Don't own, don't sue-
'Cause House knows that unrestrained by the "social contract theory" of perpetual affability, Wilson can truly be a cynical bastard.
'Cause Wilson knows that underneath the cold facade of self-serving indifference to humanity, House truly does care.
It is a late night for both of them.
House is stuck repeatedly resuscitating a particularly stubborn patient who seems absolutely determined to expend every effort to die, despite the obvious paralytic coma and the massive dosage of broad spectrum antibiotics administered in the last 48 hours.
He stumps around the hallway grumpily, barking impatient orders to "check remaining organ systems, get me more coffee, and for God's sake Chase, lighten up on the hairspray or people will start confusing you with Madonna again".
Hours tick by, blips and blurs of countless frustrating sleepless minutes, and really, he wouldn't have noticed that the "Boy Wonder" oncologist was still there if the tell-tale trail of light wasn't conveniently slipping through the absentminded crack in the bottom of the embossed office door.
"It's 2:43 in the morning." The unspoken "what the hell are /you/ still doing here?" hangs between them, and that he receives no response whatsoever is cause for concern. Wilson's head remains bowed, eyes empty, fingers tracing absently over the worn maroon file sprawled all over his gleaming teak desk.
The gruff diagnostician sighs loudly and unnecessarily, snatching the chart from unresisting hands as he slumps into the chair proven to possess the most comfortable arm rest.
"William Morganstern, age four -inoperable carcinoma- prognosis: about two months." Blue eyes flick up, noting the pronounced non-reaction. "Third kid this week, and it's only Tuesday," he observes with calculated indifference, shutting the file with an audible snap.
There is a sharp inhalation of breath that strangles itself suspiciously like a sob, but Wilson's face remains shadowed, and for a while there is nothing else.
---/Bang!/ There is anger, a fist smashed once in helpless fury on the glossy wooden surface, defiance and the toll of its futility written into every premature line of the younger doctor's face. In the sudden resounding quiet that follows, there is despair, salt tear tracks burning fiercely with bitter silent defeat.
House has been watching, waiting for this moment, knowing that the things hitting closest to Wilson's heart are the things kept firmly locked away, knowing that he alone has ever been the one allowed to see Wilson break.
A careful calloused hand covers the shaking fist, normally sharp eyes a calm blue of unseen, unguarded tenderness. He allows his palm's heavy warmth to spread between them, thumb moving in gentle, repetitive strokes until he has smoothed the stubbornly clenched knuckles and both sets of still and trembling fingers are entwined.
At last, the oncologist returns to himself, blurred brown eyes lifted unsteadily to read House's face in a transparent attempt at composure. Honesty compels House to swallow a small encouraging smile in return, but his words carry sincerity clearly enough, hand tightening protectively close against the harsh finality of his tone.
"Let it go. The kid is going to die. There's /nothing/ you can do about it. Just don't let him dying screw you up with your next patient."
There is a knowing, sardonic glimmer in the oncologist's gaze, but his fingers curl into House's own. "And if there's a shortage of 'cancer kiddies' crossing my desk in the next few months?"
House grins shamelessly, caught. "Coincidence".