The Boy Next Door CH4

[resm]

Author: resm
Pairing: None. House-Wilson strong friendship
Disclaimer: do not own
Summary: House trying to adjust to a regressive Wilson after misc. accident
Unbeta'd so please forgive me. Hopefully not too OOC

This is largely inspired by / borrowed from a clip of one of RSL's film's (Boys Next Door) which you can find here:
www.youtube.com/watch

Previous chapters: One, Two, Three


~ Chapter Four ~

“House, can you please confiscate Wilson's cell phone from him or something, at least after a certain time?” House finishes pushing through the main entrance of the hospital and heaves an exaggerated sigh that Cuddy is already on his back. He hasn't risked a patient's life on a hunch or actively missed his time in the clinic yet. He hasn't insulted a family member or sexually harassed some two-bit nurse.

Hell, he hasn't even been remotely near their workplace this week so this is probably a new personal record for them. He'd taken both the Monday and Tuesday off to help iron out differences with Wilson because a weekend proved not long enough. The transition from hospital to apartment was as smoothly as a plane touching down during turbulence. He hadn't felt comfortable leaving him alone so soon after resettling in. It didn't seem fair somehow.

“And why did you feel the need to give it back to him in the first place?”

“It's a nice phone,” House answers, pushing down heavily on his cane with a grimace. “Seems a shame to let it gather dust in my desk drawer just because he doesn't need half the contacts in it anymore. Same idea as him owning a packet of condoms after Amber kicked the bucket, really,” he pulls a face, giving the comparison further thought and allowing Cuddy ample time to glare reproachfully at him. “In fact, I bet it's the same packet of condoms he's had since his first marriage. Or maybe since he was seventeen - wouldn't surprise me if our boy matured late.”

“I thought Wilson's problem was that he couldn't keep it in his pants?”

“If he was getting some to begin with, do you really think-” he stops himself, chuckling as if she's being incredibly naïve. Although she knows that he's just teasing. His sigh gives way to honesty, “It's like the only thing next to - next to kitchen utensils or - or his damn French leather brogues that he's ever dared splash out on just for himself. Seems a bit cruel, even for me, to take his one little toy away from him, don't you think?”

“He knows how to use it,” she warns; and although she's striding right beside him, she's two steps ahead, “And please, don't even try to make an innuendo out of that.”

“That's... generally what swayed my decision,” he uses his cane to press the button for the elevator when they reach it, choosing to ignore the possible euphemisms at her say-so. “If he wants to run up a bill on calls to China, so long as it keeps him occupied for a while, I gotta say,” he raises his eyebrows at her before hobbling forward when the doors part, “I don't care all that much.”

“But he's not calling China!” Cuddy grabs his cane and his eyes travel slowly down to her hand. He clears his throat and throws an arm out to hold the elevator, waiting for her to join him. “He's calling me.”

She hesitates and it's in that moment that House notices an all too familiar fatigue pulling at the tightening lines around her mouth and eyes. If he hadn't have caught the same ghost in his own mirror this morning, he would have insulted her appearance as way of some back-handed compliment and went on about his business without another thought. Instead, he simply nods politely when she releases his cane.

“Then again,” he finds the willpower to smirk, pressing for his floor number when the doors seal them in. He's consciously aware that this is the most proximity they have shared in weeks, “I could always just threaten to dock his pocket money.”

Cuddy tilts her head back and uses an index finger to push sleep from her eye, “Thanks, House.”

“He could have had such a hold over me all these years and instead he let the opportunity go to waste,” he says almost wistfully. Almost. “Now I'm the ATM and he's the overgrown child...”

“How's he getting on? I mean, really?”

House debates saying something sarcastic when they're about to be freed from each other's company at the merciful ding. The doors slide open again and it's too easy to throw the scathing comment about her only caring when it's convenient for her and limp on into his office, leaving her standing in the corridor to doubt her motivations.

But he doesn't. He doesn't because his conscience wraps around the quiet, broken note to her otherwise commanding, assertive voice. He can't really accuse her of not caring because he knows she was respecting his own boundaries when she didn't press herself upon Wilson's welcoming party. A sad party of two though it was. But then, that's House and Wilson all over.

There are no visits to the apartment or questions about his Monday and Tuesday off for the same reasons that House had never checked in on her when she was first struggling with her instant motherhood. Just as Lucas-with-child has become Cuddy's domain, Wilson is absolutely House's.

But, by any stretch of the imagination, how can he, House, answer her without hiding behind a layer of sarcasm? How can he admit that when he even so much as looks at his buddy, he's constantly trapped between the pitiful reality and a sudden flashback of his worst forty-eight hours ever?

The phone rings. And rings. And rings. He grumbles and presses the Start button on the microwave to heat up the dinner Wilson had prepared and left chilling in the fridge for him. It's still ringing when he moves for the living room, holding his thigh. It stops when he's about to pick up, but on a click it goes to Voicemail:

- House? House, if you're there, we need you in immediately. It's-

His head begins to swim at hearing Cuddy's voice, his heart is beating against his ribcage. He knows it's got nothing to do with a patient taking a turn for the worse because his team would have paged him directly, and, moreover, they aren't working on a case. He lifts the receiver which cuts her message and swallows to keep the tremor out of his voice.

He doesn't need to look for zebras because it's pointedly obvious why Cuddy - who hasn't properly spoken to him since the medical conference - is calling him: they only have one thing in common nowadays. And that common denominator hasn't exactly been altogether stable lately with the little stunts he's been pulling. It's as if he's been shaping up to try on House's shoes.

“What did he do this time?”

- House? Oh, thank God!

“Cuddy, what happened? What happened to Wilson?”

He hears, or decides, that she's trying to control a sob. He feels like his heart is breaking out of his chest and while she takes a long second to compose herself over the line, it's all he can hear: his own deafening Thump, Thump.

- There was an accident, House. His car. You need to get down here.

She sniffs loudly and he doesn't know if he's courageous enough to ask of Wilson's injuries. Now he's wishing for a damn zebra instead of the straight-forward horse. He'd rather that they were only dealing with the aftermath of Wilson's sudden and ethically questionable behaviour. What if there's nothing to fix his pal, pure and simple? He isn't a religious man but he's praying now that they aren't talking wheelchairs or comas. Or death.

- Countless minor injuries but... our biggest concern, judging by the site of the wound to his head, is that he's suffered severe brain trauma, House. He hasn't woken yet but - but you should be here. We're sending him for a CT now.

“Cuddy. This is - this is Wilson. How severe are we talking?”

- It doesn't look like he's going to make it through the night. I'm so sorry, House.

House blinks himself back to the present and realises Cuddy is fixing him with her little concerned face she reserves specially for him. Daydreams are rare for him - unless he's working on a case and is trying to speed up the process of the epiphany magicking itself upon him. It must be this corridor.

He feels like Wilson is still haunting it. Avoiding the oncology ward doesn't put him out of his way, it's an entirely different wing of the hospital. Avoiding the psych ward where they had hidden Wilson away to recuperate doesn't encroach upon his daily routine either. But the painful walk - made decidedly more painful with an anxious Cuddy trailing him - towards his office is, frankly, horrible. How many times is he going to have to come up short and battle with his memories when he reads James Wilson, M.D. on the door next to his own?

“House, I asked you how he was getting on?”

“I gave him his iPhone back so I can check up on him. We've had a few teething problems,” he finally admits. “I planted him in front of the television with our Star Wars collection this morning so he can geek out on that for a couple of hours, but... am I supposed to get someone to watch him? Ask one of our neighbours to maybe check in on him? I don't know. He looks normal. I don't...”

Cuddy tilts her head sympathetically at his unusual candour and readiness to show that he's worried, and she actually misses his sarcasm. It's off-putting when he isn't being his predictably gruff self. Just like Wilson always said, he didn't know how to respond when House was being reasonable.

Folding her arms in front of her chest, she tries to be decisive for the both of them, “See how he gets on today. He might not need... you should go home for lunch or try to get away early anyway, but he might not need someone to mind him.”

“The fact that we're even discussing this is bad enough. I know that he's okay for now with his little movie marathon. We're talking about the same guy that can actually quote whole monologues from the original episodes. You should listen to him when he's in Shakespeare mode,” he takes a moment to roll his eyes in disgust, but Cuddy recognises the fondness beneath the scowl. “I burnt his hand on Friday night.”

“Excuse me?”

He looks at her defiantly and Cuddy realises that he's just trying to pick a fight, probably regretting having said anything at all. She doesn't want to give him the whole 'If you're not coping, we can always readmit him' argument because she knows that, ignoring everything else, he needs her support here. He needs her because he's still having to prove himself to the Wilson family, even if they have taken a back seat themselves.

Unless... unless he truly can't cope; and he's wanting to use her as an excuse. It would be easier on his conscience when he kicks Wilson out. Sending him back. Blame it on the horrible old administrator or hospital protocols. Maybe they would have something of a friendship to salvage thereafter. Maybe he doesn't want to pursue a friendship with the man at all.

“I burnt it on the stove,” he supplies, looking back at Wilson's old office. “And when he's really bad I beat him with my cane and lock him up in the cupboard under the stairs. When are you going to appoint someone Head of Oncology?”

Cuddy is thrown at the comment and the changing pace of their conversation - first he's drifting, then he's changing whole subjects, “What, huh?”

“That room,” he accuses, gesturing to the darkened, unoccupied office. “It's currently a waste of space. He isn't coming back. When are you going to get his name removed from the door?”

“I'm... I'm still conducting internal interviews,” Cuddy answers somewhat distractedly.

She regards him for a moment whilst he processes this, and after throwing a final blistering glance at Wilson's former abode, he limps off, but calls over his shoulder, “Jimmy always liked Harper. The insufferably positive oncologist with the gap between his teeth. Always said 'Wilson' with a bit of a lisp. Like he was trying to whistle for him.”

“I know him,” she replies for nobody's benefit, because he has already pushed through the glass door to rag on his fellows in the differential room. She does know Dr. Harper and has already approached him to apply for the departmental promotion because she feels he's a sound candidate. He's seven years older than Wilson and has been practising medicine longer. He's extremely competent and she sees a thoughtfulness in him that she had always attached to James.

But history is repeating itself. As yet, she's been unable to fill his position. Wilson was very highly regarded by both patients and staff. Even House likes him and House doesn't like anybody. By rights, House should enjoy hating him. When Amber died and Wilson returned from his leave of absence only to announce that he was leaving permanently, Cuddy hadn't actively held his job open for him. Out of compassion or... something, his staff weren't forthcoming in applying for the new job opportunity left open in the wake of a grieving man. It seemed tainted.

Unlike Foreman and his power trip when it came to House's mental health, the grounds for Wilson's dismissal have left Harper and many like him disheartened. Above all, Wilson was a friend. He wasn't just a colleague. There's probably trepidation on the oncology team's part that if they're seen to be aspiring to have what he had, it's too cut-throat to justify still calling him their friend. He becomes a Nothing. Except an out-patient. There's probably equal part trepidation that House will see it this way too. And no one enjoys answering to the disgruntled diagnostician, especially if they're the target of choice.

House and Cuddy exchange a look with each other through the glass divide; both caught out spying on the other; one left on the outside looking in, the second on the inside trying to see and piece together the bigger picture. She casts her own final glance at Wilson's door and then paints him a determined smile. He nods once, hooks his cane over his whiteboard and turns to address his fellows at the table as she walks away.

“Um, how's Wilson?” Chase asks before House has chance to ridicule them so early into the day. Thirteen is busy making him a mug of coffee, and hands it to him before he can blow up at the Aussie for having what passes as good manners to any sane individual, because she knows that to their boss he would interpret politeness as being pointless and, in this case, nosy ergo offensive.

No one could accuse House of not being either of these things himself: he is most certainly nosy and offensive. But he's also all about the double standards. And he only really leaves room for Wilson to present the flaws to such arguments and outlooks. So Thirteen rightly takes her seat once she's finished up the menial task and doesn't break breath to the man.

“I left him at daycare. He's probably finger-painting me a picture to pin up on the fridge as we speak.” If House doesn't know any better, Chase looks wounded at the barb - and it isn't even directed at him. Interesting. “Now, do you think your tiny little minds can concentrate long enough on something that you're actually paid to think about? I'm... pretty sure I don't employ you to bounce theories off of each other about my man-child best friend.”

He momentarily loses interest in his coffee, setting it down on the table to pick up the marker sitting on the lip of the whiteboard. Tapping it against his palm, he scrunches his face as if whatever he's trying to say is on the end of his tongue, “I vaguely recall something about... damn, what's... diagnostic medicine?” he clicks his fingers. “That's the ticket!”

Foreman and Taub look at each other knowingly, and as Taub holds out a blue patient's folder, it is Foreman who speaks, “Twenty-eight year old female presenting with respiratory distress and acute sensitivity to light. Experienced an auditory hallucination before fainting in a mall with her boyfriend. Nothing to suggest sudden onset asthma.”

House skims through the file now in his hands and writes up her symptoms on the board. He stares scrupulously at his writing, half-listens to Taub and Chase's back-and-forth about pregnancy and possible alcohol abuse and then waves all four of them away to take a tox screen, blood cultures and search the home. After a time, he circles 'Aud. Hallucination,' replaces the marker, unhooks his cane and retreats towards his desk in the connecting room with his coffee in hand, his limp more pronounced than ever.

And he still can't concentrate. He leans back on his chair with his legs crossed at the ankles and propped up on the desk. His head is hanging over his backrest so that he has a sort of upside-down view of his and Wilson's conjoined balcony. So he closes his eyes.

Cuddy, red-eyed and exhausted, had flanked his side during the entirety of Wilson's operation. She didn't even leave for coffee as they watched Chase assisting Foreman with the surgery from the observation bay, working to relieve pressure on their friend's brain.

With all the rushing about, his bad leg now feels as if it's being dragged behind him like dead weight even though he's keeping a slow, controlled pace. This is the first he's getting to see of Wilson because the younger doctor was already tied up in Neurology when he arrived after Cuddy's phone call, getting a non-contrast CT scan of his head. After that, he had qualified to priority-bump the list for the OR and was promptly whisked away again.

Foreman is talking him and Cuddy down as they make their way to the temporary ward where Wilson is left to recuperate until it's safe to move him to his own private room. Chase is anxious to join them but having scrubbed down, he was under House's instructions to notify Wilson's parents first and, if he feels like it, the rest of the team.

He's so deathly pale that House imagines being able to see his high cheekbones shine right through his translucent skin. His face is mottled with bruises and there is dried blood clogging his nostrils and above his eyebrow, although that wound has been pinched closed with neat stitches. The black hoods under his eyes are emphasised more so when set against his colourless face and his lips, even in sleep, are drawn tightly as if he's aware of the pain enveloping his drug-dulled nervous system.

The blanket around him is only covering him from the navel down, and his gown is pulled open so that the nurses can access the electrodes placed strategically on his bare chest - bare if you aren't counting how his torso is wrapped up tight to cater for the three ribs he'd broken when the tree sliced through the body of his Volvo. There's a harsh-looking bruise made from his seatbelt cutting into him upon impact and several artificial lacerations to his face and body.

“Because of the extent of the intra cranial pressure from the haemorrhage,” Foreman takes a breath, making eye contact with Cuddy because House's piercing gaze is glued to Wilson's bandaged head, “we were unable to...” Cuddy swallows hard, her eyes tearing up instantly.

“He's brain damaged,” House says flatly. “He's permanently brain damaged.”

“We can't judge the extent of the neurological deficits until he wakes up,” Foreman jumps in. “Hopefully it'll be manageable, House.”

“Manageable? Manageable? You think my handicap is manageable? He has to live with this! He's probably going to suffer seizures or paralysis or amnesia for all you damn well know. So don't have the audacity to tell me what's manageable.”

House snaps his eyes open and reaches for the office phone. He dials Wilson's cell and absently hits the monitor of his computer screen, bringing the desktop to life, “Jimmy? How you doing, buddy?” he forces the faux cheer into his words when Wilson's excited Hi, House! greets him. “Are you getting on okay?”

He listens idly as Wilson explains to him that he's still watching his movie - even though House could have predicted as much and then he proceeds to tell him the entire plot, “Wilson, I've seen Star Wars before. With you. I know what happens. No, but that's good. I was just phoning to make sure you're keeping out of trouble... Wilson? Wilson, what's up?”

At the mention of “trouble” Wilson's animated commentary is abruptly cut short and House actually checks the screen of the phone's handset in case they've disconnected. He rubs at his brow with a thumb, “Come on, speak up, pal. You're aware that if you nod or shake your head I can't actually see you, right?”

He swivels in his seat to look back out at their balcony, “What do you mean you have to go? You're not busy - you're - don't - shut up for a second! You said you were just watching a - James Evan Wilson, if you hang up this phone, so help me, you're dead when I get home. Do you hear me?”

Apparently if he heard him, he didn't care all that much because all House can hear now is the dial tone.

“If that idiot's set fire to the kitchen or something, I'll wring his neck.”

He slams the phone down, contemplating all the potential ways a lonesome Wilson could wreak havoc in their homestead. Looks like he'll be taking Cuddy's advice after all and going home for lunch. The cafeteria has lost its lustre now that he has no one to pilfer food from anyway.

Chapter Five