| |
Condemned Man
by Slipstream
Looking back on it, Wilson could only wonder at how annoyed he must've been at House to have ever thought that this was a good idea.
Having gone through three sets of in-laws and been the best friend of a certified lunatic for over a decade, Wilson had had his share of awkward dinners. Still, none of that had quite prepared him for this particular dinner party. What had started as a way to repay House's peculiarly monetary assessment of friendship had become some sort of strange, horror-comedy version of My Dinner with Andre starring House, himself, House's parents, and Drs. Cuddy and Cameron. While no blood had yet to be shed, it was clearly only a matter of time. At least the tablecloths--a deep, rich crimson--wouldn't show the mess too badly.
"It was so nice of you to invite me along, Dr. Wilson," Cameron crooned from her position to House's left, conveniently ignoring the fact that she had invited herself.
If Wilson's answering polite smile was more than a little tight around the edges, nobody noticed. He was playing nice for House's parents--or rather, for Blythe--and damn if he couldn't play nice well. House was the only one who'd ever been able to see through the act, and at the moment he was determinedly not looking at Wilson, intent on fiddling with his dinner napkin. Then again, maybe it wasn't Wilson he was ignoring. John House was making pointed glances between his son and Dr. Cameron, who was basking in the attention. House refused to even acknowledge her presence, focusing on folding and refolding the cloth square in his hands into a series of floppy origami birds.
At least the restaurant itself was nice. It had an upscale, intimate atmosphere and a four-star menu that had gotten good reviews in several of Wilson's food and dining magazines. But despite all of that, it was the reputation of the live jazz piano player that had brought it to Wilson's attention. It seemed that even when he was intent on punishing House, the oncologist couldn't help but keep his tastes in mind.
It was crowded and their reservations had been made relatively late, but by slipping the hostess a fifty Wilson had managed to get their party of six seated around a long table close to the stage. John and Cuddy had sat across from one another at the head of the table, exchanging acknowledging glances of perceived dominance. House had immediately taken the seat furthest from his father, and his mother, as if expecting this, had chosen the seat across from his. Through much squirming, Cameron had managed to snag the space between House and Cuddy. Wilson, sighing in quiet sympathy for his friend, had taken his center court seat between John and Blythe and braced himself for the inevitable volley of insults and insinuations.
"We're glad to have you," said Blythe. "We so rarely get to meet any of the people Greg works with."
"Besides Wilson," John grumbled, squinting at the menu.
Wilson ignored the implied barb, but he caught the tail end of House's eye roll.
While Cuddy had seemed content to sit back and watch House squirm on the car ride over, now that the reality of a long, awkward hour and a half of small talk and expensive food loomed before her she slipped easily into the administrative charm that had gotten her the job as Dean of Medicine.
"To be fair, this is the first time your son has managed to keep any of his employees long enough for you to meet." The affectionate exasperation in her voice was aimed at House, but her slightly cold emphasis on the word `employees' was all for Cameron.
Their waiter arrived, hovering slightly within the circle of dim light cast the small cluster of candles at the center of their table. With a gesture Wilson indicated that they were not yet ready to order their entrees, but he chose a wine for the table. Cuddy nodded with approval at his selection. House remained quiet. Out of the corner of his eye, Wilson caught Blythe reaching surreptitiously across the table to stroke her son's hand, the motion open but cautious, as if House was a slinking stray she was trying to coax.
"He never did learn to work with other people." John frowned, closing his menu in frustration. "Too damn dark in here to read. I'm assuming they have steak."
"There's a marinated filet and a rib-eye," Cameron offered helpfully, prompting a small tirade from John about the proper serving temperature of red meat. Her water glass was edging further and further into House's personal space, its progress marked by a trail of wet circles on the tablecloth. Though House continued to ignore her, Wilson was happy to note that Blythe seemed to be giving the young fellow a softer, more socially polite version of the hairy eyeball. Cameron had all the subtlety of a drowning goose.
House's cell phone chirped once before launching into a slightly tinny rendition of "Fergilicious." Flipping it open, House silently held it up to his ear. No greeting was apparently necessary, however, as Wilson could just make out the wordless echo of conversation. Foreman, judging by the ringtone.
House listened intently, his gaze off in the distance as if thinking. He stood abruptly, interrupting the conversation at the other end of the table. "I've got to take this," he said to his mother, back to the rest of them. His words, the first he'd spoken since they'd stepped into the restaurant, cut decisively through the piano and polite conversation drifting around them. Blythe nodded, understanding, and he launched himself away from their table, moving as quickly as the plush carpet allowed.
Wilson frowned. House never excused himself to take a call. In fact, he made it a point to have loud, graphic medical discussions as publicly as possible, gleeful of the reaction it invariably invoked. He cast a quick glance towards Cuddy and Cameron to see if they had noticed as well. House's fellow was oblivious, but Cuddy met his look with a delicately raised eyebrow. Wilson shook his head, and decided to give his friend the benefit of the doubt.
After ten minutes had passed without House's return, Wilson excused himself to look for him. On his way to check the bathrooms (House, devoid of typical gender boundaries and enthusiastically public about his urination habits, was known to occasionally grace the women's restrooms at Princeton Plainsboro) Wilson gave the seating area a quick once-over, but in the dim mood lighting he couldn't spot him. After both bathrooms turned up empty (Wilson, unlike House, knocked before entering the women's), he made his way towards the entrance.
"Excuse me," he asked the maitre d'. "Have you seen a gentleman with a cane?"
She smiled politely and pointed towards the door. "He stepped out to take a phone call a few minutes ago."
"Did you happen to notice whether he got a leather jacket from coat check?"
"No he didn't, sir."
That made things a little easier. Cajoled by his mother into joining them for the drive over from the hospital, House had been forced to abandon his beloved two-wheeled death machine for the safety of their rental. He wasn't planning on making a quick exit via taxi, then. Wilson thanked the maitre d' and asked her to give his apologies to the rest of their party and to assure them that they would both return shortly.
Though the heat of summer still lingered during the day, the early fall evening was cool enough for Wilson to be glad of his dinner jacket as he stepped out of the restaurant. His breath misted slightly, and while the weather was far from the wet, icy mess of New Jersey winter, it was startling to realize that the year was passing so quickly.
All of their cars were still in the parking lot, but it was empty of people. Wilson looked around, trying to infer which direction his friend might have gone. The restaurant was upscale, but this was New Jersey, so the lot faced an all-night convenience store and gas station, the two properties separated by a high, scrabbly hedge. A gap in the foliage just smaller than a door allowed for pass-through between the two lots, and crouched there in the shadows was a human figure. Praying it wasn't some strung-out junkie after his wallet other than House, Wilson started walking.
Bits of stray trash were tangled in the roots of the hedge--beer bottles, empty bags of chips, and take-out wrappers--the dirt worn smooth and packed hard by foot traffic. House was seated on an overturned five gallon bucket, his back to Wilson, watching cars pull up to and away from the gas pumps. At the sound of Wilson's footsteps he turned, half-looking over his shoulder. Wilson caught the orange glow of a cigarette held loosely in his fingers. House nodded in acknowledgement and gestured for Wilson to join him.
"How's your patient?" Wilson asked, crouching slightly to fit into the small space. Underneath House's cigarette, the hedge smelled like weed, gum, and old urine.
"Most likely won't to live through the night." House exhaled, his breath blooming in a cloud of steam and smoke. "So it goes."
"And you're out here contemplating life, the universe, and everything?"
"Nah," he said, his voice dipping into a bad imitation of an English accent. "Just blowing a fag." He gestured with his cigarette obscenely.
Wilson's worry overrode his urge to grin. "It's been a while since you've smoked. You out of Vicodin?"
Letting the question hang awkwardly in the night air, House took several bored drags. "Want to be able to have wine with dinner and still ride my bike home," he finally answered with feigned casualness.
Which meant that House had had enough Acetaminophen today to make even him start to worry about his liver. "Your mom will be able to smell it. And your dad will definitely say something."
"Ah, there is none so vehemently anti-smoking as the ex-smoker." He held the pack out to Wilson. "Want one?"
"As an oncologist I'm morally obliged to say no." He took the pack anyway, holding it up to examine it in what light managed to filter in from the parking lot. It was new and uncrumpled, crisp and shiny even in the mottled shadows of House's little hidey-hole. The surgeon general's warning was bold and prominent, but the brand was obscured by an oversized orange price sticker bearing the logo of the convenience store.
"Got these while I was in there," said House, as if reading his mind. He picked up two of the beer bottles near his feet, and it was only then that Wilson noticed that they were full and still capped, unlike the myriad of broken and dirty empties that littered the ground. "Figured you'd want one, too."
Wilson raised an eyebrow. "Beer before wine, House?"
"Feeling fine," he quipped absently. "Drink up. You'll need it. I always need one when I'm having dinner with my old man, and this is better than the overpriced crap they sell in there."
There was no refusing that kind of logic. Wilson gave the cigarettes back to House and took the proffered bottle, clinking it briefly against House's in a half-ironic toast. House fished out his keys and used the bottle opener attached to the nauseatingly kitschy Cancun keychain he'd had as long as Wilson had known him to pop their caps. Wilson tugged at the knees of his slacks so he could squat on his haunches next to House's bucket, wishing briefly for the comfort of House's slightly urine-stained leather couch.
They drank in silent companionship. The beer was cold and good, washing away some of the tension in his shoulders. Five pulls away from the bottom of the bottle, Wilson finally spoke. "I didn't mean for Cuddy to come. And I really didn't mean for Cameron to invite herself."
House snorted. "But she did. And she did. And here we are."
Yes, here they were. Drinking beers in a hedge behind the kind of socially pretentious restaurant Wilson never would have been caught dead in at 20. Wilson could just see the waiters, dishwashers, and probably more than one less-than-enthusiastic restaurant patron sneaking back here during breaks and between courses to get stoned with the convenience store clerks. In his imagination, all of their faces were younger echoes of House's.
Closing his eyes, he chugged the last of his beer and stood. House, a connoisseur of alcohol in spite of his tendency to consume large amounts of it for effect rather than taste, scoffed. He was nearly finished with his own, but he sipped at the dregs with deliberately annoying delicacy.
"C'mon," said Wilson. "Time to face the firing squad." He let his bottle drop carelessly to the ground, getting a slight thrill out of the taboo of littering. It bounced off of a rock but didn't break.
House groaned but finished his beer compliantly, dropping his empty next to Wilson's. "At least I get a last meal out of the deal."
Wilson nodded once toward the rectangular bulge nestled against the bottle of Vicodin in his pocket. "To go with your cigarette."
Grunting, House fished his cane out of the tangle of hedge he'd propped it against and stood, knees cracking audibly. He swayed briefly, and Wilson, forgetting, reached out.
They were so close, shielded from the real world by the tight embrace of the hedge branches. Wilson's fingers hesitated as they brushed against the cloth of House's jacket.
House didn't move. The moment stretched out between them, and for a second Wilson thought they might stay just like this here forever, House warm beneath his fingers and smelling of smoke and drink, but then the pull of Cuddy and House's parents and Cameron all sitting inside waiting for him to continue his charade as a nice, socially upstanding oncologist with a bright future and two failed (one failing) marriages under his belt made him falter and step away and the strange mood the lingering smell of weed and House had put him in broke.
House's eyes were unreadable in the half-dark, but he quickly straightened, shifting his weight more securely on his cane and pulling an exaggeratingly comical expression of woe and suffering. "Aren't you supposed to blindfold me?" he said, inclining his head towards the restaurant.
Something was stuck in his throat, but when he spoke his voice came out normally. "Maybe later. If you're good."
House grinned. "Kinky."
"They're your kinks," he said in his best dead-pan. "I just indulge you in them."
House laughed, a genuine laugh loosened by beer and nicotine. Maybe this dinner wouldn't be a complete disaster, after all. "Humoring the dying man?"
Wilson's smile twisted uncomfortably in spite of himself. He had to look away. "I always have."
He could tell that House was looking at him, but he kept his attention turned towards the faint glow of the horizon beyond the line of the hedge. The leaves were changing. It wouldn't be long before they started to fall.
-fin
Please post a comment on this story.
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.
|
|
|