Amity

1/

The first time they met, it was over shots of absinthe at a party in a seedy suburb of Jersey, everybody was drunk, some people were naked and there were more drugs and booze than was strictly healthy for an individual, which was entirely the point. Getting smashed was fine every once in a while, as long as you knew that you were getting smashed. And Greg had never been a confessional drunk, nor a lecherous drunk. He was more a violent, obnoxious drunk. And so through metering the level of supercilious shit he was spouting, he was able to recognise and even appreciate the fact that he was gone and that he was going to regret it in the morning.

James could also recognise the fact that he himself was getting wasted because he took on the fervour of a drugged up pet store puppy when he was intoxicated, and having slugged back quite a few shots already, he was at the stage where hysterical laughter was the stock reply to everything this guy across from him was saying.

"My inebriated friend," declared Greg, pouring himself and his companion another shot and then lifting his glass in an unsteady salute, knocking an empty beer bottle to the floor as he did so. "My friend…though I doubt that I will remember your name or what you look like or why we're here in the morning, this…" he said, gesturing with his free hand at the trembling shot glass, "This is to us."

They drank together.

Greg woke up in the morning on the couch in someone's trashed apartment. Stepping over the prostrate forms on the floor, he made his way to the kitchen to see if there was any coffee going. He did so with his eyes closed, because his head did not welcome the early morning light, and therefore it was not surprising that he found himself in the bathroom rather than the kitchen. It was here that he discovered his drinking partner, folded over the toilet bowl and unloading what was undoubtedly absinthe and god knows what else from his protesting stomach.

"Morning," said Greg. "I remember you. James, isn't it?"

The guy nodded, between heaves, then swallowed thickly and looked up. Greg reached forward and flushed the toilet.

"Aren't you…?"

"Gregory House, M.D. Yes. And you are one James Wilson. Delighted. We've met already."

"Greg House?" James blinked, then groaned. "As in resident diagnostician of PPTH who I'm starting an internship under today Greg House?"

"Probably. I never could figure out the intern system. Sleep with them or bribe them? I guess sleeping with them is a kind of bribe."

"And we…?"

"It was a magical evening, complete with the corsage and the movie and the feverish kissing in the back seat of the Chevy," confirmed Greg, smirking despite the pain that it caused his soggy brain.

"No, didn't we…did I…because when I'm drunk…"

"You told me your life story - parents murdered, you had to raise the siblings, runaway marriage left you broken and unhappy. Wonderful material. Have you ever thought of adapting it for the stage?"

"So I didn't say…?"

"You said many stupid things, but none about yourself, if that is the question your drunken stupor is preventing you from asking. Not that I remember all that clearly anyway."

James blinked, then sighed a little, relieved.

"OK then," continued Greg, "Nice seeing you. It's, what…seven thirty? You start work at nine, because I start work at nine. Which means that your hangover better not affect your performance. Don't be late."

Greg exited the room to the sounds of James throwing up again.

"And oh," he said, turning back. "I forgot to mention. You were great. It was my first time and it was so wonderful. You touched me in my special place like no one will ever touch me again."

James glared at Greg's departing form. Fuck. He'd screwed this up royally before it had even begun.

2/

The first time they played tennis together was late one Sunday morning, and even during plays, Greg did not shut up.

It was James' serve, and he was tired from working hundred hour weeks and putting up with House's shit at the best of times. And right now he was still bitching. Sometimes James wondered if the man had the capacity to shut up. He certainly didn't cultivate his sense of self-restraint, but maybe if he recognised sometimes that people really didn't want to hear his incisive remarks delivered with perfunctory candour 24/7, he might be liked a whole lot more.

"So," House was saying, as he placed a shot in the back right hand corner, which forced James to make a wildly unsuccessful dive, "I'm a grammatically conscious kind of guy and ridiculous overuse of semi colons just gets my goat."

James had no idea of what Greg was talking about. He had lost the thread of the conversation a while back, he was losing badly and he wondered why he had bothered to suggest this match to Greg when it was clearly only going to result in more opportunities for his own humiliation.

James lost in straight sets.

"You're getting quite a reputation, my dear Wilson," began Greg afterwards on the side of the court, packing away his racquet.

"And what exactly do you mean, my dear House?" queried James.

"The nurses, the nurses, they all think you're a spunk. No accounting for good taste."

"And they all think you're a bastard. I'd say they have pretty good intuition."

"Getting serious with anyone? What about that cute one, blonde, works in radiology…?"

"Katie. No."

"You knocked her back?"

"She never made an offer in the first place."

"She's waiting for you to make the first move."

"Uh…"

"Ok ok…what about the little one, you know, the timid one who looks like the proverbial deer in headlights. What about her?"

"Nope. Took her out for drinks once and I could never do it again. Looked to be the needy kind, you know…"

"How 'bout…"

"Can we stop discussing my love life now, please?"

"Why? It's interesting. More interesting than mine, anyway."

"Stacey's not interesting?"

"Oh sure, plenty. That lawyerly exterior is just for show, you see, she's really a man and she used to pick beans in Guatemala and now she's hanging around with me for the sex and the weirdness."

"Right."

"So is there anyone?"

James paused, examined his racquet strings.

"So there is!" crowed Greg, chucking his head back and laughing. "Let me guess. Blonde. Because they're always blonde. And she's pretty, probably comes from a traumatic background or otherwise you wouldn't look twice. And her name's probably something like Imogen or Amelie or Marigold."

"Her name's Julie."

"That's somewhat disappointing. But she's blonde and needs nurturing, right?"

"She's blonde."

"And needs…"

"Yes, she needs nurturing. Her mother just died of breast cancer, which is how we met, if you must know."

"So when do I get to meet her?"

3/

The first time that Wilson bought House a present, it was an act of intense gratuitousness and pity, and had House been in the condition to knock James' face off, he probably would have. Instead, he flung several medical journals and a bottle of rum at him with impressive force both in terms of velocity and vindictiveness.

James, blessed with the rare talent of dodging flying objects, managed to elude physical harm, however, he was also blessed with a retaliative spirit, and hence wound up pegging the present harder than he expected at Greg's head, then storming out.

The box dvd set of General Hospital sat on Greg's bedside table for about a month before James was game enough to actually suggest he watch it. He received no response, which was not that amazing considering that silence was pretty standard House directly following the infarc.

The gift was, in fact, later appreciated between the hours spent in PT and the (significantly more) hours spent lounging in couches, watching reality TV and terribly written French foreign films about summer romances and cross-dressing musicians.

The first gift that Greg bought James was considerably less appropriate, and though Greg later tried to justify his actions by stating that it was intended to be an engagement present, it simply made the gift all the more inappropriate.

It was before he and Julie had started living together, but Greg knew full well by that stage that they ate together at Wilson's place on Wednesday nights. It was just fortunate that James got home earlier than Julie.

The hooker was waiting for him on his front door step. She was unfortunately quite attractive and was extraordinarily unwilling to leave. James suspected that Greg had informed her that leaving would be unacceptable because his friend, through frigid, did in fact want to get down and dirty and that she should press herself on him using her feminine charm and street smarts. Her vernacular seemed to have been influenced by mobster movies, she was scantily clad, and she had absolutely no regard for unwritten rules to do with personal space. And James was excruciatingly aware that Julie would not understand should she find him on the door step like this.

He ended up paying her off to get out of the way, and just as she was driving off, Julie swung into the driveway and he was forced to summon up a hasty, if not rather pathetically predictable, response about one of the nurses forgetting to bring him a patient's file before he left work.

The next day he called Greg unforgivingly early in the morning, abused him without waiting for a hello, and hung up.

James had not since dared to buy Greg another present. Though he could understand that Greg did not appreciate presents and thought of them as excessive expressions of Hallmark sentiment, wariness of the consequences was the decisive factor in his future failure to buy presents rather than consideration, or lack thereof, for his narcissistic companion.

Instead, they ignored all occasions - birthdays, Christmases, Hannukahs, weddings, promotions. It worked out cheaper, but it always felt wrong to James. It felt like not caring. Which was exactly why Greg liked it.