It could've been anyone. A stranger just passing by, finding a seat close to him, and intruged him. But it wasn't anyone, it was her, the one they all knew. She was the one who fought tooth and nail for a job under House only to die because of him, indirectly, or what his mind told him. It could've been anyone, but it wasn't.
To see him risking his life to find the cure for his best friends girlfriend, the one he fought with not so long ago for taking his best friend away from him. It was heartbreaking, and when she closed her eyes she could see him all alone doing the greatest thing he probably could imagen. She wondered if he'd cried when he heard about what happened later on when the roumor flew around the hospital like a wildfire, the word death dying on their guiltstrucken faces. A part of her thought so, but the other didn't.
She talked to Wilson once, she knew after all about all the hopeless feelings and sorrows that surged through your body when somebody close to you was living their last hours. She had held his hand as he bowed his head, hiding his tears from her. All she could think about then was House who didn't have anyone.
It was late when it was all over, when the whispering nurse next to her mentioned her death she had stopped, dropped the pencil she was writing with and looked at the two nurses who hung their head in combined sorrow. To stop herself from starting to cry right there she had bit her lip and stared at her shoes. A part of her wondered; if she had stayed would she had come into House's life then, and was the blame really on her, or on Foreman? Was there anyone to blame?
His room was quiet compared to the hallways outside, the only noise were the machines telling them that he was still alive, despite the vacant look in his eyes. Braindamage was at the tip of everybody's toung, but everyone was afraid to utter it, as if it would be contagious and kill them all in a heartbeat. But it wasn't braindamage, she assured herself, but she was never really sure.
Wilson had passed her in the hallway on his way out that night, not seeing her or anyone, stumbling into an unsuspecting nurse and mumbled a sorry while we headed for the exit once again. She wanted to reach out and touch the collar of his sleve, tell him it was going to be ok, that hearts can heal, but she was afraid that he'd see through her lie, and that would make him hurt even more. So instead she did nothing, just helplessly watched him leave, his steps heavy and his head hung low. In her mind his redrimmed eyes would haunt her, reminding her of her own loss.
It was late when she made her way up to his floor, and looked at him from a distance where she knew he could not see her, not look through her with his peircing eyes. A safe distance from the greive she knew would radiate off of his body in chunks. He had just lost his friend, and even from where she stood she saw that his eyes were focused on the door, his eyes empty. He seemed to be a big void, but like a black hole he still drug her towards him and she couldn't struggle against it so much longer.
Cuddy was curled up in a chair next to him, holding his hand. A part of her wanted to be her, to be the person to assure him that someone was still there, and the other part of her wanted to run, because this was more than she could take.
It could've been anyone, but it had to be her.
