FIC: Five Ways in which Doctors Rodney McKay and Gregory House are Alike
Title: Five Ways in which Doctors Rodney McKay and Gregory House are Alike (though they live in different galaxies)
Genre: Crossover, character piece, pre-slash/strong friendship (House/Wilson, McKay/Sheppard)
Length: ~5700 words
Rating: PG
Warnings: Spoilers for SGA S2, vague spoilers for House S2
Summary: The title says it all -- five ways in which Doctors Rodney McKay and Gregory House are alike even though they live in different galaxies.
Author's Notes: This is less an actual crossover fic and more a exploration of character through linked ficlets. Readers can feel free to skip the ficlets belonging to the fandom they don't know; each ficlet can be read on its own. Enjoy.
Five Ways in which Doctors Rodney McKay and Gregory House are Alike (though they live in different galaxies)
by Regann
1. Genius
Everyone on Atlantis knew that Rodney McKay was a genius.
Especially Rodney McKay.
Sheppard had come to that very real realization long before he'd heard Rodney say as much to the Genii and before he'd seen him save the city in several spectacularly imaginative ways. His personal favorite was the lightning-powered shield to stave off the storm tides but he'd only been able to appreciate its awesomeness days later, once the mess with the Genii and the deadly nanovirus had settled.
In his time on Atlantis, John Sheppard had come to rely on few constants but one of those few was the fact the Rodney McKay was really damn smart. It had become a given in any situation, in any event, for every crisis; they'd all turn to McKay and wait, knowing -- never doubting -- that he'd figure it out.
Sheppard hadn't trusted many things in his life but he'd come to trust Rodney's genius.
That was probably why more than a solar system had been shattered by Artcurus, by Rodney's failure in the face of an answer they'd all hoped for. For him, it had been more than just a lost weapon against the Wraith -- Rodney not being right seemed like it went against the fabric of the universe, against all reason and all logic and Sheppard still sometimes had to remind himself that the betrayal that twisted his guts when he thought of it should've long since been released.
But Rodney had become his constant and, without it, he felt groundless, uncertain where he never had before.
It took months to pinpoint the root of it all -- the pain, the anger, the hurt -- but he finally found its origin, its center buried somewhere in his chest and tangled up in his heart and mind.
John Sheppard had never forgotten that Rodney McKay was a genius.
But he had forgotten that he was only human.
*
If Wilson had ever doubted the old saying that there was only a thin line between madness and genius, knowing House would've convinced him of its veracity.
It was obvious that House's mind didn't work in the ways it was supposed to, in the same way everyone else's did; if it had, he'd have never been able to male the leaps and bounds in logic he did or be able to string the bits and pieces together to see the complete picture when everyone else was still fumbling for the pieces.
In his more fanciful moments, it struck Wilson that their lives -- and in that, he included House's oft-confused staff -- were being played from a script that they'd never read but that House had memorized because they always gave him the right words or the right look or the wrong fact at the right time to allow him to showcase his brilliance.
While he hated to indulge House's innate feelings of superiority or omniscience, a lesser man -- after ten years and too many times to name -- might have been willing to be seduced into the delusion. But, then again, after ten years and too many times, Wilson, more than anyone, knew of the times when all the genius in the world hadn't been able to help House.
So perhaps while everyone else believed that House had penned the script by which they lived their lives, Wilson was fortunate enough to realize otherwise. He knew that House was simply a very good actor and a very good poker player -- which, as far as cosmic powers went, were very important, especially when coupled with the kind of genius House had at his disposal.
In the end, though, it didn't matter how House did it, only that he could. And Wilson let himself indulge the madness in order to facilitate the genius.
2. Blue (Eyes)
MR-672 was nicknamed Planet Paradiso for its lush beaches, balmy climate and its friendly, welcoming natives. It reminded Sheppard and McKay of the fairytale depictions of places like Tahiti and Bali from those old black-and-white films, like it had been pulled off the Paramount lot with Hope and Crosby still swinging from some hammocks somewhere, swilling drinks and fighting over Dorothy Lamour.
The natives had that vaguely Polynesian look as well: they were all dark-eyed with shining black hair and golden-brown skin, dressed skimpily in bright colors and thin fabrics. The few natives they'd met before they'd reached the village had been friendly but also very curious, eyeing the heavily-dressed Atlantis team with the kind of wonderment that made them all a bit self-conscious.
It wasn't until they reached the village proper, though, and its leaders stepped forward that they realized what had caused the uproar.
"We've never seen anyone like your friend," the chieftain explained, a little awed himself. "Forgive us our curiosity but he's -- beautiful."
And while Rodney McKay had been called a lot of things in his lifetime, Sheppard doubted he'd ever been called beautiful before.
But then, the people on Planet Paradiso had never before seen someone with blue eyes nor someone with fair skin or hair as light as Rodney's.
As the villagers came around to gawk and whisper and point, Rodney had stood to the side, mostly quiet and very mortified, turning all the shades of pink and red that only a fair-skinned person could, muttering under his breath about white devils, imperialism and questioning the sky about why these things always happened to him.
They found out eventually that the people of Planet Paradiso were animists and worshiped nature as deities and that the words they whispered behind their hands was the name they gave their deity of the Sky because that was the only thing they knew of which to compare McKay's eye color.
And Rodney's eyes, Teyla had pointed out later, smiling indulgently at her embarrassed teammate and not offended at all that her own caramel complexion had won no such praise, weren't simply blue, but a very striking shade.
As he watched his friend turn red again, Sheppard couldn't help but laughingly agree, wondering if anything like had ever happened to Hope or Crosby.
One of them had to have blue eyes.
*
Wilson liked Allison Cameron; really, he did. She was nice, kind, polite and, unlike House, he didn't think those particular qualities made her a perfect object for ridicule. However, there was one thing about his relationship with the young woman that gave him pause -- the fact that, inevitably, almost every conversation they had meandered its way back to House.
Wilson knew that said something about them both but he was never quite sure what and so he never pursued it to whatever logical conclusion lurked in his brain.
But it was the truth that no matter what topic they discussed, it seemed to wind its way back to one Dr. Gregory House, no matter what twists and turns and non-sequitors it took to make him the topic-at-hand. Wilson often wondered what they would've found to speak of in the early days of Cameron's fellowship if she hadn't come to him with questions about House disguised as vaguely hypothetical questions about the nature of people in general.
Despite the fact that they now spoke on a wide range of things, he couldn't help but think that perhaps their whole kinship would collapse without the specter of House that hung between them, connecting them through his tangible presence in the words they so often exchanged.
"It was his eyes, you know," Cameron said, seemingly out of nowhere; but Wilson realized that he'd just let his mind wander off and he'd missed whatever clever bridge she'd used to pull their conversation around to House this time.
They walked through the doors of the hospital and out into the chilly night air, Wilson shooting her look that expressed his confusion.
Allison reddened -- either from the cold or the incredulity in Wilson's look. "When I first met him, it was the first thing I noticed," she explained slowly. "Not his -- leg or the cane. His eyes." She paused, obviously contemplating how much more she wanted to share. "They're very --"
"Blue?" Wilson supplied, faintly sarcastic in that bland way that allowed him to get away with it. One corner of his mouth tugged upward, softening its bite.
"Well, yes, of course," Cameron told him, slightly disapproving if her eyebrows were to be believed. She let it slide, though, and continued. "But, they're very...." she trailed off, glancing up at the dark, star-glittered sky, as if looking for heavenly answers. A strange thing, Wilson mused, for an self-proclaimed atheist to do. "I know it's trite but they say that the eyes are the window to the soul."
"They do," Wilson nodded in agreement, ignoring the House-voice in his head who sniped, "They who?"
She sighed. "Sometimes when I look at him, I see nothing in his eyes. They're just blank, like a mask. Like there's nothing behind them, nothing in there."
"Are you saying that you think House lacks a soul?"
"No," Cameron shook her head. "Because sometimes, there's nothing. Then other times, it's the exact opposite. There's something there but it's just -- too much. Too much there for it to make much sense." Softly, almost to herself, she added, "Way too much to even begin to understand."
Wilson was silent for a moment and he could tell Cameron was waiting for his reply. So many things ran through his head to say to her -- things about House, things about himself, things about their friendship -- but in the end, he settled for gentleness over truth, loyalty over honesty. "That's just the way he is," he told her, his words a fact if not a truth. "Did you really expect anything about him to be easy to understand?"
He could've told her how easy it was for him to read those eyes, to gauge meter and mood from them without hindrance but it only would've frustrated her more. And James Wilson wasn't Greg House; he could live with the lies he told -- and didn't tell -- in the name of kindness.
After all, everybody lied.
3. (Brutal) Honesty
Anyone who got to know Rodney well enough -- and most of the original people on the Atlantis expedition could claim this dubious honor -- knew that, though he was many things, he was absolutely genuine in word and deed.
There was no artifice in McKay -- which made sense because his teammates learned even earlier on that he was a terrible liar and that he didn't put much thought into what came out of his mouth, not even when his life was literally on the line. He just didn't have it in him, it seemed.
For good or ill, he could be counted on to be honest
That was the only thing that made his acerbic manners easier to take -- Rodney wasn't so much mean as he was honest. Just, brutally so.
"He doesn't really think about it," Sheppard explained to Major Lorne the afternoon following their successful return from the planet where they'd found Ronon. "It just comes out, you know? His brain's too busy thinking about important stuff to worry about small stuff like, oh, courtesy and politeness and, you know, tact."
"So no one calls him on it?" Lorne wanted to know, adjusting to the strange knowledge that his commanding officer didn't seem to be mind that McKay often unleashed his acidically acerbic tone on him.
"There's no point," Sheppard advised. "And, upside? He can't lie to save his life. I like to make him pay for it on poker nights."
"Sir?"
Something in Sheppard's face relaxed. "Just cut him some slack, okay?"
"Why?"
Sheppard headed down the hall, and Lorne though he wasn't going to answer
"You'll see," he called back over his shoulder, just as the lift doors closed behind him.
A month after he began his tour on Atlantis, Lorne had been saved from death twice by McKay, another time by one of McKay's plans put into action by someone else, and he'd won 250 bucks, an iPod and four pounds of chocolate off the scientist in the three weekly card games he'd played in.
Like Sheppard, Lorne found himself not minding how many times McKay used him as the proverbial whetstone for his cutting wit.
Sometimes it was even a little comforting, in the face of everything else.
*
Although she didn't claim to understand him, even after years of acquaintance, Lisa Cuddy knew one thing about House: no one should never ask him for an honest opinion if they didn't want one. More often than not, he gave them without provocation; to solicit one in the face of his silence was like asking for him to pull the trigger on the gun when he had it pointed at your head. Anyone who did, she'd decided a long time ago, deserve the wailing and gnashing and bloodshed it inevitably led to.
She couldn't quite understand how Wilson put up with it -- the barbs, the snipes, the sickeningly direct commentary on his life-choices. Sometimes she'd wince in sympathy for the oncologist when she caught wind of whatever declaration House was making and it hit with painful accuracy on whatever topic the hospital grapevine was buzzing about the young doctor. Divorces. Affairs. Emotional breakdowns.
Cuddy didn't often give much credence to gossip in most cases but in those where House and the nurses were in agreement on some happening in Wilson's life -- since there was very little chance that they were gossiping together -- she knew that there was some truth behind it.
House wielded words and his so-called honesty like he wielded his cane; sometimes, they were supportive, necessary, an ugly reminder of the unfairness of life while at others, they were weapons -- knives and swords sharpened to draw blood with little effort, aimed and honed to hit the vulnerable areas to draw blood swiftly.
And she didn't mean things like his snipes about her clothes, her breasts, or her job. She knew those little barbs for what they were. They were outrageous enough, tasteless enough to be harmless, all wit and humor and shock -- no heat behind them, no pain to follow when they slid into the skin like a stiletto.
She didn't understand how Wilson could live with quiet cuts and frightful honesty; Cuddy knew she couldn't. House was tiresome enough when he was being House about the clinic or about his patients or even about Stacy. To also have to share her private life for his public amusement and derision would've been too much for her.
As far as she was concerned, that was the reason that Wilson was worthy of sainthood, even if he was Jewish.
"How can you stand it?" she'd asked him one night, idly, with awe in her voice and a bit of guilt, too. She knew she didn't make it any easier for him -- for either of them -- but that was her own pathology, to be dissected at her leisure.
"Stand what?" Wilson had asked her, genuinely unsure of what she was talking about, despite the fact that House had just limped past them, spitting vitriol until he was out of earshot.
"Him."
Wilson shrugged. "You'd be surprised what you can live with."
It wasn't much an answer, she'd decided, but it was the only one she'd been able to get. Cuddy decided that it was one of those mysteries that she'd just have to live with, silently waiting for the day that she'd have to pull the knife from Wilson's back when House's honesty went just a little too deep.
4. Piano
It wasn't until he came back to Earth for leave that Sheppard realized how much Atlantis had become home. Everything felt odd back on terra firma, even things that shouldn't, things that were as tied to Atlantis as he was.
Things like Rodney McKay.
Had they been on Atlantis, there wouldn't have been any of the strange tension that hung between them as they sat in a quiet bar somewhere in the Springs; they'd have been talking, laughing, joking -- something. Instead, they sat beside each other at the bar in awkward silence, Sheppard feeling strange and thinking Rodney looked strange since they were both dressed in civilian clothes.
It hadn't been until they'd sat down to order that Sheppard had realized that he had no idea what kind of alcohol Rodney preferred when he had real choices, even though he did know that the scientist preferred Sarmosian wine to the hooch that the Athosian men made from their extra grain.
Sheppard was drinking a beer from a cold bottle and Rodney was staring down into the depths of his vodka like it was going to reveal something earth-shattering to him, like the location of another ZPM or the secret to defeating the Wraith.
In one of the empty corners of the mostly empty bar there was a rickety old piano, its seat empty. Rodney's eyes wandered over there every time he looked from his drink and, after a few more minutes of awkwardness, Sheppard noticed that McKay had wandered over it too, drink in hand.
When Rodney sat down on the splintery bench, Sheppard followed.
Rodney hit a few keys cautiously, as if testing its sound.
"Gonna play us a little ditty?" Sheppard asked, taking a drink from his bottle.
McKay looked up from the keys and he sized Sheppard up with his eyes. "I could," he told him. "What are you in the mood for? Bach? Beethoven? Something with no social value like that noise you listen to when you work out?"
"Johnny Cash is classic," he objected. "And so is Winger."
McKay snorted and shook his head. "If you have a request, Colonel, speak now or forever hold your piece."
Rodney looked right, sitting at that piano, Sheppard realized, slumped over the keys like he might have been if he'd been slumped over his laptop if he'd been back at his labs on Atlantis. He definitely looked more at home there than he had slumped at the bar, nursing his vodka and looking ill-at-ease.
Sheppard couldn't explain why he suddenly felt like some invisible force was trying to knock the breath out of him but he managed to choke out, "...actually, you remember that tune the Athosians played at the last harvest festival? Think you can play that, McKay?"
The tension seemed to seep out of Rodney at his request and he grinned up at him, his fingers nimbly stretching over the keys. "I'm sure I can approximate it enough for the likes of you, Sheppard."
Sheppard grinned back. "Let's hear it then."
As McKay's talented fingers moved over the keys and the notes of alien song filled the air, Sheppard finally found himself feeling at home for the first time since he'd stepped back through to this galaxy.
*
For all of his apparent sophistication, James Wilson wasn't a connoisseur of music -- at least, not compared to House.
He liked music -- didn't everyone? -- and he bought the CDs he liked and listened to them when he thought to stick them in his player. And when he was in the car listening to the radio, he'd crank up the volume on an old song that reminded him of high school or college or Canada and he'd bask in the nostalgia while singing along with the stereo. And, sometimes, he'd even get a strange wisp of a tune stuck in his head and it would drive him crazy until he placed it and listened it to just one more time.
But everyone did those kinds of things. Music was music.
Wilson enjoyed music like he did anything else but he didn't revel in it, didn't absorb it in through his skin or his ears or his fingers nor did he ooze it like sweat through his pores or rhythm in his steps.
He didn't live the music -- not like House did.
And he certainly didn't have any talent for it. A long time ago, Wilson had tried taking up an instrument; but, like so many other things, he'd started only to abandon it, a little skill for his trouble but no mastery, no passion for it lingering beyond that first, initial period. When he'd relegated the old guitar back to the confines of his closet, House had sneered at him and pointed out that the honeymoon period was over and that it was sad that Wilson couldn't commit to anything, including inanimate objects.
Anything except medicine and their screwed-up friendship, that is; Wilson didn't bother reminding him because he knew that House would always remember that, no matter what he said that might've seemed to contradict it.
On nights that he lingered over at House's apartment, Wilson liked it when House sat at the piano and played. It wasn't something that happened all that often -- not nights where House actually played. Most nights he plucked at keys and strung a few notes together to occupy while his hands while he thought, fingers moving almost detached from his brain. Wilson could usually recognize the tune if he strung enough of them together, especially when it was something well-known and easy to place.
No, those weren't the nights that he liked. Wilson preferred the nights where nothing -- or perhaps everything? -- was on House's mind except the music and it worked in tandem with his fingers to coax it from the piano keys the same way he practiced medicine, skillfully, surprisingly, with unusual results. Sitting on the couch, watching his friend hunched over the piano keys, his ears filled with whatever notes cluttered House's head that particular night, Wilson could relax, enjoy the music and his friend's company in that simple, still way one rarely could when their time involved Greg House.
"That was good," he told him one night after he finished a particularly interesting piece of music. It was vaguely familiar to Wilson, enough to be entertaining but not enough for him to actually recognize it. It might've simply been something he'd heard House play before.
House nodded at the empty glass sitting on the piano's smooth surface. "Tips are appreciated, drink refills even more so."
Wilson rolled his eyes, watching House's hands slow as they moved over the keys, fading away some as he thought about where to take them next, what song to play next. "You want a tip?" Wilson asked him faintly. "Get it yourself." He eyed the decanter meaningfully, silently pointing out that it was much closer to the piano than it was to the couch on which he was sprawled.
"But what fun would that be?" House asked him, fingers becoming surer as he decided on his next set. The music was soft and slow and deliberate and it made Wilson think of a musical jewelry box his mother had once owned. "And I'm busy entertaining you. Don't I get anything for my trouble?"
"The satisfaction of a job well done?" Wilson intoned, smiling at House's exaggerated eye-roll.
"Like that's a reason to do something," he murmured, distracted as he became absorbed in the music he was playing. "Next you'll be saying that's a reason to work hard, too."
Wilson didn't bother with any comeback other than an amused snort. He could see the lines of House's body change, indicating that he was becoming attuned with the intricate notes he was playing, that he was being carried away to whatever place the music took him, in spite of the pain in his leg or whatever issues usually kept him sharp and brittle. His eyes were half-closed and his fingers moved with an agility he no longer possessed anywhere away from the piano seat.
Wilson settled with a contented sigh; he didn't live the music but he could live it through House.
5. The ever-present boy best friend
Rodney McKay had never been the 'friend' type -- the 'lab partner' type, maybe, and especially the 'arrogant bastard, ignore him' type but he'd never been one to form friendships with colleagues that spilled over into their recreational time. It had been surprising enough that he got along so well with Elizabeth and Carson in Antarctica; he certainly hadn't expected to form any other lasting bonds, especially not in the 'buddy' sense.
It was for this reason that it took him awhile to figure out why, no matter what he was doing or where he was, Major Sheppard always showed up.
In the beginning, it had been frankly disconcerting to have the major show up underfoot every time he turned around, even when he was off-duty. McKay had wondered more than once if the major just lacked the ability to entertain himself.
McKay was a constantly busy man; whether he was working or relaxing, he always had something he needed to be doing, something that was worth his attention. The lab, the city itself, his own tiny quarters, the mess -- if he was there, he had a purpose that involved him getting something done. So he found it inconceivable that Sheppard seemed to spend so much of his downtime standing around idle -- in the lab, in the corridors, in the mess, wherever Rodney seemed to be at the moment.
"Are you just that bored?" McKay asked him, finally. "You don't have anything better to do than to stand around and get in my way?"
"Well, I could if I could pry you out of the labs once in awhile," he said dryly. "Let's go watch a movie or something."
"Or something?"
"Just something that's not -- this."
After a dozen or so instances of being cajoled into doing 'something that's not -- this,' McKay finally realized that what Sheppard had been pestering him to do was -- hang out. Not that they didn't do it every so often as a team but this was different; one-on-one, general geek-ness abounding in ways they couldn't with Ford or Teyla around as they watched bad old sci-fi or sat around mocking their fellows in the time-honored ways of the smugly superior.
"He's an idiot," Sheppard bitched as they loitered in the mess hall late one night, studiously dividing the last of their junk food rations. They were sharing a package of Twix bars that Sheppard had brought and the four squares McKay had left of his last Cadbury Fruit and Nut.
"They're all idiots," McKay reminded him, taking ridiculously small bites of his candy to make it last longer. "You're just figuring this out?"
"Now, Rodney," Sheppard objected chidingly. "Not all of us are idiots. What about me?"
"Well, you are marginally less stupid than most of the military," he admitted. "And you have the good taste of choosing to associate with me, so...I guess you're alright. On the average. Comparatively."
"It's nice to know that my best friend thinks so highly of me," he drawled dryly. "I think I might even cry in the face of such feeling."
McKay rolled his eyes, secretly pleased that he had earned such an honorific as 'best friend,' and tossed a bit of crumbled nut at the major who only grinned back at him, teeth brown with melted chocolate.
It was one of the most surprising advantages to arise from the Atlantis expedition; it certainly beat out the constant death and danger and the Wraith as things to be glad of. Sometimes when he really tried to order them, Rodney couldn't decide which was best -- his strange kinship with Sheppard or his artificial ATA gene. His ATA gene let him open doors and work with technology and generally mock Kavanagh at every turn, a delight in itself. But doing this friend thing was rewarding in its own way which he would've never given it credit for before he'd met Sheppard.
But for all the joy he got from opening doors and mocking Kavanagh and generally being the smartest man on the planet, there was something to be said for slowing down and watching stupid movies and throwing bottle caps off the landings and lounging around until the early hours of the morning discussing such earth-shattering fare as the artistic merits of air bands and everything else small and silly and idle that they'd ever done to waste an hour.
So maybe Sheppard won out in the end. Maybe. Comparatively.
And maybe McKay wasn't so bad at being the 'friend' type as he'd always thought.
*
"Don't you have a home?" House asked Wilson one night, glancing up significantly at the clock and then back to his friend's face.
Wilson raised an eyebrow. "Of course I do," he told him.
"I'm not so sure," House returned, his own eyebrows raised in mock-speculation.
"And why is that?" he asked, patient resignation in his voice as he played along. Wilson knew him well enough to know that he was building toward something, one of his usual 'honest' observations but he was friend enough to go along with it, even though he could tell that it would be at his expense.
It was one of the reasons that House liked him so much.
"Because you're always here," House went on to point out, heaving himself up from the couch. He crossed the floor in a couple of hobbling strides until he was seated on the piano bench.
Wilson snorted and shifted on the couch, deliberately taking up the room made available by House's exit. He also leaned forward to grab the remote and mute the television. "And wouldn't that have something to do with always being invited?"
House grinned at the dry slyness in his friend's voice, at the subtle sarcasm. Everyone else seemed to think that Wilson was always nice and polite and kind to kittens but House knew better. In fact, he thought everyone should have known better -- after all, how could he be friends without someone who was always sugar and light? He would've been bored out of his mind in hours, let alone years of friendship.
He waved Wilson's observation away. "I know you have an address," he continued, "but you never seem to be present at it. Whenever I'm at the hospital, you're there. When I'm not, you're here. Really, it's sadly predictable."
"And yet I keep showing up every morning in clean clothes, surprisingly refreshed," Wilson noted, rising to his feet. He still had that resigned half-smile on his face. On someone else for someone else, House might've labeled it indulgent.
House was seated at the piano but he was half-turned away from the keys, eyes focused on as he stood and straightened. "You keep them in the car," he stated sagely. "Nothing but bags and bags of drab suits and piles of ridiculous ties in the trunk of the Volvo." He raised an eyebrow and looked significantly at Wilson's head. "Well, that and a battery of hair care products that would make Cuddy envious."
"Well, look at the time," Wilson said with false surprise as he checked his watch. "It's been fun as always but I think it's time I headed home."
"If you had one, it would be," House put in. "But I'm still not sure it exists."
Wilson rolled his eyes.
Just like everyone was wrong about the shining goodness that lived at Wilson's core -- it was so not shiny goodness, he'd checked -- they were usually off-the-mark about the way he treated him. They -- Cuddy and Cameron and Stacy, mostly -- seemed to think that he was unfailingly cruel to his only friend, as if a few penetrating and true comments about his failed marriages, ugly ties and his quietly self-destructive pathologies were enough to send Wilson the delicate flower into some kind of tailspin of sorrow. They seemed to forget that Dr. James Wilson was a gifted oncologist and he was trained to deal in hopelessness and misery every day.
It was probably one of the reasons that he liked House so much.
"See you later," Wilson told him firmly, heading for the front door as he scooped up his keys.
House slid around until he was facing the piano keys, hands plucking at the them without much intent. "No need for that," he called out to him as he heard the door finally open.
"Oh?" Wilson's voice hovered near the door, expectant and ready to be amused.
"It's late, you're drunk, I need a ride to work in the morning," House pointed out. "You might as well stay here."
"Really?" He didn't turn to his friend but he could hear the front door close, could hear the thud of Wilson leaning against it.
"I'll even let you sleep on the couch," House offered, still watching as his hands began to tap out a jazzy tune on the piano.
"How noble of you," Wilson observed sarcastically but he was sitting back down, stretching out and getting comfortable, reaching for his unfinished beer.
House shrugged, glancing over his shoulder until his gaze met Wilson's dark half-lidded eyes. "If you're really nice to me, I might even let you plug in your hair dryer in the morning."
Wilson couldn't contain it any longer and he laughed, shaking his head. "How can I turn that down?"
"You can't," House stated smugly, getting caught up in his jazzy tune. "Now, shut up and listen like a good little captive audience."
What everyone else didn't know was that the day that Greg House was unfailingly polite and kind to James Wilson was the day that Wilson would know that House was up to something no good.
It was also the day that he'd be right about it, too.
It might've look screwed-up from either side of the equation, but it worked for them.
House didn't see a need to bother fixing something that wasn't broken.
THE END.
Genre: Crossover, character piece, pre-slash/strong friendship (House/Wilson, McKay/Sheppard)
Length: ~5700 words
Rating: PG
Warnings: Spoilers for SGA S2, vague spoilers for House S2
Summary: The title says it all -- five ways in which Doctors Rodney McKay and Gregory House are alike even though they live in different galaxies.
Author's Notes: This is less an actual crossover fic and more a exploration of character through linked ficlets. Readers can feel free to skip the ficlets belonging to the fandom they don't know; each ficlet can be read on its own. Enjoy.
Five Ways in which Doctors Rodney McKay and Gregory House are Alike (though they live in different galaxies)
by Regann
1. Genius
Everyone on Atlantis knew that Rodney McKay was a genius.
Especially Rodney McKay.
Sheppard had come to that very real realization long before he'd heard Rodney say as much to the Genii and before he'd seen him save the city in several spectacularly imaginative ways. His personal favorite was the lightning-powered shield to stave off the storm tides but he'd only been able to appreciate its awesomeness days later, once the mess with the Genii and the deadly nanovirus had settled.
In his time on Atlantis, John Sheppard had come to rely on few constants but one of those few was the fact the Rodney McKay was really damn smart. It had become a given in any situation, in any event, for every crisis; they'd all turn to McKay and wait, knowing -- never doubting -- that he'd figure it out.
Sheppard hadn't trusted many things in his life but he'd come to trust Rodney's genius.
That was probably why more than a solar system had been shattered by Artcurus, by Rodney's failure in the face of an answer they'd all hoped for. For him, it had been more than just a lost weapon against the Wraith -- Rodney not being right seemed like it went against the fabric of the universe, against all reason and all logic and Sheppard still sometimes had to remind himself that the betrayal that twisted his guts when he thought of it should've long since been released.
But Rodney had become his constant and, without it, he felt groundless, uncertain where he never had before.
It took months to pinpoint the root of it all -- the pain, the anger, the hurt -- but he finally found its origin, its center buried somewhere in his chest and tangled up in his heart and mind.
John Sheppard had never forgotten that Rodney McKay was a genius.
But he had forgotten that he was only human.
*
If Wilson had ever doubted the old saying that there was only a thin line between madness and genius, knowing House would've convinced him of its veracity.
It was obvious that House's mind didn't work in the ways it was supposed to, in the same way everyone else's did; if it had, he'd have never been able to male the leaps and bounds in logic he did or be able to string the bits and pieces together to see the complete picture when everyone else was still fumbling for the pieces.
In his more fanciful moments, it struck Wilson that their lives -- and in that, he included House's oft-confused staff -- were being played from a script that they'd never read but that House had memorized because they always gave him the right words or the right look or the wrong fact at the right time to allow him to showcase his brilliance.
While he hated to indulge House's innate feelings of superiority or omniscience, a lesser man -- after ten years and too many times to name -- might have been willing to be seduced into the delusion. But, then again, after ten years and too many times, Wilson, more than anyone, knew of the times when all the genius in the world hadn't been able to help House.
So perhaps while everyone else believed that House had penned the script by which they lived their lives, Wilson was fortunate enough to realize otherwise. He knew that House was simply a very good actor and a very good poker player -- which, as far as cosmic powers went, were very important, especially when coupled with the kind of genius House had at his disposal.
In the end, though, it didn't matter how House did it, only that he could. And Wilson let himself indulge the madness in order to facilitate the genius.
2. Blue (Eyes)
MR-672 was nicknamed Planet Paradiso for its lush beaches, balmy climate and its friendly, welcoming natives. It reminded Sheppard and McKay of the fairytale depictions of places like Tahiti and Bali from those old black-and-white films, like it had been pulled off the Paramount lot with Hope and Crosby still swinging from some hammocks somewhere, swilling drinks and fighting over Dorothy Lamour.
The natives had that vaguely Polynesian look as well: they were all dark-eyed with shining black hair and golden-brown skin, dressed skimpily in bright colors and thin fabrics. The few natives they'd met before they'd reached the village had been friendly but also very curious, eyeing the heavily-dressed Atlantis team with the kind of wonderment that made them all a bit self-conscious.
It wasn't until they reached the village proper, though, and its leaders stepped forward that they realized what had caused the uproar.
"We've never seen anyone like your friend," the chieftain explained, a little awed himself. "Forgive us our curiosity but he's -- beautiful."
And while Rodney McKay had been called a lot of things in his lifetime, Sheppard doubted he'd ever been called beautiful before.
But then, the people on Planet Paradiso had never before seen someone with blue eyes nor someone with fair skin or hair as light as Rodney's.
As the villagers came around to gawk and whisper and point, Rodney had stood to the side, mostly quiet and very mortified, turning all the shades of pink and red that only a fair-skinned person could, muttering under his breath about white devils, imperialism and questioning the sky about why these things always happened to him.
They found out eventually that the people of Planet Paradiso were animists and worshiped nature as deities and that the words they whispered behind their hands was the name they gave their deity of the Sky because that was the only thing they knew of which to compare McKay's eye color.
And Rodney's eyes, Teyla had pointed out later, smiling indulgently at her embarrassed teammate and not offended at all that her own caramel complexion had won no such praise, weren't simply blue, but a very striking shade.
As he watched his friend turn red again, Sheppard couldn't help but laughingly agree, wondering if anything like had ever happened to Hope or Crosby.
One of them had to have blue eyes.
*
Wilson liked Allison Cameron; really, he did. She was nice, kind, polite and, unlike House, he didn't think those particular qualities made her a perfect object for ridicule. However, there was one thing about his relationship with the young woman that gave him pause -- the fact that, inevitably, almost every conversation they had meandered its way back to House.
Wilson knew that said something about them both but he was never quite sure what and so he never pursued it to whatever logical conclusion lurked in his brain.
But it was the truth that no matter what topic they discussed, it seemed to wind its way back to one Dr. Gregory House, no matter what twists and turns and non-sequitors it took to make him the topic-at-hand. Wilson often wondered what they would've found to speak of in the early days of Cameron's fellowship if she hadn't come to him with questions about House disguised as vaguely hypothetical questions about the nature of people in general.
Despite the fact that they now spoke on a wide range of things, he couldn't help but think that perhaps their whole kinship would collapse without the specter of House that hung between them, connecting them through his tangible presence in the words they so often exchanged.
"It was his eyes, you know," Cameron said, seemingly out of nowhere; but Wilson realized that he'd just let his mind wander off and he'd missed whatever clever bridge she'd used to pull their conversation around to House this time.
They walked through the doors of the hospital and out into the chilly night air, Wilson shooting her look that expressed his confusion.
Allison reddened -- either from the cold or the incredulity in Wilson's look. "When I first met him, it was the first thing I noticed," she explained slowly. "Not his -- leg or the cane. His eyes." She paused, obviously contemplating how much more she wanted to share. "They're very --"
"Blue?" Wilson supplied, faintly sarcastic in that bland way that allowed him to get away with it. One corner of his mouth tugged upward, softening its bite.
"Well, yes, of course," Cameron told him, slightly disapproving if her eyebrows were to be believed. She let it slide, though, and continued. "But, they're very...." she trailed off, glancing up at the dark, star-glittered sky, as if looking for heavenly answers. A strange thing, Wilson mused, for an self-proclaimed atheist to do. "I know it's trite but they say that the eyes are the window to the soul."
"They do," Wilson nodded in agreement, ignoring the House-voice in his head who sniped, "They who?"
She sighed. "Sometimes when I look at him, I see nothing in his eyes. They're just blank, like a mask. Like there's nothing behind them, nothing in there."
"Are you saying that you think House lacks a soul?"
"No," Cameron shook her head. "Because sometimes, there's nothing. Then other times, it's the exact opposite. There's something there but it's just -- too much. Too much there for it to make much sense." Softly, almost to herself, she added, "Way too much to even begin to understand."
Wilson was silent for a moment and he could tell Cameron was waiting for his reply. So many things ran through his head to say to her -- things about House, things about himself, things about their friendship -- but in the end, he settled for gentleness over truth, loyalty over honesty. "That's just the way he is," he told her, his words a fact if not a truth. "Did you really expect anything about him to be easy to understand?"
He could've told her how easy it was for him to read those eyes, to gauge meter and mood from them without hindrance but it only would've frustrated her more. And James Wilson wasn't Greg House; he could live with the lies he told -- and didn't tell -- in the name of kindness.
After all, everybody lied.
3. (Brutal) Honesty
Anyone who got to know Rodney well enough -- and most of the original people on the Atlantis expedition could claim this dubious honor -- knew that, though he was many things, he was absolutely genuine in word and deed.
There was no artifice in McKay -- which made sense because his teammates learned even earlier on that he was a terrible liar and that he didn't put much thought into what came out of his mouth, not even when his life was literally on the line. He just didn't have it in him, it seemed.
For good or ill, he could be counted on to be honest
That was the only thing that made his acerbic manners easier to take -- Rodney wasn't so much mean as he was honest. Just, brutally so.
"He doesn't really think about it," Sheppard explained to Major Lorne the afternoon following their successful return from the planet where they'd found Ronon. "It just comes out, you know? His brain's too busy thinking about important stuff to worry about small stuff like, oh, courtesy and politeness and, you know, tact."
"So no one calls him on it?" Lorne wanted to know, adjusting to the strange knowledge that his commanding officer didn't seem to be mind that McKay often unleashed his acidically acerbic tone on him.
"There's no point," Sheppard advised. "And, upside? He can't lie to save his life. I like to make him pay for it on poker nights."
"Sir?"
Something in Sheppard's face relaxed. "Just cut him some slack, okay?"
"Why?"
Sheppard headed down the hall, and Lorne though he wasn't going to answer
"You'll see," he called back over his shoulder, just as the lift doors closed behind him.
A month after he began his tour on Atlantis, Lorne had been saved from death twice by McKay, another time by one of McKay's plans put into action by someone else, and he'd won 250 bucks, an iPod and four pounds of chocolate off the scientist in the three weekly card games he'd played in.
Like Sheppard, Lorne found himself not minding how many times McKay used him as the proverbial whetstone for his cutting wit.
Sometimes it was even a little comforting, in the face of everything else.
*
Although she didn't claim to understand him, even after years of acquaintance, Lisa Cuddy knew one thing about House: no one should never ask him for an honest opinion if they didn't want one. More often than not, he gave them without provocation; to solicit one in the face of his silence was like asking for him to pull the trigger on the gun when he had it pointed at your head. Anyone who did, she'd decided a long time ago, deserve the wailing and gnashing and bloodshed it inevitably led to.
She couldn't quite understand how Wilson put up with it -- the barbs, the snipes, the sickeningly direct commentary on his life-choices. Sometimes she'd wince in sympathy for the oncologist when she caught wind of whatever declaration House was making and it hit with painful accuracy on whatever topic the hospital grapevine was buzzing about the young doctor. Divorces. Affairs. Emotional breakdowns.
Cuddy didn't often give much credence to gossip in most cases but in those where House and the nurses were in agreement on some happening in Wilson's life -- since there was very little chance that they were gossiping together -- she knew that there was some truth behind it.
House wielded words and his so-called honesty like he wielded his cane; sometimes, they were supportive, necessary, an ugly reminder of the unfairness of life while at others, they were weapons -- knives and swords sharpened to draw blood with little effort, aimed and honed to hit the vulnerable areas to draw blood swiftly.
And she didn't mean things like his snipes about her clothes, her breasts, or her job. She knew those little barbs for what they were. They were outrageous enough, tasteless enough to be harmless, all wit and humor and shock -- no heat behind them, no pain to follow when they slid into the skin like a stiletto.
She didn't understand how Wilson could live with quiet cuts and frightful honesty; Cuddy knew she couldn't. House was tiresome enough when he was being House about the clinic or about his patients or even about Stacy. To also have to share her private life for his public amusement and derision would've been too much for her.
As far as she was concerned, that was the reason that Wilson was worthy of sainthood, even if he was Jewish.
"How can you stand it?" she'd asked him one night, idly, with awe in her voice and a bit of guilt, too. She knew she didn't make it any easier for him -- for either of them -- but that was her own pathology, to be dissected at her leisure.
"Stand what?" Wilson had asked her, genuinely unsure of what she was talking about, despite the fact that House had just limped past them, spitting vitriol until he was out of earshot.
"Him."
Wilson shrugged. "You'd be surprised what you can live with."
It wasn't much an answer, she'd decided, but it was the only one she'd been able to get. Cuddy decided that it was one of those mysteries that she'd just have to live with, silently waiting for the day that she'd have to pull the knife from Wilson's back when House's honesty went just a little too deep.
4. Piano
It wasn't until he came back to Earth for leave that Sheppard realized how much Atlantis had become home. Everything felt odd back on terra firma, even things that shouldn't, things that were as tied to Atlantis as he was.
Things like Rodney McKay.
Had they been on Atlantis, there wouldn't have been any of the strange tension that hung between them as they sat in a quiet bar somewhere in the Springs; they'd have been talking, laughing, joking -- something. Instead, they sat beside each other at the bar in awkward silence, Sheppard feeling strange and thinking Rodney looked strange since they were both dressed in civilian clothes.
It hadn't been until they'd sat down to order that Sheppard had realized that he had no idea what kind of alcohol Rodney preferred when he had real choices, even though he did know that the scientist preferred Sarmosian wine to the hooch that the Athosian men made from their extra grain.
Sheppard was drinking a beer from a cold bottle and Rodney was staring down into the depths of his vodka like it was going to reveal something earth-shattering to him, like the location of another ZPM or the secret to defeating the Wraith.
In one of the empty corners of the mostly empty bar there was a rickety old piano, its seat empty. Rodney's eyes wandered over there every time he looked from his drink and, after a few more minutes of awkwardness, Sheppard noticed that McKay had wandered over it too, drink in hand.
When Rodney sat down on the splintery bench, Sheppard followed.
Rodney hit a few keys cautiously, as if testing its sound.
"Gonna play us a little ditty?" Sheppard asked, taking a drink from his bottle.
McKay looked up from the keys and he sized Sheppard up with his eyes. "I could," he told him. "What are you in the mood for? Bach? Beethoven? Something with no social value like that noise you listen to when you work out?"
"Johnny Cash is classic," he objected. "And so is Winger."
McKay snorted and shook his head. "If you have a request, Colonel, speak now or forever hold your piece."
Rodney looked right, sitting at that piano, Sheppard realized, slumped over the keys like he might have been if he'd been slumped over his laptop if he'd been back at his labs on Atlantis. He definitely looked more at home there than he had slumped at the bar, nursing his vodka and looking ill-at-ease.
Sheppard couldn't explain why he suddenly felt like some invisible force was trying to knock the breath out of him but he managed to choke out, "...actually, you remember that tune the Athosians played at the last harvest festival? Think you can play that, McKay?"
The tension seemed to seep out of Rodney at his request and he grinned up at him, his fingers nimbly stretching over the keys. "I'm sure I can approximate it enough for the likes of you, Sheppard."
Sheppard grinned back. "Let's hear it then."
As McKay's talented fingers moved over the keys and the notes of alien song filled the air, Sheppard finally found himself feeling at home for the first time since he'd stepped back through to this galaxy.
*
For all of his apparent sophistication, James Wilson wasn't a connoisseur of music -- at least, not compared to House.
He liked music -- didn't everyone? -- and he bought the CDs he liked and listened to them when he thought to stick them in his player. And when he was in the car listening to the radio, he'd crank up the volume on an old song that reminded him of high school or college or Canada and he'd bask in the nostalgia while singing along with the stereo. And, sometimes, he'd even get a strange wisp of a tune stuck in his head and it would drive him crazy until he placed it and listened it to just one more time.
But everyone did those kinds of things. Music was music.
Wilson enjoyed music like he did anything else but he didn't revel in it, didn't absorb it in through his skin or his ears or his fingers nor did he ooze it like sweat through his pores or rhythm in his steps.
He didn't live the music -- not like House did.
And he certainly didn't have any talent for it. A long time ago, Wilson had tried taking up an instrument; but, like so many other things, he'd started only to abandon it, a little skill for his trouble but no mastery, no passion for it lingering beyond that first, initial period. When he'd relegated the old guitar back to the confines of his closet, House had sneered at him and pointed out that the honeymoon period was over and that it was sad that Wilson couldn't commit to anything, including inanimate objects.
Anything except medicine and their screwed-up friendship, that is; Wilson didn't bother reminding him because he knew that House would always remember that, no matter what he said that might've seemed to contradict it.
On nights that he lingered over at House's apartment, Wilson liked it when House sat at the piano and played. It wasn't something that happened all that often -- not nights where House actually played. Most nights he plucked at keys and strung a few notes together to occupy while his hands while he thought, fingers moving almost detached from his brain. Wilson could usually recognize the tune if he strung enough of them together, especially when it was something well-known and easy to place.
No, those weren't the nights that he liked. Wilson preferred the nights where nothing -- or perhaps everything? -- was on House's mind except the music and it worked in tandem with his fingers to coax it from the piano keys the same way he practiced medicine, skillfully, surprisingly, with unusual results. Sitting on the couch, watching his friend hunched over the piano keys, his ears filled with whatever notes cluttered House's head that particular night, Wilson could relax, enjoy the music and his friend's company in that simple, still way one rarely could when their time involved Greg House.
"That was good," he told him one night after he finished a particularly interesting piece of music. It was vaguely familiar to Wilson, enough to be entertaining but not enough for him to actually recognize it. It might've simply been something he'd heard House play before.
House nodded at the empty glass sitting on the piano's smooth surface. "Tips are appreciated, drink refills even more so."
Wilson rolled his eyes, watching House's hands slow as they moved over the keys, fading away some as he thought about where to take them next, what song to play next. "You want a tip?" Wilson asked him faintly. "Get it yourself." He eyed the decanter meaningfully, silently pointing out that it was much closer to the piano than it was to the couch on which he was sprawled.
"But what fun would that be?" House asked him, fingers becoming surer as he decided on his next set. The music was soft and slow and deliberate and it made Wilson think of a musical jewelry box his mother had once owned. "And I'm busy entertaining you. Don't I get anything for my trouble?"
"The satisfaction of a job well done?" Wilson intoned, smiling at House's exaggerated eye-roll.
"Like that's a reason to do something," he murmured, distracted as he became absorbed in the music he was playing. "Next you'll be saying that's a reason to work hard, too."
Wilson didn't bother with any comeback other than an amused snort. He could see the lines of House's body change, indicating that he was becoming attuned with the intricate notes he was playing, that he was being carried away to whatever place the music took him, in spite of the pain in his leg or whatever issues usually kept him sharp and brittle. His eyes were half-closed and his fingers moved with an agility he no longer possessed anywhere away from the piano seat.
Wilson settled with a contented sigh; he didn't live the music but he could live it through House.
5. The ever-present boy best friend
Rodney McKay had never been the 'friend' type -- the 'lab partner' type, maybe, and especially the 'arrogant bastard, ignore him' type but he'd never been one to form friendships with colleagues that spilled over into their recreational time. It had been surprising enough that he got along so well with Elizabeth and Carson in Antarctica; he certainly hadn't expected to form any other lasting bonds, especially not in the 'buddy' sense.
It was for this reason that it took him awhile to figure out why, no matter what he was doing or where he was, Major Sheppard always showed up.
In the beginning, it had been frankly disconcerting to have the major show up underfoot every time he turned around, even when he was off-duty. McKay had wondered more than once if the major just lacked the ability to entertain himself.
McKay was a constantly busy man; whether he was working or relaxing, he always had something he needed to be doing, something that was worth his attention. The lab, the city itself, his own tiny quarters, the mess -- if he was there, he had a purpose that involved him getting something done. So he found it inconceivable that Sheppard seemed to spend so much of his downtime standing around idle -- in the lab, in the corridors, in the mess, wherever Rodney seemed to be at the moment.
"Are you just that bored?" McKay asked him, finally. "You don't have anything better to do than to stand around and get in my way?"
"Well, I could if I could pry you out of the labs once in awhile," he said dryly. "Let's go watch a movie or something."
"Or something?"
"Just something that's not -- this."
After a dozen or so instances of being cajoled into doing 'something that's not -- this,' McKay finally realized that what Sheppard had been pestering him to do was -- hang out. Not that they didn't do it every so often as a team but this was different; one-on-one, general geek-ness abounding in ways they couldn't with Ford or Teyla around as they watched bad old sci-fi or sat around mocking their fellows in the time-honored ways of the smugly superior.
"He's an idiot," Sheppard bitched as they loitered in the mess hall late one night, studiously dividing the last of their junk food rations. They were sharing a package of Twix bars that Sheppard had brought and the four squares McKay had left of his last Cadbury Fruit and Nut.
"They're all idiots," McKay reminded him, taking ridiculously small bites of his candy to make it last longer. "You're just figuring this out?"
"Now, Rodney," Sheppard objected chidingly. "Not all of us are idiots. What about me?"
"Well, you are marginally less stupid than most of the military," he admitted. "And you have the good taste of choosing to associate with me, so...I guess you're alright. On the average. Comparatively."
"It's nice to know that my best friend thinks so highly of me," he drawled dryly. "I think I might even cry in the face of such feeling."
McKay rolled his eyes, secretly pleased that he had earned such an honorific as 'best friend,' and tossed a bit of crumbled nut at the major who only grinned back at him, teeth brown with melted chocolate.
It was one of the most surprising advantages to arise from the Atlantis expedition; it certainly beat out the constant death and danger and the Wraith as things to be glad of. Sometimes when he really tried to order them, Rodney couldn't decide which was best -- his strange kinship with Sheppard or his artificial ATA gene. His ATA gene let him open doors and work with technology and generally mock Kavanagh at every turn, a delight in itself. But doing this friend thing was rewarding in its own way which he would've never given it credit for before he'd met Sheppard.
But for all the joy he got from opening doors and mocking Kavanagh and generally being the smartest man on the planet, there was something to be said for slowing down and watching stupid movies and throwing bottle caps off the landings and lounging around until the early hours of the morning discussing such earth-shattering fare as the artistic merits of air bands and everything else small and silly and idle that they'd ever done to waste an hour.
So maybe Sheppard won out in the end. Maybe. Comparatively.
And maybe McKay wasn't so bad at being the 'friend' type as he'd always thought.
*
"Don't you have a home?" House asked Wilson one night, glancing up significantly at the clock and then back to his friend's face.
Wilson raised an eyebrow. "Of course I do," he told him.
"I'm not so sure," House returned, his own eyebrows raised in mock-speculation.
"And why is that?" he asked, patient resignation in his voice as he played along. Wilson knew him well enough to know that he was building toward something, one of his usual 'honest' observations but he was friend enough to go along with it, even though he could tell that it would be at his expense.
It was one of the reasons that House liked him so much.
"Because you're always here," House went on to point out, heaving himself up from the couch. He crossed the floor in a couple of hobbling strides until he was seated on the piano bench.
Wilson snorted and shifted on the couch, deliberately taking up the room made available by House's exit. He also leaned forward to grab the remote and mute the television. "And wouldn't that have something to do with always being invited?"
House grinned at the dry slyness in his friend's voice, at the subtle sarcasm. Everyone else seemed to think that Wilson was always nice and polite and kind to kittens but House knew better. In fact, he thought everyone should have known better -- after all, how could he be friends without someone who was always sugar and light? He would've been bored out of his mind in hours, let alone years of friendship.
He waved Wilson's observation away. "I know you have an address," he continued, "but you never seem to be present at it. Whenever I'm at the hospital, you're there. When I'm not, you're here. Really, it's sadly predictable."
"And yet I keep showing up every morning in clean clothes, surprisingly refreshed," Wilson noted, rising to his feet. He still had that resigned half-smile on his face. On someone else for someone else, House might've labeled it indulgent.
House was seated at the piano but he was half-turned away from the keys, eyes focused on as he stood and straightened. "You keep them in the car," he stated sagely. "Nothing but bags and bags of drab suits and piles of ridiculous ties in the trunk of the Volvo." He raised an eyebrow and looked significantly at Wilson's head. "Well, that and a battery of hair care products that would make Cuddy envious."
"Well, look at the time," Wilson said with false surprise as he checked his watch. "It's been fun as always but I think it's time I headed home."
"If you had one, it would be," House put in. "But I'm still not sure it exists."
Wilson rolled his eyes.
Just like everyone was wrong about the shining goodness that lived at Wilson's core -- it was so not shiny goodness, he'd checked -- they were usually off-the-mark about the way he treated him. They -- Cuddy and Cameron and Stacy, mostly -- seemed to think that he was unfailingly cruel to his only friend, as if a few penetrating and true comments about his failed marriages, ugly ties and his quietly self-destructive pathologies were enough to send Wilson the delicate flower into some kind of tailspin of sorrow. They seemed to forget that Dr. James Wilson was a gifted oncologist and he was trained to deal in hopelessness and misery every day.
It was probably one of the reasons that he liked House so much.
"See you later," Wilson told him firmly, heading for the front door as he scooped up his keys.
House slid around until he was facing the piano keys, hands plucking at the them without much intent. "No need for that," he called out to him as he heard the door finally open.
"Oh?" Wilson's voice hovered near the door, expectant and ready to be amused.
"It's late, you're drunk, I need a ride to work in the morning," House pointed out. "You might as well stay here."
"Really?" He didn't turn to his friend but he could hear the front door close, could hear the thud of Wilson leaning against it.
"I'll even let you sleep on the couch," House offered, still watching as his hands began to tap out a jazzy tune on the piano.
"How noble of you," Wilson observed sarcastically but he was sitting back down, stretching out and getting comfortable, reaching for his unfinished beer.
House shrugged, glancing over his shoulder until his gaze met Wilson's dark half-lidded eyes. "If you're really nice to me, I might even let you plug in your hair dryer in the morning."
Wilson couldn't contain it any longer and he laughed, shaking his head. "How can I turn that down?"
"You can't," House stated smugly, getting caught up in his jazzy tune. "Now, shut up and listen like a good little captive audience."
What everyone else didn't know was that the day that Greg House was unfailingly polite and kind to James Wilson was the day that Wilson would know that House was up to something no good.
It was also the day that he'd be right about it, too.
It might've look screwed-up from either side of the equation, but it worked for them.
House didn't see a need to bother fixing something that wasn't broken.
THE END.