Part IX: Filbert

House had seen pictures and heard plenty of stories about Rachel in recent days, but facing her in person was altogether different. She was taller and lankier than she'd been the last time he had seen her, with the same dark hair and blue eyes and a disapproving expression that so closely mimicked her mother's. For a fleeting second, House thought that, had he and Cuddy stayed together, he would have watched Rachel grow into this girl who stood before him. She was probably around seven by now, he started to think as she spoke slowly so he could understand, "Where's Mom?"

He shook his head as he heard water gushing through the pipes, and he said, "Uh…shower. I think. She didn't say."

Rachel turned toward the stairs and then looked back at him like she was expecting him to do or say something more. Through her child's perspective, she didn't seem to feel the need to fill the silence or put him at ease.

Finally, he said, "Maybe you should go back to bed. I'll tell your mom you were looking for her."

Rachel frowned a bit and shook her head, "No, thanks."

He thought she would have done exactly as he'd suggested, and when she didn't, he wasn't sure what in the hell to say. He watched while she sat on the chair adjacent to the sofa he was on, and started drumming her fingers on her knee.

"Do you need something? I mean...something I can get for you?" he asked.

"My arm hurts."

He nodded, taking a sip from the bottle of water Cuddy had left on the coffee table. "What happened to it?"

Rachel stood again, holding out her forearm right in front of him as she replied, "I hit it on the door knob."

"Why'd you do that?"

"It wasn't on purpose," she defended.

He didn't see any marks on her arm. Impatiently, she pointed to a spot of skin and said, "See. That's where it hurts."

Looking at the nonexistent mark and then at her face, he was preparing to point out the complete lack of evidence of any damage to her arm when he remembered exactly what to do. He stood, grabbed his cane, and gestured toward the kitchen. "You coming or not?" he asked.

He limped out carefully since he'd been sleeping and his leg was stiff and sore, and the girl followed a few steps behind. Even after years apart, he remembered some of what he'd learned from his time with the child. This particular treatment had always worked before.

Opening the freezer, he started to search through the contents when he heard Rachel say, "Can I have a popsicle?"

He leaned back so he could see her around the door, and he asked, "No. Where's that frozen dog?"

"We don't freeze dogs," Rachel replied, staring at House with childlike horror.

"Not a real dog," he impatiently replied, "that frozen, stuffed dog ice pack you use when you get hurt."

She crossed her arms, "It's a monkey."

"Dog, rabbit, monkey. Same thing. It's cold. Where is it?"

"I haven't used the 'boo monkey' since I was five!" she answered, scandalized by the suggestion.

"Wow. That long ago?" he replied, shutting the freezer door.

"Why'd you close the door?"

"You said you didn't want the frozen thing!"

"I still need ice," she insisted.

He stared up at the ceiling as he heard the water upstairs shut off, and he wished Cuddy would appear immediately. He grabbed a few cubes of ice and dropped them in a zip-top bag, wrapped it in a towel and gave it to her. "Better?" he asked as she put it on the wrong arm.

She sat on the kitchen stool, her legs swinging while he leaned on the counter and waited because he didn't know what else to do. "So," she said after a while, "you're the one Mom's been going on dates with."

He wished he'd asked Cuddy exactly what she'd told her daughter. "I hope so," he responded.

"Ian used to take me places for 'bonding time,'" Rachel said.

"Hunh?"

"The guy my mom used to go on dates with. Ian…," she said, like House should know. "He used to bring me lots of presents, too."

Cuddy had told House about her ex, but hearing a name and knowing that Rachel had known the man seemed to make him realer. "What did he bring you?" House asked.

"Toys. Movies. This pillow that was like a real unicorn."

"That's a terrible gift. Roll over in your sleep and you get a horn through the eye. Was that his idea of a present…blindness?" House retorted, watching a giggle flicker over Rachel's face before she decided she wasn't ready to laugh so easily.

"It wasn't that real."

"He was trying to buy you."

"What?" Rachel asked.

"He was giving you stuff so that you'd like him."

"Yea," the girl affirmed without the slightest disapproval.

"I'm not going to buy you stuff to make you like me," House admitted.

Rachel raised one eyebrow. "Can I have that popsicle now?"

"I just said I'm not going to buy you."

"But you didn't buy those. Mom did."

House's sleepy mind silently agreed there was truth to her logic, so he grabbed a popsicle and tossed it to her. She balanced the ice on her arm and opened the popsicle wrapper with her teeth and started to eat.

"Did it work?" he asked, curiously. "Did you like him?"

Rachel took a big bite of her treat and then said, simply, "I guess. He was nice." The girl held out the bag full of ice and waited for House to retrieve it. "My arm feels better." He tossed the bag into the sink and turned his attention back to her. Then she unexpectedly stated, "Mom said you're sad because your best, best friend ever died."

House propped himself against the counter, feeling like the girl had kicked him in the chest and knocked him backward. "He did," House answered as he started rubbing his leg.

"Sorry," she said, "I meant he 'passed away.'"

"You were right the first time," House replied. "He died. No matter how you say, it means the same thing."

"Uncle Wilson, right?"

"You remember him?" House asked, intrigued.

"Only a little bit. But Mom told me lots of stories. She said he was really sick."

"He was."

"Did it hurt a lot?"

House tilted his head as he considered the question. "I'm sure it did, sometimes. Your mom gave him medicine for pain. It would have hurt much worse if she wouldn't have done that."

"That was nice of her."

"It was," House easily admitted.

"You like her?" the girl asked bluntly.

He wasn't ready for a question like that. In one way he admired the girl's directness, and, in another way, he was thrown off by it. He narrowed his eyes, but the kid was undaunted, her veins miraculously filled with Cuddy's resolve and courage. Finally, he nodded and replied, "Yup."

She started to answer, but seemed distracted. She stared at the way House was digging into his thigh with the heel of his hand, and she sighed. "My hamster, Filbert, died," she admitted. "That made me really sad, too."

Completely unoffended by the implied comparison, House asked, "Your mother let you get a hamster?"

"She got him for me after we moved here. But I didn't have him long and then he died."

"That sucks."

"Mom said I could get another one, but I didn't."

"Why?"

"They didn't have another Filbert at the store. And then Elena won a fish at the carnival, so I cleaned the tank and gave it to her for her fish."

"Why?" he asked again.

The girl shrugged. "Because I didn't want a different hamster, but when I saw the empty cage, it made me miss him. Elena needed it more. And now I don't see it too much. I don't visit the fish. They're kinda boring."

"And hamsters aren't boring?"

"They're furry and you can hold 'em!" she said loudly, because the answer was obvious.

Her eyes darted to his leg again, and the rough way he was rubbing into the muscle. She shoved the chair across the floor to the fridge and stood on it as he watched, wondering if she was getting herself another treat as a way to test his reaction. She opened the freezer, immediately grabbing the item she'd wanted, then jumping down onto the floor, creating a thud that seemed particularly loud given her relatively small weight. She pressed a ragged, tattered cloth monkey against his leg. "Here," she said, "this will help."

He looked down at the object he'd been looking for earlier, the 'boo monkey,' using his hand to steady it on his thigh. "I thought you were too old for this?" he questioned, seeing how worn the cuddly version of an ice pack was. "And I'm a lot older than you."

"You needed it," she said honestly.

He remembered the way she used to cling to that ugly thing for any little injury or illness. Cuddy had joked that the 'boo monkey' was the cure-all modern medicine had yet to fully utilize.

"I'm sorry about your friend," Rachel said, staring up with innocent, honest blue eyes.

House felt a pang of missing, an ache that soaked from his ears where her words first landed, and spread through his brain and into his chest. Sighing under the incredible weight he bore, he replied, "Me too."

Cuddy hurried into the kitchen, likely responding to the sound of Rachel jumping down from the chair. "Hey, bub, why are you up? You okay?"

Cuddy looked nervously between House and Rachel, already desperate to know what had happened between them in her absence. She'd wanted to be there when they met again to ensure everything went smoothly, but it seemed clear that Rachel and House had begun without her.

"She had an injury," House said, watching while Rachel held up her arm to show her mother the still invisible bruise. "Other arm," he whispered behind his hand, watching while Rachel switched arms and showed her mother again.

"Come on, Rach, back to bed," Cuddy said. "He's coming for dinner tomorrow, remember? You can hang out then."

"Are you sure?" Rachel asked, looking first at Cuddy and then at House with that same uninhibited stare that she seemed to constantly wear.

Cuddy asked, "Is that alright?"

The girl thought for a moment, then looked at House and said, "If you want to."

House nodded, just barely, considering the reasoning behind her choice of words.

"'Night," Rachel said before she walked away.

"Good night," he responded.

Cuddy whispered, "Back in a second," as she followed her daughter.

Everything was quiet as House waited in the kitchen for Cuddy to return when suddenly, like so many times before, an idea struck him. Although many had interpreted his sudden disappearances as dismissive, intentionally rude or deflective, when a true epiphany came, it was impossible to ignore. It was like there was nothing else in his world. The call was both loud and quiet, everything and nothing, painful and pleasurable all at once, and that thought became his everything.

He went back to the living room, putting on his sneakers and tying them just as Cuddy returned. "You're leaving now?" she asked.

"It's late."

"Are you gonna tell me what happened with Rachel?" Cuddy inquired with a nervousness he heard but didn't really absorb. "You guys get along okay?"

"Sure," he answered, absently. He stood, quickly offering a peck on her cheek as he went to the door.

She disarmed the alarm, watching him worriedly, wondering what in the hell had happened with Rachel. "I'll see you tomorrow?" she asked.

"Definitely," he replied, taking an unsteady step through the door.

There was something that could cut through the tunnel vision that resulted from epiphany. He turned back, knowing intuitively that she was worried and also knowing that he didn't really want her to worry. There was a flash of knowledge, a realization that if he didn't say anything, she'd be left to make assumptions. He paused, turned, and returned to the bottom step. "I'm not going to relapse or do something stupid. I'm okay. I just have something I need to take care of and I'm ready to take care of it right now. I'll see you tomorrow."

She offered a half smile and said, "Alright."

She leaned against the door jamb and watched as he went to his car. He opened the door, letting the rain soak his hair and seep into his coat, and he said, "Don't worry about me and Rachel. We'll be fine. I know that for a fact."

"How?"

"We don't know each other well yet, but we have one thing in common. You. We both love you. The kid and I…will make it work." Before she could reply, he got in his car, shut the door, and started the engine. As he backed his car up to turn it around, he saw her smile, casually waving her fingers goodbye.

Exiting like that was so House. She had grown tired of their secret affair and was more than ready to bring their relationship out from the shadows. Cuddy was acutely aware of what that meant. It meant eventually telling her mother and sister. It meant bringing Rachel into the mix. As he pulled away that night, she entertained a thousand questions. How in the hell would her mother react? Could House and Rachel really grow to accept each other? What would happen if Rachel did like House, but his legal problems separated them all again?

Cuddy reminded herself that she still needed to do this step-by-step, but she still wasn't sure which steps were best to take first. Oddly enough, she and House were probably the healthiest they'd ever been as a couple, but, at the same time, things were more complicated than they'd ever been.

When he dashed off, it reminded her of how things were both the same, and quite different. This was still House. He still might disappear in the middle of a conversation to deal with something he suddenly decided he needed to do. He'd always done that, and she didn't think anything would really stop him. At the same time, he did at least pause for a minute and clarify before he disappeared. He was trying. It was hard not to wonder what earthshattering revelation had come to him at three in the morning while talking to a child.

When she saw Rachel at breakfast, Cuddy asked how it went with House, trying to avoid sounding like an interrogator. Rachel answered that question the same way she answered questions about how her school day was. "Fine."

Cuddy didn't push for answers, after all, how much was Rachel supposed to figure out after a few minutes with the man? Cuddy had spoken with her daughter in recent weeks about Wilson and the man she'd been seeing. In fact, she'd had Rachel talk to her counselor about it, too, hoping to make this introduction go as well as possible.

As Cuddy pulled into her reserved parking spot at the hospital, she saw House's dilapidated car parked in the spot next to hers. Shaking her head, she looked at the "Reserved for" sign that House had clearly chosen to ignore.

House was not waiting for her in the chapel (their typical meeting place in this hospital) or in her office. Just to be sure, she swung into the ER to make sure he wasn't there either. As she walked beyond the ER, he caught her eye. He was sitting in the outdoor courtyard off the waiting room, bundled up in a thick wool coat, leaning his chin on his cane as he sat. Cuddy started walking along the floor-to-ceiling windowed wall toward the door when she saw a vaguely familiar woman going toward him.

The cancer survivor House had paid to play bartender for Wilson's last night out cautiously approached House and sat next to him. The woman started the conversation happily enough, but Cuddy could tell the moment he shared the bad news. The 'bartender' hung her head, subtly mourning the loss of a man she'd only known for a couple of hours, and marking the fall of another of cancer's victims.

House reached into his coat pocket and gave the woman a book. The woman held it tightly between her hands as she expressed her gratitude. She took a piece of paper that he'd given her and jotted down some information. When she tried to continue the conversation, he stood, unceremoniously taking the paper from her hand before he said goodbye and walked back into the hospital.

Cuddy caught up with him in the foyer, and before she could say anything, he said, "Need a favor."

Shortly after, they were in her office. House explained, "I'm going through Wilson's stuff." The task had been put off yet again after she'd found the vial stopper the last time they'd decided to go through Wilson's things. "I started last night."

"What did you give the bartender?" Cuddy asked, fully expecting a deflection.

"This annoying inspirational support book he used to give some of his patients. That was his copy."

"You didn't want to keep that?"

"What in the hell would I want some lightness and hope bullshit book for?" House asked, somewhat belligerently.

"Because it was his?"

"I have other things that were his. Anyway," he continued, walking over to her desk, placing a piece of paper on it and pointing to it heavily with his forefinger. "You have her records?"

"Of course. You want to work on her case?"

"There is no case. She's still in remission."

"So why do you want her records?"

"Not her health records, her billing file."

Cuddy stared at the paper while she thought about how she wanted to handle his request, but after a few seconds, she searched the billing database on her computer for the name House had given her. Cuddy sighed and he asked, "What does she owe?"

"Just under twelve grand. She's making payments."

House's forehead wrinkled. "Can't you apply a negotiated rate?"

"That is the negotiated rate."

"Any administrator discounts?"

"I don't handle that here. The CFO makes all determinations above the Insurance and Billing Department. I can ask him, but I have to tell you, they negotiated her bill down to about one-eighth of what it was. Some of her treatments were experimental. Insurance didn't cover them."

House reached into an inside coat pocket and pulled out a pile of folded, tattered papers. Cuddy browsed through them, noting two life insurance policies payable to House's alias. He said, "Use this to pay off her debt."

"Are you sure?" Cuddy asked, surprised at the gesture. "You might need it."

"I don't need it. He was always busy caring about his patients or falling in love with them. He liked her. He would have tried to take care of her. I'm tired of looking at these papers and trying to figure out what to do with them."

Cuddy started tapping figures into a calculator and noted, "Are you sure about this?"

"I don't want it."

"I can put what's left into an account for Susan's future medical expenses."

"Who?"

"Susan…the bartender," Cuddy explained, knowing too well that House had never bothered with the woman's name.

House nodded. "Okay."

"One of our lawyers can draw it up. You'll still have to sign some of the papers since technically you're the beneficiary."

"Okay."

"Are you sure you're alright with this. You might need the money for—"

"I can't think of anything he'd like more than reaching out from beyond the grave to over-care for a patient," House interrupted.

"I think he was trying to take care of you, make sure your needs were met."

"That's exactly what he did. He made sure I have everything I need." House suddenly stopped rolling his cane between his palms and he focused on her. He didn't stare in his usual prying way, although he was going to wait there for an eternity, if necessary.

What he'd said in a couple of short sentences was a confession as soul baring as any dictionary length, tell-all book. Her lips moved to answer but her brain took a few more seconds to supply the words, "He didn't come here because of me."

"He came here because of us."

"He came here because he wanted to try to fight cancer. He wanted to live."

"You don't really believe that, do you? He was an oncologist. One of the best. He was also a master meddler. He played us. And we fell for it. Both of us. He tricked us into willingly going exactly where he wanted us to be."

"So what are you going to do?" she asked.

"I have all that I need. He did what he did best so I can have who I do best," House replied. "So what I'm going to do…is not screw it up."

Her breath hitched a moment. How many times had they looked at each other, argued, kissed, screamed, conspired, fucked? He could still make her heart pump out of rhythm and her skin warm like she was eighteen again. Just as she started to feel a little awkward about how easily she could be stirred, she remembered the confession he'd just made. He hadn't just said that he wanted her or even needed her. He'd said she was all that he needed. "What if I suddenly get sick and die? You need more in life than me," she stated.

"Fortunately for you, I'm the world's foremost diagnostician. I've learned from my mistakes. If you get sick, there's only one doctor handling your case. Anything from the common cold to sarcoidosis, I'm your man."

"But not every illness can be cured, even by the best of the best," she suggested, Wilson's recent passing implied in every word. "You can't invest everything in one person because it means you can so easily lose everything."

"I'm having dinner with Rachel tonight. I'm not a mathematician, but I believe that's actually two people. I'll secure this investment, then I'll diversify."