CHAPTER TWO: EVASION
Over the next several days, House grows even more adept at evading Wilson's attempts at discussion. He refuses several lunch invitations; the one time he accepts, he drags a reluctant Chase along, effectively blocking any private conversation.
Wilson tries to convince himself that House is busy, distracted. His current case is difficult, and the patient isn't doing well. House and Chase had spent lunch discussing the latest test results, debating the next set of diagnostics to run. It had bothered Wilson, though, when he'd attempted to offer an opinion on the case. House had let his eyes slide over Wilson as if he weren't even there, and hadn't even paused in his discussion with Chase. Chase had caught the slight, had shrugged his shoulders apologetically at Wilson as if to say, You know how he is when he's got a mystery—dog with a bone.
So Wilson decides to hold off, for a while, trying to talk with House. A lot of things have changed, but not this; the puzzle still trumps everything else. And Wilson respects that, even as he ruefully acknowledges the truth; House would be dodging him anyway, patient or no.
Because he's angry. And he's got every right to be angry. What we—no, what I—did to him, it was wrong. Yeah, I did it for all the right reasons, but that excuse is wearing a little thin now, even to me. If he won't talk, wish he'd yell, or tell me he hates me, blames me, whatever it is that's still bothering him. Wish he'd just admit that something is bothering him. Can't start to fix it until he acknowledges it's broken….
Wilson's thoughts wander back a few months, to a time—perhaps the only time—that House had indicated, in words, that their friendship meant anything at all to him. Wilson remembers his amazement when House had told him, "Maybe I don't wanna push this 'til it breaks." There'd been something not quite readable in House's eyes when he'd said it… fear, maybe? Fear of losing the one real relationship he had, the one good thing that hadn't been a casualty of the infarction?
Should've told him then; he couldn't—can't—break it. Damn him; I don't even know why, but there's nothing he could do that'd make me give up on him. He needed to know that then, deserves to know it now. Maybe he's acting like this because it feels safer for him, pretending not to care. He thinks he pushed me away, broke it. And he didn't. Hell, he even apologized to me. But it broke anyway…. And if he wasn't the one to do it, then maybe I was….
This last is a new thought for Wilson, and he turns it around in his mind, and feels the first stirrings of something that might be… guilt?
Head down, deep in thought, he walks toward the elevator, and barely notices that he almost trips as he enters the car.
"Excuse you," a familiar voice intones, and Wilson realizes that what he'd almost tripped over is House's cane. Before he can shield the sadness in his eyes, he's looking into House's oddly concerned face.
"Lose another baldie?" House asks, and for an irrational moment, Wilson wishes that he could say yes, and keep that concerned look in House's eyes for just a few seconds more, before the strong new wall goes back up.
Wilson sighs. "No, I was just… thinking. About us, actually; you and me, this friendsh—"
"Oops; turns out this is my floor. See you!" House calls cheerfully as he exits the elevator.
Wilson sighs again as the doors close on House's rapidly retreating back.
On Wednesday afternoon, Wilson sees House's team high-fiving each other in the corridor outside their patient's room. House has solved the riddle; now all they've gotta do is cure the guy. House's fellows are happy because House is satisfied—and therefore easier to be around.
On Wednesday night, Wilson shows up at House's apartment, pizza and six-pack in hand. He knows he's taking a chance—but he's running out of ideas. House is coming to the end of his case; the timing should be good. Wilson's counting on it. He stands at the front door, wondering if he should knock and enter as he usually does—used to do, he corrects himself—or knock and wait. Or maybe just forget the whole thing.
He's spared the decision when House, money in hand, opens the door himself, and they stare at each other for a few uncomfortable seconds.
House finds his voice first. "Thought you were the pizza delivery."
Wilson holds up the pizza and the beer. "Better; I come bearing alcohol!" He hates the note of false, superficial cheer he hears in his own voice.
House blinks and swallows. He opens the door wider and inclines his head; Wilson feels the reluctance in the gesture, and resolutely ignores it as he walks in, striding past a bemused House. Wilson wishes he could tell him not to worry—nothing serious, no deep discussions tonight. It's safe, House. Not gonna ambush you. Really. But he has a plan, and he sticks to it.
All evening, Wilson intentionally steers the conversation, and he keeps it light, almost shallow. Midway through dinner, he senses that House has started to relax a bit; he's even smiled, once or twice. And every once in a while, the shutters lift a moment from the blue eyes, and Wilson catches a glimpse of something… warm, and almost open. Wilson's briefly tempted to take advantage of that, and to try, gently, to introduce the topic that's been consuming his thoughts all week.
No; don't be an idiot, he chides himself. You're damned lucky he even let you in. So what if it's not exactly like old times. We're in the same room, sharing the same meal. Sharing a laugh. Yeah, I've had deeper conversations with the grocery clerk, but… gotta start somewhere.
When they end the evening, Wilson feels he's won some sort of victory when House says casually, "Still got your key, right? Lock the door on your way out, will ya?"
On Thursday afternoon, Wilson's pager goes off. He reads the message and smiles. The words are simple, generic—house clinic exrm3—and they're comfortable in their old familiarity.
Maybe last night paid off, he thinks. Gotta admit, it was hard not to try and get 'im to open up. But this… breakdown… in communications was months in the making. Gonna take a while to repair it. Or it's going to take something… big. Really big. Something that'll prove to House that I'm in it for the long haul; that this is for life.
He shakes his head to clear it of the unbidden image of House on Christmas Eve, lying on the floor, perhaps dying. And Wilson had walked out; he'd let House down—maybe even endangered his life. All to prove a stupid point—a point that would've most certainly been pointless, if House had died. He's replayed it a million times since that night, and it always ends differently from the reality. It ends the way it should've; hope he'll give me the chance, someday, to prove it.
Wilson pulls himself out of the unpleasant memory, out of the bout of wishful thinking. He heads to the elevator, trying to remember when House had last called him down to the clinic for a sham consult. He realizes it's been months.
Losing his touch; this is too obvious. He knows I know he's got a case; no clinic duty. But maybe that's a good sign, Wilson reflects; maybe this is House's way of trying to normalize things, his way of saying, "Okay, I'm getting over it; let's watch the soaps and laugh at Chase's new haircut."
More wishful thinking; House doesn't let go of his grudges. He stews about 'em; he worries them—for years! Wilson remembers a couple of years ago, House trying to take down a colleague who'd wronged him decades earlier, when House was a med student. So what makes me think I'm gonna get off any easier? Wilson snorts. It'd take some life or death crisis to get me off the hook without House exacting his long, slow revenge. Then, trying to be optimistic, Wilson reminds himself that House had paged him, after all. Longest journey… first step… all that garbage.
Wilson starts down the hall. A nurse and an intern are headed towards him, engrossed in an animated conversation.
"Figures," the intern is saying. "Does something nice for once in his miserable life, and look what it gets him."
Wilson hears the nurse giggle. "You know what they say; no good deed goes unpunished. And if he does get infected, there are a lot of people around here who'll figure he deserves it."
"No one deserves systemic MRSA, not even him," the intern says. "Could kill 'im, poor bastard." The intern looks away from the nurse, spots Wilson, and stops speaking. The sudden silence causes the nurse to look up. She sees Wilson, and blushes as her hand flies to her mouth. Wilson smiles politely and nods as he passes, and their nervous, embarrassed laughter echoes in his ears as he continues down the hall.
Wilson winces at an unpleasant memory their conversation had sparked. Back in med school, a fellow student had become infected with methicillin-resistant staph aureus, known to the medical community simply as MRSA. Combative nursing-home patient, a moment of inattention during a blood draw, and bam. The infection had turned systemic, and the student had developed a severe bone abscess. The osteomyelitis hadn't ever responded completely to any of the antibiotics they'd thrown at it, and after an unpleasant, painful battle, the young man had been reduced to begging for death.
Wilson thinks of the conversation he's just heard, and silently wishes the anonymous victim good luck. He also makes a mental note to impress upon his next group of students and interns the importance of universal precautions. Some poor kid's maybe had his career ruined today, before it even starts. And his career could be the least of his problems…. Wilson thinks back to his friend in med school; the infection had eventually killed him, and his death had been as drawn out and agonizing as the battle against it had been.
Wilson shakes his head to clear it of the memory. Something's bothering him about the conversation he's overheard, but for some reason his brain's just not letting him process it. And as sad as the incident is, Wilson's still determined to take advantage of this unexpected opportunity to get things straightened out with House.
As Wilson reaches the door of Exam Room Three, he takes a moment to school his expression into one of mild exasperation at the 'interruption' to his schedule, because that's what House'll expect—but first, he has to get rid of the amused, relieved smile he's worn since he got the page.
He reaches for the door. Look annoyed, he reminds himself. But not too annoyed…. Which is why, four seconds later, he's staring at a room full of people with a completely inappropriate expression on his face. But none of those people even look up; they're crowded around the exam table, and there's blood—a lot of it. The gathered staff appear unprofessionally flustered, even upset. The only times Wilson's ever seen medical staff act like this is when the patient's one of their own, and things aren't looking good. His breath catches in his throat, and Wilson's eyes fly to the head of the bed. House is lying on the exam table looking angry—and terribly, frighteningly pale.