Thanks for the reviews, everyone. Glad to know people are reading! Here's Chapter 4...
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Wilson knew he'd overslept when he realized how bright the sun was through the window. His body had vastly overcompensated for the lack of rest it had gotten in the past few days, but the least Cameron could've done was wake him.
Throwing the blanket off, he was about to run to the bathroom and wash up when he noticed the newspaper beside his half-finished wine glass. It was folded open to the classified ads. A few paragraphs were circled in blue ink. All apartments for rent. At the top of the page, in the white space above Classified, a flourishing hand had written,
Do you want House or a home?
"Cute, Cameron," Wilson said, though it was obvious the place was empty; she'd already left for the hospital. After a second skim of the paper, he folded it in half and tucked it beside his briefcase.
Late though he was, he realized he'd have to go back to House's apartment to retrieve some clothes to wear. His wrinkled suit and pants he still wore from yesterday were not going to cut it. A quick shower wouldn't hurt either. He peeked into Cameron's bathroom, but given that she only had mango shower gel and apple blossom shampoo, he figured he'd wait to get to House's.
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It was nearly eleven by the time Wilson had fought through traffic to arrive at 221 B. He took out his key, but was surprised to find the apartment open.
He was even more surprised to hear piano music floating around inside. He recognized the tune immediately. Hot Cross Buns.
When the apartment door closed with a click, so did the music. House emerged from the bedroom, swallowing a pill as he limped over.
"The prodigal son has returned," House joked. "Sleep well?"
"You're not at work."
"No, I am," House assured him. He twirled his cane idly between his fingers. "This is a hologram image I designed to keep you company while I'm not here."
Wilson set his briefcase on the couch--his bed was still made, the sheets and pillow still there, waiting--and turned to rummage through his knapsack underneath the coffee table. White shirt, green tie. Khaki pants. They were the first things he grabbed. Luckily, they matched.
"Did you call in sick?"
"No," House replied. "I figured it was rude saying I was too sick to treat sick people. Kind of undercuts their condition, don't you think?" He paused, waiting for Wilson to answer, but the younger man had retreated to the bathroom to change. House leaned against the wall, calling over the running water, "Are you sick, too?"
"No, just running late."
"Forget about work. I heard that patient with respiratory distress and freaky rash has been cured."
"Are you suggesting we play hooky?"
"Don't be so immature. This isn't high school."
Wilson's laugh came muffled through the door and the toothbrush in his mouth. "Right. I forgot."
"Come on," House baited. He tapped the cane on the handle of the bathroom door, unable to poke Wilson's leg like usual. "I have a Corvette sitting outside and gas prices are three cents cheaper than they were yesterday."
Spitting into the sink, Wilson turned his attention to his hair. At least he had more than House. Typically, he'd spend more time with it, but time was not permitting. He slipped into a new outfit and reemerged, straightening the tie as he went along.
"I'm going to work like a productive member of society."
"Like lemmings off a cliff," House muttered, and watched as Wilson shrugged on his overcoat, picked up the briefcase, a newspaper, and left.
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Halfway to Princeton-Plainsboro, Wilson turned off the road and took another street. He glanced down at the newspaper ads, which he had propped against the steering wheel and had decided to consult.
Do you want House or a home?
Wilson creased the top over so he couldn't read it anymore, but the words stayed ingrained. He turned on the radio to drown out the piano he heard in his head. Dropping his eyes down to the newspaper again, he read off the first address to himself. Open-house today, it said.
"All right," Wilson sighed. He tapped the steering wheel. He hadn't felt this nervous since the first day of kindergarten. "Here we go."
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Money wasn't a factor. Proximity, setting, condition, and neighbors were. The apartment had to be reasonably near Princeton-Plainsboro; it would also have to be somewhere devoid of a "drive-by-shooting" threat zone. Wilson wasn't asking for the Taj Mahal-as long as it didn't look like it needed a condemned poster slapped across its unhinged door, he could fix some plumbing and electricity issues if need be. And, given his previous living arrangements, he couldn't really think of any neighbors that could cause him more trouble than House.
"...And dis here's the living room/bathroom area."
The man's accent was so thick, it sounded like he was choking on New Jersey's brogue.
"Living room and bathroom...?" Wilson surreptitiously checked the sole of his shoe for whatever gleaming liquid he'd stepped on. Something was leaking out of the floorboards, the wet streak running right back to the toilet that stood out gaudily in the corner of the room. The owner apparently didn't notice.
"Yeh. I wuz gonna throw up a wall, but it was jest me, what the hell."
"There's a toilet next to the coffee table."
"So the magazines are right der fer you. So what's the problem?"
Obviously, you seem to have some trouble with the plumbing in your brain as well. All the shitty ideas are clogging it up. I'd get that checked. It's a hazard.
"Hey. What's so funny?"
Wilson hadn't even realized he'd laughed aloud. He shook his head and told him he'd give a call back if he were interested. That itself deserved another laugh.
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All right. The snark comments are getting a bit old.
Are they? You were enjoying them before.
Yes. But I've seen six places in the past two hours, and those disasters have done nothing but make me envious of homeless people in their boxes. At least cardboard looks somewhat stable.
You have this strange motif with homeless people, have you noticed that? Freudian subconscious, maybe?
Sounds good to me.
Come on, Jimmy. Not all the apartments were that bad. The one had an open veranda and everything.
It was missing part of the back wall!
Let's not be picky. Aw, come on, don't give me that look. You've only been driving around for one afternoon. You're Jewish. Your people wandered aimlessly through the desert for 40 years. I would've thought you'd have more patience.
House, as long as you're here, why don't you give me some constructive advice for once?
Don't be ridiculous. That's not why you want me here. Thanks for remembering to imagine my Vicodin, though.
That's me. Mr. Thoughtful.
You could've left out the leg thing, though. Why do I have to limp in your imagination, too?
Because, as a wise old sage once said, 'That's part of your charm.' Honestly, House, I don't know why I want your opinion on these apartments anyway.
You don't. You've dragged me along for comic relief. And because you do miss me.
Why does everyone think I miss you? First Cameron, now you...
It's natural. And considering how far you tried to push me away, you should've figured I'd come springing back. Ever take a slinky and do that? Stretch it out really far, then BOING! Back it comes. Usually smacks you pretty good in the face, too.
Ican't say I've ever done that.
Maybe it's just me.
House. I just think it would be better if I finally found a place. Permanently. You're the one who kept saying I was running away from the divorce, anyway. So I got a lawyer; the papers are signed. It's over. Now there's just the apartment...
You're not moving out because of the divorce. You're moving out because I'm there.
House, don't congratulate yourself. You're intolerable at times, but not unbearable.
I would've thought those words meant the same thing.
You know what I'm saying. I put up with you.
You enjoy putting up with me.
Admit it.
Fine. I do.
Very good. That's the first step: Acknowledging that you do have a problem. So proud of you, Jimmy.
Wonderful. I'm addicted to you.
That sounds potentially awkward. Unless you want to put music to it.
Back to Broadway, again?
Did you ever realize how ridiculous some of the greatest songs sound if you take the music away from the lyrics?
As in...
"When I'm watching my TV, and a man comes on and tells me how white my shirts can be..."
"...But he can't be a man cuz he doesn't smoke the same cigarettes as me."
Exactly. We don't listen to music. We just hear it.
What? I thought you liked Jagger. And that's a great line.
I know. I just wanted to see if you'd sing along if I started. Gotcha.
Thanks.
Now... Weird lyrics are the Beatles, post-India. "Octopus's Garden." I'll say no more.
I didn't know you liked the Beatles.
Did I say that?
"Hold you in his armchair you can feel his disease." Know that one?
Ah-hah, Freud again. No... "Come Together."
Doesn't matter. You're thinking about me.
How? That song doesn't even make any sense!
But is it mere coincidence that you picked the line with "armchair" when you're running from my couch? Is it my disease you feel? Am I a toxin or intoxicating?
That's stretching it, House.
You're the one with the slinky.
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Wilson parked the car on House's street and leaned back, sighing. He glanced beside him to the empty passenger's seat, figuring he had skipped out on work and ended up spending a day driving around with House.
So much for that apartment.
But he needed to find one, didn't he? He couldn't very well crash at House's forever. The sooner he moved out, the sooner things would become clearer again.
They had been clear before, right? Of course. This is House he was talking about. Teacher, friend, misanthrope, reluctant confidante, House. He hadn't been confused before, had he? Lines hadn't been blurred.
Or has everything just snapped into focus?