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A week
Foreman frowns thoughtfully down at the coffee machine, red mug in hand.
"I thought I replaced the sugar two days ago."
"Don't look at me, I don't even have sugar with mine," Chase says, not looking up from his crossword. "Ask Cameron - have you seen the way she pours it into her coffee?"
Foreman snorts. "Still doesn't explain this, unless she's using it as food replacement."
"Does it really matter? It's sugar, not gold dust."
He raises an eyebrow in response, though it's utterly lost on Chase, who's chewing his pen and frowning at the crossword as though someone's life might depend on it. Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Foreman sits down at the opposite end of the table, cradling his mug.
The silence that ensues is almost comfortable, or at least as close to comfortable as they ever get. Foreman sips at his coffee and skims the business section of the paper, Chase frowns some more at the crossword and Cameron is late yet again.
"Seven letter word meaning 'communication intended to induce belief'."
He takes a drink, stalling for thinking time. Exhortation, incitement...persuasion - but that's too long. Wait -
"Suasion."
Two weeks
Chase stands in front of the dresser, blinking rapidly while trying to pull a shirt on. He isn't nearly awake enough to take note of which one it is – this early in the morning it could have bright pink polka dots and he wouldn't care. Grabbing a tie off the closet rack, his hands knot it on autopilot into some semblance of neatness. It might be decorated with stripes of some kind, but he needs large amounts of caffeine before he can process that.
And by that time he'll be in danger of being late for work and not really caring. Chase isn't colour blind, or completely lacking in any sense of style. He's just not a morning person.
Smoothing down his shirt for the last time, he chances a bleary glance at the wooden surface of the dresser – and stops short.
Chase keeps a heavy, leather-bound Bible on his dresser, shoved to one side. It was a gift from his grandmother, years and years ago. He can't explain or justify its continued presence, except to say that it 'feels right', whatever that means. It's a piece of harmless, indulgent sentimentality, at worst.
Though he's pretty sure it wasn't open last time he looked.
One passage - underlined years ago by Chase's young, shaky hand – jumps out at him.
And they, when they had heard that he was alive, and had been seen of her, believed not.
He mouths 'Mark 16:11' without thinking and - "Well done, Robert," - almost expects to be praised.
A month
Cameron is dreaming. She knows this on a certain level - because it's the Diagnostics office, and the morning sun is slanting through the blinds. The other obvious clue is House sprawled in her usual chair, cane-less and whole. He's skimming paperwork, or at least pretending to quite convincingly.
This is a dream, so dream-Cameron can stride right up and speak easily, freely, without fear.
"House?"
There's no reaction at all, not even a stir. Shocking, because she'd expect to be mocked rather than ignored – even in her dreams House is mercilessly sarcastic.
"Can you hear me?" she asks, louder, feeling unaccountably silly.
Relax, it's only a dream.
Obviously not, or he would have reacted to the volume level. Instead, he keeps reading, brow furrowing at particular passages and giving no indication that he even knows she's there.
Cameron feels a chill go down her spine. It's a dream, she knows that. But she's invested, now, with the story being played out. Enough to make her reach out and grab House's shoulder, shaking him with the unreasoning desperation of the dreaming.
"Can't you see I'm here?"
She wakes with a start, and feels with resignation the wetness on her cheek, the damp patch on the pillow. Tries to remember what day it is, what time.
It's Tuesday, noon on the clock. And then there's the slow, torturous routine, trying to convince herself to get up, look presentable, go in to work.
Cameron resents it terribly - having to go through this routine all over again.
Two months
"Doctor Cuddy?"
Cuddy looks up from her paperwork, almost grateful for the interruption.
Her new secretary as of yesterday – Damien? Daniel? – gives her a strained smile from the door. Brown-eyed, no-nonsense, stiffly dressed and refreshingly competent, he has so far given Cuddy great hope that he'll last a bit more than a week.
Smiles reassuringly, hoping that she doesn't look as tired as she feels. "Yes?"
"You wanted me to remind you at six?"
Six? What's at…oh, right.
She stands with a scrape of the chair, glancing at the clock. Exactly six. Meticulous, this one.
"I did, thank you, ah - "
Realising she still doesn't know his name, Cuddy simply smiles a little and nods – polite, but dismissive. He ducks outside.
As she gathers her things and prepares to leave, she makes a mental note to look up Brown Eyes' name in the files - it might actually be worth the effort of remembering this time.
It's been a long day, the kind that makes her question why she's in this profession to begin with. Cameron's resignation letter sits on her desk, gathering dust. Cuddy had gotten through two paragraphs before she had to stop reading.
Too much displaced pain.
The day is only set to get longer, with a fundraiser to attend at seven thirty. All the bigwigs will be in attendance – which means she'll have to bring her best superwoman performance.
She makes herself strong black coffee and drinks it in quick gulps. Puts on the blue dress - which she brought in this morning because it doesn't make her look quite as washed-out as the red - and careful makeup to hide the black circles under her eyes. This is all body armour, and insufficient defence for the subtle feeding frenzy that is a dinner party attended by many very important, clever – and most importantly - tipsy people. The rest is up to her well-developed instincts and years of experience.
It would be easier if she were less tired.
At the function, she sips expensive champagne with the care it deserves and tries to speak to all the right people. It's just as well the food is delicately presented and absolutely horrible.
She's pondering the shrimp – and re-introducing herself to the Senator - when a large hand lands heavily on her shoulder. The accompanying booming voice confirms her worst suspicions.
"Doctor Cuddy! Long time no see, eh?"
With an effort, she shrugs the hand off and turns to face the man. "I didn't know you were going to be here, Congressman."
If she had known he was going to be present, she would have been absent. Representative Tim Lay may be a polished and important man, but Cuddy likes to think of him as an oversized gorilla in an expensive tuxedo with hands that wander far too freely – and eyeballs lodged in the nearest flash of cleavage.
Like right now. Cuddy fights off the urge to pour the remainders of her champagne all over his tailored tux and composes a smile, putting it up as a mask for her disdain. She gets a head-to-toe look and a smirk in response.
"Well, I wanted to see my favourite hospital administrator. You look more ravishing than ever."
Cuddy closes her eyes for the briefest of moments, biting down on a spike of rising annoyance –
And opens them to a horrified look on Lay's face, his tux drenched in expensive liquor and the champagne flute empty in her hand. She gasps in surprised dismay and doesn't even have to fake it – she has no idea what just happened.
It's satisfying, through - a good cap on a lousy day.
Four months
Stacy watches TV with Mark, when she has the time. She nitpicks with exaggerated sarcasm and he chuckles comfortably at her anal-retentiveness. Sometimes, he even laughs.
He's never really going to find her more scathing side hilarious, the way House had. But he tries. Oh, how he tries. Anyone would be hard-pressed to find a more determinedly caring husband.
These days, though, her new firm keeps her busy. It's mostly Mark by himself on the sofa, while she blinks at the LCD monitor in the study and drinks far too much coffee. Sometimes, he tells her the gist of the storyline over dinner. She finds it touching.
It's almost odd to be home alone in front of the TV for a change. After a rough day at the negotiation table, the prospect of curling up on the couch with Mark in comfortable warmth and companionable quiet is incredibly appealing. Ironically, he has physio.
As House used to say, witty commentary is not nearly as fun when there's no one around to appreciate and laugh. Or in his case, appreciate and look appropriately appalled.
She hadn't known it was possible to miss so keenly something she had lost so long ago – but it is.
"Stacy."
She drops the remote.
No. I'll just…ignore it. What else is there to do? There's no way she can tell Mark.
'Guess what, honey, I'm hearing voices. Well, voice, singular – just Greg.'
No, there's no possibility of that.
"Stacy."
She clutches at the edge of the coffee table, pretends to be deaf, ignorant – sane. It's increasingly difficult.
"You don't believe me," he says, resigned.
The defeat in his voice breaks her.
She hadn't wanted to believe it when the phone call came. Still doesn't – and the gulf from that reality to the voice in her ear is yet another leap of faith that she's too tired to take. Allowing it would destroy her.
Still, there's no way she can just ignore him.
"I…I can't," she says at last, squeezing her eyes closed, voice shaking.
He sighs. "Of course not."
Stacy sucks in a deep breath. "I'm sorry."
And she is. House's reply is quiet.
"So am I."
Eight months
Wilson blinks himself awake slowly, with great effort. He can already feel the new set of aches and pains he's collected from falling asleep in yet another uncomfortable position. It's worse than usual, which makes him wonder what he's fallen asleep on.
The cold seeping into his back from the kitchen tiles of House's apartment gives him the answer. First time he's slept on the floor. He doesn't remember how he got there – probably got tired, sat down to rest and never got up.
At least the stove wasn't on at the time. He had already nearly killed himself today by falling asleep at the wheel on the way here.
This is getting out of hand.
Wilson knows exactly how much the human body can take. It's impossible not to push at that boundary these days, buried up to his nose in paperwork, cases, and trying to avoid Alexia.
That last is a record, even for him. It usually takes more than four months of marriage to drive one of his relationships down to this level, even if a snap wedding had been involved.
Then again, he knows why he married her.
Wilson pushes himself up with aching arms, yawning hugely. It's raining outside, large drops splattering against the kitchen windows.
The living room is a mess of files, clothes and blankets, the coffee table shoved to the side. Sinking down into the couch, he spares a moment to contemplate cleaning.
But why bother? What's the point?
The empty spot beside him has no answers to offer.
When he last lived here, eight months ago, he had learned to hate silence, with its deafening and suffocating weight. After a while, he found Alexia, and she was full of sound, bursting with life. Wilson was grateful enough to buy his fourth set of wedding rings.
Anything to get away.
He should have known better by now. It's impossible to run from death; the way it gets under the skin and into the subconscious. Except he's never been confronted with its power like this -
House, dead, cremated and scattered all over the vast Atlantic.
House, standing five feet away, looking remarkably tangible and alive and still crippled.
Wilson stares, and stares, frozen to the spot, and he doesn't want to know if he's dreaming. It almost doesn't matter, anyway – he hasn't had a dream this good for a long time.
If it is, though, it's remarkably authentic. House's glare is withering, and he sounds pissed off.
"Stop working yourself to death."
Wilson blinks in surprise, but he knows what to say - the parry is effortless, habitual. "I thought you believed in living dangerously."
House snorts. "This, Jimmy, is not living dangerously. In no way is it even close."
Wilson can't help it – he smiles. "I'm sorry my attempt at a mid-life crisis doesn't meet the master's standards."
It's all unbelievably easy. He'd be surprised at his own lack of scepticism or any kind of freaking out, but he knows -
Wishful thinking can pepper over any number of cracks in reasoning, thought, or even reality. This is just better than the alternative, and he's tired.
House makes his best attempt at an annoyed look, but Wilson can tell he's trying not to smile. "Needs less marriage and more motorcycles. Better for your wallet and less risk of bodily harm." The amusement disappears from his expression. "This is just a stupid way for you to avoid living."
He's right, of course. Therein lies the problem. Wilson smiles, this time bitterly.
"What else am I supposed to do, Greg?"
House's stare is solemn. "Live."
"You know I can't do that," Wilson bites out. His fists are clenched tight, nails biting into the flesh of his palms from the effort of not reaching out. Faith is hard, and he doesn't want to know just how delusional he is.
There's silence, the least oppressive kind, as they study each other. House looks thoughtful before breaking into a sardonic grin. "You don't believe me either."
"What am I supposed to think? You didn't even believe in – in ghosts!"
House shrugs. "That was before I died. Go figure."
Oh god.
"You're not going to – explain?"
A penetrating look. "Okay."
Wilson notes, carefully, that House hasn't stepped any closer - hasn't moved at all since his appearance. It means something, but he's not sure what.
He needs to know.
"Mom used to tell me ghost stories," says House, abrupt and conversational. "Asian, African, European – they all say the same thing, basically."
The image of a very young Greg House sitting at his mother's side, eyes bright in concentration is oddly compelling. "I imagine you were appropriately unimpressed?"
"I pointed out all the logical inconsistencies. She encouraged it."
Yes, he could definitely see that.
"There was one old Chinese story about a dead man. This man could not rest in peace, because he died with regrets. He tried to communicate with those he knew in life, to finish his affairs."
"Seven letter word meaning 'communication intended to induce belief'."
"He tried each person in turn - "
And they, when they had heard that he was alive, and had been seen of her, believed not.
" – without much initial success. Some saw him in a dream - "
"Can't you see I'm here?"
" – but did not believe. Some had their actions manipulated - "
She gasps in surprised dismay and doesn't even have to fake it – she has no idea what just happened.
" – but did not make the necessary connection. Some could hear his voice - "
"I…I can't," she says at last, squeezing her eyes closed, voice shaking.
" – but were unable to believe. He was tired and discouraged, but there was still one last person."
Wilson blinks rapidly, clearing suddenly and inexplicably wet eyes. Words only make their way past the lump in his throat on the second try.
"And the moral of the story?"
House stares hard at the floor. "Primary Lateral Sclerosis."
"What?"
"My last patient, whatever his name was. It wasn't ALS."
But of course - of course this is what House cannot bring himself to let go of. This is what he has to finish.
Tears threaten to cloud his vision. Wilson swipes at his eyes, almost violently. "I'll…let Foreman know. Is that a-all?"
When his vision clears again, House is standing right in front of him. There's something unreadable in his gaze, both distant and far too intimate.
House bends down and grabs Wilson's left hand in both of his. His skin is unnaturally cold to the touch, and it's hard not to flinch. The solid feel of it is both relief and burden.
He knows he's staring with insane hunger and desperation, like House is going to disappear at any moment – and maybe he is. Right now, though, he wears the same look Wilson must have on his face, twisted with a strange uncertainty and penetrating scrutiny. Abruptly, he parts Wilson's fingers and pulls at the white-gold wedding band, tugging it off with exaggerated care.
Straightening up, House lets go of his hand and tosses the ring into a far corner. It hits the ground with a clatter -
And every blind, faltering step Wilson took in the last eight months is unravelling.
"One person would be able to see and touch him, just as if he was still alive. This person would help him with his lingering cares."
Wilson tries to breathe. "Greg, I - "
I know.
"Thank you."
House does smile, this time, until he is no more.
Fin (Remember.)