out_there | House wip: that moving thing for Researchgrrrl

This is currently known as the "House moving thing for

researchgrrrl". Fandom is House M.D., pairing is House/Wilson, and the medical lingo (and plots) will be kept to an absolute minimum. It's possibly half-done. Maybe.

***

People, like illnesses, have warning signs. A sudden increase in temperature or a sudden decrease in blood pressure, it's all the same thing. An absence of the norm.

Gregory House was lying naked and silent on Wilson's bed, and calling it unnerving was like referring to a hurricane as a little gusty.

Wilson had no problems with the naked thing. They were both naked and sex worked better like that anyway. Same for the bed thing; the few times they'd tried using Wilson's stylish but ultimately impractical couch had proved beds the far better option. But the silence? That wasn't right.

House talked. It was what he *did*. He did it drunk, sober, half-asleep and wired on too much coffee. He talked in theatre, in patient's rooms, in the cafeteria and he definitely talked after sex. It was a norm, an expected reaction. House was not supposed to lounge about, staring at Wilson's ceiling with a slightly amused smirk and say *nothing*.

"You're very quiet," Wilson hazarded, just in case House was only being quiet because he was being quiet, and being the first to speak would lose some game Wilson hadn't agreed to play.

"I'm basking." House kept his hands folded behind his head while giving a little roll of his shoulders. But he didn't say anything else. No rambling diatribe about the Red Sox, no discussion of the finer points of accepted idiocy, no rating Cuddy's wardrobe choice as appropriate hooker wear.

It was disturbing.

"Basking? In what?"

"The afterglow." House tilted his head towards Wilson and rolled his blue eyes extravagantly. "You have no sense of romance."

"I have no sense of romance? I'm not the one who bought a spare tyre as a Valentine's gift."

"It was a gift for Cuddy. She thought it was romantic."

"She thought it was a sign that you were responsible for slashing one of her tyres."

House grinned. "And she spent the rest of the day striding back and forth to the car park to try to work out which tyre it was. Since I was smart enough not to touch any of them, I was able to avoid clinic duty all day without her knowing."

Sighing, Wilson tried not to be charmed by the mischievous glint in House's gaze. "So it was basically a gift to yourself."

"And I thought it was very romantic of me," House said, wide-eyed and looking as innocent as Satan. "I was thoroughly smitten. Finally agreed to go out to dinner with myself. Even put out at the end of the night."

Wilson waited, expecting House to lead to a discussion of diners, the futility of Valentine's gifts or the rarity of sex at the end of the first date. To one of a hundred topics that could be argued endlessly without meaning anything. But House winked, then turned back to his quiet study of the ceiling.

Wilson looked up, but the ceiling remained plastered, white and completely unremarkable. "House?"

"Shh," House replied without looking around.

Wilson blinked. This was getting weirder and weirder. And weird, when it came to House, was a flashing neon sign screaming DANGER AHEAD. He carefully asked, "Because you're basking?"

"Yeah."

"You don't usually 'bask'."

"The afterglow isn't usually worthy of it."

One of the more interesting things about having any type of relationship with House was the range of emotions he'd provoke. Indignation, annoyance and amusement were the three that featured most prominently, normally all at the same time. "But tonight's performance was especially worthy of basking?"

"I've decided to bask. I'm not saying you've suddenly become the guru of blowjobs, but tonight's effort was above your usual standard." House slanted a sideways look at Wilson, pausing for a moment as if concerned. "Judging by your expression, you've decided to sulk."

"No," Wilson said, as sarcastically as he could, "I've decided to bask in your overwhelming tact."

House shrugged, as much as he could while lying on his back with his hands behind his head, and gave Wilson a far too satisfied smile. Something was up.

***

Knowing House was acting unusually and therefore planning something -- a scheme, a dare, possibly an apocalypse -- and knowing what was actually going on were two different things. Wilson had no idea, but he was intrigued. It was like seeing a car suddenly slam on the brakes on a freeway: logic states it'll end in a four car pile-up, but it's still fascinating to watch.

For all his faults, House was always fascinating. When he had the grace to show up.

Despite the fact that he'd asked Wilson to lunch -- to the hospital cafeteria, but the phrase 'meal-time rendezvous' had been bandied about -- and Wilson had had to rearrange three appointments on a particularly busy day to clear the specified hour, House hadn't shown.

It could have been any number of reasons: a new patient, an unexpected complication in the clinic, a sudden plot twist on a soap. House skipping a meal wasn't unusual. It was a sign of selfishness and a disregard for other people, but it wasn't a warning sign. It would have been reassuringly normal if Chase hadn't come up to him in the cafeteria asking if he'd seen House.

"Why?" Wilson asked, pushing the last few limp shreds of lettuce around his plate. "What's he hiding from?"

"Nothing as far as I know," Chase said, shrugging and looking more bored than anxious, "but he's not in his office, or yours, or Cuddy's. He's not with Coma Guy, New Coma Guy or the broken MRI machine. And he's not answering his phone."

Wilson pushed his plate away and acknowledged that the cafeteria salad was a lost cause. "Did you need him?"

"No." Chase gave a quick shake of his head, sending the sandy blond hair flapping across his forehead. "Lull between patients. There's nothing to do. Cameron's researching a paper, Foreman's catching up on clinic paperwork and I just wanted to see if I could go home early."

"But no House to give you permission?"

Chase thought for a moment. "No House to tell me not to. Unless you know where he is?" he asked reluctantly.

"No idea," Wilson said, standing up. He piled the cutlery and napkin onto the plate. "Play hooky at will."

***

He didn't see House until after four that afternoon, when House limped out to his balcony, swung a leg over the divider and then produced a whiteboard marker from his pocket. Wilson got the door open before House started scribbling any offensive graffiti on the glass. (Last week, it'd been "Cancer is for morons." Written backwards, so it could be read clearly from inside Wilson's office. Luckily, the patient who spotted it had a good sense of humour.)

"You missed lunch."

House's mouth dropped open in shock. "Your astute powers of observation amaze me. Come on, now guess my name."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Gregory House."

"My weight?"

"167 pounds."

House blinked. "That's pretty accurate."

"I saw you step on the scales yesterday."

"Don't spoil the mystery for me. A magician shouldn't reveal his tricks." House leaned the cane against the wall and braced both hands on the railing. "I'm still giving you points for it."

"Where were you today?"

"Missed me?"

"I had to rearrange three appointments to clear one o'clock, and you never showed," Wilson said, nowhere near as annoyed as any normal person would have been. That was one of the problems of dealing with House: you started to forget how a normal, sane person would react. "Where were you?"

House leaned closer. "Breaking," he said quietly, then paused to scan the balcony to make sure he wasn't overheard, "and entering."

Wilson groaned. "You don't currently have a patient."

"But felonies are such fun. Why does the guy have to be my patient for me to screw with his stuff?"

Burying his head in his hands, Wilson sighed. "Please tell me this has nothing to do with that plastic surgeon taking your car space yesterday."

Dutifully, House repeated, "This has nothing to do with the plastic surgeon taking my car space yesterday. I did not break the law simply to mess with that Nip/Tuck wannabe's things. Scout's honour."

"Oh, god." All the ways that this could blow up in House's face flashed before Wilson's eyes. "If Cuddy asks, I knew nothing about this."

"If Cuddy ends up asking you, I didn't do it right in the first place."

***

The idea of House attempting completely unprofessional revenge for a petty slight was appealing. It would explain his mysterious absences from the hospital and his occasional thoughtful glances at ceilings, but it didn't explain the invitations to stay the night at House's place.

Wilson didn't have any fundamental objection to staying the night at House's. It wasn't much further from the hospital than Wilson's place and the double bed was relatively comfortable (and far, far better than House's couch). With the added incentive of sex, House could be convinced to go to bed at a reasonable hour. And since Wilson wasn't living there, he could ignore the stack of dirty dishes free of guilt.

But House usually bitched about how early Wilson got up, about how loudly Wilson used the bathroom, about having to find a few spare hangers for Wilson's change of clothes. He normally argued about the remote, about the choice of television shows and the general nuisance of having to purchase groceries (in order for Wilson to cook him dinner).

It wasn't something completely new, but House normally invited him over for one of two reasons. Either there'd been a long night at the hospital with a precarious, hours-to-live patient or there was something vitally important to watch on TV, such as the series finale of 'The OC', which the fifteen year old in orthopaedics would completely ruin for House if he didn't see it first.

House was the one who insisted on Wilson's place, citing that in his own apartment, Wilson was quieter (he closed doors between the bathroom and the bedroom; he was considerate of the neighbours) so House could sleep later. Also, House could raid his fridge without having to re-stock it.

It wasn't that Wilson really cared one way or the other. It was the change of expected behaviours that worried him. On the other hand, if House was lying in bed beside him, it wasn't like he could get up to too much mischief. Unless he was trying to use Wilson as an alibi.

After the second night in a row of House dropping by his office at the end of the day and saying, "Come on, my place", Wilson knew there was something going on that involved him. He wasn't sure whether or not it still involved the plastic surgeon, but it definitely involved him.

Whatever House was up to, it wasn't important enough to interfere with Poker Night. Judging by House's, "Just because you hang around hopefully, doesn't mean you get to play," Wilson's standing anti-invite still applied.

"I'm not hanging around hopefully," Wilson replied, searching through the pantry and finding it suspiciously free of snacks. "I was looking for the chips."

"Under the sink," House yelled from the couch. He was multitasking: watching Veronica Mars on TV and counting through the stack of chips, making sure they were all arranged into the right currency.

Wilson went to the sink, opened the cupboard door, and was surprised to find at least six family-sized bags of chips staring back at him. "Why do you keep chips under the sink?"

"So that when you get the munchies, you keep making those sun dried tomato and mozzarella cheese things."

"I thought you said those were a pale imitation of pizza?"

"A pale imitation, but they're still good." House shuffled into the kitchen and reached up to get the serving bowls. The thing college sweatshirt lifted with the movement, revealing a strip of bare skin. House grinned when he caught Wilson looking. "No matter how long you hang around, you're not getting any action tonight. Gambling or otherwise."

"I don't see why I can't play." It was a disagreement they'd had before and one that House refused to cave on.

"You throw off my game."

"You still win."

"Yeah," House said, stepping up behind him and snaking a hand across Wilson's hip, hooking his thumb under the waistband, "but having you there takes the fun out of it."

"Of course." Wilson ignored the hand and poured a packet of chips into a bowl. "I can see how playing with someone you actually know would make the experience miserable."

"It's not fun because I win," House said, breathing the words against Wilson's neck. Stubble scratched against his skin. It was fighting dirty, but the best part about arguing with House was when he fought dirty. "It's fun because poker is the most socially accepted reason for lying. Everybody lies so earnestly, so carefully and by the end of the game, I can pick it."

"Letting me play wouldn't stop the strangers from lying to you, House."

"But you're no challenge. I know when you're lying to me."

"Not always," Wilson said slyly, and House paused for a moment, watching him. Then he bit down lightly on the back of Wilson's neck. Wilson didn't bother hiding his answering gasp.

"Not always," House agreed, "but that's what makes you fun."

***

Wilson stayed until Bus Stop Guy turned up, and then headed back to his apartment. On the way, he stopped by his office, picked up a few files and used glass-cleaner to clean the 'Yes, this is a judgement from God' off his office door.

He had a few patient files to review and he was mentally arranging them in order of priority by the time he got into his building. It wasn't until he was searching for his keys that he realised he should have said hello to Mrs Murchensen as she passed by.
The next morning, House was waiting for him at the hospital elevator. Not that House would admit that he'd been waiting for Wilson, but he had. They walked through the metal doors in silence -- Wilson thinking about the morning's appointments, House thinking about anything and everything -- and stayed that way until House asked, "Is it boring?"

"Is what boring?"

"Whatever's bothering you. Because if it's boring, I don't want to know."

"Who said anything was bothering me?"

"You didn't need to say it," House said, making a little tsk-tsk noise as he wagged a finger at Wilson. "It's in the slump of your shoulders, in the frown lines developing on your forehead."

Wilson reached up to rub his forehead, then dropped his hand at House's snort. "It's nothing."

"No, see, it's something. If it was something medical, you'd be leafing through those folders in your arms. Since you're not, it's not something to do with a patient, so there's a high chance it's something really boring." House made a show of thinking, then said, "Worrying about the use-by date on your milk? Forget to pay your rent?"

"Julie didn't hold the elevator for me this morning."

"Julie being your friendly neighbourhood hooker?"

"Julie being my upstairs neighbour."

"The one with the cats or the one with cactuses at her front door?"

"Cacti."

House nodded. "Okay, so Cacti Girl didn't hold the elevator for you. Most people don't hold elevators for you and it doesn't bother you."

"Normally, Julie holds the elevator for me. Normally, I call out and she holds the doors, and I don't have to wait for the next one. This time, she didn't."

House looked intrigued. "Did she hear you?"

"When I called out, she looked up and then looked down," Wilson said, still wondering over it. "I'm pretty sure she heard me. That's what makes it weird."

"You called out, she made eye contact and then broke it." The elevator doors opened and they walked out, heading to Wilson's office. "Did she lean backwards or to the side as the doors closed?"

Frowning, Wilson thought about it. "To the side, I think. Why?"

"Because if she leaned backwards, she was leaning away from the control panel. She avoided taking any action, so she might have been tired or running late, but she didn't want it to be her fault."

"And if she leaned to the side?"

"She leaned across to hide her hand hitting the buttons. So she actively wanted to keep you out," House said with a sharp grin. "I'd take that as a personal slight. Maybe you should stop trying to get her into bed."

"I don't flirt with her." This was another argument they'd had too often.

"Yes, you do."

"No, I don't," Wilson said, pausing at the door to his office.

"It's okay. You flirt with everyone."

***

Over the next few days, things settled back down to normal. House got a patient who defied medical expectations and kept House on the hospital grounds for two nights. Wilson had to explain to an eight year old that her dream of growing up to be the lead singer of Evanescence would never come true.

He was busy enough to sign for the registered letter, and not open it until a cancellation left him with a spare half hour. He read it twice before it made sense. Then he knew House was behind it.

He stormed into House's conference room just as House was writing 'liver failure' on the white board. "Did you know I was getting evicted?"

House ignored him and spoke to Cameron and Foreman. "Blood test, MRI, go."

"House--" Wilson started, but Chase interrupted.

"What am I supposed to be doing?" Chase asked, giving Wilson a half-apologetic shrug.

"Go over the lab results one more time. We're missing something," House said, annoyed, and the three of them fled. "Now you can continue with your dramatic entrance."

"I'm being evicted from my building. The Tenants' Committee had a meeting about it. Apparently, I'm not a suitable tenant!" Wilson said, clenching the eviction notice in his hand and waving it before House. "You got me kicked out of my apartment!"

"How did I get you evicted?"

"I don't know how, but I know you did." House reached over for the letter so Wilson passed it to him, adding, "I have never -- in my life -- been evicted from an apartment. I have never had a tenancy board vote to make me move. Then you come along, stay a few nights, and I'm being given twenty-eight days to exit the premises."

"Huh," House said. "If it's homophobia, it's not really my fault."

"You caused this."

"By staying over?"

"By staring at my ceiling," Wilson said, knowing from the amused smirk on House's face that he sounded ridiculous. He didn't care. "You stared at my ceiling and now I'm getting evicted!"

House's smirk turned into a grin. Then, from behind him, Wilson heard Cuddy say, "Has House developed x-ray vision in the last week?"

"I don't need x-ray vision to appreciate that outfit," House said with an almost comical leer.

Cuddy rolled her eyes, then crossed her arms, which really... proved House's point. "I'll take that as a no."

"Not yet, but I'm expecting my x-ray spectacles in the mail any day now. It won't make much difference when looking at you, but the nurses in Paediatrics will start looking a lot better."

"But you won't look any better to them," Cuddy shot back. "What's going on?"

Wilson glared at House. "I'm being evicted."

"Really?"

"Really," House agreed, passing her the letter.

"Oh," she said as she read it. "It's a private board who've agreed by a majority vote. Looks legally binding."

"In other words," House supplied helpfully, clearly enjoying this far too much, "you don't have a leg to stand on."

"You are not visiting my new place. In fact, I'm not even going to tell you my address."

"You do know I'm not omnipotent, right? I don't actually have control of every member of your precious Tenants' Committee."

"I don't know how, but you did this. I know you did."

"Whether or not House arranged it, you still have to move. And you have a department meeting in ten minutes." As Wilson headed towards the door, Cuddy turned on House. "And you need to explain why I got a call from the clinic saying that you'd spent an hour in their waiting room telling everyone that our doctors wanted to amputate your good leg."

***

Wilson quietly fumed about it. He made appointments with real estate agents and saw three places (all three had stairs-only access, but one had a bad bathroom, one had bad parking, and one had eighties décor). He tracked down members of the Tenancy Committee and argued the eviction notice. Most of them said that an agreement had already been reached and it was out of their hands.

Mrs Murchensen sniffily avoided giving any details of who had complained about what and ended the conversation by saying, "It was simply felt by the majority that someone with your, well, your routines wasn't precisely the type of tenant that suited this building."

"But Mrs Murchensen," he'd started, and she gave him a chilly smile and said she had to be going.

He noticed that Julie from upstairs didn't hold the lift for him any more.

Deep down, Wilson knew he only had himself to blame. After all, he *knew* House. He'd known House before they ever got... involved, so it wasn't like he didn't know House was the adult equivalent of hyperactive, precocious twelve-year-old. House screwed with other peoples' lives for fun, because he was bored, because he could. He didn't overstep other peoples' boundaries out of ignorance; he saw the boundaries, the priorities, he just didn't care about them.

House didn't act like any normal, sane person in a relationship, but that had its perks. He also didn't take offence at things that had driven Wilson's ex-wives insane. If Wilson had had a bad week and needed some space alone, House would shrug and say, "See you tomorrow?" No questions, no doubts. No icy silences, no nagging, no entreaties to confide and share.

As far as relationships went, it was pretty good. Apart from the eviction notice.

But it was frustrating to have to move everything -- furniture, clothes, books -- because of some immature, ridiculous stunt of House's. It was even more frustrating that no one would tell him what House had done and how he'd managed to alienate every one of Wilson's neighbours.

When he saw House standing on his balcony, Wilson was going to point this out to House -- well, he was going to rant at House until he felt better -- but as he stepped closer and breathed in the brisk night air, something made him pause. "House?"

"Let me guess." Giving a small snort, House looked sideways at him. In the dusk shadows, he looked tired, lines crinkling the edges of his eyes, smirk sharp enough to cut. "You're about to give me a running commentary on the difficulties of finding a place and the inconveniences of moving?"

Wilson turned his back on the view and leaned against the railing. There weren't a lot of things that could rattle House this much. He could probably count them on one hand. "Your patient?"

"Advanced Cirrhosis."

"But if it got to liver failure--"

"Fatal. I know," House said, running a hand through his hair. "She's got a day. Maybe less."

House stared down at the parked cars, trees and streetlights. He didn't look defeated, but even when he was, House didn't look it. He looked frustrated: brows lowered, jaw set. He looked as if he was trying to find a way to use willpower to bend reality.

Wilson buried his hands into his pockets. "Have you told her?"

"She's unconscious," House said, meaning that he hadn't. Meaning that he was postponing the bad news.

"If you want, I can tell her."

For a moment, he thought House would agree.

Then House huffed. "No. I'll tell her. But it's--"

"What?"

"It's too simple. Too obvious. It's clear, it's untreatable, it fits every symptom. Every single symptom. We should have seen it earlier."

"You can't blame yourself for not being in time to treat it. It's out of our control."

House rolled his eyes. "Acknowledge a higher power and your lack of control. Are you quoting a step from your Sexaholics Anonymous meetings?"

"I'm saying that you can't hold yourself to impossible standards," Wilson replied, not rising the bait.

"It was an easy diagnosis, an obvious fit. I didn't even consider it."

"So you had an off day," Wilson said, and House glared at him sharply. "Is it really bothering you this much?"

"That diagnosis," House said, throwing an arm out, "is like hearing that you got engaged to Cuddy. It seems like a perfect fit. You could get married and have attractive, middle-class, professional, Jewish, blow-dried children together, and everyone would say how obvious and right it was."

Pausing, Wilson pressed a hand against the rough concrete behind him. "I'm hoping you wouldn't."

"Of course not. As far as I'm concerned, it's completely wrong," House said, and Wilson realised it was only a metaphor, no deeper meaning to it. "But that might be because I have a vested interest. I don't want the obvious answer to be right, so I can't be sure of my misgivings."

"I think your misgivings would be caused by knowing the situation. You know us, House. Cuddy and I are friends, and regardless of the surface similarities, a marriage between us would be doomed for many reasons." He stopped when he saw the expression on House's face, the glitter in his narrowed eyes. "What?"

"Say that again."

"That we'd be doomed?"

"Surface similarities. It's just surface similarities," House said, and then turned back towards his team and, presumably, to another diagnosis.

Wilson watched him leave and decided that he could be annoyed about having to move tomorrow.

***

House didn't leave the hospital until after midnight. Wilson knew this because he hung around updating patient files until House shuffled through his door saying, "I thought you'd gone home."

"Then why come here?"

"To wreak havoc in your absence."

Nodding, Wilson cleared his desk of pens and folders. "And your patient?"

"We'll know by morning. Now are you giving me a lift home, or do I have to use my cane to knock you out and take your keys by force?"

"Since I'm rather fond of remaining conscious, we'll go with the first option."

***

It didn't occur to Wilson until the next afternoon -- after House's latest treatment had proved a success -- that he'd missed an opportunity to find out *why* he was being rendered homeless. Specifically, it didn't occur to him until he asked House about it and House threw a jellybean at his head, saying, "If you wanted to know that, you would have asked last night."

"Regardless of the timing," Wilson said, catching the red jellybean thrown at him next, "I still deserve to know the reason. It's my apartment!"

"Your reasoning is faulty."

"I'm being evicted because my reasoning is faulty? That's new."

House hmmm'd for a moment, gaze sliding down to Wilson's shined shoes and back up again. "I don't know if it's new. Your reasoning might have always been faulty."

"It's a new excuse for eviction."

"It's not why you're being evicted." House tossed a Vicodin and a green jellybean into the air, and managing to catch both in his mouth. "It's why I'm not going to tell you why you're being evicted."

"By my reckoning, my apartment has something to do with my life and therefore I deserve to know what's going on. How is that logic flawed?"

"You assume that because you deserve to know, you'll be told. People don't get what they deserve. If they did, I'd have a bevy of babes at the Playgirl Mansion and Hugh Hefner would be just another dirty old man who only ever gets a hand on himself."

Wilson sighed. He looked over his shoulder at the blinds on the glass wall of House's office. "You know, I could close those blinds, beat you to death with your own cane, and nobody would care. In fact, I could leave the blinds open."

"Cuddy would care," House said smugly, then threw him a liquorice jellybean. It was Wilson's favourite flavour, but it wasn't a thoughtful gesture; it was because House disliked them.

Wilson ate it anyway. "She wouldn't blame me."

"She wouldn't blame you, but if she had to get you out of a murder trial and then explain to the board that the sweet head of hair in charge of those lovely cancer patients had killed their best diagnostician in a violent rage, she'd be a little exasperated. Annoyed, even."

House grinned. It wasn't charming. Not in the least. Well… maybe a very miniscule, stupid, masochistic part of Wilson found it attractive, but that part of Wilson's brain was scheduled for a lobotomy as soon as he could arrange it. "You're really not going to tell me?"

"You don't really want to know."

"I just asked but in your world, I don't really want to know," Wilson said to, well, House's carpet mainly. "Of course not."

"If you really wanted to know, you'd have asked last night and got an honest answer."

"When you were tired," Wilson said, counting his points out on his fingers, "preoccupied with a patient's failing health and distracted by the level of pain from a bad day. Clearly, I should have blindsided you and taken advantage of your vulnerability."

"You would have got an answer."

Checking his watch, Wilson stood up. He had an appointment in ten minutes, and House was having too much fun annoying him to give in and act rationally. "You do realise that most adults in consenting relationships don't feel the need to rely on emotional blackmail and deceit, right?"

"That proves it."

"What?" Wilson asked, and then had to wait for House to finish chewing a handful of jellybeans.

House swallowed and then grinned brightly, proving that Wilson really needed to organise that lobotomy soon. "Clearly, your reasoning skills have always been faulty."

"Lately, I've been thinking the same thing." Pausing at the door, Wilson added, "But since this is your fault, you're paying for my moving costs."

House shrugged. "Okay."

***