Crossover // One-shot // As the Crow Flies, pt. I/II
Fandoms: House M.D., Doctor Who, little side of Star Trek
Characters: House + Doctor
Rating: K+ for language
Genres: Canonbending, angst, introspection, drama, friendship, sci-fi.
Wordcount: 12056
Summary: Ten falls out of the sky and ends up at Princeton Plainsborough and then he and House go on a wondrous journey of self-discovery in a giant motor home named Princess Love Machine. To Canada. Where they eat eggs and bacon on a magic hill. Tragically.
Notes: Written for shiinabambi, for whom I have more love than I can express even in twelve thousand words. She made a comment about House and Time Lords in chat once and this sprung from my muse whole and complete unto itself. It took me some time to work up the courage to write it, however, because... well, can't tell you that, it'd ruin the surprise. ^___^
I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
~Eia
As the Crow Flies
House smells Cameron before he hears her. Not because his hearing's going, thankfully, but because Maui seems to have stuck to her skin like she spent the entire time there rolling in plumeria blossoms. Maybe she did. Who knows what kind of bizarre fetish she and Chase prescribe to this week. Not that he wants to know. He doesn't. Not even a little.
"Hi, House," she says when she realizes that he's ignoring her, not doing something else more important, as if there were anything less important than talking to her.
Idly, he wonders what Wilson's face would look like if he started up pottery lessons. Getting my hands right into the clay, creating something right from scratch... I don't know, Wilson, it just makes me feel like a better person. Maybe I should have a kid or something. Oh, yes. He's definitely going to do that. Wilson will have that horribly conflicted expression where he wants so hard to believe House means it but knows beyond a shadow of reasonable doubt that he doesn't and is only doing it to break him down a little more. It's delicious. He has Wednesday evenings free, perhaps then--
"House."
Or maybe art. Ooh, that's almost better. He could hang his masterpieces all over the hospital, every one of them full of subtle threats and inside jokes that only Wilson would understand. Cuddy would kill him and light them all on fire-- preferably in that order-- but it would be so worth it. Enormous still-lifes of that stupid green mug with the raunchy red lipstick marks on the rim right across the hall--
"House."
He sighs. Clearly she doesn't plan to go away even if he ignores her. That means it's probably a case, which is worth heaving a put-upon sigh for and turning around. "Yes, Miss Wailea 2009?"
Cameron doesn't even blink. Why would she? It was a lame joke. He's clearly losing his edge. Blaming it on the impending insanity, he shrugs it off and waits.
She doesn't disappoint. "Thirty-seven year old caucasian male in the ER. Apparently... fell from the sky."
"Weird," House drawls. "Call the morgue to pick up your gory pancake and go away. I'm pondering quadratic imponderables."
The file lands on his desk, papers spilling slightly as it slides towards the edge. He stops it from falling off with a hand, but doesn't look inside. She has yet to make it interesting.
"He's not dead, House, that's why he's in the ER."
"Not dead yet, you mean."
Cameron grins. It's that grin she gets when she's about to tell him why this is interesting, and it's wider than usual. This is going to be good. He leans back, staples his fingers, and hopes it'll be good enough to distract him from the--
"Not even close to dead, House, just unconscious. The people who brought him in are the ones who say he fell from the sky."
"Weirder," says House, "but still boring."
"We gave him a routine checkup. I discovered something very, very weird indeed by accident."
House rolls his eyes and gets to his feet. It's almost lunchtime. If he doesn't hurry, Wilson will get to his lunch before House does. Can't have that. "Would you mind if I go have lunch while you work your way up to the point? I'll be back in fifteen minutes, so talk faster."
He's halfway out the door when she catches his arm and actually hauls him bodily back into the office. Huh. She's never done that before. Not that he objects, pulling him like that involves pressing very close against his side and she's soft and buoyant in some very pleasing places. Maybe if he pulls back a little harder, she'll--
"He has two hearts, House," Cameron says softly.
House stops, looks down at her, hopes very hard that the rib-clenching shock rolling down his nerves isn't showing up like neon on his face. He suspects it is. He's not shocked often, and when he is, he's usually expecting some kind of shock anyway, just not that one. This is the kind of shock he feels when he's really fucking blindsided, the kind he's made a conscious habit of never feeling ever.
"Well, now," he says, a little strangled, "that's interesting."
xxxxx
"Name?" the nurse asks once he's awake enough to figure out which two of the half-dozen narrowed brown eyes staring at him are real. She looks harried. Like she hasn't slept properly in weeks. Understaffed, thinks the Doctor pityingly. He hardly even needs to ask what year it is. The technology and the obvious signs of financial difficulty make guessing easy. It's 2010, and he's in America.
That is very, very interesting, considering he clearly told the TARDIS that he wanted to go to Amelioris in the Adflictanis Diadem, and this is basically the other end of the universe from that. Also, he has no idea where the TARDIS is.
At least he is alone. It isn't the first time he's been thankful for that. Usually he's more bitter about it. This time... he has many sorts of bad feelings, but this is different. Something is going to happen here. Something terrible in an entirely different way than the kinds of terrible he already knows.
Best to get his bearings. He wonders if the hospital cafeteria might have decent tea, then regrets letting himself hope. Hospitals never have decent tea. Hospitals in America probably don't have tea at all, at least nothing he'd call tea.
"Excuse me," he says to the next doctor he sees passing by, a pretty young lady with blond hair. She reminds him for a split second of Rose and he looks away from her face to avoid betraying himself. "I'm the Doctor, and I was just wondering--"
She laughs and puts her hand on his shoulder. "You're not the doctor, sir, you're the patient. You've hit your head and seem to be a bit out of sorts, but don't worry. I've come to take you to your private room. It'll be quieter there."
He closes his mouth and lets her help him into a wheelchair. Quiet would be nice. Time to think. Time to convince his legs that they still work and walk out before anyone figures out-- oh, dear. Hospital. If he's already been assigned a private room they must have already done an examination while he was unconscious, which means there's going to be a very curious doctor asking questions about certain bits of his anatomy he'd really rather not discuss. What a pain in the immortal arse.
He sincerely hopes this Dr. House is a calm sort of person, someone who will listen to reason. If not, the Doctor's day is about to get considerably worse.
xxxxx
As he walks, House thinks.
It's perfectly reasonable to nearly herniate over someone with two hearts. It's two hearts, for chrissakes, medically impossible and three kinds of insane. It's the weirdest thing he's seen in... oh, a week? Yeah, it's weird. Really fucking weird. But that's not enough to explain why he feels like his heart-- one, singular-- is about to pound out of his stupid, irrational chest. It's a defect of some kind, very odd but ultimately explainable. Or at least it will be once he's through explaining its redundant ass down to its tiniest redundant valve.
So why is he unsettled enough to simultaneously want to turn around, walk out, and go redirect a mid-sized river of bourbon down his throat?
He barely even notices he's arrived until the door squeaks as it opens, making him nearly run into the frame.
The man sitting on the bed straightens his back and waves cheerily. "Hello! I'm the Doctor," he says, and beams at House.
House stares.
The patient is, as Cameron said, a thirty-seven year old Caucasian male. He's also about House's height, about House's weight, and very, very British. His hair is brown, his eyes are brown, he's not especially handsome but he has charisma coming off him like a stench. House knows him. Knows him better than anyone else in the world.
He's also never seen the guy before in his life.
"Hi!" says House, almost cheerfully. "I'm Doctor Gregory House. Will you excuse me a minute? I have to go have a quiet mental breakdown in my best friend's office. I'll be back in five minutes."
xxxxx
The Doctor watches him go with mixed feelings.
Since he apparently has five minutes to spare and his legs are definitely not planning on cooperation, he decides to use them to sort those feelings out. This one over here is confusion, which needs no interpretation. This one is amusement, also simple. This one is a nagging sense of something that has no name, but roughly equates to you forgot your wallet at home or the answer to this question is right on the tip of my tongue-- the feeling of being right on the verge of discovering or remembering something very, very important that feels like it ought to be obvious. And this last one in the corner is that wistful feeling that makes him wish for tea harder the closer he looks at it. It feels much like nostalgia, or homesickness, except in reverse... like he knows he's about to lose something.
Well, that's uncomfortable. The Doctor pulls his attention away from his feelings and devotes the remaining two minutes to talking earnestly at his recalcitrant legs.
"Now, you see, if we stay here, they're going to subject us to endless tests and call in all their friends and soon half the continent will be staring at us and trying to figure out what we are. We'll be strapped to a bed and fed through a needle in our elbow and won't get any closer to finding the TARDIS so please, come on, move--"
"Talking to yourself isn't necessarily a symptom, but it's not generally a good sign," the doctor-- House? odd name-- says wryly from the doorway. "Most of the people I know who talk to themselves are either insane or in denial about being insane or sane but in denial about that. Which one are you?"
The Doctor grins. He likes this man already. "None of the above, I'm afraid. I'm not quite sane, but not insane either, and am far from denying either. Besides, being thought insane can come in quite handy sometimes."
House nods, his blue eyes razor-sharp and not the slightest bit kind. "Yeah, well, there's a fine line between people thinking you're nuts and thinking people only think you're nuts."
"That there is," the Doctor replies softly. "That there is."
xxxxx
House has no idea where to start, so in true House fashion, he shrugs and goes in headfirst. "What's your name? You told the nurse it was John Smith, which is so obvious it has to be fake."
"I told her my real name first. She didn't believe me," 'John Smith' says with a wink and a grin.
"Try me."
John Smith shrugs and sighs, grin fading a little. "I'm the Doctor."
Rolling his eyes, House tries not to walk out again. He hates dealing with psych patients. Most psych patients, anyway. Some of them are fun. This one's mostly annoying right now. "Right, and is that your first or last name?"
"Only," replies the Doctor, then amends, "well, sort of."
"What's your sort-of other name?" House asks waspishly, rapidly losing his nearly-nonexistent patience.
"Are you my wife?" the Doctor asks instead of answering.
"Not last I checked. Give me another five minutes with Google and I'll make sure. What is your name?"
"I told you my name. My other name is reserved for those closest to me, which is a group that did not involve you last time I checked."
There's a strange feeling in House's chest, like he should be angrier but isn't because he knows something he can't possibly know, but also doesn't, like it's right on the tip of his tongue if he could only spit it out. Damn. Talking to psych patients is clearly not helping him postpone his long, slow slide into the loony bin. If anything, he's losing it faster every minute he spends in this tiny grey room with this remarkably annoying man. "Whatever. I don't care. But I'm the only doctor in this room. As far as I'm concerned, you're John Smith, and by the time I'm done you're going to wish you'd picked a more interesting fake name."
"I'm rather attached to this one, actually--" John Smith begins to say, but House cuts him off with a brief twinge of satisfaction.
"You have two hearts. Did you know?"
John Smith winces and runs a hand through his hair.
Odd reaction. Certainly not any of the ones House had been expecting, like the patient knowing and nodding calmly or the patient not knowing and being shocked and a little horrified. But unhappy? Why?
"I could have lied and said I didn't know, but I suspect you're a rather good judge of people despite generally loathing them and would have caught me at it. Yes, I know, and I wish you didn't. I also know there are no answers for you to find that you'd accept, and no happiness in searching for them, so how about when my legs start working again you let me leave and forget I was ever here? I promise you, it's for the best."
"Shut up," says House, and glowers. "Obviously you're a crappy judge of character, else you'd know that I have no intention whatsoever of letting you leave until I figure out why the hell you have two functioning, healthy hearts, and while I'm at it, why the people who brought you in seemed to think you fell from the sky but you're somehow not dead. You'd be well-advised to just tell me what you know and make things quicker and possibly less painful for you, though no guarantees on the latter."
John grins a grin that makes his face look broken. "All right, then. I'm a Time Lord from the planet Gallifrey. I have two hearts because all Time Lords have two hearts."
House stares, then feels a slow smile pull his face tight. "You're going to regret that, too," he promises. "I bet you think you're hilarious. God, I hate psych patients."
"You hate everyone, and I can be," the Doctor replies without missing a beat, and House is discomfited to note that he doesn't appear at all deflated. He just looks... longsuffering, for lack of a less cliche description. There are bags under his eyes, and he looks ten years older when his smile fades. "I can be very funny indeed when I want to be, but I'm not mocking you. I'm really not."
"Sure you're not. You're an alien. Makes perfect sense," House snaps.
"It does," replies John, still wearing that infuriatingly honest expression. "But you don't believe me, as I know you wouldn't, and perhaps it's better that way. Go on. Run all the tests you want. I'm afraid to say when my legs start working, you'll lose your chance."
"Not if I tie you to the bed," House retorts, "and believe me, I have no compunctions about doing that, even without a good reason."
John looks taken aback for a moment, then laughs. "Never been much into bondage, myself, but I suppose if it floats your proverbial boat--"
Despite himself, House realizes that he's beginning to like the guy. He has a decent brain in his head, even if that brain is clearly insane. Insanity and intelligence aren't mutually exclusive. "It floats my proverbial ocean liner, but don't worry, I'm a man of honour. I promise not to molest you in your heavily drugged sleep." He pauses, for dramatic effect. "I like it better when they squirm anyway."
xxxxx
The Doctor ruefully regards the thick leather straps across his shoulders and around his forearms. He should have known better than to underestimate House, or to overestimate himself in this condition. Now he's being actively restrained, and can't seem to find his sonic screwdriver, or his psychic paper, which combined with the TARDIS makes a very worrisome list of things which should not be missing. In fact, there is nothing in his suit which is anything but perfectly mundane, except for him, and he's feeling very... oh, well now, isn't that interesting.
"I know what happened," he tells the ceiling with a broad grin. "I know what happened! It still shouldn't have happened, I should have seen it coming, but here I am so obviously I didn't."
The realization brings a whole host of friends, however, and the Doctor doesn't like many of them. For instance, he knows where the TARDIS is. However, knowing where it is isn't going to help him, because where it is is still impossible to get to for another century or so, until Earth develops the capacity for locating and entering shiftspace, and even then the prospect of locating the exact tiny pocket his things are in when it could be anywhere in the universe is quite daunting, to be honest.
Another example: he knows who-- or, interchangeably, what-- is responsible, but that doesn't help him because if this is where they want him to be he has no choice in the matter whatsoever. They could have been gentler about it, but he could easily have done something to make them angry without being aware of it. Perhaps they have a soft spot for Daleks and got tired of him always wiping them out. It would explain why they always managed to survive, at least.
What frightens him most, however, is that despite all these answers, he doesn't know why they want him here, or how long they plan to make him stay. Perhaps-- and this is an idea he wishes desperately he could kill-- they don't mean for him to leave at all. Perhaps this is their way of getting him out of their way permanently.
The Doctor takes a deep breath and buries the thought and all the horror that's trying to explode from it deep within himself. Then he firmly locks it and walks away. If that's the truth, he's not going to drown in despair looking at it for hours on end. He's going to try his damndest to get out of here and get back to his TARDIS and his endless stars and the adventures he hasn't had yet. He's going to fight, because he's the Doctor, and the Doctor never gives up.
No, he says quietly to himself. No, it doesn't work like that. The Doctor gives up all the time. That's why he chooses companions who don't, or companions who need him not to, so he can use the guilt as drive to make himself keep going through all the madness and pain.
Who's waiting for him to save her now? Who needs him to do anything but lie here in this bed and wait for the doctor to come back with needles? Who needs him, period?
The Doctor stares at the ceiling and tries his hardest not to drown.
xxxxx
Cuddy catches him in the hallway on his way to Wilson's office.
"House. You can't restrain a patient for no reason."
Eyeing her chest appreciatively-- god, he loves this top, the dark red is such a fantastic complement to the freckles in her cleavage-- he nearly misses the turn and has to suffer being caught and redirected by Cuddy's unforgiving hand. She has a tight grip. Almost manly, for such womanly fingers.
"It's not no reason," House explains patiently, "the guy thinks he's an alien."
"Is he having convulsions? Threatening violence?"
"Nope. Since when do I need a good reason to tie people up, incidentally?"
Cuddy glares. "Since always."
House grins down at her. "Oh, come on. I know you like it."
"House!"
"I could arrange to leave you alone with him for ten minutes or so, if you like. He's your type-- tall, nerdy, foreign, tied up--"
Cuddy interrupts him with a look that says she's half a second from stomping on his foot with a wickedly sharp kitten heel. "House! Let him go. If he's still tied up in that room when I get back, you and I are going to have words."
"Oh no, words," says House sarcastically to her retreating back, "my one weakness. How did you know?"
xxxxx
The Doctor dreams he is free.
The TARDIS arches white and blue and familiar around him. Time twists and eddies in her wake, like soothing streams of hot water around his shoulder muscles.
His screwdriver is in his pocket next to his psychic paper. Rose is asleep in the bunk opposite him, hair all in her face.
It was all a dream. The hospital, the doctor, the tearing loss of everything which made up his life.
Except he is a lucid dreamer, and he knows it wasn't.
The Doctor makes himself forget. Then he gives himself to kinder dreams. Dreams which don't promise things he may never touch again.
xxxxx
Wilson is preoccupied with sorting out a mislabeled file when House comes in. He opens his mouth to remark on how easy it is to forgive Busty Redhead for stuff like this when she's wearing the green top, but closes it and lies down on the couch instead.
That catches Wilson's attention faster than actually talking could have done.
"Forget something?" he asks. "Feels like you just left."
House continues to say nothing, staring at the familiar ceiling tiles. There are sixty-three of them. He had one of his Wannabes count them once. Seventeen, if he remembered correctly. They still look exactly the same as they have every time he's stared at them. He practically has the pockmarks memorized. They're not doing a very good of reassuring him today, though, for some reason.
"House. What's wrong."
Trust Wilson to jump straight from House hasn't said anything to House is suffering from great mental discomfort. Trust him, because he's always right unless House is intentionally messing with him. He's not. Wilson's right. He's suffering from mental discomfort on a Texas scale and has no idea what to do about it.
"I have a patient with two hearts."
Wilson frowns. "Fascinating. Why does that bother you?"
"They both work."
"Bizarre, but I'm sure you'll figure it out once you investigate. So... why are you in here?"
House turns over onto his side and stares at Wilson, biting his lip. "He told me he's an alien."
"So he's insane. That's never stopped you before."
There's that constellation of pockmarks that looks like the Pleiades, and there's the one that looks like Cuddy's ass, and there's the one that looks like Cameron with a bad hair day. House takes a deep breath and smells books and lilac-scented carpet powder. This office is his sanctuary. Mostly because it has Wilson in it, but he'd sooner choke to death on Brussels sprout than tell him that. He's safe here. He knows he's safe here.
"Wilson," he says.
His friend sighs and puts the files down. "Yes, House?"
"Pinky swear you won't tell anyone?"
"Feeling a bit six and girlish today, are we? Low pressure front coming in?"
House rolls off the couch and limps over to Wilson's desk, holding out his pinky. Wilsons stares at him.
"Are you serious? House. I'm not going to tattle on you to Mommy, just tell me what's going on."
Feeling more like a six-year-old girl than he's at all comfortable with, House sits back down and heaves a long, hard sigh. "He says he's an alien, and I think I believe him."
"Oh," says Wilson. Then, softer and almost sad: "Oh."
xxxxx
The Doctor wakes up from troubled, murky dreams to blue eyes glaring at him from beside his bed.
"Hello, Doctor House," he says. "I don't suppose you've come to ask me if I'd like some tea, though I would certainly say yes if you were. A good cup of Darjeeling with two cream and two sugar would not go amiss."
House ignores him. "Here's the situation," he says. "I believe you."
"Oh," says the Doctor.
The smell of bourbon wafts across the space between them. That doesn't surprise him. Everyone he tells reacts differently, and he's had House pegged as the drink-heavily-and-wrestle-with-worldview type right from the moment he walked in. The battle doesn't look to be going so well, if the haunted shadows in his eyes are any indication.
"That can mean one of two things. First, and unlikely, you're actually an alien and my intuition is right on the money. That would mean I either have to let people cut you open and lose all chance at finding my own answers, or I have to get you out of here before anyone else finds out."
The Doctor nods. Either way it looks like House intends for him to be poked and prodded and examined and experimented on to within an inch of his life, but if he's honest, he'd rather let House do that than an anonymous team of government-owned scientists any day. Besides, House will be much easier to escape from than Area 51 when the time comes. "With you so far."
"Or, and this is much more likely, I'm losing my mind. This is nothing new, I've been slipping for a while now. Seeing dead people. Missing things I shouldn't be missing. Stuff. If that's the case, I don't care what happens to you. I'll let my team figure you out and go camping for a couple of weeks, maybe chew some peyote buttons and have cathartic visions until I get over it."
"There are worse ways to deal with things. But?" the Doctor asks softly.
House stares at him, sharp-edged conflict clear in every line of his face. "But... I'm not sure yet which one it is."
"Ah," says the Doctor. "So--"
"I'm going camping," House says, and then his face breaks into a rogueish grin that chases the shadows from his face, "and you're coming with me."
xxxxx
"Camping? House, you hate camping. Bugs! Uneven ground! Also, worst of all, peace and quiet!"
House glares at him. "That was before I bought Princess Love Machine."
"Princess-- House, tell me that's not--"
"It's a motor home, Wilson, you filthy pervert. King-size bed, full kitchen, and a sound system that would make Beethoven weep."
"Beethoven was deaf."
"He heard by vibration. Hence my point."
Wilson shakes his head and spreads his hands the way he does when he feels the thread of a conversation slipping away from him.
"So you're going to go camping in a motorhome for... how long again?"
Picking up a new glass paperweight remarkable only for its astonishing round boringness, House wandered about the office tossing it from hand to hand. "Cuddy's kicking me out for two weeks. Minimum. Says I can't come back until the spooky visions go away."
Now it's Wilson's turn to glare. "House, you know what's causing those and what to do to fix them. You're just being a coward."
"Wel fight that wel flight, seth the wise, Wilson," House says flippantly. "I'm going camping. Also, I'm going to kidnap a patient to keep me company, so cover my back, will you?"
Setting the paperweight down on Wilson's fingers purely by lucky accident, House ambles out with deceptive speed. He can hear Wilson yelling behind him, but the door swinging shut with a satisfying click muffles the worst of it. Wilson will cover for him. He always does, especially when he suspects House's crazy plans will be good for House in some way, which this will. Probably.
Now all that's left is to go say something to Cuddy which will send her into an impotent rage, then leave before she can find a way to retaliate so that she'll smoulder for the next two weeks and be delightfully well-smoked when he gets back.
If it weren't for the possible alien and the possible irreversible brain damage due to the drugs he takes for the pain in his irreversibly ruined leg, this would almost be fun.
xxxxx
The Doctor grins triumphantly as his weight centers over the balls of his feet and stays solid. They still feel a bit numb, but with only a little extra concentration walking should be more than possible.
"Now, where have they put my coat?" he muses out loud.
With perfect dramatic timing-- House really is quite good at that, he thinks-- the door swings open and a bundle of cloth flies through the air at his head. The Doctor snags it inches from his face with perfect aplomb and slides it on with a sigh of relief. He feels naked without it.
"So--" he begins.
"Move your extraterrestrial butt, Mr. Smith," House interrupts. "We're going camping."
"Delightful," says the Doctor, actually meaning it. He loved camping. A little less exciting than the sort of camping he's used to, but a little peace and quiet is good for the soul now and then. He wonders if House likes to fish.
Together they saunter out of the hospital, nonchalant as you please. The sky is a cheerful shade of deathly grey, and there is a bank of pale fog rolling in.
The bike, however, is very colourful indeed, and looks very fast.
"Hop on," says House with a rakish grin.
The Doctor answers him with an identical grin, only wider. "I do hope that can go as fast as it looks like it can."
House's back warms quickly against the Doctor's chest. He digs his fingers into the doctor's very fine leather jacket and hangs on as the engine shrieks and the rubber digs into the pavement.
The highway vanishes behind them as they fly into the swallowing mists.
The adventure begins.
XxxxX
A/N: Part II/II.
Characters: House + Doctor
Rating: K+ for language
Genres: Canonbending, angst, introspection, drama, friendship, sci-fi.
Wordcount: 12056
Summary: Ten falls out of the sky and ends up at Princeton Plainsborough and then he and House go on a wondrous journey of self-discovery in a giant motor home named Princess Love Machine. To Canada. Where they eat eggs and bacon on a magic hill. Tragically.
Notes: Written for shiinabambi, for whom I have more love than I can express even in twelve thousand words. She made a comment about House and Time Lords in chat once and this sprung from my muse whole and complete unto itself. It took me some time to work up the courage to write it, however, because... well, can't tell you that, it'd ruin the surprise. ^___^
I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
~Eia
As the Crow Flies
House smells Cameron before he hears her. Not because his hearing's going, thankfully, but because Maui seems to have stuck to her skin like she spent the entire time there rolling in plumeria blossoms. Maybe she did. Who knows what kind of bizarre fetish she and Chase prescribe to this week. Not that he wants to know. He doesn't. Not even a little.
"Hi, House," she says when she realizes that he's ignoring her, not doing something else more important, as if there were anything less important than talking to her.
Idly, he wonders what Wilson's face would look like if he started up pottery lessons. Getting my hands right into the clay, creating something right from scratch... I don't know, Wilson, it just makes me feel like a better person. Maybe I should have a kid or something. Oh, yes. He's definitely going to do that. Wilson will have that horribly conflicted expression where he wants so hard to believe House means it but knows beyond a shadow of reasonable doubt that he doesn't and is only doing it to break him down a little more. It's delicious. He has Wednesday evenings free, perhaps then--
"House."
Or maybe art. Ooh, that's almost better. He could hang his masterpieces all over the hospital, every one of them full of subtle threats and inside jokes that only Wilson would understand. Cuddy would kill him and light them all on fire-- preferably in that order-- but it would be so worth it. Enormous still-lifes of that stupid green mug with the raunchy red lipstick marks on the rim right across the hall--
"House."
He sighs. Clearly she doesn't plan to go away even if he ignores her. That means it's probably a case, which is worth heaving a put-upon sigh for and turning around. "Yes, Miss Wailea 2009?"
Cameron doesn't even blink. Why would she? It was a lame joke. He's clearly losing his edge. Blaming it on the impending insanity, he shrugs it off and waits.
She doesn't disappoint. "Thirty-seven year old caucasian male in the ER. Apparently... fell from the sky."
"Weird," House drawls. "Call the morgue to pick up your gory pancake and go away. I'm pondering quadratic imponderables."
The file lands on his desk, papers spilling slightly as it slides towards the edge. He stops it from falling off with a hand, but doesn't look inside. She has yet to make it interesting.
"He's not dead, House, that's why he's in the ER."
"Not dead yet, you mean."
Cameron grins. It's that grin she gets when she's about to tell him why this is interesting, and it's wider than usual. This is going to be good. He leans back, staples his fingers, and hopes it'll be good enough to distract him from the--
"Not even close to dead, House, just unconscious. The people who brought him in are the ones who say he fell from the sky."
"Weirder," says House, "but still boring."
"We gave him a routine checkup. I discovered something very, very weird indeed by accident."
House rolls his eyes and gets to his feet. It's almost lunchtime. If he doesn't hurry, Wilson will get to his lunch before House does. Can't have that. "Would you mind if I go have lunch while you work your way up to the point? I'll be back in fifteen minutes, so talk faster."
He's halfway out the door when she catches his arm and actually hauls him bodily back into the office. Huh. She's never done that before. Not that he objects, pulling him like that involves pressing very close against his side and she's soft and buoyant in some very pleasing places. Maybe if he pulls back a little harder, she'll--
"He has two hearts, House," Cameron says softly.
House stops, looks down at her, hopes very hard that the rib-clenching shock rolling down his nerves isn't showing up like neon on his face. He suspects it is. He's not shocked often, and when he is, he's usually expecting some kind of shock anyway, just not that one. This is the kind of shock he feels when he's really fucking blindsided, the kind he's made a conscious habit of never feeling ever.
"Well, now," he says, a little strangled, "that's interesting."
xxxxx
"Name?" the nurse asks once he's awake enough to figure out which two of the half-dozen narrowed brown eyes staring at him are real. She looks harried. Like she hasn't slept properly in weeks. Understaffed, thinks the Doctor pityingly. He hardly even needs to ask what year it is. The technology and the obvious signs of financial difficulty make guessing easy. It's 2010, and he's in America.
That is very, very interesting, considering he clearly told the TARDIS that he wanted to go to Amelioris in the Adflictanis Diadem, and this is basically the other end of the universe from that. Also, he has no idea where the TARDIS is.
At least he is alone. It isn't the first time he's been thankful for that. Usually he's more bitter about it. This time... he has many sorts of bad feelings, but this is different. Something is going to happen here. Something terrible in an entirely different way than the kinds of terrible he already knows.
Best to get his bearings. He wonders if the hospital cafeteria might have decent tea, then regrets letting himself hope. Hospitals never have decent tea. Hospitals in America probably don't have tea at all, at least nothing he'd call tea.
"Excuse me," he says to the next doctor he sees passing by, a pretty young lady with blond hair. She reminds him for a split second of Rose and he looks away from her face to avoid betraying himself. "I'm the Doctor, and I was just wondering--"
She laughs and puts her hand on his shoulder. "You're not the doctor, sir, you're the patient. You've hit your head and seem to be a bit out of sorts, but don't worry. I've come to take you to your private room. It'll be quieter there."
He closes his mouth and lets her help him into a wheelchair. Quiet would be nice. Time to think. Time to convince his legs that they still work and walk out before anyone figures out-- oh, dear. Hospital. If he's already been assigned a private room they must have already done an examination while he was unconscious, which means there's going to be a very curious doctor asking questions about certain bits of his anatomy he'd really rather not discuss. What a pain in the immortal arse.
He sincerely hopes this Dr. House is a calm sort of person, someone who will listen to reason. If not, the Doctor's day is about to get considerably worse.
xxxxx
As he walks, House thinks.
It's perfectly reasonable to nearly herniate over someone with two hearts. It's two hearts, for chrissakes, medically impossible and three kinds of insane. It's the weirdest thing he's seen in... oh, a week? Yeah, it's weird. Really fucking weird. But that's not enough to explain why he feels like his heart-- one, singular-- is about to pound out of his stupid, irrational chest. It's a defect of some kind, very odd but ultimately explainable. Or at least it will be once he's through explaining its redundant ass down to its tiniest redundant valve.
So why is he unsettled enough to simultaneously want to turn around, walk out, and go redirect a mid-sized river of bourbon down his throat?
He barely even notices he's arrived until the door squeaks as it opens, making him nearly run into the frame.
The man sitting on the bed straightens his back and waves cheerily. "Hello! I'm the Doctor," he says, and beams at House.
House stares.
The patient is, as Cameron said, a thirty-seven year old Caucasian male. He's also about House's height, about House's weight, and very, very British. His hair is brown, his eyes are brown, he's not especially handsome but he has charisma coming off him like a stench. House knows him. Knows him better than anyone else in the world.
He's also never seen the guy before in his life.
"Hi!" says House, almost cheerfully. "I'm Doctor Gregory House. Will you excuse me a minute? I have to go have a quiet mental breakdown in my best friend's office. I'll be back in five minutes."
xxxxx
The Doctor watches him go with mixed feelings.
Since he apparently has five minutes to spare and his legs are definitely not planning on cooperation, he decides to use them to sort those feelings out. This one over here is confusion, which needs no interpretation. This one is amusement, also simple. This one is a nagging sense of something that has no name, but roughly equates to you forgot your wallet at home or the answer to this question is right on the tip of my tongue-- the feeling of being right on the verge of discovering or remembering something very, very important that feels like it ought to be obvious. And this last one in the corner is that wistful feeling that makes him wish for tea harder the closer he looks at it. It feels much like nostalgia, or homesickness, except in reverse... like he knows he's about to lose something.
Well, that's uncomfortable. The Doctor pulls his attention away from his feelings and devotes the remaining two minutes to talking earnestly at his recalcitrant legs.
"Now, you see, if we stay here, they're going to subject us to endless tests and call in all their friends and soon half the continent will be staring at us and trying to figure out what we are. We'll be strapped to a bed and fed through a needle in our elbow and won't get any closer to finding the TARDIS so please, come on, move--"
"Talking to yourself isn't necessarily a symptom, but it's not generally a good sign," the doctor-- House? odd name-- says wryly from the doorway. "Most of the people I know who talk to themselves are either insane or in denial about being insane or sane but in denial about that. Which one are you?"
The Doctor grins. He likes this man already. "None of the above, I'm afraid. I'm not quite sane, but not insane either, and am far from denying either. Besides, being thought insane can come in quite handy sometimes."
House nods, his blue eyes razor-sharp and not the slightest bit kind. "Yeah, well, there's a fine line between people thinking you're nuts and thinking people only think you're nuts."
"That there is," the Doctor replies softly. "That there is."
xxxxx
House has no idea where to start, so in true House fashion, he shrugs and goes in headfirst. "What's your name? You told the nurse it was John Smith, which is so obvious it has to be fake."
"I told her my real name first. She didn't believe me," 'John Smith' says with a wink and a grin.
"Try me."
John Smith shrugs and sighs, grin fading a little. "I'm the Doctor."
Rolling his eyes, House tries not to walk out again. He hates dealing with psych patients. Most psych patients, anyway. Some of them are fun. This one's mostly annoying right now. "Right, and is that your first or last name?"
"Only," replies the Doctor, then amends, "well, sort of."
"What's your sort-of other name?" House asks waspishly, rapidly losing his nearly-nonexistent patience.
"Are you my wife?" the Doctor asks instead of answering.
"Not last I checked. Give me another five minutes with Google and I'll make sure. What is your name?"
"I told you my name. My other name is reserved for those closest to me, which is a group that did not involve you last time I checked."
There's a strange feeling in House's chest, like he should be angrier but isn't because he knows something he can't possibly know, but also doesn't, like it's right on the tip of his tongue if he could only spit it out. Damn. Talking to psych patients is clearly not helping him postpone his long, slow slide into the loony bin. If anything, he's losing it faster every minute he spends in this tiny grey room with this remarkably annoying man. "Whatever. I don't care. But I'm the only doctor in this room. As far as I'm concerned, you're John Smith, and by the time I'm done you're going to wish you'd picked a more interesting fake name."
"I'm rather attached to this one, actually--" John Smith begins to say, but House cuts him off with a brief twinge of satisfaction.
"You have two hearts. Did you know?"
John Smith winces and runs a hand through his hair.
Odd reaction. Certainly not any of the ones House had been expecting, like the patient knowing and nodding calmly or the patient not knowing and being shocked and a little horrified. But unhappy? Why?
"I could have lied and said I didn't know, but I suspect you're a rather good judge of people despite generally loathing them and would have caught me at it. Yes, I know, and I wish you didn't. I also know there are no answers for you to find that you'd accept, and no happiness in searching for them, so how about when my legs start working again you let me leave and forget I was ever here? I promise you, it's for the best."
"Shut up," says House, and glowers. "Obviously you're a crappy judge of character, else you'd know that I have no intention whatsoever of letting you leave until I figure out why the hell you have two functioning, healthy hearts, and while I'm at it, why the people who brought you in seemed to think you fell from the sky but you're somehow not dead. You'd be well-advised to just tell me what you know and make things quicker and possibly less painful for you, though no guarantees on the latter."
John grins a grin that makes his face look broken. "All right, then. I'm a Time Lord from the planet Gallifrey. I have two hearts because all Time Lords have two hearts."
House stares, then feels a slow smile pull his face tight. "You're going to regret that, too," he promises. "I bet you think you're hilarious. God, I hate psych patients."
"You hate everyone, and I can be," the Doctor replies without missing a beat, and House is discomfited to note that he doesn't appear at all deflated. He just looks... longsuffering, for lack of a less cliche description. There are bags under his eyes, and he looks ten years older when his smile fades. "I can be very funny indeed when I want to be, but I'm not mocking you. I'm really not."
"Sure you're not. You're an alien. Makes perfect sense," House snaps.
"It does," replies John, still wearing that infuriatingly honest expression. "But you don't believe me, as I know you wouldn't, and perhaps it's better that way. Go on. Run all the tests you want. I'm afraid to say when my legs start working, you'll lose your chance."
"Not if I tie you to the bed," House retorts, "and believe me, I have no compunctions about doing that, even without a good reason."
John looks taken aback for a moment, then laughs. "Never been much into bondage, myself, but I suppose if it floats your proverbial boat--"
Despite himself, House realizes that he's beginning to like the guy. He has a decent brain in his head, even if that brain is clearly insane. Insanity and intelligence aren't mutually exclusive. "It floats my proverbial ocean liner, but don't worry, I'm a man of honour. I promise not to molest you in your heavily drugged sleep." He pauses, for dramatic effect. "I like it better when they squirm anyway."
xxxxx
The Doctor ruefully regards the thick leather straps across his shoulders and around his forearms. He should have known better than to underestimate House, or to overestimate himself in this condition. Now he's being actively restrained, and can't seem to find his sonic screwdriver, or his psychic paper, which combined with the TARDIS makes a very worrisome list of things which should not be missing. In fact, there is nothing in his suit which is anything but perfectly mundane, except for him, and he's feeling very... oh, well now, isn't that interesting.
"I know what happened," he tells the ceiling with a broad grin. "I know what happened! It still shouldn't have happened, I should have seen it coming, but here I am so obviously I didn't."
The realization brings a whole host of friends, however, and the Doctor doesn't like many of them. For instance, he knows where the TARDIS is. However, knowing where it is isn't going to help him, because where it is is still impossible to get to for another century or so, until Earth develops the capacity for locating and entering shiftspace, and even then the prospect of locating the exact tiny pocket his things are in when it could be anywhere in the universe is quite daunting, to be honest.
Another example: he knows who-- or, interchangeably, what-- is responsible, but that doesn't help him because if this is where they want him to be he has no choice in the matter whatsoever. They could have been gentler about it, but he could easily have done something to make them angry without being aware of it. Perhaps they have a soft spot for Daleks and got tired of him always wiping them out. It would explain why they always managed to survive, at least.
What frightens him most, however, is that despite all these answers, he doesn't know why they want him here, or how long they plan to make him stay. Perhaps-- and this is an idea he wishes desperately he could kill-- they don't mean for him to leave at all. Perhaps this is their way of getting him out of their way permanently.
The Doctor takes a deep breath and buries the thought and all the horror that's trying to explode from it deep within himself. Then he firmly locks it and walks away. If that's the truth, he's not going to drown in despair looking at it for hours on end. He's going to try his damndest to get out of here and get back to his TARDIS and his endless stars and the adventures he hasn't had yet. He's going to fight, because he's the Doctor, and the Doctor never gives up.
No, he says quietly to himself. No, it doesn't work like that. The Doctor gives up all the time. That's why he chooses companions who don't, or companions who need him not to, so he can use the guilt as drive to make himself keep going through all the madness and pain.
Who's waiting for him to save her now? Who needs him to do anything but lie here in this bed and wait for the doctor to come back with needles? Who needs him, period?
The Doctor stares at the ceiling and tries his hardest not to drown.
xxxxx
Cuddy catches him in the hallway on his way to Wilson's office.
"House. You can't restrain a patient for no reason."
Eyeing her chest appreciatively-- god, he loves this top, the dark red is such a fantastic complement to the freckles in her cleavage-- he nearly misses the turn and has to suffer being caught and redirected by Cuddy's unforgiving hand. She has a tight grip. Almost manly, for such womanly fingers.
"It's not no reason," House explains patiently, "the guy thinks he's an alien."
"Is he having convulsions? Threatening violence?"
"Nope. Since when do I need a good reason to tie people up, incidentally?"
Cuddy glares. "Since always."
House grins down at her. "Oh, come on. I know you like it."
"House!"
"I could arrange to leave you alone with him for ten minutes or so, if you like. He's your type-- tall, nerdy, foreign, tied up--"
Cuddy interrupts him with a look that says she's half a second from stomping on his foot with a wickedly sharp kitten heel. "House! Let him go. If he's still tied up in that room when I get back, you and I are going to have words."
"Oh no, words," says House sarcastically to her retreating back, "my one weakness. How did you know?"
xxxxx
The Doctor dreams he is free.
The TARDIS arches white and blue and familiar around him. Time twists and eddies in her wake, like soothing streams of hot water around his shoulder muscles.
His screwdriver is in his pocket next to his psychic paper. Rose is asleep in the bunk opposite him, hair all in her face.
It was all a dream. The hospital, the doctor, the tearing loss of everything which made up his life.
Except he is a lucid dreamer, and he knows it wasn't.
The Doctor makes himself forget. Then he gives himself to kinder dreams. Dreams which don't promise things he may never touch again.
xxxxx
Wilson is preoccupied with sorting out a mislabeled file when House comes in. He opens his mouth to remark on how easy it is to forgive Busty Redhead for stuff like this when she's wearing the green top, but closes it and lies down on the couch instead.
That catches Wilson's attention faster than actually talking could have done.
"Forget something?" he asks. "Feels like you just left."
House continues to say nothing, staring at the familiar ceiling tiles. There are sixty-three of them. He had one of his Wannabes count them once. Seventeen, if he remembered correctly. They still look exactly the same as they have every time he's stared at them. He practically has the pockmarks memorized. They're not doing a very good of reassuring him today, though, for some reason.
"House. What's wrong."
Trust Wilson to jump straight from House hasn't said anything to House is suffering from great mental discomfort. Trust him, because he's always right unless House is intentionally messing with him. He's not. Wilson's right. He's suffering from mental discomfort on a Texas scale and has no idea what to do about it.
"I have a patient with two hearts."
Wilson frowns. "Fascinating. Why does that bother you?"
"They both work."
"Bizarre, but I'm sure you'll figure it out once you investigate. So... why are you in here?"
House turns over onto his side and stares at Wilson, biting his lip. "He told me he's an alien."
"So he's insane. That's never stopped you before."
There's that constellation of pockmarks that looks like the Pleiades, and there's the one that looks like Cuddy's ass, and there's the one that looks like Cameron with a bad hair day. House takes a deep breath and smells books and lilac-scented carpet powder. This office is his sanctuary. Mostly because it has Wilson in it, but he'd sooner choke to death on Brussels sprout than tell him that. He's safe here. He knows he's safe here.
"Wilson," he says.
His friend sighs and puts the files down. "Yes, House?"
"Pinky swear you won't tell anyone?"
"Feeling a bit six and girlish today, are we? Low pressure front coming in?"
House rolls off the couch and limps over to Wilson's desk, holding out his pinky. Wilsons stares at him.
"Are you serious? House. I'm not going to tattle on you to Mommy, just tell me what's going on."
Feeling more like a six-year-old girl than he's at all comfortable with, House sits back down and heaves a long, hard sigh. "He says he's an alien, and I think I believe him."
"Oh," says Wilson. Then, softer and almost sad: "Oh."
xxxxx
The Doctor wakes up from troubled, murky dreams to blue eyes glaring at him from beside his bed.
"Hello, Doctor House," he says. "I don't suppose you've come to ask me if I'd like some tea, though I would certainly say yes if you were. A good cup of Darjeeling with two cream and two sugar would not go amiss."
House ignores him. "Here's the situation," he says. "I believe you."
"Oh," says the Doctor.
The smell of bourbon wafts across the space between them. That doesn't surprise him. Everyone he tells reacts differently, and he's had House pegged as the drink-heavily-and-wrestle-with-worldview type right from the moment he walked in. The battle doesn't look to be going so well, if the haunted shadows in his eyes are any indication.
"That can mean one of two things. First, and unlikely, you're actually an alien and my intuition is right on the money. That would mean I either have to let people cut you open and lose all chance at finding my own answers, or I have to get you out of here before anyone else finds out."
The Doctor nods. Either way it looks like House intends for him to be poked and prodded and examined and experimented on to within an inch of his life, but if he's honest, he'd rather let House do that than an anonymous team of government-owned scientists any day. Besides, House will be much easier to escape from than Area 51 when the time comes. "With you so far."
"Or, and this is much more likely, I'm losing my mind. This is nothing new, I've been slipping for a while now. Seeing dead people. Missing things I shouldn't be missing. Stuff. If that's the case, I don't care what happens to you. I'll let my team figure you out and go camping for a couple of weeks, maybe chew some peyote buttons and have cathartic visions until I get over it."
"There are worse ways to deal with things. But?" the Doctor asks softly.
House stares at him, sharp-edged conflict clear in every line of his face. "But... I'm not sure yet which one it is."
"Ah," says the Doctor. "So--"
"I'm going camping," House says, and then his face breaks into a rogueish grin that chases the shadows from his face, "and you're coming with me."
xxxxx
"Camping? House, you hate camping. Bugs! Uneven ground! Also, worst of all, peace and quiet!"
House glares at him. "That was before I bought Princess Love Machine."
"Princess-- House, tell me that's not--"
"It's a motor home, Wilson, you filthy pervert. King-size bed, full kitchen, and a sound system that would make Beethoven weep."
"Beethoven was deaf."
"He heard by vibration. Hence my point."
Wilson shakes his head and spreads his hands the way he does when he feels the thread of a conversation slipping away from him.
"So you're going to go camping in a motorhome for... how long again?"
Picking up a new glass paperweight remarkable only for its astonishing round boringness, House wandered about the office tossing it from hand to hand. "Cuddy's kicking me out for two weeks. Minimum. Says I can't come back until the spooky visions go away."
Now it's Wilson's turn to glare. "House, you know what's causing those and what to do to fix them. You're just being a coward."
"Wel fight that wel flight, seth the wise, Wilson," House says flippantly. "I'm going camping. Also, I'm going to kidnap a patient to keep me company, so cover my back, will you?"
Setting the paperweight down on Wilson's fingers purely by lucky accident, House ambles out with deceptive speed. He can hear Wilson yelling behind him, but the door swinging shut with a satisfying click muffles the worst of it. Wilson will cover for him. He always does, especially when he suspects House's crazy plans will be good for House in some way, which this will. Probably.
Now all that's left is to go say something to Cuddy which will send her into an impotent rage, then leave before she can find a way to retaliate so that she'll smoulder for the next two weeks and be delightfully well-smoked when he gets back.
If it weren't for the possible alien and the possible irreversible brain damage due to the drugs he takes for the pain in his irreversibly ruined leg, this would almost be fun.
xxxxx
The Doctor grins triumphantly as his weight centers over the balls of his feet and stays solid. They still feel a bit numb, but with only a little extra concentration walking should be more than possible.
"Now, where have they put my coat?" he muses out loud.
With perfect dramatic timing-- House really is quite good at that, he thinks-- the door swings open and a bundle of cloth flies through the air at his head. The Doctor snags it inches from his face with perfect aplomb and slides it on with a sigh of relief. He feels naked without it.
"So--" he begins.
"Move your extraterrestrial butt, Mr. Smith," House interrupts. "We're going camping."
"Delightful," says the Doctor, actually meaning it. He loved camping. A little less exciting than the sort of camping he's used to, but a little peace and quiet is good for the soul now and then. He wonders if House likes to fish.
Together they saunter out of the hospital, nonchalant as you please. The sky is a cheerful shade of deathly grey, and there is a bank of pale fog rolling in.
The bike, however, is very colourful indeed, and looks very fast.
"Hop on," says House with a rakish grin.
The Doctor answers him with an identical grin, only wider. "I do hope that can go as fast as it looks like it can."
House's back warms quickly against the Doctor's chest. He digs his fingers into the doctor's very fine leather jacket and hangs on as the engine shrieks and the rubber digs into the pavement.
The highway vanishes behind them as they fly into the swallowing mists.
The adventure begins.
XxxxX
A/N: Part II/II.