Chapter 8—See Straight

House raised an eyebrow. "Fun?"

I nodded. "Whether you admit it or not, you love your job. I'm not going to screw that up by diagnosing all your patients for you. Not to mention, I don't have a perfect memory. Close, but no cigar. Let's say I remember like, eight out of ten diagnoses."

House seemed to consider this, but instead of responding, he pulled a rolled-up piece of paper out of his pocket and tossed it to me. I deftly caught it, unraveled it, and examined it. It was a birth certificate. Anya Carhart. Born on September 27th, 1986 at New York Mercy Hospital to Annette Carhart.

I opened my mouth to correct the year, but then remembered that since it was currently 2004, if I put my real birth date down, I'd only be nine.

I furrowed my brow, suddenly realizing I didn't know if I was seventeen or eighteen. I was only a month out from being eighteen when I'd fallen into House's universe, but it was already November here...Eh. Might as well just go with eighteen. Happy Birthday to me.

"I can't believe you got this so fast," I commented.

"I do work in a hospital. Forging this kind of stuff isn't all that difficult," House replied with a shrug. "Should be able to get you a social security card and a license within the next week or two. I know a few people who owe me some favors," he told me, gesturing for me to hand my birth certificate back to him. He took it, rolled it carefully, and placed it back in his pocket. I knew he'd keep it somewhere it wouldn't get lost.

"Thank you, House," I said emphatically.

"Didn't do it for you. You need this stuff to get a job," he replied, unsurprisingly.

"Right," I muttered, standing up from the table. "I'm making us some dinner."

House raised both eyebrows at me as he finished off his beer. "You cook?"

I laughed. "Yeah, I cook, but that's not a skill I really need right now, considering you don't have anything in this place to make a legit meal out of. I'm just going to make some ramen," I told him as I opened up the cupboards to grab some of the packages of beef ramen. Two would be more than enough for just House and I, but I paused. "Is Wilson coming over?"

House shook his head. "His precious tumor ridden patients were too needy for him to leave work at five like a normal human being," House snarked, earning a small smile from me. It felt familiar, House's sarcasm and general jackassery. It made me feel like I was watching the show. A small comfort.

"I make mine a certain way, how do you want yours?" I asked as I searched through House's kitchen for a pot.

"They're noodles, not steak," House responded. "You cook them, you mix in the seasoning, you eat. And there's a pot under the sink." He pointed.

"Thanks. And I throw in a tablespoon of butter and maple syrup with mine," I informed him. "Everyone thinks I'm crazy, but it's seriously the best tasting thing I've ever had."

"Maple syrup?" House questioned as I filled up the pot with hot water and placed it on the stove top.

I turned back briefly and flashed him a grin in spite of myself. "Yep."

"What are you, Canadian?"

"Nope. I just have discerning taste." I salted the pot a little to speed up the boiling, then turned to lean against the counter to wait for it do so. House was slowly rising from his chair, a white-knuckled grip on his cane. Once he was drawn up to his full height, he slipped his bottle of Vicodin out of his pocket.

It was weird seeing House take Vicodin. Watching the show, I had always been so conflicted when it came to his pain management regime. On one hand, the Vicodin helped House's pain and made it easier for him to function. On the other hand, House took way too many, and he had proven during his period of sobriety in seasons six and seven that he could operate without the pills.

At this point in the timeline, his Vicodin abuse hadn't gotten completely out of hand yet.

But it would. I was reminded again of the massive amount of responsibility that was sitting on my narrow shoulders. The power to completely alter the course of so many people's lives...

I was so not ready for this.

House dry swallowed what appeared to be two pills, and I realized I had been staring at him. "Got a problem?" he asked as he slid the bottle back into his jacket pocket.

"N-no," I stammered.

House snorted as he turned to walk into the living room. "You're a shitty liar. And I'll try the maple ramen, but if it sucks, you're making me another batch," he threw over his shoulder. He sank down onto the couch, flipping on the TV.

Well, he was right about that much. I couldn't lie worth a damn.

I could hear the water sizzling behind me, and after crushing the noodles, I poured them into the pan and hunted down a spoon. I heard the TV in the other room. I listened as the Star Trek: The Next Generation theme played, and I grinned. I was a majorly closeted Star Trek fan; I didn't realize House was, too.

I let the ramen cook for a few minutes before straining out the liquid and mixing in the butter and seasoning packet. I also hunted down a bottle of syrup in the back of House's fridge and put just the right amount in.

A few minutes later, I plodded into House's living room, a steaming bowl of noodles in each hand. I wordlessly passed one to House, and sat down on the couch only a few inches closer than I had the day before, the shortened distance barely noticeable.

"You cleaned," House observed.

"I didn't screw with anything, I swear. I know how you feel about people touching your stuff," I said quickly.

His eyes flicked to me for a split second before going back to the screen. "Why?"

"Why what?" I responded, confused.

"Why did you clean?" he clarified.

"Uh, well...I was bored, the apartment wasn't exactly pristine, and I felt bad about basically freeloading off of you...so I cleaned," I told him weakly.

"Live-in maid that makes me food. Hmm. I could get used to this," he commented, and I actually genuinely smiled at him. Did I just earn approval from House? I felt like I had a medal around my neck.

Mirroring our activities from the night before, we sat together in relative silence in front of the TV. After we finished our ramen, I merely gestured at House to hand me the bowl, and I went and cleaned them. If it took cooking and cleaning to make my roommate like me, well, it was a sacrifice I was willing to make.

After I finished up the dishes, I sat back down on the couch. A quick check on the clock told me that it was about six thirty. I looked at my clothes, which were dirty and dusty from my day of cleaning.

"Hey, is it alright if I go take a shower?" I asked House apprehensively.

"I don't care. Just be quick about it and don't use up all the hot water, I want a bath soon."

I nodded, pushing myself off of the couch with a frown. I knew House's leg felt better after a nice long soak, so I made it my mission to get in and out of the shower as quickly as possible, which was particularly uncharacteristic of me.

Fifteen minutes later, I was raking the brush I had bought yesterday through my hair as I strolled out of the bathroom, clad in a pair of comfy pajamas. I heard House's voice, and I realized he was on the phone.

"Alright...fine...no, I don't, but unless one of you has any better ideas... yeah. Go tell the kid his life is over." House snapped his phone shut, looking disgruntled. I went and stood behind him, tossing my brush into one of the drawers of my dresser.

"Dan okay?" I asked, pretty much already knowing the answer. Has he tried to jump off the roof yet? I wondered.

"If you count having MS as being okay," House grunted, crossing his arms.

I sank down on the couch in the same spot I had sat before. "It'll take months to confirm MS," I commented, crossing my legs underneath me. I was glad that I hadn't watched Paternity in awhile, and I really didn't remember what he had. House would no doubt try to work the truth out of me.

"Yeah," House replied, looking unsatisfied. "Not to mention that's just a wild guess. We've got no clue what's going on with the kid, MS is just our best bet."

"Don't worry about it, you'll have an epiphany soon enough if he doesn't have MS," I tried to reassure him.

"I'm not worried. I'm annoyed," House said in a clipped tone.

"Well, until he presents with another symptom, you're going to have to continue being annoyed," I told him honestly.

"Wow, thank you for that inspiring bit of comfort," House replied mordantly.

I pursed my lips, realizing our conversation just a hit a wall. I was really sick of sitting in silence with the diagnostician. "So, um, when are you going to tell the team you've got a daughter?" I asked carefully, not meeting House's eyes, but staring at the screen instead.

"Haven't thought about it." His answer didn't surprise me. I knew that when House had a case, there wasn't much that could distract him. "Maybe a mailer? Or better yet, hold you over the balcony and present you to the world as my child."

"Hey, come on, take this seriously. You can't just be like, 'Oh, hey guys, we've got a new case, and by the way, I have a teenage illegitimate daughter I didn't realize I had until a few days ago,'" I said, raising a dubious eyebrow at House.

"I'll play it by ear," House defended, sounding irritated. "Why do they even need to know?"

"It may look a smidgen suspicious if they find out about me later and wonder why you would hide the fact that you have a daughter. I don't feel like explaining what really happened to anyone when they'll just write me off as being psychotic," I retorted, running a hand through my hair. "Listen, I'm just saying, you may want to bring it up to at least Cuddy, if not the team. She's more likely to be suspicious, not to mention she's your boss and she deserves to know."

"Great, now I have three mothers," House said, rolling his eyes. I gave him a withering look, but chose not to continue on the subject. I didn't want to push House too far on one of my first days of living with him.

"Didn't you say you wanted a bath?" I asked tiredly. He nodded, easing himself up off the couch, his grip tight on his cane. A flare of pity that I knew House would hate me for burned inside of me. Without another word, House limped out of the living room, and within moments I heard the bathroom door slam behind him.

Alone again in Casa de House. Wonderful. I stretched out on the length of the couch and flipped through the channels. Next Generation was over, and I needed something new to watch. I settled on the news, which was always my fallback. Most of it was either on the war in Iraq or the results of the recent election. It was so weird. I had fuzzy memories of 2004, and now I was suddenly living through it with clarity.

After a few more minutes, I couldn't take it, and flipped off the news. It was too weird. I needed time to adjust to being in a different universe and being eight years in the past.

The homesick feeling burned in my stomach once again, and I had to hold back the tears that threatened to spill out of my eyes. I loved my dad plenty, but my mom...we'd been very close. I hadn't been away from her for more than two days in the entirety of my life.

I missed my family. I missed my friends. I missed my life.

I was living a fangirl's dream, yet in moments where menial tasks or House's presence wasn't distracting me, it really felt more like a nightmare. I sighed, covering my head with one of the pillows on the couch. I needed to get my mind off of things.

House's guitar...

Oh, no way. If I touched his baby, he would beat me to death with his cane. I knew how territorial House was about his stuff, especially his guitars.

But maybe if I strummed quietly, only played a song or two... House would probably be in the bathroom another thirty minutes or so...

No guts, no glory! I decided, standing up and letting the pillow fall on the floor.

I went to House's acoustic guitar, which was on its stand next to his piano, and carefully picked it up, turning it over in my hands. It was a beautiful instrument. It definitely beat the hell out of my crappy old Aria. I gently strummed, and the sound was so familiar that a small smile crept onto my face. Music had always been my comfort when things had gone wrong. I played mainly the guitar, and a bit of piano. I didn't have a bad voice, either.

I settled down on House's couch and let my finger's glide quietly over the strings. I closed my eyes, feeling more relaxed than I had since I had arrived in Princeton. I didn't hear any signs of House from the bathroom, so I could only assume he had settled in with a magazine or his MP3 player, and was paying no attention to the soft melody I was strumming.

I began to sing quietly, my heart lifting slightly as the first song I could think of rolled off my tongue. Cough Syrup, by Young the Giant.

"Life's too short to even care at all, oh...I'm losing my mind, losing my mind, losing control..."

After the first verse, I realized with a jolt that Cough Syrup hadn't even been written yet, the song wouldn't be created for several years. So weird. I continued on, a blissful calm washing over me. I felt like music was a piece of my old world that I could keep with me. Because, in all reality, the only physical evidence I had that my world even existed was my red bikini and the golden cross around my neck.

Still no sound from the bathroom, to my relief. I made a mental note that while House was at work tomorrow to jam more on the guitar, try my hand at his piano as well.

Losing myself in the music, I continued strumming, slowly becoming oblivious to the world around me.

I played the rest of the tune, my soft voice singing along with the equally gentle guitar. Several minutes later, I finished out the song, raising my voice only slightly as I played the last note.

"One more spoon of cough syrup now, one more spoon of cough syrup now..."

I let my hands rest on the guitar as I opened my eyes and smiled slowly. House's guitar sounded beautiful, as if it had the power to guide my fingers off its own accord.

"Not bad," a voice said from behind me.

House!