"THE OTHER FOOT"

Betz88

Chapter 1

"For Better or Worse"

He left the house and slammed the door behind him, anger spiking. This was so senseless. They had started out two years ago, newly married and so in love. How could it have taken a left turn so fast? They had honeymooned in Hawaii, then flown back to the mainland and happily squandered another glorious week in San Francisco, spending most of that time in their rented hotel room. And now it had come to this: bitter words, dark accusations and Julie throwing things; hard and blunt things, as he retreated out the back door and hurried to the garage.

He did not take the expensive Toyota Avalon, but let it stand where they'd parked it when they returned home from dinner two hours before. Instead, he fired up the beautiful old F-150 that he and his friends had restored years ago. He backed out of the garage and hit the gas, squealing the tires around the corner of the driveway and onto the blacktop. He had no idea where he was going or what he was going to do once he got there, but James Wilson, M. D., could not bear the thought of more screaming and shouting; hateful and angry words that only confirmed another marriage getting ready to crash and burn.

James turned left from Ridge Road and headed south on Route 206 toward Princeton. If nothing else, Gregory House had a comfortable leather couch in his living room, and he could always stay there. He sighed raggedly, let up a little on the gas and consciously separated his fingers away from the death grip he'd had on the steering wheel.

It seemed almost ironic that he was heading instinctively for the very place whose occupant had been the subject of his and Julie's latest quarrel. "What does that foul-mouthed son of a bitch have on you, Jimmy?" She'd asked for the thousandth time. "What's he going to do to you? Turn you in for robbing a bank? Stealing military secrets? Committing a murder? Every time he yells, you drop everything and run. I don't get it. You take off and you're gone for hours, and that's on top of all the hours you already spend with him at your job. Don't you want this marriage to work, Jimmy? I love you, but I'm tired of living my life all alone in an empty house while you're with that skinny, crippled jerk!"

James knew she had a point. Hell, she had lots of points, good ones. There were too many, in fact, for him to try to make her understand that Gregg House wasn't just another jerk. She'd known they were best friends the day she'd met them, because he and House had been together that night at Appleby's. Gregg was on crutches that week from a nagging injury to his bad leg, and they'd gone to the restaurant for dinner just to get House out of his apartment. Besides, where would he usually be found, after all, than at Gregg's side?

Julie had tripped on one of House's crutches that stuck out a bit from his side of the booth and she was half angry until she discovered that Gregg was lame and unable to walk or even tolerate a shoe because his foot was swollen. She'd apologized profusely and ended up sitting with them and getting into a heated discussion of Eagles versus Steelers. They'd left together later and stopped at Murphy's Tavern for drinks and further conversation.

About ten o'clock Wilson noticed that Gregg's head was falling backward between his shoulders further and further, a sure sign that he was hurting. Then he saw that the man's lower lip was actually bleeding from biting down on it to keep from vocalizing his pain. James cursed himself for twelve kinds of a fool and quickly found an excuse to get Gregg out of there. He knew Julie didn't understand and he refused to explain it to her in front of his friend. They dropped her at her car after exchanging phone numbers, and he drove Gregg home. That night he'd stayed over at the luxury apartment on East Side Drive, holding House steady within his strong embrace while Gregg went through leg spasms and waves of searing pain. At daybreak, he finally fell into a fitful sleep, but the only parts of James that went to sleep were his cramped shoulders and slumped back. He never loosened his embrace though, knowing that Gregg needed, more than anything else, the knowledge that someone was there and that someone cared.

That was the first time Julie became aware of their affinity for one another, but then it had all turned sour and quickly became a challenge to her, and perhaps a threat. It got worse. Gregg's innate sarcasm and rude sense of humor had gotten turned on her as often as not, and she didn't appreciate it. His caustic remarks always went in one of Wilson's ears and out the other because he was used to it. He knew Gregg gleefully gauged everyone's reactions to his outrageous statements, but Julie's skin wasn't as thick as her husband's. She often took his snide teasing as deliberate ridicule. It all came to a head when Gregg first saw her in a bikini and had the nerve to call her "turkey legs". To him it was just another insult-joke, but to Julie it spelled the end to anything they might have had in the way of friendship. Even after Gregg offered a half-assed apology, she turned her back on him completely. One evening, she finally told James: "I wish they would just cut his fucking leg off and stuff it in his mouth; save everyone else a lot of hassle!" That was the night of their first screaming battle. Jim had left the house in a huff and spent the night at Gregg's place. It was the first, but it certainly would not be the last.

And so here he was, voluntarily without a bed for the night, barreling down Route 206 on his way toward Princeton, his destination obvious, his intention to wake Gregg House if he was asleep, which he doubted. Gregg would allow him entry while standing to one side with his face full of unsympathetic derision and tell him: "… your chambers awaiteth, Sir Galahad!" or some-such nastiness. They would have a glass of Scotch, smoke a smelly stogie and repair to their separate sleeping quarters with Gregg's back radiating an attitude of: "I told you so!" They would get up in the morning, eat something questionable from Gregg's refrigerator and ride to work together after stopping at the closest fast-food for a cup of their torpedo-proof coffee. They began to tick these scenarios off on their fingers like skirmishes in an ongoing battle.

There was indeed a light on in Apartment Eight at the Gateway Complex just as James had known there would be. He drove into the underground garage and parked his F-150 in the parking space next to Gregg's decadently huge brand-new burgundy hand-controlled special-lift GMC Envoy. Wilson entered the elevator right next to the Envoy's "handicap" stall and rode up to the fourth floor. He pressed a finger on the buzzer.

"It's open … c'mon in, Wilson!" Called the deep voice from somewhere inside.

Wilson turned the knob and walked in. "How'd you know it was me?"

"Who else raids my inner sanctum at 11:30 at night?"

"Okay, true, but how come you're unlocked?"

"Just too damn lazy to get up and flip the latch," came the answer. "You looking for lodgings, stranger?"

"Uh huh." Wilson walked closer to the big leather lounge chair where House slouched with his back turned. The TV was tuned to FOX News, its volume muted. The stereo was low, something classical that James didn't recognize. House had an open magazine in his lap, a half glass of Scotch in his right hand and the vial of Vicodin by his left elbow.

Something felt tilted. Whacked. Off kilter.

Wilson held his breath for a moment, considering. He slid out of his jacket and tossed it on the couch, moving across to where House sat. Gregg was in tee shirt and underwear, his scarred leg resting on one of the pillows from his bed. He did not look up even as James approached and reached out to lay a palm in his friend's shoulder.

"Wilson … don't!"

Wilson withdrew his hand in alarm. Uh oh … what the hell did I walk into this time? He knelt at House's side. "What's going on, House? What's wrong? Talk to me!"

There was a grunt of pained laughter. "I have to piss like a race horse, and the damned leg is in revolt. Think you could give me a hand up?"

"Sure. Always. What'd you do to yourself this time?"

"Nothing! Swear to God! Sat too long, I guess. Fell asleep awhile … woke up … went to get up and couldn't. Dropped the freaking cane and now I can't move without the pain going through the roof!" He took a deep breath, whistled it out between clenched teeth. "Julie kick your sorry ass out again?"

The abrupt change of subject made Wilson chuckle in spite of himself. For the thousandth time he wondered if House possessed the ability to read his mind and predict when the next marital insurrection would take place. "Yeah, I guess I'm heading down the Yellow Brick Road for the third time. Not like I didn't see it coming …"

The painful laughter came back to him again. "Y'know, Wilson, if you stand on the same street corner and you keep getting run over by the same bus every time, most people would get the idea to move to another fuckin' street corner!" Gregg turned his head to the side and slowly looked up into Wilson's face. His eyes were red-rimmed and brimming, and his scruffy cheeks were tear-streaked.

"Aww … House!" James reached out again to cup House's tense face in his palm and gently wiped at some of the wetness with his thumb. He met no resistance this time. "What in the hell am I going to do with you?"

"Shoot me?"

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