Coming To Terms, Chapter 3
Title: Coming to Terms, Chapter 3/10
Fandom: House, MD
Pairings: House/Cuddy, Wilson friendship
Warnings: Explicit content in some chapters.
Summary: In the weeks following "Help Me", House, Wilson and Cuddy all have some adjustments to make.
Disclaimer: Seriously? You do know I am not David Shore, right?
House squinted into the loft and stepped around Sam. “Wilson home yet?”
“Evening, House,” she said dryly. “So nice of you to stop by.” And thanks for calling first, she thought as she closed the door behind him.
“Out in a minute, House,” James called from the bedroom.
The phone on the end table rang, giving her an excuse to avoid talking to House. “Wilson-Carr residence.” House’s eye-roll gave her a tiny surge of satisfaction, which made her feel petty.
There was nothing on the other end of the connection but a woman’s sobs.
“Hello? Excuse me? I’m sorry, but can you slow down, I can’t understand you.”
House, who had flopped himself down onto the sofa and stretched his arms out along its back, looked up at her curiously. Sam stammered a few more things to no effect, and he stood up and grabbed the phone from her hand.
He listened to the incoherent crying for a second, and then held the receiver out at arm’s length. “WILSON! It’s for YOU!”
James, coming out of the bedroom wearing jeans and a golf shirt, took it. “This is James Wilson,” he said crisply, and his face clouded. “Okay. Okay, don’t panic. How many tablets were there? How many milligrams?” Frowning worriedly, he paced back into the bedroom and closed the door.
House shrugged.
“James told me you were at the accident site last night,” she said to keep up the pretext of courtesy.
“There was gravel, in my underwear,” he stated. “And I do not mean that metaphorically.”
She tried to look nonplussed. He and James had been friends for so long that James never reacted to the strange way House opened up conversations, but she was new to their unique shorthand.
“That was Bonnie,” James said, returning with the phone. “Her new puppy swallowed some acetaminophen. Four hundred milligrams, and the puppy’s a tiny little thing, but she’ll be fine.”
“Well that’s a rel--,” Sam said, and
“Well, damn, that’s disappointing,” House remarked.
James looked disgusted. “Jesus, House. I know you’re not the woman’s biggest fan --- the feeling is mutual by the way - but seriously? You were hoping her puppy would die?”
“I was hoping for an intentional OD. Something more vindicating than a stupid accident,” House explained. “My opinion is one thing, but you know that woman’s a neurotic pain in the ass if living with her is enough to make a puppy suicidal.”
Oblivious to Sam’s shock, James chuckled. “You’re an ass,” he said affectionately.
“Isn’t that a little … harsh?” Sam asked, stunned. James’ second wife had obviously been distraught. This kind of mockery and indifference to suffering was probably not uncommon for House, but she’d never known James to be so insensitive.
“No,” they said together. James had the grace to shrug at her apologetically, but his eyes were dancing.
“Not at all,” House added good-naturedly. “I’m an ass by pretty much anyone’s standards. Wilson. I need a ride to Trenton. Have to pick up my bike.”
James looked guiltily toward Sam. “We had plans, House.”
House jerked his thumb at her. “She lives here now, remember? She’ll still be here when you get back.”
He quirked an eyebrow, and his eyes twinkled maliciously. “Won’t you?”
“He has a point, James,” she said magnanimously. Her ex-husband’s behavior was mystifying her. Why was he being so vicariously vicious to his ex-wife, and why on earth would he begrudge a simple errand for a friend of twenty years? “How long can it take to drive to Trenton and back?”
She leveled a look at House, who leveled one right back at her.
I don’t like what you bring out in him.
You made him cry.
James’ eyes ricocheted warily between House and Sam. “Fine, I’ll get my keys,” he sighed. “We can touch base on the way.”
House smiled grimly up at Sam, and they had another silent argument.
I will outlast you.
We’ll see about that.
James stood in front of the hall table and jingled his keys impatiently.
“Don’t wait up,” House whispered to her.
“How was work today, Honey?” House asked. He was concentrating intensely on fiddling with the radio buttons. Wilson had dreaded House’s reaction to finding the pre-sets now all on Sam’s preferred stations. When he turned on the radio and heard jazz coming out, however, House had said only, “You hate this,” and set about reprogramming them back to Wilson’s favorite classic rock and sports stations.
It would have almost been an oddly protective gesture, had it not been coming from the same man who commandeered the remote and deleted Wilson’s recordings to make room for re-runs of New Yankee Workshop.
“The hospital managed to survive without you, Snookums,” he answered, keeping his eyes on the road. “Oh. You’ll like this. Cuddy had to postpone the mandatory workplace safety lecture, because of the aftermath of the crane accident. “
House grinned. “I do love me some irony. Has it been rescheduled yet?”
Unlike every other hospital employee in the free world, House positively loved mandatory workplace safety meetings; they were a free day off for him.
Seven years ago, some pompous dick from the hospital accreditation board had begun the ritual waste of time by making a reference to Hemingway’s “Clean Well Lighted Place.” Or, rather, to the title; it became evident that he didn’t know the story or its context when House, not entirely benevolently, asked if they were expected to blow their heads off with a shotgun in their clean well-lighted workplace, or merely treat clinic patients there. House admittedly thought one seemed a natural prelude to the other.
He’d consequently been forbidden to attend workplace safety meetings or even discuss them (or, Cuddy added for good measure, Hemingway.) House accepted this violation of his constitutional right to bitch with uncharacteristic good humor and spent at least a week every year angling to get the workplace safety lecture scheduled for a Friday afternoon or a Mets-Phillies game day. Meanwhile, Wilson -- who had always endured mandatory workplace safety lectures like a normal, put-upon grownup -- juggled his department’s obligations, sometimes sacrificing his own personal time off in the process, to make time for a meeting in which some officious bureaucrat would spend three hours of precious patient care time telling them all what they’d damned well better already know.
Not that Wilson was bitter.
“You asked me to ask around, about Cuddy and Lucas,” Wilson began.
“Already heard.”
“What are you going to do? And I warn you, I’m missing time with Sam for this, so don’t try to snow me with a deflection or one of your half-assed manipulations.”
House was looking pointedly at the paper coffee cup Sam had left in the cup holder yesterday. Wilson deliberately did not notice it. “Oh, come on. You’re missing a re-run of the Gilmore Girls.”
It was NCIS, actually, but that was entirely beside the point. “Lucas, Cuddy?” Wilson prompted.
House picked up the cup and sniffed, wrinkled his nose, then put it back. “I’m really proud of her.”
“For …?” Wilson waited for House to say that Cuddy had broken up with Lucas by text message, in haiku form, or that she’d slipped some cleverly untraceable poison into his espresso. It would be like House to give her extra credit for disposing of his rival with flair and originality; he’d admired some of Cuddy’s and Lucas’ meaner, but more creative, stunts.
“For putting herself first.”
“That of all things earns your respect? Uncompromising selfishness?”
“Acts of uncompromising selfishness come easily to me. Cuddy has to work at hers.”
“That’s true,” Wilson conceded. “She spends most of her life taking care of other people.”
House adjusted the passenger seat back to fit his lanky frame. “I’m proud of you, too. You kicked me out, in my vulnerable, delicate state, for a squeeze you’ve been dating for all of three weeks, and you only had momentary second thoughts about it. The old Wilson would have agonized over it endlessly. Your terminal niceness is in remission.”
Wilson shot him a glare. “Is there an award for ‘most backhanded compliment’ you’re trying to nail? Because that’s a championship contender if I ever heard one.”
“Just saying thank you for taking care of yourself. God knows I haven’t been in any condition to.”
Then it came, much more softly, barely audible over the noise of the car: “I’m sorry.”
An apology from House was a rare and treasured thing. Wilson knew better than to over-react to it, but he turned his head to look directly at House.
“You drugged me and stole my pants, remember. Nothing says love like that does,” he replied, as if this were some sort of normal human conversation. “But if you really want to take care of me, you’ll take better care of yourself.”
House said quietly, “Working on that.” He looked out the window, his mouth a thin line.
“I’d really like you to reconsider moving to a new place.”
“Nothing wrong with my old place,” House repeated, and added a muttered, “It does need a new bathroom mirror.” He smiled wryly at that; Wilson decided not to ask.
“Look, I know how much you dislike change, House,” he said carefully. He was deliberately understating. House did not just dislike change; he hated it and feared it with an unholy fervor. “It’s just that that place …”
“It’s full of memories, “ House finished. “Not that you’d know anything about that.”
“I wasn’t thinking so much the memories,” Wilson said gingerly, “as the drugs.”
“I’m an addict, Wilson, no matter where I live.”
“I know, but..”
“But any pill bottles I happen to procure in a new place, will not have your name on them,” House interrupted, and Wilson gripped the steering wheel tighter. “This isn’t about what might haunt me, Wilson; it’s about what haunts you.”
Wilson gritted his teeth. House had already shot an Amber reference across his bow, and now they’d moved on to the enabling issue. Nothing for it but to put his head down and march and try not to escalate. “That guy, at your apartment last week.”
“Alvie? What about him?”
“I couldn’t help but notice, he looked… agitated.” The guy had talked like a tape on fast forward, and moved like he’d just been shot from a cannon.
“You think Alvie was on drugs? You do, don’t you?” House’s eyes careened. “Oh, my, God, that’s ridiculous.”
“Excuse me for worrying about my best friend.”
“What worries you more, Wilson - that I might fall apart once I’m out from under your ever-watchful gaze, - or that I might not?”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“I get so blind drunk I can’t even find my way back into my own bed, that’s not a problem worth having a conversation about. But as soon as I’m staying clean and getting up every morning and doing my damned job without your support, then, you decide I need meddling with.”
“I’m trying to help you, you stubborn son of a bitch.”
“How?” House demanded. “By hiring me play dates? Hey, pull up, right here. I parked on the other side of that chain-link.” He pointed.
“You admitted you had a good time, going out with people,” Wilson said wearily, pulling the car into a space. “I wanted you to know you don’t need me for that.”
House unbuckled his seat belt. “You made it your job to arrange it and footed the bill for it, because you want me to need you.”
“Oh, forget it. Why do I waste a hundred and fifty dollars an hour on therapy? Clearly, I’m underutilizing you.”
“If you’re in such a sorry state that your own control-freakish isn’t obvious to you, Wilson, then one-fifty’s not enough.”
“I am trying to make this relationship with Sam work. And I’m trying to not neglect you in the process. I can’t win, here.”
“Oh, bullshit, Wilson. You’re trying to convince yourself I’m in trouble so you don’t have to make that relationship work. So when it starts to go South, you can make a choice: either she gets to be the one who forced you to dump your tragically fucked-up best friend, or I get to be the one whose badly-timed collapse interfered with your great romance. That’s your definition of win-win. Either way, it won’t be your fault. You don’t have to be the bad guy, and you do get to wallow in all that nice juicy resentment.”
Wilson rested his head on his hand against the steering wheel. “House, come on,” he pleaded. “Let’s just get you home. I’ll meet you at your place, then drive you back to pick up your car.”
“I could always just take the bus.” House punctuated by slamming the car door behind him.
Wilson refused to forgive that nasty crack until he reached Plainsboro city limits. He was still rehearsing scathing retorts in his head when he got to Baker, where House was waiting beside the parked motorcycle. House got back into the car and thanked him with brittle civility, and Wilson didn’t acknowledge him. They didn’t look at each other until he turned onto Metropolitan.
They said good night at the parking lot on the corner of Metro and Mercer.
He made it all the way to his front door before he realized that House hadn’t answered his question.
Chapter 4 Chapter 5
Fandom: House, MD
Pairings: House/Cuddy, Wilson friendship
Warnings: Explicit content in some chapters.
Summary: In the weeks following "Help Me", House, Wilson and Cuddy all have some adjustments to make.
Disclaimer: Seriously? You do know I am not David Shore, right?
House squinted into the loft and stepped around Sam. “Wilson home yet?”
“Evening, House,” she said dryly. “So nice of you to stop by.” And thanks for calling first, she thought as she closed the door behind him.
“Out in a minute, House,” James called from the bedroom.
The phone on the end table rang, giving her an excuse to avoid talking to House. “Wilson-Carr residence.” House’s eye-roll gave her a tiny surge of satisfaction, which made her feel petty.
There was nothing on the other end of the connection but a woman’s sobs.
“Hello? Excuse me? I’m sorry, but can you slow down, I can’t understand you.”
House, who had flopped himself down onto the sofa and stretched his arms out along its back, looked up at her curiously. Sam stammered a few more things to no effect, and he stood up and grabbed the phone from her hand.
He listened to the incoherent crying for a second, and then held the receiver out at arm’s length. “WILSON! It’s for YOU!”
James, coming out of the bedroom wearing jeans and a golf shirt, took it. “This is James Wilson,” he said crisply, and his face clouded. “Okay. Okay, don’t panic. How many tablets were there? How many milligrams?” Frowning worriedly, he paced back into the bedroom and closed the door.
House shrugged.
“James told me you were at the accident site last night,” she said to keep up the pretext of courtesy.
“There was gravel, in my underwear,” he stated. “And I do not mean that metaphorically.”
She tried to look nonplussed. He and James had been friends for so long that James never reacted to the strange way House opened up conversations, but she was new to their unique shorthand.
“That was Bonnie,” James said, returning with the phone. “Her new puppy swallowed some acetaminophen. Four hundred milligrams, and the puppy’s a tiny little thing, but she’ll be fine.”
“Well that’s a rel--,” Sam said, and
“Well, damn, that’s disappointing,” House remarked.
James looked disgusted. “Jesus, House. I know you’re not the woman’s biggest fan --- the feeling is mutual by the way - but seriously? You were hoping her puppy would die?”
“I was hoping for an intentional OD. Something more vindicating than a stupid accident,” House explained. “My opinion is one thing, but you know that woman’s a neurotic pain in the ass if living with her is enough to make a puppy suicidal.”
Oblivious to Sam’s shock, James chuckled. “You’re an ass,” he said affectionately.
“Isn’t that a little … harsh?” Sam asked, stunned. James’ second wife had obviously been distraught. This kind of mockery and indifference to suffering was probably not uncommon for House, but she’d never known James to be so insensitive.
“No,” they said together. James had the grace to shrug at her apologetically, but his eyes were dancing.
“Not at all,” House added good-naturedly. “I’m an ass by pretty much anyone’s standards. Wilson. I need a ride to Trenton. Have to pick up my bike.”
James looked guiltily toward Sam. “We had plans, House.”
House jerked his thumb at her. “She lives here now, remember? She’ll still be here when you get back.”
He quirked an eyebrow, and his eyes twinkled maliciously. “Won’t you?”
“He has a point, James,” she said magnanimously. Her ex-husband’s behavior was mystifying her. Why was he being so vicariously vicious to his ex-wife, and why on earth would he begrudge a simple errand for a friend of twenty years? “How long can it take to drive to Trenton and back?”
She leveled a look at House, who leveled one right back at her.
I don’t like what you bring out in him.
You made him cry.
James’ eyes ricocheted warily between House and Sam. “Fine, I’ll get my keys,” he sighed. “We can touch base on the way.”
House smiled grimly up at Sam, and they had another silent argument.
I will outlast you.
We’ll see about that.
James stood in front of the hall table and jingled his keys impatiently.
“Don’t wait up,” House whispered to her.
“How was work today, Honey?” House asked. He was concentrating intensely on fiddling with the radio buttons. Wilson had dreaded House’s reaction to finding the pre-sets now all on Sam’s preferred stations. When he turned on the radio and heard jazz coming out, however, House had said only, “You hate this,” and set about reprogramming them back to Wilson’s favorite classic rock and sports stations.
It would have almost been an oddly protective gesture, had it not been coming from the same man who commandeered the remote and deleted Wilson’s recordings to make room for re-runs of New Yankee Workshop.
“The hospital managed to survive without you, Snookums,” he answered, keeping his eyes on the road. “Oh. You’ll like this. Cuddy had to postpone the mandatory workplace safety lecture, because of the aftermath of the crane accident. “
House grinned. “I do love me some irony. Has it been rescheduled yet?”
Unlike every other hospital employee in the free world, House positively loved mandatory workplace safety meetings; they were a free day off for him.
Seven years ago, some pompous dick from the hospital accreditation board had begun the ritual waste of time by making a reference to Hemingway’s “Clean Well Lighted Place.” Or, rather, to the title; it became evident that he didn’t know the story or its context when House, not entirely benevolently, asked if they were expected to blow their heads off with a shotgun in their clean well-lighted workplace, or merely treat clinic patients there. House admittedly thought one seemed a natural prelude to the other.
He’d consequently been forbidden to attend workplace safety meetings or even discuss them (or, Cuddy added for good measure, Hemingway.) House accepted this violation of his constitutional right to bitch with uncharacteristic good humor and spent at least a week every year angling to get the workplace safety lecture scheduled for a Friday afternoon or a Mets-Phillies game day. Meanwhile, Wilson -- who had always endured mandatory workplace safety lectures like a normal, put-upon grownup -- juggled his department’s obligations, sometimes sacrificing his own personal time off in the process, to make time for a meeting in which some officious bureaucrat would spend three hours of precious patient care time telling them all what they’d damned well better already know.
Not that Wilson was bitter.
“You asked me to ask around, about Cuddy and Lucas,” Wilson began.
“Already heard.”
“What are you going to do? And I warn you, I’m missing time with Sam for this, so don’t try to snow me with a deflection or one of your half-assed manipulations.”
House was looking pointedly at the paper coffee cup Sam had left in the cup holder yesterday. Wilson deliberately did not notice it. “Oh, come on. You’re missing a re-run of the Gilmore Girls.”
It was NCIS, actually, but that was entirely beside the point. “Lucas, Cuddy?” Wilson prompted.
House picked up the cup and sniffed, wrinkled his nose, then put it back. “I’m really proud of her.”
“For …?” Wilson waited for House to say that Cuddy had broken up with Lucas by text message, in haiku form, or that she’d slipped some cleverly untraceable poison into his espresso. It would be like House to give her extra credit for disposing of his rival with flair and originality; he’d admired some of Cuddy’s and Lucas’ meaner, but more creative, stunts.
“For putting herself first.”
“That of all things earns your respect? Uncompromising selfishness?”
“Acts of uncompromising selfishness come easily to me. Cuddy has to work at hers.”
“That’s true,” Wilson conceded. “She spends most of her life taking care of other people.”
House adjusted the passenger seat back to fit his lanky frame. “I’m proud of you, too. You kicked me out, in my vulnerable, delicate state, for a squeeze you’ve been dating for all of three weeks, and you only had momentary second thoughts about it. The old Wilson would have agonized over it endlessly. Your terminal niceness is in remission.”
Wilson shot him a glare. “Is there an award for ‘most backhanded compliment’ you’re trying to nail? Because that’s a championship contender if I ever heard one.”
“Just saying thank you for taking care of yourself. God knows I haven’t been in any condition to.”
Then it came, much more softly, barely audible over the noise of the car: “I’m sorry.”
An apology from House was a rare and treasured thing. Wilson knew better than to over-react to it, but he turned his head to look directly at House.
“You drugged me and stole my pants, remember. Nothing says love like that does,” he replied, as if this were some sort of normal human conversation. “But if you really want to take care of me, you’ll take better care of yourself.”
House said quietly, “Working on that.” He looked out the window, his mouth a thin line.
“I’d really like you to reconsider moving to a new place.”
“Nothing wrong with my old place,” House repeated, and added a muttered, “It does need a new bathroom mirror.” He smiled wryly at that; Wilson decided not to ask.
“Look, I know how much you dislike change, House,” he said carefully. He was deliberately understating. House did not just dislike change; he hated it and feared it with an unholy fervor. “It’s just that that place …”
“It’s full of memories, “ House finished. “Not that you’d know anything about that.”
“I wasn’t thinking so much the memories,” Wilson said gingerly, “as the drugs.”
“I’m an addict, Wilson, no matter where I live.”
“I know, but..”
“But any pill bottles I happen to procure in a new place, will not have your name on them,” House interrupted, and Wilson gripped the steering wheel tighter. “This isn’t about what might haunt me, Wilson; it’s about what haunts you.”
Wilson gritted his teeth. House had already shot an Amber reference across his bow, and now they’d moved on to the enabling issue. Nothing for it but to put his head down and march and try not to escalate. “That guy, at your apartment last week.”
“Alvie? What about him?”
“I couldn’t help but notice, he looked… agitated.” The guy had talked like a tape on fast forward, and moved like he’d just been shot from a cannon.
“You think Alvie was on drugs? You do, don’t you?” House’s eyes careened. “Oh, my, God, that’s ridiculous.”
“Excuse me for worrying about my best friend.”
“What worries you more, Wilson - that I might fall apart once I’m out from under your ever-watchful gaze, - or that I might not?”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“I get so blind drunk I can’t even find my way back into my own bed, that’s not a problem worth having a conversation about. But as soon as I’m staying clean and getting up every morning and doing my damned job without your support, then, you decide I need meddling with.”
“I’m trying to help you, you stubborn son of a bitch.”
“How?” House demanded. “By hiring me play dates? Hey, pull up, right here. I parked on the other side of that chain-link.” He pointed.
“You admitted you had a good time, going out with people,” Wilson said wearily, pulling the car into a space. “I wanted you to know you don’t need me for that.”
House unbuckled his seat belt. “You made it your job to arrange it and footed the bill for it, because you want me to need you.”
“Oh, forget it. Why do I waste a hundred and fifty dollars an hour on therapy? Clearly, I’m underutilizing you.”
“If you’re in such a sorry state that your own control-freakish isn’t obvious to you, Wilson, then one-fifty’s not enough.”
“I am trying to make this relationship with Sam work. And I’m trying to not neglect you in the process. I can’t win, here.”
“Oh, bullshit, Wilson. You’re trying to convince yourself I’m in trouble so you don’t have to make that relationship work. So when it starts to go South, you can make a choice: either she gets to be the one who forced you to dump your tragically fucked-up best friend, or I get to be the one whose badly-timed collapse interfered with your great romance. That’s your definition of win-win. Either way, it won’t be your fault. You don’t have to be the bad guy, and you do get to wallow in all that nice juicy resentment.”
Wilson rested his head on his hand against the steering wheel. “House, come on,” he pleaded. “Let’s just get you home. I’ll meet you at your place, then drive you back to pick up your car.”
“I could always just take the bus.” House punctuated by slamming the car door behind him.
Wilson refused to forgive that nasty crack until he reached Plainsboro city limits. He was still rehearsing scathing retorts in his head when he got to Baker, where House was waiting beside the parked motorcycle. House got back into the car and thanked him with brittle civility, and Wilson didn’t acknowledge him. They didn’t look at each other until he turned onto Metropolitan.
They said good night at the parking lot on the corner of Metro and Mercer.
He made it all the way to his front door before he realized that House hadn’t answered his question.
Chapter 4 Chapter 5