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  A Strike and a Spare 
 by gena  

 A Strike and a Spare 

"This was a stupid idea."

"It was your stupid idea."

"You could have said no."

"I could have - but your stupid ideas tend to amuse me."

Wilson glared at House and got it returned when he held the door for his
friend. They entered Stan's Bowl-N-Brew at 2:27 PM, not a typical bowl or
brew time and to Wilson's eternal gratitude found the place nearly empty.
There was a derelict at the counter nursing one of the aforementioned
brews and a greasy guy in overalls down on lane 18 working on the pin
mechanism. Stan or someone with Stan-like qualities slouched behind a
carpet-covered counter in an area that smelled like sweaty feet. House
limped up to the guy, and hung his cane on the edge of the counter. "Size
11," he said.

Behind him Wilson mentally ran over the list of bacteria found on such
unsanitary things as bowling shoes, and tried not to look like he was
doing it. Stan, or whoever, gave House and his cane an appraising look but
obviously decided either the entertainment value of someone with a severe
limp attempting to bowl or the $20 he'd get for the rental and a few games
far outweighed the need for pointing out House wasn't going to excel at
the game. House took the shoes without even looking at them and hobbled
toward the lanes. Wilson followed suit, grimacing but determined. He found
House on lane 3 already unlacing his sneakers. "You do have a plan - a way
figured out that you can do this, right?"

House jammed his foot into the shoe, tied it and used his hand to lift his
right leg. "No plan - I'm just here for the fun."

Wilson ground his teeth together, tugging on his own shoes with ruthless
movements. "Just because I said it was more fun than stalking didn't mean
I thought it was a good idea."

"We already decided it was a stupid idea," House pointed out. He pushed
himself to his feet and looked around. "But anything more fun than
stalking, hey, I say let's give it a try!" There were several racks of
balls, most generic black but a few colored mixed in here and there. House
lifted each one in his left hand, judging the weight. Wilson watched him,
wondering just how much this was going to hurt both of them. House settled
on a bright pink ball which he immediately christened "Floyd" and set it
on the return. Wilson selected a sixteen-pound black ball and put it next
to House's. 

"You just have to do this, don't you?" Wilson asked. He typed in their
names on the electronic score sheet and looked at House who was using his
cane to poke an empty soda can under the seats. 

"I've been told I need distractions."

"And the hooker wasn't enough of one?" House gave him a withering look.
"Seriously, House, why are we doing this?" 

"You don't know?" 

"How would I? You never talk to me!" Wilson stared at House. He could see
a dozen tiny expressions sweep over House's mobile face but couldn't name
half them. He was good at reading House, at understanding the subtle hints
his eyes and mouth gave away but he was so tired. Just once he would like
to have it spelled out for him; he'd like to hear House come out with a
reasonable explanation for his actions and not be forced to double and
triple think, check the codebook and then decipher it all with the ring
he'd earned from saving Vicodin prescriptions. 

"I talk to you all the time," House pointed out. "I'm talking to you now."
He moved over to where the balls waited and picked up Floyd. "It's not my
fault you don't listen," he said quietly. 

Wilson tensed, not just from the words but because House had stepped into
the lane, pink ball held in his left hand and his cane in his right. He
had no idea how this was going to turn out. Logically House would need to
end his approach on his right leg to give himself space to swing the ball
back and release it with his left hand, but there was no way he would be
able to do that. House tapped his cane on the polished wooden floor, then
took a couple of steps forward. On the third step, not bending to release
the ball, his arm went back then flew forward. The ball hit the floor with
a loud crash. Wilson watched in fascinated shock as the ball immediately
began rolling smoothly, but slowly, down the alley toward the pins. It hit
to the left of the 2 pin, driving it into the 5 and 6 but leaving the 1,
3, and 10. Wilson felt both of his eyebrows crawl upwards in admiration.
The results had far outweighed the method. 

House lined up his next approach, stepping further to the right, eyeing
the arrows on the floor with a calculating glance then repeated his
unconventional release. Again the ball slammed onto the boards, its
momentum slowed by the impact but still able to roll all the way down the
lane. House hit the head pin and took out the remaining 3 and 10. The
score flashed across the screen overhead, and Wilson rose to his feet.
When he passed House he couldn't help but see the smirking grin tossed in
his direction but knew House hadn't meant for him to notice the grimace of
pain that flashed across it as well. 

Wilson aligned his feet with the arrows, bent his knees, took three long
strides and released the ball with force. It hooked right and smashed the
head pin back into the others -a text-book strike - except the 7 and 10
merely wobbled and stayed standing. Wilson briefly closed his eyes,
swearing loudly then turned to try and pick up the spare. House was
sitting there looking at him with a strange expression on his face.
"What?"

"It figures," House said. "Your advice never holds true to yourself." 

"How so?" He snagged his ball and waited.

"You extol the virtues of bowling, yet seem less than proficient with the
game yourself," House's voice was colored with a hard edge. 

"I think I can extol bowling and its healthy aspects without being Don
Carter," Wilson snapped. House grinned at him. Wilson spun on his heel and
launched the ball toward the remaining pins, the resulting gutter ball not
an unexpected consequence of his anger. 

"So," House said and reached for Floyd, "just because you've been bowling,
like the feel of the ball in your hand, and know your way around the lane,
you're qualified to push me into the game."

"No! What are we even talking about here, House?"

House stepped up onto the lane, "We don't talk, according to you."

"Not in a way that makes sense!" House repeated his strange bowling
technique, this time leaving only the 9 pin. Wilson saw him stumble, his
right leg giving just a little on his back swing. The pink ball went wide,
thunking into the back stop and disappearing into the ball return. When he
came back to where Wilson was seated his face had paled considerably.
"When Stacy first came back she was so frantic for Mark," Wilson said
quietly. "I could see how much she loved him and I didn't want you getting
- hurt again." He shook his head, "I warned you - I said stay away from
her and you did. But - but pretty soon she was searching you out, talking
to you like she used to, acting like she used to and I could," he stopped,
swallowing hard and looking away before continuing, "I could see you were
both forgetting about the past, about Mark, about what happened. It was
like the old days."

"It felt like it," House agreed. He rubbed a hand along his thigh, "Almost
like the old days." 

"Until I saw her records, until I realized she still had - deep feelings -
for you I never would have guessed things were going so wrong for her and
Mark. She fooled me, she fooled us all, I think she even fooled herself,"
Wilson said with a rueful laugh, "And I thought I was an expert at knowing
things like that." 

"Just because you know your way around the lane......"

"Yeah," Wilson said, laughing again. "I didn't think she'd leave Mark. I
could see how guilty she felt, she wore that same look - when she left
you. I warned her too - I told Stacy she couldn't toy with you, she
couldn't leave you all over again because..." Wilson covered his eyes with
his hand and fell silent.

"But I could leave her."

Wilson sighed, lifting his head, "Because you want to hurt. You have to
hurt, and I - I don't want you to."

"Hence the bowling," House said. Wilson sighed and nodded again. "And
you're up."

Moving mechanically Wilson bowled another frame. House followed. They were
on the eighth frame when Wilson saw House stumble again, though he managed
to pick up the spare. "Coming here was just another way to punish
yourself, wasn't it?" Wilson asked.

House looked as if he was considering hitting Wilson with his cane again
but didn't. "I was just proving my point."

"That even your distractions cause you pain now?"

House dropped his gaze to the dirty tile floor. "No," he said and met
Wilson's eye with a willful glare, "That I don't do things to cause myself
pain on purpose. I save lives, Wilson. I untangle the threads until I can
see what's gone wrong with someone's life. I find the answers no one else
can see and I don't stop until it's clear what's going wrong. Sometimes
the cure is harder to take than the disease but I do what's right, what
has to be done." House pointed toward the alley, "My other point is, that
stalking is much more fun than this."

Wilson's mouth twisted into a smile. He tried not to show it but hurried
them through the last two frames, House scoring a 256 while he bowled a
258. He took their shoes back to Stan, paid for the game and went back to
where House was sitting. "Ready to go?" House looked up and nodded. Wilson
stayed close to House on the way back to the car, going so far as to
unlock his door for him and close it after he was inside. They drove to
House's apartment without speaking again, each lost in his own thoughts.
It wasn't until they were safely inside the condo that Wilson returned to
the conversation. "I meant what I said House. Your pain just makes you
miserable, not special. You need to find something else - something that
can make you happy."

"Stacy could have," House said so quietly Wilson almost didn't catch it,
"She did once. I just didn't want to make her miserable again." He glanced
over at Wilson, sitting on the other end of the couch. "Why don't I make
you miserable?"

"You do," Wilson said.

"But you never leave."

Wilson shrugged. "I'm more miserable without you."

House considered that. They could be miserable alone or together - it
seemed like a no-brainer. "So tomorrow you want to try curling I hear it's
also more fun than stalking."

AN: My pink bowling ball is named Floyd and I bowled on a league with a
woman who bowled exactly how I've described House's technique. It was odd
but effective.

  
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