Title: Gotta Run 3/6

Summary: Remember the days when Wilson and House were friends? So do I.

Word Count: 5378 total

Head Count: House, Wilson, OC. Cameo appearance by Foreman. Chase gets three lines, because it's in his contract. Cameron and Cuddy have the week off.

Directions: 2 C. fluff, 3 T. angst, 1 C. heavy drama. Beat ingredients well. Cook in hawt oven til a crisp golden brown. Season to taste (S1, S2, or S3).

Disclaimer: Don't own. Don't even rent. Just squatting illegally. (Hey, back off, Tritter. It was a joke, man! Can't you take a joke? No, really. Put those cuffs away. I--)

A/N: This is set in early fall, a few weeks post Cane and Able.

A/M: "A chapter a day keeps the No-New-Ep-for-Two-Weeks Blues away."

A/NAuthor's Note

A/MAuthor's Motto

Chapter 3 Marathon Man

"No, thanks," said Wilson shaking his head and going back to the newspaper. "I'll stick to water."

House looked at the two glasses of scotch on the coffee table. "You're getting awful boring, you know that?" he said, pouring Wilson's glass into his own. "Early to bed. Early to rise. No alcohol. Next thing you'll tell me we can't have sex anymore because you're saving your precious bodily fluids for the marathon."

"Which is true. Sorry to break it to-- but oh, that's right. We're not having sex."

"True dat, but if we were…" House took a long sip of scotch. "So, what are you up to now? How many miles?"

"Six every morning. Twelve on weekends."

"Twelve miles." House swirled the scotch in the bottom of his glass and then pulled the Vicodin bottle from his pocket. When he'd swallowed the pills, he lifted the Fender guitar from its stand behind the piano and sat on the arm of the couch, tuning it and plucking idly at the strings. "You once told me you hit the wall at eight."

"Anton helped get me past that. He pointed out that it's more of a psychological block than a physical wall. Thinking you have to run twelve miles—or twenty-six-- is just too overwhelming. The only way to psyche yourself up to do a marathon is to run from one telephone pole to the next one. You never think about the 26 miles—just tell yourself you're only going to run as far as the next pole."

House gave a skeptical grunt. "What I don't get is what you talk about for all those miles. You must have used up everything you know about Bulgaria by mile three."

"Mostly we just run in a manly sort of silence." House snorted at this and played a few chords of Born in the USA. "Actually," Wilson continued, "he's pretty lonely. He had to leave a wife and three small children in Albania in order to take this fellowship. He talks about them a lot."

"So Slobodan's needy, but in a good way." Not in a corrosive, self-destructive way.

House didn't actually say that last part out loud, but Wilson could hear him thinking it as he played a few corrosive, self-destructive phrases from a Jimi Hendrix song. "I suppose you could say that, yes," Wilson said, not bothering to look up from his reading. Suddenly he put down the New York Times. "Hey," he said with some excitement. "There's a Hitchcock film marathon this Saturday in the city. Ten hours of classic Hitchcock. Wanna go?"

"Here's the funny thing I've discovered about mystery movies," said House, still picking out Purple Haze on the guitar. "Much as I love a mystery, it is so much more fun when you don't already know how it's going to turn out. And since you recently forced me to watch every Hitchcock film ever made... But that's just me. You should go."

"Nah," said Wilson, not bothering to hide his disappointment. "It's no fun unless there's someone you can snark about it with afterwards."

House was late for lunch Monday—he'd reached a crucial point in the video game, and saw no reason to stop till he made the next level. When he got to his and Wilson's usual table, tray in hand, the table was nearly full. Wilson had been joined by MacIntosh and Milosovic, and though there was one more chair, he considered briefly taking the tray back downstairs to share with Vegetative State Guy. But as he watched, Wilson said something that made Anton convulse with laughter, and he abandoned his plan of eating alone.

"Who knew cancer could be so funny?" he asked as he took the seat opposite Wilson. "So share: what's the joke?" House watched the smile fade from Wilson's face. And when it didn't appear like he was going to answer, House continued, using his best manic voice. "It wasn't the one about how many Hiroshima victims does it take to screw in a light bulb, was it? Because that's just so tasteless." House turned to Anton and said in a stage whisper: "None—they glow in the dark." MacIntosh looked offended, and even Anton seemed unsure of how to react.

"No," said Milosovic at last. "James is just now doing his favorite Jimmy Stewart impression. He is very good at it."

"Ah, yes. It's a Wonderful Life. Poor self-sacrificing George. So happy on the outside, so dark and bitter on the inside. I'm shakin' the dust of this crummy little town off my feet and I'm gonna see the world. Not hard to figure out why that's Wilson's favorite."

"Actually…it was Rear Window," replied Anton. And then with a glance at Wilson: "That is your favorite, isn't it?"

"Um, yes. My favorite James Stewart/Alfred Hitchcock movie, that is."

Everyone chewed in silence for what seemed an age.

"So, you went to the marathon after all?"

"Turns out, Anton is a huge Hitchcock fan," said Wilson.

"I learns English from watching his movies."

House looked like he was going to say something but stopped himself and then pulled his cell phone out of his pants pocket, flipping it open. "Yes?" he barked into it. "All right. I'll be right there." He snapped it closed and rolled his eyes. "Sorry. That was Chase. Some kind of crisis upstairs."

"Your phone didn't even ring," said Wilson, frowning.

"I put it on vibrate—more fun, if you know what I mean." He gave Anton a lewd wink.

"Chase is an intensivist," Wilson objected. "Can't he handle this crisis, whatever it is?"

"Evidently not," said House, making a disgusted face. "I really really need to train them better. I bet your fellow wouldn't interrupt your lunch hour." He smiled innocently at Anton and then picked up his plate and scraped all his remaining food onto Wilson's.

"What's that for?"

"Payback. Plus, you need it more than I do. Carbohydrate loading. Remember?"

"Sure, but"—

"Gotta run."

As Wilson watched him exit the cafeteria he became aware of a presence on the other side of the table. He turned his head.

"Hey, Dr. Wilson," said Chase, tray in hand. "Can I join you?"

TBC Tomorrow