The standard disclaimers apply: I don't own House, Wilson, or anything else here; I'm just borrowing David Shore's toys. I play nice, though, really.
The White Flag
There was a Thing on his desk, early that morning when he walked in the door.
A Gift-Thing, it looked like, meaning: Either Cameron or Wilson. Great.
He had come in before the light of day, wanting to gather his wits and get plenty of coffee into his system and have the jump on the rest of the nosy, shrill, harping lot of them. Some time to check the battlements and pull the cannons into place before they stormed in, grinning like hyenas, wanting to know How He Was Doing. His being here early was the first part of the strategy, weakening the enemy by means of the element of surprise. If they were busy wondering what the hell he was up to, it would help deflect their assault.
But someone had ruined it, by preempting his lone arrival with evidence that they were already after him. Already looking for new reactions, or trying to Help, or be Nice, or something.
He sighed, rubbing his tired face because no one was there to see, and regarded the package as if it were something scraped from the bottom of his shoe. It was rectangular, with a swollen middle; about the size of a large postcard. Gingerly he picked it up by a corner and felt a slight metallic heft from within.
Wilson. The lack of beribboned decoration; the plain, deep red wrapping paper; the absence of an attached piece of Hallmark hyper-sincerity, all told him that it couldn't have been Cameron. If there were ever a pageant for Miss Overstatement, Cameron would be certain to win. Wilson might be second runner-up, though, if only he looked better in a strapless. Oh God I need coffee.
He groaned and threw the Thing, unopened, into the trash, where it remained until halfway through the second mug of java, when his curiosity compelled him to pluck it forth, sighing. Oh, Wilson. Will you never learn to just let things be?
No, of course he won't, replied the other half of House's brain, and neither will you, or you'd have left the Thing in the garbage where it probably belongs.
What he told himself was that he had to take care of this, and then hide the evidence, before the hyenas arrived. Chase would see the package, note it and say nothing. Foreman's response would be tolerable; he'd raise an eyebrow, maybe make a sarcastic remark, and that would be that. Cameron, however. See, House, someone does care, oh let me see what it is, who's it from, it's not your birthday or anything is it-- He had to stop that train of thought before it took him straight to Migraine Land.
There was a scalpel in the pencil holder on his desk, because only girls and yuppies used letter openers. Carefully he dissected the Thing as if it were a small animal, enjoying the tactile, delicate process. Parting layers of red skin and white tissue paper until he reached the--heart, he supposed it was.
House turned the object over and over in his hands, intrigued enough to forget his irritation. He wasn't sure what he had expected, but it wasn't this. It was definitely, unquestionably from Wilson, though. A little, wordless Wilson-puzzle to entice him to come and ask why. The resulting conversation was likely to be less than satisfactory, but the lure was shamelessly, openly manipulative, and House liked that.
Uncanny the instincts he has, when he chooses to use them. If it had been anything else in that package, it wouldn't have worked, but this would. Okay, Jimmy, I'll take the bait, and we will both know that I knew what I was doing. He tucked the thing (no longer the Thing, with a capital T, because it had lost its menace) into the pocket of his baggy coat and poured another cup of coffee, figuring he'd need all the help he could get on that particular day.
The Wilson-gift, because nobody knew about it, had ended up being more helpful than the caffeine. Foreman and Chase had spent the day appraising everything about him, searching for signs of weakness or change, and at every treacherous turn he had put his hand in his pocket, fingers playing over the cool, curving metal. Distracting himself just enough so that he could remain in command without actually committing murder. Cameron, meanwhile, had kept giving him those Concerned Cameron faces that meant she was trying desperately to peer into his soul; and his secret little present had served as a comforting reminder that she would never succeed. He had pictured her as Gollum, skinny and voracious, cooing What has it got in its pocketses, Preciousss? and the thought had made him smirk and almost laugh in her face.
And all that day, the only thing Wilson had said was one casual greeting, Hey, House, as he hurried down the hall to somewhere else. As if it were just another day, and House hadn't been gone for a couple of months. Smart move, Jimmy. Very smart.
So he cornered Jimmy on the balcony, late that afternoon, his face carefully guarded and the perfect miniature motorcycle cupped in his palm, glinting softly in the remaining sunlight. He snapped it onto its little stand and perched it precariously, carefully, on the balcony wall.
"I didn't know kids your age were allowed in hotel gift shops."
"It was OK, House. My mommy was with me." The bemused look on Wilson's face meant that House had it right: Hotel gift shop. Bastion of useless, pricey, upper-middle-class dust-catching thingies.
"And you blew your allowance on this? A meticulous replica of that which you hate? I guess they didn't have comic books."
"I'm not sure 'hate' is the word. 'Fear' would be a lot more honest." Wilson was smiling ever so slightly, apprehensive but clearly happy that he'd gotten this far.
"So you have procured a tiny metallic idol of your terror. And given it to me. I'd like to know what you were thinking so that I know whether to keep it, or to get my old nine iron and use it for driving practice."
"You can do whatever you like. It's yours." He smiled again, just a touch of mischief in his eyes. "And it's cool, because it's all cast brass and silver and stuff, but the wheels spin and the kickstand works and everything."
"And a working kickstand knocks down the snob appeal by at least fifty-seven percent." (It did, too; the kickstand was the first thing House had discovered. He'd been thumbing it back and forth with a comforting click, earlier that day, while Cameron told him he could talk to her anytime he wanted, because change can be hard and boo hoo, blah blah blah).
"Fifty-nine percent, by my calculations, but that's within the margin of error."
They stood for a while simply looking outward, over the grounds, with House absently spinning the wheels of the absurd little bike. "I sort of think that I get what this is about," he said, finally, "but if you don't tell me, or if I don't like the answer, I'm gonna toss it off this balcony like the piece of overpriced crap that it is."
"That's what it's about, House." Wilson was leaning over the wall, not looking at him, which was sort of a relief. "The fact that you can toss it, if you want, because it's yours. I didn't even keep the receipt." He stopped for a moment and rubbed his neck in that way he did when he didn't like whatever he was thinking about. "The bike, and you, both scare the hell out of me on a regular basis. But if you're gonna ride, the last thing you need, the most dangerous thing, is a backseat driver."
"Huh." He took the miniature in his right hand, grabbed the wall with his left for support, and reared back in a powerful arc, preparing to pitch it like the first ball of the World Series.
He'd have done it, too, had he not seen Wilson smiling. Wilson was smiling, giving him absolute permission to plunk this pretentious knickknack, this carefully chosen Welcome-Back-From-Rehab present, into the wild blue yonder. He stopped, secretly pleased at not having to dispose of his new toy.
"So you mean it." He blinked. "Interesting."
"You were gone and it--frankly, it sucked. Gave me time to think, though. Really crappy thoughts, too, you'll be pleased to know. Like putting together all the evidence of what an insane control freak I've been."
House watched in silence as Wilson leaned on the wall and shifted about, in obvious and well-deserved discomfort. If this had been a mere apology, he would've walked away before Wilson could prattle on. Wilson's apologies were plentiful, cheap, and he had already collected far too many. This, however, was beginning to look less like an apology and more like a surrender.
"I kept--doing dumb things for you, and to you, because I was scared of what would happen if I didn't. And I thought you were the one that didn't trust."
"Wasn't as if I went out of my way to earn it." He wasn't looking at Wilson; he was rolling the little jewel-bike back and forth on the top of the wall. The feel of its movement was soothing.
"You shouldn't have to earn someone's trust to just live your own life, House. That should be a given."
It should be, thought House, but if your best friend's about to go real-life skydiving with an imaginary parachute, you still have to make him stop. He knew what Wilson meant, though. He wasn't talking about the big stuff, the things he couldn't have avoided. Not the deal with Tritter, even, because they both really knew that Wilson's betrayal had been a matter of life and death. Wilson was talking about the smaller, somehow more important things. The nagging and lectures and covert manipulations that Wilson had always done and was always regretting. But there was no need to drag through all that again, now.
"What should be a given, if you really mean all this garbage, is Thai food, extra spicy, to your hungry and freshly sober friend."
They were already turning to go inside, their autopilot systems guiding them toward dinner.
"Thai. Okay, that I can do. What, you're not also demanding beer?"
"Not for a while yet, tragically." He leaned on his cane and offered his best Poor Me expression. "Some crap about learning how to function without it. They never said anything about curry, though." He grinned. "The peppers induce pain, trigger the release of endorphins. You can really get a buzz."
"You can, because you're insane and you eat stuff that qualifies as radioactive waste. But how am I supposed to tolerate your company if I can't drink? No fair."
"Shoulda thought that through before you blabbed to the cop."
"I did. I thought you'd never speak to me again, so it wouldn't be an issue."
"Foolish mortal," he scoffed, "Like I'd make your life that easy. Anyway, I never said you couldn't have a beer. You won't, though, because unlike me, you don't enjoy torturing people. You do it on accident and then feel bad. It's much more fun my way." He suspected he'd have skipped the beers, too, if things had been reversed, but there was no way in hell he'd tell Jimmy that.
By then they had gimped through House's office, heading into the vacant hall. House paused and held the tiny bike aloft. "The Franklin Mint presents its latest limited-edition offering," he announced, in his smarmiest Shopping Channel tone. "A beautifully detailed manifestation of the fears of Doctor James Wilson, lovingly handcrafted by the children of Taiwan's finest sweatshops. Order now and make just seventy-eight easy payments." They laughed, and House slipped Wilson's fears back into his pocket. The working wheels and kickstand really were pretty cool, and better yet the bike was exactly his style, sporty and sleek, with the maker's name etched clearly onto the tank:
Triumph.