This chapter elaborates on 7x22 "After Hours". You're not missing anything if you skipped the optional chapter.
This chapter is Wilson's POV. His voice has enabled me to explore what seems to be a common issue with transitioning: people who think changing gender means your personality is supposed to change as well. And I'm not forcing this on Wilson, at least I don't feel I am. Wilson would need some sort of defense mechanism, something to convince himself that he hasn't been an utter failure as a friend for 20 years because he never really understood House. Sad that this defense mechanism assures Wilson will never understand her.
This chapter rated T for themes on gender, nightmares, etc.
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Wilson sat up in bed. Sara leaped to the foot of the bed with an indignant hiss and a 'murr'.
Sleep had been fitful. Nightmares plagued his dreams, different shades of the same event - someone's death. Different views, different methods, different bodies, different genders, but always the sense that these were all shades of a single death. This nagged at Wilson, festered in the back of his mind. He knew very few people who could fit every single detail and still only be one person.
Wilson hauled himself to the edge of his bed. The alarm clock said he had another hour before he had to wake up. Bah, he wasn't going to be able to get back to sleep. He cancelled the alarm and checked his phone.
Hmm. House called last night. He pushed down the dread. "Probably needed a ride," he said to Sara. The cat licked her paw daintily and gave him a dirty look for daring to disturb her before breakfast.
Wilson dialed House's number, intending to annoy her awake so she could enjoy her hangover.
"Wilson?" said the voice on the line.
"Cuddy?" Wilson asked. The dread bubbled back up. "What's going on? Where's House?"
"House is just about finished with surgery," Cuddy explained. "He… Wilson, I…"
"What happened?" Wilson asked, a little more forceful.
"He decided to operate on himself," Cuddy said, the words coming out fast and forced. "The drugs he's been taking. There were tumors. He decided to remove them himself. He's insane, Wilson, there's no other explanation. He's gone insane."
Wilson held the phone to his ear, numb. His only thought was on how he doubted Cuddy was really qualified to make statements on House's sanity.
"Wilson?"
"Where is she?"
"Wilson…"
"Where is House?" Wilson demanded.
"Princeton General."
Wilson hung up the phone. He had more important things to do than deal with Cuddy.
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Princeton General was a chaos both familiar and not. The last time he'd been here had been to pick up a dying girlfriend. That thought made Wilson's blood run cold; not just because this is where Amber languished after the bus accident. The parallels were striking. He already lost one girlfriend here, one female version of House. And now another person he loved, one not-yet-female version of House was languishing here, fate unknown.
If he lost someone else because of this hospital he was going to set this place on fire.
He found House's room. She was still unconscious, not the best of signs so long after coming out of surgery.
"And I hope we can be friends again soon," Rachel said, slowly sounding out the words.
"And I hope we can be friends again soon," Cuddy repeated as she transcribed.
"You bloody scallywag!" Rachel finished, collapsing into squealing giggles.
"You bloody scallywag," Cuddy dutifully transcribed, her dull tones a depressed counterpoint to her daughter's happy laughter.
"You should go home, get some sleep," Wilson said. The caring façade was put up almost on instinct.
"In my dreams," Cuddy groaned. "I'm not going to get the chance. Another night wasted dealing with House and his antics. I thought I was done with this."
Wilson's façade cracked. "House is alive, is that really a waste?"
"I didn't have the luxury of choosing not to answer," Cuddy snapped. Like you did hovered at the end of her sentence.
"And you don't have to live with that choice," Wilson said, low and quiet. All trace of caring boiled away, replaced with an annoyed resignation. "You're not 'done with this', you never will be. Not so long as you're here. Go home."
Cuddy stood up to better glare at the oncologist. "I don't have to put up with him," she said.
"Then leave." Wilson pointed to the door. "You've proven yourself fully capable of it. Leave then, run away because you couldn't handle her again. At least this time be honest with her about why you're leaving."
"Mommy?" Rachel asked.
"Let's go, Sweetie," Cuddy said, reaching for her daughter's hand. Rachel took it and was pulled out the door as Cuddy stormed off.
Wilson collapsed into a chair and stewed. He blamed himself for this. If only he'd been awake. If only he hadn't taken those sleeping pills. If only he hadn't had such a bad week that he needed the sleeping pills. But there was little he could do now. He could only wait and hope he didn't have to take revenge on this place for killing another woman he loved.
Wilson sat there for hours. Long, nerve-wracking hours as Wilson lost himself in his thoughts, kicked himself for his failings, begged her to be okay. The sun rose unnoticed, nurses went unheeded. He waved away their concern, their confusion, their attempts to get him to follow visitor's hours.
His voice caught in his throat when House reached a hand down her leg as if unsure exactly what she'd find.
"You're lucky," Wilson said. And she was; despite the tumors, the abnormal growth, despite Cuddy not giving oversight during surgery regardless of any promise she may or may not have made…
House was going to be okay.
"What are you doing here?" she asked. Accusatory. Disbelieving. Depressed.
"You hoping for someone else?" There were answers to that question that Wilson feared.
"Hot nurse, candy striper," House said. "Someone who doesn't speaking English. Someone who doesn't speak Judgmental."
I'm not going to judge you for this, Wilson thought. I can't. Not after I saw you sing. He didn't voice those words, instead read Rachel's letter in a careful monotone.
"I have to pee," House said.
"That's a good sign," Wilson said, letting her change the subject. He found and held out a urine bottle.
She threw the blankets off and moved to sit up. "I'm a big boy," she said, self-depreciation edging on the sides of her voice.
"Of course you are," Wilson said, subdued. Even if he were to get judgmental over this whole experimental drug fiasco he couldn't make her feel any worse about it than she already did. Not if she was calling herself male. He reached out to help her up, expected it when she slapped him away. She stood up on shaky legs. Pain arched through her blue eyes, turning them an old familiar gray. When her right leg collapsed under the strain Wilson forced himself to stand back and let her fall to the bed unaided. She'd hate him if he tried to help her without her consent. "You're an ass," he said.
"What, for trying to walk on a freshly mangled leg?" House demanded. "Performing surgery on myself? For thinking I could solve my emotional problems with rat medicine? If you're gonna nag, at least have the decency to be specific." She tried to stand again, an almost imperceptible lift of her arm signaling her acceptance, her request of his help. He draped her arm over his shoulders, brought a hand to her chest to support her.
"Come on," Wilson said wearily. This was entirely the most inappropriate time to notice the soft flesh developing on her chest. Seven months of hormones had gifted her with almost a handful-worth of breasts. There were better places to put his hand, really. He just didn't want to make House sit down again so he could find one. "Listen to me," he said, distracting himself. "You can't keep going like this. Something has to change."
You have to change, he didn't say. Just change already. Drop this pretense of trying to be who you were.
"Can I pee first?" House snapped. She glared at him. Her glare softened as Wilson begged her with his eyes, begged her to change. Begged her to be the woman he knew she could be.
"I know," House admitted.
Grunts of pain and effort followed them to the bathroom. House was deposited on the toilet and Wilson stepped back to give her space but couldn't bring himself to leave. He almost lost her, he didn't want to leave her alone.
"I asked Cuddy to observe my surgery," House said. "Make sure the surgeon didn't just decide to hack things off. She didn't."
"I'm sorry I wasn't there," Wilson said.
House looked up from staring into space, looked up to stare at Wilson. He couldn't read her expression. And then she stared into space again.
Wilson took a deep breath. He didn't know why he was bringing this up… "When Cuddy left…" He trailed off.
"She left because I couldn't change," House said.
"She left because things got weird."
House turned her eyes to Wilson again. Her expression was carefully neutral. Only years of knowing her allowed him to see the fury, the resignation, the complete lack of surprise. "I know," she said, quiet. A flush and she signaled for his help. This time Wilson made it a point to wrap his arm around her waist. Now wasn't the time for groping her breasts regardless of how nice they might be.
"I couldn't change for her," she said once back in the bed. "What makes you think I can change now?"
Wilson couldn't answer that.
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