Goes the Neighborhood (PG-13)
Posted to house_wilson and housefic
Title: Goes the Neighborhood
Author: Dee Laundry
Characters: House, Wilson, new fellows, Foreman
Rating: PG-13 for language
Words: 4425
Summary: One month into their permanent positions, the new fellows catch a case on the weekend and have to track House down.
Notes: Spoilers through episode 4-9. Thanks to daisylily for beta and nightdog_barks for pointing out that it wasn’t finished yet.
When Taub stops his Mercedes and unlocks the doors, Foreman looks up from the patient’s file and immediately says, “This is not right.”
Taub taps the GPS and then looks at the street sign on the corner. “This is the address Thirteen gave me.”
Huffing, Foreman repeats, “It’s not right. One, I’ve been to House’s place before, and this is not it, and two, look around. This neighborhood is yellow labs, sweater sets, Italian strollers, and excellent public schools other kids get bused in to use because all the children who live here go to private academies. No way does House live here.”
“I got the address from HR,” Thirteen protests from the back seat. “It’s right.”
Foreman stares her down, but she doesn’t budge from her conviction. “Fine,” he says. “We’ll go ring the doorbell. You two will be the ones apologizing to the people who actually live here, though.”
Taub agrees with Foreman about the apparent improbability of this being House’s neighborhood - first, it most definitely doesn’t fit House’s character, and second, Taub and his wife have lived six blocks over for months now, and they’ve never seen House around. However, Thirteen doesn’t usually speak up about something unless she’s sure of her facts, so Taub is inclined to give her the benefit of the doubt.
If it does turn out she’s wrong, he’s making her be the one to apologize.
On the sidewalk, Taub has to jump to dodge a little girl in a pedal car (shaped to look like a Hummer); he accepts a quick apology from the woman running after her with a smile. Foreman shakes his head; Thirteen’s eyes are unreadable behind her sunglasses.
Taub rings the doorbell of the house, while making sure that Thirteen is front and center. If House does answer the door, they’ll have to explain what they’re doing there at three on a Sunday afternoon, and Taub knows for sure that Thirteen’s face will soothe the way much better than his would. Foreman stands a few steps back, arms crossed, looking out across the front lawn.
Taub’s prepared for House; he’s prepared for strangers; he is not prepared for the person who actually answers the door.
“Hello?” Princeton-Plainsboro’s Head of Oncology says, his eyebrows halfway up his forehead and his hands shoving into the pockets of his worn jeans.
“Dr. Wilson?” Taub asks, and is immediately embarrassed by the slight crack in his voice. He’s working with House now; he has to learn not to be fazed by the completely unexpected.
Foreman pushes forward, bullheadedly taking charge as always. “Sorry to bother you. We were looking for House, and obviously Thirteen made a mistake with the address.”
Thirteen visibly bristles, but nobody seems to pay her any mind.
“Yeah,” Dr. Wilson says, stretching the word out to three times its normal length. “He’s not here. Did you try his cell?”
“Can’t get through,” Thirteen notes. “It always goes straight to voicemail.”
Dr. Wilson lifts his shoulders in a what can you do? move. “Probably forgot to charge it. Page him.”
“No response to that either,” Thirteen says. Taub looks at her and realizes what’s been making him feel strange about her since he picked her and Foreman up at the hospital twenty minutes ago. The severe slacks, the button-down shirt, blazer, sunglasses - she looks like a cop, a detective. Kind of like that redhead from the show Homicide. What is up with that?
“Well,” Dr. Wilson says. “I can -”
But they don’t find out what he can do, because at that second they’re interrupted by a countertenor bellow of epic proportions.
“Juice!”
“Oh, damn, Timothy,” Dr. Wilson mutters, turning away from the door. “Stay here,” he says to them over his shoulder, “I’ll be right back.”
Taub’s mystified, and his face as he turns to Foreman must reflect that, he’s convinced. Foreman looks like he’s disappointed in the entire world, and says curtly to Thirteen, “Try House’s cell again.”
“Why did HR give you Dr. Wilson’s address?” Taub asks, but Thirteen waves him off, her ear plastered to her phone.
He aims his next inquiry at Foreman. “I didn’t know he had children.” Foreman just shakes his head, his expression guarded.
Looking back toward the doorway, Taub sees Dr. Wilson approach, a toddler boy riding securely on his hip.
“Timothy, say hi,” Dr. Wilson says in a near-falsetto. Timothy chooses to ignore him in favor of sipping loudly from his gaudy purple insulated cup.
“You,” Foreman says, and then stops. Thirteen’s still hunched over her phone, deliberately turned away from them.
Dr. Wilson looks at them, and his eyebrows climb again. “You think I - No. No. This is the neighbor’s kid, Timothy. I’m just watching him for a little while, so his father can run an errand.”
“Oh,” Foreman says, and Taub has to hold back a smile. Department head moonlights as babysitter - it’s pretty amusing.
“There’s my boy!” they hear from the driveway, and Taub startles, along with Thirteen and Foreman, although they try to hide it. The voice is eerily similar to House’s, but the man who strides up is four inches shorter, fifteen years younger, and thirty-plus degrees friendlier.
Timothy still seems more interested in his juice than anything else. “Mommy?” he asks offhandedly.
The man laughs affectionately. “Coming home Tuesday, Squirt.” He looks up at Dr. Wilson and nods. “Thanks for watching him. It’s just so much easier to get through the grocery store without him running around.”
“It’s a pleasure, Paul,” Dr. Wilson says, and Taub realizes that he’s never let go of the boy. In fact, he seems to be holding Timothy tighter. “I could keep him longer, if you need me to.”
“Really?” Paul asks. “I would love to go hit the Home Depot. But you’ve got company.”
Wilson blinks and looks at Taub as if he’s never seen him before. “Oh, no. They’re just about to leave.” Taub glances at Foreman; he’s shifting his weight from one foot to the other, clearly torn between the urge to be gone already and the social niceties keeping them trapped until the conversation is over.
“You’re sure?” Paul is looking Dr. Wilson straight in the eye, but his feet are already aiming themselves away from the door.
“Positive. It’s fine. Go.”
The kid chooses that moment to launch his cup into the air. After a short arc, it hits the ground and rolls to a stop at Foreman’s feet. He looks at it as if it’s a bomb - and Thirteen is still glued to her phone - so Taub sighs and bends to retrieve it.
When he stands back up, Paul is saying, “- great with him. You know, our adoption agency was outstanding, absolutely top-notch. I could put you in touch with them.”
Biting his lip, Dr. Wilson ducks his head. “No, I’m really - just -” He shifts the toddler to his other hip. “You know, busy job and - No, thanks.”
Paul smiles. “Sure. Ever change your mind, let me know.” He leans over and tousles Timothy’s hair, then heads toward the driveway, calling over his shoulder, ”I’ll be back in about an hour. You’ve got my cell if you need me.”
By tacit agreement, they wait for the green Land Rover to pull away before speaking. Then they all overlap - “So,” “Well,” “I” - and awkwardly fall silent again. Taub can’t shake the feeling that there’s more going on here than a mistaken address. It’s like that teenager from a month ago with the fronto-nasal encephalocele; Taub knows that’s not all there is. He can almost, almost see the face underneath.
“TV!” the toddler declares into the confusion, and suddenly everyone’s back to business. Thirteen finally puts away her cell phone; Foreman sets his shoulders and nods.
“Wilson, sorry to bother you; we’ll go now,” Foreman says. “House’s condo is on Baker, right? What’s the number, again?”
Dr. Wilson’s face starts to twitch in a strange way. “Well,” he says, before being interrupted by a smack to his chest from Timothy.
“TV! TV!” the little boy insists, and Taub feels himself starting to smirk. One of his nieces was a television addict at about the same age. He hands over the sippy cup, which placates Timothy for the millisecond it takes the boy to figure out that the juice is all gone. Then the cup is back at Foreman’s feet, and Taub is retrieving it again.
“House is probably -” Dr. Wilson starts, but they all get distracted by the purr of a motorcycle pulling up in the driveway. The bike stops, the engine cuts off, and the rider flips up his visor.
“Aw,” House calls as he takes off his helmet and steps off the bike, “having a party without inviting me? I’m hurt.”
“Believe me,” Foreman says, striding toward him with the file in an outstretched hand, “this is purely a professional visit. We have a twenty-year old with excessive irritability, severe abdominal cramps, tenderness and swelling of the breast tissue -”
House blows past him without even acknowledging the held-out file. “You tracked me down on a Sunday, the day God specifically told mankind - well, not Jews, but us normal people - to rest, for a patient with PMS?”
“TV!” Timothy yells. House pulls a funny face at him, and the boy giggles. Dr. Wilson’s trying to hide a smile, as well.
“See,” House says, gesturing at Timothy. “That’s a person with his priorities straight.” Foreman opens his mouth to reply, but House barrels right over him. “What led you to look for me here, anyway?”
“HR gave me this address,” Thirteen says defiantly. House’s gaze sweeps up and down her body, and he nods approvingly.
Trying to hold on to the wriggling toddler in his arms, Dr. Wilson interjects, “Isn’t that the funniest thing, that there’d be a mix-up like that in HR.”
“Hilarious,” House says dryly. “Hey guys, you know what Wilson likes most about this house? How comfy the closets are.”
For a split second, Taub’s brain shuts down. That couldn’t have meant what he thought. He looks around for confirmation. Foreman is clutching the patient file tighter; Thirteen starts inspecting her shoes.
Dr. Wilson’s eyes widen, then narrow, and his lips purse. “You were the one -”
“Is your sniffer broken?” House interrupts, his own nose wrinkled in disgust. ”That kid’s got a load in his diaper. You won’t win Nanny of the Year if Paul catches you letting the boy wallow in his own shit.”
Dr. Wilson puts Timothy down but keeps a firm grasp on his hand even as the boy tries to pull him into the house. Glaring, Dr. Wilson grits out, “Make up your mind, House.”
House stares at Dr. Wilson seriously for a moment, and then pulls another face. “But all the Spice Girls are hot!” he whines.
“Fine,” Dr. Wilson says. “I’m calling Cuddy.”
“Cuddy’s a Spice Girl? That does explain a lot. By the way, little man, it’s fine that you came to play with Wilson, but don’t start thinking you can hang around all the time.”
Dr. Wilson says with a sigh, “Paul will be back for him soon.”
“I was talking to Taub,” House replies with a smirk. Taub plasters on his fine, it’s all fine smile. If Foreman can put up with the black jokes, Taub can put up with the short jokes. And the Judaism jokes. And the cheating jokes.
Wilson nods to all of them and then allows Timothy to drag him away, closing the door as he goes.
“Actually,” Taub says, “you are likely to see me around. I live over on Locust Street.”
House rolls his eyes. “Why am I not surprised to learn you live here in Little Miami Beach?” Taub wants to make a jibe back - just as soon as he thinks of one - but House continues, “I need to follow the kid’s lead and take a dump. So unless somebody tells me something interesting about PMS Gal in the next twenty seconds -”
“He’s a man,” Thirteen says, and House whips around to look at her. “The patient’s a man,” she repeats.
“A man with PMS,” House muses.
Foreman shakes his head. “It’s not PMS. The other symptoms include -”
“Yeah, yeah,” House interrupts, already walking down the drive. “You can tell me on the way to the hospital.”
Foreman scoffs - Taub wonders if he’s ever anything but frustrated around House - but follows. “Since when are you gay?” Foreman asks.
Looking back over the roof of Taub’s Mercedes, from where he’s opened the door to the front passenger seat, House replies, “Since when do you care?”
“Point taken.” Foreman climbs in behind the driver’s seat. Thirteen’s already buckled in the other rear seat; Taub adjusts his mirrors and smoothly shifts into gear. “So, once again, the symptoms include...”
***
By seven o’clock, the patient is stable, but not all the test results are in. Foreman’s gone home; Kutner and Thirteen are finishing the tests; Taub’s been roped into grabbing dinner with House and listening to him whine.
“Cafeteria food sucks.” House slumps back in his chair; he hasn’t stopped scowling since they got in line. “I was supposed to be eating homemade Thai seafood curry tonight.”
“Pot roast,” Taub sighs as he picks at his sandwich. “With garlic rosemary baby potatoes, and fresh peach gelato for dessert.”
“Where do you get fresh peaches this time of year?”
Taub holds up a hand to forestall that line of inquiry. “She works her magic, and I don’t ask.”
House nods. “Some things you’re better off not knowing. Such as what exactly this meat-product is.” Sneering, he pokes it with a fork, then takes a big breath and crams a chunk of it into his mouth.
Taub has to look away. At least he can be fairly confident that his sandwich truly is turkey.
They sit in disdainful silence for a few minutes until House says, “So, guy who knows how things go down, do you think the entire hospital will know about me and Wilson by ten tomorrow, or will it take until noon? The morgue attendants are a little bit slow on the uptake when it comes to the living, so maybe noon’s the better bet.”
Taub thinks for a moment. “It depends. You didn’t tell anyone before today?”
“Nope. HR’s had the same address for me and Wilson since we moved into the house, but they still seem to be at the stage where the lever and pulley seem like really cool tools, so I don’t think they ever put it together.” House cuts another bite of meat, then steals a chip from Taub’s plate. Taub had been warned about that; he’s got another bag of chips in the pocket of his lab coat.
“Dr. Wilson said he was going to call Cuddy. Would he tell anyone else today?”
“Probably not. He’s got an all-Oncology department meeting already scheduled for tomorrow at one. He’s big into the kumbaya, everyone’s equal approach to leading, so he’ll save it up to tell them all there.”
“Then you’ve got until then,” Taub says definitively. “Foreman doesn’t even want to think about it; he’s not going to say anything. It’s none of my business, so I’m not going to say anything. Kutner doesn’t know, and -”
House’s expression is almost comically perplexed. “Kutner doesn’t know? I thought he was with you all afternoon. Has he been skipping out to get stoned? Why didn’t he invite me?”
“No, he’s been working,” Taub replies with a smile. “But you haven’t mentioned it, and none of us told him.”
House lays one of the most scornful gazes Taub has ever seen on him. “Maybe I’ll buy you didn’t tell him, but Thirteen’s up there with him now. No way is she going to refrain from spilling the juicy ‘our boss is a cocksucker’ gossip.”
“She might call you a cocksucker; it makes a nice change from calling you an asshole all the time. But she’s not going to tell Kutner you’re in a relationship with Dr. Wilson. She never delves into the personal.”
“Don’t you think there’s something odd about that? Who doesn’t show interest in knowing about their co-workers’ lives? It’s like a freaking soap opera in this hospital.”
Taub thinks carefully about what he’s going to say next. It’s pure speculation, but given what he now knows about House, he doesn’t see how it could be held against Thirteen if it does turn out to be true. “In general, it seems that she’s focused on the job, on getting the patient diagnosed and treated.”
“Oh, the patient,” House interrupts with a sneer. “Like that counts for anything all that important.”
“In this case, I think there might be a more… personal reason for keeping things quiet.”
House looks at Taub and chews contemplatively. After a moment he says, “You think she’s a lesbian.”
“I couldn’t say for sure,” Taub says, because it’s true, he wouldn’t swear to it in a court of law. But there’s no way he’d be surprised.
“Sweet,” House says, and takes a long pull from his drink. “Of course, I’d already pictured her with a variety of the female staffers, but the possibility that she’s having the same fantasies makes it that much hotter. I can’t wait to tell Wilson.”
“But,” Taub replies, confused, “you’re involved with him. You’d actually tell him about having, um, an attraction to a woman?”
House rolls his eyes and slurps his drink loudly. “Benefit of seeing a horny bisexual: the entire panoply of triple-X fantasy is your oyster. Come on; let’s go. Kutner’s due to set himself on fire again any minute and I want to see it this time.”
“Just one more thing,” Taub says, firmly planted in his seat. He’s gratified to see House pause in the middle of getting up and then sink back into his chair again.
“Your neighbor,” Taub continues, “offered the name of an adoption agency, and Dr. Wilson turned him down.”
“Smart man.” Without warning House ducks to the side and reaches around the table, digging into Taub’s lab coat and emerging with the reserve chips. “Wilson’d make a crappy dad. He’s been trying to raise me for years, and look how I turned out.”
Taub smirks gently at this deflection attempt, and tries to ignore House’s elaborate display of chewing with his mouth open. “By all accounts around the hospital, he’s great with children.”
House stops, swallows, and looks Taub straight in the eye. It’s the microscope gaze, and while Taub can certainly handle it, it doesn’t mean he enjoys the experience.
“Why don’t you and your wife have kids?” House asks, every trace of mirth gone.
He should have expected that, he definitely should have, but it stings, regardless. “That’s… private.”
“Yeah. So what in the world makes you think it’s an issue I would want to talk about?”
Spreading his hands placatingly, Taub clarifies, “I’m not asking you to talk; I’m just offering some information. I know of an adoption agency that works with special families.”
House kicks back in his chair. “Finding kids with Downs and autism and attachment disorders a home. Heartwarming.”
“Not children with special needs. Adults looking to be parents who have… unique circumstances.”
“Queer Parents Anonymous,” House scoffs.
“It’s not gay-oriented, although I’m sure that wouldn’t be an issue. They specialize in working with adults with chronic conditions. People who would make good parents but who don’t quite meet the criteria of other agencies.” Taub fixes House with a look. “Or whose partners don’t.”
House glares but Taub holds his ground. He brought up the issue; now he’s going to see it through.
“I’m not the only pill-popper in the relationship,” House says.
Nodding, Taub drops his gaze to the table. “So the grapevine says.”
“What happened to, ‘It’s none of my business so I don’t gossip’?”
“I said when it’s none of my business I don’t say anything, not that I don’t listen,” Taub clarifies. He holds back a smirk when House’s face shows him conceding the point. “This agency works with everyone involved,” he continues, “to make sure the adults are ready and the children get the family they need. They’re incredibly successful with placement.”
“And yet they rejected you. God, you must really suck.” Eyes on the ceiling, House sucks on his straw and noisily slurps up the last molecules of soda remaining in his cup.
“My wife and I never spoke to them.” He accepts House’s upraised eyebrow as his due and explains, “It was my sister. The agency helped her twice - a daughter and a son. The kids are doing well with her, and she’s never been happier.”
House slaps his cup on the table. “So now she’s addicted to caring instead of heroin.” After a quick dab to the corners of his eyes, he continues, “Do you have a tissue? I feel the tears forming.”
Taub sighs. Obviously bringing this up now was a tactical error. His talent for understanding people and helping them understand themselves has been carefully honed over time, and almost never fails him - but then again, he’s never met anyone quite like House. “It’s just information,” he says. “Take it or leave it.”
“Leaving it.” House’s voice drops in volume by more than half; Taub makes a concerted effort not to lean in, to pretend that House is simply making conversation. “Forget my leg,” House says, “and my personality, and Wilson’s many, many issues - we’re too old, too busy, and ultimately too selfish for kids.”
“You should -”
“You should know by now how well I respond to ‘should’s.” House pushes back from the table and stands. “Come on. I want to go see where Pinky and The Lez are on those tests.”
Conversation over. Well, Taub thinks, at least I tried. After busing their table, he hurries to catch House in the hallway. He’s just about to the man - damn House’s long legs - when Dr. Wilson strolls up.
“Hey, House, Taub.” Dr. Wilson joins them in walking, matching House’s stride easily.
“What’s in the bag?” House asks.
Dr. Wilson raises the insulated container proudly and replies, “Gelato. Thought you and your team might like some.”
Amused, Taub smiles until House swings a glare his way. He holds up his hands in surrender. “Coincidence, I swear. I didn’t say anything to Naomi.” He waits for House to look back in Dr. Wilson’s direction before muttering, “Yet.”
When they stop by the elevator, House leans Dr. Wilson’s way and says, “I trust you took the puppy back to the kennel before you came.”
Dr. Wilson glances at House sidelong and then turns his attention back to the elevator door. “Paul picked Timothy up, yes.”
“He better have taken that diaper back with him,” House says, nose wrinkling in the exact same way it did earlier in the day. “I don’t want the smell everywhere.”
“Yes, he took the diaper,” Dr. Wilson says in exasperation as they step onto the elevator. “And there are no slobber marks anywhere, and your piano and your guitars are in pristine condition. And yes, I promise to give you at least twenty-four hours’ notice the next time, so you can clear out beforehand.”
House pokes at a gurney scuff on the side wall of the elevator. “It still mystifies me why you’d do that. I mean, I can see how a guy with a mid-six-figure salary would need to supplement his income, but still, there are other ways.”
They seem to have forgotten Taub’s there; he does his best to blend into the background.
“There’s this concept - I don’t suppose you’ve heard of it - of doing nice things for your neighbors.” Dr. Wilson shifts the insulated bag to his other hand, and tugs briefly on his sweater. “In addition to the warm, tingly, non-sexual feeling normal people get from helping others, there’s also the enlightened-self-interest benefit of building goodwill so they’ll do you favors in the future. Such as not calling the cops when you set off their car’s panic alarm at two in the morning.”
“Just don’t get in too deep.” The elevator door dings, and House steps out immediately. “You pull a Madonna in Malawi move, and I’m out of here.”
Shaking his head, Dr. Wilson follows, passing by his own office door and heading toward House’s. “I’m not having this argument with you again. I’ve told you a million times, I’m just helping them out. With Timothy’s developmental issues, he’s a tough kid to raise sometimes, and now they’re going through the whole nerve-wracking testing process. Providing some respite care now and then helps them recharge their batteries, it’s not too difficult for me, and you don’t have to be involved at all.”
Thirteen runs up to them at that moment, Kutner a few steps behind. “House, you’ve got to see these results.”
House grabs the papers she’s holding and gives them a quick scan, then calls after Dr. Wilson’s retreating form, “You have a predilection for getting attached to the tough cases. I’m simply saving you from yourself.”
Dr. Wilson turns back with a smile, “Of course. I have paperwork; find me later and I’ll give you a ride.”
“Yeah, you will,” House says, to Taub’s amusement, Thirteen’s ill-concealed embarrassment, and Kutner’s confusion, and then shoos Thirteen through the conference room door. Taub’s about to follow when Dr. Wilson calls him back.
“The gelato,” he says, pressing the bag into Taub’s hand. “It’s pistachio. House will say he hates it, but he’ll eat it all anyway, so if the rest of you want some, make sure you grab it first.”
Taub nods and turns back toward the conference room, already thinking through ramifications of different test results, but Dr. Wilson continues, “And your wife wants you to know she’s got the peach saved in the freezer for you.”
“This is Naomi’s gelato?” Taub is honestly shocked. “How did you -?”
Dr. Wilson grins slyly and points to where House, Thirteen, and Kutner are already deep in debate. “You’ve got a patient to save,” he says. “See you later.”
Taub watches him walking for a moment and then shakes his head. Apparently House isn’t the only one it’ll take him some extra time to understand. His thoughts are interrupted by a muffled “Ow!” and the thwong of a ball bouncing off the glass. “No! Bad puppy!” House shouts, and Kutner starts to protest, and Taub can’t help smiling. Best thing about this job: always something interesting going on.
Title: Goes the Neighborhood
Author: Dee Laundry
Characters: House, Wilson, new fellows, Foreman
Rating: PG-13 for language
Words: 4425
Summary: One month into their permanent positions, the new fellows catch a case on the weekend and have to track House down.
Notes: Spoilers through episode 4-9. Thanks to daisylily for beta and nightdog_barks for pointing out that it wasn’t finished yet.
When Taub stops his Mercedes and unlocks the doors, Foreman looks up from the patient’s file and immediately says, “This is not right.”
Taub taps the GPS and then looks at the street sign on the corner. “This is the address Thirteen gave me.”
Huffing, Foreman repeats, “It’s not right. One, I’ve been to House’s place before, and this is not it, and two, look around. This neighborhood is yellow labs, sweater sets, Italian strollers, and excellent public schools other kids get bused in to use because all the children who live here go to private academies. No way does House live here.”
“I got the address from HR,” Thirteen protests from the back seat. “It’s right.”
Foreman stares her down, but she doesn’t budge from her conviction. “Fine,” he says. “We’ll go ring the doorbell. You two will be the ones apologizing to the people who actually live here, though.”
Taub agrees with Foreman about the apparent improbability of this being House’s neighborhood - first, it most definitely doesn’t fit House’s character, and second, Taub and his wife have lived six blocks over for months now, and they’ve never seen House around. However, Thirteen doesn’t usually speak up about something unless she’s sure of her facts, so Taub is inclined to give her the benefit of the doubt.
If it does turn out she’s wrong, he’s making her be the one to apologize.
On the sidewalk, Taub has to jump to dodge a little girl in a pedal car (shaped to look like a Hummer); he accepts a quick apology from the woman running after her with a smile. Foreman shakes his head; Thirteen’s eyes are unreadable behind her sunglasses.
Taub rings the doorbell of the house, while making sure that Thirteen is front and center. If House does answer the door, they’ll have to explain what they’re doing there at three on a Sunday afternoon, and Taub knows for sure that Thirteen’s face will soothe the way much better than his would. Foreman stands a few steps back, arms crossed, looking out across the front lawn.
Taub’s prepared for House; he’s prepared for strangers; he is not prepared for the person who actually answers the door.
“Hello?” Princeton-Plainsboro’s Head of Oncology says, his eyebrows halfway up his forehead and his hands shoving into the pockets of his worn jeans.
“Dr. Wilson?” Taub asks, and is immediately embarrassed by the slight crack in his voice. He’s working with House now; he has to learn not to be fazed by the completely unexpected.
Foreman pushes forward, bullheadedly taking charge as always. “Sorry to bother you. We were looking for House, and obviously Thirteen made a mistake with the address.”
Thirteen visibly bristles, but nobody seems to pay her any mind.
“Yeah,” Dr. Wilson says, stretching the word out to three times its normal length. “He’s not here. Did you try his cell?”
“Can’t get through,” Thirteen notes. “It always goes straight to voicemail.”
Dr. Wilson lifts his shoulders in a what can you do? move. “Probably forgot to charge it. Page him.”
“No response to that either,” Thirteen says. Taub looks at her and realizes what’s been making him feel strange about her since he picked her and Foreman up at the hospital twenty minutes ago. The severe slacks, the button-down shirt, blazer, sunglasses - she looks like a cop, a detective. Kind of like that redhead from the show Homicide. What is up with that?
“Well,” Dr. Wilson says. “I can -”
But they don’t find out what he can do, because at that second they’re interrupted by a countertenor bellow of epic proportions.
“Juice!”
“Oh, damn, Timothy,” Dr. Wilson mutters, turning away from the door. “Stay here,” he says to them over his shoulder, “I’ll be right back.”
Taub’s mystified, and his face as he turns to Foreman must reflect that, he’s convinced. Foreman looks like he’s disappointed in the entire world, and says curtly to Thirteen, “Try House’s cell again.”
“Why did HR give you Dr. Wilson’s address?” Taub asks, but Thirteen waves him off, her ear plastered to her phone.
He aims his next inquiry at Foreman. “I didn’t know he had children.” Foreman just shakes his head, his expression guarded.
Looking back toward the doorway, Taub sees Dr. Wilson approach, a toddler boy riding securely on his hip.
“Timothy, say hi,” Dr. Wilson says in a near-falsetto. Timothy chooses to ignore him in favor of sipping loudly from his gaudy purple insulated cup.
“You,” Foreman says, and then stops. Thirteen’s still hunched over her phone, deliberately turned away from them.
Dr. Wilson looks at them, and his eyebrows climb again. “You think I - No. No. This is the neighbor’s kid, Timothy. I’m just watching him for a little while, so his father can run an errand.”
“Oh,” Foreman says, and Taub has to hold back a smile. Department head moonlights as babysitter - it’s pretty amusing.
“There’s my boy!” they hear from the driveway, and Taub startles, along with Thirteen and Foreman, although they try to hide it. The voice is eerily similar to House’s, but the man who strides up is four inches shorter, fifteen years younger, and thirty-plus degrees friendlier.
Timothy still seems more interested in his juice than anything else. “Mommy?” he asks offhandedly.
The man laughs affectionately. “Coming home Tuesday, Squirt.” He looks up at Dr. Wilson and nods. “Thanks for watching him. It’s just so much easier to get through the grocery store without him running around.”
“It’s a pleasure, Paul,” Dr. Wilson says, and Taub realizes that he’s never let go of the boy. In fact, he seems to be holding Timothy tighter. “I could keep him longer, if you need me to.”
“Really?” Paul asks. “I would love to go hit the Home Depot. But you’ve got company.”
Wilson blinks and looks at Taub as if he’s never seen him before. “Oh, no. They’re just about to leave.” Taub glances at Foreman; he’s shifting his weight from one foot to the other, clearly torn between the urge to be gone already and the social niceties keeping them trapped until the conversation is over.
“You’re sure?” Paul is looking Dr. Wilson straight in the eye, but his feet are already aiming themselves away from the door.
“Positive. It’s fine. Go.”
The kid chooses that moment to launch his cup into the air. After a short arc, it hits the ground and rolls to a stop at Foreman’s feet. He looks at it as if it’s a bomb - and Thirteen is still glued to her phone - so Taub sighs and bends to retrieve it.
When he stands back up, Paul is saying, “- great with him. You know, our adoption agency was outstanding, absolutely top-notch. I could put you in touch with them.”
Biting his lip, Dr. Wilson ducks his head. “No, I’m really - just -” He shifts the toddler to his other hip. “You know, busy job and - No, thanks.”
Paul smiles. “Sure. Ever change your mind, let me know.” He leans over and tousles Timothy’s hair, then heads toward the driveway, calling over his shoulder, ”I’ll be back in about an hour. You’ve got my cell if you need me.”
By tacit agreement, they wait for the green Land Rover to pull away before speaking. Then they all overlap - “So,” “Well,” “I” - and awkwardly fall silent again. Taub can’t shake the feeling that there’s more going on here than a mistaken address. It’s like that teenager from a month ago with the fronto-nasal encephalocele; Taub knows that’s not all there is. He can almost, almost see the face underneath.
“TV!” the toddler declares into the confusion, and suddenly everyone’s back to business. Thirteen finally puts away her cell phone; Foreman sets his shoulders and nods.
“Wilson, sorry to bother you; we’ll go now,” Foreman says. “House’s condo is on Baker, right? What’s the number, again?”
Dr. Wilson’s face starts to twitch in a strange way. “Well,” he says, before being interrupted by a smack to his chest from Timothy.
“TV! TV!” the little boy insists, and Taub feels himself starting to smirk. One of his nieces was a television addict at about the same age. He hands over the sippy cup, which placates Timothy for the millisecond it takes the boy to figure out that the juice is all gone. Then the cup is back at Foreman’s feet, and Taub is retrieving it again.
“House is probably -” Dr. Wilson starts, but they all get distracted by the purr of a motorcycle pulling up in the driveway. The bike stops, the engine cuts off, and the rider flips up his visor.
“Aw,” House calls as he takes off his helmet and steps off the bike, “having a party without inviting me? I’m hurt.”
“Believe me,” Foreman says, striding toward him with the file in an outstretched hand, “this is purely a professional visit. We have a twenty-year old with excessive irritability, severe abdominal cramps, tenderness and swelling of the breast tissue -”
House blows past him without even acknowledging the held-out file. “You tracked me down on a Sunday, the day God specifically told mankind - well, not Jews, but us normal people - to rest, for a patient with PMS?”
“TV!” Timothy yells. House pulls a funny face at him, and the boy giggles. Dr. Wilson’s trying to hide a smile, as well.
“See,” House says, gesturing at Timothy. “That’s a person with his priorities straight.” Foreman opens his mouth to reply, but House barrels right over him. “What led you to look for me here, anyway?”
“HR gave me this address,” Thirteen says defiantly. House’s gaze sweeps up and down her body, and he nods approvingly.
Trying to hold on to the wriggling toddler in his arms, Dr. Wilson interjects, “Isn’t that the funniest thing, that there’d be a mix-up like that in HR.”
“Hilarious,” House says dryly. “Hey guys, you know what Wilson likes most about this house? How comfy the closets are.”
For a split second, Taub’s brain shuts down. That couldn’t have meant what he thought. He looks around for confirmation. Foreman is clutching the patient file tighter; Thirteen starts inspecting her shoes.
Dr. Wilson’s eyes widen, then narrow, and his lips purse. “You were the one -”
“Is your sniffer broken?” House interrupts, his own nose wrinkled in disgust. ”That kid’s got a load in his diaper. You won’t win Nanny of the Year if Paul catches you letting the boy wallow in his own shit.”
Dr. Wilson puts Timothy down but keeps a firm grasp on his hand even as the boy tries to pull him into the house. Glaring, Dr. Wilson grits out, “Make up your mind, House.”
House stares at Dr. Wilson seriously for a moment, and then pulls another face. “But all the Spice Girls are hot!” he whines.
“Fine,” Dr. Wilson says. “I’m calling Cuddy.”
“Cuddy’s a Spice Girl? That does explain a lot. By the way, little man, it’s fine that you came to play with Wilson, but don’t start thinking you can hang around all the time.”
Dr. Wilson says with a sigh, “Paul will be back for him soon.”
“I was talking to Taub,” House replies with a smirk. Taub plasters on his fine, it’s all fine smile. If Foreman can put up with the black jokes, Taub can put up with the short jokes. And the Judaism jokes. And the cheating jokes.
Wilson nods to all of them and then allows Timothy to drag him away, closing the door as he goes.
“Actually,” Taub says, “you are likely to see me around. I live over on Locust Street.”
House rolls his eyes. “Why am I not surprised to learn you live here in Little Miami Beach?” Taub wants to make a jibe back - just as soon as he thinks of one - but House continues, “I need to follow the kid’s lead and take a dump. So unless somebody tells me something interesting about PMS Gal in the next twenty seconds -”
“He’s a man,” Thirteen says, and House whips around to look at her. “The patient’s a man,” she repeats.
“A man with PMS,” House muses.
Foreman shakes his head. “It’s not PMS. The other symptoms include -”
“Yeah, yeah,” House interrupts, already walking down the drive. “You can tell me on the way to the hospital.”
Foreman scoffs - Taub wonders if he’s ever anything but frustrated around House - but follows. “Since when are you gay?” Foreman asks.
Looking back over the roof of Taub’s Mercedes, from where he’s opened the door to the front passenger seat, House replies, “Since when do you care?”
“Point taken.” Foreman climbs in behind the driver’s seat. Thirteen’s already buckled in the other rear seat; Taub adjusts his mirrors and smoothly shifts into gear. “So, once again, the symptoms include...”
***
By seven o’clock, the patient is stable, but not all the test results are in. Foreman’s gone home; Kutner and Thirteen are finishing the tests; Taub’s been roped into grabbing dinner with House and listening to him whine.
“Cafeteria food sucks.” House slumps back in his chair; he hasn’t stopped scowling since they got in line. “I was supposed to be eating homemade Thai seafood curry tonight.”
“Pot roast,” Taub sighs as he picks at his sandwich. “With garlic rosemary baby potatoes, and fresh peach gelato for dessert.”
“Where do you get fresh peaches this time of year?”
Taub holds up a hand to forestall that line of inquiry. “She works her magic, and I don’t ask.”
House nods. “Some things you’re better off not knowing. Such as what exactly this meat-product is.” Sneering, he pokes it with a fork, then takes a big breath and crams a chunk of it into his mouth.
Taub has to look away. At least he can be fairly confident that his sandwich truly is turkey.
They sit in disdainful silence for a few minutes until House says, “So, guy who knows how things go down, do you think the entire hospital will know about me and Wilson by ten tomorrow, or will it take until noon? The morgue attendants are a little bit slow on the uptake when it comes to the living, so maybe noon’s the better bet.”
Taub thinks for a moment. “It depends. You didn’t tell anyone before today?”
“Nope. HR’s had the same address for me and Wilson since we moved into the house, but they still seem to be at the stage where the lever and pulley seem like really cool tools, so I don’t think they ever put it together.” House cuts another bite of meat, then steals a chip from Taub’s plate. Taub had been warned about that; he’s got another bag of chips in the pocket of his lab coat.
“Dr. Wilson said he was going to call Cuddy. Would he tell anyone else today?”
“Probably not. He’s got an all-Oncology department meeting already scheduled for tomorrow at one. He’s big into the kumbaya, everyone’s equal approach to leading, so he’ll save it up to tell them all there.”
“Then you’ve got until then,” Taub says definitively. “Foreman doesn’t even want to think about it; he’s not going to say anything. It’s none of my business, so I’m not going to say anything. Kutner doesn’t know, and -”
House’s expression is almost comically perplexed. “Kutner doesn’t know? I thought he was with you all afternoon. Has he been skipping out to get stoned? Why didn’t he invite me?”
“No, he’s been working,” Taub replies with a smile. “But you haven’t mentioned it, and none of us told him.”
House lays one of the most scornful gazes Taub has ever seen on him. “Maybe I’ll buy you didn’t tell him, but Thirteen’s up there with him now. No way is she going to refrain from spilling the juicy ‘our boss is a cocksucker’ gossip.”
“She might call you a cocksucker; it makes a nice change from calling you an asshole all the time. But she’s not going to tell Kutner you’re in a relationship with Dr. Wilson. She never delves into the personal.”
“Don’t you think there’s something odd about that? Who doesn’t show interest in knowing about their co-workers’ lives? It’s like a freaking soap opera in this hospital.”
Taub thinks carefully about what he’s going to say next. It’s pure speculation, but given what he now knows about House, he doesn’t see how it could be held against Thirteen if it does turn out to be true. “In general, it seems that she’s focused on the job, on getting the patient diagnosed and treated.”
“Oh, the patient,” House interrupts with a sneer. “Like that counts for anything all that important.”
“In this case, I think there might be a more… personal reason for keeping things quiet.”
House looks at Taub and chews contemplatively. After a moment he says, “You think she’s a lesbian.”
“I couldn’t say for sure,” Taub says, because it’s true, he wouldn’t swear to it in a court of law. But there’s no way he’d be surprised.
“Sweet,” House says, and takes a long pull from his drink. “Of course, I’d already pictured her with a variety of the female staffers, but the possibility that she’s having the same fantasies makes it that much hotter. I can’t wait to tell Wilson.”
“But,” Taub replies, confused, “you’re involved with him. You’d actually tell him about having, um, an attraction to a woman?”
House rolls his eyes and slurps his drink loudly. “Benefit of seeing a horny bisexual: the entire panoply of triple-X fantasy is your oyster. Come on; let’s go. Kutner’s due to set himself on fire again any minute and I want to see it this time.”
“Just one more thing,” Taub says, firmly planted in his seat. He’s gratified to see House pause in the middle of getting up and then sink back into his chair again.
“Your neighbor,” Taub continues, “offered the name of an adoption agency, and Dr. Wilson turned him down.”
“Smart man.” Without warning House ducks to the side and reaches around the table, digging into Taub’s lab coat and emerging with the reserve chips. “Wilson’d make a crappy dad. He’s been trying to raise me for years, and look how I turned out.”
Taub smirks gently at this deflection attempt, and tries to ignore House’s elaborate display of chewing with his mouth open. “By all accounts around the hospital, he’s great with children.”
House stops, swallows, and looks Taub straight in the eye. It’s the microscope gaze, and while Taub can certainly handle it, it doesn’t mean he enjoys the experience.
“Why don’t you and your wife have kids?” House asks, every trace of mirth gone.
He should have expected that, he definitely should have, but it stings, regardless. “That’s… private.”
“Yeah. So what in the world makes you think it’s an issue I would want to talk about?”
Spreading his hands placatingly, Taub clarifies, “I’m not asking you to talk; I’m just offering some information. I know of an adoption agency that works with special families.”
House kicks back in his chair. “Finding kids with Downs and autism and attachment disorders a home. Heartwarming.”
“Not children with special needs. Adults looking to be parents who have… unique circumstances.”
“Queer Parents Anonymous,” House scoffs.
“It’s not gay-oriented, although I’m sure that wouldn’t be an issue. They specialize in working with adults with chronic conditions. People who would make good parents but who don’t quite meet the criteria of other agencies.” Taub fixes House with a look. “Or whose partners don’t.”
House glares but Taub holds his ground. He brought up the issue; now he’s going to see it through.
“I’m not the only pill-popper in the relationship,” House says.
Nodding, Taub drops his gaze to the table. “So the grapevine says.”
“What happened to, ‘It’s none of my business so I don’t gossip’?”
“I said when it’s none of my business I don’t say anything, not that I don’t listen,” Taub clarifies. He holds back a smirk when House’s face shows him conceding the point. “This agency works with everyone involved,” he continues, “to make sure the adults are ready and the children get the family they need. They’re incredibly successful with placement.”
“And yet they rejected you. God, you must really suck.” Eyes on the ceiling, House sucks on his straw and noisily slurps up the last molecules of soda remaining in his cup.
“My wife and I never spoke to them.” He accepts House’s upraised eyebrow as his due and explains, “It was my sister. The agency helped her twice - a daughter and a son. The kids are doing well with her, and she’s never been happier.”
House slaps his cup on the table. “So now she’s addicted to caring instead of heroin.” After a quick dab to the corners of his eyes, he continues, “Do you have a tissue? I feel the tears forming.”
Taub sighs. Obviously bringing this up now was a tactical error. His talent for understanding people and helping them understand themselves has been carefully honed over time, and almost never fails him - but then again, he’s never met anyone quite like House. “It’s just information,” he says. “Take it or leave it.”
“Leaving it.” House’s voice drops in volume by more than half; Taub makes a concerted effort not to lean in, to pretend that House is simply making conversation. “Forget my leg,” House says, “and my personality, and Wilson’s many, many issues - we’re too old, too busy, and ultimately too selfish for kids.”
“You should -”
“You should know by now how well I respond to ‘should’s.” House pushes back from the table and stands. “Come on. I want to go see where Pinky and The Lez are on those tests.”
Conversation over. Well, Taub thinks, at least I tried. After busing their table, he hurries to catch House in the hallway. He’s just about to the man - damn House’s long legs - when Dr. Wilson strolls up.
“Hey, House, Taub.” Dr. Wilson joins them in walking, matching House’s stride easily.
“What’s in the bag?” House asks.
Dr. Wilson raises the insulated container proudly and replies, “Gelato. Thought you and your team might like some.”
Amused, Taub smiles until House swings a glare his way. He holds up his hands in surrender. “Coincidence, I swear. I didn’t say anything to Naomi.” He waits for House to look back in Dr. Wilson’s direction before muttering, “Yet.”
When they stop by the elevator, House leans Dr. Wilson’s way and says, “I trust you took the puppy back to the kennel before you came.”
Dr. Wilson glances at House sidelong and then turns his attention back to the elevator door. “Paul picked Timothy up, yes.”
“He better have taken that diaper back with him,” House says, nose wrinkling in the exact same way it did earlier in the day. “I don’t want the smell everywhere.”
“Yes, he took the diaper,” Dr. Wilson says in exasperation as they step onto the elevator. “And there are no slobber marks anywhere, and your piano and your guitars are in pristine condition. And yes, I promise to give you at least twenty-four hours’ notice the next time, so you can clear out beforehand.”
House pokes at a gurney scuff on the side wall of the elevator. “It still mystifies me why you’d do that. I mean, I can see how a guy with a mid-six-figure salary would need to supplement his income, but still, there are other ways.”
They seem to have forgotten Taub’s there; he does his best to blend into the background.
“There’s this concept - I don’t suppose you’ve heard of it - of doing nice things for your neighbors.” Dr. Wilson shifts the insulated bag to his other hand, and tugs briefly on his sweater. “In addition to the warm, tingly, non-sexual feeling normal people get from helping others, there’s also the enlightened-self-interest benefit of building goodwill so they’ll do you favors in the future. Such as not calling the cops when you set off their car’s panic alarm at two in the morning.”
“Just don’t get in too deep.” The elevator door dings, and House steps out immediately. “You pull a Madonna in Malawi move, and I’m out of here.”
Shaking his head, Dr. Wilson follows, passing by his own office door and heading toward House’s. “I’m not having this argument with you again. I’ve told you a million times, I’m just helping them out. With Timothy’s developmental issues, he’s a tough kid to raise sometimes, and now they’re going through the whole nerve-wracking testing process. Providing some respite care now and then helps them recharge their batteries, it’s not too difficult for me, and you don’t have to be involved at all.”
Thirteen runs up to them at that moment, Kutner a few steps behind. “House, you’ve got to see these results.”
House grabs the papers she’s holding and gives them a quick scan, then calls after Dr. Wilson’s retreating form, “You have a predilection for getting attached to the tough cases. I’m simply saving you from yourself.”
Dr. Wilson turns back with a smile, “Of course. I have paperwork; find me later and I’ll give you a ride.”
“Yeah, you will,” House says, to Taub’s amusement, Thirteen’s ill-concealed embarrassment, and Kutner’s confusion, and then shoos Thirteen through the conference room door. Taub’s about to follow when Dr. Wilson calls him back.
“The gelato,” he says, pressing the bag into Taub’s hand. “It’s pistachio. House will say he hates it, but he’ll eat it all anyway, so if the rest of you want some, make sure you grab it first.”
Taub nods and turns back toward the conference room, already thinking through ramifications of different test results, but Dr. Wilson continues, “And your wife wants you to know she’s got the peach saved in the freezer for you.”
“This is Naomi’s gelato?” Taub is honestly shocked. “How did you -?”
Dr. Wilson grins slyly and points to where House, Thirteen, and Kutner are already deep in debate. “You’ve got a patient to save,” he says. “See you later.”
Taub watches him walking for a moment and then shakes his head. Apparently House isn’t the only one it’ll take him some extra time to understand. His thoughts are interrupted by a muffled “Ow!” and the thwong of a ball bouncing off the glass. “No! Bad puppy!” House shouts, and Kutner starts to protest, and Taub can’t help smiling. Best thing about this job: always something interesting going on.