Chapter Text
The silence and stillness of Wilson’s office was so surprising that House stopped in the doorway, walls still rattling with the aftershocks of his abrupt entrance. He glanced behind himself suspiciously and then slid into the room, pushing the door shut with the butt of his cane.
Wilson’s office sans-Wilson was an unwelcoming place. House bee-lined for the desk, purposefully disturbing the meticulously raked surface of Wilson’s zen garden with his finger. There was nothing that indicated a quick departure — in fact, he soon deduced this absence must have been planned once he fiddled with the computer mouse and the screen remained dark. He scowled. Wilson never remembered to shut down his computer. It had been running on nothing but sleep-mode and prayers for the better half of a decade.
House half-heartedly rummaged through the desk’s main drawer, not expecting to find anything; the computer meant he’d either cleared everything incriminating out or made someone else do it for him.
In record time, he was shouldering his way into Cuddy’s office.
She made a point to ignore him, eyebrows quirking upward, lips taut. He wasn’t in the mood for this part of their game.
“Where’s Wilson?”
She studied the folder in her hands so intently it must have been secretly stuffed with Polaroids of sad, motherless children. The act would have been almost believable if it weren’t for the nervous wobble of her chin.
House took a deep, dramatic breath and then let it out in one shout. “WHERE’S WILSON?”
Cuddy immediately broke her facade in order to scold him. “What did I say about inside voices?”
Not even the condescending, cajoling, irritating tone of Cuddy’s voice could distract him today. “He’s not in his office.”
Cuddy shrugged, now busying herself with a box of paperclips. “Must be late.”
House indignantly scoffed. “Wilson’s never late. He’d never stay home willingly — here, he’s paid to flirt with married women all day.”
Cuddy drew a breath in through her nose. “Then there must not be any babes in today.”
“Three blondes in the waiting room,” he lied. There’d been only two, and one of them was a man.
She probably didn’t believe him, but she finally stopped abusing a paperclip to give him direct eye contact. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“Wilson tells me everything.”
“How many times have you convinced yourself of that one?” Cuddy asked, snorting, shaking her head in disbelief.
House refused to acknowledge the question. “If Wilson didn’t tell me where he went, then that means he told you.”
She clicked her tongue. “Aww. I’m honored to be assigned second best.”
He did not appreciate her tone. She didn’t seem to grasp how serious this was. Rarely would he admit Cuddy’s power over him, but he’d quickly run out of options. “You’re his boss. He has to tell you.”
The pink gloss on Cuddy’s lips shimmered as she smirked. “I trust Wilson to take care of himself. Do you?”
“No!” House exclaimed, rolling his eyes. “Without me, he’d be unemployed with a weekly subscription to Playboy!”
“Well,” Cuddy began, standing from her desk and readjusting her tightly buttoned suit jacket. “Your lack of faith in Wilson has nothing to do with me.”
“Correct,” House replied, moving to block her from leaving. She crossed her arms. “It’s Wilson’s newfound faith in you that I’m curious about.”
Cuddy began picking at stray bits of thread on her sleeves. “This is ridiculous.”
“Not ridiculous when I’m right,” House said, pointing at her fidgeting hands.
She lifted open palms to the air in frustration. “House!” she hissed. “I’m sorry Wilson isn’t here today, okay? Doesn’t mean you can take it out on me.”
House pursed his lips, averting his eyes briefly from the sight of Lisa Cuddy once again tired of him. Her logic was, unfortunately, sound — for now. He had ways of proving her wrong, but his business in her office was over. Instead of relaying this sentiment to Cuddy in any meaningful way, House opted to wordlessly turn and start for the doors.
She sputtered out something incoherent. He paused to feign interest in her frustration.
“That’s it!?” Cuddy asked, bewildered. Her eyes nearly bugged out of her head.
House thought about nothing in particular for a few long seconds before nodding matter-of-factly. Cuddy’s exasperated sigh matched every other exasperated sigh she’d ever given him — far too many to remember — and he was overwhelmed with the need to flee her office.
If this were any other day, Cuddy would gleefully release him. Instead, she stomped around her desk and balled her hands into indignant little fists, raising her voice sternly. “House!”
His jaw clenched, irritation eating at him, threatening a headache.
“Don’t bother him,” Cuddy stressed, expression deadly serious. “I’m sure he didn’t say anything to you for a good reason.”
House stilled, studying the desperate lines of Cuddy’s frown. It was much too sympathetic for his liking. Wilson was disgustingly easy to feel sorry for, with his aura of despair and big, wet eyes, but it wasn’t in Cuddy’s nature to spontaneously grant mercy without reason. She knew something, and it was serious enough for her to allow Wilson to miss work. A mild panic rushed through House — historically, if nobody wanted him involved in a conflict, it had something to do with complicated, mushy feelings.
He continued to the door.
“Where are you going?”
“Clinic,” House lied, halfway into the hall. “Three blondes can’t take care of themselves.” Before Cuddy could investigate further, he was surrounded by the usual crowd of hurried nurses and stressed doctors, all of whom completely ignored him. There was no making sense of his tangled thoughts in this environment. Shouldering his way to the nearest elevator, House fingered the pill bottle in the pocket of his jeans.
The elevator spat out a handful of nurses. House was too busy shaking two Vicodin into his palm to notice the last person in the elevator until it was too late.
“Oh, good, you’re here.” A thick manila folder was shoved under his nose, blocking the pills’ path into his mouth. “Got a case for you.”
House followed the arm holding the folder to meet Cameron, who had her usual shimmering eyes and knowing smirk.
“Identical twins both experiencing intense seizures–”
“Epilepsy,” House interjected, swatting the files away.
“Dad says they’ve been on anti-seizure meds since they were four.” She beamed like she’d won. He scowled, grabbing the files, splitting the folder open and pretending to read a random paragraph.
“What are they, four and a quarter?” he quipped, proving himself wrong before Cameron could; each girl’s age was a bold Times New Roman 16. “Huh.”
Cameron shrugged, eyes wide, ever so smug. “Sounds interesting to me.”
“Foreman can deal with it,” House disagreed, shutting the folder.
She pressed against it, forcing the papers into his chest. “He already has a case.”
House grit his teeth. As he entered the elevator, Cameron stayed at his side, maintaining eye contact pointedly.
“You should take this case, House.”
The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. It was typical of Cameron to hound him with cases, usually ones she believed would spiritually heal him somehow, but this was different. Staring deeply into her determined blue eyes, he suddenly understood. It was usually a simple process, understanding Cameron.
“You don’t care about the case,” House sneered. “I bet these twins don’t even exist.” Cameron visibly stiffened, eyes flitting away for a split second. She opened her mouth to argue, but House interrupted her with a hand in the air. “Wilson put you up to this.”
Expression shifting from guilt to confusion, Cameron shook her head. “Wh… Wilson?”
Inwardly, House groaned. She was too lousy of an actress to react that believably. Now Cameron would be bothering him about Wilson all day.
“I haven’t seen Wilson since…” She glanced upward, thinking. “Last Thursday? Why–”
“Tell the twins that I did all I could, but they unfortunately have twin terminal cancer,” House said loudly, tossing the folder at Cameron, who lunged to catch it. By the time she was back at attention, the elevator doors were sliding open and House was out on the lobby floor.
Cameron shouted after him. “What are you doing!?”
“What does it look like?” Everyone around was watching the exchange, the hospital staff rolling their eyes. “Going home!”
The face she pulled was so dumbfounded she could have rivaled Cuddy. “At 9 AM?”
He was far enough away at this point that he safely avoided further questioning, escaping through the front doors hastily, almost toppling over an elderly man in a wheelchair.
The parking lot was a sacred place where no one could bother him. Once he was on his motorcycle, helmet on, there was nothing anybody could do to keep him at work.
Anybody except Wilson.
Filled with newfound determination, House pushed from the curb and peeled out of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital’s parking lot.
The drive from work to Wilson’s apartment had been muscle memory for as long as House had working muscles — but that had been before Amber. Now he had to concentrate so he wouldn’t miss the first turn to her apartment, which Wilson insisted on continuing to haunt.
House didn’t care where Wilson was. He glowered at the peephole on the front door. He only cared that he was there.
There was no need to knock, and the locked door didn’t do much to change his mind. He quickly produced a ring of keys from his motorcycle jacket and the lock was no more; it was pure luck that House had made copies of some potential fellows’ house keys, and then Wilson fell in love with one of those potential fellows. House briefly acknowledged how close he’d been to choosing Amber. How hard she’d fought to be one of the people he stole keys from. It was the least he could do for her now.
This flicker of humanity wasn’t enough to stop him from scrounging around her home. House went straight for the bedroom, ignoring the pile of dirty dishes in the sink. They weren’t really a clue – Wilson had neglected most household chores for quite a few months.
The bed was unmade, sheets wrinkled, dirty clothes in heaps on the floor. House frowned, approaching the nightstand, wrenching open the drawer. Reading glasses, hand lotion, breath mints. Nothing dangerous or suspicious at all. House wanted to smash the glasses to bits.
He whirled around frantically, an impending sense of doom blossoming across his chest. Something had to be off. He marched into the bathroom prepared to unscrew the air vent and search it for hidden notes. First, he had to rifle through Wilson’s medicine cabinet. All the usual suspects: ibuprofen, aspirin, men’s multivitamins. A familiar orange caught House’s eye and he unearthed a prescription pill bottle. Nothing alarming. House knew Wilson was on antidepressants.
“Goddammit,” House mumbled, slamming the cabinet shut. There was absolutely no proof that Wilson had ever left his apartment, let alone packed up and left. So where was he if not at work or home? Where was he that he couldn’t tell House about?
He sat, glum, on Wilson’s couch, legs stretched across the coffee table. He hated being stumped. There was little reason to call off an entire day’s work – the irony of this was not lost on House – and judging from Cuddy’s earlier attitude, it had to be something sensitive. Sensitive enough for Cameron to worry.
House’s head hit the back of the couch, his eyes studying the dusty ceiling fan. Cameron cared about pretty much everything, but he’d never even seen her alone with Wilson. Either it was extremely serious – sickness, death, marriage? – or Cameron wasn’t in it for Wilson. Who was she in it for?
The couch slid an inch or two across the floor as House stood almost violently, cane in hand, eyes shock-wide. He wanted to hit himself. If there was one thing Cameron loved more than sick people, it was her career.
“Clinic not exciting enough for you?” Cuddy knew it was him before he was fully through the door.
He was even less in the mood than before. “Cameron got to me first.”
Cuddy’s brows shot up in that way they did when she was pretending not to care. “Hm?” She typed something.
A hot burst of anger rushed through House. He knew everybody lied, but that didn’t make the routine any less infuriating. Was nobody taking this seriously?
“I’m flattered about the twins, really,” he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. Cuddy stopped her typing and her lips thinned. “But I already have a fake case.”
“House…”
“Where. Is. Wilson?”
The air crackled with tension. She wouldn’t look at him. Why wouldn’t she look at him? A droplet of panic slid down his throat. He wasn’t dead, was he? No, that was impossible. Wilson couldn’t die without his permission.
He must have been pulling quite the face — one glance and Cuddy’s eyes were wet and concerned, her brows fiercely knit together.
“House,” she repeated, much more firmly this time. “He’s okay.”
Swallowing thickly, gripping his cane far too tight, House shook his head, but said nothing.
Her sigh was practiced. She reached across the desk, splaying out her hands. “He hasn’t called you?” Another shake of his head. “I… I wish I could help you, House.”
“Oh, but siccing Cameron on me is fine.” It came out harsher and louder than he meant it to.
Cuddy was up faster than light. “Yes, fine! I had Cameron talk to you!”
Not a difficult puzzle to figure out, but he’d solved it nonetheless. Before he could boast, Cuddy’s voice was growing louder, angrier.
“Because I knew you wouldn’t be able to take care of yourself without Wilson holding your hand all day!”
“Hey!” House protested. “If you’d just tell me—”
“I don’t know, House,” she shouted, arms flailing wildly. “But he bothered to notify me, which, if I recall correctly, you have never done!”
Insult aside, her outburst was enlightening. It was the truth.
There was a long, long pause. Cuddy made a frustrated noise with her throat and then washed it away with coffee.
“He’s not home,” House stated.
“That’s where you went?” She sat back in her chair, one hand to her temple.
“He didn’t pack anything.”
“Well, it didn’t sound like a vacation.” Her eyes were droopy, tired, her voice no better.
House needed to ruminate on what he’d learned if he was ever going to locate Wilson. Everything was a jumbled mess of lies and half-lies. He remembered the Vicodin in his suit jacket pocket, the two pills Cameron had interrupted his time with.
Turning on his heel, he performed his usual wordless exit. Cuddy yelled after him, “I expect you to take a real case today!”
He rolled his eyes.