Bedfellows by Sara K

There were only so many ways to kill a friendship. He just didn't want his pathetic excuse of a marriage to be one of them.

James Wilson knew his stay wasn't welcome as soon as Gregory House, upon finding him, had paused hesitant in the doorway, observing the bags at his side with an idling disgust. He knew that Wilson knew of all people that his apartment was a sanctuary from the people he dealt with---against his will---on a daily basis. (It always had beguiled Wilson that House believed he could get away without seeing patients as often as he liked to believe. He had his team do the dirty work for him as often as not, but, Wilson supposed, they were the better for it: House wasn't the best type to offer condolences if you were dying).

Standing on the ledge of that precipice that barred him from House's world and his own, he knew he looked---well---disheveled was too kind a word. He feared House would say "no", that he'd brought on the separation of himself and Julie by himself; that it was none of House's business and, therefore, not his problem.

And he could argue then, "I'm your best friend, House, doesn't that make you mine?" He would have liked to see the cringe in House's face because he knew House detested such sentimental comrade. If House started to close the door, he would have taken the plea a step further, noting the dramatics but House was one for drama himself, so he would have said: "Where am I supposed to go? Hold out in a hotel room? Or maybe you'd want me out on the street, and become a no-name like my brother Robert, who hasn't been seen for twenty-one years?"

On the way over he'd told himself with something like confidence: Yep. That ought to do it.

He'd gone to the doorway hoping beyond hope that House would relent and let him reside, knowing that House coveted his privacy like no other person on Earth he'd ever met. (He only supposed J.D. Salinger would understand House's need to live lonely by all costs).

It was more than relief when House offered him a beer, because, in tandem, he was offering him a place to stay next to residing on the streets. He didn't need to thank House for the beer, or the couch, or the lifeline: thanks was not something House needed. He never wanted anyone's approval because he deemed himself right first, and hindsight was for suckers because it meant you were a coward for wondering if you were right to begin with. There was no need to look back---the past was past---there was only looking forward.

And so James Wilson, having made the discovery that his wife was having an affair, moved in with Gregory House: the very same person who had accused him of having an affair with his wife, when it was, in fact, the other way around.

The change had gone almost swimmingly, better than he had expected---if not for House's comments on his blow-drying his hair in the mornings cramping House's "I'm sooo cool" style, or the irking dripping-faucet semblance which was merely the sound his toenails being clipped. Unlike House (who wasn't put off by a few stubbles on his chin here and there) James Wilson prided himself on good hygiene instead of an obsession to be right at all costs.

Once House got wind of Wilson's cooking (when it was discovered he ate more than Stouffer's frozen dinner stuffed peppers, which House likened to vomit and Wilson likened to the delectably delightful spam his parents used to make--it felt like home) the setup couldn't have been better, unless he counted half his Tupperware-contained home-made dinners being confiscated right beneath his nose.

He even found himself beginning to think very highly of House's couch---though, perhaps---too highly. The couch gave him such comfort he began to miss appointments in the morning. House always left first, usually leaving the door open, which lead him to think it didn't matter to House whether his stereo, for instance, was stolen---or his best friend got assaulted by a mugger, which was discomforting to say the least. Then he'd lock the door behind him, knowing that whatever he had of value was here---besides Julie, who was in process of hiring a lawyer to begin the long divorcing process, and Greg House, who was gone for the day.

When he got home from work sometimes around 2 am, there was the couch and the bedsheets already laid out for him, and the pillows he liked to prop up because his neck grew stiff otherwise. As he stood in the doorway, he smiled even though House was asleep and said silently to himself, Welcome home.

He didn't expect the dream that night would jerk him awake with a start so abrupt he almost cried out without warning. There had been Julie, pointing a gun to his face, her eyes flaming with anger as he stood in a room that was dark except for her and the lover she had used to betray him. Almost forgetting about House in the next room, he lept from the bed into the coolness of the living room and began to rapidly pace. He froze when he saw the open bedroom door, and could see the hulking bulge of the bedsheets that was Greg, and the urge to crawl into bed with his wife nearly brought him to his knees. Knowing he could not tell House (such things would only be laughed at) he strode straight for the kitchen, poured himself a full glass of water and downed it without taking a breath. It calmed his nerves somewhat, but the image of her blood-red eyes aimed straight for his heart locked his feet in place.

Only after talking himself through several breathing exercises the one shrink he'd gone to (when he'd been with his second wife, Bonnie) had instructed him upon, did Wilson trust himself to be able to make a steady walk back to his makeshift bed. He was glad he wasn't alone in some hotel room---the silence alone might kill him.

Weariness dragged him under the sheets and soon he was deep in REM, only she was there again: Julie, and the lover, but this time, it was the unidentified accomplice that pointed the .22 between the eyes and, this time, pulled the trigger.

He woke with a short-lived yelp, shivering and shaking all over, wondering if he was still dreaming and if he could possibly be alive. Horrified at himself for conjuring up such nightmares, his eyes darted for the doorway to the bedroom, half expecting Greg to appear with a cane pointed in his direction or a gun for having woken him---also half-expecting, in his half-awake state, Julie or the lover. It was just a dream, he knew then, because the doorway remained empty, and he could hear House snoring away rather loudly.

It was then that he realized he was soaked. Terror shot through him, along with one word: blood? No. He knew in an instant it was not blood, because the smell hit him at once and sickened him: it was pee. He nearly shook with the disgust that was building up within his stomach as he stared down at himself and his drenched sheets and pajama bottoms. This had never happened to him before---not even as a kid had he wet the bed. Now here he was, a grown man, 47 to be exact, and he had soiled his best friend's couch. A new kind of terror gripped him as he sat shivering in the dark: What would House say---?

Nausea overcame him and he lurched for the floor to escape the entanglement of the wet and heavy sheets, nearly tripping over the couch as he tried to find ground for his feet on the floor. Humiliation filled him with the fear that his movements might wake House and then the friendship would be all over, and he'd have to find someplace else to live, and House would never let him live it down. There would be all kind of jokes, and taunts---he might even bring up the episode to his colleagues. Shit!

Gritting his teeth with inner rage, he took hold of the last strands of dignity he could find and, partly driven by the terror of House finding him in such a demeaning state, and by his own disgust at his lack of self-control, Wilson tore the sheets from the cushions and bunched them up as best he could. Attempting to tip-toe as quiet as a cat, he restrained all effort not to moan in response to the stench that was gradually accumulating in his nostrils as he hugged the slowly dampening sheets to his chest and headed for the laundry room.

He was about to take the first step in when a corner of the sheet slipped through his armpit and slid down his leg, snagging around his ankle. Before he knew what was happening he'd lost his grip on the sheets and Wilson found himself flying through the air, the sheets flying out beyond his reach. He landed upon the sheets in a crumpled heap, his right thigh making impact with the ground and the sheets with such intensity that the sheets, bracing his fall from hardwood floor, however filled with real down, still managed to knock the wind right out of him.

In an instant a light was on and he heard the tell-tale double-march of House striding as fast as a crippled man could across the floor to be at his side in an instant. "What the hell happened?" House was shouting.

Wilson grimaced, failing to find the right words. As he sat aching House arched an eyebrow and a nostril, flinching at a sudden discovery: "What is that smell...Oh Dear God."

"House---I've got it under control," he spat out before he could think about what that really meant, and winced with the shooting pain.

"Sure you do," House snapped darkly, leaning over him in the weak light as he struggled to get to his feet. "I can see that. My whole apartment reeks of urine. And I don't own any animals that are not housebroken, potty trained or otherwise....the only other animal besides myself here is you, so the good news is, the secret will be out in no time!....Thank goodness I don't have a landlord either because the man would throw a fit and have both our asses out on the street....And I'd have to tell him I have a friend who's got more problems than I figured he did to begin with because apparently he's got amnesia-nephritis, or forgetting how to control one's bladder."

"You can stop now," Wilson muttered, standing up with effort, forcing himself to face House's antagonizing expression, "I had a bad dream, that's all."

"You PISSED THE SHEETS!" House shouted, beside himself with indignation. "You're a GROWN MAN!"

"I realize---I never---I didn't---" He wasn't making sense. Did anything make much sense at all anymore? Here he was living with House; Julie, a woman he'd thought was the love of his life, was with another man.

"Oh stop blubbering." Without a blink of the eye House bent, snatched the sheets and curbed for the laundry room, hurling them into the washer with the strength of his anger. "If you have burning sensation when you pee," he muttered with reluctant resignation, turning slowly about as though against his will to face Wilson, "it's most likely a urinary tract infection and you should get yourself tested immediately. You have to rule out tumors in the urinary tract but there might be distention which causes overflow."

Wilson hung his head as House spoke. "It doesn't hurt when I urinate....I was dreaming about Julie."

House lifted his eyes to the ceiling, groaning inwardly, but some leaked so that Wilson stared in consternation. "If you're dreaming about sex wet dreams are common but this is no wet dream, this is just ridiculous. If you don't trust my opinion, and you think it's something personal you should either consult her or her lover or either you or the both of you should see a psychiatrist---"

"Her lover was pointing a gun at my face!" Wilson blurted out, immediately feeling the heat rush to his face as House gazed back silently. "You don't think that's relevant?"

"I think you have a urinary tract infection," House said at length, "and I think you should go to the clinic first thing tomorrow morning and have them test out a sample. And I think I should get some shuddeye."

As Wilson stood dejected, House could hear himself continuing despite his urge to back away, because the smell was becoming unbearable. "Urinary infections are very easy to treat, Wilson: lots of fluids, maybe an antibiotic or two: and your pee doesn't have to be up in flames to have other relevant symptoms such as---having the urge to go so strongly you don't even realize it and go in your sleep!" House shot him a glare as he strode slowly for the couch to inspect it. "I just hope you didn't do too much damage. I already had to wash it after that little hand-in-warm-water trick. I thought that was cool. This isn't."

"You're telling me you never wet the bed when you were a kid?" Wilson heard himself challenging before he knew what he was saying.

House halted in his tracks, his lip curled in response to the overpowering stench. "Why would you care if I did or I didn't?"

"Because you'd understand it can happen to anyone and not be such a hard-ass?" Wilson proposed, trained by his job to believe in the good of life and not the bad---you couldn't treat cancer patients for a living and not hope for the best.

A pause. "If I did act like a hard-ass," House admonished, "there's a reason for it. There's always a reason for everything I do, that everybody does; does it need to be questioned? Are we in a courtroom?" Without leaving time for an answer he continued. "You shouldn't have to excuse it off as 'I had a dream about Julie'. The mind is virtually a trickster and we can believe what we want but in the end we can fool ourselves as easy as a con. The body responds to stimuli and we react. End of story."

"You're not going to tell me, are you." Wilson rubbed his eyes, trying to stimulate himself awake. "What time is it, anyway?"

"3 am," House stressed, levitating his face as close to Wilson's as possible. "Get yourself a change of clothes and I'll get you a sleeping bag."

"I can't believe you never even once wet the bed."

"Will you get off it already!" House glowered from the closet entrance. He shook his head and, rummaging around with the flashlight he'd grabbed for such unexpected purposes (the light in the closet had blown long ago) he muttered to no one in particular, "And they say I have all the problems!..."

"I just want to know you understand how bad it feels to---" Wilson struggled to articulate but he couldn't find the right words. His mind, his body...House was right: everything was playing tricks. "It would just be nice to know---that you---"

"What? Need to know I understand humility?" House snickered. "You could do that any time you see fit, just trip me with my cane. Stick your foot out. Better yet," he added whimsically, "stick a sheet of paper to my backside with the word 'CRIPPLE' on it for all to see." He found what he was looking for and pulled out the L.I. Bean sleeping bag that he'd used once when going backpacking with Stacy in the Alps, and he smiled forlornly at the memory.

When he turned around he found Wilson sitting on the couch, knees pulled in tight, feet bound to the floor and his head brought in to his knees. "I can't believe this happened." It was barely audible, almost a hiss or a wheeze, but House heard it. "I can't believe I did this."

"Are you talking about my couch? Or Julie?" House sneered, as he muddled his way to the couch.

"What do you think?!" Wilson was not one often to yell and now he was raising his voice, and biting the one hand that had offered to feed him. "BOTH! My marriage and---your couch, if you really care about it more than me."

"Oh stop whining." House was careful not to sit on the couch as he rested instead upon the beaten, whithered arm. "I can always get another couch....You and your marriage...well...Dare I say you get another one?"

Wilson's eyes met his and House could see the man was seething with fury at the words, though for a moment he said nothing. When Wilson found his voice, they broke hoarsely on his tounge: "Go to hell, House."

"I've already been." House shrugged, dismissing the anger and the words. "You think living from military base to military base was heaven as a kid?"

Wilson fought the urge to attack and bit his lip because he knew House rarely spoke about his past, lest of all his family, with who he rarely spoke. "What do you mean?" he managed through wearied and spent lips. Fatigue was pulling at him and he wanted to sleep, sleep and forget that this had ever happened: but now he was interested, and could not ignore the possibilities.

"If I did wet the bed as a military brat," House went on slowly as his voice linked Wilson to him in the dark beyond the couch, fixating Wilson's attention and allowing him to ignore the cold that gripped him like ice, "it was never spoken about in my family---if I did wet the bed, my sheets were always clean the next day, so there was no need to mention it ever again. My father was a man who liked order....not weakness."

"So then you did wet the bed as a child," Wilson stared in astonishment, after a moment had passed without further words spoken, "didn't you?" It was a statement, not a question. He felt suddenly ugly for having asked, like a traitor, and looked away.

"I might have," House shrugged, with an seemingly unshakable calm, "I might not have. Other things were too important then...things like rules, and conformity and freedom....things, you see, that he didn't like. Didn't matter if it was a disease, and that there was a real name for it, 'Enuresis', and that it wasn't a symptom or worse a product of imaegination. Didn't matter if it was caused by environment because that never changed...Didn't matter either if it was inherited through genes, which, by the way, it is....Money mattered, because money was tight. Money and power, those were his darlings."

"What's the matter with that?" Wilson knew he was missing something important, but his embarrassment at hearing House speak of his childhood had pulled a fast one and he was perplexed. "What's wrong with money or power? We're doctors, House---we work for each of those things. If we don't have power over who lives and who dies, and we don't have the funding to do it, what's the point of going to work each day?"

"Oh---there's nothing wrong with power or money," House belied, frowning as though puzzling something through, which wasn't new. "It's just a matter of what you do with it."

"Funny words coming from you," Wilson noted.

"Tuche." House snorted awkwardly. "It's real late, Jimmy....are you going to get changed or what, so we can get some sleep if at all possible? I've already been generous and told you a bedtime story---sorry but it doesn't have a happy ending---and it's really worn me out."

"I'll be okay." Wilson couldn't help but feel a sense of accomplishment at hearing House open up as he just had, even if the statements weren't written in stone---but he didn't expect any less. He smiled up at House, sensing a true connection, hoping that the awkwardness of the entire situation could be put behind them and forgotten. He felt a lump in his throat as he uttered, "Thanks."

"Awww....Don't get all mushy on me Jimmy, now." House shifted his weight off the arm, and the couch groaned with the difference in pressure. "You know that's not necessary....Just clean yourself up and get my couch somewhat damp dry by morning and I might let you cook me some Macademia nut pancakes, and that done, believe me," House added over his shoulder as he pushed off for the direction of the bedroom, "all will be well."

Wilson shivered with his friend's sudden absence and watched until the door had shut entirely, leaving him the privacy he wanted, thinking about all that had been said. He stood up, wobbled slightly on his feet, then successfully regained his balance after a second or two before trudging for his bag, wondering if he would sleep at all the rest of that night, knowing he had to set a doctor's appointment first thing in the morning (when you worked at a hospital there were ways to pull strings---and being friends with the Dean of Medicine always helped).

When he did finally snuggle into House's sleeping bag, he slept, and slept soundly, and was glad he did not dream.






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