-11-

"Clues"

It is starting again. The restlessness, this wondering what House is doing, right this minute, right at this very-

From where he sits on the living room sofa, he can see Rosa in the kitchen, placing the dinner dishes in the dishwasher, setting the roasting pan to soak in sudsy water in the sink. She is humming.

Wilson usually helps her clean up. Tonight he can't find it in himself to do so. All he wants is to sit and think and speculate.

where is he?

He doesn't want to converse. It would be easy to talk for the sake of talking, but he doesn't want to do that. Fortunately, Rosa will be occupied cleaning, straightening and humming for the next few minutes, while Michael sits on the carpet at Wilson's feet, dividing his attention between coloring firetrucks and watching Blues Clues. For now, at least, Wilson is not required to say anything to either of them.

And that's when he wonders why he is even here. The thought snuggles next to him; it is going to be his best bud for awhile.

He doesn't like how quickly the idea attached itself to him. But this doesn't mean he wants it to leave.

Sound familiar?

His gaze falls on the wide-eyed grinning guy on TV. Joe is his name. How Wilson knows this is anybody's guess. Joe is not the same guy who used to be Blue's buddy. That guy's name was Steve and he left to make his mark in the music business (which probably didn't work out so well, Wilson figures, because, heck, where is he now?).

"Is that your thinking chair, James?" Michael points a blue crayon at him.

Despite his maudlin mood, and the Idea that is now clambering onto his lap like some needy stray cat, Wilson manages a smile. "I don't know. Why?"

"You look like you're thinking. Just like Joe."

He wants to tell Michael the truth. That Joe is not Joe at all. His name is Donovan and he used to be a starving artist, then a waiter and now he's a kiddie show god.

And how the fuck do you know all this?

House told him. House knows shit like this. Wilson doesn't know where in that rat maze of a brain House stores such useless information, but it's there. It resides next to all the other ridiculous bits of fodder House will spew out a moment's notice to impress, to irritate, to amuse.

Dr. House took a vacation.

Ridiculous.

Wilson pushes himself off the newly reupholstered couch, then tucks his hands into his trouser pockets as he ambles into the kitchen. Rosa is pressing the lid on the Tupperware bowl, sealing up the leftovers for tomorrow's lunches.

"Hi." She brushes a lock of hair off her brow with the back of her hand. A thin sheen of sweat shines above her lip. "Mike still watching Blues?"

"Yeah." Wilson shifts his shoulders uneasily. "I'm going to take off, Rosa."

The back of her hand dabs at the perspiration above her lip. She sniffs and looks at him. "Why?"

"I...just need to go home."

Her dark eyes flash before she turns away from him. Tupperware in hand, she pulls open the fridge and stows the next day's meals on the second shelf. "Is everything alright?"

"Sure. I...just have some stuff to take care of."

"Is House okay?"

The name sounds wrong coming from her; like she is speaking a language she hasn't yet mastered.

Leaning one palm against the table, Wilson gives a slow, sad shake of his head. "I don't know."

The moment he starts the engine, his cell phone rings, as if the caller knew just the right moment to dial in. The name and number on the screen are more than familiar. The call is not totally unexpected.

The phone is warm and smooth against his ear. The voice at the other end resonates with a sharp, sorrowful edge, despite its owner's attempt to sound upbeat and confident. The longer Wilson listens, the more his gut twists, like a saturated cloth being wrung dry.

He puts the Volvo in drive and taps the gas, assuring Cuddy he will be at her place in twenty minutes.

Cuddy's dining room table is an heirloom, handed down to her from her maternal grandmother. Cuddy's sister, Susan, wanted it more but since Susan was awarded the bulk of the inheritance, Cuddy felt no guilt over the acquisition. Besides, it gave the dining room a touch of old world class.

It has borne witness to tears, to arguments of monumental proportions, a few nights of drunken revelry, sex and laughter. The night House grabbed her ass in the foyer was a moment for the books, now probably ingrained deep inside the table's ancient soul.

But it stands, as always, silent and proud in all its cherrywood splendor and reveals nothing. Wilson sits at the table, sifting through Kutner's vacation guide, one finger tracing circles and squares on the table's surface. Cuddy watches him hopefully. Eight months ago he would not have indulged her. He would have told her it didn't matter where House went, what he did or if he ever returned.

Time changes lots of things.

"He would never go to any of these places," Wilson says. "Too bare bones, they would require too much effort on his part. There's too much walking involved on most of these getaways, plus there's no ESPN, no "Prescription Passions. Uh, uh." He meets her eyes and uses two fingers to shift the magazine back to her. "He's probably holed up in some rented room in Atlantic City, entertaining a Baskin-Robbins assortment of hookers and throwing down bets in the racebook. That's House's idea of a good time."

Like a woman on a mission, Cuddy's brows furrow in concentration as she rapidly flips through the pages. "I want you to see at something."

Leaning in closer, he waits for her to reach her destination. She arrives, tapping a staccato rhythm against a quarter page classified ad. It's bold black letters compel Wilson to grab the magazine to get a better look.

"Not many have what it takes to be part of what we do. What we offer is not so much a vacation as a total lifestyle change. But it's not what you might think. You have no idea. You are curious. You will call the number. You will see if you are fit to play the part.

You will not be sorry."

Wilson reads the ad twice before slowly lifting his eyes to meet Cuddy's anxious gaze.

"You think?" she asks.

"Shit." Wilson's lips lift into a tremulous half-grin. "I know."

Sarno wears a Humphrey Bogart fedora, a tan suit jacket and pale pink dress shirt sans tie. His white-blond soul patch matches the hair that is short and neat curling up just above his collar. His black trousers seem a bit too snug in all the wrong places. He wears espadrilles without socks. House tilts his head and twirls his cane, wondering if the guy always rocks this sort of slacker, beach bum look. It sure doesn't jibe with the 1960's conservative pastiche of Pleasant Hills.

Leaning against the threshold to Sarno's office, House watches as Sarno dumps files into the top drawer of a metal cabinet, then rushes to shut down a Hewlett-Packard PC; its tower is as bulky as a tank, its shell dull and dusty. It is ancient, as computers go; ten years old, at least. It is being temperamental, refusing to go gentle into that good night. After pounding CTL-ALT-DELETE on the keyboard three or four times, Sarno hisses a few choice epithets. He clicks his tongue and wrenches the plug from the wall.

"Piece a shit," he grunts, tossing the wire under a dented, rust mottled desk, which is as world weary as the computer.

Suddenly House decides he has had enough. This is no vacation, it is no longer interesting enough to sustain that creepy little tingle of curiosity he felt when he arrived. The situation has become more irritating than captivating; he doesn't want to be here anymore.

"I really need to apologize for being such a poor host, Doctor." Sarno is still glaring at his computer as he speaks. "Things here have been a bit hectic lately. It's hard to keep up." He looks up, offering a smile that is more like a grimace. "I wanted to be on hand when you arrived but Joe Bean, our Food King manager, suffered a Grand Mal. We had to bring the doc over from Nova City; that took an hour-

"Not interested."

"Huh?" Sarno's brow furrows. Those light gray eyes turn the color of dark slate. He is not a happy camper.

"I don't care," House says.

"Oh."

House takes one long step forward. "This is supposed to be my vacation. So far it's been nothing but an unnerving trip down the rabbit hole," House pauses, frowns. "I'm still waiting for the punch line. Kutner put you up to this?"

"Who?"

House's fixes Sarno with a stoney glare. Inside he is beaming. There is something to be said for a well placed pause. The intimidation factor can multiply ten fold in that piddling span of time. He twirls the cane again, this time from hand to hand.

"Who's the ice cream man?" House barks.

"Ah...that's Ian. Did you get your welcome cone?"

"He looks like Wilson."

"What's that?"

"Why does he look like Wilson?"

Sarno's attention turns to a smattering of peanut shells on his desk. He gathers them into his hand and drops them in the trashcan by his feet.

"Nevermind," House gives him a dismissive wave. "Get me out of here."

With a confident heft of his shoulders, Sarno asks, "You signed the waiver didn't you?" The tic above his left eye belies his bravado. "Didn't you?"

House needs to think about this for a moment. He can barely remember arriving, much less signing his life away. Whatever went on prior to finding himself on that bench comes through like a murky half remembered dream.

"Shit, man. It wasn't supposed to be this difficult." Sarno fishes through the papers on the desk, muttering, exasperated, until he finds what he is looking for. "See? You did sign the waiver." He waggles the paper at House before slamming one hand on the side of the desk. It makes a sound like a hollow drum.

"So what?"

"It means you agreed to hang around here twenty-four hours before making the decision to stay longer or go back."

House releases Sarno from his gaze and studies the way his own thumb leans into the crook of his cane...the cane he no longer seems to need. He senses Sarno's grin before raising his eyes.

"Feels better, doesn't it?" The smile is one of a winner, the guy who has slammed the ball into the endzone.

"Yeah..."

"Come on, don't be such a gloomy Gus." Sarno chuckles and sets a hand on House's shoulder. House's first impulse is to shrug it off but can't find it in himself to do it.

"I'll give you the grand tour and show you where you're staying."

This surreal day has ground House down. The not knowing has taken its toll; a feeling of malaise washes over him and all he wants is to be home with his pills, his booze and his bed. His regret runs deep. This is what happens when he allows his curiosity to get the better of him.

Exhaling sharply, he takes in the framed paintings on the walls, pretty pictures of houses and farms and fields: $49.95 Sears specials. Sitting precariously on the edge of Sarno's desk is a black plastic ashtray, it looks too black, too deep, as if its interior descends for miles. "I am dreaming," House says like a kid refuting an irrefutable fact. "What is this place?"

Sarno's smile widens, revealing two front teeth as gray as elephant skin. He chuckles again, keeping that warmth factor high. "Let me show you around."