Title: It's Not Easy
Characters: House, Wilson, Cameron, Chase, Cuddy, Julie (could be others too)
Disclaimer: Don't own
Rating: T
Warning: See below.
A/N: Please be warned that this piece of work is not for everyone. It discusses the abuse of a husband by his wife. Under no circumstances did I write this piece to mock such a horrific situation; if anything, I tried to write it in order to call attention to the fact that men can be hurt by their wives, just as the other way around.
Please give me your input, though I would greatly appreciate it if I were not flamed.
It's Not Easy
Prologue
It was Monday morning, and James Wilson, M.D. was running late.
To Wilson's credit, however, he was not entirely responsible for this tardiness. Perhaps the greatest blame for the shameful slip-up should have been placed on his wife, Julie. You see, the night before Wilson had come home ten minutes after five—dinner time—and she was seething.
Wilson pushed gingerly at the door to Princeton-Plainsboro, wincing with the onrush of another brief flash of pain and wondering where House had gotten to—his motorcycle had not been in its normal space when he pulled up, and Wilson hadn't seen him on his way into the hospital either. At the moment, though, Wilson wasn't sure he wanted to run into House, or, for that matter, anyone else. His shoulder throbbed where he had hastily bound it upon waking, and he felt fairly certain there was a new bruise forming on his hip—he brushed against the briefcase of a patient, let the door swing gently shut on his heels, and amended his previous remark; he was absolutely certain there was a new bruise forming on his hip.
In his mind, Wilson began to list the things he had to do that morning. This was a tactic he had adopted recently, and one he employed on a daily, sometimes twice-daily basis. Reviewing his plans in an organized, calm manner diverted his thoughts; it allowed him, briefly, to focus on something else and even to temporarily forget the events of the past hours entirely. But as he walked forward, his own briefcase swinging from his left hand and his right shoulder uncomfortably stiff from its hasty medical treatment, his heart sank to the pit of his stomach at the unpleasant realization that the hazy haven of memory loss was not on the agenda that morning.
Waiting by the clinic, glaring at him rather menacingly, hands folded before her chest, stood Cuddy.
"Good morning, Lisa," said Wilson. He attempted to slip quietly past and make for the elevator. Unfortunately, he was not as quick as he would have liked. Out of practice, he assumed; House could have made it in ten seconds flat, and he was missing a significant amount of thigh muscle. Wilson thought that was just another part of a base difference between the two of them; while House held no qualms at all about running away from a potentially unpleasant situation—funny, him being a man who couldn't run at all—Wilson had stopped running years ago. And he'd paid for it ever since.
Cuddy did not make a move to uncross her arms; in fact, if such was even possible, her grip tightened. "Dr. Wilson," she said, standing motionless and (handily enough) in his way, "you are three hours late."
Wilson knew for a fact that, regularly, he was never more than five minutes late, and rarely even that small amount. Lately, however, he had begun coming in later and later. Thus far, three hours was his record. He supposed he should have expected Cuddy would say something to him; they were, after all, friends—of a sort. The problem was that they were also boss and employee, he was extremely late, and she had just caught him. He paused a safe distance away and gave her a shy smile.
"I'm sorry," he said, and thought rapidly for a plausible excuse, "but I was getting a ride with House, and—well, you know how he is about being anywhere on time." There, he thought, that should do it.
"No dice."
Wilson blinked. "What do you mean?"
"No dice," Cuddy repeated, with a quick, mournful shake of her head, "I'm afraid that's not going to wash, Wilson. You see—although, for all I know, this may well be a sign of the Apocalypse—House arrived at eight. He's been here for two-and-a-half hours."
At this, Wilson shook his own head and momentarily closed his eyes. Whenever he needed the man to be late—well, wasn't that Murphy's Law for you? The only thing he could think was—busted. Busted busted busted. This was it. He tried weakly to flex his right shoulder, testing his mobility, hoping to ward off the panic he knew was inevitable, but his efforts were to no avail. His own bandaging job proved too much of a constraint. Busted, his mind reminded him again, and he felt the blood rush from his head. His vision shimmered and grew fuzzy. His legs began to tremble. He took a deep breath—
And collapsed in a dead faint.
Wilson's briefcase hit the ground as he did. Its clasp broke with a snap and it gleefully abandoned its mountainous contents in a snow-like flurry of creamy paper and black ink. The clinic patients sitting nearby turned their heads curiously to see what was going on—a doctor's illness was a nice distraction. Meanwhile, one of Wilson's forms drifted peacefully up to the air vent, where it slid through the grate and disappeared.
Cuddy shook her head again and paged House.
