out_there | House Moving WIP

*huggles

celli* She makes me look so productive!
Part 1, part 2 and part 3.

***

It was self-preservation that kept Wilson far away from House's office for that day and the next. It was self-preservation for a number of reasons.

Firstly, there was House and sex and his office. It was a combination that shouldn't ever occur, not in real life, not even inside Wilson's mind. And every time it did, he was left with his head in his hands, pressing the heels on his palms against closed eyelids and preying for the apocalypse. It was a combination that was going to be very, very bad -- disastrous, even -- and if House had decided that this was his latest way to annoy Wilson, to ruffle his metaphorical feathers for his own amusement, Wilson was doomed.

Doomed.

On a good day, Wilson had trouble saying no to sex. (It was a character flaw that had destroyed two marriages out of three.) On any day, he struggled to say no to House, and even on his best day he never managed to say no to House and sex.

If this was House's newest entertainment, there was going to come a glorious day in Wilson's not-so-far-off future where they were going to be discovered embarrassingly naked, for obvious reasons, by a dozen colleagues. If he was lucky, it would only be four -- Cameron, Chase, Foreman and Cuddy -- if he was unlucky it would be them, a classful of interns and a handful of patients and patient's families. It would happen and House would love every moment of outrage, would milk it for all the melodrama and sarcasm that he could, and Wilson would be mortified for the rest of the decade.

Wilson's only chance of keeping his reputation intact would be to avoid House until something new captured his interest.

Secondly, Cuddy was livid. Sure, there'd been more sarcasm than fury to her tone but she'd pulled rank on House and that never went well. House was going to respond to a direct show of authority by thumbing his nose at her, by finding some way to be even more obnoxious, and then Cuddy would find some way to force House to pretend to behave and in the meantime, both would come complaining to him, looking for support or an alibi while they schemed.

Thirdly, he still didn't have a place to move into. He had twenty-four days to move and nowhere to move to.

***

"Are you avoiding me?"

Wilson looked up and found House standing on his -- Wilson's -- balcony, holding the glass door open. "Yes."

"You don't call, you don't write, you don't visit," House said, pulling out a whiteboard marker. "A sensitive soul, like mine, could be a little hurt by that."

"Go talk to Cameron. I'm sure she'd have a cure for that," Wilson said, turning back to his patient's file, "like puppies or rainbows."

"Or a gallon of vanilla ice-cream," House replied with a quick grin. "Actually, that sounds pretty good. You want some?"

"If I say yes, that means I'm the one who's going to have to trek to the cafeteria, pay for both of them and then have the joy of delivering one to you, right?"

"Right." House nodded and slipped the whiteboard marker back into his pocket. He hadn't written anything on the glass door but he'd probably been distracted by the thought of ice-cream. Wilson wouldn't be surprised if there was something waiting for him tomorrow. "Or I could send Chase to do it. If I'm paying the wages, I deserve service."

"You're paying their wages as doctors, not as waiters." After a moment, Wilson added, "And not as movers, either."

"I'm improving their life-skills. You think they'll spend their whole lives being the young hot-shot medico? Someday, when they're old and tired, and the medical jargon doesn't flow as easily as it once did, they'll need a stable job to fall back on."

Wilson snorted in amusement and House's answering smirk spoke of victory. Wilson really didn't want to know why. "Thanks for the offer, but I'll survive the afternoon without ice-cream."

***

As it turned out, apartment hunting sucked.

It wasn't the cost. Paying a higher rent wasn't going to make any real difference. It was the inconvenience.

He didn't want to move further from the hospital. He didn't want to have to take busy roads to work. He didn't want to live next door to Mormons or upstairs from a new rock band or across the hall from the fitness instructor. (The fitness instructor would have been welcome a few months ago, pre-House. He had no objections to sharing an elevator with someone well-toned and wearing lycra, but House would make it into a thing. Even if he did nothing other than nod at her in the corridor, House would make something of it.) He didn't want to have to learn new routes and new security passes and make sure that the lifts were reliable.

More than that, he didn't want to have to introduce House to an entirely new building of tenants.

Most of the time, he didn't want to have to introduce House to a patient. Luckily, most times he could simply throw a case file at House and trust that the patient would never, ever have to meet House face-to-face.

"I want to meet her," House said, after Wilson dropped Penelope Mizzi's file notes on his desk.

"House," Wilson said, collapsing into House's couch, "you never want to meet them."

"Her parents' named her Penelope Mizzi. That's downright cruel. Imagine the teasing she'd get through school."

"You want to meet her to commiserate?" Wilson asked skeptically.

"A kid with a name like that is bound to grow into a twisted, warped individual. I might like her." House shrugged. "I guess it could have been worse."

"How so?"

House grinned, but kept flicking through her file. It was a good sign. "Her parents could have named her Elizabeth. She could have been Lizzy Mizzi all her life."

Wilson winced. "House, please, do not meet my patient. I am asking you nicely, as one colleague to another, please don't take the time out of your busy schedule of harassing Cuddy and watching soap operas to tease her about her name."

"You don't think she'd get the joke?"

"I don't think I want someone who's been my patient for four years to have to suffer you as well as a mystery fever."

House gave a huge sigh. "Your cancer patients have no sense of humour. Just because they're dying doesn't mean they need to be completely lifeless." House paused. "Well, maybe they do but you'd think they'd enjoy a good joke."

"Not a bad joke about their name," Wilson replied as Cameron, Chase and Foreman walked into House's office.

"And here are Donald's three nephews," House said.

Cameron and Foreman exchanged quizzical glances. They look at Chase, who shrugged and said, "You know, Huey, Dewey, and Louie? Donald Duck's nephews?"

"Points to the New Zealander," said House. "He knows his Disney."

Chase scowled. "And you know that Australia and New Zealand are separate countries, right?"

"Yeah."

"You're just saying that to be annoying?"

"I'm going to assume that was a rhetorical question." House threw the case file at Cameron, who fumbled to catch it. "Meet Lizzy, our newest patient."

Cameron blinked down at patient history, her lipstick highlighting her frown. "Her name's Penelope."

"Her nickname's Lizzy," House said, a little too earnestly. "She'd like you all to use it."

"Lizzy... Mizzi?" Chase wondered aloud, reading the file over Cameron's shoulder. "Why would anyone want to be known by that?"

"Because she's an aspiring poet." House waved a hand towards the door and the conference table beyond. "Now, shoo. Go in there, read the file, run some pointless tests."

Foreman raised an eyebrow. "You're not coming?"

"You guys can go ten minutes without me telling you you're idiots. You've been working under me for years. You should be able to call each other idiots by now." House made the shooing motion again and Chase was the first to move towards the door. "It's Wilson's patient. I want to discuss her past treatment with him. And I want you three to start running tests."

Wilson watched the three file out of the room. Foreman and Cameron sat down beside each other, laying the file open on the table and studying it. Chase headed straight for the coffee percolator. "You really want to discuss her treatment?"

House snorted. "No. I've got your file notes, which record all treatments and reactions to every obsessive-compulsive detail."

Shooting a worried glance at the very clear and transparent wall of glass that separated them from House's three employees, Wilson fervently hoped that sex did not come up in this conversation. "What did you want?"

House opened his top drawer and started rifling through it. Then he said, a little quieter and faster than usual, "I need you to look at a house."

"That's not a bad pun, is it?"

House's expression was incredulous. "You're lucky that you're a good-looking moron."

"It's a valid question!"

"No, it's not. It's a moronic question." House went back to fishing through his drawer and lifted out a business card. He scowled at it. "I need you to call this...woman and agree to see the place on Johanneson Drive."

Wilson walked over and took the card from House's outstretched hand. It looked like a genuine realtor business card and had a phone number and address written on the back. Wilson was confused. "Why?"

"Because Cuddy's friend is a real estate agent," House recited, staring at the wall, "and she has a place that would be perfect for you."

Wilson indulged in a wide grin. "And this is Cuddy's idea of making you bow to her authority?"

"And this is--" House started, hands waving in the air, and then stopped. He took a breath and placed his hands back on the desktop. "This is because I need to be able to do tests to diagnose patients, and Cuddy is an evil demoness spawned by the Father of Lies."

"I thought you liked that in a woman."

"Normally, yes, but not when she's my boss." House looked up at him, the light catching his very blue eyes, and his expression made it clear that he'd rather have root canal therapy without painkillers than ask for help. "You'll do it?"
Wilson pocketed the card, knowing that he was ten types of sucker. Not for agreeing to see some place to help House out, but for the extra giddy little heartbeat caused by House actually asking. He focused on smirking, only to control the goofy smile that threatened to appear. "Fine, but only because I don't want Cuddy double-checking that every test I run is for my patients."

House rolled his eyes. Wilson wasn't sure whether House had seen through him or not.

***

The house was perfect.

Despite Wilson's initial misgivings, regardless of the fact that it was merely a point-scoring exercise between House and Cuddy, the house was perfect.

It was a shorter commute, an easier drive; it was a quiet street with space from the neighbours but not an overwhelmingly huge garden. The main bathroom was modern and had a corner spa; the ensuite had a double shower. Both the gas fireplace and the air conditioning worked (he'd learned to test both of them during the first inspection, otherwise you froze all winter and broiled all summer). It was single-storey, so no stairs and no worrying about lifts.

There was a decked patio out the back with wide glass doors that opened fully and would be perfect for entertaining. There were four bedrooms, with one already set up as an office, and the master bedroom had a walk-in wardrobe so large you'd need a compass to find your way out.

It even had a double garage and double-width driveway.

It was perfect.

***

Timing was everything. For patients, the right diagnosis and the right treatment at the right time saved lives. For Wilson, he was hoping the right timing would mean he could have his incredibly perfect house without endless trouble from House.

He waited until the start of The Bold and The Beautiful, then went to New Coma Guy's room. House had his feet up on the end of the bed and was eating a bag of microwave popcorn. Wilson let himself into the room quietly and didn't speak until the commercials started. "So..."

"You have about three minutes before my show's back on," House said around a mouthful of popcorn. "Don't waste time with unnecessary words."

Wilson took a deep breath. "I saw the house, I like the house, I want the house."

"Think you could say house one more time?"

"House!"

"There you go," House said, rummaging in the bag. "Want some?"

"I want the house," Wilson said earnestly. "I really, really want it."

House huffed. "Don't stare at me like a constipated puppy."

"The point-scoring is pointless, you know that. You both know that. Give it two weeks and you'll be doing it all over again. And the house is perfect. Perfect location, fantastic layout and it even has a spa. I shouldn't have to lose that because you don't want to give Cuddy the satisfaction." House barely looked interested, so Wilson tried the guilt card. "You've already made me lose an apartment that I rather liked. Don't make me lose my perfect house."

House made a shushing gesture and pointed at the screen. Some overly made-up forty-something was threatening some overly made-up twenty-something, and they both took a long moment to stare meaningfully off-camera.

Wilson helped himself to the popcorn.

There were a few more threats, and then some couple anxiously reuniting and talking of marriage plans, and then a few more threats, and then a commercial break.

"So?" Wilson asked hopefully.

House slowly chewed a handful of popcorn, glaring sideways at Wilson. "Fine. You can take the house, but you don't get to tell Cuddy about it. No overwhelming gratitude, no polite little thank-you gift. In fact, you don't talk to her about it ever. Understood?"

Wilson didn't react quickly enough to hide the goofy smile, but since House was going to mock him for this anyway, it didn't really matter. "Understood. Cuddy will probably find out about it, though."

"Of course she'll find out about it. I'll tell her. But she doesn't need you and your blindingly white Hollywood smile being all charm and gratitude about it." House scowled into the popcorn bag and lifted out a few kernels. "Now, are we done? Can I be left in peace to watch my show?"

"Certainly," Wilson said gracefully, walking towards the door.

"See," House called out loudly, "that's exactly the type of charm that nobody needs!"

***

He got back to his office to find "Bald chicks are hot" written across the glass door. He wasn't at all surprised to see it there.

***