The House Fan Fiction Archive

 

Seasons of Love


by Miss Diagnosis


Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Six hundred minutes,
Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Moments so dear.
Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Six hundred minutes
How do you measure, measure a year?


Dr. James Wilson sat in his office at PPTH, savoring something that didn't happen often--a day free of obligations. No patients needed his attention, no charts left for his signature, no consults, and no boring board meetings where budget discussions went on nausea infinitum. He flipped through the pages of his desk calendar, over the past 52 weeks, ignoring his imminent dive into sentimentality. Today he just didn't care. Written in red ink, therapy sessions, doctor's appointments, and other days associated with House's recovery, were all carefully jotted so as not to be forgotten. Stacy's actions as medical proxy and failure to endure House's subsequent misery and distrust of all things human, left Wilson to pick up the pieces. No matter how busy Wilson got, he had always put his friend first He was brought back to the here and now by a quiet rap on his door followed by the quick tap-tap of a set of high heels heading his way.

"Everything all set?" Dr. Lisa Cuddy asked as she slipped into the office.

"Yeah, I just have to find House. Escape from clinic duty-he'll bite. Making Mr. `Everybody Lies' think it's his idea-Mission Impossible. He'll be suspicious if I suggest we leave since it's usually House with the Houdini act," Wilson told her.

"Well, he certainly won't believe I purposely kept him off clinic duty today just so you both can take the day off," she said with a slight sarcasm to her voice. "Best I can do is have my secretary page him to say I need him to lecture the Med Students in Diagnosis 101.that's sure to have him looking for a reason to leave the building," she finished with a grin. "Good luck," Cuddy told him as she walked to the door.

"Thanks for today." Wilson told her and with a slight hesitation, he added, "..and all the other days.you know."

"Yeah.I know," she sighed, turning back to him briefly with a wistful smile on her face, before leaving the office and closing the door. Words were unnecessary for their shared complicity in the campaign to save Dr. Gregory House.

With a satisfied smile on his face, he flipped the calendar back to today's date, circled three times in red with a big "X" through the day, preventing other appointments from being logged. He didn't really need his Day-Timer to remind him what today was, that date etched on his soul in laughter and tears. Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes of some of the best and the worst days of his life. With a final glance at his watch, he rose from his chair, pocketing a small box, wrapped in a sheet of the Sunday comics and tied with plain kite string, on his way out the door.

In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights
In cups of coffee
In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife.


Dr. Greg House leaned back on the Hospital bed he currently occupied. The scowl on his face gave evidence to the silent battle he waged with flying monkeys on his Game Boy so that when the door opened to admit a visitor, he didn't so much as glance away from his prey.

"So that's where you're hiding," Wilson smirked as he elbowed open the door to one of the rooms on a patient floor currently scheduled for remodeling. A cup of coffee in each hand, he sprawled in the chair next to the bed.

"Not hiding," House said without looking up, "Just saving Cuddy some money on renovations by doing her, professional courtesy," he huffed, daring Wilson to challenge his taste in all things artful.

Not taking the bait on House's "doing her" comment, Wilson volleyed back, "Coming from someone who's rarely professional, and hardly knows the meaning of courtesy, it will hardly break the bank."

"Just doing my part for our bottom line."

"Heart of gold you have, House, always looking for ways to increase our success sharing funds," Wilson continued, wafting the enticing aromatic brew under House's nose. "And of course, you can do this best from the perspective of a patient propped up in bed, I suppose."

"Observant as always, Dr. Wilson. What brings you away from your bald-headed brood this early in the day?" House asked with a only a hint of interest, his fingers lingering on Wilson's as he accepted the questionable gift of cafeteria coffee.

"Nothing really," Wilson's other hand ensuring that his friend had firm hold of the cup before reluctantly letting go. "I'm not even scheduled to work today. Just checking in before heading out for the day," Wilson answered as he rose and headed towards the door, hoping his friend would rise to the occasion and the bait.

"Wifey got the leash out to take you for a walk on the wild side again?" House asked, his radar fully engaged on his best friend now.

"Sharon's out of town for a few days visiting her mother. Just have the day off, and no real plans in mind.nothing special," Wilson lied, the day anything but ordinary. The speculative look on House's face worried Wilson. Please don't ask me this time, just once, let it go. House was drawn to a mystery like a pig to mud, happiest when he was wallowing in it. Luckily, the beep of House's pager followed by his muttered curse of "damned, Cuddy" reassured Wilson that their boss, true to her word, had come across with the threat of the dreaded lecture.

When Cuddy's number appeared on his pager, House knew nothing good could come of answering it, and looking up at Wilson as if he was the last life preserver on a sinking ship, House quickly seized the moment.

"OK, Footloose. Let's high-tail it to Home Depot to check out the tools and lumber." House suggested, sliding off the bed with a wince, rubbing his thigh.

"Home Depot on my day off? You've got to be kidding?" Wilson asked incredulously, quietly handing House his cane.

"Yeah, I am" House said, "but if I don't leave the building within 5 minutes, I'm afraid my new career in remodeling will come to a swift and painful end."

"Whatever you say, Bob Villa."

"Nah, more of a Norm Abram."

"How about grabbing an early lunch at the White Lion Inn, Mr. New Yankee, before checking out the wood," Wilson tempted House, knowing his friend loved the Ploughman's Lunch offered by the authentic British pub.

"Aw, you really know how to sweet talk a guy, Wilson, offering to pay" House kidded as he headed for the elevator, his friend at his side. With a roll of his eyes, he couldn't hold it back. "Just so you know, Wilson, I'm not sure it's a good idea being seen with you sportin' wood."

Wilson just shook his head, again the loser in their game of one-upmanship. "When do I get to stop being your straight man, House."

With a snicker, House said, "When you get a recurring role on Queer As Folk?"

In five hundred twenty-five thousand
Six hundred minutes
How do you measure
A year in the life?


How about love?
How about love?
How about love? Measure in love


The White Lion was quiet today at lunchtime, and the two friends were kicked back in a corner booth away from the bar, full from a good meal and savoring a pint of hard cider since they weren't due back at the Hospital. That is, Wilson wasn't due back. House had signed out on an urgent mystery errand.

As House was watching his beloved soap on the TV over the bar, Wilson enjoyed a rare moment of open regard of his friend. They shared a comfortable silence that only comes with the intimacy of good friendship, a friendship sorely tested over the last year. With that testing, though, had come a bond. Being honest with himself, in spite of all Greg's prickly moments, the man had grown dearer to him than his wife. Although usually careful about not being overly concerned and tender around a man who interpreted such gestures as pity, the congenial atmosphere of the pub and the soothing influence of the alcohol lowered Wilson's usual caution, as he reached out to House and brushed a casual hand down Greg's chest under the pretense of dusting a piece of food off of his coat.

At the quiet touch coinciding with a commercial break, House's attention returned to Wilson who didn't have time to wipe the quiet smile from his face.

"Out with it," House demanded, already suspicious of not getting an argument for his avoidance of Cuddy, and now this feeding and watering at one of his favorite places. "A lunch out is one thing. A 100-watt James Wilson special usually reserved for panty peeling means there's a price to pay, so what is it?"

"Can't I just enjoy your company without the inquisition, for a change?" Wilson covered, looking away from House's prying eyes, trying to maintain their usual banter to keep House's nosiness from ruining the moment.

"You said `nothing special,' so why do I feel like the unblemished lamb before Passover?" House commented, his usual sharpness of mind grabbing hold of his friend's earlier casual comment. "Your lips say `nothing special' but your eyes say `extraordinaire', mon ami!" House finished with a flourish.

Well and duly caught, Wilson figured it was time to come clean. Deciding to delay just a while longer, he told his friend, "Let's take a walk. It's too nice a day to spend inside."

Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Six hundred minutes!
Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Journeys to plan.


Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Six hundred minutes
How do you measure the life
Of a woman or a man?


Following a well worn-path through the nearby city park, House and Wilson walked side by side, the usual banter on hold. A small Scottish terrier running frantically from its owner, made an untimely dodge in front of House, knocking aside his cane and causing him to stumble. Not quite able to regain his balance, House was saved from an embarrassing, painful tumble by the quick, strong support of Wilson's arm around his waist. With a final protective glare to the dog's owner, Wilson put Greg back on his feet without a lot of fuss, knowing his friend's strong need for independence and denial of the image of cripple. Nothing more was said, help accepted as offered without question.

As they walked down the sidewalk in the sunshine, Wilson detoured to a secluded bench sheltered by bushes and trees, offering a welcome rest for his walking-challenged friend. Sitting together in companionable silence, the cap back on his Vicodin bottle, House's pain eased while his patience wore thin. With a nudge of his shoulder to Wilson's, House started humming the theme to Jeopardy and speaking in his best sing-song voice, "Eat and drink. Walk and talk. We're up to the talk part now, Wilson."

"Greg, do you know what day it is? Wilson queried, not looking at his friend, but off in the distance.

"Well, duh, dude. Last I looked it was the day after the weekend. Admittedly, better than the usual mournful Monday's snotty nosed brats in the clinic and idiots at work annoying the hell out of me," House observed, still eyeing Wilson with curiosity.

Turning his head to look at House, Wilson told him, "One year, P.I. Three hundred sixty five days ago, you started on a journey."

Quickly turning his head away, House couldn't quite welcome Wilson's announcement. "A journey not chosen by me," he muttered, dropping his head down, intently tapping his cane on the ground between his feet, his desire to avoid this conversation evident. "Stacy started us down that road, then kicked me out of the car and left me on the road to fend for myself."

"Maybe, Greg, but not alone."

House looked at Wilson, for once seeing the seriousness of his friend's demeanor and the suspicion of moisture brightening his eyes and heard the truth in those words. The usual sarcasm failed him in the depth of that scrutiny. "Guess not..someone always nagging me, mother-henning me. A pain in the ass kicking me in the ass," House answered with difficulty around the sudden lump that choked his throat.

With a quiet chuckle, Wilson acknowledged House's memories with his own. "A kick in the ass of a jackass who doesn't know what's good for him. And like a stubborn mule, you never gave up." God, if you only knew how I prayed you never would, Wilson mused.

In a rare moment of candor, House's vulnerability was revealed to the one person who he'd always trusted with everything. With a slight wobble in his voice, House looked into brown depths locked onto his own blue and pressed, "And when I ranted, screamed, and kicked, you were just as stubborn, Jimmy." When everyone else saw the bitter cripple, you always seemed to see something worth saving when no one else could. Not even me, House thought. "Guess I forgot the Hallmark, huh?"

Wilson smiled at the use of his name not often voiced, but always welcomed coming from his friend. "No card necessary. I've gotten pretty fluent in reading between the lies," Wilson told him, tears unashamedly glistening in his eyes.

Seasons of love, Seasons of love
In truths that he learned,
Or in times that he cried.
In bridges he burned,
Or the way that he died.


House closed the door of his apartment as Wilson preceded him into the living room, bags of take-out Chinese in tow. After a detour to the kitchen for beer, House dropped onto the couch beside Wilson instead of the usual armchair he favored. After a day of doing nothing in particular, they were both surprisingly tired in a good way. Flipping on the TV to watch the news, they ate in companionable silence, House giving his usual armchair commentary on the newscaster's spin as he stole Kung Pao Beef from Wilson's carton of food. As the night drew late, the two men leaned into the warmth of each other, until the small box that nestled in Wilson's pocket all day made its presence known by digging into House's good leg.

"Is that a screwdriver in your pocket, Wilson, or are you just trying to give me matching scars?" House kidded.

"Oh! I almost forgot. I-uhm.I got you something...you know, to mark the day," Wilson told him, rolling slightly to reach into his pocket. He withdrew the small package and palmed it in his hand as if to hide it, suddenly self-conscious and at a slight loss how to start.

"Does the card say, `Happy Nothing Special Day?" House joked, but soon sobered at the pink tinge of Wilson's cheeks. Touched by his friend's reticence and sudden shyness with him, House felt his heart melt a little. In the privacy of his home, layers of the gruff man with the sharp barbed tongue peeled away, revealing the marshmallow center that only James Wilson was ever allowed to glimpse. Not even Stacy had brought out that part of him.

"Everything we've been through this year, Greg.the surgery, the recovery, the therapy and the pain that came with it...even the damned pills that I wish you didn't need. I just. I'm proud how far you've come. It wasn't a walk in the park. I know the pain is real and a constant reminder. You think `my pathology', as you put it, is that I care too much, but there's nothing wrong with not wanting to see your friend so damn miserable." Wilson finished the last words, slightly out of breath at his speech, more words and feelings than he had shared with House all year. Once the words started, he couldn't contain them or the emotion beneath them.

It's time now to sing out,
Tho' the story never ends
Let's celebrate
Remember a year in the life of friends
Remember the love!
Remember the love!
Seasons of love


Wilson opened his palm to hand over the box in its simple wrappings. House reached out with both hands to warmly enclose the hand of his friend, a gift more precious than anything that could be contained within the box. Warmed by the acknowledgement of the painful days he'd endured, House's pain was eased by the quiet but steady sustenance of a friend always at his side.

He let out a quiet chuckle at the "special" wrapping paper Wilson had chosen, speaking to him in a shared language. The graceful fingers carefully pulled open the simple kite string bow and slipped the paper from the box. Lifting the box lid, House gazed down and carefully removed the small silver pendant on the thin black cord. On the pendant was engraved a labyrinth, and the man with the stubbled face tried to work out what it meant.

Seeing his friend's dilemma, Wilson quietly spoke these words to his friend. "The labyrinth' is an ancient symbol, more than 3500 years old, representing wholeness. I know you think you've lost something, but you're wrong. Everything that makes you the man you are is still there, maybe more. When the labyrinth is transferred to the ground and walked with purpose, it becomes a metaphor for the journey of life. It's a single path to our center, our innermost self."

Touched to the point of silence, House handed Wilson the pendant, his eyes asking his friend to place the pendant around his neck where he could wear it under his shirt. House palmed the pendant in his hand, his thumb carefully tracing the path of the labyrinth, as he gently smiled at James, tears shamelessly flowing down his face.

Wilson was heartened by the tears on House's face and gently wiped them with the back of his hand, moved to remove them in other ways, but now was not the time. This rare glimpse at the hidden side of his friend would be carefully tucked away from sight tomorrow. He continued on saying, "So when you press your fingers to the labyrinth, remember your journey. No matter how many fights we have over the pills or my love life, you won't have to walk it alone."

As they headed off to bed, the precious gift held close to him, even the wrapping paper, House told him with mirth, "See you in the funny papers, Wilson!"



And if House didn't really believe in happily ever after or that the road ahead was free of ruts and potholes, he refrained from his usual sarcasm to Wilson. For the first time in a very long time, he was reassured that any rough journey ahead would be a little less bumpy with a friend like Wilson as a travel companion.

Oh you got to got to remember the love! Remember the love,
You Measure in love know that love is a gift from up above
Seasons of love.


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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 NBC/Universal, 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.