Title: In His Footsteps
Author: SrslyNo
Summary: After years apart, Wilson has changed, becoming more like House. House wants to know why. Part 11: At long last, House and Wilson speak to each other.
Characters: House/Wilson, Wilson/OC
Rating: R for language
Warning: Future AU, slash. Eventually, there might just be a happy ending among all this angst. ;)
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: Not mine. Never will be.
A/N: A big thanks to my ever fantastic betas, bookfan85 and bishojo_kitsune . Also, a shout out to andrea_deer for letting me borrow her 'cosmic' description of Wilson.
Concrit welcome.
It was evening when Wilson opened the door. The light that flooded out from his apartment made him go rigid. His hand clutched the doorknob.
Scanning the room, he saw a lamp was on. The overhead fixture in the kitchen was spilling light into the living room from the opposite end. He left early for the hospital this morning while it was still dark. Had he forgotten to turn off the lights? He panned the room once more, eyes halting at the coffee table. He'd left his mail stacked neatly on the side. Now it was all spread out.
A sudden shockwave rolled through him.
There was a knapsack and a cane leaning against the armrest of the sofa.
He wrestled to maintain a grip on reality as stone cold panic washed over him. How long had House been here? Unbidden rage removed his fear. He needed to think fast. How much could House discover by going through his home?
Everything. Almost everything.
All his carefully kept secrets, except a couple buried in his heart were all out on display like Macy's Christmas window. A few were tucked away in shallow graves, but House would have no trouble ferreting anything out.
He almost groaned at the image of his meth lab of a medicine cabinet. The kitchen recycle bin was full of racially indiscriminate green, clear and amber bottles. It nearly reached out and tripped any trespasser who wandered into the kitchen.
God. The bedroom. Wilson dry swallowed a boulder in his throat. The crutches. The folded wheelchair squeezed between the chest of drawers and the corner of the room.
Down the hall he heard the toilet flush and water rushing from the tap. He had to think fast and manufacture a lie. If House asked, he could claim back trouble. Chronic back pain. It could work if House didn't have time to go through his nightstand that hid more painkillers tucked in between his stump socks and liners.
The bathroom door creaked open; he heard the familiar erratic gait. Part of him wanted to escape the apartment. Part of him wanted to see and touch House again.
Remembering their meeting from a few days ago, he resolved to get through this. House wasn't able to drill through his hardened shell at the conference, and he wouldn't let it happen here. As the footsteps neared, he took the offense and slammed the door, "House!"
The man, himself, came into sight. "Brilliant analysis, Wilson. This is a house. Do you always have a compulsion to label your surroundings? Is this something new?"
It was a gambol meant to throw him off guard. Normally, a remark like that would make him sputter, but he kept his emotions tightly controlled. His defense system kicked in, coating him in layers of ice.
"House, you have no right to break into my apartment. I should call the police."
"But you won't. All those YouTube videos finally paid off, Jimmy." House leaned on the back edge of the couch trying to be casual, but deep down he knew he was playing with a ticking time bomb. He had to tread carefully. "I waited outside for as long I could, but had to go pee and was thinking of your reputation with the neighbors. What would they think if they heard me call out 'Jimmy' while using your door as a urinal?"
The dark haired oncologist stared icily before answering, "They wouldn't give it a thought. Only call the manager and see that you were arrested. No one knows me as 'Jimmy' around here." Wilson moved to the kitchen stowing the bag of take out and a brown paper wrapped bottle on the counter. Before there was time to turn around he heard House behind him.
"Smells like Chinese. Aren't you gonna ask me to stay for dinner?"
House's off-hand tone was getting to him. All he wanted was to get him out of his apartment and out of his life as quickly as possible, and break open the new bottle of bourbon to help him forget the evening. Any minute House was going to question him, and he didn't want to hear his weaknesses thrown back in his face. He stood looking at the sink. "For God's sake, House. What made you think you'd be welcome? Please leave."
"Jimmy."
Wilson wiped his brow. Beads of sweat were forming. He needed a drink. Grabbing and stripping the paper from the bottle as if holding it would give him strength, he turned to face his stalker standing only a few feet away. "Get out of my way," he grit through his teeth. House backed up to the doorway allowing him to get as far as the middle of the kitchen, but then he was blocked again. Waving his free arm, "Fine. Say whatever you have on your mind, then go."
"It's time we had a talk. We were never meant to be apart, Jimmy."
Wilson wished House would stop calling him that. His voice. His scent. It was one thing to stand up to House at the conference, but here, it was too much for him. He felt like a frayed pair of jeans that was ripping apart. All he could do was wear his poker face and bluff, "That's nonsense. We couldn't agree on anything. It was time for me to cut my losses." He barely prevented the bitterness from seeping into his voice, "Before this, you never bothered to visit. Now you have nothing better to do than come snooping?"
"To see what the hell's going on with you," House said roughly, but the blue eyes looked sad. "You really had me second guessing for months after you left. Years. Thought my drug addiction and drinking pushed you away, but it wasn't that. I finally figured out you were hiding and developing a set of your own nasty habits".
"You have no right to go through my things," Wilson growled, not betraying the sinking feeling in his stomach.
"Please. Looking inside your refrigerator is hardly snooping. And, surprise! Nothing but bottles. Not that I needed to check. Cuddy filled me in before I flew out. You have quite a reputation. No more wonder boy oncologist. Now you're called the brilliant 'oncoholic' by hospital heads."
"It's none of your business, House."
"No, and you don't care, as long as no one can figure out the rest of the story. Drugs, Jimmy? I wouldn't be human if I didn't search your medicine cabinet while visiting you. You used to be so good at practical jokes. Don't you know those cabinets should never be filled with anything but marbles? You actually stashed sleeping aids, anti-depressants and pain medications in there." House paused and smiled, but not with his eyes. "Looks like you've settled on Vicodin as your pain reliever of choice. How's that working for you? Do you think of me every time you pop off the cap?
"Do you use it for residual or phantom pain? Or both?"
House examined Wilson's face. Not to see the shock that revealed in the eyes about his conclusion, but to check the once fair skin for signs of a failing liver. Then, he grabbed the hand without the bottle. Inspected the palm. He felt relieved. Outer signs showed little damage, but he'd like to strap Wilson to a MRI table to be sure.
Wilson stood face forward under the lens of House's blue-eyed scrutiny but his eyes glanced away. He was lost in misery, and wished it were just some nightmare he would soon wake up from. House's concern wasn't registering as his defenses were crumbling. He barely had the will to fight back the sting of tears.
House knew.
He gripped the bottle of bourbon tighter, and pulled his hand away from House, balling it into a fist.
Meanwhile, House moved as close as he could into Wilson's space. They were competing for the same air. He was going to provoke a response as only he knew how. "Huh, Jimmy? Don't pretend I'm not here. The pills. The alcohol. Those aren't just for pain. They're to help you forget about me. Admit it, you missed me, didn't you? Didn't you, Jimmy? Admit it! Admit it! Admi—"
A more visceral response overrode Wilson's defenses. With a feral roar, the arm holding the bottle flew up in the air, and without thinking, he forgot his left leg had a mind of its own, and couldn't compensate for the swing. He began to lose his balance, but a strong hand gripped his left wrist, and an arm of iron tightened around his waist, not letting go.
Trapped in a snapshot of time they stood in an adversarial version of the pasa doble, or was it two lovers doing the tango?
Holding Wilson steady wasn't easy for House either. His own weight was mostly on his left leg, and he braced it alongside Wilson's right.
Speaking reassuring House said gently, "It's okay Wilson. I'm here. I'm not letting go." And he didn't, until the body he was supporting shifted and balanced, and was no longer dependent on his hold. He wanted to turn the grip into a hug that would melt into a kiss, but knew the exile wasn't ready. Taut muscles barely surrendered under his touch.
The thaw was slow. Wilson gave in a bare minimum. He couldn't move, but he stared at the scruffy long face, and drank in the blue eyes as no other thirst could fill. He couldn't stop himself from asking. "How'd you know?"
"About the leg? After the conference, I saw you at the airport."
Wilson felt some relief. So, House did find out recently, but still he didn't understand, "The airport?"
"I saw you stumble when that jerk cut you off. That puppy, West," House didn't miss a shadow of discomfort pass over the slightly flushed features, "friend, or whatever euphemism you use, he anticipated that you'd trip as soon as that bozo stepped in front of you. He knew you wouldn't be able to stop mid-stride. And, then your left leg buckled.
"Even if I'm not a personal fan of physical therapy, I am a doctor, and understand the workings of a prosthetic."
"Something, you'd never consider for yourself," Wilson bit out. Finally stepping away from House, he moved back to the great room and chose to pull out a dining room chair, placing it well away from the table, physically isolating himself.
House followed Wilson out, and was worried. He expected to provoke a cathartic reaction. Maybe he should have let the bottle fly.
Instead, Wilson's fear and self-loathing spread out across the room, separating the two of them as if the earth cracked open and an abscess formed, creating a granddaddy of a Grand Canyon between them.
House limped to the sofa. He'd pushed enough buttons for the time being. "Is that what the silence was all about for all these years? You didn't think I'd understand?"
"How could you?" Wilson was way out of his comfort zone, but shrugged. "So you had most of the answers before you came. Why did you bother? You needed to confirm that you're right? Allow me to make your day and tell you that you are. You solved the puzzle. Now go."
House stood up, pacing as he began ranting and mimicking Wilson, "'Go! Go! You're right, House. You solved the puzzle, now go!' I came hundreds of miles out of my way to see you. Broke into your apartment so there would be no way for you to avoid a face-to-face, and that's all you have to say?! You know, sometimes you're a damned idiot. Do I have to explain everything to you?" House was exasperated.
"Since I'm an idiot, yes. I suppose you do. I'm out of practice in interpreting convoluted Housian logic."
Only someone like House would be ashamed of what he was about to say as he looked down and studied his shoes, "I was worried about you. That you might have cirrhosis, and why your leg was amputated." He lead with his worst worry, "Was it a bone cancer? Chondrosarcoma? Is that why you wanted to leave Princeton? Hide away like a sick dog?"
It surprised Wilson to realize how much House really cared. He'd forgotten that he could at times. Briefly rubbing his neck and casting another look toward the kitchen, he shook his head, "God, no. That's all I needed. Chemotherapy on top of everything else."
For the second time that day, House felt his muscles unknot. He noticed Wilson's hands trembling. "Why don't you get yourself a drink and tell me what happened"
House watched as Wilson headed for the kitchen. The man betraying a slight limp. Heard the sounds of the refrigerator door opening and closing, and after a while, returning with half the contents of the bottle missing and two more beers in his hand.
Wilson went over to the couch, and before sitting down, offered House one, but it was waved away. Placing the bottles on the coffee table, the oncologist chose a spot at the other end of the couch.
"If you must know," Wilson began, years of harsh sarcasm took a back seat as he slid into a renewed version of the old banter, "and, I can see there's no way in hell that you're ever going to leave unless I tell you…"
A trace of acid still crept into the speech, "Actually, you're going to appreciate this more than I ever did." Wilson's fingers fanned out as he explained. "I slipped and fell, went into the hospital for knee surgery. Malignant hypothermia was triggered by the anesthetic, and didn't show up until I was in recovery."
"Your leg developed compartment syndrome." House reasoned along, and added gently, "No one suggested a fasciotomy?"
"No, House. The doctors didn't take into consideration how cute it would be if we had matching scars. Too bad Cuddy wasn't there. Your curse might have been my blessing."
"We could debate that." House interrupted, regretting his reflexed response toward his infarction the second it left his mouth.
Wilson didn't argue the point, "I suppose we could, now that I'm intimately experienced with all the numbers on the pain scale, but why bother? I'll concede that you were the first to discover 'ten,' and visited it more often than me.
"Anyway," Wilson opened the second beer and continued, "I was still sedated, and muscle death progressed too far and too fast," maintaining a calm voice as if talking about one of his patients. "I reviewed the file later. There was nothing that could have been done."
Always at a loss as to what to say at times like these, House hit upon the right thing, "I'm sorry, Wilson."
"Yeah, me too."
Neither one talked. After a while they both were startled to hear the stereo sound of rattling pills punctuate the air as each decided they needed a painkiller.
House waved his bottle in the form of a toast before returning it to his pocket.
Wilson responded, "This beautiful pain free moment brought to you by the makers of Vicodin."
Heaving a sigh, Wilson stood up and stretched. In some ways he wanted to talk. Talk the night away about what was going on in House's life and back in Plainsboro, but now that House got what he came for, it would be best to say goodbye and not open any more old wounds. "So, are we done here?"
"You still haven't offered me any of that Chinese food. It's stinking up your whole apartment, and the last thing I ate was a pack of airline peanuts. Wrapper and all."
Knowing, what he'd brought home was not enough for the two of them, Wilson reached for his phone and began calling the Royal Palace for take out. As he went down his phone list, it struck him. "You called me after the conference?"
"You're doubting your cell phone?"
"No. No. The messages accidentally got erased before I had a chance to listen. That's all."
Nodding, House replied, "Sure. Deleting two messages. It must have been easy to make that kind of mistake…for West."
A cheerful woman's voice came through the speaker, and Wilson let the subject drop as he ordered everything that House liked, including some cans of soda that House was signaling for. He told the hostess there would be a big tip if the food arrived hot and fast.
The evening progressed better than either of them hoped; however, there was an awkward gap while waiting for the food. House filled it up by making himself at home and turning on the TV.
They ate mostly in comfortable silence. Feasting on the food spread out over the coffee table. Swapping and eating directly from the boxes with chopsticks.
Wilson guiltily sipped on a third beer as he ate, and watched House down a Coke.
"You don't drink?"
"Nothing with alcohol." House hated talking about that part of his life, but it was time to be honest. "It got out of control after you left." He kept his eyes downcast. "It wasn't ruled malpractice or negligence, but more than my normal share of patients died. I was having blackouts, and I couldn't think fast enough to save them. There were lawsuits. Cuddy knew my game was off. She threatened to fire me if I didn't get help. I've been dry for almost five years." As an afterthought, "And cut down on my meds too." When he looked up, he was surprised to see Wilson was wiping at his eyes.
"Hey, snap out of it Wilson. There are sadder stories everyday in AA."
"No. You don't understand, House. I suspected you were having blackouts. I actually hoped you were having them, because it would explain a lot. You were drinking heavily on and off before I left, remember? I think you had one or two while we were together. It-it's just that…I called you."
"Fuck, Wilson. When?" House asked. He was afraid of this.
"Shortly after the surgery, before I was strong enough for PT. I was in pain, and missed you." Wilson paused before continuing and laughed. "Yeah…yeah, thought I could throw a party where we could to drugs and drink together. My treat of course."
"Wilson…"
"Downed a couple of pills with half a bottle of scotch to convince myself that just because good old Greg House would rather die than have his own leg chopped off, he would still be willing to see his ex-partner without feeling repulsed."
"No. I'd never feel that way."
"No? We talked, and then I never heard anymore from you."
"We spoke?"
"Yes. I didn't get it at first. You actually listened sympathetically as I told you what happened. You said exactly what I needed to hear at the time." The hand made another brief pass across the eyes. "Said you would be out on the next flight…I was damned scared to see you, but at the same time, couldn't wait. But, I did. I mean wait. I waited and waited, and you know what?"
"I didn't show?"
"Oh, you heard this story before? I hope I'm not boring you?"
"There were a lot of mixed connections for me at the time. I told you. Blackouts. I never meant for that to happen. If I could do it over—"
"Something else would louse us up. We never get our timing right, do we, House? I wasn't there for your infarction or when you were shot, and you were busy drinking yourself into oblivion when I needed you most." Shrugging and glancing away, "Karma's a bitch.
"Hey! Why so glum? I gave you every benefit of the doubt." There was another cold bark of laughter. "I was just that desperate. I was convinced that you couldn't get away because of some patient who had blood pouring out of every orifice. I wouldn't consider it could be any other reason. I called again, and you swore up and down that you were coming without fail. That you had the ticket in your hand…"
A knife in his gut couldn't feel any sharper than Wilson's breezy narration. House could only say, "Shit, Jimmy…"
Hands in the air, "What are the odds? Calling while you were on another bender? And hell no! Don't 'Jimmy' me. I swore I never wanted to hear that name again. Especially from you." Wilson's voice broke.
"Ji--Wilson. Look at me. You must believe that I intended on coming out, but I was so fucked up at the time." House leaned over the arm of the sofa, and picked up his knapsack. Unzipping one of the pockets, he pulled out a worn airline ticket and placed it in front of the oncologist.
"House? You bought a ticket?"
"Check the date. After I returned to my apartment from rehab, I found this lying on top of some clothes in a dresser drawer, but I couldn't remember why. I must have erased your calls from my cell phone, so I had nothing to track back. I thought maybe I got some crazy idea to go out and see you. Beg you to come back."
The words gave Wilson pause, "And, why didn't you?"
"Thought the booze was making decisions for me when I bought the ticket. When I sobered up, it didn't make any sense. Why would you have me? You just left.
"Jimmy?" House slid closer on the sofa. "I want to make amends for hurting you, and I'm sorry. Can you forgive me?"
There was still little warmth emanating from the oncologist. "Sure, House, and I'm happy for you. Congratulations. No more need to be needy. Cleaned up your act without me."
House was dismayed. Wilson spoke several times tonight with uncustomary brittleness. He wouldn't believe the man could change that much if he hadn't see it for himself.
"Self-destruction isn't the same if there's no audience. I had to change if I wanted to survive. I became sober, and discovered that I could overcome my addiction, but with you out of my life, all I had to look forward to was going into the hospital every day. I existed, but existing isn't the same as living…Jimmy." House touched Wilson's chin and ran his finger down the jaw until he cradled the base of the neck. "You've got to believe me."
Turning toward House, Wilson couldn't miss a quality to House's look, his eyes, and his voice. He was never more sincere or vulnerable. Wilson instinctively understood. The core of ice was melting within him, and he in return he stroked House's stubbled cheek, and squeezed a shoulder. "Yes. I do."
House pressed his case, and drew Wilson into his arms, saying quietly, "I'll always need you."
The two men talked well into the night, and it soon became clear to them that it was too late for House to go to a hotel. They discussed sleeping arrangements, and Wilson offered his bed, saying the sofa in the living room would be fine for him. House wanted Wilson back in his life, and he could sense Wilson wanted it too, but was hesitant. On the whole, he was pleased with the inroads he made. Given time, he was confident he could win him over.
Holding the House's knapsack in his hand, Wilson looked uncomfortable. "Give me a minute to grab something to sleep in and my crutches, and the bedroom is all yours. I'm off tomorrow, so I'll find a hotel room for you then, unless you're going right back."
House was pleased to see the brown eyes sparkle when he said this was an extended visit. Yes. All he needed was time.
When House was ready to go to bed, he came out in his boxers, hoping to coax Wilson to join him, but the man was sitting fully clothed on the couch drinking another beer and refused the offer. "I need time to think."
There was going to be a lot to overcome and overlook in the next few months, but gamblers always say the odds are with the 'House,' and he was sure luck was on his side this time. He would bet on it.
*
When House was alone in Wilson's bedroom, he permitted a small smile to form on his lips as he surveyed the room. The layout and furniture was similar to his own apartment. Hell, he'd noticed the same about the furniture arrangement in the living room. Well, whadya know? Wilson liked a cocoon too.
Stretching out under the covers, House didn't think there was much possibility of sleep. There was so much to think about. He couldn't get over how much Wilson had become a cosmic pain in the ass.
The biggest surprise was the sharp words, or quick rebuff, but the chocolate brown eyes reflected embarrassment almost immediately.
Toward the end of the evening, Wilson snapped back at him not to expect pancakes in the morning. House answered by offering to treat him to a meal when they decided to go out. Looking ashamed, he began stuttering, "It-its just been a long…oh hell, I'm s-sorry."
Wilson reminded him of a captured wild pinto stallion. Running along the perimeter of the corral in endless circles, looking for a break in the fence to escape. Eyes flashing fear every time someone got close. With his secrets blown, Wilson wasn't just thrown physically off-balance, but emotionally. On the cusp of needy and to be needed, Wilson had to learn how to trust him again.
Truth be told. Neither man could sleep. Each listened for sounds of the other stirring. Their minds churning. Thinking about what they said. How they could have expressed themselves better. What they wanted and didn't want to say the next to recapture the sensations of when they touched.
Wilson heard the creak of the bedroom door as House thumped out to use the bathroom.
House heard the lone footfall and firm tap of Wilson maneuvering down the hall for his own pit stop.
On Wilson's third trip, House was losing resolve. He felt like a bandit waiting in the dark to waylay a stagecoach. When Wilson next passed by his door, he considered tossing his vial of pills against the wall and then manufacturing a moan that would bring Wilson bursting into the room to help him, and then, and then…House shook his head and leaned back on the pillows. He was pathetic.
It was nearly dawn when he heard Wilson traveling to his end of the galaxy where there was plumbing, and then the sounds receding as the man returned to his couch.
Abruptly, the air resounded with a thump against the outside of his bedroom wall and a clatter of metal striking the hardwood floor. He got up and quickly found his cane in the twilight as he heard a grunt, and then a muffled groan.
Racing to the door, shouting, "Jimmy!" He called out as he turned into the hall "Are you alrigh--?"
What the fuck! House stood with a hand on his hip. There was enough grayish light filtering from the bathroom window to see Wilson balancing against the wall, holding his crutches in one hand.
"Hey, Greg. Did I scare you?" He beamed at his practical joke. "I just wondered how fast you'd come hobbling out here if you thought I needed help."
House thought it would be best to see how fast he could wipe the grin off Wilson's face, "Or, have a heart attack trying."
The dark eyes registered concern, "Hell, I didn't think…"
Stepping forward, House placed a reassuring hand on Wilson's shoulder, "Good. You need to do that more often. Now, come to bed."
Turning his back on the dark eyed man, House limped back toward the bedroom. He heard a tap step following close behind.
The next day brought contentment and hunger. Hunger for food. All other appetites were satiated for the moment. It was late in the day when they finally considered leaving the bedroom.
They tried washing up together and jockeyed for bathroom space. Though they enjoyed rubbing up against each other, they had to grudgingly admit there just wasn't enough room for canes, crutches and cripples to fit in the same small room without causing an accident.
They took turns.
Wilson suggested a local bistro not far from where he lived, and House made good on his promise and paid for their meal.
And, Wilson's drinks.
As soon as the waitress came over, Wilson asked for champagne. Quietly turning to House, he said. "You don't mind, do you? I feel like celebrating."
Noting the tremor was back. House didn't say a word.
Throughout the meal they stuck to trivial topics.
Highly imaginative hamburgers graced their plates, but tasted better as House stripped away the extras. Of course, the fries on Wilson's plate were crispier.
Wilson only needed two bloody Marys' to make his food go down with gusto.
House kept his silence.
It was the in-between time, after lunch and before dinner when they finished. The staff was gearing up for the next rush, ignoring them for the most part. The waitress checked from time to time to see how they were doing. Wilson ordered an Irish coffee.
House already paid the bill, but said nothing as he dropped a twenty on the table.
The now steady fingers rearranged the salt and peppershakers, "Nikki, instead of the Irish, make it a double latte and I'll take three sugars in it."
House asked for a refill of the French roast.
Neither spoke until the coffee arrived.
Wilson cleared his throat, "It's not gonna work, is it?"
"What do you mean?" House asked, not giving an inch.
The brown eyes looked everywhere but at the blue, "Everything was great this morning, but let's be practical. We live in different cities.
"Then, there's my…drinking."
Sighing inwardly, House didn't allow what he was thinking to show on his face. Wilson wasn't admitting to being an alcoholic. Not even a drunk. It was going to take Time and Patience, and not a discussion centered on tough love. Maybe later.
As it was, House was dealing with his own demons. Watching Wilson drink wasn't the easiest thing in the world to do. He needed to locate some local AA meetings while he stayed in Chicago. Wilson could come along or not.
Not addressing the liquidity issue, House moved on to the problem of their commute. He slid his hand slightly forward on the tabletop and touched fingertips to Wilson's, "I'm not one for traveling. Airports are hell on cripples."
Wilson snorted, "Third ring of hell."
"Then I see we're in agreement. You'll move back in with me."
"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Wilson sat back startled in his chair. "That's a big leap." Secretly, he was warmed to hear the offer.
"How is it big? You don't own the condo you're living in, do you? And, from what Cuddy says, you and the Dean aren't the bestest of buddies. It would be no struggle at all to pull up roots."
Eyebrows raised a notch, "That would be two no's and a yes." Wilson returned a half-smile. "Rayburn would probably claim my resignation added five years to his life."
"See? You'd be performing a miracle."
"It would take a miracle for me to get another job. Jack made sure to spread it around about all my…bad habits. There's no offers coming in."
"There's one. Cuddy. Remember her? The patron saint of misanthropic doctors? Seems you now qualify."
Wilson cocked his head expectantly, encouraging him to say more.
"She's salivating to have her oncology department rated number one, but Brown's nearing retirement, and if anything, he's taking things easier, and isn't keeping the department competitive enough. She would bring you on board for consultations and clinical trials. "
"And you know this because…?" Wilson asked cynically.
"Because I called Cuddy while you were in the bathroom making yourself pretty."
"It takes a lot longer than it used to."
"I found you a job. I'm offering you half my bed. Don't fish for complements." House sat back in his seat basking in the smile that was stretched over Wilson's face. He was entirely too pleased with himself. "How soon can you pack up and move back to New Jersey?"
"A month."
"Make it two weeks, and I'll pay for your flight."
"Gonna see if you can exchange that old ticket you've been carrying around for the last five years?"
"It's worth a shot."
"And if you can't?"
"Cuddy will be receiving a very large invoice for tongue depressors when I submit department receipts for reimbursement."
Both were happy knowing not everything had changed as they contemplated the future.
"Get used to it, Wilson. We're gonna grow old together. One day we'll morph into little old ladies comparing aches and pains, operations, and denture cream products while playing mah jhong."
"Only, because you know I can beat you at poker." Wilson shed his angst and joined in the banter.
You'll be making us prune pudding for desert, and we'll be giving each other enemas as Christmas presents."
"Thank God, you didn't say Hanukkah. I could do without eight straight high colonics in a row."
Wilson wore a dreamy smile on his face.
"Gonna share your geriatric fantasy with me?" snickered House.
"Dentures? Think of the flawless blow jobs we could give each other," Wilson speculated.
"Providing we share each other's Viagra." House began to smile, but noticed Wilson was already worrying about the future."Now what?"
"Just imagining us…old and gray."
"Not an impossibility, Jimmy. If you take care of me, and I take care of you."
"Just promise me one thing."
"What?"
"You'll shoot me in the head if I ever start calling you 'honey.'"
"You can return the favor if I start calling you anything other than Jimmy, Wilson or 'idiot.'"
tbc…
A/N: One more part left…an epilogue.
Thank you for reading. All comments always welcome.