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The Economics of Truth
by Tron
The Economics of Truth
As he sat in the metal bleachers that skirted one side of the wide field of grass, Doctor Gregory House stared at the pale white chalk lines that crisscrossed the swath of green, his mind a whirl with images and memories. Memories of when the only stick he'd been carrying had no curves and a small, pear-shaped basket attached to one end. Memories of running, of adrenaline making his synapses fire faster and faster as he got more worked up and into the game, of breath rasping in his throat, of sweat dripping down his neck, pooling between his shoulder blades and staining his jersey in dark shades. Memories of returning to the locker rooms post-training session/ victory/ loss and stripping himself of his team uniform, stepping into the hot stream of water and washing himself quickly so that he didn't have to think too much about the almost-but-not-quite gay porn that was happening under the metal shower head right next to him.
The problem with being interested in other men and having to shower with them, is that, if you aren't paying attention, one of those team mates/ fellow gym members/ co-workers is going to notice the erection jutting out from the junction of your legs. Notice and probably make some fairly correct assumptions about it.
The best thing about being the hospital's head diagnostician/ cripple/ jerk is that you don't have to do any surgeries yourself, there for freeing you from having to change into scrubs and subjecting yourself to showering with said co-workers who might notice such things as erections.
House liked not having to shower with the boys for just that reason, but he didn't like not being able to play Lacrosse.
And if he thought about it, or to be precise if he didn't try to deny it if asked, he would probably say that there was one disadvantage to not showering with the boys: not having an excuse to look at them while they were showering. It was probably the only place, outside the comforting safety of his clearly already perverted sub-conscious, where he could allow himself the luxury of actually looking at another man in a non-clinical context. As it was, his panicked conscious brain quickly made lascivious comments about Cuddy's breasts and rented porn with girl-on-girl action when it feared it was straying too noticeably down that particular dangerous road.
And it was funny that, for a man who clearly loved to shock and confuse, he would have, in the recesses of his own twisted psyche, a problem with being openly homosexual. Sure, in his daily life he often made quite leading comments and had no problems flirting with members of his own gender, but, he rationalized, everyone else thought it was just for the shock value. Nobody actually thought he was serious when he'd commented on Doctor Chase's hair or the shape of Wilson's ass. He was just fucking with people minds like he usually did, right?
Even if Wilson's ass was firm, pert and perfect for squeezing.
House rubbed his face, long fingers digging into hollow cheeks, as his thoughts scrabbled to replace the thought of what it would be like to just cup one of those buttocks and feel the warmth and reality of it seeping into his palm. Anything, anything at all to stop himself from thinking about his best heterosexual friend in that manner.
Because once he started thinking of James Wilson in that manner, he might not be able to stop.
The thought of what his father might say immediately jumped to his forebrain to alleviate the situation. But it was not so much of what his father, the proper and correct Mr. House, might say as what he might do. Mr. House could rant and rage all he damn well liked and House could care less, but it was when House's father brought out that particular expression of deep hurt and then sadly shook his head at his son's actions, that would really break the camel's back.
House could remember the moment he'd stopped fighting his sexuality...
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He, Wilson and one of the clinic patients were sitting in one of the clinic exam rooms watching the baseball game that was on channel two. House was avoiding both of the women in his life: Doctor Cuddy, the busty, fire breathing Dean of Medicine at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, and Doctor Cameron, House's immunologist and soon to be date. It was the last part that House was avoiding Cameron over. He avoided Cuddy just on principal.
"There's a liner to left field coming to third base's right," spoke the sports commentator out of the palm-sized TV. House sat between Wilson and the patient he was supposedly 'examining' while watching the game, all three jammed tight on the top of the exam table. House could feel the heat emanating off of Wilson's right thigh where it rested next to his left one; the simple human heat the younger man produced inexplicably relaxing the muscles and soothing the nerves in a way House didn't want to think too closely about.
House was in his usual grunge-work wear that consisted of a rumpled oxford shirt that looked like it had spent most of it's time since being cleaned balled up in a bottom drawer, a threadbare concert tee shirt, his dark colored trousers and matching suit jacket. Wilson was in his lab coat, a white oxford shirt with tiny pink and green stripes, an ill matching tie and his own dark colored trousers. The patient, in his rumpled stripped shirt and god-awful maroon tie, was practically ignored except when House offered around pretzels. If he didn't offer Bad-Tie-Guy some, the man might complain to someone about the big, mean doctor. The result of which was that they wouldn't be able to watch the game and House would have to go back to actually treating patients.
"Laskowski is up," the announcer continued as House offered the pretzels almost absently to Wilson. "The throw on the way to the plate."
Wilson looked down at the bag in Houses hand and dug in to retrieve one before looking at House quizzically.
"So, she's really coming back?" he asked, putting a pretzel in his mouth and chewing. House kept his eyes firmly glued to the small screen, deciding that if he ignored the question it would go away. He hadn't factored the patient into his calculation, though.
"Who's coming back?" asked Bad-Tie-Guy around the pretzel crumbs in his mouth.
"You don't know her," House answered Bad-Tie-Guy and effectively dodged Wilson's quite obvious question that he'd already answered twice before. That and he really didn't want to broach the topic that was just clinging to Wilson's lips, ready to let go and make his life at the hospital miserable... More miserable. But the conversation was inevitable, House could feel the words slipping and loosing their grip.
3...2...1... Splat!
"You giver her a raise?" Wilson asked. "Increase her benefits?"
"Don't have TiVo on this thing! Can't rewind," House said irritably, a clear signal that he did not want to discuss this. "Shut up!"
"You lower her hours?" Bad-Tie-Guy asked, engaging in the unwanted conversation because he obviously thought he had an obligation too. He was going to start Wilson back up.
"You don't even know her," House reminded the patient.
"Who is this guy?" Wilson asked, peering around House to get a good look at the man House had internally dubbed 'Bad-Tie-Guy'.
"He's a patient."
"He's examining me," the patient clarified unnecessarily. All eyes were once again glued on the screen and hopefully the subject of what he'd offered Doctor Cameron to induce her to resume her fellowship would be forgotten.
"He's got to go back to work as soon as I'm done with the examination," House told Wilson, to explain why there was no actual examining going on. Not that it would surprise the oncologist. The thought made House pause and smirk slightly. "Guess I do too."
Wilson ignored House's intended opening with the ease of long practice and opted to shake his head thoughtfully.
"There's got to be something," he said referring back to the original conversation. "I mean, she didn't come back because she likes you..."
The silence in which Gregory House was supposed to make some sort of joke about how he'd perfected the art of being a cold-blooded bastard, extended long enough to make Wilson realize the obvious, instead of being the end of the conversation like House had hoped. The two men flanking House leaned forward as they both leapt to this quite correct assumption and gave each other significant glances.
"Wait a minute!" Wilson jumped off of the exam table, removing his warmth with him, to confront House with the thought. The gleeful look on the younger man's face made House despise him. Bad-Tie-Guy was now smirking on House's right. "She did come back because she likes you!"
Bad-Tie-Guy giggled and lightly punched House's shoulder. It was not an attractive sound.
"You dog!" the patient crowed. "You slept with her!"
House gave the man a glare that usually sent orderlies, nurses and younger doctors scurrying in terror. "Keep talking," House warned. "I'll finish your exam with a prostate check."
However, the not so veiled threat made Wilson narrow his eyes suspiciously at House, as if considering the possibility that House might have actually had sex with Doctor Cameron, thus ruining the effect of the threat. House decided he'd be better off telling the truth then letting Jimmy Wilson and Bad-Tie-Guy assume that he'd slept with one of his underlings. That was a rumor that he did not delight in, especially because it was about him.
"I agreed to take her on one date," he admitted. Wilson looked shocked and incredibly happy, which made the bottom of House's stomach inexplicably drop to the floor with a sickening thud.
"What?" the oncologist exclaimed, grinning.
"So, you into this girl?" Bad-Tie-Guy asked.
"Yes!" Wilson answered for him, still grinning like House really had slept with Cameron.
House briefly wondered if his threats and evasion tactics had registered at all with this pair. Couldn't they tell that he did not want to do this, or even talk about this, and was only submitting to 'the Date' because it was the only way to get one of his fellows back? Wilson should have guessed already what this was about. House was a creature of habit, albeit in a back handed kind of way. He didn't like changes in the dynamics of his daily life. He liked the way things worked because they... worked for him. It was circular logic, yes, but it also happened to be true. He wanted Allison Cameron back at work because her absence upset his routine, end of story.
He decided that, since all of the obvious clues seemed to have passed these two men by, he would have to inform them of the state of affairs.
"No!" he replied. "She's... She's not giving me any choice."
"Wait," Bad-Tie-Guy's snickering indicated that he had once again missed the point. "So, she's making you do her?"
"Date her," House firmly clarified, adverting his gaze from the screen where the baseball game was still in progress because Wilson was standing next to it making perplexed and then finally understanding faces.
"Young ingnue doctor falling in love with gruff, older mentor," Wilson grinned, teasing House as Bad-Tie-Guy gave him a congratulatory half-hug that was still more mocking than congratulatory. "Her sweet, gentle nature bringing him to a closer, fuller understanding of his wounded heart."
'Can't these two slack-jawed idiots understand that I am not interested?' House's sub-conscious asked the rest of him. His sub-conscious received no answer that was not glaringly obvious even to a blind, deaf, dumb chimp with a frontal lobotomy.
"Do her," agreed Bad-Tie-Guy, his hand squeezing House's shoulder in a manner that came off as pressuring. "Or you're gay."
And that was the moment that Doctor Gregory House finally admitted to himself that, perhaps, he was in fact gay.
"Oh, for god's sakes," he muttered, hoping off of the exam table and snatching his portable TV from the shelf in front of him. The oncologist and Bad-Tie-Guy grinned at each other and swiftly began a chorus of the 'K-I-S-S-I-N-G' song to the theme of House and Cameron. House hobbled to the door of the exam room as quickly as his bad leg would allow and yanked the door open before turning to deliver his parting shot. "Grow up... And learn to harmonize!"
He pulled the door closed on the pair of men who apparently hadn't graduated grammar school and ran right into an Asian kid holding a cup of something yellow. The cup, to the stammered horror of the young man, spilled down House's blue oxford shirt.
House swore.
As if his day couldn't get any worse...
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His homosexuality was one of the many reasons why House hoped his parents would stay in their retirement community down in Florida. If they found out, if his father found out, he would have to see that look on his father's face... if they not died of shame first. His father would give him The Look, the look that defined House only as Mr. House's crippled, miserable, failure of a son.
If either of his parents found out he was a flaming queen (categorically speaking, of course. The idea of him being Gay gay was laughable at best), The Look would extend to include that apparent failure too. Such thoughts only served to make him more miserable and even more determined to pretend that nothing had changed.
But it wasn't just the pain in his leg that made him miserable, though that did make a convenient excuse, nor was it really the thought of hiding just one more 'failure' from his parents. No, he'd been miserable almost all of his life, practically since puberty. All he could get was more miserable.
As the Psych textbooks that he'd read in University would say, it all stems back to his childhood...
Ever since he'd started growing hair in sensitive places, his father'd been asking when he'd bring home a girl for his parents to meet/ gush over/ embarrass him in front of. Which, of course, is a slight problem if you aren't really interested in girls. Fortunately for the young Gregory House, he'd already had the perfect excuse: Daddy's in the military. If they only ever stayed in one area for months rather than years, the point of dating and possibly growing close to someone only to have that person ripped forcibly from your life a few weeks later seemed... well, pointless. The same went with all of his tentative friendships.
What was the point of caring or making an effort if you couldn't stick around? If it was only going to hurt in the end? More recent events had only confirmed House's decision to keep well away from other human beings.
Stacy had reappeared in his life...
Stacy had been a bit of a paradox right from the beginning. House had been drawn to her by her wit and intelligence, but hadn't really been attracted physically. Was kind of hard, when, at the time, House had been battling his lust for a certain brown-eyed oncologist. But Stacy was more than a match for his verbal sparing and House had found that he'd enjoyed countering the thrust and parry of her words. It'd provided the distraction he'd needed, so he'd pursed it. And out of the intellectual attraction, House found that he could actually begin to appreciate her for everything else too.
He'd begun to hope.
Hope that he could remove his father's disappointment that his son had never once brought home a girl, never once seemed interested in at least settling down, and never once seemed interested in passing on the House name to his progeny. Maybe all House had needed was to find the right girl.
The right distraction...
Everything was going to plan, and then came the infarction.
Stacy severed herself from his life and it was far easier to wallow in self-pity for everything he'd lost than to stand up and fight for what he wanted. It was better to be a misanthrope than to have his hopes dashed. It hurt far less to be disliked. Hurt far less not to have friends. Hurt far less because there was no one close enough to stab him through his crippled heart.
Except for Wilson, the gorgeous brown-eyed oncologist... Which was precisely why House needed not to think about the other man as anything beyond what he pretended Wilson was. The distraction from that little problem had disappeared, leaving him floundering to maintain his disinterest.
The slight of hand continued, all be it with a less pretty distraction...
And then Stacy had come back because her husband needed help, throwing life back into that queer stare of half-dread and half-hope that he'd felt before the infarction, before Stacy crippled him and before she'd left. That, maybe, if he played his cards right he'd almost have what he wanted in the first place. Sure he was crippled and in pain, but the rest suddenly seemed negotiable. Just a heart beat away. Baltimore happened and everything was simply slotting into place, just like he'd planned.
And then Mark just had to go kill the buzz.
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"It's a liver tumor," Forman told him as they walked away from the vending machines toward the Diagnostic Department's lounge and House's own office. House had a still wrapped chocolate bar sitting in his pocket, but it suddenly wasn't as interesting as it had been when he'd been paying for it. House frowned in thought and then sighed.
"Well, if it's malignant, at least she's only going to leave one child with out a mother," he replied, his brain thinking through all of the possibilities that this new fact presented him while his mouth relayed this information to the neurologist in the most sarcastic way it possibly could. House still wasn't sure if this tumor was a good thing or a bad thing... "Do a biopsy."
They turned a corner and House only had a moment to wonder why Forman was still following him... This was starting to have all the hallmarks of 'A Bad Thing'.
"We can't," Forman replied, confirming the negative incline of House's thoughts. "It's Vascular..."
But before House could even begin to file away and dissect the repercussions of that tidbit of information, he heard his name from somewhere behind him. He turned in the busy hallway and confronted a man in a wheelchair... a man in a wheelchair who hated him. Of course, if Mark hated him, that begged the question of why he was here. House decided that Stacy must have made her decision and told her husband she was leaving him, thus causing Mark to roll himself to the hospital to get revenge, cripple versus cripple.
House so didn't have time for this. Not with his 'Super-Mom's' little vascular liver tumor and the enigma that she presented.
"What?" asked House as Mark wheeled his chair forwards, his dark eyes glaring at House angrily. Mark was dressed casually in dark clothing that would probably not show blood if any were spilled, and his hair was ruffled as if he'd been carding his fingers through it as he was waiting for House to suddenly appear.
"I'm here about Stacy," the other man said, to which House's reply would have been 'Duh!' had it not been for the fact that he'd not had a confirmation from Stacy about the state of their affair. House had figured out the other man's medical problem, cured him and then discharged him, so it had nothing to do with that. What else did Mark have to talk to him about aside from Stacy?
"What about her?" House asked cautiously. Mark suddenly dropped his confrontational expression and his eyes to the ground. Now he looked almost ashamed, as if he were about to ask House something truly embarrassing. This really wasn't turning out to be a very promising day.
"I think I'm loosing her," the other man said quietly, refusing to look House in the eye.
'Great,' thought House. 'He's probably looking to start a club. Men Who've Been Dumped By Stacy During Rehab... M.W.B.D.B.S.D.R for short... Well, not that short. Shame I can't join, especially since it's probably my fault he's loosing her.'
But he said: "Your wife, your problem," and limped in the opposite direction.
Mark didn't give up that easily. Must have been a membership drive, or something.
"She won't talk to me," Stacy's husband said, following House to where he was making for the stairs. Sure, House was a cripple, but House could still sort of use stairs... Mark most emphatically could not.
"So what?" House told him, tone abrasive as he tried to bury his guilt deep down. Sure, it was his fault that Stacy was leaving the man following him in his wheelchair, but House needed Stacy to get what he wanted. House needed her for his shot at happiness. Mark didn't. Mark could find someone else to hold his hand. Mark wasn't an emotional cripple, just a literal one. "You gonna talk to me instead? Go talk to your shrink."
"She keeps saying everything's fine," Mark said, referring to Stacy and ignoring the jibe about his therapist.
"Find a bar," House continued his sarcastic suggestions and continued limping towards the nearest stairwell. "Talk to a stranger."
"You're the only one who's been through this," Mark said, giving House a perfectly logical reason why he was still following House against the diagnostician's wishes. House wondered if he could get a restraining order against a fellow cripple, but instead of saying so he stopped and let Mark talk. He thought that it might just shut Mark up, if House pretended to care just a smidgen, and make the other man leave soon.
"I'm shutting her out," Mark explained, his voice wavering in just that particular way that would make a far more kind and sympathetic man hug him. House was not a kind or sympathetic person. After all, what had the world ever given him to deserve such treatment?
"I'm saying things and then hating myself for saying them," the man in the wheelchair continued, finally looking House in the eye now that the doctor had stopped to listen to him. "How did you get past that?"
"Didn't," House replied, letting the unsaid question of 'why do you think she left me?' ride with that one forced word, before continuing his journey to the stairwell. After all, Mark wasn't going to let this go until House gave the advice Mark wanted to hear but House didn't have.
"Can you please be a human being for one minute and talk to me?"
As House had predicted, Mark was still trying to get what he wanted. House stopped and looked at the other man, considering his options. A) He could yell at Stacy's husband and concisely explain why he couldn't give Mark the comfort he wanted to hear. But that would reveal more about himself than he cared to give the other man... And it would totally ruin his reputation. Or B) he could give some pithy answer, walk away and keep his bastard persona. Or C) he could lie and give Mark exactly what he wanted, still ruining his rep.
Well, best did always start with the letter B...
"Sorry. Gotta go," House refrained from smirking. Just. "People dying."
House turned once more and started limping again, only to hear the faint rumble of the wheelchair moving and a low determined mutter. House pushed open the door to the stairwell, his soul crying 'sanctuary' only to hear it slam open as Mark wheeled his way through. House began to slowly climb the stairs, one step at a time in true handicapped fashion. Mark rolled to the foot of the stairs, staring up at the doctor with hate and anger blazing in his brown eyes, and began to pull himself after House using the banister.
House wanted to keep walking in order to avoid furthering the confrontation, but the doctor in him made him try to stop Mark from making a very bad mistake.
"You're not ready for this," House started as Mark reached him. Stacy's husband's stubbornness, though, caused all of his hard work in rehab to literally collapse underneath him. The other man's legs gave out and House caught him, but only barely.
"I've seen the way you and Stacy talk to each other," Mark accused, face red with exertion and the embarrassment of House's forearms supporting him under his armpits. House's eyebrow immediately went up, but he dismissed the accusation in favor of trying to get Mark to see that he was being an idiot. Perhaps telling the man he was an idiot would help, so House did.
"You're an idiot," he replied. "You probably just set your rehab back three months."
House's refusal to rise to the bait made Mark angrier and he pushed House away, crashing against the wall and onto the stairs because he's shoved his support away. House internally shook his head and walked back down the stairs the way he'd come. There would be a nurse in the hallway who could help Mark better than he could...
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That confrontation, of course, started House really thinking. This man, Mark, was doing anything he could to keep what made him happy in his life. He wanted Stacy because she made him happy, and he actually could make Stacy mostly happy. House started to wonder if stealing Stacy away really would make him happy. Or if anything would change at all. Things might even change for the worse...
Did he really want anything to change?
He talked to Cuddy in her office, her sarcasm only serving to highlight how her disapproval of what he was asking Stacy to do, as the question fermented in the back of his mind. Then, as he talked to Wilson in the observation room above Margo's surgery, the question matured, forcibly grabbing his attention and throttling it. Finally, as he gave the HIV tests to Cameron, he realized that he couldn't really change his nature and not being able to change would hurt the people who couldn't accept it as well as hurting himself. The answer to his question was clear... The answer was no. The chances of him changing and not being Greg House were as likely as an ice cream cone not melting in hell.
His post-Stacy excuse, pining for his ex, was a poor excuse, but at least it was only one lie and people accepted it because they already saw him as a miserable bastard. If he switched smoke screens, he would be inviting a whole new set of lies, which had a greater chance of being found out due to their explosive nature.
And that made him question why Stacy had left in the first place. Had she really left because of his pain? Because of her lies? Or had he pushed her away for his own reasons that, at the time, had only been clear to his subconscious mind?
He knew he was gay now. If he got found out, most likely by Stacy, he couldn't hide behind the whole 'still in the closet' thing. And Stacy couldn't help but find out, one way or another. One day he'd stop showing interest in the physical side of their relationship and she would question it, figure him out and then leave him over the resulting confrontation.
And that just equaled more pain, all be it of a different kind.
Because once she left, people would ask why and not be completely happy with the explanation of him just being a jerk. Stacy had already known about House being a jerk. That wouldn't have driven her away. So, they would begin suspecting all on their own. Gossip would ensue. And there would go the last shreds of his father's waning respect, the grudging but hard won respect of his colleges would burn to ash, and he could practically kiss goodbye to his friendship with Wilson.
There had to be a less risky way of hiding than by using Stacy for his own ends.
So, he'd said something. Once he'd made up his mind about how bad an idea hooking back up with Stacy really was...
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House entered Stacy's office and looked around at its partially bare walls. She looked undecided between staying and going, half of her stuff was in boxes and the rest were still on the walls. Stacy herself sat at her desk going over legal documents with a highlighter. Her dark hair was down and she'd found her cross, he could see the chain glittering underneath her blue shirt. She looked up as he entered and smiled.
"Hey," she said, her eyes flicking back down at the printed sheets spread out atop the mahogany desktop. She put her work aside, indicating that he had her attention, even though she looked like she was still deciding if she'd missed something on the pages in front of her.
"Hi," he replied, closing the door and moving to stand before her. He nervously shifted his weight from cane to good leg and back again. Stacy seemed to come to a decision about the papers and stood, her head cocked cutely to one side as she regarded him, before she moved to stand next to her desk.
House smiled uneasily at her, wondering where to start, but she saved him the trouble.
"I'm going to talk to Mark tonight," she told him, her hands on her hips. "And, I'm gonna stay here with you." She shot him a brief, nervous smile. House looked away and then down at the rough, bland carpeting.
"Don't do it," he told her, his voice barely louder than a whisper. He looked back up at her and her expression hadn't really changed all that much, but her dark eyes seemed to take on a harder glitter in the light from her desk lamp.
"This isn't funny, Greg," Stacy replied, her voice low with rough edges.
"I know," House nodded, watching the strange smile that tweaked her lips before it slowly fell. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously.
"You..." she paused, like she was looking for the right words or was simply having trouble believing that this was happening. Her voice grew louder and more incredulous as she spoke. "Spent all these months chasing me. Now I'm here and you start running? What the hell changed?"
"Nothing," House shrugged, looking to one side nervously before returning his gaze to regard her from beneath his eyebrows. Nothing had changed, and that was the point wasn't it? He wouldn't change. He couldn't really make this work and that was more to the point. He couldn't pretend to her all the time and if, by some miracle, he managed to keep fooling her, he'd only end up resenting her for what he had to do to keep her. And the difference between House and Margo was simply that Margo, the so-called 'Super-Mom', really wanted what she had... House didn't, not deep down.
"Nothing changes," he clarified, shifting his gaze to the worn corner of her desk where the dark varnish had been rubbed away to reveal the true color of the wood beneath. "I'm not gonna change."
"Who asked you to?" she countered. But she didn't realize that she was asking him to be someone else, she just didn't know she was. He had changed and she was unknowingly asking him to change back. Ignorance, once lost, could never be won back. Stacy approached him and House couldn't look her in the eye. He was about to lie to her. Well, it wasn't really lying, but it was omitting most of the truth in favor of a prettier version.
"Mark is willing to do whatever it takes," House sighed and looked up at her as she stopped directly in front of him. "I'm not. Never was."
Stacy gave him a long, searching look.
"Now you're introspective?" she asked, lashing out with all of the quiet venom she could gather. His rejection hurt her, but the slight pain would go away in time. "Weren't so analytical the other night."
"You were happy with Mark," House replied, ignoring her jab at his sudden display of morals. "You'll be happy again."
"Shut up about Mark!" Stacy shot back, her voice trying to rice in decibels, as she got more indignant. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
"I can't make you happy!" he said over her question, but what he really meant was 'this won't make either of us happy. This won't make me happy.'
"What?" she squeaked, shocked at his pseudo-answer. It was an unprecedented act of 'nobility' on his part, which automatically made it completely suspicious. House sighed and looked around the office for inspiration. More tiny nuggets of the truth were called for.
"How do you think this is gonna end?" he asked. She rolled her eyes dismissively, so he elaborated. "We'll be happy, for what? A few weeks? A few months? And then I'll... say something insensitive or I'll start ignoring you. And at first it'll be okay. Its just House being House, but then, at some point, you will need something more. You'll need someone who can give you something I can't."
'Like genuine love and affection,' a small and really quite annoying part of his mind added silently.
"You know I'm right," he told her at her soft snort of disbelief. "I've been there before."
There was a short silence as her expression went from angry and hurt to pity and sympathy, as if she suddenly understood where his random act of nobility had actually stemmed from. He knew she couldn't possibly understand.
"Oh," she sighed softly, shifting closer to him and holding her hands out to him in a soothing, supplicating manner. "It doesn't have to be," she coo-ed.
"It does," he told her firmly, watching the pity in her eyes transfer its focus from his to her. "It does. I don't want to go there again."
'I don't want to hurt again,' he thought.
She couldn't seem to find any words to say, as if his words had left her as dumb as a marble statue. Her eyes were over-bright with the glimmer of gathering tears. "I'm sorry, Stacy," he added, before opening her office door and leaving her to her thoughts.
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House had gone up to the roof to think, leaving his team to deal with checking their patient, 'Super-Mom', out of the Hospital. Margo, the 'Super-Mom', was 'cured' if you could call it that. House had figured out what was wrong with her and the rest was really up to her. Could she really change her ways? Or was she just going to return to the Hospital a few months later to remove the rest of her liver because she couldn't tell her husband or her fertility doctor the truth?
House had still been up there when Wilson had found him later.
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House was sitting on the low wall that stood next to the door to the roof, staring at his sneakers. The door, left propped open so he wouldn't get locked outside, got pulled abruptly open and Wilson stepped out onto the roof with a determined look in his normally soft brown eyes. From the look of him, dark overcoat and stripped scarf, he'd been about to leave for the day, but had discovered something that had compelled him to search out his maverick friend.
He'd probably seen Stacy, House deduced.
Wilson turned to face him, his expression wavering between rueful and exasperated, but he took a moment to calm himself down and get his thoughts in order before calling House out.
"What did you tell her?" the oncologist asked. House looked up from his sneakers and surveyed his friend in the dim glow of the dying sunset. Wilson's eyes were shadowed under his dark brow and the light made his skin glow like the pale satin shimmer of the full moon. House aggressively batted his brief admiration of Wilson's skin away, his own mind killing the thought stone dead with a stab of derision.
"I told her she's better of with out me," House told the other man, the slight strain in his voice belying his nervous anticipation of Wilson's reaction. Somehow, it mattered what Wilson thought. Wilson gave a perfunctory dark chuckle.
"That's probably true," he replied sardonically, before turning to look away as House took out his pill bottle and dry-swallowed some of his painkillers. When he was finished doing what Wilson disapproved most of, the younger man turned back to House and shot him a piercing look, like he was trying to strip him of his secrets.
"You're an idiot," Wilson finally announced, his tone turning scornful. "You don't think she'd be better off without you."
There was a slight pause where House thought that Wilson probably wouldn't be saying what he was about to say if he knew the whole picture. But if he'd known the whole picture, he'd probably be in his car trying to get as far away from House as he could.
"Right," House said sarcastically, looking down at the roof beneath his feet as he began the arduous process of hauling himself out of his sitting position. "I sent her off on a whim!"
"You have no idea why you sent her off!" Wilson replied harshly.
"Don't do this," House growled, standing and limping past the younger man to the other end of the roof. Wilson really didn't know what he was talking about and House was conflicted between keeping his secret and shouting the truth just to shut the oncologist up.
"This was no great sacrifice!" Wilson continued berating House in mocking tones, ignoring House's words and demeanor. Wilson clearly thought House needed to hear what he had to say. "You sent her away because you've got to be miserable!"
"This kind of psycho-crap help get your patients through the long nights?" House replied, wondering how the hell Wilson had come to that conclusion. House really didn't want to discuss this right now, he was feeling vulnerable and Wilson was only making everything worse by rubbing him the wrong way. "Or is it just for you? Tough love make you feel good? Helping people feel their pain?"
House watched as Wilson took a deep breath and pushed past House's verbal taunts.
"You don't like yourself," he said calmly, explaining his logic. "But you do admire yourself. It's all you've got, so you cling to it. You're so afraid if you change, you'll loose what makes you special," Wilson turned to walk away, but stopped to make one last point. "Being miserable doesn't make you better than anybody else, House. It just makes you miserable."
And Wilson walked back to the still open door and pushed his way back into the emergency stairwell, leaving House wondering what exactly he should do. Wilson's accusations stung, but he couldn't correct him without telling him why he pushed Stacy out of his life. It wasn't about staying miserable. It was about trying to not become more miserable than he already was. It was about trying not to hurt more than he already did. It was about trying to be true to himself without loosing hold of what he had.
It was a balancing act and a magic act, and he wasn't entirely sure how much longer he could hold it up.
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House sighed and dug into his pocket as he spotted a familiar face watching him from the other side of the Lacrosse field. The man with the elegantly styled, wavy brown hair and round, boyish face shoved his hands into his dark jacket's pockets and shook his head slightly as he walked across the grass. House sighed as he popped off the orange bottle's white cap and palmed two white pills before tossing them back into his mouth and chewing.
He knew he shouldn't be chewing his vicodin, just as he probably shouldn't be taking more so soon after his last dose. It was bad for him, he knew. House was just sick of hearing it. He also knew that Wilson would give him his usual long-suffering, disapproving look that House always ignored because of the way it made his chest tighten uncomfortably.
House's mind skittered nervously away from that last thought. It was a very bad idea to dwell on what Wilson made him feel. How House's pulse leaped at the sight of him and he had to fight it so that it wouldn't show. How Wilson's casual touches sent cold shivers down House's spine and made him feel like his limbs, even the damaged one, were made of cloud. How Wilson could make House feel like he'd been punched in the stomach or like his heart was being crushed with just one look.
Wilson looked up at him briefly as he paused at the foot of the bleachers before looking down at his feet as he climbed up to where House was sitting. The younger man took a seat next to him and followed House's gaze across the field, tactfully not mentioning the clear orange plastic pill bottle that House was shoving back into the pocket of his jacket. There wasn't an argument that they hadn't already had or an idea that House hadn't already shot down in flames.
They sat in silence for a while, neither wanting to be the one to broach the subject of why House was here brooding. It allowed House to take a really good long look at his only friend out of the corner of his eye.
Wilson was wearing a white shirt striped with blue and green pinstripes and a rather loud tie that made House cringe inwardly. His trousers and suit coat were both black, his jacket sedate brown. His normally fastidious appearance was marred by the wind tousling his hair and whipping a slight spring flush to his cheeks. It heightened his already boyish appearance and House could grudgingly see why the nurses flushed when they talked to him.
Actually, it made a lot of doctors flush too...
"So," Wilson started, clasping his hands together and letting them bridge his knees like the Washington Street Bridge connected both banks of Carnegie Lake. "You've been avoiding me."
House stayed silent. There wasn't much he could say at this point until Wilson had presented his concerns.
"You know what I don't get," Wilson said, after a loaded pause. "Why you're so angry with me over this thing? Okay, I lied to you, but it wasn't like it was anything that concerned you. Why should you care about my career or my personal life?"
"Who said I did?" House countered stiffly.
"You said we were okay, but you're avoiding me. Which means that you're still angry about something. So why are you still angry?" Wilson asked and when House didn't answer, Wilson continued. "The way I see it, you're right. You don't care about my job and my personal life... unless it affects you. So, I suppose that my real question is how on Earth does this affect you? The only difference between what we had before I took up with Grace is that I don't live with you any more... So, what is it? You miss my cooking?"
House snorted, a wry grin spreading across his face. Wilson grinned too.
"Yeah, I'm withering away without your meatloaf," House told him, sarcasm letting him dodge the question for the moment. They laughed for a moment, before it faded away and left them sitting in an uneasy silence.
"Well?" Wilson asked softly.
"What do you want me to say? That I miss having you around?" House sneered, angry at this forced confession and angry because he couldn't just tell the truth without loosing what he had.
"You miss me?" the younger man asked, a slight smile quirking one corner of his mouth. Wilson looked pleased with himself and just a touch bashful at the same time. It was a rather good look on him.
"I don't need anyone," House said, his voice low and dangerous as if he were daring Wilson to contradict him.
"But you do miss me," the oncologist countered. "I thought you hated my morning routine and all that. Toenail clippings too loud for you, you said."
"Why did you leave?" House asked, looking down at the cane in his hands and ignoring Wilson's question. He began to pick at the varnish, glancing sideways at to see Wilson's linked hands between his knees. Wilson had really nice hands, strong and smooth, and some really twisted part of House's mind wondered if the other doctor used lotion. If Wilson was girly enough to blow-dry his hair every morning, odds were there was a bottle of hand lotion stashed away in his office desk or bag of toiletries.
"I told you," Wilson shrugged. "There was Grace..."
"No," House interrupted. "You used your cancer chick as an excuse to leave the first time. But when I offered after she kicked you out, you said it would be a bad idea but didn't tell me why."
"I can't live on your couch, House," the oncologist told him with a sigh.
"That's it?" House asked incredulously.
"Why else would I have been looking for an apartment?" the younger man shook his head wearily. "It's one thing to share a kitchen or living room with you. But a couch isn't a good long-term sleeping arrangement. Not long enough; not wide enough. Your apartment's just not big enough for two people."
"It was big enough for Stacy and me," House said as casually as possible.
"You were sleeping with Stacy," Wilson reminded him dryly. House tried to think of something he could say that would subtly gauge Wilson's interest, but everything he thought of required a sincereness that Wilson would automatically assume was false, so he gave up and shrugged apologetically.
"You could have said something," he told the younger man. Wilson scoffed.
"And what would you have done?" Wilson asked. "Sorry, but I just can't envision you being willing to move into a bigger apartment just to keep me around. You don't do that sort of thing."
"No," House sighed. "But I might not have sabotaged you."
Wilson started to say something derisive but he stopped when a curious thought struck him. He turned to look at House, who shifted slightly under his searching gaze.
"Wait," he said slowly. "You did that cause you wanted me to stay? But what was with all of the other pranks? I thought you wanted me gone."
"You were just letting me walk all over you," House replied, tugging at one of his earlobes. "Wanted to see when you'd break."
"Like you did with asking me to loan you money in increasingly large amounts?"
"Yeah."
"Why?" Wilson asked, frowning. "Is it another one of your stupid human experiments? You know, sometimes I wonder why I put up with you at all." Wilson moved to stand, but was caught by House's next quiet comment.
"Exactly." House shrugged when Wilson looked back at him, nonplussed. "You just put up with me. You don't fight back. Why? Are you just like Cameron? Looking for someone broken to fix?"
"I'm not looking to fix you, House," Wilson said flatly.
"Then why are you still here?" House shot back, finally looking up to glare at the younger man, his ice blue eyes glittering weirdly. "Why haven't you left, yet?"
"You're my friend," Wilson shrugged.
"So, I'm an obligation," House scowled before snorting softly in contempt and shaking his head. "Why don't you just get a backbone and dump me like Stacy did."
"Oh, no!" Wilson warned, sticking a forefinger out to point at House. The younger man's eye's had narrowed and darkened, like two large black pearls. "You dumped Stacy, remember? You're the one who pushed her away!"
"Did I do that the first time?" he snarled back.
"Yes, you did!" the oncologist shouted back, his hands moving to his hip in his traditional defensive stance. "Sure, she screwed up! But she was just trying to help and you shoved so hard she gave up!"
"Yeah, because I've just got to be miserable, I remember," House sneered, standing himself and leaning heavily on his cane as he faced the younger man. The anger burning in his breast at that moment flared hot, like alcohol splashed on a flame, and it twisted his conflicting emotions about the man in front of him; emotions he'd tried not to identify. The world seemed to turn an ugly shade. "If that's so true, then why didn't I push you out too? Can you tell me that?"
Wilson stared at him, mouth open enough that House could see the pink of the younger man's tongue between his lips, and blinked twice before pursing his lips together in a contemplative frown. House arched an eyebrow scornfully.
"What? No pithy remarks disguised as pearls of wisdom?" That got Wilson's attention and he glared at House.
"If you really think I'm that stupid, then why do you put up with me?" he asked, his expression sour. "You hate stupid people. You hate overly sentimental people. You hate people who lie for stupid reasons. You hate people who don't have your crazy set of morals. You hate a lot of things and right now, I seem to be all of those things! So, why haven't you chucked me out?"
"Same reason I wanted you to stay," House spat back. "Clearly, it was a mistake!"
"Clearly!" Wilson shouted back.
There was a long pause in which neither man moved, but expected the other to just walk off.
"Why are we friends again?" Asked Wilson with a rueful chuckle.
"Mutual distain?" House grinned, the angry feeling fading away like the tide rushing back out into the ocean. Now that he'd gotten all of that venom out of his system and had a good loud argument, he felt drained and weary.
"If that were the case, you'd have a lot more friends," Wilson teased.
"Probably," the diagnostician replied, his grin getting wider.
"You know this whole conversation's raised more questions than answered," Wilson said lightly, but House could tell that he was, in fact, asking House to explain himself while trying not to become confrontational. House sighed, the grin fading.
The problem was that the more he talked and explained himself to Wilson, the closer he came to exposing the one secret that would ruin everything. And worse, if he admitted it to Wilson, then he'd have to admit to himself that he wanted his friend as more than a friend. He wouldn't ever be able to go back to seeing the other man the way he did now. He'd learned that lesson with Stacy and his sexuality. Innocence lost can never be reclaimed.
"Jimmy?" he sighed. The younger man's eyes widened at the use of his first name. House almost never called him 'Jimmy'. "If I asked you to drop this, would you?"
"No," came the reply. "Just tell me. I won't tell anyone that you've got heart, promise."
"Funny," House told him, tone dry and weary.
"Tell me," Wilson insisted quietly.
"No," House said flatly.
"Why not?"
House frowned, trying to think of the best way of phrasing his answer. He was suddenly walking a tight rope. One wrong word and Wilson would start suspecting anyway.
"Do you know why people lie?" he asked, his tone indicating that he expected an answer even though he would correct Wilson anyway. House was fond of the Socratic teaching method.
"Because they're afraid of the truth?" Wilson answered, eyebrows knit in confusion as he tried to figure out how this line of questioning would answer his question.
"Not really," House shook his head. "People lie to keep what they've got. They only tell the truth when they know it won't matter one way or the other. The benefits have to out way the costs before you can get someone to open up. Like telling they're gonna die if they don't tell the truth. Sure, you stop hounding me for the answer, but if I tell you I loose what I want to keep. It isn't worth it."
"What do you want to keep?"
"This," House shrugged. "It's screwed up, I know. But it works for me."
"You're miserable," Wilson frowned, looking at him sadly.
"Contrary to popular opinion, I don't actually enjoy being miserable," he drawled, shooting the oncologist a withering look.
"But..." started the other man. House interrupted him.
"But nothing," he replied, rolling his eyes. "It's not about staying miserable, Wilson. And it's not about being happy, either. It's about trying not to become more miserable than I already am."
"So, you're just going to give up on being happy?" Wilson asked, taken aback. "Is that why you pushed Stacy away? Because you gave up? That doesn't sound like you."
"No," House hissed through clenched teeth. "I went after Stacy because I thought that she could still give me what I wanted to make me happy. But things changed. I changed and we would have only ended up hating each other... Well, hating each other more. But at least this way we don't hate ourselves for making a stupid decision."
"We?" Wilson laughed.
"Okay, fine," House growled unhappily. "I mean me. Can we drop it now? No more damn questions!"
"For the time being," Wilson grinned, starting to make his way down the bleachers. The sun had started to set as they'd argued, and the dying light cast everything in a fiery orange shade. Wilson's pale skin blazed golden, and his hair suddenly had reddish streaks in it that were breath taking. House sighed as he followed the younger man. He probably looked haggard; someone the younger doctor probably wouldn't even look twice at if he were gay.
"You know, you aren't going to wear me down just by asking every five minutes," House said, side-stepping his way to where Wilson waited on the grass below. "I've got quite a high tolerance for pain," he grinned, patting the pocket where he'd stashed his vicodin pills.
"We'll see," Wilson replied, glaring at the older man. "I can be very persistent. And persuasive."
"So that's how you induced your wives to marry you," House smirked, leering almost comically. "You gonna give me the same treatment?"
"Depends on how desperate I get," Wilson laughed, brushing off the comment about his failed marriages like the old pro he was. The younger man was too used to House's jibes to rise to them. But his comment made House swallow hard, a thousand images of tangled sheets and sweaty limbs fighting to be released into the night to scream their joy.
"But I thought I'd start with dinner first," Wilson continued, unaware of House's discomfort. "Sound fair?"
It was an olive branch, one that House took readily.
"You're paying," he said simply.
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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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