fic: The Cuckoo -- Chapter 13

[readingrat]

 

Part III
Chapter 13: Crazy Plans

He was in a hospital, running through the corridors looking for Amy. If he didn't find her soon, he'd be too late. For what, he didn't know; all he knew was that he needed to hurry. He pulled open door after door, but it was never Amy screaming in labour behind them. It was always some other woman, some still in labour, others holding their newborn infants. Doctors and midwives glanced up in irritation, not mollified by his hasty apologies.

He'd checked every door there was, and now the neon-lit corridor stretched on endlessly. Right at the end there was a big heavy double door with two round panes in it, the kind of door that led to operation theatres. It was quiet behind the door, no high pitched screaming, no soothing murmurs, no baby's wails, yet he knew that Amy and the baby must be behind that door. He pushed it open.

It was a huge OT, more of an arena, really, with an observation gallery running all round it. But other than the table at the centre it was empty. The table itself was covered with the detritus of an operation; scalpels, tweezers and needles lay haphazardly among swabs, bloodied green sheets were bunched up at one end. On a rotating stool next to the table sat House, the 'old' House with stubble on his chin and an air of melancholy, twirling his cane as he spun gently to and fro.

"Where's Amy?" he yelled at House. "Where's my baby?"

"Your baby?" House let out a snort of derision. "You had a tumour, Wilson, not a parasite. But we got all of it."

He held up a glass filled with a clear liquid. In it swam a foetus.

He sat up straight in bed, clutching his chest. He was damp, his forehead clammy, his lungs tight with apprehension – and with the 'parasite' that was taking over his chest cavity. He waited for a few minutes, but his breathing still didn't ease. Instead, he was racked by a bout of coughing.

This couldn't continue. In between coughs he pushed off his covers and rotated his legs over the side of the bed. Everything was still a bit unfamiliar; although the apartment mirrored Cuddy's upstairs, he had the master bedroom here and House the guest room. When he tried to slip his feet into his slippers, one of them slid under the bed instead of onto his foot. He sighed and gave up.

The living room was dark, but a flicker of white light indicated that Pete was in there, either watching television or napping in front of the screen. The amputation hadn't changed his sleep patterns; according to Wilson's estimate he got as much sleep from his intermittent naps on various chairs, settees and couches as he got in the four or so hours he actually spent in bed. Wilson managed to contain his cough until he had reached the kitchen, but then another bout made him double over and collapse into one of the chairs. When he looked up again wheezing, House was framed in the doorway, silently watching him. Wilson lowered his eyes as he got up to get a glass and fill it at the faucet. When he turned around again, House had disappeared. Wilson sighed. He still hadn't gotten used to how quickly and silently House could move with his prosthetic.

He followed him into the living room. The first thing House had done when they'd moved in two days ago was to replace the tiny television set with a state-of-the-art flatscreen. The programme he was watching, an old western, didn't do the screen justice, but judging by House's set expression he wasn't really riveted by the lone rider galloping between rocks and giant cacti. (House would know what they were called.)

Wilson sat down gingerly beside him, hoping that an upright position would ease the pressure on his oesophagus. House stubbornly stared at the screen, his mouth in a hard, straight line and a crease of annoyance between his brows.

"One round, just one round of neo-adjuvant chemo!" House had yelled at him earlier in the kitchen, thrusting a sheaf of print-outs at him. "It should shrink the tumour enough to make it operable."

"And if it doesn't?" he had asked.

"Then we revert to Plan A: you come back here to die. You lose nothing."

"I do: a lot of hair," Wilson had quipped to lighten the atmosphere. And a compromised immune system, he had added silently.

"Chicks dig the bald look," House had said. "You'll be warding them off."

"As evidenced by the queue outside your door," he'd said drily, flicking through House's treatment plan. He'd had to hand it to House: it was thoroughly researched, it resorted to the best and most recent drug combinations on the market, and it was daring. Very daring. Too daring.

He had looked up at House. "This … will kill me," he'd said.

House had shrugged. "Maybe. But you're dying anyway, so no difference there."

"Eight months' difference! Maybe even ten."

House's mouth had twitched upward to concede the point, but he hadn't given up the match as lost – as yet. "But if this kills you, it'll be quick and comparatively painless."

"You can't know that."

"If you don't do this, you will definitely die and it will definitely be painful! There's only so much that morphine can do."

Wilson had looked at the words and numbers – cetuximab, cisplatin, dixorubicin, prednisone with their respective dosages – until they'd swum before his eyes. Then he'd thrust the papers aside.

"I'm not doing it," he'd said.

They hadn't talked the rest of the evening.

Now Wilson said, "How much do you estimate this will shrink the tumour?"

House slowly turned his head to look at him. "Thirty percent. Thirty-five, if we're very lucky."

Wilson felt a pang of disappointment that he couldn't quite place; the numbers corresponded with Wilson's estimate, and had House named a higher number he'd have called him on his bullshit. Yet in some dark, hidden corner of his mind he must have been hoping that House would pull a miracle cure out of his sleeve that would trump all Wilson's knowledge and experience.

"No surgeon will resection the tumour unless it shrinks to about half its present size," he said.

"Chase has agreed to excise it if we can shrink it by thirty percent," House said.

Chase was either incredibly stupid or deliberately misinformed.

"Has he seen the scans?" Wilson asked. House was quite capable of keeping such trivial little details as the tumour's present size from Chase.

"Yep," House said.

Stupid it was, then. Or House was blackmailing him.

"Okay," Wilson said slowly. "O-kay. I'll do it."

House pumped his fist in the air.

---

"This is crazy!" Cuddy said. She didn't know who to take apart first, so she chose the default option, Pete. "Was this your idea?"

Pete was stretched out comfortably on the couch of the downstairs apartment, the one that Cuddy already thought of as 'Wilson's'. "The chemo regime? Yeah, that's all mine," he said with his usual mixture of arrogance and pride. "The do-it-yourself stratagem is all Wilson's, though."

She swung around to impale Wilson with her glare.

Wilson raised his hands defensively. "I don't want to be hospitalised," he said.

"Right, you'd prefer to die in my place," she said.

"Our place. The upstairs is your personal space, the downstairs our personal space," Pete said, drawing imaginary 'personal space' circles first around Cuddy and then around himself and Wilson.

She wanted to slap him. Wilson grinned.

"How's this supposed to work?" she asked.

"We have meds in the fridge and lots 'n lots of puke potties." Pete leaned sideways, dangling an arm over the armrest of the couch. Pulling an emesis basin out of a huge shopping bag, he brandished it like a shield. "Then there's Depends, …" He dug around in the bag again.

"Shut up, House!" Wilson said, looking uncomfortable.

Cuddy wasn't amused. "What happens when his white blood count drops?"

Pete pulled out sterile gloves, face masks, and a bottle of disinfectant.

Cuddy sat down opposite the two men and leaned forward. "I don't know what fairy tales you've been telling yourselves, but with the kind of chemo that you're proposing Wilson won't be able to fend off the common cold, let alone pneumonia. Wilson, this is stupid!"

"I'd rather die in my own four walls than in a hospital," Wilson said, not looking Cuddy in the eye.

"Fine! I get that. But what do you gain if you cure your cancer, but die of an infection instead?"

Wilson was silent.

Cuddy took this to mean that he concurred with her. She stood up. "Right. I'll phone Pearson and get you admitted."

"Cuddy, that isn't going to work."

She halted, her phone already in her hand.

Wilson tapped the paper outlining the chemo regime that Pete had worked out. "No oncologist is going to prescribe this regime. Hell, no licensed physician can support this. The watered-down version that's being tested in Germany hasn't got FDA approval for testing as yet; anyone who tries this out on a patient will have to deal with a medical malpractice inquiry. There's no way your oncology department will agree to do this."

Cuddy opened her mouth to contradict Wilson, but then she shut it again. He was right. At PPTH the staff would have gone through the fire for him, the oncology department would have followed his instructions, Pete would have manipulated and lied his way through any questions, and no one would have been the wiser. But here Wilson was practically a stranger, and she didn't as yet command the loyalty of her staff the way she had done at PPTH. No, even if she found an oncologist who was prepared to do her and Wilson's bidding, there'd be a leak, and then there'd be an inquiry, and that would be the end of her medical career.

She bit her lip. "Then … then don't do this."

"Exactly!" Pete interposed. "Die a slow, miserable death instead!"

She shushed him with a wave of her hand without moving her focus from Wilson. "Do a normal course: four to six cycles," she said.

"We've been over this, Cuddy," Wilson said. "Any reasonable course with multiple cycles will take months. I don't want that; I want to be around when my child is born."

Cuddy turned to Pete again. "And you're okay with this?"

Pete's mouth twitched, showing that he wasn't 100% happy. "It's risky, but – yeah, I'm okay with it if he is. It's his choice, Lisa."

That was rich, coming from him! "Since when do you advocate letting people do stupid things that'll kill them?" she asked.

"I owe him," Pete said, his eyes clear and guileless. "He helped me nuke my brain and I'm happy now." He scratched his chin. "Happy within reason," he amended, "so in return, I'll help him nuke his tumour."

This was … surreal. Where was House, the man who fought tooth and nail to keep his patients alive? Who the hell was this pod person?

"If he dies, you'll get tossed into jail," she finally said, not even hoping that this would convince Pete. It was more a prediction that would allow her to say, 'I told you so!' when the inevitable happened. She added as an afterthought, "We'll get tossed into jail."

She couldn't afford to do this. Pete, with his amnesia and lack of a medical licence, might be able to talk his way out of legal consequences, but as a licensed physician who had to make responsible medical decisions every day, she wouldn't be able to plead ignorance. She'd lose her licence and her job, and if Wilson's family decided to sue, …

She decided not to follow that line of thought.

"I'm out," she said. "I'm not doing this."

Pete wasn't put out in the least. "We can manage on our own," he said smugly. "We don't need you to mother us. Go back to your kid, Lisa. Smother her in superfluous affection!"

Now that was the House she'd known before his brain surgery – sharp and precise as he poked his stick into open wounds. He knew how she felt about neglecting Rachel; did he have to bring it up again and again?

She silently willed him to take it back or at least to mitigate the harshness of his words by some conciliatory gesture, but he smiled at her without warmth.

"Shoo!" he said. "Go! The quicker you're gone, the sooner we can start."

She turned on her heel to leave.

As she reached the door she heard Pete say to Wilson (she'd bet her favourite pair of heels that she was meant to overhear him), "It's more fun without her, anyway. I doubt she wants to watch Horny Housewives of Houston."

---

She managed to ignore the goings-on three floors below her for a sum total of three-and-a-half days.

"Isn't Wilson cooking today?" Rachel asked when she came into the kitchen on the fourth day.

"No, dear," Cuddy answered, ignoring Rachel's frown of disapproval as she placed a plate of lentil stew in front of her.

"He didn't cook yesterday either, or the day before," Rachel grumbled. "He hasn't even been here."

"He won't be here for some time now, honey. He's getting treatment for his cancer."

"Oh, has Pete found a cure?" Rachel said brightly.

Cuddy pressed her lips together before forcing a smile onto her face. "He thinks he has," she said, exercising rigorous self-control so that no hint of irony entered her voice. Rachel had developed basic skills in detecting irony recently, possibly as a result of spending too much time around Pete.

"Oh, goody! Wilson says he's the best doctor in the world."

"Yes, he is," Cuddy said, thankful that they were on more solid ground here.

Rachel poked at the food on her plate. "When will Wilson come home?"

Cuddy was speechless. That Rachel believed that Wilson was being treated in hospital didn't surprise her; Rachel, having spent the best part of a year there herself, automatically assumed that everyone with medical issues had to get in-house treatment. But since when did Rachel consider their house Wilson's home?

And how would Rachel react if Wilson died of the side effects of his chemo treatment?

Cuddy, who had been eating assiduously in order to set a good example, put down her fork. (Rachel, sensing that the door to avoiding the meal was opening a crack, promptly put down her fork too.) So far, she had been working off the premise that she shouldn't allow Wilson to kill himself for his own sake. Now it struck her that she also had an obligation towards Rachel to keep him alive if possible.

Rachel had few adults in her life. There was Julia, of course, and her husband Rob, but although they were on talking terms again, visits were fewer in number than they had been before Julia had found out that House was back in their lives. It wasn't that Julia and Rob bore her ill feelings (nor would she blame them if they did); it was more that circumstances dictated that they see each other less. Her mother was living with Julia's family now, and unlike her younger daughter she refused to tiptoe around the elephant in the living room. No, her mother insisted on tweaking its ears, pulling its tail, and pouring pepper down its trunk at every opportunity. Julia said tolerantly that it was a sign of old age, but Cuddy couldn't remember a time when her mother hadn't been like this. The only sign of old age that she could detect was that Arlene Cuddy no longer felt obliged to camouflage her vindictiveness under a layer of maternal concern.

Oh, and there was Rachel's birth father, Simon, but so far his interest in Rachel had been minimal. His parents thankfully colluded with Cuddy to keep this unpleasant truth from Rachel by sending her birthday and Christmas presents in his name, but that didn't mean that Rachel felt any sort of attachment to a man (read: man-child) who she'd met twice in her entire life.

That only left Wilson.

Another unpleasant thought struck Cuddy: what if Wilson died and Rachel discovered that he'd passed away in an apartment right below her feet, so to say? There was no knowing how she'd react. Would she ever be able to pass the front door of the first floor apartment without thinking of Wilson? Would she fear that if Wilson died in this house, so could she or her mother?

House had forced her to uproot her family and start afresh; there was no way that Wilson would do the same! She wasn't going to move again, not if she could avoid it.

Giving up all pretence of eating, Cuddy pushed her plate away. "Rachel, would you mind staying at someone else's place for a few days?" she asked.

"Why?" Rachel asked suspiciously.

"Pete will need some help with Wilson," Cuddy said. "Wilson is going to be very weak and feverish."

"I can help," Rachel said.

"And he's going to be puking all the time," Cuddy added.

Rachel promptly back-pedalled. "Can I stay with Emma?" she asked.

"Let's see," Cuddy said. Palming Rachel off on her best friend Emma would be the best solution to her childcare problems. Emma and Rachel attended the same school, so Cuddy wouldn't need to bother about organising drop-offs and pick-ups.

But Emma's parents declined politely. They were off on a family gathering the coming weekend and still had preparations to make. They were sorry, but this week was an absolute no-go.

Cuddy got that. She'd gotten used to the inconveniences of living with a child with a major disability, but she still remembered those first weeks and months when she'd adjusted their lives to fit around Rachel's wheelchair. She had rearranged their furniture (so that Rachel could get everywhere in a wheelchair and everything Rachel needed was at waist level) and her schedule (so that she had an extra hour in the morning and fifteen minutes in the evening to assist Rachel when she got ready). She routinely planned in extra time for every commute (Rachel needed to be helped in and out of the car and her wheelchair had to be folded and placed in the trunk). She had learned the hard way that locations had to be sussed out beforehand to make sure they were wheelchair-accessible in every respect.

But families who weren't used to such measures regularly got wrong-footed when they offered to take Rachel for the day. Most of her friends who offered to take Rachel assumed that a car with a big trunk for the wheelchair and a strong guy to heave Rachel in and out of it would do the job. Cuddy had lost count of the number of times that she'd picked Rachel up from friends whose strained smiles belied their protestations that the day had been lovely and stress-free. On the ride home Rachel would inevitably tell tales of movies or plays missed because her hosts had miscalculated the time required to get a disabled child to the theatre, of fun parks that were wheelchair accessible but didn't allow disabled children on most of the rides, of museums that were so crowded that they'd had to wait ten minutes to access the elevator every time they wanted to go to the next level.

Yes, Cuddy could understand why Emma's parents didn't need Rachel around when they were already on a tight schedule.

Her next-door neighbour Louisa was good as a last-minute stop-gap, but the fact that she lived in the same house and shot her mouth off about everything, even in front of Rachel, disqualified her in this instance. If Wilson died in the downstairs apartment, she'd never stop talking about it; expecting her to shield Rachel from the knowledge was like placing a drug addict in the hospital pharmacy and hoping they wouldn't help themselves.

That left Julia in Princeton. She wasn't Cuddy's preferred option, because Rachel would miss school. Nor would Julia be enthusiastic about having Rachel under her feet all day when her children were in school, but that wasn't Cuddy's problem.

Julia's lack of enthusiasm, however, stemmed from quite a different source.

"I'm sorry Wilson has taken a turn for the worse," she said when Cuddy phoned her to give her the Spark Notes version of what was going on, a version that focused on Wilson's suffering, omitting all references to non-FDA-approved treatment options. Julia paused, then she said, "Where is House?"

"House?" Cuddy echoed to buy time.

"Yes, House! Lisa, you don't expect me to believe that House isn't involved in Wilson's health care, do you? He's at your place, isn't he?"

"No, he's got a place of his own," Cuddy said, glad that she needn't lie about that and even gladder that Julia didn't know where that place was.

Julia cleared her throat, a sure sign that she was about to say something that wouldn't go down well. "Lisa, I'm not getting involved in anything that features Greg House, even if he's only playing a minor role. We agreed that you wouldn't bring Rachel to me so you can see him."

"Julia, I'm not 'seeing' him! He's here solely because of Wilson, and we aren't interested in each other in that way!"

"I'm sorry, but you are totally unpredictable with regard to House. I don't care what you call your present relationship, but I want nothing to do with it. Lisa, don't push this, please!"

There was nothing to be done.

After Cuddy hung up, she sat at her desk tapping her nails on its surface. There was one other option …

---

"Hey, kiddo," Lucas said to Rachel, mussing up her hair. "Long time, no see. You've grown." He picked her up and swung her around. "Whoa, you're heavy!"

Rachel giggled joyfully. "I weigh fifty-five pounds!" she declared proudly.

With Rachel still on his arm, Lucas gave Cuddy a warm hug. "You look great," he said.

"Thanks," Cuddy said drily. She knew she had gained weight in all the wrong places and had bags under her eyes. She retaliated with, "So do you."

Lucas had thickened considerably around the waist – a jaundiced eye might even detect a slight paunch – and his jowls were beginning to sag. In short, he looked the family man that he now was.

"How are Cheryl and the girls?" Cuddy asked.

Lucas put Rachel back into her wheelchair, got out his phone and pulled up some pictures of his pretty young wife and two adorable blonde girls. "There's Cheryl with Lucy, … and here's Marcia. You haven't met Marcia yet, have you, Rachel? She's six months old now." He smiled fondly at his daughter's picture.

"Oh, she's so pretty!" Cuddy gushed, hoping that Rachel wouldn't spoil the moment by saying something incredibly insensitive.

But Rachel merely said, "She's got pretty curls. Lucy looks different."

"That's because she's almost three now, and she was a baby when you last saw her," Lucas said. "I hope you aren't scared of dogs. We've got two now, golden retrievers." He scrolled down some more and then proffered his phone to Rachel.

"Wow, they're cute!" Rachel said with considerably more enthusiasm. "Mom, I want a dog too."

"Let's see," Cuddy said and quickly changed the topic. "Lucas lives in Trenton. That's close to where Julia lives, so you've got a car ride of about an hour. Why don't you get something to read?"

When Rachel was gone, she turned back to Lucas, who had settled himself comfortably on the couch. "And this is really okay with Cheryl?" she asked. Lucas had babysat Rachel a few times before he'd gotten married, but ever since he and Cheryl had started their own family, Cuddy had hesitated to impose on him and he hadn't volunteered of his own accord.

"Sure," he said easily. "What's one more kid when the place is a crazy-house anyway?"

Cuddy decided she didn't really want to know whether Cheryl approved of Lucas's generous offer or not.

"So, to what do I owe the honour?" he asked, his alert eyes belying his relaxed posture. "Don't get me wrong – I'm happy to take Rachel for as long as you like – but since when do you let your kid miss school, and why isn't the intrepid Julia bearing the brunt of whatever crisis you've brought down on yourself?"

Half the truth was better than a full-blown lie. "I'm interim dean, but I've still got my old department to run," Cuddy said, "and it's beginning to get to me. Julia has already got my mother, who is – difficult. So …"

"And this hasn't got anything to do with Wilson's medical file that I 'organised' for House a few months ago? Or that lab technician that I'm still observing for him?"

Cuddy's brain filed the first part of his statement away for later consideration (why on earth was Pete using Lucas's professional services after what Lucas had done to his property not so long ago?) as it attempted to make sense of the second part. "You're observing – who?"

"Oops," Lucas said. "I thought you knew."

Both were silent, eyeing each other warily.

"Tell you what," Lucas finally said. "You ask me no questions, I ask you no questions."

"O-kay," Cuddy said slowly. She badly wanted to know who he was observing and why, but then again, she'd rather not discuss Wilson and Pete with him. Wilson would certainly object, and although Lucas had implied that Pete was employing him in some capacity, that wasn't necessarily the whole truth.

"So, you've got dogs now," she said instead.

"Yes, and a house to go along with them," Lucas said, exuding enthusiasm.

The next thing Cuddy knew, she was looking at pictures of a suburban home with picket fence, green shutters, and a sandbox in the back yard. Then, pictures of the living room, kitchen (complete with all modern amenities), master bedroom, a children's bedroom, another children's bedroom, and a guest room. Of course, the children or the dogs or both featured in every picture.

"It's lovely," she said.

Lucas looked at her knowingly. "No regrets?" he asked.

"No," Cuddy said, "no regrets. It's wonderful, I'm sure, but it's not … me."

"Oh, it's what you wanted," Lucas said. When Cuddy made to protest, he added, "It was just that I wasn't the guy you wanted it with, and the guy you wanted wasn't the guy you could have had this with. So, you ended without the life you wanted and without the guy you wanted."

"But you got what you wanted?" Cuddy retorted.

"Sure," Lucas said. "See, I don't expect perfection. That's why I'm happy and you're always striving."

If she'd ever regretted dumping Lucas in favour of a relationship that had had a sell-by date printed on it, that feeling vanished at his words. She'd almost forgotten that Lucas's teddy bear demeanour and his family man aura covered a vindictive streak a mile long.

She rose hurriedly. "I'll go see what's keeping Rachel," she said.

With Rachel as a shield she settled the last details with Lucas. "I'll pick her up Sunday evening, if that's okay with you."

"She can stay longer, if that's of any help to you," Lucas said.

Cuddy shook her head. She didn't want to be more beholden to Lucas than was strictly necessary (as he probably guessed), but all she said was, "No, she needs to go back to school on Monday at the latest. As it is, I have no idea how I'll sell this to her teachers."

"You can tell them that I have a very important medical check-up because of my disability," Rachel suggested.

Lucas guffawed.

Cuddy blinked. "I'll – think about it," she said. "Now, about catheterisation …"

His look of blank horror eased her heart. Payback time, Lucas Douglas! After a very long half-minute she released him from his anguish.

"She can do it herself, so you won't need to catheterise her." His relief was palpable. "But you need to make sure she does it regularly, every three to four hours. You'll have to remind her to do her bowel programme every morning. It takes her almost an hour, so plan in the time."

"Mo-om!" Rachel squirmed in embarrassment.

"Here, I've got it all written down." She pressed a file with care instructions that she'd compiled for her sister, the babysitter, etc., into Lucas's limp hands.

When Lucas's SUV pulled away from the curb, she heaved a sigh of relief. The longer Lucas had sat in her living room, the more reasons why this was a really crappy idea had occurred to her. Maybe Pete was using Lucas's professional services in some way, but that didn't mean that it was a good idea to entrust anything personal about Pete or Wilson to Lucas. A year ago he'd demolished Pete's property, ostensibly to protect her, but could Lucas separate between Pete the potential abuser and Greg House, the guy who'd supplanted him as Lisa Cuddy's boyfriend? To this day she didn't quite believe Lucas's declaration that he'd had no hand in Pete's subsequent arrest.

She could only hope that Rachel would be too excited by the babies and the dogs to talk about what was going on in the house in Germantown.

	Chapter Index

Comments

[barefootpuddles.livejournal.com]

For Wilson, I want someone who will verbalize that they care about him, the real him, as much as he cares about other people.

This whole discussion reminds me of the "languages of love" thing that has been making its way around my facebook (and maybe yours as well). Seems people dominantly express love in one or two of five ways - quality time, words, gifts, acts of service, or touch. House seems to use quality time the most while Wilson appears to be words. Cuddy is acts of service. These are the people who drive you to the airport as an expression of their affection. For me this is how she comes off in this fic towards Wilson. She might never verbalize her caring any more than House would because they don't speak that 'love language'. When House cares about you spends time with you, when Cuddy cares for you she makes sure you have the bereavement leave paperwork you need is processed correctly.

[readingrat.livejournal.com]

This whole discussion reminds me of the "languages of love" thing
Yes, I've heard of that and can subscribe to it to some extent. I fully agree with your assessment of Cuddy. I'd expand it to include 'acts of service' for House -- his acts just aren't the kind the recipients can fully appreciate. (I'm thinking of drugging Wilson to hold his speech.) And I'm not sure about Wilson and words. Yes, he says things, but they are more an expression of his worry than affirmations. He rarely tells House that he's doing well, and when he does, it's qualified approval. ("You're doing well -- by your standards.") IMO he's more the 'quality time' type. He spends any amount of time with House to the detriment of his other relationships (S2: meeting up with House in a bar when he's supposed to be having dinner with his wife and some guests). And when he and House get together again in S5, there's no apology, nothing. Instead, Wilson spends time with him even as he pretends not to care.

[barefootpuddles.livejournal.com]

I'd expand it to include 'acts of service' for House -- his acts just aren't the kind the recipients can fully appreciate.

It could be his second area, it seems most people have two areas that are stronger than the others, but there is a caveat here. The concept in general is that people express love to others in the way they would want it, not in the way the other person would want it (hence the problem many relationships have). So, while House definitely wants Wilson to spend time with him, does House wants acts of services directed towards him? Maybe, but I don't see that as clearly. Though as you suggest he is so unconventional in his acts so maybe his idea of service would be totally different.

What led me to think Wilson is words is because he wanted House to tell him he loves him. I also thinks all his lectures are his own twisted little form of affection. I bet he never lectured his wives. ;)

[readingrat.livejournal.com]

The concept in general is that people express love to others in the way they would want it, not in the way the other person would want it
I don't think I agree with the first part of that sentence. I tend to believe that people express love to others in the way they are best able to do it and according to what they believe the other person wants. Obviously, their perception of what other people want is coloured by their own preferences, but I know people who cook for other people because they cook well and know that others enjoy their cooking. They assume that others will interpret cooking as an act of love, but they don't expect the objects of their affection to cook for them or even do acts of service for them. (Parent-child relationships tend to work that way. Needless to say, children don't see cooking as an expression of love, but as a parental duty ...) And if fan fiction is to be trusted, then many women expect gifts as an expression of love, but wouldn't really think of expressing their own love through gifts. Touch may be the exception in that people who don't want to be touched are unlikely to express affection through hugs, but that may be because it's impossible to touch someone without being touched yourself.

So, while House definitely wants Wilson to spend time with him, does House wants acts of services directed towards him?
I think that House is perceptive enough not to expect things others can't give and selfish enough to take everything he can get. I think he wants quality time from Wilson while he could do very well without the accompanying words, but he's aware that Wilson's words express his love, so he puts up with it. I think he'd rather have acts of service -- he's quick to eat everything that Wilson is so foolish as to leave within his radius of destruction -- but if Wilson were to give gifts, he'd adapt to that too.

What led me to think Wilson is words is because he wanted House to tell him he loves him.
My problem with that is that their relationship functioned just fine without verbal protestations for, what, twenty years? before Wilson suddenly needed words. The previous times their relationship was seriously stressed (Tritter, Amber's death, S7 finale) it wasn't because of anything House didn't say, it was because of something House did or was perceived to have done. In all three cases I don't think there's anything House could have said that would have made things better for Wilson. In the Vogler arc, both are convinced that no matter what House says, he'll always act the same way, so his words are of no significance for their relationship. For me, Wilson's desire for verbal protestations came out of the blue. It wasn't something I expected given what I'd seen of him so far. As such, I consider it an anomaly, not his normal mode.