Absence
Wilson wakes with a start, still fully dressed, on his side of the bed. Her note is wedged between his side and the bedspread. He feels powerfully that he isn't alone. Someone else was just in the room with him. Someone's just left…
He blinks rapidly, confused. What day is it? Why's he in his clothes on the bedspread? Where's Amber?
His heart slows as he remembers. He is alone. No one's coming home.
The whole apartment is lit up. He'd come in and lain down on the bed. Exhausted. Then the note in the place she normally slept. He glances around the room and into the living room to make sure no one's broken in.
No. He's alone.
His body relaxes. The adrenaline shot from suddenly waking has faded. He breathes in, holds it, and breathes out. Still exhausted.
He feels like he's been on a bender. His head aches. His throat too. His chest.
He pulls the note out from under his side. It's real. Everything is real. He rolls onto his belly, neck cricking, nose chafing against the stiff pillow sham. The new pillow sham.
He wants to die. Anything so long as he doesn't feel anymore.
The pillow smells like detergent. He can smell himself, that he needs a shower. The apartment smells like home. Theirs. Not distinctly his or hers. He wants to get up and bury himself the clothes she'd worn most recently. Her scent, he worries, is already fading.
But he stays on the bed. The pillow's wet now. Warm tears cool quickly, making the fabric rougher. He can't believe that she's gone. It can't be true. It's not real.
Everything's a blur except her eyes closing, her warm skin cooling, the sudden heaviness of her head.
He wants to stop. To end. To cease.
He must be dreaming. It can't be real.
But her head was heavy and unmoving. She wasn't breathing. He turned off bypass. She's gone.
She can't be gone.
He's asleep. He's dreaming. A nightmare. A horrible, vivid nightmare.
She can't be gone.
--
Cuddy watches the orderlies transfer House to a gurney and wheel him out of the room. He barely stirs during the transfer.
She hasn't seen him this nonresponsive since he woke up nine years ago missing a chunk of thigh muscle. The things she tries to hold together have fallen apart again. There's nothing she can do about it.
She sits in the ICU sleeper chair next to his empty bed. Once Chase had informed her of House's seizure, she'd called the Associate Dean to tell him she'd be using some of those personal days she had stored up. She'd met with him yesterday evening while House was still in a coma to get him up to speed. All of yesterday morning's appointments she'd canceled before taking House home after the crash. Then yesterday afternoon's appointments when she'd driven him back to the hospital. She has nothing to do now but wait.
She hates waiting.
The chair's leather is warm against her body. She'd been asleep for about three hours. Noise from day shift's arrival had woken her and she'd reviewed the nurse's notations for the hours she'd slept. Stable vitals. Medication administered on time and in correct doses. He'd opened his eyes twice on command and four times spontaneously, but he hadn't made eye contact or responded to questions by blinking, moving, or speaking. Since the Mental Status Exam Foreman had given him, he'd dropped down to a ten on the GCS: spontaneous eye-opening and localizing response to pain but no verbal response.
She shakes her head, folding her knees up in the chair again. Not only the intracranial bleed, seizure, and skull fracture, but another cardiac arrest. He'd stopped breathing for about a minute; no pulse for thirty seconds. The heart MRI she'd tacked on after the initial head CT revealed a miniscule amount of damage. He was lucky. Three cardiac arrests in two years; the damage he'd done to his heart was less severe than she'd expected.
God. Four cardiac arrests in less than a decade. He has five lives left. How else will he die?
Cuddy massages her forehead. He's too much for one person to deal with. How did Wilson manage to do it?
Poor Wilson.
She'd waited for him outside Amber's room, followed him to his office, and sat with him for something like an hour. She's not sure how long it was. Eventually, he'd thanked her for being there. She'd told him she and Foreman would take care of everything on their end. That she'd call him tomorrow and tell him anything he needed (or wanted) to know. He'd asked about House. Once he and Chase had stabilized House and paged her and Foreman, he'd left. She'd been a little surprised when he asked. Hadn't expected him to. She updated him: the bleed, the worsened fracture, a six on the GCS. Once she'd been sure Wilson was as okay as he was going to get, she'd returned to House.
She sighs. She can't tell yet if House has suffered any lasting brain damage. Foreman couldn't tell either. It's too early. But his slipping from awake and alert to a ten on the GCS worries her.
She needs to see the CT. The staff should have him prepped by now. She unfolds her knees, slips on her shoes, and stands carefully. Her blood pressure dips, reminding her she needs to eat something and sleep more. She tells herself she will once she sees the results.
She straightens her clothes—no luxury of appearing tired for the Dean—and heads for radiology.