"The Instigator"; House/Wilson fic Continuum-verse
Title: The Instigator
Pairing: House/Wilson Warning: A/U; House and Wilson in space
A/N: Part of the Continuum-verse, which can be found here.; Part of the timestamp meme, jdr1184 asked for something one year before their capture.
When officers and crew alike shun the cheerful (or what passes for such on the Instigator these days) atmosphere of the common area to eat in the stark, dismal gray void that is the mess, Wilson knows exactly where to find his Captain.
He does not consciously realize that he knows this, nor even why he knows this, but he immediately about-faces, instinctively moving toward what the rest of his shipmates have left behind.
Sure as death and stars, there House sits, alone and adrift in a sea of aquamarine tables. There is an intense air of brooding and ill-temper surrounding him, an almost-tangible fog of anger and frustrated rage.
All is silence, but every muscle and sinew in House's body seems to be screaming orders directly to that dutiful part of Wilson that he would love best to avoid--yet finds repeatedly that he cannot. He winces inwardly as he watches House's right hand massaging his ruined leg with jerky, irritated movements, while the other hand with its ever-present steel cane beats a silent, futile, staccato tattoo against the plush navy carpeting.
"I see you've sent them all packing," he informs the Captain, winding his way toward the rangy figure.
There is an audible grinding of teeth, but when House speaks, his tone is mild. "No one told them to leave. That was their decision."
He makes a notation in the log that is opened up in front of him; another of his many eccentricities, this continued reliance on paper and ink to back up what has already been recorded in triplicate into the computer's extensive memory. Expensive, as well, but when has that ever mattered to him?
Wilson moves past House's table, onward and upward, until he finds himself in the comfortable confines of the kitchen. Even Cook has abandoned her post, it seems, which is something of a small mercy. She and the Captain are quite notorious for their loud, obnoxious rows that often spill over into the hallways, and, on one memorable occasion, even so far as the bridge itself. She is distantly of the Blood, and that is explanation enough for her continued employment where others would not be allowed, and would certainly fear, to tread.
"I'm not hungry," House growls, his pain as evident as Wilson's need to do something, anything, to ease that pain. He continues making a sandwich as if he hadn't heard a word.
"Then don't eat it. Throw it out a window, and yourself behind it."
A wrinkling of the brow, a sudden quirk of the mouth, these are the only signs that Wilson is given, but they are enough. It is almost as good as a laugh. After a moment, the frantic energy seems to bleed from House, perhaps soaking into the deck, the bulkhead, the officers, the crew, perhaps even into the void that surrounds them.
When the Captain finally speaks, it is with his own voice, not his pain's. "I could have you up on charges."
"For?"
"Insubordination, at best. Threats against a superior officer, at least."
"Because I made you a sandwich? I didn't poison this one; I didn't even drug it this time."
"Did you not just insinuate that I should throw myself into the vacuum of space?"
Wilson smiles, although his smiles are as easy to miss as his Captain's. "You have no witnesses. Besides, I get the distinct feeling that you would not be missed belowdecks."
A tilt of the head, an air of thoughtfulness. "You go first."
"So sorry, but ritual suicide before the death of one's master is a few hundred years out of date. Perhaps another time."
"Because my death is such a far-off possibility." There is a note of defeat...no, fatigue, but defeat cannot be far behind that sort of mental and emotional bone-deep weariness.
Wilson's hand moves to take House's before he even realizes it, but he moves it away just in time, taking a seat beside his Captain as if nothing were amiss. "You can't be blamed for their stupidity and incompetence, not even by yourself."
Those sharp eyes narrow dangerously. "They were children, and barely out of training. I am their Captain, who else is there to blame?"
"You shouldn't feel guilty..."
"I don't!" House bellows, thumping his fist on the table with no little force. "I don't, but obviously you and everyone else feels I should, or you wouldn't keep bringing up how I shouldn't!"
There it is, Wilson thinks, that legendary Family temper, but he does not flinch. His training holds, as he knew it would, and he merely sits, hands palm-flat on his knees, and waits for that same temper to die out.
The invective that passes House's lips is nothing less than blasphemy, and another might have called him on it, might have had him up on charges of his own. Wilson can do nothing but listen, eyes downcast, and wait for the storm to blow over.
After a time, House's steam seems to desert him, and he collapses back into his seat, pulling the sandwich from the plate resting in front of Wilson. Biting into it with still-banked fury, he eyes Wilson with fond contempt.
"Do you know exactly how much I hate it when you do that?"
Wilson's gaze does not waver, his stance and demeanor still submissive, subservient.
"I've told you a thousand times, no, a million times, that I don't want you doing that." A pause. "Are you paying attention to me?"
"Of course," Wilson answers, in a tone that he has only ever used once before in their history.
"I'm eating the damned sandwich, I talked--yelled--about my feelings, and I promise to clear out of here and let the unwashed masses have their common room back. Now will you please stop playing at Master/Slave, because it makes me want to hit you."
House does not use the proper terms, but whether out of derision or respect for the Old Ways, Wilson cannot say. All he does know is that House despises seeing it in him, preferring to deal with Wilson as...not a friend, certainly, but perhaps an equal. And he knows exactly when and where to use this knowledge.
"You're a sly, manipulative bastard, aren't you?" House asks with barely-disguised awe, but Wilson does not answer. The cold slide of the syringe as it plunges into his Captain's thigh is answer enough.
"Get some sleep, sir," Wilson murmurs, guiding his master's head to the table with careful hands. It isn't often he is allowed such freedom, and if his fingers linger longer than is strictly necessary, there are, at least, no witnesses to his folly.
Pairing: House/Wilson Warning: A/U; House and Wilson in space
A/N: Part of the Continuum-verse, which can be found here.; Part of the timestamp meme, jdr1184 asked for something one year before their capture.
When officers and crew alike shun the cheerful (or what passes for such on the Instigator these days) atmosphere of the common area to eat in the stark, dismal gray void that is the mess, Wilson knows exactly where to find his Captain.
He does not consciously realize that he knows this, nor even why he knows this, but he immediately about-faces, instinctively moving toward what the rest of his shipmates have left behind.
Sure as death and stars, there House sits, alone and adrift in a sea of aquamarine tables. There is an intense air of brooding and ill-temper surrounding him, an almost-tangible fog of anger and frustrated rage.
All is silence, but every muscle and sinew in House's body seems to be screaming orders directly to that dutiful part of Wilson that he would love best to avoid--yet finds repeatedly that he cannot. He winces inwardly as he watches House's right hand massaging his ruined leg with jerky, irritated movements, while the other hand with its ever-present steel cane beats a silent, futile, staccato tattoo against the plush navy carpeting.
"I see you've sent them all packing," he informs the Captain, winding his way toward the rangy figure.
There is an audible grinding of teeth, but when House speaks, his tone is mild. "No one told them to leave. That was their decision."
He makes a notation in the log that is opened up in front of him; another of his many eccentricities, this continued reliance on paper and ink to back up what has already been recorded in triplicate into the computer's extensive memory. Expensive, as well, but when has that ever mattered to him?
Wilson moves past House's table, onward and upward, until he finds himself in the comfortable confines of the kitchen. Even Cook has abandoned her post, it seems, which is something of a small mercy. She and the Captain are quite notorious for their loud, obnoxious rows that often spill over into the hallways, and, on one memorable occasion, even so far as the bridge itself. She is distantly of the Blood, and that is explanation enough for her continued employment where others would not be allowed, and would certainly fear, to tread.
"I'm not hungry," House growls, his pain as evident as Wilson's need to do something, anything, to ease that pain. He continues making a sandwich as if he hadn't heard a word.
"Then don't eat it. Throw it out a window, and yourself behind it."
A wrinkling of the brow, a sudden quirk of the mouth, these are the only signs that Wilson is given, but they are enough. It is almost as good as a laugh. After a moment, the frantic energy seems to bleed from House, perhaps soaking into the deck, the bulkhead, the officers, the crew, perhaps even into the void that surrounds them.
When the Captain finally speaks, it is with his own voice, not his pain's. "I could have you up on charges."
"For?"
"Insubordination, at best. Threats against a superior officer, at least."
"Because I made you a sandwich? I didn't poison this one; I didn't even drug it this time."
"Did you not just insinuate that I should throw myself into the vacuum of space?"
Wilson smiles, although his smiles are as easy to miss as his Captain's. "You have no witnesses. Besides, I get the distinct feeling that you would not be missed belowdecks."
A tilt of the head, an air of thoughtfulness. "You go first."
"So sorry, but ritual suicide before the death of one's master is a few hundred years out of date. Perhaps another time."
"Because my death is such a far-off possibility." There is a note of defeat...no, fatigue, but defeat cannot be far behind that sort of mental and emotional bone-deep weariness.
Wilson's hand moves to take House's before he even realizes it, but he moves it away just in time, taking a seat beside his Captain as if nothing were amiss. "You can't be blamed for their stupidity and incompetence, not even by yourself."
Those sharp eyes narrow dangerously. "They were children, and barely out of training. I am their Captain, who else is there to blame?"
"You shouldn't feel guilty..."
"I don't!" House bellows, thumping his fist on the table with no little force. "I don't, but obviously you and everyone else feels I should, or you wouldn't keep bringing up how I shouldn't!"
There it is, Wilson thinks, that legendary Family temper, but he does not flinch. His training holds, as he knew it would, and he merely sits, hands palm-flat on his knees, and waits for that same temper to die out.
The invective that passes House's lips is nothing less than blasphemy, and another might have called him on it, might have had him up on charges of his own. Wilson can do nothing but listen, eyes downcast, and wait for the storm to blow over.
After a time, House's steam seems to desert him, and he collapses back into his seat, pulling the sandwich from the plate resting in front of Wilson. Biting into it with still-banked fury, he eyes Wilson with fond contempt.
"Do you know exactly how much I hate it when you do that?"
Wilson's gaze does not waver, his stance and demeanor still submissive, subservient.
"I've told you a thousand times, no, a million times, that I don't want you doing that." A pause. "Are you paying attention to me?"
"Of course," Wilson answers, in a tone that he has only ever used once before in their history.
"I'm eating the damned sandwich, I talked--yelled--about my feelings, and I promise to clear out of here and let the unwashed masses have their common room back. Now will you please stop playing at Master/Slave, because it makes me want to hit you."
House does not use the proper terms, but whether out of derision or respect for the Old Ways, Wilson cannot say. All he does know is that House despises seeing it in him, preferring to deal with Wilson as...not a friend, certainly, but perhaps an equal. And he knows exactly when and where to use this knowledge.
"You're a sly, manipulative bastard, aren't you?" House asks with barely-disguised awe, but Wilson does not answer. The cold slide of the syringe as it plunges into his Captain's thigh is answer enough.
"Get some sleep, sir," Wilson murmurs, guiding his master's head to the table with careful hands. It isn't often he is allowed such freedom, and if his fingers linger longer than is strictly necessary, there are, at least, no witnesses to his folly.