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Asking
by humanyouth
1. New Year's Day.
I wake up at eight because my alarm is going off, even though it's a wall or two away in my bedroom. I'm lying on the couch, my damn leg complaining like it usually does in the morning, and I hurt more than usual in the head and abdomen areas. Hangover.
Wilson is sleeping on me, a dopey smile on his face, which is pressed up against my stomach...I can feel his arm wrapped around my leg, my bad one, and intimately, because I don't have any pants on.
I start sweating...partially because I'm not sure how to move without waking him up, thus condemning both of us to a sticky situation, and partially because all I remember from last night was a lot of TV, drinking and piano-playing.
It takes some time, and I'm terrified that my alarm clock will eventually wake him up, but somehow I disentangle myself, shut the damn thing off and get dressed in a hurry. He's still dressed, but wrinkly; I sit down across from the sofa and his sickeningly cherubic expression and try to calm myself. I need a plan.
Will he remember any of it? Shit.
He doesn't need to know. He drank more than me, I can remember that much. Maybe he should call in sick...Cuddy wouldn't buy it from me, and not on New Year's Day. Of course, maybe he should wake up and join me before we make any nefarious plans together.
He makes it easy. "I wasn't sleeping," he murmurs, twitching a little. "'S a glycoma."
Just wake him up. Back to normal. Back to lunch breaks and the occasional dinner and binging. Send him home to Julie after work. Breathe, Greg. ...Goddammit.
"Dr. Wilson, what's your medical opinion?" I snap at 8:26 AM.
"Wasn't sleeping!" he answers, flailing a little, blinking, then wide awake. He spots me, watching him, twirling the cane. In a minute, "Oh, crap, what time is it?"
"Eight twenty-seven. How's your head?"
"Uch." He closes his eyes.
"You could probably call in sick. I, on the other hand, am doomed to New Year's bitchwork."
"Did I spend all night here?" he asks stupidly, sitting up.
"No, you took a cab home. I picked you up a few hours ago and brought you back so I could watch you sleep on my couch."
"I think we only went to sleep a few hours ago," he mumbles, pinching the bridge of his nose. I take an aspirin bottle I've collected for him out of my pocket and throw it to him.
"I can't skip, I have a million things to do today. This is yours," he tosses the bottle back. I find the aspirin bottle and toss that to him instead, then snag a Vicodin from mine.
"We're going to be late," he mumbles, double-checking the bottle. "Can I borrow a shirt?"
"I'm out of oncology oxfords, sorry. You're welcome to the wardrobe, but it'll mean looking cool for the day. Don't worry, I bet loads of doctors look a little cooler than usual on New Year's Day."
"If by `cool' you mean `shabby and slightly stoned,' I'm guessing you're probably right."
I swallow and put up the wall. "As for being late, I'm sure we can squeeze in enough time to upload all of last night's risqu photography to our website during lunch or clinic hours."
He can't tell I'm holding my breath. He just laughs weakly and shakes out a few pills. I nod, mostly to myself, and he misses it.
We dry-swallow in unison. "Happy New Year, Greg."
"Happy New Year, Jimmy."
2. A Tuesday.
"Unrequited love for a co-worker: not highly recommended by most employers. It's even more scandalous if said co-worker is a married head of another department and member of the board. And we're both men. And presumably straight. But hell, love knows no bounds, right?"
This clinic patient can't hear--at least he's pretending he can't--there's maybe something stuck in the ear? An infection? I'm almost interested--so I'm unloading all my issues while I poke at him. "I'm afraid," I continue, peering into his ear, "that a sexual advance might destroy our friendship. Unfortunately, I don't have a control friendship to test my theory on, so if I screw it up, that's it.
"It could all turn out catastrophically; he could laugh at me. He could punch me. I think worst would be if he gave me his pathetic little `I'm sorry' face, right before he told me he doesn't like me `in that way'." I try listening to his lower back, having to pause for a minute or two in my soliloquy.
Yep, there it is. "Of course...I've never actually had a REAL relationship with another guy. It could turn out to be the best move I've ever made. Sharing a classy flat uptown. Turtlenecks and Birkenstocks and winter weekends spent skiing in Europe. Well, I won't ski, I'll just watch him from back at the lodge. Think `Brokeback Mountain' without all the depression and death. And sheep."
It really is pretty satisfying to talk about one's problems. Accepting Cuddy's psychiatric offer sometimes actually sounds good, but it's much cheaper to talk to a potted plant--or a deaf patient. Plus, no pesky risk of having to admit defeat or the fact that you do, indeed, have flaws.
"His alimony is too high for him to be the primary breadwinner, but I make enough for both of us, and he could just live with me and raise the babies. Of course, a clever scheme involving a bathtub full of trypsin to break down the cells of his dead wife's body could get rid of prospective alimony altogether.
"If murder's not as hot as the movies make it out to be, it could be a different sort of scheme. I could seduce her away from him and he could be the one to file for divorce instead, outraged at her infidelity. You're a great listener, by the way." I prescribe some strong antibiotics, schedule him for tests and send him home with a smile. Consider going into psychiatrics I write on the bottom of the prescription.
God, I hate the clinic.
Wilson shows up when I'm craftily sans-patient, wasting time at the front desk. He looks flustered and shifty--much more interesting than a deaf patient, or one of the coughing ones in the waiting area. "What, is the wife around? Duck out the back, I'll cover for you."
"God, don't say that," he says, actually scanning the room before dropping his voice. "There's a new pediatrician upstairs, and--"
I hold up a hand. "Is this conversation rated above PG-13, because if so, I need my mom's permission to participate."
"Six foot. White-blonde. She's got..." he kind of half-gestures around the breast area--not a good look on him. He can't even say ` big tits,' which is telling. He continues, "...she's not real. She's a soap doctor."
That gets an eyebrow lift from me. "Let me guess. Recently divorced."
"Recently widowed."
I whistle, though a little dispassionately, and grab the next patient's file. "Even better. Are you trying to hook up with her?"
"I don't know, I'm married!"
"So you keep telling me. It sounds to me like she needs some wholesome Jewish comfort. Go forth and woo!" I gesture.
He smiles goofily but then locks it up in a hurry. "No, no no, nothing like that, I just--"
"Wanted to let me know, sure." I should have a retort, or something, but I don't. This happens every week or two, especially recently, and any day now he'll overflow with the guilt and spill the beans to old Jenny or whatever her name is, and I'll be witnessing divorce number three. That is, if the pattern holds true.
And then he'll marry Dr. Tall Blonde Pediatrics and become miserable with her too; or, if I'm really lucky, he'll stay passionately in love with her and give her six or seven Jewish babies and go to their baseball games on weekends instead of hanging out with me, and I'll be Unc--
"What's wrong?" he asks, not sounding amused. I've been standing, dropping papers on the floor without realizing it, watching Wilson's future vanish before my eyes in an ugly Hitchcock daydream.
If I could remember what we'd been talking about, I'd be able to deflect the interrogation in-character. Since I can't, I tell him "nothing...patients," and call for the next runny-nosed sick person.
3. Another Tuesday.
My patient is not dying of cancer, but there's Wilson, standing over the sleeping woman's bed, chatting it up with Cameron. She's crying. I don't think they see me, nor should they expect me anywhere near a patient, which makes my covert observation ingeniously undetectable.
I am truly intrigued with this case. I don't really mind that Wilson is in there...I've never minded his company at all, unless he is fulfilling some heinous mission from Cuddy or one of the kids...but I've never liked the combination he makes with Cameron. She's too mushy and he's too romantic. She's probably hitting on him right now--("You don't have to hide your feelings for me, James. I know you're in love with me, even though you're in love with everybody else, too.")--and he's feeling that precisely perfect mix of fraternity and concern and sympathy and subsequent arousal that will eventually have them tumbling in her bachelor pad.
Really. Me and Cameron: conceivable. Me and Wilson: certainly. Just not both of them. They're too disgusting a pair. I'd be compelled to go on a murderous rampage, which will confuse me because of the whole Hippocratic Oath thing.
Great, I'm pissing myself off.
I notice Chase next to me, and I'm glad it's not Foreman, because he's never understood these things. "What do you think?" I ask.
"Her condition is still improving, though we don't know for how long," Chase answers.
I make a face. "No, the two of them. Cameron is still weeping from that phone call she got earlier. I can't tell if it's genuine melancholy or if she's playing Wilson. I--oh, look at him! Smooth or what?"
Wilson has reached out and put a hand on her shoulder. My insides are hardening. My eyeballs are actually trembling. I could probably break that window if I try punching it. They wouldn't expect it. I'd smack Wilson one in the back of the head with my cane so he wouldn't be able to stop me from choking the life out of Cameron.
"What, you think two people shouldn't comfort each other?" Chase asks, voice light. "She likes to talk to people when she's really bothered. She does it to me all the time; she can't stand to keep silent about something. She's got to tell someone." He looks at me, which I catch out of the corner of my eye. "You're jealous," he accuses.
"No."
Now he's smiling, the pretty foreign bastard. "You're jealous of them. Why are you jealous? You know Cameron has a thing for you. If you're jealous, you should just act on it. You don't care about the challenges posed by sexual harassment. ...Unless..." his head tilts downward, his voice darkens--"I know what it is. You can't stand to see two people happier than you. That's what it is...that explains a lot, actually."
I'm grinding my teeth. Cameron is nestled into his chest now, shaking a little, and he's petting her hair, saying something sweet, holding on.
Like he'll never do to me.
I breathe out. Let it drop. "Wrong," I tell Chase, adding that lift to my voice that marks a statement as a witticism. "I just can't help thinking he's cheating on me."
For the rest of the week I make Cameron's life a living hell. She doesn't deserve it, I guess, and she'll never figure out why, but it's all I know how to do.
4. April.
"Can I crash at your place?" he's asking me.
"If you don't mind all the hookers, it's fine with me. And no mooching."
He forces a smile and I realize his wife has finally kicked him out. It makes me feel better in a protective sort of way. I give him a raised eyebrow and add, "I'm thinking we should also probably load up on alcohol and other questionable substances?"
He hangs his head. "She keeps doing this...I think it might be for real this time."
I drum my fingers on the clinic's counter. "This time, the other time, all of them. Look at you. You're depressed, you're not eating and I highly doubt you're getting any. Wilson. Be a bachelor. That is my professional advice."
"What, like you?" he retorts, looking me in the eye and not looking friendly.
I consider. "Spoken with disdain. What I want to know is, why is someone who lives alone happily any worse than someone who keeps marrying unhappily?"
His eyes darken and he steps away. "I'm not you, House. I haven't given up on love because of a bad experience or two."
I shouldn't speak--my voice catches but gets out. "I haven't given up on love."
He turns back to me, questioning, squinting his eyes and tilting his head. Oops. Embarrassing. "What?" he prompts.
Don't hesitate, don't hesitate. "I'm just...bad...at it," I manage.
He opens his mouth, holding the expression, but I do what I do best with him; I smile and limp away quickly.
5. A Monday.
"I can't come in. I'm sick," I tell Cuddy, trying to emphasize the nasal tinge I've already got.
"Sick? In this weather?" There's a flat laugh. It's been humid. The clinic's been swamped. "What is it?"
"No idea," I lie.
"No idea....hum, stuffy nose, I'm guessing lethargy, headaches, coughing and....leg pain, of course. Sounds tough. You should come in, we have an excellent diagnostician."
"He's out sick today." I hang up.
I spend the day drinking Gatorade and doing all the things I usually do at work, unfortunately including telephone conferences with the kids. I don't mind. Interesting case. Just more distant. It's actually a good thing. There's no Cuddy to tell me to quit playing my Gameboy.
Wilson shows up around 8:30 with soup and some Bruce Lee films. He pushes the TV into my bedroom because I complain about having to move around, he plays a little doctor (having your temperature taken orally is real sexy,) and eventually he falls asleep on the bed next to me, a pizza box in his lap.
I can't sleep, of course, so I spend a while watching him sleep. He's great to watch; he talks in his sleep sometimes, though he doesn't say anything tonight. Wilson turned down my offer to let him stay with me, when Julie kicked him out. He's got a small flat a few blocks away, nothing permanent. He visits often, he doesn't like being alone, but it's hard to get him to stay once he's here.
I reach out to brush his face with my hand, but don't get that far. I feel stupid, I feel guilty. I put my hand down.
6. A Friday.
Foreman and I are blindly researching types of poisonous spiders, killing a patient by wasting the time, but unable to do anything else. I do it in my office because Foreman yelled at me, and Cameron has left to do her research elsewhere, probably so she can cry alone in the dark at the same time.
I wonder where Chase is, but find him suddenly when I realize he's standing in the middle of my office. "Doesn't anyone knock anymore? Do I need to set a better example?"
He moves and shuts the side door, then approaches my desk and leans on it. "Can I ask you a personal question?" he asks.
"No." I don't even look up. Latrodectus indistinctus... Latrodectus renivulvatus, Latrodectus cinctus, Latrodectus karooensis...who goes to South Africa without bug spray, anyway?
"Do you have a thing for Dr. Wilson?"
It takes a minute to register (I'm busy doing my job, after all). I turn to him when I remember the significance of his accusation. "What?"
"Do you...have a thing...for Dr. Wilson?"
I give him blinks and wonder if he's spying on me again, reading my thoughts, maybe. Then I act.
"What!?" I gesture palm-up. "Chase..." It's my do-I-look-like-I-have-time-for-other-peoples'-jokes expression. I'm angry about other things right now. "...Get out of here. Go research spiders. Or Spider-Man out there is going to end his last African battle in a hospital bed in Jersey."
"No sarcasm...that's interesting," he says, straightening, heading for the door, smiling a little. I shake my head at him. "You're showing a sick, steady interest in my personal life, that's what's interesting. Beat it. Spiders."
He leaves and I look down at my spider list.
I thank the little bastard for giving this its name, and now I hate him, too.
7. Summer.
I am blackmailed. I'm pissed off, but it really was a priceless blackmail; top form, no holes. I respect it. If I refused to come, Cuddy promised to go through all the clinic logs and deduct any of my hours that weren't coupled with my actual signature. Cameron `slipped' something about me and the boys betting clinic hours. The threat itself, coupled with the fact that I have never used my actual signature in the clinic logs, has me here at a picnic table in Cuddy's backyard, sweating.
This is a serious party. Not kid-friendly. Physicians are drowning in booze while trying to cook hamburgers. Good thing there's plenty of doctors around in case anyone starts to die of alcohol poisoning.
The party is far less doctorly than I expected. The usual suspects are hanging around the patio eating little hot dogs and pastries; there are heads of departments, board members, big smiling idiots who have never before been seen in shorts and Hawaiian prints.
Wilson looks funny in this crowd without a lab coat. He's ignoring me for the moment and talking to other people I don't care to know.
Maybe I look funny in this crowd, too.
"Just a Sprite?" Cuddy asks when she sits down next to me sometime into the soire.
"Designated driver," I explain. "I lost rock, paper, scissors with Wilson. Rock always wins, remember that."
"I'll be sure to make note of it," she sighs and leans in. "So I want to know," she purrs, "you seem to be doing well...does it have anything to do with Wilson? Maybe...the fact that his divorce has gone through?"
I give her a look, then throw a hand up. "Everyone! Everyone thinks I have slept with everyone!" I stare at her. "What, do you want a list? It could take hours, and I'd be embarrassed with so many of them here today."
Cuddy shakes her head. "I didn't say anything about sleeping with Wilson. But now that you mention it, I have to say that I've heard that rumor more than once."
"More than once? Strange, we only hooked up three days ago. You'd think it would take longer for the rumor mill to start circulating."
She squints at me, lowers her voice in an `I'm serious now' kind of way. "Are you?"
"No," I snap.
Cuddy gives me a critical eye for a few seconds, then shrugs. "I wish you were," she sighs, "you make each other happy. I mean now...he's concerned about you when he should be concerned with himself. He's lonely."
I frown and sigh, nodding in Wilson's direction. "He's certainly lonely now. Look at him! I think he's about to cry. I'd go save him from his loneliness but I think I'd scare all his white-coat friends away."
"Oh, boo-hoo. Get over yourself. Talk to him. Let him in. He needs it. Those aren't his friends; he likes you best--hell knows why." She shakes her head. "Besides, he's my only window into your brain. I haven't had any updates lately."
"Ah. Yes. The eyes and ears of this organization," I murmur. "Of course, maybe that's why I'm shutting him out, to shut you out. Then again, he's lied to you for me before and will probably do it again, and he's also my best friend. I'm not concerned about your eyes and ears." I wince, "Unless they're particularly highlighted, like they are today."
She squints and smiles emptily and moves off. Probably attracted by something shiny.
Wilson visits me next, a little red from alcohol, but it's just an early stage, and I've seen him at every stage. "Do you know that everyone thinks we're sleeping together?" I ask him as he sits.
"Yes," he sighs. "There's a staff pool we're not supposed to know about. It's...um...annoying."
"How exactly are they going to confirm their suspicions? And how can I get in on it?"
Wilson shrugs and offers me his drink. I take a sip and hand it back, restraining a laugh.
8. That Monday.
It's nice that he's in my office when I get in, tossing my ball around. It's almost like things are back to normal, except he's divorced and lonely as hell and miserable and we're both hearing more gay jokes than the average pair of straight friends. I take the ball from him and start a game of catch back and forth across my desk. "Hiding from somebody?"
"I'm on vacation," he sighs, checking the door. "At least until somebody spots me. How did that case with, uh, that girl turn out?"
"'That case with that girl.' Your brain is fried, isn't it? `That girl' had...wait for it..." I drew it out for the full sweetness, "....syphilis. Big surprise. We had her for too long, it was idiotic. I think she almost passed it on to Chase before we moved her out."
"Chase? House, I'm disappointed. She rode motorcycles and everything; are you saying you never made your move?"
I laugh out loud at that, slugging the ball at him. "She's not my type. And Chase is too big an idiot to take precautions."
Wilson chuckles, catching the ball. "Let's get lunch," he says.
He wants to check on a patient of his for some reason; it's best not to "meet" him in the cafeteria because I might lose my lunch ticket, so I follow. In the hall outside the man's room, three speeding, yelling EMT punks and a gurney clip my left side.
I jump aside with grace and yell "Hey you punks, there's a speed limit on this hall!"
Actually, I just yelp and fall over.
I don't really hit the ground, though, because Wilson's there and he grabs my arm, my shirt, crushing his folder and dropping some papers in the process. I can say that I certainly would have hit the floor if he hadn't.
A little flailing, a little hopping, some funny facial expressions, and I'm upright again, clutching his arm. I let go of him quickly, but he takes his time letting me go, making sure I'm steady before easing off my shirt. "Just because it's wrinkled doesn't mean you can add your own," I mumble to him, looking down the hall. They're long gone now, so there's no point in yelling. I could use a yell.
"Are you okay?" he asks again.
"I'm fine. Gimme," I say, pointing at my cane. He retrieves it.
"No scathing comment?" he says when he hands it to me, smiling wanly as we move on.
"I can't be funny on an empty stomach." I can still feel where his hands grabbed my arm, where he put his hand to make sure I was steady. The impressions are gone from my coat. My stomach shouldn't feel this falling sensation any more.
I wish he had just fucking let me fall.
9. The Weekend.
"You're miserable, I'm miserable..." he's sitting on the arm of my couch, waving an arm, drunker than usual.
"You're drunk, I'm drunk," I echo from the piano bench.
"We're always miserable. You're always miserable. I used to be okay. Now I'm around you all the time and you make me MISERABLE."
He's been talking for about an hour and a half, about Julie, about me, about his parents and his family and his staff and the government and anything else. He started being drunk at the bar and we came back here, crashing, ranting. I've stopped being shocked by his words; I'm more concerned about his stability and the fact that he might puke on my carpet. "Yeah, well, everybody should be miserable if I'm miserable."
"You do a damn good job of making sure of that." He's not really mad at me. "I take care of you, House, but you have to make it hard. Now I'm alone, and I'm angry, and I'm...I'm drunk....and I still have to take care of you and I can't. And I'm sorry."
I give him a long look, then finish my glass of whiskey. This will all be more fun if both of us are shitfaced. "Siddown, James," I say, patting the bench. He doesn't move. "Siddown or try to punch me or something, just shut up. You don't have to take care of me, I'm fine. I'm taking care of you. Because right now, I can walk better."
He sits down and I start drumming out some notes, which turn into a few different songs, until I run into the Stones and have to start playing Paint It Black by ear.
"Are you going to sing it, or do I have to?" I sigh.
"I certainly will not sing it, and, if you don't shut up, I'll--uh--strangle you." He stumbles to his feet and stands behind me. I think I play better with his hands on my shoulders. He starts singing at the second refrain.
"Are you less lonely, angry, or drunk?" I ask him halfway through, when I realize I'm not sure how the bridge goes.
"I think I'm more, actually. But I think I purged some of it." He gives my shoulders a squeeze, and when I think he's going to let go, he starts massaging. Very nice. Bad idea, from him. But I don't care...I'm fucking drunk.
When my hands fall from the keys, he doesn't stop.
I let him do it for a while before interrupting, "Doesn't this qualify as `taking care of me'? Shouldn't we trade places, Dr. Angst-fest?"
His hands stop moving. Then they start again. "No."
"Why not?"
"Your massages probably suck."
Machismo almost makes me argue, but instead I nod a little. Wilson does a damned good massage, even drunk. He wants to sit down, so I sit on the couch and he sits behind me, digging into my shoulders and humming.
"Do you remember New Year's Eve?" I begin quietly.
He pauses to think, resumes shortly. "Uhm. This year? No. Were we here?"
"Mmn," I deflect.
When I can't take it anymore, when he's started to stop moving his hands, when he sighs, I turn to face him, putting my leg up on the coffee table, considering his face. He looks calm now, like he let out all his demons through a singularly exquisite back massage. His head hangs, chin to his chest, and he mimics me, stretching out on table and couch.
What did I say, what did I do last year? I really don't remember. I am brave now. I tell him, "thank you." He says "thank you." I give him a look, and this time I do reach out and brush his cheek, leaving my arm on his chest because...because.....
"What was that for?"
"Nothin'."
He nods, puts my arm around his shoulders and pulls me next to him. I settle my lips beneath his jaw and wait until he doesn't say anything before starting in.
Touching him feels good. I do a lot of it.
10. PPTH.
It's times like this I wish I were endowed with the power of telepathy. I haven't seen him since we rode in together. We didn't talk. When I woke up, my leg was on the couch and the rest of me wasn't; Wilson was putting on his tie. No pants again.
And no talking. I'm not sure if I want to.
I lock eyes with him once during the day, when he is signing into the clinic, but he looks just like he usually does: blank, happy, boring. He doesn't smile or nod when he looks up at me; he's smiling already when he sees me and he just....looks.
I don't smile either, but that's just me.
I'm lying on the floor now, watching my ball shrink and grow again as I toss it skyward, harder and harder until it bumps the ceiling. Finally I hurl it up, satisfied with the thunk it makes against the ceiling, then the smack when it falls back and rolls to the corner of the room.
I'm not getting up to get it. I look at the ball in the corner for a while, not moving.
I'm lonely.
Cameron comes in. "Leukemia."
"No!" I snap. Not lonely for Cameron.
"We're getting nowhere. We'll lose him within the week."
"The answer is there. You just have to look hard enough for it."
"Are you all right?" she asks, still exasperated.
"I am always all right," I growl at her. "Go." She leaves. Hmf. Leukemia.
I'm not in pain right now, I'm on a high, but you can't dry-swallow spontaneous amnesia. At least not as legally as you can Vicodin. And I think I've taken one too many of those for now.
I can't tell who's avoiding who. I pulled the blinds to the outside window shut so I wouldn't see him across the offices, and yet I wish he would hop the fence, march over, break in, smack me across the face and then make violent love to me on top of my desk.
...What was I talking about?
The hospital is more than busy today, it's swarming. Maybe he actively avoided me at lunch or maybe he didn't even stop for it. Either way, I'm left on edge and I'm afraid leave my office because I don't want to run into him. I don't want to talk.
He comes in at 4:55, just like nothing, just like old times.
"I take it you don't need any consults today."
He doesn't reply; he just closes the door to the diagnostics office and comes to stand next to my chair.
"I don't know what to say, so you have to start." I offer, not glib. The time for that is gone.
He puts his hands in his pockets, hangs his head. "I just...have a question."
I gesture that he should quit bullshitting and continue.
"Why is it that...you only have sex with me...when you think I'm too drunk to remember it the next day?"
A pause. "Nice," I tell him, looking away.
"I'm not an idiot, like you think I am," he continues, "I just want to know...is it because, inebriated, you are lapsing into a homosexual latency? Or could it be that you like me and, being you, you try to get around a certain social awkwardness by relying--unsuccessfully--on alcohol and memory loss?"
"You left out taking advantage of a pretty, drunk, Jewish doctor. They're hard to come by."
"I'm pretty?"
"You're very pretty. It would have been funnier if you'd asked, `I'm hard?'"
"Well, what can I say, Gregory, I'm flattered."
I sigh. "Story time."
"Okay."
"I was in my second year at undergraduate school. I started dating a girl, and then...it turned out I liked her twin brother better." Uch, embarrassing. "It was the only time until now."
"You cheated on a girl with her twin brother? No wonder you keep saying you've never beaten your personal best in heartbreaking."
"No kidding."
"So why is it so hard, House? You're not this shy. You know the drill. You're the biggest flirt I know. Terrible at it, but you make an effort. Except with me. Asking me to dinner? Roses on my desk with little dirty limericks attached? Come on, you know how to do it. I've seen you try. It's easy."
I wince. "Of course I know how to do it, but this is a little different, isn't it? We go to dinner all the time, you idiot. I've written you at least four dirty limericks on the bathroom wall already, and if those tickets last week weren't better than roses, I don't know what is." Pausing. "Well, this isn't awkward."
"You're the idiot!" he exclaims, throwing up his hands. "Just ask me on a date! Flirt, for God's sake. Say the magic words."
"Open sesame?" I provide, but shake my head. "Aren't you straight?" I have to snap at him.
"No! I'm not!" He shouts back to me.
"Double-D Pediatrics!" I yell.
He quiets down. "Well...I...yes. A little."
No matter. "Why would you want to date me?"
"I don't know," he draws out, "you're a little endearing, I suppose. Quit trying to guess my answer and just ask me."
Foreman enters with a paper in his hand. "It's leukemia," he announces. Wilson and I look at him blankly. "The patient. Leukemia. Tests are clear. What's....wrong?"
"Nothing," we say in unison.
Foreman blinks at us and backs out of my office, closing the door after him. We make sure he's a few steps away before speaking again. "Ooh, so taboo," I stage whisper.
"Ask," he prompts.
I clear my throat. Pause. "Roses are red, violets are blue..."
"Rich," he mutters.
"I will NEVER pay for your dinner, but I would like it if you'd pay for mine, and then we can wear out our wild, pent-up homosexual tension via hot gay intercourse back on my couch...hm, that doesn't really rhyme with `blue,' now, does it? Give me a minute, I can make it work...."
He puts his hands in his pockets and rocks. "Sooo...you've offered me the opportunity to buy you dinner and have wild sex with you? My god, what an honor, THE Greg House!"
But he's smiling and I guess I'm smiling, too. "You know it. You can go brag to Cameron now. You're not...sleeping with her, are you?"
He gives me a look you'd expect from your mom, but I blink at him until he actually says, "No, I'm not." I nod and close my eyes to give that loose end some closure, then: "So...will you?"
We stare at each other for another long second in full middle-school awkwardness. "Yes," he says finally, smiling coyly.
A weight comes off my chest and I'm able to breathe around him for the first time in months. "I'd kiss you and make it a real soap-opera moment, but the kids are watching." A look to the left proves me right. Wilson laughs.
"Leave at 6:00?" He asks.
"Yeah. See you then. I've got a leukemia diagnosis to throw out the window."
He can't stop smiling so he whirls around and hurries out of the room. Behind his back, I pump my fist and grab my cane. It's done now.
~Fin~
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A/N: And, in conclusion, one of my betas added this: "And then there is humping. After Wilson gets back. The ducklings watch, mouths agape." Thank you to all my lovely betas: Kats for grammar and Randi for science things, which I don't claim to know a thing about. I <3 feedback! Hit me up at http://humanyouth.livejournal.com!
Please post a comment on this story.
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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