The Utterly Pointless House Story
by Michelle Christian
There were good days and bad days in James Wilson's world. Generally, good days involved spending lunch and 20 minutes here and there with House, listening him pontificate on why people sucked and why Felicia was never going to leave Jacob on General Hospital. By definition, good days also involved not having to tell anyone they would not get to see another birthday. Good days usually ended with House and him fighting over the remote for the TV in bed and not letting himself feel guilty for not going home to a wife who wasn't waiting for him anyway.
Good days, generally, did not involve his best friend putting him in an ethical and moral quandary which tore him between wanting to protect and help said friend and wanting to keep his own medical license. Some days did included that, and there were such days happening with an ever growing and alarming frequency, but they were generally not good days.
But today had also involved him not only not having to tell someone they were dying, but a woman actually being saved. And even if Wilson had wanted to hit House over the head with a copy of Gray's Anatomy, he hadn't. And he was still sitting on Greg's bed wearing his black t-shirt and boxers, trying to pretend he was reading the medical journal and not thinking about all the things that seemed to be looming over the horizon with the new administration.
Wilson sighed and thought he needed more categories for his days.
"What are you doing in there? You can tell me. I'm a doctor, you know," James called to the closed bathroom door. House had let James wash up first tonight (their one attempt at showering together had ended with a sprained wrist, a couple of bruised ribs, and the certainty that two grown men should never attempt such a thing ever again), and then had disappeared into the bathroom himself for a good 15 minutes. Since House was a man who seemed to relish giving him beard-burn and wasn't exactly the type to have a skin care regimen, Wilson knew from evidence and experience that he normally took no longer than five minutes every night.
"Mother will be so thrilled," came the reply through the still-closed door. "Don't worry, evidence suggests that if I haven't gone blind yet, I'm unlikely to now."
"You certainly know how to make a lover feel wanted," James said and continued trying to read about the latest in gene therapy. "I'd be insulted if it I didn't know it would please you so much."
He finally heard the door open. "Well, doc. Happy now?"
James glanced up and knew he did a double-take so classic, he knew he'd be hearing about it for years to come.
House did not apologize in the way that other people did. There were never cards or candy or even the oh-so-direct "I'm sorry," and James was okay with that. Instead, House apologized like a cat who left a present of a dead bird in your bed, purred at you while you petted him, then took a swipe at your arm when he was tired of it and ready to be fed. This was pure House: apology wrapped in a tease and a taunt and a mocking smile.
This was House standing with his cane in the middle of the room wearing nothing but his white lab coat.
For the first time in days, the tension in Wilson started to recede rather than build and he put his journal aside without looking at it. "Ecstatic."
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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.