it ain't necessarily so

i am but weak. i will post it. closing my eyes and pretending i'm not immediately going to seek out whatever anybody else already wrote and cringe at myself. thrice considered adding "| Ridiculously Old Fraud" to the tag but nay. nay nay. i am a creature of rigidity and rigor

"I thought we said to call Wilson."

We said a lot of things. We had some giggles.

"Can't a man leave his place of work when he's dismissed?"

"Security office is by the parking garage - you know, makes it convenient, ticketing."

House doesn't particularly have to give a reason for either the office's particular placement or the fact that he knows, especially since he's the one who's worked here for the better part of a decade and hired the forty-odd fellows on. But the quip isn't actually a quip without a nonsensical justification to tag, you know?

Dobson is an approximate stranger, and yet House likes him enough that he feels the need to make it clear that he's not just impatiently waving his firee off.

Also, he doesn't say that he knows this, about the security booth, because of his erstwhile jailbait stalker. It'd seem to land a bit too close to Dobson's broad-bridged nose.

But Dobson remains unfazed by House's lack of swagger - why should it affect him? He's only leaving.

Best two weeks of his life or otherwise, he'd declined to stash any clothes, shoes, reading material in the locker matching his number, and was hardly so nostalgic about his brush with the extraordinary as to go whistling through the wards, tripping the labcoat fantastic in any feasible effort to delay the unclipping of his badge and subsequent deposit into a records-room lockbox.

House hobbled up to his office to brood and prod and pack (maybe think about ogling Cuddy, or ogle Wilson instead), Dobson took care of business, and they both arrived to the elevator at the same time. Not that big a coincidence. Maybe.

"A little inconvenient to have to call Wilson, though, don't you think? I mean, you gave 24, of all people, your cell."

"You knew Wilson by name. He's an old man in spirit. Figured you'd like him."

Dobson shrugs. "Columbia alumni relations office is in the same building as admissions. They send out a circular on who's who. James Wilson is a who."

House snorts, looking away and then down like he's about to pull out a cigarette, or else a bouquet from his sleeve, because that's what a Vicodin hit looks like when he doesn't actually have the bottle in hand.

If this guy were creeping him out, he'd be using. As in, habitually, right now, pop one and swallow it. But he doesn't need the distraction. It's interesting conversation. It just has the rhythm of apprehension, that's all.

"Come on, House. What's so different, between you and me?"

He would say, my life's not based on a lie, but Dobson's entire life doesn't revolve around lying, unless you count the (relatively diminished, vis-à-vis undergrad) propensity of med school applicants to fluff themselves up over their goose-egg formulaic achievements, in which case, yes, his entire career can be measured by his tolerance for assumed-to-be-fruitful personal history lies, just like House's can.

But House is neither ridiculously old nor a fraudster - at least, not religiously. He's dabbled, when the time's been right. Compared to most of the surgeons and other assorted department heads, he's a spring chicken, barring the limp. He just doesn't pull good publicity.

Which is why James Wilson is a who, and Greg House is a what.

It can be argued very easily that Dobson is of significant appeal to House because he combines several unattainable personalities into one congruous, charismatic whole: receptive to House's humor, aloof to the castigation of the masses; theoretically an authority figure in the way that officers and college gatekeepers control House's life much more directly than administrators do; superior by his age and inferior by his lack of qualification, thus rendering him ultimately a peer.

And again, charismatic. Quietly, confidently attractive. Twenty-one, unless it's relevant. Which is the same age as House, of course. Maybe just a little bit older.

"You're not parked in the garage?"

Again, House hits the logistic in order to avoid the sarcastic.

"Nah," says Dobson. "Young thing like me likes to take the bus. And what does it matter, anyway? I know you ride alone."

As if House isn't just itching to make his parting observations in a claustrophic two-person steel dumbwaiter.

"Not always. You could be my manager. Scooter Bosley, auditor at large."

"Still not my dream job."

"Of course not. Must be so tiring, living other people's dreams."