Edge of Chaos (7.1/15)

[lieueitak]

Title: Edge of Chaos, Chapter Seven (Part One)
Author: Duckie Nicks
Rating:  PG-13
Characters:  House, Cuddy, Wilson -- friendship between the three, maybe some Huddy if you squint... This chapter also features Foreman
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 Four, Chapter Five, Chapter Six
Disclaimer:  I don't own the show!
Author's Note:  Spoilers for "Wilson's Heart."  This chapter is split into two parts for length.  Reviews are greatly appreciated.


“I have not yet been able to discover the cause of these properties of gravity from phenomena and I feign no hypotheses… It is enough that gravity does really exist and acts according to the laws I have explained, and that it abundantly serves to account for all the motions of celestial bodies. That one body may act upon another at a distance through a vacuum without the mediation of anything else, by and through which their action and force may be conveyed from one another, is to me so great an absurdity that, I believe, no man who has in philosophic matters a competent faculty of thinking could ever fall into it.” - Sir Isaac Newton on gravity

The office was serendipitously empty, a fact that his boss probably would have despised but Foreman relished nonetheless. Taub was off running a barrage of tests, Kutner breaking into the patient’s home. Thirteen was… wherever the hell she’d wandered off to since Amber had died.

Temporarily distracting himself from the gravity of the situation, Foreman knew that if she stayed away much longer, Thirteen would be fired. And part of him, the part he hated to acknowledge was real, wanted to be as big a bastard as House was and fire her for disappearing.

Wanted to punish her for not being here right now.

He was in over his head; they were all in over their heads without House there to suggest new ideas and to guide them all through the process. And though he knew it to be unlikely, Foreman wanted to place all the blame on Thirteen. A small voice whispering inside his mind, he wanted to believe that, if she were here, they would have had an answer by now.

Not because she was unusually brilliant or because he honestly believed that she had any answer to offer him now. But because… they were running out of time, the desire to defy Cuddy and ask House for help increasing - and the patient was going to be dead soon if someone didn’t name the diagnosis in the next day or two.

His own patient was going to die, and it would be all of his fault, Foreman realized.

Because, while he hadn’t been wrong about transporting the patient to another hospital… by now, they could have called in another diagnostician to take the case.

And Foreman had told Cuddy not to do that.

As he sunk lower into House’s desk chair, he realized that… this must have been his “thing,” his flaw. Doctors like Cameron were too sympathetic to be perfect. Doctors like Chase and Cuddy were too busy trying to be liked and to get ahead to focus on the task in front of them. House was a dick, and that had its obvious issues.

And Foreman’s thing was that… he thought he was better than House, knew more than him.

Which was fine when it actually seemed to be true.

But then he would start pulling on his reins, believing that he, by being better than House, could take more risks, do more work than his boss could ever imagine. And that was where the trouble always lay - when he bit off so much to chew that he choked and someone ended up in a coffin.

That possibility becoming too distinct in his mind to ignore, it made Foreman unusually grateful for the empty office. No one around to see his floundering, he could almost believe that, if this patient were to die, it’d happen in this silent vacuum, and everything would be okay. The stillness around him so pervasive, he could almost begin to think that no one would care, that no one would be around to judge him for it.

But the belief never quite eased the tightness in his chest, never quite erased the budding need to find House.

Blindly, Foreman reached out and grabbed the oversized tennis ball his boss so often played with. The felted sphere was weighty in his large hands, and, his brown eyes surveying it quietly, he searched for the reason House seemed to love it so much.

What was it about this stupid ball that made House so attached to it? A simple possession, a toy made for children couldn’t have any special powers, could not solve the case by throwing out answers.

And yet, clasping the tennis ball in hand, Foreman desperately wished that it was magic. Because, surely, relying on this for a diagnosis was better than admitting he had no idea what the cure for his patient was; it had to be better than accepting that he needed House to do this.

But, no answer coming to him, no brilliant ideas suddenly popping into his mind, Foreman could clearly see:

For all of his efforts to escape his boss…

He still needed House.

He couldn’t do this alone, couldn’t leave this job.

Because he wasn’t ready.

The thought sinking heavily into his consciousness, Foreman could feel guilt pooling in his gut. He… was going to have to go to House or, if Cuddy stopped him, tell her that he wasn’t going to be able to solve the case on his own.

She wasn’t going to appreciate that, he thought grimly. But, reluctantly placing the tennis ball back on House’s desk, Foreman realized he didn’t exactly have any other choice. As much as he would rather pretend like he was capable of taking the case, he had already experienced losing a patient over his abundant arrogance and pride.

And he couldn’t do that again.

Standing up slowly, he started to move towards the door. But, if he’d anticipated hunting Cuddy down in the future, he wasn’t going to have to look very far. The glass etched with House’s name being yanked back, she easily stepped into the office before he even had time to register what was happening.

“How’s the case going?” Cuddy asked, announcing her presence as she eased the door shut behind her. The question was an obvious attempt to sound conversational, but Foreman suspected that it was anything but that.

His posture stiffening, he responded with a nod of his head, “It’s…” He paused, searching for the words that would make the situation sound at least remotely positive. “We’re close to an answer; the symptoms are progressing, but we’re headed in the right direction.”

The woman before him nodded her head slowly in agreement, her blue eyes almost immediately imploring him to say more. The proverbial light bulb beginning to brighten in the back of his mind, Foreman wondered just how much she knew about his patient. She hadn’t said anything yet, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t waiting for him to admit his mistake, waiting for him to say that he should have never taken the case.

But since that wasn’t how she’d led the conversation, Foreman went on the assumption that she didn’t know much. “How’s House doing?” he asked carefully. The question in and of itself was going to garner her suspicions, no doubt. After all, for the most part, he didn’t care about House.

And yet, if Cuddy suspected anything at all, she didn’t say. Shrugging, she answered, “Fine. He’s sleeping - probably release him tomorrow.”

“Then he’s feeling better,” Foreman said, his mind eagerly seeing the opportunity before him. “So… you think I can talk to him?”

“He’s resting.” Her voice was firm, unyielding. Her eyes narrowing on him, she pointed out, “You said that your team was close to solving the case.”

“We are,” he lied. “We’re incredibly close - waiting for the final labs, actually.” He straightened his spine and cast her an arrogant look to try to appear more convincing. “I just wanted to see how he was doing,” Foreman tried to tell her, hoping to sound reassuring.

“He’s resting,” she repeated.

And, realizing that Cuddy wasn’t going to let her anywhere near House unless she knew the truth, Foreman caved. “All right,” he told her quietly, as though someone else might hear. “Things are… not progressing with the case as I would have… liked them to.”

“You can’t see him,” she said, her arms folding across her chest.

His own voice imploring, he nearly pleaded, “If you could give me five minutes with -”

“No.”

Her refusal quickly wore away at his patience. His self-control withering away until he thought that he was probably going to sound like House (if only in volume), he dropped all pretense. Going for the guilt, Foreman reminded her, “You have an ethical obligation to this patient. House could help her. You can’t deny her his expertise if you think he could save her life.”

She blinked, nonplussed at his argument. “I don’t think he could save her, Dr. Foreman,” she told him simply.

His response was slow in coming; to be honest, he’d never imagined that Cuddy, the person who let House get away with anything and everything, would suddenly begin to think that House couldn’t solve a case. So either she’d randomly changed her mind for reasons Foreman couldn’t understand or she was lying, just to keep him out of the hospital room.

His mind quickly evaluating each option, he asked himself which one sounded more like Cuddy.

The choice was more obvious than anything he’d seen in his life.

“You’re lying,” he told her arrogantly. “Because you’re worried that if I take the case to House, he’ll get upset over not being consulted earlier.”

“No,” she replied immediately.

Her mouth opened to say more, but he talked over her. “It’s okay. I get that you don’t want to make him any more upset than he already is. So I’ll just lie to him and say the case just got here, and he won’t know that-”

“No,” she repeated more insistently, her voice louder than before. “I was worried about that before; that’s not what I’m concerned with now.”

Foreman raised an eyebrow at her. “You expect me to believe that House, who so far has shown practically no adverse effects from having his heart stop, head cracked open and stimulated, has done something to make you doubt his -”

“You can’t take this to him,” Cuddy said emphatically, admitting in not so many words that there was something wrong.

His forehead creasing in confusion, he couldn’t help but think that he had been wrong again. Disgust beginning to infiltrate, Foreman worked quickly to extinguish the feeling. That wouldn’t help him now.

And with a sigh, he asked, “What are his symptoms?”

“That’s not important,” she told him. “He’s my patient.”

“If it’s neurological -”

“He’s fine,” Cuddy interrupted, her words coming out a little too quickly to sound convincing. “He’s just… emotional.”

“’Emotional’,” Foreman repeated, the word sounding odd to his ears and weird coming out of his mouth. “House… isn’t emotional. He’s a jackass.”

“Well, yes,” she admitted, taking a few steps further into House’s office. “Normally, I would agree. But… this past week in particular, he has been agitated and furious-”

He scoffed, the sound certainly audible to her even considering the ten feet of distance between them. “Agitated and furious is House’s default position. That doesn’t mean something’s wrong,” he told her, his own irritation increasing over the fact that he was having to explain this to a woman who should have known House better than he did. “That’s… just who he is. Maybe you didn’t fluff his pillows enough.”

“This is different,” she argued, her voice filled with irritation and a small amount of redness appearing on her cheeks. “He can’t stop himself, can’t calm down.”

“Also normal when he’s stressed,” Foreman retorted. “Which he probably is, given that he’s been cooped up in a hospital room with you for the last several days.” As soon as the words had escaped his mouth, he could hear the insult contained within them.

Damn it.

She was going to be pissed.

Truthfully, he hadn’t meant to imply that her company was the problem - although there probably was something to be said for her presence and Foreman’s own current agitation. But, noting the way her gaze had slid into glare territory, he decided to keep that fact to himself.

“Look,” he said, shifting his weight on his feet. “All I’m saying is -”

“I know what you’re saying,” Cuddy interrupted.

“But that’s not what I meant” was his exasperated reply.

And just as she opened her mouth to say something, someone else began to talk instead. Thirteen’s voice startling Cuddy, the younger woman said, sounding almost amused, “You mean you didn’t intend to tell our boss that she’s miserable company?”

The door shut behind her, as she made her way into the room. Her hands were tucked underneath her lab coat. Her dark hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, and she had a calm look on her face. The entire effect, Foreman thought, made her look like someone who hadn’t disappeared without notice.

He started to ask where she’d been, but, with Cuddy spinning around to eviscerate the intruder, his question never left his mouth.

“Dr. Hadley,” Cuddy greeted in a voice that hardly sounded friendly. “Nice to see that you weren’t kidnapped.”

Thirteen, silently asking him to leave, glanced over at Foreman. And honestly, if he thought his patient had a chance in hell of living on his expertise alone, he would have. But, given that he needed his colleague to brainstorm with and his boss to give him approval, he stayed rooted to the spot. Much to Thirteen’s dismay.

“Dr. Cuddy,” she started to say. “I -”

“Doesn’t matter” was Cuddy’s immediate response. “Your pay’s been docked. You’ll owe me five hours in the clinic, and,” she started to say, pulling a list from her the pocket of her lightly pinstriped lab coat. “If all goes well, House will be released from the hospital tomorrow,” she announced, the other two doctors in the room clearly not following her; both raised an eyebrow at her.

Ignoring their confusion, she continued, “Unfortunately, his apartment is in no condition for him to return to…” Her voice trailed off as she seemingly tried to think of the exact words she wanted. With a shake of her dark curls, Cuddy merely said, “Well, lets just say it’s a few steps up from ‘uninhabitable.’”

Although Foreman could see, very unfortunately, where this was headed, Thirteen did not. Slowly she asked, “And this has to do with us… how exactly?”

Cuddy pressed the list into Thirteen’s hands.

“Your job, and you’re going to doing to it if you expect me to honor your contract, is to clean it up,” she said brightly. Her voice laced with disgust, she told them, “Make sure he doesn’t catch hepatitis the moment he steps over the threshold.”

Thirteen quickly glanced down at the folded piece of paper in her hands. Her expression became increasingly grim as she read through the list. Finally, when her gaze hit the middle of the page, she looked up, visibly affronted. “I’m not doing this.”

Cuddy’s response was a confident “I think you will.”

“You think wrong,” Thirteen snapped. “I did not become a doctor so that I could starch House’s boxers and stock his fridge.”

The older woman raised an eyebrow at what Foreman could only guess - and hope - was the hyperbolic boxer comment. God, he really hoped there was exaggeration there; the other option was just too repulsive for him to even want to give it consideration.

“Did you become a doctor to disappear for weeks at a time?” Cuddy asked irritably.

“That was -”

“Don’t care,” she interrupted. Cuddy took a step closer to the other woman. “The point is - you disappeared without notice. The rest of your team has had to cover for you. The clinic has been short-staffed twice because of your behavior.” Her tone was accusatory, harsh, one she usually reserved for House. “You want cases? Want to do things that worthy of your time?”

She gave Thirteen absolutely no time to respond. “Then you’d better start proving that you’re worthy of House’s and this hospital’s time.”

The conversation was apparently over then, Foreman realized. Not because anyone had caved or quit (although Thirteen looked away, remaining conspicuously silent then). But because Cuddy had decided that it was over; her heels thumping on the carpet as she headed back towards the door, her hand curled around the metal handle when she spoke again. “Dr. Foreman,” she announced. “You can go with her.”

He blinked dumbly.

“But…” He must have heard her wrong, he thought to himself. “I have a case,” he reminded her.

Without any warning, Cuddy informed him, “Your patient died ten minutes ago.” Her words were unsympathetic and cold; once more it sounded as though she were talking to House.

But she wasn’t.

This was aimed directly at Foreman himself.

And his patient was… dead?

Confused, he shook his head, and visibly looking startled, he asked, “What? My pat - what?”

“Taub tried to bring the case to House about fifteen minutes ago,” Cuddy explained. “I caught him - he’s been punished.” Her voice warming slightly, she told him, “It wouldn’t have mattered. Your patient went into cardiac arrest, couldn’t be revived.”

“But…”

His voice trailed off as realization hit him:

He’d failed.

For the past few days, he’d tried so hard to solve the case, to be like House without being like House. Days’ worth of sleep lost and meals skipped to pursue the puzzle, Foreman had put all of his effort into this.

And he’d failed.

His widening eyes looked to Cuddy to hear her say that…

He didn’t know what he wanted her to say, really.

That he hadn’t heard her right? That he hadn’t directly killed his patient by taking the case? That he was a good doctor? That House couldn’t have solved it?

Maybe all of the above, Foreman realized.

“So now there’s no problem with you accompanying Thirteen to House’s apartment?” Cuddy asked.

But too stunned, Foreman had no chance of answering.

And the older woman seemed to know this, a wolfish smile appearing on her face. Opening the door, she said, “Then it’s settled,” before walking away.

He was alone with Thirteen then, with her and wishing that she had the smarts to leave the room. Because, although she had the grace to look away from him, silently taking off her lab coat and placing it on the ottoman closest to the door, it wasn’t the same as actually being alone. Her presence, small as it was, was enough to make Foreman feel as though he couldn’t wallow in his guilt.

With her around, he was too interested in maintaining what little superiority he had over her to contemplate his guilt for too long. Childish though it was, it was all Foreman had really. Considering he was the only fellow out of the last team to still be under House’s thumb, Foreman understood he had to take what little power was offered to him.

And now that he hadn’t solved the case, it was unlikely that he’d be allowed to take any cases again.

“You okay?” Thirteen asked finally.

He, however, decided not to answer. Posing a question of his own, he demanded to know, “Where were you all this time?”

As was her fashion, she avoided the question. “Let’s just get this over with, okay?” He said nothing, did nothing. Having to clean house for House was bad enough; he didn’t need to acknowledge that that was what was going on.

So it was Thirteen who took the first steps towards the door. “I’ll get the groceries. You can search for House’s drugs and porn. We’ll paper, rock, scissors the rest.”

“Great,” he muttered, slowly following her.

The prospect of being his boss’s maid looking him right in the face, Foreman could only wonder why his life’s trajectory always seemed to lead right back to the same thing:

House.

**************

He woke up with a start, the taste of scotch in his mouth. The liquor still clinging to his taste buds, it was almost as enveloping as the sweat-drenched suit Wilson had fallen asleep in. Wrinkled and wet, the outfit had been put on days earlier for her funeral. And he could no longer remember if there’d been a reason he’d refused to take it off since then. Had he been too drunk to undo the buttons or had the idea that this was the suit he’d last see Amber in persuaded him?

He really didn’t know.

But Wilson was absolutely sure of a few things. He was definitely sure, for instance, that scotch had its downsides.

Like the way the sun still high and bright in the sky, mixing with the liquor in his belly, made his head pound. Unbidden, the mental image of the fat marching band drummer in junior high that everyone made fun of being trapped in the confines of his brain appeared.

And that was the second thing he was absolutely sure of: scotch made him an idiot.

Which worked for him, Wilson realized. Imagining tubby little Jimmy Mullins trotting around inside of his skull was one of the funnier things he’d thought of in… it seemed like forever.

Standing up, he began to work at the knot of his tie; he needed a shower, having not had one since the morning he’d…

Since he’d buried Amber.

Easily working through the buttons on his white shirt, Wilson sighed. Plopping back down on the bed, he couldn’t help but ask himself what the hell he was doing.

Since she’d died, he’d been in a tailspin, caught between wanting to cling to her memories and wanting to forget them all together. And in doing so, he’d been flitting from sobbing over each and every article of clothing that still had her scent to getting as stupidly drunk as he possibly could.

Truth be told, Wilson had never felt so disorganized and schizophrenic as he had these past weeks.

His mind never deciding what the appropriate way to grieve was, he wavered daily.

Which wasn’t to say there wasn’t a pattern to it. In the light of morning, when he woke up and remembered that she was no longer alive, he wanted to linger in the few moments he thought she was still here. Wanting to expand those three or four minutes into hours, Wilson would, sometimes, grab her pillow and cling to it.

Breathing her scent in deeply, he would think that it was almost like having her around.

Especially if he closed his eyes and allowed his imagination to run wildly enough, he could almost believe that she were right there with him.

Almost.

But never fully, because even with memories and fantasies to guide him along, even with his eyes closed, Wilson could not ignore what was different. The pillow was softer than Amber; her body made of muscle and sinew and damaged heart, she was strong - stronger than anything stuffed with down could be.

And even if he could smell her scent, he could not hear her voice. Her laugh - he missed that rare sound - was too throaty and sexy and loud. Usually heard when he would pull her as close to him as the pillow was then, it was too much a part of this… snuggling to not think about it.

And it was this realization, the one that close approximations still weren’t ever going to be close enough, that always pushed him towards the bottle.

His body no longer handled hard liquor as it once did. Too many cosmos with Amber and too few nights out with House now made the smell alone practically enough to have him feeling intoxicated.

Except that wasn’t true, obviously. Although Wilson easily lost count, in his estimation, it usually took a handful of neat doubles to make him truly begin to feel light-headed. And then even after that, it was a bit of a ways to drunk territory. A couple shots after that and then he’d be exactly where he wanted - nearing the blissful oblivion he’d so frantically wanted.

Apparently, he thought then, he had spent enough time with House.

Because Wilson would not be here right now if not for his best friend. He would not be grieving for the woman he loved, would not be drinking his days away, would not be unbathed, unkempt, un… whatever the hell he was, if not for House.

Instinctively reaching for the bottle still by the nightstand, Wilson thought with a mere shrug that today’s drinking would start earlier than normal. Taking a long pull from the bottle, he didn’t care about that fact.

Because if there was one thing House had taught him, it was that, sometimes, pain needed to be buried. And this was an ache that Wilson never wanted to feel sober.

He never wanted to think about how she would never come back.

He never wanted to remember how her eyes had faded and closed for the last time.

He never, ever wanted to consider how avoidable the whole thing had been.

If he’d just put House second…

The thought went unfinished, silenced by the liquor hitting the back of his throat.

Really, all Wilson wanted was to pretend that this would make him forget, that this would make the pain inside of himself somehow bearable. Wanting to pretend that doing this would take him away to a place where everything was good and her absence didn’t matter, he drank as quickly as he could.

Quickly heading down the same road he’d taken last night into oblivion, Wilson pretended not to know that, when he woke up, he’d be in the exact same place.

**************

When she’d mentioned her concerns to Foreman yesterday, he’d argued that House was being himself. Ill, but otherwise himself.

His body was thinner, anyone could see that; his eyes still hazy, there were small scabs forming on his head where he’d had sutures. Having refused to have it shaved, House now had a patchy beard growing in, that made him look more hobo than unkempt doctor. But other than that, physically… at least superficially, House seemed to be proving Dr. Foreman right.

And yet, looking at House now, Cuddy knew better than to trust Foreman’s medical opinion.

Because something was just not right.

It wasn’t just about the tears, she told herself; the uncharacteristic display of emotion weighed heavily in her mind, made her wonder just how traumatic his brain injury was, but there was more to it than that. As inconsolable as he’d seemed, as sudden as the tears had come - she could almost overlook that.

After all, he’d been injured, watched his best friend’s girlfriend die, and then watched Wilson leave.

If that didn’t make House upset, then what would?

The question making her look at him differently, Cuddy was almost, in a sick and bizarre sort of way, glad that she’d caught him crying.

Not that she wanted to see him in a hospital bed with a look on his face that suggested nothing would ever be the same for him again, she thought immediately. But… at least, she could tell that he cared. Which was more than he usually gave her to work with, she realized sadly.

And yet, having that knowledge did not fill her with any joy. Because, even if she could put the tears aside, there was so much more about his behavior that troubled her.

Gone was the mischief that always seemed to be present in his bright blue eyes. In all the years she’d known him, Cuddy had never seen him not scheming or formulating some way to get into trouble or cause it. From flirting with his teenaged stalker to breaking the MRI machine on a nearly bi-monthly basis, he had always searched for new and more impressive ways to stir the pot.

And now… that was gone.

Anyone else would have argued otherwise, of course.

He’d tried to avoid the feeding tube; he’d fought her each and every time she tried to turn on the pump. He was still insulting her, still refusing the most basic attempts at caring for himself and being cared for by her. He hadn’t wanted to blow his own nose when the tube had come out.

He didn’t want to shave, didn’t want to be bathed, didn’t want to eat the hospital food. Although, on this last point, Cuddy had quickly realized that giving him extra pudding and baiting him with promises of being released if he ate worked. If only temporarily, as the high sugar content in the pudding only seemed to exacerbate his mental impairment, leaving him even more recalcitrant than he’d been before he’d picked up the spoon.

All in all, the entire list of behaviors was… enough to make her believe that she had become the Jewish version of a saint. And Cuddy could clearly see, if only from her brief conversation with Foreman, that everyone else would use it as incontrovertible proof that House was the same asshole he’d always been.

But she knew there was a difference. As much as things hadn’t appeared to have changed on the surface, she could tell that something had. Even if she couldn’t name what that was exactly, she could feel it. Could hear it in every conversation she attempted to have with House.

A child’s curiosity gone horribly awry, his penchant for pot stirring and mischievousness had always been significantly more complicated than most people gave him credit for.

She would never deny that House was an ass, of course.

He was.

Obviously, he was.

But… there was more to him than that, more than just blanketed insults and outlandish remarks. Because underneath all of that roughened exterior was someone capable of making the most pointed observations, was a man who could on the one hand expose all of your lies and faults and with the other accept you for them. And for each destructive comment and action, there was a diagnosis, an act of friendship… something to make it seem all worthwhile.

Even when he was being particularly idiotic, that fact made dealing with him easier, bearable. The silver lining of it all visible every now and then, it was the reason she could turn down one hundred million dollars, could stand up to an overzealous detective, could lie under oath.

Now, however… House wasn’t going for the outlandish remark or the insensitive observation.

He was just being an ass.

And… honestly, Cuddy had dealt with him enough to let his insults slide. She didn’t necessarily mind that, could have lived with any of the things he was saying under normal circumstances.

But what he was doing now was something she could not abide by, something she couldn’t ignore. Because what he was doing now was obsessing over every detail in his life. If he weren’t sullenly sitting in bed, he was snarling over how the sheets on the bed had been shifted. And if he weren’t furious about the linens, then he was yelling about Foreman and the way she clicked her pen.

Everything and anything could and did send him into a tailspin, his mood souring quicker than milk in desert weather. His chest rising and falling unsteadily, his eyes narrowing on her, he would yell and insult until exhaustion over took him. Which, thankfully, happened within ten, fifteen minutes.

But for that brief period of time that he was awake and upset, Cuddy had… no idea how to handle him. She’d tried consoling, tried giving him what he wanted, no matter how stupid; she’d tried to fight with him, tried to get him to calm down.

And of course, none of it worked.

Nothing worked.

At least, she could only assume the antidepressants (which had worked when he’d taken them over a year ago) she’d started slipping into his cocktail of drugs weren’t working. Or maybe assume was the wrong word, because… truthfully, Cuddy was hoping that they weren’t working. Because if the pills were doing their job, and this was the best they could do…

Then she had no desire to see what he would be like off the pills.

In the back of her mind, she planned to adjust his dose.

No, she told herself, she was going to adjust it… just not until she was sure that fiddling around with his medications was an acceptable course of action to take. And Cuddy believed that they were probably nearing that point. But until she was sure, she would deal with his behavior, as undesirable a solution as that was.

After all, he didn’t make it easy, nor was he going to.

House never made anything easy.

Not even when he got the news that he was being released did he decide to play nicely. Instead of a smile or something approaching happiness spreading across his haggard features, he only looked at her blankly.

So, standing at the foot of his head, she asked, “Did you hear me? You’re being released today… right now, actually. I just processed your discharge papers.”

He blinked in response.

A sympathetic smile on her face mingling with an increasing sense of confusion, Cuddy asked him, “Aren’t you happy?”

“Yeah, thrilled” was his dry response.

She frowned. This was not what she had been expecting. Of course, it had probably been wrong to expect anything even remotely approaching joy from him, given the circumstances. But still…

“Seriously,” House repeated, absolutely no humor in his voice. “I now know how the Jews must have felt when the gates of Auschwitz were opened.” As an afterthought, he added, “The second time. Probably weren’t too happy about being tossed in there to begin -”

“Shut up,” she interrupted irritably.

“Gonna give me the lobotomy, Ratched, if I don’t?” he asked sarcastically, daringly.

Unceremoniously, Cuddy began to pull at the thin sheets covering his body. The covers quickly slipping down his long legs, she quipped, “I was thinking a last minute enema, courtesy of the Princeton-Plainsboro nursing staff, but -”

The back of his hand tiredly rubbing at his eyes, House echoed her earlier sentiment, “Shut up.”

She did.

The exhaustion he was most likely feeling aside, Cuddy herself had quickly tired of the almost constant squabbling. It was taxing to constantly live in the frenetic state House pushed her in.

Truth be told, under normal circumstances, when she only spent an hour or two at most with him in a day, she relished the banter. Their sarcasm and dark senses of humor feeding off one another, words glided off her tongue with an ease she couldn’t quite find with anyone else. The conversation always taking bizarre and interesting turns, Cuddy could never explain how they would get to the end of the thought process or where the end would even be. But regardless, she thrived with him, as he did with her, under those circumstances.

But this, however, was different.

This was constant - the need to defend her choices and keep his health in mind, the need to offer him sarcasm and sympathy all at once. It was all a fine balancing act that Cuddy had no idea how to perform. Like a drunken, blind trapeze artist with only one leg, she floundered to find the right words to say at any given moment, struggled to give House exactly what he needed.

Sometimes she succeeded, others not so much, and the collective effect was that she was just as tired as he was. Coupled with trying to run a hospital at the same time, Cuddy couldn’t help but quiet down when he told her to shut up.

Silently, she folded the sheets down at the edge of the bed before turning away. Walking over to the drawers in the room that held all the things she’d taken from his apartment, Cuddy silently pulled out the clothes she had picked.

“I went to your house,” she explained to him. “Grabbed some things for you. So you have a choice - pajamas or - ”

“You had no right to do that,” he snarled immediately.

Turning back to him with the clothes in her hand, she plopped both options down at the food of the bed. As patiently as she could, Cuddy admitted, “Maybe not. But you’re just going to have to live with the fact that I did do it.”

“No, I -”

“After all the times you’ve broken into my office - my house - you can learn to live with it,” she interrupted.

Of course, Cuddy knew that he would never see what she had done that way. And, eager to avoid a fight, she tried to transition the conversation to a more neutral topic. “So, what’s it going to be?” she asked. “Jeans and a t-shirt or pajamas?”

At first, House merely frowned at her, not saying anything. His sour mood obvious to her, it was no surprise when he finally spoke up, “No.”

“It’s not a yes or no question,” she reminded him calmly.

He rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to decide. You shouldn’t have done that.”

Realizing that she wasn’t going to be able to redirect the conversation and move on, Cuddy sighed. She would never understand how he could be so private and protective of his own personal life and still choose to railroad over everyone else’s.

Honestly, how could he take offense to what she’d done when he had been the one to break into her home and sort through her underwear? How could he be pissed when he was the one who’d run the PCR test without her consent?

Not really feeling the apology, she said, “I’m sorry. All right?” Sitting down on the edge of the bed, Cuddy told him slightly irritably, “I know that you have… issues with people invading your privacy. But -”

“You did it anyway,” he accused. His hands were clenching into fists against the mattress of the bed. His large knuckles turning white, she had no doubt that the strain from that act would only fuel his exhaustion. “You knew I wouldn’t go for it, and you -”

“Did what I wanted, because I knew it was the right thing to do, yeah,” she interrupted. “Like you do all the time when I tell you no.”

“The difference is,” House replied, sounding as didactic as he could possibly be. “I am always right in those situations. You are not.”

She nodded her head dramatically, brow furrowing of its own volition. “Right,” she said sarcastically. “I was wrong; I should have absolutely let you walk out of here with your ass hanging out of your hospital gown instead.”

He had no immediate retort to offer her, which was, she supposed, House saying, in not so many words, that she was right.

Not that he would ever say it; his silence would be all that she could hope for in terms of an apology. And truthfully, Cuddy was fine with that. Because she hadn’t gotten this far in life with House by her side still believing that conciliations needed to be verbalized. He’d robbed her of that belief long ago, and she had learned since then to accept each and every small act of humanity he was willing to bestow upon her.

“So,” she said increasingly cheerily. “What will it be? Pajamas or -”

Interrupting, he demanded, “Give me the stupid jeans already.”

Plucking the clothes off of the mattress that he wanted, Cuddy handed them to him. “Do you need help?” she asked instinctively, the years she’d actually regularly dealt with patients somehow mixing with the present.

The glare he gave her in response was all the answer she needed. And, out of respect for his privacy, she turned away from him once more. Taking the pajamas with her, Cuddy began to pack them, and the remainder of his things, into the duffle bag she’d brought to the hospital seemingly so long ago.

So much and so little had changed since then.

Wilson was now furious with her, and she’d seen more of House’s ass than she had ever wanted to. That much had probably, unfortunately, altered her world for years to come.

But at the same time… House was barely any better. He’d gained a good portion of his weight back, the hypermetabolism effectively under control, yes. His sutures had been removed and were beginning to heal, which was also good. And yet, his moods were unpredictable, each emotion bizarrely strong and none of them happy.

Swinging quickly between sullen and angry, despondent and outright crying, he never seemed pleased to… have survived the crash at all.

Sighing, she turned back around.

Truthfully, House had made more progress in getting dressed than she had imagined he would. He’d managed to swing his legs off of the bed; his underwear was on, the white band peaking out of the top of his jeans, which were zipped up but not buttoned. His hands were fumbling with his inside out t-shirt, his fingers struggling to fix it.

His hospital gown was, of course, on the floor, she noted with another sigh.

He really was like an unruly five year old at times.

Both amused at the idea of House as a child and sympathetic towards his mother, Cuddy took the few steps necessary to be near the fallen item of clothing. Unkempt nails that needed to be trimmed clasping the papery material, she easily picked it up off the floor and placed it on the bed.

And, her attention turning back towards House, she was not entirely surprised to notice that he still hadn’t gotten the finer points of the shirt. His brain still recovering from the trauma, it was only normal for him to experience some problems - even if he were too stubborn to realize or accept that fact.

Afraid that he would lash out at her because of it, Cuddy was tentative in holding her hand out towards him. Her voice calm, gentle, she asked, “Do you want my help with that?”

“No, I was thinking I should go for the beefcake look. The nurses love that,” House replied, sarcasm lacing each and every word.

He thrust the t-shirt at her, the soft cotton material bouncing off of her face and fluttering to the floor. The large shirt pooled at the black tops of her heels, and it was, she thought, almost embarrassing that she’d been unable to catch it from such a short distance. After all, Cuddy had been a tom boy for most of her life, far more interested in sports and the high sweating gave her than boys and make up.

That part, obviously, had come to her later in life, had arose in her at almost the same time she realized she could use her looks to her advantage.

And although it had been… well, from before the bus crash since she’d last gone for a long run, the sporty girl inside of her blanched at being unable to receive such an easy toss. Then again, her only physical activity the last couple weeks or so saving House from himself, it was hardly the kind of sport she wanted to play. And besides, he’d essentially just… allowed her to help him, and that was nothing short of shocking.

Dumbly reaching down to grab the material, she was slow in turning the material inside out. Didn’t even bother to hurry until House snapped, “I was kidding about wanting to look like a Chippendale. So anytime now would be good.”

“Be patient,” she chastised, her pleasant surprise quickly giving way to the realization that he would be torturing her mercilessly no matter what. Even if he had mentally prepared himself to accept her help, he was still going to be an ass about it.

Easily her deft fingers righted the shirt. And closing the distance, Cuddy didn’t give him the option of putting the stupid thing on himself. Forcing his greasy hair and giant head into the relatively small neck hole, she was as gentle as she could be, given her own rightful irritation.

Not that he could appreciate that. Calmly, patiently waiting for the sarcastic remark to come, she helped him get his arms through the sleeves.

But it wasn’t until he’d stood up and she was buttoning his pants for him that House decided to make his move. Gesturing down to her hands closing his jeans for him, he suggested, “You know, this is probably why you never get laid. You’re supposed to take the pants off, Cuddy.”

Despite her best judgment, she couldn’t help but smirk, blush as she tucked a loose curl behind her hair. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she told thin-lipped.

The moment quickly disappearing, the hostility and frantic energy just as easily returning, House demanded to know, “Where’s my cane?”

“Your cane,” she explained, “is probably part of a crime scene, if it hasn’t been destroyed outright or lost in the accident.”

His ass plopping back down on the thin mattress, he dramatically brought his hand to his chin. Cupping it as though he were pretending to think, he said, “Hmmm… I wonder if there were some magical place a person could get canes. I mean - since you were obviously too stupid to snoop in my hall closet to get me one.” He continued to pretend to contemplate the possibilities, as she folded her arms across her chest in irritation. “Oh, I know,” House announced, his index finger sticking straight up into the air. “Hospitals have canes. If only we were near a hospital. Oh wait!” he exclaimed dramatically. “We are in a hospital.”

Rolling her eyes, Cuddy asked, “Are you done?”

“Do you have my cane?”

“You don’t need a cane,” she said smoothly, the words escaping her before she’d had any chance to think them through. And her sentence now hanging in the heated, antiseptic hospital air, she could hear just how stupid it sounded and knew just how House was going to respond.

And indeed, true to form, he looked down at his right thigh. His hand dramatically moving to the place where there was no longer an abundance of healthy muscle, he gently raked over the area. “Really?” he asked hyperbolically. “Doctor Cuddy, have you been growing a quadriceps tree on Wilson’s side of the balcony next to his marijuana?”

“Wilson grows pot on hospital grounds?” she asked, feeling the blush spread along her chest and clavicle. Just the thought of illegal activity, of her head of oncology growing drugs on the hospital premises, was enough to make her worry that she was going to break out into hives.

The board and hospital inspectors would have a field day if they ever found out…

“Of course not,” House said, waving off her concern. “He grows it at home; he just rolls it here. Duh.” Her eyes meeting his, she couldn’t tell if he were serious or not. “Now… my cane?”

“I will deal with Wilson later,” Cuddy told him, as though he were really interested in his best friend being reamed for offering cancer patients a legitimate, if illegal, treatment for unbearable nausea.

As though she really cared about it even, she thought ruefully.

Honestly, Cuddy wasn’t too concerned about Wilson being caught; he was always responsible, smart enough to know how to avoid making the authorities curious.

And yet, she decided she would talk to him anyway. Maybe not about the weed itself, although that could be the pretext to get him to talk to her, she supposed. The use of hospital business to leap across gaping chasms and into meaningful conversations was not a unique tactic; if anything, she regularly used it when trying to discuss anything with House.

Or more to the point, it was the technique she regularly used to talk about House to Wilson. Segueing from “House broke the MRI machine again” to something more personal, Cuddy had always relied on those little incidents to connect with Wilson.

But now, she supposed that had been the wrong technique to use all these years. Because now… after he’d learned that she wasn’t going to go to Amber’s funeral, Wilson had been furious with Cuddy. And he’d never been angry with her, not even when she’d effectively chosen House over him during Tritter’s reign of terror. Really, regardless of what she’d done in the past, Wilson had always forgiven her, had always implicitly accepted her less than admirable actions.

It was the natural by-product of being friends with House. It was the glue that connected Cuddy and Wilson’s otherwise disparate personalities into any sort of friendship.

And now that connection had been worn thin, its insulation violently stripped away.

Thread bare and reaching the breaking point (she didn’t want to even begin to think that it had already broken), their friendship was as close to over as it had ever been. And, though Cuddy had never outright told Wilson that she appreciated everything he had done for her…

That didn’t mean it wasn’t true.

That didn’t mean she was ready to let him walk out of her life.

She was far from ready to let that happen. Because, given how troublesome House could be, Cuddy needed someone else to help her out. The sentiment, she thought, was not unlike the kind a woman wanting to stay in a loveless marriage for the sake of the children might utter.

Only she did like Wilson, did care about him, if in a different way than how she looked at House. And that meant she was absolutely going to talk to Wilson, even if it meant using hospital business to force the conversation.

Likewise, Cuddy told House, “You don’t need your cane right now. Hospital policy says your ass has to be in a wheelchair.”

As if on cue, Nurse Unger pushed open the room’s door and brought in the wheelchair, which House was sure to hate.

Once again, true to form, he argued, “I can walk.” He didn’t sound affronted, Cuddy thought. But there was no ignoring the way he eyed the wheelchair as though it were evil, as though he hadn’t used said chair before for a bet.

Mentally sighing, she told herself that there were times that she just did not understand this man. “Obviously, you can walk,” she told him, sounding irritated. “But hospital policy -”

“Don’t quote policy to me, Cuddy,” House interrupted, pointing a finger at her. “You want to wheel around the cripple, then just say that.”

“Fine,” she snapped, putting a hand on her hip. “Will you please get your ass in the chair?” Even to her own ears, her voice sounded rough, snotty, and completely annoyed - which she was. “As much as I’d love to watch you try and walk on your own,” she told him. “I have no desire seeing you hobble ten feet, collapse, and set your recovery back -”

“’My recovery,’” he repeated with a sneer. The way his mouth contorted over the words, he clearly didn’t approve of her language.

Cuddy held a hand up, signaling him to not say another word. Exasperated, she told him, “Call it what you want. I don’t care. I’m really not interested in getting into a semantics argument with you. Just get in the damn chair, all right?”

House listened, thank God.

His movements were slow, jerkier than they normally were. The effects of the accident and brain stimulation were obviously making things harder for him; the sweat dotting his brow by the time he sat down was evident of that fact.

And though Cuddy would have liked to help him, she knew that she’d needed to let him traverse the short distance on his own. Because now at least, he wouldn’t even contemplate fighting her on the wheelchair; he wouldn’t want to walk knowing that his legs might not support him the entire way.

Indeed, House was unusually quiet as she placed the duffle bag on his lap and began to wheel him out of the room.

In fact it wasn’t until they were waiting for the elevator that he mentioned, “You realize you would have lost that semantics argument, right?”

“Maybe,” she told him, pushing him onto the elevator. The doors quickly closing behind them, Cuddy said with a smirk, “Can still beat you in a foot race, though.”

Admittedly the joke was in poor taste, had a dark undercurrent that originated in fact. And part of her was aware that she shouldn’t make jokes like that, if only because she had played a part in his thigh’s current state.

But then, House had never taken offense, and he’d certainly made fun of her at any opportunity he had, so…

What was the harm?

If he had an answer to that question, he didn’t fill her in.

His mouth firmly closed, he didn’t say anything at all for the remainder of the trip. Silently plopping into the passenger side of her car, he had his eyes shut by the time she pulled out of the hospital parking lot; his soft snores soon filled the silent car with the quiet sound.

Cuddy hadn’t expected him to stay awake. In a way, this was the most activity that he’d had since he’d had the deep brain stimulation. And considering she had yet to tell him that… she would be staying with him, she almost appreciated his near constant need for sleep.

Because, of all the conversations she never wanted to have, explaining to House that he wasn’t rid of her just yet was easily top of the list.

He was going to freak out, she thought to herself, as she turned onto the street where he lived. He was going to be absolutely livid. And when he learned that she’d had Foreman and Thirteen cleaning up his apartment, she would be glad, she suspected, that House’s strength was currently impaired.

Not that Cuddy truly suspected he would hurt her physically.

At least not under normal circumstances, anyway.

But if she had learned one thing since the bus accident, it was that these were not normal circumstances.

Wilson was gone, she was the closest thing House now had to a friend, and there was his brain injury to think of. As bizarre as the first two conditions were, it was the last one that worried her the most. She could adjust to Wilson being gone, and she could accept her new role in House’s life, and she suspected that he might also, eventually, be able to accept those things as well. And if he couldn’t accept them, at least there were things to be done to… fix that.

He could apologize to Wilson, and she could talk to him, anyway.

But the third, House’s brain injury, was beyond any of their control. That would have to heal on its own time. Six weeks from now, six years from now, there was no telling how long it would take him to regain everything he had so easily thrown away for Amber. It might be years, Cuddy realized, before House could put on his own clothes without effort, before he could control his emotions again.

The picture grim in her mind, it was still sadly one of the more positive options. Because at least in that scenario what he’d lost could be regained, could be recovered. Even if it took years, there was still hope that he would return to who he was before the accident.

Unfortunately, however, that was wishful thinking, considering the severity of his injury. The temporal bone fractured down to his ear, the gap widened by the brain stimulation, it was a lot worse than a bump on the head; this wasn’t a concussion that House could easily shake off. As much as she didn’t want to think about it, Cuddy couldn’t deny that there was a very real possibility that he would never fully recover.

She couldn’t ignore the fact that he might always be this upset, this tempestuous and problematic.

But, as she pulled the car over to the curb in front of her house, Cuddy felt her own determination shove that fear aside.

She wouldn’t deny that he might not get better, she told herself. She just would not let herself see it as the end of the world - even if, the Dean of Medicine thought grimly, that meant he no longer could be a doctor.

Because… it would be okay.

There was a distinct possibility that he would permanently be altered by the events of the last month or so, but it would be okay.

Turning the car off, Cuddy reminded herself of all the things that had changed since she’d first met House. Their one-night stand, his infarction, her perjury - those events were all evidence that they had changed. It was the proof that they were no longer the seemingly naïve youths intent on learning everything that could be learned about medicine.

They’d hardened over the years, their cynicism easing their passages down some very dark roads. And there had been many shady paths they’d tread together and alone.

Which made what they were going through now, what House was experiencing now, just one more twist, one more fork in the road for them to walk.

Of course, even with that way of thinking, she did not believe it would be easy. Helping him recover would be harder than… probably almost anything she could think of; she realized that much.

But looking at his slumbering form now, Cuddy remembered all the footsteps they had taken together. The journey shared had never been one of her own making; she’d never even imagined herself sticking by House whose demons and machinations seemed intent on chasing him deeper into the forest.

She’d never planned for that, and yet that was exactly what she’d done.

And, a small smile forming on her thin lips, Cuddy accepted that, no matter what happened now, she would continue to stick by him. No matter how much he might protest, she would stay with him.

They’d already gone too far down that road for her to turn back now.

Go to Part Two of Chapter 7