Title: In His Footsteps
Author: SrslyNo
Summary: After years apart, Wilson has changed, becoming more like House. House wants to know why. Part 4: West remembers the first time he met Wilson. The limp explained.
Characters: House/Wilson, Wilson/OC, LLB (he's aliiiive!!)
Rating: R for Language
Warning: Future AU, Angst. Slash. Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: Not mine. Never will be.
A/N: The sequel to "Freeze Out." I want to thank everyone for expressing an interest in a continuation of this story. This fic also encompasses, "A Glassful of Shattered Hope" (slight allusions to DCE) which should be read before part 8.
In addition, I want to extend a big thank you to my beta, bishojo_kitsune for great suggestions and encouragement.
Concrit welcome.
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Warning: Sorry, this is the saddest chapter of the whole fic.
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"I can get it. I can get it. Stop hanging over me," Wilson slurred, sending more second hand whiskey fumes out into the hall.
"Yeah, sure you can." West stood idly by as Wilson fumbled with the lock.
The needle on his bottomless reserve of patience was pointing to empty after watching Wilson elaborately pat down his pockets, and then repeat the ritual. Inspect his key chain claiming in shocked outrage that someone stole his key, and when West pointed out the suspect in the line-up, Wilson began molesting the innocent keyhole with it for the last God knows how many minutes.
"Since you're not making any headway with that key, it's a pity you never purchased a doormat. You'd have something soft to sleep on since it looks like you'll be camping out here tonight. Why haven't you complied with the board and purchased a welcome mat for your door? You know you're on the condo board's shit list."
Halting his onslaught on the lock, Wilson straightened up to look at West. He swayed like a skyscraper in the wind. "Doormats, Nate? It's fucking late, and I can't get into my home and you're gonna lecture me about doormats?"
The two eyes joined forces for a moment as the doctor called upon his righteous indignation, "I'm making a statement by not having a mat. It's my constitutional right. There's no welcome mat, because nobody's welcome.
"Here, I give up." Wilson jangled the keys in invitation, "Make yourself useful,"
West rolled his eyes as he took the keys out of the trembling hands. "There is no democracy in a condo. You better get one or else the committee will slap you with a fine and tell the owner to evict you." He was kicking himself about why he even bothered lecturing. Wilson wouldn't remember in the morning.
While keeping a firm hand on Wilson's arm, he satisfied the lock with one parry and twist, and thrust open the door. In a mock sotto voice he grumbled, "I can't understand how you got so drunk. You couldn't have had more than two drinks during the flight. How about we head to the bedroom so you can sleep it off?"
Waving three fingers haphazardly in the air, Wilson patiently explained the math to West, "Only three…from each of the flight attendants while you were sleeping." He executed a wink, "Pays to know how to flirt with both males and females." Wilson tried to focus his eyes on West while poking a finger into his own chest, "You could do with a few lessons from the master." West didn't know if he should laugh or cry in frustration as the boasting appeared to remind Wilson of his thirst, "How about a beer first before going to bed?"
"How about…not." He dropped the overnight case at the front door before alternately pulling and steadying Wilson down the hall nodding to mumbling protests that he was fine, and could take care of himself.
Without attempting any further conversation, West helped his friend out of his jacket. He was relieved to see him successfully grapple with the knot in the tie, but no such luck on the shirt buttons. The pearly disks were beyond Wilson's dexterity.
"Hey, forget about the shirt, can you handle the slacks on your own?"
Wilson sat down on the bed, "Sure, sure. With both my hands tied behind my back"
"Well good, cause this I gotta see." West stood with his hands folded over his chest. Not so much to strike an attitude, but not to step in and offer help when it would be most likely rejected.
Wilson fidgeted in slow motion with the belt buckle, the top hook, the zipper - which threatened to stick on the fold.
West waited.
Not quite as drunk as his behavior suggested, Wilson paused as he was about to lean on his hip to ease down his pants. He looked up, "I deserve that beer now."
"Fine. I'll go get you one. Don't stop what you are doing." West understood it was Wilson's way of preserving his dignity, so he took his time walking to the kitchen. He shook his head at his own thoughts. The man was so screwed up. Why did he even bother? Half the time he was treated as an errand boy, the rest of the time he was a whipping boy. He pulled on the fridge door, displaying its hidden contents. The arctic light shone onto the shoulders of beer bottles melodically clanking against each other. More comrades filled the shelves. Aside from some take out boxes, there was nothing but beer. He grabbed one, opened it, and headed back.
Upon his return, he was relieved to see Wilson somehow made it under the covers, face up, and shirt contorted around him, buttons threatening to explode. He was already asleep.
West spotted the trousers crumpled on the floor, crushed under the weight of the discarded prosthesis. He picked up the pants and dropped them casually on top of the covers where they couldn't get wrinkled or do harm and trip the oncologist when he got up. He did the same with the "leg," pushing it under the bed but leaving a little bit to be seen so the owner didn't curse because he couldn't find it. He checked that the crutches were propped up near the headboard in case of an emergency.
Putting down the bottle he watched as Wilson snored. Most of the time the man was an angry lion daring no one to breach his den, but even now with age and pain lines erased by sleep, he looked worn out and broken. Wilson made sure no one ever saw that he was remotely vulnerable.
West sighed and reached down, undoing the buttons within view, continuing until both the shirt and the wearer would comfortably survive the night.
Picking up the beer, he decided not to let it go to waste. As he savored the first swallow, he heard a muffled ring tone coming from the trousers on the bed. Not wanting to wake the sleeping man, West quickly located the cell and took it out to the living room.
House's name appeared on the glowing screen.
The name topped Wilson's favorite's list. West felt a twinge of irritation. As far as he knew, the pair never spoke to each other, but the number remained on speed dial indicating a connection that was not entirely severed as Wilson claimed.
He stared at his own name, or rather just the initial, "W" appearing at the bottom of a string of take-out restaurants like a washed up burlesque comedian with bottom billing.
West wandered around the living room, tidying, checking for any "road hazards." A stack of medical journals were straightened and moved toward the center of an end table. A couple of loose newspapers were fed into the greedy mouth of a waste basket. He still had to bring up the luggage, but that could wait until tomorrow. He lived in the same building, but on a different floor.
He checked the levels in the liquor bottles. He heaved a sigh, nothing much he could do there, but watch how fast the contents disappeared.
West sat down making himself at home on the couch, staring at the small device in his hand. He pushed the display button and saw that House left a voice message. He didn't dare listen, but he was curious. He knew more about House from Wilson's silences, nightmares, drugged ramblings, and misplaced gasps of passion than from anything ever volunteered.
He was tempted, but knew better. He wasn't the sort of person that schemed, or pushed fate. Wasn't that what House did? But, once the thought took hold, it wouldn't let go. It nibbled at his ear as it cajoled, then started vicious rumors…You're out, he's in.
Did he even want to be "in?" He distinctly felt Wilson was on a campaign to distance himself from everyone, including him. More demanding than ever, and harder to please. What was the expression? High-maintenance. Definitely.
West chugged the amber liquid. Wilson wasn't always like that. He remembered when they first met. It was at Children's Hospital. Wilson was much different then. Somewhat cool and aloof. Not looking to make friends, but people were drawn to the easy offhand manner, the dry devilish sense of humor. Sensing the visiting head of oncology was not interested in more than networking, West kept within his own boundary.
They passed each other in the halls or nodded to each other in the lunchroom for a month before either one of them spoke.
Wilson made the first move.
It happened at the quarterly finance meeting, mandatory for all medical personnel. West could care less, his attention on his notepad as he scribbled down the symptoms of his latest patient.
With seats filling up fast, Wilson was one of the last to arrive. They made eye contact, and after a polite inquiry, the dark-haired man gracefully sat down alongside him.
Wilson pointed at the notes, "Looks like lupus, but bet you twenty it's not."
"No it's not. The last three doctors before the patient came to us insisted on that diagnosis, and now she's exhibiting complications. But how did you know?"
"You're doing a differential, which means you're a diagnostician?"
West smiled, "I'm an attending in internal medicine, but I frequently pass for a diagnostician. If it's a difficult case it gets referred to me. I'm Nathan West, by the way."
Returning the query, "Tell me, I must have missed the last newsletter. Which department is hiring mentalists?"
"No. I'm not half that clever. My office at Princeton-Plainsboro was next to the diagnostic department, and was frequently called in for consults. I can spot a differential from a hospital wing away. Actually, try to keep two hospital wings between a whiteboard and me these days, but you can't fight karma. I'm James Wilson, oncology."
And, so it began. Lunches. Hanging out in each other's offices. A friendship took root as they talked, ate, and drank.
The attraction was undeniable, but Wilson was honest. There was someone back at Princeton. He explained the sabbatical was to clear his head. He confessed to a slew of bad decisions about marrying three wives. Now he was deciding if a man he'd known for a long time was the love of his life. A doctor named Gregory House.
After three months, West was resigned to friendship. One evening he dropped by as Wilson was banging down the receiver in a huff.
"That hardheaded, idiotic, stubborn ass" rang off the walls as West just stood and listened. Wilson rubbed the back of his neck, then suddenly spun around, grasping onto his shirt, "But you're not like that are you, West? You're everything House isn't. You'd be perfect if your head wasn't full of differentials. How about the way you kiss? I want to find out if yours are better than House's."
The next thing he knew he was engaged in a hot and heavy overture that was whirling out of control. Demanding hands, ripping the shirttails out of his pants. He was pulled into the bedroom, and pushed onto the bed, all the time knowing Wilson was acting more out of anger, frustration and need more than out of any attraction for him…
But, he could pretend. Because from the day they first talked, he fell for James Wilson.
For one month he reveled in a temporary pass to heaven, but was counting down the days until it would all end. Wilson planned on returning to Plainsboro when the sabbatical was over.
That was when everything blew up. A drop of water on the cafeteria floor, a slip, a fall, and Wilson was diagnosed with a torn ligament in his right knee. The specialist recommended surgery.
A standard procedure. Wilson wasn't worried. He was more concerned about his mobility since he was returning so soon to New Jersey, and displayed a surprising hesitation to fill the prescription for pain meds in advance.
West offered to stay in town for the surgery, but it was scheduled during a family reunion. Patting West on the cheek as he got comfortable in the hospital bed the night before the operation. "Hey, no reason you should hang around. You're only going to be gone a day. I'll see you when you get back. Don't forget you're gonna pick me up."
When West returned to the hospital he wasn't greeted by Wilson. Instead it was by a team of doctors - the surgeon who performed on the knee, an orthopedic surgeon and an anesthesiologist. He was a doctor, and knew full well the risks of anesthetics, but he only stared, and his mouth hung open in disbelief.
"Does he know?"
The doctors shook their heads, and murmured, "Just out of surgery… left leg...ICU…heavy sedation."
So West took up sentry at Wilson's bedside, holding his hand and wondering how best to break the news.
When the time came, Wilson listened silently, his head turned toward the window. West saw a lone tear travel down a cheek.
His own were wet too.
Wilson clutched the pain medication button, but before he fell back under its spell he whispered, "I don't want this to get back to House."
tbc
Thank you for reading. Comments always welcome.