Title: Keeping Vigil, part 4
Summary: Four times Wilson has found Cuddy at House's bedside and the one time he finds House at Cuddy's.
Characters: Wilson, House & Cuddy
Pairing: House/Stacy, House/Cuddy
Spoilers: Birthmarks
Word Count: 1733
4. Unsurprising Repentance
"Stacey left."
She looks up from her desk, though she's not surprised. Quickly, she glances away.
"I'm not surprised." The door clicks shut and she sighs, setting her pen beside the file she's been updating for the past hour. She's not been able to concentrate; not since Stacy had called her from the airport or since House wouldn't answer the phone. She'd been debating whether or not to go over there, knowing that her presence might not be appreciated. "You know?"
She nods slightly, not quite ready to give up on the report, or the guise of reading the report. She pinches the bridge of her nose, fighting back the yawn that threatens to spill from her lips.
"Stacy called me."
She doesn't tell him she's tried to call House; he already thinks too much.
"House called me." She doesn't flinch as she feels a lance pierce through her. Instead, she taps the pen against the table and purses her lips as she looks up at him. She's tired of her relationship with House; she's tired of caring about him, of caring for him but she's tried not to care before. The term 'moth to a flame' didn't equate to how fervently House had sought her out, making her care. "He's a mess."
"He would be," she says with more confidence than she feels. Her voice doesn't betray her and she's sure the edge of the table hides the shake of her hand, the quivering of her leg. "I told you she should stop pushing."
She doesn't mean to be accusatory but they both need someone to blame and she can't blame House or something she blames herself for. Wilson sighs and sits down, crossing his arms over his chest as he watches her, his eyes assessing.
"Why do you always defend him?"
"Because you don't," she snaps but doesn't regret her tone even as Wilson flinches.
"Because he's in the wrong," Wilson stresses and she shakes her head.
"His life will never be the same again. He's not okay, he probably never will be. Stacy didn't realise that. She kept telling House everything would be okay; she kept waiting for this to be over – but it won't be. It won't be over because the muscle is gone, he needs a cane to walk from one end of the room to the other; that won't get any easier for him, no matter how much we wish it would."
Wilson doesn't say anything as he stares at her, his eyebrow raised.
"The pills he's taking-"
"He's in pain, Wilson." She tosses the pen she'd been fiddling with onto the desk and drags a hand through her hair, rubbing away the last of her mascara. "He needs the pills to function."
"Did he tell you that?" She knows that tone; she's experienced that tone more than once since that night House had appeared on her doorstep, followed by Wilson some hours later. She doesn't care for that tone either and she glares at him, hoping to convey the anger that has her bristling. Wilson doesn't bend, used to her anger these days but she doesn't relent. "He's devastated."
Cuddy laughs – a bitter sound that she is sure will confirm in Wilson's mind all manner of sins but she's in no mood for his Jewish guilt; she gets enough of it from herself without piling his on top of it.
"He's angry; he would be."
Wilson stands, the heavy chair making an unpleasant sound as it scrapes across the carpet. Light from outside the office catches his face and she notes how old he looks; since House's infarction, they've all aged a lifetime – she hates to think of what she will see in the reflection when she gets home. As much as they care for House, as much as they want to try and help him out of this there's only so much they can take and Cuddy's not sure how much longer she can hold on for. He's pushed and pushed for so long that she can't remember what it feels like not to fight him; she can't remember what it feels like not to have to question his reaction to any conversation; can't imagine a time when she'll be able to look at him and not see his hatred for her reflecting in his eyes.
In a way, she envies Stacy even as she wants to hate her. Her ability to walk away from House is noble, Cuddy will give her that. But she can't help but hate that now she and Wilson are all that is left; that the buffer between House and Cuddy is gone and now all of his anger can be concentrated on one instead of divided between two. She wishes that Stacy had been stronger – or maybe weaker, weak enough to put up with House, strong enough to stay. She wishes that she was stronger, to follow in Stacy's footsteps; that she'd walked away first because now she can't leave just Wilson because she can see now that House is draining him too.
"You know him better than any of us," he states quietly and she looks up at him, almost startled. She sighs and pinches the bridge o his nose.
"Wilson..."
"No, you do." She concedes because she thinks she does too. She hates that. "He wants me to go over. Maybe you should-"
"No," she says quickly with a shake of the head. "I can't deal with him tonight."
And she really can't. She wants to go home and crawl into bed and forget for a little while that she's ever known Gregory House.
"Neither can I."
There's a desperation in his tone that she almost concedes to.
"Wilson..."
"Lisa, please." He swallows, his hand coming to rest over hers as it idles on the desk. "My marriage is falling apart."
"Your marriage already fell apart, James."
He pulls back at that, his features dark and she closes her eyes against it. She wants to apologise; has already too much to repent for but there's an anger there that won't let her.
"It's just us now, Cuddy."
She nods slowly and watches as he leaves her office, the door closing quietly behind him.
The drink is spilled across the top of the piano and Wilson hesitates in the doorway. Things between him and House are still tentative at best and he's not sure his presence will be completely welcomed. He'd seen the half empty bottle in House's office and the effect that his dad's death eventually took on him and he knows that he can't really leave now. He's here and House never did ask for the key back.
He closes his eyes as he inhales the peaty essence of the Laphroaig; not his usual but still, heady stuff. The corridor is light, compared with the darkness of the apartment and as he steps in and closes the door, he's unprepared for the complete extinction of light. The curtains, perpetually drawn seem lined with black, the room an abyss as he makes his way across it. He stubs his toe on a number of items, some sharp, others heavy and he contemplates flipping the lights; with the volume House had consumed, Wilson is sure his friend is passed out cold in a slumber that little could wake him from.
He checks the couch as he passes, the floor too (just in case) and continued on to the bedroom, kicking items of clothing out of the way as he goes. House had always been untidy and Wilson's stint of lodging with him hadn't changed him at all, seemingly.
At the threshold of the bedroom, amber street light filters in, lighting the room with eerie warmth. The musky scent of House's home is undisturbed and Wilson sighs as he pushes the door open further. He tells himself he's just checking but a part of him is curious too because he's had experience with this kind of thing and rarely has he found her absent.
He's not wrong but he is still surprised. Her petite figure is illuminated in the amber glow, her hair a curly mess over the pillow. He's never found her asleep, nor in his bed so he's more than surprised by this; he's also curious as to just how much has changed since he left because he knows that he never spoke about House but he likes to think Cuddy would have told him if something like that had changed. He steps into the room slightly, his eyes adjusting to the dimness and he feels something akin to relief swim through him.
While House is bare-chested, Cuddy's clothes remain intact. What this means in the grand scale of things, he's not sure but he knows, at least, that he's not stumbled upon their post-coital spooning. In fact, the distance between them on the bed is telling, the large gap between them an obvious sign of how little things have changed. He feels almost voyeuristic as he watches them in slumber, searching for a sign, but there's something calming – almost ethereal – in the way that they find one another that tugs at Wilson's heart. When Amber had died, he'd been alone; he'd resented Cuddy or staying with House then but he should have known that decades of habit didn't change just because he wanted them to.
He starts when House shuffles, his hand rising to touch his face before he reaches out and touches Cuddy's hip – a moment so brief that he wonders if it had been intentional or not. But then Cuddy's body shuffles closer to his and the hand that had brushed comes to rest on the dip of her waist and Wilson knows that this is something he shouldn't have seen.
Quietly, he backs out of the room, smiling.
It's not the first time he's stumbled upon a scene like that and he's sure it won't be the last. But now he finds comfort in their malleability, their ever changing but constant presence in each other's lives.
He'd always thought Stacy leaving was the worst thing that could have happened to House; he doesn't want to imagine, now, what it would be like if it had been Cuddy who left instead. He locks the front door and rests his open palm against the wood and sighs; it's a thought that doesn't bear thinking about.
