Friday. Wilson left early, and once again, House found the clinic a bust. Not an orange philanthropist in sight. Not even anything as interesting as a kid with diecast cats up his nose. Only whining, sniffles and aching backs, and none of it worthy of a good bout of righteous indignation.
"Dr. House, you don't have to be here. I'm schedueled in the clinic today. Why don't you go home? Get some rest."
House turned from the nurse's station and the stack of files he had been perusing. "Thank you, Grandmother Chase. I don't need a nurse."
"No, you need rest."
"What makes you think I need rest?"
"I found these in your desk drawer." Chase held up the bottle of vicodin.
"Still snooping and spying, I see." House snatched it from him and stuffed it into his pocket, altogether too possesivly.
Chase shrugged. "Just looking out for the team."
"The team. Since when?" House turned back to the counter.
"Do you think we're blind? Something is going on. If you don't want to tell us about it, fine, but don't expect it to go unnoticed."
"And what do you think is going on?"
"I think you are trying to kick the vicodin."
"So how much did you bet? Are you just trying to get your money back by making sure temptation is not too far away?"
"What makes you think I would bet against you?"
"That is rhetorical, right?"
"You know, we are on your side. I am on your side."
"No you're not. You, Dr. Chase, are always on your own side." House picked up the top folder and thrust it at Chase, thudding it against the young doctor's chest. "Enjoy." Chase took the file, shifted his eyes a bit, trying not to acknowledge that he had stepped over some line. House gripped his cane and stomped off toward his office. He might as well go home. There was obviously no peace to be found here. He was still a little dumbfounded that Wilson had actually gone to Los Angeles. House had half thought it was some sort of ploy to get him to admit to something. Admit to what? To nothing. There was nothing to admit that James did not already know. Had House not asked for his help in the first place? What more did he want?
In his office, House pulled a mostly full bottle from the bottom drawer of his desk. He did not bother with a glass, just opened it, took a healthy swig, recapped it and stuffed it into his bag. House knew what James wanted. That was what he was doing in L.A. It should not be that big a surprise. It should not even matter. But it did. This bottle was not going to be big enough. He left the office for home with very little enthusiasm.
--------------------------
"Jimmy." Fingers snapped in front of Wilson's face and he pushed the hand away irritably. "Jimmy, what's going on? Where are you?"
"What do you mean where am I? I'm right here." Truth be told, he was wandering the halls of Prinston Plainsboro, wondering if Greg House was doing the same, or if he was holed up in his office hiding from Cuddy. Or if, against the odds, he had gone home for some much needed rest. Wilson bit his lip. He was being carefully appraised, and he stiffled a heavy sigh.
"Well, physically you're here, sure."
"Isn't that what you wanted?"
Soft fingers floated over his jaw, and he turned his head obligingly. "Of course. I'm glad you came, but,"
"But what?" He pushed himself away from the couch. There was always a but with him.
"Jimmy, don't."
"What? For pete's sake, don't what?" Wilson was exasperated enough to pace across the room as he rolled up his shirt sleeves.
"That." Wilson turned his back on the heavy slumping going on on the couch. "Don't do that." There was a pause during which Wilson heard more movement, but he did not turn around. "We only have a few days. Let's not fight."
"I'm not fighting. God, Paul, it was a long flight. I'm tired."
Arms slipped around his waist, and a chin rested on his shoulder. I know. I'm sorry." A pause, calculated to be just long enough. "I know. Let me run you a bath, bring you some wine. You can unwind."
"Sure."
"Excelent." Paul nibbled his ear, and he managed to not pull away. "You can make it up to me later." He was gone to the bathroom before James fully registered the comment. Make it up to him? He was the one who'd jumped on a plane and flown across the country on just a few days notice. He shook his head and ran a hand over the back of his neck. He tried to imagine House saying something as assinine as that. He wouldn't, and Wilson smiled slightly because he could not decide if it was endearing that House thought he did not have to, or irritating that he just assumed it was unnecessary. Too much to think about. He looked back to the window, but it had grown too dark to see out. All he noticed was his own tired reflection. It made him wonder how House was doing.
It was reflex. He had his cell out and a few buttons pushed and he did not even realise he had done it until House's groggy voice came on the other end. Was it sleep or pain that slurred his words. Wilson glanced at his watch and did the math. Seven pm in New Jersey. Not sleep, then.
"Lo?"
"House?"
"Wilson?"
"Glad that's established."
"What're you doin' callin' me?"
"Are you drunk?"
"No! No, no. My doctor definately would not approve."
"House, you are drunk." Long pause. At least he was at home, and not at the hospital. "Are you O.K.?"
"Fine. 'm fine." He was not fine. Even over the lousy cell connection, Wilson could hear it.
"Get the perscription, House."
"See you Monday, Wilson." Click. James closed his eyes, tried to ignore the feelings of guilt as he snapped the phone shut. Water rushed into the tub in the next room.
"Who was that?" Wilson opened his eyes to find Paul's reflection in the window next to his own. He had not even heard him come in the room.
"No one." He slipped the phone into his pocket and turned away from the empty window. "Just checking my messages." That was one thing, at least. Paul never called him on his lies. He just shrugged.
"Your bubbles await." Wilson took the offered wine glass and pulled his tie loose as he followed Paul into the bath.
It was pleasant enough. The hot water turned him nicely pink, the jets eased his stiff shoulders and the wine allowed him to float a litttle. Paul was an expert at setting the mood. By the time the water was cooling, Wilson's temperature was well on the rise. It was a small step from bath to bed. It was why he'd come, after all. Anti-depressant.
Less than an hour later, Paul was jamming legs clumsily into pants, grabbing his shirt from the floor while Wilson sat on the edge of the bed and watched.
"Paul, calm down. I'm sorry, ok?"
"No, Jimmy. Not ok. Not this time."
James stood, trying to catch Paul's arm. "It was just a slip of the tongue."
"Jimmy, you called me Greg." Paul stopped and looked at him, his green eyes shards. "You don't do that to a guy and call it a slip of the tongue."
"Paul, it didn't mean anything." James wondered why he was arguing so hard.
"You're not serious." Paul was obviously dumfounded. "Look at you. Of course you are. You don't see it. You came here, but you call him. You're with me, but whispering his name in my ear." He pulled away from Wilson's hand. "Tell me you are not that blind. There is only one reason you have someone that much on the brain."
"What?"
"Because it's not your brain where you want him."
"Oh." Wilson threw up his hands. "Now you're just being stupid. He's my friend, Paul. He's having a hard time."
"And what about me?" Paul stopped his frantic dressing. "You think I'm not? I moved across the country for one lousy job that barely pays my rent and is over in a month. I left everything behind, my job, my appartment, my family, you."
"You followed your dream. Don't blame that on me."
"You could have asked me to stay."
Wilson let out a little laugh. "And you would have."
"If you had asked, yes." Wilson did not know what to say. It had never occured to him. That Paul would have given up a good acting job for him had never even entered his mind. Paul was eye candy. He had affairs with married doctors. He was not the type to set up house. "But it never even occured to you to ask, did it?"
What could he say? "No."
"That's what I thought." He picked up his sweater and his duffle. "Bye, Jimmy."
"Paul, come on." He was walking out of the bedroom, and James had to fumble into his pants to follow.
From the other room, Paul kept talking. "You know, I don't know what your fascination with the pill-popping, geriatric cripple is, but you could have saved yourself the air fare. I don't know why you bothered comming all this way when you could have stayed home and screwed him."
Paul was lucky. Wilson was not the hitting sort. "I am not screwing him," James was quiet, controled, furious.
"Well. You're not screwing me any more, either." He already had his shoes on and his coat in his hand. "Have a nice life, Jimmy. Don't forget to pay the bill when you check out." As if Paul would ever have paid it. Wilson let him storm from the room as only an actor could his solace in the fact that those heavy hotel doors, on their heavy-duty hinges never gave a decent slam, thereby marring dramatic exits.
He went back and slumped on the bed to stare at the ceiling for a while. It was too late to change his flight, and he had the room booked until Sunday anyway. Outside the lined linen drapes, rain began to patter against the window glass. Perfect.
He pulled the cell out from where it still rested in his pants pocket. He flipped it open and looked at the speed dial buttons. His watch beeped. That would make it eight o'clock, eleven in New Jersey. Which meant House was plastered, well before midnight. James' thumb rested on the speed dial. Should he be worried? There was no point wondering if he was worried. Only if it was warrented.
After more long minutes of debate, he snapped the phone closed, pulled on a shirt, and searched his duffel for the travel brochour that held his return ticket. In less than an hour, the flight was rebooked. He would be home by dinner time tomorrow.