New Fic: Skill Sets
Title: Skill Sets
Author: Mer
Characters: Wilson, House, Cuddy
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1650
Summary: Wilson was uniquely qualified for the job. He also made a good Head of Oncology.
Author's Notes: Final prompt for my 100_situations table. Who’d have thought it would take this long to write the prompt “Hospital” for a medical show...
Disclaimer: All rights belong to David Shore, Heel and Toe Films, and Bad Hat Harry Productions, in association with NBC Universal Television Studio.
Princeton Plainsboro was one of the finest teaching hospitals in the country, and James Wilson was proud to be its Head of Oncology. As a medical student, he'd dreamed of finding the cure for cancer, or at least a new treatment that would extend quality of life. He'd discovered during his residency and fellowships, however, that he had a gift for patient care and a facility for navigating hospital politics, both of which made it possible for him to extend quality of life outside a laboratory.
Somehow, by following the twin trails of his lost brother and Gregory House, he'd managed to stumble into the ideal job. Even in the darkest hours of disintegrating marriages and dying patients, he’d taken comfort in the knowledge that no one else was better suited for the unique requirements of his position.
He'd once told House that he only had two things that worked for him -- his job and their friendship -- and then Amber came into his life, and for a brief moment he'd had three things, a profane trinity of blessings. It didn't last, of course, and for a time two out of three was more painful than nothing at all. Taking the job at Mercy was an act of desperation, not a measured career move. Cuddy had told him his job was still available when she delivered House drugged and unconscious to his car. Asking for it back was just a formality. Wilson knew where he belonged.
"Welcome back," Cuddy said, giving him a kiss on the cheek, the keys to his office, and a contract that would cost more to break than three sets of marriage vows. "We missed you."
By "we" she meant "House," but Wilson didn't need to land flat on his back next to a donut and a carton of milk to confirm that. Despite everything, he'd missed House as well.
He'd missed having his day interrupted on the whim of a diagnostic genius, having his food stolen, and his pocket picked, and his schedule rearranged. He'd even missed being called an idiot, or a coward, or a pushover. Amber had called him those things as well, but it had always been easier to believe that she said it out of love.
A prank designed to cause bodily harm was House's unique way of expressing affection, and so Wilson finished his breakfast, fixed his chair, and returned the gesture with a shiny new puzzle for House to obsess over. It applied duct tape to their fractured friendship, and it distracted House long enough for Cuddy to get approved by the adoption agency. Wilson never wasted his talents on single-outcome goals.
After that, House took his private investigator off retainer and things settled back to normal so quickly that Wilson sometimes wondered if he had just imagined those four months away. Walking into his office to find House stretched out on his couch, picking through the salad Wilson had made for lunch, barely registered as inconvenient, much less unusual. "I was planning on eating that," he said, sliding behind his desk. He logged onto his computer and glanced down the list of unread emails, knowing he only had a brief opportunity for productivity before House demanded his complete attention.
"You know what they say about plans," House replied, munching on a piece of cucumber. "And you'll be less grumpy if you eat something that has calories. Of course, if you hadn't spent the last four months lazing about reading magazines about restoring barns, or if you actually had been restoring barns, you wouldn't need to lose ten pounds to get into your favourite suit."
"All my suits fit fine, thank you." Except for the charcoal grey one, but that hadn't fit properly since his second divorce. He might have gained a few pounds over the summer, but cooking for one had been too painful to contemplate. Concerned family and friends had stocked his cupboards and freezer with easily prepared single portion meals, and a stack of delivery menus had provided the rest, which was hardly conducive to a trim waistline. But he'd started shopping properly again, and preparing a simple salad the night before had felt like healing.
He couldn't say that to House, though, because that wasn't the kind of healing he understood. "Is there a reason you're here, other than to have a mid-morning snack?" he asked instead, injecting just enough exasperation into his voice to satisfy House.
House swung his legs off the couch and dropped the remains of Wilson's lunch into the garbage can. "Has Cuddy found a new incubator yet?"
Wilson frowned, though he suspected that disapproval had stopped working as a behaviour modification tool before House hit puberty. "Why are you asking me? Haven't you hacked into her email account or bugged her office?" He reconsidered his words and changed the subject before House got any ideas. "She told you that she wasn't going to try again."
"That was nearly two weeks ago," House replied. "You had lunch with her yesterday. You don't talk about work after the first fifteen minutes, you hate talking about yourself - which is why therapy never works for you -and I haven't done anything to piss either of you off in the last couple of days. The only thing left to talk about is her issues."
Wilson didn't bother to deny that. "And you think that she'll have changed her mind after two weeks? She's grieving, House."
House shrugged. "Should I give her four months?"
Sometimes, Wilson wondered if he had Stockholm syndrome. It was the only explanation for why he willingly subjected himself to House's company. "Do you think mocking me is the best route to go or are you just trying to give me something to talk to Cuddy about the next time we have lunch?"
"You evoked your dead girlfriend to convince me that you were dating a prostitute, and I'm supposed to tiptoe around your ridiculous life choices?" House gave him a brief, testing glance. "If she had lived, she would have dumped you for the next best thing by now. Or you would have cheated on her, in which case you'd be dead."
The breath caught in Wilson's chest, a sharp reminder that grief might fade after four weeks or four months, but it never completely vanished. He didn't flinch, but House smiled, and Wilson thought he saw a suspicious gleam of satisfaction in House's expression. House could be cruel, but he wasn't malicious. "You're deflecting," he said, knowing he was right when the gleam faded. "Trying to change the subject. You're attacking me, which means you don't want to talk about Cuddy." He couldn't make connections with the same breathtaking leaps of logic that House did, but he knew how House's mind worked.
"I brought the subject up," House pointed out.
That was technically true, but Wilson wasn't about to let House win on technicalities. "And you got your answer, so you're changing the subject before you have to hear something that might require you to have empathy for another person."
"Empathy is a waste of emotional energy," House retorted. "Or do you think if we sit here feeling really badly for Cuddy a new baby will just magically appear?"
"Well, not with that attitude, it won't." Wilson gave up any pretence of trying to work and turned off his monitor. He knew it wouldn't prevent House from ferreting out any information that caught his fancy, but there was no point in giving him an open invitation to snoop. "Seriously, House. Nobody expects you to sit there and hold the box of tissues while she cries, but it wouldn't hurt you to show that you care."
The next day, after the dust figuratively and literally settled from the hostage situation, Wilson reconsidered his words. He found Cuddy in her office, staring down at the contents of her desk drawer, now strewn on the floor.
"House booby-trapped it," she said, shaking her head. "That's why he was in here. Making my life even more miserable than it already is."
Wilson was torn between exasperation and dismay. Show her you care, he'd said, so House had done his version of dipping Cuddy's pigtails in the inkwell and been forced to diagnose at gunpoint for his troubles. "You know that in bizarro House-world, pranks are like Hallmark cards. And relatively speaking, you got off lightly." Wilson had narrowly missed cracking his head open when his chair collapsed. A broken drawer was small potatoes, just an opening salvo.
"Right. Lightly," Cuddy said, looking around the office. "I'd hate to see what happens when he really sets his mind to causing chaos."
Wilson decided Cuddy didn't need to know about the kidnapped patient, no matter how grateful she'd been that the guitar had disappeared for a few days. "To be fair," he pointed out, "he didn't plan on a deranged gunman turning it into a hostage situation."
"But he didn't exactly object either. He gave the gun back."
"He saved the man's life." Wilson ignored the blatant hypocrisy of his words. Defending House to Cuddy was a reflex action. It didn't mean he wouldn't tear another strip off House for being a monumental idiot and risking his life yet again. "He did something no one else had been able to do. Isn't that why you hired him?"
Cuddy sighed and dropped a handful of pens in the drawer. "What are you waiting for?" she said. "Start picking up paper clips."
Wilson bit back an argument and squatted down, his knees cracking in protest. A gift for patient care and a facility for navigating hospital politics were valuable assets, but hardly a unique skill set. House-wrangling, on the other hand, was a singular talent, and if it sometimes meant cleaning up House’s messes literally as well as figuratively, well, he’d known what he was getting into when he'd signed that contract.
Author: Mer
Characters: Wilson, House, Cuddy
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1650
Summary: Wilson was uniquely qualified for the job. He also made a good Head of Oncology.
Author's Notes: Final prompt for my 100_situations table. Who’d have thought it would take this long to write the prompt “Hospital” for a medical show...
Disclaimer: All rights belong to David Shore, Heel and Toe Films, and Bad Hat Harry Productions, in association with NBC Universal Television Studio.
Princeton Plainsboro was one of the finest teaching hospitals in the country, and James Wilson was proud to be its Head of Oncology. As a medical student, he'd dreamed of finding the cure for cancer, or at least a new treatment that would extend quality of life. He'd discovered during his residency and fellowships, however, that he had a gift for patient care and a facility for navigating hospital politics, both of which made it possible for him to extend quality of life outside a laboratory.
Somehow, by following the twin trails of his lost brother and Gregory House, he'd managed to stumble into the ideal job. Even in the darkest hours of disintegrating marriages and dying patients, he’d taken comfort in the knowledge that no one else was better suited for the unique requirements of his position.
He'd once told House that he only had two things that worked for him -- his job and their friendship -- and then Amber came into his life, and for a brief moment he'd had three things, a profane trinity of blessings. It didn't last, of course, and for a time two out of three was more painful than nothing at all. Taking the job at Mercy was an act of desperation, not a measured career move. Cuddy had told him his job was still available when she delivered House drugged and unconscious to his car. Asking for it back was just a formality. Wilson knew where he belonged.
"Welcome back," Cuddy said, giving him a kiss on the cheek, the keys to his office, and a contract that would cost more to break than three sets of marriage vows. "We missed you."
By "we" she meant "House," but Wilson didn't need to land flat on his back next to a donut and a carton of milk to confirm that. Despite everything, he'd missed House as well.
He'd missed having his day interrupted on the whim of a diagnostic genius, having his food stolen, and his pocket picked, and his schedule rearranged. He'd even missed being called an idiot, or a coward, or a pushover. Amber had called him those things as well, but it had always been easier to believe that she said it out of love.
A prank designed to cause bodily harm was House's unique way of expressing affection, and so Wilson finished his breakfast, fixed his chair, and returned the gesture with a shiny new puzzle for House to obsess over. It applied duct tape to their fractured friendship, and it distracted House long enough for Cuddy to get approved by the adoption agency. Wilson never wasted his talents on single-outcome goals.
After that, House took his private investigator off retainer and things settled back to normal so quickly that Wilson sometimes wondered if he had just imagined those four months away. Walking into his office to find House stretched out on his couch, picking through the salad Wilson had made for lunch, barely registered as inconvenient, much less unusual. "I was planning on eating that," he said, sliding behind his desk. He logged onto his computer and glanced down the list of unread emails, knowing he only had a brief opportunity for productivity before House demanded his complete attention.
"You know what they say about plans," House replied, munching on a piece of cucumber. "And you'll be less grumpy if you eat something that has calories. Of course, if you hadn't spent the last four months lazing about reading magazines about restoring barns, or if you actually had been restoring barns, you wouldn't need to lose ten pounds to get into your favourite suit."
"All my suits fit fine, thank you." Except for the charcoal grey one, but that hadn't fit properly since his second divorce. He might have gained a few pounds over the summer, but cooking for one had been too painful to contemplate. Concerned family and friends had stocked his cupboards and freezer with easily prepared single portion meals, and a stack of delivery menus had provided the rest, which was hardly conducive to a trim waistline. But he'd started shopping properly again, and preparing a simple salad the night before had felt like healing.
He couldn't say that to House, though, because that wasn't the kind of healing he understood. "Is there a reason you're here, other than to have a mid-morning snack?" he asked instead, injecting just enough exasperation into his voice to satisfy House.
House swung his legs off the couch and dropped the remains of Wilson's lunch into the garbage can. "Has Cuddy found a new incubator yet?"
Wilson frowned, though he suspected that disapproval had stopped working as a behaviour modification tool before House hit puberty. "Why are you asking me? Haven't you hacked into her email account or bugged her office?" He reconsidered his words and changed the subject before House got any ideas. "She told you that she wasn't going to try again."
"That was nearly two weeks ago," House replied. "You had lunch with her yesterday. You don't talk about work after the first fifteen minutes, you hate talking about yourself - which is why therapy never works for you -and I haven't done anything to piss either of you off in the last couple of days. The only thing left to talk about is her issues."
Wilson didn't bother to deny that. "And you think that she'll have changed her mind after two weeks? She's grieving, House."
House shrugged. "Should I give her four months?"
Sometimes, Wilson wondered if he had Stockholm syndrome. It was the only explanation for why he willingly subjected himself to House's company. "Do you think mocking me is the best route to go or are you just trying to give me something to talk to Cuddy about the next time we have lunch?"
"You evoked your dead girlfriend to convince me that you were dating a prostitute, and I'm supposed to tiptoe around your ridiculous life choices?" House gave him a brief, testing glance. "If she had lived, she would have dumped you for the next best thing by now. Or you would have cheated on her, in which case you'd be dead."
The breath caught in Wilson's chest, a sharp reminder that grief might fade after four weeks or four months, but it never completely vanished. He didn't flinch, but House smiled, and Wilson thought he saw a suspicious gleam of satisfaction in House's expression. House could be cruel, but he wasn't malicious. "You're deflecting," he said, knowing he was right when the gleam faded. "Trying to change the subject. You're attacking me, which means you don't want to talk about Cuddy." He couldn't make connections with the same breathtaking leaps of logic that House did, but he knew how House's mind worked.
"I brought the subject up," House pointed out.
That was technically true, but Wilson wasn't about to let House win on technicalities. "And you got your answer, so you're changing the subject before you have to hear something that might require you to have empathy for another person."
"Empathy is a waste of emotional energy," House retorted. "Or do you think if we sit here feeling really badly for Cuddy a new baby will just magically appear?"
"Well, not with that attitude, it won't." Wilson gave up any pretence of trying to work and turned off his monitor. He knew it wouldn't prevent House from ferreting out any information that caught his fancy, but there was no point in giving him an open invitation to snoop. "Seriously, House. Nobody expects you to sit there and hold the box of tissues while she cries, but it wouldn't hurt you to show that you care."
The next day, after the dust figuratively and literally settled from the hostage situation, Wilson reconsidered his words. He found Cuddy in her office, staring down at the contents of her desk drawer, now strewn on the floor.
"House booby-trapped it," she said, shaking her head. "That's why he was in here. Making my life even more miserable than it already is."
Wilson was torn between exasperation and dismay. Show her you care, he'd said, so House had done his version of dipping Cuddy's pigtails in the inkwell and been forced to diagnose at gunpoint for his troubles. "You know that in bizarro House-world, pranks are like Hallmark cards. And relatively speaking, you got off lightly." Wilson had narrowly missed cracking his head open when his chair collapsed. A broken drawer was small potatoes, just an opening salvo.
"Right. Lightly," Cuddy said, looking around the office. "I'd hate to see what happens when he really sets his mind to causing chaos."
Wilson decided Cuddy didn't need to know about the kidnapped patient, no matter how grateful she'd been that the guitar had disappeared for a few days. "To be fair," he pointed out, "he didn't plan on a deranged gunman turning it into a hostage situation."
"But he didn't exactly object either. He gave the gun back."
"He saved the man's life." Wilson ignored the blatant hypocrisy of his words. Defending House to Cuddy was a reflex action. It didn't mean he wouldn't tear another strip off House for being a monumental idiot and risking his life yet again. "He did something no one else had been able to do. Isn't that why you hired him?"
Cuddy sighed and dropped a handful of pens in the drawer. "What are you waiting for?" she said. "Start picking up paper clips."
Wilson bit back an argument and squatted down, his knees cracking in protest. A gift for patient care and a facility for navigating hospital politics were valuable assets, but hardly a unique skill set. House-wrangling, on the other hand, was a singular talent, and if it sometimes meant cleaning up House’s messes literally as well as figuratively, well, he’d known what he was getting into when he'd signed that contract.