April 18th, 2007 - Midday
Growing up, Wilson had idolized the idea of an iconic "male friendship." The kind of kinship bond you saw in archival footage or in historical anecdotes: two guys with their arms slung around each other's shoulders, smiles crooked, wearing matching regatta pins on their jackets. The kind of friend whom you'd have quiet conference with in the smoking lounge after dinner, or who would second you in a duel if you turned chicken. Wilson grew increasingly obsessed with the notion of finding that One True Friend as he nurtured a somewhat painful adolescence in smalltown Connecticut. His older brother had heaps of friends; his younger brother was too young to understand what friendship was and could mean. So Wilson took it upon himself to find that one true friend -- his Byronic counterpart -- that would balance both sides and, he thought, stand as the truest, most laudable example of male friendship.
House wasn't exactly Lord Byron. He was more Traci Lords -- without the film career.
Wilson woke early the day after his "date" with Cuddy. By the light of day, Tuesday night's "disaster" seemed more tame and Wilson could look at himself in the mirror without seeing a whole hanging gallery (literal and metaphorical) in the reflection behind him. He'd called Bonnie when he'd gotten home and received an earful. Apparently, she had taken House to Trenton to look a couple of high-end condos. "He said he had to 'strike while the iron is hot'," Bonnie had told him. Yeah, I'll bet.
"Well, is he buying a condo or not?"
"Oh, I don't know. He said he wanted some time to think about it but, you know, I really feel like I have him on the ropes with this one, James. He was totally into the experience. I don't think I've ever heard him ask so many questions before. I think I hit this one out of the park."
"He wasn't buying. He was fishing."
"Fishing?" A pause. "For what? Something in a better school district?" Bonnie's congenial tone had turned snappish and cold. Wilson felt his stomach turn over itself in a wet, oily slick.
"Nevermind. Let's talk about the dog."
When he arrived at work, he had tried paging House but gotten no response. He knew that his friend's brain was wrapped around the case of the rapidly declining conwoman; he'd seen House and his team in conference several times over the last week, filling the whiteboard with knots of symptoms, battling the gravity of a grim diagnosis. When he finally caught up to him, House was sitting in the chair behind his desk, rolling an oversized tennis ball between his oversized hands. His collar was wilted. He might have slept in the same clothes he had been wearing yesterday.
"You know," he said, entering the sanctum sanctorum, hands on his hips, "I hear King David actually went condo shopping with Bathsheba right before he moved her husband to the front of the battle. She was going to show him something in Canaan, but they were having a problem with plagues at the time and the goats kept eating their leases."
He raised both eyebrows. "What's going on?"
House wasn't exactly Lord Byron. He was more Traci Lords -- without the film career.
Wilson woke early the day after his "date" with Cuddy. By the light of day, Tuesday night's "disaster" seemed more tame and Wilson could look at himself in the mirror without seeing a whole hanging gallery (literal and metaphorical) in the reflection behind him. He'd called Bonnie when he'd gotten home and received an earful. Apparently, she had taken House to Trenton to look a couple of high-end condos. "He said he had to 'strike while the iron is hot'," Bonnie had told him. Yeah, I'll bet.
"Well, is he buying a condo or not?"
"Oh, I don't know. He said he wanted some time to think about it but, you know, I really feel like I have him on the ropes with this one, James. He was totally into the experience. I don't think I've ever heard him ask so many questions before. I think I hit this one out of the park."
"He wasn't buying. He was fishing."
"Fishing?" A pause. "For what? Something in a better school district?" Bonnie's congenial tone had turned snappish and cold. Wilson felt his stomach turn over itself in a wet, oily slick.
"Nevermind. Let's talk about the dog."
When he arrived at work, he had tried paging House but gotten no response. He knew that his friend's brain was wrapped around the case of the rapidly declining conwoman; he'd seen House and his team in conference several times over the last week, filling the whiteboard with knots of symptoms, battling the gravity of a grim diagnosis. When he finally caught up to him, House was sitting in the chair behind his desk, rolling an oversized tennis ball between his oversized hands. His collar was wilted. He might have slept in the same clothes he had been wearing yesterday.
"You know," he said, entering the sanctum sanctorum, hands on his hips, "I hear King David actually went condo shopping with Bathsheba right before he moved her husband to the front of the battle. She was going to show him something in Canaan, but they were having a problem with plagues at the time and the goats kept eating their leases."
He raised both eyebrows. "What's going on?"
