-26-

"Transform"

"You're nothing like him, you know." For the second time since they arrived at The Waterin' Hole, House nearly takes a tumble off the barstool. It is only the quick reflexes of his drinking partner that saves him from a nasty fall.

"I told you to take it easy with that stuff." Ian keeps one hand on House's shoulder while shooing the bartender away with the other. McDuffy is being his clueless, amiable self, bringing over the second bottle of bourbon House requested. Ian is anything but a take- charge sort of guy but in this situation he is forced to be.

Lowering his chin, House makes a valiant attempt to stare Ian down. It's laughable really. The guy looks like an owl ready to tuck his head into his feathers and call it a night or day or whatever it is. Ian can't tell anymore, even though he's worked as a Shifter for the past six months...or what passes for six months here.

"You don't walk like him." House ticks the accusations off on the fingers of one hand. "Or talk like him. Your voice is too high pitched, like a kid whining for his maa-aaaa." He slaps his knee and hoots out a laugh. "You don't get on my case like he does, for my own good."

"Sure I do."

"You're clueless." House lifts his empty glass, scowls at it like it has done him a great injustice, then slams it on the bar. "That Wilson wannabe hair is wrong in so many ways, Ice Cream Man," One hand shoots out to perhaps do a quick style job, but Ian leaps off his stool and veers to the left, causing House to ruffle thin air.

"Don't do that." Ian's heart beats a mad tattoo against his ribs. "You don't touch a Shifter until they're ready. You could tear the Skin."

"Oh, yeah?" Gripping the edge of the bar, House manages to wobble to his feet, crooning, "I got a Shifter, way cross town. She's good to me." He winks. "She likes when I touch her. Her moans of approval could shatter glass."

"That's different." Ian swallows hard. He hates feeling cornered and he's not fond of this job. At least not today. Not when he's been called on to prove himself. In another life he was an actor, a damn good one...

"You're a waste." With a dismissive wave, House tosses a drunken, conspiratorial grin at McDuffy. "He'd be of more use sweeping the streets or putting diapers on piss clams."

McDuffy roars with laughter as House pounds the bar with his fist.

Ian turns slowly to stare at the wall and concentrate, attempting to move beyond the chortling and cowboy music.

"Don't laugh, bartender. Diapering piss clams is a noble profession." House's voice seems far away. "If you ever lose this gig, you could always go that route. Tell 'em I sent you."

The men's laughter rises and falls, like a dinghies on a choppy sea. Ian ignores it. He needs to get down to business.

"Me-eerrrrrle Haggard!" The doctor's exclamation nearly breaks Ian's concentration. He curses softly, then dives back in.

Shifting is hard work. Sure, the Skin helps with the basic illusion. But his assignment is to become Wilson, not to become like him. He's been lazy, irritable, missing his lessons, letting his mind wander when Misha attempts to offer suggestions on how to improve his work. He needs to concentrate, utilize his theater skills as well as the components of Dr. House's Afterburn that focus exclusively on Wilson; and there is much to work with here. Wilson is never far from the doctor's thoughts. Ian senses a camaraderie, a bond that has been tried and tested but is amazingly still intact.

He sways as the energy of his subject flows over him like a slow motion waterfall. This time, he will allow it to happen, not pull back at the last minute and give in to his fears. Something clicks. He is Ian, now Wilson, Wilson, now Ian. The Skin draws tighter, tighter, until his pores open to welcome and absorb it. There. In his mind, he steps back, holding open the door as his honored guest moves...on...through...

The song bleating from the radio behind the bar is the old country chestnut "Okie From Muskogee". "Me-eerrrrle Haggard!" House exclaims. He knows the words; they come as easy to him as the names of the bones in the ear. Even shitfaced he can sing them, and goes on to prove this as the bartender pours another shot. Chuckling between verses, House wonders exactly how much booze he has thrown down his gullet this morning/afternoon/evening. He lifts the glass to his lips, then freezes.

Wilson is here. Not the ridiculous wannabe they tried to pass off as a Misha-like clone. This is Wilson.

"Woah," House says before knocking back the bourbon.

Wilson tilts his head, rubs his neck and squints at House with concern. "Did you ever consider that getting roaring drunk might not be in your best interest right now?

"Dunno," he breathes. The fog of inebriation enshrouding his head rises up, up and melts into the ceiling. Now he is more sober than he has ever been, even though Amber is here. Again. Her arms are wrapped around Wilson's shoulders but her gaze is fixed on House.

"You're a loser," she assures him.

His mouth drops open. This is interesting, fascinating even, but fear overrides his curiosity.

He whips round to see McDuffy casually drying a glass with a rag as he whistles along with Merle. The bartender is obviously an expert whistler, providing fancy trills and embellishments to the melody that are pretty damn impressive. He sets the glass down before returning House's anxious stare. "You look like you seen a ghost."

"Can you get me out of here?" House's voice is a cross between a croak and a whisper. He is loath to look around to see what Wilson might be doing, to see if Amber is still here.

"You're not showing much courtesy to your friends there."

Lifting a brow, House grips the edge of the stool. "I need to leave."

"Door's right behind you."

"So is he."

McDuffy takes another glass from the sink. He gives it a one eyed squint as he holds it up to the light. "Sometimes you need to face your fears head on, Doc."

"I don't need lectures. I need to get away from here."

"Why?" McDuffy sets the glass down gently between them. "You got your booze, you got your friend."

House pauses to consider this and almost, almost turns around. But the thought of doing so fills him with dread. Behind him is nothingness, a straight drop into unknown, unfathomable territory. He leans forward, his fingers tighten around the edge of the bar. "Are you going to help me or not?"

McDuffy's gaze floats over House's shoulder. He gives a quick jerk of his head, then says, "Come with me."

The basement of The Waterin' Hole smells as dank and damp as a dockside brewery. There is a pervasive smell of beer, of the dirt under his feet, of something intangible, like death in a bottle.

He winces at the analogy that sounds so forced and yet so right.

"Who's minding the store?" House says, careful to duck, lest he bang his head on foil wrapped water pipes.

"Why would you care?"

Overhead, a noise like rushing water causes House to pause mid-step and look up. It's then he remembers his walking stick, leaning against the bar like a dandy waiting for his date. Shit. He wishes he hadn't left it. It's not that he needs it. It just feels good under his hand, like the crutch of an unlit cigarette between the fingers of a nicotine fiend.

"What's that sound?" House asks.

McDuffy tosses him a small crooked grin. "Change."

"Wow, it sounded like a toilet flush to me." This is when House might have twirled his cane to embellish his thoughts. Now he misses that cane even more. "There's nothing worse than a cryptic reply to a simple question."

A shadow of annoyance passes over McDuffy's face. "If there were a simple answer I would have given it to you."

"Sure. I'll bet you say that to all the dazed, drunken-"

McDuffy bangs a meaty fist on a metal door. The noise seems to inspire light to flash gold and hot pink from the slit between the door and the ground. "End of the line, Doctor." His smile widens to reveal a mouthful of smooth greyish-black enamel. "Be seeing you."