Technicality (general, all characters, PG-13)

"The first of April is the day we remember what we are the other 364 days of the year. "
--Mark Twain

April the First was a typical day for Dr. Gregory House, aside from the fact that it was a commonly forgotten national holiday: and one of his all-time favorites. He came into work extra early so that he could switch the sugar for the coffee pot with ample amounts of salt, so that he could sneak into Wilson’s office by way of the balcony and set each clock in his office an hour fast.

Then, knowing the secret code for Wilson’s computer desktop (Wilson had entrusted this code to him long ago at one time in utmost secrecy, the fool), set his beloved Add/Remove v.100 (a generously free-to-download-at-will software he’d scraped off his own computer via the ’Net that would leave Wilson thinking all his programs had been deleted by the single graceful, absent-minded touch of a button).

It would leave the Oncologist in panic-mode for the rest of the day, no doubt, and leave House all the more chances to steal his lunch and perhaps even lunch money; Wilson might hold a grudge against him forever, but no matter: at least this gave House all the more reason to feel confident his scam would work wonders on loosening the death-grip of Wilson’s painfully blinded faith in all humanity.

Oh, how Greg House loved April Fool’s. It made him feel like a kid again, because even his father---contrary to his usually imperviously strict demeanor---in 1976 chose this day to tune into BBC Radio and listen to astronomer Patrick Moore who convinced his own mother to believe that Pluto, for the first time hovering in back of Jupiter, would create an aligning of these plants so strong it would momentarily leave Earth loosening its hold on gravity.

Greg, then seventeen, had watched from the doorway gaping in absolute awe and with rare admiration of his otherwise distasteful and domineering father who, clearly enjoying himself, accompanied his mother while she jumped up and down simultaneously in their living room. He learned later that they were not the only ones: his mother was one of many other loyal radio listeners claiming that they had experienced a celestial sensation that left them momentarily weightless. (He’d had mixed feelings about trusting her senses ever since.)

Tri-podding himself along as quick as possible, he shirked his way in and out of Wilson’s office just in time to hear the tell-tale sound of a key turning in the lock. Laying his cane on the dividing wall, he thwarted himself over to his own balcony, grinning to himself with a rare moment of complete satisfaction all the way---because he had cunningly added a similar-looking key to Wilson’s chain the night before. (He had managed to do so while waiting for Wilson to come back from the lavatory at their cafeteria dinner table. This gave him ample enough time to sneak back into his own office next door, while Wilson---probably still asleep before his morning coffee---took at least another thirty seconds to puzzle out the problem.)

Moments later he was at the door of the conference room holding a box of donuts, where he nearly stumbled headlong into Chase, who halted at the sight and smell of the delectably alluring box. “Donuts----and you brought them just for us?” Chase studied House with narrowed eyes, as though checking for unsightly crow marks. “House, are you okay?” the young doctor asked with the utmost of care and concern, making House feel strangely giddy inside.

“No. I’m not,” House admitted, “I’ve always been a little south….but this isn’t news to you, Chase. Besides, all geniuses have a touch of mania in them and that’s just fine with me. Take one. Please,” House held out the box in a peace offering. “You all have been so forgiving of my stunt on you all this past week. You guys…”

He shook his head and chuckled almost warmly, as Chase analyzed the box, searching for his donut-of-choice, knowing that House was probably having some mental breakdown of some kind but deciding it best to have a full stomach on that thought first.

“…thinking I had Cancer! Did you forget I’m just your garden-variety junkie looking for the next fix?”

“Like Cameron said,” Chase observed, snatching a jelly donut appreciatively, “you faked Cancer to get high and you fooled every single one of us. A bit early for April Fool’s Day, even if it is you, isn’t it?” He tore off a random slice of donut before spitting it out on the freshly-waxed floor respectively, face shriveled up with infinite disgust, before facing House with resentful eyes. “House---these donuts are more than a day old!” His eyes widened as he noticed mold growing on one side of his donut and House suppressed a chuckle as Chase’s hand flew to his mouth, stifling a groan.

“Actually make that….seven to ten days….Ohhhh, Bullocks, I think I’m going to be sick!” Chase dropped the remaining donut and spun on his feet before dashing down the corridor at breakneck speed.

He did not notice Cameron as she was exiting the elevator, but Cameron noticed Chase running faster than she’d ever seen before---she even briefly wondered if Chase had ever run track. She did not notice the donut on the floor beside House’s feet. With her eyes darting over her shoulder in Chase’s retreating direction, she paused before the door and turned to House, still holding the now closed box of donuts.

“Where’s the fire?” Cameron questioned, looking positively bewildered and perplexed: something that House did not see in her often unless it had to do with private personal matters, which he tended to avoid on a wide scale.

She stepped directly onto the donut and House pretended not to notice as she frowned down at the mush beneath her shoe. "Gross....he must have dropped his breakfast."

House shrugged with indifference. “Who knows with that Aussie….he still thinks you’re nuts about him, right?”

Cameron froze, speechless, staring up darkly at House with an insulted glower, while her boss, seemingly unfazed, continued. “….So, since there’s no fire alarm sounding off as we speak, I would say it’s safe to assume it’s probably all in his head. By the way, look fast, your shoe’s untied….don’t you pay attention to when you’re dressing yourself in the morning? That’s so undignified for a lady.”

Cameron blushed at his words and bent to tie her shoes before she remembered she was wearing her Prada Spring-style sandals. “Grow up, House,” she hissed, stalking past him into the room.

“Too late….I’m already past my prime. You need to loosen up; someone would think you had no childhood at all. You were either too popular for the interesting crowd or not obscure enough to be the butt of someone’s joke,” House prophesied thoughtfully (though Cameron would argue his words the opposite, thoughtless). “Didn’t anyone ever put a whoopee cushion under your butt?”

As Cameron chose to willfully ignore him and feign interest on some miniscule spot on the floor, he sauntered past her without delay adding almost gaily: “And, by the way, Happy All Fool’s Day.” Grinning triumphantly, House trekked his way further the Conference room, where Foreman was about to pour his first cup of coffee of the day. House shuffled absently with some loose papers, collecting them into a single Manila folder, while he heard the slow hiss of sugar (or so Foreman thought) sifting out of the container’s opened mouth.

“My Mama didn’t raise no fool,”Foreman quipped, his back turned to tune out Cameron’s scowling as she slouched with weariness into the first chair she saw, the morning already having exhausted her nearly altogether: only to have it sink like a pothole to the floor.

“What the hell just happened?!” Cameron practically shrieked, starting up out of the seat upon impact, startling both Foreman and Chase, who had at long last returned the Prodigal Son from his visit to the Porcelain God. His face still somewhat ashen and pale from what he could have only considered a nearly near-death encounter, Chase watched with profound wariness as Cameron’s chair sprung back up like a Jack-In-A-Box.

“What the….?” Chase croaked out through garbled words.

“Hey, why was Cuddy going into Wilson’s office this morning?” Foreman asked anyone who would listen. “I thought that was pretty strange….are they dating?”


“No, last time I checked….Anyway, if Cuddy wants a secret lover, what business is it of yours, anyway?” He had simply brushed the comment off, but House felt irked by Foreman’s interest and troubled by this message all the same.

Cameron, meanwhile, inspecting the reversed damage, straightened up slowly with eyes aflame, livid as she glared, cheeks burning, at House: who proceeded to pour himself coffee and look at the sky through the blinds. “He hot-wired the seat,” Cameron elaborated her quietly contained rage through clenched teeth. “Rigged it with a metal cord attached to the lever---you’re such a Bastard!”

“April Fool’s, my dear Cameron.” House sipped his coffee daintily, as Cameron seethed, all the while watching out of the corner of his eye as Foreman, echoing his movements subconsciously, sipped his own Styrofoam cup with conventional delicacy, and automatically gagged.

“Who in the HELL made this shit?!” Foreman sputtered through parched lips as he dumped the abandoned gunk in the nearest trash can, revolted by his own coffee and flushed a deep beet red when he remembered. “Wait…..I made it,” he admitted, looking baffled. “But I’m great at making coffee….It doesn’t make sense---HOUSE!” Foreman roared as he spun round on his heels and glared at his boss with unmitigated fury.

“April Fool’s. Really people,” House drew out a long exaggerated sigh, “can’t you take a little joke?”

“How do you expect us to get down to business if you’re constantly pulling the wool over our eyes?” Foreman tried to reason with him. “This doesn’t look good for you, House,” he added, frowning as he returned to the coffee pot to attempt another cup. “You’re throwing us all off track…..Just like when you let us all believe you had cancer just as an excuse to further abuse some substance.”

All at once their beepers went off, and as Cameron looked down at hers, she frowned, “I don’t know this phone number. The instruction says ‘Sea Mr. Lyons.’ Who the hell is that? A patient? They also spelled ‘see’ wrong. They spelled it ‘S-E-A’.”

House said not a word.

Cameron watched him carefully, but received no clue in return. She was beginning to dread the answer she might find. “No one else knows my beeper number but you and Cuddy, House. Did Cuddy get a new phone, House?”

“Cuddy’s the one who’s calling me,” Foreman said, mouth agape. “This can’t be good,” he muttered, and took off at once for the door.

“Hey, this one’s Cuddy too. Wonder what she wants?” Chase muttered. “I can tell this day is going to drag on and on....” he moaned, mostly to himself, as he headed after Foreman for the hallway. “I really just want to go home…..my eyesight’s blurry and my stomach hurts like hell, no thanks to you, House.”

“That kid is way too sensitive,” House remarked once he and Cameron were alone in the room.

“You’re an Ass-hole, House,” Cameron bit back before she reached for her phone to call the unidentified number. She waited while the phone rang once, twice, three times before someone whose voice she’d never heard before answered. Since she did not know the phone number this was of no surprise, but what he said stunned her speechless:

“Welcome to the Turtleback Zoo in West Orange, New Jersey. We house five hundred different animals of two hundred different species! These include local New Jersey wildlife such as cougars, bison, eagles and wolves. We also have white-tailed deer, elk and sea lions! Take the children on a pony ride or train ride---”

House could barely contain his laughter as he stood there nearly trembling with glee as Cameron promptly flipped the phone shut, nearly trembling herself with rabid rage. “How dare you,” she whispered, before pulling herself up ramrod straight and, stiff on her heels, leaving him to his own devices in the absence of her safely-preserved explosion.

“Victorious,” House, undaunted by her exit, praised himself aloud (after all, who would do so, if it wasn’t he) and, now that he was alone as he had wished, he congratulated himself on a job well done by wheeling at once towards the whiteboard to write the words in fat black marker:

APRIL FOOL’S DAY EVERYONE. THANKS FOR PLAYING.

He had been expecting Cameron’s beeper, but he had been privately surprised at both Chase and Foreman receiving urgent messages from both Cuddy and Wilson simultaneously. Something’s up, he told himself, wary whenever Wilson and Cuddy worked together as one. Since they did not call Cameron, he knew there was probably a good chance that this was something that involved her---perhaps Foreman had complained about Chase and Cameron’s escalating sexual relationship in the workplace---or so he hoped.

Much to his dismay his own beeper sounded next. Glancing down he saw IN MY OFFICE NOW and Cuddy’s number in urgent red.
Tattle-tales, he thought to himself as he turned from the white board and his privacy begrudgingly, and trudged his way to the elevator.

On the way he met Chase, who looked even paler as he exited the elevator door and seemed to stagger into the hallway. House caught the young doctor before he made a nose-dive for the floor. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” Chase insisted, shoving House abrasively out of the way. “You—you better get to Cuddy’s office, House. Something’s really very wrong….She was really acting weird...even for her.” Chase was breathless, and House felt his throat contract with uneasiness at his words. “Foreman’s down there with her.”

“You told her I poisoned you, didn’t you Chase?” House snapped, glowering as Chase attempted to get his bearings.

“Dammit, you and Foreman are babies.”

“Just---get---down there,” Chase managed before pushing past House. “She’s not angry. She’s upset. Really upset, House….She needs you. I need to vomit. Excuse me.” He left House staring after him, as he stumbled his way down the hall towards the men’s room and disappeared.

“Cuddy never needs me,” House muttered to no one but himself, feeling as though he’d stepped into an episode of The Twilight Zone. “I'm positive that it's not that time of the month for her yet...So then what the hell is going on?”

The wait for the elevator to arrive on the first floor was agony, and House dealt with agony every single day---from his leg to his most annoying of patients to his lonely apartment complex, House knew not to fool himself with false hope that his pranks in the conference room would simply be forgotten.

“House, thank God you’re here….” He did not see Foreman but he did see Cuddy---shit!-face blotchy with overflowing tears, her navy blue masecara running with tears shed anew as soon as she saw him come in. It halted him in his tracks; he had never seen Cuddy such a mess. Rarely did she let such emotions show.

“Christ---who died?” House asked as his breath was almost knocked out of him as she threw her arms around his neck and, to his astonishment, began bawling into his shoulder.

At the word ‘died’, Cuddy broke her embrace from him and stood there trembling, staring at him with eyes wide and blank, sending shivers up his spine and striking fear in his heart. “Jesus Cuddy…You better tell me what it is,” he spat out, shocked at how on edge he was. Cuddy’s mouth moved open and shut like a fish out of water before, under his both urgently demanding and baffled gaze, her face altogether crumpled with humiliation and fresh tears as she swept both hands to her face.

“Cuddy….goddammit, will you tell me, what it is?!” Without knowing why, he was shouting. “You’re testing my patience, you’re---” Before he could continue she was gone, running like mad from his shouts for the door and he could hear her heels clicking as she raced down the hall.

He stood in the room unblinking, watching the shadows crawl across the floor, not knowing in the least what to do. He had never seen Lisa Cuddy in such a state. Foreman was nowhere to be seen. Chase….Chase was on sick leave, and Cameron was her usual stubborn self. Wilson---where in the hell was Wilson, when he needed him?

His eyes caught the floor and he saw a crumpled piece of paper, as though someone had tossed it there on purpose. Perhaps Cuddy was having a nervous breakdown? This should be interesting….House thought with wry amusement, but who’s going to sign my paychecks if she ends up in the nuthouse? He picked up the piece of paper and tried to straighten it out, the folds opening to reveal to him the Daily Princetonian's OBITUARY page. House sucked in his breath: Oh shit.

And then he knew he must be dreaming. Which stunk, because he’d have to do his April Fool’s jokes for real all over again when he woke up: because, he knew---as he suddenly felt his legs give way before somehow staggering his way around the desk, before he fell prey to the bottomless hole that was the floor, managing to catch his fall just in time by letting himself fall instead into Cuddy’s chair---he knew this had to be a dream, because if this wasn’t a dream then he wouldn’t be seeing the name JAMES WILSON on the very same page.

This isn’t real, he told himself, as the words swirled before him, his mind playing tricks, the room feeling suddenly very small and the air suddenly feeling very thick. This has got to be a dream……Or maybe I’m just losing my mind….

It wasn’t a dream.

It was all there.

He read on.

James Frederick Wilson

WESTWOOD, NJ---James Frederick Wilson, 37, of 101 Independence Way of Holiday Inn, Room 13, Princeton, NJ, died of unknown causes yesterday evening. Born February 28 1969 in Westwood, NJ, son of late father Lawrence Wilson, a local Spanish teacher and late mother Joy, a nurse. James is survived by one brother, Sean who is estranged from the family and lives out West and another brother, Gregory, who resides closer to him in the Northeast. Third and eldest brother Patrick has been missing since early July 1970; if alive would be a veteran of the Vietnam War.

An Oncologist of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, James Wilson was a Doctor of the highest order. The staff and patients will be forever grateful to have had him on their side. His passion in life was to influence not one but many different types of Cancer in aiding Cancer research and, as a result, participated in extending many lives and, once or twice, even saving a blessed few.

James had once requested to Patrick that his body must be cremated and so has been sent to the Memorial Funeral Directory & Cremation Center on the Athens Road in Princeton.


The paper was shaking by the time he read the last sentence, and his heart was hammering in his chest so fast that his breath was exuding in short strangled spurts and as nausea hit and his palms began to sweat House feared he might be experiencing a heart attack. He felt feint and he felt dizzy, and he clutched his chest as he tried to steady his breathing, but it was of no use. The only thing he could do was rest his head on the desk and tell his mind that if he just shut his eyes for a while it would all go away.

Even as he tried to distance himself from the room thoughts from far away filtered in anyway, nagging him back to reality, at once random and sporadic:

stupid idiot, he knew living in a hotel was dangerous. Anything could happen…

he called you a brother.

unknown causes….
Cancer….
unknown causes….
Auto-immune….
SHIT--Did this mean it was suicide? Was it suicide? Were there signs?...

WHY DIDN’T YOU SEE THE SIGNS!?!?!

he died alone

Oh, God.

You don’t believe in God, you Idiot! Snap out of it!
I can’t. My best friend is probably being cremated as we speak.

Shit---He Died ALONE

Why weren’t you there?

Why are you never there?

He’s always there for you.

“House?”
It was Cameron, standing at the precipice of a large black hole, ready to suck him in, peering at him with concern.

“Go away.”

“House?”

“GO AWAY!”

“You okay?”

“Do I LOOK OKAY?!” he snapped his face upright with a roar, silencing her with his eyes. She halted in the doorway. All anger had seemed to recede as she saw the heartache in his eyes and she drew (either bravely or stupidly) nearer, however with wise caution keeping a steady distance, her voice building with an increasing alarm: “Oh my God House...Were you crying?”

The question irked him to the extreme. “I NEVER CRY. Now GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE before I do something with this cane that I’ll regret!” he barked, raising the cane like a pistol and causing her to jump and blow away like a leaf.

She didn’t bother to shut the door as she left. Just as good---just as good---it gave him something to do, something to distract himself by what he had just learned.

Even as he broke for the door to lock himself in he saw the image of Wilson, face blue and void of blood circulation, facedown on the ragged carpet of his Hotel room while people in the rooms on either side of him ordered Eggs Benedict and Caviar and Gourmet coffee for breakfast. The vision left bile creeping up his throat and struggle though he might he could not force it down---he reeled to the right and gagged regurgitated coffee grounds on Lisa Cuddy’s brand-new carpet.

The jarring, putrid smell of acid scorching his nostrils and burning his tongue, he pressed his face to the floor (in what would have seemed to anyone else a bow to a higher power) as he tried to will the nausea in his gut to go away. He could still smell the remains of his breakfast mixed with the equally overwhelming smell of newly furnished rug. Before anyone found him in such a humiliating state, House struggled to regain his composure.

Then a thought occurred to him that forced a strangled, yet muffled cry from his lips:

Damn you, Jimmy, you wouldn’t even let us say goodbye!

He pounded the floor with his fists before somehow managing to shove himself up to a weak-kneed but still standing position. He found it difficult to focus on his surroundings; when he grabbed for his cane, he knocked it over, twice—swore, twice---and bent to get it with the balance of a drunk.

He did not believe in God in general but he chose to believe in God now. If this is some cruel idea of a joke….Shame on You, God. Shame on You.

He had to be angry at somebody. He couldn’t be angry at Wilson. He already disliked himself.

You don’t like yourself….but you do admire yourself.

He started at the far--away words, as though he’d seen a ghost. Where had he
heard those words before? He knew it wasn’t his own mind that had spoken it to him. They were too lucid. They were too sure.

His leg throbbed angrily, punishing him for having left his friend---perhaps his only one true friend---to rot away in a lonely hotel room, to not have the decency to insist Wilson stay with him. Wilson….He felt as though he were choking on his shame, on his regret. It was too foreign for him to accept yet. It was just too damn real.

House.

He did not remove his hands from his face as he sat beneath the safety of Cuddy’s desktop: perhaps the only thing that still reminded him he was here, he was real, he was human; perhaps the only thing that still connected him to this world.

“Go away God,” he muttered, his voice sounding strangely far away. “Just go away…Haven’t you challenged me enough?”

House, it’s me. It’s Wilson, you're not dreaming, I'm here and I'm OK.

“Nothing’s OK. Nothing will ever be OK again.”

Goddammit, House, will you please just open your eyes!

“OK God….You win.” He removed his hands gradually away from his face, feeling disheveled; defeated; beaten. If God wanted him now, he had his chance. He had nothing left to loose, for he had lost everything that mattered to him already.

And then he knew he was dreaming, because he was staring at a ghost.

“What the f---“ He inhaled sharply on the last word, sure he was seeing an angel or a saint.

There, standing above him, was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen---a man of average height, short chestnut hair, dark hazel eyes, high cheekbones that tugged at the corners of a mischievous, but also warm, smile.

I’ve died and gone to Hell. This was the only thing at that moment that made sense to Gregory House, for here

was a man come back from the dead.

“I’m losing it,” he muttered, sensing his chest contracting as it tightened with horror. “Oh, my God, I’m losing it….”

“You’re not losing it.” James Wilson rested a gentle grip on House, but House flinched even as the fingertips grazed his shoulder. He stared at Wilson’s hand as though it were hot iron. “House….Earth to House! It’s OK House,” Wilson continued, with too much calm. “It’s really me.”

“No,” House muttered, trying to conceal the rising rush of panic that had gripped his heart as he shook his head vigorously. “You’re my mind playing tricks on me….I just read your obituary,” House bit the words harshly, though he still half-whispered the words as though afraid to say them aloud. He was mortified as his voice shook in spite of itself. “You’re dead, Wilson. You shouldn’t be here. Or I shouldn’t be seeing you. Either way it’s wrong. God doesn’t make mistakes so one of his sentries must have screwed up.”

“I’m friends with someone on the Editorial Board of the Daily Princetonian, House.” Wilson’s Ghost spoke so matter-of-factly that House was momentarily disoriented (more so than he was already). He grinned at him manically, kneeling to face House eye-to-eye in sobered confession. “She and I thought it would be a great joke to pull….especially after you making us think you had Cancer. Everyone agreed---the ultimate Joke.”

Laughter at his own expense at memories he did not share behind closed doors.

“Even Lisa was in on it,” Wilson’s Ghost continued. “She really should do stage, I think….what a performance! What about that smeared mascara!” Wilson’s Ghost laughed heartily

House gawked blankly, his stupefied mind lost in comprehension and the act of shutting down in the face of insane grief. The words were nothing but a jumble in his mind, and fight though he try to make heads or tails of them, he could not succeed.

“Gotcha House. April Fool’s!”

House gasped as though the words were a punch in the stomach.

He sucked in his breath so fast he was lightheaded as it all suddenly clicked into place, staring at Wilson---no, Wilson’s Ghost---no, Wilson---and then flinching as though he had been slapped. He glanced away for several seconds before returning Wilson’s triumphant smile with a cold and benevolent glare. “You Moron,” House hissed, when his lips could move again on their own. “You---you---Imbecile!”

He struggled to peel himself up off the floor, leaning onto his cane for support for he knew from his friend he’d get none. He teetered upon standing, feeling as though he were drunk.

Wilson, alarmed, reached to assist, but House blocked him with his free hand, barring him from all further contact. Wilson halted, suddenly seeming aware that he had taken it a step too far. There had always been pranks and jokes pulled between them, but Wilson had never seen House so affected. He had not expected House would have been so easily convinced. House, after all, read the tabloids every day.

“Ok…You’re pissed,” Wilson reasoned, commanding himself to delay his own victory dance and nodded with understanding. “Pretty different when you’re at the other end of a joke, isn’t it?” Wilson stopped to consider something reflectively. “Wow, you're more of a perfectionist than I thought, House...you really don’t like losing, do you?”

“You’re right, I don’t!” House snapped, stopping at once in his tracks and whirling about to face his betrayer. “I don’t like the thought of losing someone who thinks of me as a brother.” He froze when he realized he’d said too much, and he wobbled slightly on his feet, fearing another fall---and this time in Wilson’s presence.

“Oh, Greg…” Wilson’s voice was raw with emotion and etched with sympathy, and he hated it. “Greg, we didn’t mean to…I didn’t mean to---to---”

House could bear to hear no more.

Before he lost his cool completely, he swung about immediately to shield his face from Wilson’s eyes, turning his back on his friend who had turned his back on him: a friend who he’d thought had at least the nerve to know he was important.

“Just get the hell out of my sight, Wilson.”

“House---” Wilson, now desperate for common ground, was searching for straws and, try though he might, knew he was coming up nil.

“You disgust me.” House, disgusted with himself for making such a big deal of such a stupid and tedious joke (it did seem different, he knew now, when you were at the butt of it) shoved himself towards the doorway. “I just hope you and Lisa do get yourselves cremated,” he snarled over his shoulder, “because you don’t deserve anyone to weep over your tombstone.”

He left Wilson standing bereft of instant atonement in the wake of thoughtless trickery.

In the hallway he saw Cuddy (fully recovered, he noticed with sheer disdain). At first his gut instinct was to ignore her, but then the scream of fury took over and he couldn’t keep the lid on tight enough before it popped.

“All better I see,” he sneered in her direction, as she came to a guilt-trodden stop at his side and blinked him into focus, a quiet understanding passing between them.

“It was his idea,” she offered under his hardening and questioning gaze, knowing as soon as the words left her mouth it was a pretty lame excuse.

“Hey---why didn’t they reserve a spot for you in the Obits?” he blurted, loud enough for the lobby to hear, “or is it because those snobby Princeton Preppers don’t care much for the She-devil in Disguise?”

“House---”

“I’m going home.” He headed for the door.

Despite his urgent need for privacy, his determined boss followed. “We all thought you’d laugh. We thought you’d be impressed, House: I mean, you’ve gotta admit, it’s a damn good joke! You pulled it off yourself with flying colors a week or so ago….we all forgave you….I didn’t fire you…it’s all water under the bridge---no big deal,” Cuddy insisted, but even she heard the hesitation in her voice.

He was not in the least convinced. “I’m an addict,” House growled dangerously, closing in on her for the kill, his voice turning conspiratorial as Cuddy’s face burned with humiliation at his tone. “Or, at least, that's everyone's theory...What’s Wilson’s excuse?!”

Cuddy stared at the ground, mute, as he prattled onward.

“Unlike I didn’t pretend I had Cancer so you guys could get a good laugh at my expense….I didn’t even want anyone to know. It wasn’t supposed to leak, but, since it’s me, everyone wants to know everything about what I do….they can’t just assume it’s because there’s no cure for my pain and that the Vicodin, by itself, just isn’t enough…and no one will prescribe anything legally in addition to it.”

His leg screamed at him for a pill, and he stabbed the floor with the butt-end of his cane, causing Cuddy to jump, then stare at him with redemption-seeking, softly demanding and imploring eyes.

He could not bare the weight of her silent request, and so he shuffled in response down the hall in silence.

Cuddy remained where she was. On any other day she would have stopped him, but, on this day, she did not.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Later that day, around one in the afternoon, he received a phone call. It was Wilson. This was around the time of day that they usually did lunch.

“I liked the Add/Remove trick on my desktop. Very first-rate, House….very high tech. Very…well….very you. You really had me going there…I thought I’d lost all my patients’ histories, financial data, everything, what have you. You should have seen my face when I realized it was all your doing. You are the master---”

“Wilson, shut up.” House slammed the phone down on the receiver and returned to his show and his glass of wine.

No sooner had he taken another sip of Syrah that the phone rang again. He snatched the phone from its cradle and barked, “Wilson, you better have a good reason for bothering me. I have taken a personal day and as you know, I don’t do personal.”

“You deserve a personal day, House. You couldn’t be more in the right,” Wilson replied with a disconcerting confidence that positively turned his stomach. “I didn’t think that my joke on you would throw you for such a loop. I really didn’t….In fact…I have to confess, I even impressed myself.”

“Well, good for you.” House felt the bile returning, but he assumed it was just tannin from the liquor. “You can lead the others in a parade at my expense too, if you so wish. Tell the staff that it’s ‘Let’s Pull One on Greg Day’ and I’ll wait here at home and see how many prank calls I get.”

“Oh, House, stop sulking!” Wilson’s annoyance slapped him through the receiver even as he sat on the couch gulping wine. “You’re really a bore when you’re feeling sorry for yourself, you know that? Get your head out of the gutter and play along!”

“You’re the one that’s living with his head in the gutter if you think I’m impressed by your little stunt. You pull that crap again,” House heard himself warn, “and you’re in search of a new best friend to annoy.”

“What can I do to make it up to you?” Wilson persisted. “Would you like your own Obits page next week?”

“Give me a break. I’ve already died once. I was dead for a whole minute. The infarction....Remember?”

“I remember, House.” Wilson’s tone had considerably softened. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not dead now,” he muttered, loathing the urge to remember the past. “Stop apologizing for your own fake death and leave me alone so I can do some living.”

“If it’s any consolation,” Wilson said instead, “Chase says he won’t touch another donut as long as he’s alive.”

“Thanks….big help. I can rest assured and finally sleep at night knowing that Chase won’t be poisoned by any bad donuts. You’re a piece of work, Wilson. Let’s call it a day, shall we?”

“I’ve got patients until five,” Wilson remarked abruptly, though House could not discern why.

“Well that’s good. What would they do without you,” House ad-libbed, sensing a change in the weather: “saving the world with your passion for Cancer research.” Somehow he could not stay angry, knowing that Wilson was where he needed to be.

An awkward silence followed. “Didn’t know you were at all capable of being sentimental, House,” Wilson noted. “It’s nice to see this side of you.”

“Side affect of a bad trip on bad donuts,” House allotted---remembering he had, without thinking, had a bite of donut

earlier in the week as one morning he stood half-asleep in his kitchen half-awake before realizing that they had mold on them himself. “It’ll pass,” he added, more than a little awake now, but glad the conversation was nearing its end.

He could hear the smile on Wilson's face through the phone lines. “Talk to you tomorrow, House?” his friend proposed a toast to make amends.

Heads or tails? Heads I forgive him, tails I don't. House called tails and flipped a coin he snatched from the coffee table. It spun on its axis and rested. Gregory House let out a disparaging sigh as he took a short sip of wine and shook himself out another Vicodin. “Talk to you tomorrow, Wilson.”

END[/B][B]