"Put two Yankees in a room together, and in an hour they will each have gained ten dollars from the other." —Jules Verne
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House drummed his fingers on the desk while he waited for Cuddy and Doctor Tenacious to arrive. What else could he find out before he met this Wilson guy face-to-face? The console's locator indicated they were waiting for the elevator. He dialed the speed of the car down by two-thirds, and released the override button so it would stop at every floor. He had well over two minutes.
Swiftly unlocking the bottom left-hand drawer, he gingerly placed a battered leather box upon the desk. A delicately carved silver key that hung from a chain around his neck released the cover and exposed the mechanism. House reverently stroked the glossy, black enamel with his fingertips. A rare Douglas Detector. What were the chances that some old bum, case tucked under his arm, would come shambling into the same bar he was, and offer it to him for the price of a drink?
The device resembled a small skeletal typewriter, but only a quarter of the size. House unwound the cord that wrapped around the legs and plugged it into the console. From a panel inside the cover he slid out a leaf of parchment, noting that there were only two pieces left. The ink only worked on sheepskin. He made a mental note to send Chase to the old ephemera shop downtown. The owner had a passion for antique diplomas. Fortunately for House, nobody else did. They sold for a song.
With a quick flick of the wrist, he spun the knob, and the roller grabbed the sheet. A tiny light on the keyboard glowed green.
The keys moved on their own like a player piano. Vellum filled with black print. He slipped on his glasses and began reading. And smiling.
Three marriages. Two divorces. A brother who was in and out of trouble. A scandalous presentation at a medical conference causing a career setback. This was information he could definitely use.
Then there was a loud snick. The ink cartridge had flipped to red. The current marriage was about to run off the rails. He raised an eyebrow. Another union, another parting of the ways. This Wilson was either a perennial romantic or in denial about his sexuality.
The machine continued to rattle away: Depression. Burnout. Illness. House frowned. The Douglas Detector was unbeatable but overly thorough. He'd forgotten how it could suck the fun out of snooping.
The ding of the elevator sounded. Hastily shutting off the machine, he slid it uncovered into the open drawer.
By the time his quarry stood in front of him, House was calmly flipping through the pages of the latest medical journal. He had decided against the Japanese issue. It might backfire on him and look like he was showing off.
There was the unmistakable sound of a man impatiently clearing his throat. House peered over his glasses. The black, white, and grays of the monitor had resolved into a palette of living color. Although idling in a neutral zone, Wilson's ivory skin was suffused with subtle pink, his dark brown hair highlighted with bronze, and his eyes, black coffee, no sugar. The suit was an undistinguished brown somewhere between tan and mocha. A caramel-colored leather messenger bag slung from his shoulder. Five pounds had dropped from his frame since the long elevator ride, but cameras had the habit of doing that. From the long, dark stare and fractional puckering of the mouth, five pounds of charm had also been shed, replaced with unconcealed annoyance. Good.
House swiped his mug from the desk and went to the conference room. He ogled Cuddy's cleavage as he passed. She was holding the PPTH folder in a way that amplified her breasts, although her low-cut blouse was doing a fine job without any help. "Aren't there bedpans to count or edible panties to buy?" he asked.
She rolled her eyes, dropped the file on his desk, and left.
He ignored Wilson while he extracted a perfect cup of coffee from his brewer. Clad in copper and brass it was the size of a rhinoceros. Thin pipes whipped around the kettle like corset laces, circulating water through various filters and a scrounged dialysis machine. Seven fancy gauges with attractive yet completely unnecessary grid covers alerted him when the coffee was ready. One measured temperature, the second indicated water level, and a third displayed pressure. Another three backed up the primaries if any should fail. The seventh, the largest and most elaborate, Chase had labeled in neat block letters around the bezel, "Appendix." It was completely unnecessary.
On his way back, careful not to slosh any liquid over the rim, he watched from the corner of his eye if there was a reaction to his limp.
Wilson, posed with arms knitted against his chest, seemed disinterested; however, the slightly cockeyed stare emanated concern. "Were you in the Juggernaut?"
"Do I look that old?" House asked with a perfectly honed edge to his voice. Wilson's question however, was valid. His lurching gait was identical to thousands of veterans. The fourth world war officially ended while he was in grade school when the last oil field went up in smoke, disgorging black soot into an already tainted atmosphere. But the announcement was more like a psychological pause for breath. Because of the massive loss of life, news editors complied with government orders. Any new battles were downplayed and buried on the back page, listed as "Local Unrest." His father, a career soldier, was reported "missing" just five years ago while on a supposed fact-finding mission.
He set the cup down and dropped into his chair, indicating with one wave of his hand that Wilson should sit and that further discussion of his leg was off limits. "Don't waste my valuable time, Dr. Wilson. Why are you here?"
Wilson looked taken aback at being addressed by his name or the lack of small talk, but instantly regained his composure. "I'm here because of one of your patients."
"Don't have patients. Not a medical doctor, although I have PhDs in math, engineering, physics—"
"My research shows you have a degree in medicine." He reached into his bag.
"Don't bother with proof." House raised his hands in mock dismay. "Guilty as charged. Once a practitioner of the medical arts, I no longer belong to that esteemed community. I'm a defrocked doc." He leaned back in his chair. "Once again, let's start at the top. You're here because… ?"
"Because of Victoria Furia."
House did his best to appear stumped.
Wilson simply stared back with an I-know-you-know look.
He tapped his index finger against his mouth. "Victoria? Vicki? Vic? Nooo, doesn't ring a bell. You mean… wait, it's on the tip of my tongue…." He snapped his fingers and smiled like a hungry collie about to gobble a bowl of kibble. "I got it! GH/BSL4P8627. She's a beaut, right? Modeled her after my aunt. I call it Twenty-seven for short."
Wilson swatted the air with his left hand as if he were shooing away a pesky mosquito. "Fine. Twenty-seven might be the serial number for your robot, but she's a real patient to me. One that's in excruciating pain and grieving."
House rolled his eyes and said slowly, "Not a robot. An Automaton. It cannot feel pain, It doesn't have emotions. It mimics symptoms and emotions for the sole purpose of training medical staff."
Wilson rubbed his forehead and nodded, seemingly calmer. "I know, I know. I convinced my boss, Doctor Foreman, to subscribe to your program, but I never expected... " He lapsed into silence.
Add soft, gooey center to Wilson's persona. House wasn't sure how to proceed. Cuddy was better at handling clients. Hell, even Blue the janitor was. He rifled through the file until he found something to change the subject. He said softly, "Well done discovering her name. You're running 24 hours ahead of schedule. Your diagnosis?"
"Rabies." Wilson closed his eyes briefly and barked a short, bitter laugh. "How could you recreate such a living hell?"
"Shit happens. That's the whole point. You can study worst case scenarios safely."
"Safely?" Wilson scowled. "Victoria bit Foreman earlier today. The first vaccination was administered, but given the circumstances I wanted your personal assurance that the standard course of treatment was enough."
"It depends. And stop calling it, Victoria"
"It depends?" Wilson's eyebrows shot up to his hairline.
"Whether you're telling me the whole truth or not." House pointed to Wilson's left hand, the one he apparently needed to orchestrate everything he said. It was encircled in a thick bandage. "Collateral damage?"
The scowl turned sheepish. "Foreman bit me."
"And yet you're covering for him. Nice boss you got there." House fingered the sheets in the file. "You signed the contract." He gazed off into space as he spun out what must have happened. "Which means, you two disagreed...you went over his head to the board and got an okay for the program. Furious, and having heard the rumors about my 'Master Race' carrying mutating diseases, he had no compunction biting you to force you to come here."
"Correct, Sherlock. Don't bother thanking me." Wilson answered acidly.
A bleeding heart one moment, waspish the next. House wished Wilson was one of his army of automata so he could take him apart and find out what made him tick. But humans were complicated and messy and required establishing relationships to learn more about them. House liked complicated, but was wary of the other two. He pushed the intercom button. "Cuddy, come up here. Our visitor is about to leave."
"Whoa! I'm not moving until I get answers."
"You want to know if Foreman is at risk for rabies, and if there's any truth to the gossip that there's an outside chance you could contract it."
"I told Foreman you're a doctor and took an oath to do no harm, but he insisted I speak to you in person. "
"Why? Among your many talents you're also a human lie detector? Be not afraid, Wilson. It's talk, plain and simple. My competitors find it cheaper to spread vicious rumors than invest money in R&D."
Wilson nodded as if he never had a doubt. "Then I'll discontinue the protocol."
House shrugged. "That depends."
"Again with depends?"
Cuddy had quietly entered and stood alongside Wilson's chair. It was time for House to lay his cards on the table. "As a precaution Twenty-seven's strain of rabies was engineered to lose its effectiveness when she dies." House looked at his watch. "Which from my calculation should be within 48 hours. You can tell him and forego the vaccine, or stay mum and stick to the regimen."
Wilson touched the snowy gauze wrapped around his hand, and nodded knowingly. "Depending whether or not I want revenge on Foreman." He stood up.
House got to his feet. "If that's not enough, stop by my pharmacy. They'll whip up a placebo cocktail that can be administered as a supplemental injection." He patted his stomach. "It will sting like the devil, but tell Foreman it's a safeguard that I recently developed."
"I will," Wilson said, a smile slowly spreading across his face, then vanished abruptly. "Wait, you don't have a license. How can you prescribe?"
"We have a free clinic staffed with nurse practitioners who write scrips. The pharmacy serves those patients," Cuddy said, looking pointedly at House.
With his leg beginning to set off sparks, her timing could not have been better. House dug into his pocket, and elaborately rattled his pills before popping a couple into his mouth. "Clinic patients are the foundation of our work."
"We're always on the lookout for unusual cases," Cuddy explained, ignoring his behavior. "And the publicity is priceless."
"Which you tell me every day," House said.
"Which you need to hear every day," Cuddy shot back.
House demonstrated his "bored" face. "Game, set, match. Can't wait for tomorrow." Over her head he caught Wilson sliding the file back into the messenger bag and slinging it onto his shoulder. An unnamable feeling fluttered inside him. He tried squelching it by thinking messy, time-consuming, soul sucking. The battle continued to rage inside him even as he said, "Since you stuck your neck out for me, bring back Twenty-seven when she reaches room temperature. I'll replace her with my latest model at a reduced fee. It's primed to spew blood, piss, and projectile vomit when a doctor asks, 'What seems to be the problem?' Wear scrubs, and be sure Foreman is in the room when you do."
"Reduced fee?" Cuddy said, her voice scathing.
"I'll knock off forty percent."
"He'll do it for free," Cuddy reassured Wilson, and then added under her breath, "You need a friend, House."
House was at a loss. Even Cuddy seemed to be aware of some chemistry between them, but he feared moving forward.
Hands in his pockets and looking relaxed, Wilson didn't seem in a hurry to leave. "Double vaccinations, gushing blood and guts. It's me who owes you. How about I treat you to dinner?"
It was now or never. He raised his pant leg to show what hid beneath. "Defrocked Doc, remember?" He watched Wilson's expression. Seeing the reality of a heavy ankle bracelet with a flashing red light might stop any budding friendship right in its tracks.
Other than an easygoing, slouchy shrug, there was no reaction. Without realizing it, House had forgotten to exhale until Wilson answered, "There's always take-out."
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