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2004
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House lobbed the ball at the glass partition between his office and the conference room. It bounced off with a thud, the angle bringing it back to his hands.
Another throw.
Thud.
Another throw.
Thud.
Another throw.
Thud.
The door swung open, Cameron sticking her head through the opening. "Did you want something?"
"Told you it'd work," House said, holding out his hand to Wilson across the desk. "Ten bucks."
"Fine, but I still say it'd be easier just to speak up and ask one of them to come in."
"Easier, yes. But this is more entertaining."
Cameron just let the door close back behind her as she returned to the computer.
"Ten bucks." House wiggled of the outstretched hand and Wilson shifted in his chair to pull out his wallet, looking inside.
"I've only got a twenty," he said. "How about if I pay for lunch instead?"
House sighed, pulled his arm back across the desk and leaned back in his chair. "Including dessert."
"Fine. Let's go. I'm hungry."
"You expect me to accept cafeteria food as payment?"
"Yes, 'cause that's all I have time for. Unlike you, I have patients who expect me to drop in every once in a while." Wilson rose from his seat and waited for House to respond.
"That's just because you haven't trained them right." House didn't bother getting up. Instead he picked up the ball again. "Sit down, take it easy. I'll have Cameron pick us up some lunch." He cocked his arm back to toss the ball at the wall again.
"I'm not in that much of a hurry." Wilson grabbed the ball out of House's hand before he could let it fly. "And don't try telling me you are either. Chase is working on his second crossword of the day."
"In a hurry, no," House conceded, "but the great unwashed humanity down in the caf at lunchtime leaves me feeling dirty by association."
"C'mon, let's go." Wilson tried another tactic. "Aren't you getting tired of staring at the walls in here?"
"You might not have noticed this, but the walls are made of glass. The scenery always changes."
Wilson sighed and dropped back into his chair. House had never been sociable, barely tolerating patients and doctors alike, but he'd been curious enough to get out long enough to keep tuned in to the rumor mill, see if there was anyone -- or anything -- interesting out there.
But in August, House had been hanging out near the ER, checking out the new students. A first year, shirt neatly pressed, his short, white lab coat still gleaming, had seen him sitting there, bouncing his cane. He obviously hadn't noticed that everyone else ignored House, and had mistaken him for a patient.
He'd stepped up, anxious to put his full three hours of experience in the ER to work, and wouldn't take no for an answer. Wilson would have given him credit for standing up to a belligerent House at that point, if the kid hadn't grabbed House's arm in an effort to assist him at the same moment House himself had decided he'd had enough and was pushing himself up to leave.
House managed to retain his balance, but the whole incident created enough of a scene that it was the focus of hospital gossip for three days. The kid had received a lecture on recognizing his limitations and House had taken to avoiding some of the more public areas of the hospital.
"Well maybe I want a change in scenery," Wilson said, still not ready to give up on a cafeteria stop.
House leaned forward again, raised his eyebrows at Wilson. "I knew you were hot for the new cashier. What is it with you and blondes?"
"She's got to be at least 60," Wilson protested. "Her hair color comes out of a bottle."
"As if a little peroxide ever stopped you before."
Wilson considered his possibilities. If he went down to the cafeteria anyway, he'd be sure to find a colleague to sit with and share some pleasant conversation. But he doubted House would give in and follow him down there, and talking with House was always a good distraction.
His new work as department director -- on top of his committee and board positions -- ate up far too much of his time. He'd had to cut back on actually seeing many patients, taking only the most high profile or difficult cases and leaving the others to his staff.
Once Wilson cherished the clinic hours because they gave him a chance to meet with people who were easily treatable, no life or death issues at stake, no grueling uncertain and difficult treatments to consider. Now they were sometimes the only moments he had to remind himself of being an actual, hands-on doctor.
It wasn't that he regretted his move up the administrative ladder. Since accepting the post, he'd found it actually gave him a greater ability to influence more lives. He could work with the other oncologists on treatment plans, and match incoming referrals to the right subspecialty. And he had the freedom to step in and help House with his cases, whether that meant serving as a sounding board for the team of diagnosticians -- or more frequently House himself -- or by assigning himself the oncology consult whenever it was requested.
Wilson found he was good at the balance of physician and administrator, but sometimes, he wasn't quite certain if he should consider his friendship with House as just another administrative responsibility -- that of keeping the volatile specialist satisfied until his skills were needed again.
"Fine," Wilson said, mentally considering the cafeteria's offerings. He pulled a $20 bill out of his wallet. "We'll let Cameron get our lunch."
"Unless you think that's sexist, having the woman cater to us," House said. "I could send Chase instead."
"I don't have the time to wait until Chase flirts with every woman between the cafeteria and here."
House raised his eyebrows. "Glass houses, Wilson," he warned.
They ordered sandwiches -- House adding an order of fries and chocolate cake, Wilson settling for a bag of chips -- and Cameron headed out with Wilson's cash in her hand. As the door to the conference room closed behind her, Wilson could hear Chase say: "as long as you're heading down there," but it closed before he could make out Chase's order.
Wilson considered the room. House had set himself up comfortably there: lounge chair, reference books, TV, stereo equipment. With regular food deliveries, he could probably hibernate in his office, with only the occasional bathroom break. He was sure the same thought had occurred to House.
House had said often enough that he wanted everyone to leave him alone: He said it to Cuddy when she tried another tactic to get him to fulfill his clinic hours, to Cameron when she'd first started and kept asking what she should do, to Wilson himself if he nagged House to take better care of himself, and to Stacy, who actually did.
He had plenty of reasons to cut himself off, Wilson mused as House flicked on the TV, starting a running commentary on the latest plaintiffs on "The People's Court."
House rarely mentioned his family, and as far as Wilson knew he hadn't kept in touch with anyone from high school or college. He wasn't surprised by that. Even as an adult, the combination of his outsized intelligence and prickly personality put most people off before they ever got a chance to know him. The thought of a 16-year-old House with that brain and those verbal gymnastic skills might have scared him off too.
When Stacy left, their small circle of shared friends sided with her.
He was an outsider at the hospital, where his specialized department didn't have students or residents going through a rotation. Most other department directors resented his freedom to pick and choose which cases he'd take.
The lacrosse players, the golfers and the other athletes House once socialized with at least on occasion disappeared after the infarction.
And then there was the leg itself. Beyond the fact that many people didn't know how to react to his disability, beyond House's own unwillingness to be treated differently, beyond the mood changes that ebbed and flowed with the Vicodin -- it quite simply did cut him off from the rest of the world.
Just as it limited how far he could walk , it also limited his other travel choices. House could drive well enough for short periods, but there wasn't much room to move when he was behind the wheel, so at best, he could drive himself for maybe a half-hour or 45 minutes.
If House was a passenger, he could take it a little longer, say an hour or 90 minutes of steady shifting in his seat, before he'd ask Wilson to pull over so he could stretch and work out stiffening muscles. Not that he'd put it that way, of course. "Gotta pee," he'd say, pointing to an upcoming rest area. Or he'd demand Wilson pull off so they could sample and complain about whatever the latest fast food sandwich trend was, House quoting the commercial highlights, adding his own tart commentary.
There was room to move on the train, but the constant motion threw him off balance, and the missing muscle didn't allow him to adjust to the side-to-side swaying, forcing him to stick to his seat or risk a very public fall.
Wilson had been with him on the first flight he'd made since the infarction. It was during the short six months of the diagnostics department's pilot program, when House was anxious to garner attention for it, and agreed to give a keynote on interdepartmental cooperation at an international oncology conference in Toronto. He'd also have a chance to meet with a possible donor , although it was clear from the outset that Wilson would do the talking at that meeting.
Wilson picked up House at his condo. He had already agreed to check his bag, which was a big concession on its own considering the way House used to travel, able to squeeze a week's worth of clothing into one small carry-on.
The few steps he took to the car -- the bag bumping against his back, his briefcase hanging from the other shoulder and trying to manipulate the cane and the door -- made it clear that he had no choice.
With traffic, it was nearly an hour from Princeton to the airport in Newark where they would grab a direct flight. They checked in and checked their bags, House glaring at the clerk when she asked if he'd need any assistance and Wilson politely declining for him.
There was more security than the last time House had flown, and Wilson saw the worry flash across his face when he heard the announcement that everyone would have to remove their shoes before passing through the metal detector.
"Let me handle this," he said, cutting across the lines at House's approving nod. Wilson sidled up to a security officer waiting for passengers in the first class area, relying on a combination of charm and his hospital identification to allow them to bypass the standard lines. They still had the full security shakedown, but House didn't have to struggle with his shoes in the middle of a crowd.
At least they were in the right terminal once they passed through security. Even on a midweek morning, the Newark airport was hectic. There were parents with babies in strollers, and children running across the waiting rooms. Men and women in business suits, working on laptops in the few quiet corners or rushing past with one hand clutching a cell phone, the other a rolling suitcase.
House stepped cautiously onto the moving walkway, then braced himself against the handrail, his cane held in his left hand creating a barrier between himself and other passengers walking past.
Their flight was scheduled to leave from the far end of the terminal, and they had more than an hour to spare. On another day, Wilson would have stopped in at a newsstand, and killed time by flipping through a few magazines. Now he figured they'd just concentrate on getting there first.
"New coffee joint," House pointed out.
"It opened a couple of years ago," Wilson confirmed. "It's overpriced, but not too bad if you're desperate."
"How desperate?"
"More desperate than I am just now." Wilson waited while House pushed himself away from the rail as they neared the end of the walkway. He carefully timed a step forward with his left foot onto the granite floor, quickly moving his right leg up to join it, then transferred the cane to his right hand. Wilson stood just behind him, providing a buffer between House and the other passengers squeezing past.
"For God's sake, would you just move?" one woman in a gray suit muttered. "You'd think some people have never been at an airport."
She stepped to the left, around Wilson and past them both. Wilson saw House clench his jaw. "There's still that Starbuck's cart down at the end of the concourse," Wilson offered. "We can grab some caffeine there if you want."
"Sure," House said. "Fine." He pushed on more quickly, avoiding the next walkway to skirt along the left side of the terminal.
At the gate, House sank into one of the seats and stretched both legs out while Wilson went for coffee. Wilson handed him two sugar packets with the coffee, then dropped down next to House.
"I hate airports," he said.
"At least they're good for business," House said. "Nearly as good a petri dish as the planes themselves."
"Good for your business maybe. Cancer still hasn't mutated to an airborne disease." Wilson lowered his voice to avoid being overheard, but the woman seated a row over still gave him a strange look. He shook out a section of the New York Times to avoid her gaze.
"Oh relax. She'll never see you again."
"You want a section of this or not?"
"I'll save it for the flight, unless those flight magazine crossword puzzles have improved over the past few years."
Wilson just folded the paper and kept reading.
House had tried to use his frequent flier miles to bump up to at least business class, but with no success. He'd agreed to the presentation at the last minute, and the only direct flights available offered him few choices. At least Wilson had been able to ensure House had an aisle seat.
The flight itself was relatively short, only 90 minutes out of Newark, but with the new security rules in place, they'd spend nearly another 30 minutes in their seats on the ground. Wilson could see House shifting uneasily in his chair before the plane had even pushed away from the gate. House took another Vicodin, and Wilson mentally added it to the one he'd seen him take in the car.
House sat through the safety checks and takeoff with his eyes closed. They were still moving up toward cruising altitude when House shifted again, using his hand to help move his leg out into the aisle. He fished out the magazine and finished off the crossword puzzle, then pulled his Gameboy out of his pocket.
Wilson settled in with his notes, going over his own presentation, the beeps and chirps of House's game blending with sounds of the engines into a familiar background noise. He jerked up, though, when he heard House breathe in quickly, a young man muttering an apology as he continued to make his way back to the bathroom.
House reached over and pulled his leg back in and under the chair in front of him when he spotted more passengers bound for the bathroom. He looked like he had almost found a comfortable spot when the woman seated in front of him eased her seat back, the tray table brushing at House's knees.
"You doing OK?"
"Peachy." House grunted. He reclined his own seat back before turning the game back on, "Remind me again why its so important I feel compassion to my fellow human beings?"
Wilson watched him for a moment longer, then went back to his work, knowing his attention would only irritate House more.
When the drinks cart came by Wilson just asked for some water. House said he'd pass.
"You sure?" The attendant was using the same sympathetic voice that some of the nurses on the oncology floor affected when dealing with a difficult patient,."I could leave you something in case you change your mind."
"I'm pretty certain I've already told you I don't want anything," House said in a low voice. "I'm not going to change my mind just because you keep asking. Go peddle your punch somewhere else."
Wilson gave the woman a smile and raised his eyebrows in a friendly gesture as she handed him his glass.
"Don't apologize for me, Wilson," House said, stabbing at the game controls to turn it off. "I'm capable of doing that for myself if it's needed."
"God knows you're capable of acting like an ass," Wilson murmured back. "She was just trying to be nice."
House ignored him, pushing himself back into the seat again, using his arms to alter the pressure on his lower body, bracing them against the arm rests.
Wilson went back to his papers, trying to give House some kind of space, even if he there was none actually available. He looked back up when he heard the seat belt unbuckle and saw that House was reaching down for his cane.
"You sure that's a good idea?" Wilson knew how painful it could be for House to sit for long in one position, especially a cramped one, but also knew moving in the cramped aisle wouldn't be much better.
"No, it's not," House admitted. "Better than the alternative though."
"Which would be?"
"Keep taking Vicodin until I pass out."
House pushed himself up out of the seat, using the arm rests and the top edge of his neighbor's seat, earning himself a glare of disapproval. Wilson watched him move slowly toward the back, keeping the cane close to his right side, the other hand on the seats on the left side of the aisle, making steady, if slow, progress.
Wilson turned away again, but then tossed his papers aside as he felt the shudder of turbulence. He heard House's cane drop to the floor as House grabbed the seats on either side of him for support. Then Wilson was there to add his own arm at House's armpit for more support as the turbulence worsened and the plane shook.
"You hanging in there?" Wilson asked softly, satisfied with House's nod. "We'll just wait this out a minute."
The turbulence faded, but they remained in place a moment longer to be sure.
"Back to the seat?" Wilson made sure House was steady before he stepped back and leaned down to pick up the cane.
House hesitated a moment before taking it. "The galley's closer." He stepped off cautiously with his right leg, a small step with the cane tucked in close to his leg, then finally moved his left leg forward, letting loose his white-knuckled grip on the seat.
Wilson tried to ignore the people waiting behind him to get to the bathrooms, while House seemed to pay no attention to the man in front of him waiting for him to pass.
When they finally made it to the end of the aisle, past the bathrooms and into the galley, one of the flight attendants who had watched their progress flipped down a jump seat built into the wall. House dropped himself down into it, his hands shaking slightly as he gripped his cane. Wilson nodded his thanks to the attendant, who made himself busy at the other end of the galley.
"Guess I should have gone with Plan B," House said, dropping his forehead down onto the handle of his cane.
By the time they made it Toronto, House was feeling bad enough that he accepted a ride on a passing maintenance trolley.
Things weren't any better on the flight back. House never talked about his travel issues, but he also refused every invitation to speak since then that involved travel.
Conference organizers would pull Wilson aside at events, ask his advice on how to convince House to come -- to just put in an appearance. He would politely take their information, but explain that House was busy, and doubted he'd have room on his calendar.
Wilson was brought back to the present as he heard the door open and saw Cameron enter with drinks and food on a tray.
"I didn't know if you wanted regular or barbecue chips, so I brought both," Cameron told Wilson.
"It doesn't matter," Wilson said. "Why don't you take whichever one you want?"
"Oh no, that's OK. I'll take anything."
"No, really, go ahead."
"For God's sake." House grabbed the bag of barbecue chips and tossed them into a drawer.
Wilson rolled his eyes and took the remaining bag while Cameron just walked into the other room. He pulled apart the plastic wrap on his sandwich, tossing it in the garbage can, where it bounced off of several unopened envelopes. He recognized the logo on one of them.
"Nothing interesting in the mail?" he asked, pulling a few of the stained envelopes from the trash.
"Aren't you busy enough without resorting to dumpster diving?" House reached for the stack but Wilson pulled them out of his reach and leafed through them.
"That looks like the same invitation I got about the AMA's annual meeting in New York." Wilson said, waving one at House. He recognized some of the names and facilities on the return addresses, some of them from interoffice mail.
"I'm busy." House bit into his sandwich and turned the volume back up on the TV.
"They haven't confirmed the final schedule yet."
"Doesn't matter. Very busy."
"It's only in New York."
"Cuddy's even worried about how busy I am that week."
"Fine, but what's with these?" Wilson spread the other envelopes out on the desk.
"The show's starting." House looked away from the stack of mail.
"House, you haven't even opened these."
"Didn't have to." House grabbed the remote.
"Seriously, man, you should go through these."
"It's a system," House said and tossed them back in the trash. "If it's a worthwhile case, then they'll try again. If they don't, then it must not have been that difficult to figure out to begin with."
"And Chase and Cameron just kill time until you feel like taking a case?"
"They're not complaining."
"So after all the crap you've gone through to get this department up and running, you'd rather risk turning down legitimate cases rather than spend time actually seeing patients who don't interest you?"
"Pretty much, yeah." House turned the volume up. "I don't want to miss this part."
Wilson glanced at his watch and gathered up the remains of his lunch. He tossed the empty chip bag into the trash.
"Sometimes I think Cuddy's right. You are insane."
For the next few days, Wilson took to stopping by House's office on his way out and before the cleaning crew came by. He'd pull envelopes out of the trash, and read over them at home. House was right. Most of the requests were made out of sheer laziness. He could have handled three-quarters of them himself without even checking a reference -- or at least told the doctor where he could find the information for himself.
But there were a few that seemed interesting. The problem was in getting House's attention. When he was part of another department, House would have patients regularly assigned to him. Now he made his own decisions, and it was becoming clear that while the cases may have been of interest if he took them on, the actual process of finding them wasn't interesting at all.
Wilson couldn't say what he was looking for in House's garbage. Maybe a hint as to what would catch House's eye, some idea of what he could do to stop House from locking himself away and just waiting for cases to appear.
He was still debating the question nearly a month later when one of the second-year residents approached Wilson's table out at the courtyard. Wilson recalled the resident, Neumen, from his rotation in oncology. A solid if not exceptional physician. He had a file in his hands.
He was working in general medicine now, he explained, and he'd come across an odd case -- a 3-year-old girl first brought into the clinic with fever, vomiting and headaches. She'd gone on to develop stiff, painful joints.
"I take it you've checked for meningitis?"
Neumen nodded. "Now she's showing muscle weakness as well."
Wilson opened the file, trying to remember what seemed familiar about it.
"I was hoping you could get Dr. House to take a look," Neumen said. "I tried a couple of times so far, but didn't get any response."
That was it, Wilson remembered. One of the letters from House's trash. He'd skimmed it, but nothing stood out in particular.
"I've called, I've tried paging him, I've e-mailed, I've written a memo," Neumen continued. "Nothing."
"You could take it to his office yourself."
"I'm not that much of a masochist."
It was the same failing Wilson had seen in Neumen when he came through on his oncology rotation -- clever enough, bright enough, but unwilling to push himself by just that extra step he needed to become great.
"I'll see what I can do." Wilson tucked the file under his arm as he rose from the table. He grabbed his tray and headed back inside as Neumen went to another table to join some other residents.
House was working on a journal paper when Wilson stopped by his office a few hours later.
"Got a minute?" Wilson
House nodded, then stared at the file Wilson held across his desk. "What's up?"
"Someone asked me if I'd pass this on to you."
"You adding errand boy to your list of duties?"
"Only when it involves getting another beer from your refrigerator," Wilson said. "I ran into someone at lunch, a resident. He was busy and I told him I would be swinging by anyway."
House didn't look like he believed him, but took the file anyway.
"He said he'd already tried to talk to you a couple of other times, but couldn't get through your foolproof system." Wilson sat down as he watched House read through the first few pages. House's eyes narrowed. He started flipping quickly through the other pages.
"Cameron!" She appeared at his doorway seconds later. "Something's missing here." House held out the file and she stepped forward to take it. "No immunization records."
She opened the file and looked through the pages herself. "Nothing listed," she said.
"I believe I just said that. Go find the parents, get what you can on immunizations." House paused for a moment. "And ask if anyone's been out of the country lately."
"We got a case?" Chase asked from the doorway.
"Maybe," House said. "Go check out the kid yourself."
Chase nodded and was gone.
House turned his attention to Wilson. "Who gave you the file?"
"A resident, second year, Neumen," Wilson said. "What are you thinking?"
"Something he never would have seen before -- or anyone else, I expect." House limped over to his shelves and grabbed an old leather-bound book from the stack.
Wilson walked up to read over his shoulder. "Polio?"
"Last outbreak in the U.S. was in 1979," House confirmed. "In Pennsylvania. The Amish don't believe in immunizations."
House read over the information. "Neumen really should have asked for help."
"He did," Wilson said. "You weren't listening."
House looked up at Wilson, but didn't say anything.
Cameron was back within 15 minutes. No vaccinations, she said. The parents had been scared off by the stories about links between immunizations and autism.
"And what about travel?"
"The mother works for an NGO. She just got back from a fact-finding trip to Nigeria."
"Damn." House pushed himself up and grabbed his cane, stalking out of his office. "Where are the parents?"
"With their daughter."
"House, take it easy on them," Wilson warned. "They're probably pretty upset already."
"They should be." House stabbed at the elevator button.
They found Chase just stepping out of the girl's room. Wilson could see Neumen in the room with a young couple he supposed were the parents.
"She's been steady for the last few hours," Chase reported. "They're still afraid they'll have to put her on a ventilator."
"They still might," House said and entered the room, stepping up to the mother. "Where were you in Nigeria?"
She seemed surprised for a moment and looked at her husband and Neumen before answering. "All over," she said. "I work on an educational training program."
"You spent time in the classrooms? With kids?" She nodded.
"Who are ..." the husband started to ask, his arm around his wife. Neumen watched from his spot near the head of the bed.
"Your daughter has polio," House said. "It's endemic in Nigeria -- didn't you cross paths with the WHO eradication program officials when you were there?"
Wilson wished again that House would find a better way to deal with patients.
"But I'm not sick," the mother began. "I've been ..."
"Polio is highly infectious. You can be immune, but still be a carrier," House said, interrupting her with a tone in his voice that did nothing to hide his anger. "That's why we still have vaccinations for everyone." He turned to Chase. "Find Cuddy. Tell her we've got a polio case and we'll need to double check immunization records for everyone."
Chase left the room, and House turned his attention back to the parents. "What about your friends, any of them anti-vaccination idiots too?" They said nothing, but the father nodded. "We'll need to contact them as soon as possible, get their kids in for shots."
The girl stirred slightly and House watched her sleep for a moment.
"But now that you know what it is, you can help her, right?" the father looked hopefully at House.
"There is no cure for polio." House's voice had turned quiet, his anger apparently quelled for the moment. "We can only treat the symptoms, try to keep them from getting worse."
"Is she going to be paralyzed?" The mother was crying now, tears rolling down her face. Cameron handed her some tissues from a bedside box.
"Possibly." House watched the girl for a moment longer, then slid the door open, leaving the room, the patient and the parents behind.
-----
House didn't comment on the case he'd nearly missed, but Wilson noticed that when he checked House's garbage can after that, the envelopes had at least been opened.
There hadn't been any other polio cases, and House's team working with the general medicine department was able to keep the girl from getting worse. It still wasn't clear if she'd suffer permanent damage, though.
Wilson was surprised a few weeks later when House turned up his office one morning before rounds. He handed Wilson an envelope and settled into one of the guest chairs.
"What's this?" Wilson reached into the unsealed packet, pulling out a CV and letters of recommendation.
"Thought I'd get your opinion on something," House said.
"I didn't know you were hiring." Wilson looked over the papers.
"Neither did I." House leaned back, bounced his cane a few times. "I got this in the mail the other day from California. Seems Dr. Eric Foreman read a couple of my papers, and wanted to know if I had any openings."
"Impressive." Wilson noted. It was a very solid package. Top marks from top schools, currently finishing up one of the top fellowships in the country and looking for more. "He must not have asked too much about your leadership skills, though."
"It's not as if Chase and Cameron ever complain."
"They wouldn't." Wilson considered the information in his hands a moment longer, then considered House. "You've got funding for another fellowship?"
"As long as he's willing to work at the same scale as Cameron and Chase."
"Looks good," Wilson admitted. "But ..."
"But what? You worried about his background? Got that covered. It's quite interesting, actually."
"I'm sure it is, but he'd be a top candidate anywhere."
"So what, I should pass him up because he's too good? That's a different perspective."
"No. It's just that he doesn't seem the type who's going to be satisfied with your ... work schedule."
House didn't respond for a moment, bouncing his cane a few more times, then looked Wilson in the eye. "Maybe that's what I want."
"What, someone who's going to be pissed off all the time?"
"Someone who'll complain about it," House said. "It's not as if Chase and Cameron do."
"Cuddy does," Wilson noted. "You never listen to her."
"Ah, but she's an exceptional case. I think of our relationship as a finely-balanced one. If I were to start doing what she wanted, the whole of the universe could be thrown out of whack."
"Somehow I doubt your actual compliance with your required duties would have that much of an impact." Wilson handed the papers back to House.
"Ah, but you never know. I prefer to take the cautious approach."
"You've never been cautious about anything in your life."
"There's a first time for everything."