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Certain
by Treacle_A
Wilson knows the exact moment he became certain. If he was the sort of guy who kept a journal, he guesses he would have ringed the day - red marker pen and maybe even some asterisks to add emphasis - but, as it was, he merely made a mental note
"House definitely in love."
In retrospect there had been a significant number of other tells that, thick-skinned as he had become and resistance to his friend's many caprices, he had failed to notice. House had been noticeably more agitated of late, even quicker to anger than usual and, if he had ever bothered to wonder at the cause, he might well have noticed that the subject of his wrath was - with almost unerring regularity - Allison Cameron.
"I swear to God, I think she honestly believes she can make the world 'a better place'. It's like working with Mother fucking Theresa."
"Motherfucking Theresa?"
A baleful look over the crust of his sandwich, "She's unbearable. How the hell am I ever supposed to get anything done when she insists on questioning every decision I make?"
"Uh...you could always lie to her?"
A snort and his eyes move down to stare venomously at the corned beef protruding from the two slices of rye,
"What the hell do you think I've been trying to do for the last three years."
Yes, in retrospect, he had been an idiot not to notice sooner. House's anger had, for as long as he could remember, been of a very specific pitch and tone: a low, volcanic rumbling that, only very occasionally, erupted into fire and flying lava. It was an anger fueled by bitterness and years of internalised emotion and, as such, was fairly predictable. This new anger though, this was something else entirely. It was almost exuberant.
"Did you see what she did to my files?!! How the hell am i supposed to find anything!!!?"
Monday morning found him ankle deep in a snowstorm of paperwork, his cane slipping treacherously on a pile of lever-arch files.
"She left them all over the floor like this?"
"What?" He makes a channel through the center, dividing the manilla sea, and glares at him, "No you idiot, I put them on the floor. She had re-filed them all by date order. It's insane. How the hell am I supposed to remember what year I treated a patient?? She might as well file them by name..."
"How were they filed?"
His expression is incredulous, "By illness of course. How the hell else?"
She - Cameron - of course, is far more of an enigma. Sometimes he feels as if he knows her well, as if, at some point, their friendship may seamlessly graduate from mutual fondness to a deeply empathetic understanding, but then she will say something he finds utterly bewildering and he realises that he may never truly understand her.
She is a strange and intriguing mix of qualities: physically beautiful and yet painfully self-conscious, awkward and confident, warm and kind-hearted but withdrawing into cold, implacable silences. Wilson has learned how to speak to her when she is angry, just as he has learned not to try and smooth things over by explaining House's behaviour.
"Don't make excuses for him."
"I would never..."
"He's an ass."
"Hey, you won't hear any argument from me."
Her face is pale and furious as she jams papers back into the file drawer: shadows under her eyelids and knuckles white. Standing back, out of range of the fallout, Wilson keeps his arms crossed and his back to the door. If House's anger is volcanic, Cameron's is glacial. Both are equally as dangerous if he gets in their way.
"He thinks...he thinks his is the only way. As if no-one else's opinion even registers..."
"They register, Allison...he's just..."
"...he's just too much of a self-obsessed jerk to concede that someone else might have a valid point."
The fact that she is in love with him is less a revelation of course, than a constant source of amazement. Not that House is incapable of inspiring affection in women - Wilson can name at least three women in the last two decades alone who had fallen under his machiavellian spell - but for the emotion to last for so long and gain in intensity was almost unprecedented. Almost, but not quite.
Stacy and Allison. They had very little in common that he could tell, save the hair colour and stature, and yet something drew House closer to them that it had to any of the others. Something they both had that he needed. Something that made him ready to risk burning himself again. The elusive X-factor eluded Wilson for the longest time, until the day he realised that the solution, just like one of House's diagnoses, didn't always have to be one answer.
"She's driving me crazy."
House's fingers temple over a tumbler of scotch as he hunches on the bar stool. He is at his side when he finally believes it. When he finally knows the truth without a doubt.
"Because you love her."
He says it matter-of-factly enough, knowing the reaction will be next to nothing. A narrowing of the eyes, a deeper furrowing of the brow. Taking another swallow from his glass, his friend places it back on the coaster, turns it slowly by 360.
"She's like a parasite. It's like she's...attached herself to me and wont let go. Like she's...found a way to burrow under the skin."
"Heartwarming mental picture, " he takes a sip from his own drink. "Really. You should think about selling that to Hallmark."
House grunts, a low sour sound, that borders on a laugh but doesn't quite make it. Shifting his weight back in his seat, he reaches down to finger the handle of his cane, frowns deeper.
"She loves me too," he says. Touches the rim of his glass with a finger. Traces it. "I just wish to hell I could figure out why."
It's raining outside and the place is nearly deserted. It's gone midnight, so it's even more of a surprise when he hears the door open, sees the slight shadow in the overcoat that slides inside. Cameron's hair is soaked, wet strands sticking to her cheeks like black tendrils, and her pale lips are parted as she steps towards them.
"Hey."
He smiles at her, awkwardly, and she returns it, her eyes grateful.
"Hey," a pause and then, softly, "You two been here long?"
He inclines his head. Beside him, House is motionless, his shoulders pushed forward over the bar, his expression unreadable.
"A while," Wilson says, and sighs. A small, weary sigh. "I'm sorry. I would have called you but..."
"But...I told him not to."
House lifts his glass and drains it, before dropping it unceremoniously on the bar. Watching Cameron's face, Wilson sees the shadow that passes over it, sees the barely concealed pain. She pauses and then, reaching a hand out hesitantly, she lays it on House's back, palm open. Her eyelashes lower and, for a moment, it's like he isn't even here, like he's the one that doesn't register.
He sees House's eyes close. Her hand is on the back of his neck, fingers curving softly, behind his ear, down to his throat. She steps against him and her arms slide silently around his sides.
"Please come home," she says.
He hears him sigh. Sees the slow, uncertain movement of his head as he turns and finds her eyes, the long silent look that passes between them before he find her lips with his own. As they part, he has to look away because to watch them together like this always feels like voyeurism. Like something no-one should experience by proxy.
He stands and lifts his coat from the seat, and they both turn to him: one face open, one guarded, but both sharing the same emotion. She smiles at him, one hand still on his friend's shoulder, and, although her eyes are tired, her face glows.
"You need a lift home? The car's..."
"It's OK, I'll get a cab."
"Are you sure?"
A small movement. House's fingers slide through her's and he sees Cameron look down at him, her lips curving softly as he traces the bones, studies her knuckles. He watches as his friend raises his head, and the look he sees pass between them again makes his heart ache. Makes him both hopeful and desperately lonely at the time. Makes him long for something he's only just remembered is possible.
"I'm certain," he says.
FIN
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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 NBC/Universal, 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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