Chapter 33 — Hard Science

Finally, winter gave way to spring. April brought forth temperatures in the mid-forties and steadily melting snow banks in Princeton. I was approaching the end of my online courses, and I'd already talked to my boss about going full time as soon as I'd officially finished my course load for my senior year. House and I were back to normal, and perhaps a little bit better than we'd been before, though that may have just been wishful thinking on my part.

I was surprised when House asked me what I was doing the Friday before Easter.

"I don't know. I work eight to four, so..." I tapped furiously at the circle button. House and I were back to our nightly ritual of playing video games to decide who had to cook dinner. The game of the night was Street Fighter Alpha III, and my health bar and House's were currently neck-and-neck.

"Great. So you're free after that?" House asked as his tiny pixelated figure threw a grenade at mine.

"Ugh! Why is Rolento allowed to use guns and grenades in a street fighting circuit? I'm sorry, that's both unfair, and it shatters my suspension of disbelief. And yes, I'm free after that." I wondered what House had in mind. Our Friday nights generally consisted of me, him, and Wilson on the couch with two boxes of pizza and bad movies.

"Do you like monster trucks?"

I brightened at that. "In what world would the answer to that question possibly be no?"

House grinned, full-on grinned—a practical shock to me. "Then you, my dear fake offspring, are in for a treat. I got us VIP passes to the biggest rally of the year. Featuring the one, the only, the mighty Grave Digger."

"Sweet. I'm totally down–" I froze. Wait a minute. "House. Your patient."

"What about him?"

"It's Hank Wiggen."

"Didn't know you were a sports fan."

"I'm not–but–" How to explain it without just telling him why I couldn't go with him? "You can't bring me."

I managed to land a special move on House, and the screen proclaimed, "KO!" Disgruntled, House turned away from the TV, glaring at me. "Why the hell not? What could the two of us going to a monster truck rally possibly impact in the future—"

"That's the whole thing. I don't know. But the repercussions could be a lot bigger than you think."

"First Wilson's got his stupid rectal cancer lecture, now you're ditching out on me, too?" House seemed incensed.

"Just..." Okay, I couldn't get around it. "Why don't you ask Cameron?"

"Does Cameron even know what a monster truck is?"

"Probably not, but still. She'd go with you, and it would be fun."

House narrowed his eyes at me. "You said that very matter-of-factly. Is there something I should know?"

"Just that you might enjoy Cameron's company more than you think." God, what kind of Huddy shipper was I, telling House to go on a date with Cameron? Still, so early in their relationship, interfering could force things to develop in a different way, or worse yet, not develop at all. It was better to play it safe while I was still in season one.

House wiggled his eyebrows. "Oh?"

"Not like that, jackass." I nudged his shoulder. "And you should cook up some of that Delmonico I bought the other day."

He rose to his feet with a sigh. "So demanding, aren't you?"

"Kids are a bitch, aren't they? Just be grateful I didn't fall through that cross-dimensional portal when I was twelve, or you'd have it even rougher."

"Oh please. I would have just pawned you off on Wilson."

The next day found me at the hospital, playing for the kids in Pediatrics once again. Of all the habits I'd formed during my time in House's universe, this was by far one of my favorites. Low pressure gig—children weren't exactly hypercritical – and it made me feel like I was doing something good, seeing them all smile up at me when I'd finished. Kids stuck in a hospital with a horrible disease, they needed something to cheer them up. Even if I could only do that for a couple of minutes, it was worth it.

Just as I was fitting my guitar (or rather, House's guitar that he let me borrow when he was feeling benevolent) back into its case, someone called my name. I turned my head. Wilson was striding towards me.

"I thought I'd find you here." He glanced at the kids milling around, and a brief shadow crossed over his expression. I knew young patients always got to Wilson, and a lot of the kids in Pediatrics were his. A few of them waved at him and smiled, and he returned the gesture, though his own smile was pained.

He knows most of them won't last long. He knows that whatever he can do is only delaying the inevitable.

I never would understand how he did it.

"What's up?" I asked him, catching the patented Worried Wilson look on his face.

He scratched the back of his neck, a brief sigh escaping him, "You know about the dinner with Stacy, I assume?"

"You're seeing her on Friday. You lied to House about it."

Wilson nodded. "Yes."

"And...you want me to not tell House that I know."

"Also yes."

"You know, he's not a child. He can deal with you going to see his ex. You and Stacy were friends. You still are," I told him.

Wilson raised his hands up in front of him. "Look...what went down between House and Stacy–"

"Hi, my name's Anya. I have a pathological obsession with House MD. Nice to meet you," I deadpanned, giving Wilson a withering look. "I know what went down. I'm telling you he can handle it."

"Does that mean I told him in the show?"

"I really wish you and House would stop worrying about what you did in the show," I grumbled, picking up my guitar case and heading for the elevator banks. Wilson followed behind me.

"If you had a walking, talking magic 8-ball at your disposal, don't pretend like you wouldn't be asking it questions, too."

"So I'm an 'it' now?"

"I didn't mean it like that, and you know it."

I hit the button for the first floor. Wilson and I stepped through the doors and into the elevator. "Do whatever you want. If you don't want to tell him, don't tell him. I'm just saying that I don't think House is as fragile as you seem to believe."

Wilson watched me, the familiar worried crease dimpling between his eyebrows, his lips thinned. The perfect picture of good-natured concern. "You're on edge today."

"Me? I'm peachy. Never better."

"House isn't the only one who can tell when you lie."

I sighed, leaning my back against the wall. It was just Wilson and I inside, thankfully, so the two of us could talk privately. "The next episode is bugging me."

"Oh?"

"It's...I have to change something, but it's not something that's going to affect House."

"If I ask what it is, will you tell me?"

I met his eyes. It didn't involve Wilson in anyway, really, and it would be nice to get his advice...I pursed my lips, leaning past Wilson and hitting the emergency stop for the elevator. A brief alarm bell sounded, then stopped. The lights dimmed.

"Do you know who Rowan Chase is?" I asked Wilson.

"I had to read his rheumatology textbook three times through to pass my MCATs, so, yes," Wilson replied.

"Notice the familiar last name?"

Wilson's face blanked. "No way. He's not Chase's father, is he?"

"He is. And he's going to visit the hospital soon. Probably in the next week or so."

"Okay..." Wilson was waiting for me to continue, I could tell.

"He's coming to the hospital to see Chase one more time before he dies."

Wilson rubbed his face, letting out a long exhale. "Cancer?"

"Lungs. Stage IV."

"That's a death sentence."

"Yeah."

Wilson crossed his arms. "Where do you play into all of this?"

"Chase's father has no intention of telling Chase he's going to die. In three months, he'll kick off...and Chase will be so shocked by the news, he'll get distracted and accidentally kill a patient."

The doctor fell silent. "And you can't let that happen."

"If it didn't involve someone's life, I would consider staying out of it, but I can't let Chase get blindsided like this. Plus, if he has these last few months with his father...I don't know. I think it would be good for him to try to say goodbye. To have time with him to try to heal. I mean, Chase and his father, they're got a lot of issues between them, but they love each other. The show makes that much obvious."

"You're family. You love each other whether you like it or not."

"House would argue the latter."

"House might argue biological imperative."

"Maybe, but that's not the issue. What do you think I should do?" I asked, looking up at Wilson and anxiously shifting from foot to foot.

What to do during Cursed had been bothering me for weeks. I arguably had bigger things to deal with, considering the fast-coming approach of the Vogler storyline, but hey, Chase was one of my favorites, and it was important to him. It could change the course of his life, potentially. Hopefully for the better.

"I think you should tell him," he answered. "But there's one problem." Wilson frowned deeply at me, something in his eyes that made him look old beyond his years. "How are you going to tell Chase his father is going to die?"

I went quiet. I leaned my guitar case against the wall, then slid to the ground, a long exhale escaping me as I sank down. I rested my arms on my knees. That was what I was really stuck on, wasn't it? How did I break the news to Chase? How did I look him in the eye and tell him his father had three months to live?

I didn't have the faintest idea.

"Is it true that every time a patient thanks you for telling them they're dying, House owes you ten bucks?" I asked softly, staring at the space between my tennis shoes.

Wilson nodded. "Yes."

"How much has he given you over the years?"

"Last count...? I think we were somewhere around 500."

I didn't know which part of that statement to focus on; the fact that Wilson had been forced to tell fifty people they were going to die – bare minimum, assuming every single one thanked him – or the fact that those fifty people had actually expressed gratitude to the man who told them there was no hope.

James Wilson was amazing, sometimes.

"Does it ever get easier?"

A muscle in Wilson's jaw twitched, and he wouldn't meet my eyes. "Not really, no."

A heavy silence hung in the dimmed elevator, weighing the both of us down. I waited for Wilson to say something, anything. Please just tell me what to do.

"Don't try to minimize the hurt," he began, voice slow and steady, seeming to finally come back to himself. "A lot of people are afraid of the word dying, even doctors. Even Chase. Don't pussyfoot around it. He can't read your mind. Look him in the eye, and tell him what you know. Don't hesitate. In the moment, you'll want to throw platitudes at him, or temporize it, soften it. Don't. Don't even try."

I nodded, staring at Wilson's Italian loafers and listening intently to everything he said. He had this down to a practical science. I suppose he would have to, after all this time.

"Then wait. He might walk off, ask to be alone. If he doesn't, it might be okay to touch him. Reach out and put your hand on his arm, or his shoulder. Let him know he's not alone."

"Telling someone they're dying and telling someone that a loved one is dying isn't that different, huh?"

"In the end, no. Hell, some people would rather hear that they're dying, as opposed to someone they care about," Wilson replied.

"I would."

I'd rather find out that I had some incurable disease than have someone tell me that House had a few months to live. I finally met Wilson's eyes. If I didn't make sure his cancer got caught early, I would be forced to face that, eight years down the line.

"I'm sorry you're in this position," Wilson said.

"Me too." I ran a hand through my hair. "Gotta do what you gotta do, I guess."

Wilson offered me his hand. "You don't need to think about it right this second. You've still got some time before the next episode." I grabbed his hand, and he pulled me to my feet. He hit the emergency stop button, and the elevator once again began trundling downwards. I picked up my guitar case again.

"Right. And, uh, thanks. For the advice. You're kind of the expert when it comes to things like this."

The doors dinged open, and Wilson and I spilled out into the lobby.

Wilson's expression was a troubled one. "Sometimes I wish I didn't have to be."

That Friday night found me on the couch, flipping through the channels with a bowl of popcorn on my stomach. There was almost nothing on, but I was enjoying the luxury of not doing anything with anyone. While I was relatively social and active by nature, with how busy I'd become since switching universes, I valued the few times I had both a: nothing to do and b: solitude.

That didn't mean I wasn't eager for House to come home, though. I couldn't ever see myself hearing the tell-tale thump of his cane in the hallway outside and not feeling my spirits lift.

It was late when he finally got in. I'd settled on watching Silence of the Lambs, and I was halfway through Hannibal Lecter ripping some poor bastard's face off when he limped into the apartment. He hung up his damp coat, closed the door behind him, and sank down onto the couch next to me.

"You smell like beer and chili dogs," I observed with a yawn, shifting my feet so House had more room to sit.

"Oh, and you smell like a field of roses."

"Well, I should, considering my perfume is aptly entitled 'Field of Roses'."

House snorted. "You don't wear perfume."

"Have you made a habit of smelling me?"

"I've got to do something in my free time."

We watched Silence of the Lambs in relative...well, silence. For a time.

"So," I eventually said.

"So."

"How'd it go?"

"Fine."

"Uh-huh." I handed him the bowl of popcorn. He took it. "House?"

"What?"

"Do you like Cameron?"

"I don't like anybody."

"That's not an answer."

"Since when has Cameron not fallen into the category of anybody?"

"Since you took her on a date."

"It wasn't a date."

"Right."

"It wasn't a date!"

"Well." I shrugged, pulling the blanket closer around me for warmth and nudging House in the side with my foot. "You should think about going on another not-date with her. It'd be good for you."

True, I didn't really ship Hameron – die hard Huddy and Chameron shipper that I was – but it wouldn't hurt for House to spend time with someone who wasn't me or Wilson. He and Cameron had a pretty decent friendship going on a few years down the line. Why not get an early start?

"Why are you always so sure you know what's good for me?"

"I'm not sure," I said, smirking at him. "That's half the fun."

"You're gambling with my life."

"You're being overdramatic."

House threw a piece of popcorn at me. It hit me in the nose. "This popcorn sucks," he said (through a mouth of my apparently sucky popcorn, might I add.)

I stared at him. Then I picked up a piece and chucked it at his face.

Things degenerated quickly from there, and five minutes later, I was picking up the popcorn that was now strewn all over the floor.

"That'll teach you to try to give me dating advice," House said, feet up on the coffee table.

"Thanks for helping clean up, House. I really appreciate it."

"I'm a cripple. Excludes me from clean-up duty. One of the many perks."

I rolled my eyes. "Look, it's up to you. I'm just saying."

"You're always just saying."

"Well, maybe if I'm really, really lucky, one of these days, you'll actually listen to me."