fic: The Cuckoo -- Chapter 27

[readingrat]

 

Part V
Chapter 27: The Morning After

Wilson's arm was numb, his brain on autopilot. 'Ten paces down the entryway, turn around, ten back again, through the door into the living room, three paces forward, once around the coffee table, five along the window, back again to the door (don't bump against the frame), and then start from the beginning again.' At the rate he was going he'd have to replace the rugs when the owners of the apartment came back. 'Ten paces ...'

The door to the apartment opened. (He hadn't heard a key turning, but chances were that his ear, attuned to Joel's roughly ninety decibel, ignored everything of a different pitch and volume.) Cuddy surveyed the scene and then advanced with arms outstretched. He handed Joel over gratefully before stumbling into the living room and sinking down on the couch. His legs, now that he wasn't pacing, felt like jelly.

It took Cuddy a mere minute to make Joel's angry yells subside into mewling whimpers. (He told himself that it was the vigour of her steps, brisk after a healthy night's sleep.) When Joel was quiet enough that they could communicate, she asked, "Where's Julia?"

He opened his eyes to squint at his watch. It was only nine o'clock, although he felt as though he'd been on his feet for hours since Julia left. "She left around seven. She wanted to be back in Princeton at eight because of your mother."

"Well, yes," Cuddy cut in impatiently. "But that doesn't explain why Pete is snoring in my guest room. Where did Julia sleep?"

Wilson closed his eyes again, trying to concentrate. "Joel got colicky while Julia and Rachel were here, so finally Julia took Rachel upstairs and came back here to help. She slept here last night so we could take turns with Joel. Don't worry, she put the baby phone in Rachel's room, so we would have heard ..." He trailed off, realising that they wouldn't have heard Rachel, not over the racket that Joel had been making.

Cuddy didn't latch onto that, probably because Joel was blissfully quiet at the moment. "And Pete?" she asked again.

"I sent him a text message telling him to stay away, because of Julia. Hang on, didn't you come back together?"

"No," Cuddy said tersely.

"Oh. Well, I haven't a clue how or why ... . I guess he figured your guest room was a safe haven since Julia was down here. Though if Julia had gone back upstairs, he'd have been royally screwed."

"He's royally screwed as it is. He must have been pretty much wasted if he thought facing me was a better idea than facing Julia," Cuddy said viciously. She turned away with a grimace. "Have you had breakfast?"

When exactly was he supposed to have eaten? So far, he hadn't even gotten as far as the fridge.

"Come with me; I'll make you something," Cuddy said. Without waiting for an answer she headed for the door. Wilson followed her, picking up Joel's carrier, a pacifier and a blanket.

Upstairs Cuddy passed Joel back to Wilson so she could make pancakes. Wilson paced the kitchen awkwardly, patting Joel on the back, until Cuddy slid a plate onto the table.

"Umm, I take it the evening didn't go well," Wilson said, sitting down and trying to eat with one hand while he held Joel with the other. Finally he gave up and put Joel in his carrier, eyeing him warily as he laid him down. Joel, however, continued sucking his fist, gazing up at Wilson innocently.

"You don't fool me," Wilson said. "The moment I start eating, you're going to scream again, aren't you?" He picked up his fork without taking his eyes off Joel. Joel yawned. Wilson crammed a bite into his mouth and swallowed without chewing it. Joel's eyes began to droop. "Devil's spawn," Wilson said.

"Eat," Cuddy ordered in a low voice.

Wilson didn't wait any longer. He demolished the pancakes in front of him in record time and didn't protest when she placed a second plate in front of him. By the time Rachel appeared, he was into his third plate of pancakes and his second cup of coffee and wondering whether he could ask Cuddy to fry a steak for him.

"Shall I call Pete for breakfast?" Rachel offered.

"Yes," Wilson said, even as Cuddy said, "No."

"Oh-kay," Rachel said, eyeing both adults doubtfully.

"What happened?" Wilson asked.

Cuddy looked pointedly at Rachel.

"You can talk in front of me," Rachel said. "I won't listen."

"Eat your breakfast," Cuddy ordered, putting a plate in front of her.

"What did Pete do?" Rachel probed with unholy glee.

"Never you mind."

They sat in silence while Rachel finished her meal.

"Bowel programme," Cuddy ordained. Rachel scowled, but left. There was still no sign of Pete; it was anyone's guess whether this was a direct result of last night's carousing or whether he was avoiding a location that harboured Cuddy and a selection of very sharp knives.

"What happened?" Wilson asked again, not because he particularly wanted to know, but because there was no avoiding this.

"No idea. One minute he was there, the next he was gone. He disappeared around ten, leaving me exactly in the position I was trying to avoid. Actually it was even worse than if I'd gone without a date: I looked like a complete fool."

Wilson lifted his hands in a placatory gesture. "Cuddy, you didn't expect him to sit through the entire dinner, did you? He showed good will by accompanying you, and it could have been worse. At least he snuck out quietly instead of insulting your colleagues or one of the attending bigwigs."

Placing her hands flat on the table, Cuddy leaned forward to glare at Wilson. "He may have snuck out quietly, but he took Chase with him and let him get wasted at the next bar. I was left to deal with Chase's date, who was stranded in Philly without a ride back to Princeton. What is his fucking issue here?" She whirled around, taking out her frustration by slamming the dishwasher door resoundingly. "Get him out of my apartment before I complete what he was doing to himself when he fried his brain!"

Wilson sighed. "Look, Chase would have gotten drunk anyway. That's what alcoholics do. His date was probably better off with whatever you organised than driving back with him."

Cuddy looked confounded. She twisted the pendant of the chain she was wearing. "What have you heard about Chase?" she asked him.

He wondered how much he should tell her. There had to be a reason why Chase had attended the gala dinner, a reason that was in all likelihood work-related. He was obliged to Chase and didn't want do him any harm, but - he was even more obliged to Cuddy. "Allison says he's turning up for work reeking of liquor; it's only a question of time before he gets fired if he stays at PPTH."

"So Pete takes him to a bar!" Cuddy shook her head. "Only a guy would think that taking someone with alcohol issues to a bar is a fun way to end a tedious evening."

"Cuddy, you can't save the whole world," Wilson said tiredly.

Cuddy threw up her arms in annoyance. "Well, forgive me for trying to keep my little corner of it intact!" she snapped. "And House really should know better."

She'd referred to House by his real name; she only did that when she was fatigued or really, really pissed or both. Much as he would have preferred to stay seated for as long as Joel remained quiet, he saw the need for damage control. "I'll take Joel out for a walk and take Pete with me," he said, getting up. "It'll be good for both of us."

At the door he turned around. Long-term damage control meant figuring out what game was being played here. He'd hardly be able to keep House and Cuddy out of each other's hair if House was actively trying to sabotage whatever Cuddy was up to. "What's your stake in Chase, anyway?"

Cuddy hesitated, biting her lip. "I want to establish a diagnostic team at Philadelphia Central. I need Chase for that."

Wilson turned this piece of information over in his mind, wondering what House's objection to Cuddy's scheme might be. Was it possible that House was considering a return to the US via Philadelphia Central and Cuddy's largesse? The notion was crappy, but - stranger things had happened and Cuddy was a soft touch. She had taken House back after his stint at Mayfield, when his addiction issues had become a well-publicised fact and no other hospital would touch him with a ten-foot pole. The thought of House back here in the vicinity, no matter how bug-ridden the plan for reinstating him as a diagnostician, made his heart beat faster. "If you're looking for someone to head diagnostics, why don't you take House? He doesn't have a job at the moment other than those lectures of his, I think. He got fired from Gloucestershire Hospital six weeks ago."

"Wilson, there's no way I can sell Gregory House to the board of Philadelphia Central."

Wilson chose to ignore the subtext blinking in neon yellow, the one that said, If I employed the guy who ran his car through my house, I'd lose my standing: I'd be considered weak or insane or both. "You persuaded PPTH to take him when he was practically a nobody with a very iffy reputation for discipline," he said.

"He was young, had recently published benchmark papers and had years of active service ahead of him. Even if he'd spent the remainder of his days swabbing crotches in the clinic, he'd have profited the hospital. He's close to sixty now, with known addiction issues and no licence," Cuddy pointed out.

"Guy's and Gloucestershire Hospital didn't care about the licence," Wilson interjected.

"We're not at Guy's or Back-of-beyond here; we're next door to the board that cashed in his licence. There's no way I'd be able to hold onto my tenuous position if I advocated employing him at the hospital. And frankly, I don't want to."

Wilson couldn't fault her for her stand, which was eminently sensible, although it was regrettable that she should show circumspection now of all times. House could, of course, give PPTH and Cameron a try, but Cuddy's successor there was no more flexible than House's former boss at Guy's Hospital. It would merely be history repeating itself. Foreman in Seattle was another option, but if House chose to go there, he would be giving up his lecturer status for the sake of a job of doubtful duration in a place that was only marginally closer to the East Coast than England was. All things considered, maybe House's plan to return to the US via Philadelphia Central wasn't that stupid after all - if that was his plan.

"He doesn't need the money," Cuddy said.

He supposed that was meant to sweeten the bitter pill. House had inherited a tidy sum from his mother and his birth father, who, never having had a family of his own, had been 'rolling in it', as House said. But this wasn't about money: House needed something to occupy his brain, otherwise he'd turn destructive in no time whatsoever. "So instead of a sober, experienced diagnostician you're going to employ a surgeon who is on the verge of getting fired for his addiction. Sounds like a plan!"

Cuddy leaned against the kitchen counter with her arms folded across her chest in defiance. "Chase has years of experience too. House kept his addiction under control for a long time, and …"

"I doubt Chase can."

"… and Chase is free to bring House or anyone else in as a consultant provided he doesn't exceed his budget."

So that was Cuddy's master plan: to have Chase bear the responsibility for employing House. "Ah, 'buy one, get one free'. That might work." He infused his voice with as much sarcasm as he thought he could get away with without getting into a heads-on confrontation with her.

He must have misjudged his cutting power, because Cuddy's eyes narrowed. "You never encouraged me to let go of House. In fact, you went out on a limb more than once so I wouldn't fire him. What's the difference between House and Chase?"

"Cuddy, don't you see the difference? House had a legitimate reason for taking pain medication."

"He was still an addict," Cuddy said in a hard voice, "but you not only encouraged me to keep him on, you even prescribed for him long after his addiction spiralled out of control. The patients don't care whether an addiction is 'legitimate' or not; they only care whether they'll live. A diagnostic team will give them that chance."

If Chase continued along the path he was treading, he'd go down and take Cuddy with him. But Wilson could do no more than warn Cuddy, and now he'd done so. He rolled himself off the doorframe and went to rouse House.

---

Cuddy felt a twinge of guilt; she was still weakened and perhaps she'd gone back to full-time work too early, but Wilson, too, was barely on his legs again and was now facing a major life change. Asking him to babysit House - Pete, she corrected herself, chagrined - wasn't fair. On the other hand, it would serve no useful purpose if she and Pete had another run-in in front of Rachel, which was what would inevitably happen if she had to deal with him after yesterday's fiasco. So she let Wilson go and sank into a chair once he'd left the kitchen, allowing her head to rest in her hands. A few minutes later Rachel wheeled herself into the kitchen.

"Mom, Wilson is taking Joel to the park. Can I go too? Wilson said I can."

"Okay, but wash your face before ..." Cuddy broke off when she realised that Rachel was already gone.

She had no idea why Chase's problems were getting to her to such an extent; it wasn't as though they were good friends or met frequently. But he'd been one of the few who'd stuck with her when the PPTH board had intrigued behind her back while Rachel was in hospital, and he'd been one of the very few who hadn't felt awkward about visiting her and Rachel then or afterwards, during Rachel's long rehab period.

Yet there was no way she could fool herself into believing that Chase's alcohol consumption was leading him anywhere but straight down to hell. In House's case it had been easy to ignore the signs, to tell herself that he was using pain medication, not abusing it, and that he had everything under control, because he did have everything under control for a very long time. He'd been an addict, but a highly functioning one; given his pain levels it hadn't been clear whether he'd function better without the medication than with until he'd actually tried it and succeeded. In Chase's case, as in Wilson's, there was no doubt whatsoever: if he didn't stop drinking, he'd trash his liver and his life.

The men and the children were back in what seemed to be no time at all, arguing vociferously all the way from the elevator into the apartment.

"Wilson tripped, otherwise he'd have overtaken you," Rachel insisted, her voice carrying into the kitchen. She and Pete were apparently having one of their irritatingly long and repetitive arguments.

Wilson stumbled into the kitchen in his running gear and collapsed on one of the chairs. His hair, still short and now heavily streaked with grey, was plastered to his forehead in damp strains and his T-shirt clung to his chest. His breathing was shallow and laboured, even though with Rachel and Joel along, their pace back from the park must have been leisurely.

Cuddy hastily got a bottle of water out of the fridge and passed it to him. "Idiots!" she muttered under her breath. Out loud she said, "Where's Joel?"

Rachel whirled in next, her face flushed from being out in the fresh air. "Can I have some orange juice?"

"What's the magic word?" Cuddy asked automatically.

"Now!"

Cuddy froze at the door of the fridge. She had no doubt where Rachel had learned that.

Rachel giggled. "I mean, 'please', Mom."

Cuddy unfroze and got a carton of orange juice from the fridge.

"Mom, Wilson almost won."

"'There's no 'almost' won. I won; he lost." Pete had appeared in the kitchen doorway, the baby carrier slung over his arm, and was surveying the scene. He placed the carrier on the floor next to Wilson's chair, pulled out another chair and slumped into it.

"He would have won if you didn't have your blade. It's an unfair advantage." Rachel told him haughtily.

"Hey, I need that blade. No leg," Pete protested, waving his hand at the missing limb.

"You're hardly a cripple. I'm a real cripple." It was amazing how many of their arguments ended in a 'who's the greatest loser' contest.

"You'll be singing a different tune about 'unfair advantages' when the little electric motor that I'll build into your wheelchair helps you to win the wheelchair marathon at the Paralympics."

Rachel was instantly distracted from the question of fairness. "You'll put a motor in my wheelchair? Cool! When can you do it?"

Pete tipped his head to one side, examining her wheelchair. "It would have to drive the back wheels, so it would need to go …" Getting up, he crouched beside the wheelchair, peering behind one of the back wheels with a slight frown.

"Not happening," Cuddy said.

"Mo-om!" both Rachel and Pete whined.

"She's not your mom," Rachel snapped at Pete. Pete stuck his tongue out at her.

"You regularly knock over other children during recess," Cuddy said to Rachel. "What do you think will happen if your wheelchair is any faster than it is already?" She endured Rachel's accusing death-stare without blinking.

"Just do it anyway," Rachel said to Pete when Cuddy showed no sign of relenting.

After glancing at Cuddy, Pete said with the better part of valour, "Let's talk again when you turn eighteen."

Rachel gave the right wheel of her chair a twist with a flick of her wrist, sending the chair into a pirouette. "Grown ups are boring!" she muttered.

Cuddy ignored her, as she did Pete's longing stare at Wilson's water bottle. "How far did you guys run?"

"Just around the track in the park," Wilson hastened to reassure her, "and we kept an eye on Rachel the entire time. She timed our laps."

"And I looked after Joel," Rachel chimed in.

"That's not what I meant," Cuddy said.

"Three miles," Pete said challengingly.

"Three … !" Cuddy's voice trailed off in dismay. She looked from one to the other. Wilson looked slightly guilty, Pete totally unrepentant. "I suppose it's no good telling you that this is totally crazy and utterly irresponsible?"

"None whatsoever," Pete affirmed. "I won, so I get to shower first."

"You only won because of your blade. And Wilson pushed Joel back to the apartment, so he had to work harder," Rachel protested, chipping in for Wilson as usual, although the object of her protective instincts showed no sign of appreciating her efforts.

Cuddy glanced surreptitiously at Wilson's legs under the table, poking out of his shorts like two sticks. Tremors were running up and down his sparse muscles. He'd probably used the stroller as a walker on the way home. Pete was so dead!

"Wilson's taking a shower first, and then he can lie down till dinner," Cuddy decreed.

Wilson smiled weakly. "Yes, Mom," he said, but when he made no attempt to rise, Cuddy gazed at him worriedly.

"She isn't his mom either," Pete pointed out to Rachel. "Why aren't you slapping him down? Favouritism, I call it."

Rachel stuck her tongue out at Pete while Cuddy rolled her eyes. There was just so much of this she could take. "How old are you guys?" she asked rhetorically.

"Fifty-seven," Pete answered, grinning.

"Nine," Rachel chimed in, mirroring his grin.

"You two combined have the maturity level of a five year old," Cuddy said.

Rachel giggled. "Do you even understand what your mom said?" Pete asked her.

"She said you're behaving like a baby," Rachel said. Wilson snorted.

From somewhere out in the entryway a cell phone jangled. Wilson looked up.

"I'll get it," Rachel said with a smile for Wilson.

There was an awkward silence in the kitchen while she was gone. Cuddy considered her options. Wilson was trying to hide his acute exhaustion in order to protect Pete from her justified ire. She could either try to offer help tactfully - but would Wilson appreciate having her help him shower and get changed, no matter what state she'd seen him in over the last months? - or she could give Pete the yelling he deserved and make him play nurse.

Pete had his head in the fridge, pretending he'd done no evil, neither yesterday nor today.

Rachel returned with Wilson's cell phone.

"Thanks," Wilson said with a smile for her, and then stared at the screen in puzzlement. After a moment he looked up at Pete. "It's a text message from Chase. Why would he text me?"

Pete merely grunted, but pulled his head out of the fridge.

Wilson frowned as he opened the message and read it once, and then a second time. Then he looked up at Cuddy. "I'm supposed to tell you this diplomatically, the way I tell my patients that their cancer is untreatable: he's at Mayfield, being admitted. He won't be able to come in to sign the papers on Monday. He hopes you'll keep the job for him, but he'd understand if you felt you couldn't, under the given circumstances. Oh, and he wouldn't mind having visitors."

Speechless, Cuddy stared from Wilson to Pete and back again. Wilson seemed as surprised as she was; Pete's face was expressionless.

"What did you do?" Wilson asked Pete.

"Moi?" Pete said, pointing a finger at his own chest and pulling a ridiculous face.

Wilson narrowed his eyes.

Pete contemplated the tip of his Ossur blade. "I merely pointed out a few facts. I left it to him to interpret them."

"Such as?" Wilson probed.

"It could happen that HR at Philadelphia Central gets wind of the fact that he pre-empted getting fired at PPTH by resigning in the nick of time. If that happened, Lisa could hardly employ him. Nor could any other hospital that got the same information."

"Oh, God," Wilson said, propping an elbow on the table and massaging his forehead with his hand.

"What?" Pete said defensively.

"You think they're going to be any more eager to employ him when they hear that he's just come out of rehab? I speak from experience: applying for jobs after a stint in an institution isn't a walk in the park."

"You're right: let's wait until he loses it completely and gets fired. Or has a breakdown. Or tries to commit suicide. Or all three at the same time. That'll make him so much more employable," Pete said.

"You blackmailed Chase into getting himself admitted to Mayfield?" Cuddy said slowly.

"I prefer to call it an intervention, but - yeah."

"Oh, damn you!" Cuddy said, blinking away tears of relief - why was she so maudlin these days? - and hugging him roughly round the waist. She knew that Pete had saved her from a gigantic mistake, because no matter what advice Wilson gave her, she'd have let her sense of obligation towards Chase (not only for sticking by her, but also for saving Wilson) guide her choices. She'd have trusted her luck and given him a job, only to be stuck with the kind of mess she'd dealt with at PPTH. And then she'd have been faced with much the same outcome: sooner or later she'd have paid for the decision with her job. Probably sooner rather than later, because she wasn't dean here; she was merely a department head and Chase was no maverick like House.

"Uh," Pete said, not responding, but not pulling away either. He smelled pungently of sweat, but underneath was that familiar spicy mix that was heady and comforting at the same time.

Cuddy stepped back after a moment, wrinkling her nose in exaggerated disgust to cover up her emotions. Giving Wilson a watery smile she asked, "Does he say when he'll be allowed visitors?"

"No, but I should think there'll be no restrictions. There's no reason why we shouldn't be allowed to see him at the weekend. Or is there?" Wilson asked turning to Pete.

Pete shrugged. "He's your run-of-the-mill alcoholic; nothing spectacularly interesting there."

"Will Chase come and stay with us when he's allowed to leave Mayfield, like Wilson?" Rachel suddenly piped up.

"What am I, the keeper of a halfway house?" Cuddy muttered, wondering whether she needed to worry her head about that too. Chances were that Nolan or whoever was responsible for Chase wouldn't want him living alone right after his release, but she doubted Chase had anyone he could go to.

Pete, overhearing her, promptly started whistling House of the Rising Sun.

"Ouch, woman! Don't poke me with those sharp bones of yours. You're going to buy that five-bedroom house that you can't afford, aren't you?" he asked, but it was more of a statement than a question. She hadn't quite decided yet ...

Pete continued inexorably, "Let out the upstairs to Wilson and his little ankle biter, then Chase can go and stay with him, and you'll get a babysitter for the two kids for free. Yes, I know you think you're not a baby," he added, turning to Rachel, who had predictably opened her mouth to protest. "You tell me so about ten times per day."

Cuddy spun round to look at Wilson, who smiled somewhat shyly. "That's if you don't mind," he said. "We ... discussed it on the way back from the park. It doesn't make sense for me to return to New York now that Joel is staying with me anyway. Though I doubt that Chase will want to stay with us," he added as an afterthought. "After one night with Joel he'll be back on the booze."

Cuddy was nonplussed. "You want to stay?" She had assumed that Wilson would want to return to his former life, either in New York or in Princeton, once he'd recovered sufficiently to manage on his own.

Wilson wetted the tip of his finger in the dew on his water bottle and drew lines on the table. Finally he said, "If it's okay with you."

"Yes. Yes, of course," Cuddy hastened to reassure him, blinking away tears for the second time. If she was to retain any street cred at all with those two, she'd have to get them out of her kitchen before she turned into a mushy mess of sentimentality. "Wilson can take a shower here while Pete goes downstairs. I've still got some of your laundry up here, Wilson; we'll find something for you to wear."

Rachel wheeled her chair around so that Wilson could take hold of the grips. "Here," she said, "you can wheel me to my room on your way to the shower."

"That's a great idea," Wilson said, leaning forward to pull himself upright. He stood somewhat unsteadily, but once he started pushing the wheelchair out of the kitchen, his gait became steadier and stronger.

If she gaped any more she'd turn into a codfish, Cuddy decided. Her daughter, her nine year old who scarcely knew that there was a world outside of Harry Potter, had caught on that Wilson was in no state to walk without support?

Pete, having gulped down half a bottle of water, burped loudly.

"I assumed you'd go for a civilised walk, not a three mile run," Cuddy said with asperity.

"He needs exercise to combat his depression," Pete said, clinically detached as usual.

She still wasn't convinced. "Can't you run slower? He's probably killing himself trying to keep up with you."

"Lady, that was slow. I let him set the pace and only overtook him on the last lap. I'm not a complete ass, you know."

Yes, she did, but there was no way she was telling him that.

Pete gave his Ossur blade a fist thump. "With this, I'm probably faster than I ever was on my own two legs. Sometimes," he said, giving Cuddy a meditative look, "sometimes, second best isn't all bad." He sauntered out, saluting her with his water bottle as he went.

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