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Glass Houses
by gena fisher
Glass Houses
Thursday? I check my desk calendar again, damn, it really is only Thursday. My least favorite day of the week, Thursday exists in a kind of limbo; people are waiting for the weekend, all the good cookies at the nurse's station are picked over, and my back and shoulders are usually so sore they're threatening to go on strike. I settle into my chair and lift my legs up onto the desk. A groan of pure relief spills from my lips but I muffle it by sipping my coffee. Out of the corner of my eye I see Cameron's sharp eyes flick in my direction and I make a show of smacking my lips. I do not need sympathy, I need distraction.
Whoever designed this building must of had me in mind. I love the glass walls. I can sit right here in the comfort of my own office and watch dozens of lives parade past me. Wilson accuses me of voyeur tendencies often enough and I must admit there is quite a chunk of truth in that. I tend to think of them as lab rats running in a maze of my own making. Very godlike, isn't it? Maybe I have a Messiah complex? Or maybe it's just too many soap operas. Whatever the cause, watching people has become the single most compelling thing in my life. They lie, all of them lie but they can't hide. Not behind glass walls anyway.
Take Foreman for example. He lied about being late last week. Didn't have to, but he did and why? Because he didn't want me to know about the new "Arnie" . Oh, these foolish mortals. What's he afraid of, I wonder? I should have suspected he'd be the one getting it on with that hot little drug rep, though thinking of her and Cameron together has figured into some pretty satisfying dreams this passed week. Still, his annoyance with me was fairly amusing. I'd love to see his face if she ever suggests getting me down to one of those tropical "wine and dines" most doctors covet. I think I planted a small seed of doubt in his mind with my roadie analogy. Good, he should be disillusioned at least once in a while. Look at him in there, bent over his journals, studying case files, such a hard worker. He really doesn't like me. Hard to believe, isn't it? And me the soul of kindness, filled with the milk of human compassion - oh wait, that's the Vicodin talking. I have a feeling one of these days I'll be forced to peel my face off his fist. I'm sure I'll have it coming but I'll hate to sue him all the same.
He's convinced I torment him out of some perverse sense of fun. He's right, of course, but I also torment him because he lets me. It's so easy, he takes offense at every little criticism, every tiny knock I make to his ability. And the sad thing is, he doesn't see what I'm trying to teach him because he looks only at the surface and gets caught up in the reflection. Sometimes I think Foreman regrets passing up all those lucrative offers to work with old Dr. House. I can imagine if he had, in a couple of years he'd be coasting on his laurels, downplaying the struggle that got him where he is. That would be a waste. He needs me to shake things up, to poke that hornet's nest and watch him buzz with anger. Not only is it amusing, it's going to make him one hell of a doctor some day. Until he and I get into a knock-down-drag-out; me knocked down and him dragged out by the police, I plan on needling him every single way I can. He's very sensitive to the whole "criminal past" thing. Though honestly I think his juvy record is turning out to be a bit of a disappointment. He must have been one of those scared straight kids, mores the pity. And who ever heard of a dawg from the hood whose parents live on a pension? I expected so much more, maybe his old man in jail and mom selling it on the streets. Oh I know he has secrets, and I'll find them out given time. Glass walls, Eric, I can see through them.
Ah, and here comes Chase! The Boy Wonder! I should get Cameron to sew him up a cape with a big B on it for Boy or British or Bright or something else starting with B. Not such a bad idea, it might hide some of those truly awful shirts he favors. Chase's secrets are a bit more visible to the naked eye, my eye anyway. He would have me believe nothing bothers him, not the drunken mother or the absent father, but I know better. I wonder what he would have done if I'd told him his father is dying? Would he have gotten that dewy eyed, helpless look I see on Wilson's patients or would he have shouted in my face about invading his privacy and meddling in his life? I've never seen Chase really angry. Well, except when I stopped that kid's liver transplant. Didn't think he would believe the drugs could impair my judgment. Water - bridge, whatever. Though he's not getting a Christmas present this year. Of course since he's the admitted druggie of the group maybe he has a better understanding of how it all works.
I see a bit of myself in Chase. Yes, yes, me in the early days of my career, all bright and shiny and eager to please. That didn't last long, not after I found out I'd be working with idiots who couldn't make a diagnosis without a committee meeting and a show of hands. He's quick, he knows when I'm looking for something no one else can see, and he isn't afraid to stroke my ego. I like that in an underling. Foreman is too arrogant to pander to me and Cameron just wants to heal me, but Chase wants my respect enough to bend and funny enough, that makes me respect him. Don't get me wrong, the kid isn't what he seems to be, not by a long shot. Chase take's what I dish out but once in a while I see that there's something down beneath his facade. Like a shark swimming just below the surface, a dark shadow gliding along - not a single ripple betraying its presence - not yet anyway.
I shift a little, easing my leg into a better position, grateful to be off my feet. Walking loosens my cramping muscles but puts a strain on everything else. Standing is the worst, though. After a few minutes it's like someone is driving railroad spikes into my lower back and right hip. I try not to make any of this too obvious but lately I've noticed whenever we meet in the office my team tends to leave a couple of chairs vacant so I can sit down and stretch out my leg. This makes me feel even more like a cripple than usual but when I'm hurting I guess it doesn't matter, does it? Right now I'm tired and I ache. I took a Vicodin an hour ago and would love to pop another but I've decided to cut back. Just because my body's addicted it doesn't mean my head is. I spent the morning in the halls, walking a route I discovered a while back. It takes me passed all the gossip hotspots, all the centers of intrigue and stretches my cramping muscles all in one convenient action but even though my body is now sufficiently tired, my mind is still racing.
After so many years spent living on caffeine, nicotine, and adrenaline I find it hard to relax. Years ago I was ahead of the pack, running at a hundred miles an hour, now - I limp. My body can no longer keep up with my brain and sometimes I think I'm going to implode. If I don't force myself to do something mindless I'll brood, or so Wilson tells me. I like to think of it as deep introspection, but it does make me even crankier than usual. I check over my supplies, tempted to lose myself in a challenging game of Space Monkeys but can't summon the strength. I roll my chair back just a fraction and grope blindly for one of my albums. The look on Chase's face when he first saw one of my precious vinyls was priceless. I should've chucked down an eight track and really blown his mind. Ah, the great Coleman Hawkins. I remember dragging Wilson to Joetown, St. Joseph, Missouri for the Coleman Hawkins festival. How many years ago was that? A lifetime, I guess. Long hot evenings and cool, cool jazz blowing in our ears. I lean back and let the music edge its way inside. It can only get so far now days but it helps.
I feel like I'm floating, waves of blue music keeping my aloft and when I finally open my eyes I take a peek at the kids in their habitrail. I'm a bit surprised when I see that Foreman and Chase have vanished and only Cameron remains. The sky is darkening and I know Wilson will be along soon to walk me out to my car. He insists and I can't bring myself to ignore the fear in his eyes. I use to scoff at it, to mock his concern openly but the year before last I found myself knocked down by some delinquent skateboarder and if James hadn't been there I'd probably be walking with two canes. I lift my bad leg off the desk and the movement causes a blinding wave of pain to wash through me, making me hot and cold all at the same time. Sweat beads at my hair line, my head swims and goosebumps cover my forearms. I shouldn't have stayed in one position so long. When I get my breath back and pry my fingers off the bunched denim beneath my palm I shoot a glance in Cameron's direction.
Great, she saw that. I look away but something in her eyes draws me back a split second later. Her expression isn't the one of pity I nearly always expect to see. No, this one is more real, and less disturbing. Admiration? Respect, maybe. I never know what I'm going to find when I look at her. You'd think Cameron would be easy - gorgeous, smart, determined. She's also the soft touch, the nurturer, the Florence Henderson of the Florence Nightengale set but there's a core of strength inside that I find - interesting. I can't tell you the delight I took in hiring her! After six months of Chase's unflappable acceptance I was losing it - or thought I was losing my ability to snark with accuracy and precision! In walks this stunning young doctor with decent qualifications. My internal radar pinged on her. Why would such a beautiful woman struggle so hard when she would never really have to do more than ask for what she wanted? I like a puzzle and figured Cameron would be one I could pick apart a little at a time.
She's surprised me several times. Not the least of which was our non-date. I can't believe I asked her. Flashback to all those humiliating times in high school; for one horrible moment I was back at Grover Cleveland High, a tongue-tied 6'2" sophomore working up the nerve to ask Tammy Grant to the dance. It turned out all right, though. We had fun, almost as much fun as I would have had with Wilson and never once did it turn awkward or embarrassing. For the first time in - years - I felt like everyone else, like I was just a regular guy out with a friend who happens to be a beautiful woman. That's kind of amazing when I think about it. I haven't spent time with anyone but Wilson since I was crippled. Okay, I didn't have many friends before that either, but since - well, let's just say I tend to rub people the wrong way. Should have taken that Dale Carnegie course when I had the chance, I suppose.
Ah, Cameron what am I going to do with you? Look at her in there, pretending to study the Pisler case and stealing glances at me. She worries, you know. I think Wilson must have filled her in on some of the details of my infarction and the possibility that I could have another. Her concern doesn't stop her from getting angry with me, so there's hope for her yet. There are times I know she'd like to slap my face, those times when I force her to face the ugliness of the world, but I do so for a reason. She thinks if we put a pink bow on it, kiss it on the cheek and send it off on its merry way, the world will just skip happily off and play nice with itself. Well, the world isn't like that. Sometimes you have to tell a family their kid is going to die and sometimes love isn't enough, and sometimes you turn around and realize you're all alone and there's nothing you can do to change it. Cameron trusts me, I've told her it's a mistake, but she does and every time I force her out of her rose colored world and into mine she gets this shell shocked look, one that says I fifty kinds of a bastard and how could I do such a thing. It's a tough lesson but one she needs to know. I think about this and wonder if she'll ever be able to see through the walls like I do.
Wilson has arrived. Look at him out there, chatting with Cameron, making her beam with laughter. He's so charming, everyone falls all over themselves for him. Makes me ill. I'd like to jump up and scream at them "He's not what you think he is!" I should know. We've seen each other through good times, bad times and near death experiences - on my part, anyway. He's the best friend a man could want if a man only wanted that. Somehow, years ago, we settled into a "thingy", as James would say and now we stick to the rules as if they made some kind of sense. This game James and I play is a complicated ritual that preserves my dignity and his peace of mind. He can honestly tell himself we are only friends and I never have to face the truth. When he comes to me, some file clutched in his hand, that shy smile on his boyish face I want to flee as fast as my battered body will allow. But I don't because this is part of the game. I balk, I stall, I grumble and then I take the case. James knows his part in this drama as well as I do and when he asks what has made me change my mind I say the words he expects to hear. "You know why" I answer, playing out my part. Every time I say it I know I'm hurting him, that he sees what I won't say. I can't help myself. We both know why I do it, why I let him wrap me around his finger and we both pretend it's my insatiable curiosity. One of these days when he says "yes, I know", instead of reeling off some intriguing anomaly which has supposedly caught my attention I'm going to mess it up, be too tired or hurt too much and say aloud the truth that slips between us like the air we breathe.
I can see through my glass walls, I see the secrets of those around me but I fear it's one-way glass. All I have in this world is the gift that sets me apart. I can't ask for more - I won't ask for more because he can't give it to me. I shake my head at my own melodramatics and force a jaunty grin to my lips. Wilson looks over from where he and Cameron are standing and our gazes lock. I push it all to the back of my brain and hope that my eyes do not betray me this time. Sometimes it's easier to face him with this glass between us but I'd give anything to shatter it and step free.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Our eyes meet but I don't look away. Greg loves these glass walls, he tells me he sees all. I see too. He surrounds himself with damaged people in the hopes that they won't see his own damage. Uncovering their frailties, their pain, keeps his mind off his own. He likes to believe that they're too wounded, or too preoccupied with their own problems to take the time and look at his. He can't stand that. He doesn't want anyone looking at him with that gaze. But I do. I look at him and I see what was once whole. Not the leg, or the drugs, none of that has caused the damage. I did it. Dr. James "First do no harm" Wilson, I did this to him. I didn't mean to hurt him. I thought what I could see in his eyes was just friendship and not until too late did I realize that it was more. I married Sharon and when that didn't work out I married Jean and after another heartbreak I married Julie. Greg stood beside me, silent and sad, through all those legally binding ceremonies and even at the time I knew all I had to do was turn to him, wink and say "let's get a beer" and he'd give me that look - all eyebrows and wrinkled lip and we'd be off together.
Cameron is saying something, quietly voicing her concern for House and I murmur that I'll make sure he's okay. He's grinning at me from inside his office and the image of him and me in his living room, the lights low, him at the piano and me on the couch comes unbidden. I want that. I want to be with him more than I've ever wanted anything else in my life. The realization that I've been a fool crashes around me like plates of glass shattering and slicing through my heart. Cameron touches my arm and I'm forced to look at her. She frowns, seeing something in my eyes I hadn't managed to hide. I manufacture a smile and turn back to House. I push open the glass door and step inside. He's leaning on his cane looking tired but he quirks a brow and asks if I'm ditching him tonight. I don't speak. I just stand there looking at him. He cocks his head and limps towards me, not stopping until were so close I can feel his breath on my cheek. I know Cameron is still in the other office and can see us but I don't care. He says my name, not Wilson like he usually calls me at work, but James and I close my eyes, afraid I'm going to embarrass us both.
A moment later his arm bumps against mine, turning me towards the hall and we head for home instinctively falling into step. As we pass through the hospital I can see our reflection in the glass walls; side by side.
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of Fox Television, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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