House left Cuddy's office like a schoolboy fleeing school to start summer vacation. He charged through the lobby and out the glass doors where Wilson was patiently waiting. "Hey Wilson, Cuddy gave us a 'Get Out of Jail Free' card, let's get the hell out of Dodge."
Wilson beamed his agreement and moved toward his friend's voice. Like two train cars coupling, House signaled with his elbow by brushing against Wilson's right arm. In return, Wilson's hand securely latched onto the proffered upper arm and answered, "Lead on, Kemo Sabe."
They headed out to the parking lot at a surprising clip with House opening the conversation to debate. "Noooo, I'm way cooler than the Lone Ranger."
"Well, you can't be Batman, because I refuse to be Robin."
The two argued nonstop all the way to the cleaners to pick up their tuxes, and escalated the squabble as they criticized each other's selections on the drive back to Wilson's apartment. Unknown to Wilson, House deliberately cruised around the block a couple of times until they finally settled upon their superhero identities. Wilson snorted at House's choice of the Silver Surfer. "Yeah, a silver cane would make a nice touch while balancing on a surfboard."
Wilson's pick—the Daredevil, prompted House to wisecrack while Wilson climbed out of his car with his tuxedo in one hand, white cane in the other. "You have the blind part down, work on your reckless disregard for danger before we go to Cuddy's ball."
An hour later, House clutching a silver-topped cane, limped his way up a serviceable cement pathway. At the end was an aluminum framed glass door guarding the murky hall that led to the first floor apartments in Wilson's building. The corridor was featureless except for evenly spaced doors, and the pungent odor of wet dog and cooked garlic.
He understood the reason Cuddy found this place for Wilson. It was off-campus housing that was an easy walk to the hospital and a couple of convenience stores. It was respectable but shabby. The building had housed a lot of med students in its years, and probably served as an incentive for most to graduate as fast as possible, move out, and begin promising careers.
He'd been to the apartment before, but not often. The first time he saw it, he gave Wilson a hard time. "Kind of a dump, isn't it?"
"Kinda can't tell. Besides, they take dogs."
"Those furry things running on all fours around here are called rats."
"Seriously, I'm thinking it's time to get a seeing-eye dog."
"Fine. Make sure it hunts down rats when it's off duty."
He bent his head down as he knocked on the door, waiting for the sound of footsteps approaching before he showed his contempt for his surroundings and shouted out, "Hey, Wilson! I'll huff and I'll puff—"
Before he could finish, locks and tumblers released at double time, and the door opened. Wilson was still in his slacks and dress shirt, the top button unfastened, the sleeves rolled up, exposing the road map of faint scars traveling from his fingers upward. His hair was tousled, and his face tense and pale. As House walked in, the locks snapped back in place. Wilson's greeting was strained as he headed to the kitchen. "Jeez, House, can't you be content to knock non-stop without including a bedtime story?"
"What? And disappoint your zombie geek neighbors? Other than masturbating while looking at Playboy centerfolds, it's the only entertainment they get around here."
Apparently, he didn't arrive early enough because this was what he hoped to avoid. Wilson winding himself up like a mechanical toy, worrying about what could go wrong, and erecting more obstacles than a steeplechase.
Instead of derailing his friend's irritation, it was becoming contagious. House rolled his eyes as he realized that their superhero powers from earlier were beginning to wane.
The claustrophobic apartment didn't help. It was slightly larger than Wilson's old hotel room, scrupulously clean but devoid of character. There was a kitchen alcove with bare countertops and an unused stove and oven, a round table with two chairs off to the side. A small chair served double duty as sentinel to the hall that led to a bath and bedroom and a flat surface for Wilson's wallet, cane, keys, and spare change. A matching mahogany-colored leather chair and ottoman were crammed into a corner. A couch covered in the same buttery calfskin hid behind a coffee table and cowered under neglected drapes.
The dark hardwood floors were naked. The white walls bare. Nail a crucifix, and it would be little better than a monk's cell.
The one extravagance was the audio equipment that stretched over the end wall near the overstuffed chair. Riffs of CDs and miles of brushed aluminum knobs were punctuated by assorted speakers.
Clean. Serviceable. Safe. That's what Wilson wanted.
Taking off his jacket, House placed a paper bag containing plastic wineglasses on the kitchen table and scanned the room for the remote control. Spying it on the ottoman, he clicked on the TV that was wedged among the electronics like an afterthought. He thumped to the sofa where he sat down and stretched his legs on the coffee table. House massaged his thigh as he popped his first round of Vicodin for the evening.
The former amateur chef was brandishing a mayonnaise covered knife. "I'm fixing a turkey sandwich. Want one?" House grunted his interest. Wilson transferred the sandwiches onto paper plates. "If you were coming over to watch TV you could have stayed at your place until it was time to pick me up."
House was silent as he surfed channels. He stopped when he found a NASCAR race, then raised the volume to drown out Wilson's nagging.
The sandwiches arrived and placed on the coffee table. "Want water?"
"Any beer?"
Hands automatically moved to their owner's hips, Wilson's lips pressed into a thin line. "You drew the short straw. I thought you were the designated driver tonight."
House didn't argue as he attacked the food offering, and a few moments later a bottle of water and a napkin appeared on the wooden table next to his feet.
House muted the volume on the remote while the cars flew around the track. "I brought the wineglasses over if you want to practice. They're on the table."
"No." Wilson's hand massaged the back of his neck. "Let's stick with the 'mix-up' plan. When they pour the champagne for the toast, you'll pick up my glass by accident and place it at the one o'clock position near my dinner plate. There's a ninety percent chance I won't drown my dinner."
Was it encouraging or a sign of defeat that his friend was giving up on stemware? House shifted his position on the couch to get a better look at Wilson. He was slouched into his seat with his feet planted on the floor, munching complacently on his sandwich, a broken corner of crust stranded on his chest.
"Thirteen detected a spot on the upper right lung of my patient."
Fingers went on a scouting mission, running down the right side of Wilson's shirt, plucking up the crumb, and popping it into his mouth. He mumbled, "Secret code confirmed. All systems good to go."
Neither man volunteered to speak, and once again the volume button was depressed. The room filled with RPMs as the announcer called the laps.
After finishing his sandwich and listening to the mechanical drone of high performance automobiles, the back of Wilson's head dropped heavily onto the sofa. His mouth opened slightly as he fell asleep. House checked his watch, there was still more than an hour to go before Wilson had to get ready.
Hypnotized by the colorful pinwheel of speeding cars, House was utterly absorbed. Then, all hell broke loose on the screen. A sleek red car spun out of control as it overtook a competitor on a curve. It ricocheted against a wall and began performing front-over-end cartwheels before exploding into flames. Caught directly on camera, the thunderous roar from screeching metal poured from the stereo speakers.
House's thumb immediately mashed the mute button into the remote but not quick enough.
Startled awake by the noise and disoriented from his nap, Wilson's arms involuntarily flew up and shielded his head, his chest shuddered as if the air was knocked out of him. An eternal handful of seconds vanished before his hands lowered and found comfort in kneading the supple leather of the seat cushion and armrest. When his breathing evened, Wilson questioned, "Wha-What was that?! What's going on?!
A regretful pronouncement spilled from House's lips. "Crash on the racetrack. Forget about it."
Wilson's eyebrows raised and his mouth formed an 'Oh.' His head turned directly toward House, and House realized he was looking dead center into Hurricane Wilson. A unique form of performance art never before seen until the car crash.
Wilson stood up, immediately rammed his foot into the coffee table, and toppled forward, but his hands caught his fall by latching onto the wood surface. He oriented himself with the table's corner and the sofa before navigating toward the audio/video wall where he paced back and forth with one trembling hand fanning over the buttons and jewel cases. "Forget about it?! Tell me what's happening!"
Black smoke and flames streamed from the hood and cab while the driver remained trapped. Emergency crews frantically sprayed the car with foam. House flipped the channel and powered off the set. He closed his eyes and swallowed before saying, "They're taking the driver away on a stretcher. He made a thumbs up sign…"
The pacing stopped as Wilson calmed and deliberately walked toward House. The face, if not the eyes managed to zero in on him. "Oh no you don't, House. Don't lie to me this time. If that was true, you wouldn't be shutting off the TV." He turned away and stood in the middle of the room. "I should have demanded you change the channel as soon as I heard the engines."
Outwardly, Wilson's appeared in control, but House recognized the signs of leftover emotional debris that littered their friendship since the accident. The silence, the bowed head, one arm hugging the chest, the other hand tracing the scar through the brow. Wilson's soul was fluttering within, seeking safety. Instead, it found a dank well filled with bitter tears and venom.
House leveraged himself away from the sofa. "Wilson, I'm sorry, it was thoughtless, an accident—"
Wilson flung up an arm to cut off the apology. "Yes, an accident. Neither of us can have too many of those, can we?"
"Now's not the time, Wilson. Snap out of it."
Wilson snapped his fingers in front of his face. "Great idea, House, but the magic trick isn't working. Still can't see. Have any other suggestions?"
Standing a few feet away, House slumped in defeat. Wilson was constructing his own prison cell made out of memories and despair. No logic was going to unlock the door. More for himself than his friend he muttered, "You're lucky to be alive."
"Yes, remind me, how many times did you bully the doctors into bringing me back when my heart stopped? Not once, but twice?" An ironic laugh accompanied the next words. "And, when I woke up, I was looking at the inside of a coffin." There was a pause before Wilson spoke quiet and low, "I'll always have you to thank for it."
These last words pierced House's heart, triggering his own self-destruct button. He limped a step closer, straightened to his full height, and matched Wilson's voice in volume and tone. "Don't stop now, why not blame me for Amber's death?"
A hitched breath escaped from the sightless man, and his hand sliced through the air indicating the discussion was over. Turning on his heel, Wilson headed down the hall and slammed the bedroom door with the force of a shotgun blast. The sound reverberated and lingered before fading away.
Abandoned in the living room, House was furious with himself and with Wilson. He was tired of walking on fucking eggshells. He had never signed on for this kind of crap when he met Wilson in New Orleans.
But neither had Wilson when he had the infarction.
Slowly listing back to the safe harbor of the couch, House sat with his head cradled in his hands and applied logic to Wilson's incendiary remark. He employed a mental slide rule and measured each word for height, depth, and breadth of emotion. Then traced the phrase back to a probable cause.
He recognized the same anger and sarcasm within himself—born from the operation that left him damaged. Also, it was clear that Wilson had not shaken off the PTSD caused by the car crash. Add that to the threat of his job disappearing, one of two things Wilson had professed long ago that he cared about, and House resolved not to yank away the second—their friendship. He'd leave that to Wilson.
Leaving the new calibration of the old friendship behind him, House turned to practicalities about the evening. Should he stay or leave? Call Cuddy and tell her to write Wilson's career off as a lost cause? He decided to wait and see if Wilson ever planned to step out of his bedroom.
About an hour later, House heard the creak of a hinge, footsteps, and a door close. The white noise of the shower rumbled into the living room. He leaned back and closed his eyes. Might as well stay and wait for Wilson to officially pronounce time of death on their friendship.
He heard the plumbing blow a discordant note through the pipes as the shower shut off. A banquet of sounds followed: muffled rattles and blasts of water, the slap of bare feet on plank flooring, and silence after the bedroom door squeaked closed.
More time passed, and he realized it was getting late. So far, Wilson was a mere apparition. Maybe it would be better to talk another time.
The distant door piped a soft squeal just as he rose, and he heard his former friend's leather shoes scuffle down the hallway. Wilson reappeared carrying his black tuxedo jacket over one arm, and hesitantly called out, "House, are you here?"
The faint scent of Wilson's spicy after-shave followed him into the space. He looked more than presentable. The hair was slightly damp, but curled onto the forehead. Shoes polished, suit pressed, freshly laundered shirt, suspenders. Only the bow tie remained untied and crumpled.
"Yeah. You're still going?" House sat back down.
Wilson huffed and replied, "Your job is on the line as well as mine." He placed his jacket on the back of the nearest chair, and returned to his end of the couch. Voice flat, he continued, "I've broken it. Our friendship."
Carefully choosing his words, House rubbed his fingers over his forehead, "Not easy to break a friendship like ours. It's a Rubik's cube. You can rotate and move the colored squares wherever you want, and never get them aligned correctly, but the damn cube never breaks apart." He paused and made a stab at their former banter. "Unless you have kryptonite."
"Fresh out."
"Same here." House waited, but Wilson showed no inclination to hold up his end of the conversation. "We should be going. Cuddy's going to have our heads on a platter."
"House." Wilson's tongue ran over his lips, but his face pointed straight ahead. "I unfairly lashed out at you earlier."
"Yes you did, but don't cover yourself in all the blame. There's enough to go around. NASCAR. Don't know what came over me."
After a beat, they answered in unison. "Cuddy's damned ball." They finished the last word on relaxed laughter.
"Want help with the tie?" House asked.
"Yeah." No traces of rancor remained in Wilson's voice as he fiddled with the ends. He stood up, and walked to the other side of the coffee table.
House followed, hobbling around to his friend's back, grabbing the slick satin fabric in his hands, and attempted to tie the bow as if it was around his own neck. As much as he tried, he could feel his impatience rising as he fumbled with the loops. "Why can't you wear a regular tie like me?"
"Because." Wilson shrugged.
"Yeah, because it's another small thing you think you should be able to handle, but I have to fix for you."
Life was back on track—if the track was the corkscrew of a roller coaster.
Wilson pulled a small case from his slacks pocket and waved a pair of dark-tinted glasses in the air. "Um, you think I should wear these? Some people are uncomfortable…."
"Good idea, Jimmy. Let everyone know which one is the blind oncologist. A sign around your neck advertising 'Expert Breast Exams While You Wait' would be better, but who am I to—?"
"Got the message. Do we have time to make the sign?" One eyebrow lifted in place of a leer, and the glasses returned to the case with a snap. Wilson held one end in his hand as if he was asking a question in class. "Put 'em on the kitchen table for me?"
"Yeah." The two ends of fabric now resembled a bow, but just barely. As House walked around to the front to add the finishing touches, he had vague misgivings about leaving any protective armor behind. "On second thought, why don't you hold on to them in case you need to duck out unnoticed by the paparazzi?" The case slipped back into Wilson's pocket.
Coaxing the fabric with nimble fingers, House concentrated on the loops and adjusted the ends. He was surprised to see the bow shape up like a pedigreed winner. A few more push and pulls and it would take best of show.
Wilson's own nerves were getting the better of him as he tried to stand still while House fussed with his masterpiece. "What are you wearing?"
House felt fingertips dance over his shirtfront, tie and lapels. "What the hell are you doing?"
The fidgeting stopped. "I wanted to see what you are wearing."
A pause. "Stick to that story, and don't touch anything below the waist." The warning was delivered with mock menace.
Wilson answered with a quick nod, his lips slightly parted as his fingers once again roamed. His hands slowed, and he touched and smoothed the fabric with long sober movements. Clinical but thoughtful.
House was struck by how much emotion could be transmitted in those hands. No wonder most of the time the face was unreadable. All the reactions that displayed in the dark eyes were transferred to the sure fingers.
When Wilson finished, he lowered his head, but did not move away. "Would you mind if I touched your face? I haven't seen it for nearly two years. You're becoming a voice and a benevolent arm to hitch a ride."
House didn't say a word, but moved his friend's hands to his temples. He closed his eyelids and waited as the fingers traced from the hairline down, gently touching and stroking the forehead, eyebrows, and eyelashes. Measuring and molding the nose, cheeks, lips, and chin. A gentle pinch on his right cheek followed by a pair of playful taps, and the hands withdrew.
"Are you clean-shaven all the time, or is it for…?" Wilson's voice sounded like he swallowed a throat full of rotgut whiskey,
"Tonight."
"You haven't changed."
"The hair is grayer."
"Not to me."
Without warning, Wilson gave House a light, awkward hug. Quiet words choked with emotion stumbled from his lips. "You don't think I know how much you've done for me, House. Stuck by my side while I was a stubborn, self-pitying jerk. If not…well then…you're an idiot."
He began to pull away, but House stopped him by placing his hands on his shoulders, giving them a squeeze, and no vow of loyalty or love could be forged stronger within the embrace.
House held the world record for avoiding confessions and sentimentality, but words long suppressed demanded to be spoken. "How many times did you put up with my behavior—before, during, and after the infarction? I'm sorry as hell that there was ever a reason for you to thank me for helping you."
They held a few seconds longer, then stepped back, and looked into each other's eyes.
House could have sworn his friend's dark brown eyes were once again alive and trained on him, but the diagnostician within decided it was an illusion because both his and Wilson's were pooling with unshed tears.
He was startled by Wilson's next words.
"This is crazy, but just for a fraction of a second I thought I could see your face."
The admission left House speechless, but he quickly regained his composure. "Did you see me dance a jig too?" He scornfully deflected. He did not want to dwell on chemical reactions or speculate about metaphysics.
"Uh, no." Wilson smiled at House's dismissal.
"Good. Then you're not too delusional to go to the ball. Your pumpkin awaits. It's time to go."
Wilson shrugged on his jacket, pocketed the items on the chair, and tucked the folded cane under his arm. He held the door open for House so he could lock up after him. "I'm ready. What could possibly go wrong tonight when I have my fairy godmother to watch over me?"
House didn't stop as he limped by. "You're wrong, Wilson. We're superheroes. Remember it unless you want a glass slipper shoved up that pain-in-the-ass of yours."