Chapter 7
"The Long Ride Home"
The sun was sinking rapidly behind him as James Wilson pulled away from Lancaster, Pennsylvania and headed east toward New Jersey. By the time he made it back to House's place, it would be well into dusk, and depending on traffic, perhaps dark as well.
He turned the radio low to an easy listening station and settled himself into the most comfortable position in the seat. By the time he'd reached the highway and set the cruise control, however, the stiffness that had been settling into his bones all day, was beginning to clamor for attention.
He rotated his head and rolled his shoulders, but the discomfort seemed to have him in a vise and wouldn't let go. He sighed, wishing he had some aspirin or something to ease it, but he knew there was nothing in the car or in his sport jacket or in his jeans pockets. He gritted his teeth and kept on going.
Why he should be feeling so crappy now, after the catharsis in Dick's off ice, he had no idea. The feeling had been building to a crescendo ever since he'd pulled out of the parking lot. It was now sweeping over him like a tidal wave in his muscles and nerve endings and reminding him that the ongoing hassle wasn't over yet. In many ways he couldn't even fathom, it was just beginning.
As though he needed to be reminded!
He wondered what he would find when he got back to Princeton. His weary mind kept drawing doodles on the backs of his retinas … silly cartoon likenesses of House, sitting on the couch like a frog on a lily pad, cane in one hand, IV in the other, face skewed into a sculptured glare of rock-hard stubbornness. The UPN Frog … spats and top hat … tap-dancing his way into history …
And Cuddy standing before him with arms crossed, toe tapping in her stiletto heels, hair frazzled and sticking out all over with one lock hanging down the middle of her face and an equally obstinate glare emanating from her dark-blue-ocean eyes. Charlie Brown's indomitable Lucy, thirty years in the future!
Wilson could picture the sparks shooting back and forth between them like Comanche arrows; the irresistible force versus the immovable object, locked in mortal combat until the end of time, neither one giving an inch.
It was so silly he had to laugh.
He came to the place in the road where the little convenience store broke the idyllic flow of the Amish countryside, and in whose back lot he had shed tears for the one person in the world he did not know if he could live without.
Wilson pumped the brakes and slowed down to pull in, this time to the lot in front.
He did not need gas. The Volvo still had three-quarters of a tank. But now would be a good time to walk around and stretch his legs, grab a soda and some chips, and maybe a small container of aspirin or Tylenol to combat the muscle ache.
He circumvented a few straggling groups of boisterous teenagers gathered near the corner of the building. They were all smoking cigarettes, boys in strategically torn jeans feeling up the giggling girls' buttocks and conversing loudly in language laced with profanity.
Big men!Wilson guessed Amish country was not that much different from anywhere else in the USA these days. Children … indulged and insolent … unsupervised and old before their time!
He got back into the Volvo and pulled onto the road, eager to leave the noisy gaggle behind. He had a bottle of water, a bag of potato chips … and he thought with a smile of all the times House had stolen handfuls of chips off his lunch plate … and a small green bottle of Excedrin. He took three of the pills and tipped back the water bottle. He tore open the potato chips and popped a few into his mouth.
Wilson felt a tug of sadness when he passed the spot where he'd seen the jogger at the side of the road, and his thoughts returned immediately to his best friend. Upcoming weeks would be a test of stamina for them both after today, and Dick's words of wisdom came back again and again:
"He's literally programmed to fight you!"
Wilson had no illusions when he thought about House's determination to fight. The man had always taken particular delight in verbose personal combat, even back in the days before he ended up disabled and hurting. He had always reveled in getting his digs in with Wilson in ways that fed his monster ego and made Wilson roll his eyes in exasperation. And Wilson usually pulled his punches a little and played directly into House's manipulative hands. He had never taken steps to hold House back, and he had no intention of beginning to do so now.
House had a cruel streak in him that he couldn't seem to curb sometimes. But Wilson understood that the cruelty was a coping mechanism for the pain, and was more than compensated for by the earnest and subtle kindnesses that House was capable of offering when the two of them were together in private.
Greg was a living bundle of contradictions, and the constant fluctuations that propelled his exquisite mind kept Wilson coming back for more. In this regard he was an addict himself, drawn inexplicably by the intriguing prospect of wonders that might burst forth the next time from that radiant brain … and the next …
The "pain" part of House's life was going to come into question now, however. Wilson surmised the pain issue would be decidedly diminished, probably to the extent that House would have to find other excuses to explain his snide remarks and belligerent attitude. That should prove to be damned interesting. And entertaining. He could hardly wait!
One thing that wouldn't go away, Wilson knew, was the weakness in his bum leg that Gregory House would still have to deal with. The hole in his right thigh looked like the Arizona meteor crater in miniature, and there was nothing short of divine intervention that would make him any less crippled.
Some things House would find himself becoming more aware of with the diminishing of the leg pain: the stresses he'd always placed on his wrist, arm and shoulder muscles, and the huge amount of compensatory damage that had been inflicted upon the healthy leg.
These considerations had been secondary up until now, but they would leap to the fore like starving jungle cats from here on out. Wilson wondered if the reduction in pain would be worth the cost. It seemed that there were added consequences to be faced for every positive step along the way.
If House thought his path had been difficult before … he hadn't seen anything yet!
Wilson sighed as the radio played: "Blue Moon" … and he could feel his emotions coming to the surface yet again.
What the hell IS it about this man that makes me feel like this?
Oooo0oooO
As the layers of twilight deepened over the countryside, and Pennsylvania gave way to Jersey flatland, Wilson reached down and pulled his headlights on. The Volvo was a tad too old to be equipped with the safety lights that stayed lit all the time. He finished the last of the chips and crumpled the bag.
He was also tired of sad songs, and he pressed the control that brought up an NPR station playing symphonies. The lilt of violins and flutes and French horns was much more appealing right now than moonlight laments about lost loves and broken dreams.
The three Excedrin had eased his muscular aches a bit, but he knew he would still feel the after effects tomorrow, and probably even on Wednesday. It couldn't be helped. When House was once again able to stride down the corridors of the hospital with nominal pain and a diminished limp, he would never remember his own temporary discomfort.
Wilson smiled to himself and drove on toward home, passing opposing traffic with their headlights blinking on, and suddenly feeling tears sting his eyes again.
"Stop this!" He was stunned he'd said it aloud. Shouted it, in fact.
There were no parking spaces in front of House's place when Wilson finally turned onto the familiar street and trolled past the old building.
The apartment's interior was dim, but not dark. Cuddy's elegant Buick sedan was there in front, right where it should be, and Wilson could see the ambient glow from the television casting fluctuating shadows across the front window.
At least the place was still standing, and no one had bombed it or shot it up with an Uzi, or burned it down in a fit of pique. Which meant that the apartment at 221B was still intact, and a cease-fire was in force, or there had been a coup d'etat, and one resident or the other was holding the opposite member hostage and forcing him/her to watch reruns of "The L Word" … or the House and Garden Channel!
Wilson was more tired than he had thought.
He finally found a parking space a half-block away and pulled in, shut off the lights and radio and shut down the engine.
Wilson reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out the business card his friend Dr. Dickinson had given him earlier.
"… you can call anytime if things get a little too rough. Questions. Problems. Or if you just need to vent. Okay?"
Wilson sighed. He put the card back in his pocket and hoped he would not have to call for help because he could not handle the sea change that was coming into the life of his best friend. A punching bag might not be a bad idea! He could put it in House's basement Rec Room, right next to the Skittles table.
Tiredly, he leaned his head against the backrest and stretched out both arms. It had been a long day, and he still had to check with Cuddy about House's condition, double check his IV and be sure he was comfortable for the night.
Comfortable for the night …House's comfort was very important to James Wilson. It always had been! Even when he had mistakenly accused the man of being an addict, more interested in the resulting high than in controlling his incessant pain.
My God! How unfair he had been. How unjust and uncaring. He had walked past Greg's office that night without a second glance when he'd known House was sitting on the floor in the dark and leaning, weeping, against the edge of his fancy ergonomic chair.
That would never happen again. Never!
If coming months were to be long and hard and filled with bitter words and angry accusations, so be it. He would be there. Gladly.
He would be there to shore Greg up, even when Greg did not want to be shored. It was high time to even the score and do some listening, instead of wasting time thinking up things with which to give his friend another argument.
He would do it firmly and willingly, and with …
… dare he even think it?
With love.
Dick! He was looking at me funny all day.
Oh damn!Wilson grabbed his sport coat off the passenger backrest, and the wadded up ball of KFC napkins from the seat. He pulled his keys from the ignition and dropped the little bottle of Excedrin tablets into the center console. He took the last two swallows of the bottled water and crumpled the empty potato chip bag. First bag of chips he'd gotten to enjoy all by himself in months! It made him smile.
Jim reveled at the transformation that was beginning to take place in his mind.
He got out of the car with his bundle of paraphernalia and started eagerly toward 221B. Even as tired as he was, there was a new spring in his step.
The front door was unlocked. Cuddy had been expecting him.
He told her of the visit, and about the new ideas and methods of treatment which had been imparted by Dr. Dickinson. He smiled all the way through it, and she smiled in return as he related the events of the day. He dumped his little bundle of trash into the garbage and sprawled on the couch with a sigh.
They finally parted at 10:30 p.m. after Lisa had brought him up to date on House's status.
His friend had gone to bed at 9:00 p.m. He'd tried to wait up for Wilson, but his fatigue and weakness had overtaken him, and he'd had to throw in the towel.
In the dim light of the hallway, Wilson stood at the entrance to House's bedroom. Greg looked comfortable and innocent in the pale light from the window, almost like that four-year-old he would most likely become from time to time in the next couple of months.
Wilson stood and watched him sleep, and a wash of tenderness moved through his body in ways he'd never noticed before. This was family. This was his more-than-brother. This was his life. It always had been.
He was about to return to the living room and stretch out on the couch; prepare for the night's vigil.
In the darkness, he could hear, rather than see, the rustle of sheets. He tensed.
The voice was cracking a little, and weak from disuse, but he could hear a touch of relief and snarky humor in the words also.
"Just couldn't stay away any longer, could you?"
Wilson cleared his throat before he turned to walk away.
"I missed you too … but I'm home now … go back to sleep!"
Oooo0oooO
36