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The first time Wilson visited House in prison, he started swearing. “You are a real piece of shit,” he said, shaking his head, “a fucking crazy asshole, entitled dickhead worm - you evil, you child -”, rising in pitch until he was forcibly escorted out of the visitor’s room by a tired looking guard, made to stand in the corridor and listen to a lecture about Controlling Ourselves On Prison Property and Setting a Good Example For The Inmates.
The second time, Wilson managed ten minutes of controlled breathing before he couldn’t help commenting what a phenomenally cruel, reckless and dangerous thing he did - not to mention his ‘performance’ at trial, and “who do you actually think you are, you spineless, idiotic, obsessively destructive -”
This time, his sojourn in the corridor was longer, and he had to hear about Lists Of Banned Visitors and Last Chance Sunshine, and it took all of Wilson’s hard-earned charm and negotiation skills to persuade the surly prison guard that he actually did deserve another chance.
The third time that Wilson visited House in prison, he just looked at him for a while. Wilson would have liked to have seen regret, grief - some thinning of the cheeks, or a hardening in the eyes to show that he understood, that he got it - that House was a real human being who was capable of contemplating the damage that he had done.
House looked just the same.
“Why?” Wilson asked eventually, hearing the plaintive note in his voice, and hating himself for it.
House just stared. Wilson stared back, determined not to be the one to break first.
After what seemed like an age, House opened his mouth to speak.
“Don’t,” Wilson cut him off, surprisingly himself. “Just -” he paused, then gestured, helpless. “Please don’t.”
They sat in silence for the rest of the visit. It didn’t feel like progress at the time, but when Wilson looked back on it, he noted this as the moment that he started to get over it. In some tiny, obscure way, he’d gotten the better of House in this interaction. As low bars go it was fucking infinitessimal - but Wilson was used to that, with House. He could deal.
–
The crisps from the vending machine were ancient, and probably tasted like rubber. House didn’t seem to mind though, and ate his way methodically through the bag as Wilson sipped his diet coke.
“I had a patient in the clinic on Thursday,” Wilson started, “who was completely convinced that she had a bunion. She started crying saying that she was too young and she couldn’t afford the surgery costs, and her mother had had bunions and had said that they were the devils toes and that the pain was worse than a thousand childbirths -”
House wasn’t exactly reacting, but he wasn’t looking bored either. Wilson decided to continue.
“- she had worked herself up to tears before even taking her shoe off.”
“Corn?”
Wilson nodded. “Yep. Piece of hardened skin on the side of her toe. Treatment plan of salt water and a little lotion.”
“And yet, she wasn’t happy.”
“Asked for a second opinion,” Wilson sighed.
House crunched another crisp thoughtfully. “What do you know about cricket anatomy?” he asked.
Wilson blinked. “Erm,” he started. “Not much. Why?”
House made a gesture. “My bunkmate.”
Wilson waited for a further explanation, but none came. “I will look into cricket anatomy,” he promised.
There was a pause, then House nodded. “Thanks,” he said.
–
“Do you have any…” Wilson paused, considering. “Fives?”
“Go fish.” The corners of House’s mouth twitched in an alarmingly feral manner. “Sixes?”
“Humph,” Wilson said, and passed over his trio of sixes.
“Set,” House said, setting down his cards. “Jacks?”
“I hate you,” said Wilson solemnly, handing over his jack of clubs. He looked back at his hand, which was looking sadly depleted and annoyingly mismatched.
“Are there any other games?” he asked hopefully, looking over at the cupboard from which he could just make out the top of a brightly coloured cardboard box.
Suddenly, House’s look became a little more alert. “Cluedo?” he asked, hopeful.
“No,” replied Wilson. “No chance.”
–
“Crickets have several body parts but head, thorax and abdomen are the three major parts of the crickets. Head has mouth, eyes, antennae, palpi and brain while legs and wings are attached to the thorax. Abdomen is the largest part of crickets body which consist cerci, ovipositor, and spiracles,” Wilson read out his printout.
“The cerci?” House asked.
Wilson looked down his notes. “Erm,” he said, “sensory organ to help understanding of the surroundings. They, um,” he said, squinting at the diagram, “kind of look like a tail.”
“Wings?”
“Two sets - hind wing and fore wing.They use the hind for flying, and the fore to mainly protect the other wings.”
“Ah,” replied House. His face was moving in that complicated way it did when he was working on a problem.
“Any chance you want to tell me what this is about?” Wilson asked lightly.
“Not really.”
Wilson thought about this for a moment, then decided that he was actually fine with this. “Okay,” he said, “Moving on to the internal anatomy -”
–
“ - and then Millicent in HR asked me fill out a Request to Recruit form to get an extra intern next year, and when I told her that I’d already filled in a Notification of Staffing she said that that form was obsolete, and that I needed to fill in this new form.”
Wilson cupped his hands moodily around his lukewarm cup of coffee. “I asked if she could transfer the information across - it’s the exact same questions, House, just on a different piece of paper - and she said that she couldn’t, it was a department-specific responsibility. She then said that according to the last employee satisfaction survey, 93% of participants said that they enjoyed feeling responsible for their own recruitment and that it was a role they didn’t want devolved to the support teams.” He hunched his shoulders. “I am almost certain that they are making these survey results up. They always come back positive, and no one I know fills them in anyway.” He pushed his coffee cup between his hands. “I hate HR.”
House was giving one of his thousand yard stares. “Shouldn’t your administrator be doing that for you?” he asked. “The staffing form,” he clarified.
Wilson’s hunch increased. “She said she’s busy.”
House snorted.
“There’s a lot of paperwork at the moment relating to Rukman’s clinical trial!” Wilson protested. “I understand it. She’s juggling a lot at home too, with Harvey being out of school so much and the boiler playing up all the time. It’s very…” he tailed off. “She’s taking advantage of me.”
“So said every woman, ever,” House commented, almost under his breath. He nodded at Wilson. “Fire her.”
“No.”
“Is she hot?”
“She’s married.”
“Which means that she is hot, and you’ve thought about it, but your consideration for the workplace power balance is greater than that of your penis.”
“Nothing,” said Wilson fervently, “is greater than the consideration of my penis.”
He’d hoped for a smile, and he’d gotten - something. He’d take it.
“Speaking of HR,” Wilson said, clasping his hands as he delivered this piece of news that had been giving him anxiety for the past few days. “Hiring committee have confirmed that Foreman is taking over as Dean of Medicine.”
House’s face was blank. “Oh,” he said. He snapped off another piece of chocolate, and ate it. “Are you worried?”
“Not really,” Wilson shook his head. “He ran on a ‘maintain the status quo’ approach.”
House nodded slowly. “Lot of change,” he commented.
“I heard from Cuddy,” Wilson started, heart in his mouth, “she’s started over at Risborough, she’s -”
As soon as Wilson mentioned her name, House had started to stand. “Guard?” he called, “my visitation’s over.”
“House, you can’t -” Wilson expostulated, as House took his cane, and turned away from him, walking towards the door without a backwards glance.
“Seriously?” Wilson called, but House had already left.
–
Wilson didn’t go to the prison next weekend. There was a wall in his study which he had been planning to repaint as a calming green - he’d engaged a decorator, but they’d cancelled two weeks ago and Wilson hadn’t had time to find another. “I can paint a fucking wall,” he muttered to himself as he grabbed the rollers, then “FUCK” as he accidentally kicked the can, and calming green paint splattered over his rug.
This, Wilson thought as he angrily rolled up the rug and put it in a plastic bag for the dry-cleaners, then went into the kitchen to get some paper towels, is House’s fault.
The logic wasn’t perfect, but it felt right. Everything in the world, right now, was the direct consequence of the stubbornness and asshole-ery of one Dr Gregory House.
“FUCK!” he yelled again, as he went back into the study and saw the drips of paint falling down the skirting board. House.
–
The next weekend, Wilson went back to the prison. It wasn’t planned in the traditional sense, just something that he found himself doing - putting coffee in his travel mug, getting in his car, making a right onto the interstate.
House was quiet again, acknowledging Wilson’s presence with an inclination of the head, rather than a customary greeting.
Wilson followed suit, sinking into his chair with a nod, and then looking down at the table for a while. Finally -
“Don’t walk off again,” he said.
“Don’t miss another visitation.” The reply came back, faster than Wilson had expected. He chanced a look at House’s face, which was a serious flavour of his usual impassive.
Wilson was very aware that he was getting the bad end of this arrangement. House was in prison, he was - he should be - more needy of their visits, their conversation than Wilson was. After all, Wilson lived in the world, he socialised with - well, it had been a slow month. He should really arrange another poker night. Maybe join a book club?
He looked at the grim-faced man in front of him. This should not be the centre of my life, Wilson thought.
“Deal,” Wilson said, reaching out his hand to shake House’s own.
House paused, then grasped it, hard, with his own. “Deal,” he replied.
The rest of the week, a few people commented on Wilson’s particular good mood. “Had a good breakfast,” he responded. “Thank you.”
–
Next weekend, House interrupted Wilson’s story of a particularly garrulous patient with a request. “Could you get something for me?”
Wilson blinked. “What?”
House motioned with his head. “Vicodin.”
Wilson pursed his lips. “No,” he said emphatically. Then - “How would that even work?” he asked, “how would I smuggle -” then he stopped himself. “I don’t actually want to know that, do I?”
“Probably not,” agreed House.
“It would involve the -”
“The asshole, yes,” confirmed House.
“Absolutely not.”
House shrugged. “I figured,” he replied. “Thought I’d make sure.”
Wilson sat back in his chair. “Do you need…” he started tentatively. “Are you in trouble?” he asked. House had been light on prison details, but he couldn’t imagine it was exactly an environment in which he’d thrive.
House thought about that, then shook his head. “Not right now. Could be later.”
Wilson sighed. “I’ll put some money in your commissary,” he promised, then “you are definitely going to pay me back.”
House snorted. “Put it on my tab,” he said.
–
“You’re getting out soon,” Wilson offered, following a particularly slow game of Screw Marry Kill.
“Mm,” House acknowledged, pressing his fingernail into the styrofoam coffee cup, so it left a little half-moon indentation.
“I’ve taken that day off,” continued Wilson. “After I pick you up, we can go -” he thought. “Fast food? Fine dining?” Another pause. “Strip club?”
House inclined his head. “Do you still have tivo?”
“And playstation,” Wilson promised. “And the finest stack of takeout menus in middlesex county.”
House took a sip of coffee. “Okay.”
Wilson took a slug of his own mug to hide his smile. “Alright then,” he said.