Paper Faces on Parade (6/14)
Title: Paper Faces on Parade
Author: vampmissedith
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: some canon House/Cuddy and canon Wilson/Sam, but eventual House/Wilson slash.
Disclaimer: I do not own House.
Summary: As House and Wilson try to balance their strained friendship and life with their girlfriends, House treats a neo-Nazi he can't trust.
Thanks to dissonata for all of his help!
Previous Chapter
Chapter Six
Chase kept his eyes on the monitor while he slid the endoscope down the patient’s throat, watching the pink, slimy muscles contract around the tube. Thomas gagged and Chase sighed. “You did use the right amount of anaesthetic, right?” he asked calmly, glancing at Taub, who was staring at the screen adamantly.
“Of course I did,” Taub answered.
“Just checking.”
“Maybe doubting me in front of the patient isn’t the brightest way to go about this.”
Chase nodded to concede his point and watched the screen as it slipped into his stomach. Thomas gagged but not anymore than what was normal. “You should consider yourself lucky, Thomas. House doesn’t normally even talk to patients. Maybe he likes you.”
“Or maybe he likes his girlfriend,” Taub muttered.
“You really think this is all Cuddy’s doing? Him taking more cases, seeing the patient . . .”
“Wearing ties and shaving? Yes. Cuddy’s not dating House for who he is now. She’s dating him for who she thinks he will be.”
“So trying to have foresight is a bad thing?”
“It’s impossible to try and decide how someone will be years later. Making a project out of the person you’re dating doesn’t ever work.”
Chase scoffed. “And you’d know this because of your perfect, blissful marriage?”
“I never said I was the perfect husband, but I have been married for thirteen years. If my wife had married me because some fantastical person from the future was her goal, we wouldn’t still be together. She married me for who I was and loves who I am now. What Cuddy is trying is optimistic, but unrealistic. He might shave and wear a tie and watch his mouth a little but a few months down the road, he’ll go right back to his normal self and all that’ll accomplish is her feeling like a failure and him feeling like a jackass. She’ll blame him for being unable to live up to unrealistic expectations she held in her head and he’ll become resentful of the fact she held him to such standards to begin with. It’s not romance; it’s a project. He wants to be the man she needs and she wants to be the woman who fixes him.”
Unsurprisingly, Taub spoke with a completely nonchalant tone; as if he were simply commenting on the weather. What he said had the weight of a fact, not an opinion, and all Chase could do was purse his lips and swallow the lump in his throat, staring at the screen while the pink, mucous-covered muscles writhed on the screen. He held the tube tighter in his fingers and took a brief moment to prevent his hands from shaking.
Without meaning to, he thought of Cameron years ago while she obsessed over House; while she pined after some broken, mysterious man who she saw as a hero in a romance novel rather than a misanthropic bastard. She dreamt of changing him; taping together damaged goods.
He cleared his throat. “They’ve known each other for years. She knows what he’s like so she should be able to handle him. Maybe she just doesn’t like beard burn and wants him to be look professional.”
“And maybe if you catch a firefly it’ll grant your wish, too,” he replied in a patronizing tone.
Had he been somewhere else, he would’ve closed his eyes against the burn in his retinas and the memory of dyed-blonde hair shifting in the light, but instead he kept his eyes on the screen.
“There it is,” Taub stated a few minutes later, Chase’s blurred vision focusing on the sore.
* * *
Wilson clicked his briefcase shut and then rubbed his free hand over his face, the smell of latex lingering. He let out a long sigh, nodded, and then draped his coat over his arm. He pushed open the door and flinched impressively when he saw House standing there with his cane planted in front of him and his chin lowered, an intense gaze focused directly on Wilson’s eyes. “Jeez, House!” he exclaimed through clenched teeth. After his heart calmed down, he let out a scoff. “How long were you were standing there?”
The side of his mouth curved upward in a smirk. “Six minutes. Thought about walking in but it occurred to me I haven’t seen you shriek like a girl in awhile.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re sufficiently creepy?”
“You were right.”
Wilson blinked in shock as he stepped out and shut the door, reaching into his pocket to pull out his keys. “Wow. You’ve admitted to someone other than you actually being right. Have pigs started to sprout wings?” The lock clicked and he pulled his keys free before putting them in his pocket and turning to face House, who was just staring at him. “So. What was I right about?”
“Tony has ulcers.”
“Thomas.”
“Him too, probably,” he quipped as they walked towards the nearest elevator and Wilson rolled his eyes. “I knew it was an ulcer. I didn’t want it to be. Everything came back clean, and I sat around waiting for my team to come to me with a ball of radiation because if he had ulcers, then I took the case for reasons other than its capacity for being interesting.”
They stopped in front of the elevator and Wilson sighed, looking at the floor for a moment before looking at House. “If you’re going to take uninteresting cases you’re going to have to accept them for what they are.” He pressed the call button and stared at his warped reflection in the silver doors; at the space between their shoulders and at how awkward and disproportionate they looked. “Uninteresting,” he added and swallowed a lump in his throat.
“If I start anticipating uninteresting results, I’ll look over the interesting symptoms. Stop looking for the unordinary. Those one-in-twenty rare cases that normally catch my eye will fall into the background, and cases that anyone can cure will take up all of my time.”
They fell into an awkward silence for a few seconds until the door opened and they both walked in. They both turned and House pushed the floor they needed. Wilson stared at him but House remained looking forward, his cane planted in front of him and a slight shadow on the bottom of his face; nothing he’d consider a scruff and he could still easily see the slight cut from the day before, but he almost looked like himself.
“You need the harder cases to feed your addiction to puzzles. If . . . you lose that, you can find something else to feed that addiction.”
“No I can’t. We all know what replaces puzzles,” he muttered as he rubbed his thigh and clenched his jaw hard enough that Wilson saw a muscle tense in his cheek.
Wilson finally looked away from House’s face so he wouldn’t have to watch his expression at what he was about to say. “Then don’t take uninteresting cases. No matter who hands them over. If she knows, she’ll understand. Tell her . . . Tell her how you feel, and maybe--”
“Right. This coming from the guy who can’t even talk to his girlfriend about coasters,” House snapped and Wilson looked at him, surprised. “Your latest JAMA had coffee rings on it. Either they’ve changed the design or you sit and grind your teeth as Sam rests her mugs on your subscriptions.”
Wilson ran his hand over his face again, realizing he’d repeated that gesture several times throughout the day. “Yes, fine, you think Sam and I are a bad idea. I understand. You and I aren’t the same person, House. It’s not your nature to bottle or . . . tiptoe.”
“And isn’t it your nature to enable me and give long-winded, boring talks about true love saving me from misery or something else probably copyrighted to some cheesy movie on Lifetime?”
“True love?” he repeated, his stomach churning at the phrase. “It’s also my nature to lecture and give long-winded, boring speeches when I’m worried about my best friend who could possibly be making a bad decision. I’m not always supportive of your decisions, House. As you may well remember.”
“So tell me that you hate Cuddy and get it out of your system.”
Wilson looked at House and felt his jaw drop an inch or so. House was staring at him expectantly, lips drawn together and eyes wide. Against his will, Wilson blinked rapidly and worked his mouth like a fish, feeling a flush creep up his neck and spread into his cheeks. When the elevator stopped and the doors opened, House lifted his eyebrows smugly and then limped out.
Wilson stood immobile for a second, then hurried after him. “House,” he burst as soon as he was at House’s elbow, “I don’t hate Cuddy. I just--I never said I didn’t like her.”
“I hate Sam,” he admitted as if it were the great twist in the middle of a story.
“You always hate my girlfriends,” Wilson groaned with an eye-roll. “I talk to Stacy, email her occasionally--I haven’t had lunch with her since--” he cut off, not wanting to bring up House’s brief affair, so he sighed instead. “All three of us got along when you were dating.”
“Which proves you like Stacy, who, in case you have an ocular insufficiency, is not my current girlfriend.”
Before Wilson could say anything, Chase stepped right in front of House. “House.”
House went to move around him, but Chase stepped in front again. When House tried to move around a second time and Chase intercepted, House said; “This is really annoying.”
“You were right; he has an ulcer. We’ve scheduled a surgery for eight. We’re keeping him for overnight observation but he should be able to go home tomorrow morning.”
“And you thought I’d care?” He scowled and Chase just shook his head before walking off, muttering to himself but not loud enough for Wilson to catch anything.
“Doctors House and Wilson checking out at five-ten,” House called as Wilson followed him towards the exit.
“I don’t dislike Cuddy. I’ve never disliked--I’ve always rooted for you two; wanted you to take a chance with her and--”
“You think me dating her is a bad idea. I’m not a moron.”
Wilson opened his mouth to disagree, but realized he couldn’t. He wasn’t above lying to House but for some reason, he just couldn’t about this. The doors opened and they stepped out into the warm, bordering on obnoxiously hot, late afternoon sun, and House continued walking as if they weren’t discussing Wilson’s opinion of his relationship with his boss. Any other person would have been disconcerted or annoyed; House acted as if they were discussing the shape of clouds.
He sighed and worked his mouth uselessly for a few seconds. “I never meant--I--” House stopped walking and stared at him patiently, awaiting whatever he was about to say. He swallowed, but it didn’t help his dry mouth. “Do you love her?” he asked, and the moment the question fell out of his mouth he wished he could take it back because he didn’t want to hear the answer. The idea of hearing House say yes made him panic; made him want to plug his ears and walk away quickly. That shouldn’t have been his reaction; he should be afraid to hear no, or at least wish for a yes, but instead he just worried that his friend was head over heels for the first time since Stacy and it was with Cuddy.
House looked downwards. “I don’t see how that’s relevant.”
“Then I suppose what I feel about Cuddy isn’t either,” Wilson replied coolly, but he felt the panic ebb a little although technically that wasn’t an answer.
Their eyes locked with the knowledge that neither could get the answer they wanted unless the other gave away the answer too. Neither could win without losing and Wilson didn’t want to know what House had to say, so he could handle not saying anything. House, however, couldn’t stand not knowing so it was probably harder for him to keep his mouth shut. Except Wilson knew that House wasn’t a moron; he knew that Wilson didn’t think he and Cuddy would last. So it was just a matter of wanting Wilson to say it.
Wilson was the first to look away and he focused on the small scab on the side of House face. He reached forward to touch it, but his hand hesitated in mid-air. He looked into House’s blue irises again, hand frozen halfway to the side of his face, and he felt his heart start beating faster. He thought of their closeness in the elevator and of House grinning while he sat on the bench to his organ; he thought of hearing House’s voice on the other end of the line and the smile he felt grow on his face against his will every time.
He lowered his hand and, like so many times before, pushed all of that into his gut. “You look better unshaven,” he revealed, not for the first time in their friendship.
House narrowed his eyes and tilted his head to the side as if he’d gotten the answered he wanted. “I know.” Without another word, he walked away from Wilson, his uneven step matching the uneven, unbalanced noises of his feet scuffing the asphalt and his cane ticking, and he left Wilson on the sidewalk.
* * *
Seeing as James had made her breakfast in bed, Sam thought it only fair she made him dinner. Considering they’d had a great start to the day she’d assumed it would carry on into the evening. At least he hadn’t gone off with House without telling her again; that had annoyed her, but she supposed she could understand his situation. He and House really hadn’t talked much since House had moved out of the loft, and to be honest Sam didn’t mind. It wasn’t that she didn’t want James to have friends or completely push House out of his life, but she knew House wasn’t above doing anything and everything to ruin her second chance. He’d told her as much during the dinner he’d served. To be honest, she was glad that he’d finally found someone other than James to fill his life; someone else to obsess over.
She didn’t want to become a threat to James’ friendship but she wanted their relationship to work more. She wasn’t naïve--she knew House would do anything to keep James to himself if he had nobody else. To her, Cuddy was a blessing. She didn’t want James to lose House, but if he did she wouldn’t mind. House was more of a threat than Sam was; if it came down to it, she knew she couldn’t compete. So, really, she actually liked the fact that James and House had slipped apart--if that made her a bitch then so be it, but she had to look out for what was important to her, just as House felt he had to look out for what was important to him. The only difference was that she wouldn’t go out of her way to end them; House, on the other hand, was not above sabotaging their relationship.
So yes, she had felt threatened and nervous when Wilson had conveniently forgotten to tell her he was going out with House. At first she’d worried he was having another affair, but . . . well, maybe he was. She wasn’t naïve; she’d seen the way House had stared longingly at them when they kissed in front of him. She saw the way House pushed his way into James’ space, and the way James let him.
Still, he hadn’t lied about working late; that was promising. If he were having an affair with House, he surely wouldn’t have told her that they’d gone out together. A part of her wished that they were, because sex was just sex; what they had was something else.
But dwelling on worries and past mistakes didn’t help anything, so she pushed those thoughts aside. What bothered her more than that was James had been distant since he’d come home; just like the first time they were together before the affair; before their marriage derailed. She tried to get him to open up to her but the moment he started to be honest--the second his voice started to raise--he’d run away, just like before. She knew for a fact he didn’t tiptoe around House; why would he tiptoe around her? How could she compete with that, and how could she be blamed for wanting House out of the picture? Maybe not completely, but that wouldn’t have bothered her.
James had been kind and talkative during dinner, but she could tell his mind was elsewhere. She’d loaded the dishwasher as he’d decided on something to watch, and then curled up next to him, dropping a head to his shoulder. He hadn’t pushed her away, but he’d stiffened and a few minutes later had to use the restroom, and when he came back he sat with a foot of space between them. Everything they spoke about was little more than small talk, and he never met her eyes.
It wouldn’t have bothered her so much except that they’d been steadily getting to this point. It wasn’t as bad as it had been, but it was getting there.
It wasn’t until Sam was getting ready for her shower and James was hovering (not obviously; just following her into the bathroom as if he wanted to talk) that she turned to him and asked; “Is everything all right?”
He opened his mouth and his brown eyes shone, then he licked his bottom lip and nodded. “Everything’s fine.”
“James,” she warned, stepping closer to him, surrounded by the pearly, shiny white of their bathroom. “Come on. Is everything all right?” she repeated, rubbing his shoulder briefly.
He chuckled nervously and rubbed the back of his neck, shaking his head at the floor. “It’s just--it’s . . . nothing, really, I--” He dropped his hand from his neck and put his hands on his hips, then looked at her; really looked at her for the first time since he’d come home; the first time in days, really. His nervous, awkward smile faded, and then he said; “It’s just . . . House. I’m sure you don’t want to hear,” he grumbled.
He was right; she didn’t want to hear about House, or why he’d managed to make James so distant when he’d come home. So instead of asking him to elaborate, she just put her hand on his arm and smiled at him. He smiled too, but it didn’t reach his eyes; it was just a reaction. She leaned forward and kissed him briefly, and when she pulled away he stared at her, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.
“He, um . . . asked me if I hated Cuddy,” he revealed although she hadn’t asked him to confess.
“Do you?”
He rubbed the bridge of his nose and stepped away from her, turning around and then rubbing the back of his neck. “I can’t just--Sam, after all the pushing and encouraging I did, I can’t just . . .”
“So tell me you hate Cuddy and get it out of your system,” she suggested calmly, although a part of her didn’t like hearing it because that meant she was right last night; he was jealous which meant a whole new list of problems.
Wilson turned around and stared at her as if she’d said something more interesting than she had. He blinked a few times, then reached forward and kissed her, his tongue insistent and mouth rough. It shocked her enough that she stumbled backwards a foot or so and he wrapped one arm around her waist. It was random, perhaps a bit too rough, and after his detached, strange behaviour since he’d come home, she just wasn’t in the mood even if he suddenly was.
She pulled away and out of his grasp. “James, I’m trying to get ready for bed,” she explained as politely as she could.
He stared at her as if he hadn’t seen her until just then, then smiled at her and took an awkward step backwards. “Right. Of course, it’s--sorry. I just . . . had a stressful day,” he finished, looking past her. He nodded slightly and smiled half-heartedly. “Goodnight, Sam.” He turned away and then walked out of the bathroom.
She looked into the mirror and frowned, recognizing his behaviour. It was only a matter of time now before they failed.
* * *
Generally, House liked evenings with Cuddy. That wasn’t to say they were always perfect, but they were usually nice. They had dinner, sat on the couch and drank some wine, House read over a medical magazine or talked about his patient to Cuddy; he babbled incessantly about whatever he happened to be obsessing about at the moment and she massaged his shoulders. It was all very . . . domestic. It wasn’t horrible. It was pleasant enough. It wasn’t what he’d had with Stacy or what he’d had with Wilson when they lived together, but it was new, and what he expected.
When he’d made it home, he’d made it just as their nanny was driving away, which meant Cuddy had probably beaten him home by a minute or two. When he’d made it inside she kissed him quickly on the mouth then hurried over to the stove to finish cooking whatever it was she was cooking, and Rachel babbled in the living room and tottered around in a circle. She didn’t look to greet him as he walked in, not that he’d expected her to or anything; he wasn’t her father. Hell, he hadn’t even meant to move in; it had just happened.
He’d watched television and then ate dinner, thinking over Wilson’s behaviour. Obviously Wilson didn’t think he and Cuddy were a good idea; he’d given a lecture when House had told him that he’d moved in, and he’d been making gentle remarks about Cuddy not being good for House, which was actually interesting considering before they started dating Wilson had been trying to play matchmaker. That actually wasn’t entirely accurate--Wilson had stopped playing matchmaker when they‘d found out about Lucas. Still, Wilson was too nice to ever come right out and say he didn’t like Cuddy but House wanted to hear it. He wanted to have Wilson tell him that they weren’t going to last; didn’t want him tiptoeing around the subject as if House were anybody else in his life; he didn’t want to be comparable to Sam. He wouldn’t have watched his words before they were dating others and House didn’t want him watching his words now.
A few moments before the time Cuddy normally went to bed, House pushed into the bathroom and stood behind her, watching as she brushed her teeth. The bathroom wasn’t as spacious as Wilson’s, but Cuddy brushed her teeth twice a day just like Wilson did. He watched her reflection and her profile at the same time and narrowed his eyes while her hand worked the toothbrush. Toothpaste didn’t froth around her lips or at the corners; she brushed them delicately.
“You’re left-handed,” he pointed out as he walked closer, eyeing her soft mouth; washed free of lipstick. Her makeup was gone, too, and she was only wearing her nightgown.
She glanced at him through the reflection, then leaned down and spat into the sink. “You’ve just realized this?” she asked before taking a sip of water out of her small glass she kept by the sink.
He shook his head and then leaned against the sink, his left hip digging into the edge a bit. He’d noticed before but he just hadn’t really ever thought about it. “Wilson’s left-handed too,” he told her, and he thought about Wilson reaching up and almost touching his face; his left hand inches from his cheek.
She stood up straighter and pushed her bangs out of her face. “And?”
“I’m not always going to take cases you give me just because you ask,” he blurted and she blinked at him, as if surprised he would say such a thing, but then she just nodded and smiled slightly, as if trying to pretend she wasn’t upset. “Thomas Mueller has an ulcer. Anybody could have guessed that.”
She pressed a finger to her temple; her left hand and her left temple. Wilson sometimes did that, too. “I’m sorry, House. I . . . overreacted. He isn’t the first person who’s continually asked for you to look at his file and I was just upset because . . . This is stupid, but because you didn’t eat the pancakes.”
House recalled throwing them in the garbage without even trying them, and tilted his head. They stared at each other, and her eyes moved over to his cheek. She reached forward and touched the cut. “You nicked yourself shaving,” she realized a day late, touching his face in the way Wilson almost had.
He kissed her gently, holding her face and pressing his tongue past her teeth. She hummed pleasantly and he manoeuvred her so her back was against the sink. She wrapped her arms around his chest and he pushed his body against hers more persistently. When she moaned and slid her hand down his back, he nipped at her jaw and the door opened hard enough to smack the wall.
He pulled away and looked over his shoulder to stare at Rachel who stood illuminated in the doorframe. “Dammit!” she giggled, and the scent of baby poop filled the room.
“Swearing in front of Rachel recently?” Cuddy asked with an eye-roll, then pushed away from the sink and walked towards Rachel. Rachel’s hand slipped in through hers and Cuddy just shook her head while she laughed. “Goodnight, House,” she muttered and took her daughter out of the bathroom. “Don’t forget to shave tomorrow,” she reminded, then left.
It wasn’t until he heard Cuddy speaking in her overly-cutesy voice all the way from Rachel’s room that he turned towards the mirror and held his jaw in his hands, calloused fingers scraping across the stubble.
Next Chapter
Author: vampmissedith
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: some canon House/Cuddy and canon Wilson/Sam, but eventual House/Wilson slash.
Disclaimer: I do not own House.
Summary: As House and Wilson try to balance their strained friendship and life with their girlfriends, House treats a neo-Nazi he can't trust.
Thanks to dissonata for all of his help!
Previous Chapter
Chapter Six
Chase kept his eyes on the monitor while he slid the endoscope down the patient’s throat, watching the pink, slimy muscles contract around the tube. Thomas gagged and Chase sighed. “You did use the right amount of anaesthetic, right?” he asked calmly, glancing at Taub, who was staring at the screen adamantly.
“Of course I did,” Taub answered.
“Just checking.”
“Maybe doubting me in front of the patient isn’t the brightest way to go about this.”
Chase nodded to concede his point and watched the screen as it slipped into his stomach. Thomas gagged but not anymore than what was normal. “You should consider yourself lucky, Thomas. House doesn’t normally even talk to patients. Maybe he likes you.”
“Or maybe he likes his girlfriend,” Taub muttered.
“You really think this is all Cuddy’s doing? Him taking more cases, seeing the patient . . .”
“Wearing ties and shaving? Yes. Cuddy’s not dating House for who he is now. She’s dating him for who she thinks he will be.”
“So trying to have foresight is a bad thing?”
“It’s impossible to try and decide how someone will be years later. Making a project out of the person you’re dating doesn’t ever work.”
Chase scoffed. “And you’d know this because of your perfect, blissful marriage?”
“I never said I was the perfect husband, but I have been married for thirteen years. If my wife had married me because some fantastical person from the future was her goal, we wouldn’t still be together. She married me for who I was and loves who I am now. What Cuddy is trying is optimistic, but unrealistic. He might shave and wear a tie and watch his mouth a little but a few months down the road, he’ll go right back to his normal self and all that’ll accomplish is her feeling like a failure and him feeling like a jackass. She’ll blame him for being unable to live up to unrealistic expectations she held in her head and he’ll become resentful of the fact she held him to such standards to begin with. It’s not romance; it’s a project. He wants to be the man she needs and she wants to be the woman who fixes him.”
Unsurprisingly, Taub spoke with a completely nonchalant tone; as if he were simply commenting on the weather. What he said had the weight of a fact, not an opinion, and all Chase could do was purse his lips and swallow the lump in his throat, staring at the screen while the pink, mucous-covered muscles writhed on the screen. He held the tube tighter in his fingers and took a brief moment to prevent his hands from shaking.
Without meaning to, he thought of Cameron years ago while she obsessed over House; while she pined after some broken, mysterious man who she saw as a hero in a romance novel rather than a misanthropic bastard. She dreamt of changing him; taping together damaged goods.
He cleared his throat. “They’ve known each other for years. She knows what he’s like so she should be able to handle him. Maybe she just doesn’t like beard burn and wants him to be look professional.”
“And maybe if you catch a firefly it’ll grant your wish, too,” he replied in a patronizing tone.
Had he been somewhere else, he would’ve closed his eyes against the burn in his retinas and the memory of dyed-blonde hair shifting in the light, but instead he kept his eyes on the screen.
“There it is,” Taub stated a few minutes later, Chase’s blurred vision focusing on the sore.
* * *
Wilson clicked his briefcase shut and then rubbed his free hand over his face, the smell of latex lingering. He let out a long sigh, nodded, and then draped his coat over his arm. He pushed open the door and flinched impressively when he saw House standing there with his cane planted in front of him and his chin lowered, an intense gaze focused directly on Wilson’s eyes. “Jeez, House!” he exclaimed through clenched teeth. After his heart calmed down, he let out a scoff. “How long were you were standing there?”
The side of his mouth curved upward in a smirk. “Six minutes. Thought about walking in but it occurred to me I haven’t seen you shriek like a girl in awhile.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re sufficiently creepy?”
“You were right.”
Wilson blinked in shock as he stepped out and shut the door, reaching into his pocket to pull out his keys. “Wow. You’ve admitted to someone other than you actually being right. Have pigs started to sprout wings?” The lock clicked and he pulled his keys free before putting them in his pocket and turning to face House, who was just staring at him. “So. What was I right about?”
“Tony has ulcers.”
“Thomas.”
“Him too, probably,” he quipped as they walked towards the nearest elevator and Wilson rolled his eyes. “I knew it was an ulcer. I didn’t want it to be. Everything came back clean, and I sat around waiting for my team to come to me with a ball of radiation because if he had ulcers, then I took the case for reasons other than its capacity for being interesting.”
They stopped in front of the elevator and Wilson sighed, looking at the floor for a moment before looking at House. “If you’re going to take uninteresting cases you’re going to have to accept them for what they are.” He pressed the call button and stared at his warped reflection in the silver doors; at the space between their shoulders and at how awkward and disproportionate they looked. “Uninteresting,” he added and swallowed a lump in his throat.
“If I start anticipating uninteresting results, I’ll look over the interesting symptoms. Stop looking for the unordinary. Those one-in-twenty rare cases that normally catch my eye will fall into the background, and cases that anyone can cure will take up all of my time.”
They fell into an awkward silence for a few seconds until the door opened and they both walked in. They both turned and House pushed the floor they needed. Wilson stared at him but House remained looking forward, his cane planted in front of him and a slight shadow on the bottom of his face; nothing he’d consider a scruff and he could still easily see the slight cut from the day before, but he almost looked like himself.
“You need the harder cases to feed your addiction to puzzles. If . . . you lose that, you can find something else to feed that addiction.”
“No I can’t. We all know what replaces puzzles,” he muttered as he rubbed his thigh and clenched his jaw hard enough that Wilson saw a muscle tense in his cheek.
Wilson finally looked away from House’s face so he wouldn’t have to watch his expression at what he was about to say. “Then don’t take uninteresting cases. No matter who hands them over. If she knows, she’ll understand. Tell her . . . Tell her how you feel, and maybe--”
“Right. This coming from the guy who can’t even talk to his girlfriend about coasters,” House snapped and Wilson looked at him, surprised. “Your latest JAMA had coffee rings on it. Either they’ve changed the design or you sit and grind your teeth as Sam rests her mugs on your subscriptions.”
Wilson ran his hand over his face again, realizing he’d repeated that gesture several times throughout the day. “Yes, fine, you think Sam and I are a bad idea. I understand. You and I aren’t the same person, House. It’s not your nature to bottle or . . . tiptoe.”
“And isn’t it your nature to enable me and give long-winded, boring talks about true love saving me from misery or something else probably copyrighted to some cheesy movie on Lifetime?”
“True love?” he repeated, his stomach churning at the phrase. “It’s also my nature to lecture and give long-winded, boring speeches when I’m worried about my best friend who could possibly be making a bad decision. I’m not always supportive of your decisions, House. As you may well remember.”
“So tell me that you hate Cuddy and get it out of your system.”
Wilson looked at House and felt his jaw drop an inch or so. House was staring at him expectantly, lips drawn together and eyes wide. Against his will, Wilson blinked rapidly and worked his mouth like a fish, feeling a flush creep up his neck and spread into his cheeks. When the elevator stopped and the doors opened, House lifted his eyebrows smugly and then limped out.
Wilson stood immobile for a second, then hurried after him. “House,” he burst as soon as he was at House’s elbow, “I don’t hate Cuddy. I just--I never said I didn’t like her.”
“I hate Sam,” he admitted as if it were the great twist in the middle of a story.
“You always hate my girlfriends,” Wilson groaned with an eye-roll. “I talk to Stacy, email her occasionally--I haven’t had lunch with her since--” he cut off, not wanting to bring up House’s brief affair, so he sighed instead. “All three of us got along when you were dating.”
“Which proves you like Stacy, who, in case you have an ocular insufficiency, is not my current girlfriend.”
Before Wilson could say anything, Chase stepped right in front of House. “House.”
House went to move around him, but Chase stepped in front again. When House tried to move around a second time and Chase intercepted, House said; “This is really annoying.”
“You were right; he has an ulcer. We’ve scheduled a surgery for eight. We’re keeping him for overnight observation but he should be able to go home tomorrow morning.”
“And you thought I’d care?” He scowled and Chase just shook his head before walking off, muttering to himself but not loud enough for Wilson to catch anything.
“Doctors House and Wilson checking out at five-ten,” House called as Wilson followed him towards the exit.
“I don’t dislike Cuddy. I’ve never disliked--I’ve always rooted for you two; wanted you to take a chance with her and--”
“You think me dating her is a bad idea. I’m not a moron.”
Wilson opened his mouth to disagree, but realized he couldn’t. He wasn’t above lying to House but for some reason, he just couldn’t about this. The doors opened and they stepped out into the warm, bordering on obnoxiously hot, late afternoon sun, and House continued walking as if they weren’t discussing Wilson’s opinion of his relationship with his boss. Any other person would have been disconcerted or annoyed; House acted as if they were discussing the shape of clouds.
He sighed and worked his mouth uselessly for a few seconds. “I never meant--I--” House stopped walking and stared at him patiently, awaiting whatever he was about to say. He swallowed, but it didn’t help his dry mouth. “Do you love her?” he asked, and the moment the question fell out of his mouth he wished he could take it back because he didn’t want to hear the answer. The idea of hearing House say yes made him panic; made him want to plug his ears and walk away quickly. That shouldn’t have been his reaction; he should be afraid to hear no, or at least wish for a yes, but instead he just worried that his friend was head over heels for the first time since Stacy and it was with Cuddy.
House looked downwards. “I don’t see how that’s relevant.”
“Then I suppose what I feel about Cuddy isn’t either,” Wilson replied coolly, but he felt the panic ebb a little although technically that wasn’t an answer.
Their eyes locked with the knowledge that neither could get the answer they wanted unless the other gave away the answer too. Neither could win without losing and Wilson didn’t want to know what House had to say, so he could handle not saying anything. House, however, couldn’t stand not knowing so it was probably harder for him to keep his mouth shut. Except Wilson knew that House wasn’t a moron; he knew that Wilson didn’t think he and Cuddy would last. So it was just a matter of wanting Wilson to say it.
Wilson was the first to look away and he focused on the small scab on the side of House face. He reached forward to touch it, but his hand hesitated in mid-air. He looked into House’s blue irises again, hand frozen halfway to the side of his face, and he felt his heart start beating faster. He thought of their closeness in the elevator and of House grinning while he sat on the bench to his organ; he thought of hearing House’s voice on the other end of the line and the smile he felt grow on his face against his will every time.
He lowered his hand and, like so many times before, pushed all of that into his gut. “You look better unshaven,” he revealed, not for the first time in their friendship.
House narrowed his eyes and tilted his head to the side as if he’d gotten the answered he wanted. “I know.” Without another word, he walked away from Wilson, his uneven step matching the uneven, unbalanced noises of his feet scuffing the asphalt and his cane ticking, and he left Wilson on the sidewalk.
* * *
Seeing as James had made her breakfast in bed, Sam thought it only fair she made him dinner. Considering they’d had a great start to the day she’d assumed it would carry on into the evening. At least he hadn’t gone off with House without telling her again; that had annoyed her, but she supposed she could understand his situation. He and House really hadn’t talked much since House had moved out of the loft, and to be honest Sam didn’t mind. It wasn’t that she didn’t want James to have friends or completely push House out of his life, but she knew House wasn’t above doing anything and everything to ruin her second chance. He’d told her as much during the dinner he’d served. To be honest, she was glad that he’d finally found someone other than James to fill his life; someone else to obsess over.
She didn’t want to become a threat to James’ friendship but she wanted their relationship to work more. She wasn’t naïve--she knew House would do anything to keep James to himself if he had nobody else. To her, Cuddy was a blessing. She didn’t want James to lose House, but if he did she wouldn’t mind. House was more of a threat than Sam was; if it came down to it, she knew she couldn’t compete. So, really, she actually liked the fact that James and House had slipped apart--if that made her a bitch then so be it, but she had to look out for what was important to her, just as House felt he had to look out for what was important to him. The only difference was that she wouldn’t go out of her way to end them; House, on the other hand, was not above sabotaging their relationship.
So yes, she had felt threatened and nervous when Wilson had conveniently forgotten to tell her he was going out with House. At first she’d worried he was having another affair, but . . . well, maybe he was. She wasn’t naïve; she’d seen the way House had stared longingly at them when they kissed in front of him. She saw the way House pushed his way into James’ space, and the way James let him.
Still, he hadn’t lied about working late; that was promising. If he were having an affair with House, he surely wouldn’t have told her that they’d gone out together. A part of her wished that they were, because sex was just sex; what they had was something else.
But dwelling on worries and past mistakes didn’t help anything, so she pushed those thoughts aside. What bothered her more than that was James had been distant since he’d come home; just like the first time they were together before the affair; before their marriage derailed. She tried to get him to open up to her but the moment he started to be honest--the second his voice started to raise--he’d run away, just like before. She knew for a fact he didn’t tiptoe around House; why would he tiptoe around her? How could she compete with that, and how could she be blamed for wanting House out of the picture? Maybe not completely, but that wouldn’t have bothered her.
James had been kind and talkative during dinner, but she could tell his mind was elsewhere. She’d loaded the dishwasher as he’d decided on something to watch, and then curled up next to him, dropping a head to his shoulder. He hadn’t pushed her away, but he’d stiffened and a few minutes later had to use the restroom, and when he came back he sat with a foot of space between them. Everything they spoke about was little more than small talk, and he never met her eyes.
It wouldn’t have bothered her so much except that they’d been steadily getting to this point. It wasn’t as bad as it had been, but it was getting there.
It wasn’t until Sam was getting ready for her shower and James was hovering (not obviously; just following her into the bathroom as if he wanted to talk) that she turned to him and asked; “Is everything all right?”
He opened his mouth and his brown eyes shone, then he licked his bottom lip and nodded. “Everything’s fine.”
“James,” she warned, stepping closer to him, surrounded by the pearly, shiny white of their bathroom. “Come on. Is everything all right?” she repeated, rubbing his shoulder briefly.
He chuckled nervously and rubbed the back of his neck, shaking his head at the floor. “It’s just--it’s . . . nothing, really, I--” He dropped his hand from his neck and put his hands on his hips, then looked at her; really looked at her for the first time since he’d come home; the first time in days, really. His nervous, awkward smile faded, and then he said; “It’s just . . . House. I’m sure you don’t want to hear,” he grumbled.
He was right; she didn’t want to hear about House, or why he’d managed to make James so distant when he’d come home. So instead of asking him to elaborate, she just put her hand on his arm and smiled at him. He smiled too, but it didn’t reach his eyes; it was just a reaction. She leaned forward and kissed him briefly, and when she pulled away he stared at her, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.
“He, um . . . asked me if I hated Cuddy,” he revealed although she hadn’t asked him to confess.
“Do you?”
He rubbed the bridge of his nose and stepped away from her, turning around and then rubbing the back of his neck. “I can’t just--Sam, after all the pushing and encouraging I did, I can’t just . . .”
“So tell me you hate Cuddy and get it out of your system,” she suggested calmly, although a part of her didn’t like hearing it because that meant she was right last night; he was jealous which meant a whole new list of problems.
Wilson turned around and stared at her as if she’d said something more interesting than she had. He blinked a few times, then reached forward and kissed her, his tongue insistent and mouth rough. It shocked her enough that she stumbled backwards a foot or so and he wrapped one arm around her waist. It was random, perhaps a bit too rough, and after his detached, strange behaviour since he’d come home, she just wasn’t in the mood even if he suddenly was.
She pulled away and out of his grasp. “James, I’m trying to get ready for bed,” she explained as politely as she could.
He stared at her as if he hadn’t seen her until just then, then smiled at her and took an awkward step backwards. “Right. Of course, it’s--sorry. I just . . . had a stressful day,” he finished, looking past her. He nodded slightly and smiled half-heartedly. “Goodnight, Sam.” He turned away and then walked out of the bathroom.
She looked into the mirror and frowned, recognizing his behaviour. It was only a matter of time now before they failed.
* * *
Generally, House liked evenings with Cuddy. That wasn’t to say they were always perfect, but they were usually nice. They had dinner, sat on the couch and drank some wine, House read over a medical magazine or talked about his patient to Cuddy; he babbled incessantly about whatever he happened to be obsessing about at the moment and she massaged his shoulders. It was all very . . . domestic. It wasn’t horrible. It was pleasant enough. It wasn’t what he’d had with Stacy or what he’d had with Wilson when they lived together, but it was new, and what he expected.
When he’d made it home, he’d made it just as their nanny was driving away, which meant Cuddy had probably beaten him home by a minute or two. When he’d made it inside she kissed him quickly on the mouth then hurried over to the stove to finish cooking whatever it was she was cooking, and Rachel babbled in the living room and tottered around in a circle. She didn’t look to greet him as he walked in, not that he’d expected her to or anything; he wasn’t her father. Hell, he hadn’t even meant to move in; it had just happened.
He’d watched television and then ate dinner, thinking over Wilson’s behaviour. Obviously Wilson didn’t think he and Cuddy were a good idea; he’d given a lecture when House had told him that he’d moved in, and he’d been making gentle remarks about Cuddy not being good for House, which was actually interesting considering before they started dating Wilson had been trying to play matchmaker. That actually wasn’t entirely accurate--Wilson had stopped playing matchmaker when they‘d found out about Lucas. Still, Wilson was too nice to ever come right out and say he didn’t like Cuddy but House wanted to hear it. He wanted to have Wilson tell him that they weren’t going to last; didn’t want him tiptoeing around the subject as if House were anybody else in his life; he didn’t want to be comparable to Sam. He wouldn’t have watched his words before they were dating others and House didn’t want him watching his words now.
A few moments before the time Cuddy normally went to bed, House pushed into the bathroom and stood behind her, watching as she brushed her teeth. The bathroom wasn’t as spacious as Wilson’s, but Cuddy brushed her teeth twice a day just like Wilson did. He watched her reflection and her profile at the same time and narrowed his eyes while her hand worked the toothbrush. Toothpaste didn’t froth around her lips or at the corners; she brushed them delicately.
“You’re left-handed,” he pointed out as he walked closer, eyeing her soft mouth; washed free of lipstick. Her makeup was gone, too, and she was only wearing her nightgown.
She glanced at him through the reflection, then leaned down and spat into the sink. “You’ve just realized this?” she asked before taking a sip of water out of her small glass she kept by the sink.
He shook his head and then leaned against the sink, his left hip digging into the edge a bit. He’d noticed before but he just hadn’t really ever thought about it. “Wilson’s left-handed too,” he told her, and he thought about Wilson reaching up and almost touching his face; his left hand inches from his cheek.
She stood up straighter and pushed her bangs out of her face. “And?”
“I’m not always going to take cases you give me just because you ask,” he blurted and she blinked at him, as if surprised he would say such a thing, but then she just nodded and smiled slightly, as if trying to pretend she wasn’t upset. “Thomas Mueller has an ulcer. Anybody could have guessed that.”
She pressed a finger to her temple; her left hand and her left temple. Wilson sometimes did that, too. “I’m sorry, House. I . . . overreacted. He isn’t the first person who’s continually asked for you to look at his file and I was just upset because . . . This is stupid, but because you didn’t eat the pancakes.”
House recalled throwing them in the garbage without even trying them, and tilted his head. They stared at each other, and her eyes moved over to his cheek. She reached forward and touched the cut. “You nicked yourself shaving,” she realized a day late, touching his face in the way Wilson almost had.
He kissed her gently, holding her face and pressing his tongue past her teeth. She hummed pleasantly and he manoeuvred her so her back was against the sink. She wrapped her arms around his chest and he pushed his body against hers more persistently. When she moaned and slid her hand down his back, he nipped at her jaw and the door opened hard enough to smack the wall.
He pulled away and looked over his shoulder to stare at Rachel who stood illuminated in the doorframe. “Dammit!” she giggled, and the scent of baby poop filled the room.
“Swearing in front of Rachel recently?” Cuddy asked with an eye-roll, then pushed away from the sink and walked towards Rachel. Rachel’s hand slipped in through hers and Cuddy just shook her head while she laughed. “Goodnight, House,” she muttered and took her daughter out of the bathroom. “Don’t forget to shave tomorrow,” she reminded, then left.
It wasn’t until he heard Cuddy speaking in her overly-cutesy voice all the way from Rachel’s room that he turned towards the mirror and held his jaw in his hands, calloused fingers scraping across the stubble.
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