Chapter 7—The Odd Couple

Sometime over the course of the evening, both my emotional and physical exhaustion finally caught up with me, and I passed out.

The next morning, I woke up to the sounds of clanging from the kitchen. It was weird waking up in an unfamiliar place after sleeping in my own bed almost every night. Unfortunately, I hadn't bothered to check my position on the comfortable sofa before rolling over.

I thumped to the ground, knocking the wind out of myself and letting out a winded, "Shit!"

Great start to the day. I cracked open one eye and checked the clock. It was just barely nine. House was always fashionably late for work, so the hour didn't surprise me.

I rolled onto my back and laced my fingers behind my head. I blinked my eyes rapidly, trying to wake myself up. I wasn't one of those people who could just hop out of bed five seconds after waking up. I needed time to adjust to the waking world. An experimental sniff of the air informed me that House had coffee brewing. I noticed there was a thin blanket tangled around my legs. Had that been there last night? I couldn't remember.

I thought hard about the night before, trying to pinpoint the moment I'd fallen asleep. It turned out that What Not to Wear was on in a marathon block. House and I had sat in almost complete silence watching the show that we both knew neither one of us cared about.

I vaguely remembered one of my last thoughts before passing out had been about trying to determine whether it was an awkward silence or a comfortable one.

I heard the tell-tale thump of House's cane, and I turned my eyes upward. The diagnostician stood over me, one eyebrow quirked.

"Morning, House," I greeted. Damn, that sounded weird coming out of my mouth.

"The couch is more comfortable," he pointed out, gesturing with his cane.

I shrugged. "Too lazy to move."

He just rolled his eyes, as if to say, "Teenagers."

House picked up his jacket from where it lay on the armchair, and he leaned his cane against the wall as he pulled it on. He winced, and his hand flew to his damaged thigh, massaging it roughly. I bit back asking him if he was okay, knowing he would just deflect. I forced myself into a sitting position and frowned at House.

His eyes grew wide and he groaned in horror. Or disgust. I couldn't tell for sure.

"What?" I asked, confused.

"You have the look," he uttered, sounding genuinely appalled.

"What look?" I asked, humoring him as I ran a hand through my tangled mess of hair.

"The patented James Wilson, 'I care so much I'm going to explode' look," he informed me as he turned away, heading back towards the kitchen. I heard the jangle of keys. House must be heading to work.

"I learned from the best." I rose to my feet. Neither House or myself had bothered to empty my new clothes and toiletries out of the plastic bags, and I decided that while House was at work, I had some unpacking to do.

House limped back into the living room and opened the front door, slinging his dark blue backpack over his shoulder. He looked at me, for once not seeming to know what to say.

"I'll be back later," he said finally.

I nodded. "I know." I tried my best to give him a half smile. "Have a good day."

House, unsurprisingly, didn't respond, instead casting me one last glance before shutting the door behind him.

I'm alone in House's apartment...

Although the fangirl possibilities were endless, one look at the couch and I knew what was number one on my priority list. I flopped back on the sofa, dragging my blanket with me, and fell back into a peaceful slumber.

I woke up a few hours later, just before noon. I blinked hard a few times to get accustomed to the faint November daylight filtering in through the windows, then sat up. I leaned my head back against the couch and sighed deeply.

On a normal day, I would get up and go say good morning to my mom and dad, head downstairs and chug some orange juice to finish waking myself up, then probably go over to Maura's house. We'd skate around West Fairview, maybe take Maura's rust-bucket Ford Taurus into Harrisburg proper to get Chinese or go to City Island and feed the ducks.

But my mom, dad, and best friend didn't exist now, though. No one I knew or loved existed in any capacity. Not just taken from me, they were erased.

I 'm alone.

The shock of the past twenty four hours had numbed me for the most part, but the simple acknowledgement that I, for all intents and purposes, was in this completely by myself...

Shoulders shaking, I put my head in my hands, and cried.

I'm not sure how long I sat on House's couch, curled into myself, sobbing quietly. I only knew one way to make myself feel better when just not thinking about it didn't work. I just let all the tears flow freely until I was so tired, dry-eyed, and emotionally drained, that I couldn't really feel anything at all. About forty five minutes later, I sat up on House's couch, my eyes and head throbbing, but feeling at least blank enough to cease my break down.

Now what?

My stomach growled, at least answering my question in short term. I forced myself off of the couch. I felt lightheaded once I was on my feet, and the world spun for a few moments before steadying itself.

I padded into the kitchen, glancing around. I may have watched the show religiously, but even I didn't know where House kept the bread. I experimentally opened a few cupboards, and it soon became blatantly obvious that House wasn't a home-cooked meal kind of guy. The most substantial thing I found were a couple packs of beef ramen. Aside from that, he had almost entirely microwave meals. The fridge held only beer, some lunch meat, and leftover takeout. We'd drank the end of the Nos last night.

After a good amount of searching, I finally found half a loaf of white bread in one of the last cupboards I checked. Pulling it out, I peeped the expiration date (I took a wild guess that House wasn't one to care about those kind of things) and when I affirmed it was safe to eat, I slid two pieces into House's toaster.

I leaned against the counter, rubbing a hand over my reddened eyes. My gaze trailed over the apartment, taking in more details then I had last night. In the fresh light of day, it was pretty clear that House wasn't into meticulously cleaning the place. A thin layer of dust sat in many places, and thin cobwebs hung in the corners. I brushed a hand across the counter, and a variety of crumbs and debris flew off. There was dirt encrusted in certain places on the linoleum, and it looked as though the kitchen sink and microwave hadn't been cleaned in a long time.

As my mom would have said, the house was tidy, but not clean. House didn't leave garbage just lying around, but he didn't go to great lengths to keep the place pristine.

A small ding let me know that my toast was done. After a brief search for a paper plate, I had my lunch.

I found my way back to the couch, crossing my feet and resting them on the coffee table. I grabbed the remote and searched the channels, trying to find something to watch, but not a lot of what I loved in my own world was on in 2004, or even existed for that matter. Eventually I settled on a marathon of Stargate: SG-1 reruns, the irony of that choice not lost on me.

I considered the state of House's apartment once more. It's not like I had anything better to do...I might as well tidy the place up a little. Dust, vacuum, and maybe clean up the bathroom. It'd help keep me busy and it would at least pay back House a little bit for giving me clothes and a place to stay. As long as I didn't move any of his stuff, I figured House wouldn't care.

After I finished my toast and threw on a pair of jeans and a dark green sweater, I turned on one of the music channels and listened to songs I hadn't heard in eight years as I set about cleaning House's apartment. I grabbed the vacuum cleaner, knowing it was probably something that House had trouble doing with his leg, and started with that.

The afternoon passed by fairly quickly. By four thirty, the entire place was sparkling clean. My parent's house had been a big two-story monstrosity in the suburbs that took ages to clean. House's apartment was a nice change. I made sure not to move anything, knowing that with House's hatred of change, he probably wouldn't appreciate it. Hell, he probably wouldn't even like the fact that I'd cleaned, but I hoped he would.

I stood in the center of the living room with my hands on my hips, smiling at a job relatively well done. I had folded all of my new clothes and placed them in the small dresser that House had bought, right behind the sofa, which I guessed was basically my new room.

I sighed, putting my hands on the back of the couch and wondering what to do next. Involuntarily, my eyes flew to House's computer. Don't even think about it, my rational side told myself. Oh, but it's so tempting...NO.

House may not have any qualms against violating people's privacy, but I definitely did. Still, in spite of my convictions, I found myself walking over to his computer. I wasn't going to look or anything, I was just going to see if I could properly guess his password. See how well I knew the real House. It was the perfect test of a dedicated House fan. I just hoped that his computer didn't have a lock-out system.

I tried the most obvious choice first. I tried 'password'. The computer made a sound of protest, and I bit the inside of my lip. Okay, only Chase was that dumb. Alright...

So I sat there for several minutes, trying the first couple ideas that came to my mind. I wasn't surprised to find that 'house123' and every variation of it was bunk, but I wanted to rule it out. Next I tried 'Wilson' just for giggles, but that was also a negative. I tried 'everybodylies', mainly because it was the password for my own computer. Nope.

This was the most entertaining thing I'd done all day. I tried 'Stacy' and 'Cuddy' with different number and date combinations, even though at this point in the series there really wasn't too much between Cuddy and House. I tried the Stacy-related route because I could see that being his password when he was with her, and he had just been too lazy to change it. Both fails.

I was running out of ideas a little too fast. I tried 'Okinawa' because of the relevance to House's childhood, but it wasn't accepted. I piddled around, typing in the names of bands I was pretty sure House liked, but no luck. 'Cuddyshugeass' also didn't jive.

I breathed out heavily through my nose, and on a whim, tried 'lupus'—it was rejected as well. Of course. It's never lupus.

After ten minutes of fruitless trying, I made one last attempt. I typed in 'funbags.'

Ding. Logging in as Greg House. Victory!

House's desktop opened up. His background was surprisingly a picture of him and Wilson standing in the woods somewhere I didn't recognize. House looked years younger, and had no cane. I frowned, but it was nice to see at the same time. I trailed the pointer down to the log off button and quickly hit it, already feeling guilty for even catching a small glimpse into House's private life.

"Coward."

I jumped so high out of the chair I actually slipped out and crashed to the ground, bashing my elbow on the unyielding wood floor. I flipped over, looking up at House, my eyes wide.

"Oh my God, House, I'm sorry, I just, I mean, I wanted to see if I could guess your password, I wasn't snooping or anything, I swear, I just—" I paused when I saw the amused look in his eye, despite his stoic expression. "Err, how long have you been standing there?"

"Since you tried Wilson," he said with a snort, turning away to deposit his backpack on the couch. "I have to give you props for funbags, admittedly."

I gave him a halfhearted smile as I pushed myself off of the floor. "I really was just trying to guess your password," I said, my voice half-promise and half-apology.

House ignored me as he progressed into the kitchen. I trotted behind him. I guess he just doesn't give a shit. Just like on the show, it was hit and miss on what would piss off House and what wouldn't.

"So, how was work?" I asked, trying to change the subject.

"It was fine, honey," House said in a mockingly high voice. I rolled my eyes. "Shouldn't you know, anyway?" he asked, his voice returning to normal. He opened the fridge and took out a beer.

"Well, since you cured Rebecca a couple days early, I don't know if you got Dan's case yet," I told him honestly. I figured it wouldn't matter if he knew his next patient's name. House arched his eyebrow, taking a seat at the kitchen table. He leaned his cane up against it, then cracked open the bottle using the edge of the table. That explained all the gouge marks.

I could tell that House still didn't believe me one hundred percent when it came to my whole being-from-the-future-and-an-alternate-universe thing, quite understandably, but by his subtle squint I guessed that he must have taken Dan on as his patient. Which didn't fit with the timeline of the show, but the timeline of the show was something that was beholden entirely to weekly airings, a nine month 'season'—and of course, a forty-three and a half minute run time. Put into practice in a consistent reality, things wouldn't be the same.

I sat down across from House, gnawing on the inside of my lip. He sipped at his beer, examining me like he had the night before during our energy drink standoff. I noticed that House was much more prone to silence than he had appeared to be on the show. Interesting.

"So, how's Dan?" I asked, trying to break the uneasy lull in conversation.

House let out a loud burp before responding. "You tell me."

Another challenge. I sighed, rolling my eyes. "It was hard to keep track of days on the show, I don't know exactly how he is." House just continued to stare, as if he was waiting for me to continue. I relented, trying to drudge up the memories of the season one episode. "He's a sixteen year old lacrosse player, and he presented with night terrors and double vision. You noticed a myoclonic jerk in his foot or something, it's how you knew he was really sick and worth your time. Beyond that, I only remember a few things."

I really didn't remember much else from the episode. I was a dedicated House fan, borderline obsessive, but I couldn't be expected to remember every single detail of every single episode.

House leaned back in his chair, sipping contemplatively at his drink.

"Foreman's running a radioisotope examination to look for a blockage. MRI shows what appears to be an anomaly in the corpus collosum," he said.

I nodded. "An upwards arch kind of thing, right? And Chase thought it was viral meningitis, but you knew he was just guessing."

House tilted his head and blinked. "Only a few things?"

"Sorry, you jogged my memory."

"I don't suppose you remember my patient's diagnosis?" House asked dryly. "In fact, why don't you just tell me all of my patients' diagnoses? It'll save me plenty of time. Maybe Cuddy will stop harassing me to do clinic duty if I have a 100% patient recovery rate and I manage to diagnosis them all the second I see them."

I bit the inside of my lip, considering his point, even though I knew he was being facetious. House, nine point nine times out of ten, saves the patient (generally in the nick of time) on the show, so I didn't really need to interfere, did I?

"House, if I know you're not going to figure it out in time, I'll help if I can...but otherwise I'm not going to stick my nose in it." I smirked at him. "I wouldn't want to ruin your fun."