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It had seemed like a great idea at the time, scratching the itch that made Wilson want to be the best gift-giver in Princeton—not that he had much competition when it came to House, since no one ever gave him anything. Still.
If there was one thing House loved, it was sneakers. In the weeks leading up to his birthday, shoe ads had started popping up on Wilson’s computer, allowing him to window-shop right from his office; he’d look them over, dismiss them as monstrosities, rinse and repeat. Needless to say, he was growing a little annoyed at the state of the sneaker industry. Eventually he saw a pair he actually liked: a new Shox model, color scheme similar to House’s bike. They were limited edition and dropping soon, and, Wilson decided, they were the ones. He read up on how drops work, made sure not to be on call that day, bribed nurses and janitors to lie for him—just in case House caught him leaving in the middle of the night to be first in line.
Today’s the day. His alarm buzzed at two o’clock this morning, and not fifteen minutes later Wilson was sneaking out of their apartment and into a cool New Jersey night. Sunrise was still far off when, key in the ignition, dashboard lit up, he drove up to New York to the sound of barely audible classic rock, through silent towns and empty freeways.
Wilson couldn’t really see past the mall doors, but just as he was about to press his face up to the glass, they slid open for him. Inside, the lights were low, ground floor deserted in its expanse. He almost jumped when a huge security guard appeared beside him and gestured for him to follow. Judging from his expression, there was nothing he hated more right now than rich sneakerheads, and who could blame him.
I’m not like them, Wilson tried to communicate telepathically. For non-telepathic communication, he opted for a polite “good morning.” It was met by a single, menacing grunt.
Their steps echoed through the empty food court, bouncing off shuttered stores and freshly polished floors as they climbed a dormant escalator to the first floor. At the top, he finally saw it—a huge line, starting under the orange Nike logo and extending at least four or five stores down. There were people on the floor and people on camping gear, people taking naps and people chatting quietly.
The security guard made sure to point Wilson in its direction before leaving, as if he could somehow have missed it.
That was about an hour ago. He has since sat on the floor, quite far back in line, too, and is now trying to doze off against a North Face storefront, creepy mannequins looming over him. As it turns out, what you really have to do for these drops is camp out the night before, which is what everyone else did. Which means he might not even be able to get a pair.
Bags under his eyes, he’s yawning every thirty seconds and staring longingly at the people resting on camping chairs, cozy blankets on their legs. That could’ve been him, if only he’d had enough foresight and less fear of looking stupid. Not many are awake, but those that are seem way fresher than he is. They’re also ten to twenty years younger. Only one person nods at him, amused by the forty year old oncologist who has never felt more out of place in his life.
Several hours later, artificial light floods the entire building without warning, blinding him. It wakes the queue up—people stand and pack their stuff, talking excitedly amongst themselves. It doesn’t make the wait any less bearable; in fact, it makes it worse. Wilson spends most of it on his feet, growing hungrier and more annoyed by the minute as everything around him gets louder and more crowded. With immense jealousy and resentment he watches the kids at the front leave with their new shoes.
Finally he’s inside, a few stoic boxes stacked behind the counter, a young girl at the register, and to his relief, just the one customer before him. Wilson wishes he would hurry up and get it over with instead of doing small talk with the employees, now that he’s so close he can taste it. Who in their right mind wouldn’t want to leave this place as soon as possible?
The man gets a size 10, which Wilson only notices because it’s the same size he’s going to get, and because the cashier exclaims, “oh, you’re in luck! That’s our last pair.” She places it on the counter and takes his credit card. What?
“Here you go sir, have a good one!”
“Thanks, you too.”
Wilson watches in horror as the man strolls out, box tucked safely under his arm.
“Sir? You’re next.” She calls, not for the first time, trying to catch Wilson’s attention.
“Was that really the last 10 you had?” he asks, looking back and forth between the leaving customer and the employees. He dreads the answer.
“I'm afraid so. But we do have a 9 and a half or an 11, if you want.”
“No, no, please, I need a 10. It’s not for me—” he stammers. It has to be a 10. No other option. He’d gone through House’s entire collection, squinting at a dozen faded labels to make sure he got the size right. House is a 10.
“I’m really sorry. I can check in the back, but don’t get your hopes up,” she says, apologetic.
Wilson drums his finger on the counter while she’s gone, smiling awkwardly in apology at the people waiting behind him. The thing with these shoes is, in the end it’s about money, isn’t it? He could hunt the other customer down and offer him double what he paid—it’s the kind of loss he can recoup in a day anyway.
He pinches the bridge of his nose. If only the girl was quicker to bear bad news and definitively squash his dreams, he could try running after him. Rolling on the balls of his feet, he waits.
As soon as she appears again (empty handed, head cocked to the side in pity) Wilson blurts out, in order—a thanks, some kind of apology, “have a nice day” (which he only somewhat means, even if it’s not her fault), and sprints out.
He stops in his tracks right outside, frantically trying to locate the shoe box like a flare in a snowstorm. He leans on the railing, scans the ground floor first, then moves upwards. Either he’s having double, triple, quadruple vision or there's an annoyingly high number of orange boxes floating around.
At last he spots the customer he's looking for, and his box (well, not his, yet. But he’s willing to do anything to get it) still on the first floor, opposite to where he's standing. So Wilson runs, in stiff jeans and a sweater, coasting the perimeter since there's no way to cut across.
He taps the guy’s shoulder, panting. “Excuse me, sir? How much for the shoes?” he tries. At this point, any price will do. Wilson would let him extort a few thousand out of him if he wanted to.
“What? They’re not for sale.”
Oh, for Christ’s sake. “I’ll double what you paid.” Wilson spells it out for him, taking his wallet out. “Triple it! Come on, I’ll pay cash. There’s an ATM right over there—”
“No, and no. They’re not for sale, dude. Now back off.” He's big, not very athletic. Definitely younger than Wilson. Blond. Those shoes would look ridiculous on him, Wilson thinks. He’d be doing him a favor.
“Please, it’s a gift for a friend, I really… I’ll do anything.”
“Not my problem,” the guy snickers, dismissing him. “I’m gonna go now.”
Wilson hates this damn mall. He hates Nike, and their shoes, and whoever invented this limited edition idiocy. And right now, he hates this fucking guy. On the other hand, he loves House. And House would love the shoes. And in Wilson’s defense, he tried being nice. Not a very valiant effort, but whatever, it’s about something else now. Before he can really comprehend what he’s doing, Wilson has snatched the box right out of the stranger’s hands.
The guy is stunned. Wilson is stunned too, but he at least has the presence of mind to clutch the box tight and leg it like his life depends on it. It kind of does.
The expected “what the hell?” accompanied by shouting for security is faint behind him as he runs like he’s never run before, heart hammering in his chest due to both exertion and anxiety. He slides through crowds like a running back on the way to a touchdown, cardboard digging into his ribs, dodging old ladies and tiny kids on their way to the Lego store.
A bunch of uniforms have now appeared at all corners of the mall as Wilson tries to assess the situation. All the exits will be blocked, and they’ll try to corner him until he has no option but surrender.
He locks eyes with a guard speaking into his walkie-talkie, and is forced to speed off in the opposite direction. The first floor bathrooms are right in front of him—maybe he can hide there, or climb out a window or something. That’s what he’s aiming for when someone grabs his arm and pulls him into a side hallway.
It’s dark, all crumbling walls, dust and exposed wiring. Renovations, probably. He ignores the Keep Out signs and slides under barricade tape, turning a corner to hide while he catches his breath, doubled over. There’s jeans in his line of sight, so not security. And there’s a cane.
“House? What the hell are you doing here?” he pants. “Did you follow me? Or—wait. Don’t tell me you bought the shoes.”
“Let’s just say… great minds think alike.” House quips. “That, and I heard you leave at an ungodly hour, even though you weren’t on call last night. That, and I followed the tracker on your car.”
“Why in the world would you have a tracker on my car?!” Wilson yells silently, throwing his hands in the air.
“Kids these days, no gratitude. If I hadn’t, you’d be handcuffed in an office right now, waiting for the police. I guarantee you the guy you stole from would press charges.”
“So… you saw…” Wilson stammers.
“Of course I saw! The whole thing.” House smirks.
Wilson smiles too, despite the heat in his face. Not his proudest moment by a mile, and on top of that, it seems he had an audience that will never let him live it down. Ever.
A guard calls out “where the hell is he?!” in the distance, and they both burst out laughing, shh-ing each other before they both get caught. Even though, hiding in this dim corner with House, Wilson feels pretty safe, despite the stolen goods in his hands. “Yeah, well. Thanks. I guess,” he says when he’s calmed down a bit.
“You’re welcome. Now let’s get out of here,” House says, heading to the disused exit.
Bright light burns Wilson’s eyes for the second time today as they step out onto a staircase on the side of the building. He’s still pumped up on adrenaline, racing down the steps while his companion tries to keep up. On the pavement, he stays close to the wall all the way to the corner, from which he peers around stealthily for any stray uniforms.
“Relax, they probably think you’re still inside.” House says. “You caused quite a stir. Didn’t think you had it in you.”
“Yeah, you did.”
“Yeah, I did.”
“Well.” Wilson sighs, handing him the box. “Happy birthday, I guess.”
“It’s not my birthday yet.”
“I know, but, might as well. You already know what it is, anyway.”
“Later.” House says, limping towards his motorcycle. “Get going before they search the parking lot. I’ll see you at home.”
Wilson watches him for a few seconds, shoe box safe in his grip. He wonders if this is the result of House’s influence, or if it’s because it’s House on the receiving end. Probably both. And maybe he’s getting more selfish with age, but no question it’s a good thing. He never feels more alive than when he’s with him, and if it inconveniences anyone... well. Too bad. They really found each other, didn’t they? Who’s Bonnie and who’s Clyde, he wonders, jogging to his Volvo.
He follows the bike out, but soon it’s nothing more than an orange blip as it speeds away through traffic, so Wilson opts for a quick stop at Walmart. Dirt-cheap wrapping paper and a roll of tape later, he’s out in the parking lot, wrapping the box up in his trunk. The late May sun warms his back as he works, butchering the Christmas-themed wrapping paper for lack of scissors. The little Santa Clauses on it look unnecessarily judgmental when he shuts the trunk on them.
As soon as Wilson opens the door, the warmth of a busy kitchen hits him immediately. Pans sizzle on the stove, aromas fill the air, and the island is littered with bowls and egg shells and orange peels, trace evidence of the rich buffet taking shape in their open space. Coffee, juice and butter already wait on the informally set table.
“What happened to you?” House asks, flipping a pancake. He’s wearing his kiss the cook apron, Wilson notes, whose bright blue always makes his eyes pop. “Didn’t know what you wanted, so I made a bit of everything.”
“Took a little detour,” Wilson says, showing him the clumsily wrapped box. He’s met by a look that could only mean You wrapped it? That's nice. An enormous waste of time, but nice. To which Wilson replies, out loud, “of course I wrapped it, it’s a gift.”
“You forget that I already know what it is.” Another pancake flip. If Wilson didn’t know better, he’d think House was trying to impress him. “Can I open it now?” House asks, sliding the pancake smoothly onto the stack.
“Your birthday’s in two weeks.” Wilson says, stern—or as stern as he can look while his mouth threatens to curl up in a smile.
“You were gonna give it to me at the mall!”
“That was then. I’ve changed my mind.”
“Aw, come on.” House pouts, resorting to his best puppy eyes.
“We’ll see how good those pancakes are.” Of course they’ll be pretty damn great. Wilson sets the gift on the couch and goes to check them out, entering House’s space in the process.
“Hey, hey. Heed the apron,” House says, underlining the words with one hand. The other holds the hot pan away while he leans in towards Wilson. He’s right, that was the whole reason Wilson gave it to him in the first place—he didn’t need one more excuse to kiss him, but he wanted one, and it’s now an unspoken contract of theirs. Obligatory pit-stop every time the apron’s on. He deserves a kiss today. Two, even.
The pancakes do look delicious as Wilson carries stack and maple syrup to the table, the sight of them enough to make his mouth water. House sets the bacon on the table and sits across him, giving him permission to dig in before they get cold.
When Wilson finally does, it’s like heaven is bursting on his taste buds—the flavor is delicious, rich but not too sweet, the texture simply perfect. “Oh my god,” Wilson mutters with his mouth full, closing his eyes in bliss.
“You say that every time.”
“Mhm, true but I think you’ve outdone yourself this time.”
“Savor it. Prison food really doesn’t compare, trust me.” House says, attacking his own food.
They chew in silence for a while, which gives Wilson the chance to mull over his crazy morning. Not necessarily a good thing. It all feels like a fever dream now, one of those nightmares where you’re not entirely sure who or what you’re running from, but it's a matter of life and death. It’s not even the first time he’s committed crimes for House (and it's not the worst thing he's done, either) but it’s getting to him.
He turns around, and yep, proof that it was all real is still right there on the couch, coated in red, white and gold wrapping paper.
“God, I still can’t believe I did that,” Wilson says, running a hand over his face. “I—I stole a pair of shoes worth several hundreds dollars. For you.”
“Mh-hm.” House nods, watching his crisis in amusement. He rests his chin on his right hand, taking Wilson’s with the other. “You know, the Quran would have your pretty hands cut off. The hands of a thief.”
“You’re not helping.”
He lifts Wilson’s hand to kiss his knuckles. “Don’t worry. They’d have to go through me first.”
“Oh, I’m going to hell.”
“Well, good news—there's no such place. But if by some teeny tiny chance there was… I’d be right there with you. In my shiny new Nikes.”
“That’s actually… reassuring—chit-chatting while we’re getting skinned alive by demons. Well, not 'alive', I guess.” Wilson takes a sip of steaming coffee. It burns his tongue. “I really do feel bad though. Imagine queuing for hours and dropping half a paycheck only for some asshole to just… take them. Right under your nose.”
“That's why, technically, it's a crime. But don't worry, anyone who spends hours in line for those things deserves it.” House waves him off. “Limited editions are just a stupid trick to increase the market value of perfectly ordinary things. No matter how nice they are, queuing just so you can brag about wasting your money is stupid. Buying them is only acceptable if, hypothetically... a person had dropped hints to their partner that they’d make a cool birthday gift. No time or money wasted, even if it still fuels that nonsense.”
“Ah, of course. Very sensible. Unless, hypothetically, said partner oversleeps and misses out on the last pair in the size he wanted.”
“Partner doesn’t give himself enough credit. If he were to, say, suddenly be possessed by the spirit of Jean Valjean, he could still accomplish the mission. Hypothetically.”
“Right, I did steal those shoes to save a starving child from death.” Wilson chuckles.
“Potato, po-tah-to, you did it for love. Some would say the most noble purpose of them all." House shrugs. And Wilson… Wilson believes him. The way House looks at him makes the whole ordeal worth it; he’d do it all again in a heartbeat. "Come on, let’s see if those shoes really are worth going to hell for,” House says, nodding at the package on the couch. “Pancakes were good enough, I take it?”
Wilson pushes his chair out and solemnly retrieves the box, smiling, while House clears a spot on the table. He places the gift in front of him and kisses the top of his head. “Happy birthday, House.”