Chapter Two

In the week since he had been sent home, he could not remember spending a single minute in any state near sobriety. He had been forced to leave the apartment to go buy more beer and liquor, and for that hour, he had been a bit less drunk, but save for that exception, he had been severely intoxicated for almost seven days.

Not that it mattered.

A day after being sent home, Cuddy had called him, and the hesitance of her voice had made him suspect why she had called immediately.

“Amber had the baby early this morning,” she told him. “A little boy. He’s beautif—”

“Call someone who gives a crap,” House said roughly, ending the conversation.

So they had birthed their spawn. A boy – before he could stop himself, House imagined a little baby, with Wilson’s brown eyes and a dark tuft of hair. It did not make him gush, or want to meet the brat, but it made his heart hurt, because it was Wilson. Wilson’s child. Wilson’s child with Cutthroat Bitch. Wilson, belonging to someone else, someone who wasn’t him. Someone with whom he could never compete.

He poured another scotch, downing it quickly, barely even noticing the burn of it. He’d downed too many already, and yet at the same time, not nearly enough.

Cuddy had called again, a day ago, the shrill sound of the telephone cutting through House’s head like a knife. She had asked him if he was ready to come back.

“You know, I think I prefer it this way,” House said. “I have very good friends here – Mr. Beer and Mr. Whiskey are awfully nice company.”

“House—”

“Oh, don’t pretend to care now,” House snapped, not drunk enough to avoid noticing the pity in her voice. “Go throw a fucking party for Wilson instead.”

The call had ended quite soon after that, because it was terribly clear to anyone that House wasn’t ready to come back. House suspected that someone would soon be coming by – if it had been a year and a half ago, Cameron would already have been there several times, but she was happily playing house with Chase now instead, and House wouldn’t have to put up with her smothering anymore. He guessed Cuddy herself would come by at some point, to see that he wasn’t killing himself. Really, he was surprised she had not been by already.

Cuddy came, her nose wrinkling upon taking in the smell of House and the apartment in general. She left and came back a while later, groceries in hand and a cleaning lady trailing behind her.

“I don’t need a babysitter,” House muttered.

“Good, because neither I nor she is one,” Cuddy replied. “But this place is a reeking mess and you look even worse. Go take a shower, then to bed, and then I’m force-feeding you
if you don’t eat by your own accord.”

“You sound an awful lot like a babysitter,” House said.

Cuddy glowered at him. “Just because you’re completely incapable of taking care of yourself—”

“I’m taking perfectly good care of myself,” House said.

Cuddy glared at him before shoving him into the bathroom.

“Hey, aren’t you going to help me take my clothes off?” House asked, suggestively and with a very slight slur that betrayed that he was still drunk, though not drunk enough.

Cuddy closed the door.

“But what if I don’t know what to do?” House said loudly through the door.

“You’ll figure it out, you’re a smart boy,” Cuddy said and he heard the clicking of her heels fade as she walked away.

House found himself in front of the mirror. It was not a pretty sight. He hadn’t shaved in the week since he had been sent home, which meant he had the start of a shaggy beard, and yeah, combined with the tousled hair that hadn’t been combed in equally long, and the blood-shot eyes with dark circles beneath them, House could see why Cuddy would consider him a reeking mess.

But then, what did it matter?

He showered and shaved, cutting himself twice because he was still drunk and he watched the blood drip slowly from his chin, all the while longing for another glass of whiskey. He doubted he’d get one as long as the Great Hospital Administrator With Way Too Much Time On Her Hands stayed.

He was right, of course, and she stayed far longer than he wanted her to. He was fed – take-out, because Cuddy was no more a cook than House; that was Wilson’s thing – and then sent to bed, and even though the cleaning lady was still vacuuming his apartment, House fell asleep.

It was another five days before he was allowed to return to work. By that time, he had grown very, very tired of Cuddy’s frequent appearances at his door.

“Considering you don’t put out at all, I don’t see why I should let you in,” House said at one point. “I should just call one of the hookers—”

“You do that,” Cuddy had replied calmly, pushing her way inside.

Returning to his job – which he did by coming in two hours late, mostly because he wanted to show Cuddy that he still wasn’t under her thumb – felt irritatingly familiar, and he recognized the truth in the old saying, ‘the more things change, the more they stay the same’. Wilson’s baby had not changed the world for anyone but House – and, he assumed, Wilson and Cutthroat Bitch, but that was beside the point – and the days passed with frightening ease, just the same as before. It was as though nothing was wrong, even though everything was wrong.

“It could be a tumor,” said Taub, about the latest of the freak patients they dealt with.

“We should get a consult,” Thirteen agreed. “House?”

House shrugged. Getting a cancer consult meant nothing these days – Wilson wasn’t at the hospital. He was at home, with Cutthroat Bitch and the spawn, leaving House to deal with other idiot oncologists instead. He would be home for three weeks, apparently, on what Cuddy had called paternity leave, and as much as House didn’t want to see or talk to Wilson, this was almost worse.

He had thought about going over to the apartment Wilson shared with Cutthroat Bitch, but he just couldn’t make himself do it. He couldn’t face Wilson, couldn’t watch the pride in those brown eyes as he spoke of his son and about the brat’s accomplishments – even though the joyous accomplishments were bound to be along the lines of, ‘today he spit up on me!’. He didn’t want to see Wilson hugging and kissing the Bitch, or taking his son into his arms. He didn’t want to see the family, the happy, picture-perfect family, because the very idea of it made him feel ill.

When Wilson did come back, he looked tired but every bit as disgustingly happy as House had thought he would be. He laughed, his eyes shining with bliss, and House heard the stories from Thirteen and Kutner, for whom Wilson had described his son’s development.

“Have you seen him, Dr. House?” asked Kutner in a moment of, what House thought was, tremendous stupidity.

“Do pigs fly?” House asked scathingly.

“Uh, no?” Kutner said.

“Good boy,” House said. “Now, anyone want to discuss the case instead of drool and poopy diapers? Or perhaps the case and drool and poopy diapers, considering these symptoms.”

He ignored the way Thirteen regarded him. Ever since he had revealed to her – in a very House way, of course, because House didn’t do conventional – that he knew she was bisexual, she had taken to regarding him knowingly, as though she knew something about him that the others did not. It annoyed him, because there was nothing to know.

After he had chased them out, she lingered behind.

“Any particular reason you’re still here?” House asked nastily.

“Yeah,” Thirteen said. “Dr. Wilson asked me to give you this.”

She handed him a white envelope and he took it with a frown. She then stayed, hesitating.

“Now that you’ve fulfilled your duty – you may go,” House sneered.

She pursed her lips. “Why don’t you just talk to him?”

“Why don’t you go stick your nose in someone else’s business?” he asked, imitating her tone of voice and trying to sound as nasal as possible.

“God, if you were both a little less stubborn—”

“God doesn’t have anything to do with it,” House said. “Now run along – the other kiddies are waiting.”

She glowered at him, but left a moment later, leaving House to glare at the envelope in his hand. After several minutes of staring, he opened it, and he noted with disdain that his fingers were shaking.

He knew what the envelope would contain, and yet when he opened it, it still made his heart constrict painfully. Three photos lay inside, all in color, all showing off a small, round, pink creature. Though they had yet to turn brown, the thing had Wilson’s eyes. The small tuft of dark hair was also Wilson’s. The nose was the Bitch’s.

‘Sean James Wilson,’ it said on the back of the first one, where the spawn lay wrapped in a blue blanket.

The second had the baby in a green set of tiny clothes, and the baby stared up at the photographer with wide eyes, a bit of drool running down the side of its mouth, and House thought it looked stupid and doubted that he had ever looked that way.

The final picture had Wilson holding the kid. Wilson wasn’t looking into the camera, and that was probably a good thing, because even though it was just a photo, House would have seen the joy shining in his eyes, and he would rather not deal with that. Instead, Wilson was looking down at the spawn, sleeping in his arms, a small, happy smile on his lips, apparently unaware that the photo had been taken at all.

There was no note, no explaining words to tell House that Wilson missed him. House had not expected such a note either – as Thirteen had pointed out, they were both stubborn to a fault. But Wilson was obviously proud enough of the brat – whatever there was to be proud of; at that age, they usually only ate, slept, pooped, and cried in between – to send him pictures.

House moved to rip the pictures apart – the last thing he wanted was a constant reminder of the spawn such as a photo – but he found he couldn’t. He sighed, frustrated with himself, and put the two baby pictures in the trashcan. The third, with Wilson in it, he placed in one of his pockets. His cheeks stung a little as he did so. He was Gregory House, he shouldn’t be carrying around pictures of his best friend and his best friend’s spawn. He should uncaringly tear the photos apart.

But he couldn’t, and he didn’t remove the picture.

A week and a half later, late at night, House sat on his couch and watched a game on mute, with a glass of scotch in front of him and jazz playing in the background. The now rather crumbled picture had made its way out of his pocket, and he glanced at it, taking a sip of scotch. He wasn’t drunk – not yet, anyway – but the photo rather made him want to be.

When there was a knock on the door, House yelled, “Go away!”

There was another knock, no more forceful than the first, and House sighed, putting the picture away and getting up. House tried to figure out who would come knocking at this hour, on his door – Cuddy wouldn’t because she had a date tonight, the ducklings wouldn’t dare—

“Wilson.”

His heart nearly stopped upon seeing the other man when he opened the door. Wilson, in a brown jacket, grey pants, a shirt not quite buttoned up, with his hair on end, looked a mess. There was a distraught look in his eyes.

But House did not stop there, instead taking in the suitcase, not quite closed but filled to the brim, standing on one side of Wilson, and in his hand – a baby carry cot with a child in it.

“Can I come in?”

Wilson sounded broken, as though he had cried, even though House knew that Wilson never cried. Wilson’s eyes bore into House, and House couldn’t utter any of the scathing, hateful comments his mind supplied him with. He moved aside, and Wilson carried the cot inside, pushing the suitcase with his foot, because it didn’t occur to House to help him. Instead, he stared at the little creature in the cot.

Wilson swallowed. “House – my son.”

The baby was thankfully asleep, tucked in beneath a blanket in the cot so that only his face was visible. He wore a small hat.

“Where’s Cutthroat Bitch?” House asked, when he managed to get his vocal cords working again.

“She’s—gone,” Wilson said, and the distress deepened. House thought he saw tears shining in Wilson’s eyes, but he blamed it on the light instead. Wilson didn’t cry.

Wilson put the cot down on the floor next to the couch, and he flopped down, leaning his head in his hands. House stood perfectly still, watching him, having no idea what to do or say. This was not like the last time Wilson had come to him, when he had divorced his last wife – House couldn’t be sarcastic and rude, because unlike then, Wilson seemed completely broken this time. And even House wasn’t so heartless as to tear apart a person already in pieces, least of all when it was Wilson.

“She said,” Wilson started, not looking at him, “that she never wanted the baby. That she’d—wanted to have an abortion, but—she didn’t because I was so happy. She said—she said she thought that she’d love him, but now she realized that she’s not—cut out to be a mother.”

“What did you expect?” House said.

Wilson looked up, and there was no denying that those were tears shining in his eyes.

“Please, for once, would you shut up?” Wilson asked, voice breaking. “This isn’t one of my marriages failing – this is the mother of my son leaving and saying she doesn’t want anything to do with him!”

“You chose this,” House said, coldly. “You wanted him.”

“I still do!” 

“Then what do you want me to say?” House asked, sneering lightly, because no matter that Wilson had come to him tonight, Wilson had still betrayed him – he had had a baby with her. He had something more important than House now.

“You could try to feel compassion for once,” Wilson said. “But I suppose that’s too much to ask. I just—I need some place to crash tonight. I couldn’t stay there—she’s not there, but I couldn’t stay in the apartment. I’ll sleep on the couch and I’ll be out of your hair tomorrow, I just—”

House sat down heavily, his heart hurting as much as his leg. He sighed. “Stay.”

Wilson looked at him with great surprise, though the agony in the lines on his face had not left. “Really?”

House made a face and muttered, “The couch’s always been here for you. I don’t know what to do with the brat—”

“Sean,” Wilson said. “Not ‘the brat’, or ‘the spawn’ or any other hell-related name you can come up with. Just Sean.”

“Don’t push it,” House replied.

Wilson sighed. “I didn’t choose to have a baby to annoy you.”

“No? Then why did you?” House asked.

“It just happened,” Wilson said. “Amber told me she was pregnant and it just felt so—right.”

“Obviously not to her,” House said.

Wilson’s face fell dejectedly.

“So where did she run off to?” House asked.

“She’s on a plane to California,” Wilson said quietly. “She was offered a job there, apparently. She’s already sold the apartment – said she’s been thinking about it for a while. I’ve got to be out of there by Friday.”

They leaned back, nestling into the couch as they had done so many times before, while watching a game or a movie. House could almost pretend that the little brat – Sean, he reminded himself with a roll of his eyes – didn’t exist, and that it was just him and Wilson again. That they were there, making up again after some fight or other, perhaps about Vicodin, perhaps about something else. That there was a beer each on the table, not just House’s scotch.

Perhaps he even, for a moment, imagined that Wilson would lean against House’s shoulder.

When he looked over at Wilson, he saw that the other man’s eyes had fallen shut.

He poked Wilson’s side. “Ey – tooth-brushing before sleeping. Aren’t you supposed to be the good parent now?”

Wilson glared tiredly at him, but did get off the couch. “Pillows and all in the closet?”

“Why would I move them?” House asked.

Wilson shrugged, and headed to the bathroom. House watched him go, taking in the slumped shoulders and the way misery seemed to radiate off of him. House glared down at the brat in the cot.

“This is all your fault, you know,” he said.

Wilson returned a few minutes later, and House could smell the hint of fresh mint of the tooth paste. Wilson had stripped down to his boxers and carried a pillow and a cover, and he nearly seemed to be sleep-walking. House regarded him as he turned the couch into his temporary bed, and he wondered what Wilson would think if House asked him to come sleep in the bed instead. He would probably think him crazy.

The baby still slept, although House suspected it would wake up soon and demand food, or a diaper change, or whatever else such a little creature could demand in the middle of the night.

“If that thing starts making noise, you hit the off-button,” House said.

Wilson rolled his eyes tiredly. “I’ll try to keep him as quiet as possible. I put some formula in the kitchen; I hope you don’t mind.”

“Of course not, I always have formula at home,” House said. “It’s a great complement to beer.”

Wilson shook his head. “Goodnight, House.”

House didn’t intend to answer at first, but then he muttered, “Goodnight, Wilson.”

It felt like he had only been asleep for minutes when the cries started. They grew louder and louder, and House heard Wilson get up, heard him bang his foot against the table and swear about it. He could tell Wilson had picked the brat up when the location of the noise changed, and then heard the shuffling around as Wilson made his way to the kitchen to warm some formula.

“There, there,” he heard, even though Wilson murmured and the door was almost closed. There had never been a problem with House’s hearing.

The crying stopped quite suddenly, and House could only assume that Wilson had managed to warm the formula and feed the brat. Wilson’s footsteps returned as he and the baby reentered the living room.

“There, that’s much better, isn’t it?” he heard Wilson’s low voice. “I know you miss mommy, daddy does too, but she’s not here now. You’ll just have to make do with daddy, I’m afraid. And you can’t cry like that, because we’re living with Mr. Grumpy Pants and he doesn’t like crying babies. And daddy really needs to stay here for just a little bit, to get his wits together, because without mommy, he doesn’t know what to do—”

Wilson trailed off, speaking even quieter to the child, so quietly that House couldn’t make out what he said. Not that it mattered – he had heard more than enough. Although the murmurs had been more to comfort the child, the words he had spoken were obviously true. Wilson was lost – and he had chosen to come to House in his time of need. House’s heart made a leap of hope – Wilson needed him. Wilson wanted him around, needed him around.

The thought kept him awake for nearly an hour, long after Wilson had returned the baby to the carry cot and House had heard the sound of the couch creaking as its inhabitant returned.

When House awoke the next time, by himself rather than by baby cries, it was still fairly dark outside. Pulling his legs over the side of the bed – his bad leg already hurting and therefore getting a Vicodin – House made his way over to the door as quietly as he could.

Wilson still slept, looking mightily uncomfortable on the couch, which was too short for him. But even so, Wilson did sleep, snoring lightly. He looked younger; House had always thought Wilson looked younger when he slept. The lines of stress evened out, the anxiety of not being able to save the world disappearing.

House made coffee and when Wilson appeared in the doorway, baby awake in his arms and his hair on end, House handed him a cup.

“What, no blow-drying your hair?” House asked.

“Some things don’t seem as important anymore,” Wilson said softly, kissing his son’s forehead.

“You’ve turned into a sentimental fool,” House grumbled.

Wilson flashed a tired smile. “I hope we didn’t wake you last night?”

House mumbled something intelligible, not wanting to get into a talk about what he had heard the day before.

“I suspect you want to get to work on time?” he asked instead.

“I’d be nice, yeah,” Wilson said. “I just have to figure out what to do with him.”

“Leave him with Cuddy – she’s wanted one of her own for ages, so she can take yours for a test-drive,” House said. “I’m sure she’ll return him in roughly the same state.”

Wilson looked doubtful, and House wondered for a moment what Wilson would look like if House suggested he leave the kid with him. It was only speculation, of course, because House would never ask that, but still—

They drove to the hospital, Wilson securing the brat in a car seat that House hadn’t seen him bring, and they hardly spoke. House did not know what to say; Wilson had, yet again, turned his life upside down. House shot a glance at him through the rearview mirror – Wilson’s eyes had fallen shut in sleepiness in the few minutes since they had left House’s apartment – and he wondered if Wilson had always looked so handsome. Tired shadows not withstanding – Wilson was a beautiful man.

And then he had to turn rather quickly, as he realized he had not been keeping his eyes on the road.

“Are you trying to get us all killed?” Wilson asked, sitting up straight and rather wide-eyed.

“That would make things easier, wouldn’t it?” House replied.

Upon arriving at the hospital, Wilson grabbed the car seat, the baby bag, and his portfolio and somehow managed to carry it all, whilst House hobbled next to him, carrying nothing.

“Thanks for all the help,” Wilson muttered, rolling his eyes.

“Hey – cripple!” House said, pointing at himself. “Besides, this cripple has already been nice enough to lend you his couch.”

Wilson rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“And it’s a very comfy couch at that,” House said.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Wilson said. He paused, and looked at House with a serious expression that made House want to run away. “But really – thanks.”

House made a non-committing sound. “Go drop the brat off with Cuddy. She’ll be thrilled, I’m sure – he’s at her level of intellect.”

House turned and left, glancing over his shoulder to see Wilson smiling slightly to himself. He pretended it didn’t make his heart leap with joy.

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