The first time he walked through the doors of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, James Wilson couldn't help but notice the floor was sticky. Not as gross as the kind of gooey cement that often served the hometown movie theatre, but still a little sticky.
Of course, these were the days before carpeted, stadium-seating movie theatres.
The point is, Dr. Wilson's first day of residency at the PPTH Oncology Department began with that niggling feeling in the back of his mind that something, somehow, was about to go terribly wrong. After all, if the cleaning staff couldn't keep the floors from grabbing at his loafers with every step, what would be the caliber of the rest of the hospital? It was a bad omen.
He clutched his newly-minted plastic nametag in his left hand and stared at the printed sheet of paper in his right. The professional font spelled out concise directions to report to his department head on the third floor.
Wilson paused at the elevator bay to scan the floor roster posted in a glass frame on the wall. Sure enough, Dr. Benson's office was listed on Floor Three. He pressed the up button and rocked back on his heels to wait.
A shout came from the clinic. "Move it or lose it!"
Wilson turned around just in time to see a man, tall, clad in blue jeans and a tee, rollerblading towards him like he was being chased by the devil. The man might have been a doctor; he wore a white lab coat with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and had a stethoscope slung around his neck.
But then Wilson considered that the man was just insane. It seemed infinitely more likely.
A middle-aged woman in her own doctor's coat ran out of an exam room, her face a livid red. "God damn you," she screamed after the rollerblader, "get back here with that sample!"
The man indeed held a vial of something (Spinal fluid? Urine?) to his chest. He skated nimbly around nurses and patients, hollering, "You'll have to catch me first!"
The elevator Wilson had been waiting for dinged open, and Wilson found himself shoved unceremoniously to the ground as the skating psychiatric patient made a break for freedom.
The floor stuck to his cheek. Wilson had just enough time to turn his head and glare up at the closing elevator doors.
Bright blue eyes gazed down at him, and the man waggled his fingers in greeting. "Sorry, buddy. I'm saving lives here."
And then the doors clicked shut.
Wilson sighed before struggling to his feet. The sudden disruption had already been passed over, and the clinic was again busy with ringing telephones and the chatter of workers and patients. Apparently, this sort of thing was a regular occurrence at PPTH.
The soles of Wilson's shoes felt gummy. He decided to take the stairs instead. When he came home that night, Bonnie was still unpacking their newly-mingled belongings.
"So how was it?" she asked.
Wilson kissed her forehead and told her it was great, even though it was a lie. When he went to bed, he dreamt he was being attacked by roller skating carhops.
Months and months later, Wilson started to get into the groove of working in his department. The work was hard, the hours were crap, but he couldn't imagine being anywhere else. The oncology staff was one of the best in the country, and he didn't feel stifled or looked-over like at his previous posts. And besides, as Bonnie kept pointing out, there was Ashley's alimony to think about. Princeton paid well, and the cost of living was much less here than in Massachusetts.
Wilson got the feeling that Bonnie didn't like it in Princeton, that she might bolt back to Boston at any moment. He often daydreamed of coming home to their empty two-bedroom, an unfinished lunch still on the counter perhaps, and a note saying no more, James. No more.
It was silly to consider. She was always there when he came home.
These are the sort of thoughts that drifted into his head while he sat charting his portion of the department's current patients. It was mindless work; he could do it with his eyes closed. Wilson had some half-formed hope for something interesting to distract him in the empty oncology lounge.
A dusty brick fell on the open chart on the table before him, making him jump at the loud sound. Fine red dust coated the papers he had been writing on. Wilson looked up, his mouth open and his brow furrowed, to see the same set of bizarre blue eyes from his first day of work.
"My patient needs a CT scan," the tall man growled, his arms crossed over his chest.
He was dressed much the same as before: casual clothing hidden beneath a lab coat with the sleeves rolled up jauntily, revealing a plastic children's watch, the kind you might find in a Happy Meal, on his left wrist. His hair was dark and curly, cropped close to his skull. His forearms were tan, like he spent a lot of time outside, and his shoulders were broad but not bulky. He had the kind of expressive face that wasn't particularly attractive, but fascinating to watch.
In fact, Wilson couldn't look away from the angry tick in his jaw.
"Now," the man insisted.
Wilson used the end of his pen to point at the brick in front of him. "And that's for…?"
"Bashing you over the head if you don't get your patient out of the scanner in five minutes," he replied.
Wilson blinked and considered the rectangular object, cocking his head to the side in a show of confusion. "Did you walk all the way out to the parking lot, climb over a fence, sneak into the construction site for the new wing, steal a brick, and come all the way back here to threaten me with it?"
Hands were thrown up in frustration. "Yes. Now will you haul your patient out of there?"
"Hold on," Wilson continued, eyeing the stranger but seeing no name tag pinned to his coat. "Why didn't you just ask me first?"
Electric blue eyes blinked. "Would you have done it?"
"No." Wilson shoved the brick to the other side of the table and bent over his charts again. "And I'm not doing it now. If you needed the scanner, you should have put it on the schedule."
"If I had known my patient was going to need— You know what? It'll be easier to knock you unconscious," the man said, grabbing for the brick.
Wilson lunged across the table at the same moment and a scuffle ensued, both men grappling for a handhold on the grainy stone.
"You're insane!" Wilson cried, half out of his chair, feeling the other man's short fingernails digging into his hands.
"Stop complaining," his adversary snapped. "Think of it as paid nap time."
"Dr. Wilson?" an older woman in a white lab technician uniform asked from the doorway.
They both looked up at the sound and froze on either side of the charting table, still grasping the brick between them, stuck in a ridiculous tableau.
"Your patient is cleared to go back to his room," the tech said without a trace of shock at the picture they presented. "The results should be ready by—"
Before she could finish, the tall man suddenly let go of the brick, letting Wilson stumble backwards with the force of his own pull. Without another glance at the other doctor, he raced past the woman in the doorway, the tails of his white coat flapping wildly. He shouted over his shoulder, "My guy's next, and if I come back to see another chemo kid in the only working scanner…"
His threat faded as he ran down the hall, presumably to retrieve his own patient.
Wilson felt his face grow hot, and he threw the brick back onto the table with an angry grunt. "Who the hell does he think he is? Does he even work on this floor?"
The lab tech frowned at him, twisted in the doorway, ready to leave. "No one told you?" she asked.
Wilson perched his hands on his hips and took a few deep inhalations to calm his racing heart. "Who's his department head?" he demanded. "That guy nearly assaulted me! I have half a mind to—"
"Dr. House doesn't really have a department," she answered with a shrug. "Technically, he's listed on the ICU roster, but…"
Wilson dragged a hand through his bangs. They were getting too long. "But what?"
"He's a floater. A freelancer." Another shrug. "Other departments come to him when they run into a problem. He fixes it for them."
Wilson stared at her. "That makes no sense," he said.
A loud shout came from the hallway, accompanied by the squeak of a wheelchair. The lab tech glanced in that direction and sighed. "Look, if you have a problem with the guy, get in line. He's a bit of a bastard." She finally turned to leave, shouting down the hall, "I'm coming, House! Don't break down the door!"
Wilson rolled his eyes and sat down again to brush red dust from his charts. "I'm going to talk to Dean Quick about this," he mumbled to himself.
But his patients filled his day and he quickly forgot all about Dr. House. Although that night he dreamt he was being sealed behind a brick wall, a la the Cask of Amontillado. He couldn't see his captor's face in the dark, but he recognized the cackling laugh.
The results he held in his hands were impossible. Wilson slammed the file shut, took a deep breath, and opened it once more. No, the tests were still negative.
"What the hell is happening to her?" Wilson mumbled to himself, scanning the patient's chart once more.
It was late and he should have been on his way home, but Wilson couldn't bring himself to leave the hospital when his case was in such a frustrating state of limbo. He had been sitting in the lounge for a while now, tapping his pen against his lips and staring at the same set of facts laid out before him.
His tie was loosened around his throat, and the top two buttons of his shirt were undone. The starched white coat had been discarded and folded over the back of the lumpy couch. His sleeves were rolled halfway up his forearms. Wilson brought his right wrist up to check his watch, a wedding present from Bonnie's mother.
Mrs. Frank liked Wilson very much. After Bonnie's father had died, he had been there for her like no one else had. It was a little surprising how quickly they had become an item; one day Wilson was nodding politely to the MGH clerk, the next he was helping her wipe ruined mascara off her cheeks and telling her it was all going to be okay.
The courtship had not lasted long. Though Wilson had voiced his concerns about marriage ("I did it once before when I was just a stupid kid in med school.") Bonnie had been adamant ("You're not a stupid kid anymore, are you?").
The silvery watch hands showed it was nearly seven. Wilson sighed and reached up for the staff phone attached to the wall behind the sofa. He dialed their house number and waited. After three rings, Bonnie picked up.
"I'm sorry," Wilson told her, "but I'm probably not going to make it home for dinner."
The crackle-static of her voice flowed through the line, high-pitched and wondering. Wilson switched the receiver to his other ear.
"It's this patient," he explained. "I thought I'd be done with her sooner, but she's getting worse. I'm going to—"
Two things interrupted Wilson: one was Bonnie, her thready voice asking an unheard question, and the other was the lounge door slamming open to reveal the man Wilson had been happy to forget up to this point.
"ICU's out of peanut butter," House said loudly despite the fact that Wilson was on the phone.
Wilson scowled, but waved a hand in the direction of some cupboards. He tried to give his wife a mumbling response over the phone, making it clear to her that he really was sorry.
"This is smooth," House complained, peering into the pilfered jar. "Don't you have crunchy?"
Wilson rolled his eyes and pointedly turned away from the other doctor, cradling the phone against his ear and listening to Bonnie.
"I don't know when I'll be done," he answered her. "I'm going to try a few more tests, and if those don't work out, I'll throw in the towel for the day."
"Towel? Throw? The?" Dr. House was suddenly at his shoulder, eating out of the jar with a plastic spoon. "What're the symptoms?" he asked around a mouthful of sticky peanut butter.
Blocking the other man with his shoulder, Wilson whispered into the phone. "I've got to go, okay? Love you." House jostled him as he hung up the receiver. "What is your problem?" he finally said to the man.
"Low blood sugar," he retorted. "Your patient's problem, on the other hand, looks much more interesting."
"This is my case," Wilson said firmly. "I'm not letting you take it, even if you try to hit me with a brick."
House looked up at the corner of the ceiling thoughtfully. "Oh, you're the Brick Guy?" he said with sudden realization. "I knew you looked familiar. But with all these incompetent doctors running around, I get a little confused."
Wilson felt his face flush with anger, and he opened his mouth to shout something hopefully witty back at his opponent, but the door opened again and a beautiful dark-haired woman poked her head into the room.
"Greg," she said. "I'm heading out. You coming?"
House set his snack down on the coffee table and crossed the room to her. "Sorry, Stacy," he said, pecking her on the lips. "But I've got some cool doctor stuff lined up right now."
"No you—" Wilson began to protest.
"Well, you boys have fun then," Stacy said with a smile, giving House a small kiss in return. "See you at home."
The door swung shut behind her, and House turned with a grin. "So, where were we? Patient presents with…?"
"I am not an incompetent doctor!" Wilson cried. "I am not Brick Guy. And I'm not handing over this case to an utter lunatic."
House swung himself onto the arm of a stuffed chair, leaning back with all the grace of a cat. "No," he said like he was speaking to a child. "You're James Wilson of Princeton-Plainsboro, formerly of Mass General, and the top in your class at U of Penn, specializing in oncology with an extra special specialty in surgical oncology." He crossed his legs and cupped his hands around one knee. "You're too young to be a normal resident, so my guess is that you really applied yourself, maybe skipped a few grades as a kid, maybe even had parents and teachers toying with the idea that you were a child prodigy. But you knew you weren't a savant, you just learned things faster. Yet you still work hard to outshine your colleagues because it's still expected of you." House tapped his brown loafer on the table in front of him. "You're not stupid. But you're not perfect. And if you don't want this kid to die, you'll stop being the Golden Boy long enough to ask me for a goddamn consult."
Wilson gaped. "You looked at my records?" He blinked. "You didn't just waltz in here and stumble upon this case. You knew I had it, didn't you?"
House picked up the peanut butter jar, scraped around in it with the spoon, and popped another bite in his mouth. "I may have heard something about a little girl presenting with distorted vision," he admitted. "You may as well tell me the rest."
The oncologist massaged the back of his neck, a nervous habit he'd had since he was small. With a heavy sigh, he tossed the patient's folder on the low coffee table within House's reach.
"Amy Holden. Nine-year-old female, admitted this morning complaining of blurred vision. Her parents noticed she was reaching for things and not grabbing them, walking into walls, ducking to make room for things that aren't there. The symptoms seem to get worse at night, and the ophthalmologist couldn't find any physical problem with her eyes, so naturally I thought…"
"But it wasn't a tumor," House finished, flipping through the pages of the file.
Wilson sighed and slid further down the cushions of the sofa. "Can't even find a shadow on her scans," he said.
"Says here she had to be sedated," House noted.
"She was scared. She's just a kid," Wilson pointed out.
"She's a liar." House let the folder fall back onto the table, not bothering with replacing all the pages neatly. "I think she's hallucinating but won't tell us because she's afraid we'll ship her up to the seventh floor with the rest of the crazies."
"Well, she's completely lucid. But I was thinking about having Randal from Neurology come in to take a look," Wilson suggested, shuffling the papers back into the file.
House let out a snort of a laugh. "I wouldn't let Randal poke around in my dog's brain," he said, "and I don't even own a dog."
"Then what's your plan?" Wilson snapped back.
House stood fluidly and cracked his back with a satisfied sigh. "Give me five minutes alone with the kid, and I'll have our answer," he promised.
So while Wilson distracted the worried parents with a serious talk about their daughter's condition out in the hallway, House slipped into the girl's private room. Wilson kept the parents' backs to the glass walls of the room, and he watched House's movements with a wary eye. He still didn't trust the man, but if he could offer any help to this case, Wilson would take it.
"So I'd like to discuss a few options with you," Wilson continued, dragging out the talk to buy some more time. "Because the CT scans revealed no tumors…"
House was approaching the bed, tossing a metal slinky back and forth in his hands. His mouth moved, speaking to Amy Holden in the hospital bed, but Wilson couldn't hear the words through the glass.
"…which is a good sign, of course, we just…"
With a flick of his wrist, House closed the window shade, leaving the room in relative darkness. The little girl seemed to say something to him, her hands waving in the air.
"…now have to run some more tests…" Wilson couldn't help his eyes widening at the sight just beyond the mother's shoulder.
The little girl was cowering away from House, throwing her plastic water cup at him, then her pillow, then the entire contents of her bedside table. House ducked the projectiles and approached the bed, his voice raised to a dull shout behind the glass.
"Oh no," Wilson said just before Amy started screaming at the top of her lungs.
"I can't believe a grown man like yourself," Wilson drawled sarcastically, "would bully a nine year old like that."
House pressed the ice pack to his split lip (Mrs. Holden had one hell of a left hook) and smiled. "Doesn't matter. I think I know what's wrong with her," he said.
Wilson spun the wheeled stool so that he was once again facing House. Sitting on the exam table with spots of blood decorating his yellow tee, House looked like any other accident-prone clinic patient. Wilson reached forward and gently took away the ice pack to look at the damage on House's face, placing a palm on his smooth cheek to keep him steady.
"You won't need stitches, at least," he said. "So what's the diagnosis, doctor?"
"She's gone through the looking glass," House replied, sitting still long enough to let the other man probe his injured mouth. "Little Amy is actually little Alice. Very little, in fact."
Wilson shook his head. "I don't understand."
"She sees things growing to gigantic proportions, or she feels herself shrinking. Her arms and legs sometimes feel like they're too long or too short." House touched his fingertips to his lip and pulled them away to check for blood, but the bleeding had stopped. "Alice in Wonderland syndrome. It gets worse at night when kids are looking for the monster under their bed."
"What? What does that…?" Wilson sputtered.
"It means she has mono. Check her for Epstein-Barr," House said. He hopped off the table. "Happens in a very small percentage of young patients. Instead of normal symptoms, their brains start giving them weird signals, like the nice doctor is really a giant who wants to step on you." He gave the other doctor a nod and opened the door. "Thanks for the cold pack, Wilson," he said, turning to leave.
"Wait," Wilson called, swiveling around on the stool. "If you hadn't known about this Wonderland syndrome, Randal might have drilled into her head for nothing." He tilted his head and said, so slow and grudgingly that it sounded like pulling teeth, "You probably saved her life."
House stared at him for a moment. "Yeah. Duh." And with that, he left.
When Wilson finally got home around midnight, Bonnie was already in bed but not asleep, though she steadfastly ignored him as he crawled between the sheets.
Wilson fell asleep and dreamt that he was very small, about the size of a thimble. He tried to run across the gaping white expanse of the table in Exam Room Two, but House came and picked him up between his thumb and forefinger. He held Wilson's tiny, wriggling body in the air and wrinkled his nose at the sight.
"Shrinking Genius syndrome," his voice boomed loudly. "Good thing I'm here or someone might have squashed you." And he slipped Wilson into the breast pocket of his white coat, where it was warm and safe. He stayed there and listened to House's heartbeat thumping deep within his chest.
More time went by, and before he knew it, Wilson had been at PPTH for over a year. He still loved the work, though it kept him very busy. Once in awhile, he'd see House stalking the halls or hear about the man's latest adventure in pissing someone off, but he never had time to stop and chat with him.
He wasn't actually sure if he wanted to. House wasn't the sort of man you chatted with, was he? He was more like a bristly porcupine, snapping at the fingers of unsuspecting campers.
The resident lawyer, Stacy Dorn, didn't seem to mind, though. Wilson wondered how House had managed to snag such a gorgeous woman. Maybe the old saying was true, he thought: Nice guys finish last. A cruel and honest part of this mind supplied Bonnie as evidence.
Things weren't going so well at home. Small annoyances, things you didn't notice before you started living with a person, were slowly coming to light. Bonnie didn't work, so her only task in life was taking care of their house, though she wasn't any good at it. She had shrunk laundry, burned dinners, and generally failed at keeping things tidy. Wilson had hired a maid, though he often wondered aloud what Bonnie would do with herself.
She had had goals once, dreams. But now she seemed content to do nothing with her days except flipping through home furnishing catalogs, looking for the perfect suite for the guest bedroom.
"Why don't you finish up your RN certification?" Wilson would say.
Bonnie would scoff. "Just what we need: both of us spending all day at that damn hospital."
Wilson leaned against the nurses' station, idly signing off on a patient's chart and thinking about their future.
There was a sudden flurry of activity behind him as three doctors rushed by, shouting directions at each other, which Wilson caught only in snippets.
But they all ran out into the hallway before he could ask what was happening. It seemed other staff members were also hurrying by, all going in the same direction: the ER. Wilson managed to grab a stout nurse by the elbow.
"Multiple-injury accident?" he asked.
"It's House." That was all she said before she took off.
Wilson followed, swept up in the river of doctors and nurses, until he reached the ER at the end of the hallway. In the middle of a sea of stone-faced orderlies and hurried doctors, House was laid out on a gurney, clutching his right leg with one hand and Stacy Dorn's wrist with the other.
"Somebody help him!" Stacy was yelling.
"He's maxed out on morphine," one nurse intoned, nodding towards the machine that doled out the drug.
House was gritting his teeth, his back arching off the sheets. "I knew!" he shouted between waves of pain. "I knew all along that—"
His voice dissolved into a scream, and one of the nurses suddenly pulled the curtain closed, shutting Wilson out of the scene.
The oncologist stood there for a minute, knowing it wasn't any of his business and there was nothing he could do; House already had half the ER staff working on him.
He listened to the mingled shouts, the beeping machinery, and the squeaking gurney for a long moment. Then he caught sight of Stacy, leaning against the wall with her head in her hands. She had obviously been cast aside so the doctors could do their jobs. Wilson could relate to the crushing feeling of uselessness.
"Come on, Ms. Dorn," he said softly, putting a hand on her shoulder. "I'll get you some coffee."
Wilson took care in balancing the two paper coffee cups in his hands as he made his way down the hall. He had sat Stacy down in the lounge, a quiet place where she could wait comfortably. The coffee was crap, just the sludge from the vending machine, but it would have to do. He barely knew the woman, and he certainly didn't like the man attached to her, but House had helped him with the Holden case a few months ago, so Wilson felt he owed them some courtesy.
As he passed the nurses' station, he heard several staff members chatting about the new drama in the ER.
"So it turns out House was right about the infarction?" One man, a doctor from NICU, shook his head. "That figures."
"Yeah, but I guess it's too late now." A neurologist sipped from her coffee mug. "I hear they're going to have to take the leg off."
Wilson paused beside a potted palm, frozen at the words.
"Wow," another doctor said with a roll of his eyes. "It couldn't have happened to a nicer guy."
The knot of doctors laughed heartily, and Wilson stood watching them, the coffee cooling in his hands, and felt bile rise in his throat.
"What the hell is wrong with you people?" he shouted over the laughter. It promptly died. The men and women in white coats turned to stare at him.
"You're doctors," Wilson said. "You're supposed to want to help patients. You shouldn't wish amputation on anyone, no matter how much of an asshole they are." He looked down at the tepid drinks in his hands and threw them into a nearby trashcan in disgust before stalking away. The silence of the other doctors pressed against his back.
He was nearly to the lounge, taking deep breaths to calm his racing heart, when a hand touched his elbow.
"Hey." He turned to find a female doctor, dark curly hair piled on top of her head, looking up at him. "What you just said to those guys…" she started to say.
"I'm sorry," he said immediately. "I shouldn't have yelled like that. I know everyone deals with the job in their own way, and I'm just out of residency, and—"
"No, I thought you were right," she said with a small smile. "We're doctors. We help people." She shrugged. "I'm just glad someone said something. This hospital needs a real attitude adjustment. I wish more doctors would consider a patient's feelings like you do."
Wilson blinked. "Um, thank you." He stuck out his hand. "James Wilson, oncology."
"Lisa Cuddy." She shook his hand firmly in return. "Dean Quick is putting me in charge of House's case." From her tone of voice and her confident poise, Wilson could tell she was meant for administration. Best to stay on her good side.
"Well, Dr. Cuddy, I've got to find some decent coffee," he said, releasing her hand. "House's, uh, partner, she's in the lounge and…."
"Stacy's here?" Cuddy said with a gasp. "Oh god, I'm sure no one's told her anything. I'll take care of her, don't worry. We department heads know where all the good coffeemakers are in this place," she said with a wink.
She walked past him, clicking down the hall in her impossible heels. Wilson stuck his hands in his pockets and asked her, "Is he really going to lose the leg?"
Cuddy turned and frowned, her face drawn into a mask of worry. "I'm not sure," she said with a shake of her head. "But it doesn't look good." She paused for a moment. "He's a good doctor," she said finally. "The best we have."
"Yeah, I know," Wilson said. She gave him a tight smile and walked away to deal with everything.
"Rough day?" Bonnie asked when he came home that night.
Wilson kissed her on the forehead in greeting but didn't answer. He went straight to bed and dreamt he was a POW in the Vietnam War, and the Vietcong was slowly sawing off his hands, leaving only bloody stumps. The gold watch from his mother-in-law slid off his arm and was lost in the dust.
Nearly two months later, Wilson ran into Cuddy in the elevator. He smiled, but she didn't. That wasn't normal for her, and Wilson was instantly worried.
"I'm glad I caught you," she said. "I need you to do me a favor."
Naturally, Wilson's first thought went somewhere along the lines of a consult. He eyed the folders Cuddy held under her arm.
"Sure," he answered with a shrug.
"I'm on the board, and an emergency meeting is being called tonight." She licked her lips. "Dean Quick had a heart attack this morning."
"Oh my god." Wilson furrowed his brow. He didn't know Quick that well; the Dean was a busy man, and their paths rarely crossed. But when he'd last seen him in the halls, the older man had seemed fine. "Is he okay?"
Cuddy made a so-so gesture with her palm. "He'll recover, but he told his attending he wants to retire. Says the stress of the job is too much for him." She dug around in the pocket of her lab coat and fished out a slip of paper. "This is House's address," she said, pressing it into his hand. "I told him I'd stop by tonight to check on him, but I just won't have the time. Do you think you could…?"
Wilson went wide-eyed, his mouth opening and closing before he could speak. "I'm not so sure I'd be…I mean, I hardly know the guy, and I don't think he likes me much."
"Wilson, I'm sorry. I know it's the last thing you want to do after work," Cuddy sighed. "But without Stacy, he's a wreck. Just make sure he's not dead on the bathroom floor, heat up some food, and let him yell about something for awhile." She checked her watch and groaned. "Please? I wouldn't ask except you're one of the few people who's ever spoken up for him. And I can't miss this meeting."
"Stacy left him?" Wilson asked, though a tiny part of his brain said finally.
"Actually, House threw her out." The elevator stopped and Cuddy stepped out, walking briskly and calling over her shoulder. "I wouldn't bring it up. Thank you, I owe you one!" And she disappeared around the corner.
Wilson considered the address on the scrap of paper as he exited the elevator. It sounded familiar, a neighborhood not far from campus. A visit would only take a few moments, and for all his talk about helping others in their time of need, Wilson knew he'd have to go.
He found a staff phone and called Bonnie to tell her he'd be late. Again.
Wilson consulted Cuddy's note once more and glanced at the street sign outside his Volvo's windshield. Baker Street…this was the place. He got out of the car and approached a tidy row of townhouses, the kind that nicely-settled professors might occupy. The neighborhood was close to campus, but secluded in a tree-lined boulevard. It looked very homey.
He counted off the numbers on the dark green doors until he came to 221. The vestibule door was open, and apartment B was there on the right, just like Cuddy's neat script had promised. Wilson took a deep breath and knocked on the door.
There was nothing. Silence. Wilson knocked again.
"Dr. House?" he called. "It's Dr. Wilson. Lisa Cuddy told me to come." A shuffling noise floated through the door. "Dr. House, are you there?" Wilson tried again.
A loud bang followed by the sound of breaking glass made Wilson jerk his ear from the cool wood and grab for the brass doorknob. The door wasn't locked, and he stepped inside.
The remains of a shattered water glass lay scattered on the threshold, and Wilson stepped over them gingerly.
House stretched across a brown leather sofa in the middle of the living room, wearing a tee shirt with a mustard stain and a pair of plaid boxers. A white bandage covered most of his affected thigh, the low depression barely noticeable beneath the gauze. A pair of metal crutches leaned in a messy X against the low coffee table. It wasn't a large place by any means: there was a kitchen off to the left, and Wilson could see a bedroom down the hall and a bathroom after that. But this room was big enough to hold all sorts of heavy, dark furniture as well as a piano.
Everything seemed to be in disarray. The broken glass was mingling with chipped china and shreds of papers on the wooden floor. Walls of bookcases had gaps where Stacy's things had been removed. Dusty shadows decorated on the walls where frames had once hung. So House really had been stupid enough to send her away.
"You live in a nice area," Wilson commented as if acquaintances threw projectiles at him all the time.
"You're not Cuddy," House said, his voice slow and scratchy. He lifted his head off the cushions as if it weighed a hundred pounds and glared up at the other man. "Oh god, she sent in the second-string do-gooder."
Wilson approached the couch with his hands in the pockets of his slacks, but didn't say anything. He just let House talk.
"I don't want you here. Go away and tell Cuddy you held my hand and helped me through a dark time," House muttered, burrowing his face back into the slick leather. "I'll lie for you. Don't worry, I'm good at it," he said. He seemed to have tired himself with that small outburst, and his body molded into the cushions like a wilted plant.
Wilson ignored him and began picking up the refuse from where it was cluttered around the baseboards and along the fringe of the rug. Torn photographs and small, handwritten notes rolled into balls. Some of them contained Stacy in some way, but others were a mystery. Why had House saved this old grocery list printed in his masculine hand? And what was it about this photograph of a field that had inspired such rage as to tear it apart?
"Keep your hands off my trash," House growled. "I told Cuddy, and I'll tell you, just leave it alone."
"You can't have all this stuff on the floor." Wilson found a small trashcan behind a guitar case and started filling it. "Obstacles and crutches do not mix."
"You know what else doesn't mix? You in my house, so—" He was cut off by a pained gasp, and he fumbled for an amber bottle on the floor. "Damn these things," House cursed. "I can never get the fucking tops…"
"Here, let me." Wilson reached out and took the prescription bottle. He glanced at the label. "Do these help?" he asked, pushing the lid down hard and twisting it off.
"For a few hours," House said, breathing heavily. His forehead was covered with a thin sheen of sweat as he held his hand out for a pill. Wilson dropped it in his palm and closed the bottle again.
"Let me get you some more water," Wilson murmured, heading to the unfamiliar kitchen and opening cabinets until he found glasses. "You can ask the pharmacy to use non-childproof caps from now on," Wilson suggested as he filled a glass at the sink. He set the cool tumbler of water on the table within easy reach of the injured man.
House scoffed and swallowed the pill with two big gulps of water. He grimaced at the taste and said, "That'll save me some time." He glanced up at Wilson, and Wilson could see the dark circles under his blue eyes, the oiliness of his unwashed hair, and the stubble on his cheeks. "I'm going to be on these things till the day I die," he said in a rough voice.
Wilson fished the television remote from under a pile of yellow Wendy's napkins and set it on the table. "Look, Dr. House, maybe it's not my place to say, but it looks like Dr. Cuddy has let you sit around doing nothing and…"
"Damn right, she has!" House suddenly exploded, his face red and sweaty. "I worked at that hospital for seven years! I solved hundreds of cases that no one else could. And what did I get in return?" He twisted the hem of his thin white shirt in his hands. "Was anybody there to help me when I needed a diagnosis? No, fuck that asshole, he just wants the drugs."
Wilson took a step back, but House only leaned forward more, heaving his broken body into a sitting position.
"Of course I wanted the drugs. I was in pain. It was my body, my leg, and I knew something was wrong with it. Why wouldn't anyone listen to me for one goddamned second?" House panted for breath and clutched his right thigh. "One…fucking…second."
Wilson sat down carefully on the lip of the coffee table so he was eye to eye with the other man. Only a foot of space separated them. "The doctors were doing their—"
"Their best wasn't good enough!" House shouted.
Wilson kept his voice even. He held his hand up in a calming gesture. "You have a rare gift, House. You can't expect everyone to have your talent for diagnoses." He tilted his head in thought. "Maybe you could teach incoming students. Have a new generation of doctors working cases like you do."
"I can't just, just teach some snot-nosed brats how to work a case," House stuttered, gesturing wildly with his hand. "I'd have to show them. And they wouldn't get it, they wouldn't be able to see…" He slumped back again, his face wracked with lines of weariness. "I'm not going to be holed up in a classroom for the rest of my career," he said after a long pause.
"Fine." Wilson stood and grabbed the TV remote. "If you want to keep practicing medicine, you'll have to recover. So stop feeling sorry for yourself and focus on healing." He clicked the power button, and the large screen slowly came to life. "Watch something mindless while I clean up in here."
House groaned and swiveled his head to watch Wilson pick up the large pieces of broken glass on the floor. The flickering lights of the television washed over the room, and they didn't talk for awhile.
When Wilson got home, Bonnie asked him, "Who is this guy again?"
Wilson left his briefcase by the door. "An acquaintance from work," he said. "He's recovering from surgery."
Bonnie's brow furrowed. "Is he your patient?"
"Yeah," Wilson lied. That night, he didn't dream of anything.
"I thought you were married," House said one night, a week or so later.
Wilson blinked. "I am married."
He looked across the kitchen island at House, who was now hungry enough to crutch his way into a different room for the pork chops Wilson had just served up.
"Where's the ring?" House asked, still chewing his mouthful. He soaked up some gravy with a slice of bread.
Wilson sighed; he'd stopped by again as a favor to Cuddy. She had been chosen to act as the Interim Dean while the board looked for a replacement for Quick. Her schedule was full, and she couldn't check up on House every night.
"He needs someone to be there," she'd insisted. "Just a few minutes, that's all. He'll throw you out when he's done, trust me."
But somehow, the evening became a drawn-out dinner and fireside (television lighted, anyway) chat. Wilson had even badgered House into tapping out a song on the piano.
"I don't feel like playing," House had said, crossing his arms with a grumpy scowl.
"You don't want to get rusty," Wilson had replied. And House had played a movement of Vivaldi's Winter. It had sounded like fast-falling snow and black pavement, and House hadn't played for very long, ending mid-phrase.
"The ring?" House repeated, gesturing with his fork to Wilson's hand, frozen on its way to his mouth in thought. "Did you hock it for cold cash?"
Wilson put his forkful of potatoes down and sighed. "No, I stopped wearing it. I was getting too nervous, taking it off for surgery. Bonnie put it in a keepsake box for me."
House frowned and took a long drink from his glass. "How many years have you been a surgeon?" he asked once he'd finished. "And now suddenly the ring is in your way?"
Wilson didn't answer. House tried again. "So 'Wilson'…that's a nice Jewish name."
Wilson's eyebrows shot up on his forehead. "How did you know I was Jewish?" he asked. No one but people from back home knew.
"I don't know." House shrugged and started shredding his paper napkin. "So? Was it Weinstein before your great-grandparents came to Ellis Island?"
"It's none of your business," Wilson said, and started scraping his plate into the trash even though he hadn't finished eating.
"My great-grandparents were actually called Haus," he said, creating a guttural Germanic accent on the foreign word. "Same thing, though. A house is a house."
When Wilson went home, Bonnie only spoke to him in monosyllabic retorts before bed. Wilson fell asleep and dreamt that he was climbing the Statue of Liberty, digging his fingertips into the folds of her tunic.
The third time Wilson came by House's townhouse, he had to use the hidden key above the doorframe to get inside. He had pounded on the green door for nearly half an hour, shouting for the older doctor, before looking for the key.
He found House on his back on the bathroom floor.
"No concussion," House mumbled. "Just tired." A pool of blood had formed under his head, the result of a superficial head wound that still bled sluggishly.
"Oh my god, oh my god," Wilson chanted. He checked House's pupils and his pulse, but House was telling the truth. He was fine, physically, and Cuddy wouldn't have to kill anyone tomorrow morning. "What happened, House?"
"You're late," House croaked. The metal crutches lay discarded in the hallway, side by side like railroad tracks. "I had to piss."
"You fell?" Wilson asked.
House motioned to the crutches in the hall. "I tried to walk. Alone. Without them."
The oncologist rolled his eyes and held back the curses on his lips. "Come on, let's get you to bed," he said, pressing a bath towel underneath House's dark head. "Can you stand?"
"I don't want to stand," House murmured. "I don't want to walk. I just want to sleep here."
Wilson tried to pick him up, but House was dead weight, boneless on the tile floor. House shrugged Wilson's hands off his arm.
"Just leave," he said. "Get out of here. Go home to your wife." His eyes slid closed again, and his breath evened out. Nearly asleep.
Wilson looked around the tiny, dark bathroom, at House's thin body curled up on the floor.
Wilson pulled at the knot in his tie and slipped it from his neck. "Can't do that, doctor," he said, and undid the first few buttons on his dress shirt.
He settled himself on the cool tile next to House's side, pressed tight from the lack of space, feet curved around the base of the toilet and arms tucked in close under his cheek.
"Idiot," he heard House breathe before they both fell asleep.
Wilson dreamed about being an astronaut. He walked out into space and felt the cold metal of the space station against his back, but the heat of the sun warmed his face and chest.
"Let's fix that mirror," a Russian voice said into his earpiece, and Wilson floated weightless towards the Hubble.
Wilson returned the very next night for two reasons: he was worried about House's state of mind, and Bonnie had told him not to bother coming home before she hung up on him. There was no explaining to her why he hadn't come home last night. Wilson had tried. ("Have I ever even met this man?" Bonnie shouted over the phone line.)
"House?" Wilson called into the dim apartment. He had commandeered the spare key for his own use, and House had let him. It now jingled on his key ring next to his house, car, and locker keys. "You in here?"
He knew House was; the man hadn't left his home since the operation.
The sofa was empty, and so were the kitchen chairs. The bathroom door was open to reveal a deserted tub, and the only place left was the bedroom. Wilson hesitated in the hallway with his hand on the doorknob. In the few times he'd come to see House, he'd never been inside his bedroom.
Strange, he thought, that he knew so little about the man he'd slept next to all night. Wilson wondered if it was really a quirk of fate that their paths had crossed, or whether he was just a glutton for punishment and refused to back down from a hopeless case.
And nothing described House like "hopeless case."
He took a fortifying breath and pushed the door open. The room was dark, and the bed was empty. After a moment of panic, Wilson's eyes adjusted and he saw House's lanky silhouette outlined against the window. He was leaning on the sill with his crutches stuffed under his arms.
"House?" he said.
House put a finger to his lips and shushed him loudly. "The stars are speaking," he whispered.
Wilson shuffled into the room and closed the door behind him. "What do you mean?"
"I'm not one man anymore," House continued, swinging his attention back to the open window. "I'm more. More like five." He counted on one hand. "Sight, sound, touch, smell, taste. The big five."
Wilson blinked and looked down at the floor. An empty bottle of whiskey sat on the carpet, making a sticky patch near its mouth.
"Did you mix that with the pills?" Wilson cried. He rushed forward, grabbing the man's face between his hands and forcing his drooping eyelids open with his thumbs. "How many, House? How many pills?"
House's pupils were tiny pinpoints of black, making his blue irises seem huge like dinner plates. His face was clammy and cool and peppered with facial hair. He didn't answer Wilson's question. His lips curled into a lazy grin.
"You want to get high? That's how you plan on getting through this?" Wilson hissed between clenched teeth. "You stupid son of a bitch."
Wilson dropped one hand to House's neck to take his pulse, but House brought a hand up to catch it. He turned his head and pressed his lips to Wilson's open palm, his eyes sliding shut at the contact.
"Five," he whispered against Wilson's hand. "Sight, sound…salt. Snakes. Speak." His eyes drifted open to mere slits. "That's not right. Sight. Sound…"
"House." Wilson tore his hand from the other man's loose grip. "The pills. How many? Five?"
"No," House muttered, shaking his head, then nodding. "Yes."
"Which is it?"
"I don't know, I don't—" House slumped to the side, one crutch slipping out from under him, and Wilson had to grab him by the arms to keep him upright. The crutches made two muffled thumps against the carpet.
Wilson carefully maneuvered House to sit on the edge of the mattress. He was still in his recovery uniform, old tee and boxers, though the clothes seemed damp with sweat.
"Stay here," Wilson ordered. "I have to call—"
He turned to find the phone on the bedside table, but House grasped a handful of his soft sweater vest and yanked him back into place.
"Don't," he growled.
"You need help," Wilson said. He grappled with House's hands, but the man seemed to have a death grip on his shirt. "You need…"
House was strong and insistent, and he pulled at Wilson until he stumbled and fell onto the floor on one knee. Then one of House's long-fingered hands was on his shoulder and the other was in his hair. Wilson grabbed at his wrists and looked up to stare into House's eerie blue eyes.
There was a wordless pressure at the back of his head, House's fingers buried in his hair. Not pulling, not forcing, but there. Wilson glanced back down at what was eye-level and saw House's lap, the slit of his boxers pulled apart by a taunt shape. The dark skin of his erection visible between the folds of plaid fabric.
A joke, a bizarre joke, was Wilson's first thought. But he looked back up at House, who was gone, completely smashed, shattered, unblinking, unrelenting. He was serious.
Wilson inhaled deeply to gather his thoughts, but that proved dangerous too as the scent of animal arousal flooded his senses. House's sweat, his skin, the firm touch in his hair, it all pointed to one inevitable need.
His other leg wobbled and fell, and Wilson found purchase on the carpet with both his knees. He could have easily stood, easily pushed away House's hands, walked out of the room and never come back.
It would be easy.
Wilson's right hand rested on House's good thigh, and his left slid up his bare calf to rest at the back of his knee. The legs parted slightly to make a perfect harbor. Time slowed, and Wilson couldn't breathe, and the shadows in the room seemed to shift and swirl. He leaned forward and touched the fabric of the shorts with the tip of his nose, the swell of his upper lip. Barely a nuzzle, barely anything at all.
Both of House's hands cupped the back of his head then, digging into the thick hair there, clutching but still not controlling.
Tongue darting out to lap at cotton, the dry flavor of fabric. A gentle nudge with chin and lips, and the musky smell of human skin flooded his nostrils, his mouth. Just a touch. Nothing of consequence.
A sudden surge in time, and everything seems to speed up. Wilson becomes painfully aware of the cock in his mouth, the bitter taste swirling on his tongue, the wiry hairs tickling his cheeks. Not a professional job by any means, but Wilson isn't sure what it's supposed to look like, he only knows what it's supposed to feel like. Noises in his throat and his hands fall away; House flops onto his back, his arms thrown over his eyes, and Wilson can see down the airstrip of his body from his front row seat in House's lap.
It's not something else anymore, it's not something unnamable, it's sex, and Wilson knows that.
House is groaning in different pitches, no words, just sounds. He's grabbing the sheets beneath his palms and bunching them into his fists. His cock is so hard. Wilson feels it too. He considers opening his fly, but he knows he doesn't have that kind of time, so he can only press his hand to the front of his pants, rubbing to relieve the pressure.
House comes and it tastes like angostura bitters and salt. Wilson's mouth tells him this is a substance not fit for consumption, so he spits it out into his palm.
Time slowed down again, just like House's breathing, and Wilson soon realized that the other man was sleeping. His knees ached and his jaw hurt, and he couldn't stop panting for air. He looked over House's sprawled form, his legs still dangling over the side of the bed.
What happened next was always a blur when Wilson tried to remember it. He stood and washed his hands in the bathroom. He rinsed his mouth with capful after capful of House's blue Listerine and grabbed a towel. Wilson used it to wipe House clean, rearranged his clothing and eased him under the bedclothes, desperately afraid the man would wake up. He left everything else: the empty bottle on the floor, the fallen crutches, everything. He didn't consider the empty half of the bed or the couch.
He locked the front door behind him and ran to where his car was parked on the curb. It was raining hard and, when he crawled into his Volvo's backseat, the pounding rain made a dull roar echo through the car. With the seatbelt buckles digging into his spine, he closed his eyes and hoped his hands would stop shaking.
When he finally drifted into an uneasy half sleep, Wilson dreamed of a dark room where he was tied up and held prisoner.
A figure appeared before him with a headdress full of eagle feathers. Wilson's gaze traveled up two strong legs, past a tanned hide loincloth, and right to House's war-painted face.
House raised a hand. "How?" he said.
Wilson blinked. "What?"
"The chief asked you a question, darling," a voice drawled, and another House, clad in dark blue Wranglers and spurs, stepped into view. He spat on the ground and tipped his Stetson back on his head. "Answer the man."
"I don't…" Wilson shook his head.
"This isn't going to be pretty." Another passed by. This time, House was wearing a bright yellow construction helmet and had a tool belt slung around his waist. He held a set of blueprints and studied them intently. "Yeah, this isn't an easy job. This one's gonna cost you," he said.
The ropes that bound his wrists and ankles had no give to them, but Wilson struggled still. "I'm not—"
"Of course you're not." House loomed over him again, this time dressed in a black leather motorcycle jacket and matching chaps. "You're just along for the ride," the biker jeered.
"Sir, I'm going to have to take you down to the station." A fifth House appeared wearing a black police officer's uniform complete with a black hat and night stick. He slid his mirrored sunglasses down his nose to look at Wilson. "Do you have any idea how fast you were going?"
"Seriously," the Indian said. "How?"
Wilson twisted his head this way and that, but the five Houses wouldn't leave. They hemmed him in and took turns using his mouth, humming "Macho Man" the entire time.
When Wilson woke up, he was covered in sweat. He drove home slowly and practiced what to say to Bonnie. All he knew was it wouldn't be the truth.
"It's been decided," Cuddy said as she pushed her way into the oncology lounge.
Wilson looked up from his sandwich and swallowed his bite. "What's been?"
Cuddy swept her hands under her white lab coat to perch on her hips. "You are looking at the first female Dean of Medicine at PPTH," she said. "I'm going to whip this place into shape, let me tell you."
He managed a smile for her. "Congratulations," he murmured, though he really didn't feel like celebrating. Bonnie had left for good that morning. She was headed back to Boston, and soon half of the things in the house would be packed up and sent to her. The divorce papers were already being drawn up by the lawyers. She had taken the dog.
"Who was she?" Bonnie had asked in that small, cold voice. No rage, no surprise. Wilson would have rather been faced with that.
"It was a one-time thing," Wilson had said. "Someone from work. No one, really."
"James. Why?" She hadn't even cried.
A sigh. "I don't think…either of us has been very happy. Am I right?" Bonnie had silently nodded her agreement and left the house to go to her sister's.
It had been a long week.
"Well, guess what?" Cuddy continued, sitting down in the armchair next to him and crossing her legs. "Remember how you were telling me weeks ago about House? How you thought it would be great if he could teach new residents to think like he does? I have a plan, and I think it's going to work."
"What is it?" Wilson set down his last bite of turkey on rye to listen.
"Tell me what you think." She made a picture frame with her hands. "A department of diagnostics. House would be the head of it. There would be two or three fellowships positions, and they could work all the difficult cases with him. I already have a donor lined up." She smiled widely. "I just need to get House on board."
Wilson desperately tried to keep his eyes from bugging out of his head. "You're going to give House his own department?"
"Just a small one." Her smile became nervous and uneven. "You don't think it'll work?"
"I, well, it's just…"
Cuddy stood suddenly. "We'll never know unless we try. Do you think you could go grab House and bring him back here? The donor wants to meet with him, and this afternoon was the only time he had free."
"Me? Get House?" Wilson's mind started churning out excuses, and the first one left his lips immediately. "I'm just so swamped today."
"Don't worry, I cleared your schedule." Cuddy smiled again, like a shark. "Perks of being the Dean." She left, her heels clicking on the floor. "Make sure he looks presentable," she called over her shoulder.
Wilson entered 221B like he was heading into a lion's den, but there had been no need to worry. House looked up from a trashy magazine and said, "Long time, no see. I thought that passing out on the bathroom floor with me officially ended your contract as Replacement Cuddy."
Wilson's mouth dropped open, but he couldn't speak. House didn't remember?
"So cancer is keeping you busy, huh?" House flipped a glossy page and scratched at his tee shirt-clad chest.
House didn't remember. Wilson's brain whirled around in circles. Had House been that out of it? Maybe he thought it had been a dream. Or a hallucination. Or maybe he did remember, and he was waiting to see if Wilson would crack. Or maybe…
It didn't matter. Time was short. "Cuddy needs you at the hospital," he said.
House snorted and turned another page. "She left me a message. I figured she must have called the wrong number. Donors are supposed to be kept far away from me."
Wilson passed House's armchair and continued down the hall. "I'm getting you some clothes," he said. "Get in the shower."
"No way. It's almost time for General Hospital," House whined. "You have no idea how addicting that show can be. Especially when you can't walk away from it."
Wilson returned from the bedroom closet with a wrinkled suit and tie. "House, this guy is willing to fund a new department. For you. So get up and just…" Wilson glanced into the hall closet. "Do you have an ironing board?"
"Nope," House said after a moment of thought, popping his mouth on the word. "That was Stacy's."
"Okay, fine. Where are your lab coats?" Wilson asked as he rummaged through the closet some more.
"Threw them out with some of her old stuff," House said.
"Why would you do that!?"
House shrugged. "White coats say, 'Hey, look at me. I went to med school and I'm a smarter, faster, better person than you.' They're a big fat lie, is what they are."
Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to think of a calm ocean. "Just get in the shower," he ordered. "I'll find something for you to wear."
"What for? I don't want to run my own department!" House shouted, throwing the worn copy of People on the floor. "I don't need Cuddy creating a nice padded little job to protect my precious feelings!"
Wilson stood there a moment before diving into action. He grabbed House's right arm, ignoring his yelp of indignation. He hauled the other man upright and started marching them towards the bathroom, slinging House's arm over his neck to keep the weight off his injured leg. Wilson kicked open the bathroom door, wrenched the shower on and thrust House under the spray, still in his messy clothes.
The older man sputtered under the cold water, still clutching at Wilson's arm for balance. "Are you fucking insane?" he cried.
"You need to go back to work," Wilson said. He paid no attention to the wetness on his own shirtsleeves. "I'll drag you there kicking and screaming if I have to. There are cases that you need to solve, young doctors you need to teach. If you don't do it, people will die. So stop making excuses and clean yourself up."
House quieted down and lowered himself onto the newly installed shower seat. He pursed his lips for a moment before shucking off his soaked tee. "Fine," he grunted. "But I pick the clothes."
Wilson left the room before House could wriggle out of his shorts. He brought the crutches to the bathroom and leaned them against the door so House could get to his closet. He busied himself with collecting the things House would need to finally go outside. Wallet, keys, a simple blazer since it was chilly.
He heard the water turn off, and he waited in the kitchen listening to House thumping around in his bedroom, probably still dripping water onto the carpet.
When House emerged, Wilson took one look at him and said, "No way. You can't go like that."
House glanced down at himself, the wrinkled black tee with a skull silk-screened on the chest, the tattered blue jeans and the bare feet.
"Why not?"
Wilson clicked his tongue against his teeth and decided to pick his battles. "You need shoes. Hold on." He moved to the hall closet and retrieved a pair of serviceable loafers.
"Can't." House shook his head. "They hurt my feet."
"Will you at least try them?" Wilson groaned. But House wouldn't budge, and Wilson was forced to dig around the closet for a pair of old Nikes.
As House sat on the edge of his sofa, tugging on socks and sneakers, Wilson studied his face. "Okay. A quick shave and we're out of here."
House rubbed a hand over his bristly jaw. "Fine. Be right back." He struggled to stand and crutched his way into the bathroom. Wilson heard the click of the metal supports being placed against the sink, followed by House's muffled curse.
Wilson poked his head into the bathroom. "What's wrong?"
House turned, half his face covered in shaving cream. "Can't lean against the counter. Son of a bitch, it hurts." He tried to take some of the weight off his leg by bracing his right hand on the lip of the sink, but that put his razor in his non-dominant left hand.
Wilson was about to step forward and help, maybe wrap an arm around House's waist, let him lean on his shoulder, maybe shave him himself. But all of that spoke of an intimacy they weren't supposed to share.
House made a half-hearted sweep at the underside of his chin, but his left hand was not up for the job, and he only succeeded in cutting the wet skin there. He hissed in pain and slammed the disposal razor down on the porcelain.
"God damn it," House whispered.
Wilson bit his lip and handed over a towel. "You know what?" he said. "Don't worry about shaving."
House grabbed the towel and swiped his face clean. "Cuddy will have my balls," he muttered.
"No, it'll be fine." Wilson watched the blue-eyed reflection in the mirror. "You look good with a little facial hair."
Cuddy had splendidly rescued House from insulting the donor. House would get his department. A miracle.
Except after the donor left, House whirled on Cuddy and snarled, "If you want me to teach children to start thinking like doctors should, I have some demands."
Cuddy sighed and steepled her hands under her chin, leaning across her new desk. "Name them."
"My own office."
"Done."
"My own conference room."
"Done."
"Next to Wilson's office," House added.
Cuddy threw a confused glance at Wilson, who was leaning against her bookcase. "He doesn't have an office."
"He will." House leaned back in his chair. "Once he's the head of Oncology."
Wilson's mouth dropped open, his face a mix of annoyance and awe. "House…"
"Benson's retiring next week, right?" House was still speaking directly to Cuddy. "Who's next in line? Richards? Hedges? One's about to kick the bucket and the other wants to transfer to Saint E's."
"How do you know this?" Cuddy exclaimed in a huff. "You haven't seen the light of day in weeks!"
House studied his fingernails. "I have my sources."
"Even so," Wilson interrupted, "I'm only thirty-three. I'd be the youngest department head in all of New Jersey."
"In the whole Eastern Seaboard, actually," House said. "I checked."
Wilson pointed at House accusingly. "You're being ridiculous! Cuddy can't name me department head just because you—"
"Done," Cuddy said firmly.
"What? Are you serious?" Wilson asked, still pointing at House.
"I've always liked your demeanor, Wilson, and I think you're just what the department needs. House is right; the other senior doctors wouldn't be a good match." She plucked a pen from her desk caddy and scribbled something in her day planner. "What do you say? Can you take the reins once Benson leaves?"
Wilson took a deep breath. "I haven't even been here two years. The team will resent me."
"You'd be surprised with what you can live with," Cuddy said with a wide smile. "The new wing should be completed next week. I'll make sure you both get designated office space in the same hall." She winked. "Congratulations, gentlemen."
Wilson waited until House had swung out of Cuddy's office on his crutches before he hissed, "Why the hell did you have her do that? I'm not ready to run the entire department."
"Get ready," House said, limping past.
After dropping House off at home, Wilson drove to the bank to prepare a money order for Bonnie. She needed cash for the move, and they'd agreed it would be deducted from whatever alimony payment the lawyers decided on.
Wilson stood in the teller line, wondering if becoming a department head meant he'd owe her more money every month. Two mouths to feed now and he'd never even had kids.
"Hey there," the blonde bank teller said as he slid the completed form through the slot. "You look like someone kicked your feet out from under you. Something wrong…" she consulted his form. "James?"
He dredged up a smile for her. "Thanks for noticing…" he looked at the name tag on her breast. "Julie."
"I have an idea," House said, sweeping every CV off his coffee table with a wave of his arm. "Instead of interviewing potential fellows, we'll have them fight with foam bats. Last three standing win."
Wilson tapped his pen against his forehead as he studied the application in his hand. "If you did that, all your fellows would have good upper-body strength, but no agility. Plus, what about the women?"
"You saying women couldn't beat an opponent over the head for a job?" House scoffed. "Brother, you don't know chicks."
Wilson rolled his eyes. "I think I do. In fact," he checked his new wrist watch, "I'm having dinner with Julie in thirty. I better get going."
"Wait, how am I supposed to get through this mountain of papers alone?" House complained. "I need warm bodies by Monday or else Cuddy will bathe in my blood."
Wilson dropped a folder in House's lap as he got up from his chair. "Take this one. He looks good."
"You barely even read it," House growled, flipping through the file. "Chase, Robert. Twenty-five? Oh Christ, you can't be serious."
"Fellows, House. The young, the restless, the completely desperate," Wilson pointed out. He found his keys under the lid for the kung pao. "You have to keep that in mind."
"Yeah, sure." House had buried his nose in the file. "But twenty-five? Kids these days must get all their pre-reqs done in utero."
Wilson laughed and headed for the door. House stood up to see him off, limping along with his new cane. The beat-up crutches had been retired to the hall closet, and the gleaming shepherd's crook cane was now House's constant companion.
House opened the door for Wilson and bowed gallantly. "So it doesn't hit your ass on the way out."
Wilson paused with one hand against the doorframe. "Want me to pick you up tomorrow morning for work?" he asked.
"What do you think I am, an invalid?" House gave a mock scowl. "I can drive myself."
"I know," Wilson said. "It's just what friends do."
House tipped his chin up a few inches in thought. "Okay," he said slowly. "Friends, huh?"
"Yeah." Wilson smiled as he stepped out the door. "Best friends."