Dr. Wilson's Day of Destruction: Part One
Dr. Wilson's Day of Destruction
or
How Wilson Found Happiness
Author's Note: This story sort of took on a life of its own, and is headed in a different direction than I originally envisioned. Go figure.
Author's Note Two: It has been a very long time since I've been as drunk as Wilson is throughout this story, but I'm doing the best I can. And pretty much any typos, or word-misusage while Wilson is speaking is on purpose.
Disclaimer: I don't own House. I never will.
Being in love with your best friend is complicated. You wake up one day, and suddenly everything that had once been so easy, the friendship that had been as natural as breathing, isn't exactly the way you left it. There's still laughter because he's still the most hilarious person in the world. But suddenly the amusement you feel is laced with a different sort of affection and your stomach tightens when he grins back at you because that's what it does when you're happy. Which, even when you're pathetically lusting after someone you can never, ever, ever have, you generally are. Because being in their presence, feeling the warmth of their skin when they stand close, somehow seems like enough.
At least, that's my general philosophy when it comes to my unrequited obsession with my own best friend. I suppose it's different for everyone.
I met Greg House on the day my entire world shattered around me (the first time). My wife had left (which would turn out to be the story of my life). I had been arrested for something that, honestly, I really don't consider to be my fault. I mean, I didn't hit the guy, and believe me, I wanted to. Not even to mention the fact that I was going to be starting my residency in a city where I knew no one. So yeah, I was having a bad day. And House, showing colors that have rarely been seen since by people other than me or Cuddy, took it upon himself to bail me out of jail.
We connected right away, but that wasn't really a surprise. I had never known anyone like him, anyone that could keep up with me intellectually, the way that he could. The bantering was new for me, but fun, and easy, and I would wonder sometimes if he thought back over our exchanges, grinning to himself, the way I did. It was a big friendship, if that makes sense. We'd known each other six months and it had felt like ten years. And I just . . . fell in love. Looking back, it's not really a shock. In some ways I'd aways been a romantic at heart.
I tried, though, a couple of times, to take it to a new level. It wasn't either of my parents or my brother that I asked to be with me during my surgery. It wasn't Foreman who I bought a huge, expensive instrument for. But my overtures went unaddressed so I had known what the answer was.
"Not that it matters," I continued, downing the fifth shot. The bartender, Bruce, who had been generously listening to my semi-coherent grievances, raised his eyebrows but remained silent. "Because, regardless, I am going to love him for the rest of my life. Cuddy or no Cuddy."
"I thought you said he and that chick broke up," Bruce questioned. Really, he was a good listener, all things considered. But then, he didn't have a lot of patrons at one in the afternoon.
I swallowed another. "They did," I answered, as the alcohol seeped further into my brain. "But he's gonna love her. Forever, whether they're together or not. Honestly, it's annoying." And shot number six was gone as well. "Another three, Bruce?"
"It's a little early in the day for another shot, don't you think?"
"Not one," I corrected. "Three." I laid my keys down on the counter. "See? I won't drive. But I need more alcohol, if I'm supposed to be drowning my sorrows." I almost laughed, but I was still sober enough to be able to tell the difference between legitimately funny and funny because of inebriation.
Bruce, who I was beginning to think of as my favorite bartender in the whole world, lined another three shot glasses up in front of me, before taking my keys. "I'm only letting you do this because you're devastated about your man-friend," he informed me, his no-nonsense demeanor only driving the point home. "But you're gonna have to call your own cab because I don't get paid enough to be an assistant, too."
I drank the new shots in quick succession, pretending not to notice the uneasy look my new friend was shooting me. I started to roll my eyes at him but got dizzy. "I should probably use the phone now," I said, "before I can't dial."
"Wilson?"
I let out a small moan, and then glared at Bruce. "Did you call him," I demanded, but as I looked to him my vision blurred, the number of Bruces multiplied, and I couldn't be sure which one was the corporal version. So I stared in the middle.
"You didn't give me his number," he reminded me.
Oh. Right.
I spun around on the bar stool to greet my friend and pretend that everything was hunky-dory in Wilsonland, but promptly fell to the floor. "Ow," I moaned, but suddenly my body was too heavy for me to move from my position, so I compromised by rolling over onto my back. God there was lot of gum under the bar, I couldn't help but notice. That couldn't possibly be sanitary could it? And so many different colors. Red, and blue, and white.
It was like patriotic bar-art.
"Wilson," House said again, and it was only then that I realized he was standing beside me, the bottom of his cane nudging my abdomen.
"House," I answered the three of him cheerfully. If I could keep up the facade he might just leave. As long as he believed I was sober. "How's it going?"
He raised his eyebrows at me. "Fine." He sat on the stool I'd vacated, then peered down at me through narrowed eyes. "Were you gonna . . . stand at some point?"
That was a tricky question. If I moved from the floor I was probably going to hurl, which might undercut my insistence of sobriety. Better just to stay where I was. "I'm good right . . ." My voice trailed away as the floor began to spin.
"There," he finished for me.
"Right."
"Um, Wilson, not to be a killjoy - because I can see you're having a good time -" Dammit! How had guessed that I was drunk? I'd remained on the floor so that I wouldn't fall over. The best-laid plans. "But you were supposed to be at work two hours ago."
I laughed at the Houses. "I'm off today, crazy. Maybe you were supposed to be at work two hours ago."
He continued to examine me and even in my drunken state I could see that he was torn between amusement and annoyance. "You are off," he conceded, "but you told Cuddy that you'd meet with her to tell her why your department needs more money. Remember? Her vacation starts tomorrow? Two months in Rome?"
I squinted at him in confusion. "Why does my department need more money?"
"Got me. You're the one asking."
And then it hit me, fighting through the cloud of alcohol. He was right. "Oh, God," I groaned, covering my face with my hands. No, no, no. This could not be happening.
"I know," House teased. "The cancer kids!"
I ignored my friend and tried to focus on the problem at hand. Another five hours and Cuddy would be on a plane to Rome, and no matter how long she and I had been friends, I felt pretty confident that she wouldn't just hand over the money I was requesting over the phone. She'd mentioned going over my billing, and the costs for the whole department . . . And just yesterday I had begged Matt not to turn in his resignation, insisting that once I got the approval for a bigger department budget we could renegotiate his salary. So he'd passed on a higher-paying job at Mercy, and if I had to tell him that it would be at least another sixty days because I'd missed the meeting, for any reason, he would probably have a heart attack. Nina was supposed to give birth any day now.
"Wilson," House prompted.
"I have to go in," I decided, and extended a hand.
House continued to stare down at me, making no effort to move. "Have you lost your mind? You can't go in, drunk off your ass. You know that reputation that you guard so carefully? Pretty sure you won't have to worry about it, if you pass out during the meeting."
"Matt," I tried to explain through the haziness. "He and Nina. Their kid will have to live in a cardboard . . ." Tears welled up in my eyes at the thought. God, it was sad. The poor thing. She'd never be able to have friends over. I mean, where would she put them?
"Are you crying?"
"No," I sniffed. "House, I gotta . . . I gotta convince Cuddy to give me more money." I tried to prop myself up on my elbow, but somehow it kept sliding out from underneath me. "It's ipmor-" I frowned and attempted the word again. "Important." Right? "And I haven't had that much to drink."
House glanced at Bruce and even in my drunken state, I knew the jig was up.
"Nine shots of vodka," Bruce told him and I would have glared at him if he'd been in my line of vision. As it was, I stumbled to my feet, leaning heavily on the bar beside me, and began making my way to the door. I prayed that my legs wouldn't crumble beneath me on my way to hail a cab.
The door was further away than I expected, but I reached it in one piece, only tripping twice. I wasn't sure when House appeared at my side, and probably wouldn't have noticed his presence if he hadn't caught my arm and swung it across his shoulders.
"Whatch ya doing," I attempted to ask through the slurring.
"You're going to crack your head open," he muttered. "And try to stay upright on your own. I'm just a guide."
We arrived at the corner with surprising speed, considering, and I sloppily tried to wave off his assistance. Having him this close was making me very nervous, and very aware of how much I'd had to drink. And my mouth filter didn't work very well when alcohol was involved.
"Wilson, don't be crazy," House snapped. "I'll drive you."
"You," I raised an accusatory finger at him, "will not." I swayed dangerously, but didn't fall. "I know you, Housesh. You don't care about Matt and his baby! Or his shalary. You're just trying to trick me. You'll pretend you're gonna to see me to take Cuddy." That sentence sounded weird once I said it out loud, but I couldn't figure out where the problem was. "But then you won't. You'll kidnap me. Hold me hoshtagesh." He grinned in a way that I might have called self-deprecatingly if I'd been sober. As it was, I took this look to mean innocence.
"Wilson, I'll take you to work," he assured me, almost smoothly. "Don't worry about it. Just come on."
And I let him lead me to his car.