VIII.

Cuddy knew House was making showing up in her office more and more of a routine, but she still didn't expect him there at eight in the morning on a Wednesday. Truth be told, she didn't expect him within ten miles of the hospital at eight in the morning on any day really, but what did you know? There he was. And there—she laughed—went her secretary. Eventually, she thought, House would give the poor woman a complex, and then he'd be sorry—because she'd start billing him for the therapy bills which were being passed off as business expenses.

"How's the leg?" she said, by way of greeting, brushing by him and over to her desk.

"The leg?" House said, caught slightly off guard. "It's okay. No worse than usual." He didn't miss a beat. "How's the cleavage?"

"It's okay. No better than usual." Cuddy sat down and began thumbing through forms. "How's Wilson?"

"Better question might be, how did you know he was staying with me anyway? I notice, Ms. Busybody, that you called my house."

"If it was his wife—which it probably was—you wouldn't have turned him away. You're cruel," Cuddy said, without looking up, "but you're not that cruel."

House thoughtfully chewed a Vicodin. "Hmm. Point. You're getting better at this."

"How many of those have you taken today? And you know you shouldn't chew them."

"Two, Mom," House said, sneering at her, "and, if you've forgotten, I am a doctor."

"A doctor who's addicted to narcotics," said Cuddy, "and you wouldn't be here if you didn't want something. What is it now?"

"A case," House said. "I'm dying in the clinic, I really am. It's draining my soul. If you don't find me something good and confusing—" he drew a finger dramatically across his throat "—it's curtains for me, and who's going to do that really important job—you know, saving lives—then?"

Cuddy neglected to mention the fact that she employed more than twenty other doctors. "I'm sorry," she said, "but I honestly do not have anything that requires a diagnostician. Trust me, if I did I'd give it to you just to get you out of my office. Unfortunately," she shrugged, "looks like it's back to runny noses and sprained ankles for you, Superman."

House sighed irritably, and there was a knock at the door. "Come in," Cuddy called, eyeing him.

Foreman pushed open the door and stepped in. "Where were you?" he said to House, "I got stuck with your hours." He looked at his watch. "And why are you on time?"

"Wow, for a minute I forgot who was whose boss. I'm dreadfully sorry, master; I don't know how it possibly slipped my mind that I have to account with you for my every absence. Now that's just a crying shame." House bowed his head and feigned submission. Foreman rolled his eyes, ignored him and crossed the room.

"Got those papers you wanted," he said, handing her yet another sheaf of things she had to sort through.

"Thank you," Cuddy said, smiling. "I appreciate it."

"More applications for—" House began, but he met Cuddy's eyes before he could finish and, for once, thought better of it. "Go do more of my hours," he said to Foreman. "Got nothing else for you anyway."

"Still no case? It's been a week and Chase is becoming more of a beaver every day."

"Nope. Chop-chop, black boy, those colds aren't going to treat themselves."

Foreman smirked and, with a "Good morning, ma'am," left.

"You know," Cuddy said, "technically, those are your hours and I can't very well mark them off now I know Foreman's doing them…"

"I get the message." House shrugged and gave her a proper leer. "You dress like you're a lot more friendly than you are."

"Five seconds before you get twenty more. I can just say we're understaffed."

House made an attempt at a sexy growl which sounded more disturbing than anything else—then again, that was probably what he was going for—and left. It wasn't more than ten minutes before there was another knock.

"Come in," Cuddy called, with a sense of déjà vu; she was both surprised and pleased to see Wilson there, wearing his same dress shirt—again, sans tie—coupled with his lab coat and sporting his crutches and a smile. She was stunned that he was wearing House's jeans. They were too big, of course, and dragged a bit over his dress shoes. House never let anyone borrow his clothes.

"Thanks for the call," Wilson said. "It was really nice of you."

"Not a problem," said Cuddy, and she knew it hadn't been. "Are you working today?" She studied his face, which was pale, slightly drawn, and undeniably happier. "Under the circumstances, you know you don't need to. In fact, you probably shouldn't."

"I would, but I'm not sure I'd better." Wilson glanced at her. "Is that all right?"

"Of course."

"Thank you." Wilson grinned and Cuddy found herself suddenly grinning as well. Her professional façade, which had been patchy and near-nonexistent at best, slipped and fell away entirely.

"It's nice to know you're okay, James," she said warmly.

"It is. It really is."

"Well..." Cuddy shrugged and gestured at the mound of paperwork on her desk. "I'd really like to talk to you more, but—"

"I understand completely," Wilson said. "I imagine something of similar proportions lies in wait in my office. I just thought I'd stop by and thank you for the call." He smiled and made for the door. At the jamb he turned, met her eyes quickly, shyly, and said, "And I talked to him."

With that, he was gone. Cuddy pondered his statement for a minute until she suddenly understood what he'd meant.

And when she turned back to her work, her smile was larger than his own.

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A week later House had a case, and he was back to being a brat. A considerably more understanding brat, certainly, but a brat nonetheless. Wilson was doing his own job again and had a new small stockpile of shirts and dress slacks, because he'd got his car back. He returned a bit to his normal life; he made pancakes, cooked dinner, burned his tie in an ashtray one Saturday when House was gone, told House futilely not to put the dirty dishes in the oven, slept on the couch, and went to work. He hadn't heard from Julie, not once; part of him wondered what she was up to, what she thought, and part of him—the larger part—was afraid to even think about it. So he didn't think about it, tried to push it to the back of his mind, to the section padlocked and covered in caution tape. He was terrified that the moment he opened the lock he would break down; instead he cracked it apart in small increments, when he felt safe, and spilled his past in pieces—he'd talked to House three times more after that fateful Tuesday evening, each time longer and longer. Once they had been watching Blackadder and he began to cry, broken, half-stifled sobs, before he finished. House just handed him a handkerchief (only House would carry handkerchiefs) and kept watching the show, but Wilson had known he was listening, dried his tears, and continued. House did not look at him while he talked and Wilson no longer asked him to—he understood it wasn't necessary. But at night on those days there was always the piano.

Wilson never knew time could fly so quickly before a hearing. He was afraid of seeing Julie because he wasn't sure what she might do. He was fairly sure, if there was one thing she hadn't expected, it was that he'd take her to court. He was also afraid of what questions he might be asked. Reliving memories with House he found remarkably, surprisingly easy, but he was speechless in the company of anyone else, as if his throat had been sewn shut and packed with cotton (he had seen a therapist, once, before he decided that House, beer, General Hospital and James Taylor were a better cure than he'd ever hoped for), and he worried he might not be able to reply in a courtroom. Julie herself would also be there, of course, which only made it worse. He wanted to hate himself for it, but he still did not have a desire to hurt her.

He hadn't actually considered this new speaking-confidence dilemma until one Friday, after work, when he managed to convince House to go with him for pizza and a beer with Chase and Cameron. He'd given House a ride because the man's leg had been more painful than usual, and—coincidentally—they'd actually shown up at the agreed-upon time; seven. Chase had been waiting at a table in the corner, bottle of beer, red-and-white checked tablecloth and all, and Cameron, uncharacteristically, had been late.

They'd sat down and ordered—Chase remembered Cameron loved pepperoni, so they had three large stuffed-crust supremes, two half pepperoni and half ham-and-pineapple and one a vegetarian special. Wilson hadn't gone out comfortably with friends in more time than he liked to remember and he found the evening very pleasant. There was no tension, no fear, no (real) hostility—he had to include the word "real" because of House, who was never completely unhostile but could, when he wanted to, come close enough. Wilson had sipped his beer, savoring its bitterness and distinct taste on his tongue, and listened with half an ear to a discussion of House's current case, a patient who happened to have an abnormally swollen tongue. Cameron had come in just as Chase left for the bathroom and accidentally taken his seat. Wilson had guessed by looking at her that she planned on asking him something he didn't want to answer and, for that matter, probably didn't even want to think about.

"How're you holding up?" she'd said, drinking from the beer she'd just ordered as Chase returned, scowled at her and sat down in a different chair. "With the hearing. It must be really hard."

Wilson had blinked and quietly put down his own bottle. He thought for a moment and finally said, "I don't know." It was true, he'd realized, he didn't know, and he'd set to work then and there to decide whether he was holding up while House glared at Cameron and asked her why she didn't have her own business to mind and Chase picked pineapple off one pizza to drop it on his own slice.

That night, having decided that he wasn't holding up, not as well as he'd have liked anyway, was the night Wilson cried.