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Happiness
by Ilana
It was easy for him to forget sometimes that Wilson wasn't happy. House spent so much time feeling sorry for himself that he sometimes failed to notice other people's suffering. Besides, it seemed like Wilson was always smiling, always cheerful. That wasn't really true, if he thought about it. When you had a job that involved telling people they were going to die, smiling all the time would probably get you punched or worse, and Wilson had a far better bedside manner than that. But when House thought of Wilson, he always pictured him with a grin on his face.
It shouldn't have been surprising that all wasn't well with Wilson, and it wasn't, really. He was thirty-five and already working toward his third divorce. His only close friend was a bitter, drug-addicted colleague who asked much more from him than he ever gave back. He had family problems from a long time before, something so bad he'd avoided mentioning it to anyone for years. The only thing he had going for him was his job, and that was hardly uplifting most of the time.
And now he didn't even have the job anymore, and House didn't delude himself into thinking that his friendship made up for that loss. It was Vogler's fault, but House couldn't pretend he hadn't been a crappy friend for not realizing what defending him could cost Wilson. So, in the final count, Wilson had nothing worthwhile left, and it was no wonder he was sad and angry.
But then Cuddy got a spine and Vogler got ousted and Wilson got his job back and everything worked out in the end. Wilson sat at his desk and drank and laughed and House could pretend that he hadn't realized that beneath the smiles his only friend was almost as miserable as he was. That was probably not the best way of dealing with this epiphany, but what else could he do? They didn't talk about their problems if they could help it, and it wasn't really necessary now that things were back to normal. And even if Wilson did tell him everything, there would be nothing he could do, and House hated not being able to fix people.
So he said nothing and Wilson said nothing and they drank and laughed and celebrated that life sucked less than it had the day before. In his mind, House covered over the memory of an angry Wilson packing up his office with an image of him smiling with a glass of champagne in his hand. It was a lie, or at least a half-truth, but there's a reason that all people lie: it's easier that way.
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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 Fox Television, 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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