Chapter Text
Blame, Cuddy recognized, was an ugly thing.
She understood that. Logically, rationally— hell, even emotionally, she understood it. But she couldn"t help it most of the time. Not these days, anyway. House no longer seemed to blame Wilson for what had happened to him, but it was difficult to blame someone for something you don"t even remember. Disregarding the fact, of course, that House didn"t remember anything. Well, Cuddy reasoned with no small amount of bitterness, you can"t miss things you don"t remember.
But she remembered— and she"d have to remember for the both of them, it seemed.
And, very distinctly, she remembered what Wilson had said to her as he hissed the most vile things about House in her office before he left. It was before House had woken from the coma, before they understood the extent of the damage, so Cuddy hadn"t yet been entirely biased. At the time she had of course agreed that House was, at least on some level, culpable for Amber"s death. He"d been drinking, he"d called Wilson, Amber had come to drive him and had followed him onto the bus. It was simple cause and effect even if House hadn"t intended for everything to happen.
"I"d say that this is God finally giving House what he deserves," Wilson had growled, "but if God was real, he wouldn"t have taken Amber"s life to teach House a lesson. He would have just killed House and been done with it."
It still poured acid into her gut to think about what he"d said in his rage, red-eyed and pacing her office as she filled out her half of his resignation paperwork. She"d done her best to console him, telling him what she"d hoped were reassurances in the face of such violent grief and hoping it wouldn"t manifest into something more physical toward House.
But then Wilson had left, and House had woken, and everything had changed. The blame shifted and suddenly Wilson was culpable. It wasn"t healthy, and things were much more complicated than her blame wanted it to be, but she didn"t care. He hadn"t picked House up when asked. He had been flippant with House"s safety, failing to stop House from pulling those crazy, self-detrimental stunts to remember the night of the crash. He had looked at Amber, seen her death on the horizon, and decided that finding out how she would die — because regardless of whether they figured it out, her death was probable — was more important than the not-insignificant likelihood that House would die as a result. He asked House to risk his life when he would have otherwise been fine. He disregarded the fact that House could die — hell, he"d been okay with it — so that he could figure out the cause of death for a girl he"d been dating for just over five months. Wilson had done all this, then had abandoned House afterward, still unsatisfied with the penance paid.
Even then, Cuddy had thought that House had paid enough.
And sure, Cuddy recognized her own culpability. She hadn"t protected House from himself either; she hadn"t stepped in to stop the deep brain stimulation before it started despite the fact that she easily could have. She hadn"t fostered a working environment that afforded House any sort of grace or emotional support; she had, in fact, done the opposite. She was not blameless in all this. But at least she"d stayed. It wouldn"t have been so bad, had Wilson just stayed. But he didn"t, and she was left to help House relearn the world through a new and confusing lens.
Blame was an ugly thing that she couldn"t quite help. She hadn"t meant to overstep or to smother House with her worry, but that"s what she"d done. And now she was blaming herself for the distance that House seemed to put between them the day after the intervention. Sure, they still had their weekly movie nights and House was still coming to her office to complain and all that, but it felt... different. Feelings to which she might have been privy before were kept to himself; he didn"t sit as close on the couch or accept her casual touch as easily.
She blamed Wilson, too. When House had first woke, she"d hoped for Wilson"s return; he knew House best and House trusted him more than anyone else. But the longer she spent with House — this House who didn"t remember Wilson, who was healing so quickly without his many burdens — the more she was convinced that Wilson"s absence was good for House. Things had been getting progressively better for the six months prior to House returning to work. Things were better. Until they weren"t.
After what she"d begun to think of as "The Intervention", she"d turned and seen House stop Wilson. Her gut roiled with dread; and it wasn"t that she didn"t think House was capable of making his own decisions— she knew he was. He was an adult, and an exceptionally intelligent one. It was just that he didn"t remember Wilson in the same way she did, nor did he remember their relationship like she did. House had loved him so much that it burnt him up from the inside; he found no relief in the many years they"d been together and had he not lost his memory, he likely never would.
Which was why she got so unnerved when she would bring papers to House"s office, only to find him missing and for his fellows to tell her exactly where he was: Wilson"s office. The memory would unsettle her, then the reminder that he was capable — because he was, he was, and she was not his mother — would allow her to simply place the paperwork onto his desk before retreating, trying her level best not to look down the hallway she knew lead to Wilson"s office. It was all she could do to get into the elevator with her eyes held stubbornly forward and her lips set into a terse line.
She tried to respect House"s decisions. She really, really did. She said nothing of it during the first movie night after the intervention; she tried to understand when, that next Friday night, House hesitantly mentioned visiting Wilson"s office over Chinese food and Blade. She didn"t fight him on it, didn"t give any advice; she simply allowed House to form those conclusions on his own.
All of that went out the window, however, when House cancelled their movie night the third week after the intervention.
He"d been wan and quiet when he informed her that she wasn"t coming over that night and she would have asked why if she didn"t think he would snap at her like a wounded dog. The moment he"d stepped out of the room her placating smile had fallen and she"d picked up her phone, all but jamming Wilson"s number into her landline. He picked up after only two rings.
"James Wilson," he greeted, easy and casual like there was nothing wrong. Her lips pressed together in anger.
"What did you do?" She demanded.
There was a crackling moment of hesitation. "...What?"
"Come off it, Wilson," she hissed. "What did you do to him?"
"I— What?"
"House just cancelled our Friday night movie," she spat. "You did something. Said something. Whatever. What did you do?"
Wilson was silent again, then, he spluttered. "Nothing! I didn"t do anything!"
"But something did happen."
"What?"
"Stop saying what and tell me what happened!"
"N-Nothing!" He said. Cuddy narrowed her eyes though she knew he could not see her. The silence conveyed all she needed to say, however, because he continued. "I-I mean, there was—"
"What did you do?"
"I didn"t do anything!" He reiterated. "Steve McQueen was sick. We took him to the vet last night."
"Steve McQueen?" Cuddy asked, frowning. "Is that the name he gave his rat?"
"That"s the name he gave the rat before the accident. As far as I know, he didn"t name it afterward." There was a rustle over the phone, as if Wilson was transitioning the phone to his other ear and rubbing his forehead. "Like I said, he was sick and we took him to the vet. He needed surgery. They amputated his right leg."
Cuddy groaned, putting her own head in her own hand. "Shit."
"That— That wasn"t the issue," Wilson corrected. "He was... fine with that. Surprisingly."
Frowning, Cuddy looked up. "So..."
"We brought Steve home no problem. We—"
"He let you into his apartment?"
"I was surprised as you are." Wilson sighed. "It would have been a good night, I think. But he got a call, disappeared for a while, then came back into the living room and kicked me out."
The frown deepened. "Did he..."
"No. I have no idea who it was or what they said," Wilson replied. "He didn"t seem too upset, though. If I had to choose an adjective, I"d call him... pensive. Thoughtful."
"Thoughtful?" House had been called many things in the long, long time she had employed him. recalcitrant, cruel, obstinate, childish. In fact, if you didn"t count positive adjectives, House had been called pretty much everything under the sun. One thing that was rare to hear about him was that he was thoughtful. Intelligent, of course. But thoughtful? Cuddy"s eyebrows twitched upward. House was many things. Thoughtful wasn"t one of them.
"Yeah, I know," Wilson responded. "But I think something happened. Whatever that person on the phone said, it... spooked him. Or at least shook him enough for his entire mood to be thrown. I didn"t do anything. I didn"t even say anything. He told me to leave, and I went home."
Cuddy pursed her lips, not wanting to believe him. She was still so angry at him for what he"d done to House. It wasn"t fair. They"d both lost a great deal but at least Wilson could cope and heal; at least he could remember the love that was needed to create such grief. House couldn"t even muster that, having been left lost and confused and bereft without understanding why he was incomplete. She"d seen him struggle with himself ever since the accident, and though it seemed like he was improving, she had to wonder how much of that was just for show. House was like a cat in that respect— when he was hurting, he hid under the bed and disallowed anyone from seeing him. If he wasn"t improving, he sure as hell wouldn"t let people in on it.
So for him to be so affected that Wilson of all people — best friends in the past or not, House would not so readily allot trust to someone he, at this point, barely knows — could easily discern his disquiet... Wilson was right; something had to have happened.
"You"re sure he didn"t say anything else?" She asked, her voice a little gentler than it had been. She could hear the relief in his voice when he responded.
"Nothing other than "get out"."
She sighed. Rubbing her forehead again, she began to feel inconsolably weary. This was House. This was still House. "Okay."
"...Okay?"
"Yeah. Okay," she said, her voice tinged with irritation. "I don"t know what else you want me to say, Wilson. Okay."
"Sorry," he said, though he didn"t sound very sorry at all. She sighed again and straightened, leaning back in her chair. "He... cancelled your movie night?"
"Yeah," she said, a bit begrudgingly. Wilson was silent for a moment, considering this.
"It wasn"t because of a patient or anything?"
"No." She furrowed her eyebrows. "Why?"
"No, it"s just—" he cut himself off, then made a small noise that sounded like a huff of breath. "He doesn"t just... break routine like that. Not without good reason. Or he didn"t before the accident. Breaking a big part of a set routine is grounds for at least a shit mood and at worst a meltdown."
"I know that," she responded. "He... hasn"t ever cancelled one before. Neither have I. We do it every Friday night. Have done since the accident."
WIlson hummed thoughtfully. "Something"s up, then."
"Yeah, I think I got that much," she spat, sarcasm lacing her voice but her words lacking the malice she"d used earlier. She an a hand through her hair. "And you"re sure he didn"t say anything to you?"
"No. You?"
"If he had, I wouldn"t be asking," she replied, her tone a bit sharper. If he were in front of her, she could imagine him raising his hands in innocence.
"Alright." There was an unspoken keep me posted after his response, and her returned silence was a curt refusal. Then, he sighed over the receiver. "Alright. I"ve got an appointment. If you"re finished...?"
"Yeah. Bye, Wilson."
"Bye."
Cuddy placed the phone back on the cradle and buried her face in her hands. The way that things were going... Lord. She really had felt like House was getting better. She knew he was still struggling— who wouldn"t be? But she also knew how strong House was. Now more than ever she knew that he had taken every punch thrown at him throughout his entire life. He had generally taken his amnesia, too, in stride. No pun intended.
She resolved that she"d talk to him when the day was over. She knew that their movie night was off the table, but maybe, if she could get him to open up a little bit as he"d been doing since the accident, they could be on for next week. Maybe their relationship wasn"t irreparable. God, she wished he would just talk to her.
What she managed to do through her worry and distraction brought her to five in the evening. She called House"s office first, knowing that he would either be treating a patient — if he currently had one, which he didn"t — or getting ready to leave for the day; even now, his work habits were so sporadic and unpredictable. She supposed you really couldn"t teach an old dog new tricks, even if that dog had its memory wiped and its personality altered.
Predictably, he didn"t pick up. He"d never been good at picking up his phone, nor had he ever been good at returning calls. She left a message anyway and stood up, intending to either catch him in the lobby or to check his various haunts. The exam rooms, the various department lounges. If she knew House, his office was the last place he"d be if he was trying to escape people or clinic duty.
She waited in the lobby for about ten minutes and, when there was no sight of him, she asked the nurse at the front desk if she"d seen him. He wasn"t hard to miss even now, months after he"d started working; his name was less circulated through the gossip mill, but it was nonetheless still there, if only in the way it had been throughout his time working at PPTH— his patients, his antics. This time, however, it also included talk about his leg and speculation over why he"d done what he did.
The nurse told her she hadn"t seen him and offered to page him, but Cuddy told her not to bother. She could find a single AWOL diagnostician. And besides— alerting him that someone was looking for him would only make him burrow deeper into whatever hidey-hole he"d chosen. She could do it, yes, but she wasn"t about to make things harder for herself if she didn"t have to.
So she checked his favorite spots. Each lounge, the cafeteria, the morgue. No dice. At last she made it to the fourth floor, and by that time she"d all but given up her search. He"d probably gone home, she reasoned. It was getting late. The sun was down. Winter was upon them, and the days were getting shorter— it was just as likely that he"d gone home early, before the front desk"s shift change. She wouldn"t put it past him to do that. In fact, it was more probable than him staying late without a case. As she stepped out of the elevator, she saw that, just as she"d suspected, the diagnostic area was all but deserted; the conference room lights were off, the office blinds were closed. She sighed and headed to Wilson"s room, which she found empty. Then, she checked Wilson"s original office. She knew that House sometimes spent time in there— or, at least, she assumed so. The front door was locked but she"d left the balcony door open, just in case House needed an area to calm down. A while ago, Wilson had told her that House liked that room whether or not Wilson was present. When she unlocked it, however, she found it empty, too. Dark and depressingly sparse. She felt a pang of guilt that she beat down just as quickly as it cropped up.
She closed and locked it again, not wanting to unpack that. Finally, with no other options, she headed into House"s office. It was dark, just like the conference room and Wilson"s offices, but his backpack still sat on the chair in front of his desk. She narrowed her eyes. He was still here, then. Still here and hadn"t taken her call. Hadn"t been in any of his usual hang-out spots. So where was he, if not anywhere else in the hospital?
She walked further into the office without really thinking about it, intent on seeing if House"s cell was in his backpack. The closer she got to the desk, however, the more the door to the balcony became clearer to her. And soon, she caught the hint of a figure against the dark grey winter night"s sky.
She paused when she finally saw him, relief at finding him overshadowed by a new concern. She approached the balcony door slowly, studying House as he came into view.
He was standing out on his balcony, back to his office, his head tipped back and face to the sky. She could see the first snows of winter fluttering down and landing gently on House"s shoulders, blending in with the light blue button-down that looked grey in the dim night. Wait— his blue button-down? Was that all he was wearing? It was freezing out! She looked at his desk and sure enough his jacket was draped against the back of his chair, forgotten. What was he doing? Lord, at this time of year, it had to be high twenties, at most. She almost grabbed the jacket just to throw it over him, but hesitated.
There was something in the way he was looking to the sky, in the way he held his hands on the railing. His grip was white-knuckled, his entire body shivering, not entirely from the chill. Any abruptness would send him spiraling. She needed to handle this slowly, as if approaching a dog who"d spent its youth getting kicked. She did end up taking the jacket, if only in the hopes that she"d be able to talk him into putting it on himself. But there was so much distance between them. She remembered the trust he"d put into her when he"d first woken— was that gone? Had her meddling and Wilson"s return ruined the relationship she"d cultivated with House? She squeezed the jacket in nervous hands. She supposed that remained to be seen.
She pushed through the door, near-silent as she moved up next to him. She looked up at him, noted how his jaw was working beneath the skin. He either knew she was there or was far gone somewhere neither of them could explain. The muscle memory of his body brought him back to places he couldn"t remember, leaving him stranded in cold, confusing limbos that seemed near impossible to drag himself out of. It didn"t happen often, or not often enough for Cuddy to see. She swallowed, shivering. How long had he been out here? Thirty minutes in this kind of weather would leave him frostbitten.
She opened her mouth to say something and faltered. What could she say? His name felt like not enough, asking him what he was doing out here felt redundant and unworthy of the air it took to say it. He wouldn"t answer, anyway. He could see the breath as it puffed from his mouth, floated to the sky, mingled with the snow. Did he even know she was next to him? He seemed very distant, standing here like this, with his hands so tight against the no doubt freezing railing and his head tipped to the heavens as if in worship. That is, if she didn"t know any better. House didn"t worship anyone but himself, and some days even that was hard.
"If you"re gonna brood, can"t you at least do it inside? I"m not paying you to freeze to death, and if you do, there"ll be nobody to pay," she said, because anything else she could say felt like too little or too much, felt too shallow or too monumental; Mariana"s Trench or Mount Everest. His head twitched downward for a fraction of a second, signalling that he"d heard her. Or that he"d noticed she was there. Really, Cuddy couldn"t tell. It was always up in the air with House.
He was silent and still, a statue even as the breeze sent shivers down Cuddy"s spine. She tried to keep the concern off her face but was acutely aware that she couldn"t quite manage; it wasn"t like he was looking at her, anyway. He was still lost somewhere. She could tell that he was, thankfully, slowly coming back, but he was trudging through inches of snow, sneaking past dragons and whatever other monsters lurked in his head, keeping him trapped in his own mind. She had to wonder why he was out here like this. She tightened her grip on the jacket, the material chilled under her palms.
"Do you understand what it"s like?"
She blinked, his words processing slowly. The fog was easing from his eyes, blinked away as he grounded himself by gripping the freezing metal of the guardrail tighter.
"What?" She asked, feeling slightly faint. His voice was low and shaking, as if he were holding onto the last vestiges of his composure. He seemed frayed, just a little bit undone, spread thin. That wan and uncomfortable look from earlier that day still plagued him; his eyes were bruised with exhaustion and in this low light he looked even more gaunt than he was usually, cheeks sunken and hollow.
"Do you understand what it"s like?" He asked again. His voice croaked, trembled from the lowest parts of him, scratching their way up from his stomach and through his chest, shredding everything in their wake. She could hear how difficult it was for him to speak and she opened her mouth to tell him that it was okay, that he didn"t have to, that they could go inside and sit until he was ready and able to talk to her. But she could see the determined set to his jaw. She could see the way his eyes were clear, back from the place he"d been, and looking out onto the New Jersey horizon. She closed her mouth and considered his words.
She opened her mouth again. "I—"
"Of course you don"t," he interrupted, his hands clenching harder on the guard rails. He ducked his head. "Let me put it this way. Imagine you"re outside of a room that you"ve never seen. The people around you are telling you that the people you love are in that room and that you belong there, but you"ve never been inside and you don"t know how to tell them you don"t have the key. Some people are telling you that the room has toxic fumes and others are telling you that there"s a gas mask just inside with your name on it. Everyone is asking you to define it from the outside. So you"re stuck trying to define a room from the outside without ever having been in it.
"So you describe what you think is in the room. It"s easier than looking for the key, and it seems like nobody wants you to have it, anyway. Curtains, chairs. People you"re told you"re supposed to love. Some windows, maybe. A door with a lock that you don"t have the key for. You"re describing a place you"ve never seen, but you"re good at guesswork. You think you"re right most of the time but nobody will tell you because they think you"ll change if they do. But it"s frustrating. So you try and break into the room. To carve a place for yourself because everyone is telling you that you have a place but nobody will tell you where that place is.
"You try to force the door open with your shoulder like you see in movies. After a minute or two of slamming, the door opens a little and you"re able to see the see the room for a fraction of a second— then you"re told that you shouldn"t have done that. That the toxic fumes will be let out if you try again and that it"ll hurt you and everyone else outside of the room, even though they"ve also been telling you that the people you love are inside. They like the person you are now that you"ve forgotten the room and the other people inside. They"re trying to keep you from changing. They think everything happens for a reason, but they don"t want history to repeat itself.
"That"s what it"s like," he finished, his voice losing some of its conviction. "I"m trying to define a room from the outside and everyone is hiding the key. Everyone knows me better than I know myself. I keep waiting for my reflection to be familiar. I get close, and then something happens, and I"m back to seeing a— a traitor. An impostor. Someone I don"t understand."
Cuddy was silent as she listened to House speak. She tried to understand— she really did. She knew that House had been struggling, but she didn"t know that it was this bad. That he was still feeling this detached from himself; this lost. Every word he uttered broke her heart a little more as she tried her best to wrap her head around what he experienced every single day. She had been telling him that he shouldn"t try and get into the room— that he shouldn"t try and make sense of who he"d been before. That he should, in fact, stay far away from who he was before. Maybe she hadn"t said it outright, but her actions spoke for themselves. She"d kept things from him, made decisions for him (even if it turned out alright in the end). She"d treated him like he was made of porcelain because she thought that if anything bad happened he"d go right back to who he was before. She"d been stitching together all the most favorable parts of their relationship from before and shoving it down his throat, leaving no room for him to breathe on his own.
There had to be a way to care for the wounds without reopening them. To name the pain without inviting it back. Cuddy hadn"t found it yet, but instead of searching, she"d obfuscated the fact that there were wounds at all. He was bleeding out and had only just realized it; pale and shivering from the loss.
"I did everything right," House whispered. Cuddy looked up from where she"d ducked her head in thought. House"s head was still bowed. "Everything. I stopped taking the Vicodin. I made friends. I"m going to therapy. I cut my leg off. I dropped Wilson because you told me to. I"m talking to him again because the therapist told me to. I"m doing everything right."
"House?" Cuddy said in lieu of an actual question. She leaned further down, trying to get a better view of his face, hidden behind his hands. She didn"t have to try for very long as House pulled his head up and met her eyes with great effort; his were drooping, exhausted, red-rimmed as if he"d spent the night nearly crying and choking it down.
"Nothing makes sense," he murmured, his voice nearly inaudible. "I don"t understand. I"m doing everything right and the world still doesn"t make sense."
"What do you mean?" She asked. Her voice was soft and she worried that he"d snarl at her for being patronizing, but he didn"t. He tore his gaze away with a deep and shaking sigh.
"My mom called," he said, even more quietly than her voice had been. A snowflake danced from the sky and landed in his brown-grey hair. Another fell on the jacket Cuddy held twisted in her hands. Another floated in front of his face, sweeping across her view of his eyes for a fraction of a second. She felt her brows furrowing. A call from his mother should not warrant this anguish. Should not have provoked this existential crisis. And it was anguish— she saw it in his face. Anguish over his inability to find his place, over his inability to understand who he was supposed to be and what he was supposed to do. Anguish over being thrust into positions that were decided for him and having so little control over who he was. Anguish over knowing nothing about the people around him; the people around him knowing him better than he knew himself. Anguish over... something else. Something different and new. Or perhaps anguish over some new confusion, another thing to ponder thrown on the pile. Cuddy stepped forward.
"What did she say?" She asked. House had not elaborated for a few seconds and she could tell that he would not do so without prompting. He pressed his lips together into a thin line, his eyes going far away again. He looked up to the sky, his mind taking him back to that nebulous, forgotten place. He was somewhere else that he couldn"t quite see, couldn"t quite fathom for himself. But his body remembered, and it shivered.
When he spoke, a breeze bit at their skin; it blew Cuddy"s hair behind her and lightly billowed House"s thin shirt. Gooseflesh raised on both of their arms, their legs. It was cold. Cuddy knew that House was reminded of something he couldn"t remember. She could only imagine how frustrating it was, to be asked to define the room from the outside. How frustrating it was for everyone around him to tell him what he should do, what they think is best; to tell him that he should be changed and that there is no going back. How frustrating it must be for the body to give and give while the mind refused to take.
"My father is dead."