DDX, With Feeling

by Trinitas

When PPTH turns musical, Cuddy plays de facto Greek chorus, Fellows 1.0 treat a patient no one cares about, and House and Wilson consider the line between friendship and romance. In the style of BtVS' "Once More, with Feeling"; 17 fully reworked songs.

DDX, With Feeling

ACT ONE

INT. — CUDDY'S OFFICE — MORNING.

CUDDY has just arrived at work. She's dressed business casual: skirt and jacket set. (Note that the former isn't cut too tight and the latter isn't cut too low.) She takes off her overcoat, hangs it up, moves to her desk and sits down. Hits the button to boot up the computer. As she waits, she sorts miscellaneous paperwork into piles: urgent, not-so-urgent, and I'll-take-it-out-of-the-drawer-later-this-month.

CUDDY

(mutters, re. computer)

Why is this thing always so slow?

A cheerful tone as the computer finishes booting up. We hear Cuddy hit a couple of keys, presumably logging in to the hospital mainframe.

CUDDY

Okay. First order of business: make sure that

House didn't spam the staff e-mail accounts again.

(remembered exasperation)

Didn't hear the end of that for weeks…

Sound of several clicks, then the 'ping' of a new e-mail hitting the inbox.

CUDDY

(reading subject line)

'Attention all staff'… What's this?

She looks wary—is this another Housian scheme?—but double-clicks to open the message. Skims it.

CUDDY (cont'd)

(under her breath)

Staff of PPTH will until further notice conduct

all business in—what?

She does a double-take, eyes going wide. Reads the message again.

CUDDY

('Why me?' tone)

Oh, great.

She throws up her hands, lets them fall. Addresses the ceiling, as though a voice from the heavens will extend mercy.

CUDDY (cont'd)

House's insanity wasn't enough?

What did I do to deserve this?

A YOUNG WOMAN appears in the room. (Yes, appears: we're talking supernatural here.) College age, maybe twenty, twenty-one. Hair in a ponytail, a little messy; t-shirt and jeans, slip-on shoes. Despite the unprofessional appearance, she holds herself with the quiet assurance of someone who's got the situation in hand and knows it.

YOUNG WOMAN

Nothing. It's not a punishment.

CUDDY

(narrows her eyes)

Who are you?

She's understandably suspicious: last time there was an uninvited guest in the hospital, one of her employees was shot. The young woman approaches the desk, extends a hand to shake. Cuddy doesn't; she withdraws it, unperturbed.

YOUNG WOMAN

(lightly)

Call me Dem: acronym for deus ex machina.

Since your Powers That Be take the summer

off and I have way too much time on my hands,

I decided a little song-and-dance is just what

this institution needs: whimsical and excellent

for character development.

Dem's smile widens; she pulls a file-folder, bulging with papers, out of thin air. Cuddy gapes, but Dem doesn't seem to find any of this unusual. She lays the folder on Cuddy's desk.

DEM (cont'd)

There you go. You don't actually have much

singing to do—just the one number to start things

off, a short interlude and a verse or two during

the climax—so you get to play the Greek chorus

for the duration. All your lines are in there.

CUDDY

(flabbergasted, sputters)

This—this is a hospital, not Broadway! And I

don't sing—

DEM

Doesn't matter: you do now. Participation is

kind of compulsory.

She snaps her fingers, and a light, mincing musical introduction begins to play. Then she vanishes as suddenly as she appeared.

Cuddy tries to fight the music, but as the opening bars wind to a close, she finds that 'compulsory' was actually an apt description: she begins to sing in spite of herself. Contrary to her earlier assertion, her singing voice is pretty good.

[SONG: TRYING TO KEEP ORDER to the tune of "Going Through the Motions."]

CUDDY

Every single day, it never changes

Trying to make this place run.

She goes back to her work, as though nothing is out of the ordinary: checking the sorted files, shutting down the e-mail program.

Sure I've reached the top, but what is strange is

It's never easy. And it's rarely fun.

Camera shifts to emphasize a very crowded desk, each paper representing a task to do, then back to Cuddy as she shakes her head in dismay: paperwork is only half the battle.

What I must endure from the fourth floor,

I stand all that and more, but I'm just

Trying to keep order,

Wielding chair and whip,

Hoping Doctor House won't lose his grip!

Over the following lines, we get a montage of House's antics (no sound): arguing with her in the office as he brandishes test results, insulting a patient, popping several Vicodin.

Always arrogant, oh-so-sarcastic

Pops narcotics left and right.

Back to Cuddy, contemplative.

How to change his ways? Do something drastic?

Wilson tried and failed. It's not worth the fight.

(beat)

Or case oversight.

She sighs, shrugs, resigned: House will be House, and if Wilson can't change him, she won't have any luck.

So I stand behind his brilliant mind,

Let him be unrefined

For despite his unorthodoxy—

NURSE BRENDA

(counterpoint)

Damn unorthodoxy!

CUDDY

And bedside learned in hell,

Make allowances and he'll excel!

She makes a few last rearrangements of the contents of her desk, then pushes her chair back, stands, retrieves and puts on her lab coat.

Will he be this way forever?

All these years and he has never

Tried that bitterness to sever—

Nothing I can do…

Just keep keeping order,

Fulfill inner drive,

And hope someday he'll see

Life'd go more easily

If he'd do more than just

Survive.

The music ends; Cuddy falls silent, a little shocked at herself.

CUDDY

(mutters)

Thank God that's over!

She picks up the file Dem left on her desk, opens it, reads the top sheet.

CUDDY (cont'd)

Oh, dammit. There's no way House will—

She breaks off, realizes House won't have a choice. A slow, wicked smile spreads over her face.

CUDDY (cont'd)

On second thought…this I have to see.

All I need is a case—

Four copies of a case file appear from thin air and fall to land neatly—one, two, three, four—on the desk. She shakes her head at the insanity of it all, but picks them up.

CUDDY (cont'd)

Thanks.

Camera pans out to follow Cuddy out of her office. Cut to:

INT. — FOURTH FLOOR CORRIDOR — CONTINUING

as she gets off the elevator. We see the doors slide closed behind her. Camera switches to Cuddy's perspective, locks on HOUSE, who's limping down the corridor. Cuddy plots an intercept course, catches up with him and shoves the case folders into his free hand.

HOUSE

(frowns, affects confusion)

Now, see, these look like case folders, but

they can't be, because I don't recall agreeing

to take a case.

CUDDY

I don't care if you agree or not: you're taking

it. Now go do your job.

House opens one folder and starts to skim it, then looks up sharply as a musical note sounds.

HOUSE

What the hell was that?

Cuddy smiles the smile of the cat who's just gotten the cream and several canaries.

CUDDY

Did I mention we all have to sing and dance

our way through work today?

(beat, glances at his cane)

Well, not dance, in your case, but that was

probably the cue for your opening number.

HOUSE

(flatly)

I'm not singing.

Cuddy's smile widens: she can't wait.

CUDDY

That's what you think.

She points to his office.

CUDDY (cont'd)

Get in there.

House approaches the office door and glances in: from his perspective, we can see the FELLOWS at the conference table. CHASE is filling in a crossword puzzle, FOREMAN sips a coffee, and CAMERON is diligently completing House's paperwork. The scene is completely normal and non-threatening, and House doesn't buy it for a second.

HOUSE

I think I'll diagnose from

out here today.

CUDDY

Go in, and you don't have any clinic hours

until this madness is over.

House considers: he doesn't want to capitulate—or sing, for that matter—but he hates the clinic too much to refuse. Camera follows him as

INT. — DIAGNOSTICS CONFERENCE ROOM — CONTINUING

he enters the office and tosses the files down in the middle of the table. The earlier musical cue repeats; as the fellows reach for copies of the file, House begins to sing.

[SONG: I'VE GOT A THEORY/HALF-WITS/JUST RUN THE DAMN TESTS to the tune of "I've Got a Theory/Bunnies/If We're Together."]

HOUSE

We've got a patient! The differential?

Well, come on, people—I'm not giving you all day here.

CAMERON

(opening the file)

What are the symptoms? There must be symptoms,

And given your tastes I am guessing that they're severe.

HOUSE

(annoyed)

That what the chart's for—start to work it out!

Keep your mouth shut 'til you know what

You're meant to talk about.

Chase has already read the file. He has an idea; sings rapidly and apparently in a single breath.

CHASE

It could be drug use! Illicit drug use

'Cause that's a common cause

Of many of the symptoms here

And we should run a tox screen

Search the house and find out if

The patient lies.

House likes that one, both the idea and the delivery. He nods slightly, lets Chase have an approving smirk. Chase beams: his week is made.

Camera pans in on Foreman, who has his usual form of diagnosis to suggest.

FOREMAN

Maybe head trauma? Get an MRI.

Or what if—

The music changes abruptly, the light, cheery notes of the piano becoming darker, faster, more intense chords played by electric guitar.

HOUSE

(explodes, disgusted)

'Fore I hired you, did you even go to med schools?

You're clearly guessing and I don't pay you to be fools!

Chase at least learned my methods—

We can see Chase grin, pleased: validated twice in one day.

HOUSE (cont'd)

But the rest of you are so getting on my nerves!

Theories! Give me some better theories!

The music resumes the original tune and mode, pauses for a beat. HOUSE adds:

HOUSE (cont'd)

Or more stuff to mock.

Which, after all, is almost as good. Cameron's turn: the camera focuses on her.

CAMERON

It could be lupus; run an ANA.

HOUSE

(rolls his eyes)

It's never been lupus and it will not be so today!

The tone of the piece changes for the final time, a guitar joining the piano as the music swells, losing the uncertain tone of the earlier theorizing and becoming as confident as House's instructions.

HOUSE

Chase, break and enter. Foreman, start to test:

Tox screen, CBC and all the rest—

And that's an order, not a request.

(shoos them)

Well, go on; move—your duty calls;

Don't stand and gape within these walls.

The fellows file out. Camera follows them to:

INT. — FOURTH FLOOR CORRIDOR — CONTINUING

FELLOWS

Another case. Well, let's get in it;

Patient's growing worse every minute.

The camera follows them down the corridor.

FOREMAN

We know by now: we cannot grouse—

Chase smirks, picks up the line.

CHASE

Or else we're sure to piss off House.

Cameron gives them a disapproving look, but can't completely hide her grin.

FELLOWS

We'll run the tests—

HOUSE (V.O.)

Run the damn tests!

FELLOWS (cont'd)

And we'll solve this case—

That's how we are meant to earn our place.

HOUSE (V.O., cont'd)

And get me answers!

FELLOWS (cont'd):

Nothing we can't guess…

Eventually.

The music ends. Chase splits off from the other two to do the weekly break-and-entry; Foreman heads for the lab with Cameron following. Cut back to

INT. — DIAGNOSTICS CONFERENCE ROOM — CONTINUING

House is sitting at the conference table, fingers steepled over the handle of his cane. His expression is of profound disgust.

HOUSE

(mutters)

This is why I'm an atheist: no benevolent being would

have allowed show tunes to highjack my life.

There's a pensive silence. Then an idea occurs to House and he smirks.

HOUSE (cont'd)

I wonder if Wilson's been forced to sing anything?

Maybe a funeral dirge with some tumor-ridden kids as backup…

Cut to:

INT. — ENTRANCE TO RADIOLOGY — DAY

Cuddy is there, standing outside the room while the fellows run an MRI. She consults Dem's file briefly, then closes it and looks at the camera.

CUDDY

While House is goofing off, his fellows are actually

doing their jobs and taking care of the patient,

who's having an MRI. Apparently Foreman is

testing for neurological problems anyway.

She peeks in the viewing window. We don't see what she sees, but we don't have to.

CUDDY (cont'd)

(dryly)

And Chase is back from the weekly break-in, which

is fortunate, because an uncommon number of patients

seem to need an intensivist at some point during

this procedure.

Cut to:

INT. — RADIOLOGY — CONTINUING

Camera pans in on the MRI machine. The PATIENT (a nondescript man in his forties, whom we will not see again this episode) has just come out; fanfare begins to play

[SONG: THE PATIENTto the tune of "The Mustard."]

CAMERON

(turns a cartwheel, sings)

The patient's still okay!

CHASE/FOREMAN

The patient's still okay!

The patient is alarmed: were they expecting him not to be okay?

Cut to:

INT. — ENTRANCE TO RADIOLOGY — CONTINUING

Cuddy, who saw all this through the window, looks disturbed. She stands there for a moment, shakes it off.

CUDDY:

I'll talk to them about that display later. Right now,

we should get back up to Oncology—Wilson's due to

start an expository number any minute.

She consults her watch, then the folder from earlier. This time, we catch a glimpse of sheet music sticking out of it.

CUDDY

Damn—if this tune were any sweeter, it'd make Disney sick.

I hope they let him bring it down an octave.

She turns and heads for the elevator. On its closing doors, abrupt cut to:

INT. — WILSON'S OFFICE — DAY.

WILSON is sitting at his desk when mellow guitar chords begin to play. He had been doing paperwork, but when he hears them, he puts his pen down.

[SONG: CAUGHT IN HIS THRALLto the tune of "Under Your Spell."]

WILSON

(sings)

He drives me crazy sometimes—

I'm first to admit it—yet

He's seen me through my glum times

Almost since when we first met.

He smiles reminiscently, shakes his head.

WILSON (cont'd)

Maybe it's a fact

That opposites attract.

The music picks up for the chorus.

WILSON

Caught up in his thrall

Standing at his side

Confidant and sometimes guide.

Just why I can't recall

But I'll take in stride

Each surprise that he'll provide.

Over the next verse, we see a montage of scenes from their friendship: Christmas Eve with laughter and Chinese; House barging in on Wilson blow-drying his hair; House falling down as his cane gives out; the two of them playing poker at the oncology benefit.

WILSON

We're so mismatched that it's strange

We've been together this long—

But there's not much that I'd change;

Somehow it keeps our bond strong.

It's odd, yes, but true,

That we have seen so much through.

More scenes, these not quite so companionable: House in Wilson's office as Wilson packs up in preparation to leave during the Vogler debacle; Wilson telling House to go to hell after House insults Andie; House yelling at Wilson over sleeping with Grace and Wilson yelling back. But then the two of them, walking side-by-side together, shoulders brushing.

Fade back to Wilson's office.

WILSON

Caught up in his thrall—

But on reflection,

'Twas mutual connection.

Something, however small

Prompted him to stay;

Had to figure out the way

I worked—why I liked him.

A beat. Wilson pauses briefly with a pensive look of his own.

WILSON

Our friendship endures—

Maybe even something more?

No fantasy scenes here: it's too remote a possibility, in Wilson's mind, even to imagine.

WILSON (cont'd)

Caught up in his thrall—

Don't quite know it all

For he's such a mystery

Enough to make me fall

Holding to the key,

Glimpses that he's let me see…

There's something more there…

There's something more there…

There's something more there…

There's something more there…

Cut to:

INT. — FOURTH FLOOR CORRIDOR — CONTINUING.

Cuddy is standing about halfway between the oncology and diagnostics offices.

CUDDY

Even with the elevator, it takes far too much time to

get from the basement to the fourth floor—I only just

made the first refrain.

(pause)

Wilson has a great voice, even if that number

was a little more than I wanted to know.

(under her breath)

At least it explains why he puts up with so

much crap from House. Figures: if not

insanity, it'd have to be love.

Cuddy moves down the hall, glances into Diagnostics. House is in the conference room juggling an 8-ball, his oversized ball, and the stapler. She raps on the glass; he starts, but still catches the objects.

HOUSE

(shouts)

What?

CUDDY

(sighs, opens the door and sticks her head in)

Wilson's office. Now. You're late for a duet.

House glares obstinately at her, drops into his chair and crosses his arms over his chest, the picture of 'I shall not be moved.' Cuddy opens the folder and consults the contents.

CUDDY (cont'd)

Actually—you can stay there.

She withdraws, lets the door swing shut and heads for oncology, stopping in front of and knocking on the door. Wilson opens it, looks surprised to see her.

WILSON

Dr. Cuddy? Do you need something?

CUDDY

You have a duet in House's office. It was originally supposed

to be in yours, but he's determined to go through this with

as much ill grace as possible.

WILSON

(chuckles)

Sounds like him. Actually, DDX in song was fairly

entertaining…and I had no idea Chase could

theorize that fast.

Meaning the walls between his office and House's are thin: this will be Important later. Wilson leaves his office, closes the door behind him.

WILSON

Anything I should know about this number? The last one

was kind of a surprise…

Cuddy checks the folder as they head for House's office.

CUDDY

There's a dance interlude in the middle, kind of a

forties-style thing. House is exempt, for obvious

reasons, but you're stuck with it.

WILSON

(dryly)

I think I'll survive.

Cut to:

INT. — DIAGNOSTICS CONFERENCE ROOM — CONTINUING

The camera follows Wilson as he enters just in time for a winds-and-piano introduction, then establishes House, seated at the conference table. We hear the door swing shut, then Wilson drawing a breath in preparation to sing.

[SONG: I'LL NEVER TELL to the eponymous tune.]

WILSON

(moves into frame, gestures to indicate House, sings)

This is the guy that I do not ask why

I still hang around,

Even when he grins with glee as he runs me

Into the ground.

House looks up at him and smiles at the apt description.

WILSON (cont'd)

All these years, they just show

His vitriol won't make me go.

There are just things that—no.

I'll never tell.

The music may be compelling him, but just this once, House doesn't mind: this is the one person it's okay to sing in front of. He mirrors Wilson's gesture and commences.

HOUSE

He is my friend to the end, will attend

To my every need. He'll pay my bail when in jail

Will not fail my hungers to feed.

He's loyal, he's a wit;

We're both screwed up but still we fit.

Hearing this rare open statement of trust and friendship, Wilson smiles, too.

HOUSE (cont'd)

It's just that he's a bit—

(smirks)

Well. I'll never tell.

They meet each other's gazes. Wilson answers House's smirk with one of his own.

BOTH (cont'd)

But the things I could tell!

The music changes key, speeds up in preparation for the banter. House and Wilson sing about each other—but, unless noted, to the camera.

WILSON

He drinks.

HOUSE

He preaches.

WILSON

All boundaries he breaches.

HOUSE

He has this thing with marriage that I won't describe.

That one stung.

WILSON

(frowns, counters)

Addict, narcotic.

House looks over at Wilson with narrowed eyes, then back at the camera as he parries the remark.

HOUSE

He's ever so neurotic!

WILSON

He'll lie, cheat or steal or try an incisive jibe.

House takes that as a compliment.

BOTH (cont'd)

Ascribe whatever meaning…

WILSON

Maybe needs some intervening.

HOUSE

(with a 'just try it' look)

Or out of control careening.

WILSON

Maybe on support he's leaning,

But I guess just as well.

BOTH(cont'd)

'Cause God knows I'll never tell!

WILSON

He needs a muzzle

And depends on a puzzle

To get him through the day he couldn't otherwise bear.

It may not be the whole of the truth, but it still hits close to home. House glares at Wilson again, then returns his focus to the camera and fires back.

HOUSE

He needs the needy—

It's really almost greedy.

When I least want a lecture that's when I'll find him there!

WILSON

(spoken)

Time for that dance interlude, I guess.

HOUSE

(spoken)

What dance interlude?

In answer, there's an instrumental break and change of key. Wilson begins a few dance steps; House observes, still seated.

HOUSE

(incredulous, over the instrumentals)

Swing dancing? This is bad enough without

bringing back the forties.

Wilson continues to dance, plainly enjoying it despite House's mockery. And if worse comes to worse, there's always the possibility of blackmail later.

WILSON

(sings)

Well, maybe we're both crazy.

HOUSE

(sings)

The logic's hazy…

WILSON

But his antics are amusing,

Even when they're quite confusing

So if I'm the crutch that he's using…

Another instrumental break. House has had enough of Wilson's dancing and stops it with a strategic application of cane to shins. Return to original melody as Wilson doubles over.

WILSON

(through clenched teeth, massaging his shin)

We need each other.

HOUSE

Like symbiotes or brothers.

He gives Wilson what could be read as a mildly apologetic look.

HOUSE (cont'd)

Never mind the others—he's the one that will stay.

WILSON

(mollified, straightens up)

I endure vices, and make some sacrifices,

But in the end the price is one that I'm glad to pay.

HOUSE

I say that I need no one;

That way, I know I won't be betrayed.

If Wilson is glad to have confirmation of the fact, he knows better than to show it.

WILSON

But I wouldn't let him drive me off.

HOUSE

Despite all the times I yelled and scoffed.

WILSON

Maybe this arrangement's stressful

But ultimately successful.

HOUSE

And I can't imagine working

Sans my bud beside me smirking,

Maybe pranking,

Maybe joking.

WILSON

(dryly)

Maybe driven into stroking.

Either way, all the provoking

It will somehow end well,

And that's why I'll never tell.

I swear that I'll never tell.

HOUSE

(smirking)

Although I could.

WILSON

(pointedly rubbing his shin)

Although I should.

HOUSE

I take the fifth.

Just move along.

BOTH

I'll never tell!

The song ends. Wilson turns to House.

WILSON

That was...uncommonly positive of you.

HOUSE

(not going there)

It was the song talking—I haven't had to be that

candid about my emotions since I ditched Stacy.

Did I mention this vaudeville routine is getting old?

He turns, heads for the door. Wilson follows. Cut to:

INT. — FOURTH FLOOR CORRIDOR — CONTINUING

as they move down the hall toward House's office.

WILSON

Not to me, but I'm sure you've been complaining

all morning.

HOUSE

('duh' look)

Of course I've been complaining—

if I wanted to sing, I wouldn't've become a doctor!

WILSON

It's not that bad—my younger patients were

really entertained when I sang while they were

getting morning meds.

HOUSE

(interestedly)

Something upbeat and heartwarming, or did they

all end up crying over their terminal prognoses?

WILSON

(frowns)

They're not all terminal. And it was nice, full of

hope. Some of them made great backup singers.

HOUSE

(pained)

Thank God I was nowhere near that. I've

had about as much sweetness as I can stomach.

Cut to CUDDY, waiting by the fourth floor elevator.

CUDDY

He should be happy, then: the number he has coming

up is about as far from sweet as possible.

The elevator doors slide open.

INT. — ELEVATOR — CONTINUING

Cuddy gets in and hits the button for the first floor.

CUDDY (cont'd)

Not that he likes to discuss his suffering, either, but

he'll get to do it more or less in private.

(opens the folder, sighs)

Time for my second song—at least this one's short.

She leaves the elevator.

INT. — LOBBY — CONTINUING

The camera follows her as she returns to her office.

INT. — CUDDY'S OFFICE — CONTINUING

She sits down behind her desk just in time for the sound of chimes to open up the piece.

[SONG: THE META NUMBERto the tune of "The Parking Ticket."]

Cuddy flips through the folder as she sings, skimming through what's already occurred and then peeking ahead.

CUDDY

(sings)

So far it's been a strange, strange day;

I hope the theater routine won't stay…

Up in Diagnostics

The final bars of a duet…

She shakes her head slightly at House and Wilson's antics: one part exasperation, one part grudging fondness.

CUDDY (cont'd)

There's something odd going on there—

It's not the dancing; au contraire;

Something else, something more

Some twisted ending is in store…

Something the music should reflect

(Or else the Chorus will detect).

The music ends. Cuddy heaves a sigh, puts down the folder and leans back in her chair.

CUDDY

That's enough foreshadowing for a while, so let's

fast-forward a few hours and get back to House.

According to my file, he should be home by now—

(under her breath)

thank God I don't have to follow him there—

(normal volume)

with some scotch he has no business mixing with

narcotics, particularly bad leg pain and an even

worse mood than usual.

Cut to:

INT. — HOUSE'S APARTMENT — NIGHT

Camera enters at the front door, passes the coffee table so we can see the omnipresent bottle of Vicodin and a half-empty glass of scotch confirming Cuddy's narration. Moving on, we establish House at the piano, absently picking out a few notes. He's wearing a pained expression, which morphs into a scowl as he hears a phantom electric guitar begin to play.

HOUSE

(yells at ceiling)

Would you shut that thing the hell up? I'm in

pain and nowhere near drunk enough to want to sing!

The guitar pauses for several seconds. House starts to smirk, sure he's beaten the music, then scowls with renewed intensity when the chord repeats, louder and more insistently. House looks back up at the ceiling.

HOUSE

Fine!

(positions hands over keyboard)

But if you insist, let's fill out the melody a little. Intro,

if you'd be so obnoxious?

Third repetition. This time, House starts to play, too, accompanying the guitar. The song has a distinct rock-'n-roll feel; House sings in a sullen undertone.

[SONG: DIDN'T CHOOSEto the tune of "Rest in Peace."]

HOUSE

Since the infarction years ago

The evening hours crawl; seem almost to slow.

Nerve endings frayed, broadcasting pain

With fire's burning glow…

Half drink, and half narcotic haze

Substitute for the puzzles

That get me through my days.

Shouldn't manage it like this

But there aren't other ways…

Drums join the guitar and House's piano. House continues to sing with rising bitterness: he'd never in a million years talk about this, and now he has to sing it? Life, yet again, Is Not Fair.

Over the next verse, the drums intensify.

HOUSE (cont'd)

It's hell; a most perverted dance

The pain my sneering paramour,

Pills a toxic chance.

Better to have died than live

In grips of this romance…

Anything for relief.

The melody becomes full-fledged rock-n'-roll; House nearly snarls the chorus.

HOUSE

Didn't choose this way

Didn't choose this pain—

Refused amputation; debridement

Gave me addiction's chains.

Trusted her and was betrayed

What was inflicted can't allay…

A price too high to pay.

Back to the original, more subdued tune. House's singing is a little quieter, too, but increases in volume and tempo as he goes.

HOUSE

They think that they can understand;

They say that it's all in my head

Frown at the pills in hand—

(emphatic)

It's not their call to break my fall,

To chide and countermand,

Deny me this relief.

Transition to the bridge. Slow, sullen, picking up as we move closer to the chorus' rock-n'-roll bang.

HOUSE (cont'd)

The days, I can bear.

When a case is found that can hold my mind

Puzzle pieces form a chain to bind

Back the pain and work with the pills entwined

And so what if this method's oft maligned?

At least it works—or so I find.

I just wish they—

Knew I didn't choose this way

Didn't choose this pain—

Refused amputation; debridement

Gave me addiction's chains.

Trusted her and was betrayed

What was inflicted can't allay…

A price too high to pay.

A price that's far too high to pay.

The music ends with a savage flourish from House on the piano. He gets up, limps over to the coffee table, takes an extra Vicodin with the remainder of the scotch, then moves into his bedroom and slams the door behind him.

Cut to:

INT. — CUDDY'S BEDROOM — CONTINUING

Cuddy is sitting up in bed, a book splayed open on her lap, apparently put down recently. The folder sits on her bedside table.

CUDDY

(yawns)

I was starting to think I'd be up half the night

waiting for House to do that number. Anyway,

back at the hospital, his fellows are still running

tests on the patient...

She trails off, yawns again and switches off the light.

Cut to:

INT. — HOSPITAL LAB — CONTINUING

All three fellows are there, carrying out their respective tasks accompanied by a slow, melancholy tune. After a while, they sing in unison.

[SONG: THE FELLOWS' LAMENTto the tune of "Dawn's Lament."]

FELLOWS

We have been here all night working.

Does anybody even care?

The music ends. Cut to:

INT. — CUDDY'S BEDROOM — CONTINUING

a sleeping Cuddy, and the tacit answer: "No."

Cut to:

EXT. — HOUSE'S APARTMENT — NIGHT

Then pan in to:

INT. — HOUSE'S BEDROOM — CONTINUING

The bedroom is dark, but we can see House sprawled out on the bed, limbs splayed; a close-up of his face shows he is in REM sleep. The close-up grows closer, and closer, and finally fades into the familiar blurry wavering of a dream sequence. Establish:

INT. — HOUSE'S LIVING ROOM — CONTINUING

House is sitting on the couch. STACY leans against the piano, wearing a tight red satin dress and red lipstick. The dress' bodice is somewhat low-cut, and the skirt short enough to show a scar to match House's marring her right thigh.

House notices her, looks up sharply.

HOUSE

Stacy? How'd you get in here—and what

happened to your leg?

He gets up, limps over to inspect the damage.

HOUSE (cont'd)

You can't have had—

STACY

(breaking in)

I didn't—and I'm not Stacy, technically.

She sits down at the piano, gives him a sexy half-smile. Her whole demeanor is 'come hither,' as much a sex symbol as the dress.

STACY (cont'd)

Come on, Greg—basic metaphor doesn't even

approach your caliber of puzzle. Wake up and

smell the psychology.

We see the familiar sudden stillness of epiphany on House's face.

HOUSE

You're my pain. And since my pain doesn't

usually come in such a shapely, well-dressed

package, this is a dream, and I want to wake up.

Now.

He's right: she is his PAIN, and she laughs at his look of horror as a jazzy piano opening begins to play. Her singing is low and sultry and pours seduction on like syrup.

[SONG: WHAT YOU FEELto the eponymous tune.]

PAIN

Since I'm here to stay—

Come and say 'hello.'

She smiles at him, starts slinking into his personal space. He tenses a little, but stands his ground.

PAIN (cont'd)

You can't send me away,

And midnight hours pass real slow.

I'm the fire, stealing your motion

On the last line, she walks her fingers (nails painted red) up his right thigh, one step per syllable. He grimaces at a flare of pain, backs away from her; she moves her hand away but closes the distance between them without missing a beat.

PAIN (cont'd)

My ebbs and flows, eternal as the ocean…

Oh, you know me well—'cause I'm your private hell.

Close-up of House's expression: mixed rage, resignation and hatred. Then pan back out so both he and Pain are visible to the camera.

PAIN

I'm what's deep within,

The secrets you keep

(wicked, sexy grin)

And the many sins

That torment you when you sleep.

Her knowing look gives us to understand she's intimately familiar with them all, and it's clear that she's not merely his physical pain. Over the following lines, she leans closer and closer to him, apparently about to kiss him—but all she does is sing the last line, low and breathy, into his ear.

PAIN (cont'd)

All your doubts and darknesses hidden,

Things that others to see are just forbidden…

So what do you say? Why don't we roll them out?

House moves away from her again. This time, she lets him.

PAIN (cont'd)

(condescending)

'Cause I am what you feel, boy…

I know just what you feel, boy…

That's the last straw: being addressed as 'boy' touched a nerve. He's heard that one before.

HOUSE

(shouted)

The hell you do! Shut up and get out!

Pain grins at him, shakes her head: she's having fun, and the game's not over yet.

PAIN

(sings)

All that repression—keep it up too long

Sooner or later, pressure's gonna grow too strong.

Camera pans to show the bottle of scotch—now full and corked—on the coffee table. As Pain sings, it follows the words in the verse: cork shoots out, scotch sprays everywhere.

PAIN (cont'd)

The cork will blow out of the bottle

Everything inside will flow full-throttle…

Camera refocuses on Pain and her wicked, wicked smile.

PAIN (cont'd)

That's how it'll be…

Unless you deal with me.

(beat)

Pain of your form must be the norm,

But not pain of your mind.

Keep thinking pills will cure all of your ills

You won't like what you find…

It's not a threat, it's a fact. Her advice—such as it is—is nothing he doesn't already know.

PAIN (cont'd)

I am here and I'm real, boy…

HOUSE

(in counterpoint)

Shut your trap, cut this crap

'Cause I don't wanna hear it.

PAIN

l am what you feel, boy…

HOUSE

(in counterpoint)

I know pain, and again

I'm refusing to fear it.

But she's got his number and he knows it. She gives him a look that says, "Refuse all you like: it doesn't matter." Holds his gaze. The playful note goes out of her voice.

PAIN

Heed my warning: I'll be your ruin

Unless you'll listen and stop me brewin'.

HOUSE

While you're there: I don't care

For the price that I'm paying.

His singing drips bitterness: that is what no one seems to understand. Pain closes in again, back into his personal space.

PAIN

Remember that when you're awaking

Or your leg isn't all I will be taking.

Is it a warning? A threat? A promise? Does it even matter which?

HOUSE

(half-resigned, half-contrary)

And yet why should I try

To deny that you're staying?

Pain laughs. All at once the solemn warning vibe is gone and the seductress is back.

PAIN

Oh, you know me well—I'll stay your private hell.

She kisses him roughly as the music ends (he doesn't respond), and we cut abruptly to:

INT — HOUSE'S BEDROOM — CONTINUING

House in his bed, now awake, wide-eyed and breathing hard. He composes himself, regulates his breathing.

HOUSE

(mutters)

Much more of this, and I'm going to start a smear

campaign to take down Broadway.

He gets out of bed and returns to the living room, then picks up the bottle of Vicodin and shakes it, listening with a practiced ear.

HOUSE (cont'd)

Hmm, running low.

He dry-swallows a pill.

HOUSE (cont'd)

I'll get a scrip from Wilson in the morning.

Putting the bottle down, he returns to the bedroom.

BLACK OUT.

END OF ACT ONE.

ACT TWO

INT. — WILSON'S OFFICE — DAY

Pan in, establish Wilson at his desk with a cup of coffee and a stack of paperwork. He's just about to start on it when House bursts in through the balcony door—without knocking, naturally.

WILSON

And to what do I owe the pleasure of your company

(consults his watch)

a full two hours before you usually come in?

House holds up the Vicodin bottle, shakes it to emphasize it is empty.

HOUSE

(brightly)

Out of my happy pills. Need a scrip.

House approaches Wilson's desk, swiping some assorted mementos to the floor and sitting down on the edge of it.

WILSON

(dryly)

Darn. And here I was hoping we were

going to have another cheerful duet.

HOUSE

(pained)

That's still going on?

WILSON

Afraid so. If you'd been half an hour earlier,

you'd have caught your minions arguing in

three-part harmony.

HOUSE

(smirks, but won't be diverted)

And as many possibilities for humiliation as

that undoubtedly had, you're missing the

point: I'm still in pain here. More, actually,

since I found out we're still on this hellish

journey through Musicville.

He picks up Wilson's prescription pad, shoves it at him.

HOUSE (cont'd)

Write.

Wilson's expression says this is the last thing he wants to do, but he sighs and picks up a pen.

WILSON

One of these days, you're going to destroy your

liver with all the acetaminophen you keep

inflicting on it—and you just said yourself that

your pain was aggravated by the sing—

HOUSE

(pointedly)

What was that I sang about you yesterday?

'When I least want a lecture—'

WILSON

All right, all right…

He begins to write as mellow guitar chords sound in the room, singing softly as he does so. Curiously, House doesn't seem to hear.

[SONG: QUESTIONS to the tune of "Standing."]

WILSON

How often have you made this demand?

How often have I played the willing hand?

And how many times have I longed to understand?

Oh, House…

The guitar chords deepen and a drum joins the melody, keeping the beat.

WILSON

Would it kill you to in me once confide

What's there beyond the walls 'hind which you hide?

I have stood stalwart, always at your side,

And yet…

He looks up from the prescription pad, meets House's gaze and holds it as he sings. House doesn't notice, keeps looking past him. Over this verse, a montage of scenes: House popping Vicodin; House grimacing as he rubs his thigh; House looking like absolute hell during detox; Wilson splinting fingers he knows were purposely broken; House and Wilson arguing at the end of that debacle.

WILSON (cont'd)

I still find it agonizing, to see your steel-strong will,

Which bows to no man living, kowtowing for a pill:

A sacrifice

That reaps such terrible ill—

There is no higher price.

Fade back to Wilson's office.

WILSON (cont'd)

If I could only see where lines divide:

Neuropathic, versus emotion's side.

You say that you're unchanged; I know that you have lied

(Or tried).

Wilson looks back down at the prescription pad, conflicted.

WILSON (cont'd)

And now I am sitting, writing—and does it hurt or heal?

He signs the scrip, continues to sing.

It's not my call to make: I can't know what you feel—

Wish I could make

A wish and make it real:

Just a wish that you would heal…

How I wish that you could heal.

The music ends, and with it, House's trancelike state. He takes the scrip from Wilson, then glances at the clock.

HOUSE

(suspiciously)

What just happened?

WILSON

I wrote—

HOUSE

You pick up the pen, I'm unaware of two

minutes passing; next thing I know, you're

handing me a scrip. What happened in the

two minutes?

Wilson sighs, puts the pen down, leans back in his chair: he should have known better than to hope House wouldn't notice.

WILSON

I sang. About my concern for you, and how I

hate knowing you're dependent on those damned

pills.

(pause)

Every time I write a scrip—I may be stopping

your pain, but I'm also helping you do damage.

House narrows his eyes, gestures sharply at his right thigh.

HOUSE

(deliberately)

The damage is my leg, not the pills. I spent most

of the night dwelling on it—in song, by the way,

just to add to the suffering—and I am not discussing—

But apparently he is discussing, because on cue, he's interrupted by a piano-and-strings combination that makes Wilson wince. House attempts to escape the inevitable duet, but only succeeds in moving around to the front of the desk before he finds himself frozen in place.

[SONG: ANSWERS/CAUGHT IN HIS THRALL (REPRISE) to the tune of "Under Your Spell/Standing (Reprise)."]

WILSON

Caught up in your thrall…

House, why won't you see

I can't sign your death decree?

He holds House's gaze, willing him to understand.

WILSON (cont'd)

I will not watch you fall…

Know you don't agree,

But you mean too much to me

And I cannot just—

Wilson's 'just' and House's are simultaneous.

HOUSE

Just shut up; you don't understand;

It's 'cause I trust you that I can demand

Your helping hand—

WILSON (simultaneous with House, below)

So please confide the knowledge

I need to understand:

What lines divide

Your damn pain?

Do pills keep it all banned?

HOUSE

I cannot trust

You to leave this alone

I'm not having it discussed

You will adjust; I am not fussed

So do what you must—

BOTH

Just understand…

Just understand…

Just understand…

Just under—

Stand…

The music ends, and awkward silence stretches for several seconds; neither House nor Wilson moves. Then House turns and limps out, shutting Wilson's door behind him with a bang.

WILSON

(mutters)

Well, that went well.

He considers his coffee cup, starts to reach for it, then stops, deciding coffee is the last thing he needs. He pauses for a beat, then:

WILSON

This insanity will end, and we'll agree that whole

exchange never happened…

(bitterly)

Even if the issues behind it stay unresolved until

he kills himself.

This fails to make him feel better. He sighs.

WILSON (cont'd)

Best damn diagnostician in the country—the

world, maybe—and his own health just has to

be the blind spot.

Wilson glares balefully the abandoned prescription pad, then shoves it into a drawer, which he slams shut.

Cut to:

INT. — DIAGNOSTICS CONFERENCE ROOM — DAY

House is standing in front of the whiteboard, his foul mood all but palpable; the fellows—visibly tired and nursing cups of coffee—are seated at the table.

HOUSE

Did you work out what was wrong with the

patient, or do I have to go look at

(checks the file)

him?

CAMERON

(yawns)

Atypical presentation of a bacterial

infection. He's on broad-spectrum

antibiotics and should be fine.

She pauses, gives House an appraising look.

CAMERON (cont'd)

Are you—?

HOUSE

(dead serious)

One caring word out of you and you're fired.

Cameron closes her mouth. Chase and Foreman exchange a glance, silently agreeing the best course of action at present is to keep their heads down.

Cut to:

INT. — WILSON'S OFFICE — CONTINUING

Wilson is still at his desk, about a third of the way through the day's paperwork when the opening bars of a somber piano melody begin to play.

[SONG: NEARING THE FINISH to the tune of "Walk Through the Fire."]

WILSON

So the final movement begins:

Melancholy piano plays.

I just don't know

The outcome of the show.

Can Greg House change his ways?

Wilson is pensive, clearly deliberating something.

WILSON (cont'd)

Another day, another song,

Another step made in the dance.

But do I dare

To tell him how I care?

How can I take the chance?

He pushes his chair back and rises, moving toward the door as he continues to sing.

WILSON (cont'd)

Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained;

And every rule can bend.

Some things just must be explained

Before the—

The music changes to a lower register. Abrupt cut to:

INT. — EMPTY CLINIC EXAM ROOM — CONTINUING

where we establish House, sitting on a stool brooding. His fingers are steepled over his cane, his expression pensive.

HOUSE

I've known his secret all along—

He's easy as a book to read.

But if I felt…

After the wounds she dealt

Which way would I proceed?

Is it a risk too great to take?

For every chance, a price incurred.

Better not make, fatal mistake

Wait for the—

Abrupt cut to:

INT. — CUDDY'S OFFICE — CONTINUING

Cuddy is seated behind her desk with the file open in front of her (we don't see its contents clearly). She looks grateful: this is the very last number she has to sing in.

CUDDY

As we come down to the wire

Will this duo face the fire?

Is it a gamble either can take?

House is known for insane chances

But well, the case of romance is

Personal: there's so much more at stake.

A question posed,

The answer soon to be disclosed

As we draw nearer the finish.

Abrupt cut to:

INT. — EMPTY CLINIC EXAM ROOM — CONTINUING

where we rejoin House, who hasn't moved. (Note that when Wilson starts to sing in counterpoint, the screen splits to show him standing by his office door, apparently gathering his resolve.)

HOUSE

The music's gone on long enough;

The time draws near to make a choice:

Avoid more pain

But forfeit chance of gain?

Or give the silence voice?

WILSON (simultaneous with House's second and fourth lines)

But do I dare

To tell him how I care?

Abrupt cut to:

INT. — DIAGNOSTICS CONFERENCE ROOM — CONTINUING

the fellows, seated around the table. They've finished their coffee by now and are—for the moment—slightly more energetic. And with the case over with, they have time to devote to the question of what the hell has been going on for the past two days.

CHASE

Madness is intensifying

CAMERON

Says he's okay but he's lying.

CHASE (cont'd)

Since the music first began to play.

Call it magic or delusion;

Either way, all the confusion

Has to be resolved sometime today.

FOREMAN (counterpoint, simultaneous with Chase and Cameron)

House's dark mood affects us all

He looks like he's ready to kill.

He'll work it out,

'Cause that's what he's about,

But first might take a fall.

CAMERON (descant)

Can't stand any concern

Not any concern.

Abrupt cut to:

INT. — EMPTY CLINIC EXAM ROOM — CONTINUING

where House, to no one's surprise, is still brooding. (When Wilson takes up the counterpoint melody, the screen splits to show him still in his office.)

HOUSE

Just play the part:

Why admit that I have a heart?

WILSON

All rules can be bent…

Final abrupt cut to:

INT. — CUDDY'S OFFICE — CONTINUING

to establish Cuddy still at her desk.

CUDDY

Now we are nearing the finish:

Let's see what rules can bend,

What barriers can diminish

Before the end…

'Fore the end…

'Fore the end—

'Fore the end!

The music ends, and she closes the file with a satisfied sigh and leans back in her chair.

CUDDY

(spoken)

Just a little more dialogue, send Wilson

out to deal with House, and we can drop

the curtain on this whole insane show.

Cut to:

INT. — EMPTY CLINIC EXAM ROOM — CONTINUING

House has apparently finished brooding, and also found time—presumably when en route to his current location—to fill the prescription he got from Wilson earlier, because he pulls out a new bottle of Vicodin from his pocket and dry-swallows a pill.

HOUSE

(smug grin)

Patient saved, clinic a moot point, and that

last song wasn't a duet.

In other words: it's all as good as can be expected. He gets up, turns toward the door.

HOUSE (cont'd)

And since I'm getting out of here while I can, the

next one won't be, either.

The camera follows him out to:

INT. — CLINIC WAITING ROOM — CONTINUING

where he pockets a cherry lollipop from the container on the reception desk on his way out.

FADE TO BLACK.

END ACT TWO.

ACT THREE

Establish:

INT. — WILSON'S OFFICE — CONTINUING

where Wilson is standing by the door with an expression that's half-determined, half-nervous. After a minute or two, he leaves the room. The camera follows him to

INT. — FOURTH FLOOR CORRIDOR — CONTINUING

as he walks toward Diagnostics, peering through the glass. House is not there, but the fellows are still where we left them during the last number, so he opens the door and pokes his head in.

WILSON

Have you seen House?

CHASE

Not since before the last song. Just as well

he left before it started—he was pissed off

as it was.

WILSON

(ruefully)

Concern…has that effect on him.

He withdraws, proceeds down the corridor toward the elevator. Cut to:

INT. — CUDDY'S OFFICE — CONTINUING

to establish Wilson standing in front of Cuddy's desk.

WILSON

Do you know where House is?

Cuddy consults the file with evident relief; skims several pages before looking up at Wilson.

CUDDY

He should be at home—that's where the last big

number is supposed to hit, anyway. You'd better

get over there if you want to be in time for the

last verse.

WILSON

You're telling me to leave work in the

middle of the day? My department—

CUDDY

Has competent staff and can manage for

a couple of hours without you. Go talk to

House so the music will stop.

There's a short pause; then WILSON nods and leaves the office.

CUDDY

(mutters)

I don't know what's stranger: what's about

to happen or that he seems to think Oncology

grinds to a halt all that time he spends managing

House.

Speak of the devil, we cut to:

INT. — HOUSE'S LIVING ROOM — CONTINUING

House is sitting on the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table. Perhaps given pause by the previous night's dream sequence, he has elected to forego the scotch. He sighs when a light piano introduction begins to play, but by this point, the fury has mostly given way to lower-key exasperation.

HOUSE

(to ceiling)

The point here is to destroy my ability

to enjoy music, isn't it?

[SONG: SAY IT IN SONG to the tune of "Something to Sing About."]

HOUSE

Last two days, we've all lived to the tune

And songs been forced to croon

Our dignity impugn.

Drums and a guitar join the piano melody. It's sweet—enough so to be facetious.

HOUSE (cont'd)

I have sung—although against my will—

As I am doing still,

And it's making me ill.

Tempo steps up; through the next verse, House punctuates the ending of each line with a tap of the cane to his floor; on the last line, one tap per syllable.

HOUSE (cont'd)

Hardly overjoyed

Privacy destroyed.

More than just annoyed

I could not avoid

What was deployed—

Tempo decreases.

HOUSE (cont'd)

The endless song and dance

Doesn't accomplish much, at a glance…

What is the point?

Is there a point

To anything we've sung about?

Unseen BACKUP SINGERS, presumably on the same plane as the piano, begin to vocalize: 'Ah-ah-ah.'

HOUSE (cont'd)

Oh, why were our lives sung about?

Backup singing continues into a sort instrumental break. When the melody resumes, House is visibly resentful: is a little quiet in the privacy of his home too much to ask?

HOUSE

(rising bitterness)

I'm in pain—

Must you repeat the fact?

Or Wilson's old speech act—

Why suffering protract?

What is there we couldn't just ignore?

Why these show tunes endure?

What are we singing for?

Up tempo once again.

HOUSE (cont'd)

What's the end in mind?

Why these roles assigned?

What has been aligned?

Why must we fly blind

By songs confined?

What will the ending show?

As usual, I need to know—

What's going on?

Let answers dawn!

The music slows, switches into dissonant minor key. House winces, but continues to sing. Purely, of course, because he has no choice.

HOUSE (cont'd)

All of the pain,

Fury and doubt—

What is it about?

Just tell me!

Familiar refrain:

Oh, tell me why

And not with a lie…

I remain

Curious and again

Anxious to know what this is about!

Or just to stop it!

The music crescendos, increasing for a final time in tempo as well as volume. House, of course excused from dancing, waits it out with visible impatience.

The camera pans toward House's door, which opens as the music slows and mellows (retaining, unfortunately, the minor key), admitting Wilson. He shuts and locks it again, then moves to stand near the couch, in House's line of sight.

WILSON

(sings)

I think I feel—

Well, I just thought—

Sorry we fought…

'Cause I care.

These words are real.

They're not just a song,

But honest and strong: I mean them.

And maybe that's what matters…

Yes, maybe that's what matters…

The music ends: this, apparently, was the answer House demanded. There's a long pause, during which Wilson awaits some reaction from House. When none appears to be forthcoming, he looks at him askance.

WILSON

Aren't you going to say something?

HOUSE

What? That I had no idea you have feelings

for me?

He gives Wilson a 'use-your-mind' look.

HOUSE (cont'd)

I'm an ass, not an idiot. And sit down already.

Wilson does, and a jazzy piano tune begins to play. House, his body angled toward Wilson, begins to sing matter-of-factly: now that he has something more interesting to focus on, the music has lost some of its power to irritate.

[SONG: WHAT YOU FEEL (REPRISE) to the eponymous tune.]

HOUSE

Wasn't hard to guess: the symptoms were all there.

Three exes, no less—how could I not be aware?

The big secret you've been concealing?

I've known all along just how you're feeling.

Endure all the stress…well, of course you care!

The music ends.

HOUSE

Right. Before I was interrupted by that

(to ceiling, raised voice)

needless musical exposition

(to Wilson, enumerating points on his fingers)

three failed marriages, the Suzy Homemaker

routine, and you take an hour to style and

blow-dry your hair in the morning. At the

very least, you're batting both sides—and

you wouldn't have put up with my crap all

these years if you didn't have some completely

stupid reason.

WILSON

(affronted)

It isn't—

HOUSE

(flatly)

It isn't rational. But it never is.

Wilson moves a few inches closer to House and puts his feet up. There's another (awkward) silence: neither is sure exactly how best to broach this topic. Finally, Wilson speaks.

WILSON

Do you…?

The tone suggests that the missing words are in the neighborhood of 'feel something,' but he damn well knows better than to put it that way.

HOUSE

(sighs)

Look. Neither this goddamn singing nor your

spilling your guts to me is going to make me

into a person who likes sharing of feelings.

The only time I even consider it is when

I'm post-coital and swimming in enough

endorphins to drown my brain, and that

is not the case here. Bottom line is, we know

each other and still work.

WILSON

But could we work together?

On cue, guitar chords begin to play. This time, the interruption visibly annoys House and Wilson both.

[SONG: WHERE DO WE GO FROM HERE? to the eponymous tune.]

WILSON

Where do we go from here?

House's part is lower, but harmonizes.

HOUSE

Where do we go from here?

BOTH

We've confessed but have not yet guessed

Where that leaves us—it's not clear.

Where do we go from here?

Should we be friends, or more?

What is there still in store?

HOUSE

Not so grand when it's all unplanned

WILSON

And we're on a new frontier…

They share a look of some relief at the realization that at least their uncertainties are more or less the same.

HOUSE

Tell me…

WILSON

Where do we go from here?

HOUSE:

If romance must appear,

Can friendship persevere?

For him, that's the core question. Wilson replies:

WILSON

If we suppose that it can, God knows

We will have nothing to fear…

Where do we go from here?

Where do we go from here?

House has the last word.

HOUSE

Where do we go from here?

The song ends. House and Wilson regard each other, neither gaze readable.

HOUSE

(flatly)

Let's assume we don't need to continue

that conversation.

WILSON

Shouldn't we? You hate the music because

it forces you to be open and honest about

what you feel—but isn't that actually desirable

in a relation—?

Unable to take the additional aggravation of a psychoanalytic lecture so soon after the song, House cuts Wilson off by crushing their lips together. It's not tender—in fact, it probably almost bruises—but it gets the job done. After several seconds, they separate. Wilson stares at House, vaguely stunned.

WILSON

What was that?

HOUSE

A good interruption.

WILSON

But not a great kiss.

HOUSE

Wasn't supposed to be.

Soft piano music begins to play in the background. The two give each other appraising looks, seem to come to a decision, then lean slowly closer to one another, singing in undertones: House with the main melody, Wilson in counterpoint.

[SONG: CODAto the eponymous tune.]

HOUSE

The music's gone on long enough…

And now I know I've made a choice.

Give silence voice,

Maybe some wounds might heal.

WILSON

I dared

To tell you how I feel.

I know this is real.

BOTH

We'll go forward from here.

A jubilant instrumental finish coincides with the meeting of lips—in a proper kiss this time, one that's lengthy and carries the weight of unspoken words.

The camera pans across the room to a calendar, and a breeze blows in through the window and flips the pages ahead six months in that tried-and-true means of signifying the passage of time. Then we pan back to House and Wilson, still in House's apartment. It's evening, and the two are sitting in companionable silence on the sofa. The TV is on, but the volume is low and neither is really paying attention to it.

HOUSE

So, how're the chances of macadamia nut

pancakes for breakfast tomorrow?

Wilson half-smiles, regards House levelly.

WILSON

About as good as the chances of your going

out for more flour.

There's a pause as House mulls that over and decides he doesn't want the pancakes quite badly enough to work for them.

HOUSE

(decisively)

I'll settle for an omelet.

WILSON

Thought so. Anyway, I think you unsettle

your minions when you eat those pancakes.

(raised eyebrow)

Something about disturbing facial expressions?

House attempts to play innocent and (of course) fails.

HOUSE

Can I help it if your cooking borders on orgasmic?

(seriously)

And it only unsettles one minion—which it wouldn't

do if she hadn't been stupid enough to walk in on us

in your office.

Wilson flushes at the memory.

WILSON

That incident was your fault.

They've had this discussion before.

HOUSE

Will you never let that go? Jeez. We weren't

even indecent.

(beat)

And anyway, you were the one who didn't

lock the door.

WILSON

(dryly)

Forgive me for not expecting to be—

pounced on in the middle of my paperwork.

HOUSE

(leering)

I don't remember you complaining.

He scoots closer to Wilson, apparently considering some suitably lewd action to match his tone, but is stopped short by a winds introduction: the music is back, and his mood shifts instantly from turned on to horrified.

HOUSE (cont'd)

Oh, God.

[SONG: SOMEHOW IT WORKS to the tune of "I'll Be Mrs."]

WILSON:

Six months now together:

Somehow I thought it would be a change,

But so little's different, it's strange.

We pan out a bit, notice some small differences: coats hung up, clear floor, a couple of little knick-knacks, obviously Wilson's, among House's (neat on the shelves) books. The apartment is now obviously shared space.

Zoom in on House and Wilson again.

WILSON (con'td)

So much is just routine—

It's comfortable to be a pair.

Guess potential was always there.

He addresses the camera but looks at House with some fondness.

WILSON (cont'd)

He's still a jerk; I'm still his friend

He lives to irk; I know to bend

Same old at work (so we pretend).

No one asks why,

But I'd reply

That it all works out.

Somehow it all works out.

(beat)

Maybe we're a bit odd, but there's nothing we can't weather.

House takes over the melody.

HOUSE

Six months now together:

Easy enough, this whole couple thing

(That is, when we don't have to sing).

Wilson smirks.

HOUSE (cont'd)

I still drive him crazy—

But it's nothing he doesn't expect

And despite it all, we connect.

He cleans our place and keeps me fed,

He's quick-witted and great in bed,

And what more than that need be said?

If asked just why

I would reply,

That it all works out.

Somehow it just works out.

(dryly)

We survive each other: there's nothing we can't weather.

WILSON

We know by now

The take-and-give

That governs how

We choose to live.

There's no more denial

We've given this a trial,

And know he and I'll still fight and forgive.

HOUSE

This partnership, it works out well

(smirking)

Although we are mismatched as hell

And he can still be—I'll never tell!—

All those events,

Now they make sense.

BOTH

It all works out.

Yes, somehow it works out.

It works out...

The music ends. There's a pause; the two exchange glances.

WILSON:

I'll go get the flour if you don't take an extra pill

to make up for the aggravation of the song.

Even here, it seems, they're able to compromise a little. House considers, then nods.

HOUSE:

Done.

(suggestively)

And after dinner, I pick up where the music cut in.

Wilson grins, nods, gets up and heads for the door. House bestows an openly affectionate smile on his retreating back, then slumps against the sofa cushions as we…

FADE TO BLACK.

FINIS.