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House Hunter
by gena
House went over his mental checklist again, wanting to be thorough;
Dodge Cuddy, check.
Torment Chase, done.
Antagonize Foreman, yessirree.
Confuse Cameron, not sure, got confused himself.
House shook his head, and drew a little heart next to Cameron's name. She still liked him, after everything she still thought he liked her. He did, just not - like that. He placed initials inside the heart - A.C. then G.H. Unhappy with the look of it, the "G" slanting across the page with a whimsical limp he didn't like, he crossed it out. Next he tried J.W. but a strange pressure in his chest made him scratch it out so quickly he ripped a tiny hole in the paper. Finally he settled on A.C + R.C. more for the symmetry than anything else.
House glanced at his watch. 3:15, another hour and forty-five minutes before he could haul his ass home and veg in front of his TV. His mother had always told him that idle hands were the devil's tools so keeping that firmly in mind and because the battery in his GameBoy had gone dead, he turned the paper over and began to write.
Of eyes of brown beneath a furrowed brow...
Twenty minutes later, musing over the poem he'd written, House decided that if idle hands were the devil's tools then bored hands must be the devil's prison breaking accomplices. Somehow they had helped his inner poet escape from a closely guarded cell in the subbasement of his psyche, eluded a brace of machinegun toting mental guards and dash across the blank whiteness of his paper. He hadn't meant to write poetry, god it wasn't tenth grade Composition and he wasn't trying to impress Jenny Peters anymore. It took more than sensitivity to impress Jenny anyway, more like a 1976 Camero with a big honkin' 8 track player. He hadn't had either but sensitivity was easier to fake than a hot car. Damn, if Jenny could only see him now crusin' in his hot cherry red `vette. Oh, well, water under the bridge now, but still, at the time, he would have rather it been sex under the bleachers.
House shook away the cobwebs of memory and regarded the phalanx of words, the image they evoked behind his narrowed eyes bringing a faint smile to his lips. In a moment of pure insanity he drew another heart, one slightly larger than the first and inside he carefully printed J.W. then with a wicked flourish added G.H.
"Uh, Dr. House?" Cameron poked her head into his office, glasses perched on her nose and a thick file in her hands. "This is the file on Bender."
"Bender? I haven't been on a bender in months," House said, scowling in her general direction as he shuffled all evidence of his momentary lapse of bitterness and cynicism out of sight , "unless you want to count last weekend but I can't remember it and I thought you were lady enough not to bring it up."
Cameron gave him her recently perfected eye roll, he suspected she'd rented it from Chase since he was no longer playing for points, and then tossed caution to the wind and threw in a long suffering sigh. On his mental scorecard House gave her a five for execution then generously added two points for not popping buttons on her vest with that deep sigh. "Kyle isn't responding to the docosanol," she said, placing the file on his desk and leafing through several pages, "in fact he's developed this rash." Cameron picked out a photo and handed it to House. "His white cell count is down, he had a seizure and he showing symptoms comparable to vasculitis. I -"
Whatever else she said was said to the phrenology head and the topography of its skull indicated it didn't care. House didn't care either and maybe his skull would have indicated that as well but at the moment it was attacked to his body and that was limping quickly down the hallway towards the hospital room of Kyle Bender. House didn't know he was heading towards Kyle Bender's room, in fact he'd been calling the kid Kurt for three days. But he knew he was heading towards the young man who he'd just figured out was suffering from Bexartene Syndrome, names were never important. He'd once suggested to Cameron that they just number patients in greasepaint but that idea hadn't gone over well. In fact Britney Spear's reality show, the man-thong and Bennifer had all gone over better. Still, House didn't dwell on the mistakes of lesser mortals, he was a doctor after all, everyday he held the most precious and fragile of gifts in the palm of his hand. So after a quick whiz, House continued on to Kurt/Kyle's room and the business of saving his idiotic hide.
In was rough, House would never admit it because that was just the kind of doctor he was, but in a heroic fight, single-handed, struggling against desperate odds, overcoming his own physical limitations, and plunging ahead despite the objections of illiterate and superstitious hicks all the way from the backwoods of St. Louis, Mo, he saved Kurt/Kyle's miserable life. Actually he told the kid to stop huffing glue in his parent's dusty attic and to wash his hands after giving the family dog a bath with flea soap. It took five minutes, but time was even less important than names and so filled with the fires of righteous and the cigarette lighter of satisfaction, House made his way back to his office. The clock told him he had an hour and a half to go until 5PM and freedom. Oh well, back to more important matters- self amusement.
House propped his cane against his desk and lowered himself into his chair with a sigh. He took a moment to savor the simple pleasure of having a job he was not only amazing at, but that provided him with enough disposable income to buy expensive and fun toys, and not take up to much of his valuable time. Life was good. Or so he thought until he went to pick up the incriminating paper containing evidence of his sentimentality. Then life went from good to crap in .001 milliseconds. What the -? House shoved papers aside, rifling through the massive amount of unwanted correspondence and old Star Magazines scattered across his desk, tipping over his pen holder, knocking his gigantic ball onto the floor and coming up empty handed. In a flash the image of Cameron and her file popped into his brain, followed closely by a Vicodin popping quickly into his mouth.
"Shit," House hissed. He had to get that damn poem. If anyone found it - he didn't want to think about that and suppressed the horror of such a thought by picturing Vogler naked. And doing it with Cuddy. While she conducted a board meeting where Wilson sat watching and munching on a bagel. Damn, truth be told, it wasn't working, it was just kind of turning him on. "Foreman! Chase!" House bellowed and waited for his two minions to scurry into the office. They did, eventually. Chase looked as if he'd just woken up and Foreman's usual scowl decorated his face. House considered spinning some of his usual bullshit but desperate times called for desperate measures. "Have you seen Cameron?" He asked.
The younger doctors exchanged a skeptical look, clearly figuring House's question for one of his bizarre and slightly frightening conversational gambits. It was Chase, the most senior of his underlings who finally answered. He shook his head. House glared, laser blue eyes narrowing as if he might slice the Australian's cranium open with only that sharp gaze. "No," Chase said hastily. "She said she needed to drop a file off in radiology." Scowling darkly, Foreman nodded agreement.
"Did she have the," he waved a hand vaguely, "file with her?" Chase and Foreman exchanged another look, clearly confused by his confusion. "Okay, yes, we've established she was dropping a file off but was it the file she brought in here earlier?"
"Uh," Chase began but Foreman answered. "She had the file with her that she had been working on. The Bender kid, remember?" His tone was that a horse whisperer might use to calm a skittish stallion and House could see his intelligent brown eyes sweeping over the mess he'd made, putting two and two together and coming up with House has finally cracked under the strain and a few too many drugs. "Do you need anything Dr. House? Could we call Dr. Wilson for you?"
"No!" God, the last thing he wanted was Wilson rummaging around in his guilty conscious. "No," House repeated, affecting as much calm as gut-clenching fear would allow. "I'll just head down to radiology myself." He snatched up his cane and headed for the door, feeling their eyes boring into his back all the way. When he glanced over his shoulder Chase and Foreman gave him small, reassuring waves. Shit. House quickened his steps until he was nearly pole vaulting along on his cane. He took the elevator down to the second floor, muttering to himself about the appalling lack of reliable help, how no one could be trusted, and the fact that he should never give into any Romantic feeling ever again and just stick to cyberporn. The priest riding down with him begged to differ but House "accidentally" cracked him on the shin with his cane and that shut him up - except for a string of Hail Marys that to more sensitive ears might have sounded like curses. House supposed he'd have to get in touch with the Little Sisters of Copper Cookware again and find out what the punishment was for whacking a priest - or maybe he should talk to Bill Arnello, whacking was his line of work, after all.
Forgetting about purgatory for a moment, House pushed open the door to Radiology. Several technicians looked up at his arrival then quickly found pressing business on the other side of the lab, the smarter ones found pressing business on the other side of the hospital. "Hey," House caught one of the fleeing techs by the arm. "You seen Dr. Cameron?" The guy stared blankly at House. "Young, pretty, favors pointy shoes and tight vests."
"Oh, her!"
House and the tech shared a communal moment of guy-ness before House remembered he hated everyone including insubordinate lab techs. "Yeah, her. Now, was she here or is that question too much for someone with limited social skills and bad fashion sense." The tech looked down at his regulation white coat, pressed khakis and nice leather shoes. "Come on, Carson, just answer the question."
"S-she was but she l-left."
House sighed. Knowing he'd regret it but driven to ask anyway, he said, "And the file?"
"S-she took it to Neurology."
"Great," House murmured. "I can get my head examined while I'm there." He stormed off with as much storm as someone hampered by a bum leg could. Neurology was up one floor from Diagnostic Medicine. This time when he got on the elevator House made sure it was clear of all spiritual liaisons, and punched the button with his cane. Two floors later he reached the Neurology department which was appropriate because a Muzak rendition of You Are My Sunshine in the confines of the elevator had left him with a raging headache and slight suicidal tendencies. "Hey," he shouted before anyone could escape from the room. "I'm looking for Dr. Cameron." Pulling his wallet from his back pocket House waved a pair of twenties. "Forty bucks to whoever tells me where she is."
"I'll take your money." House jerked his head around to stare at Allison Cameron. She gave him a smile and plucked the money from his hand with a quiet, "thanks."
"Okay," House said, staring sourly as she pocketed his money. "Now, hand over the file."
"The Bender file?"
"Yes. I need to tidy my notes, document my findings and correct my spelling," House told her. "You know how dedicated I am. I always say the job isn't over `til the paperwork is done."
"You only say that when you're heading for the restroom," Cameron said.
"Works for all situations, really. Now, the file." He held out his hand but Cameron merely looked at it.
"Well, there was that abnormality in the white cell count," she explained. "I gave the file to Dr. Wilson to look over. Dr. House? Are you alright?"
House could actually feel the blood draining from his face. He had a fleeting hope that it might cause him to pass out, stumble backward into the Neurology department and perish in some kind of freak centrifuge accident. He didn't. Pulling himself together House manfully stifled a whimper and put on a brave face. "Do you have a razor blade?"
"What?"
"Nothing, nothing," House mumbled and began to limp back towards the elevator.
"Where are you going?" Cameron asked.
"The kitchen," House said without turning. "I need to see if they use gas ovens." He didn't go to the kitchen. He did check out the supply closet but couldn't figure out how he could climb up onto a chair even if he could get the rope around the overhead support. In the end there was nothing else he could do - House made a hasty attempt to leave without being caught by his best friend. He had a thousand dollars in cash, more in the bank, his passport was in his desk at home and Canada was only a couple of tanks of gasoline away. Yeah, he could make it out of the country if he could get out of the building. House waited for the elevator doors to open then, checking to see if the coast was clear, hobbled out and plastered himself against the wall. Inching carefully along, shooting looks in all directions he was almost to his office when -
"House!"
Busted. James Wilson stepped into view, hands planted firmly on his hips, and the damn incriminating piece of paper dangling from his fingers. "Wilson," House greeted, brushing past him in a manner he hoped said I don't have time for games, I'm saving lives here or at least I'm a chickenshit so please don't say anything about the you-know-what.
"Cameron gave me the Bender file to read over," Wilson said following House into his office. House glared at him but realized that obviously Wilson wasn't good at reading non-verbal cues.
"I don't have time for games," he snapped, "I'm saving lives here."
"I thought you were just going home," Wilson said.
"Oh, that shows how much you know," House said. He turned his back on Wilson, covertly stuffing his things into his bag and working out how he could sneak passed someone standing only three feet away. Some kind of Klingon Stealth Mind Trick would work, but he didn't know any.
"So, the Bender kid isn't on the road to recovery?"
"Not just any old road," House scoffed, "it's more like the freeway."
"Kinda like you?" Wilson stepped even closer, his heat reaching across the few inches separating them and seeming to burn House were he stood. "You're in an awful hurry tonight. Hot date?"
"Yeah, cost me five bills," House lied. Wilson's hand closed on his arm, freezing House in place as if his heat had suddenly turned to ice. House finally looked up and nearly toppled over into the deep brown eyes boring into his. A brain full of mush and trousers full of much stiffer stuff, House couldn't think of a single thing to say. Fortunately Wilson could.
"Of eyes of brown beneath a furrowed brow
Kindness swims within these stirred waters
You look at me and I see the shore
My beach, my land is the heart within your chest.
I drifted in cold waters, awash in shame.
I searched the azure skies in vain
Only to discover the earthy shade of love
There within those deep brown eyes.
Love is not a harbor for those drowning in pain,
It is but a beach, a chance to rest
But if there is such a place, a paradise undiscovered
I will leave the sea, wading back to that sandy brown shore
- where I am safe."
"Boy is my face red," House whispered. "You didn't get your hopes up, did you, because I wrote that about Foreman. "
"Liar," Wilson said quietly. He stared at House for a long moment, the dim light making his eyes much darker, almost black. A strange ache built in House's chest and he found himself wishing Wilson would give him back the poem so he could add a line about the unreadable depths he knew by heart. Instead he shook his head.
"I never lie." Wilson's serious expression faded, replaced by one of sadness. House sucked in a breath, pain flaring from far deeper than his damaged leg. "But sometimes I stretch the truth out of shape," he admitted. He darted a look towards the hallway before leaning in and planting a chaste kiss on Wilson's mouth.
"Take me home with you," Wilson asked. "Read this to me and tell me I can be what you need, what you want, what will make you happy." He reached out, tentative but determined and grasped House's shoulder. It felt like a lifeline, one House had known would save him from drowning but had never really hoped would be tossed in his direction.
"You're a married man," House reminded him, needing to test the water, to see if they would sink or swim.
"I won't be by the time I move in with you."
House blinked at him, the implications making his heart do funny things inside his chest. Outwardly he dredged up a scowl, "I'm not doing the cooking and cleaning all the time and you better take me places."
"The bedroom will have to do," Wilson said.
"Okay." Grabbing his bag, House stuffed the errant poem into it and slung it over his shoulder. He looked over at Wilson and was startled once again by the silent solidness his friend radiated. Here was the shore, the earth, the one place House knew he could turn to and never be disappointed.
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of Fox Television, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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