Princeton-Plainsboro hospital sprawled neatly out on the New Jersey lawn. If there was one thing Wilson was grateful for, it was that the building didn't quite scream "hospital" at first glance. He'd worked at a few harrowing places that looked sick right down to the architecture. But this place, it was presentable.
Well, it almost had to be, to try and make up for some unprofessional tendencies on the inside.
Wilson hadn't seen House that morning--oddly enough, the latter had beaten him to work. Even before Wilson had unearthed a reasonably ironed shirt to wear for the day, House's motorcycle had long been sitting in its reserved parking space.
The oncologist thought back to the mysterious feud of the day before. House returning to work early, Wilson mulled over. That alone indicated things were awry within the team.
He'd thought about their conversation the night before-or rather, the one that happened ridiculously early that morning. Strange that House shouldn't have even let something slip about whatever was wrong, even just to annoy him. Best bet, it had something to do with Cameron again.
A sharpness jolted through his stomach suddenly. Wonderful. The joys of whiskey were returning to plague him for the rest of the day. There hadn't been much in the bottle, but he'd finished it off pretty quickly, as if trying to drink down whatever odd feelings had betrayed themselves over the piano. Wilson shook back his side-parted bangs. Most definitely lack of sleep, he assured himself. Exhaustion and stress can explain a lot.
"Dr. Wilson, just the man I wanted to see."
The doors to the hospital had just swung open and Cuddy was already pouncing on him. Her pinched expression looked particularly taut today. Wilson instinctively checked his watch. Just after seven. That hardly gave anything enough time to morph into a full-blown disaster.
But he'd been wrong before.
"What's happening?"
Cuddy took him by the arm and ushered him along faster. Her voice dropped, picking up speed. "House left a message on my phone this morning. He said he needed to talk to you about a patient."
"Yes, well, he mentioned that last night."
"Except... I didn't think the patient's name could be right."
Wilson was unperturbed. It took a lot to get him frazzled. "So he gave a false name. It's House; don't try to figure it out."
"That's what I thought, too. But then..." Cuddy opened the blinded doors to her office. Hastily crossing the room, she dug out the phone from under a pile of papers she'd been reviewing. "I got a call from Foreman about the patient. And Chase. And then Cameron. All regarding that same patient."
Wilson furrowed his brows, arms crossed over his chest. "What was wrong with the name? I assume he could just have easily gone with John Doe if it would cause that much of a problem."
Cuddy didn't answer. She merely switched on the answering machine and played the messages back.
BEEP. "Cuddy. Rise and shine. I mean you, not those two on the front of your shirt. Listen, I have a patient upstairs and need some medical records on this guy. Name: Dr. James Wilson, 36-year-old male. Oh yeah. And he's not our Wilson." -House
BEEP. "Dr. Cuddy, ehm, Dr. House is wondering if you've gotten those records yet? He says he actually needs a medical history this time. It's important." -Chase
BEEP. "House just had Cameron look at a Petrie dish. We're thought it might've been an immunodeficiency, but Doctor--sorry, it just sounds wrong--Doctor Wilson's white blood count seems fine." -Foreman
BEEP. "Dr. Cuddy, Dr. House is really wondering what's taking you so long with those records. He says you gave us our Wilson's, not this guy's. He says they physically don't even look anything alike. Which is good, I guess, otherwise that would be just a bit weird." -Cameron
"Honestly, this whole situation is weird," Cuddy said, shaking her head as the messages clicked off and ended. "I don't know what they're doing, but I couldn't find a single record on this guy. Maybe he changed his name."
Wilson glanced from the phone to Cuddy, then back to the phone again. A patient had an identical age, an identical name, and an identical title to his own?
"What are the odds," Wilson muttered, silently promising himself that never again would he drink whiskey so early in the morning.
"Well, I'm just glad it's not you. From what I'm hearing from the team--"
Wilson held up a hand. "Wait, I thought they were fighting."
"Fighting?"
"Yes. Arguing over something. The way House was acting last evening, I figured something had happened between them."
Cuddy shook her head slowly, confused. "I talked to Foreman before he went home yesterday. He said everything was fine. No problems."
"Really? And House...?"
"Miserable as usual. He's fine. Why?"
"I don't know." Wilson scratched his head aimlessly, feeling as if he were left out of the loop. "Maybe it's just me."
"Well, as long as it's not you they're poking and prodding at in the emergency room. They can't make any headway on what's causing any of his symptoms."
"House doesn't have ideas?"
"I've been trying to get a hold of him, but the he's not answering any of his calls."
"That surprises you?"
"Of course not. But he hasn't checked in with the team in two hours, either." She paused, admiring the irony. "Usually, that would make me happy."
"He's been in here since five?"
"And he called all three of the others in here too. I don't know what ethical codes they've been breaking with since then, but you're the only sane person I have left." She sighed, shrugging her shoulders with the tiredness she specially saved for House's antics. "Track down House. I'm sure you'll be able to help diagnosis Wilson, Wilson." She paused, rubbing her temples. "This really is too bizarre for a Monday morning."
Wilson took the elevator to his office, thinking quickly. He could drop off his briefcase and jacket, then run over to the interns' white board room and see firsthand what was going on. If nothing enlightening was there, he could redirect himself over to House's office-maybe he'd returned, or at least left some hint as to where he was going; after all, his motorcycle was still in the parking lot. He wasn't getting far with his cane. If all else failed, he could check the roof. Yes, the roof. He almost always hid out on that roof--
"Wilson. There you are. Running...fifteen minutes late, I see. I guess Cuddy got to you already."
"House." Wilson gaped at him, where he reclined back on Wilson's chair, feet propped up languidly on the oncologist's desk. A few of House's favorite magazines--and none of medical variety, Wilson thought dryly--sprawled out in front of him. A bag of Lays' potato chips was half-eaten. Crumbs were scattered everywhere.
"You really need a TV in here."
"You really need to get out of here," Wilson cut in. "Everyone's been looking for you. You've just deserted your patient for a snack?"
House followed Wilson's eyes to the bag of greasy chips. "No. These are my breakfast."
Wilson spread out his hands, turning his gaze upward for a moment. Cuddy was right. It was far too early for this already.
"Interesting case, I'm sure you've heard."
"Yes. So interesting, you're not even working on it."
"There's nothing to work on."
Wilson's mouth practically dropped open as his friend swiped some chips off his shirt. "House. You have a man with an unknown illness sprawled out somewhere in this hospital, and you don't think there's anything to work on?"
"I don't think I've ever seen you this concerned over a patient. Wouldn't have anything to do with his name, would it? Bias isn't good in medicine, you know."
Wilson leaned over the desk and plucked the Lays bag from his lap and gave his feet a push off his desk, though he made sure he hit the left leg, not the right.
"You're going to get yourself back down to the interns and figure this out. I'm not babysitting anymore."
"Relax." Reaching for his cane, House managed to get up in one fluid motion and squeeze Wilson's shoulders reassuringly. "You're too high-strung for, what is it, seven-thirty in the morning."
"You're either drunk or out of your mind."
"And why can't I enjoy both simultaneously?"
Wilson closed his eyes, sighing. He opened them again to find House peering straight into his face, closer than he'd been before. His breath hitched.
"Come on. Let me get you updated on my latest experiment."
"I don't think calling patients 'experiments' is something the hospital will smile very favorably upon..."
"Whoever said I was talking about the patient?" House wriggled his eyebrows and chucked Wilson lightly under the chin. Something rippled through the oncologist's body, and it was definitely not the whiskey. "White board. Now."
"So. I call the ducklings in this morning. I tell them a patient has just been admitted for respiratory distress. 36-year-old male named Dr. James Wilson-yes, another one."
Wilson stretched out on an unfortunately uncomfortable metal chair. He was pretty sure any longer in these conference room seats would result in a slipped disc or two. Still, he mustered up his remaining energy to humor the man before him, who was all but preening. "Get to it, House."
"A bit testy this morning, aren't you? What, didn't sleep well?"
House waited, but Wilson didn't answer, so he continued after a sip of coffee, "I tell them we're on the case--not just because of the name similarity--but because he seems to also be breaking out in a fluorescent rash...but not on his chest, as one might suspect; only on his arms and legs. He's also struggling to with facial muscle coordination. Hmm. Interesting. I tell them I've upped the norepinephrine to try and balance the neurotransmitters. I then get them going on the white board, and in ten minutes they've outlined a list of medical diagnoses that are all relevant, all potentially correct." He gestured to the board, which was in fact laced with suggestions in House's scraggly handwriting. "I even get them to call up Cuddy and update her on the patients' progress, all of which is passed on from me. There's just one problem."
"Yes?"
"There is no patient"
Wilson stared at him.
"No 36-year-old male named Dr. James Wilson was ever admitted to the hospital this morning. No patient with respiratory distress or uncontrolled muscle movements, either. Someone did come in with a rather alarming looking rash, but I'm still recovering from that one from clinic duty. Let's say we pretend that little horror never happened."
"You made a patient up?"
"Flawlessly."
"With my name?"
"I was actually going to include your middle name, too, but I couldn't remember at the time."
"Why--House--I--" Wilson felt himself drift helplessly deeper into the cramped chair, even as he insisted, voice rising an octave, "What's your point?"
"The point is, I told Foreman, Chase, and Cameron five lies, the patient's name being the most blatant of them all. But I slipped in a bit of truth: norepinephrine in relation to neurotransmitters."
Wilson was incredulous. "They'd have no reason to suspect that you were lying, though."
"They had no reason to think I was being honest, either."
Wilson sighed while House watched himself stir extra sugar into his coffee, as if dissolving the crystals took maddening concentration. "For one thing to exist, you must have its exact opposite. There'd be no up without down, no left without right--"
"No right without wrong."
"No, that pesky morality stuff is all a matter of opinion."
"Ah, yes, of course." Wilson had gotten a throbbing headache in record time. And if they'd just taken that 100 million from the Name of Evil, maybe the hospital could've bought some chairs that didn't force people to sit like their spines were made of rubber trees.
House or comfortable chairs. Admittedly, it was a tempting trade at the moment.
The older man had confiscated a rye bagel from Wilson's paper plate and proceeded to dunk it into his coffee. Wilson grimaced.
"Nobody asked you," House retorted as he took a bite. "As I was saying. Opposites. Most importantly: There'd be no lying without truth, either. Take lies, for instance--"
Wilson wearily raised an objecting hand. "Why not truth?"
"Because everyone lies," House said, exasperated, rolling his eyes. "There's more of it to go around. Besides, this brings us back to my brilliant duping of Cuddy and the ducklings." As he spoke, he threw the other half of the soaked bagel in the garbage bin, apparently changing his mind about the taste.
Wilson smiled; House pretended to ignore him as he continued.
"Now, if you're done interrupting...Take lies. If all a person does is lie compulsively, that then, in effect, becomes their truth. At some point, they must be painfully honest to keep everyone else guessing about their sincerity."
"So you're saying lies should be believable."
"No. They need only to be believed, that's all."
"And in your opinion, that is the trick of keeping your job, is it? That's the cure-all way to fix every hospital malady you have?" Wilson shook his head. "Lies, lies, lies, and then a piece of truth?"
"No. It's my answer to your malady."
"Oh." The younger man raised his eyebrows, amazed at how far House was willing to push. "I love how this suddenly turns into a 'Let's-Diagnosis-Wilson' lecture."
House wandered away from the board. He stole another look at Wilson, face finally serious and borderline accusatory. "You've been more miserable in the past week than I've ever seen you. At least I embrace pain. You wallow in it."
"I'm sorry. Could you pass the Vicodin, please?"
House wasn't even listening to Wilson anymore. Weakness frustrated him; it took all the riling he could do to even get Wilson to retaliate and file through his cane. Still, the oncologist just wasn't there yet. Have some backbone, House had criticized, egging him on, prompting him to do something, anything. He wouldn't let Wilson be stagnant, wouldn't watch him back down. Not yet. Wilson hadn't let House, either, and it was time to return the favor, whether Wilson wanted it or not.
The oncologist had a sinking feeling he was getting the special treatment House reserved for only his most intolerable patients.
"You complain about living with me; then you complain about your apartment searching. You complain about Julie; then you complain about not being with her." The scathing irritation in his voice was unnerving. "You can't carp about two sides and expect lies to be believed!"
Wilson scoffed. "You think I'm lying about what makes me unhappy?"
"I think you're lying that you are unhappy."
"Oh, yes, House. I am just thrilled to be alive at the moment. There's nothing more I want from life than to screw up marriages and sleep like a homeless person on your couch."
"You're not homeless. You're living in my apartment."
"And you're making me miserable!"
"Is that another lie?"
"No." Wilson sat up straighter. "That would be my piece of truth."
House stared at him, slowly swirling a straw in his coffee. He thought he saw Wilson waver for a split second. His voice had calmed, secure, knowing he was right. "You sure?"
Wilson glanced away, running a hand over his face. He could feel his pulse humming unbearably in his ears. He might as well have been slapped on a slide and exposed under a microscope.
How was it that he could be so transparent while House remained completely perplexing?
"You aren't terrible with relationships," House said quietly, looking aside to give Wilson a moment. "You're not obligated to screw them up."
"Yeah," Wilson laughed shortly, voice raw.
"But you're convinced that you'll do it again."
"How astute of you." Do it again? Wilson thought, the words sticking on some level. Again...when? I'm not even seeing anyone. What is House getting at...?
"You know what that is? A self-fulfilling prophesy."
The metaphorical microscope light shined brilliant, harsh, too bright to stand anymore. Wilson turned back against it, glaring.
"And do you know what that is? Hypocrisy," he snapped.
"What?" House looked utterly shocked that an analysis would be turned on him during this, his dramatic moment of Wilson's exposure. "Me?"
"Yes. You act like you're a--an expert on every little thing in everyone else's life. If you know so much, why don't you take your own advice? You're just as miserable as the next person."
"I think we've already established that. At least I can operate on this level. You, on the other hand..."
"House, enough. I can't take these conversations anymore. This is supposed to be a friendship, not some way to make you feel better about yourself through my misery."
House stared at him, stunned. It was the first time Wilson had ever seen him speechless, bereft of any wisecrack-and he could have cared less. The younger man had swept up his briefcase, fumbling for hold of it.
"I'm moving out tonight."
Limping, House trailed after him, throwing facts out in the absence of what he could have said. "You don't have anywhere to go."
"I don't have reason to stay."
House reached out and grabbed his arm. Wilson caught his breath, pursing his lips together as he fought the urge to turn around, to change his mind.
"None at all?" House asked quietly.
Wilson stared downat the hand clutching his sleeve. There was a labyrinth of reasons why staying wasn't a good idea, why his emotions were so skewed. The best way was to get out before he did something he'd regret--again.
Is that what House meant...?
Wilson snatched his arm back, the action harsher than he'd wanted it to seem. He left, not really knowing where in fact he was going--both now, and when it came time to driving back home. Maybe he'd just stay the night at the hospital.
At the moment, though, the roof seemed just as good a retreat as any.