[House MD] True Love and Other Catastrophes (House/Wilson, House/Cameron, implied others)
Title: True Love and Other Catastrophes
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: House/Wilson, House/Cameron, implied others.
Spoilers: Up to season two, 2x11 (Need to Know).
Summary: Cameron's in love, House appears to be conducting an experiment in relationships, and Wilson doesn't understand.
Disclaimer: Not actually mine.
Dedication: blademistress, as the second of three fics I owe her. Funnily enough, she was also the beta reader without whom this fic would have been a mess.
Music: Death Cab for Cutie - Someday You Will Be Loved. Self-explanatory, really, once you read the lyrics. Very Wilson.
Notes: This fic ended up being a fairly ambitious undertaking for my second attempt at House fic. Feedback of all kinds is definitely welcome.
…tipping point…
“You can’t trial and condemn me in absentia.”
“You were there, Jimmy.”
“Greg - ”
“You were there.”
House’s eyes are lit with a maniac, alcohol-fuelled gleam, and an endless litany of judgement and condemnation for a misshapen crime. The most horrifying part of the whole glorious mess - well, Wilson hadn’t really known what was happening, had he?
It’s not any kind of defence against a man unfamiliar with the concept of mercy and completely in love with cold hard logic. Nothing is, at this point.
Real life doesn’t allow easy confessions.
What else is love, that repugnant word, but the delusion of a lifetime?
…the day before yesterday…
“Okay, I’m off. Cameron, go hold the patient’s hand.”
Cameron opens her mouth reflexively - It’s barely three PM - and swallows the words. Foreman’s frighteningly expressive raised eyebrows do the talking instead.
“What? Hooker night calls.” An exaggerated wink goes with the leer in his tone, and House probably figures that the image alone would be enough to ward off any further questioning.
It’s not like he needs it, though - the black, sniping mood hovering all around him like a cloud is enough to repel any but the truly determined from attempting conversation. However, Cameron’s nothing if not truly determined, or as some would have it -
“My god, you’re subtle.”
Cuddy doesn’t know the least of it, really. The thought puts a smile on her face, makes her brave -
Enough to step into House’s office while he’s shoving files haphazardly into his bag and open her mouth to say things that are probably very ill-advised.
She’s never been good at being appropriate.
“House.”
“You’re still here.”
“I am.”
He stops packing momentarily to stare at her. “Okay, is there any particular reason you’re blocking my escape route?”
The annoyance openly displayed on his eloquent face is familiar, and she’s optimistic enough to see an almost affectionate edge to it. That spark of humanity makes enduring everything else worthwhile.
Cameron smiles. “What are you feelings on Thai food?”
“Are you inviting me to dinner?” he says, semi-incredulous.
“I guess.”
“Sorry, I’m not into awkward psychoanalytical conversations, no matter how good the food is.” That’s a parting shot as far as House is concerned, a good note on which to push past her and attempt escape.
She says softly, under her breath, “you are when it’s about patients.”
House pauses, mid-limp.
“Okay.”
…yesterday…
“She…did?”
Wilson stares at House, lunch (dry cafeteria sandwich lovingly stuffed with meat of questionable origin) completely forgotten. There’s a certain guiltiness to the way House is behaving, with his fixed stare at an invisible spot somewhere beyond Wilson’s left ear and untouched food.
Then again, he reflects, swallowing his own with some difficulty, can’t say I blame him there.
“And?”
House begins to fiddle with his cane in lieu of an actual answer. Wilson sighs.
“You did at least let her down gently, right?”
Still no answer. There must be something really fascinating just behind Wilson’s ear.
“I’m going to go and find out by asking the nurses if they’ve see her crying in the bathroom anytime now, since it - ”
“- I said yes.”
“- will obviously be faster.” A pregnant pause. “Wait, you said what?”
The incredulous look on his face finally draws House’s gaze back, if only for the split second before he begins trying to visually dissect Wilson’s sandwich instead.
“Dinner. At Cameron’s apartment. You are paying attention, right?”
Wilson just stares disbelievingly in lieu of a reply, and he figures can be forgiven for not coming up with a quick, witty retort, because -
This is just weird.
Not even House snatching what’s left of his coffee is enough to goad his vocal cords into action again. Not that Wilson needs to stop him - he’s planned ahead for the theft in advance by getting a larger cup, anyway.
“You’re not going to give me advice again, are you?”
“I’m still stuck in ‘incredulous shock’. Giving you crap dating advice doesn’t happen until ‘mild disbelief’ kicks in.”
“I wonder which part surprises you more - that I’m voluntarily spending an evening with company that isn’t you, or - ”
“The choice of candidate,” Wilson finishes, not quite managing to keep the dry tone out of his voice. “Quite.”
That makes House look up again, if only for the purpose of examining him intently. “You’re not so fond of the fair Doctor Cameron?”
“She’s a very attractive woman…”
“So you have put the moves on her.”
“Well, no…”
Wilson and Cameron would have never worked. Sure, she’s certainly attractive - House has good taste in eye-candy, if nothing else - but not his type. As House has irritatingly and repeatedly pointed out, there’s a pattern to be found amongst the many women who pass through his life.
“They all happen to make less than a quarter of what you make. Interesting fact, isn’t it? Really adds that extra touch to the nice guy image.”
Cameron is Cameron, and no matter how many times House accuses Wilson of going for the needy type, her twisted vulnerability doesn’t interest him - he’d end up wrapping her up in a pretty bow and sending her to a shrink after bedding her twice. Or maybe once. He isn’t eager to find out.
Of course, all this is idle speculation, since she has never given him a second glance. Wilson’s probably far too neat and polished to be her type, if his admittedly limited sample of her tastes is any indication.
With an effort, Wilson drags his thoughts back to the situation at hand, where House has somehow folded his napkin into a frog. There is a curious tenseness to his carefully careless sprawl, and the - damnably attractive, really - smug tilt of his head.
“Hmm. Interesting.”
Fuck. “Oh, no…”
He gets a wide-eyed glance for his trouble, all fake innocence and very real amusement. “What?”
“I know that look.”
Head-tilt, and there’s that probing look again. “Relax, Jimmy. The world isn’t going to end just yet.”
“What is this?”
There’s a pause two seconds too long, and House’s eyes land everywhere but on Wilson.
“An experiment.”
You live under the delusion that you can fix everything that isn’t perfect.
She pauses, fist raised in the air a few inches away from the door. James Wilson, M.D., Department of Oncology it says in bold lettering, scraps of information that conveys nothing or everything about the person behind it. An image comes to her, unbidden, of House and Wilson striding through the corridors of the hospital, the space between them more insubstantial than the hair’s breath between her hand and the door, and she has to wonder which applies to Wilson. How much of his life is oncology, and how much simply to do with…other things?
“Doctor Cameron?”
Wilson’s voice is coolly professional, but she still has to suppress a blush. Not one of her finest moments, caught hesitating at his door like some fresh-faced intern. Dignity gathered, she turns to see him leaning against the wall like a living Armani commercial.
“Dr Wilson, I was just - ”
“Your clinic patient? Yeah, I saw the file. Come in.”
Cameron’s left blinking at his uncharacteristic abruptness. Strange, that a man known as the very picture of courtesy with consults would be impatient now.
Maybe he’s having a bad day. Everyone has them.
Of course, the more gossipy of the nurses would have an entirely more sinister explanation. She doesn’t like to talk about other people behind their backs, but she does have ears.
They say he’s practically living in his office. They say his wife calls ten times a day. And - “Have you ever…cheated?” - he says he’s unfaithful. All of which add up to make him a bit of a mess, more than she had ever realised from his crisply efficient professional life.
Said consummate professional holds the door open for her, eyebrow raised expectantly and lips quirked upwards. She tells herself off sternly and strides into his warmly decorated office, focus back on the patient instead of the doctor.
Wilson seems to regain some of his mysteriously lost equilibrium as he steps behind his desk, even managing a rueful smile as he takes the file.
“Dana’s newest test results,” she says, her own smile tentative, testing the waters.
Wilson nods absently, gaze heavy on the page. Silence, and the crease making an appearance between his brows tells her all she needs to know.
“Inconclusive, huh. You’ll have to do the biopsy.”
She sighs. “Okay.”
Another pause, as Wilson lifts his eyes to scrutinize her instead of the test results. “That’s it? You’re not going to give me the ‘invasive and unnecessary’ speech?”
He looks surprised, pleased, and - something else she can’t quite define. It’s flattering, almost, in a way Cameron doesn’t really want to think about.
“I…respect your judgement as head of Oncology,” she says, flashing a bright smile.
Wilson’s own perfectly correct smile shifts, becoming something less strained and more genuine, but his eyes are still guarded. With a jolt, she recognises the look for what it is - appraisal, as if he’s seeing her clearly for the first time.
She pulls professionalism around herself like a coat - a lab coat, even - to fight off embarrassment, and the inevitable flustered reaction that accompanies it.
“I’ll just go get consent for the biopsy, then.”
Wilson nods, never breaking eye contact. “If you need a second opinion on the results….”
“Thank you.”
She turns to go, but he’s not finished.
“Doctor Cameron?”
Something in his voice makes her turn back, search for meaning, an indication, anything in his suddenly inscrutable face.
He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and - “Be good.”
The topic under discussion is blindingly obvious - Wilson cares about House to an extent and in a way that is overwhelming when compared to his relationship with anyone else in the hospital.
Still…To him, for him, what?
She lifts her head and stares straight into that strangely closed face, remembering a previous conversation much like this one. There’s far less need for articulation this time around.
“I will.”
Later, she’s pouring her second coffee of the day with stubborn concentration when House appears suddenly behind her, having decided to initiate a conversation by reaching around her for the sugar.
“So, how was Doctor Wilson?” His tone is jaunty, and she concentrates on picturing the undoubtedly ridiculous expression on his face instead of thinking about how damn close he’s standing, how she can feel him draw breath.
“He…seemed okay, why?”
House withdraws just enough for her to turn around, although in all probability he might have just wanted to make sure she got the full effect of his next outrageous statement.
“My horoscope told me a friend would be in peril this week, I’m concerned.”
She can’t help but smile. “You’re - concerned. Really.”
“Why, Doctor Cameron, that’s positively hurtful.”
Cameron doesn’t bother to dignify his faux pouting with a reply. Maybe she should ask Wilson for tips - House-wrangling through banter. He’s so good at it, after all.
She could handle him for one night. Probably.
“Seven thirty tonight, by the way. You already know my address.”
“Great. White or red?”
You don’t love, you need.
Sally comes in moments after Cameron’s coattails flee the scene. Her smile is practised, polished and her message the same as usual.
“Your wife called.”
More than three times, probably. Sally, of course, knows enough not to mention it. Clever woman. Great legs, too, and contrary to House’s accusations she’s not having an affair with him.
It feels almost mitigating to know these things.
Wilson spares a glance at the clock even though he already knows what it’ll say, and pauses thoughtfully before picking up the phone.
(The mask of a reluctant sinner is liberating, even in private.)
He fingers go speed dial, 1 on autopilot. It’s two rings before he realises, and that has got to say something significant and pathetic about the state of everything - even more than the fact that his own house is speed dial 2.
He’s not going to be home tonight, anyway.
Julie is either not home or not answering, which pretty much tells him all he needs to know. He leaves a message - I’m busy, Honey, don’t wait up - the usual. Perversely, her absence makes him feel much better. Two wrong may not make a right, but it suits them just fine.
He ends up spending the evening with Bella from radiology. She’s blonde, curvy and adoring, the kind of woman House would have called as his type the moment he saw her. They have dinner at the area’s most expensive restaurant, Wilson smiling affectionately at her wide-eyed nervousness - it’s so expensive, Doctor Wilson, you shouldn’t have - and admiring her round perky breasts in a cheap but form-fitting black dress.
It’s just as well that he doesn’t come here for the food, because the perfectly arranged and tasteless mess only makes him nostalgic for Golden Fortune’s sweet and sour pork. Or better yet, House makes good stir-fry. It may possibly be Princeton-Plainsboro’s best kept secret.
Conversation’s the same as always.
“I really want to go to the Caribbean, it sounds so romantic - have you ever been, James?”
“No, but I’d love to go…”
And so on. Wilson tunes out, dealing out pitch-perfect answers on auto-pilot. He drinks the wine much faster than the price tag deserves and wonders about House and Cameron. Wonders what Cameron thinks she’s doing. Healing him, possibly - a noble cause. In that case, he could have told her it won’t work.
Hindsight is 20/20, after all.
On the rare occasions when Wilson attempts honesty with himself, he realises that his real objection to the Vicodin is that it seem to dilute House, dim his eyes and take away the kind of fierce, almost Dionysian joy he used to live both happiness and suffering with -
And god knows Wilson misses it terribly, with a nostalgia that’s probably pathetic for someone his age.
House is willing to do anything to get what he wants. Anything but change.
An experiment. What the fuck does that mean?
There is a side of him that’s always endearing; enchanting, even. The House who watches endless soaps, plays piano beautifully, speaks three languages and swears in at least ten -
The one who makes full use of his features to create a whole arsenal of faux expressions of emotion, obscuring even the ability for emotional depth. In Wilson’s more maudlin moments, he thinks of it as the quirky, human side of someone twice removed from ordinary.
House doesn’t do human interaction for its own sake - it’s one of the many reasons people who manage to get close to him all tend to be slightly sociopathic to begin with. Stacy is the obvious example (she is, after all, a lawyer, says a little voice in his head) but Wilson doesn’t delude himself. Much.
The less obvious example is almost always the better one -
- which is really just a roundabout way for Wilson to admit that he’s more than a little fucked up.
…you’re looking for your new charity case.
“…nice place,” is the first thing House says with perfect, razor-sharp sarcasm upon entering her apartment, banishing a bottle of Chardonnay in the hand not gripping the cane.
Cameron flushes, cursing her light colouring and doing her best to give House an unruffled look. “You’re on time.”
And he looks good too, like himself without the trappings of a tie, top buttons undone on his navy shirt and unshaven as always.
“They tell me it’s in fashion.”
She sees a crooked smile to go with it and prays it’s not just her imagination.
The curry’s burnt, she harbours a sneaking suspicion that there’s too much sugar in everything and it’s miraculous, really, that he hasn’t mocked it and everything else to pieces.
Instead, he sprawls carefully in her polished wood dinning chairs, tries a little of everything and tells her stories about South-East Asia. She laughs at all the appropriate moments and ignores his wrinkled brow when he tries most of the dishes. Pours them both generous helpings of wine and restrains the urge to talk about anything substantial.
She remembers how that went last time.
This is much better. House is telling an incredibly dirty story about his trip to Vietnam and she’s giggling helplessly into her glass.
“The things she could do with asparagus…ahh, that was a rewarding experience,” he pauses to give her a significant look, blue eyes wide. “…if you know what I mean.”
She gasps and breaks down laughing, secretly pleased at the uncomplicated mischievous gleam in his eyes.
They might be having fun, and that’s the best part.
Eventually, Cameron goes to pour more wine and realises that the bottle is empty. They both stopped eating a long time ago, and she’s in the middle of a vaguely perverted story about her Chemistry professor.
House’s eyes flicker with something unidentifiable, brows drawing down over his eyes.
“I should probably go.”
She clamps her mouth down over the protests forming in her mind. “Are you okay to drive?”
He raises an eyebrow. “There are these mysterious contraptions called cabs…” Grabs his cane and stands smoothly, smirking a little.
Sighing, she attempts to get out of her chair without wobbling. “If you can mock me, you can probably get home.”
That earns her a scalpel-sharp stare and silence as he limps to the door. Cameron trails along, trying to kill anything like sympathy that arises in her. House doesn’t do sympathy.
Her acting must be improving, then, because he stops giving her that scalpel-sharp stare from the doorway, leans down and brushes a kiss against the corner of her lips.
He’s gone before she can react, moving faster than any man with one working leg should have the right to -
Leaving her to wonder whether she’d imagined the bitter smile curving his mouth.
…Today…
“ -it’s true?”
Chase staring at Cameron with his jaw slack from shock is the first sight that greets Wilson upon entry into the Diagnostics conference room. It’s enough to give him a headache, and he hasn’t even had any coffee yet.
No need to ask about the topic under discussion, either - the wombat is a gossipy one. Cameron nods at him with a smile from her chair as he zeros in on the coffee machine, and he spares a moment to wonder if he should interpret it as a good sign. Spares another to think about what good covers in this stupid situation while watching one of House’s red mugs fill.
“Yeah,” Cameron says finally, her tone a study in nonchalance.
No doubt House would be eager to have yet another of his obscurely meaningful after-date conversations when he does get to work.
“Good morning, Doctor Wilson.”
He turns to act polite, smile pasted firmly on and freezes at the pleased expression animating her face -
Vindication, like she’s won a prize.
“Good…morning,” he says numbly.
Maybe he’s in for a different type of conversation. Like after Baltimore. The possibility of being blind-sided again is disconcerting.
An experiment, he said. What the hell happened?
He feels almost sick. The Oncology lounge suddenly seems a lot more inviting. Or even his office. House can find him if he wants to share feelings.
He takes a moment before darting out to note the way that Chase’s shocked staring has somehow crossed over the line from annoying to hilarious.
“Chase! Close your mouth.”
His office is quiet, warm, and free of silently gloating Camerons. Wilson stares at a patient’s chart without really seeing it and tries to forget one particular conversation with Stacy.
He’s tried to forget it since the day they had it, really.
She looked up from her packing, saw the expression on his face, and looked down again. Wilson was always good at making her feel guilty.
“Leaving again?”
“You’re still here.”
He blinked. “What about me?”
“Don’t play dumb, James.”
He wasn’t - he just wasn’t sure he wanted to understand.
“I-”
“Come on, how many years has it been?”
“I can’t, Stacy.”
She gave him a penetrating look. “I can’t. You won’t.”
The knock on his door is incredibly well-timed. He takes a deep breath.
“Come in.”
“Doctor Wilson, can I talk to you for a moment?”
The person in question turns out to be Foreman in a bad mood, which makes Wilson seriously reconsider being grateful for the interruption. He rubs at his forehead and considers treatment options for a House-induced headache.
“Yeah, sure, what’s the problem?”
Foreman looks almost as long-suffering as he does, full of the belief that he’s surrounded by crazy people, if not outright idiots. He also sprawls in the exact same way as House, which is creepy enough on its own without the similar attitude.
“What’s with Cameron and House?”
Wilson suddenly wants another cup of coffee. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”
“He’d take my head off,” Foreman scoffs, and the accompanying incredulous expression almost makes the entire thing worth it.
He doesn’t laugh, but it’s close. “I take it you’re not happy about this turn of events.”
Foreman nods. "It's exploitation of her trust and his position of authority."
“They’re both adults,” he says, and it doesn’t quite come out right.
Maybe it would have slipped by anyone else, but House knows how to pick his protégés. Foreman in particular is too fucking perceptive.
He examines Wilson, head tilted: “You don’t approve.”
Wilson winces. If I knew what was going on…
“…he doesn’t need to know.”
“Oh, but he does. What’s up?”
House, as ever, has brilliant timing. It’s hugely entertaining to see Foreman jump, although he’s only immune from years of experience.
From the looks of things, last night wasn’t an earth-shattering experience. He looks scruffy and delighted at Foreman’s discomfort - standard House, really.
He’s also staring holes through Wilson’s head, in a way that makes him wonder what he’s done and lied about lately that would piss House off. The list is pretty damn long.
“Uh…I have clinic hours,” Foreman mumbles, jumping up and heading for the door.
Smart man. Also the kind of man who would never in a million years understand why boy wonder Oncologist James Wilson would be friends with that mean, evil doctor.
What some people don’t seem to realise is that he enjoys House’s company. A lot. When the leg pain is worse it does get hard, but the other times more than makes up for it. He assumes that the concept applies both ways, since House isn’t likely to spend time with someone unless he gets something out of it.
He does care, Wilson knows that much; but that’s also another can of worms. And he’s a little bit crazy, which doesn’t help.
House isn’t nearly as constantly cranky as some people think. There’s a certain mercurial quality in him, something that can shift his underlying mood with vicious and terrifying speed. Wilson has seen him be both effortlessly cruel and kind in the same sentence.
It makes him difficult, certainly, but not impossible.
House sits down in the chair vacated by Foreman with a conspiratorial smirk.
“Cameron’s cooking is terrible.”
“Really?” Wilson says flatly, not even bothering to pretend interest in Cameron’s culinary achievements.
“Yes, worse than yours. Amazing, I know.”
“You’re cooking next time, I presume?” Wilson says lightly.
House appears to be seriously considering it, which is worrying on its own, but -
“Probably takeout.”
Oh fuck.
“This experiment of yours…are you going to call it that until you get engaged?”
He gets an exasperated eye-roll for his trouble. “Sure, and by the way, we’re moving in together next week. Got the furniture all picked out and everything.” A significant pause. “…with the help of my good friend, of course.”
Ask a stupidly paranoid question, get a nonsensical answer. “Who would that be?”
“Can’t you guess? It starts with ‘V’.”
Without thinking: “They’re going to destroy your liver eventually.”
Oh yeah. He’s really itching to pick a fight today.
House looks really pissed off, the kind that makes him slam his cane into things - but only for all of two seconds. Then it’s back to the eye-roll and biting sarcasm.
“Guess what, I happen to be a doctor too! Do I need to show you my diplomas again?”
Wilson sighs, defeated for the moment. “No. You said you were addicted.”
“And you have an addiction to cheating,” House snaps. “Doesn’t mean I keep trying to make you get therapy.”
Ouch.
…A week after today…
“Got a dinner date, Cameron?”
“…no, why?”
“Monty Python it is, then. You know where I live.”
“You’re going to cook?”
“No. Chinese takeout.”
…three weeks after today…
Sometimes Wilson tortures himself with visions of a wedding. Himself as the best man, Cuddy leading the bridesmaids; but of course it’s never going to happen. House works by a Law of Decreasing Commitment - he never married Stacy, he’s certainly never going to marry anyone else.
He wonders if Cameron - Allison - has figured that out yet. He wants desperately to know what she would think, how she would rationalise it, make it fit into her diagnosis.
At least her motivations are relatively easy to decipher. Wilson doesn’t buy House’s explanation, not least because it makes no sense. House does actually like the girl. On the other hand, simple affection would not have made him accept that second dinner date. There has to be something more.
Maybe it’s her obvious pathologies. House has always been drawn to the more screwed up members of society. He picks at scabs ruthlessly, obsessively, no matter who they belong to - as long as the wound underneath is interesting enough. He doesn’t even have to be doing it consciously.
The first time Wilson sees her pretty face smudged with tear tracks, he tries and fails to be surprised. The weight of predictability makes him want to shake his head and keep going.
He is the nice one, though, so he stops walking and offers to buy her coffee instead.
They sit in a corner of the cafeteria, Wilson producing tissues and watching her choke back sobs. The scene is eerily similar to many others he’s been privy to, with nurses, accountants and secretaries; except he’s most definitely not trying to seduce anyone here.
He’s probably supposed to feel sympathetic, watching her sniff with what House once termed ‘pathetic sincerity’. But the only thing that goes through his mind is far from sympathy.
She really is remarkably attractive. Most people look terrible in tears.
He can almost see why House is interested - she’s so pretty, so determinedly sweet and sincere and damaged, she seems to adore him, and if House were a normal person, that might be enough.
That’s why you’re going out with me.
She doesn’t want to tell him - all fights sound incredibly silly when they’re repeated to other people, and yet she can’t help herself. He’s a great listener, receptive and sympathetic, and it’s just so easy.
“I-I know it’s stupid…”
He smiles with perfect understanding over laced fingers. “It’s House, he just doesn’t know when to stop pushing.” Hands her another tissue.
“Thanks….for listening, I mean,” she says between sniffs, mortally embarrassed.
Wilson nods. “You’re going to keep trying, aren’t you?”
It’s not a question, and it shouldn’t be. “…yeah.”
He finishes his coffee with one long swallow and slams the cup down. “Well, now that you have him - be good to him.”
Said briskly, like talking about the weather.
She draws in a quick breath, shocked. “I - how can you say that?”
“It’s my prerogative to. Don’t hurt him.” The steel in his gaze is both promise and warning. She swallows hard.
“That’s impossible -you know that.”
“I don’t care. Don’t break anything you can’t replace.” He pauses to lean forward, almost intimately close and gives her a brilliant smile. “And by the way, you definitely can’t fix him. Tried that already.”
If Wilson reached across the table and slapped her, he could not have caused more intentional hurt. And of course, it had been intentional. That much was clear.
“You’re just as much a jerk as he is,” she hears herself saying, as if from a long distance. “Just in a nicer package.”
Oddly, he looks flattered. “…maybe.”
House is kind of a bastard, and so is Wilson. She isn’t like them. She’s a nice girl, who only wants -
What? To heal people? Comfort the dying?
Cameron never wanted any kind of epic romance with House. What she sees in him, in them, is perfectly straight-forward, at least in her own head. There’s a reassurance, almost, in the fact that he’ll almost certainly push her away.
It suddenly occurs to her that she may very well be just as commitment-phobic as the man sitting in front of her.
They deal in different ways - that’s all.
She stands with as much dignity as she can manage and turns to go. Decides to get at least some revenge.
“You know, we haven’t…done anything.”
House is wrong about one thing - sometimes pretty girls become doctors to fix people.
I’m twice your age, I’m not great looking, I’m not charming, I’m not even nice.
Wilson doesn’t break his ‘no drinking in working hours’ rule, but it’s a close thing, especially after Cameron’s little parting shot.
You can’t make anything easy, can you?
His fingers pause over the speed dial - 1 for frightening truths, 2 for suffocating awkwardness - and skip over the buttons entirely. Instead, he calls Bella from radiology.
This would be the fourth date, if they were dating. They haven’t made it to the bedroom yet - Bella’s skittish underneath all that brazen self-confidence. She needs to be convinced that he’s serious, that he cares.
As House would say, he always cares.
Not the old clichéd exam room, no; Wilson’s careful. He takes her to a hotel after dinner instead. It’s a nice one, ridiculously high count cotton sheets and all.
She kisses him tentatively, so hesitant and sweet and awkward with her hands that he feels like a terrible bastard. When they break apart for soft, panting breaths he still manages to look her in the eye, make her grin in delight. He always does.
Wilson mouths at the tender juncture where her neck meets shoulder and can’t help smiling into her skin at the way she gasps; slides a hand up her dress and thinks about House.
It’s probably worrying that this doesn’t worry him.
Then again, he’s not thinking in anything but the most abstract terms, contemplation rather than fetishism, or maybe the two are one and the same where House is concerned.
He’s probably physically whole when he dreams, athletic and graceful just like he used to be. Maybe he manages a ghost of his old semblance of happiness in those moments.
Then again, Wilson reflects - gentling nudging the straps of Bella’s dress of her shoulders - happiness is a relative thing.
His phone rings.
“E-excuse me. Sorry,” and now he’s flushing, fumbling for the phone. No need to look at the screen, there’s only one person who would call him at this kind of time.
“Wilson.”
“Come on over, Jimmy.”
He sighs. Brilliant timing, as usual. “Little busy here…”
“I got Chinese.”
“House - ”
Blandly: “There’s a plate of stir-fry with your name on it. Better come, I hate celery.” Click.
Fuck. That meant House had actually cooked.
Wilson glances regretfully at Bella from radiology, sitting on the massive bed with her dress falling off her shoulders and resigns himself to making up an emergency.
His friendship with House is strange and misshapen, but ultimately significant - because House relaxes just a little when he opens the door as if relieved, because Wilson finds himself enjoying the evening immensely even with the addition of bad movies and the loss of female companionship.
This he would not trade for anything else, and he thinks House understands that.
Or maybe not, as he says -
“So, what happened with Cameron?”
- right after the credits roll, eyes to the screen.
“I told her not to bother trying to fix you; she looked at me like I was responsible for global warming, the war on Iraq and the death of Mother Theresa.”
House chuckles at that, which always makes Wilson feel warm and angry at the same time, for the same singular reason - no one else ever sees the Greg House he’s friends with.
“I thought you were supposed to be the nice one, ” mock-reproachful, playful.
It hits too close to home, after Cameron. “I never said I was,” he replies quietly.
House finally glances at him, amused and smug all of a sudden. “No, you just play at it.”
Beat. “That’s close enough, isn’t it?”
“It is when you hang around me all the time.”
Such are the dangers inherent in being so close to a man who takes a visceral pleasure in putting others under a microscope.
Wilson laughs, but it’s forced and they both know it. “You’ve clearly been around Cameron for too long.”
The expression on House’s face changes from waiting to pouncing so fast it’s frightening. “Nice distraction, isn’t she?”
This isn’t a game, people aren’t experiments and Wilson’s frustrated and tired of not knowing.
“That’s not true. What are you trying to prove?”
House stands abruptly, cane in hand and begins pacing the width of the living room. Not agitated, though - merely calculating.
“So, how many dates in the last three weeks? How many women?”
Wilson stares. This is not - they don’t talk about this. Not seriously, not diagnostically.
“There’s n-no one.”
House laughs, sarcastic and unpleasant. “Try again. There’s at least one nurse, more than three dates - am I getting warm?”
“How…how did you know?”
This whole conversation, the whole day, the entire month has been one big train wreck. He can’t look away. House turns almost viciously fast to stop right in front of him, staring as only he can at his most overbearing.
“You stutter. When you’re lying, particularly if you’re uncomfortable about it. Guilty conscience?”
Wilson is apparently a lot worse at lying to House than he thought he was. And -
House’s eyes are really fucking blue when he’s angry.
Wilson stands in a flash, without really thinking and they’re kissing, awkward and angry and messy and - if he’s honest with himself - it’s the hottest damn thing he’s ever experienced.
Wilson forces himself to push House away, but only manages an arm’s length. His right hand is clutching a fistful of House’s shirt and refusing to let go.
He doesn’t know what he’s doing.
“I-I’m married.” He doesn’t recognise his voice.
“Yeah. I happen to know that.” House pauses significantly, cocks his head, expression a parody of curiosity. “What I don’t know is - since when did that matter to you?”
“Greg, what - ”
“Prognosis is grim. Patient appears to be incurable,” House closes his eyes, as if the words hurt. As if this is what touches him through the walls of obsession and control. “You’re never going to choose.”
“I…don’t know.”
But he understands, now.
They had talked, that first day, before Cameron, before all this.
…the day before yesterday, just a little earlier…
“‘Keep trying’? Is that your miracle cure for inability to commit?”
“You got any better ideas?”
Beat. “Maybe you’re missing something.”
“After all these years?”
Wilson had laughed it off - just another jab at his ‘pathology’, from a man who loved to say such things for amusement’s sake.
…this is the tipping point…
He thinks, desperately - it’s just a game…but it obviously isn’t. Wasn’t.
Draws a deep breath and tries again: “You can’t trial and condemn me in absentia.”
“You were there, Jimmy.”
“Greg - ”
“You were there.”
House’s eyes are lit with a maniac, alcohol-fuelled gleam, and an endless litany of judgement and condemnation for a misshapen crime. The most horrifying part of the whole glorious mess - well, Wilson hadn’t really known what was happening, had he?
It’s not any kind of defence against a man unfamiliar with the concept of mercy and completely in love with cold hard logic. Nothing is, at this point.
House never denies Wilson anything. Except -
With this.
“What happened?”
“I got tired of waiting.”
Fin (What I am is what you need: I'm damaged.)
Author's Notes: Apologies to blademistress for stealing her brackets and for my endlessly obsessive nature. If you've read all the way through, congratulations and thank you.
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: House/Wilson, House/Cameron, implied others.
Spoilers: Up to season two, 2x11 (Need to Know).
Summary: Cameron's in love, House appears to be conducting an experiment in relationships, and Wilson doesn't understand.
Disclaimer: Not actually mine.
Dedication: blademistress, as the second of three fics I owe her. Funnily enough, she was also the beta reader without whom this fic would have been a mess.
Music: Death Cab for Cutie - Someday You Will Be Loved. Self-explanatory, really, once you read the lyrics. Very Wilson.
Notes: This fic ended up being a fairly ambitious undertaking for my second attempt at House fic. Feedback of all kinds is definitely welcome.
…tipping point…
“You can’t trial and condemn me in absentia.”
“You were there, Jimmy.”
“Greg - ”
“You were there.”
House’s eyes are lit with a maniac, alcohol-fuelled gleam, and an endless litany of judgement and condemnation for a misshapen crime. The most horrifying part of the whole glorious mess - well, Wilson hadn’t really known what was happening, had he?
It’s not any kind of defence against a man unfamiliar with the concept of mercy and completely in love with cold hard logic. Nothing is, at this point.
Real life doesn’t allow easy confessions.
What else is love, that repugnant word, but the delusion of a lifetime?
…the day before yesterday…
“Okay, I’m off. Cameron, go hold the patient’s hand.”
Cameron opens her mouth reflexively - It’s barely three PM - and swallows the words. Foreman’s frighteningly expressive raised eyebrows do the talking instead.
“What? Hooker night calls.” An exaggerated wink goes with the leer in his tone, and House probably figures that the image alone would be enough to ward off any further questioning.
It’s not like he needs it, though - the black, sniping mood hovering all around him like a cloud is enough to repel any but the truly determined from attempting conversation. However, Cameron’s nothing if not truly determined, or as some would have it -
“My god, you’re subtle.”
Cuddy doesn’t know the least of it, really. The thought puts a smile on her face, makes her brave -
Enough to step into House’s office while he’s shoving files haphazardly into his bag and open her mouth to say things that are probably very ill-advised.
She’s never been good at being appropriate.
“House.”
“You’re still here.”
“I am.”
He stops packing momentarily to stare at her. “Okay, is there any particular reason you’re blocking my escape route?”
The annoyance openly displayed on his eloquent face is familiar, and she’s optimistic enough to see an almost affectionate edge to it. That spark of humanity makes enduring everything else worthwhile.
Cameron smiles. “What are you feelings on Thai food?”
“Are you inviting me to dinner?” he says, semi-incredulous.
“I guess.”
“Sorry, I’m not into awkward psychoanalytical conversations, no matter how good the food is.” That’s a parting shot as far as House is concerned, a good note on which to push past her and attempt escape.
She says softly, under her breath, “you are when it’s about patients.”
House pauses, mid-limp.
“Okay.”
…yesterday…
“She…did?”
Wilson stares at House, lunch (dry cafeteria sandwich lovingly stuffed with meat of questionable origin) completely forgotten. There’s a certain guiltiness to the way House is behaving, with his fixed stare at an invisible spot somewhere beyond Wilson’s left ear and untouched food.
Then again, he reflects, swallowing his own with some difficulty, can’t say I blame him there.
“And?”
House begins to fiddle with his cane in lieu of an actual answer. Wilson sighs.
“You did at least let her down gently, right?”
Still no answer. There must be something really fascinating just behind Wilson’s ear.
“I’m going to go and find out by asking the nurses if they’ve see her crying in the bathroom anytime now, since it - ”
“- I said yes.”
“- will obviously be faster.” A pregnant pause. “Wait, you said what?”
The incredulous look on his face finally draws House’s gaze back, if only for the split second before he begins trying to visually dissect Wilson’s sandwich instead.
“Dinner. At Cameron’s apartment. You are paying attention, right?”
Wilson just stares disbelievingly in lieu of a reply, and he figures can be forgiven for not coming up with a quick, witty retort, because -
This is just weird.
Not even House snatching what’s left of his coffee is enough to goad his vocal cords into action again. Not that Wilson needs to stop him - he’s planned ahead for the theft in advance by getting a larger cup, anyway.
“You’re not going to give me advice again, are you?”
“I’m still stuck in ‘incredulous shock’. Giving you crap dating advice doesn’t happen until ‘mild disbelief’ kicks in.”
“I wonder which part surprises you more - that I’m voluntarily spending an evening with company that isn’t you, or - ”
“The choice of candidate,” Wilson finishes, not quite managing to keep the dry tone out of his voice. “Quite.”
That makes House look up again, if only for the purpose of examining him intently. “You’re not so fond of the fair Doctor Cameron?”
“She’s a very attractive woman…”
“So you have put the moves on her.”
“Well, no…”
Wilson and Cameron would have never worked. Sure, she’s certainly attractive - House has good taste in eye-candy, if nothing else - but not his type. As House has irritatingly and repeatedly pointed out, there’s a pattern to be found amongst the many women who pass through his life.
“They all happen to make less than a quarter of what you make. Interesting fact, isn’t it? Really adds that extra touch to the nice guy image.”
Cameron is Cameron, and no matter how many times House accuses Wilson of going for the needy type, her twisted vulnerability doesn’t interest him - he’d end up wrapping her up in a pretty bow and sending her to a shrink after bedding her twice. Or maybe once. He isn’t eager to find out.
Of course, all this is idle speculation, since she has never given him a second glance. Wilson’s probably far too neat and polished to be her type, if his admittedly limited sample of her tastes is any indication.
With an effort, Wilson drags his thoughts back to the situation at hand, where House has somehow folded his napkin into a frog. There is a curious tenseness to his carefully careless sprawl, and the - damnably attractive, really - smug tilt of his head.
“Hmm. Interesting.”
Fuck. “Oh, no…”
He gets a wide-eyed glance for his trouble, all fake innocence and very real amusement. “What?”
“I know that look.”
Head-tilt, and there’s that probing look again. “Relax, Jimmy. The world isn’t going to end just yet.”
“What is this?”
There’s a pause two seconds too long, and House’s eyes land everywhere but on Wilson.
“An experiment.”
You live under the delusion that you can fix everything that isn’t perfect.
She pauses, fist raised in the air a few inches away from the door. James Wilson, M.D., Department of Oncology it says in bold lettering, scraps of information that conveys nothing or everything about the person behind it. An image comes to her, unbidden, of House and Wilson striding through the corridors of the hospital, the space between them more insubstantial than the hair’s breath between her hand and the door, and she has to wonder which applies to Wilson. How much of his life is oncology, and how much simply to do with…other things?
“Doctor Cameron?”
Wilson’s voice is coolly professional, but she still has to suppress a blush. Not one of her finest moments, caught hesitating at his door like some fresh-faced intern. Dignity gathered, she turns to see him leaning against the wall like a living Armani commercial.
“Dr Wilson, I was just - ”
“Your clinic patient? Yeah, I saw the file. Come in.”
Cameron’s left blinking at his uncharacteristic abruptness. Strange, that a man known as the very picture of courtesy with consults would be impatient now.
Maybe he’s having a bad day. Everyone has them.
Of course, the more gossipy of the nurses would have an entirely more sinister explanation. She doesn’t like to talk about other people behind their backs, but she does have ears.
They say he’s practically living in his office. They say his wife calls ten times a day. And - “Have you ever…cheated?” - he says he’s unfaithful. All of which add up to make him a bit of a mess, more than she had ever realised from his crisply efficient professional life.
Said consummate professional holds the door open for her, eyebrow raised expectantly and lips quirked upwards. She tells herself off sternly and strides into his warmly decorated office, focus back on the patient instead of the doctor.
Wilson seems to regain some of his mysteriously lost equilibrium as he steps behind his desk, even managing a rueful smile as he takes the file.
“Dana’s newest test results,” she says, her own smile tentative, testing the waters.
Wilson nods absently, gaze heavy on the page. Silence, and the crease making an appearance between his brows tells her all she needs to know.
“Inconclusive, huh. You’ll have to do the biopsy.”
She sighs. “Okay.”
Another pause, as Wilson lifts his eyes to scrutinize her instead of the test results. “That’s it? You’re not going to give me the ‘invasive and unnecessary’ speech?”
He looks surprised, pleased, and - something else she can’t quite define. It’s flattering, almost, in a way Cameron doesn’t really want to think about.
“I…respect your judgement as head of Oncology,” she says, flashing a bright smile.
Wilson’s own perfectly correct smile shifts, becoming something less strained and more genuine, but his eyes are still guarded. With a jolt, she recognises the look for what it is - appraisal, as if he’s seeing her clearly for the first time.
She pulls professionalism around herself like a coat - a lab coat, even - to fight off embarrassment, and the inevitable flustered reaction that accompanies it.
“I’ll just go get consent for the biopsy, then.”
Wilson nods, never breaking eye contact. “If you need a second opinion on the results….”
“Thank you.”
She turns to go, but he’s not finished.
“Doctor Cameron?”
Something in his voice makes her turn back, search for meaning, an indication, anything in his suddenly inscrutable face.
He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and - “Be good.”
The topic under discussion is blindingly obvious - Wilson cares about House to an extent and in a way that is overwhelming when compared to his relationship with anyone else in the hospital.
Still…To him, for him, what?
She lifts her head and stares straight into that strangely closed face, remembering a previous conversation much like this one. There’s far less need for articulation this time around.
“I will.”
Later, she’s pouring her second coffee of the day with stubborn concentration when House appears suddenly behind her, having decided to initiate a conversation by reaching around her for the sugar.
“So, how was Doctor Wilson?” His tone is jaunty, and she concentrates on picturing the undoubtedly ridiculous expression on his face instead of thinking about how damn close he’s standing, how she can feel him draw breath.
“He…seemed okay, why?”
House withdraws just enough for her to turn around, although in all probability he might have just wanted to make sure she got the full effect of his next outrageous statement.
“My horoscope told me a friend would be in peril this week, I’m concerned.”
She can’t help but smile. “You’re - concerned. Really.”
“Why, Doctor Cameron, that’s positively hurtful.”
Cameron doesn’t bother to dignify his faux pouting with a reply. Maybe she should ask Wilson for tips - House-wrangling through banter. He’s so good at it, after all.
She could handle him for one night. Probably.
“Seven thirty tonight, by the way. You already know my address.”
“Great. White or red?”
You don’t love, you need.
Sally comes in moments after Cameron’s coattails flee the scene. Her smile is practised, polished and her message the same as usual.
“Your wife called.”
More than three times, probably. Sally, of course, knows enough not to mention it. Clever woman. Great legs, too, and contrary to House’s accusations she’s not having an affair with him.
It feels almost mitigating to know these things.
Wilson spares a glance at the clock even though he already knows what it’ll say, and pauses thoughtfully before picking up the phone.
(The mask of a reluctant sinner is liberating, even in private.)
He fingers go speed dial, 1 on autopilot. It’s two rings before he realises, and that has got to say something significant and pathetic about the state of everything - even more than the fact that his own house is speed dial 2.
He’s not going to be home tonight, anyway.
Julie is either not home or not answering, which pretty much tells him all he needs to know. He leaves a message - I’m busy, Honey, don’t wait up - the usual. Perversely, her absence makes him feel much better. Two wrong may not make a right, but it suits them just fine.
He ends up spending the evening with Bella from radiology. She’s blonde, curvy and adoring, the kind of woman House would have called as his type the moment he saw her. They have dinner at the area’s most expensive restaurant, Wilson smiling affectionately at her wide-eyed nervousness - it’s so expensive, Doctor Wilson, you shouldn’t have - and admiring her round perky breasts in a cheap but form-fitting black dress.
It’s just as well that he doesn’t come here for the food, because the perfectly arranged and tasteless mess only makes him nostalgic for Golden Fortune’s sweet and sour pork. Or better yet, House makes good stir-fry. It may possibly be Princeton-Plainsboro’s best kept secret.
Conversation’s the same as always.
“I really want to go to the Caribbean, it sounds so romantic - have you ever been, James?”
“No, but I’d love to go…”
And so on. Wilson tunes out, dealing out pitch-perfect answers on auto-pilot. He drinks the wine much faster than the price tag deserves and wonders about House and Cameron. Wonders what Cameron thinks she’s doing. Healing him, possibly - a noble cause. In that case, he could have told her it won’t work.
Hindsight is 20/20, after all.
On the rare occasions when Wilson attempts honesty with himself, he realises that his real objection to the Vicodin is that it seem to dilute House, dim his eyes and take away the kind of fierce, almost Dionysian joy he used to live both happiness and suffering with -
And god knows Wilson misses it terribly, with a nostalgia that’s probably pathetic for someone his age.
House is willing to do anything to get what he wants. Anything but change.
An experiment. What the fuck does that mean?
There is a side of him that’s always endearing; enchanting, even. The House who watches endless soaps, plays piano beautifully, speaks three languages and swears in at least ten -
The one who makes full use of his features to create a whole arsenal of faux expressions of emotion, obscuring even the ability for emotional depth. In Wilson’s more maudlin moments, he thinks of it as the quirky, human side of someone twice removed from ordinary.
House doesn’t do human interaction for its own sake - it’s one of the many reasons people who manage to get close to him all tend to be slightly sociopathic to begin with. Stacy is the obvious example (she is, after all, a lawyer, says a little voice in his head) but Wilson doesn’t delude himself. Much.
The less obvious example is almost always the better one -
- which is really just a roundabout way for Wilson to admit that he’s more than a little fucked up.
…you’re looking for your new charity case.
“…nice place,” is the first thing House says with perfect, razor-sharp sarcasm upon entering her apartment, banishing a bottle of Chardonnay in the hand not gripping the cane.
Cameron flushes, cursing her light colouring and doing her best to give House an unruffled look. “You’re on time.”
And he looks good too, like himself without the trappings of a tie, top buttons undone on his navy shirt and unshaven as always.
“They tell me it’s in fashion.”
She sees a crooked smile to go with it and prays it’s not just her imagination.
The curry’s burnt, she harbours a sneaking suspicion that there’s too much sugar in everything and it’s miraculous, really, that he hasn’t mocked it and everything else to pieces.
Instead, he sprawls carefully in her polished wood dinning chairs, tries a little of everything and tells her stories about South-East Asia. She laughs at all the appropriate moments and ignores his wrinkled brow when he tries most of the dishes. Pours them both generous helpings of wine and restrains the urge to talk about anything substantial.
She remembers how that went last time.
This is much better. House is telling an incredibly dirty story about his trip to Vietnam and she’s giggling helplessly into her glass.
“The things she could do with asparagus…ahh, that was a rewarding experience,” he pauses to give her a significant look, blue eyes wide. “…if you know what I mean.”
She gasps and breaks down laughing, secretly pleased at the uncomplicated mischievous gleam in his eyes.
They might be having fun, and that’s the best part.
Eventually, Cameron goes to pour more wine and realises that the bottle is empty. They both stopped eating a long time ago, and she’s in the middle of a vaguely perverted story about her Chemistry professor.
House’s eyes flicker with something unidentifiable, brows drawing down over his eyes.
“I should probably go.”
She clamps her mouth down over the protests forming in her mind. “Are you okay to drive?”
He raises an eyebrow. “There are these mysterious contraptions called cabs…” Grabs his cane and stands smoothly, smirking a little.
Sighing, she attempts to get out of her chair without wobbling. “If you can mock me, you can probably get home.”
That earns her a scalpel-sharp stare and silence as he limps to the door. Cameron trails along, trying to kill anything like sympathy that arises in her. House doesn’t do sympathy.
Her acting must be improving, then, because he stops giving her that scalpel-sharp stare from the doorway, leans down and brushes a kiss against the corner of her lips.
He’s gone before she can react, moving faster than any man with one working leg should have the right to -
Leaving her to wonder whether she’d imagined the bitter smile curving his mouth.
…Today…
“ -it’s true?”
Chase staring at Cameron with his jaw slack from shock is the first sight that greets Wilson upon entry into the Diagnostics conference room. It’s enough to give him a headache, and he hasn’t even had any coffee yet.
No need to ask about the topic under discussion, either - the wombat is a gossipy one. Cameron nods at him with a smile from her chair as he zeros in on the coffee machine, and he spares a moment to wonder if he should interpret it as a good sign. Spares another to think about what good covers in this stupid situation while watching one of House’s red mugs fill.
“Yeah,” Cameron says finally, her tone a study in nonchalance.
No doubt House would be eager to have yet another of his obscurely meaningful after-date conversations when he does get to work.
“Good morning, Doctor Wilson.”
He turns to act polite, smile pasted firmly on and freezes at the pleased expression animating her face -
Vindication, like she’s won a prize.
“Good…morning,” he says numbly.
Maybe he’s in for a different type of conversation. Like after Baltimore. The possibility of being blind-sided again is disconcerting.
An experiment, he said. What the hell happened?
He feels almost sick. The Oncology lounge suddenly seems a lot more inviting. Or even his office. House can find him if he wants to share feelings.
He takes a moment before darting out to note the way that Chase’s shocked staring has somehow crossed over the line from annoying to hilarious.
“Chase! Close your mouth.”
His office is quiet, warm, and free of silently gloating Camerons. Wilson stares at a patient’s chart without really seeing it and tries to forget one particular conversation with Stacy.
He’s tried to forget it since the day they had it, really.
She looked up from her packing, saw the expression on his face, and looked down again. Wilson was always good at making her feel guilty.
“Leaving again?”
“You’re still here.”
He blinked. “What about me?”
“Don’t play dumb, James.”
He wasn’t - he just wasn’t sure he wanted to understand.
“I-”
“Come on, how many years has it been?”
“I can’t, Stacy.”
She gave him a penetrating look. “I can’t. You won’t.”
The knock on his door is incredibly well-timed. He takes a deep breath.
“Come in.”
“Doctor Wilson, can I talk to you for a moment?”
The person in question turns out to be Foreman in a bad mood, which makes Wilson seriously reconsider being grateful for the interruption. He rubs at his forehead and considers treatment options for a House-induced headache.
“Yeah, sure, what’s the problem?”
Foreman looks almost as long-suffering as he does, full of the belief that he’s surrounded by crazy people, if not outright idiots. He also sprawls in the exact same way as House, which is creepy enough on its own without the similar attitude.
“What’s with Cameron and House?”
Wilson suddenly wants another cup of coffee. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”
“He’d take my head off,” Foreman scoffs, and the accompanying incredulous expression almost makes the entire thing worth it.
He doesn’t laugh, but it’s close. “I take it you’re not happy about this turn of events.”
Foreman nods. "It's exploitation of her trust and his position of authority."
“They’re both adults,” he says, and it doesn’t quite come out right.
Maybe it would have slipped by anyone else, but House knows how to pick his protégés. Foreman in particular is too fucking perceptive.
He examines Wilson, head tilted: “You don’t approve.”
Wilson winces. If I knew what was going on…
“…he doesn’t need to know.”
“Oh, but he does. What’s up?”
House, as ever, has brilliant timing. It’s hugely entertaining to see Foreman jump, although he’s only immune from years of experience.
From the looks of things, last night wasn’t an earth-shattering experience. He looks scruffy and delighted at Foreman’s discomfort - standard House, really.
He’s also staring holes through Wilson’s head, in a way that makes him wonder what he’s done and lied about lately that would piss House off. The list is pretty damn long.
“Uh…I have clinic hours,” Foreman mumbles, jumping up and heading for the door.
Smart man. Also the kind of man who would never in a million years understand why boy wonder Oncologist James Wilson would be friends with that mean, evil doctor.
What some people don’t seem to realise is that he enjoys House’s company. A lot. When the leg pain is worse it does get hard, but the other times more than makes up for it. He assumes that the concept applies both ways, since House isn’t likely to spend time with someone unless he gets something out of it.
He does care, Wilson knows that much; but that’s also another can of worms. And he’s a little bit crazy, which doesn’t help.
House isn’t nearly as constantly cranky as some people think. There’s a certain mercurial quality in him, something that can shift his underlying mood with vicious and terrifying speed. Wilson has seen him be both effortlessly cruel and kind in the same sentence.
It makes him difficult, certainly, but not impossible.
House sits down in the chair vacated by Foreman with a conspiratorial smirk.
“Cameron’s cooking is terrible.”
“Really?” Wilson says flatly, not even bothering to pretend interest in Cameron’s culinary achievements.
“Yes, worse than yours. Amazing, I know.”
“You’re cooking next time, I presume?” Wilson says lightly.
House appears to be seriously considering it, which is worrying on its own, but -
“Probably takeout.”
Oh fuck.
“This experiment of yours…are you going to call it that until you get engaged?”
He gets an exasperated eye-roll for his trouble. “Sure, and by the way, we’re moving in together next week. Got the furniture all picked out and everything.” A significant pause. “…with the help of my good friend, of course.”
Ask a stupidly paranoid question, get a nonsensical answer. “Who would that be?”
“Can’t you guess? It starts with ‘V’.”
Without thinking: “They’re going to destroy your liver eventually.”
Oh yeah. He’s really itching to pick a fight today.
House looks really pissed off, the kind that makes him slam his cane into things - but only for all of two seconds. Then it’s back to the eye-roll and biting sarcasm.
“Guess what, I happen to be a doctor too! Do I need to show you my diplomas again?”
Wilson sighs, defeated for the moment. “No. You said you were addicted.”
“And you have an addiction to cheating,” House snaps. “Doesn’t mean I keep trying to make you get therapy.”
Ouch.
…A week after today…
“Got a dinner date, Cameron?”
“…no, why?”
“Monty Python it is, then. You know where I live.”
“You’re going to cook?”
“No. Chinese takeout.”
…three weeks after today…
Sometimes Wilson tortures himself with visions of a wedding. Himself as the best man, Cuddy leading the bridesmaids; but of course it’s never going to happen. House works by a Law of Decreasing Commitment - he never married Stacy, he’s certainly never going to marry anyone else.
He wonders if Cameron - Allison - has figured that out yet. He wants desperately to know what she would think, how she would rationalise it, make it fit into her diagnosis.
At least her motivations are relatively easy to decipher. Wilson doesn’t buy House’s explanation, not least because it makes no sense. House does actually like the girl. On the other hand, simple affection would not have made him accept that second dinner date. There has to be something more.
Maybe it’s her obvious pathologies. House has always been drawn to the more screwed up members of society. He picks at scabs ruthlessly, obsessively, no matter who they belong to - as long as the wound underneath is interesting enough. He doesn’t even have to be doing it consciously.
The first time Wilson sees her pretty face smudged with tear tracks, he tries and fails to be surprised. The weight of predictability makes him want to shake his head and keep going.
He is the nice one, though, so he stops walking and offers to buy her coffee instead.
They sit in a corner of the cafeteria, Wilson producing tissues and watching her choke back sobs. The scene is eerily similar to many others he’s been privy to, with nurses, accountants and secretaries; except he’s most definitely not trying to seduce anyone here.
He’s probably supposed to feel sympathetic, watching her sniff with what House once termed ‘pathetic sincerity’. But the only thing that goes through his mind is far from sympathy.
She really is remarkably attractive. Most people look terrible in tears.
He can almost see why House is interested - she’s so pretty, so determinedly sweet and sincere and damaged, she seems to adore him, and if House were a normal person, that might be enough.
That’s why you’re going out with me.
She doesn’t want to tell him - all fights sound incredibly silly when they’re repeated to other people, and yet she can’t help herself. He’s a great listener, receptive and sympathetic, and it’s just so easy.
“I-I know it’s stupid…”
He smiles with perfect understanding over laced fingers. “It’s House, he just doesn’t know when to stop pushing.” Hands her another tissue.
“Thanks….for listening, I mean,” she says between sniffs, mortally embarrassed.
Wilson nods. “You’re going to keep trying, aren’t you?”
It’s not a question, and it shouldn’t be. “…yeah.”
He finishes his coffee with one long swallow and slams the cup down. “Well, now that you have him - be good to him.”
Said briskly, like talking about the weather.
She draws in a quick breath, shocked. “I - how can you say that?”
“It’s my prerogative to. Don’t hurt him.” The steel in his gaze is both promise and warning. She swallows hard.
“That’s impossible -you know that.”
“I don’t care. Don’t break anything you can’t replace.” He pauses to lean forward, almost intimately close and gives her a brilliant smile. “And by the way, you definitely can’t fix him. Tried that already.”
If Wilson reached across the table and slapped her, he could not have caused more intentional hurt. And of course, it had been intentional. That much was clear.
“You’re just as much a jerk as he is,” she hears herself saying, as if from a long distance. “Just in a nicer package.”
Oddly, he looks flattered. “…maybe.”
House is kind of a bastard, and so is Wilson. She isn’t like them. She’s a nice girl, who only wants -
What? To heal people? Comfort the dying?
Cameron never wanted any kind of epic romance with House. What she sees in him, in them, is perfectly straight-forward, at least in her own head. There’s a reassurance, almost, in the fact that he’ll almost certainly push her away.
It suddenly occurs to her that she may very well be just as commitment-phobic as the man sitting in front of her.
They deal in different ways - that’s all.
She stands with as much dignity as she can manage and turns to go. Decides to get at least some revenge.
“You know, we haven’t…done anything.”
House is wrong about one thing - sometimes pretty girls become doctors to fix people.
I’m twice your age, I’m not great looking, I’m not charming, I’m not even nice.
Wilson doesn’t break his ‘no drinking in working hours’ rule, but it’s a close thing, especially after Cameron’s little parting shot.
You can’t make anything easy, can you?
His fingers pause over the speed dial - 1 for frightening truths, 2 for suffocating awkwardness - and skip over the buttons entirely. Instead, he calls Bella from radiology.
This would be the fourth date, if they were dating. They haven’t made it to the bedroom yet - Bella’s skittish underneath all that brazen self-confidence. She needs to be convinced that he’s serious, that he cares.
As House would say, he always cares.
Not the old clichéd exam room, no; Wilson’s careful. He takes her to a hotel after dinner instead. It’s a nice one, ridiculously high count cotton sheets and all.
She kisses him tentatively, so hesitant and sweet and awkward with her hands that he feels like a terrible bastard. When they break apart for soft, panting breaths he still manages to look her in the eye, make her grin in delight. He always does.
Wilson mouths at the tender juncture where her neck meets shoulder and can’t help smiling into her skin at the way she gasps; slides a hand up her dress and thinks about House.
It’s probably worrying that this doesn’t worry him.
Then again, he’s not thinking in anything but the most abstract terms, contemplation rather than fetishism, or maybe the two are one and the same where House is concerned.
He’s probably physically whole when he dreams, athletic and graceful just like he used to be. Maybe he manages a ghost of his old semblance of happiness in those moments.
Then again, Wilson reflects - gentling nudging the straps of Bella’s dress of her shoulders - happiness is a relative thing.
His phone rings.
“E-excuse me. Sorry,” and now he’s flushing, fumbling for the phone. No need to look at the screen, there’s only one person who would call him at this kind of time.
“Wilson.”
“Come on over, Jimmy.”
He sighs. Brilliant timing, as usual. “Little busy here…”
“I got Chinese.”
“House - ”
Blandly: “There’s a plate of stir-fry with your name on it. Better come, I hate celery.” Click.
Fuck. That meant House had actually cooked.
Wilson glances regretfully at Bella from radiology, sitting on the massive bed with her dress falling off her shoulders and resigns himself to making up an emergency.
His friendship with House is strange and misshapen, but ultimately significant - because House relaxes just a little when he opens the door as if relieved, because Wilson finds himself enjoying the evening immensely even with the addition of bad movies and the loss of female companionship.
This he would not trade for anything else, and he thinks House understands that.
Or maybe not, as he says -
“So, what happened with Cameron?”
- right after the credits roll, eyes to the screen.
“I told her not to bother trying to fix you; she looked at me like I was responsible for global warming, the war on Iraq and the death of Mother Theresa.”
House chuckles at that, which always makes Wilson feel warm and angry at the same time, for the same singular reason - no one else ever sees the Greg House he’s friends with.
“I thought you were supposed to be the nice one, ” mock-reproachful, playful.
It hits too close to home, after Cameron. “I never said I was,” he replies quietly.
House finally glances at him, amused and smug all of a sudden. “No, you just play at it.”
Beat. “That’s close enough, isn’t it?”
“It is when you hang around me all the time.”
Such are the dangers inherent in being so close to a man who takes a visceral pleasure in putting others under a microscope.
Wilson laughs, but it’s forced and they both know it. “You’ve clearly been around Cameron for too long.”
The expression on House’s face changes from waiting to pouncing so fast it’s frightening. “Nice distraction, isn’t she?”
This isn’t a game, people aren’t experiments and Wilson’s frustrated and tired of not knowing.
“That’s not true. What are you trying to prove?”
House stands abruptly, cane in hand and begins pacing the width of the living room. Not agitated, though - merely calculating.
“So, how many dates in the last three weeks? How many women?”
Wilson stares. This is not - they don’t talk about this. Not seriously, not diagnostically.
“There’s n-no one.”
House laughs, sarcastic and unpleasant. “Try again. There’s at least one nurse, more than three dates - am I getting warm?”
“How…how did you know?”
This whole conversation, the whole day, the entire month has been one big train wreck. He can’t look away. House turns almost viciously fast to stop right in front of him, staring as only he can at his most overbearing.
“You stutter. When you’re lying, particularly if you’re uncomfortable about it. Guilty conscience?”
Wilson is apparently a lot worse at lying to House than he thought he was. And -
House’s eyes are really fucking blue when he’s angry.
Wilson stands in a flash, without really thinking and they’re kissing, awkward and angry and messy and - if he’s honest with himself - it’s the hottest damn thing he’s ever experienced.
Wilson forces himself to push House away, but only manages an arm’s length. His right hand is clutching a fistful of House’s shirt and refusing to let go.
He doesn’t know what he’s doing.
“I-I’m married.” He doesn’t recognise his voice.
“Yeah. I happen to know that.” House pauses significantly, cocks his head, expression a parody of curiosity. “What I don’t know is - since when did that matter to you?”
“Greg, what - ”
“Prognosis is grim. Patient appears to be incurable,” House closes his eyes, as if the words hurt. As if this is what touches him through the walls of obsession and control. “You’re never going to choose.”
“I…don’t know.”
But he understands, now.
They had talked, that first day, before Cameron, before all this.
…the day before yesterday, just a little earlier…
“‘Keep trying’? Is that your miracle cure for inability to commit?”
“You got any better ideas?”
Beat. “Maybe you’re missing something.”
“After all these years?”
Wilson had laughed it off - just another jab at his ‘pathology’, from a man who loved to say such things for amusement’s sake.
…this is the tipping point…
He thinks, desperately - it’s just a game…but it obviously isn’t. Wasn’t.
Draws a deep breath and tries again: “You can’t trial and condemn me in absentia.”
“You were there, Jimmy.”
“Greg - ”
“You were there.”
House’s eyes are lit with a maniac, alcohol-fuelled gleam, and an endless litany of judgement and condemnation for a misshapen crime. The most horrifying part of the whole glorious mess - well, Wilson hadn’t really known what was happening, had he?
It’s not any kind of defence against a man unfamiliar with the concept of mercy and completely in love with cold hard logic. Nothing is, at this point.
House never denies Wilson anything. Except -
With this.
“What happened?”
“I got tired of waiting.”
Fin (What I am is what you need: I'm damaged.)
Author's Notes: Apologies to blademistress for stealing her brackets and for my endlessly obsessive nature. If you've read all the way through, congratulations and thank you.