the inevitable House fic.
Four Ways House Might Have Met Wilson (But Probably Didn't)
by kaydee falls
house/wilson friendship/preslash
pg-13
thanks to fiercynn and secondsilk for the betas
1. Chase asks, "So how did you and Wilson first meet?"
"You were probably still in the embryonic stage," House tells him. "You should've stayed there."
Friend was too strong a word to describe House's relationship with Wilson. Then again, it was too strong to describe his relationship with anybody, really. Wilson came closest by virtue of being one of those perpetually cheerful morons too dumb to realize that the new guy at school wasn't lonely but actually just a complete jackass. He'd inexplicably latched onto House about five minutes after House had joined the track team, and while the rest of the team had soon learned to give the newcomer a wide berth, Wilson hadn't been so quick on the uptake. House had tried everything he could think of to put the guy off, but it never seemed to stick, and eventually it just wasn't worth the effort anymore. He told himself he played along with Wilson's delusions out of pity. It had nothing to do with actually being kind of lonely, of course.
House's father had abruptly been stationed at Annapolis halfway through House's senior year in high school. It was a particularly vindictive move, House felt, and as soon as he could figure out whom to blame for it, there would be hell to pay.
"Hey, man," Wilson said after practice one day, punching House's arm in what he probably thought was an affectionate manner. House winced. One of these days, he was going to punch Wilson back. Possibly in the face. "You know that bio exam we've got tomorrow? I'm totally screwed if you don't help me study."
"Yeah," House said, "you are." Wilson just kept grinning up at him, unfazed. House sighed. "I will accept payment in the form of food. For starters."
"Sure, House," Wilson said. That was one point in his favor, at least: he'd never even tried the first name thing. He knew his place. "My mom's cooking tonight."
"Good food," House stressed. "Joyful, filling, delicious food. In large quantities."
Wilson grinned. Again. House had been trying to expand Wilson's repertoire of facial expressions to include angry or sad or even possibly ambivalent, with no noticeable success. He'd have to keep working at it. "Dude," Wilson said, "she's a Jewish mother. Large quantities are the only kinds she knows how to do."
House raised an eyebrow. "I am skeptical of your Jew food. I think I might be allergic to kosherness."
Unsurprisingly, Wilson just grinned. House seriously considered throttling him.
This feeling grew stronger over the course of the afternoon, as House came to realize that Wilson was even more pathetically incompetent at biology than he'd previously appreciated.
"No, no, no, you great fucking moron," House yelled. "The kidneys aren't even remotely related to the endocrine system! My god, you'd dissect someone's elbow looking for their spleen, wouldn't you?"
"They kinda are, though," someone said from behind him.
House nearly had a heart attack. He turned and glared malevolently at the irritatingly small person standing in the doorway of Wilson's room. "Didn't your mother tell you never to surprise a guy with elevated blood pressure?" he demanded. "Who the hell are you, anyway?"
"That's just my kid brother," Wilson said dismissively. "Scram, Jimmy, we're studying."
"No, you're not, you're shouting," the boy retorted. "And anyway, you're both wrong. The kidneys are kinda sorta related to the endocrine system. They need to work with it. For…" He frowned, clearly searching for the right word. "For homeostasis. Or something. I think."
Wilson rolled his eyes. "He thinks he's some sort of genius," he told House. "Ignore him."
"No," House said, staring intently at the kid. "He's right. How old are you anyway, Boy Wonder? Seven?"
Boy Wonder glared at him. "I'm ten."
"He's a brat," Wilson said, scowling and getting up to shove past his little brother and get out the door. "I'm gonna go see if dinner's almost ready."
House was impressed. This kid had finally gotten Wilson to break out of his perpetual bubble of happiness and light. "He's totally going to kick your ass for embarrassing him like that," he informed the boy.
"Yeah," the kid agreed cheerfully. "But he'll still be a moron."
House laughed.
Jimmy Wilson just smiled. He looked kind of evil. House approved.
*
2. Cuddy says, "You know, I don't think I ever got the full story on how you and Wilson actually met."
"It was hot," House says. "You were totally missing out."
Michigan, House decided, was way better than Johns Hopkins. For one thing, there were no tattletale jackasses named Weber on crusades to get him expelled. For another, the chicks were much hotter.
His current squeeze was a sexy little number named Caroline, who really did have legs down to there and breasts out to here, and by God did she know how to use her tongue. She was a grad student in classics or art or something equally useless, but she was mostly smart enough to keep up with him, and those magnificent breasts definitely made up for any deficiency in her chosen field of study.
Of course, she wasn't really speaking with him at the moment, due to his most recent rant on the subject of the pointlessness of classics or art or whatever it was, but House had ways of overcoming such obstacles. Today, for example, he was overcoming the obstacle of her locked apartment door with the cunning use of a credit card and two bits of firm wire. He had already overcome the obstacles of her two roommates by breaking in at a time when he knew they both had class and Caroline did not, and would overcome the next obstacle of her inexplicable anger with the irresistible suggestion of some really fantastic make-up sex.
This plan was tragically foiled when he burst into her bedroom to discover her having some really fantastic heinous unfaithful witch sex with someone else.
"Morning, sunshine," House said loudly.
"Holy shit," said Caroline's evil boytoy, scrambling to cover himself with the sheet.
"I locked the fucking door," Caroline yelled. "How do you see that as a fucking invitation?"
"Rape fantasy?" House suggested.
"You're sick," Caroline said. To do her credit, she didn't seem all that ruffled by the being-caught-like-the-cheating-whore-she-was thing, just the locked-door part.
"You're unfaithful," House shot back.
"You're mean."
"You're meaner. Times a billion."
"Um," the boytoy said, eyeing them both uncertainly. "I can leave now. It's really okay."
"No," Caroline said, yanking his arm. Boytoy winced. "We're not done yet. But Greg was just leaving, wasn't he?"
House took a good look at Boytoy, then turned back to his scheming unfaithful wench. "You're cheating on me with an undergraduate?"
Boytoy sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I promise I'm legal."
"I promise I don't care."
"I promise I will kill you both," Caroline said. "James, this is Greg. He's an ass. Greg, this is James. I'm…tutoring him. Privately."
Boytoy James glanced from Caroline to House and back again, then shrugged and gave into the surrealism of the situation. "Greg House, right? I've heard a lot about you."
"James Whatsisname, right?" House said snidely. "I've heard absolutely nothing about you."
"James Wilson," Boytoy James filled in. He grinned. "And just give me time."
House indicated Caroline meaningfully. "It can't take you that long, surely?"
"I don't like to rush things."
"I'll bet Jimmy Junior disagrees."
"I'll take that bet. How much?"
"Five minutes, tops. If you're lucky."
"Oh, I think I could give you a run for your money."
"For fuck's sake," Caroline said. "Greg, either join us or get the hell out of here."
House gave Wilson a long, appraising glance. Wilson smirked up at him. "Yeah," House said. "All right."
*
3. Cameron says, "I wish I'd known Wilson before you corrupted him."
"Please," House says. "He didn't need much help."
"I'm not going to like you," House said.
The new resident looked up from his crossword and took about two seconds to size him up. "That's just because I'm prettier than you," he responded. "You'll get over it."
Well, he wasn't cowering in terror, which might be a good sign. House would seriously consider castrating himself in front of the OR nurses (widely considered to be the hottest and hopefully kinkiest of the nursing staff) rather than admit it, but he was started to get tired of all the cowering lately. It boded ill for the future of the hospital in general, and House's application for tenure in particular, if the new batch of residents were too scared to come near him. Rotations were a crucial part of any potential doctor's training, and if things continued like this, there wouldn't be a single damn doctor in the place who knew jack shit about infectious diseases. Except for the unfortunates already in the department, who were probably collecting funds for a hit man by now (or possibly just a voodoo doll; Renshaw was a cheap bastard).
Four months working at the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania, and life was starting to get boring. A new wiseass resident might spice things up a bit.
"This is the Department of Infectious Diseases," House told him. "Not the Department of Pretty Playboys Coasting Through Med School On Daddy's Dollar. Lose the puzzle."
"Mommy's Dollar, actually," the resident said, but he did set the crossword back on the table. "Besides, aren't puzzles your specialty? You are Dr. House, right?"
In lieu of a reply, House grabbed the crossword and scanned it. "Please," he scoffed. "You couldn't come up with a five-letter word for 'blowhard'?"
"I hadn't gotten there yet," the resident said mildly. "But now that you mention it, I think I've come up with a good one."
House's lips twitched in spite of himself. All right, he'd kind of set himself up for that one. "First year of residency?"
"Rotations," the resident agreed. "Infectious Diseases is up first. Don't worry, you'll be rid of me soon enough, I already know what I'll be specializing in."
"Let me guess," House said, looking him over. "Something cushy, you're used to money. But you do like puzzles - or pretend to, anyway - so you'd want something a bit tricky. Something that makes you sound particularly arrogant at parties." His eyes narrowed. "Neurosurgery?"'
The resident raised an eyebrow, smiling. "Oncology."
House blinked, and did a quick mental reevaluation. "Okay, all of the above and you're a masochist. Nice."
"Maybe I'll be the guy to finally find the cure. You never know."
"No," House said. "You won't. Because that would mean going into research, and you need the ego stroke of actually dealing with patients."
"So why aren't you in research?" the resident shot back. "Judging by your reputation, you hate people. So why treat them yourself?"
"Labs are boring," House told him.
"And people aren't?" His eyes narrowed as he studied House. "There must be something in it for you."
It was slightly discomfiting, having his own mind games twisted back onto him. But not boring. And not boring was definitely an improvement. "What's your name, then?"
"Wilson," the resident said.
*
4. Foreman asks, "Why would a guy like Wilson ever willingly start spending time with you?"
"Well, it was better than the alternatives," House says. "You should've seen them."
"Saturday is my cousin Amanda's wedding, and if you force me to go alone, I will castrate you in your sleep," Stacy told him.
"Oh, God, tell me you're not a bridesmaid," House groaned. "Although I've always harbored a secret desire to see you clothed in puce."
"I'm not," Stacy said with a smile. "And they're going to be in paisley dresses. Wouldn't want their beauty to upstage the bride, after all, and Amanda always was a Bridezilla in the making."
The wedding was just as miserable as advertised. Stacy's cousin turned out to be a shrill, highly strung woman with an obvious diagnosis of hypertension looming in her future, and the groom a reasonably attractive young man who appeared to be somewhat taken aback by the whole proceedings and would clearly be eaten alive by the shrew he was marrying. The ceremony was beyond tedious and the reception afterward wasn't much better, although at least the food was decent enough. House cordially avoided Stacy's parents - a situation generally preferred by all - and took refuge at the bar when Stacy was inevitably forced to go make small talk with her twelve hundred relatives.
In the distance, he could hear the high-pitched tones of the bride screaming at the caterers over some insignificant flaw in the canapés. He clutched his bourbon and shuddered. "Someone get her a muzzle," he muttered to no one in particular.
"If only the prospect were as kinky as it sounds," the guy next to him agreed.
House glanced over. It was the unfortunate groom. "Throw in a leash and a good leather collar, and it's almost palatable," House said.
"Yeah, until she starts expecting you to fetch, heel, and play dead," the groom deadpanned. "It's all downhill from there."
House raised an eyebrow at him. The groom just shrugged self-consciously and knocked back a shot of whiskey. "Steady there, Slugger," House told him. "You wouldn't want to miss out on the joys of the wedding night."
"Knowing Amanda, she'll pass out long before I do," the groom sighed. "It's her day, after all."
"My condolences," House said, and almost meant it.
"She's not usually like this," the groom told him. "She's just…under a lot of stress right now. Her whole family's a bit high maintenance."
"Tell me about it," House said. "I'm living with her cousin."
"Welcome to the clan," the groom said wearily. "James Wilson, incidentally."
"House," House told him. "It might not be too late to give her back, you know. Although I'm not sure what kind of a refund you'll get."
"It's probably not worth the hassle," Wilson said, somewhat wistfully. "And anyway, I love Amanda. Very much."
First marriage, clearly, though probably not his last. House gave them three years, tops. "Of course you do. With her sunny disposition and dulcet tones, who wouldn't?"
"James!" the bride screeched.
Wilson rubbed the bridge of his nose, looking vaguely hunted.
"Please tell me she's a tigress in the sack," House said, wincing.
"I never really minded when she screamed my name before," Wilson agreed wryly. "Although I suddenly feel a rush of sympathy for our neighbors."
House laughed. The rest of the reception might not be so tedious after all.
*
5. The truth is:
House doesn't really remember how he met Wilson. It was probably at some hospital function, or maybe a conference; maybe Oncology called House in for a consult on something that talked like a cancer and walked like a cancer but sure as hell didn't look like a cancer, or maybe House conned the new Boy Wonder doctor into taking over his clinic hours. Maybe they were never formally introduced at all; maybe they just kept running into each other, as people working in the same place are wont to do, and at some point House realized that the new oncologist with the ridiculously floppy hair who looked like an underclassman was capable of taking House's crap and dishing it right back at him without batting an eye.
All that House knows for sure is that one day Wilson was just there, arguing with him over a particularly tricky diagnosis and letting him steal half his lunch, reaming him out for verbally abusing a patient and sweet-talking hospital administrators on his behalf. And that's all that really matters.
How he met Wilson is boring. Anyone who asks is clearly missing the point.
by kaydee falls
house/wilson friendship/preslash
pg-13
thanks to fiercynn and secondsilk for the betas
1. Chase asks, "So how did you and Wilson first meet?"
"You were probably still in the embryonic stage," House tells him. "You should've stayed there."
Friend was too strong a word to describe House's relationship with Wilson. Then again, it was too strong to describe his relationship with anybody, really. Wilson came closest by virtue of being one of those perpetually cheerful morons too dumb to realize that the new guy at school wasn't lonely but actually just a complete jackass. He'd inexplicably latched onto House about five minutes after House had joined the track team, and while the rest of the team had soon learned to give the newcomer a wide berth, Wilson hadn't been so quick on the uptake. House had tried everything he could think of to put the guy off, but it never seemed to stick, and eventually it just wasn't worth the effort anymore. He told himself he played along with Wilson's delusions out of pity. It had nothing to do with actually being kind of lonely, of course.
House's father had abruptly been stationed at Annapolis halfway through House's senior year in high school. It was a particularly vindictive move, House felt, and as soon as he could figure out whom to blame for it, there would be hell to pay.
"Hey, man," Wilson said after practice one day, punching House's arm in what he probably thought was an affectionate manner. House winced. One of these days, he was going to punch Wilson back. Possibly in the face. "You know that bio exam we've got tomorrow? I'm totally screwed if you don't help me study."
"Yeah," House said, "you are." Wilson just kept grinning up at him, unfazed. House sighed. "I will accept payment in the form of food. For starters."
"Sure, House," Wilson said. That was one point in his favor, at least: he'd never even tried the first name thing. He knew his place. "My mom's cooking tonight."
"Good food," House stressed. "Joyful, filling, delicious food. In large quantities."
Wilson grinned. Again. House had been trying to expand Wilson's repertoire of facial expressions to include angry or sad or even possibly ambivalent, with no noticeable success. He'd have to keep working at it. "Dude," Wilson said, "she's a Jewish mother. Large quantities are the only kinds she knows how to do."
House raised an eyebrow. "I am skeptical of your Jew food. I think I might be allergic to kosherness."
Unsurprisingly, Wilson just grinned. House seriously considered throttling him.
This feeling grew stronger over the course of the afternoon, as House came to realize that Wilson was even more pathetically incompetent at biology than he'd previously appreciated.
"No, no, no, you great fucking moron," House yelled. "The kidneys aren't even remotely related to the endocrine system! My god, you'd dissect someone's elbow looking for their spleen, wouldn't you?"
"They kinda are, though," someone said from behind him.
House nearly had a heart attack. He turned and glared malevolently at the irritatingly small person standing in the doorway of Wilson's room. "Didn't your mother tell you never to surprise a guy with elevated blood pressure?" he demanded. "Who the hell are you, anyway?"
"That's just my kid brother," Wilson said dismissively. "Scram, Jimmy, we're studying."
"No, you're not, you're shouting," the boy retorted. "And anyway, you're both wrong. The kidneys are kinda sorta related to the endocrine system. They need to work with it. For…" He frowned, clearly searching for the right word. "For homeostasis. Or something. I think."
Wilson rolled his eyes. "He thinks he's some sort of genius," he told House. "Ignore him."
"No," House said, staring intently at the kid. "He's right. How old are you anyway, Boy Wonder? Seven?"
Boy Wonder glared at him. "I'm ten."
"He's a brat," Wilson said, scowling and getting up to shove past his little brother and get out the door. "I'm gonna go see if dinner's almost ready."
House was impressed. This kid had finally gotten Wilson to break out of his perpetual bubble of happiness and light. "He's totally going to kick your ass for embarrassing him like that," he informed the boy.
"Yeah," the kid agreed cheerfully. "But he'll still be a moron."
House laughed.
Jimmy Wilson just smiled. He looked kind of evil. House approved.
*
2. Cuddy says, "You know, I don't think I ever got the full story on how you and Wilson actually met."
"It was hot," House says. "You were totally missing out."
Michigan, House decided, was way better than Johns Hopkins. For one thing, there were no tattletale jackasses named Weber on crusades to get him expelled. For another, the chicks were much hotter.
His current squeeze was a sexy little number named Caroline, who really did have legs down to there and breasts out to here, and by God did she know how to use her tongue. She was a grad student in classics or art or something equally useless, but she was mostly smart enough to keep up with him, and those magnificent breasts definitely made up for any deficiency in her chosen field of study.
Of course, she wasn't really speaking with him at the moment, due to his most recent rant on the subject of the pointlessness of classics or art or whatever it was, but House had ways of overcoming such obstacles. Today, for example, he was overcoming the obstacle of her locked apartment door with the cunning use of a credit card and two bits of firm wire. He had already overcome the obstacles of her two roommates by breaking in at a time when he knew they both had class and Caroline did not, and would overcome the next obstacle of her inexplicable anger with the irresistible suggestion of some really fantastic make-up sex.
This plan was tragically foiled when he burst into her bedroom to discover her having some really fantastic heinous unfaithful witch sex with someone else.
"Morning, sunshine," House said loudly.
"Holy shit," said Caroline's evil boytoy, scrambling to cover himself with the sheet.
"I locked the fucking door," Caroline yelled. "How do you see that as a fucking invitation?"
"Rape fantasy?" House suggested.
"You're sick," Caroline said. To do her credit, she didn't seem all that ruffled by the being-caught-like-the-cheating-whore-she-was thing, just the locked-door part.
"You're unfaithful," House shot back.
"You're mean."
"You're meaner. Times a billion."
"Um," the boytoy said, eyeing them both uncertainly. "I can leave now. It's really okay."
"No," Caroline said, yanking his arm. Boytoy winced. "We're not done yet. But Greg was just leaving, wasn't he?"
House took a good look at Boytoy, then turned back to his scheming unfaithful wench. "You're cheating on me with an undergraduate?"
Boytoy sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I promise I'm legal."
"I promise I don't care."
"I promise I will kill you both," Caroline said. "James, this is Greg. He's an ass. Greg, this is James. I'm…tutoring him. Privately."
Boytoy James glanced from Caroline to House and back again, then shrugged and gave into the surrealism of the situation. "Greg House, right? I've heard a lot about you."
"James Whatsisname, right?" House said snidely. "I've heard absolutely nothing about you."
"James Wilson," Boytoy James filled in. He grinned. "And just give me time."
House indicated Caroline meaningfully. "It can't take you that long, surely?"
"I don't like to rush things."
"I'll bet Jimmy Junior disagrees."
"I'll take that bet. How much?"
"Five minutes, tops. If you're lucky."
"Oh, I think I could give you a run for your money."
"For fuck's sake," Caroline said. "Greg, either join us or get the hell out of here."
House gave Wilson a long, appraising glance. Wilson smirked up at him. "Yeah," House said. "All right."
*
3. Cameron says, "I wish I'd known Wilson before you corrupted him."
"Please," House says. "He didn't need much help."
"I'm not going to like you," House said.
The new resident looked up from his crossword and took about two seconds to size him up. "That's just because I'm prettier than you," he responded. "You'll get over it."
Well, he wasn't cowering in terror, which might be a good sign. House would seriously consider castrating himself in front of the OR nurses (widely considered to be the hottest and hopefully kinkiest of the nursing staff) rather than admit it, but he was started to get tired of all the cowering lately. It boded ill for the future of the hospital in general, and House's application for tenure in particular, if the new batch of residents were too scared to come near him. Rotations were a crucial part of any potential doctor's training, and if things continued like this, there wouldn't be a single damn doctor in the place who knew jack shit about infectious diseases. Except for the unfortunates already in the department, who were probably collecting funds for a hit man by now (or possibly just a voodoo doll; Renshaw was a cheap bastard).
Four months working at the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania, and life was starting to get boring. A new wiseass resident might spice things up a bit.
"This is the Department of Infectious Diseases," House told him. "Not the Department of Pretty Playboys Coasting Through Med School On Daddy's Dollar. Lose the puzzle."
"Mommy's Dollar, actually," the resident said, but he did set the crossword back on the table. "Besides, aren't puzzles your specialty? You are Dr. House, right?"
In lieu of a reply, House grabbed the crossword and scanned it. "Please," he scoffed. "You couldn't come up with a five-letter word for 'blowhard'?"
"I hadn't gotten there yet," the resident said mildly. "But now that you mention it, I think I've come up with a good one."
House's lips twitched in spite of himself. All right, he'd kind of set himself up for that one. "First year of residency?"
"Rotations," the resident agreed. "Infectious Diseases is up first. Don't worry, you'll be rid of me soon enough, I already know what I'll be specializing in."
"Let me guess," House said, looking him over. "Something cushy, you're used to money. But you do like puzzles - or pretend to, anyway - so you'd want something a bit tricky. Something that makes you sound particularly arrogant at parties." His eyes narrowed. "Neurosurgery?"'
The resident raised an eyebrow, smiling. "Oncology."
House blinked, and did a quick mental reevaluation. "Okay, all of the above and you're a masochist. Nice."
"Maybe I'll be the guy to finally find the cure. You never know."
"No," House said. "You won't. Because that would mean going into research, and you need the ego stroke of actually dealing with patients."
"So why aren't you in research?" the resident shot back. "Judging by your reputation, you hate people. So why treat them yourself?"
"Labs are boring," House told him.
"And people aren't?" His eyes narrowed as he studied House. "There must be something in it for you."
It was slightly discomfiting, having his own mind games twisted back onto him. But not boring. And not boring was definitely an improvement. "What's your name, then?"
"Wilson," the resident said.
*
4. Foreman asks, "Why would a guy like Wilson ever willingly start spending time with you?"
"Well, it was better than the alternatives," House says. "You should've seen them."
"Saturday is my cousin Amanda's wedding, and if you force me to go alone, I will castrate you in your sleep," Stacy told him.
"Oh, God, tell me you're not a bridesmaid," House groaned. "Although I've always harbored a secret desire to see you clothed in puce."
"I'm not," Stacy said with a smile. "And they're going to be in paisley dresses. Wouldn't want their beauty to upstage the bride, after all, and Amanda always was a Bridezilla in the making."
The wedding was just as miserable as advertised. Stacy's cousin turned out to be a shrill, highly strung woman with an obvious diagnosis of hypertension looming in her future, and the groom a reasonably attractive young man who appeared to be somewhat taken aback by the whole proceedings and would clearly be eaten alive by the shrew he was marrying. The ceremony was beyond tedious and the reception afterward wasn't much better, although at least the food was decent enough. House cordially avoided Stacy's parents - a situation generally preferred by all - and took refuge at the bar when Stacy was inevitably forced to go make small talk with her twelve hundred relatives.
In the distance, he could hear the high-pitched tones of the bride screaming at the caterers over some insignificant flaw in the canapés. He clutched his bourbon and shuddered. "Someone get her a muzzle," he muttered to no one in particular.
"If only the prospect were as kinky as it sounds," the guy next to him agreed.
House glanced over. It was the unfortunate groom. "Throw in a leash and a good leather collar, and it's almost palatable," House said.
"Yeah, until she starts expecting you to fetch, heel, and play dead," the groom deadpanned. "It's all downhill from there."
House raised an eyebrow at him. The groom just shrugged self-consciously and knocked back a shot of whiskey. "Steady there, Slugger," House told him. "You wouldn't want to miss out on the joys of the wedding night."
"Knowing Amanda, she'll pass out long before I do," the groom sighed. "It's her day, after all."
"My condolences," House said, and almost meant it.
"She's not usually like this," the groom told him. "She's just…under a lot of stress right now. Her whole family's a bit high maintenance."
"Tell me about it," House said. "I'm living with her cousin."
"Welcome to the clan," the groom said wearily. "James Wilson, incidentally."
"House," House told him. "It might not be too late to give her back, you know. Although I'm not sure what kind of a refund you'll get."
"It's probably not worth the hassle," Wilson said, somewhat wistfully. "And anyway, I love Amanda. Very much."
First marriage, clearly, though probably not his last. House gave them three years, tops. "Of course you do. With her sunny disposition and dulcet tones, who wouldn't?"
"James!" the bride screeched.
Wilson rubbed the bridge of his nose, looking vaguely hunted.
"Please tell me she's a tigress in the sack," House said, wincing.
"I never really minded when she screamed my name before," Wilson agreed wryly. "Although I suddenly feel a rush of sympathy for our neighbors."
House laughed. The rest of the reception might not be so tedious after all.
*
5. The truth is:
House doesn't really remember how he met Wilson. It was probably at some hospital function, or maybe a conference; maybe Oncology called House in for a consult on something that talked like a cancer and walked like a cancer but sure as hell didn't look like a cancer, or maybe House conned the new Boy Wonder doctor into taking over his clinic hours. Maybe they were never formally introduced at all; maybe they just kept running into each other, as people working in the same place are wont to do, and at some point House realized that the new oncologist with the ridiculously floppy hair who looked like an underclassman was capable of taking House's crap and dishing it right back at him without batting an eye.
All that House knows for sure is that one day Wilson was just there, arguing with him over a particularly tricky diagnosis and letting him steal half his lunch, reaming him out for verbally abusing a patient and sweet-talking hospital administrators on his behalf. And that's all that really matters.
How he met Wilson is boring. Anyone who asks is clearly missing the point.