Chapter 6: "She's My Best Friend"

She's my best friend
Certainly not the average girl
She's my best friend
Understands me when I'm fallin' down, down, down
Oh it hurts to be that way
Down, down, down
Oh it hurts to know

"She's My Best Friend" - Velvet Underground

Eames sat across from me in the day room. She wore a red, sleeveless shirt and navy blue slacks, still dressed for work having driven down as soon as she could. She yawned. "I appreciate you coming down, Eames, but you could've come next week."

She looked surprised but then tried for cheerful, "I wanted to see you this week, Bobby. Tell me what's been going on."

I smiled at her. It was nice to see a familiar face. "A lot, really. Getting better very gradually. Feeling better, I mean. It hasn't...stopped. I've had a few good days. The other patients are nice. How's work?"

She looked at me incredulously. "The other patients are nice?" She shook her head in disbelief. "What kind of drugs are you taking?"

Going down the list made everything seem less promising. "Asenapine, Citalopram, Depakote and Ambien. It's not as bad as it sounds, though," I added. "It's probably going to work."

"It's great you're feeling so optimistic," she suggested haltingly. "What do the doctors say?"

"They say I have a lot of work to do. Or they have a lot of work to do." I collected my thoughts. "They say I have a lot of work to do. But what they mean is that they have a lot of work to do." I shrugged. "I wouldn't be here if I was in denial about needing help, though. I just don't think the outside world is likely to fix this one."

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Wilson wore his trademark look of concern along with an expensive suit and Italian shoes. He stood out among the patients and visitors. He was slumming whereas I was right where I belonged. I closed my eyes and Amber's voice cut into my thoughts like a razor. "Poor James! Visiting his best friend in the nuthouse. Pretending you still have a future, that you still have a job to go back to. I wonder how long he'll keep visiting before it gets too painful for him?"

He looked me up and down and surveyed the room. "I'd ask you how you're doing, but you'd only chastise me. I'm well, by the way."

I snorted. "You save me from both asking the questions and giving the answers. I don't even have to be here."

He nodded and shrugged. "Well, you are here." He studied me again. "Really, though, how are you?"

I looked over at Amber who smirked. "Tell him about your new boyfriend, House. You know you're dying to."

"I'm still seeing my imaginary friends so I'm guessing that makes me still batshit crazy."

He nodded. "Still Amber? Kutner?"

"Yeah. Mostly Amber." I gestured to my left. "She's right there. Except, of course, she's not. So, there's no point in you talking to her. You might end up as an inmate instead of a visitor."

I looked across the room to where Bobby was talking to Eames. He was smiling. He'd been in a good mood all day. I looked back at Wilson.

"Friend of yours?" he asked.

I rolled my eyes. "This isn't 'One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest,' you know. Most everyone here is boring and paranoid, a bad combo. No lovable quirky lunatics as far as I've seen. No Nurse Ratchetts, either, thankfully."

He rolled his eyes. "Well what is it, then? Useful? Worthless? Are you accomplishing anything?"

"Tsk, tsk. You seem a little impatient for progress, Jimmy. As my shrink is fond of telling me, it took me almost 50 years to reach this point. I'm not going to get better overnight. Of course, I'm afraid he may think anything short of 50 years for a cure is a triumph of sorts. He does have me worried."

He threw his arms up, surrendering. "Well, he's right. Maybe not 50 years, but I know it doesn't happen overnight. You think it won't happen at all?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. An actual diagnosis might help determine the prognosis. But I gather psychiatry doesn't work the same way as the rest of medicine. Prescribe first, diagnose afterwards."

He sighed. "Does any of this feel like it's doing you any good?"

"Why do you ask?"

He shook his head, disbelieving. "Because you're my friend and I care about you?"

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Eames leaned over to catch my eye. I was staring over her shoulder at House while we spoke. She knew all of my tells.

"Who is that?" she asked, looking behind her where House sat talking to his visitor.

"He's...a new friend." I looked back at her. "Nice guy. We really hit it off."

"What's he in for?" she asked, making no attempt to hide her curiosity as she observed him talking to his friend.

"Same thing I am. Sort of." I wasn't thinking as I looked at them again, catching the eye of House's friend. Nervously, I looked down. He looked young, handsome. He was well-dressed. Again I looked up and found him looking at me. House stared at him, glanced over at me and back at his friend. I gathered it was Wilson. They went back to talking. "He may have a physiological issue. Frontal lobe damage."

"Really? He's a striking guy. Not handsome exactly, but attractive." She looked back at me. "What does he do for a living?"

I considered her statement for a moment. "He's...a doctor." Mumbling and speaking faster than I meant, I went on. "He's handsome. I think he is, anyway."

She nodded. "He must be intelligent if he's a doctor. It's good you have someone to talk to here."

"He's a really nice guy." My lips were dry. I cleared my throat. "He's got an interesting perspective on the world."

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Wilson sighed and looked anywhere but my direction. "Your boring and paranoid friend is looking at me."

"Is he?" I looked lazily over at Bobby and his partner. "Probably thinks you look suspicious."

Wilson rolled his eyes at me. "You really don't know this guy?"

"I never said I didn't know him." It was fun razzing Wilson but I still hadn't decided how much to tell him about Bobby.

"So who is he?" He asked, suspicious he was taking bait.

"He's a cop. An NYPD detective, actually. He's in my therapy group."

He looked at me tentatively. "You're going to therapy group," he stated, disbelieving.

He jumped on the news just as I thought he would, but I pretended not to hear. "He has some great stories about serial killers. Not at group, of course. That would be inappropriate," I shook my head disapprovingly.

"Serial killers? What kind of cop is this guy?"

"The kind that tracks down serial killers. I said that already."

"Why don't you tell him the truth? That you're shagging the guy?" Amber suddenly suggested. "He's your best friend. He'd want to know."

Wilson sighed. "So, let me get this straight. You're going to group. You meet a cop. You talk to him long enough to hear stories -- plural -- about his work. Do I have all of that right?"

"See? He knows there's something up," Amber persisted. "Why don't you tell him?"

"Are these symptoms? Are you going to attempt a differential diagnosis?" I wasn't sure what I wanted from Wilson. I was too distracted by the thought of being with Bobby when visiting hours were over.

"Look...apply the same story to anyone else and it's perfectly normal behavior. For you, it's unusual. Which you know. So either you're getting better incredibly fast or...actually, I'm not sure what."

"Maybe it's a sign that I'm getting worse incredibly fast?"

He shook his head. "I'm not sure you could get any worse."

I snorted. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, Wilson. I'm glad to know I have nowhere to go but up in your estimation."

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Eames nodded. "The friend who's visiting him is a handsome guy. I wonder if he's a doctor, too?"

"I gather it's his friend Wilson," I supplied readily. "I don't know if he's a doctor. From what I understand, he's kind of a jerk."

"Too bad. I was hoping I'd get an introduction to a cute single doctor out of this visit."

Curiosity was getting the better of me. Again I looked over at House and wondered what, if any, would be the repercussions for taking Eames over. They came up well short. "Wanna meet House?"

"That's your friend's name?" she asked, surprised. When I nodded, she gave me a bright smile. "Sure, that would be great," she agreed as she stood up to follow me across the room.

We went over to the table. I placed my hand on House's shoulder. "House? Sorry to interrupt, but my partner wanted to meet you. Alex Eames. Eames, Greg House."

House smiled at us. "Hi, Alex. This is my friend, Dr. James Wilson. James, this is Bobby Goren and Alex Eames, they're both detectives with the NYPD." Wilson shook my hand and Alex's. "Wanna sit down?" House's eyes told me the invitation was genuine.

I nodded. "Thanks. It's nice to meet you, James. House has told me a lot about you."

"Ah. I'm sure it's all embellished," Wilson replied.

We all sat down, Eames next to Wilson. "What's your medical specialty, Dr. Wilson?" she began.

"I'm an oncologist."

"Don't be modest, Jimmy," House nudged his friend with his elbow. He turned to us and in an ironical tone of voice expanded on Wilson's statement. "Wilson is the head of the Oncology Department at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. That means 90% of his patients die, which is kind of a downer. The cool thing is that 50% of them say thank you when he gives them their death sentences. I don't think 50% of my patients thank me when I've cured them and they're walking out the door."

Eames was uncharacteristically speechless.

I turned to James. "My mother died of lymphoma. She said it was better knowing what might happen next. Unpredictability bothered her."

He nodded. "A lot of people say that."

Eames looked pensive as she studied Wilson. "Does it get to you sometimes? Being in a field where the fatality rate is so high? How do you keep going day after day surrounded by so much pain and suffering and death?"

"You know, the suffering is really only in the beginning. Over time they're accepting and just want to live their lives to the fullest. It isn't as depressing as it seems."

"Anyway, who are you to talk about pain and suffering and death?" House jeered at Eames. "The Major Case Unit must see some of the ugliest cases of brutality and violent death anywhere. How do you drag yourself to those crime scenes every day?"

Eames still wasn't quite comfortable with House. I chimed in to help her out. "For my own part, it's challenging. Intellectually engaging. Eames?" I asked, encouraging her.

"I became a cop because I wanted to catch the bad guys and put them away. That hasn't really changed. The ugliness motivates me to fight back. But sometimes the darkness can feel too dark."

Wilson smiled. "Well, I admire what you do. Making the world better is much harder than making death seem better. Which House seems to think is all I really do."

Eames shot a glance in House's direction. "I'm guessing he likes to push your buttons. You must be pretty good at what you do or he wouldn't be so comfortable joking with you about it."

"Head of Oncology, he must be very good," I suggested.

"Oh, James is very good," he winked at Eames. "At least, that's what the nurses say. I have no personal knowledge in that area, I assure you," he quickly added, with a reassuring look in my direction.

I fought a smile and looked over at Eames. Anxiously, I rested my elbows on the table and put my hands together in a fist, my chin resting on it. My leg was bouncing in anticipation. "Yeah," I said before I looked back at House, "Well, that's...not much of a surprise, really." I cleared my throat and looked back at Eames.

House's eyes twinkled as he continued to banter with me. "Why? Does James exude energy beams of unwavering heterosexuality? Or do I?"

"Well, I...think your interactions would look different. If you had a sexual history with James."

"Really? You think you'd be able to tell?" House asked skeptically.

We stared at each other for a few seconds. "Yeah." I nodded. "I could tell. I'm...trained to spot a lot of things that aren't obvious."

"That must mean your partner could tell, too." He was teasing or challenging me.

I wrapped my hand around the side of my neck and nodded. "Eames? Do they have a sexual history?"

She smiled. "I wouldn't have thought so..."

I held out my other hand. "There you have it. Either you don't have one, or you're really good at hiding it."

House grinned, "Oh, so it is possible to get something past you two ... if I were really good at hiding it. Good to know." He looked at Eames. "How good is he," gesturing at me, "at hiding things from you?"

Eames leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, studying House, considering all the angles. She answered slowly, "Well, that depends. He's hidden some really big things from me...but not without there being warning bells that something was up with him." She turned to me and relaxed, placing one arm on the table. "Normally, you try to keep your distance if you don't want me to know something's going on." She drummed her fingers on the table for a minute, staring at me. "Of course, if you were totally successful, I'd never have known." She turned back to her questioner. "After this conversation, I'm thinking you both bear watching pretty closely, Dr. House."

She turned to Wilson and tipped her head in House's direction. "I'm thinking your friend here might have a habit of getting himself into trouble. Am I right?"

Wilson snorted. "He's nothing but trouble. Keeps things interesting, though."

I looked up at the clock. "They're going to run everyone off in a few minutes."

Eames looked bemused as she muttered. "Nothing but trouble. What were the odds?"

Wilson chuckled. "Are you supposed to keep yours on a short leash, too?"

"I'm on standing orders from the captain to keep him on a choke collar," she explained to Wilson in a tone that mixed exasperation with distraction as she glared at me. Tapping her fingers, she admonished me as if I were a child, "You're supposed to be trying to get well, Bobby!"

"I am trying to get well, Eames..." I trailed off. Rolling my eyes, I stood, my hand to my forehead.

Certainly, I expected her to catch onto the situation. Despite my best efforts, I was never good at keeping anything from her. She was my best friend. We were innately compatible and genuinely intimate. We lucked out when we were paired, and though she had second thoughts, I could never fault her for being wary of the idiosyncratic approach I took to work life in general. After all, she came back. I did expect her support where friendships and relationships were concerned. Even if they were impulsive and maudlin. I'd have chuckled if I wasn't so furious; my impulsivity, maudlinness and fury only confirmed the accuracy of the bipolar diagnosis. "I should get back. Don't wanna miss Art Therapy."

"Is there anything you want me to bring you on my next visit?" Eames asked, frowning suspiciously as I edged away from the group. In my mind, I obsessed over her unwillingness to capitulate. 'She doesn't care about you. If she did, she'd accept you.' My own voice. And then the realization that Nicole and Frank were sitting at the edge of the room, she straddling his lap, his arms wrapped around her in the small of her back. Wispy blond hair, light pink lips, big brown eyes.

"She won't let you have anything, will she?" Nicole asked. Frank smiled.

"No, just..." I took a breath and turned away, then turned back acknowledging the formalities. "Thanks for coming," I spat, grinding my teeth.

"I'm jonesing for some Pop Tarts myself, if anybody wants to bring me some," House suggested with a meaningful look in Wilson's direction.

Wilson sighed. "I'll try to remember."

"James," I said, reaching out to shake his hand. "It was nice to meet you. Eames?" She raised her eyebrows. "Next week?" She nodded. "OK," I replied with a nod. I walked away as House was still saying his goodbyes.