Devil's Playground - chapter 7
Title: Devil's Playground
Author: Fayding_fast
Chapter: 7/12
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em
Rating: PG
Pairing: House/Wilson (pre-slash)
Spoilers: Yes, for Wilson's Heart
Con-crit? Yes please and thank you kindly.
Summary: House meets a strange man who promises House that he can help him to get his friendship with Wilson back on track.
"He's still sleeping on your couch?" Michael asks, eyes almost popping out of his head. "No wonder you're in the doldrums."
"I didn't think they'd be a problem," House says, rubbing eyes that look as if they've been bathed with red wine. "I thought that once he moved back in with me, it would be plain sailing. You promised..."
"I promised that I would get him to your apartment," Michael interrupts him. "I didn't guarantee he'd be mincing up the aisle wearing a tiara and flouncy wedding dress."
Disheartened, House takes a sip of his drink, then slams the glass down too hard. Beer sloshes everywhere. House stares at Michael, face filled with determination. "I want you to wipe his memories."
Michael looks intrigued. "All of them?"
"No, not all of them!" House realizes he'd shouted and looks around furtively. No-one is paying him the slightest bit of attention. Nevertheless, he leans in closer to Michael and lowers his voice. "Just last night's. I need to work on a different approach; things didn't go according to plan."
"I'll say they didn't. You want me to erase yours as well? How can you live with yourself? I've never witnessed a clumsier seduction technique in my whole life. You screamed at him, hit him, tried to forcibly evict him, and to top it all off, you bit him. And here you are, upset because he spurned your advances." House's miserable expression brings tears of laughter to Michael's eyes. "House," he says, "you do entertain me."
Using his forefinger, House traces patterns in his spilled beer. "Glad to hear it," he says tersely. "Perhaps you'll give me a discount."
"Sorry, no can do," Michael informs him cheerfully. "This little favor will set you back another twenty thousand dollars."
House nods, resigned. "So you can do it? What will you use, hypnotism?"
"Something like that, and I can do most things," Michael says absently. "Although there is another option." His expression becomes thoughtful. "All I ask for is another fifteen minutes of your time so that we can discuss it. You hear me out, and if you still go for the first option, I'll waive the fee."
"Fifteen minutes?" House carefully makes a note of the time. "I'm all ears," he says.
*
"You made it," Andrew observes when Wilson breezes into his office.
"Thought I'd never get here. The traffic was horrendous."
Plus, of course, he'd been delayed because of that wonderfully awkward conversation he'd had with House about their shared kiss. They'd been a lot of one-sided soul-baring met by plenty of unhelpful glowering until, finally, House had thankfully put their heart-to-heart talk out of its misery.
The 'pervy groping' as House had dubbed it had been explained away as 'drunken fumbling' on House's part and a 'worrying, mid-life sexual identity crisis' on Wilson's. Wilson should, House had advised him, stop his 'incessant and irritating blushing and stammering' and 'just get over it, already'.
Far easier said than done.
Throwing his briefcase onto his desk, Wilson slips out of his jacket and hangs it up on the coat stand. He belatedly notices his assistant's sombre expression. "What's up?" he asks, taking his seat.
Andrew hesitates. "Remember, you've got a budget meeting with Cuddy in half an hour. The hospital pharmacy has registered yet another complaint about your handwriting..."
Wilson splutters indignantly.
"... and I've completely cleared your schedule for this afternoon," Andrew finishes in a rush.
"You have?" Wilson frowns at him, apprehensive because his assistant looks so uncomfortable. "Why?"
Taking the seat opposite Wilson, Andrew gazes at him earnestly. "I have a very dear friend who lives about ten minutes' drive from here. He's agreed to see you later today. At his house."
Wilson is quiet for a moment. "And this friend of yours is..."
"A psychiatrist," Andrew confesses. "I know you've seen one before and that you were prescribed anti-depressants, but you've come off them. My friend Tony is a good man. He's highly regarded amongst his peers. I want you to go and see him for an informal chat. I haven't told him anything about you, I swear. He doesn't even know your name."
"Look, Andrew," Wilson says, wondering why he's not annoyed. "I know you mean well, but haven't we been over this before? Kirsty's death, yesterday, hit me hard, but I'm dealing. I don't require any more counseling." He smiles at his worried friend. "Please tell Tony that I wouldn't want to waste his time; I've sorted my life out. I'm embarrassingly well-balanced."
"I'd rejoice if that was true." Andrew points at the pristine white bandage Wilson is wearing. "I enjoy a good story," he says. "For starters, why don't you tell me how you injured your hand?"
*
"Let me get this straight," House says, bemused. "You want to rant on about time-travel?"
"Yes," Michael answers him. "That a problem?"
"I'll willingly talk about the easter bunny and the sugar-plum-fairy, as well, if it will save me twenty thousand bucks," House assures him.
"That won't be necessary." Michael looks askance at him as if he fears he's gone crazy. "Now I know you won't believe this, but Wilson was actually telling you the truth yesterday. Despite your clumsy attempt to woo him, if it wasn't for Amber, he could have been yours. Ripe for the taking."
House stares at his interlinked fingers.
"He sees her as his ideal mate," Michael continues. "She died before she could bore him. Before she started to irritate him. In his eyes, she was a veritable goddess. He'll never be happy with anyone else; he'll compare every potential lover to Amber, and they will always come up short." Michael's discolored nails tap the back of House's hand. "But all is not lost. You can change all that."
"If only time-travel wasn't impossible," House sneers sarcastically.
"More often than not, it is," Michael concedes, eyes scanning the darkest corners of the bar. "The likelihood of success depends on how far back you want to go and what you want to change. Humor me. Let's say, hypothetically, that I am capable of taking you back to a particular point in time with all your current memories intact. When would you travel back to?"
House peers surreptitiously at his watch again, then, for the sake of his bank balance, curbs his innate tendency to mock. "I guess I'd go back and shred Amber's résumé. If I don't hire her, Wilson would never meet her."
"Bad idea," Michael says. "You didn't appreciate how much you wanted him until he started dating her."
"True," House says. "Okay, then, I'd prevent her death. If I don't go back to that bar - if I don't get drunk - she would never step onto that bus. They'd still be living together, and he's bound to get tired of her eventually; he always does. I'd simply have to wait for their inevitable bust-up."
"Yes, there's a very good chance that he would grow sick of her, but suppose he doesn't? Suppose she's smart enough, inventive enough to keep him interested? He's been your friend for fifteen years, and he's never got tired of you. No, there must be a better time: an instant where, if you lived that moment again, you could destroy Wilson's perception of Amber completely." Michael's tongue darts out to lick his lips. "Come on, use that fertile imagination of yours. Can you think of anything?"
House downs half of his beer in one long gulp. "Yeah," he says, "I can."
*
"Alright, alright, I'll go and see him," Wilson says, holding up his hands in defeat. "Anything for a bit of peace."
"Thank you," Andrew breathes, thrilled. "You've been through so much, lately. You can talk about work. Amber. Kirsty. Whatever you like."
"Or I could tell him about the problems I've had with House," Wilson muses. "Your friend a miracle worker?"
"He's been known to perform the odd one, yes," Andrew reassures him, smiling. Eyes widening, he suddenly sits bolt upright. "Where is House?" he demands, alarmed.
"He told me, this morning, that he was going to stay in bed because his leg was playing up. He's taken a sick-day. I'll check in on him after I get back from my meeting."
"He was lying to you," Andrew says grimly. "Wherever he is, he's not at home."
*
"Yes, now that has potential," Michael says. "Yes, I really think that might work."
"Except for one little thing." House taps the side of his head.
Michael nods in understanding. "Not a problem. I've mastered the art of deception." He preens himself. "People will see exactly what I want them to see."
House looks longingly at the exit. "I've read that you can't travel back in time because it could create a paradox. If I meet myself, then surely I would have remembered ..."
"You wouldn't meet your younger self. The second you go back, the earlier House would disappear. You'd be overwriting him, so to speak." Michael warms to his subject. "People make such a big song and dance out of this, but it's not magic - it's science."
"I'm sure." House keeps his face neutral.
"I'll do it for one hundred and thirty nine thousand dollars." Michael stares at House expectantly.
Choking on the mouthful of beer he'd just taken, House recovers and gapes at Michael in shock. "You've got to be kidding me. That will use up the last of my savings."
"Not quite," Michael corrects him. "You'll still have enough money left over to pay that month's bills. Do you think I'm totally heartless? Besides, why are you balking? You don't believe I can accomplish it, anyway."
"No, that's right, I don't. Oh, would you look at that, your time's up." House shoots to his feet. "Well, sorry, I can't stick around. Thanks for sharing your delusions; it's been fun. You'll honor the terms of our agreement? You'll wipe his memories of last night, free of charge?"
"Yes, I'll do that. But if I am able to take you back to that moment in time, could you go through with it?" Michael challenges. "Even knowing that in the long run it would be for Wilson's own good, would you have the guts to lie directly to his face? Would you be willing to deceive your friend to that great an extent?"
House stops to consider his answer, the pain caused by Wilson's rejection percolating steadily away inside him like a cauldron of poison.
*
"What do you mean, he's not at home?" Wilson snatches up his phone. "How do you know that? Where is he?"
"Hush." Andrew holds up a finger, concentrating.
Hush? "Is House in trouble? Is he in danger? Screw my meeting; I'm calling him." Wilson is halfway through dialing the number he knows by heart when Andrew staggers to his feet, panic stricken. Slowly placing the receiver back into its cradle, Wilson stares at him, frightened. "What is it?"
Numb with dread, Andrew stares back at him. God, I need guidance, he prays. So help me, I don't know what to do. "House has... House..." He shakes his head.
"Andrew?" Deeply concerned, Wilson stands and starts to approach him, bandaged hand outstretched. "Is House alright? What's he done? Is he injured? Has he taken a spill off his bike? Damn it, talk to me," he begs.
Andrew swallows painfully. "House is fine," he says, pacifying his friend quickly, the last thing he might ever be able to do for him. How much time did Wilson have left? A minute? Mere seconds? He watches as the human's shoulders relax, relief flooding the slender frame. Andrew clasps his hands together behind his back to hide the fact they're shaking. "Doctor Wilson," he says, "do you trust me?"
Wilson nods, confused. "Yes, implicitly. Why?" He touches his assistant's arm. "You know, you really scared me. I thought that something was seriously wrong." Highlighting flecks of burnished copper and sunlit gold, the smile illuminates his eyes - charms the reprimand out of his words.
Forgiven - our trespasses. Bereft, Andrew is forced to avert his gaze. If House had dared to show his face in Wilson's office right then, Andrew would have ripped the traitorous imbecile to shreds. "I should have known better," he whispers. "I'm terribly, terribly sorry. I've failed you. I was supposed to protect you."
Wilson laughs in genuine surprise. "It's not the end of the world; it was a misunderstanding." He turns to hunt down his briefcase. "I'm pretty sure I'll survi..." he says confidently and winks out of existence.
To be continued.
Author: Fayding_fast
Chapter: 7/12
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em
Rating: PG
Pairing: House/Wilson (pre-slash)
Spoilers: Yes, for Wilson's Heart
Con-crit? Yes please and thank you kindly.
Summary: House meets a strange man who promises House that he can help him to get his friendship with Wilson back on track.
"He's still sleeping on your couch?" Michael asks, eyes almost popping out of his head. "No wonder you're in the doldrums."
"I didn't think they'd be a problem," House says, rubbing eyes that look as if they've been bathed with red wine. "I thought that once he moved back in with me, it would be plain sailing. You promised..."
"I promised that I would get him to your apartment," Michael interrupts him. "I didn't guarantee he'd be mincing up the aisle wearing a tiara and flouncy wedding dress."
Disheartened, House takes a sip of his drink, then slams the glass down too hard. Beer sloshes everywhere. House stares at Michael, face filled with determination. "I want you to wipe his memories."
Michael looks intrigued. "All of them?"
"No, not all of them!" House realizes he'd shouted and looks around furtively. No-one is paying him the slightest bit of attention. Nevertheless, he leans in closer to Michael and lowers his voice. "Just last night's. I need to work on a different approach; things didn't go according to plan."
"I'll say they didn't. You want me to erase yours as well? How can you live with yourself? I've never witnessed a clumsier seduction technique in my whole life. You screamed at him, hit him, tried to forcibly evict him, and to top it all off, you bit him. And here you are, upset because he spurned your advances." House's miserable expression brings tears of laughter to Michael's eyes. "House," he says, "you do entertain me."
Using his forefinger, House traces patterns in his spilled beer. "Glad to hear it," he says tersely. "Perhaps you'll give me a discount."
"Sorry, no can do," Michael informs him cheerfully. "This little favor will set you back another twenty thousand dollars."
House nods, resigned. "So you can do it? What will you use, hypnotism?"
"Something like that, and I can do most things," Michael says absently. "Although there is another option." His expression becomes thoughtful. "All I ask for is another fifteen minutes of your time so that we can discuss it. You hear me out, and if you still go for the first option, I'll waive the fee."
"Fifteen minutes?" House carefully makes a note of the time. "I'm all ears," he says.
*
"You made it," Andrew observes when Wilson breezes into his office.
"Thought I'd never get here. The traffic was horrendous."
Plus, of course, he'd been delayed because of that wonderfully awkward conversation he'd had with House about their shared kiss. They'd been a lot of one-sided soul-baring met by plenty of unhelpful glowering until, finally, House had thankfully put their heart-to-heart talk out of its misery.
The 'pervy groping' as House had dubbed it had been explained away as 'drunken fumbling' on House's part and a 'worrying, mid-life sexual identity crisis' on Wilson's. Wilson should, House had advised him, stop his 'incessant and irritating blushing and stammering' and 'just get over it, already'.
Far easier said than done.
Throwing his briefcase onto his desk, Wilson slips out of his jacket and hangs it up on the coat stand. He belatedly notices his assistant's sombre expression. "What's up?" he asks, taking his seat.
Andrew hesitates. "Remember, you've got a budget meeting with Cuddy in half an hour. The hospital pharmacy has registered yet another complaint about your handwriting..."
Wilson splutters indignantly.
"... and I've completely cleared your schedule for this afternoon," Andrew finishes in a rush.
"You have?" Wilson frowns at him, apprehensive because his assistant looks so uncomfortable. "Why?"
Taking the seat opposite Wilson, Andrew gazes at him earnestly. "I have a very dear friend who lives about ten minutes' drive from here. He's agreed to see you later today. At his house."
Wilson is quiet for a moment. "And this friend of yours is..."
"A psychiatrist," Andrew confesses. "I know you've seen one before and that you were prescribed anti-depressants, but you've come off them. My friend Tony is a good man. He's highly regarded amongst his peers. I want you to go and see him for an informal chat. I haven't told him anything about you, I swear. He doesn't even know your name."
"Look, Andrew," Wilson says, wondering why he's not annoyed. "I know you mean well, but haven't we been over this before? Kirsty's death, yesterday, hit me hard, but I'm dealing. I don't require any more counseling." He smiles at his worried friend. "Please tell Tony that I wouldn't want to waste his time; I've sorted my life out. I'm embarrassingly well-balanced."
"I'd rejoice if that was true." Andrew points at the pristine white bandage Wilson is wearing. "I enjoy a good story," he says. "For starters, why don't you tell me how you injured your hand?"
*
"Let me get this straight," House says, bemused. "You want to rant on about time-travel?"
"Yes," Michael answers him. "That a problem?"
"I'll willingly talk about the easter bunny and the sugar-plum-fairy, as well, if it will save me twenty thousand bucks," House assures him.
"That won't be necessary." Michael looks askance at him as if he fears he's gone crazy. "Now I know you won't believe this, but Wilson was actually telling you the truth yesterday. Despite your clumsy attempt to woo him, if it wasn't for Amber, he could have been yours. Ripe for the taking."
House stares at his interlinked fingers.
"He sees her as his ideal mate," Michael continues. "She died before she could bore him. Before she started to irritate him. In his eyes, she was a veritable goddess. He'll never be happy with anyone else; he'll compare every potential lover to Amber, and they will always come up short." Michael's discolored nails tap the back of House's hand. "But all is not lost. You can change all that."
"If only time-travel wasn't impossible," House sneers sarcastically.
"More often than not, it is," Michael concedes, eyes scanning the darkest corners of the bar. "The likelihood of success depends on how far back you want to go and what you want to change. Humor me. Let's say, hypothetically, that I am capable of taking you back to a particular point in time with all your current memories intact. When would you travel back to?"
House peers surreptitiously at his watch again, then, for the sake of his bank balance, curbs his innate tendency to mock. "I guess I'd go back and shred Amber's résumé. If I don't hire her, Wilson would never meet her."
"Bad idea," Michael says. "You didn't appreciate how much you wanted him until he started dating her."
"True," House says. "Okay, then, I'd prevent her death. If I don't go back to that bar - if I don't get drunk - she would never step onto that bus. They'd still be living together, and he's bound to get tired of her eventually; he always does. I'd simply have to wait for their inevitable bust-up."
"Yes, there's a very good chance that he would grow sick of her, but suppose he doesn't? Suppose she's smart enough, inventive enough to keep him interested? He's been your friend for fifteen years, and he's never got tired of you. No, there must be a better time: an instant where, if you lived that moment again, you could destroy Wilson's perception of Amber completely." Michael's tongue darts out to lick his lips. "Come on, use that fertile imagination of yours. Can you think of anything?"
House downs half of his beer in one long gulp. "Yeah," he says, "I can."
*
"Alright, alright, I'll go and see him," Wilson says, holding up his hands in defeat. "Anything for a bit of peace."
"Thank you," Andrew breathes, thrilled. "You've been through so much, lately. You can talk about work. Amber. Kirsty. Whatever you like."
"Or I could tell him about the problems I've had with House," Wilson muses. "Your friend a miracle worker?"
"He's been known to perform the odd one, yes," Andrew reassures him, smiling. Eyes widening, he suddenly sits bolt upright. "Where is House?" he demands, alarmed.
"He told me, this morning, that he was going to stay in bed because his leg was playing up. He's taken a sick-day. I'll check in on him after I get back from my meeting."
"He was lying to you," Andrew says grimly. "Wherever he is, he's not at home."
*
"Yes, now that has potential," Michael says. "Yes, I really think that might work."
"Except for one little thing." House taps the side of his head.
Michael nods in understanding. "Not a problem. I've mastered the art of deception." He preens himself. "People will see exactly what I want them to see."
House looks longingly at the exit. "I've read that you can't travel back in time because it could create a paradox. If I meet myself, then surely I would have remembered ..."
"You wouldn't meet your younger self. The second you go back, the earlier House would disappear. You'd be overwriting him, so to speak." Michael warms to his subject. "People make such a big song and dance out of this, but it's not magic - it's science."
"I'm sure." House keeps his face neutral.
"I'll do it for one hundred and thirty nine thousand dollars." Michael stares at House expectantly.
Choking on the mouthful of beer he'd just taken, House recovers and gapes at Michael in shock. "You've got to be kidding me. That will use up the last of my savings."
"Not quite," Michael corrects him. "You'll still have enough money left over to pay that month's bills. Do you think I'm totally heartless? Besides, why are you balking? You don't believe I can accomplish it, anyway."
"No, that's right, I don't. Oh, would you look at that, your time's up." House shoots to his feet. "Well, sorry, I can't stick around. Thanks for sharing your delusions; it's been fun. You'll honor the terms of our agreement? You'll wipe his memories of last night, free of charge?"
"Yes, I'll do that. But if I am able to take you back to that moment in time, could you go through with it?" Michael challenges. "Even knowing that in the long run it would be for Wilson's own good, would you have the guts to lie directly to his face? Would you be willing to deceive your friend to that great an extent?"
House stops to consider his answer, the pain caused by Wilson's rejection percolating steadily away inside him like a cauldron of poison.
*
"What do you mean, he's not at home?" Wilson snatches up his phone. "How do you know that? Where is he?"
"Hush." Andrew holds up a finger, concentrating.
Hush? "Is House in trouble? Is he in danger? Screw my meeting; I'm calling him." Wilson is halfway through dialing the number he knows by heart when Andrew staggers to his feet, panic stricken. Slowly placing the receiver back into its cradle, Wilson stares at him, frightened. "What is it?"
Numb with dread, Andrew stares back at him. God, I need guidance, he prays. So help me, I don't know what to do. "House has... House..." He shakes his head.
"Andrew?" Deeply concerned, Wilson stands and starts to approach him, bandaged hand outstretched. "Is House alright? What's he done? Is he injured? Has he taken a spill off his bike? Damn it, talk to me," he begs.
Andrew swallows painfully. "House is fine," he says, pacifying his friend quickly, the last thing he might ever be able to do for him. How much time did Wilson have left? A minute? Mere seconds? He watches as the human's shoulders relax, relief flooding the slender frame. Andrew clasps his hands together behind his back to hide the fact they're shaking. "Doctor Wilson," he says, "do you trust me?"
Wilson nods, confused. "Yes, implicitly. Why?" He touches his assistant's arm. "You know, you really scared me. I thought that something was seriously wrong." Highlighting flecks of burnished copper and sunlit gold, the smile illuminates his eyes - charms the reprimand out of his words.
Forgiven - our trespasses. Bereft, Andrew is forced to avert his gaze. If House had dared to show his face in Wilson's office right then, Andrew would have ripped the traitorous imbecile to shreds. "I should have known better," he whispers. "I'm terribly, terribly sorry. I've failed you. I was supposed to protect you."
Wilson laughs in genuine surprise. "It's not the end of the world; it was a misunderstanding." He turns to hunt down his briefcase. "I'm pretty sure I'll survi..." he says confidently and winks out of existence.
To be continued.