Walking in L.
By G. Waldo (formerly GeeLady)
Rating: NC-17 Adult.
Summary: Continuation of where One Step Closer Away leaves off. This story is H/W. Doctor James Wilson wants to save House - who is slowly dying - and he'll go to any length. Adult situations, language. This is NOT a death-fic'.
Disclaimer: Not mine...blah, blah, blah - though a fantasy never hurt anyone.
This story is in response to a collective request for a sequel from Richie117 and the members of the marvellous Hilson Forum at www. housemd. fora. pl /hilson, 22/ (No spaces of course) - I blame YOU! Thank you stimulating my creative juices against my will, Richie and Forum members - I'll get you for this! (Tee-hee). I hope the resulting fic' meets with your approval.
Just a reminder - this story acknowledges Season 3 but there-after does not follow cannon.
Here is the link to One Step Closer Away. Seriously, you oughta' read that first.
www. fan / s / 4600963/ 1/ One_Step_Closer_Away (No spaces of course)
This is it. It's over, no more House stories from this girl. It was a good ride.
Wilson wound the old fashioned phone cord around his right fingers. Foreman listened with resigned patience as Wilson poured out the problems he had encountered en-route to House's new lease on life. "We got the heart. One hundred, sixty-nine thousand dollars. All of House's savings, and some of mine."
Though Foreman's voice was coming from thirteen thousand miles away, Wilson could imagine the man struggling to keep his expression neutral and his voice even. "That's all that House had? After twenty five years in practise?"
"He never was a good saver."
"Is it viable at least?"
"Not for long. I can't get a team together here. I might be able to get it home."
"If you perform the surgery here, illegally by the way, you'll lose your license, and who are you going to get to help you?"
Wilson was silent. He had no new suggestions.
Foreman asked "When did you get the heart? How much time have you got left?"
"About thirty hours."
"Me and Chase'll fly out. Cameron can handle things for a few days."
"You're the assistant Dean. And neither you nor Chase is a thoracic surgeon."
"Neither are you, and Cameron is my assistant. At least I've done of other types of heart procedures, including valve repair. And what other choice do we have?"
Foreman was right of course. House had no other options. It was this or he could simply wait to die. "We need a place to do the surgery."
"I know someone over there - met him at a conference."
"This is a pretty big favour."
"Don't worry, I helped him ace a couple of tests – he owes me. We'll be on the first flight we can get."
Wilson gave him the hotel address, the number to his room and hung up.
"Troubles, oh Jewish One?" House called from the bathtub. Wilson could hear him splashing around. He imagined a mess of soap bubbles and soaked bath towels on the floor, and more soap bubbles clinging to House's skin. He wished it were currently possible to indulge in the physical fun such a picture was stirring up in his imagination. Perhaps soon he could. It had been weeks since he had done anything more than ply his lips to the man's cock, which had led to House's third heart attack and a plane trip to China.
"Foreman and Chase are flying out. They'll be here mid-morning."
"That'll leave Cameron in charge of Plainsboro." House sounded disapproving.
Wilson walked into the bathroom and leaned against the door. "You think she can't handle it?"
"She's a fine doctor but she's such a girl. The doily, doe-eyed weepy-type. By the time we get home, the place will look like a wedding reception."
Wilson watched him play with the soap bubbles for a few seconds. "Want me to wash your back?"
"No, mom. Want to climb in and play Submarine Commander? I'll let you put the scope up, then down, the up again...then down..." House wiggled his eyebrows.
"Uh, that's what got us in trouble the last time."
"Come on, Captain, show me your manhood, push me around a little. Make me salute you...again and again and again..."
"Charming and no, it could affect your heart."
"You're so practical, and boring."
"It's why you love me."
"Yes, Wilson," House said with an eye-roll, "I love you because you're boring."
"Come on. We're going out to dinner."
"A good steak house?"
"A good noodle and vegetable house. No artery-clogging beef for you anymore."
"See? – boring."
Wilson reached over with one strong arm to help House get up out of the water. He handed his dripping husband a towel. "Here. Dry off and get sexy. This is a special dinner."
House looked at his sideways. "Uh oh. You're sad. I can see it in your droopy Basset-hound eyes. Is this a Just-in-case-the-illegally-obtained-heart-isn't-any-good-this-is-our-last-romantic-dinner dinner?"
"No, this is our special and only evening out in Beijing dinner. Unless you've been here before?"
House dried his legs. "My dad was an Air Force pilot. I've been everywhere before. Where's my clothes."
Wilson disappeared into the adjoining bedroom. "Where they're supposed to be - in the chest of drawers."
House limped after him and began rummaging around in the drawers one after another, messing up Wilson's neatly folded work. "Where's my tee-shirts?"
"Still in the suitcase. You're wearing a suit for a change."
House glared a little, then instead of arguing, sighed and removed a folded, pressed dress shirt from one drawer and slipped it on. After pulling on some cotton underwear he located his grey suit in the room's only closet. Zipping up the fly he said "You realise you're only going to have to rip these off me later?"
"Doesn't matter because it's not your best suit. Though I did have it dry-cleaned."
House buttoned the jacket. "You are such a girl."
"I like you in a suit. It's such a refreshing change from your usual hobo-esque ensemble."
"Do they have booze at this establishment you're dragging me to?"
"Not for you."
"This may be my last night on Earth and you're going to go all Jewish on me? Even now?"
House buttoned up his jacket, vowing to slip in a nip here and there when Wilson's back was turned.
The place was a ruckus of noise and glassware, music and bodies moving to the strobe lights above that illuminated only the briefest flashes of beautiful faces; men and women all young, all drunk, and all reveling in the health and vitality unique to the spring time of life. All taken for granted.
Wilson wished they could go back to the hotel. This place was not his choice; it had been House's who had wanted to "drool" over gorgeous young people.
"Maybe there's someone who wouldn't mind giving up a friends' heart for me."
"I doubt it."
"For the right price, they'd sell their best buddy."
Wilson sipped his weak Eastern beer. "Still a cynic huh?"
"My heart's caput. I can think any way I want to. I've earned it."
"I've saved enough lives to have the right to envy them."
Wilson found it hard to argue. But tomorrow morning, is all went well, they would save his. He stood up. "I'm going to find the bathroom. You're not going to drink anything." It wasn't spoken as a question exactly, but more as a reminder. House had given his word.
House rolled his eyes and sipped his tepid water. "I promise – ge-eze."
House called after him. "Remember, this is Asia. You have to hover and aim."
After a few minutes, Wilson fought his way through the rolling bodies to their table once more only to discover House puffing away on a tiny cigarette rolled in brown leaf. He didn't even sit down. "What the hell...?"
House regarded him cool-y. "I didn't say I wouldn't smoke anything."
Wilson sat opposite and forgot his beer. "I suppose that's pot."
House removed the tiny glowing stick from his mouth and looked at it with mild interest. "Do I look like a collage freshman?"
Wilson almost sputtered, suddenly guessing. "That's opium, isn't it? You're smoking opium? That's not in the play-book, House."
House ignored Wilson's disappointed stare and took in another leisurely puff. "Relax "Sergeant", this little heaven-stuffed tube contains only the mildest form of paver somniferum, which temporary health benefits include anti-inflammation, vasodilation - therefore improving circulation and decreasing heart-stress - and an increase in body temperature - all good things for a man with a weakened ticker."
Wilson was having none of House's glib reassurances. "We're going back to the hotel. Now."
"Stop being such a stiff." House looked away to the dance floor, an activity he had not fully participated in for many years. If it wasn't his leg betraying him, it was his organs. "I'm already dying, another hour of fun won't hurt."
Wilson sat back on the firm booth cushions heavily accented in a red and yellow flower print. The table between them was of thick solid walnut varnished to a mirror shine. House's reflection was indistinct but recognizable. He looked younger there. Wilson had always hard difficulty imagining House as a young man. He had always seemed older. A man passed all the foolishness of youth and set like concrete into the stubborn ways of only slightly less foolish middle-age. But his mind, although as old as his fifty-three year damaged heart, was in its prime. "You've never taken care of yourself."
"I always said life was too short to stress over the future and considering that I'm dying I see no reason to alter that viewnow." He puffed the opium cigarette its tiny stub pinched between the index finger and thumb of his right hand, and then butted it out. "Do you?"
Wilson supposed he had a point. "Can we go now?"
"It hasn't been an hour.'
Wilson looked at his watch. "It's been twenty minutes and I'm sleepy. And you have surgery at Ten AM."
House sighed and manoeuvred his cane under him, getting to his feet with some effort and it made Wilson sharply catch his breath. The sight of House working to simply stand up sent a sharp pang to his heart.
House muttered. "Party pooper."
Wilson rose with a knot of fear in his stomach but worked to counter that gloomy feeling with hope in his heart and mind. Hope because foreman would be performing the surgery with Chase assisting. Their donor heart was he had been informed ready to be recovered from the donor (Wilson tried not to think whether this donor's family knew exactly where their beloveds' heart was going or what profit-minded middle-man might be arranging the highly illegal deed, of whether the family would receive any of the money. That part, he had been firmly informed, was none of his business), that AM and driven at breakneck speed to the hotel in a handy ice-cooler.
The phone rang. It was Foreman. "I just received a call from the ...the guy who arranged the donor heart – Chang or whatever his name is – he says he just had a last minute offer. A better one."
Wilson's felt the snowy chill of fear. "How much more is the other party offering?"
"Forty –seven thousand bucks. You got any more money?"
"What I have left is to pay for the post-operative care House is going to need. I can't be there twenty-four-seven. I still have a practise – sort of."
"What do you want me to tell him?"
Wilson ran a hand through his wet hair. He could feel his stomach twist as he stood naked and shivering, drip-drying in the middle of the room. "Goddamn-it."
Foreman asked. "That's what you want me to tell him?" Foreman himself sounded defeated. Still his voice was not hysterical or ever frustrated. But Wilson knew Foreman was more of a realist than he was and in this case the younger neurologist could see there were few options: find more money or give up the heart.
Wilson thought frantically. He could borrow against future earnings, which would mean they'd have next to nothing to live on in the meantime, or maybe beg his father for money (his father who did not approve of his son's homosexual relationship with a man almost as old as he was and which man had continually drained his son's savings account for the last nineteen years). He could ask his mother - she would say yes, she always said yes. But she had no access to her husband's savings without his approval since it was a joint-agreement account and a large amount to boot.
Wilson slumped on the edge of the bed, letting his mind wander aimlessly back over the years to House's almost pathological need for his friend, and his friend's money, and finally in the end, his friend's body as well. All those years that Wilson had assumed he was the hanger-on, the needy one, the pathetic best buddy who put up with abuse and the neglect. But at that moment in the cold room his heart screamed at him that it would not stand losing House, it would haunt him and ache inside his chest for the rest of his days if he did not do more to save him. It made its demands clear.
But money talked louder than even hearts and he just didn't have any more of the former. The money-pot was almost empty. His lack of special ink-marks printed on special paper rectangles altered everything in his and House's world and it was the way of the unfeeling, ink-papered system.
But maybe he was not meant to keep House? It was a thought that had often occurred to him prior to this crisis. Maybe God wanted something else for him now? Maybe it was time to stop struggling against the inevitable? He knew it was defeatist and slightly more religious than House – "slightly more meaning he believed in God and House didn't. Still, it was not a vocation he had spent much time participating in, despite his strong Jewish upbringing, and House would have first laughed at and then mocked him for it, but he could see no way through the problem. God didn't make loans.
And ordinary people, not even ordinary doctors, did not win every battle in life, no matter how hard they tried. Sadly House would agree. "You don't get what you deserve - you just get what you get."
But that's not what he believed. Wilson rubbed his itching, tired eyes and dialed Foreman back. Next door he could hear his colleague's phone ringing. Foreman answered with his usual "Yeah?"
Simple words so difficult to say - "I n-need to borrow forty-five thousand dollars." He felt like a loser and a leech. Foreman would wonder, as others often did, at his dedication to House, a man who almost never showed affection openly or even admitted he had friends – or even needed them.
Foreman was quiet for a few seconds. "Are you sure?" He asked. It was not a question about his decision to borrow to save House but his willingness to go into abject servitude to his multiple debtors for the rest of his natural life.
"Yes." It was peace-bringing, making that decision. His heart slowed down and he felt calmer. Still, he hated the world that had cornered them. "Yes, if you can...make the loan I mean. I feel like a heel to even ask...I'm already beyond broke." Wilson hadn't expected Foreman or any of the team members to offer a donation. Even if they had a lot of money – which was unlikely - they were certainly not obligated and they all had their own bills to pay. Most young doctors start out their careers with a staggering student loan debt of a quarter of a million dollars on average. Specialists, like those on House's team, were burdened with even more.
Wilson sighed deeply. "Feel free to say no. I know House hasn't exactly been a delightful mentor."
Foreman sighed, blowing a long breath into the phone. "Sure."
Wilson had prepared himself for a no, not a yes, so it threw him for a few seconds. "Really, I mean...really?"
It was a huge loan and now it was Foreman's turn to pause and Wilson wondered if he was thinking up some convincing lie to tell himself why he was doing it, or why he should change his mind right now and back out. But instead all he said was "He's a good doctor."
It was a simple fact and maybe Foreman felt he did owe House something. But whatever the reason he'd take it. "Thanks." Wilson said into the phone, hardly believing his, and House's, good fortune. They would be as poor as church mice but House would have a few more years, and what were a few designer shirts and lattes anyway in the scheme of things?
Wilson asked the busy but smiling young woman. "I have two coach seat tickets reserved for the U.S – New Jersey." He had decided to pick the tickets up himself rather than have them couriered – and possibly lost on the way – to the hotel.
She asked him for his passport and other pertinent information, checked her monitor, printed out the required documents and slid them across the counter to him. Wilson glanced at the paperwork and started. "Um, Miss? I think there's been some mistake. These are first class to Chicago."
The dark haired lady took the papers back with an apologetic smile. "Let me see..." She handed them back. With a thick oriental accent - "These are correct sir. Two First Class tickets to Chicago with a three hour lay-over in London."
"But I didn't book any First class tickets and I'm not going to Chicago." He explained, getting in a bit of a panic. He had visions of himself and House sleeping a hard airport chairs over-night while the airliner sorted out their obvious mistake.
She smiled patiently for her slightly dense traveller. "But they were booked last night, sir, for a Doctor James Wilson – that's you – and companion."
"That's impossible. Does it say who booked them?"
"Yes, by the companion - Doctor Gregory House."
It explained part of it but he was still confused. "House booked two flights to Chicago?" He asked her stupidly.
"Yes." She said her patience beginning to wearing as thin as her smile. "That's correct."
Wilson nodded, took the tickets and thanked her sheepishly.
Returning to the hotel and the sleeping House, he had half a mind to wake him and demand an explanation on the spot, but House needed his rest.
After a moment House stirred, however and Wilson handed him the tickets with just one question "Why?"
"Because I'm not going to let you go broke caring for me."
Wilson waved off any concern over money. "House, it's okay, we'll manage."
"It is okay because we're not doing it." House sat up and swung his throbbing leg to the floor.
Wilson shed his overcoat on a plush chair. "You need this operation, House. It will add years to your life and that makes the money well spent." Wilson sat back, satisfied with his decision. "Besides the arrangements are already made, tomorrow it's a go, so there's no point in arguing."
House pursed his lips and looked at his sore thigh. "You're right again there is no point...because nothing's going ahead. I cancelled the operation."
Wilson thought the world had gone mad on him. "What?"
House said it more clearly. "I cancelled the operation. The heart's already going to the other family."
Yes, House had said the words and Wilson was sure he had heard them but still, it took a few seconds before their deadening echo died down enough that he could speak. "Are you crazy?" Wilson whispered. "House, you're dying." Wilson leaped to his feet and began a shuffling back and forth so violently across the carpet House was sure the place would be set on fire. "That heart was your life – it was your salvation."
"Oh please." House sat back as calm and collected as Wilson was frantic and agitated. "There are other options and I won't let you go broke for the rest of your life so I can smoke opium for a few more years. That was, by the way, my way of announcing my future drug-of-choice – so better than Vicodin."
Wilson stopped and pulled his hair between all his fingers. "House, we spent weeks getting this arranged. I called in every favour I had to get this far and I...you..."
"Us...we...do pronouns matter in the long run? As long as we're together." A sentiment that from him sounded so false it was laughable. "Relax Wilson, it's all arranged. While you were begging Foreman for a bail-out I was calling an old friend in Chicago who's willing to get me in on a stem-cell trial. Forty percent improvement for many of his patients in the final stages of heart failure. Plus he's a good golfer."
Wilson collapsed back in the chair, deflated, defeated. "I thought you didn't have any old friends?"
"Well, I did sleep with his now ex-wife but I'm sure he's forgotten about that."
"You make me insane, House. You really do, you make me insane."
House smiled. Wilson was so pathetically easy to manipulate. "Go have a shower and relax. I'll order us some dinner. And don't worry Wilson, chances are my mom or yours will be dying soon and one of us'll get a nice tidy inheritance. Our money worries will be el'finito."
Wilson said wryly. "You're a ray of sunshine House."
When the bathroom door closed and the water had been running long enough to assure him that Wilson was under its spray, House called up the party he wished to speak to. "Hello?" He did a fairly good impression of Wilson at his most sentimental. "This is Doctor James Wilson. Yes, that's right, the gay doctor with the dying lover. I'm afraid we were not able to come up with the money. You can let the heart go to that other needy family. I'm sure he'll get some good years out of it. Yes, yes, and my Jewish blessings on you, oh and good for you for holding out for the best offer. Only business after all, Right?" He hung up.
Wilson was also often gullible, but it was one of the things he loved most about him.
The flight to Chicago felt quicker than it should have, the Stem Cell doctor not as reassuring as he thought he ought to have been, and their shorter flight home to New Jersey left him so tired by the time they arrived at their urban household he was trembling on his feet. Everything here felt foreign and cramped. Everything had shrunk, it seemed, in Wilson's eyes; the world, their house, the kitchen. Even the tea-pot he was making ready. His hands felt nothing but did their duties. His mind was strangely blank but obeyed his will.
House had done his best to cheer him up and then when that failed, has chastised him for being such a "simpering weenie". "Everybody dies." House had said yet again.
Wilson had nodded silently and poured the tea. Finally he looked over at the man he wondered how he would live without. "Just let me get used to the idea of losing the person I love most – okay? That alright with you?"
House knew when to shut-up and he did. He drank his tea.
Wilson returned to the office, leaving House in the capable hands of the day nurse. Wilson had gone to great pains to choose a woman who could handle House's stubborn pride and antagonistic personality. Marjorie did so with stunning success. She was twenty years experienced and stood her ground like a nun holding the Bible – or in this case The Nurses Hand-Book - in one hand and a wide leather belt in the other.
Wilson nibbled dispiritedly at his boring cheese and lettuce sandwich. He had taken to spending most of his lunch hours in his office, even though his patients were fewer these days. He simply did not have the energy anymore to attend to a full roster of sick people and House too. His income was drastically reduced but they would survive. It wouldn't be long anyhow until he would be back to paying just for himself again. The stem cell treatment was a last resort and they all knew it. The thought depressed him even more than the tasteless sandwich.
His office door swung open and Foreman entered. As was his habit he did not sit down but walked to stand before his desk. Foreman regarded him for a few seconds, and then announced "I've been reading up on this stem cell treatment."
Wilson abandoned his sandwich and wiped his mouth with as paper napkin. "Yes?" He tried not to sound childishly hopeful. It was hard.
"This guy is getting some good results. There's a strong chance House will recover enough to have at least another few years."
Wilson wasn't as optimistic. "I did some reading too. Some showed improvement in the damaged areas of the heart, but some also showed an increase of scar tissue."
"Right. But the stem cells this doctor friend of House is using are myo-stem cells taken from a healthy area of the House's own heart muscle. It's a new idea."
Wilson liked new ideas. "I know."
"In most subjects – and there have been only about a dozen so far – showed anywhere from sixteen to thirty-four percent improvement in the myo-action at the site of the infarc', and in most cases with minimal or zero additional scarring."
Foreman knew Wilson new all this of course. It was still risky. "And that translates to what?"
"To like I said, maybe another one to three healthier years."
It was better than nothing, but not as good as a healthy transplant. Wilson's head was spinning. "House doesn't feel any different." He knew it was too soon to tell, but he couldn't take the chance on letting hope build up again only to see it dashed once more. He was too tired.
"Not yet and I said maybe." Foreman underlined the other side for him.
"So when will we know?"
"Once the treatments are done." Ever the realist, Foreman added "There is a small chance it could make things worse."
"He's dying. What could be worse?"
Foreman shrugged. "Lots of things like his heart giving out. In his current condition he's a risk every time he goes under anesthesia. He could die on the table."
One treatment per month every two months. Five more treatments in total. That was a lot of risk. Still, House was a stubborn bastard. If anyone could survive it, and thrive, it was him.
"How's he doing?" Foreman asked.
Wilson looked at his watch. It was a little ironic. House was supposed to be resting of course but "Probably cooking dinner and drinking beer." But it was comforting to still have someone to go home to.
It was House's breathing that woke him up.
Wilson rolled over in bed and sat up. House was already seated and clutching at his chest.
"Heart attack?" Wilson asked, feeling stupid for even asking. What else would it be?
House shook his head. He appeared oddly calm. He nodded. "Ah-arrhythmia...hard t'...to catch my breath."
Wilson was almost used to theses midnight trips to the emergency. After an hour House's cardiologist found Wilson in the waiting room and called him into his office. Regular patients he would have spoken to out in the hall but Wilson was a colleague. A certain amount of decorum was required.
Doctor Langevin strolled to his office chair and mentioned something about coffee or tea. Wilson declined, anxious to hear what he had to say. The man's slowness was almost unbearable. Wilson was close to ripping his hair out and screaming when Langevin said "Well, this is a rather good sign."
Wilson stopped in mid-pace. "Sorry. What's a good sign?"
Langevin realised how ludicrous what he just said must have sounded. "Um, what I mean is an arrhythmia is of course never a good thing but in this case, the patien – that is Doctor House responded immediately to the drug and he's, well, just fine."
Fine can mean many things: fine for now, fine for anyone on the precipice of death, fine for a man who had abused his body for most of the last fifteen years, or finicky, insecure, neurotic and emotional. "How could he possibly be fine?"
Langevin indicated the visitors chair for the thirds time to his colleague and Wilson finally, reluctantly, sat.
"I mean Doctor Wilson that your friend's heart, although it is still in the early stages of showing improvement due to the stem cell treatments, has improved. This arrhythmia is a common side effect and one we have encountered often during the trials. His heart is still sick you understand but it is better despite the arrhythmia. Once his final treatment is over, he will eventually be fitted with a defibrillator implant to control the sinus action. But all in all, I'd say he's turning out to be a success. He can home home today."
Wilson allowed the tiniest spark of hope to grow again. "Are you certain?"
Langevin, not used to his diagnoses being questioned, frowned a little. "Doctor Wilson, in my medical opinion, if he's careful and follows our recommended regime, he'll be gaining several more good years at least."
House would be the first to say it: stop simpering! Wilson stood and shook the other doctor's hand. He mumbled his thanks and slipped out the door.
On the drive home with House snoozing in the passenger seat, Wilson phoned his office assistant and then Foreman. "I'm taking three months off." Foreman was quiet on the other end and Wilson said "Because it's good news, not bad."
"Morrison can probably cover your clients in the meantime." Foreman said. "Take care of him." He hung up.
Wilson pulled into the parking lot of his favorite Asian restaurant and, exiting the car as quietly as possible, went in and ordered dinner for two. He returned to the car with a large paper bag full of take-out selections. They would celebrate Wilson-style, by eating stuff that tasted good but was fairly heart-safe and drinking alcohol-free beer. Celebrating was good, but the House's heart and liver both needed tender care.
House could smell the stuff the moment Wilson opened the car door. "Eating in style tonight?" He asked, yawning.
Wilson nodded. "Yup. Even you should find no reason to complain."
House squinted an eye at him. "Hmm, even with a dicky heart I'm still pretty clever you know."
Wilson smiled to himself.
A good dinner behind them, House lay back on the couch and Wilson joined him in some well deserved slouching. "Wanna' watch something?" Wilson asked, flipping through the menu.
House asked. "What about money? You're staying home with me for three months? This will cut into our living budget of ten dollars a week."
Wilson shrugged. "Like you said, eventually my parents will die and I'll get an inheritance."
House was suspicious of his husband's cavalier attitude that was clearly being put-on for his sake. Wilson had far too much respect for his parents - and for people in general - to speak of anyone's dying in so casual a fashion. "Come on. Your dad's going to out-live me and probably you. He's even more a stubborn Jew than you are. What are we going to do?"
"Stop worrying, I have some savings bonds I can cash in. Besides if I don't have to pay for a nurse then that saves us money right there."
House muttered. "I could sell my piano."
Wilson turned and looked at him. "Over my dead body. Now what do you want to watch?"
House refrained from jumping on his do-gooder, idiotic husband and molesting him right and proper. Unfortunately he was far too tired to risk such a romp and settled for taking in a good show. "You're an idiot."
"I'll bet you were born wearing an apron."
"Yeah, House, I love you too. Now shut-up."
Readers: Please let me know if there are any glaring errors in this. I've gone over this so many times, I'm cross-eyed and can no longer see.