Jews for Cheeses (A Pushing Daisies/House x-over ... yes you read that right)
Title: Jews for Cheeses
Fandoms: House, and Pushing Daisies
Rating: PG-13 for groping
Word Count: 3,172 (aprox. I really went all-out with this)
Pairings, Characters: House/Wilson, Aunt Lily, Aunt Vivian, lots of mentions of Chuck, some special cameos, and some House/Lily attraction.
Disclaimer, Spoilers: I do not own the show House, the character ‘House,’ or even my own house. I do not own Pushing Daisies either, and if I did, I would sell every possession I had to keep it on air. Spoilers for S1, episode 1 of Pushing Daisies and … well, the concept of House itself: House is a doctor with a bad leg; Wilson is a doctor with pretty hair; they are very much in love with each other despite the best efforts of the producers. Vague hints about the time between S4 and S5 of House.
Warnings: M/M romance. Truly bizarre crossover. First attempt at a Pushing Daisies fic. Un-beta’d.
A/N: This is my first stab at a Wilson/House crack-fic. This is also my first stab at a Pushing Daisies fanfic, but it doesn’t really count as it’s more House-centric. (The Heroes/Pushing Daisies crossover, which is more PD centric, comes later this week.) This fic is based solely on a tiny snippet we see in Episode 7, S1 of Pushing Daisies and the fact that Wilson is Jewish. Please do not throw shoes, and try and comment if you read.
When Wilson doesn’t show up for lunch as planned, House is mildly irritated. No doubt some bald-headed cancer-kid is taking up one of his precious slivers of Wilson-time, and that simply isn’t acceptable. If he, House, can tear himself away from the week’s baffling case, then Wilson can leave the dying alone for half an hour.
The cashier smirks, watching him pay for his own lunch, and asks in faux-sympathy “Is Dr. House in the doghouse?”
House glares at him and resists the urge to smash the tray over the kid’s greasy head.
Through his lonely meal, House works himself up into more and more of a jealous rage. How dare someone distract Wilson from a planned and promised lunch-date with him, House! (Wait, no, not a lunch-date a … a planned dining engagement. God, is there anything he can call it without sounding like a complete … uh, he’ll finish that thought later.)
After finishing his lunch - damning Wilson for robbing him of his appetite - House storms up to Wilson’s office, ignoring the calls of his employees, and yanks the door open … without knocking, of course. He really, really hopes that Wilson is in some kind of compromising position with another cancer patient, but the oncologist is just sitting behind his desk, holding a framed photograph in his hands and looking pensive.
“You didn’t meet me for lunch.” House says, crossing his arms and tilting his head to the side. “I’m beginning to think that you don’t love me anymore, Wilson.” he says with a petulant tone to let on that he’s joking … or, at least, he hopes that he’s joking.
“Go away, House.” Wilson says. He hasn’t looked up once, though he winces a bit as House shuts the door and limps towards him.
“What’s this?” House exclaims, grabbing the photo from Wilson’s hands. In it, a ridiculously-recognizable teenage Wilson has his arm around the shoulders of a girl with dark pigtails and a sunny smile, who looks to be about eight. Both are wearing white and blue shirts with the words ‘Jews For Cheeses’ emblazoned upon them.
“Give that back!” Wilson yelps, practically vaulting over the desk in an attempt to grab the photo.
House dances away, cackling. “Jews for Cheeses? … who’s the girl, your cousin? Bet she’s a looker now …” … just like you are … he finishes in his head.
Wilson’s face crumples. “She’s dead, House.”
The grin on House’s face slips away faster than the cheap salad dressing from the cafeteria.
“Oh … how long?” he asks, drawing lines between this news and Wilson’s absence in the cafeteria.
Wilson shrugs, sitting down in a rather deflated kind of way. “I just got the call twenty minutes ago. She was on some kind of cruise … after her father died she moved in with her neurotic aunts; it was her first time away from home … and she was murdered.”
House’s eyes widen in shock. Almost unconsciously, his hand reaches up to clutch at the scar on his neck. “Why?” morbidity makes him add “How? Do they know … who did it?”
Wilson shakes his head, hands in his hair. “She was strangled with a plastic bag and t … tossed over the side of the boat. No suspects; the press has the nerve to suggest drugs were involved, like Charlotte would ever get mixed up in something other than non-profits and travel books …” and suddenly tears are welling up in his eyes. With a choked sort of sob, Wilson folds his arms on his desk and presses his face into the crook of his elbows.
House shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot. Eventually he sets the photo down on the desk, limps around behind Wilson, and pats the oncologist on the shoulder. After a few awkward minutes, House attempts a cavalier smile. “Let’s go out and get spectacularly drunk tonight … my treat.”
Wilson straightens up, blows his nose into House’s proffered Kleenex, and rubs his eyes. “Thanks, House, but … I’ve got to be on the road soon. The funeral’s tomorrow, nobody called me until Charlotte … until her … her body was back in Coeur-d’-Coeurs -”
“Excuse me?” House tilts his head to the side.
Wilson sighs. “The town … it’s called ‘Coeur-d’-Coeurs’ … don’t ask, anyway, I have to go find Cuddy and find someone to cover my department while I’m gone …”
“Gone?” House barely manages to conceal the horror at the idea of a Wilson-less hospital. That was hard enough once; he can’t deal with it again. “You … you don’t have to go, do you?”
Wilson - already taking off his doctor’s coat and replacing it with his overcoat - gives House the Look. “One of my relatives is dead, House. I have to go.”
“You don’t have to do anything!” House yelps, realizing that he never quite figured out where Wilson’s family is from and that he might be gone for days. Hmmm … days … hours … crammed into a car with Wilson … no clinic duty for days …
“Fine … but I’m going with you.”
Five hours, twenty minutes, and forty-two seconds later
“Welcome to Heart-of-Hearts …” House sniggers from the passenger’s seat of Wilson’s car.
Wilson glances over at him. “What?”
House points back at the sign. “Coeur-d’-Coeurs … means … oh, whatever, you know, you grew up here …”
After a few tense moments, Wilson attempts a laugh. “It’s kinda cheesy, huh?”
“No!” House says, in a feeble attempt at a serious tone. “It’s … quaint …” he blinks, staring out of the windows. “You sure these daisies aren’t radioactive? I think I’m going blind just looking at them …”
“Well then, stop looking at them.” Wilson snaps, fingers drumming on the steering wheel. “And House? Please tread carefully around Charlotte’s aunts. I haven’t seen them in years and they’re … very delicate. Well, Vivian’s delicate, Lily’s a loose canon with a drinking problem, you’ll probably like her.”
“Sounds enchanting …” House mutters, still blinking out the window. “So … how exactly are these aunts related to you?”
Wilson’s brow furrows. “Let’s see … Charlotte’s aunts were the daughters of my great-aunt, so … Charlotte and I are cousins of some kind … I think …” Wilson makes a kind of ‘hmmm’ noise. “So, if my grandmother’s sister was Charlotte’s grandmother, then we’re … uh …”
“Doesn’t matter, don’t care.” House interrupts. “So, exactly how much weirdness should I be prepared for, Mr. Jews for Cheeses?”
Wilson blushes. “A lot.” he finally admits.
House raises an eyebrow. “Drunken louts and well-endowed cousins who’ll hit on anything that moves, a lot, or …” he let it hang in the air.
“Try ‘The Darling Mermaid Darlings,’ a lot.” Wilson replies. “And hands off my family, well-endowed or no!”
“Fine … fine!” House holds up his hands in mock surrender.
After passing row after row of whimsical looking buildings, the car slows to a stop in front of the strangest one yet.
Wilson gets out, opening the gate for House and slowing down the closer they get to the porch.
The door opens before Wilson can knock.
“Jamie!” a dark-haired woman breaths, hovering close to Wilson and holding up her arms, as if on the verge of hugging him … or perhaps imitating someone being held up at a bank.
Wilson smiles, wincing a bit, “Hey, Aunt Viv …” he copies her odd gestures a bit shakily. Seeing the one-eyed woman in the doorway, he drops his arms and says “Erm, Aunt Lil … hello. This is my, uh, coworker, Greg House.”
The woman with the eyepatch eyes House up and down. “Coworker, eh? We’ve heard that one before …”
House draws himself up and takes a more defensive stance: this woman could be fun.
“Do come inside,” Aunt Vivian says, glancing up and down the street. “Some of our other relatives were here earlier. Lily and I pretended that no one was home, so they left.”
With that, she turned around and glided inside, Aunt Lily stomping after her, muttering about shotgun shells being more effective in ridding the place of relatives.
With an exasperated shrug, Wilson nudges House inside and shuts the door.
House blinks. The place reminds him of an antique store crossed with a taxidermy museum and hints of a tea shop thrown in for laughs, yet with the subtle touches of someone’s home scattered here and there. A parrot squawks “Help me! Help me! They turned me into a bird!”
“Put a sock in it, Paul!” Lily tosses an elaborately embroidered shawl over the cage, immediately silencing the bird. To the two men, she jerks her head at the couch. “Sit. Vivian’s preparing a cheese platter. You drink, coworker?”
House shrugs. “Whatever you’ve got, I’m willing to sample.” he makes a point of leering ever-so-slightly at her cleavage.
There’s a pause.
Aunt Lily raises an eyebrow and nods. “I like him …” and swaggers off to the kitchen.
Wilson collapses onto the couch. “House … she’s related to me …”
House sits down beside him and smirks, looking around the room. “We’ve already established that I have no shame, Wilson, are you really that surprised?”
A few minutes later, the aunts return, Vivian laden with a cheese tray so impressive that House wouldn’t be surprised to see it on the cover of a gourmet magazine, and Lily with two glasses and a bottle of Vermouth.
“James doesn’t drink, and Vivian’s trying to cut back.” Lily explains, pouring herself a glass, downing the contents, and slamming it down onto the coffee table. House gives her a rare look of respect and pours himself a glass, sipping it tentatively as he watches Lily going back for seconds and thirds with the bottle.
“It’s so nice to meet once of Jamie’s friends,” Vivian gushes, passing a cheese platter over the coffee table. Wilson takes it with a smile and nudges House into taking a sample.
“Yeah,” mutters Lily none-too-quietly. “He never keeps his wives around long enough to bring them out here. Good to see you’re finally owing-up and being true to yourself, James.” she snorts contemptuously and takes another swig from her shot glass.
House drops the cheese-and-cracker creation he’d been holding between his fingers and turns to Wilson, who is turning a delicate shade of scarlet and avoiding House’s eyes.
“Aunt Lil … Greg and I aren’t like … that …” Wilson runs a hand through his hair nervously.
“Suuuuuuure you’re not,” Lily smirks, winking at House. “I knew from the start, even when he had a dozen girlfriends on retainer … but you’re here about Charlotte, aren’t you?” her expression softens slightly.
“Yes,” Wilson seems to have recovered slightly. “I just … I can’t believe it. We spoke on the phone just last month …”
House zones out as Wilson and the aunts reminisce about Charlotte Charles, who sounds like the sweetest person on the planet. She was a stand-in-juror for a paraplegic judge, started the non-profit ‘Honey for the Homeless,’ mastered languages in an uncannily House-like fashion, and was always there for her aunts. He polishes off the cheese platter, even the grassy-tasting bits, and soon the conversation is ending.
“… she was there for me when I was in a very dark place,” Wilson says, sighing. “If she hadn’t, I don’t … I think I might have …” he shakes his head, rubbing his eyes.
House has the sudden urge to put an arm around Wilson’s shoulders. Hug him, even, or something more dramatic, but that wouldn’t be appropriate, especially concerning the topic.
Wilson stands up. “Well … we’d better be going. She’s … they’re going to bury her this afternoon, right?”
“Yes …” Vivian says sadly. “We wanted to venture out to the funeral home, but Lily and I couldn’t stand it outside. It’s too sunny for Charlotte to really be dead, you know?”
Wilson nods,
“It was nice meeting you two,” House says, biting back several comments about the aunts’ wardrobe, decorating scheme, and cheese. “Ms. Charles,” he holds out a hand to Lily.
She smirks and takes it, making several of House’s knuckles pop. “Call me Lily, Greg … if you’re ever in this neck of the woods again, call ahead, or I might shoot you by mistake.”
Wilson coughs to conceal a snort. As the aunts waft over to the door, he whispers to House “She really likes you!"
At the door, Wilson attempts a hug with Aunt Lily and gets a swift pat on the back.
“Thank you for coming by Jamie …” Vivian hesitates, then throws her arms around Wilson.
Wilson’s eyes widen in shock. “Wow … th-thank you, Aunt Viv … it’s going to be ok …” he tentatively pats her on the back for a while.
House is surprised and intrigued when the one-eyed woman pulls him in for a hug and grabs at his ass. Eyebrows raised, he lets his hand wander too.
“You take care of James,” she hisses into his ear. “Charlotte isn’t around anymore to be his safety net. Hurt him again and I’ll hunt you down with my shotgun.”
House pulls away from the woman, eyebrows raised. There’s a glint in her eye that unnerves him, but she attempts a smile soon afterwards that he copies and House’s nerves settle a bit.
Vivian finally detaches herself from Wilson and steps back into the shadow of the doorway, her sister following her. Vivian waves as the two men walk down the steps, through the gate, and into the car.
“Well,” House says, glancing over his shoulder as the huge, strange house fades into the distance. “That was … bracing.”
“Vivian doesn’t like being touched.” Wilson says quietly, nearly running a red light. “Her … hugging me … that was … that was big, House.”
“I feel like Lily and I could be great friends,” House acts as though he didn’t hear what Wilson just said. “Maybe it’s not just you who can put up with me, maybe it’s your whole family! A House-compatibility gene!”
“Worth looking into …” Wilson chuckles weakly, turns on the radio, hears the phrase ‘Lonely Tourist, Charlotte Charles,’ and immediately switches it off.
Twenty minutes and fifty-three seconds later
“You’d think that they would have buried her with the watch …” Wilson sighs, gulping at bit.
He and House are standing before a coffin that holds a pretty, petite, very dead, brunette woman.
“What watch?” House asks, managing to repress a shudder as he admires the funeral home’s work on Wilson’s cousin.
Wilson clears his throat. “After her father died, she always held on to his watch, never went anywhere without it,” he laughs. “I remember, this one time …” his voice trails off. He stares down at the body of Charlotte Charles, blinking rapidly to hold off tears.
House steps back and remains respectfully silent, wishing that he doesn’t have to see Wilson in pain so damn much. It stirs up all these bewildering emotions that House really doesn’t want to deal with. You shouldn’t have fantasies about kissing your best friend, especially not your male best friend. Wrong, wrong, wrong …House thinks to himself, gripping his cane tightly as he resists the urge to fling himself at Wilson and comfort him in all the romantic ways.
Wilson mutters something in Yiddish and turns around, eyes very wet. “Let’s go,” he says softly, opening the door to the main area of the funeral home. House follows, casting one last look at the coffin that holds a woman he feels he ought to have met. She had so much love in her heart, and House can only imagine the impact she might have made on him.
Wilson is crying full-force now, wiping his eyes furiously. House tries to guide him out the door, but his leg isn’t making it very easy. They nearly run in to a strange pair at the door: an African-American man in a suit, with a demeanor that looks a bit too business-like for someone entering a funeral-home; and a vaguely traumatized-looking tall young man in a long dark coat.
“Cripple coming through!” House cries out, smirking at the two as he dashes - painfully - down the stairs to catch up with Wilson. “Wilson, slow down!”
Wilson stops in the middle of the sidewalk and slowly turns around. “House … why did you come here with me? You hate meeting family members, you hate funerals, you didn’t even know Charlotte …”
“I know you.” House whispers. “She sounds like she was a decent human being, even if it turns out that she was smuggling drugs from Tahiti. She took care of you when … when I wasn’t there.”
Wilson blinks. “What? You … you didn’t know anything about Charlotte before you came here.”
House takes a deep breath, bracing himself. “No, but … I knew that you’d be away for an unspecified amount of time, and ever since you left I seem to be having Wilson-separation-anxiety-attacks.”
Wilson stares at him. “What are you talking about, House?”
House forgets how to breathe, steps forward, and kisses his best friend, his only friend, on the lips.
After a few seconds of shocked silence, Wilson topples backwards into the car, House clinging to him like an oversized barnacle.
When they start sliding towards the hood of the car, House pulls back and straightens up.
“That’s what I’m talking about Wilson.” he eyes the stunned oncologist, then at his car. “Should I drive?”
Wordlessly, Wilson hands him the keys and slides in to the passenger’s seat. House clambers into the driver’s seat and speeds away from the funeral home. He’s not certain, but out of the corner of his eye he spots the African-American man running down the sidewalk in the rearview mirror. Thoughts of Wilson immediately overtake it, however.
Does Wilson hate him now? Was it wrong to kiss him so soon after the death of his cousin? Was it just his imagination, or did Wilson actually kiss him back?
After what seems like eons, House ventures “What kind of a twisted Dr. Seuss world did you grow up in, Wilson?”
Wilson blinks, then snorts, then laughs. “You barely scratched the surface, House, you have no idea …”
House laughs in relief and switches on the radio, which is playing some appropriately quirky ’80s band that’s singing about giants or Mesopotamians or Constantinople or some-such-thing.
“Just think of the cases that are waiting for you back in New Jersey,” Wilson says, left hand drifting down to clasp House’s right.
“Just think of the busty nurses vying for your attention,” House teases, hear soaring as the chorus on the radio kicks in and Wilson begins kissing his hand.
“And your team’s newest act of subterfuge,” Wilson muses.
“And Cuddy’s latest outfit,” House says in a dreamy sort of voice.
They laugh down the highway, hands wandering a little too frequently, debating where and when to stop at a motel for the night.
Fandoms: House, and Pushing Daisies
Rating: PG-13 for groping
Word Count: 3,172 (aprox. I really went all-out with this)
Pairings, Characters: House/Wilson, Aunt Lily, Aunt Vivian, lots of mentions of Chuck, some special cameos, and some House/Lily attraction.
Disclaimer, Spoilers: I do not own the show House, the character ‘House,’ or even my own house. I do not own Pushing Daisies either, and if I did, I would sell every possession I had to keep it on air. Spoilers for S1, episode 1 of Pushing Daisies and … well, the concept of House itself: House is a doctor with a bad leg; Wilson is a doctor with pretty hair; they are very much in love with each other despite the best efforts of the producers. Vague hints about the time between S4 and S5 of House.
Warnings: M/M romance. Truly bizarre crossover. First attempt at a Pushing Daisies fic. Un-beta’d.
A/N: This is my first stab at a Wilson/House crack-fic. This is also my first stab at a Pushing Daisies fanfic, but it doesn’t really count as it’s more House-centric. (The Heroes/Pushing Daisies crossover, which is more PD centric, comes later this week.) This fic is based solely on a tiny snippet we see in Episode 7, S1 of Pushing Daisies and the fact that Wilson is Jewish. Please do not throw shoes, and try and comment if you read.
When Wilson doesn’t show up for lunch as planned, House is mildly irritated. No doubt some bald-headed cancer-kid is taking up one of his precious slivers of Wilson-time, and that simply isn’t acceptable. If he, House, can tear himself away from the week’s baffling case, then Wilson can leave the dying alone for half an hour.
The cashier smirks, watching him pay for his own lunch, and asks in faux-sympathy “Is Dr. House in the doghouse?”
House glares at him and resists the urge to smash the tray over the kid’s greasy head.
Through his lonely meal, House works himself up into more and more of a jealous rage. How dare someone distract Wilson from a planned and promised lunch-date with him, House! (Wait, no, not a lunch-date a … a planned dining engagement. God, is there anything he can call it without sounding like a complete … uh, he’ll finish that thought later.)
After finishing his lunch - damning Wilson for robbing him of his appetite - House storms up to Wilson’s office, ignoring the calls of his employees, and yanks the door open … without knocking, of course. He really, really hopes that Wilson is in some kind of compromising position with another cancer patient, but the oncologist is just sitting behind his desk, holding a framed photograph in his hands and looking pensive.
“You didn’t meet me for lunch.” House says, crossing his arms and tilting his head to the side. “I’m beginning to think that you don’t love me anymore, Wilson.” he says with a petulant tone to let on that he’s joking … or, at least, he hopes that he’s joking.
“Go away, House.” Wilson says. He hasn’t looked up once, though he winces a bit as House shuts the door and limps towards him.
“What’s this?” House exclaims, grabbing the photo from Wilson’s hands. In it, a ridiculously-recognizable teenage Wilson has his arm around the shoulders of a girl with dark pigtails and a sunny smile, who looks to be about eight. Both are wearing white and blue shirts with the words ‘Jews For Cheeses’ emblazoned upon them.
“Give that back!” Wilson yelps, practically vaulting over the desk in an attempt to grab the photo.
House dances away, cackling. “Jews for Cheeses? … who’s the girl, your cousin? Bet she’s a looker now …” … just like you are … he finishes in his head.
Wilson’s face crumples. “She’s dead, House.”
The grin on House’s face slips away faster than the cheap salad dressing from the cafeteria.
“Oh … how long?” he asks, drawing lines between this news and Wilson’s absence in the cafeteria.
Wilson shrugs, sitting down in a rather deflated kind of way. “I just got the call twenty minutes ago. She was on some kind of cruise … after her father died she moved in with her neurotic aunts; it was her first time away from home … and she was murdered.”
House’s eyes widen in shock. Almost unconsciously, his hand reaches up to clutch at the scar on his neck. “Why?” morbidity makes him add “How? Do they know … who did it?”
Wilson shakes his head, hands in his hair. “She was strangled with a plastic bag and t … tossed over the side of the boat. No suspects; the press has the nerve to suggest drugs were involved, like Charlotte would ever get mixed up in something other than non-profits and travel books …” and suddenly tears are welling up in his eyes. With a choked sort of sob, Wilson folds his arms on his desk and presses his face into the crook of his elbows.
House shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot. Eventually he sets the photo down on the desk, limps around behind Wilson, and pats the oncologist on the shoulder. After a few awkward minutes, House attempts a cavalier smile. “Let’s go out and get spectacularly drunk tonight … my treat.”
Wilson straightens up, blows his nose into House’s proffered Kleenex, and rubs his eyes. “Thanks, House, but … I’ve got to be on the road soon. The funeral’s tomorrow, nobody called me until Charlotte … until her … her body was back in Coeur-d’-Coeurs -”
“Excuse me?” House tilts his head to the side.
Wilson sighs. “The town … it’s called ‘Coeur-d’-Coeurs’ … don’t ask, anyway, I have to go find Cuddy and find someone to cover my department while I’m gone …”
“Gone?” House barely manages to conceal the horror at the idea of a Wilson-less hospital. That was hard enough once; he can’t deal with it again. “You … you don’t have to go, do you?”
Wilson - already taking off his doctor’s coat and replacing it with his overcoat - gives House the Look. “One of my relatives is dead, House. I have to go.”
“You don’t have to do anything!” House yelps, realizing that he never quite figured out where Wilson’s family is from and that he might be gone for days. Hmmm … days … hours … crammed into a car with Wilson … no clinic duty for days …
“Fine … but I’m going with you.”
Five hours, twenty minutes, and forty-two seconds later
“Welcome to Heart-of-Hearts …” House sniggers from the passenger’s seat of Wilson’s car.
Wilson glances over at him. “What?”
House points back at the sign. “Coeur-d’-Coeurs … means … oh, whatever, you know, you grew up here …”
After a few tense moments, Wilson attempts a laugh. “It’s kinda cheesy, huh?”
“No!” House says, in a feeble attempt at a serious tone. “It’s … quaint …” he blinks, staring out of the windows. “You sure these daisies aren’t radioactive? I think I’m going blind just looking at them …”
“Well then, stop looking at them.” Wilson snaps, fingers drumming on the steering wheel. “And House? Please tread carefully around Charlotte’s aunts. I haven’t seen them in years and they’re … very delicate. Well, Vivian’s delicate, Lily’s a loose canon with a drinking problem, you’ll probably like her.”
“Sounds enchanting …” House mutters, still blinking out the window. “So … how exactly are these aunts related to you?”
Wilson’s brow furrows. “Let’s see … Charlotte’s aunts were the daughters of my great-aunt, so … Charlotte and I are cousins of some kind … I think …” Wilson makes a kind of ‘hmmm’ noise. “So, if my grandmother’s sister was Charlotte’s grandmother, then we’re … uh …”
“Doesn’t matter, don’t care.” House interrupts. “So, exactly how much weirdness should I be prepared for, Mr. Jews for Cheeses?”
Wilson blushes. “A lot.” he finally admits.
House raises an eyebrow. “Drunken louts and well-endowed cousins who’ll hit on anything that moves, a lot, or …” he let it hang in the air.
“Try ‘The Darling Mermaid Darlings,’ a lot.” Wilson replies. “And hands off my family, well-endowed or no!”
“Fine … fine!” House holds up his hands in mock surrender.
After passing row after row of whimsical looking buildings, the car slows to a stop in front of the strangest one yet.
Wilson gets out, opening the gate for House and slowing down the closer they get to the porch.
The door opens before Wilson can knock.
“Jamie!” a dark-haired woman breaths, hovering close to Wilson and holding up her arms, as if on the verge of hugging him … or perhaps imitating someone being held up at a bank.
Wilson smiles, wincing a bit, “Hey, Aunt Viv …” he copies her odd gestures a bit shakily. Seeing the one-eyed woman in the doorway, he drops his arms and says “Erm, Aunt Lil … hello. This is my, uh, coworker, Greg House.”
The woman with the eyepatch eyes House up and down. “Coworker, eh? We’ve heard that one before …”
House draws himself up and takes a more defensive stance: this woman could be fun.
“Do come inside,” Aunt Vivian says, glancing up and down the street. “Some of our other relatives were here earlier. Lily and I pretended that no one was home, so they left.”
With that, she turned around and glided inside, Aunt Lily stomping after her, muttering about shotgun shells being more effective in ridding the place of relatives.
With an exasperated shrug, Wilson nudges House inside and shuts the door.
House blinks. The place reminds him of an antique store crossed with a taxidermy museum and hints of a tea shop thrown in for laughs, yet with the subtle touches of someone’s home scattered here and there. A parrot squawks “Help me! Help me! They turned me into a bird!”
“Put a sock in it, Paul!” Lily tosses an elaborately embroidered shawl over the cage, immediately silencing the bird. To the two men, she jerks her head at the couch. “Sit. Vivian’s preparing a cheese platter. You drink, coworker?”
House shrugs. “Whatever you’ve got, I’m willing to sample.” he makes a point of leering ever-so-slightly at her cleavage.
There’s a pause.
Aunt Lily raises an eyebrow and nods. “I like him …” and swaggers off to the kitchen.
Wilson collapses onto the couch. “House … she’s related to me …”
House sits down beside him and smirks, looking around the room. “We’ve already established that I have no shame, Wilson, are you really that surprised?”
A few minutes later, the aunts return, Vivian laden with a cheese tray so impressive that House wouldn’t be surprised to see it on the cover of a gourmet magazine, and Lily with two glasses and a bottle of Vermouth.
“James doesn’t drink, and Vivian’s trying to cut back.” Lily explains, pouring herself a glass, downing the contents, and slamming it down onto the coffee table. House gives her a rare look of respect and pours himself a glass, sipping it tentatively as he watches Lily going back for seconds and thirds with the bottle.
“It’s so nice to meet once of Jamie’s friends,” Vivian gushes, passing a cheese platter over the coffee table. Wilson takes it with a smile and nudges House into taking a sample.
“Yeah,” mutters Lily none-too-quietly. “He never keeps his wives around long enough to bring them out here. Good to see you’re finally owing-up and being true to yourself, James.” she snorts contemptuously and takes another swig from her shot glass.
House drops the cheese-and-cracker creation he’d been holding between his fingers and turns to Wilson, who is turning a delicate shade of scarlet and avoiding House’s eyes.
“Aunt Lil … Greg and I aren’t like … that …” Wilson runs a hand through his hair nervously.
“Suuuuuuure you’re not,” Lily smirks, winking at House. “I knew from the start, even when he had a dozen girlfriends on retainer … but you’re here about Charlotte, aren’t you?” her expression softens slightly.
“Yes,” Wilson seems to have recovered slightly. “I just … I can’t believe it. We spoke on the phone just last month …”
House zones out as Wilson and the aunts reminisce about Charlotte Charles, who sounds like the sweetest person on the planet. She was a stand-in-juror for a paraplegic judge, started the non-profit ‘Honey for the Homeless,’ mastered languages in an uncannily House-like fashion, and was always there for her aunts. He polishes off the cheese platter, even the grassy-tasting bits, and soon the conversation is ending.
“… she was there for me when I was in a very dark place,” Wilson says, sighing. “If she hadn’t, I don’t … I think I might have …” he shakes his head, rubbing his eyes.
House has the sudden urge to put an arm around Wilson’s shoulders. Hug him, even, or something more dramatic, but that wouldn’t be appropriate, especially concerning the topic.
Wilson stands up. “Well … we’d better be going. She’s … they’re going to bury her this afternoon, right?”
“Yes …” Vivian says sadly. “We wanted to venture out to the funeral home, but Lily and I couldn’t stand it outside. It’s too sunny for Charlotte to really be dead, you know?”
Wilson nods,
“It was nice meeting you two,” House says, biting back several comments about the aunts’ wardrobe, decorating scheme, and cheese. “Ms. Charles,” he holds out a hand to Lily.
She smirks and takes it, making several of House’s knuckles pop. “Call me Lily, Greg … if you’re ever in this neck of the woods again, call ahead, or I might shoot you by mistake.”
Wilson coughs to conceal a snort. As the aunts waft over to the door, he whispers to House “She really likes you!"
At the door, Wilson attempts a hug with Aunt Lily and gets a swift pat on the back.
“Thank you for coming by Jamie …” Vivian hesitates, then throws her arms around Wilson.
Wilson’s eyes widen in shock. “Wow … th-thank you, Aunt Viv … it’s going to be ok …” he tentatively pats her on the back for a while.
House is surprised and intrigued when the one-eyed woman pulls him in for a hug and grabs at his ass. Eyebrows raised, he lets his hand wander too.
“You take care of James,” she hisses into his ear. “Charlotte isn’t around anymore to be his safety net. Hurt him again and I’ll hunt you down with my shotgun.”
House pulls away from the woman, eyebrows raised. There’s a glint in her eye that unnerves him, but she attempts a smile soon afterwards that he copies and House’s nerves settle a bit.
Vivian finally detaches herself from Wilson and steps back into the shadow of the doorway, her sister following her. Vivian waves as the two men walk down the steps, through the gate, and into the car.
“Well,” House says, glancing over his shoulder as the huge, strange house fades into the distance. “That was … bracing.”
“Vivian doesn’t like being touched.” Wilson says quietly, nearly running a red light. “Her … hugging me … that was … that was big, House.”
“I feel like Lily and I could be great friends,” House acts as though he didn’t hear what Wilson just said. “Maybe it’s not just you who can put up with me, maybe it’s your whole family! A House-compatibility gene!”
“Worth looking into …” Wilson chuckles weakly, turns on the radio, hears the phrase ‘Lonely Tourist, Charlotte Charles,’ and immediately switches it off.
Twenty minutes and fifty-three seconds later
“You’d think that they would have buried her with the watch …” Wilson sighs, gulping at bit.
He and House are standing before a coffin that holds a pretty, petite, very dead, brunette woman.
“What watch?” House asks, managing to repress a shudder as he admires the funeral home’s work on Wilson’s cousin.
Wilson clears his throat. “After her father died, she always held on to his watch, never went anywhere without it,” he laughs. “I remember, this one time …” his voice trails off. He stares down at the body of Charlotte Charles, blinking rapidly to hold off tears.
House steps back and remains respectfully silent, wishing that he doesn’t have to see Wilson in pain so damn much. It stirs up all these bewildering emotions that House really doesn’t want to deal with. You shouldn’t have fantasies about kissing your best friend, especially not your male best friend. Wrong, wrong, wrong …House thinks to himself, gripping his cane tightly as he resists the urge to fling himself at Wilson and comfort him in all the romantic ways.
Wilson mutters something in Yiddish and turns around, eyes very wet. “Let’s go,” he says softly, opening the door to the main area of the funeral home. House follows, casting one last look at the coffin that holds a woman he feels he ought to have met. She had so much love in her heart, and House can only imagine the impact she might have made on him.
Wilson is crying full-force now, wiping his eyes furiously. House tries to guide him out the door, but his leg isn’t making it very easy. They nearly run in to a strange pair at the door: an African-American man in a suit, with a demeanor that looks a bit too business-like for someone entering a funeral-home; and a vaguely traumatized-looking tall young man in a long dark coat.
“Cripple coming through!” House cries out, smirking at the two as he dashes - painfully - down the stairs to catch up with Wilson. “Wilson, slow down!”
Wilson stops in the middle of the sidewalk and slowly turns around. “House … why did you come here with me? You hate meeting family members, you hate funerals, you didn’t even know Charlotte …”
“I know you.” House whispers. “She sounds like she was a decent human being, even if it turns out that she was smuggling drugs from Tahiti. She took care of you when … when I wasn’t there.”
Wilson blinks. “What? You … you didn’t know anything about Charlotte before you came here.”
House takes a deep breath, bracing himself. “No, but … I knew that you’d be away for an unspecified amount of time, and ever since you left I seem to be having Wilson-separation-anxiety-attacks.”
Wilson stares at him. “What are you talking about, House?”
House forgets how to breathe, steps forward, and kisses his best friend, his only friend, on the lips.
After a few seconds of shocked silence, Wilson topples backwards into the car, House clinging to him like an oversized barnacle.
When they start sliding towards the hood of the car, House pulls back and straightens up.
“That’s what I’m talking about Wilson.” he eyes the stunned oncologist, then at his car. “Should I drive?”
Wordlessly, Wilson hands him the keys and slides in to the passenger’s seat. House clambers into the driver’s seat and speeds away from the funeral home. He’s not certain, but out of the corner of his eye he spots the African-American man running down the sidewalk in the rearview mirror. Thoughts of Wilson immediately overtake it, however.
Does Wilson hate him now? Was it wrong to kiss him so soon after the death of his cousin? Was it just his imagination, or did Wilson actually kiss him back?
After what seems like eons, House ventures “What kind of a twisted Dr. Seuss world did you grow up in, Wilson?”
Wilson blinks, then snorts, then laughs. “You barely scratched the surface, House, you have no idea …”
House laughs in relief and switches on the radio, which is playing some appropriately quirky ’80s band that’s singing about giants or Mesopotamians or Constantinople or some-such-thing.
“Just think of the cases that are waiting for you back in New Jersey,” Wilson says, left hand drifting down to clasp House’s right.
“Just think of the busty nurses vying for your attention,” House teases, hear soaring as the chorus on the radio kicks in and Wilson begins kissing his hand.
“And your team’s newest act of subterfuge,” Wilson muses.
“And Cuddy’s latest outfit,” House says in a dreamy sort of voice.
They laugh down the highway, hands wandering a little too frequently, debating where and when to stop at a motel for the night.