Chapter Text
Small velvet boxes and Dr. James Wilson had a complicated history. He regarded them with the titillating wariness of a gorgeous stripper with heels made for crushing both men’s hearts along with their testicles. So upon seeing the navy blue velvet-covered case on top of his office desk, Wilson stared at it for approximately six seconds, then sprinted back out the way he came in.
It was five hours, four cups of coffee, and three, yep, they were all apparently dying consultations with patients later that his wandering thoughts towards the navy blue velvet box were finally noticed.
“So, who did you accidentally overmedicate?”
Unfortunately, it was House who’d noticed.
“Or purposely overmedicate?” House corrected. His shimmering blue eyes widened in much more interest, and that wasn’t something that Wilson wanted to unpack today. Not when his brain was already doing such a splendid job of caving in on itself.
“Neither.”
It was hard to tell who was more disappointed in his response and that didn’t bode well at all. Not that overmedication was ever an act Wilson worried about, but at least that was something less symbolic than a ring box. Wilson needed to figure out a viable way to escape this conversation, but the cafeteria was supposed to be where he and House were allowed to talk about anything. A Zone of Possible Agreement with fewer firearms and more overbaked tilapia.
House took another bite of his purchased-with-Wilson’s-money BLT sandwich and chewed for far longer than necessary. This was a familiar tactic he used when sizing up the proper question or statement to unnerve Wilson in just the proper amount.
“Murder isn’t actually murdering if done with a medical license,” House finally offered. “It’s in the Hippocratic Oath. Ironic it’s right after the ‘Do No Harm’ part.”
Wilson coughed back a laugh that he instantly regretted because it didn’t take much for House to know that he’d gotten the reaction he’d wanted all along. A James Wilson unbalanced with the shaken, not stirred quality that 007 himself would’ve been proud of, and Wilson almost admired that.
“I swear by Apollo the physician, and Asclepius, and Hygieia, and Panacea,” Wilson rattled off, right arm up and palm outwards to House, “and all the gods and goddesses as my witnesses, that, according to my ability and judgment, I have not murdered anyone in the hospital, nor do I plan on doing so in the foreseeable future. Unless he continues to make me buy his BLT sandwiches.”
“Spoken like a true psychopath.”
“Takes one to know one.”
House placed a hand to his chest and feigned a hurt expression that Wilson pointedly ignored. Instead Wilson went back to not eating his wilting cobb salad. No amount of mouth-to-mouth resuscitation would have saved it from the fate known as Fresh Until 3/28. For a while, they sat there, very close to something that onlookers could label ‘agreed upon silence’.
However, because House was House, that had to be destroyed.
“Either tell me what’s got you internally wincing like you just paid an ex-wife alimony payment, or - “
The pause in the steamrolling insult got Wilson to look back up into the only House facial expression more disconcerting than morbid curiosity. The smile of a man who had just connected enough dots to reach a valid hypothesis.
“Oh hell…which one?”
Wilson blinked at the question as if that would even remotely help. Sadly, nothing on Earth could help him now.
“Are we still talking about various meditations of murder or is this a new subject to keep me uncomfortable?”
House seemed to weigh the options in his head before rolling his eyes at Wilson’s obvious obtuseness.
“Which con artist formally known as Mrs. Wilson decided to throw a spoke in your wheel…and feel free to make that metaphor as sexual as you want.”
It was at these precise moments that Wilson wished to have the magical power of turning his face into solid stone.
“Your eyebrows tell me I’m on the right track, so spill it.”
“My eyebrows are - “
“One of the many expressive ways the human species evolved to tell on themselves,” House interrupted, his volume of smugness intensifying to a Godlike level. As if any world could ever handle that.
“I’m sure it’s nothing to be worried about.”
Wilson’s attempt at reassurance worked on lovers, patients, and every once in a while, even on himself. Regrettably, House had a natural built-in immunity.
“You know that’s what people say right before a jump scare, right? Usually, a busty blonde gets about halfway through that sentence before she’s stabbed through the - ”
“If you’re about to skewer a part of her body that would garner higher than a PG rating, I'm leaving the table.”
And Wilson meant it. Most of it, anyway. At least enough to pretend that it was for the best in the long run. He even did his patented head tilt which worked with 50/50 effectiveness on House. Today it did not.
“For having so many notches on your bedpost, you’re really wholesome.”
“Good thing I’m not trying to get any new notches on my bedpost.”
“Not with that type of attitude,” House said, pointing a slightly soggy french fry at Wilson for emphasis.
Wilson didn’t need this except that truly - he did . He needed this type of infuriating distraction that only House could call forth from the heavens like sarcastic lighting. Each bolt aimed with the precision that surgeons only dreamed about in medical school.
“There’s a ring box on my office desk.”
“Is that what the kids call getting chlamydia nowadays?”
Wilson puffed out a breath that he’d never admit covered a laugh. Even at gunpoint he’d deny it.
Wilson paused, wondering if there still was a conceivable way to spin all of this into a passing joke or derail it completely into something much less painfully open. The subject of all three of his ex wives always caused drama and turmoil that took days to fully settle back into deep compartmentalization.
Alcohol also helped. A lot.
However the scrape of the chair and the familiar sound of a House heavy cane catapulted Wilson’s brain back to defensive mode. Unfortunately even though House’s limp was an ever present action, the speed in which he moved with it changed day to day.
Today, House might as well have been an Olympic sprinter with a slight crick in his right side. The sneakers that he wore on days like this made more sense than ever.
“Excuse me,” House called out to three of female nurses chatting to each other in the middle of the hallway. “Need to see a ring box about a man’s nervous breakdown.”
The women scattered, clearly knowledgeable about the inflated gruffness of Dr Gregory House when the smell of humiliating Dr James Wilson was in the air. Wilson made quick apologetic eye contact to two of the three nurses as he tried to catch up to the hobbling truth seeker in front of him. Now at the moment veering to the left and bafflingly picking up even more speed.
“I’m sure it’s nothing!”
“Hopefully those words sound more convincing when telling them to your patients!”
Gratefully House was too busy carving a path of destruction to Wilson’s office to be cognizant of the quizzical looks he got as he sprint hopped down a slightly busier hall. Wilson was wheezing by the time he got to his office, but even though he practically was shoulder to shoulder with House as they wiggled through his office doorframe, House’s cane had an incredibly unfair reach advantage.The ring box was hooked with the top of the cane and slid over in two smooth and practiced motions.
With a small click the box was opened in the type of steady hand that House usually gave to only his pill bottles. Wilson was so thrown by the care of it he almost missed House’s whispered words.
“The hand of famine will pursue him to the ends of the world, and he will go up and down the face of the earth, respected neither by gods nor men.”
It felt like centuries since Wilson’s college day, but he still recalled enough of The Iliad . Leave it to Gregory House to use the classics to make a belabored point.
“Equating it to Pandora's box? Very overdramatic.”
“So were all of your wives,” House replied, sharp blue eyes skimming for could have been either imperfections or a tiny, hastily written confession on the surface of velvet.
With steadier hands than Wilson thought House possessed, the ring box opened with a soft squeak. The glint of gold and inlaid stones looked oddly regal amongst the piles of cancer ridden paperwork and meandering research books of Wilson’s office.
The corners of House’s mouth dipped even lower, which gave his frown an even more cartoonish edge.
“Look familiar,” House asked, the ring box in the palm of his hand facing outwards for Wilson to inspect. “I thought you were a plain wedding band kind of guy. Easier to slip off and ‘ accidentally’ lose.”
There were no actual air quotes surrounding the “accidentally” part of the sentence, but when did House ever need to visualize his barbs? Wilson puffed out a breath of annoyance before taking the box. If this entire situation hadn’t directly involved him, Wilson would have found the wedding band beautiful. Unfortunately when one went through multiple marriages, your understanding of the quality of rings became a byproduct. There were ten very perfect diamonds in a very perfect line within what Wilson knew to be platinum. It was nothing like any of his previous wedding bands, yet exactly the type that he would have considered and then bypassed for something less flashy.
“Never seen it before,” Wilson answered, his dark eyes transfixed on the was the diamond twinkle in the otherwise harsh office lighting. However as he reached out to take a hold of the box, House snapped it closed and shoved it roughly into the front pocket of his jeans.
“Where are you taking it?”
“To Mount Doom” House said, already leaving Wilson’s office at a renewed breakneck pace. “Probably heard of it. Huge volcano, on the sunnier side of Mordor.”
Wilson scrambled for his coat and car keys before turning off the light on the way out, once again on House’s heels. Whatever force brought that ring into Wilson’s hobbitish shire would need more than one man to find it. Even if that man was Dr. Gregory House.