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  The Waiting Room 
 by Housepiglet  

 The crunch of heavy wheels on gravel built rapidly to a crescendo and
just as suddenly died, as Wilson swung his car to a halt in the parking
lot behind the hotel.

He turned the key in the ignition and sat back, relieved to have arrived
and finally relaxing completely into his seat. It had been a long drive,
and the air inside the car had grown stifling. Transferring the key to his
pocket, he reached for the console and lowered the windows. Then he leaned
back again, and began to inspect his surroundings.

It was quiet outside, and only the sound of occasional birdsong disturbed
the silence. Light was fading quickly, but in the foreground a bright
yellow glow spilled out of the hotel's lower windows and onto the grass,
illuminating the lower branches of the maples and sycamores which marked
the outer boundaries of the parking area. To the right lay open fields,
and in the middle distance a broken circle of tall and gently undulating
shadows suggested the location of a lake.

Wilson turned his eyes again to the hotel, and through a line of
ground-floor windows he saw a group of people gathered in a reception
room. There was a roughly equal mix of men and women, in early middle-age,
and, as he watched, he saw the mass of bodies relax and contract as from
time to time smaller groups within it broke off to circulate around the
room. From a distance the faces were indiscernible, but the easy and
confident manner of the participants suggested to Wilson that this might
be the group he had traveled to meet. He wondered, suddenly, whether after
a gap of 14 years he would recognize anybody, or whether any of them would
know him. Glancing towards the rear-view mirror, though, it struck him on
reflection that any significant changes were likely to be buried more than
surface deep, and he returned to his long-distance scrutiny.

The unexpected sound of large and heavy wings immediately above him woke
him abruptly from his reverie, and as he craned his neck out of the window
he saw a heron flapping slowly overhead. It began its descent towards the
lake and he watched, fascinated, as, approaching the water, it extended
its neck and legs and raised its wings for the landing. He opened the door
and stepped quickly out of the car, eyes fixed upon the point at which the
bird had seemed to melt into the water. He could see nothing but dark
shadows rippling across the surface, though, and so a moment later he
turned back to the car, and leaned in to collect his jacket and overcoat
from the back seat. He had a single suitcase in the trunk, and, swinging
it out, he transferred it to his left hand and set off towards the lights.

-- ----- --

As he unpacked his suitcase, and arranged the contents of his shaving kit
in the bathroom, Wilson's mind drifted back to the events of recent weeks.
House had stared at him with unfeigned amazement when he'd announced his
intention to attend the reunion.

"Middle age finally catching up with you, Jimmy?" he'd asked,
consideringly, his head tipped to one side. "Is this about comparing high
scores with the other kids?" He'd leaned forwards, and leered at Wilson
while reaching for the bag of Lays that sat open on Wilson's desk. "Or are
you looking for fresh blood north of the border, now that cancer chick's
gone east?"

Wilson had frowned, and rolled his eyes. "I've told you before, House. Not
everything's about sex." Then he'd placed his file in the out-tray, and
reached to a pile on the desk for the next. "You know, many people
consider it an entirely normal feature of ordinary social interaction to
meet up with old friends from time to time. Of course, that isn't really
something that applies to you, because the whole concept presupposes that
a person actually has friends."

"But it would totally include you, right?" House had countered, grinning a
little, and still intrigued. "You have loads of friends. Just listen to
them out there!" He'd gestured theatrically towards the door with his
cane, and lowered his voice. "Don't tell Cuddy, but I only carry this so I
can beat a path through the crowds to get into your office!"

"I have friends," Wilson had replied, closing the file and reaching for
another. "I just don't often get a chance to catch up with them. And
that's why I'm taking the opportunity to spend a weekend with some of them
now." He'd dropped the last file on top of the others, re-capped his pen,
and pushed his chair away from his desk. "Anyway, don't you have a patient
to interrogate? I have a Board meeting in ten minutes, and we both know
that if I'm late Cuddy's going to blame you."

House had made no attempt to push himself out of his chair, though, and
instead he'd eyed Wilson appraisingly. "Maybe I should come with," he'd
said at last, raising his eyebrows and tipping his head again. "To keep an
eye on you. Imagine the damage Little Jimmy could do to all those nice
Canadian doctors! If Cuddy got to hear about that she'd have you on extra
clinic duty for a month."

"Cuddy trusts me, House," Wilson had said, as he'd stood and walked
towards the door. Arriving there, he'd begun to roll down his sleeves.
"She doesn't care what Little Jimmy gets up to as long as I'm doing my
job, and as long as she thinks I'm making some kind of effort to help her
keep you in line. Anyway, I'm sure you'll survive without me for a
weekend. I'll only be gone three days." He'd unhooked his lab coat from
the coat stand, and slipped it over his arms. "Come on. Get your lazy ass
out of here and find someone else to torment. When I see Cuddy I'll tell
her you're on your way down to the clinic."

House had responded with the anticipated threats, but he'd gathered his
things together and limped back to his room. He hadn't let the subject
drop, though. Completing his last minute instructions to his staff that
morning, Wilson had returned to his office to find House inspecting the
contents of his suitcase, and on unpacking his shaving kit just now he'd
discovered a small package wrapped in a scrap of charting paper.
Unwrapping it, he'd found a pack of condoms, with a brief, hand-written
note. "It's cold up there, Jimmy. Don't forget to wrap up. Mom x"

Wilson had grinned, despite himself, and he'd tossed the condoms back into
his bag. He'd looked again at the note, and after a moment's hesitation
he'd slipped it into his pocket. His grin faded now, though, as he
wondered again how House would have reacted had he known why he was there.

A moment later, that thought alerted Wilson to the fact that it was
getting late, and he looked down at his watch and saw that it was already
8pm. He ran a quick hand through his hair, and he walked back into the
bedroom and reached into the closet for his jacket. Slipping it on, he
picked his information folder off the table and shut the door behind him.
Then he made his way towards the elevator, to join the gathering below.

-- ----- --

The evening passed quickly, in a haze of reintroductions and
alcohol-fuelled reminiscences. Faces that seemed unrecognizable at first
sight resolved quickly into familiar lines as conversation lent them
context, and Wilson found himself enjoying the occasion more than he'd
expected to do. It was after midnight when he returned to his room, and as
he hung his dress suit in the closet he wondered whether it had been a
mistake to allow himself to be railroaded into playing squash the
following afternoon.

There'd been a time when he'd been one of the fastest players at McGill,
but as he pulled a t-shirt over his head, and hitched his boxers to his
hips, it occurred to him that that time had been 15 years earlier. Still,
it wouldn't hurt to get some exercise, he thought, and it crossed his mind
that, if he enjoyed it, perhaps he could think about joining a club when
he got back down to Princeton.

He pushed back the covers and climbed into bed. The mattress was firm, and
he shivered a little at the touch of the cotton sheets against his legs.
There was a TV remote on the bedside table, and for a moment he thought
about flicking through the channels in search of an easy movie. He
remembered his new golfing journal, though, and reached for that instead,
propping himself up against the headboard on a bank of carefully arranged
pillows. He turned to an article about the Ryder Cup, but he found himself
unable to concentrate, and his mind began to drift.

In the years since Wilson had graduated from McGill there had been several
reunions. This was the first he'd attended, though, and when the
invitation had arrived in his morning mail he'd scribbled a quick apology
in the usual way, and dropped it into his out-tray.

He'd been staying at House's apartment since Julie had dropped the
bomb-shell about her affair, but a month after receiving the letter from
McGill he'd moved out. He and House had been close since soon after they'd
met. Many people thought them completely ill-matched, but most people
didn't see past the mask that Wilson held up for public scrutiny. Either
they didn't look closely enough to see further, or they were content to
accept Wilson's careful camouflage at face value. Both he and House had
recognized a small reflection of himself in the other, though, and they'd
settled quickly into a relaxed and easy friendship. When he'd walked out
on Julie, House's apartment had been the obvious place for Wilson to go.

But in the month they'd spent living together, things had changed.
Thinking back to that time now, and with the clarity conferred by
distance, it wasn't hard for Wilson to see how things had progressed. He'd
first noticed it one evening a couple of weeks after he'd moved in, when
he and House had been lounging around the living room, relaxing after
dinner.

"Wilson." House had been flipping through a pile of the latest medical
journals, and Wilson had been stretched out on the couch, gazing lazily
across towards him. He'd never noticed before just how long House's
fingers were, but from where Wilson was lying it looked almost as though
they curled all the way around his whiskey glass. "Wilson!" He hadn't
realised he'd been staring until he'd suddenly noticed House waving his
other hand in his face, and, before he could react, House had thrown a
journal across the room. "Wilson!"

Wilson had jumped as the journal hit him in the chest, and he'd
immediately begun to stammer, guiltily. "What? Oh, sorry! I..."

As his eyes had returned to focus he'd seen what had looked like a mocking
smile playing around the edges of House's mouth. "If you've finished
checking me out, I'd appreciate your thoughts on this. Have you seen
Zebrowski's paper on page 15?" House had grinned more broadly, then, and
reached for another article. "I realise monoclonal gammopathy isn't nearly
as exciting as my gorgeous ass, but what is, after all?"

Wilson had blushed, and raised his eyes towards the ceiling. "I wasn't
checking you out, you narcissistic idiot! I was just... thinking." He'd
finished the sentence more slowly than he'd begun, and he'd reached
suddenly for the journal, and lowered his head as he'd turned to the
index.

"Yeah, well think about Zebrowski's article instead," House had muttered,
as he'd turned back to his reading.

Wilson had read the paper, but later that night a memory of the incident
had returned to him on the couch. At the time he hadn't been sure why it
had stayed with him. Looking back now, though, he saw it as the first in
the series of incidents that had led to his departure.

The next had been a few mornings later, when he and House had somehow
become entangled in the bathroom doorway. Wilson had been rushing from the
shower. House was still sleepy, and his hair had been ruffled, and
sticking up at strange angles. He'd scowled at Wilson, and complained
loudly about the loss of his personal space, but as Wilson had steadied
himself against House's middle, and squeezed past and into the corridor,
he'd become acutely aware of the soft feel of House's cotton t-shirt
against his palms, and the firmness of House's body beneath his clothes.

His eyes had widened, and he'd looked up at House in surprise. House had
stared back at him with an unreadable expression, and suddenly Wilson had
looked away. As he'd edged away from the bathroom door he'd called back,
"I'll see you later." House had merely grunted, though, and lowered his
hands towards the front of his boxers as he'd made his way towards the
toilet.

Suddenly Wilson's cell phone rang, and the journal slipped from his knees
and onto the floor as he reached across to the bedside table to answer the
phone. When he checked the caller ID he saw that it was House, and his
stomach jumped slightly. For a moment he considered just letting the phone
ring out. House was nothing if not persistent, though, and so instead he
pressed the button and took the call. "Don't tell me, House," he said, in
a light tone. "You're missing me so much already that you couldn't sleep."

"Just keeping tabs on you, Jimmy," said House, from the other end of the
line. His voice was slightly gravely, and Wilson thought he detected the
sound of a glass settling against wood in the background. "I promised
Cuddy I'd make sure you stayed out of trouble. Having fun yet?" There was
a brief pause, and Wilson thought he heard the glass move again. "Maybe
not, though, since you're so quick to take the call."

Wilson smiled, slightly. "Actually, we've finished. She's in the bathroom,
cleaning up. I'm just lying here browsing the television for porn."

"Nice..." House muttered, but Wilson thought he heard a smile in his
voice. Then House continued. "So, how have the other kids turned out? Are
they all as screwed up as you? If they are, you can probably get Stacy to
bring a class action."

Wilson reached down for the covers, and pulled them up towards his chest.
"They're all respectably boring middle-aged specialists, House, like me.
We sat around and talked about old times for a while. It was good. You
should try it sometime." Changing the subject, Wilson went on. "Anyway,
what's happening down there? Do you have a new patient yet?"

The glass shifted again, and this time Wilson thought he heard a bottle
join it. "Nothing interesting," said House. "Cuddy's had me on clinic duty
all afternoon. If she doesn't come up with a case on Monday I'll send the
kids out to look for something."

For a time neither man said anything. Wilson leaned over to the table for
a glass of water, and a short silence ensued. Then House spoke again. "So
everything's okay?"

Wilson's eyes widened, and it was a moment before he answered. "Yes," he
said. "Everything's fine." He paused, but House didn't respond, and so
Wilson continued. "You know, I really should get to sleep, House," and he
manufactured a yawn. "I'm playing squash tomorrow, and I want to get out
and take a look around the grounds in the morning."

House grunted, and Wilson thought he detected amusement in the sound. "Try
not to die of excitement up there, Wilson. There's no way I'm traveling to
Montreal to attend your funeral."

"Yes, God forbid that you should put yourself out for me," said Wilson,
and a rueful smile spread across his face. "Goodnight, House," he said,
and he ended the call and returned the phone to the bedside table.

He reached for his journal again, but he still couldn't concentrate on
golf. His fingers turned the pages, but his thoughts kept slipping back to
the conversation. He was unused to expressions of interest in his
wellbeing from House, and he searched his memory for anything he might
have said or done that could have prompted the enquiry. He couldn't think
of anything, though, and eventually he gave up. Checking his watch, he saw
that it was almost 2am, and he lifted his hand and rubbed it across the
bridge of his nose.

He pushed back the covers and, taking the glass from beside the bed, he
made his way over to the bathroom. A couple of minutes later he returned,
and slipped back between the sheets. He rearranged the pillows, and
reached over to turn off the bedside light, sliding down the mattress and
pulling the covers up and over his shoulders. Then he closed his eyes,
turned onto his back, and began to breath deeply and deliberately. It was
a long time before he ceased to be aware of time passing around him, but
eventually he slept.

-- ----- --

Wilson hunched his shoulders and pulled his scarf a little closer, as he
made his way across the fields towards the lake. He'd quite enjoyed the
communal breakfast, although he'd noticed that several people at the table
appeared a little frayed around the edges after the excesses of the night
before. He hadn't been drinking, though, and when he thought back to his
fractured sleep he was relieved that he hadn't added alcohol to the mix.

A trip to the university had been arranged for the morning, but Wilson had
decided to forego it in favor of an exploration of the hotel grounds.
Susan was due in a couple of hours, and he wanted to be there for her
arrival. She was the closest friend he had left from medical school, and
they'd kept in touch regularly over the years.

It was a bright and beautiful morning: cold, but still; and, although the
early sunshine fell like warm breath on the back of Wilson's neck, it
lacked the strength to penetrate his clothing, and he hugged his jacket
closer to his body as he walked. The grass was short but thick, and still
drenched in the remains of a heavy dew, and as Wilson crossed it a dark
trail appeared on the ground behind him, and dew stained the toes of his
boots black.

As he walked, Wilson thought back to the month he'd spent in House's
apartment. The next incident had occurred a few days later, as Wilson had
been taking a shower.

On a whim, he'd reached for House's shampoo instead of his own. He'd
squeezed a little into his hands and rubbed them together, and, as the
familiar smell of House had flooded the cubicle, he'd found himself
lifting his hands to his face and inhaling the scent, before reaching up
and applying the shampoo to his hair.

The image of House had remained in his mind, and as he'd closed his eyes
and turned his face towards the spray, luxuriating in the stream of hot
and soapy water coursing swiftly down his chest, he'd lowered a hand,
experimentally, to touch himself. He'd gasped as his hand moved against
his body, and briefly he'd hesitated. A moment later, though, he'd leaned
his right hand against the wall and lowered his head, and a few minutes
after that he'd arched his back, and shuddered, as he'd come in hot, white
spurts across the back of his wrist, and into the water bubbling in the
tray by his feet. He'd lowered his left hand to his side, and remained in
that position for some time, and when he'd eventually raised his head all
traces of his earlier contentment had been gone.

Memories of the shower had returned to Wilson at every unoccupied moment
of the day, and that evening he'd been buried in a pile of paperwork when
House had called into his office. "Wanna eat out tonight?" House had
asked, from the doorway. "I took $50 off Foreman on the results of the
girl's blood test, so it's my treat if you're going to be quick."

Wilson had put down his pen and lifted a hand towards his brow, and then
he'd raised his eyes to meet House's. "Sorry, but I can't." He'd gestured
towards the papers covering his desk, and shifted his hand to massage the
back of his neck. "I'm completely swamped. I've no idea what time I'm
going to be finished here."

House had shifted his weight against his cane, and looked over at Wilson
enquiringly. "No time for lunch or dinner today, Jimmy? You know what they
say about all work and no play."

"I'll grab a sandwich later," Wilson had said, and he'd picked up his pen
again, and stared meaningfully at the file he'd been working on.

"Relax. I'm going," House had said, as he'd turned towards the corridor.
"Don't think you're getting out of the dishes that easily, though," he'd
called back, as he'd allowed the door to swing closed behind him. "You can
do them tomorrow as well."

"Fine," Wilson had muttered, and he'd turned back to his papers. Half an
hour later, though, he'd closed the file and re-capped his pen. Standing,
he'd walked across to the window, and stared out at the rain falling
heavily onto the balcony. After that, he'd walked towards the coat stand,
lifted his jacket from the hook and made his way to the oncology lounge.
He'd been flicking through the movies section of the local newspaper when
Brown had come in, and Wilson had looked up and passed him the paper,
asking, "Hey, have you seen any of these? I felt like an evening out, but
I'm a little out of touch." Brown had taken the paper, and 45 minutes
later Wilson had settled into a seat at the back of the theatre with a
large box of salted popcorn, and for a couple of hours all thoughts of the
morning had been lost in the movie.

By the time Wilson had returned to the apartment, House had been in bed.
It wasn't possible to avoid him, though, and over the course of the next
week Wilson had attempted to rationalize the situation. It wasn't clear
whether House had noticed any change in him, or--if he had--whether he'd
considered it in any way unusual. More than once, though, Wilson had
caught himself observing House. He'd been embarrassed, on looking up, to
find House watching him, impassively. But neither of them had said
anything, and so things had continued.

Remembering the occasion now, Wilson stopped and removed his hands from
his pockets, and reached up to loosen the top of his jacket, and his
scarf. He'd reached the outskirts of the lake, and he walked towards a
fallen tree near the water's edge and sat down. He leaned back against the
trunk, and stared out across the water.

The lake was fringed with reeds, and overshadowed at the edges by tall,
overhanging trees. It was quiet, and no obvious signs of movement drew his
eye. Tranquility of this sort had long ceased to be a part of Wilson's
life, and it seemed to him now that he should seek it out. Moments later,
though, a small and muted plop broke without warning through the surface
of his daydream, and something stirred minutely in his peripheral vision.

Wilson turned his head towards the right, and on the surface of the water
he saw an expanding series of concentric circles begin to drift lazily
towards the banks. He watched, silently, as the outermost circle pursued
an inexorable course towards the reed bed, and it had almost reached the
point of disintegration when a secondary movement just behind it attracted
his attention. The source of the movement was barely visible at first, but
as Wilson stared closely into the tall grasses there was a sudden slight
shift of colors, and he realized that he was looking at a bird. Moments
later, the shape resolved into that of a heron.

The bird stood balanced finely on one leg, and as Wilson watched he saw it
advance almost imperceptibly forwards, its neck extended and its eyes
entirely focused on the movements of small creatures concealed from
Wilson's gaze beneath the surface of the lake. He watched, almost
hypnotized, as the bird continued its slow advance, but gradually it drew
to a halt and placed its second leg carefully into the water beside the
first. Then it drew back its neck, and settled carefully into an attitude
of almost statue-like stillness.

Wilson breathed quietly, almost afraid to move. Slowly, he raised his eyes
to the tops of the surrounding trees and scanned them for signs of a nest,
but there was nothing to be seen. He lowered his eyes again and looked
back at the bird. It stood so still in the reeds that its reflection was
captured perfectly upon the surface of the lake. Minutes passed, but the
bird made no movement, and Wilson wondered suddenly how much of its life
was spent waiting, in that way. He found something unsettling in the idea,
and when he eventually rose from the log to trace his steps back to the
hotel the image remained in his mind.

-- ----- --

Back in his room, Wilson took a sip of his coffee and leaned forwards in
his chair to check the driveway once again. There was still no sign of
Susan, and he wondered whether to get out his cell phone and give her a
call. It wasn't yet noon, though, and he decided to wait a little longer.

The final incident had taken place a week before he'd moved out. As he
thought of it now, Wilson's face flushed and he felt his heart begin to
race in his chest. He leaned forwards in his chair and breathed deeply,
resting his weight against his knees. His heart beat faster, though, and,
almost without thinking, he reached down, and patted his hand against the
side of his leg. There was a small, answering rattle from his pocket, but
he waited, and eventually his heart began to slow to a steadier rhythm.
After that he sat up, and slowly rubbed the circulation back into his
arms.

It had been a great evening, originally. They'd been to a Benefit at the
hospital, and Wilson had actually won the poker tournament. House had left
the tournament to treat a child, and he'd finally solved the mystery of
one of his oldest unresolved cases. Riding back to the apartment in the
cab, Wilson had taken House through a second blow-by-blow account of
exactly how he'd trashed Burman. For once House had been happy to sit
quietly, just listening, and watching Wilson, patiently. He'd even smiled
a little when the story had ended. "You have a gift for manipulation and
deceit" he'd said. "It's wasted in oncology. Maybe you should consider a
career in hospital administration!" They'd both laughed, and Wilson had
settled back into his seat and turned his head towards the window. From
there he'd watched in silence as familiar places, rendered unfamiliar by
darkness, had flashed by outside the cab.

Back at the apartment, House had poured each of them a whiskey, and
retired wordlessly to the piano. Wilson had collapsed onto the couch, and
settled into a quiet contemplation of House from behind the shelter of an
arm thrown casually up and across his eyes.

Time had passed imperceptibly, neither of them speaking and each absorbed
in his thoughts. The occasions of House's diagnostic triumphs were
frequently noisy, self-congratulatory affairs, but this night had been
different. House's head was bent low over the keyboard, and his hands had
moved carefully--almost reverentially--across the keys. The music wasn't
anything that Wilson had recognized, and it had seemed likely to him that
this was some private composition of House's own. House's feelings about
his failure to save Esther had been complex, and they'd run long and deep.
Had Wilson thought it possible that House embraced the concept of a
personal God, then as he watched he might almost have believed that House
was giving thanks.

Quite suddenly, though, House had stopped in mid-phrase, and turned his
head towards Wilson. Wilson had said nothing, and House had continued to
look. It had occurred to Wilson that House thought he was sleeping, and
although his conscience told him that he ought to speak the opportunity
had seemed to pass. House had reached for his cane, and pushed himself up
and off the stool. He'd turned to his glass, and at that stage Wilson had
closed his eyes. He'd heard House turn again, to walk towards the kitchen,
but as he'd approached the couch his steps had slowed, and Wilson's heart
had begun to throb so loudly in his ears that for a moment it had seemed
impossible that House couldn't hear it. There had been a brief silence,
and then Wilson had heard a minute rustling as House had bent down.
Immediately after that he'd felt House brush a hand gently against his
head, and as House lifted his hand away Wilson had felt him touch his
fingers briefly against his hair. A moment later House had stood, and
continued his journey towards the kitchen. Wilson had heard the sound of
the glass settling into the sink, and then he'd heard House making his way
towards his bedroom.

As the sound of House`s steps had receded along the corridor, Wilson had
found that he could barely breathe against the pounding of his heart in
his chest. Had House known he was awake? He'd been afraid to move at
first, but a wave of nausea had hit him suddenly, and with such force,
that he'd had to sit up and lower his head towards the floor. He'd tried
to breathe deeply, but his hands and feet had been tingling and his head
had begun to spin, and he'd been overtaken by an all-embracing fear that
House would return and find him in that state. What if House knew he'd
been watching? As he'd considered the possibility that he might have given
something away Wilson had found that he was panting, and, clutching
suddenly at both his stomach and his mouth, he'd pushed himself off the
couch and made a dash towards the bathroom. Shutting the door behind him,
he'd just made it to the toilet before emptying the contents of his
stomach into the bowl.

He'd been crouched down against the toilet, his heart still racing and his
hands and face damp with sweat and sticky vomit, when he'd heard House's
cane against the door. "Wilson?"

He'd pulled himself up against the bowl, and attempted to slow his
breathing to a point at which he could speak. "Wait, House."

A moment later, House had spoken again. "Need to pee!" he'd said. Then
there'd been another pause. "What're you doing?"

Wilson's heart had raced faster, and it had been almost impossible to
catch his breath. He'd opened his mouth to reply, but as he'd heard
House's cane make further contact with the door his stomach had
contracted, and he'd swung his face back towards the toilet and vomited
again.

The next thing he'd been aware of was the sound of House's voice behind
his shoulder. "What are you doing?" House had asked again. Wilson had
tried to voice a response, but the words wouldn't come, and House had
spoken again. "Wilson?" he'd said, a note of more genuine enquiry apparent
in his voice.

"Buffet," Wilson had managed to gasp. "Go away."

He'd heard House shift against his cane, and, although he could see
nothing, he'd been acutely and agonizingly aware of the strength of
House's cool, appraising stare against his back. He'd had no idea what
House had been thinking, but as the possibilities had raced through his
mind he'd retched again into the bowl.

House had moved again, and finally Wilson had heard him turn away. "Don't
take all night in here, Wilson," he'd said, and he'd begun to pull the
door to behind him. "Some of us need to pee."

It was at that stage that Wilson had realised he needed to leave, and
within a week he'd moved out of House's apartment and into his own. A
humorless smile flickered briefly across his features, now, as he
remembered how House had later assumed that he'd moved out to live with
Grace. In different circumstances, the irony would have been amusing.
There was nothing amusing about it, though. House had been wrong. It had
been a week after leaving House's apartment that Wilson had driven Grace
home, and when he'd moved in with her he'd foregone the deposit on his
apartment and cancelled the lease.

It was four weeks, now, since he'd moved out. He'd hoped that leaving
would resolve the situation, but it hadn't. Anxiety about his feelings for
House had begun to haunt him at odd moments during the day. He'd found his
concentration affected, and he'd begun to worry that he was no longer
focused on his patients. He'd had a second panic attack while reviewing
files in his office. When he'd begun to wake early, unable to sleep and
unable to clear his mind of thoughts about his job and his relationship
with House, he'd been forced to accept that he had a significant problem.

Wilson stood, and walked around the table to get a better view. The sky
had clouded over, and in the distance the surface of the lake looked
slightly ruffled, and grey. There was still no sign of a car, and he ran a
hand through his hair and walked back to his seat.

As soon as he'd moved his things into his new apartment he'd taken a
personal day, and driven down state to see Susan. He smiled, now, as he
remembered how, in their very early days at McGill, people had assumed
that they were together. They'd been close, but they'd never been more
than friends. Almost 10 years earlier Susan had moved in with her partner,
Paula. They'd moved down to a small town in the south of New Jersey, and
Susan was happily settled there, now, and working as a general
practitioner.

Four weeks ago he'd spoken to Susan about his break-up with Julie. Feeling
a need to justify his condition, he'd even gone on to speak about David.
He'd said nothing at all about House, though. It wasn't that he felt he
couldn't trust Susan, but he'd barely begun to acknowledge those feelings
to himself.

Susan had been concerned at the change in him. She'd prescribed Ativan for
his anxiety, and Zoloft for his depression. She'd wanted him to undergo a
more formal assessment with a colleague, but Wilson hadn't been willing to
agree. She'd persuaded him that he needed some sort of a break, though,
and that's when she'd suggested that he should attend the reunion. They'd
agreed to try to meet at weekly intervals for the first month, and to
review the situation in Montreal.

When things hadn't improved, Susan had increased the Zoloft to 100mg a
day. Wilson had shied off using the Ativan, but she'd encouraged him to
use it when he needed it. Finally he'd found that his sleep was starting
to improve, and the Ativan was helping to keep the worst of his panic
attacks under control.

At that moment, Wilson's cell phone rang. Picking it up, he saw that it
was Susan, and when he took the call she told him she was almost there. He
lifted his jacket from the back of the chair, and went downstairs to wait
in the lobby.

-- ----- --

It had begun to rain by the time Wilson saw Susan's car turn into the
parking lot. He draped his jacket over his head and, ducking slightly as
he opened the door, he ran out to meet her. Arriving at her car, he sent
her off to the hotel, and then he followed behind with her overnight case.

Safe in the lobby again, he shook out his jacket, and dropped it onto
Susan's bag before turning to hug her.

"I'm sorry I'm late, Jimmy," she said, releasing him, and smiling as she
reached across to brush wet hair up and out of his eyes. "The flight was
delayed, and there was a hold-up with the luggage." Then she stepped back,
and inspected him more closely. "You look tired. How've you been
sleeping?"

Wilson's smile faded a little, and he glanced towards the floor before he
replied. "Better, thanks, but I had a late night. Let's get you checked in
first, though. We can talk later." He leaned down and picked up her bag,
and they made their way across to the desk.

Twenty minutes later, they were established in the small room adjoining
Susan's bedroom. Susan had made coffee, and she placed a cup on the table
in front of Wilson. Then she took a seat in the chair beside him.

"So how have you been?" she asked. "Any better yet? Do you feel the
Zoloft's helping?"

As Wilson told her how things had progressed since he'd seen her two weeks
earlier he was conscious that he really ought to reporting more of an
improvement, and when he finished it was clear that Susan felt the same.

"And have you had any contact with Julie?," she asked. "What do the
lawyers say about the settlement?"

Wilson said that yes, he'd spoken to Julie a week ago, and that things
between them were moving towards a polite, if uneasy, understanding. It
was still early days in relation to the settlement, but it was beginning
to look as though they might be able to work something out.

Susan frowned, and leaned towards him in her chair. "But you're not
actually feeling that much better?" She paused for a moment, and then she
went on. "Jimmy... Are you sure there isn't something else? Anything at
all?" She smiled, and reached across to touch the back of his arm. "I
can't help properly if you don't tell me everything that's on your mind."

Wilson looked down, and wondered how he could even begin to explain the
reality of his situation to Susan. He leaned forwards, and wrapped his
arms tightly around his chest as he considered how he'd tried to
understand it himself.

The conclusions he'd reached had seemed incredible to him initially. After
three failed but entirely heterosexual marriages, it had seemed impossible
that he could be attracted to House in any sort of physical way. He
couldn't make sense of it. Certainly his relationships with women had been
flawed, but the problems hadn't arisen out of any lack of physical desire
or enjoyment on his part. The only explanation had seemed to be that his
recent proximity to House had uncovered in him some kind of latent
bisexuality, but Wilson had found that prospect profoundly disturbing. It
wasn't the idea that some part of him might be gay that was disturbing to
him - and Wilson held the word up in his mind again, now, and turned it
around, inspecting it from every angle. At least, he didn't believe it
was. It was his fear that whatever feelings he was now developing towards
House would never be returned.

Wilson released his arms from around his chest, and looked across to Susan
again. After that he took a deep breath, and began to speak.

Once he started, Wilson found it difficult to stop, and it was almost
twenty minutes later when he finally finished talking. He'd told Susan
almost everything, and he sat back in his chair and looked up towards the
ceiling, suddenly exhausted.

Susan had listened without interrupting, and she sat quietly for some
moments before she replied. "Do you think there's any chance he feels the
same way? Do you think you'd be able to tell?"

Wilson sighed, and shook his head, uncertainly. When he'd first accepted
what was happening, he'd briefly stopped to consider whether House might
ever have entertained similar feelings for him. At that stage he'd quickly
dismissed the possibility. Reviewing the history of their relationship, he
could see no sign of it. He knew that on some level his friendship
mattered to House, but House was not a demonstrative man, and ultimately
Wilson remained unsure about just how deeply House's attachment to him
ran. He'd returned to the question daily since that time, though, and
since the incident after the Benefit he'd been forced to accept that he
had simply no idea what House's feelings on the subject might be.

He explained it to Susan, and she sat back silently to consider what he'd
said. Finally she leaned forwards, and placed her hand on the back of his
arm again. "I know it's not easy, Jimmy, but you're going to have to
decide. You can spend the rest of your life wondering, or you can take a
chance. You can't carry on like this, though."

She squeezed his arm and excused herself, and made her way into the
bedroom for a sweater. Wilson stood and walked across to the window. He
stared out through the rain streaming heavily down the glass, and then he
leaned back against the table to watch the wind make marionettes of the
tall poplars surrounding the lake.

-- ----- --

For the second night in a row, it was after midnight when Wilson returned
to his room. He went straight to the bathroom and began to run the water
for a bath. Then he walked back to the bedroom and began to take off his
clothes and fold them onto a chair. It was late but he needed to think,
and a soak in a hot tub was one of the best ways he knew to relax.

He'd attempted to clear his mind of everything but the reunion for the
remainder of the afternoon. Susan had gone downstairs to meet the others,
and he'd gone across to the gym to meet Andrews for the promised game of
squash. In the locker room afterwards, though, thoughts of his
conversation with Susan had come flooding back.

He and Andrews had been on the team together in the year the medical
school had won the Inter-Departmental Challenge Cup. As he'd toweled
himself down after his shower, he'd looked across at Andrews, curiously.
He could see that Andrews had kept himself in pretty good shape. Andrews
had looked up and noticed Wilson watching him, and he'd laughed. He'd
slapped a hand against his stomach, and made a rueful joke about how easy
it had been to stay lean when they'd been in their 20s, and how much more
difficult it was now.

Wilson had laughed with him, but secretly his heart had begun to race.
He'd felt himself blushing, and so he'd turned away, lifting the towel to
his face and rubbing determinedly at his hair until it was almost dry.
He'd known then that he wasn't attracted to Andrews physically, but the
fact that he'd felt a need to test himself again had drawn his thoughts
right back to Grace.

Shame had prevented him from speaking to Susan about it earlier, but guilt
about his actions involving Grace had been almost as intrusive during the
past month as his anxiety about House. He knew that no circumstances could
ever have justified his behavior in sleeping with a patient, but to have
slept with Grace as a test of his newly-discovered feelings for House had
been... Wilson had felt heat rising to his face again as the memory of it
had returned, and his heart had begun to pound painfully against his ribs.
It had been inexcusable, and on far more than a professional level. Wilson
had begun to feel breathless again, and he'd clutched at his jacket and
dragged his Ativan out of the pocket. He'd barely had time to make it to a
cubicle before his head had begun to spin.

Wilson lay back in his bath, now, and shook his head to clear the memory
away. He closed his eyes and bent his knees, sliding his back along the
bottom and tipping his head back, and under the water. He held his breath
for a while, and then let it slowly escape, in a series of noisy bubbles.
When his lungs finally emptied he pushed up again with his feet, and as
his shoulders emerged from the water he swept his hands backwards over his
head, and forwards, to wipe the water out of his eyes. Then he forced
himself to think of something else.

House had called him early in the evening, and had asked him for a ride to
the hospital on Monday.

"Damned kids," he'd growled. "Smashed out the lights and put a hole in the
fuel tank. It's going to be in the workshop until the middle of next
week."

Wilson had thought about suggesting the Corvette, but House had sounded so
upset about the bike that he'd held back.

"Okay," he'd said. "I'll come over early on Monday and pick you up."

"What time will you be back tomorrow?" House had asked, and when Wilson
had told him he was going to be late House had suggested that he might as
well stay over. Wilson had hesitated, but in the end he'd agreed. It made
sense, and he could always pick up a sandwich at House's apartment if it
was too late to get takeout by the time he got home.

"Don't expect me to wait up for you, though," House had continued, "and
don't wake me up." He'd ended the call, and Wilson had found himself
talking to the dial tone.

"Yeah, and thank you too, House," he'd muttered to himself, as he'd made
his way back to the dinner table and re-taken his seat next to Susan.

"Was that Greg?" she'd asked.

Wilson had nodded, and reached for his drink. "He needs a ride to work on
Monday. I'm going to stay over there tomorrow night."

Susan had laid her fork on her plate, and raised her eyebrows. "Did he ask
you to stay?"

Wilson had thought back to their conversation. "I suppose he did," he'd
replied, eventually.

Then Susan had pushed her plate aside. "Well you know, Jimmy, I can't help
wondering whether all you need to do is think about meeting him halfway."

Wilson shivered suddenly in his bath, and realised that the water had
begun to cool around his body. Leaning forwards he turned the tap, and as
a sudden stream of hot water surged around his feet he lay back to
consider it all again.

-- ----- --

The following morning, Wilson parted from the others in the lobby after
breakfast.

He found himself agreeing to take a trip up to Boston to spend a weekend
with Andrews and his wife. "We'll have to knock you back into shape,
Jimmy," Andrews said, grinning as he slapped Wilson on the shoulder. "I
know it's been a while, but there's really no excuse for collapsing after
3 games!" Wilson smiled, and promised to make an appointment at the gym,
and then they shook hands and Andrews left.

After that he walked across to the desk to wait for Susan. She finished
with the clerk, and turned towards him as she slipped her card and pen
into her purse. Wilson lifted her bag, and gestured with his shoulder
towards the door. "Come on," he said. "I'll walk you to your car."

They fastened the bag into the trunk, and Susan reached across to hug him.
"Take care," she said, and she kissed him, warmly. "I'll see you soon.
Call me tomorrow to let me know how it goes with Greg." He thanked her,
and promised that he would, and then he stood back to wave her off.

He wasn't quite ready to leave, and after packing his things into the car
he slipped his keys into his pocket and set out for a second walk across
to the lake. He found himself approaching quietly, in the hope of seeing
the heron one last time. There was no sign of it as he approached, and
initially he thought it was gone, but as he bent his head to step under an
overhanging branch he saw a sudden flash of movement, and when he turned
his face towards it he saw the heron in the water, jerking its head
sharply several times as it maneuvered a fish along its beak, and flicked
it carefully into the back of its throat.

The bird dipped its beak into the water, then, and looked around, and for
a few moments it appeared to Wilson to be surveying its surroundings. He
wasn't sure whether he'd imagined a gleam of triumph in its eye. After
that, though, it settled back into its customary stance, frozen and
watching in the reed bed, and when Wilson turned to go he left it there
behind him, staring with absolute concentration at the invisible movements
of small creatures, still hidden from Wilson's view beneath the surface of
the lake.

-- ----- --

It was later than he'd expected by the time Wilson finally left the
Northway behind. The Volvo's headlights cast a bright, white arc against
the dark surface of the road, and a succession of raindrops traced a
jerky, crooked path along the edge of the windscreen, pursuing each other
relentlessly through a layer of greasy spray thrown up by the wheels of
passing trucks.

Wilson had originally planned to fly, but when he'd thought back to the
road trips he'd taken as a student he'd been filled with a longing to make
the journey again. He'd always loved the drive through the Adirondack
Park, and today he'd broken his journey several times to re-live old
memories. At the southernmost edge of the park he'd stopped, and taken a
walk out along a trail to a point from which he could survey the
surrounding mountains. Eventually he'd turned back towards the car,
though, and embarked upon the second half of the long journey home.

It was almost 1am when he arrived at House's apartment, and drew the Volvo
to a stop. He was surprised to see light spilling through the blinds, and
as he let himself in he saw that House had turned on the lamp, and laid
out a pillow and a couple of blankets for him on the couch.

He dropped his suitcase beside the table, and hung his jacket over the
back of a chair. He made his way to the kitchen, and he was about to reach
for the bread and a jar of peanut butter when he spotted a Post-It note
stuck to a plate in the middle of the table. He picked it up, and his eyes
widened as he read it. "Pizza in the fridge." He smiled, and turned to the
fridge to extract the pizza, and 10 minutes later he was sitting on the
couch with a coffee when he heard the sound of footsteps in the corridor.
He looked up from the television to see House limping slowly into the
room.

"Oh, sorry! Did I wake you up?" he asked, reaching for the remote and
quietening the television even further. House merely grunted, and took a
seat on the couch beside him. Then he rubbed a hand across his eyes, and
reached across for a slice of pizza.

Wilson turned back to the television, and for a few minutes neither man
said anything. Silent bodies flickered across the television screen, and
the only sound in the room was that of Steve on his wheel, spinning
quietly in the corner.

Eventually House reached for Wilson's coffee, and took a drink. "So how
was the journey home?" he enquired, leaning forwards to replace the drink
on the table. "Still think you shouldn't have flown?"

Wilson smiled. "I enjoyed the drive." He paused for a moment, and looked
back to the television. "It gave me a chance to think."

House raised his eyebrows but he didn't reply, and instead he reached
across for another slice of pizza. A few minutes passed, and then he went
on. "So did you find it?"

Wilson frowned. "Find what?"

House smiled a little, and lifted the pizza towards his mouth. "Whatever
it was you were looking for."

Wilson almost choked on his pizza, and as he coughed he shook his head at
House. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

House finished eating, and leaned forwards to wipe his fingers on his
pajama pants. "Well there has to be a reason why you chose to drive 800
miles to spend a weekend with a bunch of strangers."

Wilson ducked his head for a moment, and he reached for the coffee to
finish it off. His heart was racing again, but he took a deep breath and
willed himself to remain calm. When he looked up he found that House was
watching him, closely. An image of the heron in the reed bed flashed
suddenly across his mind, and he frowned, and shook his head to clear it
away.

A little time passed, and then he spoke again. "Could I..." He broke off
for a moment and looked down, but he took another breath and continued.
"Could I move back in with you for a while? It's... well, I think I've had
enough of the hotel." His heart was thumping against his ribs, but he
continued. "I could look for an apartment, but...I...well..." He trailed
off at that point, but a moment later he lifted his chin, and looked over
at House from beneath half-lowered eyebrows.

House's eyes narrowed slightly, but otherwise his expression remained
blank. "So it took a month, and a trip to Canada, to decide you don't like
living in a hotel?" House almost smirked then, but suddenly he looked
away, and if Wilson hadn't known him well he wouldn't have noticed the
barely detectable note of uncertainty that entered his voice. He glanced
sideways at Wilson, and then looked down and began to toy with the handle
of his cane. "It's a pity you haven't always been this slow on the uptake.
You could have saved yourself a fortune in alimony."

Wilson's eyes widened as he considered House's reply, and a slow heat
began to suffuse his body. His heart beat even faster, and he felt a grin
begin to spread across his face.

House looked up and met his eyes, and for a moment it looked almost to
Wilson as though he was about to smile too. Then House looked away again.
"No more hairdryers before breakfast, though," he growled, re-grouping his
scowl. Next he took a proper hold on his cane, and poked Wilson gently on
the foot. "And no more peeing on the couch." He leaned forwards, and,
after a moment's hesitation, placed a hand carefully on Wilson's leg. Then
he pressed down, and pushed himself up and out of his seat. Leaning
heavily on his cane, he began to make his way across the room and towards
the door. "You can move your things back in tomorrow, after work," he
said, as he turned into the corridor. "So don't stay up all night."

Wilson was still grinning as he reached for the last piece of pizza, and
for the first time in a month the sound of blood pulsing in his ears was
not the first symptom of an impending panic attack. "Goodnight, House," he
called, as he settled back against the couch.

And deep in the reed bed there was a sudden, small flash of movement as
the heron dipped its beak into the water and stepped back, triumphant, to
survey its surroundings.

The End  
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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.