The Boy Next Door CH12

[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 films (Boys Next Door) which you can find here:
www.youtube.com/watch

Previous chapters: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven

~ Chapter 12 ~

House casts a glance at Wilson as they fall into stride with each other across the disabled parking bay after ambling out of the car; and it's a good job that he does too because when the doors to Princeton-Plainsboro break open for them Wilson veers off to the side a little, readying his escape.

House raises his cane up to meet Wilson's hip to gently corral him back into line again like a farm hand might do with a straying animal. But Wilson forces the issue by edging away from him regardless. And so, with an under-the-breath expletive, House resorts to seizing onto his arm and pulling him up front.

“Run now and Cuddy will have Security on your ass in two minutes tops,” he warns him quietly, tightening his grip on Wilson's arm - now held uncomfortably behind his back - whilst he pushes him onwards. “And then the orderlies will stick their Taub-sized noses in and you'll be fighting against restraints up in Psych again.”

Wilson whines wordlessly at first, but then a petulant “let me go” breaks from his lips.

“Neither of us want that, buddy, do we?” House continues, and although he's trying to sound threatening, even Wilson is able to hang on to the resonant note of disappointment in his voice. “Don't... don't start today. Now come on, you were good all weekend for me, don't kick up today.”

“Good morning, James,” Cuddy is there at the nurse's station as usual to greet him. She replaces patient folders she was clearly only pretending to sift through on the desk and walks towards the two men as they move briskly into the warmth of the main lobby, “House.”

He lets go of Wilson's wrist upon Cuddy's nod, feeling only moderately bad for having to twist it on him, and with a final shove he propels him into her, “'M... sorry,” Wilson apologises even though he clearly wasn't at fault.

“Did you enjoy your dinner with Peter the other night?” she says pleasantly, brushing off the blunder at the blink of an eye.

“I had a burger.”

“So...” her smile falters and she looks to House for confirmation, “it went well then?”

“He enjoyed himself,” House assures, raising his eyebrows at her. “He even had a little wine when he was out. Didn't you, Jimmy?”

“House said it went to my head,” Wilson explains, bringing a hand to his crown for emphasis. “But... Peter only gave me a glass.”

“Did you get an especially insane voicemail message over the weekend about washing machines?” he says diplomatically and Cuddy's face sours as the memory of a seven minute rant about the kitchen appliance comes back to her. “Yeah, that glass didn't go to his head at all.”

“Shut up, House.”

House takes the time to drape an arm around his friend's neck and as he gestures with his eyes towards the former oncologist's unamused face, all feelings of inadequacy as a carer are momentarily buried as he tries to cheer him up, “He's just annoyed at me that after a relaxing weekend, I'm apparently ruining his life for bringing him here today.”

Cuddy sighs, only imagining how difficult an uncooperative Wilson is going to be today, because boy does he have a knack for it when he puts his damned mind to it.

“It's not that bad, Jimbo,” House says breezily, still with his arm hanging over him. “Just think of today as... Ogling Administrator Day. Can't do that from the comfort of your own home, can you?”

“But every day is - mmm - mmm!”

Cuddy stares reproachfully at the pair of them after House slaps a hand over Wilson's mouth, knowing him to be on the cusp of an insult, “I'm glad to see some things never change,” she dead-pans, trying to ignore House's stupid smug smile and the fact that Wilson's still trying to talk, albeit in a rather muffled, distressed manner.

When House's hand finally comes away, Wilson shrugs out from under his arm and takes a whole step away from them both to huff quietly. House catches Cuddy's flicker of a smile as she tries to discreetly give Wilson the once-over, up and down, but it's gone again by the time her attention returns to him, “Is it completely insane hoping for even the remotest possibility that you'll go easy on him for once?”

“Not completely,” House muses, “But then, you weren't woken up at six this morning to the sound of an exploding microwave.”

“Oh... oh,” she tries not to laugh, especially with Wilson raising his head up to meet her gaze and the blush creeping into his cheeks and the big brown apologetic eyes and the nervously clasped hands and the worrying of his bottom lip. She's never really noticed how, dare she think it, adorable he can be until now. Until recently. There was the time pre-accident, hell, pre-Lucas that he'd managed to pierce her heart tenfold in her office, pretending to have feelings for her to protect his friendship with House, to make House pursue her.

“You're an idiot,” she remembers fondly, although she doubts she can get away with pulling him towards her to kiss him on the cheek for reassurance or a quiet thank-you this time. Especially by the nurse's station and especially in front of House - he'd probably make a show of scrubbing his cheek clean with embarrassment and House would still tease him mercilessly. He's such a boy now. They both are.

“He was trying to make me scrambled eggs apparently,” House shrugs with shocking nonchalance, bringing her back to the harmless story. “And he spent the next hour on his hands and knees trying to clean it up so I can't technically hold it against him.”

He says this pointedly, like he's still trying to convince Wilson that he isn't even the slightest bit mad at him. Which means that Wilson probably went one of two ways this morning: he provoked House into a fight and a tantrum ensued and thus House, himself, is feeling guilty and doesn't want to set Wilson off again; or, Wilson cried about it and has retreated into himself to lick his wounds and he's all stammer and twitching-hands.

“We've had a wonderful start to a Monday morning - as if Mondays aren't bad enough,” House carries on sarcastically. “My day began with me dragging him, sweatpants and all, into the shower to wash pieces of mutated egg yolk from his hair,” he announces in a kind of neutral tone to warn Wilson without warning Wilson, without even including him in the conversation actually.

“So he knows, unless he's looking forward to one hell of a hiding, that he has to be on his best behaviour today. He has a lot of making up to do. That includes not trying to run away.”

“James wouldn't run away,” Cuddy argues in the same saccharine way, and risks a glance at Wilson.

Wilson knows that such a threat as a hiding is most certainly an empty one, and Cuddy hopes it's an empty one, but it's a threat nonetheless. In the past it would have warranted a dead arm or a bruised shin as a cane clipped against him, but now - nothing. House wouldn't dare raise his hand or cane anymore because they have an unequal friendship, well, they always had an unequal friendship, but more so. However, he could still end up misbehaving his way out of watching Star Wars or worse, so it was best not to chance things.

“I... I ran away once,” he decides to be honest with them. “When I was little. I packed my Mighty Mouse rucksack with tomatoes and butter I found in the fridge.”

Cuddy tries her hardest to suppress a smile, to take him seriously, but it's Wilson. It's weird hearing him talk about things he'd long since outgrown because from what she remembers he was always so busy pretending to be the adult out of them all, or at least in comparison to House, “Really? And where did you run off to?”

“Well... I wasn't allowed to cross the street,” he averts his eyes, lost in his own little memory. “So I climbed up the big tree in the back of our garden and stayed there... for... for... for maybe an hour. Felt like an hour, but I couldn't tell the time.”

“Doctor Wilson! How are you doing now? Are you keeping all right?”

House, who had momentarily tuned out because he has to listen to Wilson's randomness day-in and day-out, is on the defensive when he realises a miscellaneous doctor is suddenly stuffing his hand into Wilson's and forcing a feeble handshake out of him. Wilson hunches his shoulders and clamps his lips shut but the doctor continues to lay the assumed intimacy on thick, even so much as to rest a hand onto Wilson's shoulder as he enquires after his recovery.

“Get away from him, Fulton,” House starts, and before the man can justify himself, Cuddy places her own hand to the small of Wilson's back and subtly guides him free.

“House,” she says firmly and then whispers into Wilson's ear that he may wait in her office. “I'm sorry Doctor Fulton but... he doesn't respond well to...” she makes a sweeping glance of the neighbouring hospital staff, “audiences, really. You caught him on a shy day, that's all.”

“Shy day,” House scoffs, knowing that next to Sulking Wilson, he's going to have to handle Nervous Wilson all over again and given the context of his mood - that he feels uncomfortable in the hospital as it is - he really doesn't like their odds.

And it's annoying, too, because despite his mood he was rather quite conversational for once. They might have been on a roll if it weren't for pointless busy-bodies with their hearts set on involving themselves in something they know nothing about. And Fulton's from Paediatrics for crying out loud! He's never even had coffee with him before, why bother with pleasantries now? Too many people for Jimmy, too many people.

“Oh, I'm - I'm terribly sorry,” Fulton fumbles blindly under House's incandescent glare, the intensity of his cold blue irises as sharp and radiant as a 40 watt bulb, “I didn't mean to startle the man. I didn't know his nerves were shot. I just thought he was back to work.”

“You don't know much, do you? If I see you sucking up to him in the hallway or the canteen or wherever the hell again just for some light gossip, you'll-”

“House,” Cuddy pulls rank. “Go in and keep James company. Now.”

For once, House cuts his losses and stalks off, leaving Cuddy to apologise profusely to Fulton no doubt and to update him on Doctor Wilson's “condition.” So that he may pass on the warning do not approach to the rest of the staff like the guy's some timid little zoo animal with a more belligerent beast overseeing him.

And when she's done briefing Fulton as if Fulton even deserves to be briefed, House knows that when she rounds on him in her office, she'll launch into a lecture about the severity of complaints going down on record and how it doesn't bode well for either him or Jimmy when they are both up for the social services review, but, in all actuality, social services can't - or aren't willing - to challenge them that much seeing as living with House is probably Wilson's best option.

Although the whole stint in Mayfield didn't fare well because it was hard to justify two dependants co-habiting, having Cuddy as Wilson's attending doctor added some leverage to the outpatient treatment, rather than the day-release arrangement that Raymond Wilson seemed perfectly happy with.

The only problem was, and is, is that House can't get away with half the crap that he used to.

“House, people are going to want to crowd him,” Cuddy strides into her office and quickly sheds her lab coat onto its hanger. “We knew this. We talked about this. You can't blame them, they're only being polite.”

“Polite,” he jumps in, trying to stem her patronising diatribe on the good of humanity before she really picks up momentum. “We were only being polite, trying to please Peter - if he can't handle someone randomly stopping him and-”

“I'm fine.”

The argument grounds to a halt there and then and at least Cuddy has the good grace to look shameful at forgetting, perhaps for the umpteenth time, that Wilson's standing beside them. Or leaning against her desk with his arms crossed defensively across his chest to be more exact.

She takes the time to see just how fine he is, and to his credit he seems half-way composed, if a little annoyed. He unfolds his arms and begins playing with the hem of his sweater-vest - the same one from Friday - and his hands, trembling only slightly, ride it up above his navel.

“Don't stretch that,” House snaps. “And you're hardly fine. You were ready to make a break for it before we even got inside.”

Cuddy knows that House doesn't care in the least about stretching the sweater-vest, but that they've both just noticed that Wilson has made the effort to tuck in his shirt. Or at least try. And it is in the trying and failing that House wants him to pull the sweater-vest down again, to save further embarrassment.

For one shirt tail is stuffed into the waistband of his boxers, visible a good two and a half inches higher than his belt. If Cuddy didn't know any better, she would have accused House of hiking the boxers up on him as part of a malicious prank but given that Wilson is oblivious and House is taking pity on him for once, it's entirely more likely that their helpless idiot has accidentally wedgied himself whilst getting dressed this morning.

He's wearing green today.

She should really stop staring.

“Wilson! I said don't stretch that.”

Wilson heaves the longest sigh known to man and tugs it down around him again, “There!” he snaps back and then realises that he doesn't know what to do with his hands now. He turns around and starts lifting random things up from Cuddy's desk, making sure not to touch her open paperwork. By the time he settles for a glass paperweight, he realises that Cuddy has been speaking to him and he's just missed a whole chunk of conversation.

“...and obviously I'll be busy myself but I'll be up in House's office within the hour. So do you feel a bit better about being here?”

“Pay attention, pal,” House says knowingly, fixing him with a tired stare and rubbing his creased forehead with a thumbnail. “This concerns you, after all.”

He feels guilty for not listening and turns his puppy eyes on Cuddy, “House has better toys on his desk.”

Cuddy smiles tightly as she snatches the paperweight from his grasp, “That's because this is not a toy. Doctors aren't meant to have toys, James, despite what House would have you believe. But I have something that you might be interested in, something that you can have fun playing with.”

She steps around him to get to the front of the desk and Wilson, clutching at his wrist and raising himself up on his tiptoes curiously, waits for her as she thrusts a drawer open and roots around in it. When she finally straightens up and flicks her hair back over her shoulder, a generic black stethoscope is dangling off of her index finger, but with saucer-eyes Wilson correctly recognises it as his own.

He hangs it around his neck reverently whilst his mouth is practically drooling at the newfound importance. And then he breathes on the cool bell and polishes it against his belly, “I've missed this,” he says, almost to himself.

House clears his throat upon Wilson's admission with a slight unease about the whole thing, but he manages to recover with a large eye roll and a scathing comment that Wilson rightfully pays no heed to.

“James Wilson, M.D.” he says professionally, holding his hand out for House. “Are you sick, sir?”

“Didn't I tell you you'd get it back, buddy?” House says, finding himself smirking at Wilson's best Serious Face. “Do you remember how to use it? Maybe I should show you. Cuddy, unbutton your shirt.”

Cuddy lowers herself into her desk chair and, with a flourish of her hand having just picked up her pen, she shoos the pair of them out of the room, “I'll see you boys in an hour,” she says dryly, with her head tilted to one side and her lips pulled taut into a false smile. “Mommy has actual work to do.”

“Think that's our cue, boy,” House says as way of goodbye. He makes a swipe for Wilson who is entertaining himself with his own heartbeat and drags him backwards out of the office; and he doesn't make it any better for House's limp either as he waves at Cuddy as flamboyantly as one trying to flag down a bus.

Chapter Thirteen