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Living in Brigadoon
by gena
Living in Brigadoon.......
Wilson shifted slightly, breath hitching as if he had looped it around a post and ambled into the saloon for a drink. He willed the pain to recede and was rewarded a minute later when it finally did. He couldn't sleep despite the injection he'd had a few hours earlier and feeling sorry for himself had turned the last night of 2005 into an endless stretch of black depression. It was bad enough being laid up over Christmas and Hanukkah, even though his family had shown up with gifts and his staff had done their best to cheer him up, but being a patient on New Year's Eve sucked. Still, the alternative would have killed him.
Would have killed House, anyway. Stupid, or at least careless, but he didn't regret what he'd done. It had been a typical busy Christmas Eve clinic day; sneezing, sniffles, vomit and holiday themed injuries galore. He'd watched with a growing sense of dread as House, at Cuddy's mercy for his latest flouting of her rules, pulled a double shift in the crowded clinic. House complained about everything, he complained about nothing, he complained about complaints, but the one thing he never seriously complained about was his leg. Oh, Wilson knew he wasn't above using it as an excuse or an alibi to his advantage, but those were meant to bamboozle the unsuspecting or earn him some reward he wanted, but when House was really in pain he suffered in silence, rebuffing comments with a steel eyed glare or a nasty remark. Wilson had his own methods of monitoring his friend's physical condition, none that involved direct contact; House's use, or abuse, of his cane had become a barometer of sorts. That afternoon he'd been dismayed to note House curled over the handle of his shiny black cane like a wilting weed, after working nearly five hours, most of it standing, House looked exhausted, pale under his stubble and unsteady on his feet. It was just as he was noticing this that all hell had broken loose.
A rowdy football game between old friends had gotten out of hand, resulting in a broken nose, two cracked ribs, a dislocated shoulder and a visit to the nearest clinic. The lucky staff at PPTH could have handled this influx of boisterous patients but one of the players, the one bleeding from the nose, took exception to Cracked Rib's comment on his ability to catch a pass. A heated debate followed and House, tired and grumpy, made the mistake of telling the pair just what he thought of men who needed to display their virility and recapture their youth. Wilson hadn't even had time to roll his eyes, he'd seen what was about to happen to House, or at least imagined what would happen when a fist that size collided with House's jaw. He pictured his friend thrown backward; his fall broken by the lady from the nursing home's wheelchair, and panic had seized his heart while adrenaline infused his legs. Wilson had sprinted the ten feet to House's side before Nose Bleed had even gotten his arm drawn back all the way.
The fist seemed even bigger on closer inspection and when it slammed into the side of his face Wilson could have sworn it was about to exit the far side of his head. There was a rush of air as his body was propelled backwards and he had a vague impression of House, alarmingly upside down, blurry and shouting something, before sight stopped functioning properly. The floor rose up with the force of an A Bomb exploding against his spine, knocking the wind out of him with a sound like a bellows folding in on itself. Something in his back tore; Wilson felt it with sickening clarity as his arm went numb. He knew his skull bounced off the durable gray carpet, making a dull ringing inside his head but even that didn't drown out House screaming his name. A dark blur moved closer and Wilson felt like yelling himself when House dropped beside him. He hadn't gone through all the trouble of making sure House wasn't killed by a Neanderthal for his friend to carelessly hurt himself now. He opened his mouth to say something but couldn't find the breath. "Jimmy," House whispered and he was vaguely aware of a very gentle touch on his cheek just before things went black.
So a Christmas Eve that had started off pleasantly had ended in a haze of pain - his back, his head and everything in between throbbing mercilessly. He'd twisted, torn and bruised muscles, bone, ligaments, and internal organs. Dr. Muhar had warned against aggravating the damage, prescribing a week flat on his back, several more weeks of therapy and to be extremely careful of getting into fights with giants in the future. Wilson had settled down, pleasantly numbed against the pain, when his and Julie's parents had both shown up. While his parents had been more concerned with his physical wellbeing and merely listened with knowing looks when informed that his injuries were a result of protecting House, Julie's parents had been outraged. Thanks to Julie's teary trips home and her habit of blaming everything on her husband's best friend her parents had never been fond of House, any time they happened to cross paths there were a lot of cutting remarks, barely restrained insults and some angry silences on their part and sarcasm on House's.
Wilson had lain there with both sides of their families staring at each other over his bed, wishing they would all just leave and let him be miserable by himself. His folks had brought a Menorah while Julie's mom and dad had carried in a small Christmas tree. Awkward didn't do the moment justice, and after a while Wilson had pleaded exhaustion just to end the tension. Cameron, Chase and Foreman had all popped in to check on him, the former pair making excuses for why House had vanished after the fracas and frantic trip to the ER, the latter rolling his eyes in disgust. But Wilson knew better than to believe them and fell into a light doze listening for the uneven step-thump that usually haunted his sleep. He woke just before midnight to find House sitting beside him, looking terrible but smiling at him. House had plugged in the little fake tree, when he'd first seen it in his mother-in-law's hands Wilson had thought it hideous, but now the twinkling lights playing over their skin made him grin.
A week later, still a prisoner of his complaining back muscles, Wilson had started a tunnel towards freedom. Well, he thought about it, mapped it out in his mind, went so far as to hum the Hogan's Heroes theme during his limited PT sessions and shared each meticulous detail with House as to how he would carry it out. His back was better, he could actually move now that most of the swelling had gone down and things had begun to heal. Dr. Muhar had promised to release him the next day so he was just lying there thinking about how he could manage on his own, since Julie had decided to "visit her mother" for an undetermined length of time, when the door slid open. It was 10:12 and the halls were dark and his room lights dimmed but he knew the shadowy shape in his doorway.
"House, I figured you were at some great party," he said quietly, "what are you doing here?"
"You know how those things go," House said. He carried his backpack slung over his shoulder, and limped over to the chair beside Wilson's bed. "Cuddy hits on me when she's drunk. It always makes me feel cheap." He pulled out a portable DVD player, some sparkling cider, and two party hats from the sack. "I considered heading over to your place and hitting on Julie."
"She hits back," Wilson warned. "And besides she isn't there. I think my domestic bliss has once again come to a bad end."
"You didn't tell her about Debbie, did you?" House stared down at him with a frown. "You did."
"No, for once I didn't," Wilson said. "I didn't cheat and I didn't tell her about - wanting to." He closed his eyes, leaning back into the pillows. "Cameron and I had an interesting conversation about cheating not long ago."
House raised a brow. "Cameron cheated on her sainted dying husband?"
Wilson gave a short bark of laughter. "No, she told me she couldn't have lived with herself if she had."
"Yeah," House said quietly, "you'd be surprised what you can live with." Wilson opened his eyes, staring up at him. "What?" House asked but Wilson just shook his head. "So, did you tell her why you cheated all those other times?" He busied himself with glasses, pouring them both cider, and digging out cookies from his bag. He placed the DVD player on the table over Wilson's bed and limped around to the left side. "Shove over." He toed off his sneakers then climbed up beside Wilson, hissing as his leg protested. Wilson waited until he'd settled then arranged the top blanket over both of them. With the head of the bed raised, the lights dimmed and their feast spread out beside them the atmosphere thrummed around them with peaceful warmth.
"Cameron or Julie?" Wilson asked with a tired sigh.
"Your wife."
"Should a man tell the woman he's married that he cheats just to punish her for loving him?" Wilson asked softly. He closed his eyes again, the pain in his face far more than physical. He hadn't meant to answer with the truth, but the comfort of House's body so close to his, the unique scent of his skin, the slightly ragged edge of his breathing all conspired against his defenses and the truth slipped between the lies he'd cultivated and escaped into the dark.
"Why would you punish someone for loving you?" House asked.
"Because - because they shouldn't," Wilson whispered. He turned his face away, wondering what House would do with that bit of the puzzle. They'd played this game for years, each slowly revealing something, forming a lopsided picture with silences, drunken confessions, unbridled laughter and juvenile high jinks. He felt House shift and then the soft whir of the DVD player coming to life. It was Brigadoon this time, House had a soft spot for old movies and sometimes when they were alone, no chance of anyone finding out, House would sing some old tune he'd learned from watching the late night movie. He began to hum along with the soundtrack, his light baritone adding to the intimacy of the night. Wilson began to relax, the pain pills and the company doing a lot to make him feel better.
At 11:40 Gene Kelly and Van Johnson were dancing with the village girls, lively ghosts in a make believe world. Wilson glanced over at his friend, House's sharp profile had been softened by the silver/blue light of the screen, and wondered if he and House were living in a fantasy as well. House must have felt his gaze because he turned, locking eyes with Wilson. There didn't seem to be a need for speech, the magic which had drawn forth Brigadoon once every hundred years seemed to have permeated the room, drawing out things they had never said before and probably never would if they lived to be a hundred. Instead Wilson gave a small smile and pressed a little closer. House lifted his arm up over Wilson's shoulders, drawing him in until they were nestled warmly together. It wasn't until House cleared his throat that Wilson realized his earlier confession hadn't been lost in the enchanted mist of denial.
"You see only the flaws," House said. Wilson could hear no judgment in his deep voice, just the flat matter-of-fact tone he used when diagnosing patients. "You tell your wives you've cheated just to prove to them you didn't deserve to be trusted or loved." The solidness of House's body surrounding him, his realness penetrating as deeply as the sound of his voice, masked the barrier between them, until Wilson could no longer tell if House spoke aloud or if the words were his own there inside his head. "You strive to be perfect, to show only excellence to the world. You're a brilliant doctor, kind, gentle to everyone in pain, people thank you for telling them they're going to die. You chose Oncology as a way to help people, to ease suffering, and maybe to win the Noble Prize if you someday find a cure." Wilson swallowed the pain welling in his throat, squeezing his eyes closed as if he could cut off the flow of words but they continued. "But you also chose Oncology because you rarely win, no matter how hard you try, no matter how good you are people will die and it will hurt you. No," House said with a shake of his head before Wilson could do more than open his mouth in protest, "You don't want them to die. You fight like hell, but ultimately, in the end, you will lose and you know that. You're afraid of what you really are, Jimmy, of the thing you've disguised and pushed down deep inside because you know you're flawed, you're broken and that the surface they see is a lie. And while you try hard to appear smooth and flawless you want the people who love you to see what you see, to look deeper, to claw away that perfect faade and know you aren't what you pretend to be. The women you marry, the women you - make love to - they want only the shiny doctor, the kind and compassionate man and they never look past the surface you show them. So you cheat on them and then confess so that they understand your twisted and scarred soul is hidden beneath the disguise you wear."
Wilson wondered if it were possible to be gutted so thoroughly and still live, he said hollowly, "Maybe I just get tired of lying."
"No, you make them see your truth when you confess," House whispered. He leaned in, warm, solid, his breath on Wilson's cheek and somehow that feather light touch restored some of the mass to Wilson's frail soul. "You are flawed, you can never be perfect." Wilson tried to pull away but House held on to him. "You can never be perfect," he repeated, "but I've seen beneath the shiny handsome doctor mask and I'm not turning away."
Wilson stopped struggling. Somewhere out in the hall he could hear the faint sound of people counting down the minutes to the New Year and on the small screen before him Gene Kelly had returned to Brigadoon, reunited with Cyd Charisse for all eternity. Happy endings were something he knew very little about, even those manufactured by Hollywood. It occurred to him that he and House could go on the way they were - best friends, living their lies just as they had for years. He could keep marrying women who loved him, keep punishing them for their folly while House existed in a haze of Vicodin and bitterness, always searching for something to dull his ache. They could do that, it hadn't hurt the friendship they had forged in the least, or they could have more. House saw him - really saw him for the messed up person he was and he'd known House too long to be shocked by the scope of his misery or the rawness of his anger. He glanced at the clock, it read 11:59.
"This year's almost over," Wilson said. "I don't - think I want to start another being miserable."
"I'm always miserable," House said, but his hand touched Wilson's cheek as if it were the most delicate thing in the universe and his blue eyes sparkled with a light Wilson couldn't attribute to fanciful Scottish lighting. House drew them face to face. "And I'll make you miserable."
"And I'll flirt with every woman I see," Wilson admitted. But he leaned in, closing the hairsbreadth between them and kissed House lightly on the lips. The music swelled and people shouted "Happy New Year!" and he made a resolution in the very first instant of 2006. He was going to be happy and he was going to make House happy and they were going to pretend they were both just like everyone else. He could see a similar gleam in House's eye and wondered what pact House had made with himself for the coming year.
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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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