The Eraser

The more you try to erase me,
The more the more
The more that I appear

There are quite a few things that House is Not Worried about right now, and Wilson is one of them. House has far more important things to worry about. His arm, maybe. His drug connection, definitely.

It’s not that he doesn’t understand how badly Wilson is hurting from all of this, he does. It’s just that Wilson’s a big boy and he can take care of himself. And it wasn’t as if Wilson hadn’t known that somewhere down the line, being friends with him was more of a curse than a blessing. Wilson knew the risks going into this whole thing. Plus, Wilson has to learn how not to be so terminally nice all the time. This would toughen him up a bit, maybe get him to snap at his patients from time to time. Stress relief the healthy way.

House is pretty sure he’s not just rationalizing. That’s just the way things are.

Also, if House gives in now, the terrorists win.

Wilson hasn’t been gone long enough for them to take his name off the door, which doesn’t really strike House as odd. Once this whole thing has blown over, Wilson will be back, sitting at his desk, looking dutifully concerned about all the sick people he’s responsible for.

House doesn’t quite know why he’s standing on his balcony (no real point when you’re by yourself, is there?), but he is. He doesn’t know why he glances through the glass door of Wilson’s office, either, but he does that that, too.

The desk is still there. The Vertigo poster isn’t.

He doesn’t panic, not really. But he does have to go back inside and sit down because his arm hurts like a bitch.

House wakes up in the morning with a craving for macadamia nut pancakes. He curses his stomach and goes back to sleep.

He spends his day being extra mean to the trained monkeys, and that means they glare at him a lot. House doesn’t mind, as long as he can have them doing tests for random, outlandish possibilities.

Foreman suggests lung cancer, and House almost wants to hit him with his cane, because there’s that faint, smug grin that’s kind of there, but not really, that says that he knows exactly what he’s doing. The suggestion is not completely off the mark, but it’s not mostly on the mark either.

Cameron and Chase shoot Foreman impressed looks, and House wishes that they were still afraid of him.

“Foreman, I know you’re upset because Wilson left you, but could you please try to make suggestions that aren’t completely moronic,” he snarls, fixing Foreman with his best glare.

Foreman doesn’t back down, and much to House’s chagrin, his not-smile becomes just that much more smug. “If I recall correctly, Wilson left you. Didn’t he?” he asks.

House pretends he doesn’t hear it and tells them to go do an CT scan, just so they’ll get out of his face.

The patients in the clinic are extra annoying, like they can sense he’s having a bad day, and it’s their God-given mission to make it worse. After his fifth joint pain patient, he skips out early to annoy Cuddy into finding a way to get Tritter off his back. On his way there, he catches sight of a familiar face through the glass windows of Cuddy’s office. Shit. He doesn’t back down, though, because he has nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing at all.

He regrets it the moment he steps through the door, however, because Cuddy’s death glare is on full blast before he says anything. Generally it takes a few minutes before she reaches that point. Wilson’s expression is carefully blank.

“What do you want, House?” Cuddy asks, and she sounds even more pissed than she looks. Wilson doesn’t say anything, but the bland look he gives House is even more unsettling than the yelling.

“Just wanted to see how unemployment was treating Jimmy here.” House almost wishes he could stop himself before he says things like that, but his self-censor mode is always off.

“It’s treating me fine,” Wilson says, and while he’s aiming for bland dismissal, there’s some ice in there as well. House takes some comfort in that. He can deal with Wilson’s anger. It’s better than his indifference.

“Get out of here, House,” Cuddy says, and her death glare isn’t half-hearted or resigned like it is most of the time. This time it’s for real, and House knows better than to challenge her right now.

He makes a hasty exit but still lurks outside the office and watches them talk, watches as Wilson’s blank expression gives way to exhaustion, and his fingers rub his forehead.

House leaves before he can see any more. He isn’t worried about Wilson. He really isn’t. Everything will turn out all right in the end, and then they can go back to normal, and everything will be fine.

Everything will be fine.

When House watches TiVoed episodes of the L Word that night, he pretends that it’s better when he’s alone, but his arm reaches for popcorn that isn’t there, he makes sarcastic comments that no one laughs at, and the middle cushion of his couch is entirely too cold.

FIN.