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1998
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Following the first divorce, Wilson began pushing himself harder on the runs. He entered more and more road races, collecting medals for good showings in everything from 5K fun runs to a hilly 20K. Sometimes House joined him -- in training if not in the actual competition. He'd had enough of that in high school and college, both track and cross country as well as training for lacrosse. Now, he told Wilson, he ran solely for his own enjoyment, and took note of his times just to prove something to himself. How he measured up against others, he said, didn't matter.
House stuck with Wilson's increased pace and mileage in training, though, knowing that the long conversations kept Wilson's inner thoughts off the legal ending of his marriage at least for a short time. The distances, he assumed, would fall back into more leisurely ones once Wilson no longer needed to exhaust himself just to get a good night's sleep.
At the hospital, Wilson volunteered to take the toughest cases. Those that were emotionally draining -- dying babies and the good people suffering with no good alternatives -- reminded him that his divorce was nothing compared to the lives his patients faced. The most confusing to diagnose and treat presented him with puzzles to keep his mind occupied.
More and more often, Wilson would talk those cases over with House, using him as a sounding board while also looking into avenues House might suggest. Even if House had no immediate thoughts on the case, he generally knew about some obscure medical journal that had addressed it.
House, meanwhile, would talk over his more interesting cases with Wilson and found that the oncologist had an innate ability to connect dots that others rarely saw.
He also found, to his surprise, that his friendship with Wilson somehow boosted his own image at PPTH. House knew his medical abilities had always been respected, but now the staff actually began to seek him out, ask his opinions on their own bizarre cases.
"What the hell have you been telling people?" House shouted from halfway across the cafeteria on the day he'd chased two residents from his office and ducked another three by making a fast turn into the stairway.
"Just in the past five minutes or are you looking at a wider time frame?" Wilson leaned back in his chair as two other doctors and a nurse at his table picked up their trays and left. "Because my mother says I was a real motor mouth when I was three, and I'd need time to track down those conversations."
"I've spent a lot of time building up my reputation, and you're ruining it." House nabbed a handful of french fries off Wilson's tray as he sat down.
"I was eating those," Wilson protested. "And what reputation? The one that you're a complete ass?"
"That's the one. I've spent a lot of years on it."
"I didn't think you cared what people thought about you." Wilson grabbed his soft drink cup away, before House could take a drink.
"I don't care what they think of my medical decisions," House clarified. "But if they start thinking I've got a soft and chewy center, they start thinking it's fine to talk to me."
"And that would be bad?"
"Precisely."
"Exchanging pleasantries with your peers is a bad thing?"
"You think McIntyre is actually my equal?"
Wilson considered the concept for a moment before answering.
"As a doctor? Well, no. He gives Caribbean medical schools a bad reputation, so you've definitely got him there," he conceded. "But on the other hand, he's generally pleasant to talk to, so that's one in his favor."
"Exactly. You find him not inoffensive, he finds you not inoffensive, and then somehow that miniscule brain of his puts two and two together and begins to think that if you're inoffensive and spend time with me, that somehow I must also be inoffensive."
"What did he do, try to talk to you?"
House didn't answer.
"Seriously."
Still no reply.
"He talked to you."
"He wanted to."
Now Wilson was the one to hold his silence.
"I can tell these things. There's this look ..."
"Seriously, man, have you finally gone insane or have I? Must be one of us, because if I understand this correctly you're pissed as hell because someone looked at you?"
"Not just someone," House protested. "McIntyre."
Wilson opened his mouth, but could find no words.
"OK, so maybe I can put up with the friendly chitchat without my brains beginning to ooze out of my ears, but it's not just that."
"Please continue," Wilson closed his eyes, rubbed at his temples trying to ease the headache that had suddenly announced its presence.
"He and the other half-wits have gotten it into their heads that I can solve their cases," House protested. "And it's your fault."
"First off, my fault? And second, may I remind you that you bitch whenever there's a decent case you don't get to butt in on?"
"Of course it's your fault. It's that damn JAMA article of yours."
"I thought you liked that article," Wilson interrupted. "Hell, you were the one who told me to submit it."
"Submit it, sure, but ever since they saw that I consulted on your case, every ambitious resident in the hospital sees me as their ticket to publishing their own paper," House said.
"And that would bad."
"Of course it would." House paused in mid-fry theft and studied Wilson. "Oh don't do that."
"What now?"
"That. Get that look on your face. All wide eyed and innocent. Makes me feel like I've just kicked a puppy. They're idiots. Ninety percent of the residents out there couldn't find their own asses in a house of mirrors if they used both hands. You're not an idiot. You did good work on that case. You deserve the attention."
"But I couldn't have done it without your help," Wilson protested. "What makes them so different?"
"There's a difference between asking for a consult when you need information, and wanting someone else to do the work for you," House insisted. "You do your own homework. You know what you're doing. A good three-quarters of the calls I get are from people who could figure it out themselves if they'd just care to put in an effort on their own."
He paused, looked Wilson straight in the eye. An intense gaze Wilson neither wanted -- nor could -- look away from.
"They annoy me. You don't."
Wilson blinked. Considered the words. Blinked again.
"Uh, thanks?"
"You're welcome."
Neither man said anything for a few moments. House watched the television across the room for a bit. Wilson finished what fries were left, then tidied his tray.
"So if anyone asks, I should deny talking to you?" he asked.
"I wouldn't go that far," House said. He rose from the seat, tossed a few used napkins onto Wilson's tray. "Tell them anything you like. Just make sure they stay away."
"Play up your finer qualities, then." Wilson grabbed his tray, carried it over to the trash bin and sorted out the plates from the garbage. "Point out that you're a condescending bastard who thinks he's better than they are and can't wait to provide them with precise examples of their ineptitude."
House nodded. "That should do it."
"What if they've actually got a decent case?" Wilson questioned as they walked together out of the cafeteria.
"Then send 'em my way. Or better yet, just get the information from them and give it to me."
"Why am I picturing a Wizard of Oz scenario?" Wilson asked as he waited with House near the elevators. "Except instead of paying no attention to the man behind the curtain, you're hiding behind me?"
A bell rang and the elevator door opened. House stepped in while Wilson waited behind, headed instead for the clinic.
"Stick to oncology, Wilson," he called just before the doors closed. "You'd make a lousy psychiatrist."