FIC: The Body Found (1/8)
Title: The Body Found
Fandom: House M.D.
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: R
Warnings: Drama, angst
Length: 46,000 words (!!!) in 8 parts. Complete.
Spoilers: S1, S2. Maybe part of S3 but I doubt it.
Summary: Wilson goes missing.
Disclaimer: I don't own them, and my intention is not to make any money.
Notes: I started this originally from a prompt table, but I can't remember where I found it and I abandoned the prompts midway through. It's in sections; there's some distribution, between sections, of point-of-view.
The title comes from the Dashboard Confessional song, "Am I Missing?"
The Body Found
Part 1
Day 1
One day, Wilson doesn't show up for work. OK, House thinks. Must be one of those conferences. Wilson is forever getting invited to speak at this meeting or that, and though House plays a good game at paying attention - oh, OK, he doesn't even fake it well - he never remembers when Wilson's going to be in and when he won't. So he sees the dark office next door and revises his lunch plans. Cameron, he thinks, will be good for at least a free sandwich.
At ten, though, Cuddy walks into House's office, her arms crossed over a clipboard. Her face is slightly flushed; it's an angry look that House knows well. "Where is he?" she asks. "Don't act like you don't know."
House glances at Foreman, who is smirking over his copy of the Wall Street Journal. "Uh oh, Mom's mad," he says. "Did one of you kids misplace another patient?"
"I'm talking about Wilson," she snaps.
House fights off his own smirk. Jimmy Jimmy, he thinks. Didn't know you still had it in you. In the early days of their friendship, House had gotten several dawn phone calls from disreputable hotels, Wilson's panicked voice on the other end, asking House to cover for him while he drove this girl or that home. That ground to a stop with the marriages, though, unless Wilson has decided to pick up some old habits post-divorce. House makes a show of patting his pockets, then shakes his head. "Sorry, he's not here either. Must've left him in my other pants."
Forman snorts and tries to cover with a cough. Cuddy's glare could set fire to water. "When you talk to him, tell him he'd better be trapped under something heavy, because I'm not taking any lesser excuses for why he missed the interview this morning."
House blinks, but he waits until Cuddy's out of the office before he picks up his phone. He dials Wilson's cell, then his pager, then his hotel. He calls his own home number next, just in case. Then he calls Wilson's assistant, who confirms what Cuddy's just said: Wilson missed not only the interview for the new head of nuclear medicine that morning but all of his patient appointments. He's due in the clinic in the afternoon, too, a full day on campus scheduled. Wilson is AWOL.
House finds Wilson's office empty but neat. He checks his desk and his calendar. Nothing out of the ordinary. He pages his fellows to the conference room and peels a key off his ring. "Chase, check out my place and swing by his old house. Foreman, get yourself into his hotel room. Cameron, you're hitting the phones." He hands her the address book he found in Wilson's desk. "I want to hear back in an hour, sooner if you find him," he says.
There are no arguments. Everyone seems to understand how completely bizarre it is that Wilson, king of modern responsibility, has bailed on an entire day. It will serve him right, House thinks, if Foreman finds him puking up a hangover in the hotel bathroom.
While the kids look in the expected places, House goes up to the oncology wing and pokes around. The nurses don't like him - and the other doctors like him even less - but when he takes a seat at the nurse's station, he finds himself surrounded. "I didn't steal him," he says, but they aren't looking at him in anger. It's worry on their faces, he realizes, and maybe expectation. If anyone would know where he is, they seem to be saying, it would be you.
"Let's talk about yesterday," he says. "Who has a copy of his schedule?"
A red-haired nurse named Bobbi leans against the counter next to him, and she and one of the oncology interns - Barbara - lead him through most of Wilson's day, a blur of rounds, appointments, and treatment schedules, followed by afternoon supervision sessions with the new residents. "I left at six," Bobbi says, "and he was here, signing charts, but he had his coat on."
"I think he left around 6:30," Barbara says.
There's a flutter to her voice that makes House frown. "Go check on your patients," he says. "I'm sure someone's in need of an inspirational head-shaving right about now."
He looks down at the notes he's scrawled on the back of a progress note. It's not an unusual Wilson day. Depressing and boring, but normal. No deaths, Bobbi had said; no particularly trying procedures. Something gets a little tighter in House's shoulders. Nothing traumatic has happened here. Wilson hasn't just run away.
He looks at his watch, collects his things, and goes back to his own office. Cameron is sitting quietly at her desk, and when House walks in, she shakes her head. "You called everyone? The exes, Stacy, everyone?"
"No one's seen him. His mother talked to him on Sunday like usual, but that was it."
He's about to press harder when his phone rings. Chase. "Yeah?"
"Nothing," he says. "Mrs. Wilson hasn't seen him since the papers were signed. And thanks for not mentioning that she works from home."
"Just get back here," House says.
"On my way."
He dials Foreman's number but gets no answer. That's got to be a good sign, he thinks, limping over to his desk. Foreman's probably too busy reading Wilson the riot act to pick up the phone. House opens his e-mail and forwards Wilson fourteen separate spam messages that include sex in the title, just as revenge for all this concern. Bastard, he thinks, and then, he's so buying dinner.
Chase reappears after fifteen minutes, and House gets up in time to hear him telling Cameron about his run-in with Julie. "She was going to call the police," he says.
Cameron takes off her glasses, and House leans against the door. He can just imagine Julie's reaction to all of this, can hear her shrill voice and see her manicured nails curled around a baseball bat or candlestick, ready to break the burglar into pieces. He has always admired her tough side. "You broke into her house," Cameron says.
"Under orders!" Chase glances at House. "So she's standing there, and she's already got the phone out, and I said, you know, 'I work for House!' And she just gets this look, and she says, 'Of course.' And that's it."
House is well acquainted with "the look." It's part exasperation, part absolute loathing. It's his own special blend. "And she hadn't seen Wilson?"
"Like I said, not since the papers were signed." Chase takes a seat at the table. "Did Foreman turn up anything?"
"Not sure yet," he says, heading toward the coffee machine. "Cameron, give him a call."
He leans on the counter and stirs sugar into his coffee. Cameron gets through to Foreman, clearly, because she starts talking. "Hello, on speaker," House orders, and Cameron taps the button and tells Foreman.
"Hangover?" House asks.
"He's not here," Foreman says. "No one's seen him since Monday night."
Two days ago. Well, Tuesday night, Wilson had crashed on House's couch after they'd watched a movie. Last night, though, he should've been home sweet hotel. House sets his coffee down. "Did they check to see if his key card had been used?"
"Yeah," Foreman says. "Last use was Monday at 8:02 p.m."
House turns back to the counter and grips it hard. He tries to make this match up in his head, and all he gets is a very bad feeling. "Check the garage for his car," he says, "and then come back here."
"Already checked. It's gone, too."
House hears Cameron hang up. He doesn't turn, just says, "Page Cuddy here, now."
It takes her two minutes to show up at his door. House looks at her and he sees the worry in her face that's been rising in his gut.
"Any word?" she asks.
Cameron catches her up, and Cuddy turns pale. She looks right at House, and he frowns. "Julie had the right idea," he says, and Cuddy narrows her eyes. "It's time to call the police."
Day 2-3
The F.B.I. agents come in on the second full day that Wilson is missing and they take over his office. They interview his staff. House sits in his chair in the corner because he can hear most of what they say from there. He learns nothing, but is reminded of how little Wilson's staff seems to actually know about the man. After listening to the third crying nurse, he goes to the conference room.
All three fellows look up when he walks in. There's no paper on the table, just their coffee mugs. "What are you all doing here?" House asks. "Shouldn't someone be in the clinic?"
"We thought -"
"Stop doing that," House says. "One of you, go take my hours in the clinic. Someone else, find out when Wilson's hours are and work them. Whoever's left over, go find me a patient."
Cameron flinches, even as Chase and Foreman stand up. "You really want to have a patient while Wilson's -" she stops, and House stares at her, waiting to hear the end of the sentence. She finally just gestures awkwardly at the hall, where two F.B.I. agents are walking toward the elevator, each carrying a cardboard box.
"You're right, one patient would be a minor distraction." He starts for the door. "Find me two patients, if you can. The closer to dead, the better." As the door closes behind him, he calls after the F.B.I. agents. "Where are you taking that stuff?"
The male agent turns and says, "To our office. Who are you?"
"I'm the best friend," House says. "Why haven't you guys interviewed me yet?"
The woman turns, now, and narrows her eyes. "And what would we learn from you?"
He shrugs. "If it's so necessary to know Wilson to figure out what's happened, you're wasting your time with all the goodie-goodies on his staff."
The man smirks. The elevator opens behind them, and he tips his head toward the car. House follows them inside. "So you know where the skeletons are buried, that's what you're saying?" the guy asks.
"Wilson doesn't have skeletons," House answers.
"Several people pointed out that he's had quite a few out-of-wedlock flings," the woman says.
"Ex-wives, sure, he's got those," House says, "and they maybe wanted to set his clothes on fire for a week or two, but now they benefit more from him being on the job. And the other women - none of them were married. He has a weird moral thing about that, won't do other men's wives."
House just barely catches the woman rolling her eyes. The doors open with a ding in the lobby, and they all step out. All around, House can feel people's eyes on them; word of Wilson's disappearance has spread widely. "All right," the man says. He looks for a moment at the woman, and she shrugs and takes his box on top of hers, then heads across the lobby. The agent looks at House. "I'm Agent Bettes, by the way," he says. "Is there somewhere we can go to talk?"
"Yeah." He starts toward the clinic.
"And I didn't catch your name."
"I'm Dr. House. This way." They go through the clinic and into Exam 4, which is House's personal favorite, and one in which he and Wilson have watched hours of "General Hospital." It is also the furthest from Cuddy's office.
Bettes leans back against the wall and takes out a notepad, and House takes the swiveling stool. "So, when did you see Dr. Wilson last?"
"Wednesday," House says. "He stayed at my place Tuesday night and gave me a ride into work. I saw him again a couple of times during the day."
Bettes makes a note, and House guesses this is clearing up at least one question. "Did he seem upset or act strange?"
"No," House says. He's sure of this. The last time he'd seen Wilson was in the late afternoon, when Wilson had come through to get a cup of coffee. They'd talked for a little bit, made plans to see the Joe Bruseman Trio on Friday night at the Jazz Bar. "He was fine."
"So, Tuesday, he stayed at your place? Is that normal, or was he trying to get away from something, someone?"
"Pretty normal," House says. Bettes keeps looking at him, and House knows the question he's asking. Normally, he'd make the guy ask, just because it's so funny to watch people stumble, but this idiot is charged with finding Wilson. House can throw him a rope. "We're not romantically involved." He feels lame even saying the words.
"Is he seeing anyone, that you know of?"
"No," House says. "The ink's barely dry on the divorce."
"Doesn't sound like that's stopped him before."
It's a comment that House might make, himself, might even make to Wilson's face, but hearing it come from this guy makes House want to punch him. He cracks his knuckles. "He's not seeing anyone. He works, usually late, he goes to his hotel, he gets room service - you can check on that, it'll be mostly salads - and then he comes back here and does it all again."
"Except for the nights he goes home with you."
"Oh, ho," House says, "you caught me there." He rolls his eyes, just in case Agent Bettes isn't catching his disdain. Usually, people don't have a problem picking up on it, but this guy seems particularly dense. House wonders if they actually train them to repeat things.
"Does he have any enemies, you can think of?"
"Did I answer this already, in the elevator? Was that a hallucination?"
Bettes shakes his head, and his smirk finally starts to dislodge. "Look, you came to me, you said -"
"I said, if you think that knowing Wilson's going to tell you where he is, then I'm your best resource. But knowing Wilson isn't going to tell you squat." House pushes himself up. "Wilson didn't run off, and he wasn't kidnapped by some secret drug-dealing associate."
"Most people who go missing either run off or were taken by someone they know," Bettes says.
"Yeah, well, my math says that there must be a minority for whom that is not true, and Wilson is your minority." House shakes his head. "You're wasting your time here, when you should be out looking."
Bettes stares at him for a second, as though House might crack, might change his story and say, oops, you caught me, I've known where he is the whole time. He finally nods and steps to the side, opens the door. With his hand still on the knob, he turns to House again. "So if he didn't run away and he wasn't kidnapped, what do you think happened to him?"
House grits his teeth and looks down at the floor, away from the smug curiosity in Bettes's eyes. "I don't know," he says. There are no options that make sense to him, yet.
Day 4
For the first three days, Foreman manages to sit calmly through the storm of attention being paid to the whole deal, figuring Wilson will surface somewhere with a great story to tell. Wilson's been around House for too many years for Foreman to believe that he's completely stable, and he can't possibly be the saint that everyone thinks he is. As House gets more and more wound up, Foreman distracts himself from the growling and yelling by thinking of where he would go, if he decided - hypothetically - that it was all too much. He spends a lot of time thinking about Hilton Head, South Carolina, and the golfing, and the beaches, and then he feels bad for not thinking of someplace more tropical. He wonders what it says about him that he's thought of someplace he could drive to, easily, within a day.
On Saturday, House pages him in at 7:30 in the morning. "We have a patient?" Foreman asks, walking into the office, and House just glares. Medicine is the furthest thing from anyone's mind, it seems. Chase and Cameron are already there, and they stand up as Foreman walks in and they all cluster around House's desk.
"The F.B.I. wants to talk to all of you," House says, lifting and dropping his cane against the ground. He looks nervous, or strung out, or both. It's always hard to tell. Foreman wonders if he's even left the hospital since the night before - from the looks of his clothes, probably not. "Draw straws on who gets to go first."
"Why do they want to talk to us?" Chase asks.
"Because they've finally realized that Wilson probably isn't hiding a secret mob identity," House mutters, "so they've started to focus in on who around him might have a secret." Foreman glances at Chase and Cameron to make sure he's not the only one who doesn't understand. They both look slightly lost, too. Reassuring. House looks up. "They think I'm involved."
"They think you kidnapped Wilson?"
"Actually," House says, "they think I murdered him, and then hid his body somewhere clever."
Cameron steps closer to the desk, and Foreman almost cringes, thinking she's going to try and touch House. She doesn't, which is good, because the F.B.I. agents are right next door. No way they'd be able to get House out of a murder charge with witnesses.
"What do you want us to say?" Chase asks.
House looks up at him, then rolls his eyes. "Tell the truth," he says, loudly. "I've got nothing to hide. And the quicker they get it through their heads that I'm not the problem, the quicker they'll actually go out and find Wilson."
One of the agents looks up at this. He's smirking, just a little, and Foreman looks from him to House. "I'll go," he says, and House just nods, then rests his head on his cane.
Foreman walks into the conference room, and one of the agents offers him a chair. He doesn't like the agents hanging out in their conference room. Really, he doesn't like the agents at all. The people from the F.B.I. look a little too much like the F.B.I. in movies. They wear dark suits and talk slowly to everyone, like they're all stupid. Foreman wants to punch the guy who interviews him from the moment he says a very leisurely hello. "I'm Special Agent Kendall," he says. "I'm in charge of this case, and I'd like to ask you a few questions."
They go over a bunch of very basic, stupid stuff, stuff he's already told everyone - last time he saw Wilson, are they friends, has he seen anyone suspicious around - and then finally, finally, the agent eases into more difficult territory. It's taken fifteen minutes to get there.
"Could Dr. Wilson have been involved in any illegal activity?"
"Like what?" Foreman asks. "I doubt he even speeds."
"It says here he was involved in a police investigation earlier this year."
Foreman shakes his head. "Uh, yeah, we all were. And all of those charges were dropped. Wilson wasn't doing anything illegal."
"But Dr. House was."
Kendall pushes a cup of coffee toward Foreman. It's coffee from their own machine. It pisses Foreman off to have these people in here, taking over their space, and now asking him about House like he's the criminal. "Look," Kendall says, "we're here to find Dr. Wilson. I don't care about whatever happened in the past, only I need to know the full story."
Foreman pushes the coffee away. "What happened was somebody got their story wrong, and nothing ever came of it." Kendall's expression doesn't change in the least. "If you're crazy enough to think that House had anything to do with Wilson disappearing, you're dumber than you look."
Kendall sits back and shares a glance with an agent at the door. "I see you learned your manners from your boss."
And that's it, that's enough of this. Foreman gets it, finally, gets what House has been feeling, this wash of frustration and utter helplessness. Wilson is missing, Wilson is probably in trouble, and these people are doing jack shit about it. They are absolutely clueless. He leans forward, his hands flat on the table. "My boss," he says, "has been going crazy for the last three days, tearing up heaven and earth, trying to find his best friend, while you guys have been strolling up and down the hallway, asking stupid questions like this." Foreman stands up. "I have things to do. Are we done here?"
It takes a second, but Kendall finally nods. "Sure," he says.
As Foreman walks out of the conference room, Agent Bettes holds the door for him, then hands him a card. "If you think of anything," he says.
"If I think of anything," Foreman mutters, "I'll tell House."
Day 5
The F.B.I. sent the story to the press within the first twenty-four hours; Wilson's absence has been big news ever since, including a short, front-page article in the Sunday paper.
One of the local news stations pushes for an interview with Cuddy, and the F.B.I. press agent tells her to take it, and use the time to plead for information. "Why me?" she asks.
"His parents won't get in until tomorrow," the agent says. "So it's you or that guy House or his ex-wife, I guess."
Cuddy goes on the air and says exactly what the press agent has advised her to say, that Wilson is a valued colleague and friend, that anyone who has a solid lead should call, that all they want, right now, is to have him back. All they want is to know where he is, and that he's all right.
They show Wilson's picture - it's a headshot, from two years ago, when his hair was a little shorter, a picture they'd taken to run in the news release about opening the new pediatric oncology center - and flash the tips hotline beneath it. Cuddy holds herself perfectly still, even as the portable lights go out in her office. She stares straight ahead and barely listens to the news reporter chatting to her. Everything she's said is true. All she really wants, right now, is to know that Wilson is OK.
He's been missing for five days. Tomorrow, they'll start a new work week without him around; she has already asked his assistant to call through and reschedule his appointments. She can't make herself say they should be canceled. This is what being the boss means, though; it means she's supposed to stay above this, that she's supposed to think of the hospital first.
"Jesus Christ, get the fuck out of here already."
She snaps back to the situation before her and sees House limping through the quickly scattering news crew. "House," she starts, but she can't admonish him, not now.
"That went well," he says. Of course, he was watching. "Not the best picture of him."
"It was the best we had," she says. He nods. She looks up at him. His usual scruff is almost a beard; his hair is sticking up in wild tufts, and his shirt is beyond crumpled. "You look terrible," she says.
House shakes his head. That he doesn't even come up with a retort is more worrisome than even his appearance.
"House," she says. "You should go home. Get some sleep."
He shrugs. "I can sleep here."
"OK," she says, "but you can't get a change of clothes here. And you look like you could use one." She stands up. It's Sunday; she came to the hospital just for this, and though she should stay and do some work, right now, there's not much chance of her focusing. She can make calls and review paperwork at home, too. "I'll drive you," she says. When she puts her hand on his arm, he doesn't shake her off. It's shocking, more than the television lights or the F.B.I. staking out her hospital or the idea, the idea that's just starting to rise, that maybe Wilson isn't going to come back. It's shocking to see how ruined House looks after just these few days.
She wants to comfort him, to tell him it will be OK, that Wilson will make it through, but she knows the way House operates. He won't believe her; what's more, he'll want to argue with her. If she says Wilson will be fine, he'll have to argue the opposite. And she can't do that to him or to herself, so she drops her hand from his arm and goes to find her coat. Instead, as they walk to her car, she says, "The F.B.I. agents know what they're doing."
House shakes his head. "I have my doubts," he says.
"This is what they're trained for."
"Then I have my doubts about their training." He climbs into the car and sits silently, staring out the window. She hadn't realized he'd left without a coat, and now it seems too late to mention it. She hopes he has his keys.
She drops him at the curb in front of his place, leans over the seat and rolls the window down after he's gotten out. "Are you going to be OK?" she calls.
He looks back, his keys already in his palm. There's no way he can answer that question, really, she thinks, but she's relieved when he rolls his eyes.
Day 6
They find Wilson's car on Monday. Chase is sitting in the conference room when an agent comes in to talk to House about it. "Goddamn it," House yells, "what have you people been doing for five days? I told you, I told you where he eats, I told you what he -"
He's cut off by the agent insisting that they're doing everything they can. That, Chase thinks, is the problem. In three years with House, he's learned that even everything one can isn't always enough with House. It has to be everything possible; it has to be everything, without limits, without boundaries.
The agent leaves, and when Chase looks over, House has put on his headphones. He's resting his head on his desk. What's funny is, if House were acting this angry and impossible at any other time, Wilson would already be over here, in his face, telling him to shape the hell up.
"Wouldn't go in there," Chase says, when Cameron walks in the door.
She's got the same pale, vaguely alarmed look on her face that she's had since the week before. Chase isn't sure whether this is mostly because she's worried about Wilson or because she's worried about House. "Has something happened?" she asks, taking a seat at the table, almost whispering.
Chase speaks normally, because wherever House's mind is right now, it's not listening to them. "They found Wilson's car at a Chinese place, about a mile from here."
Cameron leans forward. "And?"
He shrugs. He can only report what he overheard, which wasn't much. "And nothing." She keeps staring at him. "What, he wasn't tied up in the trunk or something."
Cameron flinches and then rolls her eyes. "Nice, Chase. Dr. Wilson could be out there, really in danger."
"Yeah, I know," he says, but the truth is, he hasn't thought about it. He won't think about. Wilson's gone, and Chase chooses not to dwell on the details of it. Not yet. If they find a body, well, then he'll think about it. Until then, there's nothing he can do, so there's nothing he should be thinking about.
In the next room, House gets up, abruptly, and Chase flinches, has to remind himself that House can't read his thoughts. House slams out of his own door, never sparing them a glance, and when Chase looks back Cameron is still staring after him.
"It's just not real, yet," she says, finally turning back to look at him. "I mean, it's like Wilson's still here."
"What, in spirit?" Chase asks. He knows even as he says it that it's the wrong thing, but he's tired, already, of everyone walking on eggshells about this. "Look," he says, and he leans across the table, and he's ready to say it, to say, Dr. Wilson isn't coming back, to say, People disappear all the bloody time, and it's never a happy ending. But Cameron's eyes are slightly wet, and from the hall, Chase can hear House yelling at another agent, and he knows that no one is ready to hear it all out loud yet. No one is ready to face this reality. "Look, I'm sorry," he says instead. Cameron's expression goes softer. "It's going to be fine."
Day 7
Cameron goes to the monthly clinic scheduling meeting on Tuesday morning. She has nothing better to do. House was cavalier about getting new patients when Wilson first disappeared, but now his energy is low. He's spending most of his time harassing the F.B.I. agents about why they aren't doing their jobs faster. She wants to pull them all aside and give them a primer in House, to tell them that this is how he shows concern, that this is how he helps, but they already have enough on their plate.
So she goes to the scheduling meeting and snags a free bagel for breakfast. They hold meetings every two months, to schedule for the following two months. The meetings are mostly held to make sure that shifts get covered when someone's going on vacation or away to a conference. Cameron, as House's representative, is not popular at the meetings, and she dreads going and trying to stick up for him. But when she doesn't attend, the other departments' representatives usually stick House with the worst hours, the three hours around lunch or the late-afternoon times when school kids get brought in. They think it's funny and deserved, but Cameron is the one who has to deal with House after he's seen eight chicken-poxed kids in a row. She goes, and she takes a calendar and a pencil, and she sits in the front row.
Usually, she sits with Penny Bright, an intern from Oncology who does the scheduling for the whole department - a mammoth task, as there are 25 providers who work in the clinic from there - but Penny is up at the front, talking to Martha, the woman who always runs the meetings. As everyone settles in, Martha stands up. "I was just talking with Penny," she says. "In light of what's... happened to Dr. Wilson, the oncology department is requesting he be removed from the schedule."
Cameron can't hold back her gasp. Wilson's only been gone a week - he hasn't died, he hasn't quit. She wants to stand up and say no, she wants to stand up and say that she'll cover his hours - all of them - that between them, the diagnostics staff can handle it. But it's the sad, almost horrified look on Penny's face that stops her. When Penny speaks, it's in a breathy, tearful voice.
"We thought if - when he gets back, he'll probably want some time off, anyway," she says. "So, if you could, just - we don't have enough people to pick up all the hours, but -"
"It's no problem." This is from Dan, who schedules for the internists. Regan, from Cardiology, echoes this, as do the two women beside him.
Everyone, Cameron realizes, is willing to pitch in for Wilson. "We have this week covered," she says, quietly, but the room is quiet anyway, and she knows everyone's heard her. Good, she thinks, let them. They should know that House is human, and that he's hurt by this, too. "House has his hours covered."
For once, there are no soft asides about whether the hours will really be covered or not. There's just a brief, acknowledging nod from Martha and a thank you from Penny. Cameron nods back. When Martha puts the first month's schedule up on the overhead, Cameron tries not to flinch at the fact that Wilson's name has been crossed out on all of his scheduled days.
One Week
Wilson has officially been missing for a week. House walks down to the lobby, because it's evening and he should go home. Other people are going home, ergo - but he doesn't want to leave. Not yet. He doesn't know where to go. Wilson's disappearance is like any mystery; he feels better when he has the hospital around him, when he can, within a moment, bring all of its many resources to bear on the problem. Here, he is in charge, or at least close to it. And so far that hasn't mattered at all.
He takes a seat with his back to the windows, rests his head on his cane. Outside, it's been snowing for most of the day. He tries not to think about what the weather might mean for Wilson, if he's caught outside in it. His coat and gloves were missing from the car; in fact, the only things they'd found in it had been a small pile of mail and Wilson's agenda. The men at the Chinese restaurant recognized Wilson's picture - they'd told the F.B.I. and also House, when he'd made Foreman drive him over - but they hadn't seen him that night. They'd recognized him from all the times he'd picked up food on the way home, or on the way to House's place. There's no way to tell where he was headed on Wednesday night.
The lobby is quiet at this hour. Cuddy has gone home. She's rallied well, over the past few days, and doesn't look like she's been crying quite as much. It makes House a little angry, that she can get past it so swiftly, but it also makes him a little envious. Wilson is missing, and around him, nothing has stopped moving. The hospital is still running; patients are still getting sick and complaining about ridiculous things; the staff is still, somehow, managing to function and care. His own fellows seem to still be moving slowly, as though the world is suddenly made of water, but House thinks that may be more out of deference to his own foul mood than out of direct concern for Wilson.
House asks himself the same question that he asks during a particularly difficult case: what am I missing? The answer hasn't changed, not once, not in seven days: Wilson.
The doors open, and House looks over just in time to see a black coat swish past. "Hey," he calls out.
Kendall turns, a swift, easy turn, and walks toward House. "Just the man I was looking for," he says.
House takes a small breath. "I'm already sitting down," he says.
He cocks his head to the side. "It's not the worst news," he says. That doesn't really mean anything to House because he hasn't thought about what the worst news could be. Every day there's been no word has been the worst news. "I'm pulling back the agents on the case. It will remain active - it will always be active - but the manpower's going to be reduced."
House nods, just once. "Reduced," he repeats. "To zero?"
"Agent Bettes is still going to be working the case," he says, and House hears the silent for now at the end of the sentence.
He looks up. "You came all the way here just to tell me that?"
Kendall shrugs. "I thought you'd want to hear it in person," he says. House keeps staring at him. "I thought you might not take it so well. Figured, if you were going to climb the clock tower, I'd be on hand."
House almost laughs. Instead, he taps his hand against his cane a few times.
"Dr. Wilson," Kendall says after a moment. "He's the guy who used to talk you down, huh?"
"Every day," House says. In between the truth and that answer are hundreds of days when he didn't listen to Wilson, days when he asked Wilson questions just to tell him his answers were wrong, days when Wilson was desperately trying to tell him something that he didn't want to hear. House tries to remember this. He's been gone a week; that's not nearly enough time for him to start glossing over things, not yet. Wilson's missing, he's not a martyr. He's not a saint.
"C'mon," Kendall says, stepping back. "I'll buy you a drink."
House wants to tell him no, because he's not sure he can stomach a pity invitation, but he needs, right now, to hear more about this. He needs to hear about the investigation. He needs somewhere to go that isn't the hospital lobby. So he follows Kendall outside, into the light snow, and he gets on his bike, and he drives to a bar on the other side of the campus that is usually the place he goes with Wilson or his fellows. He's not going to get mopey and start avoiding places just because he once went there with Wilson. If he did that, he'd never get to eat in the hospital cafeteria or at his own dining table again, at least not until Wilson comes back.
They take seats at the bar, and Kendall sips whiskey and talks about his last case, some suburban housewife who went missing for three weeks.
"Turned up in Albany," he says, and House nods.
"With the housekeeper," he says.
Kendall looks startled. "How did you -"
"You gave it away," he says. "You mentioned the housekeeper at the start, explicitly. You don't do that unless you're a bad storyteller or you're trying to make a point of it."
Kendall shakes his head. "You're a smart son-of-a-bitch," he says. It's a look House is used to, one of mixed admiration and aversion. "You haven't made any friends on my team."
"Good thing," House says. "I have all the friends I need."
"Dr. Wilson," Kendall says, and he raises his glass just slightly. "Most people, by this point, we've got their lives stripped bare and we're just covered in dirt. Dirty business, dirty marriage, dirty everything. Your guy, so far, he's clean. Other than the marriages, I guess, but even there - you know all of the wives cried, when we talked to them?"
"I'm not surprised," House says, though he is, a little. Particularly if Jessica, Wife Number 1, actually shed tears.
Kendall looks over at him. "He must be a helluva guy."
House opens his mouth and finds himself, for once, without words. He wants to tell Kendall everything, to explain what Wilson is and isn't, to somehow tie up exactly how loyal and funny and mean and smart and exasperating and kind and sad Wilson can be. "We had lunch together," House says, finally. Kendall looks over, paying attention. "Almost every day."
"We'll find him," Kendall says, after a moment, when House realizes he has nothing more to say. "Don't worry."
Neither thing is helpful to hear. House drains his drink and orders another, and when he pulls his pill bottle from his pocket, he hears Wilson's voice in his head bitching about it. That makes him smile.
Next Part
Fandom: House M.D.
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: R
Warnings: Drama, angst
Length: 46,000 words (!!!) in 8 parts. Complete.
Spoilers: S1, S2. Maybe part of S3 but I doubt it.
Summary: Wilson goes missing.
Disclaimer: I don't own them, and my intention is not to make any money.
Notes: I started this originally from a prompt table, but I can't remember where I found it and I abandoned the prompts midway through. It's in sections; there's some distribution, between sections, of point-of-view.
The title comes from the Dashboard Confessional song, "Am I Missing?"
The Body Found
Part 1
Day 1
One day, Wilson doesn't show up for work. OK, House thinks. Must be one of those conferences. Wilson is forever getting invited to speak at this meeting or that, and though House plays a good game at paying attention - oh, OK, he doesn't even fake it well - he never remembers when Wilson's going to be in and when he won't. So he sees the dark office next door and revises his lunch plans. Cameron, he thinks, will be good for at least a free sandwich.
At ten, though, Cuddy walks into House's office, her arms crossed over a clipboard. Her face is slightly flushed; it's an angry look that House knows well. "Where is he?" she asks. "Don't act like you don't know."
House glances at Foreman, who is smirking over his copy of the Wall Street Journal. "Uh oh, Mom's mad," he says. "Did one of you kids misplace another patient?"
"I'm talking about Wilson," she snaps.
House fights off his own smirk. Jimmy Jimmy, he thinks. Didn't know you still had it in you. In the early days of their friendship, House had gotten several dawn phone calls from disreputable hotels, Wilson's panicked voice on the other end, asking House to cover for him while he drove this girl or that home. That ground to a stop with the marriages, though, unless Wilson has decided to pick up some old habits post-divorce. House makes a show of patting his pockets, then shakes his head. "Sorry, he's not here either. Must've left him in my other pants."
Forman snorts and tries to cover with a cough. Cuddy's glare could set fire to water. "When you talk to him, tell him he'd better be trapped under something heavy, because I'm not taking any lesser excuses for why he missed the interview this morning."
House blinks, but he waits until Cuddy's out of the office before he picks up his phone. He dials Wilson's cell, then his pager, then his hotel. He calls his own home number next, just in case. Then he calls Wilson's assistant, who confirms what Cuddy's just said: Wilson missed not only the interview for the new head of nuclear medicine that morning but all of his patient appointments. He's due in the clinic in the afternoon, too, a full day on campus scheduled. Wilson is AWOL.
House finds Wilson's office empty but neat. He checks his desk and his calendar. Nothing out of the ordinary. He pages his fellows to the conference room and peels a key off his ring. "Chase, check out my place and swing by his old house. Foreman, get yourself into his hotel room. Cameron, you're hitting the phones." He hands her the address book he found in Wilson's desk. "I want to hear back in an hour, sooner if you find him," he says.
There are no arguments. Everyone seems to understand how completely bizarre it is that Wilson, king of modern responsibility, has bailed on an entire day. It will serve him right, House thinks, if Foreman finds him puking up a hangover in the hotel bathroom.
While the kids look in the expected places, House goes up to the oncology wing and pokes around. The nurses don't like him - and the other doctors like him even less - but when he takes a seat at the nurse's station, he finds himself surrounded. "I didn't steal him," he says, but they aren't looking at him in anger. It's worry on their faces, he realizes, and maybe expectation. If anyone would know where he is, they seem to be saying, it would be you.
"Let's talk about yesterday," he says. "Who has a copy of his schedule?"
A red-haired nurse named Bobbi leans against the counter next to him, and she and one of the oncology interns - Barbara - lead him through most of Wilson's day, a blur of rounds, appointments, and treatment schedules, followed by afternoon supervision sessions with the new residents. "I left at six," Bobbi says, "and he was here, signing charts, but he had his coat on."
"I think he left around 6:30," Barbara says.
There's a flutter to her voice that makes House frown. "Go check on your patients," he says. "I'm sure someone's in need of an inspirational head-shaving right about now."
He looks down at the notes he's scrawled on the back of a progress note. It's not an unusual Wilson day. Depressing and boring, but normal. No deaths, Bobbi had said; no particularly trying procedures. Something gets a little tighter in House's shoulders. Nothing traumatic has happened here. Wilson hasn't just run away.
He looks at his watch, collects his things, and goes back to his own office. Cameron is sitting quietly at her desk, and when House walks in, she shakes her head. "You called everyone? The exes, Stacy, everyone?"
"No one's seen him. His mother talked to him on Sunday like usual, but that was it."
He's about to press harder when his phone rings. Chase. "Yeah?"
"Nothing," he says. "Mrs. Wilson hasn't seen him since the papers were signed. And thanks for not mentioning that she works from home."
"Just get back here," House says.
"On my way."
He dials Foreman's number but gets no answer. That's got to be a good sign, he thinks, limping over to his desk. Foreman's probably too busy reading Wilson the riot act to pick up the phone. House opens his e-mail and forwards Wilson fourteen separate spam messages that include sex in the title, just as revenge for all this concern. Bastard, he thinks, and then, he's so buying dinner.
Chase reappears after fifteen minutes, and House gets up in time to hear him telling Cameron about his run-in with Julie. "She was going to call the police," he says.
Cameron takes off her glasses, and House leans against the door. He can just imagine Julie's reaction to all of this, can hear her shrill voice and see her manicured nails curled around a baseball bat or candlestick, ready to break the burglar into pieces. He has always admired her tough side. "You broke into her house," Cameron says.
"Under orders!" Chase glances at House. "So she's standing there, and she's already got the phone out, and I said, you know, 'I work for House!' And she just gets this look, and she says, 'Of course.' And that's it."
House is well acquainted with "the look." It's part exasperation, part absolute loathing. It's his own special blend. "And she hadn't seen Wilson?"
"Like I said, not since the papers were signed." Chase takes a seat at the table. "Did Foreman turn up anything?"
"Not sure yet," he says, heading toward the coffee machine. "Cameron, give him a call."
He leans on the counter and stirs sugar into his coffee. Cameron gets through to Foreman, clearly, because she starts talking. "Hello, on speaker," House orders, and Cameron taps the button and tells Foreman.
"Hangover?" House asks.
"He's not here," Foreman says. "No one's seen him since Monday night."
Two days ago. Well, Tuesday night, Wilson had crashed on House's couch after they'd watched a movie. Last night, though, he should've been home sweet hotel. House sets his coffee down. "Did they check to see if his key card had been used?"
"Yeah," Foreman says. "Last use was Monday at 8:02 p.m."
House turns back to the counter and grips it hard. He tries to make this match up in his head, and all he gets is a very bad feeling. "Check the garage for his car," he says, "and then come back here."
"Already checked. It's gone, too."
House hears Cameron hang up. He doesn't turn, just says, "Page Cuddy here, now."
It takes her two minutes to show up at his door. House looks at her and he sees the worry in her face that's been rising in his gut.
"Any word?" she asks.
Cameron catches her up, and Cuddy turns pale. She looks right at House, and he frowns. "Julie had the right idea," he says, and Cuddy narrows her eyes. "It's time to call the police."
Day 2-3
The F.B.I. agents come in on the second full day that Wilson is missing and they take over his office. They interview his staff. House sits in his chair in the corner because he can hear most of what they say from there. He learns nothing, but is reminded of how little Wilson's staff seems to actually know about the man. After listening to the third crying nurse, he goes to the conference room.
All three fellows look up when he walks in. There's no paper on the table, just their coffee mugs. "What are you all doing here?" House asks. "Shouldn't someone be in the clinic?"
"We thought -"
"Stop doing that," House says. "One of you, go take my hours in the clinic. Someone else, find out when Wilson's hours are and work them. Whoever's left over, go find me a patient."
Cameron flinches, even as Chase and Foreman stand up. "You really want to have a patient while Wilson's -" she stops, and House stares at her, waiting to hear the end of the sentence. She finally just gestures awkwardly at the hall, where two F.B.I. agents are walking toward the elevator, each carrying a cardboard box.
"You're right, one patient would be a minor distraction." He starts for the door. "Find me two patients, if you can. The closer to dead, the better." As the door closes behind him, he calls after the F.B.I. agents. "Where are you taking that stuff?"
The male agent turns and says, "To our office. Who are you?"
"I'm the best friend," House says. "Why haven't you guys interviewed me yet?"
The woman turns, now, and narrows her eyes. "And what would we learn from you?"
He shrugs. "If it's so necessary to know Wilson to figure out what's happened, you're wasting your time with all the goodie-goodies on his staff."
The man smirks. The elevator opens behind them, and he tips his head toward the car. House follows them inside. "So you know where the skeletons are buried, that's what you're saying?" the guy asks.
"Wilson doesn't have skeletons," House answers.
"Several people pointed out that he's had quite a few out-of-wedlock flings," the woman says.
"Ex-wives, sure, he's got those," House says, "and they maybe wanted to set his clothes on fire for a week or two, but now they benefit more from him being on the job. And the other women - none of them were married. He has a weird moral thing about that, won't do other men's wives."
House just barely catches the woman rolling her eyes. The doors open with a ding in the lobby, and they all step out. All around, House can feel people's eyes on them; word of Wilson's disappearance has spread widely. "All right," the man says. He looks for a moment at the woman, and she shrugs and takes his box on top of hers, then heads across the lobby. The agent looks at House. "I'm Agent Bettes, by the way," he says. "Is there somewhere we can go to talk?"
"Yeah." He starts toward the clinic.
"And I didn't catch your name."
"I'm Dr. House. This way." They go through the clinic and into Exam 4, which is House's personal favorite, and one in which he and Wilson have watched hours of "General Hospital." It is also the furthest from Cuddy's office.
Bettes leans back against the wall and takes out a notepad, and House takes the swiveling stool. "So, when did you see Dr. Wilson last?"
"Wednesday," House says. "He stayed at my place Tuesday night and gave me a ride into work. I saw him again a couple of times during the day."
Bettes makes a note, and House guesses this is clearing up at least one question. "Did he seem upset or act strange?"
"No," House says. He's sure of this. The last time he'd seen Wilson was in the late afternoon, when Wilson had come through to get a cup of coffee. They'd talked for a little bit, made plans to see the Joe Bruseman Trio on Friday night at the Jazz Bar. "He was fine."
"So, Tuesday, he stayed at your place? Is that normal, or was he trying to get away from something, someone?"
"Pretty normal," House says. Bettes keeps looking at him, and House knows the question he's asking. Normally, he'd make the guy ask, just because it's so funny to watch people stumble, but this idiot is charged with finding Wilson. House can throw him a rope. "We're not romantically involved." He feels lame even saying the words.
"Is he seeing anyone, that you know of?"
"No," House says. "The ink's barely dry on the divorce."
"Doesn't sound like that's stopped him before."
It's a comment that House might make, himself, might even make to Wilson's face, but hearing it come from this guy makes House want to punch him. He cracks his knuckles. "He's not seeing anyone. He works, usually late, he goes to his hotel, he gets room service - you can check on that, it'll be mostly salads - and then he comes back here and does it all again."
"Except for the nights he goes home with you."
"Oh, ho," House says, "you caught me there." He rolls his eyes, just in case Agent Bettes isn't catching his disdain. Usually, people don't have a problem picking up on it, but this guy seems particularly dense. House wonders if they actually train them to repeat things.
"Does he have any enemies, you can think of?"
"Did I answer this already, in the elevator? Was that a hallucination?"
Bettes shakes his head, and his smirk finally starts to dislodge. "Look, you came to me, you said -"
"I said, if you think that knowing Wilson's going to tell you where he is, then I'm your best resource. But knowing Wilson isn't going to tell you squat." House pushes himself up. "Wilson didn't run off, and he wasn't kidnapped by some secret drug-dealing associate."
"Most people who go missing either run off or were taken by someone they know," Bettes says.
"Yeah, well, my math says that there must be a minority for whom that is not true, and Wilson is your minority." House shakes his head. "You're wasting your time here, when you should be out looking."
Bettes stares at him for a second, as though House might crack, might change his story and say, oops, you caught me, I've known where he is the whole time. He finally nods and steps to the side, opens the door. With his hand still on the knob, he turns to House again. "So if he didn't run away and he wasn't kidnapped, what do you think happened to him?"
House grits his teeth and looks down at the floor, away from the smug curiosity in Bettes's eyes. "I don't know," he says. There are no options that make sense to him, yet.
Day 4
For the first three days, Foreman manages to sit calmly through the storm of attention being paid to the whole deal, figuring Wilson will surface somewhere with a great story to tell. Wilson's been around House for too many years for Foreman to believe that he's completely stable, and he can't possibly be the saint that everyone thinks he is. As House gets more and more wound up, Foreman distracts himself from the growling and yelling by thinking of where he would go, if he decided - hypothetically - that it was all too much. He spends a lot of time thinking about Hilton Head, South Carolina, and the golfing, and the beaches, and then he feels bad for not thinking of someplace more tropical. He wonders what it says about him that he's thought of someplace he could drive to, easily, within a day.
On Saturday, House pages him in at 7:30 in the morning. "We have a patient?" Foreman asks, walking into the office, and House just glares. Medicine is the furthest thing from anyone's mind, it seems. Chase and Cameron are already there, and they stand up as Foreman walks in and they all cluster around House's desk.
"The F.B.I. wants to talk to all of you," House says, lifting and dropping his cane against the ground. He looks nervous, or strung out, or both. It's always hard to tell. Foreman wonders if he's even left the hospital since the night before - from the looks of his clothes, probably not. "Draw straws on who gets to go first."
"Why do they want to talk to us?" Chase asks.
"Because they've finally realized that Wilson probably isn't hiding a secret mob identity," House mutters, "so they've started to focus in on who around him might have a secret." Foreman glances at Chase and Cameron to make sure he's not the only one who doesn't understand. They both look slightly lost, too. Reassuring. House looks up. "They think I'm involved."
"They think you kidnapped Wilson?"
"Actually," House says, "they think I murdered him, and then hid his body somewhere clever."
Cameron steps closer to the desk, and Foreman almost cringes, thinking she's going to try and touch House. She doesn't, which is good, because the F.B.I. agents are right next door. No way they'd be able to get House out of a murder charge with witnesses.
"What do you want us to say?" Chase asks.
House looks up at him, then rolls his eyes. "Tell the truth," he says, loudly. "I've got nothing to hide. And the quicker they get it through their heads that I'm not the problem, the quicker they'll actually go out and find Wilson."
One of the agents looks up at this. He's smirking, just a little, and Foreman looks from him to House. "I'll go," he says, and House just nods, then rests his head on his cane.
Foreman walks into the conference room, and one of the agents offers him a chair. He doesn't like the agents hanging out in their conference room. Really, he doesn't like the agents at all. The people from the F.B.I. look a little too much like the F.B.I. in movies. They wear dark suits and talk slowly to everyone, like they're all stupid. Foreman wants to punch the guy who interviews him from the moment he says a very leisurely hello. "I'm Special Agent Kendall," he says. "I'm in charge of this case, and I'd like to ask you a few questions."
They go over a bunch of very basic, stupid stuff, stuff he's already told everyone - last time he saw Wilson, are they friends, has he seen anyone suspicious around - and then finally, finally, the agent eases into more difficult territory. It's taken fifteen minutes to get there.
"Could Dr. Wilson have been involved in any illegal activity?"
"Like what?" Foreman asks. "I doubt he even speeds."
"It says here he was involved in a police investigation earlier this year."
Foreman shakes his head. "Uh, yeah, we all were. And all of those charges were dropped. Wilson wasn't doing anything illegal."
"But Dr. House was."
Kendall pushes a cup of coffee toward Foreman. It's coffee from their own machine. It pisses Foreman off to have these people in here, taking over their space, and now asking him about House like he's the criminal. "Look," Kendall says, "we're here to find Dr. Wilson. I don't care about whatever happened in the past, only I need to know the full story."
Foreman pushes the coffee away. "What happened was somebody got their story wrong, and nothing ever came of it." Kendall's expression doesn't change in the least. "If you're crazy enough to think that House had anything to do with Wilson disappearing, you're dumber than you look."
Kendall sits back and shares a glance with an agent at the door. "I see you learned your manners from your boss."
And that's it, that's enough of this. Foreman gets it, finally, gets what House has been feeling, this wash of frustration and utter helplessness. Wilson is missing, Wilson is probably in trouble, and these people are doing jack shit about it. They are absolutely clueless. He leans forward, his hands flat on the table. "My boss," he says, "has been going crazy for the last three days, tearing up heaven and earth, trying to find his best friend, while you guys have been strolling up and down the hallway, asking stupid questions like this." Foreman stands up. "I have things to do. Are we done here?"
It takes a second, but Kendall finally nods. "Sure," he says.
As Foreman walks out of the conference room, Agent Bettes holds the door for him, then hands him a card. "If you think of anything," he says.
"If I think of anything," Foreman mutters, "I'll tell House."
Day 5
The F.B.I. sent the story to the press within the first twenty-four hours; Wilson's absence has been big news ever since, including a short, front-page article in the Sunday paper.
One of the local news stations pushes for an interview with Cuddy, and the F.B.I. press agent tells her to take it, and use the time to plead for information. "Why me?" she asks.
"His parents won't get in until tomorrow," the agent says. "So it's you or that guy House or his ex-wife, I guess."
Cuddy goes on the air and says exactly what the press agent has advised her to say, that Wilson is a valued colleague and friend, that anyone who has a solid lead should call, that all they want, right now, is to have him back. All they want is to know where he is, and that he's all right.
They show Wilson's picture - it's a headshot, from two years ago, when his hair was a little shorter, a picture they'd taken to run in the news release about opening the new pediatric oncology center - and flash the tips hotline beneath it. Cuddy holds herself perfectly still, even as the portable lights go out in her office. She stares straight ahead and barely listens to the news reporter chatting to her. Everything she's said is true. All she really wants, right now, is to know that Wilson is OK.
He's been missing for five days. Tomorrow, they'll start a new work week without him around; she has already asked his assistant to call through and reschedule his appointments. She can't make herself say they should be canceled. This is what being the boss means, though; it means she's supposed to stay above this, that she's supposed to think of the hospital first.
"Jesus Christ, get the fuck out of here already."
She snaps back to the situation before her and sees House limping through the quickly scattering news crew. "House," she starts, but she can't admonish him, not now.
"That went well," he says. Of course, he was watching. "Not the best picture of him."
"It was the best we had," she says. He nods. She looks up at him. His usual scruff is almost a beard; his hair is sticking up in wild tufts, and his shirt is beyond crumpled. "You look terrible," she says.
House shakes his head. That he doesn't even come up with a retort is more worrisome than even his appearance.
"House," she says. "You should go home. Get some sleep."
He shrugs. "I can sleep here."
"OK," she says, "but you can't get a change of clothes here. And you look like you could use one." She stands up. It's Sunday; she came to the hospital just for this, and though she should stay and do some work, right now, there's not much chance of her focusing. She can make calls and review paperwork at home, too. "I'll drive you," she says. When she puts her hand on his arm, he doesn't shake her off. It's shocking, more than the television lights or the F.B.I. staking out her hospital or the idea, the idea that's just starting to rise, that maybe Wilson isn't going to come back. It's shocking to see how ruined House looks after just these few days.
She wants to comfort him, to tell him it will be OK, that Wilson will make it through, but she knows the way House operates. He won't believe her; what's more, he'll want to argue with her. If she says Wilson will be fine, he'll have to argue the opposite. And she can't do that to him or to herself, so she drops her hand from his arm and goes to find her coat. Instead, as they walk to her car, she says, "The F.B.I. agents know what they're doing."
House shakes his head. "I have my doubts," he says.
"This is what they're trained for."
"Then I have my doubts about their training." He climbs into the car and sits silently, staring out the window. She hadn't realized he'd left without a coat, and now it seems too late to mention it. She hopes he has his keys.
She drops him at the curb in front of his place, leans over the seat and rolls the window down after he's gotten out. "Are you going to be OK?" she calls.
He looks back, his keys already in his palm. There's no way he can answer that question, really, she thinks, but she's relieved when he rolls his eyes.
Day 6
They find Wilson's car on Monday. Chase is sitting in the conference room when an agent comes in to talk to House about it. "Goddamn it," House yells, "what have you people been doing for five days? I told you, I told you where he eats, I told you what he -"
He's cut off by the agent insisting that they're doing everything they can. That, Chase thinks, is the problem. In three years with House, he's learned that even everything one can isn't always enough with House. It has to be everything possible; it has to be everything, without limits, without boundaries.
The agent leaves, and when Chase looks over, House has put on his headphones. He's resting his head on his desk. What's funny is, if House were acting this angry and impossible at any other time, Wilson would already be over here, in his face, telling him to shape the hell up.
"Wouldn't go in there," Chase says, when Cameron walks in the door.
She's got the same pale, vaguely alarmed look on her face that she's had since the week before. Chase isn't sure whether this is mostly because she's worried about Wilson or because she's worried about House. "Has something happened?" she asks, taking a seat at the table, almost whispering.
Chase speaks normally, because wherever House's mind is right now, it's not listening to them. "They found Wilson's car at a Chinese place, about a mile from here."
Cameron leans forward. "And?"
He shrugs. He can only report what he overheard, which wasn't much. "And nothing." She keeps staring at him. "What, he wasn't tied up in the trunk or something."
Cameron flinches and then rolls her eyes. "Nice, Chase. Dr. Wilson could be out there, really in danger."
"Yeah, I know," he says, but the truth is, he hasn't thought about it. He won't think about. Wilson's gone, and Chase chooses not to dwell on the details of it. Not yet. If they find a body, well, then he'll think about it. Until then, there's nothing he can do, so there's nothing he should be thinking about.
In the next room, House gets up, abruptly, and Chase flinches, has to remind himself that House can't read his thoughts. House slams out of his own door, never sparing them a glance, and when Chase looks back Cameron is still staring after him.
"It's just not real, yet," she says, finally turning back to look at him. "I mean, it's like Wilson's still here."
"What, in spirit?" Chase asks. He knows even as he says it that it's the wrong thing, but he's tired, already, of everyone walking on eggshells about this. "Look," he says, and he leans across the table, and he's ready to say it, to say, Dr. Wilson isn't coming back, to say, People disappear all the bloody time, and it's never a happy ending. But Cameron's eyes are slightly wet, and from the hall, Chase can hear House yelling at another agent, and he knows that no one is ready to hear it all out loud yet. No one is ready to face this reality. "Look, I'm sorry," he says instead. Cameron's expression goes softer. "It's going to be fine."
Day 7
Cameron goes to the monthly clinic scheduling meeting on Tuesday morning. She has nothing better to do. House was cavalier about getting new patients when Wilson first disappeared, but now his energy is low. He's spending most of his time harassing the F.B.I. agents about why they aren't doing their jobs faster. She wants to pull them all aside and give them a primer in House, to tell them that this is how he shows concern, that this is how he helps, but they already have enough on their plate.
So she goes to the scheduling meeting and snags a free bagel for breakfast. They hold meetings every two months, to schedule for the following two months. The meetings are mostly held to make sure that shifts get covered when someone's going on vacation or away to a conference. Cameron, as House's representative, is not popular at the meetings, and she dreads going and trying to stick up for him. But when she doesn't attend, the other departments' representatives usually stick House with the worst hours, the three hours around lunch or the late-afternoon times when school kids get brought in. They think it's funny and deserved, but Cameron is the one who has to deal with House after he's seen eight chicken-poxed kids in a row. She goes, and she takes a calendar and a pencil, and she sits in the front row.
Usually, she sits with Penny Bright, an intern from Oncology who does the scheduling for the whole department - a mammoth task, as there are 25 providers who work in the clinic from there - but Penny is up at the front, talking to Martha, the woman who always runs the meetings. As everyone settles in, Martha stands up. "I was just talking with Penny," she says. "In light of what's... happened to Dr. Wilson, the oncology department is requesting he be removed from the schedule."
Cameron can't hold back her gasp. Wilson's only been gone a week - he hasn't died, he hasn't quit. She wants to stand up and say no, she wants to stand up and say that she'll cover his hours - all of them - that between them, the diagnostics staff can handle it. But it's the sad, almost horrified look on Penny's face that stops her. When Penny speaks, it's in a breathy, tearful voice.
"We thought if - when he gets back, he'll probably want some time off, anyway," she says. "So, if you could, just - we don't have enough people to pick up all the hours, but -"
"It's no problem." This is from Dan, who schedules for the internists. Regan, from Cardiology, echoes this, as do the two women beside him.
Everyone, Cameron realizes, is willing to pitch in for Wilson. "We have this week covered," she says, quietly, but the room is quiet anyway, and she knows everyone's heard her. Good, she thinks, let them. They should know that House is human, and that he's hurt by this, too. "House has his hours covered."
For once, there are no soft asides about whether the hours will really be covered or not. There's just a brief, acknowledging nod from Martha and a thank you from Penny. Cameron nods back. When Martha puts the first month's schedule up on the overhead, Cameron tries not to flinch at the fact that Wilson's name has been crossed out on all of his scheduled days.
One Week
Wilson has officially been missing for a week. House walks down to the lobby, because it's evening and he should go home. Other people are going home, ergo - but he doesn't want to leave. Not yet. He doesn't know where to go. Wilson's disappearance is like any mystery; he feels better when he has the hospital around him, when he can, within a moment, bring all of its many resources to bear on the problem. Here, he is in charge, or at least close to it. And so far that hasn't mattered at all.
He takes a seat with his back to the windows, rests his head on his cane. Outside, it's been snowing for most of the day. He tries not to think about what the weather might mean for Wilson, if he's caught outside in it. His coat and gloves were missing from the car; in fact, the only things they'd found in it had been a small pile of mail and Wilson's agenda. The men at the Chinese restaurant recognized Wilson's picture - they'd told the F.B.I. and also House, when he'd made Foreman drive him over - but they hadn't seen him that night. They'd recognized him from all the times he'd picked up food on the way home, or on the way to House's place. There's no way to tell where he was headed on Wednesday night.
The lobby is quiet at this hour. Cuddy has gone home. She's rallied well, over the past few days, and doesn't look like she's been crying quite as much. It makes House a little angry, that she can get past it so swiftly, but it also makes him a little envious. Wilson is missing, and around him, nothing has stopped moving. The hospital is still running; patients are still getting sick and complaining about ridiculous things; the staff is still, somehow, managing to function and care. His own fellows seem to still be moving slowly, as though the world is suddenly made of water, but House thinks that may be more out of deference to his own foul mood than out of direct concern for Wilson.
House asks himself the same question that he asks during a particularly difficult case: what am I missing? The answer hasn't changed, not once, not in seven days: Wilson.
The doors open, and House looks over just in time to see a black coat swish past. "Hey," he calls out.
Kendall turns, a swift, easy turn, and walks toward House. "Just the man I was looking for," he says.
House takes a small breath. "I'm already sitting down," he says.
He cocks his head to the side. "It's not the worst news," he says. That doesn't really mean anything to House because he hasn't thought about what the worst news could be. Every day there's been no word has been the worst news. "I'm pulling back the agents on the case. It will remain active - it will always be active - but the manpower's going to be reduced."
House nods, just once. "Reduced," he repeats. "To zero?"
"Agent Bettes is still going to be working the case," he says, and House hears the silent for now at the end of the sentence.
He looks up. "You came all the way here just to tell me that?"
Kendall shrugs. "I thought you'd want to hear it in person," he says. House keeps staring at him. "I thought you might not take it so well. Figured, if you were going to climb the clock tower, I'd be on hand."
House almost laughs. Instead, he taps his hand against his cane a few times.
"Dr. Wilson," Kendall says after a moment. "He's the guy who used to talk you down, huh?"
"Every day," House says. In between the truth and that answer are hundreds of days when he didn't listen to Wilson, days when he asked Wilson questions just to tell him his answers were wrong, days when Wilson was desperately trying to tell him something that he didn't want to hear. House tries to remember this. He's been gone a week; that's not nearly enough time for him to start glossing over things, not yet. Wilson's missing, he's not a martyr. He's not a saint.
"C'mon," Kendall says, stepping back. "I'll buy you a drink."
House wants to tell him no, because he's not sure he can stomach a pity invitation, but he needs, right now, to hear more about this. He needs to hear about the investigation. He needs somewhere to go that isn't the hospital lobby. So he follows Kendall outside, into the light snow, and he gets on his bike, and he drives to a bar on the other side of the campus that is usually the place he goes with Wilson or his fellows. He's not going to get mopey and start avoiding places just because he once went there with Wilson. If he did that, he'd never get to eat in the hospital cafeteria or at his own dining table again, at least not until Wilson comes back.
They take seats at the bar, and Kendall sips whiskey and talks about his last case, some suburban housewife who went missing for three weeks.
"Turned up in Albany," he says, and House nods.
"With the housekeeper," he says.
Kendall looks startled. "How did you -"
"You gave it away," he says. "You mentioned the housekeeper at the start, explicitly. You don't do that unless you're a bad storyteller or you're trying to make a point of it."
Kendall shakes his head. "You're a smart son-of-a-bitch," he says. It's a look House is used to, one of mixed admiration and aversion. "You haven't made any friends on my team."
"Good thing," House says. "I have all the friends I need."
"Dr. Wilson," Kendall says, and he raises his glass just slightly. "Most people, by this point, we've got their lives stripped bare and we're just covered in dirt. Dirty business, dirty marriage, dirty everything. Your guy, so far, he's clean. Other than the marriages, I guess, but even there - you know all of the wives cried, when we talked to them?"
"I'm not surprised," House says, though he is, a little. Particularly if Jessica, Wife Number 1, actually shed tears.
Kendall looks over at him. "He must be a helluva guy."
House opens his mouth and finds himself, for once, without words. He wants to tell Kendall everything, to explain what Wilson is and isn't, to somehow tie up exactly how loyal and funny and mean and smart and exasperating and kind and sad Wilson can be. "We had lunch together," House says, finally. Kendall looks over, paying attention. "Almost every day."
"We'll find him," Kendall says, after a moment, when House realizes he has nothing more to say. "Don't worry."
Neither thing is helpful to hear. House drains his drink and orders another, and when he pulls his pill bottle from his pocket, he hears Wilson's voice in his head bitching about it. That makes him smile.
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