Fic: Fight or Flight, 2/3
Fic: Fight or Flight, part 2/3
Author: Nakanna Lee
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Robert had set off for the Getty well over an hour ago, leaving Hugh and Stephen to lounge around the apartment until he returned. Stephen had gone through the newspaper a couple of times, humphing at one thing and chuckling over another, while Hugh tried to figure out ways to ask about Jo and the kids without sounding nervous.
Knowing what he was getting at, Stephen assured him there wasn’t much well-grounded speculation over Hugh’s love life. There was of course speculation, he relayed, in whatever false newspaper he wished to consider, but then again House and Wilson were together, so a real life affair between actors didn’t take much imagination on the part of tabloid-rabid journalists.
Hugh wasn’t sure if he should feel insulted. Everything was much more complicated than a badly done photo-manip and a totally unsupported story to go with it.
Of course the basis was more or less true, and it seemed drastically unfair that a bunch of slanderous bullhorns could be blurting out rumors that had a stronger foundation in truth than what they could ever realize.
Stephen said the kids were watching the show on and off. Love stories featuring their father had never been high on the favorites list. Stacy had been a little rough; Hugh didn’t want to know the reactions to this latest one onscreen. Jo, Stephen continued, thought he was doing a right good job at it, though she wished House could go back to being alone and miserable, because it simply wasn’t fair Wilson was stealing kisses from him when she had to wait for hers.
Hugh closed his eyes and still felt Stephen watching him.
“He knows this is temporary,” Hugh said.
“Robert?” Stephen asked without needing to. He folded the paper back in half and placed it on the coffee table. “Oh of course you might have told him it’s temporary, Hugh. But have you done anything to make him think this will end eventually?”
Hugh gave him a drained look, but Stephen hadn’t paused for as much as a breath.
“On the contrary, Hugh, you’ve done nothing to give him a reason to not get attached. In fact you’ve moved in with him. He has no reason to think this entire relationship will do anything but continue.”
“He knows I love Jo and the kids.”
“And he knows of your affections for him, too, no doubt. You don’t think he’ll try and win you over while he can?” Stephen frowned slightly, leaning forward to the edge of the couch. “I want you to be happy, Hugh. You’ve been with Robert for over a half year now and yet you still strike me as unhappy.”
“I’m happy with him. It’s...” He waved a hand aimlessly. “Everything else.”
“Maybe you feel you should decide between one or the other?”
Hugh’s smile caved in on itself. Things would be much easier if they could work out in such easy ways. “Stephen, could we stop the psychoanalysis for this evening? I am paying for a therapist after all.”
He remembered Robert bringing up therapy last month, right as he was leaving the house Sunday morning for a session. Robert had asked if it would help if Hugh talked to him about what he discussed with the psychologist, and Hugh had baulked. It was so difficult to get people to understand the weight of what he had to say. Unleashing all those problems on a listener wasn’t entirely cathartic; it also bestowed those burdens on the person. He could pay a therapist to take on that load and help him lighten it; but he couldn’t ask the same from Robert. It didn’t feel right. The people he loved should be protected from his problems, not dragged into them.
“Did you used to tell Jo?” Robert had asked.
Hugh said no. Robert replied that maybe it would have helped, but Hugh only smiled distantly.
“Maybe it would help if you talked to me?” Robert suggested again.
He had a hand on the doorknob when he turned around. “Bobby, there’s something consoling about knowing that the man across from you has heard worse things than what you’re telling him now.”
“So a therapist puts your problems in perspective.”
“Yes.”
“And I can’t? I can’t help you?”
“Don’t make it personal, Bobby. This is just...something I need to do, all right?”
“Fine.” Robert said it easily, but it wasn’t. “Do you talk about us?”
Hugh thought of what it would sound like in the office-against the clean and open walls decorated with Gauguin prints and black-and-white photographs of the Los Angeles skyline, against the well-stocked bookshelves and the neatly patterned rug on the floor, what the therapist would say from his cushioned seat-if Hugh confided that he was sleeping with Robert. He wondered how he could word it properly, that they had started finishing each other’s sentences like old school friends, that they shared inside-jokes and potential blackmail material; how relieving it was to wake up to somebody next to him who equally wanted to reject the attention and redundancy of the day’s job; who’d grabbed more than his share of the covers, and then who’d kiss him and make him feel less absurd in the fleeting, unrealistic world within the show and the States.
“Do you?” Robert had asked. For a moment, he’d looked almost hopeful.
“Not in so many words.”
* * *
The ensuing week onset, Stephen had decided to play Major Donaldson with a touch of pompousness, slight over-propriety, and a sour temper when egged on. He was all-around humorless, too, which made him a perfect straight man when matched with House and his slicing wit. He’d also be shooting individual scenes with Omar, Jesse, and Jen, whose characters approach Donaldson and try to get him to stay and assist with the differential despite House’s aversion to accepting the Major’s help. (“How many times do I have to tell you,” House chastises them at one point, “don’t feed the animals!”) By the time Cameron makes the first move to track him down, however, Donaldson-still stinging from House’s disrespect and insults-is ready to leave the hospital and let House figure it out for himself. And that’s when the team needs Donaldson the most.
Hugh took Stephen around set, introducing him to the lighting techs and costume designers first, who were always the most interesting. Bryan had talked extensively by phone to him and came by to formally shake hands. Then Omar stopped by, as did Jesse and Jen, together as they seemingly had been since they announced the engagement. Hugh often felt tempted to tell them how much he appreciated them letting the media in on the wedding plans-it certainly helped keep attention on their hookup and not anyone else’s.
Stephen did a wonderful job at winning everyone over in a ridiculously short period of time.
“They’re not going to tolerate my angry outbursts anymore,” Hugh told Stephen. “Up until now, they just assumed my moodiness was a product of the English climate; now you’ve just gone and proved that theory wrong.”
Stephen laughed. “No need to be in an ill disposition today, Hugh. Certainly this will be fun, a little reunion onscreen long overdue, I’d say.”
The opening scene when the patient collapses is less about the patient and more about Donaldson. In order to keep the audience in the dark about the missing first symptoms, cameras show only a brief second of the patient collapsing, and then pans over to a dramatic frame on Donaldson’s face as he witnesses what no one else does. The first speaking lines for Stephen wouldn’t come until the next bit that would run after the theme had played and the show had gone to its first commercial break.
Attias suggested that they shoot that introduction scene first. Although it was longer, it would make for a nice foundation of the Major’s character so that everyone could get a feel for how Stephen was playing him when it wasn’t a table read.
Hugh mentally shuffled the scene’s lines to the front of his brain, paying particular attention to the pronunciation of the medical terms. In the beginning of the show, he had spent time looking up some of the terms, thinking that that might help him make sense and remember them more vividly; but that grew old rather quickly. Now it was just about slapping the American accent on the words and making it sound convincing. He was quite convinced that half of the time, nobody knew what anyone else was talking about.
The scene started from a low angle near House’s sneakers, then followed his cane upwards to his hand as he finished writing the last of a handful of symptoms on the whiteboard. Fortunately there was nothing too distracting to spell this time. Fever, irregular heartbeat, rash, bloody urine, coma.
Hugh was already talking by the time the camera ended on a straight angle.
“Differential diagnosis, people.”
Omar raised the obligator eyebrow. “House, we can’t start deducing what’s wrong with the guy when we only have half the symptoms.”
“Sure we can.” Hugh never took his eyes off the whiteboard. “We just have to be twice as clever about it. Don’t worry, Chase, we’re all here to help you.”
“Foreman’s right.” Jesse consulted his empty coffee cup as if he had something in it, then leaned back into his chair. “We have no idea how these symptoms presented.”
Hugh spaced out just long enough not to get caught up in the rambling of medical terms that followed. More than once, he’d slipped up on a line because he’d been trying to follow one of the fellows’ multi-syllabic jargon regarding some unfortunate medical conditional. All that mattered was that symptoms could be such-and-such if preceded by seizure, or it could be this-other-thing if blurry vision first presented.
Jen threw in that it might be another unpronounceable thing if nausea or sudden loss of balance came first.
“No point in being smart if you’re indecisive,” Hugh retorted as if he’d understood every word. “You’ll rattle on about shaky foundation while the building collapses.” He tapped the back of the marker against his bottom lip, musing. “Patient’s in a coma, he won’t be talking to us anytime soon. No way to know. So. He was in the bathroom when he first collapsed. Let’s assume nausea is one of our missing pieces and go with that. Get him started on-”
A raucous knock on the glass wall cut him off. Stephen Fry, donning a slightly ill-fitting brown jacket, dark pants and white shirt, stood just outside. He knocked again for good measure.
“Dr. Gregory House, is it?” Stephen Fry bellowed through the door. “I believe you’re in some need of my help.”
“Who the hell is that?” Hugh demanded briskly. The fellows stared unknowingly back at him.
“I was directed here by the head of the hospital, a Dr. Cuddy.”
“Damnit, I thought she’d given up sending personal assassins,” Hugh returned with a theatrical snap of his fingers. “Remind me to request a metal detector for my door. You can never be too careful.”
Apparently tired of waiting for an invitation, Stephen let himself in through the doorway with imposed self-importance.
“My name is Eric Donaldson, former Major of the British Royal Army, retired ten years this June. I was in the same bathroom as your patient was when he collapsed.”
Seeing as how the Major strolled right on it, Hugh grabbed House’s cane and moved towards him too. He scrutinized Donaldson appraisingly. Hugh felt one of the cameras level off at their eyes, most likely capturing a perfect profile view of them face-to-face. House’s frazzled scruff and piercing eyes; Donaldson adapting Stephen’s crooked nose and slightly quirking mouth.
A part of Hugh fought back the urge to laugh. They’d blown plenty of scenes together over the years because of random outbursts when lines just got too funny to remain straight-faced. Hugh considered Stephen’s graying tuft of hair that makeup had mussed more drastically to the side. They’d told him to keep his glasses off. Hugh stared challengingly into his face and was pleased to see no recognition whatsoever in Stephen’s eyes. He was completely Donaldson.
The first run-through went without major flaw, though Hugh expected that they might shoot it again just to see if better cuts could be made. Stephen assured him on the side that there would be plenty of time for some foolery once he gained the trust of the director. Then they could really lighten up and throw in some adlib during one-on-one discussion scenes-particularly the House-Donaldson heated argument in the hallway, when the Major declares House “a toad-faced misanthrope.”
They’d botched that scene at least four times, twice due to unsuppressed laughter; once to overly adlibbed dialogue that was funny but rambled with no foreseeable end; and another time when Stephen made a grab for House’s cane that was entirely unexpected. Eventually Attias suggested that they shoot something else before he shot himself out of frustration. He was joking. At least Hugh told Stephen that. They’d pulled it together soon after and Attias didn’t allude to suicide the rest of the time.
Hugh only ran into Robert on and off during the day.
“You’re becoming a perfectly functional wallflower,” Hugh told him, smiling, as Robert swigged another quarter from his water bottle. Boredom apparently made him thirsty. “Attias says he’s not sure if we’re going to get to any diagnostic scenes today. So Wilson might not come up either. If you want to go home...”
“No, something might come up.”
“We could call you if it seems we’re getting back on schedule.”
“Really, Hugh, that’s fine.”
Then Stephen was back to physically drag him back onto the set for another round of filming, but for the first time in quite a few episodes, Hugh didn’t feel that the word “fun” didn’t apply.
* * *
Somehow, FOX employees armed with cameras and questions had corralled Stephen into doing another interview segment, and-not knowing how long it would take-he’d assured Hugh and Robert that he would catch up with them later. Hugh was just thankful enough to dodge a double-interview. A fifteen-hour-shoot was quite enough face-time for one day, thank you very much.
He and Robert had started driving to and from set together since it appeared innocuous enough. They hadn’t been the only ones who were carpooling now and then. Hugh had to wonder if at least Lisa was raising her eyebrows, but she’d been on the relative outskirts of their relationship. She knew, but Robert assured Hugh she wasn’t going to say anything. For now. Until the cast started sniping with one another, as all casts were bound to do so after so many seasons of infinitely long shoots, Fratterdays, contract skirmishes, acting preferences, and other incontrollable, unavoidable, and eventually incited reactions. Hugh made a point to mention the quality of the crew and cast last time he’d suffered an awards presentation. The threat of “drunken thieves,” indeed. He was quite lucky this particular cast didn’t fall into that category and he knew it, but he wasn’t holding on to false hope that things would continue being just peaches indefinitely.
Hugh looked over to Robert, who was behind the wheel of his Jetta. He tried to recall how many times he himself had been driving with Robert in the passenger’s seat, and it wasn’t many. He’d have to remember to convince Robert to come for a ride on the bike sometime. Hugh wasn’t entirely sure what Robert’s opinions on that form of travel were. Although, the instances he’d seen Hugh flying on the bike (albeit without consent of the show), Robert looked somewhat enthralled at the prospect that it was essentially a deathtrap, composed of a furiously humming motor stacked on two wheels.
From the review mirror, Robert had hung the odd assortment of trinkets, a cheap-looking keychain that said something witty about coffee-probably from the Christmas exchange last year, when prank gifts were mandatory-and spare keys. Hugh had asked him once what they were for and why he’d risk locking them in the car. As it turned out, they were outdated copies of his mailbox key; completely useless except that their incessant clinking and glinting in the light reminded him not to leave the important keys in the car. Robert said he now always checked his pockets before locking himself out. Hugh would have made a joke over the out-of-the-way quirkiness but was too busy smiling amusedly.
The Jetta slung smoothly around the curve and merged onto the highway. Late night car lights sparkled in violent reds, the oncoming traffic over the median reflecting in starbursts through the front window. There were no stars, but the dark hid the smog, too.
“Stephen was amazing today,” Robert said. He glanced at the clock, the green digital numbers showing just after midnight. “Or yesterday, whenever.”
“Stephen’s always been brilliant,” Hugh agreed. “Certainly a bout of good luck that he could be written in.”
Robert rubbed the side of his hand against his forehead, fighting back a yawn. Hugh was starting to wish he had driven instead. “You should’ve seen you two. The dialogue was seamless. Just really strong chemistry.”
“You pick things up after working a couple decades with a person,” Hugh replied in large understatement. He tried to make out Robert’s expression, highlighted off and on by the highway lights. “You didn’t have to stay the whole time, you know. You could’ve gone home. Wilson’s shoots were done by two.”
Robert shrugged. “Thought I’d hang out and see how things went. And I couldn’t miss the big Fry and Laurie reunion.”
Hugh paused experimentally. “No, I suppose that was quite a draw, wasn’t it?” Robert didn’t say anything for half a mile, then asked frankly,
“Did you ever sleep with him?”
Hugh leaned his head back against the seat. “Now why is everyone so quick to imply that we were together at one point or another?” It wasn’t that the thought annoyed him or made him uncomfortable; but it had come up enough times from friends or girlfriends or particularly blunt family members that sometimes he wondered if maybe he should have been.
“You practically grew up together,” Robert replied. “You worked with each other. Spent so much time in the same place, traveling, doing the same thing, with the same people.” Reflected lights skimmed in rows across Robert’s glasses. He glanced over at Hugh, eyebrows raised.
“If you must know, you silly jealous soul, you are my first.”
Robert turned back to look out the front window. His head tilted to the side in quiet consideration. “He must have really loved you once.”
Something bristled in Hugh’s chest and he suddenly wished they were home already and they could just go to bed. It was a long day; his nerves were short.
“Stephen and I have been good friends and that’s all,” he said. “And I would prefer if you didn’t start digging for something you’re not going to find.”
“Well you can’t blame me for asking,” Robert returned. He took an exit off the highway and started along some back roads towards Santa Monica and the apartment. “You don’t talk that much about what you did years ago.”
Hugh laughed briefly to himself. “And you don’t talk much about what’s been happening a couple months ago.” Robert looked questioningly at him, and Hugh shook his head at the obviousness of it. “I mean Gaby, Bobby. You haven’t said two words.”
“I didn’t think I had to. I want to be here.”
“But what happened?” Hugh waited while Robert silently concentrated on the road. “Bobby.”
Robert pulled his lips to the side in thought, raising one hand to muss his hair distractedly.
“It’s anticlimactic, Hugh.”
“And so it’s not important?”
Throwing him an enduring look, Robert tapped his fingers against the steering wheel. He looked as if he were carved out of the staccatto half-light of the highway, in a silence that shuddered and whispered hesitantly about revealing too much.
He waited until they were down the road from the apartment to fully start answering, and by then he was speaking with a careful clearness that indicated he wasn’t going to repeat the story again. Hugh listened, confining himself to only brief interruption.
“Gaby knew by September, October what was going on. Plus she’d gotten an offer for a place with the team in Israel, and she was interested for religious reasons, too. I don’t think she ever expected me to go with her. I told her I didn’t know what was happening with ‘House,’ but I figured the fourth season was pretty much set in stone. It might go to five, maybe six. She said she was tired of waiting. I told her I didn’t care either way what she did.”
“I might not have phrased it that way, Bobby.”
“I was sick of pretending all our plans were actually going to happen. She basically agreed. I thought she’d been more pissed off than what she was. Later I found out that she’d been in touch with the Israel team for about a year, around the same time her horse was hurt and she was taking a break from professional competition.” He paused purposefully and looked over at Hugh. “That was before I’d even mentioned you.” Sighing a bit louder than necessary, he continued, “So don’t worry, Gaby and me finally splitting has nothing to do with you. She doesn’t hate you; she just loves her horses.”
“She called you?”
“Once, when she landed back in December. But things had been over since November. Not officially, but we both kind of knew that they were. I said if she wanted to keep in touch, she could. I told her I probably wouldn’t be calling much, though.”
Hugh grimaced. Robert glanced over, defensiveness stiffening his face.
“I saw her twice in the past year, Hugh. That’s all. We were getting to the point where we were considering whether to send birthday cards to each other or just let it slide.” He shook his head. “It should have been over a long time ago. Our lives are different. The only reason we stayed together as long as we did was because neither one of us had any other options. Until Israel. And then you.”
He pulled the Jetta up to the sidewalk, switched off the ignition and pocketed the keys. Hugh followed him inside the apartment, and he had already crashed for the night when Stephen returned. The sound of the front door opening just barely broke through to his consciousness.
Lying in bed, Hugh wondered if Stephen would be attending the early shoot tomorrow, a House/Wilson scene that the writers still weren't entirely sure if they would be using. Anything overtly physical between the two characters had started being moved to the a.m. shooting hours to get cleared out of the way first. Hugh didn't know if it was a preference on behalf of the rest of the cast that they got to sleep in a bit later while he and Robert worked out a way to make a kissing scene believable and yet FOX-friendly. He'd reached the point where he didn't much care. If the topic didn't come up in conversation or over cast dinners, neither did objections to the plotline. He knew he shouldn't be stressing over it, but the unknowing perception still clung to some dark corner of his stomach. Maybe, Hugh considered, he and Robert should try to make things look less easy.
Robert pressed up closer against Hugh's back, warmth seeping through shirts with familiar ease. Hands started rubbing against his abdomen, and Hugh hoped Robert would take the hint that he was too tired to try anything. He felt the touch slip away, moving up to skim across his neck, the back of his fingers stroking across his cheek.
"You should shave this," Robert murmured innocuously. He traced a finger along his chin. "It's really rough."
Hugh was vaguely reminded that Jo had more or less the same opinion. "When House does, I will."
"I think you should surprise them. Come in clean-shaven." Robert pressed his lips against his neck, not kissing but breathing against his skin. Hugh repositioned his shoulders and tried to close his eyes.
CONTINUED: http://nakannalee.livejournal.com/22343.html