Chapter Text
"Come on, you let me skip talks all the time, why not this one?"
House's whinging and moaning is made known to all of PPTH as Cuddy drags him, cane and all, by the arm towards the lecture hall.
"There are important people there," she reasons, despite knowing her brute force will win out over any logical argument she tries to present. "I need my best department heads to represent us."
House scoffs. "I really don't think you want me representing this place."
Cuddy stops them by the doors, not wanting House's tantrum to be on display to the other doctors. It's stressful enough having her hospital host so many prestigious faces, without one of her own showing her up.
"House," she practically begs. "It's one talk. I'm not asking you to contribute. Just show your face and sit there for a few hours without causing trouble, and I'll take away your clinic duties for a month."
"Two months."
"Fine. Deal."
"Wow," House gasps, half-jokingly. "If I'd know it'd be that easy, I'd have asked for five months."
"Nice try."
House tunes out the monotonous lecture of some apparently renowned endocrinologist in favour of analysing his peers. A few seats to his left is Dr. Dave Thomas, chief surgeon at PPTH. There are a handful of other staff from PPTH (none, in House's opinion, on his own level - but perhaps it's the best Cuddy could work into the hospital's busy schedule). He recognises neurologists, cardiologists, radiologists (all the "ologists") from hospitals across New Jersey. Cuddy must've pulled in a lot of favours. And for what? To listen to some soon-to-be-retired "experts" big themselves up for a few hours?
There's only one doctor in the room House doesn't recognise. And what a shame. The man is gorgeous.
At a guess, he's a few years younger than House. Soft brown eyes and swept-back brown hair grab House's attention first, and the crow's feet around his eyes from years of laughter. His suit is smartly pressed, expensive fabric framing his broad shoulders, green tie knotted perfectly around that neck that only God knew how many women (and hopefully men) have kissed, left their mark on. Soft, slender fingers are laced together on top of a file in his lap he had neatly prepared - no doubt for a speech in front of the class. House can't wait to hear his voice. Is it deep, commanding? Is he soft-spoken and caring? Does he put on smooth, professional tones somewhere in between?
House tries to peek at his papers, but no words that indicate his speciality are visible. He can't stop gazing at those kind eyes. He has to work in pediatrics or the likes. Some area he can spout some bullshit like "I became a doctor because I care about people", House is sure of it. He doesn't mind, though, not if he can find a way to get that kind of single-minded attention focussed on him.
Suddenly the room is clapping.
"Thank you, Dr. Anderson," Cuddy announces, appearing on stage. "Now I'd like to introduce Dr. James Wilson, Head of Oncology at Princeton General, presenting his work on atypical presentations and diagnostic delays in early-stage malignancies."
Oncology. House was right about the caring part, then.
Wilson is tall, House notices, as he walks up to the stage. Not quite House's height, but close enough, dark suit emphasising his masculine figure. His dimples show when he smiles at Cuddy as they cross past each other. House makes a mental note to interrogate her about him later.
"Cancer rarely announces itself," Wilson begins, slowly sweeping his gaze across the hall. Yeah, he has a pleasant voice. "More often, it hides behind diagnoses we're comfortable making. I want to talk about how that happens - and how often."
House sits up a little straighter in his seat. This guy isn't only incredibly attractive physically, but mentally too. He knows what he's talking about - and what he's talking about overlaps with diagnostics, House's own field. This is going to be interesting.
All of the lectures so far have been relatively simple. Some moron droned on for thirty minutes about some work House had heard of five times before, the audience clapped, and they made room for the next moron.
House decides it's time to spice things up.
"Soooooo," he calls out loud enough for every head in the room (and there really are quite a few of them) to turn to look at him. "What's your favourite cancer that pretends to be something else?"
In an instant, all eyes are on Wilson, waiting to see if he'll bother answering this interruption - and if does, if he'll give a good answer.
Wilson stares at House, something indecipherable in his gaze. House feels a little giddy having his attention centered on him.
"Pancreatic," Wilson finally replies, somewhat cautiously. "Early on, it doesn't look malignant at all — vague abdominal pain, mild depression, weight loss people explain away. By the time it's obvious, it's usually too late."
So he's good at pattern recognition, House notes. And he didn't pick something sexy.
House nods in approval and motions for him to continue with his speech. After a couple sentences, however, House is waving his hand in the air like a lunatic.
"Got another question?" Wilson asks, raising one bushy eyebrow sternly. Behind that, though, House could swear he sees a hint of amusement in the oncologist's eyes.
Time for a test, House thinks mischievously. Prepare to be cornered, hot guy.
"Middle-aged patient," he proposes. "Fatigue, joint pain, intermittent fevers. ANA came back positive. What did everyone else call it?"
"Autoimmune disease," Wilson responds, eyes narrowing as he thinks aloud. "Lupus, most likely."
"And what was it actually?"
"Lymphoma. The immune markers weren't the disease, they were the response."
If he wasn't before (he was), House is absolutely paying attention now. The rest of the room falls away in a blur as he stares at Dr. James Wilson. House vaguely recalls someone calling him "the boy wonder oncologist" and it's becoming clear he hadn't earnt that title just because of his age. How have they never met before? House isn't quite at the stage yet where he's ready to openly compliment the guy, but privately he has to give him credit. He's quick on his feet and intelligent with his answers. Impressive.
While House continues to watch him in a daydream, Wilson starts back up with his speech again. A few doctors in the room give House dirty looks for his differential diagnosis trap - that Wilson just had to easily wriggle out of - while others smile at Wilson in encouragement. His ideas are clearly popular with the entire crowd, the respectful and the disrespectful alike.
House hates what he's feeling. Sure, he'd been attracted to Wilson from the moment he set eyes on that body but that's allowed, that's distant, that's detached. But it has to stop there. He can't just start crushing on a man he'll probably never meet again. But once he's noticed him, he can't stop thinking about him. So he asked questions he was sure would humiliate Wilson, questions he couldn't answer. But he could, and he did, and that's even more appealing to House. It's a slippery slope from here to full on falling in love with the guy.
"So your solution is what? More scans?" House rudely cuts in once more. He has to prove himself wrong. He needs to find something bad about the oncologist, something that will stop him spiralling. "More biopsies? Irradiate everyone just in case?"
Wilson firmly shakes his head, apparently unsurprised this time at the disturbance. "No. Fewer assumptions. Cancer isn't missed because we don't test, but because we stop thinking once we like the answer."
"Sure." House leans back in his seat, joining his fingertips in some Machiavellian imitation. "But by the time they get to you, the answer's already surely cancer. Why do you care how long it took?"
Wilson's a little nervous now. He rubs his presumably sweaty palms against his arms as he folds them. Still, he locks eyes with House and his voice comes out steady as he replies, "Because some of them would still be curable if it hadn't taken so long."
Oh, so you're one of those ones that cares too much. House knows exactly how to weaponise this.
"Just one final question," he declares, smiling sweetly.
Eyes roll across the room, doubting that this will be anywhere near the last line of fire. Wilson raises an eyebrow but nods graciously, allowing him to continue.
House can hardly hold back his excitement. This is going to get him. Surely, this is going to get Wilson and then this whole "my heart is beating weird because of you" thing will stop and he can laugh at whatever flaw he's about to find.
"How many of your patients did you miss?"
In an instant, the other doctors are interested in their duel again. It's a decent question, albeit brutal. Wilson can lecture all he likes about how others have misdiagnosed and ignored cancer, or how to avoid it - but his listeners have a right to know his personal involvement, surely?
From across the room, Cuddy watches House carefully. She's seen this trick before. House isn't just being insolent for the sake of it, as he usually is. His entire emotional state would depend on Wilson's response to this question.
"Enough that I stopped assuming I couldn't."
House is quiet for the rest of the lecture.
A few hours later, after enduring several more talks - none of which were anywhere near Wilson's level, by the way - all the doctors file out of the auditorium, asking questions about the lectures they heard, some chatting to their own colleagues, some simply preparing to head home.
House limps through the crowd as quickly as his cane allows, eyes scanning the lobby. And sure enough, he locates a certain brown-eyed oncologist alone by the sign-out sheet, and the sight is just calling House's name.
Upon arrival, House casually leans against the counter, watching the way Wilson signs his name. He's left-handed. Cute.
"Congratulations," House opens with. "You survived Q&A. Most people cry in the stairwell."
Wilson laughs. A real, caught-by-surprise laugh. It's a nice contrast to the polite fake ones all day when yet another self-important speaker made a joke that should have stayed in the drafts.
House feels weird. He's feeling that a lot around Wilson. He's yet to diagnose the symptom. Part of him wants to push him away, to interrogate him until he cracks, to find out the worst things possible about Wilson. But the other part of him, the part fighting desperately to come out on top, wants to make Wilson laugh like that again and again forever. To never see that gorgeous smile drop.
"I was a complete bastard back there." Look at me being self-aware! "You should hate me. Why are you laughing?"
Wilson shrugs. "It was funny. Do I have to have an agenda?"
"It wasn't that funny, so yeah."
"Well, any half-decent work meets criticisms at some point, and you had good questions. Besides, you weren't really trying to make me look stupid."
He guessed that, right? No way Wilson can already read House. That's a skill that takes years to learn, and even then it's more of a competency than a mastery. He can't have got that already. No, he's just lucky. Well, luck doesn't really exist, but he guessed, with no prior assumptions, no way of knowing-
House is spiralling. He needs to stop this now.
"You sure about that?"
It's a feeble comeback. He knows it. He's sure Wilson knows it. But he had to say something, had to continue this conversation with Wilson somehow, even if he didn't fully know why.
It's not like he believes in love at first sight. Not that this could even be compared to love. Not that good looks and a few smart ideas are his only criteria for love now.
"You didn't engage with the audience once," Wilson explains, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. "If you really wanted to humiliate me, you'd get them involved too - explain to them my mistakes, and so forth. This was personal." House nodded involuntarily, watching Wilson's every move, every facial expression. He had logic and reason. Then Wilson shrugs and turns away, breaking the spell. "Plus, you had a look on your face."
"A look on my face?" House repeats incredulously.
"Genuine curiosity or something. No matter how much you try to weaponise that, it'll always fail."
Finally, House allows himself to smirk too, just a little. He points a finger accusingly at Wilson. "You're good."
That earns him a chuckle in return. "I suppose so."
House considers for a moment. Would it really be so bad to get to know Wilson? He has self-control, damn it, it's not like he's going to fall in love. He would just...be curious. Hear some more of his clever theories. Get his opinion on differentials, maybe. See if he was as interesting in other areas as he was with his work.
Of the many things House is known for, one of the leading competitors was his impulsivity.
"Can I have your number?"
Wilson blinks. Then, slowly, a grin reappears on his face, from where it had dropped while House mentally battled.
"Why?" he questions coyly. "You gonna ask me on a date?"
Frantically pushing down the feelings that arise in him at that suggestion, House rips off the sign-out sheet and turns it over, shoving the blank side of the page in Wilson's face.
Wilson doesn't hesitate to write it down.