House MD Oneshots + Imagines

Satisfied (James Wilson x Gregory House x Lisa Cuddy)

James Wilson's mind is blurry as he stands in the apartment of Gregory House. Just a few years ago, he was staying here after his third divorce. The couch that House and his fiancee- Dominika Petrova- are sitting on was his bed for months on end. That couch was also his solace after bad days at work or long nights fighting with his wives and girlfriends, but House was his solace, too, and the diagnostician isn't his anymore either, so what the hell is the couch in the midst of all of this? Why is he thinking about the couch right now? What is he doing? Why is he here?

Right, he reminds himself. Greg is getting married. After all these years, Greg is getting fucking married in his fucking apartment. He's invited everyone who works with them at Princeton-Plainsboro and while most of them look exhausted with Greg's antics, poor Lisa looks like she's falling apart at the seams- James feels like he is, too, but for whatever reason, after loading him with cheap champagne, Greg thought it was a great idea to push James into the center of the room and insist that he give a best man's speech .

Wilson doesn't want to do it. House didn't even ask him to be his best man. He didn't have ample notice to grieve what they used to be, ample notice to prepare for this, ample notice to write anything down. His anxiety is screaming as expectant eyes fall on him and the room goes silent. What he wants to do is shatter his glass on the floor and scream in objection, but he shoves that part of him to the side. All he has to do right now is get through the night, he reminds himself.

"A toast to the bride," James says with all the enthusiasm he can muster and raises his champagne glass. The words that roll off of his tongue feel like poison, but he manages to talk anyways. Briefly, he looks at Dominika, who's sitting by Greg's side. She's thin and dainty, young with porcelain skin, silky brown hair, coffee-hued eyes, and impeccable makeup. She's perfect to the core, pleasant and personable with an endearing accent. Honestly, she's too good for Greg, but that's a thought James keeps to himself as he turns to his best friend. "To the groom... From your best friend, who is always by your side."

And House looks at him- truly looks, icy blue eyes skeptical and knowing. House knows how he feels. House is doing this to spite him, to spite Cuddy, and Wilson knows it. Unsure of what else to say and incredibly self-conscious, Wilson eyes the crowd in front of him. His gaze falls upon Cuddy, who mouths a sympathetic and subtle;

"Are you okay?"

James nods, then continues, the end of his speech clipped and awkward- so much so that the room becomes tense because of it. Everyone knows how he feels for Greg, they all know, and they know about Lisa, too.

"To your union... May you always be satisfied."

Shortly after, the wedding 'ceremony' starts. Chase officiates it. James doesn't even see it as an actual ceremony- and he knows nobody else does, either- it's a sham, he tells himself. He stares at the floor most of the time. But then House starts saying his vows. Suddenly, the warm lights in the room turn blue, and the scenery in front of him falls apart and rebuilds into the streets of New Orleans- the very streets where he first encountered Greg in 1991.

He remembers the dreamlike candlelight from the hotel room they shared that night, remembers thinking of that night like a dream that he couldn't quite place. Most of it feels like one giant blur- the alcohol, the fight, Leave A Tender Moment Alone by Billy Joel blasting on the juke box at the bar, getting arrested, being bailed out- but he'll never forget the first time he saw House's face, because even back then, he swore he'd never be the same. He remembers intelligent eyes in a hunger pang frame, a gravelly voice and a million words being tossed his way.

Apparently, they'd been together in the bar, but Wilson hadn't actually seen him until he'd been released from the jail and stepped outside of the building to see the diagnostician leaning against a motorcycle, waiting for him.