V.
The trial was in two weeks, on a Thursday. Wilson had always privately thought Thursday was the worst day of the week, and this just cemented the belief for him. While most people, House—of course—included, considered Monday the worst day of the week because it was the start of work, for years Wilson had looked forward to the start of work—it meant he got to get out of the house. Thursday was not Friday, which was bad enough in itself, but it was the day before, and that meant Wilson spent the entire time dreading the next. And now Thursday was the day of the trial. "I'm sorry," Wilson said, "I don't have time to buy your encyclopedia," and he hung up the phone.
A remote hit the couch beside him. Wilson gave an involuntary jump and looked up to find House standing in the doorway smirking.
"Secret girlfriend?"
Wilson stiffened and dropped his gaze and House sighed, striding forward to retrieve the remote himself. "General Hospital," he said, "is on, and we are not watching it. This activity, or should I say non-activity, is so heinous it should be criminal. I certainly hope you have an excuse which will hold up in a court of law."
"I have a question," Wilson said, and waited until House glanced at him. "Why aren't you at work?"
"No time for questions," said House, "it's time for TV." And he sat down on the couch across from Wilson. Wilson noticed the fact that House sat more gently than he usually did and was relieved.
House flipped on the television and grabbed his beer from the coffee table. "You know I spend all week thinking of reasons not to go to work," he said, taking a swig, "especially when we don't have a case—and we don't—and now that I have a ready-made perfect excuse in my own home, you ask me why I'm not there? Have to be an idiot to pass up an opportunity like this."
Wilson grinned at him. "Wouldn't have anything to do with me, would it?"
"'Course not. It has everything to do with you. Now shut up. Show's on."
Wilson sighed. "Yup. This is why I became a doctor."
House quirked a brow without removing his eyes from the screen.
"To get my best friend, who's also a doctor, mind you, out of going to work because—"
Wilson, though he'd begun the quip rather well, found he couldn't quite bring himself to finish the sentence.
"You broke your ankle when the Dean opened the door in your face."
"She's had it in for me for years, you know."
"I believe it. Woman's vindictive. Why else would she give me all those clinic hours?" House rolled his eyes. "This is it. Either shut up or I force you to—"
For a moment, Wilson feared House would say "go home," though he knew it was irrational and House couldn't force him into it anyway. He swallowed.
"—watch Vertigo."
"But I like Vertigo."
"What's your point? And what did I just say?"
"Er—shut up?"
House turned up the volume and Wilson got the message. Using the arm of the couch and his crutches, he pushed himself to his feet to begin the journey to House's kitchen. He'd started to notice that distances seemed a lot longer when you couldn't walk without aid. This, he supposed, was what House always had to endure, and he felt a brief rush of sympathy. His movement was enough to draw House's attention—he glanced in Wilson's direction and raised an eyebrow again.
"Gotta make a phone call."
House shrugged and went back to watching his show, ignoring the fact that the cordless was still beside Wilson's can of beer where he'd abandoned it a few minutes ago.
Wilson put a hand on the wall for support as he turned into the hallway and made his way around the corner. He passed up the phone hanging by the light switch entirely, touching the handle of the fridge instead, pulling it open. For the phone call he was about to make, he needed a fresh drink. Someone from the television in the living room was heard audibly confessing her love. Wilson popped the top on his beer and reached for the receiver.
"Get a lawyer," he said, when he heard the familiar answering machine. "It's over. Court's two weeks from Thursday. You'll get the papers in the mail." He paused. "I'm sorry," he said. He hung up.
The sounds of General Hospital filled the apartment. Wilson left his beer untouched on the counter, the second one that day, and headed in the opposite direction. "House?" he called.
Being deprived of the opportunity to make a snappish, non-verbal remark, House growled, "Yes?"
"Can I take a shower?"
"I don't know. Can you?"
Wilson wanted to grin but could not make his face obey. It fell instead.
"Just take the shower," House sighed.
Wilson took a step.
"And don't use all the hot water, either."
Wilson heard the volume being raised and walked into the restroom. He propped his crutches against the sink and levered himself onto the toilet, where he began to remove the bandage from his shoulder. The wound had stopped bleeding entirely and was instead scabbing over quite pleasantly. Wilson tossed the bandage into the trash, tilted his head back until it touched the wall, and closed his eyes.
That was where House found him forty-five minutes later, asleep.
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The night before, House reflected, had actually not been so bad. Wilson had gone to bed, and House had played his favorite song until he fell asleep; oddly enough, when he'd passed by to go to his own room, he'd noticed Wilson was grinning. He himself hadn't slept for longer than he'd expected, and he knew it hadn't been from his usual insomnia; it was in the foggy hours of the early morning when he'd drifted off, and it was around eight o' clock when he'd woken to someone in the kitchen.
To his surprise it had been Wilson, balanced uneasily on his crutches by the stove and turning pancakes—his favorite kind—with a spatula. House supposed it was in return for his previous sympathy and his uncomplaining acceptance of Wilson's residence. He didn't care as long as his friend's guilt came along with those half-dollar slices of heaven.
He'd talked Wilson, with some difficulty, into calling a lawyer at around nine and retreated to the shower until he heard the click of the phone. At ten-thirty, thanks to Wilson's wheedling and the fact that he knew perfectly well where the man's car was (the parking lot of Princeton-Plainsboro), he drove downtown, dropped Wilson off at his lawyer's office, and swung by to pick up some lunch—a Reuben, no pickles for him and a ham-and-cheese on sourdough for Wilson. It was the first time in ten years he'd paid for anyone's lunch. In fact, he realized, laughing to himself as the tinny jingle of a commercial began playing, it was the first time in five he'd paid for his own.
Wilson hadn't said much when House picked him up, only thanked him for the ride and the sandwich and fell asleep again for the rest of the trip home. He hadn't mentioned his visit with the lawyers at all. House assumed that, after his confession, Wilson needed a break and a long nap; he didn't have a problem with that himself and didn't particularly want another deep, emotional conversation either, but he figured under the circumstances they'd probably have to have one eventually. He'd woken Wilson up with The Who that time. It was about noon.
They'd sat in the living room to eat lunch while watching a TiVo-ed episode of Blackadder. When Wilson, who hadn't spoken in half an hour, remarked that he needed to use the phone, House had gone to get another beer and waited in the doorway until he heard Wilson hang up, and then he'd come back in to watch General Hospital. Though it had been amusing watching the man struggle to politely refuse the offer of a telemarketer, he was not about to miss his show for it.
Twenty-five minutes into General Hospital had come Wilson's request for a shower of his own, and as the program came to a close House stretched his bad leg on the vacated seat and drew a deep breath.
It was just then that the phone rang.
House jerked his cordless off the coffee table, punched the "Talk" button and snarled, "House."
"Coming to work today?"
"It's—" House glanced at the clock "—three o' clock. Bit late really."
"Oh—right." There was a pause.
"Cuddy?" House smirked.
"Yes?"
"You're actually worried, aren't you?"
Silence. "A little. Is he all right?"
House sighed. Feelings. He had to discuss them again. Sure, they weren't his own, but in the grand scheme of things that didn't really count. "Took him to the lawyer's this morning," he said.
"Lawyer's?"
Fully prepared to savor the moment—he'd gloat, oh, he'd gloat—House said, "I was right."
"You were right?" said Cuddy.
"Tell you what. Say it again, and don't make it a question this time."
House swore he heard Cuddy heave a grudging sigh. "Fine, House. You were right."
He grinned and waited. His leg throbbed. Shit, he thought, time for another happy pill, and reached into the pocket of his jacket. He was able to take two before Cuddy spoke again; though he knew if she knew she'd kill him for it, he washed them down with a swig of beer.
"So it was Julie?"
"Oh yes. Not sure what the two of them were up to, but either they have some super kinky bedroom manners or they haven't exactly been Lucille Ball and Desi Arnez."
"You watch I Love Lucy?"
"That one's a great kink of mine. Know what's a really cool party game?"
House imagined Cuddy rolling her eyes. "No, House, I don't. What's a really cool party game?"
"How many times can you say 'Vitameatavegimen' stoned?"
"Oh, for heaven's sake—" Cuddy paused. "Look. How is Wilson, and when can he come back to work?"
"Why don't you ask him yourself? I'm not—" he snickered "—my brother's keeper."
"Why don't you give him the phone?"
"Fine, we'll do it the easy way." House dumped the phone on the couch beside his leg, leaned back and hollered, "Wilsie!" He tapped his fingers against the sofa, waited a minute, and tried again. Midway through the "ie" he remembered.
"He's all hot, sweaty and wet right now," he purred into the mouthpiece, "we'll have to call you back."
Absolute silence.
"Oh, for such a stacked woman you can drain the fun out of just about anything, can't you?" House sighed. "He's in the shower."
"I'll call later," Cuddy said. There was a final pause. "And how do you know they're real?"
And before he could answer, she hung up.
"If they weren't real they wouldn't jiggle like Jell-O when you walk down the hall," House said to the empty room. He set his leg gently back on the ground and was about to scrounge up some food someplace when he realized Wilson had been in the shower for a pretty long time and, as far as he remembered, he hadn't heard water. Unless Wilson was into taking dry showers, which didn't seem right for a guy who was so ridiculously feminine about his looks, something was up. Maybe he'd broken the other ankle. House grinned—at least he'd be symmetrical—sighed over the sheer injustice of the world, and headed off to check.
