Not just friends - 7/10
Title: Not just friends - part seven
Pairing: House / Wilson established relationship (m/m)
Rating: PG through to Adult
Summary: Wilson has amnesia
Disclaimer: Not mine, just borrowing
Notes: I wrote part one a while ago, originally written as a standalone piece. Then a couple more scenes were begging to be written and this was the result....
“Are you sure you’re alright?”
Smiling at the note of concern in Cuddy’s voice, he shifts the phone more comfortably into the crick of his neck. “You sound like my mother.”
Cuddy laughs softly in reply. “She’s called?”
“Several times,” he confirms. Of course, if he’d remembered to call her yesterday and explained his change in plans she might not have panicked when her calls to Cuddy’s number hadn’t been returned. Rubbing tiredly at his neck, he fails to stifle a yawn.
“You should get some sleep,” Cuddy breaks in gently. “I can come by later -“
“No. It’ll be okay. I’ll get some sleep tonight.”
“If you’re sure.” Cuddy sounds doubtful but to his relief she changes the subject. “How’s he doing?”
Leaning back through the kitchen doorway, he checks on the figure lying on the couch. “Still asleep. Tough afternoon. The New Yankee Workshop marathon really took it out of him.”
She chuckles again then stops. “Wouldn’t he be more comfortable in bed?”
You try telling him that, he feels like saying. “He’s holding me to the deal,” he explains instead. “TiVo and the couch.”
“Oh.”
It’s a sore subject, one he and House have been arguing about all afternoon. He’d convinced himself that it wasn’t bothering him; the tone of Cuddy’s voice tells him that it obviously is. You’re tired, he reminds himself. And House has his reasons for being more grouchy and scathing than usual.
The problem is House instinctively knows which buttons to push.
Taking a deep breath he tries to fills his voice with confidence. “Just enjoy the peace and quiet. In a few days he’ll be at work again.”
The silence that follows seems to drag on forever. Gripping the phone tighter, he begins to pace. Yesterday, at the hospital, the decision had been easy. House needed him. Today they’re back to circling each other nervously. And Cuddy’s reading him like an open book.
“Thanks.” Cuddy’s voice is low, bathed in sarcasm and despite himself he smiles. His smile fades as she clears her throat nervously. He can guess what’s coming next. “There’s still a bed here if you want it. I’m sure Cameron or Chase -“
“No.” House would never forgive him. “We’ll be okay.”
And they will be he reminds himself later, as he’s clearing the kitchen. Stupidly though he’d hoped a few weeks away from each other would miraculously have improved things.
Very stupid, he decides, rubbing at his temple.
The sounds of drilling and electric saws are still blaring out of the TV, masking the sound of his footsteps as he leans over the back of the couch. House is out cold, stretched out with his right leg supported by a pile of cushions. His lips are turned down at the edges and the dark bags under his eyes contrast starkly with his pale skin.
He watches for a while longer before heading for his bedroom. Before the infarction House had been able to fall asleep anywhere; lithe as a cat he’d drape himself over any available space. It had driven his ex-wives nuts. They couldn’t understand what was so fascinating about watching late-night TV with someone who was comatose.
Eventually he’d retreated to House’s couch instead. ‘At least then you won’t have to wait up,’ he’d explained to Bonnie and Julie.
The couch House has now - they have now - is much larger. House had described it as ‘man-size’ when he’d asked him about it, the heat in his blue eyes making his cheeks warm. He sighs at the memory. Those first few days back from the hospital had been so much easier. He’d still been in shock, working on instinct alone. His brain hadn’t been trying to compensate, confusing everything.
Sitting on his bed he opens his briefcase. Positive thoughts, he chides himself, trying to channel his therapist. The last few weeks have been useful; the scrapbook he’s pulling out is straining at the seams.
Sitting at his parent’s kitchen table, going through his mother’s huge collection of family photographs, he’d felt normal for the first time in weeks. His father has never liked painting; the décor in their house hasn’t changed much in the last decade.
Talking about her family is his mother’s favorite pastime; she’d embraced the idea of the scrapbook with enthusiasm. The only problem had been limiting her to the last five years. She’d wanted to look through his baby pictures, graduation portrait and every other family occasion since he’d been born.
He blinks away the memory of his wedding albums, the way she’d carefully placed them back in the bottom drawer of the dresser. Instead he opens up the scrapbook and carefully flicks through the pages. Each picture is accompanied by a colored sticker, some written clumsily in his block handwriting. The rest are in an elegant script, his mother’s attempt to fill in the bits of the story not explained in the pictures.
It’s not a replacement for his lost memories. But it has helped him to make sense of things. Turning over another page, he grins ruefully to himself. House will never let him hear the last of it when he finds out how attached he’s become to a child’s scrapbook.
The faces that look up at him from the pictures are familiar, even if they have all aged a few years. The difference is more noticeable in his nieces and nephews. The young children with shy grins have been replaced by confident young-teens, too engrossed in their own lives to talk to him when he’d visited. He’d never felt that attached to his brother’s family. But watching their obvious affection for each other had felt like salt being rubbed into a raw wound.
There’s a picture of Julie, early on. His mother had added it to the scrapbook, her fingers briefly trailing over it after she’d written the short note below: ‘James and Julie - 2nd wedding anniversary’.
It was taken in his parent’s back yard. Julie’s standing beside him, her arms wrapped around his waist. Smiling up at him, she’s resting her head against his chest. For a second he can imagine being there, the warmth of her body curled around his. But this Julie doesn’t look anything like the one he’d had dinner with - the body language is totally wrong.
There’re other pictures of Julie in the scrapbook but it’s the only one where they’re standing together. The physical distance between them in the later shots is obvious. Still wallowing in guilt after meeting her at the restaurant, putting those pictures in the book had been his choice.
“I’m sorry,” he’d told his mother, when she’d caught him looking at them.
His words had ended up muffled as she’d pulled him into a hug. “All I’ve ever wanted is for my children to be happy,” she’d reminded him, pulling away to catch his gaze. “Greg makes you happy.” He’d sighed and she’d hugged him again. “He does sweetheart, although some days I wonder how,” she’d added with a weak smile.
The guilt’s still there in the background, he doubts it will ever totally fade. Julie’s built herself a new life, he reminds himself regularly. He used to have one too.
That thought takes him to the end of the scrapbook. Just before he’d flown back to Princeton he’d been going back through the pictures with his mother. The whole family features somewhere, except David of course. But there are no pictures of House. His mother had looked surprised when he’d suggested that getting House in front of a camera was like trying to get a kid to eat their vegetables. ‘No it’s not,” his mother had insisted, pulling out the collection of photographs again. “I’m sure I’ve got some here.”
“I must have sent them to you,” she’d conceded eventually. Which means the photographs must be in the apartment somewhere, he suddenly realizes. 'Somewhere' isn't that big an area; there’s only one room he hasn't spent much time in.
Rubbing his face tiredly, he gets to his feet. A quick glance at the couch as he passes tells him House is still asleep. Warily he heads for House's bedroom. 'Their bedroom' he corrects himself, hearing House's voice in his head. He still shivers involuntarily as he stands in the middle of the room. Everything around him is familiarly 'house-like'. But there are hints of him here too. In the rest of the apartment he's got used to it. In here though....
His first instinct is to walk back out again. Anchoring his hands on his hips he forces himself to breathe deeply. This is stupid, he tells himself angrily, swallowing down the wave of panic that is threatening to overwhelm him. This is what you wanted.
It still doesn't feel real though, even when he forces himself to start searching through the drawers and closet. Despite his nervousness, he can’t suppress a smile as he opens the closet. One side is stuffed full of t-shirts and sports jackets that have seen better days. The other side has been neatly filled with shirts and suits.
A cream colored box on the top-shelf catches his eye instantly, his heart beating faster as he recognizes it. Lifting it out, he sits on the bed and carefully pulls out the contents.
Although he’s never had the time to put together a photo album before, it hasn’t stopped him collecting pictures. There’s not many; he’s always been selective. But in all the excitement he’d forgotten about them. House wouldn’t have noticed; he’s not a fan of high shelves.
Slowly he sifts through the pictures. Occasionally he pulls one out and lays it on top of the coverlet; in one he’s standing with Laura and her parents the day they got engaged; another shows Bonnie sitting with one of his nephews, her grin wide despite the fact she’s covered in finger paint. There’s only one picture of Julie in the box and it’s covered in creases; at some time it’s been screwed up into a ball. It was taken on their wedding day. He’s cupping her waist with his hands, the tight bodice of her dress emphasizing her slim waist. They’re both grinning into the camera.
He can still remember how happy he’d felt that day.
Searching through the rest of the pictures he finds what he’s looking for. It’s a picture of him and House. They’re sitting at his parent’s dining table. Probably taken at Thanksgiving he decides, recognizing the decorations in the background. Their shoulders are tilting slightly towards each other but not close enough to touch. He’s laughing at whoever is taking the picture, his head tilted back. House is looking at him sideways, the corners of his lips barely turned upwards in a familiar ‘duh’ expression. But it’s House’s eyes that catch his attention; they’re bright blue and sparkling with laughter. It takes his breath away.
He arranges the pictures side by side. “I suck at relationships,” he’d told his mother as he’d watched her put his wedding albums away. “Maybe I shouldn’t do it again. Maybe…” As words failed him he’d shrugged his shoulders in defeat. “Or maybe you hadn’t found the right person,” she’d finished for him, nudging him encouragingly as he’d dipped his head.
He studies the picture of House again then droops back into the pillows behind him, his eyes squeezed shut. It’s not that he doesn’t believe his mother, or Julie or even House himself. But House, despite his hard exterior, is surprisingly easy to hurt when it comes to relationships. The failed kiss proved that. He’s done much worse to each of his wives.
Part eight
Pairing: House / Wilson established relationship (m/m)
Rating: PG through to Adult
Summary: Wilson has amnesia
Disclaimer: Not mine, just borrowing
Notes: I wrote part one a while ago, originally written as a standalone piece. Then a couple more scenes were begging to be written and this was the result....
“Are you sure you’re alright?”
Smiling at the note of concern in Cuddy’s voice, he shifts the phone more comfortably into the crick of his neck. “You sound like my mother.”
Cuddy laughs softly in reply. “She’s called?”
“Several times,” he confirms. Of course, if he’d remembered to call her yesterday and explained his change in plans she might not have panicked when her calls to Cuddy’s number hadn’t been returned. Rubbing tiredly at his neck, he fails to stifle a yawn.
“You should get some sleep,” Cuddy breaks in gently. “I can come by later -“
“No. It’ll be okay. I’ll get some sleep tonight.”
“If you’re sure.” Cuddy sounds doubtful but to his relief she changes the subject. “How’s he doing?”
Leaning back through the kitchen doorway, he checks on the figure lying on the couch. “Still asleep. Tough afternoon. The New Yankee Workshop marathon really took it out of him.”
She chuckles again then stops. “Wouldn’t he be more comfortable in bed?”
You try telling him that, he feels like saying. “He’s holding me to the deal,” he explains instead. “TiVo and the couch.”
“Oh.”
It’s a sore subject, one he and House have been arguing about all afternoon. He’d convinced himself that it wasn’t bothering him; the tone of Cuddy’s voice tells him that it obviously is. You’re tired, he reminds himself. And House has his reasons for being more grouchy and scathing than usual.
The problem is House instinctively knows which buttons to push.
Taking a deep breath he tries to fills his voice with confidence. “Just enjoy the peace and quiet. In a few days he’ll be at work again.”
The silence that follows seems to drag on forever. Gripping the phone tighter, he begins to pace. Yesterday, at the hospital, the decision had been easy. House needed him. Today they’re back to circling each other nervously. And Cuddy’s reading him like an open book.
“Thanks.” Cuddy’s voice is low, bathed in sarcasm and despite himself he smiles. His smile fades as she clears her throat nervously. He can guess what’s coming next. “There’s still a bed here if you want it. I’m sure Cameron or Chase -“
“No.” House would never forgive him. “We’ll be okay.”
And they will be he reminds himself later, as he’s clearing the kitchen. Stupidly though he’d hoped a few weeks away from each other would miraculously have improved things.
Very stupid, he decides, rubbing at his temple.
The sounds of drilling and electric saws are still blaring out of the TV, masking the sound of his footsteps as he leans over the back of the couch. House is out cold, stretched out with his right leg supported by a pile of cushions. His lips are turned down at the edges and the dark bags under his eyes contrast starkly with his pale skin.
He watches for a while longer before heading for his bedroom. Before the infarction House had been able to fall asleep anywhere; lithe as a cat he’d drape himself over any available space. It had driven his ex-wives nuts. They couldn’t understand what was so fascinating about watching late-night TV with someone who was comatose.
Eventually he’d retreated to House’s couch instead. ‘At least then you won’t have to wait up,’ he’d explained to Bonnie and Julie.
The couch House has now - they have now - is much larger. House had described it as ‘man-size’ when he’d asked him about it, the heat in his blue eyes making his cheeks warm. He sighs at the memory. Those first few days back from the hospital had been so much easier. He’d still been in shock, working on instinct alone. His brain hadn’t been trying to compensate, confusing everything.
Sitting on his bed he opens his briefcase. Positive thoughts, he chides himself, trying to channel his therapist. The last few weeks have been useful; the scrapbook he’s pulling out is straining at the seams.
Sitting at his parent’s kitchen table, going through his mother’s huge collection of family photographs, he’d felt normal for the first time in weeks. His father has never liked painting; the décor in their house hasn’t changed much in the last decade.
Talking about her family is his mother’s favorite pastime; she’d embraced the idea of the scrapbook with enthusiasm. The only problem had been limiting her to the last five years. She’d wanted to look through his baby pictures, graduation portrait and every other family occasion since he’d been born.
He blinks away the memory of his wedding albums, the way she’d carefully placed them back in the bottom drawer of the dresser. Instead he opens up the scrapbook and carefully flicks through the pages. Each picture is accompanied by a colored sticker, some written clumsily in his block handwriting. The rest are in an elegant script, his mother’s attempt to fill in the bits of the story not explained in the pictures.
It’s not a replacement for his lost memories. But it has helped him to make sense of things. Turning over another page, he grins ruefully to himself. House will never let him hear the last of it when he finds out how attached he’s become to a child’s scrapbook.
The faces that look up at him from the pictures are familiar, even if they have all aged a few years. The difference is more noticeable in his nieces and nephews. The young children with shy grins have been replaced by confident young-teens, too engrossed in their own lives to talk to him when he’d visited. He’d never felt that attached to his brother’s family. But watching their obvious affection for each other had felt like salt being rubbed into a raw wound.
There’s a picture of Julie, early on. His mother had added it to the scrapbook, her fingers briefly trailing over it after she’d written the short note below: ‘James and Julie - 2nd wedding anniversary’.
It was taken in his parent’s back yard. Julie’s standing beside him, her arms wrapped around his waist. Smiling up at him, she’s resting her head against his chest. For a second he can imagine being there, the warmth of her body curled around his. But this Julie doesn’t look anything like the one he’d had dinner with - the body language is totally wrong.
There’re other pictures of Julie in the scrapbook but it’s the only one where they’re standing together. The physical distance between them in the later shots is obvious. Still wallowing in guilt after meeting her at the restaurant, putting those pictures in the book had been his choice.
“I’m sorry,” he’d told his mother, when she’d caught him looking at them.
His words had ended up muffled as she’d pulled him into a hug. “All I’ve ever wanted is for my children to be happy,” she’d reminded him, pulling away to catch his gaze. “Greg makes you happy.” He’d sighed and she’d hugged him again. “He does sweetheart, although some days I wonder how,” she’d added with a weak smile.
The guilt’s still there in the background, he doubts it will ever totally fade. Julie’s built herself a new life, he reminds himself regularly. He used to have one too.
That thought takes him to the end of the scrapbook. Just before he’d flown back to Princeton he’d been going back through the pictures with his mother. The whole family features somewhere, except David of course. But there are no pictures of House. His mother had looked surprised when he’d suggested that getting House in front of a camera was like trying to get a kid to eat their vegetables. ‘No it’s not,” his mother had insisted, pulling out the collection of photographs again. “I’m sure I’ve got some here.”
“I must have sent them to you,” she’d conceded eventually. Which means the photographs must be in the apartment somewhere, he suddenly realizes. 'Somewhere' isn't that big an area; there’s only one room he hasn't spent much time in.
Rubbing his face tiredly, he gets to his feet. A quick glance at the couch as he passes tells him House is still asleep. Warily he heads for House's bedroom. 'Their bedroom' he corrects himself, hearing House's voice in his head. He still shivers involuntarily as he stands in the middle of the room. Everything around him is familiarly 'house-like'. But there are hints of him here too. In the rest of the apartment he's got used to it. In here though....
His first instinct is to walk back out again. Anchoring his hands on his hips he forces himself to breathe deeply. This is stupid, he tells himself angrily, swallowing down the wave of panic that is threatening to overwhelm him. This is what you wanted.
It still doesn't feel real though, even when he forces himself to start searching through the drawers and closet. Despite his nervousness, he can’t suppress a smile as he opens the closet. One side is stuffed full of t-shirts and sports jackets that have seen better days. The other side has been neatly filled with shirts and suits.
A cream colored box on the top-shelf catches his eye instantly, his heart beating faster as he recognizes it. Lifting it out, he sits on the bed and carefully pulls out the contents.
Although he’s never had the time to put together a photo album before, it hasn’t stopped him collecting pictures. There’s not many; he’s always been selective. But in all the excitement he’d forgotten about them. House wouldn’t have noticed; he’s not a fan of high shelves.
Slowly he sifts through the pictures. Occasionally he pulls one out and lays it on top of the coverlet; in one he’s standing with Laura and her parents the day they got engaged; another shows Bonnie sitting with one of his nephews, her grin wide despite the fact she’s covered in finger paint. There’s only one picture of Julie in the box and it’s covered in creases; at some time it’s been screwed up into a ball. It was taken on their wedding day. He’s cupping her waist with his hands, the tight bodice of her dress emphasizing her slim waist. They’re both grinning into the camera.
He can still remember how happy he’d felt that day.
Searching through the rest of the pictures he finds what he’s looking for. It’s a picture of him and House. They’re sitting at his parent’s dining table. Probably taken at Thanksgiving he decides, recognizing the decorations in the background. Their shoulders are tilting slightly towards each other but not close enough to touch. He’s laughing at whoever is taking the picture, his head tilted back. House is looking at him sideways, the corners of his lips barely turned upwards in a familiar ‘duh’ expression. But it’s House’s eyes that catch his attention; they’re bright blue and sparkling with laughter. It takes his breath away.
He arranges the pictures side by side. “I suck at relationships,” he’d told his mother as he’d watched her put his wedding albums away. “Maybe I shouldn’t do it again. Maybe…” As words failed him he’d shrugged his shoulders in defeat. “Or maybe you hadn’t found the right person,” she’d finished for him, nudging him encouragingly as he’d dipped his head.
He studies the picture of House again then droops back into the pillows behind him, his eyes squeezed shut. It’s not that he doesn’t believe his mother, or Julie or even House himself. But House, despite his hard exterior, is surprisingly easy to hurt when it comes to relationships. The failed kiss proved that. He’s done much worse to each of his wives.
Part eight