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1.
“Got time for bowling today?” House followed Wilson out of the cafeteria, cane in one hand, a French fry he’d swiped from Wilson’s tray in the other.
“No, I told Wells I’d lay eyes on a patient of his.” Wilson’s voice was tight with obvious reluctance.
House narrowed his eyes at his choice of words. “You mean a consult.” He fell in step with Wilson, whose gait slowed immediately, as if by second nature. House wondered if he ever thought about it any more.
“Mm, no... he was very specific that I just look in on her.”
“And by look in, of course, he means examine her, interpret and assess any tests or scans, decide whether to intervene medically or surgically, and/or send the patient home undertaking all liability,” he said, watching Wilson bob his head along as if to say, ‘I know, I know.’ “But psssh, no, that’s not a consult.”
Wilson threw up his hands. “We— we connected! He asked how I was doing, if Hector still had that colic, he invited me to a dinner party last week...”
“It is just like you to whore yourself out to any old bastard who buys you dinner,” House quipped, chewing on the fry. He sidestepped a patient in a wheelchair. “You don’t owe him anything. An eighteen-year old girl could tell you that.”
“It’s a favor,” Wilson said. “I’m not blowing him in the parking lot after dark.”
“A favor you, the marathon runner of people-pleasers, couldn’t say no to.”
Wilson cast his eyes heavenwards as they approached the elevators. “Zero days,” he muttered under his breath and pressed the call button. “We were doing so well.”
House reached into his pocket to wipe his greasy hand on, well, whatever he could find, when it brushed against something he’d forgotten was there. He almost smiled; his fingers curled around it.
“You say yes to this once, he’ll keep coming back,” House went on. “Before you know it, your name’s made it into his charts because you chatted about a patient over a urinal divider.”
“Must be one riveting patient.”
“Word will spread, and soon every doctor’s hounding you until you can’t shake off the conga line of consults that aren’t consults—”
“If you weren’t popular in high school, there’s always the teaching hospital...”
“—and you’ll unwillingly take on every single one because of your compulsive need to say yes, no matter what.”
Wilson laughed, shaking his head. “None of that is going to happen. It’s a one-time thing. I’m just being nice.” He stepped into an empty elevator and turned his attention to the floor buttons.
“Think fast!” House hurled the item from his pocket at him. Wilson’s head whipped up just in time to receive it point blank on his forehead before it fell to his feet.
“What the hell?” Wilson mumbled and bent to pick it up. House loped into the elevator, stretched his cane over Wilson and pressed the ‘close doors’ button before Wilson straightened up.
He decided to give Wilson a five-second head-start on his examination of the unexpected projectile—a bracelet braided with beads that spelled out BFF—before picking up where he left off. “You’re not nice, by the way,” he said. “You pretend to be nice but you build up resentment because you agree to things you don’t want do. You don’t want to ‘lay eyes’ on Wells’ patient. Aren’t you tired of being nice, Jimmy? Don’t you just want to go ape shit?”
“And how’s ‘ape shit’ working out for you?”
“Pretty well, actually,” House said briskly. “Look at us. A couple of not-nice folks. Nice, isn’t it?”
“I am nice.” Wilson’s hand curls shut over the bracelet.
“You’re not nice, you’re a pushover. There’s a difference.”
“Ouch.”
House huffed a laugh, mildly exasperated. “I just said I’m not nice. What did you expect?” He led with his cane as they stepped out of the elevator. “You’re not nearly as nice as you want everyone to think you are. If you were, you wouldn’t spend so much time with me.”
“Alright, slow down, Lord Byron,” Wilson rounded on him with a self-indulgent smile that House didn’t like one bit. “I saw you give Thirteen your chips the other day. Deep inside your shrivelled black heart you get the warm fuzzies, too. Admit it.”
“I’m not nice,” House snarled, too blind-sided by Wilson’s searing indictment of niceness to deflect properly. “Not like you.”
“Sure you are. You gave me this.” Wilson dangled the bracelet in front of him, smile still plastered on his face.
“I stole that from Peds.”
Wilson’s mouth opened and closed. “You’re serious?” He sounded fairly betrayed. House decided to walk ahead of him and let him get over it.
“But you did give it to me!” he called after House. “You’re nice!”
House rolled his eyes and hobbled off to harass his team.
2.
House didn’t often stop for much on his way home. Takeout, sometimes. Usually it was Wilson’s job to get it if he was coming over; otherwise he’d order in. But usually he made it a point to stop as little as possible during eight miles to and from the hospital and Baker Street every day. If it was up to him, he’d never get off his bike.
So when he spotted a familiar figure sitting all by its lonesome at the hospital bus stop, he weighed his options rather stingily before decelerating to a begrudging crawl. What the hell happened to his car? he thought.
“What the hell happened to your car?” House asked once he stopped.
Wilson blinked his stupid brown eyes in surprise under the mess of his windblown hair. “It broke down,” he finally said.
“Today?”
“Last night. Wells drove me home yesterday, but I didn’t want to ask him again.”
“Drove you home—” House pushed down the irrational surge of jealousy he felt. “You can’t possibly be blind to what’s happening.”
Wilson looked at him quizzically.
“Dr. Wells is your sugar daddy,” House declared.
Wilson thought about it. “No; I’d be the sugar daddy considering he stands to gain more.”
House almost laughed at the poor bastard. “You stand to gain nothing, but sure, whatever makes you feel better about being a doormat. Good to know you’re at least physically capable of forming the word ‘no,’ though.”
Wilson sighed heavily. “For once, I’d like to have a social life that doesn’t get picked apart by you like... like a bird at a carcass.” His face immediately scrunched up in regret as soon as he said it.
“Interesting word choice,” House agreed.
Wilson pursed his lips.
House waited, which he thought was very good of him.
Wilson raised his eyebrows inquisitively.
“You coming or not?”
Wilson’s brow descended, corrugated into a furrow, then smoothened when realization dawned: “Oh—with you?”
“No, with Wells so he can butter you up again. Yeah, with me, idiot.”
Wilson finally clambered onto the seat behind him after vaulting one leg over the bike and rocking it dangerously. It’s a cramped fit; House hadn’t gotten this bike intending to share, and definitely not with someone as big as Wilson. He catches sight of him in the rear-view mirror and thought he looked... impish.
He understood why when Wilson said, “This is nice of you,” glee apparent in his voice.
“Not this again,” House grumbled. And for good measure, House took off his backpack and dumped it in Wilson’s lap before they sped away.
3.
“So I offer snacks to beautiful women, chauffeur you to and from the hospital where I also work. That automatically makes me a nice person?” House scoffed. “Why’ve you changed your tune all of a sudden? You’re always nagging me to be nicer. Now I’m nice enough?”
“Well, clearly the nagging wasn’t working,” Wilson said, shutting the door to his building behind him. “So I thought maybe if someone recognized your niceness, gave you some positive reinforcement...”
“You’ve positively reinforced my wanting to retch each time I’m nice, so good job. I’m sure that’s working towards your goal.”
They reached House’s CBR parked on the curb. He undid the helmet lock and pushed into Wilson’s hands the helmet he brought for him. Its brilliant green surface caught the sun and gleamed.
“Oh, a helmet! Finally.” Wilson made to put it on, but stopped once it was level with his nose and sniffed it. “This is brand new,” he said. Then, as if the significance had just hit him, “It’s green.”
“A relief to know you aren’t colorblind,” House called over the growl of the engine as he maneuvered the vehicle onto the street.
Wilson gawked at the piece of headgear in his hands. “House, did you buy me this helmet?”
“How dare you ask me that? The hours I spent transmuting base metals to mould that thing—”
“You don’t want me to die,” Wilson realized. Rather dumbly, House thought. “You are being nice.”
House gave him a withering look. “The bar is on the floor,” he deadpanned.
“You’re being nice,” Wilson repeated, as if varying his inflection would make it make sense. “Explicitly.” He looked disturbed as he went to climb onto the pillion. “Are you okay? Do we need to admit you?”
“It’s a helmet. Shut up and put the damn thing on,” House mumbled. “What happened to your positive reinforcement BS?” He turned to make sure Wilson was holding on, and found him adjusting the clasp around his chin. His face was a mixture of disquiet and wonderment, and his cheeks were flushed a delicate pink. House quickly turned away.
“How’d you know which size to get?”
“Got the smallest one they had,” House said. “Figured the crap that comes out of your mouth’s a fairly accurate indicator of noggin size.” The insult put him back in familiar territory, made him feel at ease again.
+1
“You were right,” Wilson said, voice booming through the parking garage as he stomped towards House.
“The three sweetest words in the universe,” House said from where he stood by his bike. “What about?”
“Wells. He put my name in the chart!” Wilson threw up his hands.
House couldn’t help it; he smiled. “And to think you so arrogantly dismissed my predictions,” he tut-tutted.
“It was off. The record. Medical. Advice. He charted it,” Wilson muttered to himself, as if still coming to terms with it. “Then he asked me to lay eyes on another patient.”
“It’s like I have second sight!” House said gleefully, mounting his motorbike. “I’m expecting a shrine,” he informed Wilson.
“I told him to call a full consult,” Wilson went on, climbing on behind House.
House turned in his seat to look at him in surprise. “Attaboy,” he said, impressed. “And the chart?”
Wilson shrugged, defeated. “She was discharged this morning. I’m in her permanent record now.”
House chewed on his lip. He was not, it turned out, always immune to Wilson feeling wretched. “Wanna go back in and pay the superintendent to cut off the AC to his office?” he offered.
Wilson huffed a laugh; there’s a grateful twinkle in his eye. “Tempting... but no. I already spoke to Cuddy.” He sighed a little. “I just want to go home.”
Nope. Not immune. It really was very annoying. House turned the key in the ignition, but froze and let the bike stall when, unexpectedly, Wilson wrapped his arms around House from behind to hold onto him.
It takes him a moment. “This is new,” House finally remarked, careful to keep his voice light.
“I’m tired of being nice,” Wilson explained.
House glanced down at Wilson’s arms. His sleeves were rolled up and the bracelet he’d given him was tied around one wrist. A small smile tugged on his mouth. If he felt warmer than usual, he didn’t show it.
“Hold on tight,” he said, and started up the bike again.