Disclaimer: These characters are not mine. They are the property of Fox Network and David Shores.

A/N: Here is chapter 6 as make up for the long wait on chapter 5. Chapter 7 will take most of this week though. Thanks for the enthusiastic response to chapter 5. There was some feedback that I would like to address. Extra Bitter points out that CT scans are not dangerous. Good point. They are, however, expensive and time-consuming, and with too much frequency, redundant. Redundant and time consuming were the issues I was trying to instill in the conversation. I apologize that I didn't make that more clear. Also, there was concern about the presence of an OC. I'm afraid she's not going anywhere. I have grown fond of well drawn OC's, and have gotten away with drawing good ones in my CSI fics. My intention is not to Mary Sue her into the story although I don't know how fluid the definition for a Mary Sue character is. Her purpose in the story is integral to Wilson. Thanks for the critique. I welcome it. And thanks to everyone who is reading, and those who are also taking time to respond.

Sheila

Heart Cancer

Chapter 6

The youngest one kept falling off the chair. She was sleepy, and was trying to snuggle up against her sister who was practicing her letters in a workbook. The little one would close her eyes, but within a minute she would slide off her sister's shoulder and tumble onto the floor. Wilson watched all of this with some interest. He found the girls to be fascinating creatures who seemed to have a maturity and sense of responsibility that was beyond their years.

The second time she fell on the floor, Melvine scooped her up and let her rest her curly head on her shoulder. Conni was sleeping, and Melvine was not interested in disturbing her. She had come in looking pale and shaky; evidence of the toll chemotherapy can have on a person.

Her line needed to be adjusted, and Melvine found the work awkward with the child on her shoulder. She turned her head and fixed Wilson with a look, and then without even a word, she picked the child off her shoulder and settled her onto Wilson's lap. Wilson uttered a gasp in protest, but seemed unable to do more. The sleepy child squirmed on his lap, and he had no option but to cradle her head on his chest. Soon she settled into the deep breathing of sleep, and he felt her melt onto his body. For minutes, he was paralyzed; her presence was electric. He forgot everything else in the room, focusing on the incredible creature in his lap. He watched her flex her chubby little fingers. He marveled at the round, soft face, and breathed in the smells of baby powder. Her skin was a shade lighter than her mothers. He sat very still so that she wouldn't wake. He had no desire for the child to wake and discover her circumstances. He could imagine her round, dark eyes erupting in horror as she scrambled off his lap.

He had little experience with children. He never babysat, and he married women who were interested in careers, and were ready for children only after the marriage had become tenuous. Wilson knew that babies didn't fix marriages, and so he never let it happen. Children were a sacred thing to Wilson. He grew up with a great mom and dad, and he wanted the same for any child he helped to create.

Melvine stepped out with the oldest two girls who needed to use the restroom, and the room became quiet. Wilson found himself feeling incredibly sad, and it dawned on him that holding this child reminded him the last time he held a child. He was new at Plainsboro, and had just started working in Oncology. There was a child, smaller than the one currently in his lap, who had leukemia. Her name was Liliana, and her mother was a poor woman from Columbia. It was clear from the moment he met her that Liliana was not long for this world. Her body had stopped growing, and her hair had fallen out, but she had the bright smile of a child who had no idea that life could be any different than this. Wilson used to linger in her room, making faces and playing games with her. Her mother who spoke no English always sat quietly beside her bed, her hands folded, and smiled at his antics.

One day, he came in and Liliana was sitting alone. Her mother, through lack of sleep and lousy diet, had come down with pneumonia, and wasn't allowed to visit Liliana. The tiny child looked lost, and she didn't respond to any of his games or tricks. The nurses were doing the best they could; coming in to hug her and whisper sweet things into her ear, but they didn't have time to do anything more. Wilson left her with a knot in his throat.

The next night, Liliana looked considerably weaker and Wilson could tell she had no chance at thriving without her mother, but it was impossible because the woman had been admitted with a fever and double pneumonia just hours earlier. He sat down with Liliana, and tried a couple of tricks. Her eyes were lifeless, and she lay limply on the bed beside him. He was at a loss, and ready to leave when he remembered that Liliana's mother sang to her every night. Wilson knew none of those lullabies, but he was a veteran of four years of high school choir, and he had a nice tenor. He started in with a version of Frere Jacques that he punctuated with humming when he couldn't remember the words. Then he tried Hush little baby, inventing choruses beyond what he could remember. The child crawled closer to him, and he realized she needed contact. He picked her up and carried her to the rocking chair in the corner. She rested her head on his chest much like the curly head resting there now. Over and over, he sang the two lullabies he knew, rocking her while she clung tightly to him.

He fell asleep before she did, and they stayed that way until a nurse woke him at 5 a.m. so she could give Liliana some medication. He felt slightly embarrassed to be caught like this, not realizing that he had cemented his way into the hearts of the nursing staff forever.

Liliana's mother was well enough to visit her the very next night. By the end of the week, the woman was again camped out in a chair next to Liliana's bed. The child died a week later. It took Wilson a year before he could touch a patient and not think of her small, fragile body in his arms.

"Her name is Magdalena. You can call her Maggie." Wilson was startled out of his reverie by the drowsy voice of Conni Sandoval.

"Uh, she's a beautiful child," he stammered.

Conni smiled. "She's my baby. I don't think she wants to grow up."

"Are you getting help at home? Chemotherapy can fatigue tremendously, and I am sure that three children are a lot of work. It's important to not work yourself too hard."

"Yes, Dr. Wilson, I understand," he could feel her teasing. "I have a sister who stays with us at night. She is a gift from God. What about you? Who takes care of you at night?"

"Well, actually, I am staying alone right now. Was staying with a friend, but I needed space, my own things; you know."

"There is no one to cook for you; no one to clean."

"No, there is a woman whom I've never met who cleans and cooks. She's always gone by the time I get home. I really have nothing I have to do, but get into bed and sleep."

"It seems sad to me that you're alone like that."

Wilson was lost as to how to respond. It was sad. Oftentimes, he didn't even turn on lights. He just stripped and fell into bed. He was seldom able to eat food until he woke up the next morning. Always a lanky man; he knew that the shadows and sharp angles of weight loss were beginning to show. His thick, brown hair was starting to fall out in chunks. She could see he was uncomfortable and lapsed into silence.

The child stirred, and he found two dark eyes staring at him. He waited for her to dart away, but she stayed, looking over at her mother to orient herself.

Conni smiled at her and cooed, "How's my big girl? I see you're making friends with James. I think he's happy to have a new friend like you."

The child sat up, her curls matted on one side of her face. She looked at him again. "Read to me, James." Without waiting for a reply, she scrambled off his lap, and pulled a book out of her sister's knapsack. Then she climbed back into his lap as if it was the most natural thing in the world and shoved a book into his hands. A rather bright cover that read Curious George stared back at him. She looked up at him with her head cocked, and he blinked back at her. Her gaze was unwavering, and so he cleared his throat and opened the cover.

………………………………………………………………………………………..

House slapped the CT scan results onto the wall, and then turned to frown at his team.

"He said it would be a millimeter larger, and he was exactly correct."

Cameron let out a huge sigh and hung her head. Foreman closed his eyes and slowly shook his head. Standing in the back with her arms folded across her chest, Lisa Cuddy bit her bottom lip.

"We're not doing enough," House concluded, glaring at them.

Chase rolled his eyes in exasperation. "We're doing everything humanly possible. We have researched different treatments for weeks. This is it. Sometimes, a tumor just gets bigger no matter what we do."

"It's not good enough."

Chase stood up, planting his hands on the table. "Look, I get this is hard. This is personal for you. We all like Wilson. Nobody wants him to die, but sometimes we are not in control. And I am not interested in taking the blame here. We've been working 14 hour days, and have passed up several cases to do this. And we don't even know what this is. We don't know that we can impact his cancer at all. We're diagnosticians, and you want us to turn on a dime and be oncologists."

"Chase, sit down," Foreman sat in a low voice.

"You're off the case," House said quietly, turning to remove the scans from the wall.

"You're not serious!" Chase stood.

"House," Cuddy began.

House put the scans in the folder as if oblivious to the tension rising around him. He started to exit, stopped and said, "I won't tolerate your pessimism, not in this case."

Chase threw his hands up. "It's realism! You've always said that we need to stare it straight in the face. That's what I'm doing. You have to face it, House, there's a good chance Wilson's not going to be around anymore to cover your ass. You're going to be alone without anyone to translate for you. This is tough for us too. Wilson plays defense, he's your voice of reason and he's our sanity. How long do you think we'll last without him?"

House cocked his head. "You're right. Wilson is the voice of reason. In fact, he wanted me to fire you last year. I should listen to him more." He left without another word.

Cameron got up to follow, but Cuddy reached over and grabbed her arm. "Let him be."

Cameron protested, "I want him to know I don't agree with Chase."

"That's not why he left. He's not ready to talk about losing Wilson."

Chase dropped back into his chair. "Did I just get fired?"

Foreman snorted, "We should be so lucky."

Cuddy sighed, standing up. "House never fires anybody." She stopped at the doorway and turned. "Just be clear, Chase, Wilson is not the reason any of you came or stayed here at Plainsboro." She disappeared before he could respond.

He looked at his team mates, but Foreman was too mad to meet his eyes, and Cameron was already at the door, coat in hand, undoubtedly on a mission to find House.

……………………………………………………………………………..

Chase leaned over the railing on the roof of the hospital. It was cold, but he ignored the shivers running up and down his spine. Wind whipped his hair around, though he made no effort to try and control it. Instead, he stared out over the urban sprawl of New Jersey. Sometimes, he ached for his home. Australia was, in turns, beautiful, desolate, and wild. People seemed to know where they stood there. There was no disconnect between a man's thoughts and his words; a man said what he meant.

Here, he was stumbling over himself at every turn. Most times, he chose the most passive response he could think of; it seemed the safest thing. But, as usual, his passions got the better of him, and now he was getting nothing but hard looks from everyone he knew. It would be easy to say he didn't care if it was only true. He cared a lot, about all of them, even the crippled man with the sharp tongue who seemed to delight in embarrassing him.

Behind him the door swung open, but he didn't move. It was undoubtedly one of the nurses sneaking up for a smoke. It was one of the few places Cuddy's hyper vigilant eye missed. It startled him when a figure leaned over the railing next to him. One look at Wilson's pale, gaunt face and he closed his eyes in shame.

"So I hear you think I'm going to die, huh?"

Chase's head dropped into his elbows.

Wilson chuckled. "Sorry Chase, I had to do it. I heard you really stuck your foot in it."

His head came up and he shouted with his arms, "I'm not an oncologist!"

"I know. Calm down. I'm not that worried about your prognosis. I have seen this disease go in too many directions too many times to settle on my fate so easily."

"Did House tell you what I said to him?"

Wilson shook his head. "House took off without doing his clinic hours. Cuddy filled me in while she was cursing him. Said you had some harsh parting shots for him."

Chase pushed the hair away from his face. "He has said so many lousy things to people, and I fight back once, and I'm the one who should feel terrible."

"Who says you should feel terrible?"

"I don't know. Everyone, I guess. Or maybe I just feel terrible."

"Well, House is terrible. Even I know that. But there is almost always a method to his madness."

Chase snorted, the wind whipping hair back into his face once again. "He has a good reason for acting how he does. It's his leg, right? He can't be civil because of the pain in his leg."

"No, he was really quite a bear before he had his infarction. House motivates."

Chase made a face.

Wilson shrugged and continued. "House is working with the brightest of the bright, you know, like you. It's easy for people like you to fall into the trap of arrogance or a sense of satisfaction with what you know. He pushes you beyond that. A good doctor always knows how much he doesn't know. House preys on your comfort. He wants you on the edge, questioning, searching. It's when you do our best work. He doesn't want you to relax into your brilliance, settle into a specialty, and then get lazy about continuing education. House pushes on your weaknesses. He doesn't want you to settle for good enough."

"If that's true, then he's the most toxic cheerleader I've ever met."

Wilson chuckled. "That he is."

"What am I going to do? He's probably commissioning a voodoo doll of me as we speak."

Wilson arched his brow. "I suspect that if you got your ass down there and did his clinic hours, all will be forgiven."

"Really?"

Wilson smiled at the earnestness in the young man. "Well, okay, take his hours for the rest of the week, and I promise you he'll never speak of this day again."

Chase smiled and stood up straight. Before Wilson could say any more, he was headed for the roof entrance. Wilson stayed there for awhile. He was really impressed with his own sang-froid. He had done an excellent job pooh-poohing his own possible demise. He was feeling glad that Chase left so abruptly; he wasn't sure how long he would have been able to keep up that façade. He turned into the cool wind and felt it beat at his face, and, in that moment, he found himself savoring the sensation of living.

………………………………………………………………………….

It was hours before Cameron stumbled on him holed up in his office; the last place anyone would expect to find him. She stopped before his door, watching him hunched over his computer. Journals spilled over the edges of his desk. She spotted his portable TV perched on the shelf above his desk, and it suddenly dawned on her that she hadn't seen him watch in quite awhile. She wondered if it coincided with Wilson's diagnosis.

She wanted to go in, be soft, acknowledge his feelings, but she knew he would reject it sharply. A part of her recognized that he didn't like her hurting her feelings, and she decided to give him one less thing to feel lousy about. Instead, she leaned her head against the glass and waited. She knew that this would take him hours, but she wasn't gong home until he did. Maybe later, she would go down to the lab, and check the results from the blood samples they had taken earlier that day. She could try and tie it to the article out of Germany on cancer cell variation and their connection to hormone levels.

But for now, she was rooted to the spot, wistful in her desire to be something for the man inside the room. She bit her lower lip, and resolved that she would leave him alone for tonight, letting him chose his own process for this journey.

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TBC