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Four Blocks South of Eden
by Syal
It's Foreman who points out at lunch that Dr. Wilson seems to spend way too much time at the hospital. Normally you avoid dining with the peons of your labor force, but Foreman's been at the top of his game all morning and you figure every once in a while it can't hurt to show that you do not, in fact, resent his existence.
"Isn't he married?" Foreman takes another bite of his sandwich and tuna fish oozes out one side. You're reminded of why you usually eat alone.
"That's what all the tabloids say," you whisper conspiratorially, taking a sip of hospital brand juice.
"I'm just saying that if I were married..." Foreman begins through a mouthful of tuna.
"Ah, the prodigal if." You catch a glimpse of chewed up, gray mush and look away in disgust. "That is assuming, Dr. Foreman, that you have a woman to marry. Which first must assume that you have a girlfriend. Which leads to the initial assumption, of course, that you are straight."
Foreman shoots death at you from across the table.
"Kidding!" You wink. "People who are not doctors do not appreciate doctors' hours. Mrs. Wilson is obviously not overly fond of her husband's prolonged absences, which makes her bitchy. Which makes our friend Dr. Wilson want to avoid her at all costs. Which in turn makes him pick up extra shifts at the hospital when he doesn't have to so he can steer clear of his bloodthirsty wife. Which takes us back to bitchy. Vicious cycle, really." You pop a potato chip into your mouth. "I suggest that if you ever plan on getting married, you choose someone whose hours are just as crappy as yours." You lean forward and lower your voice to a whisper. "I'll bet that if you ask Dr. Cameron real nice, she just might say yes."
Foreman rolls his eyes and gets up from the table.
You call after him, "Make sure you have a ring though! The odds of getting that 'yes' will be twenty times better!"
* * *
You find Wilson in your office when you get off work, watching one of the Law and Order's on your portable TV.
"Your shoes are on my desk," you tell him, unlocking a file cabinet and shuffling through some papers.
Wilson cranes his neck around and studies his feet. "They're clean."
Circling your desk, you reach out and give his shoe a hearty whack with your cane. "Not the point. Shouldn't you be getting home?"
"Let's go out somewhere," Wilson says. "Tomorrow's my day off."
You stuff some papers into a briefcase and tilt your head. "I don't see what one thing has to do with the other, or how either one answers my question..." You squint in confusion. "But why the hell not."
Wilson smiles, and finally gets his feet off your desk.
* * *
When you heard the phrase, "Let's go out somewhere," you assumed it meant, "Let's go to a bar," or "Let's go to a different bar." Instead you end up in a dingy booth in a dingy pizza place twenty minutes before it closes. The waiter glares at you as he jots down your order, and just for that you make it double cheese, because the four extra minutes it'll take to cook are four extra minutes that you'll have your ass parked in that booth.
You watch Wilson as he sucks Coke up through his straw without actually swallowing any of it, peering at the tiny bubbles of carbonation as they chaotically dart back and forth. "Before you ask," he says suddenly, "I'm warning you. Don't."
You draw back in mock surprise and stir your own Coke with your straw. "Okay then." You consider asking if his wife's been withholding sex, but the joke's not as funny if it's actually true. Which you assume it is. "So how about Cuddy in that power suit today, huh?" you ask instead, wiggling your eyebrows a bit.
You receive another in a series of eye rolls for the day.
When your pizza comes the waiter loudly informs you that they close in five minutes. Wilson looks at his watch and makes a whoops face, but you wave your hand dismissively and grab a triangular glob of greasy, glowy cheese and starch. "Extra cheese," you say when you swallow. "Worth the extra dollar fifty. Ow. I think I burned my tongue."
Wilson chews his pizza in silence, possibly trying to look blank but confusing it with constipated.
"Geez," you tell him. "The guy with that oddly colored genital rash would have been more fun than you." You shake your head. "God that was a weird shade of purple."
Wilson picks up another slice and makes a face at the already-congealed cheese. "Sorry."
"Hey, whatever. And don't eat so fast. Jimmy Joe over there is staring at us." You motion with your head to where your waiter is poised over the cash register. "Something in his body language tells me that he wants us to leave."
Wilson steals a glance under the pretense of looking for a clock. "I don't think his name is Jimmy Joe."
"It is. I looked at his nametag. This pizza," you decide between bites, "is not what you would call spectacular."
"I've had better," Wilson agrees.
"You see the way the cheese just comes apart when you separate each piece?" you ask him, instructively dangling a slice over his plate. "The cheese should stretch. And yet," you continue, picking off a glob of mozzarella from the side. "Do you see stretching? Because I don't."
Wilson sighs. "Do you want the rest? Because you can have the rest."
"Why thank you. I think I will." You grin. "If you're sure you don't want any more, of course."
You finish off the last of the pizza and dig around for a couple of singles to throw on the table. Wilson keeps trying to give you seven dollars but you swat his hand away and hobble over to the cash register. "Delightful atmosphere, Jimbo," you tell the waiter as he hands you your change. "Hope we didn't keep you." Then you hunch over your cane and shuffle towards the door as slowly as possible. You know from experience that only the truly evil try to rush people with canes.
"He's going to come over here and knock you over," Wilson whispers as he walks behind you. "And I looked at his name tag."
"Jimmy Joe?"
"Andrew."
"Huh," you say, stopping in the doorway to wave pleasantly at Andrew. "He should really change it to Jimmy Joe."
* * *
When you get back to your apartment, you pour two glasses of scotch and bring them into the living room one at a time. Wilson's relaxing on your couch with the remote cradled in his arm like it's his first born.
"Don't get up," you say as you set his drink down on the table.
Wilson puts on his whoops face again, but you shrug him away and sit down on the couch.
"What's on?"
"Law and Order."
You stare at the TV screen. "What, is that show on at any given time?"
"Pretty much." Wilson takes a sip of his scotch and starts flipping through the channels. Sports. Cooking. Sports. Cartoon Network. Something with wild animals. Sports. Wilson watches the images flicker with vacant eyes, and you watch him, trying to figure out why today is worse than yesterday and also why you bother to pay for cable. After a few rounds Wilson gives up on the TV and throws the remote down somewhere next to him. Somehow or other you ended up back on Cartoon Network, and a small, androgynous person with blue hair is complaining about robots.
"For the love of god, turn that off," you say, reaching around him to grab the remote.
The two of you work at your scotch in silence, until Wilson sets his drink down on the table and leans his head back against the sofa cushions.
"I'm a dick with women."
"Women suck," you agree. "I'd say to hell with them, but apparently they're needed to keep the population stabilized or something."
Wilson sighs and closes his eyes. You feel like you should do something. Touch his shoulder, or put your arm somewhere, or hire a stripper. But you've never been good with that type of stuff so you just lean back against the cushions with him.
"Not working out so well, huh."
Wilson rolls his head and looks at you wearily. "Not so much, no."
You tentatively lift a few fingers and rest them on his knee. You can feel his body heat through the wool of his pants.
"And you know what the worst part is?" Wilson asks with a wry smile. "I don't even care. I don't think I ever even really loved her. Isn't that terrible?"
You shrug. "I've heard worse."
Wilson laughs humorlessly.
"Okay, fine. That is pretty terrible," you admit. "But on the plus side, I'll be right there next to you in hell, shoveling horse manure into wood-burning stoves."
Wilson nods. "Good. Wouldn't want to be next to anyone else."
He stares straight ahead, unblinking, your hand still halfway on his knee. You watch him with stolen sideways glances, trying to make it look like you aren't, but you're pretty sure that he knows what you're doing. His hair hasn't been combed in a while and his tie is the most repulsive shade of green you've ever laid eyes on, but fashion conscious or not, he's still your best friend. And though the rigidity of your bodily contact is a crummy indication of how you feel, you care about him. Maybe in more ways than you're willing to admit.
You look down at your hand. Okay, maybe in ways that you are willing to admit.
You study Wilson's half-finished scotch as it grows stale on your coffee table, losing track of the minutes as you sit in silence next to each other. At some point, Wilson's hand lands next to yours, fingertips brushing against your knuckles. After a while you feel yourself start to nod off, and when you look at the clock again it's one in the morning and Wilson's head is resting against your shoulder. At first you assume that he's asleep, but when you stir he leans over and kisses you, and all you can think is that you've been waiting entirely too long.
* * *
After that Wilson takes you to bed and makes you fuck him. It's difficult because he keeps leaning into your thigh, which hurts like a bitch, but you figure there are probably a thousand other ways you could be doing it that would hurt even more.
Eventually you get the hang of it, hands insistent on Wilson's hips, guiding him forward instead of back. You look up at him hazily as the heels of his hands dig into your sides. Damp hair clings to his forehead, and sticks up in the back where he tried to brush it away. You watch his eyes grow dark and cloudy, and when he tilts head back you can see the tiny beads of sweat glistening on his neck.
You slide your hand down his hip and start jerking him off, listening to your own pulse pound in your head as he licks his lips. You move faster, movements land harder, and you think that you might die if you don't come sometime within the vicinity of very, very soon.
You're both panting and breathless when Wilson gasps and arches into your hand, and you grab at his hips with his come still slick on your hand so you can finish the job.
Wilson collapses on top of you, burying his face in the crook of your neck. You can feel his breath as it rushes over your skin, sense the change as it slows from shallow and ragged to deep and steady and low.
Your heart is still racing, you think you might go blind. "Oh god..."
Wilson lifts his head and peers at you sleepily through glazed eyes.
"Leg," you grunt, and he eases off of you carefully, probably making some sort of post-sex cousin of the whoops face.
You blindly reach over to your nightstand for your Vicodin, but the back of your hand knocks the bottle onto the floor. You look down at where Wilson's arm is draped across your chest. He's already snoring softly into the pillow and your Vicodin's a good three feet away.
Giving up, you lean back against the bed and close your eyes. It's a while before you fall asleep, but the sound of Wilson sleeping next to you is almost enough to distract you from the dull, constant ache in your thigh.
* * *
You wake up and get ready for work the next morning and try not to disturb Wilson. For a second, as you're buttoning your shirt, you think he mumbles something to you, but when you turn back around he's draped across the bed like he hasn't moved all night.
The day passes by as usual. Foreman gets pissed at you. Cuddy pretends to get pissed at you. You think you might have made Cameron cry. Chase gets pissed off but it isn't at you, and when he stomps down the hall covered in vomit for the second time in half an hour, you decide to leave him alone.
You almost drive back home during your lunch break to make sure Wilson isn't suffering from some phantom hangover, but you ultimately decide that that reeks of all kinds of desperation, and you eat alone in the cafeteria instead.
Wilson is gone when you finally do get home, but you expected him to be at this point. His half-finished scotch isn't on the table anymore, and there's a note left in its place.
Went home. I'll see you tomorrow. James.
Underneath his name there's another line, minutely scrawled as an afterthought.
I did the dishes.
You walk into the kitchen and check the sink. "How about that." The sponge is even drying on the edge of the counter. You always forget to ring it out, and you read somewhere that you'll get mildew if you leave a wet sponge lying in sink sludge.
When you go into your bedroom you see that the bed is made too. Free housekeeping, you think. Not bad. You kick off your shoes and lie down on the taut covers, still holding the note in your hand. You reread it eleven times before you fall asleep, turning it over and back, and trying to figure out what possessed Wilson to do the dishes.
* * *
You finally see him the next day when you stop by your office before lunch. He's reading one of your invoices, but at least his feet aren't on your desk.
"How do you get in here?" you ask, looking at him and then at the door. "Because I'm pretty sure I lock that."
Wilson shrugs. "You must be doing it wrong."
You want to cut this small talk crap but honestly, you don't really know what to say. You walk over to your desk and take the paper out of Wilson's hand. Something about a convention in Philadelphia. You let it flutter into the wastebasket.
"She left me," Wilson says casually, still shuffling through the mess on your desk. "Thought you might like to know."
You pluck another memo from the pile. Christian charities. They all want the same thing. "Did she."
"She went to her mother's and left a note saying when she'd be back to get the rest of her stuff."
"A note, huh," you muse. "I hear they're great for avoiding confrontation."
"She took the cat."
"What?"
Wilson folds his arms behind his head. "She took the cat. All the other times, she left the cat with me. That's how I know this is it."
"I thought you hated that cat."
"I do."
You think about this. "Okay then. Did you miss my subtle comment about the note and avoiding confrontation?"
Wilson looks up at you from your chair, and for all your analytical skills, you have no idea what he's thinking.
"My wife just left me, Greg."
"We had sex," you offer.
Wilson doesn't blink. "I know."
"Good," you say after a moment. You're about to pop a Vicodin, but when you look down Wilson's fingers are on your wrist.
"I did your dishes for you," he says.
His hand is warm. "Really? Didn't notice."
* * *
Wilson comes back to the lunch table with two bowls of ice cream, despite the fact that you distinctly told him no. "Oh come on. Who doesn't like chocolate?"
"I don't," you say, lifting a spoonful out of the Styrofoam cup and sliding it into your mouth. "Also puppies, candy canes, and rainbows. Oh yes, and also peace on earth. Peace on earth is for sissies."
Wilson turns his spoon upside down in his mouth before taking it out and digging into his cup for more. "And all this time I thought it was a good thing."
"That's just what they want you to think." You look down. Wilson's knee is leaning against yours. "No kissing in public now," you tell him seriously. "Cuddy has spies."
"Believe me," Wilson says. "I have no intention of kissing you in public. You may not be aware of this, but I am married."
"Yeah," you agree. Wilson looks tired. You push back a little with your knee. Just a little. You have another spoonful of ice cream and try not to think about sex.
Across the room you notice Foreman and Cameron whispering to each other at another table. You hope to god that Foreman didn't propose. When they see you watching them they look away simultaneously, and something tells you that's not what they're discussing.
You make a mental note to give them extra work today, and ignore the part of you that sort of wants to hear what they're saying.
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of Fox Television, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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