Order
Cuddy watches House for an hour before she leaves. She wants some indication that the new medication is working, or at least not harming him, prior to visiting Wilson.
His blood pressure drops after he stops talking and closes his eyes, and remains elevated with a few spikes for most of the hour, but stays in the pre-hypertensive range. He's not so much asleep as he is unconscious, she decides, when two vitals checks fail to rouse him at all. Coming off the anesthetic.
Though he hadn't said very much in response to her questions, she'd seen him thinking. He'd had that lost expression he gets when a new, troubling, non-medical issue comes his way. She's left him with that expression more than a few times; she knows it well.
She's pleased he answered her at all, but not sure what to make of his assessment of Wilson's decision. Called it cruel. Didn't take Wilson's side. What's going on between them?
What doesn't she know?
She's pretty sure she hasn't learned everything that House revealed during the deep brain stimulation session. She'd known House had been out drinking and had ended up on a bus with Amber. Wilson supplied the diagnosis and a critical link: that House had called for Wilson and gotten Amber.
But what else?
More specifically, she's been asking herself the same question she's seen on the faces of everyone familiar with the situation: what was the relationship between House and Amber?
She knows House will deny anything out of habit. That Amber reminded her in many ways of Stacy. That House made that relationship a triangle as soon as he learned of it. That he's selfish and likes to get what he wants. And that he can be nasty to people who care about him if it suits his purposes. Even if it doesn't.
His callous remarks about her maternal instincts still sting. Probably never will stop stinging.
But she also knows House prefers brunettes. And that it takes two to tango.
She knew just enough about Amber not to trust her to be good with Wilson. Wilson obviously doesn't feel betrayed by her—not at all, going by the way she's seen him grieve.
She doesn't expect House to ask about Wilson. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
That Wilson didn't ask about House earlier today—means nothing.
She wonders as she gets up to leave if he will tonight.
One last check of House: normal sinus rhythm, 128/85, 77 bpm, 99.4 F, 99 percent sat rate.
She takes his hand. "House," she says quietly, "I'll be back in a few hours." Looks for a response.
His mouth twitches and his hand jerks, but he's out.
His level of consciousness is disconcerting. A reminder of bad times.
He's fine, she tells herself. He needs the rest. He'll be here when she comes back.
But still she leaves reluctantly.
--
From the parking garage to the sandwich shop to Wilson's door, she wrestles with two things: whether she should mention House's progress to Wilson and why she's been acting like House's only protector since yesterday.
Because she doesn't actually like House. He can be witty and charming and on some occasions attractive, but ninety-five percent of the time she's too frustrated, annoyed, or openly angry with him to like him. Constant arguing may be a turn-on to House, but she pictures a measure of tranquility when she thinks of how she wants her life to be. Not that arguing with him isn't fun sometimes or that she naively believes real relationships can exist without arguments—just that he's bad for her stress level.
She knows she's watching him because Wilson isn't. Can't or won't. And that he needs someone to watch him, if only during this short, volatile period.
She knows friends and family of patients hold their hands. She also knows she's never seen Wilson hold his hand, but that she saw plenty of Stacy holding his hand.
She's ready to chalk it up to gender differences when she reaches Wilson's building.
Holding Wilson's hand wasn't difficult.
She boxes these thoughts and puts the box away. Not now.
Wilson still looks like a ghost of himself when he answers the door. Shadows under his sunken, red eyes. She's sure he hasn't slept very much or very well.
She doesn't have to say anything. He turns from her, leaving the door open, and disappears toward the kitchen. She lets herself in and follows.
She watches him fetch two glasses of water as she unpacks the food. She feels like she's done this thousands of times rather than once.
He sits and eats this time. Still hasn't said a word. Doesn't make eye contact.
She eats too. Follow his lead. Let him feel he's in control.
Half-way through the sandwich, she realizes this is one of the most intimate domestic experiences she's had.
She's startled. And saddened.
It's the non-verbal communication, she decides. Either that it isn't necessary to speak or that it's absolutely necessary. Because between the two of them, there's enough unreleased stress to power a city block.
Wilson finishes his food and gulps the water piggishly.
"Thanks," he says to the table, "didn't realize I was that hungry."
Cuddy's in the middle of chewing when he speaks, so she nods and just keeps chewing. Let him take the lead.
He continues to stare at the table. Just as he'd done at lunch.
"The funeral home called," he says. "They wanted to schedule an appointment. For me to pick a casket. Buy a burial plot. Schedule the…funeral."
He sounds less flat now than he did earlier. She hears anger, frustration, unwillingness.
"I don't want to," he adds. Softly. To himself.
"I still don't know what to do with her stuff," he says. He looks around, but avoids Cuddy. "Donate most of it. But I don't know what to keep and what to give away."
Cuddy waits for him to continue. She wants to chime in because he doesn't seem to be asking himself alone. And because she's pretty sure he hasn't asked anyone else.
When he doesn't say more, she speaks.
"Keep your favorites," she says, "and her favorites. Donate anything she didn't like."
He nods, eyes back on the table. Anyone could be talking to him, she thinks. Whatever relationship they have, it doesn't matter. What he needs is direction.
And when it comes to providing direction on this subject, she's as lost as he is. Hasn't been touched by the death of a close relative or friend. For which she's grateful.
Minutes pass. Excruciatingly long minutes. People in other apartments make noises. Nothing but stillness in this one, the fine veneer on layers and layers of stress.
She begins to think she should try to get more out of him. She hopes she isn't wrong, but she imagines him sitting alone in this apartment all night, not speaking, over-thinking, and she wants him to externalize some part of his thoughts.
"Have you thought about keeping the apartment?" she asks. An innocuous question, she hopes.
He shakes his head. "Don't know."
He places a hand on a stack of envelopes Cuddy had noticed earlier. She's certain she knows what's in the stack.
"Don't know what to do with her mail," he says, confirming Cuddy's supposition. He pats it, almost fondly, and pushes it aside.
"Credit cards—I guess I pay them and cancel them," he says. "Her car—I don't know what to—how do you make that call: 'Hello, the owner of this vehicle is dead, does she still have to pay it off?'"
A twisted smile forms on his face and disappears. Bitter.
"She has life insurance," he continues, still focused on the table, still not looking up, "and med school loans. She couldn't have afforded to live on a fellowship stipend."
Cuddy watches his hands form fists.
"She had a second interview today," Wilson says shakily. "Trenton Presbyterian." His hands tremble. "She keeps getting calls. I don't answer them. I can't."
He forces himself to stop shaking. Takes so much effort, she notices.
"Do you want me to—stay for a while? Help you sort through anything?" she asks tentatively. Awkwardly. She says before she realizes what she's saying.
She's not good at this. If she were, she wouldn't be in administration. She's uncomfortable waiting for him to answer, and feels guilty for feeling uncomfortable.
"No," Wilson answers strongly. "Thanks. No, I've got it."
He looks up at her for the first time. He tries to smile.
"Thanks for coming," he says, "and for the food."
She senses he's genuinely appreciative, just having trouble with the world outside himself right now.
"Breakfast tomorrow?" she asks as she gets up, crinkling sandwich wrappers.
"You don't have to do this," Wilson says, taking the wrapper from her. "I'm okay."
She gives him a dubious expression.
"I mean, I'm not," he corrects, "but still, you don't have to—check up on me."
He's nervous, uncertain, and as awkward as she'd been asking if he wanted her to stay.
"As long as it's okay with you, I'd like to," Cuddy says in her most friendly tone. Because she does care about him. Insofar as he's another person and he's suffering and she can help him.
He scratches his neck. Uncertain. "Okay," he says.
She's ready to go—but she hesitates. Turns from the path to the door.
"Do you want to know—how he's doing?" she asks.
Wilson's pale, tired face clouds. She sees anger.
"Is he dying?" Wilson asks flatly.
"He's stable," she answers, mentally backing away from him. "Conscious."
Wilson shakes his head and looks away. Doesn't want to know more than that.
She's not sure she's done the right thing as he closes the door behind her, but she's glad she'd asked. She hopes this rift between them is temporary. That Wilson will treat House normally again when his life starts normalizing. A few weeks.
She knows House won't treat Wilson differently unless he thinks Wilson's mad at him. She's not sure whether to expect cold silence or intense shouting. She hopes for the latter. Shouting is better than nothing.
As she exits the building, she avoids thinking about just how much these two men with whom she has little more than a working relationship have influenced her life so radically in the past few days. Because it's pathetic and she doesn't consider herself an object of pity.
She's almost successful. But not quite.
She's beginning to miss paperwork and calls for donors and all the other chaos of work. One last check up on House, she decides, and she'll go home and go to bed. Back to work tomorrow. Back to ordering the chaos.