For the first few days after House checked into the mental motel, Taub basked in the relative peace and quiet and the resulting drop in his stress level. Who knew locking away one madman could be so liberating?
Once their alien hand patient was released, Cuddy reassigned them to other departments. Taub ended up in surgery, covering while Chase was on his honeymoon and other locum tenetes. He was low man on the totem pole, doing procedures that he'd perfected more than a decade ago, but at least he wasn't being goaded and mocked on an hourly basis. General surgery was like going on vacation, but without the room service and credit card bills.
Except Taub had never been very good at going on vacation. After the first flush of freedom faded, he started to get bored. The last time he'd been bored, he'd had an affair with his partner's daughter and destroyed his career and nearly his marriage. When he caught himself standing a little too close to a nurse while scrubbing up, or lingering a little too long at the duty station to tell lies about himself, he knew he was falling into old, dangerous patterns. At least House's relentless assault on his self-confidence had kept him too beaten down to consider more than the occasional flirting.
When someone mentioned that a spot had opened up in the annual faculty and staff golf tournament, he signed up immediately. He'd always found golf to be a humbling experience. He had a strong short game -- and fortunately he'd never said that in House's presence -- and he was a steady putter, but he almost always got in trouble with his driver. He wondered when golf had become a metaphor for his life.
He hadn't played much since he'd left his practice -- it was hard to book a tee time in advance when his (literally) insane boss acted as if he were permanently on call. Besides, he'd mostly played with colleagues, suppliers and former patients, and he'd left those behind with the wreckage of his career. He made a note to pull his clubs out of the back closet and head to the driving range on the weekend. He wanted to be humbled, not humiliated.
Since Diagnostics had closed for the duration of House's mental health vacation, he rarely needed to go the fourth floor. That was fine by him. He didn't miss being subjected to Foreman and Hadley's ethical minefield of a relationship, though he would be sorry if he missed any messy explosions. And it was easier not to remember Kutner when the entire department was gone. Not that he wanted to forget Kutner; except for those days when he did. But when he saw Wilson sitting alone in the cafeteria one afternoon, he was surprised to realize that he did miss running into -- or just running to -- Wilson two or three times a day.
"Mind if I join you?" he asked, a little uncertainly. He'd known Wilson for nearly two years, but he'd never shared a meal with him or a drink after work. Of course, he rarely saw anyone else, other than House or Cuddy, socialize with Wilson either. It wasn't that Wilson was unfriendly, but he invited confidences, not shared them. He knew from the hospital grapevine that Wilson had done his own fair share of lingering at the duty station, but that was before Amber. Since he'd come back to the hospital in the fall, he'd grown a shell that only House seemed able to crack.
Wilson looked up from the journal he was reading and gestured at the seat across from him. "Be my guest." He moved his tray to clear a space for Taub. "What can I do for you?"
"Nothing," Taub replied, startled. But then he couldn't think of a time when he had come to Wilson for something other than help or insight. "Just some company for lunch. But if you'd rather be alone..."
"No, of course not." Wilson smiled a little sheepishly. "I guess being friends with House has made me a little paranoid."
"How is House?" Taub asked and wondered if that was the real reason he'd crossed the room.
If Wilson wondered the same thing he didn't let it show. "Auditioning for the role of Randall McMurphy in summer stock. He's always been a method actor at heart."
It took a minute for Taub to make the connection. "If he wants to bring hookers into the ward, make sure he gets them out before morning."
Wilson looked startled, and Taub wondered how long it had been since someone other than House had followed one of his allusions. "Actually, he's been suspiciously well-behaved recently. I think he's planning a coup."
"You don't know?" House told Wilson all his crazy schemes -- unless it was Wilson he was scheming against. He needed an audience as much as Wilson needed a sparring partner. Half the hospital couldn't understand why they were friends, but Taub had stopped wondering the first time he'd listened to one of their off-kilter conversations.
Wilson shrugged. "He's pissed off at me because I wouldn't help him blackmail his psychiatrist. I visit him and he ignores me, at least until I try to talk to someone else, and then he makes disparaging comments about me until the other person walks away. Which is normal behaviour from him, actually."
Normal behaviour seemed like an oxymoron when applied to House, but Taub supposed everything was relative. "You think he's going to fake his way through therapy?"
"I think House will do whatever it takes to get his license back, but I think his psychiatrist is smart enough to make sure that what he does will actually help him." He sounded confident, but Wilson had a lot of experience sounding confident about things that were unlikely to work out in the long run.
"I hope so," Taub replied, and not just because his job depended on it. "How are you doing?" he asked, realizing that should have been his first question. It caught Wilson by surprise, and for just an instant his smile slipped and Taub glimpsed the grief it concealed.
"I'm fine."
It wasn't one of his better lies. Wilson could spin a complex story with only a second to prepare, but even Kutner wouldn't have been fooled by that statement. Wilson looked all right, perhaps even a little more relaxed than normal, since he didn't have House harrying him constantly, but he seemed subdued, almost diminished.
As if he'd lost his best friend. Almost a year to the day he'd lost the love of his life.
The anniversary of Amber's death had come and gone unnoticed, at least by Taub, in the aftermath of House's breakdown. He'd been too concerned with his future to spare a thought for Wilson. Cameron would have made the connection, but Cameron had been on her honeymoon, blissfully unaware of the fallout back in Princeton. He wondered if Cuddy had remembered, or if she'd been too wrapped up in her own fears for House to notice the day. It wasn't his problem, he told himself. Wilson was a colleague, not a friend.
The thought echoed back to an earlier conversation, and Taub suddenly lost his appetite. He'd said essentially the same thing to Kutner, downplayed his offer of friendship, and frayed a connection when a stronger thread might have bound Kutner a little tighter to life.
He remembered House's reaction when he'd asked if Wilson was depressed. He'd denied it quickly, but Taub had seen the uncertainty in his eyes. Given his speciality, his personal life, and his friendship with House, it would be surprising if Wilson wasn't depressed, especially now. Taub knew how easy it was to buckle under the weight of previously bearable pressures, and how hard it was to see it happening until it was too late.
It had been too late for Kutner, but he could knot a different thread now.
"What are you doing on the weekend?" He forged ahead quickly before Wilson could manufacture an excuse. "I signed up for the faculty golf tournament next week, and I haven't even looked at my clubs in months, so I thought I'd go the driving range. But I've got a buddy who could get us a last-minute tee time at Woodcrest if you're interested." He'd looked at the trophies in Wilson's office while he was waiting for the deleted emails to print. Wilson had won the tournament a couple of times. He might be good for some pointers.
Wilson's expression changed from surprised to wary to amused. "Or maybe we can have that game of racquetball some time." Wilson grinned, and Taub knew that House had told him about what happened in the morgue.
"Yeah, that's not going to happen," he muttered, reminded that Wilson's quills were just as sharp as House's, if less barbed; more echidna than porcupine. "You know, the next time you concoct a ruse to throw House off your track, you might want to come up with one that he can't crack through a simple exercise in humiliation."
"But then he might not be able to crack it," Wilson replied.
"You mean you wanted him to find out what you were doing? Is that why you let me print your emails?"
"That's why I left the room so you could print my deleted emails." He raised an eyebrow at Taub's look of confusion. "Do you really think I don't have a more secure way of hiding things from House?"
Taub had wondered. Wilson often managed to keep information from House for a surprisingly long time. Kutner had been the first to find out he was dating Amber, and House hadn't even been on methadone at the time. "So you wanted House to find out what you were doing that night? Why not just tell him?"
"Because House isn't interested in information he hasn't cleverly extracted or deduced. You can't ask him for help, you have to wait for him to force it on you."
And since Wilson didn't seem to know how to ask for help, the arrangement dys-functioned for both of them. Taub was more convinced than ever that Wilson was likely to unravel without House around. "In that case, I'll force a golf game on you, if only to help your handicap."
Wilson hesitated, but then shrugged. "I suppose I should get out before next Thursday. I haven't played since the fall, unless you count miniature golf, which House does, because it's the only time he beats me."
"House golfs?" It seemed incongruous, like an anorexic at the buffet table, and not just because of House's leg. Golf was conventional, and House mocked convention at every turn.
Wilson smirked, as if he knew exactly what Taub was thinking. "He was a good player before the infarction. But reckless and stubborn, which is a disastrous combination in golf. You ever see Tin Cup? That's House. He'd get in trouble and refuse to lay up or play the safe shot. And I'd plod along, making pars and bogeys and the occasional birdie, and beat him in the end. I won the faculty tournament the first year I worked here. House lost by two strokes and he never got over it. He still enters the tournament every year, just to sabotage my game."
"I thought I saw two trophies in your office," Taub said, pretending he hadn't deliberately been snooping. "Was he out of town?" Or in a coma or otherwise incarcerated. Either scenario was more likely than Cuddy convincing House to go to a conference.
"Low net," Wilson replied. "The tournament organizer gave me a House handicap that year. House found out and behaved like he was Bobby Jones, just to make sure that never happened again. Short-term sacrifice for long-term gain."
Taub thought it more likely that the sabotaging had been designed to get that extra handicap, more a case of long-term entertainment for short-term victory. A win-win, for House at least. "I take it the last-minute spot I got was House's," he said.
Wilson nodded. "You're in my foursome with Chase and Roland. They're the only ones willing to play with House. I'd hoped he'd be out in time, but he hasn't even earned phone privileges yet." He managed to look both wistful and unsurprised. "Though it will be nice to play a round without someone coughing during my downswing, or casting a shadow over my line."
If that was the extent of House's sabotage, Wilson was easily put off his game. But then House was good at finding the most effective triggers for the least amount of effort. "I'll remember to bring cough drops and keep my profile out of the sun," he said. "So does Saturday work for you?"
"Saturday's no good," Wilson said, and Taub wondered if he'd planned a trip to Mayfield. "But I could free up some time on Sunday."
"How about noonish? Rachel makes a fantastic roast if you want to join us for dinner after."
Wilson stilled, the wariness back in his eyes, and Taub knew he'd pushed too far. "You don't have to do this," he said quietly. "I know you've been cut adrift by what happened to House. If you need someone in your camp, I'm already there."
They were back at square one and Taub felt as if he'd somehow let House -- and Kutner -- down. "I never doubted that," Taub said, and he hadn't. He was House's employee, and Wilson would look after him the way he was looking after the rest of House's life in his absence. "But I was wondering who was in your camp." He shrugged, trying to downplay the statement. "I'm not trying to take House's place. God knows, nobody in their right mind would want to do that." Taub winced at the double entendre, but Wilson just puffed out a soft laugh. "I just thought you might want somebody to go golfing with."
Wilson could have pointed out that he was golfing with Chase and Roland next week at the tournament, but he nodded in understanding instead. "You don't have to worry about me. This isn't the first time House has gone off the deep end."
"Now that makes me worry." He could tell, however, that Wilson was uncomfortable with his concern. "I'll put it in mercenary terms. House is my boss and you're House's only friend. His well-being depends on your well-being, and my career depends on his well-being."
"That's circular logic," Wilson retorted, but he was smiling again. He pushed his plate of fries towards Taub. "If you want to worry about something, you can worry about my waistline. I'm not used to finishing my lunch."
"We won't take a cart, then," Taub said, not letting Wilson off the hook. "You can work up an appetite for dinner."
Wilson inclined his head to the side, silently acquiescing. "Only on the condition that you and Rachel are my guests for dinner."
Taub wondered if all Wilson's conditions worked to the advantage of the other person, or if that was just how the universe balanced itself against House, whose conditions only worked to his own advantage. Maybe he could renegotiate his contract with Wilson while House was in the asylum. His pager went off, summoning him to the OR. "Gotta run," he said, grabbing a handful of Wilson's fries. "I'll let you know when the tee time is."
Wilson nodded and picked up the journal again. When Taub looked back, however, Wilson was staring at the empty chair, a slightly puzzled expression on his face. He hadn't cracked Wilson's shell completely --unlike Foreman, he wanted to learn from House, not become him -- but maybe he'd made a fissure, just enough to release some pressure.
Taub knew one golf game wouldn't change anything, for Wilson or himself. But for a few hours at least, the only things falling astray would be his drives.