Pray for a Harbor    The House Fan Fiction Archive	 Home

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  Pray for a Harbor 
 by cyne  

 Head in hands, on the table. This is how House finds Wilson. It takes
many ounces of will and promises of a pill in just a second to not lift
his cane and poke Wilson in the center of his head. Instead, he taps the
table corner lightly, and when receiving no reaction, taps again, louder
this time. 

"You dead?" House asks, as the rather pathetic head of his so-called
friend lifts up slowly and uncertainly. 

"Sorry to disappoint." Wilson scrubs his face harshly and watches House
lowers himself onto the chair across the table. "What do you want?"
House's involuntary glance at the clock on the wall is the only answer he
needs. "Don't say it," Wilson tells House who opens his mouth to answer.
"I really can't harbor you whenever Cuddy's breathing down your neck.
Impossible it may sound, your avoidance issue is even worse than your drug
addiction."

"I don't have avoidance issue. I just have an issue with Cuddy," House
retorts, tapping the end of his cane to the side of his chair.

"Stop tapping," Wilson snaps, which is in itself a lesson in futility as
the tapping increases in frequency and magnitude. "She pays your keep
every month. Imagine what'll happen if your drug acquisition documents go
missing or your paycheck gets lost in the post."

"Somebody wakes up on the wrong side of town this morning," House smirks
as Wilson fidgets. He makes a show extracting the a pill and waving it in
front of Wilson, like a child might with is toy plane. "Problems with the
wife?" 

Wilson throws a suffering look at House who smirks again, makes a
stuttering noise (which, Wilson thinks, is supposed to resemble a car
running out of gas), before popping it in his mouth and swallowing it dry.
Wilson thinks he's going crazy when he thinks that House's adam's apple
bobs in an interesting way. Instead he snorts and shifts the paper in
front of him, "No."

"Because you love her."

"I won't be married to her if I don't." But Wilson knows that there is a
degree of uncertainty. It is not a complete and utter lie, of course,
because he does love his wife, doesn't he?

"You, my dear Wilson, is in a deep crater of denial. So deep and wide is
the crater," House says as he waves his cane and Wilson cringes when it
snags the telephone cord, "that a sperm whale could fall in it and
disappear without a trace."

"I have never denied anything. I do love her," Wilson retorts, not liking
where this conversation is going. If it is supposed to go anywhere. 

"Ah yes. The mother to your future children... If only you can find time
to make children, that is." House observes.

"What is this? 'Pick on James Wilson' Day?" Because if it is, then he
hasn't received any memo. And even though he's used to being picked on by
House, he'd really appreciate if someone finds it in them to give him the
heads up.

"No."

"Then what?" 

"I'm bored." Because House turned down a transfer request, and succeeded
preposterously in getting the Hospital Board to ban him from clinic duties
for a month.

"Then go bother somebody else. Unlike you I've got a lot of things to do,"
Wilson snaps again, which is a repeat lesson in futility as House merely
leans further back into the chair and pops another Vicodin. "Go harass
Cameron or Foreman or Chase, I'm sure 'keeping you entertained' is part of
their job description."

"Why would I do that? They're my kids. Parents don't harass their kids."

"Your kids?" Wilson snorts in dismay. "They'd sooner kill you, plea guilty
of manslaughter under depression, and be orphans, than to have you as
their parent."

"That's not a very good thing to say to a friend," House mumbles. "I'm
hurt."

"Good."

"Which brings us back to parenting and spouses," House plunders on.

"What about it?" 

"You haven't been spending enough time with your wife. Don't you want to
have kids?"

"What kind of a question is that?" And sometimes Wilson doesn't know what
to say, because boy genius that he is, House runs rings around him and
leaves him weirded out on the playground floor.

"The ordinary kind," House answers. "What kind do you want it to be?"

"And this is relevant to you how?" Wilson dreads the answer, because he
thinks he knows the answer, because he thinks he knows House. And he
watches House sit up and hobble towards the door. 

"I'm thinking... Chinese."

"Okay," Wilson answers, without thinking, because its easier to not think
when House is concerned. And so when he hears the door creaks open and
clicks shut, he finds himself reaching for the telephone. And when he
listens to the dialtone in his ear, and his heart beating loudly against
his eardrums, he wonders what the world has got to.

"Hey darling... Yeah. I know, I'm sorry... I'll make it up to you... I
know... Take care, okay? Yeah. I'll see you. Sleep well... I love you,
too... Uh huh... Bye... Okay... Bye." He hears her inhalation -- deep and
sharp. He listens to her exhale, and was abruptly cut midway by the
dialtone. 

He replaces the handset in its cradle and grabs a random file. As he walks
out the door and greets a fellow doctor, he looks up the corridor leading
to House's office and sighs. He wonders what he's signed himself in for,
and wonders whether he'll come out of it alive.  
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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.