Hi!
I've been gone quite a long time, mostly working on this story. Don't want to give too much away, except it takes place after House and Wilson leave New Jersey. The prequel is 4300 Miles, if you're interested in reading it. This fic is multi-chapter. Not a deathfic, but the guys have their ups and downs.
How frustrating is that for a teaser? If it wasn't bad enough, here's the boring stuff:
Disclaimer: [H]ouse isn't mine and never will be. Medical, legal, & geographical references were constructed from spandex. They support and shape the story where necessary.
A/N: Continuation of 4300 Miles. Events are based on season eight's broadcast dates, e.g. "Nobody's Fault."
Beta: The awesomely talented, encouraging, and patient hwshipper. (She's not boring at all.)
Love to hear what you think of the story. Comments are like birthdays, chocolate, and Christmas rolled into one. :)
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Prologue
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1992
In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth, or what I call New Orleans.
~.~
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Spring
"I made my decision," Wilson said, the import of his announcement somewhat diminished by his efforts to mop rivulets of sweat off his forehead with a sock from the mismatch pile.
"About time," House deliberately kept his voice light, while continuing to sort socks. "You were showing an unhealthy attachment to Tina Tumor."
Wilson slid the paper to House's side of the laundry table, plunking a frosty can of soda next to his elbow, then walked away. The note was neatly compressed into quarters, and presented like a job offer with an impressive salary—a numeral with a long line of zeroes trailing behind it like a strand of pearls.
Thirsty, but not wanting to show how eager he was, House rolled the cold can up the side of his neck before popping the pull-tab. Gulping greedily, he finished with a drawn out burp. Everyone he had met on the road said Arizona temperatures in May were kind, but the humidity from the Laundromat's washing machines reminded him of a New Jersey summer.
House flapped the sheet of paper open with a pretentious snap of his wrist in case Wilson, who was slowly hand-feeding quarters into a dryer, was spying on him. One of the machines rumbled to life.
Of course, Wilson's decision to try chemo meant more than anything. But he'd blown it once in Denver when Wilson balked at the idea. He wasn't going to blow it again.
He was afraid the complete list of treatment centers would be dismissed under one heavily penned and angry slash, but tight little x's in blue ink sat in the margin next to two locations. His relief mingled with interest at Wilson's minimalist handwriting. Foreign to the usual backhanded flourish, they spoke of Wilson's lack of commitment. "So it's either the AARP endorsed clinic or the Funeral Director's Association of America's top number one."
"Isn't that what we agreed on?" Wilson eyebrows crinkled, visibly confused. "A quiet, out-of-the-way, decent clinic that serves a retirement community? Reasonably competent doctors who weren't interested in promoting aggressive treatments? They'd be willing to go along with my choices, no questions asked."
"That was the plan." Better than nothing since it was all Wilson would consider. House felt satisfied that no one would raise eyebrows at either facility if he exhibited more than an average amount of medical knowledge on behalf of a friend. He felt a twinge of guilt that Wilson had to factor him in. "Which is it? Gray Panther Pastures or Shut-ins at the OK Corral?
"Found this on the bulletin board." Wilson handed over a blue flyer. "It's a small cottage near the Gray Panth—" Wilson closed his eyes briefly as if praying for forbearance. "If it's still available and we like it, I'll go with that one."
House read down the bullet points: Guesthouse/studio accommodation on private property, all the comforts of home, two beds, air-conditioning, kiva fireplace, tile floors, wide-screen television, satellite dish, wi-fi, swimming pool, gourmet kitchen, compact washer and dryer.
The wide screen and technology appealed to him, but Wilson was probably drooling over the gourmet kitchen, washer and dryer, and easy clean floors.
He tossed the paper back. "Read between the lines. The place is a converted doghouse owned by a serial killer trying to lure lonely and dying OCD oncologists into his lair." He shrugged one shoulder. "But what else do we have to do in this one-horse town for entertainment? Let's check it out."
"Lonely oncologist?" Wilson released a riotous pile of tangled t-shirts onto the table. "If that were true, then I'm folding a stranger's clothes." While absolutely straight-faced, he packed his own neat stack of laundry into his backpack and grabbed House's boxers, cramming those in as well. Then he strolled to the door.
"Hey!"
"I'll wait for you by the car."
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Part 1
1992
You weren't the only one who caught my eye. There was a woman, thin and willowy like Cameron, but you were prettier.
~.~
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"This is the place?" House swung a hard right onto the driveway, passing through an arched wrought iron gate that could accommodate a Thanksgiving Day float. "I take it back about the serial killer. A cult runs this compound. Don't drink anything that comes in unnatural colors and is served in little paper cups."
"The woman on the phone said the rent was negotiable, but this has to be out of my budget." Wilson held his phone in his hand. "Back up the car. I'll tell her we found another place."
"And lose out on an invitation to an orgy or to meet the leader's underage brides?" Slowing to an amiable crawl, the gravel crackling under the weight of the tires, House glanced occasionally to his right to view the accordion-pleated, flat-topped mountain range.
A half-mile in, he spotted a ranch-style home, a shrouded maiden tucked behind a bougainvillea-draped wall.
When he pulled up to the porte cochère, a stoop-shouldered woman bustled from the house. As soon as he had rolled down the window, she stuck her head in, flashing brilliantly white teeth. So close was she, the warmth of the sun radiated off her skin, carrying the faint scent of honey. Her complexion composed of smooth planes and deep creases and hands tattooed with age spots, made it near impossible to reckon her age. A safe bet would be north of 80 and south of 800.
"Bienvenidos muchachos! I'm Mercedes. You're here to see the guesthouse? Park where you are and follow me."
She was twenty feet ahead before House's foot touched the ground. Her sandals slapped rhythmically against the soles of her feet as he followed her down a dirt path edged with alien plant life, spindly and grayish-green.
With Wilson by his side, he entered a small walled patio overrun by retina-burning geraniums in orange clay pots. Peering through the doorway, House saw the woman's skirt flapping about her legs as she flew around the room, tidying and turning on lights.
The simple lines and earth-colored stucco exterior gave no hint of the airy, whipped cream interior House had only seen on the covers of chick magazines. The kind Wilson flipped through with feigned indifference while waiting to get his hair cut.
Wilson was doing his own inspection. The back of his neck disappeared into his collar as he checked the skylights, one on each side of a fan suspended from the center of the beamed ceiling. Lazily whirling overhead, it cast coy shadows onto the terracotta floor.
"Way out of our league," Wilson whispered under his breath.
House was about to pounce onto the toasted marshmallow couch, when along came Mercedes, karate chopping the throw pillows lining the back cushions. "This was the original cottage when my husband and I bought the property," she explained, not stopping until all the corners stood erect. "We gutted it and converted it into a guesthouse and art studio.
"There's a king in the corner, and a futon that opens into a double bed near the side door." She stood up and wiped stray gray hairs from her forehead. "Not that the two of you will need it."
"I uh…" Wilson looked at him for an answer.
"What he's trying to say is, we're just friends.'" House said with a broad wink.
"Hou—" Wilson suddenly broke off and coughed into his hand.
"I'm Edward Vogler," House said, covering Wilson's tracks. He slung his arm around his shoulder, immediately feeling the muscles tighten under the soft shirt. "And this is my bestie, James Wilson."
"Besties without benefits?" she said, appraising them with skepticism. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, whether you're in or out." After they shook hands she went to the wall covered in shutters, folded them back, and opened the french doors. Cool air eddied through the room. "Northern exposure with a view of the mountains. Open every door and window, and you'll get the best breeze in the whole of Arizona."
She put her hands on her hips, tilted her chin, and surveyed the craggy hills as if she had created them. "Manny was diagnosed with esophageal cancer at 83. He always wanted to try his hand at oil painting." Her hand glided over her iron gray hair pulled back into a neat bun. "I was his model." She sighed. "Cancer can be a blessing. It prioritizes what's important in your life."
Wilson's eyebrows knitted together at the news. "I'm sorry about your husband."
"Don't be." My Manny beat it. Lived to 92." Her blue eyes turned into fathomless pools. "Which one of you has it?"
Her face trained on Wilson as his posture stiffened.
Curiosity piqued, House asked, "How'd you know?"
"Two types of people rent my place. Cancer patients because of the nearby clinic and couples looking for a romantic hideaway." Mercedes pointed to Wilson's shirt pocket with the the slip of blue paper sticking out of it. "The pink flyer emphasizes the moonlit gardens and the Jacuzzi tub. The blue highlights the comforts of home."
"Nice," House said. The tough old bird got game. He walked around the guesthouse giving it the once over, approving of the big screen mounted over the fireplace. The bathroom did indeed have a Jacuzzi. It was large enough for two and surrounded with candles. Mercedes' last guests must have been of the pink flyer persuasion.
After taking the full tour he noticed one item missing. A clock. He spun in a three-sixty to check again, coming to a dead stop in front of Mercedes who looked like she knew what he was thinking, and was about to pounce if he said a word. He allowed her the win and kept his mouth zipped. Measuring the passage of time was of little use to lovers or cancer victims.
The squeak of athletic shoes coming from the direction of the kitchen brought his attention to Wilson who was regarding the appliances in the postage-sized area, disappointment etched on his face. House realized why when he got closer. Hiding behind a cramped two-stool breakfast bar was a two-burner range, a microwave, and an under-the-counter fridge. "This isn't a gourmet kitchen."
"Most people don't want to cook in the heat." Mercedes picked up a pair of eyeglasses with black lenses from the counter. "Did you see the solar eclipse?"
"A partial. We were going to the Grand Canyon when… our car broke down in Tehachapi." Wilson answered, resignation lacing his voice.
House shifted uncomfortably. Stuck in a motel with nothing to do he got stoned on alcohol and pills. They had lost a day while he sobered up, which left the eclipse forever unchecked on Wilson's bucket list. "Hey, that heap had serious mileage and one bald tire. Twenty miles of rough road was too much for the engine. Didn't I make it up to you by hauling your ass to that Colorado Springs pioneer cemetery you wanted to see?"
"At 100 miles per hour," Wilson answered testily.
"Because whose tumor is ticking down to zero seconds?"
"Maybe you two do need the extra bed," Mercedes said, breaking into their squabble.
Wilson turned his back and studied the mosaic tile backsplash as if he had found the Rosetta Stone.
Wilson always seemed to get caught in the crosshairs of his bad behavior. He thought he left it behind in the warehouse, but he had a relapse. Overmedicating was a theft of Wilson's time he couldn't afford to lose. House felt miserable about it, but no words could make it better. And they were losing more time spending the day looking at places that didn't meet their needs. "About the blue flyer. This kitchen isn't gourmet. It's Easy-Bake." The place was cool. He could live on breakfast cereal and peanut butter sandwiches, but if Wilson was unhappy…
Follow me." Sandals once again softly clapping, Mercedes led them to the side door, past a bubbling fountain, and through a gate to the main house's patio area. Gnarled olive trees provided shade for lounge chairs surrounding a sparkling pool. She stopped in front of a stone half-wall inset with every kind of brushed stainless steel appliance imaginable. "Barbecue, smoker, gas stove, oven, pizza oven, double sinks, dishwasher. Will this do?"
House checked out Wilson. His eyes had gone soft focus. "Like you were reading his mind."
"Do we have a deal? I don't offer leases. Rent is month to month. Honeymooners can live here up to a year. Cancer patients until they're cured."
House looked at the ground.
Wilson cleared his throat. "A cure isn't an option. I'm dying."
Mercedes sniffed. "What makes you so sure?"
House tapped his cane against the ground. "He's a doctor, an oncologist."
"Dying," she scoffed. She got close to Wilson. Nose-to-nose if the top of her head had reached his shoulders. "You know what's wrong with you doctors? You know too much. You gotta live life day by day."
House found her cockeyed optimism entertaining. "Listen to Ruth Gordon, Wilson."
Mercedes whipped around, her finger wagging. "Mocking me won't earn you even one night's stay in mi casita encantada, mister."
"We can't afford it, anyway." Wilson cut in.
"Who asked you?" Mercedes clucked. "Are you a rental agent?"
Wilson's hand rose to the back of his neck. "No."
"My financial planner?"
He shook his head.
"Then you aren't qualified to tell me what I can or cannot do. I'll work out a financial arrangement that's fair to all of us. Grab your bags and settle in, boys."