readingrat | fic: The Cuckoo -- Chapter 5 (Reply)

Part I
Chapter 5: Diagnosis

Christmas 2015

The plane is off the ground before Wilson dares to look at Cuddy. "He's got a patient," he says. "You know how he is."

"Yes," Cuddy answers shortly.

Rachel, jammed between them in the middle seat, asks, "How who is?"

"Pete," Cuddy says. "When he has to diagnose a patient – to figure out what's wrong with him or her – he forgets everything else."

"Oh. Did he forget about us?"

"Probably."

"Doesn't matter," Rachel says cheerfully. "We found the airport without him, didn't we?"

"We certainly did," Wilson says, smiling at her.

Cuddy rolls her eyes. "She's like my therapist. 'Three things that you did well, Lisa, since our last session'," she quotes. "She calls it 'an exercise in positive thinking, aimed at building up self-esteem'."

"That shouldn't be too difficult for you," Wilson says.

"You'd be surprised at how difficult it can be," Cuddy says darkly, wondering whether Wilson's complimentary statement isn't an insult in disguise.

"Are we playing the 'three things' game?" Rachel chimes in. "Can I start?" Without waiting for a reply, she continues, "I brushed my teeth this morning."

"I should hope so!" Cuddy says. "I don't think that counts."

"Without being told to!" Rachel explains. "So I did that well, because you didn't have to keep reminding me to do it."

"Oh, all right," Cuddy concedes. "That was good of you. It's my turn. Let me see: I didn't yell at Pete all week, even though he made me want to tear my hair out. … No, wait, that doesn't count, because that wasn't something I did, but something I didn't do. It has to be an active deed, not an omission," she explains to Wilson. "I'll have to rephrase that …"

"Come on, Mom," Rachel whines. "You're not allowed to take so long."

Cuddy takes a deep breath. "Too much pressure here." She puts in a dramatic pause before saying, "Stated positively, I kept my temper with Pete."

"See, that wasn't so difficult," Wilson says in his best amateur therapist manner.

"Your turn, Wilson."

"I remembered to call House 'Pete'," Wilson says.

"So what?" Rachel promptly counters. "So did I - it's no biggie."

"You don't get to question the other players' achievements," Cuddy says.

"It's an achievement for me because I've been calling him House the past, oh, twenty years, and it's difficult to change old habits," Wilson explains to Rachel. "Anyway, it's your turn."

"I played with Wilson every day," Rachel says, giving her mother a challenging stare. Both adults can't help smiling.

"Yes, that's an achievement, considering I'm rotten at all of your games," Wilson concurs. "Cuddy?"

"I entrusted Rachel to the hotel's babysitting service for two whole hours!"

"And she survived!" Wilson says with a hint of sarcasm. Cuddy reaches across Rachel to slap his shoulder playfully.

"I did my homework assignments. That's three things for me!" Rachel crows, holding up three fingers.

Wilson generously overlooks that she's taken his turn, while Cuddy gives her a hard stare. "Your homework is nowhere near done," she says.

"You don't get to question other players' cheesements – whatever that word was!" Rachel parrots her mother's earlier statement.

"Achievements," Cuddy corrects. "Oh, okay! Wilson, you've still got two 'cheesements' open."

"Wilson, can I have your iPad?" Rachel asks hopefully, losing interest in their game now that her part is done.

"Sure." Wilson retrieves it from the backpack at his feet and hands it to Rachel. Then he turns back to Cuddy, frowning in concentration. "Staying off the booze doesn't count?" he asks hopefully.

Cuddy shakes her head, smirking. "Not unless you can bend it to give it an active spin."

Wilson is quiet for a moment. "I took a day off to do some sight-seeing by myself," he says rather self-consciously.

Cuddy smiles warmly. "That's good! You don't have to babysit him, you know."

Wilson sighs, massaging his forehead. "I know. It's just so frustrating, watching him struggle with his work environment, doing all the stuff that used to get him fired over and over again. And yet, when I tell him he'll get himself fired, he doesn't believe me or he doesn't care. I'm not sure which it is."

"I've persuaded Dr Wesley to give Pete a team," Cuddy says.

Wilson's mouth drops open. He had no idea that Cuddy has been fraternising with the enemy. "How'd you do that?"

"I went to see him yesterday and made a few 'suggestions'."

"You … told him how to do his job? And he didn't tell you to – what do they say here? – to 'sod off'?"

"Of course I didn't tell him how to do his job!" Cuddy says unconvincingly. "I merely mentioned a few do's and don'ts, which he'll probably ignore. But he was much too polite to say so or to tell me to mind my own business. He offered me cookies and tea and even said that it was lovely talking to me!" She gives Wilson a look that says, So there!

"Then what makes you think he'll give House – sorry, Pete – a team?"

"Oh, he sent me an email today saying that once he's got the funding sorted out, Pete will get his fellows. I guess the team was the only one of my concepts that Wesley understood: I doubt he grasped my meaning when I told him not to let Pete get bored or make him do things he doesn't want to do."

"Wow, that's – great! Definitely something for your 'things I did well' list." Wilson rubs his upper lip in thought. Finally he says, "I can't think of a third thing."

"You put up with us for a whole week without complaint, even though you'd have had a better time without us. I'd never have managed this," Cuddy nods at Rachel who, absorbed in a game, is oblivious to the adults, "without you."

Wilson looks confused. "I'd have had 'a better time without you'? Cuddy, I enjoyed myself. I enjoyed being with you and Rachel. This wasn't a sacrifice!"

"See? Sometimes you don't even notice the good you do for others."

April 2016

"Thymoma," Candidate #5 said confidently. "Malignant; stage II, type B2, I'd say, but I'd need a biopsy to narrow it down. The cough could be unrelated, but in view of the size of the tumour it's unlikely. The tumour is definitely pressing on the oesophagus."

He passed the scans and blood test results over to House and looked to Wilson for confirmation. His smile faded when he saw Wilson's expression. His eyes flickered to and fro between Wilson and House, a wary expression on his face. "You – didn't know, Dr Wilson?"

Wilson rubbed the back of his neck. House, immersed in the scans with his forehead furrowed, didn't react at all. The initial low rumble that had risen among the other candidates died down into a shocked silence.

"I'm … I'm sorry," the candidate said awkwardly, looking from House to Wilson and back again. "I assumed that you knew the diagnosis already and that you were just testing us."

"I assumed!" House mimicked him, rolling his eyes dramatically. "The two words that preface every imaginable stupidity." To the room at large he said, "These scans suck. Can't see the extent of the tumour. We need detailed scans of the lungs, the pericardium, and the surrounding blood vessels, and a biopsy."

There was no movement in the room. Wilson stared at a spot on the wall, wondering why the white paint was pulsating in such an annoying manner. And then there was this buzzing in his ears that drowned out most of what House was yelling at his candidates.

"Schedule the scans – yes, you, you moron! … Tomorrow at eight. … Go!"

Tinnitus, on top of his cold and the thymoma. No, he was being silly; he didn't have a cold, just a thymoma. Which was good, he supposed: he wouldn't have to deal with a cold in addition to having cancer.

'Always look on the bright side of life!' Monty Python sang in his head.

––––-

House pored over the CT scans, his chin cradled on one hand, the other hand tapping a pencil rhythmically on his desk. Wilson, standing at the window of the office and looking down at the traffic with sightless eyes, rubbed his sternum. Now that he knew the reason for the soreness, that unrelenting pressure in his chest, he was surprised that he hadn't come to the right conclusion himself.

"Stage II," House finally said, looking at Wilson with an inscrutable expression.

Wilson had figured that much out.

After a pause House continued, "It's a big, fat bastard, but it hasn't reached the mediastinal pleura. Complete resection of the thymus should do the job. There's no need for radiation or chemo."

Doubtless.

"You should get a biopsy done when you get back to the States," House added after another silence. (He'd cancelled the biopsy that morning after considering the medical implications of doing an invasive procedure on someone who should fly back home as soon as possible.)

Yes, he should.

House's limited supply of patience was evidently exhausted. "Wilson, don't be an idiot. You're an oncologist. You know that thymoma, stage II thymoma, is not a death sentence. Currently, survival rates lie at over 80%."

"For the next five years. After that …"

"Survival rates based on the treatment available five years ago or longer. Your odds are better, given the advances in the field. Have you re-scheduled your flight back?"

Wilson stared at him blankly. He felt numb, listless. Why would he want to …? Oh, yes, he needed to get back to the States to get the biopsy done. "Not yet."

House rose, making a shooing motion with his hands. "Then go, do!"

House had a meeting with the hospital administration, probably about his new team, so Wilson went back to the hotel by himself. He sank down on the bed, his head in his hands.

When he looked up again, the light in the room had changed. He rose heavily and got his travel documents out of the hotel safe.

"Hello? My name is James Wilson, booking code PNKR25."

"One moment," the cool female voice at the other end said. "BA 0173 London Heathrow to New York JFK, on April 24, is that right?"

"Yes."

"What can I do for you, Dr Wilson?"

"I …" Wilson's throat was dry. "I need to reschedule my flight. What's the earliest flight I can take?"

"Let me see. … I can offer you a seat on a flight this evening at 8 p.m., check-in is two hours earlier. Would that suit you?"

He looked at the clock. "Yes, that would be fine."

"All right, I'm booking you on BA 0183 from Heathrow at 8 p.m. You should get a confirmation email in a few moments."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"No. No, thank you." He hung up.

He got up and walked aimlessly around the hotel room, tossing odds and ends onto the bed for later packing – the adapter and charger for his cell phone, the latest Bill Bryson that he'd bought at the airport on the way down, a souvenir T-shirt he'd bought for Rachel, his travel guide. Then he phoned the front desk to tell them he'd be checking out in an hour.

House didn't call.

He decided to take a shower. Perhaps that would help him to concentrate, to shake off that stifling feeling that everything was closing in on him.

After the shower he still had half an hour to kill. He pulled out his clothes and stacked them on the bed, folded his shirts, got his toothbrush and his shaving kit out of the bathroom, checked through all the drawers and under the bed.

House still hadn't called. Wilson tried calling him, but House's phone went straight to voicemail. Wilson hesitated, breathing seconds of silence onto voicemail before telling House to call him back. Then he texted Cuddy to tell her he was returning.

He tossed his things into his suitcase, throwing the neatly folded shirts in haphazardly among boxer shorts and socks, knowing as he did so that he'd hate himself for his slovenliness when he unpacked his suitcase in New York.

He was in the cab when House finally returned his call.

"You're where?"

"On the way to the airport," Wilson repeated patiently, leaning his head against the backrest with his eyes closed. "My flight is leaving at eight."

"That's – great!" House said.

"I suppose so."

"Are you gonna be okay?"

"Yeah," Wilson said, infusing his voice with energy that he didn't feel. "Sure. The sooner I get back, the sooner this will be over."

"Need me to come to the airport?" House asked.

Wilson could hear the reluctance in House's voice, so he said what was expected of him, as he always did. "No, I'll be fine. And you'll be over in five weeks anyway, won't you?"

"Yeah, I'll see you in Baltimore in May." After a short awkward silence he disconnected the call.

Wilson stared at the phone in his hands, observing the slight unsteadiness in his hands as he held it. He was not going to cry, he was so not going to cry! There was no reason to cry: he was going back home to get his thymoma checked out, and by the time House came to hold a talk at that conference in Baltimore, he'd have had the tumour resectioned and be fit as a fiddle, and they'd both laugh at the memory of the applicant's face when he'd realised that Wilson hadn't known about his cancer.

But at the moment it didn't feel funny at all.