In Sickness and Sonnets - A House MD & Dead Poets Society Fanfiction

The Weight of Avoidance

CRACK! Wilson practically flies off of the exam room bed, woken up by an almighty bang right above his head. Eyes darting around the room, they land on a familiar wooden cane still resting on the head of the exam bed.

"Really, House?" He sighs out, eyes now on the greying man stood nonchalantly by the bed.

"Good morning, Wilson." He says dryly, clearly no meaning in the words, "Tiring physical exam?" He asks sarcastically, twirling his cane in his fingers for a moment before resting it against the exam bed and hopping up into Wilson's spot. "Pre-warmed."

"You're an ass." Wilson sighs out, exasperated, clutching his chest to make sure his heart is definitely still there. "And no. Fairly regular as far as exams go, aside from-" Wilson cuts himself off, now wearing a curious look as he draws closer to House. "You never care about my examinations. What have you done wrong?" House has little reaction to this, his hand delving into his pocket.

"Yeah, right. Because you really care so much about the snot-nosed brats and hungover teenagers we have to deal with." He snipes, spying the chart Wilson left on the cabinet. "I'm just avoiding Vogler. Those charts ought to be filed as soon as possible, you know." House deflects,

"So, you came to scare me awake because that helps you avoid him? I ought to get him a pager." Wilson yawns, massaging between his eyebrows. "And yes, Gregory House, great saviour of charts. Say, how many of your charts go 'missing' a year?" He asks rhetorically as he tucks the file under his arm. "I'll see you at home, House." House watches the back of his head as he leaves the exam room.

Later that evening, House walks in the door of his apartment, hanging up his coat and plopping himself down next to Wilson, whose feet are already up on his coffee table.

"What'd Vogler want with you?" Wilson queries, not looking away from the television.

"A passionate night under a Polynesian moon." He quips, deflecting again. "I told him no, of course; I've got appointments with hookers I can't miss." House gets up from the couch, preferring instead to seat himself in front of his piano.

"I don't see why you fight Vogler so much. Surely your ego isn't more important than your job?" Wilson asks, knowing it's a fruitless endeavour to argue this point with House. Resting his fingers gently on the keys, House plays a quiet melody.

"He makes my job miserable; I make his miserable. There's so much sacrifice to relationships, isn't there?" House states matter-of-factly, briefly looking up from the keys at Wilson, who has found a keener interest in watching the older man play. "He already tried once before and failed." House's voice remains steady as he leans into the keys. "You got fired from the committee, sure, but he can't fire Cuddy. He can't touch me." Wilson only nods at this, eyes wandering from House as he gets stuck in thought. He's about to pose another question when House's playing is interrupted by the sound of Wilson's cell ringing. "Phones off in the theatre, jackass" he grumbles, his hands falling from the piano.

"It's Cuddy." Wilson states quickly, walking into the kitchen to take the call. House stops his playing, trying to listen in on the call, only able to make out a worried tone in Wilson's voice. Quietly lifting himself off the stool and limping over to the kitchen, House leans on the doorframe, giving Wilson an inquisitive look as he hangs up the phone.

"Vogler can't touch you, but..." He hesitates, glancing at House before pushing past him. "But he can come after me. Not all of us have the luxury of tenure. If he pulls the trigger, I'm out."

He racks a hand through his hair, fidgeting a little as he throws his coat on. "I'm headed back. If he follows through with this, I'll need to refer all my patients." Wilson is expecting some kind of retort from House, a clever master plan to off Vogler and dump his carcass in some remote part of the Delaware, but it never comes. House is still standing in the doorway, his face unreadable, watching as Wilson huffs and leaves the apartment. His footsteps receding rapidly, the puzzle forms itself in House's mind, his thoughts flashing between various ideas to solve it. He sits back on the couch. The snow outside falls with the night, the streetlamps casting long shadows across the darkening room. House thumps his cane on the floor with each thought, the rhythm matching the dull ache in his leg. That bastard Vogler.

The light filtering in from the streetlamps cues House to retreat into his bedroom, waiting for his thoughts to be dampened by the illustrious white pill he took in thought. I'm going to do something insane. His mind not relenting, thoughts converging like trains through a station until the Vicodin eventually dulls the cacophony of screeching rails, drifting off into uneasy sleep.