A/N: Thanks to everyone who's been reading, commenting and sticking with the story. I appreciate it.
Disclaimer: House belongs to David Shore and Fox.
Thanks: To NaiveEve for her excellent work as my beta.
-10-
It's all good.
No. 'All good' doesn't quite cut it. All fuckin' amazing? Oh, yeah. Now we're gettin' jiggy wit' it.
Oops. He wonders if epithets such as the demon 'fuckin' are frowned upon here.
It no matter, señor. Say it loud, you may be dead but you're proud. It's all fuckin' amazingly good.
One thing obviously hasn't changed. He still doesn't give a shit what anyone thinks.
He dimly recalls fighting the good fight, battling it out with old Mort only to lose in the end. When was that? He can't quite figure it out and wonders how badly his powers of deduction have been impaired. The more he tries, the further away the memory slips. But keeping track of the ticking clock is overrated anyhow, so incredibly...unimportant.
One interesting discovery he's made is that time, although meaningless here, is mercurial. Stepping into tomorrow is as easy as making the trek back forty years. How does he know? Mort told him...he thinks. But he couldn't swear to it. His mind is fried. He is cold stone certain about things one minute and not so sure the next. But it's okay because-
-every damn thing is way cool.
Yeah. Oookay.
White seems to be the non color of the year: the air, these tower walls, the wrap around robe things everyone wears are all white, all the time. He would prefer to be wearing his jeans but was told that the robes separate the wheat from the chaff and that he is a member of the wheat contingent.
Looney Toons.
Roman gladiator fashion statements notwithstanding, he does have those perks to consider. The feeling of being 'here' is...like tasting ice cream for the first time. It's like the first time Stacy's nipple hardened beneath his thumb, or his first dizzying, intoxicating toke on a hash pipe. Everything is...wow, he thinks with a secret smile. Even that weird white wind that zips along, flowing through tower windows and over the tops of tents is pretty amazing. It whirled around him twice before flying through him and if there was ever a pleasure more exquisite he had yet to experience it.
The heaviness he woke to daily, the pain he lived with every single fuckin' day for so many years, had been put to rest...
...along with you.
"But I'm not dead," he says without conviction, throwing Mort a questioning look. His new best bud responds with a simple, somber shrug.
Does it matter?
"What's up with them?" Leaning over a wide white balcony, he frowns at the sea of humanity milling about in a state of controlled chaos.
Mort's lips peel back into a shit eating grin. Dude is looking pretty damn pleased with himself as he waves a finger at the activity below. "The rabble, new arrivals," he says. "Most of them will be going back."
The rabble wear whatever clothes they arrived in: jeans, khakis, work shirts, skirts, skydiving jumpsuits (an entire team must have taken that one last collective tumble from the skies), blouses, sneakers, sensible shoes, all of which are faded, bleached to as near white as they could get. White robed men and women float among them. Their job is apparently to herd the rabble into neat rows and lead them into one of the many tents set up on the white lawn of the tower.
"They go back?"
"They're dim bulbs, totally clueless. It is mind boggling how some of them made it as far as they did in life." He shakes his head, but that grin remains. "They gotta do the dance again." He shimmies in place, like the leader of a conga line. "learn a little something next time around." With a flick of his tail, he whips around. "Come along. This is boring."
Nothing here is boring. Not yet, anyway.
Mort leads him through a set of double doors and into the tower. It's all smoke and fog and transparent pillars in here. Slants of light seem to beam in from nowhere...yet everywhere. Everything seems like...nothing. The walls are swirling, smoky partitions. He drifts through them, witnessing a little show each time he does: people in in kitchens, in boardrooms, in classrooms, in bed, chattering to one another as if they have all the time in the world. Their scents are strong: food, gardens, sex, sweat...life.
"They're alive."
"Oh, yes. Still among the living but," Mort hitches a brow. "you just never know when tragedy might come along to mess with their pleasant afternoons."
House would like to walk through more walls but Mort is already pulling him down a corridor and into an oval room with a high domed ceiling. Against the far wall, three women and four men, clad in the requisite white, are seated beside one another. Two are twentysomething, the rest are older, halfway between August and November on the age ladder. They are all classic beauties: a gaggle of Montgomery Clifts and Elizabeth Taylors. Lounging barefoot on Eames chairs, each moves a languid hand through the air. They are not unlike a mime troupe flipping through engrossing, make believe tomes. As Mort and House draw near, they drop their hands and lean forward as one.
"This is Greg," Mort announces. Off their surprised looks he adds, "He is with me."
Their mouths fall open in unison. Seven pair of eyes lock on House and bore right through him.
Oooh, they don't like you much, do they?
"Stop it!" Mort's words make the room shudder. Tufts of ceiling drift slowly down like new snow. "I told you he was the one. You didn't believe me?"
One of the younger women, the one with the cherubic smile and Liz Taylor's violet eyes, drifts toward him. House rears back as she moves one hand along his jaw, across his brow, down, down along his chest, without actually making contact. "I can see why you wanted him for so long." The gold flecks in her eyes swim like dolphins, diving deep into the indigo, before rising up in slo-mo. "Such an old soul."
"Go back to the hunt, Sera," Mort grumbles. "Did I ask for your approval?"
She throws House a look that could only be considered provocative, then drifts back to her seat.
He wonders if they have sex here.
"Sometimes this group gets a bit brazen," Mort says as he leads House toward another set of double doors.
House glances over his shoulder at the seven beauties. They have returned to their pretend page turning, all except that woman. She is smiling at him, the gold in her eyes sparkles even from a distance.
"But," Mort sighs, "they are mine, part of me, and I am forced to put up with their antics."
"They're busy."
"They are hunting for souls who are more likely to bypass that horrid rabble stage. The special ones, the ones who have...potential. It is always nice to be able to set these things up beforehand. That way we can more easily place them." Mort smiles. "But this is not your concern."
"Sooo, what is my concern?"
"To just be you. To comment on the new arrivals. Offer opinions. To regale me with your wit and wisdom."
"Be the court jester," House adds.
Mort shrugs, "If you know any good jokes I'm all ears. I do like them somewhat perverse." He winks. "But you're more than a diversionary funny man to me. Much more."
"I'm friggin' flattered."
"Good. You should be. You could be working in one of those tents, which is boring, believe me. You would hate it."
"But they're all dead," House says.
"Yes," Mort replies, "I know."
The double doors open of their own accord and Mort ushers House into another oval space. The room is vacant except for what floats adjacent to the far wall. House folds his arms, gives the thing a once over. "What is this monstrosity?"
"That," Mort replies, "is your new toy." He takes House's arm and leads him directly in front of what looks like a vast rectangular portal. From the side it seemed almost invisible. But from where House stands now it seems to go back, back, back into an infinity of swirling white.
"It's a toy? House is intrigued.
"You could say that."
"A game?"
Mort chuckles. "If you like."
"Where's the controller?" House peers behind and beneath it.
"You're so funny. Like a little kid." Leaning against the wall, Mort smirks.
His search unsuccessful, House asks, "Hard drive?"
"Uh uh."
House rubs his chin. "Joystick? Remote?"
"You'll have to stop thinking like a mortal."
There is no fear here. But something doesn't feel right. "I'm not...dead."
"Raise your hand, Greg."
House lifts his hand like a reticent grade school student.
"Wave it."
His hand makes a slow arc across the portal. And then...that swirling white emerges, towering over him like a tidal wave before crashing down and spinning wildly, surrounding him, sucking him into...
...faces, smiling, frowning, furious, intent, ecstatic, car wrecks, screeching, screaming, crying, laughing, murders, copulation, surprise, years, weeks, seconds, minutes, eons, tangling, weaving, the past, the present, the future, everything shatters, everything is great...
Everything is.
Way cool
"Do you like your toy?"
Stunned, House takes two stumbling steps forward, almost falling into the thing before catching himself and stumbling back.
"I take that as a yes?"
His fingers twitch. He wants to raise his hand again, spin like a raging tornado one more time but decides against it, letting his arm dangle at his side.
"Aw, you're no fun."
House gawps at his new diversion. "Small doses...might be best."
"Oh, go for it. It ain't gonna kill you." Mort chucks him on the shoulder.
Of course not. You're already there.
"After all, this is one of the perks I promised you. I thought you might enjoy it."
House takes a step forward, then stops, bites his lip and gives Mort a look.
"Lovely day for a constitutional." Mort grins.
A solid shove sends House reeling headlong into the portal's billowy, restless void.
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Surveillance is not Wilson's idea of a hot time. He has no idea why he is sitting in his car across the street from House's apartment, munching on a Taco Bell cheesy bean burrito ("We're open late!"), sipping Diet Coke through a straw.Waiting. Waiting for what, he has no idea.
The key to House's apartment dangles on his ring next to the Volvo's. Certainly he could rush right in, turn the key in the lock and solve the mystery. But the light is on. From the looks of it, all the lights in the place are on. The glow through the windows in the front (the living room) and side (bedroom) gives the place a warm, cozy look. But that glow is of no comfort to Wilson. House is not one to leave lights on when he doesn't need them. He is thrifty that way, preferring to sit in the dark or settle by a reading lamp than waste bulb life and electric power.
Wilson polishes off the burrito he hardly tasted, sucks up the dregs of his soda, which did nothing to quench his thirst. He wipes his hands and scrubs his chin with the paper napkins which were stuffed into his bag by that tired looking cashier at the drive-thru window.
Why does everyone seem so damn tired these days? Surely not everyone pulls all-nighters.
After pushing the empty cup and crumpled wrapping into the bag, Wilson finally admits to himself why he is parked across from House's place in the middle of the night.
He is afraid. Of what, he's not sure.
He admonishes himself for not being in the apartment right now, checking to make sure that House is still breathing. He shouldn't be sitting here moping and giving himself every excuse to remain behind the wheel of the Volvo as the morning hours tick away. He belches, then cringes as the vile cheesy bean aftertaste burns his throat.
Staring at the glow of lamplight through those windows, he hopes for a shadow to pass the shade, hopes for some sign of life.
The light burns softly, gently, like a benign hand holding back the night.
Move your ass!
Wilson pushes the driver's side door open, crumpling the Taco Bell bag in his fist as he races across the street.
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Bees.
The hum is everywhere: in his head, ricocheting off the walls, bouncing off the floors, rising to where the ceiling might be.
But there is no ceiling, old man. You can see that, can't you? Or are you still floating around in that dimwitted haze?
It sure sounds like bees in here, thousands of them, millions.
How long has he been walking through this blankness? Time... He shakes his head as if to clear it.
...is a bitch.
You'll have to stop thinking like a mortal...
Those words would normally have given him a shiver. But fear is a foreign concept now, like a language that once tripped off his tongue with ease but suddenly makes no sense. What is disconcerting is the slithery liquid motion of the unctuous thing Mort passed along to him so long ago.
Not...that long ago.
Yeah, sure. It was another time, another place, another planet...
...in a galaxy far, far away.
The thing wavers and undulates in his gut. Was it left there by mistake or as some sort of warning? Maybe it is Mort's inimitable way of saying he is watching everything House does, knows everything that is churning around in his guest's befuddled head?
If House had to guess, he would surmise it was a strong warning. Mort didn't make mistakes.
The hum intensifies as the walls become infused with candy color, pulling, stretching like taffy.
Stay put. Watch and learn.
The deep reds, bright greens, phantasmagorical purples, yellows and pinks swim, writhe and transform into squares, pushing out from the walls and floor like miniature solar panels. They are neat little things, yay big, about an inch on each side. He knows this because he plucks one from the wall and measures it between his thumb and forefinger. But…
Uh oh.
...that wasn't such a brilliant idea. There is an odd vibration inside it, an electric pull. He jerks his fingers away, realizing as he does so that it is too damn late.
Didn't Mommy ever tell you to look but don't touch, old man?
In a matter of moments the little panels surround him, their humming escalates to a fever pitch, squealing, chirruping higher and higher as they...
...envelope him, multiplying tenfold, one hundred fold, clickety, clickety, clack, until the void is teeming with them. If this is their greeting, House would have preferred being given the cold shoulder.
Oooh, look at the panels. Yes, look deeper.
They are rife with little life scenes, not just from present day but, from yesterday, two years from now, a sunny afternoon, three centuries ago. They continue to chatter and hum and poke him, prod him from above, below, side to side, each one vying for his attention.
You're lost little boy...
Now their smells assault him: barbecue, perfume, floral gardens, city dumps, sweat, halitosis, a million other scents all cooking together to form the stench of life...and death.
Eau de Mort...
Yes, this is interesting. Quite a toy. But he would really like this assault to just... stop.
No way, Cholly.
These squares are as insistent as the Mort man. House senses if he doesn't choose one of these beauties to play with they're going to keep at him until he winds up in a heap. Then they'll pull him in a hundred million directions until he is nothing more than wheaty grains of Greg divided equally among them.
The Black Unctuous Thing that has taken residence inside him creeps, slithers, then winds around itself, getting all comfy as it settles deep within his belly. Trying his best to ignore it, he reaches out blindly, groping, grasping, grabbing...
...a random square and clasps it tightly. It writhes, pummels and pounds the inside of his fist, then bursts free, snagging him, sweeping him into a whirlwind of such splendid intensity, he loses himself. From somewhere outside the commotion he watches as he rolls, rocks and tumbles through a long vessel of light and color...
You're lost...
...until he joins the dance again and is deposited with an unceremonious thump in the rear of what looks like an elementary school classroom. The room smells of chalk dust, floor wax and white paste. Hunched over a desk/chair combo, he clasps a pencil stub between two fingers. A mathematics primer is by his right hand. His knees push against the underside of the desk and the back of the hard wooden chair cuts into the small of his back. Evidently, the desk/chair combo was not devised for fortysomething, six feet two inch physicians. Wincing, he shifts, causing his seat to creak and groan, causing…
…the teacher to look up from her desk. She is a slim woman in her mid-fifties, wearing a black dress and a cameo broach around her neck. Her graying honey colored hair is done up in a severe bun.
So fashionable in the olden days.
She acknowledges him with a nod, presses a slim finger to her lips, then goes back to her reading.
The kids have their heads down, working hard on their numbers. House doodles a stick figure devil on a page in his primer before diving in, solving the first ten problems in two minutes. Bored, he taps his foot, and turns to the boy and girl seated to his right. The boy kicks the girl's ankle, reaches behind her to lightly tug a brown pigtail, while peering at her paper. The girl rolls her eyes before throwing the boy a look of tolerant disdain. Slowly now, her gaze shifts slyly to the teacher, then back to her work. Her teeth touch her lower lip as she inches her primer closer to the boy so he can more easily cheat.
Wilson.
House folds his hands on his desk and gleefully observes. The way she holds her pencil, rubs her neck and moves her head from side to side as she concentrates on her work confirms his suspicions. Somehow he knows (for certain and for sure) that this pigtailed, patent leathered, lacy collared twelve year old girl possesses the soul of the future Jimmy Wilson
It is funny, too funny. "Wait'll I tell him," House thinks.
And that would be, when? The twelfth of never, perhaps?
And the boy...is him. His old soul is tucked away inside the kid with the bad attitude and that devilish gleam in his eye.
You haven't changed a bit, old man.
How many lives had that tired old soul passed through? He could check into it, have a little tete a tete with those lively little panels, relive old times.
Nooo thanks.
"Yo, asswipe," House pokes the pencil stub at the kid's cowlick. "Got a problem? Dog eat your notes? "
"Doctor House." The teacher's voice booms through the classroom, causing every head to do a one eighty. "You are a guest in this room, are you not?"
"Yeah, but-" He shoots a look at the boy, who snorts out a giggle.
Teacher thwaps her desk with her pointer, making him flinch. "You are old enough to know better."
"He was cheating."
"We do not tattle." Teacher's eyes glow green and surprise! They come equipped with those little golden flecks that spin and twirl and dance.
House sighs. Mort, like Elvis, is everywhere.
This young whippersnapper, the past owner of House's soul, hisses and bares his teeth, his eyes growing wide and then wider. They are huge now, violet with gold flecks spinning round...and around...and around...
Uh oh.
Wrenched out of the classroom by the scruff of his neck, House is hurled away, through the vessel, tumbling through the colors and the lights and whomp! He is on his butt. The white floor undulates beneath his ass, his legs and the flat of his palms. Those hundred million little squares are all back in place on the wall, looking neat and nice as ducks in a row.
Oh, and check this out.
Those violet eyes have followed him here. They sparkle and twinkle with amusement as they drift over his paralyzed, powerless form.
Nice day for a constitutional.
"Well, now," The laughing voice swirls from the general direction of those eyes. Liz Taylor's porcelain features wrap themselves around the indigo. A cherubic smile and petite white robed frame complete the picture. "are you lost, little boy?"
He is happy to see the woman from the big white room. She is interesting, so beautiful. He recalls the slow caress of those hands, although they never actually touched him, did they?
"Yeah," House says as his shoulders sag with relief. "I guess I am."
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Wilson presses a trembling hand against the heavy wooden door. For the second time in the course of a minute the fingers of his other hand attempt to twist House's key in the lock. Again the lock resists.
Shit. He pounds a tremulous fist against the door. SHIT!
"House." Bam! Bam! Bam! "HOUSE!"
He brings his sore fist to his chest along with the keys that jingle and tinkle merrily, mocking his distress. Pressing his forehead against the solid, steadfast wood, he thinks, thinks, thinks, then remembers the emergency key House keeps in the most unlikely place-a place no burglar, murderer or wandering junkie would ever dream of looking-right there above the door. He reaches up, snags it, pushes into the lock.
Nothing.
Nothing.
BAM! BAM! BAM!
Stop it. Just...stop. It's the middle of the night. You're going to wake the whole damn neighborhood...
Think, think, think. He could call the police saying he has reason to believe his friend has been the victim of foul play.
But police are nosy and House has been known to be careless about where he stores his more...questionable possessions. Who knows what he has stashed in there? And if House is alive but in a bad way, he certainly doesn't need the police clomping in to bare witness to his distress. He's had enough run-ins with the cops to last three lifetimes.
He tries the key once more, gives it a good twist, which gets him an aching forefinger to go along with the throbbing hand but nothing else.
There is another route he can take. He didn't want to involve anyone else but, in this case, he doesn't have a whole lot more options open to him. Wilson pulls his cell out of his trouser pocket and scans through his contact list. He is anal about keeping these numbers up to date, so the absence of the one he is after causes him to emit a noise of futility, a pathetic half sob, half sigh.
He wonders, not for the first time today, what the hell is going on.
He could call Cuddy and would if he was forced to. But he would rather not involve her. If he did, he would have to explain everything. And he didn't want to do that either.
He pounds the buttons on his cell, presses the phone to his ear. Nurse Myrna picks up. Ah! A break in the clouds. He had forgotten Myrna was at the reception desk this morning. Wilson is pleased. If he has to ask someone for this kind of favor, he's glad it is her.
"This is Dr. Wilson."
"Hello, Doctor. What can I do for you?"
There is a smile in her voice, which is a positive sign.
"I need a phone number."
"Oh, what department?"
"It's...a home phone number. One of the staff."
A slight pause, then, "Doctor, I'm sorry, but you know I can't-"
"Myrna, it's an emergency."
He senses her concern. It was present and accounted for when she left House's office yesterday morning and it's with her now. He is sure of it, he can feel it...
"What is the problem, Doctor?"
Wilson makes a fist, presses it against the door and says slowly and succinctly, "Myrna, I really need a number."
There is a long pensive silence before she asks, "Who?"
"Dr. Foreman."
The sound of Myrna's fingers clicking away on the computer keys is like The William Tell Overture, Fidelio, Swan Lake and Superfly all rolled into one glorious symphony. Wilson lets out a long sigh of relief. In another moment he has what he needs.
He punches the number into his cell, holds his breath as the phone brrrs once, twice...
"Please," he whispers, closing his eyes.
Foreman picks up on the third ring, mumbling incoherently at first, but as Wilson speaks, the urgency of the situation seems to get Foreman's brain cells percolating, spurring him into action.
"I'll be right over," he says.
"Thank you," Wilson breathes, falling to his knees, his fist still pressed against the door.