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The Sudden Loss of Self
by srsly_yes
The Sun Room was the last place the staff checked for patients. The scruffy man observed this phenomenon during the first week of his stay, and often used the room as his refuge. As an added precaution, he maneuvered his wheelchair away from the picture window and into a dim corner where he could read his book undisturbed while playing hooky from physical therapy.
But there was one man who would seek him out wherever he hid. Others relied upon radar and night goggles. Gregory House was the exclusive possessor of Wilsonfrared.
Not that the search for his friend had been quick. Wilson’s temporary residence was one state and two counties over. The secretive bastard had shunned all his attempts to communicate, but Cuddy oversaw the bills, and bills had remit addresses.
As House closed in on his shadowy target, he heard a surreal game of Jeopardy playing in his head:
Category: Best Friend.
Answer: Car Accident.
House could hear the question as clearly as if he said it out loud. Why did this have to happen to Wilson?
Straightening his shoulders and exhaling a deep breath, House reminded himself that infarctions and bus accidents do happen, and black ice next to a steep embankment plays no favorites with cars, even with Volvos.
House thumped around sofas, tables, and chairs, drawing closer.
Looking up when he heard the familiar sound, Wilson closed his book and dropped the volume on the table next to him. His fingers sought the cold metal handrims of his wheelchair, as if he was preparing for a quick getaway should House...behave like House.
Wilson greeted him with an almost imperceptible nod.
Choosing a chair from the table, House scraped the wooden legs along the floor and sat directly across from Wilson. Blue eyes scoped out the man before him.
This Wilson was not his Wilson. He resembled a refugee from a homeless shelter. His face bore a week’s worth of stubble, the hair greasy and lank, long overdue for a haircut. His clothes were an “Old Navy” fashion disaster: stained maroon sweatshirt, dark gray sweatpants, sagging athletic socks, and old mustard-colored leather slippers on motionless feet.
*
While recovering from the accident at the hospital, House feared Wilson’s intrepid behavior and equanimity were all an act, but he never realized how much until now.
House had watched Wilson as the specialist summarized his spinal cord injury. Wilson listened and nodded with the detachment of a consulting physician.
“T-10, incomplete…paralyzed from the waist down…excellent facilities to help you adapt…live a productive, independent life.”
He sat by Wilson’s bedside pretending to be engaged in his psp while Wilson coolly interpreted the prognosis in his best bedside manner to his distraught parents. “There will be some adjustments, but my life won’t change.”
House barked orders to his team on his cell phone while keeping his eyes on idiot co-workers, daring them to say something stupid in their bid to show sympathy. There was no need. Wilson handled inquiries and comments with perfect composure, mirroring back their remarks. “I’m lucky to be alive.”
Between soap operas, Wilson did his caregiving best, and encouraged House to go home and sleep.
Sometimes they sat, mute, lost in thoughts about how to behave like everything was normal when nothing would ever be again. What would happen to their friendship if Wilson was the needier one. When the silence went on for too long, Wilson would rouse himself and chide, “You’re too quiet. Are you worried Cuddy’s going to give me your parking space? My old one is close enough. I’m doing fine.”
The first glimmer of proof House had that Wilson was not doing fine, was the day Wilson left Princeton Plainsboro. Walking behind the entourage, he watched his friend assure well-wishers that he could not wait to start rehab in order to come back to work in record time.
The staff faded away at the entrance, and only House and Cuddy remained at the patient loading area.
Apparently, she saw that House needed a moment alone with his friend. She murmured a few words, kissed Wilson on the cheek, and walked away.
Only House stood at the van as the driver guided Wilson onto the lift.
House began, “You know I’m not good at this, tell me what can I—“
“For once, there’s nothing I want you to do, House.” All affability drained away as his mouth turned downward and the brown eyes glittered unnaturally. Wilson fought to regain his self-possession, swallowed, and lied. “I’ll call you.”
And when four weeks had gone by, and he didn’t, House applied the information he discovered in Cuddy’s bottom file drawer, and went after Wilson.
An admittance clerk acknowledged that a Dr. James E. Wilson was a patient, not a practicing physician, at Shadelands Rehabilitation Center. Another call a day later, a few masterful fabrications, and he was speaking to one of Wilson’s physical therapists who would not divulge any details but summed up Wilson's progress with one simple platitude. “You know doctors make the worst patients.”
There must be a mistake. Not Wilson. Perpetual Boy Scout and overachiever.
Finding a back door into the center’s computer files, House reviewed Wilson’s medical record. Undeniably, the disabled enabler was making little headway, and neglected to disclose his use of antidepressants. A drug was prescribed that Wilson had taken long ago and was no longer effective. Either the meds still had no efficacy, or a cheerful plant was in the vicinity of Wilson’s room.
Checking with his team and assured that his patient was recovering, House emailed Cuddy that he was taking a leave of absence. Going on a top secret consult.
He went home, threw some essentials in a backpack, and twenty minutes later, wind raced across his face as his bike honed in on Wilson.
*
And now Wilson sat staring with lusterless eyes waiting for House to say something.
House knew his own weaknesses. Human interaction headed the list, but there was no way he could sit by and watch his friend disintegrate into particles of self-pity. Wilson never allowed the same situation to happen to him. His loyalty and friendship were stronger than any crutches or walker he depended upon while he adjusted to his disability and Stacy’s leaving.
Payback time.
“Wilson, you look like crap.”
A hint of a half smile twitched at Wilson’s mouth, and he scratched his hairy cheek.
“Aren’t you flattered by the way I look?”
“Stubble does not make the cripple.” House ran his cane up and down pointing at Wilson’s attire. “Certainly not the clothes.”
“These clothes are…easy to put on.” Wilson plucked at his sweatshirt and looked away.
“How much harder would it be to wear clean sweatpants with a clean, matching sweatshirt? From your therapist’s notes, you waste all day getting into the same shabby uniform.” House recited in a sing-song voice. “’Dr. Wilson refuses to get up in the morning. Dr. Wilson complains that his exercise regimen is too strenuous. Dr. Wilson insists he’s too tired to attend classes. He has trouble sleeping.’”
House was hoping for an angry rebuttal, instead his friend answered in a low voice, “What would you know?”
“I know Dr. Wilson is a self-pitying wuss.”
Still no debate.
House leaned forward. “Insurance isn’t going to pay for you to hide here the rest of your life. After a month you can barely transfer out of bed by yourself.”
“You have no right looking at my medical records.” Wilson’s face turned pale, he angled his wheelchair and prepared to leave; House stood up, towered over his friend, and blocked his path.
“But I do have the right. I’m a full-time consulting member of the staff as a Wilson wrangler. Your slow progress is cutting into the director’s bottom line. He can’t wait to move you off his books. He’s offered me free room and board for my services.” Producing a set of keys from his pocket, House jangled them to support his claim.
“The keys to your kingdom, Wilson. Don’t bother pulling that ‘doctor’ shit with me like you did on the nurses and therapists.”
Caught off guard, dry kindling began to flame from the depths of the dark brown eyes. “You? You’re going to be in charge of my therapy?! How many days…? No. How many hours did you spend doing your physical therapy?”
“Doesn’t matter.” House looked at the floor and answered calmly, “I got back on my feet because you were at my side. Now, I’m returning the favor.”
Wilson looked up, his mouth open in disbelief.
“Beginning tomorrow, I’m lighting a fire under that comatose ass of yours. The quicker you return to work, the sooner you can start buying me lunch.”
Within minutes House had made himself at home in a guest room reserved for visiting family members. Not bad, compared to the hospital-like setting for the patients. The room was decorated in a motherly fashion, probably to calm distressed relatives. Cabbage roses in muted shades of cotton candy pink floated over the unlined drapes and quilted bedspread.
House felt like a chocolate rabbit in an Easter basket.
Checking Wilson’s schedule, he made several calls, adding a few surprises to his friend’s routine for tomorrow. He automatically set his alarm for 9:00 AM and inwardly sighed. Late mornings were over, at least temporarily. He changed the time to coincide with sunrise. Wilson needed to get a jump-start on the morning and get with the program.
Stretching his long frame over the rose garden, House stared at the ceiling and formulated a plan.
*
Before falling asleep, Wilson could not wrap his head around the fact that House had proclaimed to be his personal slave-driver. He was sure this was some warped joke. House was sure to grow bored.
After breaking into locked offices, ranking the females in order of cup size, insulting and embarrassing him in front of staff and patients, and scarfing down all the food in the kitchen, he’d disappear like The Cat in the Hat.
But Wilson was dead wrong. He had not taken into account House’s obsessive need to surround himself with his toys. Evidently, Wilson was House’s Velveteen Rabbit.
*
The following morning, House was in Wilson’s room, noisily drawing back the blinds so the sun’s first rays smacked him awake.
Scrunching his eyes and pulling the covers over his head, Wilson tried going back to sleep, but House would not hear of it.
“Wakey, wakey, Wilson! I can smell breakfast.”
“Get out.”
“After you eat, you can go to PT."
“Go away.”
“No time to waste. You have a full schedule. Remember what a full day was like?” House was looking at a piece of paper.
“Fuck you, House.” A billowing of the sheet accompanied the heartfelt emotion.
"After lunch, you meet with Miss Nancy for your lifestyle class. She can't wait to have a face-to-face with you.”
“Fuck Miss Nancy.”
“I'll pass. I'm not into women over sixty.
"After that, you’re taking a meeting with someone else you’ve been avoiding.”
House tugged the covering away from Wilson’s head.
“Dr. Welch, your psychiatrist.”
Cold thunder rumbled through Wilson. “How many times do I have to say 'no.' I’m not seeing another shrink who wants to know how I’m feeling. It’s simple. I’m paralyzed. I can’t feel or do anything. You're wasting your time here, House. There’s no Chinese food for twenty miles around, and the kitchen only serves tofu burgers and wholewheat veggie pizza.”
Wilson huffed before covering his head with his arms. “You made it clear a long time ago you don’t do heart-to-hearts, but I’ll call Cuddy and let her know you made a valiant effort and earned a cut in clinic hours.”
“Cuddy didn't send me. Besides, you know I never listen to her.” House sat down on the edge of the bed.
“I was wrong yesterday. You’re doing a cool impersonation of me. You’re stubborn and capable of making yourself miserable.” House said quietly.
“Yeah, two-of-a-kind. Twins. Haven’t you been listening? You deal with pain, and I deal with the lack thereof.” Wilson explained with a twisted laugh from beneath tangled arms.
“Seriously? You can’t remember my behavior after the infarction? Compared to back then, I’m fucking Mother Teresa.”
House paused for Wilson to protest, but he heard nothing.
“You can’t walk, and my leg throws a protest march every time I want to. We’re both dealing with loss. My life was never the same, and yours won’t be either."
“Thanks. I feel so much better after that pep talk,” Wilson muttered.
“After my surgery, I’d still be lying in bed if it wasn’t for a know-it-all friend who dispensed advice faster than he wrote prescriptions. He reminded me I hadn’t lost everything. I could solve puzzles and coincidentally, save lives. Now, it’s my turn to remind that self-righteous bastard that his patients don’t want to puke their guts out unless he’s holding their hand. You have nothing to fear, Moron. The world will never run out of people needier than you.”
“I don’t care if it does.”
“Then you’re not interested in these.” House dropped the contents of a bag on Wilson’s chest.
Wilson removed his arms to see what was going on. There were two small teddy bears and a half-dozen “get well” cards. He opened a couple. They were from his patients. He pushed them aside, and turned his head away. A disbelieving smile flickered on his face. “Is this your lame attempt to cheer me up? I saw these when I was in the hospital.”
“Thought you should read them again, Numbnuts, and I’m not talking about your IQ. These were from the patients that died while you’ve been away feeling sorry for yourself.”
Wilson turned his face back to House. His brows wrinkled in sorrow.
While he had Wilson’s attention, he moved in for the kill. “You need to discuss your depression with Dr. Raquel.”
“You mean Dr. Welch.”
House stood up. “I mean both of them. Raquel specializes in antidepressants. You need your meds evaluated.” House pulled the paper out of his pocket. “I made an appointment for you right after Welch.”
“Damn it, House.” Wilson wielded an angry finger as House walked away from the bed.
“Get a move on, Wilson. I’m sending in a nursing assistant in fifteen minutes to check on you. If you're not out of bed, you can eat your breakfast in bed…in the dining hall.”
Could House be bluffing? Wilson gathered up the cards and teddy bears and moved them out of harm's way before throwing back the covers. He wasn’t going to waste any time finding out. He had lost too much money playing poker with his friend to take a chance.
The next two weeks flew by. With the new meds, the upswing in Wilson’s personality and outlook was remarkable. House was in his element too, devising schedules that pushed, pulled, pinched, and probed every inch of Wilson’s body, and he still found time to shoehorn meetings with psychiatrists, therapy groups, and lifestyle classes.
One evening they sat in the community room, Wilson transferred to the couch, leaning his neck against the sofa's back. He could hardly stay awake after coming from the last two sessions: hydrotherapy and massage.
House occupied Wilson's wheelchair, trying a few maneuvers before going back to scrutinizing his file.
“Your evaluations are improving, Jimmy.”
Wilson’s head nodded, not in agreement, but overcome by sleep.
“It’s time to add items from column ‘B’ to keep you on your metaphoric toes.”
On the alert, Wilson opened his eyes and glared, “You’re a sadist.”
The remark completely missed it's mark as House ignored his friend and continued checking boxes on the form.
“You’re gonna need a faster set of wheels when we return. I’m not hauling you over half of New Jersey. Monday you’ll begin driver’s training…and…basketball. Your one-on-one game was pretty good for a Jew. There’s also tennis…”
“Driving and basketball.” Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn’t want to get behind a steering wheel, but perhaps he could deal with it in a structured environment. He'd been discussing his fears with Dr. Welch.
He had almost forgotten the pre-infarction years when he and House played sports more than they watched them.
Wilson wagged his finger with excitement. “Say, why don’t you join me for basketball?”
House cocked an eyebrow.
“Why not? Borrow one of the extra chairs. Let’s see if you still remember how to play.” When House didn’t immediately respond, Wilson challenged, “Or are you afraid?”
“Afraid? You’re gonna be sorry you ever said that, Buddy,” House replied, but for the first time since he arrived, both found something to smile about.
*
Not everything between them went so smoothly.
Wilson had his dark moments. Waking up and facing his limited mobility overwhelmed him. He took his anger out through passive-aggressive behavior, halfheartedly transferring from his bed to his wheelchair, tarrying through every step in his grooming ritual, preserving his homeless look. Most of the time he missed breakfast and was often tardy to his first PT session.
No one understood better than House what mornings were like for a cripple, but Wilson’s dawdling was holding them captive in rehab hell. He wanted to break them out of there as fast as possible.
At least Wilson proved once again not to be boring. His problems challenged House's ingenuity and absorbed his thoughts.
Back among the municipal gardens of his guest room, House hatched another insidious plan that would make a Republican smile.
*
Another morning, and the stormy ratcheting of the window blinds welcomed the full spectrum of the sun’s radiation.
Wilson submissively blinked and yawned, accepting his fate that House and the dawn had become fast friends, but that didn’t mean he had to like it.
“I’m getting sunburned, you bastard. Shut the blinds and leave me alone.”
“I’m not leaving until I go over a change in today’s schedule, Dumbass, and this time I am referring to your brains and anatomy.”
“You’ve arranged a firing squad to end my stay in Auschwitz?”
“Of course not, Jimmy. You’re here until the Russians liberate you.”
Hobbling away from the window, House continued, “I have good news and bad news. Which do you wan-"
"-Surprise me."
"Your PT has been moved to early afternoon.”
Wilson shrugged. "Okay. What's the bad news?"
"That was the bad news. The good news is I persuaded our own Miss January to help you with your physical therapy starting today.”
“Johanna? The blonde therapist with th-the—“
“--Tupperware five-gallon jugs." House finished for him. "Bet hers come with the blush pink caps."
Wilson wasn’t sleepy now. “House, what were you thinking? She’s…” He was waving his arm. “And, I’m…” Pointing below his waist.
“It’s not a date, Casanova. First you’re gonna have to wow her with your bench presses before she will go out with you.”
“Exactly when is the session?” Wilson asked, panic-stricken. He self-consciously ran his hands through his hair and rubbed the back of his hand over his stubble, gauging the growth.
“Right after lunch.” House was amused but kept a straight face. As confident as he sounded, he had taken a gamble that Wilson’s vanity and libido could be ensnared on the first try.
“Get out of here.” Wilson was struggling into a sitting position “I’ve got to get ready, and want a haircut before she sees me. Better make arrangements for the van.”
Tapping his wristwatch, House turned, and eased out of the room. "Already did. It will be waiting for us in an hour.”
“An hour? I needed more than an hour when I lived with you.”
“That’s when you worked for a living, wore a tie, and blow-dried your hair.”
“Make it two, and the best breakfast in town’s on me.”
“The longer you take, the more I’ll eat.”
“Fine. I’ll buy the whole damn restaurant. Go diagnose a staff member while I get ready.”
*
“Run-of-the-mill heart disease and diabetes. Boring. You’re still number one on my radar, Wilson."
The brown-eyed man tried to bite back a retort about how many eggs, pork products, and carbs House was devouring, but the “Barnyard Special” was fast becoming a blighted homestead and left too big an opening to be ignored.
“And you’re trying to duplicate the staff’s health issues in your body because…?"
"I'm tired of shitting wood chips from Shadelands' wholesome food, and you promised to pay."
Wilson glumly dug a raisin out of his bowl of oatmeal. He mulled over the possibility that his last observation stemmed from jealousy about House’s breakfast, but yesterday’s nutrition class lecture stuck to his ribs the same way the hot cereal did.
He wiped his mouth on the napkin and was surprised when the paper came away intact and not in shreds. Amazing how a trip to the barber could lift his spirits and give him confidence.
While House mopped up the lake of runny yolk with his toast, Wilson sneaked another look at his reflection in the window. His “Talmudic beard,” as House called it, was gone. His dimple was back on display creating a dip in his smooth skin, and his hair was cut shorter than it had been in months. Eerily similar to House’s, but enough to have fashionable tufts on the top of his head.
Like most discussions, where to go for the haircut had turned into a debate. Wilson wanted to go to a salon. House wanted the barber.
The driver made the decision for them after they drove through Main Street for the third time. “Best breakfast in town is a half block down and on the other side of the street from the barber, Gentlemen. Call when you’re ready for me to pick you up.”
They were dropped off a fair distance from the shop, and Wilson soon discovered he was unprepared for his first foray outside the center. He felt self-conscious in front of strangers and frustrated in his attempt to keep up with House.
Without saying a word, House hooked the crook of his cane onto his arm, slowed, and assumed shotgun, using the wheelchair to steady himself while pushing. Uncomfortable with the needed assistance, Wilson opened his mouth to protest, but House jumped in with a monologue about the sexual kinks of everyone they passed based upon what they were wearing.
By the time they crossed the barbershop's threshold, Wilson had forgotten his anxiety in his effort to keep a straight face.
As the barber drew up a stool next to Wilson and covered his bristles in a warm, fragrant lather, House made a beeline to the exit. “Be back before you’re finished.”
Just as Wilson pulled out his wallet to pay, House returned, carrying a large bag.
While they were waiting for their orders in the restaurant, House shoved the sack across the table to Wilson.
“These were in the discount bin when I went to the drug store. I couldn’t resist. You know how much I love a bargain,” House mocked.
“Not when you’re spending my money.” Scowling, Wilson checked inside. Crew neck t-shirts in assorted colors, more sweat pants and shirts, but matching sets, even a couple of windbreakers with hoods. Among the items was a long strip of maroon striped fabric “You bought me clothes and a…tie?”
“I know how you like to dress up. You can wear the tie with your sweats when you ask Miss Johanna out on a date."
“You said not to rush things…”
“Oh, but you will. I saw you preening in every window between the barbershop and here.
“Also, picked this up at the pharmacy.” A small white bag skidded over the laminate surface.
Wilson cautiously opened the package as if a coiled snake was at the bottom and ready to strike. His voice rose, “Condoms?!” and quickly fell. “Viag—“
“The little pills that match the color of my eyes. Knock yourself out, with or without Johanna.”
“Is that your way of saying you don’t need these? You jerk yourself off while looking into a mirror?”
House said nothing, but his lips twisted into a leer.
Wilson rubbed the back of his neck. He felt like a fool worrying about his appearance with the pretty therapist. Failure and rejection were new ingredients mixed into the recipe of his revamped life. He dropped his voice a notch. “I’m not ready.”
“But one day you will be. You’re a romantic. Women can’t resist your puppy dog eyes, and you can’t resist women. As your doctor, it’s easier for me to give you condoms and Viagra than listening to you whine, or sewing your dick back on because you got an STD.”
For emphasis, House forked his remaining sausage and bit it in half with his front teeth.
Wilson fought off a chuckle at his friend's suggestive visual aid. He knew he was going through a grieving process, and making a muddle. If it wasn't for House’s cockeyed pronouncements and twisted offers of help, he'd be crawling back under the covers and staying there.
Snapping back to reality, Wilson caught an eye roll and a tug of irritation coming from House and asked, "You have something to say?"
House growled, “Don’t go Hallmark on me.”
Shrugging away his thoughts, Wilson eyed the egg-streaked plate on the other side of the table. “Are you done, or do I have to wait for you to lick your dish? I don’t want to be late for my hot date.”
*
“Hot” barely described Johanna.
Wilson was happy.
Initially, so was House, but not for long.
When House approached her to take on Wilson’s case, she was eager and perky like a cheerleader, but the woman who showed up that afternoon was a kitten with a whip.
The blonde with the petite figure packed with iron muscle and Costco sized breasts immediately laid siege on Fort Wilson.
The therapist cooed encouragement as the oncologist went through his daily routine. She made suggestions in a low and sexy voice that House only heard over the phone for five dollars a minute.
Whenever Wilson’s energy flagged, she infused high octane into her patient by leaning over him in her low-cut blouse, displaying scenery that rivaled the Grand Canyon.
By the end of the session, Wilson was clearly smitten, doubling his efforts to please his new therapist.
House’s objective to get Wilson motivated succeeded, but he wondered if he made a mistake. His friend was vulnerable and his heart could easily be broken.
The horizon nibbled at the rosy light. A false glow without heat remained for the last curtain call.
Two men in wheelchairs occupied the basketball court, unaware of the late hour as they pivoted and blocked each other’s shots as if they were riding chariots in Ben Hur. They fought fiercely until they could not see the hoop, and then winner and loser did wheelies and high-fived.
They didn’t talk until they cooled down and caught their breath.
“Did you hear? She dumped me for the new quad.” Wilson spoke casually.
“You were too much of man for her.” House replied.
A shrug. “Johanna’s way of doing community service. I was her charity fuck.”
“As the former champion panty peeler of the world, you don’t look upset.”
Heavy eyebrows waggled up and down. “Weren’t you listening?”
House played back his friend’s last words. “Mazel tov.” They high-fived again. “With or without?”
“The pills are back in your room, in case you can’t find a mirror,” Wilson answered with a smug grin. He pulled his shirt off and used it as a towel before changing into a dry shirt and asking, “You’re coming to my farewell party?”
“Will there be cake?”
“Of course.”
“Loaded with prune juice and fiber?”
“The kitchen’s specialty, but I warned them you might come, so they may have whipped up a special cupcake in your honor. I checked the infirmary. They're stocked with Ipecac."
Wilson permitted a wry smile, "You do have a talent for pushing people away."
"I require a lot of personal space. You should be thanking me for replacing you as the top pain-in-the-ass around here, because you really don't have the cred to pull it off anymore," House countered. He captured the water bottle as Wilson reached for it.
Letting the jab slide, Wilson tossed the ball back and forth in his hands.
Quenching his thirst, House lowered the bottle in time to see a wistful expression dart over his friend's features and vanish. He hesitated, then caved. "What?"
The dark-haired man waved his hand over the court. “Ironic, considering the circumstances, how we’re back playing basketball. I forgot how much I enjoyed it."
“Me too.” House looked down at his hands.
They stopped talking and meditated on what they lost and gained over the years.
“House…”
"Drop it, Wilson. Don't go postal with sentimentality." House tried to back away, but Wilson gripped his arm, the hand an iron shackle after all the PT.
“Let me say this now, and I promise never to speak of it again."
House met Wilson’s eyes.
“I thought I could handle my rehab alone, but I couldn’t. I fell down a rabbit hole.” Wilson's smiled disparagingly and motioned toward his chest with his hand. "The go-to-guy, didn’t have a go-to-guy, but why I thought I needed one escapes me. Not when you showed up here to stalk, bully, and torture me. It meant a lot. Thank you, House."
Wilson hoped for a small nod of acknowledgement, but House looked away.
Biting his lip, Wilson was silent. If House didn’t want to say anything, so be it.
Seconds vanished in a slipstream.
“You don’t stalk, but you hover. You nag…a lot, and your advice…can be painful.” House spoke haltingly, the words rusty, the emotions foreign. "You reached new heights of assholery while I recovered from the surgery on my thigh. I had to do the same for you. I wanted to do the same for you. I’m sorry about the accident.”
Only the hum of a distant generator and the high treble of crickets bore witness to the conversation.
The spell broke when Wilson sighed. “We better go back. Everyone is waiting for us, and the sooner we get finished with the big sendoff, the sooner I can go to bed. I’d like an early start for the drive back to Plainsboro.”
House never wanted to hear the word “early” again. Now that Wilson had passed his all-point inspection, he wanted to sleep in. “Don’t plan on seeing me until noon.”
“All right.” Wilson raised his hands in surrender. “I suppose I owe you one after all those unforgettable sunrises the two of us shared.”
Too easy, House thought. Wilson was up to something.
The earth shook House out of a deep sleep. A blast pierced the air, and he saw red through his closed eyelids as blazing light swept across his face. A locomotive barreled down on him….
“Wakey, wakey, House!” An air horn reverberated through the room.
House could hear Wilson’s voice but not see him. Another megawatt flash lit the room. He tried shutting out the glare by shading his eyes. Wilson was sitting next to the window with the curtain wide open.
Another beam of light made his eyeballs ache, and a sonic boom crashed over him. He focused his attention on the alarm clock. Four fucking o’clock in the morning.
Looking out the window when the room went into semi-darkness he could make out a searchlight in the distance.
“Very funny Wilson. Cut the sound effects and call off the mothership.”
“You don’t like my gift? This is my humble way of saying thanks for the last sixty-seven days of wake up calls.”
Wilson placed the horn on his lap and directed his wheelchair to the door. "Take your time, the searchlight will be here until dawn. I'll be waiting for you in the Sun Room."
House wasted no time returning to PPTH, but Wilson wouldn’t commit. He hemmed and hawed, not willing to go into any detail other than claiming he needed time to adjust.
House could see Wilson was stressed. Dealing with a disability in an able-bodied world took its toll. House felt strongly that work would help his friend cope. And he would cope better with hospital dictums and clinic patients too, if Wilson was back at Plainsboro. Selfish maybe, but he preferred his friend no further than a half wall away from him.
Your bald-headed kids are dying to see you.”
“I know, House.” Wilson broke out a token smile. “I’ll be back in a couple of months.”
But two ran into three.
Wilson was regularly slipping off House's radar. Not staying in touch for several days, then popping up with a phone call or an email just before House was about to start snooping around. He always claimed to be busy, but talked very little about what. After one particularly long stretch, House received an email:
Hey,
Come over after work, I have something to show you.
Call before you leave.
When House arrived, Wilson was waiting on the sidewalk. “My extra set of wheels,” he explained proudly as he rapped his knuckles against the side of a big, black, boring car parked at the curb. "The shop finished installing the hand controls. Want to go for a spin?”
“Sure.”
The ride proved to be smooth, and the conversation purred along until they hit a verbal pothole.
Wilson didn’t drive around the block, but set off on a specific route. After five minutes he pulled over in front of a park, and pointed to a tall chain link fence faintly discernible between leafy trees.
“Tennis courts over there, basketball courts to the right, racquetball to the left. Thought we could continue what we started at Shadelands, if you don’t mind using your old wheelchair,” Wilson finished in a diffident tone.
“There’s nothing closer to your home?”
The finger swung across the street and pointed to a small one-story brick bungalow with a driveway leading to a garage in the back. “Can’t get much closer.” A "For Sale" sign was in front, and a “SOLD!” sign hung from the bottom.
“I’m lucky that the apartment worked out, but I can do whatever I want to a house of my own.” Wilson looked uncomfortable as he confessed, “Bonnie helped me find it.”
Ragged jealousy stung House's heart at the mention of Wilson's second wife, prompting him to say, “How’s the role reversal working out for you?”
“No better than the marriage, but she split her commission out of pity now that I'm her crippled ex-husband." Wilson's voice held a trace of bitterness.
"Money is money." House shrugged, sidestepping Wilson's self-pity, but he didn't move fast enough.
"I don't want to be defined as 'the-man-in-the-wheelchair.'" Wilson blurted out.
"But you are, and I'm 'the-man-with-the-cane,' and over there is the fat, bald-headed guy talking to Olive Oyl. If you want to change people's perceptions, go back to work. At least there, you'll be 'the-doctor-in-the-wheelchair.'"
"Where I can hang out with my friend, 'the-doctor-with-the-cane.' That's a change of pace."
With his mouth pressed into a straight line, Wilson turned the ignition and drove back to his apartment, dropped House off next to his bike, and sped away.
Tempers and insults were soon forgot, and two more months passed without Wilson showing any inclination to return to work. He spent much of his time wrapped up with remodeling his new home—adding ramps and widening doorways. Schematics of a new kitchen were scattered over the living room.
House watched. Waited. He knew the longer away from the hospital, the more difficult the transition back into the microcosmic world of PPTH would be. Not important to him, but important to the head of a large department. Powerful alliances formed when a key player went missing.
Determined not to become a Wilson clone, he didn’t nag, and gave little serious consideration to Wilson's bouts with self-pity and self-doubt. That was a freebie included in the cripple package, and why Wilson paid a shrink. But House made sure to be a regular presence at his friend's home, keeping close tabs and watching for major emotional backslides.
*
Wilson heard the incessant knocking from his bedroom. The sound could only be made by one man. He stopped folding laundry and spun around to answer the door.
Nonetheless, when he opened it, he was surprised.
House usually left his wheelchair down in the car, bringing it out when they went to the park, but this time the blue eyes were at the same level as his.
House was in a new wheelchair. Low slung with space-age three spoke wheels.
“You blew money on a sports wheelchair? How important is it for you to win? Our bets never top five dollars.”
“It’s not for me. It’s for you." House shook his head in dismay. "Your choice in wheels is disgusting. You drove a Volvo and now you own the Darth Vadermobile. Your wheelchair should be equipped with a horsewhip, it's so old-fashioned. Get with the program, Wilson.” House slapped the handrims. “This baby is the ‘vette of wheelchairs.”
“I’m fine, with the one I h-have.” Wilson faltered. House had argued with him when he made his decision, but stubbornly refused to give in and erred on the side of caution, choosing a sturdier, mundane model.
“Too late, this one is custom-built for you.” House passed his friend and moved toward the couch. Stenciled on the back in small letters were, “Beware Monster Trucks!” Right below in a larger font, “THE TUMORNATOR.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.” Wilson shook his head.
“Go on. Try it.” House locked the wheels and went for a beer, rummaging through the supply of chips and snacks Wilson stocked for him.
When House returned, Wilson was just positioning his feet on the footrest, and sailing off into the center of the room, testing how responsive the chair turned and pivoted. He capped the deft display by stretching his arm over his head and shooting an imaginary basketball into an invisible hoop.
Leaning against the wall for support, House watched while he pulled on a long, cold swallow from the bottle.
For a moment, Wilson looked embarrassed when he realized he'd been caught out, but quickly recovered. “Gregory House spent his money on…a gift? You’d tell me if you were sick, wouldn’t you?” Said in jest, the sparkle faded from Wilson's eyes as tension lines formed around them.
“I’m repaying the money I borrowed from you.”
Wilson visibly relaxed. “Part of the money that you never intended to repay me.” He nodded and smirked. “It’s a gift.”
House opened his mouth to backup his hollow statement, but Wilson raised his hand.
“Shut up, House, you’re busted.”
What goes around, comes around.
One evening, a few months later, an anxious Cuddy called the diagnostician at his apartment.
“Is anything going on with Wilson? He’s pushed his return date back another couple of weeks."
House sifted through recent conversations. Wilson had been quieter than usual, keeping more to himself. Other than listening to House’s latest case and interrupting once and a while to say, “Thank God you’re back to torturing your patients and not me,” he showed little interest in hospital gossip and changed the subject whenever possible.
Without tipping off Cuddy, House mused if Wilson’s antidepressants were losing their effect, or he had stopped taking them now that he had left the rehab center.
The next day, alone in his office, he called Dr. Raquel, but her answering machine picked up. He left a message.
She returned his call by mid-afternoon. At first she was hesitant to discuss Wilson’s case, knowing that they were friends, but House pushed, reminding her that he was Wilson’s attending at Shadelands.
She conceded little information, but finally admitted Wilson’s last session with her was over a month ago. Now that he was adjusted to his new home setting, they mutually agreed that he make arrangements at a local rehab facility with outpatient services.
House placed the cell on his desk and grabbed his ball, bouncing it against the wall. He saw a lot of brochures on Wilson’s end table about SCI rehabs in New Jersey, but Wilson would not be pinned down to a specific location.
He made up his mind. After work, he was confronting his sneaky friend.
And as soon as he began packing up to leave at the end of the day, Foreman, Thirteen, and Taub ran into his office to tell him his patient was bleeding internally.
He gave his team instructions to find Chase and prepare for emergency surgery.
House sat back down in his chair. He had to choose whether to stay or leave. Was Wilson having a meltdown or not?
Yes, recently Wilson was more subdued. In unguarded moments, off somewhere in his own little world. His answers to House’s questions often evasive, but by no means showing signs of a full-blown depression.
And then, Kutner came to mind.
He snapped open his phone and called Wilson. The call went to voice mail. So did the second, and the third.
Tapping his fingers on the desk, he waited an eternity. Ten minutes later he tried again from his office phone, as if the hospital hookup had special powers.
He exhaled a steadying breath when he heard Wilson's voice, but Wilson sounded sluggish, and pushed each word off his tongue as if it were a burden. "What do you want, House?"
“Wilson, are you all right?!”
The answer was slow in coming. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
Fine. Along with “early,” another word that rankled.
"I'll be right over."
House slammed down the receiver. His patient had four doctors hovering over her. Wilson had none. He texted the team to call him on his cell only if his patient was about to go into cardiac arrest, otherwise not to bother him.
He limped out of his office as fast as he could, and broke speed records on his bike hurrying to Wilson’s to see if his friend was truly fine.
*
Not bothering to knock, House thrust his key in the lock and threw open the door.
Wilson was in his robe, sitting in his wheelchair in the middle of the living room. He looked up at House, looked down at his watch, and looked up again.
“What the hell's gotten into you? You call. Ask me if I'm all right. I say 'fine,' and the next thing I know you're risking your life racing over here, and breaking into my house. Is there a secret code I should know? Was I supposed to shout 'Help!' to prevent you from coming?"
“Wilson, you fucker, what’s going on?! You sounded half-dead on the phone.”
“Almost, not quite.” Wilson answered, not taking offense, since it was House who was the source of the indelicate remark.
“James? Where are you?” a woman's voice beckoned.
Wilson's cool guise showed signs of cracking as House tilted his head toward the bedroom. “Keeping secrets, Jimmy?”
Before Wilson could respond, a slender, long-legged brunette walked into the room. She was wrapped in a towel. Her short, dark hair still wet from the shower. “James? Aren’t you coming back to--? Oh, hello, Dr. House.”
“Enjoying your vacation, Ava?” Amused, House pressed forward on his cane as Wilson glared and Dr. Ava Raquel idly finger combed through damp strands of hair.
“Who decided dating a patient would be unethical? You or him. Spill.”
Ava squeezed Wilson’s shoulder, draped over him to kiss his mouth, and simply murmured, “You were right.” She ignored House and sauntered back to the bedroom.
For some reason, House’s jealousy was not getting the better of him. On the contrary, he was inordinately pleased to find Wilson working his way through every female in the medical profession. Better to know the sleepy voice was caused by passion and not by an overdose.
“Are you happy, now?” Wilson hissed.
“Yes, and Cuddy will be too. You’re not taking any more extensions are you? Thinking of a quickie trip to Las Vegas?”
“No.”
“Then, what do you see in her? Did she break up with her boyfriend or discover her husband's having an affair with the pool boy?”
“Knock it off, House. She’s a smart, independent woman.”
“You only strayed once into that unmarked territory with Amber. You can’t tell me she’s not needy.”
Wilson blushed and whispered so only House could hear, “Did you ever consider that I may be the needy one?”
“The word is 'selfish' not 'needy,' and it looks good on you. You might get through this relationship unscathed by marriage."
House smiled and changed the subject.
“Our game's still on for tomorrow night?” House began limping toward the door.
“Yeah. Ava plans to visit friends while she’s here.”
House's hand encircled the doorknob, “See you tomorrow, Wilson.”
“Tomorrow, House.”
Two weeks later…
Wilson inspected the doppelganger in the mirror.
Ava had left yesterday. She was wonderful, and he was going to miss her until they could get together, but he wasn’t in love…and neither was she.
He focused back on the image. He was returning to work today, and had spent the whole morning dressing the part of Dr. James E. Wilson, Department Head of Oncology, but something was off.
Of course, the wheelchair was a new accessory. He was in the “buggy” as House called it, not the Tumornator.
There was his hair, but that wasn’t it. He nuzzled his fingers over the soft tufts and spikes. He liked the easy upkeep and had no intention of going back to blow-drying.
Starting from his feet and traveling upward, he could see nothing wrong with what he was wearing. His French leather shoes gleamed the way they always did. His new brown suit hung properly, the slacks extra long in order for the hems to touch the top of his loafers and not ride up, the jacket accommodating the bulked up muscles in his chest and arms. The same with the ivory shirt.
That left the tie. The green one with the ivory polka dots. He pulled at the collar and rolled his neck from side-to-side. The damned thing was hideous as well as constricting. Why did he ever consider this one his favorite? Returning to the closet, he raised a skeptical brow. The rest of the collection was light years uglier and no more comfortable.
Tugging on the knot, Wilson slid the silk away from the shirt and freed the top button.
There was no reason he had to wear a tie.
He swung back to the mirror and confronted the-man-in-the-wheelchair.
Had the accident changed him?
Or had his priorities?
He stared solemnly into the mirror, and after what felt like a lifetime, he winked at his reflection.
Sitting with his team in the conference room, House kept an eye on the elevators, waiting for his first glimpse of Wilson. He knew from his own experience, the first day back was the hardest. But Ava had gone home, and Wilson had run out of excuses.
His vigil paid off thirty agonizing minutes later. The elevator doors opened to a crowd of people, all walking toward Wilson’s office. House craned his neck for a better look, but he couldn’t make out his friend, though he did glimpse a spoke from a sports wheelchair.
Interesting.
He heard and saw nothing of Wilson for the rest of the morning. The oncologist was probably hip deep in paperwork, playing catch up.
But the clock on his computer monitor indicated that it was nearly noon, and House’s “Pavlov’s dog” response was kicking in. He had sat patiently all morning long, and now it was time for Wilson to reward him.
He dashed off a quick email: 12:00—Lunch?
As soon as he clicked “send,” there was a new email in his inbox from Wilson with the same message: 12:00—Lunch?
Good old Wilson.
House was searching the web when he heard his office door open. “Are you ready, House?”
“More than ready.”
House swiveled his chair…Wilson?
In front of him was…his Wilson, but one he never saw before.
Apparently, Wilson came in variety packs.
Wilson wore his lab coat, the burgeoning pocket protector overflowing with pens and paraphernalia like a sackful of toys from Santa.
But the rest…
A deep green, collarless shirt, the first couple of buttons undone. Jeans and athletic shoes….
“You do know dressing like me doesn’t excuse you from paying for my lunch?”
“Yes, I am wearing jeans and athletic shoes, but no, I’m not dressing like you."
“But you are paying for lunch?”
"Of course, I'm paying."
Reassured, House stood up and walked past Wilson. When he was in the corridor, Wilson easily caught up to him, and they continued to move to the elevator as one.
"Some things never change, House."
House nodded his agreement. “Only the little things, Wilson.”
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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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