House M.D. Fanfiction: Back Story, Ch. 22
Title: Back Story
Author: pgrabia
Disclaimer: House M.D., its character’s, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.
Characters/Pairing: G. House, J. Wilson, L. Cuddy, other canon characters; House/Wilson pre-slash that will eventually become slash.
Genre: angst, drama, romance, intrigue, suspense, AU.
Spoiler Alert: All seasons including all of season 7. Some are quite specific and detailed. You’ve been warned.
Rating/Warnings: NC-17 for all the smexing as well as violence and serious adult subject matter including drug and alcohol abuse, sexual and physical abuse, and suicide ideation-though not all chapters will involve explicit description of sexual activity (just most of them ;^D) or gore.
A/N: This begins the morning after the last scene in episode 7x15, “Bombshells”. While it follows the Canon timeline, this story focuses on the happenings, thoughts and feelings going on in the story we don’t have access to (or my idea of what occurred and will occur on into season 8. Of course, this will run AU because spoilers about the first episode of season 8 are already out and point out that this is definitely not the official explanation for the baffling events that occurred in season 7). More warnings in author’s note for chapter one.
Back Story
Chapter Twenty-two
Wilson woke after ten the next morning with a hangover to rival the worst that he’d ever had before. Despite his desire to rush getting ready and get to the hospital his nausea and splitting headache had a lot to say about it. He called himself a cab to get to work; after work he would catch a cab back to the bar he’d been at the night before to pick up his keys and car. He didn’t remember a lot of what had happened the night before but he did remember getting hammered and then ending up somehow on the floor. Chase and Thirteen showed up and carried him into his apartment. He vaguely remembered taking a shower and that Chase was there-Chase was there?! -no…no, that couldn’t be right. He was so drunk it was possible he could have been convinced to shower with Chase, he supposed-though he prayed he hadn’t-but as far as he could remember Chase hadn’t been drunk and Wilson highly doubted the younger doctor was so inclined to do that sort of thing with another man, much less him. At least, he hoped not.
Somehow he managed to get out the door of the loft. Thirteen had done a pretty good job cleaning up his mess, he noticed, as he hurried to the elevator. His stomach was lurching and he hoped the aspirin he’d taken before leaving would start to take effect soon.
When he reached the street to wait for his cab he slowed down cautiously when he saw a stranger leaning against a black sedan, staring at him. He was Caucasian, in his mid-forties with chestnut brown hair. Of trim build, he was fairly attractive, and well dressed in a business suit and tie and charcoal colored overcoat. He was smoking a cigarette but as soon as he saw Wilson he dropped it onto the ground and crushed it beneath his expensive Italian dress shoes.
“Dr. Wilson,” the stranger said to him in flawless English with a friendly smile. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”
Wilson didn’t feel the same way. He remained at a distance, eyeing the other man warily.
“Do I know you?”
“Not yet,” the stranger answered, still smiling and shaking his head. He extended a hand. “My name’s Special Agent Peter Hunt; I’m from the FBI.”
Wilson ignored the hand. “May I see some credentials?”
“Of course,” Hunt answered. He reached inside his overcoat and pulled out a wallet, flipping it open to expose a badge and an ID card. Wilson took a step closer to get a better look. It appeared to be authentic, though he had only seen FBI badges up close on television.
“O-kaay,” Wilson said slowly, “what can I do for you?”
“I’m here to talk with you about Dr. Gregory House, Dr. Wilson. Can you spare a few minutes?”
“Actually,” Wilson answered quickly, “no…I’m actually running late as it is. I have to get to work-”
“Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital,” Hunt told him, nodding knowingly. “You’re chief of the oncology department there. Gregory House is your good friend. You have adjoining offices and share a balcony. On your cabinet in your office is a stuffed bear dressed like a doctor which one of your juvenile patients gave you as a gift. You’re running late because you overindulged last night and slept in and you’re sick as a dog, aren’t you? I promise, it will only take a few minutes of your time. In fact, as long as it takes me to give you a lift to work.”
Wilson’s stomach began to churn even more than it was earlier. He remembered House telling him that the people controlling him were in control of the FBI. Then again, House had lied to him about the Vicodin, so who knew what else had been a lie as well.
“Actually, I just called a cab,” Wilson protested but this only made Hunt chuckle.
“I know,” he told Wilson. “I just sent the cab away.” He stood up and walked to the passenger door, opening it. “Please get into the car, Doctor. There’s no point in wasting time getting you to work, is there?”
Fear gripped him but Wilson told himself to chill. It appeared he had very little choice; if this guy really was FBI then he didn’t want to get into trouble with him. If he wasn’t, disobeying could mean a bullet between the eyes followed by one between House’s.
“I guess not,” Wilson agreed cautiously. He swallowed hard and approached the sedan, hesitated at the door, then finally climbed into the passenger seat but didn’t do up his seatbelt. Hunt closed the door then rounded the front of the car and climbed into the passenger seat.
“Buckle up, Dr. Wilson,” Hunt advised him as he turned the key in the ignition and put the car into gear. Wilson was tempted to jump out of the car and flee by foot but realized there was no way he could outrun the man he sat next to. With hands that trembled ever-so-slightly, Wilson did up his seatbelt. Hunt steered the car into traffic.
“Okay,” Wilson said, trying to sound braver than he felt, “what do you want to talk to me about concerning House? He’s not in any trouble, is he?”
“Well now,” Hunt responded, glancing sidelong at him, “that depends upon your definition of trouble. Legally with the FBI? Not yet. In danger for his life? Well, see, that’s what I want to discuss with you.”
Wilson wasn’t about to volunteer any information. He had no idea who this guy really was or what he was up to and he wasn’t going to betray House. For all he knew this Hunt person could be an operative in the employ of the same puppet masters Dominika and that Boyko character were. He knew it was foolish to be driving around Princeton with a man he knew nothing about wanting information on his best friend but…well, here he was.
“I don’t know how I can help you,” Wilson told him flatly, staring straight out the windshield.
“You’re familiar with a woman named Dominika Petrova?” Hunt asked him.
“Yes,” Wilson sighed. “She’s House’s wife. They were married a few weeks ago. I don’t know her well, however. Why?”
“Ms. Petrova isn’t who she claims to be, and your friend’s association with her may place him in a very precarious position,” Hunt told her. “Her real name is Galina Belyakova, and she is already married to Leonid Aleksashkin, chief secretary to the Russian Minister of the Interior. She is a known agent of an arm of the largest faction in the Russian mafia; I won’t bore you with names. She’s under investigation in the United Kingdom and the United States for the murder of three mob kingpins of the Cosa Nostra. In other words, Dr. Wilson, she’s a trained assassin that has connections to both organized crime and Russian intelligence with dozens of notches on her belt to show for it.”
Wilson turned his face to look at Hunt with eyes the size of dinner plates. A trained assassin? House had suggested her ties to the Russian mafia and possibly to the international intelligence community but an assassin? He felt his blood run cold. He honestly had no idea what to say to that.
“We also know that the marriage of convenience that Dr. House entered into with Belyakova a.k.a. Dominika Petrova was phony. No marriage license was filed for and no registration of marriage was submitted to the State of New Jersey vital statistics bureau. We want to know how deeply involved he is in their business and what exactly it is he’s doing for them.”
Wilson’s mind was spinning. Shit, shit, shit, shit! He took a deep breath, trying to slow the pounding of his heart in his chest enough that he could actually manage to speak. Did he tell this guy the truth or did he claim complete ignorance?
“Agent Hunt,” Wilson said slowly, choosing his words carefully, “I honestly don’t know anything about any of that. All I do know is that House surprised the hell out of me when he announced that he was getting married to Dominika, or whoever she is. He broke up recently with a woman he’d been pursuing for years and was dating for nearly a year before the relationship ended.”
“That would be Dr. Lisa Cuddy, the Dean of Medicine at the hospital where both you and Dr. House work?” Hunt asked to confirm. It was obvious he knew that for a fact and was waiting to see how Wilson would respond.
“That’s correct,’ Wilson answered with a nod. he swallowed hard and licked his lips before continuing. “House took the break up very hard and…,” Wilson sighed, “well, House is an opiate addict. He developed his addiction after years of Vicodin use to manage the chronic pain he experiences in his leg due to an infarction that took place years ago. He went through detox and rehabilitation over two years ago and was sober until a couple of days before his relationship ended. He completely relapsed as a result and has been behaving very recklessly as of late-but he’s not a killer or involved in organized crime. He married-or, I guess pretended to marry Dominika-as a business arrangement, or so he told me.”
“And yet he lied to you about his marriage,” Hunt pointed out. They stopped at a railway crossing barrier; a long cargo train was slowly crawling past holding up traffic. The FBI agent turned slightly in his seat to face Wilson, at least appearing to be earnest. “Dr. Wilson, I’m actually on Dr. House’s side. I have reason to believe that he has indebted himself to them relating back to past gambling debts as well as current drug activity. If your friend is a relapsed addict, that would make sense. These kind of people never forget a debt, especially if that debt is owed to them and not the other way around. I have reason to suspect that they’ve called in a marker from Dr. House and if so, he’s in an incredible amount of danger. What I want to know is what they are demanding of him in payment, and I suspect that you know.”
Wilson said nothing, pressing his lips together into a thin line and looking away from Hunt, back out the front windshield. Unseeing eyes watched tanker car after tanker car pass in front of the car as the peeling bells of the railway klaxon barely registered with him. He had no idea what to do. The last thing he wanted to do was say anything that would get House killed by Dominika and her lot but at the same time he didn’t want to see House get sucked into that underworld so deeply that he drowned in it or ended up being arrested as an accomplice to some international crime.
All Wilson wanted was House-his House-back like he was a year and a half ago when he was still sober, still recovering, still sharing the loft with him. But no-because of him, House had fallen apart only to be used and manipulated by Cuddy until he broke and ended up not only in the throes of his addiction again but also involved with dangerous people who threatened his very existence. All of this because he had panicked and kicked House out of the loft so that he could shack up with Sam.
He was brought out of his thoughts by the movement and bounce of the car over the railroad tracks; the train had passed, the barrier arms had lifted, and the sedan was on the move again.
“Dr. Wilson,” Hunt continued after Wilson failed to respond to him, “if you think you’re protecting House by not saying anything, you’re mistaken. If I know what it is he’s gotten himself into I may be able to help him out of this predicament with minimal legal complications if he cooperates with us. He cannot beat these people at their own game, Doctor. He will end up the loser in all of this, and that could very likely mean his death. The best thing you can do for him is to tell me everything you know and help us convince him to cooperate with the authorities.”
“I don’t know who I can trust,” Wilson said softly, and that was all he said until the sedan pulled up outside the main entrance at PPTH. Hunt put the door in park then turned again in his seat to face Wilson. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a business card. It held the FBI official logo, his name and the number and extension at the field office in Newark where he could be contacted. He pulled out a pen and jotted down another number.
“That’s my private cell phone number,” Hunt told Wilson, holding out the card to him. “Check me out, make certain I’m legit. Then call me with what you know. Better yet, have Dr. House contact me before it’s too late.”
Wilson accepted the card and stared at it for a long moment before stuffing it into his pocket, quickly getting out of the car with his briefcase in hand, and slamming the door behind him. He felt a little dizzy and wobbly on his feet and he wasn’t certain if that was due to the hangover or the enormity of what was going on really beginning to sink in now. Regardless, he hurried into the hospital without looking back; he wanted to put as much distance between himself and that sedan as he could as quickly as he could without drawing unwanted attention to himself.
He felt like he needed to puke.
Walking quickly he tried to make it past the clinic without being noticed. His luck was not getting any better and he actually moaned audibly when he heard Cuddy’s voice.
“Wilson!”
He thought about making a run for it but realized how juvenile that would be and stopped instead. He didn’t go to her where she stood in the doorway of the clinic entrance but rather made her come to him. It was a childish power play but he needed to feel like he was in control of something just then.
“You look hell,” she said softly when she finally stood in front of him.
“Thanks,” Wilson said with mock cheerfulness, “and might I say how lovely you look today, as always.”
She frowned slightly, and he saw both concern and annoyance there. “You’re late again.”
“I had a rough night,” he told her obscurely. “Then I had to get a ride in to work because my car was undrivable.” It was a long stretch of the truth and Wilson wished he felt guilty about telling it.
“Especially since it was sitting in the parking lot of a bar instead of your parking stall,” Cuddy retorted quietly, everything about her saying ‘cut the bullshit’.
Chase and Hadley; Wilson sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose. His head pounded mercilessly.
“Look, can we have this raking over the coals later?” he asked his boss wearily. “As you’ve pointed out, I’m running late, I missed morning rounds, I have a desk packed high with paperwork, and a patient appointment before lunch.”
“No need,” Cuddy told him, still sotto voce. “You have an appointment with Dr. Garcia at one. I already had your assistant clear that hour on your schedule.”
“Who’s Dr. Garcia, and why do I have an appointment, which I know I didn’t make, with this person?”
Cuddy’s face softened somewhat, but her voice didn’t. “She’s a neuropsychiatrist at St. Sebastian’s who specializes in the assessment and treatment of addictions, in particular, alcoholism.”
Wilson felt his anger building. How dare she presume to-it was none of her business-!
“I’m not an alcoholic,” Wilson insisted through clenched teeth, barely able to keep the volume of his voice down.
“So you say,” Cuddy replied. “I’d rather have an expert’s assessment. This isn’t a suggestion, Dr. Wilson; if you want to prevent yourself from being put on suspension then you better make it to that appointment.” Her voice softened. “I’m worried about you. Cut the rope, Wilson, before he sucks you down with him.”
They both knew who ‘he’ was. Wilson’s face hardened. “It may be easy for you to toss away people you claimed to love to serve your own interests, Cuddy, but I don’t have that ability. I got your message-I’ll be at that appointment-but now I have work to do.”
Before she could respond to his venomous comment Wilson stalked off toward the elevator.
__
Wilson wasn’t in his office five minutes when his door opened abruptly in a familiar fashion and House walked into the room. His expression was blank, hard and his eyes were ice. There was definitely something off with him, but Wilson couldn’t place a finger on what it was.
House approached his desk, wordlessly extending a fifty dollar bill at him. Wilson looked at the money, realizing that it meant House was admitting defeat. He felt a strange thrill at being found right for once; opening his arms wide in acknowledgement, he took the money from House.
“You were wrong. It's not the end of the world,” Wilson told him, not gloating so much as pointing the fact out to House.
House met his gaze and the temperature of coldness in his eyes seemed to drop and fury joined it. With eerie calmness, House laid his cane across Wilson’s desk and with one sudden sweep cleared everything off of it onto the floor with a crash.
Wilson was instantly anxious. For a moment there, he could have sworn House’s gaze had been psychopathic. He began to tremble ever so slightly.
“Anything else you want to say?” House asked him, perfectly in control and yet…not; there was a steely quality to his voice that sent frightened shivers down Wilson’s spine.
Was he actually afraid of this man? It’s the Vicodin, Wilson told himself. He thought back to House’s violent outbursts when he was on Vicodin in the past and realized that it wasn’t the same. House showed aggression in the past while in the heat of the moment, his anger or desperation flame hot, or in the effort to do the best by his patient when bureaucracy, hypocrisy, or lies stood in the way of that; once he’d calmed down Wilson had usually noticed flashes of regret in his eyes. The man before him now appeared to have no emotion; cold and calculating, he showed no sign of having a conscience. That’s what was frightening Wilson the most. This wasn’t the Vicodin; it was something much more sinister.
Wilson paused and took a deep breath to try to settle himself and remain rational. “You have a problem,” Wilson said cautiously. “I think if you seriously look at everything that-”
He was cut off by House walking behind his desk and smashing the glass over his framed Vertigo poster with his cane.
“Anything else?” House asked him, still holding up his cane threateningly. He was clearly trying to intimidate Wilson.
Wilson was not looking into the face of the man who had once smiled at him indulgently and told him that he loved him while they made love. “Okay, look, this isn't-”
House raised his cane and made to smash the glass over Wilson’s Ordinary People poster.
Wilson jumped up and rushed to place himself between House and his poster, his shoes crunching on the glass that was already on the floor. “Okay! Okay! Okay! Okay!” he exclaimed, holding his hands up in a sign of submission. House glared at him with rage now bubbling just underneath the surface of the calm. House took a step back but still held his cane up like a weapon. “No… I don't.” Wilson mimed locking his mouth with a key and throwing it away. He was visibly shaking now. “Just get out of here. Go home. We'll talk later-someplace without any of my stuff.”
In the state of mind House was in, Wilson saw him as a threat to the safety of everything around him and it would be better for everyone if House was in his own place where the only property he smashed would be his own.
“Nothing to talk about. That was my point.” House turned and limped out of Wilson’s office, leaving him behind, standing in the wreckage. Wilson shook his head slowly, in a state of shock, staring at the broken office phone, shattered glass and scattered files and paperwork.
His stomach flipped, and Wilson found himself running from his office to the men’s room where he didn’t quite make it to a toilet before he began to throw up bile and blood.
Back to Ch. 21
To Ch.23
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