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Pray for a Harbor
by cyne
Head in hands, on the table. This is how House finds Wilson. It takes many ounces of will and promises of a pill in just a second to not lift his cane and poke Wilson in the center of his head. Instead, he taps the table corner lightly, and when receiving no reaction, taps again, louder this time.
"You dead?" House asks, as the rather pathetic head of his so-called friend lifts up slowly and uncertainly.
"Sorry to disappoint." Wilson scrubs his face harshly and watches House lowers himself onto the chair across the table. "What do you want?" House's involuntary glance at the clock on the wall is the only answer he needs. "Don't say it," Wilson tells House who opens his mouth to answer. "I really can't harbor you whenever Cuddy's breathing down your neck. Impossible it may sound, your avoidance issue is even worse than your drug addiction."
"I don't have avoidance issue. I just have an issue with Cuddy," House retorts, tapping the end of his cane to the side of his chair.
"Stop tapping," Wilson snaps, which is in itself a lesson in futility as the tapping increases in frequency and magnitude. "She pays your keep every month. Imagine what'll happen if your drug acquisition documents go missing or your paycheck gets lost in the post."
"Somebody wakes up on the wrong side of town this morning," House smirks as Wilson fidgets. He makes a show extracting the a pill and waving it in front of Wilson, like a child might with is toy plane. "Problems with the wife?"
Wilson throws a suffering look at House who smirks again, makes a stuttering noise (which, Wilson thinks, is supposed to resemble a car running out of gas), before popping it in his mouth and swallowing it dry. Wilson thinks he's going crazy when he thinks that House's adam's apple bobs in an interesting way. Instead he snorts and shifts the paper in front of him, "No."
"Because you love her."
"I won't be married to her if I don't." But Wilson knows that there is a degree of uncertainty. It is not a complete and utter lie, of course, because he does love his wife, doesn't he?
"You, my dear Wilson, is in a deep crater of denial. So deep and wide is the crater," House says as he waves his cane and Wilson cringes when it snags the telephone cord, "that a sperm whale could fall in it and disappear without a trace."
"I have never denied anything. I do love her," Wilson retorts, not liking where this conversation is going. If it is supposed to go anywhere.
"Ah yes. The mother to your future children... If only you can find time to make children, that is." House observes.
"What is this? 'Pick on James Wilson' Day?" Because if it is, then he hasn't received any memo. And even though he's used to being picked on by House, he'd really appreciate if someone finds it in them to give him the heads up.
"No."
"Then what?"
"I'm bored." Because House turned down a transfer request, and succeeded preposterously in getting the Hospital Board to ban him from clinic duties for a month.
"Then go bother somebody else. Unlike you I've got a lot of things to do," Wilson snaps again, which is a repeat lesson in futility as House merely leans further back into the chair and pops another Vicodin. "Go harass Cameron or Foreman or Chase, I'm sure 'keeping you entertained' is part of their job description."
"Why would I do that? They're my kids. Parents don't harass their kids."
"Your kids?" Wilson snorts in dismay. "They'd sooner kill you, plea guilty of manslaughter under depression, and be orphans, than to have you as their parent."
"That's not a very good thing to say to a friend," House mumbles. "I'm hurt."
"Good."
"Which brings us back to parenting and spouses," House plunders on.
"What about it?"
"You haven't been spending enough time with your wife. Don't you want to have kids?"
"What kind of a question is that?" And sometimes Wilson doesn't know what to say, because boy genius that he is, House runs rings around him and leaves him weirded out on the playground floor.
"The ordinary kind," House answers. "What kind do you want it to be?"
"And this is relevant to you how?" Wilson dreads the answer, because he thinks he knows the answer, because he thinks he knows House. And he watches House sit up and hobble towards the door.
"I'm thinking... Chinese."
"Okay," Wilson answers, without thinking, because its easier to not think when House is concerned. And so when he hears the door creaks open and clicks shut, he finds himself reaching for the telephone. And when he listens to the dialtone in his ear, and his heart beating loudly against his eardrums, he wonders what the world has got to.
"Hey darling... Yeah. I know, I'm sorry... I'll make it up to you... I know... Take care, okay? Yeah. I'll see you. Sleep well... I love you, too... Uh huh... Bye... Okay... Bye." He hears her inhalation -- deep and sharp. He listens to her exhale, and was abruptly cut midway by the dialtone.
He replaces the handset in its cradle and grabs a random file. As he walks out the door and greets a fellow doctor, he looks up the corridor leading to House's office and sighs. He wonders what he's signed himself in for, and wonders whether he'll come out of it alive.
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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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