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  Taxing 
 by Gigi Sinclair  

 James never thought he'd wake up to the sound of a man with a cane
clattering around the kitchen. He was planning on putting his parents in a
nursing home to avoid just such an eventuality.

Then again, James had never thought he'd end up a three-time loser,
divorced yet again and living on his best friend's couch. Life, he
thought, could be surprising. 

James sat up. Greg appeared in the doorway, still wearing his striped
pyjamas and bathrobe---James didn't know why he dressed up for bed when he
barely dressed for work, but it seemed just like Greg to make some kind of
ironic statement even in his sleep---and said: "What do you want for
breakfast?"

James rubbed his eyes. "Coffee." He stretched, his threadbare T-shirt
riding up. James didn't dress up for bed. He only wore the T-shirt and
boxers because, as Greg had said: "Never sleep naked in another man's
tipi, kemosabe." 

"Just coffee? That's not a complete meal." Greg said, looking at him
skeptically.

"What are you, my Jewish mother?" 

"You already have one. Lovely woman. Obviously a saint not to have drowned
you at any point during your formative years. You should call her."

James sighed. "I'll have toast, then."

"I have bran flakes," Greg put in, as James gathered the blankets.
"Fibre's so important for men of your age." 

"My age? What about your age? I don't see you knocking back bran." 

"Ah, but I'm not expecting to live much longer. While you," Greg gestured
with his cane, "Have another three or four marriages in you, I'm sure." He
limped back into the kitchen, and James shoved the blankets into Greg's
already bulging closet. 

***

When they got to the hospital, James scrubbed in for a biopsy on a new
patient, a middle-aged woman who'd been referred to him by Greg, who met
her in the clinic. Afterwards, James stopped by Greg's office to let him
know how it had gone, and found him shoving seemingly random pieces of
paper into a Nike shoebox. 

"What are you doing?" James asked, even though it was often better not to
know. 

"H and R Block," Greg replied. 

"Oh." James picked up the nearest slip of paper. It was immediately yanked
away by Greg. "That time of year again, huh?"

"Taxes," Greg snapped. "The price to pay for living in a so-called
civilized democracy. Although if I go to one more strip club without
handicapped parking, I'll be tempted to sign up with the Montana militia."


"They'd be glad to have you. Why don't you file yourself?"

Greg shook his head irritably. "I don't have time to screw around with
forms and deductions and all that crap." 

"Of course not." James flicked the Gameboy with his hand, pushing it into
the Ipod. "Your time is immeasurably valuable."

"Did you have something to share, Dr. Wilson? Or did you just come in here
to belittle me?" 

James smiled. "I'd never horn in on your racket like that." 

Greg frowned. "Did you just use the expression 'horn in'?"

James ignored him. "I can file them for you, you know."

"What?" Greg looked genuinely surprised, and James felt a small glimmer of
satisfaction.

"I've always done my own taxes," James said. "I like it." He was back to
filing singly this year, anyway. He had nothing but time on his hands. 

"I see." Greg nodded sagely and said, in his patented "fake interested"
voice: "And do these masochistic tendencies manifest themselves in any
other ways? Do you feel a frequent urge to wax your legs? Bandsaw your
testicles? Engage Cuddy in conversation?"

"It's relaxing," James said. He didn't know why he enjoyed doing the
taxes; none of his wives had understood it, either. "If you do it right,
it always comes out right." Unlike treating cancer, where nasty,
unforeseen things could crop up at any time and ruin everything. A 1040
was always a 1040, and there were no judgement calls or tough decisions to
make. 

Filing taxes was very different from being married, too.

"Ah," Greg said. "So it's a sex thing. I should have known with you."

"Look, if you want me to file for you, I will. Now, do you want to see
Sarah McCullen's biopsy results or what?" Greg did, but of course he
wouldn't say so. He played another level of Super Mario Doom or whatever
it was before he picked up the file, but he did pick it up, as James knew
he would. And, as James expected, by the end of the day there was a Nike
shoebox full of receipts in his office.

***

Five days later, James finished both his taxes and Greg's. He shared the
news with Greg as they sat in his apartment, Greg watching a soap and
James flipping through the newspaper, ostensibly looking for a place, even
though James wasn't really in any rush to get off Greg's couch.

"You're getting a refund. Actually," James glanced at some pictures of
condos. "I'm surprised you make any money. I'd have expected Cuddy to
withhold all of it until you make up those clinic hours."

"Refund, huh?" Greg looked over, even though it wasn't a commercial. "Then
I guess I owe you some accountant's fees." 

"Buy me dinner. That's good enough for me." 

"Hmm." Greg looked at him with that scrutinizing look of his, the one that
made James feel like a bacterial culture, or a particularly misleading
patient. 

Then Greg leaned over and kissed him.

James opened his mouth, more from shock than anything else, and Greg took
the opportunity to slide his tongue in. It was surprisingly soft and,
while James couldn't say he'd never imagined kissing Greg, he'd never
thought it'd be this good. 

When Greg finally pulled back, a fuzzy and very un-Greg-like smile on his
face and his hand planted firmly on James's crotch, James said: "That's
how you pay your accountant?" 

Greg shrugged. "Only if I want to file jointly with him next year." 

Well, James thought, as he put his hand over Greg's, he always did enjoy
the mental gymnastics of combining incomes. 

Although they'd have to work really hard if they ever wanted to earn the
child tax credit. 

  
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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.