WILSON, james

[dr. james wilson]

DR. JAMES WILSON

Name: Brii
Age: 17
Contact Info: AIM: estelslight
Characters on the site? None at present
How did you find us? An advertisement on some site or another, can't remember which at the moment.


{ .The character.

Name: James Evan Wilson
Canon Yes
Age: 39
Job: Head of the Oncology Department
Status well off
Title Oncologist
Celebrity: Robert Sean Leonard

{ .The Person inside.

Likes:

` sports
` success stories
` Amber Volakis
` witty banter/joking around
` a change in pace every now and again
` flirting
` dinner dates
` poetry
` being in a relationship
` feeling needed/useful
` self-reliance
` beer
` romance
` cards (especially poker)
` healthy foods
` cooking
` helping others
` Barbara (aka what's her name) in accounting
` organization
` coffee
` classical, jazz, and some rock music
` having something to believe in
` reason
` rules/order
` boundaries
` House (unfortunately)
` ties

Dislikes:

` gloomy weather
` reckless behavior
` rejection
` mentions of his ex-wives/failed marriages and relationships
` mind games though he isn't above playing them when it comes to dealing with House. They're something of a necessary evil in some cases)
` being shut out
` losing a patient
` being the 'bearer of bad news'
` seeing others in pain
` arrogance
` House's addiction to Vicodin
` confrontation
` religious intolerance (though he's fast grown used to it having House around)
` gloomy weather
` frauds
` police detectives
` stress

Goals:

` Have a successful and meaningful relationship
` Prove that House [i]needs a team
` Aid House with cases while managing his own patients
[/i]

Fears:

` Losing House' friendship
` Disappointed/letting done those who care about him
` Having to watch a loved one suffer and being unable to help them
` commitment (some lessons are learned the hard way, and James Wilson, of all people, has a reason to be wary of being led down 'the aisle' yet again)
` Losing his practice, and thus his sense of purpose

Personality description: There are few individuals who share Wilson's capacity for genuine kindness and caring. Of those that do, only Cameron seems to rise to his level, something for which House is sure to mock him continually. Yet there comes no shame with such mockery, because he can't help but admit that helping another, that easing another's pain, even when that is all that one can do, brings a reward all it's own. Unfortunately, it's a reward that he's always had trouble explaining the merits of to House. Simply put, giving a damn is worth it, and Wilson has made it his life. Rightfully nicknamed the 'Boy Wonder Oncologist' by House, it is often said that, when addressing a patient on the brink of death, bringing them news of the inevitable, Wilson is thanked and shown gratitude for his frankness as well as his gentle manner as opposed to being screamed at or having to bear witness to a total breakdown of composure. Though, if such a breakdown were to occur, and over the years it has on more than one occasion, Wilson is the first to provide simple but necessary gestures of both sympathy and understanding, a comforting hand on a shoulder or a warm embrace, whatever is needed he lives to serve when on duty.

Off-duty spins him much the same, if somewhat more put-out, for outside his little realm of few possibilities (all of them dire), is House and his plethora of troubles. Wilson should know better than to get involved in House's affairs by now ,and yet he has always stood by the man who is, without question, his best friend. Pretending not to notice the forged scripts for prescriptions, lying to the police, providing a consult, lending his friend a large quantity of cash, or simply providing an ear when one is needed, there is very little that Wilson wouldn't do for House if asked (not that Gregory House is ever liable to ask for anything half of the time...that would be too direct, too obvious for his tastes). However, there are times when even he becomes fed up with houses' antics, when stress and frustrations mix and rise to the surface, igniting a formidable temper and a tongue that can be as effectively cutting and vicious as it is often found to be gentle and consoling.

To sum it all up, many would say that Wilson is a straight-laced individual who invited chaos into his orbit of order and attempts to fix it (usually with little or no success being the end result). he appears to be tireless, though in reality has a host of his own issues, needing others close by as often as they find a need for his presence, Wilson, though he doesn't admit it, hates being alone above all else and fears that he is doomed to face a future filled with a slew of more failed relationships and an overall feeling of helplessness, not a pleasant prospect in the least. however, that doesn't mean that he isn't entirely willing to show a little faith, to have a little hope because, in the long run, that's often all he has. His beliefs, his hope, and House, and the latter is, generally speaking, more of a hindrance than a help, though he does have his moments. Without his patients, his sense of purpose, something to occupy his thoughts and renew his faith in the world, in humanity, in the ability of people to relate to one another and co-exist in relative peace and harmony (and dare he even hope, happiness), James Wilson would be one of many lost souls, wandering blind, without a focus, without a purpose, without a meaning.

{ .History.

Family:

`Mother: Eileen Rafferty-Wilson
` Father: Jonathan Wilson
` Brother: Alexander
` Brother: Paul

-sort of family-
` Andria (1st ex-wife)
` Bonnie (2nd ex-wife)
` Julie (3rd ex-wife)

Brief History: James Wilson was born on a late summer evening (some say, with his eyes already toward the lofty clouds) to Eileen and Jonathan Wilson. Early years denoted an average school, mostly public and a brief transfer into a private school during his junior year of high school that wasn't much to his liking, at the end of which he returned to his old high school to finish up his basic schooling. By the time college came around, young James had managed to compile quite an impressive resume: model congress, captain of the dabate team, varsity swimming and lacrosse, with the addition of a theater program attended on most weekends, and a magnetic personality that had smoothed his way up the social ladder. Grades, excellent, top-notch in fact, though there had been a grace period, or so he sheepishly referred to it, during his sophomore year in which a slacker attitude took prevalence. That only happened once and, during his final year of high school, he'd nearly found himself prom king...nearly. Close, he said, but no cigar, a smile on his face when anyone asks, as though it didn't really matter. Though, back then, he supposed it did.

Several colleges were graced with his attendance and, as fortunate would have it, only to happy to have the then boy, devoted to studies as he was and fixated on the study of medicine in particular when his mother took ill. It was a long hard road that involved the attending of McGill University's undergraduate school of arts and sciences for his diploma, Columbia's University's School of Oncology for another, and the University of Pennsylvania for a fellowship program. All served him well and he found a job with relative ease, though he would be the first to say that the work, the stress, the feel of being needed was, at times, altogether overwhelming in the extreme. However, over time, he adjusted, found himself being promoted and finally, was offered a position at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital as their Head of Oncology. The pay was excellent, the opportunity to do some real good undeniable, and he soon found himself filling the role, almost too eager too do so.

During his climb up the career ladder, however, he was faced with the first of many marital failures to come. Andria, his then devoted beloved, a woman whom he'd put his faith in, had cheated on him, leaving him devastated and, in the end, thought it better for the two of them to part ways rather than trying to repair something that had already moved on far past simply broken. She was the first. Then came Bonnie, a classy Realtor with a brilliant smile that always managed to light up his day, and this time, Wilson found himself playing the unfaithful party. Too much pressure, he would claim, too much temptation...and in the end, it came down to the simple fact that he'd met someone special, someone whom he later confessed to Cameron, had made him feel funny, a good funny mind you, made him feel special. Sometimes, he has found it better to make a blind leap, to follow instinct. His third wife, Julie, finding his absences from home and bed tiresome and wearing, feeling that she has been neglected, not for a job, but for another woman herself, resorted to consorting with another man, and thus ended Wilson's third marriage, which he claims is his final marriage..until he meets that special someone just for him. For a time, he even found House there for him, much in the same way that Wilson had been there for him during the infarction and Stacy's departure. Naturally it hadn't been an equal supporting of friends, equals, but it had been the best House could possibly give, a bit of his space, his home, himself, and that had meant volumes to Wilson at the time. In fact, it goes without saying that it still does.

Playing party to House's whims, however, has not come with it's own share of pitfalls and folly's, though anyone could have told him t5o expect trouble, hardship, frustration, even outright anger at times, and he has, surely...but it;s worth it. The run in with Tritter, the trial, the dividing lines, and the eventual reforming of their friendship. it means something....he simply wishes he knew what. And now, finding Amber Volakis more than merely leggy and controlling, he feels that, not only can he find love, but he can also begin to solve the mystery that is House. The two are, after all, a lot alike. There's no denying that.

{ Roleplay. Please.

Ze Sample:


Seven minutes had already passed after the time that he'd left assigned to their meeting on a small scrap of paper, one of many littering their shared dorm. Seven minutes of impatience, of pacing about back and forth, up and down the room as though he had no other purpose in life than to do so, his sole intent and purpose seeming to be that of wearing a grooved path into the stone floor beneath his feet as he moved. His agitation so obviously visible that it seemed to radiate from him and fill the air with a certain tense anxiety. Where the hell was Alaric? Zane's mind, whatever state it might have been in earlier in the day, or was presently at this later hour, had already managed to conjure a thousand and one possibilities as to what could have sidetracked his friend. Perhaps the other had lost himself to studying (as he so often did) and had simply lost track of time. Perhaps he was off carrying on a conversation with Hermione and pretending that there wasn't an obvious connection there, another thing he'd taken to doing quite often as of late. or maybe...just maybe, he'd failed to notice the little scrap of paper set aside on Zane's dresser in hopes that Alaric would see it. Normally Zane observed Alaric as one who paid the strictest attention to detail. However, if he'd already been distracted however many times he'd returned to the dorm....A frown suddenly found itself marring Zane's features as, for the first moment since the planning of this particular experimental venture, Zane feared that his momentary spark of brilliance would be passed up this time around and find itself irretrievably lost once more within the drugged haze of his mind, awash with far too many things to remember overly much as it was. How he managed to pass his classes with fairly good marks was a wonder in and of itself, though Alaric's help was likely much appreciated (and a largely contributing factor) to his general success.

The idea had come to him as he'd been sitting from a dream, as though perhaps it too had merely been a part of his dream, a momentary flash of brilliance in the dim haze of sleep and narcotics that stole over his senses each and every night. But it had been there, a transfer of knowledge leaping from his unconcious, or perhaps from his subconscious, into his first waking moments and hastily, he'd rifled through his things (somehow without waking the others for a change of pace) until he'd found what he was looking for, a scrap piece of parchment, the edges ripped from another such middle of the night usage, and the edges slightly worn and colored with age. Okay, so it'd been a while since he'd looked in this particular drawer. Alright, so it had been a bit longer than he'd remembered. It happened. And it did happen, along with the equally speedy retrieval of a simple quill, it's edges worn from continuous writing and a certain lack of sharpening, neglect having become its owner just as well as everything else in his need to be so far removed from the world that such trivial things as minor responsibilities and 'good ideas' seemed almost never to occur to him. The final object to be retrieved before he set himself to task was the retrieval of an inkwell, it's contents dangerously low and in need of replenishing, not that he had any time for such trivial matters at the moment, this was a time for ideas! For subsequent brilliance! His mind was a whirl with the thought and possibilities of the thing he had in mind and it seemed, in his haste to get it all written down just so before the details of the thing to be done escaped his mind, that his hand simply couldn't write fast enough to get it all down. in the end, he was left with a little over half of what he'd initially thought up and sat pondering for several moment once his train of thought had been compromised.

Upon forgetting he'd muttered a low string of obscenities, still semi-conscious of the other's sleeping forms nearby, not wanting to wake them just yet. Draco would be furious if he'd done so, not that the doing of such or said fury was anything out of the ordinary, and nor did it both him in the least, but Graham and Alaric, if no one else, deserved the sleep. And this, was largely how his mind worked at...He glanced about until his gaze landed upon a small timepiece lit softly by the far all, still barely visible in the darkness, 4:15 in the morning. Zane's brow furrowed as he wondered exactly what it had been that had caused him to stir with his idea in mind, what had set about this transfer and, most importantly of all, what he had already forgotten, those last few details which were, as he saw it, most assuredly essential to the solving of the problem and yet just as surely flown from his mind for the time being. And so he decided to leave it be, until the morning at the very least. However, upon waking, he merely sat there for some time, having fallen back into a fitful sleep with the parchment curled tightly in his grasp, it was ready at hand, near even, convenient if still more than slightly vexing. And it wasn't as if he hadn't taken note of Alaric sitting there, gazing at him from time to time as he kept up the polite pretense of studying and yet didn't seem yet interested in asking exactly what conundrum held Zane captive now, and which had done so for the past hour and a half since his waking. of course, this was likely because the last problem of Zane's had been the simple remembrance of whom he'd ended up with the night before and, the time before that, it was the finding of his favorite pair of pants after which he wondered. Thus, it was no surprise that some manner of questioning had yet to be offered up, not that Alaric hadn't been perfectly helpful the last times when Zane had simply been incapable of remembering, as was occasionally the case. A paltry side effect of certain things that Zane never bothered naming and generally shrugged off as being either 'necessary' or 'no big deal,' either way the various substances that entered his boy had a bad habit of not helping him in the least with this particular problem of his.

This time, however, would be different. Very different he assured himself as he continued to stare hard at the piece of parchment held before him by his own outstretched fingers. Come on come on, think Zane, think,' he chided himself inwardly as his brow furrow quizzically with the effort of taxing thought, of remembering the instances of the dream, the specifics of the experiment he new fervently desired to attempt, to test out. And in doing so, he had reminded himself time and again since waking (and likely earlier before falling back into slumber as well) this was not merely one experiment that would prove one thing, but one which would prove several things; one of which, if much less importantly so, was a certain undeniable proof that there could, indeed, be a certain air of truthfulness in dreams. he'd always believed such without a doubt, ached to prove it to those skeptics such as Alaric. You could see things in dreams before they happened...Alaric had said time and again, or rather had alluded to the fact rather than bothering to point out the obvious in such an equally obvious fashion, that it was likely the unnecessary chemicals which he so often introduced into his system that caused such beliefs and made them seem equally true. In a way, even Zane couldn't find fault in the simple fact that it did make sense to some degree. After all, half of the time, Zane couldn't find it in himself to discern the differences between waking and sleeping which, at times, were far too subtle for his tastes, something that would have frightened a good many sensible people had he ever bothered to mention to them. He was quite sure that he never would. It was just one added headache and many strange looks more than he needed, and their sympathy was bloody unbearable besides. No, he'd likely never be bringing it up to anyone. And beside, many could already fathom some logical guess (given his intake) as to how far altered his perceptions were by this time in his life...or not, as they would. it mattered very littler to him what the vast majority thought of him, or anyone at all really. most of the time, he was merely searching for some ever elusive peace of mind, some simple contentment and he'd be damned if he wasn't going to find it when he needed it, by whatever means happened to be necessary.

Frowning, Zane paused in his pacing to shove a hand into the pocket of a fairly snug fitting pair of black pants, which currently hugged his body. From his left pocket he withdraw an almost ever present silver flask which, this time around, was filled with Muggle alcohol imported from Russia, vodka he believed they called it and the proof was out of this world, definitely not safe for long drinks and hard parties. or rather, not safe for the inexperienced drink, which Zane would have never have thought himself, even in the beginning. it had come to him naturally, seeming to be a smart enough solution at the time, and grown into a convenient one, as he'd never say the word addiction aloud, and would generally scoff at it whenever anyone else bothered to either mention or insinuate it in his presence. They could call it what they would, Zane didn't particularly care one way or the other, provided they left him well enough the hell alone. He'd keep to his own devices and leave them to theirs unless they were interested in a drink or smoke, as he was always happy to oblige those willing to seek such avenues for escape and/or pleasure, or even for a simple bit of experimentation. There was a certain bit of fellowship, a certain bond between those folks we had shared a drink of a joint, or so he seemed to believe.

As it was, a sip was all he seemed to need at first. Then a swig as few minutes later, when Alaric had still yet to show himself, and then he'd finally just gone and downed the damned thing, not counting himself at all impaired as he muttered something along the lines of 'Alaric be damned' and decided that whether or not his friend planned on helping him out or not, he was going to go through with this. That was simply that and, with his mind thusly decided, he shoved his hand once more into his pocket, not only to return the flask to its earlier resting place, but to withdraw the piece of parchment. Some time during the morning the thoughts, the missing details, had come back to him quite suddenly, sending him off into a hurried flurry of scribbling upon it, and it had been then that he'd laid out some of the details of his planned experiment to Alaric who, despite himself, had proved interested,m to say the very least. In theory, it was brilliant, dangerously so perhaps, but temptingly interesting to the point that he'd simply had to test it later that night nonetheless. And so he would, though apparently without Alaric. Oh well he thought as he read over the words once more and reached into a satchel that had been slung over his arms for three vials before sinking to the floor, ready to attend his task. Setting the vials down in no particular order, he then returned his hand to the satchel, feeling around for a moment before his fingers closed around a strong and fairly lengthy bit of rope. This two was laid out and after several moments of referring to his hastily scribbled formulae, he unstoppered two of the vials and then went for his wand.

First the length of rope was stretched and then, curiously, knotted several times until it had taken on the unmistakable shape of a noose, a strange thing to test this on indeed, but no harm would come from it provided this was done properly, and he was going to test it first anyway. Worst case scenario, he royally fucked this up and his arm became part of the noose for a time, until he could figure out a way to reverse it. However, he seemed confident, assured that this would not happen, assured, for once, that he had everything to rights and set to work almost immediately thereafter. To the loop of the noose, a clear liquid was applied. First spilled over his hands, the slightly sticky contents were then rubbed over the loop of the noose before he wiped the remaining goop off on a small cloth hanging out of his satchel, and was then tapped three times by his wand while he murmured incantations that, truth be told, he had only ever read about and never before attempted, which was interesting in and of itself. Next came a sky blue liquid that contained swirls of what appeared to the naked human eyes to be a cloudy silver substance. it bubbled when he opened it and, strangely enough, when he released its stopped, the distinctive scent of lavender filled the air. it had a somewhat calming effect on him, readying his nerves as it was then discarded. That, it seemed, had merely been brought along to relax him for the continuation of his task and allow his mind to focus for, while doing this, he could simply not afford to let it wander and thus, had made preparations to ensure that it would not do so. And so, he was able then to retrieved his wand once more, this time tapping it against the stopper of a small vial filled with an ink black liquid, the final vial, which had been prepared earlier in the day while Zane had been skipping classes, considering this a more worthwhile cause than learning about this or that thing or wizard. And perhaps it would be he reminded himself. No, no...it had to be! And it was with this mindset that he returned once more to the task at hand, running his fingers along the length of the rope where it had yet to be tainted with spells and various substances. Earlier on he'd soaked in the day, he'd it first in water and then in a kind of poppyseed oil. Now it was completely dry and one couldn't tell that it had undergone any sort of use or preparation at any other time in the day, which seemed to be exactly what he wanted for, after his examination of the rope's current state, he continued. Removing the the stopper from the final vial, he held the vial aloft and sniffed at it, finding it adequately odorless before shoving his wand into the vial and twirling it about as he muttered something under his breath. It seemed at first as though in doing so he were cursing himself for some inherent lack of preparation as per usual. However, when he removed his wand, he went about slowly and carefully pouring the liquid within, which had turned just as clear as the first from his ministrations, over the loop of the noose, running it along the rope until all of the liquid had been used up. Then, with a few more muttered spells, he snatched it up by the extra bit of rope and sprung to his feet. it was done!

Reaching out with baited breath and a hand shaking from exhaustion, as Alaric was now damnably late and Zane didn't want to know how long he'd been at this particular task without the other. Pushing his mind away from the fact that this was somehow less satisfying without an audience, he swiped his hand toward the rope, clearly intending to knock into it and set it into motion, and crowed in delight when his hand did not connect with the rope, but passed harmlessly through it without moving it a fraction. it had worked and his eyes sparked, his face flushing with the particular excitement of triumph before he noticed a chair in the corner and got an idea. he dropped the rope, walked through the loop just to be sure, and then quickly snatched back it up by it's top length and headed toward the chair, dragging it some distance below a small ceiling hook, he then climbed atop of it and fixed the extra length of rope securely to it. And now, he thought, the cowards death. it was a good joke, one which he intended to use time and again after this, it was going to be bloody brilliant. Frighten people out of their wits, place your neck through the loop, just as he was doing now, and drop through harmlessly instead of hanging. If he'd calculated everything right, the rope would snag a moment on his weight before letting him pass through just as harmlessly as his arm had. Grinning like a fool and already wondering if he might attempt to patent this and then sell it to the Weasley's as an addition to their shop, he leapt, swung wide, and then kicked the chair aside. The rope dipped, pulled tight, and caught before all went terribly wrong. If Alaric had been there on time as planned, he'd have noticed at once the mistake in the calculation. The weight would hold, the spell was not quite strong enough to support a passing through while suspending something with the mass of a human neck and accompanying head. One more thing and it would have been perfect, but now. Now, the magic instead caused the noose to tighten and he flailed, cursing himself in harsh gasping noises for having left his wand upon the ground. He found himself in a panic, terrified, trying to cry out, feeling the magic tighten the noose impossibly further about his neck as he hung there, suspended. Zane Hammond was truly and utterly terrified now. Things had gone horribly, unexpectedly wrong when he'd been so sure of himself and, above all else, he did not want to die, and yet as the world began to go dark around the edges, it seemed that he was going to do just that.

[dr. audrey campbell]

`` Accepted
Welcome to Live Another Day!