Fic: Quitter
Title: Quitter
Author/Artist: Sketch
Pairing: House and Wilson friendship
Rating: PG-13
Summary: House finds out about Wilson’s hidden addiction.
Disclaimer: It’s a darn fine shame, but House ain’t mine. Also, the film House and Wilson are watching in the first scene is “Dressed to Kill” (1946) and it also doesn’t belong to me, but rather to it’s creators.
Notes: Honestly, I don’t like how this turned out. It’s not the plotline that I liked for this prompt. Unfortunately I had some major issues with the plotline I did like, so that story isn’t finished yet. And so there’s this story instead.
Concrit appreciated.
-------
It was really a blessing that Julie left Wilson, House thought as he watched his friend. They were sitting peacefully on the couch, watching a black-and-white Basil Rathbone save the day on television.
Or at least, that’s what Wilson wanted him to think they were doing. In reality, Wilson’s left leg had been jumping and tapping in the most distracting way for the better part of an hour, belaying his guise of calmness. Every ten minutes or so, he’d realize what he was doing and stop, but it always started up again in a minute or two, as soon as he got distracted by the action on TV.
House also appeared to be at ease, but he actually had all his attention trained on his friend’s slightly shaky figure. And he was thinking that it was really a blessing that Julie left Wilson, because that meant he was staying with House, who just happened to be a world-renowned diagnostician.
Which was fortunate because clearly there was something wrong with him. Wilson was normally one of the calmest men around; he’d have to be, with a friend like House. But in the last two weeks, he’d become increasingly…twitchy. At first House had thought it was related to Wilson’s divorce, but if that was the case, why had he been so peaceful the first few weeks? And now that the divorce was almost finalized, shouldn’t he be returning to his normal tranquility?
Instead, he was getting worse. House had begun to worry about this curious phenomenon after Wilson had snapped at Cameron yesterday. She’d been babbling about something inane, patient rights or some equally undeserving topic, when, seemingly out of nowhere, Wilson had told her to shut up. Well, actually, his exact words had been, “Cameron, please, the patient is dying. We’re kind of in a hurry here!” Sure, it didn’t sound like much, but in Wilson-ese, that had been a serious reprimand.
Onscreen, Basil informed Nigel Bruce that, “The truth can only be found by the painstaking elimination of the untrue.” Wilson twitched. House sighed.
-------
When House got up at midnight for a glass of water, Wilson was not on the couch.
-------
Wilson seemed himself again the next day though. He tapped on House’s bedroom door sometime before nine with a cup of hot coffee. His hair was still wet, and it smelled intensely fruity. House informed Wilson of this.
The other man reacted with his typical aplomb. “Gay jokes before your first cup of coffee. I’m impressed.”
House snorted. Coffee and puns in bed. Maybe today wouldn’t suck.
-------
Wilson was late for lunch. He rushed into the cafeteria flushed and chewing mints.
-------
House sat heavily on his couch. This...thing of Wilson’s, whatever, or whoever, it was, had officially gone too far. He’d almost had to buy his own lunch earlier, which had been bad enough, but now it was nearly 6:30 and his personal chef had yet to make an appearance at home. At this rate, he was going to be back on the all peanut butter diet.
Just then House heard the door open. He twisted to see Wilson dropping his bag to the floor. He nearly sprinted across the room to shove his coat in the closet before moving off toward the bathroom.
“Hey!” House called. “Kitchen’s that way.” He jerked his thumb roughly to give Wilson a hint as to where he should be headed.
Wilson didn’t stop. “I need a shower first! A...patient vomited on me.” There was a pause, and House heard the shower start. “Get your own dinner!”
No, that wouldn’t do at all.
The first thing House did was hit speed dial three on his cell and order a large pizza to be delivered. With pepperoni, just because Wilson didn’t like it. Hunger made him spiteful.
Next, he retrieved Wilson’s bag from near the front door and settled himself with it on the couch. House spent several minutes poking through it for evidence of where Wilson had been, but there was nothing. Mentally he gave Wilson points for covering his tracks, but he took them away again because now he didn’t know what was going on and it ticked him off.
House paused then, trying to refine his search and make the best use of Wilson’s remaining shower time. What exactly was he looking for? Had he really expected to find some nurse’s panties stuffed into Wilson’s bag next to his patient files? Well, yes, he had. Clearly he had underestimated his opponent. After all, Wilson had three marriages during which to hone his deceptive skills.
He hadn’t seen Wilson’s wallet in the bag he’d just searched, which meant it was either in the pocket of his pants, or in the jacket he’d just hung in the closet. Hopefully it was the closet, since Wilson saved all his receipts and House was hoping to find proof that he’d been buying women’s lingerie or visiting cheap motel rooms on the sly. After replacing the bag by the door, he made his way quickly over to the closet, listening carefully for the peculiar squeak the hot water tap in the shower made when it was turned off.
Wilson’s jacket was easy to find, since it was the only one that didn’t look like it had been crammed in a small space, say, a closet, for the last ten years. House pulled it out and caught a trace of...was that perfume? Whoever she was, she was going to pay for depriving him of the veal cutlets Wilson had promised to make him for dinner.
The coat was unfortunately wallet-free, but House did find something else in the inside pocket.
“Ah,” he said, as it all clicked into place.
-------
House went to bed early that night, which was fine with Wilson.
-------
The next morning in the diagnostics office, House was enjoying a particularly foul mood, which his fellows were currently failing to alleviate.
Foreman sighed. “I think-”
“I don’t pay you to think!” House snapped.
“Actually, I’m pretty sure you do,” Foreman responded coolly, much to Chase’s amusement.
“I think it’s lupus,” Cameron volunteered before House could respond.
“You, I definitely don’t pay to think,” House told her. He turned to Chase. “And you neither. Go break into her house.”
He then jerked to face Foreman again. “You and your thoughts,” he said, with just the right amount of disdain, “have earned themselves the privilege of running tests. CT scan and lumbar puncture. What do you think of that?”
“I think I don’t like it when you and Wilson fight.”
House’s eyes went suddenly flat and grey. “Get the fuck out of here right now before I fire you.” When Foreman failed to move immediately, House hurled his cane at the other’s man’s head, narrowly missing. “Go!”
Foreman raised both his eyebrows, but was smart enough not to say anything as he exited the room. Chase, too, seemed ready bolt, but he had the presence to grab a gaping Cameron by the arm and pull her out the door with him.
Halfway to the elevators, their steps finally slowed to something approaching a walk. Foreman was the first to speak. “What was that? Is he off the Vicodin again or something?”
Cameron shook her head. “No, I saw him take one less than an hour ago. And besides, Cuddy would’ve warned us.”
Chase shrugged. “He and Wilson probably had some lover’s tiff. I’m sure he’ll back to normal soon enough.”
“It was...weird, the way he went so blank. Like he was angry but at the same time, completely empty. I’ve never seen him like that before.” Cameron’s eyebrow’s knit in worry.
Chase just shrugged again. “Well, unless you want him even angrier at us, we’d better get to the patient’s-”
“Violet,” Cameron informed him.
“Right. We’d better get to her flat.”
Cameron frowned but seemed to agree. She watched Foreman head off to their patient’s room, then turned back to Chase. “Think he’ll be ok?”
Chase ushered her into the elevator. “Yeah, no worries. Foreman can hold his own.”
“No, I meant House.”
Chase rolled his eyes. Of course she did. “Yes, him too. Wilson’s a big old puppy dog, you know as well as I do, he and House will be driving Cuddy insane again in no time.”
The elevator doors dinged close on Cameron’s troubled eyes.
-------
Less than a minute later, Wilson was surprised by an anxious call from Cameron.
-------
House could see Wilson’s reflection in his window. He watched him hesitate, sigh, hang his head, and finally push the door to House’s office open. Still, House didn’t turn around. Wilson cleared his throat.
“I know Cameron can get on your nerves, but wouldn’t sleeping with her be easier than scaring her to death? It’d certainly be easier on my cell phone bill. Do you know she’s started to call me every time you yell at her?” House didn’t say anything and Wilson picked at a stray thread on his coat. “Look, I was thinking we could go to lunch. Go to a diner or something. Talk. Do the friend thing.”
“I can’t do this.”
“Do...what?”
Wilson’s deliberate lack of understanding finally made House turn around. “What I do, or choose not to do, to my employees is none of your business, something I have finally given up on you figuring out by yourself. But while we’re on the subject of friendly concern...”
House moved suddenly to Wilson’s side, counting on Wilson’s surprise at this sudden invasion of his personal space to give him the minute he’d need. It’d been in his left pocket last night...and still was. House felt two boxy shapes in his friend’s pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.
“Let me guess, you were just holding these for a friend until recess?”
Wilson just stood there for a minute, appearing stunned by the sudden turn the conversation had taken. House seemed to take that for encouragement.
“All this time, I thought you were sleeping with some nurse. But you weren’t, were you? The extra cologne, the mints, that was all just to cover the smoke wasn’t it? Huh, and I thought you were impressing someone. Not Cameron, obviously. You hurt her feelings the other day. Don’t worry about it, I’m sure she’ll feel better when I tell her you were just jonesing for some nicotine. Cigarettes kill, you know. You moron!”
Because House had never stepped back after searching Wilson’s pockets, he was now shouting all of his brilliant conclusions directly into Wilson’s face. This appeared to be enough to snap Wilson out of his stupor.
“House-”
Unfortunately for Wilson, House didn’t really want to hear whatever he had to say. “How could you do this to me?”
“Excuse me?” Wilson’s face was beginning to flush red. “To you? The only thing I ever did was save your sorry ass time and time again. I have cleaned up your messes so many times, I-And this one time it’s not about you, this one time that I mess up all by myself-”
“One time? Gee, I must’ve imagined all those marriages-” It was a cheap shot, and House knew it. He decided he was not above cheap shots.
“Just shut up and listen for once! This is not about you, this is just me being stupid all by myself! Just leave me the hell alone, I can take care of myself!” Wilson’s arms were crossed tight across his chest, and his eyes said ‘back off.’
“Yeah, as long as I give you someplace to live.” House had never been a very good listener.
“Fine. You want me out, I’m out. I’ll leave tonight.”
“Fine,” House said. Of course it wasn’t. But Wilson was already gone, the heavy glass door swinging slowly closed behind him.
-------
Foreman surprised House with anomalous test results just as he was grabbing his helmet to head home and ambush Wilson.
-------
Wilson had just finished packing his car and was silently thanking whatever god might still be listening to a three-time loser like him that he’d made a clean getaway when House showed up. Which rather negated the cause for prayer, but then, that’s what Wilson got for believing in any supreme being other than House in the first place.
“Cowardice really is such an attractive feature in a guy. I can see why the girls keep swooning for you,” House said by way of greeting.
He figured if Wilson hadn’t hit him for insulting the bride the day of his second wedding, then he probably never would. Still, sometimes Wilson would get a sharp look in his eye and House would brace for impact. Today, House felt almost sickly disappointed when the punch didn’t come, because if Wilson hit him at least he’d be sorry enough to help House up off the pavement. Then everything would go back to normal.
Instead Wilson just turned around and went back into House’s apartment, and House tried to tell himself it was because he didn’t want to suffer the neighbor’s odd looks in the morning if they fought in the street. That’d actually be a good thing; Wilson thought he would still be around in the morning. Or that he cared about House’s neighbors and didn’t want to disturb them. House dismissed the second thought quickly. He was pretty sure ‘Jimmy’ was only nice to Mrs. Hudson in 221A because she gave him cookies. And he wasn’t living there, no cookies. So, probably the move-out was a bluff.
Good news. House felt a surge of happiness. And then Wilson started talking.
“I tried,” he said earnestly. “I tried to be good!” House decided this might not be the time to mention Suzy, Gillian, Bobbie, Emily, Maxine, Laura, or Iris. And those were just the ones he knew about. But Wilson was continuing. “Where did trying get me? A bunch of dead patients and a best friend who’s an asshole.”
“And three ex-wives,” House couldn’t help but add.
“Yes, thanks, I’d almost forgotten.” Wilson sighed. “Look, I’m a doctor, I-”
“Exactly!” Wilson had given House exactly the opening he’d wanted to re-take this argument. “You’re an oncologist! How many lung cancer patients do you watch die every year?” Wilson opened his mouth to respond, but House decided the actual number wasn’t relevant to their current discussion. Besides, he hadn’t memorized Wilson’s patient statistics (well, not all of them, anyway), and he didn’t want Wilson answering any questions that he himself didn’t know the answers to. He hurried to continue his argument. “It’s passive-aggressive suicide and you know it!” Here he paused and briefly let himself look concerned. “If you’re having suicidal thoughts...”
“What? I can talk to you?” Wilson let out a slightly strangled chuckle that rather complimented the ugly look on his face.
Ouch. House shrugged it off. “Ugh! God no. I was going to suggest a 1 800 number.”
“It’s really a wonder both of us abuse drugs with such a loving relationship in our lives.”
“Your sarcasm really isn’t helping the matter.”
“My sarc-I-” Wilson appeared flabbergasted. House mentally congratulated himself for rendering Wilson speechless twice in one day. Very good for his stats.
“You know, most people turning 40 have a mid-life crisis, not a teenage rebellion.” House shook his head in mock shame. “Although with your addiction to those cancer sticks, I guess you don’t have to worry much about living all that much longer anyway.”
“Wow, do the elementary schools book you to convince kids not to smoke? I mean, I’m not saying your attitude is juvenile, but it is.” House stuck out his tongue. “Don’t you think you’re overreacting a little bit? I mean, it’s not like I’m shooting heroin. I left the opiates to you.”
“How thoughtful. I’m sure I’ll find that comforting when you have emphysema, bronchitis, and tumors everywhere from your larynx to your bladder.”
“I hate to break it to you, but your spiel works better on clinic patients than other doctors.”
“Damn it.”
“And speaking of hypocrisy...” Wilson said, giving House a sideways look.
“As I’m sure we weren’t...” House cut in.
Wilson ignored him. “If I recall correctly, I’m not the only one here to have been smoking recently. Or did I imagine you with that cigar at the hospital fundraiser, Groucho?”
“Do as I say, not as I do,” House lectured. “Besides, cigars are phallic. They go with the cane. Cigarettes are just wussy.”
“Did you sit in your office all afternoon thinking of ridiculous arguments to make against smoking?”
“Chase tried to help but he was useless. No surprises there.”
“You didn’t tell him.”
“Well, if you insist...”
“House, tell me you didn’t tell him!”
“You know I didn’t. You would’ve heard about it from one of your nurses before you left if I had. But wait, let me get this straight, you started smoking and you don’t want anyone to know? I thought that was the whole point, to look like the cool badass you wish you were in high school.”
Wilson looked away from House quickly, but not quite quickly enough. House had seen it: the Guilty Look, TM. Wilson’s Guilty Look was special. Other people looked guilty after they’d done something wrong; Wilson had generally always done something wrong. The Guilty Look made an appearance only when he was about to admit to something he’d been hiding (read: lying) about. It was a look that House had used to think Wilson saved for his wives, but he was becoming uncomfortably familiar with it.
“Well, spit it out,” House said. “You look sicker than a dog with measles, as my Aunt Muffie used to say. Or would’ve said, if I’d had an Aunt Muffie.”
“House.” Wilson’s tone was enough to let him know that line of thought had ended. Then Wilson sighed. Again. House wondered what the world record for sighing was. And then he decided to pay attention to Wilson.
“I didn’t exactly start smoking two weeks ago. I had my first cigarette when I was eleven. I guess you could say I fell in with the wrong crowd around that time...” he trailed off, a rueful smile drifting across his face. Now there was a story House wanted to here. “You know how it was. Back then, the movie stars smoked, the cool kids smoked, hell, my parents smoked, and you’ve met them, you know how straight laced they are.” Wilson hung his head, then looked back up at House, who was doing his best to look unreadable. Wilson, of course, looked perversely happy. He loved telling secrets, especially his own.
“I smoked on and off through high school, so I thought I could quit whenever I wanted. I really am every cliché there was. When I started college and met Sarah, you remember, you met her at that family reunion one year?”-short, blonde, first wife, remarried his first cousin, god that’s twisted-“I quit. Until residency, anyway. The stress got to me, you know how it was. And then that marriage fell apart anyway, so why bother to try and quit again? Christine”-that brunette bitch, the second wife-“and I actually quit together.”
“What a romance,” House couldn’t help but mumble sarcastically.
“I’m sorry, am I boring you?” Wilson asked.
“Finally, you noticed!” House stood up from the couch. “Let’s go get Mexican or something.”
“I thought you were trying to convince me to quit smoking.” Wilson actually sounded mildly annoyed that House cared more about his stomach than his best friend.
“And enchiladas are not conducive to that?” Wilson certainly didn’t look convinced. “Fine.” House moved into Wilson’s personal space, intending to use his two-inch height advantage for all it was worth. Mentally, he imagined himself towering over his friend in a hopefully intimidating way.
When he spoke, it was with a low rumble that generally got him laid or thrown out of bars. “Stop. Smoking.”
Wilson didn’t appear to have noticed any of these theatrics. Or rather, he was working very hard to look as though he hadn’t noticed. He swallowed visibly. “Why should I?”
“You know why.” ‘I need you to stick around’ was assumed, and pit bulls wouldn’t drag it out of House right now.
“But what’s in it for me?”
House appeared temporarily stumped. He considered the matter carefully, then sighed heavily. It was a sacrifice, but one he’d be just have to make, if it meant saving Wilson’s life. “I’ll let you have the remote.”
Wilson’s eyebrows shot up. “Really?” House nodded mournfully. “Now that’s love,” Wilson said. He fished a crumpled pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and gave them to House. “You’d better throw these out for me,” he explained.
House didn’t say anything, just took it and headed for the trashcan in the kitchen. “You want a beer while I’m out here?” he called en route.
“Sure,” Wilson said. House heard the television click on, flicker, then settle on what sounded like ice-skating. Oh man. Wilson was so gay.
House grabbed two beers out of the fridge and was about to toss the cigarettes into the trash when curiosity got the best of him. How many cigarettes had Wilson been smoking? With Stacy, it’d been a good stress barometer; the same was probably true with Wilson. He set the beers on the counter with a clink and tried to remember. There’d been nine cigarettes left in the pack last night, and now there were...still nine. That couldn’t be right. Was it really the same pack? Could Wilson really be on a pack-a-day habit? No, this was definitely the same box, it was ripped in the same place. Which meant Wilson hadn’t smoked at all since last night.
House snorted. Some addict. He heard Wilson turned up the volume on the TV and then call out, “Hey House, where’s my beer?”
“Coming!” House replied. Some actor, more like. And he’d played right into it. He shook his head, trying not to smile. Oh Jimmy, he thought to himself, you’re gonna suffer for this one.
House picked the beer up and headed for the living room, trying to remember what he’d done with his whoopee cushion.
Author/Artist: Sketch
Pairing: House and Wilson friendship
Rating: PG-13
Summary: House finds out about Wilson’s hidden addiction.
Disclaimer: It’s a darn fine shame, but House ain’t mine. Also, the film House and Wilson are watching in the first scene is “Dressed to Kill” (1946) and it also doesn’t belong to me, but rather to it’s creators.
Notes: Honestly, I don’t like how this turned out. It’s not the plotline that I liked for this prompt. Unfortunately I had some major issues with the plotline I did like, so that story isn’t finished yet. And so there’s this story instead.
Concrit appreciated.
-------
It was really a blessing that Julie left Wilson, House thought as he watched his friend. They were sitting peacefully on the couch, watching a black-and-white Basil Rathbone save the day on television.
Or at least, that’s what Wilson wanted him to think they were doing. In reality, Wilson’s left leg had been jumping and tapping in the most distracting way for the better part of an hour, belaying his guise of calmness. Every ten minutes or so, he’d realize what he was doing and stop, but it always started up again in a minute or two, as soon as he got distracted by the action on TV.
House also appeared to be at ease, but he actually had all his attention trained on his friend’s slightly shaky figure. And he was thinking that it was really a blessing that Julie left Wilson, because that meant he was staying with House, who just happened to be a world-renowned diagnostician.
Which was fortunate because clearly there was something wrong with him. Wilson was normally one of the calmest men around; he’d have to be, with a friend like House. But in the last two weeks, he’d become increasingly…twitchy. At first House had thought it was related to Wilson’s divorce, but if that was the case, why had he been so peaceful the first few weeks? And now that the divorce was almost finalized, shouldn’t he be returning to his normal tranquility?
Instead, he was getting worse. House had begun to worry about this curious phenomenon after Wilson had snapped at Cameron yesterday. She’d been babbling about something inane, patient rights or some equally undeserving topic, when, seemingly out of nowhere, Wilson had told her to shut up. Well, actually, his exact words had been, “Cameron, please, the patient is dying. We’re kind of in a hurry here!” Sure, it didn’t sound like much, but in Wilson-ese, that had been a serious reprimand.
Onscreen, Basil informed Nigel Bruce that, “The truth can only be found by the painstaking elimination of the untrue.” Wilson twitched. House sighed.
-------
When House got up at midnight for a glass of water, Wilson was not on the couch.
-------
Wilson seemed himself again the next day though. He tapped on House’s bedroom door sometime before nine with a cup of hot coffee. His hair was still wet, and it smelled intensely fruity. House informed Wilson of this.
The other man reacted with his typical aplomb. “Gay jokes before your first cup of coffee. I’m impressed.”
House snorted. Coffee and puns in bed. Maybe today wouldn’t suck.
-------
Wilson was late for lunch. He rushed into the cafeteria flushed and chewing mints.
-------
House sat heavily on his couch. This...thing of Wilson’s, whatever, or whoever, it was, had officially gone too far. He’d almost had to buy his own lunch earlier, which had been bad enough, but now it was nearly 6:30 and his personal chef had yet to make an appearance at home. At this rate, he was going to be back on the all peanut butter diet.
Just then House heard the door open. He twisted to see Wilson dropping his bag to the floor. He nearly sprinted across the room to shove his coat in the closet before moving off toward the bathroom.
“Hey!” House called. “Kitchen’s that way.” He jerked his thumb roughly to give Wilson a hint as to where he should be headed.
Wilson didn’t stop. “I need a shower first! A...patient vomited on me.” There was a pause, and House heard the shower start. “Get your own dinner!”
No, that wouldn’t do at all.
The first thing House did was hit speed dial three on his cell and order a large pizza to be delivered. With pepperoni, just because Wilson didn’t like it. Hunger made him spiteful.
Next, he retrieved Wilson’s bag from near the front door and settled himself with it on the couch. House spent several minutes poking through it for evidence of where Wilson had been, but there was nothing. Mentally he gave Wilson points for covering his tracks, but he took them away again because now he didn’t know what was going on and it ticked him off.
House paused then, trying to refine his search and make the best use of Wilson’s remaining shower time. What exactly was he looking for? Had he really expected to find some nurse’s panties stuffed into Wilson’s bag next to his patient files? Well, yes, he had. Clearly he had underestimated his opponent. After all, Wilson had three marriages during which to hone his deceptive skills.
He hadn’t seen Wilson’s wallet in the bag he’d just searched, which meant it was either in the pocket of his pants, or in the jacket he’d just hung in the closet. Hopefully it was the closet, since Wilson saved all his receipts and House was hoping to find proof that he’d been buying women’s lingerie or visiting cheap motel rooms on the sly. After replacing the bag by the door, he made his way quickly over to the closet, listening carefully for the peculiar squeak the hot water tap in the shower made when it was turned off.
Wilson’s jacket was easy to find, since it was the only one that didn’t look like it had been crammed in a small space, say, a closet, for the last ten years. House pulled it out and caught a trace of...was that perfume? Whoever she was, she was going to pay for depriving him of the veal cutlets Wilson had promised to make him for dinner.
The coat was unfortunately wallet-free, but House did find something else in the inside pocket.
“Ah,” he said, as it all clicked into place.
-------
House went to bed early that night, which was fine with Wilson.
-------
The next morning in the diagnostics office, House was enjoying a particularly foul mood, which his fellows were currently failing to alleviate.
Foreman sighed. “I think-”
“I don’t pay you to think!” House snapped.
“Actually, I’m pretty sure you do,” Foreman responded coolly, much to Chase’s amusement.
“I think it’s lupus,” Cameron volunteered before House could respond.
“You, I definitely don’t pay to think,” House told her. He turned to Chase. “And you neither. Go break into her house.”
He then jerked to face Foreman again. “You and your thoughts,” he said, with just the right amount of disdain, “have earned themselves the privilege of running tests. CT scan and lumbar puncture. What do you think of that?”
“I think I don’t like it when you and Wilson fight.”
House’s eyes went suddenly flat and grey. “Get the fuck out of here right now before I fire you.” When Foreman failed to move immediately, House hurled his cane at the other’s man’s head, narrowly missing. “Go!”
Foreman raised both his eyebrows, but was smart enough not to say anything as he exited the room. Chase, too, seemed ready bolt, but he had the presence to grab a gaping Cameron by the arm and pull her out the door with him.
Halfway to the elevators, their steps finally slowed to something approaching a walk. Foreman was the first to speak. “What was that? Is he off the Vicodin again or something?”
Cameron shook her head. “No, I saw him take one less than an hour ago. And besides, Cuddy would’ve warned us.”
Chase shrugged. “He and Wilson probably had some lover’s tiff. I’m sure he’ll back to normal soon enough.”
“It was...weird, the way he went so blank. Like he was angry but at the same time, completely empty. I’ve never seen him like that before.” Cameron’s eyebrow’s knit in worry.
Chase just shrugged again. “Well, unless you want him even angrier at us, we’d better get to the patient’s-”
“Violet,” Cameron informed him.
“Right. We’d better get to her flat.”
Cameron frowned but seemed to agree. She watched Foreman head off to their patient’s room, then turned back to Chase. “Think he’ll be ok?”
Chase ushered her into the elevator. “Yeah, no worries. Foreman can hold his own.”
“No, I meant House.”
Chase rolled his eyes. Of course she did. “Yes, him too. Wilson’s a big old puppy dog, you know as well as I do, he and House will be driving Cuddy insane again in no time.”
The elevator doors dinged close on Cameron’s troubled eyes.
-------
Less than a minute later, Wilson was surprised by an anxious call from Cameron.
-------
House could see Wilson’s reflection in his window. He watched him hesitate, sigh, hang his head, and finally push the door to House’s office open. Still, House didn’t turn around. Wilson cleared his throat.
“I know Cameron can get on your nerves, but wouldn’t sleeping with her be easier than scaring her to death? It’d certainly be easier on my cell phone bill. Do you know she’s started to call me every time you yell at her?” House didn’t say anything and Wilson picked at a stray thread on his coat. “Look, I was thinking we could go to lunch. Go to a diner or something. Talk. Do the friend thing.”
“I can’t do this.”
“Do...what?”
Wilson’s deliberate lack of understanding finally made House turn around. “What I do, or choose not to do, to my employees is none of your business, something I have finally given up on you figuring out by yourself. But while we’re on the subject of friendly concern...”
House moved suddenly to Wilson’s side, counting on Wilson’s surprise at this sudden invasion of his personal space to give him the minute he’d need. It’d been in his left pocket last night...and still was. House felt two boxy shapes in his friend’s pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.
“Let me guess, you were just holding these for a friend until recess?”
Wilson just stood there for a minute, appearing stunned by the sudden turn the conversation had taken. House seemed to take that for encouragement.
“All this time, I thought you were sleeping with some nurse. But you weren’t, were you? The extra cologne, the mints, that was all just to cover the smoke wasn’t it? Huh, and I thought you were impressing someone. Not Cameron, obviously. You hurt her feelings the other day. Don’t worry about it, I’m sure she’ll feel better when I tell her you were just jonesing for some nicotine. Cigarettes kill, you know. You moron!”
Because House had never stepped back after searching Wilson’s pockets, he was now shouting all of his brilliant conclusions directly into Wilson’s face. This appeared to be enough to snap Wilson out of his stupor.
“House-”
Unfortunately for Wilson, House didn’t really want to hear whatever he had to say. “How could you do this to me?”
“Excuse me?” Wilson’s face was beginning to flush red. “To you? The only thing I ever did was save your sorry ass time and time again. I have cleaned up your messes so many times, I-And this one time it’s not about you, this one time that I mess up all by myself-”
“One time? Gee, I must’ve imagined all those marriages-” It was a cheap shot, and House knew it. He decided he was not above cheap shots.
“Just shut up and listen for once! This is not about you, this is just me being stupid all by myself! Just leave me the hell alone, I can take care of myself!” Wilson’s arms were crossed tight across his chest, and his eyes said ‘back off.’
“Yeah, as long as I give you someplace to live.” House had never been a very good listener.
“Fine. You want me out, I’m out. I’ll leave tonight.”
“Fine,” House said. Of course it wasn’t. But Wilson was already gone, the heavy glass door swinging slowly closed behind him.
-------
Foreman surprised House with anomalous test results just as he was grabbing his helmet to head home and ambush Wilson.
-------
Wilson had just finished packing his car and was silently thanking whatever god might still be listening to a three-time loser like him that he’d made a clean getaway when House showed up. Which rather negated the cause for prayer, but then, that’s what Wilson got for believing in any supreme being other than House in the first place.
“Cowardice really is such an attractive feature in a guy. I can see why the girls keep swooning for you,” House said by way of greeting.
He figured if Wilson hadn’t hit him for insulting the bride the day of his second wedding, then he probably never would. Still, sometimes Wilson would get a sharp look in his eye and House would brace for impact. Today, House felt almost sickly disappointed when the punch didn’t come, because if Wilson hit him at least he’d be sorry enough to help House up off the pavement. Then everything would go back to normal.
Instead Wilson just turned around and went back into House’s apartment, and House tried to tell himself it was because he didn’t want to suffer the neighbor’s odd looks in the morning if they fought in the street. That’d actually be a good thing; Wilson thought he would still be around in the morning. Or that he cared about House’s neighbors and didn’t want to disturb them. House dismissed the second thought quickly. He was pretty sure ‘Jimmy’ was only nice to Mrs. Hudson in 221A because she gave him cookies. And he wasn’t living there, no cookies. So, probably the move-out was a bluff.
Good news. House felt a surge of happiness. And then Wilson started talking.
“I tried,” he said earnestly. “I tried to be good!” House decided this might not be the time to mention Suzy, Gillian, Bobbie, Emily, Maxine, Laura, or Iris. And those were just the ones he knew about. But Wilson was continuing. “Where did trying get me? A bunch of dead patients and a best friend who’s an asshole.”
“And three ex-wives,” House couldn’t help but add.
“Yes, thanks, I’d almost forgotten.” Wilson sighed. “Look, I’m a doctor, I-”
“Exactly!” Wilson had given House exactly the opening he’d wanted to re-take this argument. “You’re an oncologist! How many lung cancer patients do you watch die every year?” Wilson opened his mouth to respond, but House decided the actual number wasn’t relevant to their current discussion. Besides, he hadn’t memorized Wilson’s patient statistics (well, not all of them, anyway), and he didn’t want Wilson answering any questions that he himself didn’t know the answers to. He hurried to continue his argument. “It’s passive-aggressive suicide and you know it!” Here he paused and briefly let himself look concerned. “If you’re having suicidal thoughts...”
“What? I can talk to you?” Wilson let out a slightly strangled chuckle that rather complimented the ugly look on his face.
Ouch. House shrugged it off. “Ugh! God no. I was going to suggest a 1 800 number.”
“It’s really a wonder both of us abuse drugs with such a loving relationship in our lives.”
“Your sarcasm really isn’t helping the matter.”
“My sarc-I-” Wilson appeared flabbergasted. House mentally congratulated himself for rendering Wilson speechless twice in one day. Very good for his stats.
“You know, most people turning 40 have a mid-life crisis, not a teenage rebellion.” House shook his head in mock shame. “Although with your addiction to those cancer sticks, I guess you don’t have to worry much about living all that much longer anyway.”
“Wow, do the elementary schools book you to convince kids not to smoke? I mean, I’m not saying your attitude is juvenile, but it is.” House stuck out his tongue. “Don’t you think you’re overreacting a little bit? I mean, it’s not like I’m shooting heroin. I left the opiates to you.”
“How thoughtful. I’m sure I’ll find that comforting when you have emphysema, bronchitis, and tumors everywhere from your larynx to your bladder.”
“I hate to break it to you, but your spiel works better on clinic patients than other doctors.”
“Damn it.”
“And speaking of hypocrisy...” Wilson said, giving House a sideways look.
“As I’m sure we weren’t...” House cut in.
Wilson ignored him. “If I recall correctly, I’m not the only one here to have been smoking recently. Or did I imagine you with that cigar at the hospital fundraiser, Groucho?”
“Do as I say, not as I do,” House lectured. “Besides, cigars are phallic. They go with the cane. Cigarettes are just wussy.”
“Did you sit in your office all afternoon thinking of ridiculous arguments to make against smoking?”
“Chase tried to help but he was useless. No surprises there.”
“You didn’t tell him.”
“Well, if you insist...”
“House, tell me you didn’t tell him!”
“You know I didn’t. You would’ve heard about it from one of your nurses before you left if I had. But wait, let me get this straight, you started smoking and you don’t want anyone to know? I thought that was the whole point, to look like the cool badass you wish you were in high school.”
Wilson looked away from House quickly, but not quite quickly enough. House had seen it: the Guilty Look, TM. Wilson’s Guilty Look was special. Other people looked guilty after they’d done something wrong; Wilson had generally always done something wrong. The Guilty Look made an appearance only when he was about to admit to something he’d been hiding (read: lying) about. It was a look that House had used to think Wilson saved for his wives, but he was becoming uncomfortably familiar with it.
“Well, spit it out,” House said. “You look sicker than a dog with measles, as my Aunt Muffie used to say. Or would’ve said, if I’d had an Aunt Muffie.”
“House.” Wilson’s tone was enough to let him know that line of thought had ended. Then Wilson sighed. Again. House wondered what the world record for sighing was. And then he decided to pay attention to Wilson.
“I didn’t exactly start smoking two weeks ago. I had my first cigarette when I was eleven. I guess you could say I fell in with the wrong crowd around that time...” he trailed off, a rueful smile drifting across his face. Now there was a story House wanted to here. “You know how it was. Back then, the movie stars smoked, the cool kids smoked, hell, my parents smoked, and you’ve met them, you know how straight laced they are.” Wilson hung his head, then looked back up at House, who was doing his best to look unreadable. Wilson, of course, looked perversely happy. He loved telling secrets, especially his own.
“I smoked on and off through high school, so I thought I could quit whenever I wanted. I really am every cliché there was. When I started college and met Sarah, you remember, you met her at that family reunion one year?”-short, blonde, first wife, remarried his first cousin, god that’s twisted-“I quit. Until residency, anyway. The stress got to me, you know how it was. And then that marriage fell apart anyway, so why bother to try and quit again? Christine”-that brunette bitch, the second wife-“and I actually quit together.”
“What a romance,” House couldn’t help but mumble sarcastically.
“I’m sorry, am I boring you?” Wilson asked.
“Finally, you noticed!” House stood up from the couch. “Let’s go get Mexican or something.”
“I thought you were trying to convince me to quit smoking.” Wilson actually sounded mildly annoyed that House cared more about his stomach than his best friend.
“And enchiladas are not conducive to that?” Wilson certainly didn’t look convinced. “Fine.” House moved into Wilson’s personal space, intending to use his two-inch height advantage for all it was worth. Mentally, he imagined himself towering over his friend in a hopefully intimidating way.
When he spoke, it was with a low rumble that generally got him laid or thrown out of bars. “Stop. Smoking.”
Wilson didn’t appear to have noticed any of these theatrics. Or rather, he was working very hard to look as though he hadn’t noticed. He swallowed visibly. “Why should I?”
“You know why.” ‘I need you to stick around’ was assumed, and pit bulls wouldn’t drag it out of House right now.
“But what’s in it for me?”
House appeared temporarily stumped. He considered the matter carefully, then sighed heavily. It was a sacrifice, but one he’d be just have to make, if it meant saving Wilson’s life. “I’ll let you have the remote.”
Wilson’s eyebrows shot up. “Really?” House nodded mournfully. “Now that’s love,” Wilson said. He fished a crumpled pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and gave them to House. “You’d better throw these out for me,” he explained.
House didn’t say anything, just took it and headed for the trashcan in the kitchen. “You want a beer while I’m out here?” he called en route.
“Sure,” Wilson said. House heard the television click on, flicker, then settle on what sounded like ice-skating. Oh man. Wilson was so gay.
House grabbed two beers out of the fridge and was about to toss the cigarettes into the trash when curiosity got the best of him. How many cigarettes had Wilson been smoking? With Stacy, it’d been a good stress barometer; the same was probably true with Wilson. He set the beers on the counter with a clink and tried to remember. There’d been nine cigarettes left in the pack last night, and now there were...still nine. That couldn’t be right. Was it really the same pack? Could Wilson really be on a pack-a-day habit? No, this was definitely the same box, it was ripped in the same place. Which meant Wilson hadn’t smoked at all since last night.
House snorted. Some addict. He heard Wilson turned up the volume on the TV and then call out, “Hey House, where’s my beer?”
“Coming!” House replied. Some actor, more like. And he’d played right into it. He shook his head, trying not to smile. Oh Jimmy, he thought to himself, you’re gonna suffer for this one.
House picked the beer up and headed for the living room, trying to remember what he’d done with his whoopee cushion.