Keeping Vigil, House-Cuddy & Wilson, 'Solitary Penance'
Title: Keeping Vigil [2/5]
Summary: Four times Wilson finds Cuddy at House’s bedside and the one time he finds House at Cuddy’s.
Characters: Wilson, Cuddy, House & some others.
Pairing: House-Cuddy
Rating: K+
Previous Chapters: 1. Hesitantly Guilty
2. Solitary Penance
Despite his anger Wilson finds himself at House’s door, knocking quietly. A part of him half hopes the sound is too quiet for his fucked-up friend to hear, while the other part (the the bigger part of him, the part that actually cares) hopes he doesn’t have to use his key because he’s scared that if he does, he’ll find a scene much worse than the night before.
As he’d driven home, half-crazy with anger, half so sorely disappointed Wilson had started to feel something else; something that had become quite common when he’d been dealing with House over the past few years. The guilt had wormed it’s way in, coiling in his gut and despite his insurmountable rage he’d contemplated calling the only person he could think who could have dealt with House’s mess. He’d dialled her number once, twice, three times before deleting the digits and calling the other person who could deal with House’s mess. The other person - aside from Wilson - who had been dealing with House’s trail of destruction for almost a decade.
Cuddy, Wilson had been surprised to hear, hadn’t been entirely surprised. Because according to her, House’s attempt at suicide (if it could be called that) was long overdue. As she had reasoned, her own anger beginning to seep into her voice, his idiocy had been spiralling towards this since Stacy had left almost a year ago. Stubbornly - rightly - she’d refused to check on him and Wilson hadn’t been able to turn his own car around and go back.
Until an hour before, when he’d reversed out of the car park and sat on House’s street for thirty minutes before deciding that even if House was an ass, Wilson could still do the right thing. All he needed was to see that his friend wasn’t dead - maybe toss a few choice swear words at him as well - and then he’d leave, his guilt sufficed enough to let him enjoy what was left of his pretty crappy Christmas day.
The door in front of him didn’t budge and when Wilson pressed his ear against the wood, the silence sent cold shivers down his spine. His forehead connects with the solid wood, an all too familiar coil of tightness in his gut. He remembered the last time he felt like this; when Stacy had called, her voice quivering as she told him the doctors were removing part of House’s leg. The coil had only tightened as he’d driven the three hour drive to Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital in New Jersey and as Wilson reaches for the key in his jacket pocket, he feels that same tightening.
Sliding his key into the lock, hesitating only once as his hand shakes, Wilson realises he’d holding his breath. He’s not sure if he wants to let it out; isn’t sure that he wants to acknowledge what he more than likely will find on the other side of the door. Because as much of an ass as House was, he is Wilson’s best friend.
Inside, the apartment is quiet and the absence of House’s prone body on the floor does little to abate his fear. The lights are out, the only lamination the amber glow streaming in from the perpetually unclosed curtains. Carefully, Wilson manoeuvres around scattered pieces of furniture and piles of books, dreading the moment when he steps on House’s cold, dead fingers. Instead, he makes it down the hall and into the bathroom without incident and when he gets there, his fear only heightens.
The silence is eerie, the amber glow dimming as he makes his way further away from the source. He closes his eyes at the doorway of the bathroom, double checking the bath tub just in case. In the bedroom, he hesitates. He’s stumbled upon a scene like this before; a different setting but the same actors set up on the same stage. Despite the double bed, Cuddy is curled up asleep on House’s Eames chair, one hand propping her head up, the other grasping the covers at the edge of the bed.
Wilson doesn’t smile; he’s not sure her presence is something to be smiled at. Instead, he glances to the sleeping House, the pillows pressed up against his face as he lies face down, spread eagled and moves to stand behind Cuddy. Gently, he nudges her shoulder, whispering her name into the cool air of the bedroom. She snuffles but doesn’t rouse and Wilson presses firmer against her shoulder. Blearily she looks up at him, the confusion evident until she blinks and looks back to House.
Wilson motions with his head, noting how she hesitates before she reaches her hand up to House’s neck, her fingers checking for a fever or pulse - Wilson can’t be sure. When she stands and follows him, Wilson walks to the kitchen.
“I thought you weren’t going to come?” He asks quickly, not sure where his annoyance at her presence is coming from. He can see her frown, watches as her lips tighten at his tone and he lifts a hand up in apology. They stand quietly, somewhat awkward and Wilson isn’t sure if she’s embarrassed but when he tries to catch her eye, she studiously avoids his eyes and shuffles around the kitchen. He watches her for a few moments and she touches almost new pots, fingers days old take out trays, litter covered surfaces that gleam when the light hits them and he wonders, not for the first time, how well she knows House’s residence. “Are you all right?” He asks instead, the part of him that’s her friend taking over.
She turns to him and nods, her grey eyes almost vacant as she stares at her fingers.
“He went to see Tritter this morning.”
Wilson is surprised by this.
“That’s good, right?” He asks, raising his eyebrow again as she potters about, ghosting past him as she reaches for two cups in the sink, rinsing them under the water. He shakes his head when he offers tea but she readies two cups anyway and Wilson knows she hasn’t heard him. “What did Tritter say?”
She sighs and braces herself against the worktop, her head falling slightly. The light catches her hair and when she turns to him, Wilson’s surprised by how old she looks in the light. Wilson knows firsthand the effects of House’s friendship; he’s experienced the black hole quality of House’s personality. He hadn’t thought he’d survive it for as long as he has and as he looks at Cuddy, he doesn’t think she’ll survive it much longer either.
“Tritter knows he took the Oxy.”
The words are unexpected, brutal and Wilson has to grip onto the worktop behind him as his knees give way. He closes his eyes, his anger at House’s complete idiocy returning. The weight in his stomach drops to his ankles and he can feel his face prickle as the blood heads south. He knows he doesn’t need to voice the question but he does anyway.
“No deal?”
“No deal.”
Wilson is surprised by the irritation in her tone, the spiteful inflection and he narrows his eyes at her.
“You’re mad at me for this?”
Cuddy stares at him, her eyes glassy in the dimness and Wilson can feel indignation rise up from his gut. He watches her watching him for a long moment before she sags slightly and covers her face with her hands.
“I’m mad at the situation. I’m mad at him for being such a stubborn jerk, I’m mad at you for thinking House would take the deal, I’m mad at him for stealing the meds but I’m mad at myself for not believing how much pain he’s in. I’m mad at myself for thinking that we can control House, I’m mad at you for making me think I could control House or his pain or his jerkiness. Because we can’t. I’m mad...”
He reaches out as her voice quivers and touches her elbow but she shies away from his touch, her fingers digging into her eyes as she valiantly fights off the tears he’s been sure she’s been holding in since she arrived.
“Lisa...” He says but nothing else comes. Helpless, he stands vigil behind her as she wipes at her eyes, as she pours some milk into the steaming cups of tea.
“I don’t know if I can keep doing this, James,” she says quietly, so quietly that Wilson almost misses it.
He slips his arms around her shoulders and takes the spoon from her hand, urging her to turn in his arms. She resists at first but turns quickly, letting him secure her in his embrace. He rubs his hand up and down her back in a move that House would consider condescending but that Cuddy obviously needs. He sighs into her hair as he feels his shirt dampen slightly.
“Why don’t you go home?”
She shakes her head and pulls back, swiping at her tears again. Wilson has been privy to Lisa Cuddy’s tears only twice (including now) and it’s something that he never wishes to experience again. He’d known Cuddy since House’s infarction, and he knew she wasn’t a crier. Not for little things and not for big things and the sight of the tears still rolling down her cheeks let Wilson know that to her, this is a big fucking deal.
And it is to Wilson as well but he likes to believe that he and House will always be friends, no matter what happens. He likes to believe that he has House figured out. He likes to believe that House can’t surprise him anymore, that he’d gotten the diagnostician figured out. And for a while, his self-delusions had worked. But then House did what House does best and totally blew all of his carefully thought out reasons out of the water.
“I want to keep an eye on him. I gave him a sedative to help him sleep.”
She turns away from Wilson as she speaks, her fingers fidgeting again on the work surface. He leans back on the worktop, knowing that she needs her space.
“You don’t have to do this, you know.”
She glances up to him from under her lashes, her shoeless feet rendering her even smaller than normal, her tear stained face betraying her inner turmoil. She’s scared, Wilson knows. And he is too. Scared at how far House had pushed them; scared by how far House had gone this time.
“I know.”
“You don’t owe him anything,” he says to her retreating back.
She falters slightly as she walks away from and Wilson knows she’s thinking about his leg, of the months of House’s angry yelling and bitter words. He’d been there; he’d seen it too. But when Stacy had left, it had been Wilson and Cuddy who had been left to deal with the mess. She looks over her shoulder, her eyes downcast.
“I know.”
He watches her retreat to her post but doesn’t follow. He stays in the kitchen, looking around at the mess. House still hadn’t cleared up since the police search but Wilson doesn’t want to even begin trying to put anything back together. He’s too tired. Exhausted even and he knows that neither putting House’s house back in order nor a few hours sleep will erase that. He stares out of the window, his eyes raking over the city and he doesn’t let himself think about any of this. He doesn’t think about Tritter, or House’s almost death, he doesn’t think about guilt or innocence or House in jail. He just watches and listens, the silent blackness comforting him with its emptiness.
When he eventually moves, the tea is cold. He pours it down the sink, watching as the dregs drain away.
In the hall, he checks in on Cuddy. Her eyes are closed but he knows she’s not asleep. He steps in, casts a glance at House and covers Cuddy with the blanket that is lying discarded at her feet. Her finger brushes against the back of his hand and when he looks at her, her eyes are still closed but she smiles at him ever so slightly.
“Thank you,” she whispers gently when he reaches the doorway.
Wilson doesn’t reply as he takes one last look at the two of them and closes the door.
Cuddy may not owe House anything, but she gives him everything anyway.
Wilson doesn’t resent that.