You Already Know How This Will End: Part 3
Notes in Part 1.
21. Friends
The weather turns warm overnight, and the counselors urge all of the Phase III residents out into the sunshine after morning group. House takes his cell phone with him and limps over to a bench on the west side of the building, away from the walking path. He's allowed the phone to charge without interruption for three days, since the Cameron call. He has two more calls to make. He picks the easier.
"Hello?" Stacy sounds out-of-breath.
"Stacy, it's Greg."
"Greg," she says. "Well. I was wondering."
He smiles a little. Of course, she's talked to Cuddy, probably. "You were expecting me."
"You're never someone I expect," she says. He hears the sound of a door closing behind her.
"Where are you?"
"I'm in my car," she says. "In the parking lot at a restaurant. I'm - meeting Mark for lunch."
House swallows. He squints against the sun. "And how is Mark?"
"He's fine," she says. "He's getting better."
"Aren't we all." House closes his eyes. "You know why I'm calling?"
"I assume it's because someone's blackmailing you." Her tone is as wry and lovely as ever, but for once, for once, it's not what he wants to hear.
"I do owe you this," he says. "Stacy -"
"I'm sorry, too," she says. "Jesus, Greg, you know how sorry I am."
"Yeah," he says. His voice comes out rough. He clears his throat. "So, I was thinking. We should - there's this thing, people try. It's called being friends."
"I've heard of it," Stacy says.
"I'm a little rusty," he admits.
Stacy laughs. It is the best sound House has heard in five weeks, maybe in five years. "You sound good," she says. "God, you sound fucking wonderful, Greg. How are you?"
"I'm not cured," he says quickly. "I'm the same bastard as always, only now we know it's not the Vicodin causing it."
"That's not true."
He shudders, and rubs his hand over his face. It doesn't come back wet, not really. "What if it is?"
He hears her take a deep breath, and he squeezes his eyes shut even more, tries to imagine sitting in the car next to her, her smooth skin, her laughing, certain eyes. "It's not," she says. "You know it's not."
"I don't."
"I do. You - you've done some things, recently, things that aren't you. This, this guy on the phone, this is you. This is Greg House. I recognize you." She takes another breath. "You need to call Wilson."
House almost laughs. He opens his eyes and takes a short, gasping breath. "And then I'll be cured?"
"He's your best friend."
"Was," House says. "I'm currently auditioning others for the role."
"You haven't called him yet because you know you were wrong," Stacy says.
"I lost his number."
"He thinks you won't call."
House pauses at this. He assumed Stacy had talked to Cuddy, but there is, of course, another option. "You've talked to him?"
He tries not to think about what Wilson and Stacy might talk about, tries not to picture Wilson sitting in his office, picking up the phone, telling Stacy what he'd done. "He's a friend," she says. "We've talked a lot since I left."
"Keeping tabs on me?"
"Actually, yes. He's been worried about you." She pauses, and House closes his eyes again.
"Wilson worries as a hobby."
"He loves you, Greg," she says, and House winces. "He's been worried about you since I left the first time. And now he made a deal with the devil to save you from prison, from your own goddamned stubborn self, and he's lost you for it." The silence between them is horrible, but House can't say anything. "He's miserable," she says after a moment.
He should be, House thinks, but it's an automatic thought, with no rancor behind it. He coughs. "So, about this friends thing," he says after a moment.
Her voice sounds wet, teary. "It sounds like a good idea," she says. "Something to look into, at least."
"Yeah, I thought so, too."
"How much longer -"
"Two weeks," he says. "Unless I'm paroled for good behavior."
"So two weeks, then." She pauses. "You'll call again, won't you?"
"Yes," he promises. "I will."
22. Enemies
Darien sits beside him at lunch, at a small table at the back where they won't be disturbed. "Almost out," he says, and House looks up from his mashed potatoes. "You got plans for when you get back?"
He shrugs. He wants to make a joke about driving into Trenton to score, but the counselors watch too closely for that kind of thing. "Figure I'll spend the first week catching up on my TiVo."
"You gonna go to meetings?"
House shrugs. "I'm not a big meeting person."
Darien grins. "Yeah, me neither, man, so here I am." He looks around the room. His food hasn't been touched. "You know, I'm thinking I might try for good this time."
House gives up on his mashed potatoes. Oh, what he wouldn't give for Wilson's pancakes. "Yeah? You going straight?"
"Might as well." Darien picks up his chicken sandwich and takes a bite. He doesn't let this stop him from continuing to talk. "You know what I like about this place?"
"The non-communal showers?"
"All these places, they're always saying, you know, drugs're the enemy. You gotta keep on your guard." He takes another bite, chews thoughtfully. "This place, they got it right, I think. It's not the drugs. It's the choices, right?" He nods to himself. "I like that. I like the choice. I think, you know, I can do that every day. Today's not so bad, I can make it through to tomorrow. That's all I got to do." He drinks from his milk carton. "So how about you? You going straight?"
"I don't have much choice."
Darien shakes his head so vigorously that House sees a small piece of chicken fly across to the next table. "No, man, no, you see, that's where I was. I was thinking, I was in these places 'cuz I had to be - 'cuz my girl said I had to get clean, 'cuz my boss said it was time, 'cuz I ran out of money. This time, I just said, shit, it's time. It's time for me. You always got a choice, you know?"
"Not always," House grinds out, the heel of his hand rubbing into his thigh.
"For this stuff, you do." Darien sets the sandwich down and leans forward. "I worry about you," he says. "I feel bad for you."
"Your concern is touching," House sneers.
"You got a girl? Somebody to help you out when you get out? 'Cuz it can be tough, man. I didn't last my first week."
House grabs his tray and struggles to his feet. "I'll be fine." It's only ten feet to the trashcan, so he limps it without his cane, then goes back to get it.
Darien shakes his head. "You're gonna go back," he says, his voice full of wonder and disappointment. "You're walkin' around here just fine, and you're still thinking about it, aren't you? Still thinking about your little pills and all that good stuff."
It's as though something snaps, some tense string in House's chest that's been winding tighter and tighter for the last six weeks. No one fucking gets it. He slams his hands down on the table and Darien's tray clatters and nearly jumps to the floor. "Of course I'm thinking about it!" he yells. "I'm a fucking addict, you moron! What else am I going to be thinking about?"
His chest is heaving. Darien's face, though it briefly flashed with fear, is now calm, back to wondering. House pulls his hands back from the table. He feels shaky and uncomfortable, and he grabs his cane from where it's fallen. As he starts to walk away, he hears Darien clapping. As he walks through the door, one of the other Phase III guys stops and claps him on the shoulder.
"'Bout fucking time for you, man," he says.
House goes straight to Gloria's office. His leg burns. He pushes the door open without knocking, interrupts her eating a sandwich. He opens his mouth to ask her for more pain meds, hears himself say, "I need -" and then stops.
"Greg?"
He leans against the doorframe. What he needs is to pace. To run between the small walls, to bounce from corner to corner, to rage and rage and rage until it's five years ago and everything is fine again. Just the thought of walking makes him tired. "I haven't had a good night's sleep since the infarction," he says.
Gloria sets her sandwich down. "OK," she says. "Let's talk about that."
23. Lovers
Cameron and Chase sit on the same side of the table, working on the same crossword. Her arm is pressed against his, her chin almost on his shoulder, and neither of them seems weirded out by this. Foreman is weirded out. He clears his throat, and Cameron looks up, moves back just a little. "Good morning," she says.
"Morning." He sets his own newspaper down on the table. Chase has on a smug look that Foreman tries to neither see nor think about. "Sounds like we might have a case."
Chase huffs. Foreman turns and is kind of glad to see that he and Cameron have separated, as Chase is leaning back in his chair and she's reaching for a folder on the other side of the desk. "Boring," he says, sounding alarmingly like House. "It's just Wilson taking pity on us."
"Or trying to gear us up for House's return."
They haven't talked about this much. There's no set date for House to be back, but Foreman has assumed that it will be sometime next week. His two months in rehab will be up in about a week. "You know," Foreman says, looking around before he takes his seat at the table, "you guys might think of cooling it a little when House gets back."
Chase blanches. "What, you think he'll have a problem?"
"I think," Foreman says, keeping his voice even, trying to be clinical, "he's probably going to expect things to be just about how he left them."
"Do you think anything will change?" Cameron asks.
Foreman looks down at his coffee. He thinks about his own expectations, two years ago, coming into this job. He'd heard House was tough, he'd heard he was crazy, he'd heard he was brilliant. The job has exceeded his expectations in every way. "I don't know," he says. "I guess I hope for the best."
"What would the best even look like?" Chase asks.
Foreman has no answer.
They do have a case, and it is, like Chase predicted, boring. They order an MRI anyway, and Foreman sits in the office waiting for the results. He sees Wilson walk by and wonders what his expectations for House's return must look like. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, he thinks, but he knows it isn't true. He's not Cameron and he doesn't believe in fairy tales. He cannot see any logical way that House and Wilson will ever be friends again, and he's already dreading watching that happen.
He can understand exactly why Wilson has been friends with House for all of these years. He is only just beginning to understand, though, why House has chosen Wilson. The whole time he's been working for House, he's seen why people might be drawn to him - he's brilliant, even when he's a jackass, and he always has a reason for the things he does.
Wilson is the same way. He's more reasonable about things, perhaps, but at his core, he's perhaps even more logic-driven than House. Oncology seems like a soft profession, a profession where the answers are nearly always the same, where protocols dominate the treatment plan, but Foreman can see where a doctor like Wilson would be a medical marvel in the field. The ability to mathematically, calculatingly apply treatments that make patients wish for death while working to stave it off - well, that takes a kind of coldness, a remove, that Foreman can appreciate. And Wilson manages to do it all with an unscathed veneer of humanity. He is loved, and he is admired, though perhaps not so unquestioningly by House.
Chase brings back the results, which are exactly what they expected. "Where's Cameron?"
"Talking to the family," Chase says. His voice holds the disdain it always used to.
"So what's with you guys, exactly?" Foreman asks.
Chase shrugs. "We're - I don't know, really. Not exactly dating."
"Just having lots of sex."
Chase rolls his head around. It's refreshing to see him this uncomfortable. It's like old times. "Something like that." He turns to leave, then stops at the door. "I think you're probably right, by the way. It might be easier if House doesn't know, right away, that we're - that Cameron and I are - lovers," he finishes. Foreman smiles at the awkward strain of Chase's voice.
"It'll be good to have him back," he says.
"Yeah," Chase admits. "I think so, too."
24. Family
House has intensive individual therapy for three days after his outburst. He meets with Gloria in the morning and in the afternoon, and he doesn't have to go to group therapy. They talk about his leg, his job, Tritter. They talk about Stacy. They talk about his mom and his dad. They talk about Wilson, until House has to change the topic.
He leaves his sessions feeling wrung out, limp, impotent, even. He misses General Hospital every day, because he can't make the trip to the TV room. Too many people. The drama feels unnecessary, anyway. He sleeps a lot.
On the fourth day, he goes to lunch on time, and Darien sits next to him. They haven't spoken since the outburst in the cafeteria. "Man," he says, sitting across from House. The food between them is all in shades of brown: pale noodles, grilled chicken, slices of chocolate cake. "You missed a good one in group this morning."
"Yeah?"
They gossip easily, with familiarity. It makes House feel less upside-down, less raw and peeling inside. As Darien leaves, he taps the table just next to House's tray. "Get yourself good and worked out," he says. "It's no fun without you."
House nods. He stays at the table until the room is empty, and then he carefully clears his place and goes back to his room. He stares at the cell phone until he falls asleep with his head against the cinderblock wall.
The next day, Gloria sees him in the morning and they talk, or don't talk, about Wilson the whole time. At the end of the hour, she says, "Dr. Earle is coming this afternoon. So let's take the day off."
House nods. He spends a lot of time not talking, now. He's afraid of what he might say.
It's a family group day for Darien. His mother and sister and the woman who is the mother of his daughter have come out. This is the second trip, though last time, they only met with the counselors and then took a walk and left. This time, they come to lunch, as well, and sit with Darien in a little suspicious circle off to the side. Darien waves at House as he goes by, but doesn't call him over, and House is glad. They're OK.
House called his mother and father during the first week that he had the phone. They talked about the weather, about an upcoming cruise they were planning, about his aunt's declining health. He'd been honest with them both, said he was in a place working some things out, and he'd hung up quickly and decided that even Earle couldn't have expected more. He tries to imagine them visiting and can't get past the awkward possibilities of the greetings in his head.
After General Hospital, House walks by Darien's room and sees him sitting on his bed, looking at a magazine. It's glossy and new, so his family must have brought it along. House taps on the door with his cane. "How was your baby-mama?" he asks, and Darien snorts.
"They're all good," he says. "I told them you're a gangster from Princeton. They liked that. They think it's cool."
"All the chicks think I'm cool," House says. Darien shakes his head and waves the magazine, and House heads to his own room.
Dr. Earle is waiting there, sitting calmly in the desk chair, looking at House's cell phone. "Are you here for family therapy?" House asks.
"I hear you've made some impressive progress," he says, looking up. "About time."
"I'm a slow learner," House says, and Earle shakes his head.
"Let's take a walk, Doctor."
They go out onto the grounds, where the temperature is low but the sun is bright. The trees keep the wind low, and it's not uncomfortable, once they're moving. "Everyone but Dr. Wilson," Earle says. House shrugs. He has no ready response for this. "You actually did better than I thought."
"I aim to exceed."
"How is your pain?"
House shrugs. It's better, though he doesn't like to say that aloud. They have him on a new regimen, tramadol injections and gabapentin and physical therapy, and over the last two weeks, he's noticed improvements. He tries not to think about it too much, because in a week he'll be back at work, and he can't imagine how he's going to work an hour of stretching into his daily routine. "I can walk," he says. "Ready for duty, sir, and all that."
Earle tips his head. "Are you going to be ready to go back to work immediately?"
"Is that an option?"
"Once you're out of here, who's to say what you do."
House snorts. "You, I'm guessing."
"Oh, the sponsor relationship is much less hands-on than one might imagine," Earle says. "Though I will expect you to show me around your hospital sometime, and perhaps play the gracious host if I come down for a conference." His voice softens. "And I will always be available to you, should you need to talk to or at someone."
House nods. It is the closest he can come to saying thank you, and Earle nods back.
Earle stops at the corner of the walkway and draws out the cell phone, turns to House. House stops a few feet away. He puts one hand in his pocket, grips his cane tightly. "You're leaving in less than a week," he says.
The phone looks sinister, suddenly, an instrument of doom. House wonders how much Earle knows about this week, about the therapy, the outburst. "Do you want me to call him now?"
"Actually, I have a better idea," Earle says. He dials a number and lifts the phone to his ear. "Yes, in Plainsboro. Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Yes, connect me, thank you." House turns away. He tries to think of what he might say to Wilson, how he could even start a conversation. The last time they talked - when House had made his call to Cuddy - it was angry, awkward. Wilson had sounded scared and angry, and House - well. His feelings had been the same.
"Yes, hello," Earle says, and House turns back to him. "This is Dr. Vance Earle from Massachusetts General. I need to speak with Dr. James Wilson. Yes, an emergency." He looks up at House. "They're paging him."
House wonders where Wilson is at this moment. He hopes he's not in with one of his cancer patients - nothing annoys him more than being drawn away from his sweet little sufferers. Not a good way to start this conversation.
The wait drags on. House starts to feel cold - his nose is sore, the tips of his ears hurt. He raises a hand to warm them. At home, he has a hat. He has sweaters, and a coat, and a coffeemaker, and most likely an empty fridge and an unmade bed and - shit - a dead rat. He'd meant to ask Cameron to feed Steve.
Earle smiles. "Dr. Wilson? No, I'm sorry, it's actually Vance Earle. I'm - yes. Well, that's kind. I'm a friend of Dr. House's, yes," he says, and House looks down at that. A friend, he thinks. He's surprised at how satisfying it is to hear that descriptor. "Right. No, he's fine. He's very good, actually. As difficult as you would expect." House looks up, sees the laughing smirk on Earle's face, and suddenly can hear Wilson's voice, the dry amusement of it, can see the skeptical curve of his eyebrow. Wilson, he thinks, I am so, so sorry. "Anyway, I'm calling today because I'm supposed to pick him up, this Saturday, his release day, but I've had something come up. I wondered if you might be able to meet him."
House's stomach plummets. He starts to shake his head, but Earle holds up a hand to cut off the argument. "He knows about the arrangement, and he's in favor. Yes. All right, good, then. Noon is the usual checkout time. Excellent. I'll leave word at the front gate to expect you. All right. Yes, you too. Goodbye."
He lowers the phone and looks at House, his eyes steady, maybe even a bit amused. House feels dizzy, and angry, and frightened, and - grateful. "So that's settled," Earle says. He puts the phone back in his pocket. "I see you've even left me some time on the phone."
House shakes his head. He falls into step with Earle as they turn back toward the complex. "What did he say?"
"He said he'll be here at noon," Earle says. He looks over, and there's a wry and somehow understanding twist to his grin. "Did you expect something else?"
"I don't know," House says. Four days of therapy, two months of rehab, and this is where he is: he doesn't know anything. He stops and presses his fist against his forehead, and it feels cold and hot all at once. Earle says nothing, just paces a little bit forward and half-turns back to him, keeping his head down. And House just pauses, just feels the cold and the pain in his leg and the protest in his head. He's not ready to leave. He looks up, and he wants to say this, but Earle shakes his head.
"You're going to be fine," he says. As House catches up to him, Earle hands him the cell phone. "I'll see you after you're out," he says. "But if you need anything before then, I'm programmed in."
The phone makes him feel better, somehow, even when he goes to his empty room.
25. Strangers
Cameron wakes up at Chase's apartment for the first time on a Thursday morning. It takes her a moment to figure out where she is. Chase's bedroom is very plain, the walls white and bare, the floor of scuffed wood with no rugs. The bed is very nice, the mattress thick, comfortable, the comforter and pillows and sheets all expensive, all leftovers from life before the end of his father's money. The apartment came after that - he has moved within the last year, over a weekend the fall. It's strange to her, now, that she didn't know about it when it happened. That Chase organized and completed a move without her or Foreman helping out.
She gets out of the bed and goes to the bathroom down the hall, where things are again neat and bare. Chase has a few random toiletries on the sink and nothing unexpected in the medicine cabinet. She uses his mouthwash and his floss, and thinks she should start keeping a toothbrush in her purse. His shampoo is functional, inexpensive, sharp-smelling, and his soap is coarse. Chase is new to frugality. It's funny, actually, because their salaries are pretty good, all things considered. Cameron is awash in debt from med school, but she's certainly more comfortable now than she was then. Chase can't possibly have anything to pay back; she wonders where all of his money goes.
It's strange to be sleeping with someone and not to know more about them. She dresses and goes back to the bedroom, where Chase is just waking up.
"'s early," he mutters, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "You're leaving?"
She crosses her arms. "I was just thinking," she says, watching him sit up, watching the clean smooth lines of muscles in his shoulders as he sits up against the headboard. "Do you think we should tell House?"
Chase blinks. "Right now?" She glares. "Uh, I dunno. I mean, he's House, so he's going to catch on whether we want him to or not."
"I think we should tell him," she says, nodding as much to convince him as to convince herself. "Only I guess I don't know what to tell him." Chase stifles a yawn, and Cameron feels a flare of annoyance for him, for his easy life until now, for his comfortable nakedness. "What is it you think we're doing?" she asks.
His eyes get wide, but she doesn't back down. This is something she's learned from House, at least; standing her ground with Chase is no problem at all. "Well, uh, we're sleeping together. Quite a lot." She keeps staring at him, watches as he begins to blush, a faint pink spread across his cheeks that spreads to his neck. "I like it."
"You don't think it's weird?" she asks.
"I dunno," he says. "It's certainly not the weirdest thing in my life right now."
Cameron sits on the bed, her back to him, and leans forward. She rests her head in her hands. It seems so fast. With her husband, it had been fast, too, but that had been for a reason - they'd been on a timeline. She has that same feeling, here, that same urgency, and yet she can't think of a reason why. The only approaching deadline she knows of is House's return to the office. Chase puts his hand on her shoulder. "What's this all about?"
"I feel like we're strangers. I - I don't know anything about your life, what it's like to be you," she says, turning to him. She feels a little desperate, and she thinks she must look it, too, from his face.
He swallows and shakes his head and seems to surface. "That's stupid," he says. "I know you. We - we practically live together already, what with all the time at work."
Cameron shakes her head, shakes off his hand. "Just because I know what test you'll order on a given patient doesn't make us close." She leaves unsaid what she's thinking: just because I fuck you doesn't make us close, either.
"All right," Chase says slowly, "sure, but it's more than that. I mean, isn't it?"
Cameron shrugs. She can't see a difference. A voice in her head that sounds like House asks whether it matters, in the end, whether anyone actually knows anyone.
Chase grips her shoulder. "I know how you take your coffee," he says after a moment. "And that you like the capuccinos from the cart in the lobby better than the ones from the cafeteria."
"The guy in the lobby uses less foam," Cameron says. She looks over. She knows what Chase looks like when he's disappointed, when he's angry, when he's passionate. Maybe that's enough. "You like your tea black, without sugar, unless it's Earl Grey," she says, and he nods and smiles.
"Then a lump can't hurt." She leans into him. "We could try the dating thing, though, if you'd like."
She looks up at him, at his familiar, pretty face, and feels a rush of something that might be hope. "That might be nice," she says, and he smiles before he kisses her.
26. Teammates
Lisa goes to the grocery store after work. She used to shop for food once a week, Sunday in the early mornings, while most of the annoying people were sleeping or at church. Now, she doesn't know what will sound good from day to day, so she's in the freezer section at Whole Foods with a basket, staring at the family-sized meals. She pulls her phone from her purse and a lasagna from the case at the same time.
"Do you have plans this evening?" she asks when Wilson answers.
"No," he says. He sounds out of breath. "Well, not really. I just put the last box in my car, from House's place. I've got to get checked in at the hotel."
"Have you eaten yet?" She turns the lasagna box over in her hands, reads the nutritional information with a brief thrill of horror. She puts it in her basket when he says no. "Come by my place before you check in."
He shows up an hour later. She answers the door wearing oven mitts on both hands. "What's your skill level with lasagna?" she asks.
"Moderate," he says, taking the mitts. He pulls the aluminum tray out of the oven and slides a knife into the center, then steps back and washes his hands thoroughly - almost surgically - at her sink. He sticks his index finger into the middle of the pasta and says, "How long was it in?"
"Forty minutes," she says. "The box said 35 to 45."
"Let it sit for ten or fifteen and it'll be ready." He recovers it with foil, then snaps off the oven. She offers him water and wishes she'd thought to open some wine for him. She threw most of it out the week before, trying to get the crisp taste of a good white out of her head. She doesn't even have soda in the fridge.
"I take it the nausea's better?" he asks, following her into the living room.
"Just mornings," she says. "And I make up for what I lose at night."
He laughs. He's sitting very stiffly in her armchair. Please don't make this harder, she thinks. "I had an appointment with Ferrimor," she says.
"Betsy?" She nods. "I didn't know she was practicing any more."
"Part time, in Princeton. Near County."
Betsy Ferrimor worked at Princeton-Plainsboro for seven years, including two as department chair in obstetrics. She'd resigned to stay home with her kids after her partner had been promoted to department chair in mathematics at the university. She is warm and professional and, perhaps most importantly, no longer tapped in to the Princeton-Plainsboro gossip loop.
"She was always very good," Wilson says, nodding. "And she seemed nice."
"She is."
He clears his throat. "Did she say -"
"Everything's fine," she says, and it's a little gratifying to see Wilson blink at that, to see a flicker of relief on his face. "I'm considered high risk because of my age, and the miscarriage, so I have to go back in a month."
He nods. His face is blank, but when he looks up, his eyes are curious and hopeful. "If you let me know when it is, I'd like to come along," he says. "If that's all right."
She has to clear her throat. It's what she's wanted, really, and she hasn't thought about it. "Of course," she says. "I can get you the dates tomorrow. It's a Tuesday, I think."
"OK."
She rubs her throat. The room smells like tomatoes and garlic and melted cheese, and her stomach rumbles its approval. She looks up at Wilson, who is still smiling fondly. "We should maybe talk about this now, huh?"
"If you're ready," he says.
She's not, not quite, but at least she has a plan. "Well, I've been thinking about some logistics," she says. "You said you're moving out of House's place, and I take it you don't have a place of your own yet."
He shrugs. "I looked at a few last week."
What would be nice, right now, is a glass of wine, she thinks, something to hold in her hand, to twirl just so. She leans forward a little, just slightly, holds herself perfectly in check, puts on her best sales face. "I have a proposal," she says.
Wilson flinches, and Lisa smirks. "Not that kind of proposal," she says. "I don't think either of us wants to see another Mrs. Dr. Wilson in the world." He laughs and eases back in his chair, a little, and this is better, this is more like it, she thinks. "Besides, we're not really on that path."
"Right," he says. "So what’s your proposal?"
"I think you should move in," she says. Wilson's eyes widen, and he sits forward. Before he can start to argue with her, she continues on, using her sharpest voice. "You've got no good place to stay. I've got all of this extra room. And it might be - good, for us, for me, to have some help around here during the pregnancy."
"Are you talking, like, for good?" he asks, his eyes still wide.
"No. Just until the baby is born." She smiles. "Or until one of us gets sick of the other. No strings. I think, we try it out for a few months, and if it's working, we go with it for a few more." She can see him thinking it over, knows she's already overwhelmed him but wants to keep pushing. "It would be easier for you to be involved, this way."
He stands up and paces behind the chair. "People will talk," he says.
She snorts and leans back into the couch. "They're going to talk anyway, particularly once the baby is born."
He's convinced, she thinks, he just needs a few minutes to talk himself up to it. It's something she's used to, something she sees with donors all the time. She can be generous. "I understand if you need to think about it," she says, standing up herself. "For now, let's just eat."
They go into the kitchen. She hands him a knife and a serving spatula, then grabs wide bowls and forks. They shuffle around each other at her kitchen island, and when they're both served, he carries the plates to the dining room while she carries their glasses. It's comfortable and easy, this teamwork, this settled, friendly feeling between them. She looks up as she sits down and knows he's seeing it too. Wilson has really never lived without a woman, as far as she knows. He probably misses things like this.
"OK," he says, after the second bite.
"OK, you'll move in?"
"Yes."
She grins and manages to keep the triumph out of her voice thanks to years of practice. "When?" she asks.
"How about tonight?"
27. Parents
The drive to Seabrook takes an hour and a half. Wilson doesn't stop. He plugs his phone into the dashboard holder and talks hands-free to everyone who will answer the phone. While he's talking, he doesn't have to think about the trip to come. He calls his parents, who he hasn't talked to much since his divorce.
"So what are you doing with your Saturday?" she asks.
He is not like House; he can lie to his mother without a problem. "Just going to catch up with a friend," he says.
He thinks, for a moment, he should tell her about the baby, but Cuddy doesn't want to tell anyone yet, and he thinks his parents probably count into that. Besides which, his mother's reaction is likely to be confused, and he doesn’t have the presence of mind today to explain it all to her. Instead, he tells her he's moved in with a friend, for the time being.
"Is it Dr. House?"
"No," Wilson says, "not this time." They met House at Wilson's first wedding, and that was the impression that stuck. That House had been spry, two-legged, non-addicted. The bitter House that had attended Wilson's last two weddings had invoked only his mother's pity and interest; she continues to think that his is the normal state of bachelorhood, that all single men are endlessly unhappy. "It's another doctor, from work."
"Another bachelor?
Wilson sighs. "In a manner of speaking," he says.
"Well," she says. "Well. I just hope you can be happy, again, James."
Wilson takes one hand off the steering wheel to pound against his forehead. "I'm working on it, Mom."
They spend ten minutes talking about his brother and his brother's lovely wife and their lovely little children. Wilson actually thinks his brother's kids are brats, spoiled little lumps who watch too much television. They are, like his brother, computer geeks, video-game addicts, indoor-dwellers. Wilson is the only member of his family that eats salad. He is also the first person anyone calls when one of the kids has a cold. Wilson pulls off the highway at the turn for Seabrook. "Mom, I've got to go," he says.
"It was certainly nice of you to call," she says, in her long-suffering voice. "I hope we can hear from you again soon."
"Sure, Mom." They hang up without saying anything else. Wilson only says I love you to his wife, and then only because she says it first. Said.
The guard at the gate looks at his photo ID, checks a list, and directs him to Building 14. Wilson is ten minutes early, so he drives slowly through the campus, loops around a back building and past a softball field, before he parks in front of 14. It's a modern, red bricked building of about four or five stories. Inside, there's no lobby, just a bank of elevators. A tall black man dressed in jeans and a red rugby shirt is waiting. He looks Wilson over and seems either unsurprised or unconcerned with what he sees. "I'm Carl," he says. He doesn't offer his hand. "I've been Greg's floor supervisor."
Wilson nods as though he knows what that means. "Is he ready to go?"
Carl snorts. "Nobody's ever ready," he says. He puts a key into the elevator panel and calls the elevator. Inside, he has to put the key in again before they can travel to the third floor. "You family?"
Wilson almost laughs. "Do we look alike?"
"Most people have a brother or a mother coming to get them," he says.
"We're friends," Wilson says, though he's not at all sure that's true. "We work together."
This seems to catch Carl's interest, because he turns. "You're a doctor." Wilson nods. Carl shakes his head, clearly unhappy, maybe even disgusted. The doors open before Wilson can ask more.
They walk into a lobby that's wide and white and bright. To the right, Wilson sees a lunchroom, crowded with people sitting at small tables, hunched over trays of food. Everything is clean and organized. It's such a hospital feeling that Wilson feels right at home. Carl has stopped a few feet ahead. "He's in his room," he says, leading Wilson down a hall to the left.
This part feels more like a college dorm than a hospital. They pass four identical rooms - single bed against the wall, pale, thin blanket over the top, small pine desk and chair. None of the rooms have doors. Wilson winces at that detail. Carl stops just short of the fifth door and points. Wilson takes a deep breath and smoothes his hands down his shirt front. He steps forward.
House is sitting in the desk chair, his cane leaning against his shoulder. He's wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, and he looks very plain and small in his plain, small room. He's looking down at the desk, but his head turns up when Wilson steps in. "House," Wilson says.
House clears his throat, and his eyes focus, and he doesn't look so small anymore. He says, "Don't you look snappy." The tone of his voice fills the room, and Wilson leans against the doorframe just for a moment, relieved. It's a tone he recognizes; it's a House he knows.
"Just for you," Wilson says, and House smiles. It's a half-smile, uncomfortable but real. House looks up, past Wilson, and Wilson realizes Carl must be behind him. "Are you ready?"
"Yeah," House says. He stands up. "Think we have to say the good-byes, though."
Saying good-bye consists of first stopping by House's therapist's office. She's a small woman with furiously curly hair, and Wilson has trouble seeing her standing next to House, much less picturing her being of any help. House nods at something she says to him, something so quiet Wilson can't hear, and then she looks up at Wilson. "I'm glad to meet you," she says, shaking his hand.
"Likewise," he says. The look in her eyes is one that Wilson finds vaguely off-putting, a look that says, I know all about you. He glances at House, but House is looking away.
They shuffle out from there to the front lobby. A stocky African-American is lurking by the elevator, his hands in his pockets. "This Wilson?" he asks.
House nods. "Wilson, Darien," he says, and Darien nods at him.
"He's pretty fancy."
"That's my life," House says, but his growl is friendly. "Outside of here, it's tuxedos every day."
"I don't doubt it, about you," Darien says. "I bet you got a gold-tipped cane out there, too."
"Keep it in my Masarati."
Darien grins. "Yeah, man, me too." He holds out his hand, and House, after a pause shakes it. He seems unsurprised when Darien pulls him forward into a half-hug. Whatever he says makes House snort with laughter, and Wilson feels a brief flicker of something like jealousy. He looks over at Carl, then around in the lobby, where people are watching the scene with no surprise on their faces. Wilson tries to imagine them all working together, tries to imagine them sitting in a circle and talking about their drug use, tries not to think about the stories House must have told them. It bothers him to think that everyone here has seen a House Wilson's never known.
"I'm gonna bring my baby girl up to Princeton," Darien says as House and Wilson step onto the elevator with Carl. "Show you what a real woman looks like."
"If she looks like her mama, she's welcome," House says, and Darien laughs. Carl holds the door open. "Look, stay straight, all right?"
"Better than ever, bro," Darien says as the doors close, and House nods and laughs to himself. Wilson feels superfluous, like he's not even there. It's hardly the reunion he expected, but he tells himself it's OK. They aren't fighting, at least.
Carl makes House sign some papers at the front desk, and House does it all with a nice stream of smart-aleck comments. "Maybe I should've signed the release before you had me play softball, huh?" he asks, pushing the papers back at him.
"They made you play softball?" Wilson asks. His stomach actually clenches.
Carl smirks. "Can't make this guy do anything," he says. He folds the papers up. "You drive safely, now," he says to Wilson. "And you stay the hell away from here."
House salutes. Carl walks away, and it's just the two of them, standing in front of the building. House has no bag, nothing with him but what he's wearing and his cane. "I was hoping you'd bring the bike," he says, limping down the stairs.
Wilson takes a moment to watch him walk. It's about the same limp as always. He's moving pretty fast, though, and Wilson thinks that's got to be a good sign. House opens his own door, after Wilson unlocks it, and they get inside. Wilson starts the car. He has a hundred things he wants to say, to ask. House turns and looks at him, and Wilson has to duck away.
"Can we get some food?" House asks. "You made me miss lunch."
Wilson laughs. "Of course," he says. "Anything you want."
"You're buying," House says.
"Nothing changes."
House pauses, his hand on the radio button. Wilson thinks, two months, five years, I'm still holding my breath. "Some things do," he says. Then he shakes his head. Wilson works on breathing normally, on watching the road. House spins the dial. "Your horrible taste in music, though, is not one of them."
28. Children
Steve McQueen is still alive. He looks happy, actually, and his cage is suspiciously clean. House mentions none of this to Wilson, who lurks awkwardly in the doorway. The awkwardness is appropriate, because House hasn't invited him in; he hasn't sent him away, either.
He looks around in the kitchen, takes in the fresh gallon of milk in the refrigerator, the low level of the sugar in the bowl he keeps with the tea, and several empty shelves. Wilson is still at the door when House steps back into the hallway. "Do I get the liquor back at some point, or has it already been put to better use?"
"Do you want it right now?"
"Yes," House says, absolutely deadpan. "I spent some time thinking, and I really believe alcoholism is the way to go."
Wilson looks tired. He rises to the bait, but without any kind of mirth in it. "The treatment centers aren't nearly as nice."
"Only quitters go to rehab," House says, and then he laughs. He decides that he can be a grown-up about this, just for a few minutes. "It wasn't that bad," he says, and Wilson nods. House can see the questions on his lips.
"Are you -"
"For the moment," he says. He clears his throat. "I have to see Westin, now."
Tim Westin is the head of the hospital's pain management center. He's widely known to be a brilliant researcher and a complete bastard of a human being. One of the conditions of House's release was that he found a court-approved doctor to monitor his pain medication. Westin, House knows, must be Cuddy's idea of revenge.
"Oh, he's a dick," Wilson mutters, leaning back against the door. "You guys will get along great."
"Yeah." House wants Wilson to leave almost as much as he wants Wilson to stay. It's not even Wilson that he wants right now; it's anyone in the world. His condo has never felt quite so large and adult and under his control. He feels taller. He feels like he could walk outside - maybe even run - and nix the last two months with a single word, a breath, a step in the wrong direction. If he can't trust himself, the world is a terrifying place. "Look," he says, and when he meets Wilson's eyes, Wilson looks afraid. "Let's not be children about this. I called everyone but you. You're hurt, you're angry - whatever. Me, too."
Wilson looks stunned. He rubs his neck, then nods. "Do you want to talk?"
"No," House says. He's sure of that one thing. "But - don't leave, yet. OK?" Wilson nods again, and House nods back, and then turns toward the couch. "Did you screw up my TiVo while you were staying here?"
Wilson pauses, but House doesn't look at him, just sits down. Eventually Wilson peels himself away from the door and walks over toward him. "I didn't mess with it."
"What did you mess with?" he asks. "Other than Cuddy."
Wilson sits in the armchair and laughs. It's a very tired sound. "God," he says. "So much." He looks over, and his eyes are still wide, and afraid, but there's concern and wonder there, too. "Do you really want to know it all now?"
"No," he says. He turns on the television and starts methodically deleting all of the recorded General Hospital episodes. "It might be best to take it one day at a time."
29. Birth
"Children," House says, flinging open the conference room door with such a bang that Cameron jumps in her seat, "I have been born again."
Foreman turns around in his chair to watch House walk into the room. He looks the same - maybe not quite as thin, maybe not quite as tan, but everything else is vintage House: T-shirt, jeans, suit jacket, cane. Limp. No rattle of pills, though, and no wide eyes. He's smiling in the same old House way, a half-smirk.
"Welcome back," Cameron says, and Foreman glances over at her. She's sitting next to Chase, in the usual just-a-bit-too-close formation that they've settled into. Chase meets Foreman's eyes and shrugs, just a little. This isn't what they'd expected, but then, how stupid was it to expect anything? As House crosses to the coffee machine, Foreman looks into the hallway. He'd expected an escort. He'd thought Cuddy or Wilson would've come with, or maybe just before, and given them the rules of engagement. Now they've got House, this new drug-free House, and they have some new history between them all - the apologies, the rehab, all of it - and there's no one to guide them through beyond House himself. It's like being thrown back into the deep end. Foreman settles back in his chair and feels a little thrill. This is going to be entertaining, he thinks.
"How are you?" Cameron asks. Foreman watches her, the way she's sitting forward in her chair, her eyes trained on House. He looks at Chase, who's looking between Cameron and House like it's a tennis match, and thinks, so very entertaining.
"I'm dandy," House says. "High on life, saved from within, grateful to be here, all of that crap. Also, I have eighteen hours' worth of 'Laguna Beach' waiting for me at home. Who could ask for more than that?"
Chase finally leans forward. "You're off the Vicodin?"
"Let me tell you what I learned in rehab," House says, leaning back against the counter. "Less money spent on Vicodin means more money for hookers and gambling." He shakes his head, and Foreman suppresses a little laugh at the brief look of alarm on Chase's face. "Had I done that math a few years ago, well, none of this would've been necessary."
"But you are -"
"Ah ah ah," House says, wagging a finger at Cameron. "What happens in rehab stays in rehab. It's like Vegas, only without the buffets."
Chase laughs, that time, and Foreman realizes he's been grinning the whole time when House looks over. "What are you smiling about?"
"It's good to have you back," he says, and for just a moment, House looks like he's about to smile.
"Yeah, well," he says, "you're only saying that because we know what a pit of boring despair this place becomes under your management." Foreman holds his hands up, not willing to argue with House, not today. "Well, vacation's over, kiddies. Daddy's home. There's a man in the emergency room with unexplained red skin lesions and priaprism. Eight-hour priaprism, by the way."
Foreman flinches, and he sees Chase shift uncomfortably. They're doctors, sure, but some things hit too close to home. "Eight hours?" he asks.
"I know, all those wonderful ED meds say call after four, but where's the fun in that?" House turns and looks at him, and then at Cameron, and his voice is perfectly flat when he faces Chase. "Just think of all the sex you and Cameron could have with an eight-hour hard on."
Chase blushes, and Cameron's eyes go wide. Foreman knows he's grinning again, and he tries to hide it. "Is he on ED medication?"
"He says no," House says, turning to Foreman. "And the tox screen the E.R. ran says no, too. Check the home anyway. I'd send Barbie and Ken, but who knows what they'd get up to." He leers at Chase, who huffs and rolls his eyes. Foreman just can't stop smiling. He stands up and gets his jacket while House tells Chase to repeat the E.R.'s blood work and get copies of the guy's chart. "Cameron, talk to the girlfriend. And report back on how long it took them to realize it was a problem." He pauses at the door to his office. "You might want to check out the patient, too, unless Chase would rather you stayed away."
In the hall, Chase looks absolutely flabbergasted. Cameron has followed House into his office, and Foreman looks back at the closed door. "That can't be good," he says.
Chase shakes his head. "How did he know so quickly?"
Foreman shrugs. "It's House," he says, and he feels relieved just saying it. "And it's kind of obvious."
"But in minutes! We hadn't even -" He stops and rubs his hand over his face. "This is what it's going to be like, isn't it?"
"Nah," Foreman says, clapping Chase on the back. "This is just the beginning. It's going to get much, much worse."
30. Death
He walks by Wilson's office just before lunchtime but doesn't knock. Things were awkward on Saturday and they won't have improved much by now, since they haven't seen each other since yesterday morning. Wilson hadn't even been around when House had made his triumphant return that morning, which seems weird, if House is being honest. He is trying to be honest.
He goes down to Cuddy's office. She's sitting behind her desk, no one before her, and House raps on the door before he walks in.
"You've been back for half a day," she says, not even looking up, "and I already had a complaint from a doctor in the E.R. that you stole his patient."
"He wasn't using him, and Cameron needed a pick-me-up," House says, and Cuddy laughs. When she looks up, she's smiling.
"It's good to have you back," she says.
"Good enough that I don't have to do clinic hours?"
"Has anything ever been that good?" She doesn't stop smiling, though, so he knows he's won. "You can start next week. Westin's going to want to see you every day for a while, probably."
House nods. "Already saw him this morning." For right now, Westin's the keeper of House's pain medication. He gets an injection and evaluation every morning; he goes back at 4 to get a vial of Tramadol to take home with him. His first meeting with a physical therapist is scheduled for that afternoon, with Geoffrey something. House wonders if he's new or just universally hated; he's pretty sure his own name is still legendary in the PT department.
The next part is the hardest, but he's already decided that this is going to be a day of bad things, of small deaths by humiliation. "We haven't got the medications figured out yet," he says, and he can't look at her. He hears her take in a sharp breath, though, and understands that this is going to be everyone's expectation from now on. "I'm not drug seeking. It's just that - there are times during the day when it's going to be bad."
"Bad how?"
He shrugs. The pain will be at its worst in the late afternoons. Eventually, he'll be back on scale with what he had at Seabrook, and Westin will let him have a capsule or two in the afternoons if needed, but right now he has to prove himself. He wasn't good at jumping through hoops even when he had two good legs. "I'll make up the hours," he says, "but it would be better if I could do clinic in the mornings, not the afternoons. If I have a patient, things could get tricky."
Cuddy pauses for a moment. House has to look up at her. She has her head tilted, and her eyes are wide. Sympathetic. "I'll work with you," she says. "Whatever you need."
"OK." He clears his throat. "Will this be 'working with' like you 'work with' Wilson?" he asks.
Cuddy groans. "And suddenly my good will evaporates."
"I'm just wondering if this is a new department head outreach program."
"Don't you have a patient?"
House smirks. "Patience galore," he says, and leaves.
His next stop is the oncology floor. This is one floor where his rehab hasn't mattered at all - he can feel their hate before he's even out of the elevator. Good, he thinks, heading for the nurse's station. It's pleasing to know that not everyone is trying so hard to forgive and forget.
"Does Dr. Wilson have a busy afternoon?" he asks one of the nurses.
She looks up at him with narrowed eyes. "I wouldn't know," she says.
House sighs. He puts one hand flat on the counter. He doesn't owe this woman anything, not an apology or an explanation. "You don't know because it's above your pay grade? Or because you don't want to tell me?"
"It can't be both?" House rolls his eyes. "You should talk to reception," she says after a minute, looking down at her computer. "He's not seeing patients anymore."
That's news. House debates asking her for more information. She clearly enjoys the fact that she knows more than he does, and while that bugs him, it also makes her a prime candidate for spilling Wilson's secrets. His pager goes off, and he snags the telephone from behind the desk, which makes the nurse glare. "What?" he asks when Chase answers.
"Foreman's back," he says, "and so are the tests. Enlarged spleen."
"I'll be right there." He hangs up the phone and steps back from the counter. He has to pause, a moment, because his leg hurts. It fades, and so was just a twinge, not a warning. As he limps away, he calls back to the nurse, "Thank you for all your excellent help." He smiles as he hears her snort. Being his friend has never made anyone popular on this floor.
Part 1 : Part 2 : Part 3 : Part 4 : Part 5
21. Friends
The weather turns warm overnight, and the counselors urge all of the Phase III residents out into the sunshine after morning group. House takes his cell phone with him and limps over to a bench on the west side of the building, away from the walking path. He's allowed the phone to charge without interruption for three days, since the Cameron call. He has two more calls to make. He picks the easier.
"Hello?" Stacy sounds out-of-breath.
"Stacy, it's Greg."
"Greg," she says. "Well. I was wondering."
He smiles a little. Of course, she's talked to Cuddy, probably. "You were expecting me."
"You're never someone I expect," she says. He hears the sound of a door closing behind her.
"Where are you?"
"I'm in my car," she says. "In the parking lot at a restaurant. I'm - meeting Mark for lunch."
House swallows. He squints against the sun. "And how is Mark?"
"He's fine," she says. "He's getting better."
"Aren't we all." House closes his eyes. "You know why I'm calling?"
"I assume it's because someone's blackmailing you." Her tone is as wry and lovely as ever, but for once, for once, it's not what he wants to hear.
"I do owe you this," he says. "Stacy -"
"I'm sorry, too," she says. "Jesus, Greg, you know how sorry I am."
"Yeah," he says. His voice comes out rough. He clears his throat. "So, I was thinking. We should - there's this thing, people try. It's called being friends."
"I've heard of it," Stacy says.
"I'm a little rusty," he admits.
Stacy laughs. It is the best sound House has heard in five weeks, maybe in five years. "You sound good," she says. "God, you sound fucking wonderful, Greg. How are you?"
"I'm not cured," he says quickly. "I'm the same bastard as always, only now we know it's not the Vicodin causing it."
"That's not true."
He shudders, and rubs his hand over his face. It doesn't come back wet, not really. "What if it is?"
He hears her take a deep breath, and he squeezes his eyes shut even more, tries to imagine sitting in the car next to her, her smooth skin, her laughing, certain eyes. "It's not," she says. "You know it's not."
"I don't."
"I do. You - you've done some things, recently, things that aren't you. This, this guy on the phone, this is you. This is Greg House. I recognize you." She takes another breath. "You need to call Wilson."
House almost laughs. He opens his eyes and takes a short, gasping breath. "And then I'll be cured?"
"He's your best friend."
"Was," House says. "I'm currently auditioning others for the role."
"You haven't called him yet because you know you were wrong," Stacy says.
"I lost his number."
"He thinks you won't call."
House pauses at this. He assumed Stacy had talked to Cuddy, but there is, of course, another option. "You've talked to him?"
He tries not to think about what Wilson and Stacy might talk about, tries not to picture Wilson sitting in his office, picking up the phone, telling Stacy what he'd done. "He's a friend," she says. "We've talked a lot since I left."
"Keeping tabs on me?"
"Actually, yes. He's been worried about you." She pauses, and House closes his eyes again.
"Wilson worries as a hobby."
"He loves you, Greg," she says, and House winces. "He's been worried about you since I left the first time. And now he made a deal with the devil to save you from prison, from your own goddamned stubborn self, and he's lost you for it." The silence between them is horrible, but House can't say anything. "He's miserable," she says after a moment.
He should be, House thinks, but it's an automatic thought, with no rancor behind it. He coughs. "So, about this friends thing," he says after a moment.
Her voice sounds wet, teary. "It sounds like a good idea," she says. "Something to look into, at least."
"Yeah, I thought so, too."
"How much longer -"
"Two weeks," he says. "Unless I'm paroled for good behavior."
"So two weeks, then." She pauses. "You'll call again, won't you?"
"Yes," he promises. "I will."
22. Enemies
Darien sits beside him at lunch, at a small table at the back where they won't be disturbed. "Almost out," he says, and House looks up from his mashed potatoes. "You got plans for when you get back?"
He shrugs. He wants to make a joke about driving into Trenton to score, but the counselors watch too closely for that kind of thing. "Figure I'll spend the first week catching up on my TiVo."
"You gonna go to meetings?"
House shrugs. "I'm not a big meeting person."
Darien grins. "Yeah, me neither, man, so here I am." He looks around the room. His food hasn't been touched. "You know, I'm thinking I might try for good this time."
House gives up on his mashed potatoes. Oh, what he wouldn't give for Wilson's pancakes. "Yeah? You going straight?"
"Might as well." Darien picks up his chicken sandwich and takes a bite. He doesn't let this stop him from continuing to talk. "You know what I like about this place?"
"The non-communal showers?"
"All these places, they're always saying, you know, drugs're the enemy. You gotta keep on your guard." He takes another bite, chews thoughtfully. "This place, they got it right, I think. It's not the drugs. It's the choices, right?" He nods to himself. "I like that. I like the choice. I think, you know, I can do that every day. Today's not so bad, I can make it through to tomorrow. That's all I got to do." He drinks from his milk carton. "So how about you? You going straight?"
"I don't have much choice."
Darien shakes his head so vigorously that House sees a small piece of chicken fly across to the next table. "No, man, no, you see, that's where I was. I was thinking, I was in these places 'cuz I had to be - 'cuz my girl said I had to get clean, 'cuz my boss said it was time, 'cuz I ran out of money. This time, I just said, shit, it's time. It's time for me. You always got a choice, you know?"
"Not always," House grinds out, the heel of his hand rubbing into his thigh.
"For this stuff, you do." Darien sets the sandwich down and leans forward. "I worry about you," he says. "I feel bad for you."
"Your concern is touching," House sneers.
"You got a girl? Somebody to help you out when you get out? 'Cuz it can be tough, man. I didn't last my first week."
House grabs his tray and struggles to his feet. "I'll be fine." It's only ten feet to the trashcan, so he limps it without his cane, then goes back to get it.
Darien shakes his head. "You're gonna go back," he says, his voice full of wonder and disappointment. "You're walkin' around here just fine, and you're still thinking about it, aren't you? Still thinking about your little pills and all that good stuff."
It's as though something snaps, some tense string in House's chest that's been winding tighter and tighter for the last six weeks. No one fucking gets it. He slams his hands down on the table and Darien's tray clatters and nearly jumps to the floor. "Of course I'm thinking about it!" he yells. "I'm a fucking addict, you moron! What else am I going to be thinking about?"
His chest is heaving. Darien's face, though it briefly flashed with fear, is now calm, back to wondering. House pulls his hands back from the table. He feels shaky and uncomfortable, and he grabs his cane from where it's fallen. As he starts to walk away, he hears Darien clapping. As he walks through the door, one of the other Phase III guys stops and claps him on the shoulder.
"'Bout fucking time for you, man," he says.
House goes straight to Gloria's office. His leg burns. He pushes the door open without knocking, interrupts her eating a sandwich. He opens his mouth to ask her for more pain meds, hears himself say, "I need -" and then stops.
"Greg?"
He leans against the doorframe. What he needs is to pace. To run between the small walls, to bounce from corner to corner, to rage and rage and rage until it's five years ago and everything is fine again. Just the thought of walking makes him tired. "I haven't had a good night's sleep since the infarction," he says.
Gloria sets her sandwich down. "OK," she says. "Let's talk about that."
23. Lovers
Cameron and Chase sit on the same side of the table, working on the same crossword. Her arm is pressed against his, her chin almost on his shoulder, and neither of them seems weirded out by this. Foreman is weirded out. He clears his throat, and Cameron looks up, moves back just a little. "Good morning," she says.
"Morning." He sets his own newspaper down on the table. Chase has on a smug look that Foreman tries to neither see nor think about. "Sounds like we might have a case."
Chase huffs. Foreman turns and is kind of glad to see that he and Cameron have separated, as Chase is leaning back in his chair and she's reaching for a folder on the other side of the desk. "Boring," he says, sounding alarmingly like House. "It's just Wilson taking pity on us."
"Or trying to gear us up for House's return."
They haven't talked about this much. There's no set date for House to be back, but Foreman has assumed that it will be sometime next week. His two months in rehab will be up in about a week. "You know," Foreman says, looking around before he takes his seat at the table, "you guys might think of cooling it a little when House gets back."
Chase blanches. "What, you think he'll have a problem?"
"I think," Foreman says, keeping his voice even, trying to be clinical, "he's probably going to expect things to be just about how he left them."
"Do you think anything will change?" Cameron asks.
Foreman looks down at his coffee. He thinks about his own expectations, two years ago, coming into this job. He'd heard House was tough, he'd heard he was crazy, he'd heard he was brilliant. The job has exceeded his expectations in every way. "I don't know," he says. "I guess I hope for the best."
"What would the best even look like?" Chase asks.
Foreman has no answer.
They do have a case, and it is, like Chase predicted, boring. They order an MRI anyway, and Foreman sits in the office waiting for the results. He sees Wilson walk by and wonders what his expectations for House's return must look like. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, he thinks, but he knows it isn't true. He's not Cameron and he doesn't believe in fairy tales. He cannot see any logical way that House and Wilson will ever be friends again, and he's already dreading watching that happen.
He can understand exactly why Wilson has been friends with House for all of these years. He is only just beginning to understand, though, why House has chosen Wilson. The whole time he's been working for House, he's seen why people might be drawn to him - he's brilliant, even when he's a jackass, and he always has a reason for the things he does.
Wilson is the same way. He's more reasonable about things, perhaps, but at his core, he's perhaps even more logic-driven than House. Oncology seems like a soft profession, a profession where the answers are nearly always the same, where protocols dominate the treatment plan, but Foreman can see where a doctor like Wilson would be a medical marvel in the field. The ability to mathematically, calculatingly apply treatments that make patients wish for death while working to stave it off - well, that takes a kind of coldness, a remove, that Foreman can appreciate. And Wilson manages to do it all with an unscathed veneer of humanity. He is loved, and he is admired, though perhaps not so unquestioningly by House.
Chase brings back the results, which are exactly what they expected. "Where's Cameron?"
"Talking to the family," Chase says. His voice holds the disdain it always used to.
"So what's with you guys, exactly?" Foreman asks.
Chase shrugs. "We're - I don't know, really. Not exactly dating."
"Just having lots of sex."
Chase rolls his head around. It's refreshing to see him this uncomfortable. It's like old times. "Something like that." He turns to leave, then stops at the door. "I think you're probably right, by the way. It might be easier if House doesn't know, right away, that we're - that Cameron and I are - lovers," he finishes. Foreman smiles at the awkward strain of Chase's voice.
"It'll be good to have him back," he says.
"Yeah," Chase admits. "I think so, too."
24. Family
House has intensive individual therapy for three days after his outburst. He meets with Gloria in the morning and in the afternoon, and he doesn't have to go to group therapy. They talk about his leg, his job, Tritter. They talk about Stacy. They talk about his mom and his dad. They talk about Wilson, until House has to change the topic.
He leaves his sessions feeling wrung out, limp, impotent, even. He misses General Hospital every day, because he can't make the trip to the TV room. Too many people. The drama feels unnecessary, anyway. He sleeps a lot.
On the fourth day, he goes to lunch on time, and Darien sits next to him. They haven't spoken since the outburst in the cafeteria. "Man," he says, sitting across from House. The food between them is all in shades of brown: pale noodles, grilled chicken, slices of chocolate cake. "You missed a good one in group this morning."
"Yeah?"
They gossip easily, with familiarity. It makes House feel less upside-down, less raw and peeling inside. As Darien leaves, he taps the table just next to House's tray. "Get yourself good and worked out," he says. "It's no fun without you."
House nods. He stays at the table until the room is empty, and then he carefully clears his place and goes back to his room. He stares at the cell phone until he falls asleep with his head against the cinderblock wall.
The next day, Gloria sees him in the morning and they talk, or don't talk, about Wilson the whole time. At the end of the hour, she says, "Dr. Earle is coming this afternoon. So let's take the day off."
House nods. He spends a lot of time not talking, now. He's afraid of what he might say.
It's a family group day for Darien. His mother and sister and the woman who is the mother of his daughter have come out. This is the second trip, though last time, they only met with the counselors and then took a walk and left. This time, they come to lunch, as well, and sit with Darien in a little suspicious circle off to the side. Darien waves at House as he goes by, but doesn't call him over, and House is glad. They're OK.
House called his mother and father during the first week that he had the phone. They talked about the weather, about an upcoming cruise they were planning, about his aunt's declining health. He'd been honest with them both, said he was in a place working some things out, and he'd hung up quickly and decided that even Earle couldn't have expected more. He tries to imagine them visiting and can't get past the awkward possibilities of the greetings in his head.
After General Hospital, House walks by Darien's room and sees him sitting on his bed, looking at a magazine. It's glossy and new, so his family must have brought it along. House taps on the door with his cane. "How was your baby-mama?" he asks, and Darien snorts.
"They're all good," he says. "I told them you're a gangster from Princeton. They liked that. They think it's cool."
"All the chicks think I'm cool," House says. Darien shakes his head and waves the magazine, and House heads to his own room.
Dr. Earle is waiting there, sitting calmly in the desk chair, looking at House's cell phone. "Are you here for family therapy?" House asks.
"I hear you've made some impressive progress," he says, looking up. "About time."
"I'm a slow learner," House says, and Earle shakes his head.
"Let's take a walk, Doctor."
They go out onto the grounds, where the temperature is low but the sun is bright. The trees keep the wind low, and it's not uncomfortable, once they're moving. "Everyone but Dr. Wilson," Earle says. House shrugs. He has no ready response for this. "You actually did better than I thought."
"I aim to exceed."
"How is your pain?"
House shrugs. It's better, though he doesn't like to say that aloud. They have him on a new regimen, tramadol injections and gabapentin and physical therapy, and over the last two weeks, he's noticed improvements. He tries not to think about it too much, because in a week he'll be back at work, and he can't imagine how he's going to work an hour of stretching into his daily routine. "I can walk," he says. "Ready for duty, sir, and all that."
Earle tips his head. "Are you going to be ready to go back to work immediately?"
"Is that an option?"
"Once you're out of here, who's to say what you do."
House snorts. "You, I'm guessing."
"Oh, the sponsor relationship is much less hands-on than one might imagine," Earle says. "Though I will expect you to show me around your hospital sometime, and perhaps play the gracious host if I come down for a conference." His voice softens. "And I will always be available to you, should you need to talk to or at someone."
House nods. It is the closest he can come to saying thank you, and Earle nods back.
Earle stops at the corner of the walkway and draws out the cell phone, turns to House. House stops a few feet away. He puts one hand in his pocket, grips his cane tightly. "You're leaving in less than a week," he says.
The phone looks sinister, suddenly, an instrument of doom. House wonders how much Earle knows about this week, about the therapy, the outburst. "Do you want me to call him now?"
"Actually, I have a better idea," Earle says. He dials a number and lifts the phone to his ear. "Yes, in Plainsboro. Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Yes, connect me, thank you." House turns away. He tries to think of what he might say to Wilson, how he could even start a conversation. The last time they talked - when House had made his call to Cuddy - it was angry, awkward. Wilson had sounded scared and angry, and House - well. His feelings had been the same.
"Yes, hello," Earle says, and House turns back to him. "This is Dr. Vance Earle from Massachusetts General. I need to speak with Dr. James Wilson. Yes, an emergency." He looks up at House. "They're paging him."
House wonders where Wilson is at this moment. He hopes he's not in with one of his cancer patients - nothing annoys him more than being drawn away from his sweet little sufferers. Not a good way to start this conversation.
The wait drags on. House starts to feel cold - his nose is sore, the tips of his ears hurt. He raises a hand to warm them. At home, he has a hat. He has sweaters, and a coat, and a coffeemaker, and most likely an empty fridge and an unmade bed and - shit - a dead rat. He'd meant to ask Cameron to feed Steve.
Earle smiles. "Dr. Wilson? No, I'm sorry, it's actually Vance Earle. I'm - yes. Well, that's kind. I'm a friend of Dr. House's, yes," he says, and House looks down at that. A friend, he thinks. He's surprised at how satisfying it is to hear that descriptor. "Right. No, he's fine. He's very good, actually. As difficult as you would expect." House looks up, sees the laughing smirk on Earle's face, and suddenly can hear Wilson's voice, the dry amusement of it, can see the skeptical curve of his eyebrow. Wilson, he thinks, I am so, so sorry. "Anyway, I'm calling today because I'm supposed to pick him up, this Saturday, his release day, but I've had something come up. I wondered if you might be able to meet him."
House's stomach plummets. He starts to shake his head, but Earle holds up a hand to cut off the argument. "He knows about the arrangement, and he's in favor. Yes. All right, good, then. Noon is the usual checkout time. Excellent. I'll leave word at the front gate to expect you. All right. Yes, you too. Goodbye."
He lowers the phone and looks at House, his eyes steady, maybe even a bit amused. House feels dizzy, and angry, and frightened, and - grateful. "So that's settled," Earle says. He puts the phone back in his pocket. "I see you've even left me some time on the phone."
House shakes his head. He falls into step with Earle as they turn back toward the complex. "What did he say?"
"He said he'll be here at noon," Earle says. He looks over, and there's a wry and somehow understanding twist to his grin. "Did you expect something else?"
"I don't know," House says. Four days of therapy, two months of rehab, and this is where he is: he doesn't know anything. He stops and presses his fist against his forehead, and it feels cold and hot all at once. Earle says nothing, just paces a little bit forward and half-turns back to him, keeping his head down. And House just pauses, just feels the cold and the pain in his leg and the protest in his head. He's not ready to leave. He looks up, and he wants to say this, but Earle shakes his head.
"You're going to be fine," he says. As House catches up to him, Earle hands him the cell phone. "I'll see you after you're out," he says. "But if you need anything before then, I'm programmed in."
The phone makes him feel better, somehow, even when he goes to his empty room.
25. Strangers
Cameron wakes up at Chase's apartment for the first time on a Thursday morning. It takes her a moment to figure out where she is. Chase's bedroom is very plain, the walls white and bare, the floor of scuffed wood with no rugs. The bed is very nice, the mattress thick, comfortable, the comforter and pillows and sheets all expensive, all leftovers from life before the end of his father's money. The apartment came after that - he has moved within the last year, over a weekend the fall. It's strange to her, now, that she didn't know about it when it happened. That Chase organized and completed a move without her or Foreman helping out.
She gets out of the bed and goes to the bathroom down the hall, where things are again neat and bare. Chase has a few random toiletries on the sink and nothing unexpected in the medicine cabinet. She uses his mouthwash and his floss, and thinks she should start keeping a toothbrush in her purse. His shampoo is functional, inexpensive, sharp-smelling, and his soap is coarse. Chase is new to frugality. It's funny, actually, because their salaries are pretty good, all things considered. Cameron is awash in debt from med school, but she's certainly more comfortable now than she was then. Chase can't possibly have anything to pay back; she wonders where all of his money goes.
It's strange to be sleeping with someone and not to know more about them. She dresses and goes back to the bedroom, where Chase is just waking up.
"'s early," he mutters, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "You're leaving?"
She crosses her arms. "I was just thinking," she says, watching him sit up, watching the clean smooth lines of muscles in his shoulders as he sits up against the headboard. "Do you think we should tell House?"
Chase blinks. "Right now?" She glares. "Uh, I dunno. I mean, he's House, so he's going to catch on whether we want him to or not."
"I think we should tell him," she says, nodding as much to convince him as to convince herself. "Only I guess I don't know what to tell him." Chase stifles a yawn, and Cameron feels a flare of annoyance for him, for his easy life until now, for his comfortable nakedness. "What is it you think we're doing?" she asks.
His eyes get wide, but she doesn't back down. This is something she's learned from House, at least; standing her ground with Chase is no problem at all. "Well, uh, we're sleeping together. Quite a lot." She keeps staring at him, watches as he begins to blush, a faint pink spread across his cheeks that spreads to his neck. "I like it."
"You don't think it's weird?" she asks.
"I dunno," he says. "It's certainly not the weirdest thing in my life right now."
Cameron sits on the bed, her back to him, and leans forward. She rests her head in her hands. It seems so fast. With her husband, it had been fast, too, but that had been for a reason - they'd been on a timeline. She has that same feeling, here, that same urgency, and yet she can't think of a reason why. The only approaching deadline she knows of is House's return to the office. Chase puts his hand on her shoulder. "What's this all about?"
"I feel like we're strangers. I - I don't know anything about your life, what it's like to be you," she says, turning to him. She feels a little desperate, and she thinks she must look it, too, from his face.
He swallows and shakes his head and seems to surface. "That's stupid," he says. "I know you. We - we practically live together already, what with all the time at work."
Cameron shakes her head, shakes off his hand. "Just because I know what test you'll order on a given patient doesn't make us close." She leaves unsaid what she's thinking: just because I fuck you doesn't make us close, either.
"All right," Chase says slowly, "sure, but it's more than that. I mean, isn't it?"
Cameron shrugs. She can't see a difference. A voice in her head that sounds like House asks whether it matters, in the end, whether anyone actually knows anyone.
Chase grips her shoulder. "I know how you take your coffee," he says after a moment. "And that you like the capuccinos from the cart in the lobby better than the ones from the cafeteria."
"The guy in the lobby uses less foam," Cameron says. She looks over. She knows what Chase looks like when he's disappointed, when he's angry, when he's passionate. Maybe that's enough. "You like your tea black, without sugar, unless it's Earl Grey," she says, and he nods and smiles.
"Then a lump can't hurt." She leans into him. "We could try the dating thing, though, if you'd like."
She looks up at him, at his familiar, pretty face, and feels a rush of something that might be hope. "That might be nice," she says, and he smiles before he kisses her.
26. Teammates
Lisa goes to the grocery store after work. She used to shop for food once a week, Sunday in the early mornings, while most of the annoying people were sleeping or at church. Now, she doesn't know what will sound good from day to day, so she's in the freezer section at Whole Foods with a basket, staring at the family-sized meals. She pulls her phone from her purse and a lasagna from the case at the same time.
"Do you have plans this evening?" she asks when Wilson answers.
"No," he says. He sounds out of breath. "Well, not really. I just put the last box in my car, from House's place. I've got to get checked in at the hotel."
"Have you eaten yet?" She turns the lasagna box over in her hands, reads the nutritional information with a brief thrill of horror. She puts it in her basket when he says no. "Come by my place before you check in."
He shows up an hour later. She answers the door wearing oven mitts on both hands. "What's your skill level with lasagna?" she asks.
"Moderate," he says, taking the mitts. He pulls the aluminum tray out of the oven and slides a knife into the center, then steps back and washes his hands thoroughly - almost surgically - at her sink. He sticks his index finger into the middle of the pasta and says, "How long was it in?"
"Forty minutes," she says. "The box said 35 to 45."
"Let it sit for ten or fifteen and it'll be ready." He recovers it with foil, then snaps off the oven. She offers him water and wishes she'd thought to open some wine for him. She threw most of it out the week before, trying to get the crisp taste of a good white out of her head. She doesn't even have soda in the fridge.
"I take it the nausea's better?" he asks, following her into the living room.
"Just mornings," she says. "And I make up for what I lose at night."
He laughs. He's sitting very stiffly in her armchair. Please don't make this harder, she thinks. "I had an appointment with Ferrimor," she says.
"Betsy?" She nods. "I didn't know she was practicing any more."
"Part time, in Princeton. Near County."
Betsy Ferrimor worked at Princeton-Plainsboro for seven years, including two as department chair in obstetrics. She'd resigned to stay home with her kids after her partner had been promoted to department chair in mathematics at the university. She is warm and professional and, perhaps most importantly, no longer tapped in to the Princeton-Plainsboro gossip loop.
"She was always very good," Wilson says, nodding. "And she seemed nice."
"She is."
He clears his throat. "Did she say -"
"Everything's fine," she says, and it's a little gratifying to see Wilson blink at that, to see a flicker of relief on his face. "I'm considered high risk because of my age, and the miscarriage, so I have to go back in a month."
He nods. His face is blank, but when he looks up, his eyes are curious and hopeful. "If you let me know when it is, I'd like to come along," he says. "If that's all right."
She has to clear her throat. It's what she's wanted, really, and she hasn't thought about it. "Of course," she says. "I can get you the dates tomorrow. It's a Tuesday, I think."
"OK."
She rubs her throat. The room smells like tomatoes and garlic and melted cheese, and her stomach rumbles its approval. She looks up at Wilson, who is still smiling fondly. "We should maybe talk about this now, huh?"
"If you're ready," he says.
She's not, not quite, but at least she has a plan. "Well, I've been thinking about some logistics," she says. "You said you're moving out of House's place, and I take it you don't have a place of your own yet."
He shrugs. "I looked at a few last week."
What would be nice, right now, is a glass of wine, she thinks, something to hold in her hand, to twirl just so. She leans forward a little, just slightly, holds herself perfectly in check, puts on her best sales face. "I have a proposal," she says.
Wilson flinches, and Lisa smirks. "Not that kind of proposal," she says. "I don't think either of us wants to see another Mrs. Dr. Wilson in the world." He laughs and eases back in his chair, a little, and this is better, this is more like it, she thinks. "Besides, we're not really on that path."
"Right," he says. "So what’s your proposal?"
"I think you should move in," she says. Wilson's eyes widen, and he sits forward. Before he can start to argue with her, she continues on, using her sharpest voice. "You've got no good place to stay. I've got all of this extra room. And it might be - good, for us, for me, to have some help around here during the pregnancy."
"Are you talking, like, for good?" he asks, his eyes still wide.
"No. Just until the baby is born." She smiles. "Or until one of us gets sick of the other. No strings. I think, we try it out for a few months, and if it's working, we go with it for a few more." She can see him thinking it over, knows she's already overwhelmed him but wants to keep pushing. "It would be easier for you to be involved, this way."
He stands up and paces behind the chair. "People will talk," he says.
She snorts and leans back into the couch. "They're going to talk anyway, particularly once the baby is born."
He's convinced, she thinks, he just needs a few minutes to talk himself up to it. It's something she's used to, something she sees with donors all the time. She can be generous. "I understand if you need to think about it," she says, standing up herself. "For now, let's just eat."
They go into the kitchen. She hands him a knife and a serving spatula, then grabs wide bowls and forks. They shuffle around each other at her kitchen island, and when they're both served, he carries the plates to the dining room while she carries their glasses. It's comfortable and easy, this teamwork, this settled, friendly feeling between them. She looks up as she sits down and knows he's seeing it too. Wilson has really never lived without a woman, as far as she knows. He probably misses things like this.
"OK," he says, after the second bite.
"OK, you'll move in?"
"Yes."
She grins and manages to keep the triumph out of her voice thanks to years of practice. "When?" she asks.
"How about tonight?"
27. Parents
The drive to Seabrook takes an hour and a half. Wilson doesn't stop. He plugs his phone into the dashboard holder and talks hands-free to everyone who will answer the phone. While he's talking, he doesn't have to think about the trip to come. He calls his parents, who he hasn't talked to much since his divorce.
"So what are you doing with your Saturday?" she asks.
He is not like House; he can lie to his mother without a problem. "Just going to catch up with a friend," he says.
He thinks, for a moment, he should tell her about the baby, but Cuddy doesn't want to tell anyone yet, and he thinks his parents probably count into that. Besides which, his mother's reaction is likely to be confused, and he doesn’t have the presence of mind today to explain it all to her. Instead, he tells her he's moved in with a friend, for the time being.
"Is it Dr. House?"
"No," Wilson says, "not this time." They met House at Wilson's first wedding, and that was the impression that stuck. That House had been spry, two-legged, non-addicted. The bitter House that had attended Wilson's last two weddings had invoked only his mother's pity and interest; she continues to think that his is the normal state of bachelorhood, that all single men are endlessly unhappy. "It's another doctor, from work."
"Another bachelor?
Wilson sighs. "In a manner of speaking," he says.
"Well," she says. "Well. I just hope you can be happy, again, James."
Wilson takes one hand off the steering wheel to pound against his forehead. "I'm working on it, Mom."
They spend ten minutes talking about his brother and his brother's lovely wife and their lovely little children. Wilson actually thinks his brother's kids are brats, spoiled little lumps who watch too much television. They are, like his brother, computer geeks, video-game addicts, indoor-dwellers. Wilson is the only member of his family that eats salad. He is also the first person anyone calls when one of the kids has a cold. Wilson pulls off the highway at the turn for Seabrook. "Mom, I've got to go," he says.
"It was certainly nice of you to call," she says, in her long-suffering voice. "I hope we can hear from you again soon."
"Sure, Mom." They hang up without saying anything else. Wilson only says I love you to his wife, and then only because she says it first. Said.
The guard at the gate looks at his photo ID, checks a list, and directs him to Building 14. Wilson is ten minutes early, so he drives slowly through the campus, loops around a back building and past a softball field, before he parks in front of 14. It's a modern, red bricked building of about four or five stories. Inside, there's no lobby, just a bank of elevators. A tall black man dressed in jeans and a red rugby shirt is waiting. He looks Wilson over and seems either unsurprised or unconcerned with what he sees. "I'm Carl," he says. He doesn't offer his hand. "I've been Greg's floor supervisor."
Wilson nods as though he knows what that means. "Is he ready to go?"
Carl snorts. "Nobody's ever ready," he says. He puts a key into the elevator panel and calls the elevator. Inside, he has to put the key in again before they can travel to the third floor. "You family?"
Wilson almost laughs. "Do we look alike?"
"Most people have a brother or a mother coming to get them," he says.
"We're friends," Wilson says, though he's not at all sure that's true. "We work together."
This seems to catch Carl's interest, because he turns. "You're a doctor." Wilson nods. Carl shakes his head, clearly unhappy, maybe even disgusted. The doors open before Wilson can ask more.
They walk into a lobby that's wide and white and bright. To the right, Wilson sees a lunchroom, crowded with people sitting at small tables, hunched over trays of food. Everything is clean and organized. It's such a hospital feeling that Wilson feels right at home. Carl has stopped a few feet ahead. "He's in his room," he says, leading Wilson down a hall to the left.
This part feels more like a college dorm than a hospital. They pass four identical rooms - single bed against the wall, pale, thin blanket over the top, small pine desk and chair. None of the rooms have doors. Wilson winces at that detail. Carl stops just short of the fifth door and points. Wilson takes a deep breath and smoothes his hands down his shirt front. He steps forward.
House is sitting in the desk chair, his cane leaning against his shoulder. He's wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, and he looks very plain and small in his plain, small room. He's looking down at the desk, but his head turns up when Wilson steps in. "House," Wilson says.
House clears his throat, and his eyes focus, and he doesn't look so small anymore. He says, "Don't you look snappy." The tone of his voice fills the room, and Wilson leans against the doorframe just for a moment, relieved. It's a tone he recognizes; it's a House he knows.
"Just for you," Wilson says, and House smiles. It's a half-smile, uncomfortable but real. House looks up, past Wilson, and Wilson realizes Carl must be behind him. "Are you ready?"
"Yeah," House says. He stands up. "Think we have to say the good-byes, though."
Saying good-bye consists of first stopping by House's therapist's office. She's a small woman with furiously curly hair, and Wilson has trouble seeing her standing next to House, much less picturing her being of any help. House nods at something she says to him, something so quiet Wilson can't hear, and then she looks up at Wilson. "I'm glad to meet you," she says, shaking his hand.
"Likewise," he says. The look in her eyes is one that Wilson finds vaguely off-putting, a look that says, I know all about you. He glances at House, but House is looking away.
They shuffle out from there to the front lobby. A stocky African-American is lurking by the elevator, his hands in his pockets. "This Wilson?" he asks.
House nods. "Wilson, Darien," he says, and Darien nods at him.
"He's pretty fancy."
"That's my life," House says, but his growl is friendly. "Outside of here, it's tuxedos every day."
"I don't doubt it, about you," Darien says. "I bet you got a gold-tipped cane out there, too."
"Keep it in my Masarati."
Darien grins. "Yeah, man, me too." He holds out his hand, and House, after a pause shakes it. He seems unsurprised when Darien pulls him forward into a half-hug. Whatever he says makes House snort with laughter, and Wilson feels a brief flicker of something like jealousy. He looks over at Carl, then around in the lobby, where people are watching the scene with no surprise on their faces. Wilson tries to imagine them all working together, tries to imagine them sitting in a circle and talking about their drug use, tries not to think about the stories House must have told them. It bothers him to think that everyone here has seen a House Wilson's never known.
"I'm gonna bring my baby girl up to Princeton," Darien says as House and Wilson step onto the elevator with Carl. "Show you what a real woman looks like."
"If she looks like her mama, she's welcome," House says, and Darien laughs. Carl holds the door open. "Look, stay straight, all right?"
"Better than ever, bro," Darien says as the doors close, and House nods and laughs to himself. Wilson feels superfluous, like he's not even there. It's hardly the reunion he expected, but he tells himself it's OK. They aren't fighting, at least.
Carl makes House sign some papers at the front desk, and House does it all with a nice stream of smart-aleck comments. "Maybe I should've signed the release before you had me play softball, huh?" he asks, pushing the papers back at him.
"They made you play softball?" Wilson asks. His stomach actually clenches.
Carl smirks. "Can't make this guy do anything," he says. He folds the papers up. "You drive safely, now," he says to Wilson. "And you stay the hell away from here."
House salutes. Carl walks away, and it's just the two of them, standing in front of the building. House has no bag, nothing with him but what he's wearing and his cane. "I was hoping you'd bring the bike," he says, limping down the stairs.
Wilson takes a moment to watch him walk. It's about the same limp as always. He's moving pretty fast, though, and Wilson thinks that's got to be a good sign. House opens his own door, after Wilson unlocks it, and they get inside. Wilson starts the car. He has a hundred things he wants to say, to ask. House turns and looks at him, and Wilson has to duck away.
"Can we get some food?" House asks. "You made me miss lunch."
Wilson laughs. "Of course," he says. "Anything you want."
"You're buying," House says.
"Nothing changes."
House pauses, his hand on the radio button. Wilson thinks, two months, five years, I'm still holding my breath. "Some things do," he says. Then he shakes his head. Wilson works on breathing normally, on watching the road. House spins the dial. "Your horrible taste in music, though, is not one of them."
28. Children
Steve McQueen is still alive. He looks happy, actually, and his cage is suspiciously clean. House mentions none of this to Wilson, who lurks awkwardly in the doorway. The awkwardness is appropriate, because House hasn't invited him in; he hasn't sent him away, either.
He looks around in the kitchen, takes in the fresh gallon of milk in the refrigerator, the low level of the sugar in the bowl he keeps with the tea, and several empty shelves. Wilson is still at the door when House steps back into the hallway. "Do I get the liquor back at some point, or has it already been put to better use?"
"Do you want it right now?"
"Yes," House says, absolutely deadpan. "I spent some time thinking, and I really believe alcoholism is the way to go."
Wilson looks tired. He rises to the bait, but without any kind of mirth in it. "The treatment centers aren't nearly as nice."
"Only quitters go to rehab," House says, and then he laughs. He decides that he can be a grown-up about this, just for a few minutes. "It wasn't that bad," he says, and Wilson nods. House can see the questions on his lips.
"Are you -"
"For the moment," he says. He clears his throat. "I have to see Westin, now."
Tim Westin is the head of the hospital's pain management center. He's widely known to be a brilliant researcher and a complete bastard of a human being. One of the conditions of House's release was that he found a court-approved doctor to monitor his pain medication. Westin, House knows, must be Cuddy's idea of revenge.
"Oh, he's a dick," Wilson mutters, leaning back against the door. "You guys will get along great."
"Yeah." House wants Wilson to leave almost as much as he wants Wilson to stay. It's not even Wilson that he wants right now; it's anyone in the world. His condo has never felt quite so large and adult and under his control. He feels taller. He feels like he could walk outside - maybe even run - and nix the last two months with a single word, a breath, a step in the wrong direction. If he can't trust himself, the world is a terrifying place. "Look," he says, and when he meets Wilson's eyes, Wilson looks afraid. "Let's not be children about this. I called everyone but you. You're hurt, you're angry - whatever. Me, too."
Wilson looks stunned. He rubs his neck, then nods. "Do you want to talk?"
"No," House says. He's sure of that one thing. "But - don't leave, yet. OK?" Wilson nods again, and House nods back, and then turns toward the couch. "Did you screw up my TiVo while you were staying here?"
Wilson pauses, but House doesn't look at him, just sits down. Eventually Wilson peels himself away from the door and walks over toward him. "I didn't mess with it."
"What did you mess with?" he asks. "Other than Cuddy."
Wilson sits in the armchair and laughs. It's a very tired sound. "God," he says. "So much." He looks over, and his eyes are still wide, and afraid, but there's concern and wonder there, too. "Do you really want to know it all now?"
"No," he says. He turns on the television and starts methodically deleting all of the recorded General Hospital episodes. "It might be best to take it one day at a time."
29. Birth
"Children," House says, flinging open the conference room door with such a bang that Cameron jumps in her seat, "I have been born again."
Foreman turns around in his chair to watch House walk into the room. He looks the same - maybe not quite as thin, maybe not quite as tan, but everything else is vintage House: T-shirt, jeans, suit jacket, cane. Limp. No rattle of pills, though, and no wide eyes. He's smiling in the same old House way, a half-smirk.
"Welcome back," Cameron says, and Foreman glances over at her. She's sitting next to Chase, in the usual just-a-bit-too-close formation that they've settled into. Chase meets Foreman's eyes and shrugs, just a little. This isn't what they'd expected, but then, how stupid was it to expect anything? As House crosses to the coffee machine, Foreman looks into the hallway. He'd expected an escort. He'd thought Cuddy or Wilson would've come with, or maybe just before, and given them the rules of engagement. Now they've got House, this new drug-free House, and they have some new history between them all - the apologies, the rehab, all of it - and there's no one to guide them through beyond House himself. It's like being thrown back into the deep end. Foreman settles back in his chair and feels a little thrill. This is going to be entertaining, he thinks.
"How are you?" Cameron asks. Foreman watches her, the way she's sitting forward in her chair, her eyes trained on House. He looks at Chase, who's looking between Cameron and House like it's a tennis match, and thinks, so very entertaining.
"I'm dandy," House says. "High on life, saved from within, grateful to be here, all of that crap. Also, I have eighteen hours' worth of 'Laguna Beach' waiting for me at home. Who could ask for more than that?"
Chase finally leans forward. "You're off the Vicodin?"
"Let me tell you what I learned in rehab," House says, leaning back against the counter. "Less money spent on Vicodin means more money for hookers and gambling." He shakes his head, and Foreman suppresses a little laugh at the brief look of alarm on Chase's face. "Had I done that math a few years ago, well, none of this would've been necessary."
"But you are -"
"Ah ah ah," House says, wagging a finger at Cameron. "What happens in rehab stays in rehab. It's like Vegas, only without the buffets."
Chase laughs, that time, and Foreman realizes he's been grinning the whole time when House looks over. "What are you smiling about?"
"It's good to have you back," he says, and for just a moment, House looks like he's about to smile.
"Yeah, well," he says, "you're only saying that because we know what a pit of boring despair this place becomes under your management." Foreman holds his hands up, not willing to argue with House, not today. "Well, vacation's over, kiddies. Daddy's home. There's a man in the emergency room with unexplained red skin lesions and priaprism. Eight-hour priaprism, by the way."
Foreman flinches, and he sees Chase shift uncomfortably. They're doctors, sure, but some things hit too close to home. "Eight hours?" he asks.
"I know, all those wonderful ED meds say call after four, but where's the fun in that?" House turns and looks at him, and then at Cameron, and his voice is perfectly flat when he faces Chase. "Just think of all the sex you and Cameron could have with an eight-hour hard on."
Chase blushes, and Cameron's eyes go wide. Foreman knows he's grinning again, and he tries to hide it. "Is he on ED medication?"
"He says no," House says, turning to Foreman. "And the tox screen the E.R. ran says no, too. Check the home anyway. I'd send Barbie and Ken, but who knows what they'd get up to." He leers at Chase, who huffs and rolls his eyes. Foreman just can't stop smiling. He stands up and gets his jacket while House tells Chase to repeat the E.R.'s blood work and get copies of the guy's chart. "Cameron, talk to the girlfriend. And report back on how long it took them to realize it was a problem." He pauses at the door to his office. "You might want to check out the patient, too, unless Chase would rather you stayed away."
In the hall, Chase looks absolutely flabbergasted. Cameron has followed House into his office, and Foreman looks back at the closed door. "That can't be good," he says.
Chase shakes his head. "How did he know so quickly?"
Foreman shrugs. "It's House," he says, and he feels relieved just saying it. "And it's kind of obvious."
"But in minutes! We hadn't even -" He stops and rubs his hand over his face. "This is what it's going to be like, isn't it?"
"Nah," Foreman says, clapping Chase on the back. "This is just the beginning. It's going to get much, much worse."
30. Death
He walks by Wilson's office just before lunchtime but doesn't knock. Things were awkward on Saturday and they won't have improved much by now, since they haven't seen each other since yesterday morning. Wilson hadn't even been around when House had made his triumphant return that morning, which seems weird, if House is being honest. He is trying to be honest.
He goes down to Cuddy's office. She's sitting behind her desk, no one before her, and House raps on the door before he walks in.
"You've been back for half a day," she says, not even looking up, "and I already had a complaint from a doctor in the E.R. that you stole his patient."
"He wasn't using him, and Cameron needed a pick-me-up," House says, and Cuddy laughs. When she looks up, she's smiling.
"It's good to have you back," she says.
"Good enough that I don't have to do clinic hours?"
"Has anything ever been that good?" She doesn't stop smiling, though, so he knows he's won. "You can start next week. Westin's going to want to see you every day for a while, probably."
House nods. "Already saw him this morning." For right now, Westin's the keeper of House's pain medication. He gets an injection and evaluation every morning; he goes back at 4 to get a vial of Tramadol to take home with him. His first meeting with a physical therapist is scheduled for that afternoon, with Geoffrey something. House wonders if he's new or just universally hated; he's pretty sure his own name is still legendary in the PT department.
The next part is the hardest, but he's already decided that this is going to be a day of bad things, of small deaths by humiliation. "We haven't got the medications figured out yet," he says, and he can't look at her. He hears her take in a sharp breath, though, and understands that this is going to be everyone's expectation from now on. "I'm not drug seeking. It's just that - there are times during the day when it's going to be bad."
"Bad how?"
He shrugs. The pain will be at its worst in the late afternoons. Eventually, he'll be back on scale with what he had at Seabrook, and Westin will let him have a capsule or two in the afternoons if needed, but right now he has to prove himself. He wasn't good at jumping through hoops even when he had two good legs. "I'll make up the hours," he says, "but it would be better if I could do clinic in the mornings, not the afternoons. If I have a patient, things could get tricky."
Cuddy pauses for a moment. House has to look up at her. She has her head tilted, and her eyes are wide. Sympathetic. "I'll work with you," she says. "Whatever you need."
"OK." He clears his throat. "Will this be 'working with' like you 'work with' Wilson?" he asks.
Cuddy groans. "And suddenly my good will evaporates."
"I'm just wondering if this is a new department head outreach program."
"Don't you have a patient?"
House smirks. "Patience galore," he says, and leaves.
His next stop is the oncology floor. This is one floor where his rehab hasn't mattered at all - he can feel their hate before he's even out of the elevator. Good, he thinks, heading for the nurse's station. It's pleasing to know that not everyone is trying so hard to forgive and forget.
"Does Dr. Wilson have a busy afternoon?" he asks one of the nurses.
She looks up at him with narrowed eyes. "I wouldn't know," she says.
House sighs. He puts one hand flat on the counter. He doesn't owe this woman anything, not an apology or an explanation. "You don't know because it's above your pay grade? Or because you don't want to tell me?"
"It can't be both?" House rolls his eyes. "You should talk to reception," she says after a minute, looking down at her computer. "He's not seeing patients anymore."
That's news. House debates asking her for more information. She clearly enjoys the fact that she knows more than he does, and while that bugs him, it also makes her a prime candidate for spilling Wilson's secrets. His pager goes off, and he snags the telephone from behind the desk, which makes the nurse glare. "What?" he asks when Chase answers.
"Foreman's back," he says, "and so are the tests. Enlarged spleen."
"I'll be right there." He hangs up the phone and steps back from the counter. He has to pause, a moment, because his leg hurts. It fades, and so was just a twinge, not a warning. As he limps away, he calls back to the nurse, "Thank you for all your excellent help." He smiles as he hears her snort. Being his friend has never made anyone popular on this floor.
Part 1 : Part 2 : Part 3 : Part 4 : Part 5