Title: Just A Kiss
Disclaimer: I own none of the following: House, Wilson, "Mr. Brightside", or the Killers. Piffle :-(
Rating: PG-13
Summary: A look at Wilson and Julie's relationship. H/W friendship.
A/N: I've taken some liberties with backstory; as of "Mistake", everything worked in canon. I'm fairly certain the timing of this will work; it's hard to tell what with TPTB playing fast and loose with the timeline. Reviews make me giddy. Constructive crit makes better story.
Chapter 1
I'm coming out of my cage
And I've been doing just fine
1997
James Wilson dropped onto a park bench and toed off his left shoe, grunting in relief as his foot was freed. His nearly-new sneakers had a bad habit of picking up razor-edged bits of gravel, and he usually had to stop at least once during a run. As he shook the offending debris from the shoe, James thought wistfully of the gym where he used to exercise. It was brand-new, with smooth-running, gravel-free equipment, and he'd managed to run there at least three days a week. More, if he and Karen had been arguing.
He tugged his shoe back on and adjusted the tongue, taking a pause just to enjoy the day. It was perfect New Jersey weather, with the autumn air comfortably cool after the blazing heat of Indian summer. A couple strolled by on the path, hand in hand, and James' heart twinged with regret and discomfort as he attempted to recall the last time he had held someone's hand. Not since Karen had left him–no, it had been longer than that. He just didn't know how long. It bothered James that he couldn't pinpoint the moment in their relationship when everything had begun to break apart, that he didn't know why affection had been replaced by indifference on his part and irritation on hers.
His moment of peace broken, James hopped up from the bench and resumed his run. These solitary excursions had become a kind of therapy for him, ever since he'd realized that when he ran he could think about anything and remain somewhat detached. Sometimes, though, his emotions snuck up on him and pounced, overwhelming him with their intensity. Those times, he would call up House, and into their run would be woven endless taunts, a treatment for depression that was uniquely Housian. The older mans favorite jab was James' inability to keep to what House called "a proper pace."
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"It's your own fault," House told him after their first run, merciless in his mockery even though James was sprawled on his back on the grass gasping for air. "If you'd actually been running instead of scampering on a treadmill like a caged gerbil, a little jog would be no problem."
"You're–insane," James panted. "Five miles–is not–a 'little jog'."
"Just try to keep up next time."
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James smirked at the memory, and swung left out of the park, his sneakers echoing on concrete as he began the last leg of his run. He had known immediately that he would never be able to match House's strides, nor his seemingly inexhaustible stamina, but the challenge had been irresistible. A year and a half of morning runs, and James had never backed down from the tease of "Let's see if you can keep up today" until he had suddenly found himself with one brother instead of two.
He shoved a sweat-darkened lock of hair from his forehead, but resisted the urge to do the same with his memories of Andrew. If he dwelled on them now, when he was alone, there was less of a chance that they would ambush him while he was working.
He had last seen Andy on the filthy steps of some run-down apartment building in one of the more run-down sections of the city. He had been begging his brother to come home, claiming that everything would be forgotten and forgiven if Andy would only give the family a chance. James had never figured out what he'd said that had caused his brother to become angry, but suddenly they had been yelling at each other, Andrew angrily, James in a panic as he realized that somehow his kid brother had gotten lost and had made up his mind that he didn't want to be found. He had reached for Andrew, but his brother had shoved him away, hard enough to knock him to the garbage-strewn gutter. By the time James had scrambled to his feet Andy was gone.
James jogged on, dodging the occasional pedestrian and allowing the monotonous rhythm to dull some of the pain and guilt that still lingered. That night he had searched for his brother until he was close to falling over from exhaustion, finally giving up and going home to an unsympathetic wife and a sleep filled with bad dreams. He had completely forgotten that he was supposed to go running with House the next day, until the other man had leaned on the doorbell at six a.m.
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James dragged the door open and shook his head. "Not today."
House quirked an eyebrow. "Someone had a late night. Trouble in the land of the not-so-blissfully-married?" Then he leered. "Or maybe there is no trouble, and you've spent the night having wild, kinky–"
James cut him off. "House . . . please. Not today."
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Wonder of wonders, his notoriously stubborn friend had, after eyeing him suspiciously, taken himself off without any more probing comments. If he had been in less of panic (albeit a controlled one) about his brother, James would have wondered what House had seen in his expression that caused him to back off. Instead he had showered, dressed in some of his older clothes, and spent his Sunday walking back alleys, showing a slightly out-of-date photo of Andy to anyone who looked remotely helpful. He'd come home filthy and heartsick to a silent house and a cool note from Karen: she was at her mother's apartment; it wouldn't be necessary for him to call.
His spare time that first week had been spent making phone calls to the police and combing the neighborhood where he'd last seen his brother. It was Thursday before he noticed that Karens' more treasured possessions were missing from the house. The following Monday he'd received the divorce papers, and he had signed them with the clinical precision of a doctor ordering a needed surgery. By the time another week had passed, the police had made it clear that they weren't interested in looking for Andy; one officer had said, with a modicum of sympathy, what was already in James' mind: that if his brother did not want to be found, it was unlikely that he would be.
That well-meaning (if awkwardly delivered) comment had been the proverbial "last straw." James hadn't broken, but he'd fractured. He'd stopped meeting with friends after work, had answered every question after his well-being with a patently false "I'm fine," and had turned down House's offers of movies, runs, and take-out so often that he still wasn't sure why the man hadn't just given up. James had thrown all of his energy and concentration into his job, and had built himself a cage of responsibility and ethics, decorating the walls with commendations and medical charts. He began staying in his apartment during the weekends, venturing out only for grocery shopping, and had started declining invitations to hospital functions. Everyone seemed to assume that he was upset about his divorce; he decided that it was easier and safer to let that become the "truth." He had figured that if he repeated himself enough, people would eventually decide that he wasn't lying when he said "I'm fine."
Problem was, he had forgotten to figure House into the equation.
James turned onto his street; half a block later he was using the last of his momentum to sprint up the front steps of his apartment building. He bypassed the stairs in favor of the elevator, and jabbed the appropriate floor button as the door groaned shut. As he remembered his friend's "treatment," he smirked. House had decided that the best way to shake James out of his depression was to thoroughly exasperate him–though 'exasperate' was probably too mild a word.
A month and a half after Andy–that was how James reckoned time now, 'before Andy disappeared' and 'after Andy disappeared'–House had shown up at James' door at five past six in the morning and had pounded on said door until James, sleepy and confused, had opened it. The other man had been dressed in his jogging shorts and a ratty T-shirt; he'd greeted the oncologist with his usual taunt: "Bet you can't keep up."
James had slammed the door in his face. It was only when he had tried to go back to sleep that he remembered he'd never given House his new address. He'd also never given the older man his new phone number, but that little inconvenience hadn't prevented House from calling at odd hours, sometimes with offers of food or beer (which James always rudely declined), sometimes just saying, "Bet you can't keep up" and then hanging up. He'd harassed him at the hospital, too, paging him to the clinic for (unnecessary) consults on a daily basis until, fourteen days after House had begun his 'treatment', James' thoroughly frayed patience snapped.
He opened the door to his apartment and headed straight for the bathroom, stripping off his sweat-soaked shirt and shorts, leaving them in a damp pile on the floor. That was one of the benefits of being a bachelor again; he could put off laundry as long as he cared to. As he turned on the hot water, he remembered the one and only 'conversation' he and House had had regarding his withdrawal.
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He was holed up in his office, staring at his desk and vaguely thinking that he should eat something, when the door burst open to admit his self-appointed torturer. "I need a consult."
James whipped his head up so fast that it hurt, and snapped, "Find someone else. I'm busy."
House ignored him. "Thirty-two year old male, hale and hearty. Began displaying antisocial tendencies two months ago, roughly coinciding with the sudden absence of his wedding ring." He braced his palms on James' desk and leaned forward. "Sound familiar?"
"Get out."
"No."
"Damn it, House, get out!" He shoved his chair away from his desk and stood, though he was unsure if he planned to throw the other doctor out of his office, or leave himself.
"You've been forgetting to eat, haven't you? Your clothes are starting to look baggy. And sometimes you forget to shave before work. If you're not careful, you're going to lose your title of 'PPTH's Most Attractive Doctor'. The nurses will be devastated." The sharp, clinical intensity of House's gaze softened a bit. "Did you love her that much?"
The non sequitur puzzled James for a moment; when he realized that House thought he was devastated over Karen leaving, he nearly blurted out,"No. I lost my brother." But he shied away from the words. Andy was too close, too personal, and in the end, irrelevant. He was gone, and all that was left for James to do was to try and mend the fractures his leaving had created. So when he answered, he only said, "I guess I did."
And House, for reasons known only to him, patted his shoulder and left him in peace for the first time in two weeks.
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James ruffled the towel through his hair, then wrapped it around his waist as he went to the tiny bedroom. It had finally hit him that day in his office that it simply wasn't possible to be in mourning forever–especially not when you had a friend in Greg House, who was clearly willing to continue his torture of James for as long as it was required. He'd realized that he would always miss Andy, would always carry the guilty thought of 'what if', but given time he would heal.
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The day after his 'admission' was a Saturday–a jogging day. James woke at a quarter to six, and dressed in his jogging clothes for the first time in three months. He waited restlessly for fifteen minutes, alternating between nervousness that House would come and nervousness that he wouldn't, and by the time House knocked on his door James was so high-strung that he jumped.
He opened the door and gave a wincing smile to his friend. "H-hi."
"Bet you can't keep up."
The taunt, soothing in its' familiarity, had calmed his nerves a little. "Bet I can," he fired back.
"Then get your ass out here. Time's a-wasting," House had ordered with a grin.
James smiled back–a real smile this time–and took the first step out of his self-made cage.