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Choices
by gena
Choices.....
"....just look straight ahead. That's it," James Wilson flashed the charming but professional smile he used when cajoling reluctant children into doing what he wanted. It wasn't really for the children's benefit, more for the mothers, they always made more of an effort to control the kids when he used that certain smile. Unfortunately just at that instant the door to exam room one opened and Gregory House limped inside. The mother, a woman who had only an second before been soothing her unhappy five year old, now gave a small squeak of alarm and clutched the boy. The boy picked up on the sudden shift in mood and began to wail.
"House!" Wilson snapped and glared at his friend.
"It's five after," House announced with his own glare. "You promised me you'd be done at five."
"Uh, I'm with a patient," Wilson said. The boy, still screaming, and his mother, still clutching him, both stared at House. "Can't this wait?"
House continued to glare at him. "No. It's crucial to get there early," he pointedly looked at his wrist watch, "and we have just over twenty-seven minutes to beat the crowd. This is essential and I think asking me to wait another hour because you can't just tell her that the kid is allergic to hamsters is a bit callus."
"Hamsters?" the woman asked, blinking. Turning to Wilson she said, "we don't own a hamster."
"His little friend next door has one, right kid?" House demanded, making the boy cry harder.
"Carrie?"
"How the hell would I know her name? Tell your kid to stop kissing it." Turning he gave Wilson another hard look. "Are you done now?"
Wilson hung his head in defeat, sighed, and nodded. "Yeah, sure." He offered the woman a wan smile, and a prescription then followed House from the room. "How - never mind," he said to House's back. He stopped at the desk, absurdly aware of House's cane tapping repeatedly on the floor in the annoying way he had when he was bored.
"Dr. House?" Cameron's voice broke through the gentle babble of staff wrapping up things for the day. She, Foreman and Chase were just pushing through the doors. "They just discharged Peter McDonald."
"And this means something?"
"He's the patient,' Chase reminded him. "The hemophiliac with the cyst."
House glared at him and turned to grip Wilson's arm. "Come on."
Wilson shrugged at the three doctors. "Sorry, House is in a bit of a hurry." He shot House an exasperated look and said, "We're heading to Dairy World for a Tornado Blast and he has this bizarre idea that there will be crowds of people and he won't get a Cinnamon Cyclone." Wilson's amused tone and the way his dark eyes softened when they fell on House said enough about his habit of indulging his friend's whimsical schemes.
"Enough with the chit-chat," House snapped, "we're on a mission."
"Just one second," Cameron said, beaming at Wilson. She nodded to the clinic nurse who reached under the desk and brought out a frosted birthday cake. "Happy birthday." Cameron leaned in to kiss his cheek. Wilson blushed while House fumed. Foreman and Chase, genuine smiles spreading across their faces, offered birthday sentiments. All accompanied by that impatient tapping sound. To Wilson's horror a small confederation of his staff and a few patients surrounded him, streaming through the clinic's double doors, their shouts of "Happy birthday" drowning out everything else. Surrounded as he was by well wishers all he could do was helplessly look over their heads at House.
House didn't seem angry or bitter, merely resigned and disappointed. As Wilson watched House gave a little nod, his stubbled chin dropping to his chest as his lips twisted in an expression halfway between a smile and a sigh, as if he'd known what was coming. Wilson sucked in a surprised breath. He was use to House's normal range of disdainful expressions, his hatred of the trite and sentimental, his reckless oblivion to all things thoughtful, but the expression of bewildered hurt and resignation which hovered in House's brilliant blue eyes came as a shock. He would have called out, drawn House back if he could but Wilson knew he didn't possess the power to achieve that. House would not stick around for something as fluffy as a birthday cake unless he could stick his finger in the icing and tell the cook it tasted like crap. Wilson tried to signal an apology but the crowd closed in and all he got was a brief glimpse of bowed head as House turned away.
"Dr. House! It's all ready." The plump waitress hurried over as House limped into Stan's diner. She looked to be in her mid fifties, soft maternal features and bleached hair but a wide smile on her face. The diner could have been something out of a movie, all chrome and neon and malt machines. House and Wilson had stumbled upon the place one day and because it was halfway between their homes, they took to meeting there mornings for breakfast and whenever they craved a big burger and fries. After a while Wilson's natural friendliness and House's sarcastic humor forged a kind of bizarre friendship with the widowed owner. She stopped a few feet from him, confusion spreading across her features when she noticed he was alone. "Where's Dr. Wilson?"
House shifted more weight onto his cane, reaching out to catch the side of a table. "Emergency at the hospital, Grace," House said, and slid into the booth.
"Oh, that's too bad." She gazed down at House's exhausted form. "I'll bring you something to eat." House grunted and watched her head back to the kitchen. The diner was almost empty, too early for the normal crowd but it would have been just right for two friends to share some burgers and maybe a slice of chocolate cake with the words YOU'RE OLD on top of it. Grace returned a while later, sitting down his meal with only a faint "that all you need, honey?" before leaving him alone. He ate part of his hamburger and a few fries before tossing down a good sized tip. "Dr. House?" Grace came over with a small white sack, just large enough to hold a couple of pieces of cake. "I thought you could give this to Dr. Wilson when you see him."
"Thanks." House left with a tiny wave. Grace watched him go without a word. She'd been fascinated by the two doctors since the first time they'd come into her diner. So different, and yet each seemed to compliment the other. House loud and arrogant, Wilson quiet and humble, they still shared the same sense of humor and dedication to each other. There were times, when each man thought the other wasn't looking that the true depth of their feelings for each other was plainly obvious and Grace Seaver had been touched by what she saw. When House had asked her to save back some of her delicious cake she'd been curious, finally getting out of him the fact it was Wilson's birthday and he thought it would be nice to celebrate it with her cake. Now House looked abandoned, and she wondered what exactly had kept Wilson from showing up. She hoped it wasn't something personal between them, House didn't look like the kind of guy who had too many friends and Wilson had always been very caring, and protective of the older man, it would be a shame if the bond she could see between them had suffered a terrible blow.
It seemed an eternity, the candles, the cake, the little party they'd thrown for him in the cafeteria but it couldn't have lasted longer than a couple of hours. Wilson thanked them, all of them with distracted kindness, rushed good humor and anxious gratitude. They let him go, calling out in good natured regret when he finally broke away. Wilson had to smile, well aware that people liked him. However, the one person he cared most about, the one others didn't even like, had been abandoned by this act of betrayal perpetrated in the name of friendship. Wilson hurried to his office, shedding the cards, the gifts, and the none too subtle jabs against his taste in friends, something his peers never failed to present no matter the occasion. He hated the idea other people thought he might actually justify his friendship with House, the thing between him and his oldest friend concerned no one but the two of them.
He made a beeline for House's office, knowing deep down that it would be empty and when his assumption proved correct Wilson got in his car and drove to House's place. There were no lights on but he could sense his friend there, pouting in the shadows. Wilson used the key House had given him years ago and let himself into the dark apartment. "House?" he called. Streetlight shown through the living room windows, giving him enough light to make his way around the stacks of newspapers. A patch of white on the piano stopped him and with a sinking heart Wilson recognized the customary white sacks he and House brought home food in from Stan's Diner. A peek inside confirmed his worst fears - two slices of obviously birthday cake were crusted together in a chocolaty mess. Damn. House had done something thoughtful and he'd ruined it.
Hurrying down the hall towards House's bedroom he noted that the door was closed but when he pushed it open he could heard his friend's soft breaths in the stillness. "House? Why didn't you answer me?"
"I was asleep."
"Sure," Wilson squinted at his watch, "at 7:45 you're asleep."
"Tired." To tell the truth, House sounded tired and when Wilson flipped on the light he was shocked by how drained House looked. When they'd parted in the clinic House had been full of energy, anxious and ready for some fun, now he looked as if he'd not slept in a week. He threw an arm up over his eyes, shielding them from the glare. "Go away, Wilson." Wilson tossed a t-shirt over the bedside light, muting it to a rosy Grateful Dead glow, then kicked off his shoes, tugged off his shirt and tie and drew the belt from his gray slacks. He sat down on the edge of the bed to pull off his socks. "What're you doing?"
"Getting into bed."
"Yeah, well do that at your own house," House growled and turned onto his side.
"You are my own House," Wilson pointed out. House didn't answer, forcing Wilson to poke him in the back.
"Asshole," House muttered and rolled back over. "Why aren't you with your friends? I'm sure you all could go out to a karaoke bar, drink Manhattans and get lucky. I saw that new clinic nurse sizing you up, maybe you could duet on Islands in the Stream."
"My singing voice isn't what it use to be and as you're so fond of pointing out," Wilson said and lay down beside House, "I'm a married man."
"Never stopped you before." Now it was Wilson who didn't answer. Instead he slid closer and placed a tentative hand on House's flat stomach. House flinched and shoved it off.
Wilson sighed. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "I couldn't blow them off, House."
"But you could blow me off." It wasn't often House let any hint of vulnerability show through but tonight seemed to be one of those rare occasions. "There's cake on the piano."
"I saw it." He waited a moment, letting the silence settle. "I am sorry."
"Yeah," House said quietly, "me too." Wilson edged closer, slowly replacing his hand on House's stomach. When it wasn't brushed away, he got bolder, wrapping his arm more securely over House's lean frame. House would never admit it but Wilson always suspected that his friend got lonely from time to time. Not to say House liked people, he didn't. Wilson knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that House did not enjoy the company of others unless they could amuse him. House's world revolved around House, altruist motives didn't enter into his way of thinking, the only thing House wanted from other people was a distraction from the super-charged machine that was his intellect. But there were times when Wilson caught an unfamiliar look, something almost wistful, in his friend's expression usually when he was sitting alone. It always passed quickly but it often left Wilson wondering if House ever envied the simple joy of being liked.
House didn't care what people thought of him, he never had, but Wilson could still remember times in the beginning of their friendship when he would drag House along on one of his "boy's night out". House always seemed to enjoy himself; laughing, joking, drinking, the way guys did when they were in a group but he never sought out the company of others. He'd never begrudged Wilson his other friends and never asked to be included but on those rare nights he had been - sarcastic, and arrogant, blunt and tactless but also able to relate. Now, House existed in a small clear bubble, touched by no one, touching no one, the lone exception Wilson himself and the extent of his influence was something Wilson could not gauge. He knew part of House's isolation was his doing, he had kept a protective eye on his friend after the infarction and Stacy's leaving. House had been too weak to protect himself, too hurt, too depressed and afterwards Wilson had kept up the habit, finding it easier to do things for House than to force him to do for himself. He had given up his other friends, a wife and his first home to be what he could for House, never knowing if it was appreciated or not but continuing because the pain in those brilliant eyes cut through his heart like a scalpel.
But as their world shrank to just the two of them, part of Wilson realized it had been a mistake to insulate the brilliant madman, with only himself as touchstone to the outside world. That fact had led him to approach Cuddy about House heading up a Diagnostic department. House had already been nationally known, but as head of his own department, able to concentrate and work on select cases, he became world-famous and now Wilson wondered if that, too, had been the wrong move. Sure House's interactions had broadened, he connected in different ways with his three underlings, and had a tempestuous relationship with the Dean of Medicine, but still the one stable connection in his life, Wilson knew, was the one they shared. He moved his hand up, laying his palm over House's heart and stared at the sharp profile.
He'd loved House for ages, Wilson had realized it shortly after Stacy introduced them. The thing between them defied all labels; friends, confidants, acquaintances, brothers, enemies, co-workers, strangers, soul-mates, all those elements met and melded in the bond which held them tight. Somewhere along the way the lines had blurred, they could say things to each other that would have destroyed other friendships, they could share the same bed lying with limbs entwined and think nothing of it, they could play jokes on each other and argue for days, and still find themselves together after a long exhausting week. Wilson cherished the time they spend together, but tonight had shown him how selfish he had been. Even if House didn't like his fellow human beings he needed to forge other bonds, he needed to connect with other people and in his eagerness to protect House he had enabled him to cut himself off from the rest of the world.
The injury had been a big part of it, the blow to House's ego had been devastating but Wilson knew he had allowed his compassion for the man to override his responsibility. There had been glimmers of hope in the last year or so, Cameron had been a start. Wilson had practically given her his blessing to pursue some kind of relationship with House but she had pushed too hard and moved too fast. In the end House had turned on her, unwilling or unable to be all that she wanted from him, afraid it was pity. Still House seemed intrigued by her, not romantically but there could be a friendship there if she were patient and could settled for that. Even Chase and Foreman might be receptive to some showing of friendship if given a chance. His fingers curled against the soft cotton t-shirt House wore. "House", he said quietly and felt the heart under his hand quicken, "you really tired?"
House turned his head, his sullen expression thawing a bit as he seemed to think it over. "Nah. Wanna get your butt kicked playing Zombie King?"
"Like you could," Wilson said with a grin. Like young boys camping in the living room they spent the rest of the evening huddled under a blanket on the couch, eating cold turkey sandwiches, and playing video games until they couldn't keep their eyes open. That night, lying beside House, Wilson made a promise to himself; House was too dependant on him, their lives too entwined to be healthy and he owed it to his friend to allow him to grow. House would resist, Wilson knew that but he loved the man too much to fail him, House needed more than he could be, more than he could give.
Resolute, Wilson set his plan in motion that following week, steeling himself against the shadows which rose in House's eyes every time he fended off an invitation to a movie or dinner, or just a night at home. Wilson conspired to throw Cameron into her boss's path as often as he could and even got Chase to invite House out for a drink but House remained stubbornly friendless. Another week passed with Wilson lying alone in his empty bed, wondering if House felt as miserable as he did, but he told himself over and over it was for House's own good. Still, he missed being with House, he missed evenings spent at the other man's home, the long rambling conversations which took hours and consisted of nothing either could remember later yet doubled them over with laughter at the time. He missed the bad movies and the video games, he missed eating fast food and listening to House play his piano, but most of all he missed the peaceful nights lying beside House.
It had been months since Julie shared his bed but even in the bloom of their romance he'd never experience the absolute sense of contentment which crept over him when sleeping next to House. People, especially people who knew him and his reputation as a skirt-chaser, wouldn't believe it if they learned his greatest pleasure was chastely sleeping beside his best friend. The two men had shared the same bed innumerable nights during the course of their friendship and Wilson had always found House to be the most satisfying of all his bedmates though he never knew what to expect when they turned out the lights, it always depended on House. Some nights House was in so much pain all he could do was swallow a Vicodin and fall into a fitful doze, Wilson gently murmuring a million random things in a voice he used with his youngest patients. Then there were times Wilson woke to the strains of Mozart or Vivaldi and he would lie in the darkness feeling like he and the unseen musician were the last two people in the world. But the best times were those nights when they talked for hours, House's thoughts jumping like ground lightning, they would laugh and joke and when they fell asleep it was with the abandon of closeness, their arms and legs entwined, their heads on the same pillow. An undercurrent of attraction had never been far from the surface, each man sensing it, knowing one touch or smile, or word could set it aflame but the sweet ache of never doing anything about it, of flirting with danger had appealed to them.
He was thinking about this, distracted from another patient file when a knock broke the silence. Wilson took a deep breath, praying it wouldn't be House there to ask him to lunch. "Come in," he called.
Allison Cameron poked her dark head around the door. "Could we talk, Dr. Wilson?"
"Sure," Wilson waved her inside. Cameron smiled and took the chair across from his desk. She sat, hands twisting around each other, eyes downcast. "What's the problem, Cameron? Has House done something annoying?" He kept his voice light though his throat suddenly felt constricted and his heart had begun to pound.
"It is House," Cameron confessed with a tiny shrug. She didn't meet his eyes, just continued to stare at the floor. He waited, his patience honed from years of dealing with House's secretive ways. "There's something wrong. He's been - distracted - listless."
"Listless?" Wilson repeated. That was one word he'd never associate with House. His friend had more energy than most power plants, Wilson always imagined House's brain as this huge generator powering his intellect. Surplus power fueled him physically, it was why you usually found House twirling his cane, or playing with his yo-yo, or one of a dozen other habits he had developed in the wake of his infarction. Before the injury to his leg he would run laps, or play basketball, anything to burn off the excess energy as he puzzled over some problem, now his choices were limited.
"Yes," Cameron said. She leaned forward, hands clasped. "He's in more pain that usual, he's barely moved out of his chair all week and hasn't eaten a thing. You know him, usually he's a human garbage disposal, but I brought him a sandwich yesterday and he wouldn't touch it." She finally looked up and Wilson could see the worry in her eyes. "Are you two fighting?"
Her question startled him, making him stammer, "W-we don't fight. I mean, sometimes we disagree, but we aren't now."
"You haven't spent any time with him," she accused. "You've used me as a go between all week."
"I've been too busy to play gopher for House," Wilson said, bristling. "I'm busy now." He made a show of picking up a file. Cameron rose, her brow creased deeply.
"I'm sorry, Dr. Wilson," she said, "it's just House looks so - sad." He heard her pause at the door but didn't look up until her footsteps were echoing down the hallway. He sat, staring blindly at the wall for nearly an hour before rousing himself and heading home to wait out the lonely hours until he came back to the hospital. All he had were lonely hours and he could only fill so many of them worrying over his patients. Home provided no distraction now. He had nothing in common with Julie any more, he'd had very little in common with her in the beginning but the sex had been spectacular. Once the heat had cooled, and they'd settled down to marriage Wilson had discovered the third time wasn't a charm. Julie had thought he was perfect, well until she found lipstick on his shirt collars and a pair of silk panties in his glove box, then she understood the truth about her handsome and charming husband. House, of course had known all along what he was like, the rampant insecurity, the restless search for someone who needed to be smothered with care, the guilt when it all went wrong. So Wilson went home and he wandered from room to room just as he wandered the halls of PPTH, all the while missing House. Without his friend he seemed to have no purpose, no rudder, no one. Caring for House had taken so much of his time and energy that this forced separation felt more like an amputation. There was nothing there in his life anymore just absence; an absence of pain, worry, laughter, companionship, understanding - a complete void where House had been. The knowledge that he had pushed House away, if for his own sake, did nothing to ease the feeling of emptiness.
That night he woke from nightmared sleep, drenched with sweat, gasping. In his dreams House stood at the bottom of a stairwell while he stood at the top. He watched House struggle painfully up one step at a time, his blue eyes locked with Wilson's, silently pleading for help but Wilson did nothing. He stood there unmoving as House tried to climb up to him and when House faltered, finally calling to him, collapsing with exhaustion, shaking and asking for help Wilson had turned and walked away. Wilson had rushed for the bathroom, falling to his knees to vomit, as the images replayed over and over in his head. He spent the rest of the night sitting on the couch, the telephone at his elbow, silently vowing that if House called for help he would not turn away.
House turned off the engine of his sedan, and slumped back against the seat. God, he was so tired. He'd needed to use the hand controls in his old car but now his arms felt like lead weights attached to his shoulders, still there had been no way he could have worked the clutch in the 'vette today. He felt drained, as if someone had set a tap in his chest and let it run; interest, stamina, and will to live all pooling together on a floor someplace in the clinic. All he wanted was just to sit there in the peace and quite, but knew a night in the chilly garage would play hell with his leg. Mustering all his strength, House pulled himself from the car and made his way into the condo, nearly salivating at the thought of his bed and the pain free state that lying down brought with it - until his leg began to complain about that. He got as far as the couch and sank onto it gratefully, shedding his jacket and closing his eyes. He'd spent most of the day hiding in his office but felt as if he'd hobbled a circuit around the hospital - twice. A hollow ache in his middle reminded House he hadn't eaten but the feeling seemed rather fitting. Hollow, empty, gutted like a fish, yes, all those pretty much covered what he felt. He dug out his Vicodin, fumbling with the cap before it popped off, swallowing two of the small white pills in a effort to fill the void inside him. House leaned back, tossing his cane to the floor and heaving his leg up onto the coffee table.
He'd told himself for two weeks now that nothing was wrong. Wilson was the Head of Oncology, it only stood to reason he got busy, he had people dying around him every day and his person life was just as fatal. Wilson wasn't the kind of guy to let a marriage peter out without giving it one last try. So what if Wilson couldn't crash at his place for a few hours each night, have lunch with him, or play hooky in an exam room, he wasn't ten, he didn't need Wilson to hold his hand. The Vicodin didn't seem to be working, pain flared hot and raw somewhere inside House's chest, a long ways from his leg. He'd run down every excuse he could think of but deep down House knew that Wilson wasn't busy, he'd always - always made time for House before. No matter what crisis was going on in his own life, Wilson had been known to drop everything and rush to House's side. House would never admit to feeling entitled to Wilson's devotion, contrary to popular belief his ego wasn't as all consuming, but some part of him had acknowledged how important he must be to Wilson for such a response. Wilson might not be world famous, but he was the top oncologist at one of the best teaching hospitals on the eastern seaboard, and for him to put House above so much of his commitment expressed the real value Wilson placed on their friendship.
It had been a new, unnerving experience for House. Growing up on the move, new to whatever military base his father had been sent to, most would have thought the other kids would be more accepting of a newcomer since they were in the same boat. But that hadn't happened, intimidated by his intelligence and wit, they'd looked for signs of weakness and attacked. Children were cruel and House had learned to fight back with his special weapon of choice. Soon cutting remarks and acid comebacks were as natural as breath and served as a way to cover any insecurity he might feel but it also kept people away. By age fifteen House had became a master of getting what he wanted - greedy, spoilt, arrogant and completely without friends. It had only been with Wilson's entrance into his life that House saw not everyone could be manipulated and not everyone was too stupid to know when they were being used. Wilson could, and often did, exactly what House wanted him to do, not because of House's cunning management, but because he honestly wanted to. The difference had never been lost on House.
A sudden wash of loneliness ambushed House, something the normally controlled doctor would brush away with ruthless determination. He'd learned from his father that it didn't pay to show your emotions because they wouldn't change a thing and only left you open to ridicule. This time, however, House chose to let himself feel, he closed his eyes and laid his head back, indulging in the sorrow spreading like ice through his body. It had been so long since he'd let himself truly feel anything, especially the achingly sharp stab of true sadness. He had built such thick shields against feeling things that to let them drop, to will them gone, nearly took his breath away. He'd always told himself it would happen, somewhere in the darkest recesses of his mind House had expected a day would come when Wilson walked away. Every time Wilson got married House had prepared himself for the empty hours, the solitude of his own thoughts. And for months after any of the lavish ceremonies he would be on his own, then sooner or later Wilson would revert to his old ways, he'd start coming around first for a drink after work then for weekend movie nights and finally he'd be sleeping in the spare room four nights out of seven. But even as he joked and make snide remarks about his friend's marital track record, House had sensed somewhere in the back of his mind that one day Wilson would find that elusive something he was searching for and when he did, House would become a distant memory. He'd told himself he could take it, that he didn't need Wilson but - everybody lies. Just the thought that the day had finally come brought with it a satisfying twist of anguish.
Self pity and self loathing warred inside him, making his head pound and his stomach rebel. God, he didn't need a round of dry heaves tonight, too. He'd been doubling up on Vicodin all week and that always made him lightheaded and queasy, add to that his exhaustion and he was looking at a hellish night. House took a couple of deep breaths, concentrating on the person causing him so much anxiety. He didn't blame Wilson for abandoning him, he applauded his friend in lasting as long as he had, the only thing bothering him really was not knowing what had been the last straw. House couldn't pick out the exact reason why Wilson had finally had enough, he couldn't remember doing anything more heinous than usual, but everyone had a breaking point. It would be lonely without Wilson, it would be just like the years before Wilson had come into his life, only now he was even more damaged, more bitter and mean than before. House gave a small mirthless chuckle, he didn't need friends anyway.
House nodded to himself, mulling over the thought. So, Wilson was mad, Wilson had had enough of him. Well, two could play it that way. He was a grown man, capable of being on his own. He wouldn't be subjected to Wilson's subtle jibes about his drug abuse, he wouldn't have to endure those concerned lectures or see the worry in Wilson's eyes now, would he? Freedom, yes, he would be free of all that crap now. James Wilson, the martyr of PPTH, taking pity on poor, friendless Greg House. Those idiots didn't know the truth, they couldn't see behind Wilson's perfect faade like he could. It had been him being kind to Wilson, people thought the younger doctor was so sweet and compassionate but they were mistaken. They figured his serial marriages were the result of his wives "not understanding" the sensitive doctor and his high stress career. Yeah, right. Wilson just couldn't keep it in his pants, that's why he had to find a new wife every couple of years. House punched a pillow into shape, and stretched out on the couch. The only reason Wilson looked so good was because people compared him to House. Let him play Saint James all on his own and see how long he could keep them fooled. Who the hell did Wilson think he was anyway, House didn't need him as a friend. He didn't need anyone, he never had. He'd never been willing to sacrifice his beliefs, his integrity for something as worthless as having people like him.
House savagely stabbed the TV remote making the screen flicked to life and forced himself to forget all about the traitorous Wilson. He watched until his eyes closed and when he slept he dreamed of being a child again, watching kids play baseball from the other side of a chain link fence. All the boys were smiling and laughing as they looked across to the lone figure excluded from the fun and every face looked just like Wilson's.
Wilson caught sight of House the day after Cameron's visit, as the older doctor headed down towards the clinic and it shocked him. House had never been conscious of his appearance, wearing wrinkled clothes, his face unshaved, hair slightly mussed, he dressed like an eccentric but even with the cane there was a vitality about him that shown in his eyes and the lithe way he could move with it. But this man, this shambling figure, made Wilson's heart freeze inside his chest. Wrinkles clothes hung on his gaunt frame and darkened circles lay beneath dulled eyes, and House's whole body balanced precariously on the thin wooden support in his right hand. Wilson started forward, mouth twisted in anguish, intent on helping in some way but House turned away before he could cross the lobby, his eyes cold and hard as blue stone.
Stunned, Wilson could only stare at the closed exam door. He made his way slowly back to his office, his footsteps echoing with a hollowness that seemed to emanate from somewhere in the region of his heart. House's reaction to him stung - he'd never been subjected to a look of such fury, hatred almost, from House. They fought, usually with him getting angry but this time - Wilson sank down into his desk chair, trying to ignore the tingle of dread in the pit of his stomach. He could see House's office from his and as the day waned he watched the dark shape with its uneven gait pass back and forth as House paced. The expression on his friend's face had chilled him, numbing Wilson to his very core but even so an innate need to safeguard House drove Wilson to insure his friend's wellbeing. When the office light finally went out around seven Wilson waited, giving House time to reach the lobby before heading out onto the balcony they shared. He knew he could watch House all the way to his handicapped spot from there without being seen unless House deliberately chose to stop and look for him. Night air caressed Wilson's face, but even its gentle warmth couldn't sooth the ache which had taken up residence inside him as, below, House's canted form limped into view. He moved so slowly, limping as badly as he had in the early days and even from his vantage point Wilson imagined he could hear the painful hiss of breath forced between clenched teeth as House pushed himself onward.
"What did you do to him?" Cuddy's voice echoed the question running through his mind. Wilson braced himself on the concrete wall and hung his head. "James? What's going on?"
"I -" he cleared his throat, "I did it again, Lisa." He could hear the pain in his own voice. "I tried to help him and I screwed it up again."
"Oh, James." Stepping closer, she touched his face, her thumb brushing his cheek as if she expected to wipe away tears but Wilson never cried in front of other people. Lisa Cuddy pulled away, wrapping her arms around herself as she stared down at House. "You're the only one who can hurt him, you know that, don't you?"
"I'm the only one who can help him, too," he whispered. "He can't depend solely on me, Lisa. He needs more, he need people in his life."
She turned to stare at him, her gray eyes reflecting the streetlight and giving her an unearthly appearance. She looked like some mystical priestess about to utter a prophecy and when she spoke her words carried the weight of insightful detachment. "Maybe he does," she said quietly, "but he needs you more, James, he always has. Don't ever forget that. You're the only reason he's still alive, he would have given up without you." Cuddy sighed, "You're trying to give him the world, to push him out into it but that would be like shoving a mind reader into a mad house and telling them to pick out one sane thought. You've said it yourself a hundred times, it all about speed with him, he has to know everything, see everything, connect it all into a pattern he can understand. Without you to act as a buffer, deflecting the small things, the things that he would obsess over, he'd be overwhelmed. He has no self-preservation skills when it comes to that, James. Don't you see?"
She gave a weak little laugh, one that held very little humor. "No one understands him the way you do, no one's ever taken the time to try. It's you, James, you're the only person who can reach him. You're the only person he wants to reach him, and if you aren't there to protect him, to provide some kind of shelter against the outside world, he'll hurt himself. He doesn't know how not to hurt himself." Cuddy looked out across at the buildings below. "It's so hard for him, and maybe you can't see it but he is letting people in, slowly, at his own pace. You can't force him and you can't abandon him just to make him move quicker. He's crippled, James." She ignored his flinch and went on, "and I'm not talking about his leg. When he's ready he'll need other people, just don't make the decision for him." He saw her hesitate, hands twitching at her sides. For a moment he could see she wanted to comfort him but just as suddenly she seemed to remember her position of boss, one which superseded that of friend and she merely turned and walked away. Cuddy had gone but her words rang in the air, heavy and black as the sky above him. Wilson stood there letting evening turn to night, realization slowly creeping through him with the chill and making him sag. He had to sit on the concrete wall or risk falling over the side. He'd committed a cardinal sin, the very one Stacy had, he'd taken the choice away from House. He, too, had done it out of love, out of fear, out of that nagging voice that whispered he would never be enough. He'd never been enough for his wives, for his father, for the women he went home with, how could he be enough for someone like House?
Heart lodged in his throat, Wilson whirled, gathering his belongings from his office he raced to his car. He could get to House's place in twenty minutes and explain. It would be okay. Yeah, it would be okay once House understood. Knowing deep in his heart House wouldn't understand, Wilson drove into the darkness. It took longer than twenty minutes. An accident blocked the main road to House's neighborhood, forcing him onto back streets and nearly an hour had passed before he pulled up in front of the rehabbed condos. No lights show in the windows but just as he had two weeks earlier, Wilson could sense the presence of his friend. Despite having a key, Wilson couldn't bring himself to barge in, he had to know House was alright before entering. Just the thought that he might walk in and find - he shuddered and knocked on the door. He knocked again and again until finally he heard the telltale tap of House's cane on the wood floor.
He half expected the door to be jerked open and a belligerent, stubbled face thrust out, but House opened the door slowly, leaning heavily on his cane and bracing himself on the doorjamb with his left hand. He looked terrible; the lines in his face etched deeper, the dark skin under his eyes more pronounced, skin a sickly gray in the streetlight's glow, and a lethargic air weighing him down like an anchor. Wilson couldn't retract his impulsive grab for House, every instinct screamed he needed to catch hold of him but House knocked his hands away with a growl. "I'm fine," he snapped, and though the look he shot at Wilson was obviously meant to be fierce the dilated pupils and general glassy look of his eyes made it clear his unsteadiness was the result of pain pills and alcohol not his physical condition.
"I didn't say you weren't," Wilson countered. House did not step aside, he remained blocking the doorway. "Are you going to let me in?"
House appeared to think about it, his surly expression never wavering even as he finally turned and limped back into his condo, leaving the door open behind him. "What do you want?" Wilson watched House hobbled to his favorite chair and carefully lower himself into it. Beer bottles, candy wrappers, and a bottle of bourbon vied for space with an overflowing ashtray on the side table. It looked as if House had done nothing but sit in his chair smoking and drinking and staring into space.
"I -," Wilson cleared his throat and avoided meeting House's gaze, hoping the words might come easier if he didn't have to look at him, "I wanted to explain - apologize. I thought - oh, hell." Throwing himself onto the couch, Wilson covered his face with his hands. Over the jagged rasp of his own breathing, he heard the squeak of leather. When he looked up House had shifted in his chair so that he stared directly at Wilson but there was no openness in his face, just a look of bored indifference, tinged with House's own brand of disdain. "I'm sorry. I don't know what I'm doing."
House gave a snort, "Don't know what you're doing? I thought you were making a pity call on a cripple. You bring food? You could say it was Meals on Wheels and take it off your taxes."
"Look," Wilson took a deep breath and leaned back, trying to compose himself. It was never good to confront House when agitated; he'd be cut to ribbons by that razor tongue. "I just wanted to see if you were alright."
House shook his head, his expression incredulous. "I'm fine. You can go back to your wife or you buddies, or whoever it is you're fucking."
"House! Damnit." Wilson got to his feet, pacing around the living room. He could feel House's eyes following him with every step he took. He paused near the book shelf, a framed snapshot of him and House catching his eye. It had been taken a couple of years earlier at some hospital gathering Cuddy had forced them to attend. House sat at a beautifully decorated table while Wilson stood behind him, one hand resting lightly on his shoulder. Wilson remembered everything about that moment, the music the band played, the aroma of the buffet, the murmur of conversation all around them, but most of all he remembered wishing the night would never end. Just being with House in a setting like that, pretending that they owned the night, that they could do whatever they wanted and no one would care had made the illusion feel real. "House, I wanted more for you." Wilson walked back to House, sinking down onto his knees before the older man's chair like a sinner begging forgiveness. "I thought I was doing you a favor by giving you some space - letting you have other people. We spend so much time together - we're too close - we're too - much."
House took a sip of his drink, closed his eyes, and blew out a weary breath. When he finally looked at Wilson his expression resembled that of a child who had been punished for something he hadn't done. "You know what's best for me," he said, narrowing his eyes as in thought. "You get together with Stacy and make up a plan?" Wilson looked away. "That's great. Maybe you two can decide the rest of my life. Is there anything else you want to take care of for me?" His feigned composure began to slip and in a voice that rose until he was shouting he demanded, "Any body parts not up to snuff? Want to see me in a wheelchair instead of using a cane?"
"I just wanted to help-"
"I don't need your help!" House struggled out of his chair, face flushed and twisted with more than physical pain as he held himself upright, swaying on his cane. "I'm not one of your charity cases and I'm not one of your cancer freaks. I don't need your pity and I sure as hell don't need you!"
"Yeah, I know," Wilson said. He stayed where he was, huddled on the floor, speaking to the tips of House's Nikes. "I always let you down, House. I always think I know what I'm doing around you - what I should be doing for you and I'm always wrong." He looked up at the figure towering over him. "You need more friends, ones that won't hurt you."
House's anger seemed to evaporate and he sank back into his chair with an audible groan. For a long time there was no sound, no movement, nothing - then, in a hushed voice, he said, "I don't need anyone. I never have." Wilson nodded, the last bit of hope dying in his chest, stilling his heart. He'd known House wouldn't forgive him, not that he'd expected it, what he'd done was unforgivable and not just in House's eyes. He watched his friend, his only friend, with a sense of awe; House lived life on his own terms, he might be miserable and he might be bitter but it didn't stop him when it came to getting things done. Ironically that quality made Wilson want to help and protect him and make things easy for him. He started to climb to his feet, sick to his stomach and knowing he would never again be close to House. They might still remain friends if they could get past this last betrayal but never again would House confide in him, tease him, rely on him. He should have known. And then House gave a disbelieving shake of his head, "I never needed anyone - but I wanted -" He lifted his face, blue eyes filled with bewildered hurt, "I just wanted - you."
Wilson didn't move, afraid that if he did it would somehow break the illusion and he would find himself alone in his office, watching the lights across the balcony. It wasn't until House looked away that Wilson found he could move. Drawn forward almost against his will, he placed his hands gently on House's knees. It was then that he even understood what he'd been trying to do - he hadn't been trying to help House, no matter how he rationalized it in his head. He had been trying to help himself. Thirty seven years of never being happy, never being loved and needed, had taken its toll on him. He'd told himself he was doing it for House, to make sure he had other people to care about him, to fill the soul deep pain that he used drugs to dull, but in truth he had been staving off the ultimate rejection - the one which would kill him. Wilson leaned up, locking eyes with House as he sought his own destruction, pressing his lips to House's in a kiss so gentle the air barely moved around them.
He kissed those cool, dry lips with a prayer, with his soul, with the breath of life in his body. The world trembled beneath him and then House's arms were around him. He buried his face in House's neck and felt House do the same as they clung to each other. In that moment everything fell away; anger, pain, sorrow, longing, the pull which had always existed between them swelled to fill the void. Wilson knew he had tears in his eyes and didn't care. House would tease him, telling him he was such a girl, but the sheer feeling of relief could not be denied. He took a shaky breath and pulled back enough to look at House and saw the unfamiliar sheen of tears in his eyes as well. "I can't stand not being with you," he said quietly. "You're all I want."
House lifted a hand to cup his cheek. "I - need - you," he said with husky conviction. Wilson closed his eyes, a short, hysterical laugh breaking free. So simple, why hadn't he understood sooner that it would be this simple. He loved House, and House loved him. It had been there all along since the day Stacy left, since the day they had clung to each other in her wake, House with a grief so consuming it destroyed half his soul, and he with a need so great it ruined everything he touched that wasn't House. Wilson took a shaky breath and placed his hand over House's keeping it pressed to his cheek. He felt House lean in against him, his weight comforting and solid - real. Wilson didn't think he could move, the emotional turmoil hitting him so suddenly it was all he could do not to topple over. "You okay?" House asked.
"I'm suppose to be asking you that," Wilson pointed out.
"I'm not the one shaking like a virgin's vibrator."
"Nice imagery." Wilson pulled away from House, sinking back down onto his haunches, running one hand through his hair. He could feel himself trembling and if he was feeling this shaky then House must be ready to drop. "I'm a little tired."
"Yeah," House agreed. He sat back in his chair, limp, "me too."
"We should go to bed."
House opened one eye, his arch expression bringing a wan smile to Wilson's face. "I don't put out on the first date."
"That's not what I heard," Wilson said, "besides this isn't our first date. Our first was December 21, 1995."
"Ah, yes, you wore a gray shirt and jeans with a hole in the knee,' House said. "It was your cool preppy look. Drove me wild, I was just using Stacy as a cover."
"I knew it." They grinned at each other. Somehow, even after all the crap they had put each other through, the bond between them never failed them. It held. Marriages might end, families might dissolve, friends might drift apart, but Wilson now knew he and House would grow old together. "Come on, I'll put you to bed." He pushed himself to his feet and held out a hand to House. He saw the momentary flash of irritation fade and House took the offer of help getting to his feet. They made their way to the bedroom, House leaning most of his weight on Wilson, limping more than usual. Wilson had no idea how to move from friend to lover, or even if House would welcome that change, but the mood between them shown with promise and he knew that even if nothing came of the kiss he would be content. As long as he and House were together, as long as he knew House was safe and well, he would be happy and thankful.
"Uh, I'm not," House hesitated at the door to his bedroom, looking at the floor, "I don't think I'm in any shape to - do anything."
Wilson, grinned, "I promised I won't jump you in your sleep." House relaxed, moving to the side of the bed and sitting. "You really do look rough, House." He set about stripping House of his shirt, a frown forming on his face when he got sight of prominent ribs. "You've lost weight." House shrugged noncommittally. Self abuse had never been one of House's bad habits but since his illness his concern for himself seemed to have disappeared entirely. He took too many drugs and most nights mixed them with alcohol, a combination that often played havoc with his appetite. House stayed on his feet for hours, causing muscle strain not just to his damaged leg but his shoulders and back and that made him rely more pain killers. He smoked, suffered from insomnia and rode a damn motorcycle. Cuddy was right, House didn't know how not to hurt himself. The part of Wilson that believed in destiny, fate and the will of the Gods, wondered if this was the reason he'd met House. Was he the guardian, the protector that this brilliant but destructive man needed. Without him would the world be worse off because House couldn't take care of himself?
"Stop staring, Jimmy," House murmured, "you'll give me a complex."
"As if that was possible," Wilson finished removing House's socks and tucked the older man into bed. "Goodnight."
House caught his wrist. "I - you should sleep here."
Wilson nodded, too tired to even pretend to be conflicted. He shucked his clothes, careless of where they landed and crawled into bed. He liked the soft encompassing feel of House' bed, it welcomed him. He rolled onto his side, staring at House until the other man did the same. Face to face in the dim room he felt complete. Life, he realized, was all about making decisions; some hurt people and some helped and you never knew which were right until you made them. But you couldn't make them for other people, not if you loved them; they had to love you enough to make their own. He'd tried to run House's life, he'd pushed when he should have guided and they both had paid a price. Decisions and choices, he couldn't control House's but he could control his own and he would live with the consequences. Wilson closed the gap between them, breathing the air House expelled. "I will always choose you," he said. There was a moment of confusion, clear blue eyes clouding as House worked out the non sequitur and then he smiled. Wilson basked in the knowledge he was probably the only person besides House's mother to be gifted with a smile filled with that much tenderness. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, glad that his decisions had led to this moment even as fraught with pain as it had been, it had been worth it.
"I'll choose you too," House said.
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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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