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Portent
by gena
He'd been out of the hospital and damn near pain free for a month. House took a deep breath and pushed his memory past the shooting, past the hallucinations, and past the weeks of his body's recovery. He stood in the middle of his apartment, his gaze fondly brushing the tangle of blankets on his couch and the sartorial evidence of Wilson's reentrance into his living arrangements. Wilson had been beside him every moment; from waking in the ICU to being discharged and allowed home. One part of him had hated depending on Wilson again; forcing him into the role of nursemaid and caregiver, but another part knew Wilson welcomed his need and found within himself an answering gratitude.
The first time he'd found himself in that position he'd been surly and combative, blaming Wilson for his pain, his weakness, his anger but this time having Wilson there was comforting. There'd been something almost nice about having Wilson to look after him, make sure he was feeling okay, to do things for and with him, to just know how he felt and accept it all with calm assurance it would be okay. But even a good thing could become annoying after a while so three weeks later when Wilson had to go back to work and leave him on his own during the day, House had breathed a sigh of relief. Wilson had worn his habitual concerned expression and made House promise to take it easy and call if he needed anything - anything at all.
That had been the time House really set about finding how far the ketamine had taken him. As his body healed from the bullet wounds he'd used a wheelchair for the first week of recovery, even when released he'd been forced to use it because he still hurt and tired much too easily. He could wheel around like a pro, some skills were never lost but as he gained strength in the following weeks he'd used arm canes and then his old trusty wooden companion. Wilson had been pleased at seeing him getting around better but he would have blown a fuse if he knew what House had planned -which was why House never told him what he had planned. After Wilson finally left for work, House had called in all the favors owed him. By Wednesday he was all set, it took him several days to get use to things, and on the weekend he played innocent for Wilson while secretly very pleased with himself. Monday was the Red Letter day, when Wilson left for PPTH House got himself ready, climbed into his Corvette and headed towards the hospital.
House pulled into his handicapped slot, heaved himself out of the car and, cane in hand, made his way inside. People stopped and stared as he crossed the lobby. He could see Cuddy in her office and when she met his gaze a look of absolute pleasure warmed her eyes despite the cool smirk on her lips. House took a deep breath as the elevators opened, he didn't want to run into Wilson before he was completely ready but his friend was no where in sight when the door slid apart. He got in, pushed the button for four and waited. His cane felt good in his hand, comforting and he rested his weight on it as he had for years. It was only when the elevator car stopped with that little jolt that House smiled. He'd always hated that split second, it always made him wince as his weight shifted and he was forced to catch himself or stagger.
The hall was nearly deserted but as House approached his office he saw that his luck had held. Wilson was in the conference room, leaning against the counter and drinking coffee. The bond between them ran deep and House used it now, focusing his attention on his friend, not surprised when Wilson looked up. House watched closely, Wilson's puzzled frown quickly changed to a beaming smile, one that lit up his eyes and made him look years younger. "Honey, I'm home!" House shouted as he crossed the Diagnostic Medicine threshold for the first time in a month.
"House!" Cameron whirled, her own smile nearly blinding but House had his gaze locked on Wilson. His old friend put down the cup and stepped in front of Cameron. House threw his arms wide, the cane flying from his hand and took a step. He'd rehearsed this moment in his mind knowing his grin and the bounce in his step would convey to Wilson exactly what this meant to him. He kept his eyes on Wilson, but he could hear the murmur of surprise from the others as he walked toward his best friend, his gait smooth and strong, his steps sure and even. Wilson's dark eyes dropped from his, widened, then rose slowly again but this time they shimmered like a desert evening.
"House," he rasped and for the first time in his life, House saw Wilson begin to cry. Tears welled, clinging to his long lashes before spilling over and trickling down his high cheekbones. House's step faltered and he stopped, stunned by Wilson's reaction. The depth of emotion in those normally serene brown eyes made his heart thunder in his ears. "It's you," Wilson whispered, those two ragged words releasing House from the paralysis which had held him in place. Wilson met him halfway, enfolding House in an embrace which seemed to join their hearts and souls together rather than merely press their bodies against one another. "It's you," Wilson whispered again.
Though Wilson felt solid and good in his arms and he might have given the world just to stand there and let his friend absorb all the comfort he needed if they had been any place else, House could feel heat rising in his cheeks. Over his shoulder he could see his team; Cameron's eyes glistened wetly, one hand pressed to her mouth as if to muffle sobs, while Chase and Foreman stood to the side, each wearing looks of embarrassed pleasure, their smiles understated and meant not to draw attention. "Uh, hey, Big Guy," House said, pushing Wilson off him just far enough so he could see his face. "Let's take this into my office." Wilson nodded, sniffing loudly, pulling his professional demeanor back around him with a tug of his lab coat as he headed for House's office. House followed him, calling over his shoulder, "I want those stupid grins wiped off your faces when I get back. Blank automatons, nothing more."
He turned back just in time to see Wilson pick up the fallen cane. Holding it as if it were made of gold, he carried it to House's desk and set it down. They stood facing each other silently, Wilson staring so intently House began to fidget under the scrutiny. "I'm sorry," Wilson said at length, dropping his gaze. "I didn't mean to embarrass you or myself that way."
"Don't worry," House consoled him, "everyone thinks you're gay so crying in my arms won't change anything."
"They do not," Wilson snapped, heavy brows drawing together in a scowl. "They don't, do they?"
"Three wives, constantly with me," House ticked off points, "obsessive about your appearance." He grinned but Wilson's outraged expression was already fading and he hung his head, contrite. "It's okay, women like that. You'll probably get more dates than ever." Wilson didn't rise to the bait, if anything he looked more upset. House stepped closer, lifting one hand to rest on Wilson's shoulder. "Hey," he said softly, "What did you mean?" Wilson shook his head, refusing to meet House's eyes again. "What did you mean when you said it was me? Who else could it be?"
Wilson trembled under his hand, but slowly he raised his head and looked at House. It felt as if the entire world dropped away, House could not have said what time of day it was, he wandered in a mahogany limbo, captivated by the emotions swirling in Wilson's gaze. "I," Wilson stopped, cleared his throat with a nervous cough and began once more. "I saw my best friend again," he said quietly. Puzzled, House continued to stare at him. "It's been seven years, House, seven years of watching you suffer unimaginable pain. This - this was like going back in time and seeing you - happy - whole again," he stopped, swallowing hard as he blinked back more tears. "Like my best friend in the world came back to me after being gone for too long." He stopped again, wiping a hand over his cheek. "I'm sorry, this is stupid." He started to pull away but House tightened his grip. "I haven't seen you like this in so long and it - it just made me - happy."
House found his own vision blurring but sunlight was streaming through the window and he'd always had sensitive eyes, it didn't mean anything at all. "It's a brace," he explained, and cringed at the sound of his voice breaking. Wilson shook his head. "A brace," House said again. He reached down, tugging the knee of his jeans up so Wilson could see the metallic glint at his ankle. "I had to call in all my favors, threaten about a dozen people and blackmail several more, but I got it made to my specifications. It's high tech, same kind of alloy they use in the space shuttle." He flexed his knees, putting equal weight on both legs. "It's strong but I can move easily."
"You're bionic," Wilson said. His smile lit up the room, completely at odds with his red-rimmed eyes.
"Better - stronger - faster," House agreed. "I can run with this on. I can play golf, I can ride a bicycle." House took a couple of steps back, nearly bouncing. "Come on, let's go do something fun!" He saw Wilson's gaze flick towards his own office and knew his friend was envisioning the mountain of work on his desk, and the dozens of patient's whose care he oversaw. But something turned over in his brown eyes, clearing in a way House knew he hadn't seen in more than seven years and he gave the most joyful laugh House had ever heard.
"Let's go!" Wilson cried and looped his arm over House's shoulders. They hurried down the hallway, bypassing the elevator for the first time in years and clattered down the stairs. People in the lobby barely had time to get out of the way as they burst into sight, laughing and shoving at each other like children facing the endless summer stretched golden with promise before them.
That day, the last Cuddy saw of her two department heads was the flutter of Wilson's white lab coat as he tossed it into the air, and the last thing she heard was House's raised voice as he shouted - "Race ya!"
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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 NBC/Universal, 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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