Cats' Corners: the little HOUSE in the woods....

A matter of National Security....

Fri, 16 Jan 2009 22:46:51 GMT

A favorite coffee mug of mine--a lovely glazed light gray ceramic piece of art, with a handle in the shape of a graceful cat, just fell from my hutch, along with a book, a magazine, and two notices from Koda's school. Why does this minor occurrence [even the mug survived the fall] rate a journal entry?

Because the Navy is dropping bombs. LIVE bombs. And has been since 9 January. And will be, between 8:00am and midnight, every day until 25 January, according to this article--which very handily also gives a toll-free number for "noise issues".

It isn't the noise that's bothering me; it's the shuddering house, the rattling windows, the skittish pets--the interminable headache and edginess of the entire experience. The Ocala Forest is about 25 miles away from here, and we're used to the routine bombing practices. But normally, they occur only three or four days per year. And normally, they don't use live ordnance--which, we are rapidly discovering, is much louder and much more effective at vibration-making, than the usual dummy bombs. They're annoying, but tolerable. However. Every freaking day for seventeen days?

My mother points out that it could be worse--we could actually live in Ocala, where more things fall off more hutches, and windows actually break. And I could be out of Ativan. And/or coffee. And/or cigarettes. All I'm really out of, at this point, is patience.

Here is an interesting editorial about the practice; Glenwood, the town in the dateline, is actually where I live, and the author gives a good description of the practice--and saved me from placing what would have been a useless call to the Volusia County Sheriff's Department.

Gawd--there goes another ~~one~~ three. The dog is whimpering in his crate, two cats just raced down the stairs and under the bed, and a small tree limb fell in the yard. Nine more days of this is unthinkable.

Okay. Done ranting. Going now to hide under the bed with the cats.

Wilson's Heart [new one-shot]

Thu, 11 Dec 2008 21:41:11 GMT

WILSON’S HEART

Title: Wilson’s Heart [unrelated to the episode of the same name]
Rating: PG
WordCount: 825
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort
Characters: House, Cuddy, Wilson
TimeLine: After episode 5.01, Dying Changes Everything and up to episode 5.05, Lucky Thirteen
Summary: Wilson has resigned from PPTH. House appears to be handling it in typical fashion—except for one very small thing.

A/N: Short, simple, and predictable—because sometimes, we find comfort in those things.

Shortly after Wilson had told House that they weren’t friends anymore—and, in fact, may never have been—Cuddy happens to spy House, seated on the floor alone, outside Wilson’s newly emptied office. He looks angry and miserable, lost and fidgety—and if rubber bands were living creatures, there’s no doubt in Cuddy’s mind that they’d shortly be holding a funeral for the one House holds in his hand—his fingers are worrying, twisting, torturing it. Cuddy shakes her head and slips away, unseen.

The next day, walking by Wilson’s now-open office door, Cuddy stops when she sees House standing inside, holding something, looking thoughtful. House doesn’t acknowledge her when she walks in and stands beside him; he only mumbles, “Couldn’t have meant to leave this. Must’ve fallen behind a shelf or something. Housekeeping must have found it. He’d want it back. Never did understand why these idiot thingamajigs meant so much to him….”

Cuddy moves in closer, to get a better look at the object which has so entranced House. It’s an almost shapeless, dried blob of clay, apparently meant to represent a heart; it’s painted Pepto-Bismol pink. “Dr. Wilson” has been scrawled in a child’s crooked hand across the front of it in glow-in-the-dark green marker. Cuddy reaches out her hand to take it, but House shakes his head and slips the bauble into his pocket.

“I’ll take care of it,” is all he says as he leaves the room. Cuddy stares after him, sadness in her eyes.

Over the next few days and weeks, Cuddy never knows where the little talisman will appear. Many days, House carries it inside his jacket pocket. Cuddy sees him, hand in pocket, surreptitiously running his fingers over its smooth, childishly-formed contours when he’s deep in thought, or thinks no one’s watching. Other times, when Cuddy knows House is alone, she’ll sneak a careful glance through the blinds and see the heart sitting on his desk, and House, leaning towards it, studying it intently, expectantly. Almost… almost as if they were deep in conversation, and he was awaiting an answer.

One night, after Wilson’s been gone for over three months, House is at the hospital late, in his office, working alone. Cuddy stops in to wish him good night, and something odd catches her eye; there’s a minute, muddy-green glow atop the balcony dividing wall. Cuddy moves casually to the balcony door, pretends to simply be scanning the hospital grounds.

The tiny heart is almost indistinguishable in the darkness; all that’s visible is Wilson’s glowing name—and two shot glasses, both full, one on either side of the heart. It’s the loneliest, most melancholy tableau Cuddy’s ever witnessed.

Two days later, Cuddy figures it out. The small ornament is much, much more than simply a souvenir, a reminder, for House; it’s become his touchstone, his poignant replacement for the heart of a man he’d loved, the only person he’d ever really trusted. It’s no wonder that he keeps the trinket hidden, keeps it safe in the way he couldn’t keep Wilson safe, couldn’t protect their friendship. So Cuddy keeps his secret safe, too.

A month later, Wilson returns, is reinstalled in his office, things are finally beginning to settle down. The second morning, House and Cuddy are in Wilson’s office, the three of them exchanging their usual affectionate barbs. House, who’s been leaning against a bookcase, is paged back to his own office, and after he leaves, Wilson finds his eyes drawn to a bright spot on the bookshelf, uncovered when House had walked away.

“What’s that?” he queries Cuddy; Cuddy recognizes it immediately. Sitting on the upper shelf is the gaudy little heart. Cuddy walks over and picks it up carefully; it’s still warm from having been tucked snugly inside House’s pocket.

“Something House found in here, a while back. He’s been… keeping it safe for you while you’ve been away.” She hands the heart slowly back to Wilson, staring into his eyes, begging him wordlessly to get the message. And he nods, and closes his hand securely around the trinket.

Later that afternoon, Wilson enters House’s office. House looks up curiously from his video game. “What’s up?”

Wilson smiles at his friend. “Not much. Just wanted to return something that belongs in here.” He takes the heart out of his pocket and holds it up for House to see. Then, he places it safely and discreetly into House’s top desk drawer, and turns to leave. “Thanks,” he says as he walks out, “for taking such good care of it for me.”

And House nods, and almost smiles.

Note on previous entry [personal entry]

Thu, 11 Dec 2008 15:08:07 GMT

The previous post, having, I pray, served its purpose, is now under lock and key. If, however, anyone believes that a parent they know might see themselves in it, and benefit from it, I will happily make it available; just PM me. To those who responded in writing, my heartfelt thanks. I did not reply because my purpose was not to seek pity, or even empathy, for myself. My purpose was to make parents who, in these stressful times, might've become as self-absorbed as I was, take another, longer look at their children. And to the many of you who did not reply in writing, but instead said silent prayers or gave your kids that extra kiss--thank you. You are helping to prevent this from happening to another child, another family.

Minimalist Mothering [personal entry]

Sun, 07 Dec 2008 18:11:08 GMT

Bah, humbug.

Christmas will not be cancelled this year; nor will it be postponed. No matter how much I might wish to go to bed tonight, and awaken tomorrow morning to discover that it is January 5th, it's not gonna happen.

But there are several other things that have also not been happening--and are not going to happen--in this household, this year.

Several months ago, several things happened in my life almost simultaneously: I decided it was time to quit smoking; I turned fifty years old; I went off Premarin, thus throwing myself into instant menopause; my mother was diagnosed with lung cancer; my sweet little boy turned, overnight, into a Giant, Attitudinal Hormone. And, somewhere along in all of this mess, I became depressed, and my right leg became worse, and my pain meds became virtually ineffective.

It was at that point that I, a Helicopter Parent [hovering mama] from way back, inadvertently discovered what was, for me, a new style of parenting; I call it Minimalist Mothering, and it is defined as doing just enough. Just enough cleaning to keep the Health Department at bay. Just enough grocery shopping that the Kid can always locate a Toaster Scramble for breakfast, a frozen meal for supper. Just enough laundry that we don't have to go out and buy new underwear once a week. And just enough grounding and discipline and yelling and crying and hugging and loving and cheering that the Kid remembers--occasionally--that there's also a Mom living in his house.

This Christmas, Minimalist Mothering dictates that I will not be driving myself crazy trying to create the warmest, cleanest, most welcoming home in town--you know, the home that always smells of crisp pine needles and freshly baked sugar cookies? I will be happy if I can keep the smell of the senile-old-cat-shit down to a dull roar. And there will be no scent of pine because this year, there is going to be no Christmas tree--and the only cookies you'll find in this house will come from the Publix bakery--if I happen to be passing the bakery counter on my way to the Frozen Meals of Convenience and Neglectful Parenting.

Some traditions will be kept. I will make my annual obscenely large donation to Journey's End, a worthwhile organization for aged, homeless, and disabled former family pets who have been abandoned. [Except for the children, we don't buy gifts in my family; we each donate to the charity of our choice.] And I will purchase for my son a few obscenely expensive electronic gadgets and accessories, about which he will give Not. One. Whit. but which will enable him to brag and look cool in front of his peers.

I will also join with a small portion of my family on Christmas Day, to eat lasagna [provided by the catering department of a local restaurant, and I'd much prefer turkey, myself--and a family who puts a little more 'fun' into 'dysfunctional', but ah well....]] and count our blessings. The way I see it, my family's biggest blessing is that we get to keep my mom for another Christmas--and perhaps many more, as it appears she was surgically cured. And my own biggest blessing is that I made it to age 50 without ever once not having a Christmas tree in a warm, inviting house that had been transformed into a Wonderland for the month of December. Yes, my own Biggest Blessing is that I've never experienced being the child of a Minimalist Mom.

My child deserves more from me this Christmas. More than the latest electronic games, more than the coolest jeans and athletic shoes. My child deserves everything I had when I was his age.

Maybe... just maybe... i could pop an extra pain pill and venture one trip up the stairs? Just to bring down the creche, the candles, a few ornaments... and the Christmas tree?

Project Pix [personal entry]

Mon, 17 Nov 2008 14:54:04 GMT

Okay; the project has been completed, and carried carefully to school--although at one point this morning, I must admit to threatening that if the little darling didn't immediately improve his [very] shitty attitude, I myself would personally stop the vehicle, remove the project board from the backseat, tear it up, and happily scatter it to the four winds. I had the right to do this of course, because guess who wound up putting at least 85% of that board together?

Many thanks, gang, for the support--and a few good laughs--along the way. Without further ado, I present to you The Project Board:

For readability, click on the images--if you care/dare! :)

I Am Pleased.... [personal entry]

Sun, 16 Nov 2008 17:27:49 GMT

Our very own version of the Blooper Reel from Mr. Wizard [aka the Science Fair Project] draws to a close. Well... the experiment portion of it, anyway. Koda ran around with his thermometer, took copious notes, and was amazingly focused on not skewing the results.

And the winner is... ice and water and salt, which brought the temperature of the can of Coke down to 33.5 degrees in a mere 15 minutes.

And the Kid is still alive. And I have ceased whimpering and lovingly fingering shiny sharp objects. So it's all good.

PSA [fair warning]: There will be pictures later.

This WASN'T in What To Expect!!!!! [personal entry]

Sat, 15 Nov 2008 13:39:34 GMT

Just a quick note to God, or the Fates, or Whatever Else might be Out There:

If ANYONE had EVER mentioned SCIENCE FAIR PROJECTS to me, lo, these many years ago,

I WOULD HAVE REMAINED CHILDLESS!

also, there is not enough Ativan on the freakin' planet.

That is all.

Snapped [new one-shot]

Mon, 10 Nov 2008 22:40:03 GMT

Title: Snapped

Genre: Angst

Rating: PG

Characters: House, Wilson, Cuddy

WordCount: 2175

Spoilers: 4.15/4.16; House’s Head/Wilson’s Heart

Summary: Tag for episode 4.16: Wilson’s Heart. He felt when it broke, an actual physical sensation.

A/N: Did you know that blackmare_9 is brilliant? Her suggestions always and magically make my stories say what I want them to say.

The first time House awakens after the deep brain stimulation, he doesn’t want to open his eyes. His first thought is Amber’s going to die—or she’s dead already. God, Wilson, I’m sorry. His second thought is Cuddy’s here. I’m in a hospital bed, and Cuddy’s here. Must be bad.

And then it comes back to him—not in neat, easily-assimilated pieces, and not in a breath-catching rush, either. He just… didn’t know, and then in the next moment he does. The bus collision, the amnesia, the replay of the accident, the cardiac arrest, the return to consciousness with Amber’s name on his lips. The ensuing days, trying to keep Wilson’s girlfriend alive, trying to keep Wilson together. Trying to stay alive himself—not because he wanted to live, but because he’d lived his miserable life by the credo that there is no dignity in death—not even for him. A release? Yes; he’d grant that. But no dignity. And he had to keep trying to stay alive, because Wilson needed him. If it turned out to be his time to die, he’d fight it. He couldn’t die, not until he’d given Amber back to Wilson.

He remembers Wilson’s quietly desperate request, remembers Wilson’s certain nod when House had asked, “You want me to risk my life?”

He’d been relieved when Wilson had nodded; if he risked his life for Wilson, then Wilson would know how much he cared, how hard he was trying. How sorry he was. Then Wilson couldn’t hate him. So he’d undergone the DBS. He remembers sitting in that unyielding chair, his head bolted immobile, trying desperately to shift his eyes to the right, to Wilson, needing just a quick look of reassurance from his friend—but it hadn’t come. So he’d reached into his brain for it—their nexus, the intangible thing that bound them so closely together, that gave House safety. And then he’d seized. Chase had begun shouting for Wilson to help him stabilize House, but that hadn’t been House’s concern, because by then House was back on the bus, with Amber.

She’d been so beautiful, so calm. He’d been distraught. He’d told her that lonely, misanthropic drug addicts were meant to die in bus crashes; she wasn’t. He remembers now that he’d cried without shame, telling her that he couldn’t get off the bus because he didn’t want to be in pain anymore. And because he didn’t want Wilson to hate him.

“You can’t always get what you want,” Amber had reminded him with an enigmatic smile.

So he’d stood up, gotten off that bus with all the dignity he could muster—he had to stick around so he could give Wilson what he needed—even if it meant being the target for Wilson’s anger. House had known he still might die, but even stronger than the ignominy of death itself was his need for Wilson to forgive him, to… not hate him. So he’d strode smoothly away from Amber’s cool serenity, limped brokenly back towards Wilson and the waiting pain.

Because he remembers all of it now, he also knows one thing; he’d failed. He’d not only not given Amber back to Wilson, he’d as good as killed her. He’s sorry now that, this first time awake, he’s closed his eyes again, because the only picture in his mind as he’s pulled back into the sedation are Wilson’s eyes the way they must look right now. The hurt, the surprise, the grief. The pain. Too much pain….

There’s one good thing about his closed eyes, though; in his dark isolation, he can still feel the bond that ties them, each to the other. He’d never put it in words, not even to himself—but it’s something he can feel, even now. It’s a living thing, their bond, maybe the only living thing that survived the crash whole and intact. Normally, he doesn’t acknowledge it; its existence can be a hindrance, an annoyance. Not now, though; now, he needs that unspoken covenant, the way he needs the oxygen and the fluids and the medicines they keep pumping into his body. He returns to his unnatural, medicinal sleep, gratefully feeling the hum of their connection just beneath his skin.

The second time House awakens, Cuddy’s still there; he can hear her breathing quietly, evenly. He opens his eyes and looks at her. Obviously exhausted, curled asleep in the chair by his bed. And still in the same clothes; she hasn’t left him. But they aren’t alone; House senses that someone’s watching him. And there’s Wilson at the door. Standing there uncomfortably, like he doesn’t belong inside his best friend’s hospital room, at his bedside.

House’s speech isn’t really intelligible, sensible yet. So the best he can do is beseech Wilson with his eyes. To come in. To sit down. To… forgive him.

But Wilson only gives him two small, odd smiles. The first seems to say that he’s glad House is improving. The second smile is smaller, and sorrowful, and seems to speak of his loss of Amber. But before House can attempt to get out even a few garbled words, Wilson turns from the door and is gone. House closes his eyes sadly, but the thrum of their connection somehow still beats in his ears.

Wilson comes back several times, of course. He asks all the right medical questions, peruses House’s chart carefully. If his tone is a bit too professional, his manner a little distracted, well, House can understand. He’s here, isn’t he, honoring their bond under difficult circumstances.

They only really talk once. House is still having residual difficulty transferring thought to speech, so conversation is hard work—frustrating and tiring. But House has to try, and he counts on Wilson to be an effective interpreter.

“You doing all… all…”

“I guess I’m all right, House.”

“I’m… gonna… okay… you know… back bot… bot… bother you… no time.” House smiles crookedly.

Wilson stares at him. At first, House thinks it’s because he’s managed to say so many words all at once—but then he realizes that Wilson’s angry. The power of speech leaves him again as Wilson starts to shout.

“You? You? What about Amber, House? Remember her? The woman I loved? You’re gonna make it out of this. You’ve got blood flowing through your veins, air moving in and out of your lungs. Your heart is pumping. And Amber…. So forgive me if this one time I can’t focus all my attention—” Wilson abruptly stops talking, shakes his head fiercely, and storms out of the room while House watches mutely. When Wilson returns a few hours later, neither of them mentions what had occurred. As a matter of fact, they both find it easier, during Wilson’s brief chart-checking visit, not to speak at all.

On the third night, Wilson is alone in the room with him when House begins seizing. It isn’t much; he seems to have simply lost control of the left side of his body, his arm and leg engaged in a macabre dance, his tongue too thick in his mouth to form words. Wilson understands what’s happening, and presses the emergency bell. He tells House in his soothing doctor voice that it’s all right, this isn’t unexpected after all House has been through, it’s only temporary, try to stay calm.

As doctors and nurses and other personnel arrive, House hears Wilson’s cellphone ring. Through the haze of trying to control his own body, his fragmented thoughts, House is very much aware that, mid-crisis, Wilson has left his room. That’s the last clear thought he has before the IV Ativan takes over, and he sleeps.

Later, when the sedation lifts, he doesn’t have to open his eyes to know that Cuddy’s back; he hears the click of her heels as she moves around his bed checking monitors, adjusting lines. But he has a question, so he opens his eyes to let her know he’s awake. Immediately, she’s leaning over him, smiling worriedly. “You’re okay, House. Just a little seizure; the EEG looks good. No—don’t try to talk.”

He ignores her. “Wi—Wil—sss.” He makes a frustrated noise deep in his throat.

“Wilson got a call,” Cuddy says, as House nods impatiently; he knows that.

“Where is….” he croaks out. Cuddy reaches for a cup of water, puts the straw to his lips as she answers.

“The call was from Amber’s parents. The… service was earlier today. They wanted to take Wilson to dinner before they left town.”

“So he’ll… be back soon.” House is happy that he got out an entire sentence, even if it was just above a whisper. But it’s taking so long for Cuddy to respond that House is beginning to wonder if he’d unknowingly garbled the words.

Finally Cuddy answers. “I… I don’t know, House. He didn’t say.” Cuddy avoids looking at him.

After another sip of water, House is ready to talk. “I was seizing when he left; he’ll… be back… he’ll… be worried.”

Cuddy gives him a false smile. “I’m sure you’re right. But he’s got a lot of things on his mind right now, so I wouldn’t be surprised if—”

“’Course he’s got things on his mind,” House interrupts. “His best friend’s in ICU. Get him… a cot. Don’t… don’t want him sitting… up all night… he’s… exhausted….”

“That’s not what I meant,” Cuddy says gently. “It’s not all I meant. Amber—”

“Amber’s dead. I’m not.” Okay, so it sounds… cold, even to House. But it’s the truth. “He’ll be back soon; get… the cot.”

Cuddy stares at him a moment, then leaves the room.

When she returns, she’s followed by two men from Housekeeping; they set up the cot in the corner of the room and then leave. Cuddy walks over to it thoughtfully, idly straightens the linens. “I’ll just stay with you until he gets back, okay?”

House nods at her. He wants to stay awake until Wilson returns, but he’s tired, and he’s still got a lot of Ativan in his system, and maybe he’ll just close his eyes for a few minutes….

In the morning, the first thing House does is open his eyes and look in the direction of the cot, and when he sees the blanketed body, he feels better already. Then the pile of blankets moves, and the body turns over, and it’s Cuddy. When she sees that he’s awake, she gets up and hurries toward his bed.

“I’m sorry; he didn’t get back. Maybe he decided to take the Volakis’ to the airport, or—”

“But he called.” It’s not a question, but Cuddy has to answer it.

“No, House. I’m sure he will, though, when he can.” House has turned away from her; he can sense her discomfort, knows she’s at a loss for words. She rests her hand briefly on his shoulder, but when it tenses under her fingers she sighs and moves away from the bed.

Two hours pass. House pushes away his untouched breakfast tray and refuses to speak to anyone, but he never closes his eyes. At 9:04, his vigilance is rewarded; he sees Wilson out in the hall. He’ll have to come in; House’s chart is in the room.

House watches Wilson intently; he’s stopped to chat with another doctor. The conversation is slow and serious, but Wilson even smiles once, sadly. House is still watching as the stranger puts his arm around Wilson’s shoulder in a gesture of comfort. They turn around, away from House, and begin the long walk down the hall together.

House’s eyes are on Wilson’s receding back as his brain reaches out desperately to find the bond, to feel it. And for just a moment, he’s back in Atlantic City, telling Wilson, “I don’t want to push this ‘til it breaks.” Wilson chooses this moment to turn around and glance briefly in the direction of House’s room before he continues on his way.

And House feels the pull, then the agonized snap—a physical sensation of something that’s there, and then it’s not. House takes a deep breath, and it’s like breathing in fire.

His leg hurts; he wishes it didn’t. So he pushes the PCA for a hit of morphine. His head hurts; he wishes it didn’t. So he presses his head as far into the pillows as he can, allowing the pressure to ease the pain.

His heart hurts; he wishes… he wishes …. But there’s no specialized equipment, no fast-acting tonic, no complicated surgery for this wound, this pain.

And so House closes his eyes one more time. He wishes it could be the final time, because the best reason he has for ever opening them again has just walked down the hall, trailing the jagged remnants of what was once unbreakable.

On Writing House Fic: Putting All My Eggs In One Basket [personal entry]

Sun, 09 Nov 2008 16:05:25 GMT

In May of 2006, something odd happened to me--I was compelled to write a story about two amazing fictional characters who'd captured both my heart and my imagination. I'd watched House, MD since its inception, but lately I'd been watching it with an entirely different focus.

When the show premiered on 16 November, 2004, I was watching. But only because it was a new medical drama, and I'd grown weary of ER, and the only television I was watching regularly at the time was the news, and, well, the promos for House intrigued me just a bit.

I'm going to admit a few things here that anyone reading this might find surprising. Although I myself am on a cane, and am dependent on opioids for the function of my own right leg, I initially noticed neither House's cane nor his frequent Vicodin intake. Really. I didn't know Wilson's and Cuddy's names; nor was I aware that they (or the team) were recurring characters. At the start of the episode Humpty Dumpty, when we see Cuddy jogging, and then having an alarming coughing/choking episode in her kitchen, I was unaware until the episode progressed that she was not a guest actress. And later, after my focus on the show had changed so very radically, and I had begun to write my very first fan fiction, The Devil You Say, I actually had to get on the interwebs and look up the name of her character. I am not making this up--any of it.

So what changed? For the first two seasons, I was watching only for the medicine--the medical mystery, the patient-of-the-week plotline. Oh, sometimes I became a bit caught up in what was going on with some of the regular characters; my first recall of this interest was while watching House go through withdrawal in Detox. But even then, it wasn't until the end of season three that I realized that the fascinating story of the boy and the cat and the termites took place within the same hour as watching the lead character implode before my eyes.

When House, MD premiered, my cane was only a sometime-companion, most notably in the winter. And the ingestion of opioids was not an everyday event, as it is now. But--sometime towards the end of the second season--my personal circumstances changed drastically. The cane became a necessary part of my wardrobe; the pills became a mandatory part of my day. These things led to self-imposed social isolation, as it didn't take me long to realize that relatively young (I'm Hugh Laurie's age) people who are in pain and on canes are virtually invisible to the rest of society. At first, that nonreaction bothered me. Gradually, though, I came to welcome it; I was generally miserable anyway, and being left alone to wallow in that misery suited me just fine.

And then I realized, one night while watching House, that I wasn't alone. That there was a man who knew everything I was enduring, and understood it, because he was going through it as well. Never mind that he was a fictional character--the parallels were too many to ignore. But he had something--someone--that I did not; he had Wilson. He had (during those first two seasons, anyway) a compassionate, empathetic, protective, unconditionally understanding friend. I couldn't imagine it; I had no frame of reference for such a wondrous thing. So I became utterly fascinated with House and Wilson as individuals, and with the House-Wilson dynamic as a whole. I spent a great deal of time thinking about it, envying it, analyzing it. And that led to writing about it.

That first novella, The Devil, You Say, truly wrote itself; it was simply the typing-out of the mental observation and analyses I'd done, and the inferences and conclusions I'd drawn. Nothing else since has been--or ever will be--as easy to write at that one was, because I'd been unknowingly writing it in my head for two seasons.

But the whole point of this essay is that even while I was effortlessly writing that first one, I had a fear--a fear that's even larger today, two and a half years later. I was, and am, afraid that I'm a "One-Note Writer," that all I can successfully write are explorations of House's pain, and of the House-Wilson dynamic, with a little Cuddy thrown in when a third warm body is required for plot purposes.

Except for House, and occasionally watching one of the various incarnations of Law & Order, I still don't watch television--not even too much of the news anymore. I refuse to watch new series. And I discovered that I can't even read House fan fiction written by other authors (with only one exception) because it interferes so completely with my own writing ability; I'm a chameleon, if I allow myself to be. I pick up and steal the other writers' voices. This is unintentional--but it's also unavoidable. So all good House fiction is off-limits to me, if I want to write--and I do.

But my fear is that I've finally reached the limit of variations on a theme. How many times, and in how many different ways, can House be in pain while Wilson stands guard lovingly? In Real Life, the answer would be every day. In fiction, however, I worry that I'm reaching "too repetitive"--if I haven't already.

I'd love to branch out, to fall in love with a second show, a new set of characters--but that isn't going to happen. My brain doesn't have the patience for it, plain and simple. So my challenge now, I suppose, is to attempt to say the same things about the same characters in the same situation--in different ways. Because all my creative eggs are most definitely in the House, MD basket, and that is where they are
destined to stay. Now I must look for ways to keep them from rotting in there....

AIUTO! [new one-shot]

Tue, 04 Nov 2008 18:02:48 GMT

AIUTO!

Title: Aiuto!
Genre: Romance, Hurt/Comfort
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2850
Characters: Wilson/OFC, House
Summary: Wilson’s in love, and even House approves. So what could possibly go wrong?
Author's Note: This has been unseen by human eyes since I made some major changes. If you like it, send all thanks to blackmare_9 , who can be a real bitch sometimes, in the nicest way possible. If not, well, aim the rotten tomatoes in my direction, please.

It’s been seven weeks—seven glorious weeks, and Wilson still can’t believe his luck. Sarah is beautiful, of course. A killer smile, a body that fits perfectly in his arms. She isn’t Amber—but no one is. It’s time to move on. So Wilson will take the lessons Amber taught him, and he’ll prove to her—and to himself—that her brief life, and her even shorter time with him, meant something. He’ll make her proud, and if, in the process, he finds that he makes himself happy as well, he knows that would please her.

Sarah wasn’t meant to happen, but then, many of the best relationships aren’t. Wilson had stopped into an antique shop one day, with a vaguely formed idea about finding House a new cane. He’d been drawn by the store’s name, Second Chances, and by its whimsical slogan—Rekindle an old friendship here! Of course, he knew that the motto referred to the concrete, tangible things the store sold, but he couldn’t help feeling that it was somehow a message, directed straight to his healing heart. House might not appreciate the sentiment, but Wilson did. So he’d entered the high-end shop with love on his mind. Not the romantic kind of love that seemed always just out of reach, but the enduring kind, the friends-for-life kind he felt for House—the kind that finally, after so many months, seemed maybe just within reach again.

He never found that special cane—but he’d found his own second chance, in the person of a petite redhead with cool green eyes and a quick wit. Sarah’s enough like Amber that Wilson had felt immediately at home with her, yet different enough that he didn’t feel he was chasing a ghost.

Sarah’s independent, too. It turned out that she owns the shop. She sets her own hours, thinks for herself. Amber would approve, Wilson knows. And the euphoria of this new and unexpected love would be enough, but there’s more; even House accepts her. No; not just accepts—he actually appears to approve. He’s giving Wilson room, and time to develop this relationship, and he’s treating Sarah as if she belongs. At first, Wilson had a hard time believing it, until he reminded himself that House was, and always would be, an unfathomable puzzle. So he finally decided to simply accept this heretofore unheard-of behavior. As Wilson sees it now, it’s just icing on the cake.

Wilson had, of course, waited the requisite three weeks before introducing Sarah to House. Three long weeks of hiding, lying, skillfully ditching House. It had been stressful and intense—and fun. The bonus had been discovering Sarah’s wonderful sense of humor. The evening she’d donned a hat, a trench coat, and a fake mustache, and waited for him in a library two towns over, Wilson felt the first stirrings of love.

But the day she’d actually met House… well, that’s when Wilson knew.

Sarah had marched up to House in the restaurant they’d allowed him to follow them to, on week four, day two. She’d stuck out her hand—her left hand—and introduced herself to House as Seymour Butts, Wilson’s live-in accountant. And House had laughed; he’d actually laughed. The resulting dinner-for-three had gone off without a hitch, and at the end of the evening Wilson had virtually floated home, thinking, this is it. Sarah’s the one.

The next weekend, House had invited the new couple to dinner at his apartment. He’d stopped by Wilson’s office and issued the invitation off-handedly, and in typical House fashion. “Hey. You and your flavor-of-the-month interested in dinner at my place Sunday? I’m not cooking or anything, but I found this cool Italian place that delivers. I’ll even sweeten the pot by sticking a candle in an old Chianti bottle.”

“House, you’ve never drunk Chianti in your life; you therefore have no old Chianti bottles.”

House had grinned. “I’m a resourceful fellow; just leave it to me.”

Normally, these words would’ve made Wilson’s blood run cold—with good reason. But this was a different House, almost a chastened House, following Amber’s death, so Wilson had simply matched House’s grin with one of his own, and asked what time they should arrive.

“Make it 8:45; that way I won’t miss the end of the Miss Monster Truck swimsuit-and-essay contest.” Yeah, House had changed—but not too much, Wilson noted happily.

At the appointed hour, Wilson and Sarah stood at House’s door. Sarah carried a fussily-wrapped package. Wilson had been shooting the mysterious parcel dark, worried glances on the trip over, but Sarah had refused to reveal its contents to him. So he gave her the standard lecture on House not being the standard host. He warned her not to expect a ‘thanks’—but to almost certainly expect ridicule. Sarah just smiled, though, and Wilson shook his head and eyed the package again.

At best, he’d thought, it’s a bunch of weirdly-wrapped bottles of liquor. At worst—oh, God, no, not a fruit basket. If it’s a fruit basket, please no salami, no nuts—no fruit. Gonna be a long night.

House opened the door with a flourish. “Welcome to La Casa del… um… Casa!” House grinned triumphantly and ushered them in.

Wilson saw House wrinkle his nose briefly as Sarah held out her gift, but he took the parcel and set it on the coffee table without comment.

“No; open it now,” Sarah said. “Please; it’s for tonight, and I think you’ll like it.”

Here we go, thought Wilson. Nice while it lasted, though.

House had approached the oddly-shaped gift with the same enthusiasm he’d have shown a soiled diaper. He pulled away the curly pink ribbon keeping it closed, and stared thoughtfully at the wads and wads of newspaper he’d uncovered. “Thanks,” he said dryly. “As soon as I get the cleaning lady to iron it, I’ll dive right into yesterday’s news.”

Sarah reached over and swept the paper balls to the floor, revealing a record album—and a look of pure awe on House’s face.

House had reached out almost reverently to pick the album up, and was cradling it with the type of care normally reserved for newborns. “Aiuto!” he whispered in perfectly-accented Italian. “The Parlophon label. Red. Still sealed.” He looked worshipfully at the giver of the gift. “You,” he informed Sarah seriously, “are my new hero.”

Wilson looked at the record; it was the Beatles, the Italian issue of Help! He took a deep, deep breath, and wondered how life could possibly get any better than it was at that moment.

The dinner House had ordered was perfect, the conversation flowed easily, and House had even found the promised Chianti bottles and candles. When they were finished eating, House stood up and grabbed his new prize. “Crime to open this,” he muttered, “But treasures are meant to be enjoyed.”

After placing the record on the turntable, House went to the piano. Eyes wide, Wilson watched as House smiled at Sarah and gestured for her to join him on the piano bench. Wilson listened for the next hour, stunned, as House played along with the album and sang the familiar songs to her—in Italian.

On the ride home, Wilson had approached the cost of the amazing gift carefully. “Must have set you back a few hundred dollars,” he mentioned casually.

“Nope. Not a penny, really. It was part of a bulk buy at an estate sale. Figured it should go to a good home, and when you told me he collected old vinyl, it just seemed to fit.” And Wilson, scarcely believing his good fortune, had beamed at her.

In the next few weeks, Wilson played things carefully, making sure that neither House nor Sarah felt neglected. And the one time that a call from House had interrupted an evening at the theater with Sarah, well, Wilson couldn’t really blame her for that cold frown that had briefly crossed her face as he left. After all, he was a little annoyed too, but he had to admit that House really was making an effort.

There was another incident, but Wilson tried not to examine it too closely. Sarah had met him at the hospital for a quick lunch in the cafeteria. It had been a busy week for both of them; this was their only chance to get together. And House had stalked in, interrupting their conversation in mid-sentence, demanding a refill of his Vicodin prescription.

Since Amber’s death, and Wilson’s return to PPTH, House had been circumspect about the scrips, usually just leaving a short note on Wilson’s desk a day or two before he needed a refill. So Wilson had known that the rude interruption of their lunch was simply House’s way of declaring a pain emergency. Wilson had taken one look at his friend and believed him. House was still skittish about Wilson’s past responses to his claims of increased discomfort; Wilson knew that it had cost House something big to search out Wilson and admit to trouble, especially in front of Sarah.

So he’d had House sit at the table on the pretense of having to speak with the pharmacist himself concerning the need for an early refill; it was clear that House had barely managed the walk to the cafeteria. When Wilson returned with the pills, House had been sitting alone. He told Wilson that Sarah had remembered an estate sale she wanted to attend, and would talk to him later.

Wilson had wound up driving House home that evening. He’d called Sarah to tell her he thought he should stay the night; House was in far worse shape than he’d let on earlier, and Wilson was worried. Sarah had said it wasn’t a problem; she had new inventory she needed to catalogue. As he’d hung up, Wilson wondered to himself how he’d gotten so lucky; Sarah understood about House.

Over the next two days, his calls to Sarah had been picked up by her voice mail, and she didn’t return his messages. But on the third day, she was warm and welcoming, explaining away her absence as business that she’d had to handle personally. Wilson had resolutely pushed away a few flickers of doubt, and tucked his arms more tightly around her.

Tonight’s the second time that Sarah’s agreed to spend the night at Wilson’s place. Actually, things are going so well that he’s thinking about asking her to move in, over breakfast in the morning. Drowsily, he spoons his body more tightly with hers, careful not to awaken her.

When the phone rings at 2:24am, Wilson knows who it is, of course. He disentangles himself from Sarah and reaches quietly for the phone. “Yeah, House, what is it?” he whispers into the receiver. He listens for a moment, and frowns. “You’re not drunk? High?” Another pause, and then, soothingly, “Try not to move, okay? I’ll be right there.” He dresses and scribbles a note to Sarah.

When he lets himself into House’s apartment, House calls out, “In the hall,” and Wilson hears the pain and the frustration in his voice. As Wilson approaches him, House tries a feeble joke. “Help! I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!” House’s fingers are clutched white over his cellphone.

Wilson rolls his eyes, but as he kneels next to House, he can already see a significant swelling in House’s right ankle. “How’d you manage this?” he asks.

“Wasn’t hard.” House attempts to move his right leg and winces before he continues speaking. “Meant to get a new tip for the cane; hadn’t got around to it yet.” Wilson knows what that means—as the rubber cane tip wears down, the traction’s decreased. And if House doesn’t move carefully, the cane slides right out from under him; Wilson’s seen it happen.

Wilson carefully straightens the twisted leg while House tries unsuccessfully to suppress a groan. He slings House’s arm across his shoulder, and they make their way slowly to the couch. Wilson props the right foot on the table and checks for a pedal pulse. Then he gently maneuvers the foot, eliciting no more than a few pained expressions from House.

“I don’t think it’s broken, but that’s a nice sprain,” Wilson observes. “I’ll get some ice.”

Returning from the kitchen, Wilson notices for the first time how pale House is, how drawn his eyes are. “How long were you down?” When he gets no answer, he says warningly, “House….”

House looks away. “Didn’t want to bother you. A… while.”

“It’s not a bother,” Wilson scolds. “Sarah will understand. You should’ve called sooner; we could have prevented most of this swelling.”

“Figured you were with her. I also figured I’d be able to get up by myself, wanted to give it a while to settle down.” House takes a deep breath as the ice pack begins to relieve some of the pain. “So, how goes it with your flavor—with Sarah?”

Wilson smiles. “I’m going to ask her to move in with me. In the morning, I think.” He doesn’t miss the split-second look of insecurity in House’s eyes. “It’s okay, House; she likes you. And I think you even like her, too.” He looks to House for confirmation, and is rewarded with a grudging nod.

The next two hours pass peacefully enough, but Wilson’s concerned. House is clearly in a lot of discomfort, and he isn’t very talkative. Wilson knows he’s thinking about how difficult the next few days will be at work, trying to move around on a damaged leg and a badly sprained ankle. But… something else is bothering him too. So Wilson dutifully refills ice packs and drink glasses, adjusts the wrappings on the ankle—and waits.

Finally, “Isn’t Sarah going to be waiting for you? Don’t want to get you into trouble with the boss.”

Wilson repeats what he’d said earlier. “It’s okay. I left her a note, and I’m sure she’ll understand.” He smiles. “She’s incredible, House. I’ll bet right this minute she’s worrying about you, and wondering if she can call without waking you. I’m sure she’ll be over here later with chicken soup, or a first edition Rolling Stones album, or something.”

House still looks doubtful, maybe a little guilty, but he relaxes a little, and even dozes for a while. Wilson watches over him fondly, wishing that House could truly understand that Wilson’s right where he wants to be right now.

At 5:00, Wilson is handing House a couple of ibuprofen and a Vicodin when his cellphone rings. “Hey, hon,” he says. “Did you find my note? House is gonna be—” The rest of his sentence is interrupted, and he listens with a deepening frown on his face. He turns away from House, says low into the phone, “What do you mean you don’t care how he is? You’re kidding, right?”

There’s another pause as Sarah responds. Wilson tries to tune out her increasingly strident voice, and sneaks a glance at House. He’s looking guilty and miserable, but when he sees Wilson watching him, he quickly schools his face into a smug expression, and mouths “hen-pecked” at Wilson.

Wilson had learned a lot about House in the aftermath of Amber’s death, though, and he knows which expression is real. So he takes a deep breath and says firmly into the phone, “I have my priorities straight, Sarah. You’re the one who should do some thinking. Next time, you might want to get involved with someone who doesn’t already have a family.” He pushes the ‘off’ button with a little more force than necessary, and turns to House.

Wilson wishes that—just once—he could hug the scared, needy, insecure little boy who’s sitting in front of him pretending that none of it matters. House’s smug expression is still firmly in place, but Wilson easily sees the fear, and the apology, behind it.

“Aw, Dad, do I have to give the lady back my new toy?” House drawls.

“No, House, keep it,” Wilson says quietly. “You’ve earned it.” He accompanies his words with a warm and honest smile. And as he watches the tension leave House’s shoulders, the defensiveness leave his posture, Wilson realizes that he’d found a way to give that little boy a hug, after all.

Quick thought on House 5.05 "Lucky Thirteen"

Wed, 22 Oct 2008 16:21:21 GMT

[climbing on soapbox]

It caused me physical pain last night, hearing Wilson call his beloved friend a drug addict. And put us back to square one; I'd been so pleased, the week before, when Wilson hadn't argued with House's 'Vicodin as leash' theory. I'd believed that Wilson finally, finally was undergoing a change in his perspective of the pills. And last night, of course it didn't help when House referred to himself as a "doctor with a drug habit." I know--how they, and we, view the Vicodin pretty much depends on who's writing the episode. So much for continuity in such an important aspect of the character, and the show.

And So It Goes... [new one-shot]

Mon, 20 Oct 2008 18:29:06 GMT

Title: And So It Goes
Genre: Friendship
Characters: House, Wilson
WordCount: 800
Rating: PG

Just a quick little sketch. In words, because I can't draw.

AND SO IT GOES…

House sits alone at his desk pretending. The fact that he’s alone, he thinks, just makes the pretense that much more pitiful, but what’s he gonna do? It’s who he is.

The pretense today involves pain—but not the usual sort. Today’s pain involves people. Human beings. Emotions. Feelings. He didn’t mean to hurt anyone’s feelings—he just wasn’t thinking. And just because Stevens is an ass doesn’t mean that House can’t see himself enjoying his company, under different circumstances. Maybe… maybe he’ll invite the guy out for a beer, give it a try.

It’s not that he’s lonely, or anything; after all, he’s got Wilson. It’s just that if he stops to think about it, he’s gotta admit that what he said to Stevens—but he’s not going to stop to think about it. This pain, it’s unfamiliar, not like the leg.

His leg, he realizes, is actually almost behaving itself today; he gives it a 6 on the scale. Another Vicodin, and he’ll be able to concentrate wholly on his new pain. So he doesn’t take another Vicodin.

What he takes instead is a deep breath, because Wilson’s out in the hall, and clearly headed in his direction. And from the forceful sound of his footsteps, House can tell it’s lecture time. In this, at least, he isn’t disappointed.

“How the hell could you tell Stevens that your car mechanic is a better diagnostician than he is? It isn’t his fault that the patient presented with atypical symptoms for angina. And—just in case it slipped your mind—those misleading symptoms write your paycheck!”

“Oh, good; then we can get rid of Cuddy, thought that was her job.”

Wilson sighs explosively. “Not gonna play word games with you, House—I don’t have the time. Some of us are actually responsible for more than one or two patients, you know. I’m only here because—lucky for you—Harmon came to me with your latest little gaffe instead of going to Cuddy. Seems he figures I’ll have a better chance of getting you to apologize to his best cardiologist than she would.”

Wilson stops talking and studies House. It’s probably just wishful thinking on his part, but does House actually look a little guilty? “House, it’s just politics, part of the job. Play the game; say you’re sorry, okay?”

Wilson’s hopes die inside House’s loud scoffing noise. “Let me get this straight,” House says. “Word games are a waste of time, but we give social games a fancy name and make them a prerequisite?”

Wilson grits his teeth. “You can’t just go around insulting your colleagues,” he says patiently. “It’s not conducive to friendship; more importantly, it makes for a lousy work environment. Then patients suffer.”

“Patients suffer because their doctors are asses. I didn’t say anything to that goon that wasn’t true.”

“Just because it’s true doesn’t make it right, House. And next time, he might think twice about coming to you with a tough case. What’s your truth worth then? A life?”

“He’ll come. He’ll come because I’m the best, and he needs what I can give him. Only thing that’ll change is, he won’t waste my time with all those stupid social niceties. The way I see it, that’s a win/win—win for the patient. More importantly, win for me.” House grins triumphantly.

“You hurt his feelings, and you don’t care,” Wilson says slowly as House nods. Wilson closes his eyes, tips his head back, and tries to swallow his frustration. “And you know why you’re so infuriating? You’re right. Every damned thing you’ve said is true. You don’t need friends; you just need puzzles.” Wilson shakes his head.

“Now you’re getting the idea,” House observes smugly.

Wilson looks hard at House. “All right, then. Here’s one for you. Why in hell do I stay friends with you? Puzzle that one out for me, why don’t you?” Wilson shoots House a disgusted look, turns on his heel, and exits the office.

House stares after his friend, telling himself not to worry. He’ll be back. Wilson won’t give up on him. Wilson always comes back.

A sudden sharp spasm causes House to wince, pulls his thoughts away from feelings, emotions, messy stuff. The pain in his leg has jumped now, from a 6 to a 9. He takes the bottle of pills from his pocket and thumbs the cap. No. He slips the vial back into his pocket and sighs. House sits quietly, not pretending anymore, allowing his leg free rein. Because there’s nothing confusing about this, nothing sneaky or complicated.

This one thing, this physical thing, is, in the end, the only pain that House can understand. He closes his eyes, and welcomes it.

Thoughts on Birthmarks, episode 5.04 [public but not posted]

Wed, 15 Oct 2008 14:53:05 GMT

Open to public, but not publicly posted anywhere but in my journal.....

First things first. I was neither particularly disappointed, nor particularly moved, by this episode. At the end of it, my overriding emotion was one of relief, really, that the entire Wilson-Wants-House-Out-of-His-Life debacle is over, and perhaps now we can get back to business as usual.

What I liked:

Cuddy's clever cover story for administration of the sedative [although I do hope that there was actually IG in that syringe as well, because SARS... yeah].
Wilson's clever I've-thought-of-everything approach to a Road Trip With House--the used floormats, the empty plastic bottle [although I do think an actual urinal would've been funnier], the locked-up cane, the restricted phone privileges--and most especially, the second, smaller, wind-up flashlight [and btw--this is how they actually come packaged]. And the rationing out of the Vicodin, which was both funny and imparted to us a change in Wilson's previous House-view. The Wilson of the last year and a half might have made him go without the Vicodin, whereas this Wilson didn't disagree with House's observation that one pill would "take the edge off, but it won't give me enough relief for an escape...." Which I prefer to see as a silent agreement by Wilson that the pills are for pain. Whoa--what a concept!
The uncharacteristic gentleness with which House recounted to Wilson his memory of Wilson lugging around that unopened envelope.
"I'm not even sure anymore we get to choose who our friends are." 'Nuff said.
The loving, indulgent smile lighting Wilson's face when House says, "If you're coming back just because you're attracted to the shine of my neediness... I'd be okay with that." That smile... 'twas a lovely thing to see.

What I didn't like, and/or was confused by:

Cuddy's administration of the sedative--no alcohol wipes, and the site was dangerously high. I know--small thing--but small things add up.
House and Wilson's come-and-go seatbelts--Wilson's especially, as he was shown driving without it on for long periods of time. And it stretches credibility to want us to believe that a man who lives life "expecting the worst" [and more on that later] wouldn't be positively obsessive about his seatbelt.
The way the end played out. I wanted... more. I wanted one of those warm, mutual, "you know, I really love you" smiles that they gave each other in the montage at the end of Damned If You Do. That would've been enough. And perfect.

And finally, something that made me go hmmmm....:

Read this: House rolls his eyes and calls after Wilson, “You were born expecting bad things to happen; it’s why you chose Oncology. You expect the worst, and you prepare for it.” [from The More Things Change, chapter eight, 'Child's Play'.]
And now this, transcribed directly from last night's episode: "When things go wrong, I like to be ready." [Wilson, after House disposes of keys.] "This is about you, needing to be prepared for the worst. So you become an oncologist; no surprises there--worst happens all the time." [House, at funeral, trying to get Wilson to admit to needing him.]
But they don't read fan fiction. And actually, I believe that, and know this is a coincidence. Still....

So those are my primary thoughts, for whatever they're worth.

Deciphering It [third in a triptych]

Tue, 14 Oct 2008 16:29:40 GMT

DECIPHERING IT

Title: Deciphering It (Third in a triptych. First two were Selling It and Buying It)

Rating: PG
Characters: House, Wilson
Genre: Friendship, Hurt/Comfort
Word Count: 850
TimeLine: Sometime prior to the Season Four finale, pre-Amber

Summary: Last time House’s pain went over the top, he tried to sell Wilson on a lie. Wilson bought it—for a while, anyway. What happens now, when Wilson decides he’s not standing in line this time for one of House’s cleverly constructed mink coats?

And btw, this has heretofore been unseen by human eyes. If it stinks, feel free to say so.

House removes his reading glasses, sighs, rubs wearily at his face. “I could’ve sworn I already threw you out of here a few minutes ago,” he says.

“And now I’m back,” Wilson observes brightly as he settles himself comfortably in the Eames chair. “Sorry it took so long, ran into Debbie from Accounting. She was wearing a new sweater, and… well, you know.”

Wilson grins widely at House, who returns a half-hearted smile. House looks more than weary; he’s got that bone-tired exhaustion, the fatigued posture of a man who’s been battling hard—and losing. He’s trying to hide it, and he’s been pretty successful so far. He thinks his sharp, cruel tongue has probably set a few room-clearing records in the last couple of days. But this is Wilson, and the only way to hide it from Wilson is to… well, get away from Wilson.

House rises slowly from his chair, stretches his limbs cautiously, takes a deep breath. He can feel Wilson’s eyes taking in every move, every facial expression he makes. So he’s careful to keep his face, his eyes, blank. And when he speaks, he puts all his strength behind the words. “It’s 6:20; I’m outta here. See you Monday.”

House tries to ignore Wilson standing and following him out of the office. Following him to the elevator. Following him on the elevator! “Don’t you have a lab tech to chase? Or a bedtime story to read? Or something?”

“No; thought I’d give you a ride home, though. You look worn out; best if you leave the bike here, don’t you think?”

“I didn’t ride the bike. Got a perfectly good bus stop right in front of my place.” Damn; now he’s gonna make something out of that.

But all Wilson says is, “I happen to be going your way; c’mon.”

When the elevator opens, House follows Wilson to his car. He tells himself it’s easier than arguing.

“Need you to stop at that Korean place,” House says shortly. “Gotta get something for dinner. My dinner.”

“Not a problem.”

When Wilson pulls up in front of the restaurant, he follows House from the car. At House’s dirty look, he responds, “What? I gotta eat too.”

When they arrive at the counter, House introduces Wilson. “This is my new puppy. Name’s Wilson, and he’s taken to following me everywhere. You in the market for some really tender dog meat for your next batch of Suyuk?”

Wilson just rolls his eyes, steps forward, orders—and pays for—two meals, while House shakes his head.

When they arrive at his apartment, House half-heartedly tries a, “Thanks; see you later.” He exits the car with as much speed as he can muster, and winces when he hears a second door slam behind him, followed by rapid footsteps.

House stops dead, whirls around so quickly that Wilson bumps into him. “If I told you to just… toddle off, would you?”

“Nope,” Wilson says cheerily.

House pulls his cell phone from his pocket. “Wonder how long it’d take for a restraining order,” he mumbles, then his eyes widen as Wilson plucks the phone from his hand and stuffs it into his own pocket. He glares at Wilson, who simply grins back at him and resumes walking.

House sighs, then follows behind him at a slower pace. Funny, though; the pain, unremitting for several days, seems to be letting up just a little.

Once they’re settled on the couch with their meals, Wilson says casually, “I read an interesting article the other day. Some new study comparing the efficacy of identical doses of pain meds in cancer patients who live alone, and again when they’re hospitalized. Seems the meds were much more effective during hospitalization. The researchers concluded that simple solitude magnifies pain. Imagine that.”

House feigns boredom. “Fascinating,” he says, tossing his plate on the table and lying back on the couch. Wilson scoots to the end without comment.

House has no trouble figuring out the coded message. What he is having trouble with is why Wilson’s sending it. I’d almost think he knows what’s going on. Must be losing my touch. Or… maybe Wilson’s been wearing his decoder ring this week.

The other thing House is having trouble with is the feeling in his chest; gratitude’s got a hammer in there, and it’s pounding off the sharp edges of fear, resentment… loneliness. It’s disconcerting, confusing.

House is distracted from his thoughts when Wilson returns from the kitchen carrying a fresh beer. He watches as Wilson sits carefully in the small space between House’s feet and the end of the couch. He opens his mouth to complain that his feet are now scrunched up against Wilson—but he doesn’t.

Wilson kicks off his shoes, pops the top on his beer, puts his feet up on the table, and leans back, sighing contentedly. He picks up the remote and locates a Law & Order marathon. “Oh, great,” he says happily. “This is scheduled to run all night. Hey—can I get you anything?”

Amazingly, I have every damned thing I need, right here. “No,” he mumbles tiredly, and closes his eyes. He’s asleep before the opening credits roll.

Wilson smiles.

Past Imperfect, Present Tense [new one-shot]

Fri, 10 Oct 2008 17:31:55 GMT

Title: Past Imperfect, Present Tense
Rating: PG
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort
Characters: House, Wilson

This story is lovingly dedicated to blackmare_9 , who patiently--and literally--pulled every single word out of me.

Cuddy's phone call had been quiet, unemotional. Neutral, even. No attempts at guilt, not even a plea to come "for old times' sake." She'd simply given him the facts. And then, almost inaudibly, "I'm worried about him." She'd clicked off even as her last word hung in the air between them.

Of course he was going. He had to, right? He didn't believe anymore that maybe he and House had never been friends. Hell, maybe he hadn't believed it when he'd said it. The first couple of months after that talk in his office, he'd forced himself to believe it, even though every time the phrase scraped across his mind the bleeding would start again.

He'd hear himself saying those words: We're not friends anymore, House. Maybe we never were. And the fresh pain would swallow everything else. Even the grief for Amber was absorbed into his loss of House for a little while, and this phenomenon somehow just magnified both losses.

After while, the remembered words lost some of their power. By the fourth month, House had become a phantom limb--not there anymore, but still causing pain when he least expected it.

And now it's been five months. He tells himself he's adjusting to the amputation, that the blade of those words had cut quick and true. That he's recovering. But still. Sometimes he remembers that amputation means losing a part of yourself, something that belongs. And then he knows he'd lied.

It was the biggest lie I ever told--but I needed to believe it. More--I needed House to believe it. And... oh, God--maybe he did.

No; House was smarter than that. House knew it was anger talking, confusion. Grief. House knew that Wilson couldn't mean that. House knew. Right?

Wilson packs quickly and without thought. He almost doesn't pack at all; he can buy whatever he needs once he gets home to Princeton, he thinks. Startled, he replays the thought in his mind: home to Princeton. Home. Princeton.

"No," he says aloud, and continues packing.

Hours later, standing at House's front door, Wilson considers his options. Cuddy had told him that House hadn't been to work all week. On Tuesday, he'd ignored her phone calls. Wednesday, she'd gone to his apartment. As she approached the door, she told Wilson, she'd heard the piano--discordant, loud. Ugly. She'd banged on the door and the awful sounds had ceased immediately. Cuddy had knocked and pleaded for twenty minutes; House had silently waited her out.

He's not even angry with Cuddy, and she's all he's got left. If he's freezing her out, no way he's gonna answer my call, much less invite me in for tea.

Wilson reaches into his pocket, slowly withdraws a single key, and studies it. Running his finger over the warm metal, he wonders idly why he'd kept it. Wasn't like he'd ever planned to use it again. It's useless anyway, by now. He's got to have changed the lock. Hell, probably first thing he did--big, dramatic gesture, securing the castle against Wilson the Betrayer.

Wilson rubs the key like a talisman as he realizes that this little piece of metal is all he has--his last tie to House, the only tangible token of the friendship-that-was--and the only chance in hell he has of entering this apartment. Resigned, he inserts it in the lock.

His eyes widen at the ease with which the knob turns under his hand. But he can't stop right now to consider why this key should still open House's door; he blinks back his surprise and steps inside.

The living room is dim--and empty. Wilson spares the kitchen a quick glance, then rapidly turns toward House's bedroom. He's stopped by a sound from behind the closed bathroom door; House is in there, retching violently.

Okay; so he's... what? Sick? Hung over? OD'd? He's.... Whatever else he is, he's alive. Wilson, suddenly trembling, sinks down onto the couch to wait.

After a couple of minutes, he hears the toilet flush, then the water running. He uses the time to try to compose his expression, but he's not sure what it should be. Annoyed? Angry? Hi, I was in the neighborhood? So when House, leaning heavily on his cane, exits the bathroom, he freezes at the sight of a confused Wilson, fidgeting uncomfortably on his couch.

House's voice is cold. "What the hell are you doing here?" He doesn't move further into the room, though--doesn't move at all--and Wilson's trained eyes assess him quickly.

God, he looks... awful. Skin's pale, almost marbled, and respiratory rate's double what it should be; dehydration. But he's been sweating pretty heavily; hair's plastered to his head. Wilson focuses on House's right hand, fingers convulsively clenching and loosening around the cane handle. His nailbeds aren't perfusing properly; the dehydration's severe. I've gotta--

House sways suddenly, but rights himself before Wilson can get to him. "I asked you," he rasps, his voice fading, "to what do i owe the... dubious honor of your presence?" House is clearly weak, but his eyes are bright and intense, boring a hole right through Wilson.

"I.... Cuddy's worried about you. No one's seen you for a week. Just... tell me what you're up to, and then I'll leave, if you want me to." Wilson takes a few steps towards House, intending to guide him to a seat. He reaches out a tentative hand, his fingers barely brushing House's arm.

House reacts instantly, raising his left hand impatiently to brush away Wilson's attempt at help. But he's so debilitated that the abrupt movement is enough to unbalance him, and in the next second, Wilson's half-carrying, half-dragging him to the couch.

House doesn't thank him, just leans his head back and closes his eyes. "What I'm up to," he muses. "And you think you have a right to know? I don't owe you any answers. I don't owe you anything. You're... not my friend, remember?"

Wilson's immediately alarmed; House's breathing is even shallower, more rapid now. Wilson won't risk upsetting him further until he can figure out how bad things really are. So instead of answering him, Wilson stands quietly, begins to look around. He's spent enough years watching House at work to know that even if House won't talk to him, maybe the apartment will.

I don't smell any alcohol; no empty bottles, either. He doesn't feel feverish, and food poisoning doesn't last this long. Hell, from what I can see, he hasn't eaten in days, anyway. Looks like he's just been throwing himself a pity party; must've gone overboard with the Vicodin. Nothing's changed.

Shaking his head and swallowing an involuntary sound of disgust, Wilson turns toward the kitchen. He'll try to get a glass of water into House before he leaves. Medically, Wilson knows he needs a lot more than that, but it's not his problem any more. He'll call Cuddy, of course, give her the unpleasant details--but no way is he gonna stick around. No way.

"No one asked you to," House says. Wilson starts; he hadn't realized he'd spoken aloud. House's eyes are still closed; Wilson notes that his breathing's a little slower, a little stronger now. But he's rubbing at his leg, and if Wilson didn't know better, he'd think those deep furrows around House's eyes were caused by pain. He knows I'm onto him; it's an act. Well, I'm not buying it. Not this time; not ever again. Wilson reaches into his pocket for the key and tosses it onto the piano.

House opens his eyes to track the sound, sees the key glinting dull silver on the glossy black piano. He stares coldly at Wilson, then inclines his head towards the door. "I think you know where the exit is. And make it one-way this time."

"I'll leave as soon as I get you some water," Wilson says, and leaves the room before House can argue any further.

In the kitchen, a quick look around confirms that House hasn't been eating. There's a warm bottle of soda on the counter next to a bottle opener, but the bottle's still capped. His hands were probably shaking too badly, Wilson thinks, and has to push away the sudden mental image of House alone, ill, unable to care for himself in this most basic of ways.

He takes a glass from the cabinet and fills it at the sink. House's Vicodin bottle is sitting at the counter's edge. "Might as well try to figure out how much damage he's done; Cuddy's gonna need to know," Wilson says to himself, and reaches for the familiar plastic vial. He picks it up and frowns in confusion; it's full. And the date on the label is nine days ago.

Wilson closes his eyes, shakes his head back and forth slowly. Then, cradling the bottle in his palm, he goes to face House.

---

When Wilson enters the living room, House opens his eyes and raises his head. His gaze falls on the bottle Wilson is carrying; he looks quickly away.

"You're detoxing," Wilson says quietly, and waits until House finally, grudgingly, gives a single nod. Wilson returns to the couch then, and sits beside him.

"Why, House? Why now?" But Wilson's beginning to think he knows. He's tried everything else. Apologies. The phone calls, the emails I ignored. Paying me back the money he owed. Getting Cuddy to intervene. Even a private detective. This... it's all he has left--the only other friend he's got--and he's willing to give it up. He's giving it up, on nothing but a chance that it might make a difference. God.

Wilson stares in wonder at House, as if he's never seen him before. And maybe I haven't, not when it's been important, not when it might've meant something to him. And now Wilson's remembering those times when he'd allowed himself to go blind. Tricked himself into believing he was doing what was best for House. Tricked House into believing that Wilson was somehow better than he was, that Wilson's friendship was conditional. That House wasn't worthy of Wilson. He's killing himself to try to reach the bar I set for him, while I pass judgment and let him think it's all his fault.

"It's not because of you," House responds as if he's read Wilson's mind. "It's just... I just... I was proving I could." House ends with a gasp, and begins to retch again. But there's nothing left to come up, and after a few moments House regains control, says stubbornly, defiantly, "I'm not doing it for you; I'm doing it because I can."

Wilson knows what he has to do; they can deal with everything else later. He stands purposefully and looks down at House. He puts his hands on his hips and speaks in a business-like tone. "No you can't, not like this." He meets House's eyes, holds them with his own. "Nothing's worth this, House. And anyone who'd require this of you isn't worth it, either."

House frowns at him in angry confusion, but Wilson doesn't have to look very hard to see the quiet spark of hope that's sprung up behind the louder emotions. Oh, House, I'm so sorry.

"You still have injectables here, right?" Not waiting for an answer, he turns and heads straight for the last known location of the gray metal lockbox.

"Don't," House says strongly, and Wilson, box in hand, stares at him in surprise.

"House, you're hours away from needing hospitalization--if you don't need it already. We've gotta get you out of pain, get some fluids into you. We've got to treat--"

"We don't need to do anything," House interrupts. "I'll be fine. Thanks for stopping by, though--always good to see an old... an old... yeah." House looks away, struggles to catch his breath.

Apparently, they're going to have to deal with some of it now.

Wilson sets the box on the coffee table. He considers sitting next to House on the couch, but instinct tells him this isn't the time to encroach into House's personal space, so after a moment he perches uncomfortably on the edge of the table himself, facing House directly. "Why?" he asks again, knowing why, hating the anguish in his own voice. But he owes it to House to listen.

House is studying his face closely; Wilson knows he's weighing the odds, wondering if it's safe. Wilson looks back at him unguarded. Whatever House has to say, Wilson knows he deserves it. But there's no way he could've predicted, no way he could have readied himself for what comes next.

House is finished pretending a strength he doesn't have. His voice is almost inaudible; Wilson strains to catch the words. "The pain... the pills... maybe you were right. Maybe the pills changed me. And maybe I can... get off them, try something else, and...." House pauses and his eyes drift away from Wilson, fix on the ceiling. "Maybe we could... be okay again."

Wilson has to swallow hard before he speaks. "I was wrong, House. I was wrong. God knows, we've spent enough time rehashing all your sins, but I've committed a few of my own. When Amber died, I... it was easier to tell myself it never would've happened if you... if we weren't friends. You're a pain in the ass. You suck all the air out of any room you're in. You think the world revolves around you. Yeah... you're reckless. You're selfish and egotistical, and sometimes you're even dangerous, but you're also--why are you smiling?"

"Weirdest 'apology' I ever got," House says faintly.

Wilson smiles back. "Sorry; force of habit. What I'm trying to say is, you're who you are, and... that's good enough."

"No; I've changed. Before the leg, I--"

"Before the leg, you were still a pain in the ass. But we've both changed. We've made mistakes, said things we didn't mean, did things that weren't...." Wilson's voice trails off, but the sound of his regret hangs heavy in the air between them.

House is watching him warily, trying to process what he's saying. Wilson wishes he could give him all the time he needs, but House's health--or lack thereof--is just as critical an issue.

"House, you trusted me once. And I... I betrayed that trust. Hell--I abused it, twisted it, I... I used it like a weapon, and... I almost killed you with it."

Wilson stops speaking, because what he's seeing now isn't the man who's in front of him. It's that same man five months ago, strapped unquestioningly into that cold, unyielding chair. Sitting there, waiting to maybe give his life for me--like he thought I had a right to it, just because I asked. No fear.... He was so frail, so broken.... I was the only one who could've protected him then--

Wilson shakes his head to clear it--no time to wallow in guilt now, but maybe a chance to do things differently. He pulls the lockbox over to him, but he keeps his eyes on House.

"I have no right to ask you to give your trust back to me now; I know that. But I'm asking anyway. I'm asking you to forgive the choices I made, to forgive me. I need you to let me help you."

As he's been speaking, Wilson's been opening the box, preparing the medication, watching House watching him, waiting for House's permission to help him. Now, House's eyes are on the syringe, and Wilson's out of things to say.

Finally, some of the tension leaves House's body, his eyes soften, and he nods. Wilson stands slowly and helps House lift his legs onto the couch, holds him in an almost-hug as he lowers his head gently onto the pillows. And only when he's certain that House is as comfortable as possible, Wilson kneels by his side, picks up the syringe and reaches for his arm. Then, as gently as he can, he slips the needle in. No fear.

---

Two hours later, House is sleeping peacefully. He's managed to keep down a few ounces of Gatorade, and Wilson's beginning to relax. He sits beside him and reaches quietly to House's wrist for a pulse. As he nods his satisfaction and begins to pull away, House's fingers close around Wilson's wrist. Surprised, Wilson tries gently to untangle them--but they tighten even more. Must be having some sort of dream. He's exhausted; hate to wake him. Wilson tries again to loosen the fingers without disturbing House, but then House whispers his name. The tone is anguished, pleading.

Wilson frowns. Something wrong? "House?"

House opens his eyes, doesn't move his hand. An expression of disbelief crosses his face as he regards his friend, keeping vigil at his side. House licks his parched lips. His voice comes out rusty and broken. "Sticking around?" he asks.

Wilson reaches slowly into the pocket of his jeans and holds up the key. Then, making sure that House is still watching, he tucks it securely back into his pocket. He covers House's hand firmly with his own. "Go back to sleep," he says softly. "And by the way, you're still an idiot."

House's eyes are already closing. "Yup," he agrees as he drifts off again, the ghost of a smile on his face.

Buying It [companion to Selling It]

Wed, 24 Sep 2008 20:52:32 GMT

Title: Buying It
Characters: House, Wilson
Genre: General/friendship
Rating: G
Word Count: 570
TimeLine: Sometime prior to the Season Four finale
Part Two of Selling It

Wilson stares at House's rapidly departing back. He's surprisingly successful in swallowing his anger at what House has just put him through, but his puzzlement remains. Something's... off, and he needs to figure out what it is. Last time he'd let one of these convoluted conversations with House slide, he found out three days later that apparently, he'd made a $1000, online, nonrefundable donation to Save A Sloth--in House's honor.

Absently, he takes a prescription pad from his lab coat and starts to scribble out information so familiar to him that he scarcely needs to think about what he's writing. So when his pen runs out of ink, he's still on auto-pilot as he reaches across the desk to grab one of House's, and he almost misses the torn scrap of paper that flutters to the floor when his movement disturbs the organized chaos of House's desktop.

He's tempted to just leave it there, half-hidden by his chair leg, but finally picks it up. No sense being blamed later when he claims I lost the cure for cancer. Or the secret to life. Or worse--his bookie's new phone number.

Wilson glances idly at the scrap as he's replacing it, and then draws it closer to him. It's a few simple math equations, written out in House's lazy scrawl: 8 x 500 = 4000. 2 x 500 = 1000. 5 x 500 = 2500. And off to the side alone, 7500 and 1g.

As the meaning of the seemingly random numbers begins to dawn on him, Wilson looks at what he's just written on the scrip pad. Gregory House-- Hydrocodone/APAP 5/500, and it hits him--hard.

"Damn it, House!" Wilson stands and begins to pace; his mind is racing. Why didn't you tell me, you idiot? And me--how the hell could I have been so oblivious, so... so willing to buy into your game? Russian roulette with the acetaminophen... you're in pain. Lots of it. You're afraid your liver's gonna crap out, and I'm standing by, watching it happen.

Wilson grabs up the scrap of paper and heads down to the pharmacy.

That evening, he isn't surprised to find House in his darkened apartment, curled tightly on the couch. He tosses the paper-wrapped bottle he's carrying at House, and waits.

House unfurls the ragged scrap of paper and glances at it, then quickly away. Wilson can tell that House knows immediately he's been busted--he won't look towards Wilson, choosing instead to study the tiny printing on the bottle's label: Hycodan 5mg tabs.

It's not perfect, of course, but at least it doesn't contain acetaminophen. The important thing is, it's still House's drug of choice--hydrocodone. No, Wilson thinks, the important thing is we'll be able to get a grip on his pain without killing him in the process.

House raises his head, finally, and looks quizzically at Wilson.

"So it took me a while to figure it out. You could sell mink coats at a PETA rally," Wilson says defensively.

"And you'd be first in line to buy one," House retorts as they stare coldly at one another.

Wilson's secretly amused. We're probably the only two people on Earth who could manage to glare the apologies across a room, he thinks.

Wilson breaks eye contact first. He grabs the TV remote and tosses it to House. "Find something good," he orders. "I'll get the beer."

And on to Deciphering It

Selling It [part one of a two-shot]

Tue, 23 Sep 2008 15:24:27 GMT

Title: Selling It
Characters: House, Wilson
Genre: General, Friendship
Rating: G
Word Count: 410
TimeLine: Some time prior to last season's finale

"Don't."

"Don't... what?"

"The answer is yes. Happy now?"

"Answer to what?"

"It's... three, I think. Soon to be four."

Wilson shakes his head, frowns in confusion. "House, I left my decoder ring home this week. And I don't need an official Ex-Wives Tally today, if that's what this is. I just got done writing out the monthly checks."

"Idiot. Even your math can't be that faulty. You've gotta actually marry Number Four before you can divorce her. Although I'll admit, it'd be a big savings in legal fees down the road if you'd just write out the checks ahead of time."

"Oh, I get it now. First thing on your to-do list today: insult Wilson. Mission accomplished."

House shakes his head. "Fun as that'd be, it's not what I'm doing. I'm giving you the information you've been trying oh so subtly to obtain."

Wilson's face reddens; now he gets it. "I... was just a little concerned, that's all."

House picks up the prescription bottle and tosses it across his desk to Wilson. "Count 'em. It's a lot quicker than x-ray vision. You'll find eleven remaining. Ten, if you deduct the one I'm taking soon as you give 'em back. And no."

Wilson sighs. "Here we go again; this is fun. No, what?"

"No, I'm not taking extra pills because I have extra pain. I'm only doing it to annoy you. Happy?"

"Why would that make me happy?"

"Because you'll get to write me a new scrip sooner. Which means you'll get to dust off lecture number three that much sooner. It's one of my favorites, actually; 'House, there are other methods of pain control, you know!' So I'm just letting you know I'm not trying to control pain here."

"So... what are you trying to do?"

"Told you. Number one on my to-do list today is actually annoy Wilson. Mission accomplished?"

Wilson sighs again. "Always."

"Good, then. Wouldn't want to let you down." House reaches across the desk, grabs the bottle from Wilson's hand. He pops another pill as he stands and stalks smugly out of the office, leaving Wilson shaking his head in exasperation.

As soon as he's out of sight, House exhales, leans against the wall, closes his eyes. After a few seconds, he glances back towards his office. "You weren't supposed to buy that," he whispers.

House waits until he's sure his expression gives away nothing. Then, he pulls in a fortifying breath, brings the pill count up to five, and limps heavily away.

Part Two: Buying It

Question??? [False memory of House episode]

Tue, 01 Jan 2008 16:39:45 GMT

I need some help here. Apparently, I've got a false memory of a House episode in which a young man has several fingers severed in some sort of accident. He is also a heavy smoker, and is denied replantation surgery based on that. He promises to quit smoking immediately, and the fingers [I believe they were cadaver fingers] are successfully attached. But he and his wife? girlfriend? return several weeks later, and the fingers are turning black, dying. Turns out that his addiction to smoking was stronger than the risk of losing his fingers.

blackmare_9 doesn't recall this ever happening in House. But I'm certain that I saw, or read, about this incident somewhere. Does anyone else recall this incident on TV, in a movie, or perhaps a book?

Full disclosure--as I am a smoker, and have been ~~obssessing~~ worried about a serious, stupidly self-inflicted injury to my only functional hand since prior to Christmas, it's entirely possible that I dreamed the whole thing. But... I really think I saw this somewhere.

Oh, almost forgot--HAPPY NEW YEAR TO ALL!!!

Merry Christmas & Happy New Year [personal/public]

Sun, 23 Dec 2007 13:25:37 GMT

Wishing all of you the most blessed of holiday seasons!

I'll be going on a small hiatus from the computer for a while. I'm figuring through January should do it. I'm having a bit of difficulty with my hand; I need to give things a chance to settle down, and I need to play the lovely readjustment-of the-pain-meds game.

I'm truly sorry; I'll miss you kids and the stories--I'll even [probably] miss LiveJournal. Maybe it won't take the full month, and I'll be back before anyone realizes I'm gone! ;) If not, hope to see you towards the beginning of February.

I'll be checking email a couple of times a week ['cuz I still have to pay the bills!]; if you need to get in touch with me, my email address is in my profile if you're on my f-list; feel free to PM me if you're not.

Here's hoping for a fabulous fic-filled [and maybe even episode-filled] 2008!

*hugs to all*

Therapy [new one-shot]

Fri, 14 Dec 2007 16:04:28 GMT

THERAPY

Title: Therapy

Characters: House, Wilson

Rating: PG

Genre: Friendship, Angst

Summary: House conducts an impromptu therapy session for Wilson—and ends up participating himself.

Wilson opens the door to his hotel room with a sigh of resignation. He’s lived here for close to two years now, and nothing ever changes. The room’s always clean, always quiet, the bed’s always made; the air even smells the same—institutionally sanitized, with a faint, sharp whiff of some chemical he’s never been able to place. Every time he enters, it makes his nostrils sting briefly. After a minute, though, he’s used to it; the scent and the sting recede. And most of the time, he can ignore it, though it never quite goes away.

This isn’t a home. It always feels… dead. Empty. When the door to a home opens, the air is warm and soft, and alive. Noisy. It smells like dinner, or your wife’s perfume, or the fresh cedar shavings in your best friend’s rat cage. It isn’t something that you have to adjust to; it’s something that welcomes, that gives comfort. You don’t even really notice it, because it’s just… part of living. It’s right, and you never notice right, until it isn’t there anymore.

Maybe I should get some candles—some of those scented ones. The ones that smell like food cooking. Pumpkin pie, maybe. Or baked apples; Bonnie always made ‘em with cinnamon.

Wilson smiles sadly at his own foolishness; he’s just homesick for… a home. That’s all it is. Tonight, though, Wilson’s grateful for the impersonality, the silence, even the flat, lifeless air. He feels safe here; this room asks nothing of him, requires nothing. He takes a breath and tries to ignore the way it doesn’t quite fill his lungs. He takes another, and closes his eyes, and tells himself he’s beginning to relax. He’s getting good at this; he almost believes it. He rolls his shoulders and rubs his neck. He even ignores the weird scraping noise out in the hall, so close it sounds like it’s at his door. Doesn’t concern him though; he’s alone, and happy about it.

And in an instant, his painstakingly constructed illusion is gone; shattered against the sharp planes of a loud voice. House, who somehow sucks all the air out of every space he ever inhabits, has arrived—with a bang, and without a key; he’s putting a metal nail file into his pocket as he enters.

“What the hell is up with you?" House demands as he stalks around the suddenly too-full room, turning on every lamp in the place. "The whole Greta Garbo impersonation is getting a little old. You develop an allergy to people? To light?”

When every corner is blazing with light, when the television’s been turned on and the volume turned up to “blare,” House, satisfied, collapses on the couch, turns to Wilson and smiles smugly.

Wilson explodes. Striding over to House, he yanks the remote away, stabs the ‘off’ button, then flings it across the room. “Oh, I get it! It’s just peachy when you go behind your nice, safe walls and you shut down. You get to treat everybody like crap, and you count on me to wait patiently like… like some loyal guard dog, keep the rest of the world at bay until you’re ready to come out and play again.”

Wilson doesn’t mention that that’s exactly what he’s always done, since shortly after House’s infarction, and maybe that’s why House has come to expect it. He glares at House, and continues. “But I try to get a little time to myself and you can’t stand it, you take it personally. You break into my room, invade my space?!” Wilson sighs, and catches his breath. “It’s not always all about you, House. Sometimes, astounding as it is, it’s just about the rest of us. You know, the other six point seven billion people who share the planet with you? Deal with it.”

“You want me to leave? You wanna sit in your righteous little corner, lick your wounds until they bleed? Don’t let me stop you.” House stands with a slow, exaggerated effort, grunts loudly with pain as he makes his laborious way to the door. Wilson, arms folded, watches impassively.

When House gives a strained, hitched sigh, and the cane trembles beneath his hand, Wilson, unimpressed, shakes his head. “You’re really chewing the scenery; gotta say, though, not one of your better performances.”

House lifts his chin and opens the door with a flourish. He pulls the door closed behind him with a decisive click.

Wilson, arms still folded, glances at his watch, then stares at the doorknob. He nods to himself when, eleven seconds later, it begins to turn.

“You were seriously gonna let me leave!” House complains in an aggrieved tone.

“Actually,” Wilson says dryly, “I was just calculating if I could make it to the door in time to lock it before you returned. And turns out, that’d be a no.”

House attempts to look insulted, but he drops the pose quickly; he’s got more serious matters on his mind. “So. You never told me why you’ve been avoiding me. And everyone else. Well… I get the whole ditching-everybody-else concept; I even approve. But me? Thought I was your bestest bud!”

“Sure, House. Thoughtless of me, staying away from the friend who almost cost me a pain-and-suffering lawsuit with that patient I misdiagnosed. Next time, I’ll sing your praises from the roof of the hospital and nominate you for Friend of the Year; you’re a shoo-in. That work for you?”

House smiles and wags his fingers at Wilson. “Aww, you! I’m just a sucker for sarcasm. ‘Specially when it’s so subtle.” He drops the smile. “You’re angry with me.”

“You think?”

“What’d I do?”

“How much time do you have?”

House tips his head back, informs the ceiling, “And the zingers just keep coming.” He looks at Wilson. “Save us both some time; cut to the chase.”

“House, it’s not that simple. Yeah, I’m pissed with you. But for what? Depends what day it is. Hell, it depends what time it is!”

House makes a show of looking at his watch. “Let’s start with 6:49pm. That’d be now.”

“Where do I start?” Wilson asks rhetorically. “Breaking and entering. Disturbing the peace. Improper use of your disability to garner undeser—”

“Wait a second! That’s not a reason; it’s a rap sheet. Gimme a reason, something I can sink my teeth into.”

Wilson smiles thinly. “You refuse to leave me alone.”

“That’s it? That’s it? I give you a free shot, and the best you can come up with is I’m invading your space?”

“I’m sure this won’t impress you, but it’s been… a difficult few weeks for me. See, it actually bothers me when I’m responsible for someone else’s misery.”

House sighs theatrically. “The cancer guy again. You do know, don’t you, that they don’t hand out bonus points to good little doctors for getting more depressed than their patients? ”

“They don’t hand out bonus points for invalidating your best friend’s feelings, either,” Wilson snaps.

House looks at him. “So you’re miserable, and you want me to acknowledge it. Well, bully for you. Being miserable doesn’t make you better than anybody else, you know; it just makes you miserable,” he says, and Wilson can practically hear the quotation marks around the words. Too bad he hadn’t realized when he’d first said them to House how cruel it sounded, how belittling. But he’ll be damned if he’d let House know that.

“The only reason I’m miserable is because there are two people in this room. And since I happen to live here….” Wilson doesn’t hold out much hope that House’ll take the hint and leave. In fact, he doesn’t hold out any hope—and House doesn’t disappoint; he plops down on the couch again as if he’s planning to stay there all evening.

“Lucky for you I’m wearing my Impervious Suit tonight; otherwise, that might’ve hurt my feelings,” House tells him.

“Perish the thought.” Wilson’s beginning to wonder if it’s even possible to hurt House’s feelings.

“That’s okay,” House says magnanimously. “I’ll let you make it up to me by telling me how brilliant my new grand plan is.”

“I’m on tenterhooks; do tell.”

“You might be interested to know I’ve decided to let the new kids adjust to life on campus without the usual hazing rituals. I’m going to—as they say—absent myself from their orbit. You’re always telling me my team’s the best in the state; gonna let ‘em prove it. Rumor is I… uh… inhibit people. And maybe intimidate them; go figure. So—if I want to know what they’re really capable of—I’m just gonna sit back, pretend I’m a department head, make like an administrator for a while.”

“You have some good points,” Wilson says thoughtfully.

When House responds, his tone is light—but Wilson can tell he’s surprised. “My points are always good; that’s a given. But… you’re not gonna try and talk me out of it?”

“Would it do any good?” Wilson asks.

“I don’t know,” House answers honestly—and now Wilson’s surprised. “Kinda counting on you to try, though.”

“Why?”

House rolls his eyes as if the answer’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Because that’s how I figure out if your cons are gonna outweigh my pros, of course!”

Wilson stares; House means it. So he backpedals. “Well… on second thought that might not be a good—”

“Hey! You had your chance! Doesn’t mean anything if I have to tell you what you should’ve done. Duh.” He rolls his eyes again, and adds a lifted eyebrow for emphasis.

Wilson doesn’t understand why this crazy reasoning irritates him; he knows only that it does. “Sorry I fell short of your expectations,” he snaps. “Next go-round, clue me in ahead of time and I’ll do you proud.”

“Pissy today,” House observes. “Not sure I should squander my evening hanging with you.” But he swings his legs up, stretches out on the couch.

“Do yourself a favor, then—don’t. Please. Don’t. Couldn’t live with myself, knowing I’d ruined your evening. Go; I’ll even hold the door for you.”

"It’s okay,” House assures him. “I’m here for you, bud.”

“No, you’re here for a solution to the puzzle—that all-consuming mystery of why I’d possibly choose to spend time alone, instead of basking in the warm glow of your company.”

“There’s that, too,” House says agreeably, apparently unfazed by Wilson’s peevish glare. “And normally I’d say have at it; I’m not one to stay where I’m clearly not wanted. But,” he continues loudly over the bark of Wilson’s harsh laugh, “But,” he repeats, “it’s been going on a month now, this whole pitiful ‘I’m my own best friend’ routine. People are beginning to talk.”

“They’re only talking because they’re amazed to discover that you can afford to pay for your own lunch. Most of ‘em had never seen that particular phenomenon before. And it might never occur to you, but some people actually enjoy their own company.”

“But not you. You want people to need you. And that, unfortunately, requires… uh… people. You thrive on solving their problems, knowing the answers. Becoming the object of their adoration. I told Cameron once that she was the Circle Queen. You go her one better; you’re the Gate Keeper. You get to decide how hard to beat ‘em, how bad to break ‘em. And then you get the satisfaction of resetting them and pulling them in to join the rest of the Perfect People. And you’re good at your job, damned good. But lately, your job satisfaction quotient’s been low. And it’s bugging you.”

Wilson, disgusted, shakes his head. “I can’t even begin to point out all the ways your analogy’s faulty. But how ‘bout we start with you. If I was as successful as you claim, you’d be Circle King by now—my shining achievement.”

“Nope, not me. I’m an exception; I refuse to be broken and reset for my own good. Not even to buff up your stats. The Circle? Been there, done that, found it not to my liking.” He sees Wilson’s surprised expression.

“All right, I’ll share. Goes against my nature, but what the hell. Even I, the Lone Ranger, was once not immune to the charms of The Circle. When I was inside it, I was as smug and superior and safe as the rest of its inhabitants. Then, this happened.” He indicates his damaged leg with a flip of his hand. His eyes narrow a little, and go distant. Wilson wonders what he’s remembering; it clearly isn’t pleasant, and House just as clearly isn’t going to share it.

When House speaks again, his voice has a faraway quality; he seems to be thinking aloud more than talking to Wilson. “And I got tossed out of The Circle on my ass. But I was too stupid, maybe even too egotistical to know it; thought they cared about who I was, not just what I could provide for ‘em. Turns out, they didn’t even know who I was. But it wasn’t me they wanted; it was my skill, my brains. As soon as I found that out, I left. And they never noticed. Because the parts I took weren’t the parts they ever saw. And it didn’t matter, because the things I left behind were the only ones they’d placed any importance on.”

House sighs then, a long, regretful sound. His eyes refocus and he seems to remember that he’s not alone; he looks at Wilson and begins to speak in a normal tone.

“And you’re no less hypocritical than the rest of them. Difference with you is, you're so good at it you call it 'truth'--and believe it. What was it you said during our last variation of this conversation? Oh, yeah….” Here, House deepens his voice dramatically, intones, “’The most painful truth does far less damage, in the long term, than the most innocuous lie.’ Sad thing is, you believe that—but you don’t live it. And that’s why you’re so screwed up now. All those little lies to yourself have ganged up and become a wrecking ball—and that ball’s aimed right for your chest. And you don’t know enough to get out of the way.”

“Oh, I get it,” Wilson says bitterly. “So you’re here to mitigate the damage, push me to safety. For my own good, of course.”

House doesn’t look at Wilson when he states, without humor, “The Circle has its faults. But even I can’t dispute that it’s safer in there. And I’m all about the damage control.”

“What if that’s not what I want? What if it’s not what I need? Maybe I just wanna handle things your way for a while. Be the Lone Ranger, solve my own problems, decide on my own truths. Not have to answer to anybody.”

“Even the Lone Ranger had Tonto,” House points out quietly. “And… he counted on him to be the voice of reason. Works for me, but you? Nope. It’s like this; you belong in the circle; I don’t. Never will. Probably never did.”

This rare admission from House pulls Wilson out of his own thoughts, his own misery. House, in his twisted way, has just announced that he needs Wilson in his life, counts on him to be the other half of House’s lonely, exclusive Circle. And Tonto’s been unreachable lately.

And that translates into--he’s worried I’m gone. Afraid I won’t be back. Don’t know why I didn’t notice before.

Wilson looks long at House, reads the vulnerability and the pain in his eyes. He feels powerless to help his friend; everything House has said is fact—immutable fact. Then, he remembers what House had said earlier, about counting on Wilson to provide the other side, to help House weigh his own arguments. He’d blown it a few minutes ago; now he’s determined to share whatever insight he can.

“You’re wrong, you know. You do belong in a Circle. It’s just… more exclusive, that’s all. You’re there, and I’m there,” Wilson says. “I mean… I’m not there now. But I will be. Just… give me some time. Let me get past the McKenna thing; then I’ll be back.”

“Oh, come off it! Been four weeks since Mr. ‘Financial Ruin Is A Fate Worse Than Death’ tipped over your happy little world. There’s more to it than that.”

Wilson sighs. He’s never gonna get rid of House at this rate. Should’ve saved himself some time up front and given up his delusion of a right to privacy without a struggle. House would’ve left satisfied, and he’d be enjoying his solitude now. Well… not enjoying, exactly, but…. “Okay. If I tell you, will you go?”

House doesn’t respond, but Wilson continues anyway. “If it’s so damned important to you, I’ll tell you. That fiasco with Mr. McKenna got me thinking. What I do… it’s hard. People die. Lots of people. All the time. And it bothers me. It hurts, okay? I just… it’s easier to… I want to… just let me deal with things my own way, okay? Alone.” He gazes defiantly at House, and is amazed to see a triumphant grin on House’s face. “What are you smiling about?” he demands.

House reaches into his pocket and withdraws a folded sheet of paper. “That puzzle? Solved it before you spilled. Damn, I’m good.”

There’s a knock at the door, and before Wilson can move, House holds up his hand. “That’s for me,” he says, tossing the paper to Wilson. “Just a minute,” he calls, and begins to go to the door.

“What’s that?” Wilson, mystified, gestures toward the door. “And what’s this?” he continues, looking at the square of folded paper.

“Just read it, you moron.”

Wilson unfolds it; a standard list off a printer, his current patients. Twenty-three of them. But the neat, typed lines aren’t what grabs his attention. House, two different-colored highlighters, and a purple pen have turned the thing into a work of art.

The seven patients who’d come to him carrying death sentences have been highlighted in yellow. Of those seven, the three he’d cured are circled in purple. And on top of the four currently in remission, House’s distinctive scribble announces, “Status TBA—but they ain’t dead yet!”

By the names of the eight ‘routine’ patients, the purple pen had jotted—‘compassion/methotrexate/home—boring’

And across the five names of patients that Wilson had fought for, fought hard to get them into research protocols that could reverse their grim prognoses—day-glo orange proclaims, ‘Match of the Century: Boy Wonder vs. Death!!! Boy Wonder Undefeated!’

Wilson stares at the list, at the message. When he looks up, a smile’s just beginning to form on his face—until he sees House open the door and take out his wallet.

Stunned, Wilson watches as House gives the delivery man a twenty dollar bill, then reaches back into his wallet for a five and murmurs, “What the hell—here. Only live once, right?” House pushes the door closed and heads back towards Wilson, carrying the greasy, fragrant box. The heady aromas of pepperoni and spices warm the room, and Wilson notices immediately that the room’s not ‘sanitized’ anymore. It’s just… something it’s never been. For this moment, it’s right. It’s home.

“What the hell is… all this?” Wilson asks in a dazed voice, gesturing at the pizza, the paper—and House.

“A… somewhat… wise man once told me to start small,” House intones. “That list is a small reminder that it isn’t always about the end. And this?” House hefts the box he’s holding. “It’s pizza,” House says, and now his voice is quiet, oddly gentle. “With a friend.”

A Note To My Fellow Writers--and my wonderful reviewers [personal entry]

Fri, 07 Dec 2007 21:18:47 GMT

I've recently had the opportunity to have a variation of the same conversation with three different people, all of whom contribute in some way to either the House fandom, or another fandom. One of these people hates House, but we're friends anyway ;).  And hey--there's no accounting for tastes, right?

Anyway, our discussions have centered around reviews and comments [or the lack thereof] and the power these words have--not just the effect on us, but also on our work. I believe we've all been guilty--I know I have--of reading or viewing something that's moved us, or amused us, or impressed us in some other way, and then telling ourselves we haven't the time to compose a thoughtful comment. Maybe we even tell ourselves we'll come back to it "later." And we rationalize this by saying, Oh, it's such a great piece; I'm sure s/he will get plenty of praise.

Not always. I've noticed, especially at the Pit of Voles [aka FanFiction.net], that the general rule is that the more thought-provoking a piece is, the more skillfully it's written, the smaller the chance it'll receive the number of reviews it deserves, much less the quality of a thoughtful, appreciative, insightful comment.   Sad, but proven over there time and again.

And reviews and comments can make a huge difference--not only to the author, artist, iconist, whatever--but also to whatever they're creating. I know that on several occasions, I've changed the intended direction of a story, or given a scene more depth, or even continued something I'd been ready to abandon, based solely on something someone took the time to say. And this is true with both honest praise and with valid criticism--I'm equally appreciative of both because both are valuable to me--as a writer who's always striving to improve, and who wishes to have an active, involved fanbase who feel appreciated.

I guess my point is--those two or three minutes you choose to take [or not take] can wind up meaning a lot to the creator of the work you've just enjoyed, or learned from, or felt you might help improve. Of course, there might actually be creative types out there who have such healthy self-esteem, such confidence in their own talent, that they don't need the feedback. But--if such people even exist--I'm certain they're in the minority.

So what I'm saying is this: to the reviewers--a heartfelt thank you; your words can make as much of a difference to us as our creations make to you. And to my fellow creative-types--I hope you're more diligent than I at supporting and encouraging our peers. I know that I'd never have gotten through my own most recent "crisis of confidence" had several of my peers not stepped up and said, Knock it off; you're good at what you do. So I resolve to take that few minutes myself, on a more regular basis, to try to say a few meaningful words when affected by someone's creation.   I thank everyone who's ever done it for me--and I strongly encourage all of us to do it for one another. We're a talented group, and I believe we owe it to one another to cheerlead for each other as appreciatively as our amazing reviewers do.

Okay, too introspective today, done now, sorry!

Peanut Butter & Blood [Epilogue]

Thu, 06 Dec 2007 20:21:58 GMT

Title: Peanut Butter & Blood: EPILOGUE
Rating: G
Characters: House, Wilson
Genre: Friendship, Unadulterated Fluff
Summary: House injures himself. So naturally, this requires a call to Wilson, who--naturally--rushes right over.

A/N: Part One was for silja_b. This epilogue is for blackmare_9—because she insisted on it, and spooked me out by not only knowing I’d already written it, but knowing what I’d written—almost verbatim. I did attempt to explain to her the definition of “one-shot” but then she explained the meaning of “double-barreled.” So… here’s the second shell in this “double-barreled one-shot.” :) [Oh--and also, thanks go to blackmare_9for her usual flawless-and-correct first-read, complete with suggestions!]
p.s. that last line? that's for namasteyoga. ;)

EPILOGUE:

It’s 1:28am when House hears the sound of a key in the lock. “What are you doing here?” he mutters irritably.

But Wilson doesn’t even glance his way. He’s headed straight for the kitchen, an intense, unreadable expression on his face. House sighs and leans his head against the back of the couch. And it doesn’t surprise him when Wilson exits the kitchen and heads straight for the bathroom.

In under a minute Wilson is standing in front of him, hands on hips, yelling, “What the hell were you trying to pull?”

House opens his eyes and raises his head. “I wasn’t trying to pull anything. I was trying to make a sandwich. That a crime?”

“That isn’t what I meant, and you know it.” Wilson’s still shouting, and House winces.

“Could you keep it down? I’ve got neighbors, you know.”

“Yeah, and I can understand why you wouldn’t wanna clue ‘em in on your utter stupidity.” In one swift move, Wilson’s torn the blanket from House’s legs; his eyes widen at the sight of the left knee. The pressure bandage has soaked through; there’s even a small trickle of drying blood going halfway down House’s lower leg.

Wilson drops the two bags he’s carrying onto the coffee table and regards House angrily. “Have I mentioned that you’re an idiot?”

“Not in the last thirty seconds, no,” House says wearily.

Wilson’s rummaging through one of the bags; he pulls out a suture kit and opens it. As he snaps on the gloves, he mutters, “I can’t believe you’d let it get this bad.”

“I didn’t let it do anything,” House responds irritably. “It thought up the blood all on its own.”

“Why didn’t you tell me how deep it was?” Wilson kneels by House’s side, removes the soiled dressing and begins to probe the wound. He’s relieved to see that the bleeding’s pretty much stopped, and that House had told the truth about flushing out the glass. And even his diligent probing isn’t causing fresh bleeding—House’ll be okay.

“Ouch! That cut is attached to my leg, you know! And—if you’ll recall—you weren’t too interested in details earlier. You couldn’t get out of here fast enough.”

Wilson goes silent at that; it’s true—he’d been relieved that House didn’t appear badly hurt, and anxious to try to salvage his date. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

“What for? Glad that you had your priorities in order.” House looks away and says, “Shouldn’t have called you anyway.”

Wilson’s certain he heard wrong. “What?”

“I said I shouldn’t have called you in the first place.”

House clearly means it; Wilson is stunned, and unsure how to respond. Finally, he says, “So why did you?”

House grins mischievously. “It was a test; you passed. Good thing, too, because I’d bet myself you’d show up, and I needed the money.”

Wilson doesn’t smile. “This was some twisted test of my friendship? My loyalty?”

When House doesn’t respond, Wilson takes a deep breath and lets it go explosively, then stands. He’s so angry he doesn’t trust himself right now. He tears off his gloves and tosses them at the table. “Be back.” He clips off the words and heads to the kitchen.

As he soaks a sponge and begins to clean the blood-smeared floor, Wilson’s thinking.

Damn him! I’ll bet he’s out there getting a real laugh out of this. Got his own private Step’n Fetchit.

Wilson scrubs harder at the blood; it’s been a long time since House has made him feel this angry, this put-upon. The determined scrubbing is therapeutic; finally he begins to calm down.

Wait a second. This is House—the man who once broke his own hand so he wouldn’t have to admit how bad he was feeling. The man who didn’t come to me about his pain until it was so unbearable he was ready to resort to theft to get his meds. Who catheterized himself rather than ask for my help.

Wilson stands thoughtfully as he remembers why he’d come back here—he’d realized that House had let him go too easily. Hadn’t reminded Wilson that the NSAIDs with which he supplemented his Vicodin could cause clotting problems. Hadn’t mentioned how deep the laceration was. Hadn’t pointed out that—with his left leg injured—his mobility was further impaired.

It hadn’t taken Wilson long, after he’d left, to think of all these things himself. What hadn’t occurred to him, until now, was that House had intentionally refrained from mentioning any of it. Nor had House suggested a trip to the kitchen, or the bathroom. Then Wilson would’ve known—and he’d never have returned to his date.

I’m the idiot. Let myself get distracted by his antics. I asked the wrong questions, fell for his non-answers. And what test was I passing? He knew I’d show up. Maybe… maybe he wanted to see if I’d put myself first? Wilson smiles and shakes his head; House never fails to surprise him.

Wilson reenters the living room and stands again in front of House. “Next time, just tell me, okay? I don’t enjoy puzzles as much as you do.” He smiles tentatively as he reaches for a fresh pair of gloves and prepares to suture the wound.

“More fun letting you figure it out on your own,” House grins. “Although I was starting to worry you’d made it to second base—in which case I’d have bled to death.”

They both laugh as Wilson carefully injects lidocaine around the wound and begins to suture it.

When Wilson’s finished, he asks, “That beer-and-porn invitation still open?”

“Always,” says House. “But you’ll have to get the beer.”

“Not a problem.” Wilson picks up the second bag and heads toward the kitchen.

“Hope that’s more beer,” House says, indicating the bag.

Wilson grins. “Nope. Just… an insurance policy, for my next evening out.” He reaches into the bag and pulls out a new container of peanut butter—in a plastic jar.

Peanut Butter & Blood [new one-shot]

Sat, 01 Dec 2007 16:31:31 GMT

Title: Peanut Butter & Blood
Rating: G
Characters: House, Wilson
Genre: Friendship, Unadulterated Fluff
Summary: House injures himself. So naturally, this requires a call to Wilson, who--naturally--rushes right over.
A/N: For silja_b , because I said I'd do it. Oh, and btw Silja , the firstborn'll be arriving via parcel post. Today. :-)
x-posted

PEANUT BUTTER & BLOOD

Wilson winces—again. Not at the site of the huge, snow-white dressing obscuring House’s left knee, but at his own incipient headache, threatening to become full-blown any minute now.

“Tell me again,” he says slowly to House, “Exactly how you managed to do…” His hand waves in the general direction of House’s knee, “this.”

House sighs with mock patience. “I’ve told you twice. Lucky for you I believe in thorough patient histories. So let’s try it again. Slower this time. And—just for you—I’ll leave out some of the harder words.”

House has the left leg propped on the coffee table; Wilson has to step over it to take a seat next to House on the couch. Once he’s seated, he pronounces, “Ready. I think,” and begins to rub at his temples; House rolls his eyes.

“Well, it’s simple, really. And dull. Uh... the story's dull; the glass wasn't. I dropped a jar of peanut butter. It broke. And you weren’t here," House continues accusingly, "So I had to clean it up all by myself. Glass, like I said. Dangerous, and all. Especially to a cripple such as myself.”

It’s Wilson’s turn to roll his eyes. “With you so far. You had an everyday kitchen accident, and you’d decided to handle it like a responsible adult. Gotcha.”

“So I used the edge of the counter, lowered myself down to the floor. I thought. But turns out, I landed on the broken glass. Told you it’s a hazard for us cripples.”

“Yeah, because no able-bodied person ever breaks anything and gets cut during clean-up.” Wilson sighs. “Go on. I’m fascinated with this unique story of domestic crisis.”

“So anyway, that’s pretty much it. Me falling plus shards of lethal glass equals blood. And pain. Lots of both. Pain and blood. Oh, and peanut butter, of course.”

“Wait a minute. Back up. You fell?”

“I think I just said that.”

“No… what you’d previously said was you knelt on the floor. So let’s run the scene in slow motion, shall we?”

House heaves a forbearing sigh. “Simple. I lost my balance, grabbed for the counter, and came down on my knee, on top of sharp foreign objects.”

“You lost your balance… because?”

“I didn’t have my cane.”

And you didn’t have your cane, because?”

“Thought I’d be okay without it.”

This was like questioning a four-year-old about mommy’s broken lamp. “And you obviously thought you’d be okay because you generated new thigh muscle overnight. I’m so happy for you.”

House gives a snort of irritation. “Of course not. I was feeling… good.”

Wilson peers suspiciously at House. “How good?”

“Good enough to run the Boston Marathon—and win,” House says snidely.

“House….”

Sighing, House says, “Might've had… an… extra Vicodin. Or two. So things were looking up. Until I went down. On the floor. Into danger.”

“’Extra’,” Wilson echoes thoughtfully. “Would that be the same ‘extra’ that the rest of us might define as ‘recreational?’”

Bingo; House goes silent.

“House, you’re a fool. A reckless idiot who actually expected me to be sympathetic. Astounding.”

Defensively, House says, “I was stressed; been a tough week. Not like I’m allowed to have an extra drink or something to relax; could be harmful, you know.”

Wilson snorts, “Not even gonna bother to point out that’s never stopped you before. And you’ll forgive me if I don’t stop right here to commend you on your long, unblemished record of patient compliance.”

“Yeah, yeah—can we just forget all that? I’m bleeding to death here. I called you because I need help, not harassment!”

Wilson eyes the securely taped, amazingly large pressure bandage House had expertly applied prior to his arrival. “Tetanus shot up to date?”

“Yup.”

“You flushed it? Cleaned it? Any glass remaining?”

House reluctantly acknowledges yes, yes, and no.

“And you used an antiseptic?”

House huffs. “Well, yeah. World’s just crawling with superbugs, you know!”

Wilson glances around House’s less-than sterile environment and concedes part of that point. “Maybe not the world—but at least this apartment….”

House leans back and says smugly, “Any area lucky enough to have me in it qualifies as the world. Welcome to my world!” He widens his arms expansively.

Wilson shakes his head wearily, says in an undertone, “I can’t believe you had me paged out of dinner for this. It was going so well, too, for a first date.”

“Probably won’t be a second,” House observes with mock sympathy—and a smug expression.

Wilson’s ready to yell, but judging from the glazed and glassy look in House’s eyes, his mellow demeanor, Wilson figures any argument would be just an exercise in diminishing returns. So he settles for a few deep breaths.

“I believe you’ve got everything under control here, Dr. House. So I’ll be leaving now.”

“But Jimmy! I’ve got beer, and porn, and an injury. And if you’d been here, we’d have beer and porn—and I wouldn’t be injured. Don’t you think you at least owe me—”

“Oooh, no. Stop right there. No way are you putting any of this off on me. Not this time. And it’s my considered, professional opinion that the patient will live, thanks solely to your amazing skills with a first-aid kit. I’m going to get back to my date, try to explain. Don’t normally have to explain the whole you thing this soon in a relationship, but then you don’t usually try to bust it up this early, either. So wish me luck.” He studies House’s pouting face. “Or not.”

Wilson starts towards the door, consciously refraining from asking if House will be okay. He’s stopped by a groan. Knowing he’s gonna regret it, he asks wearily, “What’s the matter now?”

“Hurts,” House sulks.

Wilson smiles. “Just sit there and revel in the joy of being alive after such a close brush with mortality. You’ll live, and maybe you’ll even learn something.” A dubious expression settles on his face. “Forgot for a minute who I was talking to; sorry. You’ll live, but we can scratch that whole ‘learning’ thing. Forget I mentioned it, okay?” Hand on the doorknob, he shakes his head in fond exasperation. “G’night, House."

And just before the door closes behind him, he catches a glimpse of House’s grin—House’s surprised, amused, approving grin.

EPILOGUE

Just figured it out [House and Wilson]

Sat, 01 Dec 2007 04:32:34 GMT

I was just sitting on the front porch, having a cigarette and being contemplative. Thinking, actually, about the longer fic on which I'm currently working, and about all the discussions lately concerning the changing House-Wilson dynamic. And something hit me--hard.

I figured out, in an instant, why I'm so defensive of, and protective towards, House. It's so simple, so obvious, I can't believe I never saw it before. I've always said that there's no such thing as a real-life Wilson. There couldn't be; chronic pain wears people out. Not just the sufferer, but those who care about the sufferer. And while the sufferer can't leave, the carer can--and eventually has to.

Everyone starts out, of course, with the best of intentions. The sufferer [having been through this before] pushes the would-be carer away, for the carer's own protection. The carer pushes back; he or she is convinced s/he's different, and can take it all--the pain, the depression, the resentment, the health crises--all of it. And if the carer is truly determined, it works. For a while.

Sufferers of chronic pain wear you out. It isn't intentional, but it is inevitable. They really want to believe, each and every time, that this person who cares will stick around. In the back of their minds, they know what the outcome will be, has to be--but hope is a strong thing. So they think, okay, let's try this just one more time. And, just about the time they begin to believe that they've found a saint--a Wilson, if you will--too many bad days in a row happen. Or a medical crisis. Or the ninety-third argument about too much or too little pain medication. Or something. And the carer, a human being with a healthy instinct for self-preservation, begins to pull away. This distancing may not even be conscious--but the sufferer quickly picks up on it.

And then, despite the sufferer's best intent, s/he becomes clingy, dependent--frightened of being deserted again. And eventually, it all falls apart. Because the carer's instinct for survival takes over, and the carer moves on while the sufferer vows [yet again] to keep those walls firmly in place next time. And that is why there is no such thing as a Real Life Wilson.

And this fits, exactly, what I see happening with House and Wilson--why I've been so vocally dissatisfied with seasons three and four. Because Wilson's wearing out, becoming tired and resentful of being House's Wilson. And that is why season one Wilson doesn't exist anymore, and season four House has become so desperate for Wilson's approval.

For many in the fandom, the name Wilson has become synonymous with compassion, caring, empathy, an endless store of patience; "Wilson" isn't simply a person anymore, it's a way of being. And no; there is no such thing as a Real Life Wilson. But--in their fictional world-- it seems that there may soon be no such thing as a Real Life Wilson for House, either.

12.02.07 12:55pm ETA: You kids may have noticed my uncharacteristic lack of written response to your comments here. There's a reason, and it's personal--painfully personal. I shared private thoughts and feelings with this wee essay--and honestly wasn't expecting comments on it! The perception of some of your comments takes my breath away; others, it's clear, have never been on either side of this situation but are trying their utmost to understand. So I appreciate all your replies, but feel a need to simply let these thoughts stand as they are, and speak for themselves. Thanks for understanding!
ONE MORE THING: Just so there's no misunderstanding here; I was not ever among those who theorized that Robert Sean Leonard could or would leave the show. I don't think for an instant that he will--but the actor leaving the show has absolutely nothing to do with what I'm talking about. The two issues have nothing whatsoever to do with one another. My point is... oh, never mind. Never should have posted this piece; sorry for any confusion.

Reparations [new one-shot]

Thu, 29 Nov 2007 18:53:37 GMT

Title: Reparations
Rating: PG
Characters: Wilson, House
Summary: It's House's second day back at work following Rehab--and he has something to share with Wilson.
Genre: Angst, Friendship
A/N: This rather short one-shot came to me out of nowhere this morning; i believe that it may have been inspired by a discussion with leaveout following my take yesterday on episode 4.09. And for an amazing drive-by beta, heartfelt thanks to the wonderful, invaluable blackmare_9 !
P.S. Yeah--you might've read this yesterday. But then, because I continued to revise it several times after posting--and because I had a crisis of confidence based on a very weird combination of factors all coming together at the same time, I locked it. And this morn, all those factors have been put into perspective, I've [well, some bitter white tablets have--finally] gotten a handle on an unusually bad spate of pain, and I'm finished sitting out in the garden, munching on the worms blackmare_9 so generously offered to fry. So I ask your indulgence with that little blip on my radar. Here's the story, again, with a zillion minor [and likely unnecessary] revisions. I apologize.

House and Wilson glare at each other across Wilson’s desk. House stands in an accusatory posture; Wilson sits not-quite-defensively, but he has clasped his hands together.

It’s House’s second day at work after the travesty that was Christmas Eve, the cosmic joke that was Rehab. His first day back, by unspoken agreement, he and Wilson had successfully avoided one another. But now, House has entered Wilson’s office clearly primed for a fight. That much is easy to figure out—but still, Wilson’s utterly unprepared for House’s opening volley.

“You almost killed me.”

Wilson sighs. “House. When I left you on the floor, you’d vomited. And all indications were you were gonna vomit some more. The oxy was leaving your system.”

“Precisely.”

Wilson looks at him, genuinely confused. “So how did I almost kill you?”

House takes a deep breath, in an attempt to calm himself. It works; when he begins to speak, his tone is neutral. “I came to you. Asked for a scrip for anti-emetics. Remember that?” He waits until Wilson nods impatiently. “You refused.”

Wilson waits, certain that House is going to continue, going to explain. When House remains silent, Wilson says, “I didn’t almost kill you; if I’d given you the metoclopramide, that would’ve been murder. All that oxy would have stayed down.” Wilson pauses, and meets House’s eyes. “You would’ve died.”

House shakes his head. “No. If you’d given me the scrip, the rest of it wouldn’t have happened. I… the withdrawal, the nausea. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat. And it was just… I had to control some of it.”

Wilson’s eyes grow wide; he’s beginning to figure out where this is going.

“So I stole the oxy; figured I could take just enough to take the edge off the withdrawal, get the vomiting under control. But by then I… wasn’t thinking straight. You know the rest.”

House tone has remained calm throughout, but now the hard, accusatory look is back in his eyes—and they’re trained directly at Wilson.

Wilson, unaware that he’s doing it, stands as his jaw goes slack. He stares back at House as the horror grows in his eyes. When his face goes pale and he wavers on his feet, House instinctively takes a step towards him, hand out. But House stops when Wilson involuntarily takes a faltering step back.

Wilson finds his voice. “I… House, I…. Oh, God,” he whispers. His legs give out then; the chair’s there to catch him as his head drops to his hands.

House moves to the couch and sits. He’s still watching Wilson, but now the anger’s drained from his eyes, replaced with puzzled concern; he'd expected an argument, a denial--not this heartsick, guilty man crumpled in front of him. He says nothing, just watches.

Finally, Wilson whispers, “I’m… sorry,” and House nods.

When House speaks, his voice is—almost—gentle. “Just thought you should know. Because… patients don’t always lie. And doctors aren’t always right.”

The two sit, in silence, for several minutes, each lost in his own thoughts, his own memories. It’s not uncomfortable, exactly; there’s simply a mutual air of waiting. What comes next? So Wilson ventures quietly, “Wanna get some lunch?”

Their eyes meet, and in this silent conversation, both acknowledge that there’s still work to be done, understanding and forgiveness granted—from both sides. But they’ve taken the initial step, that very first, incredibly difficult step, and House smiles hesitantly.

“Who’s buying?” he asks. Wilson knows that House knows the answer—but that he needs the comfort of the familiar, the past. And Wilson sees the hope in his eyes, vulnerable and almost childlike.

Wilson grins. “Stupid question. I’m buying.”

As they leave the office together, Wilson thinks that lunch—the first, Wilson suspects, in a long line of reparative meals provided, of course, by him—is a ridiculously small price to pay.