Knots: The Ties That Bind (11/12)
Part One (By Pitza)
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six
Part Seven
Part Eight
Part Nine
Part Ten
Wilson makes his way across the lawn; the grass under his feet is faded, but the ground feels squishy, as if it is starting to thaw. He won’t have to worry about the lawn any more. Bonus. There’s not much Wilson likes about being a homeowner, except maybe the tax deduction, and he doesn’t think about that much. He hasn’t done his own taxes in a long time.
Most of the stuff is gone from the old place; The estate sale people took care of that. He moved a few things to his new apartment, the rest of it will go to the Salvation Army, and that’s why he’s here today. He could have asked the sale crew to take it away, but wanted one last look.
He walks from room to room, too slowly. He feels strange as he notices a pale spot above the fireplace. A mirror used to hang there. He wonders about the person who bought it, how much they paid. He hopes they… something. He doesn’t know what he hopes. Right now, Wilson is living from one day to the next, not really caring about other people, but he still wonders about them.
It’s funny how so many people mistake impersonal interest for real concern; it’s funny how a life in medicine can kill a person’s willingness to care, but it might be that something in Wilson died along the way. He doesn’t know any more.
He walks through the dining room. The rug is gone, and the sound of his steps bounces off the walls. He knows that lots of good dinners happened there; he doesn’t need to remember them. He stretches his arms up to touch entrance to the kitchen. Now that the place is empty he notices flaws: a cracked floor tile next to the refrigerator, a stain on the countertop next to the sink, shaped like a thyroid; and a truly ugly light fixture.
A cardboard box filled with mismatched dishes and unwanted cookware sits open on the floor. His knees pop as he crouches next to it, the junk clacks together as he rummages. Apparently the etched glass mugs from the 1998 Oncology Congress were no more attractive to bargain hunters than the bright green salad spinner.
There’s a forceful knock at the front door. A big man on his porch looks down at him, and back to his clipboard. “Is this the Wilson residence?” Wilson looks past him at the red and white truck parked at the curb.
“Yes, everything is ready to go.” Wilson steps away from the door. The big man motions to the truck, and two guys get out of the cab and grab a dolley out of the back.
“Everything goes in the truck?”
“Most of the boxes are back there, and a few things upstairs,” Wilson says. He feels out of place as the men work quickly. He has nothing to do but stand and watch them as they handle the remains of his life, to haul it away, to be sold in a dingy little store somewhere, the proceeds will support a charitable network. He wonders whether the guys are recovering drug addicts, or maybe alcoholics. What happened to make them cogs in that machine? He can’t tell by looking at them.
“About the mattress upstairs, there’s a stain, we can’t take it,” the big man tells him.
Wilson chides himself for thinking that getting rid of the damned thing would be as easy as making a phone call. He grasps his wallet and pulls it out, trying not to let his desperation show “Two hundred bucks if you’ll take it to the dump for me.”
The man checks his watch and looks like he’s considering the offer. He’s good.
“Three hundred,” Wilson suggests. He counts out several bills and extends the wad of cash. The man shrugs and takes it.
Wilson doesn’t watch as they drag the mattress down the stairs. The big man waits until they are outside and hands Wilson an official Salvation Army receipt for a donation of miscellaneous household items. The line marked “value” is blank. Later that night, he laughs bitterly as he writes in $300. His accountant won’t get the joke.
He has known this day will come, but he made himself push it out of his head. Now it’s here and Wilson is scared because he is not mentally ready to face Cuddy. He wishes they had settled things before he left. He wonders if she still hates him for what he did to House.
He drives straight to the hospital. He waits in her reception area and flips through the latest JAMA. He pretends that it’s fascinating. A shrill sound comes from the intercom. Wilson looks up in time to see the assistant, or secretary, or whatever they’re called these days, gesture that he can go in now.
“Coffee?” Cuddy offers. Either she’s being polite, or she doesn’t know what to say any more than he does. They drink for a while. Wilson grows less comfortable with each passing second.
“Do you know Dr. Irwin Gelb?” she asks.
Wilson searches his memory to come up with an answer. Gelb is the director of the cancer center at the University of Miami. He’s one of the best-known oncologists in the country.
“Only by reputation,” he says.
“Well, he knows you, and he’s interested. I didn’t realize you were thinking about leaving Princeton.”
Wilson feels his head bob up and down. He’s embarrassed more than anything. “I didn’t know for sure that he had my information,” he says. “I did a little bit of networking while I was off.”
She taps her pen on the blotter for a few seconds. “I was surprised to get his call.”
Cuddy is being so reasonable about all this. “I’m as surprised as you,” Wilson tells her. “Ron, my friend from med school, said I should send my CV, but I had no idea that he gave it to his boss. I didn’t, I mean, I’m not necessarily looking to leave, but I thought....”
“Well, I gave you a good reference,” she says.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Wilson says.
“I was honest, that’s all.” She exhales and smiles for the first time since he came in. “If Gelb were to make you an offer, U Miami would be a good career move for you. You’re under no moral obligation to stay here.”
He doesn’t know how to respond. He pauses for a few beats and remembers why he wanted to see her. “Dr. Cuddy, I’d like to come back to work. You said six weeks when you suspended me, if I’m remembering right.”
“You can start back on Monday,” she says calmly. “We could use the help.”
“What about the thing with the prescription?” Asking the question makes his stomach lurch, but he does not want any more surprises. He can’t handle that right now. “Will there be a disciplinary hearing?”
She shakes her head. “No, nothing like that. Let’s just try to forget about it.” She looks at him, looks into him. “But be careful.”
“I was seeing a therapist, while I was off,” he says. “I think she helped.”
Cuddy shrugs, then goes back to her work. Wilson knows that the meeting is over.
He almost can’t feel his body as he leaves her office and makes his way out into the day. The air feels like water. He struggles to catch his breath; his head pounds for the first time in a couple of weeks. Cuddy might be right, but the reality of it, that he could leave this place… He almost wants a Xanax, but he settles for a couple of deep breaths. He read somewhere that they’re supposed to be calming.
He arrives early Monday morning, pressed , tied, and looking exactly like his old self. He feels like an impostor, but his key still opens the door to his office. It looks smaller than it did before he went away. He stares at the clean desk for what feels like an hour, as if a stack of case files and memos will appear out of thin air, as if House will limp in with some wild-assed guess about a new case, but nothing happens. He has no idea where to start.
Coffee seems like a good idea, then he walks up to the ward to let the charge nurse know that he’s back from where ever they were told he was.
“It’s good to see you, Dr. Wilson. Did you enjoy your vacation?” Nancy is on day shift. She looks exactly the same as she did the last time he saw her. “We thought you’d have a tan to show for it.”
“It wasn’t really that kind of vacation.” He studies the nurse’s face, hoping for some insight about what his colleagues said about him while he was away. He’s pretty sure that only House knows the truth. He would guard that secret like it was one of his own. Nancy’s expression is as bland and pleasant as ever.
“The duty roster says you’re on consults today, so it should be a nice, easy day for you,” Nancy says. “Get you back in work mode.”
“Believe it or not, I missed working,” he says. Nancy starts to laugh. “Well, I missed it a little.”
Wilson sits in his office until noon. Colleagues come and go with greetings and vague good wishes. He catches up on journal articles; he is lost in a treatise on blood replacement in last month’s Trauma. He might as well be reading a spy novel. When his pager chirps, he’s grateful for the distraction.
Robinson is one of the newer physicians in ID. Wilson knows her a little. She is a plain woman, and she speaks quietly. He recollects that she is married and has at least one child. She is looking at a radiograph on a light box; a file sits open on the table behind her.
“I noticed some abnormalities in the plasma on one of my patients,” she says, gesturing to the table. “And look at these lesions on the left side.”
Wilson picks up the file and scans the results of Robinson’s battery of tests. “Did you check for OAF?” he asks. “Look at the cytoplasm for immunoglobulin?”
She shakes her head and looks embarrassed.
“Did you run this by House? I’m sure he would have told you to do a bone marrow biopsy before you scare the patient any more than you have to.” He stops for a moment to look at the woman.
“Dr. House is in New York today,” she says. “I didn’t see him this morning, and I felt like this couldn’t wait any longer…”
“Well, your patient also has elevated serum calcium,” Wilson looks back at the patient’s blood work, wishing he had a slide and a microscope here so he could see the questionable cells. “What is House doing in New York?”
“Some meeting at the U.N. that Dr. Gorman set up. And he was interviewed last week after he got back from Geneva,” she says. “Some science reporter from the Times, Dr. House is the big news these days.”
House is probably more annoyed than ever, Wilson thinks. That’s a good reason to stay away from him for a few days.
“Your patient probably has multiple myeloma. I’ll take the file.” Wilson closes the folder. “In the mean time, continue to treat whatever got him admitted. He looks back at the light box. “Pneumonia, I assume.”
“Yes, he didn’t respond to a course of Zithromax, that’s when we got the case.”
Wilson thinks about it for a few seconds. “Try a second course, sometimes it works better the second time around.” He starts to leave, but Robinson’s voice stops him.
“We’re going to try to drag Dr. House out tonight, to celebrate his return. I know you and he are friends; if you’d like to join us, he might actually show up.”
Out, that means a bar. Wilson hasn’t been to a real bar since that night. “If you want to make sure House shows up, tell him somebody else is picking up the check,” he says.
“As a matter of fact, Dr. Gorman said he’d pay for it,” Robinson says, showing a hint of a smile. “It was his idea.”
“I can’t turn down free drinks any more than House can,” Wilson says. “But I’ve got a lot of catching up to do from my, ah, vacation.”
Robinson writes something on a slip of paper and hands it to him. He put it in his pocket as he walks away.
He debates going out longer than he needs to, he’s still wondering if he should be there as he pushes the door open and steps inside. On the other hand, it’s a cold night, and one drink won’t make an idiot out of him. He tells himself that he’s here for the company, but he knows that he came because he needs to see House.
Wilson spots the group from the hospital easily. There’s an empty chair across from House, who has clearly taken advantage of his boss’ generosity.
“You just missed Cuddy,” House announces.
“I saw her earlier, but I haven’t seen you in a couple of weeks,” Wilson says.
Patel returns to group carrying two pitchers of beer. They slosh as he sets them on the table. Wilson moves his arm too late, his sleeve is already wet. House is looking at him with an expression he can’t identify, then pushed his glass across the table. “When that settles down, I need a refill,” he says. Then he belches loud enough for the whole bar to hear him.
Wilson raises his eyebrows. “You going to do that again if I pour you another beer?”
They stare at each other for a second before House starts to laugh. “Pour me two more beers and I might get up on the table and dance.”
This already feels like a long night. Wilson fills House’s glass and a clean one for himself. The beer is cool and almost refreshing, but the second time he drinks, it seems to turn rancid in his mouth. He swallows hard and grimaces.
“So, Dr. House, are you going to desert us to find your fame and fortune in Switzerland with Dr. Gorman?” Patel asks.
“I haven’t really thought about it,” House says. He raises his glass and looks directly at Wilson. “Here’s to avoidance.”
Robinson’s pager hops on her belt. The table falls silent for a moment as they all look at her; the noise of the bar buzzes around them. “It’s my nanny,” she says with a small chuckle. “Nothing for the rest of you to worry about.”
Wilson’s face is hot from House’s toast. He wishes somebody would fill the void. “So, uh, House, how was Europe?” he asks.
“Full of Europeans,” House says. “I wandered around, I treated a patient, I wandered around some more, and I came home.” He shrugs and makes a face. “No big deal. Nobody would care except for the new monster bacteria, that’s science fiction shit, you know?”
He doesn’t, not really. He can read about it in the paper just like everybody else.
A few of the other doctors leave. A waitress stops to pick up an empty pitcher and a few glasses. Wilson asks for some water.
“We have to finish this pitcher before we can go home,” Patel announces as he grabs Wilson’s half full glass.
“Jimmy’s on the wagon,” House says.
Patel looks at Wilson with sympathy and pulls the beer back. “Oh God, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Shut up, House.” He turns to Patel and rolls his eyes. “He’s kidding, but I want to be able to drive myself home.”
Patel exhales and mentions calling a cab as he drinks again.
Wilson and House are alone. House drains his glass and slams it down. The table wobbles between them. They haven’t spoken in several minutes, they just look at each other over the remnants of a celebration that neither one of them cares about.
“I can drive you,” Wilson offers.
“I can drive myself.” House reaches for his cane, but he knocks a chair over instead.
“Hey, do you two need a cab?” the bartender calls to them. “It’s free if you’re drunk.” House starts to say something.
“I’m sober,” Wilson interrupts. “I’ve got this under control.” He walks around the table and rescues House’s cane from the puddle of beer where it landed. He wipes the shaft with a napkin. “This place is pretty disgusting, let’s get going.”
“Seems like your kind of crowd,” House slurs.
Wilson ignores him and stands behind him until he rises from his chair. “House, put your coat on, or I’ll put it on for you.”
He shouldn’t be angry, but he can’t deny that he is. It’s not House, it’s everything. Wilson is just plain mad as he guides House outside toward his car and opens the door. “Get in,” he mutters.
House sits down on the seat, but his feet remain on the ground.
“I’m sorry, Jimmy,” he says, looking up. He’s drunk, and he looks like he’s going to cry. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
Wilson crouches in front of the door, places his hands on House’s hips and tries to force him to scoot back. “Turn,” he says. House drags his left leg into the car. Wilson reaches for House’s right leg, slips both hands under his thigh and push-pulls the leg as gently as he can until it sits next to the left, where it belongs.
Wilson shouldn’t have to move House’s leg for him. Stacy shouldn’t have left. Ellen shouldn’t have left. He shouldn’t have lost his mind that night. Damn it, damn all of it. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this at all. We’ve had a lousy….” He looks up at his friend’s face and sees deep pain written on it. House must be exhausted. He’s done too much today.
“I’ll take you home.”
Read Part Twelve
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six
Part Seven
Part Eight
Part Nine
Part Ten
Wilson makes his way across the lawn; the grass under his feet is faded, but the ground feels squishy, as if it is starting to thaw. He won’t have to worry about the lawn any more. Bonus. There’s not much Wilson likes about being a homeowner, except maybe the tax deduction, and he doesn’t think about that much. He hasn’t done his own taxes in a long time.
Most of the stuff is gone from the old place; The estate sale people took care of that. He moved a few things to his new apartment, the rest of it will go to the Salvation Army, and that’s why he’s here today. He could have asked the sale crew to take it away, but wanted one last look.
He walks from room to room, too slowly. He feels strange as he notices a pale spot above the fireplace. A mirror used to hang there. He wonders about the person who bought it, how much they paid. He hopes they… something. He doesn’t know what he hopes. Right now, Wilson is living from one day to the next, not really caring about other people, but he still wonders about them.
It’s funny how so many people mistake impersonal interest for real concern; it’s funny how a life in medicine can kill a person’s willingness to care, but it might be that something in Wilson died along the way. He doesn’t know any more.
He walks through the dining room. The rug is gone, and the sound of his steps bounces off the walls. He knows that lots of good dinners happened there; he doesn’t need to remember them. He stretches his arms up to touch entrance to the kitchen. Now that the place is empty he notices flaws: a cracked floor tile next to the refrigerator, a stain on the countertop next to the sink, shaped like a thyroid; and a truly ugly light fixture.
A cardboard box filled with mismatched dishes and unwanted cookware sits open on the floor. His knees pop as he crouches next to it, the junk clacks together as he rummages. Apparently the etched glass mugs from the 1998 Oncology Congress were no more attractive to bargain hunters than the bright green salad spinner.
There’s a forceful knock at the front door. A big man on his porch looks down at him, and back to his clipboard. “Is this the Wilson residence?” Wilson looks past him at the red and white truck parked at the curb.
“Yes, everything is ready to go.” Wilson steps away from the door. The big man motions to the truck, and two guys get out of the cab and grab a dolley out of the back.
“Everything goes in the truck?”
“Most of the boxes are back there, and a few things upstairs,” Wilson says. He feels out of place as the men work quickly. He has nothing to do but stand and watch them as they handle the remains of his life, to haul it away, to be sold in a dingy little store somewhere, the proceeds will support a charitable network. He wonders whether the guys are recovering drug addicts, or maybe alcoholics. What happened to make them cogs in that machine? He can’t tell by looking at them.
“About the mattress upstairs, there’s a stain, we can’t take it,” the big man tells him.
Wilson chides himself for thinking that getting rid of the damned thing would be as easy as making a phone call. He grasps his wallet and pulls it out, trying not to let his desperation show “Two hundred bucks if you’ll take it to the dump for me.”
The man checks his watch and looks like he’s considering the offer. He’s good.
“Three hundred,” Wilson suggests. He counts out several bills and extends the wad of cash. The man shrugs and takes it.
Wilson doesn’t watch as they drag the mattress down the stairs. The big man waits until they are outside and hands Wilson an official Salvation Army receipt for a donation of miscellaneous household items. The line marked “value” is blank. Later that night, he laughs bitterly as he writes in $300. His accountant won’t get the joke.
He has known this day will come, but he made himself push it out of his head. Now it’s here and Wilson is scared because he is not mentally ready to face Cuddy. He wishes they had settled things before he left. He wonders if she still hates him for what he did to House.
He drives straight to the hospital. He waits in her reception area and flips through the latest JAMA. He pretends that it’s fascinating. A shrill sound comes from the intercom. Wilson looks up in time to see the assistant, or secretary, or whatever they’re called these days, gesture that he can go in now.
“Coffee?” Cuddy offers. Either she’s being polite, or she doesn’t know what to say any more than he does. They drink for a while. Wilson grows less comfortable with each passing second.
“Do you know Dr. Irwin Gelb?” she asks.
Wilson searches his memory to come up with an answer. Gelb is the director of the cancer center at the University of Miami. He’s one of the best-known oncologists in the country.
“Only by reputation,” he says.
“Well, he knows you, and he’s interested. I didn’t realize you were thinking about leaving Princeton.”
Wilson feels his head bob up and down. He’s embarrassed more than anything. “I didn’t know for sure that he had my information,” he says. “I did a little bit of networking while I was off.”
She taps her pen on the blotter for a few seconds. “I was surprised to get his call.”
Cuddy is being so reasonable about all this. “I’m as surprised as you,” Wilson tells her. “Ron, my friend from med school, said I should send my CV, but I had no idea that he gave it to his boss. I didn’t, I mean, I’m not necessarily looking to leave, but I thought....”
“Well, I gave you a good reference,” she says.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Wilson says.
“I was honest, that’s all.” She exhales and smiles for the first time since he came in. “If Gelb were to make you an offer, U Miami would be a good career move for you. You’re under no moral obligation to stay here.”
He doesn’t know how to respond. He pauses for a few beats and remembers why he wanted to see her. “Dr. Cuddy, I’d like to come back to work. You said six weeks when you suspended me, if I’m remembering right.”
“You can start back on Monday,” she says calmly. “We could use the help.”
“What about the thing with the prescription?” Asking the question makes his stomach lurch, but he does not want any more surprises. He can’t handle that right now. “Will there be a disciplinary hearing?”
She shakes her head. “No, nothing like that. Let’s just try to forget about it.” She looks at him, looks into him. “But be careful.”
“I was seeing a therapist, while I was off,” he says. “I think she helped.”
Cuddy shrugs, then goes back to her work. Wilson knows that the meeting is over.
He almost can’t feel his body as he leaves her office and makes his way out into the day. The air feels like water. He struggles to catch his breath; his head pounds for the first time in a couple of weeks. Cuddy might be right, but the reality of it, that he could leave this place… He almost wants a Xanax, but he settles for a couple of deep breaths. He read somewhere that they’re supposed to be calming.
He arrives early Monday morning, pressed , tied, and looking exactly like his old self. He feels like an impostor, but his key still opens the door to his office. It looks smaller than it did before he went away. He stares at the clean desk for what feels like an hour, as if a stack of case files and memos will appear out of thin air, as if House will limp in with some wild-assed guess about a new case, but nothing happens. He has no idea where to start.
Coffee seems like a good idea, then he walks up to the ward to let the charge nurse know that he’s back from where ever they were told he was.
“It’s good to see you, Dr. Wilson. Did you enjoy your vacation?” Nancy is on day shift. She looks exactly the same as she did the last time he saw her. “We thought you’d have a tan to show for it.”
“It wasn’t really that kind of vacation.” He studies the nurse’s face, hoping for some insight about what his colleagues said about him while he was away. He’s pretty sure that only House knows the truth. He would guard that secret like it was one of his own. Nancy’s expression is as bland and pleasant as ever.
“The duty roster says you’re on consults today, so it should be a nice, easy day for you,” Nancy says. “Get you back in work mode.”
“Believe it or not, I missed working,” he says. Nancy starts to laugh. “Well, I missed it a little.”
Wilson sits in his office until noon. Colleagues come and go with greetings and vague good wishes. He catches up on journal articles; he is lost in a treatise on blood replacement in last month’s Trauma. He might as well be reading a spy novel. When his pager chirps, he’s grateful for the distraction.
Robinson is one of the newer physicians in ID. Wilson knows her a little. She is a plain woman, and she speaks quietly. He recollects that she is married and has at least one child. She is looking at a radiograph on a light box; a file sits open on the table behind her.
“I noticed some abnormalities in the plasma on one of my patients,” she says, gesturing to the table. “And look at these lesions on the left side.”
Wilson picks up the file and scans the results of Robinson’s battery of tests. “Did you check for OAF?” he asks. “Look at the cytoplasm for immunoglobulin?”
She shakes her head and looks embarrassed.
“Did you run this by House? I’m sure he would have told you to do a bone marrow biopsy before you scare the patient any more than you have to.” He stops for a moment to look at the woman.
“Dr. House is in New York today,” she says. “I didn’t see him this morning, and I felt like this couldn’t wait any longer…”
“Well, your patient also has elevated serum calcium,” Wilson looks back at the patient’s blood work, wishing he had a slide and a microscope here so he could see the questionable cells. “What is House doing in New York?”
“Some meeting at the U.N. that Dr. Gorman set up. And he was interviewed last week after he got back from Geneva,” she says. “Some science reporter from the Times, Dr. House is the big news these days.”
House is probably more annoyed than ever, Wilson thinks. That’s a good reason to stay away from him for a few days.
“Your patient probably has multiple myeloma. I’ll take the file.” Wilson closes the folder. “In the mean time, continue to treat whatever got him admitted. He looks back at the light box. “Pneumonia, I assume.”
“Yes, he didn’t respond to a course of Zithromax, that’s when we got the case.”
Wilson thinks about it for a few seconds. “Try a second course, sometimes it works better the second time around.” He starts to leave, but Robinson’s voice stops him.
“We’re going to try to drag Dr. House out tonight, to celebrate his return. I know you and he are friends; if you’d like to join us, he might actually show up.”
Out, that means a bar. Wilson hasn’t been to a real bar since that night. “If you want to make sure House shows up, tell him somebody else is picking up the check,” he says.
“As a matter of fact, Dr. Gorman said he’d pay for it,” Robinson says, showing a hint of a smile. “It was his idea.”
“I can’t turn down free drinks any more than House can,” Wilson says. “But I’ve got a lot of catching up to do from my, ah, vacation.”
Robinson writes something on a slip of paper and hands it to him. He put it in his pocket as he walks away.
He debates going out longer than he needs to, he’s still wondering if he should be there as he pushes the door open and steps inside. On the other hand, it’s a cold night, and one drink won’t make an idiot out of him. He tells himself that he’s here for the company, but he knows that he came because he needs to see House.
Wilson spots the group from the hospital easily. There’s an empty chair across from House, who has clearly taken advantage of his boss’ generosity.
“You just missed Cuddy,” House announces.
“I saw her earlier, but I haven’t seen you in a couple of weeks,” Wilson says.
Patel returns to group carrying two pitchers of beer. They slosh as he sets them on the table. Wilson moves his arm too late, his sleeve is already wet. House is looking at him with an expression he can’t identify, then pushed his glass across the table. “When that settles down, I need a refill,” he says. Then he belches loud enough for the whole bar to hear him.
Wilson raises his eyebrows. “You going to do that again if I pour you another beer?”
They stare at each other for a second before House starts to laugh. “Pour me two more beers and I might get up on the table and dance.”
This already feels like a long night. Wilson fills House’s glass and a clean one for himself. The beer is cool and almost refreshing, but the second time he drinks, it seems to turn rancid in his mouth. He swallows hard and grimaces.
“So, Dr. House, are you going to desert us to find your fame and fortune in Switzerland with Dr. Gorman?” Patel asks.
“I haven’t really thought about it,” House says. He raises his glass and looks directly at Wilson. “Here’s to avoidance.”
Robinson’s pager hops on her belt. The table falls silent for a moment as they all look at her; the noise of the bar buzzes around them. “It’s my nanny,” she says with a small chuckle. “Nothing for the rest of you to worry about.”
Wilson’s face is hot from House’s toast. He wishes somebody would fill the void. “So, uh, House, how was Europe?” he asks.
“Full of Europeans,” House says. “I wandered around, I treated a patient, I wandered around some more, and I came home.” He shrugs and makes a face. “No big deal. Nobody would care except for the new monster bacteria, that’s science fiction shit, you know?”
He doesn’t, not really. He can read about it in the paper just like everybody else.
A few of the other doctors leave. A waitress stops to pick up an empty pitcher and a few glasses. Wilson asks for some water.
“We have to finish this pitcher before we can go home,” Patel announces as he grabs Wilson’s half full glass.
“Jimmy’s on the wagon,” House says.
Patel looks at Wilson with sympathy and pulls the beer back. “Oh God, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Shut up, House.” He turns to Patel and rolls his eyes. “He’s kidding, but I want to be able to drive myself home.”
Patel exhales and mentions calling a cab as he drinks again.
Wilson and House are alone. House drains his glass and slams it down. The table wobbles between them. They haven’t spoken in several minutes, they just look at each other over the remnants of a celebration that neither one of them cares about.
“I can drive you,” Wilson offers.
“I can drive myself.” House reaches for his cane, but he knocks a chair over instead.
“Hey, do you two need a cab?” the bartender calls to them. “It’s free if you’re drunk.” House starts to say something.
“I’m sober,” Wilson interrupts. “I’ve got this under control.” He walks around the table and rescues House’s cane from the puddle of beer where it landed. He wipes the shaft with a napkin. “This place is pretty disgusting, let’s get going.”
“Seems like your kind of crowd,” House slurs.
Wilson ignores him and stands behind him until he rises from his chair. “House, put your coat on, or I’ll put it on for you.”
He shouldn’t be angry, but he can’t deny that he is. It’s not House, it’s everything. Wilson is just plain mad as he guides House outside toward his car and opens the door. “Get in,” he mutters.
House sits down on the seat, but his feet remain on the ground.
“I’m sorry, Jimmy,” he says, looking up. He’s drunk, and he looks like he’s going to cry. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
Wilson crouches in front of the door, places his hands on House’s hips and tries to force him to scoot back. “Turn,” he says. House drags his left leg into the car. Wilson reaches for House’s right leg, slips both hands under his thigh and push-pulls the leg as gently as he can until it sits next to the left, where it belongs.
Wilson shouldn’t have to move House’s leg for him. Stacy shouldn’t have left. Ellen shouldn’t have left. He shouldn’t have lost his mind that night. Damn it, damn all of it. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this at all. We’ve had a lousy….” He looks up at his friend’s face and sees deep pain written on it. House must be exhausted. He’s done too much today.
“I’ll take you home.”
Read Part Twelve