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“I cannot believe that idiot hasn’t asked to see my license,” House bitched around a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “Or get references. Something.”
Receiving no response, he looked up to the loft and was graced with a view of Wilson’s PJ-clad ass as he made the bed. He raised his voice, lest Wilson miss a word. “He must really find you charming.”
“Guess so,” came Wilson’s muffled reply.
House took a gulp from his coffee mug before resuming. “What kind of lawyer could he possibly be?”
Wilson awkwardly turned around, then sat with his legs hanging over the edge of the loft. Even when he hunched over, elbows on his knees, his disheveled hair almost grazed the ceiling.
“The overworked kind?” Wilson shrugged. “I already told you. Mark believes you’re working on getting the California license because we just moved here. He seems”—a hand gestured vaguely—“OK with that. He probably realizes there isn’t a huge pool of P.I.s to choose from in this town.”
House was poised to unleash a devastating remark about the gene pool in this town when an alarming thought struck. “Wait. What if he hires a P.I. to investigate me?”
Wilson pulled a face. “That would be a really convoluted and expensive way to hire someone, dontcha think?”
House pointed a forkful of egg at him. “I may have mentioned this before, but people are stupid.”
“Right.” Wilson sighed and rubbed his eyes.
House peered at him. “OK?”
“Yeah.”
House’s internal bullshit monitor sounded. “Then why are you just sitting there like a lump? Scoot down your kiddie ladder and eat these eggs. I slaved for several minutes over a tiny stove.”
Wilson shook his head slightly. “I’m tired. I—I’ve missed some of my Lyrica doses in the past few days, and—”
“Moron,” House cut in. “You have one patient to take care of, and you can’t do it.”
Wilson scowled. “Well, we can’t all be as vigilant about pill-popping as you are.”
House felt a flare of annoyance at the old accusation. “Wait till you’ve lived with this a few years. You might get more attached to your pills.” He almost winced after the words were out—because, no, he didn’t want this neuropathy to last.
Wilson held up a hand. “OK. Let’s not, all right?” He sighed. “As I was saying, I missed some doses. Then last night my calf was getting bad, so I took a double dose. I’m just feeling knocked out.”
House blinked. “Are you sure those diplomas in your office were real?” He paused to mock-ponder. “I mean, one did say ‘oncolgy.’ I always figured it was fake.”
Wilson scrubbed a hand over his face. “If I come down, will you shut up? Or at least sit still while I strangle you?”
“There’s little chance of either,” House pronounced. “Come down anyway.”
He watched as Wilson gracelessly descended the ladder and limped to the folding chair opposite him. House jutted his chin toward the lounge. “Sit there. You can put your clumsy, nerve-damaged feet up.”
“That’s very kind, but no. I’m fine.” Wilson reached for the fork House set out for him and began to pick at the eggs.
Back in Houston, after the cisplatin made everything taste like metal, Wilson had subsisted on scrambled eggs, dry cereal and Ensure. Somehow, he’d said, those three items tasted only vaguely of copper penny. He could also keep them down most of the time.
House suddenly realized Wilson might not want a reminder of that period. But it was too late now.
Serves him right for making me cook.
“Think you can remember your little pills from now on?” he asked, in a less abrasive tone.
Wilson kept pushing his eggs around the plate. “I was feeling better. I thought…”
House rolled his eyes. “You know as well as I do, for every good day there’s about a dozen shitty ones.”
That earned a mirthless smile. “Yeah. Guess I forgot that pearl.”
House watched Wilson poke at the food until he couldn’t take any more. “OK,” he grumbled, pushing away from the table. “You obviously don’t like my cooking. Get dressed and we’ll grab you a Mc-Something on the way to Fairy Mason’s.”
Wilson raised an eyebrow. “Who?”
House sighed. “Mark. Your admirer.”
Wilson looked at his plate. “Oh. I, uh, think you should go without me.” He glanced at House. “You don’t need me anyway.”
House frowned. No, he didn’t need Wilson. But he did like having him as a buffer now that he was out in the world as this strange being called Greg Daniels.
“Well, Mark will be sorely disappointed,” he said with a fake pout. “Are you sure you want me to converse with him unchaperoned? I might blow this whole gig.”
Wilson donned his best put-on look. “It’s time you learned to interact with others.” He slowly rose and shuffled to the lounge. “And I told you, I’m tired.”
House eyed Wilson as he leaned into the slant of sunlight hitting the chair. His skin was more ghostly than usual—though that might be attributable to the particular shade of cadaver-gray he was wearing.
“It’s the meds,” Wilson mumbled, as if reading his mind.
House nodded and tried to ignore the sense of foreboding building inside him. He’d go crazy if he went into high alert every time Wilson coughed, or complained he was tired, or looked like hell.
“You look like hell,” he declared, to go on record. “You’re right. It’s better if Sugar Daddy doesn’t see you in the light of day.”
Wilson closed his eyes. “I knew you’d see my side.” He flapped a hand toward the front door. “Don’t be late for your appointment, Magnum.”
House reached for his cane. “I’ll be expecting lunch when I get back.”
“Just like the old days,” Wilson muttered, eyes still closed. There was a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth, though.
House thought some smart-aleck rejoinder was in order, but none occurred to him. So he turned on his heel and left without another word.
*******
“I trust you’ve done plenty of familial-discord cases?”
“Discord is my specialty,” House affirmed, tapping his cane on the carpeted floor.
Mark, Assface-at-Law, gazed at him from across the mahogany desk. “I don’t doubt it,” he said agreeably. “As luck would have it, I have something in that realm. This client’s ex-wife just filed for an increase in child support, claiming she has no income. He doesn’t believe her.”
House nodded. “Everybody lies. But how hard can it be to prove she has a job?”
Mark shrugged. “There’s no documentation of one. But my client thinks she’s doing something under-the-table.”
“Kinky,” House deadpanned. “So you want me to trail her, I suppose? I’ll need my hourly rate, plus expenses.”
Mark smirked in a way that made House want to brain him with his cane. “You can bill for the cost of gas. But I’m not covering your Jack-in-the-Box meals.”
“What about hookers?” House pressed, just for kicks. “It gets pretty lonely on these stakeouts.”
Mark raised an annoying eyebrow. “Doesn’t James go with you?”
House felt his jaw clench at the way this douchebag said James.
“He does,” he replied evenly. “But he’s way less slutty when he’s at work.”
Mark nodded, drumming his fingers on the desk. “Greg, if you don’t mind my asking…Does your disability get in the way of the job? I mean, it must be hard to sit in a car for hours, or to—”
“Thanks for asking, Mark,” House chirped. “But I manage just fine. And Wilson does a lot of the heavy lifting. Despite the hair and the flabby arms, he’s actually not all that girly.”
Mark smiled wanly. “Do you always put him down like that?”
House just stared. This jackass really thought he had a clue about him and Wilson.
“Sorry,” Mark offered, holding up a hand. “None of my business.”
House nodded. “Speaking of business, can we get back to it? Who exactly am I following?”
Mark pushed a folder toward him. “All the information is here. Would you be able to start this afternoon? I’m told she usually picks the son up from school and they’re home by four.”
House regarded the folder and felt a little wave of déjà vu. A case file; it was soothingly familiar yet freaky at the same time. He tightened his hold on his cane as an irritating voice in his head insisted that this was different, and he was not, in fact, a P.I. It was funny how the voice still sounded like Wilson, even though he’d long since given up his role as the Reasonable One.
And just like old times, House considered the voice’s point then dismissed it. Because how hard could it be to follow some soccer mom around Sebastopol?
“Sure,” he told Mark, brandishing his patented phony smile. “Looking forward.”
*******
“Start making sandwiches,” House announced as he limp-and-ducked through their front door. “We have a stakeout in a few hours.”
Wilson looked up from his nest on the lounge. “Are you serious?”
“Serious as a myocardial infarction complicated by cardiogenic shock.” House plopped down on one of the folding chairs.
“Ah. So pretty serious?”
House opened his mouth to respond, but was suddenly consumed by the scene around him. The folding table and chairs were just as he’d left them over two hours before, the dirty dishes were stacked in the sink, and Wilson looked as if nary a morning grooming ritual had been performed.
House narrowed his eyes. “What’s wrong with you?”
Wilson lolled his head against the chair. “House,” he groaned. “I told you.”
“Yeah, yeah. But since when do you spend an entire morning on your ass?”
Wilson’s cheeks flushed. “I—I fell asleep, and then…” He paused and gave House one of his go-to bitch faces. “You of all people should understand the after-effects of taking too many meds.”
House grinned. “Valiant attempt at deflection. Why are you lying to me?”
Wilson shook his head and exhaled a humorless little chuckle. “Here I’d been thinking your god complex was letting up.”
“Nah.” House crossed his ankles and leaned back in his chair. “I’ve been convinced of my superiority since I was three.”
“Hmm. What took you so long?”
House shrugged. “I don’t like to rush to judgment. C’mon. What’s wrong with you?”
Wilson pressed his lips together and seemed to be debating an answer. For an instant, House thought he might actually divulge something. But then Wilson pushed to his feet.
“Nothing,” he said. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be about three feet away, taking a shower.” He flapped a hand at House. “Look over there.”
House gladly averted his gaze as Wilson stripped down to his boxers. One thing about tiny houses—the brochures glossed over the near-constant risk of your best friend’s saggy ass invading your line of sight.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Wilson hang his t-shirt and sweats over a ladder rung then slip into the bathroom. “Don’t you even wanna know what we’re stalking?” House called after him.
“We can discuss it in three-and-a-half minutes, when the hot water runs out.”
A moment later the sounds of the tiny shower filled the space, and House found himself studying the ladder.
It had only a handful of rungs; in theory, he could reach the summit, poke around, and return to his chair before Wilson finished scrubbing behind his ears. He didn’t know what he expected to find up there, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that Wilson was being deceptive. Probably because the odds were so good.
It was less than graceful, but in no time House was perched on the second rung of the ladder, where he performed a visual sweep of the loft. There wasn’t much to see, since the space accommodated only a full-size mattress. At the head of the bed there was a mini-window with a ledge, where Wilson kept a couple books—including the Breathe Yourself Into Wellness tome-of-bullshit that Yoga Valerie had given him.
That was expected. Less expected was the item sitting next to the books: the sweater-vest-wearing moose that House had bought in Houston. He hadn’t honestly thought Wilson would keep the thing, and the sight of it now almost surprised him into a smile. Luckily, he quickly realized how pathetic it was for a middle-aged man to harbor a stuffed animal—or for another middle-aged man to feel emo about it.
“Loser,” he muttered before giving the space another once-over.
Wilson couldn’t be hiding anything under the bed, since there was no “under.” There could, however, be something lurking under the pillows or blanket.
House took a breath. What the hell? I’m here.
He awkwardly ascended the last couple rungs, then sprawled himself over the length of the bed. Finding nothing under the pillows, he was about to inspect the crevices between the mattress and the sloped walls when he spotted something curious: Mr. Moose, the sly bastard, was hiding a cylindrical object behind his hip.
House reached around and retrieved a white pill bottle labeled Ashwagandha.
He furrowed his brow and searched for more information. All he found were disclaimers that the FDA had not approved this product for treating or preventing any disease.
He rolled his eyes. It was just some snake oil the co-op cult had probably insisted Wilson try. And, House discovered as he shook the bottle, Wilson had apparently listened.
“Idiot,” he grumbled, though half-heartedly.
As Wilsonian secrets went, this seemed small-scale. Plus, it fit the earthy-guy persona he was currently trying on for size. Last week, he’d even attempted a switch to “natural” deodorant—which was promptly aborted after a mortifying display of wet armpits during his co-op shift.
Still, House put “Google ashwagandha” at the top of his non-existent to-do list. Well, right after “eat lunch.” And probably “take a nap,” since he had no idea how long this stakeout would last.
Somewhere in the midst of his mental prioritizing, House realized the shower had shut off.
Shit. He replaced the pill bottle behind the moose’s ass, then used his elbows to scramble backward toward the ladder, like an incredibly lame Navy Seal. He gingerly made his way down, grateful it was a shaving day for Wilson. The tiny mirror always made it a slow process.
Indeed, by the time Wilson stepped out of the bathroom, House was in full chillax mode on the lounge, pretending to read the current issue of Mother Jones—which, he suspected, Wilson also pretended to read.
He looked up to see Wilson clutching a towel around his waist, and his eyes automatically focused on those ribs, which were still discernible, though not as prominent as they were at the height of the chemo weight loss.
Wilson frowned then ducked his head as he made for the closet by the front door—with more ease in his step than he’d had that morning, House noted. He quickly grabbed jeans, boxers and one of his eco-tees, then headed toward House’s bedroom.
“I’m gonna get dressed in here,” he mumbled as he passed.
“I’ll try not to peek,” House assured.
It was routine for Wilson to dress in House’s room, since neither the loft nor the bathroom afforded a six-foot man the necessary freedom of limb movement. Yet Wilson always felt compelled to announce his wardrobe-related intentions, as if to warn House away. Which was odd at this point, considering House had helped him in and out of bathtubs, and practically dressed him when the nerve damage was raging. Oh, and there was also the diaper-changing thing.
House figured the new prudishness was Wilson’s way of saying that level of intimacy was over and done with.
Well, good. Fan-fucking-tastic, actually.
“OK,” Wilson said from the bedroom. “I’m dying to hear about our case.”
House couldn’t help but smirk at our case. “This guy’s ex-wife is angling for more child support, but he thinks she has a secret job. We have to trail her.”
Wilson emerged from the other room, wearing his Grow Your Own t-shirt and a small frown of concern.
“What?” House demanded. “Bad divorce memories? Because really, this should show you how lucky you were to escape from your marriages child-free.”
Wilson rolled his eyes. “Yes, well, if I ever forget, you can hire another child actor to remind me.”
“The odds of you falling for that again have to be pretty low,” House reasoned. “Seriously. What don’t you like about this case?”
Wilson glanced away. “Nothing.” He shrugged. “It’s just…It’s a woman. A mother. It seems creepy to spy on her.”
It was House’s turn for an eye-roll. “You’re gonna be the worst P.I. helper ever, aren’t you?”
Wilson looked up, indignation flashing in his eyes. “No,” he denied, crossing his arms. “And I refuse to be called a helper.”
House grinned. “Well, you’re not a P.I. You didn’t go through the rigorous DVD training.”
Wilson came dangerously close to a pout before setting his jaw. “You’ve got me there. But if you’re Magnum, then I can be Higgins.”
House gaped.
“Why not?” Wilson asked defensively.
House wagged an index finger. “Higgins was an ex-military man. He wouldn’t be caught dead with that hair, or those clothes.” He paused as a delightful thought occurred to him. “You aren’t even aware of your t-shirt’s drug connotations, are you?”
Wilson glimpsed at the entreaty emblazoned across his chest. “It’s referring to vegetables,” he insisted.
A brief stare-down ensued before Wilson’s confidence faltered. “Isn’t it?”
House bit the insides of his cheeks and tried to maintain an air of disgust. But a smile started to slowly take over Wilson’s face, and House felt the corners of his mouth twitch. Once Wilson snorted it was all over; they laughed, and House felt stupid, annoyed, and kind of good for a moment.
“Whatever,” Wilson dismissed through his unmanly giggles. “I’ve always supported medical marijuana.”
“True,” House had to agree.
Wilson held his gaze for a beat before moving toward the kitchen counter. “So. What kind of sandwiches are recommended for stakeouts?”
House scratched at his stubble. “Nothing too messy. Or too smelly.”
Wilson crouched in front of the mini-refrigerator. “How about avocado and sun-dried tomato?”
“Or too avocado-y.”
A sigh. “They’re good for you. What if I put…turkey in yours?”
“Fine,” House acquiesced, trying to sound as put-upon as possible. “But don’t even try to bring your kale chips.”
“Why?” Wilson seemed genuinely offended.
“Their very existence makes me angry.”
House hauled himself to stand and maneuvered around Wilson to nab his potato chips from the cupboard. “I’ll be taking these to my room.”
He’d made it to the bedroom doorway when Wilson spoke up. “Oh, by the way, did you find what you were looking for in the loft?”
House stopped in his tracks. Well, damn. He turned to find Wilson sporting an annoying smirk. “You can’t really sneak around in a tiny house,” he said, with his special, subtle brand of bitchiness.
“Apparently,” House conceded. “And yes, I did discover your moosey friend. My long-held views on your masculinity remain intact.”
Wilson narrowed his eyes, but then simply nodded. “Good.”
House wasn’t sure what to make of that, so he just nodded in return and went on his way.
*******
There was something surreal about being on stakeout at sunset, in a Honda Civic, eating turkey-and-avocado sandwiches out of a picnic basket.
“I cannot believe you packed a basket,” House griped, spewing multigrain crumbs on the steering wheel.
“Oh-kayy. You’ve said that, like, three times now.”
“That’s how profound my disbelief is.” House took a swig from his eco-friendly water bottle. “You’ve gotta admit, this is more Yogi and Boo-Boo than Magnum and Higgins.”
Wilson fanned his hands in front of him. “I figured if we arouse suspicion sitting in a car, we can say we got lost on our way from the vineyards. The picnic basket lends credibility.”
“It lends gay,” House corrected. “If someone approaches the car, we might as well start making out.”
Wilson’s cheeks colored in an interesting way. “Just…keep your mind on the job.”
“Yeah.” House reclined his seat a little more, but kept an eye on his fellow spy. “It’s so absorbing.”
They were sitting in the parking lot of Trader Joe’s, directly across from the turnoff to Berry Lane, where Lindsey Brass lived. They’d managed to find her cottage-like house, which was set back from the road and shielded by trees. But there’d been no inconspicuous place to park.
Luckily, the street was a dead-end. If Lindsey went out, she and her sensible Mazda3 would have to pass through the intersection they were currently scoping.
Wilson sighed. “We knew this would be the boring part. Think of it this way. For every hour of boredom, we’re raking in more money.”
“But I’m in this to help people,” House protested, grabbing the basket again. “Tell me you packed dessert, Boo-Boo.”
Wilson shook his head, but there was a hint of a smile. “Sorry. You know, next time we should rent a van. We won’t have to worry about being spotted.”
“Yeah, no one will be suspicious of the weird van parked on the block all day.”
“Well, it’s better than two guys just sitting in a Civic. And it’s better for us, too.” Wilson glanced at him. “Speaking of, you should get out and walk around again.”
House brushed him off. “It’s your turn, Gimpy. Go into Trader Joe’s and get me one of those chocolate ganache tortes.”
“I’m not buying you a cake. And anyway, I’m fine.”
House looked at him, but Wilson kept his eyes aimed at Berry Lane.
“Have you made an appointment with the UCSF doc yet?” House knew the answer, but he wanted to hear it anyway.
Wilson’s jaw tightened. “Not yet.”
“You need a follow-up, you idiot.”
“House—” Wilson stopped short then leaned toward the dashboard, squinting. “Wait, that’s her.”
House looked ahead, and sure enough there was a red Mazda manned by a brunette sitting at the light.
“Um.” Wilson waved at the ignition. “Go.”
“Um. OK.”
As House started the car, he couldn’t deny the spike in his heart rate—which was stupid, of course. He was about to chase a mom in an economical car, with his own economical car, through the mean streets of Sebastopol. And his partner was a guy who enjoyed listening to NPR and show tunes.
Still, as they set after their subject, House found himself feeling better than he had in a while. A part of his mind even allowed for the possibility this night could prove interesting after all.
*******
“Oh my gawd. This is the best job ever,” House proclaimed, flashing Wilson a grin.
After a half-hour of driving and a fast-food stop, Lindsey had led them to Santa Rosa—a city marginally less lame than Sebastopol, and home to what appeared to be her final destination: the Bottom’s Up gentlemen’s club.
“She’s an actual walking, gyrating cliché,” House said gleefully as he turned into a Pizza Hut parking lot. He’d kept driving when Lindsey pulled off the road—one of the tips on avoiding detection that he’d remembered from Wilson’s DVD.
Now they would double back and make sure Lindsey was inside before parking and going in. After all, they had to verify she was working and not simply celebrating Lesbian Tuesday.
Wilson remained silent, but House could feel the disapproval radiating from his skin.
“What now?” he groaned.
“Nothing,” Wilson replied curtly.
“Are you disappointed in her?” House pressed. “Maybe she’s the mythical Stripper With a Heart of Gold. Discovered at long last.”
“Yes. You’re the Ponce de Leon of adult entertainment.”
House ignored the comment and turned into the Bottom’s Up lot. “The problem here will be getting photographic evidence,” he muttered, pulling into a space. “You can’t take pictures in a strip club. Believe me.”
“I bow to your experience.” Wilson pulled out the mini-DVR/camera thingy he’d purchased from PItrappings.com. “I guess you can take some shots of her car outside the place,” he offered glumly.
“That doesn’t prove she works here,” House objected.
“It’s a gentlemen’s club.”
“Right. And they only let true gentlemen enter. C’mon, we’re gonna have to go in. As much as it pains me.”
“For what? You just said we can’t get hard evidence inside.”
“But we can get hard—”
“House.”
“Are you seriously trying to avoid the topless dancers?”
Wilson dipped his chin. “I just feel weird about it. We’re following her, and now you wanna see her topless? It’s a violation.”
House thought he felt his mind actually boggle. “You do realize she’s making a career out of showing her tits to strangers.”
“Well, maybe if she got that increase in child support, she wouldn’t need this job.”
House let his head fall back against the seat. “Why do you assume she doesn’t want this job? Why assume she’s a helpless victim?”
“Sure. Women love giving lap dances to middle-aged men who live in their parents’ basement.”
House sighed heavily. “There are all kinds of people in this world, Dr. Wilson. Trader Joe’s was hiring. She could get a job there instead. But they probably insist you keep your top on.”
Wilson maintained his stubborn stance, so House tried again. “Listen, our job is to find out the truth. The truth is, she’s lying to get more money out of the ex. And any stories you make up about why she’s lying don’t matter, even if you’re right.”
Wilson turned to him. “How can it not matter? If she’s getting a raw deal on child support and is just trying to make ends meet—”
“If, if, if,” House grouched, losing patience. “We have to deal with the evidence in front of us. And guess what? The injustice of the child-support system is not our problem to fix anyway.”
Wilson opened his mouth, but House was on a roll. “And what about your Mother of the Year in there? It looks like she left an eight-year-old home alone for the night.”
“You don’t know that. Any one of those cars turning onto her street could’ve been the babysitter.”
House bobbed his head side-to-side. “True. Actually, we should check it out on our way back. If the kid’s alone, Daddy might like to know.”
Wilson stared at him through the dim parking lot light. “You really think…Wait a minute. Let’s do this. We go back and see if the kid’s being taken care of. If he is, we can pretend we never saw this.”
House exhaled a little laugh. Wilson had always seen damsels where there were none.
“Sorry,” he said flatly. “But Greg Daniels, fake P.I., has integrity.”
Wilson looked away, and House decided he’d had enough. “I’m going in. Gimme that thing so I can get some shots of the car.”
“No.”
At House’s glare, Wilson quickly added, “The bouncer might see it and try to take it. I’ll get the shots, you go inside.”
House stewed on that for a moment; it was a logical plan, but Wilson was Wilson. “I can trust you to do it?”
“Yes,” Wilson said, and he sounded so miserable that House believed him.
“Fine.”
“OK.”
House started to open his door then paused. “I won’t be long,” he mumbled.
“Do what you have to,” Wilson replied evenly.
“Yeah.” House heaved himself out of the car and limped into the club without looking back.
*******
Wilson drove on the way home. True to his word, House had stayed in the club only long enough to see that Lindsey was an employee. He’d even passed on paying for a quick lap dance; he just didn’t have the go-getter spirit tonight.
Wilson hadn’t said a thing since they’d left the place, after agreeing to check on the kid. So House decided to take advantage of the silence to conduct a little research.
“What are you doing?” Wilson asked, as House grabbed his iPad from the backseat.
“I have to Google something. How do you spell ‘ashwagandha?’”
Wilson kept his eyes on the road. “Sound it out,” he muttered.
And House did, out loud as he typed. “Hmm. Over a million hits. Oh look, Deepak Chopra recommends it. Must be legit.”
“Valerie gave it to me,” Wilson said wearily.
“That explains why you have it, not why you’re taking it,” House pointed out. “Let’s see what it does.”
He clicked on one of the more promising links and began to recite. “‘Ashwagandha is a powerful Indian herb used since ancient times in the Ayurvedic healing system. It has remarkable stress- and depression-relieving properties comparable to the effects of today’s antidepressants.’”
He paused and glanced at Wilson. As expected, there was no reaction.
“But that’s not all,” House ad libbed before continuing his reading. “‘Ashwagandha, as its Sanskrit name implies, imparts the strength of a stallion.’” He smirked then made a show of looking Wilson up and down. “Well, obviously.”
Winning no response, House scrolled down to see if things would get more interesting, or at least more amusing. That’s when he came upon the section on current research into the magic herb.
“Huh. Now this looks important,” he said. “‘In lab research, the potent extract has been shown to inhibit cancer cells from spreading. Its effects appear similar to those of the chemotherapy drug doxorubicin.’” He turned to Wilson. “Oh hey, you took that.”
Wilson exhaled loudly through his nose. “I realize it’s…” He waved a hand. “But Valerie gave it to me, and I thought, what’s the harm?”
“I’d say deluding yourself is harmful,” House argued, feeling a blossoming unease. “Is this why you haven’t made that appointment? You’re gonna hide in your tiny house and take herbs instead?”
“No,” Wilson said firmly. “I just haven’t…I just haven’t made the appointment. I don’t know why.”
“Y’know, it doesn’t matter if you grow your hair or change your clothes,” House informed him. “Cancer can still find you.”
Wilson made his WTF? face. “Oh, really? In cancer school they told us tumors can’t catch you if you run in a zigzag.”
House opened his mouth, but Wilson cut him off. “Can we drop it, please? I took an herb. Get over it.”
House sat back and allowed a good ten seconds of silence before speaking again. “If you wanna do this, you have to be comfortable with the truth.”
Wilson squinted at the windshield. “Pardon?”
“With this job,” House clarified, “you have to dig for the truth, then accept it. Even when it’s not pretty. Even when it’s an ugly truth about a pretty person.”
Wilson shook his head. “I don’t care that she’s pretty, House. I—I just don’t think everything is black-and-white.”
House looked at him pointedly. “You suggested we pretend we didn’t see what was right in front of us.”
Wilson pressed his lips together, and House leaned toward him. “Pretending is not as easy as it seems.”
The corner of Wilson’s mouth twitched. “I’m well aware,” he said lowly.
A moment later, he took a left turn and House realized they were back on Berry Lane. He turned his attention to the passenger window as they pulled up in front of the Brass house. Through the trees, he could see a car in the driveway that hadn’t been there this afternoon.
“Someone’s there,” Wilson said, sounding relieved.
“Yep,” House agreed. “Some person with a car is there.”
Wilson sighed. “Shall I knock on the door and ask for references?”
House didn’t answer, and they sat in silence for a while. He watched Wilson drum him fingers on the steering wheel and wondered what was running through his head.
“Well,” Wilson finally said, hesitantly. “I could try to get a look inside.”
House sneered. “Good idea. Maybe you can get arrested, and go down in history as the Sebastopol Peeper.”
Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose. It was a classic gesture, but this time he looked so worn House decided to give him a break. “We’ve done what we can,” he said.
Wilson dropped his hand to his lap. “I guess.”
House cleared his throat; he figured they should get moving before someone noticed them hovering. “Let’s go. Maybe we’re not too late to get that cake—”
“I’ll make the appointment tomorrow,” Wilson said to the steering wheel.
House blinked; that was unexpected.
Wilson bit his lip then looked at him. “OK?”
For some reason, House couldn’t answer right away. His mouth felt a little dry so he swallowed. “Yeah. OK.”
Wilson gave a quick nod then put the car in drive. “I’ll see if the store is still open,” he said as he made a U-turn. His voice sounded hopeful.
House grunted in response then looked out his window again, even though there was nothing to see. He knew he should feel reassured by what Wilson just promised. It was what he wanted, and the only logical course. But the truth was, he just felt scared.
—TBC