House leaned against a light-post, panting. He glanced at his stopwatch. Only fifteen minutes? He'd only been running for fifteen minutes and he was already this exhausted?
This sucked! He felt like he was going to collapse and it had only been a measly fifteen minutes. Before Wilson had chopped his leg off he'd been able to run for miles and then keep going. How much distance had he run now? Maybe two miles? Maybe less?
Still trying to catch his breath, he looked around. The park was across the street, filled with healthy two-legged joggers wearing shorts instead of track pants because they didn't have prosthetic limbs to hide. On this side of the street there was a cafe, a liquor store, a Starbucks, and, fortunately, a bus stop that would take House back to his apartment since he could barely stand. He walked slowly over to the bus stop and checked the schedule. The next bus wasn't for another twelve minutes. He could sit down and wait, or...
After a moment's hesitation, House walked into the liquor store.
.
House sat at his piano, trying to play but the notes were off. Since when did he fuck up playing the piano? He reached for the bottle of scotch to pour more, but the bottle was empty. When did that happen? When he'd gotten home from work there had still been a decent amount left. Good thing he had an extra bottle stored in the liquor cabinet.
He tripped and almost fell on the way to the kitchen. Stupid prosthetic leg. He'd been using the thing for four years and he still sometimes had trouble walking straight.
The liquor cabinet was empty. Right, he'd had the extra one last week. Time to turn to the emergency stash on top of the fridge. At least that one was still there. He'd stock up again tomorrow.
.
Cuddy stared at him. "It's really not the greatest time for gloating." But she moved aside and let him in anyway.
He didn't even know what he was doing here. Except that she was just as miserable as he was and that was partially his fault. It wasn't necessary to treat her the way he did. He didn't even know why he did it. Maybe he'd hated seeing her happy and thought if she was miserable, too, he'd be less miserable. It wasn't so.
"There's more than one baby in the sea," he said softly. "The world is full of teenage boys riding bareback."
"No," Cuddy objected, shaking her head. "I'm done. I can't go through that again."
"You're quitting," he accused. "Just like you quit IVF."
"Yeah, just like that," she responded.
"There, you just did it again." And there, he was doing it again. Making her even more miserable than she already was. He looked down. "It's too bad, you would have made a great mother." Would that help? It was probably true, right?
She looked at him, then looked away and back to him in shock. "You son of a bitch. When I was getting a baby, you told me I'd suck as a mother," she accused, getting into his face. "And now that I've lost it, you tell me I'd be great as a mother." He stared at her, surprised at the attack. "Why do you need to negate everything?" she demanded.
He looked at her and shook his head. "I don't know," he whispered. Then he leaned forward and she leaned up to meet him and they were kissing, and she was holding his face and he was holding her and they were kissing. And they kept kissing, and she started to pull his jacket off and he let her.
They went to the bedroom. He stopped when they started taking pants off, self-conscious of his missing limb, but she told him it was okay. She removed the prosthesis and kissed the bit of flesh that remained. She told him she loved him. They made love.
.
"Now, please behave yourself," Cuddy whispered, holding his hand as they walked into the restaurant.
"What's that supposed to mean?" House demanded quietly.
"No...insulting the waiters, no...telling the woman at the table next to us she has an undiagnosed heart condition–"
"–I may have saved that woman's life," House argued indignantly.
Cuddy rolled her eyes. "And please, don't have too much to drink."
"Why not? You're driving home," House pointed out.
"I know, but...please, House, I'm asking you nicely. I hate it when you get too drunk, let's try and just make this a nice evening."
"Fine," House said, rolling his eyes. "I'll do my best."
"That's all I can–we have to go," Cuddy said suddenly, grabbing House by the arm and turning him toward the exit.
"What?" House asked, giving her a bewildered look. "Are you trying to imply I can't behave myself for one evening? I just said I'd try."
"No," she insisted, looking determinedly straight forward and walking at a brisk pace toward the exit. "I mean we have to go. We can go to that Italian place instead."
"What?" House repeated, looking over their shoulders to try and see what Cuddy was looking away from. "Did you spot an ex-boyfriend or–oh...oh my god," he muttered, stopping in his tracks and staring.
Cuddy groaned. "Technically...oh no, they saw us..."
It wouldn't have made a difference because House was rooted to the spot and the couple would have noticed eventually. He stared blatantly as Dr. James Wilson, hand-in-hand with a very pregnant Dr. Amber Volakis, approached them.
"House," she smiled. "Dr. Cuddy. What a coincidence, running into you two here. I didn't know you two were together."
"Nice to see you, Dr. Volakis," Cuddy forced a smile. She nodded at Wilson. "James. I...didn't know you two were together either."
"Actually, it's Dr. Wilson now," Amber corrected, still smiling. "Almost two years now, actually."
House, who had ignored Amber completely in favour of staring at Wilson in disbelief, finally spoke. "You married Cutthroat Bitch‽"
Wilson's hand rubbed the back of his neck as he explained, "I call her Amber."
"After you fired me, Dr. House," Amber filled him in, "I got a job at the Lawrenceville Medical Center, where James was working." She paused to smile at her husband. "I should really thank you. Not only would I never have gotten a job there if you hadn't fired me, but you provided us with a mutual acquaintance."
House was still ignoring her, still staring at Wilson, who was giving him a sad smile. "It's good to see you, Greg, really. You...you look really good."
House looked down. "Finally learned to use the leg," he muttered.
"That's good," Wilson encouraged. "And you've found someone else too, just like I said you would. See, Greg? Everything turned out okay."
.
"House..." Foreman said, trying to intercept him. Ignoring him, House headed for the elevators to his office. "House, you don't know that she would have made it if you'd cut the leg off. Even in a controlled setting amputation has risks."
"But we did know that she wouldn't make it by leaving her trapped there," House muttered. "I made the wrong call."
Foreman sighed. "It's not your fault. Someone else should have been her doctor. Because of your own life experiences–"
"–I know!" House shouted, rounding on his fellow. "Because someone once hacked off my leg without my consent I couldn't be objective! It prevented me from doing my job the way I was supposed to! How is that supposed to make me feel any better‽"
Foreman didn't answer. The elevator arrived and House stepped into it. He walked into his office and closed the blinds before sitting down in his chair. He unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a shot glass and a bottle of whiskey.
The memories ended and House was dragged back to the present—Cuddy's bed. A glance at the clock told him it was almost six in the morning. Today should be Monday; Cuddy would be getting up any minute, assuming morning workouts were a part of this reality.
...Morning workouts could be a part of this reality for both of them...House was missing his leg, but he had a prosthetic leg that he could...run in. He could run. He didn't have any pain at all. He was at a zero. In his own life, he'd only been at a zero on two occasions since his infarction: the time he'd been given ketamine and the time he'd tried methadone. But in this life he was at a zero pretty much all the time. So he could run.
And suddenly, a morning run felt like an awesome idea. He knew that he didn't run, usually, so he probably wasn't in the best shape, but at least he was semi-able-bodied and in no pain. He got up and got his prosthesis and was in the middle of putting it on when Cuddy woke up.
She smiled at him. "You're up early."
"Gonna go for a run."
Her look of shock did not surprise him. "Really? Well, that's...good for you, Greg! That's great!"
"Yeah, I'll be back in a little while," he said. Once his leg was in place, he got up, changed, and gave Cuddy a quick kiss before grabbing a water bottle from the kitchen and then heading out.
He had to alternate running with brisk walking since it had been a long time since he'd really exercised, but god it felt good! His heart pounding, his sweat drenching him, the burn in the one leg he had.
It was too bad he'd resented Wilson so much for making this decision; it really had been the right one to make. It...really sucked that Wilson had to become this universe's Stacy.
Stacy. Suddenly House missed her, despite the fact that even in his own reality he hadn't seen her in years. She really had done what she thought was best, she'd known how much House had wanted to keep his leg.
In his own reality, House had told Hannah he wished he'd agreed to an amputation. Here, because he'd had his leg taken he didn't want to convince her to do it.
You're damned if you do and you're damned if you don't.
Wilson and Stacy were right that House very well might have died if they'd left his leg alone like he'd asked. When it was just the dead muscle removed he wished they'd gone with an amputation and when they'd chopped off the whole thing he'd wished they'd only taken the dead muscle.
Because he hadn't known better.
But now he did.
House's life was fucked up in this reality—he'd still killed Hannah, he'd lost Wilson just like in all the others, he was an alcoholic and quite probably depressed.
But all that was only because he'd thought that having his leg removed was the worst thing in the world that could happen to him, he hadn't realised, or had been too proud to admit, that it was the right and best decision.
Look at him now—he was running! He felt...not great, but pretty good. And his leg didn't even hurt because it didn't exist. Maybe he got phantom pain sometimes, but that was a hell of a lot better than pain every waking moment. The him in this reality had no right to be miserable—he had no idea how great he had it.
Except that he didn't have Wilson. That thought stopped House in his tracks, and he took a chug from his water bottle while he thought.
Wilson had left just like Stacy had. Wilson sort of still loved him but moved on anyway just like Stacy had. Wilson had gotten married just like Stacy had.
To Amber.
Because she hadn't died because she hadn't picked up the phone because House hadn't called Wilson to pick him up from the bar.
House staggered outside, alone. He looked around. No cabs. But there was a bus stop.
Blinding white lights.
Then silence.
Then an explosion and screaming and crying and blurs of colours.
Then black.
.
There was a stripper. When had he gone to a strip club? What was he doing here? He was bleeding. He should get some help.
Outside there was a turned-over bus. He must have been on the bus. He was in a bus crash. He should get to the hospital.
.
Cameron was giving him stitches. His wounds were superficial but he should still stay the night for observation. Whatever.
Remembering he was in the middle of jogging, House drank more water. He'd still been in the bus crash, but he'd been alone on the bus. Like, in his world, Wilson said he should have been.
Wilson.
Wilson had married Amber. They were having a baby.
They were happy.
Of course they were happy—Amber was the only one of Wilson's wives or girlfriends that it could have worked out with because she was like House and Wilson could love her for her, not for her neediness.
Amber wasn't supposed to die, and in this universe she didn't.
Wilson had been right when he'd left House after the infarction and subsequent amputation. Everything had turned out all right.
Maybe House was an alcoholic, but he didn't have to be now that he knew the amputation had been best. And maybe he and Cuddy could adopt a baby and be happy together. Maybe everything could turn out okay for everybody.
Except...Wilson and House weren't a part of each other's lives.
House had never been sentimental, and moving around a lot as a child had taught him not to get too attached to one place, but all of a sudden he felt homesick. He didn't miss his constant pain and he didn't miss the guilt he felt over killing Amber, but that life was his life.
He started sprinting again, pushing himself because he needed to feel something.
He'd never been so torn. This life was...good. He had no pain at all, he could run, and Wilson was happy. If he changed things back to the way he knew them, he would still be hurting all the time, constantly wishing he could go back to Vicodin, and Amber would still be dead and Sam couldn't replace her. Maybe Wilson told himself he was happy with her but House knew he wasn't as happy as he'd been with Amber.
If he went back he was sacrificing Wilson's happiness.
What about his own? With Cuddy and one working leg and one working prosthesis, could he be happy without Wilson in his life?
Maybe he wouldn't be miserable, but he probably wouldn't be happy.
Was he happy in the life he'd left behind?
For now, yes, because he and Cuddy were still doing all right. If that went up in flames he might be miserable again.
"So what do I do?" House asked himself aloud.
Give up this life where...things turned out less horrible? Or give up Wilson?
Give up Wilson or give up Wilson's happiness?
Disclaimer: I have taken some dialogue in this chapter from the season 5 episode, "Joy," and I took another couple of lines from the season 6 episode, "Help Me."
