It was a gaudy box, to say the least. The dancing smiley-faces and stuck on pieces of silver confetti didn't seem to Wilson like a House sort of gift box, if there ever happened to be one, but it was the first one that he saw in the card store, and it looked innocent enough to pass the hulking therapy program aide without suspicion. It was the gift inside that counted, was it not? He attempted to convince himself of this fact as he bathed his item in the sea of silver tissue wrapping that came with the box. It wasn't an awkward shape, so folding and taping it wasn't an issue, but Wilson found himself wondering why he was bothering taping it at all. The recipient definitely couldn't care for niceties such as not ripping paper; he would undoubtedly destroy the tissue like a child on Christmas morning.
Why was he even bothering with this type of gift at all? He never wore them normally. But Wilson enjoyed ties and the detached, responsible air they gave to professional situations. He had been glad in so many confrontations with patients to have been wearing one, because as gentle and compassionate an oncologist as James Wilson attempted to be, he still needed to distance himself slightly from the people he treated, maintain that sliver of space, not quite allow himself to process their hollow eye sockets and paper-thin skin. Even he knew that his sensitivity for dying people, forcibly stiffened after over ten years of squinting at cancer on screens and detailing chemo treatments, always cracked when he went home for the weekend knowing that three less people existed. Even now, it left him feeling defeated, watery, and wanting to hug his cotton pillow. Wearing jeans and fleece jackets would make him feel like somebody's dad or brother, and Wilson was determined that his Zyprexa prescription deserved to stay gathering dust at the back of his cupboard.
Maybe if the defendant happened to be wearing a tie, the reckless, misanthropic drug user image would be harder to visualize and maybe he would have a better chance in Friday's courtroom. Besides, although it was House's fault that he and Vicodin were deeply committed to each other, he wasn't interested in playing Crazy Eights with the other detoxees and the process had to be extremely painful. Wilson sighed, sliding the tie into its garish home and exiting his office, the glass door reminding him that House, in contrast to the seven year old with no mom, probably didn't deserve to get presents.