Tracking Time

Here’s a fic that became something much longer and more complex than I ever imagined when I began it: A look at House and Wilson’s friendship and how it developed, with glimpses and points of their lives over the past eight years or so.
With much help to Auditrix for her suggetions and betas and the folks at HT&M for their feedback as I was writing it.


I plan to spread this over a few posts to break it up, since it's far longer than I ever expected.
For folks who read it as a WIP, there are a few minor changes and a couple of added lines, paragraphs and even a scene or two.


Tracking Time
Part One

2005

When Cuddy first offered House his own department and all the perks that came with it, he had demanded possession of the connecting rooms in the hospital’s new wing. He’d been ready to play the cripple card, and argue that the faculty offices in the older part of the hospital where Wilson hung his lab coat were too far to walk on his painful leg.

Cuddy had agreed quickly, though, muttering something under her breath that led House to believe that her real reasoning was the same one that had prompted his third grade teacher to seat him and Tony Clarke on opposite sides of the room after the first two weeks of class.

Truth was, he liked the view. The glass walls of the office and conference room looked out on a main hallway leading to the labs. Anyone needing tests, x-rays or scans passed by, some under their own power, some in wheelchairs, others on gurneys.

And House would sometimes test himself. He’d see a patient passing by, and come up with a diagnosis before they’d moved beyond his eyesight, then he’d send Chase or Cameron out to confirm it. Foreman had rolled his eyes the first time House tried sending him out, agreeing only after setting a $50 wager on it. Since then, Forman had refused, saying he couldn’t afford to lose any more bets.

House rarely looked out the windows looking to the outside world. The glass there faced out to the parking lot and main road, a sea of asphalt, concrete and late-model cars.

“God, but this is a depressing view,” Wilson often commented whenever he’d part the blinds. The older wing housing Wilson’s office looked out at a green field and trees. A corner of the old fieldhouse and track were visible off to the left.

House met Wilson on that track. Wilson had been a resident, House already on tenure track when he’d felt a need to work off a rising level of frustration with the young doctors he had been ordered to supervise.

He’d just spotted Chilton at the nurses’ station, chatting with a brunette. House had already been in a foul mood, and now seeing Chilton there -- rather than running the blood test he’d been ordered to do -- set him off.

“I wrote up the lab order,” Chilton had whined. “They’ll get to it soon enough.”

“I didn’t tell you to order it,” House had said. “I’m pretty sure I ordered you to do it.”

“Why should I? The lab can ...”

“Because as far as you are concerned I am your lord and master.” House ignored the floor nurse trying to get him to lower his voice. “I am God. And the lord your God demands it. Also because the lab has a limited staff on overnights and it’ll take them at least four hours to get to something you can finish in 15 minutes.”

Even then Chilton hadn’t budged until House stared him down, then he moved only grudgingly down the hall.

House was fairly certain if he didn’t pound some pavement, he’d pound Chilton instead -- and that wouldn’t do either of them any favors.

He would have preferred a long run on the trails down the road, but at 3 a.m., you take what you can get, and there was enough ambient light at the nearby fieldhouse to make the track runable even in a total eclipse.

Someone else was already on the track when he got there, but in the dim light couldn’t make out who. House waited until the other runner passed him, then waited until the man rounded the first turn before he stepped onto the surface himself. House would have preferred to have the track to himself, but if he couldn’t do that, at least he could turn the man into his rabbit, using him as an incentive to keep the pace fast, to catch the other runner, pass him.

But more than a mile in, House wasn’t making any headway. He was in a comfortable pace for him, easily less than a six-and-a-half-minute mile, he guessed, a pace that the bulk of the bulk working at the hospital couldn’t match, but he wasn’t gaining on this runner. The white t-shirt bouncing along the track in front of him almost seemed to be mocking him.

He stepped it up, felt his breath come a little faster as he picked up the cadence. Another mile in, he could sense he was gaining again. One more lap and he knew it, the white shirt growing closer with every step. As the front runner cleared the third turn, though, he looked back over his shoulder, eyed House and picked up his own pace. House was certain he’d seen a smile on that face as the man began to pull away.

House grunted, glad for the challenge, and responded to the change in tempo, first settling into the new pace set by the runner, then pushing it up another notch.

Lap by lap, House and the man took turns setting the pace. House had a sudden image of the two of locked into this contest forever. He was closing slowly, but they’d matched speeds for more than five miles now. House knew it had been too long since he’d really pushed it on a long run to keep up for much longer. Too many long shifts, sleepy days and bar nights.

He fell back on an old trick, and began to whistle, as if the pace was no more than an easy stroll. The maneuver would mean he’d have to slow down, he knew, but House also had seen more than one running on the track or trails back in college fall victim to the simple psych out.

Half a lap more, and the other man finally slowed, stopped, than lay on his back on the damp grass of the infield.

He was still breathing heavily when House passed him, then stopped and walked over to stand over him.

“I surrender!” the other man said, holding out both hands.

“Damn straight,” House plopped down onto the grass beside him, sucked in the damp night air. “Know when you’re licked.”

“Self awareness,” the younger man said, still panting heavily. “Is the key.”

“Unless you’ve got a good disguise.”

“So they’ll never know it’s you.”

“Then I’m all about the deception.”

“Deceit does have its benefits.” The other man pushed himself up to his elbows, looked over at House in the dim light. “James Wilson,” he said, reaching over with his right hand.

“Yeah, like I’m supposed to believe a word you say now.” He pushed himself to his feet, reached down and gave Wilson a hand up. “Gregory House. If you can believe that.”

“Nah, can’t be. Chilton says House is a self-absorbed prick. Of course, Chilton is an ass with so few signs of intelligence, I’m not sure he actually counts as a sentient being.”

“It has been my finding that most air headed imbeciles spend their lives in fear of sharp objects.”

“Understandable, since the slightest pin prick could be fatal.”

Both men turned back toward the lights, and House could feel his mood definitely improved.

“Just do me a favor, and tell me you hadn’t already finished 10k before I showed up,” he said. “Not that my ego couldn’t take it, but it would take some of the joy out of running you into the ground.”

“I’m not saying anything. Just try and catch up some day when I haven’t pulled 36 hours straight.”

“Is that an invitation, or a challenge, Wilson -- if that is your real name?”

“What makes you think it’s not a warning?” Wilson smiled as he headed toward the parking lot, leaving House alone in the pool of light at the ER entrance.



--------------
1997
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House made the time for a long run next time he saw Wilson on the track, this time running with him, rather than in competition. When their conversation veered effortlessly from favorite routes to preferred spots to filch coffee with sidetracks into pop culture, he was satisfied. When Wilson threw out a quick, but thorough, comparison between Pearl Jam and Black Flag, he was pleased. When the younger doctor kept up his end when the conversation turned to the history of supporting the arts through all its twists and turns, House believed he was actually happy.

“So when Lorenzo the Magnificent bankrolled Michelangelo, that was just swell, but somehow Miller Brewing sponsoring Bon Jovi is the end of civilization as we know it?” Wilson said as they rounded another turn, side by side.

“Glad you see it my way,” House said. “And I’ll try to overlook your taste in both music and beer.”

Within a month, they were setting regular times to meet for a run, finding time to squeeze in daytime haunts along both trails -- House’s favorite -- and Wilson’s preferred road routes.

House checked out Wilson’s history at the hospital, and heard nothing but praise for the oncologist. That made him vaguely suspicious until one day when he was slouched in comfortable chair in a staff room and overheard Wilson taking a stand against a recommended treatment by a more experienced doctor. He remained where he was, hidden from the view of the gaggle of residents by a column.

Wilson laid out his case well, offered strong reasons for his preferred treatment and did not back down when the other doctor tried to laugh him off as an inexperienced practitioner. The chief agreed to take both under consideration. Curious, House checked it out for himself, passing off his clinic hours on one of his own residents while he did his research, and came down firmly on Wilson’s side.

He soon discovered Wilson had been checking him out as well. The younger doctor appeared at House’s elbow one afternoon, appearing far too young to irredeemably optimistic to House’s eyes. It had been a bad day and House was in a foul mood, backed up with a monotony of cases, feeble residents and no way out of clinic duty.

At least the rest of the staff had taken the hint and steered clear of him. Wilson either did not know how dark House’s moods could turn, or simply ignored the possibility.

“And you’re here, why?”

To his credit, Wilson didn’t flinch, and returned House’s direct gaze. He held out a manila folder.

“Got a weird case.”

House made no response, didn’t even acknowledge the file.

“A 49-year-old female, not responding to the radiation or chemo. At least not in expected ways.”

“You’re surprised that when you fill a body with poison that it reacts strangely? I thought unusual reactions were what the cancer guys thrived on. Good for the research papers and all that. Publish or perish you know. Hell, play your cards right and you might even get a research grant out of it. Impress the folks back home without the necessity of actually curing anything.”

Wilson didn’t back off. Instead, he moved in closer, leaning against the side of House’s desk, keeping the file well within House’s sight.

“I don’t think it’s cancer,” he said softly. “Or at least not just cancer. We’ve got good people, but they’re all looking at the tumor. She needs someone who can see what else is going on.”

House studied the young man again. Brown hair cut simply. Plain white shirt. Dark pants. Tasteful if forgettable tie. Dressed as if he was trying to blend in. But there was something else. Something that made him stand out despite every intention. House could see it now. An intensity. A sureness -- not like a surgeon’s belief in his own infallibility, but rather in something bigger: In the cause of his patient, and finding the right answer.

“This isn’t my field,” House said, though he took the folder.

“Neither is Australian rules football, but that doesn’t seem to stop you from offering your opinion.”

It was Wilson who introduced House to monster trucks. It was House who schooled Wilson on the finer points of scotch and Irish whiskey.

Wilson was already married then, to his first wife Amy, but House knew it wouldn’t last. She had left her family and friends in St. Louis, traveled more than 1,500 miles to live with the man she’d met her freshman year of college. Amy loved the idea of being married to a doctor more than the reality of it. In Princeton, she knew no one except a husband who spent the bulk of his time at the hospital, even when he wasn’t on call if he was working on a particularly interesting case.

She began traveling back to St. Louis for holidays and birthdays. She took advantage of air price wars to make weekend trips. She’d extend her stay by a day or two, then begin staying for up to a week each time she flew out. House began to notice things missing from the apartment when he’d stop by to pick up Wilson. Photos. Mementos. Amy was erasing herself from Princeton with every trip home.

When Wilson told him he was afraid it was over, he seemed shocked, and House managed to to fight his own first instincts for a scathing reply and keep his mouth shut. He offered Wilson an understated support instead. This time, for this person, it seemed to be the right thing to do.

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1998
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Following the first divorce, Wilson began pushing himself harder on the runs. He entered more and more road races, collecting medals for good showings in everything from 5K fun runs to a hilly 20K. Sometimes House joined him -- in training if not in the actual competition. He’d had enough of that in high school and college, both track and cross country. Now, he told Wilson, he ran solely for his own enjoyment, and took note of his times just to prove something to himself. How he measured up against others, he said, didn’t matter.

House stuck with Wilson’s increased pace and mileage in training, though, knowing that the long conversations kept Wilson’s inner thoughts off the legal ending of his marriage at least for a short time. The distances, he assumed, would fall back into more leisurely ones once Wilson no longer needed to exhaust himself just to get a good night’s sleep.

At the hospital, Wilson volunteered to take the toughest cases. Those that were emotionally draining -- dying babies and the good people suffering with no good alternatives -- reminded him that his divorce was nothing compared to the lives his patients faced. The most confusing to diagnose and treat presented him with puzzles to keep his mind occupied.

More and more often, Wilson would talk those cases over with House, using him as a sounding board while also looking into avenues House might suggest. Even if House had no immediate thoughts on the case, he generally knew about some obscure medical journal that had addressed it.

House, meanwhile, would talk over his more interesting cases with Wilson and found that the oncologist had an innate ability to connect dots that others rarely saw.

He also found, to his surprise, that his friendship with Wilson somehow boosted his own image at PPTH. House knew his medical abilities had always been respected, but now the staff actually began to seek him out, ask his opinions on their own bizarre cases.

“What the hell have you been telling people?” House shouted from halfway across the cafeteria on the day he’d chased two residents from his office and ducked another three by making a fast turn into the stairway.

“Just in the past five minutes or are you looking at a wider time frame?” Wilson leaned back in his chair as two other doctors and a nurse at his table picked up their trays and left. “Because my mother says I was a real motor mouth when I was three, and I’d need time to track down those conversations.”

“I’ve spent a lot of time building up my reputation, and you’re ruining it.” House nabbed a handful of french fries off Wilson’s tray as he sat down.

“I was eating those,” Wilson protested. “And what reputation? The one that you’re a complete ass?”

“That’s the one. I’ve spent a lot of years on it.”

“I didn’t think you cared what people thought about you.” Wilson grabbed his soft drink cup away, before House could take a drink.

“I don’t care what they think of my medical decisions,” House clarified. “But if they start thinking I’ve got a soft and chewy center, they start thinking it’s fine to talk to me.”

“And that would be bad?”

“Precisely.”

“Exchanging pleasantries with your peers is a bad thing?”

“You think McIntyre is actually my equal?”

Wilson considered the concept for a moment before answering.

“As a doctor? Well, no. He gives Caribbean medical schools a bad reputation, so you’ve definitely got him there,” he conceded. “But on the other hand, he’s generally pleasant to talk to, so that’s one in his favor.”

“Exactly. You find him not inoffensive, he finds you not inoffensive, and then somehow that miniscule brain of his puts two and two together and begins to think that if you’re inoffensive and spend time with me, that somehow I must also be inoffensive.”

“What did he do, try to talk to you?”

House didn’t answer.

“Seriously.”

Still no reply.

“He talked to you.”

“He wanted to.”

Now Wilson was the one to hold his silence.

“I can tell these things. There’s this look ...”

“Seriously, man, have you finally gone insane or have I? Must be one of us, because if I understand this correctly you’re pissed as hell because someone looked at you?”

“Not just someone,” House protested. “McIntyre.”

Wilson opened his mouth, but could find no words.

“OK, so maybe I can put up with the friendly chitchat without my brains beginning to ooze out of my ears, but it’s not just that.”

“Please continue,” Wilson closed his eyes, rubbed at his temples trying to ease the headache that had suddenly announced its presence.

“He and the other half-wits have gotten it into their heads that I can solve their cases,” House protested. “And it’s your fault.”

“First off, my fault? And second, may I remind you that you bitch whenever there’s a decent case you don’t get to butt in on?”

“Of course it’s your fault. It’s that damn JAMA article of yours.”

“I thought you liked that article,” Wilson interrupted. “Hell, you were the one who told me to submit it.”

“Submit it, sure, but ever since they saw that I consulted on your case, every ambitious resident in the hospital sees me as their ticket to publishing their own paper,” House said.

“And that would bad.”

“Of course it would.” House paused in mid-fry theft and studied Wilson. “Oh don’t do that.”

“What now?”

“That. Get that look on your face. All wide eyed and innocent. Makes me feel like I’ve just kicked a puppy. They’re idiots. Ninety percent of the residents out there couldn’t find their own asses in a house of mirrors if they used both hands. You’re not an idiot. You did good work on that case. You deserve the attention.”

“But I couldn’t have done it without your help,” Wilson protested. “What makes them so different?”

“There’s a difference between asking for a consult when you need information, and wanting someone else to do the work for you,” House insisted. “You do your own homework. You know what you’re doing. A good three-quarters of the calls I get are from people who could figure it out themselves if they’d just care to put in an effort on their own.”

He paused, looked Wilson straight in the eye. An intense gaze Wilson neither wanted -- nor could -- look away from.

“They annoy me. You don’t.”

Wilson blinked. Considered the words. Blinked again.

“Uh, thanks?”

“You’re welcome.”

Neither man said anything for a few moments. House watched the television across the room for a bit. Wilson finished what fries were left, then tidied his tray.

“So if anyone asks, I should deny talking to you?” he asked.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” House said. He rose from the seat, tossed a few used napkins onto Wilson’s tray. “Tell them anything you like. Just make sure they stay away.”

“Play up your finer qualities, then.” Wilson grabbed his tray, carried it over to the trash bin and sorted out the plates from the garbage. “Point out that you’re a condescending bastard who thinks he’s better than they are and can’t wait to provide them with precise examples of their ineptitude.”

House nodded. “That should do it.”

“What if they’ve actually got a decent case?” Wilson questioned as they walked together out of the cafeteria.

“Then send ‘em my way. Or better yet, just get the information from them and give it to me.”

“Why am I picturing a Wizard of Oz scenario?” Wilson asked as he waited with House near the elevators. “Except instead of paying no attention to the man behind the curtain, you’re hiding behind me?”

A bell rang and the elevator door opened. House stepped in while Wilson waited behind, headed instead for the clinic.

“Stick to oncology, Wilson,” he called just before the doors closed. “You’d make a lousy psychiatrist.”


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1999
----------


On the day Wilson signed the papers for his second divorce -- less than two years after the wedding -- House took him to Rio. Carnivale was in full swing and if Wilson was ever going to go, he insisted, this was the time to do it.

“Just remember, it’s your job to smile and blush at the women. I’ll do the talking,” House insisted.

“What am I, bait?”

“Got it in one.”

Wilson pulled him to a stop in the middle of the Newark terminal. “And what, cheap meaningless sex with a beautiful woman is supposed to make me feel better?”

“Cheap, meaningless sex with unbelievably gorgeous women,” House clarified. “Trust me on this.”

Unlike Amy, House had never approved of Wilson’s second wife, Tonya. She was on the rebound, and so was Wilson.

When they returned from Vegas, married just a month after meeting, House had wished Wilson luck, but added that he’d need it. The first six months were very good, the second six mediocre. The night of their first anniversary Wilson spent getting drunk at House’s place and crashing on the couch.

“Not a word,” Wilson warned him when he showed up with a six-pack of Grolsch.

House merely stood aside with the door open, then grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniels before finally addressing Wilson from the kitchen doorway.

“Should we even bother with the glasses?”

House heard him out that night, and the days and nights that followed. He sympathized. He empathized. Tonya was a bitch. Tonya didn’t know better. Tonya was an accident waiting to happen. He drew the line when Wilson began blaming himself.

“Where the hell did that come from?” He interrupted Wilson before he could even finish the sentence. “First off, I believe we already agreed that it’s obvious she was meant to play the part of the Queen of Hearts.”

“Off with his head!” Wilson downed another shot and poured another.

“Just because she screwed you over, doesn’t make you a screw-up,” House finished, then drank down his own shot.

“Two marriages and two divorces inside of three years,” Wilson countered. “If that doesn’t make me a screw up, then what am I?”

“Available.”

Wilson knew that House spoke more than five languages fluently. He had seen him perusing journals in German and French. He even knew that House had spent time in Brazil through his specialty in infectious diseases. But he was still astounded by House’s ease with Portuguese.

In Rio, as the hot sun and humidity seeped into bones and joints made stiff by a New Jersey winter, Wilson watched as House chatted with the cab driver, directing him from the airport to the up-class hotel he had booked overlooking the water. He let House handle the check-in, then waited in the room, listening in as House skipped from Portuguese to English and back again as he checked in with local contacts while also keeping Wilson updated about their plans.

By that night, or perhaps it was early the next morning by then, they had settled into a routine, with House firmly in the lead.

Wilson followed, tagging along from the beach to a private party, to a street party to a bar to another private party. House was right. The women were unbelievably beautiful. Bodies tan. Hips swaying. The rhythm of the samba built into their every move.

One woman, with eyes as brilliant a green as House’s were blue walked up to him, speaking softly. Wilson stammered out an apology in English.

“So you are American,” she replied with a smile.

“You think he was lying?” Wilson nodded toward House who glanced in his direction, smiled and gestured that he was going out onto the balcony with another woman, just as beautiful.

“He has a good accent,” the woman said. “Most Americans don’t even bother to learn Portuguese, never mind how to use the -- let’s say colloquial expressions -- so appropriately.”

She put her hand on his, brushed her thumb lightly across his skin. Curled her fingers into his palm. That night, Wilson forgot about Tonya. For a while, he forgot himself.

Late the next afternoon, he found a note from House. He followed it out to the beach where he found House lying in the sun. Wilson sat beside him, arms loosely wrapped around his knees and glanced down at his friend before looking out at the water.

“You’re getting a sun burn.”

“I like living on the edge,” House said. “I see you made it home all right.”

“Yep.” Wilson watched two women passing between him and the water and wished he’d worn his sunglasses. “Do I even want to know what you told her about me?”

“Probably not,” House admitted. “But I didn’t have to say much at all, really. She was the one with all the questions.”

“I wasn’t looking for an ego boost.”

“Wasn’t trying to give you one. Unless you needed one, in which case you probably came to the wrong person. I’m not really in to faint praise, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Wilson knew most people could not understand House. For that matter they didn’t try to. More than one doctor had pulled him aside, tried to act as the mentor and warn him away. No one likes House, they’d say. Hang around him, and he’ll poison you, poison your reputation. The new administrator is planning to get rid of him, they’d confide. If he sees the two of you together too much, he may just try to get rid of you too.

Sometimes Wilson felt like House was his own foreign language, one only Wilson could understand.

From the start, though, House had pushed him to push himself, both mentally and physically. He dared him to keep up -- just as Wilson’s brother had done when they were growing up. Being around House sharpened his wit, focused his attention, quickened his pace. Despite that, though, House made no demands that he conform. Where Wilson’s parents had taught him to edit his every word, House did not believe in an internal sensor. He did not expect Wilson to live up to someone else’s idea of how a gentleman or doctor should act.

For that matter, House reveled in finding flaws, poking at them, seeing what made Wilson tick, rather than expecting him to change. House did not expect to find perfection, except, it sometimes seemed to Wilson, from himself.

Not that House was ever easy. That lack of a censor meant that he not only meant what he said, but he also said what he meant. They’d argue -- about office politics, about patient treatment, hell even about the NFL playoffs -- and House would take his argument too far, start pushing at those cracks in the psyche Wilson was all too aware of. Wilson would call him an ass. Walk off.

Three days later, four at the most, and they’d find themselves at lunch together. No apologies needed. Regret, House said, was a wasted emotion. Instead they’d fight over who’s turn it was to pick up the bill.

“I don’t expect you to agree with me,” House had told him once. “Hell, sometimes I don’t agree with me either. Sometimes maybe I just love a good fight.”

And sometimes Wilson didn’t know if he liked House despite his challenging nature, or because of it.

A shadow blocked the sun, and Wilson broke out of his thoughts, looking up to notice House standing there, studying him.

“You still thinking you should take the earlier flight out to catch that symposium?”

“I should,” Wilson admitted as he pushed himself up to his feet. “But I won’t.”

House responded with a genuine smile. “Good,” he said. “I’d hate to see you waste your time on some idle pursuit like medical ethics. I know of something that’s far more educational.”

“Lord knows I wouldn’t want to miss out on an important lesson from the master.” Wilson pushed himself to his feet. “Lead on.”

Tracking Time Part 2

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2000
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When word came down that Wilson had been granted tenure -- becoming the youngest tenured doctor on staff -- House was still an inpatient at PPTH’s rehab wing.

“Don’t you have something else you should be doing, like moving into your new office?” House asked when Wilson showed up that night.

Wilson knew he shouldn’t have been surprised that House had heard. House may not have many friends, but he always had an inside line on hospital gossip, much of it garnered by loitering around various nurses’ stations and doctors’ lounges. But that system had been shut down to him for weeks now. Stacy may have told him, but then the official list wouldn’t be sent out until the first of the month.

“Do you know, it turns out there’s something called ‘staff’ at the hospital that can actually do things for you,” Wilson replied, settling down into his usual seat and dropping his bag onto a table. “Some people actually prefer to delegate responsibilities.”

“Sure, but then you never know where they’ll put your stuff.”

“If you didn’t try so hard to piss off the janitors, they might not try so hard to lose your toys.”

“I prefer to think of it as a little game we play. I say something, they take offense, they somehow forget where they’ve moved something during cleaning and I have to find it. It’s not retribution, it’s a challenge.” House was silent for a moment, shifted slightly in the chair. “God, it’s going to be a bitch finding anything when I get back.”

At least today House was talking about when he’d return to work, rather than if he would. Wilson took that as a sign that the therapy had gone well today. House had also opted for one of the easy chairs in his room. Some nights Wilson would come in to find House stretched out on the bed, awake but barely responding unless asked a direct question. Those nights, they’d both stare at the television, Wilson occasionally making a comment on whatever show happened to be on the screen, House grunting out an answer, if he bothered to take note of it at all.

House had the set tuned in to a reality show Wilson knew had been in the news. He turned his attention away from Wilson to comment at the naked man on the screen and Wilson took the opportunity to study his friend.

Wilson had been at a conference when the infarction was diagnosed. He and House were supposed to go for a run the morning he left, but House begged off, saying his leg was a bit stiff.

“You gonna wuss out on me?” Wilson taunted.

“Hey, you’re the one who wanted me to take your place in the foursome at the tournament, and I don’t want you bitching that I didn’t come through,” House said. “I’m just trying to collect on your bet with McGreevy.”

“A hundred bucks,” Wilson reminded him. “Cash. Ignore him if he says he’ll pay up later. It took me six weeks to collect last time.”

Stacy called four days later, catching him just before he was slated to give his presentation. House was in surgery -- his first surgery, the one to remove the clot. It was clear from the moment she said Wilson’s name that something was wrong. She stammered out an apology, began one sentence, stopped herself, and started over. He could scarcely believe it was the same woman who had always spoken directly, who prided herself on her ability to think on her feet and win over every jury during closing arguments.

Wilson got the story in bits and pieces. Stacy apologized again.

“I wanted to call you,” she said. “But Greg said I shouldn’t bother you, that you were giving a keynote and that there was nothing you could do anyway.”

“Who’s overseeing his treatment now?” One of the conference organizers was signaling to him, trying to get his attention.

“Lisa Cuddy. I don’t know her that well, neither does Greg.” Wilson could hear her take a drink of something, and waited her out while Stacy paused. “She said he might be better off with an amputation.”

The word echoed through Wilson’s head for a few moments and he leaned forward, rested his head against his hand, elbow propped up on his knee. He could see the conference organizer pacing the length of the speaker ready room, glancing at his watch.

“And Greg refused,” Wilson said.

“Mmm hmm. Said he stood a better chance of saving his leg this way.”

“He’s right, but then depending on the extent of muscle damage, Cuddy may be right too.” Wilson considered his options, gestured again to the organizer to keep the man calm.

“Listen, I’ll check on flights, see how soon I can get back there. It probably won’t be until tomorrow, though,” Wilson warned. “In the meantime, just hang in there. Greg’s a better doctor even doped up than a lot of other ones sober.”

“What about Dr. Cuddy? Can I trust her?”

“Yeah, sure,” Wilson reassured her. “I’ve worked with her before, and we’re on some committees together. She knows what she’s doing, but if you're worried, call me. Hell, call me once House is out of surgery. And I’ll give you a call once I’ve got a flight booked.”

“OK.”

“And tell House I’m going to kick his ass when I get back. He could have given me the perfect opportunity to get out of this gig, if he’d just let you call.”

“You’ll have to stand in line.” Stacy seemed calmer now, but Wilson knew she could hide her emotions nearly as well as House. “And it’s a very long line.”

“Yeah, well you and I get special dispensation to cut into the front of the line, just for putting him with him on a daily basis.”

Neither of them said anything for a few moments, and Wilson saw the organizer headed his way.

“Listen, I’ve got to go, but I’ll be there soon, OK?”

“Yeah.”

“And thanks for the call.”

Wilson was right. He wouldn’t be able to get a flight out of the resort town until morning, and even then had to pull strings to get a seat, using the excuse of a medical emergency requiring his attention. He barely remembered giving the speech, thinking only about how House had told him to spice up a section here or trim another part later on. His colleagues praised it regardless. He only remembered the brief message handed to him just before the panel discussion: “Out of surgery. Looks good so far.”

He packed and repacked that night, trying to make sure he was carrying nothing that would slow him down in the airport. He ditched the thank you gift the organizers gave him to make sure he wouldn’t have to waste time checking luggage. He left a message for Stacy with his flight plans. She answered the third time he called.

“How’s he doing?”

“God, James, it’s ...”

“Stace? You OK?” Wilson could hear her breathing, shaky. He heard her draw in one quick breath, then another.

“I’m here. It’s just ... I didn’t think it would be this bad. God, James, he’s in so much pain. I’ve never ...” she trailed off again.

“They’ve got him on IV morphine?”

“Yeah. They say they can’t give him any more.”

“It’s going to take time,” Wilson tried to reassure her with words he wasn’t certain he could believe himself. “Greg’s tough, you know that.”

“James, you don’t know. You can’t see him.”

Wilson felt a chill. He wondered again whether he should just rent a car, drive through the night to get someplace else, someplace he could gain an hour or two on the travel time.

“I’m sorry.” Stacy interrupted his thoughts. “I know you’d be here if you could. I don’t think you could do anything different, but it’d be good to have you here, you know?”

Wilson sank down onto the bed in his empty hotel room, looked out the window at the deepening darkness in the surrounding mountains.
“Yeah, I know.”

“Listen, I’m going to head back in there. I’ll have my cell, but I won’t be able to keep it on all the time. I’ll let you know if anything changes, though.”

“Or just call if you need to talk,” Wilson said. “Don’t worry about what time it is. Greg never does.”

“Thanks, James. I’ll see you soon.”

Wilson listened to her line disconnect. He held the phone in his hand a minute longer before hanging it up. Nearly 9 p.m. there. Nearly 11 p.m. in Princeton. The flight wouldn’t leave until 6:30 a.m.

He counted down the hours, then dug into his bag again, looking for something to do. He found sneakers, shorts and a t-shirt and headed to the gym. Five treadmills, no waiting.

It was 2 a.m. before he dropped into anything like sleep. He tossed and turned for maybe an hour before bolting awake, something prodding him up, a half-remembered dream of House, running along one of Wilson’s favorite street loops and a car veering off the pavement, straight in his direction as Wilson watched, and Wilson unable to reach House in time to pull him out of the way. He lay back down, staring at the blank ceiling, willing his heart rate to slow. Another 20 minutes and he gave up, started the in-room coffee maker and hit the shower.

Wilson successfully fought the urge the pick up the phone and call a half-dozen times. He actually made the call just as often. He’d ring through to Stacy’s cell phone, only to have it bump into voice mail. He left a message the first two times, but didn’t bother after that. He tried not to let his imagination run away with him. He knew the cell wouldn’t be allowed in the ICU.

Too often in his career, Wilson had needed to calm down a parent, a spouse, a daughter or son. He’d convince them they needed to let the doctors do their work, and assure them that they should try to relax and instead focus their energy on positive thoughts, prayers, whichever seemed more appropriate. Now here he was, with a friend who needed him, and nothing he could do.

He left for the airport more than two hours early, and the terminal wasn’t even open yet when he arrived. He paced the sidewalk in front and watched the lights come on inside. He saw the ticket agents open up. He was first to the counter, with nothing to check in. Even the tiny coffee shop was closed and Wilson settled for walking loops around the tiny baggage claim area. He tried Stacy’s number again. Listened to it ring: four times, five times. He was about to hang up when he heard her answer, her voice soft and uncertain.

“Stacy? It’s James. I’m at the airport and I should be headed your way soon. How’s he doing?”

“I’m going to lose him James,” her voice came back thin and distorted over the cellular connection. “God. I think I’m going to lose him.”

“What? What happened? What’s going on?”

Stacy’s answers came back in a combination of layman’s terms and clinical language, but it was clear that the muscle death was worse than House had hoped and the delicate balance of medications he needed was overwhelming his team. Wilson could feel the waves of despair building one after another. He knew it would be worse for Stacy, but could barely manage to keep his own head above the flood.

“A minute,” he said.

“At least,” Stacy confirmed. “Felt like forever.”

Cardiac arrest. House had left him -- had left them all -- for a minute. Wilson could picture the familiar outlines of a treatment room, he knew where the equipment would have been stored. He knew the process of running a code, he could the medical team working to restart a patient’s heart, but he couldn’t bring himself to picture House as the patient.

Wilson could sense that the airport was beginning to buzz with the start of a new day. He knew there were other people around him, but felt alone and adrift. The telephone and the voice on the other end the only things that were real.

“How is he now? Has he been awake?”

“They’ve got him stabilized again, but James, he’s in so much pain. It’s not getting better and he still won’t authorize the surgery. He’s got this idea about a chemically-induced coma, to let him sleep through the pain.”

“It could work.” Wilson considered the concept. “At least it might give him a chance to ride it out, if they can keep everything else monitored.”

“But they couldn’t handle it last time. He was the one who caught it and God only knows what will happen now.”

Wilson could see the case laid out for him. The alternatives. The best chance for the limb. The best chance for survival. He knew what he would recommend.

“He’s still against the, the ,,,” Wilson couldn’t bring himself to say the word: Amputation. Instead he let the sentence hang there, but Stacy caught his meaning.

“No. I’ve tried. I’ve begged.”

“Try again.”

“James, he won’t listen to me.”

“Don’t give him a choice. Tell him he’s going to have to have the surgery. He may back off if you force him into a corner.”

“Or he may fight harder.”

“Stacy, listen. He could do it for you. You’re the only one who could force him into it. He listens to you. Just don’t let him think he’s got a choice.”

“If I don’t give him a choice.”

“Exactly.”

Wilson would replay the conversation later in his head, consider what he’d said. What she’d decided. He was certain now that something in her tone had changed just there. That she’d made up her mind. Become certain about something. At the time, he passed it off as confidence, that she’d seen how she could talk into the amputation and save his life.

As it was, he’d hung up when Stacy said she needed to get back to House, continued pacing until the flight and spent half the air time standing near the galley, tapping at the plastic trim and trying to distract his imagination.

He had a text message from Cuddy waiting for him when he turned on his cell phone at the airport in Newark that House had gone into surgery. He ignored every speed limit on the drive back to Princeton, constantly changing lanes to try and get to the hospital a few minutes faster.

He grabbed the closest space in the parking garage, not caring who it belonged to, and raced up to the surgical floor, still unable to decide if he was grateful his friend was alive, or horrified at the thought of House undergoing amputation. He saw Cuddy first. She was dressed in scrubs and sneakers, so different from her normal power suits or lab coat.

She told him about Stacy’s decision, how she had used her medical power of attorney and taken charge for House’s care and that he was undergoing debridement as they were speaking. Wilson had thought nothing could shock him any more. He was wrong.

“And you just, what, went along with this?”

“I didn’t have a choice,” Cuddy protested. “I got her to wait for a while, see if his stats improved, but they were getting worse, and she has the power of attorney.”

Wilson knew she was right. Knew he would have been forced into the same action, at least legally.

“Besides,” Cuddy continued. “Whether I agree with her or not, she probably saved his life.”

He and Stacy were both with House when he woke up. He watched House’s face from across the room. Saw him go through the post-anesthesia fog, saw his eyes register confusion and surprise, then lock on Stacy’s face as Cuddy was left to explain what had happened, the extent of muscle removed. House said nothing until Cuddy asked him about his pain level. He seemed to consider it for a minute, closing his eyes and finally turning away from Stacy.

“It’s better,” he said. “Not bad. Maybe, I guess, a three.”

“OK. I’ll see about adjusting the morphine again, see where we need to take it from here.”

House just nodded and Cuddy gathered up her files and excused herself.

Wilson didn’t know what kind of a reaction he expected from House. Anger? Resentment? But he saw nothing -- not then anyway. Whatever was going through House just now, he wasn’t telegraphing any signs. Stacy wasn’t saying anything either. Just sat next to the bed, watching him, holding his hand.

Wilson wanted to stay, but could see that Stacy was desperate for time alone with House. “I better check in at my office.” He pushed himself away from the window where he’d been leaning.

“You were someplace,” House said, searching his memory past the confusion of the past week. “Conference. Idaho? Someplace with fly fishing rather than golf.”

“Wyoming.”

“Hmmm. Catch anything?”

“Would you believe me if I said I did?”

“Maybe. You’re a lousy liar.”

“I never lie about the important stuff.” Wilson hesitated a moment or two longer before heading to the door. “Anyway, gotta make some calls.”

“See?” House’s voice was soft but Wilson could still hear it as he slipped out the door. “Lousy liar.”


Two days later, House asked Wilson to stay behind when Stacy left after her lunch break.
With House stable and in recovery, Stacy had even returned to work, but begged off any potential court time to instead stick close to House from her office.

He was doing better. Looking better, too, although they were still trying to find the right combination of medications to control his pain. Wilson was beginning to believe that the pain could no longer be written off as post-op, but rather a chronic condition, though he hadn’t discussed it yet with House, Stacy or Cuddy.

For that matter, he hadn’t had time to speak to House alone. Either Stacy was there, one of the nursing staff interrupted or -- often -- House was asleep or so zoned out that he could barely follow the conversation.

Stacy looked back from the door at the bed when House asked Wilson if he had a minute, shifting her gaze between the two of them.

“Go ahead,” House told her. “We’ve got important stuff to talk about. Guy stuff.”

“It may involve fart jokes,” Wilson added. “Action movies. Blowing stuff up.”

“Carmen Electra.”

Stacy rolled her eyes and walked off. House watched her leave before turning to Wilson.

“Don’t ask,” House warned.

“OK. Don’t ask what exactly?”

“How I’m doing, how I’m feeling. How I’m,” House let out an exaggerated sigh. “Coping.”

“OK.”

“Because everyone asks. Everyone. Nurses, doctors, surgeons, Cuddy. I feel like I have to have a nine-page statement ready on my state of health -- both mental and physical -- every time Stacy walks in the room.”

Wilson settled himself into the chair Stacy normally occupied, slouched down and propped his feet up on the edge of the mattress.

“Hate to break it to you, pal, but in case you haven’t noticed, this is a hospital. You’ve got to expect a few health questions to pop up from time to time.”

“Yes, thank you, Doctor Obvious, I had taken that into account.”

“So, what, you want to talk sports? Because the Mets still can’t beat the Braves, and that’d actually be a depressing subject. I don’t think I could handle that.”

“Or maybe college football,” House suggested. “But then sooner or later someone would bring up Princeton, and I’m not about to enter that tunnel of suckitude without some decent tequila at hand.”

“Or indecent tequila.”

“The best kind.”

Wilson looked out the window through the half-open blinds. Blue sky, a few clouds. Heat was building up with predictions of temperatures in the 90s before the afternoon was out. He stole a quick glance at House. House was staring up at the ceiling. His face was thinner than normal, almost gaunt. Stacy had worried that he wasn’t eating and Wilson had tried to assure her that he would, once his appetite returned.

“I need to see it,” House said, turning from the ceiling to Wilson. “My leg. To really see it, without nurses or Cuddy or Stacy standing there, waiting to see what kind of a reaction I’d have. I’ll need some help.”

Wilson nodded. “I’ll get some supplies.” He put his feet on the floor, pushed himself out of the chair. “If you’re ready now?”

House was looking up at the ceiling again, but nodded. Wilson gathered everything he’d need to remove the bandages and replace them, then stopped off at the nurses station to warn them not to disturb them.

House had raised the head of the bed, so he was sitting nearly upright. Wilson slid the door closed behind him, closed the blinds.

Wilson placed the supplies on the bedside table, went into the bathroom and washed his hands. Everything done according to procedure, but he realized he was also delaying the moment. If House was ready, though, he would be too.

He moved the table up to the side of the bed. House had already pulled the sheets back. Wilson could see the remnants of an inked message along the length of the limb, appearing out from the edge of the bandage that covered much of the thigh, extending down to House’s ankle.

Wilson picked up the scissors and looked at House. House just nodded.

A few moments later, the gauze was stripped back and there it was. The long line of the incision, the cross-tie of black stitches. Medically speaking, it looked good. No sign of infection. Everything as he would have expected it.

But forget expectations. The leg looked pale, the shaved skin only adding to its alien nature. There was a depression where there should be a swell of muscle. House slid his hand down along the edge of his thigh, gingerly touching the flesh on either side of the incision.

Wilson stepped back to the end of the bed, giving House what privacy he could. On the other side of the door, he could see someone going over charts at the nurses’ station. Another nurse was walking slowly down the hall with a patient, guiding him while wheeling the IV pole along. He looked across the room again at the window. Clouds were beginning to form, raising the chance of a summer thunderstorm.

He heard House shift and looked back at the bed. House was sitting back now. Eyes closed, his jaw clenched tight.

“Done?”

House just nodded. Wilson reapplied the bandages and wrapped the leg with gauze, apologizing when he heard House grunt as he shifted the leg.

“It’s OK,” House said. He didn’t bother opening his eyes.

Wilson finished his work, gathered up the supplies , and paused at the door.

“I need to get back to work,” he said. “I’ll stop by again later.”

House nodded again, and Wilson slid the door shut behind him.


A week after House’s final surgery, he was released to the PT specialists. Stacy had questioned the move, since Cuddy’s team was still trying to find the right pain medication, but both Cuddy and Wilson assured her that it was time.

“Rehab’s all about pain,” House muttered as the staff settled him into his new room. “I’m sure they know what they’re doing.”

Wilson wasn’t certain who he was trying to convince. He had scouted out the staff before House even arrived. He’d seen most of them around the medical complex before, knew their reputations. Had even handed off patient care to them often enough -- bone cancer survivors trying to balance their joy at still being alive with the reality that they’d lost a limb in the process.

He’d brought the head of the department over to meet House a few days before the transfer, then bought him lunch as they compared notes about the team.

“What about Ford?” Wilson had suggested. “I’ve heard good feedback from patients about him.”

“Ford’s good,” Ed Ransom agreed. “But his style tends to be a little heavy on the motivational speeches. Something tells me that’s definitely ...”

“Not House,” Wilson agreed.

House had banned everyone from his therapy sessions. Wilson obeyed. Stacy snuck in one time, only to end up crying on Wilson’s shoulder when he found her hiding out in House’s empty office.

A day later, he took her to Ransom’s office where together they talked about ways they’d need to adapt the condo, about construction companies that specialized in retrofitting bathrooms.

Wilson concentrated on getting his work done during regular work hours -- a schedule either of his wives would have admired if he’d managed it for them. He’d clock out at a little past 7 p.m., paperwork in order. He got into the habit of driving offsite to pick up either fast food or take-out at some of House’s favorite haunts in case he’d be able to tempt him into eating.

House’s appetite had suffered with every change in his pain medication. One dosage might leave him nauseated, another strip away any sense of hunger at all, a third leave him in so much pain he didn’t want to eat, and yet another make him so groggy he rather sleep than eat.

Wilson made it to House’s room a little before 8 o’clock most nights, about the time Stacy headed home. Sometimes they crossed paths, but it seemed lately that Wilson was seeing less of her. He assumed she was overseeing the renovations.

“I smell something fried,” House said from his chair as the television show went to a commercial break, forcing Wilson’s attention back to the present. “Nothing good, I hope.”

“I’ve been reading up on the latest research on deep-fried cheese products. It’s all the rage.” Wilson handed over the bag from the Wok-Thru, a cheap Chinese take-out House had introduced him to shortly after they’d met. “Don’t eat all the General Tso’s.”

“You always wimp out on the spices anyway,” House said as he dug through the bag. “Did you get the crab meat?”

“You didn’t notice the grease blot the size of Jersey?”

“A lot of things could have done that,” House protested, then pulled out a waxed paper container, nearly transparent from the oil. “This is more like it.”

He broke apart the crisp won ton to reveal the center, then popped it into his mouth.

Wilson opened a foam clamshell and the smell of chilis and MSG spilled out, temporarily overwhelming the odor of antiseptic cleaners and medical supplies. He dug into the chicken and tried not to let House catch him as he monitored how much House ate. Most nights he took home nearly as much as he brought. He’d need to clean out his refrigerator soon.

“There’s hot and sour soup too,” Wilson pointed out as House broke open another won ton. He was satisfied to see House reach for the bag to root out the cup and a plastic spoon.

“So where’s the new office going to be?”

“I’m not sure. It’s not even official for a couple of weeks.” He considered the possibilities and took another bite of the chicken. “Probably on the sixth floor, though.”

“God, those ones are tiny,” House said, setting the cup down. Wilson fought the urge to nag him to eat more. He’d heard enough Jewish mother comments already. “The admin assistants on five have more space.”

“They have ...” Wilson considered his words. “Character.”

“They have crappy ventilation systems.”

“The windows actually open.”

“Which will come in handy in January when the boiler starts pumping all the heat for the entire wing into your closet.”

“Office.”

“Tomato, tomahto.”

“Keep it up, pal, and I won’t invite you to the office warming party.”

House quieted for a bit, began tearing the napkin into long strips. “I don’t know if I’ll be ready by the time you move in.”

“I’m not in any rush.” Wilson set aside his own food and stretched out his legs. “It’ll wait.”

“The department will want to mark the occasion right away,” House pointed out. “You should celebrate. You did good.”

“Thanks.”

House picked up the soup again, took another spoonful, “Of course if you really want to impress them, I’d suggest having the party at that strip club over on Fourth.”

“I thought for sure you would have gone for Chesty LaRue’s on 12th.”

“Nah, Deja Va Voom’s got a third pole installed now I hear. Now they’re pulling in all the high class acts.”

“Strippers with a heart of gold.”

“And breasts of saline.”

“The wonders of modern medicine.”

“Yeah.” Wilson saw the emotion flash across House’s face -- anger, frustration -- for just a moment. “Where would we be without it?”