House stopped feeling his way forward with his cane when it thumped into the wall. He fumbled for the door handle, then pushed it open with a terrible creak. The front lawn was covered in dead leaves, sticks, and weeds. It was too dark to see well, but the roof blocked the moon, and he could see that it was basically a frame.

He began limping outside. The ground crunched under his feet. Circling the crumbling edifice, he halted when he saw the graveyard in the back. Though dreading the direction he knew the dream was taking, he moved forward, unable to stop himself.

Sure enough, he began passing them, his fellows; and the dream started a cycle. In a cruel pattern, he would make it to the end of the yard, go through a gate, and find himself walking between their graves towards the same gate. It happened more times than he could count. Then, though their bodies lay still, their disembodied voices began to float around him, each speaking his name.

He was looking around, trying to find movement. Anyone. Anywhere. But it was just him and the corpses.

"House..."

He turned away from the graves and began moving, his eyes still searching the darkness. Nobody, everywhere.

"House?"

At first it didn't matter which direction he went. There was always a gate that always led to his friends' remains. But finally he opened the gate and saw himself looking at a small, doorless shed; taller than it was long and falling apart. He advanced upon it, expecting to find Cameron inside.

Instead, he came face to face with himself. Except...his eyes were yellow.

At least it was daylight when House awoke. He sighed, content to lie there and think while his eyes and his body rested. Content to do what he did best, with a Do Not Disturb sign on the door. Saved him the trouble of actually saying it. People were more likely to listen to a sign, anyway.

He could feel Cuddy pressed up against him, and he found himself using his impressive cognitive skills to try and remember if she snored. If she did, she was awake. If she didn't, he had no idea.

He opened his eyes and looked at her, which didn't really satisfy his curiosity. Her eyes were shut, but she was scowling; either she was having a bad dream or she was thinking, too.

He touched her arm and she opened her eyes, sliding her arm off of him. "Hey."

"Hey. You sleep okay?"

She scoffed, putting a hand on her forehead. "I didn't sleep."

"I'll take your insomnia...you can have my nightmare."

"How can you even sleep after hearing a gunshot?"

Sitting up on her right side, he upended his cane and then glanced down at her. She was still on her back, hand still on her forehead, wearing this frilly nightgown that couldn't decide if it was white or pink. She was beautiful. Looked like an angel, distraught over mortality.

"I'm a freak."

"Yeah. I think a new question merits a new answer." She began sitting up, and her curls fell over her shoulder. "I'll never understand you, House. You get offended over compliments, take pride in insults, and figure out the impossible. You make my life a living hell, and...my job would be so much easier if everyone was like you."

"Behind every hot, angry woman is a man..."

She expected him to continue talking, but he limped into the bathroom and shut the door. Chuckling to herself, she got to her feet and started making the bed; she hadn't finished when there was a knock on the door. Though she thought House may have knocked to fool her, she went to the door anyway and pulled it open. It wasn't room service; it was a tall, muscular, frankly yummy guy with dog tags around his neck. He looked a little grungy. And mad―for a second. When he saw the beautiful woman looking at him, Logan looked past her, surveying the hotel room with obvious confusion.

"Hey, uh, what's-what's your name, if you don't mind me asking?" he suddenly asked.

"Joan. Can I help you?" she pressed, when he was quiet.

"No," he growled. "Must've gotten the wrong room."

He turned and moved down the hallway. Watching him go for a moment, Cuddy quietly shut and locked the door and went back to the bed, where she sat down and waited for House to come out of the washroom.

When he did, he asked, "What was that?"

"It was Logan," she said, standing up. "I saw his name on his dog tag. I think he was looking for you."

"What?"

"I think you're right about him."

A grim smile slowly overtook his face. "Finally."

"He looked fit to kill, House." She grimaced, shaking her head. "I shouldn't have brought my car here, you were right. The man shot Cameron."

"Yeah," he murmured, "I was thinking of visiting her today, but not if he's waiting for us."

Despite her fear, she had to smile; he stared at her with his lovely, but eternally suspicious, blues. "What?" he grumped.

"I just like it when you're sweet."

He didn't know what to do with that, and so remained quiet as he went to the fridge, pulling out the no-meat leftovers from the previous night.

"House?"

"Yeah," he almost bit, as he began ripping into the food.

"Do you think you could give me one simple, honest, serious answer?"

"Yes... I still think your ass looks good."

"No, it―I," she said gracefully, and forced her hands to her sides. "Do you actually think Logan is a...cold-blooded killer?"

"Yes."

She watched him continue to portion out his food, plopping it into one of the bowls they had purchased.

"You hungry?" he asked her.

"I'm a little too freaked out to be thinking of food right now. I mean," she said, turning to watch him as he limped through the hotel room, "Do you think he's...accustomed to killing people? Or do you think he's a-a good man, who slipped?"

"I think he's used to it."

She looked into his eyes as long as she was able, hastily breaking contact.

"Does that really surprise you?"

"It scares me. Beyond measure."

"Really?"

She observed him for a moment, more focused on his food than the crumbling world they lived in. "House―when last were you scared?"

"Uh," he sighed, "Probably when I was...fourteen?"

"You're 66."

"Your point?"

"My point is, that's a long time ago. Weren't you scared when you found out Wilson was..." Her voice trailed off; now he wouldn't meet her eyes. "Or when you had to..." Again, her words failed her, and she was left standing there with a hand raised as she floundered for words. "You didn't feel anything?"

"I felt a lot of things. Not fear."

"What about when Cameron was missing?"

"Angry."

"And when...you found her."

"Angry."

"So the blood didn't scare you," she pressed, and rolled her eyes at her own foolishness. "Of course not, you're a doctor. But why were you so angry?"

"Well, they hurt her," he said simply.

She felt a rush of affection for him, then an instant pang of revulsion―he was kind of a criminal, after all, and not very loving. But her disgust was shallow and short-lived, and she found herself wanting to show him that affection. Compassion at the very least. Knowing he wouldn't appreciate either, unless it was naked, sweaty affection, she only said, "If you ever need someone to talk to, I am always here for you."

He was quiet. She didn't like that.

"You know, I would actually...really like to know what happened when you were fourteen."

Still quiet. She bobbed her head and turned towards the bathroom. "Okay. Well, I'm here."

"I wish you weren't," he said, and shrugged when she turned back to glower at him. "Well, I talked to you, right?"

"Why are you always such an ass? I mean, the minute I think we're okay, you find a new way to piss me off. I hate that about you; it's without a doubt your worst quality!"

"I wish you were home safe with your kid."

She had to remind herself not to gawk like a fool. "You could have just said that," she mumbled.

"Yeah...Probably should've," he said with a dry chuckle. He twisted his mouth. "Thought that counts?"

Now she was quiet, offering only a sigh as she went to the bathroom. Finally he began eating his breakfast.

"Have you heard of Dr. House?"

"Uh, I have a Greg House signed in," the concierge answered.

"Yeah, what room's he in?"

"Unless you can prove you're related, I can't say."

"It's a life-or-death situation," Logan said, rather unaware of the accuracy. He grabbed the cheerful man by his shirt, pulling him in. "You still want proof?"

"Room 27."

He released the desk clerk and went back down the hall, retracing his steps. Instead of puncturing the door with his claws, he knocked like a gentleman.

It's not like he was an animal.

This time House opened the door, staring at him with lost eyes―the words "Oh, shit" printed on his face.

"Jesus Christ, I knew it," Logan muttered. "Hey, listen, bub, we gotta talk."

"Right, talk."

"Right."

"Me, an old man... You, with a metal skeleton. Gosh, I wonder who'll win. At-at the talk."

Logan brushed past him, gently and accidentally bumping into him. "How the fuck do you know?" he asked quietly.

House left the door open, in case he needed to yell for help. "Something I always win at is finding the answer. Well, usually. 8/10 isn't shabby at all."

"She-she blocked it out."

"Yeah, well. Block removed."

Cuddy's confused stare alternated back and forth.

"Okay, well, you can't know about us."

"You know, I'm not the only one here with a Wikipedia page. I've done research. I know all about the mutant uprising of 2006."

"Hey, do you mind?" Logan asked, gesturing to Cuddy, "The fewer people who know, the better. Now I have to take care of you both."

"Are you talking about murder?" Cuddy had to ask, as House limped impulsively closer to her.

"What―no, no. A minor form of electroshock therapy. We part ways, everybody wins."

"You know, when there's danger outside, I'd rather know," House said, and his eyes flitted to the doorway as Kayla walked in. "Same reason I look both ways before crossing the road. If I'm going to become roadkill...or roadhouse, as the case may be...it's because I made a choice. I'd rather be a smart, dead man than a fool for many years."

Uh-oh. He was speaking calmly. Cuddy hovered in place, trying not to bite her nails as she battled a wave of morning sickness.

"He remembers," Logan muttered. "He knows what we are."

"How? I literally took that information from you," Kayla told House.

"I know. I remember standing in the room, still feeling your hand on my face. And if that's all you want to do now, then just do it and get the hell out of our lives."

"Yes. Please," Cuddy added, still very much confused. But she understood and wholeheartedly agreed with the last part!

"Wait," Logan said, making Kayla pause. "What's to stop him from remembering again? While we're...countries apart," he added, locking eyes with House. To his credit, the aging mastermind doctor met his gaze unflinchingly. "Who knows who they'll tell?"

"Yeah, gosh, it could be... William Stryker," House said, with a tone implying the name tasted bad. "You're not still affiliated with him, are you?"

"Why do you care?"

"Wait, wait, wait, wait. Back up. Let's just go back to the...mutant part, can we?" Cuddy asked.

Logan held up his fist, letting his claws snap up out of his knuckles; she flinched at the noise and looked at them in silent stupefaction.

House briefly closed his eyes, then looked at Kayla. "You did it, it was you. You shot Cameron in the foot. He doesn't need a gun!"

Cuddy's eyes traveled inquisitively to her.

"So you found her," Kayla sighed. "Is she hospitalized?"

"Yeah," he barked, suddenly finding her much less attractive. "Because of you, our friend's going to need a prosthetic foot. She's probably getting it sawed off right now!"

"I did what I had to do," she uttered.

There was an awkward silence; then House sighed, looking at the metal man before him. "And my mother always told me not to hit a lady."

"Yeah, I'd advise against it, pal, alright?"

"A mutant...uprising," Cuddy said, slowly and emphatically. "This doesn't make any sense, it-it-it... It's not natural."

"Yeah, I do like natural," House said. "Well, unless they're boobs. Then it doesn't really matter."

"Greg, if you like natural, let me block it out," Kayla pleaded, "So you can get back to your normal lives."

"And then what?" Logan pressed. "They fuck off to the States, couple'a years later one of 'em remembers. You'd be a fool to think he respects your privacy. He wouldn't shut up about it, even if he gets put away. Nah, only way to stop it might be murder after all," he concluded, and moved towards Cuddy, saying, "Good idea."

And Kayla grabbed his hand. "Stop."

Already convinced, he halted, letting her draw him back to her side. House breathed a sigh of relief―glad she had him wrapped around her little finger. "Why?" he asked.

"Um, so you don't murder two people in a hotel."

"Not to mention it wouldn't solve anything," House said, and Cuddy closed her eyes, wishing he would stop talking. "You'd still be on the Internet."

Logan seemed rather disappointed he didn't get to murder anyone.

"And, you kill her, you kill the kid," House rambled.

Logan huffed a sigh, turned around to leave and muttered, "Congratulations."

"Uh, thank you?" she stuttered gracefully. Then her words to Kayla halted Logan. "Wait, so you touch people and influence their thoughts?"

"Yeah."

"Well, you have that in common," House grumbled.

"Shut up," Cuddy responded.

"Hold on," was how he replied, "When we found her, Cameron couldn't remember you. Or how she got to the woods."

"Yeah. I thought knowing about us would be a bad idea."

House sighed, feeling overcome with relief. "I'm not missing moments; you took them from me. She and I are healthy, we're..."

"Normal?"

"We thought she hit her head. We told the doctor," Cuddy said, harshly.

"Sorry."

"Well," Logan sighed, "With that understanding, allow us to get the hell out of your lives."

He started to leave, and Kayla pivoted, hovering anxiously. "So I-I'm not taking the information away."

"What's the point?" Logan asked, and motioned to House. "War's still public―and so are we."

"I shot a friend for you. I risked her life so you could sleep better."

"Yeah, we're going to talk about that."

"Talk, Logan, seriously? I lost her friendship, and you're completely invalidating―"

"Look, maybe you can whine on the car ride home, okay?" Logan asked quietly, and turned his focus back to House; he hid his bewilderment well that he once again had his attention. When Kayla had stormed out of the room, Logan walked up to House and brandished his claws, pressing the cool metal surface of his third claw against the right side of House's throat, making Cuddy cringe. House had quickly withdrawn, though not far enough away that the claw no longer touched him. "I may not be as gentle or fair as she is," he growled, "But I think I'm pretty damn persuasive myself. And if I have to, next time I won't hesitate."

"You won't have to. You won't have to," Cuddy said quickly.

House remained quiet, unable to look away from Logan, unable to move or make a smartass remark.

Logan's eyes flitted back to House, and he pressed his claws more firmly against his throat―then made both normal humans jump as he retracted his claws with a loud clang. Saying nothing more, he turned and walked out of their hotel room, leaving the door wide open as he went. As soon as he was gone, Cuddy was at House's side. "Are you okay?"

He turned to look at her, cool ice in his eyes. "I'm great."

"Uh―seriously?"

"Sure. I wondered before what they were. I have my answer."

"You almost had a stump," she exclaimed, as she moved swiftly to the door. Her hands trembled as she closed and locked it.

"Right, you realize he can cut the door in half?"

She turned, looking at him―and seeing the slight shadow of amusement. "Okay," she said slowly, "Unless you were dropped on your head, I don't understand."

"You're more mysterious than I am."

"How so?"

He gave a light chuckle. "Because we just found out about mutants, and you want to talk about me."

"You're damn right I want to talk about you! You...freak," she said, walking closer to him. "A man, made of steel, almost decapitates you, and you're grinning like an idiot."

"Well, I have my answer! And we're all safe. It's a good day."

"It was almost your last day!" she exclaimed, to which he said nothing. She stopped in front of him, gently placing her hand on his cheek. "You're a wackadoo."

"Well, you know what they say. Once you go wack, you never go back."

"Never again, House," she said, stepping away from him.

"I can read people."

She looked away, suddenly awkward.

"I can tell that what you want and what you're saying are different things. Being here with me―"

"You're the enemy."

"Well, you're supposed to keep your enemies close."

"Yeah. I'm really going to jump your bones because of something people say."

"I've done it for less. Haven't you?"

"You sure know the way to a girl's heart," she said, and picked up the card key and her purse. "Well, turnabout is fair play, so now I'm leaving you in here. Maybe I'll stay out for eleven hours, too," she added, going to the door.

"Really? You're going to leave your phone here?"

"Shoot," she muttered, and went back to where he stood to retrieve her phone. He moved out of her way, and when she turned back to leave the hotel, he was standing by the door, putting his jacket on.

"So what kind of name is Wolverine?" he asked.

"I don't know. A bizarre kind."

"Well, he's bizarre, too."

"True dat," she said, making him smile in embarrassment. Reaching the door, she stopped walking, making him turn in curiosity. Smiling, she showed off the card key before shutting the door between them and leaving House out in the hall. With the intention to open it up almost immediately, she checked her watch and started counting to ten. When she opened it again, he had already left; muttering to herself, she let herself out of the hotel room and hurried after him. "I was trying to trick you," she informed him.

"Why?"

"To make you―I don't know. Scared?"

"Oh," he chuckled, "You're going to have to do a lot better than that."

She sighed, walking alongside him. She said nothing, and the people they passed in the lobby thought she seemed pissed, but they saw her hold the door open for him.

Her heels clicked loudly on the pavement as they crossed the parking lot. "So," she finally said. "No fear, no talking, just..."

"Just me," he said into the silence.

"I'm worried about you."

"Why?"

"52 years of pent-up crap." She shook her head, digging out her car keys. "How have you not burst from the pressure?"

"There isn't any."

She was quiet until they got to the car, speaking to him over the roof. "What diagnosis do you think you would you make for yourself?"

He watched her duck down, only opening his door when hers closed. Sitting down, closing his door and clicking his seatbelt into place, he stared out the window as she began to drive, affected more by the words of the radiant woman beside him than the man of steel, threatening to take off his head, as he wondered what was wrong with himself.