There You Are Again (House/Quantum Leap Crossover)
Title: There You Are Again
Author: toolazytowork
Ship: House/Wilson
Genre: Crossover-Quantum Leap / House
Summary: Sam leaps into Wilson to prevent Wilson's fourth marriage from taking place, but House is starting to suspect something is up. What do Al and Ziggy have to say about this?
Prompt from betteronvicodin
Cross-posted to house_wilson and betteronvicodin
Rating: PG-13 (barely)
Words: 8825
Warnings/Spoilers: brief mentions of events from Season 3 of House
All of Quantum Leap
Author’s Note: Thanks to ana_rpm and julorean for all their beta/characterization/first reading awesomeness. Furthermore, thanks to bethctg and topaz_eyes for their assurances that the comma is not something to fear, and for all the technical pointers and nitpicking that helped me finally complete this story. Virtual cupcakes for you all.
If you've never seen Quantum Leap The Opening Credits will answer most of your questions. (If you were a fan, it's just fun.)
It is not everyday that we are needed. But at this place, at this moment in time, all mankind is us, whether we like it or not.-Samuel Beckett Waiting for Godot
To save a life, to change a heart, to make the right choice. I guess that's what life is all about.-Sam Beckett Mirror Image
"You’ve known her for less than three months.” House picked at the corner of the wrapper on his beer bottle as he spoke.
Wilson stifled the urge to mop up a ring of condensation and strategically slide a coaster where the bottle was most likely to land. If House didn’t care if his coffee table was ruined, Wilson was going to pretend not to care either.
“You knew Stacy for how long before she moved in?”
“You're rushing into this marriage like someone’s got a gun to your head.” House turned and assessed Wilson. His body language was interesting. He sat on the edge of the couch, his back straight and his eyes fixed in a resolute stare at nothing in particular. House could almost see the tension pouring off of his neck and shoulder muscles.
House shook his head. “You got her pregnant, didn’t you?”
Wilson's shoulders slumped. The rest of his body followed suit. He sank back into the couch. “It’s not a one person job. She did some of the work.”
“If your past record is any indication she did most of it.”
House drummed his fingers on the arm of the sofa. He had to remain calm. If he got too angry, too soon, he might commit manslaughter. At the moment, he thought it was justifiable. ‘Your honor, he was too stupid to live. I did the world a favor’ wouldn’t go over well in court.
“Do you make it a habit of hopping into bed with strangers and having unprotected sex?”
“We used a condom. It…” he shifted his weight, "broke. I guess. I never noticed, but...here we are.” He scrubbed his hand across his forehead as he spoke.
“You guess. That's what she told you and you're so desperate for a normal life you bought it. How far along is she?”
“She thinks about two and a half months…It was only…” Wilson slid forward on the couch and leaned over the edge of the coffee table. He traced his fingers through the round pools of sweat left by the beer bottle.
“Once?” House rolled his eyes. “Got some dedicated swimmers there, buddy.”
"Sex, actually. It was just sex. We went out a few times, but we didn't have much in common, except...." He shrugged.
"Tab A fit really well into slot B. I know how babies are made."
“It’s the right thing to do.”
“Gosh, Opie," House drawled in an accent that would have sounded over the top on Hee Haw. "You better rush off to the Justice of the Peace before her daddy finds out you got his baby girl in a family way." He hitched his thumbs on invisible suspenders and stared slack jawed at Wilson.
"That's not funny."
"Was I laughing? You just told me you're planning on marrying your fuck buddy. It should be funny.” House picked up the almost empty bottle, tipped it back and frowned at the result. "Should be. But isn't."
“I asked. She said yes. It's done.”
“So, un-ask her!" House grabbed Wilson’s wrist.
Wilson flinched. He glared at House, and pulled his hand free. “Why should I? What makes you so sure this isn't fate?"
House stood up and walked into the kitchen. "You don't believe that." Clanking beer bottles and crashing pots and pans completed his thought.
“You're right. I don't."
***
He didn’t know how long the time between leaps lasted. Traditional concepts of time didn’t mean much to him. Years, decades, folded into each other, blended together. Tie the ends of a piece of string together and crumple the string into a ball. The pieces of that string will overlap. Every event in a lifetime has an affect on every other event. Even the smallest decision can create lifelong ripples. Life: an infinite loop of possibilities taking place within a finite distance.
Sam Beckett was sure of very few things. He didn’t always remember who was President any given year or even when he was born. Knowledge of things he used to take for granted--his mother's maiden name, the kind of toppings he liked on his pizza--gone. Al called it the Swiss Cheese Effect. He was left with holes where memories should be.
Al was the closest thing to a constant Sam had. He wasn't always useful, but at least he was there. Even with his faults, Al had never let him down. Not when it counted. Sam didn't need to remember all of the friends he had made over the course of his lifetime to know that Al Calavicci was the best friend he'd ever had.
***
“Doctor Wilson, you have a patient.” The woman was young, twenty-five at the oldest. She had a warm smile and a welcoming demeanor. That was a good way to start a leap.
“Doctor?” He shook his head. Sam glanced down and tried to read his ID badge, but the pertinent information was facing towards his shirt making it rather hard to read. “Of what?” he wondered. He flipped the name tag right side out in what he hoped looked like a nonchalant manner.
The woman laughed. “Doctor House must've kept you out late last night. You look like you don’t even know how you got here!”
He did the best he could to chuckle. He stretched his arms over his head and faked a yawn. “You caught me. Don’t tell anyone I was sleeping on the job, okay.”
”Good save,” he thought.
“Mr. Adams will be right in to see you.” She closed the door as she left.
Sam read the name tag. His name was Doctor James Wilson and he was the Head of Oncology. He had all of those doctoral degrees, one of which he knew was in medicine, but he didn’t think he’d found time for a specialization in oncology. Silly him. He ran his hands across the files on his desk, searching for one that belonged to someone named Adams.
“Wilson!” A tall, middle-aged man, with a three day growth of beard, rapped a cane against the sliding glass door. “Don’t even try pretending that you have something more important to do! I read your patient list. They’re all dying. Send a mass email. It saves time.”
Sam’s eyes darted from the office door where the apparently doomed Mr. Adams was due to enter any moment, to the glass door where a mad cane wielding man was demanding entrance. Neither option was particularly appealing.
He was used to being confused at the beginning of a leap. Didn’t make him any happier about it. “Oh boy.”
“Wilson, let me in! You can pretend I needed a consult. Just unlock the damn door!”
This strange person wasn’t going to leave without getting whatever he wanted. Sam stood up and unlocked the door. “Can I help you?” he asked.
“Formality? Interesting,” the man said as he pushed into the office. “Are you hiding the future 4th Mrs. Wilson in here? Getting a little afternoon delight in between death sentences? Can’t say as I blame you. Sex with a pregnant semi-stranger is a great distraction.” He poked at the cushions of the couch and at the neatly arranged stuffed animal tableaus that lined the walls of the office as he stamped around the room. “Come out, come out wherever you are!”
This person might be more than strange. He could be dangerous. What the hell was keeping Al? “What do you want?” Sam had stepped backwards until he ran out of room to walk. At which point, he'd decided to try to blend in with the wall.
“I’m hungry. I want lunch. And, since you insisted on betting on Charlise to win America’s Next Top Model, when anyone with eyes could see that Jessica was the only logical choice, you get to feed me.”
“What?” Arguing seemed like the wrong tactic with this person.
“The bet? I know you had a few beers, but you got home without incident. Well, further incident. Depends on your opinion of what happened before you left. Either way, no use trying to claim you were too drunk to be held responsible for your actions.”
“So, I willingly spend time with this person." Sam mentally pieced together these bits of information. “First impressions can be deceptive. I bet on a show about modeling. That’s weird, but…no, it’s just weird. And apparently, I'm a big fan of the institution of marriage…Please don’t let me be a polygamist.
“Three beers in more than three hours does not equal drunk," the man continued. "I don't care how hard you try to spin that it does. You're a lightweight, but not that light."
Sam blinked and rubbed the back of his neck. He opened his mouth to speak, but no suitable words came out.
"Have you been bogarting your palliative ganja stash?" The statement was punctuated with a pout. "That’s just mean. I thought we were friends.”
Sam had a sinking feeling this was the aforementioned Doctor House.
The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a pill bottle. "Speaking of which..." He rattled the contents. "I'm going to need a refill. This is barely enough to get me through the rest of the day."
The bottle was half full.
Sam tried to read the information on the label, but could only make out portions of it. Whatever the contents were, started with a 'V'. Sam searched his memory for drug names. Valium, maybe? No, Valium didn't cause people to act like uncouth lunatics. This person used a cane, so there was a good chance he was in chronic pain. His memory was too fuzzy to try to remember the names of prescription medications.
He’d called him ‘Wilson.’ That might mean that they addressed each other by last names. This was good, since he didn’t know Doctor House’s first name.
“House?” Sam hoped he sounded comfortable, maybe a little exasperated when he said that. As opposed to confused.
“What?”
Well, that cleared that up.
“I have a patient. I can’t go to lunch right now.” Although, it was tempting. He didn't enjoy the prospect of having to fake his way through an afternoon of meeting with patients.
House walked over to the office door, opened it and leaned out. “Is there an Adams out here?”
A voice answered in the affirmative.
“Dr. Wilson has an emergency. He’ll have to re-schedule. Talk to his assistant. She’ll set something up.” House turned, to talk to said assistant, Sam assumed. His tone of voice and volume didn’t change. “Better make it soon. Or don’t. Same result either way.”
House closed the door and turned to Sam. “Come on. I’m in the mood for Mexican. Nothing says Thursday like a three Margarita lunch.”
“Al!” Sam hissed into the air.
“Huh?”
“I’ll...be right there,” Sam said as he grabbed his suit jacket and followed House out of the office.
“Get a move on. Rumor has it Cuddy’s been trying to track me down all morning. I don’t want to know why.”
Sam had been in stranger situations, but with few stranger people. He knew better than to try to do anything before he talked to Al. The best he could do was play along with whatever House had in mind and wait for instructions.
“Where are we going to eat?” He was hungry, come to think of it.
House had stepped out onto the balcony and performed a well-rehearsed hop over the concrete railing. “That place way on the other side of town that has the best salsa, of course.”
“Would the salsa be as good if the restaurant was right next to the hospital?” Sam followed House over to the other side of the balcony.
“Do you even have to ask?”
“Silly me.” A residual part of Wilson's psyche responded before Sam had the time to think of the answer.
Two hours, multiple baskets of chips and two pitchers of margaritas later, Al finally turned up. In the meantime, Sam did his best to not arouse suspicion. He had presumed that Wilson was the type that regularly drank on his lunch hour and shrugged off his responsibilities. It was only after the second pitcher had arrived that House had set him straight.
“Starting a little early, aren’t ya buddy?” House had leaned across the table and almost poked Sam in the eye with the tortilla chip. Sam dodged it the way he used to duck out of the way of Al’s cigars.
Thinking he meant the time, Sam checked his watch. “I guess 1:30 is a little early. But, it was your idea. I just came along.”
“No, Captain Literal. A little early in the relationship. You’re not even trying this time. You should at least walk her down the aisle before you toss her aside to spend time with me. It just looks better. You didn’t even bother having your assistant call and cancel your lunch date.”
Oh, wives. He was talking about the first three Mrs. Wilsons. Three wives. Al had been married…three…five…Several. Times. That sort of thing happened all the time. If Wilson was prone to ignoring his wives and girlfriends in favor of spending time with House it was surprising he'd managed to keep meeting women willing to marry him.
He wondered how old he was that he’d been married three times. House looked like he was in his mid-forties at the earliest. That would work out to one marriage every five or six years over the course of a quarter of a century. Not a great track record, but not unthinkable.
“I didn’t have…” Sam couldn’t be sure that he didn't have a lunch date. He hadn’t thought to check his calendar. “I am not skipping out on…” He had no idea what his fiancée’s name was.
“On…” House leaned forward expectantly.
“On…my…fiancée,” he stuttered.
“Your fiancée…” His eyes bugged out in mocking expectation. That look on his face was much too pleased. "Need a hint? OK--how about...New England's favorite spinster poet?"
“Emily,” Al said over House's chides. “Emily Brady, born September 15, 1972 in Newark, New Jersey."
Sam bided his time by licking the salt off the rim off his glass and washing it down with margarita mix laced lightly with tequila. "Emily," said Sam.
"Married once before," Al continued. "Divorced after two years. Ex-hubby won himself a state sponsored all expenses paid vacation at the old grey bar motel. Guess that killed the romance. You met her at the coffee shop where you both got your morning fix. Asked her out by having the barista write the invite on the cup.”
Sam cast a thankful smile towards Al.
"That's a bad sign. You might want to write it down on the back of your hand or something so you don’t embarrass yourself when you’re in the throes of passion.”
Al stifled a laugh. “Sam, far be it from me to ruin a good mid-afternoon booze up, but I think we should talk.”
“I have to,” Sam stammered, “uh…”
“Pee. You should, too. After all the liquor you’ve tossed back,” said Al.
“Right. I have to…pee.” Sam never had mastered the fine art of a graceful exit. Sam stumbled over the chairs as he walked away from the table and followed Al’s holographic form towards the restrooms.
“Al!” Sam spoke in a normal voice. He’d locked the door behind him so that he didn’t have to worry about anyone finding him and wondering why he was talking to himself. “Exactly who am I? And what is up with him?”
Since the invention of the cell phone (and particularly the headset) talking to Al had been a lot easier. When he was lucky enough to leap into an era where technology had advanced to that point, these conversations were much more convenient. House didn't strike Sam as the kind of person who would be deterred from participating in a conversation simply because he could only hear half of it.
Al beat his palm against the multi-colored hand link and swore at it. The handlink whined in response. Al shook it until the whine changed to a beep.
“Your name is James Wilson. You’re the head of onco…” Al slapped the hand link again and it squealed in response. “Oncology at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital in New Jersey. It’s 2007. You’re 39 years old and engaged for the fourth time.”
"I know all that. What can you tell me about my crazed companion?”
“He’s Gregory House, your best friend.”
“Uh,” Sam opened his mouth to speak but thought better of it. Although that much was clear, Sam hadn't been able to figure out the reasoning behind it. “Why?”
“Good question. He’s a genius. Speaks almost as many languages as you do. Think Sherlock Holmes with fewer social skills. One of the best doctors in the world. His specialty is solving cases other doctors wouldn’t even attempt. He's also a drug addict. An infarction caused the loss of most of the muscle in his right thigh about 7 years ago. Since then he’s relied on Vicodin to get through the day. Dangerous levels. He’s been shot. Overdosed. Which you walked in and promptly right back out on…” Al cocked an eyebrow at that piece of information. “Huh. That’s interesting.”
“Are you saying that I left my best friend for dead? What kind of person does that?”
“In his-your-defense, it was a tough time,” said Al.
“You don’t say. The guy’s a little off, but what could he have done to deserve that?”
“In this case, it was the right thing. You’re-Wilson’s-messed up. One of those nice guys with a dark underbelly." Al wriggled his fingers as if playing in invisible dirt. "He tries to do the right thing. Doesn’t always succeed. Doesn’t usually succeed. But you have the give the guy props for trying.”
Someone pounded on the restroom door. “Just a second!” Sam yelled.
“Why now? Why here? If these two are so messed up why am I here now?”
“Best we can figure is that you’re not supposed to get married. Don’t know why. But that’s about all we can come up with.”
“Exactly when is my marriage not supposed to take place?” The frustration was clear in his voice.
“Three days from now,” said Al.
***
"Can you tell me what year it is?" Wilson shifted on the uncomfortable chair.
"No, I'm sorry. I can't." The woman was dressed in a white lab coat and gave off that air peculiar to members of the psychiatric profession. She said her name was Beeks. That was the only question she'd answered to Wilson's satisfaction since he'd gotten there. Wherever he was.
"So, I guess I can assume that it's not 2007. If it was you'd tell me."
"Doctor Wilson, I've told you everything I'm at liberty to say."
"You told me you call this place the Waiting Room. I've been in plenty of waiting rooms in my life. None quite like this.” The room looked like a World of Tomorrow display at the World’s Fair. All the tables and chair backs had rounded edges. The walls glowed with an unearthly blue light that made everything hazy. "Am I dead? Or are you just holding me prisoner?"
"You're very much alive. And you're not a prisoner, Doctor. The reasons why you're here will become clear. You're not the first person to question our motives. But, I promise you, you'll be fine."
"I'm getting married in three days. What do you think my fiancée will say if I miss our wedding?"
"Tell me, James...Can I call you James?"
"I don't care what you call me." He was getting angrier with each passing moment. "The only thing I care about is going home."
"James, do you love your fiancée?"
"She's pregnant with my child."
"If she wasn't, would you still be planning on marrying her?"
"There's no point in answering that."
***
Despite having ingested most of the liquor and eaten the majority of both meals, House made it clear he had no intention of paying for lunch. Sam chose a credit card out of his wallet and walked to the front of the restaurant to pay the bill. House picked a handful of candies from the racks of chocolates and gum next to the register and stuffed the goodies into his pockets.
"Don't forget to pay for these," House said through a mouthful of Snickers.
"Pay for your own candy." The margaritas had been a bad idea, even though he'd only had a little over one. That is to say, he'd only filled his glass once. There was the possibility that House had been topping the glass off when he wasn't paying attention.
"Tetchy."
"I have to get back to work." Going back to work might give him a chance to spend some time alone so that he could try to figure out how to avoid his impending nuptials.
"No, you don't. You're free for the rest of the day." House leaned his weight on the rounded tip of his cane and reached into his pocket for another piece of candy. He unwrapped the foil and dropped the wadded up empty back into his pocket.
"I think I should at least call and check on that." Sam searched his pockets for a cell phone.
"You left it on your desk. So, I took the liberty of calling and canceling all your appointments."
"You did?"
"I wanted to make sure I had a ride home. And someone to help me make fun of whatever crummy show we can find on TV tonight. All you have to do is call the banshee and tell her you won’t be home until late."
"The banshee?" As if House wasn't bad enough, now Sam had that image to contend with.
"Harpy. Shrew. Whatever you prefer."
"I think I'd prefer to just call her Emily."
"That's not what you called her last night. Not that her name came up that much." House stepped out of the restaurant. He blinked and sheltered his eyes with his left hand for a second while his vision adjusted. "If I remember correctly the phrase you used was ‘conniving whore.’ But then, you were drunk."
Had he really? That was no way to talk about a woman. Sam found it very hard to respect any man who would even think something like that.
"You said I wasn't drunk," was the best response Sam could muster.
"You should be a big enough boy by now to be able to remember whether or not you've had too much to drink. Makes me wonder what else you're going to claim to have forgotten."
That didn't sound good. With that tone, Sam didn't have to know House, to know he was alluding to something that had the potential to be very important. He tried to laugh but the sound came out a muffled croak.
"You'll have to remind me what you think I forgot. Then I can tell you if it comes as a surprise." This was a trick he had to pull nearly ever leap: Somehow convince the people around him to rehash even the most obvious details. It usually worked. People tended to assume that he (or she, as the case may be) wanted to re-think recent events from a different perspective. It was beneficial that he usually leapt into people's lives during eventful times; convincing someone to retell the events of an important event was easy. It required much more finesse to get someone to rehash Tuesday night dinner.
"I've forgotten if you have." House picked up speed and kept pace towards the car so that he was a few feet ahead of Sam. For a man with a cane he was quite swift. Every time Sam reached out to grab his arm in an attempt to get House to stop, House would make a deft move just before Sam's fingers made contact.
"Dammit, House!" Sam stopped next to a blue Toyota. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window. The first time he'd looked at himself since leaping into this body. He hadn’t registered anything about the photo on the ID badge. When he was in the restroom talking to Al he hadn't thought to look. Now, standing in the sunlight in a parking lot of a Mexican restaurant, he got his first good look at James Wilson. He was attractive. His face, in the process of transforming from boyish charm to distinguished good looks, was highlighted by compassionate eyes. He smiled at his reflection. He had a nice smile. Sam was transfixed, as he always was. He'd inhabited the bodies of young girls and elderly black men. He'd been a double amputee and a monkey. All of those different bodies. All of those souls. God, Fate, Time or Whatever had briefly made him a part of all of them. Now, he was a part of James Wilson, a man who looked much too kind, too gentle, to be the callous jerk Sam had begun to think he must be. He ran his hands through brown hair that was at that moment being blown into his eyes by a late summer's breeze,
"Wake up." House's reflection appeared in the car window next to Sam's. "Come on, you can admire yourself in the mirror all you want once we get to my place."
He blinked a couple of times. The unfamiliar face in the window blinked back at him. "Sorry, thought I'd spilled some salsa on my shirt. Guess not." Taking the keys out of his pocket, Sam clicked the automatic door lock and looked around the parking lot for the blinking lights to remind him which car was his. Sure, he'd driven to the restaurant, but in the ensuing time he’d managed to forget what kind of car he drove.
Then there was the small problem of having no idea how to get to House's apartment to contend with. He was trying to decide whether it was worth the risk to ask House to drive when Al showed up.
"We're having some trouble in the Waiting Room. This Wilson character isn't too happy. Beeks is trying to talk to him, but it's not going too well."
Sam responded with a "What am I supposed to do about that?" shrug.
"Is there something about this parking lot that intrigues you?" House asked as he reached into his pocket. Sam thought he was going for more candy, but instead he pulled out the amber pill bottle. “Give me the keys. I feel like driving." He popped the lid off and tapped the top against his palm. Sam couldn't see how many pills came out, but it sounded like more than one. House cupped his hand to his mouth, tilted his head back and dry swallowed the pills.
"Don't give him the keys, Sam. He looks drunk. And he just took the recommended daily allowance of Vicodin in one gulp."
"I have a lot on my mind. And I don't think you should be driving." He looked at Al and then waved him in the direction of the car.
"You know, that looked an awful lot like you just motioned for someone to follow you."
"I'm stressed! It's making me twitchy!" Sam was too polite to come out and say that he was getting pissed off or to tell House to shut the hell up. He hoped his actions would serve to convey that emotion. What he needed was to get someplace where he could think in peace.
After a pause House said, "Yeah, well, that's your own fault. Deal with it."
"Hey Gimpy," Al took advantage of his holographic status to avoid social niceties, "ever hear that old adage about people who live in glass houses?"
"Al!" Sam coughed.
"That sounded suspiciously like a fake cough. The sort one might use to talk to someone on the sly. There's no one else out here, so I'm thinking you might be having stress induced hallucinations." House's speech was slow and deliberate, the tone most people reserved for small children or, as Al would say, the ‘mentally absent.’ “Now, be a good boy and give me the keys."
"I wasn't talking to myself. I'm not waving at anyone,” Sam said through gritted teeth. “You're being a jerk. If you don't want to ride with me you can take a cab."
Judging by his unwillingness to lay down seventy-five cents for candy, Sam had guessed correctly that House wasn't one to throw money away on a cab. He opened the door and sat down on the passenger side.
Al gave Sam directions to House's apartment and disappeared through the door of the Imaging Chamber. Beeks had asked Al to get back and help her deal with Doctor Wilson. Giving Leapees more than the bare bones of information was strictly against the guidelines. Over the years Al had become better than anyone on the project at bending that rule as far as possible without actually breaking it.
Sam headed through town towards his destination. As he drove he tried to piece together the situation and come up with a quick and painless way to keep Wilson from marrying Emily. Emily, who he wouldn't recognize if he ran her over with the car. The easiest thing to do would be to just not turn up at the wedding. But that might not stop Wilson from getting married some other time. He didn't know if the problem was that he shouldn't marry Emily or if Wilson shouldn't marry anybody.
House didn't notice the lack of conversation. He had unplugged Wilson's iPod and replaced it with his own. He'd clicked through several screens before settling on something. Now, he was sliding his fingers along the neck of an imaginary guitar in time with a Robert Johnson song.
"Kindhearted woman," Sam said.
A smile appeared and just as quickly faded from House's face. "Like that's hard to figure out. He only says it about 15 times in the song."
"Strange song to pick." Sam glanced away from the road towards the man in the passenger seat. There was something just below the surface, an emotion that Sam would have given anything to have been able to read. "Are you trying to tell me something?" Sam had learned, it was best to try to get right to the point.
"Yeah, a song about calling a lover by a wrong name and a woman that 'studies evil all the time.' No parallels there."
"That’s the second time you’ve mentioned that. When did I say she called someone else's name when we were in bed?" Sam asked. It wasn't easy trying to carry on this conversation and look for signs of House's apartment. Al had said that House owned a bright orange motorcycle that he parked in front of his building. If only all landmarks were as easy to spot as that bike, Sam’s life would be slightly easier.
Sam was still waiting for a response as he maneuvered the Volvo into a parking space.
"I never said she did." House got out of the car and walked up the steps to his apartment. Although there was the matter of not getting married to worry about, Sam thought it was best to follow House into the apartment.
His eyes were immediately drawn to the main fixture of the living room, the piano. Sam loved to play the piano. It was one of his natural talents. It was one skill so deeply ingrained that it never fell victim to Swiss Cheesing. All he had to do was sit down at the keys and his fingers would instinctively start picking out songs his conscious mind didn't remember knowing.
Sam could hear the sound of running water coming from the bathroom. He couldn't help himself. Sam picked the books and magazines that were covering the bench and sat them on the floor. He sat down and began to play his favorite song, Imagine.
He was through two verses on onto the chorus when he looked up towards House, whose face was as free of expression as the world John Lennon had dreamt of was devoid of possessions. Sam closed his eyes and continued to sing:
"I hope someday you'll join us
And the world will live as one."
"The last time you tried to play you couldn't figure out the intricacies of Heart and Soul."
He hadn't even thought about the possibility that Wilson couldn't play. With a piano like this at his disposal, how could he resist? Sam worked hard to keep his skills and abilities in check during a Leap. Sometimes, things slipped out, knowledge or skills that the person he'd leaped into shouldn't or simply didn't have.
"I..." Sam stammered. "I've been teaching myself how to play. I'm allowed to have a hobby and not tell you about it, you know." He hoped that was true. Nothing he'd experienced thus far indicated that to be the case. Surely no one could be so monomaniacal as to focus all of his energy on one person. Wilson had, after all, found time to meet and become engaged to several women. He was the head of a department at a large hospital. Surely, he could have found time to learn how to play a few tunes on the piano.
House scowled. "You're an enigma shrouded in mystery wrapped in an ugly tie, aren't you?" He turned and walked into the kitchen.
Without Al's input all Sam had to work with was what he could gather from what House said and did. He didn't seem interested in saying much. Something had happened that Sam should know about, but until Al could get that information out of Wilson he couldn't do anything but wait and try to come up with the information himself.
A minute later House returned with two bottles of beer and a bottle of water gripped between the fingers of his left hand. He sat the water next to Sam and kept the beer for himself. He picked the remote off of the coffee table and turned on the television.
Water bottle in hand, Sam got up from the piano and sat down on the couch next to House. The action earned him a cocked eyebrow and an interested glance, but nothing else. They sat in silence and watched television for what seemed like hours, but based on the lack of programming change was less than forty-five minutes.
***
"This will be over and we can get you home a lot quicker if you'll just answer a few questions for us," Doctor Verbena Beeks, the Project's resident psychiatrist, explained.
"You sound like Tritter."
"Who's Tritter?"
"He's a cop." He answered before he caught himself and remembered that he didn't owe these people any information. "He's not important."
"Does he have something to do with Doctor House?" Beeks leaned forward and reached a hand out towards Wilson.
"What do you know about House?" There was no point in trying to hide the suspicion in his voice. He'd made it known that he didn't trust any of the people he had met since waking up in the Waiting Room.
Doctor Beeks smiled. "You mentioned him when you were waking up. When you first got here. Is he someone important to you?"
Wilson studied his cuticles for a moment. "That's one way to put it."
"How would you put it, Doctor?"
He didn't answer, instead becoming very focused on the polish on his shoes.
"James, it's vital that you're honest with me. The more honest you are, the sooner you can leave here."
"You talk like I'm on my way to the locked ward if I don't cooperate."
"Nothing like that, I promise you." Beeks smiled a placating smile. "Don't think of your time here as being against your will. Think of it as a chance to work through a few things and hopefully avoid making wrong decisions."
Wilson chuckled. "I know you're trying to sound reassuring, but that sounds like I'm this close," he held his thumb and forefinger less than half an inch apart in front of his face, "to a 72 hour hold."
"If you don't cooperate, this could take a lot longer than 72 hours."
His eyes narrowed. "Are you threatening me, Doctor?"
"Just telling you the facts. If you won't help us, there's no way we can help you."
He drew his hand up to his face and pinched the bridge of his nose. He had no idea where he was. Or if he was anywhere. This could all be a very vivid, very peculiar dream.
The only way out was through a door with no visible means of being opened. He felt very tired. There didn't seem to be any use trying to fight these people. If they wanted to keep him here, he could think of nothing he could do to stop them. As far as he could tell, he had been stripped of any power he might have otherwise had. He might as well answer their questions. He wasn't sure he even had a choice in the matter.
"What do you want to know?"
"Let's start with Doctor House. Who is he to you?"
***
Three hours later, and as many episodes of some show in which unfortunate aspiring chefs faced the wrath of a very angry British man, Al stepped into House's living room through the Imaging Chamber door. It wasn't quite seven in the evening. The sun hadn't fully set. House had passed out after depleting his beer supply. Right before falling asleep he'd ordered Sam to go to call that Indian place that didn't mind delivering beer as long as they ordered plenty of food to wash it down. Having no knowledge of such a restaurant, Sam had appeased House with a smile and a nod.
House's head had fallen onto Sam's shoulder, and in spite of several attempts to maintain some semblance of space between them, Sam had only succeeded in intertwining himself with House's stretched out limbs. Sometimes weeks (months? was there any way to say?) would go by that Sam wouldn't be touched with the affection House was unconsciously offering. Sam wasn't a man uncomfortable in his skin, particularly since it wasn't his skin he was in. He had no problem showing affection towards anyone, male or female. People needed to be touched, to be reminded that they were not alone. So often, he felt more than alone. Sam draped his arm around House's shoulder and maneuvered the other man into a position that had to be more comfortable than the one House had chosen for himself.
When Al stepped out into the living room, Sam braced himself for a smart remark. He expected Al to makes a slightly homophobic comment that would trigger a lecture on the importance of judging people based on the content of their character. A lecture that Sam didn't relish the idea of making, as it would be a little hard to back up with examples pertaining to House.
Even after all these years, Al was able to surprise Sam with a comment.
"Oh. You figured it out. What he sees in that nozzle I don't know. But, no accounting for taste. Guess you don't need me. Everything's hunky dory. You should be going bye-bye pretty soon. "
"What do you mean?" Sam whispered as he began to carefully remove himself from House's grip. "He's a cuddly drunk," Sam lifted House's arm and slid off the couch. "Probably the only time he is. What have you found out?"
Ziggy squawked. Al swore and slapped the handlink. "I know," he said.
"Al!" Sam walked into the kitchen and leaned against the butcher's block. "What is it that you'd take..." he motioned towards the sofa, "that...to mean I'd done what I was supposed to..." He stopped and looked at Al, who raised his eyebrow and waited for Sam to fill in the blank. Sam's mouth fell open, "I'm--Wilson's--" Sam gestured from House's sleeping form back towards himself.
Al chewed on the butt of his unlit cigar and nodded.
"But what about..." He looked towards the living room. This was a surprise. "Is it mutual?"
"Do you really need an answer to that? After the way he went all octopus arms on you over there." Al gestured towards House. "No straight man ever gets that drunk."
With the grace of a young man Sam pushed himself up until he was sitting on the butcher's block. He dropped his head into his hands and thought. "That's what he's been talking about!" Sam exclaimed as he lifted his head up. "Something happened last night, didn't it?"
Al shrugged.
"So, something did happen?" Sam asked.
Another shrug.
"Al! What happened?"
"Sam, I'm not comfortable..."
"You don't have to go into details. Just tell me, in a way you can deal with, what happened." Sam said the last part of the sentence through clenched teeth. He hated that Al could be so narrow minded.
"He kissed him," Al visibly shuddered at the image that statement provoked.
"Who kissed whom, Al? Could you be a little more specific?"
"Wilson," Al wagged his left hand in front of his mouth, "House. He'd told him about Emily. They had a few words. Very few words if what I've seen of either of them is any indication. House had gone into the kitchen. Wilson said he was going to leave, when he turned around and walked into the kitchen and just..." Al screwed his face up into an exaggerated cringe. "Just laid a big old smackeroo right on the kisser."
"What happened then?" Sam asked.
"I'd rather not say."
Sam slipped off the block and looked around the wall towards the living room, to check to see if House was still asleep. He was. "Do you mean that they," Sam lowered his voice to an even quieter whisper. "Did they have sex?"
"Do you have to come right out and say it, Sam?"
"Sex, Al." Sam taunted. "Sex! Birds do it, bees do it. You have no problem telling me about your exploits in that area. The question is did I do it with House?"
"Sam! For my sanity, would you just say 'Wilson', instead of 'you'?"
Clearly exasperated, Sam sighed. "Fine. Did Wilson and House have sex?"
"It depends on your definition of sex," Al hedged.
"Is it only sex in your book if it involves a man and a woman?"
Al winced again. "Does the name Monica Lewinski mean anything to you?"
"No."
"Sam, I..."
"Okay, what base did they get to?"
"Just short of," Al paused and gnawed on the end of his cigar as he pondered the choice of words that would cause him the least amount of discomfort. "I guess it depends on your definition..." He cringed. "Just short of sliding...that's a really bad choice of words...The inning ended before anyone stole home."
Sam thought about that and decided he had a pretty good idea what that meant. "And then what happened?"
"Sam..."
"Al," Sam said in a tone reminiscent of a frustrated elementary school teacher. "Spit it out."
"Wilson--you--freaked out and left."
"But," Sam rested his head against the refrigerator. "When House walked into Wilson's office today, he acted like nothing had happened."
"Wouldn't you?"
After a moment of thought, Sam nodded. "Except he didn't...He started dropping hints right away. I think it bothered him more that he thought I didn't want to talk about what happened than that something happened."
Ziggy whined. Al punched a few buttons on Ziggy's keypad and read the results. "Beeks says that Doctor Wilson's said some things that lead her to believe he's in love with House."
"What does she propose we do about the woman he's planning to marry? You remember the one who's pregnant with his child? Does she even figure into this?"
"He said that after he left last night he doesn't expect that to happen again. He doesn't see any other choice. Thinks the kid might be his last chance. To leave behind some legacy that isn't completely fucked up. His words, not mine."
"Wilson." House was standing in doorway of the kitchen. "You're talking about yourself in the third person. That's weird, even for you."
Al looked from one man to the other. "This is your chance. You've got to do something, Sam."
"I know," Sam answered.
House pushed Sam aside and opened the refrigerator. "You didn't call the Indian place."
"No, sorry. I was...I was just thinking-out loud-about...stuff."
House pulled a bottle of water out of the fridge and closed the door. He twisted the top off and drank a long gulp. "Stuff, huh?" He moved closer to Sam until only inches separated them. "What kind of stuff?"
"Just about what happened. What--we--" Sam gulped, "did."
"What is it we did?" Without turning his eyes away from Sam he reached out, opened the cupboard door and pulled out a box of crackers.
"Sam!" Al yelled over Ziggy's frantic whines. "Gushie was able to hack into Emily's email. The kid isn't his. The father's her convict ex-husband. They're in on it together. It's a scam! That's why he shouldn't get married. Tell House that! You don't have to do..." Al's expression seemed permanently fixed in a state of confused disgust, "this."
Sam nodded.
Wilson wasn't under any moral obligation to get married. Things could stay just the way they had been. Nothing had to change. All he had to do was tell House what Al had just told him. Then he could leap.
His gut told him it wasn't that simple. He was there to do something else.
"I think I do." Sam whispered.
"This is about what Beeks thinks, isn't it?" Al asked.
"Yes, it is."
"Have you lost what was left of your mind?" House asked.
"She lied, House. Emily lied." Sam looked into House's eyes. "The baby isn't mine."
House furrowed his brow, but held Sam's gaze. "Good. Guess you can keep holding auditions for the role of 4th Mrs. Wilson." He turned to walk out of the kitchen, as if that ended the conversation.
"Wait." Sam reached out and grabbed onto the sleeve of House's t-shirt.
House tensed, but stopped.
"What's there to wait for?" He asked without turning around.
There's something else. Something about...last night...about us..." His tongue tripped over the words.
House stepped backwards so that his back was almost against Sam's chest. He didn't turn around. "What happened last night?"
"I...I mean we," Sam hated this part--trying to say someone else's words, to convey a stranger's emotions--it never got easier.
"I'm outta here Sam, I can't watch this." Al punched something into Ziggy's keypad. The Imaging Chamber door opened. "Good luck." He stepped through the door and disappeared.
"What?" House finally turned and faced Sam. House's long fingers tensed and relaxed as he starred into Sam's eyes.
Some residual piece of Wilson woke up inside of him and took over. Sam closed his eyes, reached out and wrapped his fingers around House's hand. He leaned forward. House's breath was hot against his skin. They were so close now that Sam could feel House's chest rise and fall. It felt so right. The kind of right that Sam knew meant he had done all he could do. The rest was up to the people who rightfully owned these lives.
Sam leaned forward to close the minuscule gap between them. As he felt House reach his hand up to the back of his head and the first touch of lips against his, he felt the world fall away. He was gone. On to whatever God Fate or Time wanted him to do next.
***
Wilson held onto the moment as best as he could. Everything was twisted, turned upside down. He felt as if he had been dropped from a great height and was rapidly approaching the ground without anything to cushion his fall. House's hand traced along his spine, stopping just as his fingers slid past his belt. He couldn't really remember what had happened to get him to this point. All he knew was that it was happening.
This was happening.
He knew there would be no wedding in three days. He wasn't sure why. That didn't matter at the moment.
Not while House was doing that thing with his tongue.
"House, I..." Wilson searched for something to say. He had no idea what that would be. Just that he should say something.
"What?" House growled as he bit lightly into Wilson's neck.
House pinned Wilson against the refrigerator door. He wasn't sure if he was standing or if they were holding each other up.
Wilson shivered. "I...oh boy."
Author: toolazytowork
Ship: House/Wilson
Genre: Crossover-Quantum Leap / House
Summary: Sam leaps into Wilson to prevent Wilson's fourth marriage from taking place, but House is starting to suspect something is up. What do Al and Ziggy have to say about this?
Prompt from betteronvicodin
Cross-posted to house_wilson and betteronvicodin
Rating: PG-13 (barely)
Words: 8825
Warnings/Spoilers: brief mentions of events from Season 3 of House
All of Quantum Leap
Author’s Note: Thanks to ana_rpm and julorean for all their beta/characterization/first reading awesomeness. Furthermore, thanks to bethctg and topaz_eyes for their assurances that the comma is not something to fear, and for all the technical pointers and nitpicking that helped me finally complete this story. Virtual cupcakes for you all.
If you've never seen Quantum Leap The Opening Credits will answer most of your questions. (If you were a fan, it's just fun.)
It is not everyday that we are needed. But at this place, at this moment in time, all mankind is us, whether we like it or not.-Samuel Beckett Waiting for Godot
To save a life, to change a heart, to make the right choice. I guess that's what life is all about.-Sam Beckett Mirror Image
"You’ve known her for less than three months.” House picked at the corner of the wrapper on his beer bottle as he spoke.
Wilson stifled the urge to mop up a ring of condensation and strategically slide a coaster where the bottle was most likely to land. If House didn’t care if his coffee table was ruined, Wilson was going to pretend not to care either.
“You knew Stacy for how long before she moved in?”
“You're rushing into this marriage like someone’s got a gun to your head.” House turned and assessed Wilson. His body language was interesting. He sat on the edge of the couch, his back straight and his eyes fixed in a resolute stare at nothing in particular. House could almost see the tension pouring off of his neck and shoulder muscles.
House shook his head. “You got her pregnant, didn’t you?”
Wilson's shoulders slumped. The rest of his body followed suit. He sank back into the couch. “It’s not a one person job. She did some of the work.”
“If your past record is any indication she did most of it.”
House drummed his fingers on the arm of the sofa. He had to remain calm. If he got too angry, too soon, he might commit manslaughter. At the moment, he thought it was justifiable. ‘Your honor, he was too stupid to live. I did the world a favor’ wouldn’t go over well in court.
“Do you make it a habit of hopping into bed with strangers and having unprotected sex?”
“We used a condom. It…” he shifted his weight, "broke. I guess. I never noticed, but...here we are.” He scrubbed his hand across his forehead as he spoke.
“You guess. That's what she told you and you're so desperate for a normal life you bought it. How far along is she?”
“She thinks about two and a half months…It was only…” Wilson slid forward on the couch and leaned over the edge of the coffee table. He traced his fingers through the round pools of sweat left by the beer bottle.
“Once?” House rolled his eyes. “Got some dedicated swimmers there, buddy.”
"Sex, actually. It was just sex. We went out a few times, but we didn't have much in common, except...." He shrugged.
"Tab A fit really well into slot B. I know how babies are made."
“It’s the right thing to do.”
“Gosh, Opie," House drawled in an accent that would have sounded over the top on Hee Haw. "You better rush off to the Justice of the Peace before her daddy finds out you got his baby girl in a family way." He hitched his thumbs on invisible suspenders and stared slack jawed at Wilson.
"That's not funny."
"Was I laughing? You just told me you're planning on marrying your fuck buddy. It should be funny.” House picked up the almost empty bottle, tipped it back and frowned at the result. "Should be. But isn't."
“I asked. She said yes. It's done.”
“So, un-ask her!" House grabbed Wilson’s wrist.
Wilson flinched. He glared at House, and pulled his hand free. “Why should I? What makes you so sure this isn't fate?"
House stood up and walked into the kitchen. "You don't believe that." Clanking beer bottles and crashing pots and pans completed his thought.
“You're right. I don't."
***
He didn’t know how long the time between leaps lasted. Traditional concepts of time didn’t mean much to him. Years, decades, folded into each other, blended together. Tie the ends of a piece of string together and crumple the string into a ball. The pieces of that string will overlap. Every event in a lifetime has an affect on every other event. Even the smallest decision can create lifelong ripples. Life: an infinite loop of possibilities taking place within a finite distance.
Sam Beckett was sure of very few things. He didn’t always remember who was President any given year or even when he was born. Knowledge of things he used to take for granted--his mother's maiden name, the kind of toppings he liked on his pizza--gone. Al called it the Swiss Cheese Effect. He was left with holes where memories should be.
Al was the closest thing to a constant Sam had. He wasn't always useful, but at least he was there. Even with his faults, Al had never let him down. Not when it counted. Sam didn't need to remember all of the friends he had made over the course of his lifetime to know that Al Calavicci was the best friend he'd ever had.
***
“Doctor Wilson, you have a patient.” The woman was young, twenty-five at the oldest. She had a warm smile and a welcoming demeanor. That was a good way to start a leap.
“Doctor?” He shook his head. Sam glanced down and tried to read his ID badge, but the pertinent information was facing towards his shirt making it rather hard to read. “Of what?” he wondered. He flipped the name tag right side out in what he hoped looked like a nonchalant manner.
The woman laughed. “Doctor House must've kept you out late last night. You look like you don’t even know how you got here!”
He did the best he could to chuckle. He stretched his arms over his head and faked a yawn. “You caught me. Don’t tell anyone I was sleeping on the job, okay.”
”Good save,” he thought.
“Mr. Adams will be right in to see you.” She closed the door as she left.
Sam read the name tag. His name was Doctor James Wilson and he was the Head of Oncology. He had all of those doctoral degrees, one of which he knew was in medicine, but he didn’t think he’d found time for a specialization in oncology. Silly him. He ran his hands across the files on his desk, searching for one that belonged to someone named Adams.
“Wilson!” A tall, middle-aged man, with a three day growth of beard, rapped a cane against the sliding glass door. “Don’t even try pretending that you have something more important to do! I read your patient list. They’re all dying. Send a mass email. It saves time.”
Sam’s eyes darted from the office door where the apparently doomed Mr. Adams was due to enter any moment, to the glass door where a mad cane wielding man was demanding entrance. Neither option was particularly appealing.
He was used to being confused at the beginning of a leap. Didn’t make him any happier about it. “Oh boy.”
“Wilson, let me in! You can pretend I needed a consult. Just unlock the damn door!”
This strange person wasn’t going to leave without getting whatever he wanted. Sam stood up and unlocked the door. “Can I help you?” he asked.
“Formality? Interesting,” the man said as he pushed into the office. “Are you hiding the future 4th Mrs. Wilson in here? Getting a little afternoon delight in between death sentences? Can’t say as I blame you. Sex with a pregnant semi-stranger is a great distraction.” He poked at the cushions of the couch and at the neatly arranged stuffed animal tableaus that lined the walls of the office as he stamped around the room. “Come out, come out wherever you are!”
This person might be more than strange. He could be dangerous. What the hell was keeping Al? “What do you want?” Sam had stepped backwards until he ran out of room to walk. At which point, he'd decided to try to blend in with the wall.
“I’m hungry. I want lunch. And, since you insisted on betting on Charlise to win America’s Next Top Model, when anyone with eyes could see that Jessica was the only logical choice, you get to feed me.”
“What?” Arguing seemed like the wrong tactic with this person.
“The bet? I know you had a few beers, but you got home without incident. Well, further incident. Depends on your opinion of what happened before you left. Either way, no use trying to claim you were too drunk to be held responsible for your actions.”
“So, I willingly spend time with this person." Sam mentally pieced together these bits of information. “First impressions can be deceptive. I bet on a show about modeling. That’s weird, but…no, it’s just weird. And apparently, I'm a big fan of the institution of marriage…Please don’t let me be a polygamist.
“Three beers in more than three hours does not equal drunk," the man continued. "I don't care how hard you try to spin that it does. You're a lightweight, but not that light."
Sam blinked and rubbed the back of his neck. He opened his mouth to speak, but no suitable words came out.
"Have you been bogarting your palliative ganja stash?" The statement was punctuated with a pout. "That’s just mean. I thought we were friends.”
Sam had a sinking feeling this was the aforementioned Doctor House.
The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a pill bottle. "Speaking of which..." He rattled the contents. "I'm going to need a refill. This is barely enough to get me through the rest of the day."
The bottle was half full.
Sam tried to read the information on the label, but could only make out portions of it. Whatever the contents were, started with a 'V'. Sam searched his memory for drug names. Valium, maybe? No, Valium didn't cause people to act like uncouth lunatics. This person used a cane, so there was a good chance he was in chronic pain. His memory was too fuzzy to try to remember the names of prescription medications.
He’d called him ‘Wilson.’ That might mean that they addressed each other by last names. This was good, since he didn’t know Doctor House’s first name.
“House?” Sam hoped he sounded comfortable, maybe a little exasperated when he said that. As opposed to confused.
“What?”
Well, that cleared that up.
“I have a patient. I can’t go to lunch right now.” Although, it was tempting. He didn't enjoy the prospect of having to fake his way through an afternoon of meeting with patients.
House walked over to the office door, opened it and leaned out. “Is there an Adams out here?”
A voice answered in the affirmative.
“Dr. Wilson has an emergency. He’ll have to re-schedule. Talk to his assistant. She’ll set something up.” House turned, to talk to said assistant, Sam assumed. His tone of voice and volume didn’t change. “Better make it soon. Or don’t. Same result either way.”
House closed the door and turned to Sam. “Come on. I’m in the mood for Mexican. Nothing says Thursday like a three Margarita lunch.”
“Al!” Sam hissed into the air.
“Huh?”
“I’ll...be right there,” Sam said as he grabbed his suit jacket and followed House out of the office.
“Get a move on. Rumor has it Cuddy’s been trying to track me down all morning. I don’t want to know why.”
Sam had been in stranger situations, but with few stranger people. He knew better than to try to do anything before he talked to Al. The best he could do was play along with whatever House had in mind and wait for instructions.
“Where are we going to eat?” He was hungry, come to think of it.
House had stepped out onto the balcony and performed a well-rehearsed hop over the concrete railing. “That place way on the other side of town that has the best salsa, of course.”
“Would the salsa be as good if the restaurant was right next to the hospital?” Sam followed House over to the other side of the balcony.
“Do you even have to ask?”
“Silly me.” A residual part of Wilson's psyche responded before Sam had the time to think of the answer.
Two hours, multiple baskets of chips and two pitchers of margaritas later, Al finally turned up. In the meantime, Sam did his best to not arouse suspicion. He had presumed that Wilson was the type that regularly drank on his lunch hour and shrugged off his responsibilities. It was only after the second pitcher had arrived that House had set him straight.
“Starting a little early, aren’t ya buddy?” House had leaned across the table and almost poked Sam in the eye with the tortilla chip. Sam dodged it the way he used to duck out of the way of Al’s cigars.
Thinking he meant the time, Sam checked his watch. “I guess 1:30 is a little early. But, it was your idea. I just came along.”
“No, Captain Literal. A little early in the relationship. You’re not even trying this time. You should at least walk her down the aisle before you toss her aside to spend time with me. It just looks better. You didn’t even bother having your assistant call and cancel your lunch date.”
Oh, wives. He was talking about the first three Mrs. Wilsons. Three wives. Al had been married…three…five…Several. Times. That sort of thing happened all the time. If Wilson was prone to ignoring his wives and girlfriends in favor of spending time with House it was surprising he'd managed to keep meeting women willing to marry him.
He wondered how old he was that he’d been married three times. House looked like he was in his mid-forties at the earliest. That would work out to one marriage every five or six years over the course of a quarter of a century. Not a great track record, but not unthinkable.
“I didn’t have…” Sam couldn’t be sure that he didn't have a lunch date. He hadn’t thought to check his calendar. “I am not skipping out on…” He had no idea what his fiancée’s name was.
“On…” House leaned forward expectantly.
“On…my…fiancée,” he stuttered.
“Your fiancée…” His eyes bugged out in mocking expectation. That look on his face was much too pleased. "Need a hint? OK--how about...New England's favorite spinster poet?"
“Emily,” Al said over House's chides. “Emily Brady, born September 15, 1972 in Newark, New Jersey."
Sam bided his time by licking the salt off the rim off his glass and washing it down with margarita mix laced lightly with tequila. "Emily," said Sam.
"Married once before," Al continued. "Divorced after two years. Ex-hubby won himself a state sponsored all expenses paid vacation at the old grey bar motel. Guess that killed the romance. You met her at the coffee shop where you both got your morning fix. Asked her out by having the barista write the invite on the cup.”
Sam cast a thankful smile towards Al.
"That's a bad sign. You might want to write it down on the back of your hand or something so you don’t embarrass yourself when you’re in the throes of passion.”
Al stifled a laugh. “Sam, far be it from me to ruin a good mid-afternoon booze up, but I think we should talk.”
“I have to,” Sam stammered, “uh…”
“Pee. You should, too. After all the liquor you’ve tossed back,” said Al.
“Right. I have to…pee.” Sam never had mastered the fine art of a graceful exit. Sam stumbled over the chairs as he walked away from the table and followed Al’s holographic form towards the restrooms.
“Al!” Sam spoke in a normal voice. He’d locked the door behind him so that he didn’t have to worry about anyone finding him and wondering why he was talking to himself. “Exactly who am I? And what is up with him?”
Since the invention of the cell phone (and particularly the headset) talking to Al had been a lot easier. When he was lucky enough to leap into an era where technology had advanced to that point, these conversations were much more convenient. House didn't strike Sam as the kind of person who would be deterred from participating in a conversation simply because he could only hear half of it.
Al beat his palm against the multi-colored hand link and swore at it. The handlink whined in response. Al shook it until the whine changed to a beep.
“Your name is James Wilson. You’re the head of onco…” Al slapped the hand link again and it squealed in response. “Oncology at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital in New Jersey. It’s 2007. You’re 39 years old and engaged for the fourth time.”
"I know all that. What can you tell me about my crazed companion?”
“He’s Gregory House, your best friend.”
“Uh,” Sam opened his mouth to speak but thought better of it. Although that much was clear, Sam hadn't been able to figure out the reasoning behind it. “Why?”
“Good question. He’s a genius. Speaks almost as many languages as you do. Think Sherlock Holmes with fewer social skills. One of the best doctors in the world. His specialty is solving cases other doctors wouldn’t even attempt. He's also a drug addict. An infarction caused the loss of most of the muscle in his right thigh about 7 years ago. Since then he’s relied on Vicodin to get through the day. Dangerous levels. He’s been shot. Overdosed. Which you walked in and promptly right back out on…” Al cocked an eyebrow at that piece of information. “Huh. That’s interesting.”
“Are you saying that I left my best friend for dead? What kind of person does that?”
“In his-your-defense, it was a tough time,” said Al.
“You don’t say. The guy’s a little off, but what could he have done to deserve that?”
“In this case, it was the right thing. You’re-Wilson’s-messed up. One of those nice guys with a dark underbelly." Al wriggled his fingers as if playing in invisible dirt. "He tries to do the right thing. Doesn’t always succeed. Doesn’t usually succeed. But you have the give the guy props for trying.”
Someone pounded on the restroom door. “Just a second!” Sam yelled.
“Why now? Why here? If these two are so messed up why am I here now?”
“Best we can figure is that you’re not supposed to get married. Don’t know why. But that’s about all we can come up with.”
“Exactly when is my marriage not supposed to take place?” The frustration was clear in his voice.
“Three days from now,” said Al.
***
"Can you tell me what year it is?" Wilson shifted on the uncomfortable chair.
"No, I'm sorry. I can't." The woman was dressed in a white lab coat and gave off that air peculiar to members of the psychiatric profession. She said her name was Beeks. That was the only question she'd answered to Wilson's satisfaction since he'd gotten there. Wherever he was.
"So, I guess I can assume that it's not 2007. If it was you'd tell me."
"Doctor Wilson, I've told you everything I'm at liberty to say."
"You told me you call this place the Waiting Room. I've been in plenty of waiting rooms in my life. None quite like this.” The room looked like a World of Tomorrow display at the World’s Fair. All the tables and chair backs had rounded edges. The walls glowed with an unearthly blue light that made everything hazy. "Am I dead? Or are you just holding me prisoner?"
"You're very much alive. And you're not a prisoner, Doctor. The reasons why you're here will become clear. You're not the first person to question our motives. But, I promise you, you'll be fine."
"I'm getting married in three days. What do you think my fiancée will say if I miss our wedding?"
"Tell me, James...Can I call you James?"
"I don't care what you call me." He was getting angrier with each passing moment. "The only thing I care about is going home."
"James, do you love your fiancée?"
"She's pregnant with my child."
"If she wasn't, would you still be planning on marrying her?"
"There's no point in answering that."
***
Despite having ingested most of the liquor and eaten the majority of both meals, House made it clear he had no intention of paying for lunch. Sam chose a credit card out of his wallet and walked to the front of the restaurant to pay the bill. House picked a handful of candies from the racks of chocolates and gum next to the register and stuffed the goodies into his pockets.
"Don't forget to pay for these," House said through a mouthful of Snickers.
"Pay for your own candy." The margaritas had been a bad idea, even though he'd only had a little over one. That is to say, he'd only filled his glass once. There was the possibility that House had been topping the glass off when he wasn't paying attention.
"Tetchy."
"I have to get back to work." Going back to work might give him a chance to spend some time alone so that he could try to figure out how to avoid his impending nuptials.
"No, you don't. You're free for the rest of the day." House leaned his weight on the rounded tip of his cane and reached into his pocket for another piece of candy. He unwrapped the foil and dropped the wadded up empty back into his pocket.
"I think I should at least call and check on that." Sam searched his pockets for a cell phone.
"You left it on your desk. So, I took the liberty of calling and canceling all your appointments."
"You did?"
"I wanted to make sure I had a ride home. And someone to help me make fun of whatever crummy show we can find on TV tonight. All you have to do is call the banshee and tell her you won’t be home until late."
"The banshee?" As if House wasn't bad enough, now Sam had that image to contend with.
"Harpy. Shrew. Whatever you prefer."
"I think I'd prefer to just call her Emily."
"That's not what you called her last night. Not that her name came up that much." House stepped out of the restaurant. He blinked and sheltered his eyes with his left hand for a second while his vision adjusted. "If I remember correctly the phrase you used was ‘conniving whore.’ But then, you were drunk."
Had he really? That was no way to talk about a woman. Sam found it very hard to respect any man who would even think something like that.
"You said I wasn't drunk," was the best response Sam could muster.
"You should be a big enough boy by now to be able to remember whether or not you've had too much to drink. Makes me wonder what else you're going to claim to have forgotten."
That didn't sound good. With that tone, Sam didn't have to know House, to know he was alluding to something that had the potential to be very important. He tried to laugh but the sound came out a muffled croak.
"You'll have to remind me what you think I forgot. Then I can tell you if it comes as a surprise." This was a trick he had to pull nearly ever leap: Somehow convince the people around him to rehash even the most obvious details. It usually worked. People tended to assume that he (or she, as the case may be) wanted to re-think recent events from a different perspective. It was beneficial that he usually leapt into people's lives during eventful times; convincing someone to retell the events of an important event was easy. It required much more finesse to get someone to rehash Tuesday night dinner.
"I've forgotten if you have." House picked up speed and kept pace towards the car so that he was a few feet ahead of Sam. For a man with a cane he was quite swift. Every time Sam reached out to grab his arm in an attempt to get House to stop, House would make a deft move just before Sam's fingers made contact.
"Dammit, House!" Sam stopped next to a blue Toyota. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window. The first time he'd looked at himself since leaping into this body. He hadn’t registered anything about the photo on the ID badge. When he was in the restroom talking to Al he hadn't thought to look. Now, standing in the sunlight in a parking lot of a Mexican restaurant, he got his first good look at James Wilson. He was attractive. His face, in the process of transforming from boyish charm to distinguished good looks, was highlighted by compassionate eyes. He smiled at his reflection. He had a nice smile. Sam was transfixed, as he always was. He'd inhabited the bodies of young girls and elderly black men. He'd been a double amputee and a monkey. All of those different bodies. All of those souls. God, Fate, Time or Whatever had briefly made him a part of all of them. Now, he was a part of James Wilson, a man who looked much too kind, too gentle, to be the callous jerk Sam had begun to think he must be. He ran his hands through brown hair that was at that moment being blown into his eyes by a late summer's breeze,
"Wake up." House's reflection appeared in the car window next to Sam's. "Come on, you can admire yourself in the mirror all you want once we get to my place."
He blinked a couple of times. The unfamiliar face in the window blinked back at him. "Sorry, thought I'd spilled some salsa on my shirt. Guess not." Taking the keys out of his pocket, Sam clicked the automatic door lock and looked around the parking lot for the blinking lights to remind him which car was his. Sure, he'd driven to the restaurant, but in the ensuing time he’d managed to forget what kind of car he drove.
Then there was the small problem of having no idea how to get to House's apartment to contend with. He was trying to decide whether it was worth the risk to ask House to drive when Al showed up.
"We're having some trouble in the Waiting Room. This Wilson character isn't too happy. Beeks is trying to talk to him, but it's not going too well."
Sam responded with a "What am I supposed to do about that?" shrug.
"Is there something about this parking lot that intrigues you?" House asked as he reached into his pocket. Sam thought he was going for more candy, but instead he pulled out the amber pill bottle. “Give me the keys. I feel like driving." He popped the lid off and tapped the top against his palm. Sam couldn't see how many pills came out, but it sounded like more than one. House cupped his hand to his mouth, tilted his head back and dry swallowed the pills.
"Don't give him the keys, Sam. He looks drunk. And he just took the recommended daily allowance of Vicodin in one gulp."
"I have a lot on my mind. And I don't think you should be driving." He looked at Al and then waved him in the direction of the car.
"You know, that looked an awful lot like you just motioned for someone to follow you."
"I'm stressed! It's making me twitchy!" Sam was too polite to come out and say that he was getting pissed off or to tell House to shut the hell up. He hoped his actions would serve to convey that emotion. What he needed was to get someplace where he could think in peace.
After a pause House said, "Yeah, well, that's your own fault. Deal with it."
"Hey Gimpy," Al took advantage of his holographic status to avoid social niceties, "ever hear that old adage about people who live in glass houses?"
"Al!" Sam coughed.
"That sounded suspiciously like a fake cough. The sort one might use to talk to someone on the sly. There's no one else out here, so I'm thinking you might be having stress induced hallucinations." House's speech was slow and deliberate, the tone most people reserved for small children or, as Al would say, the ‘mentally absent.’ “Now, be a good boy and give me the keys."
"I wasn't talking to myself. I'm not waving at anyone,” Sam said through gritted teeth. “You're being a jerk. If you don't want to ride with me you can take a cab."
Judging by his unwillingness to lay down seventy-five cents for candy, Sam had guessed correctly that House wasn't one to throw money away on a cab. He opened the door and sat down on the passenger side.
Al gave Sam directions to House's apartment and disappeared through the door of the Imaging Chamber. Beeks had asked Al to get back and help her deal with Doctor Wilson. Giving Leapees more than the bare bones of information was strictly against the guidelines. Over the years Al had become better than anyone on the project at bending that rule as far as possible without actually breaking it.
Sam headed through town towards his destination. As he drove he tried to piece together the situation and come up with a quick and painless way to keep Wilson from marrying Emily. Emily, who he wouldn't recognize if he ran her over with the car. The easiest thing to do would be to just not turn up at the wedding. But that might not stop Wilson from getting married some other time. He didn't know if the problem was that he shouldn't marry Emily or if Wilson shouldn't marry anybody.
House didn't notice the lack of conversation. He had unplugged Wilson's iPod and replaced it with his own. He'd clicked through several screens before settling on something. Now, he was sliding his fingers along the neck of an imaginary guitar in time with a Robert Johnson song.
"Kindhearted woman," Sam said.
A smile appeared and just as quickly faded from House's face. "Like that's hard to figure out. He only says it about 15 times in the song."
"Strange song to pick." Sam glanced away from the road towards the man in the passenger seat. There was something just below the surface, an emotion that Sam would have given anything to have been able to read. "Are you trying to tell me something?" Sam had learned, it was best to try to get right to the point.
"Yeah, a song about calling a lover by a wrong name and a woman that 'studies evil all the time.' No parallels there."
"That’s the second time you’ve mentioned that. When did I say she called someone else's name when we were in bed?" Sam asked. It wasn't easy trying to carry on this conversation and look for signs of House's apartment. Al had said that House owned a bright orange motorcycle that he parked in front of his building. If only all landmarks were as easy to spot as that bike, Sam’s life would be slightly easier.
Sam was still waiting for a response as he maneuvered the Volvo into a parking space.
"I never said she did." House got out of the car and walked up the steps to his apartment. Although there was the matter of not getting married to worry about, Sam thought it was best to follow House into the apartment.
His eyes were immediately drawn to the main fixture of the living room, the piano. Sam loved to play the piano. It was one of his natural talents. It was one skill so deeply ingrained that it never fell victim to Swiss Cheesing. All he had to do was sit down at the keys and his fingers would instinctively start picking out songs his conscious mind didn't remember knowing.
Sam could hear the sound of running water coming from the bathroom. He couldn't help himself. Sam picked the books and magazines that were covering the bench and sat them on the floor. He sat down and began to play his favorite song, Imagine.
He was through two verses on onto the chorus when he looked up towards House, whose face was as free of expression as the world John Lennon had dreamt of was devoid of possessions. Sam closed his eyes and continued to sing:
"I hope someday you'll join us
And the world will live as one."
"The last time you tried to play you couldn't figure out the intricacies of Heart and Soul."
He hadn't even thought about the possibility that Wilson couldn't play. With a piano like this at his disposal, how could he resist? Sam worked hard to keep his skills and abilities in check during a Leap. Sometimes, things slipped out, knowledge or skills that the person he'd leaped into shouldn't or simply didn't have.
"I..." Sam stammered. "I've been teaching myself how to play. I'm allowed to have a hobby and not tell you about it, you know." He hoped that was true. Nothing he'd experienced thus far indicated that to be the case. Surely no one could be so monomaniacal as to focus all of his energy on one person. Wilson had, after all, found time to meet and become engaged to several women. He was the head of a department at a large hospital. Surely, he could have found time to learn how to play a few tunes on the piano.
House scowled. "You're an enigma shrouded in mystery wrapped in an ugly tie, aren't you?" He turned and walked into the kitchen.
Without Al's input all Sam had to work with was what he could gather from what House said and did. He didn't seem interested in saying much. Something had happened that Sam should know about, but until Al could get that information out of Wilson he couldn't do anything but wait and try to come up with the information himself.
A minute later House returned with two bottles of beer and a bottle of water gripped between the fingers of his left hand. He sat the water next to Sam and kept the beer for himself. He picked the remote off of the coffee table and turned on the television.
Water bottle in hand, Sam got up from the piano and sat down on the couch next to House. The action earned him a cocked eyebrow and an interested glance, but nothing else. They sat in silence and watched television for what seemed like hours, but based on the lack of programming change was less than forty-five minutes.
***
"This will be over and we can get you home a lot quicker if you'll just answer a few questions for us," Doctor Verbena Beeks, the Project's resident psychiatrist, explained.
"You sound like Tritter."
"Who's Tritter?"
"He's a cop." He answered before he caught himself and remembered that he didn't owe these people any information. "He's not important."
"Does he have something to do with Doctor House?" Beeks leaned forward and reached a hand out towards Wilson.
"What do you know about House?" There was no point in trying to hide the suspicion in his voice. He'd made it known that he didn't trust any of the people he had met since waking up in the Waiting Room.
Doctor Beeks smiled. "You mentioned him when you were waking up. When you first got here. Is he someone important to you?"
Wilson studied his cuticles for a moment. "That's one way to put it."
"How would you put it, Doctor?"
He didn't answer, instead becoming very focused on the polish on his shoes.
"James, it's vital that you're honest with me. The more honest you are, the sooner you can leave here."
"You talk like I'm on my way to the locked ward if I don't cooperate."
"Nothing like that, I promise you." Beeks smiled a placating smile. "Don't think of your time here as being against your will. Think of it as a chance to work through a few things and hopefully avoid making wrong decisions."
Wilson chuckled. "I know you're trying to sound reassuring, but that sounds like I'm this close," he held his thumb and forefinger less than half an inch apart in front of his face, "to a 72 hour hold."
"If you don't cooperate, this could take a lot longer than 72 hours."
His eyes narrowed. "Are you threatening me, Doctor?"
"Just telling you the facts. If you won't help us, there's no way we can help you."
He drew his hand up to his face and pinched the bridge of his nose. He had no idea where he was. Or if he was anywhere. This could all be a very vivid, very peculiar dream.
The only way out was through a door with no visible means of being opened. He felt very tired. There didn't seem to be any use trying to fight these people. If they wanted to keep him here, he could think of nothing he could do to stop them. As far as he could tell, he had been stripped of any power he might have otherwise had. He might as well answer their questions. He wasn't sure he even had a choice in the matter.
"What do you want to know?"
"Let's start with Doctor House. Who is he to you?"
***
Three hours later, and as many episodes of some show in which unfortunate aspiring chefs faced the wrath of a very angry British man, Al stepped into House's living room through the Imaging Chamber door. It wasn't quite seven in the evening. The sun hadn't fully set. House had passed out after depleting his beer supply. Right before falling asleep he'd ordered Sam to go to call that Indian place that didn't mind delivering beer as long as they ordered plenty of food to wash it down. Having no knowledge of such a restaurant, Sam had appeased House with a smile and a nod.
House's head had fallen onto Sam's shoulder, and in spite of several attempts to maintain some semblance of space between them, Sam had only succeeded in intertwining himself with House's stretched out limbs. Sometimes weeks (months? was there any way to say?) would go by that Sam wouldn't be touched with the affection House was unconsciously offering. Sam wasn't a man uncomfortable in his skin, particularly since it wasn't his skin he was in. He had no problem showing affection towards anyone, male or female. People needed to be touched, to be reminded that they were not alone. So often, he felt more than alone. Sam draped his arm around House's shoulder and maneuvered the other man into a position that had to be more comfortable than the one House had chosen for himself.
When Al stepped out into the living room, Sam braced himself for a smart remark. He expected Al to makes a slightly homophobic comment that would trigger a lecture on the importance of judging people based on the content of their character. A lecture that Sam didn't relish the idea of making, as it would be a little hard to back up with examples pertaining to House.
Even after all these years, Al was able to surprise Sam with a comment.
"Oh. You figured it out. What he sees in that nozzle I don't know. But, no accounting for taste. Guess you don't need me. Everything's hunky dory. You should be going bye-bye pretty soon. "
"What do you mean?" Sam whispered as he began to carefully remove himself from House's grip. "He's a cuddly drunk," Sam lifted House's arm and slid off the couch. "Probably the only time he is. What have you found out?"
Ziggy squawked. Al swore and slapped the handlink. "I know," he said.
"Al!" Sam walked into the kitchen and leaned against the butcher's block. "What is it that you'd take..." he motioned towards the sofa, "that...to mean I'd done what I was supposed to..." He stopped and looked at Al, who raised his eyebrow and waited for Sam to fill in the blank. Sam's mouth fell open, "I'm--Wilson's--" Sam gestured from House's sleeping form back towards himself.
Al chewed on the butt of his unlit cigar and nodded.
"But what about..." He looked towards the living room. This was a surprise. "Is it mutual?"
"Do you really need an answer to that? After the way he went all octopus arms on you over there." Al gestured towards House. "No straight man ever gets that drunk."
With the grace of a young man Sam pushed himself up until he was sitting on the butcher's block. He dropped his head into his hands and thought. "That's what he's been talking about!" Sam exclaimed as he lifted his head up. "Something happened last night, didn't it?"
Al shrugged.
"So, something did happen?" Sam asked.
Another shrug.
"Al! What happened?"
"Sam, I'm not comfortable..."
"You don't have to go into details. Just tell me, in a way you can deal with, what happened." Sam said the last part of the sentence through clenched teeth. He hated that Al could be so narrow minded.
"He kissed him," Al visibly shuddered at the image that statement provoked.
"Who kissed whom, Al? Could you be a little more specific?"
"Wilson," Al wagged his left hand in front of his mouth, "House. He'd told him about Emily. They had a few words. Very few words if what I've seen of either of them is any indication. House had gone into the kitchen. Wilson said he was going to leave, when he turned around and walked into the kitchen and just..." Al screwed his face up into an exaggerated cringe. "Just laid a big old smackeroo right on the kisser."
"What happened then?" Sam asked.
"I'd rather not say."
Sam slipped off the block and looked around the wall towards the living room, to check to see if House was still asleep. He was. "Do you mean that they," Sam lowered his voice to an even quieter whisper. "Did they have sex?"
"Do you have to come right out and say it, Sam?"
"Sex, Al." Sam taunted. "Sex! Birds do it, bees do it. You have no problem telling me about your exploits in that area. The question is did I do it with House?"
"Sam! For my sanity, would you just say 'Wilson', instead of 'you'?"
Clearly exasperated, Sam sighed. "Fine. Did Wilson and House have sex?"
"It depends on your definition of sex," Al hedged.
"Is it only sex in your book if it involves a man and a woman?"
Al winced again. "Does the name Monica Lewinski mean anything to you?"
"No."
"Sam, I..."
"Okay, what base did they get to?"
"Just short of," Al paused and gnawed on the end of his cigar as he pondered the choice of words that would cause him the least amount of discomfort. "I guess it depends on your definition..." He cringed. "Just short of sliding...that's a really bad choice of words...The inning ended before anyone stole home."
Sam thought about that and decided he had a pretty good idea what that meant. "And then what happened?"
"Sam..."
"Al," Sam said in a tone reminiscent of a frustrated elementary school teacher. "Spit it out."
"Wilson--you--freaked out and left."
"But," Sam rested his head against the refrigerator. "When House walked into Wilson's office today, he acted like nothing had happened."
"Wouldn't you?"
After a moment of thought, Sam nodded. "Except he didn't...He started dropping hints right away. I think it bothered him more that he thought I didn't want to talk about what happened than that something happened."
Ziggy whined. Al punched a few buttons on Ziggy's keypad and read the results. "Beeks says that Doctor Wilson's said some things that lead her to believe he's in love with House."
"What does she propose we do about the woman he's planning to marry? You remember the one who's pregnant with his child? Does she even figure into this?"
"He said that after he left last night he doesn't expect that to happen again. He doesn't see any other choice. Thinks the kid might be his last chance. To leave behind some legacy that isn't completely fucked up. His words, not mine."
"Wilson." House was standing in doorway of the kitchen. "You're talking about yourself in the third person. That's weird, even for you."
Al looked from one man to the other. "This is your chance. You've got to do something, Sam."
"I know," Sam answered.
House pushed Sam aside and opened the refrigerator. "You didn't call the Indian place."
"No, sorry. I was...I was just thinking-out loud-about...stuff."
House pulled a bottle of water out of the fridge and closed the door. He twisted the top off and drank a long gulp. "Stuff, huh?" He moved closer to Sam until only inches separated them. "What kind of stuff?"
"Just about what happened. What--we--" Sam gulped, "did."
"What is it we did?" Without turning his eyes away from Sam he reached out, opened the cupboard door and pulled out a box of crackers.
"Sam!" Al yelled over Ziggy's frantic whines. "Gushie was able to hack into Emily's email. The kid isn't his. The father's her convict ex-husband. They're in on it together. It's a scam! That's why he shouldn't get married. Tell House that! You don't have to do..." Al's expression seemed permanently fixed in a state of confused disgust, "this."
Sam nodded.
Wilson wasn't under any moral obligation to get married. Things could stay just the way they had been. Nothing had to change. All he had to do was tell House what Al had just told him. Then he could leap.
His gut told him it wasn't that simple. He was there to do something else.
"I think I do." Sam whispered.
"This is about what Beeks thinks, isn't it?" Al asked.
"Yes, it is."
"Have you lost what was left of your mind?" House asked.
"She lied, House. Emily lied." Sam looked into House's eyes. "The baby isn't mine."
House furrowed his brow, but held Sam's gaze. "Good. Guess you can keep holding auditions for the role of 4th Mrs. Wilson." He turned to walk out of the kitchen, as if that ended the conversation.
"Wait." Sam reached out and grabbed onto the sleeve of House's t-shirt.
House tensed, but stopped.
"What's there to wait for?" He asked without turning around.
There's something else. Something about...last night...about us..." His tongue tripped over the words.
House stepped backwards so that his back was almost against Sam's chest. He didn't turn around. "What happened last night?"
"I...I mean we," Sam hated this part--trying to say someone else's words, to convey a stranger's emotions--it never got easier.
"I'm outta here Sam, I can't watch this." Al punched something into Ziggy's keypad. The Imaging Chamber door opened. "Good luck." He stepped through the door and disappeared.
"What?" House finally turned and faced Sam. House's long fingers tensed and relaxed as he starred into Sam's eyes.
Some residual piece of Wilson woke up inside of him and took over. Sam closed his eyes, reached out and wrapped his fingers around House's hand. He leaned forward. House's breath was hot against his skin. They were so close now that Sam could feel House's chest rise and fall. It felt so right. The kind of right that Sam knew meant he had done all he could do. The rest was up to the people who rightfully owned these lives.
Sam leaned forward to close the minuscule gap between them. As he felt House reach his hand up to the back of his head and the first touch of lips against his, he felt the world fall away. He was gone. On to whatever God Fate or Time wanted him to do next.
***
Wilson held onto the moment as best as he could. Everything was twisted, turned upside down. He felt as if he had been dropped from a great height and was rapidly approaching the ground without anything to cushion his fall. House's hand traced along his spine, stopping just as his fingers slid past his belt. He couldn't really remember what had happened to get him to this point. All he knew was that it was happening.
This was happening.
He knew there would be no wedding in three days. He wasn't sure why. That didn't matter at the moment.
Not while House was doing that thing with his tongue.
"House, I..." Wilson searched for something to say. He had no idea what that would be. Just that he should say something.
"What?" House growled as he bit lightly into Wilson's neck.
House pinned Wilson against the refrigerator door. He wasn't sure if he was standing or if they were holding each other up.
Wilson shivered. "I...oh boy."