Chapter 71 — House Hunters

A/N: Thank you to saashi samy, JackslovesHilson, Rubyia, animexwonder, Musikrulesok, CasJeanne, Yuuki no Yuuki, BrySt1, kqzw, OldSFfan, Meme, Iland Girl, Robin, DBZFan45, blue-lily295, MiharuTousaka, HeatherSS1, PYM, SR. UKI, SilverDragon1218, ARANELLA, MiaEther, theta-Skywalker-587, and all the guests for their reviews on the last chapter!

I heard swearing from the bathroom, followed by a distinct yell of, "House!"

I looked up from my bio homework, blinking my eyes several times, fighting to remain awake. I'd stayed up all night studying. As soon as I'd gone back to school, my workload had gone back to being just as bad as it had been before mid-terms. Logically, with how well I'd done, I could probably bomb the second half of the year entirely and still get my license, but I a: wasn't about to take that risk and b: as House had so deftly pointed out to me before, I had a pathological fear of failure that made me incapable of half-assing anything.

Wilson stepped out of the bathroom, murder in his eyes, shaving cream on his face, razor in his hand. It was just the two of us in the apartment this morning, with House at work wrapped up in his case. I knew Distractions had started, but the B-plot in the episode had been so weird I couldn't remember the Patient of the Week to save my life.

I shut my textbook and left my homework on the table. I walked over to Wilson, narrowing my eyes at him.

I swiped a finger through the shaving cream on his cheek. Considered it. Tasted it.

Wilson bounced his eyebrows. "Awfully brave of you."

I removed my finger from my mouth. "House bought whipped cream and didn't immediately spray it all into his mouth and call it dinner. Figured it was a safe bet to make."

"You knew he was going to do this!?"

"Suspected and knew are two different things," I said with a shrug, wiping the whipped cream remnants off of on my pants. "I get that my whole thing is predicting what House is going to before he does it, but I try to keep that to the life-altering stuff, rather than his standard screwing with you."

Wilson groaned in irritation, returning to the bathroom to mop off his face. "It's like living in a frat-house. What does he get out of this? It's like he's trying to drive me out, between the—the infantile pranks, the refusal to do the dishes, eating the things that are very clearly labeled as MINE in the fridge—"

"Did you really expect anything different? You've known him for years, none of this should come as a surprise to you."

"You don't really know someone until you live with them. And it doesn't help that you enable him!" Wilson said loudly over the running sink.

I leaned in the bathroom threshold, crossing my arms. "Says The World's Greatest Enabler. And yes, I can get that on a coffee cup, if you want."

"You do everything for him. You clean the apartment, you cook dinner—"

"We switch off on dinner based on Street Fighter wins vs losses, you know that, and I don't know if you've noticed this in the past few years, but I think there might be something wrong with House's leg that makes it harder for him to do household chores—"

"He's an adult!" Wilson cut me off, dragging a damp towel over his face. "And there's a million things out there for handicapped people that they can use to make things easier around the house, he just refuses to buy any of them, because that would mean has to actually acknowledge he's handicapped."

I pointed wordlessly to the handicap bar installed in the shower.

"Do you know how long I had to badger him to just get that? And I wanted him to get a shower chair, but he wouldn't hear it," Wilson shot back.

"He likes his baths. Helps with the pain."

"Yes, I'm sure it's the baths that help, not the face-full of painkillers he takes before, after, and during them. Don't you ever get sick of defending him?"

I considered Wilson, a little surprised by his harshness. "How often do people ask you that question?"

Wilson, face finally cleaned, dropped the towel in the dirty laundry basket and sighed. "I'm sorry, it's just frustrating. I don't understand what he's getting out of this."

"Don't overthink it, Wilson. Take it at face value."

"Take House at face value? Have you met him?"

I snorted. "Look, he's just trying to have fun with you. Retaliate! Mess with him! It'll make his day, I guarantee it."

"We're full-grown adults!" Wilson protested, stepping out of the bathroom, apparently resigning himself to a day's growth of stubble until he could buy a new can of shaving cream. He went to the kitchen, and I followed him.

"Has it ever occurred to you that House acts like a kid now because he never had a chance to growing up?" I asked him as he dug through the fridge for breakfast.

"Oh, do not make this some deep, dark psychological thing."

"We're humans. Everything we do has some deep, dark psychological aspect to it." I reached past him to grab a yogurt. "And if you want to stop him eating your food, one, you need to stop labeling it, because he takes that as a challenge, and two, eat stuff that he wouldn't want to steal anyway. Ever since I started eating healthier, House won't touch my stuff with a ten-foot pole."

I set my yogurt on the counter, then leaned back into the fridge, grabbing several left-over ketchup packets from the last time we'd grabbed McDonald's. I pressed them into Wilson's palm. "And take these."

Wilson stared down at his hand, then looked back up at me, brow furrowed. "Not the most nutritious breakfast."

"Slit them open just a little. Put them under the toilet seat." I winked at him. "Like I said, retaliate."

I grabbed my yogurt and retreated to the couch. I heard Wilson mutter something to the effect of, "that's brilliant" under his breath as I walked away.

I caught a nap that morning, enough that I felt alive by early afternoon. Or something close to it, after coffee, which was becoming more and more of a necessary evil in my life. After doing a mental inventory to make sure I'd done everything I'd needed to in terms of my academics, I decided to head to the hospital, if only to see House on acid. Though that might not be for a few days yet. It would break my heart if I was in class while House was tripping.

I found the team in the differential room when I arrived, and smiled when I realized Chase had returned. His skin was several shades darker than it had been when he left. Lucky bastard. Australian sun sounded a lot better than a New Jersey winter.

Chase was staring at the board. "Could be epilepsy or seizure disorder—" his head turned to me when I pushed through the doors. He grinned. "Wondered when we'd see you."

"Oh, I couldn't miss this," I said, smirking.

"Miss what?" Cameron asked, forehead scrunching.

"Long story, you'll see." I focused on Chase again. "How's your sister?"

"She's doing better, she—"

House slammed his cane against the whiteboard. "PATIENT. ELECTROCUTED. If you two can take a break from the tearful reunion."

I rolled my eyes and leaned against the wall. "Forgive me for the interruption."

"Give me a good idea and maybe I will."

"House, I don't know anything about your patient," I told him, true for the first time.

"That's a lie," House replied automatically.

The team looked lost. Foreman spoke up, breaking the awkward moment. "Tachycardia means it's probably not a seizure disorder."

"Adrenoleukodystrophy?" offered Cameron.

"Or MS," Chase theorized. "Seizures caused by plaques or lesions in the brain."

"Well, go find out. MRI his brain," House ordered, already moving to head to his office.

Foreman called after him, "No nuclear imaging. He wouldn't survive the move to radiology."

That jogged my memory instantly, and I slowly nodded. "Burn victim, right."

Chase looked at me sharply. "Thought you didn't know anything about the patient?"

"I uh, was speaking in general terms. I don't have any ideas," I covered quickly, weakly.

"Then do an LP," House said, trying again to go to his office.

"Can't do an LP," said Chase, stopping him in his tracks again. "No whole skin left on his spine, never mind the whole area is teeming with bacteria."

"We have to look at his brain somehow," said Cameron.

I tilted my head. "What about transcranial doppler sonography? We did it with the pregnant eleven year old, could work here, too. Not ideal for brains, but it's something."

"And I just used one to look at a brain this morning," House said.

The ducklings stared. "Why wouldn't you just take the patient to get an MRI?" Foreman asked, faintly horrified.

"Because I was doing something illegal. Obviously. Now go. Patients with MS have more reactive neurons in their occipital cortex, might show up on the TCDS. And the next person who cramps my dramatic exit is fired."

The team dispersed, and I went after House. He was behind his desk, holding up a scan, squinting at it. With a sigh, I handed him his glasses.

House accepted them. Without looking away from the object of his attention, he asked, "Since when do you not remember anything about a patient?"

"Because he's the least interesting thing about this episode. Or we could chalk it up to school making me brain-dead." With a frown, I added, "I might be well-suited to start writing everything I remember about the show down, actually, before I start to forget stuff. Haven't watched the show in well over a year. Things are going to start to fade."

"And give your little book of secrets to me for safe-keeping?"

"Nice try. Wanna grab lunch?"

"Can't," House said, lowering the scan. "I've got a lecture to attend."

I tilted my head. "Hmm."

House finally turned his eyes to me. "You're thinking. That's not a good sign."

"In the show, you were messing with Weber to distract yourself from something that didn't even happen this time around. But you're still doing this in the current timeline...Cameron didn't look too dewy-eyed, either."

"Can we save the psycho-analyzing for later?"

"You're doing this to put off breaking up with her, aren't you?" I challenged. "House, if you want to avoid it because you don't want to end things, just don't end them. And if you're avoiding it because you're a coward, well, you know. Stop being a coward."

"Yeah. I'll get right on that." House made for the door.

"Hey, I made an appointment to look at a house for rent in Rosedale on Tuesday, so whatever you're up to, just make sure you're free at three," I hollered after him, but he was already out the door.

Turned out I was going to get to see House on acid after all.

"Oh my God," I said dimly.

Wilson was supporting House, an arm behind him, keeping him standing. House's pupils were blown so wide I almost couldn't make out the blue. "He's been experimenting with migraine medications. And nitro. And whatever the hell he's on now."

"You told me to be here at three," House said blearily. "I'm here." He cocked his head. "Your hair is SO RED. Like, really, really, really red. You look like you're on fire." He cocked his head further. "ARE you on fire?"

"Oh my God," I repeated. We were standing in front of the house in Rosedale, the Dynasty and Wilson's car parked on the curb. I'd driven the Dynasty, which House had shamelessly shoveled out thousands of dollars to fix after the incident in Baltimore, meanwhile Wilson had dragged House here in his car. For what reason, I had no idea—he wasn't fit to be in public, not by anyone's stretch of the imagination. "They'll never rent to us if he looks like he's tripping the light fantastic!"

"I tried to call you to tell you to reschedule," Wilson told her.

"I was in class! And I can't reschedule, do you know how fast this place is going to get snapped up? If we put it off, we won't get it."

"With House's terrible credit score and your non-existent one, it's not likely we're going to get it at all," Wilson pointed out.

"Hi! Are you my three o'clock?" called a cheery voice from the front porch of the two story house. I turned to see the young, bubbly realtor waiting for us. It was immaculate in its landscaping, the house itself looked like it had been built very recently, with a wrap-around porch. 3200 square feet, two full-bathrooms, three bedrooms, in-house laundry and dryer. Never mind there was a literal white picket fence around the backyard. It was picture perfect suburbia.

And they didn't have a chance in hell of getting it. Not now.

"Just lieeeee," House said. "Also, just throwing this out there, she's got two heads. So maybe this wasn't such a great idea to begin with."

"Oh my God," I said for the third, and final time. "Let's just get this over with." I put on my best fake-smile and headed up the freshly shoveled walkway. "Hi Cassie! I'm Anya, we spoke on the phone. These are my Dads." I'd decided anyone who took us for a viewing would assume House and Wilson were gay anyway, so I might as well open with it—hope that someone was desperate to score some diversity points in their clientele. Plus, it could explain to the outside observer why House was currently wrapped around Wilson. "Greg and James. It's so nice to meet you."

She shook my hand, then Wilson's, seeming delighted. She offered House her hand. He stared at it.

"He's fresh from the dentist," I made the first excuse I could think of. "Still a little loopy."

She dropped her hand, but didn't seem deterred. "Oh, I know how that goes! No problem! Come on in."

We followed her inside. The house reminded me a great deal of Wilson's house with Julie—not surprising, given that they'd lived only a few blocks over. The drive over mercifully excluded their street, but I wondered if Wilson would be okay living so close to where his most recent marriage had fallen apart. He hadn't seemed opposed when I told him the location though, so I had to just trust that he would be honest with me if it made him uncomfortable.

She toured us through the house. Wilson and I cooed over the crown-molding and marble counter-tops. House remained silent, moving only when forcibly prodded by Wilson and I.

"There is room for a staircase chair to be installed, and we'd be happy to take care of that cost for you if you decide to move in," the realtor said kindly to House. They must've been desperate to rent so they could stop footing the heating bill to keep the pipes from freezing.

House looked at her, and said, "You have great boobs."

I was suddenly all the more glad for the gay cover, because it made the comment massively less creepy. She merely giggled. "Well, I'll take the compliment!"

We went upstairs, Wilson and I both helping House clear the stairs. The only thing upstairs was another bedroom and a bathroom, which I would take for my own if we moved in, so House would never have to brave the stairs. The bedroom was large, the bathroom equally so, with a dual bath/shower.

It was when she was showing Wilson and I the bathroom that the two of us realized House was no longer with us.

"He must've gone downstairs," Wilson said, trying and failing to hide his panic. "I'll go get him," he said to the realtor with a tight, nervous smile. He practically sprinted downstairs.

"How long have they been together?" Cassie asked pleasantly when Wilson was out of earshot.

"A long, long time," I replied, distracted. "I should help him. Back in a sec."

When I arrived downstairs and found House and Wilson, I had to keep myself from shouting.

House was in the downstairs shower, fully-clothed under the spray. The bathroom was already filled with steam. House must have had the water on full-blast hot.

Wilson was clearly in the process of trying to coax House out of the shower, to no avail. He was tugging on his arm, saying, "House, come on, you can do this at home, come on—"

"But I'm cold," House whined. "I don't like this place. The...vibes...they're rancid."

"House, I don't give a shit if the vibes are putrescent, I need you to act like you're not wacked out on acid for ten minutes while we sign the lease!"

"Excuse me!? What are you doing!?"

Wilson and I turned as one. Cassie stood in the doorway, eyes the size of dinner plates.

"Uh, we can explain—" Wilson began, I don't know why, we couldn't explain, but I hoped he had a nice lie on deck.

"Your water pressure in this place is bitching," House complimented. Then he stripped off his sports coat and sat down in the shower. "You gonna do anything about that two heads thing? Buying shirts must be hell."

Wilson looked at me. "I don't think we have to worry about signing the lease."

We arrived home with no signed lease—but Wilson had at least talked the realtor out of calling the cops, which she'd seemed very intent on doing when Wilson and I were having difficulty removing House from the shower.

House shuffled through the door. Wilson sank down on the couch, burying his head in his hands.

"There will be more places. Guess it wasn't meant to be," I told him, running a hand through my hair. I turned to House, making sure he was still standing. "You suck, but are you okay? You slammed down a lot more than usual today."

House seemed to ponder the question. Then said, "I have to take a dump."

He went to the bathroom. I joined Wilson on the couch. Wilson's head was still in his hands. I patted him on the back. "House gave me a month to find us somewhere to move. Just give me time."

"It's not that."

"What is it?"

His shoulders were shaking. Was he crying? I leaned closer to him, trying to figure out what was going on with him, but then I realized he was trembling with barely restrained laughter.

House yelled from the bathroom. "What the fuck!?"

A pause.

"IS THIS KETCHUP?"