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God Complex
by nem
Title: God Complex
Author: nem
Rating: all ages
Summary: House never backs down from a challenge.
Disclaimer: Hey, I'm no thief. Borrower only.
Author's note: This is my first fic ever, so I would love some feedback. I apologize for the lack of beta, but I didn't know anyone to ask.
He was not one to back down from a challenge. Not if he could help it. But how to meet this particular challenge?
He banged on Wilson's door. Why was the damn thing locked, anyway? Finally, his friend answered.
"What do you want?"
"I have to want something? Can't just stop by to say hi to my bestest buddy?"
"Yes, generally speaking, you do. What is it?"
House sighed. "Have you seen Cuddy? I need to perform a highly illegal procedure, and I don't want her popping up unexpectedly. She's not in her office-she go home early?"
"I have no idea," Wilson replied, as he moved to close the door.
"Why so antisocial? People will start to get us confused if you don't snap out of it." Now that he was looking closely, he began to think his friend had been crying.
"Patient died. I'm sure I'll be back to my regular gregarious self by tomorrow, so your turf is all yours."
"How can you still be getting bent out of shape over those annoying...I mean brave, bald-headed, dying kids? You'd think by now you'd at least be used to it."
"You're just uncomfortable because I'm showing some emotion. You get uncomfortable when someone's better at something than you. So if you just go away, I can deal with this in peace and you won't have to have your superiority threatened anymore." With that, Wilson closed his door.
Bah. Who says he couldn't show emotion? Just because he'd never really done it didn't mean he wasn't capable. He was Greg House, he could do anything. He'd just never wanted to show emotion before. Now that he had a reason, of course he could do it.
He rushed into the Diagnostics conference room to find his entire staff sitting around the conference table looking slightly bored.
"Well?"
"Well...we sort of ran into a snag," Chase said, seemingly to his hands, which were folded on the table.
"Did your snag have perky breasts and a tight skirt? Have I taught you nothing? Lesson one-never get caught by Cuddy!"
"We couldn't help it, she was staked out in the MRI room and wasn't budging. What were we supposed to do?" Cameron demanded. House could tell she was somewhat relieved at having a good excuse not to break the rules yet again.
"Oh, I don't know...lure her away?
"I wouldn't have fallen for it," Cuddy called from the doorway.
"All I'd have had to do was look at you with bedroom eyes," House turned, and waggled his eyebrows.
"House, do I look happy to see you? You can't give this guy an MRI!"
"Your mouth says no, but your nipples say yes."
"No, House, that's just your cold, cold heart chilling the room." She turned to leave, and just before the door closed, shouted, "No MRI, not without his consent!"
So now he was being accused of not even having emotions? This would not be borne.
"You heard the matriarch, go get his consent." The ducklings stared. Hadn't they been down this road? "Now! If he's tough enough for prison tats, he's tough enough to have them ripped out of his skin."
"What? You don't even have a reason to suspect he's been in prison," Foreman relatiated.
"You obviously do not know the meaning of 'patient history' ." He waved a file they'd never seen. "Don't worry, it's completely irrelevant. But man, I love finding out things I'm not supposed to know," House said as he faked giddiness.
They filed out of the conference room, defeated.
Now then...what could he do to show Wilson that he was perfectly capable of expressing his feelings? More importantly, what in the world was he going to try to express? How much he hated his father? How confused he was about having pushed Stacy away, just when he had her back within his grasp? How hurt he was that Wilson had never told him about his brother?
"House."
"Dr. House?"
He looked up to see Cameron standing at the door. "Why aren't you busy doing an MRI?"
"He's got a new symptom. He was seizing. Thought you'd want to know."
"What I want is for my employees to do as I say. MRI? Ringing any bells?" She spun around and left in a huff.
Why doesn't expressing anger count? Or frustration, or irritation? He did that everyday, but all that got him was exasperated looks from his friend. He'd show him. Just as soon as he'd figured out what to show him.
He limped over to the white board to add "seizure" to the list of symptoms. He looked at the list and squinted. Short-term memory loss, sudden food allergy, fatigue, seizure. When you added in the prison tattoos... "How could I have missed this?" he murmured, as he hastily dropped the marker and headed toward the MRI room.
He got there just as Foreman was wheeling the gurney into the room. "What now?" his expression seemed to say.
"Bring him back to his room. MRI's not necessary."
"Haven't we been telling you that all along?" Foreman asked.
"Heavy metal toxicity." The ducklings seemed to consider and decide that it really did make perfect sense, even if the presentation hadn't been totally standard.
"Well? Are you going to treat him before he dies, or just stand there with your heads tilted at angles, which, while oh-so-cute, will probably give you permanent cricks if you maintain them much longer?"
His staff scampered away to start treatment.
Maybe he could express to Wilson how stupid he felt when he missed such obvious diagnoses. No, Wilson knew that already. He needed something better. He stared back to his office, trying to think.
He sat heavily in his desk chair and picked up his yo-yo. After half an hour or so of playing with his toy, he extracted himself from his chair and opened the door to the balcony. He swung his legs over the low wall separating his balcony from Wilson's, and didn't hit the ground quite right on the other side.
"Christ!" he hissed through clenched teeth. He sat on the wall and hung his head for a moment. He dry-swallowed a Vicoden and gave it a minute to take effect. House looked up to find Wilson giving him a quizzical look from behind his desk. He quickly crossed to Wilson's door and entered the oncologist's office.
"You still falling apart over Tiny Tim?" House asked, wasting no time.
"Melissa. And no, I was never falling apart over her, just grieving for a little while. Some people do that, you know."
"Look, I came to tell you...I just wanted to say. Um. That I don't think I would have made it without you. After the, you know, the thing. And after Stacy left. And all that."
"House? Are you okay? Are you feeling sick, or, I don't know, possessed?"
"Just proving I'm capable of anything, even girly, Wilson-y things like showing emotion." House seemed pleased with himself.
"You call that expressing emotion? You don't even know what emotion you were trying to express!"
House was beginning to look unsure. "Well, you know what I meant. You get the gist." He headed for the door, mission accomplished. Sort of.
"House."
He stopped, his back still turned to his friend.
"I love you, 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 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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