(no subject)
Title: Persona
Author: Kelly, aided by a plot bunny that got into someone’s drug stash.
Rating: Mature, for non-explicit sex.
Prompt: 025. Strangers
Fandoms: Law & Order: TOS (since this is before Mike was on CI)/House, M.D.
Disclaimer: You know Mike’s haircut on L&O: CI? I wouldn’t allow it if I owned that show. As for Wilson…well, I write a very possessive House at times. Does that count for anything? Damn, didn’t think so.
Summary: Everyone has at least two faces. 1,683 words.
Author’s Note: This came about because a friend told me not to write Mike/Wilson-which meant I had to. It came to me while driving to economics and was written there (which is the only good use for that class). Thanks to sarcasticsra and amazonqueenkate for the awesome betas. Any remaining mistakes are all mine. They can’t have ‘em. My table can be found in my user info. (Keep scrolling. It's there, I promise.)
James Wilson is not the type to pick up strangers in bars. (Instead, he gets picked up.) Then again, James Wilson is not the type to go to gay bars (except sometimes he does). Apparently, though, he is the type to do both tonight.
He could blame House, say House’s stupid, stubborn refusal to give in on the bet-or at least stay home-pissed him off enough to go tonight. But the entire thing is Wilson’s fault-he enabled House to become an addict (and knew it even as he signed the prescriptions). He got Cuddy to make the bet. And he is too much of a coward to admit to his best friend that he is the reason for the breaks in the long, sensitive, pianist’s fingers (the very ones he later bandaged).
Or he could blame Julie, say she’s cold and uncaring, that he doesn’t feel welcome in his own home. That would be simply unfair of him, though, and if there’s one thing Wilson hasn’t ever been to any of his wives, it’s unfair. (Cheating doesn’t quite count.) If he’d spent more time at home, instead of with House, maybe Julie would touch him, talk to him. Maybe he could even have sex with his wife instead of a stranger from a bar (but he doesn’t want a woman tonight, anyway).
He gives the bartender a nod when he receives his Scotch (no “girly” drinks tonight, and House would have something to say about that if he knew) and glances discreetly around. It’s not the club-type atmosphere found over in San Francisco or up in the Village; instead, the bar is quieter, music a soft undertone to the murmur of men’s voices. The crowd is around his age, maybe a bit older-professionals, rather than rowdy college kids and hypersexual twentysomethings. (And isn’t it a laugh that he’s calling others oversexed, when the only reason he’s here is to get laid?) Here, an hour north of Trenton County, he almost certainly won’t run into anyone from the hospital.
One man down at the end of the bar draws Wilson’s attention. He looks a few years older, dark hair silvering at the temples, and given the brooding way he’s staring at his drink, he’s alone. When Wilson realizes he’s speculating about the man’s career-lawyer, maybe, or something equally grim-he snorts to himself. (It’s a game he likes to play.) Finishing off his overpriced (but very good) drink, Wilson gets up and heads for the men’s room.
The stool next to the dark-haired man is empty when Wilson leaves the restroom, and he barely hesitates (or just pretends to) before sliding onto the seat. The man doesn’t look over at him, and Wilson momentarily wonders if he even notices his presence. When the stranger speaks, though, the doubt is gone (not that it was really there to begin with).
“You were watching me from the other end of the bar,” he says, glancing up from his pint glass.
Busted, a singsong voice in Wilson’s head says. It sounds like House (and is welcome), and Wilson tells it to shut up as he nods. “I didn’t think you’d seen me.”
“Not an easy one to miss.” The man’s eyes are green, and Wilson finds himself meeting the steady gaze. He holds out a hand. “Mike.”
Wilson takes the hand and shakes it, holding the contact a fraction of a second longer than is strictly appropriate (because he can). “James.”
By the slight quirk of Mike’s eyebrow, Wilson knows he picked up on the prolonged touch. (And why wouldn’t he?) “What’re you drinking, Jim?”
Wilson cringes inwardly-“Jim” reminds him of his wife, and his marriage really isn’t what he wants to think about tonight (or any night). Lightly, he replies, “Scotch, Michael,” and figures that will get the point about his name across.
The green eyes darken, and for a moment, Wilson wonders if he’s screwed up with that (and doesn’t really care). But then Mike shrugs and flashes a grin. “James it is.” He beckons the bartender. “What’s a good-looking guy like you doing drinking alone?”
Oh, Mike is an expert. Wilson recognizes the trick as one he’s used to pick up women-mild interest, nothing too forceful, is a long-perfected skill (first used on boys his age). “I could ask you the same.” The parry is intended to gauge Mike, see how serious he is, what he’ll do next (if he’s as good).
Mike’s easy smile reappears. “You know how it is-no one to spend time with, so you go out for a drink, maybe find someone.”
The flirting is a little more heavy-handed than Wilson would use (except with [House] certain people), but then, he’s accustomed to female coworkers. The rules are different with strangers (especially men). Wilson decides to slow the pace just a touch (because he knows he has Mike’s interest). “No one waiting for you back home?”
Mike leans in, his voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. “The woman next door has been trying to jump me for the past couple of weeks. I’m safer at a bar.”
That coaxes a chuckle from Wilson. Same reason for not wanting to go home, but with such different connotations. (And no bitching in Mike’s reason.)
“What about you?” Mike continues, straightening on his stool. “No steady partner?”
There’s the wife who won’t speak to me, and the best friend who, even if he was interested, is in no shape to have sex right now… “No one who actually expects me tonight.” And it’s out there, that Wilson is involved. He half-expects Mike to back off (and knows he won’t).
Instead, Mike nods, and the bartender arrives. Wilson orders another Scotch (though he wants tequila), and the bartender pours a double. He sips at it slowly, anticipating Mike’s next move.
“So James, what do you do?”
Wilson wonders if he’s that predictable, too. (He isn’t.) He considers lying, claiming an entirely different persona, but there’s no point. (He may as well be himself with someone he’s just met.) “I’m an oncologist.”
“Cancer doctor.” Mike nods. “Had a case once with someone passing off some herbal crap as cancer drugs. Patients didn’t bother to consult their doctors about it.”
Wilson vaguely remembers something about that. The mix involved apricot pits, of all things, and it poisoned the patients-the pits contained cyanide. (Foolish patients.) “A case? You’re an attorney?”
Mike gives a snort of laughter. “Detective. I used to work homicide in Manhattan.”
The situation suddenly has a macabre feel (which is strangely fun). Two men dealing in death, dancing the familiarly flirtatious pattern (and knowing where they’ll end up). Wilson pushes the cynicism away (but it’s still there). “Used to?”
Mike grunts. “Why oncology?”
“Why homicide?” Wilson counters.
“The victims deserve justice.” It sounds rote, and Mike looks like he knows it.
“And cancer victims deserve a chance.” That doesn’t sound much better to Wilson’s ears.
*
By the time Wilson takes the last small sip of his drink (instead of getting drunk off his ass), Mike’s third beer is long gone, and they’ve both relaxed into joking. One studiously avoided topic, though, is family (and thankfully, that includes Wilson’s wife). Even though Mike’s been ordering, Wilson insists on paying-he’s well aware of how much more he makes than Mike, as a public servant, probably does (and he feels just a little superior when he hands over the bills). A quick consultation in the parking lot reveals that there’s a motel about ten miles away (one he knows well), and they agree to take their own cars, since neither is so much as tipsy. When Mike pulls into the motel’s lot, Wilson is already at the desk, getting a room, and when he emerges from the lobby, Mike is leaning against the solid, safe (and surprisingly fast) Volvo.
They hadn’t talked about who will do what in the bar, for obvious reasons, but when Wilson closes the door and Mike is on him before the deadbolt is flipped, Wilson can tell it’s going to happen as he’s hoped (but also not).
Wilson has craved touch almost as much as sex (at different times)-Julie’s hardly touched him lately (since he told her about the nurse and spent Christmas with House)-and after Mike, panting, rolls off his back, Wilson half-timidly reaches for him (almost against his will). Mike seems to pick up on the sudden change in Wilson’s confidence level, and his brow wrinkles. He pulls Wilson to him, hands playing across Wilson’s back and sides, and they lay in silence for a time (and he feels weak).
Mikes breaks the quiet with a half-unexpected question. “Who’re you wishing you were with?”
Wilson blinks and pulls away, staring at Mike. It’s the tacitly taboo subject-“Never ask the other party in a one-night stand who they want to be with.” (Wilson knows that rule well.) The answer Wilson should want to give (My wife, my blushing bride, the woman I love) isn’t the one that spills from his mouth.
“My friend.”
Mike nods. “Talk to your friend, James. You need the right person.”
Wilson laughs mirthlessly. “It’d help if there was a chance he’s interested.” (But I’m too afraid to try.)
A shrug. “What’s it gonna hurt to try? He’ll be disgusted or something?”
“No,” Wilson sighs. “He’ll find it funny.” (Or worse, he’ll feel the same.)
Mike props himself up on his elbows and looks at Wilson seriously. The moonlight catches in the silvered hair and brightens his eyes. “Don’t put it off. If you lose him, you’ll regret it.”
“Voice of experience?”
An expression of infinite grief falls across Mike’s features. “My partner from homicide. He died in December.”
Wilson can envision, all too easily, how he will look if something happens to House (more than already has), especially if he never says anything (and causes more pain along the way). He nods and shifts closer on the bed. “I’m sorry.”
Mike’s hand splays across his hip. “At least give him a chance.”
Author’s Notes, part deux: “Persona”, as used in the title, means, “The role that one assumes or displays in public or society; one's public image or personality, as distinguished from the inner self.” Definition courtesy of Dictionary.com.
Cross-posted to my journal, houserareathon, wordclaim50, and anywhere else I can think of.
Author: Kelly, aided by a plot bunny that got into someone’s drug stash.
Rating: Mature, for non-explicit sex.
Prompt: 025. Strangers
Fandoms: Law & Order: TOS (since this is before Mike was on CI)/House, M.D.
Disclaimer: You know Mike’s haircut on L&O: CI? I wouldn’t allow it if I owned that show. As for Wilson…well, I write a very possessive House at times. Does that count for anything? Damn, didn’t think so.
Summary: Everyone has at least two faces. 1,683 words.
Author’s Note: This came about because a friend told me not to write Mike/Wilson-which meant I had to. It came to me while driving to economics and was written there (which is the only good use for that class). Thanks to sarcasticsra and amazonqueenkate for the awesome betas. Any remaining mistakes are all mine. They can’t have ‘em. My table can be found in my user info. (Keep scrolling. It's there, I promise.)
James Wilson is not the type to pick up strangers in bars. (Instead, he gets picked up.) Then again, James Wilson is not the type to go to gay bars (except sometimes he does). Apparently, though, he is the type to do both tonight.
He could blame House, say House’s stupid, stubborn refusal to give in on the bet-or at least stay home-pissed him off enough to go tonight. But the entire thing is Wilson’s fault-he enabled House to become an addict (and knew it even as he signed the prescriptions). He got Cuddy to make the bet. And he is too much of a coward to admit to his best friend that he is the reason for the breaks in the long, sensitive, pianist’s fingers (the very ones he later bandaged).
Or he could blame Julie, say she’s cold and uncaring, that he doesn’t feel welcome in his own home. That would be simply unfair of him, though, and if there’s one thing Wilson hasn’t ever been to any of his wives, it’s unfair. (Cheating doesn’t quite count.) If he’d spent more time at home, instead of with House, maybe Julie would touch him, talk to him. Maybe he could even have sex with his wife instead of a stranger from a bar (but he doesn’t want a woman tonight, anyway).
He gives the bartender a nod when he receives his Scotch (no “girly” drinks tonight, and House would have something to say about that if he knew) and glances discreetly around. It’s not the club-type atmosphere found over in San Francisco or up in the Village; instead, the bar is quieter, music a soft undertone to the murmur of men’s voices. The crowd is around his age, maybe a bit older-professionals, rather than rowdy college kids and hypersexual twentysomethings. (And isn’t it a laugh that he’s calling others oversexed, when the only reason he’s here is to get laid?) Here, an hour north of Trenton County, he almost certainly won’t run into anyone from the hospital.
One man down at the end of the bar draws Wilson’s attention. He looks a few years older, dark hair silvering at the temples, and given the brooding way he’s staring at his drink, he’s alone. When Wilson realizes he’s speculating about the man’s career-lawyer, maybe, or something equally grim-he snorts to himself. (It’s a game he likes to play.) Finishing off his overpriced (but very good) drink, Wilson gets up and heads for the men’s room.
The stool next to the dark-haired man is empty when Wilson leaves the restroom, and he barely hesitates (or just pretends to) before sliding onto the seat. The man doesn’t look over at him, and Wilson momentarily wonders if he even notices his presence. When the stranger speaks, though, the doubt is gone (not that it was really there to begin with).
“You were watching me from the other end of the bar,” he says, glancing up from his pint glass.
Busted, a singsong voice in Wilson’s head says. It sounds like House (and is welcome), and Wilson tells it to shut up as he nods. “I didn’t think you’d seen me.”
“Not an easy one to miss.” The man’s eyes are green, and Wilson finds himself meeting the steady gaze. He holds out a hand. “Mike.”
Wilson takes the hand and shakes it, holding the contact a fraction of a second longer than is strictly appropriate (because he can). “James.”
By the slight quirk of Mike’s eyebrow, Wilson knows he picked up on the prolonged touch. (And why wouldn’t he?) “What’re you drinking, Jim?”
Wilson cringes inwardly-“Jim” reminds him of his wife, and his marriage really isn’t what he wants to think about tonight (or any night). Lightly, he replies, “Scotch, Michael,” and figures that will get the point about his name across.
The green eyes darken, and for a moment, Wilson wonders if he’s screwed up with that (and doesn’t really care). But then Mike shrugs and flashes a grin. “James it is.” He beckons the bartender. “What’s a good-looking guy like you doing drinking alone?”
Oh, Mike is an expert. Wilson recognizes the trick as one he’s used to pick up women-mild interest, nothing too forceful, is a long-perfected skill (first used on boys his age). “I could ask you the same.” The parry is intended to gauge Mike, see how serious he is, what he’ll do next (if he’s as good).
Mike’s easy smile reappears. “You know how it is-no one to spend time with, so you go out for a drink, maybe find someone.”
The flirting is a little more heavy-handed than Wilson would use (except with [House] certain people), but then, he’s accustomed to female coworkers. The rules are different with strangers (especially men). Wilson decides to slow the pace just a touch (because he knows he has Mike’s interest). “No one waiting for you back home?”
Mike leans in, his voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. “The woman next door has been trying to jump me for the past couple of weeks. I’m safer at a bar.”
That coaxes a chuckle from Wilson. Same reason for not wanting to go home, but with such different connotations. (And no bitching in Mike’s reason.)
“What about you?” Mike continues, straightening on his stool. “No steady partner?”
There’s the wife who won’t speak to me, and the best friend who, even if he was interested, is in no shape to have sex right now… “No one who actually expects me tonight.” And it’s out there, that Wilson is involved. He half-expects Mike to back off (and knows he won’t).
Instead, Mike nods, and the bartender arrives. Wilson orders another Scotch (though he wants tequila), and the bartender pours a double. He sips at it slowly, anticipating Mike’s next move.
“So James, what do you do?”
Wilson wonders if he’s that predictable, too. (He isn’t.) He considers lying, claiming an entirely different persona, but there’s no point. (He may as well be himself with someone he’s just met.) “I’m an oncologist.”
“Cancer doctor.” Mike nods. “Had a case once with someone passing off some herbal crap as cancer drugs. Patients didn’t bother to consult their doctors about it.”
Wilson vaguely remembers something about that. The mix involved apricot pits, of all things, and it poisoned the patients-the pits contained cyanide. (Foolish patients.) “A case? You’re an attorney?”
Mike gives a snort of laughter. “Detective. I used to work homicide in Manhattan.”
The situation suddenly has a macabre feel (which is strangely fun). Two men dealing in death, dancing the familiarly flirtatious pattern (and knowing where they’ll end up). Wilson pushes the cynicism away (but it’s still there). “Used to?”
Mike grunts. “Why oncology?”
“Why homicide?” Wilson counters.
“The victims deserve justice.” It sounds rote, and Mike looks like he knows it.
“And cancer victims deserve a chance.” That doesn’t sound much better to Wilson’s ears.
*
By the time Wilson takes the last small sip of his drink (instead of getting drunk off his ass), Mike’s third beer is long gone, and they’ve both relaxed into joking. One studiously avoided topic, though, is family (and thankfully, that includes Wilson’s wife). Even though Mike’s been ordering, Wilson insists on paying-he’s well aware of how much more he makes than Mike, as a public servant, probably does (and he feels just a little superior when he hands over the bills). A quick consultation in the parking lot reveals that there’s a motel about ten miles away (one he knows well), and they agree to take their own cars, since neither is so much as tipsy. When Mike pulls into the motel’s lot, Wilson is already at the desk, getting a room, and when he emerges from the lobby, Mike is leaning against the solid, safe (and surprisingly fast) Volvo.
They hadn’t talked about who will do what in the bar, for obvious reasons, but when Wilson closes the door and Mike is on him before the deadbolt is flipped, Wilson can tell it’s going to happen as he’s hoped (but also not).
Wilson has craved touch almost as much as sex (at different times)-Julie’s hardly touched him lately (since he told her about the nurse and spent Christmas with House)-and after Mike, panting, rolls off his back, Wilson half-timidly reaches for him (almost against his will). Mike seems to pick up on the sudden change in Wilson’s confidence level, and his brow wrinkles. He pulls Wilson to him, hands playing across Wilson’s back and sides, and they lay in silence for a time (and he feels weak).
Mikes breaks the quiet with a half-unexpected question. “Who’re you wishing you were with?”
Wilson blinks and pulls away, staring at Mike. It’s the tacitly taboo subject-“Never ask the other party in a one-night stand who they want to be with.” (Wilson knows that rule well.) The answer Wilson should want to give (My wife, my blushing bride, the woman I love) isn’t the one that spills from his mouth.
“My friend.”
Mike nods. “Talk to your friend, James. You need the right person.”
Wilson laughs mirthlessly. “It’d help if there was a chance he’s interested.” (But I’m too afraid to try.)
A shrug. “What’s it gonna hurt to try? He’ll be disgusted or something?”
“No,” Wilson sighs. “He’ll find it funny.” (Or worse, he’ll feel the same.)
Mike props himself up on his elbows and looks at Wilson seriously. The moonlight catches in the silvered hair and brightens his eyes. “Don’t put it off. If you lose him, you’ll regret it.”
“Voice of experience?”
An expression of infinite grief falls across Mike’s features. “My partner from homicide. He died in December.”
Wilson can envision, all too easily, how he will look if something happens to House (more than already has), especially if he never says anything (and causes more pain along the way). He nods and shifts closer on the bed. “I’m sorry.”
Mike’s hand splays across his hip. “At least give him a chance.”
Author’s Notes, part deux: “Persona”, as used in the title, means, “The role that one assumes or displays in public or society; one's public image or personality, as distinguished from the inner self.” Definition courtesy of Dictionary.com.
Cross-posted to my journal, houserareathon, wordclaim50, and anywhere else I can think of.