Chapter Text
House sighed, walking from one booth to another, staying back far enough in the crowd that only other stragglers heard his bored remarks or corrections. No one told him in med school how much time he'd have to spend at boring events like these instead of actually fixing patients. It was far too much like the boring dinners and galas he'd been forced to attend with his parents growing up. He should have chosen research. But at least there was a bar at the hotel attached to the convention center, and pay-per-view in his room. And this was a paid trip. Between his books and late night viewing, he could hopefully find something to entertain himself with.
The afternoon passed painfully slowly between one speaker and the next on the stage and the lesser known speakers at tables. Lunch was a boring selection of salads and sandwiches, all fat-free dressings and million-seed bread, as if that actually made a difference, and House's finger was twitching on his leg as he grew increasingly less interested. Nobody around seemed noteworthy in the slightest and their conversations were even less so. There were the do-gooders, the wide eyed practically med students, the older doctors who came here as a social outing, those who took it way too seriously, and the speakers of course. Nobody was doing anything out of the ordinary though. Everyone seemed to be behaving like a well oiled social machine. He hated it. It was far too much like military life, like life in boarding schools. House liked excitement, drama, and emotion. He liked when things were out of the ordinary.
House was tapping out a staccato, listening half heartedly to the current speaker while imagining him in a much more revealing outfit which would surely amuse everyone here. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a man in a too-big suit pacing a few booths away, near the exit of the main room. There was a yellow folder grasped firmly in his hand. Unopened, and yet the man was already affected by the contents. The man was young, maybe four or five years younger than him. Just out of med school House figured, given he didn't have the money for a well fitted suit and was most likely wearing the best one his salary could afford. He had high cheekbones, and soft dark hair that looked like it had been styled before he ran his fingers through it repeatedly. He wore thin rimmed glasses that made him seem shy, smaller than he was if his wide shoulders were any indication. As he paced he clearly fought to keep his face neutral, but his shoulders were hunched and he wasn’t listening to the speaker.
It was a long shot, this probably wasn't very interesting at all, but House was going out of his mind. He walked closer. He passed by the brunet subtly, reading the mailing address on the manila folder as he continued on through the doors to a nearby water fountain. He bent down to feign a drink, mind buzzing at the name Diamond & Fairbairn on the sticker. It was official, something that was mailed express. From a law firm somewhere, something family related. He wore a ring on his finger so it could be anything from divorce papers to a parent's will. Ah well, he was curious now. There was no harm in answering a question, however mundane.
House wandered over to a secretary at the hotel’s desk, leaning against it. "Excuse me, would you mind terribly looking something up for me?" She looked up at him and smiled, pupils dilating slightly and breath deepening.
"Of course! What can I do for you Doctor House?" She glanced at his name tag briefly before sitting straighter, fingers twirling through her hair.
"Would you look up some business credentials for me please? My friend gave me the contact information for a law firm and I'm afraid I lost it. The name is Diamond & Fairbairn."
"Of course. Give me a few minutes, I'll be right back." She walked into an office with a heavy door and he leaned back against the desk, resuming the tapping of his fingers to an unknown melody in his head. He changed it slightly for every person he saw, affecting the music in his head with their outward appearance. When she came back a few minutes later she said, "Diamond & Fairbairn are out of New York. They specialize in divorce cases." She seemed especially pleased to report that extra bit of information.
He flashed a quick smile at the pretty blonde as he turned to walk away, no longer interested in the conversation. "Thank you."
"If there's anything else I can do for you, let me know!" She called after him as he walked away.
Divorce lawyers. Now that was interesting. The man hardly looked old enough to be married, let alone for it to be over. Clearly there was more to him than what he appeared to be. House was just bored enough, he decided this was worth investigating a little more. The man had apparently decided to quit pacing in the time House was gone and House noticed him across the atrium, walking past the elevators and heading straight for the bar. House nodded slightly and followed. A drink would be nice right about now.
He sat at a table near the exit, able to look around at all the lonely pathetic solo drinkers and make up exciting background stories for them based on the way their hair was done up or the cut of their clothes. He still kept a general eye out on the brunet he was trailing. He just had a feeling this guy was more than what he appeared. It wasn't long after he sat at the bar and ordered a drink that one of said lonely pathetic patrons started putting money into the jukebox and pressing buttons. The drunk sap was apparently in the mood for contemplative jazz songs as the harmonica intro to Leave a Tender Moment Alone crooned out of the speaker.
House frowned appreciatively and continued sipping at his scotch. There weren't nearly enough people here at the time to complain about the song choice, but when it started playing again the brunet looked over at the other man briefly, like he wasn't sure if this was really about to happen or not. On the third play he glared at him but still kept his mouth shut. House leaned forward in his seat when the song began for the fourth time. The man had grown more and more tense as the minutes pressed on and House knew it was likely only a matter of time before something happened. He had finished his drink but didn’t feel like calling the bartender for more just quite yet. This was getting really good.
The fifth time the intro started he snapped. "Please stop playing the same damn song over and over again, it's driving me crazy!" He didn't quite yell, there was no need when no one else was talking, but he certainly wasn't quiet about it. The drunk doctor just smiled in some sadistic way and tipped his beer back to finish it, tapping the bar in lieu of ordering verbally. The sixth time the song played the brunet groaned out loud. Oh yeah. House saw the bartender look between the two gentlemen but he didn't interfere yet.
The seventh time the harmonica started, he snapped. He stood up and growled, throwing his empty glass outward, unfortunately colliding with a large mirror on the wall opposite him. That certainly got everyone's attention. House leaned back in his seat, trying to take in everything. This was better than anything on MTV. The brunet divorcé was panting in obvious exertion, his eyes wide in frustration and shock. A man further down the bar who was halfway to falling on his ass hollered then and threw his beer bottle at the mirror, making a loud sound that pierced the repetitive crone of Billy Joel. The bartender sighed and wordlessly reached for the phone on the wall to dial for help, while another patron from a table this time stood up and threw her glass as well. The brunet looked more and more horrified at each additional action, looking around wildly like he expected this to all be some kind of joke, holding his hands in his hair.
The police arrived shortly after that. The man went willingly, too willingly. He felt guilty about breaking the mirror, and about inciting a riot of drunken miserable doctors. Ah well, nobody's perfect. He definitely wasn’t two dimensional though, House had seen it, if only for a second. There was chaos in him, there was a spark of someone darker. House sipped his new glass of scotch as he watched the police car drive away. Leaving his bills under the glass, he exited the makeshift entrance of the bar and went for a cab.
…
James Evan Wilson was in jail in Louisiana for assault and rioting charges. His wife was leaving him, he was in jail, and he knew absolutely no one in Louisiana willing to bail him out. There were his new colleagues of course, but the idea of calling any one of them, calling his boss, was too humiliating even for James. He sighed heavily, leaned his head against the wall and tried not to cry while sharing the cell with several other drunks and lowlifes. After what seemed like hours in the overheated under-ventilated cell, but had probably only been one, an officer came back and called his name. “Your buddy posted your bail. You’re outta here for now.” James was confused, seeing as he certainly didn’t have any buddies right now. He spent all his time at the hospital these days and it was hard keeping friends. There's no way any of his colleagues could have heard about the bar incident so soon right?
Slowly, in case this was a joke and he was about to be laughed at, he stood up, grabbing his jacket that he had wrapped over him like a blanket and tucking it over his arm. The officer unlocked the door and stared at him impatiently. Wilson stumbled forward quicker, turning sideways as he darted past the metal door. The man nudged him forward towards a desk where another bored officer was watching something on a small tv. He grumbled as he stood up, walking over to grab the tote containing all his belongings and the paperwork, setting it on the counter. Wilson checked off the items as he put them all away; his wallet, keys, hotel room card, conference brochure, and the dreaded yellow folder signifying his first big failure as an adult. Ugh.
James quickly signed the paper and walked the rest of the way down the poorly lit yellow hall back toward the lobby, looking curiously at the handsome man leaning against the wall. His arms relaxed and fingers tapping an unheard rhythm on the concrete bricks, the man looked over casually as James walked out into the lobby and closed the final few feet between them. God but he was handsome. He looked to be in his early thirties, 31 James decided, with thick wavy dark hair, naturally tousled on his head. His clean shaven face made him look younger, but his eyes held a maturity and intelligence far beyond his years. He wore a trenchcoat of all things and a strange light in his eyes like he was in on a joke James hadn't gotten yet. He wanted to. James squinted at him, trying to think of how he might know this man willing to bail him out. “You were at the bar.” The other man nodded, pleased. “Why?”
“Felt like a drink.”
“No, I mean why did you bail me out? We haven’t met before. I don’t think you work at my hospital.” It was a big hospital, entirely likely they just hadn’t met, even on the plane ride down here, but James was pretty confident that wasn’t the case here. For some reason this man bailed him out after watching him go ape shit over an annoying song. He sighed internally. This is why he should have just gone back to his room.
“Not unless you live in Baltimore." Then he shrugged, standing up tall and facing James head on. "You looked interesting. I’m Doctor Gregory House, and you are James Evan Wilson of New York Mercy. You’re an intern and you’re having a hard time right now. You weren’t drinking with anyone. I felt it fair to say you hadn’t made too many friends so far this weekend. I need a drinking buddy, someone who isn’t boring. You my friend are a criminal now, that makes you definitely not boring.”
James felt himself redden at being called a criminal. He’d never done something so… so destructive and horrible in his life. He was always in control, of his emotions, of his actions. He was a boy scout, a prefect in the dorms at school, he was trusted and responsible and always in control. He sighed, raising his shoulders slightly in a shrug and wondering who this strange enigmatic man was to be interested in him. “I guess I could go for another drink. Being in the back of a cop car and in a holding cell really puts a damper on your buzz.”
The doctor's eyes glittered with amusement and he turned, walking towards the door with a dramatic flourish of his coat. He held it open for James easily, walking behind him down the steps and turning to the right. The two fell into step as they walked down the street. It was evening now, the sky was a dark blue and orange and the street lamps cast a beautiful glow over all the world below.
He was tall, taller even than James, and he was surprisingly well built for a doctor, like he played sports all through school. He made long steady strides down the sidewalk and Wilson looked around wondering if he should say something.
"Uh, so, where do you work?"
"Johns Hopkins, in Baltimore. It's my alma mater. I went to work at another hospital first but we had a disagreement about my handling of a patient."
"Oh. What happened?"
"They didn't seem to like that I did everything I could to save a woman's life. I don't regret it though. It worked. She's alive. If we're not doing everything we can to save lives, can we really be proud of being doctors?" And Doctor House looked at him then, like he was actually wondering what James thought on the subject. James, a first year resident, who didn't really have much experience in the actual hospital yet, or anywhere really. But he thinks about the patients he has seen so far on his rounds in the oncology department. All he's really done is help make them comfortable. If he could do more, would he? Even if it cost him his job? He wasn't sure. He worked in a specialty where death was the main diagnosis, and the treatments were painful and never safe.
"I don't know. I'd like to think I would do the right thing, no matter what. But that's why we have review boards, doctors to keep other doctors in check.”
"Yes, well every one of those doctors would have let her die rather than consider a rare disease with a straightforward treatment." He turned to take the steps down into a pub, one much livelier than the hotel bar they were in mere hours ago. Doctor House held the door and Wilson looked around as he stepped inside. The bar was busy with the good people of New Orleans treating their weekend like it was a holiday. Everyone here was happy to be here. If they were sad they didn't linger on it, and cheerful music played from various speakers as people killed about.
The pair walked up to the bar, waiting quietly for a bartender to get to them. When he did, Doctor House ordered a scotch, and Wilson said fuck it. The beer hadn't done much of anything earlier, and he wanted to have fun. "A margarita for me please."
It was a bold move, drinking tequila in front of this near stranger who seemed to want to make friends. He had already done probably the most embarrassing thing he could though and the doctor was still around. He just had to hope that this was exactly the type of fun loving drinking buddy he seemed to want. The bartender set the glasses down in front of them and Wilson reached for his, loving the cool of the drink already. They raised their drinks in mock cheers before taking their first sips. Wilson winced slightly but took another, larger, drink. James realized he's been rather quiet, and he scrounged his brain for a topic, anything he's learned about this man that he can ask about.
"So you talked about diagnosing a patient with a rare condition. What's your specialty?" He has to both lean in and raise his voice in here, and the air is warm and humid between them.
"Pathology and infectious disease. I also did a stint in the ER with the really bad stuff. Most of the time it’s just broken limbs and trauma though, nothing big and exciting. It gets boring after a while."
James nods, not sure if he should be horrified at the admission, but he sort of gets it. "So you like that it's solving a mystery. Not much mystery in broken arm from a car accident."
"Exactly."
"That explains the coat. It's very Sherlock Holmes." James gestures with his right hand but then reddens at his abruptness. He's going to apologize when Doctor House laughs, and it's a lovely laugh. It doesn't take up his whole face like some people. Doctor House seems much more reserved. But it's in his eyes which glimmer with amusement and in the small smile on his face. Wilson can't help but stare for a moment before taking another drink. His glass is now half empty and he can feel himself finally starting to loosen up.
"I'm doing my residency in oncology. It's not nearly as exciting, but I really like being there for my patients. They talk to me and tell me stories about their lives and it makes me feel like I made the right choice going to med school." It's a lot more than he meant to say, and compared to the other doctor he's extremely underwhelming. James willingly works in a field with no cures, unreliable treatments, and so much death. Why wouldn't the other man think he's crazy? Certainly many of his classmates had. He drinks the rest of his margarita in one go and sets the glass back down on the bar. Doctor House doesn't say anything though, just raises a brow, signals the bartender, and asks for another margarita before pulling a few bills out of his wallet. "Thank you." James says to him, nodding at the bartender.
"No problem." James turns away then, looking out across the bar. Music has been playing periodically but it had gotten quiet a few moments ago, besides all the talking. That's when he sees the stage and microphone, and the couple making their song selection. James watches the performance, transfixed. He hasn't done karaoke since med school. Sam hated singing on stage, hated hanging out in bars at all, and Wilson hated to leave her alone. Then she’d be moody and he’d sleep on the couch. He doesn't want to think about her right now though. Actually, he wants to go up on stage and make a fool of himself in spite of her. He's mentally going through songs he knows well enough, and he's got one by the time the couple finishes their song. It doesn't look like anybody is immediately next in line, so James looks back at his drinking buddy to see him already looking right at him. He doesn't say anything and yet James knows he already knows what he's gonna do. He doesn't seem particularly judgemental, merely amused with a look that dares him not to back down now. He tips his head towards the stage and James actually listens.
He's vaguely nervous but he’s had enough to drink in a short enough amount of time that he can feel the nervousness slip backward in his mind as loose-limbed carefreeness takes its place. He's not drunk, not yet, but once he finishes this glass and feels the rush of hormones from singing on stage he'll definitely be past the tipping point for the evening. He doesn't care. He could never see this man again, but right now he wants to be young and happy. He takes the stage, switching his drink to his right hand as he finds Dancing Queen on the list.
Doctor House has moved closer to the stage, though perhaps in his head at least he can be bold enough to call him Greg. Some doctors are very formal, and don't like anyone forgetting their title, but unless the man can read his mind, which he sure hopes he can't, then it won't matter. James feels flush from the drink, the heavy lighting over the makeshift stage, and the feel of curious eyes taking him in, sizing him up. He clears his throat as the music starts and just goes for it, smiling to himself as he does so.
…
House might possibly be in love. It's too soon to tell for sure, but the symptoms add up. James Wilson, a man he didn't even know when he woke up this morning, is now quite possibly his new favorite person. In the last few hours he's surprised House time and time again, someone willing to get married while going to school, someone angry enough to actually lash out, someone self sacrificing enough to choose willingly to sit beside people as they died, someone bold enough to actually speak to House freely, and then jump right up on stage and start singing ABBA while drinking a margarita. House debated joining him on stage with some kind of duet, but perhaps another night. Tonight he just sipped his drink and watched the younger doctor do something he clearly wouldn't do without tequila. His was flush from his cheeks down probably over his chest, the thrill of it all making him sway easily, if a bit haphazardly, on stage. House cheered along with the other members of the crowd, and when he made eye contact with James while he was singing he felt a pull on his heartstrings. Yes, the symptoms were all pointing to one conclusion. Prognosis? Terminal.
Wilson stumbled off the stage beaming and House caught him with an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close. The two fell into step together quite easily for virtual strangers, and House steered them back towards the bar where he set their empty glasses down. "Think we've both had a fun night. What do you say we head back to the hotel before it takes a turn for the worse huh? We've still got another day of the convention and I don't know about you but I don't want a hangover on top of that riveting entertainment." Wilson giggled, actually giggled, and House smiled involuntarily, looking over and down at the younger man. He really was gorgeous up close, all soft brown hair and chocolate brown eyes. He even smelled nice too, underneath the smell of the jail cell and this bar, like the ocean or as close as colognes could get.
"It is a bit boring isn't it? Most of the panels don't apply to my specialty and the ones that do, I can read about in medical journals."
"My dear James, that's exactly what I've been saying. Let's get a cab." He's still got his arm around James, who really doesn't actually need the support, but it feels right for the times and all. Just like when his teammates won a game and they were all crowding into the locker room hugging and pulling each other along. While House had never been privy to much of that camaraderie, he decided to recreate it now. James didn't seem to mind, for he had his own arm wrapped around House's middle, hand fisted lightly in his trenchcoat.
The ride back to the hotel wasn't long at all, maybe fifteen minutes, and James got quieter as the minutes passed by. He's still wide awake, but calmer, eyes looking around at the scenery through the cab windows, humming periodically to something in his head. House looks around too, if only for an excuse to look over at Wilson every so often, tracing his eyes over every inch he can see, from his flattened hair, to his smooth skin glittery with sweat, and those dark eyes that almost glowed in the dark of the cab.
House hesitates when they both exit the car, wondering if he's got a reason to put his arm around James again. He's not wobbly and the audience isn’t still cheering for his performance. He can't think of an excuse quick enough, so he turns to walk the rest of the way to the hotel and feels himself warm all over when James' arm brushes close to his own and doesn't move away. They make it to the elevator in companionable silence and he presses his floor, looking down at the other doctor until he steps forward and presses his own. The door shuts and the pair find themselves leaning even closer together when the elevator starts with a jerk, going up one, two, three floors. House is on the floor below James, and the door opens with a ding. He stands still. He's not sure where they're leaving things, if there's something or if maybe he's just wishful thinking. It’s never something he’s been good at asking outright either, remembering his strict upbringing and the general shame and horror towards anything different. And James is, well for everything they may have in common so far, he chooses restraint regularly with forwardness as a rare display of emotion, whereas House has always chosen forwardness, showing his true feelings in his restraint. They’d make quite the pair.
The door closes again, moving up to the next floor where Wilson's staying, and both doctors are resolutely staring straight ahead, the only sounds being the machinery controlling the lift. When the elevator dings again and the door opens, James steps out and House follows, torn between confidence and bashfulness. They walk slower now, both to respect those sleeping or working on this floor, and so as not to break whatever tension there is between them. James isn't drunk, he's still got his wits about him and he'll definitely remember everything in the morning. House isn't sure if that's a good or bad thing.
Wilson stops in front of a door and turns, leaning against it. He looks up at House, those deep brown eyes questioning him, but not closed off. Thankfully not looking in disgust or discomfort. "Well, I guess this is good night." He says barely above a whisper. He's still leaning against the door, neither hand is in his pocket reaching for a key. House nods.
"Ok."
"Will I see you tomorrow?" And House smiles again.
"Ok." He's always struggled with emotional conversations. He blames it on the complete lack of them during his childhood. But Wilson smiles too, a shy sort of answering smile, and his hand reaches out like he's going to touch, before pulling back, sticking it firmly in his jacket pocket. He retrieves his key card then and turns halfway to unlock his door, feet still angled toward the hall. The door beeps, flashes green, and he puts the card back in his pocket. Holding the door open he looks back up at House and says, "Good night… Greg." He slips into his room, door shutting with a quiet click and a lock.
House smiles, again, thinks Good night, James to the door before turning and walking back to the elevator.
He falls asleep that night to gorgeous brown eyes staring right into his soul and soft warm hands caressing him lightly.