The light in the oncology office had remained on long after the hallway had emptied, casting a warm glow that did nothing to lighten the heavy atmosphere. Wilson stood by his desk, a file open in front of him, while another, far more uncomfortable thought occupied the rest of his attention.

He had heard enough to understand what House had done. Not all the details—he never had all of them—but enough. Enough to know it was indefensible. Enough to know that, even so, he was going to have to say something when administration asked, and ask they would.

He rested his hands on the desk, leaning forward slightly as he reread a line he didn’t need to reread, just to have something to focus his eyes on. It was easier to think about cells, about progressions, about probabilities.

“I could say I didn’t know anything…” he murmured under his breath, almost testing how it sounded in his own mouth.

He exhaled slowly, straightening up as he brought a hand to the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes a second longer than necessary. It wasn’t the first time—that was the problem. If it were the first, maybe it would be easier to say no, to draw a line.

But House didn’t work with lines, and, in a way, neither did he—not when it came to him.

He knew exactly how this was going to end. He was going to walk in, listen to accusations that were probably true, nod at the right moments, and then smooth things over. Turn something indefensible into something…manageable. Not right, just less reprehensible.

“I’ll just…make sure they don’t destroy him” he thought, with a certainty that felt less like conviction and more like habit.

His fingers closed the file carefully, as if that small gesture could give him the sense of control he didn’t have. Because he knew what he was doing; he knew what it meant.

And yet, his mind was already made up. Not because it was the right thing to do, but because it was House.