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Case Study
by gena
Case study.....
Foreman looked up as the door to the adjacent office opened and House limped in followed by Wilson. Neither man looked happy, Wilson moved with aggressive control, his shoulders stiff, hands jammed in his lab coat pockets. House leaned heavily on his cane, the knuckles of his right hand nearly white, his damaged leg dragging, giving him an unnaturally awkward appearance. That was something Foreman had never associated with House, he might be crippled but he had an innate grace, his tall slender body moving as effortlessly as a dancer's as he swayed and dodged along the chaotic halls of PPTH. But not when he and Wilson were fighting, House tanked, his body would bow over his cane, and his face take on years with the pain.
House and Wilson rarely argued, sometimes there were heated disagreements over how to treat a patient but those flared and died quickly. True fights, filled with angry shouting and stony silences, were almost always over House's escalating Vicodin usage, and those could linger for days. Foreman had seen worry and fear in Wilson's dark eyes whenever House popped the lid on his pain pills but he wasn't sure Wilson realized House always needed a couple of extra pills after one of their fights. Foreman knew all about addicts, they'd been everywhere in his neighborhood growing up and even in medical school there were young doctors hooked on uppers just to make it through their studies. Certainly there were other ways House could have chosen to cope with his pain but he'd taken the easiest route. Foreman often watched with detached curiosity, he'd seen lives ruined and had no sympathy for those too weak to avoid them but every once in a while when he looked into House's tormented face he felt a twinge that could have been understanding. While House might pique his curiosity, Wilson fascinated him and together they mesmerized him.
Wilson hovered around House like some kind of anxious guardian angel, fending off people who pried into House's life, worrying over him, trying to protect him in any way he could. Bur Foreman sensed Wilson was waiting for something; acknowledgment, vindication, forgiveness, maybe just waiting for House to fall so he could pick up the pieces. Theirs was a weird relationship, Wilson wanted - no, needed something and House didn't seem able to give it. Foreman got the feeling Wilson felt guilty, and suspected that whatever had happened to House to make him the way he was, Wilson thought he could have prevented it. He wondered if it bothered House, this perpetual guilt trip but sometimes when he watched House, Foreman could see longing in his bright blue eyes, as if he wished he had been saved. Foreman always looked away then, he didn't want House to become to human in his own eyes. Regret and heartbreak made House more difficult to dislike.
"What's so bloody interesting?" Chase demanded, flopping down at the table. He followed Foreman's gaze and saw the two combatants. "Oh, not another dust up. Wilson always loses."
"Wilson never loses," Foreman said, flicking his eyes down to the file he'd been pretending to read for the last twenty minutes.
"Yeah? Fifty bucks says he walks away."
"What would that prove?" Foreman asked.
Chase smirked, "I'd say that was losing."
"Nope," Foreman said. Beyond the glass, the final salvos of the war were being flung, Wilson squared off in front of the desk, hands on his hips, as if he could intimidate House by sheer mass. But House retreated behind his desk, putting the chrome and glass barrier between them as he sneered and snapped. The shouting ended and a tense, motionless silence opened between the two men, stretching so taunt it seemed to vibrate the glass wall. As predicted by Chase, Wilson turned and walked away, leaving House staring after him. Chase shot Foreman a triumphant look which Foreman deflected by jerking his head back towards House's office. House crumpled, collapsing into his chair with a grimace, already pawing the amber bottle out of his pocket and spilling white pills across his desk. He took one, swallowing it with a blissful expression, then leaned forward, one hand on his thigh, forehead pressed against his cane's handle in his strange way, as if he took comfort from the contact. "House never wins," Foreman said with a thoughtful look.
House stayed in his office the rest of the day, viciously hurling insults at those foolhardy enough to venture too close and threatening bodily harm despite the fact he looked to be on the verge of collapse at any second. Foreman could only stare in amazement when Cameron dared to bring him coffee during the long afternoon. Ever hopeful kindness would win out over pissyness she escaped unscathed and hopefully wiser, clutching the still full mug, and refused to meet Foreman's eyes for the rest of the afternoon. The three of them went about their duties, the clerical housekeeping they had to do between cases, and ignored the growling tiger limping around his glass cage. House eventually stretched out on the floor behind his desk with his headphones, chilling to his extensive music collection for a couple of hours and then surprising no one when he gathered his things and left an hour early. Foreman watched him go.
"I hate it when they fight," Cameron said.
"Yeah, makes life difficult for us," Chase said.
"That's selfish," Cameron said. "I meant it's hard on him to be at odds with his best friend."
"Only friend," Foreman reminded her. "Wilson is the only person crazy enough to voluntarily spent time with him and seemingly enjoy it."
"He's not that bad," Cameron interjected. "He's funny, and he's smart. You just have to give him a chance." Foreman and Chase looked at each other. "What? Can't I admire my boss?"
"You don't admire him," Foreman said, "You like him."
"And you don't?"
"Uh, no," Foreman said, offended. "I respect his abilities, I don't have to like him. You on the other hand want him to like you."
Cameron goggled at him for a moment then got her expression under control. "And that's a bad thing?"
Chase stared at her, mouth opening and closing several times before he spit out, "you want to have sex with him? He's old and crippled and -"
"Don't be a child," Cameron snapped.
"It's not a bad thing," Foreman went on, ignoring Chase's outburst. "It just isn't going to happen."
Cameron blinked at him, "He hired me because I'm pretty. You've heard the remarks me makes to me."
"I believe he also makes the same remarks about Chase."
"What?" Chase jumped to his feet, eyes scanning House's office as if he suspected his boss was waiting inside the darkened room to leap out and molest him at any second.
"Get a grip, Adonis," Foreman said, chuckling, "he does it to get a rise out of you, not because he wants to jump you." He paused, frowning for a moment, "at least I don't think he does. He'll say anything to provoke, to antagonize, to see what makes you tick, but half of it is just smoke."
"But you're saying House isn't capable of liking another human being?" Cameron asked.
Foreman shook his head, "I'm saying he's in love with Wilson." Stunned silence greeted his words, then -
"No way-"
"You're outta your mind-"
Foreman shrugged. "You asked me, I told you."
"He's in love with Wilson?" Cameron clarified. "Dr. James Wilson, another man."
"Yep." When the other two continued to stare at him Foreman shrugged again and picked up his belongings, preparing to leave for the night. "Watch them together sometime if you don't believe me."
House struggled with the car door, managing to swing it shut without falling on his ass. He knew he shouldn't drive the Corvette, it was a stick and clutching made his leg shriek with pain, but it looked so fuckin' hot and made Wilson green with envy. Still, getting in and out of it with his cane and his bag, trying not to stumble or drop anything had proved exhausting time and time again. Fighting with Wilson didn't help either, it always left him feeling winded and shaky in a way his leg never had.
"You shouldn't be allowed to own a cool car like that." Wilson's voice echoed around the parking garage, startling him so much House almost dropped his cane.
"Jealous?" He purred, fighting to get his breathing under control. Wilson moved up beside him, the familiar scent and heat of his body making House forget for a moment he was angry with his friend.
Wilson regarded him for a heartbeat, his deep brown eyes nearly black in the shadowed garage. It was the one thing House had never gotten use to in all the years of his friendship with Wilson - the depth of that gaze, the almost bottomless quality he felt when he locked eyes with Wilson. It made him unease at times, as if Wilson could see straight into his soul but it also comforted House because Wilson could read the things written across his heart, the things pain had twisted and stomped down so far he could no longer reach them. He could feel it all rising to the surface, filling his eyes and burning the back of his throat. Wilson really looked at him and despite the anger and the bitterness that made him ugly, Wilson could look at him and his eyes would shine with admiration and affection and - something House didn't know if he could believe. A car horn honked somewhere on an upper level and Wilson blinked, a shy smile turning the corner of his mouth up. "Yeah, I'm jealous," he said softly and the anger House had been trying to hold onto slipped from his grasp and he grinned.
"Covet not another man's ride," House quoted, "for the wages of lust are manifold and the fuel prices steep."
"You know I'm Jewish," Wilson said, "Just which book of the Bible is that?"
"Chilton 89-05." Wilson laughed and took House's bag from him, slinging it over his own shoulder as they crossed the parking structure towards the staff entrance. The gesture, so small but intimate, spoke volumes. House hated for anyone to offer to help him do something, everyone who knew him knew this first unwritten rule. As the two men passed through the doors, Dr. Robert Chase stared after them, Foreman's words from the day before tumbling in his mind like shoes in a dryer - loud, ungainly and vaguely disturbing. He'd only heard a bit of their conversation but the look which had passed between them had spoken louder than words could have. His mother had worn that look before his dad drove her into an early grave. She'd worshipped Rowan Chase. Wilson had worn the same look and, though it had been twisted by sorrow and pain, it had been on House's face as well. Chase could feel himself shaking.
"I think you may be right," Chase said quietly, several hours later in the office he shared with the other two members of house's team. Cameron looked up from her file and Foreman wandered over, coffee cup in hand.
"About....."
Chase sighed. "About House and Wilson."
Foreman gave Cameron a smug look and sat down. "Let's hear it." Chase recounted what he'd seen in the parking garage, adding his own thoughts on the weird, wordless looks which had passed between the two doctors and his feeling of witnessing a very intimate moment.
James pushed open the door, moving quickly, not giving his eyes time to adjust to the dim interior. In truth he wanted to be blind, to wander in darkness for the rest of his life - for the rest of eternity - if it meant he never had to see another life crushed by the weight of certain death. He loved his job, really. He loved the mysteries of the body and how it could mutate, change, reform into something which could no longer carry on its function. What he hated was seeing the faces behind the science, the souls, the eyes, the lives that were not cells or organs or words on paper. He could hear the whir of machinery somewhere in the back of the room and wondered if there was anyone there, someone who might invade this momentary lapse. A wedge of floor tile lit up in front of him, a lopsided shadow fell across his shoes and Wilson knew he could no longer hide in the dark like a child.
"I hope you have condoms," House said. Wilson looked up, a faint smile forming more out of habit on seeing House than at anything he said. "Diddling a nurse on company time, Dr. Wilson, is a sure way to get in serious trouble."
"You would know."
House picked up his cane, tapping it against his shoulder like a baseball player waiting to slam a homerun. "Ah, yes, but only because she didn't want to be diddled. I mean she came on to me and then left me hanging.....well, not exactly hanging."
"Shut up, House," Wilson said softly. House studied him a moment, the laser blue of his eyes cutting through Wilson's self-imposed sorrow just as they seemed to cut through the darkness of the room. He moved closer, his limp more pronounced than normal, his movements slower, weighted with a heaviness that dragged at him. Wilson hooked one of the tall stools closer with his foot and watched House prop himself on it, wondering what it felt like for House on days like this. How bad must he hurt for it to show like it did today? He worried over House's need to dull the ache but right now a part of him understood and wanted nothing more than to sink into a place where it no longer tore him apart. He'd once thought that constant pain should make you numb to new hurts, it should make a person immune to anguish and sorrow, stronger somehow for the suffering. He only had to look at House to know better. House didn't look immune or stronger; he looked as if his life were being leached away a little at a time. Did he look like that now, bloodied and bruised by the fight, refusing to give into the inevitable? How could such agony be endured day after day without a person going insane? His own seemed crushing at times; his job, his fear for Greg, the sadness of failing on so many fronts. Did House's pain match the breadth and depth of his own? Wilson couldn't stop the effervescing bubbles of sorrow rising inside his chest, bursting as they came in contact with the air around House. Why should it make him feel better to see that someone else knew pain, especially when that someone was the only friend he had.
"Stop that!" House ordered, his most scathing look aimed at Wilson.
"Stop what?"
"Thinking that you're a bad person to know you don't have to suffer alone," House said. Wilson stared at him, no longer amazed that House, of all people, could read him better than anyone he'd ever known, but comforted by the knowledge that he'd found a soul mate in someone so unlikely. The hard steel of House's eyes faded and the faint glow from the corridor suffused them with a light that gave them the appearance of velvet sapphires. "It just makes you more human," House said barely above a whisper.
Wilson started to deny it but, thinking better of it, asked instead. "You think so?"
"I hope so," House said solemnly. "If I find out you're not human you won't be spending the night at my place anymore," he warned. "I do not want to wake up with my face ripped off or some kind of space pod next to my bed." Wilson chuckled, feeling better. A moment later House leaned in close, his shoulder warm and solid against Wilson. "Your being human reminds me how it's done," he said very quietly.
James squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, awed once again by the fact Life offered you one chance at happiness and if you were lucky you recognized it. He'd married three times but even as he'd stood before God vowing to forsake all others, in his heart James had known that his one shot at happiness stood beside him, holding the ring he would place on his wife's finger. It had never seemed less fair than it did at that moment. He knew life was short, he stared mortality in the face every day when he looked into the eyes of those he had to tell that their time had run out. He knew life was fragile every time he watched Greg struggle to keep going when he had nothing left to give. What he and House had was a gift and sitting there in the near blackness of an empty lab where fates were learned and hopes dashed, James Wilson thanked whatever gods looked after broken men that he had House. People who saw them, those who saw their friendship only from the outside, saw merely what he gave to House. No one considered that he needed House as much, or even more than House needed him, that without Greg House in his life he would fall apart. Few people could conceive the notion that House was able to offer anything resembling friendship or support or love to another person. Wilson blinked away the threat of tears and sighed. "Let's run away to Vermont tonight," he said, only half joking.
"Your mom would be shocked," House said.
"She's very liberal," Wilson told him with a faint laugh.
"Not that we're getting married," House said with an implied "duh", "Because I won't be wearing white."
"I think she knows you're a slut." Neither spoke again for a long time and then House shifted, unable to hide the fact he couldn't sit like that for long.
"Come on," Wilson said, "I'll take you home." He rose, staring down at House in the semidarkness. He'd learned early on not to offer House any help but in a moment of need on his part Wilson reached out a hand. House's gaze fixed on the outstretched hand then lifted to Wilson's face, balancing there as if on a knife blade. James could feel the hope in his chest slipping away, and the future growing as sterile as the hospital in which he spent his days. His let his hand fall, disappointed but not surprised. House made a quick move, his fingers slick with sweat but locking around Wilson's tightly. Wilson grinned at him, the heaviness of sorrow dropping away when Greg returned it and pulled himself to his feet. They moved together, side by side - as always.
Allison Cameron stepped out of the darkened lab a moment later, her face composed but her heart troubled. How had she been so wrong? She'd wanted him to like her so much, and when he'd denied it - no one had ever not liked her - she'd thought it was a game. It had to be. The idea was so alien, so contrary to the way she had lived until that moment that Cameron had simply refused to believe it. Now she had to believe. House did not like her, not in the way she wanted. He loved Wilson. The display between them, the communion she could feel in their gentle teasing, in their closeness, in their silence, and in the way they looked at each other could not be denied. Their steps echoed ahead of her and when she rounded the corner she watched them walk out into the night together; shoulders brushing, smiles only for each other. She wished someone loved her the way House loved Wilson, she longed to love someone as much as Wilson loved House. It was subtle, the thread that bound them, but to those who took the time, so very obvious. She knew Foreman and Chase saw the truth between House and Wilson, what did the others see?
"That road leads to heartbreak," Lisa Cuddy said as she closed the door to her office and moved to Cameron's side. Her expression seemed a little sad and rueful as she followed Cameron's gaze.
Cameron heaved a sigh, then really looked at Cuddy, eyes narrowed, "How do you know?" Cuddy hesitated, pulling on her coat and moving towards the exit. Cameron walked with her until they were nearly at the door.
"I had sex with House - once," Cuddy stressed. Cameron couldn't hide her shock. Cuddy shrugged, "He made me wear a tie."
Cameron's mouth dropped open. Cuddy nodded and walked through the door.
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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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