Locked Up and Set Free, 2/3 (PG-13)
Locked Up and Set Free
Part 2 of 3
(Part One)
It took a week for the anger to die down, a week that was miserable for anyone who happened to cross House’s path. By the time he made the third hospital employee cry (fourth, if what he suspected about Chase’s “long lunch” on Tuesday was true), House was actually feeling better, although this had not yet translated into better behavior.
Cuddy’s blouse was hot pink, and the top button was only halfway fastened. While she ranted, he watched carefully, waiting for it to slip free. He was so mesmerized that he didn’t notice she’d stopped speaking until the binder clip bounced off his head.
“Ow!” he yelled, a little bit louder than was necessary, rubbing his forehead. ”I’ll check the employee handbook again, but I’m pretty sure physical abuse is not allowed.”
Cuddy crossed her arms, covering up that mischievous button. ”I just got it,” she said quietly. ”Stupid me, taking so long to catch on to what’s causing this current spate of obnoxiousness.”
“Nothing,” House muttered.
Cuddy flipped quickly through her Rolodex and then copied down a number. ”Sit,” she ordered firmly. House sat in the chair in front of her desk reluctantly, sullenly.
Moving to House’s side, she turned her phone around and slammed the number in front of him. ”Call.”
He looked at the ten digits, dismayed that they were so unfamiliar. ”I don’t need -”
“Call or you’re suspended without pay for a week.” Her tone allowed no argument. He was tempted to try it anyway until her hand dropped warmly onto his shoulder.
“Call him,” she repeated, and left the room.
Staring at the phone, he thought about creamed spinach. He had hated creamed spinach when he was little, but his father’s clean plate rule trumped all. He had sat five hours once, staring at the detested vegetable, until he had fallen asleep in his chair. When he woke the next morning, his father had forced him to eat it for breakfast.
It was marginally better warm and fresh. He picked up the phone.
“Millville Hospice. May I help you?”
He hadn’t actually expected it to be Wilson who answered, and it took him a moment to gather his thoughts.
“It’s all right. I’m here when you’re ready,” Wilson said patiently, straight out of the hospice handbook, probably, and God, this was awful.
“Hi. It’s me.”
“House? Wow, hi. How are you?” Wilson sounded pleasantly surprised, and that was irritating, somehow.
“Fine,” he responded brusquely. ”Cuddy told me to call.”
There was a little hitch before Wilson replied, “Why? Is something wrong?” He sounded worried, and House cut him off before he could go further down that path.
“No. Things are fine.” The lie that was about to come out of his mouth was pathetic, and he was sure Wilson would smell it on him. ”I’m going to Atlantic City this weekend, and Cuddy wants me to bring you something while I’m down there. It’s not really on the way, but I told her I’d do it anyway, because I am just that generous.”
“Generosity is what you’re known for,” Wilson commented drolly, and it was almost like old times. ”Oh, no, wait; I’m thinking of someone else.”
House noticed his lips had turned up, but he wasn’t relieved; that would be ridiculous.
“Come on down. It’d be great to see you.”
Wilson was always too sincere for his own good, and no, that was not relief that House felt.
Pushing past a lurking Cuddy, he informed her, “I’m taking tomorrow off.” If she smiled in response, he was far too busy to notice.
The hospice was small and pretty in a vague, nondescript way. Bland - all the better to ease the dying off into nothingness, House supposed.
Wilson met him in the lobby, with a smile that was as pleasantly bland as the atmosphere. ”When I die, I’m going kicking and screaming,” House said, “with the music turned up to eleven.”
“I know.” Now, that was a more normal smile. ”Come on, we can talk in my office.”
The nameplate next to his door read, “James Wilson, Administrative Director.”
“Administrative? Not Medical Director?” House asked, as he settled into the most comfortable guest chair he’d ever sat in.
“With a suspended license, I can’t practice medicine, as I think you pointed out some time ago. But we have two excellent physicians who provide the medical care and prescribe. I do the administration, and some of the intake, and some of the counseling. It’s a good job; it suits me. I’m lucky my parents know the Executive Director.” Wilson did look very much at home behind his desk. It was interesting how similar it was to the one he’d had at the hospital, down to the childish knick-knacks littering the edge.
House picked up a cow in rain boots for closer inspection. ”You should get your license back; shame to waste all that training.”
“I will at some point, but for now I’m good with what I’m doing,” Wilson replied comfortably. ”My ‘silver tongue,’ as you called it, is a valuable resource for this line of work.”
Dumping the cow, House turned his attention to the pop-eyed stress ball. ”Do they still thank you for telling them they’re dying?”
Wilson chuckled lightly as House attempted to match the expression on the toy. ”They know they’re dying by the time they get here. They thank me for helping everyone get ready for it.” Wilson stuck his tongue out and crossed his eyes; it was a good approximation of the doll.
“The patients and their families don’t care you’re an ex-con?”
Wilson shrugged affably. ”It doesn’t come up in conversation much. And when it does, ‘I lied to keep my sick friend out of jail’ seems to be an acceptable reason to most people.”
“I wasn’t sick,” said House, annoyed.
“Yes, you were,” Wilson replied. ”Probably still are.”
House glared and squeezed the doll tighter. ”I’m doing fine. Pain hasn’t increased; mobility’s still the same.”
“Not what I’m talking about, and you know it.”
He squeezed the doll a few more times, thinking. No, he decided, they were not ready for that conversation, so he kept his mouth shut.
After a few more seconds, Wilson leaned forward. ”Do you have a hot date waiting for you in Atlantic City, or could you stay a while? My brother and a few friends are coming over tonight to watch the game, and you’re welcome to join us.”
House had expected an invitation - he would not admit to counting on it - but not quite like that. Join them, his brain echoed. Join Wilson and his friends.
Smiling, Wilson poked him gently with a finger. ”Come on and come. They’re not all your cup of tea, but you and Donovan have a lot in common. Remember him? He got out a couple months ago, and he lives just south of Philly. He’s got the sharpest sense of humor of anyone I know.”
“Yeah, all right,” House replied. He didn’t give a damn about Donovan, but he hadn’t come all this way for just a ten-minute chat.
“Unfortunately, I don’t get off work for another four hours -” Seeing House’s mouth open, Wilson held up a hand. “And no, I am not playing hooky only two weeks into a new job.”
He got up and started out of the room, gesturing for House to follow. ”The good news is that we have an unoccupied room you can hang out in that has a good TV and a wide selection of DVDs.”
“Porn?” House asked, as they fell into step together in the hall.
“No.”
“The dying don’t ever think about sex?”
“Our residents are encouraged to bring their cherished possessions from home, because we find there’s a lot of comfort in having the familiar close at hand.”
They stepped into a sunny, spacious room. The TV was generously sized, and House estimated there were at least forty DVDs in the cabinet Wilson opened.
“You really let patients bring in their own porn?” House was settling into the large recliner.
Wilson smiled slyly (House’s favorite smile of his). ”As long as everybody’s eighteen or older. And they keep the noise down.” He pointed. ”Headphones are helpful for that.”
House shut off his brain, watched drivel television and a mindless movie, and napped. Wilson left some snacks for him while he was sleeping, but otherwise was absent until the end of the day.
As they walked out, it seemed like every person they passed in the halls wanted to say goodbye to Wilson. And every single one of them called him “Jim.”
“Jim?”
Wilson shrugged. ”They don’t go by last names here.”
“What’s wrong with Jimmy?”
“A little juvenile, and James seems too formal. Actually, I started going by Jim soon after I got to Morgantown.”
House blinked. ”Donovan called you Jimmy.”
“I’m surprised you remember that. But yeah, he did. Still does. But it’s an affectation - like when this other guy I knew used to call me Jimmy.” He nudged House with his shoulder, nodding toward House’s car. ”You going to follow me?”
“Everywhere you go.”
Wilson was renting a small two-bedroom house just a few minutes from the hospice. It looked well lived-in, but when House accused Wilson of being married again, he just laughed and said the place came furnished.
They knocked around for an hour or so, House drinking beer and Wilson putting together sandwiches, before Wilson’s brother Seth arrived. Three other men - two high school friends of Wilson’s and a friend of Seth’s - joined them in quick succession. Donovan made it there later, after the game had already started.
House felt off-kilter the entire evening. He wasn’t used to being around so many people, and sharing Wilson’s attention made him irritable. He spent a lot of his time in the kitchen, trying not to hear Wilson’s laughter and thus listening to Donovan’s tirades instead. At first they amused him, then they irritated him, and then he and Donovan almost ended up in a fistfight. Wilson got between them easily, and escorted Donovan to the door, sending him off in laughter from a private joke. House scowled and opened another beer.
Mentally, he kicked his feet and sulked and whined until the last person had gone out the door. Then he suddenly felt shy. He couldn’t think of what to say next, couldn’t find a pattern to press this moment into.
“I should go,” he said.
Wilson looked up from the dishes, scrub brush stilling. ”Where? Back to Princeton? Nah, it’s way too late; stay in the guest room. Don’t say a word about the sheets, though. I set it up so my nephews could stay over.”
House nodded and Wilson turned back to the sink. House grabbed a dishtowel and started drying a clean plate. ”You should get your license back and come back to the hospital.”
“Why?” Wilson tugged House’s dishtowel away and handed him a cleaner one.
“Your replacement, Esslinger, is terrible. Nobody likes her.”
Wilson smirked and flicked a soap bubble at him. ”Since when has that ever mattered to you?”
“Patient complaints for oncology are through the roof and mortality’s even gone up a little.” House focused on drying a glass, but tried to size up Wilson’s reaction in his peripheral vision.
Putting down the brush and wiping his hands, Wilson turned toward House. He leaned against the sink with one hip and crossed his arms lightly. ”That’s why the hospital might want me back; why would I want to return?”
“What?” House shoved the glass in the cabinet in front of him; Wilson leaned over and grabbed it, and put it away in the next cabinet over.
“You’re selling me why Princeton needs me,” he continued, “not why I need Princeton.”
“Isn’t someone needing you what you need? Or am I thinking of someone else?”
Wilson smiled and pulled the stopper out of the sink.
“It’s not enough for me any more, House.”
Without waiting for the water to drain away, Wilson started out of the kitchen. He called back pleasantly, “I’m going to bed. I’ll make you pancakes in the morning before you go.”
House tossed and turned on the Battlestar Galactica sheets for what could have been an hour or could have been several. He was back in his apartment before sunrise.
In odd moments of the day and night over the next week, the question came back to him. Why would Wilson want to come back to Princeton? As strange as it was to be considering all the positive aspects of a situation, he dutifully made a list.
He came up with a long list, three columns on the whiteboard - and his team got their kicks trying to figure out what the items meant because he certainly wasn’t telling them - but had to acknowledge in the end that the reasons were all rather generic. He had listed why somebody might want to live in this town and work in this hospital. Nothing seemed persuasive as to why Wilson would.
When the feeling of desperation started to creep out of his dreams and into his waking hours, he surrendered his pride. He called Wilson’s mother to ask for Wilson’s new cell number.
He said that he had lost the number, and how pathetic was he that even someone as removed as a friend’s mother believed he was that disorganized, that thoughtless? She gave it to him cheerfully and mentioned his absence from Wilson’s life with no hint of reproach. Guiltily, he thanked her for the almost-forgotten holiday card and got off the phone as quickly as he could.
Two days later, after carrying it like a talisman but not using it, he actually did lose the number. More desperation, and in his embarrassment over feeling that way, he came close to stabbing Foreman with a fork during a lunch-time argument. Dean intervened and escorted the younger doctor away.
“That’s the last straw - he’s a racist!” Foreman yelled in the middle of the cafeteria, and he was so not winning Diagnostics employee of the month.
“How long have you known him?” asked Dean, gripping Foreman’s elbow to guide him out the door. ”He’s not a racist; he’s just an asshole.”
House sighed and slurped his soda loudly. Somebody understood him.
After lunch, he gave up and called the hospice. As he’d suspected, Wilson was too busy to talk for more than a minute but promised to call that evening.
Just because House watched seven straight hours of television that night didn’t mean he was waiting by the phone.
They talked the next night - a catching-up kind of call about nothing in particular. Wilson didn’t mention House abruptly leaving Millville, and House didn’t mention Wilson not leaving Millville.
There were more calls after that, more or less regular, two or three times a week. Short calls at work, and longer calls in the evening. Wilson finally forked over his home and cell numbers unprompted, and House copied them into every phone list he had.
But the tenor of their conversations had changed. A couple of laughs, but mostly they were… newsy. Chit-chat. Nothing important, and nothing all that interesting. House called Wilson on it one day. Vehemently.
“Is there nothing happening in your life at all? Why are we talking about the goddamned Bridgeton Peewee Baseball team?”
“Because I’m helping to sponsor them,” Wilson replied, his voice turning a few degrees colder.
“What are they, the Millville Hospice Corpses? Team mascot is a zombie?”
“Pleasant, House. Very nice. They’re six years old, they hardly have any money, and they want to play baseball. You have a problem with me helping them out?” Wilson’s voice was rising in both tone and volume.
“I have a problem with always talking about the same boring things. You never used to be like this! Sure, you had the respectable facade, but you were never so damned deadly dull!”
The crash of the receiver hitting the base startled House. Why isn’t Wilson‘s home phone cordless? was his first thought. And Fuck him, rude bastard was his second.
(continued)
Part 2 of 3
(Part One)
It took a week for the anger to die down, a week that was miserable for anyone who happened to cross House’s path. By the time he made the third hospital employee cry (fourth, if what he suspected about Chase’s “long lunch” on Tuesday was true), House was actually feeling better, although this had not yet translated into better behavior.
Cuddy’s blouse was hot pink, and the top button was only halfway fastened. While she ranted, he watched carefully, waiting for it to slip free. He was so mesmerized that he didn’t notice she’d stopped speaking until the binder clip bounced off his head.
“Ow!” he yelled, a little bit louder than was necessary, rubbing his forehead. ”I’ll check the employee handbook again, but I’m pretty sure physical abuse is not allowed.”
Cuddy crossed her arms, covering up that mischievous button. ”I just got it,” she said quietly. ”Stupid me, taking so long to catch on to what’s causing this current spate of obnoxiousness.”
“Nothing,” House muttered.
Cuddy flipped quickly through her Rolodex and then copied down a number. ”Sit,” she ordered firmly. House sat in the chair in front of her desk reluctantly, sullenly.
Moving to House’s side, she turned her phone around and slammed the number in front of him. ”Call.”
He looked at the ten digits, dismayed that they were so unfamiliar. ”I don’t need -”
“Call or you’re suspended without pay for a week.” Her tone allowed no argument. He was tempted to try it anyway until her hand dropped warmly onto his shoulder.
“Call him,” she repeated, and left the room.
Staring at the phone, he thought about creamed spinach. He had hated creamed spinach when he was little, but his father’s clean plate rule trumped all. He had sat five hours once, staring at the detested vegetable, until he had fallen asleep in his chair. When he woke the next morning, his father had forced him to eat it for breakfast.
It was marginally better warm and fresh. He picked up the phone.
“Millville Hospice. May I help you?”
He hadn’t actually expected it to be Wilson who answered, and it took him a moment to gather his thoughts.
“It’s all right. I’m here when you’re ready,” Wilson said patiently, straight out of the hospice handbook, probably, and God, this was awful.
“Hi. It’s me.”
“House? Wow, hi. How are you?” Wilson sounded pleasantly surprised, and that was irritating, somehow.
“Fine,” he responded brusquely. ”Cuddy told me to call.”
There was a little hitch before Wilson replied, “Why? Is something wrong?” He sounded worried, and House cut him off before he could go further down that path.
“No. Things are fine.” The lie that was about to come out of his mouth was pathetic, and he was sure Wilson would smell it on him. ”I’m going to Atlantic City this weekend, and Cuddy wants me to bring you something while I’m down there. It’s not really on the way, but I told her I’d do it anyway, because I am just that generous.”
“Generosity is what you’re known for,” Wilson commented drolly, and it was almost like old times. ”Oh, no, wait; I’m thinking of someone else.”
House noticed his lips had turned up, but he wasn’t relieved; that would be ridiculous.
“Come on down. It’d be great to see you.”
Wilson was always too sincere for his own good, and no, that was not relief that House felt.
Pushing past a lurking Cuddy, he informed her, “I’m taking tomorrow off.” If she smiled in response, he was far too busy to notice.
The hospice was small and pretty in a vague, nondescript way. Bland - all the better to ease the dying off into nothingness, House supposed.
Wilson met him in the lobby, with a smile that was as pleasantly bland as the atmosphere. ”When I die, I’m going kicking and screaming,” House said, “with the music turned up to eleven.”
“I know.” Now, that was a more normal smile. ”Come on, we can talk in my office.”
The nameplate next to his door read, “James Wilson, Administrative Director.”
“Administrative? Not Medical Director?” House asked, as he settled into the most comfortable guest chair he’d ever sat in.
“With a suspended license, I can’t practice medicine, as I think you pointed out some time ago. But we have two excellent physicians who provide the medical care and prescribe. I do the administration, and some of the intake, and some of the counseling. It’s a good job; it suits me. I’m lucky my parents know the Executive Director.” Wilson did look very much at home behind his desk. It was interesting how similar it was to the one he’d had at the hospital, down to the childish knick-knacks littering the edge.
House picked up a cow in rain boots for closer inspection. ”You should get your license back; shame to waste all that training.”
“I will at some point, but for now I’m good with what I’m doing,” Wilson replied comfortably. ”My ‘silver tongue,’ as you called it, is a valuable resource for this line of work.”
Dumping the cow, House turned his attention to the pop-eyed stress ball. ”Do they still thank you for telling them they’re dying?”
Wilson chuckled lightly as House attempted to match the expression on the toy. ”They know they’re dying by the time they get here. They thank me for helping everyone get ready for it.” Wilson stuck his tongue out and crossed his eyes; it was a good approximation of the doll.
“The patients and their families don’t care you’re an ex-con?”
Wilson shrugged affably. ”It doesn’t come up in conversation much. And when it does, ‘I lied to keep my sick friend out of jail’ seems to be an acceptable reason to most people.”
“I wasn’t sick,” said House, annoyed.
“Yes, you were,” Wilson replied. ”Probably still are.”
House glared and squeezed the doll tighter. ”I’m doing fine. Pain hasn’t increased; mobility’s still the same.”
“Not what I’m talking about, and you know it.”
He squeezed the doll a few more times, thinking. No, he decided, they were not ready for that conversation, so he kept his mouth shut.
After a few more seconds, Wilson leaned forward. ”Do you have a hot date waiting for you in Atlantic City, or could you stay a while? My brother and a few friends are coming over tonight to watch the game, and you’re welcome to join us.”
House had expected an invitation - he would not admit to counting on it - but not quite like that. Join them, his brain echoed. Join Wilson and his friends.
Smiling, Wilson poked him gently with a finger. ”Come on and come. They’re not all your cup of tea, but you and Donovan have a lot in common. Remember him? He got out a couple months ago, and he lives just south of Philly. He’s got the sharpest sense of humor of anyone I know.”
“Yeah, all right,” House replied. He didn’t give a damn about Donovan, but he hadn’t come all this way for just a ten-minute chat.
“Unfortunately, I don’t get off work for another four hours -” Seeing House’s mouth open, Wilson held up a hand. “And no, I am not playing hooky only two weeks into a new job.”
He got up and started out of the room, gesturing for House to follow. ”The good news is that we have an unoccupied room you can hang out in that has a good TV and a wide selection of DVDs.”
“Porn?” House asked, as they fell into step together in the hall.
“No.”
“The dying don’t ever think about sex?”
“Our residents are encouraged to bring their cherished possessions from home, because we find there’s a lot of comfort in having the familiar close at hand.”
They stepped into a sunny, spacious room. The TV was generously sized, and House estimated there were at least forty DVDs in the cabinet Wilson opened.
“You really let patients bring in their own porn?” House was settling into the large recliner.
Wilson smiled slyly (House’s favorite smile of his). ”As long as everybody’s eighteen or older. And they keep the noise down.” He pointed. ”Headphones are helpful for that.”
House shut off his brain, watched drivel television and a mindless movie, and napped. Wilson left some snacks for him while he was sleeping, but otherwise was absent until the end of the day.
As they walked out, it seemed like every person they passed in the halls wanted to say goodbye to Wilson. And every single one of them called him “Jim.”
“Jim?”
Wilson shrugged. ”They don’t go by last names here.”
“What’s wrong with Jimmy?”
“A little juvenile, and James seems too formal. Actually, I started going by Jim soon after I got to Morgantown.”
House blinked. ”Donovan called you Jimmy.”
“I’m surprised you remember that. But yeah, he did. Still does. But it’s an affectation - like when this other guy I knew used to call me Jimmy.” He nudged House with his shoulder, nodding toward House’s car. ”You going to follow me?”
“Everywhere you go.”
Wilson was renting a small two-bedroom house just a few minutes from the hospice. It looked well lived-in, but when House accused Wilson of being married again, he just laughed and said the place came furnished.
They knocked around for an hour or so, House drinking beer and Wilson putting together sandwiches, before Wilson’s brother Seth arrived. Three other men - two high school friends of Wilson’s and a friend of Seth’s - joined them in quick succession. Donovan made it there later, after the game had already started.
House felt off-kilter the entire evening. He wasn’t used to being around so many people, and sharing Wilson’s attention made him irritable. He spent a lot of his time in the kitchen, trying not to hear Wilson’s laughter and thus listening to Donovan’s tirades instead. At first they amused him, then they irritated him, and then he and Donovan almost ended up in a fistfight. Wilson got between them easily, and escorted Donovan to the door, sending him off in laughter from a private joke. House scowled and opened another beer.
Mentally, he kicked his feet and sulked and whined until the last person had gone out the door. Then he suddenly felt shy. He couldn’t think of what to say next, couldn’t find a pattern to press this moment into.
“I should go,” he said.
Wilson looked up from the dishes, scrub brush stilling. ”Where? Back to Princeton? Nah, it’s way too late; stay in the guest room. Don’t say a word about the sheets, though. I set it up so my nephews could stay over.”
House nodded and Wilson turned back to the sink. House grabbed a dishtowel and started drying a clean plate. ”You should get your license back and come back to the hospital.”
“Why?” Wilson tugged House’s dishtowel away and handed him a cleaner one.
“Your replacement, Esslinger, is terrible. Nobody likes her.”
Wilson smirked and flicked a soap bubble at him. ”Since when has that ever mattered to you?”
“Patient complaints for oncology are through the roof and mortality’s even gone up a little.” House focused on drying a glass, but tried to size up Wilson’s reaction in his peripheral vision.
Putting down the brush and wiping his hands, Wilson turned toward House. He leaned against the sink with one hip and crossed his arms lightly. ”That’s why the hospital might want me back; why would I want to return?”
“What?” House shoved the glass in the cabinet in front of him; Wilson leaned over and grabbed it, and put it away in the next cabinet over.
“You’re selling me why Princeton needs me,” he continued, “not why I need Princeton.”
“Isn’t someone needing you what you need? Or am I thinking of someone else?”
Wilson smiled and pulled the stopper out of the sink.
“It’s not enough for me any more, House.”
Without waiting for the water to drain away, Wilson started out of the kitchen. He called back pleasantly, “I’m going to bed. I’ll make you pancakes in the morning before you go.”
House tossed and turned on the Battlestar Galactica sheets for what could have been an hour or could have been several. He was back in his apartment before sunrise.
In odd moments of the day and night over the next week, the question came back to him. Why would Wilson want to come back to Princeton? As strange as it was to be considering all the positive aspects of a situation, he dutifully made a list.
He came up with a long list, three columns on the whiteboard - and his team got their kicks trying to figure out what the items meant because he certainly wasn’t telling them - but had to acknowledge in the end that the reasons were all rather generic. He had listed why somebody might want to live in this town and work in this hospital. Nothing seemed persuasive as to why Wilson would.
When the feeling of desperation started to creep out of his dreams and into his waking hours, he surrendered his pride. He called Wilson’s mother to ask for Wilson’s new cell number.
He said that he had lost the number, and how pathetic was he that even someone as removed as a friend’s mother believed he was that disorganized, that thoughtless? She gave it to him cheerfully and mentioned his absence from Wilson’s life with no hint of reproach. Guiltily, he thanked her for the almost-forgotten holiday card and got off the phone as quickly as he could.
Two days later, after carrying it like a talisman but not using it, he actually did lose the number. More desperation, and in his embarrassment over feeling that way, he came close to stabbing Foreman with a fork during a lunch-time argument. Dean intervened and escorted the younger doctor away.
“That’s the last straw - he’s a racist!” Foreman yelled in the middle of the cafeteria, and he was so not winning Diagnostics employee of the month.
“How long have you known him?” asked Dean, gripping Foreman’s elbow to guide him out the door. ”He’s not a racist; he’s just an asshole.”
House sighed and slurped his soda loudly. Somebody understood him.
After lunch, he gave up and called the hospice. As he’d suspected, Wilson was too busy to talk for more than a minute but promised to call that evening.
Just because House watched seven straight hours of television that night didn’t mean he was waiting by the phone.
They talked the next night - a catching-up kind of call about nothing in particular. Wilson didn’t mention House abruptly leaving Millville, and House didn’t mention Wilson not leaving Millville.
There were more calls after that, more or less regular, two or three times a week. Short calls at work, and longer calls in the evening. Wilson finally forked over his home and cell numbers unprompted, and House copied them into every phone list he had.
But the tenor of their conversations had changed. A couple of laughs, but mostly they were… newsy. Chit-chat. Nothing important, and nothing all that interesting. House called Wilson on it one day. Vehemently.
“Is there nothing happening in your life at all? Why are we talking about the goddamned Bridgeton Peewee Baseball team?”
“Because I’m helping to sponsor them,” Wilson replied, his voice turning a few degrees colder.
“What are they, the Millville Hospice Corpses? Team mascot is a zombie?”
“Pleasant, House. Very nice. They’re six years old, they hardly have any money, and they want to play baseball. You have a problem with me helping them out?” Wilson’s voice was rising in both tone and volume.
“I have a problem with always talking about the same boring things. You never used to be like this! Sure, you had the respectable facade, but you were never so damned deadly dull!”
The crash of the receiver hitting the base startled House. Why isn’t Wilson‘s home phone cordless? was his first thought. And Fuck him, rude bastard was his second.
(continued)