A/N: I don't know what anybody will think of this one. I tried to keep Wilson more in character, but it's getting hard to decide what is in character considering what he's going through. I should probably end this while I'm still happy with it, but I sort of wanted to let House confront Julie, just because it would be fun… any opinions? (I sure hope some people are still reading this—it'd get boring talking to myself. Judging by the amount of reviews I'm getting, I'd say hardly anybody is. It's a bit depressing.) The ending bit also feels like it might be rushed.
Oh, and before I forget I want to give credit to ivorynovelist, because she started a story sort-of kind-of like this (I can't remember the name, but you can find it on her profile), with the initial premise anyway (evil wife), which was quite good, and I found it intriguing but it wasn't updated again. So that was pretty much inspiration. Thanks. xD And maybe if anyone is reading this y'all might want to check that out.
IX.
As two weeks from Thursday approached astonishingly quickly, House found himself thinking about it more and more, despite his efforts to the contrary. He was realizing, too, that he had changed. Not really, no, not severely, no, but enough that he noticed. It was slightly intoxicating to know that you were needed, and he was pretty sure that, for once, Wilson needed him. A month ago he'd never seen Wilson cry, not even when drunk out of his head, but now he'd been there. They had been sitting watching TV while Wilson talked; House found it unusual that Wilson, usually such a private person, actually wanted to talk so much about something which was obviously uncomfortable for him, but he did. House was listening a lot more than he let on (once Wilson began, hesitantly and almost dreamily, it was near impossible for him to stop himself) when between words there had come a quiet sob. It was hardly noticeable really but it had brought a friend, and after a few more House couldn't stand it and gave Wilson a handkerchief. He hadn't been surprised when Wilson didn't blow his nose, and it wasn't until he'd been sitting at his piano playing and sipping scotch in the dark that he understood the impact of the sobs themselves. That evening he'd played longer.
Listening to Wilson was not as hard as he'd have expected it to be before. The act really did not require much involvement; it made him feel good, he knew it made Wilson feel good and—for some reason—that knowledge made him feel better. He didn't analyze it too much; it worked for them. A few times the things he learned kept him awake at night, but he didn't sleep well anyway. He almost grew to like James Taylor—almost. And Wilson—Wilson, for all the blow-drying, nail-clipping, and neediness, three things House usually hated, was an okay roommate.
House was beginning to realize that he liked the company.
"Wilsie," he said, limping into the kitchen one morning two days before the hearing, "take the day off."
"What?" said Wilson, glancing up from slicing into a pancake and staring at him. "And you know my name's not Wilsie."
"Wil-sie," House said again, "take-the-day-off. You know, from work? That thing we do way too often?"
"The thing that pays the bills?" Wilson said, grinning.
"Live a little. You'll never get anyplace otherwise."
Wilson's grin faded. "Take the day off? I have a patient at ten."
"For what?"
"Er, an interview," Wilson said slowly, sensing that he was losing the argument and preparing himself to phone in. He swallowed, rather abruptly, a piece of breakfast.
"So don't go," House said, with a grin of his own which quickly became a leer. "Buddy boy, we've had this date from the beginning."
"Oh come on," said Wilson, laughing, "you've never seen A Streetcar Named Desire."
House limped over to the table and swiped Wilson's plate. "So? Doesn't mean I can't quote it."
Wilson sighed, passed House the maple syrup, and pulled out his cell phone. "Fine. You win. But once, okay? And only because I didn't want to go in anyway."
House, because his mouth was full, held up both hands; one with the pointer upright and one a closed fist. Wilson got the message—me one, you zero—laughed again, and set about explaining to a very irate doctor why he wasn't going to work.
They left for someplace—Wilson had no idea where—in the Corvette at nine. Wilson found out where they were going soon enough when they pulled into the McDonald's drive-through and House turned down the radio and stopped the car at the window. Wilson ordered only a coffee—he'd already eaten too many pancakes—and was pulling a dollar fifty out of his wallet when House paid.
"I owe you," he said gruffly. Wilson smiled, was silent and took the drink.
There was a showing of Click at ten-thirty which, coupled with popcorn, Milk Duds—House's favorite—cookie dough bites—Wilson's, also paid for by House—and a very annoying, lengthy running commentary was over at about one.
After that they had a drink at Wilson's favorite bar and stopped by Fry's, where House decided he deserved a new game and spent half an hour debating its merits and problems to an extremely bored teenage member of the staff who had more acne than brains and a large, oddly-colored stain down the front of his uniform. They left at four, with House proudly brandishing his video game (10 off, no surprise there) and Wilson swinging a plastic bag containing Michael Crichton's latest novel (there was a Barnes and Noble nearby—he'd paid for that himself).
At five-thirty they reached House's again, Wilson having had to drive on the way home so the Vicodin had time to take effect, and Wilson pulled the Corvette up beside his own car in the driveway and cut the gas. Before he got out, he turned to House.
"Thanks," he said, simply.
"She is a beaut, isn't she?" House said, patting his car, "and a real babe magnet, too." But he knew perfectly well what Wilson meant, and Wilson, for that matter, knew he knew. Wilson grinned and climbed out of the Corvette and they went inside to order Chinese and pester the delivery boy when he arrived. There were, House thought, forty-three hours.
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The next day was Wednesday and Wilson spent its entirety, even while at work, putting a great deal of effort into not thinking about the following one. He stayed clear of Cameron, who meant only the best and so could not be resented but did not understand people who just didn't care to consider the situation at all; Chase passed him in the hallway and offered to buy him a drink after work on Friday, being remarkably sympathetic; and House sat at their table silently at lunch, stealing his Lays while he snuck blatantly obvious peeks at a new nurse who happened to be both particularly—er—well-endowed and completely oblivous.
He stopped by Cuddy's office a little while before he was ready to go home and discovered House in there already, gesturing wildly in annoyance about something; Cuddy spotted him waiting outside and called him in, most likely if only to get House to shut up.
"Hi, Lisa," he said, pausing in the doorway.
"Hi, James," said Cuddy, simultaneously smiling at him and glaring at House, who stood in the corner leaning heavily on his cane and leering at anyone who'd give him the chance.
At that, he stepped inside. He had stopped walking with crutches recently and instead acquired a slightly awkward limping stride which was slower but more comfortable.
"Am Iinterrupting something?"
"No," House said, stomping by him and storming out.
Wilson glanced curiously at Cuddy. "No," she said, sighing. "Did you need something, James?"
"Oh, no," he said, thinking privately that everyone else was saying no at the moment and why shouldn't he join in, "I just wanted to let you know that I can't come in tomorrow. I have no appointments, so that won't be a problem."
"Right," Cuddy said, smiling sadly. "It's fine." She paused. "In fact, you don't necessarily have to come in Friday either."
"I will," Wilson said hastily. "I mean, I think I can make it." After the mess was over he knew he wanted to keep his mind off it as much as possible, and if coming in to work was the best way to do that—well, that was what he'd just have to do.
"Are you doing all right?"
"I'm—" he thought for a moment "—I'm okay. Thanks."
Wilson made it to the elevator and was riding down when one of his patients, a woman named Grace, stepped in above the ground floor.
"How are you?" he said. "Are you in any more pain?"
"Not so bad," Grace said. She smiled at him shyly and pressed the button for the bottom floor, which was already lit up. They made small talk for a few minutes; she walked out beside him, and they chatted about whatever they could think of to discuss. She went her own way in the parking lot and as he climbed into the driver's seat of his car he found his heart lighter and his lips mysteriously curved. It was not until he was halfway to House's again that he remembered he was unhappy.
Later that evening, his belly pleasantly full of pizza, Wilson lounged on the couch and tried to immerse himself in his novel. When House entered the room he had very nearly succeeded. House eyed him, plucked up a medical journal from the nearest table, and sat down as well; they remained in companionable silence for a little while as Wilson worked on putting various thoughts as far from his conscious mind as he could and House worked on figuring out exactly what was wrong with his latest patient—besides, of course, intrinsic idiocy.
As he leaned over to the coffee table to pick up his beer, Wilson realized his sleeves were rolled up and put his novel down to set about the business of fixing them. This got House's attention surprisingly quickly. He glared at Wilson over the top of his own book.
"I've seen 'em," he said, unconsciously echoing his earlier remark.
For the first time in weeks, Wilson looked at the scars himself. There were three, one thicker, jagged line beginning at his left elbow and continuing for an inch and a half down the underside of his forearm, one thinner, longer and straight line from his right elbow, and one oddly shaped, as though it was an attempted tattoo, just behind his wristwatch. Without quite thinking about what he was doing, he traced the oddly-shaped one with a forefinger. It was almost over, he thought, almost the end. Five years, and in two weeks it was almost over—except for the scars, but House had already seen those.
He traced the healing wound once more, met House's eyes.
"Okay."
House nodded. "Okay." Wilson left his sleeves rolled to his elbows and drank his beer.
At eight that night the phone rang.
Wilson, who happened to be sitting closest, leaned over and picked up the cordless. "James Wilson," he said politely into the receiver. "May I help you?"
House, though he thought with disgust that he needed to re-teach Wilson the proper way to answer a phone, said nothing and continued watching The O.C.
"Really?" Wilson said. "But why?"
Pause.
"I don't believe it."
Wilson's remarks, House noticed, were growing more distraught by the moment.
"Does that mean it's off, then?"
Pause. "No," Wilson said quietly, with an amount of resolve which surprised even him. "No, I don't."
Pause. "Okay."
Pause. "Are you sure?" Wilson's voice held more than a little fear. It was the voice of a man who knew he shouldn't hope because it would only end in disappointment but who could not stop himself from hoping anyway and mourned the finish he felt would be inevitable.
"Okay." Pause. "Well, I can't thank you enough."
"Okay." Pause. "I really appreciate this."
"Goodbye."
Wilson held the phone cradled in his left hand for a minute, barely breathing; then he pressed the "Talk" button with an unsteady forefinger and leaned back into the couch cushions again. House, helplessly overwhelmed by curiosity, muted the television. The show was on TiVo anyway.
"I have news," Wilson said, after about five minutes of House's patented expectant stare. He wasn't sure how to feel.
"I gathered that," said House.
"It is, I think," Wilson said, "good news. No, it's great news." He glanced at House. "Are you ready for this?"
"In thirty seconds, will I be any more ready? Didn't think so. Spill."
Wilson's heart leapt into his throat and he found he couldn't bring himself to say it, put it into words for fear it might disappear. But he knew he had to get it out. "Julie," he began, which was never a good start to any sentence, "has decided—it seems Julie has decided—"
House studied him as he might a lab rat and idly massaged his bad leg.
"Julie has decided," Wilson said in a rush, "to give me a divorce—" and he buried his head in his hands, torn with deciding whether to laugh or cry. "No trial," he whispered. "No hassle. We won't even have to—have to—" he drew a shaking breath "—see each other. A divorce," he repeated. "Never thought—never thought I'd be so happy to hear those words." He could not raise his head yet.
House got up and went into the kitchen. In a few minutes, Wilson heard his limping stride return. There was a clunk, as of aluminum on wood, and a light, completely unexpected pressure on his shoulder. He opened his eyes; two Cokes sat on the coffee table and House stood beside him, a hand on his arm.
"It is good news," House said. "It's great news."
Wilson kept his head down. "They didn't say why she changed her mind," he said. "I could have pressed charges, but I didn't. I didn't do it."
"It's not easy," said House quietly. "It's not easy, and I would've." He paused. "But I think you did the right thing."
Wilson looked up at House and saw, for the first time in too long, the man honestly smile. They reached for the sodas as one and toasted to better days, and Wilson thought of the long-ago fortune cookie and decided that maybe, just maybe, he might believe in fate.
Maybe.
That night Wilson slept on House's couch listening to Paper Moon and dreamed not of nothing at all, as he'd done two weeks ago.
That night, as the by-now-familiar melody washed over him, Wilson dreamed of safety. Of safety, Charlie, and the lean, hulking figure of the best friend he'd ever had.
And he slept like a baby.
