Title: Evening At Luigi's, Part 3
By: lbc
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: M
Genre: slash
Disclaimer: I sure wish I owned these characters, but I don't
Summary: Wilson gets some news.
James Wilson was finally able to sit up in a hospital bed. His stomach still hurt, but he could make it to the bathroom on his own, and he could endure the continuing pain of the wound without constant pain killers.
It had been more than a week since he had been shot, and something . . . something was going on, and he didn't like it. He had had visits from everybody, even his soon-to-be ex-wife but, as expected, that had not gone very well.
It was clear that Julie had been concerned for him, but when she had discovered that he was recovering, she was relieved primarily because now she knew her alimony was secure. Wilson had not included any of his wives in his will. I may be dumb enough to marry them, but not enough to leave them money, dependent upon my death. That had been his thought, and all three of the bloodsucking vipers lived up to his expectations.
If the truth be known, there was only one person in the entire world that he trusted . . . trusted absolutely, and for the last week that person had disappeared from Wilson's life. Each and every day as he had endured the pain of a bullet hole in his abdomen and the "care" of the hospital staff, he had looked for a certain scruffy face with enormous blue eyes to appear in the doorway and yet, they had never appeared.
Never again would Wilson doubt patients who complained about being ill or injured. Being ill was bad enough, but the long days filled with pain, seemingly cut off from the world and sanity had made telling inroads into James Wilson's psyche. He was neither naïve nor blind to hospital life, but now that he was "living it" in glorious color, he realized how unaware he had been of the daily life of a hospital.
He had not longed for visitors. In fact, he had had his share and more. Even some of his former patients came to visit once the fact of his shooting had made the rounds. Perhaps the worst was the interrogation by the police, demanding his account of what had occurred outside of Luigi's more than a week ago.
Wilson had planned such a wonderful evening; he was even going to pay the bill. As usual House was being his sarcastic self after both men had put in an 18 hour day. Luigi's had always been special to them with its cosy, friendly atmosphere. It was probably the one place in Princeton where Greg House had never uttered a sarcastic remark. Well, not until that night.
The police had asked him to describe his assailant, but he couldn't. How do you describe a non-descript man who was dressed in shabby clothes and smelled bad? He had not really even seen his face, but he had seen the gun as it was pulled out of a ripped pocket. He could still hear the faint echo of House's acerbic wit blurting, "Ah, the land of the great unwashed!" And then Wilson could only remember the gun, fear, and pain.
Now that Wilson thought about it from the safety and security of a bed at Princeton-Plainsboro, he felt that fear again. Strange, at the time, he had not been afraid for himself. It had been his scruffy friend who had seemed to draw the ire of the non-descript man . . . or that's what he had thought, but the police questions had revived his memories slightly, and now he wasn't so sure.
The evening had started so well, even though both men had been tired. Wilson could see the lines of pain etched in House's beautiful face. He was taking more Vicodin than he should but wouldn't listen to anyone. Wilson had hoped that the hellacious week that House had gone through with withdrawal to win that bet with Cuddy would have done some good, but . . . stubbornness thy name is Gregory House MD.
Wilson heard a noise. Secretly hoping it was his best friend, his dark eyes dimmed slightly when he realized that it was Eric Foreman. Foreman was one of House's "ducklings", a brilliant doctor who often did not see eye to eye with his notoriously moody boss. It was James Wilson, however, who truly walked the tightrope in his relationship with Gregory House. Colleague, friend, confidant, fellow student, and . . . lover. Wilson had been all those and more, and now he was holding onto House, his friend by the skin of his teeth. He had not seen House in over a week. His friend had deserted him while he lay in the hospital, possibly dying.
Where was House?
Breaking out of his reverie, Wilson smiled at Foreman. The man had been a regular visitor since Wilson had woken from his coma, as had the other ducklings. "How's it goin', Doc?"
Wilson sighed, trying to put some life into his voice. "I'm never going to demand that a patient eat this food, ever again."
Foreman smiled nervously. Now that was a fairly innocuous comment, thought Wilson.
What's caused him to be so on edge?
"Yeah, it doesn't take long to get tired of the assembly line stuff. Well, I just wanted to see how you're doing. Got to go."
"Thanks for stopping . . . Is your boss keepin' you busy?"
"Cuddy? Nah, we just stay out of her way."
"No, I meant the good-looking one with the 10 o'clock shadow."
If it could have, Foreman's face would have gone pale, but he held his ground by saying, "Well, you know us; we're always busy." With that, Foreman took off as if he were being chased by Cuddy.
Where the hell is House?
Wilson rested his head on the pillow which was lying on the slightly tilted head of the bed. His mid-section was still too tender for the young doctor to sit up straight, and frankly, at the moment, he was feeling too tired to talk or even think much about his caustic friend. Some days he wondered why he even put up with House. What did House give to him? Vogler's demand that Wilson be fired for defending House still burned in his memory.
House had not asked him to resign, but he had taken it for granted that Wilson would protect House's job by voting no, and it had almost cost Wilson everything. That night, Wilson had admitted that there were only two things that mattered to him, and he had just sacrificed one of them for the other one. Why is Greg House my friend? Am I so desperate for friends that I hang onto his friendship, accepting anything and everything that he throws at me?
Wilson sighed, a shiver going through him as if a goose had walked over his grave, as his grandmother had often quoted. Looking at the small clock on the stand next to him, he calculated the eight days, 22 hours, and some minutes since he had been shot.
Where was House?
It was nearing time for the evening meal. The only lucky thing about being shot in the abdomen was that it limited the concoctions that the kitchen could serve him. No Baby Beef Drumsticks for him - - instead it was baby food delicacies full of vitamins, proteins, and mush that passed his way. Rubbing his face in frustration, he tried to remind himself of how lucky he was to be alive to eat anything. Hearing the rattle of the food cart, Wilson put on his most accommodating face, his face falling as fast as a soufflé when he saw Allison Cameron carry in his tray.
The woman had designs on House, and while Wilson had put a good face on it, he wasn't sure what Cameron saw in House, but then what did House see in Cameron? She was years younger than House and not really his type, but then who was his type? Certainly not a tall, brown-haired, reasonably good looking department head who had risked his career for a man who would not bend his integrity even to save . . . what?
That was the real trouble with Gregory House. No one knew what was really important to him. He would bend rules, break laws, suborn perjury, and do a lot more to save lives, but what would he do in the name of friendship - - certainly not get emotional. Even when they had been intimate so many years ago, Wilson wasn't sure how much of himself House was really allowing Wilson to see of him. You would think that your lover would know you better than anyone, wouldn't you?
All that thought got Wilson, however, was the memory of Stacy Warner and her fall from grace. It did, however, return Wilson to the present and the puzzled face of Allison Cameron, who was looking at him like he was suffering a seizure.
"Dr. Wilson, are you all right?"
Wilson smiled with his mouth but not his eyes. "Oh sure, thanks so much for bringing . . . dinner. You didn't have to."
"Well, I was just going off duty, and I thought I would say hello."
Acknowledging the food, Wilson smiled again and asked, "What? Your boss is letting you go home this early? No patients who need the world's greatest diagnostician or you all?"
At best, Cameron's face was pale and slightly insipid but the question had obviously thrown her. Her paleness became reddish flush and her demeanor spoke of extreme nervousness. She tried to tough it out, but didn't do as good a job as Foreman. "Oh yeah, we've all been on our best behavior so we're free to go. Glad you're okay. See you tomorrow, Dr. Wilson."
Allison Cameron made her way out the door as if Margaret Mitchell had written Gone with the Wind with her in mind. Absentmindedly Wilson took a spoonful of the gelatine- like substance and put it into his mouth. He stared into space for awhile then came to a decision. Picking up the room phone, he asked for Dr. Lisa Cuddy.
Within minutes, the overworked, much put upon (by House mostly now that Vogler was gone) Dr. Lisa Cuddy appeared at Wilson's door. She looked tired and concerned, but mostly she looked apprehensive - - perhaps it was because of Wilson's brief conversation with her.
"Well, Dr. Wilson, you certainly have been learning how to get what you want, haven't you? Demanding to see me in five minutes or less or you will start walking around the corridors mooning patients, is certainly effective."
Wilson smiled boyishly. He had learned from the best how to be obnoxious and once in awhile, it came in handy. Now that he had Dr. Cuddy in front of him, he was prepared to be magnanimous.
"I'm sorry, Dr. Cuddy, but when I buzzed your secretary she tried to put me off. I guess I've been around House too long. I really am sorry."
Wilson stopped as he noticed that something he had said had disturbed Cuddy. This was the woman who did verbal sparring with House on a daily basis and usually held her own, what had he said that bothered her so much?
"Is there something wrong, Doctor?"
The tiny woman frowned slightly, shooting back, "You were the one who called me, remember?"
Feeling too tired to spar, Wilson got to the point. "All right, here it is. Where's House? I've been here over a week and while I've seen God and everybody else, I haven't seen House, where is he? You didn't suspend him for dropping his drawers in front of the Hospital League Tea or something, did you?"
Cuddy forced a smile, gritting her teeth quietly. "No, I have not suspended the good doctor House, and I am not his keeper. I cannot force him to come visit you, but he was here when . . . uh . . . when you were first brought in. Knowing House, well . . ."
Cuddy stopped, obviously at a loss for words. She stopped, and Wilson waited . . . and waited, but the hospital administrator was not forthcoming so once again Wilson bit the bullet (no pun intended) and blurted out the question, "Where is House?"
For the third time that day, Wilson saw a member of the Princeton-Plainsboro staff go pale or red in the face. Lisa Cuddy, who had faced down Vogler and won, was now shuffling her feet as if in total disarray. Finally, her head lifted as she took a deep breath and stared straight into Wilson's questioning eyes.
"All right, Dr. Wilson. I guess you, more than anyone, have a right to know. Dr. House turned in his resignation as a staff physician and department head five days ago. It was effective immediately. I have not seen him since."
End of part 3
