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When House goes missing, there are a handful of places he’ll end up.
For as long as Wilson’s known House, he’s since learned not to panic. If House disappears, it’s because he doesn’t want to be found, even if he’s currently sporting the mindset of a seven-year-old. It’s not like he’d get into any major mischief. He mostly just keeps to himself, playing his games and glaring over the top of his devices at anyone that dares break the peaceful silence.
But just because Wilson is unconcerned doesn’t mean that Cuddy is too. Wilson isn’t sure when he became the resident House-whisperer—though if he had to take a guess, it would be somewhere around the point he’d been updated from occasional babysitter to “Uncle Wilson”—but it falls on him to find their missing doctor. After all, House needs to get his clinic hours in for the day.
Wilson does his rounds, just to be thorough. First in the clinic itself, because House quickly figured out it was the last place people would be looking for him, then through every breakroom and lounge he’s technically not supposed to be in.
Sure enough, Wilson finds him right in the obstetrician’s lounge, tucked up in the comfiest chair with a Gameboy in his hands.
To the outside observer, he doesn’t look regressed. Not that Wilson knows any other regressors to compare him to, but the research he did usually portrayed regression as a sunshine-and-rainbows, naps-and-plushies, pastels-and-playdates kind of affair.
Needless to say, House is none of those things.
The closest he ever gets to playing—imaginative play, not any of the video games he loves plinking away at—is with his toy cars. Even then, he doesn’t invent narratives, he doesn’t give them voices or things to fight. He just puts them tail to tip in a neat line, organized by color or shape or model, a game that only he’s privy to the rules of and somehow Wilson is never playing right.
“Hey, buddy.” As a general rule of thumb, Wilson always approaches with caution. It always bears the risk of House snapping at him, but he’d rather start too gentle than too harsh. And maybe that’s the reason House walks all over him. “How are you feeling?”
House sees him but doesn’t look up. He doesn’t snap either, so Wilson considers it a win. “Mm.”
That too is a dead giveaway. House doesn’t lose all his words when he regresses, just the big and complicated ones. The one thing that doesn’t change is his limited patience, reminding Wilson that he only has a few minutes before House checks out of their conversation.
“Can you be big right now?” Wilson tries. “We still have a few more hours of work.”
“Can.” House doesn’t look up from his video game as he pounds a single button with his thumb. “Just don’t want to.”
That’s the big hurdle, isn’t it? It’s hard to get House to do his work when it doesn’t command his attention. A pressing enough case will always prompt him to age back up, but the threat of clinic work has him going down younger, more stubborn, less competent. He’d rather play hide and seek in the hospital until sundown than he would do a single hour of clinic work. “Just buckle down and do it” is all but a foreign phrase.
Wilson hesitates, unsure of how to proceed. The only thing that’s stopping House from taking off running is his game, and if Wilson takes that away, he’s ensuring a worst-case scenario. You’d think it’d be easy to catch a kid that has to walk with a cane, but he can be slippery when he needs to be. The second Wilson lets House out of his sight, House can be absolutely anywhere.
Of course, it’s no secret that House drags his feet during clinic hours anyway, so would it really be so bad if he just played his game in the corner the entire time? Cuddy would give him grief for it, but she doesn’t know about House’s regression, so it’s not shocking that Wilson can’t keep him perfectly in line.
Again, Wilson goes for the gentle approach, well aware he’s pushing his luck with a second attempt. He stands beside House, giving him a peek at the Gameboy screen. Doom doesn’t feel like the most child-friendly choice, but if there’s one thing House abhors, it’s age-appropriate entertainment. He’d watch nothing but horror movies and slasher flicks if TV didn’t bore him to tears.
Wilson puts his hand on House’s shoulder, gently demanding his attention. “Let’s go to the clinic, okay?”
House jerks out of his hold, finally taking his attention away from his game to offer Wilson a proper glare. His Gameboy speakers give a tinny whine, the telltale noise of a lost life.
House doesn’t cry. But he most definitely pouts. “No.”
Wilson is not above bargaining or bribery. Certainly not with tiny House. “You can play your game the entire time. You don’t even have to see patients if you don’t want to.”
Which isn’t true, because if Cuddy catches wind, she’ll come down and straighten House out herself. She’s requested that any patient complaints about House be forwarded to her immediately—that way she can nip what new antics he has planned in the bud. And a surefire way to make House more stubborn and defiant is to add Cuddy to the mix.
House knows this just as well as Wilson does. Which is why his lips press into a fine defiant line, his chin tilting up. When all else fails, House is always prepared for a good old-fashioned battle of wills. His game chimes again, marking another death. House doesn’t so much as glance in its direction.
They’ve done this song and dance so many times that Wilson has exhausted all his gentle questions. Why don’t you like working at the clinic? What do you think you could do to make it a little more fun? Do you think you could try remembering how much clinic hours have helped you figure out tough cases? Would that help you appreciate things a little more?
The answers never change. House hates clinic work because it’s boring. Because every patient is there to waste his time. Because Cuddy is making him and he has to hate it on principle. And no amount of medical breakthroughs and saved lives could ever make up for the countless hours he’s had to spend bored out of his mind to get there. In fact, the more Wilson tries to prod about it, the more he has to think about all the things he dislikes about clinic hours, the less likely he is to listen at all. Wilson’s already riding a thin line, if the way House is glaring at him is any indication.
“Come on, buddy—“ It’s a noble, if vain effort, to deescalate the confrontation.
House switches off his game—something that Wilson has never managed to accomplish without a fight on the horizon. “No.”
“You don’t have much of a choice.”
House narrows his eyes. He’s practically begging Wilson to throw around his authority. The worst part is the battle of wills. Because it’s always a battle of wills with House. Big or small or anywhere in the middle, the man just loves to dig his heels in.
If Wilson could back down here, he would. But House has responsibilities, just like the rest of them, and no matter how much he tries to prove otherwise, he’s damn good at his job. If he ever wants to get back into Cuddy’s good graces, he has to at least show up to the clinic.
But House isn’t seeing it that way. All he sees is Wilson trying to because-I-said-so him into doing the worst part of his job, and the remorseful tone of Wilson’s voice only serves to incense him further.
“I know it’s not fair,” Wilson continues, because he can’t help himself. Maybe one day, he’ll finally hit that sweet spot, where he sympathizes just the right amount to keep them from a meltdown. They don’t have those often, but when they do, clinic hours always rank high in the probable causes.
“You should do my clinic hours for me,” House decides. Of course he’s not out of tactics just yet.
“I have my own work to do, buddy.” Which he should be getting back to. People expect him to be the one that deals with House, but they also expect him to act quickly so he can get back to his real job. He’s all too aware of the ticking clock. His lunch break should have ended ten minutes ago. “I’d do it if I could.”
He most certainly would not, but House probably already knows that.
House doesn’t belabor it. Even with his own childish tactics, he gets bored quickly, but more than that, he’s realistic. He knows no amount of begging will get Wilson to agree. “Tell Cuddy I’m sick.”
Wilson scoffs, though immediately feels bad from the way House’s ears burn with indignation. “You really think that’s going to work?”
For anyone else, it would. A normal doctor could call in sick. But a normal doctor hasn’t spent the better part of a year trying so desperately to dodge their responsibilities that they ran out of excuses. He could be bleeding out on the floor and all Cuddy would say is that he stabbed himself to try and get out of clinic hours. And any other day of the week she’d be completely right.
Three is the magic number. Three different excuses until House changes his game plan entirely. Either he’ll run and hide, or he’ll put his foot down. Either way, Wilson is not looking forward to it. Attempt number three employs crocodile tears.
“But I don’t want to go.” House doesn’t cry. But he will gladly feign tears to help get his way.
The worst thing is that knowing doesn’t stop Wilson from falling for it every time. “I know you don’t.” Wilson thinks fast. Anything to avoid a screaming six-year-old. Anything to keep him from turning the hospital inside out to find where House is hiding. “Once your clinic hours are over, we’ll play together, just you and me, okay? I’ll even get your special cars out.”
This appeases House, however slightly. It’s an unspoken thought that he’d rather not do anything at all, but if he absolutely has to, then his special cars is a good enough reward to keep him motivated.
“And I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to.”
Wilson really shot himself in the foot saying that, didn’t he? Well, it’s too late to take it back now. He knows better than to get his hopes up; sometimes House likes to let Wilson think he’s about to agree, just to see how much Wilson will bribe him to get there. He hasn’t found a limit yet.
“Yup. Just get through your hours.” And yes, because he is predictable, he will continue to sweeten the pot, thank you very much. The fact that House doesn’t run more circles around him is a miracle in itself. “We can order out for dinner. Whatever you want.”
House’s eyes light up just like Wilson feared they would, his mind running rampant with the sudden possibilities. When regressed, House always opts for the worst, least healthy option, the kind that always leaves him with the rare pang of regret when he resurfaces from headspace. Wilson doesn’t give him the choice often, which means House has to choose between free rein or company. Surprisingly, he often chooses the latter.
Just one more push, Wilson hopes. It wouldn’t be the first time he miscalculated, forcing himself to start over from scratch. At least most of the staff knows where he’ll be, even if he can feel them rapidly losing patience with the House excuse.
“Can you get up?” Wilson asks. “We’ll walk to the clinic together.”
Wilson has learned the hard way that trusting a regressed House is asking for trouble. Wilson truly thought he just had a way with kids, when House would pop out of his seat and cheerily agree to work in the clinic, only for Cuddy to call him and angrily demand why House has been shirking clinic duties for the better part of a month.
Reluctantly, House uncurls from the comfy chair and stuffs his Gameboy in his pocket. There’s no use taking it from him, but especially not when Wilson promised him he didn’t have to work. No, all Wilson is concerned about is getting him to the clinic. Then, as far as he’s concerned, House is someone else’s problem until six p.m.
They walk side-by-side. On his most disobedient days, House has to hold Wilson’s hand when they walk, which does nothing to help the workplace gossip about the nature of their relationship. Today, though, Wilson doesn’t see the need.
House is deliberately stretching every step as far as he can take it. His only mission now is wasting as much time as he can, all to minimize what he has to spend in the clinic. He’s not thinking about the total hours he has to work off, just the takeout waiting for him at the end of the day. And as long as he’s got a goal, Wilson isn’t going to chide him for it. They can take the slow route. Who cares?
Wilson knows he’s far from what people would call a good caregiver. He’s too lenient, too willing to let most battles go. All the parenting books say it’s bad form, that it’s a surefire way to create a spoiled child. But it doesn’t matter if it’s not a real child, right? Wilson curbs House’s worst behaviors as best he can, but he’s not a miracle worker.
“There you go,” Wilson says. He has to drop House off in the exam room proper, just to make sure he doesn’t sneak away. “I’ll come get you when it’s time.”
If left to his own devices, House will leave the clinic thirty minutes too soon “by accident.” Whenever Wilson tries to send him back, he says it’s too little time to see any patients. And by the time Wilson gets him to go back, it’s about time for him to close up anyway. No point in arguing with him.
House nods. He’s running out of words, which will be a treat for whatever patients get sent his way.
“I know,” Wilson says. He’s not the affectionate type—and House even less so—but he claps House’s shoulder. “Just a few more hours, okay?”
“Okay.” And while House sounds far from thrilled, he makes no more escape attempts, so Wilson considers it a win. He doesn’t even shrug off Wilson’s hand.
“Good boy.” It’s the kind of praise House pretends to hate, at least when he’s big, but he can’t disguise the way the tension in his shoulders dissolves.
Wilson lets him go there. Not just because he has his own job, but because he can’t make House do anything more. Getting him here was already a battle; imagine if he had to stand over House’s shoulder and make him do his job. No, thank you. Wilson will gladly field any complaints leveled his way.
Maybe Wilson is just a pushover.
But maybe he wouldn’t have it any other way.