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The Waiting Room
by Housepiglet
The crunch of heavy wheels on gravel built rapidly to a crescendo and just as suddenly died, as Wilson swung his car to a halt in the parking lot behind the hotel.
He turned the key in the ignition and sat back, relieved to have arrived and finally relaxing completely into his seat. It had been a long drive, and the air inside the car had grown stifling. Transferring the key to his pocket, he reached for the console and lowered the windows. Then he leaned back again, and began to inspect his surroundings.
It was quiet outside, and only the sound of occasional birdsong disturbed the silence. Light was fading quickly, but in the foreground a bright yellow glow spilled out of the hotel's lower windows and onto the grass, illuminating the lower branches of the maples and sycamores which marked the outer boundaries of the parking area. To the right lay open fields, and in the middle distance a broken circle of tall and gently undulating shadows suggested the location of a lake.
Wilson turned his eyes again to the hotel, and through a line of ground-floor windows he saw a group of people gathered in a reception room. There was a roughly equal mix of men and women, in early middle-age, and, as he watched, he saw the mass of bodies relax and contract as from time to time smaller groups within it broke off to circulate around the room. From a distance the faces were indiscernible, but the easy and confident manner of the participants suggested to Wilson that this might be the group he had traveled to meet. He wondered, suddenly, whether after a gap of 14 years he would recognize anybody, or whether any of them would know him. Glancing towards the rear-view mirror, though, it struck him on reflection that any significant changes were likely to be buried more than surface deep, and he returned to his long-distance scrutiny.
The unexpected sound of large and heavy wings immediately above him woke him abruptly from his reverie, and as he craned his neck out of the window he saw a heron flapping slowly overhead. It began its descent towards the lake and he watched, fascinated, as, approaching the water, it extended its neck and legs and raised its wings for the landing. He opened the door and stepped quickly out of the car, eyes fixed upon the point at which the bird had seemed to melt into the water. He could see nothing but dark shadows rippling across the surface, though, and so a moment later he turned back to the car, and leaned in to collect his jacket and overcoat from the back seat. He had a single suitcase in the trunk, and, swinging it out, he transferred it to his left hand and set off towards the lights.
-- ----- --
As he unpacked his suitcase, and arranged the contents of his shaving kit in the bathroom, Wilson's mind drifted back to the events of recent weeks. House had stared at him with unfeigned amazement when he'd announced his intention to attend the reunion.
"Middle age finally catching up with you, Jimmy?" he'd asked, consideringly, his head tipped to one side. "Is this about comparing high scores with the other kids?" He'd leaned forwards, and leered at Wilson while reaching for the bag of Lays that sat open on Wilson's desk. "Or are you looking for fresh blood north of the border, now that cancer chick's gone east?"
Wilson had frowned, and rolled his eyes. "I've told you before, House. Not everything's about sex." Then he'd placed his file in the out-tray, and reached to a pile on the desk for the next. "You know, many people consider it an entirely normal feature of ordinary social interaction to meet up with old friends from time to time. Of course, that isn't really something that applies to you, because the whole concept presupposes that a person actually has friends."
"But it would totally include you, right?" House had countered, grinning a little, and still intrigued. "You have loads of friends. Just listen to them out there!" He'd gestured theatrically towards the door with his cane, and lowered his voice. "Don't tell Cuddy, but I only carry this so I can beat a path through the crowds to get into your office!"
"I have friends," Wilson had replied, closing the file and reaching for another. "I just don't often get a chance to catch up with them. And that's why I'm taking the opportunity to spend a weekend with some of them now." He'd dropped the last file on top of the others, re-capped his pen, and pushed his chair away from his desk. "Anyway, don't you have a patient to interrogate? I have a Board meeting in ten minutes, and we both know that if I'm late Cuddy's going to blame you."
House had made no attempt to push himself out of his chair, though, and instead he'd eyed Wilson appraisingly. "Maybe I should come with," he'd said at last, raising his eyebrows and tipping his head again. "To keep an eye on you. Imagine the damage Little Jimmy could do to all those nice Canadian doctors! If Cuddy got to hear about that she'd have you on extra clinic duty for a month."
"Cuddy trusts me, House," Wilson had said, as he'd stood and walked towards the door. Arriving there, he'd begun to roll down his sleeves. "She doesn't care what Little Jimmy gets up to as long as I'm doing my job, and as long as she thinks I'm making some kind of effort to help her keep you in line. Anyway, I'm sure you'll survive without me for a weekend. I'll only be gone three days." He'd unhooked his lab coat from the coat stand, and slipped it over his arms. "Come on. Get your lazy ass out of here and find someone else to torment. When I see Cuddy I'll tell her you're on your way down to the clinic."
House had responded with the anticipated threats, but he'd gathered his things together and limped back to his room. He hadn't let the subject drop, though. Completing his last minute instructions to his staff that morning, Wilson had returned to his office to find House inspecting the contents of his suitcase, and on unpacking his shaving kit just now he'd discovered a small package wrapped in a scrap of charting paper. Unwrapping it, he'd found a pack of condoms, with a brief, hand-written note. "It's cold up there, Jimmy. Don't forget to wrap up. Mom x"
Wilson had grinned, despite himself, and he'd tossed the condoms back into his bag. He'd looked again at the note, and after a moment's hesitation he'd slipped it into his pocket. His grin faded now, though, as he wondered again how House would have reacted had he known why he was there.
A moment later, that thought alerted Wilson to the fact that it was getting late, and he looked down at his watch and saw that it was already 8pm. He ran a quick hand through his hair, and he walked back into the bedroom and reached into the closet for his jacket. Slipping it on, he picked his information folder off the table and shut the door behind him. Then he made his way towards the elevator, to join the gathering below.
-- ----- --
The evening passed quickly, in a haze of reintroductions and alcohol-fuelled reminiscences. Faces that seemed unrecognizable at first sight resolved quickly into familiar lines as conversation lent them context, and Wilson found himself enjoying the occasion more than he'd expected to do. It was after midnight when he returned to his room, and as he hung his dress suit in the closet he wondered whether it had been a mistake to allow himself to be railroaded into playing squash the following afternoon.
There'd been a time when he'd been one of the fastest players at McGill, but as he pulled a t-shirt over his head, and hitched his boxers to his hips, it occurred to him that that time had been 15 years earlier. Still, it wouldn't hurt to get some exercise, he thought, and it crossed his mind that, if he enjoyed it, perhaps he could think about joining a club when he got back down to Princeton.
He pushed back the covers and climbed into bed. The mattress was firm, and he shivered a little at the touch of the cotton sheets against his legs. There was a TV remote on the bedside table, and for a moment he thought about flicking through the channels in search of an easy movie. He remembered his new golfing journal, though, and reached for that instead, propping himself up against the headboard on a bank of carefully arranged pillows. He turned to an article about the Ryder Cup, but he found himself unable to concentrate, and his mind began to drift.
In the years since Wilson had graduated from McGill there had been several reunions. This was the first he'd attended, though, and when the invitation had arrived in his morning mail he'd scribbled a quick apology in the usual way, and dropped it into his out-tray.
He'd been staying at House's apartment since Julie had dropped the bomb-shell about her affair, but a month after receiving the letter from McGill he'd moved out. He and House had been close since soon after they'd met. Many people thought them completely ill-matched, but most people didn't see past the mask that Wilson held up for public scrutiny. Either they didn't look closely enough to see further, or they were content to accept Wilson's careful camouflage at face value. Both he and House had recognized a small reflection of himself in the other, though, and they'd settled quickly into a relaxed and easy friendship. When he'd walked out on Julie, House's apartment had been the obvious place for Wilson to go.
But in the month they'd spent living together, things had changed. Thinking back to that time now, and with the clarity conferred by distance, it wasn't hard for Wilson to see how things had progressed. He'd first noticed it one evening a couple of weeks after he'd moved in, when he and House had been lounging around the living room, relaxing after dinner.
"Wilson." House had been flipping through a pile of the latest medical journals, and Wilson had been stretched out on the couch, gazing lazily across towards him. He'd never noticed before just how long House's fingers were, but from where Wilson was lying it looked almost as though they curled all the way around his whiskey glass. "Wilson!" He hadn't realised he'd been staring until he'd suddenly noticed House waving his other hand in his face, and, before he could react, House had thrown a journal across the room. "Wilson!"
Wilson had jumped as the journal hit him in the chest, and he'd immediately begun to stammer, guiltily. "What? Oh, sorry! I..."
As his eyes had returned to focus he'd seen what had looked like a mocking smile playing around the edges of House's mouth. "If you've finished checking me out, I'd appreciate your thoughts on this. Have you seen Zebrowski's paper on page 15?" House had grinned more broadly, then, and reached for another article. "I realise monoclonal gammopathy isn't nearly as exciting as my gorgeous ass, but what is, after all?"
Wilson had blushed, and raised his eyes towards the ceiling. "I wasn't checking you out, you narcissistic idiot! I was just... thinking." He'd finished the sentence more slowly than he'd begun, and he'd reached suddenly for the journal, and lowered his head as he'd turned to the index.
"Yeah, well think about Zebrowski's article instead," House had muttered, as he'd turned back to his reading.
Wilson had read the paper, but later that night a memory of the incident had returned to him on the couch. At the time he hadn't been sure why it had stayed with him. Looking back now, though, he saw it as the first in the series of incidents that had led to his departure.
The next had been a few mornings later, when he and House had somehow become entangled in the bathroom doorway. Wilson had been rushing from the shower. House was still sleepy, and his hair had been ruffled, and sticking up at strange angles. He'd scowled at Wilson, and complained loudly about the loss of his personal space, but as Wilson had steadied himself against House's middle, and squeezed past and into the corridor, he'd become acutely aware of the soft feel of House's cotton t-shirt against his palms, and the firmness of House's body beneath his clothes.
His eyes had widened, and he'd looked up at House in surprise. House had stared back at him with an unreadable expression, and suddenly Wilson had looked away. As he'd edged away from the bathroom door he'd called back, "I'll see you later." House had merely grunted, though, and lowered his hands towards the front of his boxers as he'd made his way towards the toilet.
Suddenly Wilson's cell phone rang, and the journal slipped from his knees and onto the floor as he reached across to the bedside table to answer the phone. When he checked the caller ID he saw that it was House, and his stomach jumped slightly. For a moment he considered just letting the phone ring out. House was nothing if not persistent, though, and so instead he pressed the button and took the call. "Don't tell me, House," he said, in a light tone. "You're missing me so much already that you couldn't sleep."
"Just keeping tabs on you, Jimmy," said House, from the other end of the line. His voice was slightly gravely, and Wilson thought he detected the sound of a glass settling against wood in the background. "I promised Cuddy I'd make sure you stayed out of trouble. Having fun yet?" There was a brief pause, and Wilson thought he heard the glass move again. "Maybe not, though, since you're so quick to take the call."
Wilson smiled, slightly. "Actually, we've finished. She's in the bathroom, cleaning up. I'm just lying here browsing the television for porn."
"Nice..." House muttered, but Wilson thought he heard a smile in his voice. Then House continued. "So, how have the other kids turned out? Are they all as screwed up as you? If they are, you can probably get Stacy to bring a class action."
Wilson reached down for the covers, and pulled them up towards his chest. "They're all respectably boring middle-aged specialists, House, like me. We sat around and talked about old times for a while. It was good. You should try it sometime." Changing the subject, Wilson went on. "Anyway, what's happening down there? Do you have a new patient yet?"
The glass shifted again, and this time Wilson thought he heard a bottle join it. "Nothing interesting," said House. "Cuddy's had me on clinic duty all afternoon. If she doesn't come up with a case on Monday I'll send the kids out to look for something."
For a time neither man said anything. Wilson leaned over to the table for a glass of water, and a short silence ensued. Then House spoke again. "So everything's okay?"
Wilson's eyes widened, and it was a moment before he answered. "Yes," he said. "Everything's fine." He paused, but House didn't respond, and so Wilson continued. "You know, I really should get to sleep, House," and he manufactured a yawn. "I'm playing squash tomorrow, and I want to get out and take a look around the grounds in the morning."
House grunted, and Wilson thought he detected amusement in the sound. "Try not to die of excitement up there, Wilson. There's no way I'm traveling to Montreal to attend your funeral."
"Yes, God forbid that you should put yourself out for me," said Wilson, and a rueful smile spread across his face. "Goodnight, House," he said, and he ended the call and returned the phone to the bedside table.
He reached for his journal again, but he still couldn't concentrate on golf. His fingers turned the pages, but his thoughts kept slipping back to the conversation. He was unused to expressions of interest in his wellbeing from House, and he searched his memory for anything he might have said or done that could have prompted the enquiry. He couldn't think of anything, though, and eventually he gave up. Checking his watch, he saw that it was almost 2am, and he lifted his hand and rubbed it across the bridge of his nose.
He pushed back the covers and, taking the glass from beside the bed, he made his way over to the bathroom. A couple of minutes later he returned, and slipped back between the sheets. He rearranged the pillows, and reached over to turn off the bedside light, sliding down the mattress and pulling the covers up and over his shoulders. Then he closed his eyes, turned onto his back, and began to breath deeply and deliberately. It was a long time before he ceased to be aware of time passing around him, but eventually he slept.
-- ----- --
Wilson hunched his shoulders and pulled his scarf a little closer, as he made his way across the fields towards the lake. He'd quite enjoyed the communal breakfast, although he'd noticed that several people at the table appeared a little frayed around the edges after the excesses of the night before. He hadn't been drinking, though, and when he thought back to his fractured sleep he was relieved that he hadn't added alcohol to the mix.
A trip to the university had been arranged for the morning, but Wilson had decided to forego it in favor of an exploration of the hotel grounds. Susan was due in a couple of hours, and he wanted to be there for her arrival. She was the closest friend he had left from medical school, and they'd kept in touch regularly over the years.
It was a bright and beautiful morning: cold, but still; and, although the early sunshine fell like warm breath on the back of Wilson's neck, it lacked the strength to penetrate his clothing, and he hugged his jacket closer to his body as he walked. The grass was short but thick, and still drenched in the remains of a heavy dew, and as Wilson crossed it a dark trail appeared on the ground behind him, and dew stained the toes of his boots black.
As he walked, Wilson thought back to the month he'd spent in House's apartment. The next incident had occurred a few days later, as Wilson had been taking a shower.
On a whim, he'd reached for House's shampoo instead of his own. He'd squeezed a little into his hands and rubbed them together, and, as the familiar smell of House had flooded the cubicle, he'd found himself lifting his hands to his face and inhaling the scent, before reaching up and applying the shampoo to his hair.
The image of House had remained in his mind, and as he'd closed his eyes and turned his face towards the spray, luxuriating in the stream of hot and soapy water coursing swiftly down his chest, he'd lowered a hand, experimentally, to touch himself. He'd gasped as his hand moved against his body, and briefly he'd hesitated. A moment later, though, he'd leaned his right hand against the wall and lowered his head, and a few minutes after that he'd arched his back, and shuddered, as he'd come in hot, white spurts across the back of his wrist, and into the water bubbling in the tray by his feet. He'd lowered his left hand to his side, and remained in that position for some time, and when he'd eventually raised his head all traces of his earlier contentment had been gone.
Memories of the shower had returned to Wilson at every unoccupied moment of the day, and that evening he'd been buried in a pile of paperwork when House had called into his office. "Wanna eat out tonight?" House had asked, from the doorway. "I took $50 off Foreman on the results of the girl's blood test, so it's my treat if you're going to be quick."
Wilson had put down his pen and lifted a hand towards his brow, and then he'd raised his eyes to meet House's. "Sorry, but I can't." He'd gestured towards the papers covering his desk, and shifted his hand to massage the back of his neck. "I'm completely swamped. I've no idea what time I'm going to be finished here."
House had shifted his weight against his cane, and looked over at Wilson enquiringly. "No time for lunch or dinner today, Jimmy? You know what they say about all work and no play."
"I'll grab a sandwich later," Wilson had said, and he'd picked up his pen again, and stared meaningfully at the file he'd been working on.
"Relax. I'm going," House had said, as he'd turned towards the corridor. "Don't think you're getting out of the dishes that easily, though," he'd called back, as he'd allowed the door to swing closed behind him. "You can do them tomorrow as well."
"Fine," Wilson had muttered, and he'd turned back to his papers. Half an hour later, though, he'd closed the file and re-capped his pen. Standing, he'd walked across to the window, and stared out at the rain falling heavily onto the balcony. After that, he'd walked towards the coat stand, lifted his jacket from the hook and made his way to the oncology lounge. He'd been flicking through the movies section of the local newspaper when Brown had come in, and Wilson had looked up and passed him the paper, asking, "Hey, have you seen any of these? I felt like an evening out, but I'm a little out of touch." Brown had taken the paper, and 45 minutes later Wilson had settled into a seat at the back of the theatre with a large box of salted popcorn, and for a couple of hours all thoughts of the morning had been lost in the movie.
By the time Wilson had returned to the apartment, House had been in bed. It wasn't possible to avoid him, though, and over the course of the next week Wilson had attempted to rationalize the situation. It wasn't clear whether House had noticed any change in him, or--if he had--whether he'd considered it in any way unusual. More than once, though, Wilson had caught himself observing House. He'd been embarrassed, on looking up, to find House watching him, impassively. But neither of them had said anything, and so things had continued.
Remembering the occasion now, Wilson stopped and removed his hands from his pockets, and reached up to loosen the top of his jacket, and his scarf. He'd reached the outskirts of the lake, and he walked towards a fallen tree near the water's edge and sat down. He leaned back against the trunk, and stared out across the water.
The lake was fringed with reeds, and overshadowed at the edges by tall, overhanging trees. It was quiet, and no obvious signs of movement drew his eye. Tranquility of this sort had long ceased to be a part of Wilson's life, and it seemed to him now that he should seek it out. Moments later, though, a small and muted plop broke without warning through the surface of his daydream, and something stirred minutely in his peripheral vision.
Wilson turned his head towards the right, and on the surface of the water he saw an expanding series of concentric circles begin to drift lazily towards the banks. He watched, silently, as the outermost circle pursued an inexorable course towards the reed bed, and it had almost reached the point of disintegration when a secondary movement just behind it attracted his attention. The source of the movement was barely visible at first, but as Wilson stared closely into the tall grasses there was a sudden slight shift of colors, and he realized that he was looking at a bird. Moments later, the shape resolved into that of a heron.
The bird stood balanced finely on one leg, and as Wilson watched he saw it advance almost imperceptibly forwards, its neck extended and its eyes entirely focused on the movements of small creatures concealed from Wilson's gaze beneath the surface of the lake. He watched, almost hypnotized, as the bird continued its slow advance, but gradually it drew to a halt and placed its second leg carefully into the water beside the first. Then it drew back its neck, and settled carefully into an attitude of almost statue-like stillness.
Wilson breathed quietly, almost afraid to move. Slowly, he raised his eyes to the tops of the surrounding trees and scanned them for signs of a nest, but there was nothing to be seen. He lowered his eyes again and looked back at the bird. It stood so still in the reeds that its reflection was captured perfectly upon the surface of the lake. Minutes passed, but the bird made no movement, and Wilson wondered suddenly how much of its life was spent waiting, in that way. He found something unsettling in the idea, and when he eventually rose from the log to trace his steps back to the hotel the image remained in his mind.
-- ----- --
Back in his room, Wilson took a sip of his coffee and leaned forwards in his chair to check the driveway once again. There was still no sign of Susan, and he wondered whether to get out his cell phone and give her a call. It wasn't yet noon, though, and he decided to wait a little longer.
The final incident had taken place a week before he'd moved out. As he thought of it now, Wilson's face flushed and he felt his heart begin to race in his chest. He leaned forwards in his chair and breathed deeply, resting his weight against his knees. His heart beat faster, though, and, almost without thinking, he reached down, and patted his hand against the side of his leg. There was a small, answering rattle from his pocket, but he waited, and eventually his heart began to slow to a steadier rhythm. After that he sat up, and slowly rubbed the circulation back into his arms.
It had been a great evening, originally. They'd been to a Benefit at the hospital, and Wilson had actually won the poker tournament. House had left the tournament to treat a child, and he'd finally solved the mystery of one of his oldest unresolved cases. Riding back to the apartment in the cab, Wilson had taken House through a second blow-by-blow account of exactly how he'd trashed Burman. For once House had been happy to sit quietly, just listening, and watching Wilson, patiently. He'd even smiled a little when the story had ended. "You have a gift for manipulation and deceit" he'd said. "It's wasted in oncology. Maybe you should consider a career in hospital administration!" They'd both laughed, and Wilson had settled back into his seat and turned his head towards the window. From there he'd watched in silence as familiar places, rendered unfamiliar by darkness, had flashed by outside the cab.
Back at the apartment, House had poured each of them a whiskey, and retired wordlessly to the piano. Wilson had collapsed onto the couch, and settled into a quiet contemplation of House from behind the shelter of an arm thrown casually up and across his eyes.
Time had passed imperceptibly, neither of them speaking and each absorbed in his thoughts. The occasions of House's diagnostic triumphs were frequently noisy, self-congratulatory affairs, but this night had been different. House's head was bent low over the keyboard, and his hands had moved carefully--almost reverentially--across the keys. The music wasn't anything that Wilson had recognized, and it had seemed likely to him that this was some private composition of House's own. House's feelings about his failure to save Esther had been complex, and they'd run long and deep. Had Wilson thought it possible that House embraced the concept of a personal God, then as he watched he might almost have believed that House was giving thanks.
Quite suddenly, though, House had stopped in mid-phrase, and turned his head towards Wilson. Wilson had said nothing, and House had continued to look. It had occurred to Wilson that House thought he was sleeping, and although his conscience told him that he ought to speak the opportunity had seemed to pass. House had reached for his cane, and pushed himself up and off the stool. He'd turned to his glass, and at that stage Wilson had closed his eyes. He'd heard House turn again, to walk towards the kitchen, but as he'd approached the couch his steps had slowed, and Wilson's heart had begun to throb so loudly in his ears that for a moment it had seemed impossible that House couldn't hear it. There had been a brief silence, and then Wilson had heard a minute rustling as House had bent down. Immediately after that he'd felt House brush a hand gently against his head, and as House lifted his hand away Wilson had felt him touch his fingers briefly against his hair. A moment later House had stood, and continued his journey towards the kitchen. Wilson had heard the sound of the glass settling into the sink, and then he'd heard House making his way towards his bedroom.
As the sound of House`s steps had receded along the corridor, Wilson had found that he could barely breathe against the pounding of his heart in his chest. Had House known he was awake? He'd been afraid to move at first, but a wave of nausea had hit him suddenly, and with such force, that he'd had to sit up and lower his head towards the floor. He'd tried to breathe deeply, but his hands and feet had been tingling and his head had begun to spin, and he'd been overtaken by an all-embracing fear that House would return and find him in that state. What if House knew he'd been watching? As he'd considered the possibility that he might have given something away Wilson had found that he was panting, and, clutching suddenly at both his stomach and his mouth, he'd pushed himself off the couch and made a dash towards the bathroom. Shutting the door behind him, he'd just made it to the toilet before emptying the contents of his stomach into the bowl.
He'd been crouched down against the toilet, his heart still racing and his hands and face damp with sweat and sticky vomit, when he'd heard House's cane against the door. "Wilson?"
He'd pulled himself up against the bowl, and attempted to slow his breathing to a point at which he could speak. "Wait, House."
A moment later, House had spoken again. "Need to pee!" he'd said. Then there'd been another pause. "What're you doing?"
Wilson's heart had raced faster, and it had been almost impossible to catch his breath. He'd opened his mouth to reply, but as he'd heard House's cane make further contact with the door his stomach had contracted, and he'd swung his face back towards the toilet and vomited again.
The next thing he'd been aware of was the sound of House's voice behind his shoulder. "What are you doing?" House had asked again. Wilson had tried to voice a response, but the words wouldn't come, and House had spoken again. "Wilson?" he'd said, a note of more genuine enquiry apparent in his voice.
"Buffet," Wilson had managed to gasp. "Go away."
He'd heard House shift against his cane, and, although he could see nothing, he'd been acutely and agonizingly aware of the strength of House's cool, appraising stare against his back. He'd had no idea what House had been thinking, but as the possibilities had raced through his mind he'd retched again into the bowl.
House had moved again, and finally Wilson had heard him turn away. "Don't take all night in here, Wilson," he'd said, and he'd begun to pull the door to behind him. "Some of us need to pee."
It was at that stage that Wilson had realised he needed to leave, and within a week he'd moved out of House's apartment and into his own. A humorless smile flickered briefly across his features, now, as he remembered how House had later assumed that he'd moved out to live with Grace. In different circumstances, the irony would have been amusing. There was nothing amusing about it, though. House had been wrong. It had been a week after leaving House's apartment that Wilson had driven Grace home, and when he'd moved in with her he'd foregone the deposit on his apartment and cancelled the lease.
It was four weeks, now, since he'd moved out. He'd hoped that leaving would resolve the situation, but it hadn't. Anxiety about his feelings for House had begun to haunt him at odd moments during the day. He'd found his concentration affected, and he'd begun to worry that he was no longer focused on his patients. He'd had a second panic attack while reviewing files in his office. When he'd begun to wake early, unable to sleep and unable to clear his mind of thoughts about his job and his relationship with House, he'd been forced to accept that he had a significant problem.
Wilson stood, and walked around the table to get a better view. The sky had clouded over, and in the distance the surface of the lake looked slightly ruffled, and grey. There was still no sign of a car, and he ran a hand through his hair and walked back to his seat.
As soon as he'd moved his things into his new apartment he'd taken a personal day, and driven down state to see Susan. He smiled, now, as he remembered how, in their very early days at McGill, people had assumed that they were together. They'd been close, but they'd never been more than friends. Almost 10 years earlier Susan had moved in with her partner, Paula. They'd moved down to a small town in the south of New Jersey, and Susan was happily settled there, now, and working as a general practitioner.
Four weeks ago he'd spoken to Susan about his break-up with Julie. Feeling a need to justify his condition, he'd even gone on to speak about David. He'd said nothing at all about House, though. It wasn't that he felt he couldn't trust Susan, but he'd barely begun to acknowledge those feelings to himself.
Susan had been concerned at the change in him. She'd prescribed Ativan for his anxiety, and Zoloft for his depression. She'd wanted him to undergo a more formal assessment with a colleague, but Wilson hadn't been willing to agree. She'd persuaded him that he needed some sort of a break, though, and that's when she'd suggested that he should attend the reunion. They'd agreed to try to meet at weekly intervals for the first month, and to review the situation in Montreal.
When things hadn't improved, Susan had increased the Zoloft to 100mg a day. Wilson had shied off using the Ativan, but she'd encouraged him to use it when he needed it. Finally he'd found that his sleep was starting to improve, and the Ativan was helping to keep the worst of his panic attacks under control.
At that moment, Wilson's cell phone rang. Picking it up, he saw that it was Susan, and when he took the call she told him she was almost there. He lifted his jacket from the back of the chair, and went downstairs to wait in the lobby.
-- ----- --
It had begun to rain by the time Wilson saw Susan's car turn into the parking lot. He draped his jacket over his head and, ducking slightly as he opened the door, he ran out to meet her. Arriving at her car, he sent her off to the hotel, and then he followed behind with her overnight case.
Safe in the lobby again, he shook out his jacket, and dropped it onto Susan's bag before turning to hug her.
"I'm sorry I'm late, Jimmy," she said, releasing him, and smiling as she reached across to brush wet hair up and out of his eyes. "The flight was delayed, and there was a hold-up with the luggage." Then she stepped back, and inspected him more closely. "You look tired. How've you been sleeping?"
Wilson's smile faded a little, and he glanced towards the floor before he replied. "Better, thanks, but I had a late night. Let's get you checked in first, though. We can talk later." He leaned down and picked up her bag, and they made their way across to the desk.
Twenty minutes later, they were established in the small room adjoining Susan's bedroom. Susan had made coffee, and she placed a cup on the table in front of Wilson. Then she took a seat in the chair beside him.
"So how have you been?" she asked. "Any better yet? Do you feel the Zoloft's helping?"
As Wilson told her how things had progressed since he'd seen her two weeks earlier he was conscious that he really ought to reporting more of an improvement, and when he finished it was clear that Susan felt the same.
"And have you had any contact with Julie?," she asked. "What do the lawyers say about the settlement?"
Wilson said that yes, he'd spoken to Julie a week ago, and that things between them were moving towards a polite, if uneasy, understanding. It was still early days in relation to the settlement, but it was beginning to look as though they might be able to work something out.
Susan frowned, and leaned towards him in her chair. "But you're not actually feeling that much better?" She paused for a moment, and then she went on. "Jimmy... Are you sure there isn't something else? Anything at all?" She smiled, and reached across to touch the back of his arm. "I can't help properly if you don't tell me everything that's on your mind."
Wilson looked down, and wondered how he could even begin to explain the reality of his situation to Susan. He leaned forwards, and wrapped his arms tightly around his chest as he considered how he'd tried to understand it himself.
The conclusions he'd reached had seemed incredible to him initially. After three failed but entirely heterosexual marriages, it had seemed impossible that he could be attracted to House in any sort of physical way. He couldn't make sense of it. Certainly his relationships with women had been flawed, but the problems hadn't arisen out of any lack of physical desire or enjoyment on his part. The only explanation had seemed to be that his recent proximity to House had uncovered in him some kind of latent bisexuality, but Wilson had found that prospect profoundly disturbing. It wasn't the idea that some part of him might be gay that was disturbing to him - and Wilson held the word up in his mind again, now, and turned it around, inspecting it from every angle. At least, he didn't believe it was. It was his fear that whatever feelings he was now developing towards House would never be returned.
Wilson released his arms from around his chest, and looked across to Susan again. After that he took a deep breath, and began to speak.
Once he started, Wilson found it difficult to stop, and it was almost twenty minutes later when he finally finished talking. He'd told Susan almost everything, and he sat back in his chair and looked up towards the ceiling, suddenly exhausted.
Susan had listened without interrupting, and she sat quietly for some moments before she replied. "Do you think there's any chance he feels the same way? Do you think you'd be able to tell?"
Wilson sighed, and shook his head, uncertainly. When he'd first accepted what was happening, he'd briefly stopped to consider whether House might ever have entertained similar feelings for him. At that stage he'd quickly dismissed the possibility. Reviewing the history of their relationship, he could see no sign of it. He knew that on some level his friendship mattered to House, but House was not a demonstrative man, and ultimately Wilson remained unsure about just how deeply House's attachment to him ran. He'd returned to the question daily since that time, though, and since the incident after the Benefit he'd been forced to accept that he had simply no idea what House's feelings on the subject might be.
He explained it to Susan, and she sat back silently to consider what he'd said. Finally she leaned forwards, and placed her hand on the back of his arm again. "I know it's not easy, Jimmy, but you're going to have to decide. You can spend the rest of your life wondering, or you can take a chance. You can't carry on like this, though."
She squeezed his arm and excused herself, and made her way into the bedroom for a sweater. Wilson stood and walked across to the window. He stared out through the rain streaming heavily down the glass, and then he leaned back against the table to watch the wind make marionettes of the tall poplars surrounding the lake.
-- ----- --
For the second night in a row, it was after midnight when Wilson returned to his room. He went straight to the bathroom and began to run the water for a bath. Then he walked back to the bedroom and began to take off his clothes and fold them onto a chair. It was late but he needed to think, and a soak in a hot tub was one of the best ways he knew to relax.
He'd attempted to clear his mind of everything but the reunion for the remainder of the afternoon. Susan had gone downstairs to meet the others, and he'd gone across to the gym to meet Andrews for the promised game of squash. In the locker room afterwards, though, thoughts of his conversation with Susan had come flooding back.
He and Andrews had been on the team together in the year the medical school had won the Inter-Departmental Challenge Cup. As he'd toweled himself down after his shower, he'd looked across at Andrews, curiously. He could see that Andrews had kept himself in pretty good shape. Andrews had looked up and noticed Wilson watching him, and he'd laughed. He'd slapped a hand against his stomach, and made a rueful joke about how easy it had been to stay lean when they'd been in their 20s, and how much more difficult it was now.
Wilson had laughed with him, but secretly his heart had begun to race. He'd felt himself blushing, and so he'd turned away, lifting the towel to his face and rubbing determinedly at his hair until it was almost dry. He'd known then that he wasn't attracted to Andrews physically, but the fact that he'd felt a need to test himself again had drawn his thoughts right back to Grace.
Shame had prevented him from speaking to Susan about it earlier, but guilt about his actions involving Grace had been almost as intrusive during the past month as his anxiety about House. He knew that no circumstances could ever have justified his behavior in sleeping with a patient, but to have slept with Grace as a test of his newly-discovered feelings for House had been... Wilson had felt heat rising to his face again as the memory of it had returned, and his heart had begun to pound painfully against his ribs. It had been inexcusable, and on far more than a professional level. Wilson had begun to feel breathless again, and he'd clutched at his jacket and dragged his Ativan out of the pocket. He'd barely had time to make it to a cubicle before his head had begun to spin.
Wilson lay back in his bath, now, and shook his head to clear the memory away. He closed his eyes and bent his knees, sliding his back along the bottom and tipping his head back, and under the water. He held his breath for a while, and then let it slowly escape, in a series of noisy bubbles. When his lungs finally emptied he pushed up again with his feet, and as his shoulders emerged from the water he swept his hands backwards over his head, and forwards, to wipe the water out of his eyes. Then he forced himself to think of something else.
House had called him early in the evening, and had asked him for a ride to the hospital on Monday.
"Damned kids," he'd growled. "Smashed out the lights and put a hole in the fuel tank. It's going to be in the workshop until the middle of next week."
Wilson had thought about suggesting the Corvette, but House had sounded so upset about the bike that he'd held back.
"Okay," he'd said. "I'll come over early on Monday and pick you up."
"What time will you be back tomorrow?" House had asked, and when Wilson had told him he was going to be late House had suggested that he might as well stay over. Wilson had hesitated, but in the end he'd agreed. It made sense, and he could always pick up a sandwich at House's apartment if it was too late to get takeout by the time he got home.
"Don't expect me to wait up for you, though," House had continued, "and don't wake me up." He'd ended the call, and Wilson had found himself talking to the dial tone.
"Yeah, and thank you too, House," he'd muttered to himself, as he'd made his way back to the dinner table and re-taken his seat next to Susan.
"Was that Greg?" she'd asked.
Wilson had nodded, and reached for his drink. "He needs a ride to work on Monday. I'm going to stay over there tomorrow night."
Susan had laid her fork on her plate, and raised her eyebrows. "Did he ask you to stay?"
Wilson had thought back to their conversation. "I suppose he did," he'd replied, eventually.
Then Susan had pushed her plate aside. "Well you know, Jimmy, I can't help wondering whether all you need to do is think about meeting him halfway."
Wilson shivered suddenly in his bath, and realised that the water had begun to cool around his body. Leaning forwards he turned the tap, and as a sudden stream of hot water surged around his feet he lay back to consider it all again.
-- ----- --
The following morning, Wilson parted from the others in the lobby after breakfast.
He found himself agreeing to take a trip up to Boston to spend a weekend with Andrews and his wife. "We'll have to knock you back into shape, Jimmy," Andrews said, grinning as he slapped Wilson on the shoulder. "I know it's been a while, but there's really no excuse for collapsing after 3 games!" Wilson smiled, and promised to make an appointment at the gym, and then they shook hands and Andrews left.
After that he walked across to the desk to wait for Susan. She finished with the clerk, and turned towards him as she slipped her card and pen into her purse. Wilson lifted her bag, and gestured with his shoulder towards the door. "Come on," he said. "I'll walk you to your car."
They fastened the bag into the trunk, and Susan reached across to hug him. "Take care," she said, and she kissed him, warmly. "I'll see you soon. Call me tomorrow to let me know how it goes with Greg." He thanked her, and promised that he would, and then he stood back to wave her off.
He wasn't quite ready to leave, and after packing his things into the car he slipped his keys into his pocket and set out for a second walk across to the lake. He found himself approaching quietly, in the hope of seeing the heron one last time. There was no sign of it as he approached, and initially he thought it was gone, but as he bent his head to step under an overhanging branch he saw a sudden flash of movement, and when he turned his face towards it he saw the heron in the water, jerking its head sharply several times as it maneuvered a fish along its beak, and flicked it carefully into the back of its throat.
The bird dipped its beak into the water, then, and looked around, and for a few moments it appeared to Wilson to be surveying its surroundings. He wasn't sure whether he'd imagined a gleam of triumph in its eye. After that, though, it settled back into its customary stance, frozen and watching in the reed bed, and when Wilson turned to go he left it there behind him, staring with absolute concentration at the invisible movements of small creatures, still hidden from Wilson's view beneath the surface of the lake.
-- ----- --
It was later than he'd expected by the time Wilson finally left the Northway behind. The Volvo's headlights cast a bright, white arc against the dark surface of the road, and a succession of raindrops traced a jerky, crooked path along the edge of the windscreen, pursuing each other relentlessly through a layer of greasy spray thrown up by the wheels of passing trucks.
Wilson had originally planned to fly, but when he'd thought back to the road trips he'd taken as a student he'd been filled with a longing to make the journey again. He'd always loved the drive through the Adirondack Park, and today he'd broken his journey several times to re-live old memories. At the southernmost edge of the park he'd stopped, and taken a walk out along a trail to a point from which he could survey the surrounding mountains. Eventually he'd turned back towards the car, though, and embarked upon the second half of the long journey home.
It was almost 1am when he arrived at House's apartment, and drew the Volvo to a stop. He was surprised to see light spilling through the blinds, and as he let himself in he saw that House had turned on the lamp, and laid out a pillow and a couple of blankets for him on the couch.
He dropped his suitcase beside the table, and hung his jacket over the back of a chair. He made his way to the kitchen, and he was about to reach for the bread and a jar of peanut butter when he spotted a Post-It note stuck to a plate in the middle of the table. He picked it up, and his eyes widened as he read it. "Pizza in the fridge." He smiled, and turned to the fridge to extract the pizza, and 10 minutes later he was sitting on the couch with a coffee when he heard the sound of footsteps in the corridor. He looked up from the television to see House limping slowly into the room.
"Oh, sorry! Did I wake you up?" he asked, reaching for the remote and quietening the television even further. House merely grunted, and took a seat on the couch beside him. Then he rubbed a hand across his eyes, and reached across for a slice of pizza.
Wilson turned back to the television, and for a few minutes neither man said anything. Silent bodies flickered across the television screen, and the only sound in the room was that of Steve on his wheel, spinning quietly in the corner.
Eventually House reached for Wilson's coffee, and took a drink. "So how was the journey home?" he enquired, leaning forwards to replace the drink on the table. "Still think you shouldn't have flown?"
Wilson smiled. "I enjoyed the drive." He paused for a moment, and looked back to the television. "It gave me a chance to think."
House raised his eyebrows but he didn't reply, and instead he reached across for another slice of pizza. A few minutes passed, and then he went on. "So did you find it?"
Wilson frowned. "Find what?"
House smiled a little, and lifted the pizza towards his mouth. "Whatever it was you were looking for."
Wilson almost choked on his pizza, and as he coughed he shook his head at House. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
House finished eating, and leaned forwards to wipe his fingers on his pajama pants. "Well there has to be a reason why you chose to drive 800 miles to spend a weekend with a bunch of strangers."
Wilson ducked his head for a moment, and he reached for the coffee to finish it off. His heart was racing again, but he took a deep breath and willed himself to remain calm. When he looked up he found that House was watching him, closely. An image of the heron in the reed bed flashed suddenly across his mind, and he frowned, and shook his head to clear it away.
A little time passed, and then he spoke again. "Could I..." He broke off for a moment and looked down, but he took another breath and continued. "Could I move back in with you for a while? It's... well, I think I've had enough of the hotel." His heart was thumping against his ribs, but he continued. "I could look for an apartment, but...I...well..." He trailed off at that point, but a moment later he lifted his chin, and looked over at House from beneath half-lowered eyebrows.
House's eyes narrowed slightly, but otherwise his expression remained blank. "So it took a month, and a trip to Canada, to decide you don't like living in a hotel?" House almost smirked then, but suddenly he looked away, and if Wilson hadn't known him well he wouldn't have noticed the barely detectable note of uncertainty that entered his voice. He glanced sideways at Wilson, and then looked down and began to toy with the handle of his cane. "It's a pity you haven't always been this slow on the uptake. You could have saved yourself a fortune in alimony."
Wilson's eyes widened as he considered House's reply, and a slow heat began to suffuse his body. His heart beat even faster, and he felt a grin begin to spread across his face.
House looked up and met his eyes, and for a moment it looked almost to Wilson as though he was about to smile too. Then House looked away again. "No more hairdryers before breakfast, though," he growled, re-grouping his scowl. Next he took a proper hold on his cane, and poked Wilson gently on the foot. "And no more peeing on the couch." He leaned forwards, and, after a moment's hesitation, placed a hand carefully on Wilson's leg. Then he pressed down, and pushed himself up and out of his seat. Leaning heavily on his cane, he began to make his way across the room and towards the door. "You can move your things back in tomorrow, after work," he said, as he turned into the corridor. "So don't stay up all night."
Wilson was still grinning as he reached for the last piece of pizza, and for the first time in a month the sound of blood pulsing in his ears was not the first symptom of an impending panic attack. "Goodnight, House," he called, as he settled back against the couch.
And deep in the reed bed there was a sudden, small flash of movement as the heron dipped its beak into the water and stepped back, triumphant, to survey its surroundings.
The End
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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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