House decided being dead was easy, at least for him it was. He used to tease Wilson about caring too much, more specifically about hoping that caring enough would keep him alive indefinitely. Now he realized he'd invested in the puzzles for basically same reason, to keep himself feeling alive without understanding that feeling alive was unnecessary to actually being alive. You could live quite well and not feel it. Better in some word Zen flashed somewhere near the edge of his mind.
" Wouldn't labeling it Zen make it unZen? Unzenning Zen." he thought and then smiled, he still liked being him.
House was sitting on a park bench in Somewhere, Ohio staring at his long legs stretched out before him. Thinking nonsense. Quietly waiting on a friend.
Wilson was still in the motel room, standing by the window staring at House staring at his legs. The long hours on the motorcycle didn't seem to have effected him much. If anything he looked better, had put on a little weight, tanned up a bit, the creases around his eyes seemed less defined. Which was not as unexpected as the fact that he could say the same thing about himself. Six weeks into his magical cancer tour and he was looking better than he had when they'd started. Even stranger, he felt great. Rested, relaxed, caught up on his sleep. The symptoms that should have started nipping at him weeks ago were either three steps behind or three steps ahead of him.
Living in the eye of the hurricane. Tight rope walking over the abyss. Whistling in the dark.
"And yet", he thought, "that isn't the oddest part of it." His looking and feeling better was nothing compared to the fact that he was living 24/7 with the renown Dr. House who apparently had either not noticed his lack of deterioration or he had noticed and decided not to comment on it. Two possibilities equally hard to believe. And equally fascinating to contemplate.
Yet, he made a calculated decision not to think about it. Thinking about it would lead backward. They had somewhat successfully left House and Wilson behind. They were now living life as the Wonderfully Wistful Wouster Brothers. Thinking about any of it, the cancer, the lack of symptoms, House's lack of interest would just weaken the carefully constructed wall they had built to protect themselves from what was waiting around one of those bends out there. "Exactly my point" Wilson noted. "I'm thinking of him as House. Not Kirk". Kirk being the name House had chosen, letting Wilson keep Kyle as his own.
Wilson grabbed his back pack and headed out of the door quickly. This was not something he wanted to think about.
Not now. Not yet. Not ever.
Wilson had just opened the door when he saw House reach down, pick up a small blue canvass bag from the ground and put it on his lap. For some reason, it was that exact moment Wilson realized he couldn't remember House ever being without it. Ever. Not in bars, or on walks or even going to the bathroom. He carried it everywhere. And at night? Wilson tried to mentally reconstruct the room as it was just before they'd gone to bed, but couldn't place it anywhere. House had a regular back pack, a black one with his clothes and pills in it. This canvas bag was different. Wilson tried to remember if he had ever seen House take anything out of it. Nothing. Well, a cigarette lighter once.
Damn it. This would be harder not to think about.