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  Wilson and David 
 by naughtybookworm  

 Ordinarily, David tried living tentatively as if he really was like
everybody else. But there were moments when the past sneaked up and struck
when he least expected it. One moment, he'd be living in the present,
doing whatever he was supposed to be doing, and then suddenly he would be
reminded of the giant chasm between the way most of his life had been and
right now. He wanted the right now, he wanted it SO much. But deep down,
he felt as though he, undesirable, skinny, miserable little David, did not
deserve the bounty that lay before him. Then he felt scared. He wasn't
worthy of this life, and someday House would realize that, and send him
away. 

It always happened the same way most times. Once this happened when he was
with House, learning to play the piano stride-style. He was practicing
coordinating the left hand with the foot pedals. House was sitting on the
bench with his back to the keys, next to the boy, resting his chin on his
cane and listening intently. He hadn't really expected David to be able to
learn the skill easily. Some musicians take years to learn stride. Then
David got it; he went from stumbling to effortless in a matter of minutes.
Soon he was having fun experimenting with the bouncing base line. 

David then began playing with his right hand as well, making House's smile
broaden every time he improvised something new, even when it didn't work
out. David started to "tickle" the keys, imitating something he'd heard on
a Fats Waller recording. House started to laugh. * He * was making House
feel happy. Within himself, David began to get a silly, bubbly, care-free
feeling. He didn't know that this was joy; all he knew was that he had
everything he ever needed or wanted: a home, and somebody who loved him,
this wonderful teacher who gave him the gift of beautiful music every
single day. The boy began to make the piano sound loud and raucous and
crazy. His little heart soared. He wanted to... he wanted to laugh with
House. He forgot that he wasn't like other boys. Then the whispery, mean
thoughts came back to him. * You don't belong here. This is too good for
you. You don't deserve to feel this way. * David instantly stopped
playing. * House doesn't know that you're really no good. You don't really
deserve ANYTHING. *

House was watching the little boy from the corner of his eye. David had
been practically dancing with the piano, then suddenly let his hands fall
to his lap and lowered his head until his chin rested on his little chest.
His feet slid off the pedal extensions that House had installed for him,
and dangled above the floor. He sat neatly, perched on the edge of the
piano bench. Something had happened, but House had missed it altogether.
Nothing external, that was for sure. Differential diagnosis: internal
injury. Something really nasty had reared its ugly head. 

"Tired of playing?" House asked him. 'Be Switzerland,' he thought. 'Don't
feed into whatever he's feeling until you know what the hell it is.'

David shrugged - his usual response when he didn't want to talk about it.
House knew how to read this boy. He had his ordinary shrug, that really
meant 'I don't know,' and his other shrug, more right shoulder than left,
that meant: 'Let's not go there.' And House knew that one place they
surely * were * going to go was 'there,' wherever 'there' was. He wanted
this boy to survive his miserable beginning.

"Wanna watch TV? It's still early." House offered. It was just after 7:30.

"No," came a little whisper. "I want to go to bed."

Retreat. David tended to retreat whenever this thing caught hold of him.
House had learned from his upbringing by an in-your-face marine dad who
never let him retreat for even a moment that the better course of action
was to allow the boy to have some space. "Okay." 

While he watched TV alone, the doctor also listened with one ear to David
preparing for bed. Taking his shower, brushing his teeth, and finally
entering his room in the little blue terrycloth bathrobe he had chosen
because it looked like House's. Fifteen minutes later, David came out in
his pajamas.

"G'night House." David's voice was just above a whisper.

House rose and headed to the boy's room to put him to bed. David seemed
not to want him to come, but the man decided to do it anyway. He knew that
there had to be constants in a child's life. This was a non-negotiable one
House would provide. He could still recall his mother tucking him in and
reading to him when he was small, and knew how that had helped to create
an unbreakable bond between them. 

After he'd gotten David settled in bed, he asked, "What do you wanna hear
tonight?"

David wouldn't answer. He curled up on his left side, still facing out
into the room, and shrugged.

House knew that David liked him to read from the ancient volume of Kipling
that he'd had since he was a boy, so he chose that for him. He sat on the
side of the boy's bed, closer than his usual spot at the foot. 

"Hear and attend and listen; for this befell and behappened and became and
was, O my Best Beloved..." 

David started to cry. He wasn't anybody's 'Best Beloved.' He felt so fake,
so BAD.

House set the book aside and, pulling back the covers, scooped the little
boy into his arms. He didn't say anything at first; there wasn't anything
he could say, but he knew what he could do. He could be the constant, the
"k" in David's equation. He held the boy, unconsciously rocking him and
murmuring that it was "All right, all right, I've got you, you're all
right, shhhh..."

David fell asleep eventually, but House could tell that the child wasn't
getting any rest. He would stay out in the living room on the sofa late,
so that he would be close to David when the nightmare struck. The doctor
put him back into bed, tucked him in gently, and whispered the new mantra
he now said to him every night. "You're a wonderful boy, David." He kissed
him. "House loves you, David."

*************

About 10 feet past House's office, Lisa Cuddy did an instant double-take.
Greg House had been at his desk, but something nagged at her brain;
something had seemed off. He'd been sitting, swinging his legs to music he
played on his IPOD stereo system. Swinging. There was no way those long
legs could possibly dangle from an office chair. 

It was a little boy. The same little boy who had told the ER staff that
House was his dad when he'd been in that bus accident. They never had
gotten the truth out of either House or the boy. That had been weeks ago.
Since then, Wilson had investigated, and gotten more information, but he'd
only chosen to share a bare minimum of it with Cuddy, or anyone else at
the hospital. "He's got a kid staying with him right now," was all the
young oncologist had said. 

Who in the hell would leave a child in House's care? Cuddy abruptly swung
around and headed back to his office, planning to pretend she'd forgotten
something and maybe sidle into the room to do some investigating.

He was small, somewhere between six and eight, and cute, much more
attractive than he had been that first night. His hair had been trimmed,
and his clothes were form-fitting and clean. He wore brown corduroys and a
blue oxford shirt, untucked. Like a miniature House. Adorable, actually.
Cuddy hoped that he wasn't as snarky and irritating as House could be. 

"Hello," Cuddy said to him, playfully, "You must be Dr. House."

The boy looked up from... a blank piece of sheet music (Cuddy had to
double-take on that), over which he held a pencil, poised for writing. He
had big green eyes, eyes that looked ...sad and pained at first. Then the
look faded into blankness. "No. I'm David." He sounded almost...hostile.

"Do you know where House is?"

"No."

"You're the boy who's living with Dr. House, aren't you."

David looked up at her reproachfully. She could almost hear him saying,
'Go away.' 

House came in behind her. "Don't talk to strangers, David," he said,
intending the comment to playfully needle Cuddy."

"Sorry..." David murmured seriously. He rose and stood to the side of
House's chair. 

The tall doctor folded his long, lean frame into the seat. "What can I do
for you, Dr. Cuddy?"

Rolling her eyes, she answered, "Nothing in particular. I was just meeting
your little friend."

House introduced them. 

"Well, David," Cuddy said to the boy. "So how do you like living with
House?"

David's face went tenser. He wouldn't look at Cuddy or respond in anyway.
Frowning, House nudged the boy gently with his elbow.

"Dunno," he barely whispered.

House was frowning. "David?" He leaned forward and craned his neck to get
a better look at David's face.

Cuddy, a little alarmed, asked. "What's the matter, sweetheart?"

Suddenly David's green eyes flashed angrily. He still didn't look at her.
"I'm DAVID!' He seethed through his teeth.

House touched David's small shoulder. "Hey..." He tried to turn the child
toward him. "...hey, what's the matter David?"

The little boy's face became a conflicting storm of fear and anger,
tightly controlled. "Gonnagoseewilson," he said in a tremulous, panicky
voice as he ran to the glass balcony door. It was heavy for him usually,
but now he had little trouble opening it enough for his skinny form to
slip through. Before it closed, the two adults could hear his running
footsteps, silence as he scrambled over the partition between the
balconies, and then more, fainter footsteps.

"So how long have you been sacrificing chickens in front of this child,
House?" Cuddy kidded him. "Because he's obviously got some issues." 

For once, Greg House didn't needle back. "Excuse me," He rose and followed
in David's wake. 

David entered Wilson's office so quietly that, had he not let in a blast
of cooler air, Wilson wouldn't have noticed him at all. He stood just
inside the door, trying to blend into the glass.

Smiling, Wilson beckoned with a wave. "Hey buddy! I saw you in House's
office a few minutes ago, but you looked kinda busy, so I didn't disturb
you." Then he realized that something was up. The color had drained from
the boy's face, and he was shaking visibly. 'Uh-oh,' Wilson thought.

Greg entered, glancing briefly at Wilson. "David, what happened?"

He glanced around House, as if he thought the woman might be with him.
Looking down at his shoes, he mumbled, "Wanted to see Wilson."

Shaking his head, Greg said, "No, David. Lisa scared you." He knelt,
careful of his bad leg, and touched the boy's shoulder gently. "Tell me
what scared you about Lisa."

"I just wanted Wilson!" David shouted, running then to Wilson's side. He
clutched at the younger doctor's lab coat. Instinctively, Wilson put his
arms around the little boy, and tried to calm him down. "Shhh..." he said.
"Shhhh... It's alright, honey. You're safe with House and me."

David peered out onto the balcony again. Cuddy had followed House, but was
hovering outside on Wilson's side, looking concerned. "No," he moaned, and
buried his face in Wilson's chest. 

Wilson held his shoulders. "What's the matter, David?"

"I don't know." He replied tearfully.

"Did Dr. Cuddy say something that scared you?"

"I don't know!" David exclaimed. He began to weep, a low, miserable,
broken-hearted cry. Wilson felt as if his own heart would break. He felt
helpless. 

House pointed out at Lisa. "Look, David. It's just a lady. You've never
met her before. She's not going to hurt you. She's friends with Wilson and
me." He beckoned for Cuddy to join them.

"No, House," Wilson warned. "He's terrified."

"Well, time to face this fear," House said bluntly. "David's got to be
here at the hospital with me, and Cuddy * is * this hospital." He opened
the door.

Lisa entered the office tentatively. David, taut as a bowstring, clamped
his hands over his nose and buried his face into Wilson's chest.

House got it right away. Abruptly, he pushed Cuddy out of the office
again. Grabbing her arm, he dragged her back to his office. "What kind of
perfume are you wearing, Cuddy?"

Cuddy caught on fast. "Wow - is that it? It's Chanel No.5. Old stuff." 

House grabbed a stack of his pop culture magazines from his desk and
started rifling through them for perfume ad inserts. "Start looking for it
then."

Smugly, Cuddy replied, "Or I can get the lotion I keep in my purse."

"Or...you...can get the lotion...in your purse." House repeated. 

Back in Wilson's office, House set the open bottle of lotion on the desk
and waited. A tearful David was still in Wilson's arms, calming down.
Suddenly the boy's face became a shock of horror again. And he began to
vomit. All over Wilson.

"Thank you. Thank you * so * much." Wilson said as he peeled off his lab
coat, shirt, and tie. "I liked that tie, House."

David, now hanging his head shamefully, saying he was sorry over and over.


Wilson hugged him. "I'm not mad at YOU," he said, glaring at House.

"There was no way of knowing he'd actually hurl," House said in defense of
himself.

*

Wilson picked up Chinese food and turned up on Greg's doorstep that
evening. He had two reasons for inviting himself. First, he wanted little
David to understand that he wasn't angry about the upchucking incident.
Secondly, on a less noble plain, Wilson was reasserting his place as
House's friend. 'I'm still here, you know...' was what he felt like
saying. He knew it was kind of juvenile; all these years, he had been
trying to get his friend to be more social, and now that there was someone
else in House's life, Wilson was beginning to feel as though House and
David were becoming two-man show, with no room for a third. Hell, he loved
House, and some small part of him was afraid that his best friend was
losing interest in him. 

Wilson felt a little embarrassed about that part of himself, but not as
much as he thought he should. He'd spent most of his life living along the
fringes of other people's lives, being the even-tempered middle brother,
the good son, and the trophy doctor-husband. And now he was a little bit
afraid of being pushed out of the one relationship in which he held
something more than 'filler' status. His rational mind told him that he
needn't have worried. Even when Stacy was the main event of House's life,
he'd always had time for Wilson.

He used his key to let himself into the main door, but knocked to be
polite now that there was another party to consider. He decided that he
wanted to get to know David, find out what it was about him that had
obviously thawed House's frozen heart. He was in a total quandary as to
what House's intentions were. He was illegally keeping a minor child.
Granted, from the information that House had volunteered (after Wilson had
browbeaten him for a while), the boy had been abandoned, but that didn't
give House the right to take him in. He should have called the police, or
Child Protective Services, and left it up to them. Then the boy's rightful
family could be contacted. Perhaps Greg might be able to still look after
him once things were made legitimate.

House let him in quickly, he'd been in the middle of something. Without
explaining himself, he returned to the kitchen, where David was sitting at
the table. Wilson took his time, hanging up his coat and jacket, and
settling himself in. They talked quietly; Wilson couldn't eavesdrop at
all. So he turned on the TV and started flipping through the channels.
About ten minutes later, House led a subdued, red-eyed David to the living
room.

"I want to go in my room, House," the boy said once he noticed Wilson.

"Aren't you hungry?"

He shook his head. "No."

House nodded. "Okay."

Wilson regretted barging in. "Maybe I should go?"

"No," House told him. "I'm glad you're here. I need the comic relief." He
started unpacking the Chinese food. "Ah, General Tso has sent his chicken.
Thanks." He picked up some chopsticks and dug in. "Now say something
funny."

Wilson looked at the now closed door to the room that House had fixed up
for David. "Is he going to be ok, Greg?"

The older man sighed, and shook his head. "His mother used that perfume
Cuddy was wearing. A lot. It triggered some really bad memories for him.
She used to spray it in his face for some bizarre reason."

"Jeez."

"Yeah," House set his carton of chicken down. "He thinks he can still
smell it now. When we got home, he showered for 30 minutes. I had to drag
him out of there before he scrubbed himself raw." He shook his head. "He's
the cleanest 8-year-old on the planet. He showers for long periods of time
anyway - I thought maybe there was some kind of sexual trauma. Not sure
about that, yet, but apparently his mother had some kind of cleanliness
thing that she solved by spraying everything with Chanel. Including the
kid."

Wilson didn't feel much like eating after that, either. He understood now
why House hadn't turned David over to the authorities. This kid was one
hell of a puzzle for him to figure out.

"Do you think he'd talk to me?" Wilson asked.

House shrugged. "No idea."

Wilson got up and went to David's room. He tapped on the door. When there
was no answer, he slowly opened it, calling, "David, do you mind if I come
in?"

David's soft, fluty voice responded, "Okay."

He was lying on his bed, curled up around a pillow, clutching his little
harmonica in one hand. He wouldn't look at Wilson. Wilson had the distinct
impression that the boy had allowed him in only because he didn't think he
had the right to say no.

"Hey buddy," Wilson said quietly. He stood close to the door, leaving it
half open. "Are you sure you don't mind my coming in?"

David gave his characteristic shrug. He dragged himself into a
cross-legged sitting position and waited.

Wilson sat at the very end of the bed, allowing David lots of space. "How
are you feeling?" he asked.

David didn't know how he felt. 'Bad' was the only word he could think of,
but that was obvious. He wasn't sure what to say to Wilson. "I can't stop
smelling the perfume." He said finally. 

Wilson nodded. "That must be terrible," he said gently. 

"Sometimes I can even taste it. It won't go away," he said ruefully. "Can
you smell it, Wilson? House says no, but I don't see how he can't." He
held out one arm.

Wilson sniffed the sweatshirt-covered arm. "No, David, honey." He
whispered. "It just smells like a shirt." He sniffed again. "Little
detergent, little fabric softener." 

"I wish I could just smell that," the boy whispered sadly. "It was gone a
long time, the whole time I've been here with House, but it came back when
that lady came into House's office."

Wilson didn't have any idea what to do about a problem like this. This was
something like an OCD. The kid needed an SSRI, not talk therapy. "David,
I'd like to give you a hug. You think that might help you feel better?"

He shook his head. "No, you don't - I don't want you to. You'll smell the
perfume. It's so disgusting, Wilson."

"Could we try?" Wilson held out his arms.

David gritted his teeth and let Wilson hold him. He was stiff as a board.
Wilson drew the boy across his lap and just held him close for a few
minutes. Then, without warning, he buried his nose the boy's hair and
inhaled deeply. "Shampoo," he reported. He nuzzled into David's neck,
inhaled. "Soap." He proceeded to stick his nose under the boy's sweatshirt
and the oxford he wore under that. Then into his pockets, into the thighs
of his jeans, up his pant legs, into his socks. Each time reported,
"Smells like soap...and little boy." Sometimes he would say something
funnier, like, "Really clean ear wax, and adorable little kid." David was
giggling by the time he was done. 

He held him a while longer. This time, David felt a lot more like a little
boy in the man's arms. Wilson ventured a bit further and tickled him a
bit. David wasn't the slightest bit ticklish, so of course Wilson wanted
to find out just how un-ticklish the boy was by tickling his ribs, neck,
and feet. "I cannot believe it. I'd be rolling on the floor if someone did
that to me." David tickled him experimentally. Sure enough, Wilson grabbed
his side and started to laugh. Wilson's smile was warm, but his laugh was
wonderful. Fascinated, David tried all the areas where Wilson had tickled
him with the same results. He'd never even been aware of ticklishness in
himself or anyone else, because he rarely had the opportunity to touch
other people. He filed that away to try on House sometime. 

They were lying on their sides, facing one another on David's narrow bed,
chuckling together, unaware of Greg, who was watching them from the door. 

Wilson spoke to the boy seriously now, "David, you're okay." He told him.
"That perfume thing was just something really cruel and nasty that was
done to you." He squeezed the thin shoulder. "It's not real anymore, I
promise you."

David's smile vanished. "Okay," he replied.

"Trust me, and trust House." He told the child. "We don't have any reason
to lie to you."

"Okay." Doubtful.

"Want to come and get something to eat?" Wilson nodded towards the living
room. "We've got Chinese." He got up and held out his hand.

"Okay." David took Wilson's hand.

"Wilson?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry I threw up on you. I didn't mean to."

Wilson chuckled. "Don't worry about it. I've been thrown up on before."

"Really?" 

He leaned down to be on the boy's level. "Yeah, it's kind of a doctor
thing. Sometimes treatments make people get sick on you. You get used to
it." 

"It smells really gross."

"Yeah, but it always washes right off." He demonstrated with one hand, a
typical Wilson gesture.

David thought about that for a long time as they entered the living room,
and shared out the rest of the General Tso's chicken and everything else
Wilson had brought. 

They caught up to House, who was eating everyone's fortune cookies, but
graciously allowed them to select the fortunes he didn't like. 

Later, House encouraged David to demonstrate his skill on the harmonica to
Wilson. The oncologist was stunned, to say the least. He applauded long
and loud, a one-man audience.

David shyly looked into Wilson's eyes, and saw a man looking at him as if
he was a real boy who was way more than his mother ever saw. Somewhere in
the proud moment, David stopped smelling Chanel No.5, and started smelling
leftover Chinese food, the shampoo and soap he had used, hospital
disinfectant that had permeated Wilson's and House's clothing, and
finally, his two new friends, who just kind of smelled like people were
supposed to smell.

**********

Wilson started to really pay attention to David. He began to understand
why Greg wanted to keep the child now. Sure, he was another puzzle to his
friend, and he was really just a sweet kid who needed a family. But he
became special to Wilson. The man was utterly charmed by the little boy
and constantly amused by watching the little spirit unveil itself before
him.

David grew on Wilson quickly. He infiltrated the man's soul, grew a thick
vine around his heart, and choked off other things his life. Somehow
Wilson just didn't feel like facilitating teams or board meetings all the
time. He let someone else do the grunt work for a change. He stopped
always being the sympathetic ear that everyone could count on. That need
to be needed was gradually absorbed by something else. David and House
were becoming his own tribe. They needed him; but mostly they wanted him,
and he stopped living for being needed so much by people who used him and
moved on once their lives had stabilized. 

Wilson discovered that he liked having a child around. A healthy one, for
a change, rather than a balding chemo patient. But then again, Wilson
reflected, there was a cancer of sorts in David's soul; an emotional
cancer. He and House were supplying the chemo in the form of corrective
experiences and just loving the child as much as they could, every day.
The prognosis seemed good, but there was no telling what other time bombs
were lurking in the little boy's heart and mind. The oncologist in Wilson
was hooked on healing this boy, just as the diagnostician in House was
hooked on uncovering what was wrong with him, and making things right.

**********

Despite a fair amount of trepidation, Wilson agreed to look after David
When House had to go away to Washington, DC for a conference. It was
during this time that the little boy stole his heart for good. David was
his usual low-key self, maybe even more subdued in House's absence. He did
try half-heartedly to scam Wilson into feeding him Mac and Cheese and
peanut butter sandwiches for four days. But most of the time, David was
merely kind of a little satellite that didn't stray far from his side and
wasn't any trouble whatsoever. 

One evening, the boy had been practicing piano and singing to himself when
Wilson found himself singing along. Wilson had been told quite often in
his youth that he had a tin ear. Obviously this was true, because the
little musician stopped making any sounds at all each time Wilson forgot
himself and joined in. 

Finally, David rose from the piano and came to sit right next to his
doctor friend. "Wilson, maybe you can sing a simpler song," he theorized. 

Nonplussed, Wilson repeated, "A simpler song?"

"Yeah. An easy one. One that's hard to screw up."

Wilson might have laughed if this little professor wasn't totally serious.
"Why don't you teach me one?" He suggested.

David thought about it for a minute, and started right in with: "Make new
friends/But keep the old/One is silver and the other's gold."

Wilson repeated the lines after him. David winced. "You have to use
different notes, he told the man. "You know, go up and down the scale." He
demonstrated again. Wilson flubbed it again.

David thought about it for a few minutes, then said, "Try singing exactly
what you hear me sing. Then he launched into the little song again,
singing one note at a time. Wilson tried to follow, but could only match a
few of the notes.

"Know what Wilson?" David said after their last attempt.

"Hmm..." Wilson pretended to think deeply. "I should join the spoon band,
instead of the choir?"

David raised his eyebrows, reminding the oncologist for all the world of
Greg House. "No, I think you're a tenor, not a baritone. You're trying to
sing in the wrong range."

"Y'think?"

"Yeah," he nodded. "You should sing up here," he demonstrated in the air
with one hand on a gigantic piece of invisible sheet music. "But you're
singing down here, where House sings." He raised his hand up much higher.
"My voice is soprano. Up here."

"Ok," Wilson agreed. "Show me how to sing like a tenor."

David bounced over to the piano and played a scale that covered the tenor
range. "You sing these notes." As he played, Wilson tried to match the
notes. He did a better job at it, but, having spent a lifetime not
singing, nothing miraculous happened.

David played what sounded like a short funeral dirge that House had taught
him as a practice piece. "Aa-ron-Brown-is-dead-and-gone/ You'll never see
him mooooore/ He used to wear an old brown coat/ That buttoned down
before..." This one was actually even easier than "Make new friends."
David was able to deepen his voice enough to sing the tenor range. "Try
it."

Wilson tried it, and he didn't suck. They sang it four times. Then David
left the piano and knelt next to Wilson on the sofa, so they could sing
face-to-face. Once he was sure that Wilson had the few lines cold, David
began to sing the soprano part. They did that twice. Then the boy stopped.
Wilson stopped, too, thinking that the lesson was over. "Keep going!"
David encouraged. Wilson did. Then, the next time around, David came in at
an unexpected place so that they were singing a round. Stunned at how such
a simple change could make them sound light years better than they had,
Wilson nearly dropped the ball. "Keep going," David insisted. They did
this eight or ten times before David started to slow the song down until
finally, they calmed to stop in unison.

David gave him a sweet, satisfied little smile.

Wilson discovered in that moment that he really loved David.

Wilson also noticed that David sometimes spoke oddly. On their second
night together, after a phone call from House, Wilson tucked the boy into
bed. Missing House, perhaps, David told Wilson, "House puts a kiss on my
face before I go to sleep." Cute. Precious. A little bit weird. Charmed,
Wilson responded with, "Can I put a kiss on your face, too?" Sometimes
David used his new musical vocabulary to express himself in a non-music
context. "Bummer, I left off the top sheet. Now I gotta Da Capo al fine."
House had interpreted later: This meant he had to make the bed all over
again.

After a while, Wilson realized that David talked like a child to whom
nobody had ever listened. He had never had the benefit of anyone telling
him he sounded odd. Wilson had been so completely charmed, though, that
after he'd noticed this difference, he would lie in wait for days to hear
a new 'David-ism.' Then he'd be tickled for hours, and try to find ways to
work the odd phrase it into conversations between just him and House when
they were alone. 

When Wilson spoke to House about this, he didn't learn anything new. House
had merely accepted this as David being David. Wilson suspected that
perhaps there was a time in House's own childhood when he'd been forced to
keep his own counsel long enough that he'd developed odd habits of his
own. That would explain a lot, the mused.

Then Wilson got really distracted, because things began to change between
him and House.

*******************

House had kissed him. It happened a couple days after his friend had
returned from the D.C. conference. Wilson stumbled blindly down the three
steps to the sidewalk outside 221B. House had kissed him on the sofa an
hour before, then, as he was leaving, he had hugged Wilson, no, had held
him in his arms like a lover. He had dropped his raincoat on the floor
where he stood in front of House's door. Wilson had been so stunned that
he couldn't remember how he'd made his way out the door. When he reached
his car, he realized that he'd left the raincoat where it lay on Greg's
living room floor. He didn't return for it. He wasn't sure his now shaky
legs would carry him much further.

Wilson was so busy the next day at the hospital that he didn't see House
until the afternoon. All during the early part of the day, while he was
immersed in his work, but when he least expected it, the kiss came back to
him. Then later, he'd been delivering his diagnosis of lymphoma to Alan
Simmons. Simmons was angry, ranting at him, begging for some other answer
than the one he had given. And somewhere in the midst of all that, Wilson
flashed back to the kiss once more. He involuntarily closed his eyes,
savored the memory. Alan Simmons had taken Wilson's reaction for
compassion. Embarrassed that his doctor was hurting with him, Simmons had
apologized, thanked Wilson, and left the office abruptly. 

Wilson went out onto his balcony for air. He wanted to be alone, away from
the hospital, somewhere quiet where he could reflect on the change in his
relationship with his best friend. He did not want to be an oncologist
today. He felt like dealing only with the living. 

As he gazed across the PPTH campus, one hand on his hip, the sensations of
Greg's kiss returned to him, full force. He let his eyes close.
Involuntarily, his right index and middle fingers came up to rest on his
lips. He sighed softly under his breath. What in the hell was he getting
into?

"Hey," House was on his own balcony, sitting on the partition between the
two, watching Wilson.

"Oh..." Wilson startled.

"Left your raincoat last night." House told him. 

"Yeah. Guess my mind was a little... preoccupied."

House smiled thoughtfully. "Well, you should come get it tonight. I hear
it's gonna rain tomorrow."

"Okay," Wilson half-whispered. He felt like he was fourteen years old
again, which was when he'd had his first kiss. 

"Wilson," House said softly.

Wilson looked up at his friend. 

Greg blew him a two-fingered kiss, then turned and limped back into his
office.

*********************

Wilson didn't turn up at House's place until around 10PM, when he knew
David would be asleep. The boy wasn't much of a morning person, but he
hadn't yet molted and gotten his full night-owl feathers yet. 

House let him in promptly. Wilson had envisioned that they might talk
about what was going on between them. He should have known better. House
talked all the time, but he was always saying, "It isn't what people say,
it's what they do." And he did something as soon as the door closed. He
put his arms around Wilson again, held him, and kissed him the way he
might have kissed a lover he'd had for years. 

Wilson was discombobulated again. He dropped everything in his hands and
slid his arms around House's strong shoulders, then up and around the
man's neck. This was the most erotic moment of his life; the exotic-ness
of being kissed by a man, the oddness of reaching up, embracing hard
angles rather than reaching down to hold soft curves. Of being held more
so than being the one doing the holding. Time slowed down. Wilson tasted,
savored House, caressed his fuzzy face, ran his fingers through his hair -
felt where it was beginning to thin a little bit on top. "Ohhh..." Wilson
swayed from the intensity of his emotions. He was losing himself in these
new sensations. 

"Hey, you dropped the beer." Jimmy had brought some beer, luckily nothing
had broken. 

House actually tried not to laugh at Jimmy as he broke the embrace. Then
he started to chuckle as he grabbed up the beer and limped his way into
the kitchen to put it in the fridge to settle. When he returned, Wilson
was still standing where he'd left him, still wearing his overcoat and
that bemused expression.

He drew the other man to the sofa. "Next time I kiss you, I'll make sure
you're not holding anything important."

Wilson couldn't speak at first. He removed his coat and tossed it onto the
armchair. Then he sat down next to House, very close to him, now. 

"Are you gonna want to talk about this?" Greg asked simply.

"Shouldn't we be talking about it?" Wilson asked. "This is so out-of-left
field, Greg."

House sat with his elbows on his knees, his fingers steepled together.
"It's been building for years, Jimmy."

Wilson knew he was telling the truth. He had always wanted to be able to
touch Greg, but they were guys; the rules were that guys didn't touch,
didn't kiss. And he had always felt a little unhappy that he couldn't give
more than a handshake, or a slap on the shoulder. And House had always
been so weird about being touched anyway, especially after the infarction.
Perhaps from that time forward, Greg had been so stand-offish because his
need had been so overwhelming that he was afraid to give in to it, for
fear of offending his best and only friend.

Greg spoke to him in the gentlest voice James had ever heard him use. "All
I know is that I'm kissing my best friend, and I like it." he paused to
look into James' eyes. "And he likes it, too." 

"I..." James floundered. "Yes." He was whispering. "I like it. I want...
more." Wilson's dark eyes met Greg's. "Uh... Greg," Wilson shook his head
as if to clear it. "Do you want to... have sex? I mean, is this what you
intend...?"

Then Greg kissed him again. As their lips met, Jimmy had this giddy
feeling of vertigo. He grabbed hold of Greg's collar, holding him close,
and just kept kissing and kissing and kissing him. He was totally unaware
that he was moaning into the other man's mouth. Greg was laughing at that;
high on the thought that his kisses were making Wilson feel so good.

He took James' hand then, pulled back, and began to stroke the knuckles
with his thumb. He spoke in a half-whisper. "If this means we're gonna
have sex, then so be it. I like where this is going. I like feeling close
to you, and I wanna get closer."

Wilson endorphins pulsing crazily through his gonads and other interesting
places in his body again. He closed his eyes for a moment. "Greg," House
extended his arm so that it rested across the back of the sofa between
them. Wilson took the warm hand in his. He found that there really wasn't
any need to speak. 

**************

After House had told Wilson that he intended to keep David, Wilson stepped
in to help his friend make it happen. He contacted Stacy Warner, House's
ex-lover, and charmed her into acting as House's consultant. She didn't
practice family law, but she knew her stuff, and would be instrumental in
getting House what he wanted. Their brief affair a few months back had
ended in disaster, though, and Greg really didn't want to see her again.
"But you need her," Wilson had told him. "Stacy doesn't do grudges, and
even if she did, she would help you, you know that." House had refused to
ask her, though, so Wilson did, behind House's back. She sprang a surprise
visit on them to reconnoiter, and was so impressed with David that, in no
time, Stacy had found them a colleague she trusted, and was off pulling
strings for them behind the scenes. David didn't know about any of all
this. By now, though he had begun to call House "Daddy." 

The three had fallen into a comfortable pattern, one that kind of made
them feel like a family. On the weekdays, House turned up at the hospital
early - a side-effect of having to get a child to school on time. At noon,
he had lunch with Wilson in one of their offices or the cafeteria. House
left work promptly at five unless his current case prevented him from
leaving. If he was going to be late, "Mom's Taxi Service" retrieved David
from school and delivered him to the hospital. The boy spent two or three
hours doing his homework, studying his music, watching TV in House's
office, or exploring, until House drove them both home. If House was held
up by a case, Wilson would take him, instead, make them dinner, and stay
with the boy until House arrived. Occasionally, both men were busy,
sometimes on the same case. Then David ended up sleeping on a couch
somewhere quiet in the hospital. House had even set aside a little space
in the overnight bag he kept in his office for spare pajamas and a change
of clothes for him. 

"Normal people hire sitters for this kind of thing," Cameron had pointed
out to House early on. House never really answered her implied question.
If he had answered her, he'd have told her that they weren't normal
people. David had lived such an insecure life before that House (and
Wilson) felt it was better to keep the boy close to him, in spite of the
inconvenience. 

If anyone had asked David, he would have agreed with House. He wanted
nothing more than to be with his people. House, and now, Wilson. They were
the only two people who loved him, and he didn't care if he had to hang
out in the hospital for a few hours sometimes to be near them. And the
weekends more than made up for that.

***************

He tossed again, feeling hot and miserable in his narrow twin bed. The
covers felt oppressive. He kept flipping his pillow over to the cool side.
Then later, he felt too cool, and burrowed down under the clammy
comforter. He couldn't stay comfortable, and he couldn't stay asleep for
more than 30 minutes at a time. He thought he might like a drink of water
during one of the hot times, so he got up to get one from the kitchen.
House didn't like them using one cup in the bathroom, and he wouldn't put
in one of those dispensers with disposable cups. "Kitchen water always
tastes better," he had said.

David got halfway to the kitchen before he realized that he was dizzy, and
his stomach was doing a kind of flip-flopping thing. Then the LAST think
he wanted to do was swallow anything. His mouth began to do that yucky
hyper-watering thing it did just before you throw up. Making a quick
about-face, he ran to the bathroom just in time to upchuck into the
toilet. 

He thought maybe he should go and wake House - he had told David he should
if he ever needed him during the night. But David was reluctant to. Wilson
was in there sleeping with him, and they were still keeping the fact that
House and Wilson slept together a big secret from him. Any fool who
watched them, at least at home, could see that they were crazy about each
other, but David wanted to be polite. They were the only two people who
loved him in the whole world, and he didn't want to screw that up by being
inconvenient.

He brushed his teeth and washed his face. Back in his room, he put himself
back to bed. His muscles felt sore, and he thought that if he wasn't so
extra, extra tired, he might actually be able to go throw up again. He
decided to lie there and think of things that did not lead to throwing up,
and to wait out the night until House was awake again.

*

"Rise and shine, buddy." Wilson was fully dressed in clothes that he
always left behind, old worn jeans and a t-shirt; bum-around-the-house
clothes. He didn't look at all as if he'd gone home, got a good night's
sleep, and returned to their apartment for breakfast. Wilson never left
home looking like crap, even if he was just making a quick run to the
store. But that was the story, and he and House were sticking to it.
Actually, they never really told any kind of story. They just left David
to believe that Wilson wasn't sleeping with House, and left little
evidence to the contrary.

His eyes felt...hot. During the short time that he'd been asleep, his
throat got in on the act, and so did his right ear. They were sore. He
wanted to crawl into a corner somewhere dark and sleep for about eight
years.

"Wilson, I'm sick." David whispered.

Alarmed, Wilson took a good look at the boy. "Oh man, you are!" he
exclaimed. He felt the boy's face, checked his eyes. And for a split
second, forgot he was anything but a daddy. He panicked. "Greg!" Then he
remembered he was a doctor who dealt with big nasty cancers, and that a
virus was small potatoes by comparison. He started examining David - eyes,
glands. 

"What's up?" Greg stood in the doorway, still in his pajama bottom and
t-shirt. "Oh man..." David looked like crap. 

"Get my bag, will you?" 

In spite of his miserable condition, David catalogued another bit of
evidence. Wilson didn't bring his medical bag with him unless he was
traveling to or from work. He always brought it inside so that the
medicines he carried didn't get exposed to extreme temperatures in his
car. If he'd come this morning, Wilson would never have brought his bag.

House quickly limped back into the room with Wilson's bag, and sat at the
foot of the boy's bed. "Cold?"

"Worse than a cold. But still a virus of some kind. Hopefully a quick
one." Wilson listened to the boy's lungs - no congestion, good. He looked
into his ears. "Right ear is a little inflamed. Into his mouth. "Oh, the
back of his throat looks like a real party going on." He checked David's
eyes, which were slightly bloodshot. "You look like crap, buddy." He took
out a digital thermometer and slipped it into a plastic cover. "But we're
gonna fix you up." He popped the thermometer into David's mouth. Then he
turned to Greg. "Get over here, Daddy."

"Oh, I think you're doing just fine, Wilson," House told him.

Wilson spared an annoyed glance up at the other man. "Hey, come and sit
with your kid." 

House cleared his throat. "I think this is more a 'number two dad' kind of
job."

"You've got to be joking, * Doctor * House."

Sighing, Wilson scooted back onto David's bed until he was sitting against
the wall, nearly in the middle of the bed, and held the boy on his lap.
"Hey buddy." He cuddled the boy. "Looks like you've got a nasty bug. He
unconsciously pressed his lips to David's forehead, felt his temperature,
something his mother had always done with him. "You're burning up." But
David instantly felt overwhelming relief. Wilson and Daddy were here and
they were taking care of him. He relaxed into the man's embrace.

House was alarmed that he hadn't thought to buy any kid medicine for a
situation like this. He went into the bathroom and found that his supply
of anti-inflammatories had expired, and threw them into the wastebasket.
"Got any kid's Tylenol in there?" he yelled back to the other doctor. 

Wilson rooted one-handed through his neatly organized instruments and
supplies and came up with a single sample packet of adult painkiller.
"What kind of doctor doesn't own an aspirin?" he asked incredulously. 

"The kind who doesn't have headaches, courtesy of Miss Vicodin," House
told him.

David was too miserable and tired to say that he knew what they were
talking about. VI-CO-DIN was on the bottles of pills that Daddy took for
the pain in his leg. David had thought it was pronounced, "vick ah din."
Now he knew better. He buried his face in Wilson's shoulder and waited for
them to make him better. 

House opened the adult Tylenol sample from Wilson's bag. He'd found a pill
splitter in the medicine cabinet. They gave him one-and a half pills. When
Wilson tried once again to shift David into House's arms so that he could
get dressed and go out for some more appropriate meds, the boy clasped his
neck tightly. "Want you to stay, Wilson," he murmured. Then he was
instantly sorry, because he had shown a preference for Wilson over House. 

"Stay with him, Wilson. I'll go," the older man had agreed without any
further comment. Now David felt awful, and sick, too. 

House and Wilson worked well together as they took care of their sick boy.
House had read to him or watched his little portable TV with the boy when
he was awake. But it was Wilson who made sure he ate at least a little,
and kept a supply of dry pajamas at the ready as he sweated through one
pair after another. It was Wilson who held him when he whined a little,
Wilson who got up with him during the night. It was symbolic of their
roles in David's life. House taught him and encouraged him to fly; Wilson
caught him when he fell.

By Sunday evening, David was able to lie on the couch between them, his
head in Wilson's lap, feet in Greg's, while they watched a marathon of
David's Spongebob videos. Greg loved every minute of it; Wilson spent a
lot of time humoring them both. He didn't really mind being a little
bored. He was exactly where he wanted to be, with the two people he loved
most, and happier than he'd ever been in his entire life. Wilson extended
his left arm along the sofa back to touch Greg's right. Fingers
interlaced, their eyes met. 'I love you,' he mouthed. Greg smiled back at
him, and closed his eyes.

******************

"He was a hardheaded man, he was brutally handsome/And she was terminally
pretty..."

Greg was late finishing up a case, so Wilson had picked David up from
school instead of sending the taxi service, and was bringing him back to
the hospital. It was a welcome diversion for the oncologist; Wilson
absolutely loved hearing their boy sing. He could listen forever to the
boy's sweet, fluty soprano that was bigger and bolder than one would
expect from such a shy little kid.

David naturally had absolute pitch and excellent breath control, probably
a voice instructor's wet dream. Whenever Wilson missed hearing David's
voice, he'd plug in some music and let nature take its course. 

"Out every evening, until it was light/He was too tired to make it, she
was too tired to fight about it"

Wilson chuckled to himself. He found it especially endearing when David
was singing something totally inappropriate as if he understood what he
was singing about. * Maybe he did, * Wilson thought to himself. But David
had such an innocent face, such a sweet, shy manner about him, that you
always had to do a double take when something unexpected came out of his
mouth.

"Lissen baby, you can hear the engine riiing/ We been up an' down this
highway, haven't seen a goddamn thing..."

The days had finally begun to lengthen. Wilson was glad to get out for a
while; he needed to get some sun in his eyes. He was tempted to take the
rest of the afternoon off and kidnap David to someplace fun. Greg had
discovered Chuck E. Cheese, which was a great place for a competitive man
with an inner eight-year-old like Greg to hang out, now that he had a kid.
David had confided to Wilson that he only liked going because it made
Daddy so happy to play the goofy games. He had more fun watching House
than he did participating. And when they cashed in all their tickets,
House gave all his to David, so he usually got something kinda semi-cool.
Nah, David wouldn't enjoy doing that with him. Wilson sucked at games of
skill. 

"Wanna ride around for awhile?" he asked the boy.

Smiling, David agreed. He took off his sneakers and tossed them and his
backpack into the back seat. Then he propped his feet up on the glove box
(his legs were a little too short to reach the top of the dash yet), and
started fiddling with his MP3 player, searching for his "traveling"
playlist.

Wilson pulled over and placed a call to his receptionist to let her know
he wasn't coming back. Then he called Greg. 

"Are you naked?" His partner asked upon seeing Wilson's name in the caller
ID box. Translation: 'I'm alone and I can speak freely.' If someone had
been in the office, Greg would have simply said 'hello.'

Wilson smiled to himself. "I've got the kid. Pony up the ransom by six
this evening at your place, or you'll never see him again."

House chuckled. "What's the ransom?"

"Oh, you know." Wilson hung up and turned off the phone. Then he pointed
to David's MP3 player. "Plug it in, I wanna hear too." He removed his
jacket and tie, then rolled up his sleeves and pulled back into traffic.

If House were along, his deep baritone would make a rich, lovely contrast
to David's sweet soprano. The two of them sometimes brought tears to
Wilson's eyes, which he did his best to hide.

"I love his sausage, crave his hash/ wild about his succotash/ I can't do
without my kitchen maaaan..."

Blues now. OLD stuff. Bessie Smith. House was teaching the boy music from
a historical perspective. David got a kick out of the old-timey music. 

"When I eat his doughnut, all I leave is the hole..."

Wilson winced. He was glad they weren't in the convertible. 

"Hey David, do you know what that song is about?"

David thought about it for a minute. "Yeah, this rich lady doesn't want
her cook to leave."

'Good.' He thought. "Right. Just asking."

David sang a few more bars. "Because she's really going to miss having sex
with him."

"Uh...yeah." Wilson didn't say anything more. He'd never discussed sex
with a child. He wondered if House had explained the song to David. House
generally kept Wilson up to speed on anything important that happened with
the boy, though. This would have been important to share. "Do they teach
you about sex in school?" he ventured.

It was as if he was talking about breakfast cereal. "No, not until fifth
grade." 

"Oh." Wilson accelerated through an intersection. They were nearing the
outskirts of town.

David did that little shrug that said he was uncomfortable. "My mother was
a * prostitute,* remember?"

"Oh yeah," Wilson turned the sound up just a little. "Forgot." He was
preparing to table the conversation, at least until he talked with Greg. 

David stopped singing and abruptly switched to another song, 'Ramblin'
Man,' Allman brothers.

"I'm sorry," Wilson said, placing his hand on David's head as he slowed at
a traffic light. "Didn't mean to remind you of all that."

David turned away to gaze out of the window. "It doesn't matter, Wilson."

They ended up driving through Round Valley State Park, until they found a
good bench where they could soak up some sun, and watch a flock of geese
that were obviously on their way back to Canada. Wilson was sorry he'd
obviously put a damper on what might have been a fun afternoon. He racked
his brain trying to think of a way to turn it around. He needn't have. 

David looked up at his "Number Two Dad," gauging his reaction slowly as he
spoke, "Know what, Wilson? I think sex isn't bad by itself. It's the
reason for sex that's bad sometimes. Just like everything else. Am I
right?"

Wilson was impressed. "That sounds like a good philosophy to live by." He
stretched his legs out in front of him, folded his arms across his chest,
and relaxed his back against the hard seat. "Sounds like you've given this
a lot of thought."

David looked ahead at the pond, picked at the knee of his jeans. "SHE did
it to get money. And she felt so bad about it that she blamed me. She
thought it was nasty and she did it anyway." He glanced over at Wilson.
"Daddy says if you do something your heart and your mind tells you is
wrong, you're compromising yourself."

"I agree with Daddy." Wilson told him.

David nodded, acknowledging that he'd heard Wilson. "But when people have
sex because they're lovers, like you and Daddy, it's okay, right? Because
you're not pretending to love each other just to earn money. It's not an
immoral thing to do."

Wilson's brain locked for a moment. What was he supposed to be saying to a
normal 8-year-old about his relationship with Greg, and what more would be
okay to say to David, who was by no means normal? "Well..." He racked his
brain. 'Truth,' House's voice whispered gently in his mind. "David, I'm
kind of surprised here. I didn't realize that you knew about your dad and
me."

"I don't know why not," the boy replied. "Stevie Wonder could see it."

"Yeah?"

"You make a lot of noise."

Wilson felt his face go red. "Noise?" He was never aware of any noises
they made.

"You moan when Daddy kisses you. "

'Oh God.' "David, uh..." 'Just be honest,' House whispered again. "Okay,
House and I do love each other very much, and we do sleep together..."

"Every Friday and Saturday, and sometimes you come on other nights and
leave before morning. You should just live with us."

"...Um... and it's okay because we're devoted to each other. I love your
dad, and he loves me." He began to feel as though his face might be
getting a little less red now. "And I agree that having sex without having
feelings for the other person isn't a good idea." Wilson prayed that David
wouldn't ask if either of them had ever been with a hooker - * Wilson's *
hands were mostly clean, but House's... 

David shrugged - the little shrug he did when he was uncomfortable about
something. "Anyway, I'm never going to do sex, so it doesn't matter.

Wilson smiled to himself. "I guess that's about normal for eight," he told
the boy. "But your feelings may change as you get older."

David wrinkled his nose at that thought and shook his head. "I doubt it."
Then he asked, "I figured all the moaning means Daddy must be a really
good kisser. Is he? 

Wilson gazed into the distance, past the geese to the other side of the
lake. "Yes honey, Daddy is a VERY good kisser."

*

Wilson and David returned after dark. House had returned just a few
minutes before, and was unwinding at the piano. When they entered, House
spared them a glance and a slight smile, and kept playing. David eased up
behind his dad and did what Wilson thought of as 'David's piano hug.' It
was something he did with House while he played. He rested his head on the
back of House's right shoulder, and rested his hand on the other shoulder.
"Hi Daddy," the little boy murmured. 

"Hey..." House kept playing. "D'ja have a good time?"

"Yeah. Did you cure the patient?"

"Dunno yet." House started playing a pop sixties tune, and sang quietly,
almost to himself. "We're gonna wait till the midnight hour/That's when my
love comes tumbling down.../I'm gonna take ya, girl and hold ya/And do all
the things I told ya/in the midnight hour..."

Wilson might have sucked at singing for most of his life, but one thing he
was definitely good at was dancing. He grabbed David's hand, and started
dancing behind House. Smiling, David tried to imitate Wilson's moves. It
wasn't pretty - David wasn't bad, but he wasn't coordinated enough yet to
keep up. Wilson scooped the little boy up into his arms and danced him
around and around until they were both hugging and laughing and dancing at
the same time.

House couldn't get enough of the scene, this man whom he loved so much,
dancing, holding their kid. When his and Wilson's eyes met, he mouthed.
'Stay?'

Wilson crossed the room, still carrying David. He leaned down and kissed
Greg. 

"Mmmph" House tried to remind Wilson that they weren't alone, for God's
sake. Then he gave up, because surely Wilson would have remembered by now.
Obviously the Talk had taken place without him.

David wriggled out of Wilson's embrace and stalked away from them, exuding
boyish distaste, and muttering, "Yuck. I'm absolutely * sure * that there
is no way I'm ever doing * that. *

It happened only occasionally that the two men kissing by the piano
completely ignored their son. This was one of those times.

  
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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.