[House/Wilson] Maybe This Time
Disclaimer: David Shore =/= Me
Rating: G.
Warning: It will hurt you, more than it will hurt me. Hopefully.
Slash Level: Uh... This is Non-Slash Slash. Kind of like the show. If you watch the show and think "OMGZ SO GAY!" then read the story like that. If you watch the show and go "AWEEEE! BFF LIKE WOAH" then do that. Later on, it might go more in the direction of the former.
Summary: Wilson reached his limit.
Author's Note: For now, stands alone. Hopefully, if I have the time, it will get continued.
Scene 1: Maybe This Time, I'll Be Lucky
"What's this?"
Wilson had made up his mind. He was through. He personally handed Cuddy his letter of resignation.
"I finally burnt out." Wilson left Cuddy gasping. She caught up with him in the elevator. Cuddy pushed in the emergency stop. She looked like the Little Steam Engine That Could; too bad, today she couldn't. "I’m not in the mood to get hit on." Wilson reached to start the machine up again. Cuddy slapped his hand.
"You burnt out?" Cuddy said, brandishing the resignation: "You of all people ‘burnt out’? You haven't had a patient die in weeks." She held up the paper, ripping it into little shreds that she threw in his face. "I don't accept your resignation. I will not lose the best Head of Oncology in the East, maybe in the country, because you and your boyfriend had a fight."
House wasn't his boyfriend. Wilson couldn't say if that was or wasn't a problem. Wilson cocked his head, then showed why he and House were best friends for over a decade. “And sometimes when boyfriends fight, they decide to stop being boyfriends." Wilson pushed the button, oblivious to Cuddy's deadly glare. "In the settlement, he got the hospital and I got my sanity."
The elevator opened. Wilson walked out. Wilson needed to pick up and leave before House tracked him down. From the corner of his eyes, he saw House and his team in the middle of a differential. Good: that gave Wilson some time to slip away. House's patients trumped all. Cuddy, though, seemed to have all the time in the world. She stalked after him. "You're a professional! Your ‘whatever’ with House is not reason enough to resign."
"Ha!" Wilson continued walking, didn't even glance back at Cuddy. "Then why'd you let Stacy leave? Or Cameron? You know as well as I, being able to work with and tolerate that man is the unwritten qualification for working at Princeton-Plainsboro. Sorry, I can't do either anymore."
"Then what about me?"
"What about you!"
"Don't you care that he'll turn into a kamikaze pilot? With me as his first target!"
Wilson paused at his office door, "Oh, you'd lap it up. You live for clashing heads with him. But if you're so afraid, I'll give you some pointers. Always pay for his lunch, never interrupted a Sonny and Carly scene on General Hospital, and never feed into his narcissism. But, you better run quick. Cameron's been jonsing for my position since she got here."
Wilson watched Cuddy stand with her mouth agape. She'd already adopted his 'Goldfish Face'. See, she'd be just fine. A lesser woman would've taken the hint by now, but not Cuddy. Cuddy never went down in the first round. "So, you're just... That's it?"
"Lisa, I can't. I just can't."
"You could yesterday."
"Yesterday was..." Wilson paused, "Yesterday."
The world changes in a second. Humans looked at history as a series of defining moments. Wilson had his at 8:57PM last night, over a plate of cheap Chinese take out and a beer. Ten minutes later, he walked out of House's apartment with his suitcase. He got nearly everything he needed. And what he left behind, he could replace.
Cuddy said, "He'll be unbearable."
"He'll manage. He always does."
"He had you."
Wilson paused, "He'll manage." He tossed the books into their boxes without another thought. Normally, he'd organized them. Place them in exact order, so that when he pulled them out again he'd readily know their locations. He didn't care now. "I'll have someone fetch the rest in the morning. Brown might have seniority, but Henderson should replace me. He's more new-school." Wilson finished gathering his belongings into his suitcase.
"I haven't accepted you resignation."
Wilson hated making Cuddy look stupid and pathetic. "Lisa."
"James."
Wilson rubbed his temple, and took in a deep breath. "But you have to accept my vacation days. I haven't missed a day in four years, excluding that one time. So consider this four years of make-up plus all of this year’s vacation. When those run out, then consider me on a temporary leave of absence."
Cuddy couldn't argue. Or at least, she stopped. "You have three weeks, Dr. Wilson. Three weeks, then I want you back here."
In three weeks, Cuddy will realize Henderson's more than capable as department head. The dust from the battlefield will clear, and the crossfire wounds will heal. House will return to his miserable self, and Wilson will finally find some peace and quiet. "You have a deal."
And with that, Wilson left Cuddy standing alone in his empty office. As Wilson passed the diagnostic department, he saw House and his team still busy with the differential. He did not see House look up and stare at him as he left.
Scene 2: Maybe This Time, He’ll Stay
Wilson sat in his hotel and plotted ways to murder Dr. Gregory House. He had a list, which he felt lukewarm about:
1. Sabotage Vicodin production in North America
2. Beat in his head with a ‘cane-shaped-object’.
3. Drop him in an African refugee camp with no supplies and Dr. Charles attending.
4. Condemn him to 24-hour clinic duty.
5. Blow up the Gravedigger.
6. Lock him in a room with Cameron, when she’s morally outraged.
7. Drop his piano on him
Nah, Wilson thought as he crumbled up the list, and tossed it in the wastebasket. None of those deaths would do. It had to be something huge and finite. Then he could finally rid himself of House and House’s memory. That’s a fantasy, a dream, Wilson will never see. It’s impossible to escape the limping twerp.
In the past week, Wilson submitted resumes to various hospitals and institutes throughout the country - three in Boston, two in New York, one in Los Angeles, Chicago, and even called up his old professor at McGill, Dr. Jenson.
Every interview opened with House related inquires. Genius doctors were a dime a dozen. Untactful, sarcastic bastards who happened to be genius doctors were a rarity. Wilson realized early on when he slipped into the role of House's Friend people adored House - from a distance. In closed quarters, other doctors cheered his chutzpah; some even wished they had it. Listening to Wilson’s stories about House humiliating fellow (hated) colleagues gave other doctors preserve pleasure. Wilson was always a big hit at conferences and seminars. Only when House started humiliating close to home did the anecdotes not longer received fits of laughter.
Most of the doctors interviewing Wilson knew The Gossip. Wilson was House’s only friend and trusted colleague; an established fact in the medical community, just as the fact Alexander Fleming discovered penicillin. They wanted the latest gossip. Appeasing them, Wilson recounted about the Esther Case and the Erdheim-Chester diagnosis (a good redemption story; the interviewers ate it up).
However, none of his stories changed how every interview ended, no matter Wilson’s tour-de-force charm fest.
“James, I don’t think you’re right…”
“Dr. Wilson, frankly, you’re over qualified…”
“James, do you really want to take the pay cut…”
“Dr. Wilson, I’m sorry, but…”
Only Mass General had the courtesy to just come out and say it: “James, both Dr. Cuddy and Dr. House and threatened to, and I quote, destroy my reputation and the reputation of my oncology department if we hired you. I know they would do it. I’m sorry, but clearly, Princeton-Plainsboro will go to any lengths to secure you stay. Unfortunately Mass General is not willing to go to such lengths to secure you.”
Wilson stopped himself from asking if they called to confirm Cuddy sent the e-mails and letters. He knew telling them House had logged in and sent them as Cuddy, it would only further the suspicion around the two while making Cuddy appear incompetent. Wilson thought Cuddy would rather look irrational than incompetent. He didn’t care, or reflect, on what the threats revealed about House.
*
Every night he went to bed with a headache, two Tylenol, and TCM. Wilson started to give up hope. He’d have to crawl back to Cuddy. The researchers and universities would not hire him. His education was stellar, his history was impeccable, and his recommendations and acknowledges were glowing and endless, yet: Wilson sat in his hotel room, jobless and hopeless, blacklisted from every hospital in the country that feared House’s wrath.
Wilson opened another beer, laid on the bed, and watched The Bicycle Thief. For a week, he’s been escaping reality. It started when TCM aired a Jimmy Stewart marathon: The Shootist, Rear Window, Man Who Knew Too Much, Harvey, Philadelphia Story, You Can’t Take It With You - the biggies. He watched all of them, despite having seen a few more then enough times.
He had a normal childhood. Sure, at times, the shit hit the fan, but that’s life. Still he escaped the mundane through the adventure of John Wayne or John Ford or Jimmy Stewart or Cary Grant. He always wanted to be Cary Grant; but most of the time he felt like Clark Gable. The feeling never went away; nor did his escapist behavior. Well into his forties, and he still dealt with particularly difficult times by curling up upon the couch with a six-pack and The Big Sleep.
*
Cuddy called Wilson every day since he left demanding he return. He deleted the messages at the sound of her voice. All the messages had the same line, “Wilson, Mrs. Basse is relapsing,” “Wilson, Mr. Hatch is dying,” “Wilson, Brown needs you to sign off on these reports,” “Wilson, House just accosted Cameron.”
*
Wilson rang up the phone company and changed his number. He kept that on the low down; only his mother knew. For a week, things were peaceful.
When his mother called, Wilson slipped into his calm façade while he listened to her drone out. His family might’ve been Jewish, but his mother wasn’t “a Jewish hen mother.” To top it off, she hated House. She made that explicitly clear during the Vogler incident when she gave him the exact same speech about screwing up his career for that ungrateful leech.
Wilson said, “So, how’s dad?”
“Don’t change the topic…” Wilson looked at the mouthpiece wishing he possessed the courage to hang on her. He couldn’t. She carried him for nine months and sheltered him from the storms and paid for his undergraduate degree. She was his mother. He could not hang up on his mother.
It came as a complete shock when he did. He put the mouthpiece down and then unplugged the line.
*
Dr. Jenson arranged for a webcast interview. No need to fly up; and no need to do this over the phone, he remarked when they arranged the get-together. Wilson bet House would’ve done the interview naked from him bed, but Wilson just couldn’t bring himself to. He fully dressed and sat at the table with his labtop and notepad.
“Been a long time, James.”
“Dr. Jenson,” Wilson smiled. Jenson has been his advisor during his senior thesis. Jenson wrote him a glowing recommendation that directly lead to Wilson’s prestigious post-graduate work and residency at Dana Farber and Harvard Cancer, respectively. “It’s only been two months.”
Dr. Jenson smirked, “That’s a long time. How are you; and Julie?”
Wilson winced that the wench’s (which is now his only name he used for his ex-wife) name. “We separated,” Wilson said.
“I’m sorry, James. I didn’t meet Miss Right until Mrs. Jenson Number Five.”
“I don’t think my bank account, or even my heart, could handle another two.”
“You can handle anything with a prenup.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Wilson hated the idea of planning the end of a marriage before its beginning. When he married his wives, he wasn’t Head of Oncology until the first year of his third marriage. During his previous marriages, he was just a poor resident, who convinced himself it would last, forever and two days. “So, have you got a chance to look over what I sent up?”
Dr. Jenson just turned eighty and celebrated his thirtieth year as faculty at McGill. Wilson flew up for the gala (and didn’t bring House for more than enough reasons). During the after-after party Jenson and Wilson started shooting the breeze over a bottle of brandy. He offered Wilson a position in their department, more money and more responsibility. Wilson thought it was a drunken proposition.
But in the morning, Dr. Jenson asked him to think about it.
“I did, James. I’m sorry; I don’t think we have a position for you.” Jenson reacted the way Wilson did to the prenup comment.
Wilson bit his lip, trying not to completely freak out. “You filled the position in less than twenty-four hours? A position I know for a fact was offered to me and me only, less than two months ago.”
“Things change in two months.”
“You were enthusiastic about it yesterday.” Wilson stopped, closed his eyes, and tried to steady his breathing (a calming technique he perfected as House’s best friend). He hoped he wouldn’t have to use it anymore. But there was no escaping its need, or House.
Dr. Jenson said, gravely, “You knew I had to call Lisa, James.”
“I knew that,” Wilson snapped, “I just thought she wouldn’t attempt sabotaging my career.”
“Is that what you call it?” Dr. Jenson said, “I call it doing her job.”
Wilson had no rebuttal. He suspected House had more to do with Cuddy's behavior than Cuddy (or his own oncology expertise). Dr. Jenson and he spent the rest of the forty-minutes discussing the Flyers and Mrs. Jenson Number Five. When they finished, Wilson took out his notepad and scribbled down his list. He liked number seven and spent the rest of the night working of the logistics of the plan as he watched Band of Brother reruns on the History Channel.
*
Cuddy got a hold of his new number within four days. Wilson had to hand it to Cuddy, only truly ruthless woman would call a grown man’s mother.
“It’s Andie,” Cuddy paused; the answering message captured the desperation in nothingness. “Her mother requested you. She thinks Brown is an idiot. The cancer returned and metastasized in the lungs. Wilson, if you return for just this, I’ll let you go. I’ll call Jenson and Phillips and Hesse, and make a damn public announcement that you are God Himself.” Cuddy paused, “Just comeback for Christ's sake. This has gone on long enough."
Wilson replayed the message three times. Then he logged into his patients files and found Andie’s info. He called her mother directly. Wilson said, “I apologize for not contacting you sooner. How does tomorrow morning at eight sound?”
Rating: G.
Warning: It will hurt you, more than it will hurt me. Hopefully.
Slash Level: Uh... This is Non-Slash Slash. Kind of like the show. If you watch the show and think "OMGZ SO GAY!" then read the story like that. If you watch the show and go "AWEEEE! BFF LIKE WOAH" then do that. Later on, it might go more in the direction of the former.
Summary: Wilson reached his limit.
Author's Note: For now, stands alone. Hopefully, if I have the time, it will get continued.
Scene 1: Maybe This Time, I'll Be Lucky
"What's this?"
Wilson had made up his mind. He was through. He personally handed Cuddy his letter of resignation.
"I finally burnt out." Wilson left Cuddy gasping. She caught up with him in the elevator. Cuddy pushed in the emergency stop. She looked like the Little Steam Engine That Could; too bad, today she couldn't. "I’m not in the mood to get hit on." Wilson reached to start the machine up again. Cuddy slapped his hand.
"You burnt out?" Cuddy said, brandishing the resignation: "You of all people ‘burnt out’? You haven't had a patient die in weeks." She held up the paper, ripping it into little shreds that she threw in his face. "I don't accept your resignation. I will not lose the best Head of Oncology in the East, maybe in the country, because you and your boyfriend had a fight."
House wasn't his boyfriend. Wilson couldn't say if that was or wasn't a problem. Wilson cocked his head, then showed why he and House were best friends for over a decade. “And sometimes when boyfriends fight, they decide to stop being boyfriends." Wilson pushed the button, oblivious to Cuddy's deadly glare. "In the settlement, he got the hospital and I got my sanity."
The elevator opened. Wilson walked out. Wilson needed to pick up and leave before House tracked him down. From the corner of his eyes, he saw House and his team in the middle of a differential. Good: that gave Wilson some time to slip away. House's patients trumped all. Cuddy, though, seemed to have all the time in the world. She stalked after him. "You're a professional! Your ‘whatever’ with House is not reason enough to resign."
"Ha!" Wilson continued walking, didn't even glance back at Cuddy. "Then why'd you let Stacy leave? Or Cameron? You know as well as I, being able to work with and tolerate that man is the unwritten qualification for working at Princeton-Plainsboro. Sorry, I can't do either anymore."
"Then what about me?"
"What about you!"
"Don't you care that he'll turn into a kamikaze pilot? With me as his first target!"
Wilson paused at his office door, "Oh, you'd lap it up. You live for clashing heads with him. But if you're so afraid, I'll give you some pointers. Always pay for his lunch, never interrupted a Sonny and Carly scene on General Hospital, and never feed into his narcissism. But, you better run quick. Cameron's been jonsing for my position since she got here."
Wilson watched Cuddy stand with her mouth agape. She'd already adopted his 'Goldfish Face'. See, she'd be just fine. A lesser woman would've taken the hint by now, but not Cuddy. Cuddy never went down in the first round. "So, you're just... That's it?"
"Lisa, I can't. I just can't."
"You could yesterday."
"Yesterday was..." Wilson paused, "Yesterday."
The world changes in a second. Humans looked at history as a series of defining moments. Wilson had his at 8:57PM last night, over a plate of cheap Chinese take out and a beer. Ten minutes later, he walked out of House's apartment with his suitcase. He got nearly everything he needed. And what he left behind, he could replace.
Cuddy said, "He'll be unbearable."
"He'll manage. He always does."
"He had you."
Wilson paused, "He'll manage." He tossed the books into their boxes without another thought. Normally, he'd organized them. Place them in exact order, so that when he pulled them out again he'd readily know their locations. He didn't care now. "I'll have someone fetch the rest in the morning. Brown might have seniority, but Henderson should replace me. He's more new-school." Wilson finished gathering his belongings into his suitcase.
"I haven't accepted you resignation."
Wilson hated making Cuddy look stupid and pathetic. "Lisa."
"James."
Wilson rubbed his temple, and took in a deep breath. "But you have to accept my vacation days. I haven't missed a day in four years, excluding that one time. So consider this four years of make-up plus all of this year’s vacation. When those run out, then consider me on a temporary leave of absence."
Cuddy couldn't argue. Or at least, she stopped. "You have three weeks, Dr. Wilson. Three weeks, then I want you back here."
In three weeks, Cuddy will realize Henderson's more than capable as department head. The dust from the battlefield will clear, and the crossfire wounds will heal. House will return to his miserable self, and Wilson will finally find some peace and quiet. "You have a deal."
And with that, Wilson left Cuddy standing alone in his empty office. As Wilson passed the diagnostic department, he saw House and his team still busy with the differential. He did not see House look up and stare at him as he left.
Scene 2: Maybe This Time, He’ll Stay
Wilson sat in his hotel and plotted ways to murder Dr. Gregory House. He had a list, which he felt lukewarm about:
1. Sabotage Vicodin production in North America
2. Beat in his head with a ‘cane-shaped-object’.
3. Drop him in an African refugee camp with no supplies and Dr. Charles attending.
4. Condemn him to 24-hour clinic duty.
5. Blow up the Gravedigger.
6. Lock him in a room with Cameron, when she’s morally outraged.
7. Drop his piano on him
Nah, Wilson thought as he crumbled up the list, and tossed it in the wastebasket. None of those deaths would do. It had to be something huge and finite. Then he could finally rid himself of House and House’s memory. That’s a fantasy, a dream, Wilson will never see. It’s impossible to escape the limping twerp.
In the past week, Wilson submitted resumes to various hospitals and institutes throughout the country - three in Boston, two in New York, one in Los Angeles, Chicago, and even called up his old professor at McGill, Dr. Jenson.
Every interview opened with House related inquires. Genius doctors were a dime a dozen. Untactful, sarcastic bastards who happened to be genius doctors were a rarity. Wilson realized early on when he slipped into the role of House's Friend people adored House - from a distance. In closed quarters, other doctors cheered his chutzpah; some even wished they had it. Listening to Wilson’s stories about House humiliating fellow (hated) colleagues gave other doctors preserve pleasure. Wilson was always a big hit at conferences and seminars. Only when House started humiliating close to home did the anecdotes not longer received fits of laughter.
Most of the doctors interviewing Wilson knew The Gossip. Wilson was House’s only friend and trusted colleague; an established fact in the medical community, just as the fact Alexander Fleming discovered penicillin. They wanted the latest gossip. Appeasing them, Wilson recounted about the Esther Case and the Erdheim-Chester diagnosis (a good redemption story; the interviewers ate it up).
However, none of his stories changed how every interview ended, no matter Wilson’s tour-de-force charm fest.
“James, I don’t think you’re right…”
“Dr. Wilson, frankly, you’re over qualified…”
“James, do you really want to take the pay cut…”
“Dr. Wilson, I’m sorry, but…”
Only Mass General had the courtesy to just come out and say it: “James, both Dr. Cuddy and Dr. House and threatened to, and I quote, destroy my reputation and the reputation of my oncology department if we hired you. I know they would do it. I’m sorry, but clearly, Princeton-Plainsboro will go to any lengths to secure you stay. Unfortunately Mass General is not willing to go to such lengths to secure you.”
Wilson stopped himself from asking if they called to confirm Cuddy sent the e-mails and letters. He knew telling them House had logged in and sent them as Cuddy, it would only further the suspicion around the two while making Cuddy appear incompetent. Wilson thought Cuddy would rather look irrational than incompetent. He didn’t care, or reflect, on what the threats revealed about House.
*
Every night he went to bed with a headache, two Tylenol, and TCM. Wilson started to give up hope. He’d have to crawl back to Cuddy. The researchers and universities would not hire him. His education was stellar, his history was impeccable, and his recommendations and acknowledges were glowing and endless, yet: Wilson sat in his hotel room, jobless and hopeless, blacklisted from every hospital in the country that feared House’s wrath.
Wilson opened another beer, laid on the bed, and watched The Bicycle Thief. For a week, he’s been escaping reality. It started when TCM aired a Jimmy Stewart marathon: The Shootist, Rear Window, Man Who Knew Too Much, Harvey, Philadelphia Story, You Can’t Take It With You - the biggies. He watched all of them, despite having seen a few more then enough times.
He had a normal childhood. Sure, at times, the shit hit the fan, but that’s life. Still he escaped the mundane through the adventure of John Wayne or John Ford or Jimmy Stewart or Cary Grant. He always wanted to be Cary Grant; but most of the time he felt like Clark Gable. The feeling never went away; nor did his escapist behavior. Well into his forties, and he still dealt with particularly difficult times by curling up upon the couch with a six-pack and The Big Sleep.
*
Cuddy called Wilson every day since he left demanding he return. He deleted the messages at the sound of her voice. All the messages had the same line, “Wilson, Mrs. Basse is relapsing,” “Wilson, Mr. Hatch is dying,” “Wilson, Brown needs you to sign off on these reports,” “Wilson, House just accosted Cameron.”
*
Wilson rang up the phone company and changed his number. He kept that on the low down; only his mother knew. For a week, things were peaceful.
When his mother called, Wilson slipped into his calm façade while he listened to her drone out. His family might’ve been Jewish, but his mother wasn’t “a Jewish hen mother.” To top it off, she hated House. She made that explicitly clear during the Vogler incident when she gave him the exact same speech about screwing up his career for that ungrateful leech.
Wilson said, “So, how’s dad?”
“Don’t change the topic…” Wilson looked at the mouthpiece wishing he possessed the courage to hang on her. He couldn’t. She carried him for nine months and sheltered him from the storms and paid for his undergraduate degree. She was his mother. He could not hang up on his mother.
It came as a complete shock when he did. He put the mouthpiece down and then unplugged the line.
*
Dr. Jenson arranged for a webcast interview. No need to fly up; and no need to do this over the phone, he remarked when they arranged the get-together. Wilson bet House would’ve done the interview naked from him bed, but Wilson just couldn’t bring himself to. He fully dressed and sat at the table with his labtop and notepad.
“Been a long time, James.”
“Dr. Jenson,” Wilson smiled. Jenson has been his advisor during his senior thesis. Jenson wrote him a glowing recommendation that directly lead to Wilson’s prestigious post-graduate work and residency at Dana Farber and Harvard Cancer, respectively. “It’s only been two months.”
Dr. Jenson smirked, “That’s a long time. How are you; and Julie?”
Wilson winced that the wench’s (which is now his only name he used for his ex-wife) name. “We separated,” Wilson said.
“I’m sorry, James. I didn’t meet Miss Right until Mrs. Jenson Number Five.”
“I don’t think my bank account, or even my heart, could handle another two.”
“You can handle anything with a prenup.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Wilson hated the idea of planning the end of a marriage before its beginning. When he married his wives, he wasn’t Head of Oncology until the first year of his third marriage. During his previous marriages, he was just a poor resident, who convinced himself it would last, forever and two days. “So, have you got a chance to look over what I sent up?”
Dr. Jenson just turned eighty and celebrated his thirtieth year as faculty at McGill. Wilson flew up for the gala (and didn’t bring House for more than enough reasons). During the after-after party Jenson and Wilson started shooting the breeze over a bottle of brandy. He offered Wilson a position in their department, more money and more responsibility. Wilson thought it was a drunken proposition.
But in the morning, Dr. Jenson asked him to think about it.
“I did, James. I’m sorry; I don’t think we have a position for you.” Jenson reacted the way Wilson did to the prenup comment.
Wilson bit his lip, trying not to completely freak out. “You filled the position in less than twenty-four hours? A position I know for a fact was offered to me and me only, less than two months ago.”
“Things change in two months.”
“You were enthusiastic about it yesterday.” Wilson stopped, closed his eyes, and tried to steady his breathing (a calming technique he perfected as House’s best friend). He hoped he wouldn’t have to use it anymore. But there was no escaping its need, or House.
Dr. Jenson said, gravely, “You knew I had to call Lisa, James.”
“I knew that,” Wilson snapped, “I just thought she wouldn’t attempt sabotaging my career.”
“Is that what you call it?” Dr. Jenson said, “I call it doing her job.”
Wilson had no rebuttal. He suspected House had more to do with Cuddy's behavior than Cuddy (or his own oncology expertise). Dr. Jenson and he spent the rest of the forty-minutes discussing the Flyers and Mrs. Jenson Number Five. When they finished, Wilson took out his notepad and scribbled down his list. He liked number seven and spent the rest of the night working of the logistics of the plan as he watched Band of Brother reruns on the History Channel.
*
Cuddy got a hold of his new number within four days. Wilson had to hand it to Cuddy, only truly ruthless woman would call a grown man’s mother.
“It’s Andie,” Cuddy paused; the answering message captured the desperation in nothingness. “Her mother requested you. She thinks Brown is an idiot. The cancer returned and metastasized in the lungs. Wilson, if you return for just this, I’ll let you go. I’ll call Jenson and Phillips and Hesse, and make a damn public announcement that you are God Himself.” Cuddy paused, “Just comeback for Christ's sake. This has gone on long enough."
Wilson replayed the message three times. Then he logged into his patients files and found Andie’s info. He called her mother directly. Wilson said, “I apologize for not contacting you sooner. How does tomorrow morning at eight sound?”