"We had a John Doe come in in a coma. Cross-checked his various scars and marks against the database and ran his dental x-rays. Came back as a David Wilson. I thought it best to bring this to you."
Cuddy pursed her lips. She had hoped that the rumor of Wilson's missing brother wouldn't have filtered through the hospital grapevine. House had kept his mouth shut this time, she thought, except for telling her, and that had been years after he'd learned. "Wilson's a common name."
"Come and see him," Brenda said. "I don't know if Doctor Wilson's got a brother, but this guy...the resemblance is eerie. The nurses are talking."
Cuddy nodded, momentarily relieved that Wilson's past wasn't the subject of gossip yet, but knowing it would be soon. She stood up slowly around the weight of her stomach. Pregnancy was a joy, but it did make her slower and more deliberate. At thirty-two weeks, she felt like she was always working against her own off-center weight. "I'll come with you."
"Whoever he is, he's been living rough," said Brenda, rubbing at her eyes with one hand. "He's got about six kinds of parasites. All kinds of sores and abrasions. Who knows when his last meal or his last shower was. Drank himself into a coma on cheap vodka as near as we can tell. Badly healed fractures, all sorts of bruises, probably more injuries that we don't know about because he won't wake up." Cuddy nodded and picked up the file, leafing through it as they left her office.
They stepped into the elevator and Cuddy sighed. "Next of kin listed as a James Wilson, as of ten years ago." She closed the file and looked at the other woman. Brenda was a good employee, almost a good friend, but this kind of secret made them co-conspirators, and she had to keep things professional. "I know you'll be discreet about this, Brenda. Can you make sure that your staff don't spread it around either?"
Brenda nodded. "I'll keep them in line." She hesitated. "Doctor Cuddy, if this guy is related to Doctor Wilson, how the hell did he end up like this?"
"I don't know," Cuddy admitted, "but I think it would be a long story."
They reached the second floor and walked down the hall in silence. Brenda opened the door and motioned Cuddy in. Cuddy took a deep breath and braced one hand on her stomach. The man in the bed had weatherburned skin and his face was swollen. But he had Wilson's soft mouth, however chapped and bloody, Wilson's arch of eyebrow, and underneath the bruising, Wilson's bone structure. Cuddy let out the breath slowly, a new exhaustion weighing on her shoulders.
"Clean him up as best you can," she said. "Broad spectrum antibiotics, hang a banana bag, get whatever vitamins and nutrients you can into him. Don't notify Doctor Wilson yet. I'll speak to him myself."
"Yes, Doctor."
Cuddy paused on her way out. "Thank you, Brenda. I do appreciate this."
Brenda nodded. Cuddy made a mental note to try to slip a little extra something into Brenda's Christmas bonus. Of all the things to happen today, the reappearance of Wilson's prodigal sibling hadn't been high on her list. i At least it isn't the holidays yet /i , she thought, and then chided herself for it. She walked slowly back to her office, nodding at doctors and nurses on the way. When she got back to her desk, she paged House.
+
"Where's the fire?" House said without preamble, knocking his cane against her door as she leaned against her desk stretching her calves. "Or are you just hormonal and wanting to discuss my nebulous parental status again? I told you, you don't have to feel guilty that I'm missing out on all the joys of ultrasounds."
"House," she said, and he tilted his head and looked at her.
"Uh oh, she's getting out her serious voice." He sat down on her couch. "What's going on?"
She placed her palms flat on her desk on either side of the file. "Wilson's brother came into the ER this morning in a coma."
"Jacob? Doesn't New York have any hospitals? You'd think an investment banker wouldn't have to come all the way to New Jersey. That commute is killer."
"His other brother."
"Ah." He scratched his cheek. "Well, that does solve the problem of asking why a hypochondriac investment banker obsessive about his health wound up in a coma in Princeton."
She sat behind her desk, one hand moving to her rounding stomach. "He's not going to make it. Even if he wakes up, he's got worms, he's got lice, he's got no liver left. His body is about to fall apart from malnourishment and alcohol abuse and who knows what else. He's dying of six different things and we don't have time to cure more than three or four of them. He's too weak."
He had his chin propped on his cane. "I thought I told you to stay away from the infectious ones while you're still hauling my genes around in there."
"I was pretty sure you're not the boss of me," she said, staring levelly at him.
He stared back for a long moment. "Granted," he said at last, "but I haven't opted completely out of the thing's life or yours. I've got to have someone to leave the piano to."
"I haven't told Wilson yet," she said.
"I'll bet the nurses have. They can't resist those big brown eyes."
"Brenda will keep them in line," she said. "What do I say? I can't even be certain that it is his brother."
"Don't tell him," House offered. "Wait until the guy kicks it. It's not going to do Wilson any good to see him like this."
"It might do the patient some good," Cuddy argued. "Wilson could have some information about him that we don't."
"He's in a coma," House said. "Unless it's a magical coma caused by a tumor, Wilson's not going to be able to do anything. A coma's not like suddenly understanding the patient has a nut allergy or the Hantavirus. We can't make it all better."
"It might offer him some closure," said Cuddy unhappily. "God knows he deserves that."
"Death is pretty much the best closure there is," House argued back. "You just want the grief off your hands. Wilson's not going to get closure from staring at his poor wreck of a younger brother. He wants answers. He wants talking. He's got, what, fifteen years of stored up conversations. You bring him in now, while the guy's still alive, and Wilson's just going to sit by his bed and wring his hands and kill himself with could-have-beens. He's got enough dying patients to worry about. Let him be. Magically discover some kind of identifying thing at the autopsy, and then you can break the news and we can all cry together. I'll bring the whiskey. You can't have any."
"You are such a heartless bastard," she said, low and angry.
"I'm a practical bastard and you know it," he countered, standing up and reaching for the file. "Give him to me. Wilson always forgives me. He's not in the habit of forgiving you, cleavage or not."
"House," she said, because it was all she had.
He met her eyes, his lips thinning into a line. Then he nodded shortly and sat down again.
"There's nothing you or anyone else could do," she said. "It's not a mystery what's killing him. Nothing we can change, nothing we can fix. There are just too many things wrong with him."
"Doctor-patient confidentiality?" he offered.
"We have to tell him," she said quietly. "I have to tell him. It's my job." She touched the file with the tips of her fingers. He sighed. She looked up at him, her mouth trembling a little. "Am I doing the right thing?"
"You're doing the selfish thing, spreading out the pain," he said. "You're doing the compassionate thing, giving him a chance to do whatever it is he has to do. You're being a good boss and a good friend. But you don't need to ask me to know."
She nodded. "Is he free? I might as well go now." She eased out of the chair, supporting her belly, and riffled through the file before tucking it under her arm. It took two deep breaths to cross the office.
House levered himself up off the couch and followed her, putting his arm over her shoulder to open the door. "Can I come with you?"
"I don't know, House," she said, aching, "he might start thinking you care."
He snorted. "Christ, I'll be glad when that podchild is done screwing with your body chemistry and you start cracking decent jokes again." He stayed close to her shoulder all the way up to the fourth floor, and it was strange how his presence was almost a comfort.
+
She knocked on the door with House malingering behind her, and she was suddenly glad that Wilson's office, at least, didn't have the glass walls they'd put up everywhere else. There was a muffled greeting which she took to be a "come in", so she turned the handle, looking back at House. Wilson was sitting at his desk up to his elbows in paperwork, a pen clenched between his teeth. He took the pen out when they entered, looking surprised.
"What's up, Cuddy?"
"Don't mind me," said House. "Just along for...you know, whatever. Moral support." He sat down on the couch and looked thoughtfully at Wilson.
"Sit down, sit down," said Wilson, motioning to the chair across from his desk, and Cuddy eased herself into it. She clasped the wrist of the hand that was holding the file and rubbed her thumb idly across the little knob of bone. Wilson looked at her curiously. Behind them, House shifted, apparently more ill-at-ease than he'd wanted her to know.
Cuddy took a deep breath. "Wilson. Something happened."
"Oh, God," he said, looking stricken. "You're fine, right? The baby's fine?"
"She's healthy as the proverbial horse," House cut in. "As am I, thanks for asking."
"I wasn't minding you," said Wilson, looking half-relieved and half-anxious. "Cuddy? Is something wrong?"
"We had a John Doe admitted this morning," she said slowly, choosing her words carefully. "Preliminary identification suggests that he's your brother."
"Jacob never goes anywhere without ID," Wilson said immediately. "Is he conscious? Do you think he was mugged? He has a tattoo of his blood type on his left hip. Has his wife been called? Why is he in Princeton?"
"Not Jacob," said Cuddy. "The dental records match with David Wilson, but it's only a partial. He's lost some teeth and we can't be certain." She leaned forward and slid the file across his desk, nudging it against the others. Wilson didn't touch it.
"Oh," he said.
"He's not doing well," Cuddy said gently. "He's in a coma. He's malnourished, his liver's failing, he's basically coming apart at the seams. He doesn't have very long." The baby fretted in her belly and she put a hand over the place. She could feel House's eyes on both of them: he was so attentive he was almost humming. Wilson was looking down at his desk, his hands flat on the pile of files, staring at the folder she'd offered as if it were a bomb about to go off. His breathing was shallow. She wanted to touch her fingers to his throat to check his pulse.
"Wilson," said House, almost tenderly.
"I can't," said Wilson. His eyes were fixed on the folder.
"We need you to make a positive identification," Cuddy said. "If you're up to it. He's in the ICU now. He can't really be moved."
"Who brought him in?" Wilson said.
"I'm not sure," said Cuddy. The baby somersaulted. "I didn't check for that. You could ask Nurse Previn. She admitted him."
Wilson stood up abruptly and paced back and forth, almost knocking a trophy off the shelf with one elbow. He had one hand on his hip and the other at the back of his neck, the fingers twined so tight in his hair that Cuddy worried he'd pull it out. "I don't even know what to think of this," he said, his voice rising. "House, this isn't one of your goddamn jokes, is it?"
"Not me," said House. "I didn't want her to tell you."
"You didn't want her to tell me?" Wilson whirled, his eyes wide with disbelief and shock. "What the hell were you thinking? Shouldn't I know? Don't I deserve to know?"
"Steady," said House. "Not exactly a lady present, but she is in a delicate condition."
"House, shut up," she said. "This isn't about you or me."
"Moral support," he said, but subsided.
"Wilson," she said quietly after a moment, watching him pace. "You don't have to. It might not be him."
Wilson stopped pacing and stood facing his bookshelf. She could see his hand gripping one of the shelves, his knuckles white. "And if it's somebody else's possible David Wilson?" he said raggedly. "What, then he's not worth the attention?"
"You know that's not what I'm saying," she said, letting a little firmness creep into her tone. The baby was getting more and more restless as she got tense, and the back of her neck ached. "Wilson," she said.
"I'm sorry," he said, his face pushed into his hand. "Give me a minute." She could see it when Wilson composed himself: it was almost a shiver that went through him, and his shoulders straightened.
"Which room is he in?"
"I'll take you," she said immediately, standing up with an effort and reaching again for the file. She heard the couch creak as House got up and she turned around to fix him with her gaze. "Doctor House, I believe you have a patient."
He tried to stare her down, but surrendered after a moment to the command and the request in her eyes. "Well. Got to go and make sure my team hasn't killed anybody yet today." He left through the balcony door and she almost smiled at the slightly insolent set of his back. She stood there, shifting from foot to foot. Wilson blew out a long breath.
"Let's get this over with," he said, and she nodded, and led him out of the room.
+
Wilson's face as he looked down at his brother seemed to be covered with a thick layer of ice.
"David," he said in a sharp, frosty voice. "David." Cuddy put her hand on his shoulder and he almost shrugged her off, but caught himself. "It's stupid to try to talk to him. It's not like he's going to wake up."
"We never know," she said gently. "Maybe he can hear you. Sometimes things happen."
"Not this time," said Wilson, and turned and walked out.
Cuddy looked after him and sighed, and then turned to the bed and sighed again. They had a positive identification, at least. That was all that she could say about the situation. She wanted to scrub her fist into her eyes like a child, but years of mascara had trained her out of it, and so she flexed her fingers and tried to breathe deeply. The nurses had done a good job cleaning the patient up; he looked much better scrubbed than he had when he came in, but nothing could shift the faint stench of years on the streets, and she nearly gagged. She wanted to touch the broken man in the bed, to lay her palm across his forehead and let him know that someone cared. But House was right: for the baby's sake, she shouldn't go near the infectious ones. She settled for brushing her fingertips over the back of his hand where it lay flat on the coverlet and using the sanitizer at the nurses' station as she waddled towards the elevator. Times like these she was lonely for her old assertive grace, the quick tap-tap of her heels on the tile. As she waited for the elevator, she passed a hand over her belly. No, she wouldn't give this up, however long it took her to slim back into her suits.
She was distracting herself, she knew. The elevator dinged and she walked into it and pressed the button for the lobby. She was distracting herself from Wilson and that cold look she'd never seen on him before, that new chill in his voice that made his vowels sharp.
When she got to her office, House was there, which wasn't much of a surprise.
"Patient dead yet?" she asked dryly.
"Amazingly not," House said, lounging on her couch with his feet on her coffee table. "But it's a waiting game, given the caliber of my employees' suggestions for treatment. How's Wilson?"
"He took it badly," she said, and exhaustion crashed over her like a wave. She made her way to the couch, toed off her shoes, and stretched her legs across so that her feet nearly nudged under House's thigh. Things were strange between them since the baby: half-sweet, half-normal, and it was a rough day when House was her only comfort. But he said nothing about the proximity of her toes, and neither did he touch her, just looked at her and accepted whatever it was they had.
"How badly?"
"How badly do you expect?" she said, propping one forearm on her forehead as she tipped her head back onto the armrest. "He just found out that his younger brother, who's been on the streets for God knows how many years, is dying, and will never wake up. That's pretty fucking bad news, if you ask me."
"Must be awful if you're swearing in front of Junior," he said, in a tone that was supposed to be prim, but came out worried. He swung his feet down from the coffee table and leaned on his cane. "What happened?"
"He identified him and then stalked out." She peered at him from under the shadow of her arm. "Don't you have spies to tell you this kind of thing?"
"Short notice," he said curtly, and rubbed his cheek. "You don't know where he went?"
"I'm not exactly in the shape to chase anyone at the moment," she snapped, "I've got the acceleration of a supertanker in a tub of molasses. In case you hadn't noticed." He looked at her with an amused glint in his eyes. "Sorry," she said. "I'm just...it's very stressful. He's a friend and I want to help."
"I know that. He knows that." He waved one hand dismissively. "It's not about me or you, as wiser people have reminded me."
"I know," she said, and it was almost a whine, and she hated that. She took control of her voice. "What are we going to do, House?"
"We're going to be here," he said. "More specifically, I'm going to be in the morgue, looking for Wilson, and possibly letting him punch me. Or a corpse. I'm too pretty to have a shiner." He hauled himself off the couch. "When he's done working his kinks out, I'll bring him back here and then we can decide what ought to be done. I'd suggest you have coffee on hand, and possibly Prozac. Maybe a sandwich. Maybe two sandwiches. Mediating grief is hungry work."
"How do you know he'll be in the morgue?" she asked, watching him cross the room.
"Good a place as any," he said, and walked out.
She sighed - she was doing that a lot today, and it made her irritable - and closed her eyes. Just a short nap. She was so tired.
When she opened her eyes, House was looming over her, looking wan and tired.
"Come on, Cuddy. End of business hours."
She struggled back into wakefulness, swinging her legs down. "What? What time is it?"
"Nearly eight."
She checked her watch. "How did I sleep that long?"
"I posted Nurse Previn at your door. She's like Cerberus without the three heads."
"Where's Wilson?" she asked, fishing for her shoes.
"Called a cab to take him and a bottle of good whiskey back to my place," he said. "He can deal with the couch. Are you good to drive?"
"Give me a minute," she said, pushing her hair out of her face. "God. I hate late afternoon naps. How's David?"
"Not particularly talkative, I'd have to say," House quipped. "Still comatose. Still dying. I think they may have scrubbed him down with Lysol."
"I want to see him," she said, standing up slowly.
"David? Not like the nurses are going to stop you."
"Wilson. Our Wilson. I want to see him."
"Maybe not the best idea," House said.
"Look at you," she said. "You look like they should be autopsying you next. I'll drive you home, check on Wilson, and then go home myself. At least one of you has to take a cab in the morning anyway, unless you've gotten the Corvette out of drydock or whatever the hell you were calling it. It won't kill you to come in early once in a year, given that your patient's still dying. I'm not asking to stay over, House. You and I aren't like that, first of all, and second of all God knows when the last time you washed your sheets was. As his boss and as his friend, I have certain responsibilities to Wilson, and you haven't got exclusive rights to his grief or helping him through it."
"I'll drive as far as my place," he said. "By the way, the monologue was unnecessary. Give me your keys."
She shrugged on her coat. "At least if I have a midlife crisis and want to change careers, I'll have the theatre as a solid backup plan."
House snorted as he led the way to the garage.
+
"How is he?" she asked in the car as they neared his neighborhood.
"Rough," he said, concentrating on driving, though traffic was light.
"What did you do when you found him?" she persisted. She touched her belly, but the Sprout, as she thought of it privately, was soothed by the movement of the car and didn't seem to be moving much itself.
"We talked as men do," he said. "I think at one point he ran his fist into the wall. I prescribed alcohol and bed rest. I may also have dosed him with some light tranquilizers."
"Good thing you didn't go into psychiatry," she said. "God, House. Next time I'll go find him myself."
He said nothing, just parked her car by his curb. She unbuckled herself and began the process of easing herself out as he grabbed the cane and shut his own door, limping around to offer her a strong hand.
"Thanks," she said, and he dipped his head, blue eyes wary as if he thought she might imagine he was a gentleman. He was worried, she knew, about Wilson, about her and the baby by proxy. Once you managed to get House concerned about something, he covered all the bases. He didn't put his hand on her back as they climbed the few steps to his building, but he did stay close behind her, reaching around her to try the door handle. The door swung open with a slight grating noise.
"Shit," said House quietly.
"Hush," she said, and stepped into the apartment. The place reeked of whiskey. Broken glass crunched under her shoes and she was glad she wasn't wearing heels anymore. The dim light that washed through the window from the streetlight showed her Wilson on the couch with his head buried in his hands. "Wilson," she said, keeping her voice low and soothing. "Are you all right?"
"What fucking use is it," he burst out, his voice somewhere between a growl and a whine, "what fucking use is it to get him back like this? 'Hey, Ma, I found your baby boy. He turned up at my hospital in a coma'? What am I supposed to do with this?"
"It's no use snapping at her," House said, a firmness in his tone that she didn't often hear. "She didn't drink him to death."
"Just fuck off, House." Wilson picked up an ashtray that held the remains of a cigar and a good quantity of whiskey and flung it half-blindly in their direction. House stepped quickly around Cuddy, stumbling a little, deflecting the thing with his cane.
"This," Cuddy murmured in House's ear, "is exactly what you get for mixing downers with alcohol. Your best friend is now homocidally depressed."
"You have a better plan?" he murmured back. "Brought your trank gun, maybe?"
"I didn't know we were going on safari," she sniped.
"Constant vigilance," he said and she snorted.
"Wilson," she said a little louder. "You're grieving. You're in pain. We want to help." She edged heavily around House, her belly brushing his hip, and walked toward the couch with cautious steps. He didn't seem to have anything else to throw within easy reach, and he didn't even look at her as she came crunching toward him. She sat down carefully, not too close to him, but not too far. "Wilson," she said. "Let us help you."
House flicked on the lights and Wilson groaned and looked up at her. His eyes were red, his cheeks were hollow, and his hair was messy. He looked as if he'd been on a three day bender, and he looked like a child whose heart was breaking. His left hand was swollen and bruised. She reached out impulsively and rested her hand on his knee. Suddenly his eyes were full of tears.
"Why?" he asked in a plaintive tone.
"I don't know," she said, squeezing his knee gently. "No one can explain these things."
"He was my baby brother," Wilson said, leaning back so that his head rested on the back of the couch. "He used to steal my baseball cards. Jacob would lock him in the bathroom for being annoying. How did he end up like this?" A few tears dripped from the corners of his eyes and ran down his cheeks. Cuddy found a box of tissues on an end table and blotted the tears away before they ran into his ears. Wilson didn't seem to notice. She could hear House approaching, a halting progress through the broken glass and the slick of alcohol.
"Move over," he said, and wedged himself in between her and the armrest.
"On Saturdays we would go out for egg creams," Wilson said. "When we got old enough, Jacob would take us, no parents, just us. A couple of times he spiked them with brandy. Maybe that was it. Maybe that was the start of it all. Twelve year olds drinking in public. Maybe he started drinking when I went off to college. God knows Jacob was no company, he's a goddamn workaholic." The tears were spilling faster, and Wilson's voice was catching. "I should have stayed. I should have listened. I should have invited him to live with us even though he and Abby hated each other. We would have worked it out. I should have kept him from going, that last time." He was sobbing now, the spasms of his throat looking painful with his head still tilted back. Cuddy slid her hand slowly under his neck and pulled his head onto her shoulder.
"It isn't your fault," she said.
"He was reaching out to me," Wilson snuffled. "I thought he was telling me to go away, but maybe he was reaching out and I just didn't know. I didn't look hard enough for him. I didn't try hard enough." His voice caught on every third word, so hoarse she could barely decipher what he was saying, the words muffled against her coat. She rubbed his back gently, feeling the knobs of his spine under her fingertips.
"It's not your fault," she said, a quiet mantra. Wilson was still talking, mumbling and choking out his stories into her shoulder, his voice indistinct. House laid his arm across the back of the couch. His forearm was firm against the back of her neck and she was grateful for the support. His fingers ghosted over Wilson's shoulder. She leaned into the warm curve of House's side and armpit and he let her. Eventually Wilson's ramble wore itself out into just his breath against her neck. She craned her head to look at him.
"He's asleep," House murmured. "Hold on. I'll get a blanket and a pillow and we can put him to bed." He eased himself up, drawing his arm away. She felt cold. Wilson's tears had soaked through coat and blouse and her shoulder was uncomfortably damp. House limped back in a few minutes with the pillow and blanket in the crook of his arm. He dropped the pillow in the corner of the couch and draped the blanket over the back. Together they moved Wilson from her shoulder to the pillow, and Cuddy stood up slowly as House heaved Wilson's legs up onto the couch, arranging him more gently than she would have expected. She covered Wilson with the blanket, tucking it in. He murmured but didn't wake up.
"Well," she said, looking down at him.
"Well," said House, standing too close again.
"When he wakes up tomorrow, tell him he has as much time off as he needs."
House nodded.
"You've still got my keys, House."
He pulled them from his pocket and plunked them into her palm. He was looking at Wilson too. "This kid thing," he said suddenly. "How do we guarantee it doesn't end up like David Wilson?"
"No guarantees," she said, tired again. Her hips were sore from sitting for so long, and her feet felt swollen.
"Remind me again why I agreed to do it?"
"I figured it was because I told you you never had to be involved in its life. As for your personal motivations, no one knows."
He put his arm around her and pressed a dry kiss to the top of her head, so quickly she wasn't sure she hadn't hallucinated it. "See you tomorrow, Cuddy," he said, already moving across the room.
"Tomorrow," she echoed, and let herself out.
+
Wilson refused to take any time off. He thanked her and said he preferred to work.
"James," she said, the taste of his name strange in her mouth.
"I'm fine," he said, not looking at her, and she almost laughed. His face was haggard. His lab coat was crumpled. The knot on his tie was crooked. His hands twitched by his side, and he had to have the worst hangover she'd seen in years. "I'll see you later, Doctor Cuddy."
She looked after him and sighed.
Any free moment she had during the day, she spent checking David Wilson. All week it was the same thing. His vitals were weak and his skin had a yellow cast that she'd seen too many times. Wilson would pass by, ghost-like, or wander in and stare hard at his brother for a few minutes before leaving again. "Call me if anything changes," he said, and she nodded. Each day his hands looked more bruised, and he had lost a few pounds. It emphasized the family resemblance. House came in once.
"You know he won't last the weekend," he said abruptly.
"You really are a master of the subtle art of conversation," she said, studying a chart which didn't tell her anything she didn't know.
"Maybe we should just put him out of his misery."
"You'd think that I wouldn't have to tell you that euthanasia is illegal in New Jersey more than once every couple of years," she said.
"Mark me an 'exceeds expectations'," House said, his eyes troubled as he watched the still form in the bed. "This is bad, Cuddy. The longer it lasts, the worse it will get."
"Don't I know it." She touched his arm and he looked down at her. "House. Don't do it."
"Our Wilson's the only real casualty," he argued. "The longer his brother lives, the more he looks like he's dying himself."
"You really take 'do no harm' with a grain of salt, don't you?"
"I'm not what you'd call a literalist," he said. "Anyway, I'd have one of my team do it."
"Not your case, not your brother, not your call."
But, as it turned out, House didn't have to do anything: David Wilson crashed then. Not a sigh, not a twitch, just the sudden absence of something that had barely been there. The monitors beeped and the room was a flurry of nurses. House caught one of them by the arm. "Page Doctor Wilson." She nodded and rushed off, but it didn't matter. "Time of death, 4.29 p.m." House was announcing as Wilson walked into the room. Cuddy reached for him, but he backtracked, his face paper-white, and turned on his heel. House swore.
"Should we go after him?" Cuddy asked.
"He'll come to us," House said, and Cuddy thought she'd never seen him look so concerned. He swore again.
"I'm going to him," she said firmly, wishing she could turn on her heel, but it took time to move herself and her belly through the crowd to the door. House let her go. She put her hand on the swell of her stomach and made her way to the elevators. Wilson wasn't in his office. He wasn't in House's office or the oncology lab or the cafeteria. Her heart was racing and her feet were aching by the time she found him on the roof.
"Do you know," he said without turning around, "how strange it is to have to call your mother to tell her her child is dead? 'Hi, Ma. No, well, actually, I'm not fine. David's dead.' And then she wants to know how I know and what I did and when it was and all the details that I just," he paused, looking over the edge of the roof, "just don't have the energy for today."
"Take some time off," she said. "Go home. Sit i shiva /i . It isn't weak to mourn him, Wilson."
"I mourned him long ago," he said, and she was surprised how bitter his smile was in his boyish face. "This is just residual. The other day was the end of it, I think. Since then it's just been like seeing a ghost. I'd walk in and not recognize him."
"Stress," she said. "Don't beat yourself up over it."
"Easy for you to say," he snapped, "he wasn't your i brother /i ." Then he sagged against the wall, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't take it out on you. It's been a rough few years. House and...everything. I wanted to be done feeling this way."
"I'd make some trite comment about how life is feeling this way," she said, "but we both know better." She came up next to him, leaned her hip against the wall with one hand braced against her lower back. It was cold, but the weak winter sun fell on her face.
"The wait was so goddamn long. Years. Years of not knowing where he was or what he was doing or if he was even alive. But it was better than this. At least there was a chance then that he'd come and find me, or that I'd find him, and that we'd all have this reunion and things would be okay again. I kept having this dream that he'd...that I'd just open the door one morning and he'd be there, looking ashamed and defiant, still angry at me and everyone, but at least he was there. If he was there, I could help him, or he could tell me what went wrong. I never knew. He was just so angry." Each of his words was weighted with grief and confusion, and sorrow put an edge on his voice. "I don't remember a reason for him to be so angry. Sometimes I'm sad and I think he would have understood that. I think now we would have made sense to each other even though we didn't then, but I was always just waiting. I owed him more than that. Even when I tried to find him, I failed him."
She said nothing, shivering a little.
"What the hell good does this do, having seen him like this? What kind of penance are we paying? One hell of a cosmic joke. The one person I want to talk to more than anything comes back into my life unconscious. Now he's dead and I haven't got any answers. Not for myself or for my family. And instead of talking about it ourselves, we're going to sit in silence for a week and then do our best not to speak of him again."
She wanted to reach out to him, but he seemed so far away and so angry, not at all the Wilson she knew. His bruised hands gripped the cement of the palisade until she was afraid that he'd skin his palms just holding on. The breeze stirred his hair. His muscles were tense under his shirt - he wasn't wearing his jacket - and she half-thought he might fling himself over. After a few minutes he relaxed a little, his jaw still set in stubborn melancholy.
"It's kind of pathetic when House has more of a life than I do," he said without prelude. "He doesn't have anyone but he's not lonely. He's going to be a father, however he handles that. He's got good people working for him and he doesn't care if they don't like him or agree with him. He's a narcissistic jerk in constant pain who's addicted to his meds and he's still better off than I am. I didn't think it was supposed to be quite like this."
"No," she said.
"I never understood what was going on between the two of you."
"He's House." She shrugged. "I don't have any idea why he agreed to help me. I don't know if he'll ask me to marry him tomorrow or if he'll disappear forever. You know how that is."
Wilson laughed hollowly. "I wish I could have done something. House is always doing something."
"Not this time," she said. "Don't blame yourself, Wilson. There was nothing that could be done for David besides making him comfortable. And I, for one, thank God that you're not House. I couldn't deal with two of them."
"I think I will take the time off," he said suddenly. "Couple of weeks. Get out of Princeton for a while."
"That's no problem," she said. "I'm sure your department can handle it. Let me know if you need anything else. Maybe I'll get House to cover your clinic hours."
"He'll like that." He sighed, rubbing the side of his hand across his forehead. "You'd think after years in oncology, I'd know how to let go. But it's different this time. Dammit, David," he said to the sunset. "Why didn't you just come home?" She could hear the echoes of the fifteen year old big brother in his voice, summer afternoons at the park, piano lessons, peanut butter sandwiches, bar mitzvahs, high school graduations. When she got home, she would call her sister, she thought.
She put her hand on his arm. "It's getting dark. Let's go in."
"Sorry," he said, Wilson the gentleman again with his arm around her shoulders. "You must be freezing. I forgot."
"I'm fine," she said. "And you will be too. Take as long as you need."
"It's been so long since I knew what fine felt like I'm not sure I'd recognize it," Wilson said.
"Wilson," she said, and stopped by the elevators. "No matter what House says or does, he needs you. Your department needs you. Your patients need you. I need you. We will do whatever it takes to get you through whatever this is, and the beginning of that is you getting the hell out of this place for as long as you have to."
He gave her a smile, wobbly and hesitant but real, and she splayed her hand over her stomach and thought that it was a beginning.