel.

"Hang on one sec," the woman said. She looked at her watch. "Eight hours," she said.

"What?"

"Myron has been on that wheel for eight hours. We're testing the effects of a new kind of human growth hormone. He shows no signs of tiring."

She smiled put down her clipboard.

"What can I do for you?"

"My name's Dr. Lisa Cuddy," Cuddy started. "I'm the Chief Medical Operator over at Portland General."

"Jane Owens," the woman said. "Nice to meet you."

"I'm looking for someone who works here: His name is Greg?"

Jane broke into a grin.

"You know Greg?"

Then she addressed the room.

"Hey everybody. This woman knows Greg Overleve!"

A set of curious eyes now focused on Cuddy.

"He's such a man of mystery," Jane explained. "Barry over here thinks he's a superhero. You know, genius physicist by day, crime fighter at night."

Barry turned a bit red. "I don't really think that," he said.

"We're. . .old friends," Cuddy said. "We've lost touch. So . . . is he coming back soon?"

"Not today," Jane said. "He only works Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays."

"Where does he go those other days?"

"Underground crimesolving cave, I'm sure," one of the other men said.

There were laughs.

"Shut up!" Barry said, grinning.

"I think he has some other job," Jane said uncertainly.

Cuddy pulled a picture she had saved of her and House together, a candid of the two of them at a party. It was one of the few she still had of him. (She'd destroyed most of the photos after "the incident"—but she somehow couldn't bring herself to throw this one away. They were sitting on a couch together. House was saying something to her and she was throwing her head back and laughing. It was back in the beginning of their relationship, when they were completely besotted, when they literally couldn't get enough of each other.)

"Is this the man you call Greg?"

Jane took the picture, then looked back at Cuddy incredulously.

"What? You guys were married or something?"

Cuddy began to shake.

"So this is definitely a picture of Greg?"

"Yeah," Jane said. She just kept staring at the photo. "He looks so happy. It's weird." Then she looked back up at Cuddy, with heightened curiosity. "How long did you say you guys were married?"

"I didn't. We weren't married. We, uh, dated for a year. It ended. . . badly. Do you happen to know where Greg lives?"

Jane shook her head. "No clue," she said.

Then Jane looked at her watch.

"Shit! Hold on one second."

She turned back to Myron, who was still running on his wheel.

"Atta boy, Myron!" she said, scribbling something on her clipboard. She turned back to Cuddy.

"I'm sorry. You were saying?"

"Do you have a phone number for him?"

"Phone number? Nope. I don't think so. Have you tried Human Resources?"

"No. . I. . ."

Cuddy had the sudden thought that poking around Human Resources, asking about the mysterious Greg Overleve was not a wise move, for anyone.

She pulled a piece of paper out of her purse, wrote a note, folded the paper.

"Can you get this to him?" she said.

Jane took the note.

"Sure," she said.

Cuddy was quite sure she would read the note, maybe even share it with the team, so she had kept it very short on details.

IF IT'S REALLY YOU, MEET ME AT THE HONEYPOT DINER. YOUR BOOTH. 3 PM ON FRIDAY. - C

And now all she could do was wait.