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HOUSE M.D. FIC: Regarding House, 2/7

Chapter 2: Straight Talk
Now, Watson, the fair sex is your department.”


Clearly I was not a morning person. Despite my full night’s sleep, I had a hell of a time dragging myself out of bed and found myself half-dozing on my feet in front of the john before I slapped some water on my face and livened up a little. But towards the end of my shower, I felt good enough to sing, and I had to admit that the acoustics in my bathroom were pretty impressive.

Not surprisingly, Wilson was ready to leave long before I got myself cleaned up and dressed, but he waited patiently in the living room, watching the morning news. His only comment on my impromptu concert was a mild, “I was just thinking that it had been far too long since I listened to George Michael.”

“Baby,” I chimed in, bumping him with my hip, and slung my backpack over my shoulders.

Wilson stopped the car by a Starbucks on our way to work, ordered a complicated coffee concoction for each of us and a couple of breakfast sandwiches without consulting me, then paid for them and whisked us away again. Once the caffeine started flowing in my veins, I found myself humming under my breath. This didn’t escape the notice of Wilson, who observed, “You’re in a good mood this morning.”

I chewed thoughtfully and swallowed. “Why shouldn’t I be?”

“I wouldn’t even know where to begin,” he said, staring straight ahead.


Since it was already almost eight and we’d discharged our most recent patient, I decided to forego stopping by my office and instead tucked my backpack under the duty nurse’s desk while he was otherwise occupied. As I was swinging back around the corner, I nearly collided with an attractive woman who had appeared without warning, and caught myself with my cane just in time. She, in turn, started and put her hand to her throat, then lowered it almost immediately as if embarrassed.

Blue eyes, long dark hair, slender, but with a substantial ass that made its presence felt even under the conservative navy skirt. Lovely enough, but with a closed, lined face that I suspected to be rigid with suppressed grief. There were thin tracings of recent scars crossing the bridge of her nose and spiderwebbing one cheekbone. My top two picks were domestic violence or a vehicular accident. “Dr. House,” she said in a low, carefully controlled voice, not meeting my eyes. “I’m surprised to see you here so early.”

“I’m scheduled to cover the clinic,” I explained, feeling a little at a loss.

Now she looked at me sharply, as if sure that there was a punchline forthcoming, but when I stayed silent, she only compressed her lips and walked away. I watched as she entered the Dean of Medicine’s office and sat down behind the desk.

I leaned towards the duty nurse and jerked a thumb in the dean’s direction. “What’s her story?”

Jeffrey Sparkman, RN glared at me, disgust written plainly on his features. “Un-frakking-believable,” he growled, and went back to organizing patient files. “Here.” He grabbed a blue folder, practically shoved it into my hand. “Exam room two.”


I had just dropped off my last folder at the nurse’s station when Wilson strolled up. “Lunch?”

“Sure,” I agreed, falling easily into step beside him despite the encumbrance of my cane.

Wilson craned his neck, staring over around my shoulder. “House, that last patient of yours looked… happy.”

“What? Oh, yeah. We had a very pleasant conversation about guitar amps after I explained to him exactly why it was so important to take the full course of antibiotics as prescribed instead of throwing them away once he felt better. Nice guy.”

Wilson’s brow furrowed as we continued along the corridor, but he forbore to comment.

In the cafeteria, I followed Wilson’s lead, grabbing a salad and ordering a half sandwich. He looked at me quizzically as he shoved his tray along the counter. “I thought you liked them dry.”

“Thought I’d change it up a little,” I said, hoping that he wouldn’t notice the sweat I could feel breaking out on my brow. “Hey, can I have your pickle?”

“Now you want my pickle?

“Jimmy, please,” I leered, glancing around at the thinly veiled amusement of the staff surrounding us. “I thought we talked about which topics were and were not appropriate for the workplace.”

Wilson cringed a little but seemed to accept that comment as par for the course, and I relaxed.

“Separate or together?” the cashier asked in a bored tone, barely looking up.

Wilson already had his wallet out and an oddly resigned expression on his face, but I quickly reached across his tray to hand her a wad of cash, saying, “Let me get this.” Two heads snapped around; two jaws dropped. The cashier’s eyebrows had climbed into her hairline, and Wilson was regarding me as though tempted to check the back of my neck for an alien appendage.

“You feelin’ all right today, Dr. House?”

“Why, yes,” – I quickly checked her nametag – “Linda, I’m feeling just fine, thank you for asking. And how are you?”

As soon as I had my change, Wilson hustled us along to a corner table, glancing nervously over his shoulder. I knew that he was eyeing me surreptitiously while we ate, although he glanced down at his plate every time I attempted to catch him at it. About halfway through, I snatched the pickle off his plate and bit into it, then made a face and put it back.

“You don’t like pickles,” Wilson pointed out, much more patiently than I probably deserved. “You’ve never liked pickles.”

“It just looked so good sitting on your plate,” I muttered.

Wilson rolled his eyes. “What else is new.”

I finished before he had and sat toying with the remains of my salad, thinking about the afternoon ahead. “So, Wilson, about tonight…”

“Go ahead and eat dinner without me, I’ll be back late,” Wilson said around a mouthful of sandwich. I looked up at him sharply, so he elaborated, “Dying patient.”

“And you’re sure it’s going to be tonight?”

He cocked his head and gave me a pointed look, and I suddenly realized my mistake. Of course. Wilson was an oncologist, after all. He knew that his patient was going to die because he was going to be there to help him, or her, along. But his face betrayed no disappointment, no defeat. There was a certain sadness there, yes, but mainly a calm confidence in the role he was to play.

“I don’t know how you do that,” I said in honest admiration.


“How you take on these losing battles, year in, year out.”

“Comes with the territory,” he shrugged, feigning nonchalance, although his dark eyes told a different story.

“Yeah, but you staked out that territory. What kind of person chooses a specialty in which most diagnoses are death sentences?”

Wilson frowned. “You just don’t like to lose. You want to swoop in and solve the problem, and then you’ve won whether the patient lives or dies. But there’s more to medicine than that. Sometimes we know that giving people a little more time, for their work, for their loved ones, is all we can do. But it’s worth doing.” He leaned back and crossed his legs, folding his hands over his knee. “And then at some point we have to accept that it’s time to stop fighting and let them go.” He gave me a hard look. “But not until then.”

“And tonight’s the night.”

“Yeah.” He sat up again, gathered his tray together, and stood. “Don’t wait up.”


My team was waiting when I finally made it up to the fourth floor, apparently having ordered in Chinese food for lunch, although all of the physical evidence had been cleared away. Chase and Foreman were playing chess at the desk in the corner, Masters was reading up on rare genetic diseases, and Taub looked like I might have interrupted his nap. But they all looked up and straightened unconsciously when I arrived. I tossed my backpack on the conference table. “No patient today.”

Chase and Foreman exchanged glances but said nothing. Finally Taub piped up, “But fortunately you’ve had all morning to dream up increasingly tedious ways to keep all of us occupied, so…”

“Go home.”

“Excuse me?”

“Go home. Take the day off. You all did a great job yesterday, and you gave up your weekends. So go home. I’ll see you all tomorrow.”

Chase leaned in and whispered to Foreman, “Did he just say…”

“Yeah,” Foreman nodded, not taking my eyes off me, as though I might spontaneously combust at any second.

“Good enough for me,” Taub said, and stood up. As he disappeared through the doorway, I caught him giving Chase and Foreman a “screw’s loose” gesture out of the corner of my eye.

“Are you feeling okay?” Foreman asked.

“Never better. Now go on, get out of here.”

Chase folded his arms obstinately. “Why are you suddenly trying to get rid of us?”

“Oh, for crying out loud,” I huffed. “Can’t a guy do something nice for his employees once in a while?”

“Not if that guy is you,” Foreman said, clearly only half-kidding.

Just then, Taub walked back in, a peculiar expression on his face and a bouquet of dark pink roses and campanula in his arms. He held the flowers out to me. “These are for you from a Mrs. Robbins.”

I fished out the small rectangular card, then pulled my glasses out of my breast pocket in order to read it. “Dear Doctor House, Thank you for being so gentle and understanding, and for explaining everything so clearly. I wish more doctors were like you. With gratitude, Susanne Robbins.”

“Has this woman actually met you?” Taub wondered.

Behind me, Chase and Foreman could hardly contain themselves. “You sent those to yourself, didn’t you?” Chase gasped, pointing a finger at me. “Admit it!”

“I certainly will not,” I replied with dignity. “And just for that, you can take my next set of clinic hours.” That shut him up, although oddly he looked more relieved than irritated.

“Where do you want me to put these?” Taub asked, his arms starting to sag.

“Oh…” I had a sudden brainstorm. “Stick them in some water and take them over to Wilson’s office, would you?”

“Would you like to leave a note?” There was just the faintest hint of sarcasm lacing his carefully articulated query.

“Nah. He’ll know who sent them.”


Analyzing my medical records proved to be at once easier and more complicated than I’d expected. The records room itself was absurdly accessible to anyone who bothered to venture down into the bowels of the hospital, and I found both my medical and personnel file folders without any trouble. However, once I’d gotten them back up to my office, I quickly realized that some joker had gone through and substituted a series of dummy patient records in my personnel file, all of which listed the name of the Dean of Medicine. And I had an uncomfortable feeling that the anti-authoritarian comedian in question was me.

When I turned instead to my medical file, it was a similar story. Many of the records appeared to be legit, most of these written in a left-handed scrawl and signed by – surprise! – one J. Wilson. But quite a few of them involved highly unlikely procedures, including an orchiectomy in May 2010 and the treatment of concussion with deep brain stimulation two years earlier. I probably had my own old self to thank for the fact that I wouldn’t really be able to trust anything I read here.

I suppose that I should have suspected as much from the Post-it note attached to the first page of the folder: “Any further unauthorized alterations will be dealt with severely. YES, HOUSE, THIS MEANS YOU.”


I decided to take my medical file home with me so that I could peruse it at my leisure in the effort to sort out fact from fiction. Around seven I took a break to munch a couple of slices of cold pizza, thinking about what I’d read so far.

The missing muscle in my leg dated back to about eleven years earlier, when I’d been admitted to PPTH complaining of severe pain. The notes indicated that I had eventually been diagnosed with a clotted aneurysm leading to an infarction, but only after significant damage to the affected muscle, which had been surgically removed. Apparently I had gone into cardiac arrest from the potassium released when the clot was broken up, and also had been placed into a chemically induced coma for the pain prior to the surgery. The authorization for the muscle amputation was signed by a Stacy Adler.

It was difficult to get a clear picture of the years since the infarction from my file, largely due to the many alterations and apparent omissions, only some of which I might be able to detect. There was one interesting entry regarding the use of ketamine during emergency surgery for a gunshot wound, after reading which I had found myself unconsciously fingering the old scar. I wondered whether the ketamine had been administered in an intentional attempt to reboot my brain and eliminate excitatory nerve activity, essentially ghost pain from the missing muscle. The records were quiet on the subject, but if I had insisted on such a risky experiment, the residual pain must have been plenty severe. Oddly, the records from the next six months appeared to be missing.

I returned to my reading, switching on a lamp as the light of early evening faded. Towards the end of the file, there was another gap of several months before I found records of a complete physical examination. But given that this was followed by a urine test on a sample apparently collected from a golden retriever, I wasn’t sure how seriously I could take any of it.

I must have dozed off, because when the front door rattled, I found myself sprawling sideways on the couch, my glasses sliding askew over my nose. Hastily I fumbled for my medical file and shoved it under the seat cushion just before Wilson walked in, yawning widely.

“It’s over?” I asked, not knowing what else to say.

Wilson nodded, rubbing his eyes. He looked exhausted. “It’s over. What are you still doing up?”

“I thought you might want a drink, or some tea…” He started shaking his head. “Or maybe just to talk…”

“I’m fine,” he said, looking at me strangely. “Really. It’s late. Let’s just… go to bed.”

I was about to follow Wilson into his bedroom before he shut the door and locked it with a quiet click.

Shit. Shouldn’t have been surprised, I guess. He had warned me not to wait up, and I had already figured out that underneath his friendly demeanor, Wilson was a pretty private person. And maybe it was better this way; I had so many questions after reading my records that I would have been sorely tempted to attempt to extract information from him, which might have given the game away.

Still, I couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed as I took refuge in my own bed, alone, for the second night in a row.


In spite of his late night, Wilson was up long before me once again. I pulled the pillow over my head to try to drown out the drone of his hair dryer, but as soon as it stopped, I was finally forced to concede my bladder the victory and stumble into the bathroom. I was still half-asleep, and my vision was blurred, so it came as a complete surprise when my stream bounced back up out of the toilet and started splattering around the bowl.

What the-“ Before I could even finish that thought, Wilson unexpectedly elbowed his way in from behind me. I barely had time to register the fact that he was wearing latex gloves before he peeled off the Saran wrap, pulling up the corners, and whisked it away. By the time I’d gathered my wits together, the front door had slammed, and I found myself standing alone on the wet, slightly steaming tile with my dick still in my hand.


It didn’t occur to me right away that Wilson had stranded me; only once I’d showered and thrown on some clothes did I realize that I would have to call a cab. It also took me a few extra minutes to find Wilson’s office; I’d expected it to be in or near Oncology, not on the fourth floor, even though he’d come out on the balcony to find me that first day.

The door was closed, but not locked, so without bothering to knock, I wrenched the knob and shoved it open with my shoulder.

“Are you insane? What the hell was that about?”

Half-hidden behind yesterday’s floral offering, Wilson looked up at my abrupt entrance, folding his arms across his chest defensively. “I needed a urine sample,” he said, as if that should explain everything.

“What the fuck for?”

“I had to run some tests.”

“You couldn’t have just asked me for a sample if it was that important?”

“And you would have dropped trou and handed it over? House, your team is worried. They came to me yesterday complaining that you’d been behaving strangely.” He lowered his voice. “They thought you might be using again.”

“Why would they think that?”

Wilson cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. “You’ve been acting happy, House. And even… nice.” He said this as if some fundamental law of the universe had been violated. “So Chase and Foreman figured you must be getting some, either sex or drugs, and I’m in a good position to know that it’s not the former. Hence the drug test.”

Hmm. Note to self: In future, try to act like a much bigger prick. In the meantime, I concentrated on finding the right balance between resignation and righteous indignation. “And?

“And… and nothing. The results came back clean.”

“Well, I could have told you that.”

“You would have told me that, but how could I have been sure?”

“You don’t trust me,” I said, more because it had just dawned on me than in an attempt to provoke any particular reaction. This man, who was probably the most important person in my life, didn’t trust me. And for all I knew, he had very good reasons not to. I had to wonder how many details of my medical history post-infarction were not included in my official records. Dependence on painkillers, probably. Perhaps worse.

Wilson confirmed these suspicions with his next words. “Addicts lie. Everybody lies, House. That’s practically your motto.”

“Still,” I said. “Seriously? What did you think you were doing, reliving your fraternity days?”

“You know damned well that you were the one who gave me the idea in the first place,” he responded indignantly. Then he added, deadpan, “Besides, it was either that, or Chase was going to molest you in the men’s room. But I told him that the next time you punched him in the face, you might not leave it so pretty.”

What in the hell had he meant by that? Had Chase… Had I… This conversation was absolutely crazy-making. I steadied myself with a deep breath and deliberately changed the subject.

“Like the flowers?”

Wilson glanced over at them and back at me. “Yeah,” he said. “They’re nice. Thanks for having them sent over.”

“They’re from a patient,” I said proudly.

Wilson sighed. “You have got to stop stealing stuff from patients’ rooms.”


Wilson cooked tonight – some kind of roasted cabbage stew that smelled like ass but tasted amazing – and we broke open a six-pack of Hop Devil and settled back on the sofa together in front of the Discovery Channel. I kept waiting for Wilson to start up a conversation, or at the very least cop a feel, but he seemed content to watch fish change sexes in order to move up the dominance hierarchy and a pair of male penguins practice incubating an egg. I, on the other hand, was finding it more and more difficult to keep my hands to myself, especially as the warm glow of the alcohol started tingling in my belly and regions south.

Near the end of my third beer, a belch took me by surprise, and Wilson gave me a reproving glance.

“Sorry,” I said. “I’m just very relaxed right now. Although,” I added with a meaningful look, “not too much so. If you’re, um, in the mood.”

“In the mood for what?” Wilson asked, looking honestly puzzled. Which was weird, because while I couldn’t actually claim to know very much about either of us at this point, I was pretty sure that seduction was his department. But maybe he was more of a passive panty-peeler – Mr. Nice Guy, helps you move, lets you cry on his shoulder, and the next thing you know, you’re grabbing him by a well-manicured hand and dragging him to bed.

“Oh, come on… Jimmy. Do I really have to spell it out for you?” Smirking a little, I started to lean in, putting my hand on his knee for balance as well as a suggestive squeeze. It was almost like I was moving in slo-mo, with Wilson watching, wide-eyed, lips parting in surprise, as I came closer. But then, just as my mouth was about to make contact with his, he jerked away, I fell awkwardly against him, and we were both left staring at each other in horrified astonishment.

What are you-“

“I thought we were-“

Wilson was flushed with confusion and embarrassment, perspiration beading on his forehead. He pushed me away, jumped up, and started to pace, hands on his hips. I could see his carotid pulsing in overdrive. “House,” he burst out at last, “what the hell is going on with you?”


“My mistake,” I told him meekly. “I, uh, haven’t been myself lately.”

“You’re telling me? Treating your team with kid gloves, turning up for clinic duty on time, buying me lunch?” He was pointing at me accusingly, as if he’d caught me drowning puppies. “And now this? Are we in Bizarro world? Are you trying to make me insane?”

“Don’t you think you’re overreacting? I mean, if you didn’t want me to make any moves on you, why did you bring me back here?”

Wilson stared at me. “Is this a joke? Trying to trick one of the new neighbors? Do you have a hidden camera somewhere?”

“Wilson, Jesus. I just thought that now that Sam’s gone, that you wanted…”

“What? What exactly did you think I wanted?” He was practically panting, and red in the face.

“Forget it,” I said abruptly. “I’m sorry, I must have misunderstood. I’ll move back out tomorrow.” I started to push past him towards my bedroom, but he heaved a sigh, covering his face with one hand, and I hesitated.

“House, no. Wait. Talk to me. I know that’s not… what we do, and I’ve tried not to push, but...” he trailed off, looking torn.

Wilson might not have been my main man in exactly the manner that I’d thought, but something told me that he was on my side, that he’d move heaven and earth to help me if he knew I needed him. Besides, handicapped as I was by my own ignorance, an ally who could help me navigate the treacherous shores of my assumed identity would be invaluable. Wilson calmed down gradually as I explained everything, starting from the moment when I woke on the floor of what turned out to be my own office, and by the time I got to the end of what was for me our first meeting, he was sitting on the sofa again and starting to make sounds that I could only describe as a giggle.

“Wow,” he said. “And so you thought I… wow.”

“So, not my ex-boyfriend, then.” I was more than a little disappointed.

“Uh, no. Although we have lived together before. When I started seeing Sam again, I… well, I asked you to leave.” He paused, looking momentarily contrite. “To give us some space.”

“So Sam was your ex-boyfriend.”

“What, no. Samantha Carr. My ex-wife.”

“O-kay. The framed poster of A Chorus Line could have fooled me. So… we moved in together because you and your ex-wife Sam split up, but then you two decided to give it another try?”

Wilson sighed and rubbed his temples. “It’s not… quite that simple. Look, House: we’ve known each other for a long time, there’s a lot of history here, and… frankly, I’m not sure I’m ready to recap it in a few breezy sentences after one too many beers.”

“Well, I’ll take whatever you can give me, because I can’t remember a fucking thing from before three days ago.”

He cocked his head at me curiously. “What do you remember? I mean, you obviously haven’t had any trouble speaking, reading, getting around…” His gaze roved around the room, coming to rest on the covered object in the corner. “Can you still play?”

“I think you’re missing the main point here,” I grumbled, but I limped over and unveiled the instrument, a gorgeous antique organ, sat down at the bench, and ran my fingers admiringly over the keys. Then I looked up at Wilson. “What songs do I know?”

He shrugged. “As far as I could tell, anything you’d ever heard played once.”

Yeah, that’s very helpful.”

“Maybe you’ve retained muscle memory.” He made some vague flicking motions with his fingers. “Just start playing and see what happens.”

I touched a couple of keys tentatively, then a couple more. My confidence grew as I recognized the opening strains of “Amazing Grace,” which sounded absolutely incredible on this instrument, with an eerie, mournful undertone. As the last notes of the fourth phrase died away, Wilson cleared his throat.

That was unexpected.”

“Cool,” I said, staring at my hands. I started to stand up, looking over at Wilson. “Here, your turn.”

He shook his head. “I don’t play.”

“You don’t? Why do you have this, then? Is it Sam’s?”

“No,” he said, looking uncomfortable again, “it’s yours. After we moved in here together, you told me that I should pick out some furniture, and I, um, bought it for you.”

We were just friends, reluctant roommates, and he gave me the organ as a gift? This made no sense to me. Wilson’s unease suggested that the same thought had occurred to him. “When was that, exactly?”

“Oh… about a year ago. Just before I started seeing Sam again.”

He seemed unable or unwilling to fully grasp the significance of this timing, but I found it highly suspicious. I felt virtually certain that my original intuitions about our relationship had been no accident. Too bad that Wilson wasn’t as ready to acknowledge the attraction, even to himself. But in the meantime, I had bigger worries.

“Wilson,” I said, looking him intently in the eye, “promise me that you won’t tell anyone. I don’t know when my memories are going to come back, if ever, and if Dean Cuddy finds out about this, I won’t be allowed to practice. I could even lose my license.”

“House, you’re kidding, I can’t…” he blew out his breath in a huff of frustration. “What am I supposed to do, follow you around to make sure you haven’t forgotten anything important?”

“I suppose that’s one option.”

“Yeah, because that worked so well the last time.”

I raised an indignant eyebrow. “Wait, this has happened before?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, frowning. “Not exactly, no. But you have had… other issues.”

“Look, I’m not knowingly going to put any patients in danger. I’ll have my team to do the heavy lifting, and I’m sure they’ll let me know if I suggest anything unreasonable.”

Wilson outright rolled his eyes at that. “Oh, yeah, that’s always been really effective.”

Please. The medicine is all I’ve got, and I haven’t forgotten any of it. Even that first day, I couldn’t remember the patient’s name, but as soon as Masters recapped her case, I knew what we should do next.”

“Oh,” he said, and pondered for a moment. “Well, I’ll make you a deal. You get Foreman to give you a full neurological work-up tomorrow. If he thinks you’re fit to practice, I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

“Can I trust him? For that matter, can you?”

He shrugged. “It’s a risk we’ll have to take. For what it’s worth, I think that you can trust all of your team members to keep your secret, except maybe for Masters. And if you get them on board, maybe they can help figure out what caused your amnesia and whether it’s likely to be temporary or permanent.”

“Christ,” I groaned, burying my face in my hands for a moment before I looked up again at Wilson. “Maybe you’re right. This is crazy. I have no idea who I am. I don’t even know what I like.”

“Oh, you know, the usual. Monster trucks. Soap operas. Broadway musicals.”

“Musicals? Seriously?

“No.” The corner of Wilson’s mouth crooked up.

I felt immediately, irrationally better. I didn’t have the answers – yet – but I had a friend and ally, and I felt optimistic that together we would work it out. Or at least have a hell of an interesting time trying.

“By the way,” I said, hauling myself to my feet once more and reaching for my cane, “I couldn’t ask before, but do you like to go by James, or Jim, or what?”

Even after all of the unexpected events that evening, I think that’s when it really hit him how far I was from the friend he’d known. He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again. “I was Jimmy as a kid, James once I decided that I wanted to be taken more seriously. But you have this thing about using first names. Mostly you just call me Wilson.”

I nodded. It fit. Hell, it figured. “Good night, Wilson,” I said, hobbling past him towards my bedroom.

“Good night, House,” he answered, half-smiling at me from the sofa.



( 11 comments — Leave a comment )
Jan. 18th, 2011 03:54 am (UTC)
Awww... I can't wait to see what comes next. Poor House - I love fics where he's all nice and stuff and people get so uncomfortable!
Jan. 18th, 2011 04:03 am (UTC)
Hee, House is pretty endearing in this section, isn't he? But I have to admit that it's more fun to write him when he's being an ass...
Jan. 18th, 2011 10:43 am (UTC)
An orchiectomy in May '10... Oh truer words have never been typed. (Very much enjoying this so far! Thanks for such a laugh in the midst of the currently dismal world of House.)
Jan. 18th, 2011 11:27 am (UTC)
Hee, thank you! This story is basically my attempt to make lemonade from the sour fruit being lobbed at us by the current season.
Jan. 19th, 2011 03:13 am (UTC)
Loved Wilson's reaction to what seemed to House to be an obvious move! And I also enjoyed the way House managed to inadvertently hide his difficulty, sometimes without even knowing he was doing it.

"You have got to stop stealing stuff from patients' rooms." -- snort!
Jan. 19th, 2011 03:34 am (UTC)
"You have got to stop stealing stuff from patients' rooms." -- snort!
Hee - I think that was my beta's favorite exchange out of the whole thing!

Love your deer-in-headlights icon, by the way!
Jan. 19th, 2011 09:48 pm (UTC)
It's this line - “They’re from a patient,” I said proudly.
Made me smile everytime I read it - especially the 'proudly' bit :D Awesome!!!
Jan. 20th, 2011 07:17 am (UTC)
You were right, I really am enjoying this story. I found this chapter to be rather amusing; House is being nice and people are wondering if there is something wrong, if he's relapsed. I can totally see this happening which makes it such a joy to read. Realistically, I think, if House lost all of his memory he would try to blend in to normal society as well as he could. (Anyone who lost their memory would do that) That would result in him being nice and leading to the confusion and worry of others...

I really like how you've written House's team, everyone is incredibly in character. (Especially Taub; he is one of my favorite characters and you've really got his passive-aggressive nature and sarcasm down pat.)

I liked reading the part where House goes back through his medical history; it was interesting to see him try to piece back together his past, finding it to be difficult due to what he is beginning to realize is his nature.

If House were to lose his memory, I firmly believe that he would find the closeness shared by him and Wilson peculiar for "just friends." And THANK YOU for pointing out the odd timing of Wilson giving him the organ, it has been on my mind for awhile lol. I enjoyed the hesitation on Wilson's part in explaining it, and House realizing the obvious attraction there.

I LOVED Wilson's reaction to House coming onto him lol.

I love how detailed this fic is; I loved the part where House wanted Wilson's pickle ;) My mind was being perverted over that before I even read House's joke. *can't help self*

It was rather touching that the reality of House's amnesia really hit Wilson when House asked what he liked to be called.

From what I've gleaned, it seems like House and Cuddy broke up and he ended up getting drunk that night...but I'm not sure.

I'm really looking forward to reading the rest of this.
Jan. 20th, 2011 01:02 pm (UTC)
Thanks so much for your long and lovely comments!

(Especially Taub; he is one of my favorite characters and you've really got his passive-aggressive nature and sarcasm down pat.)
Taub doesn't have a huge role in this story, but the bits I gave him were really fun to write.

And THANK YOU for pointing out the odd timing of Wilson giving him the organ, it has been on my mind for awhile lol.
A lot of the hints to House that they might have been more than friends came from conversations at House_Wilson or soophelia's lj, and I'm fairly confident that this bit came from one with you!

I loved the part where House wanted Wilson's pickle ;) My mind was being perverted over that before I even read House's joke. *can't help self*
Clearly I couldn't help myself, either!

From what I've gleaned, it seems like House and Cuddy broke up and he ended up getting drunk that night...but I'm not sure.
*evil grin*
Mar. 9th, 2012 07:54 pm (UTC)
ooh, I like this a lot! Can't wait to see where you're going with it!

(and I'm a huge beer snob and i never heard of Hop Devil before!)
Mar. 9th, 2012 09:53 pm (UTC)
Thanks, glad you're enjoying it!

One of my exes who was really into hoppy beers told me about Hop Devil.
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