Title: The Department Meeting, part 4

By: lbc

Rating: Mature adults

Genre: slash for words, not actions - yet

Summary: Wilson goes to see House.

James Wilson pounded on the door to Greg House's apartment, figuring that pounding was a good way to keep his hostility high. If the maniac behind the door proved to be his usual "warm" self then Wilson would need every nerve on high alert to deflect the bolts of roaring sarcasm.

Finally, the door opened. The gaunt figure which stood there remained silent, glaring at Wilson with a look that very much resembled someone staring at a maggot picnic. After several seconds House slowly blinked his blue eyes and then said, "Well, if it isn't Dr. Wilson, and just why are you deigning to break down my door after a week of avoidance?"

Wilson bristled but tried to control his temper. "It hasn't been a week as you well know!" As Wilson blurted this out, he pushed his way past his friend and entered the apartment. Looking around, he noticed that the living room appeared to have taken a direct hit from an explosive shell.

When House said nothing, Wilson blurted out, "Hmm! Looks like you've been housecleaning again."

"Are you here to pick a fight?"

Wilson's shoulders slumped as he dropped his eyes to the floor. In a whisper, he said, "No."

"Then why are you here?"

Wilson hesitated for a moment then cleared his throat and looked up. Taking a deep breath, he said, "I want to ask you a question."

"Shoot."

The look that Wilson gave the taller man spoke volumes, including a warning not to use that word because it might be taken literally. "All right." Although even then he hesitated for a moment before continuing, "You remember some 18 years ago, when we first met?"

House's blue eyes were puzzled, but he nodded and said, "Go on," as he motioned Wilson to sit down.

"Why did you come over and talk to me that night?"

For a moment House's eyes widened in incredulity then the shutter quickly closed over them. "I came over to talk so that I could get a closer look."

The space between Wilson's eyes wrinkled in a lack of understanding. "I don't get it; get a closer look at what?"

"Your gorgeous butt, of course."

For a moment, James Wilson stood stunned; the words rolling around in his mind; the implications very clear. So Greg House wanted his body, and that's why he had made the overture. Without saying a word, the stricken man stood up and headed for the door.

Just as Wilson was about to turn the knob, House spoke up in a voice that Wilson hadn't heard in almost 18 years, "No, don't." Wilson stopped but didn't turn around. Quite frankly he didn't want House to see his anguished face so he just waited.

Wilson could hear the slight shuffle as House moved towards him, but he held his position. Finally, the scent that was Greg House was hovering near by; the man's presence overwhelming. "Jamie . . . I . . . I didn't mean that."

Wilson turned, anger filling his dark eyes. He continued to stare, saying nothing.

"I . . . mean I did want to see your beautiful butt, but that wasn't why I started talking to you. I had heard about the medical prodigy that was sweeping through the medical school, and I wanted to see if you were real or just a publicity campaign put out by the administration."

Wilson slowly blinked his beautiful eyes then replied with seeming ambiguity, "So you did know I was 18?"

For a moment Greg House said nothing but a light of understanding entered his eyes. "Yeah, I lied to you when I said that I got my kicks out of corrupting a minor."

"Didn't stop you from getting me into bed, did it?"

"No, but as soon as I started talking to you, I realized that I wanted more from you than just your body."

"Well, now that's a strange thing to say. I seem to remember that at the end of the year, you were the big, high and mighty graduate, and you dumped me so there wouldn't be any loose ends (Wilson blushed delightfully as he realized his pun) as you went on with your career."

House's handsome face looked incredibly sad. "I didn't dump your friendship, if you'll recall - - just your body. You still had several years of Med School, and I didn't want to endanger that."

Wilson's eyebrow shot up at this statement. "Oh, so you were just dumping me for my own good, huh?"

House's blue eyes twinkled, but he tried to put on a look of remorse. "You know me better than that. I . . . dumped you for both of our good. I was going away to do residency on the other side of the country, and you, genius that you are, still had another two years of Med School."

The two men stared at each other momentarily then House gently removed Wilson's hand from the doorknob. "Come on; we need to talk, and it's my turn to ask a question."

Wilson realized it would be churlish to refuse to abandon the doorway, but he had been in this position too many times before. Greg House was a master at manipulating him, and he was not about to abandon his independence so quickly; therefore, he sat down as near to the door as possible.

A brief smile slipped across the scruffy face as House noticed the gesture. "Okay, Dr. Wilson, will you please tell me why you've been acting so sarcastic and out of sorts this past week? I know my great personality rubs off on people, but you've managed to avoid that fate for the past 18 years, so why am I gettin' all the crap?"

After hearing those words, Wilson was fuming, but he held back the bitter words that were demanding to be let loose. Trying to keep his voice normal, he asked, "Why is it that you always take, and I always have to give?"

House dropped his head, looking at the carpet for a moment. "That's the way I am - - I'm a taker. Don't tell me that surprises you after 18 years?"

James Wilson stood up so fast that he felt faintly dizzy. "It's always about you, isn't it? God, no wonder Stacy couldn't take it. Okay, Dr. House, here's the unvarnished truth. I stuck up for you against that maniacal bastard, Vogler. I knew he was out gunning for you, but I sacrificed my job for you, and all you could say was, 'It matters.' Well, here it is, Dr. House. It doesn't matter to me anymore. I have a good reputation, and I don't need to take out my pain on everybody else. I don't need to use sarcasm to demonstrate to everyone out there that I know more than they do. I just wanted to be your friend, and I guess you can't even give me that. So fuck you!"

Breathing heavily, Wilson headed for the door, but the roar from the wounded human behind him, stopped Wilson cold. "Nooooo!"

Once again House moved towards Wilson's position, but he stopped short almost as if he feared that invading Wilson's space might lose the younger man forever. In a voice so soft, it could barely be hard, House said, "Please, Jamie . . . don't leave."

Wilson felt incredibly drained and tired. He was so sick of all the hurt and despair. He had to get out of there, but his love for the older man held him in place so he tried one more time. "Why shouldn't I?"

Silence.

Moisture flooded Wilson's eyes, but he held back the tears. Greg House was so isolated that he couldn't even make a gesture to stop his best friend from leaving his life. Then Wilson felt a warm hand lift his hand which warm lips touched in a kiss. Wilson turned his head but not his body to look at the individual standing next to him. One solitary tear slid down the scruffy beard to fall on Wilson's tightly held hand.

"I . . . don't understand. Why didn't you ever saying anything before?"

"What did you want me to say? You had your whole career in front of you. I was . . . am ten years older than you. You obviously wanted another life - - that's why you married . . . three times. I was so messed up after the infarction, and I made your life hell."

"But you had Stacy. Why did you chase her away; she's the love of your life."

House attempted a sad smile, shaking his head gently. "You really are a moron, Dr. Wilson. Stacy was never the first team, and she always knew it; that's why she left. I hated her and loved her for making a decision that left me alive but in agony. She knew I needed you more than I needed her if I was to face the future."

Wilson straightened his body. "Don't give me that, House. You did everything you could to drive me away after you woke from the chemical sedation. You didn't want me there, and you damn well did everything to let me know it. I kept telling myself that we were friends, but you made it very clear how much you hated me."

"Then why did you stay?"

Wilson opened and closed his mouth several times. The best he could come up with was, "Everybody makes mistakes."

"Why did you risk everything to save my job?"

"I thought we were friends, but now I know better."

Wilson could tell that the words had shaken House. "I'm still your friend; what about you?"

"You don't want a friend; you want a whipping boy."

"If I had wanted a whipping boy, I wouldn't have fallen in love with you 18 years ago."

Silence.

"Damn you! How dare you say that? You tear me apart, and yet you would do it all over again, tomorrow. You expect me to be at your beck and call. You take my friendship and you use it, and what do you give me - - sex, and 18 years of sterile friendship. That's not the way it works, House. I know I've made a lot of mistakes, especially thinking that marriage might lead to a normal life, where I didn't need you. God, Cuddy was out of her mind to say that you worship the ground I walk on. . ."

Wilson stopped as he saw the anguish on House's face. The agony in the tired voice spoke volumes. "Cuddy said that?"

Concern swept through Wilson. He had never seen his friend looking like that - - not even when he was in agony from the infarction. "She . . . she asked me what was wrong with you. I told her that I hadn't seen you. That's what she said."

House stepped back, swaying slightly. "I guess she did see us that time."

Wilson's face scrunched up into total incomprehension then his face eased into a look of surprise as he realized what House was referring to. "You mean she saw us in bed that time?"

"Good memory, Doctor."

"But you said she didn't."

"I was zonked out on 40 kinds of meds; what did you want from me?"

"Yeah, it took 40 kinds of meds for you to bend even a little bit, didn't it? Well, she knows, but I don't think she's going to do anything about it. I'll make it easy. If you still want to be friends, I'm willing, but there's got to be some changes made. If you can't accept that then . . ." Wilson's throat felt as if it was closing, and no further words could be spoken.

House stood as straight as he could with his cane. Apprehension showed clearly in his enormous blue eyes, "Then what? Is that all you want - - my friendship under certain conditions?"

Wilson felt as if he had missed something in the conversation. He closed his eyes, feeling like he should pinch himself to see if this was a nightmare. Carefully opening his eyes, he noted the pale, distraught features of the man that he had called his friend for almost two decades. "Greg, I don't know what you want from me. I thought we were friends, but these last few meetings . . . I just don't know. You've pushed everyone in your life away from you, and I don't know why. I've waited for four days for you to come to me and ask me why I was avoiding you, and yet you never did. I would say if I were the world's greatest diagnostician that you didn't give a damn whether you saw James Wilson or not. Why did I have to come to you? Aren't I important enough to even make the gesture?"

"I asked you to the department meeting at Casey's. I asked you to go out to supper, but you were the one who was busy."

"And just what was that going to get me?"

"Me, you idiot. I was going to throw myself at you."

James Wilson stood there stunned, not quite sure if House was telling the truth. House, on the other hand, turned slowly and shuffled to the sofa, each step seeming to be a mile in length. Collapsing on the sofa, he raised his blue eyes and looked at Wilson. "Did I ever tell you why I was only graduating from Med School at the ripe old age of 28?"

Wilson moved back into the room, sitting in a large chair, near to House. "No, you haven't said much about your early years."

"I've wanted to be a doctor since I was six. It was all I thought about, but there was no money. I read when I could find time from work. My . . . father insisted that I help him so it wasn't easy, but I read everything medical. I hassled local firemen about their medical knowledge - - anybody was fair game, and then one day my dad told me enough was enough. We couldn't afford college, let alone Med School. I pushed everything – my anger, my desires into me and just froze on the inside. Then one day my father had a heart attack at the store. I was there working as usual. I tried to help . . . at least, I think I did, but it was too late. He died. I failed my father in my chosen profession. I keep seeing myself trying to give him CPR and nothing worked."

House rubbed his forehead; his voice just above a whisper. "When my mother got there, my dad was being carted away with a sheet over him. She started screaming and didn't stop until after the funeral - - and most of it was at me. I killed my own father. She was left alone with a murderer, and I damned well would pay, and pay I did with my hands and my work."

"By the time she died six years later, I had enough money and a fairly good scholarship to start college, but I was already 21 so I was well behind the average Med track student. I certainly was the average student for lots of reasons, but what the hell, I got through - - not on the basis of my fantastic personality, but with hard work and being better than anybody else. And then you showed up!"

House collapsed back on the sofa, pulling the Vicodin bottle out of his pocket. Swallowing a pill dry, he closed his eyes and waited. James Wilson sat there staring. What could he say to that? Words of comfort were obviously unwanted. What would he have done if he had faced House's choices? Deciding to stall for time, Wilson asked, "Can I have a beer?"

House merely nodded, letting Wilson get it from the fridge. "Bring me one too."

Wilson appeared in the doorway; his eyes hard. "Like hell, I will. You just took a Vicodin - - you want to kill yourself?"

Without opening his eyes, House responded, "You ought to be a Doctor, Doctor. That was good - - you caught that. Knew you deserved your Magna Cum Laude."

Wilson's handsome mouth grimaced, "Yeah, I'm such a brain that I made you my friend, just shows - - 'too smart, too dumb' or something like that."

"Hmmm! I see you've watched The Professionals too."

Hope died in Wilson's eyes. "Yeah well, I guess I have your response. Thanks so much for the lovely entertainment, Doctor. I would appreciate one thing though. Since you don't want me for a friend, could you please change the name of your Preferred Physician to someone else? Maybe, Dr. Cameron would like the job . . . something tells me that she'd like to strip that 46 year old body to its bare essentials."

Wilson walked to the door for the third time that evening. "Good night."

Greg House continued to lay with his head on the back of the sofa; his eyes closed. He could hear a moan, but it took a minute for him to realize it was his own voice. Dropping his head into his hands, he whispered, "Don't do this, Jamie." A shiver shook the slender frame as he became paralyzed with the pain of the loss that he had just initiated. Why couldn't you have said just one thing to stop him?

The shadows got longer in the room as night rolled in. What would he do without Wilson in his life? He had told him that he had fallen in love with him, and it had made no difference. Wilson had offered friendship, and House had thrown it back in his face by ignoring it. Are you happy now, Greg House? You've finally done it – you've lost everything. Wilson's gone; Stacy's married; Cuddy knows you're gay, and Alison Cameron thinks she's in love with you, and oh yes, you made the top of Edward Vogler's favorite target list. God, what a mess you've made of the whole thing.

The Vicodin was finally doing its work; sleep overcame the exhausted heart-sore man. Too tired to even move he let himself drift off still propped against the back of the sofa.

WH/WH/WH/WH/

Sometime later, House's blue eyes opened groggily. He had heard a noise. Someone was somewhere in his apartment. Although his sinuses were clogged up, he could smell the delicious aroma of steak cooking. A thief breaks in and cooks his own supper?

Starting to get up, House fell back quickly to the sofa when James Wilson walked in with a huge bowl of what appeared to be salad. He put it on the small table that had appeared from somewhere then turned to face House. "It's about time that you woke up. Steaks just about ready so I hope you're hungry."

House sat and stared, blinking numerous times. His brain would not work, so his mouth would not work; finally, he managed to mumble one word . . . "Why?"

Wilson's handsome face looked puzzled as he asked, "Why . . . what?"

"Why are you here?"

"I figured it was time for another department meeting!"

"I . . . I thought you didn't like those."

"I do when the head of the meeting declares that he fell in love with me 18 years ago!"

A small amount of light entered House's previously dull eyes, "You didn't seem very impressed with that statement a few minutes ago."

"Yeah well, I'm slow, sometimes. Dinner's ready; let's eat."

Hesitantly Greg House moved towards the small table. He knew that he had to tread carefully. The next few hours would determine if he would be able to keep the most important person in his life at his side. This was going to have to be one great department meeting.

End of part 4, epilogue to follow.