"House? Hey…wake up for a minute, okay?" Cuddy leaned over House's bed, reaching down to gently shake his shoulder – not too hard, for fear of jostling his injuries and causing him further pain. "Wake up…"
House let out a groan of protest, partially muffled by his pillow, stirring slightly at her touch, but not waking. Cuddy let out an impatient sigh, glancing at her watch. She had to be at work in less than twenty minutes. Suddenly, House's eyes shot open, and he jerked away from her, scrambling backward to sit up against the headboard, wide eyes blinking at her in sleepy alarm.
Even as he reacted, Cuddy prepared herself to keep her dismay from showing on her face. Dealing with House on any emotional level was always a complicated matter; the last thing she wanted was to make him feel self-conscious and shut her out again.
She smiled brightly, as if there was nothing disconcerting about his actions. "Hey, sleepyhead. I'm off to the hospital, just wanted to let you know…"
"If you think I'm going in to work at 8:00 in the morning, you're out of your mind."
House immediately fell into his familiar pattern, rolling his eyes and grumbling, as if he hadn't just been cringing as if she was the most terrifying thing he'd ever seen. Cuddy gratefully went with it, allowing him to believe that she had not noticed his behavior.
"I don't think you're coming into work today at all," she informed him in a slightly stern, almost motherly tone. "You're going to stay right here and rest. Play video games, watch TV, internet porn…I don't care what you do, but you don't have any patients at the moment, and you're certainly not going to be working in the clinic all day…"
House raised a single dubious brow in her direction. "Who are you and what have you done with Cuddy?"
Cuddy's only answer was an indulgent smile as she turned toward the bedroom door, adjusting her purse strap on her shoulder.
"I just find it a little confusing." House shrugged. "Most days you can't wait to track me down and force piles of work on me that any mindless drone could handle."
"Most days, you aren't recovering from having the living daylights beaten out of you," Cuddy countered.
Her tone was light, but her smile faltered. Judging from the evidence she'd discovered the night before, these days House was almost always recovering from a beating. She did her best to remain steady, determined not to let her emotions show until she was out of the apartment, when those emotions would do no damage to House's already injured pride.
"No, you should stay here and rest today," she reiterated, forcing a smile.
House watched her as she paused in the doorway, his tone making it clear that he was still skeptical. "And you just woke me up to tell me that I should…keep resting…"
"I woke you up to tell you that there's fresh coffee in the kitchen. I turned off the pot so it won't go all nasty; all you'll have to do is nuke it for a few seconds. There's a plate in the oven with breakfast for you, too. I'll be back this afternoon to do a follow-up exam on those injuries of yours, and I'll come by as soon as I can get away for lunch, and bring you a bottle of Vicodin. Oh and one more thing – if you show your face at the hospital before your doctor – namely me – has released you to return to work, you'll be recovering from a beating from me."
Cuddy's tone was cool and even, and yet teasingly affectionate. She smiled again as she saw the gradually rising delight on his face as she told him about the meal she'd prepared for him; and her heart ached as that expression faded into a softer look of awed gratitude. It was heartbreaking to her that such a simple act of kindness should have such a profound effect on him.
"Thanks." His voice was hoarse and husky as he looked away, almost shy, fingers fiddling idly with the blanket that covered him. "You…you didn't have to…"
"No problem."
Cuddy cheerfully uttered the words as she slipped out of the bedroom and made her way to the front door. Locking it carefully before pulling it closed behind her, she made her way swiftly to her car. As she turned the key in the ignition, she sat staring out the windshield for a long moment. She let out a shaky sigh, swiping angrily at her damp eyes, struggling to swallow back a sob.
A moment later, the struggle was lost, as she gave in and allowed the tears to flow.
It was nearly thirty minutes before she was able to regain her composure and make the drive to work.
By the time she reached her office, no one would have guessed that a mere twenty minutes earlier, Cuddy had been sobbing uncontrollably in her car. Her façade was flawless as she greeted several of the hospital's staff on her way. Once she was safe in her office, she let out a sigh of relief as she sank down in her chair.
Then, her eyes narrowed as she remembered item number one on her agenda for the day.
She picked up the phone and dialed the extension for Wilson's office. There was no answer. Frowning, she called the front desk. The nurse who answered the phone checked the log, and informed her that Dr. Wilson had called in sick today, Cuddy hung up the phone a bit harder than necessary, frustrated that the confrontation she had planned would have to be put off.
She sat a few moments longer, restlessly adjusting items on her desk. Sighing, she tapped her foot impatiently. Finally, she picked up the phone and dialed the front desk again.
"This is Dr. Cuddy. I'm going to be out of my office for a couple of hours. Please take messages until I get back."
Cuddy's first few knocks on Wilson's door were ignored; but it was obvious he was home. His car was parked outside, and he had called in sick. Chances were that he was asleep, or simply not feeling well enough to answer the door.
At the moment – she really couldn't have cared less.
Finally, she heard his voice, sounding muffled and irritable through the door. "I'm coming, I'm coming!"
The door opened abruptly, and she found herself faced with a very annoyed Wilson, glaring at her in irritation. A moment later, when he realized that it was her, Wilson's expression changed in an instant to one of anxious trepidation.
"Oh…Dr. Cuddy." His voice trembled slightly, as he stepped back out of the doorway, waving a hand in an inviting gesture. "Please, come in."
Wilson was dressed in a pair of sweatpants and an old, wrinkled t-shirt, his usually perfectly styled hair uncombed, and he looked as if he had not slept at all the night before. But those details paled in comparison to the part of his appearance that Cuddy found most alarming.
Wilson's right eye was black, and his lip was split.
Instinctively, her protective mother instinct came to the fore again.
What the hell is going on here? Who's been doing this to my boys?
Of course, the anger she felt toward Wilson overpowered her concern for him in that moment. Wilson seemed to be getting around just fine, despite the visible injuries to his face. When she had found House the night before, he had barely been able to move on his own.
And as far as she was concerned, Wilson's negligence was partially responsible for that.
"I left a message at the front desk that I was out sick today," Wilson explained, his voice trembling slightly. "What's happened? What's wrong?"
Cuddy passed him, walking a few yards into his living room before turning to face him, her arms crossed over her chest. "Maybe I should be asking you."
Wilson swallowed hard. "About…what, exactly?"
"What happened to your face, for one thing." Cuddy gestured toward Wilson's bruises, a stern expression of concern on her face.
"Oh, that…" Wilson laughed nervously, waving a dismissive hand. "I got mugged last night. That's why I called in. I'm a little shaken up. Don't particularly feel like terrifying my patients – but I'm all right, really. No major damage."
Cuddy nodded, pretending to accept his explanation, although she had her doubts. At the moment, she had other things on her mind. "Glad you're all right," she said. She was quiet for a moment. "I'm worried about House," she announced, pausing for effect before adding, "Why aren't you?"
Wilson frowned, confusion and concern in his dark eyes – the picture of innocence. "What's to worry about?" he asked. A half-smile turned the corner of his mouth up slightly as he amended, "Well…besides the usual. I mean…I'm always worried about House, but…is there a specific reason? What's he done this time?"
Finding herself irritated by Wilson's assumption that whatever was wrong, House must be at fault – pointedly ignoring the fact that usually, that was her position – Cuddy answered coolly, "Besides somehow get himself beaten up every day for the past month or so? Nothing, really." She paused, somewhat gratified by Wilson's stunned expression of horror. "And you always worry about him – right – except when he's gone four days without a single Vicodin, with about three times as much pain as he's usually in. Then – you don't seem to notice."
Wilson stared at her for a long, silent moment. Finally he spoke, shaking his head in disbelief. "Four days? Why would he…?"
"Because he ran out four days ago, and apparently he's on some self-flagellation kick, and his best friend couldn't be bothered to notice that he was in excruciating pain!" Cuddy's eyes flashed fiery accusation at Wilson as she took a step closer to him, her voice rising, trembling with fury.
Wilson blinked, startled by her outburst. Then, a slow, ironic smile crossed his face, and he let out an almost silent, bitter laugh. "This is why you're upset?" he questioned, disbelieving. "Because I didn't remember my role as the enabler to his addiction? Have I fallen into some kind of – of parallel universe? Because last time I checked you'd have been thrilled to think that House was willingly not taking his pills, and outraged with me if I insisted he take them anyway!"
"Last time you checked, House didn't look like a refugee from a death camp!" Cuddy snapped back. "He's lost weight, his hand's shattered, he's covered in bruises – when I found him last night he could barely move! And it didn't all happen last night, either! And you didn't notice!"
"I'm not his babysitter!" Wilson shot back bitterly, his voice rising with frustration. "He's a grownup, Cuddy! You think I haven't tried to get him to tell me what's going on? He's not exactly the most open and communicative person I know! And if he won't talk, it's not my place – or yours – to try to force him to!"
"Whatever is happening to him, he's doing it – or allowing it – because he's punishing himself, Wilson!" Cuddy informed him, her voice shaking dangerously, her eyes welling with frustrated tears. "He's doing this because of what happened to Amber!"
Wilson's eyes flashed with a strange mixture of emotions – pain, regret, fear and fury. His gaze was so dark it was almost black. "Well," he muttered, lowering his head, his jaw setting stubbornly, "he should feel guilty. Maybe he's not dealing with it in the right way, but he did…"
"It wasn't his fault!"
"How can you say that?" Wilson demanded, his voice breaking as he took a step toward her, eyes blazing in outrage. "She would still be alive if he had spent two seconds thinking of someone besides himself!"
The force of his malice took Cuddy off guard. She took an involuntary step back, stunned at his accusation. Something cold and sick began to slowly creep upward from her stomach to her throat. She swallowed hard, fighting back her rising apprehensions.
No…no, it's not…possible…
Her voice was soft, sorrowful, as she reminded him, "I thought you said you'd forgiven him."
Wilson was quiet for a moment, breathing hard through his nose, his jaw set with stubborn anger, his arms crossed over his chest, before he finally let out a shaky sigh, rolling his eyes skyward. He covered them with one hand, allowing that hand to move upward and through his hair in a nervous gesture of frustration.
"I have forgiven him," he replied at last, his voice very quiet and carefully even. "That doesn't mean I'll ever forget." He paused, adding in an even softer voice a moment later, "So you'll have to excuse me if I'm not all broken up because House is suffering for what he did to her. Yeah, it's sad. Yeah, I'd help him if he'd let me. But I can't help but think that – sometimes, just maybe – it's okay if no one protects him from the consequences of his actions."
Cuddy opened her mouth to respond, but found herself at a loss for words in the face of Wilson's callous response to House's condition. Her mind raced, filled with thoughts and ideas she didn't want to be thinking. She studied Wilson's face, his eyes averted, sullen and guarded now that he had said his piece.
Slowly, she stepped forward, regaining the ground she had relinquished a moment earlier. She kept advancing until she was a foot or two away from Wilson, her arms crossed over her chest as she looked up at him through cool, narrowed eyes. When she spoke again, her voice was soft and controlled, with the barest hint of a tremor to betray her anger.
"If you won't protect him…" she stated quietly, certainly, "…trust me…I will."
Startled by the tone of her voice, Wilson looked up at her, wondering at the undercurrent he heard in her words. His expression cautious, he opened his mouth to respond – but Cuddy was already turning away, moving toward the door. She didn't say another word as she stalked out, slamming the door behind her.
House spent most of the day on his sofa, watching television programs but not really hearing them. His mind was consumed by thoughts of the night before. As he played them over in his head – overanalyzing, cringing at every remembered weakness – he wondered at Cuddy's attempts to get information out of him…and privately relished the memory of her much-needed tenderness.
He considered, not for the first time, whether or not he should just come clean, tell her what had happened, and put her mind at rest.
Except…it wouldn't put her mind at rest …It would just be harder for her…taking sides, choosing between Wilson and me…Keep your mouth shut, House. Wilson is gone, and he knows better than to come back here anytime soon…
A sudden sharp rap on the door made him jump – and then wince at his own reaction.
It's the middle of the day…Wilson's at work…couldn't be him…
He got up and went to the door, moving more slowly than usual because of the extreme pain he was in, wishing for noon and the promised Vicodin that Cuddy would bring. When he glanced through the peephole and saw that it was her and not Wilson, his heart leapt with relief. In his eagerness to get the pills, he never considered it strange that Cuddy was here in the middle of her workday.
He opened the door, a bright smile on his face as he held out his hand expectantly. "My meds?"
Cuddy pushed forward into his apartment, causing him to take a couple of hurried backward steps simply to avoid being bowled over. She slammed the door shut behind her, and spun around to face him, her eyes blazing with furious indignation.
"You lied to me."
House hated the sharp pang of fear he felt at the anger on her face, hated that his brain felt the need to constantly remind him that he was at a physical disadvantage to just about anyone at the moment, even Cuddy – and mostly, hated that it was his best friend who had caused his irrational, debilitating fear.
Cuddy's eyes went wide, startled by House's fearful reaction. Then, her expression softened with sympathy in spite of her anger as she studied his face, and House closed his eyes, trying in vain to shut her out, taking an instinctive backward step away from her.
"I…I don't know what you mean…"
"House."
He sensed her approach rather than saw it. Refusing to look at her, he stumbled a step or two back, until his back was to the wall. Cuddy just continued her quiet advance, waiting until there was no retreat left to him. When she placed a gentle hand on his arm, House flinched. Her eyes welled with tears of sorrow and compassion.
"House."
The insistence in her soft voice drew his gaze reluctantly up to hers, and he swallowed hard, his eyes wide and slightly panicked. He glanced down at his hands and noticed that they were shaking; he swiftly clenched them into fists at his sides, struggling against his own emotions – but he found that he couldn't look away from Cuddy's searching, tender eyes.
There was quiet horror in her voice when she finally stated her conclusions. House's heart stopped beating for a moment as he realized that the truth was out, that somehow she had figured it out without his confession.
"It was Wilson – wasn't it? Wilson did this to you."