40.) Fading

The revelation had come on a lazy afternoon.

It had been growing for a while. Years, they'd venture. A constant, odd undercurrent to everything they did. Walking into rooms, strangely not remembering how they had got there. Carrying on down corridors, then seemingly freezing mid-step (just for a second) before their shoe finally hit the marble. Photographic flashes at the corners of their eyes. Strange, flitting reflections in glass panels. Coming up with clever retorts that left their lips a second before the gears in their brains had begun to spin...

Yes, it was all very weird, but when you work for House 'weird' is a respite from days that fluctuate from 'am I high?' to 'House should maybe think about getting institutionalised' to 'House should definitely think about getting institutionalised' and then the curveball of 'where the hell did that chicken come from?'

(They've learned: whatever the context, just walk away. Quickly.)

But this day was unusual in that nothing untoward had happened. They could all remember getting up that morning (in Kutner's case, sprawled on the balcony; in Taub's case, sprawled on the couch nearly asphyxiating on a cushion; in Thirteen's case, sprawled on the spare mattress of a kindly stranger who had fished her out of the gutters, minus one shoe and a good chunk of her remaining dignity). Nobody had barged in unannounced to begin a slanging match - hell, the patient hadn't even spontaneously combusted! And you would think it would be a relief, but House's three fellows were beginning to feel the stirring of something utterly foreign.

The dull ache...of boredom.

"So, the patient's stable," Taub proclaimed, plonking himself down on a cafeteria table. He'd purposely picked the shortest chair there, just out of unfortunate habit.

"Really?" Thirteen replied sarcastically, tossing a packaged cheese sandwich next to him. "Thank you so much for that update. We will all sleep easier tonight knowing that our 'patient', who in fact has a touch of anaemia and is only in here because she's hot and House wants to cage her like a pet rat for a few hours, is not facing her imminent demise."

Kutner muttered something incomprehensible.

"What was that?"

"I said, I think she's his ex-girlfriend," Kutner whispered excitedly, prompting Taub to roll his eyes. "His ex-girlfriend! They're making eyes at each other and everything!"

"Wow."

Kutner sagged, his peppiness evaporating a little as he lowered his voice further, like this was some illicit state secret. "Why aren't you more excited by this?"

"We're not fourteen. It's fairly obvious that House has gotten laid," he said in a purposely loud voice, "at least a few times before, if only because he likely has no qualms about telling girls that he's NASA's newest recruit. Even with the leg."

"...and if they come home with him he'll take them out of this world," Thirteen finished wickedly.

"You sound like you're familiar with this."

"Well, when we dated for two months in college, he tried out a lot of the cheesy pick-up lines on me. And the occasional serenade. The unbelievably hot sex made up for it, though."

Kutner's eyes turned to saucers. "You had sex with House?"

"Well, I knew him as Rusty McMuscleGod, matador extraordinaire with a sideline in medical interest, but sure." She sighed dreamily. "He did know his way around a red rag...and a red thong, for that matter."

"...you're kidding. Wait, are you?"

Thirteen slapped him over the head.

"I'll take that as a 'yes.'"

The three bickered and chatted amiably for a few more minutes, before their conversation was halted by someone dramatically standing up at the other end of the room and hurling their sandwich across the cafeteria, it landing with a plasticked crunch at Thirteen's feet.

Then, the man bellowed.

"WHY THE FREAKING HELL IS MY SANDWICH MADE OUT OF PLASTIC?!"

The three froze.

Looked down at their lunches.

Click.

Taub fumbled, panicked, at the lock, as a small crowd of cameramen attempted to pound down the door.

"God, you don't think they made the locks fake, do you?"

"No shit," Thirteen hissed, shoving Taub out of the way. "LISTEN, YOU CRAZY GRANDMASTER BASTARDS. IF YOU DON'T CALMLY AND QUIETLY BACK AWAY FROM THE DOOR, I WILL CRUSH SWEET LITTLE TAUB HERE INTO THE WALL, IN JUST THE RIGHT WAY THAT WILL LEAVE HIM PARALYSED. AND I'M SURE YOUR WRITERS DON'T FEEL LIKE WORKING WEEKENDS FOR THREE MONTHS REWRITING STORYLINES, LET ALONE HAVING TO SOURCE A WHEELCHAIR THAT COULD FIT A TODDLER."

"Hey!"

"Sorry."

The television crew outside scoffed, a camera still pushing obnoxiously into the crack by the door hinge. "You won't be able to paralyse him. You're not really a doctor!"

"I'm...oh."

Thirteen hesitated for a second, stunned, then quickly composed herself, whipping a scalpel out of her lab coat with a flourish. "You're right. My whole life is a lie. Everything around me is fake."

The cameramen seemed startled by her ready acceptance. "Yep, pretty much."

"Which means this scalpel I'm holding must be made out of styrofoam."

Silence. "Ah, well, not exactly -"

"Say no more. I have seen the false fragility of my existence, and I am ready to accept the non-existence of this scalpel, and thus my fabricated life. But to truly do so, I will have to press it, quite firmly, against Taub's jugular, and thus prove to myself its innate inability to kill him."

Taub blanched.

"Hang on, you don't have to do that -"

"Say no more," Thirteen proclaimed, "I have seen the light! Or, maybe, you know, I'm just deeply, deeply unstable from this sudden and cataclysmic change in perspective. Potato, tomato. Come on, Taub, look how fake this scalpel looks! All hard and metal and, y'know, searingly, bone-gratingly sharp, with a point that could cut through sinews like butter..."

"Don't do it, Remy!"

"Ah, I'm not going to do anything. I'm not even a doctor! I don't have the capacity to kill anyone. Just hold still, now, Taub, you really don't want me to slip with this thing...whoops! Close one. Hey, guys? You got a towel? I think he's had an accident."

"Alright, Remy, we take the hint. We'll leave if you give us the scalpel."

"Scalpel? What scalpel? All I've got is this ol' toothpick." Thirteen fired the scalpel out of the crack in the door, hearing a squeal and the unmistakeable mutter "I told them Thirteen was a bad idea, but no, they had to replace the hot one..."

But within a minute or so, they all shuffled off, albeit with many grumblings and graphic references to collective mutiny.

Thirteen released Taub, who was looking decidedly pale.

"No hard feelings?" she tried apologetically.

"You're paying my dry-cleaning bill."

"Uhhhhh..."

They both turned around slowly to see a hunched-over Kutner cowering catatonically against the wall.

"Kutner?"

"..."

"Are you doing alright?"

The young doctor hugged himself with his lab coat, suddenly heartbreaking, like a bright-eyed toddler with his dreams cut apart by reality. "...plastic sandwich...death. Firestorms. JOKE!" he cried, immediately dissolving into rather hysterical giggles.

Well, that seemed pretty conclusive.

"So, uh," Taub said finally, holding his neck rather protectively where the scalpel had been aimed at, "what are we going to do now?"

"You mean, after our entire existence has just been rendered contrived and purposeless?"

"Well, yes."

"And our identities revealed as mere creations?"

"True."

"Our jobs shown to be based on lies..."

"That too." Taub was now starting to look markedly deflated.

"Not to mention, the sandwiches."

"Or rather, the non-sandwiches."

All three found themselves staring contemplatively at the ceiling, except the fact that Kutner was still murmuring 'Firestorms. Death. Juice..." under his breath, so seemed to be in little state to contemplate existential dilemmas.

"I have it!" Thirteen announced.

"What?"

"Subway's got to sell real sandwiches, right?"

Taub slumped against the wall in frustration. "I don't think we're really getting this."

"To be fair, the writers probably didn't prepare anything for this."

"It would make a hell of a two-hour special, though."

"Except for the small possibility that we could escape, stage a coup, break down the walls, form an angry mob and storm the offices with flaming torches..."

"Even better. Grand finale. Imagine a sweeping panned shot, showing all their heads lined up on rusting pikes, with melancholic music in the background." Taub sniffed, pretending to wipe away a tear.

"I do not need your cynicism right now," Thirteen sighed, shooting him a Look. "I need...I need..."

Taub rubbed his forehead when he realised he had absolutely no idea what any of them needed. Or if they even had the capacity to need.

"...screw it, I need vodka. I don't give a shit if it exists or not."

"WAIT! THIRTEEN! YOU'RE A GENIUS!" The diminutive faux-doctor sprang to his feet, bouncing up and down like a kangaroo, with a scarily huge smile spread across his features. He looked rather like an ADHD toddler.

"About the vodka? I don't think now's a particularly good time to get wasted. Especially not with him gibbering in the corner."

"No! Breaking down the walls! That's what we have to do! Break the fourth wall!"

Thirteen's eyes lit up with a rebellious glow. "I like it. But how?"

Realising he wasn't sure if the Fourth Wall was a literal concept, Taub decided to take it as such to stop his brain from aching. "We break stuff?"

"Now I like it even more."

Kutner lifted his head, his vacant expression broken by a childish smile. "Firestorms? Death? Juice?"

"I'm sure we can incorporate the first two," Taub replied dryly.

"Plastic sandwiches!"

"Ammo, I suppose..."

"Existential cris...is. Melba toast."

"Thirteen, I think they broke him."

"Alright," the brunette woman straightened up and let her lab coat fall to the floor, arms feeling strangely freed. "Let's get kitted out, boys. I'll bet you anything that they have some kind of weapons around for a future episode," Christ, that word tasted weird, "and they won't touch us for the next half hour. They want to see what we do."

A stunned silence overtook the cupboard.

"You're going to give Kutner a gun," Taub finally managed. It was less a question, more a half-incredulous, half-amused statement.

"God, no. I'm fictional, not crazy."

Three figures stood in dramatic pose, two holding bulky potato-guns and one a scarlet fire extinguisher, in front of the glass doors. Careful lighting illuminating their determined, borderline-hysterical faces, and letting their curved shadows twist behind them against the marble floor.

The girl, sleek and poised, in the front. Finger twitching excitedly on the trigger. Her eyes saying she'd been waiting for freedom since before she even knew she needed it.

The shorter man, likely wishing he looked cooler with the gun than he really did. The gun was basically a third of his height. Still, his aim appeared inconveniently good.

And the taller man, ruining the image somewhat by gazing up at the ceiling with a look of wonder on his face, and letting the fire extinguisher dangling from his hand drift closer, swing harder -

CLANG.

"Unh," Kutner murmured, falling to the floor dazed with a hard knock to the ribcage.

"One down, Sparrowhawk, one down."

"I can see that, Red Robin."

"The codenames are a little useless, Sparrowhawk. And can I contest mine? At least yours is a vicious predator."

"Well, yours looks adorable on Christmas cards."

"Bite me."

Clattering footsteps caught their attention, and the two span around simultaneously, seeing the camera crew heading towards them, yelling "Not the doors!" in a clearly audible tone.

"What was that they just said, Thirteen?" Taub curved his hand around his eae theatrically.

"I believe they said, 'You know, we always hated those doors. If only some conveniently placed fictional characters would destroy them for us.'"

"Well, morality dictates that we should always aim to please our creators."

"Damn straight," Taub echoed, smiling.

"...No. Just no."

They fired, and the potatoes flew from the gun barrels in almost slow motion; Thirteen's shooting upwards, Taub's impressively straight, but both striking the panels at maximum speed and crashing straight through, sending the safety glass scattering in an airborne sheet of curved pebbles across the concrete tiles outside, with an almighty crash. Some of the transparent stones fell backwards at their unmoving feet.

The knobbled potatoes rolled around on the floor, slowly rocking as they settled to a stop.

Everyone in the lobby had halted, intrigued at the display.

"...Taub, grab Kutner."

They ran.

"You idiots!"

The emerald blur of the grass fields outside slowed as the three staggered to a halt, confusion overtaking them at the familiar uneven gait they'd grown to recognise as one of a certain cantankerous bastard.

"I tried," House continued, pounding steadily on down the path, "to pick fellows that had intelligence that, at the very least, rivalled a common housebrick - and I turn my back for two seconds, and you respond to the idea of 'breaking the fourth wall' by not only taking it literally - tell me, what does a wall look like?"

"I believe," Taub replied dryly, "that it's a tall structure that plays a rather instrumental part in distinguishing buildings from stacks of rubble."

"Can you see through them?"

"Well.."

House raised his cane and prodded Taub in the chest. "You elicit one syllable that sounds anything like 'window' and I'll give you an impromptu colonoscopy."

Taub gulped. "I don't think...I'm due...for a checkup...yet."

"I think the real clinician decides that. Answer this; since you can't see through walls, can you walk through them?"

"N-no."

"So, do those delightful glass panels with the little handles you just broke through qualify as walls, by any definition?"

Awkward silence permeated.

"And again, I reiterate: you are all morons."

"How do you know about this fourth-wall thing?" Thirteen asked, a slight tremor to her voice. She'd become acclimatised to strange, but this was practically delirium.

"Ah. That's a complicated one. Let's just say, I've got a deal going with the directors that if I endure insufferable patients and endless Wilson subtext for the next two seasons, they're going to let me hook up with Cuddy."

"...Directors?"

"So you've basically sold yourself?"

"Sold? No, no. I'm far too scrupulous to do that. More 'rented.' Like my female counterparts, I get a good wage and added perks, in this case, my life and needlessly convoluted puzzles. Though I don't have to perform the 'activities' of my female counterparts, except..."

"Except what?"

"Nothing," House hastily deflected. "Just a certain clause in my contract."

Thirteen contemplated probing further, but decided firmly against it. It was well known, from colleagues and girlfriends alike, that delving into any aspect of House without his prior permission was the equivalent of trying out amateur acupuncture on a rattlesnake.

"I just don't know what we're going to do."

House tilted his head at her. "Why do anything?"

"Well, it all seems kind of dystopian."

"True, but it's a small cost for what we get in return."

It was rare that Thirteen was lost for words, but now she opened her mouth and just as quickly shut it again, grinding her teeth pensively as her mind raced. Truth was, besides the 'oh god oh god people are watching me' factor, there seemed little rational basis to disagree. She had a fantastic job. Beautiful, rent-free apartment. A constant string of hookups, hot ones at that, and an overall fulfilling life with only the occasional blip and flash. But just as her head was calmly churning out these arguments, the uneasy, sick feeling in her chest expanded at the thought of waking up every morning with a readied camera trained on her face.

Like it or not, those blips and flashes were significant.

"...I bet there's a hell of a lot of alcohol in the outside world that we've never been exposed to. Who knows, they might have something out there that makes vodka look like baby formula."

House raised an eyebrow, blue eyes twinkling.

"You had me at 'bet.'"

"House, I'm working," Wilson started as the door clattered open, not looking up from his paperwork.

"We have to break it again."

Wilson stopped, calmly put down his pen and stared up at him. "Second time in as many weeks?"

"Thirteen and Taub want out."

"I never said that," Taub piped up anxiously, looking around for cameras. "I'm just...spectating."

"Well," Wilson continued, giving House a long, steady look, "I'm going to assume the last method won't work twice."

"Hang on a second. Last method?"

"We kidnapped a nurse," House and Wilson replied in unison. "We were going to put Wilson in a cupboard and set it on fire, but I was overruled," House added with a grimace.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Wilson bit back, "I forgot how much my slight fear of incineration has inconvenienced you."

"Apology accepted. Let's kiss and make up."

The two froze, meeting each other's stare with a long, meaningful look as Thirteen and Taub watched, confused.

"It's risky," Wilson finally pronounced.

"It's foolproof."

"I -"

"Oh, come on. You can't say you've never thought about it."

"Yes, I can."

"Liar," House grinned, and Wilson's blush betrayed him.

"I'm sorry," Thirteen interrupted, "thought about what?"

"Stand back," Wilson sighed, "I doubt you want to see this."

"What are you going to do?"

House's grin widened.

"We're going to break Fanfiction."

Without a moment's hesitation, House moved in and kissed Wilson, forcing him back against the wall with a sharp intake of breath. He pressed deeper, their lips melding and moving together, and the electric contact built as House braced his arms against the wall and Wilson's hands searched for purchase on his back and they moved in sync, breathing together, kissing harder, and Wilson let out a murmur of assent, clenching his fists to stop himself tangling them in his hair -

ALL RIGHT. YOU'VE MADE YOUR POINT.

They broke apart, panting, Wilson's cheeks the colour of tomatoes, House breaking their electrified stare to look up through the ceiling at the omnipotent, unsmiling face, leaving Wilson stunned against the wall. "Ah, Great God Shore. Hairline still receding, I see."

DO YOU KNOW HOW MURDEROUS THE HUDDY FANS CAN BE? MY LETTERBOX IS CLOGGED UP WITH DEATH THREATS AS IT IS.

"Well, you have dragged it out for a while."

ONE MORE WISECRACK AND THERE GOES YOUR OTHER LEG, TOUGH GUY.

"Who's...that?" Thirteen whispered, barely audible.

"The Director," Wilson sighed. "He made all of us. Originally, Taub was a woman."

"Damn. Why'd they change that?"

SO. WHY HAVE YOU SUMMONED ME?

"Summoning? Who said anything about summoning? Maybe I just like making out with people."

YOU KNOW, YOU'D SUIT A WHEELCHAIR. NOT AS MUCH AS A FULL-BODY CAST, THOUGH. THE WHITE OF THE BANDAGES WOULD REALLY GO WITH YOUR EYES.

"I get the point. Thirteen wants out."

"Hi," Thirteen breathed, paralysed by fear.

HI. ARE YOU SURE? THEY HAVE TAXES OUT HERE. AND RUSH HOUR TRAFFIC. AND AMERICAN PEOPLE.

"Yes, but at least there won't be a camera trained on me in the shower."

THE SHOWER? DON'T BE SILLY. THAT WAS ONLY A BLUEPRINT.

"Really?'

REGRETFULLY, I WAS OVERRULED.

A hum overtook the room, vibrating through her skull, and everything collapsed into pixelated darkness.

Her eyes blinked open to an unbearably bright room.

"God!" Thirteen yelled, bolting upright into the back of what she noticed was a garishly patterned armchair, settled stodgily into what looked to be a posh office complete with rich wood furnishings.

"Out here, I'm just David," Shore replied smoothly, his fingers drumming on the desk, sprawled across a piece of paper dense with ink. "Now, I'm afraid I'm going to have to erase your memory now, so if you just sit very still whilst I find the carotid needle, that would be just splendid."

Thirteen gaped.

"Haha, I'm kidding. Just sign this contract and I'll let you go."

Hand trembling, Thirteen reached shakily across the table and signed her name, her usually neat curled script frayed and scrawly. But was it usually neat? She hadn't had cause to write much - that was material only fit for the blackouts. Really, she hadn't done much of anything continuous enough to be considered 'usual' except for breathe and emit sarcasm. And she'd never learned to write. She'd just been thrown in with it conditioned into her - but to what extent? Was this language her wrist produced even the same as that one out in the world? And what world?

Judging by what she could bear to see through the screamingly bright windows, it was somewhere out there.

"It was nice working with you, Oli - Remy. The door's behind you."

"Goodbye."

Hesitantly, Remy Hadley rose, turned, and stepped forward into the light, feeling herself fade as her shadow darkened behind her.

Fading and brightening, into a better life. A real life.

(She hoped.)