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James watched Dr. House as he limped down the hallway. There was something about it that made him feel empty inside. Every time he watched Greg lean on the cane, or half stumble into a patient’s room, he remembered the nimble way he had once moved. Gregory House once had feline grace and a dancer’s rhythm, as lithe then as he was hobbled now.
James would go to House’s lacrosse games, relishing his friend’s athleticism while lamenting his own lack of it. James Wilson was more at ease with words, spending his days reading Keats and Goethe, wanting to discuss something intellectual. Of course, when he bored of academic pursuits, there was always the pageantry of monster trucks. He and Greg laughed like little boys watching them destroy everything in their path. The demolition derby was always an event that they both looked forward to. There was so much wanton destruction in the world of a teaching hospital. It was a bit cathartic to see men crush and ruin something that would not cry out in pain, or had a family that loved it.
James’ mind went back in time, to a memory of long ago, when he and Greg were first starting their friendship. Greg had twisted his ankle playing lacrosse, and was icing it down so that the swelling would subside. James couldn't help but laugh at House's own clumsy treatment of himself. His brusque bedside manner was obviously not manufactured for the patient's sake. Greg House was genuinely not a people person. Rarely were geniuses also brilliant when it came to social skills. He was murmuring under his breath, cursing himself.
“Greg, I think you might require a bit of help.”
House looked at Wilson, his eyes showing a flash of annoyance. “Are you implying that I can’t take care of my own ankle?”
“Never said that,” Wilson replied. “I’m just saying that it would probably go a little smoother if you had another pair of hands.”
James knelt in front of Greg and took the icepack off of his foot. “I’m guessing it’s a little tender,” he said as he rubbed a little Icy Hot on his ankle.
“Ow!” House winced. “Remind me to thank you for not entering massage therapy.”
James ignored his surly patient. He had rummaged through the first aid box, pulled out an ace bandage, and started to wrap House’s foot and ankle for stability. “There, fixed. Good as new.”
“Hey, Wilson…” Greg was there, standing in front of him, balancing on the cane and holding his backpack in his hand. James looked around, and realized that he had been lost in thought.