"The House Syndrome" Chapter 3
Title: The House Syndrome
Chapter: 3/6(Plus epilogue)
Fandom: House MD
Pairings: Wilson/Park, House/Wilson
Worcount: (This Chapter-1220)
Rating: This chapter-R-mostly for language, but there will be NC17 material.
Warnings: Graphic sex for both pairings. Massive Angst-fest ahead. No fluff, no schmoop. Possible triggers. Read at your own risk.
Notes: THIS IS NOT A WIP! The whole thing is done. I just feel like posting in chapters. Very short chapters. Thanks to michelleann68 for Full Metal Beta. Comments and concrit welcome.
Summary: Things are back to normal, so everyone gets hurt.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Wilson was on the prowl.
House could taste the lie on Wilson’s lips when he left that morning, just after mentioning, oh so casually, that he wouldn’t be coming over that night.
“Things to do at home,” he said, leaving exactly which things up to House’s imagination.
Somehow House didn’t envision Wilson doing some much-needed spackling or re-alphabetizing his CD collection. There was only one kind of “thing” that Wilson had to do at home.
He should have known. He had known. There was a reason Wilson hadn’t paid a single visit to House while he was in prison and it wasn’t his great concern for Cuddy. House didn’t know her name, but there’d been a “thing” living in the condo at some point.
Wilson had gone to a hell of a lot of trouble to eradicate the evidence, at least according to Taub. House had sent him over with a set of keys to check things out and take pictures. No matter how much he perused them, House couldn’t find any clues, which was damning in and of itself.
House supposed he should be gratified, but at this point being right wasn’t enough. He’d known there was no way for Wilson to not cheat, but he’d chosen to believe otherwise, or at least pretend he wouldn’t care. Prison had been worse than House had ever imagined, but in the aftermath he needed Wilson more than he wanted to admit.
In the name of not being alone, he’d decided to take one more chance, starting with getting Wilson to “forgive” him. They’d performed their intricate dance of guilt and redemption under the watchful eye of Mother Foreman who was only marginally less clueless than Cuddy had been.
Cuddy. Her very name produced a symphony of pain comprised of the chronic ache in his leg and something sharp in the vicinity of his ego. What on earth had he been thinking? He’d had a year of tedium to work on that puzzle, producing still no answer. Nothing made sense, so he just pretended it had never happened.
Too bad he couldn’t wish away the encroaching gray in his hair and beard as easily, especially when Wilson still had the better part of the boyish charm that had originally attracted House that first night in New Orleans. There had to be a picture in a closet somewhere or a lucrative deal made at the crossroads.
He had his Vicodin, he had a team of sorts and he had enough of Wilson to satisfy his physical needs. He also had the illusion that Wilson’s “love” would be able to fend off his demons indefinitely.
The illusion lasted less than a month. Now things were back to what passed for normal. House had gotten used to having Wilson around and Wilson was looking for a way out. The only question was who Wilson would end up using as a his personal “Off Ramp.”.
House supposed he could put up with one of Wilson’s random pick-ups as long as he didn’t smell too strongly of someone else’s perfume or actually call out the wrong name in the bedroom. That was another lie of course. He didn’t believe in love or fidelity, but that didn’t stop him from demanding it.
The only thing that kept him from spending every waking hour contemplating the possible locations that Wilson dick might end up was a new case, courtesy of Foreman, via his old mentor, Marty Hamilton. Hamilton still hated House for revealing his ineptitude on the John Henry Giles case, but he was a good enough doctor to admit he was stumped and didn’t want the patient to die because of it, at least not on his watch.
Female, 35, with epilepsy, who’d spent too much time on Space Mountain for her birthday and now couldn’t speak. She’d also developed symptoms indicative of both a heart condition and auto-immune disease, but hadn’t responded to treatment for either.
After the requisite number of dwarf jokes and a only half-humorous request from Chase to take a road trip to Disneyland to test the Sno-cones for pathogens, he’d turned his attention toward the patient’s history, which he assumed was full of crap, but did indicate a taste for spicy Asian food, including a specific brand of Nuac Cham.
He’d tested several batches and discovered the culprit. It was easy enough to cure the patient after that, but his scientific process had involved consuming the product himself, which left him at home shitting and puking his guts out for forty-eight hours, a misery he went through on his own.
No Wilson to wipe his sweaty brow, help him to and from the toilet and make him chicken soup, even if House would refuse to eat it and then force Wilson to feed him, one spoonful at a time. Not even a Wilson to stand around looking self-righteous and lecture House on the insanity on his methods
The salient point was the lack of Wilson. House tried not to think of another time when he’d been sick and in pain and Wilson wasn’t there, but it was impossible. At least he was safe at home. He might be lying in his own vomit, but no one could make any life-changing medical decisions for him.
Very cold comfort. This could be serious. Another Bonnie. Another Amber. Someone Wilson actually cared about. Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that. Wilson would have his little fling, get it out of his system, and feel guilty. Lather, rinse, repeat, ad nauseum
If House were anybody else, a normal/i> person, he could almost hear Foreman saying, he could let it go with that. But for House, it was still all about the mystery. He had to know who Wilson was fucking, if only in hope of someday figuring out what it was (besides possibly a vagina) that kept driving Wilson to do this.
Two days later, the fish sauce from hell had worked its way through his system and he was able to go back to work. He found the office much as he had left it, except the whiteboard had been cleaned off. The team was sitting around the table with a new set of file folders in front of them and a fresh plate of doughnuts.
Taub was standing, holding forth on a case, displaying a certain amount of self-confidence. House would have to nip that in the bud, but at the moment he was distracted. Something was off. He scanned the table. Chase was his usual self, doing his best to seem attentive although his House-trained mind was already jumping ahead to a possible diagnosis. Adams was frowning at the file, probably trying to figure out how the medical problem was actually a moral come-uppance for some personal failing.
Nothing out of the ordinary there. Then he turned his gaze to Park. She was looking at the file and occasionally glancing up to indicate that she was also listening to Taub, but there was something else, something wrong, an anomaly.
There it was. A smile. Not a shy, do I even deserve to be sitting here, smile of her usual sort, but a genuine, happy, relaxed smile.
House felt sick and this time he couldn’t blame the Nuoc Cham.
He knew who Wilson was sleeping with.
Chapter: 3/6(Plus epilogue)
Fandom: House MD
Pairings: Wilson/Park, House/Wilson
Worcount: (This Chapter-1220)
Rating: This chapter-R-mostly for language, but there will be NC17 material.
Warnings: Graphic sex for both pairings. Massive Angst-fest ahead. No fluff, no schmoop. Possible triggers. Read at your own risk.
Notes: THIS IS NOT A WIP! The whole thing is done. I just feel like posting in chapters. Very short chapters. Thanks to michelleann68 for Full Metal Beta. Comments and concrit welcome.
Summary: Things are back to normal, so everyone gets hurt.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Wilson was on the prowl.
House could taste the lie on Wilson’s lips when he left that morning, just after mentioning, oh so casually, that he wouldn’t be coming over that night.
“Things to do at home,” he said, leaving exactly which things up to House’s imagination.
Somehow House didn’t envision Wilson doing some much-needed spackling or re-alphabetizing his CD collection. There was only one kind of “thing” that Wilson had to do at home.
He should have known. He had known. There was a reason Wilson hadn’t paid a single visit to House while he was in prison and it wasn’t his great concern for Cuddy. House didn’t know her name, but there’d been a “thing” living in the condo at some point.
Wilson had gone to a hell of a lot of trouble to eradicate the evidence, at least according to Taub. House had sent him over with a set of keys to check things out and take pictures. No matter how much he perused them, House couldn’t find any clues, which was damning in and of itself.
House supposed he should be gratified, but at this point being right wasn’t enough. He’d known there was no way for Wilson to not cheat, but he’d chosen to believe otherwise, or at least pretend he wouldn’t care. Prison had been worse than House had ever imagined, but in the aftermath he needed Wilson more than he wanted to admit.
In the name of not being alone, he’d decided to take one more chance, starting with getting Wilson to “forgive” him. They’d performed their intricate dance of guilt and redemption under the watchful eye of Mother Foreman who was only marginally less clueless than Cuddy had been.
Cuddy. Her very name produced a symphony of pain comprised of the chronic ache in his leg and something sharp in the vicinity of his ego. What on earth had he been thinking? He’d had a year of tedium to work on that puzzle, producing still no answer. Nothing made sense, so he just pretended it had never happened.
Too bad he couldn’t wish away the encroaching gray in his hair and beard as easily, especially when Wilson still had the better part of the boyish charm that had originally attracted House that first night in New Orleans. There had to be a picture in a closet somewhere or a lucrative deal made at the crossroads.
He had his Vicodin, he had a team of sorts and he had enough of Wilson to satisfy his physical needs. He also had the illusion that Wilson’s “love” would be able to fend off his demons indefinitely.
The illusion lasted less than a month. Now things were back to what passed for normal. House had gotten used to having Wilson around and Wilson was looking for a way out. The only question was who Wilson would end up using as a his personal “Off Ramp.”.
House supposed he could put up with one of Wilson’s random pick-ups as long as he didn’t smell too strongly of someone else’s perfume or actually call out the wrong name in the bedroom. That was another lie of course. He didn’t believe in love or fidelity, but that didn’t stop him from demanding it.
The only thing that kept him from spending every waking hour contemplating the possible locations that Wilson dick might end up was a new case, courtesy of Foreman, via his old mentor, Marty Hamilton. Hamilton still hated House for revealing his ineptitude on the John Henry Giles case, but he was a good enough doctor to admit he was stumped and didn’t want the patient to die because of it, at least not on his watch.
Female, 35, with epilepsy, who’d spent too much time on Space Mountain for her birthday and now couldn’t speak. She’d also developed symptoms indicative of both a heart condition and auto-immune disease, but hadn’t responded to treatment for either.
After the requisite number of dwarf jokes and a only half-humorous request from Chase to take a road trip to Disneyland to test the Sno-cones for pathogens, he’d turned his attention toward the patient’s history, which he assumed was full of crap, but did indicate a taste for spicy Asian food, including a specific brand of Nuac Cham.
He’d tested several batches and discovered the culprit. It was easy enough to cure the patient after that, but his scientific process had involved consuming the product himself, which left him at home shitting and puking his guts out for forty-eight hours, a misery he went through on his own.
No Wilson to wipe his sweaty brow, help him to and from the toilet and make him chicken soup, even if House would refuse to eat it and then force Wilson to feed him, one spoonful at a time. Not even a Wilson to stand around looking self-righteous and lecture House on the insanity on his methods
The salient point was the lack of Wilson. House tried not to think of another time when he’d been sick and in pain and Wilson wasn’t there, but it was impossible. At least he was safe at home. He might be lying in his own vomit, but no one could make any life-changing medical decisions for him.
Very cold comfort. This could be serious. Another Bonnie. Another Amber. Someone Wilson actually cared about. Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that. Wilson would have his little fling, get it out of his system, and feel guilty. Lather, rinse, repeat, ad nauseum
If House were anybody else, a normal/i> person, he could almost hear Foreman saying, he could let it go with that. But for House, it was still all about the mystery. He had to know who Wilson was fucking, if only in hope of someday figuring out what it was (besides possibly a vagina) that kept driving Wilson to do this.
Two days later, the fish sauce from hell had worked its way through his system and he was able to go back to work. He found the office much as he had left it, except the whiteboard had been cleaned off. The team was sitting around the table with a new set of file folders in front of them and a fresh plate of doughnuts.
Taub was standing, holding forth on a case, displaying a certain amount of self-confidence. House would have to nip that in the bud, but at the moment he was distracted. Something was off. He scanned the table. Chase was his usual self, doing his best to seem attentive although his House-trained mind was already jumping ahead to a possible diagnosis. Adams was frowning at the file, probably trying to figure out how the medical problem was actually a moral come-uppance for some personal failing.
Nothing out of the ordinary there. Then he turned his gaze to Park. She was looking at the file and occasionally glancing up to indicate that she was also listening to Taub, but there was something else, something wrong, an anomaly.
There it was. A smile. Not a shy, do I even deserve to be sitting here, smile of her usual sort, but a genuine, happy, relaxed smile.
House felt sick and this time he couldn’t blame the Nuoc Cham.
He knew who Wilson was sleeping with.