Chapter Text
10:47, his watch taunted.
House puffed out his cheeks and let out the air in a huff, limping grumpily towards the exam room that Cuddy had ushered him to before returning to her lair, a red folder tucked under his arm.
“Gooood morning!” he bellowed as he swung the door open, surely loud enough to reach Cuddy’s wolf ears if they were sensitive enough to catch him attempting to escape after almost an hour and a half. The anciently-dressed old woman on the exam table didn’t so much as blink.
“What brings you here?” he asked gruffly, almost unnerved. He opened the file to investigate for himself, intently absorbing symptoms and possible patterns while he waited for an answer. Huh. That can’t be right. Which means…either we’ve got a case, or…
He looked back up when no answer came, frowning. The words on the tip of his tongue and the likely conclusion that she was lying vanished at the strange look on her face.
His spine tingled unpleasantly, and all thoughts of attention-seeking, drug-seeking, or Munchausen’s were replaced with a sudden, strong urge to get the nutjob a psych referral and himself out of the clinic, pronto.
“One minute. Need a consult,” he said on his way to the phone, putting on a saccharine ‘polite doctor’ smile.
“You don’t have brain cancer,” the woman said serenely.
House’s fingertips froze just inches from the phone. They turned cold as he turned to stare at her, his arm faltering. “What?”
“You heard me,” she said, the strange quality in her voice thickening, but it wasn’t hostile. Almost…understanding. The all-too-familiar maternal tone of exasperated affection.
The rest of him succumbed to the cold, and he stumbled back over to the stool to drop down unsteadily. Her eyes followed him, and he forced himself to meet them, at least close enough to have any chance of intimidation.
“Who are you?” he asked roughly, praying that the tone and the formidable (ha) scowl were enough to cover the fear in his voice, his eyes. “Who’d you talk to? Kupersmith? Medick?”
God, he could lose his license. He could go to prison, possibly until his liver-scheduled early death. He could…
He would leave Wilson behind, alone. Reopening the wound that had barely scabbed over and abandoning him after all, after everything they'd just been through.
He was too deep in shock to process any of it.
“No,” she said softly. Her voice was small, but eerily powerful. “You wouldn’t believe me.” Before he could even react, she gazed more intensely at him — into him — with kind eyes. They deepened the longer he looked, like inviting tunnels. “You don’t need drugs in your brain to know you can be happy, Gregory.”
House nearly jumped to his feet, a decision he immediately paid for with the screaming surge of pain splintering through his leg, and jerkily wheeled the stool back against the wall where he’d found it with the butt of his cane, tucking the file back under his arm and preparing to leave. He could call security, and as long as no one believed her tale enough to look into it…
He’d taken the damn risk, hadn’t he? He had taken it willingly, and hadn’t cared about the consequences. Again.
(What the hell are you?)
Cuddy couldn’t save him this time. She had no reason to try, either. Not Wilson, not his team, no one.
I’ll lose everything I have left. I’ll lose-
A haunting, beautiful cry was the last thing he heard.
———
Cuddy jumped at the sudden explosion of commotion coming from the clinic, getting up and moving as fast as she could to investigate.
The immediate thought that came to her frazzled mind was that either a patient had done something or House had — she wasn’t sure what that might be, but she had learned it was always better not to underestimate House — but the next thought sent a jolt of fear through her chest.
If a patient had done something to House…it certainly wouldn’t be the first time.
She would never forget the day of the shooting, finding out that House might have been fatally wounded. For God’s sake, she’d had to be the one to find Wilson and tell him, not wanting him to have to hear it from anyone else, and the look on his face still haunted her.
Cuddy burst into the clinic just in time to see an older woman running out into the lobby — seemingly unarmed, she realized numbly — and turned towards the exam rooms in panic. Everyone was frozen in shock and confusion, torn between staring after the woman and staring at…
The open exam room door.
The exam room she had sent a grumbling House to just a few minutes earlier.
She hurried towards it without a second thought, terrified to know what she might find, images of House bleeding out filling her brain, and through the haze of fear and shock, all she could think was how would I tell Wilson?
When she reached the doorway, everything went silent.
House’s clothes were in a pile on the floor, his cane and the discarded folder next to them, and…
A baby tangled up in the middle of the pile, crying in sheer terror.
She stepped towards him — him, because she knew, she knew — carefully, not wanting to scare him, and her breath hitched painfully when he looked up at her, eyes wide in fear.
And so blue.
Her hands shook as she reached down to pick him up, gently freeing his arms from the sleeves and pulling him through the leg holes of House’s underwear and the collars of his T-shirt and half-undone button-down, instinctively clutching him to her chest.
House continued to scream, and she held him closer protectively, rubbing his back in an attempt to soothe him.
Distantly, the doctor in her noted from his size that he must be about nine or ten months old, but all she could think was how tiny he was, how fragile. She heard someone running in behind her, but she kept her attention on him, murmuring to him softly as he started to calm down.
“God,” a female voice whispered shakily, and there was a sharp inhale from a second. “That’s not…”
Cuddy turned carefully to see two stunned nurses in the doorway, staring in frozen shock between House’s things and the baby in her arms, who nestled closer to her chest at the sight of the strangers.
“Could you run up to the maternity ward and bring me a blanket and the biggest diapers you can find?” she asked quietly, just barely managing to keep her voice level. She looked back down at him, her throat tightening slightly at the sight of the sparse light brown curls, the small distressed noises he was still making. “And some formula too,” she added, suddenly certain that if he was anything like his usual self, he would be getting hungry soon, and probably grouchy.
The first nurse nodded jerkily before turning to leave, and the other returned to the nurses’ station in a dream-like state. Cuddy rocked House back and forth slightly, hoping he wasn’t cold. She gingerly shifted him in her arms to wrap both sides of her blazer around him, and he sighed contentedly.
Smiling sadly, she shuddered to think just how quickly the news would spread through the hospital, protectiveness flaring up in her at the idea of half the staff coming to gawk at House…
…oh, God.
Wilson.
Carefully shifting House to one arm again, she reached for her cell phone, taking a deep breath as she dialed unsteadily.
Come on, come on, pick up…
“Dr. Wilson,” he said lightly, and she froze, mouth hanging open slightly in an aborted attempt at speaking as a lump grew in her throat, the knowledge of what she was about to tell him suddenly knocking the air out of her lungs.
“Hello?” he asked after a few seconds, confused and a little concerned.
“James,” she said shakily, blinking rapidly as her eyes welled up with tears, heart breaking at the idea that she was about to break his.
“Lisa?” he asked, his voice strained and bleeding with worry. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“You need to come down to the clinic,” she said quietly, unable to keep her voice from wavering despite her best efforts. And she couldn’t bear to tell him, but she didn’t want him to be blindsided either. “It’s House.”
“What- is he okay?” Wilson choked out, panicked, and Cuddy winced, just about to reassure him when she heard what sounded like a dry sob. “Is…is he-”
“He’s not hurt,” she cut him off quickly, guilt curling in her stomach. “Just…please hurry.”
As she hung up, House nuzzled against her again, shifting slightly and making a small sleepy noise as his tiny fist curled into her blouse, and reality sunk in.
Tears rolled down her cheeks as she hugged him gently, turning her head to keep him dry.
———
Wilson bolted from behind his desk out to the stairwell as soon as he could safely get to his feet.
He’s not hurt? He’s not hurt?!
What the hell happened to him? What’s wrong with him?
Wilson’s mind ran wild, making him progressively more nauseous. Was he sick? High? Having some kind of breakdown, a psychotic episode? God…
He had been terrified enough by the devastation in Cuddy’s usually composed voice, but the second she mentioned the clinic, he was sure his heart had stopped.
House…
He had just seen him earlier that morning — in his office, sprawled out and relaxed on his couch and complaining about clinic duty, as usual. Wearing a gray blazer, dark blue button-down, black T-shirt, and jeans.
He fought back a painful wave of nausea (and grief) at the implication that vivid memory carried — that somewhere deep down, part of him was sure that was the last time he would ever see House.
“You ever think you might possibly be exaggerating just a little bit?” Wilson asked him in his well-worn ‘soft lecturing’ voice, trying to at least pretend to focus on his work.
“I think you’re underestimating the moronic ingenuity of the general population,” House quipped, eyebrows raised.
Wilson, trying and failing to hide his smile, rolled his eyes affectionately and coaxed him out. Reluctantly, House peeled himself off the couch with a series of melodramatic groans.
“You're paying for lunch,” he called mournfully over his shoulder as he left.
“I look forward to it,” Wilson returned dryly, then grinned to himself. “Godspeed!”
The second he reached the landing on the first floor, he burst out into the lobby, only sparing a moment to make sure he didn’t smack anyone in the face with the door, but he almost didn’t bother. He broke into a run, the broken tone of Cuddy’s voice washing back over him.
“It’s House.”
His immediate thought had been that House had been shot again, or stabbed. That his best friend was dying, or…God…already dead.
He could never experience that feeling again.
By the time he reached the clinic, he was nearly on the verge of passing out from panic and fear, and he looked around frantically for a split second before the open room caught his eye. The one that the entire nurses’ station was staring at, shell-shocked.
Each step towards it felt like his feet were full of lead, no matter how fast he was moving.
“He’s not hurt,” Cuddy had promised him, and yet she sounded like she was on the verge of tears. Or a mental breakdown.
What was he about to see? House crumpled on the floor or against the wall, violently ill or having a psychotic break?
Will he be okay?
Wilson reached the doorway, his heart pounding violently.
He froze.
Cuddy stood there, holding a seemingly naked baby against her chest, her eyes red, puffy, and full of tears. Devastated.
Wilson stared at her speechlessly for a moment, his brain stalling, looking around at what he already knew was an empty room.
House…?
Had she lied to him? What purpose could that possibly serve? How sick-? But no, she was genuinely upset, scared even…
Was she okay?
He gestured uselessly — desperately — with both arms, opening and closing his mouth in an attempt to even begin, but truly finding himself at a loss.
“What-” he finally got out, but the words died on his lips when his gaze caught on the mess on the floor.
House’s clothes, in a…layered pile, from blazer down to jeans. His cane and a file lying abandoned next to them, like they had been…
“Wilson,” Cuddy said sadly, and he forced his head back up to her, his mind blank.
The baby was watching him curiously, his head resting on Cuddy’s blouse from where he was safely wrapped under her own blazer.
“James, look at his eyes,” she whispered, her voice breaking.
Something deep in his chest crumbled when he looked into the baby’s face, and House’s wide blue eyes looked back at him.
“No,” he whispered, stumbling backwards into the doorframe. Those eyes followed him intently, and he choked, grabbing the door handle to ground himself.
House…
———
By the time a bug-eyed, pale — and judging by her behavior, only half-aware — nurse came rushing in with a maternity ward blanket, a small stack of diapers, and a bottle of formula, Wilson had come close to passing out at least twice, his knees buckling as he leaned back against the wall. The baby had started crying. It was all Wilson could hear as Cuddy thanked the nurse, pointedly asking her to close the door on her way out when she lingered, swaying a little on her feet.
“Um…Wilson, could you change this?” Cuddy asked faintly, nodding towards the crinkled exam table paper as she bounced the baby gently and rubbed his back.
In a trance, he nodded, disposing of and replacing the paper on efficient autopilot. “And hold these,” she murmured, holding out the items. He clutched them close to his chest as she carefully put the baby on his back on the clean sheet, then set them down near his head.
He looked away from the strangely familiar hair.
“There’s no way he’ll fit in one of these,” Cuddy was muttering to herself, stretching out one of the diapers above him as an estimate. She went to the phone on the wall, asking for the supply closets to be checked for bigger diaper sizes and, as a last resort, adult diapers.
“Oh, the blanket,” Cuddy blurted out, hand on her forehead when she turned back. “It’s 40 degrees out, he must be freezing…” She pulled him up into a sitting position to wrap the blanket around his back and over his legs, leaving his arms free as she held the bottle up to his mouth. The fussing stopped as he latched on immediately, reaching up to grip the bottle with both tiny hands. Cuddy smiled weakly, her lip trembling, and Wilson turned away, crossing his arms tight against his body and hanging his head.
The diapers arrived, and Cuddy sighed in relief when she examined them. “Could you take the bottle and hold it for a minute?” she asked quietly, frazzled and not even looking at Wilson. “He shouldn’t drink while he’s on his back.”
Wilson reached out to touch the bottle, and the baby stared up at him, eyes wide and curious. His. Bile rose in his chest, but he held soft eye contact, forcing a smile.
The baby returned the smile, delighted. Wilson’s broken heart turned to mush.
Hi.
He gently coaxed the bottle out of his hands, staying in his line of vision as Cuddy laid him back down, pulling the blanket aside to carefully secure the diaper around him and going to wash her hands. The baby kicked a little and gnawed on his fist, eyeing the bottle with interest.
“There we go,” Cuddy murmured, checking the blanket and sheet for cleanliness as she sat him up and re-swaddled him. The baby looked up at Wilson expectantly, bouncing his legs and making little noises, and Wilson stepped forward to hold the bottle back up to his mouth. He grabbed it impatiently, and Wilson slowly let go as he determined that he could safely hold it by himself.
You're paying for lunch.
The bright blue eyes left his when he jerked away to hold his head in his hands, crossing the room and breathing hard, struggling not to cry.
I look forward to it.
———
Wilson carefully folded House’s clothes into a neat pile, straightening the scattered file to lay it on top and shakily picking up his cane. It was one thing he could do for him.
Cuddy was holding the now-calm baby against her chest and calling security to see them out through the clinic, just in case. Wilson gripped the pile tightly in both hands, the cane hooked over his right hand, as they passed through the clinic, then the lobby.
He’d instinctively stepped up beside Cuddy and the baby as they passed the clamoring nurses and a few doctors, shielding him from view.
Once they were alone in the elevator, he got violently dizzy. His focus drifted to the cane in his hand, weighing him down, and a horrifying thought struck him too late.
He turned to his left, staring wildly at Cuddy. “His leg,” he croaked, voice shaking, and the knowledge that it was the first time he’d admitted it to himself out loud almost made his knees give out.
Cuddy smiled sadly at him, carefully turning the baby around to face out towards the doors and pulling the blanket back just enough to show him the perfectly healthy, chubby thigh.
Wilson let out a huge sigh of relief, turning back to stare ahead and closing his eyes, catching his breath. Oh, thank God. Thank God, thank God…
You think he did this? he could almost hear House saying, amused.
That little reminder of his absence stabbed into Wilson’s heart.
They should have been eating lunch, talking and laughing.
The doors slid open, heavier than usual. Just the sight of the conference room…House’s office…and it hit him all over again, like it had been in volatile, muted waves of numb shock and panic since he had really looked at him. Seen him.
He didn’t know how either of them made it to the conference room other than muscle memory. House’s team was sitting around the table, like always, and when their heads turned at the sound of the door, Wilson watched as their faces fell into deep confusion and concern, their bodies frozen in place while they took in the picture, to solve the puzzle. Just a normal day, really.
He took the picture in for himself to keep the breakdown at bay. Cuddy, dead serious, probably with tears in her eyes, with a baby wearing only a maternity blanket in late February. Himself, clutching a pile of House’s clothes to his chest and gripping his cane in one hand, stricken.
Horror contorted Chase’s face, then Cameron’s, then Foreman’s, who actually jerked back a little in his chair.
The baby cooed curiously at them.
———
“Jesus Christ,” Foreman muttered weakly, pacing in the opposite direction of the sight with both hands over his face. Chase’s elbows dug into the table, his lips and nose resting on the triangle of his forearms and hands as he stared directly through the glass. Cameron looked like she was ready to cry.
“He was with a patient,” Cuddy was saying. Barely holding it together. “She was out of the building before I even made it to the room.” Her voice had taken on an almost dreamlike quality. The same that fogged Wilson’s mind.
They all stayed still, silent. An evolutionary instinct in the face of this kind of world-ending threat that they couldn’t understand, fight, or escape.
The baby started to squirm, bored and probably unsettled by the behavior of the adults.
“Wilson, would you mind…keeping his things in your office?” Cuddy asked, turning to him with shiny, red-rimmed eyes.
He nodded automatically, tearing himself away with great difficulty. She’s got him. She’s got him. When he pushed open the door to his office, he looked away from the couch.
As he leaned the cane against the corner behind his desk, the tears fell, his breathing fast and shallow. He moved to the hutch, pressing House’s clothes delicately into a drawer with the file alongside them.
The distinctive shape he felt in the pocket of the blazer stopped his heart for a beat too long, had him running back to the conference room almost before he’d realized it.
“The Vicodin,” he croaked, and the sudden fear on Cuddy’s face reflected his own. “If there’s any of it in his system…”
Cuddy subconsciously held the baby tighter, leaning him back just far enough to check for jaundice and look at his pupils. “I’ll make some calls,” she said hoarsely, holding the baby out to Wilson before he could react.
He didn’t think as he reached out to meet her arms, pulling him in and supporting his tiny, fragile body. Watching as those intelligent eyes locked onto him.
Wilson held his best friend.