Paper Faces on Parade (12/14)
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 Twelve
House had never been a very patient man. He knew that PET scans took time which was why he hated using them, but he needed to make sure the shadows were tumours and not scar tissue. Were he a religious man, he would’ve prayed for scar tissue, but he wasn’t and so he didn’t. Besides, he knew damn well what Thomas had. If anything, the PET scan really was a waste of time--but perhaps they could see what grade of tumour it was and its state of malignancy.
When it was eleven-fifteen and he hadn’t seen Wilson step into his office, he paged him to see if the PET scan was finished. He didn’t reply which was odd, seeing as a PET scan shouldn’t have prevented him from paging something back. When Chase walked into the differential diagnosis room a few minutes later and Wilson still hadn’t walked into his office, House paged him a second time and there was no answer.
He grabbed his cane and stuck his head into the diagnosis room. “Where the hell’s Wilson?” he barked at Chase sharply.
Chase shifted awkwardly in his seat. “Er, I . . . he said he was taking the patient to his room.”
House scoffed and then limped into the hallway, cane ticking noisily against the floor. He should’ve figured Wilson would generously wheel the psychotic Jew-killing bastard to his room. All right, so maybe Thomas didn’t really believe in that crap, but that didn’t change the fact he lived with those who did and he had marked himself up to prove his loyalty; who was to say he wouldn’t do something else, too?
The elevator ride was silent and empty, and he waited for it to stop at the floor. When it did he hurried out and into the hallway, his uneven gait pronounced because of his hastiness, and he barrelled right into somebody as he turned the corner.
Luckily, that person was Wilson. “You’re a moron,” he snapped as soon as he stepped away and righted his balance.
Wilson blinked rapidly and stared at him, eyes wider and skin a shade paler than it should’ve been. “What? I--sorry, I didn’t see you--”
“You took Nazi Guy to his room. Do you want to be slapped around and stuffed into an oven?”
“Oh God House, really? He is not going to hurt me,” he murmured with an eye-roll, hurrying past him and heading, head lowered slightly, to the elevator.
House followed. “He could have.”
“He very clearly didn’t.”
“Are you so much of a martyr that you want to be--”
“House, you and I both know TJ is completely harmless, all right? He isn’t even a Nazi for God’s sake.”
“What?” blurted House in confusion as they stepped into the elevator together.
Wilson sighed and rolled his eyes. “He fell in love with that Jewish girl and he clearly doesn’t believe in--”
“No, what did you call him?”
Wilson opened his mouth and stared at House as if he’d said something ridiculous, then frowned and tilted his head. “Oh, um . . . TJ.” He rubbed the backed of his neck and looked away.
House scowled at the icky feeling of sentimentality that reared in his chest. “That’s just . . . God, you’re sick. Calling a Nazi a term of endearment? Wow. I mean, I know you’re screwed up, but that’s just beyond pathetic.”
“Well, I thought Mister Orange was tacky,” he brushed off with a shrug and glanced at House, who was still scowling at him. “Look, he thinks he’s dying--he opened up to me. Wants a . . . level of closeness that he apparently isn’t getting from his family.”
“His own wife doesn’t call him that.”
“And he clearly has the perfect relationship with her,” Wilson grumbled.
Wilson tapped his fingers against his leg and bounced on his heels, eyes resolutely ahead of him. Clearly he wanted out of the elevator. Or at least away from House. “Where are you hurrying off to? A sale on toenail polish in the lobby?”
“I wanted to get in a few clinic patients before lunch,” Wilson uttered as the elevator shuddered to a stop.
“You’re avoiding me,” House accused sharply. Wilson slipped out of the elevator as soon as the doors slid open enough to allow him to leave, but House pushed after him. “You didn’t answer my pages, and you’re running away from me--what the hell is this?” he demanded, falling into step beside his friend.
“It’s--nothing, House. I’m just--I have clinic duty.”
Since he was slightly behind him, he moved his cane into his other hand and grabbed Wilson’s left with his right and tugged, perhaps a bit harder than he’d intended. Wilson winced and hissed a bit through his teeth before facing House. “For the past few days you’ve been . . . What’s wrong with you?”
Wilson pulled his wrist free and worked it, but he didn’t step away. The hustle and bustle of nurses continued on around them, used to House and Wilson getting into discussions too close to each other in the middle of clinic by now. “I’m not acting strange. Unlike some people, I actually do my job so--”
“And unlike some people, I don’t get chummy with lying, prejudicial bastards and call them TJ.”
“Oh, right, of course. I forgot that the great Gregory House is immune to emotions such as compassion or--or actual concern for a man who could possibly be dying,” he growled and then turned away, storming towards the counter and pulling a folder free.
A snappy Wilson was a fun-free Wilson, which annoyed House greatly. However, Wilson usually only got snappy with one subject--losing people. So either he was losing someone currently, or like with Danny, had just found someone he had previously lost. Both could apply to House. Seeing as House really didn’t care much for the dramatic storm out, unless he was the one doing the storming, he followed Wilson and limped in front of him, blocking his path.
“You’re afraid of losing me,” he stated, narrowing his eyes in Wilson’s direction. “I just dumped Cuddy, but one of us is still involved with a screeching harpy. That’s why you’ve been . . . weird lately.”
“Weird? I haven’t been--”
“You’ve been flirting with me.”
Wilson opened his mouth to deny it, but faltered. His eyes flicked to a nearby nurse who had heard that part of their conversation and stared at them with an eyebrow raised before hurrying off. He blinked rapidly and stared at House’s tie-less chest, then back up at his face, mouth working slightly. “Wha--no, no I haven’t, I haven’t been--”
“Yes you have,” he snapped.
He looked around himself and stepped closer. “You want to discuss this now?” he whispered harshly, eyes ticking to all the nearby patrons.
“I really don’t care where we discuss this,” he admitted coldly, eyes still on Wilson although Wilson wasn’t really looking at him except for brief split seconds.
Wilson pinched his lips together into a wry smile, then looked at the ground and shook his head, the hand not clutching a folder rubbing his nose for a second. He looked at House finally and dropped his hand, letting out a dry, breathy chuckle. “You’re an asshole.”
“I embrace that fact.”
“I don’t . . . mean . . . I don’t flirt with you more than usual,” he muttered quietly.
“Admitting that you do, in fact, flirt with me.”
“You flirt back,” he accused. House shrugged and Wilson let out a huff of annoyed air. “We always--before--I just . . . I just miss how we used to be. Before.”
“You mean, before you kicked me out of the loft to make room for your girlfriend?”
Wilson blinked once, then nodded a little. “Yeah,” he relented sadly. “Look, I really ought to . . . see this patient.”
House didn’t move, but Wilson didn’t walk around him, either. They stared at each other in the crowded clinic, and House had no idea as to what they’d just admitted, other than the flirting. Which actually didn’t have to mean much of anything at all. Or maybe it did and he’d just conditioned himself into thinking it was harmless because if it wasn’t and Wilson still rejected him . . .
House finally nodded and stepped aside, allowing Wilson to pass. He did so without another word and House turned to watch him slip into the exam room, still working his left wrist awkwardly.
* * *
Noisy chattering and the clanging of forks scraping against plates surrounded them. Their elbows knocked as House piled up his plate, Wilson doing the same (although with less gusto and a bit more conscientious in his decisions) and House found himself watching his profile as Wilson bit his lip and deliberated taking a pudding cup.
“It’s just pudding,” House pointed out and nudged Wilson’s arm with his elbow.
Wilson glanced at him. “Well, Sam . . . wants me to eat a little healthier.”
House laughed harshly. “Seriously? She thinks you need to eat healthier? Christ, you’re two steps short from eating like a chick. I really doubt a cup of pudding is going to give you a heart attack.”
Wilson chuckled and grabbed the pudding cup. “Well, she’s a bit of a health nut.”
“One of her many flaws.” Wilson chuckled louder and then gave him a sidelong glance, the small smile on his face genuine. House smirked back at him. “Is she gonna be happy with the fact you didn’t wait for her to buy a plate?”
“She’s bringing her own food,” he explained, then forked over the cash for both his and House’s plate.
House waited until Wilson grabbed his change before limping towards an empty table. They sat across from each other, and House stole a fry, taking a large bite out of it. He grimaced. “Unsalted? What is wrong with you?”
“Watching my cholesterol,” he muttered.
“Remember that little thing called testosterone? You’re losing it.”
Wilson laughed and grabbed the salt shaker, shaking it over his plain fries although his eyes remained on House, smiling enough to show his teeth. House couldn’t deny that Wilson’s objectively nice mouth was even better when curled into a smile. The shaker clinked to the table and they kept their gazes locked and House realized he was smiling in return. He quickly turned it into more of a smirk. Wilson’s faded from his face smoothly but an odd gleam remained in his dark eyes.
He felt her presence before he heard her voice, and it soured his mood immediately. “James, Greg,” Sam greeted, that sickly sweet tone overly-friendly for a greeting.
Wilson turned to her and smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Sam bent down and gave him what must’ve been an unprecedented kiss because Wilson looked shocked. The kiss was possessive and just a tad on the side of too long for a brief hello, and House felt something cold and harsh rear up in his chest--it was a feeling not unlike jealousy.
Wilson couldn’t meet his eyes afterwards and looked at his plate; Sam looked right at him and smirked.
House glared, narrowing his eyes and scowling until she was settled in her chair, placing two Tupperware containers in front of her and a bottle of water. One held salad and when she removed the lid, House recognized the scent of vinaigrette dressing from the last two months with Cuddy.
“Did you two have fun last night?” Sam asked with a bite of disappointment behind her forced smile.
“Oh, only a little too much,” House answered and then bypassed his own plate to steal one of Wilson’s fries.
Sam didn’t look very pleased with his answer, and pursed her lips and regarded her salad, producing a fork she must’ve brought with her. “That’s sounds interesting. Tell me, how did she end it? James didn’t specify.” She stared at House innocently and her tone only held a tinge of annoyance; she sounded as if she were genuinely curious.
Wilson glared at Sam but only House noticed. House shrugged nonchalantly despite his sudden irritation. “I actually broke up with her.”
Sam blinked in surprise. “Oh. Um, why is that?”
“She got a little too dependent on her riding crop,” he brushed off casually. Sam’s expression fell flat and she pursed her lips, taking a small bite of her salad. House figured that explaining why might be more useful than he expected; maybe it would get Sam to realize she wasn’t so different than Cuddy in the department of being completely wrong for her boyfriend. “She was turning me into someone I’m not.”
“Maybe you needed to change.”
“Or maybe love should be about acceptance. Pass the ketchup.”
Although the ketchup was closer to Sam, who was sitting beside Wilson but because the table was round she was sitting in the middle, Wilson grabbed it and handed it to House.
“And how was she changing you? By making you shave and actually put forth a little effort in your appearance?” Snide replaced forced innocent curiosity, and Wilson gave her a warning glare she either didn’t see or ignored.
“Well, there is that, and the whole asking me to be a completely different man and actually taking cases that I have no interest in. I never would’ve taken Thomas Mueller’s case if she hadn’t insisted. But I guess I lucked out on that one, ‘cause what isn’t interesting about a Nazi dying of cancer? Personally, I’ll think it‘s hilarious to see him shrivelled up and dying. Some call it poetic justice . . . I just call it ‘dark humour.’”
House opened the bottle and squeezed a liberal amount of ketchup on the side of his plate and then stole another fry from Wilson’s plate. It wasn’t until he’d dipped it in his mountain of ketchup that he noticed Wilson had face-palmed.
The silence that loomed over the table was suddenly awkward, although he wasn’t really all that upset over Sam keeping her trap shut. However, Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose and pulled his lips back in a grimace, and Sam stared at him, her scowl directed towards her boyfriend.
Sam stood up and stormed away from the table, leaving her Tupperware containers and fork behind.
“Huh. Since when did belittling Nazis fall into the unfunny category? Are they taking the world back by storm and demanding equal treatment now? Next thing you know, we won’t be able to make blonde jokes.”
Wilson didn’t respond, except to rub his face and then look heavenward. He stood away from the table and hurried after Sam, even going so far as to call her name.
House rolled his eyes--leave it to Wilson to go running after his emotionally sensitive girlfriend, sobbing because House dared hurt the poor little Nazi’s feelings. Perhaps she didn’t find jokes about people dying funny, but it wasn’t House’s business to coddle people’s feelings.
He took Wilson’s pudding cup, and tore off the tinfoil lid.
* * *
Of all the times for House to remember his patient’s name, it had to be his ex-boyfriend? The one who had broken up his marriage? Perhaps he shouldn’t have corrected him so many times when House called him Teddy or Terry or whatever. Sam hurried through the clinic, her blonde hair bouncing as she moved.
“Sam!” he called, his legs longer and stride a bit faster than hers. He stepped in front of her and she tried to walk around him, but he stood in front of her again, and he knew a few other doctors and nurses in the clinic were staring at him, but considering how often that happened (although usually it involved House) he wasn’t all that embarrassed. “Sam, look, I can explain,” he blurted.
“Explain what, James? How do you explain this to me? You know, I thought that I could trust you, but apparently--”
“I didn’t lie to you; I just didn’t . . .” A nearby clinic patient stared blatantly at them and a nurse he’d once dated was raising her eyebrows inquisitively at them. “Maybe we should take this somewhere private?” he suggested as Cuddy walked out of her office, glancing over at them, but she didn’t appear so much as curious as just noticing them.
Sam scoffed and looked around. She folded her arms and pursed her lips, looked past him at the exit, and sighed. “Fine. We’ll go to your office.”
He nodded and then put his hand by her elbow, leading her towards the elevator as he would a patient. Dread filled his chest when the doors to the elevator slid behind them and the other occupant moved aside to give them room. Somehow, he knew this would end them, just like he knew ages ago that they wouldn’t last--that they would inevitably fall apart just like the last time they were together; just like all of his other relationships, excluding the one he had with House.
Another failed relationship with a woman. He wondered if he would be able to keep up the lie after this, or if he’d just give up entirely. He thought of the consequences of both, and found neither pleasing. What would House think? He probably already suspected. He’d called him out on the flirting. Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose again and squeezed his eyes shut.
The door opened and he walked out, glancing into the differential diagnosis room. Nobody was in there; they were all probably getting lunch. House was probably stealing his and throwing Sam’s in the garbage.
He opened the door for Sam and followed her in. As soon as the door clicked behind him, it was like he turned on a switch.
She spun to him. “You should have told me.”
“I--I wanted to. I almost . . .” And he almost had. He’d tried to gather the courage to tell her that House had Thomas as a patient. He’d even gathered up the courage and almost blurted it to her in the bathroom, but then he . . . panicked. “It’s nothing, Sam. I promise.”
“No, it is something, James. You had an affair with him,” she stated. She raised her voice a little, but she wasn’t yelling yet. She just folded her arms and scrunched her shoulders, as if trying to withdraw within herself. “You were going to leave me for him. Now he’s here and you expect me to just . . . The fact you didn’t tell me means it does mean something.”
“I knew you’d get upset.”
“Of course I would. But hiding it? That’s worse. It means you . . . James, I tried. I tried so hard to believe you. That it was . . . just a phase or--or that you were acting out as some sort of . . . college experimentation. That you weren’t into men, but . . . I see the way you are with House, and--”
“Whoa, whoa, wait--House has nothing to do with this. House and I have never . . . We’re just friends. We’ve never done anything.”
“I believe that. What I don’t believe is that you don’t want to.” Wilson didn’t deny it--at this point, she’d know it was a lie. “You weren’t even going to tell me why you were gone, James. You just . . . packed up everything and went. Were you going to call and explain? Or just send the divorce papers?”
He remembered packing everything he owned while Sam had been away; everything he owned, stuffed into boxes in the trunk and in the backseat of his cheap car. He’d been packing for a week, but he’d started with the smaller things she wouldn’t notice. Books, music, movies . . . And in one night, he’d packed up everything else that was necessary; his clothes, his toiletries--everything. All for him to spend all night waiting for Thomas, drinking coffee after coffee, until he’d passed out and woke the next day, sun blaring high and through the windshield, and Thomas was nowhere to be found. To be honest, he’d spent hours ruminating over what to tell Sam--that he’d left her for a man or a woman, or just disappear and send her the divorce papers once he and Thomas had settled and never explain why. He hadn’t figured it out then and he didn’t know now, either.
“I don’t know,” he admitted quietly.
She paced away from him, then turned to face him again, more feet separating them as she wrapped her arms around her abdomen. “I tried so hard to trust you, James. And I couldn’t. You were so--after he left, I couldn’t even talk to you. And now you barely speak to me and I find out that Thomas is . . . You think I don’t notice when you turn to look at the same guy I do when we’re shopping? Or the way you stare at House . . . And now Thomas is here and you didn’t tell me? What happened?”
“Nothing’s happened,” he lied, cheeks burning at a memory not more than an hour ago.
“Don’t lie to me, James. It won’t help you any.”
He shifted his weight. “We kissed.”
She nodded to herself, and he hated himself when he noticed that tears glistening underneath her lids. “This isn’t going to work. As long as I’m around you’ll--you’ll keep lying to yourself and learn to resent me for it, just like last time.”
“I didn’t resent you for any--”
“Oh please!” she shouted, voice breaking as tears burst forth and she flung one hand in the air angrily. “Every time I came home you--you just sat there! You didn’t even speak to me for months! Every time I even tried to talk you just stared at me with this--this look in your eyes! Absolute contempt! You married me, knowing you could never truly love--”
“You don’t know that! I--I loved you, Sam!” he shouted back, throwing his hands in the air.
“I was your beard! That’s all I ever was and that’s all your other wives were, too! All the nurses and flings and women you slept with--who are you trying to fool? Me? Yourself? House? I tried to tell myself you were--confused, but--Why didn’t you just tell me? Why put me through all this heartbreak, James?!”
“What did you want me to say?” he demanded in a half-growl. “That I loved and cared for you, but never as much as I could love and care for him because he’s a man? Is that what you want to hear? Is that what you want me to say?”
“Is it true?” she asked, wiping away her tears and voice still raised in anger.
He opened his mouth to say something but realized a moment later that he had nothing to say. He had cared for her, but what he’d felt for Thomas had been all-consuming and real; what he’d felt for her hadn’t even compared. It would never compare to what he felt for House, no matter how much he wanted it to. No matter how many times he tried to replace what he felt with something more conventional, no matter how many women he grew to care for . . . It wasn’t the same; it just wasn’t right.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered so quietly he didn’t know if he’d said it out loud or if he had if she’d be able to hear it.
“Me, too,” she mumbled, sniffing loudly and breath hitching in her throat. Her tears streamed freely now, and she brushed away her tears again. Sickening guilt built up in his chest and stomach; sludgy, black guilt that made him regret ever asking her on the date and evading Thirteen’s remark on how he clearly repressed his lifestyle for House and how he’d turned it around to be about Sam, although he’d caught the hint at his ambiguous sexuality. He hated himself for trying to deny what he was; he was no better than House’s gay patient, marrying a woman because he had to in order to prove something to society.
He’d never even admitted it to himself, except for in the middle of the night moments before sleep, or when alcohol befuddled his brain and he couldn’t stop himself from thinking those thoughts. It might not have been so bad had Thomas not betrayed him; shown him love and then disappeared. It might not have been so horrible if he hadn’t fallen in love with his best friend, being unconsciously teased for years. Had he not tried to push those feelings aside with Bonnie and Julie and Grace . . . even Amber. Amber had been the closest thing to love for a woman he’d ever felt and he had no illusions as to why; it only made him feel worse knowing that he’d never loved her as much as she deserved, although he had cared for her. She’d died believing his lie, and as much as he’d tried to tell himself he believed it too, he never had. Not really.
“You’re not the only person who lies, James. I knew it, but . . . God, I wanted you to love me. Wanted to believe that you could, so I . . .” She sniffed haltingly, then rubbed her palms along her cheeks. “I’ll be gone tonight,” she whispered, then moved to walk past him.
For a moment he almost told her, simply because by then it was his conditioned response--he didn’t really mean it--that no, it was fine; she didn’t have to move out. But he realized with a jolt that she did. He wasn’t in love with her any more than he had been years ago--maybe even less so--and it was his loft. Well, his and House’s loft.
It felt like there was something else he needed to say; an apology or maybe begging. Perhaps a goodbye. Something felt unfinished, the nagging impression he’d forgotten something boiling in the back of his mind. But he didn’t say anything; he couldn’t think of anything that wouldn’t be trite or Pavlovian. He just cleared his throat and stepped aside, allowing her to leave, and the door clicked behind him.
* * *
Wilson’s lunch had been delicious, as per usual, and Sam’s had been pretty tossed inside a bin and splattered against the other uneaten bits of food. Which, speaking of Wilson and Sam, she’d stormed off because of his little harsh mocking of Nazi Guy and Wilson went rushing after her, probably to apologize for House being an asshole. House was actually used to those types of scenarios. The handful of times he’d had dinner with Bonnie or Julie had ended in pretty much the same way. Except those times, he’d actually gone out of his way to offend them.
She was probably more upset at the fact he and Wilson had spent the night together than the comment.
He’d played his PSP for awhile, but that grew tiring quickly and the internet proved just as uninteresting, so he’d decided to pop into Wilson’s office for a chat.
He’d wanted to either interrupt their argument or eavesdrop, however when he’d walked into Wilson’s office he hadn’t been there so he’d gone down to the clinic. Curious as ever, and more than a little bored since Thomas was soon to be on someone else’s caseload, he’d decided that bugging Wilson and being a bad influence by convincing him to skip clinic duty to watch Prescription Palace sounded like fun.
Luckily, as he limped towards the clinic he watched Wilson leave an exam room, smiling politely at some buxom blonde with a child in tow. House furrowed his eyebrows in distaste and then limped faster. Wilson caught his eyes and heaved his shoulders dramatically with an over-done sigh, and walked towards the counter to retrieve a new folder.
House intercepted halfway there, stepping in front of him, and then blocking his path two more times as he tried to move around him. “I’m bored,” House stated.
“And I’m busy.”
“You already did clinic hours.”
Wilson let out a resigned sigh and rolled his eyes heavenward. “Hour. Singular.”
“You didn’t even bother coming back for your food.”
“Well, I know you would’ve eaten it by the time I returned, so I figured it would be pointless. I hope you enjoyed the pudding.”
“Thoroughly. So, where’s Sam? Crying in the little ladies’ room, or did you at least wait until she left the hospital to start dropping the moves on Buxom Clinic Patient Number Three?”
Wilson frowned and looked at House as if he didn’t understand what he was saying, then glanced back at the leaving mother with the cutesy-wutesy hellion devil spawn following. She glanced over her shoulder at Wilson and smiled flirtatiously and waved with her fingers. Wilson blanched and reared his head back, then looked over at House, who just smirked at him.
“Okay, I was not flirting with her,” Wilson denied.
“Oh, you so were. As long as dear ol’ Sam didn’t catch you at it,” House shrugged, glaring at the woman’s very attractive backside.
“Um . . . Sam and I . . .” Wilson began haltingly and House turned to face him again, feeling strangely excited. Actually, that wasn’t strange at all. He had a feeling he knew where this conversation was going. Wilson rubbed his forehead awkwardly.
House waited for him to finish for several lengthy seconds. When it was clear Wilson wasn’t going to speak anytime soon, he smirked. “Told you so,” he boasted.
Wilson didn’t glare or even scoff. He just smiled sadly and rubbed the back of his neck, eyes fixed on House’s tie-less chest, as if afraid to look upward. “Yeah,” he agreed, then lowered his hand, eyes flitting upwards and locking with House’s a few seconds before he tilted his chin up as well, as if he were steeling himself for something. His cheeks pinkened. “House, um . . .”
House frowned, getting the feeling that something was amiss. Sam had broken up with Wilson, but surely he wouldn’t need to crash at his place--the loft was his. He hadn’t given it to Sam, had he? Wilson visibly swallowed and something twisted in House’s chest; something that almost ached, but not unpleasantly. Wilson’s pupils dilated enough for House to see and something about his expression reminded him of a young child who knew he was going to get in trouble.
“Wilson?” House urged quietly, shifting half a step closer.
“House, I’m Chase.”
“What?“ House frowned at him in confusion, then heard the approaching footsteps at his side. Right. Chase was coming. He turned to face the blonde fellow. “Ah, the prettiest duckling,” he greeted, and Chase glared at him.
“Not cancer,” he replied. House frowned. “It’s just scar tissue, apparently. The chances the scars are causing the symptoms are highly unlikely, what, since they only presented recently.”
House’s mind blipped away from whatever was going on with Wilson, who just cleared his throat and milled away. Chase and House started walking towards the elevator simultaneously, but House did chance a glance over his shoulder and at Wilson, who busied himself with grabbing another folder.
He faced the elevator again as they pushed towards it, his pace slightly faster than Chase’s. “I got them to look at it right away. They know your cases tend to take precedence--or, well, you send them elephant faeces in a bag--”
“I didn’t send that to pathology,” House insisted.
“Well, wherever you sent it,” Chase muttered with an eye-roll. “In any case, it isn’t cancer. We could search his home again--I don’t know, maybe her garden did have pesticides. We didn’t find any mould, but maybe we missed something.”
House bit his lip, then shook his head. “If it were environmental, his wife and son would be having symptoms.”
“That’s what I thought too, so I ordered up more medical history. Thomas has only been to the doctor a few times. Nothing sinister, really. A few colds, dehydration . . . I guess a few years ago he thought he was having a heart attack but it was just a panic attack. The wife had pneumonia earlier this year, and she had strep throat sometime in early November. She told us she hadn’t been sick for years, but thankfully her son seems capable of being honest for more than ten seconds at a time.”
House nodded to concede. “Did they put her on penicillin?”
“Er, yes. Well, amoxicillin for the strep throat, but--”
“She could’ve treated herself for neurosyphilis.”
Chase stared at him blankly. “She’d have to be taking quite a bit, and she’d probably end up having the take the full dosage. Nobody keeps taking medicine once they get better.”
“Well, her husband did go to medical school,” House mocked with an eye-roll as he pressed the call button. “It’s a long shot, but, well, I thrive on them.”
“Thought you’d be more excited that he didn’t have cancer,” Chase revealed. House wasn’t excited per se, but he wouldn’t deny he was glad of that fact. He didn’t say anything about that as the doors opened, though. “Wilson’s probably not all disappointed, either. I mean, he didn’t even seem like he believed the guy. He poured his soul out to us and Wilson shrugged it off. Said it was a nice story but just . . . I dunno, acted indifferent.”
They stepped into the elevator. “He poured out his soul and Wilson just sat there?” he asked in disbelief.
“Well, he just went on about that girl he fell in love with. Said she was funny, gorgeous, somewhat of an altruist. She went to homeless shelters and all that.” Chase shrugged and House frowned. “You want me to put him on penicillin?”
House furrowed his brows as he hit the floor number he needed. Something in the back of his mind whirred again, like perhaps he’d forgotten to turn off the oven or he’d left the fridge door open. The fact Thomas didn’t have cancer bothered him slightly, but less so than the idea he would’ve been put on Wilson’s caseload. Alas, that meant he had no idea what Thomas had, but the neurosyphilis diagnosis looked brighter than it had.
“Pump him full of it and take a blood test to see how advanced it is,” he ordered, tapping his cane against the elevator floor. Chase nodded at him and House tilted his head to the side. “Do you know if the son is coming to visit?”
Chase shrugged. “Dunno. I’d wager he’ll be here sometime around four. Takes awhile to get here from the school.”
House nodded to himself, resigned to the fact he wasn’t going to get anything truthful from Thomas or the wife. “Tell me when he gets here.”
* * *
A/N--I know it's still technically Saturday, but I have to work hella early tomorrow and so I figured a little before Sunday morn couldn't hurt.
Also, MilitantDelusionalist from fanfiction.net made a fanvid to this fanfic!
Paper Faces on Parade fanvid
Also, here is the 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 Twelve
House had never been a very patient man. He knew that PET scans took time which was why he hated using them, but he needed to make sure the shadows were tumours and not scar tissue. Were he a religious man, he would’ve prayed for scar tissue, but he wasn’t and so he didn’t. Besides, he knew damn well what Thomas had. If anything, the PET scan really was a waste of time--but perhaps they could see what grade of tumour it was and its state of malignancy.
When it was eleven-fifteen and he hadn’t seen Wilson step into his office, he paged him to see if the PET scan was finished. He didn’t reply which was odd, seeing as a PET scan shouldn’t have prevented him from paging something back. When Chase walked into the differential diagnosis room a few minutes later and Wilson still hadn’t walked into his office, House paged him a second time and there was no answer.
He grabbed his cane and stuck his head into the diagnosis room. “Where the hell’s Wilson?” he barked at Chase sharply.
Chase shifted awkwardly in his seat. “Er, I . . . he said he was taking the patient to his room.”
House scoffed and then limped into the hallway, cane ticking noisily against the floor. He should’ve figured Wilson would generously wheel the psychotic Jew-killing bastard to his room. All right, so maybe Thomas didn’t really believe in that crap, but that didn’t change the fact he lived with those who did and he had marked himself up to prove his loyalty; who was to say he wouldn’t do something else, too?
The elevator ride was silent and empty, and he waited for it to stop at the floor. When it did he hurried out and into the hallway, his uneven gait pronounced because of his hastiness, and he barrelled right into somebody as he turned the corner.
Luckily, that person was Wilson. “You’re a moron,” he snapped as soon as he stepped away and righted his balance.
Wilson blinked rapidly and stared at him, eyes wider and skin a shade paler than it should’ve been. “What? I--sorry, I didn’t see you--”
“You took Nazi Guy to his room. Do you want to be slapped around and stuffed into an oven?”
“Oh God House, really? He is not going to hurt me,” he murmured with an eye-roll, hurrying past him and heading, head lowered slightly, to the elevator.
House followed. “He could have.”
“He very clearly didn’t.”
“Are you so much of a martyr that you want to be--”
“House, you and I both know TJ is completely harmless, all right? He isn’t even a Nazi for God’s sake.”
“What?” blurted House in confusion as they stepped into the elevator together.
Wilson sighed and rolled his eyes. “He fell in love with that Jewish girl and he clearly doesn’t believe in--”
“No, what did you call him?”
Wilson opened his mouth and stared at House as if he’d said something ridiculous, then frowned and tilted his head. “Oh, um . . . TJ.” He rubbed the backed of his neck and looked away.
House scowled at the icky feeling of sentimentality that reared in his chest. “That’s just . . . God, you’re sick. Calling a Nazi a term of endearment? Wow. I mean, I know you’re screwed up, but that’s just beyond pathetic.”
“Well, I thought Mister Orange was tacky,” he brushed off with a shrug and glanced at House, who was still scowling at him. “Look, he thinks he’s dying--he opened up to me. Wants a . . . level of closeness that he apparently isn’t getting from his family.”
“His own wife doesn’t call him that.”
“And he clearly has the perfect relationship with her,” Wilson grumbled.
Wilson tapped his fingers against his leg and bounced on his heels, eyes resolutely ahead of him. Clearly he wanted out of the elevator. Or at least away from House. “Where are you hurrying off to? A sale on toenail polish in the lobby?”
“I wanted to get in a few clinic patients before lunch,” Wilson uttered as the elevator shuddered to a stop.
“You’re avoiding me,” House accused sharply. Wilson slipped out of the elevator as soon as the doors slid open enough to allow him to leave, but House pushed after him. “You didn’t answer my pages, and you’re running away from me--what the hell is this?” he demanded, falling into step beside his friend.
“It’s--nothing, House. I’m just--I have clinic duty.”
Since he was slightly behind him, he moved his cane into his other hand and grabbed Wilson’s left with his right and tugged, perhaps a bit harder than he’d intended. Wilson winced and hissed a bit through his teeth before facing House. “For the past few days you’ve been . . . What’s wrong with you?”
Wilson pulled his wrist free and worked it, but he didn’t step away. The hustle and bustle of nurses continued on around them, used to House and Wilson getting into discussions too close to each other in the middle of clinic by now. “I’m not acting strange. Unlike some people, I actually do my job so--”
“And unlike some people, I don’t get chummy with lying, prejudicial bastards and call them TJ.”
“Oh, right, of course. I forgot that the great Gregory House is immune to emotions such as compassion or--or actual concern for a man who could possibly be dying,” he growled and then turned away, storming towards the counter and pulling a folder free.
A snappy Wilson was a fun-free Wilson, which annoyed House greatly. However, Wilson usually only got snappy with one subject--losing people. So either he was losing someone currently, or like with Danny, had just found someone he had previously lost. Both could apply to House. Seeing as House really didn’t care much for the dramatic storm out, unless he was the one doing the storming, he followed Wilson and limped in front of him, blocking his path.
“You’re afraid of losing me,” he stated, narrowing his eyes in Wilson’s direction. “I just dumped Cuddy, but one of us is still involved with a screeching harpy. That’s why you’ve been . . . weird lately.”
“Weird? I haven’t been--”
“You’ve been flirting with me.”
Wilson opened his mouth to deny it, but faltered. His eyes flicked to a nearby nurse who had heard that part of their conversation and stared at them with an eyebrow raised before hurrying off. He blinked rapidly and stared at House’s tie-less chest, then back up at his face, mouth working slightly. “Wha--no, no I haven’t, I haven’t been--”
“Yes you have,” he snapped.
He looked around himself and stepped closer. “You want to discuss this now?” he whispered harshly, eyes ticking to all the nearby patrons.
“I really don’t care where we discuss this,” he admitted coldly, eyes still on Wilson although Wilson wasn’t really looking at him except for brief split seconds.
Wilson pinched his lips together into a wry smile, then looked at the ground and shook his head, the hand not clutching a folder rubbing his nose for a second. He looked at House finally and dropped his hand, letting out a dry, breathy chuckle. “You’re an asshole.”
“I embrace that fact.”
“I don’t . . . mean . . . I don’t flirt with you more than usual,” he muttered quietly.
“Admitting that you do, in fact, flirt with me.”
“You flirt back,” he accused. House shrugged and Wilson let out a huff of annoyed air. “We always--before--I just . . . I just miss how we used to be. Before.”
“You mean, before you kicked me out of the loft to make room for your girlfriend?”
Wilson blinked once, then nodded a little. “Yeah,” he relented sadly. “Look, I really ought to . . . see this patient.”
House didn’t move, but Wilson didn’t walk around him, either. They stared at each other in the crowded clinic, and House had no idea as to what they’d just admitted, other than the flirting. Which actually didn’t have to mean much of anything at all. Or maybe it did and he’d just conditioned himself into thinking it was harmless because if it wasn’t and Wilson still rejected him . . .
House finally nodded and stepped aside, allowing Wilson to pass. He did so without another word and House turned to watch him slip into the exam room, still working his left wrist awkwardly.
* * *
Noisy chattering and the clanging of forks scraping against plates surrounded them. Their elbows knocked as House piled up his plate, Wilson doing the same (although with less gusto and a bit more conscientious in his decisions) and House found himself watching his profile as Wilson bit his lip and deliberated taking a pudding cup.
“It’s just pudding,” House pointed out and nudged Wilson’s arm with his elbow.
Wilson glanced at him. “Well, Sam . . . wants me to eat a little healthier.”
House laughed harshly. “Seriously? She thinks you need to eat healthier? Christ, you’re two steps short from eating like a chick. I really doubt a cup of pudding is going to give you a heart attack.”
Wilson chuckled and grabbed the pudding cup. “Well, she’s a bit of a health nut.”
“One of her many flaws.” Wilson chuckled louder and then gave him a sidelong glance, the small smile on his face genuine. House smirked back at him. “Is she gonna be happy with the fact you didn’t wait for her to buy a plate?”
“She’s bringing her own food,” he explained, then forked over the cash for both his and House’s plate.
House waited until Wilson grabbed his change before limping towards an empty table. They sat across from each other, and House stole a fry, taking a large bite out of it. He grimaced. “Unsalted? What is wrong with you?”
“Watching my cholesterol,” he muttered.
“Remember that little thing called testosterone? You’re losing it.”
Wilson laughed and grabbed the salt shaker, shaking it over his plain fries although his eyes remained on House, smiling enough to show his teeth. House couldn’t deny that Wilson’s objectively nice mouth was even better when curled into a smile. The shaker clinked to the table and they kept their gazes locked and House realized he was smiling in return. He quickly turned it into more of a smirk. Wilson’s faded from his face smoothly but an odd gleam remained in his dark eyes.
He felt her presence before he heard her voice, and it soured his mood immediately. “James, Greg,” Sam greeted, that sickly sweet tone overly-friendly for a greeting.
Wilson turned to her and smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Sam bent down and gave him what must’ve been an unprecedented kiss because Wilson looked shocked. The kiss was possessive and just a tad on the side of too long for a brief hello, and House felt something cold and harsh rear up in his chest--it was a feeling not unlike jealousy.
Wilson couldn’t meet his eyes afterwards and looked at his plate; Sam looked right at him and smirked.
House glared, narrowing his eyes and scowling until she was settled in her chair, placing two Tupperware containers in front of her and a bottle of water. One held salad and when she removed the lid, House recognized the scent of vinaigrette dressing from the last two months with Cuddy.
“Did you two have fun last night?” Sam asked with a bite of disappointment behind her forced smile.
“Oh, only a little too much,” House answered and then bypassed his own plate to steal one of Wilson’s fries.
Sam didn’t look very pleased with his answer, and pursed her lips and regarded her salad, producing a fork she must’ve brought with her. “That’s sounds interesting. Tell me, how did she end it? James didn’t specify.” She stared at House innocently and her tone only held a tinge of annoyance; she sounded as if she were genuinely curious.
Wilson glared at Sam but only House noticed. House shrugged nonchalantly despite his sudden irritation. “I actually broke up with her.”
Sam blinked in surprise. “Oh. Um, why is that?”
“She got a little too dependent on her riding crop,” he brushed off casually. Sam’s expression fell flat and she pursed her lips, taking a small bite of her salad. House figured that explaining why might be more useful than he expected; maybe it would get Sam to realize she wasn’t so different than Cuddy in the department of being completely wrong for her boyfriend. “She was turning me into someone I’m not.”
“Maybe you needed to change.”
“Or maybe love should be about acceptance. Pass the ketchup.”
Although the ketchup was closer to Sam, who was sitting beside Wilson but because the table was round she was sitting in the middle, Wilson grabbed it and handed it to House.
“And how was she changing you? By making you shave and actually put forth a little effort in your appearance?” Snide replaced forced innocent curiosity, and Wilson gave her a warning glare she either didn’t see or ignored.
“Well, there is that, and the whole asking me to be a completely different man and actually taking cases that I have no interest in. I never would’ve taken Thomas Mueller’s case if she hadn’t insisted. But I guess I lucked out on that one, ‘cause what isn’t interesting about a Nazi dying of cancer? Personally, I’ll think it‘s hilarious to see him shrivelled up and dying. Some call it poetic justice . . . I just call it ‘dark humour.’”
House opened the bottle and squeezed a liberal amount of ketchup on the side of his plate and then stole another fry from Wilson’s plate. It wasn’t until he’d dipped it in his mountain of ketchup that he noticed Wilson had face-palmed.
The silence that loomed over the table was suddenly awkward, although he wasn’t really all that upset over Sam keeping her trap shut. However, Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose and pulled his lips back in a grimace, and Sam stared at him, her scowl directed towards her boyfriend.
Sam stood up and stormed away from the table, leaving her Tupperware containers and fork behind.
“Huh. Since when did belittling Nazis fall into the unfunny category? Are they taking the world back by storm and demanding equal treatment now? Next thing you know, we won’t be able to make blonde jokes.”
Wilson didn’t respond, except to rub his face and then look heavenward. He stood away from the table and hurried after Sam, even going so far as to call her name.
House rolled his eyes--leave it to Wilson to go running after his emotionally sensitive girlfriend, sobbing because House dared hurt the poor little Nazi’s feelings. Perhaps she didn’t find jokes about people dying funny, but it wasn’t House’s business to coddle people’s feelings.
He took Wilson’s pudding cup, and tore off the tinfoil lid.
* * *
Of all the times for House to remember his patient’s name, it had to be his ex-boyfriend? The one who had broken up his marriage? Perhaps he shouldn’t have corrected him so many times when House called him Teddy or Terry or whatever. Sam hurried through the clinic, her blonde hair bouncing as she moved.
“Sam!” he called, his legs longer and stride a bit faster than hers. He stepped in front of her and she tried to walk around him, but he stood in front of her again, and he knew a few other doctors and nurses in the clinic were staring at him, but considering how often that happened (although usually it involved House) he wasn’t all that embarrassed. “Sam, look, I can explain,” he blurted.
“Explain what, James? How do you explain this to me? You know, I thought that I could trust you, but apparently--”
“I didn’t lie to you; I just didn’t . . .” A nearby clinic patient stared blatantly at them and a nurse he’d once dated was raising her eyebrows inquisitively at them. “Maybe we should take this somewhere private?” he suggested as Cuddy walked out of her office, glancing over at them, but she didn’t appear so much as curious as just noticing them.
Sam scoffed and looked around. She folded her arms and pursed her lips, looked past him at the exit, and sighed. “Fine. We’ll go to your office.”
He nodded and then put his hand by her elbow, leading her towards the elevator as he would a patient. Dread filled his chest when the doors to the elevator slid behind them and the other occupant moved aside to give them room. Somehow, he knew this would end them, just like he knew ages ago that they wouldn’t last--that they would inevitably fall apart just like the last time they were together; just like all of his other relationships, excluding the one he had with House.
Another failed relationship with a woman. He wondered if he would be able to keep up the lie after this, or if he’d just give up entirely. He thought of the consequences of both, and found neither pleasing. What would House think? He probably already suspected. He’d called him out on the flirting. Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose again and squeezed his eyes shut.
The door opened and he walked out, glancing into the differential diagnosis room. Nobody was in there; they were all probably getting lunch. House was probably stealing his and throwing Sam’s in the garbage.
He opened the door for Sam and followed her in. As soon as the door clicked behind him, it was like he turned on a switch.
She spun to him. “You should have told me.”
“I--I wanted to. I almost . . .” And he almost had. He’d tried to gather the courage to tell her that House had Thomas as a patient. He’d even gathered up the courage and almost blurted it to her in the bathroom, but then he . . . panicked. “It’s nothing, Sam. I promise.”
“No, it is something, James. You had an affair with him,” she stated. She raised her voice a little, but she wasn’t yelling yet. She just folded her arms and scrunched her shoulders, as if trying to withdraw within herself. “You were going to leave me for him. Now he’s here and you expect me to just . . . The fact you didn’t tell me means it does mean something.”
“I knew you’d get upset.”
“Of course I would. But hiding it? That’s worse. It means you . . . James, I tried. I tried so hard to believe you. That it was . . . just a phase or--or that you were acting out as some sort of . . . college experimentation. That you weren’t into men, but . . . I see the way you are with House, and--”
“Whoa, whoa, wait--House has nothing to do with this. House and I have never . . . We’re just friends. We’ve never done anything.”
“I believe that. What I don’t believe is that you don’t want to.” Wilson didn’t deny it--at this point, she’d know it was a lie. “You weren’t even going to tell me why you were gone, James. You just . . . packed up everything and went. Were you going to call and explain? Or just send the divorce papers?”
He remembered packing everything he owned while Sam had been away; everything he owned, stuffed into boxes in the trunk and in the backseat of his cheap car. He’d been packing for a week, but he’d started with the smaller things she wouldn’t notice. Books, music, movies . . . And in one night, he’d packed up everything else that was necessary; his clothes, his toiletries--everything. All for him to spend all night waiting for Thomas, drinking coffee after coffee, until he’d passed out and woke the next day, sun blaring high and through the windshield, and Thomas was nowhere to be found. To be honest, he’d spent hours ruminating over what to tell Sam--that he’d left her for a man or a woman, or just disappear and send her the divorce papers once he and Thomas had settled and never explain why. He hadn’t figured it out then and he didn’t know now, either.
“I don’t know,” he admitted quietly.
She paced away from him, then turned to face him again, more feet separating them as she wrapped her arms around her abdomen. “I tried so hard to trust you, James. And I couldn’t. You were so--after he left, I couldn’t even talk to you. And now you barely speak to me and I find out that Thomas is . . . You think I don’t notice when you turn to look at the same guy I do when we’re shopping? Or the way you stare at House . . . And now Thomas is here and you didn’t tell me? What happened?”
“Nothing’s happened,” he lied, cheeks burning at a memory not more than an hour ago.
“Don’t lie to me, James. It won’t help you any.”
He shifted his weight. “We kissed.”
She nodded to herself, and he hated himself when he noticed that tears glistening underneath her lids. “This isn’t going to work. As long as I’m around you’ll--you’ll keep lying to yourself and learn to resent me for it, just like last time.”
“I didn’t resent you for any--”
“Oh please!” she shouted, voice breaking as tears burst forth and she flung one hand in the air angrily. “Every time I came home you--you just sat there! You didn’t even speak to me for months! Every time I even tried to talk you just stared at me with this--this look in your eyes! Absolute contempt! You married me, knowing you could never truly love--”
“You don’t know that! I--I loved you, Sam!” he shouted back, throwing his hands in the air.
“I was your beard! That’s all I ever was and that’s all your other wives were, too! All the nurses and flings and women you slept with--who are you trying to fool? Me? Yourself? House? I tried to tell myself you were--confused, but--Why didn’t you just tell me? Why put me through all this heartbreak, James?!”
“What did you want me to say?” he demanded in a half-growl. “That I loved and cared for you, but never as much as I could love and care for him because he’s a man? Is that what you want to hear? Is that what you want me to say?”
“Is it true?” she asked, wiping away her tears and voice still raised in anger.
He opened his mouth to say something but realized a moment later that he had nothing to say. He had cared for her, but what he’d felt for Thomas had been all-consuming and real; what he’d felt for her hadn’t even compared. It would never compare to what he felt for House, no matter how much he wanted it to. No matter how many times he tried to replace what he felt with something more conventional, no matter how many women he grew to care for . . . It wasn’t the same; it just wasn’t right.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered so quietly he didn’t know if he’d said it out loud or if he had if she’d be able to hear it.
“Me, too,” she mumbled, sniffing loudly and breath hitching in her throat. Her tears streamed freely now, and she brushed away her tears again. Sickening guilt built up in his chest and stomach; sludgy, black guilt that made him regret ever asking her on the date and evading Thirteen’s remark on how he clearly repressed his lifestyle for House and how he’d turned it around to be about Sam, although he’d caught the hint at his ambiguous sexuality. He hated himself for trying to deny what he was; he was no better than House’s gay patient, marrying a woman because he had to in order to prove something to society.
He’d never even admitted it to himself, except for in the middle of the night moments before sleep, or when alcohol befuddled his brain and he couldn’t stop himself from thinking those thoughts. It might not have been so bad had Thomas not betrayed him; shown him love and then disappeared. It might not have been so horrible if he hadn’t fallen in love with his best friend, being unconsciously teased for years. Had he not tried to push those feelings aside with Bonnie and Julie and Grace . . . even Amber. Amber had been the closest thing to love for a woman he’d ever felt and he had no illusions as to why; it only made him feel worse knowing that he’d never loved her as much as she deserved, although he had cared for her. She’d died believing his lie, and as much as he’d tried to tell himself he believed it too, he never had. Not really.
“You’re not the only person who lies, James. I knew it, but . . . God, I wanted you to love me. Wanted to believe that you could, so I . . .” She sniffed haltingly, then rubbed her palms along her cheeks. “I’ll be gone tonight,” she whispered, then moved to walk past him.
For a moment he almost told her, simply because by then it was his conditioned response--he didn’t really mean it--that no, it was fine; she didn’t have to move out. But he realized with a jolt that she did. He wasn’t in love with her any more than he had been years ago--maybe even less so--and it was his loft. Well, his and House’s loft.
It felt like there was something else he needed to say; an apology or maybe begging. Perhaps a goodbye. Something felt unfinished, the nagging impression he’d forgotten something boiling in the back of his mind. But he didn’t say anything; he couldn’t think of anything that wouldn’t be trite or Pavlovian. He just cleared his throat and stepped aside, allowing her to leave, and the door clicked behind him.
* * *
Wilson’s lunch had been delicious, as per usual, and Sam’s had been pretty tossed inside a bin and splattered against the other uneaten bits of food. Which, speaking of Wilson and Sam, she’d stormed off because of his little harsh mocking of Nazi Guy and Wilson went rushing after her, probably to apologize for House being an asshole. House was actually used to those types of scenarios. The handful of times he’d had dinner with Bonnie or Julie had ended in pretty much the same way. Except those times, he’d actually gone out of his way to offend them.
She was probably more upset at the fact he and Wilson had spent the night together than the comment.
He’d played his PSP for awhile, but that grew tiring quickly and the internet proved just as uninteresting, so he’d decided to pop into Wilson’s office for a chat.
He’d wanted to either interrupt their argument or eavesdrop, however when he’d walked into Wilson’s office he hadn’t been there so he’d gone down to the clinic. Curious as ever, and more than a little bored since Thomas was soon to be on someone else’s caseload, he’d decided that bugging Wilson and being a bad influence by convincing him to skip clinic duty to watch Prescription Palace sounded like fun.
Luckily, as he limped towards the clinic he watched Wilson leave an exam room, smiling politely at some buxom blonde with a child in tow. House furrowed his eyebrows in distaste and then limped faster. Wilson caught his eyes and heaved his shoulders dramatically with an over-done sigh, and walked towards the counter to retrieve a new folder.
House intercepted halfway there, stepping in front of him, and then blocking his path two more times as he tried to move around him. “I’m bored,” House stated.
“And I’m busy.”
“You already did clinic hours.”
Wilson let out a resigned sigh and rolled his eyes heavenward. “Hour. Singular.”
“You didn’t even bother coming back for your food.”
“Well, I know you would’ve eaten it by the time I returned, so I figured it would be pointless. I hope you enjoyed the pudding.”
“Thoroughly. So, where’s Sam? Crying in the little ladies’ room, or did you at least wait until she left the hospital to start dropping the moves on Buxom Clinic Patient Number Three?”
Wilson frowned and looked at House as if he didn’t understand what he was saying, then glanced back at the leaving mother with the cutesy-wutesy hellion devil spawn following. She glanced over her shoulder at Wilson and smiled flirtatiously and waved with her fingers. Wilson blanched and reared his head back, then looked over at House, who just smirked at him.
“Okay, I was not flirting with her,” Wilson denied.
“Oh, you so were. As long as dear ol’ Sam didn’t catch you at it,” House shrugged, glaring at the woman’s very attractive backside.
“Um . . . Sam and I . . .” Wilson began haltingly and House turned to face him again, feeling strangely excited. Actually, that wasn’t strange at all. He had a feeling he knew where this conversation was going. Wilson rubbed his forehead awkwardly.
House waited for him to finish for several lengthy seconds. When it was clear Wilson wasn’t going to speak anytime soon, he smirked. “Told you so,” he boasted.
Wilson didn’t glare or even scoff. He just smiled sadly and rubbed the back of his neck, eyes fixed on House’s tie-less chest, as if afraid to look upward. “Yeah,” he agreed, then lowered his hand, eyes flitting upwards and locking with House’s a few seconds before he tilted his chin up as well, as if he were steeling himself for something. His cheeks pinkened. “House, um . . .”
House frowned, getting the feeling that something was amiss. Sam had broken up with Wilson, but surely he wouldn’t need to crash at his place--the loft was his. He hadn’t given it to Sam, had he? Wilson visibly swallowed and something twisted in House’s chest; something that almost ached, but not unpleasantly. Wilson’s pupils dilated enough for House to see and something about his expression reminded him of a young child who knew he was going to get in trouble.
“Wilson?” House urged quietly, shifting half a step closer.
“House, I’m Chase.”
“What?“ House frowned at him in confusion, then heard the approaching footsteps at his side. Right. Chase was coming. He turned to face the blonde fellow. “Ah, the prettiest duckling,” he greeted, and Chase glared at him.
“Not cancer,” he replied. House frowned. “It’s just scar tissue, apparently. The chances the scars are causing the symptoms are highly unlikely, what, since they only presented recently.”
House’s mind blipped away from whatever was going on with Wilson, who just cleared his throat and milled away. Chase and House started walking towards the elevator simultaneously, but House did chance a glance over his shoulder and at Wilson, who busied himself with grabbing another folder.
He faced the elevator again as they pushed towards it, his pace slightly faster than Chase’s. “I got them to look at it right away. They know your cases tend to take precedence--or, well, you send them elephant faeces in a bag--”
“I didn’t send that to pathology,” House insisted.
“Well, wherever you sent it,” Chase muttered with an eye-roll. “In any case, it isn’t cancer. We could search his home again--I don’t know, maybe her garden did have pesticides. We didn’t find any mould, but maybe we missed something.”
House bit his lip, then shook his head. “If it were environmental, his wife and son would be having symptoms.”
“That’s what I thought too, so I ordered up more medical history. Thomas has only been to the doctor a few times. Nothing sinister, really. A few colds, dehydration . . . I guess a few years ago he thought he was having a heart attack but it was just a panic attack. The wife had pneumonia earlier this year, and she had strep throat sometime in early November. She told us she hadn’t been sick for years, but thankfully her son seems capable of being honest for more than ten seconds at a time.”
House nodded to concede. “Did they put her on penicillin?”
“Er, yes. Well, amoxicillin for the strep throat, but--”
“She could’ve treated herself for neurosyphilis.”
Chase stared at him blankly. “She’d have to be taking quite a bit, and she’d probably end up having the take the full dosage. Nobody keeps taking medicine once they get better.”
“Well, her husband did go to medical school,” House mocked with an eye-roll as he pressed the call button. “It’s a long shot, but, well, I thrive on them.”
“Thought you’d be more excited that he didn’t have cancer,” Chase revealed. House wasn’t excited per se, but he wouldn’t deny he was glad of that fact. He didn’t say anything about that as the doors opened, though. “Wilson’s probably not all disappointed, either. I mean, he didn’t even seem like he believed the guy. He poured his soul out to us and Wilson shrugged it off. Said it was a nice story but just . . . I dunno, acted indifferent.”
They stepped into the elevator. “He poured out his soul and Wilson just sat there?” he asked in disbelief.
“Well, he just went on about that girl he fell in love with. Said she was funny, gorgeous, somewhat of an altruist. She went to homeless shelters and all that.” Chase shrugged and House frowned. “You want me to put him on penicillin?”
House furrowed his brows as he hit the floor number he needed. Something in the back of his mind whirred again, like perhaps he’d forgotten to turn off the oven or he’d left the fridge door open. The fact Thomas didn’t have cancer bothered him slightly, but less so than the idea he would’ve been put on Wilson’s caseload. Alas, that meant he had no idea what Thomas had, but the neurosyphilis diagnosis looked brighter than it had.
“Pump him full of it and take a blood test to see how advanced it is,” he ordered, tapping his cane against the elevator floor. Chase nodded at him and House tilted his head to the side. “Do you know if the son is coming to visit?”
Chase shrugged. “Dunno. I’d wager he’ll be here sometime around four. Takes awhile to get here from the school.”
House nodded to himself, resigned to the fact he wasn’t going to get anything truthful from Thomas or the wife. “Tell me when he gets here.”
* * *
A/N--I know it's still technically Saturday, but I have to work hella early tomorrow and so I figured a little before Sunday morn couldn't hurt.
Also, MilitantDelusionalist from fanfiction.net made a fanvid to this fanfic!
Paper Faces on Parade fanvid
Also, here is the Next Chapter