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Sang-froid
by Adrienne S.
"You got your carpet back," Wilson commented, as he stepped into
House's office. "Does this mean you've stopped taking up space
on mine?"
"God, you're possessive," House replied, going into the outer
office for coffee and, in the process, stepping right across the
slightly faded bloodstain.
"About my own stuff? Damn straight," Wilson said evenly.
"Speaking of which, you owe me a new Zen garden."
"Which is a cheap little toy that you can replace anytime," House
said carelessly.
"No, it's a cheap little toy you can replace immediately," Wilson
shot back, warning clear in his voice. "I can't replace any of
the other things you destroyed, but that you will replace."
"Why? Was it a gift from a long dead, cancer riddled kid?"
House knew immediately that he'd gone too far. He'd not paid a
lot of attention to the assortment of tacky junk on Wilson's desk
when he cleared it so Cameron could sit beside him. He'd been
far more interested in the way Wilson reacted to it. And he
wasn't reacting well.
"No, it was a gift from an insensitive, crippled jackass," Wilson
reminded him. Oh, right. He'd given Wilson the damn thing. It
had shut him up about meditation and New Age mumbo jumbo as a way
to reduce his pain. That had been four, maybe five years ago.
"You're too attached to those sentimental souvenirs anyway,"
House shrugged, making a mental note to replace the stupid garden
as soon as possible. Wilson really did need to have something to
bleed off stress.
"Yeah, right," Wilson scoffed, looked pointedly at the carpet.
House said nothing. Instead, he poured a second cup of coffee
and limped over to hand it to Wilson. Wilson, with a sigh, took
it and sat down in House's office. House sank into his own chair
and regarded his friend. Wilson was staring at a point somewhere
beyond his left shoulder and had an urge to glance over to see
what was so fascinating.
"Cuddy actually bought that whole Asperger's bit?" he asked,
before the silence became uncomfortable. Wilson snorted and took
a sip of coffee.
"Of course not. She did it for me."
"She was taken in by your wit, charm and the fact that you were
willing to pull out the big guns to help me?"
"I was willing to pull out the big guns to get you the hell out
of my office before you trashed it completely," Wilson said
sharply. "Why was getting the carpet back so damned important to
you anyway?"
House didn't exactly want to answer that, but he really, really
didn't want to deal with the first part of that statement.
"Couple of reasons," he said, throwing his head back in an
attempt at nonchalance. "One, I wanted to see how far Cuddy
would go to make up for lying to me." He carefully moved his
eyes to see what kind of reaction this would get from Wilson.
None, as it happened.
"Two, it was fun to drag the kids all over the hospital for
meetings," House admitted. "Chase didn't seem to mind carrying
the whiteboard around, but Foreman was ready to burst a blood
vessel."
"Or brain you with it," Wilson added. "I can relate."
"As for the most important reason..." House got up and motioned
Wilson to where the new carpet had been laid down. There was
still a couple of tiny swatches from the new carpet that hadn't
been tidied up yet.
Wilson followed, although he seemed a little reluctant.
"See, maintenance didn't replace the whole thing. Just the panel
there." House poked at it with his cane. "It's not exactly the
same."
House waited for Wilson to squat and look.
"It's new. You did all that so that the colour would match?"
Wilson squinted up at House.
"Nope. It's not just the colour that doesn't match," House
waited, then watched as Wilson picked up a swatch, fingered it
for a moment, then brushed the flat of his hand over the old
carpet.
"The new carpet is thicker. Not by much, but enough," Wilson
said, eyeing his cane. House knew he got it. "How many times
did you nearly trip over it?"
"Five. The last being a few seconds away from a face plant into
the desk," House replied. Wilson straightened and went to pour
himself a top up on his coffee. Since he hadn't actually drank
much of it, House knew it was a delaying gesture.
"Very practical. You got to annoy Cuddy, your staff and me all
in one day, as well as prevent injuring yourself. Nice." Wilson
sipped at the coffee, leaning against the counter. "Wanna tell
me the real reason why?"
"Wanna tell me the real reason why you keep cheap dollar store
paraphernalia on your desk?" House countered. Oops. He wasn't
going to go there.
"My patients give me things. Little things that mean a lot to
them," Wilson said evenly, with a hard edge to his voice.
"They're kids. The little figurine of a unicorn that I found
under my couch with its horn snapped off probably cost a buck and
a half. To Sally, it was the embodiment of her dreams. The
little stuffed rabbit on my bookshelf was Kyle first and most
beloved toy. I don't keep every toy I get, but I do keep the
ones that are meaningful."
House wanted to say something fantastically insensitive, but
something in Wilson's voice stopped him.
"Keeping them doesn't bring them back," he said instead.
"No, but Cameron was right."
"Sometimes, but what does she have to do with this conversation?"
"She said that when a good person dies, someone should notice.
Someone should care."
"And you're all about the caring." House shook his head. "You
do know that not all of those kids you care so much about were
going to grow up to be good people."
"You don't have to be a grown up to be a good person," Wilson
countered softly. "And it isn't entirely about remembering."
"So what is it about?"
"Hope. Everything on my desk and in my bookshelves is an
embodiment of hope. Kyle's rabbit and Sally's unicorn remind me
that there is always hope and faith. When I lose my own, Kyle
and Sally and all the other bald headed cancer freaks let me have
a little of theirs. I know they do, because they gave theirs to
me in the form of what they loved."
House felt a rush of decidedly mixed feelings. On the one hand,
he'd never heard such sentimental tripe since Helena Poplawski
told him she loved him in the tenth grade. On the other, he
admired Wilson for having the strength and courage to do what he
did. He knew he'd never have enough of either to deal with the
heartbreak that Wilson dealt with every day. If this was his way
of coping; if this was the spin he had to put on his tacky little
collection to do his job, there wasn't any room for his cynicism.
Wilson must have interpreted the expression on his face, since he
gave a smile full of the cynicism that he chose not to express.
"You have your toys, I have mine." Wilson shrugged. "Your
turn."
"And if I tell you I already gave you my reasons?"
"Everybody lies."
House sighed, running a hand across his chin. He could put
Wilson off, but he felt obscurely that he owed Wilson something
for desecrating his little shrines.
"When I came back, I didn't think anything of the carpet.
Frankly, I thought that Cuddy would have replaced it before I got
back."
"She tried. However, since maintenance still hasn't fixed the
soap dispensers in the third floor men's room..." Wilson let
that trail off.
"After three and a half years?" House raised an eyebrow. Wilson
raised his as well, so he declined to go off on a tangent. "I
was shocked when I saw it. After a week, I kinda got used to it.
After ten days, I started to like it. I was walking and pain
free and it started to become a symbol." House gave himself a
moment to think about the first time he'd really looked at it.
It had, weirdly enough, exhilarated him. He'd survived. Here
was concrete proof that Gregory House had survived. Not only
survived, but had become stronger and better.
God, maybe he was as attached to sentimental tripe as Wilson was.
"You remember when I told you I was looking for meaning?" House
eyed Wilson ruefully. "You find it in idolising the trinkets
your kids give you. I found it there." He thumped his cane on
the spot of his own blood.
Wilson looked hurt, so he hastened to explain.
"The toys in and of themselves mean nothing," he said bluntly.
"And the itself carpet doesn't matter. I had my fun, but a
couple of weeks from now, the carpet will be worn down enough to
keep me from becoming up close and personal with the fax machine.
What matters is knowing I could have died and didn't. Especially
after the pain came back. No matter how bad it is, all I have to
do is look at that and remember that I could be dead. And that I
don't want to be."
"Your scars aren't reminder enough?" Wilson asked softly, after
a moment. Again, Wilson got it.
"They're not in front of my face."
"And you never look at them anyway," Wilson added.
They stood there in silence for a while, until House couldn't
stand it.
"I guess it was pretty stressful to have my department use your
office as a meeting room," House said, in a deliberately light
tone. "I think I'm gonna have to get you one of those little Zen
gardens. Y'know, to give you something to meditate with."
"In the meantime, I can replay that little embarrassed wave
Foreman gave when I caught you guys in my office the first time,"
Wilson replied, with a tiny smile. "That was amusing."
House smiled back. Yeah, Wilson was an interfering, meddling,
manipulative son of a bitch. But he was worth it. It took a
while sometimes, but he got it.
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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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