readingrat | fic: The Cuckoo -- Chapter 3 (Reply)

A/N: This chapter may be somewhat distressing to H/Cu shippers. You have been warned, and the rest of the fic is probably comprehensible even if you skip this chapter.

Part I
Chapter 3: New Ga(i)l

Christmas 2015

House has no intention of attending the hospital Christmas party. It has some other fancy name, 'End-of-Year Festivity', in keeping with the hospital's policy of maintaining religious neutrality and it takes place after Christmas instead of before. Nevertheless, in all essentials it is what it used to be when the times still allowed the old-fashioned appellation: lots of food and booze accompanied by an appalling selection of music.

Wilson only finds out about it because he decides to drop in on House at work while Cuddy takes Rachel on a day of sightseeing. (Trust Rachel to come all this way only to insist on seeing the dinosaurs in the Natural History Museum; she could have gotten those in the States.) While they're having lunch in the canteen – the fries are unbelievably greasy, while the peas, of a chemical shade of green, are mashed to a pulp – House's boss walks up to their table.

"Dr House, I hope we'll see you tonight at our staff party," he says, his demeanour indicating that he isn't expecting a negative reply.

Wilson doesn't have to glance at House to know what his demeanour is screaming out. He intervenes with the ease that years of practice have imbued, rising and holding out his hand. "Dr Wesley, I believe? I'm James Wilson, House's former colleague from Princeton. Thank you so much for inviting Dr Cuddy and me to the hospital's End-of-Year festivities. We'll be glad to come."

Dr Wesley is slightly bemused. "Pleased to meet you," he says automatically, shaking the extended hand. He glances from Wilson to House as though looking for a clue, but House, wearing his sinister not-what-I-expected-but-this-could-be-just-as-good expression, lets the good man stew in his ignorance.

"Well, I'm glad you'll be able to make it tonight," Wesley finally says, looking at neither of them specifically, after which he beats a hasty retreat.

"Smooth," House comments. "How do you intend to explain my absence to him?"

"I don't," Wilson says shortly. "You said we could do whatever I liked tonight. I choose the Christmas party."

"I could be introducing you to London's gay scene, nude scene, or gay-nude scene, and you choose a dinky Christmas party? Come on, Wilson!"

"Chase has a pool going on how long you'll last in this job. I'm not forfeiting my 100 dollars without a fight," Wilson says straight-faced. He deftly changes the topic before House starts digging in his heels in earnest. "Wesley addressed you as Doctor House. Doesn't he know that you haven't got a licence?"

"Sure he does, but the title isn't protected in this country. Anyone can use it, even a tree doctor."

"So you're wilfully deceiving people into believing that …"

"Not me!" House cuts in. "My boss is wilfully deceiving people." He huffs in irritation at Wilson's look of disbelief. "Think about it, Wilson. If my patients find out that officially I can't even take their temperature without supervision, they'll be all over him demanding that they be treated by a 'real' doctor."

Wilson points an accusing finger at him. "But you're not stopping him!"

House shrugs. "He does it because it benefits him, but it also benefits me so I'd be an idiot to stop him. It's difficult enough as it is to get an accurate patient history. Tell my patients that I don't have a licence and they'll not only lie through their teeth, but feel completely justified in doing so."

–––––––––

Cuddy is predictably unenthusiastic about leaving Rachel alone in a strange environment, nor does she have a vested interest in Chase's pool (should that pool actually exist, but Wilson is prepared to bet 100 dollars that it does), but she can be persuaded to see the wisdom of investing some energy into keeping House employed for as long as possible.

"But why do I have to come along? I'm fine spending a quiet night with Rachel at the hotel," she protests.

"Because evading two people in order to slip out the back door is more difficult than slipping past one person," Wilson explains patiently.

They are fashionably late, their tardiness caused not only by House arriving at their hotel twenty minutes past the agreed time, but also by Cuddy getting Rachel settled for the night, making sure that Rachel has her cell phone number, and double and triple checking whether Rachel is okay with the hotel's babysitting service looking in on her at regular intervals. (Rachel at age eight is already an eye-roll specialist, and her, 'Mom, I'm not a baby!' reverberates in Wilson's ears long after the cab has drawn away from the hotel's curb.) The net result is that they are banished to a small table in a corner of the festive hall, but in view of House's general reluctance to come at all and the level of jackassery he's already displaying, the further on the fringe they are, the better.

It takes Wilson some time to figure out that they are being treated like pariahs by most of the staff not because House has already managed to antagonise his colleagues, but because (oh, blissful circumstance!) House's face is still practically unknown; his British colleagues are, on average, much too reticent to introduce themselves to a bunch of complete strangers. So, other than polite nods and smiles, they are left pretty much to themselves for the first twenty minutes after their arrival.

Cuddy has left the room, ostensibly to powder her nose, but more probably to phone the hotel's babysitting service, when Wilson's musings on a young blonde in a pink party hat are interrupted.

"You're Dr House?" says a voice with a slight lilt. (Scottish? Irish? Wilson can never tell the difference.) It belongs to a tall woman in her late thirties or early forties, her hair the shade that Rachel calls 'ginger' but that Wilson prefers to refer to as 'auburn', her complexion pale and freckled. The hint of make-up she wears enhances clear grey-green eyes, eyes that are trained on House with a look that Wilson knows. He's seen it on all too many colleagues' and patients' faces in past years: the you've-pissed-me-off look.

Brilliant! His first social interaction of the evening is going to be Defusing a Situation that House has managed to create without even knowing the colleague in question.

House scoots his chair back and tips his head to assess her, which she takes as an affirmative answer to her question. She slides unbidden into the chair Cuddy just vacated. "Gail Fothergill," she says, "I teach psychology to our Foundation Year doctors."

House allows his eyes to travel down her form and then, slowly, up again. "Tell me again why I'm supposed to be pleased to meet you," he drawls. "Because I really can't tell why I should be."

Wilson draws in a sharp breath. Gail may not be the material that fuels shower fantasies, but she's not exactly hard on the eyes either. She isn't as curvaceous as House normally likes 'em and of course ginger can't compete with brunette, but no doubt the primary reason for House's crude rebuttal is his unhappiness at being here at the party, which really isn't Gail's fault.

Before Wilson can come to Gail's rescue she replies coolly, "I wasn't aiming to please." Without a pause she gets down to the nitty-gritty. "Dr House, on Tuesday the Foundies didn't come to my class. Later I was informed that you'd insisted that they stay longer in your Diagnostics class to examine a dead rat."

"To diagnose a patient," House corrects her, adding regretfully, "who unfortunately didn't live long enough to benefit from their diagnosis."

"The rat was dead when you pushed it into the MRI," Gail says. "It could have waited."

"You did an MRI on a rat?" Wilson murmurs, wondering why he's surprised.

"I, too, would have much preferred to have done the MRI at some other time, but until I've sussed out enough dirt on the radiology technicians to be able to monopolise the MRI whenever I need it, I will have to make do with whatever time slot I'm assigned," House says with a hint of real regret. "But don't get your hopes up: your preferences won't influence the way I plan class assignments, no matter how cooperative radiology or the labs are."

Gail props her chin on her hand. "So you're of the opinion that your Diagnostics class supersedes Psychology and that carrying out procedures on dead rats is more important than learning 'psychobabble'?"

"Oooh, someone's iddly-widdly feelings got hurt!" House crows. He's serious a moment later, matching Gail's chin-on-hand posture and staring straight into her eyes from a mere foot away. "The dead rat proves my point. Had the students focused all their energy on it instead of rushing from class to class, the wee beastie might have lived. Once my students have diagnosed their patient, they're free to indulge in esoteric pastimes, but until then patient care has priority. Diagnostics is all about saving lives."

"What ailed your vermin – sorry, 'patient'?" Gail enquires, not backing away an inch from his proximity.

Wilson can't remember ever hearing anyone use the word 'ail'. The musical timbre of her voice, the archaic vocabulary, and the soft lilt have a heady effect, rather like a strong, sweet wine.

"Mrs Murida Rattus suffered from cancer. Ovarian cancer. With timely treatment – who knows? – she might have survived," House says with an air of melancholy.

"Just as she might have, if the Foundation class understood rat language, enabling them to obtain a proper patient history. They don't (more's the pity for the vermin population), but they are capable of learning to communicate with human patients, to understand their body language, and to read between the lines. All of that will save a lot of lives, especially when you consider that NHS patients have to wait for months to get an MRI or a CT scan done. Furthermore, our doctors can learn to give clear, unambiguous treatment instructions that patients can understand and follow, thereby saving even more lives. And that's what I teach them." Having made her point, Gail leans back. "I have instructed the class to appear early in my classroom next week to make up for the time we lost this week, so you needn't bother to wait for them. And in future, do try to ensure that you dismiss the class punctually, Dr House."

"Pete," House says.

"I'm sorry?"

"That's my name: Pete. It's short for Gregory House, which is short for 'Genius Diagnostician with an International Reputation Who Can Out-bully You Any Day'. If you're going to invade my privacy every time I step on your metaphorical bunions, we'll be very intimate very soon, so let's switch to first names, shall we?"

House has the slightest of grins on his lips as he fixes Gail with one of his mesmerising stares, but she is not that easily intimidated. She leans forward again, very consciously moving into his personal space, the upward tug on her lips mirroring House's.

"Very well, Pete." Looking up at something slightly to Wilson's left, she says, rising, "Oh, sorry, did I take your place? I'll be gone in a moment."

Wilson twists to see Cuddy behind him, back from wherever she was. She has a thoughtful, slightly worried expression on her face.

Pushing her chair back, Gail smiles down at House. "You intend to tell the Foundation class to ignore me and come to your class anyway, and then you'll keep them late again, won't you?" she enquires sweetly.

House's smirk has morphed into a full-fledged grin. He tips his head slightly to confirm her surmise, and then he rises to tower over her. "I'm bigger and badder than you," he says, "and a lot scarier when I yell. They'll come."

"I won't have to yell when I inform them that 'Psychobabble for Beginners', as you deigned to call it, is a compulsory course on which they will be graded, while 'Introduction to Diagnostics' is an optional course with a mere pass requirement. Guess which one they'll choose to attend? Have a good evening, Dr House! It was a pleasure to get to know you." She gives the others a polite smile. "Sorry for disturbing you, but these things are best settled in an informal, relaxed atmosphere, don't you think?" And then she's gone, as quickly as she came.

Wilson tries to catch Cuddy's eye as she sits down again, willing her to share in his amusement at House's expression of gob-smacked appreciation at being bested, but she's quiet, preoccupied with the pattern on the paper tablecloth. Nor does she, when Wilson and House assess and grade Dr Fothergill's charms on the Richter scale, accompany their litany with her usual exasperated eye roll. Something is decidedly off.

When House goes off to get another beer, Wilson turns to Cuddy. "Is everything okay at the hotel?" he asks.

"What? Yes," Cuddy answers somewhat belatedly, her eyes following House. Wilson, following her line of vision, suddenly notices Gail Fothergill standing at the bar towards which House is headed. Oh, holy shit! Should he hope for the best or should he intervene before they start World War III?

Cuddy is saying something that Wilson doesn't catch in his preoccupation. "I'm sorry. I was distracted," he says.

"I was saying that I'd like to go back to the hotel. I honestly don't like leaving Rachel in new surroundings even if there's a babysitting service." She rises, but places a restraining hand on his arm. "You and Pete stay here. I'll catch a cab." And with that she's gone, which is a pity since the buffet is about to open.

Wilson returns his attention to House, who has sidled up to the bar next to Gail Fothergill. If they are carrying on any sort of feud, then it's under cover of perfect amicability and harmony, because neither of them displays the slightest sign of displeasure or animosity in expression or body language. Wilson sighs with relief and turns his attention to the buffet. There he bumps into a fellow oncologist whom he met years ago at a conference in Washington, and before he knows it, it's midnight and House has been MIA for hours. He finally finds House outside smoking a cigar, looking generally pleased with the world.

"I'm sorry – I met an old friend," Wilson apologises with a twinge of guilt. 'Friend' is a gross exaggeration, but that's something House with his amnesia can't know.

"S'okay," House mouths through his cigar. "I met a new one." And his smile, as they go in search of a cab, is both youthful and devious.

April 2016

They'd all wanted to draw blood, take x-rays and do full-body scans – until Wilson had pointed out gently that it would reflect badly on their people skills and their ability to cope with meagre resources if they made pin cushions of real patients and exposed them to radiation poisoning. He was prepared to subject himself to each procedure once only, and they'd better decide which ones they really needed. And no, he was very sorry, but he would not consent to a liver biopsy. (He did, however, allow them all to listen to his lungs, peer down his throat, and do all the other manual non-invasive 'doctor things' they could think of.)

By mid-afternoon they were done. "So, what's the plan for the next two days?" he asked, mindful of House's instructions to the applicants to be done by Friday. "Do you have a patient?"

"Nope; I'm all yours. Tell me what you want to do and we'll do it."

House's cell phone rang. He dug it out of his pocket, and after looking at the screen he took the call, his tensed features relaxing into something akin to a smile. "Hey," he breathed into the phone, his eyes creasing, the lines on his forehead smoothing out. He leaned back comfortably, crossing his ankles and swivelling to and fro gently in his chair.

The House Wilson knew didn't 'breathe' into phones. Nor did his thumb caress the phone as he talked. And he certainly didn't smile fondly at whatever the person at the other end said.

He was suffering from delusions, Wilson decided, brought on by the multiple procedures carried out on him today.

"Dinner sounds great," House was saying. "Your place? … No, it's fine. … Okay, see you in half an hour."

He looked up, grimacing when he saw Wilson's speculative glance. "You're meeting someone for dinner?" Wilson asked.

"Yes."

The scant reply filled Wilson with foreboding. "A woman?"

"Is that a crime?" House asked.

"Since you're deflecting – yes," Wilson replied. He remembered Cuddy's suspicion. "Is this the psychologist we met at Christmas at the hospital do?"

"And if it was?" House countered with a question once again.

That was an Ill Portent. It meant 'yes', and it meant that House not only knew that this wasn't a Good Idea, but that he intended to pursue this Bad Idea no matter what Wilson said.

And Wilson had no doubt that this was a Bad Idea, because the only reason he hadn't taken much notice of House's interest in Ms Fothergill at the time had been because subconsciously he'd assumed that even if House were interested, the object of his pursuit wouldn't return the sentiment. She had been wearing a plain gold band on her left hand.

"House … Pete, she's married!"

"Would that stop you?" House asked.

Wilson looked at him suspiciously. The mocking tone that House used to adopt whenever Wilson's sex life in general and his marital life in particular had come up was notably absent. There was also no sign of guile on House's face; his expression was curious and somewhat disbelieving. Wilson wondered whether Nolan's notes and Chase's anecdotes had omitted Wilson's marital and extra-marital imbroglios.

He wasn't sure whether he was pleased that House's unfailing source of mockery had run dry in the drought of his amnesia. He'd never been able to keep anything of note secret from House, and while every newly uncovered secret had brought with it a stream of ridicule and sarcasm, there had been an odd comfort in knowing that the man who knew the darkest corners of his soul didn't despise him for them. This total stranger in front of him, how would he react?

House was still waiting for an answer. Wilson sighed. "No, it wouldn't. Or rather, being married didn't stop me from cheating. But trust me, it never ended well, and the last time you interfered in an existing marriage it was messy."

"I'm not interfering in an existing marriage," House said, with emphasis on 'existing'.

"She's a widow?" Wilson said hopefully. If the woman were divorced, she probably wouldn't be wearing the ring.

"Nope. Hubby had a midlife crisis. He's busy screwing one of his students."

"So she's on the rebound," Wilson said, hardly happier than before.

"People are either in a relationship or on the rebound," House said with a shrug. "When you score, it doesn't matter whether it's a direct shot or off a rebound."

"Maybe, but in this game you aren't a starter. You're a reserve player who will get pulled off the court any moment."

House looked sinisterly enthusiastic. "No, I won't. I've done my research; I know what she's interested in, what food she likes, what music she listens to, her favourite novels. I've been attentive without being stifling. I've shown due interest in her offspring while making sure they know I'm not trying to replace MIA Dad."

"She has kids?" Wilson said with a sinking heart. This could not go well.

"Two teenagers," House said dismissively. "Teens are simple: ignore them and they'll ignore you."

"Pete, that won't work," Wilson argued, wondering why he was bothering. "They may not care, but their mother will."

"Relax – I've got it all under control. Went to the cinema with them, let them listen to the music on my playlist, showed them how to hack the parental control on their computer and download movies from the internet, so now I'm their hero."

Wilson's brow furrowed. "How long has this been going on?"

"A few months," House admitted with diffident pride. He glanced at the display of his cell phone, his lips twitching in a smile. For a brief moment he looked almost boyish.

A few months! And Wilson had known nothing, suspected nothing. Unlike Cuddy … oh, Jesus, Cuddy!

"Does – Cuddy know?" Wilson asked hesitantly.

House's gaze snapped up, his facial muscles tensing. He slipped the cell phone back into his jacket pocket and rose from his chair, leaning down to pick up his backpack. "Is it any business of hers?" he said, his back strategically turned on Wilson.

Oh, they were back to question and counter-question, were they? "You tell me," Wilson said, playing the ball right back into House's court.

"Lisa and I are not in a relationship," House said brusquely.

Wilson was used to House's deflections and feints. "That's not what I asked. I asked whether you don't owe it to her to let her know about this."

Blue-grey eyes scrutinised Wilson. "Why would I owe her anything?"

"Oh, I don't know," Wilson said. "Maybe because she still feels something for you, …"

"Not my problem," House interjected.

Ignoring him, Wilson continued stolidly, "Or because she went to one hell of a lot of trouble to get you out of a mess of your own making, …"

"Didn't ask her to," House said, but he wouldn't meet Wilson's gaze and his tone was surly.

"Or because it would be nice to play with open cards, instead of letting her believe that there's a chance …"

House clearly had no intention of letting him finish a single sentence uninterrupted. "Did she play with open cards when she 'forgot' to tell me that she knew about my past?"

"Oh, is this payback time?" Wilson asked. "Tell me, whose wishes was she supposed to respect: those of House, who wanted to forget his past, or those of Peter Barnes, who didn't know whether he wanted to know about the past he was digging up? Did you even tell Cuddy that you had amnesia and were researching your background?"

House was silent.

"I take it that's a no." Wilson tugged a hand through his hair, wondering how to get through to a man whose capacity for nursing grudges was phenomenal.

Wait – what grudge?

To date, House had shown no sign of resenting the choices Cuddy had made after meeting him unexpectedly three years after he had nuked his hippocampus. The only aspect of her conduct that he deplored was that she'd chosen to renew the contact between herself and the man who could easily have killed her four years earlier. That sort of 'idiocy', as House would (and did) call it, violated his sense of what was sane and rational. Withholding relevant information, however, was par for the course in House's world. House didn't impart information voluntarily, and he expected others to be as secretive as he was himself.

So what was the issue here?

Wilson pondered House's previous statements. House denying any obligation to Cuddy didn't mean that he didn't feel indebted to her. It just meant that he wasn't willing to admit to any sort of emotional involvement, which was typical for House. He'd always refused to entertain the notion that he was capable of feeling responsibility for anyone he was affiliated with, maybe hoping that professing indifference would make him feel that way too. If you didn't care, you couldn't get hurt.

House was bothered about telling Cuddy precisely because he was afraid she'd get hurt. Which was great, really great! There had been times when House, emotionally numbed by Vicodin, hadn't even fathomed that his words or actions had the capacity to hurt others, let alone allowed the knowledge to bother him.

Wilson's first impulse was to let House know that he was onto him, but he managed to bite his tongue and survey his options. He could subject House to a dose of psychoanalysis, but much good that had ever done! He could try to impress on House the need to be open with Cuddy about this, but if House was in total denial about his odd bond with Cuddy, then he might as well talk to the wall.

Really, it would be simplest if he told Cuddy himself! But telling Cuddy about House's private life behind his back? Ten years ago he'd have done that with no compunction whatsoever (and the other way around too, to boot), secure in House's undying loyalty. Now he wasn't sure how that would go down with House.

He could, of course, just let things take their natural course. It was unlikely that Cuddy would pine endlessly for House – judging by her sparse hints at the airport and the fact that she'd chosen not to join him on this trip to England, it was more than likely that she suspected that House was otherwise involved. But suspicions, no matter how strong, did not equal knowledge, and Wilson for his part knew only too well how difficult it was to let go of someone you loved as long as there was still hope. Besides, Cuddy was a lot better at dealing with clear-cut situations than at hanging in limbo. She'd deal with it and move on, and that would be the end of the matter.

Which left Wilson with a decision to make: he could either do what was good for Cuddy at the risk of breaking the fragile bond that was forming between himself and House, or he could keep his peace and nurture his relationship with House with no regard for Cuddy's needs. Or …

He surprised himself by saying quietly, "Do you mind if I tell her?"

House stared at him thoughtfully. Finally he shrugged, saying, "Do what you like. It's no state secret." And with that he shouldered his backpack. At the door he stopped. "Did you say what you wanted to do till Friday?"

"Well, I …," Wilson floundered.

"You've got till tomorrow morning to think about it. I'll pick you up. Eight o'clock sharp!" he threw over his shoulder and was gone before Wilson could object to the unearthly hour.