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  Gotta Run 
 by Maineac  

 Title: Gotta Run Summary: Remember the days when Wilson and House were
friends? So do I. Word Count: 5378 total Head Count: House, Wilson, OC.
Cameo appearance by Foreman. Chase gets three lines, because it's in his
contract. Cameron and Cuddy have the week off. Directions: 2 C. fluff, 3
T. angst, 1 C. heavy drama. Beat ingredients well. Cook in hawt oven til a
crisp golden brown. Season to taste (S1, S2, or S3). Disclaimer: Don't
own. Don't even rent. Just squatting illegally. (Hey, back off, Tritter.
It was a joke, man! Can't you take a joke? No, really. Put those cuffs
away. I--  ) A/N*: This is set in early fall, a few weeks post Cane and
Able.

Chapter 1 What Passes for Good Behavior

House leaned across the cafeteria table and actually plucked the bag of
Fritos out of Wilson's hand just as he was extracting a chip. Then he sat
down and passed Wilson the green salad from his own tray.

"What are you doing?" Wilson asked.

"Saving you from yourself," said House smugly. "More green vegetables,
fewer trans fats."

"I can manage my own diet, thank you." He retrieved the Fritos.

"Mmmmm," House waggled his head from side to side consideringly. "Not
judging from the extra notch you've had to add to your belt."

Wilson paused with a chip halfway to his mouth and narrowed his eyes in
disbelief. "Are you trying to tell me I'm getting fat?"

"Well, let's just say, your chin is ready to publish a second edition.
Time to lay off the saturated fats if you want to keep your boyish
figure." There was a pause while House chewed a Frito. And then in a
different tone of voice: "You've given up running, haven't you?" 

Wilson hesitated briefly before answering. 

"I only took up running again because you wanted someone to run with. It's
boring without a partner...and now that you're not-" He was cut off by the
looming presence of a man House had never seen before, wearing a lab coat
and bearing a cafeteria tray. 

"Dr. Wilson," said the man politely. "May I joins you?" He glanced at
Wilson and then House, and raised his eyebrows questioningly.

House stared at the newcomer in something close to shock. He couldn't
remember the last time someone had tried to sit with him and Wilson, at
lunch. There wasn't actually a force field around them, or a 'keep out'
sign, but there might as well have been. After a brief, awkward pause,
which the stranger did not seem to notice, Wilson spoke up.

"Of course," he said hastily. 

The man put his tray down next to House's, and stuck out his hand. "Please
to make your acquaintance," he said in a voice with a foreign undercurrent
to it. He was a tall slim man in his late thirties with a shock of dark
black hair and broad Slavic cheekbones. 

Wilson hastened to do the introductions as House shook hands wordlessly.
"Uh, Anton Milosovic, Gregory House. Anton is my new fellow. Dr. House is
head of Diagnostic Medicine."

House raised his eyebrows at Wilson-when did you get a fellow?-- and then
looked back at the newcomer, sizing him up. "First day on the job?" 

"Yes," he said with a wry smile. "Is it so obvious? I am still learning
the, what is the word? Learning the lines?"

"Learning the ropes, I think you mean," said Wilson. He gave House a look
that clearly said, Please don't kill him.

"What's your specialty?" asked House around a mouthful of French fries, in
a pretty good imitation of someone making small talk and being on good
behavior. 

"Pediatrics. I am doing a hem/onc fellowship with Dr. Wilson and Dr.
MacIntosh."

"Pediatrics and oncology? You must really like to cry yourself to sleep.
Say, I have a doctor I think you should meet. You and she would have a lot
to talk a--"

"He's already met Dr. Cameron." Wilson's voice had a hard warning edge to
it.

"She is very kind to me," said Anton quietly. Then, in an obvious effort
to change the subject, he looked at Wilson and asked, "What is it that is
boring without a partner?" When Wilson looked blank he added, "You were
saying, just as I joins you, that it is boring..."

Wilson opened his mouth to answer, but he wasn't fast enough.

"Sex," said House, deadpan. "Much more fun with a partner."

"Running," corrected Wilson.

"That too," House agreed, his mouth full of hamburger. He smiled at Anton.
"Do you run?"

Wilson watched as Anton glanced from one to the other of them. "I very
much enjoy to run," he said guardedly. "And you?"

"Me?" said House. He washed the remaining hamburger down with the last of
his drink and stood up. "Very much. I very much enjoy to run." He glanced
ostentatiously at his watch and unhooked his cane from the end of the
table. "In fact, right now I gotta run. Save some lives. You two must have
a lot to talk about. Don't mind me." And he limped around the table and
out of the room.

Wilson watched him go, then propped his forehead on his hands for a
moment, aware of Anton's embarrassment. 

"I'm sorry," said Anton. "I sayed the wrong thing."

"Don't worry," said Wilson. "In this case, it's almost impossible to say
the right thing."

****

Chapter 2: The Importance of Being Earnest

"You're actually cooking?" asked Wilson, twisting on the couch to savor
the sight of House in the kitchen.

"Figured it was my turn to make something stuffed with vomit."

"Not take out? Not order in?"

"That's such a clich." 

"Be still my beating heart. What is it? Was there a special on the Reduced
for Quick Sale aisle? Discontinued-- "

He was interrupted as the microwave buzzed. House removed several items,
transferred them to two plates, and managed, though limping heavily, to
transport them into the sitting room without spilling anything from either
plate. "In the immortal words of the Pillsbury Dough Boy: 'Nothin' says
pukin' like somethin' you been nukin.'" He put the plates proudly on the
coffee table and returned to the kitchen.

Wilson stared for a few minutes wordlessly. "What are they?" he asked at
last.

House read from the back of the box. "'Jimmy Dean's Chocolate Chip Pancake
and Pure Pork Sausage.' The best part? They come on a stick. A
sausage/pancake/chocolate chip-sicle. So you can eat and hold onto the
remote at the same time. Gimme." He grabbed the remote from Wilson and
heaved himself over the top of the couch. "Do you think they need maple
syrup, too? I think they need something." 

Wilson picked up a sausage-popsicle with its pancake cover and examined
it. "Everything else aside-all the toxic chemicals, the cholesterol-aren't
they kind of fattening? For someone who's, you know, getting fat?" 

House gave him an appraising once-over. "Nah," he said. "You can afford it
now. The chin has receded. The belt has returned to its default setting.
The needle is out of the red zone. You haven't been dieting, so you must
have been hitting the treadmill."

It was a typical House question disguised as a statement. Wilson took a
big bite of the revolting sausage. "After a fashion," he said, once he had
swallowed. "Good to know it's working."

"The treadmill in the fitness room is a bitch. It's so old, none of the
computerized settings work. You should get Cuddy to replace it."

"It's still a good workout." Wilson held up the half-eaten sausage-sicle.
"Hey, you know, these things aren't half bad."

"Yeah," said House. "I think you can safely eat them for breakfast, too.
So, what do you say: come by tomorrow morning, we'll have 'breakfast,' and
then I have it on excellent authority that try-outs for the Princeton
cheerleading squad are at nine o'clock in the college stadium. I bet we
could sneak in and heckle. Maybe they'd even let us be judges."

Wilson squinted thoughtfully, as if trying to picture the event. "Yes,
you'd be a great Simon Cowell."

"I don't mean to be rude," said House, sitting up straight and putting on
a God-awful English accent, "but that looked to me like something you'd
see at a preschool Gymboree."

Wilson laughed out loud and reached for the plates, taking them back into
the kitchen.

"So, we're on for tomorrow?" House turned to watch him stack the dishes in
the sink. 

"Sounds like all kinds of fun," said Wilson without turning around. "But
I'll take a pass. I'm tied up all morning." 

"Too bad. I'll just have to finish off these chocolate chip beauties by
myself then."

"Go ahead. They're your arteries." He returned to the couch and they
watched in silence for a while. They'd put The L Word on mute, so they
could talk, but it still required concentration.

 "Oh, that's nice, what they just did there," exclaimed Wilson. "Now
they're licking it up. Do you suppose that's legal?"

"Not in New Jersey. I'm pretty sure the FDA has banned it. So, how's
Slobodan working out?"

"Slobodan?"

"Yeah. The new fellow."

"Oh, Anton. He's a really good fit. Smart. Dedicated. Nice guy."

"Earnest as all get out, too. He's a little old to be a fellow, isn't he?
Bet he did a stint in the Peace Corps after med school."

"Doctors Without Borders, actually. And what's wrong with earnest?"

"He's probably atoning for the sins of his father."

"Excuse me?"

"Slobodan Milosovic. The mass murderer of Serbia. Mr. Ethnic Cleansing?
Does no one read the paper anymore?"

"Anton's Albanian, actually."

"Even worse. Do you have any idea what Ceausescue did to kittens?"

"House...not everyone is evil. Not everyone lies. There is such a thing as
goodness, plain and simple."

"You're so right. I'm crying. But they're happy tears." 

Wilson sighed and got up from the couch. "I'm going home. Got to get an
early start in the morning."

"Sure. It's Saturday. Early mass. Oh, wait. Isn't that on Sunday?"

"Ha ha." Wilson paused at the door. "So...enjoy your
heart-attack-on-a-stick tomorrow."

"Yeah--not to mention the yummy cheerleaders." House had turned on the
sound and was intent on the TV. He didn't look at Wilson. "You enjoy your
run."

"I'll try." Wilson froze, halfway out the door. He stood there for a long
moment and listened to the murmur of the television. "How did you know--?"

House didn't even bother to look around. "The hospital treadmill works
just fine, which you'd know if you were really using it. So that means
you're actually running, outdoors. And you wouldn't be running if you
didn't have someone to run with. And the fact you didn't tell me means you
don't want me to know who you found to go running with. Not Grace-she's
half dead. Debbie? Francoise?"

"No. And no."

"Then it must be someone who very much enjoys to run." 

Wilson turned with a sigh to look at House. But House had gone into the
kitchen. Wilson took a deep breath and followed him in.

"He wants to run in the Boston Marathon in the spring, and he needs
someone to train with him."

"Good. You should do it." House rummaged around inside the freezer. "How
often do you run?"

"Every morning."

"Excellent. Really. I'm...that's great. Here." He pulled out the box of
Jimmy Dean monstrosities and thrust them at him. 

"What?"

"Take them. If you're doing all that running, you need carbs and protein.
And Slobo will love these, trust me. It's the national food of Hungary.
Says so right on the label."

"I really don't-"

"Take them."

Wilson took them without a word.

Chapter 3 Marathon Man

"No, thanks," said Wilson shaking his head and going back to the
newspaper. "I'll stick to water."

House looked at the two glasses of scotch on the coffee table. "You're
getting awful boring, you know that?" he said, pouring Wilson's glass into
his own. "Early to bed. Early to rise. No alcohol. Next thing you'll tell
me we can't have sex anymore because you're saving your precious bodily
fluids for the marathon."

"Which is true. Sorry to break it to-- but oh, that's right. We're not
having sex."

"True dat, but if we were..." House took a long sip of scotch. "So, what
are you up to now? How many miles?"

"Six every morning. Twelve on weekends." 

"Twelve miles." House swirled the scotch in the bottom of his glass and
then pulled the Vicodin bottle from his pocket. When he'd swallowed the
pills, he lifted the Fender guitar from its stand behind the piano and sat
on the arm of the couch, tuning it and plucking idly at the strings. "You
once told me you hit the wall at eight."

"Anton helped get me past that. He pointed out that it's more of a
psychological block than a physical wall. Thinking you have to run twelve
miles-or twenty-six-- is just too overwhelming. The only way to psyche
yourself up to do a marathon is to run from one telephone pole to the next
one. You never think about the 26 miles-just tell yourself you're only
going to run as far as the next pole."

House gave a skeptical grunt. "What I don't get is what you talk about for
all those miles. You must have used up everything you know about Bulgaria
by mile three."

"Mostly we just run in a manly sort of silence." House snorted at this and
played a few chords of Born in the USA. "Actually," Wilson continued,
"he's pretty lonely. He had to leave a wife and three small children in
Albania in order to take this fellowship. He talks about them a lot."

"So Slobodan's needy, but in a good way." Not in a corrosive,
self-destructive way. 

House didn't actually say that last part out loud, but Wilson could hear
him thinking it as he played a few corrosive, self-destructive phrases
from a Jimi Hendrix song, was it Purple Haze? "I suppose you could say
that, yes," Wilson said, not bothering to look up from his reading.
Suddenly he put down the New York Times.  "Hey," he said with some
excitement. "There's a Hitchcock film marathon this Saturday in the city.
Ten hours of classic Hitchcock. Wanna go?"

"Here's the funny thing I've discovered about mystery movies," said House,
still picking out Purple Haze on the guitar. "Much as I love a mystery, it
is so much more fun when you don't already know how it's going to turn
out. And since you recently forced me to watch every Hitchcock film ever
made... But that's just me. You should go."

"Nah," said Wilson, not bothering to hide his disappointment. "It's no fun
unless there's someone you can snark about it with afterwards."

***** House was late for lunch Monday - he'd reached a crucial point in
the video game, and saw no reason to stop till he made the next level.
When he got to his and Wilson's usual table, tray in hand, the table was
nearly full. Wilson had been joined by MacIntosh and Milosovic, and though
there was one more chair, he considered briefly taking the tray back
downstairs to share with Vegetative State Guy. But as he watched, Wilson
said something that made Anton convulse with laughter, and he abandoned
his plan of eating alone. 

"Who knew cancer could be so funny?" he asked as he took the seat opposite
Wilson. "So share: what's the joke?" House watched the smile fade from
Wilson's face. And when it didn't appear like he was going to answer,
House continued, using his best manic voice. "It wasn't the one about how
many Hiroshima victims does it take to screw in a light bulb, was it?
Because that's just so tasteless." House turned to Anton and said in a
stage whisper: "None-they glow in the dark." MacIntosh looked offended,
and even Anton seemed unsure of how to react.

"No," said Milosovic at last. "James is just now doing his favorite Jimmy
Stewart impression. He is very good at it."

"Ah, yes. It's a Wonderful Life. Poor self-sacrificing George. So happy on
the outside, so dark and bitter on the inside. I'm shakin' the dust of
this crummy little town off my feet and I'm gonna see the world. Not hard
to figure out why that's Wilson's favorite."

"Actually...it was Rear Window," replied Anton. And then with a glance at
Wilson: "That is your favorite, isn't it?"

"Um, yes. My favorite James Stewart/Alfred Hitchcock movie, that is."

Everyone chewed in silence for what seemed an age.

"So, you went to the marathon after all?"

"Turns out, Anton is a huge Hitchcock fan," said Wilson. 

"I learns English from watching his movies." 

House looked like he was going to say something but stopped himself and
then pulled his cell phone out of his pants pocket, flipping it open.
"Yes?" he barked into it. "All right. I'll be right there." He snapped it
closed and rolled his eyes. "Sorry. That was Chase. Some kind of crisis
upstairs."

"Your phone didn't even ring," said Wilson, frowning.

"I put it on vibrate-more fun, if you know what I mean." He gave Anton a
lewd wink.

"Chase is an intensivist," Wilson objected. "Can't he handle this crisis,
whatever it is?"

"Evidently not," said House, making a disgusted face. "I really really
need to train them better. I bet your fellow wouldn't interrupt your lunch
hour." He smiled innocently at Anton and then picked up his plate and
scraped all his remaining food onto Wilson's.

"What's that for?" 

"Payback. Plus, you need it more than I do. Carbohydrate loading.
Remember?"

"Sure, but"-

"Gotta run." 

As Wilson watched him exit the cafeteria he became aware of a presence on
the other side of the table. He turned his head.

"Hey, Dr. Wilson," said Chase, tray in hand. "Can I join you?" ********

Chapter 4 Doc

The next few days House claimed he was too busy to have lunch and Wilson
saw nothing of him until the end of the week. He was on his way back to
his office from clinic, perusing a file, when he nearly collided with
House in the lobby. Before he could speak, however, House was accosted by
Chase and Foreman, who had test results they needed to share with him. As
they had a quick conference near the elevators Wilson saw a man
approaching the reception desk turn to stare at House. House apparently
noticed him, too, because he turned his back and ducked his head, but it
was too late; he'd been spotted. 

The man, an African-American in his early forties sporting dreadlocks and
a goatee, made a detour in their direction.

"Yo, Doc, my man!" he exclaimed. "What's happenin'?" He held out a fist
and to Wilson's astonishment House-who seldom shook hands-bumped knuckles
with the guy. Even more astonishing, the man followed the gesture with a
one-armed hug. This time House did not reciprocate, standing stiffly, and
looking self-conscious. The whole exchange caused the onlookers to raise
eyebrows, all except for Foreman, who simply smiled.

"Grateful patient?" Wilson whispered to Chase. Chase shrugged.

"I guess," he said.

"Quick," hissed Wilson. "Have him stuffed."

"Where you been, man?" asked the stranger. "We missed you down at Joe's."

"I've been busy. And sick," said House. "Last couple months."

"Actually," said Foreman helpfully, "he got shot."

"No shit!" exclaimed the man. "That why you're here? You still sick?"

Everyone smiled at this, but House said only, "I work here." 

"Yeah? Like a... security guard or something?"

At this, everyone laughed out loud except House, who nodded and said,
"Yeah. Or something." Wilson gave him a long look but turned to the man
and explained, "He's a doctor."

This time it was the stranger's turn to laugh. "I thought Doc was a
nickname. You mean you're the real thing?"

"Got the diploma and everything," said House. Then, clearly trying to
change the subject: "What are you doing here?"

"My niece had a baby."

"So," said Wilson slowly. "Not a grateful patient, then?" He gave House a
pointed look.

"Fine," House sighed, and performed the introductions. "This is
Whitey"-that got an amused smirk from Foreman. "Whitey, this is
...everyone. You can talk amongst yourselves. I've gotta run."

Whitey grabbed his arm as he turned to leave. "Like I said, Doc, we miss
you. Nobody plays like you. Johnson tries, but he's shit. So, come by
tonight, man. Yeah?"

House grunted non-committally and kept going. As Whitey headed off for the
reception desk, Wilson and the others caught up to House at the elevators.
"Tonight?" Wilson said. "Tonight's Friday. So it's not poker you're
playing. Poker's Thursday night. What's happening tonight?"

"It's my Men's Support Group. We drum and share feelings." House poked the
elevator button again with his cane and glared at them in exasperation.
"Why does everyone assume I don't have a life outside of this building?"

"Because you don't?" said Chase.

House just shook his head and entered the elevator. The others stared
until the doors closed.

"What's Joe's?" Wilson asked the group at large.

"Pool hall?" suggested Chase. "OTB parlor?"

Foreman shook his head. "Smokey Joe's. It's a jazz club," he said. "And
Friday is amateur night."

The others looked at him in astonishment. "How would you know?" asked
Chase. 

"Because I've been there," said Foreman. "When House was playing." *****

Chapter 5 The Next Telephone Pole

The truth was, for the last few months, ever since Wilson had moved in,
and then out, of House's place-and more especially while House was
recovering from the shooting--Friday night had meant dinner at House's
apartment, followed by some kind of bad movie, a new video game, or a
chance to listen to some music House had burned to CD. On rare evenings he
played piano and Wilson caught up on his reading. It had become an
end-of-the-week ritual, without either man really noticing. 

Yet this Friday, Wilson had begged off. The next day was the New York
Marathon, a crucial milestone in Anton's training regimen. They planned on
completing the half-marathon together, providing moral support and pacing
each other over the thirteen-mile course. Friday night, Anton had promised
to prepare a special pre-Marathon meal full of whatever it was you needed
to eat before marathons. Wilson didn't know what it would be; he doubted
it was something that was going to take off the roof of his mouth, or come
wrapped in a chocolate chip pancake.

Sure enough, it turned out to be a particularly bland mountain of pasta.
Wilson found he had little appetite and had to force himself to eat. He
shifted restlessly in his seat while he listened to Anton. His dinner
companion talked at length about the food they needed to pack for the
race-what kind of Power Bars, how much water-and then switched to news
from home.

"...and Sofia is taking her first step this week. Mila sends me a photo,
here let me showing you. There. But it is not the same thing as to be
there to see it. It is killing me to miss this."

"Yeah. Must be tough."

"But did you know, they can all watch me running the race on the Internet?
They have cameras so that..." He trailed off, and cocked his head to the
side, giving Wilson a curious look. "Is everything okay? You are not
eating."

Wilson put his fork down. "To be honest," he said, but he was interrupted
by his cell phone sounding off in his pocket. He flicked it open. It was
Foreman.

 "I'm at Smokey Joe's," he said. "You might want to get down here."

"Yes," said Wilson shortly, after he'd listened for a minute. "Okay." He
snapped the phone shut and sat looking thoughtfully at his plate of pasta
for a moment, tapping his thumb against his water glass. Finally he lifted
his head to meet Anton's questioning look. "I'm sorry, Anton. But I've got
an emergency." 

Anton gave him a quizzical look. "Which patient?" he asked.

"One of... Foreman's patients, actually."

"Can I be of assistance?" Anton's broad face was creased with concern.

"No, really, thanks." Wilson left the table and slipped on his coat. "I'm
sorry to do this, but I've gotta run."

***** Wilson entered the club, paid the cover charge, and looked around
for Foreman. He was sitting with Wendy, the peds nurse, at a table at the
very back of the dimly lit room. 

"Hey," he said, acknowledging both of them and sliding into a chair as the
waitress approached. "I'll have a scotch-make that a double." He glanced
over at Foreman and then up at the stage. House was seated at a piano
there. Behind him was Whitey, playing sax, and a bass player and drummer.
"What's going on?"

"I thought he might need someone to persuade him not to take his bike home
tonight. And, well, better you than me."

"Has he had a lot to drink?"

"I think so," said Foreman, looking at the bottle on the floor by House's
feet, the glass on top of the piano. "And he's also chugged a couple of
Vicodin." 

"I'm afraid it doesn't take much liquor," sighed Wilson. "He's a something
of a lightweight." 

Foreman smirked. As the waitress arrived with Wilson's drink, Foreman
leaned forward, jerked his head toward the stage, and said, "Check this
out." The ensemble was working its way through a version of Sweet Home
Chicago, and Wilson realized that the other musicians were about to let
House take the piano solo. 

He listened to House play, mentally shaking his head. He'd known House for
a long time and didn't think there was much left about the man that could
astonish him. This astonished him. First, that he hadn't known about this
side of House at all. Secondly, the skill with which he played, his right
hand improvising a delicate, melancholy variation on the melody in a
haunting minor key while his left worked a complicated rhythm in the bass
line. But most surprising was the effect the playing had on House. While
he closed his eyes to play, his face, his whole body became a sort of
mirror of the emotions he was working into the music. He raised his
eyebrows at a particularly aching phrase, or frowned at a slow passage,
lifted a shoulder, or inclined his head. Wilson was absolutely certain he
had no idea he was doing this-revealing a side of himself he was so
careful to keep closed off-and it was fascinating.

As he listened, Wilson forced himself to consider the question of what
drew him into this lopsided friendship. What did he get out of it besides
aggravation? The answers were not ones he cared to look too closely at.

There was a brilliance to House he knew he could never find in another
human being, male or female. There were times, watching him work, when he
was certain he was in the presence of something unique-call it genius if
you will. He'd known plenty of very smart people in his career, so it
wasn't just intelligence, a high IQ, that made House different. He
supposed that what differentiated a genius from a smart person was the
presence of some other, ineffable quality. For lack of a better word,
passion. It was this second quality that made House so eternally
fascinating to Wilson: not just his ability to solve the puzzle, but his
passion to solve it.

A person who lives a life of dedication is not the same as a person who
lives his life with passion. Wilson was a dedicated physician, House was a
passionate one. Wilson cared deeply about his patients but could go home
at quitting time and leave the hospital behind. House appeared to care
very little about his patients--no one would ever call him dedicated, or
devoted-but he couldn't leave the hospital the way Wilson could. And
Wilson was smart enough to acknowledge there was a thrill-a vicarious,
envious thrill-in watching someone who had that kind of passion driving
his life.

Wilson never deceived himself that the price for this single-mindedness
was an enormous selfishness-a monumental self-centeredness, as he himself
had once termed it. Nor had House ever pretended otherwise. He would now
and then make an effort to admit other needs, perspectives, points of view
existed outside his own. But it was short-lived, painfully inept, and, to
be honest, rather touching to watch.

So...genius. And passion. Was that it? Was that enough to constitute a
basis for a friendship?

Once again he had to admit to an uncomfortable truth. What really
attracted him to House was not the man's brilliance. It wasn't the light
of his intelligence, but the heat of it, more precisely the danger created
by that heat. House was like some sort of bright celestial object that
defied the rules of physics. He constantly pushed boundaries, rules of law
and rules of medicine, all the careful conventions a society created to
make life comfortable and safe and predictable. Wilson knew he himself was
nothing if not deeply conventional. Beneath the charming, boyish exterior
he presented the world was a badly screwed up man, as House had often
pointed out. And what kept that inner screwed-up man on the rails was the
outer conventional man, the one scared of authority, the law-abiding
creature who wore pocket protectors, married well if not wisely, drove a
Volvo, washed it every Sunday, and had never had so much as a speeding
ticket. This Wilson was drawn to House like a cautious, careful moth
mesmerized by a flame.

Wilson was not the only one. It was this same force that made Stacy fall
for House so hard and stay so long. It was the reason Foreman didn't take
that job in California, why Cuddy risked so much, why Cameron couldn't
talk herself out of her crush. 

House, for his part, had no idea, Wilson was convinced--hadn't a clue
about the effect he had on people, except to know that sooner or later,
whatever attracted them to him would invariably drive them all away. Like
planets drawn into the uncertain orbit of an unstable star, those that
didn't manage to leave the orbit were doomed. Nothing could burn that hot
without burning itself out, and it would incinerate along with it
everything in its gravitational field.

********

Chapter 6 Funeral Pyre

House signalled with a glance at Whitey that he was concluding the piano
solo, and the saxaphonist bowed in his direction before chiming in with
his own instrument. The audience burst into enthusiastic applause for the
piano solo, several even shouting out House's name ("Yeah, Doc!"), but
House never acknoweldged the applause, instead keeping eye contact with
Whitey as the two of them drew the song to a close. Even Foreman put his
hands together. "He's good, man," he muttered to Wilson. "Shoulda been a
musician." 

It was the final number in the set, and the musicians began packing up
their instruments and clearing the stage. House sat unmoving at the piano,
even after Whitey came over, said something in his ear and clapped him on
the back.

Foreman was making leaving motions-probably wanted to get out of there
before House spotted him--so Wilson told him he would take it from here.
Foreman gave him a grateful look and escorted his date to the door as
Wilson climbed onto the stage. House was busy trying blindly to retrieve
the bottle of scotch at his feet. Wilson snatched it away and House
rewarded him with an angry unfocussed look. He reached for the half-full
glass of scotch on the top of the piano and sucked most of it down with a
happy hiss before Wilson plucked that away too. 

"House. What are you doing?" Wilson demanded.

House sighed and lowered his forehead to the piano. When he spoke it was
as if he was talking to himself. "Just trying to get to the next telephone
pole. You know?" He paused for a long moment and then opened one eye as if
seeing Wilson for the first time. "Jimmy. What are you doing here?" He was
enunciating carefully, a sure sign that he was very drunk. "Aren't you up
past your bedtime? Don't you and Dr.... Kovic have a...runathon to...run?"

"Cancelled it. So, do you come here a lot?"

"My god, can't you think of a better pick-up line than that?" sneered
House.

"Okay." Wilson stuffed a dollar bill in the scotch glass and gave House an
entreating look. "Do you know People? Play People," he whined. "Please,
please."

House ignored him and rose to his feet, trying to maintain a dignified
air, but failing miserably. As frequently happened when he was drunk
enough to feel no pain, he forgot he needed a cane, and with his first
step he collapsed against the keyboard in a loud cacophony of treble
notes. He would have fallen even further if Wilson hadn't anticipated just
such an event and snaked an arm under his elbow. Whitey retrieved the cane
from under the piano bench, and Wilson thrust it into House's hand,
sighing, "This is why they call it getting legless. Not a good idea for
someone who's already down a leg." 

He guided House off the stage and toward the exit. "Great to have you
back, Doc," said the club manager cheerfully as Wilson paid his and
House's bar bill at the door. "See you next week."

"You shouldn't cancel the runathon," said House as they made their slow,
stumbling way down the street, Wilson now carrying the cane and
practically carrying House as well. "You gotta run. Running's good for
you. Anton's...good for you. Why'd you cancel?"

"Something more important came up, I guess."

"Shame. And a waste, too."

"It's not a waste. I can-"

"Not you. Orange juice."

"What?"

"Bought a buttload of orange juice. Little Dixie cups. Was going to stand
on street corners and keep you...hydrated."

"Sure you were," said Wilson fondly.

"Was too. Now what'm I gonna do with all that orange juice?"

Wilson thought for a few paces. "Mimosas?" he suggested. "We can get
champagne and have them for breakfast."

"Excellent idea. Celebrate...whatever." He came to a stop and looked at
Wilson. "But what about the Vaseline?"

"Excuse me?"

"Also got a big jar of Vaseline."

"For...what?"

"Supposed to rub Valesine...Vaseline on your nipples. Before a runathon.
Prevents chafing. Chafed nipples, very bad. Didn't Slobo tell you?"

"He did not."

"Pffft. Well, to hell with him then."

"That's right," said Wilson as they arrived at the Volvo. "No Valesine for
him. Come on. Let's get you home."

House peered at Wilson closely. "Want me to drive? You've been drinking,
you know." He wagged a finger in Wilson's face. "I can smell it on your
breath." 

Wilson just ignored this, opened the door and decanted House carefully
into the front seat. He lifted his right leg in after him, as House seemed
incapable of even that. By the time he climbed in the other side, House
had lowered the seat back until he was completely horizontal. This made
the shoulder strap ineffectual, but Wilson reached over and pulled the lap
belt around him. 

"Try not to throw up," he said as he put the car in gear. "I just had the
car detailed."

"Not going to throw up," declared House. "Going to sing." And he started
right in. "People! People who need people!--"

"Stop," Wilson interrupted, wincing. "Please."

"--Are the screwed-uppest people in the world!"

"If you stop singing People," implored Wilson--

"One person! One very special person!-"

"--I'll let you rub Vaseline on my nipples when we get home."

Silence.

"Promise?"

"Promise."

House lifted both hands and played the opening notes of a new tune on air
piano, then launched into the lyrics. "The time to hesitate is through,"
he sang, at top volume. "No time to wallow in the mire. Try now, we can
only lose. And our love become a funeral pyre. Come on baby, light my
fire! Try to set the night on FIII-YAH..."

He was still singing when they got home.

FIN

  
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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
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nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the
show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.