Prompt 129: Wilson Comes Out of the Closet

[triedunture]

Title: The Closet
Pairing: H/W friendship
Rating: PG
Word count: 3000
Spoilers: None.
Warnings: None
Summary: wilson_fest prompt 129: Wilson comes out of the closet (not necessarily H/W)

<><><>


James Wilson was expecting the door to slam open, but not like this; a normal slam was about a 6 on the House-Richter scale. A 6 meant lunch, or annoyance, or metaphysical questioning of the universe in a way that led back to House's current case. This slam, however, was a 9. And a 9 meant serious trouble.

"You told Cuddy first?" House howled, his spread-wide palm still holding the door pinned back against the wall.

Wilson glared his now-unaligned picture frames on the opposite wall. He sighed and did not answer. He looked back down at his work instead.

"How could you have told Cuddy before me?" House strode into the room, cane jabbing forward. He let the door snap shut behind him. "Are you completely stupid?"

"Wow." Wilson kept his eyes on the scans in his hand. "With a reaction like that, why would I ever have worried about breaking the news to you?"

"Oh, please. I knew," House jeered. "It's not as if you're the best liar in the world." He scratched his thumbnail over his eyebrow and dumped himself into the gray office sofa. "You're practically an open book."

Wilson placed the scans back into their envelope with a controlled calm. "If you knew, then why did you want to be the first to hear it?"

"I didn't want to be first." House scowled. "But you know Cuddy. She'll start leaving Lambda fliers in your mailbox; she'll change the language of the hospital's non-discrimination policy; she'll appeal to the Board to get domestic partner insurance coverage. She'll try her damnedest to make you feel all warm and fuzzy and supported, and meanwhile, everyone will hear about it in the next three hours."

Wilson signed one last form, closed the file, and set his pen on his desktop calender, lining it up with the horizontal grid mark. He finally looked over at House, who was seated glumly on the sofa with his chin on the head of his cane. His eyes burned fiercely. Anger, resentment, confusion? Wilson was too tired to pinpoint the exact cocktail mixture of House's Look. All he knew was there was two parts Pissy to one part Worry.

"That's the whole point of coming out of the closet, House," he said. "Everyone knows. And I don't care."

House struggled to his feet and got his cane underneath him. "That is so gay," he spat, and stalked out of the room.

The door slam on the exit was about an 8. Wilson winced and shook his head before returning to his work.

<><><>

This was Lisa Cuddy's reaction:

She didn't pause in signing her signature to something clipboarded in her palm. She didn't even look up. "How much is the bet?" she asked.

Wilson groaned into his palms.

"If you want, I'll act shocked in front of House and we can split it," she continued, flipping through the chart. "But honestly, Wilson, pulling me aside like this?"

"Cuddy."

"It's a busy day for me, you know. The Board is voting next week, as you are very much aware --"

"Cuddy." Wilson's voice was rising now in volume, but Cuddy continued on.

"-- and I have better things to do than stand in an empty stairwell with so you can have your little--"

"Lisa!" Wilson grasped her shoulders and shook her, just enough to force her to finally look up at him. Wide-eyed. "I'm not joking around here."

She paused for one moment, mouth gaping, before she put on an incredulous smirk. "Oh, please," she said.

"Look, I wanted to tell you first because," Wilson ran a hand through his hair, "damn it, I thought you'd understand." He shut his eyes with a sigh.

"Oh my god. You're serious?"

Wilson nodded.

"Have you told House?"

Wilson shook his head.

"Oh my god."

"It's not a huge deal."

The clipboard dropped to Cuddy's side. "Are you okay?"

Wilson shrugged. "I feel fine. Just promise me you won't..."

"I won't tell House," she swore.

And then, of course, she did. But Wilson had been expecting that, too.

<><><>

The day after House's little temper tantrum, Wilson was doing his rounds when he was joined by his cane-wielding friend once more.

"So what are the kids listening to in the dance halls today?" House's voice boomed over the ward. The children's ward. "Is everything still G-L-A-M...?"

"I wouldn't know; I still remember everything being superfly," Wilson retorted dryly. He began walking swiftly in the opposite direction, towards the adult terminal wing. Being out was well and good, but honestly, House, he thought. The kids ward? "What do you want?"

"Taking the X? Getting invited to dress-up three-ways? I know you've always wanted to be the Special Guest Star. All of the attention, none of the blame," House continued, keeping pace with Wilson, even though he had stepped his rate up a few strides a second.

"Your ability to keep abreast of current stereotypes never ceases to amaze me," Wilson returned. He stuck a finger in the air as if a thought had suddenly struck him. "Have you talked to Foreman about his reparations?"

"Are you still allowed to say the word 'abreast?' Will they take away your membership card?"

"That would be a shame. At least I'd get to keep the beer coosie and the keychain." Wilson rounded the corner and made a break for the stairs. "Goodbye, House," he said without turning around.

"You don't have the figure for cocktail dresses, so don't even think about attempting Judy Garland!" was House's parting shot. It reverberated down the stairwell; several people turned to stare.

Wilson sighed. This would be the difficult patch he had been anticipating; if only he could have known how difficult House would make it.

<><><>

This is what Dr. Pollingsworth said in their thirty-sixth session:

"Are you certain this is a step you're ready to take right now, James?" She clicked her pen twice, an unconscious signal on her part. Wilson knew it meant she was itching to write something down in her little shrink notebook, but wanted to appear to stay focused on him, on his feelings. Maintain eye contact. Earn the $250 an hour.

Wilson shrugged in answer. "I don't see how I can't, after all the discussions we've had. I sort of want to get it over and done with."

Click-click.

"This isn't a chore that you can rush through, James. This is something that will impact your identity in a way that you may not be prepared for."

"I know."

"Have you given any thought to Greg?"

"Yes."

(Greg. That's what she called House in these things, these alternate dimensions between 2:30 and 3:30 every Wednesday. Greg was probably the biggest chunk of Wilson's file. All of Dr. Pollingsworth's notes on Wilson's insecurities, his commitment patterns, his relationship issues, could probably be found under the heading Greg.)

"And what conclusions have you come to?"

Wilson tilted his head back and rested it against the plush fabric of the armchair. The ceiling had three cracks in it. "He won't like it. But he doesn't like most things."

The hour was soon up; Pollingsworth wrote him a refill with a stern warning to continue with the regimen as directed. Wilson nodded, but he ripped the 'script in half when he got back to his hotel room and tossed it in the waste basket. He hadn't taken the pills for the past twelve weeks; House hadn't wanted any more, and suddenly, neither had he.

<><><>

This is how Wilson's mother reacted (sort of):

"Hi, mom," Wilson called into the phone. (Her hearing wasn't the best.) "How've you been?"

"Jamie! Hello! I was just--" And then he could hear her turn away from the phone's receiver and say something muffled to someone else in the room. She returned in a moment. "I'm sorry. I just need to-- Oh, for the love of Pete!"

There was a small crash, like a saucer hitting the floor and spinning around and around until it settled flat.

"Mom?" Wilson called into the phone. "You okay?"

"Sorry, Jamie. I'm here. It's just this damn cat. Your father found it in the parking lot of the Stop & Shop; you know how he is. Always has to be the nice guy."

"You got a cat?" Wilson frowned, resting back against the fluffed pillows on his hotel bed. "You hate cats."

"It's supposed to be only temporary. You know, until your father can convince some poor chump to take it in. I just don't know who would. I mean, the thing's not much to look at."

Wilson shut his eyes and placed one hand, the one not occupied with his cell phone, against his forehead. "Listen, mom, I need to tell you something. It's not anything I--"

Mrs. Wilson yelped into the phone. "I'm going to make socks out of you!" she screeched. "The damn thing bit me!" she said, this time into the phone.

"Are you bleeding?" Wilson asked, less out of concern and more out of professional instinct.

"Yes, darn it." She sighed. "Just a little scratch, but I better put something on it."

Wilson sighed. "Okay, mom. I just...look, you better sit down. I mean, this is going to come as something as a shock, I think. It did to me, anyway."

"Jamie? Sorry, I was sort of distracted for a second there. I can't find the Bactine in the drawer. Hold on!" And the phone clanked down hard on some surface. Probably the kitchen table.

Silence.

"Mom?"

Dead air.

"You there?"

Nothing.

"I'm gay, mom," Wilson whispered into the phone. And he lay there in bed, listening to the empty void on the other end of the line until his mother returned to the phone and continued chattering as she applied a Band-aid to her finger. She provided running commentary to everything the cat was doing, and what sort of Band-aid it was, because there were so many now, and what sort did doctors use?

<><><>

In hindsight, attending the monthly Professionals Night at the local Lambda headquarters had been the wrong move. It wasn't that he felt out of place, or even judged for being a late bloomer. (No one even knew him, how the hell would they know he had only just come out unless he told someone?) It wasn't that the group of men and women were bawdy or formed into a tightly knit clique that he couldn't penetrate. Everyone was nice. Everyone was kind. Everyone was normal.

Wilson sipped at his gin and tonic and tried to pretend that he wasn't disappointed.

"So," a man, mid-thirties, tall, dark, and very normal-looking said, swirling his own cocktail with a red swizzle stick. "You a lawyer like two-thirds of the people in this room?"

"No, doctor. James Wilson." He offered a hand. "You?"

The man shook it. "I teach economics at the university. Todd Baker."

"Nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you."

Riveting.

But even that wasn't why Wilson knew this was a bad idea.

"Hey!" House's voice shouted through the cocktail hour buzz of conversation.

Wilson rolled his eyes skyward. This was why. Without putting this event on his calendar, or even mentioning it to anyone, House had somehow hunted him down. Wilson tried to think what tracks he might have left. Oh, the stupid directions on Google Maps; House had probably hacked into his office computer. Again.

Wilson held up a palm and said to Todd Baker, "Whatever is said in the next five minutes, I'm sorry."

House appeared at his elbow quicker than a crippled man should. "So this is where you disappear when you're tired of cruising for chicks."

Todd Baker looked back and forth between them and hooked his thumb over his shoulder. "I should probably--"

"No! Stay! I'm really interested in finding out how he's gonna manage to serial-marry now," House said.

Wilson put his palm over his eyes. "What are you doing here, House?"

"I guess he'll have to settle for serial-civil unionizing. Doesn't sound as classic, though," House continued, still addressing Wilson's poor conversation companion. "No offense to you guys, of course."

"I'm gonna....go." And Todd Baker left.

"Man, that was close. Good thing your standing in the community didn't suffer." House grabbed a mini-quiche from the buffet table and stuffed it in his mouth.

"House..." Wilson growled.

"Yell at me in the car. I think the Greigson kid has leukemia; need you to confirm."

Wilson set down his glass on the edge of the buffet and shook his head. "Let me get my coat."

On the way out to the parking lot, Wilson pointed out, "You could have just paged me."

"Oh darn." House spoke through a mouthful of cocktail weenies. "I didn't think of that."

<><><>

This was what Cuddy said in her defense:

"I didn't mean to tell him!" she moaned, drooping in her office chair.

Wilson lounged on her visitor sofa. "I'm not angry at you, I swear."

"You know how he can be!" She threw her hands up in the air. "He senses one little thing is out of the ordinary, and he pries and pokes and, and, and just pisses you off until you just talk!"

"He'd be a real asset to the CIA," Wilson agreed. "Too bad he never wanted to work for the government."

"I didn't even really talk. But he started listing things that could be the reason I was acting weird, and he hit right on it on the fourth try. The fourth try, for God's sake."

Wilson hummed. "Four, you say?"

Cuddy nodded glumly. "I am so sorry, Wilson."

"It's fine," he said. Then, to the ceiling, he muttered, "Four?"

"You know," Cuddy drawled, "it's almost like you knew I would crack. You're not shocked at all."

"Four..."

"Did you know House would get it out of me? Is that why you told me!? So you wouldn't have to tell him yourself?"

"What were his first couple guesses?"

Cuddy sighed and brushed her hair from her face. "In order: Cameron being gay, Chase being gay, the nurse from Peds with the shaved head being gay."

"At least he followed a theme. Were you wearing a sign that said Someone You Know is Gay?"

"He...had made an off-color joke; I told him not to bring that sort of humor into the hospital anymore." She moved a pile of paper clips to one corner of her desk primly.

"He scented blood in the water," Wilson murmured, "but he didn't know whose."

"I'm so sorry," Cuddy repeated. "I really didn't want to tell him."

"Hey, better you than me," Wilson said cheerfully, and ducked out of the office before Cuddy's post-it notes could hit him in the head.

<><><>

"You didn't know," Wilson crowed as he fell into step beside House in the hallway. "That's why you're so mad."

"Oh please," House snorted. "You practically have a pink hanky hanging out of your back pocket at all times."

"You don't care if I'm gay. You're upset because you didn't use your amazing powers of deduction to figure it out before I did."

"Tell Dorothy I said hi when you see her, okay?"

"That's why you've been giving me such a hard time. You're really just mad at yourself."

"Green carnation in your buttonhole and everything."

Wilson quirked an eyebrow. "I don't even know what that one means."

"And they let you call yourself a gay," House scoffed.

"Amazing. You're still going," Wilson laughed. "Give it up, House. This was one thing you didn't see coming; admit it."

"I admit nothing except--"

But he was cut off as a man barreled around the corner and knocked into both of them; another danger of walking side-by-side with House in narrow hallways.

"Are you all right?" Wilson asked the man, putting a steadying hand against his shoulder to keep him from falling into House.

The man shrugged him off. "Get off me, faggot!" he yelled, and pushed his way between them. "Christ!"

A cane hooked itself around the man's ankle, and he stumbled but didn't fall. "Hey!" House shouted. "You get the hell back here."

"Fuck you!" the guy called over his shoulder.

"House," Wilson whispered, "don't. It's not--"

But House was already in hot pursuit. The stranger had stopped at the elevator bank and was furiously punching the down button.

"I'm talking to you!" he roared.

Wilson followed. "Seriously, just leave him alone."

The cane clacked across the opening elevator door, barring the man from entering. "We don't say the F-word in this hospital," he growled to the offender. "Now apologize to my colleague here, or you'll be sticking around in the ER instead of rushing off to be a dick elsewhere."

The man's less-than-intelligent face clouded with even more confusion for a moment. "F-word? You mean faggot?" He turned to sneer at Wilson, who was suddenly very self-conscious of his sweater vest at that moment. "What, is he a faggot?"

The empty elevator shut with a ding. House smacked his cane against the guy's shin, and he howled in pain, clutching at his leg.

"Is that how you say 'sorry, Dr. Wilson' in Cretin?" House asked, cocking his head and screwing one eye shut in a show of intense listening.

"What?" the man gasped.

"Say 'sorry, Dr. Wilson.'"

"Sorry, Dr. Wilson."

House stabbed the elevator button with his cane; it dinged open once more. "Get," he said, and the man got.

When the elevator had closed and descended, Wilson turned towards House. He stuck his hands in his white coat's pockets and raised an eyebrow. "We don't say the F-word in this hospital?" he asked.

"No one makes fun of my gay friend," House said. "That's my job."

Wilson smiled and ducked his head to hide it.

"Come on." House jerked his chin to the right. "Let's get some lunch."

They fell back into step, side-by-side.

"So what's with the green carnation thing?" Wilson asked.

"Long story. Buy me a sandwich and I'll give you a history lesson."

"Deal."



fin.