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Without Saying A Word
by Fox Trot
Author's Note: The first time I saw House I recognized Dr. Wilson, but it was not until I saw the credits that I realized that I knew of Sean Robert Leonard from Dead Poet's Society. I decided to use the power of fan fiction to do some revisionist history and combine Dead Poet's Society into Wilson's back story. However, lack of knowledge about Dead Poet's is not detrimental in any way to reading/understanding this fic. I hope you enjoy!
And a huge, *huge* thanks to Annie and Bella for the beta. Any and all remaining mistakes are my own.
Warnings: Deals with some serious issues concerning suicide.
Disclaimer: I have no rights to these characters or the plot points from either House or Dead Poet's Society. However, I am not making any money off of this story and promise to return them (relatively) unharmed after I'm finished playing with them.
House watched his lover as he sat on the couch reading a medical journal. House himself was sitting at the piano and had been playing, but stopped to pop another Vicodin. He noticed the slight frown on Wilson's face at the action, though he never looked up from the journal.
House made one last sweeping lick on the keys before hefting himself up and limping unaided to sit next to James. Though there was plenty of room, he chose to sit right next to Wilson. If asked he would have claimed it was to annoy the younger man, though they both knew the closeness was a small sign of the affection they rarely discussed.
* * *
Theirs was a unique relationship, having developed over the years and through hardships on both sides. Though many would say that the infarction was by far the worst hardship, House was aware of how Wilson's perceived his marriages, and subsequent divorces, as a series of failures in a life where he had tried so hard to succeed. It was only after Wilson's third divorce that their friendship had developed into something more.
It had started with James sleeping on the couch. Then, one night when House was being ever so helpful in helping him drown his sorrows in whiskey, they both ended up sleeping in the bed. They hadn't done anything, but when they woke up in the morning, House was snuggled up to Wilson--something he still denied, even to himself. That morning they had silently looked at each other and known, just understood, that something neither expected was happening.
After a week of simply sharing a bed, Wilson left. House just watched him leave, not saying a word. If it hurt him at all, he never let it show. The only person who may have been able to see the signs was avoiding him. Actually, as House often thought to himself, James was perfectly *not* avoiding him. They ate together. Wilson showed up at the perfect times in the Diagnostic Department office to get a cup of coffee and listen to the discussions of the newest mystery illness. He even nagged House about joining the poker game. However, House observed that James was perfectly acting the part, but with an emotional detachment that was usually reserved for the cases that bothered Wilson the most.
House took it on as another puzzle to solve. Their friendship--relationship--had become ill, and being the brilliant diagnostician he was, House was going to figure out what was wrong. Years of knowing Wilson made it a rather boring puzzle though. He had done what he always did after a divorce, he ran to another woman. Unfortunately, James made two bad choices this time. The first was that the woman he ran to was a patient.
The second? He had foolishly tried to run away from House.
Greg knew he was treading on very thin ice as he revealed his knowledge of the illicit fling to the poker `buddies.' But, as cruel as his words could have been, he was trying to save Wilson from making a giant mistake. And, the thing was, he knew James understood his intentions.
Two days later, Wilson was moved back in, and they were spending the nights together in bed once more.
Things didn't happen very fast, and they barely spoke of what was happening. House, because it wasn't in his nature, and James, because he was afraid of being mocked by Greg's biting wit if he tried to bring it up. Both had fears of being laid bare before the other, though House would never admit to it, even to himself. Neither man wanted to discover that he felt more than the other; that his feelings were one-sided. So their relationship developed without words.
As things became more serious, after sharing a bed shifted to include more pleasurable activities, the silence became consuming. Greg knew that it was up to him, but he was uncomfortable with sharing his feelings. He had spent most of his life warding off feel-good thoughts and fuzzy moments with harsh wit and bitter sarcasm. Even before the infarction, even with Stacy, he avoided sharing himself with others. He knew that James was different though. He knew what his silence was doing to Wilson. He could see James' fears multiplying and weighing down on him. House had to acknowledge to himself that if he let things go on as they were, he would not only lose Wilson in his bed, as his lover ,but possibly as his only friend as well.
It was that night, while they were both lying in bed after some mutual frottage, that Greg took a good look at James. He saw two things in those brown eyes. The first was the hidden fear. But it was the second that took his breath away. Looking into Wilson's eyes he saw reflected back at him... love.
Gently, he laid his hand on James' chest, and, feeling the beating of his heart, he softly spoke, "Me too."
The smile that broke across James' face let him know that he was perfectly understood. The silence was broken.
* * *
It had been several months, and their relationship had continued to develop. Greg continued to do and say things that, in his unique way, conveyed to James that he cared.
When he had broken the silence, it allowed Wilson to open up. House would listen, sometimes commenting sarcastically, but always in a way that was understood to be him playing his part. James would talk, and he would listen.
Very little had actually changed from the times of their friendship. Possibly, when James shared, it was more personal. Greg did his best to curtail his tongue. He did not want to ruin the best thing in his life, if he were to think about it sentimentally--which he did not-- by a shrewd, misplaced remark.
Now they were sitting on the couch, Greg reading the journal over James' shoulder to annoy him. James gave him an exasperated look before closing the journal and setting it down on the coffee table.
"Something I can do for you?"
House smirked. "Can't I just want to be near you?"
Wilson was obviously fighting his instinct to roll his eyes. Rather than getting into a quibble with House over something so trivial, he changed the subject, "Did you ever want to be something other than a doctor? A piano player maybe?"
House was about to reply flippantly until he caught a tone to James' voice that signaled an underlying seriousness. He quickly assessed the question and the intent look in those brown eyes and realized the signs of James wanting a real conversation. Finding himself unwilling to do anything but submit to that quiet will, he shrugged and answered, "It was either the military or something better, and musician was hardly an acceptable alternative in my father's eyes."
James snorted softly in amusement. He looked as if he was trying to imagine Greg saluting and following orders and it just didn't fit. He nodded. "Something we have in common."
House raised an eyebrow in question, understanding that James was about to reveal something important about himself.
Answering the unasked question, Wilson continued, "My father laid out my life, directing everything so I could be the perfect doctor son he wanted."
House sat quietly, processing this new information. Over their years of friendship, family had been a rarely touched-upon subject for both of them. It wasn't until that night on the streets that he'd even discovered that Wilson had a sibling. He did know that Wilson's mother was a housewife, and his father a business man, middle-management or something else fairly unremarkable, but not wanting to share about his own parents, he'd never asked beyond the polite, forced conversations at James' weddings. He had found James' dad to be a stoic man, but he never thought about the impact he had on his son. It appeared he would now find out.
"He worked so very hard to `provide for me'," James went on with a scoff. "At least, that's how he saw it. Providing to him meant paying for me to go to a boarding school. `Preparatory school' as they called it. He let the school groom me for the Ivy Leagues, he just provided the means.
"Though I wouldn't call him hands off of my education either. No, he would decide what extra-curricular activities I participated in. I had no choice, though I learned to live with his choices. Even then, as I moved on to my junior and senior years, he started pulling me from some of the activities that he had originally chosen for me."
James let out a soft sigh, prompting Greg to make an almost imperceptible shift towards his friend. A slight glance towards him, as well as a quirk of the lips, let him know that Wilson appreciated the small gesture.
It was a brief expression though, as James' gaze quickly shifted back to his lap. "Sometimes I believed he pulled me from what I enjoyed. Maybe not to spite me, but because he believed enjoyment was not a way to succeed.
"Or maybe he just wanted to exert more control over me, tighter control. He lost control of my brother and he wouldn't make the same mistake with me. He had two chances for that perfect son, and I was the last chance."
James looked up again at Greg, and House realized that this was nowhere near the end of the story. He saw the wistful look that preceded the next part of the story.
"Did you know that I acted?" Wilson asked. Without waiting for an answer, he forged on, "I was good at it too. I had tried out for a play. Obviously, I didn't tell my father about it. I even forged a letter from him to allow me to participate--I was given the lead."
He went silent, obviously lost in his memories.
Eventually House intruded his thoughts, asking, "What part?"
Wilson smiled, "Puck in A Midsummer Night's Dream." Then the smile slowly faded away. "I only got to be in the play opening night. My father had learned of my deception and forbid me to continue in the play. But... he was going on a business trip and I thought I could get away with it.
"It was certainly a shock when I noticed him standing in the back of the theatre. At the ending monologue I tried... I really tried to let him see why. I thought I could explain it to him, show him with my words." James turned his eyes to House's, pleading with him to understand, "I really tried--really I did."
Greg responded to James' pain, bringing his arm around his back, allowing the younger man to lean against his side.
Wilson accepted the unspoken invitation and laid his head on Greg's shoulder. "He dragged me out of there, in front of my friends and my teacher. They had come to see me and I could tell they wanted to congratulate me on how well I had done. But I was silent in my father's wake as he led me to the car.
"We drove home in silence. I... I... I just sat there!" James' voice was full of self-loathing. "He led me inside, and there was my mother, waiting to hear my judgment.
"He had enrolled me into a military academy. Once again he insisted that I would go to Harvard. I would become a doctor. I tried to tell him what I felt. I *wanted* to tell him what I felt, but he stood there, staring at me, and I crumpled under the weight of his gaze. Instead I just accepted the sentence he had passed down to me and we all retired to our bedrooms."
Once again, Wilson went silent. But by the tremors running through him, Greg could tell there was still more. This was James' confessional, and while Greg hardly felt comfortable in the role of priest, he understood and accepted that Wilson needed this. So he squeezed James a little bit closer, letting him know it was okay to continue. Like always, he was showing his wordless support.
When James started talking again, his voice was much softer, "That night I... in the dark I went down to my father's office. I sat there, opened up the pencil drawer and got out a key. I don't know how long I sat there, just looking at that key. Finally I used it to open up the file drawer.
"Greg, I had it. I had it there in my hand. My father's gun. I could feel the weight of it. I even had it pointed towards myself..."
"Wilson... James," House whispered, finally understanding the true importance of this story. He was humbled by the trust Wilson must have in him to reveal this to him.
James snorted derisively at himself. "I couldn't even do that right. I couldn't go through with it. I sat there for over an hour, wanting to stick it to him. Show him that he couldn't control my life. But... but I couldn't do it. I can't even truthfully say that I wanted to live, or chose life, or some other meaningless platitude."
House quirked his eyebrow at that. It sounded far too much like something he would say.
"I just... I backed out. So, I put the gun back, put the key back, and went to bed. The next day I was packed up and shipped off to military school. Just what my father wanted." Apparently finished with the story, James sagged deeper into House.
House would have liked to offer some comfort, but that was not something he excelled at, or usually attempted, so he went with something that was bothering him. "But you went on to Harvard. You *are* a doctor..."
James looked up at him, straightening and pulling away slightly. "You want to know why." It wasn't a question. He understood House's mind. This was a puzzle to be solved. Why did he continue to pursue a goal that was not his own? Rather, it was the goal of a father he had every reason to resent because he was not allowed to become his own man. How could he explain it to a man who spent most his life sticking it to whomever he could? He knew his answer wouldn't satisfy House, but he didn't have another answer. "He had won. I felt defeated and... and..."
"He had won," House finished for him.
James nodded, not knowing what else to say.
"You love your job," House stated. He knew it was true. Being the Head of Oncology wasn't necessarily a fuzzy, feel-good job, but he knew James was not only good at it but enjoyed it. It was one of the areas of Wilson's life that he felt successful in. He was proud of his accomplishments.
Wilson nodded in agreement. "I didn't want to. I didn't want to please my father. I almost screwed up just to tick him off. But... somewhere along the way I... I don't know. I was doing well. My teachers were giving me praise, like I had always wanted from my father. The better I did..."
"The more your fragile ego was fed. I get it," House taunted, though it lacked any harshness.
James just smiled with amusement. "I guess you could say that. I was succeeding, and I found I really was good at it. By the time I was in residency I had forgotten why I didn't want to be a doctor because I was a doctor and, yes, I liked it. I was doing it for myself and tried to forget about my father."
That sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes. House was thinking over all that he had been privy to. Though he didn't want to consider it, he couldn't help but think that he may never have had this friendship, this relationship, if things had gone differently. He could not fathom his life without Wilson. Lost in his thoughts, he barely felt the hand laid gently on his knee. He looked down before looking up at James.
* * *
James was nervous. House was silent once more and obviously deep in thought, and he wasn't sure what the reaction to his story would be. He was reassured when the hand he had hesitantly laid on Greg's knee was covered by another hand. He rewarded House with a genuine smile, now knowing that he was understood. House once again reassured him, without saying a word, that his uncertainties and fears were accepted. He was surprised when Greg spoke.
"You happy?"
He tilted his head to consider the question. He could feel the body heat pressed up against him, as well as the weight of Greg's hand atop his own. Looking at Greg--his friend, confidant, now lover, and a man of so few words--he smiled. "More than words can say."
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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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