The Boy Next Door CH9

[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, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight

~ Chapter 9 ~

“Uncle Jamesy! He looks more like an Aunt Jemima than he does an Uncle Jamesy.”

Cuddy makes the effort to roll her eyes as she fastens her daughter's diaper and then bundles the last of the used wipes and the damp, soiled diaper into a small scented plastic bag, “So what if they don't call him James or Wilson. If you found out they called him Jimmy, I'm sure you'd be metaphorically peeing all over him again to mark your territory like you did with Amber. Can you watch her for a minute?”

“It's bad enough you changed her in my room, on my bed,” House reminds her indignantly.

“If I'd have taken her into Wilson's room you wouldn't have paid the blindest bit of notice. At least if you're hovering over my shoulder here then you won't be hovering over Peter's out there. You need to give them both space.”

“Well, hovering or not, we're in agreement that I'm already filling my quota with Jimmy, so I'm going to have to draw the line at watching another snivelling little brat, thanks all the same,” House takes pleasure in refusing her even the smallest favour. “Besides, isn't this the kind of stuff that Lucas has signed on for?”

“I told you. He's on a job. And if you can't bother your ass just to make sure she doesn't roll off of the bed then here,” Cuddy thrusts the knotted bag towards him. “Go dispose of this. Please.”

He looks at her as if she's suddenly spurted a second head and, as a result, she heaves an entirely put-upon sigh and then steels out of the room, calling over her shoulder when she passes through the door, “It's thirty seconds of your life, House. And don't worry. She has a thing for shiny stuff. I'm sure you can dazzle her with that impressive ego of yours.”

“Worked wonders for her mother,” he mutters, even though she's gone. Rachel seems to be aware of Cuddy's absence also. The child, after a quick sweeping glance, determines that she's nowhere to be seen within her immediate periphery, and then considers the idea that Cuddy's just engaging her in a longer version of Peek-a-Boo. She palms her little face obligingly and gurgles happily when the hands come away for the element of surprise. But when her baby blue eyes lock on House's once more, it finally dawns on her that Cuddy has indeed left the room and her lip begins to shake miserably.

“Great. A crier. That's all I need,” House gripes. “Come on, kid. Don't... don't...” he whispers, feeling immediately stupid for talking to the infant as if she's capable of even a degree of intellectual conversation. He tries to gather his thoughts about what works on Wilson when Rachel's eyes fill up quickly. “Do you like... you like Star Wars?” he asks uselessly and he's kind of glad that this doesn't seem to appease her because just what was he expecting would come of such a question? Was he prepared to hum the theme tune to her? Hell, Wilson didn't even hold such privileges. It would be ageist to assume Rachel more deserved of a song.

Instead, she lifts her wholly flexible leg to clutch her foot with a hand and murmurs her protest in a high guttural sound, and House doesn't even think twice about hooking his hands in under her armpits and hoisting her up from her change-mat rolled out to protect the bed covers if there's the slightest chance that it'll shut her the hell up.

She fights uncomfortably in his arms for a short while until he starts pacing back and forth with her about the bedroom. He finds himself suppressing the impulse to swear out because he's had to leave his cane propped up against the side of the bed just for this.

Wilson has been slowly warming to physical contact - or perhaps he's still very much against it and House and Cuddy are beginning to become exceptions to the rule - and maybe Rachel isn't all that different. A little pat on the back mightn't hurt matters any. Who knows, it mightn't hurt House either. And it isn't like anyone's watching anyway.

So he rubs a hand up and down the back of her little dress and listens for the whimpering to successfully taper away. Rachel fists the front of his shirt, burying her wet face against the crook of his neck and shoulder. He's suddenly reminded of the last time he had to hold the whining little hybrid not long after her biological mother had expelled the parasite right into the arms of everybody's favourite administrator. He sincerely hopes she doesn't puke all over him this time. They're already even for him puking on Cuddy's shoes. Maybe he could fill Wilson up with candy and the end - of him inevitably emptying his insides, say in Cuddy's office - could justify the means.

“House.”

House turns to see Cuddy smiling patiently at him in the doorway. He dumps the baby back onto the bed, snatches up his cane and stalks out of the room with a barely-scathing, “Took your damn time. Were you bagging her dung for fertiliser or something?”

The corridor, if you could call it a corridor, that stems off from the main living area towards the master and guest bedrooms is a short walk to the kitchenette. But a short walk doesn't necessarily mean an easy walk. Especially when you have a limp and a cane and you're trying to slip by unnoticed and your stupid best friend come roommate come child and/or loyal pup has insisted long before his accident that a bookshelf would look just wonderful there so it's another obstacle you have to manoeuvre yourself around.

“Hello Greg,” Peter shifts around on the sofa, his arm hanging over the back of it. House squints at him and then at Wilson. He makes his way towards the brothers and drops with a heavy sigh into their armchair angled perfectly to miss the glare of their flat screen. The cane falls away when he reaches down to the side and pumps at a lever that pushes out a sudden footrest and reclines the chair.

Wilson notes Peter's surprise and flashes his older brother a bright smile, “I knew it did that!” he boasts. “I picked it. Didn't I House?”

House favours his furrowed brow with a hand and nods.

“Didn't I, House?” Wilson persists. “Remember? Do you not remember? It was raining and-”

“I remember,” House cuts him off curtly.

Wilson murmurs triumphantly. He clutches his knees and starts to knock them together. Then he turns to look at Peter, studying him curiously, “Yeah. So it was raining, Peter. And we needed to buy furniture and-”

“It's not an interesting story, Wilson. Don't tell me I had to sit through Class 101 in How to Change a Diaper just so you could bore Peter witless?”

“He's not... boring me,” Peter excuses on a nervous laugh, dropping his eyes to his cup of coffee and clinking it against the saucer. “If anything, I've probably been-”

“What were you two talking about then?” House presses on nosily. “Huh?”

“Do you have a problem with me, Greg? Being here... visiting him? Or...?”

“No,” Wilson interrupts them both, clutching his pant legs until his knuckles whiten. “No he doesn't. He doesn't, Peter,” he pleads. “House.”

“Me? No,” House drawls innocently. “I don't mind you being here at all. In fact, you should be here. If it was my brother, I'd certainly like to be here. Jimmy on the other hand... Jimmy, didn't you have a problem with him coming?”

Even though he doesn't exactly understand Greg's motives or what he hopes to accomplish, Peter finds himself glaring at his brother's longest friend, a figure, if he thinks about it, he hasn't ever really agreed with. Not that he would have voiced as much. James was a big boy and more than old enough to pick the company he keeps.

But now... there's something strikingly innocent about him now. As if his mind needs to be made up for him. As if he can see the picture at large but something stops him from connecting the dots. Of course, Peter doesn't have much of an authority on the subject of James anymore - not if the times they do manage to cross each other's paths are as few and far between as Grandma Wilson's teeth.

“I had to fly out to see you, James. You must understand that,” Peter addresses the issue directly instead of giving Greg the satisfaction of rising to meet his bait. “If I was the one in the car accident, wouldn't you want to know that I was doing better?”

“Doing better,” Wilson affirms vaguely.

“You'll have to excuse Baby Brother here,” House explains. “Sometimes he just repeats things. And yes, it gets annoying. And no, he probably doesn't realise he makes a habit of it.” Peter chuckles and bobs his head understandably and now House's interest is piqued. Mildly. “What?”

“I was already off to preparatory school by the time Daniel was born but James was...” Peter bit his bottom lip, smiling a little in Wilson's direction. “I remember James when he was a toddler. No one could move without him following behind them, chatting away, asking questions. Repeating them. Challenging them and just generally going on and on and on. He wouldn't leave you alone until he was satisfied that you hadn't fobbed him off with a white lie.”

“Sounds like someone I used to know,” House snipes at Wilson, but Peter locates the fondness in his voice because he affiliates that with the same kind of attention James gave him growing up.

“I kind of liked it,” Peter admits. “Do you remember, James, one Christmas I came home and - we, uh,” he looks to House, “we didn't ignore the whole Santa aspect of things, you see. Our dad's side isn't Jewish.”

“Does this story have a point?”

“I can't remember what age he was exactly but he was young enough anyway. He had been quizzing our father for... perhaps a solid hour about the whole elaborate Santa-chimney trick. He just didn't get it.”

“It is a difficult concept to get one's head around,” House puckers his face in mock sincerity. “Seriously. Does this story have a point?”

“Not really. That was it,” Peter apologises, patting Wilson's knee beside him as he does so. “I was just saying, he hasn't... really changed - have you James? From what I can see. If you'd known him when he was younger, at least.”

“Dad gave up,” Wilson announces, kneading his lip between his teeth and turning to face the both of them and although it's a statement, he seems to be eyeing them up questioningly. “On me.”

At once, House and Peter answer yes and no respectively. Peter sighs but chooses to ignore House altogether, “Of course he hasn't. He never shuts up about you. And Mom's been on the phone to me every day since... it happened.”

“It happened,” House scoffs at his quiet little euphemism for God knows what. Is It the car accident or is It the last time Raymond bothered to see his son? Maybe It's when Wilson was discharged and placed under House's temporary care by social services at Cuddy's recommendation.

“Santa,” Wilson whines impatiently.

“I'm sorry, Wilson,” House teases, “but the guy's a big fat fake. Took you all this time to figure it out, buddy?”

“No,” Wilson shakes his head.

“Yes.”

“No, I know. I did figure it out. No... no Dad told me. He gave up listening to me about the chimney and told me the - the - the truth. To shut me up.”

“Yes!” Peter exclaims enthusiastically, talking over House's half-interested “Did it work?” “Yes, that's right, James. Good-” he stops himself short of a “good boy,” remembering that he isn't talking to one of his own sons here.

He ushers a polite little A-hem and then sips at his coffee, feeling a pinch of guilt for trying to relate his newly mentally challenged brother to that of a memory, as if he'd never grown up. Comparing James now to James of old, of really, really old (or young rather) ensures that he's completely dismissing his brother's rather accomplished life as a doctor and - to a degree - a husband, but most importantly a best friend. Greg's best friend. And pretending to slip into an easy rapport with the guy, even if they do share a bloodline, must be incredibly insulting. It's totally oversimplifying not only James' character but his friendship.

“He doesn't have amnesia,” House says sulkily. “Don't praise him for remembering something. Especially if it's so damn trivial. There's a hell of a lot that he forgets. He never could get a handle on the ins and outs of the whole 'look but don't touch' rule when he was married, for God's sake. Isn't that right, Jamesy? He sure as hell can't retain simple instructions like how not to burn oneself either.”

“Yes, well. We all make mistakes,” Peter mumbles his weak defence. He takes another sip of his gradually cooling coffee to deflect. House mentally checks this away but for once doesn't have the energy to chase the little tidbit of information. “What's important now, James, and you have to remember this,” Peter continues, deciding to set the cup and saucer down on the floor, “is that your life is what you make it. There's no point in dwelling on things. The past. Whatever.”

“Pass him off another cliché in the form of advice,” House goads, smirking. “Go on. I dare you.”

“Are you trying to be unhelpful, Greg?” Peter finally snaps and, to Wilson's credit, he seems equally upset that his brother and best friend can't find some middle ground. “I just want to be here for him too. I thought you of all people would appreciate that.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” House leans forward in his chair, made decidedly more difficult with his feet propped up. Peter stutters a nervous “You know” and then cocks his head towards the forgotten cane. “Oh, because I'm a cripple?” House asks incredulously, “So what are you trying to say? That I'm not fit to look after him on my own because I walk with a limp or that I should allow more of these little play dates with your family because I don't have my own family around and it just gets so lonely?” he asks, pretending to get choked up with emotion and stuffs his fist in his mouth, biting down gently on a knuckle.

“First of all,” Peter keeps his voice neutral, “You didn't allow anything. I don't need anyone's permission to talk to my brother.”

“Unless you're on about the other one. It's a whole big thing trying to get in to see him.”

“Well, we're not on about Daniel, are we?”

“Danny...” Wilson pipes up. “I - I'm not allowed to go see Danny. For a while.”

Peter looks torn between continuing his argument with Greg and trying to include James in a would-be civilised conversation. He sighs, breaking Greg's challenging gaze to dip his head a little towards James sitting beside him, “That's right. But... you understand why, don't you? The doctors thought that it wouldn't be fair to either of you. You'd only upset him if he knew, James.”

“It's sad...” Wilson mutters, rubbing his hands along his thighs and refusing to stare at either of them. “When you realise.”

“Realise what?” House prompts softly.

“That your family are little more than strangers.”

“Do you... you think I'm a stranger, James?”

House averts his attention, noting the sting of hurt in Peter's question. Wilson wrings his hands together and closes his eyes, answering with a very hushed, almost reverent, “Yes. Dad.”

“I'm not like him, James,” Peter promises, wanting to pull James' shaking hands apart and cover one with his own. Instead, he keeps his head low, his own hands neatly crossed in his lap. “And I know... I know it seems like he's given up on you.” He pauses, expecting something of a seething remark or frustrated exhalation of breath from Greg. He takes the man's non-compliance as a green light to continue.

“And that he's always been a little hard on all three of us - pushing us to do things. That's just his way,” he admits desolately. “He was always... it's just his way. He wants what's best for you.”

“Pushing us,” Wilson concurs. “When... when you moved away and we were in that house on our own. Me and Danny.”

“You were practically chained to your desk and not allowed out to play football with the other lads?” Peter relates, taking a shaking breath. “Trust me, my adolescence was just as dull. Every bit the girl-free zone as yours was. Why do you think I tried for the scholarship in London in the first place?”

“Because it was breathable without him,” Wilson says like he has rehearsed it or at the very least been running the idea through his mind for some time. House watches the brothers intently, drinking in how Peter bobs his head just barely and a pair of chocolate brown puppy-dog eyes suddenly lock in on his own. If he's not mistaken, he sees a twinkle of guilt in them, begging for forgiveness at such a slate against his own father. And House knows why.

He's alluded to Wilson in the past how much of an ass John House used to be, and Wilson feels remorse for daring to compare the two. Whether a man bullies his son out of spite or out of fear of failure, House can't see much of a difference. Whether a man uses physical violence or rains down emotional blows on a son's self-esteem, House can't see much of a difference. Whether or not he gives up on him because he's not cut from the same mettle or because an accident - another one of Life's cruel little jokes - renders him different from the rest, House can't see much of a difference.

House pushes the footrest back into place and takes up his cane. Struggling out of the armchair, he offers Peter the hint of a smile, “You two obviously have stuff to talk about,” he excuses himself, but not before placing a hand on Wilson's shoulder in support, squeezing him to the bone. “I'll be in my room with Cuddy and her brat if you need me. Okay, James?”

Peter smiles at the proper use of his brother's name, knowing that Greg has dropped informalities as his own private way of acknowledging the seriousness of their meeting. James gives him a little wave and nods that he understands his friend will be on-hand like Cuddy promised.

“House?” he calls back. House stalls, lifting an eyebrow up in question. Wilson swallows and fidgets with the cuff buttons of his right arm until they're free. Then rolls the sleeve up to the elbow. “I didn't... have a - a girl-free adolescence.” House thinks about this for a split second and tries not to smirk. “I had a neighbour. Katie? We used to... I used to...”

“You dirty little stop-out,” Peter admonishes and if House isn't mistaken, he thinks a wolf-whistle ought to accompany such a facetious telling-off. Even if it is lost on Wilson.

“When I was home for the holidays... when I was meant to be studying...”

Chapter Ten