Special thanks to Twill for help with a couple of excellent lines.
The Mile's Edge
(Forfeit)
Paperwork. The Bane of mankind, capital 'b' and all. Not doing it, however, would probably only yield more paperwork which would breed some other entirely new form of monotony that couldn't be escaped. Clinic duty, for example, came from one of the more irritatingly tedious cycles. Paperwork to get patients, in and out, paperwork as the precursor to dealing with a wide selection of morons, morons handing off more paperwork, and it often left House questioning. Which came first? The clinic or the paperwork?
It was beginning to get late, and House glanced out at the dying light before returning half his attention to the disorganized stack of folders to the side of his desk. The rest was concentrating on an episode of Passions which he'd been forced to actually record earlier in the day. The clinic, that was to say Cuddy, finally drove him to purchase a VCR so he could at last follow the storylines without waiting for re-runs, or making his own presumptions based on what happened during the episodes he managed to catch. He was always slightly disappointed when the actual events turned out to be different from what he expected. His guesses always seemed just a touch more interesting.
He found it easier to work during the later hours though, as though there was some kind of work energy that had to be shared around, and if there were fewer people actually working, it was more readily available for him to use for such mundane tasks. It was really the only way he managed to get such things finished. During the day, all the energy was taken up by the uptight, the anal, and the obsessive, so he couldn't do paperwork then, and was forced to occupy himself by other means. The rest of it though... the diagnoses, maneuvering through various problems, puzzles and difficulties that his job presented he could do any time. It took a different energy, and he was one of the only people in range who knew how to access it, how to actually use it.
So night was the only time he could wade his way through his paper sea, and why a Gameboy and a television set were job requirements.
Available work energy or not, there was only so much he could do. Besides, his recorded episode of Passions was over. He stretched, took up his cane and stood, flicking off the television before headed out into the hall.
Things were going to change though. Stacy... Stacy was a co-worker now. This could either make things incredibly difficult, or surprisingly easy. While it was far more likely to make things very much harder, and for obvious reasons, it still had a chance of making things simple. With her there in a business sense and nothing more, with her being quite obviously married, House may actually be able to justify to himself that she wasn't Stacy. So long as she kept up her half of the unspoken deal, he could convince himself that Stacy was still gone somewhere, and he still had no contact with her. She only needed to pretend he was a stranger too...
He hesitated, and tuned away from the elevators that went down to the parkade. The oncology department was, after all, in the opposite direction. Whenever his thoughts were caught on Stacy, he always inevitably ended up in Wilson's office, or with Wilson in his office, or each other's respective apartments. She was rarely the topic of conversation, which was good because sitting around thinking or talking about her was not House's idea of a good time. It usually led to tears, and Wilson used up all the Kleenex...
House smiled to himself at the image. In truth, Wilson had always been a source of stability, sensibility... His head was always about him, he rarely lost his temper, he could take a joke, and could make them just as well. Actually, House couldn't recall any specific time when Wilson had actually been more than irritated on that end of things, and he could count on one hand the number of times he'd seen his friend genuinely distressed. The man could take a lot of crap, which was a good thing for House, and he was secretly grateful for it. Several times he wondered if it was even possible to make it up to him, but only fleetingly because sap wasn't something House usually divulged in for any reason, so he just maintained his role of friend, and knew that should be enough.
That's a little depressing. For both of you. You give him grief, he gives you everything else. Excellent trade off.
House brushed off the unrestrained thought and peered into Wilson's office, around the wall adorned with the oncologist's name in silver. The inner door was open, and he could see that only the desk lamp was on as Wilson worked through his own paperwork, head in hand, and with a significantly larger amount of discipline than House's own mindless autonomy.
Wilson looked up as House came through the door. It was difficult not to announce your presence if you came complete with a cane. His slice of reasonable brain reminded him with a pang that the last time he was in that office was when Wilson had been dropping his effects into cardboard boxes. Even then House asked for something of him. The note was brief, and he brushed it aside just as he did his other thought several moments before.
'Hey. What's up?'
House indicated his coat tucked over one arm with a shrug. 'I'm heading home and thought I'd stick my head in. Free at last, and flaunting it.'
Wilson looked back down at his work. 'So did you park on the track field, then?'
Busted. Or soon to be busted. Wilson's office wasn't exactly en route to the parkade, and House wasn't renowned for going out of his way. All things considered, Wilson could guess why he was there to see him, he wasn't as oblivious as many other people were.
'It was closer to the highway.' House inspected Wilson's paperwork. A case report on a girl in her late teens. Osteosarcoma. Judging by the numbers, she had a poor prognosis. House did not envy oncologists their job, cancer was incredibly morose. All doctors had to deal with death, but House's own specialties did less than some others. Nephrology was probably the worst of his specialties for death, but more often than not infectious diseases could be cured, and in diagnostics, he was under almost complete control regarding whether or not his patient would live or die, it depended on him.
On average, one in three people will die of cancer. For the people who win the ticket to oncology, maybe forty percent of them would spend the rest of their lives there, not like that tended to be long, though. Those that left would probably be back later, and become part of the next forty percent group. It was rough, and though House could understand that some would want to allegedly cure cancer, that just wasn't realistic. He knew Wilson's motives, or at least part of them. Wilson was the sort to want people to be as comfortable as possible. He excelled in his chosen field, possibly because he'd also make an exceptional psychiatrist. He understood people, their fears, wants, regrets... it was unfathomable to House.
That was just not the sort of thing House could deal with. He couldn't make it seem maybe not so bad. When the news needed to be given, it was blunt and objective. Wilson... he didn't sugar it up, he didn't try to convince his patients that it was a good thing. He told it like it was, but somehow did it so carefully and with such a vigilance, it was somehow natural. Imagine... natural telling a person they're going to die.
Earlier in their friendship was the first time House had seen him break such news to a patient. Before he met Wilson he made quite a point of avoiding the oncology department, almost religiously taking the long way around if he needed access to geriatrics, or the other areas near there. He almost chose to avoid Wilson once he discovered his specialty, but Wilson proved harder to disregard. House had been stunned with Wilson's deliverance, and was even more stunned to hear the patient's 'thank you'. House had tried it himself later, but it came across as insincere from him, and only upset the patient even more. He decided then that it must have been something to do with the patient, and not Wilson, and bet him ten dollars he couldn't do it again.
In total, over their eight years of friendship, House had lost close to eight hundred dollars on that bet.
'Say... how about some coffee?'
Wilson put down his pen and watched House with suspicion. 'Are you asking if I have any for you? I hadn't counted on you being here.' He set the file aside and spread another in front of him. 'It's weird for you to ask something so harmless. You're not just doing it to escape something? Are you dying?'
'And I only have time for one cup of coffee.'
'That's too bad. The biscotti's pretty good at the place down the street. But seriously. Coffee? No pretense, no running off and leaving me with the bill?'
'Running's a tricky thing.' House said with woe.
'Right...' Wilson still seemed suspicious of something, and looked at House as though sizing him up. After a moment he flicked his second folder closed and set it atop the first. House waited as he gathered some things and put on his coat. He looked tired...
Both were quiet as they headed off to the parkade. Something felt different about it, though. Silences between them rarely felt awkward, unless the reason for it was obvious. House glanced at Wilson. There was something he couldn't put his finger on.
'We're not taking your car,' House informed him in the elevator.
'And I don't get to drive yours, or open the glove compartment, tune the radio, fiddle with the heat controls, smudge up the body, or wave my limbs out the window when the car's in motion.'
'And you have to take your shoes off.'
'Right, I always forget that one.'
House nodded definitively, sliding into the driver's side of his gift Corvette upon arrival. House started the car, and they started their block-and-a-half journey to the cafe.
'So... coffee.' Wilson began, taking the other seat in the car, next to House. 'Standard invitations from you worry me.'
'And certain religious groups which shall remain nameless worry me, but I don't answer the door holding a lamb's head.'
'What I mean is there's some phsych book, and in direct reference to you it says somewhere "mention of this common, possibly well-disposed thing means this exploitable, evil thing, so run".'
'Well, keep in mind that I can sometimes be a kind, authentic person. So do not deny me or you shall face terrible wrath in the form of something which I have yet to think of but you can be sure will be full of wrath.'
Wilson smiled and shook his head, but turned his attention to the cafe as they pulled to a stop in front of it. He peered at the sign in the dark window. 'Looks like they're closed for renovations.' He said with a sigh.
'Bah. Such a minor thing wouldn't stop the likes of us. We have the power of taking our business elsewhere.'
'No... Greg,' Wilson said. House looked over at him. He looked all tired again, that wasn't right. 'We can just do coffee at my place. You just have to pick me up tomorrow, my car's still back at the parkade.'
'Deal.' House affirmed after a moment's pause. The rest of the trip was relatively quiet. It was too late for anyone but the later workers to be on the roads, and too early for many of the night-goers to be out and about yet. Wilson just leaned back, the evening air ruffling his hair and clothes giving him the classic wind-blown appearance. It was charming on him, especially the way his front fringe was all swept to the left, and the back stuck almost right out.
Pulling into Wilson's parking space at his nice apartment complex, he noted that somewhere along the way Wilson had rolled up his sleeves halfway, and loosened his tie. That usually didn't happen until he was actually inside, which usually meant trouble. House didn't comment on it in the parking lot, or the lobby, and refrained in the elevator. Wilson offered no idle conversation, nor explanation at all along the way. It wasn't until they were in the apartment proper, and Wilson had dropped his suitcase on the couch when it became quite clear what was going on.
The apartment was very tidy. This in and of itself wasn't unusual, Wilson liked to keep things immaculate. The apartment was tidy in the way a newly-built house felt tidy; in the sense that there was notably fewer effects about. The television- gone. A bookshelf in the corner- practically empty. The mantle was more spacious. The tasteful tiffany lamp that used to be in the dining room was also gone. The door and window- intact, in good order.
'Sorry, out of coffee here. Darjeeling alright?' House could hear Wilson shuffling around in the kitchen, and stepped in. Wilson looked at him. 'Well?'
'Did you plan on actually telling me anything, or were you relying entirely on my outstanding powers of observation?' House said, giving him The Look.
Wilson set down the box of tea, not turning to face House. He was still just slightly too long before taking a couple of mis-matched mugs from a cabinet and plugging in the kettle. His hands went to his hips with a slow sigh. 'It was to be expected. We all knew it wasn't the 'if' so much as the 'when'. I'm making you tea.'
House nodded slowly. Rationally, he knew should feel badly that he didn't do anything to console his friend. He was there because of his Stacy crisis, and hadn't thought of Wilson encountering something that would move House to start counting the issues with both hands. Julie's had been the shakiest of the three marriages. She'd been on the rebound, having divorced her first husband only a few weeks before dating Wilson who in turn had been divorced from his second wife for two years. He genuinely cared for her, but she seemed to be doing it more out of spite than anything else. Wilson was essentially arm candy. There was more to it than that, but she just didn't put the effort into the relationship that Wilson had. After six months he started to give up on the marathon, which was just another 1000-meter of running, with no prize.
And here was the finish line.
Dealing with other people's problems wasn't House's problem, but Wilson rarely needed any of the resources that their friendship provided, though House more than made up for that by taking liberally. These thoughts were just depressing. It didn't bother him like this before...
James hardly seemed to actually need anything.
'Tea.' Wilson handed him the mug and moved on into the living room with one of his own. 'You know where the cream and sugar are.'
Deciding to pass up sugar for once, House settled on the couch beside Wilson.
'What, no snide remarks? Nothing like, "I've kept up correspondence with that masseuse you hired for me that one time"...? Nothing?'
'Nope.' House said simply, taking a sip of the strong tea.
'The suspense is killing me.' Wilson said flatly. 'What are you up to now?'
House shrugged. 'Friendship usually implies something mutual.'
Wilson choked into his mug, and took several moments to re-compose himself. 'Do my ears deceive me?'
House took another sip. 'You see, now this is why I can't be genuine. People just make fun of me.'
'You've never taken anything seriously in your entire life.'
'I have,' House said fairly plainly, giving Wilson an even look. There was a pause that stretched into a silence, Wilson being the one to ultimately look away and focus back on his tea.
'I just... don't quite know what I do wrong.' He said finally.
'You just don't know how to pick 'em.'
'I won't anymore, then. That's rather fair to the rest of New Jersey. My job's safe so long as no more millionaire tyrants come along. And so long as people keep dying, I'll be right there. And you... well. You're resentful, a pain to get along with, exploitative, but strangely the only person who's stuck around for any length of time. Keep it up.' He didn't yell, he wasn't spiteful or angry in his deliverance, he just stated it quietly, and took his coat to the door.
'This is your place, I'll leave.' House said, at something of a loss. This was absolutely an inappropriate time to make a stylish comment, and he felt vaguely ashamed that there wasn't anything else he could think of saying.
'Don't bother. There's some more tea in the cabinet.' With that, the door closed, resounding strangely in the half-empty apartment. House looked down at his tea for a long minute and finished it. Ultimately, what else could he do...?