"Are you going to go back to the psychiatrist?" Cuddy asked quietly, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. Visions of a happier and less erratic House finally slaying a few of his demons flashed through her mind.
"I don't know. Do you want me to?"
Cuddy paused for a moment, then said, "Which answer will keep you from throwing a fit?"
"A lie won't do in this case," he replied. "But the truth shall set you free. Now tell me. I'm not going to throw a fit or have a meltdown or make you sleep on the front stoop. I asked you because I want to know what you think."
If House had already made up his mind then he wouldn't bother talking about it. He was asking her opinion. He was weighing his options. He wanted to see if he could get the pros to outweigh the cons this time.
"I would like you to keep seeing the psychiatrist," she answered, wishing that he would have done this fifteen years ago and saved everyone a lot of grief. "I think it would be a good idea."
"Hmmm," he noised. House didn't seem to be the least bit surprised by her answer. "I'll keep that in mind."
"Are you going to see the psychiatrist again, House?" Cuddy asked, hoping she didn't sound too much like she was begging.
"I haven't decided yet." He turned over onto his back and stretched his right leg out, his foot peeking out from under the blankets.
"When will you decide?"
"I have another appointment next week. I'll either go or I won't." His voice had the flat and matter-of-fact tone he used whenever he was through discussing a subject and was getting ready to shut down for the night.
Snuggling closer and resting her chin in the crook of his neck, Cuddy asked, "Will you let me know either way?"
"Sure." He wrapped his arm around her back. "Now let's get some sleep or neither of us will be going anywhere anytime soon."
Cuddy stood by House's desk and chewed on her bottom lip. Wilson sat on the edge of the chair. "He must have said something," she said, just to break the suffocating silence.
"He didn't," House replied, looking down at his desk blotter like he wanted to crawl under it and disappear.
Kutner had been late, so House sent Foreman and Thirteen to his apartment to see what was holding him up. They had found Dr. Lawrence Kutner in a pool of blood in his bedroom, dead from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to his temple. The out-of-nowhere suicide had blindsided the entire hospital. Even the normally detached and emotionally blunted Gregory House had been rattled by the news. Cuddy noticed that his eyes appeared to be a bit red.
She asked, "Was he moody or depressed lately?"
"No."
"House, are you sure?"
"What the hell do you two want from me?" House flared up. "I was his boss, not his confidant. What the hell makes you think he'd tell me his feelings anyway? He showed up on time every morning, did his job and argued with me about anything and everything he could. And guess what? He did the exact same thing all day yesterday. Business as usual."
"You worked with him every day for two years," Wilson spoke up.
"And what would your point be?" the diagnostician asked his friend, the sarcasm dripping from his words like hot wax, ready to scald whatever bare skin it landed on. "You saw him around the hospital more than a few times. How come you didn't notice something?"
"You didn't notice anything? Not one single, solitary thing out of the ordinary?" Wilson continued as if he hadn't heard what House had said three seconds earlier.
"How many different ways can I say that I didn't notice anything?"
"Not one out-of-place word or--"
"No, I didn't notice anything like that," House broke in. "Kutner didn't say a goddamn thing to anybody. He didn't say anything to me about being depressed. He didn't say anything to Taub or Thirteen or Foreman about being depressed, so you can spare them the bright lights and rubber hoses. Last night he sure as hell didn't tell me that the next time I saw him would be on a slab in the morgue. Anything else I already know, Captain Obvious?"
The oncologist took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. "House, you notice everything--"
"Wilson, I am the merciless prick everyone thinks I am. But even I have to draw the line somewhere," House began in a low, monotonous growl that made Cuddy's hair stand on end. "For the last time, I did not notice anything unusual about Kutner or his behaviour. If you think for one second that I went to bed last night knowing that one of my fellows was going to splatter his brains all over his bedroom wall and I did nothing to stop it…well, then you have three seconds to get the fuck out of my office and out of my life before I shove my cane so far up your--"
"Stop it!" Cuddy shrieked, her own voice ringing in her ears. "Both of you stop it, right now!"
"I didn't knowingly send Foreman and Thirteen to find the dead body of their colleague--"
"I know…I know." Wilson held up his hands in surrender, signaling House to back off. "I didn't mean to imply that you did anything like that. I'm sorry."
"Right," House grumbled, then leaned back in his chair with a heavy sigh full of gloom.
"Yeah, well…," Wilson paused, then stood up. "I need to get back to work. I'll be in my office if you need me." He hurried out the door without looking back.
Cuddy watched him go, then turned back to House. "I need to get going, too," she said quietly. "Come by my place later. You can help me finish my wine. I think you deserve a break tonight."
"Sure."
"I'm sorry for your loss."
"It's not my loss," he told her, rubbing his eyes.
Detaching himself again. Blunting his feelings to everything around him again. He can't get hurt if he doesn't feel anything.
"I'm sorry you don't think it's your loss," she said with a frown, then turned and left without another word, feeling his eyes burning a hole in her back.
