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A Friend In Need
by Topaz Eyes
Author's Note: Many many thanks to joe_pike_junior for helping whip this into shape! Also thanks to bironic and elynittria for concrit.
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When House met Wilson for lunch in the cafeteria, Wilson was just turning to the obituary section in the newspaper.
Wilson scanned the local obits as a matter of course, noting which of his former patients had passed on. It wasn't uncommon to see a listing for at least one former patient a month. He was, after all, a cancer specialist in one of the busiest oncology units in the nation. Cancer was still the second leading killer in the country; all too frequently the patient who sat in front of him was a book already written, in which he was a minor character for perhaps the final chapter or two. He did what he could in these times. And later, he would generally carve out a couple of minutes in a week, at coffee or lunch, to learn the rest of the patient's story.
House, of course, mocked him mercilessly about it. Wilson could count on one hand the number of death notices he'd seen for House's patients in the past couple of years. It helped that House's caseload was perhaps four or five a month, while Wilson saw that many patients in a day, and frequently more, just in his oncology practice. Then, as department head, he reviewed the charts for three and four times that number daily. Not that Wilson begrudged House at all. He'd chosen to be an oncologist. And he was a realist; he knew the odds for his sickest Stage IV patients. The successes balanced the failures though, so he'd learned to take House's sarcastic references to obituaries as life's Cole's Notes in stride.
Today was no exception when House met Wilson at their table. "Looking for your own in there?" he asked, poking the paper in Wilson's hands with his cane. The newspaper slid down Wilson's lap and crumpled onto the floor.
If there were other reasons Wilson read the death notices, he wouldn't admit them, not even to House. He simply looked up with a bland smile. "Actually, I'm looking for yours to show up one of these days."
House sat down across from him with a smirk, coffee sloshing over his cup onto the standard-issue brown tray. "Nothing to worry about there. I am as fit as the proverbial fiddle."
Wilson rolled his eyes. "I'm surprised you don't just put one in there and disappear altogether. Fake your death and live in Tahiti."
House regarded him with a pensive expression. "Hmm, enter the Cuddy protection program? That's--surprisingly resourceful of you, Wilson. And devious. But you'd miss me too much. Who would steal your chips?" House snatched the whole bag off Wilson's tray to make his point.
"Actually, it might not be such a bad idea. I wouldn't go hungry so often," Wilson countered, leaning over the table to reclaim them.
House pulled the bag back out of his reach. "Someone's got to watch your girlish figure." House pulled out a handful of Baked Lay's and stuffed them in his mouth as Wilson looked on in benign disgust.
"You know these things will just go straight to your hips," House added, spraying crumbs as he spoke. "Then you'll keel over and end up with a couple inches in the paper. Just trying to save you from that fate."
Wilson grinned, amused at the sight of House talking around the half-chewed bolus. "Or you could choke to death by trying to talk with too much of my food in your mouth. Also ending up with one inch in the obit column."
House swallowed forcefully. "But that's the advantage of sitting in a cafeteria full of medical staff. Everyone knows the Heimlich." He raised the bag of chips and tipped several more in.
Wilson shrugged but did not reply. It was a given that no one would willingly lift a finger to help if House choked, so why state the obvious? Instead he bent over and retrieved the paper from the floor. Smoothing out the creases on the Formica tabletop, he opened it to the back pages, scanning the names.
House frowned at him, waiting for the expected retort, but soon shook his head when he realized that Wilson was not going to take the bait. He pushed the mouthful of crushed chip-mash around his mouth thoughtfully as he watched Wilson pore over the fine print. He knew full well why Wilson was an obit junkie. Oncology had nothing to do with it.
Wilson suddenly froze in mid-scan.
House frowned at him, instantly alert, and studied Wilson closely. Wilson blinked once, twice, his face slack; then he furrowed his brow and leaned in, his eyes sweeping rapidly. His lips moved, forming the words "Oh, God," but no sound came out. He stared down at the paper for a full minute, his features moving from blank to stricken.
When Wilson looked up again, his eyes stood out in bleak contrast to the paleness of his face.
Damn. It had finally happened. House reached out with one hand. "Wilson--"
Wilson stood so fast that his chair clattered to the floor behind him. A few patrons at the surrounding tables turned their heads at the metallic clang of steel hitting concrete.
Before House could move any further, Wilson brushed him off, turned on his heel and strode away without a word.
House watched Wilson's rapidly retreating back, his brow furrowed; then he pulled the paper towards him and flipped it around to read. His eyebrows shot up in recognition at one name about halfway down the page. House scanned through the obit quickly, noting the particulars.
Not whom he was expecting, but it was close enough.
He levered himself up from his own chair with a definite hiss, and took off in the direction Wilson had fled, as fast as he could; back towards their offices, the paper folded up haphazardly under his arm.
As he expected, Wilson's hallway entrance door was locked.
"Wilson!" House shouted. "WILSON!"
There was no answer. Wilson's reception area entrance was also locked, his assistant at lunch. House cursed under his breath then headed back to his own office.
Cameron and Chase looked up from the files spread on the conference table as House barged through the glass door. Cameron removed her glasses. "House, the patient's past labs showed a level of--"
"Sorry, can't talk," House snapped, pushing through the door to his inner office. "Got to comfort a sick friend."
Chase rolled his eyes. "The labs don't match--" he called after him.
"Then repeat them and take the best two out of three." House was already loping out onto the balcony. He hopped the low wall separating his balcony from Wilson's.
At the patio door he hesitated, his fingertips brushing the pane. Through the glass, he saw Wilson sitting on his couch, his head bowed and hands clasped together between his knees. His bangs are too long, House thought incongruously, and his face is too thin. He thought he saw a faint tremor in Wilson's jaw.
They'd fought over Grace once. In hindsight, House knew he shouldn't have been surprised that Wilson had been staying with her. Forget emotional vampirism: if neediness were a flame, Wilson was its obedient moth.
He'd been pushing Wilson to move out anyway. He hadn't figured he'd pushed Wilson straight into Grace's arms. He'd actually felt guilty that Wilson had to lie about it. Enough to recognize it could have cost him their friendship. Of course, they'd exchanged more dangerous lies since then, lies that made Grace look like a cakewalk. They'd managed to survive those, too. Not without fallout though. Fallout enough to owe Wilson some concession anyway.
And here was the end of Grace's story staring him in the face. Perhaps right now might be a start.
House slid his hand down to the handle and pulled. The door, unlocked, opened easily. He stepped inside, letting the cool air in, casting the office into shadow. He waved the paper in his hand.
"You left the paper on the table," he commented.
Wilson didn't look up. "Go away, House," he said dully.
"You should be grateful I saved it. Otherwise Chase would have nabbed the crossword and Foreman would've taken the Sudoku."
"Do you have a point?"
"Between them they would have destroyed the obit section."
Wilson squeezed his hands together so tight his knuckles blanched. "What do you care?"
House leaned on his cane. "At least she died in Florence. Happy."
Wilson looked up briefly at the oddly sombre note in House's voice, his face a mask of misery, then glanced away. "Did you ever think that maybe I wanted some--some time alone to think?"
House stumped over to the couch. "Yes. Your office and reception doors were locked. Yet oddly enough your balcony door wasn't. If you truly wanted to be alone you would have hidden yourself better than this."
Wilson sighed then, pinching his nose. "Fine. Just--fine. Whatever." He shook his head in resignation and waved his hand dismissively. "Just--just say your piece and go." Then he leaned his forehead on his hand.
House set the paper down on the small round conference table and frowned at him. He knew he was the last person to offer anyone, especially Wilson, anything approaching comfort. Not after what Wilson had put himself through to sa--he forcefully cut off that thought. He wasn't going to go there. But Wilson deserved something more than just flippancy from him.
"She had a good last year in Florence," he offered.
The side of Wilson's mouth twitched but he didn't look up or reply.
A long silence followed during which Wilson made no further attempt to acknowledge him. House sighed inwardly. All right then. That wasn't going to work. He drew in a breath and steeled himself. Then he slowly leaned down and gently squeezed Wilson's shoulder.
Wilson's eyes flew wide open and he flinched at the weight of House's hand. "What--what are you doing?"
"What does it look like?" House said defensively; but he still kept his hand in place.
Wilson tilted his head to gaze at him. "Well, I could say you were trying to--to comfort me in my time of need," he started. "But that's not usually your MO. Normally there's an awkward moment of silence followed by--by some immature attempt at mockery rather than any heartfelt expression of sympathy--"
House's face hardened at that and he withdrew his hand; Wilson recoiled at his withering glare. "I'm trying to exercise my atrophied feelings, you idiot," House shot back. "You keep telling me I should show some caring. Yet you can't be grateful I'm trying to give a damn about how you're feeling."
Wilson pursed his lips shut and blinked, shocked into silence. House looked away, angry confusion reflected on his features.
Wilson felt his face redden in shame. Whatever emotional spark House had lit on his behalf would likely extinguish now, and it would be his fault; just what he needed on top of Grace's death.
The incipient chill he'd been battling since reading the paper ten minutes earlier began to creep over him. "House, I didn't mean--" he whispered, but was unable to finish. Wilson rubbed his neck, helpless.
Wilson's voice drew House's gaze back towards him. Wilson blinked again as the anger slowly muted to an odd softness in House's expression. "Shut up, Jimmy," House murmured again, almost kindly now. "Just shut up and move over."
Wilson shifted on the sofa to allow House to sit beside him. They sat for a few minutes, thighs barely touching; almost as if they were hanging out on House's couch at home, except for the easy banter. Wilson stared down at his lap; out of the corner of his eye, he saw House looking nervously around the office, his mouth twitching.
Then, to Wilson's further bemusement, House placed his hand back on his shoulder.
It was extremely strained at first, House's arm tense around Wilson's body; both men a little stunned and neither actually sure what to do. Wilson blinked rapidly, his mind racing. What the hell was happening? Normally he was the one with his arm around a patient, providing the succor. Being on the receiving end was disconcerting--more so because House was on the giving end.
Still, he couldn't help remembering that he'd sat like this, just like this, on this very couch with Grace not that long ago. Grace, sniffling into a Kleenex while he explained the final journey she was going to take.
Grace had been frail then, her shoulder blades beneath her shirt and cardigan like broken wings when he put his arm around her. She winced with pain as he talked about increasing her narcotics to cope, obtaining hospice care, and putting her affairs in order. She listened, nodding but not speaking, her lank bangs hiding her face; until he ended with the helpless "I'm so sorry" and finally ran out of words to say.
Her soft "I know you did your best, Dr. Wilson," had sliced right through to the bone, leaving him as cold as Grace looked. Then she turned to him, smiled wanly and added "Thank you," and he had looked away, never having felt so defeated. She rose from the sofa and left, her head held high in dignity even though her hand shook as it turned the knob.
After a few strained minutes, once Wilson realized House was not going to withdraw despite his obvious discomfort, Wilson slowly let himself relax, getting used to the gruff yet oddly companionable closeness between them. He even leaned against House a bit, testing House's resolve. House stiffened slightly but did not shrink away, and for that Wilson felt relieved.
It was odd, House reaching out to him like this; but a small, hidden part of Wilson secretly craved it--the part that resented, on the QT, his own overwhelming need that led him to give and give and give while ignoring his own need to feel cared for.
That it was House reaching out to him like this was something that Wilson still couldn't quite wrap his mind around. Grateful though he was for it right now; it was something to buffer against the memories that swirled around his thoughts like an angry winter's storm.
One wet April day, several months after he'd told Grace of her prognosis, her ride had not shown up to take her home. When he'd passed by her on his own way out of the hospital several hours later, he couldn't help but stop. Her body shivering with pain, she still smiled at him, as if resigned, though her eyes begged him for mercy.
He knew he couldn't say no.
So he drove Grace home, angry at the unknown idiot who had forgotten to pick her up. In Grace's exhausted, frail state, Wilson was not willing to trust her to a taxi or the bus. Despite her protestation that she was fine, he invited himself in to make sure she was settled after her long day. Dismayed, he went right out again and bought her groceries when he saw she had nothing beyond tea and saltines in the apartment.
He cooked her dinner, and then stayed to make sure she ate it. She smiled shyly, appreciating every bite of hot chicken soup and fresh-baked onion roll yet oddly he was the one who felt grateful. Afterwards he lingered, cleaning up while she sat watching and chatting, her hands curled around a cup of steaming tea.
Soon she yawned, set her tea on the table and rose stiffly from her seat, grabbing at the edge when one knee buckled under her. In a flash he was at her side, supporting her while they made their way to the bathroom. While waiting he wandered into her bedroom and found himself staring idly at the queen-size bed, while thinking that he probably should have called House. He figured House could manage without him for this one evening, until Grace was settled and comfortable for the night.
Grace came out after a few minutes and climbed directly into the bed, embarrassed that he was still there but really too tired to care. He sat on the edge of the bed, smoothing back her bangs from her face.
"Dr. Wilson, really you've gone above and beyond--"
"You can call me James, Grace."
"James. You should be going home now. It's OK, I'll be all right. Really."
But she spoke the words through chattering teeth, and Wilson saw that though she wore flannel pajamas she still shivered with cold under the covers. So without hesitation he kicked off his shoes, turned off the bedside lamp and slid in beside her, pulling her close.
Grace didn't resist, so he held her under the covers, warming her with his own body because she couldn't talk at all, and listened to each pain-hitched breath. He reveled in the heady rush that sang through his blood when she nestled against him and relaxed into a fitful doze.
The bed was just too big for Grace's wasted form, he decided then; she needed someone to warm it up for her.
It was then he knew he couldn't bring himself to leave her alone.
So he stayed the night, and next morning when he asked, she accepted, and he moved in.
Sure, he'd lied to House about getting his own apartment. But it was more than that, if he were honest with himself (though he didn't like to examine his own motives too closely either).
It hurt too much when Wilson realized that he just could not get from House what he got from Grace.
Grace, at least, was honest about needing him to care for her. Despite his own neediness House was too prickly, too standoffish and too proud to let that soft underbelly show. Any hint of his true feelings, any display of vulnerability from House, Wilson had to drag out of him by kicking and fighting.
After a while, living in such close quarters with the man, it wore him down.
Grace was open and appreciative about Wilson taking care of her, right from the outset. House hadn't sent one measly "thank you" his way, not once, while they shared his apartment.
And, Wilson had to admit, the physical closeness of someone asleep beside him was something he relished, and missed, while sleeping on a narrow and lumpy couch.
Though despite what House thought, Wilson never had sex with Grace while he lived with her. Before Boyd's interceding, she'd simply been too delicate. Every move beyond kissing hurt her. The cancer was everywhere, not just in her liver; what with the bone mets, adhesion to her diaphragm, and the cachexia dropping her weight to below ninety pounds, he was afraid he'd literally crush her if he tried. He was content to curl around her in the night, lending her his warmth so she could sleep, while brushing kisses against her hairline.
The herpes virus Boyd had inadvertently given her shrunk the liver tumors enough to quell the constant surges of pain-causing hormones through her body. With the brief respite, her fragility had abated too; at least enough to allow her to do the few things she wanted with the rest of her rapidly dwindling life.
When he returned to her apartment that evening, her last night in America after House had outed Boyd, Grace met him at the front door, wrapped demurely in her housecoat. She smiled shyly in greeting, wordlessly took his hand, and led him straight to the candlelit bedroom where she disrobed, standing in a pool of violet terrycloth in the flickering light. She shivered in the cool air of the room, the goosebumps prickling her skin; but she stared up at him, direct in her unspoken question.
Her eyes were so dark with need, her thin face lit with such frank expectation, that there was no way he could possibly say no. He licked his lips and nodded assent, his own desire rising at the sight of her; yet his throat grew suddenly tight as he reached for her.
He gently, reverently caressed her shoulders while she undressed him, biting her lip; her fingers were trembling but eager as she divested him of his jacket, tie, shirt, trousers, and briefs. His clothes joined her bathrobe on the carpet, until there was nothing but air between them. Her skin was dry parchment under his hands; there was no yielding flesh on her bones to provide any sort of softness as he pulled her flush against him to cover her lips with his own. Yet he had never wanted or needed Grace as much as he did in that moment. Together they sank onto the bed, where Wilson lost himself in the delicate trail over her collarbone. He inhaled the mossy scent between her shrunken breasts as he suckled each nipple in turn; the slightly musky tang of her sweat imprinting itself in his memory as he tongued his way along the bony angle of her hip. Each breathless moan and whimper echoed through his body as he caressed and kneaded and nibbled, and he arched with the flutter of her hands and lips skating over his own heated flesh.
He donned a condom quickly, then pulled Grace on top to straddle him, guiding her home as he reached up to cup what was left of her breasts. She gasped, her mouth a perfect 'o' of pleasure as he entered her, and Wilson groaned too as she pressed her weight down around him. They rocked in slow unison, Grace bracing herself against his chest as his hands slid down to gently, gently hold her hips. Their gazes met and held until the burden of what they were doing became too unbearable, and he had to close his eyes against the desperate mix of desire and gratitude on her flushed features.
Grace reached her climax first, her soft strangled "James!" taking him by surprise. His eyes flew open to watch the sight of her head tilted back, her throat bared as the waves of pleasure washed over her. The force of her orgasm around him drove him to his own sudden release and he shuddered helplessly inside her as her contractions subsided.
Afterwards, he pulled her down to kiss her, their lips meeting with a soft mash, their tongues entwining. She drew back, framing his face in her impossibly thin fingers, and regarded him for a long moment.
"Thank you," she whispered at last, her eyes brimming, and she smiled sadly. "Thank you for everything."
Wilson nodded, his jaw clenching at the soft finality of her words. "You're welcome," he managed past the lump in his throat, squeezing his own prickling eyes shut.
Grace leaned back down to drop soft kisses on his lips, his cheeks, his jaw and forehead. Beneath her, Wilson trembled at each feather-light buss against his face. She placed one final kiss on his mouth, long and lingering, then pulled off and padded silently from the room; leaving Wilson to fling his arm over his face and contemplate the fleeting scent of her evaporating on his skin.
A few hours later, he drove her to the airport so she could catch her early flight to Florence. They hugged and waved goodbye at the check-in counter almost as if nothing at all had happened. He watched her retreating back, her carry-on case trailing behind as she made her way through the sliding glass doors to the security booths. Then he turned to go, the emptiness already gnawing. He tried to tell himself it didn't matter.
As if they hadn't made love for the first, and the last, time.
Wilson shook his head, trying to clear it. He had prepared himself for the eventuality of Grace's death of course--as her doctor, anyway. One simply did not recover from Stage IV hepatic adenocarcinoma. Even though Grace's tumors had responded to the virus, it was only a temporary reprieve, as much as Grace (and he) may have wanted to believe otherwise. As House had said, it was only a matter of time...
But Wilson hadn't expected the force of her death to hit him this hard as her friend or former lover.
Not like this.
Not like this icy clench in his chest that flowed to the rest of his limbs, rigid as ice; not like this utter loneliness crushing around him, choking his air. His arms, his whole body ached with the cold; he began to shake uncontrollably, his own teeth chattering, and he tried to wrap his arms around himself to ward off the lonely chill.
Beside him, Wilson felt House hesitate.
Great. Just--great. Wilson mentally kicked himself, trying to re-bottle the pain that threatened to spill over. House was the last person on earth capable of providing a shoulder to lean on, and he should have known, he was a fool to have hoped--
Then he felt House shift beside him, moving closer, and Wilson found himself being pulled into a clumsy one-armed embrace.
It wasn't comfortable; one of Wilson's arms was crushed against House's side. But Wilson felt House's other arm coming round to guide his head into the curve between House's shoulder and neck; House's hand nervously patting his hair.
This was House, offering comfort. Showing compassion. Of his own will.
And some fine thread finally snapped within Wilson at the awkward gentleness of the gesture.
Despite the ice water surging through his veins, his eyes remained hot and dry--no tears, not yet. Those he would shed alone, later. Even now in the midst of this grief Wilson knew that was asking too much. But he still needed something to cling to in the meantime, and here it was, solid and warm in the frigid choppy sea. He didn't feel himself clutch at House's shirt, nor did he pay attention to what House was murmuring in his ear; something that sounded like a cross between "shh it's OK" and "Shut up, you idiot." Wilson closed his eyes, and drew huge shuddering breaths as if running through frost.
The gasps slowly subsided, and as the shivering ceased Wilson felt House relaxing his tight hold to a loose hug. Wilson stared at the Vertigo poster behind his desk on the far wall, soaking in the foreign yet comforting warmth of House's body and willing it to dissipate the rest of the chill that settled in around his heart. Being this physically close to House, he felt oddly at peace despite the aching pain of Grace's absence.
"Why?" Wilson asked finally into the companionable silence.
"Why?" House sounded purposely dense; his voice rumbled in Wilson's ear.
"Why--why? Why--this?"
There was a long silence; Wilson could hear the gears turning in House's head, trying to dissemble and come up with something flippant, or testy, and completely false.
The answer seemed to surprise even House. "Because you looked like you needed it."
Wilson blinked, flabbergasted at the raw honesty in his voice, and drew back to stare at him. "But--but you--"
House--rather reluctantly, to Wilson's surprise--let him go, and rose stiffly from the sofa. "I'm not totally heartless," House added in the same soft tone, his head bowed. "Just to those who deserve it."
Wilson couldn't argue with that. He chuckled wryly in reply and shook his head. House was looking decidedly uncomfortable, avoiding his questioning gaze, but somehow--pleased at the same time. As if something unexpected had worked.
"I don't do touching emotional scenes," House murmured after another minute, meeting Wilson's eyes with a defensive, though still compassionate, glare.
"Yes, showing a moment of genuine tenderness on your part would certainly damage your reputation," Wilson agreed. House winced. "I promise this won't leave this office," he added sincerely.
"If it does I'll say you threw yourself at me and bawled on my shoulder like a girl," House countered.
"I'd expect nothing less."
House frowned back down at the carpet, then slowly headed towards the balcony. "You gonna be OK?" he asked when he reached the sliding glass door.
"I--will be," Wilson said, heaving one last large sigh. "I think."
House turned around to gaze right in his face, as if searching for any sign of betrayal. "OK," he replied after a long minute's scrutiny. "What time's the service tomorrow?"
Wilson blinked. "Is this another attempt at exercising your emotional muscles?"
House shrugged. "If you want I can avoid--"
"Two o'clock," Wilson answered swiftly. "I'll come by at one-thirty."
House slid the door open. "There had better be decent food afterwards," he called as he stepped out.
Wilson waved him off, then turned back towards the conference table, and the paper discarded on it. Picking it up, he stared at the slightly smudged picture of Grace in the obituary. He gently traced the curve of her jaw with one finger.
He heard a knock at his office door. "Dr. Wilson?" called his assistant.
He reverently lay the paper back down. Gripping the edge of his desk, he swiped at his eyes with his fist and took a couple of deep, cleansing breaths. "Yes, Karen?"
"Mrs. Jones is here for her consult."
It was time to turn his attention back to the living. "Send her in," he replied, keeping his voice perfectly in control, and picked up the patient file from the stack on his desk, ready to review.
From the table, Grace smiled up at him warmly in approval.
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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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