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The view from the pilot's chair consists of only stars and darkness and space dust. James Wilson is more than familiar with this particular view. He has been working on this ship and running with House's crew since the war ended and their ragtag band of survivors were forced to find a way to survive in a universe that had been taken from them. Setting up a smuggling operation had been House's suggestion, and the rest of them, unable to come up with any better ideas, had simply shrugged and then fallen in line behind their new captain.
There are five people on this ship at this point in time. Others have filtered in and out of their ranks over the years, but things have hit a lull right now. Patrols, even on the outer rim, have become increasingly frequent, and with that, potential recruits have gotten more and more wary of flirting with the wrong side of the law. Wilson doesn't blame them. There are plenty of days when he, too, has been tempted to pack up his things and permanently disembark, but his love for House has always stopped him short of following through with it.
Wilson could never abandon House. The very idea is fundamentally abhorrent, and no amount of bandying around jokes and staging pranks to that effect has managed to dull its edge.
Wilson reaches out to the controls to slightly adjust the ship's flight path, and behind him, the door creaks open. The hinges are so rusty that they are barely functional -- not unlike the rest of the ship -- and though it would be easy enough to fix it if given the right tools, Wilson has come to appreciate the warning.
After all, one never knows what sort of shenanigans might come barreling through that door.
"Cameron is bitching about the lack of spare parts again," House announces as he collapses in the empty co-pilot's chair beside Wilson. His hands support his bad leg as he swings both of his feet into the control panel, narrowly missing a row of important switches.
Wilson jumps at the close call but not at the harsh language. He knows that House doesn't bandy about those kinds of words and accusations with any real sincerity or targeted menace. The Captain speaks that way about everyone, not just Cameron, the ship's mechanic. It's his way of pretending not to care about people, feigning aloofness, and hiding his vulnerabilities beneath shields and weaponry.
Even on the very first day they met all those years ago, Wilson saw straight through House's charade, but generally speaking, he prefers to feign ignorance. The extra layer of subterfuge gives him a bit of an upper hand in their relationship, and he is more than willing to take any advantages that might come his way.
"Well," Wilson replies after a moment's thought, "Is she right? Are we low on supplies?"
House's fingers tighten on the edge of his chair, knuckles straining with the effort. "Hard to buy supplies when we haven't had a job in ages."
"Have you heard anything from any of our contacts lately?" Wilson prods. "Cuddy normally has something. May not be especially pleasant, so far as jobs go, but --"
House cuts Wilson short with an irritated wave and a sharp correction. "Cuddy and I aren't exactly on speaking terms."
A curious eyebrow quirks upward. "I take it that you still haven't apologized to her."
"I'm not the one who needs to apologize."
Wilson turns his attention back to the wide expanse of sky spread before them -- focusing not on the crushing darkness of space, but on the tiny pinpricks of light that interrupts it. So many stars. So many planets. So much life.
After a moment, he speaks, choosing both his words and his tone carefully. One wrong move could easily put House on the defensive, and that's the last thing anyone on this ship needs right now. "You may want to consider swallowing your pride long enough to cough out whatever it is that she wants to hear, otherwise you might have a mutiny on your hands."
House scoffs. "They would never get Foreman on board with it."
"No, but Cameron and Chase are more than willing to combine their forces, and you know whose head they'll bite off first?" There is a lightning quick pause before Wilson answers his own question. "Mine, and I would prefer to keep my head right where it is, thank you very much."
Wilson can practically feel House's eyes on him -- a stare as sharply honed and potentially lethal as any weapon. He swallows once, the force of it driving his throat up and down as he keeps his own gaze stubbornly fixed on the stars ahead, awaiting whatever stupid argument House is bound to throw his way.
Surprisingly, none comes.
Instead, House swings his feet back onto the floor with a great huff of effort and the distinct clunk of rubber on metal. "Fine. I'll apologize to Cuddy, but you and your pretty little head owe me one."
A mischievous smirk curls across Wilson's mouth as he turns in his chair, tearing his attention away from his work long enough to fire one last question at the Captain's retreating back. "So my head's pretty now, is it?"
House does not so much as glance over his shoulder, but Wilson can hear the warring amusement, fondness, and irritation in his voice as he says, "Don't push it."
The door slams shut behind House with another piercing scream of rusted metal, but even in the man's absence, Wilson's smile lingers, bright and playful as the stars themselves.