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Muscle Memory
by Quillwriter
"House, what are you doing?" The room was deserted except for the doctor, sitting on the edge of the exam table.
"Playing Mario Brothers."
"Wow." Wilson took the seat opposite House and stretched his feet out. "Mario Brothers. That's old school."
"Yes." The machine continued to bleep bleep as House punched the buttons. "My fingers seem to remember what to do before my brain does."
"Yeah, it's called muscle memory." Wilson smirked, but House, intent on the game missed it and the oncologist merely shrugged. "You know, I was thinking,"
"Since you're a doctor that's probably a good thing."
"I was thinking," Wilson continued a little more forcefully, "That we should do something this weekend."
"What? Like a date?" House glanced up quickly from his game but his fingers did not stop. The Mario music chimed on.
"Well, without the date part, sure."
House almost winced, recognising those words though he'd said them to someone else. "What did you have in mind?" He should have refused. He'd meant to refuse, but it was Wilson, and he could feel the brown eyes peering at him from inside that peculiar, tight-lipped squint. That was the I-need-you-not-to-say-no look.
"It's a golf tournament."
House felt his breath catch. His palms were suddenly sweaty. His Game Boy slipped and the distinct sound of Mario falling off a precipice filled the silence of the room. House swallowed heavily, had a million things he could say crammed into his head, but with his throat so dry, all he could manage was "Busy." He pocketed the Game Boy, snatched up his cane and left the room. Wilson watched him go, nodding slightly as though he had not expected any other response.
He shouldn't have expected anything else. House muttered to himself as he stumped down the hall to his office, closed the blinds, turned his back to the glass wall and pulled out the Game Boy. He stared at the blank screen and brooded. He did not play golf. Not any more. He couldn't play golf. It was almost an hour before the door opened behind him. Quickly he flipped the game on and stabbed ruthlessly at the buttons.
"How hard is it going to be to persuade you?" House did not respond to Wilson's inquiry. "I'll let you drive the cart." House shot fireballs at a miniature penguin. Wilson slipped fully into the room and let the door swing closed behind him. "It's a couple's thing, Greg. I need a partner."
"You're married. That whole partner thing comes built in."
"Julie hates golf."
"And the thought of spending the weekend with her husband does not entice her?"
"No." Wilson said the word flatly, reflexively, thoughtlessly. He said it as though his lips formed the word without his brain's input. That was why he did not want House to say no. He paused the game and swung his chair around. Wilson looked away, down at the floor. "She won't be there when I get back." There was a pause, the squinting face, and his hand rubbed over the back of his neck. "She's moving out."
House set the game down on the desk. Marriage number three, and this time, Wilson had done nothing wrong. "I don't really think my drive's too hot."
"It's one of those drive and putt things. I drive, you putt."
"Oh, right. I get to be the girl." Wilson shrugged. "Which is just wrong, because you'd look way better in the short shorts." That elicited a small little laugh through his nose. Better. "I can probably still putt."
"It's all muscle memory," Wilson agreed.
"And we're taking the 'Vette."
"Of course." There was a long silence. Finally, House reached for the Game Boy and unpaused his game. He swung his chair back to the window. "Thanks, Greg."
"Yeah, yeah, bonus level here. Trying to concentrate." He knew Wilson smiled at him before he turned and left the office. As soon as the door closed behind the oncologist, House abandoned the game. He should have said no. He had not so much as looked at a golf club in five years. He should have said no. But it was Wilson, and he had that look, and his wife was leaving him, and Greg could not say no. Wilson asked, and despite everything, Greg said yes. He had to say yes. It was all muscle memory.
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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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