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Wednesday Morning, 3 A.M.
by Evilida
Gregory House was enjoying the expert ministrations of a call girl named Candie, when his doorbell rang. He didn't notice the noise and wouldn't have answered the door if he had. Candie was very good at her job, and all other considerations faded into the background. He did hear the pounding on his door that followed, but he ignored it. Candie was just getting to the interesting part; she was very expensive and he wanted to get his money's worth. The call girl, however, was distracted by the noise and lost her rhythm.
"Maybe you should get that. Aren't you a doctor? It could be an emergency," she said.
"It had better be," House said, getting to his feet with difficulty. He grabbed his robe and headed for the door.
By the time House reached the door, the knocking had stopped. He opened the door wide. No one was there and he was about to close it again, when he heard a voice.
"House."
House turned in the direction of the voice and saw his best friend, James Wilson, sitting on the hallway floor. Wilson was soaking wet and dripping on to the carpet. His face was pale and there was a nasty bruise on his cheek.
"I should have called. I didn't think that you would be busy."
"Well, I am busy, and the hooker who's keeping me busy charges four hundred dollars an hour. "
"I'll wait," Wilson said.
House nodded, shut the door and turned around. Candie was waiting for him.
"I am not a hooker," she said. "I'm an escort."
"Yeah, and I'm not a Vicodin addict; I'm chemically challenged."
"My money," she demanded.
"Don't expect a tip," House said, going back to his bedroom to retrieve the envelope full of cash.
When he came back, Candie was in the hallway. Wilson had gotten to his feet and was shaking her hand. House gave Candie the envelope, pulled Wilson into the apartment, and slammed the door.
"You look like hell. What happened?"
"Girlfriend troubles. Don't ask."
Wilson had removed his coat. His sweatshirt and jeans were wet underneath. Wilson looked for somewhere to hang his wet coat.
"Damn it, Wilson. You're dipping everywhere. Take a hot shower and I'll get you something dry to wear. You know where the towels are. Put your wet clothes in the laundry basket."
House handed Wilson a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. While Wilson took a shower, House dressed and got a couple of beers from the fridge. When Wilson came out of the bathroom, looking ridiculous in the ill-fitting clothes, House was sitting on the couch watching a reality show. Wilson sat beside him and opened the beer House handed him. The television show didn't make much sense to Wilson. The announcer, manic with enthusiasm, kept assuring the viewing audience that what they were watching was very, very exciting.
"Are you staying over, or are you just waiting for her to cool down?" House asked, at the first commercial break.
"Staying over. We broke up. It was ugly."
"She found out you were cheating."
"No," Wilson said. "I wasn't cheating. I just decided that things weren't working out. When I told her, she didn't take it very well."
"I can tell. That bruise is going to be pretty spectacular. Lady boxer, is she?"
"She hit me with a hairdryer," Wilson said, touching the bruise delicately and wincing. "It could have been much worse. She had a knife, but I got it away from her."
"You'd better put something on it. I've got a hot/cold compress in the freezer," House said.
"Thanks," Wilson said, getting up and going into the kitchen.
"Are you going to call the police?" House called after him.
"No," Wilson said. "Paola's about five feet tall and 105 pounds. They wouldn't take it seriously. Besides I wasn't really hurt. I don't think she seriously intended to stab me with the knife anyway. She's just a bit volatile. I think it was meant to be a dramatic gesture."
"Well, "House said sarcastically, "if she didn't intend to kill you, I guess that makes it all right then."
"I accidentally cut her hand, getting the knife away from her. She was bleeding. I think she needed stitches but she wouldn't let me look at it."
"When does the hairdryer come into it?"
"I went into the bathroom where she keeps her first aid kit to get her a bandage. She followed me in, picked up the hairdryer, and swung. I just barged past her and out the front door. I'd had enough."
Wilson came back carrying the cold pack. House stood up to examine the bruise professionally.
"When she wouldn't let me look at her hand, I should have driven her to the emergency room. She needed medical
attention. I was so angry I didn't think. I was afraid I was going to hit her back."
"You didn't though."
"Wanting to is bad enough. I could have called an ambulance."
"She could still dial 9-1-1 with her other hand," House said. "Don't expect me to care about her. She could have killed you."
Wilson had always been impetuous in his relationships with women, but something in him had changed when Amber had died. He couldn't bear being alone. He'd always wanted a wife and family but now his desire had become an obsession. In his desperation to find "Mrs. Wilson", he'd lost all judgment. He became a target for any pretty woman with a sad story to tell. House had done his best to protect Wilson from opportunistic harpies, but he had not found the task easy. Wilson was intensely private about his personal life and resented any attempt by House to interfere. Usually all House could do was offer Wilson a safe place to stay when his latest relationship turned sour. House was tired of watching his best friend hurt himself over and over again.
If Wilson was too impetuous in affairs of the heart, House was too cautious. He had been in love only once in his life, but he had loved deeply. He had been devastated when he and Stacy had broken up. He had never allowed himself to fall in love because he had never wanted to give anyone the power to hurt him as Stacy had done.
Wilson had been the one friend willing to put up with his bitterness after the double blow of the infarction that crippled him and his breakup with Stacy. Wilson was the one person who truly understood him and he'd proven his loyalty over and over again. His flaws endeared him to House just as much as his virtues did, because they made him more interesting. Over the years, so gradually that House hadn't noticed, Wilson had become essential. Wilson was the only person in his life that House could not afford to lose.
House's leg woke him at an ungodly hour in the morning. His hand reached out to the bottle of Vicodin on the nightstand table. He opened the bottle with his eyes shut, popped a Vicodin in his mouth and swallowed. If Wilson were there to see him, he'd wince. He hated it when House swallowed his pills without water. Groggy and stiff with pain, House hobbled to the bathroom and relieved himself. He could see the bluish flickering light of the t.v. from the living room and headed toward it. Wilson was still too upset to sleep. He had muted the sound on the television and put on the closed captioning and was watching an infomercial. Wilson looked up at House, noticing the way that he grimaced with pain with every step. There was absolutely no pity in his assessment, which is why House tolerated it. It had never occurred to Wilson that House ought to be pitied.
"Want some company until the Vicodin kicks in?" Wilson asked.
House sat next to him on the couch, resting his legs on the coffee table. Wilson had cocooned himself in House's blankets, but he obligingly untangled himself. He draped the blankets over the two of them. It was three a.m., an hour when our ancestors huddled together against the cold and dark, and it seemed natural and right for them to share this closeness. House turned his head to look at his best friend speculatively. There was enough life from the streetlights outside and the television to see him clearly. Wilson was hurt and exhausted; House had seldom seen him so vulnerable.
House's leg did not allow him to stay in one position long, so he had to shift position. Wilson moved away slightly, but House put his arm around him and drew the other man toward him. Neither House nor Wilson was normally physically demonstrative, but the dark stillness of the early morning made them both crave human contact.
The infomercial was over, and House picked up the remote control from the coffee table and turned off the television. Now House began to gently massage Wilson's neck and shoulders. Wilson carried his stress there, and House could feel how tender and inflamed the muscles were. Wilson protested at first, but House's touch was delicate and careful. Gradually House felt Wilson relax. When the massage was done, he again pulled Wilson close to him. The younger man rested his head against House's chest, as limp and sleepy as a contented housecat. House absently stroked the bare skin of Wilson's forearm, feather light touches that Wilson didn't appear to notice.
"Oh, that felt good," said Wilson after a minute or two of silence. He yawned widely and then sat upright. "I think I'll be able to sleep now. How's your leg?"
"Still pretty bad," lied House.
"The Vicodin should be working by now."
"Well, it isn't," House said more sharply than he intended.
Wilson was concerned, and House half expected to hear a lecture on alternate pain control techniques and the necessity of monitoring his pain levels and Vicodin intake. Fortunately, he didn't pursue the topic.
House again shifted position slightly so that he was now shoulder to shoulder with Wilson and could feel the heat and weight of his body next to his own. He resumed his light touch on Wilson's arm, an intimacy that would have seemed wildly inappropriate to Wilson in the light of day.
"So what are you going to do? You can't go back to Paola. You can stay with me."
"No, that's okay. I don't want to put you out. I'll go stay at the hotel tomorrow."
"If you were putting me out, I'd tell you. It's a genuine offer. Pay me back in pancakes."
"I'll think about it."
"I could really use you right now. Taub, Kutner and Thirteen are damn useless as a team right now, and Foreman is too busy babysitting me and them to contribute much to the diagnostic process."
"I'm not a diagnostician."
"You're organized and efficient. That's what I need. Someone to help me with the details for a little while, while I concentrate on building up my department."
"I do have my own department to run," Wilson said.
"I didn't mean work details," House said. "I meant life details, like making sure I eat right and pay off my credit card bill. You may not have noticed, but I suck at life."
"I noticed," Wilson said," but I suck at life worse than you do."
"So are you going to stay with me?"
"I'll think about it."
This time Wilson's tone made it a polite but firm refusal. Wilson felt that House was pressuring him, and he didn't like it.
House was disappointed. He had hoped that the prospect of being needed would tempt Wilson. He tried another argument.
"You shouldn't be alone. You make really bad decisions when you're alone. Remember Grace - you could have lost your license."
"Grace might have been a mistake," Wilson conceded, "but I don't want to live like you, House. No wife, no girlfriend, just a standing account with an escort agency. That's not what I want."
House snorted.
"Did I ask you to live like me? If you want to continue your wife hunt, go ahead. I won't stop you. Staying with me for a while doesn't mean you're giving up. It just means that you get to be a little happier while you're waiting for your dream woman to show up."
There was a long silence while Wilson considered what to do. Perhaps it was the after effects of the violent incident with Paola, or perhaps it was the disconcerting pleasure he felt in House's touch, but he couldn't concentrate. He shut his eyes, enjoying the sensation of House's fingertips brushing gently against the fine hairs of his forearm and the weight of House's arm resting on his shoulders.
There had to be a reason why House was being so nice to him. He'd been a fool to move in with someone as unstable as Paola, and House could have called him an idiot in ten different languages and he would have deserved it, but House had actually been sympathetic. Even though there was probably some hidden purpose behind House's kindness, Wilson still felt grateful. House's motives were probably irrelevant anyway.
House was right. He did hate being alone. He dreaded returning every evening to an empty hotel room. The prospect brought back memories of one of the lowest periods in his life, after his third divorce, when he'd had to admit that he'd made a total wreck of his personal life. He spent months in a grey fog, searching for a way out of his misery, until finally he'd grabbed on to Amber in sheer desperation.
"Okay," Wilson murmured," I'll move in but only until I find my own apartment."
House suspected that "finding my own apartment" was Wilson's euphemism for "finding a girlfriend/wife that I can move in with," but House wasn't bothered. Once Wilson was living with him, he was confident that he could scare off all challengers. He had, after all, outlasted three wives and numerous girlfriends.
House sank back into the couch cushions, savouring his moment of victory. The pain in his leg had subsided, and he felt only the exhaustion of a general who had just won the first important battle in what seemed likely to be a long and arduous campaign.
House sat up abruptly. He leaned over and kissed Wilson. Wilson's eyes opened wide with surprise. House kissed him again more forcefully to reinforce his message. At first Wilson seemed only to be submitting, as if it were his duty as a good houseguest to allow his host certain liberties, but then he started to kiss House back. When House finally drew away, Wilson was red-faced and confused. House was cool and in control.
Wilson felt disoriented. His perspective had changed in a matter of seconds, and he wasn't sure what he felt about it. He looked at House, who was smiling at him. There was something in that smile which disturbed him. As House limped to his bedroom, Wilson wrapped himself tight in his nest of blankets, wondering whether he had just made the latest of a long series of disastrous personal decisions.
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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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