Rating: Strong PG-13 (no slash) for adult themes and extensive foul language, at times.
Summary: Wilson tries to deal.
Spoilers: Pretty much all of S3. Set generally around the time of Half-Wit.
Disclaimer: If I owned House and Wilson, I'd be a TPTB and all my plot ideas would become reality. Sadly, 'tis not to be.
Notes: Thanks to Housepiglet for another great beta!
Part 1 -- Denial
House comes to him in the early afternoon. Wilson's with a patient, explaining the treatment plan for the man's non-Hodgkin's lymphoma. Yes, the cancer will eventually kill him. But there are treatment regimens that will make him sick at times, fine most of the time, and can give him long remissions and a good quality of life for up to a decade.
House is impatient, standing on the balcony and tossing pebbles against the glass door until he leaves his patient and comes outside.
"Is it an emergency?" he asks, irritated that House always thinks it's okay to interrupt his patient conferences.
"Yes," House replies.
To House, being in pain is always an emergency.
House needs – wants – a Vicodin scrip. Again. A quick mental review tells Wilson that only eight days have passed on a prescription that should have lasted House at least twice that long.
"The pain's worse than usual," House tells him.
"Of course it is." Or, it's simply the excuse House has decided to use today.
Wilson's spent his entire day with patients in pain; his morning started with a corporate executive with metastasized breast cancer who needs a fentanyl patch in order to function; he's just come from the room of a child screaming with the agony of terminal cancer and nothing he's tried short of knocking her out seems to help. The patient currently sitting in his office waiting for him to come back from this rendezvous with House is facing at least six months of debilitating chemo – at age 70. It's not that Wilson doesn't believe House's pain, only that, today, House is simply the next person in a long line of people needing him to ease their pain and right now he's not sure he can do it. For any of them.
But he pulls out his prescription pad anyway, takes a pen from his pocket protector, and writes the scrip. As he always does. Trusty old Wilson. Of course, he usually ties a new scrip to a discussion about cutting back on the Vicodin, considering some other drug, thinking about seeing a pain management specialist, or even trying some outpatient rehab.
Today, he hasn't the energy. He's tired of arguing, tired of fighting, tired of begging House to rely on something to relieve his pain other than powerful narcotics that are losing their effectiveness while doing irreparable damage to his liver. Tired of closing his eyes to what is happening to his friend, and especially tired of berating himself for being the cause.
Prescription written, no questions asked. It's easier that way. Vicodin, 10 mg, he scribbles in the big blank space in the middle of the form. The scrawl that is James E. Wilson overflows the signature line, his recently-reinstated DEA number printed somewhat neatly in the top right corner. Sometimes, he feels like simply writing "ditto" on each form. Ditto, ditto, ditto. He's lost count of the scrips he's written and the pills that have made their way into House's system and the damage they've already done.
He hands House the prescription without another word and trudges back into his office, back to Mr. Lionel and his NHL diagnosis. Back to telling people they're going to die, which in a bizarre way, makes him less depressed than the few words he's just scribbled on a tiny piece of paper.
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Thank goodness this day is over, he thinks that evening as he stuffs his briefcase with two new medical journals, a copy of his draft PowerPoint presentation on the oncology department budget, and a study protocol for a clinical trial that one of his residents wants PPTH to join. He either reads it here or at home – or rather the miserable excuse of a hotel that he calls his home.
He really needs to get an apartment or a condo, but the hotel is easy. Only one bill to pay – no utilities, phone, cable TV. Clean sheets and towels – no worries about decorating, colors, or coordination. Someone cleans the bathroom and vacuums every single day. He even gets free little bottles of shampoo and conditioner and hand cream, which he rarely uses.
The thought of looking through newspapers, Craig's List, apartment guides and the like, the thought of visiting one cookie-cutter place after another trying to decide which one looks most inviting so he can move in his stuff and buy more stuff to fill the emptiness overwhelms him. So, he puts it off and stays at the hotel and calls it his home, even though it's more expensive and less comfortable than a real home of his own.
When he hears the knock on his office door, for a minute he considers pretending he's already gone, so whoever it is will go away and let him escape from this office, this hospital, and this day in peace. Instead, he acknowledges the knock, because that's who is he and that's what he does.
Jack Nelson, one of his second-year residents, wants to talk with him.
"Is this a good time?" Nelson asks.
"Of course," he replies automatically even though it really isn't, and unobtrusively sets his overflowing briefcase on the floor behind his desk where Nelson can't see it, can't see that he was halfway out the door.
"Mrs. Rogers died this afternoon," Nelson tells him.
He knows this, of course. He gets notified any time a patient on his service dies, which means he gets a lot of notifications. Emma Rogers isn't his patient but has been a patient of the PPTH oncology department for over a decade, well before Wilson came to the hospital. And, through all of those years, she's been a favorite of doctors and staff basically because she's a nice lady. Or was.
The colon cancer finally caught up with her. Mercifully, her condition was fairly good until the last few weeks when the cancer metastasized to her brain and liver and lungs. But even then, they kept her on strong pain meds so she didn't suffer. Too much.
Nelson gives him the grim details of her final hours. Wilson listens patiently, even though he's all too familiar with the story. Whether it's Mrs. Rogers, or Mr. Rogers, or even Miss Piggy, the story of end-stage metastasized cancer is invariably the same. He's heard it, seen, it, experienced it, fought it too many times.
The resident continues about how her death affected him, how gut-wrenching it was, how he's not sure he's cut out for oncology, blah, blah, blah. Normally, Wilson is sympathetic. Tonight, he's pissed at House and depressed about his upcoming night alone at the hotel. So, he half listens, thinking about opening a new bottle of old scotch, sitting on the sofa with his feet on the cookie-cutter coffee table, and watching some mindless reality show featuring people who clearly have too much time on their hands. Still, he's careful to interject appropriately in Nelson's story.
"Yes, I know how difficult oncology can be," he says.
"You have to think of the extra weeks we gave her, so she could spend quality time with her family" he says.
Blah, blah, blah. It's not that he doesn't care, only that he hears this confession at least a few times every year. If it's not a doctor, it's one of the oncology nurses or techs. They all come to him as if he can change reality, as if he can somehow turn this specialty into one where everyone gets better, everyone lives and everyone is happy. Like it's his fault that patients with cancer often die and that, ergo, people treating cancer patients have to deal with people dying.
There's nothing he can do for Nelson or for the parade of others that pass through his office with the same issues. You can either deal with the reality that is oncology or you can't. Some can't, and even Boy Wonder James Evan Wilson can't change that. Hell, some days, even he has trouble dealing with it. To whom should he complain?
"Yes," he says, he'll understand if Nelson decides oncology isn't for him. No, it won't affect his future in medicine; many residents end up changing specialties and there's no disgrace in not being able to handle oncology. Blah, blah, blah. He really wants that drink now.
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Wilson stares down at the glass cradled between his hands. Scotch on the rocks. A double, actually. At this point, there isn't much left in the glass but the rocks. He motions the bartender for another.
It's pathetic that he's in a bar on a weeknight. Even worse, that he's alone in a bar on a weeknight. Of course, his life right now is pathetic, so coming alone to a bar on a worknight is par for the course. He takes a gulp of his drink for Mrs. Rogers, and one for Mr. Lionel, and another for Marissa, the six-year-old who died of brain cancer just after lunch, and one for Jack Nelson, the resident who can't decide if he wants to end up like James Wilson.
To the outside world, James E. Wilson, MD, is a stunning success. A specialist in oncology, considered among the most technically difficult fields in medicine. Head of a department at a major teaching hospital. Published in JAMA, NEJM, JCO, and other peer-reviewed medical journals. Lead investigator for six major clinical trials. He's already accomplished more by age 40 than many in his profession will manage in their entire careers.
And he's done it all while remaining popular with nurses, patients, and fellow doctors. Everyone likes Dr. Wilson. In fact, if PPTH were to run a "most popular staff member contest," Wilson would probably receive nearly all the votes – other than those who hate Greg House enough to vote against him solely because he calls the man a friend.
Even his ex-wives like him, or at least they still speak to him, which is more than most ex-husbands can say. Three. He's also been married and divorced more times than most men manage in a lifetime. Then again, if he had a wife, he'd be home right now sitting at the dinner table talking over his day with her and a nice bottle of wine and wouldn't be sitting alone in this smoke-infested bar, working on his third double scotch.
He ought to have a wife and he ought to have a home, not some extend-a-stay hotel pretending to be a home, complete with a fireplace he never uses and a microwave he uses too often. Every night, he walks down the hotel corridor, smelling the meals being cooked in the kitchenettes by the businessmen eking out a miserable existence until they can return home to their wives and children. Their prison is his home and the thought of returning to it tonight makes him order his fourth scotch.
Drinking alone is stupid which is why he rarely does it. Usually, if he drinks, he drinks with House. Tonight, House is the last person he wants to be around. When he thinks of House these days, he thinks of the Vicodin scrips that he's still writing, still writing even after the disaster that was Detective Tritter. Yeah, he's still writing scrips even after he almost lost his money, his license, his job, his reputation, and even his freedom. Is he doing it for House or for himself?
And, in the dark of night in an empty bar, he wonders if the scrips are the price of friendship with House and whether that's too high a price to pay. The mere thought of House downing another Vicodin bearing the prescription of one James E. Wilson, makes him swallow a large gulp of scotch.
"You look like you just lost your best friend."
He turns toward the voice. A moment ago, the barstool next to him had been empty. Now, the seat is filled with a buxom blonde. Mid-thirties, trying to look a decade younger, he decides. Breasts not real, hair not naturally blonde, T-shirt and jeans just a tad too tight, makeup slightly overdone. Eyes are a true green, maybe helped along by some tinted contacts. Still, not bad for a lonely guy who ought to be drinking with a friend.
"Lost?" he answers her question. "Yeah, I guess you could say that he's lost." His hands hug the glass of scotch even tighter.
"I'm sorry," she says, in a tone that suggests she means it.
"It's okay," in a tone that suggests he doesn't.
"I'm Candy."
Wilson smiles at the thought of the jokes House would make upon hearing that name. Then, just as quickly, his smile disappears. He's here to forget House.
He should go home and sleep off the hangover he knows is on the way and definitely shouldn't have that next drink. Instead, he makes mindless small talk with Candy, the kind of stuff you only say to someone you meet at a bar and never expect to see again. He buys her a drink – white wine spritzer – and orders himself another. Scotch. Double. "I'm James," he says.
"Haven't I seen you here before?" Candy says, sipping from her glass, leaving a bright red lipstick stain on the rim, and he tries to figure out whether it's a pickup line or a question.
Wilson flicks his eyes toward her, then back to his scotch and sighs. "No, just a guy trying to drown his sorrows in a glass of booze."
She cocks her head and smiles seductively. "You know, there are better ways to drown your sorrows."
"Oh?" he asks and returns her smile, knowing he shouldn't. "Such as?"
She puts her hand out. "Let me show you."
He looks pointedly at his now empty glass. "I'm, um, not in any shape to drive."
"Sweety, you won't be needing a car for the kind of driving I have in mind."
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He staggers back into the bar, heading unsteadily for the counter, his hands grasping onto the tops of the barstools, pulling himself from one to another. When one slides in his grip, he nearly falls to the floor. He drags himself back to his feet and concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other until he can find someone to call him a cab to take him home to sleep off this entire miserable night.
"Good Lord, Doc, what happened to you?" Hands grip his shoulder and back, holding him up and steering him toward the back of the room. "Let's get you somewhere where you can lie down."
It's the bartender, still here. He couldn't have been gone long then, if it's still the same night and it must be because he doesn't remember seeing any daylight since he walked into this bar the first time. "Need . . . cab," he manages to say, but the words stick in his throat and his body shakes with the overpowering urge to vomit. He puts a hand to his mouth as he heaves the contents of his stomach onto his hand, his shoes, his pants, his shirt, the floor. It feels good and terrible at the same time and he's too wasted even to feel embarrassed.
"Ah shit," the bartender says. "You're really messed up. Come on." The grip is tighter, the movement quicker, as he's half pulled and half dragged across the room.
"Sorry," he mumbles, wiping a hand across his mouth which seems to put more residue on his face than it takes off. The bartender almost carries him past empty tables and chairs, into a small room and onto a vinyl couch; it's the color of puke green, cold to the touch and hard, but he lays down because it's his only hope of getting the room and his stomach to stop spinning.
The smell of the vomit on his clothing gags him and again bile forces itself up from his stomach and out of his mouth. He's lying on his back and some of it is sucked back into his throat, which only makes him retch harder. He turns onto his side and heaves onto the floor.
Hands fumble in his pockets. "Don't tell me the bitch stole your phone," the bartender says. "Oh, good, here it is."
Wilson watches him speak into his cell phone, too dazed to follow the words. Someone is shaking him. "You gotta stay with me, gotta stay awake."
He opens his eyes, carefully, and sees a blurry figure standing over him. "Kay," he says before squeezing his lids closed again.
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He opens his eyes to find the devil staring at him. Okay, not the devil. House. Close enough. His head hurts, just opening his eyes hurts. He closes them.
"Wakey, wakey," House says.
The noise of House's voice makes him cringe and he turns into the pillow. It smells somewhat antiseptic. No beeping noises means he's not in the hospital and the pillowcase doesn't smell like House, so he must be at his hotel. He tries to remember how he got here, but it's way too hard. House is here, so it must be something to do with House.
What time is it? What day is it? He tries to form the questions but his throat seems to have gauze in it and his head is on fire.
Nonetheless, House seems to understand him. "Ten in the morning, sport," he says.
Shit! He's supposed to do grand rounds at 11 with Jonathan Munoz, a world-renown specialist in lung cancer. He tries to get out of bed and ends up tangling himself in the sheets. He looks down and sees he's wearing only his boxers and T-shirt. Someone took off his vomit-infested clothes and he's got a pretty good idea who.
"Whoa there!" House says, pressing him back onto the bed.
He tries to convey the urgency of his need to rise, but sitting up makes his head spin with pain and the combination is enough to force him back onto the pillow.
"Okay, wonder boy. Stay there and I'll get you some coffee and aspirin," House says.
Wilson tries to remember something, anything about what happened after he left the bar. Just trying to think makes his head hurt, a lot, and he gives up. He hasn't been this drunk or this sick from being drunk in a long, long time.
House returns with a cup and places it on the bedside table then helps him into a sitting position. He wants to throw up.
"Deep, easy breaths," House urges, but the voice is flat.
He does what he's told, focusing on simply breathing in and out, not letting his mind wander to anything beyond that simple task. After about a minute, House hands him the coffee.
It's hot, it burns his throat, and it's not very good. "What happened?" he asks while taking a sip.
"Kinda hoping you'd tell me."
The last thing he wants to do is explain the last 24 hours to House. "I got drunk," he says.
"No kidding."
"You brought me home?"
"I brought you here," House replies, waving at the hotel room with the implication it's definitely not a home.
He tells House to leave him alone, let him sleep it off.
"Who's Candy?" House asks.
Wilson groans. How did House find out about her? "A girl I met in the bar."
"Did you do her?"
He tries to remember and can't. Thinks about looking in his boxers and decides against it. Thinks harder. He left the bar with her, came back without her. That must mean. . . shit. House is watching him.
"You did use a condom," House half asks and half says.
Did he? Certainly he would but he can't remember doing it. He isn't even sure he had sex with her but he must have. Shit, he knows better than to do it with a stranger without protection.
"I called Cuddy and told her you were sick," House is saying. "So, you've got the day to sleep it off." He tosses a small object onto the bed. "Get a blood test," he says and walks out the door.
Wilson picks up the item House has thrown. It's a condom, still sealed in its wrapping. And he doesn't need to check his wallet to know it's the one he usually keeps there.