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A Tune for the Taking
by Mer
Greg House rarely had good days. He had triumphant days and terrible days and merely tolerable days. A good day was as rare as a pain-free day, and usually went hand-in-hand. But when he opened the suspiciously card-like envelope in his morning mail - or rather after Cameron opened it and told him he might actually want to see it for himself - he began to believe that a good day might just be possible without the aid of mind-altering drugs.
House had never been particularly interested in the gratitude of his patients. Solving the puzzle and getting them out of his hair were enough for him. Only the failures lingered; the successes were forgotten as soon as they were discharged. He didn't recognise the name of the person who sent him the thank you card, nor was he interested. But he was interested about what was enclosed in the card. Very interested. Ignoring Cameron's slightly hopeful look, he hurried off in search of James Wilson.
He finally tracked him down in the clinic. "What are you doing tomorrow night?" He didn't wait for an answer. He knew Wilson's wife was out of town visiting family, so as far as he was concerned he had full claim to 100% of Wilson's waking hours, not just the usual 75%. "Don't answer that. You're driving with me to East Rutherford. A satisfied former customer - and by satisfied, I mean still alive - gave me tickets to the Nets game."
"You hate the Nets," Wilson observed.
"True, but I like free centre court tickets. And they're playing Miami. Shaq, baby."
Wilson's eyes widened, but then he shook his head regretfully. "I can't do it."
"Don't be an idiot. What could possibly be more important than centre court tickets?"
"I have another commitment. A fundraiser."
House looked suspiciously at his supposed friend. "Is that code for having dinner with Stacy again?" He was pleased when Wilson flinched and tried not to look guilty.
"Right. Because that worked out so well for me last time." The guilty look faded. "It's being organized by one of my patients. I promised I'd be there." He glanced at House. "You could always give the tickets away and come with."
"Ri-ighhht," House drawled. "Centre court tickets or a mass produced chicken dinner and boring speeches. I'll go by myself if I have to."
Wilson shrugged. "Don't say I didn't offer."
"Your generosity is noted and duly rejected." House let the subject drop. He had nearly two days to wear Wilson down. Wilson would never be able to hold out that long.
But Wilson managed to avoid House for the rest of the day, wasting the afternoon with patients and then slipping away to the board meeting before House could corner him again.
House took that opportunity to break into Wilson's office and check his calendar. The entry for Thursday evening was just oblique enough to pique his curiosity. "Star Club. Fundraiser." He retreated to his own office for further research.
The Star Club, he discovered, was in Trenton, and not in a part of town that usually hosted upscale oncology benefits. That was almost intriguing enough to reconsider centre court tickets. He called the club and found out that yes, there was a private function the next evening, that tickets were available at the door, and that a group of local entertainers were holding a cabaret. Centre court was looking golden again.
"Write them a cheque and skip the song and dance routines," House said the next morning, after he'd chased Wilson's first patient out of his office.
"No," Wilson replied firmly. "I made a commitment."
"You made a commitment to the cancer dinner, but you blew that off for a clandestine meeting with my ex-girlfriend."
"Yes, and I'm going to pay for that for the rest of my life, and probably the afterlife as well." Wilson deliberately picked up a chart and started making notes. "Why don't you take Cuddy? She loves basketball - no, wait she's got a dinner meeting tonight with a potential donor. Some pharmaceutical CEO."
House was suspicious. "How do you know that?"
"It's shocking the amount of information you can pick up when you actually have a conversation with another human being." He moved onto the next chart, studiously ignoring House's impatient glare. "Ask Cameron. I bet she's just dying for another date with you. On the other hand, Foreman would appreciate the ticket more. And he wouldn't insist on a goodnight kiss."
"Not Chase?"
"Chase would spend all night ogling the cheerleaders or the players, and asking stupid questions about the game. You'd have a terrible time and make my life miserable - more miserable - for weeks."
"You've thought this through," House commented suspiciously.
Wilson shrugged. "I don't want you to miss out because I can't go."
That did it. Wilson was up to something. He only played the considerate friend card when he was hiding something from House. House bid goodbye to centre court and Shaq and left to continue his research.
A phone call to the Nets head office determined that the tickets were part of a block bought by a law firm in New Brunswick. He scrutinized the file on the patient who had sent him the tickets and couldn't find a single connection. Then he pulled up a list of Wilson's recent and current cases, searched for residents of New Brunswick, and found one of the partners of the law firm. Testicular cancer. Remission. That kind of gratitude had currency. Centre court currency.
He called his former patient. "Why did Dr. Wilson give you those tickets to send to me?" he demanded, not bothering with useless pleasantries.
Once the man figured out who was haranguing him on the phone, it was easier to extract information. "He said he wanted to surprise you. Was it a surprise?"
"Oh, it will be." House hung up the phone. Wilson had done a much better job covering his tracks this time. His initiative and ingenuity were to be commended, but House was not about to reward him. Somebody, though, should profit, and House intended to reap all the benefits he could.
"What are two centre court tickets to tonight's Nets game worth to you?" he asked Cuddy.
"Nothing," she replied, not looking up from the file she was reading. "I already have plans."
At least Wilson's information was accurate. "That drug lord you're having dinner with tonight. He likes basketball."
Cuddy put down the file and made an exasperated face. "Why, because he's black? You can't make that kind of racial generalization."
"Sure I can. And I overheard him talking basketball at that excruciating reception you made me attend last week." He knew he'd made his case when Cuddy's hand moved involuntarily towards the tickets. "One month off clinic duty." He paused and considered his options. "And one week each for Huey, Dewey and Louie. I might need their help tonight."
Cuddy stared at the tickets House waved enticingly before her eyes. "Two weeks for you and one week each for your fellows."
House considered the deal. He would have taken the detox bet for two weeks. This time he wouldn't even have to break his fingers to win the prize. "Done." He snatched the tickets back when she tried to take them. "One more condition. Don't tell Wilson I gave these to you."
"What are you up to now?" she demanded, but then waved her hand dismissively. "No, you know what? I don't want to know. Go have fun playing your little mind games. Basketball is the only game I want to hear about today."
House dropped the tickets on her desk and went in search of accomplices. Fortunately all three of his fellows were lounging about the conference room. "Cancel your plans for tonight," he announced, stalking dramatically into the room. "We're going to Trenton."
"Do we have a new patient?" Cameron asked hopefully. It had been nearly a week since they'd had a case and even Cameron tired of paperwork eventually.
"Thirty-five..." House paused and realised he'd missed Wilson's birthday again. "Thirty-six year old white male. Inability to tell the truth. Conspiracy complex. We're going to observe his behaviour outside of the hospital environment to isolate other symptoms."
Cameron looked interested, but Chase just sighed and picked up his crossword again. "I'm not driving to Trenton, just because you want to spy on Wilson."
House was impressed. Chase's deductive reasoning skills were improving. "This is not about Wilson," he objected, then realised it would be hard to hide the truth if he succeeded in dragging them along. "Okay, it's about Wilson. But I could make it about you, if you preferred."
Chase caved. "I'll drive."
"Not a chance. It defeats the whole purpose if we end up in a burning wreck because you can't remember which side of the road to drive on. Foreman's driving."
"I'm not driving anywhere except home," Foreman replied. "If it's not about a patient, you can't tell me what to do."
"You can't tell me what to do," House whined. "We're going to a benefit. For cancer. What kind of cold-hearted bastard are you?"
"One who's been trained by you," Foreman retorted. "And I'm still not going."
Four hours later they were driving south in Foreman's car. "I don't know why you wanted us to come with you," Foreman complained, slapping House's hand away from the radio. "If you're spying on Wilson, it's easier to hide without an entourage."
"Ah, but I want him to see me. The more obtrusive the better." House made another attempt to change the station, hissing when Foreman cracked his knuckles. "Stop complaining. I bought the tickets and I got all of you a week off clinic duty. Look how well this has worked out. Cuddy gets to impress a big-time donor, the charity gets the extra ticket sales, you get a break from snotty-nosed kids, and I get to foil Wilson's nefarious plans. Everybody wins."
"Except Wilson," Cameron said reproachfully.
"Wilson learns not to deceive me." House didn't actually think Wilson was capable of learning this lesson, though. Not if he was already lying to House so soon after the Stacy debacle. When they arrived at the club, House made Foreman drive around until he spotted Wilson's Volvo.
"The tickets are under my name," he told Cameron. "Search the club and locate Wilson, but don't let him see you yet. And find out who he's with."
"You think he's cheating on his wife?" Cameron exclaimed.
"Well, he's not here with her," House retorted. Or me, he added, which was the more important issue, but one less likely to keep Cameron on side. "Take Foreman with you and split up." He pulled Chase into an alcove so they could watch the entrance out of sight, in case Wilson came in or out while the others were looking.
"You know this is ridiculous, even for you," Chase complained. "Dr. Wilson is allowed to have a life away from you."
House didn't acknowledge that heresy. When Cameron re-emerged, looking around in confusion, he hissed at her to join them in the shadows.
"He's not in there," Cameron reported. "Foreman's checking the washrooms, but I couldn't see him anywhere. Are you sure this is the right place?"
"His car's here. Where else could he be?" House wondered if the note on the calendar had been another diversion. Wilson could have left his car as a decoy and taken a cab someplace else.
"Maybe he went to get some dinner," Chase suggested.
House shook his head. "The show started half an hour ago. Wilson would never walk in late."
Foreman beckoned them from just inside the doors. "I found us a table," he said. "No sign of Wilson, though." But he was smiling broadly.
House didn't like that development. Foreman wasn't actually supposed to enjoy himself. "What are you grinning about, Uncle Remus?" he snapped. "Did you find your Laughing Place?"
Foreman's smile didn't dim. "What do you know about this show?"
"Just that it's some kind of cabaret. Out-of-tune singing and out-of-step dancing." But House had a feeling there was more to it than that. He followed Foreman inside, for the first time wondering if he should have just let Wilson have his way.
The club was nicer than he had expected, dark but not dingy, with a touch of art deco to the dcor and a large, well-stocked bar at the back of the room. House suspected that would come in handy at some point in the evening. Comfortable booths lined the dance floor, but extra tables had been brought in for the show and filled the floor. Foreman led them to a table near the corner of the stage.
Chase nearly knocked him over when he stopped abruptly to stare at the stage. Its lone occupant was lip-synching "Over the Rainbow," which wasn't entirely unexpected in a cabaret. What was unexpected was that the "singer" was dressed in a blue-checked gingham dress, had impressive fake pigtails and overly rouged cheeks, and was....
"Is that a man?" Cameron whispered. Her eyes widened and she looked around the room, as if she'd suddenly found herself in an alternate universe.
"We're not in Kansas any more, Toto," House smirked.
"I guess we know now why Wilson didn't tell you about this," Chase commented.
Foreman just laughed. "Oh man, if this is Wilson's idea of a joke then I have seriously misjudged him."
But House didn't think it was a joke. He didn't even think it was a decoy. A tiny voice in the back of his mind - his better, usually unheard, angel - reminded him that Wilson had gone to great lengths to keep him away. He had a feeling he was about to discover the reason.
Judy Garland swept off the stage and a drag queen in a black Givenchy knock-off, long gloves and pearls walked over to the microphone. House recognised him as one of Wilson's patients - liver cancer, he thought. At least that part of the story was true.
"Wasn't she wonderful," he gushed, pausing for another round of applause. "Our next performer is a very special guest. He's not one of us and he's very nervous, so behave yourselves or I'll rip your hearts out." There was a sprinkle of laughter, but House didn't think it was a joke.
"Three months ago, I thought I was going to die. That bitch cancer had hold of me and she wasn't letting go. There were days when the pain was so bad I just wanted it to end, but my doctor told me to keep fighting and let the treatments have time to work. I told him I would keep fighting if he could make it worth my while." He grinned and pointed at a table near the front. "You get your mind out of the gutter, honey. Though when you see how pretty he is, you're going to wonder why I needed any incentive to stick around."
House wished he had a video camera. He didn't need a map to know where this road was heading and he didn't want to forget a moment of it. From the grin on Foreman's face, he had figured it out as well, but Chase and Cameron were still piecing it together.
"One day I heard him singing a lullaby to one of the children in the wards and we struck a deal," the MC continued. "I'd do my best to stay alive and if I went into remission, he would sing a song in one of my shows." He glanced into the wings and smiled reassuringly. "He's the reason I'm here tonight, which means he's the reason you're all here tonight, so please give a warm welcome to Dr. James Wilson."
Cameron squeaked out a cry of delight and started clapping vigorously, while Chase and Foreman exchanged broad grins and followed suit. House didn't clap. His hands clenched into fists when Wilson walked onstage carrying a guitar.
Wilson didn't look at the audience as he walked over to a single chair in front of a microphone, but House could tell from the set and stiffness of his body that Wilson was terrified. House almost felt sorry for him, but then he remembered that Wilson hadn't wanted him here. If he didn't want his presence, he wouldn't get his pity either.
Wilson was wearing a plain, white, long-sleeved tunic and dark jeans, and the casual outfit made him seem younger than usual. When he bent over the guitar, a sweep of dark bangs curved over his forehead, enhancing the impression of youth.
"He's going to sing 'Moon River'," House murmured, even before Wilson started strumming the guitar.
"How do you know?" Cameron asked, though the tune was already apparent.
"It's a drag show. He's too repressed to play along completely, but wrap a towel around his head and he's Holly Golightly." House leaned back in his chair, a slight smile on his face. "His cancer queen has a good eye."
Chase shook his head. "Dr. Wilson in a drag show. The hospital grapevine is going to eat this up."
House could move exceptionally fast when he wanted. Before Chase could protest, House had lunged across the table and grabbed him by his shirt collar. "You mention a word of this without Wilson's permission and I'll make sure you're on a slow boat back to Australia. In the cargo hold."
Chase rubbed at his neck, looking for, but not receiving, sympathy from Cameron and Foreman. "What?" he mouthed, but Cameron just shook her head and watched Wilson.
Foreman rolled his eyes. "You're an idiot," he whispered. "You can screw over House all you want and he'll just have fun making your life miserable, but mess with Wilson and you'll be lucky to see your next birthday."
"House messes with him all the time," Chase protested.
Cameron glared at him. "I'm trying to listen."
They all listened. Wilson had a clear, soft voice and he sang as if the words were being drawn from the deepest core of his being. During an instrumental break, however, he glanced around the room and his fingers faltered when he spotted the table in the corner. Panic momentarily flashed across his face, but then he smiled ruefully and picked up the vocals again.
There was a pause when he finished, the final chord slipping into silence, and Wilson looked down at the stage, twitching slightly with embarrassment. Then the audience, released from its collective trance, erupted in enthusiastic applause and cheers. Wilson nodded, looking surprised and still embarrassed, and glanced at their table. Even before the applause died down, he retuned and started playing a complicated interwoven melody.
House recognised the song even before Wilson started to sing. "'1952 Vincent Black Lightning'," he said, when Cameron asked what it was. "He's singing it to punish me." House didn't actually believe that. It wasn't a song someone could just pick up and play. Wilson must have been practicing for days.
"Not everything is about you," Cameron retorted.
In theory she might be right. House had yet to see it proven in practice, though. "This is," he muttered, trying not to drown in the memories the song stirred up.
Years before, Stacy had dragged him to see Richard Thompson in concert and House had dragged Wilson along to help him mock the folkies. But while House had found plenty to mock about the audience, the venue, and even the bar's alcohol selection, he had fallen silent as soon as the music began. He had watched with appreciation as Thompson's fingers flew over the guitar strings at the beginning of "Vincent," creating a complex melody with almost casual skill. But it was the words that had cut him to the quick. He had seen himself in James, the 20th century highwayman who loved his redheaded Molly and his Vincent motorcycle.
Wilson had seen it too. He had given Rumour and Sigh to House for his next birthday along with a toy model of a 1952 Vincent Black Lightning. After the infarction, though, House had been unable to listen to the song. The first time he heard the line, "and I don't mind dying, but for the love of you," he had thrown his cane at the stereo. Yet he had never been able to part with the CD.
And now Wilson was playing the song. It was slower than the original and simpler - Wilson was a good guitar player, but he was no Richard Thompson. House doubted anyone else in the audience noticed or cared.
He slumped in his chair, trying not to listen, but drawn into the music all the same. He could sense Wilson watching him as he sang, and he knew each word was meant for him.
Says James to Red Molly here's a ring for your right hand
But I tell you in earnest I'm a dangerous man.
House closed his eyes and Stacy was there. In truth, Stacy was always there, but her presence had been more pronounced since her clandestine dinner with Wilson.
He remembered tearing down country roads with her arms clasped tightly around him, her laughter in his ear the only thing he could hear above the roar of the engine. The destination had never mattered; the journey was everything.
He remembered dancing with her, their bodies fitting together in all the right ways, swaying to a love song or jiving to an upbeat number. They had always moved effortlessly, in tandem. Now that was gone, too. He fumbled for his Vicodin and dry-swallowed a pill.
As the song built to its conclusion, Wilson's voice rose in pitch and intensity.
I see angels on Ariels in leather and chrome
Swooping down from heaven to carry me home.
Then his voice cracked suddenly and dropped to a near whisper for the final lines. Still, everyone heard.
And he gave her one last kiss and died
And he gave her his Vincent to ride.
This time the applause started even before Wilson strummed the final chord. Cameron had tears in her eyes and both Foreman and Chase stood and cheered. But House remained silent, his hands gripping his damaged thigh. Wilson was no longer looking at him; he stood up abruptly, bowed and hurried off the stage.
"I didn't know Wilson could play like that," Chase marvelled. "He was really good."
House agreed. Wilson was too good to just be a casual player. He wondered how he could have hid that from him for all these years. He wondered why.
House sat through two more acts - a Tina Turner with legs and dance moves to die for and the ugliest Mae West he'd ever seen - before deciding that Wilson wasn't going to emerge from backstage. "Order two scotches, neat, single malt, and if anyone comes by asking for money, give it to them." He left his team watching the rest of the show with varying degrees of enjoyment and explored the corridors of the club until he found himself backstage.
Wilson's patient, now sporting a strapless ball gown and a curly brown wig, blocked his path when he tried to look into the first dressing room. "You're House," he observed, his voice disconcertingly deep. "I remember you throwing rocks at the balcony door the day Dr. Wilson told me I was in remission."
House reached in his pocket and found a pebble. "Where should I aim?"
The hostess with the mostest looked down the hallway at the bathroom. "I don't think he wants to be disturbed right now."
But House had no sense of boundaries, particularly where Wilson was concerned. "He likes disturbing. It's why we're friends." He half-expected to be stopped, but apparently Wilson warned his patients about House, for his cancer queen - Stuart? Steven? - just laughed.
"Just don't freak him out any more than he already is," he warned and left to introduce the next act.
House could hear the sounds of retching as he approached the bathroom, which made him pause. He hated vomit, but he loved tormenting Wilson more, so he pushed open the door.
Wilson was leaning over the sink, hands gripping the porcelain sides as his body convulsed with dry heaves. House considered the various options open to him and decided to go with silence and consideration, two choices that would be far more likely to mess with Wilson's mind than the predictable mocking. He squeezed past Wilson to the towel dispenser and used the other sink to soak through two folded paper towels. Wringing out the excess water, he laid the towels across the back of Wilson's neck and waited for the spasms to end.
Finally Wilson straightened up and looked at House in the mirror. "Sorry," he muttered, spitting the remnants of bile into the sink. He pulled the towels off his neck and wiped his face. "Thanks." He slanted his gaze up to observe House. "I thought you were in East Rutherford. Centre court, Miami Heat, Shaquille O'Neal."
"I gave them to Cuddy for two weeks off clinic duty." He wondered if Wilson had really thought he could get away with it, or if he was just desperate. "Who did you have to kill - or rather not kill - to get those tickets?"
"What are you talking about? You told me a patient gave them to you." Wilson was an excellent liar, up until the point where he was caught. Then all it took was a couple of pokes to make him cave like an under-baked pastry.
"Good try. I called the Nets and got the name of the original owner of those seats. Strangely, it wasn't my patient, who is, by the way, not nearly as good at sticking to a story are you are, which is why I was able to cure him in the first place." He shook his head. "You went to an awful lot of trouble to get me out of town tonight."
"And you went to an awful lot of trouble to foil my plans." Wilson turned around and looked directly at House, a tiny smile tugging the corner of his mouth. "You get a week off clinic duty, Cuddy gets centre court tickets, and I get to listen to you torment me about a brand new subject for the next month. Somehow it doesn't seem fair."
"You shouldn't have lied to me, then."
"I didn't lie," Wilson protested. "I told you that I had to attend a fundraiser. I even invited you to come along."
"Only because you knew I'd refuse." House didn't know which was worse - that Wilson had played him so well, or that he had felt the need to play him at all. "It was a good try," he admitted. "You had me fooled for nearly 24 hours."
"The tickets weren't supposed to arrive until today. Who knew the Postal Service was so efficient?" Wilson shook his head ruefully. "The best laid plans..."
"You could have told me the truth."
Wilson snorted. "Right. Hey, House. One of my patients is putting on a drag show as a fundraiser and asked me to do a number. Want to come along?" He shook his head. "Do you really think I'm that stupid?"
"I think you were stupid enough to strike an idiotic deal with one of your patients."
Wilson shook his head, laughing softly to himself. "Like you've never done something unconventional to help one of your patients."
"Nothing that involves public humiliation before my peers."
Wilson laughed again. "You'd have to have the capacity to feel humiliation for that to happen. And it wouldn't have been in front of my peers if you had just used the damn tickets. I call in a major favour for that and not only do you still manage to bear witness to my moment of mortification, but you bring your team along for the ride." He scrubbed his face. "Why did you have to do that? I have to work with them."
"It was for a good cause," House replied blithely. "And I suppose it will be awkward with Cameron gazing all stage-struck at you, but I doubt Foreman will give it a second thought, and I threatened to deport Chase if he ran his mouth. So shake it off and come back and have a drink with us. The children are buying." Wilson didn't move, so House let out his most suffering sigh. "Nobody's going to laugh at you. Nobody's going to make fun of you." House poked him in the back with his cane. "They might even fawn over you a bit, which you'll love. Come on, Audrey. Go see your adoring fans." House didn't count himself amongst the people who wouldn't make fun of Wilson. That was an immutable law of the universe.
But it was also the wrong thing to say. Wilson slumped against the door, covering his face with his hands. "I never should have sung that. But Stephen suggested it."
House had no problems with that song choice. "It was the right suggestion. Big Gay Steve knows how to pick a crowd-pleaser." House eyed the tunic critically. "And at least he didn't let you dress yourself. That would have made them laugh."
"It wasn't bad?"
House thumped his cane on the floor to show his displeasure. "Don't make me be nice to you," he complained. But there was real desperation in Wilson's eyes, so he relented. "It was amazing. Better than Morrissey." He couldn't mention the other song. He couldn't even think about it.
"Really?" Wilson looked incredibly pathetic when he was hopeful. Even House wasn't capable of dashing those hopes.
"Really. Even if you don't have the cool sound effects." He grabbed Wilson by the shoulders and shoved him out the door, simultaneously pushing him along and using him in place of his cane. And if either of them noticed that House kept his hand on Wilson's shoulder, even after Wilson was moving on his own accord, he didn't mention it.
Cameron jumped up as they approached the table. "You were wonderful, Wilson!" she exclaimed, hugging him enthusiastically.
"Down, Cameron, down!" House barked. "I'm sure Wilson's eager to prove his masculinity, but this place can't take another public morals charge."
"Shut up, House," Wilson said. It was almost an automated response. He smiled shyly at Cameron. "Thanks. I'm - uh - I'm glad you liked it."
If Chase were planning on making any smart remark, he changed his mind at the slight stammer. Wilson - who went verbally one on one with House without pause - only ever stumbled over his words when he was unsure of himself or upset. "Better than Morrissey," he said, raising his glass in salute.
House choked on his drink. It was bad enough that Foreman copied his shoes; now Chase was stealing his lines. Wilson hit him a little harder than necessary between the shoulder blades, his eyes wide with exaggerated innocence.
Foreman handed Wilson the other scotch. "For once I'm glad House dragged us along on one of his schemes. You should sing those for the kids."
House spluttered again, not because he was surprised, but because Wilson wasn't. "You've heard him sing before?"
"At Christmas. He played at the children's party."
House wanted to wipe the self-satisfied grin off Foreman's face, but the only easy target was Wilson. "I guess the puking afterwards helps you bond with the chemo kids," he sneered.
Wilson's hand twitched, sloshing his drink, before he picked it up and drained it down. "I'll get the next round," he muttered, standing up and escaping to the bar.
"Did you have to do that?" Cameron demanded once he was out of earshot. "Sometimes I wonder if you really are his friend."
"You didn't know he played," Foreman observed, with a self-satisfied smile. "Why is that? It's not like he keeps it a secret. Except from you." He pretended to consider the questions. "Hmm. I wonder. Could it be he was afraid you'd belittle him about it? Like you just did?"
"That wasn't belittling," House said dismissively. "That was affectionate banter."
"Right," Chase interjected. "You get all up my ass about spreading gossip, but you've started half the rumours about him. You think it hurts less coming from you?"
"I'm going to see if he needs a hand with the drinks," Cameron said.
House translated that as, I'm going to see if he's all right and offer him earnest, heartfelt sympathy that will make him throw up again. "If he's buying, tell the bartender to bring out the good bottle."
"You really didn't know he played guitar?" Chase asked.
House wanted to wipe the amused grin off Chase's face, preferably with a wire scrub brush. "And I suppose you did."
Chase shook his head. "But I'm not his best friend. Makes you wonder what else he's been hiding from you."
House thought about the missing brother. Wilson was full of secrets. "So he plays the guitar," House said dismissively. "What does that matter to me?"
Chase was smart enough to let the matter lie and Foreman had already made his point. They watched the next act in silence and all three men were relieved when the MC announced the finale. It was all over but the applause when Cameron finally returned, awkwardly cradling four glasses.
"Where's Wilson?" House demanded. Wilson might be a cheating bastard, but he would never let a woman carry something for him.
Cameron carefully distributed the drinks, and then scowled at House, crossing her arms to emphasize her anger. "He left. Said he wasn't feeling well."
For a moment House wondered if the vomiting had been a symptom of something other than nerves. Maybe Wilson was coming down with the flu or had food poisoning. Some flicker of concern must have showed on his face, because Cameron uncrossed her arms.
"He had to go backstage to get his things. I told him I'd give him a headstart, but if you hurry you can probably still catch him in the parking lot."
House didn't stop to thank her, though he did take a moment to down his drink - Wilson had sprung for the good stuff, he noticed - before grabbing his jacket and heading for the door. It was a good think he'd marked Wilson's car. Wilson was putting his guitar case in the trunk when he caught up to him; another minute and he would have made a clean getaway.
"Are you really sick or are you just pissed at me?" House demanded.
Wilson's shoulders slumped and he turned reluctantly to face House. "Why can't it be both?"
House stepped forward and pressed the back of his hand to Wilson's cheek and forehead, then grabbed his wrist to take his pulse. It was elevated, but not that could just be the stress. "You don't have a fever," he observed, feeling Wilson's glands.
Wilson grabbed his wrists. "Stop it. I'm tired and I've got a headache, but that's it. So you can save your yearly ration of sympathy for somebody who needs it."
"Believe me, I have no sympathy for you," House snapped, pulling away. "I save my sympathy for the non-lying bastards." Which was a limited list as far as House was concerned. He glared at Wilson, who glared back. It was a showdown worthy of an Ennio Morricone score. Wilson looked away first.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have kept this from you."
It was what House had wanted to hear, but it didn't make him happy. "Why did you? Did you think I wouldn't come?"
Wilson shook his head. "I was afraid you would."
That hurt more than House had expected. Wilson hadn't wanted him here. He knew that already, but having it acknowledged and confirmed made it real. Something cold and hard settled at the pit of his stomach. Wilson had always wanted him around before.
Somehow Wilson saw and understood. "I was afraid," he repeated. "I was afraid of what you'd say."
"What have I said that's so bad?" House demanded. "Okay, so I teased you about the Audrey Hepburn look. And I'm shouldn't have made the puking crack in front of the kids..."
"But it would have been all right if we were alone," Wilson interjected, frustration and hurt creeping into his voice. "That's what I mean. Everything's fair game to you. You criticize my job, my marriages, my religion, my car..."
"You drive a Volvo," House interjected. "That's like the most boring car ever."
"...my golf game, my clothes..."
"Hello! Pocket protector!"
Wilson glared at him, but then his expression softened and he looked away. "Maybe I just wanted something in my life that you wouldn't mock." He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "So much for that."
House rolled his eyes. "Don't be such a drama queen. You have a staff full of sycophants ready and willing to tell you how wonderful you are. You need somebody to keep you humble."
Wilson snorted. "And you don't think just spending time in your company is enough to do that? You have to be pro-active?"
"Awww. Do I make Jimmy feel inadequate?" House frowned when Wilson didn't answer. "You're kidding me right? Do you think I'd let you hang around if you were some kind of loser? I've got a reputation to maintain."
Wilson leaned back against his car and looked up at House. "Was that supposed to be a compliment? Because if it was, you need a little work on the content and delivery."
"I don't do compliments," House retorted. "The privilege of my friendship should be a compliment enough." He thought Wilson would laugh at that, or at least snort derisively. But Wilson just looked at him, his gaze dark and impenetrable. House hated it when he couldn't read Wilson's eyes. He went back on the offensive. "You sing for strangers, but you don't even sing along to the radio when we're driving together."
"The last time I sang along to the radio you told me I sounded like a dying cat."
House frowned and tried to remember what Wilson was talking about. A dim memory surfaced. "That was years ago. And you were singing 'Without You.' I had to stop you somehow."
"Yeah, well, I got the hint," Wilson muttered.
House wasn't finished. "You sang for Foreman. You played for Foreman."
"I didn't play for him," Wilson retorted. "I played for the kids and Foreman just happened to be there." Wilson cocked his head to the side and raised an eyebrow. "Is that why you're pissed off? Because Foreman's heard me play the guitar and you haven't? Why would I bother hiding it from Foreman? I don't give a damn what he thinks about me."
House extrapolated. "But you care what I think."
Wilson looked away. "Yeah," he said softly.
"And you were scared," House pressed. "You were scared before you went on, but you were so scared afterwards you made yourself throw up." House felt a little sick himself. "I told you that you were good," he reminded Wilson.
"Yeah," Wilson whispered. "Thanks."
"Don't thank me," House snapped. "I was only telling the truth."
"That's why I thanked you."
"You're pathetic," House scoffed. "You don't need my approval."
"No. But maybe I want it." Wilson slumped against the car. "I'm tired, House. Can you insult me tomorrow? I just want to go home now."
"Give me the keys then," House demanded. He jerked his head back towards the bar. "I made the children drive me up. I'm sure they'll be delighted to be done with me for the evening."
Wilson blinked with surprise, but handed the keys over without protest. "Are you going to tell them you're leaving?"
"Why? They'll figure it out when I don't come back. Or they'll assume you finally snapped and dumped my body in a shallow grave. Either way, they'll just go home."
"Even Cameron?" Wilson asked doubtfully.
"Cameron would probably help you bury the body." He unlocked the car doors and slid behind the wheel. "Get in. Just give me plenty of notice if you're going to puke."
"I'm not going to puke," Wilson grumbled, but went around to the passenger door. "Are you okay to drive?"
"Two scotches and one Vicodin. I'm barely buzzed."
"I don't know whether I should be relieved or terrified by that," Wilson said, but got in the car.
For all House liked to tease Wilson about his choice of vehicles, the Volvo drove like a dream. A boring dream. House tuned the radio to his favourite station - the first one programmed after NPR - but kept the volume low in deference to Wilson's headache. He wished Wilson would sing along.
Instead they drove in silence. Normally, House was delighted to avoid mind-numbing small talk, but Wilson was never dull. Except when he was lecturing House. After ten miles without a word, House would have gladly welcomed a lecture.
He glanced over at Wilson, who was staring out the passenger side window. "Are you still pissed at me?" he demanded.
Wilson sighed and turned his head. "Would it matter if I was?"
Enough was enough. The martyr routine was getting old. "Why are you so bent out of shape about this? You said yourself I mock everything about you. It's never bothered you before." Wilson had always taken his insults and digs with a grin and thrown them right back in House's face. It was what he loved most about Wilson - no one else was able to keep up with him. No one else wanted to try. Not since Stacy.
"It didn't matter before."
"Not even when I said you had the golf swing of a spastic orangutan?"
Wilson smirked. "I'd just beaten you by eight strokes. I didn't need validation."
"What about when I told you that only repressed cowards drive Volvos."
"Right. That statement meant a lot after you nearly had an orgasm over the heated seats."
"When I accused you of killing Jesus?"
"In case you hadn't noticed, I'm not the 2000-Year-Old Man."
House flipped through his memory banks. Wilson only ever got pissed at him when he insulted the current wife or girlfriend or made fun of one of Wilson's patients. The last time House had seen Wilson get really upset was over the homeless woman with rabies. He changed tack.
"I know you took piano lessons." Every once in awhile Wilson would sit at House's piano, playing phrases from a half-remembered tune, his fingers awkwardly chasing after memory. Wilson never seemed to mind when House told him to stop butchering Beethoven or Bach.
"Until I was fourteen," Wilson said. "Then our teacher moved away and Peter wanted to quit, so there didn't seem to be any point in finding somebody new." He shrugged. "I was never going to be really good."
"What about your other brother. Did he play?"
Wilson's shoulders stiffened and he looked out the passenger window. "He played guitar."
Most of the time solving the puzzle didn't mean fitting jigsaw pieces together to match a predetermined picture. It was more like sudoku - slotting in one number narrowed down the possibilities in another area. "Was he any good?"
Wilson shook his head. "He could have been if he'd worked at it. He bought an electric guitar to piss off our parents, but they were so happy he was actually interested in something they never complained about the noise." He smiled ruefully. "That was the one way to guarantee he lost interest."
"Was it Michael who taught you to play?"
Wilson flinched at the mention of his brother's name. "He wouldn't let me touch the electric guitar, but he gave me his old acoustic to fool around on. I mostly taught myself after he left. It reminded me of him." He turned up the radio.
House glanced at him, but didn't push any further. Getting Wilson to talk that much about his brother had been a major accomplishment. He slotted a few more numbers into place and put the puzzle aside for later. They were on the outskirts of Princeton before he spoke again. "When did you teach yourself that song?" House asked, just loud enough for Wilson to hear him.
Wilson didn't even pretend to be confused. "After..." He looked away, unable to meet House's gaze. "It reminds me of you. How you used to be. I don't want to lose that, ever." He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I don't want you to lose it either."
"Is that why you sang it, even when you knew I was there?"
For the first time, Wilson looked truly apologetic. "I didn't play it to hurt you. I played it for you."
House believed him. Wilson was a master manipulator, but he almost always used his powers for good. It was still too painful to remember how life was before the infarction, but maybe one day he would ask Wilson to play the song for him again. He offered absolution the only way he knew how. "If you're a good boy, you can come over and play the Stratocaster."
Wilson glanced quickly at him, saw he was serious, and smiled. "You barely let me touch the remote, but you'll let me play the Stratocaster?"
"You can't be trusted with the remote. The last time I let you have custody, you turned on What Not to Wear."
"And one of these days they're going to accept my nomination and teach you how to dress for work."
"My style is the height of office chic," House preened, pleased when Wilson snorted back laughter.
"Only if your office is in a junkyard."
Wilson was chuckling openly now and House felt his world tilt back on its axis. The opening riff of "Born to Run" filled the car. "Is there some kind of broadcast regulation in New Jersey that requires stations to play Springsteen a certain number of times a day?" House mused.
"Shut up," Wilson chided. "I love this song."
So did House. He cranked the volume, singing at the top of his voice. After a moment, Wilson sang along.
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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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