The title doesn't really have anything to do with the story, other than the fact that it's the title of the song House quotes from. I don't like this. It sounds too much like my other stories and I have the feeling it's rather bad, but I wanted to try writing something in first-person present tense, so… here are the results of my attempt.
Confession (Part III)
"There've been times when I peed in your sink," House says. "And I threw up on your dog last time I was drunk." He sits in his office, feet propped up on the corner of his desk, forks pasta (my lunch) into his mouth with one hand and somehow manages to smirk anyway.
I stand in the doorway, hands on my hips, and glower at him. "That's my food, you know."
"I can tell. It tastes terrible."
"Why are you eating it then?"
"Your food's one notch above cafeteria food—I prefer it."
I march across the room and snatch the dish out of his hands. He grins; I notice that he's got spaghetti sauce on his bottom lip. "There was a note on this."
"And now the note's in the trash. Possibly on its way to the incinerator, depending on what day this is."
"My food is never safe from you, is it?"
"Nope." House lifts his legs down.
"Why are you quoting Weird Al Yankovic, anyway?" I laugh. I've never heard House listen to Weird Al before, much less quote his songs in everyday conversation. I'm not sure how I recognize the lyrics myself—I don't listen to Weird Al either.
His laugh matches mine. I'm pulling up a chair and settling down to eat the lunch I've successfully reclaimed when I notice that he's turned serious. This doesn't happen very often with him, so I prepare myself to listen. He watches me silently for a few moments.
"It's a good thing you're around," he says.
My stomach tightens—not much, but enough that I realize it's clenching. House and I almost have an unwritten code—an unbreakable rule—that we never say we care about each other. I show him that I care about him by putting up with him; he shows me that he cares about me by keeping his razor-sharp tongue duller than necessary. We both know he could potentially destroy our friendship forever if he tried hard enough (I'm pretty tolerant, but there are lines even I won't—can't—cross), and he's come close but never quite stepped over to the other side. This is how we say, "It's a good thing you're around." When I made that bet, I did it for him—it still kills me to watch him swallow those pills, knowing that my name's on the script—and I bound his hand for him, maybe to relieve my guilt, maybe because I cared. I was gentle enough that I think he knew I cared. But we don't tell each other, so I stare at him and gape.
"You look like a goldfish. It's very attractive. Try it on Becky from radiology sometime."
"Her name's Beth," I say. I shut my mouth, though I'm now picturing a brown-haired koi wearing a lab coat, and wait for him to continue. That sentence has to be followed up by another. It's gotta be. House doesn't speak without a reason—not when what he's saying means something. My lunch is getting cold. I have another bite and am chewing noodles when House finally gets the hint.
"You get all my jokes," he says. "Without you here, I'd be less funny."
This, coming from House, is a compliment. It's a demented compliment, but it's still a compliment. I grin.
"With me here, you barely qualify as 'funny' on a good day. Hate to see how unfunny you'd be if I were gone."
House snickers. "The coma guy likes my humor."
"The coma guy can't hear you," I say, knowing House expects this.
"See? If everyone were more like the coma guy, the world would be a happier place. Hard to argue with someone when you can't hear them."
I ignore House and continue eating. People pass by outside. House briefly flips someone off—I assume his target is Foreman, because he lowers his middle finger and snickers, and even House wouldn't flip off Cuddy. He's not stupid.
"So what do I do for you?" House says.
"Huh?" I am disappointed that House has caught me off guard. After so many years of friendship I generally pride myself in being able to spot all House's bluffs, predict most of House's one-liners, and figure out half of his lies. Thanks to the motorcycle loan, I am now fully aware that he lies to me often; most of these fibs I don't bother to investigate. I lie to him too. Most of the time I get away with it.
(For a moment, I remember House's misshapen hand, but I stop thinking about this, remind myself that the deal was for his own good.)
"What do I do for you? We've established that you're my sidekick—what am I?"
"I'm your sidekick?"
"Yes." House is very smug.
I flip him off.
"You don't do it nearly as well as I do," he says.
"We've never had sex, House—I don't think you'd know."
"Burn." He grins. "Going to answer me any time this century? I only really listen to people for five minutes a year. This is your window. Make the most of it."
"How should I know?" I say. "Didn't you tell me I need to be needed? That's what you do for me."
"No," House says, "not really. If you only needed to be needed, you'd go out and adopt a disabled kid. You write your name on my scripts, but that isn't be enough for you. You get something else out of this, and I wanna know what."
"You wanna know everything," I say, "but things don't always work that way." This is obvious, but I say it regardless, because I really have no idea how to answer his question or how to approach this situation. I feel I'm going in blind and wish I knew how to take the mask off.
"With you they do. Spill."
"You're my friend," I say without thinking, "I guess that's your answer."
"You have other friends," House says. "Anybody could be your friend. Hell, everyone wants to be your friend—of course, that's only because they don't know you. But that's not good enough."
"I don't know." I shrug and throw the remains of my food away. Luckily, my pager goes off as I'm standing.
"Look," I say, "I have to go. Don't you have lives to save, a universe to rule? Lunches to steal?"
House stares at me. A moment later he says, "Sure."
I turn and go back to my office, my lab coat flapping behind me. When I arrive, I sit in my own chair and prop my feet up on my own desk. I reach for my newly-replaced box of sand and casually drag the rake through the near-microscopic grains. The page wasn't anything important, but I left anyway. Maybe I didn't want to answer House, maybe I didn't know how to. Either way, I knew the answer I could've given, the one he might (or might not) have wanted to hear.
What does House do for me?
He makes me happy.