Short update. Next chapter (Friday morning) is longer.
(H/C)
Wilson was feeling doubly guilty as he approached his apartment door. He had wished - had actually wished - for a critical patient to offer him an excuse to avoid lunch with his girlfriend. Well, he had gotten his wish. The call about Mrs. Olson's abrupt deterioration had come just as they were in line in the cafeteria. For the remainder of Thursday afternoon, Wilson had tried to get her stabilized again, had talked to the family when that failed, and finally had sat beside her for three hours so she wouldn't be alone while her kids flew in. The kids had been the ones in denial, protesting that she had been getting treatment, that things had been looking better, that the end couldn't be near. She herself had the utterly calm acceptance of someone who has fought the good fight, has lived a full life with few regrets, but realizes that fate has stepped in and that it is over. She spoke during that 3-hour vigil of her marriage of 53 years, of her husband who had died 2 years ago. "I've tried so hard in the treatment," she wheezed around the oxygen cannula. "I wanted to live for them, for the grandkids. But it will be good to see him again. I've missed him." Wilson sat there listening to her tale of highlights of her relationship, a purely positive chronicle, and feeling more and more like a heel.
"Weren't there ever any disagreements?" he asked.
"Oh, of course there were," she replied, "but when you truly love each other, you work things out. When we fought, we still both wanted to work it out as soon as we could."
"And there was never anybody else?" he asked.
She shook her head. "From the moment we got together, no matter what the disagreement, there was never anybody else. Never."
How did people do that? Why could the whole world remain faithful for 53 years while he couldn't? He loved them. He loved Sandra. At least he thought he did. But why did everybody else seem to get it so right while his relationships continually went wrong? Did he not love them enough? Did they not love him enough? Once again, he remembered his thoughts from the car Monday night, of wishing just once that somebody would commit so absolutely and fight so fiercely for him as Cuddy would for House. He could picture Cuddy in decades (hopefully minus the cancer and death bed) saying, "From the moment we got together, no matter what the disagreement, there was never anybody else. Never."
He couldn't picture anybody saying that about him. Which was probably no more than he deserved, because in spite of his best intentions, he couldn't imagine saying that about anybody else.
Maybe he just wasn't cut out for long-term relationships. Maybe every one he would ever be in was doomed.
He opened the apartment door and stepped in. Sandra was sitting on the couch with a book, waiting for him, and he felt an extra icing of guilt added to what he already carried. He didn't deserve her vigil.
She stood as he entered and walked over to kiss him warmly. Guilty, undeserving, cheating bastard or not, Wilson responded. He couldn't help it; he was male, after all. "How's Mrs. Olson?" she asked.
He shook his head. "She's losing the fight. All at once. She's not going to make it."
Sandra nodded sadly. "Some of them are like that. They really are putting up a battle, and then just suddenly, they hit the end of their strength."
"I sat with her until her kids got here. Talking to them was the worst; they're still grasping at straws. She knows it's over. How are your two who weren't doing well?"
"One of them is better this afternoon." She sighed. "One of them isn't."
He moved over to sit down on the couch, closing his eyes for a moment and rubbing them with his hand. He heard her go to the kitchen, then felt a warm bowl shoved into his lap, and he opened his eyes to see the soup she had heated. A fourth surge of guilt joined the others, but he still picked up the spoon and ate. Guilty or not, he was hungry.
Sandra had sat down again, watching him, looking troubled herself, and he tried to give her a reassuring grin. It fell flat. He finished and set the bowl down. "James," she started, softly but with determination.
He sighed. Not much chance of physical escape right now. "What?" he replied, his voice a little sharper than he'd intended.
"I called Jensen when I got home from work."
He came up off the couch, starting an agitated pace circle in spite of his tiredness. "And he told you that he really did have other openings this week, didn't he? Hasn't anybody heard of confidentiality?"
"What?" Sandra's surprise stopped him in his tracks. "No, actually, he didn't tell me he really had other openings this week."
Wilson sighed again and wished for another critical patient. He would take the extra guilt, the bedside vigil, anything to get him out of this.
"So you were the one who wanted to skip this week?" she demanded.
"I just . . . there's so much else going on . . . I . . ." The oncologist was floundering.
"I was just worried about you. I know something's eating at you, and I know you're trying to keep me from finding out for some reason. Even Foreman can tell something is wrong. Whatever it is, you need to talk to somebody, and the fact that you're avoiding Jensen as well as me shows that you really know you need to be working through this. We're the two closest people you talk to - except House, and given the week he's had, I can see why you don't want to go into a long talk with him about what's bugging you, even if he knows the reason already. Which he clearly does, probably worked it out himself, and he also shared it with Cuddy. That's why they both want you to talk to me. But you're just avoiding talking to anybody, and you're chewing yourself to pieces this week. So I called Jensen to ask if he had any appointments before next Wednesday."
Wilson hit the end of the living room and turned again, wearing an agitated track in the floor. "I'll go next Wednesday. I promise."
Sandra persisted. "He said he could work you in either tomorrow or Monday. James, even if you won't talk to me, which I wish you would, you need to have a good session and talk to somebody. House's crisis on top of whatever yours is is too much to carry alone."
Wilson shook his head. "I can't go tomorrow. Mrs. Olson is dying. Call the hospital if you want proof."
She gave him an odd look. "I believe you. Monday, then. James, promise me that you will go see Jensen on Monday. And you can talk to me sooner if you want. I wish you would."
He came to a halt beside the window, staring out into the darkness. "I'd . . . like to talk to you about it, but . . . I'll see Jensen on Monday, okay? I promise. Let me try to work through it with him first; he helps me think more clearly."
She nodded, still looking not satisfied. "Okay. James, you know, if you ever decide that you just don't love me any more, tell me so. Don't drag it out."
He spun around from the window. "What? No, that's not . . . I love you. I really do. I want this relationship."
She chewed on her lip for a moment, then backed off. "All right. I'll respect your privacy for the moment, unless things don't get better. But you are going to go see Jensen and talk. I'm putting my foot down on that; you're going to give yourself an ulcer if you keep on like this. I can't just watch you and do nothing."
There was genuine concern in her eyes, and he went over to join her on the couch again. She starting kissing him again, trying to distract him from his troubles, he realized, and once again, in spite of all the guilt, he readily responded. He couldn't help it.
He did want this relationship. But he knew deep down that he didn't deserve it.
(H/C)
Cuddy came back into the living room, having just finished putting the girls to bed. House was sitting on the couch, staring into space, and she came up behind him, her fingers massaging his shoulders, finding and kneading out the tension. "What are you thinking?" she asked.
"I . . . about the girls."
She kept up her massage. "What about them?"
"About the fact that there are sick bastards like Patrick in the world. We brought them here."
She gave his shoulders a final rub, then moved around to join him on the couch. "And we'll protect them, the best we can."
He turned to face her, the blue eyes frightened, not for him, but for his daughters. "What if our best isn't enough?"
"Our best is better than anybody else's best, because nobody loves them more than we do. Whatever the future brings, love will get us through it. Besides, like I said, they won't have to worry about Patrick, because if all else fails, we can take out a contract." She watched with satisfaction as his worried eyes started laughing instead.
"I insist on paying half."
"Wrong, Greg. We'll both pay ALL, because it is OUR bank account. Just like this is OUR house."
He settled against her. "I do wonder what he's doing tonight, how he's taking things so far from Andrews' reports."
"I'm sure he's totally baffled. But let's not waste the evening wondering what Patrick is doing tonight, okay? Whatever he's doing, it isn't half as good as what we have here." She kissed him, and slowly at first, then more willingly, he responded.
They didn't mention Patrick for the rest of the evening. She was right; there were far better topics for the two of them.
