Hey, Jimmy.
House! I thought I got rid of you.
Nice to see you, too.
What are you doing here? I didn't invite you this time.
I come back whenever you try to push me away, remember? I'm the symbolic, unwanted conscience of decisions you wish you had made.Oh. The slinky thing again?
I was actually going to go with the Rubix Cube in this instance, but if a coiled spring is more fascinating for you, fine.
Hmm.
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Jimmy?
What?
Why are you wandering my kitchen at 2:30 in the morning?
I can't sleep. Is that all right with you?
You don't need to be so defensive. And you won't find anything to eat in the fridge, either. I can't cook to save my life.
That's why you're a doctor, not a chef.
And yet you manage to pull both off.
Are you here just to berate me for not making meals for you anymore?
No. Although come to think of it… Let me add that to the list of my complaints.
Oh, great. Right alongside your thinning hair and the increasing price of Vicodin.
Somebody's snarky this morning.
Yeah, well, I'm giving you a break from the sarcasm.
All right. In complete seriousness then: I want to know why you wouldn't kiss me.
Why do I suddenly have to explain everything? You're the one that can't have a normal conversation without using political metaphors. Can't you just take it for what it is? Why do you have to know everything?
You're the one asking all the questions suddenly. You're very impatient when you're tired.
Yeah. Let's blame lack of sleep again. Such a convenient excuse.
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Jimmy. Hey.
House, what do you want?
I want to know what you're waiting for. This is your fifteenth lap around my kitchen, and unless you're going for some record I don't know about, it seems like a pretty pointless thing to do. Did you know that the Taj Mahal was a Valentine's Day gift a man built for his dead wife?
His dead wife? Why would he do that?
I don't know. Seems pretty pointless. I thought maybe you could offer some insight into it, considering youdoing laps around my apartment doesn't seem to serve any purpose either.
Well, I've got to do something. I already watched the rerun of the game.
Fifty bucks says the outcome was the same.
God. Time is so slow.
Ah hah. So you are waiting for something. What?
Fine. I'm—I'm waiting for you to play piano. Are you happy?
Is… Is that all?
Yes. You knew that's what it is anyway.
I know. I just like hearing you say it.
There you go, then. I said it. Can you leave now?
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Jimmy. You're still hiding something.
For the last time, no, I'm not. But I am ending this conversation now.
I'll make a note for us to come back to it later.
You're not going to play piano, are you?
And you're not going to tell me your secret.
I don't have a secret!
Me thinks you doth protest too much. Come on, Jimmy. You don't kiss someone and then avoid them for weeks on end. You don't invent those pathetic excuses if you're thinking clearly, either. There's something you haven't told me. You've already professed your undying love… So what could this be?
That flair for the overdramatic really is not your most attractive quality.
But it gets you so flustered.
And that's a good thing? House. I am not some marionette puppet you can control for entertainment. Not all the strings are dangling from your fingers. Sometimes… Sometimes you just have to let things go.
People don't let things go. They give up, because people are tired and stupid and weak—
And you're cynical.
And you're still hiding something.
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Jimmy. Why is it that you always need somebody?
I do not. What I do need is some sleep.
--------------------------------
An insistent tapping on his shoulder shattered his uneven slumber.
"Wilson. Get up."
The younger man groaned, lifting his head groggily from the kitchen table, where he'd finally drifted off late last night. To his bleary amazement, House was already dressed and halfway out the door, having stopped momentarily to harass the oncologist with a few pokes of his cane.
"Cuddy called this morning. She said the patient's taken a turn for the worse."
Wilson tiredly rubbed his forehead, blinking in consternation at his wristwatch. "House… It's four in the morning… How bad is she?"
"Oh, she's fine," House quipped as he picked up his bike helmet from the closet. "She just wanted a second opinion on the draperies she was putting in her living room. Apparently, she's leaning towards this horrendous shade of peach. Cuddy was desperate. Needed me to talk her out of it."
"Peach. Sounds serious. You know, House, patients might appreciate it if you took them a bit more seriously."
Scoffing, House rolled his eyes. "Quick, call up Foreman. I'm missing the be-nice-to-others lobe of my brain."
Wilson dragged himself stiffly out of his seat, stretching, listening to the swish of House's leather jacket as he swung it over his shoulders. Whatever it was, it was serious. Wilson decided his shirt was reasonably okay and dug out an unwrinkled coat to throw over top. On second thought, he found a tie to change into as well.
House pushed open the door of the apartment and Wilson followed before it shut behind them both. The briskness in the air was melting into a late spring warmth already. He turned to House, who was easing onto the motorcycle and trying to look as if it weren't the slightest bit of a problem for his leg. Wilson glanced away momentarily, knowing how well House could read his sympathetic expression, and how much he hated him for it.
"So… The batter finally swung?"
"I'm not talking about the does-she-doesn't-she have-cancer patient," House said, perpetually annoyed in his morning haste.
"Who…?"
"This is the purple-haired one. From clinic duty." He nodded towards the front stoops for Wilson to hurry up. "Get on. I'll explain on the way."
