The Boy Next Door CH8
Author: resm
Pairing: None. House-Wilson strong friendship
Disclaimer: do not own
Summary: House trying to adjust to a regressive Wilson after misc. accident
Unbeta'd so please forgive me. Hopefully not too OOC
This is largely inspired by / borrowed from a clip of one of RSL's film's (Boys Next Door) which you can find here:
www.youtube.com/watch
Previous chapters: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven
~ Chapter 8 ~
House knocks on Wilson's bedroom door, “Are you making any progress in there?” he asks as way of warning before turning the knob and poking his head in. Cuddy can see him from the couch and she has to bite back a smile when her Head of Diagnostics heaves a melodramatic sigh and slips in around the half-closed door awkwardly, his cane almost tripping him up.
She bounces the young Rachel on her knee and coos at the child over House's annoyed “You're still not dressed yet?!” booming from the far-off room. “You're not even close to ready!”
“Yes, that's right. They're silly boys, aren't they?” Cuddy smiles into her daughter's face, and Rachel seems to concur with a delightful little squeal as she raises one of her chubby arms to clump around a fistful of her mother's hair now en route to her practically-toothless mouth, “No, no...”
House limps into view as she's trying to disentangle her curls from the infant's grip, “He's been sitting in there this whole time in his underwear,” he uses his cane to point behind himself, ratting his friend out to Cuddy as if she's everybody's universal 'mommy.' “Arranging his old medical journals into rows across the floor in lieu of dominoes. That's a full half hour he's wasted! Boxers. Socks. That's all!”
She wants to tell him to calm down because he's certainly not being himself, but she understands where his anxiousness stems from. He's probably the only living entity that can make Wilson relaxed - or scared - enough to concentrate on what he's supposed to be doing; and if Wilson won't even co-operate in simply getting dressed then they have no hope. Even if she did have the power to motivate Wilson into action, she doesn't think it's entirely appropriate for her to see a former employee and good friend half-naked.
“Go help him,” she encourages softly, knowing she would have an easier time getting him to commit to an hour in the clinic. “His brother's going to be here any minute.”
Peter Wilson, from what they can remember from James' wedding receptions, is a reserved man - if a little aloof - but not unlike his kid brother whom he has a full decade over. They are not close. Nor were they ever close. All three brothers attended the same boarding school during their teenage years, but Peter had already graduated and went on to study Law overseas in England before Wilson was through elementary.
By the time he finished university and received his Bachelor of Laws, he had fallen in love with London, or with a girl, whichever came first, and his life in New Jersey was no more. As a child, Wilson had grown accustomed to only ever spending time with his brother during the holidays; and as adults visitations have become even more infrequent.
Their relationship, they both know, is one of obligation to the other. They send cards at major holidays. They get drunk together when Peter makes his annual flight home. They airmail presents out come birthdays and apologise for not being there in person. They talk on the phone for thirty minutes once a month; and, occasionally, Peter may call him for an impromptu medical opinion say one of his children falls ill, just as Wilson touched base for legal advise during all three divorce periods.
“Him making the effort with Wilson now doesn't undo the fact that he never once tried with Daniel,” House feigns concern.
But Cuddy sees right through him, “You don't care about Daniel Wilson,” she reminds him with a patient bat of the eyelashes.
“They don't know each other on any substantial kind of level. I'm more of a brother to Jimmy than he is. Do you - you seriously think it's fair or clever reintroducing them like this? Wilson's already a bundle of nerves as it is, he... he needs time apart from people. And people need to be warned before they spend time with him! Man-child's a nightmare...”
“Stop calling him that. And God forbid you aren't the centre of his universe,” she teases. “You just care about what Peter's going to report back to their mom and dad. Look, we're going to prove that James is better off here. In fact, we're not going to have to prove anything. James can prove that all by himself.”
House flounders, wanting to say something more, wanting to remind her that taking care of Wilson for the past week has hardly been a walk in the park, that maybe he shouldn't be here; but instead he just stares critically at Rachel happily clapping her pudgy little hands.
“What's the matter, Lucas get bored playing patty-cake?”
“He's working and I couldn't get a hold of the sitter. Is that what Wilson has you play?”
“Only in the tub,” he replies sardonically.
Cuddy hugs around her daughter's middle and tilts her head in thought. She knows that he thinks he's barely keeping his and Wilson's head above water, and she knows that he only agreed to let her sit in on Wilson's little play-date with Peter to stop him from saying or doing something incredibly insensitive for fear of Peter running to their parents and hauling Wilson back with him. Even though Raymond Wilson, their father, as good as emancipated his son the second he grabbed and shook him violently for incorrectly holding a golf club and failing to take the shot.
She knows House holds himself accountable for Wilson's little episodes, and he probably should considering the vague way he describes them - the burning of Wilson's right hand; the temper tantrum that resulted in him breaking a plate and forcing House to bring him into work only to fight with him there again.
Although she promised that he could group his team around a speaker phone all week, she advised him to drop out of the case just until Peter returns home because Wilson arguably needs him more than the patient does right now. She understands that she's required to make certain allowances for him because it is hard. It is. It's bound to be. But House's guilt isn't going to be pacified by rationale, even though he has a habit of brow-beating people with his own logic.
“House, just go make sure he's wearing the suit we picked out.”
House's eyes snap away from Rachel and he stares at Cuddy for a beat before nodding once and moving off. When he makes his way into Wilson's bedroom again, although this time unannounced, he takes a seat on the bed and stretches his legs out, inwardly proud that this time his friend has made progress and is buttoning the last of his shirt up. Wilson smiles shyly at him, his tongue working his bottom lip like it normally does.
“Well, you certainly look more like yourself with that new haircut, don't you?”
Wilson turns towards the mirror on the panel of his wardrobe and nods at his reflection in answer to House's rhetorical question. He swallows and mumbles quietly to himself as his shaking hands hinder him from fixing the clasp of his dress pants. He clenches and then unclenches his fists, gives them a little shake, licks his lips and then tries again. This time, succeeding.
House smiles, “Hey, don't forget your fly, Jimbo.”
Wilson wipes at his eye and drags a hand through his hair, tousling it despite House's compliment. He's still muttering incoherently as he zips himself up.
House clears his throat and picks up the two ties draped over one of the pillows that Cuddy has already pre-approved to go along with his black suit: a two-toned blue pinstripe and a bright red one infused in a diamond pattern. He's slow on his feet as he comes to a stop before Wilson and brandishes both articles of neckwear in a fist, waving them in front of his face tauntingly like one might do to a dog with its bone, “Pick one, champ.”
“Don't want to wear a jacket,” Wilson says, catching the blue one dancing in front of him.
“Well, I am,” House keeps his tone light, and true enough he's made an effort to stuff his dark blazer on over his desperately wrinkled grey shirt. Wilson's eyes linger on House's open collar where a t-shirt is just visible. “But I'll tell you what. You can wear one of your ridiculously dorky-looking sweater-vests and we'll call it even, okay?”
Wilson, figuring that he's somehow won the argument, nods vigorously and returns to his wardrobe. He thrusts the doors open and pulls out a maroon one, “Not that one. Unless we have to convince Petey-boy you've gone colour blind as well.” Wilson sighs and drags a dark navy one from its hanger. He turns on his heel eagerly, holding it up in front of his chest. “It'll do,” House barely has time to grind out before Wilson's head disappears inside it triumphantly.
“And what about the tie?”
Wilson's face falls as he remembers the blue silk still dangling in his hand, “Uh... well, it's okay, House. I... I'll just be like you and not wear one.”
“Nice try, give it here.”
He snaps his fingers and holds out a palm. Wilson deposits the tie like he's told and cocks his head to the side when House slips it around his own neck, fastens it correctly and then pulls at the knot so that he can remove it again. He limps forward and flicks Wilson's collar up from out of the vest and tightens it around him securely, then tucks it down his front and replaces his collar neatly.
Wilson turns to the mirror for confirmation and smiles at House's face in the glass appreciatively, who is standing just beyond his shoulder. House grunts his reply and, satisfied, moves for the door, “Right, come on you. And don't be worried about loosening the thing if it gets too tight or uncomfortable, okay? It's just that Cuddy would prefer that you wear one today, that's all. I think that's the only reason she's here, pal. She's seen what I consider formal and doesn't want me rubbing off on you too much.”
“Loosen. Won't forget.”
“Hmm?”
“To loosen.”
House squints at him, taking in his whole appearance properly. The shoes are polished. The shirt-and-tie combo don't make him look like a poster child for icecream vendors unlike his ill-informed choices months ago. The sweater-vest pays homage to his old nerdy self. His face... he's lost the plump rosy cheeks that have been hiding his naturally chiselled features for the past few years. But with the sickly pallor, he looks more gaunt if anything. With this in mind, the clothes, however formal, seem to sag on him as if House has drenched him in his own attire.
“You've lost weight,” he says objectively.
“You've... gained weight,” Wilson retorts, frowning.
House rolls his eyes and approaches him again, “Yes but you've lost weight,” he pinches at the belt hoops of Wilson's trousers, then whips the pants downwards in one fluid motion. They drop around his ankles and for a second he stands there in disbelief, looking down at his check-patterned boxers.
He realises that they match his tie as he bends to grab at the waistband of the pants and yanks them back up around his hips again. Embarrassment seeps in at being so exposed even though House has seen him in his boxers on numerous occasions - ten minutes ago, in fact. He's even seen him in his birthday suit, thanks to House's unforgiving humour during the two separate stag parties he was able to throw for his best fr-victim.
“What - what - what was that for?” Wilson stutters, blushing a keen shade of pink.
“We need to find you a belt. You used to have plenty of belts,” House answers casually, losing himself in the closet. He returns empty-handed and limps over to the bedside cabinet where Wilson keeps his excess clothes, “Aha! Here. Make sure you buckle it up nice and tight too. We wouldn't want your drawers to drop in front of Cuddy, would we?”
“Unless she's planning on pantsing me,” Wilson glares at him, unamused, “I think I'm safe.”
“Just shut up and fix it round you,” House says levelly, tossing a black belt at him. “And you may run a comb through your hair again while you're at it.”
“I know to,” he huffs, snatching the belt and threading it through it's first hoop. “I know to brush my hair. Like you even care... state of you - ah!” he screams, “Cuddy!” He tries to fight House off who has decided it would be rather funny to take him into a headlock and muss up his hair even more so. “Get - stop - Cuddy!”
Cuddy starts up from the couch when Wilson's crowing reaches her ears and she's about ready to storm into his bedroom with Rachel on her hip to separate the double act, not knowing who the bigger child is, when the apartment's buzzer sounds, “House, stop tormenting him, Peter's here!”
“Now why would you automatically assume that I'm in the wrong?” House exits the bedroom to find Cuddy telling Peter to come on up whilst buzzing him in. He steps aside to allow Wilson room to emerge from hiding and show off his clothes to Cuddy. However, he remains hovering in his doorway, unsure where to look.
“Oh, very fetching,” Cuddy compliments with a warm smile, “If I wasn't already spoken for I could just eat you all up.” Wilson attempts a smile in return but it falls on the side of pathetic so he gives up, instead swallowing the thick lump in his throat and already begins to pull nervously on his collar.
House draws his hand away and keeps hold of it, using it to guide him towards their couch. Cuddy bites back a smirk and opens the door to an equally nervous Peter when she hears his polite little knock, knock against the front door.
“Hello, come in,” she smiles like an idiot at the well-apparelled brother and thanks herself for insisting Wilson dress up for the occasion too. “How was your flight?”
“Uh, yes,” Peter fumbles, clearly expecting someone else to greet him. “I'm terribly sorry. Yes, it was... ahem, fine. I'm here to see James?” He drinks in the sight of the small child and fears that perhaps there's a fourth engagement he was never told about or maybe James just sucked at maths.
Cuddy makes an extra special effort to widen her smile whilst reintroducing herself and Peter seems instantly relieved, “Oh, Lisa? Yes, I believe we met at my brother's... last two weddings. Sorry, Dr Cuddy,” he corrects himself.
“Lisa's fine,” she laughs him off. “James is just through here.”
Peter takes a breath to compose himself, his father's lecture still running circuits through his mind. Although he has a lot of respect for the man, he has already deliberated that he isn't going to heed much of what he has learned about his younger brother. He would sooner find out for himself. Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he follows Cuddy through to the main living area of the open-planned loft.
He stops immediately and wheezes a silent laugh when he sees James sitting beside Greg with his hands clutched together in his lap, and he looks just how he remembers him. In fact, he looks good. He looks really good. Considering their father had him partially convinced that James could do nothing short of drool and slur and drag his feet, it's hard to believe that the dear boy had to give up his medical practice.
He notices that Greg has to tap James' shin with his cane to prompt him to rise and when he does, it's clear that James doesn't exactly know what to do next, “Do you... you do recognise me, don't you, James?”
“Peter,” James answers softly. Greg brings a fist to his mouth and clears his throat behind it in an obviously rehearsed fashion, but he's looking in the other direction and not at the brothers at all. Upon his cough, James extends his hand out.
Peter smiles, stepping forward to shake his hand which gradually turns into a clumsy sort of man-hug as he envelopes an arm around him and pats him awkwardly on the back. He was never into physical contact himself if he's being honest, he always finds that he's a little stiff in his execution. But to be able to hold his little brother in his arms right now, no matter how detached they've always been, it's comforting. Even if James stands stonily beneath him.
“It's so good to see you again. You don't know how worried we - Celia, the kids and I have been,” Peter explains, stepping back to take everything in. He pushes a hand into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and pulls out a card. “Little Jessica made this for you in school, James, but she had her sister and brothers sign it too.”
Wilson accepts the coloured card and opens it up. His tongue pushes the inside of his bottom lip and he blinks rapidly and jerks his head every now and then as he reads over his nieces and nephews' well-wishes, “To the bestest Uncle Jamesy,” James recites, looking up into Peter's optimistic face.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “You know, they think the world of you.”
“Bestest isn't a real word,” James concludes seriously and folds the card closed. “But tell them thanks.”
Chapter Nine
Pairing: None. House-Wilson strong friendship
Disclaimer: do not own
Summary: House trying to adjust to a regressive Wilson after misc. accident
Unbeta'd so please forgive me. Hopefully not too OOC
This is largely inspired by / borrowed from a clip of one of RSL's film's (Boys Next Door) which you can find here:
www.youtube.com/watch
Previous chapters: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven
~ Chapter 8 ~
House knocks on Wilson's bedroom door, “Are you making any progress in there?” he asks as way of warning before turning the knob and poking his head in. Cuddy can see him from the couch and she has to bite back a smile when her Head of Diagnostics heaves a melodramatic sigh and slips in around the half-closed door awkwardly, his cane almost tripping him up.
She bounces the young Rachel on her knee and coos at the child over House's annoyed “You're still not dressed yet?!” booming from the far-off room. “You're not even close to ready!”
“Yes, that's right. They're silly boys, aren't they?” Cuddy smiles into her daughter's face, and Rachel seems to concur with a delightful little squeal as she raises one of her chubby arms to clump around a fistful of her mother's hair now en route to her practically-toothless mouth, “No, no...”
House limps into view as she's trying to disentangle her curls from the infant's grip, “He's been sitting in there this whole time in his underwear,” he uses his cane to point behind himself, ratting his friend out to Cuddy as if she's everybody's universal 'mommy.' “Arranging his old medical journals into rows across the floor in lieu of dominoes. That's a full half hour he's wasted! Boxers. Socks. That's all!”
She wants to tell him to calm down because he's certainly not being himself, but she understands where his anxiousness stems from. He's probably the only living entity that can make Wilson relaxed - or scared - enough to concentrate on what he's supposed to be doing; and if Wilson won't even co-operate in simply getting dressed then they have no hope. Even if she did have the power to motivate Wilson into action, she doesn't think it's entirely appropriate for her to see a former employee and good friend half-naked.
“Go help him,” she encourages softly, knowing she would have an easier time getting him to commit to an hour in the clinic. “His brother's going to be here any minute.”
Peter Wilson, from what they can remember from James' wedding receptions, is a reserved man - if a little aloof - but not unlike his kid brother whom he has a full decade over. They are not close. Nor were they ever close. All three brothers attended the same boarding school during their teenage years, but Peter had already graduated and went on to study Law overseas in England before Wilson was through elementary.
By the time he finished university and received his Bachelor of Laws, he had fallen in love with London, or with a girl, whichever came first, and his life in New Jersey was no more. As a child, Wilson had grown accustomed to only ever spending time with his brother during the holidays; and as adults visitations have become even more infrequent.
Their relationship, they both know, is one of obligation to the other. They send cards at major holidays. They get drunk together when Peter makes his annual flight home. They airmail presents out come birthdays and apologise for not being there in person. They talk on the phone for thirty minutes once a month; and, occasionally, Peter may call him for an impromptu medical opinion say one of his children falls ill, just as Wilson touched base for legal advise during all three divorce periods.
“Him making the effort with Wilson now doesn't undo the fact that he never once tried with Daniel,” House feigns concern.
But Cuddy sees right through him, “You don't care about Daniel Wilson,” she reminds him with a patient bat of the eyelashes.
“They don't know each other on any substantial kind of level. I'm more of a brother to Jimmy than he is. Do you - you seriously think it's fair or clever reintroducing them like this? Wilson's already a bundle of nerves as it is, he... he needs time apart from people. And people need to be warned before they spend time with him! Man-child's a nightmare...”
“Stop calling him that. And God forbid you aren't the centre of his universe,” she teases. “You just care about what Peter's going to report back to their mom and dad. Look, we're going to prove that James is better off here. In fact, we're not going to have to prove anything. James can prove that all by himself.”
House flounders, wanting to say something more, wanting to remind her that taking care of Wilson for the past week has hardly been a walk in the park, that maybe he shouldn't be here; but instead he just stares critically at Rachel happily clapping her pudgy little hands.
“What's the matter, Lucas get bored playing patty-cake?”
“He's working and I couldn't get a hold of the sitter. Is that what Wilson has you play?”
“Only in the tub,” he replies sardonically.
Cuddy hugs around her daughter's middle and tilts her head in thought. She knows that he thinks he's barely keeping his and Wilson's head above water, and she knows that he only agreed to let her sit in on Wilson's little play-date with Peter to stop him from saying or doing something incredibly insensitive for fear of Peter running to their parents and hauling Wilson back with him. Even though Raymond Wilson, their father, as good as emancipated his son the second he grabbed and shook him violently for incorrectly holding a golf club and failing to take the shot.
She knows House holds himself accountable for Wilson's little episodes, and he probably should considering the vague way he describes them - the burning of Wilson's right hand; the temper tantrum that resulted in him breaking a plate and forcing House to bring him into work only to fight with him there again.
Although she promised that he could group his team around a speaker phone all week, she advised him to drop out of the case just until Peter returns home because Wilson arguably needs him more than the patient does right now. She understands that she's required to make certain allowances for him because it is hard. It is. It's bound to be. But House's guilt isn't going to be pacified by rationale, even though he has a habit of brow-beating people with his own logic.
“House, just go make sure he's wearing the suit we picked out.”
House's eyes snap away from Rachel and he stares at Cuddy for a beat before nodding once and moving off. When he makes his way into Wilson's bedroom again, although this time unannounced, he takes a seat on the bed and stretches his legs out, inwardly proud that this time his friend has made progress and is buttoning the last of his shirt up. Wilson smiles shyly at him, his tongue working his bottom lip like it normally does.
“Well, you certainly look more like yourself with that new haircut, don't you?”
Wilson turns towards the mirror on the panel of his wardrobe and nods at his reflection in answer to House's rhetorical question. He swallows and mumbles quietly to himself as his shaking hands hinder him from fixing the clasp of his dress pants. He clenches and then unclenches his fists, gives them a little shake, licks his lips and then tries again. This time, succeeding.
House smiles, “Hey, don't forget your fly, Jimbo.”
Wilson wipes at his eye and drags a hand through his hair, tousling it despite House's compliment. He's still muttering incoherently as he zips himself up.
House clears his throat and picks up the two ties draped over one of the pillows that Cuddy has already pre-approved to go along with his black suit: a two-toned blue pinstripe and a bright red one infused in a diamond pattern. He's slow on his feet as he comes to a stop before Wilson and brandishes both articles of neckwear in a fist, waving them in front of his face tauntingly like one might do to a dog with its bone, “Pick one, champ.”
“Don't want to wear a jacket,” Wilson says, catching the blue one dancing in front of him.
“Well, I am,” House keeps his tone light, and true enough he's made an effort to stuff his dark blazer on over his desperately wrinkled grey shirt. Wilson's eyes linger on House's open collar where a t-shirt is just visible. “But I'll tell you what. You can wear one of your ridiculously dorky-looking sweater-vests and we'll call it even, okay?”
Wilson, figuring that he's somehow won the argument, nods vigorously and returns to his wardrobe. He thrusts the doors open and pulls out a maroon one, “Not that one. Unless we have to convince Petey-boy you've gone colour blind as well.” Wilson sighs and drags a dark navy one from its hanger. He turns on his heel eagerly, holding it up in front of his chest. “It'll do,” House barely has time to grind out before Wilson's head disappears inside it triumphantly.
“And what about the tie?”
Wilson's face falls as he remembers the blue silk still dangling in his hand, “Uh... well, it's okay, House. I... I'll just be like you and not wear one.”
“Nice try, give it here.”
He snaps his fingers and holds out a palm. Wilson deposits the tie like he's told and cocks his head to the side when House slips it around his own neck, fastens it correctly and then pulls at the knot so that he can remove it again. He limps forward and flicks Wilson's collar up from out of the vest and tightens it around him securely, then tucks it down his front and replaces his collar neatly.
Wilson turns to the mirror for confirmation and smiles at House's face in the glass appreciatively, who is standing just beyond his shoulder. House grunts his reply and, satisfied, moves for the door, “Right, come on you. And don't be worried about loosening the thing if it gets too tight or uncomfortable, okay? It's just that Cuddy would prefer that you wear one today, that's all. I think that's the only reason she's here, pal. She's seen what I consider formal and doesn't want me rubbing off on you too much.”
“Loosen. Won't forget.”
“Hmm?”
“To loosen.”
House squints at him, taking in his whole appearance properly. The shoes are polished. The shirt-and-tie combo don't make him look like a poster child for icecream vendors unlike his ill-informed choices months ago. The sweater-vest pays homage to his old nerdy self. His face... he's lost the plump rosy cheeks that have been hiding his naturally chiselled features for the past few years. But with the sickly pallor, he looks more gaunt if anything. With this in mind, the clothes, however formal, seem to sag on him as if House has drenched him in his own attire.
“You've lost weight,” he says objectively.
“You've... gained weight,” Wilson retorts, frowning.
House rolls his eyes and approaches him again, “Yes but you've lost weight,” he pinches at the belt hoops of Wilson's trousers, then whips the pants downwards in one fluid motion. They drop around his ankles and for a second he stands there in disbelief, looking down at his check-patterned boxers.
He realises that they match his tie as he bends to grab at the waistband of the pants and yanks them back up around his hips again. Embarrassment seeps in at being so exposed even though House has seen him in his boxers on numerous occasions - ten minutes ago, in fact. He's even seen him in his birthday suit, thanks to House's unforgiving humour during the two separate stag parties he was able to throw for his best fr-victim.
“What - what - what was that for?” Wilson stutters, blushing a keen shade of pink.
“We need to find you a belt. You used to have plenty of belts,” House answers casually, losing himself in the closet. He returns empty-handed and limps over to the bedside cabinet where Wilson keeps his excess clothes, “Aha! Here. Make sure you buckle it up nice and tight too. We wouldn't want your drawers to drop in front of Cuddy, would we?”
“Unless she's planning on pantsing me,” Wilson glares at him, unamused, “I think I'm safe.”
“Just shut up and fix it round you,” House says levelly, tossing a black belt at him. “And you may run a comb through your hair again while you're at it.”
“I know to,” he huffs, snatching the belt and threading it through it's first hoop. “I know to brush my hair. Like you even care... state of you - ah!” he screams, “Cuddy!” He tries to fight House off who has decided it would be rather funny to take him into a headlock and muss up his hair even more so. “Get - stop - Cuddy!”
Cuddy starts up from the couch when Wilson's crowing reaches her ears and she's about ready to storm into his bedroom with Rachel on her hip to separate the double act, not knowing who the bigger child is, when the apartment's buzzer sounds, “House, stop tormenting him, Peter's here!”
“Now why would you automatically assume that I'm in the wrong?” House exits the bedroom to find Cuddy telling Peter to come on up whilst buzzing him in. He steps aside to allow Wilson room to emerge from hiding and show off his clothes to Cuddy. However, he remains hovering in his doorway, unsure where to look.
“Oh, very fetching,” Cuddy compliments with a warm smile, “If I wasn't already spoken for I could just eat you all up.” Wilson attempts a smile in return but it falls on the side of pathetic so he gives up, instead swallowing the thick lump in his throat and already begins to pull nervously on his collar.
House draws his hand away and keeps hold of it, using it to guide him towards their couch. Cuddy bites back a smirk and opens the door to an equally nervous Peter when she hears his polite little knock, knock against the front door.
“Hello, come in,” she smiles like an idiot at the well-apparelled brother and thanks herself for insisting Wilson dress up for the occasion too. “How was your flight?”
“Uh, yes,” Peter fumbles, clearly expecting someone else to greet him. “I'm terribly sorry. Yes, it was... ahem, fine. I'm here to see James?” He drinks in the sight of the small child and fears that perhaps there's a fourth engagement he was never told about or maybe James just sucked at maths.
Cuddy makes an extra special effort to widen her smile whilst reintroducing herself and Peter seems instantly relieved, “Oh, Lisa? Yes, I believe we met at my brother's... last two weddings. Sorry, Dr Cuddy,” he corrects himself.
“Lisa's fine,” she laughs him off. “James is just through here.”
Peter takes a breath to compose himself, his father's lecture still running circuits through his mind. Although he has a lot of respect for the man, he has already deliberated that he isn't going to heed much of what he has learned about his younger brother. He would sooner find out for himself. Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he follows Cuddy through to the main living area of the open-planned loft.
He stops immediately and wheezes a silent laugh when he sees James sitting beside Greg with his hands clutched together in his lap, and he looks just how he remembers him. In fact, he looks good. He looks really good. Considering their father had him partially convinced that James could do nothing short of drool and slur and drag his feet, it's hard to believe that the dear boy had to give up his medical practice.
He notices that Greg has to tap James' shin with his cane to prompt him to rise and when he does, it's clear that James doesn't exactly know what to do next, “Do you... you do recognise me, don't you, James?”
“Peter,” James answers softly. Greg brings a fist to his mouth and clears his throat behind it in an obviously rehearsed fashion, but he's looking in the other direction and not at the brothers at all. Upon his cough, James extends his hand out.
Peter smiles, stepping forward to shake his hand which gradually turns into a clumsy sort of man-hug as he envelopes an arm around him and pats him awkwardly on the back. He was never into physical contact himself if he's being honest, he always finds that he's a little stiff in his execution. But to be able to hold his little brother in his arms right now, no matter how detached they've always been, it's comforting. Even if James stands stonily beneath him.
“It's so good to see you again. You don't know how worried we - Celia, the kids and I have been,” Peter explains, stepping back to take everything in. He pushes a hand into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and pulls out a card. “Little Jessica made this for you in school, James, but she had her sister and brothers sign it too.”
Wilson accepts the coloured card and opens it up. His tongue pushes the inside of his bottom lip and he blinks rapidly and jerks his head every now and then as he reads over his nieces and nephews' well-wishes, “To the bestest Uncle Jamesy,” James recites, looking up into Peter's optimistic face.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “You know, they think the world of you.”
“Bestest isn't a real word,” James concludes seriously and folds the card closed. “But tell them thanks.”
Chapter Nine