Title: Edge of Chaos, Chapter Five
Author: Duckie Nicks
Rating: PG-13
Characters: House, Cuddy, Wilson -- friendship between the three, maybe some Huddy if you squint...
Summary: Somewhere between order and chaos, House searches for meaning and healing in his life. Can he recover what he's lost? Can Wilson learn to forgive and ask for forgiveness? Can Cuddy bridge the gap between them both? Or are their friendships just another casualty of the bus accident?
Previous Chapters:
Chapter One,
Chapter Two,
Chapter Three (Part One),
Chapter Three (Part Two),
Chapter FourDisclaimer: I don't own the show!
Author's Note: Spoilers for "Wilson's Heart."
“Systems theory is a theory designed to study unified whole and self-organizing systems; it’s based upon the idea that the whole is different from the sum of the individual parts. It stresses the interdependent and interactional nature of the relationships that exist among all the components of a system.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I said no.”
“That’s not a rational reason.”
“No.”
Sighing Cuddy took a step away from the hospital bed. Frustration fraying her already stressed nerves, she struggled not to yell. Biting down on the side of her cheek, she tried to remind herself that getting into a shouting match would not help matters.
But that was obviously easier said than done, as House seemed desperate for a fight. His eyes blazing and gaze accusing since the moment he’d woken up practically, every comment he had made lately seemed unnecessarily cruel. Not that he was typically kind, Cuddy realized, but she could feel the difference between how he normally behaved and this.
Even if she couldn’t exactly put it into words, part of her knew that something inside of House had changed. And whether that was because of what he’d been through emotionally or the result of his brain injury, she didn’t know. Although she supposed at some point the answer would make itself clear, she could, in the meantime, only tiptoe around him carefully.
But, God, he wasn’t going to make that easy.
Her fingernails digging into the soft flesh of her palms, Cuddy tried to bite back the frustration she felt keenly. “House,” she started to say, carefully modulating her voice. His name uttered with as much caution possible, in the back of her mind, she prayed that he would listen. But, having spent the last fifteen minutes running around in circles, trying to convince him she was right, Cuddy doubted anything would change.
She was right.
“No,” he nearly growled, his eyes narrowed and lips turned into a deep frown. Something approaching hatred emanating off of him, it was all she needed to know that he wasn’t going to listen to her.
Well, actually, truth be told, this lengthy, roundabout conversation they were neck deep in was proof enough. They’d been at it for a good twenty minutes, House using what little energy he had to keep telling her no.
To keep denying the treatment he needed.
The seriousness of the situation hitting her once more, Cuddy steeled herself for another round of back and forth.
Taking a tentative step back towards the bed, she couldn’t help but notice the look of agitation on his face become even sharper. Everything about him said stay away, so she settled for sitting in the chair by his bedside.
In the back of her mind, she realized she had one more shot - maybe - to get through to him. Not that there was ever a time when he was predisposed to listening her. But… the longer this conversation dragged on, the less likely it would be that he would listen to her. Because the longer they talked about this, the more she’d be annoying him, and the more House would feel the need to say no just to irritate her back.
And that didn’t even take into account his brain injury.
Already he looked exhausted, his irritation the only thing keeping him going. The sharp angles of his thinning body slightly eased and worn by his need for sleep, it was another reminder of all he had been through as well as the need to end this conversation as soon as possible. Were she to keep pushing, by the time he agreed, he’d be too exerted and drained to sign the damn release form.
Knowing that there was no time to screw around, Cuddy leaned forward and clasped his hand in hers. The pads of his fingers rough and worn, sweat pooling between each digit, he felt hot to the touch - a reminder of what was wrong.
Her throat feeling full and thick at that knowledge, she squeezed his hand. Her grip firm and cool, the gesture was enough to earn a glare from House.
Wrenching himself away from her as best as he could, he snapped at her, “If you’re so concerned about feeding me, why don’t we just skip the middle man.” Gesturing angrily toward her, he said, “Slap a diaper on me and whip out your tits and lets be done with it.”
Cuddy bit down on the inside of her cheek, desperately trying not to take the bait he was throwing her way. “As fun as that sounds, I was hoping for a feeding tube instead,” she told him dryly.
“Breast is best,” he countered sarcastically. Shuffling around uncomfortably on the bed, House suggested, “That’s what this is really about, right? You’re more barren than the desert, and nobody in their right mind would give you a kid, so the next best thing is playing nursey with me.”
The stick he so often aimed at everyone else had been turned on her once more. The wood jabbed painfully into her side, she could feel her skin and muscles give way. Scraping against the inner recesses of her marrow, the rod dug in as far as it could go. The acute sting feeling so real to her, Cuddy instinctively looked down.
Surprised by the lack of blood, she blinked. Her eyelids fluttering shut and open once more, she told herself it was as much to make sure wasn’t injured, as it was to blink back tears.
Letting out a ragged breath, she looked at House once more. “This… isn’t about me,” she told him, trying to keep her voice even. “You may not… like my motives. But I’m not wrong about the medicine.”
“Yeah,” he said incredulously. “I’m really gonna trust the opinion of a doctor who spends her days stapling and accessorizing her collection of colored paperclips with her low-cut tops.”
Cuddy ignored his harsh words. “Hypermetabolism. Tell me where I’m wrong,” she challenged, folding her arms across her chest.
His eyes no longer boring holes into her closed in concentration. Searching for an answer, a way to prove her wrong, House seemed desperate to focus on the task at hand. Face screwed up in concentration, he was working against the brain injury and his exhaustion, she knew.
And Cuddy thought it was wrong, just sitting in front of him, watching him struggle for an answer. Much like watching someone flail about in the ocean, she realized that she should put an end to this, tell him to stop.
But she stayed quiet.
A voice whispering in the back of her mind, she could practically hear herself think that, if anyone could come up with an alternative theory under those conditions, it was House. And if there were any possibility that she was wrong, he would be the one to uncover it.
But the answer she nearly expected never came.
Instead of being called an idiot and being forced to listen to a condescending explanation, she was left with silence.
And when he opened his eyes once more, the defeat so obvious in his gaze, Cuddy could feel guilt creep into her veins once more. A familiar feeling, one that she wished she were immune to, it immediately made her wonder why she had challenged him in the first place.
Because he needed treatment, a part of her snarled back at her encroaching remorse. Because it was the right thing to do, even if it wasn’t the right thing to do.
“Fever, excessive sweating -”
“That would go with the fever,” House interrupted bitterly.
“Sudden, rapid weight loss,” she pointed out gently.
He rolled his eyes. “Might have something to do with the interesting but completely inedible food you -”
“But you like the hospital food,” Cuddy told him. “CRP is nine hundred times what it -”
“Means my liver’s still working… surprisingly enough,” he said, sounding almost surprised by that fact.
“It shouldn’t be - not like this, and with your brain -”
“My heart,” House interrupted suddenly, loudly, her voice trailing off.
The tension in her shoulders immediately left her, her body slightly slumping into the back of the chair. The guilt she had felt so keenly only moments previously seemed long gone, as to be nothing more than a distant memory.
His mind was still there.
It had taken prompting, but it was still there - or here, as it were, not completely lost in the confines of his body.
But if House shared the same feeling of relief, he was too interested in insulting her to say it. “My heart, you idiot. Did you even think about that or were you too busy looking for reasons to keep me here with you to be a doctor?”
He was livid, for reasons she could only slightly understand. As upset as he typically got over what he perceived to be idiocy, this was different.
This was worse.
The veins in his neck bulging, every visible bit of muscle and sinew was tense and strained. Sweat dripping off his forehead and eyes hot with anger, House seemed once again intent on relinquishing all of his self-control.
She, however, was not ready to do the same. Calmly Cuddy told him, “All your symptoms point to -”
“No,” he said firmly, shaking his head slowly without lifting it off of the pillow. “And just so we’re clear, when you ask me again in thirty seconds, I’m gonna say no then too.”
Folding her arms across her chest, she asked, “There’s nothing I can say that will make you change your mind? You’d rather lay in that bed and be miserable and let your body feast on itself than get help.”
House shrugged. “A girl’s got to keep her figure somehow. We can’t all let ourselves go like you obviously have,”
She scoffed, raised an eyebrow at him. “Do you think calling me fat is going to make me drop this?”
“No,” he replied honestly. “But I was hoping it’d be enough to send you crying to the little girls’ room.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’ve been rude to me for… years, House. Getting rid of me is going to take a little more than calling me fat,” Cuddy explained, her voice firm but absent of any anger or challenge; as annoyed as she was, she did not want to upset him. Really, all she wanted in that moment was for him to accept what she was saying as true - that he was sick, that he needed her help, and that she had no intention of running away.
“Can’t blame a guy for trying.” Not that she’d expected any different, but he sounded and looked completely unapologetic.
“Why are you so intent on getting me to leave?” she asked curiously.
Of course, in typical fashion, he turned the question back on her, “Why are you so intent on staying?”
“You’re in the hospital, and I’m your doctor,” she hedged initially, unsure of how much she should say, of how much he would be willing to hear. But when he gave her a look of disbelief and opened his mouth to speak, Cuddy knew she should keep talking. “And,” she said, speaking over the words he’d begun to utter, “I… care about you. Which is painful to hear, I know,” she told him preemptively. “But you are just going to have to accept it. Because, as much as I would love to smack you, I’m not going anywhere.” As an afterthought, Cuddy added, “Someone has to make sure the nurses don’t poison you.”
“Thanks,” he told her, not sounding thankful at all. “But I’d rather take my chances with the med school dropouts.”
“That’s not up to you.”
“So I can consent to tubes, but that’s it.” His voice was filled with accusation and an arrogance he liked to reserve for when he made his point.
And although she had been trying all week to avoid saying things that would upset him, Cuddy couldn’t stop herself from saying, “I can start inserting the NG tube against your will, if you’d prefer.”
“What I would prefer is only one annoyance at a time. Since it seems scientifically impossible to be irritant free…”
She frowned, realizing what it was that he was asking for. “So… what - you’re saying is… me or the tube?” Instinctively knowing she’d gotten it right, Cuddy didn’t bother to listen to the sarcasm he offered in response.
But less easy to ignore was the way his blue eyes narrowed on her. Clearly waiting for her to agree, House looked at her as though he was expecting her to turn and walk right out the door.
Which honestly pissed Cuddy off.
It was just like him to believe that everyone’s loyalties could be bought, that everyone would leave him under a particular set of circumstances.
It was just like him to ignore her concern and care and look for reasons to send her away.
And maybe, she conceded, he had more reason to believe in that dark view of human nature since Wilson had left.
Since Wilson had been ready to throw their friendship away for Amber.
And, in the back of her mind, she realized it wasn’t entirely his fault. House was already messed up, already headed down this road regardless of what Wilson did or didn’t do. And though part of her wished she didn’t, Cuddy could, deep down, understand Wilson’s grief and his desire to do whatever it took to keep his girlfriend alive.
But at the same time…
She was angry anyway - at House for being so closed off from others that all he had was Wilson and at Wilson for eventually rejecting House’s friendship. Furious at the conflux of events that made this possible, Cuddy wanted nothing more than for things to return to normal.
But the chances of that happening seemed unlikely, about as likely as House accepting her friendship for what it was, anyway.
The thought leaving her almost as empty and sad as learning about the deep brain stimulation had, she was, in that moment, tempted to throw in the towel. Because Wilson was mad at her for making a choice, and House would be mad at her for choosing him, and…
There was no way she could win.
But just as she was about to tell House angrily that she had no intention of leaving, an idea hit her.
He’d pretty much already admitted it - if she was willing to leave, he would sign the consent forms. And… Cuddy realized then that she could agree to that. Could do it easily, because nowhere had House said that she had to go permanently.
Trying to contain her joy, she told him in even tones, “Fine. Agree to the tube and I’ll go away.”
“Fine,” he said easily, giving in in a way that was completely unlike him. In a way that made no sense unless…
“This was your plan all along - fight me on a diagnosis to get what you want,” Cuddy said in dawning realization.
“Kinda cool how I can still outsmart you, don’t you think?” he asked arrogantly. But if he wanted a fight, she wasn’t going to give him one, instead choosing to bite down on the inside of her cheek again. “You gonna give me the tube, or were you hoping I’d tell you how?”
“Lets just get this over with,” she replied in irritation. In all honesty, if she weren’t so intent on holding onto him…
She might have been content to let him go.
But if House had expected (and he hadn’t really) to be left alone, he was sorely disappointed. Too soon after Cuddy had inserted the tube and left, the door to his room slid open. His weary eyes immediately offering the best glare possible, he was hoping Cuddy would immediately take the hint and turn back around.
And yet, as the blonde stepped into the room, all pretense of anger disappeared. Leaving only a few burning embers of annoyance, the emotion was replaced by surprise.
“You should be resting,” Cameron said, taking a couple steps toward his bed.
Without remorse, he told her, “Sorry, but you should know that the role of annoying-doc-who-won’t-leave-my-bedside has already been filled.” He turned his head away from her and muttered, “Take it up with Cuddy.”
“She’s the one who sent me.” She sounded matter of fact, her voice breezy and unconcerned - as though she hadn’t been reduced to being a fourteen year old with braces babysitter.
Annoyed, House said, “Of course.”
But clearly not wanting to partake in a tirade on their boss, Cameron moved to his side. And it was then, in closer proximity, that he could see it: the bottle of Perative.
The color of puked-up Creamsicle, it looked like the consistency of baby food, only slightly runnier. His stomach churning at the sight, spending time with Cuddy, he realized, wasn’t the worst thing in the world.
But he’d already made his choice, had already sent her away, and that meant… he was just going to have to deal with the sludge. His eyes still focused on the purple label, he barely heard Cameron mention, “X-ray was good.”
“Not that it was necessary,” he told her begrudgingly.
Truth be told, the extra precaution hadn’t taken that long; but the time it had taken was time that could have been used to start feeding him. And while House wasn’t exactly interested in being fed through a tube like some anorexic on Lifetime, he realized that the sooner he started, the sooner it would be over.
“As tempting as it must be to let you aspirate… she was being careful,” she explained, as she began to set up the pump by the side of his bed.
Shaking his head, House told her, “Don’t. Hang it in the air.”
“No. You have to use the pump or you’ll be sick.” Three years ago, it would have been unthinkable to hear her speak like that, but here she was, no room for compromise in her tones.
“I’ll be fine,” he said, trying to bargain. And he knew then that Cameron hadn’t been the only one to change. Even just three years ago for himself - hell, three weeks ago, he couldn’t have imagined himself caring over something as small as a stupid pump. But here he was, worried that the very low buzz in his ear would turn into something unbearable if the pump were to be used.
“Yes, you will,” she agreed. “Because you’re going to get your nutrition in carefully monitored doses.” As she turned the pump on, Cameron muttered, “I’m beginning to remember why I quit.”
Trying to focus on something other than the tangerine liquid flowing towards his stomach, House finally took in Cameron’s appearance. Her body still leaning forward, he couldn’t help but try to get a peek at her cleavage… to no avail. The V of her scrubs too shallow, her breasts too small, his eyes, stinging slightly with sweat, got no candy.
How apropos.
But as his gaze journeyed upwards, he finally noticed, “Your make up - it’s different.”
“It happens,” she said, brushing him off, as though the extra mascara, lipstick, and blush meant nothing.
“Trying to make Chase jealous?”
Her own gaze met his sharply then. “Why would I be trying to make Chase jealous?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Why would you ask that?”
There was a beat, a fraction of a pause, before they both said at the same time, “The make up’s different.”
“I was at Amber’s funeral,” Cameron admitted.
He thought about it for a second. “And the extra lipstick was to remind him that live chicks are way sexier than dead ones?”
“Cuddy wasn’t there,” she announced. Her voice filled with both a confidence and tentativeness, her eyes immediately searching his, she was clearly looking for a reaction. And she was clearly going to get one, because her baiting had caught his attention.
“Interesting segue,” he said, trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together. “But since you brought it up, for no apparent reason, I’m going to go out on a limb and say that you think this is somehow my fault.”
“I don’t think it’s your fault,” she told him defensively. “But I thought you should know that -”
“That Cuddy stayed here?” he asked in disbelief.
“That Wilson was here and they got into a fight, yeah, I thought you might like to know.” Her voice was as agitated as he felt.
Sitting up a little further, House wouldn’t deny that his curiosity had been piqued. “I’m listening.” But she hesitated then, eliciting a low growl from the back of his throat. “You can’t tell someone that and then back off.”
Cameron sighed. “Well, I wasn’t there, but I heard that…”
Wilson hadn’t planned on being back at the hospital so soon; still too stunned and broken by what had happened, he’d barely considered getting out of bed much less getting dressed and leaving the apartment.
But the phone call had changed all that.
An unfamiliar voice cool and formal, showing a complete lack of empathy, had said, “Dr. Wilson, we need you to pick up your wife’s belongings.”
The words had burned, had stung. The constant sense of loss had become intensely acute in that moment, the word, “wife,” filling him with bitter longing for what might have been. As he’d blindly agreed to come in, Wilson had recalled what a patient - or maybe it had been the parent of a patient - had said to him years earlier:
There was no grieving like the kind you had for the future you could no longer have.
And at the time, he hadn’t thought about it much; in fact, as he’d recalled in that moment, he’d been pretty sure House had interrupted that conversation by bursting in and ranting about Cuddy and a particularly uncooperative patient.
But, for whatever reason, Wilson had thought of what she’d said, and since then, he hadn’t been able to forget it. Everything around him reflecting Amber’s tastes, how could he forget? Each and every step he’d taken, each glance around the room - all of it had been a reminder of the woman he’d loved and the future they would never have together.
A future that… had been ripped away from him.
Because of… House.
The irony of it all had begun to seep into his consciousness then, slowly creating a budding bitter taste in the back of his throat. But it hadn’t been until he’d gone to the hospital, had been told that they didn’t have Amber’s things, that it had really started to become a tangible presence.
“Dr. Wilson,” the nurse had said impatiently. “We already gave you all the belongings we had here at the hospital.”
His hands curled at his sides, he’d replied, “There was a phone call - I had a -”
“I don’t know who placed the call,” she’d said nervously. “But I’ve checked several times for you know, and there isn’t -”
“Where’s Cuddy?” His voice had been gruffer than he’d intended, filled with the frustration he’d felt keenly.
“She’s with a patient.”
An almost sudden reluctance to give him any more information had made his eyes narrow on the petite nurse. His mouth slightly agape and ready to ask where he needed to go, Wilson had realized then that there was only one patient they wouldn’t want him near.
House.
Without another word, he’d turned away from the nurse’s station. His hands still clenched into fists, he’d quickly made his way to the part of the hospital Cuddy surely would have moved House to by now (assuming the older man was recovering nicely, and House never didn’t recover that way).
And when he’d gotten there, making sure to stay far enough away from the glass windows so he couldn’t be seen, the irony had become too much. Because, looking in at House and Cuddy, Wilson had finally been able to see just what was going on.
She was going to be there for him.
Wilson hadn’t thought it possible, hadn’t even considered that she might make a choice. But clearly, she had - thought about it and made it, and…
She had chosen him.
The idea too unbearable to believe, Wilson had known that he wouldn’t have believed it if not for the sight before him. Through the glass windows, he’d watched House contort his lips into a sneer and bark at Cuddy. The physical barrier had been too thick for Wilson to hear the exact words, but it hadn’t been enough to stop him from getting the general idea of the conversation; he’d seen his best friend act like an ass too many times to not know the signs.
And in that moment, all the signs had been neatly on display. Every line on House’s face visible and curved in annoyance, Wilson had been, even from this distance, able to catch the sweat, reflecting in the fluorescent lights, and irritation cascading over the older man’s features. A red flush spreading across his neck and dotting his face, House had looked absolutely livid.
And Cuddy, not in her white coat, had looked… concerned, conciliatory, apologetic, even though Wilson had doubted she’d done anything wrong. One of her hands clasped around the wrist House had placed on the bed, the other pushing a sweaty, brown strand of hair off of his forehead - there’d been something so intimate in her actions. Something so blatantly unprofessional about it that it had felt as though… she’d been advertising that shift in their relationship, as if she’d been trying to say, “I’m going to give House what he stole from Amber.”
Waves of emotions had crashed on Wilson’s shoulders then, had turned his stomach inside out, making it nearly impossible to keep himself from vomiting. Surprise had hit him first - he hadn’t even seen it coming, despite knowing that the signs had been there ever since Tritter. And Wilson should have seen it coming, he’d told himself.
Shock quickly funneling into an acute self-loathing, he’d asked himself why he’d refused to see it before. Why hadn’t he accepted a long time ago that when it came down to it, a woman like Cuddy would always choose a man like House? Why hadn’t he figured out that she would never protect her measly oncologist the way she protected her Goddamn resource?
That question in his mind, he’d been unable to stop himself from wondering what was wrong with him. In childhood, Wilson had learned all the things a “man” should have been, and though he’d in some ways never sought to be that ideal, he’d known that he was that person. Smart and funny, kind and sympathetic, active and well rounded - he’d fit that mold beautifully. Maybe he hadn’t been as intelligent as House; maybe Cuddy hadn’t seen Wilson as a genius, but the fact had remained that there was no logical reason for Cuddy to choose him.
House might have had a leg up in that one little area, but as far as Wilson had been able to see, that was it.
And her choice just made no sense, he’d thought.
His inability to understand quickly morphing into anger over her stupidity, Wilson hadn’t noticed Cuddy pick up the phone in House’s room. Nor had he been aware that she was heading toward him until he’d heard her heels click on the linoleum and she’d been right in front of him.
“Wilson?” she’d asked, her voice tentative and brow furrowed in concern.
He’d blinked, surprised to see her in front of him. His emotions still too jumbled, he’d been unable to speak.
So she’d repeated his name, her hand reaching out and touching his forearm. “Are you okay?”
He’d swallowed hard, unsure of what to say, of which emotion to give into. “I, uh… they called me,” he’d explained, frustration in his tones. “Said they had some of Amber’s things, but…” His voice had trailed off; the energy he’d needed to finish the thought seemingly too much for him.
Cuddy had frowned. Taking a step closer to him, she’d told him, “The hospital already released her things. After she… died,” she said, her voice hitching slightly on the word. “There’s nothing here.”
But Wilson had known that she was lying. “I got a call, Cuddy. You can’t tell me there’s nothing -”
“The other hospital,” she’d blurted out.
Pulling his arm away from her touch, he’d asked, agitated, “What?”
Calmly she’d explained, “Before she was here. Before you had her transferred here. The other hospital - they would have her things from when she was first admitted.”
His hands had dropped to his sides; blinking, he’d let out a rush of air before turning away from Cuddy. Dumbfounded, Wilson had admitted, “I didn’t… I didn’t even think of that.”
His mind still trying to wrap itself around the new information, he’d flinched the moment Cuddy had slid an arm along his back. Pulling his body into a makeshift hug, she’d told him quietly, “I’m sure that’s where her things are.”
“Yeah,” he’d muttered, feeling like such an idiot. One of his hands gesturing towards his head, Wilson had repeated, “I just didn’t even think -”
Her voice gentle and reassuring, she’d suggested, “Why don’t we sit down for a second… okay?” She’d glanced back at House, then, and that had not gone unnoticed by Wilson.
The shame he’d been feeling quickly morphing into anger, he’d demanded to know, “Afraid House is going to see us?”
“No,” she’d said, tugging on his green polo shirt-covered arm, as she’d started walking down the hall. “House has been trying to get rid of me since he woke up. And while I’m sure he’s interested in knowing that you’re here, his regular doses of Lorazepam pretty much keep his curiosity to a minimum.”
As they’d sat down on puffy lounge chairs, Wilson had said irritably, “I can’t believe you’re taking care of him.”
She’d shrugged. “He needs a friend - and a doctor,” she’d told him simply.
The complete lack of a defense had angered him; if anyone had needed a friend, surely, it had been him - not House. That she had been unable to see that fact, or had been unwilling to accept it, had made him want to push her sympathetic hands away.
Instead he’d shot her a glare, a look that had dared her to say that he hadn’t needed a friend.
So she’d frowned, her blue eyes soft and apologetic. Seriously, Cuddy had offered, “If you want, I can make a call and have my assistant bring Amber’s things to you.”
“Trying to be my friend?” he had asked with a sneer.
Her response had been immediate, firm, “We are friends.” Sighing, she’d continued, “If I knew how I could… help you, I would.” There was an honesty in her eyes that said she really didn’t know how to help him, how to be there for him.
“You could have sat with her instead of him.”
And that was the truth, he’d realized in that moment; there were things she could be doing for him, and that was the real rub. All this time she’d spent with House could have been spent showing support for Wilson and what he’d lost.
“But Amber’s not Jewish,” she’d said in confusion.
“I am.” The two words were stark, simple, but as the guilt quickly flitting across her face, he knew it was all that needed to be said.
There’d been an awkward pause, the seconds filled with accusation on his part, apology on hers.
“Well… I am sorry,” Cuddy had told him slowly, her words carefully parsed and yet still awkward somehow. “But House -”
“Let me ask you something,” he’d interrupted abruptly. His forehead wrinkling so that his bushy eyebrows were visible in the top of his sight, Wilson had asked, “Are you… even planning on coming to her funeral?”
“When is it?” she’d asked, somehow proving the point that she didn’t really care about him.
“This Thursday.” His heart ached at the idea that… after Thursday, it would all be “officially” over; it would be the last time he saw her, and…
No, he thought, shaking his head. He couldn’t deal with that right now. And shoving the thought aside, he focused on Cuddy.
Another frown. “Well…” She hesitated. “I’ll try, but if -”
“Let me guess,” Wilson had said, his hands rubbing at his temples. “You’ll only come if House is okay.”
Cuddy had hesitated before admitting, “Yes.”
He’d stood up then, backed away from her. The walls seemingly too small for the both of them, he’d taken several steps back. His hands in front of him defensively, his eyes dark and brooding, he’d hoped it was enough to keep her away.
It hadn’t been.
She’d cautiously stood up, her heels teetering on the ground as she’d taken a step closer to him. “Wilson…”
“Do you honestly think he’s going to change, Cuddy?” A hand gesturing towards her, he’d asked, “Do you really believe that you’re going to nurse him and make him all better and he’s going to turn around and change and thank you?”
“I -”
“Because House isn’t like that,” he’d told her, refusing to let her disagree. “He’s not going to change - he doesn’t know how.” His hands had started to shake, noticeably so, because Cuddy’s wide eyes had fallen to watch the way his fingers had started to move. And seeing that it was distracting her, Wilson had clenched his hands into fists once more and shoved them into his pockets.
Trying to be as calm as he could be, he had said, “You never liked Amber. You -”
“I liked her,” Cuddy had interrupted, her tones laced with a slight defense that he hadn’t cared about. “She was good for you.”
Wilson had chuckled humorlessly. “Oh, you’re not saying that, because you actually believe it. You’re saying that, because she’s dead,” he’d argued, his voice becoming strained and hitched on the last word. Much louder, he’d continued, “And you didn’t think she was good for me. You thought that she would -”
Her eyes dangerously flashing back and forth, she’d said through gritted teeth, “Keep your voice down. We’re in a hospital.”
“You screwed up,” he’d said, ignoring her. “She didn’t use me. She was capable of thinking about someone else. And in the end, she didn’t leave me miserable and alone. ”
She hadn’t been able to look at him then; her arms folded defensively across her chest, Cuddy had turned away from him, her tongue licking her lips. Her words unspoken but definitely not unsaid, Wilson had practically been able to hear what she was thinking: Yes, she did.
Immediately, he’d snapped, “No. That wasn’t her,” he’d nearly yelled, pointing a finger at her. Gesturing wildly with his hands, he’d told her, “That was all House. She died, and he is the one who -”
“House didn’t kill her,” Cuddy had argued back.
“Not exactly,” he had been willing to admit. “But House put the whole thing in motion. And don’t think for a second that he won’t do the same to you,” Wilson had warned. “You think you’re going to make him better? You won’t. You think he’s going to ever think of anyone else but himself? He won’t.”
He’d taken a deep breath, holding the oxygen in until the air had burned, just as this particular knowledge had. “People can change; she could. You and I are. He can’t. And you can deny that all you want, but it’s true, and when he takes everything away from you, ruins everything that matters, you’ll know I’m right.”
Nothing else had been said; nothing else had needed to be said. Because at some point, Cuddy would realize that he had been right, that this was the way House worked.
As Wilson had walked away, he’d only been able to hope that she accepted the truth before it was too late…
“That’s it?” House asked unimpressed.
Cameron frowned. “What do you mean ‘that’s it’?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. You tell a story - there should be mud wrestling or -”
“This is a hospital, House,” she explained snottily. “Where would they get the mud?”
“I stand corrected. You tell a story,” he repeated. “There should be cafeteria Jell-O wrestling or… the gravy-they-put-on-the-Salisbury-steak wrestling.”
“That’s disgusting,” Cameron replied, her nose wrinkling at the idea. As an afterthought, she added, big eyes trained on him for some sort of reaction, “I just thought you’d like to know that -”
“That Wilson and Cuddy are fighting?” he asked. “It is intriguing,” he told her sarcastically.
“That your best friend hates you,” she finished. “Yeah, I thought you might like to know.”
“He doesn’t hate me.” The words sounded confident, convinced, thankfully, but inside, House couldn’t have believed himself less.
“You should apologize before he’s gone for good.”
If he believed there were any truth in her words, he refused to think about it in that moment. Too exhausted to think about what he’d done, too annoyed with overbearing women surrounding him, House gave into the comfort that acerbity offered. “Hmm, well, I’m too sick to grovel… think a singing telegram will work or is that too old-fashioned?”
In a falsely cheery tone, Cameron informed him, “Your feeding tube is working. And now I am going to go do my job.”
“You’re not going to help me find a rhyme for ‘Amantadine?’” he asked in mock betrayal.
“You should rest,” she told him simply, as she stepped away from him.
His “That doesn’t rhyme” was swallowed up by the sound of the door shutting behind her. And he was left alone once more, with only his thoughts and her story to keep him company.
He didn’t like it.
While House was stewing by himself, Cuddy was in the process of screwing Foreman over. At least that was clearly what Foreman was thinking.
Not that she particularly cared.
“I’m not letting you take a case on your own,” she told him firmly as she stood up from her desk.
Stacking all the files she’d spent the last hour working on, she barely listened to his response. “Why not?” Foreman asked. “We can handle this case.”
“You have three colleagues who have been doing this less than -”
“And I’ve been doing this for a couple years now,” he persisted. “I even had my own team.”
As she added her signature to one last file, Cuddy pointed out, “You still ended up back here. Under House.”
“Not by choice.” Though she didn’t look at him, she could tell, just by the tone of his voice, that he was affronted by that fact.
And, unwilling to soothe his sore ego, Cuddy simply picked up the files and walked past him. Refusing to look back, she understood he was going to follow her; the sound of his dull footsteps hitting her ears only seconds later, she told him, “I would give you the case, but we both know that, as soon as you can’t figure something out, you’ll run to House.”
She handed the files to her assistant before turning to look at Foreman. With a sincere seriousness, she explained, “That can’t happen.”
“So… it won’t.”
“Right,” she replied sarcastically. “I know how this works, how it’s going to work: you four will try to diagnose the patient. And you’ll have lots of fun doing it,” she said condescendingly, as though talking to a child about playing with blocks. “But as soon as something goes wrong, it’ll stop being fun, and you’ll go running to House to fix it. And I’m telling you that can’t happen.”
He rolled his eyes but still followed her as she headed towards the elevator. “Even if that did happen,” he conceded. “Is that really such a bad thing? It’s House’s job, and he needs to do it.”
They both stepped onto the elevator, and as the doors closed, she told him grimly, “What he needs is to recover. He needs to heal. You wouldn’t be giving him what he needs but what he’s addicted to. And if you take a case and bring it to him, he won’t rest until the puzzle’s been solved.” Frowning, Cuddy apologized. “I’m sorry, Dr. Foreman. But I just can’t let you -”
“Patient has sudden kidney failure with heart and lung complications. Not to mention a bleeding problem.”
“Transfer him to another -”
“He’s not going to survive the transport,” Foreman told her. “You either let us take the case or you let him die.”
He went silent then, in a way so dramatic that it was obvious he wanted her to feel guilty.
… Which she did (of course).
Sighing, she caved. “Fine.” As soon as she saw his smirk, however, Cuddy added a caveat. “But if House finds out about this…”
“I get it,” Foreman said. “It’ll be on my head.”
The elevator doors opened, and she turned to him, a smile devoid of all warmth gracing her features. “Then good luck.”
Noting that he was no longer following her, Cuddy eagerly returned to House, who couldn’t have looked less pleased to see her. Which only made her feel increasingly irritated.
Nobody seemed to appreciate what she was doing.
But thinking about it for a second longer, she realized it could be worse. So much worse, and as long as she was alive, and the people she cared about were alive, she shouldn’t complain.
Calmer now, she closed the door behind her. Softly, Cuddy asked him, “How are you feeling?”
His lips curling into a sneer, he didn’t answer. “We had a deal,” he hissed. “Why are you back?”
She sat down next to him with a shrug. “I promised to leave, and I did. I didn’t say I wouldn’t come back.”
“Clever,” House replied, mulling her response over in his head. “But you should realize you’re not the only one who can play that game.”
There was barely any time for his words to set in, only a few seconds for her to think about what he was saying and realize what he was going to do. If anything, she moved on instinct, her body somehow knowing on its own that he was going to yank the tube out.
Rushing forward as fast as her heels would allow her, Cuddy snatched his hands roughly in hers. His fingers just beginning to touch the feeding tube, she was just in time to stop him. And though he tried to fight her, tried to yank himself away from her grip, she was too strong; his injuries and sudden weight loss had made him too weak by comparison, and she was grateful for the advantage.
But, of course, House wasn’t about to give up. “Let go of me,” he snarled, pulling as hard as he could.
The sudden, unexpected motion pulled her off her feet, her toes being smashed against the pointed fronts of her heels. Her knees crashing against the metal frame of the bed, Cuddy instinctively dug her nails into his hands to hold on. “Stop it,” she snapped, struggling to avoid falling onto him.
“Let me go, and I will.” But a quick glance at his steely eyes told her that she couldn’t even begin to trust what he was saying.
If she let go, the tube would definitely be out.
“Stop acting like a child,” she hissed. “And I’ll let you go, you idiot.”
“No,” he argued back.
And without any sort of truce, the two continued to push and pull like little children, she thought, in an arm wrestling match. The minutes ticking by slowly, the two tugging at one another angrily, Cuddy could feel her muscles tiring. And she couldn’t help but wonder just how long it would take him to recover from the effort.
But when House managed to snake his thumb and index finger around to the flesh of the back of her hand, her concern disappeared. Tweaking her skin, he pinched hard.
A squeak escaped her lips as Cuddy instinctively pulled her hand away from him. “That hurt, ass,” she began to say.
But the words died on her lips, as she watched him use his free fingers to curl around the feeding tube once more.
Without thought, she reacted by slapping his hand - just as hard as he had pinched her - away. The sound of skin against skin rang out in the room, above the dull thrum of the pump. The snap quickly dying gave way to their arrhythmic noises of their heavy breathing.
Both seemingly giving up the fight, at least for the moment, Cuddy sat down on the bed. Their eyes bright and angry, they glared at one another - seemingly convinced that, if they were to look away, the other would do something.
Uncomfortable silence following, it was only when she reached down to turn off the NG tube’s pump that it was broken. “Well, congratulations,” she muttered, noting the look of relief on his face the moment she hit the off button.
“You’re taking it out?” House asked tiredly, one of his hands lazily tugging at his right ear.
“No. But since you can’t act like a big boy, I have to make sure that you won’t aspirate.”
Rubbing the back of his hand against his stubbly cheek, he mentioned, “You make it sound as though you’re stuck here. Which is funny, because I don’t recall ever asking you to stay.”
She rolled her eyes. “I would just like you to realize that I’m trying to help you. And every time you fight me, you make things worse for yourself,” she explained didactically. “Which is funny, because when you do that, you are pretty much guaranteeing that you’ll be stuck with me longer.” She reached for the chart at the end of his bed and wrote in it the request for another X-ray. At this rate, she joked to herself, he’d have radiation poisoning by the time he was released.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” House said with a sneer.
His words effectively ended the conversation, any retort she had dying on her lips when she saw his eyes close.
As she watched him slowly fall back to sleep, Cuddy couldn’t help but think back to her conversation with Wilson a few days earlier. In all honesty, she’d tried her hardest since he’d walked away from her to forget what he’d said. Because, as much as she didn’t believe House was… beyond hope, part of her worried that he never would accept her help.
She feared it.
And more than anything, if there were hope for him, she worried what the cost would be. After all, deciding to be here had already cost her Wilson, and Cuddy doubted that would be all she’d - they’d - lose.
But as she sat back down next to House’s bedside, she realized… that, as much as she wished she could also be there for Wilson, she didn’t regret being here. Her own exhausted eyes closing, she understood that, as problematic as it was, she had made the right choice.
And both House and Wilson were just going to have to accept the choice she’d made.
Smirking to herself as she began to fall asleep, Cuddy mused that at least they still had that much - their disgust for her - in common.
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