House leaned his head back against the headrest as the car left Middletown. He was suddenly and overwhelmingly exhausted. The day, the trip, the revelations about Patrick, Thirteen, the entire situation all wound together into its own toccata and fugue, still ending for the moment as his piano piece had in a minor key. His leg was adding its voice; while it had appreciated the respite at Jensen's, it had obviously decided that meant the travel should be over entirely for the day, and it kicked into surround-sound performance like a full band, heavy on the percussion, almost as soon as he had gotten back in the car. He thought longingly of Cuddy and the hot tub, two hours ahead. He was too drained to even think beyond at the moment to the fax from his mother, the inside informant, or other aspects of her day he needed to know; he simply wanted her right now. And the hot tub. Her in the hot tub. Yes, that sounded like the best of both worlds.
Wilson, of course, shifted into encouraging mode, trying to be supportive but typically doing so in a way that wasn't quite the best approach for the moment. "Just think, House, if Lucas can prove a whole string of women with small children, Patrick has had it. We can take his report to Ann Bellinger, and the case will be dropped. She'll probably even kill him herself and save CPS the trouble. With Lucas making this a priority investigation, I'll bet everything will be cleared up by Thanksgiving."
House sighed. He was too spent to talk about logistics or the future right now. Besides, even with the case dropped, there were two massive issues that would remain standing. Thirteen had killed herself, and everybody knew. There wasn't enough evidence in the world to change those two facts; he would simply have to learn to deal with them, and right now, he was too tired for it. He diverted, trying to distract Wilson into light conversation instead of a pep talk about Patrick's downfall. "Speaking of Thanksgiving, Cuddy and I want to invite you and Sandra to our place. Several other people there, time with the girls. You like things like that, and it will be good for you. Half her family is coming to meet Abby."
Wilson's hands tightened on the wheel, and the car swerved slightly. He straightened it and forced himself to ease up, one finger at a time, as his thoughts returned with a jolt to his own situation rather than House's. "Why? You never give an invitation without an ulterior motive, and you said yourself, it would be good for me. Why?"
House looked over at his friend. Wilson's face was set and his eyes glittering in the dim light that washed into the Volvo from other headlights. He actually looked mad. What the hell? "You . . . you like things like that, like I said. Family, lots of people around."
"Lots of people, right. Why don't you just say what you're thinking, House? You don't think Sandra and I could have our own meal alone, do you?"
"Wilson, you've said she hated cooking. You were going to go to a restaurant anyway. What's the big deal? It's an invitation; take it or leave it."
Wilson was getting more angry by the moment, all of his own pent-up tension from the day suddenly bursting through control like a dam. "It's an invitation that you only decided to make after you knew I accidentally slipped the other night."
House shook his head, feeling his own annoyance rise even through the exhaustion. "Accidentally slipped? You make it sound like you stepped on a banana peel on the sidewalk. And for your information, Cuddy and I decided to ask you . . ."
"Cuddy? You told Cuddy? Yeah, I'll bet the two of you talked over all my faults and dissected my past history, and then you decided I'm such a relationship screw-up that I couldn't even handle taking my own girlfriend out to dinner successfully, so you had to step in and save the day. And at the same time, of course, show off your nice family now that you've finally got one, even if it took you long enough. Boy, that's House if I've ever seen it. You and Cuddy say you're doing this for my sake, but what you really want is to rub my nose in it. It's all about you. You've got a great family, and I've got three alimonies and a girlfriend I really care about but cheated on last Friday night because I was depressed over Danny and got drunk! Where were you Friday, anyway?" Wilson abruptly snapped his teeth together so fiercely that there was an audible click.
House looked away, staring out the window. "I was dealing with a lawsuit and Thirteen's suicide," he said quietly. He was too exhausted to even start to pick through the false assumptions in Wilson's tirade, but the implication that he should have known something was specifically wrong with Wilson - how, by telepathy? - on Friday night was too much. Friday night had been hell on wheels. He was realizing more and more just how nonfunctional he had been. If it hadn't been for Jensen . . .
Wilson was staring at his hands on the wheel, appalled at how close he had just come to flushing his own sessions with Jensen down the toilet. "House, I didn't mean . . . I know you had your hands full Friday."
House fumbled in his pocket and pulled out the Vicodin, taking a few - Wilson wasn't sure if it was two or three on a quick glance in the dark. House wasn't due for any more Vicodin yet; he'd had some at Jensen's. But this once, Wilson refrained from pointing out that his friend obviously was using it for emotional escape. Wilson suddenly didn't trust his own control on this drive, and a numbed-out and thus less-observant and less-annoying House sounded like a good idea. Maybe his friend would leave the subject of his error Friday night alone with a little narcotic assistance.
"It was two," House snapped. "Don't strain your eyes trying to count them in the dark."
"I wasn't . . ."
"Boy, you really are in denial about everything, aren't you? Hope nobody mentions the color of your car or who's President or who won this year's World Series while we're at a gas station." House closed his eyes, leaning his head back more. "Screw you. It was just an invitation to Thanksgiving dinner; come or don't. Makes no difference to me." He let himself drift, trying to stay away from the thoughts of Patrick, Thirteen, and the rest of the world at the moment, and thought of the hot tub, the jets swirling against his sore muscles, and even better, Cuddy's hands. The exhaustion was sweeping over him in waves, and if he fell asleep, he wouldn't have long enough to get close to two hours and start having nightmares. Slowly, his breathing leveled out.
Wilson was still annoyed that House thought it was necessary to referee his own relationship, as if they were incapable of managing a special dinner without his assistance, but the oncologist stayed quiet. He was afraid if he said much more tonight, he'd regret it. Just give it a few minutes; let the Vicodin do their work.
The Volvo hurtled on through the darkness. About 15 minutes later, House's cell phone rang, and Wilson, glancing over, was surprised to realize that his friend had fallen asleep. House shifted at the noise but didn't immediately wake up, and Wilson quickly took his right hand off the wheel and extracted House's cell phone with all the stealth and speed of a pickpocket. Let House sleep; he at least was less likely to judge Wilson's recent errors that way. Wilson hit the button on the phone. "Hello?" he said, very softly.
"Wilson?" Cuddy, with alarm immediately rising. "Is he all right?"
Wilson looked over again at House. Still asleep, and even at rest, there was a slight grimace on his face, and one hand rested on his thigh. Maybe those extra Vicodin hadn't been entirely for emotional reasons after all. Wilson himself was a bit stiff and car sore at this point. "He's okay," he whispered. "He fell asleep. Do you want me to wake him up?"
"No, leave him alone. I know he must be tired and hurting by now. I just wondered how close you were to Princeton."
Wilson checked the car clock, then obsessively looked at his watch with glowing hands to synchronize the two. "We've got about another hour and a half, counting a stop halfway. We were a little late leaving Jensen's."
"Was anything wrong?"
"No, Jensen's daughter just wanted House to play the piano for her. He played a few pieces."
"Good. Music helps him." She sighed. "Okay, I won't start filling the hot tub yet."
Wilson gave a bittersweet smile. "I wish Sandra and I had one. I think I could use a soak myself. Too much time on the road today."
"By the way, speaking of you and Sandra, did Greg mention anything lately?" Cuddy hadn't yet had a chance to ask House if he still wanted to do Thanksgiving; she was simply wondering if the topic had come up with Wilson during the hours of driving today. They had to have talked about something, after all. Surely all of the road conversation hadn't been about Patrick.
Wilson's temper, which had been dying down to embers, flared up with new flame. He kept his voice at a whisper, but the intensity cut through. "You don't have to beat around the bush. I know all about the plan the two of you came up with, and I think actually I might be capable of taking my girlfriend out to dinner on my own without screwing up, even if I did slip the other night. So keep your noses out of my love life."
Cuddy was silent for a few seconds. "What on earth are you talking about? And what do you mean, you slipped the other night? You mean you cheated? On Sandra?"
It was Wilson's turn to be baffled. "You didn't know that already?"
"No. He hasn't said a word. Why would you . . ."
"I was drunk, okay?" His voice rose slightly in spite of himself, and House shifted and then fell back into exhaustion and narcotic-enhanced rest. Wilson immediately dropped back to a whisper. "I didn't mean to. It just sort of happened. Friday night I was feeling down, and I went to the bar, and one thing just led to another."
Cuddy sighed. "I'm not even touching that bucket of bullshit. But you said Greg had talked to you about coming to dinner - Thanksgiving, right? If you think that was a comment on the state of things between you and Sandra, you are dead wrong. You didn't actually tell him you thought that, did you?"
Wilson was getting more confused now, as well as wary. She sounded like she was loading her arsenal. He wondered if he could fake cell phone interference. On the other hand, if he did, purely accidentally of course, get disconnected, she would no doubt call back. Turn off the phone, and both Cuddy and House would have him for dinner in a completely different sense. He was trapped. Damn. "Um, I . . . might have. Don't think I used exactly those words."
She blew up. "Listen up, you jackass."
Her voice was loud enough that Wilson held the phone away from his ear. House stirred, and he quickly pulled it back close. "Keep it down. You're disturbing him."
She dropped in volume but gained in intensity. "Wilson, he asked me about inviting you to Thanksgiving last Friday morning. It was before everything started happening that afternoon. We haven't even discussed it since. So unless you think he has precognition, he was not motivated Friday morning by your inability to keep your pants zipped on Friday night."
Wilson felt a deep chill starting through him. But if House hadn't been thinking of him and Sandra being in an awkward phase, then why would he invite them to Thanksgiving? His idea, clearly, even if Wilson had been mistaken on the timing. Not Cuddy's idea. "Why did he want to invite me then?" he asked.
"He knew you were down about your brother. He thought it might cheer you up, being around people and the girls." Wilson closed his eyes momentarily, then quickly reopened them, focusing on the road. House had realized he was in a vulnerable spot? He had been trying to help before Wilson's big mistake?
Cuddy's voice was lower volume now, but it shot from the phone into his ear like an arrow. "Wilson, so help me, if you give him a hard time about anything right now, you won't have to worry about being fired, because I'll kill you first."
Wilson gulped. "We . . . it was just a minor disagreement. Just a few minutes, really not much at all. Just a misunderstanding. He didn't seem too upset, just told me to come or not, no difference to him. I'll apologize to him, okay?"
"I'll ask him and draw my own conclusions. And no matter what he says, your clinic hours are doubled for this week. They only go up from there. You are not going to upset him right now. I don't care what you think he's talking about or whether you think he's right; you sit there and take it. Is that understood?"
Wilson could feel his age regressing rapidly, the clock of time running backwards. Any moment now, he would be a child again standing in front of his mother as she lectured him, hands on hips, eyes flashing. "Yes, maam," he replied meekly. He looked at the dashboard clock again. "We should be at your place around 11:30," he said, trying to change the subject.
She wasn't quite ready to. "You're in the middle of all this, Wilson, because he wants you there, and he needs you as a friend. But if you turn into a liability, you're leaving through the back door with a toe tag. Is that clear?"
"Crystal. I apologize. It really wasn't much of an argument; he's okay."
"I'll ask him myself later."
"I, um, need to go. Traffic is starting to get kind of heavy."
She wasn't buying it. "You be careful with him, Wilson. You're already working on your second chance; we gave you a pass once."
"I know. I apologize. I really need to hang up now."
"All right, but don't forget."
"No danger. Bye." Wilson hit off and let out a deep breath. Geez, first Jensen, now Cuddy, and Cuddy was the scarier of the two. Jensen only threatened to fire him. He looked over at House. "Don't ever get her mad," he advised softly.
His eyes returned to the road, but his thoughts were spinning. He had totally misjudged a situation - again. At least he hadn't made it up to serious damage this time. He sighed. A year and a half of therapy was helping, but even there, House seemed ahead of him. Okay, he had his brother to deal with, which had distracted therapy extremely from the original reasons he went. Still, House had his father to deal with. He wasn't getting the smoothly paved yellow brick road to psychiatric health either. Wilson looked over again at House. "I apologize," he said, very softly, not wanting to wake him up. "I was wrong. Should have given you a chance to explain instead of jumping to conclusions; you did try to set me straight at first." His eyes returned to the road, but the more he thought about it, the more remorse traveled in a double harness with the partner being almost jealousy.
How could House inspire such loyalty in those around him? And the man was totally unaware of the depth of it.
How could Wilson not inspire such loyalty? Everybody liked him, but that was all. Even past lovers had been wonderful lovers - and that was all.
Wilson longed for a woman just once to speak up for him as Cuddy had for House, to come firmly to his defense, to take on the world on his behalf. Picturing any of his ex-wives in that role was laughable. Amber. Now she had had some fire, but still, Amber had just loved a good fight. The fight itself was part of the fun for her - and it had been fun for her. The times she had stood up to House over Wilson had been not entirely for Wilson but also partly for herself. Never had she stood up ferociously for him with her sole motivation being his welfare. Sandra . . . Sandra was nice, hot to look at, talented both in and out of bed. Not a street fighter like Amber, but not a pushover. Still, Wilson sensed a reserve in her. It was almost like she was afraid to totally let go of doubts. Wilson wondered why not one partner in his life had ever been able to give the kind of fierce, total commitment to the relationship and concern for the other person that he had just seen demonstrated in Cuddy. Always, always there had been Wilson plus something else in top billing. Never had it been Wilson alone. With all of House's problems he was facing right now, Wilson suddenly found himself wishing he were in the other man's shoes. House had complete, unwavering, unquestioned, red-hot commitment from his wife. Wilson never had.
With another sigh, he glanced at the clock again, then flipped on his blinker, taking the next exit. He pulled into a gas station at the top of the ramp, then reached over to shake his friend. "House. House!" House stirred and slowly opened his eyes, looking around him in slight disorientation. "We're at a gas station. Time to stretch out for a minute, and the car needs gas anyway." House didn't reply verbally, simply nodded, then reached for the car door. "By the way," Wilson added, and House looked back over at him. "I apologize. I was reading the situation wrong. Sandra and I would be glad to come for Thanksgiving dinner." Leaving his friend to slowly pry himself out, Wilson quickly exited the Volvo and started unscrewing the gas cap.