Chapter Text
Wilson trudges through the sloshy snow, pulling his scarf tighter around himself when an onslaught of frigid air stings at his face. He cursed himself for forgetting his gloves at the office last night, because now, as he walks out to his car from his front door, he feels his fingers becoming stiff. When he tries to unlock his car door, they move slowly and uncoordinatedly.
He sets his bag down in the passenger seat clumsily, with those stiff fingers, while trying to dislodge it from his mass of warm clothing. His scarf is tossed on top of his bag and he tries to wiggle his toes to get more feeling into them. It’s been one of the coldest winters Wilson’s experienced in New Jersey in a long time, and they’re still a few weeks off from the holidays.
The hot blast of air from his car when he turns it on is a blessing. He warms his hands for a long moment, waiting for the heat to reach his face, eyes closed, breathing in the day. This moment of calm is necessary; a moment he makes sure to take everyday before work. Sometimes he takes it in his bedroom, next to his sleeping wife in the early hours of the day; sometimes it’s with his breakfast under his nose and a mug of coffee steaming in his hand; sometimes it’s in his idling car in his driveway, like now. He isn’t sure when this ritual began, but it’s become so entwined with his morning routine that if he skips it, or forgets to do it, a constant yet vague motion settles on his chest for the entire day, and he will find himself wishing more and more as the hours past that he had taken the time to do it, that the whole day is now skewed because he didn’t.
Wilson imagines House feels a similar way if he doesn’t offend at least three people a day.
As Wilson drives to work, he considers the younger man.
It seemed that the more time passed since the infarction, the more miserable House became. His recovery has been staggered and full of set-backs. Wilson doesn’t think he’s ever going to forget the first time he had to rush over to House’s place to help him after he slipped in the shower.
It’s been about two years since the beginning of the infarction. Wilson finds himself remembering more and more about how young and how pained House looked in that hospital bed. Almost small, with his fists curled up in the blankets and his eyes closing against the onslaught of painful tears. Very rarely did Wilson consider House young (certainly not since that first night they met, outside that bar in New Orleans, Wilson clutching divorce papers and House clutching a fake I.D. that fooled little to no one), but when he thinks back to those days where House was not a doctor but a patient, and Wilson had to play the part of doctor and of a visitor, it floods back to him. A wave of empathy, the kind that can only go to someone younger than you.
House hasn’t looked nearly as young or pained in the past two years since he started on Vicodin—against all odds, that is; House was tall, lanky, and with a fading case of baby face. He wore band t-shirts and converse and he played on that Game Boy Advance that Wilson got him for his birthday almost constantly—but he’s come close, in the past few months, since Stacy broke up with him. In the quiet moments, when Wilson is doing paperwork and House is lounging in his office, waiting for him to call it quits for the night so they can go grab dinner, Wilson will sneak a glance to his right, to the couch.
House will be there, staring at the Game Boy Advance’s “Game Over” screen. He’ll be silent, scowling, lips pursed tightly together. If Wilson maybe saw the beginnings of tears once or twice, he looked away immediately to give House as much privacy as he could, and ignored the occasional swipe at his eyes or sniffle.
And everytime he looks at House in those quiet moments, he’s brought back to the hospital bed and the fat tears running down his pale cheeks and his constant pestering for morphine or something, anything, please…
Wilson slows his thoughts, feeling unease settle deep into his stomach. He’s pulled into Princeton-Plainsboro’s Teaching Hospital’s parking lot, now, and gives himself an extra moment to breathe the day, to come back to his senses. If he looked at House after having these thoughts, pity might show on his face, and pity was the quickest way to piss House off.
He grabs his scarf from the passenger seat and bundles up again, before shutting his car off and pulling his bag back on. He makes the walk inside as quick as possible, squinting against the sharp winds that carry a promise of more snow tonight.
Cuddy is leaning against the check-in counter in the front lobby, discussing something to the receptionist. She looks to be in a good enough mood, although quite tired. Her eyes have that early-morning puffiness, but if there were any eyebags, her makeup covers them up. She smiles at Wilson when he walks in, flexing his cold fingers.
“No gloves today?” she asks, when he settles up beside her.
“Forgot them here last night,” he responds, just as pleasantly as her. He really does enjoy his conversations with Cuddy, one of the only other people in the building who puts up with House for longer than twenty seconds. “Good morning, Kathy,” he greets the woman at the desk; then, to Cuddy: “House not in yet?”
Cuddy scoffs. “He definitely is. I had to kick him out of my office as soon as I walked in this morning.”
Wilson hums in surprise. “He’s not usually in this early. What did he want?”
“Nothing. He was just playing solitaire at my desk.” Cuddy shakes her head, a fond smile (in Wilson’s opinion, at least) growing over her face. “When I told him to go to his office to meet Cameron and Foreman, he started his little groaning fit again, but he stopped when I said I’d send you in there when you got here.”
“Ah,” says Wilson, nodding solemnly. “I guess I’ll allow myself to be sent in there, then.” He’s putting on an act and they both know it; Wilson would’ve checked in with House and his new employees as soon as he realized that was today. Cuddy huffs a laugh, and waves him away, turning back to Kathy.
Wilson takes the elevator out of force of habit, despite the lack of a certain loud, miserable misanthrope. He only stops at his office to set his bag and winter clothing down, right by his gloves which he forgot last night. He can recognize House and Chase’s voices through the door, and hears two new ones. Cameron and Foreman, no doubt.
He uses the hallway to enter House’s meeting room, despite how much quicker it would’ve been to jump the barrier of their balconies. Not a great first impression for the two new employees, although quite fun. House had put him onto it.
With three small raps on the glass door, Wilson pushes his way inside. The four of them are seated at the table; House sits closest to the wall that connects to Wilson’s office, at the head of the table. He fiddles with the head of his cane, swiveling his chair back and forth, not looking at anyone until Wilson walks in. Chase sits closest to him, then Cameron, and then Foreman, all on the same side. Power in numbers, Wilson thinks, with a small smile.
The three fellows look up at Wilson as he enters. Wilson can’t help but note the relief in Chase’s face when they make eye contact.
“I hope he hasn’t been hazing you all,” says Wilson cheerily. House leans back in his chair and begins swiveling it again, right to left to right to left. He stares right at Wilson, though, his head staying still while his body moves. He looked like a chicken.
“This is James Wilson, head of the oncology department. Don’t let that boy-next-door look fool you, though—He’s really a ruthless animal. Once, he kicked my cane out from under me,” explains House, smiling that wicked smile of his.
Cameron (as Wilson can tell from her nametag) looks appalled, and Wilson sputters to defend himself, “That’s not—not exactly true. House was—”
“Oh, relax, Jimmy.” House waves his red mug up for Wilson to see. “Black please.”
Wilson doesn’t hide his annoyance as he takes the red mug and begins to fill it with coffee.
“Uh, I’m Alison Cameron, by the way,” he hears from behind him. He turns to smile pleasantly at her, hoping to offset whatever terrible thoughts she currently holds about him.
“Nice to meet you,” he says truthfully. “And you’re Foreman?”
The only other man at the table nods. He looks serious, maybe a touch arrogant, but not a douchebag just for the sake of it. Wilson already finds himself wanting to display more respect towards him; this, here, was a man who might be able to go toe-to-toe against House’s more extravagant ideas. “House was just telling us about you.” Foreman’s eyes linger at House, looking put-off.
Wilson was waiting for something like that. A sign of their discomfort of a boss about five or six years younger than them. Chase had been disgruntled at first, too, a few months ago when he began. Very quickly did he learn his place under House though, and Wilson doesn’t doubt that Foreman and Cameron will have similarly unpleasant realizations. For now, they’ll certainly try to undermine House’s authority and criticize his approaches; until they’re broken in and see just how genius House was, under his eccentricities.
House notices Foreman’s look too, if his (already tense position) tensing more was an indication. Very quickly, Wilson sets his new mug of coffee down in front of him, then sits in the seat across from the fellows but right next to House. Damage control has arrived , he thinks, humorously.
“Any questions about the hospital or about the department? I know it’s the first of its kind, and it’s still quite new, so some of the kinks are continuing to be worked out,” says Wilson. He chooses to ignore whatever House had been saying about him, absolutely positive that it was a mix of lies and embarrassing truths.
“What are you doing? This is my meeting, get out of here,” grumbles House. “Are you trying to undermine me?”
Cameron and Foreman hesitate, looking between House and Wilson and sometimes sparing Chase an occasional glance, apprehensive. Wilson waits it out, ignoring House very plainly, which frustrates the man even more. Before he can kick up some new insults to get a rise out of Wilson, however, Foreman speaks.
“How many patients come in for this department specifically? I can’t imagine it’s many,” he says.
Wilson waits for House’s answer, staring at him, watching the way he rocks the chair back and forth, abusing that swivel feature to the point Wilson is surprised the damn thing doesn’t squeak yet. He’s begun twirling his cane between each hand, watching it spin. There’s clearly no intention to answer the question, so Chase jumps in, seeming embarrassed at his boss’ antics.
“We get fewer patients, but each case takes a lot longer to diagnose, let alone treat. Patients typically come in for about a week until we can figure it out.”
“And, how many patients do we take on at once?” Cameron asks. She seems more eager now, leaning forward on her elbows. She’s looking at House, and Wilson wonders if she really thinks he’s going to answer this one.
House’s hand suddenly disengages from the tossing movements of his cane to take a long sip of the coffee Wilson made for him. “One at a time. Slow and steady wins the race, you know.”
Cameron looks almost as surprised as Wilson felt. Though, Wilson figured her surprise wasn’t because House actually answered her. “One at a time?” she repeats, astounded. “What if more people need our help in that time?”
House has lapsed back into silence, so Wilson wearily takes this one. “I think Dr. House’s typical approach is to put all his efforts into one patient who can get better quicker, and then move onto the next, rather than trying to divide and conquer and end up losing multiple patients.” He knows this is a rationalization of House’s technique that may not even be close to true, but it’s the only thing he can think of right now to keep House’s new fellows on the job. House doesn’t object, like he would have if he were in a better mood.
“And, trust me, we do need all the effort we can get on these patients,” assured Chase. “Some of these cases are the second ever recorded cases of rare diseases. It’s a miracle some of these people are diagnosed and treated at all, and we wouldn’t be able to do that with multiple patients at once.”
Seeming appeased enough to drop the subject for now, Cameron nods slowly. She’s clearly chewing the information around in her mind, but as long as she doesn’t push it more for right now, Wilson thinks it’ll be okay. He’s glancing sideways at House. Really, what is up with him today? He’s not even playing his video game or throwing his tennis ball, pretending to be more disinterested. All he’s doing is sitting there, swiveling his chair and drinking coffee. Not even a snarky comment…
“Are we done yet?” says House, bored. “Yes? Good, because our newest patient is about to go into cardiac arrest.”
Just as he says it, four pagers are going off in unison. Cameron looks appalled. “We had a patient this whole time?”
Foreman is the first to stand, Chase at his heels. “What—?”
“Questions later. Go make her stable. Room 304. Come back and we’ll do the differential,” commands House. He’s looking more like himself, now that he’s stopped staring sullenly at the carpet. The fellows stare at him for a moment too long, so he barks, “ Hello ? She’s dying up there!”
The file out, Chase leading them to the appropriate room. It’s barely a second until they’ve rushed out of sight.
Now, it’s House and Wilson sitting at the table. House turned off his pager as the door shut, then slowly stood up with a tired groan.
“They seem nice,” prompts Wilson pleasantly.
House scowls. “They’re idiots. They think I can’t tell they hate me.”
Times like these, Wilson has found himself thinking has House always been so insecure? Or is this a post-infarction side effect? There’s no doubt House’s confidence took a hard hit after the infarction, and even more so after Stacy left. No hobbies, no girlfriend, no exercise…No outlet for anything at all, essentially. Wilson can almost feel pity (he does, but he won’t let House see that. Not ever. He knows how much House hates it).
“They don’t hate you,” says Wilson. The exasperation is clear, even to himself. “They just met you.”
House scoffs. “No. They met me for the first time at the interview. This time they were reintroduced to me, this time not as a doctor conducting an interview, but as their boss. They hate me.”
He’s limping away, his cane leaned up against his chair at the conference table. He slowly makes his way into his personal office, and Wilson follows behind him easily. Letting House lead him to and fro is a necessity if Wilson’s trying to get House to listen.
“And why would they hate you?” Wilson knows the answer, and House knows he knows.
“Because they’re all old and slow,” says House bitterly. He’s finally made it to his large, comfy chair by the door to the hallway, and he settles into it heavily. His hurt leg is propped up immediately, and his hands begin their practiced technique, digging into the muscle around the bone. “They can’t handle my youth, especially not as their boss.”
Wilson keeps standing in the middle of his office, shoving his hands into his white coat’s pockets. They’re beginning to get cold again, with all the blood rushing to his brain, trying to de-escalate this situation before it can blow up. “Cameron’s probably only, what, three, four years older than you?” he asks, unimpressed. “House, they don’t hate you. They’re probably a little put-off, having their superior be a guy in his mid-twenties who refuses to answer their questions and who immediately puts their patient’s life in jeopardy, but that’s it. They won’t hate you until you start berating them over every little thing.”
“I do that with you, and you don’t hate me,” mumbles House. He’s scowling again, his hands working more furiously around his thigh. His long fingers prod more gentler the closer he gets to the actual wound, like he’s playing piano.
“How can you be so sure?” replies Wilson dryly, but there’s a smile rising across his face.
House glances up at him for just a second, registering the smile, before looking back down to his leg. “Because if you hated me, you wouldn’t be taking me to Esposito’s for lunch today.”
It’s clear what this is, and Wilson recognizes it immediately. It’s a request. These have been happening more frequently these past few weeks, ever since House’s last two fellows quit and he had to start the rehiring process again. His leg was acting up, and he was looking for a distraction. He was hurt and he didn’t want to spend his lunch alone—if they stayed at the hospital for lunch today, House’s leg would only get worse under those sharp fluorescent lights. Even if Wilson was there, eating beside him, he’d be alone, because he’d be thinking about the case, and no relief could come to his leg. But House would never say it. Never out loud, and probably not even to himself, in that big, complicated mind.
“Esposito’s? Really ?” Wilson knows the part to play here. If he’s all too willing, House will shy away from the clear understanding that Wilson can grasp his situation so easily. But if Wilson were to outright refuse, House would take the rejection hard, and lock himself in his office, massaging his leg desperately. He needed a balance, here, where House understood that Wilson understood, but not enough to…He’s getting carried away now. Wilson blinks his introspection away.
“Best chicken parm in North Jersey,” says House enticingly. Wilson sighs, ignoring how his mouth waters just thinking about it.
“Meet me in the lobby before noon,” he says, resigned. House grows a wicked grin over his face, enjoying his “manipulation” of Wilson.
Saying goodbye, and praying that House won’t scare off the new employees, Wilson departs. He sees the fellows rushing back to the office as he turns to close the door to his office. Chase makes eye contact with him and mouths, “Thank you.”
Well, at least someone notices his effort around these parts. Wilson gives him a reassuring smile, before hunkering down to do his morning work. At least he now knows that House won’t be yelling insults at anyone within earshot by the end of the day, now.