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Nine to Five
by March Hare
An Enneagram Five/Nine pair gives each other a great deal of personal and emotional space for activities and for doing things on their own. Neither one would hover or intrude on the other, although the capacity for a healthy emotional connection and interest in each other is still present. This pair is characterized by a sense of quiet, non-intrusiveness, spaciousness, and respect for each other's boundaries, work, and individuality.
**
House was in his office, sitting in the chair behind his desk, playing his Gameboy. This was not strange in itself, but what was a little odd was the fact that Wilson was also in House's office, sitting in the chair across from the desk, tossing House's oversized tennis ball from hand to hand. It was the silence that was the most noticeable; Wilson had entered the office about ten minutes earlier, sat down and reached for the tennis ball. House never so much as raised his head in acknowledgement of his only friend, bent in full concentration as he destroyed pixilated space monkeys with the ease of long practice, and the minutes flowed by without a word passed between them.
Cameron thought it was eerie, and said as much to her fellows as they sat in the conference room. Both of them shrugged, Foreman's the brusque shrug of who gives a shit? as he returned to his medical journal, Chase's the more eloquent one-shouldered shrug of it's just House and Wilson, they're always like that, and by the way, what's an eight-letter word for `try out'? Thwarted in her attempt at gossip, Cameron gave a put-upon sigh and returned to sorting the mail.
Back in the office, House's digital avatar exploded in a burst of 8-bit glory, the tinny music announcing to all and sundry that space monkeys were not to be trifled with. He glanced up from the game, catching Wilson with his head thrown back, trying to balance the tennis ball in the groove between his eyebrows with the intense concentration of a particularly faithful Labrador. "Nice trick, Sparky," House quipped with a smile. "Just a few more months and you'll be ready for the pedigree tourney. Still remember how to bark `Jingle Bells'?"
Startled, the ball dropped into Wilson's lap and he saw House's smile and raised him a cheeky grin. "I can do `Yellow Rose of Texas,' too," Wilson said with amused chagrin.
"That's worth a bowl of kibble," House proclaimed, reaching for his cane and pushing himself to his feet. "Lunch?" Wilson did not extend a hand to help House up, but did hold the door for him as they made their way to the cafeteria, walking shoulder to shoulder in the same comfortable silence.
**
Nines are undemanding and uncritical. Nines are the more emotional of the two types, but even so, Nines do not always know what they are feeling or how to express themselves adequately. They appreciate the Five's ability to be curious about them and to draw them out of the kind of "inner fuzziness" that Nines can get into. Nines appreciate the Five's intellectual sharpness, ability to ask the right questions, to remember things, to be objective, and their patience.
**
The closest Wilson could come to an analogy was water.
It felt, as he walked out onto his balcony and leaned heavily on his elbows, propping them up on the balustrade, as if some nameless entity had poured a cauldron of water directly into his chest cavity. His lungs ached as if compressed, his heart was a soggy dead weight in his chest, and he swallowed convulsively around the lump in his throat as he dug shaking fingers in between the cloth of his tie and the skin of his neck, loosening the knot in a last-ditch bid for air. What little air he succeeded in drawing was thick and humid, a summer thunderstorm building in the dark dusk clouds above him, threatening rain like the lead pipe of a kneecapping thug.
Wilson was positive that the lack of oxygen was affecting his mental processes, because his mind was spinning and whirling, any single coherent thought always dancing just out of his reach. He lowered his head and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to focus, just long enough to calm down and take a deep breath...
"Wilson!"
The call from the other side of the wall was enough to snap his head up, the sudden altitude change leaving him dizzy as he listed to one side. It was just for a moment, only a second, really, but the realm of the second and the moment was never beyond the grasp of Gregory House. "Wilson," he said again, quieter but just as firmly. "What's wrong?"
"Wrong?" The word coughed its way out of Wilson's mouth like some guttural Germanic curse, unknown but still vaguely improper. "What makes you think, I mean... I'm fine." Wilson was usually an excellent liar, a skill honed through three marriages and a far greater tally of girlfriends and affairs, but the lighthouse beacon in House's eyes demanded the truth from the drowning man. "I mean, I don't know," he began, unable to find the saving phrases, the perfect words to both explain and exorcise this feeling of sinking. "I was fine, it was all just fine this morning, and then... things happened and it's just... I can't put my finger on it, but I-"
"Julie's been contesting the terms of the divorce," House interrupted. Wilson flinched and fell silent, resisting the urge to look behind him, through the glass door to his office where the incriminating legal documents sat innocently on a stack of files. "You lost two long-time patients today, and delivered at least as many death sentences." Wilson bared his teeth in what might have been a smile of chagrin, unsurprised that House would both snoop through his daily agenda and gossip with the oncology staff just to keep tabs on him. "You've recently started a relationship with your best friend, who just happens to be an immature, manipulative bastard. And on top of everything else, he's a male immature manipulative bastard, so we may as well tack crisis of sexual identity on there, too." House swung his cane up over his shoulders and braced it with both hands, his grin wide with shared amusement. "God, Wilson, your life sucks!"
Yes, that was it. That was exactly it. The water drained away and Wilson took a breath at last, equilibrium restored thanks to House's clever efforts at damming the flood. A compartment here, a division there, and the entire maelstrom of Wilson's churning mental angst separated into tidy pools. Calmer, Wilson clambered ungracefully over the wall to the Diagnostics side as House returned his cane to terra firma, but not before prodding Wilson in the shoulder with it.
"Feed me, Seymour," House proclaimed. "Thai, preferably. You're paying."
"So are you," Wilson replied easily, or at least more easily than fifteen minutes before. At House's raised eyebrow, he clarified. "Oh, don't worry. Not with money."
That got him both eyebrows raised and an expectantly lecherous smile. Wilson knew that it was the closest thing to a "thank you" House would accept, and besides, he figured that they'd both get more out of it this way.
**
Fives appreciate Nine's warmth-- and when there is a real personal or sexual connection between them-- their nurturing qualities. Fives usually feel dry and cut off from emotional sustenance; if they find this in someone, it is likely to be a Nine who can offer unquestioned acceptance, sensual comfort, and tenderness. Nines often make Fives relax- deeply and completely, something Fives very much need.
**
"You know, I never took you for a cuddler."
"M' not."
"I'd call you a liar, but the seating arrangement kind of speaks for itself."
"M' not. You are."
"Oh, so this is all because of some grand sacrifice on your part?"
"Mm-hm. Now shut up."
Wilson fell silent with a knowing grin, wrapping his arm more firmly around House's midsection and letting the knuckles of his other hand brush gently against the other's graying temple.
They were sitting on the couch. Or rather, Wilson was sitting on the couch, his back comfortably wedged into a corner of it. House was, more or less, sitting on Wilson, his back comfortably wedged against Wilson's chest, his long legs commandeering the majority of the couch, his head nestled sans vertebrae into the junction of Wilson's neck and shoulder. A TCM Hitchcock movie marathon was playing on the TV, and the rib-sticking aroma of beef-and-tomato stew wafted in from the slow cooker in the kitchen. The rain, which had begun two nights before and showed no signs of retreat, tapped softly but relentlessly on the windowpanes.
Wilson said nothing, but instead let Cary Grant fill the silence as he searched the hotel room of the fictitious Mr. Kaplan. He wasn't really listening in any case; House's slow, deep breathing provided much more interesting audio stimulus than dialogue he had heard countless times before. Taking in the form of his lover, Wilson took a great deal of proprietary pride in the limp, boneless, near-comatose sprawl House had achieved. He was positive that more than a few people at the hospital, if confronted with the sight of prickly Dr. House reclining without a shred of stress in the arms of another human being, would be looking for the number for the X-Files to report the presence of a pod person.
Wilson pressed a gentle kiss into House's thinning hair and smiled with satisfaction. He had no delusions about House, never entertaining the idea that House was somehow a different man with him. No, House was still very much himself; he was just more of himself. The rest of the world saw the angry, crippled, brilliant bastard, which indeed made up a regrettably large part of him. However, only Wilson was able to see the angry, crippled, brilliant bastard that loved him with all that remained of his heart. They saw what House let them see, but only Wilson saw it all.
"House," he whispered to the object of his thoughts. "House, the food's probably ready. We should-"
He was cut off by a slight shift and a low-level snore; House was fast asleep. Wilson raised his free hand to prod his lover into wakefulness, but after a moment's pause joined it to the other arm around House's middle, settling deeper into the cushions and returning his attention to the movie. He wasn't especially hungry, and stew always tasted better the next day anyway.
**
Both types have an intellectual component and if they are more or less on an intellectual par with each other, they can be a powerful and stimulating couple: the pungent wit of the Five is softened by the droll understatement of the Nine. Both appreciate the irrational and the absurd, although Fives dig far deeper into the dark areas of life than Nines. This pair can be a case of two people initiating the other into very different world views: the idealism and the realism, the sunlight and the darkness both have a place here.
**
"I just can't understand you this time."
House pulled an overly exaggerated look of surprise as the elevator continued to climb, eyes goldfish wide, his entire face seeming to stutter. "Wow. That's what's bothering you? I thought that was kind of the norm at this point."
A blatant lie, and they both knew it; Wilson had earned his doctorate in Houseology years ago and was currently the best and the brightest in his highly specialized field. If he couldn't understand House, it was likely that no one, perhaps not even House himself, could comprehend the arcane movements of his mental cogs and gears. "You love to shock people. You thrive on it. You say appalling things, spread the most outrageous rumors just to get a rise out of your target."
"Buttons exist to be pushed," House said breezily, "whether they belong to people or Playstations." The elevator doors dinged open and House hustled into the corridor, not slowing even as he craned his head back to look at Wilson. "Unless it's one of those end-of-the-world deals. I may be self-destructive, but there are lines that even I won't cross."
"I'm surprised that such a line even exists." Refusing to be dismissed, Wilson fell into step with House as they headed towards Diagnostics, clinging tenaciously to his topic. "But I still don't get your problem. There's no prohibiting policy for relationships between equal colleagues, and I'm not sure about you, but I'm running out of excuses for avoiding date offers. I want to tell people about this, about us, even if it's just to get the nurses off my case."
"Just for that?" House's smile was sly, but his eyes were thoughtful.
Wilson paused outside of the fishbowl that was the conference room, hands stuffed into white pockets in a display of mock-carelessness. House wasn't the only one who could push the right buttons. "If I thought you'd believe me, I'd say that I want to tell people because I love you, and I consider it a prize indeed that the feeling is returned, but since you won't believe that, I'm going with the nurse explanation." Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked into the conference room.
House stood rooted in place for about half a second before allowing himself a small smile and following, the warm feeling in his chest (that he would deny to his dying day) spreading to his extremities. Wilson made a beeline for the coffeepot, not acknowledging the three fellows crowded around the computer in the corner of the office. In all fairness, however, they did not notice him either, all of them reading something on the screen intently.
"That's amazing!" Chase exclaimed suddenly, nudging Cameron on the shoulder as she sat in the computer chair. "Out of the way, I want to try!"
The sound of a cane coming down hard on the tabletop made two out of the three doctors jump; Foreman just lifted his head and made the eyebrow of doom in response. "Dare I even ask?" House said, half to himself, half to Wilson and half to his team. Wilson, perched in the corner by the coffeepot, smiled into his borrowed mug.
"It's an enneagram test," Cameron explained, taking off her glasses. "For evaluating personalities. You answer only two questions and it gives you a personality profile. It's really accurate."
"Uh-huh." House frowned in a parody of deep thought. "And you're doing this instead of finding me a case... why?"
"Wait a minute," Foreman replied, "you can goof off with your video games all you want, but we-"
House held up a hand a la traffic cop and made a prohibitive noise. "Ah! Come back and say that again when you have a double specialty, a department of your own and more brains than the Jeopardy Hall of Fame. Sexy cane is optional, of course. In the meantime, be good little minions and go find me an interesting case."
Ill humor hovering over them like rain clouds, the three juniors departed in more or less single file, Wilson bringing up the rear, stolen coffee mug still in hand. "Chase made the coffee today," he called before exiting the office.
House's mood brightened a bit as he limped to the coffeepot and poured the life-giving brew into his cherished red mug. Chase's coffee boded well in House's expectations; intensivists appreciated the value of a quality cup more so than other specialties. Taking an experimental sip, he pronounced it more drinkable than otherwise and took it out onto the balcony, ignoring the summer heat in favor of the breeze, and started to count.
Wilson must have been walking briskly, for it only took one hundred and ninety-six of the usual two hundred and fifteen seconds Wilson needed to walk from the conference room to his own office. He joined House on the balcony, his lab coat mysteriously relocated, with the brick wall between them like an elderly and easily-duped chaperone. "You know," House said between sips, "it would have been a lot easier to go over the wall."
"I'd get my slacks dirty," came the prim response as Wilson set his mug on the balustrade and set to unbuttoning the cuffs of his dress shirt, rolling his crisp sleeve to the elbow in precise folds.
Silence descended between the two men as they enjoyed the sunshine, but the specter of their conversation hovered in their midst, biding its time, waiting for just the right conditions to mutate into a full-scale, shouting, stony-silenced fight. House was never one to cut his losses and retreat from the field of battle, but in this instance, the stakes were precariously high: should a fight break out, Wilson would no doubt fortify himself on the couch at night, or worse still, a hotel room. The estimated damage to his newly-resurrected sex life was more than even a seasoned general such as House could stand. The time had come to make concessions. To talk.
"I may be self-destructive," House announced without so much as a warning salvo, "but I don't like taking other people down with me. Not when they don't deserve it." He thumped his cane on the concrete of the balcony floor, suddenly wishing for twilight. The sun was suddenly far too bright and incisive, and even such a cloaked verbal admission left him feeling shaky.
However, House was reminded once again of why he loved Wilson so, for the other man picked up the thread without blinking. "You think I would be ostracized? Over something like this? House, I've worked with some of the people in this hospital for years; my department loves me. Hell, the Board will probably think that I've domesticated you and give me a cash reward!" He snorted into his coffee. "I will expect you to behave until the money's gone. After that, it's business as usual."
Time to bring out the big guns. "Wilson, I'm serious." Wilson's smile faltered and faded. "You think that everyone in this hospital is queer-friendly? You think that nothing will change? People are weak, Wilson. You saw it during the reign of He-Who-Is-Slightly-More-Evil-Than-Cuddy, and I guarantee that if you make an announcement of this, you'll see it again. All it takes is one asshole and a few choice words, and everyone else just falls in line."
Wilson pondered the depths of his coffee mug, frowning, as if the solution to his dilemma was hiding inside. Unpleasant memories of Vogler stirred up even more unpleasant feelings of public shame and betrayal. "I'm not ashamed of what we have, House," he finally said, not looking up at the other man.
"Neither am I," House said flippantly. "If I could, I'd get `Property of James Wilson' tattooed on my ass and moon the entire Board of Directors." Wilson couldn't help snickering quietly at the thought. "But I'm not on the Board of Directors, Jimmy," House continued, more seriously. "I'm not on the transplant committee. And definitely not the keynote speaker at the biggest annual oncology conference on the Eastern Seaboard."
Wilson's smile grew rueful. House was right. Of course he was right, but that knowledge didn't extinguish the small ember of hope that one day, even if they were older and grayer and both using canes by that point, Wilson could tell the world just how much he loved this arrogant, caustic, wonderful bastard. But for now, he could only change the subject. "What's an enneagram test?"
"One of those psychobabble evaluations that claim to organize every person into a certain category." House paused to sip at his mug, as if the previous conversation had never existed. "Load of crap, of course. The idea that you can compartmentalize each individual moron and trying to predict how they would interact with each other! It disregards the entire idea of nurture as a developing factor. What a crock."
Wilson grinned into his coffee again. "Yeah, you're probably right."
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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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