Title: Keeping Vigil [1/5]
Summary: Four times Wilson finds Cuddy at House's bedside and the one time he finds House at Cuddy's.
Characters: Wilson, Cuddy, House & some others.
Pairing: House-Cuddy
Rating: K+
1. Hesitantly Guilty
The drive had been long and tedious, the traffic slow moving through the city streets and even slower in the freeway. The late fall heat had matted his hair to his head and as he scrubbed a hand through it, he knew he really should have had a shower before he'd jumped in the car at her call. His shirt was still damp, even with the air-conditioned car and the fall of night. He knows the scent of sweat lingers for long moments in the air as he passes through it.
The hospital is bright and open but Wilson knows it is merely a ploy. The design, the openness, the brightness – all a cover for what really goes on behind the doors and curtains and smiling faces of over worked nurses. When he breathes in, the stench of the hospital is familiar; they are all the same – the same sterile scent of death and illness and pain.
He concentrates on these things because he can't bring himself to think of anything else – of the reason he's here. He and House may not have been on the best of terms lately – what with their argument over the pain meds House had been taking – but the call, the desperation in Stacy's voice to just have someone there who wasn't Cuddy, who wouldn't try to objectify what was going on, to make this real for him.
Wilson had not hesitated. He'd kissed goodbye to his wife and jumped in the car and sped to the end of the street before he'd turned into the sluggish traffic. During the three hour drive to the hospital, he thought about Stacy's words. Cuddy, Wilson could vaguely remember, was a ghost from House's past – a woman his friend occasionally spoke about when recalling his time at UMich but who had remained anonymous for years and years, her name rarely spoken. Wilson had thought in those first few years of knowing House that Cuddy was someone but then he'd met Stacy and he'd seemed to forget all about Cuddy and the way she used to nitpick in his organic chem. class.
The nurses directed him along hallways, through doors and for a moment he thought he'd gotten the wrong hospital. Then the nurse had pointed across the hall to a private room, her eyes downcast, and Wilson had stalled. He never stalled – not when it came to House.
When he pushes the door open, he hesitates, wondering briefly if he's gotten the wrong room. The lights are out and he takes a step back, glancing from side to side but there is no other room that the nurse could have meant. The sound of heavy breathing meets Wilson's ear as he slips into the room, closing the door quietly behind him. His footfalls are loud on the tiles floor but the two occupants are not roused and Wilson frowns.
Stacy had told him House hadn't slept in days and when he did, the pain woke him and he screamed – or she woke him by sighing, or shuffling, or breathing. From what Wilson can see, House has exhausted himself – the pain eating away at his energy.
He moves to the other occupant of the room and lays his hand gently on her shoulder, shaking her shoulder. She makes a noise, a protest he thinks and Wilson smiles. He finds the lamp on the bedside and twists the switch, lighting the room with a dull glow.
When he turns back, he starts and stumbles against the table, knocking over a few bottles and pens. House doesn't rouse but his roommate does and the woman who is clearly not Stacy blinks her eyes blearily in the light. Wilson stares at her for a moment, incredulous, wondering who the hell she is.
"Who the hell are you?"
Wilson is surprised by the question and he opens his mouth a few times but no words come out. Instead he turns to House, grey and haggard and so obviously not in pain and he feels a pinch in his heart at the sight. He feels guilt swim already and he knows it will only get worse, will only intensify when House wakes up and finds he can't walk. He knows it will encompass him as House endures hour after hour of agonising physical therapy.
All because he hadn't believed his friend, all because he had told him to work it off.
He closes his eyes and grimaces, pinching the bridge of his nose wishing to stem to flow for at least a little while longer.
"Where's Stacy?" He asks quietly, his hands falling to his side.
The woman across from him stares at him, her curly hair a messy halo of wild curls, her blue eyes almost transparent in the strange light. She purses her lips, cocks her hip but her hand, Wilson notes, doesn't move from House's tight grip.
"She's not here."
Wilson narrows his eyes at the woman.
"I can see that," he replies bitterly, his eyes focussing obviously on her grip of his friend's hand. "Where is she?"
Wilson frowns when the woman shrugs, her eyes flicking to the doorway.
"She left this afternoon – still hasn't come back." She looks back to Wilson and he's startled by the pain he sees there. He feels something click and his eyes widen momentarily before he stores the information away. "You never did tell me who you are," she says accusingly and Wilson belatedly thrusts his hand out.
"I'm Wilson. James Wilson – House's..."
The woman nods and quickly shakes his hands.
"I know who you are." She looks back to House and Wilson can't help but think 'I know who you are, too'. The thought never passes his lips because he doesn't – not really. "I'm Lisa Cuddy, Greg's doctor."
House, Wilson notes, never lets anyone – except Stacy - call him Greg.
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