Fic: Paper Doll update 2, h/w/cuddy
Fic: Paper Doll, Part 1
Author: Nakanna Lee
Rating: PG-13
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PART ONE
Wilson had spent the last-House checked the clock-six minutes brushing his teeth as if it were an art form.
Toothbrush poking out the corner of his mouth, Wilson walked right past a creased, strewn shirt and three suspiciously dirty socks on the floor on his way to the bathroom. House frowned and considered the odds that maybe he hadn’t arranged the clothes seductively enough for the Wilson to pluck them up and toss them into the hamper. He rifled around the living room for that button-up he knew he’d left in there last night, somewhere, and when he couldn’t find it, he grabbed Wilson’s jacket from the closet and donated it to the messy pile growing in the hallway.
In the bathroom, Wilson gurgled and spit out the rest of the toothpaste over running water.
“Whatever you’re doing, House,” he called, “stop.”
“I’m insulted by that. Why would you think I’m doing something?”
“You’re too quiet.”
“Ever think you’re just paranoid?”
“Shouldn’t I be if I’m living with you?”
House plastered an innocent look to his face and eased himself down over the back of the couch and onto the black cushions. He’d perfected the blithe movement after surgery, when the ketamine returned his long strides to pain-free smoothness and made the memory of a cane insufferable. There was an irony to it, somehow: the cane went into the closet and allowed Wilson to come out of one. House smirked to himself. It wasn’t the first time he’d let Wilson stay, and it was hardly the first time the bed was rumpled by two sleepers, both who didn’t talk about what exactly it was that they were doing. But it was the first time in nearly ten years House had his mobility again.
He could remember back to muddled images of things, months and moments blending and irretrievable from each other. Intermittent pockets of pain and heavy Vicodin use clouded some spots; cases and differential obsessions blurred definition of weeks. The intensity of his work seized reality and its chronological time, throwing it into a bin for later, where it would remain ignored until spare glimpses of contentedness broke through isolation’s haze.
Most times, in the clarity, Wilson was there to drag him out to something with people and force him to consider confronting society somehow-a dinner out, a baseball game even when the team sucked, a comedian who didn’t come close to House’s searing humor but made them both laugh for the evening. Other times, Wilson was there too, their hips working in an undefined alliance with one another and names lost to each other’s throats.
It was never too consistent and only happened when things were very good or very bad. House refused to let himself find comfort during stable, middle grounds. It was weak and, worst of all, predictable. He drove Wilson away defensively, disconcerted that Wilson might begin to take things seriously, and not see them as what they were: bored substitutions for honesty and normality-both concepts that neither House nor Wilson had ever been particularly good at in the first place.
House figured the shooting had scared the shit out of Wilson more than it had himself.
According to Wilson, House’s crutch of misery was gone thanks to the ketamine. In response, like in carefully considered battle movements, House fell back into the habit of provoking Wilson. He’d infuse difficulties, inventing problems to fight off any hints of domesticity. Wilson getting too comfortable? House would avoid him for a couple days, hide his personals, bring up Grace, push him into sleeping alone on the couch. He’d always known what buttons to push and what little sacrifices conversely had to be made to keep Wilson around, long enough to start messing with him again.
No one else knew they’d started living together again after the surgery. It was a shame, House thought, that they too had to be personally aware of that fact.
House watched Wilson fidgeting around in the bathroom with his hair. At least he’d taken the hint that this wasn’t a relationship, just a…temporary arrangement, House mused-a temporary relationship to beat the boredom of summer and fill the gaps between rehab exercises and reading up on journals to keep his work-deprived mind on its proverbial toes.
But they weren’t together and wouldn’t be as far as House was concerned. House clung to the distance between them. Wilson putting on his dating face was reassuring, or at least it should have been. Now, House ignored the tenseness in his stomach as he listened to Wilson’s dress shoes scuffing efficiently across the linoleum. He’d worn those ugly expensive ones, House noted with contempt.
Wilson emerged again from the bathroom, but had to step on his jacket before heeding the clothes on the floor. “What-?”
“Your week to clean, isn’t it?”
“That doesn’t mean it’s your week to make a mess,” Wilson replied. He rescued the shirt and jacket but didn’t risk touching the socks. “If you’re trying to make me late, you can give up now. I’m already-”
House spread out his arms in attempts to look as flabbergasted as possible. “I’ve been sitting here all night. How could I try to make you late?”
“Hmm, I don’t know. Maybe the fact that all of my ties were knotted together like a giant rubber band ball? Or because you took apart my hair-dryer to ‘see how it worked’? And you mixed vinegar in my cologne-”
“Come on, you should’ve been expecting all that anyway,” House said, suppressing a smirk to annoy Wilson more with seriousness. “You had brothers. I bet your house was booby-trapped when you were a kid.”
“Amazingly, we were raised with a little bit of something called self-control.”
“Liar.” House glanced at the clock, slightly disappointed that Wilson was right; he hadn’t succeeded in making him late. He still had a half-hour to spare before eight o’clock. His promptness was confounding.
“I don’t know why you waste so much time in getting ready anyway,” House added. “Two hundred bucks says she just wants to chat about hospital business again. Or the non-cancer returned.”
House hid a frown at the thought of Cuddy’s pregnancy agenda. Wilson, as far as House could tell, still had no idea that the first date had been an audition, and a failed one at that. In all the times House had given Cuddy her twice-daily injections, she’d never expressed interest in continuing her donation search with Wilson as the starring role. Panic flags went up last week when House no longer saw the manila envelopes with sperm donors’ medical histories laying, awaiting consultation discreetly beneath piles of paperwork on her desk. She hadn’t asked him to review files in days. Cuddy had stopped looking for an anonymous contribution.
It was irritating. House could push Wilson away all he wanted; but he was annoyed that someone else yielded the power to take him away without House’s control.
“Hey, if you haven’t noticed” Wilson interrupted, straightening his shirt collar, with what House deemed as faux suaveness. House wondered if Wilson knew his voice even sounded greasy when he thought he was going to get laid. “This is the second date.”
“Yeah, and it only took her four months to ask you out again. She’s finally recovered from how shockingly boring the first dinner was.”
Wilson rolled his eyes as he buttoned his suit, walking to the door. House considered the summer heat outside and silently guaranteed that Wilson would resemble an overheated chipmunk, stuffing himself into that dark jacket and stifling tie. Cuddy was going to be regretting this idea before the date was even halfway through.
“So she takes her time in relationships. Or she was waiting for the divorce to be finalized. And you getting shot didn’t exactly put everyone in the dating mood.”
“So now it’s my fault.”
Wilson didn’t even try arguing, which was typically a bad sign. “Either way, Cuddy obviously saw something there if she’s still interested.”
House glared at the word obviously. “Has she told you that? She kissed you? No. She hasn’t even broken the touch-barrier yet. She doesn’t give you a second thought at work, either.”
“She’s head of the hospital,” Wilson returned calmly, but House could catch the smug, singsong anticipation in his voice. “She has to act professional. Outside of work…things change.”
House scoffed. They themselves were unavoidable, living proof at how faulty that logic was.
“Well, you can’t take her back to that same restaurant. You’d have to steal more utensils to test. The busboys will start getting suspicious if all the silverware goes missing every time you show up.”
“We’re going to see a play,” Wilson replied without expression. “Is that good enough for you?”
“Oh, perfect. You won’t even have to talk to each other. Spares Cuddy the pain of listening to you trying to make casual conversation.”
Wilson had his keys in one hand and the doorknob in the other. He turned with a short, tired expression on his face.
“If you’re jealous and you want to date her, then do something. Torturing me about it isn’t exactly working.”
House raised his eyes to notice Wilson had arranged his collar just enough so that the purple bruise wasn’t showing. Four days old and the thing still hadn’t faded much. Shame he hadn’t considered marking Wilson just an inch or two higher. Lowering his chin to his chest, House shrugged and said nothing as the closing door mutely swallowed Wilson’s outline.
PART TWO: http://nakannalee.livejournal.com/20226.html