"Whose Obsession Is It Anyway?" House MD House/Wilson Rating-R Wordcount 1515
Title: Whose Obsession Is It Anyway?
Fandom: House MD
Characters: House/Cameron, but it's all about House/Wilson.
Wordcount-1515
Rating-R, mostly for language.
Notes/Warnings: Post ep for No More Mr. Nice Guy. Spoilers & angst galore.
Thanks to k_haldane for the quick look-over.
Summary: It takes one to know one.
The bottle was half way to empty and House’s stomach had launched a plea for something besides more pills, when the knock finally came at the door. It didn’t sound like Wilson, but Wilson wasn’t acting like Wilson anymore, so it made some kind of sense.
He’d been an idiot, much as he hated to admit it. This Amber thing should have been stopped a long time ago. House had allowed himself to be flattered into complacency by his epiphany that Wilson was only screwing the erstwhile Cutthroat Bitch because his own delusions of straightness wouldn’t allow him to cut out the middle-man (or woman in this case) and go for the gusto himself.
Not for a minute did he believe that Wilson could possibly have gotten himself so firmly lodged up that shapely ass that he would actually break a direct promise to House.
I’ll get my shoes.
There was precedent, of course, but even the Grace situation, a memory that could still evoke nausea, was many shades short of what had transpired today.
Bile rose in his throat and he forced it back down with yet another drink. He’d eat when Wilson showed up to apologize, preferably with an offering of Amber’s head on a plate, or at least assurances that he’d contacted the Arniello brothers regarding a hit that would land the cunt in a permanent spot on the fifty-yard line at the Meadowlands.
“Get your ass in here!” he bellowed.
Instead of blood, he smelled food. A nice round of MSG poisoning was just what they both needed. But it wasn’t Wilson carrying the boxes unless the neutering had gone far enough to involve long blonde hair and high-heels. At least it wasn’t the witch herself, but this wasn’t a big improvement.
“Sorry, this is a private party.”
“A pity party,” Cameron noted, not bothering to look embarrassed as she walked into his kitchen and started using his plates and silverware in an infuriating show of self-confidence. What about the days when he’d been able to make her quiver with an angry look? Somehow she’d figured out that he wasn’t god, which since she was an avowed atheist, was probably a good thing.
“Did Wilson send you?”
It had been years since Wilson tried to divert his focus by using Cameron as a false threat. Maybe this was a new variation.
“Nope. And just for the record, it wasn’t Cuddy either.”
“Tell Chase he’s off my bowling team.”
“You tell him. I’m not here for anybody but myself. And you. You need to eat. You didn’t even bother stealing lunch today. No more over doses.”
Who’d told her about that? Another Wilson betrayal? It was almost getting predictable.
“I’m an addict,” he said defensively.
“I know.”
There was pain in her voice, along with resignation. It was good to know he could still hurt somebody. Why not let her feed him sesame chicken and then suck his dick? The temptation was as strong as the lure of the drugs and alcohol itself, not for any pleasure he might derive from the sexual contact, but the vicious words he could use afterwards as he threw her out and let her know exactly what he thought of her.
For extra jollies, he could make sure that Chase found out. If his syphilis deception hadn’t put an end to that charade, a graphic description of Cameron on her knees would certainly do the trick.
“Go to hell,” he muttered, as she brought a plate of food over and put it down on the coffee table.
“I’ve already been there. I was in love with you, remember?”
“Don’t try and con me with the past tense.”
She nodded.
“You’re right. I still love you, but I’m not obsessed anymore. I used to spend every spare minute of every day wondering how I could get you to give a damn about me, and then it hit me.”
“Yeah, that thing with Chase. Got me running right after you, except it’s taken me awhile to get there, with the leg and all.”
“I figured out who you really care about.”
She sat down on the chair. Wilson’s chair. If he could get up without puking, he’d physically throw her out, but the dizziness wouldn’t let him and the smell came at him like something out of Bugs Bunny cartoon. He gingerly sat up and took a bite of a pot sticker. At first his gut tried to reject it, afraid that he was downing more poison either in the form of alcohol or Vicodin. Once the message got across that there was actual food, his intestines unclenched and he found himself scarfing as though he hadn’t eaten for…could it really be two days?
“So now you’re ready to share your insights, oh wise one?”
She shrugged.
“I was obsessed with you. You’re obsessed with Wilson. Wilson’s obsessed with…”
“If you say he’s obsessed with her, you’ll need an emergency chopstick-ectomy.”
“I don’t think he’s obsessed with her. I’m not sure he’s even in love with her.”
“He wouldn’t know love if it cut his balls off, which apparently it has.”
Paying back Wilson’s betrayal by sharing secrets with Cameron. If that was the best revenge he could come up with, he really was pathetic.
“Wilson can’t get it up after three drinks,” he added, wondering which other tidbits he could offer up, and when it would start to make him feel better. At least the pain was receding from his stomach, as he joined the clean-plate club. Unfortunately the leg was acting up. Bowling always made it ache and the only thing that made that worthwhile was Wilson’s company.
He lay back down on the couch, not bothering to hide the wince.
“Take your pill.”
“Yes, mommy,” he said, putting the maximum scathing bite into the words, but Cameron really had grown some armor and he just didn’t have the energy it would take to strip it off. Or anything else for that matter.
“How obsessed?”
“What?
“How obsessed were you? I know you wanted to kill Stacy…”
“And Cuddy, and every other woman you ever said a nice word to, including Maddie Ralphean.”
“Who?”
“Abigail Ralphean’s mother.”
He shook his head in utter confusion.
“The dwarf,” she reminded him.
“Oh.” House blinked. He had a vague memory of some amusing banter with a very short woman the day before his OD, but couldn’t really remember what she’d looked like beyond the height or lack thereof.
“Some snooping. A little stalking. I had your phone book memorized. I knew when your hookers came over. Sometimes I waited outside until after they left, wondering what they had that I didn’t.”
“Good thing I had Steve instead of a rabbit.”
“Yeah.”
“And you think I’m like that?”
“Do you want more food?”
“Answer the question.”
She got up to take his plate and he made a grab for her wrist. For a second, there was something, the feeling of her skin against his, the knowledge that he could still hurt her, if only physically, and a remote glimmer of gratitude that someone still gave enough of a damn to tell him the truth. Followed by more anger. Truth-telling was supposed to be Wilson’s job.
“Answer the fucking question!”
Silent tears filled her eyes. That was more like it. He released his grasp and followed her movements as she took the plate back to the kitchen. Another image from that day. Cameron on her knees…bandaging his self-inflicted wounds.
“I’ll leave the rest in the fridge.”
“I’m still not your charity project.”
“You can pay me back for the food.”
“The hell I will.”
“Fine.”
This sucked. Wilson was out there, somewhere, with…he stopped himself from thinking her name. She wasn’t a person. She was the enemy. This war wasn’t over and he wasn’t going to lose.
Cameron was another matter.
She’d gotten everything she wanted except a roll in the hay and maybe that never was the point.
“So will you lend me your boyfriend? I hear I can get an hourly rate at the sleep lab.”
It was a joke, he told himself. He wasn’t gay. He just wanted Wilson to himself. That wasn’t too much to ask and it didn’t make him obsessed.
“You’ll have to ask him. He really seems to like bowling with you.”
She had the raised eyebrows and smirk down so well, he should have charged her for copyright infringement.
“You’re good.” It was the highest praise he’d given her since Ezra Powell died.
“But I’m not him,” she said softly, compounding the ache that pills wouldn’t touch.
House noticed Cameron moving the liquor out of his easy reach. His eyes started closing, although he fought against it. Who the hell told him to eat anyway? Food was enemy. He should have stuck with his friends, pills and booze.
She was putting a blanket over him and he only had enough consciousness to lob one last verbal grenade before his body betrayed him, giving her the TKO.
“And you never will be.”
Fandom: House MD
Characters: House/Cameron, but it's all about House/Wilson.
Wordcount-1515
Rating-R, mostly for language.
Notes/Warnings: Post ep for No More Mr. Nice Guy. Spoilers & angst galore.
Thanks to k_haldane for the quick look-over.
Summary: It takes one to know one.
The bottle was half way to empty and House’s stomach had launched a plea for something besides more pills, when the knock finally came at the door. It didn’t sound like Wilson, but Wilson wasn’t acting like Wilson anymore, so it made some kind of sense.
He’d been an idiot, much as he hated to admit it. This Amber thing should have been stopped a long time ago. House had allowed himself to be flattered into complacency by his epiphany that Wilson was only screwing the erstwhile Cutthroat Bitch because his own delusions of straightness wouldn’t allow him to cut out the middle-man (or woman in this case) and go for the gusto himself.
Not for a minute did he believe that Wilson could possibly have gotten himself so firmly lodged up that shapely ass that he would actually break a direct promise to House.
I’ll get my shoes.
There was precedent, of course, but even the Grace situation, a memory that could still evoke nausea, was many shades short of what had transpired today.
Bile rose in his throat and he forced it back down with yet another drink. He’d eat when Wilson showed up to apologize, preferably with an offering of Amber’s head on a plate, or at least assurances that he’d contacted the Arniello brothers regarding a hit that would land the cunt in a permanent spot on the fifty-yard line at the Meadowlands.
“Get your ass in here!” he bellowed.
Instead of blood, he smelled food. A nice round of MSG poisoning was just what they both needed. But it wasn’t Wilson carrying the boxes unless the neutering had gone far enough to involve long blonde hair and high-heels. At least it wasn’t the witch herself, but this wasn’t a big improvement.
“Sorry, this is a private party.”
“A pity party,” Cameron noted, not bothering to look embarrassed as she walked into his kitchen and started using his plates and silverware in an infuriating show of self-confidence. What about the days when he’d been able to make her quiver with an angry look? Somehow she’d figured out that he wasn’t god, which since she was an avowed atheist, was probably a good thing.
“Did Wilson send you?”
It had been years since Wilson tried to divert his focus by using Cameron as a false threat. Maybe this was a new variation.
“Nope. And just for the record, it wasn’t Cuddy either.”
“Tell Chase he’s off my bowling team.”
“You tell him. I’m not here for anybody but myself. And you. You need to eat. You didn’t even bother stealing lunch today. No more over doses.”
Who’d told her about that? Another Wilson betrayal? It was almost getting predictable.
“I’m an addict,” he said defensively.
“I know.”
There was pain in her voice, along with resignation. It was good to know he could still hurt somebody. Why not let her feed him sesame chicken and then suck his dick? The temptation was as strong as the lure of the drugs and alcohol itself, not for any pleasure he might derive from the sexual contact, but the vicious words he could use afterwards as he threw her out and let her know exactly what he thought of her.
For extra jollies, he could make sure that Chase found out. If his syphilis deception hadn’t put an end to that charade, a graphic description of Cameron on her knees would certainly do the trick.
“Go to hell,” he muttered, as she brought a plate of food over and put it down on the coffee table.
“I’ve already been there. I was in love with you, remember?”
“Don’t try and con me with the past tense.”
She nodded.
“You’re right. I still love you, but I’m not obsessed anymore. I used to spend every spare minute of every day wondering how I could get you to give a damn about me, and then it hit me.”
“Yeah, that thing with Chase. Got me running right after you, except it’s taken me awhile to get there, with the leg and all.”
“I figured out who you really care about.”
She sat down on the chair. Wilson’s chair. If he could get up without puking, he’d physically throw her out, but the dizziness wouldn’t let him and the smell came at him like something out of Bugs Bunny cartoon. He gingerly sat up and took a bite of a pot sticker. At first his gut tried to reject it, afraid that he was downing more poison either in the form of alcohol or Vicodin. Once the message got across that there was actual food, his intestines unclenched and he found himself scarfing as though he hadn’t eaten for…could it really be two days?
“So now you’re ready to share your insights, oh wise one?”
She shrugged.
“I was obsessed with you. You’re obsessed with Wilson. Wilson’s obsessed with…”
“If you say he’s obsessed with her, you’ll need an emergency chopstick-ectomy.”
“I don’t think he’s obsessed with her. I’m not sure he’s even in love with her.”
“He wouldn’t know love if it cut his balls off, which apparently it has.”
Paying back Wilson’s betrayal by sharing secrets with Cameron. If that was the best revenge he could come up with, he really was pathetic.
“Wilson can’t get it up after three drinks,” he added, wondering which other tidbits he could offer up, and when it would start to make him feel better. At least the pain was receding from his stomach, as he joined the clean-plate club. Unfortunately the leg was acting up. Bowling always made it ache and the only thing that made that worthwhile was Wilson’s company.
He lay back down on the couch, not bothering to hide the wince.
“Take your pill.”
“Yes, mommy,” he said, putting the maximum scathing bite into the words, but Cameron really had grown some armor and he just didn’t have the energy it would take to strip it off. Or anything else for that matter.
“How obsessed?”
“What?
“How obsessed were you? I know you wanted to kill Stacy…”
“And Cuddy, and every other woman you ever said a nice word to, including Maddie Ralphean.”
“Who?”
“Abigail Ralphean’s mother.”
He shook his head in utter confusion.
“The dwarf,” she reminded him.
“Oh.” House blinked. He had a vague memory of some amusing banter with a very short woman the day before his OD, but couldn’t really remember what she’d looked like beyond the height or lack thereof.
“Some snooping. A little stalking. I had your phone book memorized. I knew when your hookers came over. Sometimes I waited outside until after they left, wondering what they had that I didn’t.”
“Good thing I had Steve instead of a rabbit.”
“Yeah.”
“And you think I’m like that?”
“Do you want more food?”
“Answer the question.”
She got up to take his plate and he made a grab for her wrist. For a second, there was something, the feeling of her skin against his, the knowledge that he could still hurt her, if only physically, and a remote glimmer of gratitude that someone still gave enough of a damn to tell him the truth. Followed by more anger. Truth-telling was supposed to be Wilson’s job.
“Answer the fucking question!”
Silent tears filled her eyes. That was more like it. He released his grasp and followed her movements as she took the plate back to the kitchen. Another image from that day. Cameron on her knees…bandaging his self-inflicted wounds.
“I’ll leave the rest in the fridge.”
“I’m still not your charity project.”
“You can pay me back for the food.”
“The hell I will.”
“Fine.”
This sucked. Wilson was out there, somewhere, with…he stopped himself from thinking her name. She wasn’t a person. She was the enemy. This war wasn’t over and he wasn’t going to lose.
Cameron was another matter.
She’d gotten everything she wanted except a roll in the hay and maybe that never was the point.
“So will you lend me your boyfriend? I hear I can get an hourly rate at the sleep lab.”
It was a joke, he told himself. He wasn’t gay. He just wanted Wilson to himself. That wasn’t too much to ask and it didn’t make him obsessed.
“You’ll have to ask him. He really seems to like bowling with you.”
She had the raised eyebrows and smirk down so well, he should have charged her for copyright infringement.
“You’re good.” It was the highest praise he’d given her since Ezra Powell died.
“But I’m not him,” she said softly, compounding the ache that pills wouldn’t touch.
House noticed Cameron moving the liquor out of his easy reach. His eyes started closing, although he fought against it. Who the hell told him to eat anyway? Food was enemy. He should have stuck with his friends, pills and booze.
She was putting a blanket over him and he only had enough consciousness to lob one last verbal grenade before his body betrayed him, giving her the TKO.
“And you never will be.”