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Group Study
by gena
He watched them sometimes, not in a creepy stalker kind of way, not after the first time they'd caught him anyway, but in a covert I-should-write-this-down-for-an-article kind of way. Or so he justified to himself. He had other groups, more clinical conglomerations of people he studied on and off but those belonged to more - detached - categories; staff, visitors, psycho clinic patients, things like that. Those were things he was not and never could be, groups to which his professional objectivity only lent an intensity he could not achieve as a member of the group. He had no desire to be a member of any of the groups no matter how dedicated his study was though, again, a little voice insisted it was what he told himself and might not, in fact, be as true as he wished.
House planted himself in the corner of the cafeteria. He avoided the table he and Wilson normally occupied at noon, choosing the very last table on the left, the one clandestine couples favored for its palm-frond concealment. He had no official name for them, the group, he would have to come up with something for the article, for now he just thought of them as "like-minded idiots with limited social skills and loud annoying voices". LILSSLAV? It could work.
They trickled into the room, each with a tray and a look of pathetically hopeful expectation, their sappy gazes sweeping the room, lighting up like a day-glo puppy when they spotted others of their ilk. He reserved a special sneer for those losers, the ones of a herd mentality, who could only bask in reflected acceptance. But still, he studied them, noting their habits, their peculiar traits and wondered at the motives behind them.
House sensed a presence near to him and looked up into amused brown eyes. " Spy School letting you do a field exam?"
"Not spying," House muttered, stealing the drink off Wilson 's tray as he sat. "Studying." He jerked his chin at a noisy group of doctors. They lounged with lab coats unbuttoned, laughing and tossing straw wrappers at each other, a mangy herd of clones trying to give the illusion of nonchalant individuality when they were all cut from the same cloth.
"Yes, because surgeons are a fascinating breed," Wilson said and glared at his confiscated cup before sighing and seeming to decide doing without liquid refreshment would be easier than wresting control of it from House. "Why are you studying them. You hate surgeons. You hate everyone." House eyed him, one brow daring him to continue, but Wilson went bravely on. "Everyone but me, that is."
House turned away, muttering, "True, I don't hate you. I loathe you."
Wilson smiled, "Well, it is Valentines Day. I loathe you, too." House darted him a look, blue eyes flicking up to show silent laugher before he turned away again. "So, what is it that fascinates you about them?" Wilson moved the pickles from one half of his sandwich to the other and took a bite. House didn't answer, just kept staring at the group with a look of rapt attention. Wilson used House's distraction to study him in return; he would never admit it but watching House when he was absorbed in some riddle kindled a ridiculous sense of pride within him. He'd often imagined it was similar to the feeling a parent must have for a brilliant offspring. He snorted with laughter and nearly chocked on breadcrumbs.
House slowly turned to him, watching the flailing hand trying to snatch back the soda before shaking his head in disgust. "What are you doing?"
"D-dying," Wilson sputtered, finally managing to jerk the cup from House's grip and take a huge gulp of liquid. House went back to watching the others.
"They're sheep."
"Sheep?" Wilson sat back, shooting the group of doctors another look before saying. "Obviously. It explains the white coats."
"They all do the same thing." House poked the top piece of bread on the remaining half sandwich, searching for any trace of pickles before putting it back together, and stuffing a large portion of it into his mouth. "Woop bat tdem," he mumbled, "sita lik, dwess lik, fink eep other's thoughts," he finished, swallowing. "Sheep."
"They're friends," Wilson chided, "that's how friends act together."
"They aren't friends. They're social climbing idiots using each other for various reasons. See how Michaels is making a show of laughing at Conner's joke? He really doesn't think it's amusing, he's annoyed but doesn't want to let Michaels know. And Billings - she's only pretending to be hurt because she thinks Samuels is wondering if she'd be offended."
Wilson chuckled. "Just how many friends did you have as a kid?" He asked. He kept his tone light, teasing, giving House the chance to answer in kind. He'd always wanted to know, Wilson suspected the number would be in the single digits if House were going to be truthful.
"How many friends I had has nothing to do with this," House snapped. "I know people. Friends aren't like that, not real ones."
"How are real friends?"
Wilson watched House's gaze drop to the floor, his chin came to rest on his cane handle and he pursed his lips for a minute. "They don't have to tell jokes," he finally said. "They know what's funny and laugh at the right time. You don't pretend, and if you do they know and don't care. Friends - take care of you - protect you." The words of House's apology rushed back so quickly, so loudly, that Wilson heard only the blood singing in his ears for a moment. He'd thought at the time House had meant it and then later, in the jail cell, House had convinced him it was a ploy, an act meant only to get House what he wanted. When he'd called House on it, House had told him to believe what he wanted all the while knowing Wilson would choose to believe. Double-think, triple-think, sometimes he didn't know what to think but here was House reiterating the words as if they did have some meaning. What was he suppose to think now?
"Even when you don't think you need it?"
House looked up then, his eyes shining with something Wilson couldn't name. "Especially when you think you don't need it." He looked away again, not towards the group of doctors but towards the windows and the sky beyond. "One," he said quietly. Wilson leaned into his field of view, brows drawn up like question marks. "One friend when I was a kid," House explained. "And Crandall when I was in college." He swiped the drink back, draining it in an annoying shriek. "And you." He got to his feet and turned to go, stopping almost instantly and looking back with that unreadable expression. Wilson met his gaze, seeing what he'd taken for unreadable was really a jumbled tangle of questions floating just beneath the placid surface. He rose to his feet, food forgotten and fell into step beside House.
"Pathetic," Wilson said softly. "I was captain of the football team, president of the student body and voted Most Likely to Succeed. People swarmed around me wanting to be friends."
House grunted, "And how many were you real friends with?"
Wilson sighed, "I thought all of them, but according to your definition - none." They passed the still laughing group of doctors, unaware of the eyes that turned to follow them, eyes that held equal parts disdain, bewilderment and envy. Wilson's shoulder brushed House's, his steps echoed in time with the uneven gait and he thought to himself, "I must have been waiting for the right one."
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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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