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Twilight
by Mer
James Wilson stared at the spreadsheet on his computer screen and sighed. He'd just spent the last hour cross-referencing every item on the G/L against his internal records, only to discover a simple formula adjustment that suddenly resolved the discrepancies. Suddenly, if one ignored the hour he'd just wasted. He saved and closed the file. At least he'd accomplished one thing, even if it had taken twice as long as it should have. Now all he had to do was check and authorize the staffing schedules for the next two weeks, update his charts, review the files for his upcoming patient appointments, and answer the emails he'd been putting off all day. It was nearly seven in the evening. He'd be lucky to get out of the office before nine. But it wasn't as though there was any reason to go home. He pushed that thought aside. Paperwork was painful enough without wallowing in guilt and self-pity.
The truth was, he actually enjoyed being able to finish a project and put it away. As satisfying as it was to tell a patient he or she was in remission, that the cancer was gone, there was always the unspoken question, But for how long? Balancing a budget might not save a life, but it made it possible for someone else to save a life.
Two hours passed and he made good headway, finishing off the most pressing paperwork and getting his inbox down to double digits. He was halfway through reviewing his files when he saw movement on the balcony out of the corner of his eye.
Gregory House slid open the balcony door and stuck his head in. "Dr. Wilson, can Jimmy come out and play?" He adopted a wide-eyed expression to match the lisping, childish voice.
Wilson glanced at the file he was reading and decided he could take a break. "As long as he's home before curfew." He stood up, arching the stiffness out of his back. "What are you doing here so late?" he asked. As far as he knew, House's only patient was well on her way to recovery.
"Lupus girl developed some new symptoms that Cameron thought I needed to know about immediately." He grimaced. "It was just a reaction to the combination of meds. Boring." House cocked his head to the side, taking in the paperwork still on Wilson's desk. "What about you? Shouldn't you be home with the wife?"
"It's golf league night." Wilson glanced at his watch. "They've probably just hit the bar." Julie wouldn't be home until midnight if past Tuesdays were anything to go by.
"Well, what's good for the goose is good for the gander." House backed outside and beckoned Wilson to follow.
Wilson tidied the folders on his desk and saved his electronic files before heading outside in time to see House slide over the low wall that divided their balcony. He hesitated and watched House disappear into his office, only to reappear a minute later, sans cane, carrying a bottle and two glasses. He ducked back into his office and grabbed the cigar from his desk that a grateful patient had given him that morning, apparently without irony, and joined House on the other side of the balcony.
"What's the occasion?" he asked, handing House the cigar. House, he knew, was all about irony. He eased his own guilt by telling himself that House's liver would give out long before his lungs.
"Does there have to be an occasion?" House replied, smelling the cigar with appreciation. "Do I need a reason to share a drink with my bestest bud?"
"Most people wouldn't. But you always have a reason." He watched House uncork the bottle and splash amber liquid into each glass. He was close enough to smell smoke and spice and his thoughts turned to peat and windswept northern isles.
House handed him one of the glasses. "I thought you could use a drink."
"And what led you to that brilliant deduction?" Wilson asked, not because he disagreed, but because House's logic was always fascinating to follow.
House held up one hand, index finger extended. "Because you've been chained to your desk for more than four hours and no one likes paperwork that much, not even you." He raised a second finger. "Because Julie used to play golf with you, but you haven't had a game together since last fall, and it's obviously not because she's given up golf." Finger number three. "Because according to my sources, I owe you money and you can take it out of the scotch."
Wilson decided that if he hadn't needed a drink before, he needed one now. He resisted the urge to down the scotch in one gulp. "Well, the 42-year-old mother of three did thank me when I told her the cancer had metastasized to her liver, but her husband hit me, so I don't think that one really counts," he replied.
"Give me back the scotch, then," House joked, making a half-hearted attempt to snatch the glass back.
Wilson laughed and turned away, shielding the glass with his body. He winced, though, when House grabbed his arm to pull him back around. He cursed himself. It was like waving a red flag at a bull.
"How hard did he hit you?" House demanded.
Wilson forced himself to uncurl and smile reassuringly at House. "Not hard. He was upset. He needed to strike out at something. It happens." It happened two or three times a year, but Wilson had learned when to anticipate a violent reaction and was usually prepared. The new bruise on his bicep stung a bit when he moved, but it wasn't worth complaining about. "You hit me harder last week."
Their latest argument over House's too-early request for a Vicodin refill had escalated into a shouting match that House ended by jabbing Wilson in the stomach with the tip of his cane. Wilson had been stunned into silence and he'd stood there gaping at House until the absurdity of the moment first made him chuckle and then howl with laughter. House had stared at him as if he were insane, and then turned to stalk off, though not before Wilson had seen a smile on House's own face.
"You deserved it," House replied, smirking. It didn't mask the anger in his eyes, however, and Wilson made a note to make sure that House never met his patient's husband. "You know the rule," House said seriously. "I'm the only one who's allowed to hit you."
House's concern, even couched in violence, warmed Wilson more than the scotch searing down to his stomach. "I'll be sure to mention that to grieving relatives and shell-shocked patients," he replied dryly.
House didn't say anything, which was always a reason to worry. He could parry House's words; it was harder to guard against his thoughts. Wilson took another sip of scotch and gazed out towards the horizon. The sun had set in a splash of pink and orange across the sky and dusk was shading the world to silhouettes. It was Wilson's favourite time of day - when the twilight illuminated just enough to fill in the rest with memory and imagination.
"Did your brother hit you?" House asked suddenly. It was an unspoken agreement between them never to mention Michael's name. House even followed it most of the time.
Wilson shrugged, trying not to show how the question disquieted him. "Sometimes. When we were little we fought like kids do. And later, when things got bad, he could lose control." He thought about the last time he had seen Michael and quickly pushed the memory away. There were some things House never needed to know.
"Did he hit Peter?"
"Not if I was around," Wilson said. For a minute he thought House would press further, but the older man just nodded and sipped his drink.
Wilson felt the tension ease from his body and he sank deeper into his chair, letting the burdens and pressure of the day flow away, at least for the moment. Wilson finished his drink and set it down on the arm of his chair. He leaned back and tilted his face into the night air, smiling when a warm breeze brushed his cheeks. A match flared, and then smoke wafted across the balcony. He turned his head slightly and watched House puff contentedly on the cigar.
"He wouldn't have hit you if I'd been around," House said, so softly that Wilson almost thought his imagination had conjured up the words.
Wilson held his breath, as if he could hold back time. It didn't matter that it was just a hypothetical statement, that nothing House said could change the past. It was enough to have House here now, sitting next to him in the twilight of a perfect spring day. He looked up and searched for the first star of the night, even though any wish now would be superfluous.
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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.
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