Title: Coda

Author: purplepeony

Author's Note: After what House did to Cuddy, I cannot see the two of them ever being together again in a way that is true to Cuddy's character. So, this is not that. But it's a self-indulgent little piece of angst.

October came and went, bringing with it the colors of fall; November started, bringing the bitter winds and rain which foretold the coming of winter. And nobody heard anything from James Wilson.

Lisa Cuddy knew that she was no longer the second person on his list of people to contact, but with the upheaval of the past six months, she wasn't quite sure who he would contact, or if he would turn to any of his friends from Princeton-Plainsboro. After House's death, she had hoped that he might contact her again, might try to figure out what their friendship was without the complication of House.

But instead he had vanished, leaving behind the hospital and his entire life associated with the hospital.

When she had contacted Foreman and Chase, they had told her that neither knew where he was. Although she could hear the caution toward her in their voices, she believed that they were both telling the truth. None of the three of them wanted to not know what had eventually happened to Wilson, or to someday find that he'd died an anonymous John Doe in a hospital somewhere else.

The months had passed, and nobody heard anything. Being doctors, they all knew that time left to him was only a estimate, but as those months passed and then more, the worry that he had died somewhere, alone and unknown, grew stronger.

Then one night in mid-November, her phone rang.

"Dr. Lisa Cuddy?"

"Speaking."

"This is St. John's Hospice, in Trenton. We had a patient check in today, James Wilson, and we were asked to contact you."

Her heart skipped a beat. Obviously this meant he was still alive, but also meant that he knew that he was approaching the end.

"How is he? What is his condition?"

"What is your relationship to him?"

Her brain paused for a moment. Somewhere, she still had his medical proxy paperwork, granted back in happier days. She didn't believe he'd ever withdrawn that permission officially. "Physician and medical proxy."

She heard the woman on the other end of the phone clear her throat. "If you could come down and show us the paperwork, or at least fax us the paperwork, we can have one of our doctors discuss his condition with you."

"Is a doctor available there tonight?"

"Yes, until 11pm."

It was eight o'clock, enough time to drop off her Rachel with a friend and drive there. "I will be there by 10pm."

"We will see you then."

It was a clear night, though cold. She managed to arrive closer to 9:30, paperwork in hand, and wondered. How had he ended up here? Where had he been? She hurried through the front door and focused on the front desk, ignoring the small waiting area, ignoring the man who abruptly stood up and stiffly moved past her.

The woman at the front desk blinked at her hurry, and then said "Name?"

"Dr. Lisa Cuddy, here about a patient, James Wilson?"

"You have his medical proxy information?"

"Yes."

"Dr. Yates should be able to talk with you in a few minutes."

"Who told you to call me?"

"The man who brought him in, Michael Smith."

She frowned, the name didn't ring any bells.

The receptionist stood up and glanced toward the waiting area. "He was just over there ... I guess he's gone now. Skinny old guy, with a limp."

"A limp?"

"And a cane. It had flames painted on it, kind of neat."

Cuddy's breath caught at the description. While the logical part of her brain knew that he was dead, the description brought House to mind. She was well aware that between the worry about Wilson and her personal refusal to think about House, she hadn't really processed his death. But she knew he was dead, she knew that he had chosen to abandon Wilson via his own self-destructiveness the same way that he had chosen to abandon her. She knew that he decided not to be the one who had stood by Wilson through whatever he had struggled through during the past six months.

"Skinny, with a limp, and a cane with flames?" she found herself repeating.

"Are you okay? You look slightly pale."

"I just need to sit down for a moment ..."

Wilson would soon be able to clear this up. She wasn't quite sure how or why he'd managed to find another friend with a limp and a cane, but certainly that was the explanation. He'd probably found himself a cancer support group while he'd been on the lam from the rest of his life, and there were plenty of people in those types of groups who suffered from various disabilities. It would make sense that he had found himself someone who vaguely reminded him of House.

Dr. Yates came out a few minutes later. She was an older woman, short with graying hair. "Dr. Cuddy?"

"Yes."

"I have been told that you're James Wilson's medical proxy?"

"I am, as long as he still wants me to be."

She sighed. "I'm not sure how much say he'll have in the matter."

"What do you mean?"

"You know he has terminal cancer?"

"Yes, but he disappeared several months ago, and I'd like some information about what his condition is now."

"When he was brought in this morning, he was barely conscious. He's in decent condition for someone at this stage of his disease, but he's pretty close to the end. I think he will wake up again, but he has days left, if that. You said that he disappeared? Obviously he has been getting some type of care somewhere through today. Palliative care. When he came in, his morphine levels were already pretty high.

"Mr. Smith, the man who brought him in, had all his medical records and insurance information. As well as paperwork identifying him as Mr. Wilson's medical proxy. But he told us to call you, identified you as the person who would handle decisions about Mr. Wilson's care from now on."

Cuddy had known that if they found Wilson again before the end, this would most likely be the result. It wouldn't be the Wilson she remembered, the Wilson who she wanted back. It would be a sick and dying man who had disappeared on them all. But the reality was proving to be a bit much. She wished that she had called Foreman or Chase to come with her. But she was here, and she was alone.

"Can I see him?" she asked.

"Of course. He's in a room in our hospice wing, on the second floor."

She quietly lead Cuddy to a dark room on the second floor, as Cuddy tried to ignore how familiar yet strange the environment felt. It wasn't active like the hospitals she was used to, but quiet and peaceful in a way her hospitals rarely felt.

She entered the dim room to find Wilson asleep in the bed. A few monitors stood around him, ready to be used if necessary but dark and dormant for now. A morphine pump did stand next to the bed, its red numbers glaring through the darkness, but she ignored it.

He looked good for someone two months overdue for death. His face was thin and his eyes hollow, but his skin was a decent tan shade that said he'd been out in the sun and he looked relaxed in his sleep. Over in the corner of the room, motorcycle leathers were laid carefully over a chair, next to what appeared to be a well-worn leather bag.

She sat down next to him and took his hand in hers, expecting to find it thin-skinned and limp. Instead, it was well-calloused with tough skin on the palm, nothing like the delicate hands of the doctor she remembered.

At that, he stirred and opened his eyes, and she felt guilty at waking him up. "Howww …" he slurred for a moment, before his eyes focused.

"Lisa," he then whispered, his eyes focusing.

"James," she greeted him, surprised by how focused his gaze seemed to be, given that Dr. Yates wasn't sure if he was going to wake up again.

"I guess it has come that time," he whispered, his eyes focusing on the ceiling. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry?"

"In his attempts to be selfless, he was incorrigibly selfish."

"Who?"

"House."

"House is dead, Wilson."

"That statement may now be true, I don't know."

She glanced at the numbers on the morphine pump, impressed that he was awake and talking at the dosage they'd allowed him. Grasp of reality might be beyond him now.

"I'm here now. Is there anyone else you want?"

"Does anyone want to say goodbye at this point?"

"I think that Foreman and Chase will be glad to know you're not some John Doe in a morgue somewhere. Sam also has been worried about where you are, although I'm not sure whether she wants to punch you out or say goodbye …"

Wilson laughed, a short, hoarse laugh that sounded nothing like she remembered. "You can tell them that I'm here. It's safe now."

"Safe?" she questioned, still confused.

"Safe, and normal, and nothing like the past six months."

"Okay, then," she paused, then continued "Where have you been?"

"Where haven't I been? Did you know that Route 66 is oddly beautiful from the back of a motorcycle? And Going to the Sun Road in early fall is eerie. You have the touristy places out west to yourself as soon as September starts."

"Who were you with?"

"Does it matter?"

Cuddy could feel the evasiveness in that answer, and realized that the morphine level in his blood meant nothing about his grasp of reality. "James, someone was taking care of you."

"Yes, someone was."

"Who?"

"A ghost and a friend." He laughed again, that same short and hoarse laugh. "Lisa, you wouldn't believe the story of my past few months. So I'm not going to tell it."

"Okay." She knew when she had lost a conversation. "I'm going to go call Chase, Foreman, Sam … anyone else I can think of …"

"Cameron, too. Please do. I think I can keep my head about me for another day or so." Wilson sighed, and she could see the strength go out of him. "Really, I am sorry Lisa."

"It's not the time to talk about that," she said in response, locking down the part of her heart that wanted to rage at him. "You go back to sleep, and I'll be back tomorrow."

"Okay," he sighed, closing his eyes. She laid his hand back on the sheet and slipped out, headed back toward the entrance and waiting area.

The receptionist provided her with information on visiting hours, the information she would need to pass onto everyone else, and she walked out into the cold wind. Bits of sleet bit at her cheeks, the clear night having turned cloudy. She walked over to her car and leaned against it for a moment, deeply breathing in the frosty air. Once again, she didn't know how she was going to do it, but she knew she needed to hold herself together.

As she pulled herself together, she noticed a piece of paper stuck under her wiper blades, its edge rustling in the wind. She rolled her eyes, the rush of annoyance that someone would stick an advertisement on a car parked in the parking lot of a hospital at 11pm at night fueling a small spark of anger. She stormed over to pull it out and opened it, wanting to see what kind of organization would do such a thing. But all she saw were a few faint handwritten words, too small and faint to be read in the dim light of the parking lot.

She opened the driver's door, started the car, then turned on her overhead light. In handwriting so familiar she refused to recognize it, she saw written, Cuddy, I'm sorry. There was no signature.

That was when she leaned her her head against the steering wheel and allowed herself to cry.