lit_luminary | "DDX, With Feeling" (Act Three). (Reply)

Act III

[Scene: WILSON’S office. He’s standing by the door with an expression that’s half-determined, half-nervous. After a minute or two, he leaves the room and walks toward diagnostics, peering through the glass. HOUSE is not there; he opens the door and pokes his head in.]

WILSON (to FELLOWS): Have you seen House?

CHASE: Not since before the last song. Just as well he left before it started—he was pissed off as it was.

WILSON (ruefully): Concern…has that effect on him. (He leaves, takes the elevator down to the first floor and enters CUDDY’S office.) Do you know where House is?

CUDDY (raises an eyebrow, consults the file with a look of interest): It’s that time already? (Skims several pages.) Okay, I guess it is. (To WILSON:) He should be at home—that’s where the last big number is supposed to hit, anyway. You’d better get over there if you want to be in time for the last verse.

WILSON (surprised): You’re telling me to leave work in the middle of the day? My department—

CUDDY (breaks in): Has competent staff and can manage for a couple of hours without you. Go talk to House so the music will stop.

(There’s a short pause; then WILSON nods and leaves the office.)

CUDDY (mutters): I don’t know what’s stranger: what’s about to happen or that he seems to think Oncology grinds to a halt all that time he spends managing House.

(Cut to HOUSE, sitting on the couch in his apartment. His feet are propped up on the coffee table, and—perhaps given pause by the previous night’s dream sequence—he has elected to forgo the scotch. He sighs when a light piano introduction begins to play, but by this point, the fury has mostly given way to lower-key exasperation.)

HOUSE (mutters): The point here is to destroy my ability to enjoy music, isn’t it?

[Song: Say it in Song (to the tune of “Something to Sing About.”)]

HOUSE:
Last two days, we’ve all lived to the tune
And songs been forced to croon
Our dignity impugn.
I have sung—although against my will—
As I am doing still,
And it’s making me ill.

Hardly overjoyed
Privacy destroyed.
More than just annoyed
I could not avoid
What was deployed—

The endless song-and-dance
Doesn’t accomplish much, at a glance…
What is the point?
Is there a point
To anything we’ve sung about?

(Unseen backup singers, presumably on the same plane as the piano, begin to vocalize: ‘Ah-ah-ah.’)

Oh, why were our lives sung about?

(Backup: Ah-ah-ah…)

(Short instrumental break.)

I’m in pain—
Must you repeat the fact?
Or Wilson’s old speech act—
Why suffering protract?
What is there we couldn’t just ignore?
Why these show tunes endure?
What are we singing for?

What’s the end in mind?
Why these roles assigned?
What has been aligned?
Why must we fly blind
By songs confined?

What will the ending show?
As usual, I need to know—

What’s going on?
Let answers dawn!

(Music slows, switches into dissonant minor key. HOUSE winces, but continues to sing.)

All of the pain,
Fury and doubt—
What is it about?
Just tell me!

Familiar refrain:
Oh, tell me why
And not with a lie…
I remain
Curious and again

Anxious to know what this is about!
Or just to stop it!

(The music crescendos, increasing in speed as well as volume. HOUSE, of course excused from dancing, absently taps his cane on the floor in time.)

(Enter WILSON as the music slows and mellows, unfortunately retaining the minor key.)

WILSON:
I think I feel—
Well, I just thought—
Sorry we fought…
‘Cause I care.

These words are real.
They’re not just a song,
But honest and strong: I mean them.

And maybe that’s what matters…
Yes, maybe that’s what matters…

[End song.]

(There’s a long pause, during which WILSON awaits some reaction from HOUSE. When none appears to be forthcoming, he looks at him askance.)

WILSON (incredulous): Aren’t you going to say something?

HOUSE: What? That I had no idea you have feelings for me? (Gives WILSON a ‘use-your-mind’ look.) I’m an ass, not an idiot.

(A jazzy piano tune begins to play. HOUSE begins to sing, matter-of-factly and without bothering to get up.)

[Song: What You Feel (Reprise) (to the eponymous tune.)]

HOUSE:
Wasn’t hard to guess: the symptoms were all there.
Three exes, no less—how could I not be aware?
The big secret you’ve been concealing?
I’ve known all along just how you’re feeling.
Endure all the stress…well, of course you care!

[End song.]

HOUSE: Right. Before I was interrupted by that needless musical exposition (begins to enumerate points on his fingers): three failed marriages, the Suzy Homemaker routine, and you take an hour to style and blow-dry your hair in the morning. At the very least, you’re batting both sides—and you wouldn’t have put up with my crap all these years if you didn’t have some completely stupid reason.

WILSON (affronted): It isn’t—

HOUSE (flatly): It isn’t rational. But it never is.

(WILSON moves to sit next to HOUSE on the couch and puts his feet up. There’s another silence.)

WILSON (not precisely sure how best to broach this topic): Do you…?

HOUSE (sighs): Look. Neither this goddamn singing nor your spilling your guts to me is going to make me into a person who likes sharing of feelings. The only time I even consider it is when I’m post-coital and swimming in enough endorphins to drown my brain, and that is not the case here. Bottom line is, we know each other and still work.

WILSON: But could we work together?

(Guitar chords begin to play. Both HOUSE and WILSON look annoyed to have the conversation interrupted again.)

[Song: Where Do We Go From Here? (to the eponymous tune.)]
(Note: The MIDI for the following number, "Coda," begins when this one ends.)

WILSON:
Where do we go from here?

HOUSE (echoes in a slightly lower, but harmonizing key):
Where do we go from here?

BOTH:
We’ve confessed but have not yet guessed
Where that leaves us—it’s not clear.
Where do we go from here?

Should we be friends, or more?
What is there still in store?

Not so grand when it’s all unplanned
And we’re on a new frontier…

HOUSE:
Tell me…

WILSON:
Where do we go from here?

HOUSE:
If romance must appear,
Can friendship persevere?

WILSON:
If we suppose that it can, God knows
We will have nothing to fear…
Where do we go from here?
Where do we go from here?

HOUSE:
Where do we go from here?

[End song.]

HOUSE (flatly): Let’s assume we don’t need to continue that conversation.

WILSON: Shouldn’t we? You hate the music because it forces you to be open and honest about what you feel—but isn’t that actually desirable in a relation—?

(HOUSE cuts WILSON off by crushing their lips together. It’s not tender—in fact, it probably almost bruises—but it gets the job done. After several seconds, they separate. WILSON stares at HOUSE.)

WILSON: What was that?

HOUSE: A good interruption.

WILSON: But not a great kiss.

HOUSE (simply): Wasn’t supposed to be.

(Soft piano music begins to play in the background. The two give each other appraising looks, seem to come to a decision, then lean slowly closer to one another, singing in undertones.)

[Song: Coda (to the eponymous tune.)]

HOUSE/WILSON:
The music’s gone on long enough…
/I dared
And now I know I’ve made a choice/To tell you how I feel…
Give silence voice…/I know this is real…
Maybe some wounds might heal…

BOTH:
We’ll go forward from here.

[End song.]

(A jubilant finish coincides with the meeting of lips—in a proper kiss this time, one that’s lengthy and carries the weight of unspoken words.)

(Pan across the room to a calendar. A breeze blows in through the window and flips the pages ahead six months, in that tried-and-true means of signifying the passage of time. Cut back to HOUSE and WILSON, still in HOUSE’S apartment, which has changed slightly but noticeably with the addition of WILSON’S possessions. It’s evening, and the two are sitting in companionable silence on the sofa. The TV is on, but the volume is low and neither is really paying attention to it.)

HOUSE: So, how’re the chances of macadamia nut pancakes for breakfast tomorrow?

WILSON (half-smiles, regards HOUSE levelly): About as good as the chances of your going out for more flour.

(There’s a pause as HOUSE mulls that over, decides he doesn’t want the pancakes quite badly enough to work for them.)

HOUSE (decisively): I’ll settle for an omelet.

WILSON: Thought so. Anyway, I think you unsettle your minions when you eat those pancakes. (Pause.) Something about disturbing facial expressions?

HOUSE (plays innocent): Can I help it if your cooking borders on orgasmic? (Seriously:) And it only unsettles one minion—which it wouldn’t do if she hadn’t been stupid enough to walk in on us in your office.

WILSON (flushes at the memory): That incident was your fault.

HOUSE: Yeah? And who didn’t lock the door?

WILSON (dryly): Forgive me for not expecting to be—pounced on in the middle of my paperwork.

HOUSE (leering): I don’t remember you complaining. (He scoots closer to WILSON, apparently considering some suitably lewd action to `match his tone, but is stopped short by a winds introduction.) Oh, God.

[Song: Somehow it Works (to the tune of “I’ll Be Mrs.”)]

WILSON:
Six months now together:
Somehow I thought it would be a change,
But so little’s different, it’s strange.
So much is just routine—
It’s comfortable to be a pair.
Guess potential was always there.
He’s still a jerk; I’m still his friend
He lives to irk; I know to bend
Same old at work (so we pretend).
No one asks why,
But I’d reply
That it all works out.
Somehow it all works out.
Maybe we’re a bit odd, but there’s nothing we can’t weather.

HOUSE:
Six months now together:
Easy enough, this whole couple thing
(That is, when we don’t have to sing).
I still drive him crazy—
But it’s nothing he doesn’t expect
And despite it all, we connect.
He cleans our place and keeps me fed,
He’s quick-witted and great in bed,
And what more than that need be said?
If asked just why
I would reply,
That it all works out.
Somehow it just works out.
We survive each other: there’s nothing we can’t weather.

WILSON:
We know by now
The take-and-give
That governs how
We choose to live.
There’s no more denial;
We’ve given this a trial,
And know he and I’ll still fight and forgive.

HOUSE:
This partnership, it works out well
Although we are mismatched as hell
And he can still be—I’ll never tell!—
All those events,
Now they make sense.

BOTH:
It all works out.
Yes, somehow it works out.
It works out...

[End song.]

(There’s a pause; the two exchange glances.)

WILSON:
I’ll go get the flour if you don’t take an extra pill to make up for the aggravation of the song.

HOUSE (considers, then nods): Done. (Suggestively:) And after dinner, I pick up where the music cut in.

(WILSON grins, nods, gets up and heads for the door. HOUSE bestows an openly affectionate smile on his retreating back, then slumps against the sofa cushions as we…)

[Fade to black.]

FINIS.