House fic: Shot Through the Heart (and you're to blame)

[triedunture]

Title: Shot Through the Heart (and you're to blame)
Pairing: H/W
Rating: PG
Length: 9,600
Warnings: Guns, mild slash, fluff, a little AU after season 3 (a different turn of events after fellows leave)
Summary: wilson_fest prompt 83. Wilson and House sign up for competition shooting (at Wilson’s insistence that a sport would make House happier). But at the final meet, their opponent is none other than Tritter!

<><><>


It was Friday night when I walked into House’s apartment, reached into the metal lock box I had carried in, and slammed a black pistol onto the coffee table by House's propped-up bare feet. House glanced up from the spider web of silly putty that he was forming between his fingers. He examined the gun with a frown, looking but not touching. I placed the metal box on the table as well. And I waited.

“Are you hoping I’ll shoot myself?” House finally asked. “I’ve got to say, you’re getting more and more creative. But I still think life is worth living,” he said, all false maudlin. The silly putty pulled into a thin strand until it snapped. House mashed it back together between his hands. I felt my eye twitch.

“It’s not loaded. But one more day of watching you sulk,” I said, “and I’ll be turning the gun on myself.” I sighed and looked down at the thin and scruffy figure slumped on the leather couch. “You need a hobby, House.”

“I have a hobby: pimping. It ain’t easy, but I’m told it’s necessary.” I wasn't amused; he grinned up at me. “It keeps me busy. So," he waved his hand in the air as if to chase me away, "I can’t go up to the clock tower with you this weekend.”

“That was a sniper with a rifle,” I pointed out. “This is a pistol. I was thinking we,” I crossed my arms over my chest, unable to hide my self-satisfied smirk, “could go out to the shooting range on Highstown.”

House blinked up at me. His hands froze around the small lump of silly putty, which remained in the shape of a large peanut. “Shooting.” The way he repeated it made the word sound like a symptom of a disgusting disease.

“Yeah. We go to the range, shoot a few rounds. You know, relieve some stress, learn something new.” I frowned at a mysterious purplish stain on House's pant leg, but quickly put it out of my mind. I had to focus. "What do you say?"

“Let me get this straight.” House bent forward, stuffing the brown putty back into its red plastic egg. “You don’t recall an incident about, oh, a year ago? Crazed gunman came into my office, shot me, and left me to die? It was in the hospital newsletter, I think.”

“I remember,” I said quietly, placing the gun on top of a glossy US Weekly. I needed the room to sit on the coffee table so I could look House in the eye, at the same level. “And I know any typical person would have an aversion to guns after something like that. But,” I patted his bare foot that was still propped up next to me, “you’re pretty atypical.”

House snorted in a way that meant "flattery will get you nowhere, but keep talking." (I possessed a mental translator of every one of House's grunts, sighs, and the occasional wheeze.)

"It would be fun," I promised. "You'd like it."

“I didn’t know you liked guns,” House drawled. “Seems very masculine. Overcompensating?”

I shrugged, glancing idly at the stain on his pant leg again. It wasn't dark enough to be ink... “Just want to try something new. Don’t you?”

I could see the gears grinding in House’s head. His blue eyes flicked over to the side, and I turned to follow his gaze: his piano and his guitar, his other hobbies. But these were creative activities, and House had already mastered them. Shooting would be different. It would be making holes instead of building melodies or making sick people well. Something, dare I say it, destructive instead of constructive. And considering how much House had been pestering the entire hospital staff in the past two weeks, I figured he needed an outlet.

"Is that blueberry?" I finally asked, thumbing the fabric around his knee.

He ignored my attempt at a diversion and shifted his leg away from me. “You bought a gun instead of renting one at the range,” House observed.

I nodded; to House, it meant that I'd been planning this for a long time, and he was right.
“You already have a license?” House asked.

I pulled two folded pieces of paper from my pocket. “And so do you.” I held them out to House. “I figured we were past the point of asking for signatures, so I applied for you. It’s amazing what you can get away with down at Big Sam’s Gun and Rifle.”

House took the papers and examined the legalese of the gun licenses, his eyes passing quickly over the tiny lines of text. I looked back at his pants and considered trying to find the Spray & Wash that I knew I'd left here a few months ago. That stain would never come out if House just let it sit.

“Look, if you don’t want to do it, just tear the damn thing up and I’ll go by myself.” I chewed at my bottom lip, waiting for a reaction. I'd gotten the licenses out of the way for House’s sake. Instant gratification. No waiting, no hesitation. No trouble on his part. All he had to do was say, “Okay, Wilson.”

“Okay, Wilson.” House picked up the gun and weighed it in his palm. “So where’s yours?” he joked, taking the gun as his own.

I held up one finger with a smirk and opened the lock box again to pull out my matching revolver. At House’s raised eyebrow, I shrugged and lied, “Sam had a sale. Buy one, get one half off.”

<><><>
The Highstown shooting range was nothing more than a small concrete building standing guard over a long stretch of grass with a row of wooden stalls, the shooting stands, at one end. The stands were protected from the sun by a sheet of corrugated iron held up by tall beams of wood. This particular area of Princeton (technically Princeton Junction) had been home only to railroad cars and empty fields, but several years ago a handful of developers moved in and bought up acres of land. Now the range was wedged between several cookie-cutter, family-oriented gated communities with thick, high walls. The shooting range had that “last of its kind” feel, as if any day it might be gutted and turned into The Whispering Pines Clubhouse.

I could tell House liked it immediately.

“Garcon!” he called through the little window of the concrete shack. “Table for two, maybe something by the kid with the Uzi.”

I squinted toward the stands. “That’s not an Uzi, it’s a Glock.” House unleashed the full power of his incredulous stare at me. “I’ve been reading up on this stuff,” I said defensively.

Finally, a white-haired man with the Alabama state flag pinned to his jacket pocket appeared at the shack’s window. “Ya got a reservation?” he joked back at House.

I stepped forward, since I was the one who usually handled contact with the outside world. “It’s our first time here,” I said as if in apology for House's behavior. “How do we…?”

“Don’ worry.” The old man patted his palm twice against his own chest. “Ol’ Paulie will take care’a ya.”

While I filled out the fuzzy, over-photocopied release forms and purchased the boxes of bullets, House limped around, peering with unabashed curiosity at the colorful posters tacked onto wooden poles, bright signs warning people to wear ear and eye protection. Or else, one poster seemed to imply, your head might explode like the stick-man’s. I received a glowing feeling of pleasure from watching House absorb our new surroundings; it looked like I had chosen well.

Because it had become habit, I signed both my name and House’s on the forms and called out to Paulie, who had been in the back room of the little outpost. The old man returned with two rectangular boxes in his hand.

“Yer all set, then,” he said with a toothy grin. He set the boxes on the little counter and pointed out to the range. “Ya just pick yer stall and get crackin’.”

I took the cartridges with some trepidation, surprised at the weight of the tiny packages. “You aren’t going to show us how…?”

“Oh, come on,” House interrupted, tugging on my worn sweatshirt sleeve. “You probably wikipediaed enough stuff on guns to be the next Jack Bauer. Just show me how to load the damn thing and we’ll start busting caps.” He waggled his eyebrows, his eyes an unnaturally bright blue. I allowed myself to be dragged away from the safety of the brightly lit window, thanking Paulie over my shoulder.

“Don’ ferget yer glasses an’ muffs,” Paulie called after us, pointing with one bony finger at the box of protective equipment right outside the sheltered stand. I grabbed two of each before motioning for House to sit at a wooden picnic table just outside the stands. I unloaded all my paraphernalia and, suppressing a sheepish glance at House, proceeded to take a sheaf of printouts from my hooded sweatshirt's pocket.

"You can't be serious," House said. "You printed out the owner's manual?"

"It was available online." I smoothed the wrinkled pages out on the tabletop. "This way I only had to bring the relevant chapters."

House sat down heavily on the picnic table's bench seat. "Raucous good time, thy name is not PDF instructions."

I ignored him. “These are the bullets,” I said, opening the red and black cardboard boxes. “They’re twenty-two caliber rimfire cartridges, which means—”

“Don’t care,” House said, grabbing a handful of coppery bullets like they were candy. Or Vicodin. “How many can I shove in at once?”

I rolled my eyes. “First, release the magazine from the—”

“Yeah, yeah, explodey things go up in the hand part, finger goes on the levery part; I've seen cable TV, you know," House said, fiddling with his pistol’s hammer.

“For god’s sake!” I lunged forward to grab the gun from House's hands. “Even when it's unloaded, make sure the safety is on, will you? You have to learn how it works first.”

“I don’t care how it works,” House scoffed, “just like I don’t care how my HDTV works. When are we actually going to shoot things?”

I glared down at him and stuffed my printed pages back into my pocket. I took House's re-appropriated gun, dropped the magazine, loaded a clip, shoved it back in place, and cocked it with a loud double snap. “We shoot things now,” I snapped. “Happy?”

House clicked his tongue. “Should you really be so flippant? We're dealing with firearms here,” he admonished in a tone that mocked my own. Then, more seriously, “Do it again. Slower this time, okay?”

So I showed him again, leaving out the names of moving parts and only giving the barest explanations for certain actions. When a step became too complex, House would yawn hugely and I would take my cue to move on. Finally, both guns were ready to go.

“So we’re aiming at those little scraps of paper?” House asked, gesturing with his cane at the targets sitting at the end of the firing lanes. “What did they ever do to us?” he sighed while putting on the required protective glasses. The thick plastic distorted his eyes, making them seem even more impossibly huge when I looked at them through my own pair of scratched-up glasses.

I found two empty stalls by the end of the row, far away from the other shooters. I stepped into one, a small wooden compartment hemmed in by waist-high slabs of wood on three sides. House limped into the one next to mine, and I was struck by how similar this was to standing shoulder-to-shoulder with him at the urinals at work.

“It’s a matter of principal,” I answered, slipping on some orange insulated ear muffs. “Man versus paper bull’s-eye. An epic battle for the ages.” I lifted my gun, thumbed off the safety, and held it in the basic two-handed stance I’d read about online: feet shoulder-width apart, eyes open and not squinted, arms braced for the marginal recoil the Walther would have.

“Now remember,” I told House while lining up my sights, “practice makes perfect. We’re not going to be shooting like pros on our first day. Just take your time, breathe,” I took a deep inhalation as an example, “and fire.” I squeezed off the first round and hit the outer ring on the target. Not a bull’s-eye, but at least there was a hole in the paper. I was fairly pleased with myself.

I turned to call out to House over the noise from the other shooters’ guns, to make him look at my victorious first shot. But I stopped when I saw House struggling to find a comfortable way to prop himself sans-cane against the waist-high divider. It didn't look good; he couldn't maintain the balanced stance and keep his weight off his right leg at the same time.

“Here, let me,” I offered, reaching out to support House’s elbow to give him enough leverage to shift his weight.

House shrugged me off. “I have to stand on my own long enough to empty a clip, right?” he barked. “This sucks. I need my cane.” He grabbed it with his right hand, propping himself up again like normal. Then he raised the gun in his left hand with his arm extended, a strong line pointing toward the end of the grassy expanse.

“This’ll do," he muttered, and he fired. Again and again and again.

When he was done, I peered down the long grassy firing lane at House’s tattered target. Three of the four shots were inside the inner ring. One had made the bull’s-eye.

“Damn, House. Your aim is fantastic.”

“Feels weird shooting with just my left. I’m not a southpaw like you. Try it,” House said, jutting his chin toward my gun, which sat discarded on the wooden rail. I tipped my head in acquiescence and picked it up again.

We stood there, carbon copies of each other, left arms in the air, firing down the packed-dirt lane, laughing when a shot went wild, whooping with triumph when one hit the mark.

Then Paulie's voice reverberated through the tinny loudspeaker wired to the underside of the metal roof: "This lane's cold, this lane's cold, put 'em down, boys." There was a loud clatter as everyone put down their guns and raised their hands in the air to show they were finished, and House and I belatedly followed suit like Protestants at a Catholic Mass. The targets were hauled in on their little wires, and I plucked down mine before looking over at House's. I had gotten a few bull's-eyes toward the end, but House obviously had more shots to the center than I did.

“Beginner’s luck?” I raised an eyebrow and grabbed his target as well.

“Either that or I'm just totally awesome.” House snorted. "The evidence overwhelmingly suggests the latter."

I smacked House’s shoulder with the edge of the paper targets, and House smacked me back with his free hand, a smirk growing on his face. I couldn’t remember the last time we'd had so much fun together. Couldn’t remember the last time House had smiled like that.

…Without the aid of covert prescription drugs mashed up in his coffee, anyway.

Little old Paulie ambled over to the stalls and looked over my shoulder at the targets I still held.

“Not bad, right?” I asked him as if showing off a child's first drawing.

Paulie dipped his chin to the side, a curt nod. “You boys sure ya’s never shot before? Yer pretty steady.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw House wander off, already bored with our conversation.

“We’re doctors,” I said by way of explanation. “Our hands have to be steady.”

Paulie seemed to mull that over a moment, sucking on his teeth. “I'd say maybe yer shootin' okay." He waved his hand in the air, see-sawing it back and forth. “Maybe. Ya need more time to get real good.”

"Hey," House's gruff voice cut in, "what's this all about?" He tapped the head of his cane against a bright poster that had been tacked to a pole. It advertised some sort of competition that was about to take place in three weeks.

"That's bull's-eye style shootin'. One-handed like y'all was just doin'," Paulie answered, his hands stuffed in his back jean pockets. "The local club holds a friendly little contest ev'ry few months."

House spun to face me, his eyes bright again. "We should enter."

Though I tried to hide it, my face crumpled into that disapproving mask of skepticism that usually preceded a war with House. It wasn't that I found a competition distasteful, but as far as I was concerned, the evening had been a success. Mission accomplished. Fly the banner and get the hell home. No need to try my luck. "I don't know..."

"Come on," House said. "It would be great. Paulie thinks we're good enough, right Paulie?" He gestured in the man's direction, but didn't turn from me.

I looked to Paulie for some help, but the old man was avoiding eye contact, his gaze firmly on the toes of his boots. "Ya see," the old man mumbled, "there's a few rules. It's not easy as pie, is what I'm sayin'."

I tried to agree that yes, perhaps it was too hasty to enter a competition so soon after learning the basics. But House spoke first. "I think we can handle it. Where do we sign up?"
Paulie gave a defeated shrug. "The boys in the club, they'll set you straight, I suppose. If you wanna give it a go." And he shuffled over to the shed to retrieve more blurry forms, which were promptly handed to me.

"Since you filled out ev'rything else," he said.

<><><>

"No way am I joining the NRA," I spat, throwing the forms down on House's desk.
House looked up from the x-rays he had been studying and looked at the stack of papers as if they contained the diagnosis. "Would you rather join the Book of the Month Club?" he asked. "Because I don't think they give out awards for shooting things."

"The NRA puts on the competition," I bit out, building up a head of steam for my indignation. My hands rested on my hips, prepared for a fight. "You can't win their pretty little trophies unless you join the local chapter first. Which I am not doing."

House made a dismissive sound much like a slowly leaking bag of air and said, "You're the one who said I needed a hobby."

"Yes, House. A hobby. Not hanging out with a bunch of rednecks who've shot off their own digits; you can go to the clinic for that." I leaned far over House's desk to get in his face. "At least then Cuddy would pay you to do it."

"Pay you to do what?"

We both looked up to see Cuddy standing in the open doorway in her white coat, clipboard in hand, obviously pausing in her rounds at the mention of her name.

"Wilson won't join the National Rifle Association with me," House sneered. "Can you believe his dainty little cojones?"

Cuddy blinked at the seeming non sequitur, but recovered admirably. "Wilson," she said slowly, rounding on me, "are we seriously talking about putting a loaded weapon in House's hands?"

"Well..." I rubbed the back of my neck helplessly.

"He already did," House said before I could explain. He leaned back in his chair with a smug smile on his face. "No horrible accidents yet, but just wait 'till we go quail hunting."
Cuddy didn't break her eye contact with me, but I could tell from the unhealthy redness creeping into her cheeks that she had heard him. And she wasn't happy.

"This won't be like that one episode of The Simpsons," I told her. "The one where Homer joins the NRA and uses his gun for everything, like changing the channels. I promise."

Cuddy just stared at me like I'd lost my mind. House leaned back even further, grinning at me. If he had popcorn, he would've been chowing down on it. I glowered at him and focused back on Cuddy.

"But that's not the point," I added quickly. "The point is, I agree with you."

"Really?" Cuddy cocked her head in disbelief. "Because I don't think you do." She spaced her hands a few inches apart, still holding onto the clipboard, to illustrate her compartmentalized thought process. "Guns," over to the left, "and House," over to the right, where the man himself sat, "do not mix. That's what I'm trying to say. You, on the other hand, are supplying him with live ammo!?"

I glanced at House. No help there; that stupid smile was still plastered across his mouth. "Yeeeees," I conceded slowly, then, rapidly, "but for a good reason!"

"When mommy and daddy break up," House said in an annoyingly high-pitched voice, "does that mean I get double birthday presents?"

I took a deep breath and continued to present my case despite the distraction. "It's something he can do when he feels like making trouble. It doesn't hurt anyone—"

"Yet!" House interrupted.

"—and it's good for his mental health," I finished anyway. "Not to mention, he's pretty decent at it."

Cuddy gave an exasperated huff. "Of course he is. Just—" She sighed and made a small calming gesture, like she was pushing something down with her palm. "Just make sure he doesn't bring this hobby into the hospital. The guitar was bad enough." And she whirled around and stalked away, her heels echoing on the hallway floor long after she was out of the room.

House pulled an appalled face. "She doesn't know great music when she hears it." Then he looked back up at me, and his grin returned. "So, after that impassioned speech you just gave defending my right to bear arms, how can you not want to join the NRA?"

I put a hand over my eyes to stop the impending headache. Time to pick my battles. Shooting alongside a bunch of people I would normally never associate with? Small price to pay for House's gratitude. And besides, I thought, maybe the NRA won't be the horrible stereotype I always pictured it to be. But at the core of the matter, I worried about House interacting with a new group of people who were armed with weapons and perhaps easily offended. I just wanted House to be safe. And one way to do that...

"If we enter this competition," I said, "you have to promise me something: I keep the guns in my hotel safe whenever we're not at the range."

"What? Think I'll start blasting away delivery boys if I have mine at home?"

"Yes," I said, not bothering to correct him; statistically speaking, he was more likely to be shot with his own gun.

House considered for a moment, then shrugged. "Fair enough. Now," he picked the forms up from his desk and handed them back to me, "make sure you spell my name right. Don't want the trophy to have a typo."

<><><>

I had been hoping that House would take an interest in shooting, of course, but I didn't realize just how thorough he'd be. After I had mailed in the forms in time to join the competition, House appeared in my office every day at 4:56 p.m. to say, "Ready to go to the range?" He said he wanted to get in as much practice as he could, and I humored him at the expense of my sanity. Balancing my workload and little things like, I don't know, sleep became nearly impossible as House and the shooting range took up all my free time.
And then there were the accessories.

"Where did you get that sight?" I asked him one evening as he unpacked his new toys at the range’s picnic table.

"E-bay." He held the black spyglass-like device aloft for me to ogle. "Laser point. It's about a hundred times more accurate."

"Is that even legal in competition?"

"I thought you were in charge of keeping track of that stuff," House said with a comic frown. Then he limped off to his preferred stall.

I sighed and pulled the small staple-bound copy of the rulebook out of my briefcase. Paulie had given it to me along with our new NRA membership cards the week before. I hadn't had a chance to read through the whole thing, so I flipped around until I came to the section on sight specs. I gave a snort of indignation; laser sights were perfectly legal, as House probably already knew. I got my gun out of our lock box and joined House in the firing line.

House squeezed off one more shot before watching me approach. "You know what we need?" he asked rhetorically.

Two days later, he came into work with an Amazon package stamped EXPRESS and ripped it open right on my desk in the middle of the paperwork I'd been leafing through. He handed me one of the two leather shoulder holsters that he had ordered.

"So we don't have to keep putting Thelma and Louise on the railing every time the lane goes cold," he explained. The holster itself was on the right side so a left-handed person could wear it comfortably. The leather was light brown and soft, much like my briefcase.

I blinked at him. "Is...my gun Thelma?"

House snorted. "You wish, Louise."

It was actually a thoughtful gift, considering it was from House. It was practical and a lot of the other shooters wore one. On the other hand, the hand I would guess was House's, it looked so cool, like something out of a '60s detective show.

"Thanks," I said, shrugging my arms into the straps to check the fit. I made a manly grunt of appreciation ("Ho hooo.") and snapped the fastener into place.

House immediately tried his on too, even though we looked kind of weird sitting in my office with empty gun holsters. "All the other kids at school are going to be jealous," House chuckled.

Then Cuddy walked by and glared at us through the open doorway, and it was back to work.

House also bought another pair of pistols, higher caliber, but he didn't bring those into work for obvious reasons. He just handed them to me after shooting at the range one evening and said, "We'll need these for the timed shot round." The timed shot was the rapid-fire portion of the competition: all ten shots in one minute instead of ten shots in ten minutes like the slow round.

"We will?" I blinked at the larger guns in my hands. I hadn’t realized the different events required different calibers.

House rolled his eyes. "Have you read the rulebook at all?"

"No. You have?"

"Just the parts that said I had to buy a bigger metaphor." Eyebrow waggle.

I insisted on naming them Tom and Jerry. House let me even though he scoffed, saying that instruments of all kinds (guns, guitars, and Spanish galleons) should have women's names.

<><><>

It didn't surprise me that House won the first competition; what surprised me is that we both walked out of the shooting range alive.

When we showed up at the range, everyone was already there. Overweight men in flannel shirts, smoking cigarettes and talking about the Mets. One had suspenders, and not in an ironic youthful sort of way. I entered the unfamiliar crowd hesitantly, but of course House just stumped his way to his favorite stall and shouted back at me, "Which way do I point the boomstick again?"

I nodded apologetically to the men I had to brush by. They glared at me, glared at House, glared at his cane. They muttered amongst themselves, their eyes darting back to him every so often. I sighed.

"House, what are you doing?" I whispered to him once I was close enough.

He was absorbed in fastening a pin to his unbuttoned blue overshirt. It read: I *Heart* My Gay Son.

"Take that off!" I hissed.

"I can't believe you're not supportive of my hypothetical child. He didn't choose to be hypothetically gay," he said, appalled. Then, off-handedly, "I looked for one that said something about heart-ing abortion, but no dice."

I made a grab for the pin, but he batted my hand away. It was about to turn into an all-out slap fight, but one of the competitors, the one with suspenders, walked up and I had to give up before I drew even more attention to the rainbow button.

"What's with the cane?" he asked House in a gruff voice.

"Excuse me?" I asked, immediately defensive. If they were going to throw us out, I wanted it to be because House was an ass, not because he was handicapped.

"Need it for my leg," House answered levelly, ignoring my protest.

Suspender-guy's eyes drifted over House's right leg, and he nodded. "My brother's got a bum leg," he said, as if that explained everything.

"I'll be sure to say hi when I see him in the blue parking spots," House said.

The guy seemed to take it as the joke it was and laughed. "You do that. Name's Henderson," he said, pointing his thumb at his own chest.

I stepped in as smoothly as I could and made our own introductions, thankful that Henderson hadn't tried to shake hands; even at his most mellow, House wouldn't abide that sort of thing.

"Well, good luck to you fellas," Henderson said, turning to go back to his own stall. At the very last moment, he caught sight of House's shiny pin, did a double-take, and scowled before walking away.

"Oh my god." I rubbed at my temples. "Why do I even bother?"

"Don't get all mopey just yet," House said. "Wait until after I beat you. Then you can cry."

True to his word, House beat me and everyone else, winning the local meet. I came in fourth behind Henderson and some guy with unfortunate sideburns. House got his name on a plaque and a twenty-dollar Applebee's gift certificate. I got a coupon for a free small cone at the Dairy Queen. We blew our crappy prizes in one big night of celebration. House used his certificate to get us wings and chili cheese fries. I gave House my ice cream because I was so full.

<><><>

"You're getting slightly better," House said one night at the shooting range, studying my Swiss cheese target.

"Only slightly?" I holstered Jerry and pulled my ear muffs down around my neck. "I hit seven out of ten, dead center." But still, I saw House had gotten nine. We were getting in a few more hours of practice before the district competition, which was coming up in two weeks. The top five in each chapter would be going.

All around us, the last of the late-night shooters, a few middle-aged men and one woman, were packing up. The range had the air of a bowling alley: small groups of buddies hanging out, one or two semi-pros on their own, half-empty bottles of soda from the vending machine being thrown into the trash can by Paulie's office. Paulie got on the loudspeaker and called all lanes cold: closing time.

"Ready to head out?" I said, checking my magazine to make sure it was empty.

House shifted impatiently in his stall, Tom still in hand. "I want to do more rapid-fire rounds."

"Can't. We don't have to go home, but we can't stay here."

House stumped around to shout back towards the office building, "Hey Paulie! Can we stay?"

"House," I hissed, "he's going home like everyone else. You can't just assume—"

Paulie poked his head out of his window and called back, "Sure! I'll give yer friend the key to the front gate. Jus' make sure ya lock it up when ya leave."

I looked up at the ridged metal ceiling and silently asked God if I would ever again get to bed at a decent hour. House must have noticed my prayer, because he instantly mocked it. "It's ten on a Friday night. What are you, eighty?"

He reloaded Tom; I put my ear muffs back on. Paulie shuffled over and handed me the gate key. He muttered to me, nearly drowned out by the fresh sounds of House's shots, "I seen this happen to lots of guys. They get really into it, can't think 'a anythin' else. Start seeing bull's-eyes where ever they look. It's best to let 'em get it outta their system."

I thanked him for being so understanding, and he gave me a cheery wave as he left us there alone. House's clip came to an end then, and he grinned at the results on the target. I tallied his score mentally and gave a low whistle.

"Nice."

"Yeah."

A tremor of pain suddenly passed over House's face, and he gripped his cane tightly in his right hand. He holstered his gun and rubbed his thigh through his jeans.

"You okay?" I asked, stepping into his stall in case he needed help. I was a little surprised; in the last month, House had stood for hours while practicing at the range and in all that time, I hadn't seen him pop a Vicodin or give any indication that his leg was bothering him more than usual. I'd been convinced that this new sport was keeping his mind off the pain, that it had somehow diminished it, as if by magic. Now I could see how wrong I was.

"It's a twinge," he mumbled. "I just need to sit."

"Here, let me--" I glanced over at the nearest picnic table, gauging the distance.

House shrugged past me and hobbled over to the bench seat on his own, sitting down heavily. "It's fine," he said. I scanned his face, trying to guess at his pain level, but I gave up because it didn't matter; House would be too stubborn to admit it even if it was worse than he let on. I sat down too on the other end of the bench. House closed his eyes and tipped his head back, his elbows propped on the picnic table behind him. His breathing deepened like he was forcing the pain out through his lungs. I looked down and noticed that the hems of his jeans rode up at his ankles, exposing the plain white socks he wore with his new, still-unscuffed Nikes. I nearly smiled at that; even though most people wore tiny sports socks with running shoes these days, House insisted on wearing his old tube socks. It made his ankles look thin. Silly. People have asked me why I would ever bother being friends with a man like House, and I could never formulate a fitting answer. Except in that moment, if someone had asked, I would have easily said, "Look at his ankles." That's the best way I could ever hope to explain.

"What are you staring at?"

I whipped my gaze back to House's face. His eyes were just slits, and he was looking at me with more curiosity than annoyance.

"I..." I stopped. "Nothing."

<><><>

The district-wide competition was held at an indoor complex instead of Paulie's range. It was a hulking concrete structure with the shooting stalls were arranged in two long rows back-to-back, so that half of us shot at targets on the right, and the other half shot to the left. It was tight and cramped, and I missed the breeze and the damp smell of earth; this place smelled like oil and burning powder. Not a nice combination. House seemed to agree. He sniffed the air and said, loud enough for everyone to hear, "This place is a dump."

The participants here seemed to be much more serious about the sport. There was no casual, friendly feel to this place. Everyone walked and talked like a pro. There didn't seem to be a holster too flashy, a gadget too expensive, for these guys. And they were all guys, every single one of them.

"What a sausage fest," House continued to complain.

"Like the women of the NRA are Tropicana girls," I muttered to him. "Just get your gear ready."

House shrugged and began limping over towards two free stalls, leaning heavily on his black cane. A guy in a red baseball cap caught sight of him and said, "Hey, what's the big idea?"

House opened his mouth, probably to snarl back something in reply, when Henderson stepped between them. "It's fine," Henderson said to the stranger. "Just let him be."

The man shut his mouth with a frown and turned away. I wanted to thank Henderson for dissipating the tension, but he moved down the row to his stall quickly. "What was that about?" I asked House while strapping on my holster. "You know that guy or something?" I jerked my chin in Red Hat's direction.

House shook his head, too preoccupied with Thelma and Tom to be bothered. "Never seen him before in my life."

"Yeah right," I snorted. "I'm sure he isn't a disgruntled former patient whose face and name you've conveniently forgotten?" House shrugged as if to say, "Anything's possible."

Then the announcer came over the loudspeaker, and the competition started. The rules were a lot like bowling, except with bullets instead of balls. Everyone took their shots, waiting patiently for the guy right next to their stall to finish first so they wouldn't be distracted. Some people liked to get the shots out of the way, even when they had a minute per shot in the first round. Others liked to take their time to line up their sights. I was the latter; House was the former.

This time, I won the slow round. House won the speed round. We were headed to State.

<><><>

“He needs the surgery,” I heard House’s voice shout down the hall. I frowned, paid for my coffee at the hospital café stand, and craned my head around the corner to spy him limping after Cuddy.

“He will die in surgery,” Cuddy replied without turning around, evenly, calmly, but no less loudly. “Find another way to diagnose him.” She sped past me in her clipped stride.

House’s hair was mussed into disheveled tufts, like he had been tugging his hands through it while thinking. His eyes were red-lined. I realized he must have stayed up all night working on the case; he hadn’t come to me at five to go to the range. He looked downright awful, but at the same time, just all right with me. He looked energized. Vibrant.

House neared me, and I sipped at my coffee, content to let the scene play out. My next patient wasn’t due for another twelve minutes; I had time. But House’s eyes caught me and he dragged me into the argument.

“Wilson, tell her!” He jiggled his cane at Cuddy’s retreating backside.

I shrugged. “I have no idea what this is about.” I blew some steam away from the lip of my cup. “Sorry.”

“It’s like—” House paused; I could see his mind regrouping quickly. Cuddy was nearly to the elevator, and House had stopped trying to pursue. “It’s like,” he said to me, “this guy has a target somewhere in his body, and right now I’m just shooting blind.” He scratched at his eyebrow with the edge of his thumbnail: a frustrated, nearly embarrassed gesture. He didn’t often reveal how helpless he felt when working a case. It must be a bad one, I thought idly.

“You need a team,” I said and sipped again.

House tossed his head from side to side like a horse trying to throw a rider. “I don’t need a—”

“Either that or,” I shrugged, “a laser-guided sight to find your target.”

House blinked. “Lasers.” He pivoted on his cane and hurried away. “If you see Cuddy, tell her I won’t need to cut into his brain! I just need to induce a seizure with some disco lights and follow the firing synapses all the way to the—” But then he turned the corner and his voice was lost.

I stared after him for a moment before draining my coffee and throwing the paper cup in a trash can. I stopped then, trying to catalog a strange sensation. I was smiling. Grinning. To myself. For no real reason except I’d just witnessed House doing what he did best, which wasn’t uncommon. But for some reason…

If House solves his case today, I thought, then we’d be headed to the range again. A stutter of something chased a circle inside my chest; my heart, skipping.

I stood next to the trash can for one more moment and considered what this meant. “Shit,” I whispered to no one in particular.

<><><><>

House knew something was wrong when I didn’t laugh at some stupid joke while driving us to the State competition on Saturday morning. He studied me from behind his sunglasses; I could feel it.

“Sorry.” I squinted through the windshield to check the mile number on the upcoming exits sign. “It’s a little early. My brain’s not awake yet.”

“Good thing you’re not doing anything important,” House drawled, “like driving to Trenton or loading a firearm.”

I didn’t look over at him, just smiled tightly at the windshield. He wasn’t buying it; I could feel his gaze focusing harder on me. I was grasped by a sudden fear that it was written all over my face, that House could read it on my forehead as plain as English.

He was geared up to ask a question, no doubt a well-placed barb of a question, when I pulled into the parking lot with a harsh jerk of the wheel.

“With time to spare,” I announced, unbuckling my seatbelt. House frowned, but followed me out of the car and into the giant Trenton Gun & Rifle Range, where the competition was being held.
If I thought the county meet was crowded and stifling, this was ten times worse: about a hundred guys all talking in booming voices, slapping each other on the back, and comparing their pistols. I averted my gaze from one particularly wide barrel. Now is not the time, I told myself.

“Look at all the new people I’m going to beat,” House said with a cluck of his tongue. “Shame. They all woke up so early for this.”

I opened my mouth to retort, to try to rein House in (though it’s impossible; I can’t damper that kind of enthusiasm; not from him), when I saw it. The flash of white hair in the crowd. The feeling of cold steel eyes resting on me.

I took House’s left elbow and attempted to steer him in the other direction. “Looks like there’s some open stalls down there,” I said in what I thought was a light tone.

“There aren’t any stalls down there,” House grunted. “There’s a Pepsi machine. What the hell has you so…?” He twisted his head around and glanced behind us. I sighed and gave up even trying to keep him from seeing.

“Tritter.” House’s voice was like an old and angry dog growling over an empty dish.
I groaned. Couldn’t this sort of thing take place somewhere besides a warehouse full of firepower?

Tritter swaggered up to us, his hands in the pockets of his khakis, his shirt and tie still meticulously in place, as if he was only off-duty for an hour or so. He was still chewing that disgusting-smelling gum. Still had that pompous smirk on his face.

“When I saw the results posted,” Tritter said, “I thought to myself, how many people in New Jersey could be G. House,” he tipped his head to House, “and J. Wilson?” He indicated me in the same manner.

I felt House tense beside me, and I gripped his elbow a little tighter; I wasn’t about to let go.

“Oh, you weren’t expecting me?” Tritter’s white brows rose in what I guess was honest surprise. “You didn’t bother to check the roster? See who your opponents are?”

My eyes flicked down to the gun in his shoulder holster: sparkling clean and newly oiled. A cop who strapped on a gun during his free time? Talk about control issues.

“Doesn’t matter to me who’s on the roster,” House snapped. “I’m going to win.”

Tritter’s face broke into a mild smile. “I like your resolve,” he said. “Good luck, gentlemen.” He made as if to turn away, then thought better of it. “I just have to ask,” he continued, “how do you manage to shoot? With the leg?” He gestured to House’s right thigh like it was something a garbage man had neglected to haul away.

House tapped his cane on the concrete floor twice. “They just invented these great things,” he bit out between clenched teeth. “My people call them ‘substitute walking pieces.’”

“Well, isn’t that interesting.” Tritter leaned back with his hands casually jingling the keys in his pocket. The picture of smug. “Because the rules of the sport specifically state that the shooter will stand unsupported.” He smiled unkindly. “That means without any help.”

“Oh, come on!” I said, my voice quickly reaching a near-whine. “You’ve got to be joking! The man has a documented medical condition.”

Tritter shrugged. “I know. It doesn’t seem fair. But those are the rules.”

Beside me, House was silent, but with my hand on his sleeve, I could feel him practically vibrating with anger. “No one ever mentioned this at any of the other competitions!” I protested. “What sort of rule is this, anyway?”

“Hey,” a familiar drawl said from behind me, “there a problem, guys?”

I turned to find Henderson approaching, his thumbs hooked in his suspenders. “Yeah, this ass says House can’t use his cane,” I said, gesturing sharply to Tritter.

“It’s right here,” the detective said, pulling a slim copy of the handbook from his back pocket and thumbing through it. “You can read it for yourself.”

“There’s no such rule,” I spat. “Right, Henderson?”

“Well…” The big man toed his western boot at the floor. “It’s a technical thing. You know, so the stance is legal.”

“Your brother.” House spoke so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that I didn’t quite realize who he was talking to until Henderson said, “Yeah?”

“Your brother with the bum leg,” House said. “That’s why you let me get away with it?”

With a heavy sigh, Henderson pushed his green John Deer cap off his forehead. “I just don’t like seeing guys getting the shit end of the stick for something that ain’t their fault.”

Tritter cleared his throat. I glared at him. “I could go get one of the judges,” he said. “Get an official opinion on this.”

Over the indoor loudspeaker, an announcer called the first string of shooters to their lane.
“Don’t bother,” House said. He hooked his cane over my arm. “You’re shooting in the second string, right Wilson?” I nodded dumbly.

“Okie dokie.” And with that, House grabbed the knapsack containing our gear and limped away towards the row of stalls, his gait painful to watch.

Henderson turned to go to his own stall, but before he left, he tossed over his shoulder to Tritter, “Dickhead.”

Tritter just smirked at me. “Enjoy your shooting, Doctor,” he said and turned to join the first string.

I was left holding House’s cane. Everything had happened so fast. I scanned the row until I saw House’s tall form, now hunched in his little stall, gun drawn, waiting for the buzzer.

I got as close as I could, just in case he needed it. The cane. Me. No, the cane. The back of his neck was flushed red; I could see a bead of sweat tracking down the skin there.

“House,” I hissed, “this is crazy. What are you trying to prove? If you’re in pain—”

“Give me a second,” he muttered. “I’ve got to shoot something.” And just then, the buzzer sounded for the first round, and a beribboned official forced me to put on my earmuffs. House took his slow shots in his usual rushed way, but he was way off, not used to the added strain on his leg, which threw his spine out of whack, which in turn affected his arm and his whole shot.

After the first round, I sighed heavily. House’s score was not good. A dozen stalls down the row, I saw Tritter waving brightly. His score was…very, very good.

“Damn,” House cursed, and I knew he’d seen it too.

“Listen,” I tried again. “This is just a stupid game. Just—”

House turned and pointed to his earmuffs. “Can’t hear you,” he sing-songed. The bell sounded for the rapid-fire round, and House shot away at his target.

Disgusted with the whole mess, I took House’s cane and went to the men’s room. It was nearly empty since everyone was watching the competitors, so I didn’t bother locking myself in the handicapped stall. I leaned the cane against the row of sinks and turned on the cold tap, splashing water on my face. I glared at my flushed reflection in the streaky mirror. “You’re in love with a complete idiot,” I muttered to myself.

I heard a distant drone of the buzzer; the first string must have finished. I took a few more deep breaths to compose myself, but before I could push away from the sinks, Tritter swung through the door and blocked my way.

“Too bad for your friend,” he drawled. “He’s shooting like an amateur.”

I shook my head slowly. “You must be a very sad person,” I said, “to enjoy something like this.”
“I don’t enjoy it,” he shot back. “But rules are rules.”

I grabbed House’s cane and wiped my face against my sweatshirt sleeve. “House is a good shot,” I said. “And he’s a great doctor.”

An unconcerned shrug. “Maybe. But that’s not an excuse.”

I brushed past him, out the door, and across the sprawling concrete floor to House. He was still in his stall, leaning on the railing, even though he should have cleared out for the second string of shooters. At the sight of the cane in my hands, he extended his palm and snapped it open and closed in his “gimme” gesture. I eased the cane into his hands, and the announcer boomed over the loudspeaker that my string would start in just one minute.

“You have to get ready,” House said, his voice tight.

“No, I’m taking you home.” I tried to reach for his arm, but he waved me off and unhooked his holster, which he held out to me.

“You haven’t had time to load Louise,” he said. He nodded at the pack at his feet. “Tom’s in there, ready to go. All yours.”

I sighed. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’re leaving.”

“No, you’re winning this competition and taking that trophy out of Tritter’s grubby little hands,” House enunciated carefully.

“Me?” I blinked. “Tritter’s score was perfect. What makes you think…?”

House rolled his eyes. “This whole gun thing started out as your misguided attempt at making me happy. You want me to be happy?” He pointed at the fresh target at the end of the lane. “You’ll win.”

I swallowed. “No pressure or anything,” I mumbled.

The buzzer sounded. House limped away from the stall, and I strapped on his holster with practiced haste. I realized that this was almost like that time in high school when a pretty girl had demanded that I win a stuffed animal for her at the county fair. Well, things hadn’t exactly worked out between me and Sally McMillan, but…

I wanted it to work this time.

I raised Thelma and shot.

<><><><>

My name is James Wilson, MD. I’m a well-respected oncologist with a degree from an Ivy League school. I’m one of the youngest department heads on the eastern seaboard, and I make more money in a year than most extended families make put together.

I had never in my life participated in a lightning round of any kind.

“It’ll be cake,” Henderson said, slapping me on the back. “Just don’t let that fucker mess with your head.”

“Wilson, J.” A baseball cap-wearing judge directed me into a stall. “Please step up.”
My ears were buzzing, even though I had my earmuffs on. I didn’t understand what was happening. So I asked: “House?”

A target was held in front of my face, full of ten holes, all in the red bull’s-eye. “A perfect score,” House said. “That means you and Detective Twitter go head-to-head to see who can misses the bull’s-eye first.”

“Perfect?” I asked, befuddled. “How?”

House made an expression that I couldn’t catalog, something that wasn’t in my Housian dictionary. “You’re actually not that bad at this,” he said. “You’re,” he held the target up again, “perfect.”

My heart did that thing again. And before I could stop myself, I blurted out, “No, that’s you.”
House quirked an eyebrow.

“Usually,” I amended.

“Get in there,” he said, and I imagined he said it fondly.

I was shuffled into another stall next to Tritter. He looked up at me and grinned in a patronizing way that made me bristle. I wasn’t going down without a fight. I looked up at the detective, a smirk worthy of House plastered over my face. And I was no longer afraid of him. This was just between us now, so he couldn’t hurt House anymore.

I began to load my guns. “Hey, House, I need another clip for Thelma,” I said over my shoulder. His long-fingered hand reached past my arm with the proper equipment, and I slammed it home.

“You named your gun Thelma?” Tritter asked, snapping his gum loudly.

“No.” I cocked her with a snap. “Mine’s Louise.”

I looked up to catch the tail end of Tritter’s face twitch.

“This lane is hot!” the judge shouted, and the buzzer went off.

I don’t remember much about the actual shooting. It’s not like the slow-motion movies, where Chariots of Fire is playing in the background and the camera pans to the crowd cheering. Bullets are fast. There’s no time.

I do remember, just before Tritter took his third turn, House coughed the words “gay son” into his fist. The desired effect was achieved: Tritter choked. He missed his shot by inches, and I followed up with another perfect dead-center.

“What?” I said to Tritter over the noise of the crowd clapping. “Are hypothetical gay sons against the rules too?”

<><><><>

House wanted to pull a Stanley Cup with my new trophy and drink bourbon from it, but I convinced him to stick to the bottles of beer in the fridge. “Just as well,” he said, admiring the prize that now sat on the piano. “It’s too small for any serious drinking anyway.”
“Jerk,” I said despite my wide grin. It hadn’t left my lips since we’d left Trenton with House blasting “I Shot the Sheriff” from his iPod. We sat in silence for a moment, basking in the glow of my slightly tiny, but still very impressive trophy. “So I guess it didn’t work,” I said, sipping at my beer.

“What? Your plan to make me a happier person through firepower?” House snorted.

“Yeah. I mean, I’m pretty pleased.” I gave a mocking shrug. “But you didn’t get a chance to win it. You could have, too,” I added quickly. “You’re much better than I am.”

House twisted his lips in a thoughtful expression. “Nah, I think we’re evenly matched. You just needed a push.”

I fiddled with my bottle’s label, peeling one edge away from the brown glass. “So do you want to go to the range tomorrow?” I asked.

“I don’t think so,” House said.

Oh. I slumped in my seat.

“I think I’m done with guns,” he continued, setting his beer down on the floor.

Right. I sighed. “Well, I should catch up on paperwork anyway,” I backpedaled.

“I’m going to take up a new hobby,” House declared, completely ignoring me. “One that really makes me happy.”

“Yeah?” I was distracted, taking another pull from my beer to hide my disappointment.

“One that I have no chance of sharing with Tritter,” he growled.

“Look, how was I supposed to know he’d—” I defended myself.

“Idiot.” House leaned closer. “Don’t you want to know what it is?”

I blinked. “Why? Do you want me to take it up too?”

“I sure hope so,” House laughed, and kissed me.

Here’s the thing about House: he never does what you expect, and I’ve come to expect that. But I would never in a million years expect him to kiss me while laughing into my mouth, licking at my lips while he smiles. It’s just so innocent. So happy. So not what I expected. Which meant, of course, that I should have expected it.

When he pulled away, I followed with a moan, and he smiled some more. “Thanks for winning for me,” he said against my cheek.

“We both won,” I said, and took a shot at kissing House myself.




fin.



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