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The thing was, Wilson had always thought he might be taken hostage one day. When you’re best friends with Gregory House, possibilities like that kick around in the back of your mind.
So he wasn’t actually surprised he was currently crouched on the clinic floor, cowering from a gun-wielding madman, or drug addict, or whatever this guy was. No, the shocking part was, it had nothing to do with House. It was just more of the random shit that seemed to plague his life.
Well, it wasn’t true that this had nothing to do with House, since he was also crouched on the floor, halfway across the room. But it was not, apparently, his fault.
And for that, Wilson could almost breathe a sigh of relief. That meant the bullet in that gun wasn’t intended for House this time. With any luck, he had no greater chance of being shot than anyone else in the room.
“Hey, asshole,” House suddenly called to their assailant. “You wanna grab your Oxy and skedaddle? I have a BLT in this bag, and they’re a bitch to reheat.”
So much for luck, Wilson thought, automatically pinching the bridge of his nose.
Which was a mistake, because the movement caused the gunman to whirl in his direction and aim the weapon with a shaky hand. “Don’t move!”
Wilson held his palms out. “OK,” he said, fighting to keep his voice even. “No one’s moving.”
The guy nervously scanned the room, and Wilson took the opportunity to look at House, who was staring at him intently. Wilson pressed his lips together and telegraphed a Don’t you dare piss him off message with his eyes.
He trusted House to read it loud and clear. Though whether he would listen…
“Get up,” the gunman said suddenly, and it took Wilson a moment to realize the lunatic was talking to him. He could only blink in response because his limbs were frozen. The guy waved the gun. “Get up.”
He didn’t say it in a menacing way, Wilson noticed. It was more like he was tired, and defeated. Wilson had heard that tone of voice many times, from countless patients and their families. He pressed his hands onto the cold linoleum and slowly got to his feet.
Once standing, Wilson forced himself to look the man in the eyes, even though he could feel his whole body trembling. He hoped the guy couldn’t see it.
Get it together. The man was scrawny, and a good two or three inches shorter than he was.
He’s also got a fucking gun pointed at your heart, Wilson reminded himself—though it sounded a lot like House’s voice. He couldn’t see House at the moment, but he could feel his eyes boring into him.
“Listen,” Wilson began, using his well-practiced soothing tone.
“You’re the big cancer guy here,” the man cut in.
Wilson felt his breath catch. Should he know this guy? He couldn’t place his face, and he always remembered faces. “Um, I…Have we met?”
“I saw pictures of you on the website. When I was looking for that bitch. I couldn’t find her, though. I can’t—I can’t remember her name.”
The guy seemed to slump a little on his feet, but the gun was still aimed at Wilson’s heart.
“Oh. There’s a doctor here you’re trying to find?” Wilson asked, vaguely aware of how ludicrous the casual question sounded.
“My wife saw a doctor in this clinic. Twice.” The guy’s bottom lip started to quiver, and he tightened his grip on the gun.
“She—My wife was having stomach pain and constipation and stuff. The doctor told her it was, um, irritable bowel. She told her to change her diet.”
The guy laughed humorously, and Wilson felt his heart sink. Shit.
“We don’t have insurance, so Christine didn’t wanna make a big deal about it. She went for months—” The guy stopped and squeezed his eyes shut. For a second Wilson thought about reaching for the gun, but then the man was staring at him again, this time with tears in his eyes. “She went for months, thinking if she just ate better…”
He shook his head. “But I made her come back here, and we got that same bitch of a doctor. She said, ‘It’s IBS. You gotta try to stay off the fast food and get some exercise.’ Just like that. Just because we have no money, she wrote us off.”
Wilson swallowed against the lump in his throat. He knew how this story was going to end. “I’m sure,” he said calmly. “I’m sure that wasn’t it. Your wife must be young. The doctor must’ve thought—”
“I don’t give a fuck what she thought,” the man growled, waving the gun at him. “She should’ve treated my wife. She should’ve done her fucking job.”
“I’m sorry,” was all Wilson could think to say. “It’s ovarian cancer, isn’t it?”
The guy just eyed him for a moment, then slowly nodded. “We finally got her to a real doctor. But it was too late. She’s gonna be dead in a few months. Maybe less.”
Wilson felt his gut clench. How many times had he given that prognosis to a woman and her husband? Or to a child’s parents? Or an elderly man and his middle-aged daughter? And how many times had he thought they should scream at him, or hit him, or yeah, even want to kill him? Because he was the big cancer guy around here, and he couldn’t do anything more to help them.
“I’m sorry,” Wilson repeated, hating how utterly inadequate his words were. “But that doctor you saw here…It’s hard to catch ovarian cancer early. Something like IBS is much, much more likely—”
“Fuck you!” the guy yelled, stepping closer so that the gun was almost touching Wilson’s chest. “You people will always cover for each other. Someone has to be held responsible.”
Yeah, Wilson couldn’t help agreeing.
The man lifted his gun, aiming between Wilson’s eyes.
Oh god, oh god, oh god. All at once Wilson realized he kind of hated his life, but he didn’t want to die. At least not like this. He didn’t want everyone to see his brain splattered all over the clinic floor. He didn’t want it to happen in front of House.
House.
“Hey!” that familiar voice called out again. “He is not the fucking moron who misdiagnosed your wife. What good are you gonna do anyone by shooting him?”
House, shut up. Please shut up.
The gunman darted his eyes toward House, but kept his weapon on target. “He’ll do,” the guy muttered. “And—and where was he when my wife was here?” He glared at Wilson. “Maybe that doctor called you and asked you to come down. But you were too busy.”
“Oh, that’s brilliant,” House sneered. In his peripheral vision, Wilson could see him pushing to his feet.
No, no, no.
House took a step toward them. “Now you’re just making up little stories in your head to justify killing a man. Your wife must be so proud of you.”
The guy turned his head sharply toward House. “Don’t you say a fucking word about my wife.”
He returned his attention to Wilson and put his finger on the trigger. House, don’t move. Don’t move.
House took another step. “Listen to me. Your wife has a few months to live, and you wanna spend them in prison? You want her to die alone?”
The man’s face curled into a grimace, and Wilson was sure this was it. He hoped it wouldn’t hurt. House. Please just get away.
The guy’s hand was shaking violently now, so he used his other hand to steady it. Wilson opened his mouth to speak, but he couldn’t. He had one chance to save his own life, and he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t even do that.
“If you kill him,” House said, inching closer. “you know what that’ll do? You’ll leave a bunch of little cancer kids, and a bunch of moms and wives, and dads and husbands, with no doctor. They need him.”
Wilson almost laughed—which was absurd, he knew. But so was House’s statement. His patients liked him, but they didn’t need him. Not really. There were plenty of other doctors.
The guy must’ve agreed, because the gun didn’t budge. “Well,” he said hoarsely. “They’ve still got a lot better chance than my wife does.”
House rapped his cane on the floor. “You really are a stupid fuck, aren’t you?”
Wilson looked at him in alarm. “House,” he croaked. “No.”
House’s eyes met his, and Wilson saw a dangerous gleam in them. No, no, no.
“Go ahead and shoot him,” House said off-handedly. “Your wife’ll be better off without you.”
Wilson knew what was going to happen before it did, which was probably why he was able to react so quickly. Because he surely didn’t think about it.
There was just that second where the gun was moving away from him and toward House, and Wilson found himself throwing his weight into the guy and blindly reaching for the weapon. There was the sound of the gun going off, and then he was sprawled out on the floor, partly on top of the man who wanted to kill him. Who wanted to kill House.
All Wilson could see now was the gun, still clutched in the other man’s hand, and he scrabbled to reach it. He had to get it before it went off again. Before someone got hurt. He felt something hard strike the back of his head, but he couldn’t stop to wonder what it was. He had both hands on the guy’s wrist now. He could get the gun. He could do this one thing.
There were shouts then, and the sound of shoes pounding the floor. But that was all Wilson could absorb before a sharp pain blossomed across the back of his skull. And then everything faded into nothing.
******
Wilson was walking home from school with Danny. His brother always refused to hold his hand like he was supposed to when they crossed the street. But Wilson was always careful to stay close to him in the crosswalk and make sure he got safely to the other side. Danny never was good about listening and paying attention, and it was Wilson’s job to look after him. That’s what mom kept saying anyway.
“Jimmy, get away,” Danny said, elbowing him in the side once they were back on the sidewalk. “You’re too close.”
“I am not,” Wilson protested. “You want me to walk in the street?”
Danny frowned. “I don’t need you to walk me home.”
Wilson rolled his eyes. “Yes, you do. You never pay attention to where you’re going. You probably couldn’t even find your way home.”
“I can, too,” Danny said angrily. “Go away, Jimmy.” He stopped walking and looked at Wilson, bright blue eyes flashing. “I don’t need you.”
Wilson just stared. Danny didn’t even look like himself; something was wrong. His brother stepped closer and loomed over him—which couldn’t be, Wilson thought dimly, since Danny was only seven.
“I don’t need you,” Danny repeated. “You’ve never helped me.”
Wilson wanted to argue. Of course he’d helped him. Plenty of times. But he couldn’t think of any right now. “Go away, Jimmy,” Danny said again, before taking off down the street.
Wilson knew he had to run after him, but his stupid legs were frozen. That seemed to happen any time he was scared; he hated being such a coward. “Danny!” he yelled. “You can’t go by yourself. Wait!”
Wilson took a few steps, but they were painfully slow. He didn’t understand why he couldn’t just move. Danny was getting farther and farther away. He’d disappear soon, and it would be Wilson’s fault. Mom would kill him.
“Danny,” he called one more time, but even his voice was weak now. So he stopped and squatted on the sidewalk, breathing hard. He couldn’t see Danny anymore.
Wilson looked around then, like maybe some kindly adult would be nearby, ready to help him find his brother. But there was no one—not even any cars driving past. In fact, Wilson realized with a start, he didn’t recognize the neighborhood at all.
Where?…
Had he been taking them in the wrong direction this whole time? That couldn’t be. He knew how to get home; it was Danny who needed help. Wilson shook his head, as if he could somehow rearrange the strange surroundings into something that made sense. But when he looked around again, everything was still wrong.
“Danny,” he choked out.
There was suddenly a hand on his shoulder, substantial and strong. A man’s hand. Wilson looked up and squinted at the sun; he couldn’t make out the stranger’s face. “Hey,” the man said, shaking him slightly.
Wilson couldn’t move or form words. “Hey,” the faceless voice said again, sounding annoyed now.
“Um.” Wilson closed his eyes against the sun. It was too bright. It was all too much.
“Wake up, you moron.”
Wilson blinked his eyes open to find it was dark. “Hmm?” It took a couple seconds, but he gradually registered that he was lying in a bed. And he appeared to be an adult.
Oh. Yeah.
It was his second night in a row waking up in House’s bed, but it was still…weird.
“You were whining in your sleep again,” House’s voice cut through the dark. And that was the even weirder part—House was sleeping next to him.
When Wilson had regained consciousness in the ER, he was told that the gunman—Alan Mareno, he now knew—had struck his head with a second gun. Huh, Wilson remembered musing. Never thought of that.
House, who had perched himself on the empty gurney next to Wilson’s, informed him that he was a very special brand of stupid. And that he was lucky the SWAT team had finally arrived and deigned to join them in the clinic at that crucial moment.
Wilson had wanted to deny being the idiot in this particular scenario. But he’d closed his eyes instead.
The subsequent head CT was negative, which gave House fodder for numerous hilarious statements regarding Wilson’s intellect. But House still refused to let him go home, saying he didn’t trust Wilson to actually rest or take any post-concussion symptoms seriously.
Wilson had barely put up a fuss—partly because House was probably right, but mainly because he didn’t want to sit in that loft by himself.
He had argued against sleeping in House’s bed, but even that was mostly for show. He knew neither one of them should be crammed onto the couch. So he’d let House win that battle, too.
“Um. Sorry,” Wilson said groggily.
There was silence, and he could sense the wheels turning in House’s head. “You OK?” House questioned. “Confused?”
Wilson sighed. “No. My name is James Wilson. I’m sleeping next to Gregory House. I’m not confused, just horrified.”
“Uh-huh. Headache?”
“Why, yes. You are.”
He did have a headache, but like hell was he telling House. It was normal to still have symptoms a couple days after a blow to the head. There was absolutely nothing wrong with him. Except for his legs, which were frozen in the dream and still felt a little numb here in reality. But Wilson decided to keep that to himself, too.
“You’re an idiot,” House grumbled. “But of course, that was a pre-existing condition. Congenital, most likely.”
“Yeah.” Wilson sighed again, rubbing his eyes. “Listen, I’m sorry I woke you. Lemme make it up to you by going to sleep.”
“You shouldn’t have done it,” House said, like he hadn’t heard a word.
Wilson paused. Maybe he was confused. “Huh?”
“Huh?” House mocked him. “Lunging at the guy with the gun. You shouldn’t have done it. I had it under control.”
Wilson barked a laugh, not quite believing his ears despite the fact that this was House. “Under control? He was gonna shoot you.”
“He was going to shoot at me. He would’ve missed by a mile. Did you see his hand?”
Wilson shook his head. “Did it occur to you he might not miss? Or he’d miss you, but hit someone else?”
He could almost feel House shrug. “As long as the someone else wasn’t you, I could deal.”
“Well, I couldn’t,” Wilson snapped. He wasn’t sure why he was suddenly so angry, but he was. He bit his bottom lip hard, and House stayed quiet.
Wilson took a couple steadying breaths before he spoke again. “I—I didn’t think, really. I just saw the gun moving toward you, and I reacted.”
“Well,” House said, in that voice he saved for particularly slow people. “I saw a guy about to plant a bullet in my BFF’s brain. I felt I had to object.”
Wilson shut his eyes. “You didn’t object, House,” he said wearily. “You purposely provoked him. You tried to get him to shoot at you. I can’t—” He stopped there because he could feel he was about to lose control of his voice.
“What?” House said, sounding pissed again. “I should’ve just let him shoot you?”
Wilson pressed his lips together to keep them from trembling, even though it was dark and House couldn’t see. “Well?” House demanded.
What could he say? Could he say yes? Better me than you? Would a healthy person ever say that? Maybe. He wasn’t sure.
House sighed heavily, and Wilson braced himself for a full-on verbal assault. But it didn’t come. Instead House just flopped back on the bed. “Well, sorry to disappoint you,” he muttered. “But I need you to stick around.”
Wilson opened his eyes. He wasn’t sure he’d heard House right. “You…What?”
“You cannot possibly be shocked by that information.”
Wilson pondered that. No, he knew House needed him. Or actually, he’d always assumed House needed him—which was different from knowing.
“I—Well, you’ve never said that before,” Wilson said, feeling grateful for the dark. He could never talk like this if he had to face House.
“Why would I?” House asked.
Right. House didn’t believe in words. Wilson did, even though he had a hard time saying them himself. Yeah, the whole action speaks louder thing was true. But words were comforting, and if they were actually true, that was even better.
“Yeah,” was all Wilson could say in answer. “Good point.”
He closed his eyes. House needed him, and he’d even said it out loud. That was a good thing, wasn’t it? A mostly good thing.
“Hey,” House said softly. “OK?”
Wilson wasn’t sure, but he thought so. “Hmm. My name is James Wilson, and I’m sleeping next to Gregory House.”
“Are you horrified?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Wilson felt himself smile a little. After a moment, House turned over so his back was to him. Wilson did the same, but as he rolled over he shifted closer to House, hoping he wouldn’t notice. If he did, he didn’t say anything.
Wilson just lay there a while, breathing and knowing someone was behind him. It was enough to help him fall back to sleep, and this time he didn’t dream.