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  Between a Pact and a Hardplace 
 by Spookykat  

 AN: Much thanks to Nutmeg4077 for the beta!

Doctors Lisa Cuddy and James Wilson had an agreement. More of a pact,
really. 

Some (themselves included) might have called it a suicide pact. The object
of the pact in question had a certain well-developed taste for
self-destruction, and had absolutely no regard for the people caught up in
the wakes as a result of these self- destructive tendencies. 

Oh, not the run of the mill bullet-to-the-brain type of self-destruction,
as much as James wished it were. 

Dr. Gregory House's brand of self-destruction was a lot more complicated
than that. It would have been easier to protect a man from a gun, or a
knife, or any kind of weapon of choice, James used to think. 

But what do you do when the weapon is within? Something you can't take
away? Something--James was realizing lately--he wouldn't want to take away
even if he could. 

You can just take away any weapons, or bind hands. James shook off the
sudden image he got in his mind of his friend's hands and leg tied
artfully to a four-poster. 

James would have enjoyed it. But the enjoyment, he was certain, wouldn't
have been mutual. House was too wrapped up in metaphorical bondage to
enjoy real, physical bondage. 

It would be the lack of control that House would hate, James realized. 

"He's so in control that he's lost control completely." 

That was the statement that opened up conversation between James and Cuddy
a year ago. That conversation had lead to the pact. 

But James found out a long time ago that you couldn't control House,
anymore than you could control a ship in a violent storm. All you could do
was ride the waves and hope you won't drown. Wilson realized that a long
time ago, and so did Cuddy. The difference between the two was that Cuddy
tried (possibly because it was in her better interest for the sake of her
job) to change him. 

James knew better. 

Because House was a weapon, a force of both absolution and destruction in
and of himself. That's what made him...well...House. 

Cuddy stopped trying to understand him years ago. Wilson understood. But
what's the point of knowledge when there's no way to act with it? 

All he could do when House...did what he does best...was try to soften the
blow. Why he did it remained a mystery to everyone, even himself. 

If he were to be honest with himself, James spent time with House because
he liked feeling better about himself. 

He, after all, wasn't addicted to Vicodin. He didn't push love away. 

Except when he did. 

He had pushed Julie away, after all. And, well, pretty much everyone else
he'd ever been involved with. Romantically or otherwise. 

That was why he had just loaded the last of his necessities in his
suitcase. Enough to get him through the next couple of weeks. 

But that didn't matter. House's shortcomings and hang-ups made James look
like the King of the Well-Adjusted. 

The King of the Well-Adjusted, James reminded himself ruefully, does NOT
need the Prince of the Mal-Adjusted to clean up after him. 

No, it wasn't that he needed House. 

Where else are you going to go? nagged The Little Voice inside his head. 

Before he knew what he was doing, he found himself at House's door with
suitcase in tow. He wasn't really sure what made him think House would be
capable of compassion or pity, or any emotion remotely human. 

He was the one looking out for House, after all, thanks to that pesky
little pact that seemed to consume his energy and time (and marriage,
incidentally). Not the other way around. 

Cuddy certainly wasn't holding up her end of the deal. Not much, anyway.
Of course, she was a very busy person. Not that he wasn't. He just had to
take up her slack. That's all there was to it. 

You're not asking him to look out for you. Little Voice argued reasonably.
You're asking him to let you sleep on his couch. 

He didn't know how long he stood there, listening to House playing the
piano on the other side of the door. 

There was something odd in the music itself, James noticed. Something
missing. 

The man played the piano like most people played a video game. It was
technically flawless but methodical and devoid of interpretation and
feeling. Even with something as intrinsically human as music, James
thought, House seemed as detached and emotionless as he was in his work
regarding his patients. He didn't have to wonder whether or not the
Vicodin had something to do with that. He wondered if he could do
something to stop the addiction. There were several clinics in the area. 

Not so much because he thought House would be different off the Vicodin.
Just to give other people a chance to see that he's like that he has no
excuse to be who he was. 

He decided there wasn't. 

House was House was House, Vicodin or no. 

The sun would shine, the rain would fall, and House would screw things up,
in grand fashion. He didn't need the drugs to help him do that. 

Of course, Little Voice piped up, being in such close quarters with House
might have certain advantages. This would, after all, Little Voice
persisted, be a great way to keep a closer eye on House. 

At least Cuddy wouldn't have to worry so much. 

James let out a breath he didn't know he was holding in and raised his
hand to knock on the door.  
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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.