Everybody Lies

Wilson hung up
the cell and rested his forehead

against the outside window. He looked out at the

lights of the city. He wanted to throw down his phone,

see it smash, break, shatter into pieces.

His ears strained for any sound- anything- from the

bathroom. There was nothing, no cursing, no running

water, no sound of teeth being brushed. class=GramE>Nothing. It

was as if he was the only person there; the only

person with a heartbeat.

Now what? What was one supposed to do when they just

fucked up everything six ways from Sunday? Write a

note? Call Oprah? Wilson shook his head, turned

around, and started throwing away the tiny alcohol

bottles. He really, truly did not know what to do.

Should he knock on the door? And say what- gee whiz,

sorry I sorta jumped you there... Let's forget about

it? Did he want to forget about it?

That was sure the big money question.

He quit his straightening up, and went back to the

window. All he could think about was what he would

do... what he would say when House walked out of that

restroom. Like a movie in his mind, every time he

closed his eyes, he saw House’s wide eyes staring up

at him, hurt and shocked; surprised.

Wilson shook his head. He couldn’t do it. There was

too much to say… not that he knew what it was he

would say. He had to get out of this damn,

stifling room. Go somewhere that he could think.

It took him less than five minutes to get his keys,

his wallet, and his phone and leave.

Walking in a strange city was probably not the most

intelligent thing to do. He wandered around aimlessly,

listening to his footfalls hitting the concrete,

completely focused on his inner thoughts.

He could admit to himself that his attraction for

House wasn’t exactly a surprise. Sure, it had been

buried and repressed so deeply that he had needed to

ship in daylight, but it wasn’t a surprise. His

jealousy at the bar was proof enough of that. (Not to

mention the … incident… in the hotel room.)

What completely floored him was that House could

reciprocate the … feeling? Attraction? class=GramE>The Whatever It

Was. How does a reasonably intelligent person miss

that? Well, okay, maybe because he didn’t want to see

it. Maybe he knew that there was so very much

potential… for everything to go badly.

Case in point.

No one would ever call House someone who was easy to

understand. He was moody, sarcastic, lazy, rude…. All

of those things. But he could also have those moments

where he’d let you glimpse (just for a second) the

human being at the bottom of all that. Those glimpses

weren’t shown to everyone. To very few people in fact.

Stacy had been one… and look how that turned out. It

had taken him weeks to recover… and he had lost most

of the use of his leg. Wilson’s mind flashed again to

the image off House collapsed onto the floor in front

of the bureau, looking up at him….

Thinking of Stacy made him think of Julie. He thought

of her face when he confessed who it was he was…

thinking… about. And how his initial reaction had

been what she would say… what all his very affluent,

Jewish aunties and uncles and cousins would say when

they found out that he wasn’t divorcing Julie because

of another woman… but because of a man.

Which made him feel like a real asshole.

Much later (He had lost all track of time while on his

walk.) when he came back to the hotel room, he was

stopped by a worker at the front desk. It wasn’t

anyone he had seen before. She looked faintly accusing

when she very politely informed him that the gentleman

he had been staying with had requested that all his

belongings be removed from the shared room, and would

you mind terribly sir if we took back the key?

Wilson sighed. He saw where she gestured to his

suitcase and bags. The cardboard box had been stuffed

full of his clothes. His shoulders slumped; he nodded

and gave her back the little piece of plastic. They

gave him the number of a cab company.

**********

House should have been a spy. He had a nifty little

James Bondish fantasy that involved a lot of shooting

people with his cane and very expensive, flashy sports

cars… but really. Ol’ James had nothing on him.

There was an art to avoiding a person. The calls he

just ignored. At the conference, whenever he saw

Wilson heading his way, well that was easy. He would

just end whatever conversation he was having (not that

there were that many) and take off in another

direction. Simple. Meals were not a problem- he just

took a cab to someplace that Wilson would never dream

of looking for. And paying for that wasn’t a problem

either since he had swiped Wilson’s credit card ages

ago for just such an emergency.

Well maybe not “just like this.” It was one thing to

tell yourself, prosaically, that doing A to person B

would result in unpleasantness C, but the reality…

hurt. The reality kept you up at night. The reality

made you curl in on yourself with your hands crossed

over your stomach until you had to up your dosage to 3

pills just

so that you can sleep dreamlessly.

House found himself sitting on a park bench, making

short work of a Ruben from a Jason’s Deli, when his

phone beeped at him. Cuddy.

“’Ehwhoo?” He swallowed.

“House?”

“Cuddy?”

A sigh. He could picture her rolling her eyes. “Lookclass=GramE>,

I need a favor. Can you and Wilson cut short your

conference?”

House thought about that for a second as he sucked

down some sauerkraut. “No, I don’t think that would be

possible. Dr. Wilson is quite busy and is doing such

good work for the little bald kids, I don’t see how

you as an American can ask him to leave. Now I, on the

other hand have filled a good bit of my obligations. I

do believe that my contract (he spit out that

word) has been met. What’s up?”

Cuddy, who had been interpreting House-ese for what

felt like centuries, picked up on the subtext… but

didn’t say anything. Although she really hoped that

the two friends weren’t fighting- because that really

made it a bitch to work with either of them. “I think

that would be okay. Can you leave tonight?”

Damn. That would mean he would miss the guest speaker

of Fanfiction and the Inner Angst. class=GramE>“Yeah.

Although this is damn inconvenient.” He hung up on

her, knowing that she would have the ticket

information taken care of before he reached the hotel

room. Cuddy was nothing if not a stickler for details.

House threw the rest of his crusts to some ducks, but

remained seated on the bench. The sunlight was beating

down on him as he sat in his jeans and t-shirt. It

felt good. Strange to see people running around in

shorts in the middle of winter, but this part was

worth the trip right here. Just sitting- enjoying the

sun. He kept his mind blank, ruthlessly refusing to

think about anything.

Eventually though, he got bored. Which killed the

moment. House got painfully to his feet and went to

hail a taxi. He had to go pack. Maybe he could

squeeze in a nap before he had to leave for the

airport. Once the cab arrived, he paid the man and

nodded at the doorman in thanks for opening the door

for him. He limped to the elevator, up to his room and

started throwing things in his little wheelie

suitcase. The front desk called to assure him that

they had his flight information at the desk, not to

forget to grab it if he chose to check out in the room

(Which he did.) and that they would be happy to

provide transportation to the airport if he required

it. (Which he also did.)

He wasn't sorry to see the airport again. 80-Degree

weather aside, he was thrilled to get out of this damn

state.

(AN: sorry about the goofy formatting. Not sure what
happened here.)