(no subject)
Title: For Every Closed Door (11/14)
Fandom: House MD/Dead Like Me crossover
Author: Starling
Rating: R overall
Characters/pairings: House/Wilson, original characters.
Warnings: Afterlife!Fic. Thus, by necessity, also a death!fic, but not depressing.
Summary: "House couldn‘t have felt more naked if he‘d worn nothing but his socks to the bar. Why the hell had he asked Wilson that, of all questions?"
Obligatory Disclaimer: I don't own, write for, or produce either of these fabulous shows. I'm just a geek with too much time on her hands.
A/N: This is the beginning of the end! By my estimation, there’s three more (fairly dense) chapters left after this. My goal is to finish it by the end of the month.
Unbeta'd. All mistakes are mine.
Concrit feedback gives me warm fuzzies.
x-posted to housefic and house_wilson.
“I think for me, death was just a wake-up call.”
“That night, a man was killed by a speeding car and I was there to take his soul. The street on which he died turned into a flowing river of light, and he hesitated at its banks. I told him to take a deep breath, as if it’s the last one you will ever take; because sometimes in life, or in death I guess, you just never know.”
-From Dead Like Me.
"Can I get some coffee, Debra?"
"It's Rhonda," the waitress said, glaring at House. "It's on my badge."
"Sorry. I need new glasses," House said cheerfully. Actually, his eyesight had never been better. Being undead had its good points.
"That's not all you need," Rhonda muttered, walking away.
Kay was staring at him suspiciously. "You are remarkably cheerful this morning. Especially for somebody who fucked up a reap all of two days ago, traumatizing a young girl, possibly for the rest of her afterlife."
"I've realized that one can't dwell on the past," House proclaimed. "I'm going to start living in the moment."
Actually, he was dwelling more on the future; specifically the future around 8pm tonight, when Wilson was going to meet him at a bar near the university called Shorty's. He almost wished he could boast about it to the other Reapers, without the risk of Kay ripping his arms off and beating him with them.
"That was a short-lived guilt trip," Ada said, from behind the newspaper. She was catching up on the obituaries. Reapers, House had noticed, read the obits as faithfully as red-blooded businessmen read the stock pages, and probably for all the same reasons.
"I learn from my mistakes. I don't burden myself with them," he said nastily.
Rhonda came back with their coffees, shoving House's mug across the table so that part of the coffee slopped out the side.
"Thanks, Mabel," he called after her, mopping up the brown puddle with his napkin. He checked his coffee for signs of it being spat in, but it seemed to be free of angry waitress spittle.
"Did you cause your other bosses to have mental breakdowns? I'm starting to think paranoia is setting in. Because I'm having a hard time believing that you are actually here, showing up dutifully at nine-thirty without your usual early morning bitchiness," Kay said. She was looking at him like he was an x-ray scan, and she was just dying to find some cloudy spots or hairline fractures.
"And here you are, complaining about it," House retorted, sipping at his coffee. "It's a mad, mad, mad world. You think you'd just be grateful. Now give me my damn Post-It of doom, so I can go and buy myself some food a waitress hasn't sneezed on."
"Good luck with that," Kay said sarcastically, scribbling House‘s assignment onto the paper. She held it up, but drew her arm back when House reached for it.
"I don't want to have to police you, House. I don't want to be your watch dog. I don't want to be your babysitter. And I don't want to be your damn conscience."
A jolt went through him at the last sentence, remembering the last time somebody had said those words to him. It was a good thing he'd already schooled his features into a mask of innocence.
Kay held the Post-It note back out. "Don't screw up."
House grabbed the Post-It, drained the rest of his coffee, then stood up. He tipped an imaginary hat to his fellow Reapers and started walking out, scanning the name, time, and location of his Reap.
Six steps from the table, he stopped, looking at the estimated time of death: 8:35 pm. Right in the middle of his maybe-date with Wilson. Too early to reschedule it, too late to just pretend he’d got caught in traffic. House turned around, and back sat down at the table.
"I can't do this," he said.
Kay looked at him, coffee cup raised halfway to her mouth. Ada and Colby also stared at him.
"Is this some kind of ethical crisis, or..." Kay waved her hand vaguely.
"Just this one." He thrust the note back at her. “I can’t.”
She didn't take it. "Why not?"
House thought fast. "I've got other plans tonight."
She rolled her eyes. "You can Tivo The OC, House."
"That's not it!" he growled.
"L-Word? X-Files?" Kay guessed.
"Professional wrestling?" Colby asked.
"Dynasty reruns?" Ada chimed in.
"Shut up! It's not TV!"
That left him, unfortunately, with all of his fellow Reapers staring at him, waiting to learn what it was.
"It's... I've got a hooker coming over," he said. It was the first thing that popped into his head.
Colby snorted his coffee out his nose, Ada groaned in disgust, and Kay laughed at him.
"Figures," Kay said. "But I can't help you. Better call and cancel."
"I can't cancel. I put down a deposit. They've got my credit card number," he whined. "They don't do refunds."
"You gave a prostitute your credit card number?" Ada asked.
"Actually, you can pay over the phone with credit cards if you go through a reputable escort service, though you still need to tip them in cash," Colby said, mopping up the coffee he'd spewed. He stopped when he noticed the rest of the table staring at him. “Uh, not that I’d know or anything...”
House cleared his throat and waved his note around. "Anybody want to trade, then?"
"House," Kay said. "This isn't lunchtime at school. You can't trade me your apple for my crackers."
“I don’t want your damn crackers. I want to have uninterrupted sex with a woman of dubious honor. For several hours. In every room of my apartment, and half the closets. And then there‘s the clean-up time, which will take another hour at least...”
Kay shut her eyes, obviously trying to get the mental images out of her head. “House-”
“The kitchen alone will take at least forty minutes. I’ve been dying to christen those granite counters. And there was this one position from the Kama Sutra, I’ve only read about it, I think it was called ‘Plowing the Fresh Alfalfa Fields’ or something-”
“House-” Kay said again, this time through gritted teeth.
“What do you want me to say to her? ‘Excuse me while I go collect somebody’s soul? It’ll only take five minutes, so keep your legs spread and the bed warm, and I’ll be right back?’” He was hoping to disgust one of them into agreeing with him, just to get him to shut up. “That is such a mood-killer.”
Ada put down her fork and shoved her plate of food away. “It certainly killed my mood.”
“House!” Kay said. “Each soul is assigned to a specific Reaper. Only that Reaper can extract that person’s soul. Why do you think it was such a big fiasco with Dana?”
“Dana?”
“D. Aramark, idiot. Ride on mower accident? The reap you spectacularly screwed up? Any of that ring a bell?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he said impatiently. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“You think if we could have, one of us wouldn’t have gotten her out of there, rather than searching all over creation for your stupid ass? I can’t trade you, neither can anybody else. You got the Post-It, it’s your responsibility.”
“You wrote the Post-It,” House said, shoving the little paper square across the table. “Unwrite it.”
“House, I just give out the assignments. I don’t actually make them, and I can’t take them back. I‘m middle management.”
“Sounds like a cop-out,” he said.
“It is what it is,” she said with a shrug. “I can’t help you. Deal with it.” She pushed the note back across the table. “Do your damn job,” she said, glaring at him. It was the kind of glare that promised a lot of suffering if he didn’t follow orders. Even Cuddy couldn’t glare like that. Of course, Kay had had almost a century to perfect it, and firing him meant a lot more than being out of a job.
House snatched the note off the table and stalked out of the diner, wheels already turning in his head.
*****
It took a moment for House to recognize the weird, jumpy, fluttery feeling in his chest for what it was. He was nervous.
He told himself he was nervous because he had to balance Operation Weasel with Operation Secret Reap, and even though the address was only seven blocks away, the whole process would take cunning, skill, deftness, and if he was going to be honest with himself, a shitload of luck.
He was not nervous because he was going on his first date in two years. And he was definitely not nervous because he was going on a date with Wilson, the very concept of which had been unimaginable until a week and a half ago.
Nevertheless, his decidedly-not-nervous stomach clenched inside him when he saw Wilson walk through the doors. He was not, for a change, wearing a tie. Instead, the collar of his blue shirt was open, exposing a small strip of his neck and the top of his chest. House yanked his gaze up from the small V of skin, and up to Wilson’s face.
At the cafe, Wilson had looked all right. Better than the last two times House had seen him, at the funeral and the day after. Tonight, he looked exhausted again, circles drawn under his eyes and fatigue etched into the line of his shoulders.
He waved to Wilson, and watched as the man walked over, then flopped down across from him with a dramatic sigh.
“It was your first day back at work, wasn’t it?” House asked.
Wilson smiled wryly. “Third, actually. The first and second were easier. Everybody avoided asking me personal questions, and were afraid to knock on my door if it was closed.”
“They probably assumed you were in there, crying your eyes out,” House said, offering a small smile.
Wilson nodded. “Because I’m such a sensitive guy,” he said sardonically. “Today, they figured out I wasn’t going to bite anyone’s head off, so it was just a long series of long sympathetic glances and ‘How are you doing, Doctor Wilson?’” House grinned at Wilson’s simpering tone. It sounded just like Cameron.
“I don’t know why you put up with it. Tell everyone to piss off and find some other tragedy to sigh over.”
Wilson smiled again, but it was mixed with something. “What is it?” House asked.
“Nothing,” Wilson said quickly, looking away and waving to a waiter. “Two Sam Adams,” he said, and the waiter walked off.
“Really, what was that look for?”
Wilson apparently decided to play innocent. “What look? There was no look.”
“Don’t be coy,” House said, batting his eyelashes ridiculously. Wilson rolled his eyes and House smiled. “Seriously. What was it?”
Wilson sighed, and the smile dropped off his face. “It’s... what you said. It sounded like something House would say.”
House blinked.
“I know, I’m sorry,” Wilson said, taking his shock as something else entirely. “I promised myself I wouldn’t sit around talking about him or whine too much about my life, and that’s pretty much all I’ve done so far.”
“No, no,” House protested. “It’s okay, you can talk about...” he swallowed, “House all you need to.”
Right. Understanding and sympathetic; check. Operation Weasel was going along smoothly.
“Why were you in love with... him?” House suddenly blurted.
Smooth, easy conversation; not so much. Damn it.
“Why?” Wilson asked. “I don’t know. I never really got a chance to analyze it. I spent a long time ignoring it, and then he was gone.”
The waiter brought over their drinks. Wilson sipped his, and when the waiter left, said, “I guess that’s not the answer you want.”
“I’m sorry. It’s none of my business,” House said. Of course, it was really his business, and he was dying to know what the hell had possessed Wilson to do something so utterly masochistic as to fall in love with an unrepentant bastard like him.
“Do you really want to know?” Wilson asked.
“Yeah. Call it morbid curiosity.”
“Didn’t curiosity kill the cat?” Wilson asked, head tilted back in a slight challenge.
“Now who’s being morbid?” House retorted.
There was nothing guarded about Wilson’s laugh, and House smiled to hear it. He met Wilson’s eyes as he took a sip of his beer, still grinning, and felt something pass between them. It felt as real as a soul leaving a person’s body through a simple touch of his hand, minutes before they died; an invisible current, a strong pull between two bodies. House wondered if it had always been this way, or if he’d only noticed it now because he had something else to compare it to.
“I think,” Wilson said, interrupting House’s musings, “it was because he saw right through me, more than anybody else ever had. I mean, he did that to everybody,” Wilson added, dismissively. “He’d look right through the facade and into the damaged part of a person, because that‘s what interested him. And he’d use it against you if he had to. But,” and Wilson held up his hand for emphasis. “But he allowed me, and only me for these last few years, to look back at him the same way. He was... vulnerable and at the same time, completely unapproachable.”
House couldn‘t have felt more naked if he‘d worn nothing but his socks to the bar. Why the hell had he asked Wilson that, of all questions?
“Also, he made me laugh,” Wilson added, taking a sip of his beer. “And everyone knows that’s the easiest way to get somebody to want you.” He gave House a look over the rim of his beer, and House felt a different kind of current pass between them. That was not just any look. That was a significant look. Highly significant, even. Downright flirtatious, maybe.
House was saved from trying to formulate an appropriate response by his cell phone going off. He flipped it open and looked at the screen; the words Alarm: 8:20pm flashed on it. House allowed a look of annoyance to cross his features.
“Damn,” he said. “I’m sorry, I have to take this-”
“Go ahead,” Wilson said, leaning back and drinking more of his beer. House got up and walked over towards the empty hallway where the restrooms were. He was close enough that Wilson could overhear him, but far away enough that Wilson couldn’t hear who was on the other line.
“What is it?” House said. “I’m out.... Yes, I’m with someone. None of your business... Are you drunk? ...I can tell. He’s a friend... Maybe, does it really matter? ...Yes, he is.” He glanced quickly back over to Wilson, who was examining the drinks menu a little too studiously. “Yes, very much so. Maybe. No, you can’t talk to him! Now would you please... Are you serious? Please tell me you’re not serious... You can’t get somebody there to do it? What about your credit cards?... Oh, god, fine. I’ll be right over.”
“The time is now 8:20 pm, Eastern Standard Time. If you would like to make a call, please hang up and dial the number you wish to reach,” a tinny, automated voice spoke in his ear. House ignored it, and kept up his side of a one-sided conversation with nobody.
“Yes, really. No, you suck and you owe me. A lot. We’ll talk about payment when you’re not drunk, that way you can’t claim to forget... No! You can’t talk to him! I’m hanging up now. No, stay at the bar, I’ll come there. I’ll be over soon. Just... shut up. No, he’s not coming with me, and you can damn well wait until you’re sober to interrogate me. It’s... yes, I’ll be over, shut the hell up and don’t move and I’ll be right there.” He flipped his phone decisively shut, hoping he hadn’t overdone it
He came back over to the table. “My cousin,” House said. Wilson lifted his eyebrows in an Oh? expression, and House went on. “Apparently, she drank too much to drive herself home, and doesn’t have the money to pay for a cab.”
“Does she need a ride? My car-”
“No!” House said, a little too loudly. That was definitely not part of the plan. “No, I’m just going to run over there and give her some money, wait for the cab to come pick her up. It shouldn’t take long. I...” House cleared his throat, wondering why this was so hard. He’d never had a problem lying to Wilson before. “I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind waiting for me. I hate to be rude, but-”
“It’s really not a problem for me to drive her home, if you-”
“No! Really, you don’t want to do that. She’s a mess right now. She’ll probably vomit in your backseat. She’d hate for that to be your first impression of her.”
God, Wilson, for once in your life would you shut up and not try to rescue a woman in distress?! In retrospect, House should have made the imaginary cousin male.
“At least let me give you a ride over,” Wilson said, starting to stand.
“You don’t have to do that,” House said desperately. “It’s only six blocks, it’ll take twenty minutes-”
“It’s no problem,” Wilson said. He drained the rest of his beer. “It’ll be quicker and I won’t have to wait for you. Unless you’d rather walk?”
House desperately tried to think of an excuse to walk. He couldn’t very well tell Wilson that he’d stashed his motorcycle around the corner, because then Wilson might want to see it and then he’d notice how very identical it seemed to the one Wilson's dead best friend had borrowed $10,000 from him to buy. All sorts of awkward questions would have to be answered.
“That was a joke,” Wilson said, before House could think of a legitimate excuse. “It’s raining.” He pointed towards the doors, and sure enough, a steady rain was pouring onto the street outside. Shit. Times like this, House wished he could believe in a Higher Power, just so he could curse him for being an utter shit with a sadistic sense of humor.
*****
Wilson’s car was the exact same it had always been. Same leather seats, same vacuumed floors, same change jar by the gear shift, same smell of coffee and cologne. House wasn’t sure why this was surprising, or why it felt so strange to be in Wilson’s car again. It had been, what? Two and a half weeks since he’d died, so maybe three weeks since he’d last been in the Volvo. It felt like years.
The rain played a steady tattoo on the roof of the car as they drove from Shorty’s to the address on House’s Post-It. It was another bar; they were a dime a dozen this close to the University, and this one was called The Other Place. Clever. Wilson pulled over, and House unbuckled his seat.
“Stay in the car, okay? I’ll be right back, once I get my cousin into a cab.”
Wilson nodded, and House hoped like hell he wouldn’t change his mind and follow him in. He opened the door and got out, pulling his collar up against the heavy, driving rain and ran across the parking lot.
God, running. He’d never get tired of being able to do it.
He pushed open the door and ran a hand through his wet hair. The bar above the clock said it was 8:29. He had six minutes to find a G. Morrison. He scanned the bar, looking to see the most likely person to die.
“I hope you didn’t leave the hooker at home,” a voice spoke behind his shoulder. House whirled around. Kay was sitting at a table, a bottle of Rolling Rock in front of her. “Reputable escort service or not, that’s just begging to be robbed.”
Once House’s pulse was approaching normal, he said, “I thought you didn’t want to be my damn watchdog.”
“I was in the neighborhood,” Kay said.
“You don’t trust me?”
“You given me much reason to, these last couple weeks?”
Great. He offered a big, silent FUCK YOU to the Universe in general, and the Powers That Be in particular, then sighed.
“Fine. Make yourself useful and help me find her. Or him.” House said. Kay nodded to a table on the other side of the bar, where two women sat, both in their late twenties, nursing identical martinis and giggling.
“Already did. That’s Leah Hernandez and Genevieve Morrison. Both are in the masters of teaching program at the University. Leah is getting married in three weeks, and Genevieve is still recovering from her last break up. Leah‘s fiancé is the buff guy bent over at the pool table”
House stared at her. “You get a different Post-It than me?” he asked.
“No, I’m just adept at eavesdropping. I also saw their IDs when they showed them to the bartender.”
“Which one is which?” House asked, his glance darting from one woman to the other.
Kay took another drink from her Rolling Rock. “Find out for yourself.”
House rolled his eyes, then made his way over to the two women.
“Oops!” he exclaimed as he knocked into the table with his hip. Both martinis fell, dumping generous amounts of vodka and vermouth onto the lacquer finish.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I really am. I’m not drunk, just clumsy. Really.” He gave them a smile that was meant to be disarming, though he was aware it likely looked foolish on Mika Tesla‘s boring face. “Let me get you another. Bartender! Two more martinis for...” Here he looked expectantly at Leah and Genevieve.
Both women looked like they had no idea what had just happened.
“This is the part where you tell me your names,” House prompted in a stage whisper. “Two more martinis for...”
“Leah,” said the blonde after a moment. A blonde named Hernandez? He would have guessed the other way around. Nonetheless, he shook her hand.
“Genevieve,” said the brunette. Bingo. House shook her hand, felt the quick rush of her soul leaving her body.
“Very good to meet you Leah and Genevieve,“ House said. He turned to the bartender. “Add it to the redhead’s tab, the one in the corner,” he said conspiratorially, smiling when the man nodded.
House turned back to Genevieve and Leah. “Again, very sorry about the drinks. Have a good night.”
House walked back to Kay’s table feeling like a hell of a smooth operator. He might have strutted a little bit.
“Oh yeah. Who’s that bad-ass mother- shut your mouth! Only talking about House,” he sang in his best Issac Hayes impression, as he sat down at the table.
“I can dig it,” Kay said obligingly, a small smile at her lips.
“You’re daaaaaamn right,” House said, grabbing Kay’s Rolling Rock and taking a deep pull off of it. “I don’t suppose you can take care of Jennifer, can you? Escort her to the other side and stuff.”
“Genevieve, you mean? Sure. You wouldn’t want to keep your friend outside waiting.”
House froze in the middle of taking another swig from the bottle of beer. He swallowed, then put the bottle back on the table. He looked outside before he could stop himself. Wilson had moved the car so it was underneath an awning, and was standing outside, leaning against his car and smoking. He was across the street, somewhat shadowed, but clearly visible from the bar’s windows.
When he looked back at his fellow Reaper, he saw her watching him. Damn.
“She’s got quite the jaw line,” she said. “And broad shoulders. And lack of breasts.”
House was saved from having to defend himself by a fight suddenly breaking out at the pool table. Leah’s buff fiancé started shouting and shoving some other buff guy. Leah jumped up to try and break it up, leaving Genevieve alone at the table, shaking her head. House caught movement in the corner of his eye, and saw a Graveling emerge from the shadows. The creature scampered over to Genevieve as she picked up the olive from her empty martini and put it in her mouth. He (or she, House thought to himself) pulled back a black, gnarled hand, and slapped the woman hard on the back. He saw Genevieve gasp, and swore he could hear the olive as it lodged in her windpipe. The Graveling disappeared, and Genevieve started the process of choking to death.
House turned back to Kay. He stared into her eyes, but could see no hint as to whether she recognized Wilson for who he was. Her face was as blank as slate; no accusations or recriminations visible, there was nothing. He had no idea what she was thinking, and it was disconcerting.
She would have been a better poker player than Wilson.
He looked back to Genevieve Morrison. She was beginning to turn blue, and was feebly waving one of her arms, trying to get somebody’s attention. Everyone in the bar was still focused on the fight, which showed no sign of breaking up despite interference from two bartenders, Leah, and another woman, who House assumed was the other guy’s date.
“Go on,” Kay said. “I’ll take care of it in here.” She waved him off, drinking the last of her beer. “Go on before it’s too late.”
He heard the sound of a body falling, and assumed it was either Genevieve collapsing, or that somebody had thrown a punch. House stood up. He dug a few dollars out of his pocket and left them on the table. “For their drinks,” he said. Kay nodded, and waved him off, and he walked out back into the rain. He felt dazed. Too much had happened in the last half hour.
Wilson watched him walk back towards the car. He offered the cigarette in his hand to House when he reached the awning under which he was parked, but House shook his head. He leaned next to Wilson instead, a bare inch of space between their shoulders, running a hand through his rain-soaked hair. It was coming down harder now, the first of the spring thunderstorms, pounding out a heavy rhythm in the awning above them.
“Is your cousin going to be all right?” Wilson asked. It took House a moment to figure out what he was talking about.
“Yeah, she’ll be fine. She just had a rough night. Boyfriend broke up with her, you know how it is.”
Wilson nodded, took a final drag of his cigarette, then pitched it into a puddle, where it sizzled briefly and then extinguished.
Across the street, House watched Kay escort the soul of Genevieve Morrison out of the bar, holding the door open for her. Kay waved to him briefly, and then Genevieve, looking up and seeing him, did too. House waved back, and so did Wilson.
“Is that a friend with her? I thought you said you were calling her a cab.”
House blinked. Wilson could see ghosts now. Not just him. If he wasn’t so suddenly exhausted, he would have gone into analytical overdrive.
Realizing that Wilson was looking at him, waiting, House cleared his throat. “Yeah. A friend of ours. She’s going to take her home.” House had to bite his lip to stop from snickering at his choice of words.
House shifted his weight against the car, and Wilson looked over at him. Suddenly there was another one of those currents between them, like a tide between their bodies.
House followed it, leaning forward. He hesitated, his mouth an inch from Wilson’s, to look into the other man’s eyes. Fear. Desire. And faintly, though House would swear it was there, recognition. He closed the gap between them, and shut his eyes as he laid his mouth softly on Wilson’s.
The other man stiffened briefly, and for a moment, House wondered if he’d made a mistake, pushed Wilson too far, reached for too much. But then Wilson relaxed, and House felt a hand cautiously laid against his hip. Wilson’s mouth opened briefly; House tasted the cigarette and the beer they’d drunk on his breath. There was the smell of the rain, Wilson’s cologne, his sweat. There was the warmth emanating from the man’s skin, the touch of his fingers curling around House’s hips.
Not me. It’s Mika he’s kissing, Mika he’s touching.
But so what? He could argue logistics with himself all night. All he cared about was that he was kissing Wilson, and that it was good, and the hell with the rest of it. The over-analyzing of the whole situation could wait until tomorrow. Late tomorrow.
Eventually, the kiss ended. House opened his eyes, but Wilson kept his shut.
“Come over?” House asked.
Wilson nodded, then leaned forward in to kiss House again.
Fandom: House MD/Dead Like Me crossover
Author: Starling
Rating: R overall
Characters/pairings: House/Wilson, original characters.
Warnings: Afterlife!Fic. Thus, by necessity, also a death!fic, but not depressing.
Summary: "House couldn‘t have felt more naked if he‘d worn nothing but his socks to the bar. Why the hell had he asked Wilson that, of all questions?"
Obligatory Disclaimer: I don't own, write for, or produce either of these fabulous shows. I'm just a geek with too much time on her hands.
A/N: This is the beginning of the end! By my estimation, there’s three more (fairly dense) chapters left after this. My goal is to finish it by the end of the month.
Unbeta'd. All mistakes are mine.
Concrit feedback gives me warm fuzzies.
x-posted to housefic and house_wilson.
“I think for me, death was just a wake-up call.”
“That night, a man was killed by a speeding car and I was there to take his soul. The street on which he died turned into a flowing river of light, and he hesitated at its banks. I told him to take a deep breath, as if it’s the last one you will ever take; because sometimes in life, or in death I guess, you just never know.”
-From Dead Like Me.
"Can I get some coffee, Debra?"
"It's Rhonda," the waitress said, glaring at House. "It's on my badge."
"Sorry. I need new glasses," House said cheerfully. Actually, his eyesight had never been better. Being undead had its good points.
"That's not all you need," Rhonda muttered, walking away.
Kay was staring at him suspiciously. "You are remarkably cheerful this morning. Especially for somebody who fucked up a reap all of two days ago, traumatizing a young girl, possibly for the rest of her afterlife."
"I've realized that one can't dwell on the past," House proclaimed. "I'm going to start living in the moment."
Actually, he was dwelling more on the future; specifically the future around 8pm tonight, when Wilson was going to meet him at a bar near the university called Shorty's. He almost wished he could boast about it to the other Reapers, without the risk of Kay ripping his arms off and beating him with them.
"That was a short-lived guilt trip," Ada said, from behind the newspaper. She was catching up on the obituaries. Reapers, House had noticed, read the obits as faithfully as red-blooded businessmen read the stock pages, and probably for all the same reasons.
"I learn from my mistakes. I don't burden myself with them," he said nastily.
Rhonda came back with their coffees, shoving House's mug across the table so that part of the coffee slopped out the side.
"Thanks, Mabel," he called after her, mopping up the brown puddle with his napkin. He checked his coffee for signs of it being spat in, but it seemed to be free of angry waitress spittle.
"Did you cause your other bosses to have mental breakdowns? I'm starting to think paranoia is setting in. Because I'm having a hard time believing that you are actually here, showing up dutifully at nine-thirty without your usual early morning bitchiness," Kay said. She was looking at him like he was an x-ray scan, and she was just dying to find some cloudy spots or hairline fractures.
"And here you are, complaining about it," House retorted, sipping at his coffee. "It's a mad, mad, mad world. You think you'd just be grateful. Now give me my damn Post-It of doom, so I can go and buy myself some food a waitress hasn't sneezed on."
"Good luck with that," Kay said sarcastically, scribbling House‘s assignment onto the paper. She held it up, but drew her arm back when House reached for it.
"I don't want to have to police you, House. I don't want to be your watch dog. I don't want to be your babysitter. And I don't want to be your damn conscience."
A jolt went through him at the last sentence, remembering the last time somebody had said those words to him. It was a good thing he'd already schooled his features into a mask of innocence.
Kay held the Post-It note back out. "Don't screw up."
House grabbed the Post-It, drained the rest of his coffee, then stood up. He tipped an imaginary hat to his fellow Reapers and started walking out, scanning the name, time, and location of his Reap.
Six steps from the table, he stopped, looking at the estimated time of death: 8:35 pm. Right in the middle of his maybe-date with Wilson. Too early to reschedule it, too late to just pretend he’d got caught in traffic. House turned around, and back sat down at the table.
"I can't do this," he said.
Kay looked at him, coffee cup raised halfway to her mouth. Ada and Colby also stared at him.
"Is this some kind of ethical crisis, or..." Kay waved her hand vaguely.
"Just this one." He thrust the note back at her. “I can’t.”
She didn't take it. "Why not?"
House thought fast. "I've got other plans tonight."
She rolled her eyes. "You can Tivo The OC, House."
"That's not it!" he growled.
"L-Word? X-Files?" Kay guessed.
"Professional wrestling?" Colby asked.
"Dynasty reruns?" Ada chimed in.
"Shut up! It's not TV!"
That left him, unfortunately, with all of his fellow Reapers staring at him, waiting to learn what it was.
"It's... I've got a hooker coming over," he said. It was the first thing that popped into his head.
Colby snorted his coffee out his nose, Ada groaned in disgust, and Kay laughed at him.
"Figures," Kay said. "But I can't help you. Better call and cancel."
"I can't cancel. I put down a deposit. They've got my credit card number," he whined. "They don't do refunds."
"You gave a prostitute your credit card number?" Ada asked.
"Actually, you can pay over the phone with credit cards if you go through a reputable escort service, though you still need to tip them in cash," Colby said, mopping up the coffee he'd spewed. He stopped when he noticed the rest of the table staring at him. “Uh, not that I’d know or anything...”
House cleared his throat and waved his note around. "Anybody want to trade, then?"
"House," Kay said. "This isn't lunchtime at school. You can't trade me your apple for my crackers."
“I don’t want your damn crackers. I want to have uninterrupted sex with a woman of dubious honor. For several hours. In every room of my apartment, and half the closets. And then there‘s the clean-up time, which will take another hour at least...”
Kay shut her eyes, obviously trying to get the mental images out of her head. “House-”
“The kitchen alone will take at least forty minutes. I’ve been dying to christen those granite counters. And there was this one position from the Kama Sutra, I’ve only read about it, I think it was called ‘Plowing the Fresh Alfalfa Fields’ or something-”
“House-” Kay said again, this time through gritted teeth.
“What do you want me to say to her? ‘Excuse me while I go collect somebody’s soul? It’ll only take five minutes, so keep your legs spread and the bed warm, and I’ll be right back?’” He was hoping to disgust one of them into agreeing with him, just to get him to shut up. “That is such a mood-killer.”
Ada put down her fork and shoved her plate of food away. “It certainly killed my mood.”
“House!” Kay said. “Each soul is assigned to a specific Reaper. Only that Reaper can extract that person’s soul. Why do you think it was such a big fiasco with Dana?”
“Dana?”
“D. Aramark, idiot. Ride on mower accident? The reap you spectacularly screwed up? Any of that ring a bell?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he said impatiently. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“You think if we could have, one of us wouldn’t have gotten her out of there, rather than searching all over creation for your stupid ass? I can’t trade you, neither can anybody else. You got the Post-It, it’s your responsibility.”
“You wrote the Post-It,” House said, shoving the little paper square across the table. “Unwrite it.”
“House, I just give out the assignments. I don’t actually make them, and I can’t take them back. I‘m middle management.”
“Sounds like a cop-out,” he said.
“It is what it is,” she said with a shrug. “I can’t help you. Deal with it.” She pushed the note back across the table. “Do your damn job,” she said, glaring at him. It was the kind of glare that promised a lot of suffering if he didn’t follow orders. Even Cuddy couldn’t glare like that. Of course, Kay had had almost a century to perfect it, and firing him meant a lot more than being out of a job.
House snatched the note off the table and stalked out of the diner, wheels already turning in his head.
*****
It took a moment for House to recognize the weird, jumpy, fluttery feeling in his chest for what it was. He was nervous.
He told himself he was nervous because he had to balance Operation Weasel with Operation Secret Reap, and even though the address was only seven blocks away, the whole process would take cunning, skill, deftness, and if he was going to be honest with himself, a shitload of luck.
He was not nervous because he was going on his first date in two years. And he was definitely not nervous because he was going on a date with Wilson, the very concept of which had been unimaginable until a week and a half ago.
Nevertheless, his decidedly-not-nervous stomach clenched inside him when he saw Wilson walk through the doors. He was not, for a change, wearing a tie. Instead, the collar of his blue shirt was open, exposing a small strip of his neck and the top of his chest. House yanked his gaze up from the small V of skin, and up to Wilson’s face.
At the cafe, Wilson had looked all right. Better than the last two times House had seen him, at the funeral and the day after. Tonight, he looked exhausted again, circles drawn under his eyes and fatigue etched into the line of his shoulders.
He waved to Wilson, and watched as the man walked over, then flopped down across from him with a dramatic sigh.
“It was your first day back at work, wasn’t it?” House asked.
Wilson smiled wryly. “Third, actually. The first and second were easier. Everybody avoided asking me personal questions, and were afraid to knock on my door if it was closed.”
“They probably assumed you were in there, crying your eyes out,” House said, offering a small smile.
Wilson nodded. “Because I’m such a sensitive guy,” he said sardonically. “Today, they figured out I wasn’t going to bite anyone’s head off, so it was just a long series of long sympathetic glances and ‘How are you doing, Doctor Wilson?’” House grinned at Wilson’s simpering tone. It sounded just like Cameron.
“I don’t know why you put up with it. Tell everyone to piss off and find some other tragedy to sigh over.”
Wilson smiled again, but it was mixed with something. “What is it?” House asked.
“Nothing,” Wilson said quickly, looking away and waving to a waiter. “Two Sam Adams,” he said, and the waiter walked off.
“Really, what was that look for?”
Wilson apparently decided to play innocent. “What look? There was no look.”
“Don’t be coy,” House said, batting his eyelashes ridiculously. Wilson rolled his eyes and House smiled. “Seriously. What was it?”
Wilson sighed, and the smile dropped off his face. “It’s... what you said. It sounded like something House would say.”
House blinked.
“I know, I’m sorry,” Wilson said, taking his shock as something else entirely. “I promised myself I wouldn’t sit around talking about him or whine too much about my life, and that’s pretty much all I’ve done so far.”
“No, no,” House protested. “It’s okay, you can talk about...” he swallowed, “House all you need to.”
Right. Understanding and sympathetic; check. Operation Weasel was going along smoothly.
“Why were you in love with... him?” House suddenly blurted.
Smooth, easy conversation; not so much. Damn it.
“Why?” Wilson asked. “I don’t know. I never really got a chance to analyze it. I spent a long time ignoring it, and then he was gone.”
The waiter brought over their drinks. Wilson sipped his, and when the waiter left, said, “I guess that’s not the answer you want.”
“I’m sorry. It’s none of my business,” House said. Of course, it was really his business, and he was dying to know what the hell had possessed Wilson to do something so utterly masochistic as to fall in love with an unrepentant bastard like him.
“Do you really want to know?” Wilson asked.
“Yeah. Call it morbid curiosity.”
“Didn’t curiosity kill the cat?” Wilson asked, head tilted back in a slight challenge.
“Now who’s being morbid?” House retorted.
There was nothing guarded about Wilson’s laugh, and House smiled to hear it. He met Wilson’s eyes as he took a sip of his beer, still grinning, and felt something pass between them. It felt as real as a soul leaving a person’s body through a simple touch of his hand, minutes before they died; an invisible current, a strong pull between two bodies. House wondered if it had always been this way, or if he’d only noticed it now because he had something else to compare it to.
“I think,” Wilson said, interrupting House’s musings, “it was because he saw right through me, more than anybody else ever had. I mean, he did that to everybody,” Wilson added, dismissively. “He’d look right through the facade and into the damaged part of a person, because that‘s what interested him. And he’d use it against you if he had to. But,” and Wilson held up his hand for emphasis. “But he allowed me, and only me for these last few years, to look back at him the same way. He was... vulnerable and at the same time, completely unapproachable.”
House couldn‘t have felt more naked if he‘d worn nothing but his socks to the bar. Why the hell had he asked Wilson that, of all questions?
“Also, he made me laugh,” Wilson added, taking a sip of his beer. “And everyone knows that’s the easiest way to get somebody to want you.” He gave House a look over the rim of his beer, and House felt a different kind of current pass between them. That was not just any look. That was a significant look. Highly significant, even. Downright flirtatious, maybe.
House was saved from trying to formulate an appropriate response by his cell phone going off. He flipped it open and looked at the screen; the words Alarm: 8:20pm flashed on it. House allowed a look of annoyance to cross his features.
“Damn,” he said. “I’m sorry, I have to take this-”
“Go ahead,” Wilson said, leaning back and drinking more of his beer. House got up and walked over towards the empty hallway where the restrooms were. He was close enough that Wilson could overhear him, but far away enough that Wilson couldn’t hear who was on the other line.
“What is it?” House said. “I’m out.... Yes, I’m with someone. None of your business... Are you drunk? ...I can tell. He’s a friend... Maybe, does it really matter? ...Yes, he is.” He glanced quickly back over to Wilson, who was examining the drinks menu a little too studiously. “Yes, very much so. Maybe. No, you can’t talk to him! Now would you please... Are you serious? Please tell me you’re not serious... You can’t get somebody there to do it? What about your credit cards?... Oh, god, fine. I’ll be right over.”
“The time is now 8:20 pm, Eastern Standard Time. If you would like to make a call, please hang up and dial the number you wish to reach,” a tinny, automated voice spoke in his ear. House ignored it, and kept up his side of a one-sided conversation with nobody.
“Yes, really. No, you suck and you owe me. A lot. We’ll talk about payment when you’re not drunk, that way you can’t claim to forget... No! You can’t talk to him! I’m hanging up now. No, stay at the bar, I’ll come there. I’ll be over soon. Just... shut up. No, he’s not coming with me, and you can damn well wait until you’re sober to interrogate me. It’s... yes, I’ll be over, shut the hell up and don’t move and I’ll be right there.” He flipped his phone decisively shut, hoping he hadn’t overdone it
He came back over to the table. “My cousin,” House said. Wilson lifted his eyebrows in an Oh? expression, and House went on. “Apparently, she drank too much to drive herself home, and doesn’t have the money to pay for a cab.”
“Does she need a ride? My car-”
“No!” House said, a little too loudly. That was definitely not part of the plan. “No, I’m just going to run over there and give her some money, wait for the cab to come pick her up. It shouldn’t take long. I...” House cleared his throat, wondering why this was so hard. He’d never had a problem lying to Wilson before. “I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind waiting for me. I hate to be rude, but-”
“It’s really not a problem for me to drive her home, if you-”
“No! Really, you don’t want to do that. She’s a mess right now. She’ll probably vomit in your backseat. She’d hate for that to be your first impression of her.”
God, Wilson, for once in your life would you shut up and not try to rescue a woman in distress?! In retrospect, House should have made the imaginary cousin male.
“At least let me give you a ride over,” Wilson said, starting to stand.
“You don’t have to do that,” House said desperately. “It’s only six blocks, it’ll take twenty minutes-”
“It’s no problem,” Wilson said. He drained the rest of his beer. “It’ll be quicker and I won’t have to wait for you. Unless you’d rather walk?”
House desperately tried to think of an excuse to walk. He couldn’t very well tell Wilson that he’d stashed his motorcycle around the corner, because then Wilson might want to see it and then he’d notice how very identical it seemed to the one Wilson's dead best friend had borrowed $10,000 from him to buy. All sorts of awkward questions would have to be answered.
“That was a joke,” Wilson said, before House could think of a legitimate excuse. “It’s raining.” He pointed towards the doors, and sure enough, a steady rain was pouring onto the street outside. Shit. Times like this, House wished he could believe in a Higher Power, just so he could curse him for being an utter shit with a sadistic sense of humor.
*****
Wilson’s car was the exact same it had always been. Same leather seats, same vacuumed floors, same change jar by the gear shift, same smell of coffee and cologne. House wasn’t sure why this was surprising, or why it felt so strange to be in Wilson’s car again. It had been, what? Two and a half weeks since he’d died, so maybe three weeks since he’d last been in the Volvo. It felt like years.
The rain played a steady tattoo on the roof of the car as they drove from Shorty’s to the address on House’s Post-It. It was another bar; they were a dime a dozen this close to the University, and this one was called The Other Place. Clever. Wilson pulled over, and House unbuckled his seat.
“Stay in the car, okay? I’ll be right back, once I get my cousin into a cab.”
Wilson nodded, and House hoped like hell he wouldn’t change his mind and follow him in. He opened the door and got out, pulling his collar up against the heavy, driving rain and ran across the parking lot.
God, running. He’d never get tired of being able to do it.
He pushed open the door and ran a hand through his wet hair. The bar above the clock said it was 8:29. He had six minutes to find a G. Morrison. He scanned the bar, looking to see the most likely person to die.
“I hope you didn’t leave the hooker at home,” a voice spoke behind his shoulder. House whirled around. Kay was sitting at a table, a bottle of Rolling Rock in front of her. “Reputable escort service or not, that’s just begging to be robbed.”
Once House’s pulse was approaching normal, he said, “I thought you didn’t want to be my damn watchdog.”
“I was in the neighborhood,” Kay said.
“You don’t trust me?”
“You given me much reason to, these last couple weeks?”
Great. He offered a big, silent FUCK YOU to the Universe in general, and the Powers That Be in particular, then sighed.
“Fine. Make yourself useful and help me find her. Or him.” House said. Kay nodded to a table on the other side of the bar, where two women sat, both in their late twenties, nursing identical martinis and giggling.
“Already did. That’s Leah Hernandez and Genevieve Morrison. Both are in the masters of teaching program at the University. Leah is getting married in three weeks, and Genevieve is still recovering from her last break up. Leah‘s fiancé is the buff guy bent over at the pool table”
House stared at her. “You get a different Post-It than me?” he asked.
“No, I’m just adept at eavesdropping. I also saw their IDs when they showed them to the bartender.”
“Which one is which?” House asked, his glance darting from one woman to the other.
Kay took another drink from her Rolling Rock. “Find out for yourself.”
House rolled his eyes, then made his way over to the two women.
“Oops!” he exclaimed as he knocked into the table with his hip. Both martinis fell, dumping generous amounts of vodka and vermouth onto the lacquer finish.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I really am. I’m not drunk, just clumsy. Really.” He gave them a smile that was meant to be disarming, though he was aware it likely looked foolish on Mika Tesla‘s boring face. “Let me get you another. Bartender! Two more martinis for...” Here he looked expectantly at Leah and Genevieve.
Both women looked like they had no idea what had just happened.
“This is the part where you tell me your names,” House prompted in a stage whisper. “Two more martinis for...”
“Leah,” said the blonde after a moment. A blonde named Hernandez? He would have guessed the other way around. Nonetheless, he shook her hand.
“Genevieve,” said the brunette. Bingo. House shook her hand, felt the quick rush of her soul leaving her body.
“Very good to meet you Leah and Genevieve,“ House said. He turned to the bartender. “Add it to the redhead’s tab, the one in the corner,” he said conspiratorially, smiling when the man nodded.
House turned back to Genevieve and Leah. “Again, very sorry about the drinks. Have a good night.”
House walked back to Kay’s table feeling like a hell of a smooth operator. He might have strutted a little bit.
“Oh yeah. Who’s that bad-ass mother- shut your mouth! Only talking about House,” he sang in his best Issac Hayes impression, as he sat down at the table.
“I can dig it,” Kay said obligingly, a small smile at her lips.
“You’re daaaaaamn right,” House said, grabbing Kay’s Rolling Rock and taking a deep pull off of it. “I don’t suppose you can take care of Jennifer, can you? Escort her to the other side and stuff.”
“Genevieve, you mean? Sure. You wouldn’t want to keep your friend outside waiting.”
House froze in the middle of taking another swig from the bottle of beer. He swallowed, then put the bottle back on the table. He looked outside before he could stop himself. Wilson had moved the car so it was underneath an awning, and was standing outside, leaning against his car and smoking. He was across the street, somewhat shadowed, but clearly visible from the bar’s windows.
When he looked back at his fellow Reaper, he saw her watching him. Damn.
“She’s got quite the jaw line,” she said. “And broad shoulders. And lack of breasts.”
House was saved from having to defend himself by a fight suddenly breaking out at the pool table. Leah’s buff fiancé started shouting and shoving some other buff guy. Leah jumped up to try and break it up, leaving Genevieve alone at the table, shaking her head. House caught movement in the corner of his eye, and saw a Graveling emerge from the shadows. The creature scampered over to Genevieve as she picked up the olive from her empty martini and put it in her mouth. He (or she, House thought to himself) pulled back a black, gnarled hand, and slapped the woman hard on the back. He saw Genevieve gasp, and swore he could hear the olive as it lodged in her windpipe. The Graveling disappeared, and Genevieve started the process of choking to death.
House turned back to Kay. He stared into her eyes, but could see no hint as to whether she recognized Wilson for who he was. Her face was as blank as slate; no accusations or recriminations visible, there was nothing. He had no idea what she was thinking, and it was disconcerting.
She would have been a better poker player than Wilson.
He looked back to Genevieve Morrison. She was beginning to turn blue, and was feebly waving one of her arms, trying to get somebody’s attention. Everyone in the bar was still focused on the fight, which showed no sign of breaking up despite interference from two bartenders, Leah, and another woman, who House assumed was the other guy’s date.
“Go on,” Kay said. “I’ll take care of it in here.” She waved him off, drinking the last of her beer. “Go on before it’s too late.”
He heard the sound of a body falling, and assumed it was either Genevieve collapsing, or that somebody had thrown a punch. House stood up. He dug a few dollars out of his pocket and left them on the table. “For their drinks,” he said. Kay nodded, and waved him off, and he walked out back into the rain. He felt dazed. Too much had happened in the last half hour.
Wilson watched him walk back towards the car. He offered the cigarette in his hand to House when he reached the awning under which he was parked, but House shook his head. He leaned next to Wilson instead, a bare inch of space between their shoulders, running a hand through his rain-soaked hair. It was coming down harder now, the first of the spring thunderstorms, pounding out a heavy rhythm in the awning above them.
“Is your cousin going to be all right?” Wilson asked. It took House a moment to figure out what he was talking about.
“Yeah, she’ll be fine. She just had a rough night. Boyfriend broke up with her, you know how it is.”
Wilson nodded, took a final drag of his cigarette, then pitched it into a puddle, where it sizzled briefly and then extinguished.
Across the street, House watched Kay escort the soul of Genevieve Morrison out of the bar, holding the door open for her. Kay waved to him briefly, and then Genevieve, looking up and seeing him, did too. House waved back, and so did Wilson.
“Is that a friend with her? I thought you said you were calling her a cab.”
House blinked. Wilson could see ghosts now. Not just him. If he wasn’t so suddenly exhausted, he would have gone into analytical overdrive.
Realizing that Wilson was looking at him, waiting, House cleared his throat. “Yeah. A friend of ours. She’s going to take her home.” House had to bite his lip to stop from snickering at his choice of words.
House shifted his weight against the car, and Wilson looked over at him. Suddenly there was another one of those currents between them, like a tide between their bodies.
House followed it, leaning forward. He hesitated, his mouth an inch from Wilson’s, to look into the other man’s eyes. Fear. Desire. And faintly, though House would swear it was there, recognition. He closed the gap between them, and shut his eyes as he laid his mouth softly on Wilson’s.
The other man stiffened briefly, and for a moment, House wondered if he’d made a mistake, pushed Wilson too far, reached for too much. But then Wilson relaxed, and House felt a hand cautiously laid against his hip. Wilson’s mouth opened briefly; House tasted the cigarette and the beer they’d drunk on his breath. There was the smell of the rain, Wilson’s cologne, his sweat. There was the warmth emanating from the man’s skin, the touch of his fingers curling around House’s hips.
Not me. It’s Mika he’s kissing, Mika he’s touching.
But so what? He could argue logistics with himself all night. All he cared about was that he was kissing Wilson, and that it was good, and the hell with the rest of it. The over-analyzing of the whole situation could wait until tomorrow. Late tomorrow.
Eventually, the kiss ended. House opened his eyes, but Wilson kept his shut.
“Come over?” House asked.
Wilson nodded, then leaned forward in to kiss House again.