Archive of Our Own

Many years ago, before Cathleen got sick and Wilson went into oncology, he'd wanted to be an accountant. It had a simple elegance that pulled at him, calculating one's life in sum with nothing more than debits and credits. He still thinks that way, two columns of right and wrong, a running tally.

I've got no kids. My marriage sucks. I've only got two things that work for me: this job and this stupid, screwed-up friendship, and neither mattered enough to you to give one lousy speech.

The list changes from time to time. But the more things change, the more they stay the same.

He says as much to Charlie, who looks on in silent agreement.

Aetna's insurance is terrible and Wilson wishes for the thousandth time that it wasn't the carrier for half of New Jersey's industrial corridor. Chemical factories and poor insurance put you in the red no matter how you shelter it, but human resources have never been part of the profit margin.

Wilson rolls another joint, pleased at how good he's become at it, even if he did have to learn how out of a book.

"Hey," he says in response to Charlie's quiet mockery, "prescription is a privilege, one they don't give to men with records."

He doesn't have to hear Charlie's laughter to know it's there.

"Well," Wilson says, hanging up the phone, the dial tone from Julie's end ringing out loud and clear. "That went extraordinarily well."

Charlie's expression is one of weary disbelief. He's always been better than House at knowing when Wilson is lying.

"We're still fighting. That's a good thing," Wilson says, as much to convince Charlie as himself. "Trust me. I'm getting to be an expert on this whole divorce thing, and as long as we're fighting there's still a chance."

Charlie looks pointedly at Wilson's shoes. "What?" Wilson asks. "What do my shoes have to do with anything? They're my lying French shoes, anyway. Can't believe a word they say."

Oh. That's right. Julie bought them for him.

Charlie makes Wilson's office feel more like home, particularly with all the time Wilson's been spending there as of late, and Wilson enjoys having him around. Some of his adult patients take to Charlie and some don't, but he always goes over well with the kids.

"He's a good friend," Wilson says when one of his new kids asks about him. "He's always around when I need him and he gives pretty good advice. His jokes aren't always that great, but when they're funny, they're funny."

Esteban, who's 11 and bald and has no friends to speak of, says, "Well, I guess that's all you can ask for, right?"

Wilson can only agree.

Sometimes, Charlie shows up where Wilson least expects him to, lurking in the shadows or behind Wilson's desk, perusing his books or looking out the window.

Then he finds Charlie outside on the balcony with a cup of coffee that isn't his and knows something's not right.

Tuesday he begs off lunch with House early, claiming a backlog of charting and paperwork when he really needs to go home and pick up more clothes while Julie's not there. Judging from the look House gave his rumpled appearance that morning, he's slightly less than fooled.

When Wilson comes back with two clean shirts and his favorite tie, he hears House in his office, talking to Charlie.

"Esteban says you're pretty good at giving advice, but I'm just not seeing it this time. If you can't tell me what's killing my patient -- and don't say vasculitis; only an idiot would think it's vasculitis -- then you can at least tell Wilson to tell his wife he's been kibitzing the new nurse and be done with it. He's been so emo lately he's cutting his own grass." Charlie must look at him funny, because House pauses and says, "Huh. Didn't get that right, did I? Wilson rolls his own grass, but I don't think he cuts it. Blame Esteban. I should've known the kid was a wash when he didn't know Santana. His name's Esteban, for Christ's sake."

Then House's pager goes off and Wilson ducks around the corner and watches him leave, locking the door behind him with a key Wilson didn't know he had. So much for HIPAA.

When Wilson unlocks the door, Charlie is staring at him accusatorily.

"I do not cut my own grass," he says, not even sure what he's denying.

"So," House says, when Wilson returns to his office at the end of the day, "in lieu of an actual conversation, Charlie and I are staging an intervention."

Wilson glares weakly; it's all he can muster. "I don't recall giving you a key," he says, shrugging off his lab coat and tossing a chart on the desk near House's propped up feet, "much less telling you to use it whenever you'd like." House shrugs and tips Wilson's chair further back. Wilson finds himself hoping House will overbalance and fall. It would serve him right.

"We're friends," House says dismissively. "No need to stand on formality."

It's late and Wilson is tired and it's Julie's birthday, so he has to go home. He's not in the mood for any more of House's bullying in the name of friendship, and he's sure it shows. "All right, what do you want?" he says anyway, because he's learned that with House, sometimes the path of least resistance is also the quickest.

"We think you should tell Julie you've been shtupping the nurse or the actuary or her sister or best friend, whoever it is, and be done with it. This whole kicked puppy routine is getting old. Right, Charlie?"

Wilson's exasperated. "You know he can't talk back, right? He's a rubber duck."

House calls his exasperation and raises him. "Of course I know that. He's my rubber duck."

"Actually, he's mine. You gave him back." ("Along with a note in Latin I couldn't even read," Wilson adds, because any argument with House always derails at some point, and Wilson would prefer it happen sooner in the name of expediency.

"Yeah. It said 'fuck off.'"

"Who do you know who knows Latin?"

"Chase," House says. "Learned it in seminary."

"Wait," Wilson says. "There's a 'fuck' in Latin?"

House shrugs. "Take it up with Chase. And anyway, that's beside the point.") "Not that I haven't enjoyed your misery, what with keeping mine company and all, but enough is enough. Be a man. Tell her."

"There's nothing to tell."

"Then go home and shtup her."

"Hey," Wilson says warningly, "that's my wife."

House ignores him. "Frankly, we don't care which you do -- well, to be honest, Charlie's more for the shtupping -- but do something. Enough of this waiting around for something to happen to you."

"Okay," Wilson says, jaw tight and a headache already gathering at his temples, "fine. I'll do it. Just get out of my office."

"Which are you gonna do?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

Happy birthday, Julie, Wilson thinks, and knocks. House isn't nearly as surprised to see him as he should be. Wilson hesitates, from guilt or trepidation or just exhaustion, then asks, "Could I stay with you for a few days?"

"You idiot," House says disbelievingly. "You told her."

"She told me." Wilson's voice is threadbare. "Things have been crappy at home lately. I figured I wasn't spending enough time with her. I figured..." He doesn't know what he figured, actually, but he knows it was wrong. "Turns out you're right -- it's always about sex. She's been having an affair."

House studies him inscrutably for a moment, then opens the door. "Want a beer?"

The first thing House does is show off his natural talent for being a crappy roommate and stick Wilson with the dishes. The second thing he does is bring Charlie home and set him on the kitchen counter.

For the first time in a long time, Wilson thinks he might come out of things in the black.