Chapter 3
As he had done for the last few weeks, James paused at the door to the apartment and listened to House playing inside. He had missed those quiet moments while House had been away and was pleased when he took up his little routine again on his return.
The only change after House's trip had been that he switched from the organ to the guitar. He wasn't sure if it was a coincidence or not. Knowing House, it probably wasn't.
He had learned to read House's mood from the music he played. Today's music was jazzy and fast. He had no idea what to make of that. The only way to find out was to open the door and go in. At which point House would stop playing.
He finally opened the door. Predictably, the music stopped. He just had time to call out "House, I'm…" before the door banged into something.
There wasn't supposed to be anything behind the door.
James stopped - and watched a broomstick fall from behind the door. It knocked over a folding chair leaning against the end of the couch. And from there on things went out of control – or so it seemed. He was sure this wasn't random at all. But it was a chain reaction too fast for him to take in. It was like the whole apartment was moving. He had trouble focusing; whenever he seemed to have caught on to something happening, something else started moving at the edge of his vision.
"What the hell?!"
Disaster unfolded from the door, across the living room and into the kitchen. It all ended in a bang which sounded a lot like the microwave being closed. And indeed, now that everything else had gone quiet, he could hear its hum.
House's head appeared over the back of the couch. "Great, dinner will be ready in exactly four minutes."
James set down his bag, hung up his coat and surveyed the damage. There were books, pencils, glasses, pots and pans from the kitchen, cutlery, plenty of cardboard folders, a pair of House's shoes, his black cane, several tennis balls and lots of other things strewn across the apartment in apparent disorder. And yet, just seconds ago it had all looked like one well-oiled machine devised to set the microwave into action.
"Is this what you've done all day?" He picked up various things from the floor. "This…", a pen, an empty folder, a notepad, "…these are all my things."
"Well, it's your dinner…"
James grabbed a stack of files from the floor and glanced at them. "And those are medical files. Someone sent them for you to look at their case."
"Yeah. They're rubbish. Boring. I found a good use for them."
"House!" He didn't even know where to start. "What if the cleaner sees them? What about confidentiality? Plus, she's… she's not here to pick up after you every day or dismantle your contraptions. She comes to clean twice a week."
The microwave pinged.
"We have a cleaner?"
"Who do you think has been cleaning up after you for the last three months? Me? Are you crazy, House?"
There was no reply. Just as well.
"I'll go get the food myself then, shall I?" God, he was tired.
"Hey, I slaved over dinner for hours. This wasn't easy!"
James sighed and went to the kitchen to retrieve whatever House had put into the microwave.
"Lasagne. Fantastic." House apparently hadn't heard him or he chose to ignore the sarcastic undertone.
"Are you not eating any of this?" he called over to the living room.
"Not hungry."
Neither was he. But he knew he had to make an effort, considering his poor nutrition so far today. He sat down and took a fork full of lasagne. It tasted as it looked; like rubber. He took another bite. Nutritionally, this was probably right up there with one of the tennis balls he had just picked up from the floor.
He would need to go shopping. At least there was still fruit left in the bowl on the counter. He picked an apple after he'd chucked the lasagne into the trash and went back to the living room where House sat picking random notes on his guitar. There was a stack of files beside him on the couch.
"You could've made a bit more of an effort with dinner, seeing as you don't have a job."
"I have a job."
"Like what?" James snorted.
"Like consulting."
"Okay, so go and find something to consult. You can't sit around waiting for Chase to get stuck on a case and call you."
"…"
"What? You can? Have you figured out how to earn money from twiddling your thumbs? No. Then I suggest you find another job because I don't see why I should keep you."
House looked at the guitar in his lap, his hands just resting on the strings.
"I kept you for almost two years."
This had come completely out of left field. And yet, he should've expected it.
"I didn't ask you to."
"No, you didn't. If things had gone your way you wouldn't even be here today, and we wouldn't have this argument."
"True. So you're saying I have to be eternally grateful to you for saving my life?"
House shrugged. "You don't owe me anything."
"Just so you know, I think Webber and a few other people also had a hand in it. I don't go and do their laundry and pay their rent either."
"No, but your medical bills did."
James took several deep breaths. He was too tired for this argument.
"House, all I'm saying is things have changed. PPTH won't keep you afloat now. Chase will have the odd case for you. But it won't be enough to cover your share of everything. Things change. Go, find a job."
"You know there's that opening in your practice…"
It was true. They did have a position available.
"No. In big, fucking capital letters. N-O. This is not going to work. I will not work with you. Not like this. You'll start tearing the practice apart on your first day. I'm not having this. Living with you is enough." He looked at the mess surrounding him and silently added punishment. "I don't need to work with you as well."
James knew what this was about. House was anxious. In the last two decades, he'd had exactly one job. Certain people at PPTH had always implied House was unemployable anywhere else. He wasn't so sure. House was one of the smartest people he knew. He also didn't know anyone more troublesome. But that didn't mean that hospitals and universities around the country wouldn't kiss his feet if he put the word out that he was looking for work. As a rule, intelligent people were never the easiest to work with – they were too smart to dumbly follow rules and liked to mix things up. Anyone looking for a bright mind to work for them knew that.
But House didn't like change. Never had, never would. The fact that they were now on the other side of the country would be enough change to last him for several years. The fact that he also had to change dry cleaner was probably more than he could handle. Which reminded James of something.
"Have you found a new primary care physician, House?"
"…"
"No? Who's been writing your scripts?"
No reply from the couch, other than the strange squeak it made when House couldn't get comfortable.
"If you've been forging my signature, I'll kill you. I swear."
"Relax. I didn't forge anything. I've got legit scripts you signed a while ago."
"What?" James tried to remember the last time he'd written a script for House. And failed.
"You signed a few blank ones a while ago."
"A while ago? When…" Then it dawned on him. "You can't be serious. You got me to sign blank scripts while I was sick?"
No reply.
"House, you bastard."
"You act like I had a choice." House's voice rose, something it rarely did these days. "If you care to remember I was a little busy tending to a certain someone who couldn't make up his mind whether he wanted to live or die."
What he didn't mention was that he had also been dead. It was true. He had been busy holding things together – holding James's life together.
"How many?"
"…"
"How many, House?"
"A dozen or so."
The fact that he didn't give him an exact number didn't bode well. It wasn't like House didn't know exactly how many he had made him sign.
"Or so – how many exactly?"
"Twenty."
That was a far cry from a dozen. And yet… something wasn't right here, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. James finished his apple and sat down across from House. Looking at him sitting between stacks of files, his guitar in his lap, he suddenly found it impossible to maintain his anger.
This was House. He hadn't changed. Okay, so he had scammed scripts out of him. But when had he ever not done that? It wasn't like he had been able to just walk into a doctor's office and get a new prescription at the time. And he himself was the reason why.
James knew this was something which would haunt him for a while yet. It looked like they both had their lives back on track. But they hadn't, not really. He sighed.
"Okay. Twenty. You'll need to find a new doctor soon then. I can ask around for some recommendations."
House plucked a few notes. "Don't bother. I still have a couple of scripts. I'll find someone."
"Fine."
James picked up a stack of books – his books – from the floor. More casualties of House's crazy construction.
He scanned the titles. Principles and Practice of Pediatric Oncology. Cancer Pain Management. One of these days he would have to clear out the bookshelf in his room; there were plenty of books he had no use for anymore.
When he put them back on the shelf it hit him.
If House got him to sign twenty blank scripts when he had been sick, and he still had some left, it meant that House had been using less. House back in Princeton wouldn't have lasted this long – over a year – with twenty scripts.
What the hell was going on?
