- disclaimer: if it belonged to me, why would i be writing fanfiction?
- a/n: title and all chapter titles quotes by william shakespeare. beta love to nancy; you're getting credit- deal with it.
- apology: i shouldn't be writing this because i haven't seen the whole season and i shouldn't be posting it because it's undoubtedly out of character. but I figure, start at the bottom and you've got nowhere to go but up.

i pray you know me when we meet again

chapter one/three:
what a piece of work is man

the friend

You're sitting in her office because it's the only place in the damned hospital that's quiet. You can see the lights brighten and dim every time your head pounds and she finds you an hour later in the dark with a pillow in your face.

She touches your shoulder gently but it's enough of a surprise to swing the pillow and catch her backhanded across the face. You can feel your face burn and you stand too quickly and your intention to steady you both fails.

A few seconds later you're back on the couch with your head in your hands and she's smoothing her skirt and taking a place a safe distance from you.

She's close enough to touch you and you almost wish she would. But that's a request buried so deep it's out of your mind and through her eyes; even if you could see her you still wouldn't know she wants it even more.

She knows. Before five years ago this was always the place you came, and old habits die hard.

'She looked like Marilyn Monroe,' you say to the fingers that half cover your mouth. You stare at the wall and the wall stares at her and she stares at you and if you weren't so torn up inside you'd be able to feel the circle, resonating. 'I told her family eight to ten weeks.'

'How long ago?' she asks. You don't notice it, but she thinks her voice sounds too harsh, too professional, and she flinches.

'Nine weeks.'

She nods. It's always harder to be right.

Your eyes are on the wall and your back hunched forward when you feel something soft brush against your knee and take one hand that's dangling over the floor and pull.

'C'mon. I want to show you something.'

Before five years ago, this is where you always came. One way or another you wound up in her presence, by accident or by choice. But from five years ago on, you've gone to another source that usually involves alcohol and a hangover, and while that never sounds bad, you've reverted to your previous ways this time, and you don't know why.

Off the elevator and down a long hall, you only notice she's been holding your hand the whole time when she lets go in front of a window. The blinds are open and you can see through. The corners of your mouth surrender to a smile.

'Father of four.' She says it aloud only to make it more real. 'He'll be released on Monday.'

Four kids, ranging ages sit, stand, and sleep in chairs next to their father's bed and a tired but relieved woman is reclining in the corner flipping through a magazine, looking up every few moments and smiling.

You only realize she's moved away until it's almost too late, and as a last resort dive your hand into the air and manage to catch her arm between her wrist and her elbow.

'Dr. Cuddy.'

You loosen your hold instantly and your hand slides almost to her fingers. She meets your gaze and you know there's something gone that was there before. 'Thanks.'

She nods and smiles and pulls away and all you can do is watch her leave, trying to remember what it is she's obviously forgotten.

the cripple

You never talk about her.

Ass? Sure. Chest? Most definitely. But her, as a human and not the insignia of eternal damnation that is clinic duty? Never. So when he asks, it's harder than usual to bury your confusion. You manage of course; with all the noise and distractions of the outdoors you can easily find something or someone to glower at as a reasonable cover.

'You notice anything different about Cuddy lately?'

'More wrinkles?'

He snorts quietly and gives you a Look that says You Know What I Mean (each word spaced and capitalized), and you wonder why he feels the need to vocalize it too.

'I think about Cuddy about as often as religious people think about Satan—when being tempted, or being hunted."

And now you're imagining Cuddy with a pitchfork (and some red leather for fun) and you could swear by the look on his face he knows exactly what you're thinking.

"I kind of doubt Satan enforces clinic duty; from what I remember he's not big on the whole 'heal thy sick thing'.'

Before you can quell your curiosity, your tongue spits out, 'What brought that up?' Cursed thing.

'You mean Cuddy?'

'I'll have you know I'm very protective of my toys,' you answer, and get another image of your boss as a Pac-Man icon, gobbling up animated interns.

His voice breaks your concentration (she was just about to devour Foreman, too) in an octave so long you're not sure if you were supposed to hear it or not. 'Is that all she is to you? A toy?'

Unease smothers the space between you, and reading his face is impossible so you take a shot in the dark with honesty. 'Cuddy's a puzzle. No more no less.'

If you weren't still pawing your way through sheets of unfamiliar ground, you'd have noticed the colour of Wilson's skin fade and the lump in his throat catch and bob but refused to slide down. Even if you had, you might have passed it off as gas, and the shiny look to his eye could be explained by your logical, insensitive mind as allergies.

What you're not expecting is the scrape of iron against concrete and the napkin he drops on his plate as he walks past you with not much more than a 'Scuseme'. You turn and follow him with your eyes, following her and you imagine a big neon sign that flashes BUSTED in capital letters. Your mind picks up on the unintended pun and you file it for later verbal use.

You don't feel guilty that she overheard what you said; you've always assumed she knows where you stand and if she didn't before she does now, so what's the harm? It's his reaction you're contemplating, that scurried, frantic, dogkickedinthestomach look that he's now adorned, and you frown when you realize (and then when you realize you've realized) that it's the only time he's ever left you for a woman.

the friend

'Greg's an ass,' you say, talking to the side of her face as she picks up a stack of files.

'Already knew that.'

'Not like he tries to hide it.'

Her expression remains blank.

You follow her to her office where she sets the stack amongst other stacks and sits behind them. Maybe she's trying to bury herself.

'Look, Lisa-'

'Dr. Wilson I have a meeting with a patient's family in twenty minutes and since these charts aren't going to organize themselves, I'd really like to try and put a dent in it while I have some time to spare.'

You were expecting an insult directed back at your friend, one of her cunning remarks that show her high heels aren't the only sharp things she's got, or at the very least a short smile to show she knows you're on her side, but all you get is the top of her head as she opens a file.

'He doesn't mean it,' you say softly, afraid that if you say it any louder she'll know it's a lie.

She knows anyway, and with a sigh lowers the pen, lifts her head and leans forward on both arms, folded across her desk. 'Yes, he does. He rarely lies - except to patients - and it doesn't matter anyway because I've known that for years. He's going to silently blame me for his leg for the rest of his life, compare me to the devil because I make him do clinic duty, stare at my ass because he thinks he's being cute and even more silently than he blames me he'll respect me because he knows I'm the only reason he still has a job.'

You absorb her words, nodding in places you know for a fact to be true and tilting your head in parts that seem skeptical (but on further contemplation you'll realize they aren't far fetched).

You stare at her because you expect her to keep speaking and when she doesn't you get confused all over again.

'Then why are you…' You let the adjective fall where it may and then kick yourself because her sigh this time isn't exasperated or patronizing it's defeated.

'He didn't start that conversation all on his own,' she says and covers the aftermath with the protest of her wheeled chair against the thick carpet. She's past you before your teeth have reconnected, and for the second time your hand juts out, this time catching her elbow and this time not received with any warmth or missing part of her; you can't even see what you know to be there.

'Doctor Wilson…' she trails, a warning so distinctly her you have to fight the urge to let go. 'I have a meeting.'

'Not for fifteen minutes,' you remind her, and beg her with your eyes not to go. She pulls away from you, slow enough not to hurt your heart but with enough force to dissuade you from trying again.

'Then I'll be early.'

the administrator

You aren't surprised that it's your car being totaled. Of course it couldn't be the car of the Guy Who Hit You. That would be cosmically just, and therefore unacceptable in the Universe's high-stakes game of Let's See How Many Times We Can Fuck With Cuddy Before She Snaps. You groan and kick your automobile and momentarily panic when you don't feel the pain in your toes.

Then you laugh bitterly and realize you feel pain everywhere, and it's all evening out (until the laugh makes you cough and your lungs seize and the soaking wet, muscular, grimy Tow-Truck Guy offers you a sympathetic smile along with his cell phone and a glass of water).

It's then you realize with disgust and self-pity that for all the numbers on your smashed up speed dial, there isn't one of them who wouldn't consider you an inconvenience.

Tow-Truck Guy offers to drive you home, and when you get out of the pick-up and thank him you resist the urge to hug him as well, because not once did he look at your shirt, plastered to your chest from all the rain.

The first thing you do when you get inside is place a voice mail message on your machine at work, explaining that you won't be in tomorrow. Mid-sentence you down three Ibuprofen dry. (And they all think House is the only one who can do that.)

The third thing you do is run a bath and the forth thing you do is realize you're almost too sore to move from your place of moment's rest on the couch let alone climb into the tub. You go back to the bathroom to turn off the water and catch your reflection in the mirror. All cuts and bruises but still whole; you wonder without thinking what it would take for anyone to actually give a damn; tennis is different than a late night phone call, and you haven't had one of those in years.

It's the thought you fall asleep with in the living room in your still-damp clothes because the couch is shorter than the bed and to change your skirt you'd have to bend over and just the prospect of working your dog-tired muscles makes them clench inimically.

It's the thought you wake up to three hours later when the doorbell rings and he's standing on your front porch, looking pitifully guilty. You usher him in and before even removing his jacket his arms have found their way loosely around your waist and his nose is pressed into your neck.

'You should have called me,' he whispers fiercely, knowing it's his fault you didn't.

'I got a ride,' you answer and step back slightly, wincing.

'Can I help? Can I get you anything?'

You can get out, you quip in your head, but can't push the words past your lips. So you opt for the Shake Your Head I'm Fine route, and try to put a semblance of distance in between you. He's giving you a look and you can't discern whether it says I Want To Jump You or Let Me Fix You. Either way it's petulant and you don't want to see it anymore.

'I'm sorry.' He apologizes in a very simple way in a very simple tone, as if he's trying to account for every deed he's ever done that fell to the side of Moral.

'Not your fault,' you say, the shrug in your voice rather than your shoulders and try to hide the fact that you know he's not talking about the accident.

'That's not what I mean,' he says, voicing your unwelcome thoughts.

Part of you wants to protest and part of you wants to know where he's going to take this. Before you can make up your mind in the seconds that fall through the cracks, he's making declarations.

'I've been a shit-faced friend,' he says, and you don't argue with things you know to be true. 'and I want to make it up to you.'

You want to tell him he's wasting his time and you're completely past it, but you can't so you shake your head instead and lie. 'You don't need to make up anything, Wilson. It's fine.'

'Bullshit.' You're taken aback only by the word, because the tone weighs more in sadness than it does in brutality. 'Who'd you get the ride from, Cuddy?'

He spends too much time with House, you think. He's becoming intuitive. Damn it.

'Tennis buddy.' You're on a roll. Just a few more and maybe he'll shut up.

'So where are they now?' he demands, putting his hands on his hips in that I Won't Take No way that fails every time.

'She had an important meeting to get to-'

'-more important than her friend who'd nearly been killed?' He cuts you off mid-sentence and you hide your surprise. The polite pacifist Dr. Wilson is taking a stand. Alert the media.

You wave your arm and ignore the hole of pain that strikes your elbow and radiates up your arm. 'You're exaggerating.'

'It was on the news, Cuddy. The guy was going seventy-five miles an hour. You're lucky to be alive.' You pause and hang on to the last five words. You're angry and you don't know why and you hear your own words like their coming from another Cuddy, standing just behind you.

'So that's why you're here? The news? How would you have known otherwise?'

Your voice is accusatory and he adopts the Defeated look again, leaving you torn between offering him some sort of comfort and leaving him out to dry alone. You can't make up your mind so you remain expressionless, and he drops his head and talks to the floor.

'I wouldn't have. You'dve hid it too well.' Even now, in your own home, just his presence makes you wary and if any pain flashed across your face, he never saw it.

You've noticed this before, the behavior confrontation draws from Wilson. He'd much rather talk to an inanimate object near you than to you directly and it's always pissed you off.

'No. You just don't know me well enough anymore to have been able to figure it out.' The 'anymore' slips and you wish to God you could take it back. That one word will give you away.

'Like I said, shit-faced.' He pauses and sighs and you fold both arms over your chest (not because you think he's looking but because it's the most comfortable defensive stance you have) and ignore the pain still partying gleefully in your nerves. 'We screwed up. House and I. I want to admit that.'

'Why, so you can sleep better at night?'

It's out before you can stop it and you almost turn and tell the other Cuddy to fuck off. Then you remember there isn't another Cuddy and it's just you and you have to live with you for the rest of your life, which makes you wonder why the hell you just said that. You don't like worms and you don't like cans and worms in cans all open and spread around your freshly cleaned kitchen doesn't sound like your idea of a good time.

But he surprises you by shifting his eyes right into yours, and the reality and sincerity of his words do finally make you flinch but you can't tell by the look on his face whether he regrets saying them or not.

'No. So that you don't have to make up imaginary friends to bail you out of real life situations.'

Second thoughts or no, the conversation's reached the foot of the mountain, and this is one hump you're far too tired to climb, so without a word about it you move past him and open the door to the rain. 'I think you'd better go, Dr. Wilson. The weather's only supposed to get worse, and I'd hate for you to get stuck here.'

The accent on your pronoun is just right and he takes the hint, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand.

'Right.'

He's halfway out the door when the slouched shoulders and heavy sigh get around your shielding arms and into your heart and you stop him suddenly with his name. 'I appreciate that you know…' that you're not the friend you used to be 'but it doesn't change anything.'

He looks at you again and shakes his head. 'It will.'

Only once he leaves do you realize you held the whole conversation in your doorway, and he never took off his coat.

the friend

You've screwed up, big time, and no amount of alcohol is going to change that, so you sit in your chair behind your desk in silence and try to think of a way to shovel yourself to China from within the hole you've just dug yourself into.

You can only think of one route, but it doesn't sound appealing, so you rack your mind and exhaust the others first.

If you were Greg, you'd come up with some highly original, flawless idea that would rock her socks and you'd never have to worry about a thing again.

But you're not Greg because Greg doesn't really care, and you do. Which is why you can't get that line out of your head, that single word she spoke that you're fairly certain will make you flinch every time you hear it, regardless of who says it and why.

You twirl the pen between your fingers, legs long and crossed at the ankles and rock back and forth and from side to side. You stare at the three of you on your desk, faces staring back behind a pane of glass and your idea comes back to you once again, followed by the word Anymore.

Damn Cuddy and her one-liners.

You consider calling him, just to see what he'd say, but upon letting your imagination run with the conversation…

'Just close your eyes, and imagine what it would be like to feel guilty about something. Anything.'

'Hrm… kinda like indigestion. Or bad moo-shu.'

…you look away from the phone and sigh. Because there's only one way to dig a hole to China.

Persistence.