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Slip Sliding Away
by Mer
On Friday, it snowed. Snow was a fact of life in the northeast, but that didn't mean House had to like it. He had never been a fan of winter sports before the infarction. Now the cold made his ruined thigh muscle ache in a way that Vicodin couldn't ease, and icy sidewalks made every step a gamble. Winter was bad enough, but it was just days before the spring equinox and it was still snowing. House was not a happy man.
He made it home without incident and settled in for the weekend. His team didn't have a case, and he did have menus for a dozen restaurants that delivered. There was no reason to leave his apartment all weekend. He made himself a peanut butter sandwich, grabbed a beer, and settled on the couch for the evening.
He was on his third episode of Law and Order when the phone rang. He ignored it and let the machine pick up.
"House. House, I know you're there. Pick up. Please." That was interesting. Wilson almost never pleaded. It was almost interesting enough to pick up. But not quite. He heard Wilson sigh and then the line disconnected. A minute later his cell phone rang. He let it go to voice mail and waited for it to ring again. He waited until the show broke for a commercial and then flipped it open. "Talk fast," he snapped.
"Car died. Need a ride."
He had to give Wilson points for compliance. And rhyming. But the commercial break would be over in another minute and he was settled in for the night. "Call a cab."
"I already did. They're slammed because of the weather. I could walk faster than they could get here."
"Then walk." House hung up and turned his full attention back to the television. Fortunately, he hadn't missed anything important. Ten minutes later, his cell phone rang again. He glanced at the caller ID and rolled his eyes. Wilson again. "Busy," he said and hung up. The phone didn't ring the rest of the night.
Monday was cold and slightly overcast, though warm enough that it was more likely to rain than snow. Still, House navigated the sidewalks and parking lot between his apartment and the hospital with extra care. He had no intention of falling and becoming the centre-ring attraction for a crowd of cretins. His victory in the epic parking spot battle with the wheelchair interloper meant something in practice, not just principle.
Wilson hadn't called all weekend, which meant he was pissed off or sulking. That was fine with House. The last thing he wanted to do when his leg ached from the unexpected cold was to listen to Wilson bitch about what an inconsiderate asshole he was. It wasn't news, he wasn't going to change, and he wasn't going to start his week with a Wilson lecture.
When he got into the office, Cameron was lying in wait with a file. Normally he liked to ease into the day with a cup of coffee on the balcony, or an hour so locked in his office with his iPod on speakers, but he didn't want to risk an early confrontation with Wilson, and he needed a greater distraction than his usual playlists.
"Gimme," he said, waggling his fingers at the file. "But if I figure this out in less than an hour, you're fired."
Cameron just raised an eyebrow and handed over the file, either confident in the emptiness of his threat or in the difficulty of the case. "Twenty-nine-year-old female, presenting with fever, muscle pain, rash, and swollen lymph nodes."
"Pack your bags. It's an infection."
Cameron didn't move. "Her lab work is showing elevated serum lactate dehydrogenase levels, but she's HIV negative."
"Infection," House repeated. "Test for histoplasmosis. It's disseminated and her lymph nodes are swollen because she has lymphoma. You're still fired."
"The biopsy was negative," Chase contributed. "Not lymphoma."
"Who did the biopsy?" House asked. For the most part, the oncology department was competent, but he'd learned the hard way that they were capable of misdiagnosing the only disease they had to worry about. Especially that moron Stein.
"Lab work comes from an HMO."
"Do it all over again. God knows what those idiots missed or thought they saw." Maybe Cameron was onto something after all. The only thing better than cracking a difficult case was exposing incompetent colleagues. He'd get Wilson to do the biopsy once the new lab work was back. Wilson was annoying, but at least he could be trusted to do a basic procedure correctly. "If it's not lymphoma or histoplasmosis, what else could it be?"
"Systemic lupus erythematosus," Foreman suggested. House wondered if it was his turn to have lupus shot down.
"Sweets syndrome," Chase countered.
House cross-referenced those possibilities against his internal Rolodex of diseases. "Could be cutaneous Kikuchi." He liked the sound of that best. Not only did it roll nicely off the tongue, it meant the patient would be out of mind as well as out of sight by end of day. "All right. Check for elevated erythrocyte sed rates, leukopenia, leukocytosis, and lymphocytosis. Get a CT to check for splenomegaly or hepatomegaly." He waved them away and retreated to his office.
Waiting was always the hardest part of any case. He could devise treatment plans based on a dozen different scenarios, each one a different path heading off from the results, but until the results were known, it was all just speculation. In this case, one of the two most likely paths led to a possible death that he could do nothing about, while the other would mean a full recovery — unless they treated her for the first.
He was almost ready to venture out onto the balcony and risk a round of Wilsonian platitudes — because aggravation at least made the time pass faster — when Foreman stormed into his office.
"What have you done to piss off the lab techs now?" he demanded. "They won't process any of our tests without authorization directly from Cuddy."
It could have something to do with the memo he'd received last month warning him that he was six months behind in his paperwork — or at least the paperwork not completed by Cameron. As if paperwork were more important than a patient's life. House reached for the phone to call Cuddy, but decided it was far more satisfying to browbeat her in person. "Give me ten minutes to remind Cuddy that we're here to treat patients, not pander to bureaucratic whims."
Anticipation of a good verbal smackdown dulled the pain in his leg as he hurried down to Cuddy's office, whipping himself into a frenzy of outrage by remembering that there would be no more new episodes of The OC. By the time the elevator reached the lobby and he pushed open Cuddy's office door, he was ready for a fight to the death.
Sadly, he wasn't able to interrupt a phone call, or break up a meeting. In fact, it looked suspiciously like Cuddy had been expecting him. Good. That meant he wouldn't have to wait for her to warm up.
He opened with an obvious, but effective, shot. "I have a patient dying and the drones in the lab won't do anything until Mommy says it's okay."
Cuddy put down the file she'd been pretending to read. "I pay for subscriptions to journals in ten different languages for you. And yet you seem incapable of reading a simple memo in English, or signing your name to paperwork other people have already completed for you."
"I can't sign," he countered. "My wrist hurts. Repetitive motion injury," he added, moving his hand suggestively.
"Then maybe you should consider abstinence. Or is that word not in your vocabulary?" She stood up and moved around to the other side of the desk, revealing a lamentably non-revealing outfit. "I have some other words for you to learn. Responsibility. Consideration. Friendship."
House realized they were arguing about different things. "You sent that memo out three weeks ago. Why did you choose today to cut me off?" Cuddy always had an ulterior motive for enforcing the rules. She didn't waste ammunition on a single target. "You lured me down to your office on a manufactured pretence, you're blocking my ability to do my job, and you're wearing pants and a sweater vest. You're punishing me for something." He planted his cane in front of him and leaned forward. "Will there be whips and handcuffs involved?"
"Only in your next hallucination. Though if I thought it had the slightest chance of teaching you a lesson, I'd give it a try. You are the most selfish, egotistical, self-centred man I've ever met!"
Just as House was beginning to wonder if she'd had thesaurus.com open on her browser, Cuddy stopped mid-rant and stared out at the lobby. "I thought I told him..." Her voice trailed away as she brushed past House and strode out of her office.
As much as the reprieve pleased House, he still didn't have his authorization back, so he trailed after her, just barely preventing the door from swinging back in his face.
Wilson was standing by the nurses' station, glancing through messages. That wasn't surprising. What was surprising was that it was nearly eleven and Wilson had apparently just arrived. Wilson was never late on a Monday morning. He liked to get an early start on the backlog from the weekend.
House quickened his pace. Listening to Cuddy turn her synonyms on Wilson would be a nice change. It wasn't often that he got to see Dr. Not-So-Perfect put in his place. He usually only heard about it later over a pitcher of beer and a plate of nachos. For all his faults, Wilson never failed to share the details of his personal humiliations. He seemed to think it cheered House up.
"What are you doing here?" Cuddy demanded as soon as she reached Wilson's side. She wasn't angry, though, which intrigued House even more.
As did the involuntary flinch and groan Wilson let out at the sound of her voice. House took a closer look. Wilson looked like crap. His hair was cowlicked, his face pale, and his eyes dark and pinched with pain. He was hunched slightly over the desk, and when he turned to face Cuddy, he moved carefully and without twisting any part of his body. Headache, House assessed. General body ache. Wilson either had the flu or one hell of a hangover. And since it wasn't flu season, and Wilson would never expose his precious, immunocompromised patients to even a simple cold, it had to be a hangover.
Wilson looked briefly at House, and then glanced away. "I'm just going to pick up some files from the office, and then I'll go home."
Cuddy glared at him. "No files. No work. What did I tell you yesterday?"
"Touch me here?" House suggested.
The glare transferred to him. "Shut up, House."
"Wow. That must have been a blow to his ego. Though it doesn't surprise me at all that you're bossy in the bedroom."
But Cuddy had all her attention focused on Wilson, which was wrong on so many different levels. "The files can wait," she told Wilson. "If there's anything urgent, I'll arrange for one of your attendings to handle it. Go home and rest. That is an order."
House's eyes widened. "Wild weekend, Cuddy? Did you tire out poor Jimmy? All that hotel living must have made him soft. Though hopefully not too soft," he leered.
Cuddy whirled around, angrier than he'd ever seen her, and he saw her angry on a daily basis. "This is not a joke. This is not one of your elaborate fantasies or conspiracy theories. If you can't be helpful — and you proved that this weekend — then go play with your toys, or hide away and watch your soaps. Just get out of my sight."
Interesting. Cuddy was in full Mama Bear mode, which was always enjoyable to watch. But her cub had slipped away the moment her back was turned and was stepping into the first open elevator. "You really know how to clear a room," he observed, preserving in memory the look on Cuddy's face when she realised that Wilson was gone.
"This is not funny," she said. "I thought somewhere, buried deep in your fossil of a heart, you cared about him. I guess I was wrong."
House rolled his eyes. "I'm supposed to feel sorry for him, because he tied one on this weekend and is paying for it now? What did he do, drink himself into a stupor on those mini-bar bottles, and then drunk dial you?"
Cuddy grabbed his arm and pushed him in the direction of her office. "Get in there and stop slandering your best friend in public." She glanced back at the elevator, a worried frown creasing her forehead, and then herded House behind closed doors. "You are unbelievable. He called me on Friday night, because he slipped on a patch of ice and fell hard. He needed four stitches in his scalp, and he jarred his back badly enough that he could barely move, which is why he should be in bed, not sorting through patient files."
"When on Friday night?" House asked. He was fairly certain he already knew the answer.
"Just before 9." Cuddy crossed her arms over her chest. "Right after he called you, I'm guessing."
"You're guessing?" Wilson hadn't said anything, then.
"I asked him why he hadn't called you. He said he was proof that it was too dangerous for you to be out." Her voice was taut with anger and colder than the snow on the ground. "What did you do? Not answer or hang up?" She didn't miss the way he could no longer meet her glare. "I wonder how long he waited for you to call back before he swallowed his pride and called me?"
House could check his cell phone log for the exact number, but he knew it had to be at least ten minutes. He tried not to think about Wilson lying on the sidewalk, cold, bleeding, and in pain. "You told me what he said. He understands."
"He understands. I don't. Look at me and tell me you didn't help him because you were worried about the snow, and not because you didn't want to miss half an hour of a show you'd already Tivo'd."
House couldn't. It wasn't that he doubted his ability to lie convincingly. It was that lying was too easy. So he said nothing, which was an answer in itself.
"You're a bastard," Cuddy said. "How many times has he dropped everything to be at your beck and call? When was the last time you did something for him?"
House did things for Wilson all the time. He just couldn't think of any specific examples at the moment. "We have a give-and-take relationship," he replied with more levity than he felt. "He gives and I take. It works perfectly."
"For you," Cuddy agreed. "And that's all that matters, isn't it?" She shook her head. "Get out of here. I really, really don't want to see or talk to you right now."
It wasn't exactly the highlight of House's day either, but he had come down for a reason. "Will you at least talk to the lab about processing my tests sometime before my patient dies?" He rolled his eyes when Cuddy just stared at him. "What? The world is supposed to grind to a halt just because Wilson slipped on some ice? He's fine. Which is more than I can say for the poor sap my team is treating." That wasn't entirely true. The odds were his patient wasn't dying at all. But she was still in worse shape than Wilson.
"Is that what it would take for you to care?" Cuddy wondered. She snorted and shook her head. "Let me rephrase that. Is that what it would take for you to be interested?" She waved her hand dismissively. "Fine. I'll call the lab. But you're going to have to complete your backlogged reports before your next case, and the lab won't do anything today unless you put in a requisition."
House cocked his head to the side, considering. That was too easy. Cameron had already filled out the paperwork, and the rest could wait until the next time the lab threatened to hold back his test results. Cuddy couldn't be done yet. That barely registered as an inconvenience. And yet she was already on the phone, calling the lab. House edged away, wondering if he could escape without further penance, but Cuddy called him back before he'd even reached the door.
Cuddy had a slight, self-satisfied smile on her face, which told him she had just solved more than one problem. "While your team is doing the actual work, you'll be giving Wilson the ride home you owe him from Friday."
House couldn't pass by an opening like that. "I'm sure he'd much rather you give him a ride."
"Not while he has a bad back," Cuddy replied with a grin, and House shuddered, afraid she might be serious. "Go," she continued. "Do your tests and try to be a good friend for once." She waved the phone for emphasis, threatening to hang up.
"I don't do house calls," he retorted, reaching for the door handle.
"That's fine. You can find another way to diagnose your patient. Though I'm sure radiology would be thrilled to bump you to the bottom of every waiting list."
House paused, impressed by her gamesmanship. "You're going to put my patient at risk because I'm a crappy friend?"
"No. I'm giving you the excuse you need not to be a crappy friend."
He nodded his understanding, and let her have the last word for once. His return to Diagnostics was at a much more measured, and defeated, pace. "Go forth and test," he proclaimed to his gathered disciples when he reached the conference room. "I have made a deal with the devil to save our patient's life, if not her soul."
"And what price did Cuddy demand this time?" Chase asked.
House wondered if he were gathering pointers to deal with the next power-hungry billionaire. "I have to chauffeur a wounded oncologist."
Chase looked disappointed — his interest more schadenfreude, than scheming — but Cameron perked right up. "What happened to Wilson? He looked terrible when he walked past earlier."
That answered one question. Wilson had, indeed, gone straight to his office like a workaholic homing pigeon. "Don't be greedy, Cameron," House admonished. "You already have a new best friend forever. Leave Wilson alone."
The barb went wide. "If Cuddy has to bribe you to help him, maybe Wilson could use a new best friend himself." She didn't give him time to answer, just stalked away, the completed forms brandished before her like a shield. Chase and Foreman trailed in her wake, leaving House to brood in his office alone.
He glanced out the window, across the balcony to Wilson's office. The light was on, but he couldn't see from this angle if Wilson was at his desk. He thought about going outside to check, but that would send the wrong message if Wilson saw him.
Instead, he watched the hallway, waiting for Cuddy to storm up and demand that he fulfill his part of the bargain. He imagined her riding to Wilson's rescue on Friday night, comfortable yet vulnerable out of administrative armour, her fingers gentle as she parted Wilson's hair, but her shoulder strong enough to support him. House had neither strength nor gentleness to offer, and he hated Cuddy a little that she did.
He had nothing to offer Wilson, not even an apology. That didn't mean he didn't owe him one. He stood up and opened the balcony door to pay part of his debt.
He had a better sightline into Wilson's office now. Wilson's briefcase was visible on the floor next to his desk, but there was no sign of Wilson himself. House frowned and hopped over the low wall separating the two balconies. He was almost to the door when he saw the tip of an expensive brown loafer just poking past the edge of Wilson's couch. Three panicked steps brought him all the way to the door and a sight that reassured him only slightly. Wilson was lying on the floor of his office, one leg bent towards the ceiling and his jacket pillowed beneath his head. He was breathing and conscious, but House's imagination replaced the office floor with an icy sidewalk, and he felt a pang very close to guilt.
He stifled it by slamming open the door, causing Wilson to gasp in surprise and pain. "I've fallen and I can't get up," House cried.
"Go away, House," Wilson replied, turning his face away.
That wasn't going to happen. Wilson knew him better than that. House sat on the arm of the couch and stared down at him. "Why are you lying on the floor?"
"I'm trying to decide what colour to paint the ceiling," Wilson replied. "It's so hard to get the proper perspective unless you look directly up."
"Ah, that explains it." House didn't know whether to be pleased by Wilson's nonchalance or annoyed. "Get up, then. It's nearly lunchtime and I'm hungry."
Wilson just stared calmly up at him. "You're a grown man. I'm sure you can manage to feed yourself."
House nudged him with his cane, ignoring the hiss of pain Wilson tried to suppress. "Stop lazing around. You're giving hard-working doctors a bad name."
"I don't hear any of them complaining," Wilson retorted. He didn't move. House had seen corpses that were less rigid than Wilson. "What do you want?"
"I thought we'd already covered that ground. I mean about you literally covering the ground. Why?"
Wilson raised one arm and covered his face, wincing slightly at the movement. "I know Cuddy told you what happened. So stop prying for information that you already have." His mouth reset in a thin line. "You can leave now. Show's over."
As far as House was concerned, the show was just beginning. House sat quietly, watching Wilson's chest rise and fall with each breath. His leg ached and he glanced at his watch. It wasn't quite time for another Vicodin, but he didn't see any point in both of them suffering in silence. Wilson winced again when the pill bottle rattled, and House wondered if he should offer to share. "What are you taking?" he asked.
"Tylenol/Advil cocktail," Wilson replied. "Cuddy had me on T3s, but I don't need them any more."
"Obviously. Because lying on the floor of your office is a much more effective treatment." If Wilson was rejecting codeine, he probably wasn't interested in upgrading to hydrocodone. "You should have listened to Cuddy and stayed at home. I've heard tell that hotel rooms have these things called beds that are great for lying on." But most hotel mattresses he'd experienced were too soft or saggy for a bad back.
"My office chair is more comfortable."
"Which explains why you're lying on the floor."
The left corner of Wilson's mouth quirked up in a slight smile. "I was trying to stretch it out." He straightened his leg, winced, and bent it towards his chest again. "Not my most intelligent move," he admitted. "I'm not looking forward to getting up."
"No point putting it off any longer," House said. "Unless you're planning on spending the rest of the day down there."
"Just give me a moment," Wilson replied. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and sat up gingerly. He used the couch as leverage and started to push himself upright, but suddenly froze in mid-motion and hissed in pain. He managed to sit down on the couch, hunched forward, and pressed his left hand against his lower back.
House reached out to touch his shoulder, but then remembered that he didn't give a damn. "Cuddy give you any muscle relaxants?"
"Soma," Wilson gasped. "I have some samples in my jacket pocket."
House wondered why Cuddy hadn't given Wilson the Valium that was dispensed like candy in the clinic. He mentally ran through the various contraindications and interactions for diazepam and stored a list of interesting possibilities away for later interrogation. Wilson was probably in enough pain to cave quickly, but there was no challenge in that. House prided himself on his Wilson wrangling, but it required a defter touch than he'd shown recently.
He hooked Wilson's jacket with his cane and flipped it up in the air so that he could catch it. The samples were, as expected, safely tucked away in the inner pocket, because god forbid two days' worth of muscle relaxants might find their way into the wrong hands. He tossed the pills to Wilson, watching as he dry-swallowed two with some difficulty. Amateur, he thought, but was glad of it.
Wilson's briefcase was next, dragged along the floor by the handle until House could grab it. He pulled out the files and started sorting out anything that wasn't strictly patient related.
"What are you doing?" Wilson demanded, making a feeble grab for one of the discarded files. House tossed it out of reach.
"Did the head injury cause short-term memory loss or are you just ignoring Cuddy's orders?" he wondered. "I'll let you keep the files for tomorrow's appointments, because you'll get all stressed otherwise, but the rest can wait." He took the patient files over to Wilson's desk and cross-referenced them against his appointment book. "I'm ready whenever you are."
"Ready for what?"
House hoped it was just the meds kicking in that made Wilson stupid. "To leave. I'm taking you back to that warehouse for relationship failures. Cuddy's orders."
Wilson stilled. "Is that why you're here? Because Cuddy ordered you?" His tone was neutral, but House was used to hearing what wasn't there. He didn't like the sound of it at all. "Don't put yourself out," Wilson said flatly. "I can make my own way home."
House bit back the obvious reply that Wilson hadn't managed very well the last time. He was prepared to make amends, but not if he actually had to talk about his transgressions. "If I don't drive you, Cuddy'll pull my lab privileges," he whined. "She's probably hiding in her lair, watching for us to leave together."
"No, she's not," Wilson replied. "She has a lunch meeting with a new donor, and then she's at a seminar all afternoon." He leaned carefully back and crossed his arms over his chest. "Your lab privileges are safe. Go back to your office. I know how busy you are."
House put the patient files back into Wilson's briefcase and gathered the rest in a pile on his desk. "Okay, so you're pissed at me," he began, staring at the tips of Wilson's loafers.
"Am I?" Wilson interrupted. "Your perception is astonishing." Sarcasm sat as comfortably on Wilson as a lab coat did on House: He wore it from time to time, but it really wasn't his style. "Why don't you just go back to obsessing over your patient? It's what you want, isn't it?"
It wasn't what he wanted, not any more, but it was too late for anything else. "I may need a biopsy on her lymph nodes, depending on what the kids find. Rule out lymphoma," he added, still unable to look Wilson in the eye.
"I'll set it up. But one of my staff will have to do it. I won't be able to stand long enough."
House could relate. It was one of the reasons he had minions. But that didn't mean he wanted one of Wilson's minions. "You won't be here anyway. You're going home, remember? Cuddy's orders." House risked a glance upwards and was surprised to see a smug smile on Wilson's face.
"Who's going to tell Cuddy?" he asked. "You?"
"I'm not her only source." But the nursing staff liked Wilson — some a little too much for House's comfort — and Wilson's department was disgustingly loyal.
Wilson shrugged. "I'll just get a lecture on taking better care of myself. You'll be giving lectures to first-year med students for the next month."
Times like this reminded House of why he kept Wilson around. Wilson might not be able to stand, but he could manoeuvre House into the doghouse effortlessly. Admittedly, House had done most of the manoeuvring himself, but Wilson had found a way to punish House, be a stubborn jerk, and still look like the good guy. "So you're just going to sit here in pain to prove a point?"
"I'm going to sit here in pain because I have a job to do. I would have thought you, of all people, could understand that."
"I'm always in pain," House retorted. "I don't have a choice. Whereas you can stay at home, follow doctor's orders, and not make things worse."
"Oh, don't pretend you care," Wilson snapped, and House was relieved to see the anger he'd been expecting finally make an appearance. "If you cared, you would have called me back sometime in the past 48 hours. If you cared, Cuddy wouldn't have to bribe you to do what any other person would do voluntarily."
"I have a patient," House protested.
"Who's not going to get any worse in the thirty minutes it would take to drive me home. Thirty minutes that you would have spent playing your GameBoy or bothering me anyway." Wilson took a deep breath and shook his head. The anger was already gone, replaced with weary resignation. "Go away, House. I'll tell Cuddy you tried to do your duty. You're in the clear."
He didn't want to be in the clear. He didn't want Wilson just to accept his bad behaviour. He didn't want to change, either, but he wanted Wilson to believe that he could. One of them had to have faith in something beyond his ability to do his job. He grabbed Wilson's jacket and briefcase and dropped them on the couch next to him. "I'm taking you home now," he said, just as one of his hired monkeys paged him to the lab.
Wilson waved him away. "Go. It'll drive you crazy if you wait." Even the resignation was gone.
Still, House hesitated. "Are you going to be all right?"
"Does it matter?"
It did, but not enough. House wondered if it would ever be enough. He wondered if Wilson would still be around when it was. He wanted to apologize for leaving, for not being there in the first place, but he couldn't find the words. It didn't matter. The time for forgiveness had slipped away on an icy sidewalk on Friday night.
House walked out, afraid to look back and see the disappointment on Wilson's face, but even more afraid not to see it. Some questions even he didn't want answered.
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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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