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In the Beginning
by Gena Fisher
In the Beginning
In the Beginning
Dr. Benjamin Church glanced over the assembled students, his steel gray eyes searching for self doubt, for that lack of confidence he so despised. His eye fell on a slender blonde, scribbling notes as rapidly as she could. "Fox, do you agree with the diagnoses?"
Fox's brown eyes widened, her pen skittered nervously against the clipboard and she shifted from foot to foot, desperately reading back over what she had written. "Uh, y-yes?"
Chruch sneered at the questioning tone. The others avoided looking at Fox, busy keeping their heads down. "If you do, you will kill more people than Hitler." His statement brought an instant hush to the room, everyone practically holding their breath as the drama played out.
"I -I," Fox stammered and looked around the room for help. No one offered any. Church's expression darkened like a wall cloud moving across a craggy expanse.
"It's a valid diagnosis," a new voice chimed in. The mood of the pack changed quickly, fear giving way to resentment as the speaker pushed his way closer to the patient. "Unfortunately you ignored several glaring symptoms." A soft murmur, vaguely malicious in tone, buffeted his back but still the young man didn't falter. He brushed a handful of brown hair out of his equally dark eyes and stood just a bit straighter. He wasn't tall, average at best, and his gentle smile gave him the look of innocence usually present in people decades younger. "These marks," he lifted the patient's hand and indicated the white-ridged lines running horizontally across the base of her nails, "indicate a probably undiagnosed cardiac condition. If we start her on the Imdur without a definitive diagnosis, we could send her into severe congestive heart failure within hours."
"Very good, Dr. Wilson," Church praised. "An excellent observation." He turned to scowl at Fox and the others. "Maybe one day some of you will measure up to my star pupil. For now, let that be a lesson to you all. You must take all variables into account. Her chart doesn't indicate cardiac problems but her physiology does." He turned on his heel and strode from the room. Wilson stood where he was, eyes on the floor, ignoring the resentment flowing around him, something he found just as jarring as the shoulders which knocked against him.
"That's one way to clear a room. Not as effective as farting but it certainly worked." Wilson swung around. A lanky figure lounged against the door frame, long face scrunched into a smug grin.
"Well, farting was my second choice,' Wilson said, "I was working up to it slowly." He knew Dr. Gregory House by sight but had never until this moment spoken to him. House strode through the hospital like a god, people parted before him, never looking him in the eye least they be smote by his sarcastic wit. Wilson had always gotten the impression that even though House had an ego the size of, well, a house, he didn't like anyone fawning over him.
"Yes," House drawled, "perhaps you should have started by belching song lyrics. Do you know Proud Mary?" Wilson gave him a scathing look.
"Are you here in your capacity as resident critic," Wilson asked, "or is there a point to this conversation?" He gathered his files and brushed passed the older doctor, surprised when House fell into step beside him.
"I need a consult," House said and slapped his arm with a file.
Wilson stopped dead in his tracks. "You need a consult with me?"
"Is restating the obvious one of your super powers? I thought you were just a mild mannered oncologist," House said.
"You're coming to me, not to Church?"
"Church is a bastard."
"Funny, that's what everyone says about you." Wilson cringed inside. He normally didn't say things like that to other people, he often wanted to but never did. There was something freeing about talking with House, as if he could say whatever he felt and the older doctor wouldn't bat an eye at it. House looked at him then threw back his head, a deep laugh bubbling up from his chest. Wilson paused, strangely pleased to have caused such a reaction in the notoriously prickly doctor, then headed towards his tiny office.
"You're lying," House said, following, "I haven't met everyone yet."
And that was the start of it. Wilson made a recommendation, House made a pithy comment and by the end of the week they were elbow to elbow at a bar near the hospital. House began turning up at odd hours, inviting Wilson to concerts, or movies, and once, to a tractor pull. Wilson started dropping by House's place after a long shift, looking forward to a quiet time watching TV or listening to House play his piano. On the surface they didn't seem to have much in common; House was ten years older, already a prominent figure in his field and had a reputation for being difficult to work with. Wilson, on the other hand, was just beginning to show himself as a brilliant oncologist, was kind and generous with his patients and had a knack for hospital politics. When it was just the two of them House turned out to be funny without the sarcasm, intelligent without the arrogance and a surprisingly sympathetic listener. Their unlikely friendship deepened, weathering Wilson's engagement to Sharon, who took an instant dislike to House, and the short marriage which followed. In an effort to appease his new wife, who didn't like the idea of her husband spending so much time with a single guy, Wilson introduced House to an old friend named Stacey Lamont. The two hit it off immediately and within a few months were living together.
For a while things ran smoothly, the four of them spending most weekends together, but soon enough his problems with Sharon escalated into divorce proceedings. House wanted him to move into their spare room which created a rift with Stacey and before they knew it he and House were back to their bachelor lifestyles. Neither man minded, after nearly a year of friendship they were content with each other's company. House didn't seem to associate with any of the other doctors on staff and Wilson had grown use to being resented by everyone he outshone, so the fact that neither man had other close friends intensified the bond between them. Their evenings together were strangely intimate, sitting side by side on the couch, talking, laughing, sharing their hopes for the future. There were times Wilson fell asleep on the couch and woke lying against House's side, the other man's arm around his shoulders as he snored in peaceful sleep. They never talked about those nights but they lingered in the back of Wilson's mind, adding new layers to the feelings growing between them.
"I want you to work for me," House said one evening as they were watching some hideous porn flick at House's apartment.
"You want me to work for you?"
"You're still doing that," House said. He rolled his head and looked over at Wilson. Wilson considered his friend for a moment. House looked tired; his case load had tripled in the months since their first meeting. He'd always been active, whenever he wasn't working he was playing lacrosse with old friends, running, riding his motorcycle, or playing tennis. He kept fit and seemed only to be truly happy when he was participating in sometime athletic but right now he had dark circles under his eyes and a weariness in his manner that Wilson found worrying. House demanded perfection and when others failed him that usually meant doing everything himself, but even he couldn't keep up the pace for long.
"Is this part of the new program you said Cuddy had approached you about?"
"Yeah," House said and grinned. "I get three full time doctors from different disciplines. We'll work together on some of the tougher cases, things that baffle those idiots out in the hinterlands. We'll be stars, James, the McCartney and Lennon of the medical world." He canted a brow at Wilson, "and think of the groupies."
"Oh, I am," Wilson assured him with a shudder. "I'll think about it."
"Come on," House cajoled, "you don't think I'd be a good boss? You already know how I like my coffee and where I take my dry cleaning, the rest will be a piece of cake."
"Uh huh." Working for House would be a feather in his cap, that went without saying, but what he really wanted was to be head of oncology and that would require a lot of dedication. He didn't give House an answer then, leaving the question open between them for several months. In that time House hired two others, a neurologist and a hematologist, but didn't fill the third position. Wilson knew his friend was willing to wait and really wanted things to work out to both of their satisfaction but as he settled into Princeton-Plainsboro's permanent staff it became obvious there was no way he could join House's team. Wilson quickly became the Boy Wonder in his new department, edging out the old Head and taking the chair for himself.
"I'm hiring a cardiologist," House told him one afternoon over lunch. "She's twenty-five and gorgeous."
"Amazing credentials," Wilson said, "does she know anything about - hearts?"
"Her resume said something about ripping them out of men's chests and grinding them under her spike heel. I took that as a good thing."
"At least you're hiring a professional." Wilson smiled, relieved that House hadn't make a big deal out of his reluctance.
"I'd rather have you," House said quietly, looking Wilson in the eye. His tone, not really so different than normal, still held a note Wilson recognized from the evenings they spent together, that wistful, warm quality House used only rarely and then only when the night had drawn close around them and the TV buzzed like a distant world of silvery ghosts. Somehow those hours transcended the real world, existing in a place where they weren't confined by rules of any sort, not that House adhered to rules but he did. So many things remained unsaid, though they hung in the air between them, things both men could trace with a mere glance and touch with a smile. To speak of it aloud, and in the crowded cafeteria, was so alien Wilson wondered if House had forgotten where, exactly, they were. Such a slip was so out of character it caused Wilson to met House's gaze with a sharp, assessing eye and he was struck again by House's tired appearance. House seemed more subdued than usual, slouched down in his chair, one leg propped up. As James watched he reached down to massage the thick thigh muscle, grimacing.
"Are you all right?"
House shrugged. "Think I pulled a muscle last weekend playing tennis. Hurts like a bitch."
"You should have Danner look at it," Wilson said.
"Yeah, I will. Hey, you coming over tonight? I rented Sister Sin and the Nuns of Lust. Very provocative. " He raised both eyebrows, managing to look comic and sexy at the same time. Wilson blushed, laughing nervously.
"Provocative? Are we going to end up necking on the couch or something?" Wilson asked, rattled by the feelings which had been stirred up between them. House didn't say anything, forcing Wilson to cover himself, "Can't. I've got a meeting with the board, two seminars to prepare for and a meeting with my lawyer," Wilson said. "Take care of yourself, Greg," he said softly as he rose. With an apologetic smile Wilson walked away, promising himself as soon as his schedule cleared a bit he would make it a point of dropping in on House.
His schedule didn't get any better. For the next two weeks he barely had time to breathe and saw House only when passing his office. It wasn't until he overheard the newest member of House's team complaining to another doctor that Wilson realized something was wrong. "What was that, Farris?"
Linda Farris looked up, her pretty face paling when she recognized who had addressed her. "Uh, Dr. Wilson! I was just - you see, Dr. House," she floundered for a moment then said simply, "House is being an asshole."
Wilson regarded her for a moment, then asked, "How, specifically?"
"Every thing I say is wrong. He snaps at us for the smallest thing, he's rude and mean and - and I if he wasn't feeling so bad I'd tell him off."
"Feeling so bad?" Wilson asked. "What're you talking about?"
Farris seemed surprised by the question. "I think he said he pulled a muscle. He looks awful, and seems to be in a lot of pain." Her pager when off and Wilson let her go, his mind whirling. House had told him he pulled a muscle three weeks ago, surely this wasn't the same injury. A rising sense of dread filling him, Wilson went in search of his friend.
He found House in his office, eyes squeezed shut, right leg propped up on his desk, and his hand clenching and unclenching the area just above his knee. The soothing sound of jazz filled the dim room but did nothing to dispel the irrational fear which had taken hold of Wilson. "Hey, what's going on?" He stepped closer to the desk, appalled at the sight which greeted him. House's face, under several days growth of beard, had a sickly gray cast, and when he opened his eyes they were red rimmed and glassy.
"Wilson?"
"House?" Alarmed, Wilson hurried to House's side, one hand closing over a thin wrist to feel for his pulse. "What's wrong, Greg?" House shook his head, but Wilson didn't know if it was to clear it or in denial that something was wrong. "You look like shit." The rapid feathery beat beneath his fingers told him something was definitely amiss with the older doctor.
"Feel like it too," House rasped.
"Farris said your leg was still giving you trouble?"
"Got worse- a little while - ago," House admitted. "Danner says - it's just a - strain." He pulled himself up a bit straighter in his chair and the resulting movement to his leg brought an involuntary shout of pain bursting from his lips.
"God, Greg," Wilson said, "This isn't just a pulled muscle!" House's pulse had begun to race and his skin had gone from gray to chalky white. "Hold still, I need to see what's going on here," Wilson ordered and hoped House understood what he was saying. As carefully as he could, Wilson used House's scissors to slit his trousers from cuff to thigh. "Hope no one walks in on this," he joked, "it's going to be hard explaining why I'm in your pants."
"Nah," House wheezed, "happens - to everyone - eventually." His hand shot out, closing over Wilson's wrist as he rode out the pain, "Just don't - let Cuddy find out - she's the jealous - type."
"I'll keep that in mind." Once he had House's leg bare, Wilson did his best to exam it without hurting his friend. There was no sign of injury, but the flesh looked like as lifeless as clay and felt cold to the touch. "Very faint pulse," he said softly, fingers pressed behind House's knee but when he found nothing at the ankle his fear turned to full blown panic. Wilson pulled the desk phone within reach. "Yeah, I need some help in Dr. Gregory House's office, fourth floor," he ordered as calmly as he could. "No, a medical emergency. Thanks." Hanging up the phone, he knelt beside House's chair and brushed a damp strand of hair off the older man's forehead. "Hang in there, Greg."
What felt like hours later, the ER doctor and two nurses swarmed into the room. Wilson answered their questions, telling Dr. Sanders what he'd found. "Blood clot," he said, "has to be there in the thigh." Sanders didn't seem convinced and spent several minutes doing a cursory exam. A crushing wave of helplessness slammed against his chest, making Wilson wrap his arms around himself in mute despair. House looked bad, every time Sanders touched his right leg House gasped, or cursed. Unable to stop himself, Wilson moved in close, prying Greg's hand from where he'd taken a death grip on the edge of his desk and squeezing the strong fingers in his own. "We need to get him downstairs," Sanders said quietly, her expression telling him just how serious the situation had become. She sent one of the nurses for a gurney, and no more than five minutes after he'd called for help, House was on his way to the OR.
"What the hell is going on?" Lisa Cuddy demanded. It took several seconds for Wilson to realize the question had been directed to him. He lifted his head, and saw her lips part in astonishment. "James? Is he - is House alright?"
"I don't know," Wilson whispered. It had been over an hour. He'd paced, drank three cups of weak coffee, and gone over a dozen conversations he should have had with House in his head. He told Cuddy about House complaining of leg pain three weeks earlier, Danner's diagnosis, and finding House nearly unconscious in his office.
"I don't understand," Cuddy was saying, "how the hell did this happen?" Wilson shook his head, too tired to even talk. "Well I'm getting to the bottom of this." Cuddy reached over the nurse's station for a phone, stabbing a series of numbers. Wilson closed his eyes and leaned against the wall. He could still see the fear in Greg's eyes as they loaded him on the gurney for the ride down to the OR.
"What's House's problem now?" Karl Danner asked, sauntering up to where Cuddy and Wilson stood. "He thinks I've got nothing better-"
"You idiot!" Wilson, exhaustion forgotten, lunged towards Danner, his face twisted into a mask of rage. Cuddy cut him off, stepping between the two men and pushing Wilson back. "Why the hell did you tell him he had a pulled muscle?" Wide eyed and red faced, Danner sputtered some excuse, but Wilson didn't hear a word of it. Sanders had pushed open the operating room doors. Later Wilson wasn't sure he'd heard any of what she said either, all he could recall was her grim expression and the sympathetic hand she placed on his arm.
The next few months Wilson found himself careening wildly from depression to elation and back again. House's condition improved steadily for weeks and for a while it looked as if the damage might not be as bad as feared, but soon enough it became obvious the loss of blood flow had permanently crippled him. Wilson did all he could to help, not that House would let him do much, but he made it a point to drop into his friend's room at least once a day and at night he stayed until House fell asleep. For his part, House retreated into anger, taking out his fear and frustration on whoever was handy. Wilson didn't mind, he understood just how much House felt cheated. There were times when he sat in the darkness beside House's bed that the sense of loss hit so hard he had to curl in on himself, jamming his fist against his lips to stifle a scream of pain. In his heart Wilson knew the window of opportunity had slammed shut on them, those nights they had shared, the velvety closeness which had bred such happiness, had fled.
He told himself House would come around, that the rage inside him would cool soon but it didn't. He pushed and House pushed him away. Wilson began spending the lonely nights with one of the emergency room nurses who had helped treat House the night of his infarction. Her name was Marcia and she never complained when he sat staring into the distance for hours or bolted upright in bed, House's name on his lips. He tried to tell Greg about her but House would talk over him, griping about the food or the staff or the long days. Wilson could see the bond between them stretching thin, House's self-pity and impotent fury damaging the fragile threads of their friendship. He couldn't let it happen, every day Greg slipped further away made him more determined to stop him.
Once House had been discharged from the hospital and could get around on his own, Wilson decided it was time to force a change. Absurdly pleased with himself, he left a neighborhood antiques dealer with a smile and a wrapped box beneath his arm and drove over to House's place.
"What the fuck is it?" House demanded. He was stretched out on his couch, a half empty bowl of popcorn balanced on his flat belly, the remote in one hand and a sneer on his lips.
"Well, it was going to be a personality transplant," Wilson said patiently, "but the store said you'd already ordered the Whiny-Cripple-With-A-Side-Order-Of-Snark. Jesus, House, can't you just open it?"
House glared at him but began unwrapping the long, slender package. Wilson threw himself into a chair opposite, watching closely. Sunlight poured in through the large windows, catching on the silver which had recently spread through Greg's brown hair and highlighting the new lines in his face. He'd gained back some of the weight he'd lost while confined to a hospital bed and even gotten a bit of a tan from being outside a while each day. Wilson looked at the crutches lying under the coffee table and the image of House trudging across the parking lot the first day of his release made him smile. He'd never heard some the of the swear word House muttered and suspected they'd been made up for the occasion but the sight of him up and moving had been like Christmas and Hanukah and Fourth of July all rolled into one.
"A cane?" House looked up at him. "You bought me a cane?"
"Yeah," Wilson said, grinning. "Much sexier than crutches." He saw House's eyes soften and a thin smile curl his lips. There. It still existed between them and for a moment the knot of dread lifted from his gut. "You don't want people staring at you when you go back to work."
"Who said I was going back to work?" House asked. Wilson just looked at him. They'd had the argument a million times, starting soon after House came home. He didn't show interest in much but daytime TV and video games, and the under current of self pity was beginning to grate on Wilson's considerable patience.
"No, stay here and watch the View until your brain rots."
House stuck his tongue out at him. His long slender fingers caressed the dark wood, and in an almost dreamy voice he said, "I guess if anyone stares at me I can bash them in the skull with my nifty new cane," House said. "Thanks, Wilson." House hefted the cane experimentally, testing its weight and balance, and as he did a stray shaft of sunlight drifted in, striking the half empty amber bottle of Vicodin House had been prescribed for pain. Wilson went cold inside, the knot of dread returned like a granite stone to the pit of his stomach. Another hurdle? Hadn't they faced enough? How long until they reached that place again, the one where the world had lain open before them and they could see each other clearly? Wilson sighed, shaking his head at House's inquisitive brow. It really didn't matter, did it? However long it took, whatever obstacles they had to overcome, they would. He was in this for the long haul and one look at House's face; the shocked, put-through-hell exterior and the stay-with-me shadow in his eyes, said House was too.
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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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