Chapter Text
Rosencrantz: We might as well be dead. Do you think Death could possibly be a boat?
Guildenstern: No, no, no… Death is … not. Death isn't. You take my meaning. Death is the ultimate negative. Not-being. You can't not-be on a boat.
Rosencrantz: I've frequently not been on boats.
Guildenstern: No, no, no - what you've been is not on boats.
- Tom Stoppard, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead
***
The man with the cane walked slowly along the wharf in the fading light of a cold spring day, his shoulders slightly hunched against the freshening breeze. The slight creak of the pilings was a constant reminder of the need to take additional care with his footing on the damp, uneven boards. It was a Thursday afternoon, and the marina was quiet around him under the gray sky, although seagulls squawked and glided across the open waters of the bay. He scanned the boats one by one as he passed, the lines of his face drawn even deeper by his scrutiny. If Lucas' description was correct, the one he sought would not be found until he reached the very end of the wharf; but still he looked.
He passed more types of marine craft than he could name: short, squat things that looked like overgrown rowboats; catamarans with their double hulls; sleek, gleaming motorboats that sparkled in the remaining sun; odd, top-heavy monstrosities. But he would have known the type of boat he was seeking even without Lucas' detailed description - something that held the promise of sails, something that resembled the framed prints and models in Wilson's office he had seen so many times he had almost ceased to notice them.
And there it was, exactly as described, in the very last row facing directly out into the open bay - green hull, white deck. Lucas had described it as a 38-footer, which had sounded impressive, but up close it looked ridiculously small. House moved down onto the slipway that ran beside the boat and stood there for what felt like a long time, looking at it in silence. The boat bobbed in its slip, showing no obvious signs of life, contrary to the Vivere painted in black copperplate on the hull.
House hated this, the uncertainty. He'd made an entire career out of action under pressure, where a patient's life often hung in the balance. Life or death decisions came easily to him, and he always made them knowing that when it came down to it, he'd done the best he could. But this was something else altogether, something far outside his comfortable sphere of competence, and he didn't know what to do.
He stood with his head bowed for a moment, thinking. This was a bad idea. Better to give it up and go back to his absurdly nautical-themed room for the night, where he could watch fuzzy TV and demand non-existent room service, and try again tomorrow. Or never. He knew himself well enough to know that if he did go now, the odds of him simply checking out and driving back to Princeton the next day were very, very high.
It was true that Cuddy had insisted on this visit as a condition of his return, but he could probably get around her if he just said that he'd tried. Make up something about getting the metaphorical door slammed in his face again. If he was convincing enough she probably wouldn't go to the effort of checking. And maybe that would be for the best. Let the death of their friendship rest in peace, and move on. Wilson certainly had, after all, and he should do the same. Let the loss extend without further comment into the rest of his life. But he had come here all the same, bad idea or not. Which must mean… something. But now that he was actually standing here, he realized he might not have the right to hope any more.
He was on the verge of turning away when a figure suddenly emerged from below decks, a black plastic garbage bag in hand.
***
In the end, House had let him go.
"I have the right to walk away from you," Wilson had said, and this time House had given in and let him, because he knew, they both knew, that it wouldn't be for long. The shininess of House's need would draw Wilson back again, as inevitable as the pull of magnetic north. Wilson had tried the leaving routine once before already, not long after divorce number two, only to magically reappear after the infarction as though nothing had ever happened, as though they had never had that alcohol-fueled 'discussion' where Wilson had held House personally responsible for all the late nights and missed appointments that had led to Bonnie's departure.
Since then nothing had changed, not even after marriage number three. In some unspoken way House's leg had cemented the bond between them, made it unbreakable. Amber's loss had hurt Wilson badly - House understood that, and regretted it as far as it went; but he'd been there first, and foremost and always. Wilson would have to come back, because that's who he was. That's who they were.
Just one more Friday night alone on the couch, and Wilson would be back, because despite everything he'd never returned House's front door key. Just one more week of House having to drag himself all the way downstairs to see acting head Rowland for an oncology consult, in such a way that would inevitably lead to Rowland storming Cuddy's office within the hour. Just one more month of walking past the empty office next door, kept empty for a reason, because it wasn't just him; everyone knew Wilson would be back any day now. And things would go on the way they always had before.
Until the morning he arrived at work, and Wilson's door was open, and his name was gone, and his office smelled of air freshener and lilacs. There was currently no-one within, but there was new furniture, and unfamiliar books and bizarre hanging prints of gardens and flowers, and something that looked like a purple shawl draped over a sofa. House took one disbelieving glance and headed straight to Cuddy's office.
"Okay, where is he?"
Cuddy turned to him with a single apologetic glance toward the young resident sitting across from her. She spoke with a careful reasonableness that only irritated him further.
"I need that office, House. Dr. Mills has been waiting over a year for…"
"It's been long enough. Six months now. They were barely together for six months. He wanted time, I gave him time. It's enough, already. So where is he?"
Cuddy gazed at him steadily for a moment and then shook her head. "I don't know."
"You must know. Sure, I didn't exactly expect him to call me with the news, but he's not going to cut off his boss, or his dying ex-patients."
"I haven't heard from him since two weeks after he left here, House. Just before he left town. When I asked where he was going, he said, and I quote, 'somewhere else'. Since then, not so much as a postcard." She gestured with an open hand, palm up. "His cell is disconnected too, but you probably knew that."
"Obviously," House said. Actually, he hadn't known it at all. Over the intervening months he'd thought of trying to call Wilson, but felt it would only have gotten him cut off, and would have been too much an admission of… he wasn't sure. Defeat, maybe.
"I'm sure you could find him if you tried. His parents, maybe, or that PI guy you tried to bill me for." Cuddy's voice softened. "I might even approve it this time."
House held her sympathetic gaze a moment longer, then turned and walked out.
It would be two years before he saw Wilson again.
***
House watched as Wilson picked his way out of the sunken area from which he had emerged and moved up to the flat surface around the boat's edge. Only then did Wilson finally notice him, and promptly stopped with an abruptness that would have been entertaining under different circumstances. His gaze swept House slowly from head to foot, but his face gave nothing away. Then he looked away, made his way to the boat's side, and jumped easily from deck to wharf. The bag in his hand crinkled and swayed with the movement.
He walked by House without a word, off the slipway, following the wharf back the way House had come. House took a few steps after him, but it was clear that Wilson had no intention of slowing his pace. Instead, House watched him go all the way back out and onto the concreted boardwalk, where a large dumpster stood open under a basic roof shelter. There was a small metallic thump as the bag disappeared inside. Then Wilson headed back along the wharf toward his boat, toward House.
Despite the grim set of Wilson's face, House had to admit the break seemed to have done him a lot of good. He was noticeably tanned, and in T-shirt and jeans he looked a little heavier, broader in his upper body. The creeping softness of his middle-aged lifestyle had receded, along with a little more of his hairline. But his face still held the boyish cast that made him look younger than his years. His stride was long and confident, but he was looking off into the sunset, steadfastly ignoring his visitor.
House moved directly into his path, forcing Wilson to come to a stop about three feet away. At least he had managed that much, but then Wilson just stood there, arms folded, obviously waiting for House to speak. And for once House was lost for words. What was there to say? If there had been anything he could have thought of that would have been useful he'd have said it already long ago, said it to Wilson's determined face through the half-open door. There was nothing he could say now that would not be obvious or inane, and so he said nothing at all. It was up to Wilson. Now it was his turn to look away.
When it became clear that no immediate attack was forthcoming, Wilson's defensive posture softened a little. He looked House over again, shook his head, and sighed.
"I guess it was only a matter of time," he said softly.
House shrugged. "You didn't even make it out of the state."
"I tried. But the boat was already moored here when I bought her and I thought, what the hell."
"Straight into the arms of another woman."
Wilson's smile, however tentative, was a relief. "Something like that."
"You really live on this thing? I’ve seen bigger coffins," House said, and then instantly regretted it.
Wilson's posture and his tone had hardened again. "Why exactly are you here? I'm not even going to ask how you found me."
"Actually, that was Cuddy. Or rather, Lucas. And Cuddy."
"Lucas?"
"The PI guy. Oh, wait, I forgot you were never formally introduced."
"House." The weariness of Wilson's expression was a warning. "Why?"
"I missed the sound of your lectures?"
"But why now? For the first six months, I thought, maybe, but…"
"You wanted to be alone, you got it."
"But you're here."
"I finally had a gap in my schedule."
"House." And the old familiar anger flared, just for a second, as Wilson's hands went to his hips and his forehead creased in frustration. Wilson knew it, too. He caught himself and forcibly moved his hands back down to his side, still clenched into loose fists. Then he brushed past House and went down onto the slipway for another few steps before he stopped. He turned back.
"I don't have to… this is exactly why I left, okay? All the games, the avoidance, the lies pretending to be answers. I don't have to deal with this any more. None of this is my problem ." It had the sound of a well-learned mantra, as much a reminder to himself as a castigation of House. He paused, and some of the anger drained from his face, though not all of it. "If you actually want to talk to me sometime, let me know."
Then Wilson turned away and climbed back onto his boat, quickly disappearing again into the gap that led down below decks. House made as though to follow him, and then stopped abruptly. The deck of the boat was about two feet above the wharf's surface, and choppy waves were rocking it in all three dimensions as it slid closer to the edge of the slip and then away again. And the wind was picking up. If House were to attempt to pursue Wilson at this point, he stood a very real chance of falling into the bay, or at the very least sustaining a nasty fall as he attempted to scrabble across the deck toward the entry way. Alternatively, he could stand out here and yell himself hoarse, even as the wind whipped his words away. There was no-one around to notice or care.
After a moment's more contemplation, he conceded that perhaps he had screwed this one up badly. Fortunately, there was one more option Lucas had so thoughtfully provided, but it would have to wait until the morning.
Slowly he turned and walked away, through the ever-deepening twilight.
***
The waiting room was quiet and tasteful; they obviously got a better class of sick people in this part of the world. A young, blonde receptionist worked the front desk; a hallway off to the side led to the inner sanctums. The rest of the room was taken up by bench seating covering the better part of three walls, upholstered in smart blue-gray vinyl on a wooden base. The floor was tiled in a similar hue. A low wooden table in the middle held the obligatory collection of aging magazines; underneath were three baskets of what appeared to be children's toys. Depressingly predictable prints of boats and beaches lined the walls, except for the wall behind the receptionist, which was graced with a large, unfathomable aberration of colors and shapes that could only be described as 'abstract'. The plant near the entryway was fake, but the squat vase of flowers on the reception counter was real.
House sat in one corner, seemingly having been engrossed in the pages of the local rag for the better part of an hour and a half. His cane lay at his feet, discreetly flush against the wooden baseboard of the bench seating. He'd slept badly last night, between the excessively soft bed and the aggressive central heating. After a late breakfast at the hotel, he'd come to the conclusion that his leg was hurting him more than usual. Definitely more than usual. Something that really needed to be checked out as soon as possible. And thanks to Lucas, he knew exactly where he could find a suitable doctor.
He peered around the newspaper. The earlier crowd had thinned out a lot. So far there had been at least three colds, two cases of bad sunburn, three inconclusives (probably old age), one squirming guy with something embarrassing (probably hemorrhoids), and a broken arm. Boring, boring, boring. The receptionist had been sweetly apologetic; because he didn't have an appointment he'd have to wait until a slot opened up, or perhaps he'd like to try Dr. Zimmerman, who had a ten-thirty? House had assured her he didn't mind waiting. Now it was down to five of them - two inconclusives, one cold, House, and a woman who was suffering from either conjunctivitis or a really bad break-up. He'd been there by far the longest of any of them.
He lifted the paper again as footsteps came down the corridor, and Zimmerman called for Mrs. Seward, who dabbed furiously at her eyes one last time before getting up. House flipped a page for the twentieth time as another double set of footsteps approached.
"Thank you so much, Dr. Wilson."
"I'll see you next Tuesday, Mrs. Trenton."
He heard the receptionist say something in an undertone, heard Wilson murmur reassuringly in response. The small rustle of a file being passed from hand to hand.
"Mr…"
The pause said it all. House counted to ten, and then peered around the newspaper again. Wilson was already glaring at him, having finally scanned the waiting room a little better than usual.
"…Gregory House," Wilson finished at last. The tension in his voice was palpable enough that the other patients began eyeing House curiously, and the receptionist gave Wilson an anxious glance.
"I'm sorry, is something the matter, Doctor? He said he just got in yesterday, and didn't have time to make an appointment. I just thought he'd been waiting so long, and his leg…"
"It's fine, Melissa," Wilson said, before turning back to him. " Mr. House is… one of my former patients."
House was impressed. It wasn't even a lie, Wilson having been his prescribing physician and all. He folded up the paper ostentatiously, rummaged beneath his feet for the cane, and then stood up, giving the receptionist a broad smile.
"That's right," House said. "He saved my life. I traveled forty miles just to surprise him."
"Oh, that's wonderful." Melissa smiled back, but she was still anxiously glancing back and forth between them.
"Yes it is," Wilson said tightly, without looking at her. He began walking back toward his office without another word.
"He embarrasses easy," House informed the waiting room at large, and followed him.
***
Wilson's office looked altogether different, and yet strangely familiar. It held all the familiar equipment of a standard doctor's office: desk, patient exam table, BP monitor, scales, an overcrowded shelf full of supplies. The walls were white, but the blue-gray theme had continued on through to the roller chair and storage cupboards. But out of the generic miscellany, House could easily pick out the things that were Wilson's alone: the medical diploma, the small professional library, the globe, the stuffed toys, the large print of a sailing ship that had formerly been on his office wall at PPTH. The movie posters were gone. There was a single small wood-framed photo on the far side of Wilson's desk, next to the computer. House had to peer slightly around the desk to see. Amber, smiling. She had followed him too.
He didn't have much time to contemplate; Wilson had shut the door and come back to stand beside his desk, arms folded. The lines of his face were so familiar that House almost wanted to smile, but he knew it would get him in no end of trouble. Instead he stood there, and waited, almost exactly as he had the previous night.
"What the hell are you doing?" Wilson had pitched his voice deliberately low, but the fury was unmistakable.
House looked up, shrugged. "My leg hurts."
He knew he was being deliberately aggravating, but something in him resented his surroundings. The calm ordinariness of it all. The fact that Wilson had been able to do this, to start over without him. Wilson just looked at him, his sheer outrage obviously precluding further speech.
"And I thought you'd be grateful for something to liven up your incredibly boring day," House added, unable to help himself. "I bet you actually look forward to the occasional heart attack."
"House, don't do this. I've moved on. I'm happy. Just leave it alone."
"I haven't done anything," House pointed out. "What I've done is waited almost two hours in a room of hypochondriacs, just so you'd talk to me. Waited quietly, I might add. Ask blondie if you don't believe me."
"Melissa," Wilson said automatically, but House could see him relaxing just a little as he weighed the truth of House's defense. Wilson would know, better than anyone, how difficult that had been for House. Both physically, in not being able to significantly reposition his leg for that amount of time, and mentally, in resisting the urge to meddle in any of the operations of the practice. His leg really did ache.
Finally, Wilson nodded.
"Okay," he said. He reached for the roller chair and sat down, putting the corner of the desk between them. House stayed on his feet; he'd had enough of sitting for the moment. Despite that, it still felt oddly formal; as if he really were one of Wilson's patients.
"So, Mister House," Wilson said, leaning forward slightly. Despite the lightness of his tone, his eyes were still cautious. "What seems to be the problem?"
House hesitated. He didn't want to do this here, but he knew Wilson's tolerance was already stretched thin. He settled for a half-truth. "Cuddy wants to know if you'll come back."
"So she sent you?" House was clearly out of practice; Wilson hadn't been distracted for a moment.
"Kind of." His left hand plucked at his right as they rested on top of his cane. He'd obviously have to go a little further. "I'm… on leave."
Wilson's face flickered between amusement, annoyance, and concern. It was fascinating to watch.
"Okay, what did you do?"
House shook his head. A sudden torrent of mixed emotions washed over him, but he pushed them down fiercely. He wasn't going to do this here, in Wilson's shiny new office. The thought of being treated like one of Wilson's patients, being professionally listened to with calm words and detached empathy, revolted him. Either Wilson still genuinely cared about him or he didn't. If Wilson insisted, he would simply leave. That would be his answer, right there.
Wilson watched him intently. Then he closed his eyes briefly, bringing one hand up to rub gently at the side of his face. He looked off to the left, then glanced down at the frame that held Amber's picture. He appeared to study it for a long moment, thinking.
"Don't ask her," House said. "She always hated me."
"She didn't hate you, House," Wilson said, still studying the picture. "And I'm not asking her anything. She never wanted that."
He didn't explain and House didn't push him. He simply waited. It was starting to become a habit. Finally, Wilson appeared to reach some kind of internal resolution.
"You want to come by this evening?" he said. "I'll… make something."
House nodded, although the thought of spending any time aboard that floating shoebox Wilson now apparently called home was not in the least bit appealing. He'd never suffered from claustrophobia, exactly, but between his height and his disability it sounded about as attractive a prospect as being jammed in an airplane seat for ten hours during heavy turbulence. Except that Wilson would be there. That counted for something.
"Seven o'clock, maybe?" Wilson was saying, and for a moment it was as though nothing had changed. It was Friday. He was going to have dinner with Wilson. Everything around them had changed, but that single fleeting moment of familiarity buoyed him. He clung to it gratefully.
"I guess they don't deliver out there."
Wilson smiled. "Usually not, no."
Minutes later, Wilson escorted him back out to the waiting room, and took one of the inconclusives back in with him. House was left to the mercy of Melissa, who presented him with his bill.
"Everything all right, I hope?" she said cheerfully.
House bit back a quip about Wilson's chronic drinking problem, and got out his credit card instead.
"Just fine," he said, and signed the charge slip for his co-payment. It was the least he could do.