FIC: "Pathology", Greg House/James Wilson
Title: Pathology
Authors: amazonqueenkate and hawkeyecat
Fandom: House, M.D.
Characters: Dr. Gregory House, Dr. James Wilson
Community: slash_me_twice
Prompt: 001. Shadow
Word Count: 6,172
Rating: Adult
Warnings: Impossible House, sex, right Chase.
Disclaimer: We own DVDs, words, and opinions. Sadly, we don’t own the show.
Authors' Notes: Thanks to sarcasticsra for the beta and cerieblue819, aka my wombat, for looking up diseases for me.
Summary: Wilson decided House's patients just weren't allowed to die.
When a knock came on Wilson’s door, he wasn’t surprised; he’d been closed in with paperwork for the past three hours without interruption, which was unusual. Assuming it was one of his staff, he leaned back in his chair.
“Come in,” he called, and was slightly more than stunned when Chase stepped through the door. Cameron was practically a daily given, Foreman common enough, but rarely Chase.
“We lost the patient,” Chase told him without preamble.
His first reaction was to blink, and he did; the statement's sudden bluntness was surprising, even from Chase. "I thought he was doing better," he immediately replied, thinking back to lunch, when House-cocky and self-satisfied, as usual-had regaled him with his brilliant diagnosis of the week.
"Except that House was wrong, and our treatment killed him," Chase said. He didn't look happy, and Wilson couldn't blame him; working for House was going to be even more hellish after this.
Wilson sighed. "How unlivable is he being?"
"Cameron's doing paperwork in Cuddy's office, and Foreman's hiding in the clinic." Chase shrugged. "He's…himself."
"Himself" to Chase translated roughly to "miserable, snappish, and on the warpath" in any other language, and given the locales of House's other fellows, it didn't bode well for the hospital at large. Wilson stole a glance at the clock. It was only four-thirty, early for himself if normal quitting time for House. "Thanks," he told Chase, glancing back at the form he'd been filling out and scratching his signature across it. "I'll take care of it."
Chase gave a perfunctory nod. "Last I saw him, he said something about going down to the morgue."
And if that didn't get Wilson to his feet, not much else would. "Okay, thanks," he repeated, not that it'd be much use.
"Better do something before Cuddy murders him," was the last Chase muttered before retreating from Wilson's office.
Wilson shot his back a look as the door slid shut, because really, Wilson didn't need that reminder. He shrugged on his coat and crossed the balcony, checking House's office for signs of life and finding none. Great. House really was skulking around the morgue. He didn't do that often, and when he did, it was never pleasant.
Of course, it mostly wasn't pleasant because it meant House hadn't been able to save his patient, which upset him, but being House, he refused to admit it upset him and got pissy instead. On the very rare occasion House had been somehow at fault in the death, the pissiness devolved into downright surliness and pure anger.
Wilson thanked God House hadn't gone into a field where he'd lose more.
The morgue was quiet and nigh-deserted when Wilson got there, leaving one skulking pathologist poking around. Wilson gave him a nod and he snorted, muttering something. Great, House was hanging out in the morgue and already as pissy as possible.
He swung open the doors, the hard coldness of cinderblock and metal gurneys harsh on the eyes. No wonder everyone hated morgues. The decorating was awful.
When he spotted House, he was apparently engaged in a standoff with one of the attendants who held files across her chest like a shield. He groaned inwardly. Wilson actually knew and liked the morgue staff, for the most part, and he didn't need House to single-handedly alienate them. The woman glaring up at him was roughly the morgue's equivalent of Brenda, which meant both that House wasn't getting away with anything and that Wilson couldn't afford to annoy her.
"House," he greeted. He must have somehow surprised the other man, because he was quickly on the receiving end of a less-than-impressed Greg House glare. He rolled his eyes and brushed it off. "What are you doing to Shirley now?"
"He's trying to rush an autopsy," Shirley cut in, "and you know that doesn't happen."
House snorted at her. "Do the words infectious disease mean nothing to you?"
"If it was an infectious disease," she countered, "Dr. Cuddy would have given the rush orders. Not you."
House looked ready to retort, but Wilson stepped in. "I'll call Cuddy about it," he informed them both, leaving Shirley looking satisfied and House looking… Well, "pissed" seemed an understatement. "Shirley, can you give us a moment, please?"
Shirley nodded and purposely stepped around House. "Good luck," she muttered as she brushed past Wilson and left.
The door swished shut and the morgue was silent, leaving House to just glare at him. Great, especially since-with his maneuvering to get Shirley out of the room-he found himself at a loss for words.
House finally, finally shook his head after what felt like five minutes of silence, but was probably only about thirty seconds. "Someone ran to Papa Jimmy."
"Someone was concerned you'd start mowing down pedestrians in the streets." Okay, a bit of an overstatement, but still.
"I'd guess Cameron, but I know she's retreated from anywhere I'd willingly go." House started toward the doors.
"Does it even matter?" He trailed House, which should have been easier than it was; Wilson sometimes swore the man was the fastest cripple in the world. "Want to go home?"
"No, I want Sheila to find me a pathologist," House snapped at him. Yeah, tonight would be difficult.
"Shirley," he corrected, though he wasn't sure he knew why he bothered. "And why don't you, I don't know, ask Cuddy to rush the autopsy?"
"My god, whyever didn't I think of that?"
Leave it to House to be an utter ass at a simple suggestion. "Okay, so she said no. Why don't you just wait until tomorrow?"
"Shouldn't have to wait. We don't know why he died." In a slightly lower tone, one Wilson figured he was supposed to hear, House added, "Can't all have COD handed to us in neon lights."
"And knowing right now will bring him back to life?"
"Tell me if my team screwed up."
If he screwed up, Wilson translated, and sighed as House punched the elevator button with his cane handle. "Which you can find out tomorrow."
"When I'm more likely to murder the children instead of just getting drunk," he countered.
"Yes, but think of the advantage. You can get drunk tonight and tomorrow night."
"Assuming you don't bitch about it."
He snorted and tried to smile, if only for House's sake. "You assume I can't take a night off bitching."
"One night, sure, but two?"
"My restraint may yet surprise you."
House shrugged. "So get drunk, commit murder tomorrow, and then get drunk again. Why not."
He nodded, not sure what else to say, and the elevator rumbled down. The doors opened with the normal metallic ding, and they stepped on together, a unified front despite House's silent disdain. "Does require going home," Wilson pointed out once he'd pressed the button for their floor.
"Only if Cuddy raided my office."
"Wouldn't you rather lounge on the couch and have some-" Oh, what was that horrible show House liked so much? "-SpongeJoe SquarePants on in the background?"
House snorted at him. "SpongeBob. And no."
"Even if I made you something to eat?"
Ah, and that, he was considering. Convenient to be able to easily bribe him. "You're such a good housewife."
"Yes, well, my housecoat is in the wash, sadly. Otherwise, I would wear it."
"Pity. You'll have to go without."
Wilson smirked slightly. "So, dear, what would you like for dinner?"
"Not stuffed peppers," House informed him. And maybe he'd actually be tolerable tonight.
"Well, that narrows it down to about a thousand possible items. Anything specific?"
"Don't care." Retreating to taciturn. What a fun time they'd have.
The elevator arrived at their floor and, as usual, House took off down the corridor, leaving Wilson to follow suit. A few nurses actually made a concerted effort to give him a wide berth, which Wilson would have found amusing were House not so ticked off. "I'll think of something," he noted as House threw open the door to his office with the force of a low-grade tornado.
Retreating to his own office, at least to gather his things and have a few House-free minutes, seemed like a wise course, especially considering that he was all but throwing his toys into his bag. Wilson gathered the folders he hadn't yet gotten to on the off chance that he could get something done tonight and fitted them into his briefcase.
He also called Cuddy, at least to tell her that, in ten or so minutes, the coast would be clear for the return of House's fellows. She didn't sound pleased about the morgue incident, but then again, didn't rule out the possibility of calling the case down to pathology sooner rather than later. A small victory, it left him feeling at least a bit hopeful as he returned to collect the undoubtedly recalcitrant House.
The man in question was seated at his desk, flipping through a copy of a chart. Wilson could just guess which one it was.
"I'm thinking chicken marsala," he stated by way of a greeting, hoping that it'd be enough to pull House out of his chart-studying. "With a white wine."
"How very Italian of you." House didn't even bother to look up.
"Yes. My Judaism assured that." He frowned at House's back. "Ready to go?"
"I thought the open folder made it obvious I was in the middle of something. Guess not."
Well, getting him home was going to be easy, now wasn't it? "Bring it home with you. You can work on it while I cook."
"My minions are here, not at home." There were times Wilson remembered why he'd gotten involved with House. This was, in some twisted way, one of them, maybe because House was trying so damn hard to hide how much losing a patient affected him, and failing completely.
"Your minions will not be any help at this point."
"Yeah, they were only the ones to actually treat the patient hands-on. I see how they're totally useless."
He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "House, this can be dealt with tomorrow."
House slapped the chart shut. "Not like he'll be any less dead then."
Well, that had been the wrong answer. "No, but you'll have a clearer head."
He shoved the chart into his bag and stood. "Your chicken marsala'd better be edible."
"If it's not, I'll stir-fry my paperwork, just for you."
House stared out the window on the drive home, and Wilson didn't talk, just appreciated that they'd taken his car in today, instead of House using his motorcycle. He'd have probably gotten himself killed, given his mood.
The apartment was dark and quiet when they arrived back, and House extracted the chart from his bag before tossing it on the floor in the middle of the doorway. Wilson stepped around it and stared at it a moment before hanging it on the doorknob of the closet; if House noticed, he didn't say anything, just flopped onto the couch and opened the chart.
Great.
With House acting like this, leaving him alone tended to be a decent policy. He could always talk to him after he'd made dinner, when House had had enough wine to relax him.
So he puttered around the kitchen, discovering-miraculously-that they had just enough in the way of ingredients to create a halfway-decent marsala. He poured himself and House glasses of wine but kept the bottle in the kitchen with him as he cooked, just in case.
House didn't even glance up when he sat the glass on the coffee table, but made some sort of grunting noise that gave him some hope for recovery from the bowels of whatever hell he'd mired himself in.
By the time he finished making the marsala, he'd only about half-finished his glass-one of them should stay close to sober-and he hadn't heard House leave the couch. So either he'd fallen asleep, or he was still fixated on the chart. Balancing the plates on one arm (waiting tables in college had somehow stuck), carrying the wine with his free hand, he returned to the living room.
"A certain level of devotion is admirable," he informed House. "Then there's obsessing."
"Coming from the man who lies to get me to take patients, that doesn't mean much."
"It's a little different," he told House, setting down the plate. House shrugged slightly-he would have missed it if he blinked. "I hope dinner meets your discriminating standards."
When House took a bite, Wilson watched for his expression. Words didn't mean much, coming from him; he said it all with his face. And judging by the way his eyes almost closed and he leaned back into the couch, he approved.
They ate in relative silence, though Wilson did get up once to refill their wine (and kept the bottle in the kitchen; if House disapproved, he didn't say anything about it). The chart lay open on the coffee table, and House kept glancing at it even as he ate, eyes roaming the same old words. Wilson would have wondered how many hours he'd spend staring, but he already knew.
It'd be as many as it took to solve the puzzle, even post mortem.
Once House had finished off his chicken, he gave Wilson a long look. "It's harder to get drunk if you're keeping the booze away."
"I only have so many hands," he replied blithely. "Should I grow another arm to better sate your alcohol cravings?"
"Or, instead of making trips in to get refills, bring the bottle out here."
"I can do that," he agreed, and-especially since he had sworn to keep the so-called "bitching" to a minimum-fetched the bottle. "Anything else?"
Rather than respond, House leaned forward and poured himself another glass, and promptly drained nearly half of it. Wilson bit back the comment that rose in his throat. He took it out on his piece of chicken instead, and if House noticed the way he mangled it in an attempt to cut, he didn't say anything.
A few moments later, he felt House shift on the couch until their legs touched. He resisted glancing down; that'd just inspire House to pull away and shut him out.
"I'd offer to make dessert," he said instead, a pathetic attempt at conversation, "but I think all we have in that department is some brown sugar and a box of Equal."
"You're clearly falling down on your grocery-shopping duties."
"I'm not the only one capable of grocery shopping, you know."
"You cook, you shop," House declared. "So unless you want to live off peanut butter sandwiches…"
He snorted. "Duly noted."
There was another pregnant pause as House kept eating-well, more poking at his food; Wilson suspected the actual eating had moved on to the promised drinking-and Wilson leaned further back against the couch cushions. "You want to watch TV or something?"
House shook his head and set the plate down. "I want the autopsy results."
"Tomorrow," Wilson replied, and how empty did that feel. "Cuddy said she'd call it down tonight."
"You talked to her?" Wilson hated it when he couldn't get a read on House.
"I called down to let her know we were going home. I might have mentioned the autopsy."
"If she said she'd call it down, you asked her to."
Damn his tongue. "I suggested it might be a good idea."
"Because you were worried." He couldn't tell if House was annoyed or amused.
"Actually, I just didn't want you to end up in prison after assaulting Shirley," Wilson replied after a beat, trying to keep up the humor of the situation. "It's a long drive, and they x-ray cakes to make sure there are no files in them."
House snorted at that, but Wilson thought he saw the corner of his mouth twitch. An improvement. "I'd only get caught if the morgue has cameras."
"Yes, because I was not about to be a witness." He rolled his eyes.
"I wouldn't have done anything while you were there," House argued. "You'd have turned me in and claimed it was for my own good or something."
"Wouldn't it have been? If you were going to go that far, might as well send you to get rehabilitated."
"Prison doesn't rehabilitate. Just kills off the weaker ones."
Wilson snorted. "Every man in the facility would be your-what's the word? Prag?-in five minutes."
Apparently, that was enough to startle House into a near-chuckle. "Make it easier when I wanted to get laid."
"I am going to pretend that's not one of the most disturbing things you've ever said, and move on."
"Pick one of the prettier ones to favor," House continued. "And it can't be that disturbing."
"You snapping your fingers and having one of however many men appear at your side, ready to serve you?" Wilson rolled his eyes. "No, not disturbing to me at all."
"So get yourself thrown in prison, too," House suggested.
"Why? You can already snap your fingers and get what you want from me. Like marsala and wine." Wilson nudged House's leg a little.
House nudged him back, knees rubbing together. "But if you're not in prison, I've gotta get sex elsewhere."
"Or, again," Wilson thought aloud, "you could just not go to prison. Crazy, I know."
"Where's the fun in that? Taking out evil morgue attendants is adventurous.'
"Evil morgue attendants that are just doing their jobs? Yes, that makes so much more sense."
"Of course, your cooking is probably better than prison food."
"Only marginally," he stressed with a smirk.
"And there's theoretically no booze or drugs. So avoiding it might be a good move," House concluded.
"See? This is why we let Shirley and Cuddy do their jobs." Wilson reached for his glass, allowed himself a drink. "Everyone wins."
House leaned just barely against him, which was even less expected than the legs touching thing, and stared at his glass. "So they do their jobs, and I get Vicodin and edible food. I'm missing the part where you benefit."
Wilson smirked. "Your charming presence isn't a benefit enough for me?"
He snorted at that. "Yeah, I see where you get a lot out of prescribing drugs for an addict."
"A sexually insatiable addict," Wilson pointed out, smirking at him.
House snapped his fingers. "Right, you get sex out of it. How could I forget?"
"Well, I know it's hard to remember. We do it so rarely." And House almost looked amused-or, at least, a little less stressed-which was relieving.
"Should fix that. Practice is supposed to be good."
Well, that was unexpected. Wilson arched an eyebrow and tried to read House's face, but couldn't tell if it was a theoretical offer, or a more immediate one. "Sooner, or later?" he questioned, and allowed his knee to rub up against House's again (just in case).
House's hand dropped to Wilson's knee, fingertips dragging up along his slacks. "Get distracted by drinking and watching you try not to say anything, or by sex? Tough choice."
And if that didn't answer his question, Wilson wasn't sure what would. "I don't know," he replied. "I am a master in the art of non-conversation."
Leaning in, House bit gently at the skin above his collar. "I think sex."
Like there was any chance of that not happening now. Wilson slid away just far enough to look at him. "Here, or bed?" he questioned, his hand moving to reciprocate the somewhat evil rubbing up his thigh.
House rolled his eyes. "Gee, I don't know, Jimmy. My leg's a big fan of the couch."
"Yes, because this is the perfect time to be sarcastic," Wilson replied, smirking as he rose to his feet.
He made it to the bedroom first, probably by virtue of two legs and less alcohol, and began unbuttoning his shirt before House came in. "If you were gonna reject sex because I was sarcastic, I'd say you need to do some reconsidering."
"I'd claim it'd be tempting-the rejection, that is-but I'd be lying." House snorted at him and tossed his perpetually-unbuttoned, perpetually-wrinkled oxford onto the floor, no where near the hamper. In fact, he didn't even try, but Wilson figured there were better things to do than argue that point, like removing his own shirt and starting in on the belt.
Once House had discarded his T-shirt, which somehow made it slightly closer to the hamper, he closed the distance between them and trailed his hands down Wilson's chest. "Of course you would. Otherwise, you'd have to see about picking someone up tonight if you want to get any."
Wilson smiled and reached forward to grip House by the pockets of his blue jeans, pull him closer. "It's been long since I've picked someone up at a bar or the nurse's station," he admitted, his thumbs finding the skin just above House's waistband. "Might be rusty."
"Normally, I'd tell you to brush up on it, but unless there's something you're not telling me, you don't need to." House snaked an arm around his back and leaned into him.
House, he knew from experience, was not one for hugs, and Wilson went out of his way to not hug him, even as he further destroyed the space between them. He paused a beat, let the banter fade, and gave House a moment of this-of quiet, of tactile comfort, of whatever it took to make up for the afternoon. Then he snorted. "I can always ply my trade with you, you know," he noted quietly, and then reached up and seized House's lips with his own.
House was apparently having none of it, opting instead to pull away and push Wilson toward the bed. Quixotic seemed an applicable word, now more than ever. "Get undressed," House told him, voice low and rough.
If there had even been even the smallest iota of Wilson's sex drive that wasn't interested, it was definitely interested now. He swallowed, hard, and started immediately on his belt and fly. "Impatient?" he asked, watching as House watched him.
"You're going to become one with the mattress," he was informed.
He smirked. "Okay then," he replied, and tried to ignore the fact that he liked House like this as he dropped his trousers and stepped out. "Any particular part of the mattress?"
House rolled his eyes. "Considering I'm not planning on stuffing you under the mattress, some part of the top."
Wilson snorted and peeled off his boxers, tossing them and his pants elsewhere. House kept eyeing him in a way that no slightly-inebriated man should have been able to eye another, especially once he climbed onto the bed.
When House didn't bother to lose his jeans before sliding onto the bed beside him, Wilson decided there was something distinctly unfair about the situation. But when House started kissing him, hard and needy, Wilson decided that didn't matter. Instead, Wilson kissed him back as much as he could-it was difficult, given how fervently House was plundering his mouth-and reached down to grope House through his jeans. That earned a growl and a sharp nip to Wilson's lower lip, and House pulled away, fumbling with his zipper. Wilson only let him barely get it down before reaching into his pants and grabbing him again, this time through only his boxers.
"If you keep interfering with me undressing, sex is going to be difficult." But he was smirking, which was an improvement over the earlier surliness.
"But this is more fun," Wilson replied as he reached up and pushed House's boxers down just far enough for better access. He palmed House's erection and squeezed again, his grip firm despite the pants-inhibited angle.
House snorted a laugh and pushed Wilson's hand away. "Then I'm doing something wrong."
"Yeah-being difficult," he retorted, drifting his hands up House's bare sides and chest instead.
Rolling away, House stood just long enough to drop his jeans and shove off his shorts before returning to suck at Wilson's neck. He pulled up after a moment. "You still think groping me half-dressed is more fun?"
"No," Wilson admitted, punctuating his statement with another well-placed grope, "but frustrating you can be fun."
House rubbed his chin against the mark he'd left. Ass. "Roll over."
"No please?" he taunted.
"There's always alcohol," House retorted.
"Or you can drink your wine and have me too," he returned, and then did as asked, settling himself comfortably face-down on the mattress.
House wasn't slow or gentle about preparing him, and Wilson had figured on as much. His free hand glided along Wilson's back at first, but it stopped after a moment, stilling on his lower spine. Abruptly, the hands left him, and Wilson grumbled into the sheet until a much heavier, slick pressure eased into him.
The earlier roughness carried over, and House fell quickly into a rhythm that caused any words Wilson tried to form to catch in the back of his throat, and he grunted with almost every uneven thrust House had to offer. His own hand found his cock and he pumped himself in clumsy time to House's attempt to push him through the mattress.
House's weight shifted on him, and a hand wrapped around his, almost too hard. Wilson smiled slightly, mostly to himself, and allowed House's hand to guide his rough strokes. He knew-and, come to think of it, House probably knew too-that they couldn't last much longer this way, and a last twist of his wrist caused him to groan and abandon himself to orgasm.
A moment later, House shoved deeper into him and stilled, and then his weight sagged down onto Wilson. The grunt that earned was most definitely not one of pleasure. Still, Wilson didn't have the heart to shove him off and allowed them both to lay in a heap for a moment, silent except for their breathing. When House got too heavy to bear, he nudged him slightly. "You're heavy."
House snorted and didn't move. "I'll have you know I'm svelte and sexy."
"And six-foot-three," Wilson reminded him, nudging him harder. "Move."
He shifted off to side, enough so Wilson could at least breathe, which was an improvement. Wilson decided not to complain any further, since this was the closest thing to cuddling House did.
After a few minutes-Wilson couldn't be bothered to move enough to see the clock-House pressed a kiss to his shoulder and pulled away, sitting up. Wilson considered sitting up, too, but instead just shifted his weight and resumed watching House, gauging his mood. When House left for the bathroom without a word, Wilson figured maybe he should at least remind House he was more than a hooker.
"Glad to be of service," he called out over the noise from the water.
At the lack of response, Wilson shook his head and rolled over, away from the wet spot in the middle of the bed. He might as well change the sheets while House cleaned up.
The water was still running by the time he'd remade the bed, and that was…a little odd. House didn't usually take long showers.
Wilson tossed the sheets and their clothes into the hamper, and hunted down a pair of boxers before starting for the bathroom. The door was mostly closed, but he nudged it open with his foot and peered inside.
The mirror was steamed over, and House stood behind the shower curtain, under the spray. So either he was still pondering the patient, or something else had happened to make him sulk.
Wilson decided House's patients just weren't allowed to die.
He set himself down on the closed toilet and leaned back against the back of it, aware that House had probably noticed him coming in. "You're going to run out of hot water," he noted.
"And then there's cold."
"Until you shrivel up like a prune?"
"You're not gonna just let me think, are you?"
"Are you thinking, or brooding?" he returned evenly, kicking his heels up onto the edge of the tub.
House sighed dramatically and turned off the water. "Technically, brooding is thinking."
"I was never one for technicalities."
The shower curtain was pushed back, and House reached for a towel. He didn't meet Wilson's eyes as he muttered, "Sorry," and began rubbing himself dry.
And considering how rarely House said anything of that sort, Wilson smiled ever-so-slightly. "You'd be miserable when you ran out of hot water."
"The change there being…?"
"Okay, more miserable."
He stepped carefully out of the shower. "Yeah, well, it's a new goal."
"And here, I thought you preferred to impose your misery on others.
"Only one around is you, and you'd just give it back. Where's the fun?"
"You could shore up a reserve and unleash it on Cuddy and the others tomorrow."
"You've caught on to the master plan," House said, wrapping the towel around his waist. "No ratting it out, though."
"And miss out on my opportunity to see Chase crying? No thanks."
"You do hate him. Though if Foreman takes a swing, I'm using you as a shield."
He smirked. "And I'll consider ducking."
"But you won't."
"How do you know?"
"You said consider, which means you'll think about it but not do it."
House had him there, so he shrugged. "What can I say? I always wanted to be a knight in shining armor."
"My hero, taking a hit from the scary black man." House left the bathroom in favor of the bedroom.
Wilson sighed and watched his back for a moment before climbing to his feet and following. "Foreman could probably do some damage."
"He does work out," House tossed over his shoulder as he rummaged in the dresser.
"And probably has a lot of pent-up rage."
Pulling a pair of boxers from the dresser, House let his towel drop and leaned against the bureau to maneuver on the shorts. “Foreman? Pent-up? Nah. Cameron’s the one who’s liable to explode one of these days.”
Wilson considered this. "Would she go Xena, Warrior Princess, or Lorena Bobbit?"
House cocked his head, then shuddered. "Let's hope for Xena. She's got too many potential victims as Lorena."
"Well, as long as you weren't on the receiving end, Lorena might be funnier."
"This is true, and I never slept with her. Chase, on the other hand…" House smirked.
Wilson smirked back. "He'd scream like a girl."
"Which would be appropriate, considering."
"Point," he agreed.
House found a T-shirt and pulled it on, then left the bedroom. Wilson sighed; apparently House did not want to talk much. Which wasn't new. He gave House a moment and then followed him out into the living room, where he was already fiddling with the remote. "Isn't it a little late for The O.C.?"
"There's something called a DVR. Records it so I can watch whenever I want." He scrolled down through the menu.
"Yes, but isn't such high-quality programming better suited for after work?"
"Who said anything about work?"
Shit. Wilson had not meant to say that, and sighed as he slouched onto the couch. "I guess now's as good a time as any."
House selected the newest episode of The O.C., and set the remote down on the couch beside him. They watched the show in silence, and House fast-forwarded through the commercials-or, rather, he started to. When he paused it for some reason, Wilson shot him a puzzled glance.
"Afraid Steve has fleas?" he asked after House just kept staring at the commercial, apparently advertising flea medication for dogs.
"Not Steve." It didn't play as a joke, and Wilson had to wonder. House reached for the file on the coffee table and flipped it open, reading as he stood.
Wilson frowned. "Your patient had fleas?"
House waved him off and rummaged in his bag, still hanging on the closet door, until he found his cell phone. Opening it, he hit a button and kept reading the chart notes.
"House-" Wilson started, but the look House sent him gave him the impression that his commentary was not going to be appreciated or even tolerated, right now.
"Test for Lyme," he ordered whoever answered, then rolled his eyes. "I know we ruled it out, considering I'm the one who said it wasn't. Test anyway." He paused briefly, leaning against the wall. "I don't care how you get the sample. Offer yourself up to whoever's down there if you have to. Call me when you get the results." Ending the call, he returned to the couch, eyes still on the page in front of him.
Wilson leaned over just far enough to see the file and frowned further. "You treated for rapid-onset MS?" he questioned after a moment's pause, since House wasn't offering up, well, anything.
"Symptoms are close, and the rash wasn't there by the time we saw him. Thought the rapid heart rate was because of the amphetamines." He snorted. "Chase, of all people, suggested Lyme."
"Isn't necessarily Lyme," Wilson suggested, but his voice wasn't as convincing as he would have liked.
"MS wouldn't have killed him, not that fast. Couldn't confirm the diagnosis because he wouldn't consent to an LP." House kept frowning down at the page. Obsessing again, Wilson decided. Not that it was much of a surprise.
"Well, it's not your fault he wouldn't consent."
"My fault we didn't test for Lyme," House countered, and really, Wilson couldn't argue with that.
"It seemed unlikely," he replied after a beat, glancing futilely at the television screen.
"Well, yeah, since everything could be explained by MS and drugs." He closed the file and tossed it on the table, then let loose a stream of expletives Wilson hadn't heard in…probably five years.
Wilson sat back and sighed, deciding he really didn't like this particular patient very much. "You can't win every time," he said rather feebly, realizing only after he said it how trite and meaningless it sounded.
House glared at him. "Thank you, Dr. Cancer. Never would have realized that without your insight."
"Someone had to mention it," he muttered.
"I've actually had patients die before. Surprising, I know, but it has happened."
"Not often."
"Funny, I know my statistics, too."
Wilson sighed and rolled his eyes. He'd preferred brooding House to this. "I'm just saying that it happens."
"Considering how much action my wallet's seen, I realize that. Some of us actually have low mortality statistics, though."
Wilson reconsidered what he'd thought earlier about remembering why he was with House. At the moment, he had no idea. "Yes, right. Why don't you cure cancer, if you're so good?"
"That's the next project, after 'always start with amoxicillin unless the patient's allergic'." House shook his head.
"You had no way of knowing. Chase's theories never actually pan out."
He snorted. "When Chase speaks up, he's usually actually onto something."
"Lyme seemed impossible." Wilson shrugged.
House looked like he was about to reply when his phone rang. He glowered at it before answering. "If you gloat, you're working doubles for a month." Wilson could catch an indignant squawk at that. "I don't care if you don't think it's fair. Results." When House started cursing again, Wilson decided Chase had been right. "Be in early tomorrow." He snapped the phone shut and glared at the TV.
For a moment, the room was quiet, thanks to the television still being paused and House's glaring. After a moment, Wilson sighed. "There's still wine in the fridge."
"And there's scotch and bourbon in the cabinet. Might have vodka, too." House made no move to get up.
"And beer," Wilson added. "Can't forget beer."
This time, he did get up and head into the kitchen. Wilson could hear cabinets opening and the clink of a glass on the counter, and when House returned, he was armed with a glass of what looked like scotch.
Wilson let him sink down onto the couch next to him. "Time for The O.C.?" he questioned, reaching for the remote.
House nodded, a sharp jerk of his head, and Wilson hit play. There wasn't much else he could do.
At least, until tomorrow, when he could mediate House-versus-the-underlings and try to keep him from hurting someone else or himself.
Instead, he settled into the couch. "Melinda Clarke's hot," he offered once the show had started.
Judging by House's expression, the verdict didn't impress him. In fact, if possible, Melinda Clarke would burst into flames.
So Wilson sighed and leaned his head back against the back of the couch, figuring that-worse case scenario-the television would burst into flames and cause House to snap out of it at least long enough to put out the fire.
Barring that, he'd just wait for House to drink himself to sleep, toss a blanket on him, and pray he'd be too hungover in the morning to stab any of his fellows. Either way, it was a start.
Authors: amazonqueenkate and hawkeyecat
Fandom: House, M.D.
Characters: Dr. Gregory House, Dr. James Wilson
Community: slash_me_twice
Prompt: 001. Shadow
Word Count: 6,172
Rating: Adult
Warnings: Impossible House, sex, right Chase.
Disclaimer: We own DVDs, words, and opinions. Sadly, we don’t own the show.
Authors' Notes: Thanks to sarcasticsra for the beta and cerieblue819, aka my wombat, for looking up diseases for me.
Summary: Wilson decided House's patients just weren't allowed to die.
When a knock came on Wilson’s door, he wasn’t surprised; he’d been closed in with paperwork for the past three hours without interruption, which was unusual. Assuming it was one of his staff, he leaned back in his chair.
“Come in,” he called, and was slightly more than stunned when Chase stepped through the door. Cameron was practically a daily given, Foreman common enough, but rarely Chase.
“We lost the patient,” Chase told him without preamble.
His first reaction was to blink, and he did; the statement's sudden bluntness was surprising, even from Chase. "I thought he was doing better," he immediately replied, thinking back to lunch, when House-cocky and self-satisfied, as usual-had regaled him with his brilliant diagnosis of the week.
"Except that House was wrong, and our treatment killed him," Chase said. He didn't look happy, and Wilson couldn't blame him; working for House was going to be even more hellish after this.
Wilson sighed. "How unlivable is he being?"
"Cameron's doing paperwork in Cuddy's office, and Foreman's hiding in the clinic." Chase shrugged. "He's…himself."
"Himself" to Chase translated roughly to "miserable, snappish, and on the warpath" in any other language, and given the locales of House's other fellows, it didn't bode well for the hospital at large. Wilson stole a glance at the clock. It was only four-thirty, early for himself if normal quitting time for House. "Thanks," he told Chase, glancing back at the form he'd been filling out and scratching his signature across it. "I'll take care of it."
Chase gave a perfunctory nod. "Last I saw him, he said something about going down to the morgue."
And if that didn't get Wilson to his feet, not much else would. "Okay, thanks," he repeated, not that it'd be much use.
"Better do something before Cuddy murders him," was the last Chase muttered before retreating from Wilson's office.
Wilson shot his back a look as the door slid shut, because really, Wilson didn't need that reminder. He shrugged on his coat and crossed the balcony, checking House's office for signs of life and finding none. Great. House really was skulking around the morgue. He didn't do that often, and when he did, it was never pleasant.
Of course, it mostly wasn't pleasant because it meant House hadn't been able to save his patient, which upset him, but being House, he refused to admit it upset him and got pissy instead. On the very rare occasion House had been somehow at fault in the death, the pissiness devolved into downright surliness and pure anger.
Wilson thanked God House hadn't gone into a field where he'd lose more.
The morgue was quiet and nigh-deserted when Wilson got there, leaving one skulking pathologist poking around. Wilson gave him a nod and he snorted, muttering something. Great, House was hanging out in the morgue and already as pissy as possible.
He swung open the doors, the hard coldness of cinderblock and metal gurneys harsh on the eyes. No wonder everyone hated morgues. The decorating was awful.
When he spotted House, he was apparently engaged in a standoff with one of the attendants who held files across her chest like a shield. He groaned inwardly. Wilson actually knew and liked the morgue staff, for the most part, and he didn't need House to single-handedly alienate them. The woman glaring up at him was roughly the morgue's equivalent of Brenda, which meant both that House wasn't getting away with anything and that Wilson couldn't afford to annoy her.
"House," he greeted. He must have somehow surprised the other man, because he was quickly on the receiving end of a less-than-impressed Greg House glare. He rolled his eyes and brushed it off. "What are you doing to Shirley now?"
"He's trying to rush an autopsy," Shirley cut in, "and you know that doesn't happen."
House snorted at her. "Do the words infectious disease mean nothing to you?"
"If it was an infectious disease," she countered, "Dr. Cuddy would have given the rush orders. Not you."
House looked ready to retort, but Wilson stepped in. "I'll call Cuddy about it," he informed them both, leaving Shirley looking satisfied and House looking… Well, "pissed" seemed an understatement. "Shirley, can you give us a moment, please?"
Shirley nodded and purposely stepped around House. "Good luck," she muttered as she brushed past Wilson and left.
The door swished shut and the morgue was silent, leaving House to just glare at him. Great, especially since-with his maneuvering to get Shirley out of the room-he found himself at a loss for words.
House finally, finally shook his head after what felt like five minutes of silence, but was probably only about thirty seconds. "Someone ran to Papa Jimmy."
"Someone was concerned you'd start mowing down pedestrians in the streets." Okay, a bit of an overstatement, but still.
"I'd guess Cameron, but I know she's retreated from anywhere I'd willingly go." House started toward the doors.
"Does it even matter?" He trailed House, which should have been easier than it was; Wilson sometimes swore the man was the fastest cripple in the world. "Want to go home?"
"No, I want Sheila to find me a pathologist," House snapped at him. Yeah, tonight would be difficult.
"Shirley," he corrected, though he wasn't sure he knew why he bothered. "And why don't you, I don't know, ask Cuddy to rush the autopsy?"
"My god, whyever didn't I think of that?"
Leave it to House to be an utter ass at a simple suggestion. "Okay, so she said no. Why don't you just wait until tomorrow?"
"Shouldn't have to wait. We don't know why he died." In a slightly lower tone, one Wilson figured he was supposed to hear, House added, "Can't all have COD handed to us in neon lights."
"And knowing right now will bring him back to life?"
"Tell me if my team screwed up."
If he screwed up, Wilson translated, and sighed as House punched the elevator button with his cane handle. "Which you can find out tomorrow."
"When I'm more likely to murder the children instead of just getting drunk," he countered.
"Yes, but think of the advantage. You can get drunk tonight and tomorrow night."
"Assuming you don't bitch about it."
He snorted and tried to smile, if only for House's sake. "You assume I can't take a night off bitching."
"One night, sure, but two?"
"My restraint may yet surprise you."
House shrugged. "So get drunk, commit murder tomorrow, and then get drunk again. Why not."
He nodded, not sure what else to say, and the elevator rumbled down. The doors opened with the normal metallic ding, and they stepped on together, a unified front despite House's silent disdain. "Does require going home," Wilson pointed out once he'd pressed the button for their floor.
"Only if Cuddy raided my office."
"Wouldn't you rather lounge on the couch and have some-" Oh, what was that horrible show House liked so much? "-SpongeJoe SquarePants on in the background?"
House snorted at him. "SpongeBob. And no."
"Even if I made you something to eat?"
Ah, and that, he was considering. Convenient to be able to easily bribe him. "You're such a good housewife."
"Yes, well, my housecoat is in the wash, sadly. Otherwise, I would wear it."
"Pity. You'll have to go without."
Wilson smirked slightly. "So, dear, what would you like for dinner?"
"Not stuffed peppers," House informed him. And maybe he'd actually be tolerable tonight.
"Well, that narrows it down to about a thousand possible items. Anything specific?"
"Don't care." Retreating to taciturn. What a fun time they'd have.
The elevator arrived at their floor and, as usual, House took off down the corridor, leaving Wilson to follow suit. A few nurses actually made a concerted effort to give him a wide berth, which Wilson would have found amusing were House not so ticked off. "I'll think of something," he noted as House threw open the door to his office with the force of a low-grade tornado.
Retreating to his own office, at least to gather his things and have a few House-free minutes, seemed like a wise course, especially considering that he was all but throwing his toys into his bag. Wilson gathered the folders he hadn't yet gotten to on the off chance that he could get something done tonight and fitted them into his briefcase.
He also called Cuddy, at least to tell her that, in ten or so minutes, the coast would be clear for the return of House's fellows. She didn't sound pleased about the morgue incident, but then again, didn't rule out the possibility of calling the case down to pathology sooner rather than later. A small victory, it left him feeling at least a bit hopeful as he returned to collect the undoubtedly recalcitrant House.
The man in question was seated at his desk, flipping through a copy of a chart. Wilson could just guess which one it was.
"I'm thinking chicken marsala," he stated by way of a greeting, hoping that it'd be enough to pull House out of his chart-studying. "With a white wine."
"How very Italian of you." House didn't even bother to look up.
"Yes. My Judaism assured that." He frowned at House's back. "Ready to go?"
"I thought the open folder made it obvious I was in the middle of something. Guess not."
Well, getting him home was going to be easy, now wasn't it? "Bring it home with you. You can work on it while I cook."
"My minions are here, not at home." There were times Wilson remembered why he'd gotten involved with House. This was, in some twisted way, one of them, maybe because House was trying so damn hard to hide how much losing a patient affected him, and failing completely.
"Your minions will not be any help at this point."
"Yeah, they were only the ones to actually treat the patient hands-on. I see how they're totally useless."
He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "House, this can be dealt with tomorrow."
House slapped the chart shut. "Not like he'll be any less dead then."
Well, that had been the wrong answer. "No, but you'll have a clearer head."
He shoved the chart into his bag and stood. "Your chicken marsala'd better be edible."
"If it's not, I'll stir-fry my paperwork, just for you."
House stared out the window on the drive home, and Wilson didn't talk, just appreciated that they'd taken his car in today, instead of House using his motorcycle. He'd have probably gotten himself killed, given his mood.
The apartment was dark and quiet when they arrived back, and House extracted the chart from his bag before tossing it on the floor in the middle of the doorway. Wilson stepped around it and stared at it a moment before hanging it on the doorknob of the closet; if House noticed, he didn't say anything, just flopped onto the couch and opened the chart.
Great.
With House acting like this, leaving him alone tended to be a decent policy. He could always talk to him after he'd made dinner, when House had had enough wine to relax him.
So he puttered around the kitchen, discovering-miraculously-that they had just enough in the way of ingredients to create a halfway-decent marsala. He poured himself and House glasses of wine but kept the bottle in the kitchen with him as he cooked, just in case.
House didn't even glance up when he sat the glass on the coffee table, but made some sort of grunting noise that gave him some hope for recovery from the bowels of whatever hell he'd mired himself in.
By the time he finished making the marsala, he'd only about half-finished his glass-one of them should stay close to sober-and he hadn't heard House leave the couch. So either he'd fallen asleep, or he was still fixated on the chart. Balancing the plates on one arm (waiting tables in college had somehow stuck), carrying the wine with his free hand, he returned to the living room.
"A certain level of devotion is admirable," he informed House. "Then there's obsessing."
"Coming from the man who lies to get me to take patients, that doesn't mean much."
"It's a little different," he told House, setting down the plate. House shrugged slightly-he would have missed it if he blinked. "I hope dinner meets your discriminating standards."
When House took a bite, Wilson watched for his expression. Words didn't mean much, coming from him; he said it all with his face. And judging by the way his eyes almost closed and he leaned back into the couch, he approved.
They ate in relative silence, though Wilson did get up once to refill their wine (and kept the bottle in the kitchen; if House disapproved, he didn't say anything about it). The chart lay open on the coffee table, and House kept glancing at it even as he ate, eyes roaming the same old words. Wilson would have wondered how many hours he'd spend staring, but he already knew.
It'd be as many as it took to solve the puzzle, even post mortem.
Once House had finished off his chicken, he gave Wilson a long look. "It's harder to get drunk if you're keeping the booze away."
"I only have so many hands," he replied blithely. "Should I grow another arm to better sate your alcohol cravings?"
"Or, instead of making trips in to get refills, bring the bottle out here."
"I can do that," he agreed, and-especially since he had sworn to keep the so-called "bitching" to a minimum-fetched the bottle. "Anything else?"
Rather than respond, House leaned forward and poured himself another glass, and promptly drained nearly half of it. Wilson bit back the comment that rose in his throat. He took it out on his piece of chicken instead, and if House noticed the way he mangled it in an attempt to cut, he didn't say anything.
A few moments later, he felt House shift on the couch until their legs touched. He resisted glancing down; that'd just inspire House to pull away and shut him out.
"I'd offer to make dessert," he said instead, a pathetic attempt at conversation, "but I think all we have in that department is some brown sugar and a box of Equal."
"You're clearly falling down on your grocery-shopping duties."
"I'm not the only one capable of grocery shopping, you know."
"You cook, you shop," House declared. "So unless you want to live off peanut butter sandwiches…"
He snorted. "Duly noted."
There was another pregnant pause as House kept eating-well, more poking at his food; Wilson suspected the actual eating had moved on to the promised drinking-and Wilson leaned further back against the couch cushions. "You want to watch TV or something?"
House shook his head and set the plate down. "I want the autopsy results."
"Tomorrow," Wilson replied, and how empty did that feel. "Cuddy said she'd call it down tonight."
"You talked to her?" Wilson hated it when he couldn't get a read on House.
"I called down to let her know we were going home. I might have mentioned the autopsy."
"If she said she'd call it down, you asked her to."
Damn his tongue. "I suggested it might be a good idea."
"Because you were worried." He couldn't tell if House was annoyed or amused.
"Actually, I just didn't want you to end up in prison after assaulting Shirley," Wilson replied after a beat, trying to keep up the humor of the situation. "It's a long drive, and they x-ray cakes to make sure there are no files in them."
House snorted at that, but Wilson thought he saw the corner of his mouth twitch. An improvement. "I'd only get caught if the morgue has cameras."
"Yes, because I was not about to be a witness." He rolled his eyes.
"I wouldn't have done anything while you were there," House argued. "You'd have turned me in and claimed it was for my own good or something."
"Wouldn't it have been? If you were going to go that far, might as well send you to get rehabilitated."
"Prison doesn't rehabilitate. Just kills off the weaker ones."
Wilson snorted. "Every man in the facility would be your-what's the word? Prag?-in five minutes."
Apparently, that was enough to startle House into a near-chuckle. "Make it easier when I wanted to get laid."
"I am going to pretend that's not one of the most disturbing things you've ever said, and move on."
"Pick one of the prettier ones to favor," House continued. "And it can't be that disturbing."
"You snapping your fingers and having one of however many men appear at your side, ready to serve you?" Wilson rolled his eyes. "No, not disturbing to me at all."
"So get yourself thrown in prison, too," House suggested.
"Why? You can already snap your fingers and get what you want from me. Like marsala and wine." Wilson nudged House's leg a little.
House nudged him back, knees rubbing together. "But if you're not in prison, I've gotta get sex elsewhere."
"Or, again," Wilson thought aloud, "you could just not go to prison. Crazy, I know."
"Where's the fun in that? Taking out evil morgue attendants is adventurous.'
"Evil morgue attendants that are just doing their jobs? Yes, that makes so much more sense."
"Of course, your cooking is probably better than prison food."
"Only marginally," he stressed with a smirk.
"And there's theoretically no booze or drugs. So avoiding it might be a good move," House concluded.
"See? This is why we let Shirley and Cuddy do their jobs." Wilson reached for his glass, allowed himself a drink. "Everyone wins."
House leaned just barely against him, which was even less expected than the legs touching thing, and stared at his glass. "So they do their jobs, and I get Vicodin and edible food. I'm missing the part where you benefit."
Wilson smirked. "Your charming presence isn't a benefit enough for me?"
He snorted at that. "Yeah, I see where you get a lot out of prescribing drugs for an addict."
"A sexually insatiable addict," Wilson pointed out, smirking at him.
House snapped his fingers. "Right, you get sex out of it. How could I forget?"
"Well, I know it's hard to remember. We do it so rarely." And House almost looked amused-or, at least, a little less stressed-which was relieving.
"Should fix that. Practice is supposed to be good."
Well, that was unexpected. Wilson arched an eyebrow and tried to read House's face, but couldn't tell if it was a theoretical offer, or a more immediate one. "Sooner, or later?" he questioned, and allowed his knee to rub up against House's again (just in case).
House's hand dropped to Wilson's knee, fingertips dragging up along his slacks. "Get distracted by drinking and watching you try not to say anything, or by sex? Tough choice."
And if that didn't answer his question, Wilson wasn't sure what would. "I don't know," he replied. "I am a master in the art of non-conversation."
Leaning in, House bit gently at the skin above his collar. "I think sex."
Like there was any chance of that not happening now. Wilson slid away just far enough to look at him. "Here, or bed?" he questioned, his hand moving to reciprocate the somewhat evil rubbing up his thigh.
House rolled his eyes. "Gee, I don't know, Jimmy. My leg's a big fan of the couch."
"Yes, because this is the perfect time to be sarcastic," Wilson replied, smirking as he rose to his feet.
He made it to the bedroom first, probably by virtue of two legs and less alcohol, and began unbuttoning his shirt before House came in. "If you were gonna reject sex because I was sarcastic, I'd say you need to do some reconsidering."
"I'd claim it'd be tempting-the rejection, that is-but I'd be lying." House snorted at him and tossed his perpetually-unbuttoned, perpetually-wrinkled oxford onto the floor, no where near the hamper. In fact, he didn't even try, but Wilson figured there were better things to do than argue that point, like removing his own shirt and starting in on the belt.
Once House had discarded his T-shirt, which somehow made it slightly closer to the hamper, he closed the distance between them and trailed his hands down Wilson's chest. "Of course you would. Otherwise, you'd have to see about picking someone up tonight if you want to get any."
Wilson smiled and reached forward to grip House by the pockets of his blue jeans, pull him closer. "It's been long since I've picked someone up at a bar or the nurse's station," he admitted, his thumbs finding the skin just above House's waistband. "Might be rusty."
"Normally, I'd tell you to brush up on it, but unless there's something you're not telling me, you don't need to." House snaked an arm around his back and leaned into him.
House, he knew from experience, was not one for hugs, and Wilson went out of his way to not hug him, even as he further destroyed the space between them. He paused a beat, let the banter fade, and gave House a moment of this-of quiet, of tactile comfort, of whatever it took to make up for the afternoon. Then he snorted. "I can always ply my trade with you, you know," he noted quietly, and then reached up and seized House's lips with his own.
House was apparently having none of it, opting instead to pull away and push Wilson toward the bed. Quixotic seemed an applicable word, now more than ever. "Get undressed," House told him, voice low and rough.
If there had even been even the smallest iota of Wilson's sex drive that wasn't interested, it was definitely interested now. He swallowed, hard, and started immediately on his belt and fly. "Impatient?" he asked, watching as House watched him.
"You're going to become one with the mattress," he was informed.
He smirked. "Okay then," he replied, and tried to ignore the fact that he liked House like this as he dropped his trousers and stepped out. "Any particular part of the mattress?"
House rolled his eyes. "Considering I'm not planning on stuffing you under the mattress, some part of the top."
Wilson snorted and peeled off his boxers, tossing them and his pants elsewhere. House kept eyeing him in a way that no slightly-inebriated man should have been able to eye another, especially once he climbed onto the bed.
When House didn't bother to lose his jeans before sliding onto the bed beside him, Wilson decided there was something distinctly unfair about the situation. But when House started kissing him, hard and needy, Wilson decided that didn't matter. Instead, Wilson kissed him back as much as he could-it was difficult, given how fervently House was plundering his mouth-and reached down to grope House through his jeans. That earned a growl and a sharp nip to Wilson's lower lip, and House pulled away, fumbling with his zipper. Wilson only let him barely get it down before reaching into his pants and grabbing him again, this time through only his boxers.
"If you keep interfering with me undressing, sex is going to be difficult." But he was smirking, which was an improvement over the earlier surliness.
"But this is more fun," Wilson replied as he reached up and pushed House's boxers down just far enough for better access. He palmed House's erection and squeezed again, his grip firm despite the pants-inhibited angle.
House snorted a laugh and pushed Wilson's hand away. "Then I'm doing something wrong."
"Yeah-being difficult," he retorted, drifting his hands up House's bare sides and chest instead.
Rolling away, House stood just long enough to drop his jeans and shove off his shorts before returning to suck at Wilson's neck. He pulled up after a moment. "You still think groping me half-dressed is more fun?"
"No," Wilson admitted, punctuating his statement with another well-placed grope, "but frustrating you can be fun."
House rubbed his chin against the mark he'd left. Ass. "Roll over."
"No please?" he taunted.
"There's always alcohol," House retorted.
"Or you can drink your wine and have me too," he returned, and then did as asked, settling himself comfortably face-down on the mattress.
House wasn't slow or gentle about preparing him, and Wilson had figured on as much. His free hand glided along Wilson's back at first, but it stopped after a moment, stilling on his lower spine. Abruptly, the hands left him, and Wilson grumbled into the sheet until a much heavier, slick pressure eased into him.
The earlier roughness carried over, and House fell quickly into a rhythm that caused any words Wilson tried to form to catch in the back of his throat, and he grunted with almost every uneven thrust House had to offer. His own hand found his cock and he pumped himself in clumsy time to House's attempt to push him through the mattress.
House's weight shifted on him, and a hand wrapped around his, almost too hard. Wilson smiled slightly, mostly to himself, and allowed House's hand to guide his rough strokes. He knew-and, come to think of it, House probably knew too-that they couldn't last much longer this way, and a last twist of his wrist caused him to groan and abandon himself to orgasm.
A moment later, House shoved deeper into him and stilled, and then his weight sagged down onto Wilson. The grunt that earned was most definitely not one of pleasure. Still, Wilson didn't have the heart to shove him off and allowed them both to lay in a heap for a moment, silent except for their breathing. When House got too heavy to bear, he nudged him slightly. "You're heavy."
House snorted and didn't move. "I'll have you know I'm svelte and sexy."
"And six-foot-three," Wilson reminded him, nudging him harder. "Move."
He shifted off to side, enough so Wilson could at least breathe, which was an improvement. Wilson decided not to complain any further, since this was the closest thing to cuddling House did.
After a few minutes-Wilson couldn't be bothered to move enough to see the clock-House pressed a kiss to his shoulder and pulled away, sitting up. Wilson considered sitting up, too, but instead just shifted his weight and resumed watching House, gauging his mood. When House left for the bathroom without a word, Wilson figured maybe he should at least remind House he was more than a hooker.
"Glad to be of service," he called out over the noise from the water.
At the lack of response, Wilson shook his head and rolled over, away from the wet spot in the middle of the bed. He might as well change the sheets while House cleaned up.
The water was still running by the time he'd remade the bed, and that was…a little odd. House didn't usually take long showers.
Wilson tossed the sheets and their clothes into the hamper, and hunted down a pair of boxers before starting for the bathroom. The door was mostly closed, but he nudged it open with his foot and peered inside.
The mirror was steamed over, and House stood behind the shower curtain, under the spray. So either he was still pondering the patient, or something else had happened to make him sulk.
Wilson decided House's patients just weren't allowed to die.
He set himself down on the closed toilet and leaned back against the back of it, aware that House had probably noticed him coming in. "You're going to run out of hot water," he noted.
"And then there's cold."
"Until you shrivel up like a prune?"
"You're not gonna just let me think, are you?"
"Are you thinking, or brooding?" he returned evenly, kicking his heels up onto the edge of the tub.
House sighed dramatically and turned off the water. "Technically, brooding is thinking."
"I was never one for technicalities."
The shower curtain was pushed back, and House reached for a towel. He didn't meet Wilson's eyes as he muttered, "Sorry," and began rubbing himself dry.
And considering how rarely House said anything of that sort, Wilson smiled ever-so-slightly. "You'd be miserable when you ran out of hot water."
"The change there being…?"
"Okay, more miserable."
He stepped carefully out of the shower. "Yeah, well, it's a new goal."
"And here, I thought you preferred to impose your misery on others.
"Only one around is you, and you'd just give it back. Where's the fun?"
"You could shore up a reserve and unleash it on Cuddy and the others tomorrow."
"You've caught on to the master plan," House said, wrapping the towel around his waist. "No ratting it out, though."
"And miss out on my opportunity to see Chase crying? No thanks."
"You do hate him. Though if Foreman takes a swing, I'm using you as a shield."
He smirked. "And I'll consider ducking."
"But you won't."
"How do you know?"
"You said consider, which means you'll think about it but not do it."
House had him there, so he shrugged. "What can I say? I always wanted to be a knight in shining armor."
"My hero, taking a hit from the scary black man." House left the bathroom in favor of the bedroom.
Wilson sighed and watched his back for a moment before climbing to his feet and following. "Foreman could probably do some damage."
"He does work out," House tossed over his shoulder as he rummaged in the dresser.
"And probably has a lot of pent-up rage."
Pulling a pair of boxers from the dresser, House let his towel drop and leaned against the bureau to maneuver on the shorts. “Foreman? Pent-up? Nah. Cameron’s the one who’s liable to explode one of these days.”
Wilson considered this. "Would she go Xena, Warrior Princess, or Lorena Bobbit?"
House cocked his head, then shuddered. "Let's hope for Xena. She's got too many potential victims as Lorena."
"Well, as long as you weren't on the receiving end, Lorena might be funnier."
"This is true, and I never slept with her. Chase, on the other hand…" House smirked.
Wilson smirked back. "He'd scream like a girl."
"Which would be appropriate, considering."
"Point," he agreed.
House found a T-shirt and pulled it on, then left the bedroom. Wilson sighed; apparently House did not want to talk much. Which wasn't new. He gave House a moment and then followed him out into the living room, where he was already fiddling with the remote. "Isn't it a little late for The O.C.?"
"There's something called a DVR. Records it so I can watch whenever I want." He scrolled down through the menu.
"Yes, but isn't such high-quality programming better suited for after work?"
"Who said anything about work?"
Shit. Wilson had not meant to say that, and sighed as he slouched onto the couch. "I guess now's as good a time as any."
House selected the newest episode of The O.C., and set the remote down on the couch beside him. They watched the show in silence, and House fast-forwarded through the commercials-or, rather, he started to. When he paused it for some reason, Wilson shot him a puzzled glance.
"Afraid Steve has fleas?" he asked after House just kept staring at the commercial, apparently advertising flea medication for dogs.
"Not Steve." It didn't play as a joke, and Wilson had to wonder. House reached for the file on the coffee table and flipped it open, reading as he stood.
Wilson frowned. "Your patient had fleas?"
House waved him off and rummaged in his bag, still hanging on the closet door, until he found his cell phone. Opening it, he hit a button and kept reading the chart notes.
"House-" Wilson started, but the look House sent him gave him the impression that his commentary was not going to be appreciated or even tolerated, right now.
"Test for Lyme," he ordered whoever answered, then rolled his eyes. "I know we ruled it out, considering I'm the one who said it wasn't. Test anyway." He paused briefly, leaning against the wall. "I don't care how you get the sample. Offer yourself up to whoever's down there if you have to. Call me when you get the results." Ending the call, he returned to the couch, eyes still on the page in front of him.
Wilson leaned over just far enough to see the file and frowned further. "You treated for rapid-onset MS?" he questioned after a moment's pause, since House wasn't offering up, well, anything.
"Symptoms are close, and the rash wasn't there by the time we saw him. Thought the rapid heart rate was because of the amphetamines." He snorted. "Chase, of all people, suggested Lyme."
"Isn't necessarily Lyme," Wilson suggested, but his voice wasn't as convincing as he would have liked.
"MS wouldn't have killed him, not that fast. Couldn't confirm the diagnosis because he wouldn't consent to an LP." House kept frowning down at the page. Obsessing again, Wilson decided. Not that it was much of a surprise.
"Well, it's not your fault he wouldn't consent."
"My fault we didn't test for Lyme," House countered, and really, Wilson couldn't argue with that.
"It seemed unlikely," he replied after a beat, glancing futilely at the television screen.
"Well, yeah, since everything could be explained by MS and drugs." He closed the file and tossed it on the table, then let loose a stream of expletives Wilson hadn't heard in…probably five years.
Wilson sat back and sighed, deciding he really didn't like this particular patient very much. "You can't win every time," he said rather feebly, realizing only after he said it how trite and meaningless it sounded.
House glared at him. "Thank you, Dr. Cancer. Never would have realized that without your insight."
"Someone had to mention it," he muttered.
"I've actually had patients die before. Surprising, I know, but it has happened."
"Not often."
"Funny, I know my statistics, too."
Wilson sighed and rolled his eyes. He'd preferred brooding House to this. "I'm just saying that it happens."
"Considering how much action my wallet's seen, I realize that. Some of us actually have low mortality statistics, though."
Wilson reconsidered what he'd thought earlier about remembering why he was with House. At the moment, he had no idea. "Yes, right. Why don't you cure cancer, if you're so good?"
"That's the next project, after 'always start with amoxicillin unless the patient's allergic'." House shook his head.
"You had no way of knowing. Chase's theories never actually pan out."
He snorted. "When Chase speaks up, he's usually actually onto something."
"Lyme seemed impossible." Wilson shrugged.
House looked like he was about to reply when his phone rang. He glowered at it before answering. "If you gloat, you're working doubles for a month." Wilson could catch an indignant squawk at that. "I don't care if you don't think it's fair. Results." When House started cursing again, Wilson decided Chase had been right. "Be in early tomorrow." He snapped the phone shut and glared at the TV.
For a moment, the room was quiet, thanks to the television still being paused and House's glaring. After a moment, Wilson sighed. "There's still wine in the fridge."
"And there's scotch and bourbon in the cabinet. Might have vodka, too." House made no move to get up.
"And beer," Wilson added. "Can't forget beer."
This time, he did get up and head into the kitchen. Wilson could hear cabinets opening and the clink of a glass on the counter, and when House returned, he was armed with a glass of what looked like scotch.
Wilson let him sink down onto the couch next to him. "Time for The O.C.?" he questioned, reaching for the remote.
House nodded, a sharp jerk of his head, and Wilson hit play. There wasn't much else he could do.
At least, until tomorrow, when he could mediate House-versus-the-underlings and try to keep him from hurting someone else or himself.
Instead, he settled into the couch. "Melinda Clarke's hot," he offered once the show had started.
Judging by House's expression, the verdict didn't impress him. In fact, if possible, Melinda Clarke would burst into flames.
So Wilson sighed and leaned his head back against the back of the couch, figuring that-worse case scenario-the television would burst into flames and cause House to snap out of it at least long enough to put out the fire.
Barring that, he'd just wait for House to drink himself to sleep, toss a blanket on him, and pray he'd be too hungover in the morning to stab any of his fellows. Either way, it was a start.