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What Works
by gena fisher
What Works.........
James Wilson flicked a page of the latest AMA Journal, eyes scanning the text even as he listened to the drama playing out just in front of him. He didn't give a rat's ass about General Hospital but hiding in exam rooms while Greg House indulged his obsession for the soap opera gave him a perfect opportunity to engage in his own obsession - watching House. He tried to ditch his duties at least once a week just so he could spend an hour making sure his best friend was okay. He knew it worked differently in normal friendships, those people talked to each other, shared their worries, their problems, things like that. It wasn't like that when you were Gregory House's best - and only - friend. No, that involved hiding from your boss, watching plastic people say stupid things and darting furtive looks to gauge the state of your friend's health, emotional well-being, and likeliness to piss off anybody in the near future all while he stared at fake boobs.
Wilson knew it was crazy to worry, House was a grown man and a doctor but he tended to live in another world. His amazing intelligence, and unconventional leaps of intuition didn't always guarantee House would remember to eat, or that he wouldn't try to climb stairs. He tended to push himself until he reached his limits and then it was up to Wilson to prop him up. You only had to take one look at House to see he really needed someone who cared about him. House's clothes always looked disheveled, his chin usually had at least two days growth of stubble, his hair often needed combing, and the bags under his eyes could hold a French Horn. It was kind of like hanging around with a homeless guy only House smelled better. Wilson didn't know when but somehow it had become his responsibility to make sure House was okay.
"Want to come over tonight?" Those damn blue eyes narrowed, reading him as if he were celebrity gossip. "Julie's going to be late, I thought,' he floundered for a moment then hit on the thing that would make House cave, "I could cook." Wilson knew House lived on fast food but was a sucker for a home cooked meal. He saw suspicion flare but fade under the weight of a real meal.
"Sounds good." Wilson grinned and rose to head back towards his office. It wouldn't do to arouse House's curiosity, if he even thought Wilson was worried he'd balk. He had to couch every ounce of concern in nonchalance, cover his anxiety with humor and treat it all like a big joke or else House ran as fast as his crippled leg would let him. Wilson didn't mind, he liked the game, he liked coming up with plans to keep House well and as happy as he was able to be anymore. Somewhere deep inside him, Wilson realized he was probably as sick and twisted emotionally as Greg was, but as long as they were together in it, it didn't seem like such a bad thing.
At 7:30 Wilson packed up his papers and grabbed his coat. House's office was down two floors and when he reached it he wasn't surprised to find his friend lying on his back behind his desk. "I hope Cuddy isn't on her knees down there with you," he said.
House opened his eyes and smirked. "Just left, you should have seen her when I -" he winced, pain visibly shooting through him as he moved his leg off the chair and pushed himself up with the aid of his cane and the desk top. Wilson checked his impulse to help and instead dropped into the seat opposite.
"I try not to imagine you having sex," Wilson said.
"T-too intimidating?" House asked, getting his breath back. His arm shook a little as he leaned on his cane and a moment later he'd reached into his pocket for his pills and popped one. Wilson knew the toll a normal week took on House physically and this one had been a dozy; three patients with similar symptoms but three entirely unrelated illnesses. House's team had worked nonstop for days, and House himself had put in more late nights than Wilson had. He wouldn't admit to being exhausted unless he could pass it off as from some wild sexual encounter he'd had the night before. House settled into his chair and to give him time to recover Wilson picked up the oversized tennis ball and began tossing it from hand to hand.
"I was thinking more along the lines of comical - all that begging," he smirked at House. "So, are you ready?"
"Ah yes, the Great Feast!" He canted a look at Wilson, "You're sure Julie won't be home?"
"Yes. Why?"
House studied him a moment, those sharp blue eyes neatly quartering his face as if the answer had been written there and maybe it was, Wilson realized. "Just wondering if I should wear protective underwear or something."
"It's okay, she's forgiven you for peeing on the furniture," Wilson said and rose to his feet. House glared at him. "Oh, right. That was our dog, wasn't it?"
"I always get the impression your wife would like to rip my balls off and stuff them someplace uncomfortable," House said limping for the door.
"You're one up on me then. Julie hasn't wanted to touch my balls in months." He breezed out the door House held for him, unwilling to risk seeing his friend's expression. "Let's take the `vette," Wilson suggested and slowed to House's pace. He planned on getting House to drive then, using his friend's obvious exhaustion, coerce him into staying the night. It had worked before. That was the good thing about being Greg House's only friend, you could lie to his face and he would never really call you on it. Together they took the elevator down to the garage, forgoing their usual small talk as the numbers diminish. Wilson watched House out of the corner of his eye, noticing the way his friend leaned against the wall, how tightly he gripped his cane, and the telltale shift of his weight to the left. Wilson made sure he was out of the elevator first so he couldn't see House steady himself on the wall and take that first clumsy step. Greg didn't like anyone seeing him struggle, even Wilson. The damp cool air of the garage washed over them, and Wilson pulled his jacket closed. Beside him House hissed and did the same.
"Hey," House tossed him the keys and slid into the passenger side. Taken aback, Wilson fumbled but caught them and climbed behind the wheel. He hadn't been allowed to drive House's new baby until that moment and his enthusiasm was tempered with the knowledge that Greg must be hurting more than usual to give up the joy he took in cursing in his classic car. It wasn't a long drive to his place but Wilson reveled in the speed and handling of the car, when he glanced over at House he was relieved to see a dreamy smile on his haggard face. "This is perfect," he said and let the wind tear a laugh from his throat. It was just like old times, him and Greg together.
Freedom. The wind whipped his tie up and after only a second's hesitation, Wilson pulled it off and tossed it into the air. It blew behind them like a streamer then disappeared into the darkness. "Julie's gonna wonder about the tire marks," House said. Wilson laughed again and stomped the accelerator. He pulled the car into his driveway and killed the engine. "Race you to the door," House challenged and struggled out of the tight confines of the `Vette.
"I'll trip you with your cane if you manage to win," Wilson warned, following his friend. He liked it when House was relaxed, and playful. Those times had become very rare lately, more and more often House wore a trapped expression. If the board hadn't come to their senses and gotten rid of Vogler, he wondered just how long his friend would have lasted before crumpling under the pressure. Despite his physical limitations, House gave the impression he could take on any foe and win but Wilson alone knew how misleading House's relentless drive and caustic nature could be. House could take the most insignificant detail and come up with a complete diagnosis, but toss the human element into the mix and he struggled. House had never been good with people, even before he had a reason to mistrust everyone he came across. It just wasn't in his realm of understanding; his intelligence, his ambition, his passion for truth and logic set him apart from the rest of the world. He didn't understand how other people thought, or how emotions could rule their actions. Once he might have figured it out, learned to live in the world and been happy but he'd had the misfortune to fall madly in love with a woman ambitious and driven enough to be his equal.
Wilson had known House for years and been forced to watch the train wreck House's life became when the only woman he had ever loved walked away from him right in the middle of a devastating illness. House had opened himself to another soul, laid his heart bare with all the innocence of a child and when Stacy had left him House had nearly died. Wilson still didn't know her reasons for walking out and neither did House. As far as he knew she left because she couldn't stand the crippled condition of his body or the thought of his long recovery. That sense of unknowing had molded House more than anything, Wilson suspected. He strove hard to live normally, he pushed himself, never letting his leg slow him down, never admitting that he couldn't do something. Only Wilson himself and Cuddy dared to mention it, and Wilson remembered how everyone had skirted the issue after House's infarction, sugar coating the extent of the damage, acting as if it was just going to be a slight hindrance. It had been him who came in using the word cripple, he had forced House to look at himself, not to hide from what the rest of his life would be like but too soon his friend's acceptance turned to scorn and anger. It provided a shell House could hide behind to keep people from either pitying or patronizing him, but one that could be cracked if too much pressure was applied. Wilson tried to act as a buffer, he deflected as many direct blows to House's emotional defenses as he could. And nights like this made him remember why he went to all the trouble.
They sat in the kitchen, him making stir-fry and House commenting on his culinary skills from the counter. Wilson let his friend talk, the sound of House's running litany of gossip, speculation and carefully gleaned secrets soothing in a familiar way. He filled their plates and carried them into the den. He had a vast collection of action movies and popped Predator in while they ate. "If he doesn't have time to bleed," House noted around a mouthful of bamboo shoots, "why is he taking the time to tell us he doesn't?"
"Dramatic license?"
"It should be revoked. Those people in Michigan deserved him."
"Minnesota," Wilson corrected.
"Same place, both are cold and full of drunken voters."
"I think you mean Wisconsin." The conversation deteriorated from there. Wilson took pleasure in House's relaxed sprawl, and the fact that House hadn't taken a single Vicodin since his arrival. Not that he'd let House put any strain on his leg, Wilson fetched drinks and seconds for them both, making sure House ate as much as he could before clearing the dishes away and breaking out Rocky road ice cream. They ate straight out of the carton, passing it back and forth as Arnold, Sonny Landham and Richard Chaves fought the Predator. Wilson indulged his guilty pleasure, sneaking looks at House's sharp profile in the silvery light of the TV set. He found it hard to believe the man sitting beside him, grinning and cheering on the alien killer was the same man who had to ask a patient if her life was important to her because he didn't know, because his life wasn't all that important to him. It scared Wilson more than he would admit.
"Will you stay tonight?" Wilson asked once the credits began to roll. House turned to stare at him, his gaze solemn and serious. Their friendship had always been like that; laughter and silent intensity tangled together in one unbreakable knot.
"Yes," House said. Wilson had to help him up the short flight of stairs, letting House lean on him as they climbed. He liked the feel of House's arm around his shoulder, how their hips pressed tight to each other, and how House closed his eyes and trusted Wilson to get him safely there in one piece. He didn't follow House into the guest bedroom but listened from the hall to make sure he was okay. House would only allow him to do so much but Wilson remained close, even when House might not want him to. When he climbed into his own bed, between sheets that smelled of Julie's perfume, the scent of House's aftershave lingered on his undershirt and the taste of rocky road ice cream filled his mouth. He relaxed knowing House was nearby and that made sleep easier.
It was 3:34 AM when Wilson stirred. He'd lain awake for over two hours, ever since Julie had climbed into bed beside him. Her slim arm had snaked around his waist, her breath feathered warm across the back of his neck but he hadn't moved. She smelled of cigarette smoke and alcohol and he could imagine her and the girls laughing and flirting on their night out. It had been months since they'd gone anywhere as a couple, she led her life and he led his and only momentum kept them together. He didn't want to think about how far that could carry them but the way he felt tonight it probably wouldn't be far.
"Wha's wrong?" She murmured when James slid out from under her arm and sat up.
"Ssssh, go back to sleep," he said, dropping a light kiss into her hair. "I thought I heard Greg get up. I'm just going to check on him." She made a soft, indistinct sound that he couldn't decide conveyed surprise at Greg's presence, annoyance for the same or just simple sleepiness. He crossed the hall, opening the door to House's room silently incase House had managed to fall asleep. Julie had decorated the room herself, frilly lace curtains and cutesy country accents. Greg had hated it on sight calling it the Rebecca of Fuckingbrook Farm room and the name had stuck - between them at least. Wilson entered the room now, the memory of House's disdainful expression jarring against the sight before him. House lay with his face turned to the window, his blue eyes appearing gray in the moonlight which spilled in through the window and pooled on the bed. To Wilson it was like finally seeing what existed behind the magician's illusion, House looked vulnerable and fragile in the pale light and Wilson felt the weight of responsibility he'd assumed press a little harder on his heart. "You okay?" Wilson asked softly.
House rolled his head toward him, "Yeah. You?"
"Lonely." Wilson sat down in the chair beside the bed. Outside, the wind droned like old men reminiscing on the past and shadows hurried back and forth across the moon. He wanted to wrap his arms around something and hold on but he wasn't sure there was anything solid in his life. House didn't move again and Wilson knew he'd achieved some level of comfort. They stared at each other for a long moment. "How can a man be lonely when he's sharing the bed of a beautiful woman?" House, his chest rising and falling slowly, shook his head. Wilson knew the answer was there, somewhere in the rhythm of Greg's breathing. "When I told you I only had two things that work for me," he said quietly, "I lied." He slid onto the bed, propping himself on one elbow and gazing down at House. "It's really only one." He took a deep breath, "I love you."
For once House didn't appear to have a pithy comment at hand. He blinked slowly, lashes sweeping down to conceal his brilliant blue eyes for long seconds, then lifting to reveal something tremulous. Wilson lay down, curling on his side. House reached out and stroked a single finger along his arm. "I'm glad you love me," he whispered. "If I could feel anything but pain, I'd love you back."
"I know," Wilson said and closed his eyes. He knew Greg felt - something, he could see it in those damnable blue eyes and the tiny quirk of genuine smile only he could raise in House. Sometimes what worked only did so because you didn't have any other options.
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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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