Trouble in Paradise
Sep. 22nd, 2010 05:31 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
lovelier.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
house_wilson_ghcTitle: Trouble in Paradise
Pairing: H/W
Genre: Friendship. Possible pre-slash, angst
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Set during 3x22 “Resignation”. Wilson is feeling uncomfortable about his increasing level of moral ambiguity. House is upset that Wilson is hiding things from him.
Disclaimer: Not mine, etc, etc.
Spoilers: Spoils 3x22.
A/N: Rating for language and drug use. Possible triggers for depression. I’m just getting into the House fandom, and fanfic in general really. This is unbetaed. Could be a one-shot, could be more - I feel like there’s more to write here but I’m just getting my feet wet right now so to speak. Feel free to concrit. 1083 words.
For once in his life, Wilson is thankful that he isn’t going to therapy; having to explain what he was thinking when he drugged his best friend without consent would not be pretty - nor would explaining why he was still best friends with someone who had drugged him without consent.
“We were made for each other,” he sighs to his reflection in the mirror as he gets ready for work.
Maybe a shrink would have prevented him from getting to this point. He’s not even sure how it happened. He had always been the good kid, the last one you’d think would be involved in drugs or anything like that. And, well, writing an extra scrip here and there for a friend in pain was one thing. Popping amphetamines and Vicodin for - as House would say - “funsies” was another entirely. Yet, somehow, here he was. And if he had a psychologist - or a wife, or a friend other than the one that was doing this to him - at least he’d have someone to talk to about all this.
Instead, he has to talk to Cuddy, who catches him right as he’s walking in in the morning, and rehearse the fine art of explaining away everything by saying nothing at all. “Wilson, we had a patient complaint about you yesterday.” She initiates the topic. “Said you acted weird the whole time, winked at her while doing a breast exam, freaked out about something, and ran out of the room mid-exam. And you didn’t have a cane and a limp either so you can’t blame this one on your friend there.”
“Oh, ah, yeah. That.” Wilson stalls. He could tell her the truth - that House had spiked his coffee with uppers and thus was actually completely to blame. But she would want to know why; House always does these things for a reason, and, well the reason wasn’t something he wanted to spill to Cuddy yet. He hadn’t even wanted to spill it to House, but the cat was out of the bag on that one.
“Yes. That,” Cuddy confirms.
“I had a strange reaction to my coffee - must have been extra caffeinated or something, felt like I was on speed.” Well, it wasn’t entirely a lie.
She gives him a look - the look - the one that says I know you’re hiding something and I know House is involved somehow and I’m going to let it go because it’s better that I don’t know. That look gets passed between them a lot. “Well, don’t let it happen again,” she says.
“It won’t,” he assures her.
Another lie. How many has he told over the past few years to cover his ass or House’s?
And of course, Cuddy would bring up the issues, but House, the one person he wants to talk to about this walks right past his door. Probably still mad about the whole doseing thing. But why? It’s not like House treats his body like a temple or anything. Why does Wilson even care?
Look for a shrink. He makes a mental note of it. Something to do on the lunch break House would inevitably skip out on to go watch his soaps somewhere and sulk.
He starts the search, but doesn’t finish. Just as he thought, House is nowhere in sight. That doesn’t mean Wilson doesn’t know where to find him. He grabs his lunch bag and heads to the coma ward. He throws the lunch bag in House’s lap, sits down next to him, and pretends to be real interested in the floor.
“July 12th, 2000,” he begins, quietly at first but his voice gains strength with each word and is back to normal quickly “Patient presented with depressed mood, markedly diminished interest in daily activities, insomnia, feelings of worthlessness and inappropriate guilt, and diminished cognitive function. Diagnosed with major depressive episode. Started on 20mg Paroxetine. Diagnosis later upgraded to chronic major depressive disorder. Medication dosage changed multiple times in the interim. Most recently May 30th, 2007, to 60mg Duloxetine delayed release.”
He knows House is looking at him, but doesn’t return the eye contact.
“Happy?” he asks. “I’m just as screwed up as you are.”
“No,” the response is short.
“Why not?” Wilson really is bewildered at this point. “You win. You caught me yawning. You put the pieces together and solved your little mystery. You got the satisfaction of knowing that I’m just as messed up as the rest of the world, some nice juicy private information to hold over my head when you need it. What more could you possibly want?”
“For you to have told me seven years ago,” snaps House.
“You were hurting enough as it was,” Wilson explains. “Your leg. Stacy. Why should I have added to it?”
“Because I trusted you.” House gets up and begins to limp away.
Trust-ed. Past tense. Wilson is pretty sure that nobody trusts him anymore.
“You dosed my coffee with amphetamines.” It’s a last, desperate grab, ignoring the fact that he had been dosing House first. He’s not sure how House has spun him back into the bad-guy role again, but that’s where he is.
“I was worried,” House says.
“You could have talked to me.”
“Like you would have mentioned it. Like I said, you think it would come up at some point in the past seven years. I asked about the yawning. How else am I supposed to talk to you about it”
“I’m talking now,” Wilson points out. House turns back around, and Wilson meets his gaze.
“No psychotic features?” asks House, and Wilson knows he is thinking of Danny.
“None.”
“Suicidal ideations?”
“None,” Wilson confirms. He knows this is as close House will come to actually admitting that he cares.
House inhales. This is the big one, for him anyway. “How could I not have noticed?”
“You were hurting, yourself. Your leg. Stacy,” Wilson essentially shrugs it off. “You had enough to worry about without worrying about me.”
“I’m not talking about worrying, I’m talking about noticing. I’m not worried now. You’re a big boy. You can take care of yourself. I’m around to tuck you in and make sure you’re not crying into your pillow every night,” House says. “I didn’t notice.”
“Nice, real nice.” Wilson rolls his eyes. “How is this even about you?”
“The same way you’ve made every thing that has happened in my life in the last decade about you,” comments House. This time he really does limp off.
XXX
Pairing: H/W
Genre: Friendship. Possible pre-slash, angst
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Set during 3x22 “Resignation”. Wilson is feeling uncomfortable about his increasing level of moral ambiguity. House is upset that Wilson is hiding things from him.
Disclaimer: Not mine, etc, etc.
Spoilers: Spoils 3x22.
A/N: Rating for language and drug use. Possible triggers for depression. I’m just getting into the House fandom, and fanfic in general really. This is unbetaed. Could be a one-shot, could be more - I feel like there’s more to write here but I’m just getting my feet wet right now so to speak. Feel free to concrit. 1083 words.
For once in his life, Wilson is thankful that he isn’t going to therapy; having to explain what he was thinking when he drugged his best friend without consent would not be pretty - nor would explaining why he was still best friends with someone who had drugged him without consent.
“We were made for each other,” he sighs to his reflection in the mirror as he gets ready for work.
Maybe a shrink would have prevented him from getting to this point. He’s not even sure how it happened. He had always been the good kid, the last one you’d think would be involved in drugs or anything like that. And, well, writing an extra scrip here and there for a friend in pain was one thing. Popping amphetamines and Vicodin for - as House would say - “funsies” was another entirely. Yet, somehow, here he was. And if he had a psychologist - or a wife, or a friend other than the one that was doing this to him - at least he’d have someone to talk to about all this.
Instead, he has to talk to Cuddy, who catches him right as he’s walking in in the morning, and rehearse the fine art of explaining away everything by saying nothing at all. “Wilson, we had a patient complaint about you yesterday.” She initiates the topic. “Said you acted weird the whole time, winked at her while doing a breast exam, freaked out about something, and ran out of the room mid-exam. And you didn’t have a cane and a limp either so you can’t blame this one on your friend there.”
“Oh, ah, yeah. That.” Wilson stalls. He could tell her the truth - that House had spiked his coffee with uppers and thus was actually completely to blame. But she would want to know why; House always does these things for a reason, and, well the reason wasn’t something he wanted to spill to Cuddy yet. He hadn’t even wanted to spill it to House, but the cat was out of the bag on that one.
“Yes. That,” Cuddy confirms.
“I had a strange reaction to my coffee - must have been extra caffeinated or something, felt like I was on speed.” Well, it wasn’t entirely a lie.
She gives him a look - the look - the one that says I know you’re hiding something and I know House is involved somehow and I’m going to let it go because it’s better that I don’t know. That look gets passed between them a lot. “Well, don’t let it happen again,” she says.
“It won’t,” he assures her.
Another lie. How many has he told over the past few years to cover his ass or House’s?
And of course, Cuddy would bring up the issues, but House, the one person he wants to talk to about this walks right past his door. Probably still mad about the whole doseing thing. But why? It’s not like House treats his body like a temple or anything. Why does Wilson even care?
Look for a shrink. He makes a mental note of it. Something to do on the lunch break House would inevitably skip out on to go watch his soaps somewhere and sulk.
He starts the search, but doesn’t finish. Just as he thought, House is nowhere in sight. That doesn’t mean Wilson doesn’t know where to find him. He grabs his lunch bag and heads to the coma ward. He throws the lunch bag in House’s lap, sits down next to him, and pretends to be real interested in the floor.
“July 12th, 2000,” he begins, quietly at first but his voice gains strength with each word and is back to normal quickly “Patient presented with depressed mood, markedly diminished interest in daily activities, insomnia, feelings of worthlessness and inappropriate guilt, and diminished cognitive function. Diagnosed with major depressive episode. Started on 20mg Paroxetine. Diagnosis later upgraded to chronic major depressive disorder. Medication dosage changed multiple times in the interim. Most recently May 30th, 2007, to 60mg Duloxetine delayed release.”
He knows House is looking at him, but doesn’t return the eye contact.
“Happy?” he asks. “I’m just as screwed up as you are.”
“No,” the response is short.
“Why not?” Wilson really is bewildered at this point. “You win. You caught me yawning. You put the pieces together and solved your little mystery. You got the satisfaction of knowing that I’m just as messed up as the rest of the world, some nice juicy private information to hold over my head when you need it. What more could you possibly want?”
“For you to have told me seven years ago,” snaps House.
“You were hurting enough as it was,” Wilson explains. “Your leg. Stacy. Why should I have added to it?”
“Because I trusted you.” House gets up and begins to limp away.
Trust-ed. Past tense. Wilson is pretty sure that nobody trusts him anymore.
“You dosed my coffee with amphetamines.” It’s a last, desperate grab, ignoring the fact that he had been dosing House first. He’s not sure how House has spun him back into the bad-guy role again, but that’s where he is.
“I was worried,” House says.
“You could have talked to me.”
“Like you would have mentioned it. Like I said, you think it would come up at some point in the past seven years. I asked about the yawning. How else am I supposed to talk to you about it”
“I’m talking now,” Wilson points out. House turns back around, and Wilson meets his gaze.
“No psychotic features?” asks House, and Wilson knows he is thinking of Danny.
“None.”
“Suicidal ideations?”
“None,” Wilson confirms. He knows this is as close House will come to actually admitting that he cares.
House inhales. This is the big one, for him anyway. “How could I not have noticed?”
“You were hurting, yourself. Your leg. Stacy,” Wilson essentially shrugs it off. “You had enough to worry about without worrying about me.”
“I’m not talking about worrying, I’m talking about noticing. I’m not worried now. You’re a big boy. You can take care of yourself. I’m around to tuck you in and make sure you’re not crying into your pillow every night,” House says. “I didn’t notice.”
“Nice, real nice.” Wilson rolls his eyes. “How is this even about you?”
“The same way you’ve made every thing that has happened in my life in the last decade about you,” comments House. This time he really does limp off.
XXX
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2010-09-22 10:29 am (UTC)One thing: should be suicidal "ideations."
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Date: 2010-09-22 10:57 am (UTC)And fixed. I thought the spelling I had was incorrect, but wasn't 100% sure.
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Date: 2010-09-22 06:44 pm (UTC)