Housefic: Looking Glass (Chapter Three)
Title: Looking Glass (Chapter Three)
Authors: blackmare and nightdog_barks
Characters: House and Wilson, a few OCs
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: No
Spoilers: None
Summary: House knew they shouldn't have taken that exit. 2,836 words (in this chapter).
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Never will.
Author Notes: This AU story was sparked by this late 19th-century albumen print photograph. As Blackmare noted, "In my mind, the Camera Obscura becomes something inexplicable, perhaps a distant twisted cousin of the Wardrobe that leads to Narnia." So that's what we wrote, although in this fic, it's not quite Narnia. This was a story in three parts, and this is the end. Hope you've enjoyed the ride. Also, folks are more than welcome to write into this 'verse -- after all, there are a lot of Stations out there, just waiting to be discovered. :D
Beta: pwcorgigirl
Chapter Three: The Long Way Home
The shed is not three blocks north. Or four, or six; it is not south, it is not anywhere.
They've been around and around this little barrier island, and they keep winding up right back here, at the cute little white wooden house, with its cute little fence and its cute little garden and the garden arbor and the roses and its clothesline flapping in the breeze.
It has to be the place, but the shed is not merely gone, it's --
"It can't be here," Wilson says. "It couldn't have been here. There's not even a mark on the ground. If they moved it, you'd see, there'd be ... a space."
"If you or I moved it. If some vindictive bastard from outer space moved it, on the other hand, maybe not."
"Wait. You think the, the cop, or whatever he was, was an alien?"
"I think it's four in the afternoon, we never got lunch, and there's exactly one person in this whole damn town who has some answers."
Wilson raises an eyebrow: a question.
"It's a pan-universe rule," House pronounces, "that bartenders know everything."
The little beachside bar is just as quiet as the first time they were there, and the same bartender is doing the same bartender-y things, although instead of wiping down the bar this time, he's sorting tiny paper parasols into sets of different colors. The TV in the corner is tuned to a sports channel, and Wilson takes a look while he waits for his drink. It's a basketball game, something the announcer is calling the Coast-to-Coast Classic. He looks more closely, tipping his head back to read the names of the teams -- the New York Knicks are playing the Reno Reef Sharks, and while there's a voice in the back of Wilson's mind saying plaintively "But Nevada doesn't have a coastline," another voice is quite positive that in this place, it does.
"You guys here to see Lowery?" the bartender inquires cheerfully. "I got word he's busy tonight."
"Lowery?" House says.
The bartender smiles, puts a blue parasol into the blue pile.
"The guy you morons ran away from," he says. "Hefty, big bones, looks like a big black bird. That Lowery. Said he tried to talk to you two and you took off like cats outta hell." He stops sorting long enough to shove House's beer and Wilson's scotch across the counter. "What, you think you're the only ones who aren't from here?"
"We're not ... wait. Are you saying what I think you're saying?"
The bartender's smile grows wider. Three green parasols for the green pile.
"But you stayed," House says. "Why -- "
"Because I wasn't already here. I'm a spark, not gap circuits like you poor saps. Anyway, Lowery'll be at the diner tomorrow, you can see him there. You want some nuts to go with those drinks? Pickled eggs?"
"No. Look, his -- Lowery's idea of 'talking' involved stabbing me with some kind of -- "
"Bug zapper. DNA sample confirms where you came from. Lets him boot your ass back to the right place. It's the real jake." On the TV, a slew of commercials is just ending and the main event coming back on. "You don't shut up and let me watch this game, I'll boot you myself."
Wilson notices a matchbook close by and picks it up.
THE CROW BAR, the cover proclaims, the blazing red letters circling the head of a laughing crow, WHERE YOU WON'T KNOW WHAT HIT YOU.
The Knicks win going away, 102 - 88. The pickled eggs are terrible.
Lowery drags back into town with his head aching like it might pop. And he still has to deal with these idiots. Doctors, supposed to be smart, but here they are fucking around in this universe where they don't belong, and Lowery had to run off and let them, because no sooner did those two crash the Station than the damn Triangle spit another little airplane across. A half dozen people and a couple tons of metal, charter flight out of Charlotte Amalie -- the kind of problem that demands full and instantaneous attention. It was a huge, tricky redirect, just him and Colfax managing the whole goddamn thing, with Colfax grousing and bitching every step of the way like he always does. It had taken three -- three! -- phase intervals to get everything put back together, and Lowery had hardly slept the entire time.
That's one thing he's sure he has in common with his two Strays, although he doesn't know which would be worse -- being a Walking Ghost like Dr. House, or a Dopp like Dr. Wilson. Lucky all he has to do is get them back through the Station, not solve Existential Crisis No. 4,293.
Their plan worked about as well as they could have hoped. Buy a couple bottles of high-proof rocket fuel at the Crow Bar, where Wilson's currency was welcome; make a last call to Dominic's; weave their way back to the relative safety of their cabin; proceed to get even more wasted than they were the night before.
Wilson has been drinking a lot, since they got here. House hasn't mentioned it, but he's noticed. They're at breakfast and there's Wilson, looking sadly at his glass of juice, his hand straying inside his jacket as if to reach for a flask of something else.
This is aberrant behavior for the James Wilson that House knows. At least he's still ordering normal food -- waffles, hash browns, fluffy scrambled eggs. It's a typical Wilson Diner Breakfast, except for one thing.
"You didn't get any bacon," House says.
Wilson's distracted, looking over the local real estate pamphlet he picked up at the door.
"No," he says, eyes skimming the fine print, the washed-out photos of split-level ranches. "It's not ko-- " He cuts himself short, stares at the paper a moment longer, then takes a sip of orange juice.
"We have to get out of here," he says, and House is pretty sure he doesn't mean the diner. He's got his leg resting against House's, under the table where nobody will notice. "But I just ... I don't see how that's going to work if the shed is gone."
Neither does House, but he's not going to admit that when Wilson's already teetering on the edge. "Bartender Guy didn't seem too concerned," he says. "Sure, he's not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but ... "
He's about to suggest they go back there and demand more information, when his plans are interrupted by the arrival of a looming pudgy presence in a jet black coat.
"Never thought I'd say this," House says between sips of coffee, "but I think I'm happy to see you."
The shed is right where it should be.
"Okay, how'd you do it?" House says. He doesn't expect an answer, and isn't surprised when he doesn't get one.
"Gentlemen," Lowery says, "goodbye." He half-bows, inviting them through the open door.
"That's it?" House says. "You just ... let us go? Now that we've peeked behind the curtain? Seen the wizard?"
"House," Wilson mutters.
"What do you want me to do?" Lowery counters.
"Oh, I don't know," House says. "Maybe make us disappear for good? I mean, what if we call the authorities?"
"House!"
"I am the authorities," Lowery snaps. "You think yours -- you think anyone will believe you? Besides, I'm not in the neutralization division. Not my area." He takes hold of the door and waggles it back and forth. "Go," he growls. "Now."
"This is not the beach," House announces, glaring out the door into the darkness. "I want my money back."
He's looking across a weedy yard to an elegant old wooden porch, where a single light shines down on a single human figure. If he didn't need answers he'd already be mocking the scene for its multiple cliches: The figure is a woman, past her 50s, in a rocking chair, and that glinting shape across her lap can only be a gun.
"We're not armed," House calls out, while Wilson jostles him over to get a look out the door for himself. "This may be the dumbest question I've ever asked in my life: Where are we?"
"Name wouldn't mean much to you," she calls back. "You'd best come on out a while, though. Stay in there right now, no telling where you end up next."
She has a nondescript American accent, the kind of indefinite "NPR voice" that means the announcer could be from anywhere. The long gun is a rifle, the same kind of small caliber weapon his dad used to call a varmint scraper.
"Can't never be too careful," she says when she sees him eying the gun. "Lampwights don't keep to regular hours like normal folk."
At least he thinks she said lampwights. Maybe he misheard and she actually said lamp hikes or lamb pipes or even lanky whites, which would fit him and Wilson, but --
"House," Wilson says, and House realizes he's been standing there in something suspiciously resembling a daze for at least a minute. He gives himself a mental shake.
"Okay," he says. "Answer this then -- who are you?"
"I'm the Stationmaster," she says.
Wilson groans.
"No," House says. "No, see, we've met the Stationmaster, and -- "
"You met Lowery," the woman corrects. "He's one of the Stationmasters."
"And ... how many Stationmasters are there?"
"Enough," she says crisply. "Until there aren't, and then you'll notice."
"Notice what?"
"The universe collapsing, I 'spect."
Something flickers in the night, something like the biggest, greenest firefly House has ever seen.
"Ghoom," the woman says. "Won't do you no harm; it's just curious." She sets the rifle down, leaning it carefully against the porch railing, and stands up. "You boys got shunted sideways by a bubble. Clear up in a few minutes, most likely. Good thing, too, 'cause I got dinner on the stove."
The ghoom vanishes in midair as a silent dark shape swoops past.
"Owl," she says, sighing. "Nothing else'll touch the things, but an owl'll eat 'em like candy. It's all right, there's another clutch hatching even now."
Another ghoom flutters downward, lands on the top of House's arm. His muscles tingle and the hairs tickle, but it's not an unpleasant feeling, nothing like the painful pop! and sting of static electricity on a dry day. This is soft, a sable paintbrush against his skin.
On closer inspection, he sees that it has two compound eyes, four feathery antennae, a fuzzy tail that curves upward, and no wings. It flies without wings. Of course, House thinks. Of course it does.
"Could hear you two comin' from a mile away," the old woman says, and swats without much conviction at a ghoom buzzing around her head.
"It was Wilson here," House says. "Never graduated Girl Guides."
"Not now," the woman says. "Half hour ago." She shakes her head. "I don't know what it is about Lowery that brings the strays in from the sphere."
"But we just -- " Wilson begins, and House knows his next words are going to be "got here," but instead of finishing, Wilson seems to think better of the idea and closes his mouth. He's watching about a dozen of those strange bugs, lit up from within, flying in perfect sync toward the window of the house.
They float ever closer to their reflections in the glass, and then they fly through it, into the house, leaving a series of shimmering phosphorescent marks on the unbroken surface.
House doesn't even want to ask anymore; he's been down this rabbit hole so long that all he wants is to see the sun. Whatever just happened, it seems to mean something, because their reluctant hostess got to her feet when she saw it.
"I'd invite you boys to stay for rice and beans, but you best get back in the potting shed now. Bubble's burst, but another can bump in anytime."
Wilson isn't asking questions either. Obedient, they climb the creaky steps back into the "potting shed" and the gun-toting woman shuts the door behind them.
"Is this even happening?" Wilson wants to know. There's light leaking in from around the door frames, just enough so House can see the dusty floor. Three seconds ago, there wasn't enough light outside to come in like that. "Is it? Has any of this happened?"
"No," says House.
"Good. I was getting worried."
House steps forward to open the door, his fingers just brushing the cool brass knob, when Wilson's hand closes over his own.
"House," Wilson says. "Wait."
"Why? What now?"
"House," Wilson says again. "You know -- you saw -- time passed differently. There." He moves to stand beside House, still clasping House's hand. "What if," he says, "what if ... we're like Rip van Winkle? What if ... we were gone for a short time, but a lot of time passed at home?"
"How much time?"
Wilson shakes his head. "Ten years? Twenty?"
If twenty, why not fifty? an annoying little voice in House's head singsongs. If fifty, why not one hundred? Why not two hundred? Why not a thousand? A million?
The small hairs on the back of House's neck rise. He tries to silence the little voice, to blot out the images it's conjuring up -- a barren shore, an empty sea, the last glow of a Sun running down.
"If it's wrong," House says, "we'll go back, find Lowery, and beat the shit out of him."
And with that, he opens the door.
The light is blinding, but it's the light of what seems to be a perfectly ordinary sun, hanging over what House dearly hopes is the perfectly ordinary Atlantic. Their Atlantic.
They must be home. There's that hot dog stand, the same guy in the doofy PURE BEEF hat with the paper horns sticking out from the sides.
His leg hurts.
He might have to lean on Wilson, if it's really bad. He's pretty sure he forgot his cane at the Crow Bar.
Behind them, the camera obscura sits still and empty, just another seedy beachside attraction.
House rests his palm, just for a moment, on the sun-warm wood. How many Stations? he wonders. How many Masters? And: Where do I sign up?
A gentle hand on his shoulder brings him back.
They make their way over the hot midday sand to the hotter parking lot. Wilson's car is still there, right beside the sign informing visitors that anything parked overnight will be towed.
"I don't get it," House grumbles, while he waits for Wilson to unlock the doors. "But I'll take it."
His phone is still in his jeans pocket, so he takes it out and squints at the date it shows.
Friday, 4 p.m., to all appearances just five hours after they ... left. Just another hour on the highway, and they'll be at the Wildwood Resort, where their nice, comfy, modern hotel room awaits.
House sincerely hopes nothing in it is pink.
He settles into the scorching-hot seat of the car, cranks up the air, and goes looking on the phone for the photos he took of poor dead Buttercup.
Naturally, they aren't there. The three images consist of static, blackness, and ERROR CORRUPTED FILE. He doesn't mention it to Wilson.
The view from their room is beautiful.
They're up on the balcony in the warm salt breeze, and House looks down at the courtyard, at the huge pool with its underwater lights that make the whole thing glow green. Nobody's using it, and House would take that chance for solitude if this were an ordinary night.
He'll soak in the room's nice deep tub, later. Turn on the jets, absorb the heat, and forget. It's going to be a while before he feels like swimming again.
They ought to call out for dinner, he thinks, or call room service, and get anything other than pizza.
"House," Wilson says, and something in his tone makes House turn around quickly. Wilson is staring through the sliding doors, into the shadows of their room, where a bright green spark of light floats up like a will-o-the-wisp.
"Huh," says House.
"I saw it on your jacket. It, it was in the lining, or crawled out of a pocket, or something. We'd better try -- "
But the incandescent bug shoots forward, right through the glass doors, and is gone in the night before Wilson can finish the thought.
"You were saying?"
"Shit. We don't even know what it does." Wilson rubs the back of his neck, and steps over to the railing to look for the ghoom. From this height, the barrier island is a long strip of sparkling lights, halogen and fluorescent, mercury vapor and sodium, stretching for miles north and south. Even if they could move that fast, there'd be no hope of finding the bug.
"Well ... " Whatever he was going to say, he doesn't finish it. His shoulders slump. "I guess ... I just hope it wasn't ... "
"Pregnant."
Somewhere below, blocks away, a dog begins to bark.
~ fin
Authors: blackmare and nightdog_barks
Characters: House and Wilson, a few OCs
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: No
Spoilers: None
Summary: House knew they shouldn't have taken that exit. 2,836 words (in this chapter).
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Never will.
Author Notes: This AU story was sparked by this late 19th-century albumen print photograph. As Blackmare noted, "In my mind, the Camera Obscura becomes something inexplicable, perhaps a distant twisted cousin of the Wardrobe that leads to Narnia." So that's what we wrote, although in this fic, it's not quite Narnia. This was a story in three parts, and this is the end. Hope you've enjoyed the ride. Also, folks are more than welcome to write into this 'verse -- after all, there are a lot of Stations out there, just waiting to be discovered. :D
Beta: pwcorgigirl
Chapter Three: The Long Way Home
The shed is not three blocks north. Or four, or six; it is not south, it is not anywhere.
They've been around and around this little barrier island, and they keep winding up right back here, at the cute little white wooden house, with its cute little fence and its cute little garden and the garden arbor and the roses and its clothesline flapping in the breeze.
It has to be the place, but the shed is not merely gone, it's --
"It can't be here," Wilson says. "It couldn't have been here. There's not even a mark on the ground. If they moved it, you'd see, there'd be ... a space."
"If you or I moved it. If some vindictive bastard from outer space moved it, on the other hand, maybe not."
"Wait. You think the, the cop, or whatever he was, was an alien?"
"I think it's four in the afternoon, we never got lunch, and there's exactly one person in this whole damn town who has some answers."
Wilson raises an eyebrow: a question.
"It's a pan-universe rule," House pronounces, "that bartenders know everything."
The little beachside bar is just as quiet as the first time they were there, and the same bartender is doing the same bartender-y things, although instead of wiping down the bar this time, he's sorting tiny paper parasols into sets of different colors. The TV in the corner is tuned to a sports channel, and Wilson takes a look while he waits for his drink. It's a basketball game, something the announcer is calling the Coast-to-Coast Classic. He looks more closely, tipping his head back to read the names of the teams -- the New York Knicks are playing the Reno Reef Sharks, and while there's a voice in the back of Wilson's mind saying plaintively "But Nevada doesn't have a coastline," another voice is quite positive that in this place, it does.
"You guys here to see Lowery?" the bartender inquires cheerfully. "I got word he's busy tonight."
"Lowery?" House says.
The bartender smiles, puts a blue parasol into the blue pile.
"The guy you morons ran away from," he says. "Hefty, big bones, looks like a big black bird. That Lowery. Said he tried to talk to you two and you took off like cats outta hell." He stops sorting long enough to shove House's beer and Wilson's scotch across the counter. "What, you think you're the only ones who aren't from here?"
"We're not ... wait. Are you saying what I think you're saying?"
The bartender's smile grows wider. Three green parasols for the green pile.
"But you stayed," House says. "Why -- "
"Because I wasn't already here. I'm a spark, not gap circuits like you poor saps. Anyway, Lowery'll be at the diner tomorrow, you can see him there. You want some nuts to go with those drinks? Pickled eggs?"
"No. Look, his -- Lowery's idea of 'talking' involved stabbing me with some kind of -- "
"Bug zapper. DNA sample confirms where you came from. Lets him boot your ass back to the right place. It's the real jake." On the TV, a slew of commercials is just ending and the main event coming back on. "You don't shut up and let me watch this game, I'll boot you myself."
Wilson notices a matchbook close by and picks it up.
THE CROW BAR, the cover proclaims, the blazing red letters circling the head of a laughing crow, WHERE YOU WON'T KNOW WHAT HIT YOU.
The Knicks win going away, 102 - 88. The pickled eggs are terrible.
Lowery drags back into town with his head aching like it might pop. And he still has to deal with these idiots. Doctors, supposed to be smart, but here they are fucking around in this universe where they don't belong, and Lowery had to run off and let them, because no sooner did those two crash the Station than the damn Triangle spit another little airplane across. A half dozen people and a couple tons of metal, charter flight out of Charlotte Amalie -- the kind of problem that demands full and instantaneous attention. It was a huge, tricky redirect, just him and Colfax managing the whole goddamn thing, with Colfax grousing and bitching every step of the way like he always does. It had taken three -- three! -- phase intervals to get everything put back together, and Lowery had hardly slept the entire time.
That's one thing he's sure he has in common with his two Strays, although he doesn't know which would be worse -- being a Walking Ghost like Dr. House, or a Dopp like Dr. Wilson. Lucky all he has to do is get them back through the Station, not solve Existential Crisis No. 4,293.
Their plan worked about as well as they could have hoped. Buy a couple bottles of high-proof rocket fuel at the Crow Bar, where Wilson's currency was welcome; make a last call to Dominic's; weave their way back to the relative safety of their cabin; proceed to get even more wasted than they were the night before.
Wilson has been drinking a lot, since they got here. House hasn't mentioned it, but he's noticed. They're at breakfast and there's Wilson, looking sadly at his glass of juice, his hand straying inside his jacket as if to reach for a flask of something else.
This is aberrant behavior for the James Wilson that House knows. At least he's still ordering normal food -- waffles, hash browns, fluffy scrambled eggs. It's a typical Wilson Diner Breakfast, except for one thing.
"You didn't get any bacon," House says.
Wilson's distracted, looking over the local real estate pamphlet he picked up at the door.
"No," he says, eyes skimming the fine print, the washed-out photos of split-level ranches. "It's not ko-- " He cuts himself short, stares at the paper a moment longer, then takes a sip of orange juice.
"We have to get out of here," he says, and House is pretty sure he doesn't mean the diner. He's got his leg resting against House's, under the table where nobody will notice. "But I just ... I don't see how that's going to work if the shed is gone."
Neither does House, but he's not going to admit that when Wilson's already teetering on the edge. "Bartender Guy didn't seem too concerned," he says. "Sure, he's not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but ... "
He's about to suggest they go back there and demand more information, when his plans are interrupted by the arrival of a looming pudgy presence in a jet black coat.
"Never thought I'd say this," House says between sips of coffee, "but I think I'm happy to see you."
The shed is right where it should be.
"Okay, how'd you do it?" House says. He doesn't expect an answer, and isn't surprised when he doesn't get one.
"Gentlemen," Lowery says, "goodbye." He half-bows, inviting them through the open door.
"That's it?" House says. "You just ... let us go? Now that we've peeked behind the curtain? Seen the wizard?"
"House," Wilson mutters.
"What do you want me to do?" Lowery counters.
"Oh, I don't know," House says. "Maybe make us disappear for good? I mean, what if we call the authorities?"
"House!"
"I am the authorities," Lowery snaps. "You think yours -- you think anyone will believe you? Besides, I'm not in the neutralization division. Not my area." He takes hold of the door and waggles it back and forth. "Go," he growls. "Now."
"This is not the beach," House announces, glaring out the door into the darkness. "I want my money back."
He's looking across a weedy yard to an elegant old wooden porch, where a single light shines down on a single human figure. If he didn't need answers he'd already be mocking the scene for its multiple cliches: The figure is a woman, past her 50s, in a rocking chair, and that glinting shape across her lap can only be a gun.
"We're not armed," House calls out, while Wilson jostles him over to get a look out the door for himself. "This may be the dumbest question I've ever asked in my life: Where are we?"
"Name wouldn't mean much to you," she calls back. "You'd best come on out a while, though. Stay in there right now, no telling where you end up next."
She has a nondescript American accent, the kind of indefinite "NPR voice" that means the announcer could be from anywhere. The long gun is a rifle, the same kind of small caliber weapon his dad used to call a varmint scraper.
"Can't never be too careful," she says when she sees him eying the gun. "Lampwights don't keep to regular hours like normal folk."
At least he thinks she said lampwights. Maybe he misheard and she actually said lamp hikes or lamb pipes or even lanky whites, which would fit him and Wilson, but --
"House," Wilson says, and House realizes he's been standing there in something suspiciously resembling a daze for at least a minute. He gives himself a mental shake.
"Okay," he says. "Answer this then -- who are you?"
"I'm the Stationmaster," she says.
Wilson groans.
"No," House says. "No, see, we've met the Stationmaster, and -- "
"You met Lowery," the woman corrects. "He's one of the Stationmasters."
"And ... how many Stationmasters are there?"
"Enough," she says crisply. "Until there aren't, and then you'll notice."
"Notice what?"
"The universe collapsing, I 'spect."
Something flickers in the night, something like the biggest, greenest firefly House has ever seen.
"Ghoom," the woman says. "Won't do you no harm; it's just curious." She sets the rifle down, leaning it carefully against the porch railing, and stands up. "You boys got shunted sideways by a bubble. Clear up in a few minutes, most likely. Good thing, too, 'cause I got dinner on the stove."
The ghoom vanishes in midair as a silent dark shape swoops past.
"Owl," she says, sighing. "Nothing else'll touch the things, but an owl'll eat 'em like candy. It's all right, there's another clutch hatching even now."
Another ghoom flutters downward, lands on the top of House's arm. His muscles tingle and the hairs tickle, but it's not an unpleasant feeling, nothing like the painful pop! and sting of static electricity on a dry day. This is soft, a sable paintbrush against his skin.
On closer inspection, he sees that it has two compound eyes, four feathery antennae, a fuzzy tail that curves upward, and no wings. It flies without wings. Of course, House thinks. Of course it does.
"Could hear you two comin' from a mile away," the old woman says, and swats without much conviction at a ghoom buzzing around her head.
"It was Wilson here," House says. "Never graduated Girl Guides."
"Not now," the woman says. "Half hour ago." She shakes her head. "I don't know what it is about Lowery that brings the strays in from the sphere."
"But we just -- " Wilson begins, and House knows his next words are going to be "got here," but instead of finishing, Wilson seems to think better of the idea and closes his mouth. He's watching about a dozen of those strange bugs, lit up from within, flying in perfect sync toward the window of the house.
They float ever closer to their reflections in the glass, and then they fly through it, into the house, leaving a series of shimmering phosphorescent marks on the unbroken surface.
House doesn't even want to ask anymore; he's been down this rabbit hole so long that all he wants is to see the sun. Whatever just happened, it seems to mean something, because their reluctant hostess got to her feet when she saw it.
"I'd invite you boys to stay for rice and beans, but you best get back in the potting shed now. Bubble's burst, but another can bump in anytime."
Wilson isn't asking questions either. Obedient, they climb the creaky steps back into the "potting shed" and the gun-toting woman shuts the door behind them.
"Is this even happening?" Wilson wants to know. There's light leaking in from around the door frames, just enough so House can see the dusty floor. Three seconds ago, there wasn't enough light outside to come in like that. "Is it? Has any of this happened?"
"No," says House.
"Good. I was getting worried."
House steps forward to open the door, his fingers just brushing the cool brass knob, when Wilson's hand closes over his own.
"House," Wilson says. "Wait."
"Why? What now?"
"House," Wilson says again. "You know -- you saw -- time passed differently. There." He moves to stand beside House, still clasping House's hand. "What if," he says, "what if ... we're like Rip van Winkle? What if ... we were gone for a short time, but a lot of time passed at home?"
"How much time?"
Wilson shakes his head. "Ten years? Twenty?"
If twenty, why not fifty? an annoying little voice in House's head singsongs. If fifty, why not one hundred? Why not two hundred? Why not a thousand? A million?
The small hairs on the back of House's neck rise. He tries to silence the little voice, to blot out the images it's conjuring up -- a barren shore, an empty sea, the last glow of a Sun running down.
"If it's wrong," House says, "we'll go back, find Lowery, and beat the shit out of him."
And with that, he opens the door.
The light is blinding, but it's the light of what seems to be a perfectly ordinary sun, hanging over what House dearly hopes is the perfectly ordinary Atlantic. Their Atlantic.
They must be home. There's that hot dog stand, the same guy in the doofy PURE BEEF hat with the paper horns sticking out from the sides.
His leg hurts.
He might have to lean on Wilson, if it's really bad. He's pretty sure he forgot his cane at the Crow Bar.
Behind them, the camera obscura sits still and empty, just another seedy beachside attraction.
House rests his palm, just for a moment, on the sun-warm wood. How many Stations? he wonders. How many Masters? And: Where do I sign up?
A gentle hand on his shoulder brings him back.
They make their way over the hot midday sand to the hotter parking lot. Wilson's car is still there, right beside the sign informing visitors that anything parked overnight will be towed.
"I don't get it," House grumbles, while he waits for Wilson to unlock the doors. "But I'll take it."
His phone is still in his jeans pocket, so he takes it out and squints at the date it shows.
Friday, 4 p.m., to all appearances just five hours after they ... left. Just another hour on the highway, and they'll be at the Wildwood Resort, where their nice, comfy, modern hotel room awaits.
House sincerely hopes nothing in it is pink.
He settles into the scorching-hot seat of the car, cranks up the air, and goes looking on the phone for the photos he took of poor dead Buttercup.
Naturally, they aren't there. The three images consist of static, blackness, and ERROR CORRUPTED FILE. He doesn't mention it to Wilson.
The view from their room is beautiful.
They're up on the balcony in the warm salt breeze, and House looks down at the courtyard, at the huge pool with its underwater lights that make the whole thing glow green. Nobody's using it, and House would take that chance for solitude if this were an ordinary night.
He'll soak in the room's nice deep tub, later. Turn on the jets, absorb the heat, and forget. It's going to be a while before he feels like swimming again.
They ought to call out for dinner, he thinks, or call room service, and get anything other than pizza.
"House," Wilson says, and something in his tone makes House turn around quickly. Wilson is staring through the sliding doors, into the shadows of their room, where a bright green spark of light floats up like a will-o-the-wisp.
"Huh," says House.
"I saw it on your jacket. It, it was in the lining, or crawled out of a pocket, or something. We'd better try -- "
But the incandescent bug shoots forward, right through the glass doors, and is gone in the night before Wilson can finish the thought.
"You were saying?"
"Shit. We don't even know what it does." Wilson rubs the back of his neck, and steps over to the railing to look for the ghoom. From this height, the barrier island is a long strip of sparkling lights, halogen and fluorescent, mercury vapor and sodium, stretching for miles north and south. Even if they could move that fast, there'd be no hope of finding the bug.
"Well ... " Whatever he was going to say, he doesn't finish it. His shoulders slump. "I guess ... I just hope it wasn't ... "
"Pregnant."
Somewhere below, blocks away, a dog begins to bark.
~ fin