June 2007

On Friday afternoon, Wilson was paged to the fourth floor lounge. House was waiting for him when he arrived, guarding the foosball table against interlopers.

"And in pastels, we have the challenger James Wilson, representing Oncology. Give it up for the Patron Saint of Lost Causes."

Wilson rolled his eyes, but danced around the table, clasping his hands above his head like a victorious prizefighter. "What does that make you?" he asked, when he took his place opposite House. "The King of Cures? The Emperor of Asses?"

"I'm about to kick your ass at foosball," House replied. "Which makes me Absolute Ruler of the Table."

It wasn't much of an accomplishment. As far as he knew, no one else would play against House, and Wilson was the first to admit that he was a crappy foosball player. He'd never been any good at switching rows quickly, and his reactions always seemed to be just a split second too late to get a hard shot off. He owned House at air hockey, though. House had no defence against a left-hand shot. They hadn't played since Wilson shut him out two years ago. The foosball table had appeared in the lounge shortly afterwards, coincidentally not long after House had borrowed 500 from him.

"What's up?" Wilson asked. "Did you need a break from hours of doing nothing? I know how exhausting that can be." Eventually Cuddy would realize House had no intention of hiring a new team on his own, and she would start applying the screws. But until then, House seemed happy to keep his version of regular office hours, whiling away the time playing his guitar, watching his soaps in Coma Guy's room, and annoying Wilson.

House responded by rolling the ball into play and scoring before Wilson had a chance to grab the handles. "1-0 for the good guys," he said.

"Only because you cheated," Wilson protested.

"I don't need to cheat to win," House said. "It just makes it happen faster." He reached around and retrieved the ball from beneath Wilson's goal.

Wilson stepped back from the table. "Oh, well. If you're in a hurry, I can just stand here and let you shoot uncontested."

"And that's different from how you normally play?"

"You know, just because you have nothing better to do than insult me, doesn't mean I have time to listen."

"And yet you're here," House pointed out. "You couldn't have thought I called you for a consult."

"Because that would imply you had a patient." Wilson rubbed the back of his neck. It had been a long day--a long week--and it was a struggle just to keep up with House, much less outwit him. "Are you going to play or not?"

"I don't play," House said, rolling the ball back into play and getting a shot off that just missed the goal. "I conquer."

Wilson managed to trap the ball in his midfield, but when he released it, the ball rolled sideways, and his shot went wide. "The floor's tilted," he complained, unsuccessfully trying a one-time shot from his left wing.

House knocked the ball back into Wilson's end, onto an attacker, and into the goal. "2-0. Man, you suck."

"The first goal doesn't count," Wilson protested. He snatched the ball out of his goal before House could pick it up again. "It didn't touch any of my players. Competition rules."

"A competition requires two people," House retorted. "So far, I appear to be the only one actually competing. 2-0."

"Fine," Wilson said, tossing the ball to House. "Play with yourself." He wandered over to the coffee machine and looked for a cup that wasn't hosting a biological experiment.

"You're pissy today," House commented, sounding vaguely pleased. "What's the matter? No needy nurses to chat up? No cancer chicks to shack up with? That hotel room must be getting pretty lonely."

"At least I have patients," Wilson replied, though he realized it wasn't much of a comeback. House could always outscore him, no matter what game they played. "Not to mention women who are willing to sleep with me without credit card authorization."

"Because risking your career and taking advantage of a dying woman is so much better than paying for sex."

Guilt curled like wisps of smoke in Wilson's gut. He hadn't taken advantage of Grace, at least not consciously, but he couldn't deny that he had gained as much from the affair--such as it was--as Grace had. He had only wanted to help her, but by helping he had started to heal the wound to his self-esteem that Julie's infidelity had inflicted. He knew it wasn't healthy, but it was the only way he knew. "Well, this has been fun," he said evenly. "I'll go back to trolling for patients now."

He abandoned the quest for coffee and headed for the door. House cut him off, placing his cane across the doorway as a barrier. "It's not so fun when you're on the other end of the lecture, is it?"

Wilson slumped against the wall. "You don't lecture, House, you criticize and belittle. Can you save it for a day when I haven't had an eight-year-old girl slip into a coma or a newlywed go into renal failure?"

"I'm not patient enough to wait that long," House replied. "Job isn't that patient." He tossed the ball back to Wilson, who caught it instinctively, bobbling it a bit before closing his hand around it. "But your last two patients today are good news appointments. You might as well get out your frustration on the foosball table so you can actually smile when you tell them they're not going to die."

Wilson wasn't smiling yet, but only because he didn't want to give House the satisfaction. "How do you know they're good news appointments?"

"You never tell people they're dying on Friday. You discuss treatment plans at the end of the day, so that your patients don't have to worry about being rushed through the options, and you leave them with good news at the end of the week so that they can enjoy their weekend." He gestured to the table. "So get back here and lose like a man."

"You make it sound so fun," Wilson said, but he walked back to the table. House was right. Even if he lost, the game was a good stress reliever.

House tried not to smirk with satisfaction and failed. "Let's make it more interesting," he suggested. "Every goal you score, I'll give you 20."

Wilson waited for the catch. House would bet on anything, but he usually had an inside line.

"Every goal I score, you answer a question," House concluded.

The stakes weren't exactly even. Twenty dollars didn't mean all that much to Wilson, but answers were like lifeblood to House. And yet, Wilson would far more willingly give up answers than House would ever give up money, so perhaps it balanced after all.

"Show me the money first." Wilson knew from experience that House would conveniently forget any debt that wasn't paid off immediately.

House rolled his eyes and pulled out his wallet. "Game's to five," he said, and fanned out five 20 bills for Wilson to see. "We'll start over."

But Wilson thought he might as well get it over with. His first good news appointment was in just under an hour. "The second goal can stand. Do you want to ask your first question now or save them all up for a single bombardment?"

"I've never been one for delayed gratification," House said, and pretended to think, though Wilson knew he was just reviewing his mental Rolodex of mysteries. House was never at a loss for questions. "Let's start with an oldie but goodie. Get you warmed up." He stared down at the table, no longer smirking confidently. "Why didn't you move back in after Grace went to Florence?"

Wilson's first instinct was to laugh in disbelief, but he could tell by House's body language that he was serious. "I know I never thanked you properly for taking me in," he said carefully. "It was exactly what I needed at the time." And it was. House had always been a refuge for him--one with bars on the windows and hidden trap doors, but a refuge nonetheless. "But you were right. I had to accept that my marriage was over and move on."

"Let me know when you actually do that," House retorted. "Because living in a hotel is like being permanently in transit."

It was more like being permanently in limbo, but Wilson didn't correct House, because he wasn't entirely wrong. It was only supposed to have been temporary while he and Julie worked out the details of the divorce. But it was easy, and it was convenient, and weeks had turned into months without him even noticing. "And sleeping on a couch is a better idea?"

House shrugged, but Wilson knew the answer had been accepted. "Let's play," House muttered, gesturing for Wilson to drop the ball.

Wilson scored first, a fluke goal that glanced off House's defender and trickled into the net. He scored again on a turnover, getting off a hard shot before House had a chance to move his goalie. He relaxed slightly, starting to feel confident, which was always a mistake with House. Two quick flicks of the wrist, a rebound, and House had tied the game. This time he declined to ask his question immediately, and Wilson wondered what he was planning. His confidence evaporated and so did his concentration, and it took less than ten minutes for House to score the final three goals.

"Question time!" House exclaimed gleefully. He leaned against the table, taking some of the pressure off his right leg. "Let's try a new approach today. How does a nice upper-middle-class family end up with one son missing and another so pathetically desperate to please he'd go to jail for someone?"

"It is a mystery," Wilson agreed. "Especially for such an ungrateful bastard."

"Your Honour, the witness is avoiding the question."

"If I knew the answer, I wouldn't be spending my paycheque on alimony and therapist's bills. Not to mention bail money and shiny new toys for you." But he'd always known the problem. It was the solution that wasn't easy to identify.

"How about I give it a shot," House suggested, as if he were Nero Wolfe gathering the suspects for the grand revelation. "You spend more time at the office than you do at home--such as it is. I'm guessing you learned that behaviour from Papa Joe. And from the way he was ogling the bridesmaids at your last wedding, I bet that's not the only bad habit you picked up from him."

Wilson pursed his lips. He wasn't about to confirm or deny House's speculations and give him more information. House could pick him apart to his heart's content, but he wasn't about to subject his family to House's relentless probing.

"That doesn't explain the caretaker mentality, though," House continued. "You try to fix damaged women, which means Mommy issues."

Wilson wondered if that made House a damaged woman or if he just considered himself an anomaly. "It's so much more fun when you get to ask the questions and answer them, isn't it?" he commented.

House ignored him. "I've watched Desperate Housewives. What was it? Pills? Too many cocktails while the kids were at school? Shtupping the pool boy?"

Wilson took a deep breath and tried not to show how much the question had hurt. "Peter's already squealed about the sleeping pills, and it only happened that once. She drank as much as anybody did in the '70s, maybe even less. And as far as I know, my father was her first and only lover." Wilson had said all he intended on the subject of his mother. "That was question three, by the way."

House frowned, but didn't seem too concerned. They both knew the five questions were only a temporary constraint. "We'll leave the dysfunctional parents for now and go for the big money. What was the worst thing your brother ever did?"

That was the easiest question of all. "He left," Wilson said flatly.

"Really? Because I'm thinking that was the best thing he could have done."

"Of course you would," Wilson retorted. "You'd like to think there's a statute of limitations on caring about someone."

House pushed himself upright and stalked around the table. "Yeah, he was great to have around." He poked Wilson on the back of the head and then grabbed Wilson's right arm and pushed up his sleeve until the faint outline of an old scar could be seen. "He did that to you, didn't he? The last time you saw him?"

Wilson pulled away and stepped back, putting a safer distance between House and himself. "Is that a question? Because I wouldn't want you to waste your last one if it was just rhetorical."

"Here's the question." House tilted his head so he was looking directly at Wilson, but his bright blue eyes were shadowed. "Why would you want anything to do with someone who hurt you like that?"

It didn't take a genius to hear the question behind the words. Wilson thought carefully before he answered. "I could ask you the same thing," he said finally.

"I'm the one asking the questions," House replied, but the shadows retreated. "You're the one supposed to be answering."

Wilson looked away. "Maybe because some love is unconditional, no matter how much it's bent or broken. Maybe because the good outweighs the bad and makes it all worthwhile." He wasn't entirely certain he believed that about Michael any more, but it didn't matter. House had never been interested in his brother as anything other than a proxy.

House was nodding as if Wilson had confirmed something he already knew, and Wilson had his own answer.