Part IV: Tired

After leaving Wilson and House, Cuddy returned home. The evening had been a short one, but at least Rachel was still awake. Cuddy had been careful to spend evenings with Rachel, even while looking out for Wilson. She'd visited him before or during work, or even some nights after Rachel went to bed, but she did her best to share dinner and time with the girl before each day was done.

"Sorry I missed dinner," Cuddy said as she walked into the playroom.

"Hey, Mom," Rachel said. "Have a problem at the hospital?"

Cuddy sat on the floor next to her daughter, moving a few pieces of miniature food into a dollhouse-sized store. "Actually, no. The friend I told you about who's sick. I was with him."

"Oh," Rachel replied, moving the final few pieces into place. "Is he okay?"

"He had a good day." Cuddy continued to watch her daughter play until she said, "I have an idea. Go brush your teeth, and, if you want, you can watch a show in my room tonight."

Cuddy didn't even finish the thought and Rachel was already dashing out of the room. Cuddy smiled as she turned out the light and closed the playroom door. They had occasionally had nights when they would watch a movie in Cuddy's room, spreading out on the big bed, but never on a school night.

When Rachel ran into the room, the pillows were all stacked and Cuddy was finishing up some emails from work. They watched a show on a tablet computer, curled up under the blankets. After the show was over, Cuddy could tell Rachel was pretending to sleep in the hopes that her mother would let her stay there for the night. Cuddy went along with the ruse because she had no desire to be alone, and it was nice to concentrate on something in her life that didn't hurt. She watched as Rachel's pretend sleep became real sleep. As she considered how fortunate she felt that she wasn't alone, Cuddy couldn't help but think of what would happen to House after Wilson was gone.

It wasn't long before she fell asleep as well. There was something about emotional exhaustion that translated so easily into physical exhaustion. She slept fitfully, though, worrying all night about Wilson's condition and House's emotional and mental state. She knew too well that Wilson would likely not make it much longer, and she wondered if that would be the trigger that would send House hurdling over the edge.

She woke from her fitful sleep when she heard the chime of a text message. Reaching over to her phone on the end table, she saw a text from Wilson. 'Rough night. Can you come a little earlier?'

'Want me to come now?' Cuddy texted back.

'No. Get some sleep. Come around 5. Please,' Wilson answered.

'No problem.'

'Thanks," Wilson replied.

Cuddy stared at the ceiling for a while, unable to get back to sleep after the text. There was no need for Wilson to suffer any longer than necessary. So she got up, leaving Rachel to rest peacefully in the huge bed alone. After a quick shower, Cuddy made arrangements for Rachel, gathered the medication she needed, and began the drive to the apartment.

The lights in the apartment were still out, so Cuddy quietly used her key and entered. She walked back the hall to Wilson's room. House's door popped open and he emerged, dressed in his pajamas, obviously woken from sleep and holding his cane like a club. She flipped on the hallway light so he could see her. "It's you," House grumbled, lowering his cane. He leaned back against the wall as he tried to rid the sleep from his brain, and then he asked, "Why are you here so early?"

"Wilson texted," she replied. "He's having a bad night."

"He didn't tell me," House said, roughly hobbling down the hall using both his cane and the wall for support. He stepped around her and opened Wilson's door.

The moment they saw Wilson's still figure in the bed, they both knew their friend was gone. The room felt strikingly devoid of life long before they could take his vitals to verify. House checked for a pulse as Cuddy sat on the chair next to Wilson's bed and placed her hand on his chest in a silent good-bye. "He must have known," Cuddy mumbled.

"Then why call you? If he didn't need drugs—"

"He didn't ask for drugs. He only said that he wanted me to come around five. If I had to guess, I'd say he didn't want you to be alone when you found him."

Cuddy saw Wilson's phone on his chest beneath his hand and picked it up. There was one unsent text on the screen. It was to both House and Cuddy and simply said, 'Thank you for everything.'

She handed the phone to House so he could see it, and she knew he sent the text through when both of their phones beeped.

She mourned softly for Wilson's pain, for the loss of him, and even for House. There was no last minute reprieve, no miracle cure, no chance to snatch Wilson from the jaws of death. There weren't any last minute words or deathbed secrets, just a weary body finally accepting an inevitable end in the dark of night.

House remained there, his face completely stony. Cuddy assumed he wanted privacy, so she stood, and said, "I'll give you time to say goodbye."

She took a seat in the living room in the recliner Wilson had used since he had arrived, and then her tears really began to flow as she rocked in his chair. As imminent as the end had appeared to be, it still seemed impossible that he was already gone. Her quiet moment was over when House left Wilson's room after only a minute or two, loudly announcing, "What's the point in saying goodbye? There's no one there to listen. He's dead. It's over. Or are you going to try to comfort me with stories of spirits rising, freed from the prison of their bodies?"

"Of course not. I just thought you might want—"

"We both knew this would happen."

"That doesn't change the fact that it hurts that he's gone," she argued. "It sucks that he had to go through this. He didn't deserve it."

"Cancer doesn't care who deserves it. It's a fucking disease. And like any other fucking disease, it doesn't have a conscience or a moral compass. It can be genetic, it can be environmental, it can be completely fucking unexpected. But it doesn't discriminate based on the host's deeds or quality of character."

"That's a very logical response."

"It's the only response."

"No. It isn't. He was an important part of your life and—"

"Don't try to analyze me," he sneered.

"I'm not trying to analyze you. I am trying to be understanding about how you might be feeling."

"I don't need your understanding either."

"Fine. If you want to be logical and reasonable right now, I can do that. We've come this far, so let's finish this together. Okay?"

"Finish what?"

"Wilson left me with some instructions. He wants his remains sent to his family."

"He didn't tell me that."

Cuddy showed him a paper with some handwritten instructions that Wilson had left on a bookshelf in the apartment. She cleared her throat and said, "He didn't want you to have to deal with these details. I said I would."

House took the paper and looked it over. "I could have handled it."

"I know. But I think he wanted to make sure you could maintain your anonymity so you wouldn't go to prison."

"Or he thought I'd say fuck it and get high."

"I think he didn't want to burden you."

"So what's the plan?"

"When you're done saying goodbye—or whatever. Whenever you're ready…I'll call his family and someone to collect his remains. I'll handle the logistics. I thought that you and I could have our own sendoff for him. His family wants to have a traditional burial and—"

"He didn't want all that," House grumbled.

"Agreed. Which is why I thought we could have our own memorial. Just the two of us."

Cuddy hadn't really been paying a lot of attention to House while she made the necessary calls. Talking to Wilson's mother was so much more difficult than Cuddy had anticipated. She kept trying to get the answers she needed for the arrangements, but the woman was understandably upset over the death of her son. The old woman wondered why her son had left, why he hadn't come to say goodbye one more time, and what had happened in the last few months that had made him seem so distant. Cuddy assured her that dying was difficult and each person had to deal with cancer in their own way. She even told Mrs. Wilson that she hadn't heard from Wilson for quite a long time either, but the mother was still heartbroken, sobbing into the phone. When Cuddy ran out of ways to try to help Mrs. Wilson, she just listened and tried to wait patiently for the information she needed. She'd sat through a thousand similar conversations with patient families at the hospital, but dealing with the death of someone she had truly cared for was different.

After Mrs. Wilson, Cuddy made several other calls, and, when she was finished, she found House in Wilson's room, going through the few things that Wilson had with him. "They'll be coming by shortly to transport the body. We contacted a service to have him flown home, so we'll keep him at the hospital until then," she said. "Is that alright with you?"

"It's his funeral, ask him," House dejectedly answered.

Cuddy stood in the doorway for a few moments, and wanted to try to talk to him, but she could see how narrowly he was keeping himself composed, so she decided to wait until after the transporters left. After all, she knew how hard he had been working to keep from falling apart so he could be there for Wilson. She knew he would eventually break, and when that happened, it was not going to be pretty.

The transporters came more quickly than she'd imagined. For those two people who'd come to get the body, it was a perfectly ordinary day. She watched them as they worked, wanting to ensure that her friend was treated with the respect he deserved even after his death. They were following protocols, carrying on a list of duties for which they would be paid. They were punching the clock. They were respectful, as they'd been trained to be, but, to them, the man they were taking was just another body in a long line of bodies, not the first or last corpse they'd see. Part of her thought about telling them about who that man had been. That this wasn't an ordinary job and an ordinary body on an ordinary day. This was Dr. James Wilson, oncologist. He was a friend. He'd had girlfriends and wives and parents and brothers. He'd had patients who thought he was a miracle worker, patients he'd truly cared about. He'd managed, the day before his death, to charm a fake bartender out of her phone number. He had been funny and loyal. He had been a meddler and a matchmaker. He was more than a patient ID, date of birth, and time and place of death.

He mattered.

Even as she thought of trying to impart on those two nameless employees the significance of their job that day, she knew what they'd do. They'd politely listen and offer condolences. They'd look at her like any other grieving person left behind. They'd probably respectfully ask her to step out of the room and let them do their work. So she kept her thoughts to herself and allowed them to continue with their duties.

As she saw them slip the covered gurney into the back of their vehicle and drive off without flashing lights or sirens, the whole thing seemed undeniably final. She heard movement in the back part of the apartment, and her thoughts turned to the still living man left behind. She wasn't really sure if she'd be able to help House get through the next few days, but she couldn't allow him to disappear into numbness without trying. She was certain that Wilson had been right, and that House would inevitably do himself harm if left on his own. Maybe, if she could get him through his first few days of mourning, he'd find a way to rebound.

When she heard a loud crash from House's bedroom, her heart stopped, because she was concerned that he was already dead. She ran back to the room, her eyes filling with tears for what felt like the hundredth time that day as she wondered if she'd given him too much space while she took care of things. He was a crumpled mess on the floor. His forehead was bleeding, and he was in obvious pain, but he was still alive. He'd clearly hit his head, and a chair was on its side. At first she worried that he had tried to hang himself, but when she saw that he'd opened the access panel to the crawl space in the ceiling, she knew that suicide hadn't been his intent. She asked, "What in the hell were you doing up there?"

House groaned, pulling himself to a sitting position without offering an answer.

"What do you have up there?" she questioned.

"I was packing my things," he answered.

She looked around the room, seeing a partially packed bag on the bed and one already packed by the door. "That wasn't really the answer to my question," she replied. He had no answer for her, though, as he rubbed the leg that didn't usually hurt.

Cuddy picked up the chair, positioned it beneath the opening into the attic and stood on it. As she balanced, she couldn't quite see through the opening, so she reached up to feel for whatever he'd stashed. "Don't," she heard him say from the floor. "Just leave it."

She stopped her search, momentarily letting her arms drop to her sides as she looked at him. His eyes were closed, his skin ashen, and misery radiated from him in a way she'd seen on very few occasions before. For a moment, she hesitated, torn between whether or not she wanted to retrieve and dispose of whatever she found in the ceiling or if she wanted to respect his wish. When she finally stepped down, he briefly nodded his appreciation.

"Okay," she said, sitting on the edge of the chair.

His eyes found her, somewhat surprised that she'd actually stepped back from her search.

"You have to leave today?" she asked. "Big plans?"

"I know the rules," he snipped.

"You are more hung up on these rules than I am. Which rules are we talking about here?"

"The Wilson truce. You didn't let me crash here, you let him crash here and you knew he'd drag me along with or without your approval, so you just didn't bother fighting it."

"I'm not actually cruel enough to kick you to the curb hours after your best friend died. I'll be back," she said, walking toward the hallway.

She returned with folded paper towels and pointed toward his forehead, "Put pressure on that. You're bleeding." He took what was offered, bracing his elbow on his knee and pressing the towels above his eye. She sat nearby on the floor, facing him. "Are you okay?" she asked.

"Why do you keep asking that? Do you really fucking think I'm okay?"

"I meant from the fall. Do we need to go to the hospital? Is anything broken?"

"No," he answered less confrontationally. "Nothing that won't heal."

"I just want you to know that I'm here. If you—"

"But for how fucking long? How long before my allotted bereavement time is over? Three days? A week? A month?" he interrupted.

"What's your point?"

"You want me to open up, hold your hand and talk about how I feel. You keep telling me you're here for me, but then what? How long until you're gone, too? Then I get to relive the joy of losing you again right after losing Wilson. I'll pass."

"I'm not sure what it is that you want from me."

"Nothing. Just don't ask me to tell you how I feel."

"Talking to me is risky for you. I get that. You don't think it's a risk for me to be here? You don't think I'm worried about how all of this is going to turn out, and if I'm going to get hurt?"

"If you're worried, leave. It's safer for you that way. For me, too. I'd rather you leave now than tell me you're gonna be here for me, and just when I really start to believe you, you decide you can't stand to be around me anymore."

"Is this the right time to do this? You really want to start airing our old relationship grievances now? Because I have plenty."

"This is as good a time as any."

"This is not what's really bothering you right now. You're looking for something else, anything other than the fact that you lost your best friend, to distract you from how you feel. No matter what I do, I can't distract you well enough to erase the pain of losing him."

"Makes sense. He couldn't distract me enough to erase the pain of losing you either," House said, meeting her eyes and refusing to look away as the towels he'd been holding on his head fell to the floor.

"This isn't about us."

"My misery isn't compartmentalized according to who or what caused it."

She took the paper towels that had fallen from his head, and pressed them back against his wound, holding his face still with her other hand. Her touch seemed to threaten his control, like that piece of human contact could destroy his already overtaxed defenses.

"I wish you'd stop being so damn cruel to yourself," she commented as she tried to check his pupils, but he kept turning his head away so she couldn't quite complete her task.

"You first," he grumbled.

She checked the gash over his eye next and asked, "Is that what I'm doing? I'm being cruel to you?"

For a moment while she was that close, he seemed to let his guard lower just a bit, and she saw the way he was looking at her. So pained, yet uncertain and disconnected, and he shook his head. "Not yet. I'm proactively dreading the moment you come to your senses."

"Isn't there enough to deal with right now without worrying about something that hasn't even happened yet?"

"I was right the last time, wasn't I?"

"It would have been better if we both would have agreed it was doomed from the start?" she skeptically questioned.

"I would have been prepared. Or better yet, we would have ended it long before anyone got hurt."

"Well, I'm not exactly sure when that hurt-free cutoff point would have been," she said, frustration growing. She knew someone had to try to keep things from spinning out of control, so she tried to refocus, and added more sensibly, "You had a great, unique, unbreakable friendship with Wilson. If you would have known he'd die this way…that you'd lose him…would you have avoided the friendship from the beginning so you wouldn't have to feel hurt now? Think of all you would have missed out on over the years."

"There is one striking difference between the two situations. Wilson didn't want to leave."

Cuddy felt the intended stab in his words, and tried again to check his pupils. She could see the pain building in him, the level seeming increasingly unmanageable. His eyes were red, the tears looked like they wanted to flow, but were held in by an invisible barrier. She thought he was finally going to give in to the pain of losing Wilson, and then something seemed to change. For a moment, he let her get a good look at his pupils, but he grabbed her wrist and asked, "Who's with Rachel?"

Cuddy looked at an alarm clock on House's nightstand and she replied, nonplussed, "She's at school."

"But who was with her when you came here this morning before dawn? Or the nights when you came here after bedtime?"

"The nanny," Cuddy answered, shortly.

"Does he know you call him that?"

"She…does know that I call her that. Because that is what she is. That's what I pay her for."

"Don't lie to me," he said more angrily. "This nanny just happened to be at your place in the middle of the night?"

Cuddy leaned just a little closer, looking him right in the eye and trying to make sure she had his focus, "Yes. Because she lives with us."

"You need a live-in nanny?" he countered, trying just once more to hold onto his disbelief.

"I'm a single mother who works fifty to sixty hour workweeks in a city where I have no friends or family. I'm on my own out here. I needed someone who could be available when I get called into the hospital for emergencies or get held up in a meeting."

His grip loosened a little but he didn't let go, relaxing his arm until his hand fell against his chest. He still held her forearm, much like she had held his the night before when she had said goodbye. It seemed he was hoping for an argument, for some anger to cling to instead of feeling the loss that loomed. His last ditch effort failed, and he was too overwhelmed to mount another argument.

"He's gone," House finally conceded. "The one person I couldn't get rid of. It's all over. Everything. My body is fucked. No cases. No team. No home. No you. No Wilson. I have…nothing." He looked up toward the opening in the ceiling and added through gritted teeth, "I can't even self-medicate anymore without falling on my ass."

"You're right. Wilson is gone. I can't tell you how much I wish I could change that," she admitted. "But you are not alone."

"Until you're gone, too."

She touched his cheek, holding his face in her hand. He was angry, every vibration that was coming from him was pushing her away, but she didn't move. "None of this can be fixed. My life can't be fixed, my leg can't be fixed, you and I can't be fixed, Wilson can't be brought back," he growled. "All of these things, irreparable. Final."

She wasn't pushed away, though. She was undeterred, unafraid, and unexpectedly certain, "That's too many problems to try to address in one day. Let's take this in smaller bites."

"Okay. You're going to figure out how to bring Wilson back?" he angrily countered.

"No. We're going to say goodbye to our friend. Cry, laugh, yell, talk about the memories, wish for the things we could have done, whatever…all of those things that people do when they lose someone. I'm here because I'm concerned that you—"

"No. That's not why you're here," he interrupted. "I'm completely aware of the reason why you're here."

"Care to enlighten me since I'm obviously confused about my motivations?" she sarcastically responded.

"You're here because of some dying request from Wilson to babysit me until—"

"You're not always right, House," she answered directly.

"Oh, come on. You really want me to believe that he didn't try to guilt you into taking responsibility for me?"

"He didn't. All that he asked was that I didn't turn you in to the authorities. He wanted you to have your freedom. That's it."

"You're lying."

"I'm not. I'm here because I choose to be here. And no, it's not because Wilson died or I feel guilty or any of those things you want to attribute it to. I'm here because, after everything, how you feel and where you are and whether or not you're okay still matters to me. But we can't possibly figure everything out right now, so let's just get through the next few days. Let's just try not to make things worse, agree to try not to cause each other unnecessary pain, while we deal with all of this one heartbreak at a time. We're bruised enough without beating the hell out of each other."

His brow furrowed as the lines on his face seemed to draw deeper and his eyes peered at her from a sea of red. She'd been bracing herself for what she thought was an inevitable blowup. He'd been close several times that day. She stayed right next to him, trying to be a steady presence in his world as she awaited whatever eruption of pain and frustration came from him, and hoped that, whatever it was, it wouldn't drive the final wedge between them. As much as she wanted to be there for him, there were lines she knew she simply couldn't allow him to cross. Just as she was certain he was about to snap, his head dropped and he slouched down, and she realized he didn't even have the will to fight her. He didn't have the energy to blowup or enough motivation to press the right buttons to spark the argument that probably could have kept his sorrow at bay for a few minutes longer.

She hadn't expected that. In a way, it was more frightening. Of all of the angry, sad and confused thoughts she'd had about him in recent years, she'd never wished ruin like this upon him. His pain was absolute, his loss was total, and he seemed lost in a universe he didn't feel he had a place in anymore.

When she tried to move, he grabbed her wrist again. He didn't push her away, he was actually holding on. His jaw clenched as he said, "I am so tired of pain."

She nodded, feeling a tightness in the back of her throat as another wave of sorrow hit her. She sat next to him, still on the floor, leaning back against the bed and somewhat hesitantly draping her free arm over his shoulders. He leaned just a little bit toward her at first, like he was testing her touch before committing to it. She couldn't really see his face anymore, but she knew he could no longer keep his sadness trapped within. Eventually he let go of her hand, lying on the floor next to her and resting his temple on her thigh.

Neither said a word for the longest time. The only evidence of his tears was the faint dampness she thought she felt through her jeans. Her hand rested on his shoulder, offering silent, steady and persistent evidence of her presence. She knew how easily he could pull away, so she tried not to overwhelm him. He stayed there, accepting her subtle attempt at comfort. When he finally spoke, his voice was strained, heavy and nearly unrecognizable, "It doesn't make sense."

"Which part?" she asked, softly.

"I knew the facts. I wasn't in denial. I was prepared."

"I don't think you can ever really be ready for the death of someone you care about. You can know you're going to lose someone. You can even know when and why it will happen…but all of that knowledge and understanding doesn't change the simple fact that he's gone. Rationalizing with your head is one thing. You make a case, consider facts and process them. But the most iron clad, logical, airtight case in the world can't always rationalize with your heart."

"Hmph," he quietly grunted back.

He stayed there for a while longer, moving just a bit closer to her over time. After a long silence, she started to wonder if he'd fallen asleep. "House?" she whispered softly enough that she wouldn't wake him.

"Hmm?"

"I really am sorry he's gone."

He breathed in so fully that she could feel his chest expand. The fact that she could feel the way he was breathing called to mind just how close they were. When he finally exhaled, he replied, "Me too."