Chapter Text
James woke up to pins and needles in his leg. Actually, he woke up from pins and needles, which was not normal. It was pitch dark when he opened his eyes, but his head started to pound like a photosensitive migraine. Was he hungover? A pit formed in his stomach as he tried to remember the night before and found he couldn't. He’d been living in a haze since Amber died two months prior, going through life on auto-pilot and following every helpful grief counseling book or blog like a religious text. This extent of haziness, however, was new- and it’d been months since he’d had a night out.
"Fuck," he hissed under his breath. He could almost swear he heard House say it too. House? Was that where he was? That could explain some things. He groped blindly around the bed and found that he was alone. Paresthesia, headache, memory loss, and now hallucinations. James was starting to see a grim picture. He wished House was there. His body felt alien and uncomfortable, but a growing body of evidence suggested he was concussed.
So going back to sleep was off the table. He also had to piss, which meant walking on a limb that was not waking up for him. James resolved himself to go to the bathroom, splash some water in his face, and assess the damage a little more alert. The longer he was conscious, the more unpleasant the pins and needles got. His blood felt like tar, and it was climbing up his hip. He sat up and colored specks and static took over his vision. James threw his legs clumsily off the side of the bed, planted his right foot, and crashed gracelessly into the floor. The dismayed yell that escaped him reminded him of House, again.
James struggled back to his feet with most of the weight placed on his left leg and half-hopped out of the bedroom. He was in House’s place, then. He had slept in House’s bed, actually. He limped the whole way to the bathroom, leaving heavily on the wall for support. James felt like a little kid in his Dad’s clothes. His limbs were too long, he was too tall. The dissociation furthered his suspicion of concussion, but it didn’t add up. James felt like a million years had passed when he finally reached the bathroom. Squinting in the darkness, he saw House's silhouette in the mirror. He gasped and flipped the light switch, preparing to confront House.
The light came down, and House's face, shocked and terrified, looked back at him from the mirror. James screamed, and House's voice came out. When the blood stopped rushing as loudly in his ears, he realized he was dreaming. His bladder was full, but if he pissed now, he’d wake up in a pissed bed, so James made his way back from whence he came and went back to sleep, hoping to wake up.
James was woken up by ABBA. He fumbled in the sheets for the source until his hand landed on a flip phone. House’s flip phone. That wasn't right. His eyes snapped open to see the wrong arm- again. He was still in the dream, then. He blinked to clear his vision; nothing happened. God, House needed glasses. Or, his dream version of what it would be like to be House needed glasses. Was it a metaphor for House's lack of foresight, or something? Fuck, his head hurt. House's phone stopped ringing. James flipped it open and it started again, vibrating and yelling in his hand. His own name was on the call waiting screen. He declined it.
It started ringing again. James declined the call and silenced the phone. He was going back to sleep, until he woke up as himself and not as House. The phone rang again. What the hell? James had silenced that. Was House’s phone set so that James' calls rang anyway? He ignored an emotional reaction and reminded himself he was in a dream. Whatever was going on here reflected on him, not on House. Regardless, it meant he wasn’t getting any peace and quiet. James braced for impact and accepted the call.
"Finally!" James' own voice came over the line. Was that really what he sounded like over the phone? He tried to respond and found his mouth too dry. “I know what you're thinking. It's not a dream."
"Obviously it's a dream," James snapped, "how could it not be a dream?"
"You argue with yourself in dreams often? Actually, don't answer that, I don't want to know. Look, just trust me that it isn't, okay?"
"If this isn't a dream, how did you know what I was thinking?"
"Okaayy, I'm gonna let that one slide." His voice was so condescending. James might never speak again once he woke up. Maybe it was a stupid question, though. His bladder throbbed.
"What do you want, House?" James was trying to sound strict. He wasn't sure it was landing.
“We need to retrace our steps last night. You should probably come.” House sounded a little guilty. It also told him that House had a pretty good idea of what was going on.
"You mean your steps, except that this is a crazy dream and doesn't matter anyway."
"So it’s a dream. Do you want it to be one where you go to bed and wake up recursively? You’re a big fan of subconscious shit. If it's a dream, figure out what it means." House was bargaining, but James saw his point. He really didn't wanna wake up in House's bed forever. He could imagine House's annoying grin on the other end.
"Fine," James grumbled.
"Yippee," House deadpanned. "Now go take two Vicodin and a leak before you piss the bed."
Getting out of bed was even more of a hassle when he was more alert. The pain was much worse, and it was combining with his throbbing headache and full bladder to make a real nightmare for James. His head felt like TV static and his thoughts were far apart from each other. Every difficult step changed the static color in his vision. He was panting by the time he reached the bathroom.
There was no easy part of this procedure, but at least the most painful bit was over with. He was balanced largely on House's good foot. It was mostly stable. James, obviously, had seen it before. Of course he had. He had, however, made a point to avoid inspecting it. He had also never touched it. It felt firmly in violation of bro code, what James had to do, but it had to be done. James pulled the waistband of House's pajama pants down, reached in, and pulled it out over the top.
It was big. James wished all of his perceptual abilities would vanish immediately. It was bigger than he was by more than he'd like. He hit the lid when his stream started, and quickly corrected into the bowl. This was a new low for him, he felt. James shook it off and put it back in its home. He washed his hands with too-hot water, ineffectively trying to purge the guilty feeling from his hands.
On the way back from the bathroom, James’ hand brushed his crotch. House’s package was bigger than he’d ever noticed externally. He wasn’t sure how he’d avoided paying attention to such a fucking trouser snake, and it explained a little how he could get away acting like that. Dread overcame him as blood rushed downward. He closed his eyes and thought of cancer; the problem only grew. He couldn’t just wait for it to go away on his own. James definitely was not curious what it was like for it to be so big. He made a pit stop in House’s bedroom to take care of the problem.
Nothing was going to be easy. James managed to make it to the door frame that House kept his cane on, but the sun had firmly risen by the time he did. He slumped on the couch to get a break from dragging one leg around the house. It was exhausting. How long was he going to have to deal with this? How long could one dream possibly last? James needed coffee, both psychologically and physiologically. He didn't want to get up to make it.
Fortunately, the cane doubled James' movement speed. He wasn't fast, but it was the fastest he'd managed to get around so far. He slammed cabinet doors and almost broke the carafe making coffee. House breaks all of his shit, so House’s items are acceptable target for James' frustration, he reasoned. His heart wasn’t in it. The coffee didn’t help nearly as much as James had hoped and thought it would, but it gave him the willpower to engage with House again. He hit redial on House's phone.
"Jim Wilson speaking," House said sweetly.
"Shut the fuck up," James bit back. House laughed.
"Meet me on Massachusetts Street in 30 minutes. I know where we should start."
"You're insufferable." James slammed the phone shut and set off to see how much worse his morning could get.
Outside with House's keys in hand, another issue presented itself.
"Where the fuck is your car?!" James barked at the phone. House hissed on the other end.
"It's not right in front of my door?"
"Would I be calling you about it if it was?"
"Yeesh. It got towed, then. Just take my bike."
"House!" James cut himself short when people outside turned to look at him. House laughed uncontrollably.
"Calm down, you’re fine. I’ll pick you up." House’s voice, or James' voice with House's thoughts, was extremely annoying. His leg hurt. The road was too loud. His clothes were uncomfortable and the buttoned collar was choking him. James sat on the stoop with his knees pulled up to his chest and sulked silently until his own car and body pulled up to get him. James almost tripped getting up to get in the car. He shouted and swore and slammed the door with gunshot force, then winced at the thought of repairs.
"Good mor-" House's sing-song, obnoxious greeting died in his throat when James turned to glare at him. James felt almost proud of his intimidating Houselike glower until House's unmasked disgust dawned on him. "I hate this," House announced, "we’ve gotta put a bag on your head. Hang on, I picked up McDonald’s.” He shuffled around and Wilson swatted his hand.
"Fuck off. Shut up. Drive." It was hard to wrench his eyes away from his own sickened face, but proving a point to House won out. House was silent for longer than James was used to as he drove off. It was awkward, and James contemplated turning on the radio, but that would detract from how angry he was with House. Their destination wasn't far from Baker Street, anyway. House pulled into street parking behind his own car, which was parked roughly up on the sidewalk.
"Oh. Huh. Do you have my keys?"
"Yes."
"How the hell did I get home? I can't have walked."
"Is this all we're here for, House? To get your stupid fucking car?" House looked troubled by James' aggression. James almost felt bad, but it wasn't a time to be apologizing. House reached behind the waterfall radio unit and fished around in a compartment that James knew existed but rarely thought of. He pulled out a baggy of loose white pills. Vicodin.
"When was your last dose?" House sounded concerned, but even that sounded smarmy from his own face.
"I haven't taken any," he snapped. House looked at him with an amount of pity that sent him into a little rage. House got two pills out of the bag and set them in James' hand. James was so angry he was seeing white, but he saw House's point. He took the pills without thanking him and swallowed them dry, which was more excruciating then House made it seem.
The relief from the pills was instant, which James thought would make for an interesting case study except for the rest of it. Psychological Effects of Addiction On Mindswapped Bodies. A poor candidate for publishing. House got out of the car and came around to help James up. James swatted irritably at him and stumbled to his feet under his own power.
"Okay, if not your car, what are we here for?"
"That." House pointed at a dilapidated storefront with an aged sign that said "Psychic Readings." James frowned. The situation they were in discouraged too much skepticism, though. Below the title, more red text listed off particular services; palmistry, tarot, astrology, tea leaves. There were several neon signs including a crystal ball with hands, one that just read psychic, and an open sign. None were illuminated.
"Well, it's closed," James grumbled. He was going to make another biting comment but House was already off to the door. James limped after.
"She lives here," he announced, then banged on the door. He pressed his ear against the door, listened for a few seconds, then slammed on the door again.
"You're gonna wake the dead," James complained.
"That'd be pretty good for business." Despite himself, James laughed. Finally, the deadbolt turned, and the door swung open. The woman inside looked annoyed, but not surprised. It was probably important to her image that she never looked surprised.
"Come in, then." She opened the door for enough for both of them to enter. She was heavyset with long, wavy silver hair. She was pretty unassuming, in general. She was wearing a flowing green blouse and a purple skirt with various warm-colored patches. James might have called her "new age-y" if he saw her out and about. Her house smelled like incense as soon as James crossed the threshold. House stomped past her angrily. With his cane, James thought House might’ve knocked some of the many decorations off the wall. James couldn't tell where the business began or ended. They had entered from her residential door, but after a little foyer, they entered a more open room where the business entrance was.
"Sit," she said, killing any chance that House was going to.
"I'll stand," he confirmed, shooting James a glance that called for solidarity. James wasn't gonna give it to him; he took his seat and just glared to object to the bossing around.
"You'll sit," she insisted, gesturing with more emphasis. House squared up, which was James' cue to intervene.
"I don't think we have the bargaining power in this situation, House." House huffed like an obstinate teenager and dropped into the ornate velvet loveseat with excessive force. The woman left the room when they were both sat, and came back shortly after with two ornate teacups on equally ornate plates. She lowered one down in front of James and hesitated with House's, like someone trying to keep an enthusiastic dog down while offering a treat.
"If you do what you're planning to, you're gonna be stuck like this forever," she scolded after setting it down. House snorted. "Drink." James did. He was thirsty and his throat still felt weird from the pill. Besides, poisoning them seemed like a real waste of her apparently considerable talents. House huffed.
"What is it, rat poison?"
"I think you know it's not, Gregory." She turned and winked at James. "That wasn't magic, I checked his ID last night." House avoided eye contact with James. The woman reached out a hand, which James shook. "Linda. And you're James-- he told me." James frowned.
"So, how did you two meet?" He asked, in a sarcastic and mocking tone.
"He sought out my services."
"I don't think he had any reason to believe you actually had magic powers," Wilson said incredulously. She shrugged.
"Blame everyone else for false advertising, not me for doing my job. Seriously, drink." Both of them finished their tea, and leaves remained in the bottom. The cups were decorated in sections with symbols James didn’t recognize. Great. "Let me see." Linda leaned over to look into the cups. She frowned. "I'll have you know, I didn't choose the exact," she searched for a word, "terms of your predicament. I did a spell to ease a conflict, the magic picks the path of least resistance for that." James wanted to roll his eyes at the witchcraft bullshit, except that the pain in his by kept him aware that it was very real. House did roll his eyes.
"I didn't ask you to cast a spell," he growled, spitting the word ‘spell’.
"That one was on the house. It's what you wanted, anyway." House looked guilty, and James thought he should.
"How do we turn back?" James asked, steering the conversation back to the more important topic.
"That's what I'm consulting the leaves about." Linda had the focused expression of a surgeon who'd just made a critical, but fixable, mistake. "But they're not being very specific today, except that you need to be urgent. Listen, it doesn't matter, this kind of spell almost always has the same terms to end. You need to work out this tension between you two; fix it or accept that it's really over. It's that simple." So everything relied on him pushing over, or House suddenly becoming a totally different, emotionally mature person.
"And what happens if we don't?" He asked, mouth dry. The scratchy texture of the old, floral-printed chair he’d been assigned was nagging at him. He could hear it rubbing against his jeans in a way he’d never noticed before.
"You live the rest of your lives like this."
"Seems pretty unfair to him," House remarked. James ignored the tension it created in his chest. "I mean, I've got a sweetheart deal here. 7 years younger, 4 points hotter, and oh yeah, I can walk."
"So that's a motivator for you, then."
"What if I don't care that he gets the short end of the stick? He's just stuck like that? How is that fair?"
"Why should it be fair?" Linda asked, tone neutral. House smashed his teacup. He looked like he’d been on the verge of it for a while. James almost respected how much restraint he’d been showing.
"Alright, it's time for you to get going, then." Linda ushered them up. She sounded like a strict schoolteacher, but not especially angry. House was preparing to engage in further destruction, so James raised his cane to stop him. House shoved it away and stomped outside. "You can call me if you can be civil!" Linda yelled after them.
James used the cane to push House away from the driver's side. He climbed in and buckled. House slammed the passenger door and they both flinched when the speaker popped.
"What the hell were you doing with a psychic?" James asked, less angry than he expected.
"Nunya," House turned on the radio. The passenger speaker was inked blown. He cut it off.
"Oh, no, no way. We're way past 'Nunya’. It's my body so its my business!" James laughed angrily. "
It doesn't matter why I was there, you heard the lady. You forgive me and it all goes back to normal."
"I don't forgive you, is the problem." James cranked the car. Neither of them spoke.
"And, House?" House cocked his head. "Have I ever sold a car with opiates in it?"
"Oh, yeah. Several."