Before (Mega House/Wilson pre-show fic) Part 2

[triedunture]

“I thought you were married,” House said one night, a week or so later.

Wilson blinked. “I am married.”

He looked across the kitchen island at House, who was now hungry enough to crutch his way into a different room for the pork chops Wilson had just served up.

“Where’s the ring?” House asked, still chewing his mouthful. He soaked up some gravy with a slice of bread.

Wilson sighed; he’d stopped by again as a favor to Cuddy. She had been chosen to act as the Interim Dean while the board looked for a replacement for Quick. Her schedule was full, and she couldn’t check up on House every night.

“He needs someone to be there,” she’d insisted. “Just a few minutes, that’s all. He’ll throw you out when he’s done, trust me.”

But somehow, the evening became a drawn-out dinner and fireside (television lighted, anyway) chat. Wilson had even badgered House into tapping out a song on the piano.

“I don’t feel like playing,” House had said, crossing his arms with a grumpy scowl.

“You don’t want to get rusty,” Wilson had replied. And House had played a movement of Vivaldi’s Winter. It had sounded like fast-falling snow and black pavement, and House hadn’t played for very long, ending mid-phrase.

“The ring?” House repeated, gesturing with his fork to Wilson’s hand, frozen on its way to his mouth in thought. “Did you hock it for cold cash?”

Wilson put his forkful of potatoes down and sighed. “No, I stopped wearing it. I was getting too nervous, taking it off for surgery. Bonnie put it in a keepsake box for me.”

House frowned and took a long drink from his glass. “How many years have you been a surgeon?” he asked once he’d finished. “And now suddenly the ring is in your way?”

Wilson didn’t answer. House tried again. “So ‘Wilson’…that’s a nice Jewish name.”

Wilson’s eyebrows shot up on his forehead. “How did you know I was Jewish?” he asked. No one but people from back home knew.

“I don’t know.” House shrugged and started shredding his paper napkin. “So? Was it Weinstein before your great-grandparents came to Ellis Island?”

“It’s none of your business,” Wilson said, and started scraping his plate into the trash even though he hadn’t finished eating.

“My great-grandparents were actually called Haus,” he said, creating a guttural Germanic accent on the foreign word. “Same thing, though. A house is a house.”

When Wilson went home, Bonnie only spoke to him in monosyllabic retorts before bed. Wilson fell asleep and dreamt that he was climbing the Statue of Liberty, digging his fingertips into the folds of her tunic.

<><><>

The third time Wilson came by House’s townhouse, he had to use the hidden key above the doorframe to get inside. He had pounded on the green door for nearly half an hour, shouting for the older doctor, before looking for the key.

He found House on his back on the bathroom floor.

“No concussion,” House mumbled. “Just tired.” A pool of blood had formed under his head, the result of a superficial head wound that still bled sluggishly.

“Oh my god, oh my god,” Wilson chanted. He checked House’s pupils and his pulse, but House was telling the truth. He was fine, physically, and Cuddy wouldn’t have to kill anyone tomorrow morning. “What happened, House?”

“You’re late,” House croaked. The metal crutches lay discarded in the hallway, side by side like railroad tracks. “I had to piss.”

“You fell?” Wilson asked.

House motioned to the crutches in the hall. “I tried to walk. Alone. Without them.”

The oncologist rolled his eyes and held back the curses on his lips. “Come on, let’s get you to bed,” he said, pressing a bath towel underneath House’s dark head. “Can you stand?”

“I don’t want to stand,” House murmured. “I don’t want to walk. I just want to sleep here.”

Wilson tried to pick him up, but House was dead weight, boneless on the tile floor. House shrugged Wilson’s hands off his arm.

“Just leave,” he said. “Get out of here. Go home to your wife.” His eyes slid closed again, and his breath evened out. Nearly asleep.

Wilson looked around the tiny, dark bathroom, at House’s thin body curled up on the floor.

Wilson pulled at the knot in his tie and slipped it from his neck. “Can’t do that, doctor,” he said, and undid the first few buttons on his dress shirt.

He settled himself on the cool tile next to House’s side, pressed tight from the lack of space, feet curved around the base of the toilet and arms tucked in close under his cheek.

“Idiot,” he heard House breathe before they both fell asleep.

Wilson dreamed about being an astronaut. He walked out into space and felt the cold metal of the space station against his back, but the heat of the sun warmed his face and chest.

“Let’s fix that mirror,” a Russian voice said into his earpiece, and Wilson floated weightless towards the Hubble.

<><><>

Wilson returned the very next night for two reasons: he was worried about House’s state of mind, and Bonnie had told him not to bother coming home before she hung up on him. There was no explaining to her why he hadn’t come home last night. Wilson had tried. (“Have I ever even met this man?” Bonnie shouted over the phone line.)

“House?” Wilson called into the dim apartment. He had commandeered the spare key for his own use, and House had let him. It now jingled on his key ring next to his house, car, and locker keys. “You in here?”

He knew House was; the man hadn’t left his home since the operation.

The sofa was empty, and so were the kitchen chairs. The bathroom door was open to reveal a deserted tub, and the only place left was the bedroom. Wilson hesitated in the hallway with his hand on the doorknob. In the few times he’d come to see House, he’d never been inside his bedroom.

Strange, he thought, that he knew so little about the man he’d slept next to all night. Wilson wondered if it was really a quirk of fate that their paths had crossed, or whether he was just a glutton for punishment and refused to back down from a hopeless case.

And nothing described House like “hopeless case.”

He took a fortifying breath and pushed the door open. The room was dark, and the bed was empty. After a moment of panic, Wilson’s eyes adjusted and he saw House’s lanky silhouette outlined against the window. He was leaning on the sill with his crutches stuffed under his arms.

“House?” he said.

House put a finger to his lips and shushed him loudly. “The stars are speaking,” he whispered.

Wilson shuffled into the room and closed the door behind him. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not one man anymore,” House continued, swinging his attention back to the open window. “I’m more. More like five.” He counted on one hand. “Sight, sound, touch, smell, taste. The big five.”

Wilson blinked and looked down at the floor. An empty bottle of whiskey sat on the carpet, making a sticky patch near its mouth.

“Did you mix that with the pills?” Wilson cried. He rushed forward, grabbing the man’s face between his hands and forcing his drooping eyelids open with his thumbs. “How many, House? How many pills?”

House’s pupils were tiny pinpoints of black, making his blue irises seem huge like dinner plates. His face was clammy and cool and peppered with facial hair. He didn’t answer Wilson’s question. His lips curled into a lazy grin.

“You want to get high? That’s how you plan on getting through this?” Wilson hissed between clenched teeth. “You stupid son of a bitch.”

Wilson dropped one hand to House’s neck to take his pulse, but House brought a hand up to catch it. He turned his head and pressed his lips to Wilson’s open palm, his eyes sliding shut at the contact.

“Five,” he whispered against Wilson’s hand. “Sight, sound…salt. Snakes. Speak.” His eyes drifted open to mere slits. “That’s not right. Sight. Sound…”

“House.” Wilson tore his hand from the other man’s loose grip. “The pills. How many? Five?”

“No,” House muttered, shaking his head, then nodding. “Yes.”

“Which is it?”

“I don’t know, I don’t—” House slumped to the side, one crutch slipping out from under him, and Wilson had to grab him by the arms to keep him upright. The crutches made two muffled thumps against the carpet.

Wilson carefully maneuvered House to sit on the edge of the mattress. He was still in his recovery uniform, old tee and boxers, though the clothes seemed damp with sweat.

“Stay here,” Wilson ordered. “I have to call—”

He turned to find the phone on the bedside table, but House grasped a handful of his soft sweater vest and yanked him back into place.

“Don’t,” he growled.

“You need help,” Wilson said. He grappled with House’s hands, but the man seemed to have a death grip on his shirt. “You need…”

House was strong and insistent, and he pulled at Wilson until he stumbled and fell onto the floor on one knee. Then one of House’s long-fingered hands was on his shoulder and the other was in his hair. Wilson grabbed at his wrists and looked up to stare into House’s eerie blue eyes.

There was a wordless pressure at the back of his head, House’s fingers buried in his hair. Not pulling, not forcing, but there. Wilson glanced back down at what was eye-level and saw House’s lap, the slit of his boxers pulled apart by a taunt shape. The dark skin of his erection visible between the folds of plaid fabric.

A joke, a bizarre joke, was Wilson’s first thought. But he looked back up at House, who was gone, completely smashed, shattered, unblinking, unrelenting. He was serious.

Wilson inhaled deeply to gather his thoughts, but that proved dangerous too as the scent of animal arousal flooded his senses. House’s sweat, his skin, the firm touch in his hair, it all pointed to one inevitable need.

His other leg wobbled and fell, and Wilson found purchase on the carpet with both his knees. He could have easily stood, easily pushed away House’s hands, walked out of the room and never come back.

It would be easy.

Wilson’s right hand rested on House’s good thigh, and his left slid up his bare calf to rest at the back of his knee. The legs parted slightly to make a perfect harbor. Time slowed, and Wilson couldn’t breathe, and the shadows in the room seemed to shift and swirl. He leaned forward and touched the fabric of the shorts with the tip of his nose, the swell of his upper lip. Barely a nuzzle, barely anything at all.

Both of House’s hands cupped the back of his head then, digging into the thick hair there, clutching but still not controlling.

Tongue darting out to lap at cotton, the dry flavor of fabric. A gentle nudge with chin and lips, and the musky smell of human skin flooded his nostrils, his mouth. Just a touch. Nothing of consequence.

A sudden surge in time, and everything seems to speed up. Wilson becomes painfully aware of the cock in his mouth, the bitter taste swirling on his tongue, the wiry hairs tickling his cheeks. Not a professional job by any means, but Wilson isn’t sure what it’s supposed to look like, he only knows what it’s supposed to feel like. Noises in his throat and his hands fall away; House flops onto his back, his arms thrown over his eyes, and Wilson can see down the airstrip of his body from his front row seat in House’s lap.

It’s not something else anymore, it’s not something unnamable, it’s sex, and Wilson knows that.

House is groaning in different pitches, no words, just sounds. He’s grabbing the sheets beneath his palms and bunching them into his fists. His cock is so hard. Wilson feels it too. He considers opening his fly, but he knows he doesn’t have that kind of time, so he can only press his hand to the front of his pants, rubbing to relieve the pressure.

House comes and it tastes like angostura bitters and salt. Wilson’s mouth tells him this is a substance not fit for consumption, so he spits it out into his palm.

Time slowed down again, just like House’s breathing, and Wilson soon realized that the other man was sleeping. His knees ached and his jaw hurt, and he couldn’t stop panting for air. He looked over House’s sprawled form, his legs still dangling over the side of the bed.

What happened next was always a blur when Wilson tried to remember it. He stood and washed his hands in the bathroom. He rinsed his mouth with capful after capful of House’s blue Listerine and grabbed a towel. Wilson used it to wipe House clean, rearranged his clothing and eased him under the bedclothes, desperately afraid the man would wake up. He left everything else: the empty bottle on the floor, the fallen crutches, everything. He didn’t consider the empty half of the bed or the couch.

He locked the front door behind him and ran to where his car was parked on the curb. It was raining hard and, when he crawled into his Volvo’s backseat, the pounding rain made a dull roar echo through the car. With the seatbelt buckles digging into his spine, he closed his eyes and hoped his hands would stop shaking.

When he finally drifted into an uneasy half sleep, Wilson dreamed of a dark room where he was tied up and held prisoner.

A figure appeared before him with a headdress full of eagle feathers. Wilson’s gaze traveled up two strong legs, past a tanned hide loincloth, and right to House’s war-painted face.

House raised a hand. “How?” he said.

Wilson blinked. “What?”

“The chief asked you a question, darling,” a voice drawled, and another House, clad in dark blue Wranglers and spurs, stepped into view. He spat on the ground and tipped his Stetson back on his head. “Answer the man.”

“I don’t…” Wilson shook his head.

“This isn’t going to be pretty.” Another passed by. This time, House was wearing a bright yellow construction helmet and had a tool belt slung around his waist. He held a set of blueprints and studied them intently. “Yeah, this isn’t an easy job. This one’s gonna cost you,” he said.

The ropes that bound his wrists and ankles had no give to them, but Wilson struggled still. “I’m not—”

“Of course you’re not.” House loomed over him again, this time dressed in a black leather motorcycle jacket and matching chaps. “You’re just along for the ride,” the biker jeered.

“Sir, I’m going to have to take you down to the station.” A fifth House appeared wearing a black police officer’s uniform complete with a black hat and night stick. He slid his mirrored sunglasses down his nose to look at Wilson. “Do you have any idea how fast you were going?”

“Seriously,” the Indian said. “How?”

Wilson twisted his head this way and that, but the five Houses wouldn’t leave. They hemmed him in and took turns using his mouth, humming “Macho Man” the entire time.

When Wilson woke up, he was covered in sweat. He drove home slowly and practiced what to say to Bonnie. All he knew was it wouldn’t be the truth.

<><><>

“It’s been decided,” Cuddy said as she pushed her way into the oncology lounge.

Wilson looked up from his sandwich and swallowed his bite. “What’s been?”

Cuddy swept her hands under her white lab coat to perch on her hips. “You are looking at the first female Dean of Medicine at PPTH,” she said. “I’m going to whip this place into shape, let me tell you.”

He managed a smile for her. “Congratulations,” he murmured, though he really didn’t feel like celebrating. Bonnie had left for good that morning. She was headed back to Boston, and soon half of the things in the house would be packed up and sent to her. The divorce papers were already being drawn up by the lawyers. She had taken the dog.

“Who was she?” Bonnie had asked in that small, cold voice. No rage, no surprise. Wilson would have rather been faced with that.

“It was a one-time thing,” Wilson had said. “Someone from work. No one, really.”

“James. Why?” She hadn’t even cried.

A sigh. “I don’t think…either of us has been very happy. Am I right?” Bonnie had silently nodded her agreement and left the house to go to her sister’s.

It had been a long week.

“Well, guess what?” Cuddy continued, sitting down in the armchair next to him and crossing her legs. “Remember how you were telling me weeks ago about House? How you thought it would be great if he could teach new residents to think like he does? I have a plan, and I think it’s going to work.”

“What is it?” Wilson set down his last bite of turkey on rye to listen.

“Tell me what you think.” She made a picture frame with her hands. “A department of diagnostics. House would be the head of it. There would be two or three fellowships positions, and they could work all the difficult cases with him. I already have a donor lined up.” She smiled widely. “I just need to get House on board.”

Wilson desperately tried to keep his eyes from bugging out of his head. “You’re going to give House his own department?”

“Just a small one.” Her smile became nervous and uneven. “You don’t think it’ll work?”

“I, well, it’s just…”

Cuddy stood suddenly. “We’ll never know unless we try. Do you think you could go grab House and bring him back here? The donor wants to meet with him, and this afternoon was the only time he had free.”

“Me? Get House?” Wilson’s mind started churning out excuses, and the first one left his lips immediately. “I’m just so swamped today.”

“Don’t worry, I cleared your schedule.” Cuddy smiled again, like a shark. “Perks of being the Dean.” She left, her heels clicking on the floor. “Make sure he looks presentable,” she called over her shoulder.

<><><>

Wilson entered 221B like he was heading into a lion’s den, but there had been no need to worry. House looked up from a trashy magazine and said, “Long time, no see. I thought that passing out on the bathroom floor with me officially ended your contract as Replacement Cuddy.”

Wilson’s mouth dropped open, but he couldn’t speak. House didn’t remember?

“So cancer is keeping you busy, huh?” House flipped a glossy page and scratched at his tee shirt-clad chest.

House didn’t remember. Wilson’s brain whirled around in circles. Had House been that out of it? Maybe he thought it had been a dream. Or a hallucination. Or maybe he did remember, and he was waiting to see if Wilson would crack. Or maybe…

It didn’t matter. Time was short. “Cuddy needs you at the hospital,” he said.

House snorted and turned another page. “She left me a message. I figured she must have called the wrong number. Donors are supposed to be kept far away from me.”

Wilson passed House’s armchair and continued down the hall. “I’m getting you some clothes,” he said. “Get in the shower.”

“No way. It’s almost time for General Hospital,” House whined. “You have no idea how addicting that show can be. Especially when you can’t walk away from it.”

Wilson returned from the bedroom closet with a wrinkled suit and tie. “House, this guy is willing to fund a new department. For you. So get up and just…” Wilson glanced into the hall closet. “Do you have an ironing board?”

“Nope,” House said after a moment of thought, popping his mouth on the word. “That was Stacy’s.”

“Okay, fine. Where are your lab coats?” Wilson asked as he rummaged through the closet some more.

“Threw them out with some of her old stuff,” House said.

“Why would you do that!?”

House shrugged. “White coats say, ‘Hey, look at me. I went to med school and I’m a smarter, faster, better person than you.’ They’re a big fat lie, is what they are.”

Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to think of a calm ocean. “Just get in the shower,” he ordered. “I’ll find something for you to wear.”

“What for? I don’t want to run my own department!” House shouted, throwing the worn copy of People on the floor. “I don’t need Cuddy creating a nice padded little job to protect my precious feelings!”

Wilson stood there a moment before diving into action. He grabbed House’s right arm, ignoring his yelp of indignation. He hauled the other man upright and started marching them towards the bathroom, slinging House’s arm over his neck to keep the weight off his injured leg. Wilson kicked open the bathroom door, wrenched the shower on and thrust House under the spray, still in his messy clothes.

The older man sputtered under the cold water, still clutching at Wilson’s arm for balance. “Are you fucking insane?” he cried.

“You need to go back to work,” Wilson said. He paid no attention to the wetness on his own shirtsleeves. “I’ll drag you there kicking and screaming if I have to. There are cases that you need to solve, young doctors you need to teach. If you don’t do it, people will die. So stop making excuses and clean yourself up.”

House quieted down and lowered himself onto the newly installed shower seat. He pursed his lips for a moment before shucking off his soaked tee. “Fine,” he grunted. “But I pick the clothes.”

Wilson left the room before House could wriggle out of his shorts. He brought the crutches to the bathroom and leaned them against the door so House could get to his closet. He busied himself with collecting the things House would need to finally go outside. Wallet, keys, a simple blazer since it was chilly.

He heard the water turn off, and he waited in the kitchen listening to House thumping around in his bedroom, probably still dripping water onto the carpet.

When House emerged, Wilson took one look at him and said, “No way. You can’t go like that.”

House glanced down at himself, the wrinkled black tee with a skull silk-screened on the chest, the tattered blue jeans and the bare feet.

“Why not?”

Wilson clicked his tongue against his teeth and decided to pick his battles. “You need shoes. Hold on.” He moved to the hall closet and retrieved a pair of serviceable loafers.

“Can’t.” House shook his head. “They hurt my feet.”

“Will you at least try them?” Wilson groaned. But House wouldn’t budge, and Wilson was forced to dig around the closet for a pair of old Nikes.

As House sat on the edge of his sofa, tugging on socks and sneakers, Wilson studied his face. “Okay. A quick shave and we’re out of here.”

House rubbed a hand over his bristly jaw. “Fine. Be right back.” He struggled to stand and crutched his way into the bathroom. Wilson heard the click of the metal supports being placed against the sink, followed by House’s muffled curse.

Wilson poked his head into the bathroom. “What’s wrong?”

House turned, half his face covered in shaving cream. “Can’t lean against the counter. Son of a bitch, it hurts.” He tried to take some of the weight off his leg by bracing his right hand on the lip of the sink, but that put his razor in his non-dominant left hand.

Wilson was about to step forward and help, maybe wrap an arm around House’s waist, let him lean on his shoulder, maybe shave him himself. But all of that spoke of an intimacy they weren’t supposed to share.

House made a half-hearted sweep at the underside of his chin, but his left hand was not up for the job, and he only succeeded in cutting the wet skin there. He hissed in pain and slammed the disposal razor down on the porcelain.

“God damn it,” House whispered.

Wilson bit his lip and handed over a towel. “You know what?” he said. “Don’t worry about shaving.”

House grabbed the towel and swiped his face clean. “Cuddy will have my balls,” he muttered.

“No, it’ll be fine.” Wilson watched the blue-eyed reflection in the mirror. “You look good with a little facial hair.”

<><><>

Cuddy had splendidly rescued House from insulting the donor. House would get his department. A miracle.

Except after the donor left, House whirled on Cuddy and snarled, “If you want me to teach children to start thinking like doctors should, I have some demands.”

Cuddy sighed and steepled her hands under her chin, leaning across her new desk. “Name them.”

“My own office.”

“Done.”

“My own conference room.”

“Done.”

“Next to Wilson’s office,” House added.

Cuddy threw a confused glance at Wilson, who was leaning against her bookcase. “He doesn’t have an office.”

“He will.” House leaned back in his chair. “Once he’s the head of Oncology.”

Wilson’s mouth dropped open, his face a mix of annoyance and awe. “House…”

“Benson’s retiring next week, right?” House was still speaking directly to Cuddy. “Who’s next in line? Richards? Hedges? One’s about to kick the bucket and the other wants to transfer to Saint E’s.”

“How do you know this?” Cuddy exclaimed in a huff. “You haven’t seen the light of day in weeks!”

House studied his fingernails. “I have my sources.”

“Even so,” Wilson interrupted, “I’m only thirty-three. I’d be the youngest department head in all of New Jersey.”

“In the whole Eastern Seaboard, actually,” House said. “I checked.”

Wilson pointed at House accusingly. “You’re being ridiculous! Cuddy can’t name me department head just because you—”

“Done,” Cuddy said firmly.

“What? Are you serious?” Wilson asked, still pointing at House.

“I’ve always liked your demeanor, Wilson, and I think you’re just what the department needs. House is right; the other senior doctors wouldn’t be a good match.” She plucked a pen from her desk caddy and scribbled something in her day planner. “What do you say? Can you take the reins once Benson leaves?”

Wilson took a deep breath. “I haven’t even been here two years. The team will resent me.”

“You’d be surprised with what you can live with,” Cuddy said with a wide smile. “The new wing should be completed next week. I’ll make sure you both get designated office space in the same hall.” She winked. “Congratulations, gentlemen.”

Wilson waited until House had swung out of Cuddy’s office on his crutches before he hissed, “Why the hell did you have her do that? I’m not ready to run the entire department.”

“Get ready,” House said, limping past.

After dropping House off at home, Wilson drove to the bank to prepare a money order for Bonnie. She needed cash for the move, and they’d agreed it would be deducted from whatever alimony payment the lawyers decided on.

Wilson stood in the teller line, wondering if becoming a department head meant he’d owe her more money every month. Two mouths to feed now and he’d never even had kids.

“Hey there,” the blonde bank teller said as he slid the completed form through the slot. “You look like someone kicked your feet out from under you. Something wrong…” she consulted his form. “James?”

He dredged up a smile for her. “Thanks for noticing…” he looked at the name tag on her breast. “Julie.”

<><><>

“I have an idea,” House said, sweeping every CV off his coffee table with a wave of his arm. “Instead of interviewing potential fellows, we’ll have them fight with foam bats. Last three standing win.”

Wilson tapped his pen against his forehead as he studied the application in his hand. “If you did that, all your fellows would have good upper-body strength, but no agility. Plus, what about the women?”

“You saying women couldn’t beat an opponent over the head for a job?” House scoffed. “Brother, you don’t know chicks.”

Wilson rolled his eyes. “I think I do. In fact,” he checked his new wrist watch, “I’m having dinner with Julie in thirty. I better get going.”

“Wait, how am I supposed to get through this mountain of papers alone?” House complained. “I need warm bodies by Monday or else Cuddy will bathe in my blood.”

Wilson dropped a folder in House’s lap as he got up from his chair. “Take this one. He looks good.”

“You barely even read it,” House growled, flipping through the file. “Chase, Robert. Twenty-five? Oh Christ, you can’t be serious.”

“Fellows, House. The young, the restless, the completely desperate,” Wilson pointed out. He found his keys under the lid for the kung pao. “You have to keep that in mind.”

“Yeah, sure.” House had buried his nose in the file. “But twenty-five? Kids these days must get all their pre-reqs done in utero.”

Wilson laughed and headed for the door. House stood up to see him off, limping along with his new cane. The beat-up crutches had been retired to the hall closet, and the gleaming shepherd’s crook cane was now House’s constant companion.

House opened the door for Wilson and bowed gallantly. “So it doesn’t hit your ass on the way out.”

Wilson paused with one hand against the doorframe. “Want me to pick you up tomorrow morning for work?” he asked.

“What do you think I am, an invalid?” House gave a mock scowl. “I can drive myself.”

“I know,” Wilson said. “It’s just what friends do.”

House tipped his chin up a few inches in thought. “Okay,” he said slowly. “Friends, huh?”

“Yeah.” Wilson smiled as he stepped out the door. “Best friends.”


fin.

Comments

[cadeira.livejournal.com]

Oh boy, I read this on ff.net the other day and was weirdly delighted.
House is like a comic super hero in the first part.
Also, I can´t believe how many of your stuff I haven´t read, yet.