Author's note: We interrupt your regularly scheduled fluff for this super-emo story about Wilson's funeral. I see this fic as self-contained. I know many (and by "many," I mean "all") of you won't. I just became obsessed with this idea of House breaking down while delivering Wilson's eulogy and having neither Wilson nor Cuddy there to console him. I might continue with it (hence, the incomplete status). I'm taking a bit of a wait-and-see approach with the show. And don't worry. I still promise to either fix (likely) or expand upon the show's finale to make it more Huddy friendly.
*Cries*
She briefly considered not going to the funeral.
After all, House was sure to be front and center. In a way—and this thought gave her a slight chuckle that dissolved into a kind of ineffable sadness—House and Wilson were each other's true significant other. Had been for well over a decade.
So House would be there, of course, absorbing the loss like a grieving spouse.
But then she thought: Gregory House has driven you from your home, your job, your community. He is not going to drive you from one of your best friend's funerals.
She hadn't spoken to Wilson much since she'd moved to New York, gotten the job at Scarsdale General. But he never forgot Rachel's birthday (or hers) and he called her occasionally—not to talk about all that had transpired (some things were just too heavy for phone calls) but to check in, say hi, let her know that he still cared.
So she arranged for Rachel to stay with the nanny and made the familiar drive back to Princeton.
She cried, a lot, on the drive, mostly because of Wilson, but also because of what she had lost—and of all the memories that were flooding back so quickly.
She got to the synagogue a little later than she'd hoped.
She sat in the back. She immediately saw House, in the front row, flanked by his team—current and past. There was Thirteen, Foreman, both Chase and Cameron. Plus, Taub and a little Chinese boy—upon closer look, it was possibly a girl—and a raven-haired beauty, who was also, no doubt, one of his new fellows. (House collected beautiful young female doctors the way some people collected stamps.)
What was strange was that House didn't notice her. In the past, he had a kind of homing device when it came to her. But he was too dazed and out-of-it to be aware. All his senses were deadened.
The rabbi came up, gave a sweet, heartfelt eulogy—Wilson volunteered at the temple, mentored fatherless boys, ran karaoke night for Hadassah. Of course he did.
And then the rabbi said, "Dr. Gregory House would like to say a few words."
Cuddy braced herself a bit.
She watched House stagger onto the stage and she was really able to look at him for the first time.
He looked like shit. He had dark circles under his eyes and his face was drawn and his clothing hung off him, like he was the one who had been ill, not Wilson.
"James Wilson was my best friend," he said, his voice quavering. "Actually, he was my only friend. But I didn't need any others. I just needed the one. . . .He was the best man I knew. The best man any of us knew."
House took a deep breath.
"But here's the thing about most good men. They're boring. They're sanctimonious, full of themselves, not nearly as pure of heart as they pretend to be. But Wilson"—and he smiled a bit—"was anything but boring. He kept me on my toes. He could dish it out as well as he could take it. He could tell a dirty joke, he could hold his drink, he couldn't stand hypocrisy. Absolutely hated it. But the bastard cared. He cared so much. Not because he was expecting some sort of cosmic reward at the end of all this. He wasn't even sure he believed in God—sorry rabbi. The thing is, he cared because that's just who he was. He believed in people. Against all odds, against all proof, he believed in their intrinsic goodness."
He smiled, as if still marveling over his friend's good nature.
"The reason his patients loved him so much was because he felt their pain. He would absorb all the pain in the world if he could. And in the end. . ." House closed his eyes, swallowed a bit. "I wanted to absorb his pain. I would've done anything to absorb his pain."
House inhaled, looked searchingly around the room, as if the answer was somehow in the pews, waiting for him.
"He, of all people, didn't deserve to die like this. But he wasn't self-pitying. He never asked why. He spit in cancer's eye. He took it like a man. It was a privilege to know James Wilson, to be his best friend. . . The greatest privilege of my life. . . " His shoulders shook. He was starting to cry. "I didn't deserve a friend like him. . .I don't know how the hell I got so lucky. But I'm so very. . ." He stopped, tried to collect himself, but it was clear that he couldn't speak anymore.
And Cuddy had this instant, crazy flash that Wilson would go up to the pulpit and rescue him. But of course, Wilson couldn't help House anymore.
He had two people, Cuddy thought. Wilson and me. And now we're both gone.
And just as she was having this thought, Cameron—of all people—got up onto the pulpit and put her arm around House and led him back to the pew.
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Cuddy felt out of sorts. The reception was at Wilson's condo, which was haunted enough. She'd spent a lot of time at that place, mostly with House, mostly having dinner or just hanging out, once for a terrible Super Bowl party. (Over time, she and Wilson had gotten over the whole condo subterfuge. In fact, it became a running joke between them: "Karma's a bitch," she would say when a neighbor with a yappy dog moved in next door. "Dodged a bullet," she would joke, when his condo fees went through the roof.)
But the thing was, House wasn't the only one without his people. She was missing hers, too. Of course, she had a fondness for Chase, Taub, Foreman—even Cameron (well, a little fondness, at least). But they weren't her lifelines. At an event like this she would cling to Wilson, lean on him. He had this intuitive way of always knowing what she needed—whether it was a sincere hug or a groaner of a joke. As for House, well, depending on the status of their relationship, she would either be flirting with him, glaring at him, pretending to ignore him, or spending the whole night tucked away in some corner with him, as he whispered inappropriate things in her ear.
"Funerals make me horny," he had said to her once. They were at a viewing for one of the hospital's pulmonologists, who had died suddenly, of a massive heart attack.
"Everything makes you horny," she had responded.
"True," he said. "But funerals remind me that life is short and I should be having sex with you as often as possible."
She had laughed.
Now she stood in the middle of the room, nursing a glass of wine, making that horrible funeral small talk you made with people, "He was a good man.. . .He left us too soon. . .He was so brave. . ." and she suddenly felt like she couldn't breathe.
The guest bathroom was being used. She knew that there was a bigger one in the master bedroom. She could go there, collect herself, hide away— just for a few minutes.
So she snuck away, stealthily opened the door to Wilson's room.
It looked disturbingly neat—fussed over, like it had been recently cleaned. The bed was perfectly made—you could bounce a coin on it. The shelves were dusted. It seemed sterile, somehow, as if Wilson's life, his very spirit, had already been scrubbed away.
She looked, briefly, at his dresser. He had some framed pictures on it. One of him and Amber—she was doing the bunny ears behind his head and he was playfully wrestling her hands away. One of a little bald boy, obviously a cancer patient, who was looking up at Wilson adoringly. And another photo—oh damn him—of her, Wilson and House, all dressed to the nines, the night of the PPTH Monte Carlo gala. She and Wilson were smiling, raising champagne glasses cheerfully. House was chomping on a cigar and arching an eyebrow in mock provocation at the camera.
She looked at the picture for a long time, sighed. They'd had so much fun that night. It seemed like a lifetime ago.
"Fuck you, cancer," she said, outloud. (And fuck you, House, she thought, but didn't say.)
The bathroom door was closed, and a little stuck. She opened it with a hard push, stepped inside, and was stunned to see a man—sitting fully clothed in a dark suit, with a dark tie dangling loosely from his neck—in the bathtub, holding a bottle of whisky.
House.
"Sorry," she said. "I didn't know you were here."
He didn't look at her.
"I thought I heard your voice," he said softly, staring straight ahead. "But then I thought I was imaging it."
"It was really me," she said.
"I guess so."
"I . . . couldn't stay away."
House nodded, finally looked at her. His eyes were moist.
"I'm glad," he said.
He seemed so subdued, she wondered if he was on Klonopin, or something even stronger.
"Do you need to pee?" he said, suddenly remembering they were in a bathroom. "Because I could leave. . ."
He climbed out of the bathtub.
She gave a sad laugh.
"No. . .I was just looking to escape, to be honest."
"Me too," he sighed.
Of all the bathrooms in all the bedrooms in all the world, she thought. . .
He sat on edge of the toilet bowl, held the bottle toward her.
"Drink?" he said.
A stiff drink sounded pretty damn good right now.
She took the bottle from him, drank. It was strong. It burned her throat. She handed it back to him.
He took an enormous swig. He seemed lost in thought again.
"Was it. . .bad?" she said finally. A part of her didn't want to know. But a part of her had to know.
"Yes," he said evenly.
"Pain?" she asked, feeling a little sick.
"Yes."
"Were you there for him?" She didn't mean for it to sound like an accusation. But that's how it came out.
"Every step of the way," he said, looking at her. "I learn from my mistakes. . ."
His words echoed meaningfully in the small room.
"I should. . .get back to the reception. . ."
She started to leave the bathroom. Then stopped.
"House, are you going to be okay?" she whispered.
"I'll be fine," he said, unconvincingly.
She turned to him.
"I'm serious," she said. "Are you going to be okay?"
"Don't," he said, looking down at the floor.
She didn't understand what that meant.
"I know how much you loved him," she said. "And how much he loved you."
"Don't," he repeated, almost pleading with her.
"House, I'm sorry. . .I'm so so sorry."
"Don't," he said.
And he broke down crying.
And now she understood: Don't say kind things. Don't ask me about my feelings. Don't act like you care—because I can't take it, not from anyone, but least of all from you.
"House," she said. Instinctively, she went to him.
He put his arms around her waist, buried his face in her stomach. His shoulders were shaking and his tears were making her blouse wet. He was sobbing now.
She'd never seen House cry like this. Never.
She let him hug her, let him cry, even put her hand on his hair, smoothed it. She could pretend she didn't love him. But that was a lie. A lie she had been successfully telling herself for the past two years. But in this moment, with the rawness of both their emotions, the truth came out: She couldn't stand seeing him in so much pain.
"Shhhh," she kept saying. "Shhhh."
Just then, the bathroom door burst open. It was Cameron.
She stared, in shock, at the tableaux of House weeping and Cuddy consoling him.
"I . . .heard somebody crying," she said sheepishly.
"We're fine," Cuddy said.
House didn't say anything. Just closed his eyes and kept his face pressed against Cuddy's blouse.
"I'll. . . leave you two alone," Cameron said, hesitating.
And she turned from the bathroom and left.
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