"The chance which now seems lost may present itself at the last moment." ―Jules Verne
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He breathed deeply before walking outside. Still uneasy leaving his custom-made fortress, he was getting better. The candy apple red motorbike waiting in his reserved parking spot lessened his anxiety. Its wide, copper pipes fanned out proudly like a peacock's tail. Etched with a pattern as fine as dragonfly wings, the metal glittered in the sunlight.
His gear was carefully stowed in the bike's carrier and his cane snapped into special clips. After adjusting his goggles and buckling his helmet he eased his bad leg over the water tank. Unless he wanted to subsist on peanut butter and anchovies over the weekend, a stop at a market was required. Pushing the speed limit and cutting through the business district's narrow back alleys should get him home before the conclusion of Prescription Passion's Friday cliffhanger.
xxx
Approaching his apartment he spotted a small, square case on the doormat. It couldn't be, but it was. The Snitch had found him. It had dogged him for months, first showing up atop his favorite terrace lounge chair looking spiffy. No longer worn and battered the leather was smooth and sleek, polished to a spit-shine. The rusty nickel plated handle and corner fittings were replaced with buttery gold.
No matter how hard he tried, the thing followed him like a wad of gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe. House shipped it to Chicago with no return address. Two weeks later it was back, sporting an oval decal from the Windy City. He packed it off to San Francisco. Within seven days it was on his desk with a sticker of the Golden Gate. The sweeping bridge cables resembled a triumphant smile. This last time his plan was foolproof. Before moving, he paid off the captain of a tramp steamer to drop it in the middle of the ocean, any ocean. He thought he had rid himself of the nuisance for good, but here it was, bearing a tax stamp in elegant Japanese calligraphy and gilded leather that matched the fittings.
All gussied up, the globetrotting Snitch was as alluring as Snow White's apple. It practically begged him to take it inside. House stared at it, conflicted. A small note attached to the handle caught his eye. Balancing the grocery bag against his hip, he bent down.
Personal Property of Gregory House
All Others: STEP AWAY FROM THE BOX
"Smartass," he mumbled while tugging off the note. With a well-placed tip of his cane he sent the Snitch sliding merrily down the hallway to an unsuspecting neighbor.
House turned on the radio as he headed for the kitchen, catching up with Prescription while stashing food in the fridge and pantry.
The streaming sunlight felt warm when he passed by the bank of windows to the bedroom. That was one of the features he liked best about the place. That and the occasional whiff of Wilson embedded in the upholstery and mattress.
He missed his spacious rooftop home, the sprawling terrace, and the bird's eye view; he hated that his neighbors were a mere wall away, their voices and cooking odors infiltrating his personal space. But, he was burdened with Amber's apartment. As her "employer" he had cosigned for her. Wilson not only dosed him with the bitter truth, but had packed up his belongings and left him with the remainder of the lease.
Before the move, finalizing the overdue paperwork on Cuddy's suit was his first official baby step.
Spread-eagled on the bed he fought to stay awake as Anna threatened Brock with a gun. The next thing he knew, a not so gentle knock startled him awake. Probably a neighbor with the Snitch. He punched the pillow and turned onto his side.
The hammering persisted like the never-ending nagging of an annoying wife. House's eyes sprang open.
He snapped off the radio when he reached the living room. At the door he shouted a general purpose greeting although he was ninety-nine percent sure who it was. "Get lost!"
"House," came the muffled reply.
Make that one hundred percent. House pressed his palm against the door undecided about what to do with his second uninvited guest of the day.
"House. Please."
He opened the door slowly. Just a crack until he could see Wilson's face. The hardness around the mouth and eyes at their last meeting had melted away. He appeared contrite.
Wilson held up a bottle of vintage wine. "Housewarming gift."
House released his grip on the knob. "Scotch would've been better." He went to the couch while Wilson hunted through cabinets and drawers for glasses and a corkscrew. "The landlord told you I moved in?"
"And Cuddy."
"Which one?"
"Both." Wilson handed him a goblet of cabernet and sat beside him, fingers wrapped around the stem of his untouched glass.
The rich ruby color spoke volumes about its pedigree. House casually swirled the liquid and sniffed.
When Wilson raised his glass encouragingly in a toast, House felt a prickling sensation crawl up the back of his neck. Poison might be going too far, but drugging wasn't. "If I drink this will I wake up strapped to a horse at the starting gate of the Kentucky Derby?"
The "I-don't-even-know-where-to-begin" look Wilson flashed him was somewhat reassuring.
Wilson lifted his glass again. "To your new home."
The wine went down smoothly. With every sip House's defenses crumbled. He relaxed against the cushions, and―
Wilson's lips pressed against his mouth for countless heartbeats. So soft and gentle House questioned whether it was a kiss. Then Wilson went deeper, and there was no mistaking what it was. Before House could gather his senses, Wilson backed off.
It happened so quickly, House wondered if he had hallucinated it. But Wilson was real. He was radiating heat, breathing.
And he had seen something. The edge of a small bandage had shown from under Wilson's dress shirt. Without asking, he pulled on the fabric to get a better look. A small, faded blue line curled from beneath it. "Biopsy for atypical cells? You owe Artie a kiss, not me."
Wilson cleared his throat. "When you said unusual mole, I didn't expect a caduceus reflected in my shaving mirror. But no, the kiss wasn't a thank you. It was research."
"More research." The small flame of hope within House went up in a wisp of smoke.
"When I heard you moved into Amber's apartment, something clicked. I needed proof."
House's spirits sank to a new low. He was a fool to have fallen for Wilson's Welcome Wagon routine. It was nothing but a Trojan Horse crammed into a wine bottle. If Wilson had figured out...
"It occurred to me that everyone you created had a doppelgänger. Someone modeled after a friend, colleague, or patient from your past. You said you designed Amber specifically for me, so naturally I wondered who the real Amber was. I checked your school and work records, your family. Came up empty-handed. Then I recalled what my mom said at Passover. She asked if you and Amber were related. You're both tall and there was something about the eyes."
Wilson licked his lips as if savoring the ghostly remains of a dessert.
House braced himself.
"You taste like Amber."
House was thankful for his stubble. It obscured the flush of embarrassment that climbed up his cheeks. Fingertips gently brushed his shoulder; he looked up.
"All through the years I said to myself, living with House was enough. Working with House was enough. Amber was enough." Wilson briefly closed his eyes, shutting off the hurt that shone from them. "I was blind. I couldn't believe you felt the same way until I understood what a selfless gift you'd given me." Then Wilson leaned in, and House didn't question what Wilson was doing.
xxx
The little apartment was busy during the weekend. He and Wilson had gone from sofa to bed to sofa with a little somethin' somethin' in the hall until he concluded it was a waste of precious energy to keep count.
Intermissions had been mutually agreed upon. There were time outs for eating; also, cleaning wine stains from the sofa, as long as Wilson volunteered to do it. Long soapy showers led to a mild disagreement. Wilson argued they didn't constitute breaks since he and House were jammed in together and their minds definitely weren't focused on hygiene.
Like a designated carpool driver, Monday morning arrived right on time without apology. While House offered excuses why it was unnecessary to go to work, Wilson rolled out of bed with a soft grunt. As the empty space next to him grew cold, the heavenly scent of sizzling bacon wafted into the room. House smiled as he limped into the hall. He wasn't an automaton, but Wilson knew exactly what buttons to push.
By the time he sat down at the kitchen table his brain cells which had gone AWOL for most of the weekend synapsed to attention. "How close are you with the Cuddys?"
Wilson placed a stack of buttered toast on the table, nudging it slowly toward the center. He shrugged. "Does it matter?"
"Not really, but how you answer does. You're evading the question." House tipped back his chair with his good leg. "Which means the Three Witches brewed up a plan to handle Yours Truly."
"Make that one Hardy Boy with half a treasure map." Wilson sat down with a heavy sigh. "Leah takes after Lisa more than you know. Both of them refused to help." He scrubbed his face and scowled. "Amber's death crushed me. When I found out she wasn't real I channeled my hurt into anger. But the more I thought about what you had done, and that I was the only person with a key to your wax museum, I realized there was a subtext." Wilson looked off to the side and shook his head. "Albeit, only a mad genius like you would ever dream up such a deception."
At Wilson's description House nonchalantly covered his traitorous mouth with his hand to hide his smile and nodded.
"After obtaining proof from the Snitch I decided to confront you with the truth, even if it meant you hated me forever. For your sake, I had to be convincing."
"You were." House rubbed his thumb over the grainy oak surface of the table. Wilson had the good sense to look embarrassed. But how could House be furious when he had masterminded Ambergate? Their lives were right out of the pages of a bizarro O. Henry tale.
"Your food is getting cold," House said by way of an apology.
"I'll scramble us more eggs," Wilson answered, visibly relieved. He headed toward the stove.
With a fresh plate in front of him, House continued to digest the new information along with his breakfast. He briefly paused between bites. "I can't believe you used your dead, robot girlfriend to kick my ass to the curb. You're my hero."
Wilson smiled slyly. "Automaton."
xxx
Domestic bliss lasted for exactly four minutes, the time it took House to clean his plate. Someone was banging on the front door, or rather kicking it because the bottom hinge rattled.
Wilson undid his apron.
"Ignore it," House said sharply.
"It might be important," Wilson said, nearing the entry.
Before he could stop himself, House called out, "If it's a box, don't let it in."
Wilson paused. "A box? Seriously?" The door squeaked on the warped hinge. "It's... a box."
"Do not bring it insi―"
A gold leather cube thumped onto the table. "Remarkable parlor trick, House. How did you do it?" Wilson pointed to a tag.
House was about to unleash a cutting remark, but Wilson was smiling his rapturous, "I'm engaged" grin, which made him suspicious. What was the Snitch up to? He lifted the strip of parchment to better read the note. He flinched when he saw the color red.
Then he smiled, quite possibly as stupidly as Wilson when he realized the Snitch had granted him a glimpse into the future.
Property of Gregory House and James Wilson