Edge of Chaos (15.4/15)
Title: Edge of Chaos, Chapter Fifteen (Part Four)
Author: Duckie Nicks
Rating: PG-13
Characters: House, Cuddy, Wilson -- friendship between the three, maybe some Huddy if you squint. This chapter also features some Foreman and Thirteen.
Summary: House wakes up from the deep brain stimulation to a life without Wilson. Now, as House's life begins to falls into chaos, he searches for meaning, forgiveness, and friendship. House/Cuddy, Wilson/Cuddy, and House/Wilson friendships
Previous Chapters: Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three (Part One), Chapter Three (Part Two), Chapter Four, Chapter Five, Chapter Six, Chapter Seven (Part One), Chapter Seven (Part Two), Chapter Eight (Part One), Chapter Eight (Part Two), Chapter Nine, Chapter Ten (Part One), Chapter Ten (Part Two), Chapter Ten (Part Three), Chapter Ten (Part Four), Chapter Eleven (Part One), Chapter Eleven (Part Two), Chapter Eleven (Part Three), Chapter Twelve, Chapter Thirteen (Part One), Chapter Thirteen (Part Two), Chapter Fourteen (Part One), Chapter Fourteen (Part Two), Chapter Fourteen (Part Three), Chapter Fourteen (Part Four), Chapter Fifteen (Part One), Chapter Fifteen (Part Two), Chapter Fifteen (Part Three)
Disclaimer: I don't own the show!
Author's Note: Spoilers for "Wilson's Heart." Some chapters are split into parts because of Livejournal's character/word limit.
It wasn’t hard to understand why that was. The last attempt at reaching out to Wilson hadn’t gone well, and House was one of those people who took rejection as poorly as a human being could. Which was almost ironic, considering how doggedly persistent he could be; his determination and stubbornness qualities she couldn’t even begin to imagine him without, they should have made him much braver than he was with personal relationships.
Should have was clearly the key phrase in that sentence, because for all his posturing, the fact was he was a coward when it came to dealing with the people he cared about.
Naturally putting it that way made it seem like she judged him for that. And nothing could have been further from the truth, actually, as she didn’t find herself to be any braver in that respect. If anything, she felt weaker than he was, so afraid to be close to others that she’d never had a Wilson to lose; in all of her life, she’d had many friends, but she’d never had one as close as that.
She’d never had a best friend to confide anything and everything to.
But House had, and he’d lost him, and it wasn’t hard to understand why he was so afraid now. Anyone would have been in the same situation, she told herself; anyone would have wanted to avoid being told that their best friend hated them.
Yet she also knew that, if things were ever going to be better - for any of them, House would have to talk to Wilson.
Knowing that, she consoled in calm tones. “I know that you’re worried about what he might tell you. You don’t want him to say that he hates you, and I understand that. But the way this gets better - the way he leans to forgive you - involves you talking to him.”
“No.”
His voice was a dangerous growl. Not unlike the sound a caged animal, afraid and ready to attack, would make, it was proof enough that he was on the verge of slamming the phone down and never speaking to her again.
And that would have only been for starters. There was an eager fury in the single word he’d practically hissed, and she would have been stupid to think that that would be the worst he would do; he was angry enough - he was dumbly angry - to do all sorts of things that she didn’t want to think about.
And the need to end the conversation, to diffuse the tension between them immediately became all she cared about then.
Sighing, Cuddy said in a softer voice, “This is how this is going to work: Wilson is coming over.” Her tone, though kind, left no room for disagreement, which was exactly what she wanted. As odd as it might have been to make such a final statement to someone so clearly desperate for control, she understood what needed to be done. She knew that the way this chat with them ended best was with her giving him a specific set of options. A lesser person would have caved to his demands, but she knew better.
Because if she’d given him what he’d wanted, if she’d said, “Okay, Wilson won’t come over,” two things would have happened. Firstly, he would have become arrogantly pleased with himself; his chest would have puffed up as though his lungs were capable of housing days’ worth of air in them. And he would have let that good, egotistical high control him for as long as it could possibly last; he’d ignore everything she said to do; he’d take risks with his own health and life that he knew rationally were stupid.
And eventually, the second thing would happen: he would crash. Not only because screwing her over was a temporary high, but also because at some point, House would realize that winning this particular argument was nothing more or less than a loss for himself. Unlike taking a risk with one of his patients’ lives, by getting her to back off, he would realize that he’d essentially lost all chance to make up with Wilson.
Which she was desperate to avoid at all cost.
So she went against the grain, went against what seemed like the most logical and stated without any room for disagreement that Wilson would be coming over. And to make House feel slightly in control of himself, she offered him two choices. “If you don’t want to talk to him, don’t. Just sit back and watch him walk out of your life forever.”
He started to say something along the lines of “Enough with the dramatics,” but she cut him off.
“But if you have any desire at all to earn his forgiveness, you’re going to accept that he’s coming over, and you’re going to prepare yourself for it. You’re going to stop fighting with me,” she told him in a cold voice. “You’re going to take your medication and a bath, so he doesn’t faint at the smell of you.”
She waited for him to blurt something out about how the scent of his studliness was only offensive to her cloistered self or something along those lines. But no remark ever came, and she forced herself continue elaborating on what he should do. “You’re going to lie down. You’re going to get some sleep, so that you’re not so damn cranky with him. And you’re going to be friendly and supportive and nice and all of the things that are so abhorrent to your senses when he gets there.”
Cuddy expected him to slam down the phone; she’d made her point, and he, understanding that intuitively, should have written anything else she had to say off as something not worth listening to. At least, she thought that he would have. But instead he simply asked in a voice that offered no emotional insight, “And where will you be for our homemade episode of the Jenny Jones show?”
Her answer was immediate. “I will be there with you. He’s stopping by after work, and I’m going to make sure that all of the things I need to take care of will be done by then,” she promised. In the back of her mind, she couldn’t help but think she was being repetitive by constantly telling House when Wilson was coming over.
But then again, given House’s brain injury and his overall stubborn nature, she supposed that there was something to be said for reiterating the point over and over. Which was why she added, “I won’t let you do this alone. I will be there.”
House didn’t believe her, however; he definitely didn’t put much faith in her ability to show up, because his response was to scoff at her words - to scoff loudly before hanging up and leaving her to wonder if she really were doing the best thing for him.
*****************
Wilson spent the rest of the day alternating between maintaining his workload in the oncology department and helping Foreman look for a new case. Truthfully, when he’d first returned to work, Wilson had wanted to avoid working with the cancer patients; he’d tried to pawn off his cases on lesser doctors in the same field.
He’d done everything he could to avoid the certainty of death that seemed so oppressive these last two months.
Maybe it had been stupid to think this, but Wilson had truly believed that handling cases where the patient had a shot would be more helpful to his own well being. He’d thought that he would feel better saving lives than witnessing the destruction of life.
But the fact of the matter was working in diagnostics had been even more a reminder of the inevitability that loomed over everyone.
As odd as that was, it was the truth; Wilson had never felt so aware of how easy it was to kill someone as he had in the last couple of days. Because even though cancer was one of those buzz words that instantly made people think of death, the reality was this: death never seemed closer than when you had no idea how to stop it, when you had no idea what was pushing you closer to it. Cancer might have been just as deadly, but Wilson knew how to deal with that.
And because of that, he’d had to reassess how he felt about working in oncology.
He hadn’t wanted to come back to that, his legs itching to move on to something different. But he could see now that the oncology was where he belonged. It was what he was good at, what he knew how to do, and if he were any good at being a doctor - if he were to be of any use to anyone, working in oncology was what he had to do. So he’d spent the day balancing his time between re-embracing his normal caseload and trying to give Foreman one.
Frankly, Wilson would have been happy to say goodbye to diagnostics all together. But since he’d kind of been an ass to Foreman - and since Foreman currently needed Wilson’s name to get Cuddy to get a case - Wilson felt beholden to the younger man.
However nothing came out of his helping hand. At the end of the day, there was no case to solve; there wasn’t even anything that could potentially be a case to work with. And so by the time the workday finished, Wilson was frustrated with his inability to give Foreman what he wanted.
Really, it shouldn’t have seemed like much, but if Wilson had been able to acquire a new case for the diagnostics department, it would have been… a nice way to try and undo the damage he’d done only days previously. It might not have fixed everything - it wouldn’t have fixed everything. But it would have been a nice start, a peace offering of sorts that said, “I’m sorry for doing something that made our boss look at you as though she were going to eat you alive.”
Okay, that might have been a stretch.
It would definitely take more than a single case to make Foreman forget that Cuddy had rubbed his failures in his face. It would absolutely take more than a case for Taub’s injured manhood to be soothed, despite the fact that Cuddy had essentially said she wasn’t interested in him. It wouldn’t take anything more than a case to make Kutner happy, but then Kutner was already happy.
Nothing got him down.
And to be completely honest, with the conversation with House breathing down his neck, Wilson could only wish that he’d been given some of Kutner’s positive outlook on life.
It wasn’t that Wilson thought that things would go badly.
It was that he knew they would go as horribly as human possible.
The bombing of Hiroshima, the non-existent weapons of mass destruction, the Titanic - all of those things would look like wonderful, cheerful events compared to what was going to happen in House’s apartment.
And Wilson had to wonder why he’d ever agreed to have a conversation to begin with. Had he really been that desperate to prove himself to Cuddy? To be her friend? Had he really been that convinced that talking to House would be a good thing?
Wilson guessed the answer was yes to all of those things on one level or another. But knowing that didn’t exactly make him feel better; if anything, it just made him feel as though he’d willingly stepped towards his doom to accomplish something he hadn’t even set out to do.
It was almost a morbid thought that occupied his mind as he finished the workday by gathering his briefcase and courage. But it was what he was thinking nonetheless.
And it remained in his mind until he was at House’s apartment, standing outside in the hallway.
Wilson hadn’t knocked yet, and he was still dabbling with the idea of turning and walking away without ever doing it. When he’d left the hospital Cuddy’s car was still in the lot, so he considered at that moment that he could easily slip away unscathed - without anyone knowing the wiser.
For now anyway.
He supposed that if he were to leave without saying a word, without doing what he’d said he’d do, he would have to eventually deal with the fallout of that choice. Eventually Cuddy would learn that he hadn’t talked to House, and House would probably learn that too one way or the other.
And then where would they be?
House would react with anger and blame - all of it directed towards Cuddy. And she would, in turn, be more miserable than Wilson wanted to see her be. Which would make him feel guilty, for starters.
And if he didn’t sound (even in his own mind, that was) all that serious about her misery, it was because he knew she would make him feel that emotion ten fold. Of that he had no doubt. After all, her agreeing to visit Amber’s grave was predicated on him doing this.
Cuddy hadn’t actually said that, of course, but Wilson was smart enough to know that nothing came without a catch.
Nothing among this circle of individuals anyway.
So he knew: If he ran away now, she would never do what he needed her to do. She would never see what he needed her to be a witness of.
Honestly, he didn’t know why it was so important to take her to Amber’s grave.
There was no… acknowledged symbolism in the act; he wasn’t replacing his dead girlfriend with Cuddy. He wasn’t entrusting her to keep Amber’s memory or anything like that.
He just….
He didn’t really know.
He supposed he just wanted Cuddy to see for herself what he’d lost. He wanted her to see that House’s mistakes didn’t occur in a vacuum, that they didn’t come without a cost. And he wanted her to understand that, even if that price came at the expense at other lives and other families for years, the closer she got to House, the more likely it would be that she would have to pay eventually.
She wouldn’t escape unscathed, able to move forward with her life without him. That just wasn’t how House and his so-called friendship operated.
Why no one had been around to tell Wilson this, he didn’t know. He wished - desired with all of his heart and soul - that someone had, but he hadn’t been lucky like that.
He’d had to learn that lesson in a painful collision of metal and events, of physical damage and sloppy planning on House’s part.
And although part of Wilson felt that Cuddy deserved to experience something just as painful as a punishment for all of her betrayals, he couldn’t do that to her.
He could not hurt Cuddy like that.
Which meant that he had to go through with this conversation.
He really did have to talk to House.
Standing there in the hallway, his hand curled into a fist, Wilson wondered if this was how men felt as they journeyed to the gallows. He wondered if that dreadful feeling of inevitability coursed through their veins in the same way it moved through his.
He wondered, but he gave himself no opening to find an answer to the question; instead he cleared his throat and bravely raised his fist to the door, his knuckles rapping against the wood several times. Four times to be exact, he noted, his mind intuitively trying to take control of the situation by delineating pointless details he had no use for.
For that reason, he noticed that, although he could hear House in the apartment, the door didn’t open right away. House’s footsteps were uneven, as they typically were, but slower than normal. A traitorous part of Wilson wondered if that meant that the other man’s pain was worse than normal.
But Wilson was quick to squelch that concern, to refuse to give it even the slightest bit of oxygen to breathe and expand within his consciousness.
And when House answered the door, his eyes rimmed red, hair disheveled and body covered in a thin sheet of sweat, Wilson thought that it was really easy not to care. House looked high, looked like a junkie in the worst and least sympathetic way possible, making it easy for Wilson to ask in disgusted amazement, “Are you high?”
House made a bitter quip about Nurse Ratched, forcing Wilson to respond loudly, “Right. Withdrawal then?”
House offered no answer other than a non-committal shrug that Wilson didn’t know how to take.
Truth be told, he had expected House to confirm or deny the accusation one way or the other. As much as the man rarely defended himself, House - the House of yester year, anyway - would have offered his best friend (Wilson thought of the moniker with disdain) an answer.
But House hadn’t, which made Wilson want to turn around and leave. Really, if House wasn’t even going to pretend to be interested in the obligatory small talk, angry and heated as it was, then Wilson couldn’t help but feel that all of this was a waste of time. He couldn’t help but feel that only the worst of things could come from this.
Except rationally he knew that that wasn’t true. He had to remind himself that he was there was something good to be had from all of this, but it was true: he would get something - he would get Cuddy’s loyalty - from this…
If he were to play his cards right.
The prompting all he needed to refocus his attentions, Wilson said awkwardly, “Right. Well, I can’t stay long. Cuddy told me to stop by.”
House waved Wilson inside, both men taking a seat on the couch. But that was, it seemed, the closest they could come to any sort of détente. Because nearly the second they started talking to one another once more, Wilson felt his hatred for House grow, make itself known.
Wilson had tried to be almost conversational when he asked, “So Cuddy’s living with you?”
Yet conversation was the last thing he felt like making when House joked, “Soon as Foreman gets a cap busted in his ass or Cameron has an accident with the peroxide, Cuddy’ll move onto them.”
The remark made Wilson laugh, of course, but it wasn’t the kind of laugh you made when you actually enjoyed what the other person was saying; it was the kind of chuckle he made when he couldn’t believe how stupidly unaware of human emotions House was being. “You think she’s treating you just like she would anyone else in your position?”
“No. I think she’s doing this to satisfy her guilt complex.”
There was a bitterness in House’s words that Wilson could only feel in his bones. House was clearly under the delusion that Cuddy didn’t care about him at all. It was so… stupid and unfeeling that Wilson wanted to strangle the other man until he realized just how lucky he really was.
Because Cuddy hadn’t been living with him out of obligation. She hadn’t waited on him hand and foot just because it was one of those things that she felt she had to do.
She was doing it because she cared, because she loved him even more than Wilson thought she was willing to admit.
And the truly most horrible part about all of it was that, if he had been in House’s position, Wilson would have never had the nerve to complain about being treated out of duty.
At this point in his life, it was all he wanted, all he could hope for.
And even then, no matter how much he tried to guilt Cuddy, her attention was always with House.
It was a fact that House couldn’t appreciate, that he wouldn’t have cared about even if he realized just how true it was. Which meant that…
Nothing had changed for him.
Cuddy had said that things were different, that he was sad and depressed and all of that.
But this was proof that House was still House.
“You’re unbelievable, House,” Wilson said in disbelief. His hands in the air, he continued, “Just this once, I was hoping… that things would change for you.”
Which made House snap angrily. “Right. See, I was thinking spending every waking moment with Cuddy in my drug-free, porn-free, fun-free apartment was a change. And a crappy one at that. But you’re right. Nothing’s changed. That jumbo box of super tampons in my bathroom has always been there.”
The comment about the tampons struck Wilson the most - mainly for its sheer ridiculousness.
Granted, everything in House’s list of “Things I did this summer” were pretty ridiculous. Being without porn hardly constituted a real change - nor was it indicative of any sort of suffering. And Wilson seriously doubted that House was drug-free, considering all of the ailments Cuddy had mentioned that House was suffering from.
But it really was the tampons that pushed Wilson over the edge.
Maybe it was the fact that the mention definitely shed new light on Cuddy’s decision to have ice cream today. Maybe it was the fact that imagining House with a box of tampons in his hands conjured all sorts of prepubescent jokes in Wilson’s mind. But whatever the reason, it was enough to make Wilson take a verbal step back.
His voice slightly calmer, he conceded, “All right, certain things have changed. But you… haven’t, and I -”
House rolled his eyes. “You’ve been here two minutes. You don’t know -”
And that was more than enough to send Wilson back over the edge.
“Come on, House!” His hands bunched into fists, and he had to mentally remind himself that hitting House would not make Cuddy happy. “After everything you’ve done, someone still has the patience to stand by you, and you resent it.”
It was such typical House crap that Wilson thought it shouldn’t have made him so angry. But it did; it was, and he was nearly hysterical over it. “Cuddy has bent over backwards to keep you happy, and you feel trapped!”
Expectantly, Wilson waited for House to offer some defense. Realistically Wilson understood that that was foolish at best, as there really was no defense to make in moments like these. But he still expected - hoped - that House would try.
And that he hadn’t made Wilson feel the need to point out just what it was that House was taking advantage of, being unappreciative of. “You have a beautiful, smart, successful woman willing to do anything to help you.”
He tried to avoid adding too much emotion or to list all of Cuddy’s good qualities like a lovesick puppy. But somehow House managed to see through all of that anyway. “What - you want her?”
“This isn’t a game,” Wilson snapped. “You can’t just… play swapsies.” God only knew that he wished they would, that they could, but he couldn’t force Cuddy to see what he was offering much less demand her to accept it.
His voice quieter, he said, “Cuddy chose you. Over her job, over her other -”
“You mean she chose me over you.”
The simplicity of House’s correct deduction took Wilson’s breath away.
It was exactly what he’d been thinking.
It was precisely what he’d been feeling all of this time and what he’d been trying to overcompensate for by telling himself that he didn’t need Cuddy or her help.
But House - with his brilliant mind and his occasional ability to understand human nature with startling clarity - had seen what the truth was.
And Wilson didn’t know why he said it then, but he, searching to see just how much he knew, asked House, “You know she didn’t even come to Amber’s funeral?”
“Probably on account of the fact that she didn’t like her,” House offered readily.
If Wilson had been calmer, he would have sarcastically considered that the time for House’s insights had come to a dramatic and quick close. But the fact was Wilson was not calm.
He was livid at the reminder of what Cuddy had done and even more furious by the way House so easily parlayed that knowledge about a conversation.
“You’re an ass,” Wilson said viciously. “You’ve been sitting here for weeks, no doubt feeling bad. And I believed Cuddy when she said it was because of me and -”
“Yeah. I can’t stop thinking about you, Wilson. Wanna see the shrine I built?”
It was the kind of sarcasm Wilson expected but did not want. “But she was wrong,” he continued. “You don’t feel bad about what you did. All you’ve been thinking about is yourself, what you don’t have.” He was shaking his head in disgust, his face red as he stood up. “I lost the woman I wanted to spend my life with. Who I honestly could have done that with. And you didn’t lose anything.”
He laughed at the irony.
He’d always believed that people eventually got what they deserved. But in this case… the only one who had suffered was him. He bled for the woman he loved; he wished day and night that he had died in her place, and House just got to go on with his life like nothing had ever happened.
“You gained from all this. A lot. You got someone who’s voluntarily putting up with your insanity. And you can’t even appreciate that.” He turned away from House and quietly added, “You can’t appreciate our friendship enough to stop joking about it.”
At that point, House stood as well, but Wilson was already on the move.
This had been a mistake.
And the sooner he put distance between this twisted wart of a human being and himself, the better he would be. “Just… don’t,” Wilson warned to ward him off. He was no longer interested in hearing anything House had to say.
This had been a mistake, Wilson repeated to himself, the horror around him soaking into his consciousness slowly. This was something that he shouldn’t have even tried to do, much less something Cuddy should have asked him to attempt.
This was something he had to end, had to escape.
Now.
Shaking he took a step towards the door. If he stayed here any longer, he would do something he’d regret.
But he’d barely moved past the couch when the front door opened to reveal a shocked Cuddy.
There was take out at her feet and a dismayed frown settling upon her lips.
She could feel it happening as she realized that she was late. She’d hoped to get to the apartment before Wilson, but getting dinner for all of them had taken longer than she’d expected. And between House’s pained expression, his face red with agitation, and Wilson’s visible disgust, Cuddy could tell that it had been to both of their detriments.
House, ill equipped to deal with this alone, had surely said something horrible and horrifying to Wilson, and Wilson had no doubt taken the sarcasm as glibness… which House was anything but as of late.
And she knew what all of that had inevitably led to, because as the door opened all the way, she could see what the ramifications were. Or she could see the most important one, anyway:
Wilson was leaving.
“Wilson,” she implored, using his name to beg him without actually having to beg him to stay.
In her heart, she understood that it was a useless gesture at that point. She knew that it would take so much more than uttering his name to get him to stay. And that meant she had to act fast.
Fluidly, she reached down and grabbed the white bags of Malaysian takeout, her gaze never leaving the two men. Honestly at this point, she trusted neither enough to believe that one of them wouldn’t try running past her while she wasn’t looking.
Especially Wilson.
He looked like he was ready to bolt at the earliest opportunity.
Determination welling within her, she decided that she would be damned before giving him one.
Easily stepping through the doorway, she kicked the door shut with a slam. The clamoring noise must have echoed negatively through House’s head, because he hissed loudly.
And though she felt guilty about it, she also felt justified in her behavior. The slam, though loud and annoying, was an audible way of telling them both that no one was going anywhere.
“What the hell is going on here?” It was a half-question, half-accusation that she really needed no response for. After all, it was pretty clear what had happened, but she’d uttered the words anyway, hoping that it would at least get one of them to say something instead of looking at her in silence.
House spoke up first, snapping furiously at her, “Are you senile?” He didn’t say, she noted, that she’d been late, that she’d let him down, but there was a deadly subtext to it that made her feel awful. Because although he would never say that he needed her to be there, his current display of anger made it seem like that that was how he’d felt.
And she hadn’t been there.
But she didn’t even have time to dwell on that thought, because Wilson held his shaking fingers up in frustration. “I’m leaving. I can’t -”
“No one is going anywhere,” she interrupted.
House scoffed. “You gonna shackle us to the couch?”
“Shut up.” The two words were uttered through gritted teeth, the only way she knew how to convey to him that he was screwing this up - the only way to tell him (without saying the words) that, by being sarcastic, he was ruining his chances with Wilson.
Thinking about it for more than two seconds though, she realized that there was no way two words could say that much. Especially when House was in no mood to read between the lines, there was no way he understood what she was trying to tell him.
Nevertheless, it was enough to quiet him down. He might have glared at her, but he wasn’t railing at her as he had been doing when he got into one of his rages.
But then again, his silence left an opportunity for Wilson to insist, “You two can have your lovers’ quarrel without me. I’m going home.”
Cuddy jerked her head in his direction. “No, you’re not.”
“Yes -”
“No, you’re staying,” she interrupted in an authoritative tone.
Wilson shook his head so quickly that it made her own feel as though it were spinning. “You can’t keep me here.”
“Well, that’s true,” she admitted, dropping her briefcase onto the floor unceremoniously. “But what I can do is remind you of our deal. And if you want to walk out that door now, then I can’t guarantee that I won’t feel the same way tomorrow.”
It was a threat she hadn’t wanted to make. It was a threat that she could only handle herself saying by telling herself that it, actually, wasn’t a threat and just a reminder that reciprocation worked both ways.
Wilson, however, clearly didn’t see it that way. Because even though he didn’t speak, he looked at her as though he wanted to scream. And frankly, she could only be thankful for House’s presence in that moment, because she was sure if he weren’t there, Wilson would have shouted.
Of course, this was House, and he was never content to let her appreciate him for more than a minute at a time. “You’re blackmailing him into talking to me?” He sounded surprised by the development he thought he saw. “That’s desperate even for you.”
She started to say no, but she didn’t get a chance to even utter the word, her mouth left hanging open as he continued.
“What exactly is the bargaining chip here?” He pretended to consider the question himself, but Cuddy knew, even before he spoke, that he was going to mention the most repulsive thing that came to mind. “Sex? You promised to let Wilson give you a Dirty -”
“Bedroom. Now,” she interrupted furiously, her words clipped and harsh.
House smiled oily, his grin like the kind you found on a used car salesman who knew when he’d found an easy mark. “Sorry, Jimmy. But it looks like the lady wants me to give her a ride first. Don’t worry, though; I’m sure she’s still good - even if she is my sloppy seconds.”
Cuddy glared at him as she placed the take out food on the coffee table but said nothing. He was clearly looking for a reaction from her, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to give him one. Not when she had to physically grab Wilson’s hand to stop him from leaving or killing House (she didn’t know which he intended), anyway.
And she didn’t really have a chance to yell either, because, for all of his talk, House started to walk down the hallway towards the bedroom.
As soon as he was far enough away to not hear her, she told Wilson, “I’m sorry.”
“You should be. He’s -”
“Sick and angry at me, and - ”
“And none of that should have anything to do with me,” Wilson interrupted, obviously still incredibly annoyed. “I can’t believe you asked me to do this. And I can’t believe you let him talk to you like that.”
Looking in his dark eyes, she could tell that he was furious enough to need more than a few conciliatory words. The brown irises somehow blacker than they normally were, it was clear that what he needed to hear was an explanation she wasn’t entirely ready to give. But she supposed she had to try, lest she accept failure over the whole endeavor now.
“Wilson… I know it’s hard for you to understand. But he’s not -”
“He’s not what? Serious? Sane? Some combination of that?”
She would have had to be stupid to think that he was seriously asking any of those questions. The disbelief and anger were so keen in his words that there was no doubt in her mind that he wasn’t going to take such excuses as being matter of fact.
So she said what should have been the most obvious thing in the world. “He’s sick. I know you want to chalk this up to House being House, but rationally, as a doctor, surely you realize that he is not a healthy man.”
He looked like he wanted to say something sarcastic, but she didn’t give him the opportunity to do that. Instead she added, “Between the skull fracture, the brain surgery, the seizure, and the cardiac arrest, you have to admit that it’s insane to think that he’s completely together right now. Or that he’ll be fine, or would have been fine, immediately after all of those traumas combined.”
She hated having to put it like that.
Hated it, truly, completely, absolutely hated having to see House like that… like a victim.
Wilson probably didn’t want to think of House like that either, she realized. Wilson wanted to liken House to a monster, incapable of showing even the slightest bit of remorse.
It made hating him easier.
But Cuddy didn’t want to believe he was a victim of circumstance either.
She’d known House since she was practically a child. Maybe not in years but absolutely in maturity, a little girl she had been when she’d first stumbled upon House and all of his intoxicating, infuriating, addictive intelligence. And in all of that time, as much as she had joked about his insanity, as much as there had been times where she’d foolishly hurled that insult, it had never been even remotely true.
Behind all of the superficial madness, there’d always been a reason; there’d always been some thread of logic for her to use as a life raft, to pull her to understanding him and his motives. Sometimes it drove her nuts to be left grappling for that rationality, the undertow of doubt somehow always threatening to carry her off. But no matter how much he seemed to try to push her away, no matter how hard she tried to shrug him off, she had always eventually seen it.
She’d always found the logic behind his diagnoses and actions. In some ways, her certainty in him, in his abilities, which clearly exceeded her certainty in herself and her own talents, left her feeling breathless, left her feeling as though the world had lurched onto new axes. He was so smart, so… intuitive that she never felt and always felt, paradoxically enough, reassured by that power.
And though she didn’t doubt that he would recover (she refused to believe he wouldn’t), it scared her that anything so… overwhelmingly impressive and large could be harmed.
Though she could feel Wilson’s gaze on her, she was not, at that moment, compelled to think of anything other than a very distant memory. Long before she’d met House, she’d been a schoolgirl forced to write a report on Einstein. The particulars, of course, were no longer in her consciousness; how old she’d been, the length of the essay, or if she’d been forced to recite the report to the class were details she’d long since forgotten.
Cuddy remembered the color ink she’d used to write the stupid thing. Maybe that was a little bizarre, but since the brilliantly blue ink had been smudged to the point of illegibility, and she’d received demerits for it, as a result, it was hard to forget that fact. That her left wrist and palm had been dyed said color as well had only cemented that part of the memory in her mind.
Which was a shame, because she had a hunch that what she’d written had been some of the most beautiful prose she’d ever managed to put to paper. Again, the details had slipped through the cracks of her memory years ago; she’d had more important things to remember over the years anyway, but she vaguely recalled talking about Einstein’s aestheticism ultimately limiting his abilities to understand the implications of his own theories, limiting his abilities to understand the world around him.
She must have been in high school at the time, she decided, because she remembered deriding him for that… which her teacher might or might not have also penalized her for; Cuddy didn’t know.
But she did know that Einstein had dismissed the existence of black holes for their ugliness, for the way they turned his beautiful theories into something that held a potent amount of inevitable degeneration. He didn’t like the idea of something as splendid as a star slowly dying in on itself, only to collapse into an entity only capable of destruction.
And at the time, she’d sort of understood his feelings behind that… but not really. The way she saw it, the stars diminishing, the universe decaying… was a sad reality, sure. But it was a reality nonetheless, and no amount of denying the truth could alter that.
Now, though… she could understand all too well his willingness to ignore that truth. Her problem might not have had anything to do with the universe. But believing that House’s gift, which had been a part of her life for so long, could be taken away so easily terrified her.
Of course, some might say that, if it had required a skull fracture, a seizure, a heart attack, and a surgery, then it hadn’t been easy to destroy his genius.
But that was precisely how it seemed to her.
And probably to House as well, because it wasn’t like there’d really been a way to avoid any of it. He couldn’t have predicted the bus accident; he couldn’t have predicted the damage caused by the deep brain stimulation. He probably should have anticipated some sort of negative effect, sure, but this was far worse than even Cuddy herself had imagined. And besides his mind, when working at its best, wouldn’t have allowed for him to leave a question unanswered anyway, so really, he’d only had the option to pursue the matter in the way that he had. There’d been no way to avoid it, no way to escape the inevitable.
From the second he got on that bus, all roads pointed them to this, to where they were now.
And it was hard - impossible - for Cuddy to understand how such a thing could be possible. Her entire being tried to rally against that fact, the hand clasped around Wilson’s forearm instinctively gripping him tighter.
The motion clearly grabbed his attention, because at that moment, he pulled her from her thoughts. “I don’t care if he’s sick. I care about the things he says about you. And you can’t tell me that the things he’s been saying don’t hurt -”
“I’m not saying that it’s been easy for me,” she interrupted, knowing exactly where he was headed. “Am I annoyed by what he said? Yes. Do I wish that his personality were one that allowed for traumatic brain injuries? Of course. The last two months would have been a lot easier for me if he weren’t such a stubborn son of a bitch to begin with. I know.”
She sounded more frustrated than she wanted to. Truth be told, she was more annoyed by Wilson trying to be her big brother than what House had said. However, she realized that Wilson was unlikely to understand that. Not that she really wanted to say, “You’re the problem at the moment,” obviously, but she silently squirmed at her apparent inability to choose her words more carefully.
“But you want me to be his friend?” Wilson looked at her confused, and she knew she had to regroup herself.
Her lips pursed together for a moment, the small action giving her a few seconds to consider what she wanted to say. “I want you to talk to him. I want you to listen to him - to what he has to say. The last thing I want is for you to fight my battles for me,” she told him in a firm voice.
She hoped he could appreciate how deeply she felt about the matter.
However, Cuddy figured that it was better to reiterate her feelings a little more than to under prepare him in the same way she’d apparently done with House on this conversation.
“He’s being mean to me?” She shrugged. “Let it go. He and I have our own issues that have nothing to do with you.” Realizing that that sounded mean though, she added immediately, “That I don’t want you to get involved with.”
But that didn’t exactly make things better.
Because Wilson asked, “Why not?” He was evidently more curious than incensed, though she could hear the beginnings of offense in his tone. So she knew she had to answer carefully.
“You have so much going on,” she explained simply… ineffectively. “And I get that you want to help me, but what’s happening between me and House… it’s not something you should waste your time on.”
To be completely honest, Cuddy didn’t exactly want to waste her own time on House’s crap either. But she didn’t have the same option to avoid it completely like Wilson did.
Not anymore anyway.
The time to extract herself from House’s madness had long since past for her. And even if she’d decided to change that today, there’d still be no avoiding finding a resolution to the fight they were having now.
Sighing, she pulled herself from her thoughts and said calmly, “He’s mad at me. I should be the one to handle that - not you.” But that almost made it seem like she didn’t trust Wilson to address the situation, which clearly wasn’t going to make him feel better.
She reassuringly squeezed his arm then, hoping the gesture would convey to him that she didn’t mean to sound so derogatory towards him. And if it didn’t, she went the extra distance by apologizing. One of her hands wiping her forehead, she groaned, “I’m sorry. Every thing I’m saying is just making things worse, and I’m really not trying to hurt you or write you off.”
Oddly enough, Wilson seemed to respond to that admittance. Whether it was the apology itself or the fact that maybe he was finally getting a sense of how she was feeling, the reason behind his behavior was one she didn’t know. But whatever the motivation, he did seem to calm down.
The set of his shoulders seemed to ease a little, the harsh lines of his body softening infinitesimally. And she took advantage of his slightly relaxed state to say, “I just want you to focus on what you need to say to him. Please don’t worry about me.”
Continue on to the rest of the chapter
Author: Duckie Nicks
Rating: PG-13
Characters: House, Cuddy, Wilson -- friendship between the three, maybe some Huddy if you squint. This chapter also features some Foreman and Thirteen.
Summary: House wakes up from the deep brain stimulation to a life without Wilson. Now, as House's life begins to falls into chaos, he searches for meaning, forgiveness, and friendship. House/Cuddy, Wilson/Cuddy, and House/Wilson friendships
Previous Chapters: Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three (Part One), Chapter Three (Part Two), Chapter Four, Chapter Five, Chapter Six, Chapter Seven (Part One), Chapter Seven (Part Two), Chapter Eight (Part One), Chapter Eight (Part Two), Chapter Nine, Chapter Ten (Part One), Chapter Ten (Part Two), Chapter Ten (Part Three), Chapter Ten (Part Four), Chapter Eleven (Part One), Chapter Eleven (Part Two), Chapter Eleven (Part Three), Chapter Twelve, Chapter Thirteen (Part One), Chapter Thirteen (Part Two), Chapter Fourteen (Part One), Chapter Fourteen (Part Two), Chapter Fourteen (Part Three), Chapter Fourteen (Part Four), Chapter Fifteen (Part One), Chapter Fifteen (Part Two), Chapter Fifteen (Part Three)
Disclaimer: I don't own the show!
Author's Note: Spoilers for "Wilson's Heart." Some chapters are split into parts because of Livejournal's character/word limit.
It wasn’t hard to understand why that was. The last attempt at reaching out to Wilson hadn’t gone well, and House was one of those people who took rejection as poorly as a human being could. Which was almost ironic, considering how doggedly persistent he could be; his determination and stubbornness qualities she couldn’t even begin to imagine him without, they should have made him much braver than he was with personal relationships.
Should have was clearly the key phrase in that sentence, because for all his posturing, the fact was he was a coward when it came to dealing with the people he cared about.
Naturally putting it that way made it seem like she judged him for that. And nothing could have been further from the truth, actually, as she didn’t find herself to be any braver in that respect. If anything, she felt weaker than he was, so afraid to be close to others that she’d never had a Wilson to lose; in all of her life, she’d had many friends, but she’d never had one as close as that.
She’d never had a best friend to confide anything and everything to.
But House had, and he’d lost him, and it wasn’t hard to understand why he was so afraid now. Anyone would have been in the same situation, she told herself; anyone would have wanted to avoid being told that their best friend hated them.
Yet she also knew that, if things were ever going to be better - for any of them, House would have to talk to Wilson.
Knowing that, she consoled in calm tones. “I know that you’re worried about what he might tell you. You don’t want him to say that he hates you, and I understand that. But the way this gets better - the way he leans to forgive you - involves you talking to him.”
“No.”
His voice was a dangerous growl. Not unlike the sound a caged animal, afraid and ready to attack, would make, it was proof enough that he was on the verge of slamming the phone down and never speaking to her again.
And that would have only been for starters. There was an eager fury in the single word he’d practically hissed, and she would have been stupid to think that that would be the worst he would do; he was angry enough - he was dumbly angry - to do all sorts of things that she didn’t want to think about.
And the need to end the conversation, to diffuse the tension between them immediately became all she cared about then.
Sighing, Cuddy said in a softer voice, “This is how this is going to work: Wilson is coming over.” Her tone, though kind, left no room for disagreement, which was exactly what she wanted. As odd as it might have been to make such a final statement to someone so clearly desperate for control, she understood what needed to be done. She knew that the way this chat with them ended best was with her giving him a specific set of options. A lesser person would have caved to his demands, but she knew better.
Because if she’d given him what he’d wanted, if she’d said, “Okay, Wilson won’t come over,” two things would have happened. Firstly, he would have become arrogantly pleased with himself; his chest would have puffed up as though his lungs were capable of housing days’ worth of air in them. And he would have let that good, egotistical high control him for as long as it could possibly last; he’d ignore everything she said to do; he’d take risks with his own health and life that he knew rationally were stupid.
And eventually, the second thing would happen: he would crash. Not only because screwing her over was a temporary high, but also because at some point, House would realize that winning this particular argument was nothing more or less than a loss for himself. Unlike taking a risk with one of his patients’ lives, by getting her to back off, he would realize that he’d essentially lost all chance to make up with Wilson.
Which she was desperate to avoid at all cost.
So she went against the grain, went against what seemed like the most logical and stated without any room for disagreement that Wilson would be coming over. And to make House feel slightly in control of himself, she offered him two choices. “If you don’t want to talk to him, don’t. Just sit back and watch him walk out of your life forever.”
He started to say something along the lines of “Enough with the dramatics,” but she cut him off.
“But if you have any desire at all to earn his forgiveness, you’re going to accept that he’s coming over, and you’re going to prepare yourself for it. You’re going to stop fighting with me,” she told him in a cold voice. “You’re going to take your medication and a bath, so he doesn’t faint at the smell of you.”
She waited for him to blurt something out about how the scent of his studliness was only offensive to her cloistered self or something along those lines. But no remark ever came, and she forced herself continue elaborating on what he should do. “You’re going to lie down. You’re going to get some sleep, so that you’re not so damn cranky with him. And you’re going to be friendly and supportive and nice and all of the things that are so abhorrent to your senses when he gets there.”
Cuddy expected him to slam down the phone; she’d made her point, and he, understanding that intuitively, should have written anything else she had to say off as something not worth listening to. At least, she thought that he would have. But instead he simply asked in a voice that offered no emotional insight, “And where will you be for our homemade episode of the Jenny Jones show?”
Her answer was immediate. “I will be there with you. He’s stopping by after work, and I’m going to make sure that all of the things I need to take care of will be done by then,” she promised. In the back of her mind, she couldn’t help but think she was being repetitive by constantly telling House when Wilson was coming over.
But then again, given House’s brain injury and his overall stubborn nature, she supposed that there was something to be said for reiterating the point over and over. Which was why she added, “I won’t let you do this alone. I will be there.”
House didn’t believe her, however; he definitely didn’t put much faith in her ability to show up, because his response was to scoff at her words - to scoff loudly before hanging up and leaving her to wonder if she really were doing the best thing for him.
*****************
Wilson spent the rest of the day alternating between maintaining his workload in the oncology department and helping Foreman look for a new case. Truthfully, when he’d first returned to work, Wilson had wanted to avoid working with the cancer patients; he’d tried to pawn off his cases on lesser doctors in the same field.
He’d done everything he could to avoid the certainty of death that seemed so oppressive these last two months.
Maybe it had been stupid to think this, but Wilson had truly believed that handling cases where the patient had a shot would be more helpful to his own well being. He’d thought that he would feel better saving lives than witnessing the destruction of life.
But the fact of the matter was working in diagnostics had been even more a reminder of the inevitability that loomed over everyone.
As odd as that was, it was the truth; Wilson had never felt so aware of how easy it was to kill someone as he had in the last couple of days. Because even though cancer was one of those buzz words that instantly made people think of death, the reality was this: death never seemed closer than when you had no idea how to stop it, when you had no idea what was pushing you closer to it. Cancer might have been just as deadly, but Wilson knew how to deal with that.
And because of that, he’d had to reassess how he felt about working in oncology.
He hadn’t wanted to come back to that, his legs itching to move on to something different. But he could see now that the oncology was where he belonged. It was what he was good at, what he knew how to do, and if he were any good at being a doctor - if he were to be of any use to anyone, working in oncology was what he had to do. So he’d spent the day balancing his time between re-embracing his normal caseload and trying to give Foreman one.
Frankly, Wilson would have been happy to say goodbye to diagnostics all together. But since he’d kind of been an ass to Foreman - and since Foreman currently needed Wilson’s name to get Cuddy to get a case - Wilson felt beholden to the younger man.
However nothing came out of his helping hand. At the end of the day, there was no case to solve; there wasn’t even anything that could potentially be a case to work with. And so by the time the workday finished, Wilson was frustrated with his inability to give Foreman what he wanted.
Really, it shouldn’t have seemed like much, but if Wilson had been able to acquire a new case for the diagnostics department, it would have been… a nice way to try and undo the damage he’d done only days previously. It might not have fixed everything - it wouldn’t have fixed everything. But it would have been a nice start, a peace offering of sorts that said, “I’m sorry for doing something that made our boss look at you as though she were going to eat you alive.”
Okay, that might have been a stretch.
It would definitely take more than a single case to make Foreman forget that Cuddy had rubbed his failures in his face. It would absolutely take more than a case for Taub’s injured manhood to be soothed, despite the fact that Cuddy had essentially said she wasn’t interested in him. It wouldn’t take anything more than a case to make Kutner happy, but then Kutner was already happy.
Nothing got him down.
And to be completely honest, with the conversation with House breathing down his neck, Wilson could only wish that he’d been given some of Kutner’s positive outlook on life.
It wasn’t that Wilson thought that things would go badly.
It was that he knew they would go as horribly as human possible.
The bombing of Hiroshima, the non-existent weapons of mass destruction, the Titanic - all of those things would look like wonderful, cheerful events compared to what was going to happen in House’s apartment.
And Wilson had to wonder why he’d ever agreed to have a conversation to begin with. Had he really been that desperate to prove himself to Cuddy? To be her friend? Had he really been that convinced that talking to House would be a good thing?
Wilson guessed the answer was yes to all of those things on one level or another. But knowing that didn’t exactly make him feel better; if anything, it just made him feel as though he’d willingly stepped towards his doom to accomplish something he hadn’t even set out to do.
It was almost a morbid thought that occupied his mind as he finished the workday by gathering his briefcase and courage. But it was what he was thinking nonetheless.
And it remained in his mind until he was at House’s apartment, standing outside in the hallway.
Wilson hadn’t knocked yet, and he was still dabbling with the idea of turning and walking away without ever doing it. When he’d left the hospital Cuddy’s car was still in the lot, so he considered at that moment that he could easily slip away unscathed - without anyone knowing the wiser.
For now anyway.
He supposed that if he were to leave without saying a word, without doing what he’d said he’d do, he would have to eventually deal with the fallout of that choice. Eventually Cuddy would learn that he hadn’t talked to House, and House would probably learn that too one way or the other.
And then where would they be?
House would react with anger and blame - all of it directed towards Cuddy. And she would, in turn, be more miserable than Wilson wanted to see her be. Which would make him feel guilty, for starters.
And if he didn’t sound (even in his own mind, that was) all that serious about her misery, it was because he knew she would make him feel that emotion ten fold. Of that he had no doubt. After all, her agreeing to visit Amber’s grave was predicated on him doing this.
Cuddy hadn’t actually said that, of course, but Wilson was smart enough to know that nothing came without a catch.
Nothing among this circle of individuals anyway.
So he knew: If he ran away now, she would never do what he needed her to do. She would never see what he needed her to be a witness of.
Honestly, he didn’t know why it was so important to take her to Amber’s grave.
There was no… acknowledged symbolism in the act; he wasn’t replacing his dead girlfriend with Cuddy. He wasn’t entrusting her to keep Amber’s memory or anything like that.
He just….
He didn’t really know.
He supposed he just wanted Cuddy to see for herself what he’d lost. He wanted her to see that House’s mistakes didn’t occur in a vacuum, that they didn’t come without a cost. And he wanted her to understand that, even if that price came at the expense at other lives and other families for years, the closer she got to House, the more likely it would be that she would have to pay eventually.
She wouldn’t escape unscathed, able to move forward with her life without him. That just wasn’t how House and his so-called friendship operated.
Why no one had been around to tell Wilson this, he didn’t know. He wished - desired with all of his heart and soul - that someone had, but he hadn’t been lucky like that.
He’d had to learn that lesson in a painful collision of metal and events, of physical damage and sloppy planning on House’s part.
And although part of Wilson felt that Cuddy deserved to experience something just as painful as a punishment for all of her betrayals, he couldn’t do that to her.
He could not hurt Cuddy like that.
Which meant that he had to go through with this conversation.
He really did have to talk to House.
Standing there in the hallway, his hand curled into a fist, Wilson wondered if this was how men felt as they journeyed to the gallows. He wondered if that dreadful feeling of inevitability coursed through their veins in the same way it moved through his.
He wondered, but he gave himself no opening to find an answer to the question; instead he cleared his throat and bravely raised his fist to the door, his knuckles rapping against the wood several times. Four times to be exact, he noted, his mind intuitively trying to take control of the situation by delineating pointless details he had no use for.
For that reason, he noticed that, although he could hear House in the apartment, the door didn’t open right away. House’s footsteps were uneven, as they typically were, but slower than normal. A traitorous part of Wilson wondered if that meant that the other man’s pain was worse than normal.
But Wilson was quick to squelch that concern, to refuse to give it even the slightest bit of oxygen to breathe and expand within his consciousness.
And when House answered the door, his eyes rimmed red, hair disheveled and body covered in a thin sheet of sweat, Wilson thought that it was really easy not to care. House looked high, looked like a junkie in the worst and least sympathetic way possible, making it easy for Wilson to ask in disgusted amazement, “Are you high?”
House made a bitter quip about Nurse Ratched, forcing Wilson to respond loudly, “Right. Withdrawal then?”
House offered no answer other than a non-committal shrug that Wilson didn’t know how to take.
Truth be told, he had expected House to confirm or deny the accusation one way or the other. As much as the man rarely defended himself, House - the House of yester year, anyway - would have offered his best friend (Wilson thought of the moniker with disdain) an answer.
But House hadn’t, which made Wilson want to turn around and leave. Really, if House wasn’t even going to pretend to be interested in the obligatory small talk, angry and heated as it was, then Wilson couldn’t help but feel that all of this was a waste of time. He couldn’t help but feel that only the worst of things could come from this.
Except rationally he knew that that wasn’t true. He had to remind himself that he was there was something good to be had from all of this, but it was true: he would get something - he would get Cuddy’s loyalty - from this…
If he were to play his cards right.
The prompting all he needed to refocus his attentions, Wilson said awkwardly, “Right. Well, I can’t stay long. Cuddy told me to stop by.”
House waved Wilson inside, both men taking a seat on the couch. But that was, it seemed, the closest they could come to any sort of détente. Because nearly the second they started talking to one another once more, Wilson felt his hatred for House grow, make itself known.
Wilson had tried to be almost conversational when he asked, “So Cuddy’s living with you?”
Yet conversation was the last thing he felt like making when House joked, “Soon as Foreman gets a cap busted in his ass or Cameron has an accident with the peroxide, Cuddy’ll move onto them.”
The remark made Wilson laugh, of course, but it wasn’t the kind of laugh you made when you actually enjoyed what the other person was saying; it was the kind of chuckle he made when he couldn’t believe how stupidly unaware of human emotions House was being. “You think she’s treating you just like she would anyone else in your position?”
“No. I think she’s doing this to satisfy her guilt complex.”
There was a bitterness in House’s words that Wilson could only feel in his bones. House was clearly under the delusion that Cuddy didn’t care about him at all. It was so… stupid and unfeeling that Wilson wanted to strangle the other man until he realized just how lucky he really was.
Because Cuddy hadn’t been living with him out of obligation. She hadn’t waited on him hand and foot just because it was one of those things that she felt she had to do.
She was doing it because she cared, because she loved him even more than Wilson thought she was willing to admit.
And the truly most horrible part about all of it was that, if he had been in House’s position, Wilson would have never had the nerve to complain about being treated out of duty.
At this point in his life, it was all he wanted, all he could hope for.
And even then, no matter how much he tried to guilt Cuddy, her attention was always with House.
It was a fact that House couldn’t appreciate, that he wouldn’t have cared about even if he realized just how true it was. Which meant that…
Nothing had changed for him.
Cuddy had said that things were different, that he was sad and depressed and all of that.
But this was proof that House was still House.
“You’re unbelievable, House,” Wilson said in disbelief. His hands in the air, he continued, “Just this once, I was hoping… that things would change for you.”
Which made House snap angrily. “Right. See, I was thinking spending every waking moment with Cuddy in my drug-free, porn-free, fun-free apartment was a change. And a crappy one at that. But you’re right. Nothing’s changed. That jumbo box of super tampons in my bathroom has always been there.”
The comment about the tampons struck Wilson the most - mainly for its sheer ridiculousness.
Granted, everything in House’s list of “Things I did this summer” were pretty ridiculous. Being without porn hardly constituted a real change - nor was it indicative of any sort of suffering. And Wilson seriously doubted that House was drug-free, considering all of the ailments Cuddy had mentioned that House was suffering from.
But it really was the tampons that pushed Wilson over the edge.
Maybe it was the fact that the mention definitely shed new light on Cuddy’s decision to have ice cream today. Maybe it was the fact that imagining House with a box of tampons in his hands conjured all sorts of prepubescent jokes in Wilson’s mind. But whatever the reason, it was enough to make Wilson take a verbal step back.
His voice slightly calmer, he conceded, “All right, certain things have changed. But you… haven’t, and I -”
House rolled his eyes. “You’ve been here two minutes. You don’t know -”
And that was more than enough to send Wilson back over the edge.
“Come on, House!” His hands bunched into fists, and he had to mentally remind himself that hitting House would not make Cuddy happy. “After everything you’ve done, someone still has the patience to stand by you, and you resent it.”
It was such typical House crap that Wilson thought it shouldn’t have made him so angry. But it did; it was, and he was nearly hysterical over it. “Cuddy has bent over backwards to keep you happy, and you feel trapped!”
Expectantly, Wilson waited for House to offer some defense. Realistically Wilson understood that that was foolish at best, as there really was no defense to make in moments like these. But he still expected - hoped - that House would try.
And that he hadn’t made Wilson feel the need to point out just what it was that House was taking advantage of, being unappreciative of. “You have a beautiful, smart, successful woman willing to do anything to help you.”
He tried to avoid adding too much emotion or to list all of Cuddy’s good qualities like a lovesick puppy. But somehow House managed to see through all of that anyway. “What - you want her?”
“This isn’t a game,” Wilson snapped. “You can’t just… play swapsies.” God only knew that he wished they would, that they could, but he couldn’t force Cuddy to see what he was offering much less demand her to accept it.
His voice quieter, he said, “Cuddy chose you. Over her job, over her other -”
“You mean she chose me over you.”
The simplicity of House’s correct deduction took Wilson’s breath away.
It was exactly what he’d been thinking.
It was precisely what he’d been feeling all of this time and what he’d been trying to overcompensate for by telling himself that he didn’t need Cuddy or her help.
But House - with his brilliant mind and his occasional ability to understand human nature with startling clarity - had seen what the truth was.
And Wilson didn’t know why he said it then, but he, searching to see just how much he knew, asked House, “You know she didn’t even come to Amber’s funeral?”
“Probably on account of the fact that she didn’t like her,” House offered readily.
If Wilson had been calmer, he would have sarcastically considered that the time for House’s insights had come to a dramatic and quick close. But the fact was Wilson was not calm.
He was livid at the reminder of what Cuddy had done and even more furious by the way House so easily parlayed that knowledge about a conversation.
“You’re an ass,” Wilson said viciously. “You’ve been sitting here for weeks, no doubt feeling bad. And I believed Cuddy when she said it was because of me and -”
“Yeah. I can’t stop thinking about you, Wilson. Wanna see the shrine I built?”
It was the kind of sarcasm Wilson expected but did not want. “But she was wrong,” he continued. “You don’t feel bad about what you did. All you’ve been thinking about is yourself, what you don’t have.” He was shaking his head in disgust, his face red as he stood up. “I lost the woman I wanted to spend my life with. Who I honestly could have done that with. And you didn’t lose anything.”
He laughed at the irony.
He’d always believed that people eventually got what they deserved. But in this case… the only one who had suffered was him. He bled for the woman he loved; he wished day and night that he had died in her place, and House just got to go on with his life like nothing had ever happened.
“You gained from all this. A lot. You got someone who’s voluntarily putting up with your insanity. And you can’t even appreciate that.” He turned away from House and quietly added, “You can’t appreciate our friendship enough to stop joking about it.”
At that point, House stood as well, but Wilson was already on the move.
This had been a mistake.
And the sooner he put distance between this twisted wart of a human being and himself, the better he would be. “Just… don’t,” Wilson warned to ward him off. He was no longer interested in hearing anything House had to say.
This had been a mistake, Wilson repeated to himself, the horror around him soaking into his consciousness slowly. This was something that he shouldn’t have even tried to do, much less something Cuddy should have asked him to attempt.
This was something he had to end, had to escape.
Now.
Shaking he took a step towards the door. If he stayed here any longer, he would do something he’d regret.
But he’d barely moved past the couch when the front door opened to reveal a shocked Cuddy.
There was take out at her feet and a dismayed frown settling upon her lips.
She could feel it happening as she realized that she was late. She’d hoped to get to the apartment before Wilson, but getting dinner for all of them had taken longer than she’d expected. And between House’s pained expression, his face red with agitation, and Wilson’s visible disgust, Cuddy could tell that it had been to both of their detriments.
House, ill equipped to deal with this alone, had surely said something horrible and horrifying to Wilson, and Wilson had no doubt taken the sarcasm as glibness… which House was anything but as of late.
And she knew what all of that had inevitably led to, because as the door opened all the way, she could see what the ramifications were. Or she could see the most important one, anyway:
Wilson was leaving.
“Wilson,” she implored, using his name to beg him without actually having to beg him to stay.
In her heart, she understood that it was a useless gesture at that point. She knew that it would take so much more than uttering his name to get him to stay. And that meant she had to act fast.
Fluidly, she reached down and grabbed the white bags of Malaysian takeout, her gaze never leaving the two men. Honestly at this point, she trusted neither enough to believe that one of them wouldn’t try running past her while she wasn’t looking.
Especially Wilson.
He looked like he was ready to bolt at the earliest opportunity.
Determination welling within her, she decided that she would be damned before giving him one.
Easily stepping through the doorway, she kicked the door shut with a slam. The clamoring noise must have echoed negatively through House’s head, because he hissed loudly.
And though she felt guilty about it, she also felt justified in her behavior. The slam, though loud and annoying, was an audible way of telling them both that no one was going anywhere.
“What the hell is going on here?” It was a half-question, half-accusation that she really needed no response for. After all, it was pretty clear what had happened, but she’d uttered the words anyway, hoping that it would at least get one of them to say something instead of looking at her in silence.
House spoke up first, snapping furiously at her, “Are you senile?” He didn’t say, she noted, that she’d been late, that she’d let him down, but there was a deadly subtext to it that made her feel awful. Because although he would never say that he needed her to be there, his current display of anger made it seem like that that was how he’d felt.
And she hadn’t been there.
But she didn’t even have time to dwell on that thought, because Wilson held his shaking fingers up in frustration. “I’m leaving. I can’t -”
“No one is going anywhere,” she interrupted.
House scoffed. “You gonna shackle us to the couch?”
“Shut up.” The two words were uttered through gritted teeth, the only way she knew how to convey to him that he was screwing this up - the only way to tell him (without saying the words) that, by being sarcastic, he was ruining his chances with Wilson.
Thinking about it for more than two seconds though, she realized that there was no way two words could say that much. Especially when House was in no mood to read between the lines, there was no way he understood what she was trying to tell him.
Nevertheless, it was enough to quiet him down. He might have glared at her, but he wasn’t railing at her as he had been doing when he got into one of his rages.
But then again, his silence left an opportunity for Wilson to insist, “You two can have your lovers’ quarrel without me. I’m going home.”
Cuddy jerked her head in his direction. “No, you’re not.”
“Yes -”
“No, you’re staying,” she interrupted in an authoritative tone.
Wilson shook his head so quickly that it made her own feel as though it were spinning. “You can’t keep me here.”
“Well, that’s true,” she admitted, dropping her briefcase onto the floor unceremoniously. “But what I can do is remind you of our deal. And if you want to walk out that door now, then I can’t guarantee that I won’t feel the same way tomorrow.”
It was a threat she hadn’t wanted to make. It was a threat that she could only handle herself saying by telling herself that it, actually, wasn’t a threat and just a reminder that reciprocation worked both ways.
Wilson, however, clearly didn’t see it that way. Because even though he didn’t speak, he looked at her as though he wanted to scream. And frankly, she could only be thankful for House’s presence in that moment, because she was sure if he weren’t there, Wilson would have shouted.
Of course, this was House, and he was never content to let her appreciate him for more than a minute at a time. “You’re blackmailing him into talking to me?” He sounded surprised by the development he thought he saw. “That’s desperate even for you.”
She started to say no, but she didn’t get a chance to even utter the word, her mouth left hanging open as he continued.
“What exactly is the bargaining chip here?” He pretended to consider the question himself, but Cuddy knew, even before he spoke, that he was going to mention the most repulsive thing that came to mind. “Sex? You promised to let Wilson give you a Dirty -”
“Bedroom. Now,” she interrupted furiously, her words clipped and harsh.
House smiled oily, his grin like the kind you found on a used car salesman who knew when he’d found an easy mark. “Sorry, Jimmy. But it looks like the lady wants me to give her a ride first. Don’t worry, though; I’m sure she’s still good - even if she is my sloppy seconds.”
Cuddy glared at him as she placed the take out food on the coffee table but said nothing. He was clearly looking for a reaction from her, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to give him one. Not when she had to physically grab Wilson’s hand to stop him from leaving or killing House (she didn’t know which he intended), anyway.
And she didn’t really have a chance to yell either, because, for all of his talk, House started to walk down the hallway towards the bedroom.
As soon as he was far enough away to not hear her, she told Wilson, “I’m sorry.”
“You should be. He’s -”
“Sick and angry at me, and - ”
“And none of that should have anything to do with me,” Wilson interrupted, obviously still incredibly annoyed. “I can’t believe you asked me to do this. And I can’t believe you let him talk to you like that.”
Looking in his dark eyes, she could tell that he was furious enough to need more than a few conciliatory words. The brown irises somehow blacker than they normally were, it was clear that what he needed to hear was an explanation she wasn’t entirely ready to give. But she supposed she had to try, lest she accept failure over the whole endeavor now.
“Wilson… I know it’s hard for you to understand. But he’s not -”
“He’s not what? Serious? Sane? Some combination of that?”
She would have had to be stupid to think that he was seriously asking any of those questions. The disbelief and anger were so keen in his words that there was no doubt in her mind that he wasn’t going to take such excuses as being matter of fact.
So she said what should have been the most obvious thing in the world. “He’s sick. I know you want to chalk this up to House being House, but rationally, as a doctor, surely you realize that he is not a healthy man.”
He looked like he wanted to say something sarcastic, but she didn’t give him the opportunity to do that. Instead she added, “Between the skull fracture, the brain surgery, the seizure, and the cardiac arrest, you have to admit that it’s insane to think that he’s completely together right now. Or that he’ll be fine, or would have been fine, immediately after all of those traumas combined.”
She hated having to put it like that.
Hated it, truly, completely, absolutely hated having to see House like that… like a victim.
Wilson probably didn’t want to think of House like that either, she realized. Wilson wanted to liken House to a monster, incapable of showing even the slightest bit of remorse.
It made hating him easier.
But Cuddy didn’t want to believe he was a victim of circumstance either.
She’d known House since she was practically a child. Maybe not in years but absolutely in maturity, a little girl she had been when she’d first stumbled upon House and all of his intoxicating, infuriating, addictive intelligence. And in all of that time, as much as she had joked about his insanity, as much as there had been times where she’d foolishly hurled that insult, it had never been even remotely true.
Behind all of the superficial madness, there’d always been a reason; there’d always been some thread of logic for her to use as a life raft, to pull her to understanding him and his motives. Sometimes it drove her nuts to be left grappling for that rationality, the undertow of doubt somehow always threatening to carry her off. But no matter how much he seemed to try to push her away, no matter how hard she tried to shrug him off, she had always eventually seen it.
She’d always found the logic behind his diagnoses and actions. In some ways, her certainty in him, in his abilities, which clearly exceeded her certainty in herself and her own talents, left her feeling breathless, left her feeling as though the world had lurched onto new axes. He was so smart, so… intuitive that she never felt and always felt, paradoxically enough, reassured by that power.
And though she didn’t doubt that he would recover (she refused to believe he wouldn’t), it scared her that anything so… overwhelmingly impressive and large could be harmed.
Though she could feel Wilson’s gaze on her, she was not, at that moment, compelled to think of anything other than a very distant memory. Long before she’d met House, she’d been a schoolgirl forced to write a report on Einstein. The particulars, of course, were no longer in her consciousness; how old she’d been, the length of the essay, or if she’d been forced to recite the report to the class were details she’d long since forgotten.
Cuddy remembered the color ink she’d used to write the stupid thing. Maybe that was a little bizarre, but since the brilliantly blue ink had been smudged to the point of illegibility, and she’d received demerits for it, as a result, it was hard to forget that fact. That her left wrist and palm had been dyed said color as well had only cemented that part of the memory in her mind.
Which was a shame, because she had a hunch that what she’d written had been some of the most beautiful prose she’d ever managed to put to paper. Again, the details had slipped through the cracks of her memory years ago; she’d had more important things to remember over the years anyway, but she vaguely recalled talking about Einstein’s aestheticism ultimately limiting his abilities to understand the implications of his own theories, limiting his abilities to understand the world around him.
She must have been in high school at the time, she decided, because she remembered deriding him for that… which her teacher might or might not have also penalized her for; Cuddy didn’t know.
But she did know that Einstein had dismissed the existence of black holes for their ugliness, for the way they turned his beautiful theories into something that held a potent amount of inevitable degeneration. He didn’t like the idea of something as splendid as a star slowly dying in on itself, only to collapse into an entity only capable of destruction.
And at the time, she’d sort of understood his feelings behind that… but not really. The way she saw it, the stars diminishing, the universe decaying… was a sad reality, sure. But it was a reality nonetheless, and no amount of denying the truth could alter that.
Now, though… she could understand all too well his willingness to ignore that truth. Her problem might not have had anything to do with the universe. But believing that House’s gift, which had been a part of her life for so long, could be taken away so easily terrified her.
Of course, some might say that, if it had required a skull fracture, a seizure, a heart attack, and a surgery, then it hadn’t been easy to destroy his genius.
But that was precisely how it seemed to her.
And probably to House as well, because it wasn’t like there’d really been a way to avoid any of it. He couldn’t have predicted the bus accident; he couldn’t have predicted the damage caused by the deep brain stimulation. He probably should have anticipated some sort of negative effect, sure, but this was far worse than even Cuddy herself had imagined. And besides his mind, when working at its best, wouldn’t have allowed for him to leave a question unanswered anyway, so really, he’d only had the option to pursue the matter in the way that he had. There’d been no way to avoid it, no way to escape the inevitable.
From the second he got on that bus, all roads pointed them to this, to where they were now.
And it was hard - impossible - for Cuddy to understand how such a thing could be possible. Her entire being tried to rally against that fact, the hand clasped around Wilson’s forearm instinctively gripping him tighter.
The motion clearly grabbed his attention, because at that moment, he pulled her from her thoughts. “I don’t care if he’s sick. I care about the things he says about you. And you can’t tell me that the things he’s been saying don’t hurt -”
“I’m not saying that it’s been easy for me,” she interrupted, knowing exactly where he was headed. “Am I annoyed by what he said? Yes. Do I wish that his personality were one that allowed for traumatic brain injuries? Of course. The last two months would have been a lot easier for me if he weren’t such a stubborn son of a bitch to begin with. I know.”
She sounded more frustrated than she wanted to. Truth be told, she was more annoyed by Wilson trying to be her big brother than what House had said. However, she realized that Wilson was unlikely to understand that. Not that she really wanted to say, “You’re the problem at the moment,” obviously, but she silently squirmed at her apparent inability to choose her words more carefully.
“But you want me to be his friend?” Wilson looked at her confused, and she knew she had to regroup herself.
Her lips pursed together for a moment, the small action giving her a few seconds to consider what she wanted to say. “I want you to talk to him. I want you to listen to him - to what he has to say. The last thing I want is for you to fight my battles for me,” she told him in a firm voice.
She hoped he could appreciate how deeply she felt about the matter.
However, Cuddy figured that it was better to reiterate her feelings a little more than to under prepare him in the same way she’d apparently done with House on this conversation.
“He’s being mean to me?” She shrugged. “Let it go. He and I have our own issues that have nothing to do with you.” Realizing that that sounded mean though, she added immediately, “That I don’t want you to get involved with.”
But that didn’t exactly make things better.
Because Wilson asked, “Why not?” He was evidently more curious than incensed, though she could hear the beginnings of offense in his tone. So she knew she had to answer carefully.
“You have so much going on,” she explained simply… ineffectively. “And I get that you want to help me, but what’s happening between me and House… it’s not something you should waste your time on.”
To be completely honest, Cuddy didn’t exactly want to waste her own time on House’s crap either. But she didn’t have the same option to avoid it completely like Wilson did.
Not anymore anyway.
The time to extract herself from House’s madness had long since past for her. And even if she’d decided to change that today, there’d still be no avoiding finding a resolution to the fight they were having now.
Sighing, she pulled herself from her thoughts and said calmly, “He’s mad at me. I should be the one to handle that - not you.” But that almost made it seem like she didn’t trust Wilson to address the situation, which clearly wasn’t going to make him feel better.
She reassuringly squeezed his arm then, hoping the gesture would convey to him that she didn’t mean to sound so derogatory towards him. And if it didn’t, she went the extra distance by apologizing. One of her hands wiping her forehead, she groaned, “I’m sorry. Every thing I’m saying is just making things worse, and I’m really not trying to hurt you or write you off.”
Oddly enough, Wilson seemed to respond to that admittance. Whether it was the apology itself or the fact that maybe he was finally getting a sense of how she was feeling, the reason behind his behavior was one she didn’t know. But whatever the motivation, he did seem to calm down.
The set of his shoulders seemed to ease a little, the harsh lines of his body softening infinitesimally. And she took advantage of his slightly relaxed state to say, “I just want you to focus on what you need to say to him. Please don’t worry about me.”
Continue on to the rest of the chapter