Arureos (Greek for Rat) (PG)
Posted to hw_fest and house_wilson
Title: Arureos (Greek for Rat)
Author (mostly, see below): Dee Laundry
Opening Scene Written by: nightdog_writes
General Rat Knowledge and Plotting Prompts: fallen_arazil
Epilogue Concept and Beta: daisylily
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: PG
Prompt: 166 of hw_fest. “Wilson gets attached to Steve McQueen during House’s hospitalization and is loathe to admit it and/or return said rat.”
Notes: Set after episode 3-10 (Merry Little Christmas); spoilers up to that point. Assumes that not too long thereafter, House goes into inpatient rehab for eight weeks.
Interesting Rat Fact: from http://www.sciencenews.org/articles/20010728/fob9.asp: Researchers have recorded chirps that laboratory rats give as they wrestle with each other. Rats also chirp before receiving morphine or having sex. Researchers interpret the sound as indicating “the rat expects something rewarding.”
The apology hung in the air between them.
House stared at the floor. Wilson stared out at the balcony. The silence was deafening.
“So -” House started, and had to stop to clear his throat. “I need you to stay in my apartment while I’m in rehab.”
That got Wilson’s attention; his head snapped around and he looked at House.
“House.” Wilson’s voice was flat, devoid of tone. “My life is in ruins. I’ve got unpaid bills and collectors calling. My credit is shot. Julie’s starting legal action to garnish my wages. It could take years to rebuild my practice. It’s a funny thing about patients - when you hand them off to other doctors, they tend not to come back.”
Leaning back in his chair, he rubbed one hand over his eyes. “And you’re the cause of all this. All because I wouldn’t prescribe Vicodin for a pain I didn’t believe was there.” He glared at House, his dark hawk-eyes hooded and unreadable. “Give me one good reason I should do this.”
House didn’t say, “Because you left me to die on my living room floor.” They both knew that had been the right thing to do. It indebted House to Wilson, not Wilson to House.
He swallowed and couldn’t meet Wilson’s eyes.
“Stv Mkeen,” he mumbled.
Wilson blinked.
“What?”
House grimaced. “Steve McQueen,” he said. Seeing Wilson’s expression of disbelief, he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Somebody has to take care of him for two months.”
Wilson gaped at him.
“You want me to take care of your rat.” He paused. “You want me to take care of your rat.”
“Yes,” House snapped. “Forget it. Forget I asked. I’ll turn him loose. Give him to the animal shelter.” He looked at Wilson. Wilson’s eyebrows were drawing together and he was frowning. “Donate him to the hospital,” House said, watching for Wilson’s reaction. “The lab.”
“No,” Wilson said, and House drew a small breath of relief. “No, keep him. I’ll take care of him.”
House nodded. Wilson would be back in his apartment, living there, getting used to it. When he got back in two months, maybe Wilson would stay.
A man could hope, couldn’t he?
***
Wilson threw his briefcase on the couch before shrugging out of his coat. That went onto the couch as well, instead of in the closet; he was just that exhausted. The two hours he’d taken out of the middle of his day to meet with his lawyer (pre-nup was holding; thankfully, Julie’s legal action was as laughable to the legal system as it had been to him) and accountant (the snarled knot from his frozen finances was slowly, slowly getting untangled) had played hell with his schedule. Two hours off had meant over four hours of catch-up, and now it was past ten.
He might have headed straight for bed if he hadn’t heard the wheel in the rat’s cage squeaking at a furious rhythm.
“Hi, Steve,” he called out as he headed for the kitchen cabinet that held the rat food. Pulling the bag out, he shook it a bit and was dismayed to hear it almost empty. Where did one buy LabDiet rat food? Pet store? Internet? He’d figure it out tomorrow.
Crossing to Steve’s cage, he grumbled, “Would’ve been nice for your owner to leave me some instructions.” Not that taking care of a rat was that difficult, but still, Wilson liked to do things right. Not to mention that Steve seemed to be the only living creature House cared about any more, and if he caught the damn plague or something, House’d take it out of Wilson’s hide.
Wilson noticed Steve looking at him intently, and he tried to smile. “I guess it’s not your fault House hasn’t called since he left, is it?”
The rat’s whiskers twitched, and he scrabbled against the side of the cage. “Oh, right, food.” Wilson eased the food dish out of the cage and poured in half the amount remaining in the bag. As soon as he put the dish back, Steve leapt for the food and started devouring.
“Aren’t you just your Daddy’s boy?” Wilson sighed.
He took a look at the couch - the evil, spine-twisting couch - and shook his head. No way. He’d been sleeping there for the past two weeks, out of some misguided notion of proper guest etiquette, but he could never really get a full good night’s sleep on it. Tonight he was bone-weary, and the couch was covered in stuff (stuff he’d just put there, but who was counting?), and there were clean sheets on the bed, and he was going to take it.
“Good night, Steve,” he murmured as he stumbled down the hall, deliberately not thinking.
The next morning, he grabbed House’s computer and hit the Internet. He couldn’t find anywhere to order LabDiet-brand rat food, but he did discover the company’s main clients were clinical laboratories, which meant House was probably swiping it. Nice. He ordered a different brand that looked reasonable, with rush delivery, which quadrupled the price of the food. It was still less than the hundred-dollar hoagie, so he chalked it up to his own lack of planning and headed to work.
***
House called for the first time a week later. His “hello” sounded disgustingly chipper, and Wilson felt extremely sullen. Maybe they were yin and yang, he thought, and only had a set amount of happiness to share amongst the two of them. God, that was a depressing idea.
“How’s my boy?” House asked cheerfully.
“Your boy?” Wilson snarled. “As in servant, or whipping?”
The line went silent for a moment. “As in Steve, my pet rat.”
“Oh.” The anger dissipated but the sullenness stayed behind. “He’s fine. Doing rat things, dreaming rat dreams, eating rat food. Speaking of which, his food ran out, so I bought some on the Internet.”
“You got lab blocks, right?”
“Was that the brand name you had? I thought it was LabDiet, which I couldn’t find retailed on the web.”
“Lab blocks is the type; it’s the most nutritionally complete and healthy for rats.”
“You eat like crap but the rat’s nutrition has to be perfect?”
“What can I say - I’m a sucker for a pretty face.” House paused again, as if something had struck a nerve. Wilson was uncertain what that thing could be, but before he could ask, House continued.
“Call Paul down in the research lab, and he’ll hook you up with the right stuff. Keep it quiet, though; he’s not supposed to be doling out the good shit to everyone who strolls by.”
“Am I going to get busted by the Feds for this?”
“God, you’re in a pissy mood. You sound like the crank-monsters around here. I mean that they’re cranky, not that they’re on crank. Although come to think of it, the ex-speed freaks are the most irritable. Except for me, of course, but then I’m irritable whether I’m taking drugs or not.”
Wilson thought of House’s leg and felt his concern surfacing. “What do they have you on for the pain?”
“What do you care? You’re not writing the scrips and I’m not forging them, and that should be good enough for you. I gotta go; it’s a public phone. Take care.” Another pause, and then, “Of Steve.” The line went dead.
Wilson hung up the phone and placed it carefully on the table in lieu of throwing it against the wall. He decided to change Steve’s water, just to have a purposeful but low-complexity task. As he reached in the cage to take the bottle, he felt whiskers brush against his hand. He grabbed the bottle and refilled it, thinking about yin, yang, pills, Paul the dealer, temptation leading everyone into evil, and tactile sensation. Tactile, deriving from the same Latin as tangible. If you can feel it, it’s real.
He turned off the tap just as the water threatened to overflow the bottle. After carefully reaffixing the bottle in Steve’s cage, Wilson looked down at him. For the first time, he picked up the rat and brought him close to his chest.
Steve wriggled slightly and then settled down into his shirt. Wilson carefully cradled him and sat on the couch. When Steve stayed relaxed, Wilson began to relax as well, slowly and gently stroking the rat's silky fur.
***
As Wilson’s life settled down, he found himself settling down. The low-level anxiety that had trembled under his skin quieted; the intermittent heavy twinge in his chest was gone. He had more energy, moved more, and lost a couple of unlamented pounds.
It was all because of the resolution of his legal and financial issues, and the return of his patients. It wasn’t because he was petting, cuddling, and coddling a rat every day. Come on, it wasn’t even a real pet rat - it was a wild rat who’d been stupid enough to get caught. Who’d get attached to a creature like that?
And it wasn’t because each night he felt like he was coming home in a way he hadn’t felt in years. This wasn’t even his place; he was just house-sitting (House-house-sitting). Sure, he’d taken over half the bedroom closet and a drawer in the dresser. Sure, he’d pulled his good knives, kitchen gadgets, and pans out of storage, and had fully stocked the spice rack. Didn’t mean this was anything more than another way station in his life. It wasn’t home.
Despite all evidence to the contrary.
***
House’s second call from rehab was a Thursday evening, when he’d been gone almost six weeks (forty days exactly, not that Wilson was counting).
House sounded less chipper than he had on the first call. Not sad, or angry, just - more like himself. Wilson was feeling quite calm. It could have been due to the rat snoozing on his chest, but probably wasn’t.
“My warden says -”
“Warden?”
“Counselor, addiction specialist, drug buddy, whatever. He says I can’t graduate from this program - like I’m getting a frigging Ph.D. in not taking drugs - until I have a ‘loved one’ come in at least once and do family therapy. I asked him if we could just average my count of family therapy sessions with Suarez’s so both of us would come out with a reasonable number, but he said no.”
Wilson heard a faint tell-tale sucking sound, but now was not the time to comment.
“How many sessions has Suarez had?” he asked, to fill the void.
The exhale was long and noisier. Wilson wondered idly if House was deliberately making the smoking that obvious to piss him off, but his chest was warm, Steve’s fur was soft, and House was sounding normal. There was no way he was going to bite and disrupt all that.
“I think he’s about to hit fifty,” House replied. “His wife and teenaged daughter are here every damn day, and if I had to listen to those two females yapping all the time, I’d be doing worse drugs than the heroin he’s in for, I can tell you that.”
“There are worse drugs than heroin?”
“I’d invent them, just to take them and escape from the toy poodle and her Pomeranian mom. Yip, yip, yip, always bitching and always in way too high a register.”
Wilson smiled, imagining House as a dog. He’d be a working terrier, definitely - Cairn or Jack Russell. Independent, fierce and determined in pursuit of a goal, and not above a little yapping of his own when he considered it necessary.
A long pause on House’s end hinted that his mind had taken a detour as well. “Where did this conversation start?”
“Family therapy. For you, not the dog family.”
“Right.” Another quick inhale and exhale. “So when I think family, I think Mom. And even though she’s a human lie detector, I wouldn’t mind having her in there, except…”
Feeling a twinge of sympathy, Wilson finished the sentence for him. “Except then you’d have to tell your Dad you’re in rehab.”
“And that’s not happening, so Mom’s off the table. So to speak.” Inhale; exhale. Wilson waited.
“I actually asked Cuddy. Her reply was, as usual, unhelpful. ‘As much as I’d love to find out how your mind actually works, liability concerns for the hospital preclude me from directly knowing about your exploits’ blah, blah, blah. Plus, she said she’s really into wearing high-necked bulky sweaters now, so I wouldn’t even have her breasts to distract me. Is that true?”
Wilson smiled again and tickled Steve’s ears. Steve twitched slightly but continued his nap. “That her breasts would distract you? I’m pretty sure it is.”
“No, that’s she wearing bulky sweaters all the time.” A long inhale - anticipating a long reply?
“Maybe once or twice in the past couple of weeks. Mostly she just wears what she always has.”
A slow, contemplative exhale. “Hm. I thought - well, never mind. Since Cuddy was unsuitable, I turned my mind elsewhere. I thought about Chase or Foreman, but there’s another guy here whose boyfriend has already staked a massive claim on Daddy issues and transference. I don’t think the counselor could handle more of that, so Chase and Foreman are both out.”
“Foreman has Daddy issues?”
“Oh, yeah, big time. His are more strictly Oedipal - defeat and supplant - whereas Chase’s are more approval-seeking - Electra complex almost - but they’ve both got ’em.” Another inhale, followed by the longest exhale yet. Probably the cigarette was finished. “Where did this conversation start again?”
“You need a loved one for family therapy.”
“Yeah, that’s it. My next thought was Cameron, but given how much she likes to talk about emotions at even inappropriate times, I figure with the counselor egging her on, I’d be stuck in that damn therapy room until next year. So.” It was a full stop, and nothing filled the dead space.
Wilson couldn’t resist the urge to tease. “You want me to send Steve?”
“Um.”
“When is it?” he asked, saturating his voice with exasperation. It was what House expected; it was what would put him at ease.
“Saturday, three p.m.”
“I’ll be there.”
***
“Steve!”
Wilson peered into the cage on the back kitchen counter. In his haste, he hadn’t bothered to turn on the light, but he could faintly see Steve curled up in a corner, dozing. He tried to tickle him, but couldn’t quite reach.
No matter. He had just the trick to wake Steve up. He walked back to the front door, flipping on lights as he went, and fetched the take-out from the hall table.
As he slowly opened the carton, Steve’s nose began to twitch and then suddenly the rat was standing tall against the side of the cage, attempting to peer into the container.
“Thought that would get your attention.” Wilson slipped a carrot slice and two broccoli florets into the cage, and Steve began munching happily. He was a sucker for brown sauce.
Wilson plopped a broccoli floret in his own mouth and crunched it as he dug in the bag for chopsticks. “He talked, Steve. Actually talked. And I think he might have listened, too, although that’s harder to gauge.”
It had been a great session. An interesting session and a truthful one, at least based on what Wilson knew. And he’d decided he could trust House that the parts he hadn’t known were true, too.
“My friend’s still there. Underneath the murk and pain and slime and weight, he’s still there. And for the first time in a long time, if ever, he’s willing to get in the bathtub and wash some of that crap off.”
For a moment, the only sound was of the food being consumed.
“If he’s man enough to do it, guess I should start aiming the sprayer at myself, too, huh?” Wilson nodded and fished out a fortune cookie.
After cracking it in half, he fed the cookie pieces to Steve and kept the fortune for himself. “Because of your melodic nature, the moonlight never misses an appointment. Well, that’s - oddly apropos of nothing.”
He chuckled. “Guess I was expecting a lucky future kind of message. That’s all right; I’ve certainly had my share of success today.” He bent over and pressed his nose to the cage so that Steve’s whiskers could tickle him. “You’ve been good for me, Steve. You deserve something special. Let me go see what I can find.”
***
Wilson knew he was acting too anxious when Steve started squeaking. He was picking up on Wilson’s nerves, and it was unsettling him.
Wilson let out a short sharp breath. He rubbed his neck a few times and then shook out his arms. “There,” he said to Steve. “Better.” The smile that crossed his lips even felt natural. Steve wiggled his whiskers and settled back into the shavings.
Checking the room had become a compulsion over the past hour. Which was stupid, but he did it again. Everything was in place; the whole apartment was immaculate. In fact, on reflection, it was too immaculate; it looked like he was trying too hard.
He only had time to push a few books askew and knock a couple of papers to the floor, though, before he heard the key in the lock. He threw himself on the couch and pretended to be napping, to give House a few minutes alone as he came home.
Keys clattered on the hall table; a leather jacket landed on Wilson’s face.
“Your breathing’s not slow enough for you to actually be sleeping,” House said as he passed. “You might as well get up. Where’s Steve?”
“In the kitchen.” Wilson thought about hanging up House’s jacket, but left it on the sofa for House to do himself.
“You let Steve be in the kitchen?” House turned back to him, surprise evident on his face.
“As long as the cage stays on the back counter, he’s well away from the food preparation areas. And after this long, the likelihood of him having diseases transferable to humans is pretty small anyway. We’re more likely to make him sick than he is to make us.”
“That’s right,” House replied, “but I thought you didn’t like rats?”
“Eh, they’re just an acquired taste. I seem to be able to tolerate a lot of acquired tastes: goat cheese, kimchi, Laphroaig, cranky crippled bastards…”
House was trying not to smile, but Wilson couldn’t help himself. After a second, he nudged House’s shoulder. “Go see your boy. He missed you.”
“He missed me, huh?” House rolled his eyes. “Next you’ll be telling me he suffered from separation anxiety and cried himself to sleep every night.”
“Well, I wasn’t going to say anything, but -”
“And then you’ll want us to stay up all night, endlessly analyzing his abandonment issues and how they may or may not be related to my own upbringing.”
“Yeah. Do I look like a woman?”
House opened his mouth, but Wilson silenced him with a glare.
House smirked a little and then turned away. “If you want to win sometimes, you’ve got to quit making it so easy for me.” They both knew he wasn’t talking just about the verbal jibes, and Wilson had to turn away as well. He busied himself with straightening the papers he’d tossed to the floor.
“Wilson! What is this?”
Smiling, Wilson headed into the kitchen. “That’s a rat cage.”
“Yes. Why are there two rats in there?”
Wilson crossed to the cage and lightly scratched each of the rats. Crossing his arms, he turned back to House. “I did a little Internet research and discovered rats are very social creatures. So I got Steve a friend.”
Peering at the smaller, black and white rat, House replied, “A friend, huh? I don’t like the look of her.”
Exasperated, Wilson rolled his eyes. “It’s a him. I wanted to make sure there were no rat babies. And anyway, he’s a perfectly nice rat; you’ll like him once you get to know him.”
“What’s that beast doing to Steve now? Hey!” He flicked the bars of the cage. “Hey, rat, get off there! Wilson, you dick, you bought a gay rat, who can’t keep his grubby paws off Steve.”
“You’re just disgruntled because Steve likes being the bottom,” Wilson replied with amusement. “Don’t you, Stevie? You’re such a big old bottom; yes, you are. Yes, you are!”
“Have you been talking to him like that the whole time I’ve been gone?” House scoffed. “No wonder he’s confused.” He noisily yanked the refrigerator door open and grabbed the orange juice.
Wilson snatched the orange juice away just in time. He poured House and himself both a glass before putting it away. “Steve’s not confused one bit. He’s happy. He likes my food, and he likes his new friend.”
“Your food? How is you feeding him lab blocks any different from me feeding him lab blocks?”
“Well, the lab blocks are the main staple of his diet, of course, for the nutritional balance, but he likes some treats, too.”
House nodded and put his now-empty glass in the sink. “Pizza crusts and leftover lo-mein.”
“Ugh, grease factory,” Wilson sneered. “He likes low-fat burritos, polenta and veggies, broccoli, mango cubes, grape quarters, and peanut butter crunchies. Light on the peanut butter, of course; don’t want to overload him with fat.”
“Of course,” sighed House.
“What?”
“You cook full meals for a rat!”
Seeing nothing of concern, Wilson blew that off entirely. “He likes it. He’s much more appreciative than some people I could name. He gives me rattie kisses - don’t you, Steve? - and keeps me company while I’m watching TV. And he never hogs the remote.”
“I don’t know why you bothered to get another rat; you should've just crawled in the cage with him.”
“I told you, I got another one because rats are social creatures. I tried my best to keep Steve’s spirits up, but he needed a friend of his own species. Just watch them; they get along very well. And Tuco likes my cooking, too. Don’t you?”
House was pacing now, restless. He’d left his cane in the living room and was using the counters for support. Wilson caught his arm the next time he came close, and they shared a long look for several beats.
House stilled, and his fidgeting faded away. He brought his hand up tentatively to cover Wilson’s where it still held his arm.
Smiling, Wilson shut his mind off for a moment and just enjoyed the tactile - the strength of House’s muscles under his fingers, the warmth of House’s hand over his.
“What did you call the second rat?”
“His name is Tuco.”
House lifted his lips to something in between a smirk and a smile. “Tuco? That your hairdresser?”
“Very funny. His full name is Tuco Benedicto Pacifico Juan Maria Ramirez.”
House nodded. “‘Known as The Rat.’ A bit cliché, but not bad.”
“He’s not going to hang by the neck until dead, though, because I rescued him. Didn’t I, sweetcheeks?” As he turned toward the cage again to address Tuco, Wilson let his hand slide down House’s arm, from the bicep, past the elbow, to the wrist and back again.
“Are you putting yourself in Clint Eastwood’s role?” House placed his now-free hand on Wilson’s shoulder and tugged Wilson back toward him. “Because I’m pretty sure he never called Tuco ‘sweetcheeks.’”
“It was in the director’s cut.” Wilson smiled broadly and felt privileged to have the same smile returned.
Epilogue - Looking Out
They’re annoyingly noisy, aren’t they, Chirp? Yours especially.
C’mon, Whiskers, leave Fuzzy alone. He’s been away for a long time; he’s just happy to be home.
Are you sure? Don’t humans usually do that weird upward thing with their mouths when they’re happy?
It’s called a smile. Fuzzy does it sometimes, but most times, he’s got his own special ways of showing happiness. They’re subtle. You’ve got to watch his eyes, and the way he holds his stick.
He’s damaged, isn’t he? I’m surprised my person hasn’t killed him yet.
He’s damaged, but he’s tough. And people don’t kill their weak, anyway. You’re thinking of hamsters, I bet. Easy mistake to make, seeing as how yours kind of looks like a giant hamster. Hey, I forgot to ask: what’d you name him?
Her name is Pudge, and I like how she looks. Warm and cuddly.
Wait a minute, it’s not a “her.” You’ve got a male person there.
She’s not male! You’re trying to arureomorphize her, give her rat qualities. You’ve got to use human characteristics to judge. See: soft, smooth skin, kind eyes, and wide hips to pass out those giant pups they have.
Is your nose broken? Sniff! That’s testosterone coming off Pudge. Not as much as my Fuzzy, but still -
Damn, you’re right. I specifically wanted a female. My Mama said they give the best food.
Maybe that’s generally true, but I have to tell you, the cuisine Pudge has been handing out the past few weeks is some of the best I’ve ever had. Much better than anything Fuzzy ever gave me.
Um, didn’t you say humans don’t kill their ill ones? Because Pudge has started munching on your Fuzzy.
Hey! Pudge, cut that out! Whiskers, get your human off mine before he devours him!
Wait a sec, don’t get your nose in a twist. Fuzzy’s biting back now, and I don’t see any blood. They must be play-fighting.
Play-fighting? They’re adult humans; you think they’d have practiced enough by now.
At least they’ve stopped yapping.
Hey, speaking of play-fighting, want to wrestle?
I’m feeling pretty lazy. Do you mean wrestling or wrestling?
I mean wrestling that might turn into wrestling. If you’re lucky.
If you want to mate again, why don’t you ask me to mate instead of being so coy about it?
C’mon, where’s the romance? Besides, it’s not really mating if no pups come of it.
Semantics. How about an even less direct euphemism, then? Come on over here, and I’ll dip my tail in your food bowl.
Now I’m not in the mood any more.
Unsurprising. Are you sure you’re a buck and not a doe?
I’m sure. And speaking of that, look: we have visual confirmation that your Pudge is a boy.
Oh, you’re right. But he’s not going to be one for very long if Fuzzy doesn’t stop pulling on him like that.
Don’t worry, Pudge’ll be fine. Fuzzy’s had a lot of practice with that; he does it to himself all the time.
Really? What for?
I heard it was related to mating, but like I said, Fuzzy does it by himself, so I don’t know.
You know, lizards sometimes undergo parthenogenesis and have babies all on their own.
But that’s female lizards. We’ve conclusively determined Pudge and Fuzzy are males.
Right. I guess we just chalk it up to humans being weird, then. Who can tell what goes on in those freakishly over-sized brains of theirs?
Makes me tired just thinking of it. C’mon, Whiskers, let’s cuddle up and take a nap.
Sounds great. Pudge and Fuzzy seem to be heading toward their nest, anyway.
I wasn’t so sure if they’d be sharing that nest when Fuzzy got back. They never had before.
That’s some pretty strong musk they’re throwing off. If they’re not going to mate now, I’ll eat my hat.
You don’t have a hat.
Figure of speech. Sleep tight, Chirp.
Sleep tight, Whiskers. It’s good to have everyone home.
Title: Arureos (Greek for Rat)
Author (mostly, see below): Dee Laundry
Opening Scene Written by: nightdog_writes
General Rat Knowledge and Plotting Prompts: fallen_arazil
Epilogue Concept and Beta: daisylily
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: PG
Prompt: 166 of hw_fest. “Wilson gets attached to Steve McQueen during House’s hospitalization and is loathe to admit it and/or return said rat.”
Notes: Set after episode 3-10 (Merry Little Christmas); spoilers up to that point. Assumes that not too long thereafter, House goes into inpatient rehab for eight weeks.
Interesting Rat Fact: from http://www.sciencenews.org/articles/20010728/fob9.asp: Researchers have recorded chirps that laboratory rats give as they wrestle with each other. Rats also chirp before receiving morphine or having sex. Researchers interpret the sound as indicating “the rat expects something rewarding.”
The apology hung in the air between them.
House stared at the floor. Wilson stared out at the balcony. The silence was deafening.
“So -” House started, and had to stop to clear his throat. “I need you to stay in my apartment while I’m in rehab.”
That got Wilson’s attention; his head snapped around and he looked at House.
“House.” Wilson’s voice was flat, devoid of tone. “My life is in ruins. I’ve got unpaid bills and collectors calling. My credit is shot. Julie’s starting legal action to garnish my wages. It could take years to rebuild my practice. It’s a funny thing about patients - when you hand them off to other doctors, they tend not to come back.”
Leaning back in his chair, he rubbed one hand over his eyes. “And you’re the cause of all this. All because I wouldn’t prescribe Vicodin for a pain I didn’t believe was there.” He glared at House, his dark hawk-eyes hooded and unreadable. “Give me one good reason I should do this.”
House didn’t say, “Because you left me to die on my living room floor.” They both knew that had been the right thing to do. It indebted House to Wilson, not Wilson to House.
He swallowed and couldn’t meet Wilson’s eyes.
“Stv Mkeen,” he mumbled.
Wilson blinked.
“What?”
House grimaced. “Steve McQueen,” he said. Seeing Wilson’s expression of disbelief, he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Somebody has to take care of him for two months.”
Wilson gaped at him.
“You want me to take care of your rat.” He paused. “You want me to take care of your rat.”
“Yes,” House snapped. “Forget it. Forget I asked. I’ll turn him loose. Give him to the animal shelter.” He looked at Wilson. Wilson’s eyebrows were drawing together and he was frowning. “Donate him to the hospital,” House said, watching for Wilson’s reaction. “The lab.”
“No,” Wilson said, and House drew a small breath of relief. “No, keep him. I’ll take care of him.”
House nodded. Wilson would be back in his apartment, living there, getting used to it. When he got back in two months, maybe Wilson would stay.
A man could hope, couldn’t he?
***
Wilson threw his briefcase on the couch before shrugging out of his coat. That went onto the couch as well, instead of in the closet; he was just that exhausted. The two hours he’d taken out of the middle of his day to meet with his lawyer (pre-nup was holding; thankfully, Julie’s legal action was as laughable to the legal system as it had been to him) and accountant (the snarled knot from his frozen finances was slowly, slowly getting untangled) had played hell with his schedule. Two hours off had meant over four hours of catch-up, and now it was past ten.
He might have headed straight for bed if he hadn’t heard the wheel in the rat’s cage squeaking at a furious rhythm.
“Hi, Steve,” he called out as he headed for the kitchen cabinet that held the rat food. Pulling the bag out, he shook it a bit and was dismayed to hear it almost empty. Where did one buy LabDiet rat food? Pet store? Internet? He’d figure it out tomorrow.
Crossing to Steve’s cage, he grumbled, “Would’ve been nice for your owner to leave me some instructions.” Not that taking care of a rat was that difficult, but still, Wilson liked to do things right. Not to mention that Steve seemed to be the only living creature House cared about any more, and if he caught the damn plague or something, House’d take it out of Wilson’s hide.
Wilson noticed Steve looking at him intently, and he tried to smile. “I guess it’s not your fault House hasn’t called since he left, is it?”
The rat’s whiskers twitched, and he scrabbled against the side of the cage. “Oh, right, food.” Wilson eased the food dish out of the cage and poured in half the amount remaining in the bag. As soon as he put the dish back, Steve leapt for the food and started devouring.
“Aren’t you just your Daddy’s boy?” Wilson sighed.
He took a look at the couch - the evil, spine-twisting couch - and shook his head. No way. He’d been sleeping there for the past two weeks, out of some misguided notion of proper guest etiquette, but he could never really get a full good night’s sleep on it. Tonight he was bone-weary, and the couch was covered in stuff (stuff he’d just put there, but who was counting?), and there were clean sheets on the bed, and he was going to take it.
“Good night, Steve,” he murmured as he stumbled down the hall, deliberately not thinking.
The next morning, he grabbed House’s computer and hit the Internet. He couldn’t find anywhere to order LabDiet-brand rat food, but he did discover the company’s main clients were clinical laboratories, which meant House was probably swiping it. Nice. He ordered a different brand that looked reasonable, with rush delivery, which quadrupled the price of the food. It was still less than the hundred-dollar hoagie, so he chalked it up to his own lack of planning and headed to work.
***
House called for the first time a week later. His “hello” sounded disgustingly chipper, and Wilson felt extremely sullen. Maybe they were yin and yang, he thought, and only had a set amount of happiness to share amongst the two of them. God, that was a depressing idea.
“How’s my boy?” House asked cheerfully.
“Your boy?” Wilson snarled. “As in servant, or whipping?”
The line went silent for a moment. “As in Steve, my pet rat.”
“Oh.” The anger dissipated but the sullenness stayed behind. “He’s fine. Doing rat things, dreaming rat dreams, eating rat food. Speaking of which, his food ran out, so I bought some on the Internet.”
“You got lab blocks, right?”
“Was that the brand name you had? I thought it was LabDiet, which I couldn’t find retailed on the web.”
“Lab blocks is the type; it’s the most nutritionally complete and healthy for rats.”
“You eat like crap but the rat’s nutrition has to be perfect?”
“What can I say - I’m a sucker for a pretty face.” House paused again, as if something had struck a nerve. Wilson was uncertain what that thing could be, but before he could ask, House continued.
“Call Paul down in the research lab, and he’ll hook you up with the right stuff. Keep it quiet, though; he’s not supposed to be doling out the good shit to everyone who strolls by.”
“Am I going to get busted by the Feds for this?”
“God, you’re in a pissy mood. You sound like the crank-monsters around here. I mean that they’re cranky, not that they’re on crank. Although come to think of it, the ex-speed freaks are the most irritable. Except for me, of course, but then I’m irritable whether I’m taking drugs or not.”
Wilson thought of House’s leg and felt his concern surfacing. “What do they have you on for the pain?”
“What do you care? You’re not writing the scrips and I’m not forging them, and that should be good enough for you. I gotta go; it’s a public phone. Take care.” Another pause, and then, “Of Steve.” The line went dead.
Wilson hung up the phone and placed it carefully on the table in lieu of throwing it against the wall. He decided to change Steve’s water, just to have a purposeful but low-complexity task. As he reached in the cage to take the bottle, he felt whiskers brush against his hand. He grabbed the bottle and refilled it, thinking about yin, yang, pills, Paul the dealer, temptation leading everyone into evil, and tactile sensation. Tactile, deriving from the same Latin as tangible. If you can feel it, it’s real.
He turned off the tap just as the water threatened to overflow the bottle. After carefully reaffixing the bottle in Steve’s cage, Wilson looked down at him. For the first time, he picked up the rat and brought him close to his chest.
Steve wriggled slightly and then settled down into his shirt. Wilson carefully cradled him and sat on the couch. When Steve stayed relaxed, Wilson began to relax as well, slowly and gently stroking the rat's silky fur.
***
As Wilson’s life settled down, he found himself settling down. The low-level anxiety that had trembled under his skin quieted; the intermittent heavy twinge in his chest was gone. He had more energy, moved more, and lost a couple of unlamented pounds.
It was all because of the resolution of his legal and financial issues, and the return of his patients. It wasn’t because he was petting, cuddling, and coddling a rat every day. Come on, it wasn’t even a real pet rat - it was a wild rat who’d been stupid enough to get caught. Who’d get attached to a creature like that?
And it wasn’t because each night he felt like he was coming home in a way he hadn’t felt in years. This wasn’t even his place; he was just house-sitting (House-house-sitting). Sure, he’d taken over half the bedroom closet and a drawer in the dresser. Sure, he’d pulled his good knives, kitchen gadgets, and pans out of storage, and had fully stocked the spice rack. Didn’t mean this was anything more than another way station in his life. It wasn’t home.
Despite all evidence to the contrary.
***
House’s second call from rehab was a Thursday evening, when he’d been gone almost six weeks (forty days exactly, not that Wilson was counting).
House sounded less chipper than he had on the first call. Not sad, or angry, just - more like himself. Wilson was feeling quite calm. It could have been due to the rat snoozing on his chest, but probably wasn’t.
“My warden says -”
“Warden?”
“Counselor, addiction specialist, drug buddy, whatever. He says I can’t graduate from this program - like I’m getting a frigging Ph.D. in not taking drugs - until I have a ‘loved one’ come in at least once and do family therapy. I asked him if we could just average my count of family therapy sessions with Suarez’s so both of us would come out with a reasonable number, but he said no.”
Wilson heard a faint tell-tale sucking sound, but now was not the time to comment.
“How many sessions has Suarez had?” he asked, to fill the void.
The exhale was long and noisier. Wilson wondered idly if House was deliberately making the smoking that obvious to piss him off, but his chest was warm, Steve’s fur was soft, and House was sounding normal. There was no way he was going to bite and disrupt all that.
“I think he’s about to hit fifty,” House replied. “His wife and teenaged daughter are here every damn day, and if I had to listen to those two females yapping all the time, I’d be doing worse drugs than the heroin he’s in for, I can tell you that.”
“There are worse drugs than heroin?”
“I’d invent them, just to take them and escape from the toy poodle and her Pomeranian mom. Yip, yip, yip, always bitching and always in way too high a register.”
Wilson smiled, imagining House as a dog. He’d be a working terrier, definitely - Cairn or Jack Russell. Independent, fierce and determined in pursuit of a goal, and not above a little yapping of his own when he considered it necessary.
A long pause on House’s end hinted that his mind had taken a detour as well. “Where did this conversation start?”
“Family therapy. For you, not the dog family.”
“Right.” Another quick inhale and exhale. “So when I think family, I think Mom. And even though she’s a human lie detector, I wouldn’t mind having her in there, except…”
Feeling a twinge of sympathy, Wilson finished the sentence for him. “Except then you’d have to tell your Dad you’re in rehab.”
“And that’s not happening, so Mom’s off the table. So to speak.” Inhale; exhale. Wilson waited.
“I actually asked Cuddy. Her reply was, as usual, unhelpful. ‘As much as I’d love to find out how your mind actually works, liability concerns for the hospital preclude me from directly knowing about your exploits’ blah, blah, blah. Plus, she said she’s really into wearing high-necked bulky sweaters now, so I wouldn’t even have her breasts to distract me. Is that true?”
Wilson smiled again and tickled Steve’s ears. Steve twitched slightly but continued his nap. “That her breasts would distract you? I’m pretty sure it is.”
“No, that’s she wearing bulky sweaters all the time.” A long inhale - anticipating a long reply?
“Maybe once or twice in the past couple of weeks. Mostly she just wears what she always has.”
A slow, contemplative exhale. “Hm. I thought - well, never mind. Since Cuddy was unsuitable, I turned my mind elsewhere. I thought about Chase or Foreman, but there’s another guy here whose boyfriend has already staked a massive claim on Daddy issues and transference. I don’t think the counselor could handle more of that, so Chase and Foreman are both out.”
“Foreman has Daddy issues?”
“Oh, yeah, big time. His are more strictly Oedipal - defeat and supplant - whereas Chase’s are more approval-seeking - Electra complex almost - but they’ve both got ’em.” Another inhale, followed by the longest exhale yet. Probably the cigarette was finished. “Where did this conversation start again?”
“You need a loved one for family therapy.”
“Yeah, that’s it. My next thought was Cameron, but given how much she likes to talk about emotions at even inappropriate times, I figure with the counselor egging her on, I’d be stuck in that damn therapy room until next year. So.” It was a full stop, and nothing filled the dead space.
Wilson couldn’t resist the urge to tease. “You want me to send Steve?”
“Um.”
“When is it?” he asked, saturating his voice with exasperation. It was what House expected; it was what would put him at ease.
“Saturday, three p.m.”
“I’ll be there.”
***
“Steve!”
Wilson peered into the cage on the back kitchen counter. In his haste, he hadn’t bothered to turn on the light, but he could faintly see Steve curled up in a corner, dozing. He tried to tickle him, but couldn’t quite reach.
No matter. He had just the trick to wake Steve up. He walked back to the front door, flipping on lights as he went, and fetched the take-out from the hall table.
As he slowly opened the carton, Steve’s nose began to twitch and then suddenly the rat was standing tall against the side of the cage, attempting to peer into the container.
“Thought that would get your attention.” Wilson slipped a carrot slice and two broccoli florets into the cage, and Steve began munching happily. He was a sucker for brown sauce.
Wilson plopped a broccoli floret in his own mouth and crunched it as he dug in the bag for chopsticks. “He talked, Steve. Actually talked. And I think he might have listened, too, although that’s harder to gauge.”
It had been a great session. An interesting session and a truthful one, at least based on what Wilson knew. And he’d decided he could trust House that the parts he hadn’t known were true, too.
“My friend’s still there. Underneath the murk and pain and slime and weight, he’s still there. And for the first time in a long time, if ever, he’s willing to get in the bathtub and wash some of that crap off.”
For a moment, the only sound was of the food being consumed.
“If he’s man enough to do it, guess I should start aiming the sprayer at myself, too, huh?” Wilson nodded and fished out a fortune cookie.
After cracking it in half, he fed the cookie pieces to Steve and kept the fortune for himself. “Because of your melodic nature, the moonlight never misses an appointment. Well, that’s - oddly apropos of nothing.”
He chuckled. “Guess I was expecting a lucky future kind of message. That’s all right; I’ve certainly had my share of success today.” He bent over and pressed his nose to the cage so that Steve’s whiskers could tickle him. “You’ve been good for me, Steve. You deserve something special. Let me go see what I can find.”
***
Wilson knew he was acting too anxious when Steve started squeaking. He was picking up on Wilson’s nerves, and it was unsettling him.
Wilson let out a short sharp breath. He rubbed his neck a few times and then shook out his arms. “There,” he said to Steve. “Better.” The smile that crossed his lips even felt natural. Steve wiggled his whiskers and settled back into the shavings.
Checking the room had become a compulsion over the past hour. Which was stupid, but he did it again. Everything was in place; the whole apartment was immaculate. In fact, on reflection, it was too immaculate; it looked like he was trying too hard.
He only had time to push a few books askew and knock a couple of papers to the floor, though, before he heard the key in the lock. He threw himself on the couch and pretended to be napping, to give House a few minutes alone as he came home.
Keys clattered on the hall table; a leather jacket landed on Wilson’s face.
“Your breathing’s not slow enough for you to actually be sleeping,” House said as he passed. “You might as well get up. Where’s Steve?”
“In the kitchen.” Wilson thought about hanging up House’s jacket, but left it on the sofa for House to do himself.
“You let Steve be in the kitchen?” House turned back to him, surprise evident on his face.
“As long as the cage stays on the back counter, he’s well away from the food preparation areas. And after this long, the likelihood of him having diseases transferable to humans is pretty small anyway. We’re more likely to make him sick than he is to make us.”
“That’s right,” House replied, “but I thought you didn’t like rats?”
“Eh, they’re just an acquired taste. I seem to be able to tolerate a lot of acquired tastes: goat cheese, kimchi, Laphroaig, cranky crippled bastards…”
House was trying not to smile, but Wilson couldn’t help himself. After a second, he nudged House’s shoulder. “Go see your boy. He missed you.”
“He missed me, huh?” House rolled his eyes. “Next you’ll be telling me he suffered from separation anxiety and cried himself to sleep every night.”
“Well, I wasn’t going to say anything, but -”
“And then you’ll want us to stay up all night, endlessly analyzing his abandonment issues and how they may or may not be related to my own upbringing.”
“Yeah. Do I look like a woman?”
House opened his mouth, but Wilson silenced him with a glare.
House smirked a little and then turned away. “If you want to win sometimes, you’ve got to quit making it so easy for me.” They both knew he wasn’t talking just about the verbal jibes, and Wilson had to turn away as well. He busied himself with straightening the papers he’d tossed to the floor.
“Wilson! What is this?”
Smiling, Wilson headed into the kitchen. “That’s a rat cage.”
“Yes. Why are there two rats in there?”
Wilson crossed to the cage and lightly scratched each of the rats. Crossing his arms, he turned back to House. “I did a little Internet research and discovered rats are very social creatures. So I got Steve a friend.”
Peering at the smaller, black and white rat, House replied, “A friend, huh? I don’t like the look of her.”
Exasperated, Wilson rolled his eyes. “It’s a him. I wanted to make sure there were no rat babies. And anyway, he’s a perfectly nice rat; you’ll like him once you get to know him.”
“What’s that beast doing to Steve now? Hey!” He flicked the bars of the cage. “Hey, rat, get off there! Wilson, you dick, you bought a gay rat, who can’t keep his grubby paws off Steve.”
“You’re just disgruntled because Steve likes being the bottom,” Wilson replied with amusement. “Don’t you, Stevie? You’re such a big old bottom; yes, you are. Yes, you are!”
“Have you been talking to him like that the whole time I’ve been gone?” House scoffed. “No wonder he’s confused.” He noisily yanked the refrigerator door open and grabbed the orange juice.
Wilson snatched the orange juice away just in time. He poured House and himself both a glass before putting it away. “Steve’s not confused one bit. He’s happy. He likes my food, and he likes his new friend.”
“Your food? How is you feeding him lab blocks any different from me feeding him lab blocks?”
“Well, the lab blocks are the main staple of his diet, of course, for the nutritional balance, but he likes some treats, too.”
House nodded and put his now-empty glass in the sink. “Pizza crusts and leftover lo-mein.”
“Ugh, grease factory,” Wilson sneered. “He likes low-fat burritos, polenta and veggies, broccoli, mango cubes, grape quarters, and peanut butter crunchies. Light on the peanut butter, of course; don’t want to overload him with fat.”
“Of course,” sighed House.
“What?”
“You cook full meals for a rat!”
Seeing nothing of concern, Wilson blew that off entirely. “He likes it. He’s much more appreciative than some people I could name. He gives me rattie kisses - don’t you, Steve? - and keeps me company while I’m watching TV. And he never hogs the remote.”
“I don’t know why you bothered to get another rat; you should've just crawled in the cage with him.”
“I told you, I got another one because rats are social creatures. I tried my best to keep Steve’s spirits up, but he needed a friend of his own species. Just watch them; they get along very well. And Tuco likes my cooking, too. Don’t you?”
House was pacing now, restless. He’d left his cane in the living room and was using the counters for support. Wilson caught his arm the next time he came close, and they shared a long look for several beats.
House stilled, and his fidgeting faded away. He brought his hand up tentatively to cover Wilson’s where it still held his arm.
Smiling, Wilson shut his mind off for a moment and just enjoyed the tactile - the strength of House’s muscles under his fingers, the warmth of House’s hand over his.
“What did you call the second rat?”
“His name is Tuco.”
House lifted his lips to something in between a smirk and a smile. “Tuco? That your hairdresser?”
“Very funny. His full name is Tuco Benedicto Pacifico Juan Maria Ramirez.”
House nodded. “‘Known as The Rat.’ A bit cliché, but not bad.”
“He’s not going to hang by the neck until dead, though, because I rescued him. Didn’t I, sweetcheeks?” As he turned toward the cage again to address Tuco, Wilson let his hand slide down House’s arm, from the bicep, past the elbow, to the wrist and back again.
“Are you putting yourself in Clint Eastwood’s role?” House placed his now-free hand on Wilson’s shoulder and tugged Wilson back toward him. “Because I’m pretty sure he never called Tuco ‘sweetcheeks.’”
“It was in the director’s cut.” Wilson smiled broadly and felt privileged to have the same smile returned.
Epilogue - Looking Out
They’re annoyingly noisy, aren’t they, Chirp? Yours especially.
C’mon, Whiskers, leave Fuzzy alone. He’s been away for a long time; he’s just happy to be home.
Are you sure? Don’t humans usually do that weird upward thing with their mouths when they’re happy?
It’s called a smile. Fuzzy does it sometimes, but most times, he’s got his own special ways of showing happiness. They’re subtle. You’ve got to watch his eyes, and the way he holds his stick.
He’s damaged, isn’t he? I’m surprised my person hasn’t killed him yet.
He’s damaged, but he’s tough. And people don’t kill their weak, anyway. You’re thinking of hamsters, I bet. Easy mistake to make, seeing as how yours kind of looks like a giant hamster. Hey, I forgot to ask: what’d you name him?
Her name is Pudge, and I like how she looks. Warm and cuddly.
Wait a minute, it’s not a “her.” You’ve got a male person there.
She’s not male! You’re trying to arureomorphize her, give her rat qualities. You’ve got to use human characteristics to judge. See: soft, smooth skin, kind eyes, and wide hips to pass out those giant pups they have.
Is your nose broken? Sniff! That’s testosterone coming off Pudge. Not as much as my Fuzzy, but still -
Damn, you’re right. I specifically wanted a female. My Mama said they give the best food.
Maybe that’s generally true, but I have to tell you, the cuisine Pudge has been handing out the past few weeks is some of the best I’ve ever had. Much better than anything Fuzzy ever gave me.
Um, didn’t you say humans don’t kill their ill ones? Because Pudge has started munching on your Fuzzy.
Hey! Pudge, cut that out! Whiskers, get your human off mine before he devours him!
Wait a sec, don’t get your nose in a twist. Fuzzy’s biting back now, and I don’t see any blood. They must be play-fighting.
Play-fighting? They’re adult humans; you think they’d have practiced enough by now.
At least they’ve stopped yapping.
Hey, speaking of play-fighting, want to wrestle?
I’m feeling pretty lazy. Do you mean wrestling or wrestling?
I mean wrestling that might turn into wrestling. If you’re lucky.
If you want to mate again, why don’t you ask me to mate instead of being so coy about it?
C’mon, where’s the romance? Besides, it’s not really mating if no pups come of it.
Semantics. How about an even less direct euphemism, then? Come on over here, and I’ll dip my tail in your food bowl.
Now I’m not in the mood any more.
Unsurprising. Are you sure you’re a buck and not a doe?
I’m sure. And speaking of that, look: we have visual confirmation that your Pudge is a boy.
Oh, you’re right. But he’s not going to be one for very long if Fuzzy doesn’t stop pulling on him like that.
Don’t worry, Pudge’ll be fine. Fuzzy’s had a lot of practice with that; he does it to himself all the time.
Really? What for?
I heard it was related to mating, but like I said, Fuzzy does it by himself, so I don’t know.
You know, lizards sometimes undergo parthenogenesis and have babies all on their own.
But that’s female lizards. We’ve conclusively determined Pudge and Fuzzy are males.
Right. I guess we just chalk it up to humans being weird, then. Who can tell what goes on in those freakishly over-sized brains of theirs?
Makes me tired just thinking of it. C’mon, Whiskers, let’s cuddle up and take a nap.
Sounds great. Pudge and Fuzzy seem to be heading toward their nest, anyway.
I wasn’t so sure if they’d be sharing that nest when Fuzzy got back. They never had before.
That’s some pretty strong musk they’re throwing off. If they’re not going to mate now, I’ll eat my hat.
You don’t have a hat.
Figure of speech. Sleep tight, Chirp.
Sleep tight, Whiskers. It’s good to have everyone home.