Work Text:
House had been having a perfectly fine Sunday afternoon in their Cancer People apartment. He was settled in with yet another My Strange Addiction marathon, while Wilson sat at the kitchen table, quietly consumed with his iPad.
TV freaks and silent Wilson—the ingredients for a near-perfect day, really. But then House felt eyes upon him. He inwardly sighed and glanced toward the table. Wilson was chewing his bottom lip and pinning House with his Earnest Eyes.
Uh-oh.
“I wanna get a tiny house,” Wilson blurted.
This is new.
House nodded. “I’ve always wanted a Mini-Me, too. They’re available for purchase?”
Wilson rolled his eyes. “No, I mean…a real tiny house. One of those eco-friendly things?”
House blinked, and Wilson went on. “You know. They put them on trailers with wheels.” He made circular motions with his index fingers, to demonstrate how wheels worked. “Then you just park the thing. And if you need to move, you can take your house with you.”
Wilson flashed a small, unsure smile. He was clearly expecting a response.
Deflect, deflect.
“A Dr. Gregory House action figure would be pretty awesome,” House mused, rubbing his chin.
Wilson’s eyebrows predictably shot up. “A crippled action figure?”
“Yeah,” House defended. “Why not? The other day on eBay I saw a Biggie Smalls action figure. And he’s morbidly obese. And dead.”
Wilson closed his eyes. “Tell me you didn’t bid on it.” House was about to inform him that it was a limited-edition, white-pimp-suit Biggie Smalls with a cane, but Wilson began waving his hands. “No, never mind. I don’t care. What do you think about the house idea?”
House looked at him pointedly. “Two grown men in a dollhouse?”
“It’s a tiny house. The ceilings are over six feet tall—”
“So am I.”
“There’s a living space, a kitchen, a loft—”
“Oh, great. A loft is perfect for me.”
“I’d take the loft and you’d sleep downstairs.”
“You’re speaking as if this is actually going to happen.”
Wilson broke out The Eyes again, which really wasn’t fair. They were bigger now since his face was still gaunt from the chemo weight loss, and House found them harder to ignore.
“What happened to San Fran?” House argued. “I thought we were gonna kick it West Coast-style.”
Back when he brought up the idea in New Orleans, it had been an off-the-cuff remark.
But then they arrived in Houston, and all the things House hadn’t really dared to hope for began falling into place. The triple-drug chemo actually shrunk that bitch of a tumor, with the bonus of not killing Wilson. He was hospitalized for severe neutropenia along the way, but he got through it.
Then Chiu was able to resect the tumor. Completely resect it. OK, he’d said, “We think we got it all.” But all surgeons said that, to cover their glorified asses.
And now they were past the radiation and the second round of chemo—a gentler regimen, almost a walk in the park. There were no signs the onslaught had damaged Wilson’s heart, though he’d have to be monitored for that, and for a recurrence. Luckily, House specialized in Wilson monitoring.
Wilson sighed. “I know I said yes to San Francisco. But then I started looking at real estate prices. Neither of us has an income, remember?”
“Yeah. But I figured you’d get off your lazy ass at some point and do some doctorin’ again.”
Wilson’s eyes widened. “Oh. Uh, that…I don’t know…”
House waved him off. “I get it. You’ve had your fill of cancer for a while. But you must have some skill other than oncology.” He paused to mock-ponder. “You got pretty good at Dance, Dance Revolution. And I bet there’s one or two gay strip clubs in San Fran.”
To his disappointment, Wilson did not take the bait. Instead he stood up and came over to the couch, flopping down next to House. For a few moments, he seemed captivated by the TV idiot who was addicted to eating paper. Then he angled his head toward House.
“I know it sounds weird, but…Other than the dying part, I really enjoyed that month where we were on the road with nothing but the clothes on our backs.”
“We brought extra clothes,” House reminded. “And your barrel of coconut lotion. And your hair products—”
“Fine. We had little more than the clothes on our backs.” Wilson blew out a breath and ran a hand through his hair, which had grown back curlier and more unruly after the chemo. “I just liked that is was…simple.”
House could’ve argued that there was nothing simple about faking your own death, then convincing your best friend to try a last-ditch cancer regimen that might have the unfortunate side effect of killing him sooner. But he understood what Wilson meant.
House knew he was going to regret his next words, but he also knew he had little chance of stopping this crazy train. “How does one obtain a tiny house?”
Wilson looked at him and grinned. “Online, of course.”
*******
“No. No way am I living in a house constructed by you.”
Wilson did the kicked-puppy thing, but House refused to fold. “In fact,” he added, “I wouldn’t stand in the same neighborhood as something you built. You’re mystified by Legos.”
“But it’ll be half the price if I build it myself.”
“And we’ll die in a tiny-house collapse. I can’t think of a more embarrassing way to go.”
“Well, it lacks the cachet of a heroin-chic warehouse fire, I’ll grant you that.”
House wagged an index finger. “You’re just never gonna let that one go, are you?”
Wilson held up his hands. “OK. How about I go to the do-it-yourself workshop and get the information I need? Then we can decide.”
“There’s only one sane decision. God, when did I become the voice of sanity here?”
Wilson crossed his arms. “I’m already signed up for the workshop. It’s here, tonight.”
That little bitch. House had been suspicious when he’d suggested they spend a few days in Austin before leaving Texas. There was really nothing of interest to Wilson there—except, apparently, a workshop on how to build your own tiny house.
House worked his jaw, wanting to protest but knowing there was no point. Wilson had gotten more feisty since the cancer. Sure, he usually caved on things like take-out and TV, but House suspected it was all calculated. Wilson was yielding to him on most things in order to save his energy for the big things—which, ironically, included a tiny house.
“Fine,” House relented. “You go to your tiny workshop, while I enjoy a massive night of drink and debauchery.”
“Sounds good.” Wilson turned and headed toward the bathroom.
“I am gonna tear this town up,” House vowed.
At the bathroom doorway, Wilson turned and gave him an indulgent smile. “That’s great,” he said before shutting the door.
*******
House tore up Austin until about 9 p.m. He’d actually found a pretty sweet jazz bar in the Warehouse District, and under normal circumstances he would’ve been happy to stay until closing time.
But on this night, he couldn’t shake the image of Wilson, back at their hotel room, already ordering up building supplies and a hard hat. He’d end up looking like the construction guy from the Village People—a prospect that almost changed House’s stance on the issue.
Almost, he thought as he let himself into their room. To his relief, Wilson was lounging on one of the beds reading, and not hovering over blueprints.
“Hey,” Wilson greeted him in surprise. Then he put his book aside and looked at House with a little gleam in his eyes.
Oh, shit.
“Guess what?” he said, pushing to his feet.
House tossed his key card on the dresser. “Y’know, I really can’t.” He headed toward the other bed.
“I think I found us a tiny house.”
House halted mid-limp. “What do you mean, ‘found’?”
Wilson grinned. “I was talking to the guy who led the workshop, and I told him that I’d really like to build somewhere in California. And he said that’s where he has his tiny house—in a town called…I can’t remember. It’s a weird name. Anyway, it’s only, like, an hour from San Francisco.”
House narrowed his eyes. “And?”
“So this town is basically ground zero for the tiny-house movement.”
“It’s a movement?”
“Yes. And this guy—his name’s Peter—he lives on land that used to be part of an apple orchard. He and some other tiny-house people went in on it together, so they kind of have a tiny-house neighborhood now. And Peter said one of his neighbors is trying to sell—their lot, the house, everything.”
Wilson looked at him expectantly, but House couldn’t form a response. This was not what he’d been anticipating on his way back to the hotel. Honestly, he’d been doubting that Wilson would see this particular idea through at all.
“House? What do you think?”
House shook his head and plopped down on the bed. “Don’t you think this is a bit rushed?”
Wilson moved to sit opposite him. “I know. But it’s so perfect.”
At House’s expression, he flapped a hand. “Just listen. Most tiny houses only have a loft, but this one has a downstairs bedroom, too. The owners bought these portable solar panels they keep on bicycle wheels.”—Wilson paused to giggle—“We can use them to power the whole place, for free. It has a composting toilet—”
“What, now?”
Wilson held up an index finger. “The modern composting toilet is a feat of engineering. You won’t know the difference—and I’ll take care of all the…nitty-gritty.”
“You cannot be serious.”
“I’m totally serious. House...” Wilson bit his lip and looked down. “It’s—it’s just really beautiful there. Peter showed me pictures. And we’ll have enough space. We don’t even need much space. We’ve been doing fine without stuff.”
“Well,” House grumbled, “maybe you have.” Then a mental alarm went off. “Wait. Is there a TV in this thing?”
Wilson hesitated. “No. But we’ll figure out a way to keep you entertained without Spike marathons. Promise.”
House doubted that, but another, stronger protest popped into mind. “How much is this gonna cost?”
“Don’t worry. I still have plenty of savings from selling the condo, and from your untimely demise.”
“How. Much?”
“Around $70,000—But then we’re good. No mortgage. No electric bills—”
“No life,” House finished for him. “Seriously. What is with this sudden yen for nature? You’re not Henry David Thoreau, you know.”
“Well, you’re no Walt Whitman.”
“Oh, snap.”
Wilson rolled his eyes, then sighed heavily. “I know it seems a little crazy, but is it really? Is it crazier than anything else that’s happened?” He gazed at House pointedly. “I mean, isn’t living off the beaten path exactly what we need?”
House started to respond, but Wilson cut him off. “And—and if we ever need to take it on the lam, we can bring our house with us.”
“The lam? So now you’re Bugsy Siegel?”
“House.” Wilson held up a hand. “I probably can’t explain it to suit you. But I just wanna live simply. I don’t wanna go back to…before. Do you?”
House blinked. “I can’t.”
Wilson glanced away and they were silent. “I know,” Wilson murmured after a moment. He looked up again to meet House’s eyes. “So let’s do something new.”
House opened his mouth but nothing came out. He knew there were at least eighty more arguments that could be made against this plan. But he couldn’t conjure up any of them.
So he nodded instead. “OK then. Let’s get a tiny house in Weird Town.”
Wilson gaped for a couple seconds. “Really? You’re…Really?”
“Yeah, yeah,” House said impatiently. “But you better have a Plan B in the event you don’t enjoy the simple life as much as you think you will.”
Wilson smirked. “Gay strip club, of course.”
House nodded again. “Guess we’re covered.”
The smirk softened into a small smile, and Wilson looked at him in what could only be interpreted as open affection. “Thanks.”
“Yep,” House chirped, darting his eyes away and feeling suddenly uncomfortable. “I just hope I don’t kill you. It would be a real shame, considering all the trouble I’ve gone through to keep you alive.”
“Right,” Wilson said, standing up. “I’ll try not to be too difficult to deal with.”
He grabbed the remote from the dresser and tossed it onto House’s bed. “Better get some TV time in while you can,” he advised. “Just not too loud—I’m turning in.”
House watched him shuffle to the other bed and switch off the nightstand lamp. Once he was safely under the covers, face obscured, House spoke again. “Thanks.”
“For what?” came the muffled reply.
“The remote.”
There was a soft laugh. “Um, sure. ’Night, House.”
“’Night, Wilson.”