Locked Up and Set Free, 3/3 (PG-13)
Locked Up and Set Free
Part 3 of 3
(Part Two)
The problem, House had known all along, was proximity. As the radio silence from Wilson’s end stretched into its third week, House’s mind made the connection and flipped the puzzle. Mohammed to the mountain, mountain to Mohammed.
He finagled an early Vicodin refill out of Cuddy without telling her what it was for and packed a large duffle bag. When he got to Wilson’s house at midnight, he apologized for the zombie crack and slept like a log between the battlecruisers.
The next morning was a Saturday, and Wilson’s day off. He had Saturdays and Wednesdays off, Sunday being apparently a popular day to start dying.
They ate pancakes, five kinds, in such quantities as to make House actually feel nauseated. Wilson was looking a little green around the gills too, so for the rest of the morning they stayed within dashing distance of the toilet and watched very old reruns of General Hospital. Fashions of yesteryear, but the plotlines were the same to a remarkable extent.
In the afternoon, Wilson forced him to go to a Peewee Baseball game (they were the Bridgeton Bulldogs, it turned out). After an hour on the bleachers, House reluctantly admitted to having a good time. The hot dogs were excellent (Hebrew National all-beef), the beer was crappy but cheap, and there was something inherently amusing in watching a five-strikes-and-you’re-out game. The best play of the day was a miracle, closed-eyed catch in the outfield, and House cheered as loudly as anyone there.
Dinner was cotton candy and three Grolsch beers apiece. They laughed over Chase’s latest dating fiasco for far longer than the story even called for.
Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday House poked around the hospice, the town, and Wilson’s house, in no particular order, and waited. They had dinner out, and in, and with Wilson’s girlfriend Emily (“She’s a stripper” - “Really?” - “No”) who had a spark of independence never before seen in a Wilson conquest. On his daily early morning calls to Cuddy, House’s “cold” mated with a stomach virus and spawned the flu. Cuddy growled.
Wednesday they went to Philadelphia and played Stump the Tour Guide, a favorite game of House’s. It began with queries straight from the attraction’s pamphlet - amazing how many times one could win right there - and went on to bizarre, almost philosophical questions. He’d known Wilson was a champ in the querying role, second only to House himself of course, but he was amazed how much colonial trivia the man possessed. They attracted quite a following at the Betsy Ross house, and the volunteer guides’ noses were satisfyingly out of joint.
After a quick trip to the Mutter Museum (nineteenth century medical oddities), Wilson having vetoed a visit to the Eastern State Penitentiary Historic Site, they made their way slowly back to Millville, stopping here and there for no particular reason and talking about everything and nothing. ”I love you,” House told Wilson at one point, but given that Wilson was fifty feet away at that point, pissing into a bush, there was absolutely no chance that he heard.
Thursday House played every single game he had for his PSP and memorized a year’s worth of word-of-the-day entries from Wilson’s desk calendar (although technically he only memorized thirty-seven words - the rest he had already known). Wilson stopped taking his calls after the seventeenth one, but on the plus side he came home early.
Together they made what House officially crowned “The World’s Most Complicated Dinner” with nineteen ingredients and multiple pots and pans and half the spice rack. ”I still prefer pizza,” House editorialized after the first bite, and Wilson beat him soundly with oven mitts.
After dinner - which truth be told was much better than pizza - they retreated to the living room. Wilson read the paper and House pretended to watch TV. ”You need a piano,” he grumbled.
“Or a hole in my head, one or the other,” Wilson replied from behind the paper. ”I’m thinking about getting a guitar, though. Chicks dig that, right?”
House scoffed. ”Chicks dig it when you can actually play, not when it’s solely a prop for seduction. Speaking of which…”
Lowering the paper, Wilson cocked an eyebrow at him quizzically.
“I found your man-love little black book,” House continued smugly.
“Um…”
House produced the stapled packet from where he’d hidden it behind the seat cushions and waved it in Wilson’s direction. ”An ‘alumni’ directory for Morgantown Correctional Institution? If it’s not for reuniting with old gay loves, what’s it for?”
Wilson ignored the bait but took up the conversation. ”Actually, I put it together. A lot of the guys I met there - not all certainly, but a good number - are decent people. Intelligent, funny, worthwhile. I wouldn’t let any of them handle my finances, but beyond that, they’re people who made mistakes they won’t be repeating.”
Looking at the printed list of names and numbers, House tried not to assess whether Wilson would count him in that group. ”Donovan didn’t seem too repentant.”
Wilson laughed genuinely. ”He’s not. But he’s definitely not getting married again, so he’s keeping himself out of temptation’s way.”
“So.” House slapped the packet against his knee a few times and swallowed. He wanted to ask, but he didn’t, at the same time. ”These guys are your friends?”
Wilson leaned over and pulled the packet away from him. ”Some of them. Some are just acquaintances. And, it’s a reminder of what I went through. They rushed us through the gift shop on the last day, not enough time for me to buy a sweatshirt.”
House wanted to know; he didn’t want to know. He couldn’t decide if Wilson wanted him to ask. The inside of his mind vibrated a little, starting to turn, and he was reminded of the dervish that had consumed him when Wilson said goodbye. This room really needs a goddamned piano.
“Do you want -” House stopped, feeling like a teenaged virgin; hesitant, a little bit scared, doubtful this would be as good as people always said it was. Damn it, Greg, just eat the fucking quiche screamed a voice that sounded nothing like his father. ”Do you want to talk about what prison was like?” he asked the couch cushion.
“It was fine,” Wilson replied nonchalantly.
House looked up, annoyed at the blithe disregard of him giving up his sacred flower. ”It was fine? Well, that’s nice. Don’t let anyone know; you wouldn’t want to be responsible for wiping out the deterrent effect on crime.” Wilson smirked; House glared. ”Tell me, you prick, how it matched up against your expectations.”
Settling into his seat, Wilson stared off into the distance. ”It was… boring. And petty. A lot of rules, and no privacy at all. The quarters are dormitory-style, all the beds in a row, like an open hospital ward.” Wilson re-focused on House. ”You wouldn’t last longer than a month.”
Offended, House narrowed his eyes. ”You’re saying I’m not tough?”
“I’m saying you’d go nuts and get transferred to a psych facility or higher security. Solitary confinement you’d bull your way through just fine, but this… You have to work hard to find anything worthwhile to do, and there aren’t that many amusements for the other times; a lot of times all that’s available is being social, talking to other people.”
“You seem relatively unscarred.”
Wilson shrugged. ”I didn’t like it; I would rather have been home. But in a way, turning your life over to someone else can be freeing. No pressure; no worry about your decisions because you’re not really making any.”
“So you figured out you’re a submissive?” House scoffed. ”I could have told you that years ago.”
“It was a break from the way my life had been before. Which I needed, although I didn’t realize it at the time.” Wilson nodded and threw his newspaper on the coffee table. He stared at the Morgantown list, but didn’t seem to be seeing it. “But I’m not going back.”
House’s heart pounded. I’m not going back - Wilson had said it with determination, with finality. He meant it. But which “back” was it?
“I learned a lot about myself at Morgantown,” Wilson continued, thoroughly unaware of House’s adrenaline surge, “and I thought, really thought, about my life.”
He looked at House, a deep look that seemed to last for hours. There was something to read there, an epic, and it was in a language House hadn’t learned.
“That’s how I ended up at the hospice.”
House blinked.
“What?” he asked in confusion.
Wilson leaned forward, a smile playing around his lips. ”What’s wrong with you? You look dopey. I said, ‘the hospice.’ You know, where I work?”
House took refuge in sarcasm. ”I have some familiarity. DVDs and the near-deceased, right?”
“Yep, that one. You were right.”
“Aren’t I always?”
“That Greg House, I always tell the Nobel committee, such a humble man. There’s no way he’d accept the nomination.”
They shared a grin, and Wilson went on. ”You were right when you accused me of needing to be needed. Your vampire imagery aside, it’s true - that’s part of who I am. In Morgantown, I quit fighting and embraced it, and started figuring out how best to use it as a strength. As people are dying, they need so much, and their families need even more. By working at the hospice, I can help them, I can guide them into acceptance, I can make them feel secure and prepared.
“And because my need is being met so thoroughly at work, I don’t feel it so strongly in my personal life. My friends and my girlfriend I can just - enjoy. It’s a really nice feeling. Peaceful.”
A sparkle in his eye, Wilson laughed. ”Listen to me, I sound like I’m in a cult.” He took on a mock-serious expression and began slowly beckoning with both hands.
“Come. Join us, House. The Leader sees all; The Leader knows all. He can protect you and comfort you. Join us in the Church of the Mentally Healthy.” He extended his left hand dramatically, and House promptly swatted it away.
“Get away from me, you freak.”
They dissolved into laughter.
Friday morning House was screaming, “A man can’t get the goddamned flu?” into the phone when Wilson came into the kitchen, buttoning his sleeves. Wilson promptly rolled his eyes, grabbed a bagel, and walked out the front door.
“You are certainly welcome to have the flu any time,” Cuddy retorted. ”Lord knows on occasion I’m tempted to infect you with it, just to get you out of my hair, but you do not have it now, so stop this charade and get back to work.”
“Just because I’m not throwing up on your spank-me stilettos -”
“Did you forget who you have working for you? Cameron’s been by your place three times to bring you chicken soup and anti-nausea meds. You’re not there; you don’t have the flu; you’re gallivanting about some place, and it ends today. Get back into the hospital on Monday or you’re fired.”
“Tenure,” House spat. ”You can’t just fire me like that.”
“No, but I can tie you up in so many meetings about the issue you’ll wish you were never born. I can’t run this hospital one department head short just on your whim, House.”
She must have heard him move the phone away from his ear, because he heard the bellow of “Monday!” from more than two feet away as he snapped his cell phone shut.
There was nothing on TV, and he was bored with his videogames. He stamped his feet; he left a message for his mother; he made origami animals out of Wilson’s mail. Then he went out and found a hardware store.
When Wilson made it back around six, House was just about done.
“House!” Wilson barked, which House felt showed a distinct lack of appreciation for all his hard work.
“You’re the one who wanted the spaceship theme for this room. I just completed the look for you.” He thought the black walls looked sharp. Just a few more glow-in-the-dark stars and the effect would be perfect.
Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose, and House smirked. It had been a long time since he’d elicited that gesture; it was good to see it again.
“Come on; don’t be like that. I put down drop cloths and everything.”
“Have you forgotten that I rent this house? I’m going to have re-paint this all, and how the hell can I get beige paint over black?”
“Lots and lots of primer. But you’ve got a lease, so you don’t have to worry about that for months. And your nephews are going to love it in the interim.” House stuck up the last star, and then made his way carefully past the open paint trays and roller. ”What’s for dinner?”
Wilson followed him to the bathroom and watched him wash his hands. ”I need to talk to you about that.”
“Existential crisis about selecting dinner? Oh, yes, forgot you’re a secret sub. You can just let me choose for you; I’d be happy to.”
“No,” Wilson laughed, shaking his head. ”It’s not that.” He took a big breath. ”I think you should go home.”
His heart dropping, House stared for a moment. Was this how Wilson had felt that one morning in the bathroom when House had said they shouldn’t room together? He pushed past Wilson and on into the living room.
“You’re kicking me out?” he asked, a little more sadly than he wanted to let on. ”I can paint the room back.”
“It’s not about the room. I was… surprised when I saw it, but you’re right. My nephews are going to give me major ‘cool uncle’ points for that. So, thanks.”
House was not mollified. He couldn’t meet Wilson’s eyes.
“But, as your friend,” Wilson continued, “I have to tell you that you should go. You’re bored, House. There’s nothing for you to do here.”
“You’re here.”
Wilson sighed. ”And if I could make a living just entertaining you all day… I still wouldn’t, because at some point, you’d kill me where I stood for boring you to tears.” His voice was warm, with a tinge of affection as he said, “Get on out of here, get back in the action, where all the cool diseases hang out.”
Wilson, damn him, was right. House was bored. He missed the hospital: the challenges, the rhythm, the Reubens, Cuddy’s wardrobe, and yelling at the kids. And he missed his apartment and his things. Proximity was still the problem.
He looked up and caught Wilson’s eye. ”Did I tell you I thought up your hospice’s new slogan?”
Wilson adjusted to the shift in conversation as fluidly as always. ”No. What is it?”
“We’re not just for people; dreams die here, too!” House’s grinned widely.
“Catchy.” Wilson had his hands on his hips, superhero style. It didn’t have quite the same panache without the lab coat to serve as a cape.
“It’d shut y’all down, for sure.”
“Which is what every slogan should do.”
House took a small step closer. ”Then you could come back to Princeton.”
A long look between them and House could read this one just fine. It wasn’t what he wanted to see. This kind of puzzle was more Wilson’s forte than his, and he wanted desperately for Jimmy to pull the miracle solution out of thin air. That wasn’t going to happen.
“Tell you what, House: why don’t you go home and start on the artwork for this campaign?”
“If you’ll get going on the media buy.”
Wilson smiled and nodded. ”Let’s get you packed.”
The patient’s symptoms were strange, the strangest they’d seen in a while. Nothing immediately life-threatening but persistent and in odd combinations. They ended up circling environmental factors as the most likely cause, and House decided to send Chase on the search through the patient’s house.
“Can I get back by one? Let me check the patient’s - Where the hell is Bridgeton?”
House perked up. ”Bridgeton‘s in southern New Jersey, about an hour and a half. Is that where she lives?”
“Yeah,” Chase groaned.
“It’s your lucky day, Dr. Chase. You get a fascinating and extraordinarily handsome companion on your trip down South.”
“Foreman’s coming with me?”
Foreman threw them his one eyebrow move, as House grabbed his cane and his backpack. ”Didn’t know you thought of Foreman that way, Chase. Make sure you invite me to the civil union ceremony. You still have that clunker of a car?”
“Yes.” Chase was slinging his bag over his shoulder.
“Then we’ll take mine. But you’re driving.”
Ignoring Chase’s protests, House dropped him off at the patient’s address and made his way to Millville. He was pleased that after six months he still remembered exactly where the hospice was.
Conveniently, Wilson was wrapping up a conversation with a family when House walked into the lobby. He took a seat on a couch and waited.
He felt immeasurably warmer when Wilson sat next to him. Close his eyes, change the smooth jazz to The Who, and they could be back at his apartment having a drink.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” Wilson breathed.
“You are the only person on this planet who would say that,” replied House.
“Aw, come on.” Wilson nudged him gently. ”Your mom likes you.”
“Yes, but she wouldn’t say that. I’m critiquing your conversational creativity, not my appeal as a human being.”
“Ah.” Wilson smiled.
“Don’t be smug. I’ll have you know I’ve made a friend - a good friend. He’s a cardiology attending named Dean.”
“Is that his first name or last name?”
“Both. Dean Dean. Can you believe it? I told him his parents must be loons, and then I met them and found out they are loons. Stark raving.”
Wilson laughed. “Is he loony, too?”
“Just enough.”
“Does he support you in the manner to which you used to be accustomed?”
“He’ll buy me coffee but not lunch. I usually swipe half of his lunch, anyway, so it’s all good. He can’t cook worth a damn, and he won’t drink beer, but he’s got a pretty good bawdy limerick collection, and he appreciates hockey a hell of a lot more than you ever did.”
Wilson‘s smile had settled into something almost wistful. ”Sounds like a good guy.”
“Yeah, he is. I’m dating someone, too. Her name’s Trish. I met her at an NA meeting.”
“You’re going to Narcotics Anonymous.”
House sensed a bit of skepticism under Wilson’s even tone, and he jabbed Wilson’s toes with his cane in retaliation.
“Dean dragged me there. Said he’d been going on and off for years because he used to drop acid. Right. He knows zippo about the drug, but I let him maintain the lie.”
“How are the meetings?”
“Mostly boring, but you know, Trish’s there, and Dean, and every once in a while something interesting happens. One time, I found a case of cutaneous and systemic plasmacytosis.”
“Yeah?” Wilson asked curiously.
“The gal thought it was moles. Huh.”
Wilson raised his eyebrows and then dropped them back down. ”Doesn’t sound too bad. I hate to even mention it, but it’s probably good for you that you’re going.”
“Probably. Did you ever get your license back?”
“Yes, I did. I still don’t practice much, but it makes it easier if a patient needs a change in meds or we need a death pronounced and none of the other physicians are around.” Wilson used both palms to smooth his slacks down.
The silence between them stretched peacefully until Wilson broke it.
“You sound like you’re doing well.”
Exasperation filled House and he had to refrain from whacking Wilson with his cane. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t give me your ‘dead man walking’ voice. I’m not your patient or your charity case, so don’t treat me that way.” He fixed Wilson with a glare.
Throwing his hands up, Wilson ducked. ”I wasn’t. Really. Fine.” His tone had gone back to normal.
“Are you still seeing that woman?”
“Who?”
“I don’t know; you know I’m terrible with names. Average height, brown hair, seemed to hate me.” A vague gesture didn’t seem to help, either.
“That describes a lot of women. Wait a minute, if it was someone you met from here, then you probably mean Emily.”
“That sounds right.”
“We broke up a while ago. It wasn’t anything serious to begin with. I’ve dated a few people since then, but nothing’s really stuck. That’s OK; I’m satisfied with how things are.”
“James Wilson is satisfied not being married. I never thought I’d see the day.”
Wilson snorted. ”I never thought you would either. I’ve got a few things to finish up, but then would you want to catch a movie? Local theater’s got a B-grade horror festival going on.”
House stood up and Wilson followed. ”I can’t. Chase is checking out a patient’s house in Bridgeton, and I’ve got to go pick him up before the police do. And Dean finally conned this lab tech into going out with him, so Trish and I are going to meet up with them later.”
“Sounds fun. It was great to see you, House. Take care of yourself.” Wilson stuck out his hand to shake. House stared at it for a few moments - had the two of them ever shaken hands before? - and then pulled Wilson into a full hug.
Wilson was stiff for a second, no doubt from surprise, but then he relaxed. He patted House on the back affectionately with three manly thumps. House echoed the pats and then let go. He answered Wilson’s smile and then watched him walk happily back into his office.
As he was walking out the front door of the hospice, a wave of emotion hit him and he had to stop. He leaned heavily on his cane and pressed his other hand into his face.
“Oh, dear,” said a nearby wavery voice. He looked up with slightly blurred vision to see an elderly woman standing quite close to him, watching his face carefully. ”Did you just lose someone close to you?”
“My best friend,” he replied.
She rubbed his arm kindly. ”They have excellent grief counselors here, you know. James Wilson in particular is a very kind and helpful man.”
“I know.” He took a step back and pulled the front door open for her. She touched him one more time, smiled sadly in farewell, and made her way into the building.
As the door swung shut, House looked out over the parking lot and sighed. Time to go home.
NOTE: blackmare_9 has written a companion addendum from Wilson's POV.
Part 3 of 3
(Part Two)
The problem, House had known all along, was proximity. As the radio silence from Wilson’s end stretched into its third week, House’s mind made the connection and flipped the puzzle. Mohammed to the mountain, mountain to Mohammed.
He finagled an early Vicodin refill out of Cuddy without telling her what it was for and packed a large duffle bag. When he got to Wilson’s house at midnight, he apologized for the zombie crack and slept like a log between the battlecruisers.
The next morning was a Saturday, and Wilson’s day off. He had Saturdays and Wednesdays off, Sunday being apparently a popular day to start dying.
They ate pancakes, five kinds, in such quantities as to make House actually feel nauseated. Wilson was looking a little green around the gills too, so for the rest of the morning they stayed within dashing distance of the toilet and watched very old reruns of General Hospital. Fashions of yesteryear, but the plotlines were the same to a remarkable extent.
In the afternoon, Wilson forced him to go to a Peewee Baseball game (they were the Bridgeton Bulldogs, it turned out). After an hour on the bleachers, House reluctantly admitted to having a good time. The hot dogs were excellent (Hebrew National all-beef), the beer was crappy but cheap, and there was something inherently amusing in watching a five-strikes-and-you’re-out game. The best play of the day was a miracle, closed-eyed catch in the outfield, and House cheered as loudly as anyone there.
Dinner was cotton candy and three Grolsch beers apiece. They laughed over Chase’s latest dating fiasco for far longer than the story even called for.
Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday House poked around the hospice, the town, and Wilson’s house, in no particular order, and waited. They had dinner out, and in, and with Wilson’s girlfriend Emily (“She’s a stripper” - “Really?” - “No”) who had a spark of independence never before seen in a Wilson conquest. On his daily early morning calls to Cuddy, House’s “cold” mated with a stomach virus and spawned the flu. Cuddy growled.
Wednesday they went to Philadelphia and played Stump the Tour Guide, a favorite game of House’s. It began with queries straight from the attraction’s pamphlet - amazing how many times one could win right there - and went on to bizarre, almost philosophical questions. He’d known Wilson was a champ in the querying role, second only to House himself of course, but he was amazed how much colonial trivia the man possessed. They attracted quite a following at the Betsy Ross house, and the volunteer guides’ noses were satisfyingly out of joint.
After a quick trip to the Mutter Museum (nineteenth century medical oddities), Wilson having vetoed a visit to the Eastern State Penitentiary Historic Site, they made their way slowly back to Millville, stopping here and there for no particular reason and talking about everything and nothing. ”I love you,” House told Wilson at one point, but given that Wilson was fifty feet away at that point, pissing into a bush, there was absolutely no chance that he heard.
Thursday House played every single game he had for his PSP and memorized a year’s worth of word-of-the-day entries from Wilson’s desk calendar (although technically he only memorized thirty-seven words - the rest he had already known). Wilson stopped taking his calls after the seventeenth one, but on the plus side he came home early.
Together they made what House officially crowned “The World’s Most Complicated Dinner” with nineteen ingredients and multiple pots and pans and half the spice rack. ”I still prefer pizza,” House editorialized after the first bite, and Wilson beat him soundly with oven mitts.
After dinner - which truth be told was much better than pizza - they retreated to the living room. Wilson read the paper and House pretended to watch TV. ”You need a piano,” he grumbled.
“Or a hole in my head, one or the other,” Wilson replied from behind the paper. ”I’m thinking about getting a guitar, though. Chicks dig that, right?”
House scoffed. ”Chicks dig it when you can actually play, not when it’s solely a prop for seduction. Speaking of which…”
Lowering the paper, Wilson cocked an eyebrow at him quizzically.
“I found your man-love little black book,” House continued smugly.
“Um…”
House produced the stapled packet from where he’d hidden it behind the seat cushions and waved it in Wilson’s direction. ”An ‘alumni’ directory for Morgantown Correctional Institution? If it’s not for reuniting with old gay loves, what’s it for?”
Wilson ignored the bait but took up the conversation. ”Actually, I put it together. A lot of the guys I met there - not all certainly, but a good number - are decent people. Intelligent, funny, worthwhile. I wouldn’t let any of them handle my finances, but beyond that, they’re people who made mistakes they won’t be repeating.”
Looking at the printed list of names and numbers, House tried not to assess whether Wilson would count him in that group. ”Donovan didn’t seem too repentant.”
Wilson laughed genuinely. ”He’s not. But he’s definitely not getting married again, so he’s keeping himself out of temptation’s way.”
“So.” House slapped the packet against his knee a few times and swallowed. He wanted to ask, but he didn’t, at the same time. ”These guys are your friends?”
Wilson leaned over and pulled the packet away from him. ”Some of them. Some are just acquaintances. And, it’s a reminder of what I went through. They rushed us through the gift shop on the last day, not enough time for me to buy a sweatshirt.”
House wanted to know; he didn’t want to know. He couldn’t decide if Wilson wanted him to ask. The inside of his mind vibrated a little, starting to turn, and he was reminded of the dervish that had consumed him when Wilson said goodbye. This room really needs a goddamned piano.
“Do you want -” House stopped, feeling like a teenaged virgin; hesitant, a little bit scared, doubtful this would be as good as people always said it was. Damn it, Greg, just eat the fucking quiche screamed a voice that sounded nothing like his father. ”Do you want to talk about what prison was like?” he asked the couch cushion.
“It was fine,” Wilson replied nonchalantly.
House looked up, annoyed at the blithe disregard of him giving up his sacred flower. ”It was fine? Well, that’s nice. Don’t let anyone know; you wouldn’t want to be responsible for wiping out the deterrent effect on crime.” Wilson smirked; House glared. ”Tell me, you prick, how it matched up against your expectations.”
Settling into his seat, Wilson stared off into the distance. ”It was… boring. And petty. A lot of rules, and no privacy at all. The quarters are dormitory-style, all the beds in a row, like an open hospital ward.” Wilson re-focused on House. ”You wouldn’t last longer than a month.”
Offended, House narrowed his eyes. ”You’re saying I’m not tough?”
“I’m saying you’d go nuts and get transferred to a psych facility or higher security. Solitary confinement you’d bull your way through just fine, but this… You have to work hard to find anything worthwhile to do, and there aren’t that many amusements for the other times; a lot of times all that’s available is being social, talking to other people.”
“You seem relatively unscarred.”
Wilson shrugged. ”I didn’t like it; I would rather have been home. But in a way, turning your life over to someone else can be freeing. No pressure; no worry about your decisions because you’re not really making any.”
“So you figured out you’re a submissive?” House scoffed. ”I could have told you that years ago.”
“It was a break from the way my life had been before. Which I needed, although I didn’t realize it at the time.” Wilson nodded and threw his newspaper on the coffee table. He stared at the Morgantown list, but didn’t seem to be seeing it. “But I’m not going back.”
House’s heart pounded. I’m not going back - Wilson had said it with determination, with finality. He meant it. But which “back” was it?
“I learned a lot about myself at Morgantown,” Wilson continued, thoroughly unaware of House’s adrenaline surge, “and I thought, really thought, about my life.”
He looked at House, a deep look that seemed to last for hours. There was something to read there, an epic, and it was in a language House hadn’t learned.
“That’s how I ended up at the hospice.”
House blinked.
“What?” he asked in confusion.
Wilson leaned forward, a smile playing around his lips. ”What’s wrong with you? You look dopey. I said, ‘the hospice.’ You know, where I work?”
House took refuge in sarcasm. ”I have some familiarity. DVDs and the near-deceased, right?”
“Yep, that one. You were right.”
“Aren’t I always?”
“That Greg House, I always tell the Nobel committee, such a humble man. There’s no way he’d accept the nomination.”
They shared a grin, and Wilson went on. ”You were right when you accused me of needing to be needed. Your vampire imagery aside, it’s true - that’s part of who I am. In Morgantown, I quit fighting and embraced it, and started figuring out how best to use it as a strength. As people are dying, they need so much, and their families need even more. By working at the hospice, I can help them, I can guide them into acceptance, I can make them feel secure and prepared.
“And because my need is being met so thoroughly at work, I don’t feel it so strongly in my personal life. My friends and my girlfriend I can just - enjoy. It’s a really nice feeling. Peaceful.”
A sparkle in his eye, Wilson laughed. ”Listen to me, I sound like I’m in a cult.” He took on a mock-serious expression and began slowly beckoning with both hands.
“Come. Join us, House. The Leader sees all; The Leader knows all. He can protect you and comfort you. Join us in the Church of the Mentally Healthy.” He extended his left hand dramatically, and House promptly swatted it away.
“Get away from me, you freak.”
They dissolved into laughter.
Friday morning House was screaming, “A man can’t get the goddamned flu?” into the phone when Wilson came into the kitchen, buttoning his sleeves. Wilson promptly rolled his eyes, grabbed a bagel, and walked out the front door.
“You are certainly welcome to have the flu any time,” Cuddy retorted. ”Lord knows on occasion I’m tempted to infect you with it, just to get you out of my hair, but you do not have it now, so stop this charade and get back to work.”
“Just because I’m not throwing up on your spank-me stilettos -”
“Did you forget who you have working for you? Cameron’s been by your place three times to bring you chicken soup and anti-nausea meds. You’re not there; you don’t have the flu; you’re gallivanting about some place, and it ends today. Get back into the hospital on Monday or you’re fired.”
“Tenure,” House spat. ”You can’t just fire me like that.”
“No, but I can tie you up in so many meetings about the issue you’ll wish you were never born. I can’t run this hospital one department head short just on your whim, House.”
She must have heard him move the phone away from his ear, because he heard the bellow of “Monday!” from more than two feet away as he snapped his cell phone shut.
There was nothing on TV, and he was bored with his videogames. He stamped his feet; he left a message for his mother; he made origami animals out of Wilson’s mail. Then he went out and found a hardware store.
When Wilson made it back around six, House was just about done.
“House!” Wilson barked, which House felt showed a distinct lack of appreciation for all his hard work.
“You’re the one who wanted the spaceship theme for this room. I just completed the look for you.” He thought the black walls looked sharp. Just a few more glow-in-the-dark stars and the effect would be perfect.
Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose, and House smirked. It had been a long time since he’d elicited that gesture; it was good to see it again.
“Come on; don’t be like that. I put down drop cloths and everything.”
“Have you forgotten that I rent this house? I’m going to have re-paint this all, and how the hell can I get beige paint over black?”
“Lots and lots of primer. But you’ve got a lease, so you don’t have to worry about that for months. And your nephews are going to love it in the interim.” House stuck up the last star, and then made his way carefully past the open paint trays and roller. ”What’s for dinner?”
Wilson followed him to the bathroom and watched him wash his hands. ”I need to talk to you about that.”
“Existential crisis about selecting dinner? Oh, yes, forgot you’re a secret sub. You can just let me choose for you; I’d be happy to.”
“No,” Wilson laughed, shaking his head. ”It’s not that.” He took a big breath. ”I think you should go home.”
His heart dropping, House stared for a moment. Was this how Wilson had felt that one morning in the bathroom when House had said they shouldn’t room together? He pushed past Wilson and on into the living room.
“You’re kicking me out?” he asked, a little more sadly than he wanted to let on. ”I can paint the room back.”
“It’s not about the room. I was… surprised when I saw it, but you’re right. My nephews are going to give me major ‘cool uncle’ points for that. So, thanks.”
House was not mollified. He couldn’t meet Wilson’s eyes.
“But, as your friend,” Wilson continued, “I have to tell you that you should go. You’re bored, House. There’s nothing for you to do here.”
“You’re here.”
Wilson sighed. ”And if I could make a living just entertaining you all day… I still wouldn’t, because at some point, you’d kill me where I stood for boring you to tears.” His voice was warm, with a tinge of affection as he said, “Get on out of here, get back in the action, where all the cool diseases hang out.”
Wilson, damn him, was right. House was bored. He missed the hospital: the challenges, the rhythm, the Reubens, Cuddy’s wardrobe, and yelling at the kids. And he missed his apartment and his things. Proximity was still the problem.
He looked up and caught Wilson’s eye. ”Did I tell you I thought up your hospice’s new slogan?”
Wilson adjusted to the shift in conversation as fluidly as always. ”No. What is it?”
“We’re not just for people; dreams die here, too!” House’s grinned widely.
“Catchy.” Wilson had his hands on his hips, superhero style. It didn’t have quite the same panache without the lab coat to serve as a cape.
“It’d shut y’all down, for sure.”
“Which is what every slogan should do.”
House took a small step closer. ”Then you could come back to Princeton.”
A long look between them and House could read this one just fine. It wasn’t what he wanted to see. This kind of puzzle was more Wilson’s forte than his, and he wanted desperately for Jimmy to pull the miracle solution out of thin air. That wasn’t going to happen.
“Tell you what, House: why don’t you go home and start on the artwork for this campaign?”
“If you’ll get going on the media buy.”
Wilson smiled and nodded. ”Let’s get you packed.”
The patient’s symptoms were strange, the strangest they’d seen in a while. Nothing immediately life-threatening but persistent and in odd combinations. They ended up circling environmental factors as the most likely cause, and House decided to send Chase on the search through the patient’s house.
“Can I get back by one? Let me check the patient’s - Where the hell is Bridgeton?”
House perked up. ”Bridgeton‘s in southern New Jersey, about an hour and a half. Is that where she lives?”
“Yeah,” Chase groaned.
“It’s your lucky day, Dr. Chase. You get a fascinating and extraordinarily handsome companion on your trip down South.”
“Foreman’s coming with me?”
Foreman threw them his one eyebrow move, as House grabbed his cane and his backpack. ”Didn’t know you thought of Foreman that way, Chase. Make sure you invite me to the civil union ceremony. You still have that clunker of a car?”
“Yes.” Chase was slinging his bag over his shoulder.
“Then we’ll take mine. But you’re driving.”
Ignoring Chase’s protests, House dropped him off at the patient’s address and made his way to Millville. He was pleased that after six months he still remembered exactly where the hospice was.
Conveniently, Wilson was wrapping up a conversation with a family when House walked into the lobby. He took a seat on a couch and waited.
He felt immeasurably warmer when Wilson sat next to him. Close his eyes, change the smooth jazz to The Who, and they could be back at his apartment having a drink.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” Wilson breathed.
“You are the only person on this planet who would say that,” replied House.
“Aw, come on.” Wilson nudged him gently. ”Your mom likes you.”
“Yes, but she wouldn’t say that. I’m critiquing your conversational creativity, not my appeal as a human being.”
“Ah.” Wilson smiled.
“Don’t be smug. I’ll have you know I’ve made a friend - a good friend. He’s a cardiology attending named Dean.”
“Is that his first name or last name?”
“Both. Dean Dean. Can you believe it? I told him his parents must be loons, and then I met them and found out they are loons. Stark raving.”
Wilson laughed. “Is he loony, too?”
“Just enough.”
“Does he support you in the manner to which you used to be accustomed?”
“He’ll buy me coffee but not lunch. I usually swipe half of his lunch, anyway, so it’s all good. He can’t cook worth a damn, and he won’t drink beer, but he’s got a pretty good bawdy limerick collection, and he appreciates hockey a hell of a lot more than you ever did.”
Wilson‘s smile had settled into something almost wistful. ”Sounds like a good guy.”
“Yeah, he is. I’m dating someone, too. Her name’s Trish. I met her at an NA meeting.”
“You’re going to Narcotics Anonymous.”
House sensed a bit of skepticism under Wilson’s even tone, and he jabbed Wilson’s toes with his cane in retaliation.
“Dean dragged me there. Said he’d been going on and off for years because he used to drop acid. Right. He knows zippo about the drug, but I let him maintain the lie.”
“How are the meetings?”
“Mostly boring, but you know, Trish’s there, and Dean, and every once in a while something interesting happens. One time, I found a case of cutaneous and systemic plasmacytosis.”
“Yeah?” Wilson asked curiously.
“The gal thought it was moles. Huh.”
Wilson raised his eyebrows and then dropped them back down. ”Doesn’t sound too bad. I hate to even mention it, but it’s probably good for you that you’re going.”
“Probably. Did you ever get your license back?”
“Yes, I did. I still don’t practice much, but it makes it easier if a patient needs a change in meds or we need a death pronounced and none of the other physicians are around.” Wilson used both palms to smooth his slacks down.
The silence between them stretched peacefully until Wilson broke it.
“You sound like you’re doing well.”
Exasperation filled House and he had to refrain from whacking Wilson with his cane. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t give me your ‘dead man walking’ voice. I’m not your patient or your charity case, so don’t treat me that way.” He fixed Wilson with a glare.
Throwing his hands up, Wilson ducked. ”I wasn’t. Really. Fine.” His tone had gone back to normal.
“Are you still seeing that woman?”
“Who?”
“I don’t know; you know I’m terrible with names. Average height, brown hair, seemed to hate me.” A vague gesture didn’t seem to help, either.
“That describes a lot of women. Wait a minute, if it was someone you met from here, then you probably mean Emily.”
“That sounds right.”
“We broke up a while ago. It wasn’t anything serious to begin with. I’ve dated a few people since then, but nothing’s really stuck. That’s OK; I’m satisfied with how things are.”
“James Wilson is satisfied not being married. I never thought I’d see the day.”
Wilson snorted. ”I never thought you would either. I’ve got a few things to finish up, but then would you want to catch a movie? Local theater’s got a B-grade horror festival going on.”
House stood up and Wilson followed. ”I can’t. Chase is checking out a patient’s house in Bridgeton, and I’ve got to go pick him up before the police do. And Dean finally conned this lab tech into going out with him, so Trish and I are going to meet up with them later.”
“Sounds fun. It was great to see you, House. Take care of yourself.” Wilson stuck out his hand to shake. House stared at it for a few moments - had the two of them ever shaken hands before? - and then pulled Wilson into a full hug.
Wilson was stiff for a second, no doubt from surprise, but then he relaxed. He patted House on the back affectionately with three manly thumps. House echoed the pats and then let go. He answered Wilson’s smile and then watched him walk happily back into his office.
As he was walking out the front door of the hospice, a wave of emotion hit him and he had to stop. He leaned heavily on his cane and pressed his other hand into his face.
“Oh, dear,” said a nearby wavery voice. He looked up with slightly blurred vision to see an elderly woman standing quite close to him, watching his face carefully. ”Did you just lose someone close to you?”
“My best friend,” he replied.
She rubbed his arm kindly. ”They have excellent grief counselors here, you know. James Wilson in particular is a very kind and helpful man.”
“I know.” He took a step back and pulled the front door open for her. She touched him one more time, smiled sadly in farewell, and made her way into the building.
As the door swung shut, House looked out over the parking lot and sighed. Time to go home.
NOTE: blackmare_9 has written a companion addendum from Wilson's POV.