The Adventures of Professor Mansion

by United

Summary:

Fresh out of Mayfield, House gets roped into joining Thirteen's DnD group. Wilson, trying to shape his friendship with House into something slightly less pathological by making other friends, joins willingly. It's all surprisingly normal, until Wilson's character kisses House's character. In game, which, of course, means nothing.

A season six fix it about the magic that is having a support system larger than one (1) person and the uncanny ability of roleplaying games to make you realize you aren't as straight as you always assumed. (Knowledge about DnD not required.)

Notes:

Come say hi on tumblr.

For Angel who needs to stop enabling me.

Chapter 1

Notes:

CW in the bottom chapter notes

“Enjoying the view?”

Mansion doesn’t need to turn around. He would recognize that lilt anywhere. Below their feet, under the balcony, the water roars. Foaming and swirling and spitting droplets and mist onto both of them as if fighting its descent into the depth of the ravine below.

Her heels click on the stone floor as she comes to stand beside him by the balustrade. The noise of the ballroom muffles down to a whisper as the door falls shut behind her, leaving them alone in the winter air.

“I think it might snow,” she says.

She’s right. Mansion can taste it. Finally, he tilts his head to look at her.

She’s radiant in a gown of emerald silk, her white-blond hair swept into an intricate updo. If Mansion were a man more easily fooled, he’d assume the strands of hair escaping it were evidence of dance and drink, but there is nothing about her that isn’t meticulously crafted to portray the image of innocence and beauty. Mansion knows better than to fall for it. He knows exactly how far down the rot goes underneath her facade.

“Lady Morbis,” he says, words polite, but tone expressionless. One last game until it all comes to an end, but his heart is not in it. “What a pleasure.”

She hums, looking up at him, no longer bothering to hide the ice in her gaze. Not from him. He sees her. They are equals. “I didn’t think you’d take the bait.”

Mansion shrugs. He’s known that they were walking into a trap for days now. But what else can he do when Morbis plans on releasing a plague that will wipe out two-thirds of the Sword Coast? All so she can sell the cure and cement her image of the genius elven healer. “Do you actually care about the money?” he asks apropos nothing.

“No. Not even a little.” She shifts, propping her hip against the railing, turning to him fully. “But it’s something to do. And there’s the added benefit of playing against you.”

“So this is all just a game to you.”

“Of course it is. What else would it be? What could be more entertaining than playing and winning against someone with a mind like yours? Against the famous archwizard Professor Mansion? The man who can unravel every mystery, perfect every spell?”

“You aren’t winning this.”

“Oh, but I am.” She smiles. “You think you and your merry little band of misfits can waltz into my palace and what? Throw fireballs at the problem until it goes away?” She studies him, turns another ninety degrees to face the gothic windows of the ballroom. “He cleans up nicely, doesn’t he?”

Mansion doesn’t need to turn around to know who she’s looking at. He does anyway.

Inside, Onck and Peslie are trying to blend in with the other couples twirling on the dance floor and failing spectacularly. It’s not just their dancing — Onck isn’t half bad, especially for someone who learned to waltz this morning — but an orc and a tiefling in a room filled mostly with humans and elves are bound to stick out like a sore thumb. Xander is doing a far better job, but then again, he is a nobleman’s son and a human.

Onck especially looks tense, but maybe that’s just from being stuffed into formal attire instead of his usual armor. The doublet especially is straining across his chest, hanging on by a thread and a cantrip. He does clean up nicely, Mansion muses. His auburn hair looks soft, swept back like that, and his eyes shine like pools of brandy in the light of the candles. Mansion feels stupid thinking something like that about an orc that could snap him like a twig, but he’s almost pretty.

Mansion watches through the window and ignores Morbis staring at him.

“You shouldn’t have brought him.”

“You’re not going to touch him,” Mansion says softly.

“I won’t. I won’t have to, not if you admit your defeat. Your magic is depleted, you’re wounded. And you’re alone.”

“Still stronger than you. And I have this handy little thing called a dagger.”

“You still don’t get it, don’t you?” Her smile is gone now. “There won’t be a fight. I have a dozen men training their crossbows on your little orcish friend, ordered to shoot the second you walk back in through that door. It’s your life, or the life of the person you love most in the world.” She sweeps out an arm towards the abyss. “At your convenience.”

Mansion closes his eyes briefly. It’s not like he didn’t know she’d do something like this. And yet. Only a couple months ago, he wouldn’t have hesitated. Then again, a couple months ago, there would have been nobody he’d be willing to lay down his life for in the first place.

“If I do this,” he starts, the words rough in his throat. “You will destroy every last sample of your plague? And you’ll let them leave unharmed?”

She nods, slowly. “You have my word. Putting you in check is a lot more interesting than mass murder. Or regular murder.”

He studies her for a moment until he’s sure that she’s telling the truth. “Very well… You must be cold,” he says, gesturing at the goosebumps forming on her bare skin in the frigid mountain air. He’s made up his mind. “Allow me? It’s not like I’ll have much use for it.” He unclasps his charcoal gray cloak and pulls it off his shoulder. At her nod, he wraps it around her, his hand lingering on her biceps. Out of the corner of his eye he can see that Onck has stilled, staring at them, unmoving in a sea of dancers.

Any second now he will storm over and Mansion can’t have that.

It’s time.

“Would you believe me if I told you I enjoyed our game?” he asks.

Morbis nods again, giving him the most earnest smile he’s ever seen on her face.

“Unfortunately, I’m a fucking awful loser.” Using the grip he has on her, he pulls her along with him as he throws himself backwards over the railing and into the embrace of the waterfa—

“HOUSE!” Wilson yells and throws a couple of D20s his way. House ducks. “Thirteen! Tell him he’s not allowed to do that! He- He can’t just kill himself in game! That has to be against the rules!”

Thirteen looks like she’s ready to take cover behind her DM screen herself, should the necessity arise. “It’s not, actually. And he rolled a Nat20 on that grapple. That definitely just happened.”

“But—” Aw, Wilson looks actually distressed. House’s black little heart warms a half a degree.

“Wilson, calm down! It’s just a game,” Foreman says, leaning back in his chair with folded arms. “And why are you so surprised? Of course, he’d find the most melodramatic of all solutions.”

“I think it was really fucking cool, actually,” Cameron says, grinning brightly. Her eyes are a little glassy, the sap. “And really sweet, too. Very in character.”

“How is killing himself in character?!” Wilson shouts. And, boy, he really is still shouting. House is beginning to suspect that he may have miscalculated.

“Because he did it for Onck! That’s totally in character!” Cameron says, pouring oil into the Wilson-shaped fire.

Wilson scoffs and focuses his glare back on Thirteen. “And why would you even put him in a situation like that?!”

Thirteen throws her hands up in surrender. “How was I supposed to know he’d jump immediately to murder suicide? He was supposed to stall until you could mount a rescue mission! I just wanted him out of commission for a little while, so he doesn’t min-max his way through half the boss fight before you guys even had your first turn! Again!“

 

Two Months Earlier

There are few things House brings home with him from Mayfield. And home, wow, that word in that context is still weird to Wilson. A good weird, though. A deceptively comfortable weird.

House doesn’t talk about Mayfield much either.

“What, you want the ins and outs of life in the loony bin? You realize you just handed me an excuse to be unbelievably crass on a silver platter? Take a wild fucking guess how it was, Wilson.”

Wilson lets it go after that.

At least until he stumbles upon what he will later learn is called a character sheet in the trash. He doesn’t know why it catches his eye as he’s emptying the bins in the kitchen, maybe it’s the cartoon image of some kind of bird that looks up at him, maybe it’s the way the paper creases, the way the ink is slightly smudged in places from the transference of skin oils in prolonged and repeated contact.

He pulls it out and unfolds it.

“Going through my trash now? That’s stalker behavior, even for you, Jimmy.”

“It’s not stalking if it’s our combined trash, and who the fuck is Professor Mansion?” Wilson asks, startling slightly and looking up at House, who looms over his shoulder like a very cheap Dracula impersonator. It’s odd. He hasn’t lived with House for two weeks yet and, for all his talents, House is as stealthy as he is respectful to his patients, but somehow the unmistakable step-thunk-step of House’s gait has dovetailed itself into the soundscape of Wilson’s life so well he sometimes doesn’t even register it anymore.

“What, you’ve never heard of him? Dashingly handsome, genius mind, hero of the Sword Coast? The Professor Mansion?”

And finally Wilson’s brain catches up to the pun. He snorts. “Professor Mansion, really?”

House shrugs. “I thought it was clever.”

“Yeah, you would,” Wilson says, only half-conscious of how much of the aching fondness he suddenly feels is audible in his voice. It must be a little too much for House, too earnest, because he limps over to the couch, leaving Wilson still crouching in front of the trash. Which smells disgusting. He finishes tying the bags closed and throws them vaguely in the direction of the front door. He pockets the character sheet, though.

“You can kill so much time with role-playing games. — No, not that kind of role-play, Jesus Christ Wilson. Get your mind out of the gutter! — Really, DnD is the perfect activity for lock up.”

“DnD?”

“You know that game that the kids that got beat up even more often than you in middle school used to play? With the fancy dice and the little figurines? Turns out the nerds were onto something. Think group hallucination, but you’re unfortunately sober.” Then House turns on the TV, having apparently reached his weekly quota of talking about Mayfield, no matter how vague, and that’s that.

That is that until he’s getting lunch with Foreman and Thirteen a couple of days later. These days he eats with one or both of them two to three times a week, which still feels a little weird sometimes. Acknowledging the shift from friendly colleagues and fellow sufferers of one Doctor Gregory House to tentative but genuine friends would mean acknowledging the reason for it: How deeply lonely he was those first couple of weeks after House left for Mayfield.

Sure, there’s lunch with Cuddy on Tuesdays and…

And not much else, really.

It’s not that he was avoiding Foreman or Thirteen. But with the diagnostics department in shambles, without House paging him for a (usually phony) consult every two days, with even Cameron and Chase away on their honeymoon, he spent a lot of lunch breaks in his office. But one day Thirteen stuck her head into his office, taken one look at Wilson’s soggy PB&J and slightly shrively apple and asked if he’d like to have lunch with them instead.

He’s under no illusion that they didn’t do it out of pity, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He was feeling rather pitiful, really, with how fiercely he was missing House. Their company, the distraction of it, was a very welcome one.

And then there’s the fact that Wilson recently realized that he desperately needed more friends. Or generally friends whose names doesn’t rhyme with mouse or who happen to sign his pay stubs.

See, Wilson likes to think of himself as someone who is good at self-reflecting. And that’s what he’d been doing. Those weeks that House was detoxing and then recovering from it and not yet permitted contact with the world beyond the walls of Mayfield. He reflected about his friendship with House. How not being able to see House in pain led him to knowingly prescribing ridiculous amounts of narcotics to an addict.

He even went to a meeting for family of people struggling with addiction. The church basement had smelled moldy, the atmosphere depressing even for someone who worked with the terminally ill for a living. But he learned some interesting new terms.

Boundaries, and lack thereof. Enabling. And codependency. 

Wilson left the meeting with a painful realization.

He is part of the problem.

He loves House, loves him faithfully, and his love makes him weak and blind. If he wants House to get better, to genuinely recover, then he needs to, well, not love House any less, but find other people to love beside him. So House stops being the sun he revolves around and starts being more of a fellow planet in the complicated cosmic dance that is a healthy social life. So they can be there for each other like normal people are for their loved ones, instead of using each other as a crutch.

In short, Wilson needs to get his shit together.

And developing a friendship with Thirteen and Foreman is a sensible first step in that direction.

“So, how’s he doing?” Thirteen asks, as they carry their trays over to a quiet booth close to the window.

“Climbing the fucking walls,” Wilson sighs. “The only person that wants House to get his license back more than me is, well, House.”

“Don’t tell me he got bored with Pratchett,” Foreman chimes in. “If he got bored with Sir Terry Pratchett, he might actually be a monster.” He’d suggested leaving a copy of Guards! Guards! lying around the condo, because ‘Even a bastard as miserable as House should be able to appreciate that kind of comedic brilliance,’ and House had swallowed the bait hook, line and sinker.

“Oh, he didn’t get bored. He finished Pratchett.”

“Like, the Watch Series?”

“He finished Pratchett.”

“Are you trying to tell me House read forty odd books in a week? You’re shitting me, Wilson.”

Thirteen snorts, leans back in her seat. “Nah, I believe him. Have you seen the speed at which House reads medical lit? He’s going to be even faster with fiction.” She frowns slightly. “It’s far, far weirder that he read Pratchett at all. I would have never taken him for someone that likes fantasy.”

Wilson hums. “He told me he played dungeons and dragons in Mayfield. Maybe he’s developing a taste for stuff like that. I certainly wouldn’t mind him having hobbies besides opiate abuse, trying to get himself sued for malpractice and playing the guitar at two am.”

Their table falls silent. Wilson thinks it’s just a lull in conversation until he notices the way they’re both staring at him. “What?”

Instead of telling him why they’re looking at him like he just grew a second tie, they share a look.

“No,” Foreman says and shakes his head once, vehemently. “I won’t allow it.”

“You won’t allow it?” Thirteen narrows her eyes. “You’re going to tell me who I can or can not invite into my home, invite to the campaign I dm?”

Foreman gulps. “On second thought, it’s your call, of course.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” She turns back to Wilson, smiling widely. “Foreman, Cameron and I play every second Wednesday. We’re actually starting a whole new game next week. Do you guys want to join?”

And for one brief, very brief second, Wilson lets himself wonder if this is what having friends (Plural!) is like.

Notes:

CW murder-suicide: In game House's character throws himself into a ravine, pulling the villain along with him, killing them both.

If you're not familiar, this is a reference to ACD's Sherlock Holmes story The Final Problem, in which Holmes does just that, though ACD later retconned it as Holmes faking his death.

Rest assured that Professor Mansion will return. :)

Chapter 2

Notes:

I love Nolan, like a lot. You might be able to tell.

Brownie points for the first person to tell me what book House is reading in this chapter.

CW at the bottom

House hates plenty of things about Wilson. That thing where he meets a sufficiently needy woman, shapes himself into who he thinks she needs him to be, because he’s convinced himself that another doomed attempt at a pet dog and picket fence marriage will finally fix him. That he’ll finally become who he’s supposed to be instead of the control freak with a vicious streak just as intense as his bleeding heart, the unhinged motherfucker that will take a saw to a cripple’s cane as soon as he’ll help little old ladies across a busy street, that delicious juxtaposition that grabbed House by the brain stem the second that mirror shattered in New Orleans — House hates that. Passionately.

If he had a list of all the things he hates about Jimmy Wilson, ‘Serial Groom’ would be at the very top and then a big gap.

Then his compulsory heterosexuality.

He hates that for obvious, horny reasons, but not nearly as much as the marriages. Wilson tells himself the lie that he’s straight every day, but it’s just one lie, one aspect of himself he refuses to acknowledge and when he’s trying to settle down with wifey the second or third, all the little things that House adores about him fade. He turns into one big miserable lie. Nearly as miserable as House, just very, very good at hiding it under mild manners and a close shave. That he denies himself the joys of getting up close and personal with cock is a blip on House’s radar of hatred in comparison.

As for the third thing House hates about him, well. Maybe there aren’t strictly plenty of things. But he sure hates those two things a whole damn lot.

And there genuinely are a myriad of things that annoy the shit of him. The blow drier at seven am, for example. The frumpy ties. The way he sees House when House least wants to be seen.

Or the way Wilson is smiling at him now, like he’s convinced he’s doing something nice for House and surely House isn’t going to be an asshole about it. That cow-eyed, open look that House is about to make go away. By being an asshole about it. Some things even sobriety can’t change.

“I know I don’t have my license back yet, but you sure are tempting me to check you for a concussion. You have to be impaired for those words to come out of your mouth in that order.”

Wilson’s face falls. “You could have just told me no. You don’t have to be such an asshole about it.”

And that’s where he’s wrong. House needs being an asshole like he needs oxygen. Especially now that he’s stuck in the flat of the dead girl that was too much like him and that the other thing he needs like oxygen is off limits. “Seriously, Jimmy, do you have a flashlight? Let me check your pupils.”

“House.”

House just loves the way Wilson says his name sometimes. Long-suffering, disappointed, like he’s regretting ever following the rando who bailed him out into the next best bar eighteen years ago. Things have been way too harmonious recently, anyway. Finally, something to take House’s mind off his leg for a minute. Pratchett had done a decent job at it, but nothing works like bickering with Wilson. (Well, besides solving a medical mystery, maybe, but again — off limits.)

“Because I’m pretty sure you just asked me if I want to play DnD with the ducklings,” he continues.

“Didn’t Nolan tell you to get a hobby?” Wilson says, propping his hands on his hips — another thing that’s infinitely annoying about him, that pose. It accentuates his waist and really, it would be a cut and dry case for things-House-adores-about-Wilson, subcategory things-about-Wilson-that-make-House-want-to-tear-his-clothes-off-and-descend-on-him-like-a-bum-legged-hyena. If it weren’t for the aforementioned comphet, that is.

It’s been a frustrating almost two decades.

“And you heard that and thought, gee, time to arrange a play date for little Greg.”

“I didn’t arrange anything. It came up in conversation that you played DnD. So, Thirteen invited you.”

“Gossiping about my time in the nuthouse, eh?”

Instead of gasping and clutching his pearls at such an accusation, Wilson squints. “You don’t… actually care about any of this. You just want to fight for the sake of fighting.”

That bit about Wilson seeing him when he doesn’t want to be seen? That’s what he’d meant. He deflates, slouching back into the couch. “What can I say? You’re cute when you get that angry flush on your face.”

Wilson sighs and leaves to fetch two cans of soda from the fridge. Of course he’s insisting on abstaining from more fun, liver-damaging beverages in solidarity with House. Wilson doesn’t ask if he’s itching for a fight because of his leg. He doesn’t need to, he knows, but House appreciates his silence, anyway. For a change, he decides to make Nolan proud and try his hand at — shock, horror — vulnerability instead of letting the unspoken remain that way.

“Sorry,” he says, quietly, when he accepts the can from Wilson. “I’m just desperate for a distraction.”

Wilson hums, probably still not used to that word out of House’s mouth. House gets it. It’s new for him, too.

Wilson gestures at the novel on the coffee table, then. “Not as good as Pratchett, hm?”

“I’m coming to suspect that nothing will ever come close to Pratchett again. Other than, I don’t know, meth, maybe?” He shrugs. “I mean, the skeleton is a hoot, but I’m having a little trouble properly identifying with the teen girl protagonist.” He’d limped into the Princeton Public Library and practically begged the librarians to assuage his Post-Pratchett suffering and he’d walked out with some twenty odd books ranging from space nonsense steeped in dry, British humor to the surprisingly engaging and witty YA he’s currently reading. It had been that or booking a flight to the UK, breaking into Sir Terry’s house and stealing all his unpublished work. “How did you even get the idea of leaving Guards lying around for me to find?” Before detoxing and having his license suspended, House would have never picked up a book like that. His usual taste in fiction goes more along the lines of lesbian bodice rippers, but he is glad he’s out of his smutty sapphic comfort zone for once.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Wilson is giving him that half-grin he does when he’s under the illusion that he’s smarter than House. “I’ll tell you if you accept Thirteen’s invitation.”

“But, Mom!” House whines. “I don’t like playing with the other kids!”

“I’ll be good for you.” Wilson plays along, somewhere between Jewish matriarch and saying the quiet part out loud. “You can’t spend all summer masturbating in your room, Greggie-Poo. We can’t afford all those tissues and lotion.”

House sighs like a fainting 19th century heroine. “Wilson, you aren’t actually serious about this, are you?”

“Dead serious.”

“They’re my fellows.”

“They were your fellows. Last time I checked, you’re about to tell Cuddy you're quitting.”

“Still—”

“House,” Wilson interrupts him, actually serious now. “Whether you like it or not, your ducklings are people that care about you. And you really, really need people like that. Don’t push them away out of pride.”

“I have you,” House says, lamely. Damn, Jimmy isn’t pulling his punches today. “I don’t need anyone else.”

“You do have me, House. Always.” House watches his jaw clench. “But I can’t be your everything. That’s not healthy or fair to either of us.”

Damn. Damn.

House takes a sip from his soda to cover up just how hard that’d just hit, clears his throat. “Have you been talking to Nolan again? I told you he’s a bad influence.”

“Let’s just say I’ve done a little reading of my own.” At least Wilson knows when to take off the pressure. He reaches for the remote, turns on the TV, flips through the channels until he finds something suitably trite. “I was thinking pizza, maybe?”

They’re quiet for the rest of the night. Wilson heads to bed early, leaving House to his half-finished pepperoni, a Bay-Watch rerun and his thoughts.

By the time he walks into Nolan’s office the following morning, he’s worked himself into a snit over it all, because that’s easier than admitting that Wilson has hit him right in the issues like a maladaptive-coping-strategy-seeking missile.

“I can’t believe he’d meddle in my social life like that,” he grouses at Nolan, who’s doodling in the margins of his notes.

“For James to meddle in your social life, you’d have to have one in the first place,” Nolan dead-pans without even looking up. “Sexually harassing your superior or stalking yours truly doesn’t count.”

“Har, har. Pot, kettle.”

“Correct, but, unlike you, I’ve recognized that I need more people in my life and I’m doing something about that.”

“Joined Christian Mingle, did we?”

“I’m agnostic.”

“Speed dating, then.”

“Interesting how your mind immediately goes to romantic relationships instead of friendship.”

“Like anyone would put up with me without the added benefit of regularly provided spectacular orgasms.”

At that, Nolan looks at him like he’s stupid. He does that a lot, actually.

“No, Wilson doesn’t count,” House explains, slowly, like he’s talking to a toddler. “For one, he’s a statistical outlier, and for two, he does want to fuck me. He’s just too repressed to actually do something about it.”

Nolan looks at him for a couple more second before apparently deciding not to open that can of worms today. “I agree with James. You should accept the invitation.”

House groans. “Et tu, Brute?”

“He’s entirely correct. You can’t place all of your social needs on one person. It’s not sustainable. What if James gets married again?”

A shudder wracks House’s body. “I’ll run her off, for both of our sakes.” He frowns, thinking. “Or maybe he finds another girl that’s not a cardboard cut-out and her and I can get along. If CB was still around, we might be in a perfectly happy threeway.”

“Were you in love with Amber?” Nolan asks, suddenly intensely focused and trying not to show it.

“Nah. But have you never wanted to fuck a female version of yourself?”

“… Not particularly.”

“Damn, Nolan, live a little.”

Nolan blinks and writes a very long note indeed. He puts down his pen and for a while, neither of them says anything.

“What if something happened to James?” Nolan asks into the silence.

“I’d kill myself,” House says without hesitation.

Nolan clears his throat.

“Woah, there. That was obviously a hypothetical and a joke,” House lies. “No reason to break out the Baker Act!”

“Thank you for clarifying,” Nolan drawls. “But the fact that you immediately joke about suicide at the prospect of losing James, doesn’t that feel a little dysfunctional to you?”

House hates it when his shrink has a point. Makes him feel stupid. “Maybe I like dysfunctional?”

“You don’t or you wouldn’t be here.”

Aww, check mate. House makes a face. “I can’t believe you’d tell me to befriend my subordinates. That’s unethical!”

“You don’t care about ethics, you care about outcomes. And we both know that you and your former fellows are way past a professional relationship. I know you respect and like these people, Thirteen especially. Why don’t you stop deflecting and tell me why you’re actually hesitant?”

“I don’t know, because I don’t want their pity? Because I don’t want to drag them down anymore? It’s bad enough that I’m doing it to Jimmy.” And, oof, where had that come from? Nolan really is frighteningly good at his job sometimes.

“Have you ever considered that you could enrich their lives as much as they could enrich yours? You’re sober, you’re taking accountability and working on yourself. You might have been an albatross around their neck when you were a spiraling addict, but things could be different now. You could be different.”

“Would you look at the time,” House says flatly. “I need to catch my bus.”

Nolan, who is as much a saint as he is a brain shrinking witch, let’s him leave without another word.

 

When Wilson gets home that day, House is lying flat on his back on the living room rug, staring at the ceiling, stereo blasting Queen loud enough to make the windows rattle. It’s a testament to how long he’s known House that Wilson is only slightly alarmed.

He’d probably been too direct last night, not wrapped his words in enough humor and hypotheticals for House to stomach. But it needed to be said. If there ever was a time for being too direct, to speak openly about their friendship, then it’s with House sober and fresh out of Mayfield.

“Bad day?” he asks, standing by House’s head.

House gazes up at him. He looks even scruffier than usual, but his eyes are bright and sharp, somehow bluer than last night. He’s laced his hands together over his abdomen, his pinky resting on bare skin where his shirt has ridden up.

“I’ll do it,” House declares.

Wilson directs his eyes back up to his face. “Do what?”

“Group hallucination with the ducklings.”

Wilson can’t help his ear to ear smile at that.

House lifts his index finger. “On one condition.”

“Go on,” Wilson says, expecting something like letting House have control over the remote for a month.

“You’re playing, too.”

Carefully, Wilson schools his face into a frown. He huffs, pretending to think it over. “Alright. Sounds fair,” he says, finally.

It’s only the facial discipline of someone that tells people they’re going to die on the daily that he keeps the grin off his face until he’s turned away from him. He’d already told Thirteen that he was coming with or without House.

Notes:

CW suicide: Nolan asks House what he would do if something happened to Wilson. House truthfully answers that he'd kill himself.

Chapter 3

Notes:

Does rearranging scenes from the show count as playing fast and loose with canon yet?

Enjoy and please let me know what you think! :)

What follows might be the weirdest fucking week of House’s life, which is saying something, considering they just released him from the funny farm.

First is the part where he quits. The less said about the actual conversation, the better. It felt god-awful, like hacking of a limb and his stance on amputation hasn’t changed since the infarction. After, he couldn’t even bring himself to go up to his office, his former office, and clean out his stuff, he just fled, back to the dead girl’s place and his trusty stack of library books.

He can only hope that Foreman will take good care of his red and gray ball. Keep it fed and watered and inflated and such. Exercise it regularly, by chucking it around the room.

There’s not a doubt in his mind Foreman immediately talked Cuddy into giving him House’s job, (his former job, damn it,) which is why he asked for him to be there for this in the first place. It will not be easy, but House gives him about an 85% chance that he’ll find a way to continue House’s, wow, even thinking that word hurts, legacy.

His leg hurts like a bitch the rest of the day. At the rate he’s popping ibuprofen, he’ll get ulcers in no time. At least he doesn’t have to worry about erythema ab igne from the heating pad. Oh, he’ll get it, but his thigh is already at maximum capacity ugly, so really, who cares if the skin around the scar is mottled from heat damage?

And Nolan? That useless quack thinks a hobby will fix him.

… House isn’t being fair to him. The fact that he’s aware that he’s using Nolan as a scapegoat is a testament to the man’s skill. So he takes his advice and tags along to Wilson’s cooking class, taking great pleasure in joking about balls with Wilson and making the other attendees wonder if they’re a couple and flirting with the Chinese lady at the stove across from them.

And the worst part is, it helps. His leg should kick up a fuss just from standing so long, but he barely needs his cane by the time they walk out. But it only lasts so long.

He fucking hates being confronted with just how large the psychosomatic part of his pain is. He’s a doctor, he knows it doesn’t make it any less real, that pain is pain, no matter the origin, but pain stemming from a mutilated muscle feels less personal somehow. It hurts, and it sucks, and it turned him (more) miserable and (more) cranky and into an addict, but it could have happened to anybody. Pain that’s only in his head? It’s ridiculous, but it feels like a betrayal. That his mind, the only thing he’s ever really taken pride in, would turn on him like that.

House is well aware that he’s fucked in the head. Substance abuse disorder is a given, of course, and he’d dealt with depressive episodes even before the infarction. There’s also the uncomfortable truth that if he were to take his five-year-old self to any child psychologist worth their salt today, he’d walk out with an autism diagnosis in two hours tops. (Nolan had matter-of-factly asked him if he knew he has a touch of the ‘tism, as the kids these days call it, and, yeah, hearing it confirmed like that had felt… weird. Bitter-sweet, maybe? Being right was always nice, and yet. House declined undergoing the hours long evaluation necessary for a formal diagnosis. He knows, his shrink knows, and Wilson certainly won’t ask him for a doctor’s note should he ever feel the need to tell him.)

But psychosomatic pain is different somehow. It makes him feel helpless and pathetic. Which makes his thigh burn.

At two AM he gets up from the couch and, by sheer herculean effort, makes his way to the kitchen instead of out the door and down to the train station where he would have been sure to find someone willing to part with a couple Vicodin for a hundred bucks.

And, again, to House’s relief as much as his dismay, his ragu all-nighter works. It also comes with the added benefit of a delicious if unconventional breakfast and getting a sleep-rumpled Wilson to try sauce straight off a wooden spoon he’s still holding. (Is it still morning wood if it happens at six AM, but has nothing to do with needing to piss?) Once Wilson has left for work and House has jerked off in the shower about fluffy-haired, spoon-licking temptation personified that he is, he finally conks out for a couple hours.

None of that has really been weird so far. Miserable, upsetting, sure, but none of that is new.

But weird starts about the time when he calls the number he charmed off their fellow aspiring chef and, instead of convincing Cecile to, say, have sex with him to take his mind off Mister can-be-talked-into-licking-things-if-only-it’s-early-enough, he invites her over to make gnocchi.

Cecile is a fucking riot. Mother of two, recently divorced, but already seeing some kind of younger boy-toy, (House makes a mental note to keep her away from Wilson at all cost,) and currently on a sabbatical from her job as a lawyer to recover from said divorce and break in said boy-toy. And hang out with recently sober (former!!!) diagnosticians, apparently. Maybe Wilson has had a point about this whole friends-that-are-not-Wilson thing.

Then Cuddy shows up and House tells her what she needs to hear so she can sleep at night. He isn’t even really lying. No, it’s not because of her he can’t work at the PPTH anymore.

She’s just the largest part.

As delightful as their flirting and fighting and flirt-fighting has been over the years, they are fundamentally unstable. Their chemistry is sizzling, yes, but also explosive in a way that promises collateral damage that House cannot risk if he wants to stay sober. Even before Nolan had convinced him that going back to diagnostics was a terrible idea, House had seen reason regarding Cuddy. Unless and until he’s well and truly stable in his sobriety, he needs to keep his distance from her.

He misses her.

He’s missed her in Mayfield and seeing her again is like opening a barely scabbed over wound.

But, as much as he hates to admit it to himself, he’s missed Wilson more, and that’s another reason he’s decided to stop pursuing her. Because it’s not fair to her. Because if he told her, she would understand. Because she probably already knows and he refuses to do to her what Wilson did to Bonnie and Julie.

Cuddy leaves and so does Cecile, but the string of visitors isn’t over yet.

Thirteen shows up to talk shit about Foreman, who’s unsurprisingly handling having his girlfriend for a fellow poorly, and House, suffering what has to be some kind of out-of-body experience, watches himself give her genuinely sensible advice. Even if it boils down to ‘Calm you perky tits and don’t do anything rash.’

He also feeds her his newest culinary masterpiece.

“You realize that means you’re in charge of feeding us on DnD night?” he demands.

House makes a face. “And here I was, hoping you’d forgotten about that. Or maybe realized what a horrible idea that is.”

She’s grinning at him like the cat that got the, well, the egg yolk. “If you don’t show up, I’m going to pack everything up and we’re just going to do it here. And don’t even think about hiding somewhere else. With me and Wilson working together, you’re screwed and you know it.” Which is, admittedly, an astute observation.

“The smallest taste of power and you’re this gleeful? But you’re butt-hurt about Foreman not knowing how to act around you after he just made department head?” Maybe Nolan is rubbing off on him, because she sure looks like that gets her thinking.

After she leaves, he climbs onto the kitchen island and eats ragu-stuffed egg yolk on homemade linseed crackers — Yup, he’s officially won cooking — and tries to wrestle with the reality that his thigh is starting to hurt again. Like it did when he’d finished the last Pratchett novel.

It’s by the grace of a god House doesn’t believe in, that he sleeps at all that night. He’s going to chew on the baseboards like an under-exercised husky any day now. Even Wilson is picking up on it, hovering and mother-henning dialed up to eleven.

He goes to see Nolan, who tells him to keep on keepin’ on. To try chess.

So he opens chess.com and plays the bots for an hour. It’s alright. (It’s not.)

Then it’s like he blinks and he’s on r/medicalmysteries and a switch flips inside his body. He barely even notices the absence of pain, so focused on the one thing that can always hold his attention.

The patient that should be his is posting online, offering a reward for a correct diagnosis, and it takes House a brilliant, pain-free, exhilarating two hours to figure out that it’s Fabry’s.

He isn’t sure if he’s ever been this relieved in his life. The tension, the slowly mounting terror of if he’d ever find something that can reliably keep his pain at bay, it’s gone. Even if he finds nothing else, there will always be this. Even if Nolan thinks it’s bad for him, and for good reasons, just knowing there is an out that doesn’t come in a little yellow bottle… There is a way to control the brain that turns on its host. He isn’t helpless anymore.

(Wilson picks up on it immediately and, of course, assumes that he’s relapsed, and House, still gleeful, goes to the closest dog park and buys a bottle of dog piss for some recreational pranking. Incredible what people will do for fifty bucks.)

The check for the reward arrived the following day and House goes to confess his relapse to Nolan, who, and House is never saying a bad word about him ever again, changes his opinion when confronted with fresh evidence. That’s rarer than most of the diseases House has ever diagnosed!

“So, he thinks you should go back to your old job?” Wilson asks and swirls another fork of tagliatelle into a neat little mouthful. House quietly wonders when they’ll be sick of it, because even after playing 3D tetris in the freezer, they’re going to be eating nothing but ragu for days. “Sure you didn’t somehow manipulate him into changing his mind?”

House rolls his eyes hard. “Against popular belief, I’m not actually capable of Jedi mind tricking my shrink. And, no, maybe not department head. But yes to diagnostics. And it’s not like I’ll be able to sweet-talk Princeton General into establishing a new department for me, not with my malpractice insurance premiums.”

Wilson chews thoughtfully. House idly watches his throat work as he swallows. “You’re trying to tell me you want to be Foreman’s fellow? That’s never going to work.”

House sighs. “Yes, well. You’re not wrong there. But it’s moot anyway, at least until I get my license back.”

Wilson opens his mouth to answer and is interrupted be the doorbell.

It’s late, past nine. They share a look.

House lurches to his feet, hoping it isn’t who he suspects it to be and being disappointed when he looks through the peephole. He opens the door. Thirteen has two DnD books tucked under her arm, but more importantly, her eyes are the slightest bit red-rimmed.

House steps aside wordlessly, pushing away mental images of his cane connecting with Foreman’s shin.

“I hope I’m not intruding,” she asks, softer than usual.

“Of course not,” Wilson says, at the same time as House grumbles: “I wouldn’t have let you in otherwise.”

She smiles at him a little watery. “I just wanted to drop this off for you, Wilson,” she says waving the rule-books. There’s also an empty character sheet. “You don’t have to read all of it, of course, but I thought you might be interested. You can make your own character, but I printed out some pre-made ones for you to pick from, too, if you’re not up for that yet. It can be a little overwhelming if you’ve never played anything like this before.”

“That’s really kind of you, Remy,” Wilson says, taking the books from her with both hands. Oh, no. He’s going into comforting-crying-women mode, breaking out first names and all. Thank fuck House is here to chaperone, or there would be two Doctor Wilsons working at the PPTH by this time next year. “Have you had dinner yet?” He’s already on his way to the kitchen.

“Oh, no, I wouldn’t want to—”

“Shut up and sit down already,” House grouses. She does as she’s told, glaring at him. “Out with it, what did Foreman do?”

For a moment, her jaw tenses. “He fired me.”

“He what?” Wilson squawks from the kitchen, where he’s heating another helping of ragu.

House groans, long and with feeling. “That stupid—”

“He’s still my boyfriend, don’t insult him,” Thirteen snaps.

“Is he? Still your boyfriend? You’d think firing you would automatically nab him another promotion to ex.”

Thirteen’s bottom lip trembles. Oh shit. “… I don’t know? He said he doesn’t want to break up, but he has to understand that—” She bursts into tears.

House kicks himself mentally. So much for not pouring oil into the fire. He fetches a box of tissues from the bathroom and sets it down in front of her. “I leave you kids alone for five minutes with my department…”

“He’s such an asshole!” she sobs, pulling a tissue from the box and blowing her nose noisily. “Such a stupid, self-centered asshole! And he actually believes that we’re going to be together after this! If he’s actually convinced that we can’t work with each other like that, then he should have just broken up with me, or stepped down, or worked it out with me, but no! He wants to have his cake and fuck her, too!”

Well, yeah. That’s a pretty accurate summary of the situation, House thinks. He’s sitting next to her, warring with the impulse to, what, stroke her back or something? Hell, no. Wilson has no such reservations, but then again, he there-there-s for a living. He sets her serving of pasta down, scoots his chair close to hers, and pulls her into a hug. “I’m so sorry, Remy. That must have been so hurtful.” Emboldened by Wilson’s initiative, House reaches out and cautiously pats her hand, once, twice. She looks at him, red-faced, with visible confusion. Then she laughs.

“Oh, god, House, you suck at this.”

“Yeah, fuck you, too, Thirteen. I’ll fire him right back for you when I get my license again. How about that?”

Her eyes widen, and she slowly pulls away from Wilson. (Something loosens in House’s chest. He knows exactly what it is, so no need to further examine.) “But you said you were—”

“Quitting, yes. On advice of my shrink. But I convinced him otherwise. Dealing with you lot at least keeps my mind off my leg, which means less chance of relapse.”

She makes a noise that defies description. “You couldn’t have convinced him a day sooner?” At House’s shrug, she blinks, shakes her head. “I’m sorry, that was shitty of me.”

“Eh, you’re excused.”

“Thank you. It’s just… I don’t know how I’m supposed to even work with him now. Work at the PPTH at all. I just want to get on a flight and…”

“Remy,” Wilson pipes up, in his calmest, gentlest, there-are-lots-of-options-for-treatment voice. “this just happened. Don’t make any decision why you’re still reeling. Break ups can be awful, but fleeing the country might be a little drastic.”

She chuckles, wiping at her face with a fresh tissue. “Yes. I mean—yeah. Good point.”

House seizes the moment and pulls over the plate of tagliatelle. “Great, you’ve reached your decade-ly allotted time of crying in my presence. Eat your dinner and any other tears I see better be from joy.”

Thirteen snorts, looking at him so very fond. “Yes, dad.” She picks up the fork, messily gathering pasta. “Oh my god,” she groans, mouth still full. “You sure you haven’t found your calling as a chef instead?”

After dinner, Wilson and she start pouring over the rule book and she stays almost another two hours. When House walks her out, her face is still a little blotchy, but she’s smiling genuinely.

Then she darts in and hugs him, just for a second, and she’s out of the door before he can even react.

“Hey!” he calls after her, not giving a shit about the neighbors as usual. “Who said you could do that?” But he’s smiling.

Nolan might be right. Maybe he isn’t an albatross anymore.