A/N: Short update, but there are some longer chapters just around the corner plot wise. There is also a new Pranks story building while I was driving on the 4th, one that wasn't in the list before. It's a one shot, probably will fit in after Pain. So right now, the series outlook after Process runs fluffy one shot, Pain (long and complex), and non-fluffy one shot. After that, we'll see. Like I said, ideas there but still deciding what to do with themselves. I have no control over it and am simply along for the ride.
Hope you enjoy this chapter.
(H/C)
Wilson's office when he arrived Wednesday was immaculate, as always - at least unless House had been there deliberately ruffling things. And Wilson had to admit, thinking about it, that there was a second category of disruption on the list now, much smaller but no less powerful in influence. The times Daniel had been up to the office, it had degenerated rapidly into a domain strewn with toys (both his own and those adapted from Wilson's gifts-from-patients collection) and his pet blanket, which he insisted on having always in sight nearby, though he was forever abandoning it temporarily.
Wilson smiled. No, he didn't mind the playpen look when his whole family was up here. Still, he liked the way things were professionally organized on his arrival and when he left at the end of the day. He sat down at his desk now and looked through his day's agenda first, reminding himself of the appointments, making notes of points to check on rounds and to remind the other oncologists to watch. Wednesday, of course, was his short work day, the afternoon taken up with the drive to Middletown and Jensen.
Today, it hopefully was going to be a little shorter. He took out his cell phone and looked at Thornton's number he'd added yesterday. Nothing was wrong between him and Sandra. In fact, things were better than they had ever been. They were starting to talk about timing on a second child; Daniel would be a year old next month. Still, some advice now that he actually had the chance to talk to the man couldn't hurt. He remembered that picture he'd seen in Lexington of Thornton and his wife standing out in front of their home, trying to look serious for the camera but the eyes laughing, the closeness still obvious after decades. He wanted that for his family.
Jensen when consulted had thought it was a great idea. "Of course, every relationship is different, so you can't copy him. But role models are still valuable, and asking what he's learned along the way is a wonderful idea. In fact, I'm looking forward to your report. For myself, I mean; nothing to do with session."
Wilson had been surprised for a moment, then fit the context together. "You're worried, too?"
The psychiatrist shook his head. "Not worried. Call it aware. The worst mistakes of my life have been related to my wife and my daughter, and I don't ever need to forget that, even though I'm overcoming it. I'd love to have a heart-to-heart conversation with Thornton myself and pick his brain."
"Then why don't you . . . House," Wilson answered his own question. There was no way that House would feel comfortable at this point with his shrink and his new-old father having a private tete-a-tete. "I've put off asking for months myself, but he's right here local now, and House is the one who invited him. He's slowly getting a little less touchy about him. I still wonder what they talked about all those hours trapped at the track, but it really helped. Do you think House will mind?"
Jensen took a moment to think through it. "If you tell him up front that you won't be discussing him and what you will be discussing instead, I think he'd believe you. He might give you a hard time on it then and later, of course. Just be honest."
"You don't think the same strategy might work for you?" Wilson asked. He was curious, now that he thought about it. His immediate gut reaction to the idea of Jensen talking privately to Thornton had been negative, but House did trust Jensen. Sometimes Wilson even felt jealous of how close the two of them had become.
Jensen gave him a smile and pulled back into himself. "We aren't going to get into dissecting Dr. House and comparing the hands we hold," he said. Wilson sighed. "They are two entirely different contexts. For you, right now, I think talking to Thornton about relationships is a good idea as long as Dr. House knows about it in advance."
"And as long as Thornton himself agrees," Wilson added.
"Oh, I think he will. He's curious about you; you're his son's best friend. And with a little sensitivity, I don't think he'd mind talking about his wife. If he has limits there, he'll set them. I can't wait to hear your report."
"Want me to tape record it?" Wilson joked. Jensen really did look interested beyond professionally.
"Only do that if you're prepared to let Dr. House hear the recording. He'd find out pretty quickly. Either he'd think of asking, or Thornton would tell him first because he'd know his son would think of it sooner or later."
Wilson had considered recording it for a while but gave up that idea. He wanted a private conversation, and the electronic ears sitting right there with the attached future Housian ones almost visible would make things too uncomfortable.
He had been sure to tell Sandra in advance, asking her opinion. She also had approved and wanted a summary. And now House's annoying prohibition on calling Thornton yesterday had expired, a prohibition that apparently involved Wilson alone, though Sandra insisted later that there really was a valid if unknown reason behind it. Calling this morning for an appointment hopefully at noon was shorter notice than Wilson would have liked to give, but at least the other man was retired. He was also new to the city and couldn't be too busy yet.
Wilson spent another minute or two looking at his cell phone, then glancing at the picture of his family on the wall. Ridiculous to be nervous. It was only a conversation, and Thornton so far, while he had similarities, seemed a lot nicer than House. He wasn't likely to bite his head off.
Wilson hit send. Thornton answered after two rings. "Hello?"
"This is Dr. Wilson, James Wilson. House's friend." Not the smoothest intro, he chided himself. Caller ID aside, Thornton knew who Wilson was by now.
A soft chuckle. "I think we've met a few times." A gentle joke but a joke nonetheless, inviting Wilson to relax.
"I'd . . . like to talk to you about something. Are you free for lunch today?"
"As long as we aren't planning to talk about Greg." That was a polite but firm line drawn. Wilson heard the inflexible edge in his voice.
"No, not about him. I understand. He's still . . . I understand." Whatever comparative trust limits in different contexts existed for Wilson and Jensen, the oncologist knew that the limits allowed for Thomas as yet were far less. House's father was still precisely aware of each step he took, even if he had been invited to move to Princeton. "It's about me. You know Sandra."
"And Daniel. Lovely family."
Wilson smiled, and his tight shoulders eased up a little. "I'd like to talk to you about your wife. How you two made it work. I, well, I haven't had the best history there. I'm sure House has told you all about that."
"You've mentioned it yourself," Thomas said. "He hasn't really said much to me about your background, not as much as you have."
That surprised Wilson. "I just wanted . . . well, whatever advice you might have. I want this time to last."
"I'd be glad to talk to you. Probably not in a restaurant, though. We'll want more privacy than that. Do you know where my new house is?"
"No." Thomas gave the address, and Wilson wrote it down. "Around noon okay?" That would give him a couple of hours before he had to start for Middletown at 2:00. "And I'll bring lunch. Do you like Chinese?"
"Yes. Just bring me whatever you'd get Greg. I'll see you at noon, Wilson."
"See you then. And thanks." Wilson ended the call and sat there for a moment comparing House to his father. It was the same flavor but with two vastly different spice levels. Still, he'd seen in Lexington and a few times since how much Thornton could surprise you. It didn't pay to underestimate him. Wilson was still in awe of how he, at 75, had taken down the bomber at the racetrack.
Short work day, the oncologist reminded himself. His first appointment should be here soon, a boy with leukemia. He pulled the chart over and starting reviewing the details of the case.
(H/C)
The blazing, shimmering sequences seemed to have been going on forever, endless variations on the same theme. He watched his parents get shot in front of him. It happened in the store, the robber shooting them as he himself had cowered behind a shelf. It happened with spacecrafts landing and releasing gun-wielding aliens. It happened at the river, a tiny tube of water being poured and suddenly turning into a gun, his parents leaping up out of the current, and the whole death repeating. It happened back in the store again, only not just one robber. Now there were many hiding behind shelves and in aisles as he was, and whenever they picked up a product, it turned to a gun. Over and over, dozens of times, his parents went down. Then he was at the prison, talking to the man through the barrier, and abruptly, there was a gun on the other side, but the guards didn't even react. He saw the flare of the shot at close range as the supposedly bullet-proof barrier shattered, only it wasn't himself the bullet hit. He spun around in the chair, and there were his parents again in the floor behind him, bleeding and dying.
Only once had anything seemed different, one hazy time when Captain Kirk had been there. He knew there was something vitally important he needed to tell him, but it had faded away, and then Captain Kirk vanished into the crazy color schemes of a world gone mad, and his parents were there again, dying. Always dying.
His eyes opened, and he waited, knowing what was coming, dreading to see what form it took this time. A hand touched his arm, and he cringed away. The killer must have him again; he'd already been caught in the aisles in the store several times, though always at the last moment as the trigger was pulled, the gun swung away, and he wasn't the victim. Always, yet again, it was them.
"You're in the hospital," a voice said. "You've been sick."
That was something new, a variation that hadn't happened yet. He turned his head, trying to focus. A woman stood at the side of the bed, a brunette in a white uniform. She looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn't quite place her at the moment. He heard motion and low voices in the background, other people in the room, but one was all he could possibly focus on, and she was the one right beside him. Even that was an effort.
She smiled at him. "You've been sick," she repeated. "You've been very sick, but you're getting better now. You're in the hospital."
He studied her. The uniform. The . . . the stethoscope around her neck. The monitors beeping beside her. The feel of railings against him. He knew this. It was turned around somehow, but he knew this. And so far, at least, there wasn't a gun here.
He'd been sick, she said. Curiosity nudged him beneath the heavy blanket of weakness. It took a tremendous effort, but he managed to form the word. "What?"
"You've had malaria. Cerebral malaria. You were delirious. But you're in the hospital, and you're getting better."
Malaria. But that would mean - it would mean something important, but he was too tired to make himself think right now. His eyes fell shut again, and the last thing he was aware of was her distant voice as if at the top of a tunnel. "Rest." Then she and everything else were gone.