fic: The Cuckoo -- Chapter 9

[readingrat]

 

Part II
Chapter 9: Shopping for Trouble

House did indeed know a place for motorcycles just outside Princeton.

"You –- remember this place?" Wilson asked as they drew up outside it. He remembered it; they'd been there together some seven years earlier to replace a motorcycle that House had trashed.

House's mien as he examined the shop front was hesitant, his brows drawn together in concentration, his lips scrunched up. "Maybe … vaguely. I think I've been here before …"

Wilson felt a tremor of hope run up his spine. "Really?" he said.

House looked at him, his lips quirking. "No." He reached into his backpack, drew out a motoring magazine and tossed it into Wilson's lap. It was folded open on a page with ads, one of which was circled.

"NJ Motorcycles, Princeton," Wilson read. "Ass!"

"Retrograde amnesia that lasts longer than half a year doesn't 'wear off' just like that," House pointed out.

"True, but there are new findings that DBS can produce vivid memories, so it may be possible to combat your amnesia."

House looked at him curiously. "Would you invite bedbugs back in after you've had your place fumigated and replaced all your furniture?"

Wilson was hard put to pinpoint the flaw in the metaphor. "I am who I am because of the events that shaped me and the memories that they left. I don't simply like macadamia nut pancakes. I can recall my grandmother making them, my mother making them, even me making them on occasion," and you eating them, he added silently. "It's the taste plus all those memories that combine to form my present day experience of enjoying macadamia nut pancakes."

"I was a jerk before the electroconvulsive therapy; I'm a jerk now. Not remembering how I used to piss people off doesn't stop me from enjoying it now. I'm fine without my memories."

"How can you know?"

House shrugged and went inside. Wilson sighed, locked the car, and followed him. Seeing to which part of the display House was drifting Wilson said, "I'm looking for something for the next few months, not for a long-term investment for my money."

As though on cue, a salesman came up. "This model, sir, has 1000 cc, a 5.2 gallon fuel tank, and traction control. It also has cruise control and …"

"We need a beginner's motorcycle," House said without looking up from the model he was circling.

"New or used?"

"Used."

"Ah, then you might like to look over here, sir," the salesman said, moving over to cruisers that looked as though they came straight from the movie set of Wild Hogs.

Wilson longed to point out that there was a difference between midlife crisis and end-of-life closure, but House and the salesman were off on suspension, displacement, torque and heaven knew what, so he wandered off to look at leather jackets and helmets instead.

Black. Black would be appropriate. He'd look suitably rakish in black leather. And an open helmet: he wanted to feel the wind in his face. He'd get sunglasses to go with it and cultivate a manly stubble. And he'd visit that girl Melanie, the one he'd had a crush on in high school, and make her regret she'd gone to the prom with Kyle Calloway, that selfish bastard!

He'd chosen a jacket, pants and boots when House whistled at him.

"Wilson, you're testing those three." He pointed to three motorcycles that the salesman had pushed to the entrance of the shop, all of them cruisers.

Wilson swung himself onto the first one. House eyed him critically, checking not just his control of the vehicle, but also his posture. At House's gesture he moved on to the next one. When House was satisfied, he nodded to the salesman.

"He'll take the Honda Rebel. Now let's have the other one!"

The salesman wheeled out another motorcycle while House, who had come dressed in leather, grabbed the helmet Wilson had chosen and put it on.

"Why can't I try that one?" Wilson asked, pointing to House's motorcycle. It was what he'd envisioned when he'd pictured himself riding into the sunset: a sleek racy outline, front and rear fairings, a rake angle that had you crouching over the handlebars ready to lean into corners as you wound up mountain serpentines. The one House had picked for him from the selection the salesman had wheeled out looked tame in comparison.

"You ride this one, and your trip ends at the first corner you meet," House said. Relenting a little, he added, "If you want to ride with that tumour pressing on your lungs, you're going to need a fairly upright position. And you should be able to plant your feet solidly on the ground – you'll need the extra control when you have to stop suddenly because of a coughing bout."

When House put it like that, a motorcycle trip into the sunset didn't seem such a great idea after all.

House swung his prosthetic awkwardly over the saddle of the sports motorcycle.

"Are you sure …?" the salesman began.

In answer, House gunned the motor and spurted across the parking lot, the exhaust thrumming loudly. For all of ten wearying minutes he accelerated and braked, weaved in and out of parked cars, rode ever-tightening loops, until he finally came to a stop in front of Wilson and the sales guy.

"Can we go now, Evil Knievel?" Wilson asked. "I've got a motorcycle and you don't need one."

"You want me to ride pillion on yours?" House asked, leering. "Snuggling up to you from behind? Sweet! But on a 250 cc bike that's going to get uncomfortable pretty soon."

"You're –- coming with?"

"Sure," House said easily. "Can't miss this, can I? Wilson letting his hair down, going all Easy Rider on the unsuspecting populace of the Midwest!"

"Who says I want you to come?" Wilson said slowly.

House tipped his head to one side to consider Wilson the way he looked at interesting scans, shifting his weight to his remaining foot as he did so, causing the crotch rocket under him to list to the same side. "You let me come here with you," he pointed out.

"Only because you know more about motorcycles than I do."

"You could have researched them yourself on the internet; in fact, you probably did. See, you want me to go along because you're scared to go by yourself." Before Wilson could protest that he was no chicken, House added suggestively, "Besides, if you're nice to me, I'll let you ride my – bike."

Wilson threw up his hands, but he couldn't help smiling. "With such an incentive, who could refuse you?" he said.

"We're taking the motorcycles for a test ride," House told the salesman. "Take his credit card as security and get us another helmet."

Out on the roads? Wilson had imagined that he'd start off by turning rounds on an empty parking lot or chugging slowly down the streets of Germantown, taking things at his own pace with no one to witness his little wobbles of insecurity. Going on a ride with House would undoubtedly involve testing his limits and possibly exceeding them. But House was already on his bike revving impatiently, the salesman was giving him an encouraging wave, and there was no way he could back down without losing face completely, not after he'd told House that he was going on a road trip in order to have the time of his life. So he swung his leg over the saddle with a confidence that he didn't feel, plastered a smile onto his face and started the ignition. (Where on earth was the fuel gauge on this darn thing?)

"Stay behind me and do as I do!" House instructed before heading towards the exit of the parking lot.

Sure! he thought, kicking into first gear, easing the clutch and twisting the grip of the throttle towards himself. The motorcycle lurched forward. He pulled hard on the clutch, mindful of his driving instructor's words: 'When in doubt, engage the clutch!' It was a good thing he'd taken a few lessons the past weeks, even though they weren't nearly enough to make him feel confident about controlling the roughly five hundred pounds bucking under his ass and just waiting to toss him into the next irrigation ditch.

The engine whined, but being disconnected, had no more effect on the motorcycle than Wilson's agitated thoughts. After a few harrowing seconds he had the it under control and was puttering slowly across the parking lot towards House. He applied a little more throttle and was relieved when the cruiser picked up speed, reaching a respectable pace by the time he caught up with House.

"You do know how to switch gears, right?" House asked.

Wilson nodded, mortified.

House grinned diabolically. "Follow me!"

After half an hour, Wilson was just about ready to abandon the motorcycle and walk back to the car. It wasn't that House was taking particular pains to torture him. No, it was small-town traffic pure and simple: four way stops, traffic lights, left turns, right turns. The first right turn had him weaving into the opposite lane, which was luckily completely empty.

House stopped. "You know what would have happened if a car had come from the other direction?"

Yes, he knew. He didn't need to be reminded.

After a further fifteen minutes, House let him pull up and waved at him to drive ahead.

"How do I know where I'm supposed to go?" he asked, slightly panicky. If he messed this up, he'd land on the freeway among trucks and SUVs and commuters, all out to get him.

"Well, I have no idea where we are, so if you don't either, we'll ride in circles till we run out of gas," House said shrugging.

Great! They were out in the open countryside by now, and he hadn't really paid any attention to their route, so busy had he been trying not to stall the motorcycle or lose sight of House. But he had a rough idea where they'd come from, so he turned around and tentatively accelerated to what he considered an adequate cruising speed.

Wilson had just come to the conclusion that motorcycles were fun after all when disaster struck. Everything had gone well on their way back to Princeton and they were approaching the last traffic light before the motorcycle shop when it switched from green to yellow. Wilson braked: he wasn't about to risk a left turn under the pressure of getting off the intersection before he was turned into roadkill by oncoming traffic. He felt rather than saw House overtake him and head out onto the intersection. House leaned into the turn, but he was too close to the curb, far too close, and the rest happened so fast that Wilson only heard a scrunch as the sports motorcycle slid into a parked car.

He accelerated, drove through the red light, and turned left the way House had done, hoping that any oncoming traffic would brake. A horn blared. By the time he reached House he was going so fast that he couldn't stop next to him anymore. His bike came to a halt a few yards further on; he kicked the stand down, dismounted, and ran back to where House was slowly picking himself up.

"Are you okay?" he asked breathlessly.

House flexed one leg and then the other, dusted down his leather jacket and his pants, which were quite badly scuffed on the side that had hit the ground, and grimaced.

"Seems okay," he said, though his voice was not quite as cocky as usual. Wilson walked over to House's motorcycle and picked it up. At first glance he couldn't see any damage to it. He pushed it up the curb out of the way and turned his attention to the car, a sleek silver Mercedes sedan.

Oh, crap! A large dent graced the driver's door and the left back tire was flat. Totally flat. Undrive-ably flat. How had that happened with no visible damage to the machine?

"The tire is flat," he said to House. "Are you sure you're okay?"

House, who had sunk down on the curb, nodded.

"What about the prosthetic?" Wilson probed. Maybe something had come off and …

House examined that leg. The leather of his pants was somewhat scuffed, but the prosthetic itself seemed intact. "Must've been the foot rest," he said.

Wilson looked around. No owner was rushing out of an adjoining building to lynch them. In fact, no one was taking any notice of them at all. He walked into the cafe that adjoined the sidewalk.

"The car out there, the Mercedes, do you know to whom it belongs?" he asked the woman behind the counter.

She came out with him. "That's Phil's car," she said. "He's got his office on the second floor. Wait, I'll call him."

She walked to the edge of the sidewalk and leaned backwards. "Phil!" she hollered. A head popped out of a window on the second floor. "Come down! Someone's done somethin' to your car!"

After what seemed an infinite wait, an elderly gentleman in a suit and tie shuffled out onto the sidewalk. "What's with my car?" he asked with a look of mild enquiry.

"My friend, uh, crashed his motorcycle into it," Wilson said.

"Oh, dear!" Phil said. He looked at House, who was now cradling his head in his hands. "Is he okay? Should we call a doctor?"

"He's okay, and I am a doctor," Wilson said.

"Oh, dear!" Phil repeated. "Motorcycles are so dangerous! My daughter is taking driving lessons, but I'd never let her get on a motorcycle." He looked at Wilson as though it was his fault that House was riding a motorcycle.

Wilson shoved the thought that if Amy had been pregnant he'd be about Phil's age when his kid got a driver's licence firmly out of his mind and concentrated on the matter at hand. "Your car," he reminded Phil.

"A few scratches don't matter as long as it still works," Phil said cheerfully. Then to House, "You shouldn't give up, though. After a crash, it's best to get right back on the motorcycle and keep going. Chicken out, and you'll regret it later."

When House raised his head and made as though to say something, Wilson quickly intervened. "I'm afraid the back tire is flat. No, the other one," he said, as Phil examined the intact tire on the right side of the car.

Phil went round to the other side. "Oh, sh–sh–sh." He drew out the sibilant, as though pondering what combination of vowels and consonants to add to it, and then settled for, "Shame! What a shame! But we should be happy that no one got hurt. Are you a beginner?" he asked House.

House didn't deign to reply. Wilson couldn't suppress a grin –- House classified as a beginner! This would provide mocking fodder for days.

"No, but he's starting again after a long time out," he said.

"Oh, dear! Well, I've read that most motorcycle accidents are caused by older men riding on machines that are too powerful for their abilities," Phil said.

House snorted.

Phil gave him a mild smile. "But however that may be, it makes no difference now." He contemplated the flat tire. "I suppose I can't drive the car like this?"

"No, definitely not," both Wilson and the woman from the cafe said.

"But I'm sure my insurance will cover the costs for the repair and the paint job," Wilson added.

"Well, yes, but I have a court hearing in Trenton in half an hour. How am I going to get there?"

"If you've got a spare in your trunk, I'm sure I could change it," Wilson said. He hadn't changed a tire in years, but how difficult could it be? He beckoned to House, who rose reluctantly from the curb.

But there was no spare tire in the trunk. "No idea where it went," Phil said with a fatalistic shrug.

"We could call a taxi," Wilson suggested.

Phil broke into a smile. "Now that would be lovely! In fact, I could do that myself. You boys have been through enough already."

But Wilson called a cab, and while they waited, he wrote his contact data and his insurance number down for Phil. "Let me know if there's a problem," he said.

"But hurry!" House muttered. "In a few months it'll be too late!"

Wilson gave House a dirty look. Turning back to Phil he said, "You've been very calm about all this. Not everyone would appreciate having their paint job ruined and their tire punctured."

"Young man," Phil said as the cab pulled up at the curb, "I'm a lawyer: criminal law. I deal with murder, mayhem, rape, and armed assault on a daily basis. Compared with that, a dented car is a breeze." He gave them both a friendly wave as the cab drove away.

"You heard him," Wilson said to House. "Straight back onto the motorcycle and off we go. No chickening out!"

House flipped him the bird.

The guy at NJ Motorcycles was less than happy when they came back at a very sedate pace (Wilson rather enjoyed biking with House when he was in a state of shocked stupor) and he saw the scratches on the fairings of the Kawasaki House had been riding.

"Are you buying it?" he asked.

"No," Wilson said before House could say anything. "We'll pay for the damage, but he's getting a cruiser, like me, with a displacement of 500 cc at the most."

There was a loaded silence while Wilson and the sales guy waited for House's reaction.

"And he is paying for everything," House finally said, pointing his thumb at Wilson.

They made the remaining arrangements with the salesman: House haggled the price down by twenty per cent while Wilson selected saddle bags and arranged for the cruisers to be brought to Philly during the course of the week. He supposed he should be grateful for the turn of events – if House hadn't kissed the tarmac, he'd probably have insisted that they ride their motorcycles back to Philadelphia immediately.

---

Cuddy, spotting the two men slinking past the kitchen toting four large shopping bags, strode out to intercept them before they could reach the safety of the guest bedroom.

"What have you got there?"

Pete looked brazen enough to bluff it out, but Wilson flushed guiltily.

When she waved her hand at the bags with a twirl in an 'open up!' gesture Pete said, "Private stuff, not for ladies' eyes!" and winked at her broadly.

She turned to Wilson with her hands on her hips and predictably he folded. "It's motorcycle gear," he mumbled.

It took her a few moments to process the information. "Motorcycle gear? Have you gone crazy?"

"Why did you tell her?" Pete said. "Now she's gonna get her thong all in a twist!"

"You don't think she'll notice when we're both gone all of a sudden?" Wilson asked. Crossing his arms defensively he said to Cuddy, "I want to see a few places before I die."

"Can't you go by car?" He didn't answer. "Do you even have a motorcycle licence?"

"Pete knows someone who …"

"Pete knows someone who knows someone," she mimicked. "Great! So your plan for avoiding cancer treatment in a hospital is getting admitted as roadkill instead."

"Why does everyone think I'll crash the motorcycle?" Wilson asked plaintively.

Cuddy turned to Pete and poked a finger into his chest. "I'll hold you responsible for his safety."

"Hey, it wasn't my idea!" Pete protested, taking half a step backwards and throwing up his hands.

"I'm aware of that. Something that stupid could only have come from the Mastermind of Idiotic Plans!" Cuddy said, tossing her head angrily at Wilson.

"'Mastermind of …'?" Wilson repeated. "I'm insulted. My plans are never idiotic." Unlike Pete, whose Puppy-dog Look of Innocence was marred by being obviously fake, Wilson's looked like the genuine thing, maybe because he believed in his own innocence.

"I can name at least twenty instances of totally crappy schemes," Cuddy said, a challenging gleam in her eyes.

Wilson unfolded his arms to waggle his fingers at her. "Fine, bring it on! I'm counting."

Pete leaned against the wall, grinning. "This is gonna be good!" he said.

"It sure is," Cuddy confirmed. "Twenty: The Chicken Bet."

"You … knew about that?" Wilson asked.

"Of course I knew about that. It was my job to know about things like that."

"That one wasn't too bad; it got House off your back."

"Do you have any idea what it cost me to have the entire tract disinfected without the story leaking to the board?" Obviously not. "Nineteen: Double dating with Sam."

Wilson didn't contest that one.

She was on a roll now. "Eighteen: The time we didn't tell him," she nodded at House, "that his patient was cured?" Wilson didn't contest that one either.

"Seventeen: Dragging me to his wedding in the hope that he'd chicken out at the last minute when he saw me there."

"I couldn't know that he'd be stubborn enough to go through with it," Wilson defended himself.

"I told you that he's a stupid, pig-headed adolescent with a bad attitude."

"Hey, I have feelings!" Pete interposed.

"Why am I getting blamed for his attitude?" Wilson complained.

"I'm not blaming you for his attitude; I'm blaming you for not taking it into account. Sixteen: The deal with Tritter."

"Shit, yes," Wilson muttered. "Talk of stupid, pig-headed idiots."

"Absolutely!" Cuddy said, looking at him pointedly. "Fifteen, …"

"Okay, okay," Wilson interrupted. "I get the point. You can stop. Can we go now?"

"You're leaving now?"

"No, we're leaving in about a week," Wilson said. "But I want to stow the gear in the guest room." He picked up three of the bags, leaving one for Pete. You would think Pete was the one with cancer, but ingrained habits were difficult to eradicate.

Cuddy turned to Pete as soon as she was sure that Wilson wouldn't hear them. "Wilson is being an idiot."

"Agreed."

"He needs treatment."

"Also agreed."

"Treatment which he won't be getting if you whisk him off to the ass end of nowhere, where you'll have so much fun together that he'll forget all about his imminent death." She leaned back, arms folded, her point made.

Pete imitated her posture. "Treatment which he won't be getting if I let him go off by himself to the ass end of nowhere to mope and come to the conclusion that life really isn't worth living."

She considered this. Pete had a point. Besides, Wilson was undoubtedly safer in Pete's company. "But don't you think he may have been testing the waters? If you hadn't agreed to go along, he might have given up his plan."

Pete blew air from one cheek to the other. "Wilson kept very few of my clothes when he put my stuff in storage, but he kept my motorcycle gear, along with the baby grand and the couch."

"So?" She wished he'd get to the point.

"So, for Wilson, motorcycling is a part of me the way playing the piano is." He tugged at his lip in thought. "You're playing tennis with your boss and he lobs a ball high over the net. What does he expect you to do?"

Now he was dangling one of his darn sports metaphors in her face, and if she wanted to figure out what was going on, she'd have to bite. "Smash it back?"

"Exactly! If you don't do that, he'll know you're not interested in winning the game, but in brown-nosing him. Wilson isn't testing the waters, he's testing me. He lobbed a high ball at me. If I'd lobbed it back, he'd have known I'm not interested in winning the game."

He was making her head ache. "And what's the game?"

"Keeping Wilson alive."

---

It took Wilson three weeks to get his life sorted; Pete, on the other hand, needed only one phone call. When Cuddy pulled him aside and asked him what he was going to live off now that he had no job, he raised an eyebrow and said, "Duh, Wilson of course! He's got quite a stash, and a deadline on spending it. Hah, see what I did there?"

Cuddy was not amused, but let it pass. "And then?"

"I'm still a lecturer at Oxford University." He must have sensed her doubts, because he added, "They're ridiculously generous and they don't seem to care much when I hold the lectures or how, for that matter. I have a nasty suspicion that they're more interested in the fickle fame attached to my name than in my unsurpassed teaching abilities." He managed to look deeply wounded at the superficiality of the organisation that was paying him a substantial salary for doing nothing.

"I wonder why," Cuddy muttered.

She had to admit that both men looked annoyingly hot in their motorcycle gear. Wilson had stopped shaving regularly since the day they'd gone on their purveying excursion. In his black leather jacket, a stylish pair of sunglasses perched on his nose, he looked dangerously rakish. Where had steady, solid, comforting Wilson gone? Pete, for his part, looked much as usual and coolly amused at Wilson's transformation.

Still, it wouldn't do for them to sense the pang in her heart as she surveyed them, possibly seeing Wilson for the last time with a genuine smile on his face. So she said as bossily as she could, "You will call me every day!"

"We're throwing our cells into the first river we cross," Pete said.

"We'll call you once a week," Wilson offered as a compromise.

Cuddy narrowed her eyes at him. "Every second day."

"Twice a week," Wilson offered.

"Done."

She never got to find out whether Wilson would have kept his promise in the long run, because their motorcycles roared down her peaceful street again a bare ten days later. She purposely ignored the sound, deciding that wishful thinking wasn't going to bring her two guys back any sooner, but when her door opened (Wilson had a spare key) and their bickering filled her hall, she scampered out in a most undignified manner to meet them, clasping Wilson in a warm hug while she looked questioningly, anxiously, at Pete. She'd known that Wilson couldn't last forever, not on a road trip, but she'd expected him to be good for two months at the very least. Wilson looked no different from when he'd left ten days earlier, so why were they back?

"Amy phoned," Pete said cryptically.

"Who's Amy?" Cuddy asked.

"She's someone I know from work," Wilson said.

"And he doesn't mean in the literal sense. He got to know her in the biblical sense," Pete added.

While Wilson looked embarrassed, Pete was darkly jubilant. "Like Caesar, Wilson saw, conquered, and came – in Amy. So now there's a little Wilson in Amy." He scratched his chin. "You might, at a stretch, say that Wilson is colonising her like the Romans colonised Britain."

Placed strategically between Cuddy and Wilson, he smirked at Wilson and then, twisting on his heel to face Cuddy, gave her a warning glare.

Getting it, she smiled warmly at Wilson as though this – his becoming father – was a good thing. "Congratulations, Wilson. How lovely!"

"I'm not really sure," Wilson said, flapping his hands.

"Of course it is! Rachel will love having a cousin."

Pete, unseen by Wilson, gave her a small nod of approval.

Wilson looked gobsmacked. "We haven't talked yet about what we'll do. I don't even know whether she wants to keep it."

Pete rolled his eyes at that. Cuddy wondered what he knew about Amy that he was so sure she'd want to keep it.

"Then I suggest you discuss it with her," she said to Wilson. "Does she know you have cancer?"

"No," Wilson said.

"Yes," Pete said.

Cuddy and Wilson both stared at him.

Pete cleared his throat. "I may have called her back later and mentioned the matter to her," he said, focusing on a spot above the mantelpiece.

Wilson looked as though he was about to have an apoplexy. "House, do you always have to interfere?"

Cuddy had no idea what Pete was up to, but he probably knew what he was doing. "Consider it a good thing," she advised Wilson. "This gives her more time to consider the implication of your condition when making a decision for or against the baby."

"Not to mention what a damper it would be if she was gushing about the parasite and you had to tell her, 'Sorry, I can't help with the dirty diapers because I'll be dead!' " Pete said as he stretched himself along the couch.

"It would be the truth," Wilson said.

"It doesn't have to be," Pete said, his gaze intense. "Maybe you dig this Circle of Life thing – new life entering this world while the old one fades away – but single motherhood isn't all it's made out to be. Right, Lisa?"

"Goddam right," Cuddy agreed, trying to hide her amusement at Pete showing empathy with single parents. "You need to reconsider what you'll do – how you'll deal with your tumour – in view of the changed circumstances."

"Wait," Wilson said. "Wait! This –- doesn't change anything for me. This affects Amy's life, not mine. If she chooses to terminate because she can't face single motherhood, then that's …," Wilson stopped to consider what he was about to say, his eyes closed and his hands chopping the air, "… sad, but it's her call."

Pete leaned back, crossing his ankles. "So it's okay for you to put a bun in her oven, but it only has consequences for her, not for you."

Wilson narrowed his eyes at Pete. "It will have consequences for me. If Amy keeps the child, I'll change my will and leave everything to him or her – instead of you."

"That affects your lawyer and me, not you. Who gets your money after you die won't make any difference to you whatsoever. You're not going to be reclining on a fluffy white cloud, smilingly down benignly on your misbegotten offspring as it squanders its inheritance. You. Won't. Be. There."

"Maybe not, but I'll die easy knowing that my child is taken care of."

When Pete made to open his mouth again, Cuddy interfered. "Pete, shut up!" Even though what he said was logical, the way he said it was guaranteed to put Wilson's back up. This would end with Wilson refusing treatment just to make a point.

Cuddy turned to Wilson. "You got Amy pregnant. You've put her in a position where she has to make a decision with long-term consequences, whether she wants to or not."

"If she terminates, it doesn't have to be long-term," Wilson said weakly, maybe sensing where Cuddy was going.

"You can't know whether terminating won't affect her as much as keeping the child would. You don't get to decide how she deals with it," Cuddy pointed out ruthlessly. "The least you can do is make whatever route she decides to go down more acceptable. You had all the fun; don't think you can squirm your way out of the consequences of your actions. Leaving her your money after you die? A great-uncle she has never met in her life might do as much. Amy needs you, not your money!"

Pete's little smile told her that she'd just passed 'Manipulation 101'.

---

	Chapter Index

Comments

[readingrat.livejournal.com]

This is doubtless going to cause some trouble -- if it weren't, then Cuddy wouldn't need House to solve the problem. I tend to structure my longer fics along classical lines: a development leading to a climax, and a wind-down from there. Very old school, but I have problems with more rambling forms. (I used to 'recycle' classical plots when I started writing, just to make sure I had a structure at all.)

When Wilson finds out this was fake (because I'm guessing Pete is pulling a "Duncan" on him), he's going to be furious.
No comment.

[deelaundry.livejournal.com]

Forgot to add that I'm looking forward to seeing how it all shakes out.

As an aside, do you think Cuddy actually likes Wilson? Does she find him interesting? In canon, I saw a lot of instances of Wilson doing caring things for Cuddy*, and very few instances of Cuddy doing caring things for Wilson, unless it was to advance something House wanted. In this fic, Cuddy seems to view Wilson as an issue she has to manage (seemed that way both before and after she knew he had cancer), rather than a person she enjoys spending time with.

(*Which, I realize, is a Wilson way of acting and not necessarily indicative that he finds her interesting.)

[readingrat.livejournal.com]

You're probably going to get an answer to twenty things you didn't really ask, but it's an interesting question: Does Cuddy see Wilson more as an issue she has to manage or does she like him?

For me, this is not an either-or matter. I think people 'approach' relationships (and I mean 'relationship' in a general way here, not romantically) differently, depending on the structures in which they think. You also get different approaches to music (or other art forms): some people approach it purely on an emotional level, others automatically analyse structure, instrumentation, etc. Neither approach is 'better'; they're just different.

House looks at people as puzzles that he has to solve. If there's nothing puzzling about them, he's not interested; if there is, he has to find it out. (Why did someone as pretty as Cameron become a doctor, why did Taub leave plastic surgery, etc., etc.) That doesn't mean he doesn't like the people in question. It means that his approach towards them begins with that question; like or dislike develops afterwards. Wilson's approach begins in figuring out what people need. And Cuddy, I think, is most comfortable when she finds something to manage. Neither she nor House would manage to establish a relationship if it were founded on casual meetings and small talk; they're both much too impatient for that. So for Cuddy, managing Wilson's problems is part of the bonding process; it's what she does best and it enables her to feel she's doing something for their relationship. Hence, the moment things get stressful she'll automatically switch to 'management' mode.

In canon, I don't think that Cuddy sees Wilson as someone who needs caring things from her, and caring frankly isn't what Cuddy does best. (The only instance I can think of is after Amber's death.) I think that in canon she sees him as House's appendage.

In my AU the situation has changed drastically through House's long absence and Cuddy's distance from her own family. I don't think Cuddy makes friends easily. When Cuddy and Wilson meet again in The Kelpie, House has been gone for almost three years, and without his overpowering presence it's much easier for Wilson and Cuddy to establish something that is independent of House's needs. Besides, Cuddy needs someone now. Although her sister may not reproach her openly, the fact is that Cuddy's crazy ex nearly killed both of them and changed Cuddy's life significantly for the worse. That's definitely not going to make things easier, and it's going to make Cuddy feel even more at a disadvantage than she did already in S7. Wilson is someone to whom she doesn't have to explain or justify that part of her life. He understands, because he got screwed over as badly as she did.