A.N. I've recently finished watching House M.D. for the first time and I loved the House/Cameron pairing. The following instalment of what will hopefully be a lengthy multi-part story takes place after his shooting in No Reason (end of S2), but before House returns to work (it bugged me that the show never dealt with this properly). It will be heavy on the Hameron but it is a slow one (there is no Cameron in ch. 1). I wrote this mainly for myself and I personally prefer building up to things and exploring relationships. So if you're looking for a quick one-shot this isn't for you! Please review if you liked (or disliked) it. Comments and criticism of all kinds welcome.
A quick note on the language: it may not be to everyone's taste. Sorry about that. It does flow better as the story progresses, honest!
Edit 09/21 I often change little bits of each chapter as I re-read. This is mainly to ensure continuity in formatting and style, which has certainly evolved (improved?) over time. However, when it comes to this one (and the next couple, to be honest), I wish I could rewrite the whole thing because it's quite, ah, stiff. Maybe when I finish the story I'll revise these early entries. Until then, I would stress what I say above: the following is pretty turgid and will turn a lot of readers off. Proceed with caution/sympathy/contempt (delete as appropriate).
Edit 08/22 There's been a bit of debate on the FanFiction subreddit about English usage in anglophone fanfics. I should (have) state(d) at the outset that I am British, and will be using British spelling in this story. As for word usage and phrasing, where I know the American equivalent, I will always try and use that. But I am not a walking thesaurus, and lots of unwitting Britishicisms will no doubt present themselves, thereby resulting in a mishmash (or hodgepodge?) of language. I can only apologise in advance to American readers and hope it doesn't ruin your immersion. For myself, I find this situation somewhat poetic, since Hugh Laurie is himself a Brit playing an American!
Confession
"Have you considered the possibility that you're insane?", Wilson asked, leaning forwards in his chair.
House, who was lying spread-eagled on the couch, swung a baseball bat in lazy arcs with his left hand while his right ruffled his dark, though slightly greying, hair. He didn't answer immediately, preferring instead to map out from his prone position the slight imperfections in Wilson's ceiling. The beige paint had fissures running over its surface in random sequence. Whenever he attempted to follow a crack to its end his eyes soon started playing tricks, refusing to focus.
The ceiling looked as if it were a pane of glass on the point of fracturing. Fracture. House considered the word awhile: am I fracturing? A scary thought. "Your ceiling is defective".
"Yeah, the family who have moved into the apartment above mine are incredibly fat. I think their constant movement, though admittedly glacial in pace, has undermined the structural integrity of the whole building". Wilson rose from his chair and moved into the kitchen. He returned with a pair of beers, offering one to the other, before continuing: "I'm talking seriously fat. Like morbidly obese".
House smirked but took a long slug from the bottle. The stuff flowed easily, though he much preferred the rich smokiness of a fine scotch whiskey. Wilson partook only rarely. House held it to be a significant flaw in his friend, though he endured this with fairly good grace. No one was perfect, least of all himself.
Some people are perfect.
The whisper entered his mind, unwelcome and unwanted. An intruder. House banished this reflection before it could evolve into a fully formed thought, before his unruly subconscious could summon up the image of someone whom he might consider perfect. Such a being did not exist. Everyone had flaws—the game of life was won by those who hid their flaws long enough to entice other equally flawed individuals into their beds. A reductionist perspective, and one which he knew Wilson did not share. But what did he know? Three wives later…
House sat up on the couch, cradling his beer in his hands. "You call me insane, and yet I'm not the one wilfully living under a pod of orca whales. How did they even make it onto dry land, anyway? Is whaling illegal in New Jersey?".
"I think it's illegal in most places".
"How can you stand the tension, waiting for your ceiling to collapse? It's like the Sword of Damocles. I'm amazed you can sleep at all". Now House moved to stand by the window, looking out onto the dark street. The streetlights flickered in the rain.
"Well, I must confess that I've been finding it hard ever since I befriended a grumpy nephrologist at a conference a few years back".
"Hey, that's my best friend's best friend you're talking about".
Wilson smiled faintly and regarded the profile of the man before him. Given the late hour, he had kept the light in his apartment dim (though apparently not dim enough to deter criticism of the paintwork). Consequently, much of House was in shadow, back turned.
Still, features could be discerned. Habitual cane usage resulted in a posture that occasionally slouched, but here he was drawn to his full height. Large hands calloused through use clasped behind his back, the fingers long and nimble. Shoulders, not obviously muscled, but nevertheless broader than average; hair dark and unruly, thinning slightly on top.
Wilson could not make out his friend's face, but he knew that shockingly blue eyes would be darting here and there, making connections invisible to all but himself; a long, almost leonine nose, and a mouth slow to laugh, quick to sneer—at times eager to talk, at others almost mute. An angular chin given to stubble.
Though he would never admit this, Wilson knew that women found his friend to be a handsome man. And yet he remained alone. Wilson had not seen one who could meet House as an equal, on his own ground. He needed to be challenged and provoked, but also loved and accepted for what he was. Everyone is unique. But some are more unique than others, thought Wilson. She knows this.
"OK, I'm struggling a bit", replied House, turning around suddenly. "But I'm not insane".
"Uhuh, sure. You do realise that what you blurted out did not actually make any sense, though?".
"I try and avoid this type of conversation whenever possible...but it's interfering with my drinking and my TV watching". A look of complete disgust crossed his features before he continued: "as someone who is expert in such things, and again I can't stress enough how humiliating I find it that I am coming to you for advice, do you have any thoughts?".
Wilson moved to his armchair and folded his arms across his chest. It was getting late and he had an early appointment tomorrow. But he considered it his duty as a friend to give the matter consideration. For one thing, he was unsure quite to what expertise House was referring, since his garbled words ("vision…delusion…shot…her") upon bursting into this apartment at eleven on a Wednesday night, suggested a predicament that had nothing to do with oncology. Furthermore, it was clear from House's unimpeded movements that the ketamine treatment had not worn off. Finally, and this must be significant, House was rarely this cryptic when it came to discussing cases. "What did you mean by my being an 'expert' in this?".
House halted his patrol before enunciating in a deliberately slow Southern drawl: "my dear sir, you had wives aplenty 'afore the War; now they are but a memory of a cursed time long gone but never forgotten".
Wilson's heart sank when he realised he would need to do the messy business of interpretation himself. "I wish you were normal".
"Normal is overrated".
"Normal is great", he grumbled, thinking on the obscure utterance word by word. Wives. House obviously had no wives, and Stacy was long out of the picture. It was not completely beyond the realm of possibility that during the interminable boredom of his weeks off he had eloped with his favourite hooker. But still, Wilson did not consider House the marrying type, impulse or not. No, wives must refer to women, but not all women, just those close enough to him to be judged companions rather than simple disposable pleasures. Women close to House…
As Wilson worked through the problem, his friend ambled over to the bookcase and took hold of the baseball resting on the shelf, its removal revealing a perfect circle amid the thin layer of dust. He tossed the ball from hand to hand, watching the wheels turning.
Wives aplenty. This must refer simply to past girlfriends of House's, of which there were many. Conferences, bars, and lecture rooms had all borne witness to his friend's peculiar brand of aloof mystique which drew women to his bed but not to his life. Even Stacy, who had stayed for a full five years, had given up in the end. If a relationship is characterised as give and take, then House only took. But, Wilson reflected mirthlessly, if a relationship is characterised as give and take, then I only give. And Cuddy wonders why we are friends.
"How's it going over there, pal? Figured it out yet?". House had started to throw the ball against the ceiling, catching it with his wrong hand and with one eye closed. Metronomic thuds.
Wilson said nothing, puzzling now on the 'afore the War section of the riddle. On its face, this referred to battle. Wilson knew that his friend came from a military family, his father a former marine pilot. But that couldn't be relevant: his parents had come to see House after he was shot, but they were hardly regular features in his life. Shot. House had been shot. He had nearly died. This was his war—the Diagnostics department had been invaded by a hostile force, the soldiers his fellows, himself the casualty, bleeding on the floor, punctured by bullets.
So far he had 'women before House was shot'. Probably.
A memory of a cursed time. This could refer to anything. Trauma over Stacy leaving him for Mark, then offering to return to his side following Mark's disability and her employment by the hospital? It was possible, though unlikely. After all, it was House himself who had convinced her to remain with her husband. No, this wasn't it.
A cursed time. There had been a patient, a boy named Gabriel who had been convinced that he was cursed to die. This was around the time of Vogler. Vogler. That wrecking ball of an administrator, a wolf in sheep's clothing who saw House as a personal enemy to be destroyed. Wilson and then Cuddy had been ousted from the Board when they refused to toe the line. Wilson fired, angry at his friend for his stubborn refusal to bow to Big Brother. House's team had been reduced to infighting: Foreman on the point of quitting, Chase an informant against his boss, Cameron did leave.
There was only one woman back then. A time long gone but not forgotten. This could only refer to House's memory of those events, the feelings which remain in his mind, but which nevertheless have changed following the attempt on his life. His feelings concerning her.
Wilson's eyes grew wide as he drew his conclusions, looking up finally at the taller man who did nothing but stare at him. "It's Cameron, isn't it?".
House made his way back to the couch, eyes to the floor, hands locked together, shoulders hunched. It occurred to Wilson that this revelation of secretly harboured feelings for a younger subordinate should be almost as terrifying as the fact of getting shot—the harsh metal of a gun and bullet, though undoubtedly lethal, was nevertheless entirely straightforward. The physics that propelled the projectile easily understood, reduced to reason with little difficulty.
But the turmoil of a man's disturbed mind, of a mind as ingenious yet as delicate as House's, did not effortlessly succumb to reason. Riotous thoughts spark emotion untamed—not even House could impose order on his unconscious. In the recesses of the mind, there was No Reason.
"Speak". Wilson padded over to sit beside his friend on the couch as the rain pattered against the window.
Finally, House seemed to come to a decision, settling his shining blue eyes on the brown ones of his companion. "Fine", he said, "but I'll need another beer".
