The next morning at Grand Rounds, James was amazed at how firm his voice was as he detailed the reasons for his rediagnosis and altered regime, pointed out the signs of immediate, if still slight, improvement in his patient. He thought he saw the Head of Oncology, Howard Wasserman, give him a small but approving nod.
As he was returning to the lounge after lunch, the department secretary motioned for him to step over to her desk.
"There's a Mr. Cojones calling for you," she said, clearly biting her lip to keep from laughing.
James grinned and took the phone from her. "Hey," House's voice rasped in his ear. "How's your patient?"
"Much better," he answered, "thanks to you."
"Knock it off. You had the idea. I just told you to go with your gut."
"Well, be that as it may, I wouldn't normally have taken that chance. I owe you one."
"Let's celebrate," House suggested, dropping the argument.
James felt his shoulders sag in disappointment. "I can't tonight. My fiancée's parents are celebrating their twenty-fifth anniversary. They're having a huge party at their house, and I have to be there."
"Fiancée?" House repeated incredulously. "When we met three months ago, you were just getting divorced."
"Yeah, I know it's kind of soon, but Bonnie's a great girl…" James trailed off. "Wait a minute, I never told you that. How did you know that I was getting a divorce?"
House paused, then admitted, "Saw you walking around the conference with the express mail envelope under your arm from a famous divorce firm."
James digested this for a moment in silence. "So you, what? Took an interest? Followed me to the bar?"
"You also seemed like the least boring of all the presenters at that conference," House offered, as if that was any explanation.
"Jesus. Here I'd been thinking all this time that you rescuing me was an accident. That you were just an innocent bystander."
"Nothing I do is an accident," House replied. "And no one is an innocent bystander."
"You knew my name," James realized. "Did you…" it occurred to him that he might not really want to know the answer, but he asked anyway. "Did you follow me to Boston?"
"Lot of good hospitals in Boston," House said evasively. "Have a good time at your party." There was the soft click of the receiver.
James sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.
When he arrived at the Fieldings', the party was already in full swing, Bonnie playing the Habanera from Carmen on the piano in the corner of the living room, a small army of caterers gliding between the mostly middle-aged guests with trays of canapés and champagne. He placed the package on top of the stack gracing the console table in the foyer and reached for a flute just as Bonnie finished with a flourish, looked up, and spotted him.
"James!" she shrilled, tripping over as quickly as she could in her tight, floor-length emerald green gown. She kissed him, lips cool and dry on his, and took him proprietarily by the hand. "I was beginning to think that you weren't going to make it."
James took a surreptitious swig of the sparkling wine as he trailed in her wake. Craning his neck to see over her bare shoulder, he surmised that she was taking him to pay his respects to her parents. He found himself wishing that he'd given in to the temptation to fortify himself with a couple of shots of something stronger before showing up to this shindig.
Then the crowd parted before them, revealing an elegant tableau. Dr. Fielding, as august a presence as always, smiled indulgently at his wife, one heavy hand pressed possessively to the small of her back. Mrs. Fielding, in pearls and a shimmering blue blouse, was looking up, laughing, into the face of a tall, lean man in a well-tailored tuxedo. At their approach, she glanced sideways, then held out a welcoming hand. "James! So glad you could come."
"I wouldn't have missed it for the world," James assured her, leaning down to brush his lips to her powdery cheek.
"Your friend Francois has been here for almost half an hour," she told him conspiratorily. "Careful, or he'll be charming my daughter right out of your arms."
"My friend…" James repeated blankly, and straightened up – only to find himself face to face with Gregory House.
"Zhames," the man purred in a phony French accent, smoothly thrusting his warm, strong hand into James' suddenly clammy one. He was clean-shaven for once, hair neatly combed, eyes perhaps just a little too bright.
"Why didn't you tell me that your friend from the Pasteur Institute was out here on a consult?" Bonnie chirped.
"Sorry," James stammered. "I've been so busy, it… must have slipped my mind."
"Francois was about to show us the tape of your talk at the medical conference in New Orleans," Mrs. Fielding beamed, the very picture of a proud future mother-in-law.
"Oh, well, I don't know if that's… I mean, you'll probably find it kind of boring."
"Don't be silly! Francois says you were fantastic."
Fighting the urge to flinch away from her, James said, "Honey, why don't just you go ahead and start without me while I have a quick word with… Francois over here."
He hustled House over to a quiet corner next to the spiral staircase as the Fieldings and a handful of guests gathered around the big screen tv. "What the hell are you doing?" he hissed.
House leaned back against the banister and gave him a slow, knowing smile. "Don't be mad."
"I'm not, I just-"
"You might be in a minute," House confided in a low, earnest tone that sent a shiver down his spine. "I just want you to know… that I did this for you."
James frowned and cocked his head, his hands finding their way to his hips. "What are you talking about?"
House glanced meaningfully across the room. "Just the highlights. It's for the best, really."
"What is? House?" James hissed, increasingly perplexed and annoyed, but he was distracted by a stir and growing murmur from the other side of the room. Suspicious, he left House's side, stalking towards the tv, trying to determine what about the video they're watching is getting everyone so riled. James still couldn't see what was happening on the screen – the guests were clustered around it too thickly – but the familiar sounds he heard over the rising tide of horror and disgust made the blood drain from his face.
Bonnie's signature shriek pierced the air, and suddenly she was coming at him, all one hundred pounds of her, long fingernails poised to claw his eyes out. Behind her, James caught a glimpse of his own face, grotesquely enlarged, grimacing in ecstasy. Dr. Fielding pointed a thick finger and bellowed his name like an outraged elephant bull.
Without hesitation, James turned on his heel and plunged through the open French doors onto the lawn, then leaped into the passenger seat of the red Corvette that House already had humming in the circular driveway.
The second James closed the door, House peeled away, leaving him to fumble frantically for his seatbelt. He whistled "The Lady Is a Tramp" loudly as he drove. He was dimpling, outrageously proud of himself.
"Jesus," James said when he had gotten his breath again. "I can't believe you just did that."
Without looking away from the road, House said lightly, "You asked me to, remember?"
James shivered, feeling drunk on a heady mixture of relief, excitement, and something that he was not quite ready to admit might be fear.
House took them to a neighborhood where Wilson had never been, ostentatious multistoried mansions separated by vast expanses of tree-shaded lawn. He pulled the car smoothly into the broad brick driveway of one of the biggest, a turreted stone Gothic monstrosity, and hopped out, beckoning for Wilson to accompany him to the guarded gate.
"Gay white male," he announced.
As Wilson turned to protest, House rolled his eyes. "Not you, moron. That's the password."
The security guard bowed them inside.
The grounds inside the gate gave the impression of a matriarch in decline, over-rouged and clutching at much younger men to hint huskily at past triumphs. Ladies in low-backed evening gowns drank champagne with one smooth flick of the wrist. Men with dark hair and darker eyes glided among them, their tuxedos casting sharp shadows even under the fickle light of the lanterns strung out among the trees.
House headed straight for the bar, holding up two fingers, with Wilson on his heels.
"Dominic!"
He reached for the glass House handed him, delighting in the bite of the gin, the bitterness of the tonic.
"Dominic!" It was Claire, coming up behind them, in a black velvet dress that clung to her curves and crossed behind her white neck, leaving her lovely shoulders bare.
"Oh, Claire, I didn't… hi!" Thrilled but embarrassed, Wilson drained the last of his drink and set the glass back down on the bar, wiping moist fingers on a napkin. House inclined his head to her with a meaningful look, touched Wilson briefly on the arm, then sauntered away.
"You look surprised," she observed in her low, musical voice. "Didn't you hear me?"
"Yes, but, um… I'm not Dominic." At her quizzical look, he continued, "That's not my real name. My name is Kirk." He was amazed at how easily the lie flowed from his lips.
"Kirk," she repeated doubtfully with a seductive tilt of her head. She flowed into him as he bent his head over that shining shoulder.
"Let's go somewhere quiet," he whispered into her ear.
He led Claire into a dim little corner of the garden, where they leaned against a hip-high, crumbling stone wall. She tasted like expensive Pinot Noir, and her hair slid like water under his fingertips. He had never been with anyone so beautiful.
Dropping his head back as she traced the line of his throat with her lips, he allowed his eyes to flutter open, his gaze to wander past the nakedness of her shoulder. He could just make out a tall silhouette staring down at them from the third floor balcony.
It was House.
They ran into him on their way up the grand staircase, both stumbling slightly, Wilson more than a little drunk. House was in a mood, expansive, genial. "Here," he said, handing Wilson a little twist of paper.
"What's this, a decongestant?" Wilson asked, sniffing it.
"Yeah," House smirked as he reeled, his world exploding briefly in intense pleasure and vivid color, "that's what it is."
"Wow," Wilson gasped, becoming aware that he was clutching Claire's arm for support.
House was suddenly standing too close, his breath warm, his eyes intimate as midnight. "Do you forgive me?" he murmured, too low for anyone but Wilson to hear.
Wilson shook his head, smiling. He had never felt so relaxed, so free. "Forgive you? Hell, I owe you!"
House laughed, snagged a fresh drink from a passing tray, and sketched him a little salute. "Have fun. I'll see you around."
By the time they left the party, Wilson could barely stand unassisted. "Not tired, are you?" House sneered, then laughed when Wilson gulped the contents of his glass woozily and grabbed another bottle for the road.
When Claire called after them, "Bye, Kirk!" he laughed even harder.
"Wilson. Wake up."
He swatted House's hand clumsily away. "No, jush… lemme sleep a while. Be ri' back."
"No, you gotta stay with me, Wilson. Here, have some of this."
Still half asleep, Wilson obediently accepted the bottle and raised it to numb lips. The 160-proof swallow blazed back up his throat, and he spluttered, wiped his mouth, and looked around.
House had one hand on the wheel, the other arm stretched behind the back of Wilson's seat. Despite the lateness of the hour, he looked no more dissolute than usual, his gaze still clear and bright. They were streaking down a broad but currently almost silent street.
He blinked bleary eyes and sat up straighter, then tugged on House's sleeve. "Hey. Thish ish Pattershun's neighborhood."
The other man cocked his head at him, eyes gleaming with mischief. "Oh yeah?"
"Pull a U-ie. Ri' here."