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Between a Pact and a Hardplace
by Spookykat
AN: Much thanks to Nutmeg4077 for the beta!
Doctors Lisa Cuddy and James Wilson had an agreement. More of a pact, really.
Some (themselves included) might have called it a suicide pact. The
object of the pact in question had a certain well-developed taste for self-destruction, and
had absolutely no regard for the people caught up in the wakes as a result of these self-
destructive tendencies.
Oh, not the run of the mill bullet-to-the-brain type of
self-destruction, as much as James wished it were.
Dr. Gregory House's brand of self-destruction was a lot more complicated than
that. It would have been easier to protect a man from a gun, or a
knife, or any kind of weapon of choice, James used to think.
But what do you do when the weapon is within? Something you can't
take away? Something--James was realizing lately--he wouldn't want to
take away even if he could.
You can just take away any weapons, or bind hands. James shook off the sudden image
he got in his mind of his friend's hands and leg tied artfully to a four-poster.
James would have enjoyed it. But the enjoyment, he was certain, wouldn't have been
mutual. House was too wrapped up in metaphorical bondage to enjoy real, physical
bondage.
It would be the lack of control that House would hate, James realized.
"He's so in control that he's lost control completely."
That was the statement that opened up conversation between James and Cuddy a year
ago. That conversation had lead to the pact.
But James found out a long time ago that you couldn't control House, anymore than you could control a ship in a violent
storm. All you could do was ride the waves and hope you won't drown. Wilson realized
that a long time ago, and so did Cuddy. The difference between the two was that Cuddy
tried (possibly because it was in her better interest for the sake of her job) to change him.
James knew better.
Because House was a weapon, a force of both absolution and destruction in and of
himself. That's what made him...well...House.
Cuddy stopped trying to understand him years ago. Wilson understood. But what's the
point of knowledge when there's no way to act with it?
All he could do when House...did what he does best...was try to soften the blow. Why
he did it remained a mystery to everyone, even himself.
If he were to be honest with himself, James spent time with House because he liked
feeling better about himself.
He, after all, wasn't addicted to Vicodin. He didn't push love away.
Except when he did.
He had pushed Julie away, after all. And, well, pretty much everyone else he'd ever been
involved with. Romantically or otherwise.
That was why he had just loaded the last of his necessities in his suitcase.
Enough to get him through the next couple of weeks.
But that didn't matter. House's shortcomings and hang-ups made James look like the
King of the Well-Adjusted.
The King of the Well-Adjusted, James reminded himself ruefully, does NOT need the
Prince of the Mal-Adjusted to clean up after him.
No, it wasn't that he needed House.
Where else are you going to go? nagged The Little Voice inside his head.
Before he knew what he was doing, he found himself at House's door with suitcase in
tow. He wasn't really sure what made him think House would be capable of compassion
or pity, or any emotion remotely human.
He was the one looking out for House, after all, thanks to that pesky little pact that
seemed to consume his energy and time (and marriage, incidentally). Not the other way
around.
Cuddy certainly wasn't holding up her end of the deal. Not much, anyway. Of course, she
was a very busy person. Not that he wasn't. He just had to take up her slack. That's all
there was to it.
You're not asking him to look out for you. Little Voice argued reasonably. You're asking
him to let you sleep on his couch.
He didn't know how long he stood there, listening to House playing the piano on the
other side of the door.
There was something odd in the music itself, James noticed. Something missing.
The man played the piano like most people played a video game. It was technically
flawless but methodical and devoid of interpretation and feeling. Even with something as
intrinsically human as music, James thought, House seemed as detached and emotionless
as he was in his work regarding his patients. He didn't have to wonder whether or not the
Vicodin had something to do with that. He wondered if he could do something to stop the
addiction. There were several clinics in the area.
Not so much because he thought House would be different off the Vicodin. Just to give
other people a chance to see that he's like that he has no excuse to be who he was.
He decided there wasn't.
House was House was House, Vicodin or no.
The sun would shine, the rain would fall, and House would screw things up, in grand
fashion. He didn't need the drugs to help him do that.
Of course, Little Voice piped up, being in such close quarters with House might have
certain advantages. This would, after all, Little Voice persisted, be a great way to keep a
closer eye on House.
At least Cuddy wouldn't have to worry so much.
James let out a breath he didn't know he was holding in and raised his hand to knock on
the door.
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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 Fox Television, 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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