readingrat | fic: The Cuckoo -- Chapter 16 (Reply)

Part III
Chapter 16: Waiting

Pete was monosyllabic on the drive back, and she didn't push him even though she'd have liked to have had his assessment of the current situation. Back at the house he turned towards the door of the first-floor apartment that he and Wilson shared while she proceeded down the hall to call the elevator, throwing a casual 'good night' over her shoulder, to which she got no response. When the elevator arrived Pete was still standing in front of the door fiddling with the lock.

Cuddy hesitated. "Do you want something to eat?" she asked.

He was silent for so long that she wondered whether he'd heard her, but finally he turned around and followed her into the elevator.

"Who's Wilson's medical proxy?" he asked abruptly.

"I am," she said. "He made me his proxy when he was admitted to Mayfield. You were his proxy while you were at PPTH. I don't think he bothered to change the paperwork until Mayfield, where Nolan made him name someone who could be contacted in case of need."

"Why not someone from his family?"

The question was so reasonable that she wondered why she'd never asked it herself. Digging through her purse for her keys she said, "I have no idea. Maybe he feels that his parents are too old. His younger brother Danny doesn't qualify anyway."

She opened her door and went in, putting her purse on the console table near the door. "You know," she said slowly, "I don't think I've ever talked to anyone from Wilson's family. Other than Danny, I don't even know where they live or what they do."

The astonishing thing was that she'd never noticed this omission. She knew a lot more about House's family than about Wilson's, even though she had always considered House the more reserved of the two. She'd talked to Blythe House a few times on the phone, after the infarction and after John House's death. But Wilson? She hadn't known him well when he married Bonnie, and he had eloped with his third wife Julie (or was it Julia?), so she had never had the opportunity to meet his family at one of his weddings. Nor could she recall Wilson ever talking about his parents or his other brother; he'd never mentioned going to visit them and they'd been conspicuously absent during his stay at Mayfield. Of course, it was possible that he had kept his breakdown from them.

"I've talked to them," Pete volunteered.

She did a double take. "You have? When? Why?"

He shrugged. "Thought it might be a good idea to warn them about Wilson's condition. It turned out that Wilson hadn't done so."

That Wilson hadn't informed his family didn't surprise her; that Pete considered it his duty to do so certainly did. He'd never struck her as the kind of person who'd take the burden of informing family of incipient bereavement on himself if he could avoid it – which he could easily have done by passing the task on to her. But he wore his 'closed' expression, so she couldn't hope to explore his motives. "What did they say when you talked to them?" she asked instead, switching on the lights as she went through the apartment.

"That they were sorry to hear that James was unwell," he answered in a toneless voice, trailing behind her into the living room.

"That was all?" she asked unbelievingly.

"More or less."

"Didn't they understand what you told them?"

"They did: they indicated that it was selfish of Wilson to die as long as Danny still needed his attention."

She stood in the middle of the room, nonplussed. "But Wilson is so caring himself; how can his family be so indifferent towards him?"

"You're getting cause and effect mixed up," he said clinically. "Wilson is caring because the niche 'caring son and brother' wasn't occupied by anyone else. … What happened to the grub you promised?"

"Let me check what I've got in the fridge," she said, though she had little hope that its contents would prove a source of culinary inspiration. When she was alone with Rachel she didn't need to store much food. Rachel, sitting in a wheelchair all day, didn't burn many calories and she herself had to maintain strict discipline if she was to keep her BMI within the desired range. It was as she had feared: there was some left-over lentil stew, ingredients for the vegetable lasagna she'd meant to make this evening before her plans had been overturned, cheese, and some eggs. There was no meat whatsoever. She could forget about offering Pete the lentil stew – it was admittedly not her most inspired creation and he would doubtless consider it unfit for human consumption – and the lasagna would take too long. Mac'n'cheese was a possibility, she supposed, but her stomach rebelled at the thought. Cheese omelette, she decided.

When she returned to the living room with two plates, the television was on although the room was dark. Pete's sneakers, perched on the armrest of her couch, caught her eye. Annoyed, she rounded the couch and slapped the plates onto the coffee table, turning to Pete to make him remove his feet from her furniture.

Pete's head was tipped back and sideways, his mouth slightly open, the wrinkles on his forehead smoothed out. His breathing was deep and even. Cuddy's annoyance faded at the sight; he probably hadn't slept much these past few days. She sat down in the armchair next to the couch and ate her omelette in the flickering light from the television screen, wondering all the while whether she should wake him. The couch was too short for his lanky body; he'd sleep better on a firm mattress and she didn't really want him in her apartment for the night, but if she woke him, chances were that his insomnia would keep him up the rest of the night.

She rose and took his cold food back into the kitchen, after which she got a blanket and a pillow from the guest room. It seemed oddly intimate for her to drape the blanket over him and tuck the pillow carefully under his neck. She'd never had the sort of friend who'd crash on her couch without as much as a by-your-leave, not even at college. Few of her dates ever got to spend the night, and each time it had been a carefully pondered decision, not a spur-of-the-moment act of sentimentality. Nor was she a 'buddy' who provided shelter for the wasted and stranded.

'Inappropriate', that was the word she was looking for. It wasn't the intimacy that bothered her – she'd had sex with this man any number of times and in any number of places –, it was the nature of the nurture that she was providing that bothered her. Looking out for Pete, providing him with a couch and an open ear was Wilson's job, not hers.

With a sudden sinking feeling she realised that Wilson might never come back to keep an eye on Pete. What would happen then? Would Pete expect her to take Wilson's place, as she was doing now? She rather thought not: Pete was as wary of encroaching on her hospitality as she was of extending it. He'd probably disappear from her life as though this brief interlude had never taken place, while she and Rachel would return to their everyday routine.

Except that things wouldn't be the way they were before. Rachel was too old to forget Wilson or Pete the way she'd conveniently forgotten both Lucas and House five years ago. She, for her part, had let go of the resentment that had tided her over the time after the car crash. She didn't hate Pete, hate House, enough now to be indifferent to his fate.

He'd do fine, she told herself. He had spent over three years in England without Wilson, not even knowing of his existence, and he didn't have twenty years' worth of memories and regrets to mull over. He should do better without Wilson than she and Rachel would.

But House had never coped well with losing the people around him, even when they'd only been loosely connected to him, and there was no reason to suppose that his new persona would adapt any better to loss than his old one had.

The dull grey light of dawn filtered through the curtains when she woke, groggy and disoriented, wondering what had woken her. It took a few moments till she remembered that it couldn't be Rachel, but she was sure it had been some sound in the apartment. It was only when she heard the front door click shut that she remembered Pete. A few minutes later she heard a motorcycle revving in the street.

She sat up and looked at her alarm clock: 5 a.m. She'd only slept for four hours. She could have done with a few more hours of sleep, but she didn't want Pete at the hospital by himself, exasperating her staff and drawing unnecessary attention to himself, so she resigned herself to the inevitable and headed for the shower, timing herself rigorously so that fatigue wouldn't slow her down. Five minutes for a shower, two to towel down, three minutes to get dressed. She'd get coffee and something to eat at the hospital. Four more minutes to brush her hair and teeth. She threw her make-up into her purse; she'd do it in the car at a red light. Her hair would have to air-dry. When her mind conjured up an image of herself with frizzy locks and sloppy make-up, she resolutely banished it and concentrated on the matter at hand. A bare fifteen minutes after she'd gotten up she slipped into a pair of heels, grabbed her coat and purse, and left her apartment.

She got to the ICU in the calm that marked the approaching end of a shift. Marching purposefully towards Wilson's room, she scanned the corridors for a glimpse of Pete. Finally she spotted him in a far corner, leaning against the wall, his eyes fixed on the glass wall that separated the rooms from the corridor, one of his hands rhythmically rubbing his right thigh. When he noticed her, he straightened and stuck his hands into his pockets.

"He's still out," he said, nodding towards Wilson's bed. She turned to look at Wilson, but the corridor was well lit while the light in the room was dimmed, so all she could see was her own reflection and Pete's in the glass pane of the wall. Short of pressing her nose against the pane there was no way of looking in on Wilson. She looked at Pete's reflection instead. He hadn't shaved in a few days, he clearly hadn't showered before coming here, and the shadows under his eyes bespoke of too little sleep – it was an eerily familiar picture he presented, one of days long gone by. She wasn't sure she wanted to remember them.

Dr Liu and two nurses came from the nurses' station. Liu stopped short when she saw them.

"I'm going to try to wake him now," Liu said more to Pete than to her. Lisa wondered whether she was imagining a note of challenge in Liu's voice. Pete gave her a little nod.

"The blood work indicates that there's no need for a clean-room – as yet. But you should disinfect your hands and wear masks. You can come in as soon as I'm satisfied that he's stable." Dr Liu gestured towards the dispensers along the wall. She observed Pete as he scrubbed down his hands, giving a nod of approval when she saw that he did so with professional thoroughness. Then she went into Wilson's room followed by the nurses, and as the lights went on, Cuddy got her first glimpse of Wilson. He was pale with sunken cheeks, the streaks of grey in his hair accentuated by the harsh white light. She couldn't recall whether he'd looked that bad the night before. Maybe he had, but in the rush and hurry it hadn't registered.

Cuddy was surprised that Pete hadn't protested at having to wait until summoned and she was even more so when Pete waited patiently while Liu tried to rouse Wilson. He was unresponsive at first, looking around blearily before drifting off to sleep again, but Liu was not to be put off.

"Maybe she should just let him sleep," Cuddy muttered. "It's not like he's missing anything."

"Her shift ends in half an hour," Pete said, "and the tranquilliser will have worn off by now."

Cuddy rolled her eyes at him. "She isn't the only doctor in the ICU. Whoever replaces her on the day shift is as capable of taking Wilson's vitals as she is. This isn't exactly rocket science."

Pete plucked his lip thoughtfully. "She's smelled a rat and now she wants to know. She wants to be there when Wilson comes round and starts talking."

"You think she's neglecting Wilson's welfare in order to satisfy her own curiosity?"

Pete shrugged indifferently. "Patient welfare is overrated. Besides, how does she know we aren't trying to kill Wilson? If she wants an accurate patient history, she has to get to him before we have the chance to distort the truth."

"We wouldn't …"

"Do you want to land in the hoosegow?" He looked down at her, one eyebrow a-quirk. "I thought not."

No, she didn't. She had a daughter who needed her, and much as she liked Wilson, she wasn't prepared to take the rap for his insane obstinacy.

Pete seemed to have read her thoughts. "People lie. They justify their lies, especially to themselves, but they lie. You're telling yourself that Rachel needs you."

"And what are you telling yourself?"

"That it won't help Wilson for other people to know that he didn't want to be here. It could kill him, to be exact, and prison will probably kill me. So, by lying I'll be saving lives." He grinned at her smugly.

"Then let's go save some lives!" Cuddy said, taking hold of his arm and pulling him into Wilson's room.

"Almost done here," Liu said, giving them an irritated glance when they came in.

Wilson blinked at them as though trying to place them, his gaze coming to rest on Pete. Then, slowly, a frown deepened on his forehead. "You drugged me!" he croaked.

The nurses' heads swivelled round to Pete. Liu put down the syringe that she'd been getting ready to draw blood with and turned to Cuddy, lifting one eyebrow very pointedly. "Could you get him out of here, please? His presence seems to be upsetting my patient."

"You …," Wilson began again.

Cuddy grasped Pete's wrist tightly and dragged him right out of Wilson's room again. Once outside, she poked him in the chest, making him retreat against the far wall. "What the fuck?" she said through clenched teeth. "Wilson knows you drugged him?"

"He's not an idiot."

"You're an idiot! I figured he'd insist he didn't want to be here, but I didn't dream that he'd accuse us of a major crime in front of my staff!" She turned away from him to face the room, dragging a weary hand through her hair. Liu, calm and collected as though Wilson had said nothing out of the ordinary, was handing the blood she'd just drawn to one of the nurses. Then she came out of the room, pulling off her gloves and balling them, and marched straight towards them.

Cuddy drew herself up defensively. "Dr Wilson must be confused," she said.

Liu ignored her. "You saved his life," she said to Pete, "but if you want to save your ass, you'd better stay away from him. The moment you were gone, he insisted he'd been joking." Turning to Cuddy she said, "The blood panel we made on admitting him showed considerable amounts of tranquillisers. I've noted it as a possible suicide attempt. I've also noted that Pete's presence agitates him."

That meant that Pete wouldn't be allowed to visit Wilson. She glanced over at him to see how he took the news, but his face was expressionless.

"Was that really necessary?" Cuddy asked. "I'm sure that once he has accepted that he's here to stay …"

"Dr Wilson specifically requested it," Liu said. "He said, and I quote here, 'If that sonofabitch comes near me, I'll rip out my IV and strangle him with the tubing!' I'm sorry."

"S'okay. I wasn't planning on being around, anyway. I have … things to organise," Pete said with a bright smile that sat oddly on his lips.

"You can go in for a few minutes," Liu said to Cuddy. "The results from this blood panel should be back by noon." She nodded to both of them and went over to the nurses' desk.

The moment she was out of earshot Cuddy turned on Pete again. "She also knows that you drugged Wilson? Did you tweet it or something?" She was used to him not letting her in on whatever scheme he was hatching, but she did need a minimum of information if she was to weather this crisis without losing her job and her sanity. This wasn't PPTH, where people had been used to his methods and had accepted her authority. Here she wouldn't put it past her staff to refuse to obey her orders or to file a complaint directly with the board, bypassing her.

"Wilson knows. Liu knows. Lisa doesn't know!" Pete intoned.

This was a cultural reference that she could actually place, and it didn't improve her mood to be compared to the brainless hulk in the Rocky Horror Picture Show. "Letting my staff know that you committed a felony gets you where, exactly?" she snapped.

"It's called a compromise; you're a big fan of those, aren't you?" he mocked.

Her heart sank. His idea of a compromise tended to involve blackmail or coercion. "Do I even want to know?" she muttered.

He scratched his eyebrow. "She wanted to know whether he tried to off himself. I wanted her assurance that she wouldn't discharge him AMA."

Cuddy was caught between despair and schadenfreude. "She can't release him AMA," she said. "We have a policy that patients who aren't stable may only be discharged AMA if they can produce someone who'll agree to provide basic care. Wilson's only got us, so he can't leave." She paused for effect. "You got blindsided by a mere fellow."

His jaw worked. "Oh, fuck!" was all he said, but she could see he was amused.

"Why don't you get some sleep? I'll call you if anything changes."

Wilson was asleep again when she went back into his room, so she sat down at his bedside, wondering what Pete had slipped him and how much. She phoned her assistant and got him to bring her some files, and then she settled down to work in the waiting area, only getting up every now and then to check on Wilson. Wilson slept and slept and slept. It could be an after-effect of the sedative (although Pete believed it should have worn off) or even of the chemotherapy, but –- in view of Wilson's AST/ALT ratio there was a more disturbing explanation.

When the results of the morning blood test came in, the doctor on duty handed it wordlessly to Cuddy and paged Gastroenterology. Half an hour later a young man with an uncanny resemblance to a vulture came in. Cuddy searched for a name, but her tired brain came up with nothing. He tutted when he saw the results of the latest blood panel and then sat down next to the bed.

"Dr Wilson?"

Wilson opened his eyes wearily.

"My name is Ahmad Hamadi. I'm from Gastroenterology with a specialty in liver disease."

"Oh. What happened to Merrick?"

Cuddy froze. Merrick was the name of PPTH's top liver specialist.

"Dr Wilson, do you know where you are?" Hamadi asked.

"In the hospital?"

"Which hospital?"

Wilson's eyes roamed around the room. "This … isn't PPTH, is it? Then it must be …. " He fell silent, frowning.

Hamadi raised him to a sitting position. "Stretch out your arms, please."

Wilson did so, looking uneasy. Hamadi bent his hands back at the wrists and then let go. Wilson's hands flapped helplessly in small jerks.

"Oh my goodness," Cuddy murmured. "Asterixis?"

"Yes," Hamadi confirmed. "That, the drowsiness and his confusion indicate that he has encephalopathy. I'm putting him on mannitol to relieve intracranial pressure. How long has he been showing signs of confusion?"

"I haven't a clue. He's been sleeping all morning," Cuddy said helplessly.

"According to the patient history first symptoms presented about twenty-four hours ago?"

Cuddy nodded. Pete was an ass, but he wouldn't have lied about essentials, and this was an essential.

"His family should be informed," Hamadi said.

"Danny," Wilson murmured. "Don't tell Danny. He'll worry. … Shouldn't worry Danny."

Cuddy leaned forward to clasp his arm. "We won't tell Danny. I'll let Pete know, shall I?" Pete was in contact with Wilson's family; he'd know who to inform.

"Pete?" Wilson asked, perplexed.

"House," Cuddy said, seriously concerned now.

A look of irritation crossed Wilson's face. "He drugged me," he said. "And then he took my pants and gave my speech!"

Cuddy risked a glance at Hamadi, but he appeared to set little store by what Wilson had just said. He was studying the patient history in Wilson's file. "I don't know what to say to this," he finally said. "It's clear what caused this, but such a rapid decline is unusual. Wait, there's a history of alcohol abuse. That isn't good, Dr Cuddy, that isn't good!"

She was fully aware of it.

Hamadi rubbed a finger along his beak-like nose. "Dr Cuddy, normally I'd recommend a transfer to a transplant centre, but with that history, there's no use in transferring him. We'll just have to manage his condition as best we can."

When Hamadi left she phoned Pete. "Where are you?" There were odd sounds in the background that she couldn't place – whizzing and fizzing noises and the occasional crash.

"Paediatrics," he said. "It's great: they have a Playstation 4 here, and the kids aren't allowed to play for an hour after lunch, so it's all mine."

"Did you get the text I sent you with Wilson's latest blood panel results?"

"Yeah. Shit, failed the level. Keep it short – the kids will be here any moment, and they're irritating as hell."

"Pete, Wilson's got asterixis; he's confused and almost incoherent! We shouldn't have put him on meropenem. I'll have him taken off the medication so his liver can recover."

Pete didn't seem bothered. "Keep the medication and put him on the transplant list," he said. "What with his boozing and gifting of body parts, he has a weakened liver, and the chemo was strong enough to beat the crap out of a whole healthy one. We can't save it. We salvage what we can, and that's his immune system. We replace the rest."

"Almost fifty years old, a history of alcohol abuse, and a carcinoma that's possibly inoperable," Cuddy said desperately. "He won't even get on the waiting list."

The noise in the background ceased abruptly. "When I contacted his family I mentioned the possibility of liver failure," Pete said. "Maybe one of them is a match; then we'll have a live donor."

She hadn't thought of his family – she should have after Pete's questions last night. So that was why he'd contacted them: he had anticipated that Wilson's liver would cave. "Should I have him transferred? Do you think you can get his family to donate? Because if not, he's probably better off if we don't move him, because we risk infections if we do."

"No, don't move him. If he needs a transplant, we'll do it here."

"Here? Pete, this isn't a transplant centre! My staff have never …."

"They won't have to: I'll get Chase and a team from PPTH," Pete cut her off. "You organise the necessary paperwork." He disconnected the call before she could protest any further and ignored all her attempts to call him again. She finally gave up, hoping that he knew what he was doing.

The next hours were unpleasant. Having kept busy till now, she hadn't had time to absorb or ponder the past events or think overly much about the future, but as the minutes and hours passed with Wilson mostly asleep and barely coherent when he was awake, there wasn't much she could do at his bedside except worry. She did worry now, as she hadn't worried the night before. Even though Wilson had already been unconscious when she'd helped Pete bring him to the hospital she'd assumed that Pete had everything under control. That Pete wouldn't risk Wilson dying of his stupid cancer treatment. Well she'd been wrong.

Wilson and Pete had gone all in.