fayding_fast

Fic: Sitting Duck

fayding-fast@supanet.com — Wed, 04 Nov 2009 15:49:33 GMT

Title: Sitting Duck
Author: Fayding_fast
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em
Pairing: House and Wilson, strong friendship
Ficverse: This is a sequel to nightdog_barks captivating Ugly Duckling fic which, in itself, was a sequel to Duck Duck Goose. You might want to read both of these stories first, not only for this fic to make sense, but because both stories are excellent.
Timeline: Set shortly after "Ugly Duckling"
Warning: A major character has suffered an appalling injury.
Spoilers: None
Con-crit? Yes, please.
Rating: PG-13
Author's note: Many thanks to nightdog_barks for graciously allowing me to post this story.

When Jimmy goes to bed at night-sleep time, sometimes, he dreams about monsters. Oh, he knows they don't look like monsters. Their bodies aren't covered with lumps or bumps or green like grass yucky slime. The little girl in Rob-ert Chase's story wouldn't go up to one and say, My what big teeth you have, if she'd skippity skipped through a wood and found one sitting in her grandma's bed. They look like him or his House - like men but Jimmy knows they are monsters all the same. He's had these dreams a lot, especially just after the Dark Time. The monsters hide in closets or under bushes or behind trees. They jump down from walls and out of the tele-vision, and Jimmy can tell they're looking for him with their funny starey eyes, and he tries to run from them but he can't. He can't even walk or crawl away from them and the monsters want to hurt him real BAD and are all carrying tubes of light.

He has one of those nasty, nasty dreams that night and his soft cry wakes him up. His t-shirt feels cold and wet and his hands are shaking. Too frightened to try to go back to sleep again, he stares at a ceiling he can't see in a room that the night has made a little spooky. A little scary. And very, very dark.

A room like that makes it hard for him to forget his bad dream but Jimmy tries. It's either that or scream for House. He'd really like House to hold him but House would come rushing in, yelling, What's wrong? What's wrong? and then, when Jimmy tells him, House would sigh and say, Suck it up, Wilson. It was only a dream, and House would go back to bed after whacking him (gently, always so gently) with his cane.

So, Jimmy tries to be brave and thinks, instead, about happier things. He wonders what House will cook him for breakfast when he gets up - maybe, he'll get sausges or, even better - eggs, and he thinks about what he would like to do when House leaves him to go to work in The Hospital. He hopes with all his heart that House will let him play with his favorite toy - that after they've eaten maybe sausges and maybe eggs and House has washed all the dishes and pans and dried them up, that House will help him to set it all up.

All night long he keeps hoping that and then it's morning.

But House wakes up late, and he wakes up grumpy. When Jimmy asks him if he can play with his train set, House snaps at him. "Can't you see I'm busy, Wilson?" he asks, putting oblong pieces of bread under the grill. "I'm trying to get ready for work."

Jimmy's not upset and he keeps his mouth shut. He can tell when House is mad at him and when he's mad at something else. There had been a time when he couldn't. When Jimmy's mem-ries had all ex-ploded inside his head like bursting bubbles but Jimmy's been making lots of new mem-ries since then. He's been learning plenty. He's been learning (slowly) how to please House. When it's okay to push him. He's been learning how to get his own way.

Lifting his drink, Jimmy puts his bendy straw into his mouth and sips his juice while House moans about his cold coffee and then about having to go to work in The Clinic. He listens, silently, while House bangs cupboard doors and slams down plates and stamps around their kitchen, his cane going thump, thumpity thump on the floor.

Finally, House throws a couple of bits of toast on Jimmy's plate and puts it in front of him. The toast smells smoky, like a dragon's breath and doesn't look nice; it's all curly at the edges. When Jimmy picks it up in his fingers, those edges break off with a loud snap. "Thank you, House," he says softly.

House looks at him and goes still. Goes very quiet.

Tilting his head to the side, Jimmy gazes back and gives House his sweetest - his most loving smile.

House stares at him for a long, long time. Then he sighs and raises both hands into the air.

Calmly drinking the rest of his orange juice, Jimmy watches as House walks off to fetch his train set.

As Jimmy had known, all along, he would.

*

It doesn't take long to set it up, and when House has finished, he steps back to look at it, grinning. "You've got yourself one helluva cool place here, Wilson," he says.

Jimmy looks down at the cows happily playing leap frog and the toy men all lying down hugging each other and nods solemnly. He looks back up at House. "Helluva cool place," he agrees.

For some strange reason that Jimmy doesn't understand, for a moment, House looks sad. Then he straightens up, towering over Jimmy and waggles his eyebrows at him making him laugh. "Want some cereal?" he asks.

*

Shortly after break-fast, Rob-ert Chase arrives to keep an eye on him so that House can leave. "See you later, champ," House promises him before he goes. "Try and behave yourself, huh?"

Jimmy pulls a face because he always behaves himself. House knows that.

Now, not only is Rob-ert Chase in his home but Fore-man is too. They're both standing by the door to the kitchen talking, and Fore-man is watching Jimmy the way House does sometimes. As if there are secrets buried inside Jimmy's body like pirates' treasure, and House would like to be the first to find them. Jimmy thinks House will. Jimmy believes House can see right through his skin. He doesn't mind when House looks at him that way; he's used to it, but when Fore-man does it, it's different. He's sure that Fore-man doesn't like him. And poor Jimmy hasn't done anything.

"Doesn't it affect you? To keep coming round here and seeing him like this?" Fore-man asks Rob-ert Chase. "If he wasn't your friend, he was a colleague."

"Of course it affects me. I'd be inhuman if it didn't. Is this really the best time to discuss this?" Rob-ert Chase winks at Jimmy and then smiles at him.

Jimmy checks that his train is still working okay and then smiles back at him.

"Oh, relax. He's not listening to us, and even if he was, he wouldn't understand us." Fore-man also smiles at Jimmy but Jimmy thinks a smile on that face doesn't look right. It looks kind of frightening. After a moment, the scary smile disappears and Fore-man's eyes get smaller and his eyebrows squish together. "I don't get it. What's House gaining from this? The man doesn't have a selfless bone in his body."

"Wilson's his best friend. His only friend. In his own unique way, House loves him. What did you expect House to do, turn his back on him?"

"House? Yeah. That's exactly what I thought would happen."

Jimmy swallows. He knows they're talking about him, and he knows they're arguing. He hates it when people argue. That frightens him as well. Well, maybe not so much when House argues with someone because then it's all over quick-as-a-flash. When you're a living genius, you always get the last word, House had told him.

Jimmy listens to this latest argument with only half an ear because his train is coming up to the field where all of his toy cows are playing, and he's starting to feel very anxious. Jimmy watches the train intently. The last time he'd had his train set out, the train had come off the rails and crashed into the toy cows, and they'd fallen everywhere.

"They're dead," Jimmy had moaned, sobbing. "They're dead."

House had picked a cow up, pulled Jimmy's hands away from his face and held the cow right in front of his eyes. "See any red blood?" he'd asked.

Jimmy had examined the cow carefully through his tears. "No, but..."

"No buts, Wilson." House had banged the cow's head hard against the table. "Toys aren't like you and me," he'd said. "They can't be hurt. See? They're super tough. Particularly black and white cows like this one. Black and white, like piano keys."

Today, his train is being good. It hasn't come off its tracks, and it hasn't crashed into the funny pond that's isn't wet or knocked over any cows or houses. Jimmy loves his toy train. Rob-ert Chase had bought it for him.

The argument is still continuing, and the odd word washes over him.

"You've got to... the man... credit - House... wonderful. ... been... eye ope... You... Wilson would have done... has if House... walked out on...?"

"House expects too... He's hoping that... will... full recov... not gonna... House... face the facts." Fore-man points at Jimmy. "He was shot in the head and... admission GCS... four. You saw... scans. His initial... dire. Wilson will never..."

Jimmy feels lonely and sad. He really wishes House was at home with him. He misses him, even though House hasn't been gone all that long. Not really. He loves House even more than his toy train. Jimmy loves a whole list of things.

"... independent. He'll... be able to walk or drive or hell... bathe... He'll never... able... love to... beautiful woman. Wilson's life is effec... Bottom line - it would.. kinder if... had killed him."

Jimmy loves bright cartoons and drinking straw-bry shakes though House doesn't let him have a shake every day because that would be asking for TROUBLE and would make him pukey sick. And he loves doing jig-saws and making cars out of lego. House is also helping him to build a hell-copter out of lego but they haven't had a chance to finish it yet.

"... callous, and anyway, I... you're wrong. Wilson survived. He... happy; that's all that matters." Rob-ert Chase turns his body so Jimmy can't see his face. "And will... keep... down?"

He loves playing catch the ball with Thirteen and being tucked into bed as-snug-as-a-bug-in-a-rug, and he likes the new book House had given him about the hu-man body. House had told Jimmy that he knew he couldn't read it yet, but he would learn to one day. Give it time, Wilson, House had said and told him that until then, he could look at the pictures.

Also, when it gets dark well before night-sleep time and the sky is filled with twinkle twinkle little stars, Jimmy loves looking for the Man-in-the-Moon. He hasn't found him yet, but Six had promised him that he was there. Six had said he was sure of it, so Jimmy keeps right on looking.

"... already made tremendous progress..." Rob-ert Chase continues, and he says it in a whisper, but there's nothing wrong with Jimmy's ears, and if he wanted to, he could hear him just fine.

Jimmy watches as his train goes past the saloon where House had told him two nut-or-ee-us out-laws were probably drinking: Kid Curry and Han-ball Heyes. Jimmy had been worried that if dino-saurs were in his saloon like the ones that had terrified him in Jrasic Park and given him more nasty dreams, then they might break everything, but House had said that Kid and Han-ball weren't dino-saurs, they were pretty good bad men just trying to make a dis-onest living. "You see two cowboys walk out of that saloon carrying sticks of dynmite," House had warned him, "keep them well away from your train."

The train passes safely by the saloon without incident, and Jimmy breathes a sigh of relief. He nods, pleased. "Pro-gress," he chants to himself. "Pro... pro... gress."

Fore-man sounds angry when he speaks, and Jimmy flinches. "I'm not denying that... realist. That bullet... extensive brain damage. It's a miracle he's still... and for what? ... comatose... four weeks. Now, all he... to look forward.... after month of intensive speech... Physiotherapy. Occupational... Poor bastard." Fore-man sighs heavily and Jimmy looks up at him, curious. Like Rob-ert Chase, Fore-man is facing away from him, and Jimmy really has to concentrate hard to hear him. "We all go in to work to try to make a difference - to help people - but if some nutter crawls out of the woodwork with a gun and you're in the wrong place at the wrong time... bam!" He slaps his hands together hard, making Jimmy jump. "You end up like Wilson. Reduced to little more than a..."

Jimmy places both hands over his ears, but he's too late. He had still heard Fore-man. Every damning word. Jimmy wails and presses tighter and tighter until his ears feel warm and start to hurt. He cries out again.

"Doctor Wilson," Rob-ert Chase says, sounding frightened. He runs towards him.

Fore-man stares at him and opens his mouth as if he's about to say something else, but then he turns and walks out, slamming the door behind him.

Fore-man's words still ringing in his ears, Jimmy turns back to look at his beloved train and watches as it emerges from a dark tunnel. He's shaking. Rob-ert Chase's hand squeezes his shoulder.

"Tunnel. Bang," Jimmy says and jerks in his chair. "Whoo-oo-whoo. Ch ch. Whoo-oo-whoo."

*

"So, what did you do today?" House asks him when they're eating dinner. "You watch T.V.? Chase tell you any stories?"

"Yes," Jimmy says and he tries very hard to remember the stories so that he can share them with House, but he's had a bad day. Rob-ert Chase had been really nice to him after Fore-man had left, but Jimmy had spent most of the day crying. Finally, Rob-ert Chase had picked up the phone and called House.

House had arrived back home a little while later. He'd taken one look at Jimmy's face and had taken Rob-ert Chase into the bedroom for a quiet little talk. Only it hadn't been a little talk, it had been a big argument and Jimmy had started crying all over again. After the argument had finished, Rob-ert Chase had come over to him, given him a quick hug and then said goodbye to him.

House had sat next to Jimmy, put the backs of his fingers against Jimmy's forehead and then wrapped his fingers around Jimmy's wrist. Then he'd started asking him lots of questions. Did Jimmy's head hurt? Did they need to go to The Hospital? Did he feel pukey-sick? Was he feeling dizzy? Jimmy had said uh uh to everything and then House had made him stick his tongue out. House had looked into Jimmy's mouth and listened to his chest and after that, he'd pulled the sun down from the sky and had shone it right into Jimmy's eyes making them water.
"Chase asked me to come home early," House had said, and his voice was a lot deeper which it always was when House was worried about him. "Chase told me zip but I know something's happened."

Now they're both eating, or, at least, House is. Jimmy can't seem to get the food onto his spoon. Rob-ert Chase had told Jimmy a few stories, but he forgets everything that Rob-ert Chase had said to him that day. He forgets how the stories had started. What they'd been about. How they'd ended.

He even forgets how to use his fork and spoon.

The tears start to fall again even though Jimmy doesn't want to cry any more. His eyes are tired and sore, and he knows that House doesn't like it.

"Tell me what's wrong," House says, laying his fork down on his plate. "What's upset you?"

Jimmy looks up into House's eyes which aren't black and white like piano keys or green like grass. They're the same color as a fluffy cloud sky but the name of that color escapes him.

House looks so worried that Jimmy can't help it. He really starts sobbing. He'd missed House so much. All day long. House touches Jimmy's shoulder. "This isn't like you. Talk to me. What's wrong?" he says again.

"Night-sleep time," he whispers.

House sighs and looks over at the clock. "It's too early. Nurse won't be here for another two hours."

"Jimmy's tired," he murmurs.

House is quiet for a while and then sighs again. "Hoist it is, then," he says.

Blue, Jimmy thinks suddenly. The sky was blue. Relieved that he's remembered something, he slips his hand into House's and is surprised when House lets him.

It's been such a terrible, bad, bad day.

With a lot of effort, Jimmy manages to stop crying. He decides that he's not really hungry and that he's going to leave the rest of his dinner. House gently squeezes his fingers. House's hand is so warm compared to his. Holding House's hand makes him feel better. Safe. Comforted.

Jimmy forgets how to let go.

*

It takes a long time for House to get him into bed and after he's done it, House is breathing heavily. He lays down next to Jimmy and puts his arm over his eyes. "Remind me not to do that too often, Wilson," he says.

Duvet pulled up to his chin, Jimmy blinks at House sleepily.

House suddenly sits up as if he's just thought of something, and then he leaves the room. When he comes back in, he's carrying a long box. He sits down on the bed beside Jimmy again. "You know, Wilson, it's a shame you're so tired," House says.

Jimmy wants to know what's inside the box. He sits up a little bit.

House opens the box up. "I was hoping that we could both play this," he says, "but if you'd rather go to sleep..." He pulls the contents of the box out, and Jimmy is in awe.

"A touch-it-and-you're-dead piano," he gasps.

"Keyboard," House corrects him. "Better than a piano." House gets to his feet and plugs the keyboard in.

"Can Jimmy play it?" he asks hopefully.

House nods and settles back down on the bed. He pulls the keyboard until it's resting on both of their laps.. "I'll point to the keys and you press them down, okay?"

"'kay."

House smiles at him. "Let's party. C."

Jimmy presses the correct key. "C is for Cat," he announces. "Cats drink milk and like birds."

"Yep." House says. "That's right."

Jimmy looks at him, wide-eyed. "Jimmy likes birds, too," he tells him. "'spesh-ly ducks." He looks back down at the keyboard.

"We'll go visit the lake soon," House says. "Promise. Now E." He points at another key and Jimmy dutifully presses it.

"E is for eggs. Sunny side up," Jimmy says.

"Just the way we like 'em. F sharp."

Jimmy snatches his hand back from the keyboard and hides it under the cover.

"What are you...? Oh." House laughs. "It won't hurt you; it's just the name of the key. Here, you wuss, I'll do it."

Jimmy watches him carefully, and when House doesn't appear to suffer any ill effects, he bravely presses the black key himself. "F is for I don't know," he admits, shrugging.

"Fun," House answers helpfully. Then, more quietly, "Friends and forever. Now this A."

They play a succession of notes and when they've finished, House looks at him expectantly. "That's it. You know that tune?"

Jimmy stares at him blankly. "No," he murmurs. He hadn't even realized that they'd been playing a tune; he'd just thought that they'd been messing around. A sense of failure washes over him. "Sleep now," he says.

"Let's just play it one more time, okay? After that, I'll pack it all away. Give me your hand."

With House's help, he plays the tune again and this time, with the notes being played at more or less the correct speed, Jimmy half recognizes it. "Da da da. Da-da da da," he sings. He looks at House impatiently. "Again," he says.

They play it again while House keeps sneaking glances at him, and by the time they've finished, Jimmy has a huge smile on his face. "The Simp-sons," he sings. He laughs in delight. "Da da da. Da-da da da. Da da-da-da-da. Again," he implores.

House grins.

Jimmy plays the tune again. And again until House finally tells him it's time to switch the keyboard off.

"One more go. Please, House, please," Jimmy says and leans against House's shoulder a little. So, House lets him play The Simpsons a few more times.

As Jimmy had known he would.

But House eventually stands his ground and unplugs the keyboard. "You have an early start tomorrow, Wilson," he says, putting the keyboard back in the box.

Nestling back under the warm covers, Jimmy nods and House looks at him, surprised.

"You know where we're going?"

"To see the fizzy-oh-man," Jimmy answers, yawning.

"Yeah." House stares at him, then puts the box down on the floor. "That why you've been so upset today? You don't wanna go?"

"Uh uh." Jimmy shakes his head. "But the fizzy-oh-man wants Jimmy to do hard things. Things Jimmy can't do."

House nods. "I know. But if you keep trying, if you learn to weight bear, you'll save yourself a lot of problems. It's for your own good."

"'kay, House," Jimmy murmurs.

House pats his shoulder and turns out the light.

"I love you, House," Jimmy says and hears House start to move away. Lying there once more in the dark, he suddenly remembers his dreams and the monsters that can't hurt him. It's words, spoken when the sun is shining, that can and do. "And you love veg-tables," he murmurs sadly, already half asleep.

The thump, thump, thump of the cane stops. Then Jimmy hears it again, getting louder.

House returns to the side of his bed.

The light goes back on.

The end.

Fic: P.U.O

fayding-fast@supanet.com — Sat, 13 Jun 2009 19:19:05 GMT

Title: P.U.O.
Author: Fayding_fast
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1474
Spoilers: Minor for "Dying changes everything"
Con-crit? Yes please and thank you kindly.
Summary: Wilson has a raging temperature; poor boy.
Author's note: This fic was inspired by a line from an actual episode.

Wilson, in answer to Taub's question: "I just.... need a change of scenery."
-'Dying changes everything'

Wilson's hot - uncomfortably so. To the point where he could melt into a puddle of mucilaginous goo and small wonder. He's sans shade; the sun is high in the sky and positioned directly over his head, and it's brutal.

Adding to his problems, massive birds are soaring lazily above him, by dint of infrequent beats of their wings. Wilson's not sure if he likes the look of them.

Shielding his retinas from the blinding sun, he cranes his neck and watches them. He's half expecting them to be perturbed by his scrutiny, but, on the contrary, they're unruffled; they eye him back with avid interest as if he's easy pickings.

No, Wilson decides, he doesn't like the look of them, one bit. He shivers, despite the oppressive heat.

Almost crushed by despair, he staggers around in an imperfect circle and casts his weary gaze over mile upon mile of sand. Scorching, golden sand in every direction, the monotony broken only by a solitary cactus and a trail of meandering, drunken footprints that he can only assume are his.

Where the hell is the damned plane?

"Wilson?" a voice says, and, at first, Wilson's relieved. He'd recognize that gruff, beloved voice anywhere, but, then, the panic, like Old Faithful, materializes right on cue. Had House, who could throw a tantrum worthy of a prima donna if he was told he had to walk more than fifty yards, been forced to wander lost and all alone in the desert, too?

"House, I can hear you, but I can't see you. Where are you?" Wilson calls, and the effort to speak, when his throat is so dry, immediately sets off a painful coughing fit. He weakly thumps his own chest until he finally has the coughing under control, and by the time he straightens up, he's breathless, thoroughly miserable and exhausted.

"I'm right in front of you, you moron," the voice replies sardonically.

Wilson spins, his mouth gaping and focuses his sweat-filled, stinging eyes on the cactus. He stumbles back several paces in shock. "I....." He coughs, clears his throat and tries again. "I didn't realize that cacti could speak," he confesses, ashamed that he could be so ignorant. "You sound exactly like my best friend." He hadn't known that cacti could show emotion, either, but this one does; it evinces surprise.

"Do I, now?" the cactus drawls after a long pause, and Wilson nods with caution.

Wilson gets the distinct impression that he's being mocked. What an excellent start. They'd only been conversing for a couple of minutes, and, already, he'd succeeded in unwittingly causing offense. Ill at ease, he digs the fingers of both hands into the back of his neck and stares unhappily at the far horizon, squinting. "I've lost my bearings," he softly explains.

"Along with your tiny mind?" the cactus enquires cheerfully.

Wilson grimaces and takes a deep breath. His lungs fill with arid air. "I've strayed away from my fellow passengers," he says and hopes the cactus doesn't realize how close he is to tears. He pats his empty pockets. "And I've mislaid my compass."

"You carry around a compass?"

"Always." A blush heightens the color in his already sunburnt cheeks. Wilson looks down and absently scuffs the toe of his highly polished French shoe through the sand.

"But, a compass?" the cactus presses.

"I like to be prepared," Wilson admits. He peers up at the cactus, feeling unaccountably shy.

The cactus is silent.

Probably studying him, Wilson muses and is suddenly, embarrassingly aware that he must look awful. He's dog-tired; his hair's damp and matted and hanging directly into his eyes and his shirt - sweat-soaked - is pasted onto him like an unwelcome rash. Agitated, he pulls the damp cotton away from his stomach and fantasizes about plunging headfirst into a freezing cold bath.

"Fellow passengers?" the cactus pries, startling him.

Wilson glares at it, praying that it's not going to continue asking a lot of annoying questions. "My plane must have crashed," he says curtly.

"Plane?"

"Yeah," Wilson sighs. He raises a trembling hand to his temple. His head is throbbing without mercy. In all likelihood, he has sunstroke. He stares at the cactus and raises his chin challengingly. "Why do you think I'm traipsing through a desert?"

"Good question," the cactus says. "Family history of acting like loons? Overwork?"

"I was on a plane," Wilson stresses. It's funny. He can't actually remember checking any bags in, or queuing up for ages to get through passport control. Still, he supposes he must have done. "It crash-landed....." He glances around. "Well, I'm not sure where, exactly, but..... somewhere."

"Spoken like a true boyscout." the cactus says thoughtfully. "Where's good old Sully when you need him?"

"Yeah," Wilson murmurs, thinking that the cactus is remarkably well-informed. Dizzy, he sways on his feet.

"Why don't you go and lie back down?" the cactus suggests.

"Here? You joking? Where am I....?" He's interrupted when one of the hovering birds peels off from the rest like a defector. Wilson watches as it circles nearer and nearer to him, and, with rising terror, he realizes how wide its wingspan is. How curved its beak is. That he's weak and exposed and without any real defense.

The bird lands on its short, stubby legs not twenty feet away from him. Staring at him with something akin to insolence, it lifts its purple-red, unfeathered head and hisses.

"Oh, God," Wilson says, appalled.

"What is it? Wilson?"

Wilson observes the bird with a mixture of morbid fascination and revulsion. The thing defecates down its own legs, and Wilson covers his mouth with the palm of his hand, repulsed. "A vulture," he says, speaking through his splayed fingers.

There's a dozen or more vultures hovering over him, now.

Without looking up, Wilson points them out. "They've been gathering for some time, waiting for me to die." He closes his eyes briefly, trying to dispel the dizziness. "No-one will ever find my remains," he laments, suspecting that hysteria is just around the corner but not caring.

"Oh, relax," the cactus says. "Vultures don't eat bones."

"Vultures don't ......" Wilson repeats, then cuts himself off and shakes his head in disbelief. "I have no shelter," he grates out. "No water."

"I can provide you with shelter," the cactus declares matter-of-factly. "I can bring you some water."

"You can?" Wilson doesn't know what to think about this unexpected kindliness.

"Yep. I'm pretty resourceful." There's a smile in the plant's voice. "For a cactus."

"You are," Wilson says, and he's not bluffing. The sun beats down with savage ferocity upon his unprotected head. Lifting his hand, Wilson fumbles with the knot of his tie.

The vulture hops a little nearer to him, expectant.

Wilson wonders if other men had felt like him, when faced with a Gorgon - the horror forever transfixing them - turning them into stone. "How much do you charge?" he murmurs.

"For sex?" the cactus asks. "I'm surprised you feel up to it, but I'm game if you are. I charge...."

The cactus not only sounds like House, it behaves like him. Wilson tears his gaze away from the bird of prey and pokes his tongue experimentally at his sore, chapped lips. "For a glass of water," he says quietly, patience personified.

"Forty dollars," the cactus answers promptly. "An extra twenty if you want ice."

Wilson stares at it. "That had better be for a barrelful." He struggles to stay on his feet, his vision swimming in and out of focus.

He daren't think about what the vulture will do if he hits the ground. What its brethren will do. "I haven't got my wallet," he says, his voice growing fainter and fainter. "Must have fallen out of my pocket along with my compass." He looks at the cactus and resorts to pleading. "I'll let you have it later, 'kay?"

"I wait with baited breath," the cactus replies, and if there are echoes of bright, teasing laughter pealing through the words, Wilson no longer has the energy to worry about it.

Wilson gives up on trying to loosen his tie and lets his hands fall to his sides in defeat. "I can't undo it," he moans. "I'm burning up."

The cactus lurches stiffly towards him. "For God's sake, you idiot," it growls and, now, it just sounds exasperated.

Or does Wilson also detect a hint of fondness in its tone? No, that wouldn't make any sense; he's mistaken.

"Get some rest," the cactus orders. "Take my arm."

Panicky, Wilson tucks his hands into his armpits. "But if I lean on you," he whispers, eyelids flickering, "won't you rip me to shreds?" Barely conscious, he's pulled gently in against the cactus' side.

The cactus' whole manner has become oddly subdued. "Not this time, Jimmy," the cactus says.

The end.

Fic: Eve-an

fayding-fast@supanet.com — Mon, 04 May 2009 18:22:44 GMT

Title: Eve-an
Author: Fayding_fast
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Minor for "House divided"
Con-crit? Yes please and thank you kindly.
Summary: Wilson's all about persona

When Wilson pulls a disappearing act during his clinic hours, House claims that he'd seen it coming. After all, he explains, a man who has worked his way steadily through three wives, countless girlfriends and a duck is hardly the definition of well-balanced.

Secretly though, House is dumbfounded. He'd told Wilson that things would go tits-up with Danny; he'd been kind enough to warn him. Perhaps, when this was all over, when the dust had settled and the mindless panicking had died down, Wilson might be wise enough to pay a little more attention to him. A man can dream.

Meanwhile, anxious colleagues keep pestering him - buzzing around him like flies - and they all say the same thing. Ad nauseam. Ad infinitum. They tell him that he can drop the heartless act; they know he's worried, and House knows they're right. Eventually, House craves some peace to such an extent that he swallows his pride, puts on his jacket and leaves the hospital to go and search for him.

He finds the loser in the sixth bar he visits.

Wilson is dressed casually in a snug fitting t-shirt and jeans that are frayed at the knees so he must have gone home first, to change. He's also wearing a new pair of glasses that do wonders for his appearance but absolutely nothing to enhance his vision. He doesn't notice House until he's prodded sharply between his shoulder blades with a cane.

"You're pitiful; you realize that?" House points out when Wilson twists around to frown up at him.

"That's kinda harsh," Wilson protests. "You don't even know me."

House stares at him in surprise, shocked not so much by the words but by Wilson's voice which is husky and intriguing because it's wholly unfamiliar. He rallies quickly. "You think you're in disguise?" he enquires carefully. "Because if you do, I'm here to tell you that you fail, genius. If you wanted to get drunk incognito, Wilson, you should have borrowed my cap and sha....."

"This is only my first drink," the other man interrupts him, "and my name's not Wilson." Bespectacled eyes begin to sparkle with mischief. "I've gotta tell ya, I'm almost disappointed. You seem to be confusing me with someone else."

"Someone...." House cuts himself off abruptly, then fumbles in his pocket for his pills. Wilson always does this to him and with deceptive ease: nonchalantly scissor-kicks his legs out from under him and it's extremely annoying. He examines his companion silently. "I thought your name was James Wilson," he finally ventures. "Who do you think you are?"

"I...." the man says and pats the stool beside him in invitation, "think I'm Evan."

*

Turns out that Evan's bright, carefree, and effortlessly amusing, and he grasps House's interest by the scruff of its neck and holds his wine glass in his right hand.

House learns that Evan had been an only child and had spent most of his life in Quebec.

"I'm training to be a counselor," Evan says, the lies spilling from his pretty mouth like nickels from a slot machine, and, oh, it must be House's lucky night because, for once, he's hit the jackpot. "I hope I'll make a good one." He moves closer to House.... body language confident and flirtatious. "Now," he says, gazing at House from beneath curling lashes, "why don't we start talking about you?"

The two men deliberately switch to soft drinks and they jump easily from topic to topic. House grins so often his jaw aches, and the evening flashes past in a blur.

"May I come home with you tonight?" Evan asks, his brown eyes luminous with hope, and House doesn't have an immediate answer for him. Evan's as different from Wilson as night is from day - as abandonment is from repression, but House has loved far too few people in his life. There's so much for him to lose if this should all go disastrously wrong.

"I understand," Evan says gently when the silence stretches out too long. "It was nice to meet you, Greg." He stands up smoothly and pats his back pockets.

House stares up at him, surprised anew. "You're freeballing?" he asks, his throat dry.

Locating his keys, Evan nods as if it's no big deal and starts to brush past him.

House pauses to do the sensible thing and weighs lust against common-sense. "Hey, wait up," House calls after him, scrambling to find his feet. "My answer's yes."

*

He has second thoughts when both men are standing in his bedroom. This was either role playing taken to extremes or the other man was out of his tiny mind, but Evan doesn't appear to have any qualms and is pressing against House lightly - chest to chest and groin to groin. He holds House's face still with the tips of his fingers and kisses him with an urgency that's flattering.

House pulls back a bit - a little anxious - embarrassingly turned-on - and he remembers how often he'd fallen asleep on sticky sheets after that conversation he'd had with Bonny. Trying to conquer his nerves, he trails shaking hands over the other man's shoulders and Evan gazes into his eyes smiling, always smiling. Smirking back, House decides to give himself over to the moment. His last remaining doubts are cast aside the second Evan starts shedding his clothes.

*

House is still trying to catch his breath when Evan rolls over and lays his head on House's chest.

"You want me to leave or stay?" Evan murmurs wistfully, still speaking in that throaty, ravish-me-now voice and House idly strokes his fingers through dark, sweat-dampened hair and wonders who he's asking.

As much as he'd like to convince himself that Wilson's messing with him and the two of them are just playing some elaborate, twisted game, he's finding it impossible to believe. He knows in his heart of hearts that this is something worse. Something infinitely troubling.

Even if he cuffs the other man to his bed, he could still wake up in the morning to discover that Evan had been long gone. And who might have forcibly taken his place? House sighs deeply, wondering why nothing in his life ever, ever works out well and feels depressed because there are no easy answers.

Only soul-destroying questions.

Evan lifts his head to look at him.

"Could care less either way," House snaps and flinches at the pain he sees in the other man's large eyes. He gently eases Evan's head back down and smiles sadly up at the ceiling reflecting on how ironic it all is - that he, a junkie and part-time drunk, is probably the sanest one in the crowd. How awful. On impulse, he throws an arm over Evan's tense form and, when Evan relaxes slowly by degrees, he holds onto him tightly, pretending that that might make a difference. "As long as you keep my bed warm."

The end.

Devil's Playground - chapter 12 (conclusion)

fayding-fast@supanet.com — Fri, 30 Jan 2009 17:34:48 GMT

Title: Devil's Playground
Author: Fayding_fast
Chapter: 12/12
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em
Rating: PG
Pairing: House/Wilson (pre-slash)
Spoilers: Yes, for Wilson's Heart
Con-crit? Yes please and thank you kindly.
Summary: House meets a strange man who promises House that he can help him to get his friendship with Wilson back on track.

It's not until House dismounts from his bike and removes his crash helmet that his courage falters. Breath condensing into ghostly plumes in the cold night air, he stares for long minutes at the entrance to the bar, fear whispering into his ear and leaving him immobile - crippled not by the unwanted surgery on his leg but by hateful indecision.

Finally, though, instead of worrying over what he is doing, he manages to focus solely on why he is doing it, and as a consequence, he pictures Wilson's face. He visualizes the beguiling grin, the brown eyes sparkling with mirth - his friend laughing at some smutty joke back in happier times, and then he compares that Wilson to the man he'd seen earlier that night - doubled over in acute distress and as ingenuous as a child.

With a renewed sense of purpose, he walks into the bar and tries not to shiver when he feels black, pitiless eyes staring at him the moment he steps through the door. Michael's already there, then.

"Look who's come slithering back with their tail between their legs," Michael says when House walks up to stand beside him.

Placing his motorcycle helmet on the counter and hooking his cane over the edge of the bar, House maintains a dignified silence.

Metal squeals as Michael, in high spirits, swivels to and fro on his bar stool. "I think about it constantly," he parrots, holding up his wrists. "How poignant was that?"

House's hands clench by his sides until his knuckles turn white. "Let's get this over with," he says in a harsh whisper.

"You're doing the right thing, House." Grinning broadly, Michael hands over the contract. "In a day or so - three at the most - Wilson will..." He holds his forefinger up to his temple and pulls an imaginary trigger. Tutting in mock disapproval, he watches House blench out of the corner of his eye. "Who'd have guessed he could be so fragile?"

House unfolds the contract and reads it carefully. As far as he can tell, it's no different to the one he'd read before. "He's not indestructible," he snaps, goaded into springing to Wilson's defence. "Any man will break if he's pushed too far." He pats his jacket pocket and discovers it's empty. "I need a pen."

"House?"

Identifying Andrew's voice, House reluctantly turns around and feels the blood rapidly drain from his face. Not only is Andrew standing there in front of him, but he's brought along the one person House doesn't want to see: Wilson. Andrew must have woken him up and driven him straight to the bar. House stares at them moronically.

"Well, well." Leaning forwards so House doesn't block his view, Michael leers at Wilson. "What do we have here?"

Wilson looks at Michael, and his face is so pale - so filled with visible terror - that there can be only one conclusion.

House rounds on Andrew. "You told him?" he asks in disbelief. "Everything?"

Nodding his head gravely, Andrew looks back at House without apology. "Virtually," he says. "You left me with no choice." He moves closer to Wilson. "Michael won't hurt you," he reassures him. "Not whilst I'm here."

His heart galloping, House turns away and slumps against the bar. How could he? How could Andrew go and betray him like this? The one thing he'd dreaded... Michael rolls a pen across the counter towards him, and it comes to a stop by his quivering hands. House stares down at it in a daze.

"House?"

Wilson's approached him, come up right alongside him, and House closes his eyes, suddenly feeling afraid.

This was it. Wilson, appalled by his behavior, was about to verbally flay him to shreds. Or punch him. God, it wasn't as if he didn't deserve it.

Squaring his shoulders, House waits for the first blow. So uptight is he, that when thin fingers curl around his elbow, he almost jumps out of his skin. The fingers touching him are gentle though, and confused, House opens his eyes. He daringly meets Wilson's gaze.

"What's going on?" Wilson asks, his voice shaking.

"You know what's going down," House replies after a pause. "Andrew told you."

"Andrew said you lied to me," Wilson says, his voice pitched just loud enough for House to hear. "About Amber."

"That's true, I did." House stares into the dark, bewildered eyes, straightens his spine and swallows the bile pooling at the back of his throat. "I lied to you because I was jealous." Wilson starts to shake his head, unwilling to believe the extent of House's treachery, so House clasps the back of Wilson's neck and jerks his friend's body close. He presses his forehead to Wilson's. "I made a terrible mistake," he admits in a harsh whisper. "Not just one mistake - a whole succession of them."

Wilson's breath hitches. "No."

"Yes!" House stresses, tightening his grip. "I'm here to repair the damage, and you mustn't interfere. I want you to go home."

"We need to discuss this." Wilson pulls back so that he can search House's face.

House chuckles in amusement, but the laugh sounds shrill and unnatural. All shades of wrong. Everything is wrong. "Despite my aptitude for languages, when do I ever talk?"

"Come back with me."

House's face twists with regret. "I can't."

Wilson tugs at his arm. "Please."

Lightly laying the back of his hand against Wilson's cheek, House says, "I wish I could." He hesitates and tries to smile. He wonders if it's possible to build a bridge out of apologies and whether it could ever be wide enough to span the rift he'd caused between them. "For your sake, I wish I'd never met you. I'm sorry that I hurt you. I'm sorry that I ever chose you to be my friend."

Wilson frowns at him. "I'm not."

"Because you're ill. The things Andrew told you... they haven't yet sunk in." House sighs, exhausted. "Go home." House wrenches away from him and uncaps the pen. He bends over the contract and scrawls a G. What had Andrew been thinking - bringing Wilson to this bar? he fumes to himself. He knew that Michael would be here. He scribbles the H. Before he can finish his signature, a hand closes over his wrist. "Wilson," he murmurs tiredly, "I have to do this. Let go." Before he can stop his friend, the pen is snatched from his fingers, and House clutches at Wilson's sleeve in frustration, trying desperately to get it back.

Holding the pen at arm's length, Wilson easily evades him. "You are coming with me," he informs House calmly.

"Why would you even want that?" House wants to know.

Instead of answering, Wilson regards House with infinite patience.

House stares back at him for an eternity, trying to make sense of his motivations, but evidently, insight had located to the same place as that damned pen.

Just beyond his reach.

*

Epilogue

"Mr. Godfrey?" Wilson lightly touches his patient on the arm and waits until the watery, blue eyes focus on him.

The old man recognizes him and smiles in greeting. "Hello, Doc."

"Hello. Andrew's just informed me that you wanted to see me urgently?"

"I do?"

Both men frown in tandem.

"Stan!" Andrew exclaims, abruptly materializing beside them. "How's my man?" He suddenly cowers as if Mr. Godfrey has badly frightened him, and then he puts up his fists and leaps into a mock fighting stance.

"Hello, boy," Mr. Godfrey says, chuckling.

Straightening up, Andrew grins at him. He brushes the back of his hand casually across Mr. Godfrey's forehead. "Everything okay?"

"Yes," Mr. Godfrey says. "I've just remembered why I asked to see the good doc."

"Well, I wouldn't want to eavesdrop." Andrew stuffs both of his hands into his pockets. "Later, Doctor Wilson," he says.

Wilson smiles at him. "Bye, Andrew." He watches as his assistant saunters off whistling before turning back to his patient. "Okay. What can I be doing for you?" He runs a practiced eye over Mr. Godfrey and quickly scans his chart. Mr. Godfrey didn't appear to be in distress or excruciating pain. On the contrary, he seemed rather excited.

"Doc, a few weeks back, when my daughter Hannah was visiting me, she said she'd like to get you something as a thank you. For everything you've done for me."

"Mr. Godfrey, you know that's not necessary," Wilson protests.

"Ah, but it is," Mr. Godfrey maintains. "Anyway, Andrew happened to be wandering by, and he said that your birthday was coming up. Today, isn't it?"

"Yes," Wilson replies, taken aback not only by the uncomfortable subject matter but, also, by his patient's unusual lucidity. "Actually, it is."

"Andrew suggested that if my daughter really wanted to give you a gift, she could give it to you on your birthday. He said he could think of something you'd really like - only, there was a problem. Hannah would need to enlist the aid of somebody who enjoyed painting. Well, guess what, Doc? Hannah has dabbled in oil paints and acrylics all her life!"

"Well, imagine that." Wilson smiles down into the thrilled eyes. "What a wonderful coincidence."

Mr. Godfrey nods, then frowns again. "Where was I?" he asks.

"You were telling me about Andrew's idea," Wilson prompts him.

"So I was. Andrew explained what he had in mind, and Hannah was all for it. Me, Doc? I had my doubts. I told him. I said, 'Are you crazy, boy? The doc's not gonna like that; it sounds awful.' But would he listen?"

Wilson gazes at his patient with genuine fondness.

"Well, we argued for a bit, but Andrew reassured us that you'd love it. He said it would remind you of your friend. And well, the long and short of it is, my daughter did her best. She gave it to Andrew for safekeeping and, earlier, he left it by my locker there, Doc. The one by my bed. You see it?"

Walking around to the other side of Mr. Godfrey's bed, Wilson sees a gift wrapped in beautiful, gold foil wrapping paper leaning against the locker and lifts it up. "This it?" he asks.

The old man peers at it myopically. "That's it, Doc." He weakly waves his hand to indicate that Wilson should stop dilly-dallying. "Well, hurry up and open it; it's yours. And happy birthday."

Wilson hesitates. He really hates opening presents in front of others, but his patient looks more animated than he's been for quite a while, and Wilson doesn't have the heart to disappoint him. He carefully peels aside the wrapping.

Cradled inside the paper is an oil painting set in an unremarkable, wooden frame, but it's the painting itself that catches the eye - it offers a view from a clifftop over an ocean. In the far distance, by a large cove, a tempest wreaks havoc. Forked lightning thrusts down from a blackened sky. Fuelled by the rage of the storm, the sea is wild - churning. Staring at the painting, you could almost taste the ozone in the air - hear the crashing of the waves as they battered furiously against jagged rocks.

Closer to the viewer's eye, though, the difference couldn't be more dramatic. Menacing thunderclouds have given way to clear blue skies. The sea below is calm - the water as turbulent as a millpond's. Waves lap gently at a sandy beach, and rays of sunshine gild the water with a honey glow.

The composition shouldn't really work, but thanks to the consummate skill of the artist, (and, maybe a touch of celestial intervention) it does. Wilson's gaze is drawn down to the lower right-hand corner of the picture, and there, the artist has painted, with the most delicate of brushes, a few words that simply say this:

When he hath tried me
I shall come forth as gold.

-Job 23:16

The painting is unique and breathtakingly exquisite. For a long moment, Wilson stares at it, too choked to speak.

"Andrew said it was called 'The calm after the storm'. Does it remind you of your friend?" Mr. Godfrey asks. "At the moment, his name escapes me." His brow creases in concentration. "I know it reminds me of a cheese."

Half-laughing, Wilson blinks away the moisture in his eyes. "Cottage cheese?" he guesses.

"That's it," Mr. Godfrey says, his face lighting up. "Cottage cheese."

Wilson looks back at his present and runs his finger lightly across the scripture. "Yes," he whispers, "Andrew was right. It does remind me of House."

The blue eyes watching him become sober. "Doc? You really like it?"

Wilson breathes in deeply and exhales the air in a long sigh. He thinks back to that morning, when House had given him a gift for his birthday. Shocked delight had quickly given way to consternation when he'd unwrapped it to discover a do it yourself Last Will and Testament. House had been watching him attentively when he'd opened it, and Wilson hadn't really known how to respond. Was the present a joke? A test? Proof positive that House had bad taste? He still doesn't know.

Hannah's gift, though... Wilson doesn't have to pretend that he likes it, or analyze the meaning behind it - it's just divine. "It's absolutely perfect," he answers sincerely. "I can't get over it. It means more to me than you could possibly ever know. Your daughter's extremely talented and kind. I'll send her a thank you note, of course, but the next time she visits, will you ask a member of my staff to contact me? I'd like to thank her personally, as well."

"Will do." Mr. Godfrey looks wistful. "Birthdays are great, aren't they?"

Wilson doubts very much that this particular patient will live long enough to see another birthday, and the thought fills him with sadness, but somehow, the rough edges of the grief have been smoothed over. When he died, Mr. Godfrey would be going on to a better place. Wilson had believed in an afterlife before, but having faith was not the same as knowing. He nods. "Yes, Mr. Godfrey," he says softly, "they're the best."

Wilson lays the painting aside and takes the tenderhearted man's hand in both of his - careful not to hurt him. "Thank you for this. I'll treasure it always. I've got to go, now. My friend is taking me out to dinner, and for the first time, he's agreed to pick up the tab." He winks. "The thought of having to delve into his wallet has hit him hard. He's been lying down in my office all day with a damp cloth across his forehead."

Mr. Godfrey looks pleased for him. "You go, Doc. Enjoy yourself."

Wilson lays Mr. Godfrey's hand gently back down on the blanket.

"Don't have too much alcohol, now," Mr. Godfrey jokes.

"Oh, don't worry, I won't." Wilson looks back over his shoulder, and there's a wide-eyed look of innocence on his face that would have bothered a certain angel if he'd still been around to see it.

Fortunately, he wasn't.

"For some reason, House has banned it," Wilson says.

The end.

Devil's Playground - chapter 11

fayding-fast@supanet.com — Sun, 04 Jan 2009 18:46:39 GMT

Title: Devil's Playground
Author: Fayding_fast
Chapter: 11/12
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em
Rating: PG
Pairing: House/Wilson (pre-slash)
Spoilers: Yes, for Wilson's Heart
Con-crit? Yes please and thank you kindly.
Summary: House meets a strange man who promises House that he can help him to get his friendship with Wilson back on track.

Deeply engrossed in a novel when Andrew pays him a visit, House isn't in the mood for pleasantries; he only looks up long enough to see who his guest is. "I'm not accepting cold callers today," he says. "Cuddy's depending on me to save lives."

"No wonder the morgue's overflowing," Andrew mutters under his breath.

"What?" House regards him with suspicion.

Knowing the Sahara desert will freeze over before House manages to collect his manners, Andrew helps himself to a seat. "Oh, it was nothing important," he says, waving a hand airily. He looks at House with an expression of supreme innocence. "Good book?"

"Looks promising. It's about a dominatrix." House briefly shows him the cover, and Andrew's mind is forever branded with a visual that's all whips, chains and leather. "If you buzz off, I might get a chance to read it."

"Some things are sent to try us," Andrew points out. And since you insinuated yourself into Wilson's life, I should know. He moves things along. "You're not going to ask me why I'm here?"

"Do I look interested?" House licks the pad of his index finger and turns another page.

"No, not especially, but as a favor, I'll tell you anyway. I came to offer you the chance to save the life of someone you actually care about."

House still doesn't look particularly intrigued. "I don't care about anyone," he says.

"Not even Doctor Wilson?" Brow furrowing, House pretends that he's still absorbed in his book, but Andrew can tell that he's struck a nerve: House repeatedly skims over the same sentence. "Your pardon," Andrew says. "I was under the impression that you two were friends."

"We are." House finally condescends to give Andrew his undivided attention. "He's the exception to the rule. We're best friends. And more." He flutters his eyelashes outrageously. "We're sleeping together."

Unlike House, Andrew doesn't bat an eyelid. "Good for you," he says. "That explains a lot."

"In between bouts of screwing, we've also been known to have the occasional talk," House continues. "If Wilson's feeling poorly, he would have told me."

Andrew shrugs. "And yet, you're sitting here nonchalantly reading a book. You're not in the least bit concerned about his mental health?"

House leans back in his chair and lays his book down, open, on his stomach. "His mental health? He seemed perfectly happy last night," he muses. His face is suddenly bisected by a smug grin. "You should have heard him scream."

In sheer frustration? Andrew has been blessed with almost limitless patience, but even so, House can quickly wear him down. He stands up smoothly. "Well, I'll leave you to your fantasy, Doctor House," he says. He makes it to the door before House deigns to speak again.

"You think you know him better than I do? You've known him for what - a couple of weeks? I've known him for years." There is a tiny but noticeable pause. "Bet you'll never guess how we first met," House challenges him.

Andrew would have kept on walking, but he receives a mild rebuke. When Wilson is experiencing difficulties, House seeks refuge in denial, the voice reminds him. You're well aware of that. Wouldn't it be unkind to leave him in ignorance?

"That's a tricky one," Andrew replies, turning around. "Let me think. If I were to guess, I'd say that you were both held captive - Wilson by iron bars and you by his beauty. Am I right?" Andrew watches as House's eyes bulge in shock, and he sighs inwardly. He hasn't even explained the main purpose of his visit yet. He decides to go for broke. "You really know him that well? You discuss everything?"

"Yes," House answers cautiously. "And it's Doctor Wilson."

"Did he like the poster?"

"Poster?" House rubs his forehead.

"The Hitchcock poster? The one we both gave him for his birthday."

House jerks and turns chalk white. "How do you know about that?" he whispers. His novel falls, forgotten, to the floor. "We've only just met. This isn't real; I'm dreaming."

"No, you're not." Andrew doesn't give him a chance to recover. "Last Thursday, I prevented Wilson from jumping off the hospital roof," he says flatly.

House shakes his head violently. "No," he says. "He wouldn't do that. You're lying."

"I never lie. Two weeks before that, Wilson watched as a truck approached, and then he purposefully walked out in front of it. I saved his life then, too. He's not going to look so pretty if he's smeared all over a sidewalk, is he?"

House covers his mouth with his fingers. "What kind of sick joke is...?"

"You need to talk to him."

"Wilson wouldn't take his own life. I know..."

"You know nothing. Your friend is very, very ill. I can't stress that enough, House. You need to tell him what you did."

"What I did?" House looks lost and overwrought, but Andrew's determined not to feel sorry for him.

"That you lied to him during the DBS. Amber didn't try to pick you up in the bar. I'd keep quiet about the timeshift, though. If he discovers that you could have jumped back and stopped her from getting on the bus but chose not to, that's not going to help his recovery."

"God," House says. He stands up on legs that threaten to buckle. "How could I have been such an idiot? You work for Michael."

Andrew stares at him, stunned. "I don't work for Michael," he says. "Nothing could be further from the truth. And you're not an idiot, although you are a little naive." His tone and gaze soften. "All I'm trying to do - all I've ever tried to do - is look out for Wilson. Believe it or not, I can understand why you arranged those deals, House. You try to hide it, but I know you care about him deeply; I know you love him. I realize that you didn't intend to hurt him, but the problem is, you have. You need to help him. You need to do it soon, before it's too late."

"There's nothing wrong with Wilson," House insists. He sets his jaw stubbornly. "If there is, I... I would have seen it."

"House..." Andrew stops because if House doesn't believe him now, he never will. He points at House's cane, disappointment sculpting his mouth into an unhappy camber. "Perhaps you should get that white stick."

*

After ejecting the DVD and switching off the television with an excessively dramatic snap of the wrist, House turns to the man sitting next to him. "Well?" he wants to know.

Body relaxed in a boneless sprawl, Wilson blinks at him drowsily. "It was watchable, I guess," he says quietly.

House elbows him in mock annoyance. "Watchable? You heathen; it was bitchin'." Sweeping up his glass, he shifts to face his friend more fully.

Andrew had been lying through his porcelain-veneered teeth, House decides, swallowing a mouthful of beer mechanically. Wilson's assistant had either been wildly exaggerating or he'd been stirring things up - attempting to cause trouble. Well, his ploy had failed spectacularly because House is buying none of it. Wilson is fine - he's sure of it. He is living with Wilson. He's observing him on a daily basis; he had been sleeping every night with the man cocooned in his arms. If his friend was suicidal, wouldn't he know?

Sure, Wilson had been somewhat withdrawn, but that could be attributed to tiredness. And so what if Wilson had taken to staring absently into space a little too often for House's liking. Wasn't a man entitled to daydream? Even Wilson's rapid weight loss wasn't a huge cause for concern. When Wilson became stressed, his appetite dwindled; that was just the way he was. The man's avoirdupois tended to go up and down like a yo-yo.

No, the notion that his friend could be thinking about taking his own life was inconceivable. Absurd. House has given this a lot of thought. Wilson is the most resilient person he knows. His friend is invincible. House is perfectly content to leave it at that.

Only...

"I was in serious trouble, House."

Suppose Andrew hadn't been lying? Suppose - defying all expectations - the interfering busybody had been telling the truth? If Wilson had tried to commit suicide, then that would mean that House had... that House had...

Blood pounds angrily at House's temples.

That he'd as good as murdered him. Plain and simple.

Wilson is gazing at his wrists, his expression almost wistful, and House is suddenly apprehensive. He sets his glass down on the table and resolves to set his mind at rest, once and for all. "Wilson?" he says.

"Yeah?" Rejoining the world of the living, Wilson looks across at him.

"Can you summarize the plot?"

"What? What are you talking about?" Wilson frowns at him, confused.

"The plot. Of that movie we've just watched." House points blindly at the now silent television, watching as a blush creeps up Wilson's neck and adds a bright swathe of color to his normally pale face.

"I..." Wilson stares at the television as if hoping to see a still from the movie burnt helpfully into the screen. "I..."

"Come on! Hurry up; rigor mortis is setting in. What was it? Western? Thriller? Comedy?" House's gaze is shrewd, his eyes unsmiling. "Extra bonus points if your synopsis turns me on."

Highly embarrassed, Wilson glances at him and then stares fixedly down at his hands. "I wasn't really paying attention," he confesses. "I was distracted."

"You sat there and didn't take anything in?" House is incredulous. "For over two solid hours?"

Shoulders tightening up, Wilson eases out of his slouch. He nods guardedly.

House is beginning to hyperventilate. I shouldn't have started this, he thinks. I don't wanna know. Keen to avoid a second panic attack, he takes a deep breath. "What about the time you walked out in front of that truck? Were you distracted then, too?"

Wilson's cheeks bleach to white in approximately two seconds. He starts to push himself up off the couch, but House grasps the sleeve of his sweatshirt.

"I need an answer," House says grimly.

Gaze darting wildly around the room, Wilson is fretful. Caught off-guard. "It was raining," he says finally. "I wasn't looking where I was going. I was walking down unfamiliar streets. I got... confused." His left hand lifts and flutters helplessly - a nervous reaction - before he lets it fall back limply into his lap.

"You got confused? Is that what happened last week? You thought you were a meadow lark or a red-tailed hawk, or something?" House tightens his grip on Wilson's arm when Wilson tries to flee again and forces the man to sit back down. "Huh?" he demands, shaking his friend. He's inexplicably furious. "Tell me. Is. That. What. Happened? When you tried to fly off the roof?"

Wilson doubles over, sucking in huge, sobbing breaths.

Oh, Christ, House thinks, the full horror of the situation just beginning to sink in. He can no longer pretend that he hadn't fucked up royally, not now, when the repercussions are smacking him - slap-bang - in the face. Oh, God, I can't believe this. Andrew was right.

"Talk to me," House whispers, curling over with him, faint with nausea. "Were you confused, then?"

Weakly, Wilson tries to pull his arm free, and all at once, House is filled with foreboding. He sits bolt upright. Dread nibbling at his sanity, he roughly pushes up Wilson's sleeve. He doesn't know what he's expecting to see - a mess of cross-hatched scars or bandages or raw, seeping wounds, but he finds nothing like that at all when he exposes Wilson's inner wrist. Just flawless, unbroken skin. With aching gentleness, he rolls the edge of the sleeve back down and meets Wilson's eyes, at a complete loss.

"I've thought about it," Wilson admits with reluctance, and House can't bear to hear any more.

"Okay, Wilson," House replies numbly.

"I think about it constantly," Wilson informs him.

Sickened, House nods. He closes his eyes, suddenly feeling old beyond all measure, but his attempt to withdraw is rudely cut short. Cool hands frame his face, and there's regret in the fingertips.

"I'm so sorry," Wilson murmurs.

House's eyes snap open. "Don't you dare apologize," he says hoarsely. Reaching out tentatively, he puts an arm around his damaged friend. Wilson doesn't seem inclined to object, so he draws him in slowly until their shoulders brush. House is beside himself with grief. He'd done this. He'd struck bargain after bargain with Michael and, in so doing, he'd systematically destroyed his best friend. Little by little. Piece by piece. If Andrew hadn't been around to save him, Wilson would be lost to him already.

"We'll get through this, you and me," House says, his voice low and urgent - his cheek pillowed by tousled hair. "But I need you to promise me something. Swear to me that you won't try anything stupid like that again."

Fingers playing with the hem of House's t-shirt, Wilson keeps his head bowed - his expression shielded. "I promise," he intones dutifully, and the words sound wonderfully convincing.

So convincing, in fact, that if he'd spoken them to anybody else, they would have missed the hesitation.

*

House waits until Wilson has been asleep for several hours, and then he dresses, with difficulty, in the dark. Once he's fully clothed, House lays back down on the bed and shifts nearer to his beloved - close enough to feel his warmth.

He owes Wilson an apology. He very nearly offers a verbal one. But how could a blurted "sorry" possibly atone for all this? Still, hopefully, his actions will speak for him and with more eloquence: he's willing to sell his soul. House clears his throat. "You've been a pain in the ass since the moment I first clapped eyes on you," he says instead. It's the kind of stinging insult he flings at Wilson every day, so House can't understand why his voice breaks.

Wilson, who could sleep surrounded by a pack of whooping hyenas, doesn't stir.

House kisses his shoulder, his lips pressing lightly - with terrible delicacy - against the bare skin. "I'm gonna fix this," he murmurs.

He rolls carefully off the bed and grabs his cane. He detests saying goodbye, especially to Wilson, so he makes his slow, ungainly way out of the bedroom without so much as a backward glance. He's irked when he finds Andrew sitting waiting for him in his living room. "Foreman a role-model?" he snaps.

Andrew raises an eyebrow.

"Okay, dumb question. If barriers of time aren't an obstacle, breaking and entering must be a snap." House shrugs into his jacket. "Switch the lights off before you leave," he says.

Andrew stands up and walks around the end of the couch. He smiles genially. "Where are you going?"

"Local store. We're fresh outta milk." House picks up his bike keys. "Wilson becomes insufferable when he's deprived of his morning frosted flakes."

Andrew's smile fades. "This isn't a laughing matter, House."

"You hear me laughing?"

"You're going out to sign that contract."

House sighs heavily. "What else can I do?"

"There's plenty you could do! For starters, you can tell Wilson that you lied."

"No, I can't."

Andrew spreads his hands. "Why?"

"Because it's out of the question. If I tell him that I lied to him, he'll hate me. They'll never be any chance of a reconciliation. It's better this way. Everything will revert back to normal. Nothing will have changed."

"Yes, it will." Andrew paces away, then whirls back to resume arguing. "The timeline will revert back to normal, but you would have sold your soul. You sign that contract and there's no get-out clause, House. It's not like joining a gym class where you can just bail out if you don't enjoy it. It's binding. You'll be facing an eternity of torture. Of agony."

House indicates his leg. "I'm in agony, now."

Andrew laughs in disbelief. "If you go to hell, you'll experience pain, the likes of which you have never known. You're not going to be able to ease the torment by swallowing a couple of Vicodin, House. You think you know what agony is? You haven't got a clue. You've got no idea at all. Go back to bed, try to get some sleep, and tomorrow morning, you can tell Wilson what you did. Even if he hates you for the rest of your life, it's infinitely better than that."

Half-smiling, House looks down at the carpet, and when he looks up again, his eyes are clear. Determined. "I don't like you," House says. "Never have, never will." He jingles the keys he is holding, anxious to get going. "But Wilson trusts you. Once Michael alters the timeline again, Wilson won't be talking to me. It might take a while for us to patch things up. Will you... watch over him for me?"

Andrew glances towards the bedroom. "I'm telling you, you can't do this," he says.

House starts to open the front door, and then his entire body convulses, all the liquid in his cells boiling and expanding as if exposed to an intense fire. Face contorted by a silent scream, he crashes to the ground.

"That wasn't real." Andrew kneels on the carpet in front of him and touches House's shoulder. "You're okay," he says, "it's all over."

Sweat pouring off of his face, House peers dazedly up at him. "You... you bastard." House's limbs are still jumping. "You s... son of a..."

"I'm sorry, House, but that was a taste of what you'll be facing." Andrew strokes the damp hair. "That lasted a mere split-second. Imagine experiencing that degree of pain for time without end."

"Help... help me up."

Andrew glares at him, frustrated. "House..."

Teeth clenched, House rolls over and tries to get his knees under him. He's as weak as a newborn colt. "Help me up."

Silently, Andrew assists House back onto his feet.

Bending over and bracing his hands on his hips, House tries to catch his breath. "Give me my keys."

Andrew scoops them up off the floor but holds onto them. "Don't go out there."

House snatches the keys away from him. Shakily, he puts his hand on the door.

"Don't meet Michael," Andrew warns him. "If you don't want to tell Wilson the truth, then keep quiet and do nothing. Better to leave things the way they are than for you to go back to that bar."

"You don't get it, do you?" House glares at Andrew with cold disdain. "This is my fault! How long will it be before I return home to find him swinging from the ceiling, huh? Or lying on the bathroom floor in a pool of blood." He shudders violently. "How will I live with that?"

Andrew looks at him evenly. "We'll find other ways to help him. If it comes down to it, we can have him committed. I can't allow you to do this." He tries something new. "Wilson wouldn't want you to do this."

"Wilson's suicidal," House hisses at him. "He's not capable of rational thought. All Wilson wants is for his life to be over." Blue eyes gaze at Andrew, dulled by remorse and self-disgust. "I am going to do this," he says softly. "Hell is where I belong. I'm a monster." If Andrew has anything else to say on the subject, House doesn't wait around to hear it. Stumbling out of his apartment, he closes both the topic and the door.

The door, he double locks behind him.

To be continued.

Devil's Playground- chapter 10

fayding-fast@supanet.com — Fri, 05 Dec 2008 20:04:12 GMT

Title: Devil's Playground
Author: Fayding_fast
Chapter: 10/12
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em
Rating: R
Pairing: House/Wilson (pre-slash)
Spoilers: Yes, for Wilson's Heart
Con-crit? Yes please and thank you kindly.
Summary: House meets a strange man who promises House that he can help him to get his friendship with Wilson back on track.

All life is sacred. Wilson had been taught that from a very early age - practically, just a babe in arms. The preservation of human life should be valued above all else.

But when the Grim Reaper was dawdling and you were tired of hurting, tired of worrying, sick to death of the grind of day to day living... well... was it such a terrible sin if you took measures to quicken his steps?

Wilson thinks not. It's his life, he reasons, pushing open the bathroom door and following through, without knocking. If he chooses to end it prematurely, then, surely that should be up to him.

Brushing his teeth when Wilson enters, House freezes, surprised at the interruption. He stares at Wilson in the mirror and raises a quizzical eyebrow. "Hoping for an eyeful?" he asks.

Without acknowledging him, Wilson leans back against the door, the topic of suicide, as ever, taking pride of place in his thoughts. How many ways are there for a man to take his own life? he muses. Dozens, at least. Maybe, hundreds. He mentally ticks them off. Carbon Monoxide poisoning. Starvation. Exsanguination. Now, that was a possibility. He knows where to carve to inflict the most damage and in which direction to cut.

Wilson looks around the bathroom vaguely, wondering if House buys razor blades and if he does, where he keeps them.

"Some perv you are." Still keeping an eye on him, House spits into the basin. Toothpaste froths between his lips.

He looks rabid, Wilson thinks absently. He returns to his original line of thought. What about drowning?

Wilson pictures driving to the coast, divesting himself of his clothes and walking out into the cold, dark sea. He imagines what it would feel like to drift limply beneath the waves. Drowning was supposed to be one of the best ways to go, wasn't it? Almost peaceful? Still, knowing his luck, he'd be rescued by a pod of dolphins, he thinks gloomily. However, it was possible to drown in just two to three inches of water. Wilson eyes the bathtub with interest.

House clears his throat. "Wilson?"

"Yeah?" he says, tensing.

"If I booked you in for a brain scan, would they find one?" House finishes rinsing out his mouth and gropes for a dry towel. "You're acting like a flake. What's wrong?"

"What makes you think something's wrong?" Tilting his head, Wilson examines his friend curiously.

"Haven't I just answered that?" House snaps, vexed. He blots his mouth, then throws the towel aside and turns to face him. "You, however..."

What else? Drug overdose. House has enough pills stashed away here to kill a whole army. He also owns a gun. Bullet fired into the brain is pretty effective. And quick. "Nothing's up," Wilson says, shrugging.

"Don't give me that." House frowns at him. Assessing. Interpreting body language. "Where have you been?" he asks finally.

Wilson swallows. "Went to see Cuddy." He crosses one foot over the other and jams his thumbs into denim pockets. "I'm going back to work."

House's back stiffens. "Great! We're going to be finding bald, little kiddie heads spinning around in a centrifuge. We can use them for bowling."

Sucking in a huge, gulping breath, Wilson blinks rapidly, in pain and shock. Then there's... there's... He squeezes the bridge of his nose, then savagely rubs the back of his neck. There's jumping. Off of a roof, bridge or cliff. Electric-shock. House would know all about sticking a utensil into a wall socket; maybe he can give me some pointers. Hanging - another good one. Easy. All I'd need for that is a rope or belt. His eyes widen. Or a tie.

Wilson pushes himself away from the door and turns to leave.

"Not so fast." House takes hold of his arm and jerks him back.

Wilson tries to place his hands on House's chest to shove him away, but House is stronger. Two stumbling steps later and Wilson's forced to stand in front of the basin, House's hands bearing down onto his shoulders, effectively immobilizing him.

"Take a good, long look in the mirror," House's low voice rasps from behind him. "What do you see?"

Wilson glimpses hollow eyes and sunken cheeks before he shifts his gaze and glares accusingly at House. He's livid. "I know what you see. Someone on a par with Freddy Krueger! You think I'm a raving psycho!"

"No, I don't." House shakes him slightly, long fingers remorselessly digging in. "I see a man that's been knocked off his feet. You're walking around in a daze. How can you be fit enough to go back to work?"

"House, I run a department. I have responsibilities."

"Your first responsibility is to take care of yourself. Cuddy told you to take as much bereavement leave as you need. Why rush back? Wait until you feel better."

"I am better. Much better." Wilson stares earnestly into the cynical eyes. "I've already lost too much time."

"Baloney. You've lost nine days. Your department's running along fine without you."

Wilson shakes his head obstinately. "Not as smoothly."

House rolls his eyes in exasperation. "Aren't you the indispensable one."

The two men stare at each other in an all too common battle of wills, and then, unexpectedly, House's grip gentles. He slides his hands lightly down Wilson's arms to his wrists, then, briefly letting go, he leans forwards and wraps his arms carefully around Wilson's waist in a loose embrace. "You've lost a lot of weight," he notes unhappily.

The temperature in the room warms up by several degrees.

Wilson's body relaxes. He rests his hands on the edge of the washbasin. "What am I still doing here, House?" he asks, trying to focus a mind that, recently, has been reluctant to play ball.

"What do you mean?"

"I thought that I'd stay on to keep an eye on you but, lately..." Wilson considers breaking away from House's hold, but ever since he'd lost Amber, he gains a lot of comfort from being touched. Had House, somehow, picked up on that? He stays put - a willing prisoner. "Who's taking care of whom?"

House has the nerve to sound faintly amused. "Does it matter?"

"Yes," Wilson says adamantly. He echoes House's solemn words of ages past. "It matters."

House pulls a face. "It shouldn't."

Where was I? I'm losing track. Oh, yeah. Exposure. Not so keen on that one. Car-crash. Hmm. Yeah, okay. Poison. Didn't I read somewhere that some fool intentionally swallowed a poisonous spider, once? Wilson imagines eight hairy legs wriggling around in his mouth and almost heaves.

"Cuddy told me my assistant resigned yesterday. He came into some inheritance. I've worked with him for a long time, House. He hasn't even bothered to call me to say goodbye."

House nods slowly. "You blame him? If I came into some money, I wouldn't call you, either; I'd be off. He's looking after number one. Sulk but learn."

"Cuddy's filled his position already. She introduced me to my new assistant, today." Wilson straightens up, then leans back casually, without thinking, against House's chest. His friend, wholly delighted, shifts his weight further onto his left leg to compensate.

Wilson stares into the reflected blue eyes. "His name's Andrew. I know this guy; I bumped into him last week. When I went for that walk." He inhales shakily. Blowing yourself to kingdom come with sticks of dynamite or a home-made bomb. How many is that? Twelve? Thirteen? Inhalation of volatile substances. "I was in serious trouble, House. Andrew helped me. Came out of nowhere. I trusted him on sight."

There, at last, he's finally admitted it.

House's electric gaze intensifies, keen as a sword.

Wilson sighs with profound relief. Here it comes, he thinks. He'd set the trap and House, nose twitching, curiosity piqued, had snatched up the bait. "Trouble?" House will probe gently. "You didn't mention this last week. What kind of trouble?"

And Wilson, thus encouraged, can confess everything. He can spell out what a chore it is to get out of bed in the morning. He can divulge that he has to force himself to bathe and get dressed. He can explain that the reason he's losing weight is because, half the time, he can't be bothered to eat, and when he does actually force something down his throat, all the food tastes the same and like cardboard.

He can tell House that he'd deliberately stepped out in front of a truck.

Would House go ballistic? Probably. His friend would scream at him and mock him and because House would be truly frightened, he might even hit him. But House would eventually calm down, and when he did, he would try to help. Wilson knows this for a fact. House's idea of assistance would not be like anyone normal's, but it would serve its purpose. It would keep him afloat.

Who was taking care of whom? It shouldn't matter, House had said, and House was right.

House opens his mouth, preparing to speak, and Wilson holds his breath.

"You can't trust someone on sight," House informs him dismissively. "It takes decades to get to know someone. Everyone has an agenda. You met this guy last week, and now he's working for you? Don't you find that totally weird?"

A man in freefall, Wilson grips House's forearms tightly - disappointment bitter on his tongue.

"You're too gullible," House scolds him. "Don't let your guard down around this man. Show some caution. Give me a chance to check him out. You listening?"

Skin waxen, Wilson nods jerkily. Suffocation, he thinks, his vision blurring. That's... that's fifteen. Um. Self-immolation...

*

"You sit here. In your plush little office..."

Mouth thinning, Wilson looks down at his desk.

"You're incompetent," Mrs. Cleland says.

"I'm not incompetent, Mrs. Cleland." His patient looks at him with glacial eyes, and Wilson stares right back, just as coldly. "If you'd bothered to seek professional help as soon as you first discovered the lump, instead of waiting eleven months with your head buried in the sand, perhaps we'd be looking at a more favorable prognosis."

"Who do you think you are?" She trembles with a mixture of grief and rage. "I'll be taking this further," she says. "I'm suing this hospital. I'm suing you."

"Fine. But be advised - legal proceedings can drag on for months." Wilson stands up and sweeps a trembling hand towards the door. "If I were you, I'd get a move on."

*

Immersed in paperwork, he picks up the phone on the eighth ring. "Wilson," he murmurs tiredly. He listens to the person on the other end, then peers, bleary-eyed, at his watch. "What, now?" he says. He listens some more. "Okay, I'll cover. I'll be straight down. No, it's okay. I understand. I know you're short-staffed." He puts the phone back in its cradle and buries his head in his hands.

"God," he says.

*

He accidentally knocks his mug flying. Scalding coffee spills out onto his desk and over his hand. Wilson doesn't even flinch. He watches as brown liquid soaks into the report he'd just finished writing up, smudging the ink. Droplets sprinkle like shed tears all over his keyboard. A pool of coffee drips off of his desk and trickles steadily onto the floor.

Wilson looks down at the stains spreading rapidly across his white coat, then lifts unseeing eyes.

Abruptly, he shoves his chair back.

*

Taking a deep breath to compose himself, Andrew steps out onto the hospital roof. The door eases quietly shut behind him. "Doctor Wilson," he calls, and damn it, if he can't still hear the terror - the shrill note in his voice. "Step away from the edge."

There's a moment when he can almost taste Wilson's frustration.

Jerking his hands off the wall, Wilson turns with a smile designed to scorch Andrew's eyes. "I'm not going to jump," he says brightly. "I'm just unwinding."

"You can unwind just as easily in the oncology lounge," Andrew says, smiling pleasantly back at him. "After I've glued down all the knives."

Wilson presses his fingertips to the sides of his head, his face scrunching up as if he's experiencing extreme pain. "Look," he breathes, his tone defeated. He drops his hands and puts them together in an attitude of prayer. "Andrew, I swear I wasn't going to do anything stupid. Please," he begs, "I really need a moment to myself." He looks at his new assistant pleadingly. "You can go back in. I'll follow you. l... I'll see you down there shortly."

Andrew studies him as if he's a specimen on a slide. "As you tumble past the window?"

Wilson actually laughs. "No," he says, his tone now light. "I'll take the more orthodox route. Believe me, I'm fine."

Andrew hesitates, then nods. Reaching behind him, he pushes the stairwell door slightly open. "I'll meet you in the lounge in a minute, then."

"Sure." Wilson smiles again. "I'll be right there." He lifts his hand in a half-wave, and then he lunges for the wall.

Had all things been equal, he would have gone over it.

But Andrew can't be fooled, and he is quick, determined and knows this human very, very well. He alights gracefully on the wall before Wilson's feet have left the ground.

Looking up, startled by his abrupt appearance, Wilson staggers backwards with a cry of alarm.

Crouching, Andrew shoots out a hand to steady him. "Don't be scared," he says. "I'm not here to hurt you."

Wilson stares at him, his eyes huge.

"Though, why I'm bothering to reassure you..."

"Who...?" Wilson looks Andrew up and down. "Who the hell are you?"

"I'm someone who's got their work cut out for them." Andrew directs a quick glare towards the heavens. Composure unraveling like a good mystery, Andrew leaps nimbly down off the wall and is secretly impressed when Wilson refuses to flinch. "This is what happens," he lectures, "when humans meddle with forces they don't understand."

"Humans?" Wilson asks. He stays within Andrew's reach. "You're not one of us; is that what you're saying?"

"I'm not saying anything," Andrew replies. His gaze tracks over Wilson's face. "You're not afraid of me, are you?"

"Why should I be?" Wilson looks down as if in shame. "You've saved my life twice."

"And no doubt, I'll be forced to do it again; am I right?"

Meeting his eyes unyieldingly, Wilson doesn't answer.

Andrew's gaze becomes pensive, and then he sighs. This wasn't Wilson's fault. How? he wonders. How had things gotten this bad? "You're really that desperate to die?" he asks extraordinarily gently. "You have no reason to stay alive?" Wilson closes his eyes briefly, and Andrew knows he's thinking about House. Good, he thinks. You must realize that if House loses you, he will never survive. Especially, if you die at your own hand. Newborn hope is decimated when Wilson shakes his head mournfully.

"No, I don't," Wilson replies.

Despairing, Andrew glances away. Well, you're not going to kill yourself, he thinks grimly. Not on my watch. He looks back into the drained face and understands that if he doesn't take drastic action and soon, then those dark, wretched eyes would forevermore be unhappy.

"Think again," Andrew says.

To be continued.

Devil's Playground - chapter 9

fayding-fast@supanet.com — Sun, 09 Nov 2008 19:59:55 GMT

Title: Devil's Playground
Author: Fayding_fast
Chapter: 9/12
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em
Rating: PG
Pairing: House/Wilson (pre-slash)
Spoilers: Yes, for Wilson's Heart
Con-crit? Yes please and thank you kindly.
Summary: House meets a strange man who promises House that he can help him to get his friendship with Wilson back on track.

Hobbling out of the bathroom and into his bedroom, House stops, disconcerted, when he finds Wilson sitting miserably on the end of his bed, rather than lying nestled under the covers as expected. He would have been surprised to find his friend snoring peacefully, but still... He tests turbid water with a leer. "Ready for some fun and debauchery?"

"I should call Amber's parents."

House frowns at him. Wilson's voice is too quiet and his pain too loud, and dressed only in a t-shirt and a pair of boxers, Wilson is displaying an unsettling amount of skin. House scrapes his thumbnail across his brow, suddenly uneasy. I should never have offered to share the bed. "Cuddy's taking care of that, remember? You were with me when we..."

"I have to arrange Amber's funeral," Wilson interrupts him.

House's gaze slides down Wilson's body to his bare feet and then back to his face. He can feel his nerves fraying, and he takes in a shuddering breath - strives to sound practical. "Not now, you don't; it's the middle of the night."

"Oh." Wilson looks around the bedroom, lost.

Something inside House shatters. He clears his throat. Wilson is too vulnerable. He needs to get Wilson out of his room and quickly. Before he does something unforgivably stupid. "Look, I'm a restless sleeper," he mumbles and cringes when the dark, troubled eyes lock onto his. He squares his shoulders - decides to carry on regardless. "I'm thinking, maybe, you'd be better off on the couch."

Wilson stands up without a word. Gaze trained on the floor, he starts to move past his friend, but House tuts in irritation - stops him by wrapping strong, supple fingers around his arm.

"Forget I said that."

Wilson meets his eyes, confused.

"Damn it!" House stares into space, and then, aggrieved, he stomps over to the bed and lifts a corner of the duvet, yanking it back. He's irrationally annoyed with Wilson. What had happened to Wilson's armor? To his emotional defences? Why hadn't he warned House that simple words could cut him this deeply? That he was terrifyingly fragile? That he could ever be this hurt? House shakes the duvet impatiently. "You getting in or what?"

Subdued, Wilson walks over and glides past him, the brush of his body setting House's nerves on edge. Wilson takes the duvet from him and smiles tentatively. "Thanks, House," he says softly.

House nods with gritted teeth. "Don't get too used to it," he snarls. Moodily, he limps around to his own side of the bed. Despite his reservations, once he's finally settled, he sighs with relief. He's just about to extinguish the light when a cold foot brushes against his shin. Yelping, he jerks his leg away. His gaze snaps to the left. "What are you...?"

Wilson has turned over on his side to face him. "House," he says very quietly.

"Yeah?" Frozen in place, House stares warily at Wilson. He takes in the vivid purple bruising under Wilson's eyes, and in the privacy of his own mind, he acknowledges that the man beside him is no longer his best friend. He's recently acquired a new one: guilt. He's still regarding Wilson apprehensively when Wilson lifts a trembling hand and cups his jaw. Uncertain, House drops his gaze. "Wilson," he begins, "we're both exhausted. You're not..."

Wilson's hand drifts lazily down the front of House's throat, and his words abruptly dry up. After all, this is what he'd wanted, isn't it? This is why he'd lied to Wilson. Manipulated him. Wounded him. This is what he'd planned for all along.

Wilson makes this gasping sound in his throat, and House tenses automatically. Was that a sob? "You don't..." he tries to reassure him, but then, in one smooth, graceful movement, Wilson's sitting up and leaning over him. Impossibly soft lips are pressed against his and any noble intentions House may have had are swept away like leaves down a drain.

The kiss is confident and devastating. Eyes closing to better appreciate it, House's hands find their way to the small of Wilson's back to hold him in place. At last, he thinks dizzily. At long last. Wilson.

As much as House would like the kiss to continue on indefinitely, eventually starving lungs force him to break it, and the moment he does, again, he hears that disturbing, helpless whimper.

Frowning, House opens his eyes and catching Wilson off guard, he glimpses the wrenching desperation on the other man's face. His blood runs cold. He knows what Wilson's motive is now. He understands what this is.

Hands moving to Wilson's shoulders, House maneuvers him onto his back and rolls carefully with him. House lowers the length of his body on top of his friend's.

Tensing momentarily, Wilson forces himself to relax. He stares up at House, silently waiting.

Supporting himself on his elbows, House strokes Wilson's cheekbones with aching tenderness. "As fuckable as you are..." His hips press forwards to emphasize his point. "As arousing as this is..."

Swallowing audibly, Wilson runs inquisitive fingers through graying hair, then clasps the back of House's neck. If he has any qualms, they're hidden masterfully. He gazes up at House - his expression bordering on outright defiance.

Eyes extraordinarily bright, House smiles sadly. Leaning down, he gently kisses the tantalizing mouth, then nose, then stretches to kiss Wilson's eyelids and tastes the remnants of treacherous tears. He sighs and pulls back, looking down at Wilson with palpable regret. "You don't know what you're doing," he says bluntly.

Humiliation roars into the dark eyes. Bucking, Wilson tries to throw House off.

"Stop it." Clenched fists strike House's shoulders, and despite the fact that Wilson can barely move - that there isn't an inch of space between them - his friend's attack is fueled by the power of embarrassment. The punches hurt. Grabbing his friend's wrists, House uses his superior position to pin Wilson's hands down on either side of his head. "Wilson, I said stop it," he orders again. For a few more moments, his friend continues to struggle until all the fight seems to go out of him, and he lays motionless - pinned beneath House's full weight, panting.

"I meant that you're not thinking clearly." House rests his forehead against Wilson's, a silent apology for all the times he'd thoughtlessly damaged him. Aware that an explanation would temper the pain he'd inflicted on him this time, after a brief few seconds, House reluctantly lifts his head. "I have a fractured skull," he reminds him gently.

Wilson's whole body jerks, and then his face crumples.

"Jesus. Wilson." House rolls off him and pulls the weeping man close. Stretching out his arm blindly, he switches off the lamp and plunges the room into darkness. He clumsily tries to soothe his friend. "I'm not gonna walk out on you," he promises quietly.

"You will, House," Wilson whispers dully. "Everyone walks away from me in the end." He angrily swipes the tears off his face and starts to pull away. "I'll move to the couch."

House tugs him back. "Stop fidgeting, you dimwit. It's like being in bed with an eel." Frustrated, he shakes his head. Adjusting the duvet so that Wilson's body is covered, he instinctively tucks Wilson's head in tightly against his shoulder.

Deathly tired, House knows that he's destined to stay conscious. How can he rest? Hot tears are soaking into his t-shirt. He's made one colossal error after another and left a bloody trail of devastation in his wake.

He wants to fix it. He purposefully tries not to think about how much - or what - that's going to cost him.

Wilson stirs, breathing words of disillusionment into House's neck.

House stares blankly up at the ceiling. He curls a warm, comforting hand over Wilson's waist. "Go to sleep, Wilson," he says.

Wonder of wonders, after a while, Wilson does.

*

"Dear, oh dear; don't we look unhappy." Michael looks House up and down, a bogus frown of sympathy on his face. He makes himself comfortable in the booth. "Things not going as well as expected?"

House looks at him sharply and then looks away. "No," he says scathingly, "they're not."

Cramming a handful of salted peanuts into his mouth, Michael crunches them thoughtfully. "I can see why you might have cause to complain," he says. "You were expecting a taste of forbidden fruit, and you've ended up with a fruit basket."

House thinks about the way Wilson had lain quietly against him all night. He recalls how the dark eyes had blinked slowly open that morning. How Wilson had moved his head and focused on him blearily, not quite awake. He remembers the shy smile that had warmed Wilson's eyes. How, mercifully, before his friend had fully surfaced - before memory had been restored - he'd relaxed against him and drifted straight back to sleep.

Looking into smirking, dark eyes that are nothing like Wilson's, House metaphorically bites his tongue - hard.

Casually wiping salt off his lips with the palm of his hand, Michael studies House curiously. "You could have taken him last night," he says. "Why didn't you?"

"That's none of your business."

"No, you're probably right." Michael smiles good-naturedly. "Why are you here?"

"I'm here because..." House stops, cursing himself for being so nervous. If this all went wrong? "I want you to do something else for me," he says. Apprehensive blue eyes scrutinize Michael's face.

"Oh?" Michael leans back and rests his hands on his belly. "You still trust me? Frankly, I'm surprised you want to do business with me again."

I don't have much choice, House thinks grimly. "Technically," he says, "you've always upheld your side of the bargain. If I'm not happy now, that's my fault, not yours."

Michael nods approvingly. "I like a man who's brave enough to admit when he's made a mistake." He tilts his head. "So what do you want me to do?"

House stares unhappily at the table top for a moment without speaking. What is he doing here? He could have stayed in bed with Wilson. He could be lying there right now, holding the sleeping man captive against him. Soft, silky hair could be tickling the side of his neck. He could be revelling in the other man's scent.

If he put his mind to it, he could pretend that everything was perfect.

House looks up. "I want you to revert things back to the way things were before I first met you," he says.

"What?" Michael regards him sceptically. "Why would you want that? Wilson wasn't even speaking to you, then."

"Because since I've met you, all I seem to have done is either hurt or manipulate him," House explains candidly. His expression is bleak. "I'd rather be alone than force him to be my friend."

"Well, well, you surprise me." Michael's smile is benevolent. "You're capable of putting someone else's needs before your own."

"Can you do it or not?" House snaps.

"Yes, I can do it, but are you prepared to meet the cost?"

"I don't care what it costs," House says impatiently. "I can get a loan. I can...."

Michael shakes his head. "I don't want any more money."

"Well... what do you want?" House asks. He watches, puzzled, as Michael pulls a sheet of folded paper out of his coat pocket and hands it to him. "What's this?" he says, frowning at Michael. He spreads it open.

Michael shrugs. "It's a contract. All you have to do is sign it, and I'll grant your request. It won't cost you a cent."

"If you're not going to take me seriously..." House reads the contract again, scowling.

Michael casually props his chin on his hand. "It's not a joke."

House looks up at Michael's impassive face and waves the paper in the air between them. "This is garbage. I don't understand," he whispers.

"Then allow me to elucidate." Michael points at House's chest. "You deliberately lied to Wilson. You misled him when he was at his most vulnerable. Your actions prevented him saying goodbye to his dying girlfriend. You willfully and maliciously destroyed his last shred of confidence. You..."

White-faced, House hauls himself to his feet.

"I haven't finished," Michael barks.

House grabs his cane. "I think I've heard enough."

"How do you think Wilson will react if he hears about your duplicity?"

House glares at him angrily. "You gonna tell him?"

"No." Michael picks up the sheet of paper that House had flung onto the table and straightens it out. "You're being eaten away by guilt," he says, almost gently. "Sign this. Agree to sell me your soul, and I can guarantee that everything will be fine. Natural order will be restored." He pulls a pen out of thin air and forces it into House's free hand. "Amber will still be dead, but you'd have done everything possible to try to save her. You'd have bent over backwards to help Wilson. He'll see that in good time - be your friend again. He won't be able to accuse you of doing anything wrong."

Dazed, House stares down at the pen and then glances at the contract.

Michael can see he's wavering. "It's not as if you even believe that you have a soul," he says. "You don't believe in an afterlife."

"No, I don't." House takes a deep breath. "I've died more than once. There's nothing."

Michael waits a few moments. "So why are you balking?"

"I don't know." House suddenly feels grubby, as if he's steeped in sin. Without warning, he finds himself yearning for Wilson's company with an intensity that's shocking. He longs to listen to that honeyed voice. Gaze at that beautiful face.

Hastily, House drops the pen. Michael sickens him. He wants nothing more to do with him. If he's going to make amends for how he's mistreated Wilson, House will have to do it on his own.

"Mark my words, you'll come crawling back," Michael calls after him. "Sign it now, and you'll save yourself another journey."

House tunes him out, heading for Wilson and home. One and the same thing, decides House, determined not to get misty eyed.

But, nevertheless, his breath catches.

And he lengthens his stride.

*

"I need to clear my head," Wilson had said.

To his dismay, he'd thought House had been ready to argue. House had opened his mouth, eyes flashing with ire, but then, apparently, he'd seen something in Wilson's face that had changed his mind. He'd moved out of Wilson's way. Reluctantly - but he'd stepped aside.

Now Wilson is questioning the wisdom of going out for a walk. He's drenched, demoralized and hungry, and his head still feels as if it's been stuffed with cotton wool.

"Can you spare any change?"

The man's voice shakes Wilson out of his daze, and he stops and turns to look down into the beggar's uplifted face.

"Please?" the man adds hopefully, sensing an easy mark.

Shivering with cold, icy hands stuffed into his pockets, Wilson takes in the man's gaunt appearance, the coat that's two sizes too big for him, the ripped scarf, the leaking shoes. His gaze falls on the carrier bag that is held loosely in one filthy hand, and the man follows his gaze and clutches the bag possessively to his chest.

"It's mine," he says.

Wilson holds up his palms to placate him. "I know." He glances around. Lost in his own misery, he'd wandered further than he'd intended to. The street is almost deserted, the rain and plummeting temperature keeping most people inside. People with more common sense than him anyway, he thinks ruefully. He pulls out his wallet and extracts a handful of bills without looking at them. "Spend it wisely," he says, bending to place them into the homeless guy's cupped hand.

"No, wait," the guy says, unable to believe his luck. He looks up, but Wilson is already moving away, back in the direction he'd come from. "Thanks, mister," he calls.

Shaking his head, Wilson closes his eyes suddenly feeling impossibly tired. That man could be his brother.

A truck turns into the street, and Wilson halts and watches it approach, watches mesmerized as the headlights pierce the gloom and the rain. The engine revs, the truck accelerating, and so does Wilson's heartrate. It would be so easy, he thinks.

He casts a quick glance back over his shoulder. There's a youngish man walking towards him, but he's a good fifty to sixty yards away. Too far away to be able to do anything. The homeless guy is shuffling off in the opposite direction, bound for the nearest liquor store, no doubt. Wilson would be tempted to follow him if he hadn't just made other plans.

Attention focusing back on the truck, carefully judging its speed and distance, Wilson steps out into the street directly in front of it and then stops.

There's an ear-shattering squeal of brakes.

For the first time in a while, Wilson feels totally at peace. He closes his eyes and waits for impact.

Arms wrap around him from behind in a bearhug, and before he has a chance to protest or struggle, Wilson is pulled safely onto the sidewalk. Mind reeling, he watches numbly as the truck slides safely past him and finally screeches to a halt.

Throwing open the door, the driver leaps out of the truck and starts to advance towards Wilson. "You crazy motherfucker!" he screams, jabbing his finger in Wilson's direction. "Didn't you see me? You trying to kill yourself? You crazy son-of-a..."

"I'll take care of it," Wilson's rescuer says calmly, stepping in front of Wilson. He places a hand on the furious driver's chest. "Seriously, I've got it."

"I'm telling you, that guy's a wacko," the driver yells in disbelief. "He stopped dead. Right in the middle of the fucking road."

"I know. I'll see to it, okay? Leave it with me. Go on, get back in your truck." The stranger watches as the other man stalks angrily back to his vehicle, slams the door behind him hard and drives away. Only then does he turn to address Wilson. "What the hell did you think you were doing?" he demands shakily.

Wilson stares at him. How had this man reached him in time? How had he managed to move so fast? "I... Oh, God." He starts shuddering uncontrollably. The biting cold, he thinks absently. That, and the rush of epinephrine.

The stranger grips his elbow to steady him, his chest rising and falling rapidly. The man was petrified, Wilson realizes belatedly. He'd scared the living daylights out of this good samaritan.

"I..." Wilson's teeth are chattering. "I... I... know what that must have... uh... looked like," he stammers.

"What do you think it looked like?" his companion asks.

The other man's voice is unexpectedly gentle. Wilson finds himself looking into the most compassionate eyes he has ever seen. "I wasn't... I wasn't thinking clearly," he says. He coughs nervously. He can't believe that he's able to talk. That he's still alive. The disappointment threatens to overwhelm him. "I'm okay," he murmurs. "I'm sorry if I scared you."

"You don't look okay."

"No." Wilson forces a smile. "But I'll be alright," he says. "Thanks. For... uh... saving my life. I'll be fine." He hopes the other man will take the hint and leave him alone, but he doesn't. He lingers.

"Where are you heading?" the stranger enquires.

Wilson hesitates. "Baker St," he mumbles finally. He hunches over in embarrassment. He'd almost said 'home'. Amber's body was barely cold, and already, he was staying in House's apartment. For three nights straight now, he'd fallen asleep in House's bed. He almost wishes that his girlfriend was still alive so that he can taunt her and make her jealous. Wilson covers his mouth with his trembling hands as if to muffle the hysterical laughter that insists on bubbling up from his chest.

"You're in shock," the man says. He laughs shortly. "I think I'm in shock, myself." He unbuttons his coat, and heedless of the rain - a regular modern-day Gene Kelly - he shrugs it off. "Here," he says, wrapping it around Wilson's shoulders.

Wilson allows the man to fuss over him, dumbly. The stranger secures the button at Wilson's neck, and the coat must be very warm indeed because Wilson instantly stops shivering.

"Baker St. is just around the corner from me," the man informs him casually. "When you're up to moving, you mind if I tag along?"

"Well..." Wilson can think of all sorts of reasons why that would be a bad idea. "Yes," he says and blushes at his own rudeness. He hastens to explain. "You see... I live with, um, a friend... and I've been out a while. He might be... um... standing at the window when I get back..."

The man nods. "He'll be concerned about you?"

Wilson thinks about it. "Yes." He wishes he had the words to explain House's possessiveness in a way that could make it sound reasonable. Perfectly normal. "If he sees you with me..."

"Ah." The man's smile is understanding. "He might come out and introduce himself?"

Wilson squirms. "You could put it like that." He lowers his gaze. "If you tell him what happened..."

"You know, the sidewalk's really wet," the other man muses aloud. "Paving slabs are uneven."

Eyes widening, Wilson looks up in surprise.

"Anyone a little on the clumsy side could easily stumble," the man continues.

"I've always been a klutz," Wilson ventures cautiously.

The stranger nods pensively. "Course, if you're going to trip, it's better if you fall away from a speeding truck rather than directly under it."

Wilson looks at him warily, unsure as to whether that had been a rebuke. "Next time, I'll bear that in mind," he says.

The stranger studies him intently. "Is there going to be a next time?" he asks, voice deceptively mild.

No, Wilson wants to say, but there's something about the other man that compels him to tell the truth. "I hope not." He flinches slightly, then pastes on the self-deprecating smile that had failed to impress any of his three wives but seemed to work like a charm on House. "I'm going through a rough spell at the moment," he admits.

"You and me both," says the man with real feeling. He looks at Wilson sternly, but when Wilson looks discomfited and starts to avoid his gaze, his demeanor softens. "What's your name? he enquires quietly.

"James," Wilson says, after a pause. Slowly, regretting the fact that he hadn't met this forthright man under better circumstances, Wilson extends his hand. "And yours?"

"Andrew," the man replies. "It's a genuine pleasure to meet you, James." He shakes the proffered hand firmly.

Possessing impeccable manners, Wilson responds automatically. "Likewise."

Andrew smiles impishly. "What do you say, we head for home and out of this rain? And if we bump into your friend today, don't worry - I won't breathe a word." He playfully lifts Wilson's chin and captures his gaze - stares unwaveringly into his eyes. His face becomes deadly serious. "You can trust me. Implicitly."

To be continued.

Devil's Playground - chapter 8

fayding-fast@supanet.com — Sun, 12 Oct 2008 16:26:00 GMT

Title: Devil's Playground
Author: Fayding_fast
Chapter: 8/12
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em
Rating: PG
Pairing: House/Wilson (pre-slash)
Spoilers: Yes, for Wilson's Heart
Con-crit? Yes please and thank you kindly.
Summary: House meets a strange man who promises House that he can help him to get his friendship with Wilson back on track.

He'd been shot down in flames.

Storming out into the corridor, Wilson blinks back frustrated tears. Amber is dying. His brilliant, gorgeous girlfriend. Her life, with all its potential and promise, is being wrenched away from her.

Doesn't anybody care?

He knows what's best for her, yet he's being forced to fight tooth and nail to justify his decisions at every turn. Why is everybody turning against him? Why aren't there more people in his corner supporting him? He's being treated like a raving nuisance. Foreman and Cuddy had acted expressly against his wishes, and even House, his staunchest ally, had just dismissed him.

Wilson isn't stupid. No-one has the faintest idea what's wrong with her - everyone is clutching at fucking straws - but, dear God, Prednisone? It could harm her. It's the wrong course of treatment; Wilson can feel it.

What if it hadn't been the rash? The symptom House had seen. House could have noticed that at any time. Whilst they'd been in the ambulance, or when they'd first arrived at the PPTH. Amber's time is running out. The answer to saving her might still be locked inside House's mind with no way to retrieve it if House...

If House...

Wilson stumbles to a halt. There is a way. Deep brain stimulation. House had suggested it before. Would his friend still be willing to try it? House is poorly himself, but Amber's life is hanging in the balance. His lover's. Amber's.

Damp palms squeezed tightly together, Wilson turns around and walks reluctantly back into House's office. He knows he's walking on thin ice. If he badgers House - if he irritates him - House could and would shut him down. If he wants to awaken his friend's compassion, Wilson will have to choose his words extremely carefully.

With his self-assurance at an all-time low, Wilson takes his first faltering step into a verbal minefield. "Cuddy's right. I was... afraid to do anything. I thought if everything just stopped, it would be..." His words tail off as he looks at his best friend. Really looks at him. House is glancing around his office looking stunned. Disorientated. Wilson's chilled to the bone. "House?" Circling the desk, Wilson falls to his knees before him. "House, look at me."

"I was in a bar," House mutters in a shocked voice.

"Sharrie's," Wilson says slowly. "I know. You took me there." His heart swells with hope. "Have you remembered something?"

"This is impossible," House says. He tries to stand up, but his legs won't support him. He tumbles back gracelessly into the chair.

"House," Wilson says miserably.

"I..." House rubs his face and then locks gazes with him. "Is this another hallucination? Are you real?"

I don't know, Wilson thinks deliriously. He's a highly qualified doctor in his own right - a department head - yet, as far as his colleagues are concerned, his opinions might as well count for nothing. Flustered, he stares up at House mutely, shaking his head.

"I can't tell, either. Your speech. I remember that. God, that seems so long ago," House murmurs, and Wilson's brow furrows in confusion because that had made no sense at all. "You left the room; then you decided to come back."

Wilson's eyes screw tightly shut. Because I'm losing my lover! Because no-one will listen to me!

Already positioned conveniently on his knees, he opens his eyes, fully intending to plead. For years, House had taken absolutely everything Wilson could afford to spare and then had blithely bled him for more. House owed him. For Tritter. For Vogler. For untold grievances and hurts. All his friend had to do to cancel his debts was commit this one, selfless act. Was it so much to ask?

But when he looks up at House, his friend looks pale, dazed and tired, and the entreaty perishes in Wilson's throat. How can he coerce him into doing this, knowing that the trust House has placed in him will disintegrate into dust in his hands?

Weighed down by hopelessness, Wilson's spine bows until his forehead presses against House's knee.

House shifts a little, hovering over him. "You feel real," he murmurs.

Lacking the strength to move, Wilson can barely stand the stress. Was it fair? That he had to worry himself sick over both House's health and Amber's? "Promise me Amber's going to be okay," he implores hoarsely, voice shaking. For a few moments, his only answer is a sickening silence and then gentle fingers start to warily pet his hair.

"Soon," House whispers. "I promise you, soon, we'll be okay."

Wilson's head lifts up. "That's not what I..." He stops, floored by the expression on House's face. It's wistful - infinitely sad - and Wilson frowns, disconcerted. "House? Damn it, what are you hiding? You don't have to protect me. Please, please... if you know something..."

"Tell me why you came back."

Sighing, Wilson ignores him. Feeling twice his actual age, he struggles to climb to his feet. He's going to ensure that House gets some long, overdue rest, and to do that, first, Wilson needs to call for a gurney.

"Tell me." House grips his wrist as Wilson steps by him in order to reach the phone.

Wilson glances at him, distracted. House's voice has gained strength, and indeed, his gaunt face has regained a little color. His eyes are shining, clear and bright. "It doesn't matter," Wilson says. "I'm admitting you. You need sleep."

House's fingers tighten painfully. "You came to ask me if I'd still be prepared to try deep brain stimulation, didn't you?"

Flinching, Wilson jerks his arm away and stares at House wordlessly, rubbing his wrist. How the hell did House know that?

House looks pained, as if he's fighting some internal battle, and then his face becomes tranquil. Eerily composed. "You're afraid that if I don't do this, Amber might die. You want that?"

"No, House, of course I don't." Wilson has made his choice. He makes a monumental effort not to fall apart. "But your health's deteriorating. A moment ago, you didn't even recognize your own surroundings. I'm not about to endanger your life; DBS is too risky."

"Ask me if I'm willing to try it anyway." House stands up quickly, then frowns as if he's realized something. He sways, almost losing his balance.

Shaking his head, Wilson stares at the man he's spent his entire adult life trying to protect. "No," he says. "Look at you - you can barely stand. You're not doing it, and that's final."

"The answer's yes," House informs him. "For you, I'll risk it. Let's go."

Wilson still doesn't budge, and House sighs deeply, restless.

"Wilson, now!" House insists. "Before I change my mind."

*

Head immobilized by a stereotactic frame, House glances to the right to look at Wilson. His friend looks fearful, but whether it's on his behalf because he is about to undergo a potentially life-threatening procedure, or whether Wilson is currently thinking about Amber, who could say?

"I'm inserting the IPG probe into your ventral hypothalamus," Chase says behind him. Then, addressing Wilson, "Give him three volts."

House inhales deeply. It's the second time he's been through this procedure, but it's still nerve racking. Not that there's much danger of him suffering another seizure. With the probe only delivering a charge of three volts, House intends to sing like a canary on speed. Plus, of course, his head injury has had a chance to heal. House grimaces. Does he have a single inch of skin that's not marred by a scar? Still, Michael's magic must be working. Neither Chase nor Wilson have made mention of that little anomaly. Come to think of it, when he'd replaced his earlier self, wouldn't it have been highly improbable that he'd have been wearing exactly the same clothes?

"Sending impulse," Wilson warns him.

House blinks rapidly. Time to put his brilliantly simple plan into operation. As long as he doesn't overthink it or lose his courage, it's virtually guaranteed that it won't fail.

House downs his seventh Scotch and smacks his lips, chasing down every last drop.

Standing just in front of him, the bartender shakes his head in disbelief and scoops up House's keys. "You're not getting them back." To hammer home his words, he saunters away from House and places them, for safekeeping, in his till.

House rolls his eyes. Picking up his phone, he scowls when he realizes he's out of credit. "Hey," he yells.

The bartender turns to stare at him.

"You take my keys, you gotta give me a phone call."

Grudgingly, House's heavily put upon guardian hands over his cell.

"Charming as ever," Wilson notes, and beneath the worry, House can hear the tinge of fondness in his voice. "Who were you calling?"

"My trusty knight in shining armour: You."

"I was on call." Wilson frowns, then sighs in sudden understanding. "You spoke to Amber."

"Yeah. I told her to track you down and have you gallop to my rescue after work."

Wilson nods thoughtfully. "What happened next?"

Impatiently waiting for Wilson, House strokes his brow, then runs his fingers along his jaw. He senses there's a presence behind him, and twisting on his stool, he turns to see Amber. He's not amused. "I said to find Wilson," he says belligerently.

"Does she look sick?"

House hears the tremor in Wilson's voice - the hopeful anticipation, and he purposefully hardens his heart. He has to, in order to get through this. "Not yet."

"House?" Amber runs beautifully manicured nails lightly down his arm. "Mind if we talk?"

"Amber wanted to talk to you?" Wilson seems surprised. "What about?" He steps directly into House's line of vision.

House is forced to gaze into his best friend's dark, apprehensive eyes. It makes lying to him much, much more difficult. "She wanted..." House pauses as if he's replaying the scene. It's imperative that he does this. Hadn't Michael assured him that this was an excellent idea? "She... Look, it's immaterial."

"No, it's not. House? What did Amber say?"

Your acting must be flawless. Don't screw it up. Whatever you do, Don't Screw It Up. "I... I can't tell you."

"House. Please!"

House looks up at him and thinks, I'm doing this all for you. Yes, you'll be mad at first, you'll be hurt, but ultimately, I'm doing you a favor. This will enable you to move on. If you believe that Amber is the lowest of the low - that she's capable of deceiving you - of betraying you - her death will be a lot easier for you to bear. Expression calculatedly open and apologetic, House continues the charade with a renewed sense of purpose. "She sneezed," he says. "Bartender handed her a napkin."

"The color?" Wilson asks, mind back on track.

"Nothing unusual." House looks disappointed, playing his part like a pro. "It seemed like she was getting a cold. Then......"

House looks at Amber appraisingly, then pats the stool beside him. He waves to get the bartender's attention. "Oh. Need another round. And a drink for what passes for a lady around here." He grins at Amber wolfishly. "What's your poison?"

"I'll have a Cosmopolitan." She waits until they both have a drink in their hand and then she taps House's glass with hers.

House gulps down his Scotch and looks at her with bleary eyes. "If we're gonna have a conversation, shouldn't we be taping it?"

Taking a leisurely sip of her drink, Amber eyes him speculatively over the rim of her glass. She places the glass on the bar. "Wilson tell you about our argument over the mattress?"

"Yeah," House smirks.

Amber studies her nails. "Did he also mention that we argue a lot? Over trivial things?"

"Everyone argues," House says abruptly. "You're both adjusting to living together. You've known each other how long?"

Amber pins him with her knowing gaze. "He doesn't seem capable of doing anything for himself. Everything he does, he does to please me."

"You're complaining?" House digs in his pocket for his wallet, laughing without mirth. "Look, I'm not following. I'm wrecked. Take me home."

Amber leans in towards him, smiling. "Oh, I'm sure you can keep up." She rests her hand lightly on his knee. "The problem is, House... Wilson's brand of caring. It can be stifling."

"You should count yourself lucky." House stares at her, annoyed. "I don't wanna hear this. Try sorting your problems out with Wilson, not me."

Her smile widens. "No. I want to talk about this with you. It's not often we get a chance to be alone." Her gaze lingers on his mouth. "We're both adults; we have needs. I think we should be honest." She traces her thumb lightly across his lips - raises her brows. "I think it's time to bring something out into the open, don't you?" she purrs.

Mind clouded by drink, House's head tilts slowly back. "Into... into the open?"

Flowing off her stool, Amber nods gravely. House shivers as she bends closer to him, her left breast brushing against his arm, her warm breath softly caressing his ear. She whispers seductively, "This growing attraction between us."

There's a sound suspiciously like a sob, and House quietens, startled.

Dry heaving, Wilson recoils away from him.

"Doctor Wilson?"

Chase. Crap. House had forgotten about him.

"You want to zap him with two thousand volts?" Chase demands.

Anguished, Wilson presses his heels of his palms against his eyes.

"Doctor Wilson, don't listen to him," Chase says sharply. "This is a character assassination. Amber's in no position to defend herself."

A nerve in House's cheek twitches. He isn't going to feel guilty. The lies he'd just told - the damage he'd caused - he'd done it entirely for Wilson's own good. What had Michael said? Wilson would have cause to thank him later.

Wilson's shoulders are shaking. "Why would he lie?"

"To mess with you," Chase says, frustrated. "It's what he does. This isn't hypnosis. House can say whatever he likes."

Wilson crosses his arms protectively over his chest. He stares at House, and the expression in his eyes is so bleak, House can't stomach looking at him.

Jaw working, House stares at a point on the wall.

"You both planned to have an affair behind my back?" Wilson's voice is so flat and emotionless, it doesn't sound like his at all.

House moistens his dry lips. "No. Amber's pretty. I was tempted, but..." House does look back at him then, and he puts all the conviction he can into his tone. "Your friendship means more to me than that."

"Doctor Wilson? You want to stop this?" Chase waits for a decision.

Wilson studies House silently for a time as if measuring the truth of his words. At last, he looks at Chase and shakes his head, almost imperceptibly. "We still don't know what's wrong with her."

If he'd wanted proof that Wilson trusted him, House had it, right there. He sighs with relief.

"You remember anything else?" Wilson asks dully.

"We'd be fools not to see it," House says.

Sure of her welcome, Amber lithely straddles his lap.

House smiles up at her pleasantly. "But what about Wilson?"

"What about him?" Taken by surprise, Amber searches his eyes. "I care about him; I'm sure we both do. But this is about us." She winds a strand of his hair around his finger. Tugs lightly. "If we're careful - discreet - he need never know."

Wrapping his hands around he waist, House lifts her up easily and pushes her back. "Wow! You're even more of a bitch than I thought." He stands up and tosses some bills onto the counter. "You can keep your lift; I'm gonna take the bus."

"If you turned her down, why did she follow you onto the bus?" Chase queries, and House feels like decking him. Would do so, if he wasn't restrained.

"If you keep interrupting me, we'll never find out."

Burping loudly, House looks around at his fellow passengers and apologizes insincerely. When he faces forwards again, Amber has made her way up the aisle and is handing him his cane. "Boy," House sneers, "you don't give up, do you?"

Amber slides into the seat opposite his. "Depends on whether or not it's a lost cause. Oh, and by the way... House? You mention what I said to you in the bar to Wilson, and I'll deny it point-blank." She smiles at him sweetly. "Who's he gonna believe?"

House shrugs. "You, I guess."

"Then we've reached a new understanding." Rummaging in her bag, Amber glances at him. "Do you have a kleenex?"

"I got a sleeve." House looks down at his biking jacket and lifts his arms. "I got two, actually."

"Gonna need more than that. I'm getting that nasty flu."

"The flu?" Wilson says, looking up. His face is dazed. "Is that what's wrong with her?"

"No. I can't think of any complication that would cause massive organ failure."

"She was hitting on you when she had the flu?" Chase asks, still skeptical.

House's eyes narrow. "She thought she was getting the flu, but she was on her feet. She just had a cold." He pauses for effect. "Amber," he says. "No."

"What?" Chase says.

"She was treating herself for the flu. I know what's wrong with her. She has Amantadine poisoning."

"The crash destroyed her kidneys," Chase says. "Her body couldn't filter out the drugs." He sounds excited. "We can cure her. If we place her on dialysis, it will flush the drugs out of her system."

"No, it won't." House's voice is extremely soft, and Wilson steps forwards again to hear him. "Amantadine binds with proteins and dialysis can't filter the blood as well as the kidneys can." He looks up at Wilson and his mouth twists. "Wilson, I'm so sorry. There's nothing we can do."

Moving robotically, Wilson turns and switches the electrode off.

House stares at his friend until Wilson meets his eyes again, and Wilson looks so ill, so ravaged that, for the first time, House is beleaguered by doubt. He'd thought that Wilson would be hurt, yes. Annoyed with Amber, yes. What he hadn't been expecting was for his friend to look so broken. "I'm sorry," he repeats, scowling faintly.

Plainly trying to make sense out of the apology, Wilson stares back at him, shaking his head. Then, thoroughly unnerving House, he begins to laugh. He laughs until hot tears stream from his eyes. He laughs as if he has amnesia himself, and he's forgotten there's a difference between a reminiscence that's hysterically funny and one that crucifies him with sorrow.

*

Wilson is staring out of his window when House and Cuddy enter his office. He doesn't turn to greet them.

Hesitantly, Cuddy reaches out and puts her hand on Wilson's shoulder. "Amber will only survive a few more hours on bypass. If we wean her off anesthesia, you'll have a chance to say goodbye to each other."

Shaking his head, Wilson tries to keep the grief out of his voice. "I don't want to see her."

Cuddy doesn't understand. "If you wake her up, you can tell her that you love her. Tell her what she means to you. I know she would want it."

Wilson's fingers dig into his temples. "I can't. You should call time of death."

Her hand dropping down to her side, Cuddy stares at Wilson's back in confusion. "I never had you pegged as a coward."

"That's enough," House warns her.

Cuddy stands her ground. "Don't run away. You should go to her and..."

"Cuddy, that's enough!" House roars. Seeing Wilson's head lower, his shoulders hunch in as if trying to make himself a smaller target, House verbally lashes out in fury. "He said he doesn't want to see her!"

"If he doesn't say goodbye to her now, he'll always regret it!" Cuddy glares up at House, and then every part of her face softens when she looks at Wilson. "You know I'm right." She turns and leaves the office, closing the door very quietly behind her.

"Wilson..."

Wilson turns and looks into House's eyes, and the pain on his face is so raw, House's breath catches. "I don't know why I laughed," Wilson says. "Chase must think I'm..."

House frowns at him. You don't realize you're crying, do you? "Who cares what Chase thinks," he says gently.

"House?" Wilson pinches the bridge of nose. "Do you... Do you think Cuddy's right?"

"No." House shakes his head emphatically. "Amber has cardiac, renal and liver failure. Wake her up and the chance of her being lucid..."

Wilson's gaze skitters away.

You weren't referring to that, were you? House lapses into silence, unusually embarrassed. He hadn't thought this plan through. To know that he's caused Wilson this much pain? It's unbearable. The regret is overwhelming. "You're not a coward. Ignore what Cuddy said. You've never been that."

Tears dripping off his chin, Wilson stares down at his feet, nodding. "You should go and see her," he says.

"What?"

Wilson sniffs and scrubs his hands furiously over his eyes. "If you're refusing to rest, go and visit her. She... She liked you." He raises his eyes, his face pinched and blotchy and tries to smile, bravely. "You go. I'll be fine."

"Wilson," House murmurs sadly, and all of his weight is suddenly supported by his cane. This can't go on. To see Wilson hurting like this? He can't stand it. "I need to tell you something," House says, trembling. "What I said to you, back there? I..."

"I'm glad you told me, House." Wilson clutches House's sleeve and holds on for dear life. "I know you didn't want to, but I asked you for the truth, and you gave it to me." The tears refuse to stop. "I want to thank you for that. It took courage."

Silenced, House shuffles his feet, unhappily. He has the means to rectify this. He could gather up the pieces of this shattered man, and he could fix him back together. The glue -one lousy confession.

But he would lose his friend.

House watches his best friend cry and knows there's blood on his hands.

House watches as Wilson cries.

*

After throwing Wilson's case into the trunk of the car, House slides into the cab beside Wilson. "Baker street," he directs the driver. They pull out into traffic, and he studies his friend. "You okay?"

Wilson looks at him, his eyes swollen almost shut. "Yeah. Thanks for getting my things. For letting me stay with you."

House lightly elbows his arm. "You're monitoring me, remember?"

Smiling faintly, Wilson nods.

"I packed everything you could possibly need," House goes on. "Laptop, pants, shorts, shirts, romance novels, even moisturizer. I didn't know if that was yours or..."

Wilson flinches and looks down. Then he stares silently out of the side window.

"Sorry," House says. "I didn't mean..."

"S'okay," Wilson murmurs. He still doesn't look at him.

House stares sadly out of his own window at the passing scenery. At all the people milling about like ants - ambling as if they haven't got a single care in the world. Can they really be so ignorant? Don't they realize? Don't they know he's made the biggest mistake of his life and dragged his best friend down with him?

He thinks about the note he'd found in Wilson's bedroom. The note is burning a hole in his pocket the same way guilt is gnawing away at his soul.

Sorry I'm not home. Went to pick up House. A.

House had read the message, and then he'd sat on Wilson's bed for a full five minutes, gazing at nothing. Finally pulling himself together, he'd crammed the envelope into his pocket and shut and locked Wilson's case. He'd looked around Wilson's apartment one last time. Then, case in hand, he'd hurried towards the front door.

He was fresh out of cash. His savings had all gone, and there was a cab waiting for him outside with the meter still running.

To be continued.

Devil's Playground - chapter 7

fayding-fast@supanet.com — Sun, 21 Sep 2008 17:02:33 GMT

Title: Devil's Playground
Author: Fayding_fast
Chapter: 7/12
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em
Rating: PG
Pairing: House/Wilson (pre-slash)
Spoilers: Yes, for Wilson's Heart
Con-crit? Yes please and thank you kindly.
Summary: House meets a strange man who promises House that he can help him to get his friendship with Wilson back on track.

"He's still sleeping on your couch?" Michael asks, eyes almost popping out of his head. "No wonder you're in the doldrums."

"I didn't think they'd be a problem," House says, rubbing eyes that look as if they've been bathed with red wine. "I thought that once he moved back in with me, it would be plain sailing. You promised..."

"I promised that I would get him to your apartment," Michael interrupts him. "I didn't guarantee he'd be mincing up the aisle wearing a tiara and flouncy wedding dress."

Disheartened, House takes a sip of his drink, then slams the glass down too hard. Beer sloshes everywhere. House stares at Michael, face filled with determination. "I want you to wipe his memories."

Michael looks intrigued. "All of them?"

"No, not all of them!" House realizes he'd shouted and looks around furtively. No-one is paying him the slightest bit of attention. Nevertheless, he leans in closer to Michael and lowers his voice. "Just last night's. I need to work on a different approach; things didn't go according to plan."

"I'll say they didn't. You want me to erase yours as well? How can you live with yourself? I've never witnessed a clumsier seduction technique in my whole life. You screamed at him, hit him, tried to forcibly evict him, and to top it all off, you bit him. And here you are, upset because he spurned your advances." House's miserable expression brings tears of laughter to Michael's eyes. "House," he says, "you do entertain me."

Using his forefinger, House traces patterns in his spilled beer. "Glad to hear it," he says tersely. "Perhaps you'll give me a discount."

"Sorry, no can do," Michael informs him cheerfully. "This little favor will set you back another twenty thousand dollars."

House nods, resigned. "So you can do it? What will you use, hypnotism?"

"Something like that, and I can do most things," Michael says absently. "Although there is another option." His expression becomes thoughtful. "All I ask for is another fifteen minutes of your time so that we can discuss it. You hear me out, and if you still go for the first option, I'll waive the fee."

"Fifteen minutes?" House carefully makes a note of the time. "I'm all ears," he says.

*

"You made it," Andrew observes when Wilson breezes into his office.

"Thought I'd never get here. The traffic was horrendous."

Plus, of course, he'd been delayed because of that wonderfully awkward conversation he'd had with House about their shared kiss. They'd been a lot of one-sided soul-baring met by plenty of unhelpful glowering until, finally, House had thankfully put their heart-to-heart talk out of its misery.

The 'pervy groping' as House had dubbed it had been explained away as 'drunken fumbling' on House's part and a 'worrying, mid-life sexual identity crisis' on Wilson's. Wilson should, House had advised him, stop his 'incessant and irritating blushing and stammering' and 'just get over it, already'.

Far easier said than done.

Throwing his briefcase onto his desk, Wilson slips out of his jacket and hangs it up on the coat stand. He belatedly notices his assistant's sombre expression. "What's up?" he asks, taking his seat.

Andrew hesitates. "Remember, you've got a budget meeting with Cuddy in half an hour. The hospital pharmacy has registered yet another complaint about your handwriting..."

Wilson splutters indignantly.

"... and I've completely cleared your schedule for this afternoon," Andrew finishes in a rush.

"You have?" Wilson frowns at him, apprehensive because his assistant looks so uncomfortable. "Why?"

Taking the seat opposite Wilson, Andrew gazes at him earnestly. "I have a very dear friend who lives about ten minutes' drive from here. He's agreed to see you later today. At his house."

Wilson is quiet for a moment. "And this friend of yours is..."

"A psychiatrist," Andrew confesses. "I know you've seen one before and that you were prescribed anti-depressants, but you've come off them. My friend Tony is a good man. He's highly regarded amongst his peers. I want you to go and see him for an informal chat. I haven't told him anything about you, I swear. He doesn't even know your name."

"Look, Andrew," Wilson says, wondering why he's not annoyed. "I know you mean well, but haven't we been over this before? Kirsty's death, yesterday, hit me hard, but I'm dealing. I don't require any more counseling." He smiles at his worried friend. "Please tell Tony that I wouldn't want to waste his time; I've sorted my life out. I'm embarrassingly well-balanced."

"I'd rejoice if that was true." Andrew points at the pristine white bandage Wilson is wearing. "I enjoy a good story," he says. "For starters, why don't you tell me how you injured your hand?"

*

"Let me get this straight," House says, bemused. "You want to rant on about time-travel?"

"Yes," Michael answers him. "That a problem?"

"I'll willingly talk about the easter bunny and the sugar-plum-fairy, as well, if it will save me twenty thousand bucks," House assures him.

"That won't be necessary." Michael looks askance at him as if he fears he's gone crazy. "Now I know you won't believe this, but Wilson was actually telling you the truth yesterday. Despite your clumsy attempt to woo him, if it wasn't for Amber, he could have been yours. Ripe for the taking."

House stares at his interlinked fingers.

"He sees her as his ideal mate," Michael continues. "She died before she could bore him. Before she started to irritate him. In his eyes, she was a veritable goddess. He'll never be happy with anyone else; he'll compare every potential lover to Amber, and they will always come up short." Michael's discolored nails tap the back of House's hand. "But all is not lost. You can change all that."

"If only time-travel wasn't impossible," House sneers sarcastically.

"More often than not, it is," Michael concedes, eyes scanning the darkest corners of the bar. "The likelihood of success depends on how far back you want to go and what you want to change. Humor me. Let's say, hypothetically, that I am capable of taking you back to a particular point in time with all your current memories intact. When would you travel back to?"

House peers surreptitiously at his watch again, then, for the sake of his bank balance, curbs his innate tendency to mock. "I guess I'd go back and shred Amber's résumé. If I don't hire her, Wilson would never meet her."

"Bad idea," Michael says. "You didn't appreciate how much you wanted him until he started dating her."

"True," House says. "Okay, then, I'd prevent her death. If I don't go back to that bar - if I don't get drunk - she would never step onto that bus. They'd still be living together, and he's bound to get tired of her eventually; he always does. I'd simply have to wait for their inevitable bust-up."

"Yes, there's a very good chance that he would grow sick of her, but suppose he doesn't? Suppose she's smart enough, inventive enough to keep him interested? He's been your friend for fifteen years, and he's never got tired of you. No, there must be a better time: an instant where, if you lived that moment again, you could destroy Wilson's perception of Amber completely." Michael's tongue darts out to lick his lips. "Come on, use that fertile imagination of yours. Can you think of anything?"

House downs half of his beer in one long gulp. "Yeah," he says, "I can."

*

"Alright, alright, I'll go and see him," Wilson says, holding up his hands in defeat. "Anything for a bit of peace."

"Thank you," Andrew breathes, thrilled. "You've been through so much, lately. You can talk about work. Amber. Kirsty. Whatever you like."

"Or I could tell him about the problems I've had with House," Wilson muses. "Your friend a miracle worker?"

"He's been known to perform the odd one, yes," Andrew reassures him, smiling. Eyes widening, he suddenly sits bolt upright. "Where is House?" he demands, alarmed.

"He told me, this morning, that he was going to stay in bed because his leg was playing up. He's taken a sick-day. I'll check in on him after I get back from my meeting."

"He was lying to you," Andrew says grimly. "Wherever he is, he's not at home."

*

"Yes, now that has potential," Michael says. "Yes, I really think that might work."

"Except for one little thing." House taps the side of his head.

Michael nods in understanding. "Not a problem. I've mastered the art of deception." He preens himself. "People will see exactly what I want them to see."

House looks longingly at the exit. "I've read that you can't travel back in time because it could create a paradox. If I meet myself, then surely I would have remembered ..."

"You wouldn't meet your younger self. The second you go back, the earlier House would disappear. You'd be overwriting him, so to speak." Michael warms to his subject. "People make such a big song and dance out of this, but it's not magic - it's science."

"I'm sure." House keeps his face neutral.

"I'll do it for one hundred and thirty nine thousand dollars." Michael stares at House expectantly.

Choking on the mouthful of beer he'd just taken, House recovers and gapes at Michael in shock. "You've got to be kidding me. That will use up the last of my savings."

"Not quite," Michael corrects him. "You'll still have enough money left over to pay that month's bills. Do you think I'm totally heartless? Besides, why are you balking? You don't believe I can accomplish it, anyway."

"No, that's right, I don't. Oh, would you look at that, your time's up." House shoots to his feet. "Well, sorry, I can't stick around. Thanks for sharing your delusions; it's been fun. You'll honor the terms of our agreement? You'll wipe his memories of last night, free of charge?"

"Yes, I'll do that. But if I am able to take you back to that moment in time, could you go through with it?" Michael challenges. "Even knowing that in the long run it would be for Wilson's own good, would you have the guts to lie directly to his face? Would you be willing to deceive your friend to that great an extent?"

House stops to consider his answer, the pain caused by Wilson's rejection percolating steadily away inside him like a cauldron of poison.

*

"What do you mean, he's not at home?" Wilson snatches up his phone. "How do you know that? Where is he?"

"Hush." Andrew holds up a finger, concentrating.

Hush? "Is House in trouble? Is he in danger? Screw my meeting; I'm calling him." Wilson is halfway through dialing the number he knows by heart when Andrew staggers to his feet, panic stricken. Slowly placing the receiver back into its cradle, Wilson stares at him, frightened. "What is it?"

Numb with dread, Andrew stares back at him. God, I need guidance, he prays. So help me, I don't know what to do. "House has... House..." He shakes his head.

"Andrew?" Deeply concerned, Wilson stands and starts to approach him, bandaged hand outstretched. "Is House alright? What's he done? Is he injured? Has he taken a spill off his bike? Damn it, talk to me," he begs.

Andrew swallows painfully. "House is fine," he says, pacifying his friend quickly, the last thing he might ever be able to do for him. How much time did Wilson have left? A minute? Mere seconds? He watches as the human's shoulders relax, relief flooding the slender frame. Andrew clasps his hands together behind his back to hide the fact they're shaking. "Doctor Wilson," he says, "do you trust me?"

Wilson nods, confused. "Yes, implicitly. Why?" He touches his assistant's arm. "You know, you really scared me. I thought that something was seriously wrong." Highlighting flecks of burnished copper and sunlit gold, the smile illuminates his eyes - charms the reprimand out of his words.

Forgiven - our trespasses. Bereft, Andrew is forced to avert his gaze. If House had dared to show his face in Wilson's office right then, Andrew would have ripped the traitorous imbecile to shreds. "I should have known better," he whispers. "I'm terribly, terribly sorry. I've failed you. I was supposed to protect you."

Wilson laughs in genuine surprise. "It's not the end of the world; it was a misunderstanding." He turns to hunt down his briefcase. "I'm pretty sure I'll survi..." he says confidently and winks out of existence.

To be continued.

Devil's Playground - chapter 6

fayding-fast@supanet.com — Sun, 07 Sep 2008 18:44:11 GMT

Title: Devil's Playground
Author: Fayding_fast
Chapter: 6/12
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em
Rating: PG
Pairing: House/Wilson (pre-slash)
Spoilers: Yes, for Wilson's Heart
Con-crit? Yes please and thank you kindly.
Summary: House meets a strange man who promises House that he can help him to get his friendship with Wilson back on track.
Author's note: I fondly dedicate this chapter to idonmatrix who knows how to rise to a challenge.

The rap on the door is unmistakable - it's Wilson's knock.

House runs his fingers through his hair, giddy with anticipation and a treacherous hint of disquiet. Michael had warned him that when his friend arrived, he might be flustered. What else had he said? Extremely shaken? What, exactly, did that mean? Would Wilson be jittery - wringing eloquent hands together compulsively and jumping at every unexpected noise? Or would he be irritable - quick to lambaste and even quicker to take offence? It could go either way. Or, as Wilson was such a drama queen, he could behave in an unforeseen manner entirely. Who knew?

A welcoming smile plastered to his face, House swings the door open, prepared for anything.

Except for the sight of Andrew.

Smile wilting, House glances at Wilson who is standing passively by Andrew's side. Were their shoulders brushing? Okay, he doesn't exactly despise the man, but why is Andrew here? This isn't good. Nope, this doesn't bode well at all.

"Doctor Wilson has had quite a scare," Andrew says, and House's gaze veers back to his face. "He'd like to stay with you for a couple of nights."

"You sound as if you disapprove. Why wouldn't he want to stay with me?" Why wasn't Wilson telling him this? Was Wilson incapable of speaking for himself? House, watching Andrew closely, catches the flash of intense rage in the other man's eyes and is childishly pleased with himself. When it's hard to quash the smugness, why bother trying? "I'm his best friend."

There's no trace of the fury now - Andrew's smile is blinding. "So you keep informing everyone. And consequently, you only have his best interests at heart. Is that right?"

And what did that mean? Did Andrew know something? Had Andrew somehow managed to find out about his clandestine meetings with Michael? House is saved from having to answer when Wilson sways visibly, pale with exhaustion. House puts out a hand to steady him, but Andrew has already beaten him to it - his reaction lightening fast.

Now it's House that is irritated.

"It's been a long night. May he come in?"

House isn't sure if he detects sarcasm in the polite question, or whether it's his own guilt playing tricks on him, but he dutifully steps aside and allows Andrew to lead Wilson into his living room.

Setting Wilson's overnight bag down on the floor, Andrew turns Wilson towards him by placing gentle hands on both shoulders. "Are you going to be alright? If anything goes wrong, you've got my number? You know how to reach me?"

Wilson nods without speaking whilst House bristles at the implication. Did Andrew believe that he was incompetent? That he wasn't capable of taking care of Wilson, himself?

"Good. Okay." Reluctantly, Andrew releases Wilson and then looks at House, his eyes brandishing a warning. "Look after him."

"I always do." House wants Andrew to go, but he can see that the man is clearly loath to do so. He opens the door again, as a hint.

Doubts unassuaged - still hesitant to take his leave - Andrew lightly rubs Wilson's wrist - the caress confident and familiar - and House loses his temper.

"Why don't I just show you two lovebirds to the bedroom? I'll light a few scented candles - scatter an armful of rose petals around. You mind the odd thorn? Sorry, there's no hot-tub. If you'd notified me that you were coming, I'd..."

"Yes, thank you for that short lesson in diplomacy, House," Wilson says sharply, emerging from his daze.

Ah. Waspish, then. That was one question answered. House lapses into a brooding silence and nudges the door open that bit wider.

Turning to Andrew, Wilson smiles tiredly. "You go. I'll be fine. Thanks for all your help."

"Any time." With one final cautionary glance at a glowering House, Andrew is left with no choice but to depart.

House has Wilson to himself. At last. Slamming the door behind Andrew, House turns to find that Wilson looks worse than ever. His face is ashen. House starts to feel a little of Andrew's worry himself. Was Wilson injured? Was he bleeding somewhere, or bruised? Should Andrew have taken him to a hospital rather than bring him here? Leaning the cane against the door, House crosses his arms over his chest and asks the question uppermost in his mind. "Why did you call Andrew?" he probes indelicately. "I would have come over to pick you up."

"You would?"

House frowns at the skepticism in Wilson's voice, but at least his friend has bothered to reply. That was something. House simply nods.

Wilson stares at him wonderingly, then clears his throat. "Actually, I didn't call Andrew; he was already there."

House stiffens. "In your apartment?"

"No." Wilson sighs heavily, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don't know what's worse - being confronted by a red-eyed monster or a green-eyed one. My night keeps getting better and better."

"What are you jabbering on about?"

"Andrew was..." Exasperation flits across the wan face, followed swiftly by annoyance and then confusion. The color of Wilson's eyes alters markedly with every change of emotion.

As always, when he watches his friend, House is fascinated. Shortly after he'd first met Wilson, House had practiced staring for an unnaturally long time without blinking.

"I ran into him outside my apartment." Wilson shakes his head, lifts up both hands and makes theatrical, southward pressing motions.

House knows that signal well. It's Wilson-speak for Let's drop it. Don't ask me anything else. "So," House says, ignoring the unspoken plea, "what was he doing there?"

"I don't know!" Wilson paces a few steps, back screaming with tension, then turns to regard House steadily. "I didn't ask him. I was just grateful that he was there. God, House, it was a waking nightmare."

Noticing the horror that's present in the strained voice, House has the good grace to finally back down. "What happened?" he asks, his own voice soft and concerned.

Wilson laughs nervously. "Well, a strange noise woke me up, and when I got up to investigate, I thought there was a huge animal in my kitchen." He lifts up an arm to indicate how tall it had been. "It was taller than you, and it had shoulders out here." He stretches out both arms so that his hands are an improbable width apart. "I've never seen anything so evil in all my life. It exuded menace." He takes in a shuddering breath. "It wanted to kill me."

House thinks of Michael and tries to come up with the most logical explanation. "Look. You'd just woken up. You were disorientated. Are you sure it wasn't just a man dressed up in a suit? Trying to scare you?"

Lower lip clamped lightly between his teeth, Wilson stares at House and says nothing.

House squirms under the weight of Wilson's indignant gaze. It was silence, not a picture, that could paint a thousand words. "Forget it," he mumbles. "That was a ludicrous suggestion. Sounds like you just had an unsettling dream."

Looking down, Wilson becomes pensive. "Rationally, I know it was only a bad dream, but it seemed so real." He looks up at House, wretched and vulnerable. "I was petrified. I ran out into the street."

A telltale flush stains House's cheeks, and it doesn't go unnoticed.

Wilson frowns at his friend's odd reaction. "House?"

Nodding at the couch, House says curtly, "Make yourself at home. I'm going back to bed." He picks up his cane and starts to shuffle past Wilson, barely able to meet his eyes.

Wilson suddenly flinches as if he's had a terrible thought. "It wasn't a burglar or a nightmare." He's so upset, he has trouble formulating the words. "Was it? I was hallucinating." Tears shimmer in the brown eyes, and Wilson blinks them back desperately. "What did you slip me?"

House stares at him wide-eyed and points at his own chest. "Me?"

"Oh, don't play the innocent. What did you give me?" Wilson's voice breaks on the last word, and, mortified, he walks over to his overnight bag and picks it up. "I'm sick to death of you, House. I thought we were okay, again. I thought you'd forgiven me. That meal we shared the other night? And now you go and treat me like this?" He rubs his eyes and finds his lashes are wet. "This is the last straw. Don't ever try to contact me again. We're through." Striding to the door, he jerks it open. "I hope you're happy," he says.

The door slams shut before he can walk through.

"House," Wilson snaps angrily, "one way or another, you're moving away from this door. I'm leaving."

"I didn't give you a hallucinogen. I didn't give you anything." House's voice is shaken.

Wilson pauses and looks at him incredulously. "House, that's crap, and we both know it. Why the hell did you look so guilty?"

House keeps his hand pressed firmly to the door. "I didn't drug you. Not this time. I swear, on your life."

"On my life. Oh. That's reassuring."

"On my mom's life, then. Trust me. Things have changed. I... I'm sorry that something's distressed you." And he is. House stares at Wilson unhappily, willing his friend to believe him. He doesn't want this. Things have gone too far. There's flustered and then there's unraveling before his eyes. "Stay. Please. I'm glad that you're here."

Wilson is looking back at him, and he looks so traumatized, so damned young, that House has the overwhelming urge to touch him. To soothe him. He raises his hand to do just that, but he has a sudden, unwelcome attack of nerves. They don't normally touch each other at all unless the brush of fingers is accidental or one of them is debilitated. Wilson is very distraught. How will he react if House deliberately reaches out to him? What if his friend doesn't want to be touched? How will he be able to bear it if Wilson shakes him off? Frozen by indecision, House's hand hovers in the space between them, quivering.

Wilson glances at it and then up at House's face. His eyes are icy. "What's wrong with you?" he demands acidly.

House jerks as if he's been slapped. "Nothing." Rattled - wishing that he had Andrew's easy self-assurance - House hurriedly rests his hand uncertainly on Wilson's arm and regrets it instantly. Wilson tenses, looking completely discomfited, and House is sure he can't blame him. His hand is still violently shaking. For a comforting gesture, it leaves... well... everything to be desired.

House feels thoroughly miserable. If touching Wilson's arm when his friend is wearing a long sleeved shirt and a jacket has him trembling like a leaf, then what's he going to be like when he's permitted to caress the rest of him? When I seduce him and he's lying beneath me buck naked, I'll be shaking so hard, I'll probably have another seizure, he thinks bleakly.

It's all going wrong. Everything he's longed for - paid for - is now slipping through his fingers. Not just slipping, either - plummeting. "I knew I shouldn't have stuck that knife in the socket," House says, seeking refuge, as he so often does in times of crisis, in a wholly inappropriate joke.

Fortunately for his sanity, his friend is a fan. Despite himself, Wilson snorts in laughter.

House grins in response, and the tension defuses. It vanishes. Like that. All is suddenly right with House's world; he knows, then and there, that his friend will be staying.

They might not be making wild passionate love that particular night, but Wilson's back where he belongs, standing in the middle of House's apartment. They're going to be sleeping in close proximity, under exactly the same roof.

It's a heady thought because, damn it, House loves him. More profoundly than he's ever loved anyone else, including Stacy. Wilson, who's refreshingly unpredictable. Whose motives are as unfathomable as any ocean, whose moods are as mercurial as the tides.

His soon to be lover.

Hand no longer shaking, House slides it up Wilson's arm and squeezes his shoulder.

Wilson gazes at him, dark eyes still smiling, and House's spirits soar.

His cherished friend.

*

Andrew and Wilson have barely sat down at a table in the hospital canteen, when House bustles over to them and sits down next to Andrew, so close, he practically sits on the other man's lap.

Courteously, Andrew shifts his chair over to give House more room.

"See you managed to steal the last banana pudding," House says, eyeing Wilson's tray like a ravenous mutt.

"I didn't smuggle it past the till under a pile of salad leaves, House; I actually paid for it. A peculiar custom to you, I know. And what's your point?"

House rubs his stomach mournfully. "Haven't eaten since breakfast."

"You poor thing." Wilson blows on his coffee to cool it down. "Give me ten dollars, and you can have it." He looks over at House, a challenging look in his eyes.

"Everyone's after my money," House grumbles cryptically. To his companions' surprise, House pulls out his wallet and extracts a new, crisp ten-dollar bill. "Here," he says. Leaning forwards, he swaps the money for Wilson's dessert and sits back, content. He turns his piercing eyes towards Andrew. "That night you brought Wilson over to my apartment..."

"House," Wilson says with unutterable weariness, "can't you let the subject go? For me?"

House looks at Wilson with pity. "No." Picking up his spoon, he ploughs on with the interrogation. "Why were you loitering in Wilson's street, in the first place? Just happened to be in the 'hood?"

Unfazed, Andrew chews his mouthful of food thoroughly, before swallowing. "I knew that Doctor Wilson was in trouble," he explains quietly.

"Oh? You had a psychic vision and then transported yourself to his apartment in seconds?" House looks at Wilson as if to say, Can you believe this guy?

"Give me that!" Angrily, Wilson snatches the dish out of House's hands and pulls it back to his side of the table. "If you thought I was in trouble, I wouldn't see you for dust. Andrew's my friend, House, and the sooner you get that into your thick skull, the better for everyone. Whatever your problem is, get over it."

As far as rebukes went from Wilson, House had got off fairly lightly. He wisely changes the subject. "Did you know that Linda Jackson and Andrea Glover are having a torrid affair?" He gazes at Wilson, his eyebrows raised in question.

Wilson's fork clatters onto his plate. "Glover from Radiology?"

"The very same." House grins broadly.

"Get out." This is the juiciest gossip Wilson has heard for ages. "We only bumped into her husband last week. When he came here to pick her up, remember? What's his name? Jed? Jake?"

"You're asking the wrong man. Remember his jacket?"

House and Wilson both laugh in unison.

"Where do you think he got it?" House asks.

"Near the summit of Mount Ararat?" Wilson's eyes sparkle with mirth. "But fashion sense aside, he seemed like a nice enough guy. I thought they made a lovely couple."

"You nuts? Did you completely misinterpret their body language? That's why I started digging." Again, House's attention fixates on Andrew. "You think you're omniscient. Bet you weren't aware of this affair, were you?"

"Yes." Andrew sips his cappuccino. It leaves a chocolate mustache on his upper lip, and he licks it off with relish. "They're both sci-fi fans." He shivers with revulsion. "There's just no accounting for taste. Anyway, last April, they traveled to a convention together, in Chicago. They've been an item ever since."

Deflated, House stares at him. "I knew that," he says scathingly. "Tell me something I don't know."

"Okay," Andrew says. He thinks for a second. "Kevin Archer has Cushing's Syndrome."

Bored, House asks, "And he would be?"

"The patient whose symptoms are currently scrawled all over your whiteboard?"

House looks up at the ceiling, his eyes distant. Then, without another word, he scrapes back his chair and leaves the two friends in peace.

Andrew watches him go, then shrugs philosophically and takes another hefty bite of his sandwich.

*

Something heavy (House's cane, perhaps?) smashes against the door. ""Wilson! You open this fucking door right now, or I'll..."

Wilson unlocks the bathroom door and pulls it open. He stands still - terribly still - in the doorway.

House's gaze rakes him from head to foot, and when House looks up again, to stare into Wilson's face, his eyes are blazing with molten fury. "You know how long you've been in there?"

Stunned by the force of House's anger, Wilson shakes his head cautiously. "No. I..."

"An hour and a half," House spits at him.

Wilson lifts his chin defiantly. "So?"

"So? Didn't you hear me banging on the door? I've been screaming your name for the last ten minutes." House's open palm slams violently against his shoulder, and the unexpected blow sends Wilson staggering.

Wilson quickly regains his footing. His own eyes darken with anger. "House! Pack it in. I just wanted some time alone. I needed some privacy."

Disbelievingly, House glares at him. "Privacy? I'll give you privacy. You can have all the privacy you can handle." He takes hold of Wilson's upper arm - his grip bruising and unrelenting - and proceeds to march Wilson through the lounge.

Averse to putting up a struggle for fear of hurting House - a man already painfully off-balance - Wilson allows himself to be dragged across the room.

House pushes him none too gently against the door. "Get out," he says, voice quiet and deadly.

Get out? God, House! Why are you in such a temper? Wilson straightens up and shakes his head, water droplets flying off from hair still damp from his shower. "House," he begins, "please. I don't want to leave here. I can't face going back to that apartment. Not yet."

House is unmoved. "That's too bad." He grabs Wilson's jacket from a nearby hook and scoops up his keys. "If you're too cowardly to go back home, find yourself a nice hotel."

"Don't." Wilson gazes at House beseechingly. "House, please don't throw me out. Not today. This afternoon, I lost a patient." He pictures Kirsty's elfin face, her radiant smile, and he swallows, eyes misting up all over again. "She went downhill so rapidly. We strived to save her, but there was complication after complication. We..."

"Yakety-yak. That's old news," House snaps at him. He thrusts the jacket and keys into Wilson's arms. "While you were barricaded in my bathroom, Cuddy phoned."

Wilson stares at his friend, unable to make sense of his mood. How in God's name can you be so cold? Wilson squares his shoulders. Pointless to stand there arguing with House when he was like this. "What about my things?" he asks tentatively.

"Let me know where you'll be staying, and I'll forward them on to you."

Wilson swallows down the bitter hurt and nods. He starts to open the door, and it's then that House sees his hand. Sees what he's done to it.

"Christ!"

Numbly, he stares at the damage himself. But God, he'd driven to House's apartment, the orange heart scrawled in crayon on the back of his hand taunting him - a cruel reminder of his failings - and by the time he'd arrived at House's, he'd just flipped. He'd rushed past House without looking at him - without saying hello - and headed straight for the bathroom. Locking the door, he'd grabbed the nearest thing he could find - a nailbrush - and proceeded to scrub the crude drawing off. And several layers of skin along with it by the looks of things: the skin is red-raw.

House carefully takes hold of his hand, and when Wilson glances at his face, the blue eyes are wide and unreadable. Wilson takes a heaving breath. "House..."

"Was it Kirsty?"

"What?" House is still cradling his hand.

"The patient that died today," House clarifies impatiently. "Was it Kirsty?" He nods, answering the query himself. "Of course, it was. You must have been on your rounds when everything blew up. It makes sense..."

Jerking his injured hand away, Wilson stares at him in anguish. "Nothing makes sense, House. She was nine. She was just a little kid. She should have had years and years in front of her." He looks at House's uncomprehending face. "Oh, what's the use?" He turns back to the door in a trance.

House grabs him and kisses him hard.

Jacket and car keys tumbling to the floor, Wilson stands frozen in shock - mind momentarily shorting out. House's hand is clamped possessively around the back of his neck, House's lips and teeth mash against his, and the kiss is brutal. He can taste blood. Wilson is filled with primal terror. This can't be happening. This can't be happening. This can't be...

And then House whimpers - an awful, wounded high pitched sound in the back of his throat - and backs away from him.

Wiping blood from his mouth, Wilson glances at his stained fingers and then across at House, dumbfounded and panting heavily. "Have you lost your tiny mind?"

House wraps his arms around himself, his whole demeanor one of abject misery.

"Are you high?" Wilson requires an explanation. "Is that what this is all about?"

"I thought you were..." House's voice is raspy and low, and his breath hitches. "Cuddy called to ask me if you were alright. She warned me that you'd left the hospital in a state. I couldn't hear any water running; I couldn't hear any sound at all, and when I called you, you wouldn't answer me. I kept on knocking on the door and shouting your name, and I feared the worst. I thought you were..." House's face twists. He looks at Wilson, his striking eyes haunted. His resilience utterly crushed.

Wilson gathers up his scattered wits. Now - now, he understands his friend's former mood. "I'm sorry, House," he murmurs. "I didn't think. I didn't mean to scare you. I'm extremely sorry."

"If anything happened to you..." House stops and stares at him mutely and then, very tenderly, his hands reach out to frame Wilson's face. He buries his fingertips in the wet, dark hair - his eyes searching Wilson's face intently.

Held by House's gaze, Wilson is stupefied once more when House's thumbs stroke his cheeks with reverence. As if he's holding something exquisite.

Leaning in very, very slowly, House's lips again meet Wilson's, and, this time, the kiss isn't frenzied and abhorrent. It's light and caring and achingly sweet, and Wilson is captivated by its gentleness.

Wilson feels as if he's been touch-starved for the last thirty eight years. House's hands move down his neck and stroke his clavicles through his T-shirt, and Wilson's eyes drift closed. He's trying not to think because surely, surely, this is all shades of wrong. There is no way he should be kissing his best friend. But he is. He is and he's enjoying it. If it's so wrong, he wonders, then why does it feel so electrifying?

House abandons Wilson's mouth, presses playful, darting kisses along his jaw line and then moves down to his throat.

Head falling back, Wilson's hands skim over House's ribs. They settle on House's waist, and, with some insistence, he tugs his friend nearer.

Smiling briefly, House slips one of his hands beneath the hem of Wilson's T-shirt. His palm trails over the warm, flat plane of Wilson's stomach and glides upwards, tracing its way up to Wilson's chest. His fingers eagerly toy with taut, sensitive nipples.

Wilson gasps in pleasure. It's been a long, long time since someone has touched him like this. Intimately. With love and affection. The last time had been... The last time... Wilson's eyes snap open. The last time had been when he'd made love to Amber. It's like being doused in icy water. "House," he says urgently.

House's head lifts up. He looks overwhelmed with happiness.

"House." It's practically a sob. "I can't." Wilson grasps House's arms, expression anguished and regretful. "Please forgive me; I can't."

Eyebrows drawing down in confusion, House stares at him blankly. "Can't?" he repeats dumbly.

Praying that his friend will be tolerant, Wilson blinks back tears. "It's too soon, House. I'm not ready. It's too soon after losing Amber."

House recoils away from him as if burnt. "I see," he says flatly. He starts to bolt.

"Wait." Wilson hates to think that he's hurt his friend. That he'd unwittingly led him on. He touches House's elbow, and House halts and looks back at him. Wilson is chilled to the bone.

He's looking into azure doll's eyes in a lifeless face.

Devastated, Wilson's hand falls back limply to his side.

With nothing to restrain him, House stumbles out of sight and shuts himself in his bedroom.

To be continued.

Devil's Playground-chapter 5

fayding-fast@supanet.com — Sun, 17 Aug 2008 17:35:50 GMT

Title: Devil's Playground
Author: Fayding_fast
Chapter: 5/12
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em
Rating: R (Note higher rating for this chapter.)
Pairing: House/Wilson (pre-slash)
Spoilers: Yes, for Wilson's Heart
Con-crit? Yes please and thank you kindly.
Summary: House meets a strange man who promises House that he can help him to get his friendship with Wilson back on track.

"I want Wilson to move in with me," House says, renouncing small talk.

Slipping out of his rain coat, Michael folds it in a haphazard fashion and places it on the stool next to him. He takes his own sweet time sitting down. "You want him to be sane when he does?"

House glares at him witheringly. "I'd prefer that, yes."

"What's your motive?"

"My motive?" Because I can't stop fantasizing about him, that's why, House thinks, with more than a touch of desperation. I can't get his face, his voice, his hands, his taste out of my mind. House glances over at the television mounted above the bar. It's showing a re-run of Frasier. "I'm listening," the main character is saying with genuine sincerity. A comedy channel? What was the world coming to, when you couldn't go to a bar and buckle down for an evening of good old dependable sport? House looks away and fiddles with a beermat. "He's still depressed," he mumbles. "If he stays with me, I can take better care of him."

"Yes, that much health food can't be good for anyone. So it's not that you plan to jump him?" Michael leers at him, and House almost wishes that he hadn't returned to the bar.

Almost, but not quite.

House grinds his teeth together. "Why don't we just wait to see what happens?" he snaps.

Michael tilts his head in thought. "Didn't he live with you before, when his marriage to Julie was going down the pan?"

"For a little while." House is impatient. "What's that got to do with...?"

"Didn't you drive him away?" Michael frowns as if he's having a hard time remembering, and then his face magically clears. "Ah, yes. You played prank after prank on him and drove him straight into his patient's stick-thin arms. That was you, wasn't it?"

You know about Grace? Had Michael been spying on Wilson for years?

Michael shakes his head, tutting. "When he most needed your support, you tortured him. I find it immensely amusing that you then couldn't understand why he hid himself away in a hotel room for so long."

House stands and wraps his hand loosely around the crook of his cane. He's not prepared to put up with this. Having Wilson as a lover isn't the be all and end all of everything. He has won Wilson's friendship back, and that's enough, right? Right? He's regained Wilson's trust. House grimaces. He feels gutted.

"Twenty thousand dollars."

"What?" Forcibly reminded of Michael's existence, House looks down at him. "I'm not made of money," he says, tone scathing.

"He doesn't want to stay with you. He told you that to your face. If you want to screw him into the mattress - What am I saying? How frightfully uncouth - I mean, split the bills with him, I'm going to have to be creative. Use extreme measures, one might say."

"Extreme measures," House repeats, analyzing all possible meanings.

"I've already promised you that I won't touch him. Much as I'd like to." Michael flashes a toothy grin. "But after I've done what needs to be done, when he arrives at your door, he might be a little... flustered, perhaps. Not insane, by any means, but... extremely shaken. That alright with you?" Curious, he looks up at the man towering over him.

House actually hesitates.

"You have no other option," Michael prompts him, voice gentle. "You'll never be able to persuade him to move in with you, on your own." Looking bored, he examines his nails. "Weigh it up. With Wilson, your level of contentment could soar to unimagined heights. Of course, it's entirely up to you. How badly do you crave his co... company?"

House is fuming. He might act like it sometimes, but he isn't a pubescent schoolboy. Michael can take his damned offer and shove it up his...

A succession of images burn into House's mind, so powerful, they leave him staggering: A wicked gleam in golden-brown eyes. A slender body flowing obligingly to its knees. A teasing, willing mouth. A light sheen of sweat on a bare chest. A dark head tossing restlessly on a rumpled sheet. Straining wrists clamped in dominative hands. Mile upon mile of pale, hyper-sensitized skin. Limbs entangling lazily. Wilson tempting him, annihilating him.

Wilson. Wilson. Wilson.

House grips the edge of the table to steady himself.

"Goooing..." Michael sing-songs.

The bar comes back into focus. Two boys in their late teens are having an amicable disagreement in the far corner. On the T.V. screen, David Hyde Pierce is tumbling head over heels and then clambering to his feet, wearing a perfected poker face.

There are too many distractions. House can't concentrate. He's not being allowed enough time to think.

"...goiiiinnng..."

Flustered doesn't sound so bad, does it? Wilson gets uptight about something or other every single day.

"...gon..."

House looks down into the awful black eyes - decision made but nowhere close to being justified - and has to moisten his lips before he can speak. "Do it," House blurts out.

*

Wilson blinks gritty eyes, then lifts his head so that he can see his alarm clock. Twenty minutes. He'd been asleep for a mere twenty minutes. Sighing, he settles back down again and tugs the quilt back over his shoulders. The nights are still chilly. He closes his eyes and tries to blank his mind, and then he hears it - a scraping sound coming from his living room.

He stops breathing.

Another noise, this one closer - one of his worst nightmares coming true - and oh, God. God help him. There's an intruder in his apartment. Wilson kicks the quilt off.

His bedroom door is closed. Eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness, Wilson rolls soundlessly off the bed. Stay in his bedroom and he's trapped. Instinctively, his hand moves towards the bedside lamp, and then he checks himself. A light flicking on will give him away. He needs the element of surprise. He has no weapon, unless... He hefts the lamp. It's fairly heavy. Sturdy. Crouching, he removes the plug carefully from the socket, eyes trained on the door.

Now that the initial scare is over, he's more annoyed than anything. How dare someone enter his home in the dead of night and rifle through his personal things? Put his thieving, filthy hands on Amber's things? How dare he?

Moving noiselessly to the door, Wilson holds the lamp firmly in his left hand. With his right, he grips the door handle. Slowly, heart hammering, he eases the door open a crack and stops to listen. Whoever has broken in is in the kitchen, directly opposite. He can hear... well, he can't quite make out what he's hearing... it sounds like... Wilson is suddenly very uneasy.

It sounds like snuffling.

If the man is in the kitchen just across the hallway, then Wilson reasons that he must have heard the bedroom door creak open. He doesn't stop to worry if the trespasser has his own weapon - owns a gun. Wilson yanks the door wide open.

And freezes, unable to process what he's seeing.

It's not a man.

The beast is huge. Six foot six, at least, and broad. Its body is covered with smelly, matted hair, and its hands end in viciously curved claws. Its mouth yawns open, exposing a triple row of serrated teeth, and its eyes are scarlet red and gleaming with pure malevolence.

They're staring right at him.

Wilson's fingers spasm open, and the lamp smashes to the floor. The noise rouses him from his stupor.

He makes a break for it, sprinting at full pelt through the living room and past the couch. Breath whistling in his throat, he catches a glimpse of a face in the mirror, that's stark white with terror. He whirls directly left, smashing his hip into the end table. He doesn't even register the pain. Another lamp wobbles madly and then topples to the ground, but, by then, he's raced across the linoleum and has reached the front door. He'd expected it to be open, but it's not - it's locked. He stares at in disbelief. How had the creature got in? He yanks at the safety chain, knowing that the monster is just behind him - is bounding after him in hot pursuit. No, no, no, it's stuck. The chain is stuck, and his fingers are unwieldy and clumsy, and he can't... he can't... He shrieks in horror and frustration, his right hand pounding wildly on the door for help.

Miraculously, despite his terror-stricken fumbling, the chain slips free, and the door swings open.

Wilson flies through it, through the main foyer, flings open the main door to the complex, and then he's outside, out into the stinging rain which takes him by surprise. He's still moving fast, and he forgets all about the steps - the steps leading down to the sidewalk - and they're treacherously wet. Slippery. He skids and loses his balance, arms pinwheeling crazily as he tries to catch himself, and he tumbles headfirst... straight into Andrew's arms. Gripped by blind, animal panic, it takes him a moment to recognize who it is. His assistant looks stunned.

"No!" Panting, Wilson positions himself between his friend and the door he's just exited. "Run," he screams, hitting Andrew in the chest with both fists together in an effort to goad him into action, certain that at any moment, any moment now, he's going to be raked by deadly talons. That they're going to gouge into his back. "Run!"

Andrew lifts Wilson up bodily as if he weighs nothing - as if he's just a cardboard cutout - and places Wilson behind him so that their positions are now reversed. Andrew wheels to study the apartment complex intently.

"We have to go." Wilson grabs hold of Andrew's wrist and tries to pull him, but Andrew doesn't budge.

"There's nothing there."

"What?" Again, Wilson tugs at his friend. "There is. God. There is. Let's go. Let's go."

"Doctor Wilson." Andrew turns to face him, his face serene and compassionate. "I swear to you, there is nothing in there."

Wilson looks at him uncomprehendingly and then looks over at the door. Why hasn't the creature followed him? Why aren't his entrails strewn right across the sidewalk, steaming in the rain?

Andrew turns and starts walking up the steps.

Anxiously, Wilson darts forwards and puts his hand on his shoulder. "You... you... can't go in there," he babbles. "There's some kind of monster in my apartment. I saw it. I saw it with my own eyes."

"Your apartment is empty. Come with me; I'll prove it to you."

"God." Wilson feels like crying with exasperation. Why won't his friend take him at his word? But Andrew has shaken his hand off and is entering the apartment block, and no matter what happens - even if he ends up ripped to shreds - Wilson can't allow him to enter his apartment alone. He hurries after him.

His home is empty.

Andrew checks his bathroom and the bedroom, but Wilson knows. Standing in the middle of the living room, he knows that Andrew won't find anything. They haven't been eviscerated. The beast - whatever it had been - has gone. He watches silently as Andrew comes out of his bedroom and smiles encouragingly at him.

"See? It's just you and me." Andrew carefully steps over shards of ceramic - the remains of the broken lamp.

Wilson's head is spinning. Perplexed, he rolls his head from side to side to loosen his neck. "It must have been a nightmare," he says to himself, unconvinced.

Andrew hears him but doesn't answer.

Wilson trembles. He can't sleep here. Not tonight. Not on his own. He has a pressing urge to see House. Yes, he's aware that his friend will scoff at him - will ridicule him mercilessly and will probably interrogate him on the doorstep for a good couple of hours, but his friend will eventually take him in. "I'm going to stay with House," he declares, mind made up.

"Okay," Andrew says, looking as grim as Wilson has ever seen him.

Wilson frowns. He'd been under the impression that his two friends had been bonding together nicely. "He's tolerable," House had told him. Praise indeed. Evidently, judging by Andrew's sour expression, the two men weren't getting along as well as he'd thought. If only he had the energy to care. Wilson looks frantically around for his car keys.

"You're too upset to drive. I'll drop you off." Andrew gazes at Wilson, and then his entire manner softens. When he speaks again, he does so with halting reluctance. "But before I do that, you might want to change."

"I might..." Wilson glances down at himself - down at his pajama bottoms - and, for the first time, the smell registers. He realizes what he's done. He can scarcely credit it. The embarrassment hits him hard; even harder than the residual fear. "I've wet myself," he says dully.

"James," Andrew murmurs, shaking his head. He takes a step towards him.

"Don't." Wilson holds up his hands to stop him. He dreads to imagine what his assistant must be thinking about him, right now. Andrew, his friend, who had just witnessed him behaving at his worst. You probably believe that I'm demented. Prone to hysteria. Hell... that I'm not even toilet-trained. "Stay back," he rasps out.

"James," Andrew entreats. In four swift strides, he reaches Wilson's side.

Andrew tries to draw Wilson into an embrace, but Wilson rebuffs him. He's distraught. He's soaked from head to foot; he reeks of sweat and urine. He struggles ferociously, but Andrew is oddly persistent, and when Wilson beholds his face, it's chalk-white. Andrew, apparently, is almost as distressed as he is. The fight bleeds out of him.

Reduced to tears - overwhelmed by shame and shock - Wilson sobs into his hands.

"Hey." Andrew lightly grips Wilson's wrists and forces his hands away from his face. Tenderly, he brushes sodden hair out of Wilson's eyes, and remarkably, the instant Andrew touches his forehead, Wilson's cares melt away. He feels safe and protected - lethargic, as if he's been drugged.

Exhausted and no longer resisting, Wilson is pulled in against a firm chest.

Eyes closing, Wilson stands becalmed, his friend enfolding him in arms that are as warm and sweetly comforting as feathered wings.

To be continued.

Devil's Playground- chapter 4

fayding-fast@supanet.com — Sun, 03 Aug 2008 18:03:37 GMT

Title: Devil's Playground
Author: Fayding_fast
Chapter: 4/12
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em
Rating: PG
Pairing: House/Wilson (pre-slash)
Spoilers: Yes, for Wilson's Heart
Con-crit? Yes please and thank you kindly.
Summary: House meets a strange man who promises House that he can help him to get his friendship with Wilson back on track.

"Doc?" The elderly man's slightly dazed eyes search Wilson's face. "What's in these cups?"

"Well," Wilson explains patiently for the third time, "this one holds orange juice, and you've got plain water in this one. You want a drink now?"

Mr. Godfrey looks anxious. "I don't know whether to or not. Do you think I should, Doc?"

"It wouldn't hurt." Wilson picks up the juice and guides the straw into his patient's mouth. Mr. Godfrey lifts a clumsy hand to try to assist him, but Wilson pushes it back down. "Steady, Mr. Godfrey. I've got it."

Cervical spondylosis and now, prostate cancer. His patient is frail. Taller than Wilson, he only weighs about one hundred and thirty pounds, and he's unable to stand up or grip with either of his hands. He can't hold a book or a fork or wash his own face. He can't do anything for himself and is totally bedridden, and he will be, for the rest of his life.

Wilson has to remain dispassionate when dealing with patients; he has to maintain a remote objectivity. But sometimes, it's hard. It's unbelievably hard.

His patient indicates that he's had enough to drink, and Wilson sets the cup down out of Mr. Godfrey's reach so that he can't accidentally knock it over. He wipes the old man's mouth. "Mr. Godfrey?" He waits until the wandering blue eyes lock onto his. "My night staff informed me that you had a bad night. Are you in a lot of pain?"

Mr. Godfrey lowers his gaze. "It's not too bad, Doc."

Wilson is dubious. "You need to tell me if you are. There's no need for you to suffer; I can increase your medication."

"No, I'm okay." Mr. Godfrey looks up at Wilson hopefully. "There is one thing you can do for me, if you would."

"Sure." Wilson is only too glad to help. "What is it?"

"My son. Could you try to get hold of him? He doesn't know I'm here."

Wilson freezes. You poor man, he thinks. You poor, poor man. "I..." For the first time ever, when dealing with a patient, words fail him. He stares down into the expectant, faded eyes and can't think of a single thing to say. Cold droplets trickle down between his shoulder blades. "I..."

"Doc? You alright?"

"Mr. Godfrey..." Wilson rubs circles on his temple. "I..."

"Of course he's alright," a soothing voice cuts in.

A hand fleetingly touches the small of Wilson's back, and he turns to see his assistant. Strange, the way Andrew always seems to turn up when he's at his most stressed; funny, how his body relaxes, just at the mere sight of him. "Andrew," he murmurs thankfully, in greeting.

"Doctor Wilson," Andrew says formally. He smiles down at Mr. Godfrey. "Stan," he says, "you mischief maker. You causing trouble with a capital T?"

"Not me, boy." Mr. Godfrey beams up at Andrew, genuinely happy to see him.

Andrew frowns playfully. "Hmmm. My eyes must have deceived me. And how are you, on this fine morning?"

"I'm not too bad, boy. Mustn't grumble."

"You're the only patient that doesn't," Andrew responds. "Hey, your back's a little twisted; you don't look particularly comfortable. I'll shift you over." Before Wilson can stop him, he single handedly moves Mr. Godfrey towards the center of the bed. He plumps up the patient's pillow and smooths the bottom sheet. "That's much better," he says.

"Don't let Cuddy see you do that," Wilson warns him. "You're not supposed to lift anybody on your own. You should ask a couple of the nurses to do it."

"Please." Andrew flexes his muscles, eyes twinkling. "Strong as an ox, me. Isn't that right, Stan? I think Doctor Wilson, here, frets too much. He's going to worry himself into an early grave. What do you reckon?"

"He is going gray." Mr. Godfrey eyes Wilson up and down carefully. "You know, I reckon you could be right."

Wilson swallows an outraged laugh. He watches curiously as Andrew perches himself on the edge of the hospital bed.

"Stan," Andrew says. "You were asking Doctor Wilson about your son?" Andrew raises an eyebrow.

"Colin?" Mr. Godfrey lifts his grizzled head as if expecting to see his son camped out on the chair beside him. "Lovely boy, he is," he says, voice cracking. "Makes me proud. He'd do anything for anyone." He looks confused. "Where is he? Did you manage to get hold of him?"

Andrew shakes his head slowly. "Colin died five years ago in a car accident. He died instantly. He suffered no pain at all. Do you remember that?"

"Died?" Mr. Godfrey has tears in his eyes. "My son's dead?"

"Yes," Andrew says softly. "But you know what?"

Tears spill down the wrinkled cheeks. Mr. Godfrey shakes his head silently.

"I'm very fortunate. Sometimes, I can communicate with the dead, and I have a message for you. From your son. You know what he said?"

Frowning, Wilson squeezes Andrew's shoulder in warning, and Andrew glances up at him. "Don't manipulate him," he breathes.

Andrew puts his hand over Wilson's placatingly. "I'm not; I'm telling the truth," he whispers back. He returns his attention to the patient. "You know your son really adored the water and that he owned a small boat? You remember that special flower arrangement you ordered for his funeral? It was shaped like an anchor? He said that he absolutely loved it. And he loves you, too, very much. He's sorry that he can't be with you in person, but he's with you in spirit. Constantly. He asked me to tell you that you're never alone."

"Anchor? Yeah... The funeral. I can't believe that I'd forget about that." Mr. Godfrey lifts his hand, and Andrew lightly grips the swollen, useless fingers. The disorientation temporarily vanishes. "You must think I'm an idiot. I get very confused."

Andrew winks at him. To make him feel better, he says, "That happens to the best of us. Bet Doctor Wilson can't even recall what he had for breakfast." He grins wickedly at Wilson. "What was it, doc? French toast or cereal?"

Brain evidently an empty shell, Wilson stares blankly back at him.

Patting Mr. Godfrey's shoulder, Andrew says in a stage whisper, "I rest my case."

"Thank you, boy," Mr. Godfrey says. "For the message from my son. Thank you so much." He looks up at Andrew as if he's Jimmy Olsen catching his first glimpse of a billowing red cape and matching boots. With something resembling awe.

Wilson can relate to how he feels.

*

"You're Andrew?"

Having just deposited a neatly wrapped present on Wilson's desk, Andrew turns to see House leaning insouciantly against Wilson's doorframe. "That's right," he says. "And you're the ever-elusive Doctor House." He smiles in apology. "Doctor Wilson isn't here, right now."

House limps further into the office and waves his cane right under Andrew's nose. "It's not a white stick," he says.

Smart aleck, Andrew thinks fondly. "No," he says, looking suitably chastened. "I guess it's not."

House walks boldly around the desk and settles, with the ease of long practice, into Wilson's black leather chair. Picking up the present, fingernails already worrying at one edge of the sellotape, he regards Andrew with bright, suspicious eyes. "Phallic shaped. Tells me all I need to know."

"And that tells me that you have a vivid imagination," Andrew replies lightly. "All I see is a poster."

"Huh." House nods, peering intently down at the gift like a man endowed with x-ray vision. "A nude Mia Kirshner?"

Watching House's hands, Andrew says evenly, "You should be so lucky. It's an extremely rare, original movie poster from old Yugoslavia. Advertises Notorious. It's sixty two years old but in pristine condition; I was lucky to get it." He winces as the long fingers clench - doesn't have to clearly be able to see House's face to know it's a mask of irritation. "Think he'll like it?"

"Oh, he idolizes Hitchcock," House says coldly. "Hates sycophants, though."

Andrew laughs aloud. "Who doesn't?"

House looks up at him in mute surprise.

Indicating the present in House's hands, Andrew says mildly, "Yugoslavia's been ripped apart. Wouldn't it be a pity if the same happened to that?"

House's hands still. Grudgingly, he places the gift back onto Wilson's desk.

Sitting down in the chair opposite him, Andrew casually links both hands behind his head and rests one ankle on top of the opposite knee: a man at ease.

The two men study each other silently.

Andrew's gaze strips House down to his bare essence. He catalogs every fear, every weakness, every psychological scar. House, he is reasonably confident, is learning nothing.

"How long have you been working here?"

"Hmm?" Shocked out of pity, Andrew blinks his eyes back into focus. "As Wilson's assistant? Oh. Not for long." He shrugs well defined shoulders. "Approximately five weeks."

"You handy with a camera?" House asks abruptly.

You suspect that I was the one that took those photos? Andrew expertly covers up his dismay. "Never owned one. To be honest..." He hesitates, House quiet, and still examining him attentively. "Let me explain something," Andrew says. "Now, this may sound stupid..."

"There's no may about it."

"...but, last weekend, Doctor Wilson and I went out for lunch. I drove to his apartment, but neither of us really wanted to drive to a restaurant and have to worry about parking, and so, from there, we decided to catch a bus."

House opens his mouth to interrupt.

"Hush. Let me finish." When the other man cautiously nods, Andrew continues. "We were sitting on the bus, the driver waiting at the stop until it was time for him to leave, when a pedestrian crossed the road and started to walk alongside the bus, trailing his fingers along the windows. He was very young... nineteen, twenty maybe. Anyway, he started at the front of the bus and walked towards us - we were sitting together near the back - and everyone was ignoring him. You know how it is? People were looking the other way or were reading or texting or fiddling with their iPods. He passed everybody, hand sweeping over panes of glass and nobody paid him any attention at all."

"I've rarely been so enthralled." Leather creaks as House shifts uncomfortably in the chair.

Andrew ignores the sarcasm, knowing that House is listening to every word. That even when he's geared up and itching for battle, House always listens. "When that kid reached our window, on impulse, Doctor Wilson lifted his hand and touched his fingers to the glass as that boy walked past. The kid carried on walking, but we both looked back at him, just as he turned his head to look back at Doctor Wilson and that kid's smile..." Andrew's face lights up with recollection. "His smile was rapturous. There's no other word for it."

Andrew places his hands in his lap and uncrosses his legs. He sits forward. "A split-second moment like that? What are the chances of getting that on camera? And even if you could... it would be cheapened if captured on two-dimensional paper. Do you understand what I mean?"

Eyes unreadable, House continues to stare at him for another minute and then climbs shakily to his feet. "Yes," he says thoughtfully. He reaches for his cane. "You evidently live a really humdrum existence, but yeah, I know what you mean."

"It might not be as thrilling as... I don't know... Shamu jumping through a hoop or the 1969 lunar landing but two perfect strangers bonding?" Andrew lightly thumps his chest. "In my book, that's monumental." He nods at the poster. "You can add your name to the tag, if you like. We'll say the present's from both of us. I honestly don't mind."

House looks at him as if he's sprouted another head. "Why would you be willing to do that?" he demands.

"It's not as if it cost much; it literally fell into my lap." Andrew regards him calmly. "I'm not your enemy, Doctor House."

"That remains to be seen." Thrown completely, House scratches his scalp, incensed that the offer has been made. "I don't want to steal any of your credit," he says finally, shame-faced. "I forgot that it's Wilson's birthday."

"No, you didn't." Andrew grins up at House impishly. "Haven't you invited Doctor Wilson out for a birthday meal?"

Idly, House swings the cane from the tip of his middle finger. Then, delighting Andrew, who records another Kodak moment in his heart, House tentatively smiles back.

*

Sitting, sprawled, on his hall carpet, head lolling against the wall, Wilson channels the wisdom of the ages. "I don't like getting drunk," he announces.

House smirks down at him. "You should have thought of that before you gulped down your sixth martini."

Wilson rubs his face. "I feel vulnerable."

"You are. Stay there, and you run the risk of being devoured by carpet mites." House claps his hands together, cane balanced precariously against his legs. "Come on, soldier, let's go."

Sighing wearily, Wilson holds out both hands, displaying nails bitten down to the quick. "Help me up," he says.

House looks vastly put out, but he does grasp both of Wilson's wrists. "I thought you said you could hold your drink? A toddler could drink you under the table." He grimaces as he pulls his friend to his feet. "Let's get you to bed."

The two men stagger along to the bedroom, House with a supportive arm around Wilson's waist. He curses him, for appearance's sake, every stumbled step of the way. "You know I'm too old for this, right? Next time, I'm going out with a teetotaler. Jeez... would you watch my leg?"

Safely escorted into the bedroom, Wilson glances around, then has an unexpected fit of the giggles.

Watching him, House feels his heart break a little. The giggling stops almost as quickly as it had began, and, concerned, House grips Wilson's upper arms to steady him. "You okay?"

"Yeah." Wilson rests his forehead against House's shoulder. "Dizzy. Need to lie down," he murmurs.

"You are so wasted." House places his hand lightly on the back of Wilson's neck. "Before you sober up, you wanna unburden yourself by divulging all your dark and dirty secrets to me?"

Wilson shakes his head vehemently.

"No? Sensible. Confide in someone who won't mock." House steers him to the bed.

Withdrawn now, Wilson fumbles to undo his tie until House knocks his hands away.

"Allow me." Concentrating on his task, hands busy near Wilson's throat, it's a while before he meets Wilson's eyes. They're overbright. "What?" House says.

Wilson sits down heavily on the bed and runs his hand over the sheet. "I miss her dreadfully," he admits.

House swallows hard. "I know."

Still clothed, Wilson lies tiredly down on his side, hands tucked up against his chest.

Hurting for him, House removes his friend's shoes and socks in silence.

Remembering his manners, Wilson rolls onto his back and gazes drowsily up at him. "I had the best time, House." His words are slurred. His eyelids start to flutter closed. "It was a per... a perfect even..."

House draws the sheet up over him, smiling down at the insensible man. Then his smile fades as Wilson's words rise up to haunt him. A perfect evening? Well, yes, in most respects, it had been. The restaurant, the food, the service - they had all been excellent. And Wilson's company?

Brushing thick, wayward hair back behind Wilson's ear, House stares down at his friend's long, dark lashes. At the quick-fire mouth, enchantingly softened now, in sleep.

Wilson's companionship had been exemplary.

Encouraged by unseen, interfering hands, House leans over and lightly presses his mouth against Wilson's. It's a kiss born out of gratitude, of deep, abiding affection, but Wilson's lips remain slightly parted under his - unresponsive - and after a couple of moments, House unwillingly straightens up.

His eyes are blazing.

How much headway can he make - could anybody make - in one lousy evening? It's a joke.

He needs more time. More time to work on Wilson, more time to try to seduce him.

Wilson was lonely and had sequestered himself in his dead girlfriend's apartment. How unhealthy was that? He was - well, not lonely, exactly, but... ostracized. By all and sundry. If the two of them got together?

House gently strokes his friend's smooth cheek, and Wilson turns instinctively into the touch. Yes, House thinks feverishly. You might joke about the two of us dating, but it does make sense. I know I can make it work.

The evening had been wonderful. It had far surpassed his wildest dreams, but he needs to arrange another meeting with Michael. He hadn't planned to. He doesn't relish the idea but needs must.

He's made a huge, tactical error. He hadn't made his demands specific enough. Fair enough, during dinner, Wilson had been thoroughly charming. He'd been witty, engaging and attentive - everything a friend could possibly ask for, in fact, but House still feels vaguely dissatisfied.

He can see things with crystal clarity now. He understands where he's faltered, and he knows, precisely, what he wants.

He wants more.

To be continued.

Devil's Playground - chapter 3

fayding-fast@supanet.com — Sat, 12 Jul 2008 18:30:45 GMT

Title: Devil's Playground
Author: Fayding_fast
Chapter: 3/12
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em
Rating: PG
Pairing: House/Wilson (pre-slash)
Spoilers: Yes, for Wilson's Heart
Con-crit? Yes please and thank you kindly.
Summary: House meets a strange man who promises House that he can help him to get his friendship with Wilson back on track.

"Hello. We meet again."

"Hi." House waits until Michael has settled before reaching into his back pocket to pull out his wallet. "Fifty dollars," he murmurs. "Isn't that what we agreed?"

Michael regards House with his peculiar, beady eyes. "You were pleased with my services, then?"

House looks away, hoarding secrets. His face and back, even hours after the event, are still tingling where Wilson had touched him; his nerve endings are still twitching as if brushed by fire. "Yes," House says. "I don't know how you did it, but I was satisfied."

"That's good to hear." Michael takes House's money and squirrels it away. "Your panic attack. Stroke of genius, don't you think?"

House looks at him dubiously. "What do you mean?"

"I induced it." Michael's chest swells with pride.

"What?" House stares at him, mind racing.

"Why look so shocked? It worked, didn't it? Within moments, Wilson quickly dashed to your side." Michael smiles in fond remembrance. "He was badly shaken, you know that? Oh, no, you wouldn't; you had your head down between your legs, but believe me, he was rattled. It nearly brought a tear to my eye."

"Goodbye," House says shortly.

Michael doesn't stand to let House out. A yellow nail taps thoughtfully against his front teeth. "I have another proposition for you."

"I don't want to hear it." Still hemmed in, House glares at Michael impatiently.

Michael's tone is patronizing. "Of course you do."

Gritting his teeth, House stares at his lap, but he stays where he is. He makes no move to slide round the booth in the opposite direction so that he can reach the other side.

"I've been thinking," Michael says. "Seeing how much you relished that fleeting moment with Wilson, how would you like to spend a whole evening with him? Go out together for a meal?"

House loses his temper. "Wilson isn't going to..."

"Five hundred dollars," Michael says.

House looks into the black eyes, spellbound.

"Forget these fifty dollar trysts. They're too short. Nothing can be achieved."

"I don't know," House says, torn.

"There's someone else worming their way into Wilson's affections," Michael says.

Startled, House sits up straight. He hadn't seen this coming. "Who?"

"Wilson's assistant. Andrew." Michael pats House's knee pityingly. "You have a rival. Seems that Andrew fancies himself in the role of Wilson's best friend."

Wilson's best friend? But he had always worn that mantle, hadn't he? Since their first, fateful meeting in New Orleans. Worn it, not just as a privilege but as his right. He'd crowed about it often enough; even had the gall to use it as ammunition, whilst hammering Wilson to the cross with outraged eyes: 'How could you do this to me/keep this from me/say this to me? Your Best Friend.'

Wilson had never contradicted him. Not once.

"Wilson already has one," House whispers.

Michael shakes his head. "It's not you. Not any more."

Something twists in House's gut. Wilson's assistant? He feels numb with pain. He looks at Michael helplessly. "What can I do?" he asks.

"You can go out for this meal," Michael advises him. "Next Friday. If you remain on your best behavior, I assure you, you'll be able to woo him back."

House exhales through his nose. "And what's going to happen to me if I go out for this dinner? Am I going to have a stroke? Choke to death on a slice of beef?"

Laughing merrily, Michael nudges House's shoulder. "You'll have a good time," he promises. "I guarantee it. That's what you'll be paying me for. Have I ever let you down?" Taking out a cigarette, he lights it up.

"They're banned in here," House says.

"If anyone says anything, I'll put it out," Michael says. "Now, this meal. You interested or not?"

Who is this Andrew? How dare he move in on Wilson? "Yes," House says slowly. "I'm extremely interested."

"Splendid." Michael stands up to let House past. "There's no need for you to meet me back here to pay me," he says offhandedly. "I know your bank account details. When the deed is done, I'll just take the money directly out of your account."

"Now, wait a minute..."

"Only if you enjoy yourself," Michael reassures him. "Trust me, I'll know."

"I can transfer my funds into a different account," House threatens.

Michael smiles at him gently. "You won't."

Five hundred dollars. A lot of money but, for that, he'll be able to spend approximately three straight hours with Wilson. Longer, if he deliberately lingers over dessert. And Michael has promised him that he can get back into Wilson's favor.

House starts to walk away.

"Oh, by the way... House?"

House's back stiffens.

"If you want to use my services again, you know where to find me."

House carries on walking. After this one meal, he's never going to contact Michael again. He's dead sure about that. Before he steps through the exit, he turns to take his very last look at Michael, but he can barely see him.

Wreathed as he is in thick smoke.

*

Wilson's office door is flung open with such force, it smashes into the wall.

"House," Wilson's says mildly in greeting, barely glancing up.

Limping moodily into the room, House positions himself confrontationally in front of Wilson's desk, places one hand on top of the other and leans heavily on his cane.

He's just spent five wonderful minutes dry-heaving in the men's bathroom, and the reason for that is... well, actually, he's not sure of the reason. He doesn't understand why he's wearing such a ferocious scowl, either. It's certainly not doing his looks any favors, and yet, for the life of him, he's unable to wipe it off.

Still, he's agitated.

Because it's all very well paying Michael a small fortune so that he can indulge in some stress-free quality time with Wilson. It's simplicity itself to select a restaurant that will send Wilson into paroxysms of delight and audaciously book a table for two. It's cool to blow off work so that he can slink out to get his hair trimmed and also buy a new silk tie that perfectly matches his eyes.

Oh, he can make countless plans; he can nurture foolish hope; he can count down the days, hours, minutes until Friday night; he can easily do all of these things and much more. But that morning, whilst he'd been playing with a Slinky, an unwelcome thought had occurred to him that had spectacularly thrown a spanner in the works.

He's eagerly looking forward to a dinner date with Wilson. And Wilson, damn him, doesn't even know!

"I love it when you barge in here and glower without actually telling me what's wrong," Wilson says brightly, gazing up at him. "Means that I can dust off my crystal ball and try to guess."

House inwardly winces. "Who's Andrew?" he demands abruptly.

Wilson looks at him evenly. "You know who Andrew is," he scolds lightly. "By now, you probably even know his inside leg measurement. He's my assistant." His face softens, hurting House like a physical blow. "He's also my friend."

Michael was right? "Close friend?" House snaps, too jealous to manage reasoned thought.

"Extremely close," Wilson fires back, becoming irritated. For a terrible moment, his eyes go completely blank as if his soul has fled, and then he looks down at his paperwork and scrawls a signature like chicken scratchings on a patient's report. "See if you can leave my door still attached to its hinges when you go out."

A dismissal? The frown finally melts from House's face. Is that it? At a loss to explain how he'd managed to so thoroughly screw everything up, he stares at Wilson, but his friend is already reaching for another file. Defeated, House starts to turn away.

Confused by House's silence, Wilson glances up at him. "Wait," he orders. He stands up, moves around his desk and blocks House's exit. "I know you feel insecure if someone comes within one hundred feet of me, but Andrew cares about me," Wilson doggedly explains. "I care about him." He looks at House pleadingly. "He's kind. You'd like him if you took the time to get to know him." He waves his hand between the two of them. "He's not a threat."

House's gaze darts to the ceiling, floor, Wilson's boring Columbia University school of oncology diploma - anywhere, but at his friend. He sighs wretchedly. "I didn't come here to discuss Andrew," he mumbles.

"House," Wilson says, eyebrows drawing together quizzically, "what the hell is going on?"

House huffs out a breath. "I came here to ask you something else," he says peevishly, "but I can't see the point. You're only going to say no."

Nodding sagely, Wilson says, "Fair enough."

House can see the amusement in Wilson's eyes. "Move," he says curtly. He tries to push past Wilson, but his friend is being mulish and, again, gets in the way. House considers concussing him with his cane.

Studying him for a long, excruciatingly uncomfortable moment that leaves House squirming, Wilson shrugs and steps aside, sweeping his hand in invitation towards the exit. "Leave if you want to," he says magnanimously.

Gratefully, House makes a break for freedom.

"But whatever it is that you did come in here to ask me, how do you know, for certain, that I'll say no?" A teasing note creeps into the cultured voice. "I know it doesn't bear thinking about, but you have been wrong before."

Halting just in front of the door, House hesitates. This is his final chance. He doesn't know if he could bear it if he asked if Wilson would be prepared to join him for an evening out and Wilson turned him down flat. On the other hand, if he's too damned spineless to ask at all, there would be nothing to stop Wilson growing closer and closer to his new assistant, and how can he be expected to just roll over and accept that?

Squandering the last remaining drops of his courage, he bravely faces Wilson and resolutely fixes his gaze on the knot of Wilson's tie. "Would you...?" He grimaces and wets his lips. "Would you like to go out for a meal on Friday night?" he blurts out. "With me?" He sneaks a quick look at Wilson's face from below his lashes, but Wilson is as inscrutable as a Sphinx. Great. Absolutely great. Gloomily, he looks down at the floor. "You can invite other people to come along as well, if you want," he offers quietly. Reluctantly. "Even Andrew, if you must. My treat."

"Sounds good," Wilson answers him cheerfully.

"Sounds... what?" House says stupidly.

"Good." Wilson rolls his shoulders, then looks at House expectantly. "We'll go out, just the pair of us, shall we? Pick me up about seven?"

"Seven? You know it's me asking, right? Greg House? Was that a yes?"

"It is a challenge for me to recognize you - if only you'd wear your I.D. badge - but I guess that my countless years of associating with you are thankfully paying off."

"Was that a yes?" House repeats softly.

"It was, House; that was a yes. Now, scat." He opens the door. "One of us, at least, has got work to do."

Wilson shoos him out into the corridor, but House wedges his cane in the door. "Wilson?" he says, eyes serious.

"Yeah?"

"Are you sure? You didn't feel... compelled to say yes, did you? By some external force?" House examines his friend anxiously.

"You think that because I answered in the affirmative, I'm under the influence of some voodoo mumbo jumbo?" Wilson rolls his eyes. "No, House. It's a meal. I'm looking forward to it." He smiles briefly at him, reassuringly, whilst pushing the cane back with the toe of his shoe.

Breathing a huge sigh of relief, House stands there rooted to the spot, looking goopily back at him. Was there anyone else in the world comparable to Wilson? Come to think of it, does he truly need that hair cut? It's not as if he's tripping over it, and at the moment, he has no patient. His devices are his and his alone, and if left to them, he can beam at Wilson all day.

Wilson pokes his tongue out at him, large eyes warm with affection. Then he gently closes the door in House's face.

To be continued.

Devil's Playground-chapter 2

fayding-fast@supanet.com — Sun, 29 Jun 2008 16:54:23 GMT

Title: Devil's Playground
Author: Fayding_fast
Chapter: 2/12
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em
Rating: PG
Pairing: House/Wilson (pre-slash)
Spoilers: Yes, for Wilson's Heart
Con-crit? Yes please and thank you kindly.
Summary: House meets a strange man who promises House that he can help him to get his friendship with Wilson back on track.

"Hi," Andrew says, entering Wilson's office with a glass of specially prepared brew. He uses his heel to kick the door shut behind him.

"Hi," Wilson answers him automatically, but he doesn't make an effort to turn. He is standing by the balcony doors, staring out through the rain spattered glass as if mesmerized.

Andrew has only worked for Wilson for a few short weeks, but he's noticed that he does this a lot.

Hastily clearing some space on Wilson's desk, Andrew puts down the drink and unobtrusively watches him, wondering what the fascination is. The outlook is uninspiring at best. He steps closer, and from his new vantage point, he can see that Wilson isn't looking at the wing of the hospital that is facing them or the blue-gray, swollen clouds; his gaze is focused on something lower. He's staring at the balcony's outer wall.

"Doctor Wilson?" Andrew says hesitantly, uneasy. He's now standing just behind the transfixed man - as close as he can get without actually touching him - and he feels that he could easily drown in the desolation that's pouring off Wilson in waves.

Wilson turns his head slightly, waiting for him to speak.

"I brought you some mead. This one's non-alcoholic. Tastes okay, though. Thought it would make a change from your usual boring old coffee."

"Mead?" Wilson says absently. "Isn't that known as 'the nectar of the Gods'?"

"It is," Andrew confirms. "Don't know why; he won't go near it, even when it's liqueur strength." He smiles faintly as if inviting Wilson to share in the joke.

Wilson studies Andrew's reflection in the glass appraisingly before speaking. "Cake this morning. A drink this afternoon." He raises his eyebrows. "You're spoiling me."

Andrew shrugs. "It's not a problem. How was the cake, by the way?"

There is a brief and awkward silence, filled only by the rain hammering furiously against the glass.

"It was nice, thanks," Wilson replies eventually.

"Kirsty enjoyed it, then?"

Wilson starts guiltily.

Kirsty is Wilson's newest patient: a child of nine with blonde ringlets, unlimited courage and a wicked, but rarely used, laugh. Andrew's aware that Wilson had spent an hour with her that afternoon, talking to her, doing puzzles with her and helping her to forget, just for a while, that she had a non-existent chance of survival.

She'd drawn a heart on the back of Wilson's hand with an orange crayon before he'd left her and filled it with her initials. She'd made him promise faithfully that he would never scrub it off.

Sighing, Wilson lifts that same hand to rub the back of his neck, and Andrew stares at the heart which is smudged, but still visible, against the pale skin. Wilson spins gracefully to face him. "I'm sorry... I... I wasn't particularly hungry and I..."

Andrew lifts his hand, unconcerned. "No worries. Kirsty wants to marry you, by the way. So does her mother."

"I'm sure," Wilson says dryly, rolling his eyes.

"Can't see what they see in you, myself." Andrew winks at him. "Oh, and before I forget to tell you, I bumped into an ex-patient of yours, this morning, over on Cherry Hill. Sally Fraser?"

"Sally?" Wilson's face becomes guarded. "Yeah, she's had a rough time of it. Developed facial palsy after excision of an acoustic neuroma and then exposure keratitis. About the same time she came in for surgery, her husband lost his job without being given any prior notice, and to top it off, her father died, killed by a hit and run driver. All in all, a wonderful year. How's she doing now?"

"Things are improving. She's doing well. Physically, she's expected to make a very good recovery, and her husband has been short-listed for two jobs. One in particular seems quite promising. But you know why she was really on a high?"

Wordlessly, Wilson shakes his head.

"Some mysterious benefactor has treated her and her husband to a two week vacation in Florida." Andrew looks at Wilson knowingly. "You know anything about that?"

"Why would I?" Wilson asks, expression cool.

"It has your stamp all over it."

Uncharacteristic anger flares in the dark eyes. "If you've got the time to sit around idly speculating, then you obviously haven't got enough work to do."

Andrew stares at him, taken aback. Wilson has never before spoken so harshly to him. He nods respectfully. "Have a good night, Doctor Wilson." He starts to leave, but Wilson grasps his sleeve.

"I'm sorry, ignore me. I'm..."

Reeling, Andrew thinks. You're reeling and very tired.

"...behaving like an ass." Wilson finishes ruefully. His hand falls back to his side.

"It's forgotten, already." Andrew smiles at him, warmly. "See you tomorrow morning." He points at Wilson's desk. "Drink your mead." He manages to take a single step this time before Wilson's tentative enquiry stops him.

"You believe in God, Andrew?"

The question takes him by surprise. "Yes," Andrew says simply. "Don't you?"

"I did, once upon a time," Wilson says, his voice markedly subdued. The dark head bows. "But not anymore."

Andrew has the terrible feeling that Wilson is about to cry - isn't sure what he'll do if he does. "I'm sorry to hear that." He shakes his head. "You're exhausted. Go home. Get some sleep. Things will look a lot better in the morning."

Wilson nods shakily, and when he looks up again, to the casual observer, he would seem reasonably composed. "I've just got to write a few more notes up, and then I will."

"I'm worried about you."

"I know." Wilson injects some animation into his voice. "There's no need for concern; I'm doing okay."

"For a raccoon," Andrew says pointedly, referring to the discoloration under Wilson's eyes. "You're stressed. You've got a pounding headache. Your work can wait until the morning. Tell you what, why don't you let me drive you home?"

Eyes wide with amazement, Wilson asks, "How did you know...?"

"I can help you." Before he can dodge away, Andrew lays a warm, gentle hand on the back of Wilson's neck, fingers pressing lightly into the Trapezius muscle which is locked tight.

Wilson's back goes rigid. "Andrew," he murmurs despairingly, misunderstanding.

"Ssshh, it's okay." He presses lightly, just so and feels the troublesome muscle liquefy beneath his palm.

The headache disappears at exactly the same time, and the abrupt absence of pain is almost as shocking to Wilson's system as the migraine had been. He sways on his feet.

"Hey." Andrew grasps his shoulders to keep him upright. "You all right?"

His expression one of blatant disbelief, Wilson gently shrugs off the offered support and steps back, bracing himself, instead, against the patio door.

"Dr. Wilson?" Andrew frowns slightly when the stupefaction in the dark eyes is replaced with white-hot curiosity. He remembers then, too late, that beneath Wilson's calm and somewhat modest demeanor is a questing, razor sharp mind. Bone-deep fatigue might have dulled the edges a little, but Wilson's intelligence is still staggering. Andrew steels himself for the interrogation that is sure to come.

"That's some trick," Wilson says quietly.

"You were in pain, and I wanted to do something about it." Andrew stares at him apprehensively, hoping that they aren't about to have a senseless disagreement. Not now. Not when Wilson is finally starting to thaw towards him.

Taking a deep breath, Wilson flashes his newfound sad smile. "If I ask too many questions, is that likely to scare away my best ever assistant?"

"No," Andrew answers, forbidden to lie.

"No," Wilson repeats the reply softly to himself, reflectively.

"I want to keep an eye on you. I wasn't kidding when I said that I was worried about you; lots of people are. I believe that you're severely depressed."

Wilson's lingering smile goes out like a light.

Andrew moves away from him to give them both some space. "I think that it would be a good idea for you to talk to House."

"He won't want to see me," Wilson says roughly.

"Yes, he will," Andrew argues. "Have you tried to speak to him?"

"You don't know the first thing about it." Wilson rubs his forehead as if the banished headache is already sneaking back.

"Yes, I do," Andrew promises him. "I know everything about it." He approaches Wilson again and forces him to make eye contact. "I know that your girlfriend died and that you initially blamed House for her death..."

Wilson flinches.

"...but that was only natural. It's part of the bereavement process, to be angry, and that anger has to be directed towards someone. He was the person closest to you."

Wilson shakes his head, eyes damp. "I really hurt him. I said some appalling, terrible things to him."

"House would understand why. I'm begging you, please, please go and see him."

"I can't." The balcony captivates Wilson's attention again. "That wasn't the worst of it."

"Then, what was?" Andrew probes carefully, coaxing Wilson's gaze back to him.

"House had a fractured skull," Wilson says, guilt-ridden, "and amnesia. Ignoring the very real risks to his health, I thought that if he underwent deep brain stimulation, he might remember something important. Something that might save Amber."

"Amber was slipping away before your eyes." Andrew grips Wilson's upper arm. "You were desperate. You asked him to do something for you, and yes, okay, it was risky, but he still agreed to do it. You didn't force him; he could easily have said no."

Feeling nauseous, wishing it were that simple, Wilson rubs at his mouth and then his tearing eyes. "He was trying everything possible to save my girlfriend." He stares at the carpet, misery personified. "He would never have said no."

"He doesn't condemn you for asking him," Andrew says, certain. "He doesn't even think about that."

Wilson's shoulders shake. "Believe me, he does," he maintains. "Throughout the course of our friendship, he's discovered that I tricked him on occasion, lied to him, withheld the truth from him, and despite all of that, he still believed in me blindly. House was like a trusting child. You weren't there when I asked him to undergo that procedure. You weren't there when he reminded me that it could kill him and asked me if I still wanted him to do it. When I nodded as if indifferent to all of the dangers, you didn't hear his laugh. You weren't around to see his face."

Andrew gazes into eyes that are suddenly agonized and full of self-loathing. He thinks about the way Wilson stares intently at the balcony. He visualizes the long, dizzying drop to the ground.

With a speed that underscores the fact he isn't human, Andrew's hands flash, in a blur of movement, towards Wilson's temples. "Rest," he commands.

Wilson drops like a stone.

Catching him, Andrew carries him effortlessly to the couch. He removes Wilson's tie and shoes, undoes the top button of his shirt, then stands up straight, staring down compassionately at the disturbingly unhappy man. "You think you've lost two people dear to you, but you haven't," he assures him gently. "House is still..."

A warning sears into his mind, interrupting him, and he stares blankly into space for a second, staggered by the implications. "And so it begins," he murmurs.

When he looks back down at Wilson, his face is grim. I know you're incredibly stubborn and this goes against your nature, but you really need to start trusting me. Sighing, he leans closer and presses the back of his knuckles tenderly against Wilson's cheek. "Non REM," he suggests.

Then he whirls, strides to the door and opens it.

He glances back at Wilson once more before he leaves, and the sight of the man, curled up in healing, dreamless sleep, makes him ache a little.

Because he knows what's coming.

*

House hasn't slept.

He'd lain awake all night, photos of his friend strewn all around him, stinging him like accusations, and he'd worried himself sick. About Michael and about Wilson.

There are too many unanswered questions.

What was Michael's true purpose? Following a stranger for weeks and taking photographs of him could hardly be considered normal behavior. Why was Michael obsessed with Wilson? What if his real goal was to seriously hurt him?

Also possible but highly unlikely - suppose that Michael had been on the level when he'd said that he could get Wilson to talk to him? How on Earth could Michael accomplish that without contacting Wilson? Surely it would be impossible. And even if he could arrange it and Wilson did, in fact, decide to talk to him, where would they meet? Would Wilson suddenly turn up at his apartment? Wouldn't that be too embarrassing? What would Wilson say? What would he say in reply?

House had been tired and cranky when he'd arrived for work early that morning, and now, four hours later, having more or less convinced himself that Michael was nothing but a raging psychopath, his mood hasn't improved one iota. His mind keeps going round in circles.

Nerves jittering, House is looking out over the courtyard, trying to clear his head, when he hears a door slide open and turns to see Wilson stepping out onto his own side of the balcony. He stops dead in his tracks when he sees House.

Both men stare at each other, slightly horrified.

House can hear a curious ringing sound in his ears. Wilson looks strained. Ill-at-ease. Petrified?

Perhaps Michael had broken his word and gone to see him, after all. Had he attempted to intimidate Wilson? Had he promised that there would be physical violence, if he didn't comply? Even threatened to kill him? Maybe he'd frightened his friend half out of his wits. God, maybe he'd...

An agonizing pain shoots through House's chest. Choking, he struggles to take in enough air. Distantly, he can see Wilson move towards him - start to climb over the dividing wall - but now his hands are going numb, and his vision is blurring. He's going into cardiac arrest. House begins to slump helplessly towards the ground.

Wilson takes hold of his arm and hauls him upright. For a dreadful moment, House fears that Wilson's objective is to push him over the edge of the balcony and straight into oblivion, but no... he's being manhandled towards a chair. Shirt clinging uncomfortably to his damp back, mouth as dry as dust, his head spins. He glances at Wilson, his eyes saucer-wide with terror.

"You're having a panic attack."

How can Wilson stay so unruffled? So collected? Be so wrong? "No," House grates out, hand scrabbling at his chest. He gulps in air, wobbling as if on stilts. "My heart's going to explode."

"My mistake; you're croaking," Wilson says calmly. "Whilst you're in your death throes, you might as well make yourself comfortable. Sit here."

House is pushed, without ceremony, onto the seat, and then his head is guided gently towards his knees.

"You need to slow your breathing down. Inhale. Hold it. Out. Good. In. You know that you're a neurotic mess, right? Out. See? Isn't it easy when you know how? In..."

A hand lightly rubs his back, and House shakes uncontrollably, tries to follow instructions and strives to memorize how Wilson's touch feels, all at the same time.

After what seems an age, House eventually gets his breathing back under control, and astoundingly (A panic attack? Who is Wilson trying to kid?), he starts to feel a lot better.

"You okay, now?" Wilson's voice is soft and concerned.

Bewildered, House lifts his head to stare at him, mouth gaping.

"House?"

The world stands still. It's just the two of them, there, on the balcony. Leaves stop rustling. Birds refrain from whistling. The distant sound of traffic fades away.

House soaks in the sight of Wilson - the brilliant white coat gliding around his thighs. The dark hair in wonderful disarray. The distinctly worried brown eyes. He breathes in his scent, feels Wilson's fingers burning a trail across his back and sits frozen - muscles dissolved into jelly - powerless to move and incapable of speech.

Wilson cradles House's face between expressive, gentle hands, then, smiling, shifts his left hand and presses firmly up beneath House's chin.

House's jaws renew their acquaintance with a loud snap.

Wilson glances back over his shoulder and then back at House. Smile fading, Wilson looks a little sad. "I've gotta go."

House watches, still stunned, as his friend nips nimbly over their adjoining wall and heads into his office without a backwards glance.

The world starts revolving again. Everyday noise filters back into House's consciousness and...

Oh, God!

Mind buzzing, he staggers to his feet and over to the outer wall. He leans his forearms on it, blinking rapidly.

Wilson had touched him. Had touched him.

Not only that, but his friend had been patient with him. Kind to him. House had sat there trembling - eyes bulging like a rabid dog's - and Wilson hadn't even mocked him. Well, no more than usual, anyway, and oh, God, he can scarcely believe it.

Somehow, Michael had done it. He had pulled through.

All at once, the sky seems bluer; the air smells fresher. Even the thought of imminent clinic duty and having to deal with snotty-nosed, spoilt, howling kids doesn't seem quite so bad because whilst he's working, he's earning, and when he's earning, lots and lots of handy money is whizzing straight into his bank account and... who needed hookers? Forget whiskey, sneakers, bikes and overpriced monster truck rallies; finally, finally, he has a real use for it.

He can buy time with Wilson.

He can buy one exhilarating rendezvous with Wilson after another and all at a farcically low cost. He can afford to pay for a meeting with his friend every single day... two or three times a day, even, and with those brief but perfect encounters to look forward to, House knows he could be deliriously happy for the rest of his life.

The rest of his entire life. How astonishing is that?

House gazes out over the hospital courtyard, his eyes shining.

Dancing with insuppressible joy.

To be continued.

Devil's Playground-chapter 1

fayding-fast@supanet.com — Sun, 15 Jun 2008 20:28:12 GMT

Title: Devil's Playground
Author: Fayding_fast
Chapter: 1/12
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em
Rating: PG
Pairing: House/Wilson (pre-slash)
Spoilers: Yes, for Wilson's Heart
Con-crit? Yes please and thank you kindly.
Summary: House meets a strange man who promises House that he can help him to get his friendship with Wilson back on track.

"Hello. My name's Michael," the Englishman says politely as he slides into the booth and parks himself, uninvited, next to House.

House doesn't even bother to look up. "Suppose I just call you annoying, instead?" he mumbles and swills down another healthy quantity of beer. He wipes his mouth dry with the back of his hand. "Not in the mood for company, thanks."

"That's just not true," Michael chides him, sounding faintly amused, and House does look up then, sharply. He finds himself staring into eyes so dark, the irisis bleed seamlessly into the pupils, unsettlingly black. "We both know you're pining for it. His."

A quick flick of a supple wrist and photographs spray across the beer stained table between them, seemingly conjured out of thin air.

Glancing at them automatically, House's breath is suddenly expelled violently from his lungs. All of the prints have landed face-up, and in each and every one of them, the main subject is Wilson. Heart pounding, House lays down the drink he's been savoring and warily picks the nearest one up.

Ostensibly unaware of the camera, Wilson has been filmed catching up on paperwork in the so-called sanctuary of his office.

Flinging the photo down as if its burnt him, House quickly scans the others.

His friend has been filmed in a number of different locations, some public and others private. In some shots, he's at the hospital: on the wards, in the clinic or dining (conspicuously alone), in the hospital canteen. There are several photos of him in Amber's apartment, sitting listlessly in the bedroom or cuddling himself for solace, huddled up in the far corner of the sofa. There's a shot of him walking, head bowed despondently, jacket pulled tightly around him to ward off the chill, in the local park. One picture shows him sipping coffee in Starbucks. In another, he looks badly shaken when a cyclist apparently has to swerve to avoid him after he's stepped absent-mindedly into the street.

Judging by Wilson's ravaged appearance, House has reason to believe that the photos have all been taken over the last couple of months, and together, they hammer home two important facts: 1) that his friend has allowed his health to decline at such an alarming rate, he is now hovering on the trembling point of exhaustion, and 2) quite clearly, Wilson is in jeopardy and doesn't have the faintest idea that he's being stalked.

Terror clogs House's throat. He lowers his hands to his lap so that his companion can't see them shaking. "Stunning pictures," he manages casually.

"That's kind of you. Thank you very much," Michael replies. He seems pleased.

House endeavors to think clearly. "Friend of yours?"

"Oh, come now, he's a friend of yours. Forgotten him so soon? James Evan Wilson? Wonder boy oncologist?"

House's mouth stretches into a thin, mutinous line.

"Still not ringing a bell? How about recently acknowledged love of your life?"

House drops the charade. "How did you get these?" he asks. "How did you gain access to Wilson's home? To his office?" Cold dread has sobered him up. His eyes drill relentlessly into the perturbing, ebony eyes of the stranger, trying to unearth answers. "What are you doing here? What do you want with Wilson?"

His new acquaintance laughs shortly... an almost inhuman, barking sound that sends shockwaves rocketing down House's spine. "Wilson? Why, nothing. The boy is in no danger from me; I wish him no harm, whatsoever."

"Why do I remain unconvinced?" House snarls at him.

Shrugging, Michael collects the photos together into a neat pile and stares, with something akin to genuine sorrow, at the top one. "Don't you think he's already endured enough?"

House's gaze follows his line of sight. He can see Wilson lying, curled up on his side, on the bed he'd recently shared with Amber, and despite the grainy quality of the photo, he can still plainly make out the tear-tracks glistening on his friend's cheeks. Furious, he snatches the picture out of Michael's grasp and waves it under Michael's nose as evidence. "Look at him," he snaps. "Stop lying to me; you've hurt him."

"I've done no such thing." Michael is adamant.

House stares at him incredulously. "Then why is he...?"

"He cries in his sleep," Michael explains patiently, and House jerks in shock. "It's the same every night."

House's features pale, drained by regret. Head bending, he gently strokes the tiny figure in the picture with the pad of his thumb.

Even though it's dark outside, Michael turns to look thoughtfully out of the window. "Beautiful, isn't he?" he asks quietly. "He has such an expressive face."

His own face twisting expressively at this comment, House continues to peruse the photograph of his friend and realizes that this is not the Wilson he knows backwards, forwards and inside out; it's a brand new Wilson. One he is hard-pressed to recognize. This is the man that's left after grief and rage have swept the many masks and the protective shields clean away.

To his eternal shame, House finds him very alluring, this distilled new version of Wilson because his friend has no choice now but to be brutally honest. He's defenseless. Struggling unsuccessfully with bereavement has stripped him naked and left him utterly exposed.

Yes, House thinks, agreeing with Michael, and he detests himself, even as he does so. Yes, he is. Suffering has rendered him beautiful.

"I've sought you out to help you," Michael volunteers abruptly.

"Help me," House repeats flatly. "You can help me best by scuttling back out of that door." With the photograph of Wilson unconsciously weeping clutched tightly in his hand, House can smell beer - both in his glass and on his own breath - and he feels worthless and powerless and sick. Sick to the bottom of his stomach.

"You miss him," Michael points out, his face grave. "When was the last time you sat and had lunch with him? Spoke to him? You won't even go and visit him if you need his advice on a case; you always chicken out and send somebody else."

"Because I betrayed him," House grates out. "I killed his girlfriend. He has every reason to hate me."

"I'm sure he does." Michael stares at House and carefully lays a hand on House's shoulder, radiating sympathy. "I'm certain that he'll never want to look you in the face, ever again."

Stricken, House shakes the intrusive hand off. He fumbles in his pocket for his cell. "I'm going to ensure that you stay away from him," he says. "I'm calling the cops." Hands once again quivering, he starts punching in the numbers, but then he stills at Michael's next words.

"What would it be worth to you if he does look at you?" Michael asks, his ebony eyes abysmal - swallowing but not reflecting back any light. "Without distrust? Without hostility? What would you be willing to pay me if tomorrow he gazes at you for a moment with the caring, loving eyes of a friend? Fifty dollars?"

What price would he pay for Wilson to look at him as if he didn't hate him? If anyone could achieve that tiny miracle for him, House would be happily prepared to offer a lot more than fifty dollars; he'd gladly find the bluntest knife available and slowly hack off his left arm and both legs.

If only it were possible.

"You're mad," House whispers. He presses a hand against his stomach which is churning unpleasantly. "Completely insane."

"I can make it happen." Michael leans towards House intently. "You don't have to worry; I won't go near him. I won't talk to him or threaten him, but I can do it." He snaps his fingers. "Just like that."

House stares at him without blinking.

"Just like that," Michael recapitulates cajolingly. "Fifty dollars. Mere peanuts to you. What do you say?"

House is wholly unprepared to answer him. "You're not to follow him or take any more photographs of him."

"Okay," replies Michael agreeably.

Still not satisfied, House holds out his hand. "And I'm keeping the ones you already have."

Solemnly, Michael hands the rest of them over. He watches mutely as House slides them carefully into his coat pocket. "So," he says, "do we have a deal?"

"How will you do it?" House asks and curses himself for buying into this craziness. Wilson is now permanently estranged from him... cast adrift like a severed anchor. The friendship is over... smashed to smithereens and well beyond any hope of repair. He should attempt to come to terms with that, not persist in trying to fan its dead embers. He should bury it, wash his hands of it, hold his head up high with some semblance of dignity and do his utmost to move on.

And yet.

God help him, and yet...

Michael's face lights up in open delight. "You're really considering it, then? Let me fret over the trivial details. As I've mentioned before, you can rest easy. I won't touch a single hair on his head. You have my word."

"Your word means nothing to me. I don't know you."

"If my intention is to injure him, I would have done so already," Michael points out reasonably. He taps his watch. "I haven't got all day. What's it going to be, yes or no?"

Long fingers drumming a spasmodic beat on the table, House suddenly laughs bitterly. "You're wasting your time," he says bluntly. "I know Wilson. You don't. He'll never forgive me. Not in a million years."

Michael simply waits.

To his horror, House finds that he is disgustingly close to tears. He quickly gulps down the rest of his beer, trying manfully to regain his composure.

Perhaps he should have stayed on that bus with Amber. Only he hadn't, had he? He'd voluntarily jumped off, desperate to make things right with Wilson, and now, this wacky proposal... it might well be his only chance.

God, for Wilson to smile uninhibitedly at him, just the once.

House is silent for a moment, wrestling with his conscience, and then he comes to a decision. "We have a deal," he says. "If Wilson approaches me tomorrow and is civil to me, then I'll meet you back here tomorrow evening, and the fifty bucks is yours."

Smiling in satisfaction, Michael maneuvers himself out of the booth.

House grabs his wrist to prevent him from leaving. "But I'm telling you now..." Michael raises an enquiring eyebrow, and House's voice drops into a hard, menacing whisper. "If I find out that you've contacted Wilson... upset him, distressed him in any way at all, then there will be hell to pay." He lays his hand over his heart. "You have my word."

Averting his gaze, Michael is strangely subdued. "Well, I certainly wouldn't want that." He rallies, nods briefly. "Understood." He pulls free of House's grip.

Eyes following him as he leaves, House wonders, What have I done?

Guiltily and with a touch of hysteria: So help me. What Have I Done?

To be continued.

fayding-fast@supanet.com — Wed, 14 May 2008 20:06:42 GMT

Ficlet: Collusion
Author: Fayding_fast
Rating: Gen
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em
Spoilers: For all seasons
Wordcount: 720
Con-crit? Yes please.
Strong warning: Based on spoilers and speculation for season 4 finale.

House watched as Amber deliberately trampled on a fellow passenger's bag as she made her way up the aisle to join him. She sat down in the seat next to him. "I think we covered all the bases, back in the bar," he said mildly, whiskey fumes drifting into her face and causing her to cough slightly.

"Not quite," she said, crossing her legs gracefully. She glanced disdainfully around the bus.

"Can my aging heart stand it? You're hiding another secret?" He watched her carefully, feeling slow; dim-witted. That bartender had been right to confiscate his keys.

Amber sighed. "Let's not play games. It's getting late; I'm tired. I need to know what your intentions are." She turned to face him more directly. "What are you going to tell Wilson?"

House regarded her coolly. "Nothing," he said.

"Nothing?" Amber looked at him disbelievingly.

Shaking his head, House pursed his lips thoughtfully. "I think you should tell him, though," he said. "You're dying. You'll be needy. He'll be in his glory. He'll move heaven and hell to look after you. You won't have to go through this alone."

Amber looked at him as if he had completely lost his senses. "I wasn't talking about that," she snapped. She lowered her voice. "You've discovered that I'm having an affair. You have ammunition. You've always wanted to destroy the relationship I have with Wilson." She tapped nervous fingers against an almost bare thigh. "Now's your chance."

"I don't want him to find out about that," House said flatly. "Whatever you do, don't confess anything. Keep that particular bawdy little secret to yourself."

"Why would you say that?" Amber frowned at him, genuinely puzzled. "If our positions were reversed....."

"He's insecure," House explained, trying to be patient for Wilson's sake. "Your death: he'll be devastated, sure. He'll suffer..... grieve for months. But eventually, he'll get over it. If he finds out you're having an affair, or, more to the point, who it's with, then, most likely, it will destroy him. He'll hole up in some tasteless, anonymous hotel, and apart from work, he'll never emerge out into the real world, ever again."

"You're kidding, right? Why would you think that? Julie?"

"Julie!" House slammed his palm against his forehead, becoming more sober by the second. "I didn't even think about her." He bit his lip, worry for his friend clouding his face, pulling his shoulders so tight, that his clavicles were in serious danger of snapping. "I...." He looked out of the window, guilt and bile rising. He forced them down. "Bonnie talked to me about his performance in bed. I relayed what she said to him."

Amber laughed. "Wilson's brilliant in bed. Why would that make him feel insecure?"

House groaned. "I..... lied to him," he admitted.

Amber stared at him. "You're not above hurting him, yourself."

"I'm not sleeping with him," House said defensively. He scraped his thumbnail repeatedly across his forehead. "Look," he said. "You're very ill. You want to go out with a bang; I don't blame you. It's going to get tough." He hesitated. "If there's anything I can do......"

She almost tumbled off her chair. "But you despise me," she said, amazed.

House was irritated, annoyed that he had to spell out the obvious. "Wilson doesn't. He loves you."

Blue eyes sharpened, Amber falling quiet for a moment, musing over the puzzle. "You're willing to help me because of Wilson," she said slowly. "You're concerned about him. You honestly do care about him."

"Of course, I care about him; he's my best friend," House said curtly. He glanced at Amber, wondering why he felt so embarrassed; desperately wishing that he didn't. She was still studying him.

Amber tested a new theory. "When you caught me making out with Thirteen," she said, her voice ringing with confidence, "you weren't shocked, were you? You weren't in the least bit surprised." She raised a delicate eyebrow.

He blinked, her words startling him. House tilted his head slightly, looking straight through her. He thought about Wilson and the way his friend always stood next to him: supportively, and so very, very close. He pictured his infinitely dark and gentle eyes. House swallowed, suddenly feeling unaccountably sad.

Amber smiled at him with such understanding that House couldn't bear it. He turned to stare out of the window, scowling when he saw a garbage truck run a red light.

"No," House answered her softly.

fayding-fast@supanet.com — Wed, 05 Mar 2008 17:34:14 GMT

Title: Pawn
Author: Fayding_fast
Pairing: W/A, H/W
Rating: R
Warning: House is pretty dark.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em
Wordcount: 1522
Summary: Amber pushes House's buttons. She really pushes them.
Spoilers: For season 4
Con-crit? Yes please and thank you kindly.

Amber has a beautiful neck. Graceful, creamy, it is the kind of neck a nubile model posed before Botticelli would have been proud to flaunt; it is a feature that attracts every man's eye in a room.

Certainly, it's drawn House's.

He's picturing what it would look like, twisted at an insane angle. Not one of his finer moments, he is imagining snapping it.

Oh, he'd be clever, make it look like a macabre accident - She tripped? She's dead? What a terrible tragedy - but to permanently dispose of Wilson's girlfriend? And to discover that he's cleanly got away with it? For House, it's all about the simple pleasures in life. He'd be free of another nemesis. He'd be basking in a dream come true.

Trying to accurately remember the explosive sound a breaking twig makes, House is lost to the world around him, staring vacantly into his glass.

"House? What do you think?" Amber's staring at him expectantly.

He looks up at her, then glances at Wilson, whose eyes are currently sparkling. House has been tuning their conversation out for a good five minutes. From the look of things, Wilson suspects this, the bastard. House plays it cool and shrugs carelessly. "Sounds pretty good," he hedges.

"Great," Wilson says cheerfully. "We'll meet you there next Friday."

Yep, Wilson knows.

House's eyes shoot daggers at him, and Wilson laughs with abandon. House shakes his head, giving up.

He watches as Amber strokes Wilson's arm, her touch calculated. Possessive. House looks away, seething. Why he has agreed to join the two lovebirds for an after work drink, he will never know.

Thoroughly miserable, wearing his best hangdog expression, he scowls at his surroundings. Amber's choice of bar, it's bland, with not even a pool table to break the monotony. Only a few other patrons have wandered in, and judging by the prices of the drinks, they've only scuttled in to escape the cold. None of the other customers are in earshot; again, because of Amber's preference, the three of them are sitting in the furthest corner of the room.

House picks up his glass and swirls the remains of his beer. Time to finish it off and excuse himself. He has better things to do than play the gooseberry.

Amber leans into Wilson and kisses him tenderly.

Wilson responds at first, but quickly pulls back. "Amber...." he cautions. Color stains his cheeks. "We talked about this." He shifts slightly, moving his stool away from her and right next to House. He peeks at House self-consciously.

Unbelievable. "For God's sake." Draining the rest of his beer in one gulp, House slams the empty glass down on the table, and swipes his chin with the back of his hand. He had been planning to leave, but now, perversely, he hesitates. Wilson's leg is pressing against the length of his, solid and warm, and there's a terrible pressure blossoming inside his chest. House thinks it might be loathing teamed with bitter regret. Whatever it is, it's unpleasant. But, it keeps him seated.

Amber fails to take the hint. Painted nails trail across Wilson's chest. "So coy?" she purrs. "You weren't like this last night."

"We didn't have company last night." Squirming again, Wilson looks almost annoyed and that's when House makes his mind up. Decides that enough is enough.

She's deliberately baiting him, and House is feeling old and jealous and, well, tired of it. He hates her. Okay, then, she's asking for it. If she wants to test him, he will play her at her own game.

"Your girlfriend has goaded me into doing this," House murmurs regretfully. He turns fractionally on his seat.

Nothing screams insincerity louder than a smirk, followed swiftly by a grin.

Face suddenly blanching, Wilson absently brushes Amber's exploring hand away. His dark gaze fixes upon his friend, liquid and wary. Afraid. He stares at him in that paralyzed way of his, when he knows that House is about to do, or say, something cruel.

Holding his gaze, not bothering to worry about consequences, House places his hand boldly on Wilson's inner thigh, near his knee, and sweeps it firmly up towards his groin.

The effect is immediate.

Inhaling sharply, thighs parting, Wilson's head jolts back, his eyes drifting shut.

"Holy crap." Astounded by Wilson's reaction, House, in his turn, is instantly aroused. His mouth gapes open as his friend abruptly hunches over, moaning softly. He snatches his hand back, perturbed and not a little terrified, by his own swift and highly visible response.

Amber stares at them, her face slack with dismay.

"Wilson?" House's voice scrapes up his throat. His friend is still bent over double, and for a moment, House finds it impossible to think. "Wilson," he says again, hand caressing his back. House recovers his wits quickly. His confusion dissipating, his mind as sharp as a vixen's tongue, he grips the back of Wilson's neck, and, more or less, forces his friend to sit up.

Hands limp by his sides, still reeling, Wilson looks up as his defenses crumble down.

House is fascinated. So many expressions flit across the pale face. Primarily, stark disbelief. But then, Wilson's eyes, those beautifully shock-widened eyes, begin to plead. Become frenzied with need.

House doesn't waste time. He repositions his stool, and slides his left thigh between Wilson's knees, keeping them apart.

"No," Wilson mumbles, dazed.

House grips Wilson's arms. "Yes," he insists calmly. He pulls Wilson relentlessly, carefully closer. He does this in stages, expecting, at any given moment, to meet resistance. There isn't any.

"Wilson?" Amber's voice holds a touch of hysteria.

There's no answer.

"Ditch the bitch," House suggests hoarsely. He drags him even closer.

Breath catching, Wilson jerks in House's arms. A strong hand begins to glide up over his ear. Gently, lovingly, the fingers slowly start to clench, becoming entangled in his hair. They ensure that he remains motionless. They persuade him that it would be wise to stay perfectly still.

"You hear me? She's a pale imitation." House stares unblinkingly at Amber, his eyes as cold as Wilson's turned shoulder. "She's a proxy. And a rather pitiful one at that."

Wilson is tugged closer yet.

And now House's right hand slides leisurely up his arm, across the shoulder, and finds its way to Wilson's throat. It remains there, not crushing, but casually resting. Prudently lightly. House takes the opportunity to measure his pulse. It's thundering against his fingertips, and House savors this, the fact that it's hammering. It makes House feel powerful. Oddly whole.

Amber's glaring at him, at them both. Her expression's murderous.

House nudges his knee deliberately into Wilson's groin and Wilson convulses. His lips caress an acquiescent Wilson's ear. "You're safe with me," he breathes. He watches as Amber furiously grabs her bag and coat, and leaves. He watches as she stalks away, his gaze following her progress, all the way to the exit.

Wilson doesn't even notice. He's quiet. So very, very quiet. His eyes have become glassy.

House wonders if he should be worried about him. "You'll be pleased to know I've reconsidered," he says. He waits a moment, but there's still no acknowledgment. "I know what's best for you."

Yes, Wilson thinks distantly. I'm sure you do.

House lets go of Wilson's hair and his friend stays exactly where he is. House is pleased with him. He starts rocking him, the two men swaying together, to and fro. House allows his free hand to explore, to skim down Wilson's spine, until his fingers encounter leather. They trail teasingly along Wilson's belt.

Inconceivably, just before House releases Wilson's throat, the pulse accelerates even more. To dangerous levels. It's absolutely racing.

House considers this, the long fingers of both hands now toying with Wilson's buckle. He stares into the distance, then shrugs; the belt starting to slide through his hands. "I know you want this," he soothes.

They're in a public place, but House isn't unduly concerned. The bar is practically empty, and they're sitting miles from anybody. House reaches for Wilson's zip, and his friend behaves, and doesn't try to stop him. "I want this, too," House assures him. The zip starts to lower, House going out of his way to be careful. The things he has to do. His own heartbeat, finally, starts to quicken.

Wilson murmurs something unintelligible.

Protest or entreaty?

And does House really care? He reaches for him, and grips him, and is enthralled by the tremors this action invokes. By the involuntary whimpers.

"Hush," House says forcefully, although he doesn't actually mind the wordless begging, at all. "You'll attract attention." His hand moves over warm, silky skin, working him. Pleasuring him in a steady rhythm. "You'll be alright. Trust me." Blue eyes are still staring at nothing.

Wilson sobs against his neck.

"Shhhh," he warns again, his hand pumping industriously. "Don't fret, I've got you," he croons. "You want to know what I've decided?"

Wilson's shuddering against him almost continuously. Helplessly.

For the first time in a long time, a smile touches House's lips, and reaches his eyes. To the casual observer, the smile would seem frightening. Chilling. "Good, I'll tell you," he says. He rubs his cheek against Wilson's, his hand deftly speeding up. He's still smiling. House closes his eyes, content.

"I've decided that you should date the real thing."

The end.

fayding-fast@supanet.com — Wed, 13 Feb 2008 16:57:20 GMT

Title: Lair
Author: Fayding_fast
Summary: At Wilson's expense, House discovers that a battle has been won.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em
Wordcount: 553
Rating: PG
Warning: This isn't fluffy. Some may find it disturbing.
Spoilers: For season 4.
Con-crit? Yes please and thank you.
Author's note: In canon, House can be a pretty scary guy.

House whirls, then stands in stunned surprise when Wilson enters his apartment. He hasn't been expecting him; his old friend hasn't graced his home with a visit in quite some time.

Unsettlingly silent, his gaze skims over the case held in a white knuckled hand, then shifts to thoroughly rake over a hesitant Wilson, from head to toe. From the submissive posture, to the weary face, House absorbs every minute detail, and he likes what he sees. His eyes perceivably darken. His gaze becomes nakedly hungry.

House stretches languidly. Rarely has he been so happy. Finally, he understands that glorious victory is his. He can almost smell it.... the intriguingly fresh aroma of fluid viciously drawn, and pumping spasmodically into the air. Copper based and heady; he can sense prey. Confidently, he prowls nearer.

Wilson can't quite meet his eyes. "It's over," he says unnecessarily, and House ruthlessly kills his grin of triumph. "She told me that she was just using me," he confesses reluctantly. "It seems she calculated that I was her best chance of getting to you."

Circling him, House discreetly takes his friend's bag and lurks by the couch. "I'm sorry," he lies. He casually puts down the bag and rolls up his shirtsleeves. Arrogantly, he discards the cane.

Nodding, Wilson shrugs hopelessly. "She fooled me. Right from the beginning." He looks up at House, his demeanor absolutely stricken.

House crowds him. He places possessive hands on both of Wilson's shoulders.

"I hoped that......" Wilson's face twists as his voice fades into a whisper. "She reminded me so much of you. I thought that at long last, after all this time, that I'd actually caught a break, that this was it for me."

House cocks his head to hear him.

Sighing, eyes downcast, Wilson miserably shakes his head. "I thought that she could actually be the one."

House momentarily pictures Amber, a wolf in Wilson's clothing, and he consciously has to relax his fingers. Before they can gouge deeply into clamped, unprotected flesh, like unsheathed claws. Wilson is still by the door. House doesn't want to fight, not yet.

"Did she...." Wilson stumbles, aware that he's not totally blameless, himself. He stares at House anxiously. "Did we.... hurt you?" He's trembling within House's grasp.

There is a slight pause. Are you that witless? House thinks. Are you really trying to tell me, that you honestly don't know? Deftly, he turns his head so that there's no way, not the slightest chance, that Wilson can read his eyes. Because by now, he's certain they're glittering. "You're here now," House answers him roughly. Ambiguous, but House is content for Wilson to translate that any old way he wants.

Wilson believes that he's been forgiven. He sags as if all the strength has been rudely drained from him, and House is forced to swiftly adjust his grip. It tightens inescapably. He hauls his friend back upright.

House studies him. Never before, in his entire life, has he seen the man so desolate. So broken.

Wilson is, House is jubilant to note, excitingly vulnerable.

Dizziness assails him, and House realizes that he's practically panting. He has to waste an annoying moment on trying to calm himself. He takes a vast, steadying, invigorating breath.

House now feels icily composed. Smiling brightly at Wilson, he lures him further into the room.

The end.

fayding-fast@supanet.com — Wed, 30 Jan 2008 19:13:44 GMT

Title: Romance is dead?
Author: Fayding_fast
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em
Wordcount: 654
Genre: Humor
Format: Dialogue only
Rating: R
Spoilers: Minor for Resignation
Con-crit? Yes please and thank you kindly.
Author's note: House is being obnoxious, but he still gets my sympathy vote!

"You want to sashay down the hallway and shift that delectable little ass into the bedroom?"

"Sure. Why not?"

"Why not? You're not offended when I sexually objectify you? Cool! Let's go."

"Not right this very minute, House. As you can see, I'm busy."

"Yeah. Reading. Jim-my, I'm sooo boooooored!"

"That petulant whine of yours is so seductive, it isn't true. If you're at a loose end, go and make yourself useful. Why don't you tidy up a bit; the place looks like a tip."

"I said I'm bored, not unhinged. We've been screwing for two weeks. You've whizzed through the insatiably horny phase already?"

"Yep, and now I'm lazing in that blissful, shucks-I'm-so-pleased-with-my-performance, virtual cigarette phase. House? Don't look like that; I was kidding. But come on, try to be reasonable; I've only just sat down. Can't you amuse yourself for a measly half an hour?"

"Let me think. No. I'm in the mood to play now. Who knows how I'll feel later. Don't you care about me?"

"Oh, don't even go there. House, I'm beat; I just want to relax. Sit quietly with a beer.... catch up with current affairs....."

"You can relax lying face down. Pillow under your hips, legs spread, lube squirting up your ....."

"Right, you know what? I've seen the light. How could I be so selfish? I've been slogging my guts out all day, but, hey, I've managed to unwind for two minutes, so..... what the hell. Go ahead. Jump me."

"You want me to ravish you whilst you're reading the headlines?"

"Yep, you bet. As long as you don't disturb me too much and you're quick about it."

"Your enthusiasm's overpowering. Could you rein it in a bit? Unless..... Oh, I get it. This is a ploy. You're acting the tease. You pretend you don't want me, then I'm forced to work that much harder...... I like it. It adds an undeniable frisson of excitement."

"Blood, sweat and tears. Did they ever hurt anyone?"

"The thrill of the chase. I'll have you begging for it in no time. As soon, in fact, as I caress your jaw here...."

"Nope. Does nothing for me."

"It doesn't? What if I touch your neck here?"

"Nope. Leaves me cold. Brrrrr."

"Wow, I'm duly impressed! You've totally immersed yourself in the character. Well, how about here?"

"Would you get started, already? Hey, could you move that elbow? I need to turn the page."

"Are you certain that you're not just being damned awkward? That was a hotspot, yesterday!"

"That was yesterday. Today, they've all moved."

"You know, there's teasing, and then there's responding like a bloated, putrescent corpse! I'm warning you, if I'm going to all this trouble, then it had better be worth it."

"Trust me, it will be. Would I enjoy stringing you along?"

"Suppose I was to stroke a bared shoulder, like this? Press my lips against your collarbone..... like this...."

"You feel like watching a movie? How about Enemy of the State? Hackman and Smith. An old one, but a ... oh..... my.... God!"

"Hah! Beginning to thaw now, are you, hmmm? Sports pages suddenly less than compelling? You want me to press there again?"

"Gggggh... yes. Oh, House, yeah..... yes, please!"

"Like so?"

"Yeah. Oh, God, yeah. Exactly like so."

"Interested now?"

"Yeah, mmmm.....I'm, oh, boy....definitely interested."

"Great. I'm gonna take a bath."

"Okay. Huh? You're what?"

"Taking a bath. Don't bother waiting up."

"But, why? I thought you wanted to....."

"Newspaper print, see? I've got it all over my hands and arms."

"So? Why would that irritate you?"

"OCD. I'm fastidious about cleanliness."

"That's a blatant lie! You leave mugs of urine lying all over the apartment!"

"Late presenting OCD. It's just come on."

"No. House.... no, wait....um.... defeated so soon? When passions were boiling so nicely?"

"I know what you're up to. If you think you can manipulate me......"

"Wouldn't dream of it. But, doesn't a shower, shared with a lover, sound much more inviting? A steamy, leisurely shower?"

"You wanna join me in the shower? You actually mean it?"

"You need to ask? Last one in drops the soap?"

"Cool! I've got a massive head start. Let's go."

The end.

fayding-fast@supanet.com — Sat, 19 Jan 2008 17:37:50 GMT

I've just bought a new book called "House unauthorized: Vasculitis, Clinic Duty, and Bad Bedside Manner" which I didn't even know existed until this morning. Obviously, I haven't had a chance to read all of it yet, but 24 authors have contributed to this book, and it has two interesting chapters about the House and Wilson dynamic.

The first of these two chapters, written by Joyce Millman, attempts to explain why Wilson chooses to be friends with someone like House. It's a fascinating read. It suggests that Wilson has a "masochistic tolerance for abuse and humiliation", mentions that Wilson has an obsessive interest in his friend's love life and states quite clearly that the reason Wilson is unable to sustain a long-term, monogamous commitment to a woman is because "he has a man-crush on House."

The second House/Wilson chapter, written by Bradley H. Sinor is also interesting. The author states that when he started to watch House, he noticed immediately that there was something "almost supernatural about him." (Wilson).

The author notes that sometimes House would look up, and Wilson has appeared as if by magic, with no sign that he had walked into the room, i.e no sound of a door opening, or a greeting. Also, Sinor cites examples where House is talking to Wilson, and someone would walk up to House and ignore Wilson completely. As if he isn't even there. Is Wilson, House's imaginary friend some of the time, the author asks.

If you live in the U.K, look out for this book. From what I've read so far, it's worth the money.

Artwork-repost

fayding-fast@supanet.com — Sat, 08 Dec 2007 20:15:36 GMT

Artist: Fayding_fast
Note: This is a scene I'd love to see appear later in season 4!

Tinderbox-chapter 4

fayding-fast@supanet.com — Tue, 20 Nov 2007 17:34:41 GMT

Title: Tinderbox
Author: Fayding_fast
Sequel: Yes, to Duped. See link below.
Chapter: 4/4
Theme: reincarnation
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em
Wordcount: 6937
Warning: Angst, swearing, mention of strong violence (but not against major characters.)
Con-crit? Yes, please.
Rating: R
Author's note: Enjoy

Duped

Tinderbox, chapter 1
Tinderbox, chapter 2
Tinderbox, chapter 3

October 27th, 2012, 13:00 hrs

When was Monday going to arrive?

Peter sat rigidly at his dining room table, his father's present, an early Christmas gift, opened but not started in front of him, and glanced, again, out the window.

The sky was emboldeningly blue; the sun was still merrily blazing, reassuringly bright, in the sky.

Today was Saturday; was that right? Peter knew that when the sun was shunted aside by the moon, and his house and garden became dark, that shortly after that, he would be sent to bed to sleep, and when he awakened, it would be Sunday. And he'd eat meals and bathe, maybe play or read a little, and, inevitably, at the end of that new day, the sun would lose its daily skirmish once more, fall out of sight, and when it recovered, and managed to haul itself back into the sky, by then, it would be Monday.

Monday meant school and Brian and, chillingly, Billy.

How was Billy going to react to him at school? How would Billy treat him? Were they still friends or did Billy now view him as an enemy? Would Billy still ask him for his lunch? Physically try to hurt him? Mock him? When was the sun going to go down, and how many hours did he have left until he would be forced to to face Monday?

Peter looked down blankly at the instructions for the sequin art, read, but not understood, and rocked on his chair almost imperceptibly. He couldn't think objectively because there were too many unknowns. He had too many questions. That, and he was fighting off intense, unrelenting terror.

"Kiddo?"

Immobilizing thoughts disturbed, Peter looked vacantly up at his father. "Yes, daddy?"

"That was House calling again. That's the third time he's rung today. He's concerned about you. Are you sure that you don't want to talk to him?"

How could the very sound of a name hurt so much? How was it possible, that it could gouge him like a knife? Peter struggled to speak. "I'm sure," he breathed.

"Well, it's up to you." Mr Talbot approached his son, trying not to think about the huge childminding problems he was facing, if he could no longer lean on House for assistance. He changed the subject and pointed at the box on the table. "You haven't done much of that, yet. Don't you like it?"

"Yes, I do." Peter studied the picture on the lid. It showed a dragon, but not a dragon like the ones depicted in his treasured book of dragonology upstairs. The creatures in that well thumbed book were majestic beasts, beautifully captured in flight as they swooped in to protect damsels, lone travelers and threatened villages, their bronze and golden scales gleaming, their tails sweeping aside foe, their gazes wise and composed and, somehow, all the more commanding for that. They were dragons he could believe in, and he did, wholeheartedly. Peter was a child eager to embrace the fanciful.

But this dragon.... this animal was a cartoon and a badly rendered one. Its coating was rainbow hued and unrealistic, its eyes flat and lifeless dull dots. Even the fire belching from its mouth looked unconvincing. Still, it was a present from his father, and Peter adored it for that reason alone.

Mr Talbot frowned a little. "You've done some sequin art before, haven't you?"

"No, daddy, I've never tried this before." Shamefaced, Peter held up the instructions like a shield in front of him, certain that his father was about to lose what was left of his diminished patience. "I don't know what I'm meant to do. I can't read all of these words," he admitted.

Nodding, Mr Talbot sat down next to him. "I didn't realize that," he said. "Suppose I give you a hand?"

Peter stared at him, speechless, not used to his father being willing to spend some down time with him. He groped for and quickly found his tongue. "That's nice of you, daddy. Thank you," he said. He basked in something his father very rarely extended to him, simple kindness. Listening attentively as his father taught him how to use the picture's blueprint, as fervently as he could, he tried to will away the sunset.

*

October 28th, 2012, 23:15 hrs

Face washed, teeth brushed, Peter's father was ready to go to bed. Or he would have been, if he wasn't standing in Peter's bedroom doorway in his pajamas, torn by indecision. Enough light was filtering in from the landing light, for him to clearly be able to see Peter's face.

His son was crying in his sleep.

It was at times like this, when Mr. Talbot missed his wife the most strongly. Jenny would have known precisely what to do. Chances were, Peter wouldn't be crying at all if she was still around. She would have coaxed him to confide in her, any worries or fears he was hoarding, and soothed them away with wise words..... a kiss placed on his smooth brow. The child would be running around energetically during the day, not sitting around like a pale ghost. His beloved wife would have known how to take care of him.

Mr. Talbot moved away from the doorway and entered his own bedroom. He pulled back the bedclothes on both sides of the double bed. Moving back into his son's room, he rolled back the duvet, and placing one hand under the child's neck and one under his knees, he lifted the boy into his arms. "Up we come, kiddo," he whispered.

He carried the still sleeping boy into the master bedroom and gently laid him on the bed. He covered him up. Then, carefully, trying not to awaken the child, he climbed into the other side of the bed himself. He switched off the lamp.

He lay awake for a long time, haunted by fear. Suppose he rolled over in his sleep and hurt the boy? He couldn't bear to leave the distressed boy alone in his own bed, but would he accidentally smother him?

Balancing on the very edge of the mattress, he listened to the child's hitching breathing, and fretted over his son's immediate and future welfare.

He lay there, sleep eluding him, and pined for Jenny.

*

October 29th, 2012, 12:00 hrs

Peter had seen a film once, when he'd walked the Earth as Wilson. It has been a low budget, clumsily shot affair, closer to a home movie than a Hitchcockesque Hollywood blockbuster, a film that Wilson wouldn't have sat down and watched at all, if he had anything better to do.

The film had left an indelible mark on his psyche.

Supposedly based on a true story, the film had followed the fortunes of a young wife. Blissfully happy at first in her new marriage, things rapidly soured when her husband was sacked from his job, started drinking excessively, and began to regularly pound his wife into a pulp. And the thrashings would have continued, carried on unchallenged, until she was lying, broken and forgotten, in a pine box. Except, three quarters of the way through the movie, the woman changed.

Knocked sprawling from her chair one Sunday lunchtime, this meek, unassuming woman, who wouldn't ordinarily say boo to a goose, had staggered to her feet, her remaining teeth bloodied and her nose knocked out of joint, and caved her dearly beloved's skull in with a frying pan.

Drastic measures, certainly. But her alcoholic, mindless brute of a husband never lifted a finger to her again.

Peter sat alone in the school's main hall, lunch untouched, eyes trained on the one entranceway, and he thought about that film. About its message. It was crystal clear. If he wanted to be left alone, if he wanted the chance to be able to live his life in relative peace, then if he was assaulted, Peter was going to have to physically fight back.

He tensed, thinking that Billy had just entered the room, and then relaxed. It was another boy who happened to look like Billy, but he didn't move like him. He didn't swagger.

Peter pulled irritably at his shirt, which, because he was sweating profusely, was sticking to the small of his back. He was a bundle of nerves. He'd spotted Billy earlier that day, and Billy had glared murderously at him, the desire for violence poisoning the air around the larger boy, like a vile odor.

They were no longer friends, then. They were Arch Enemies. Plots were being hatched. Trouble was percolating, unavoidable trouble, and there, Peter was sitting, caught bang in the middle of it.

It was a miserable, thoroughly rotten life.

Was that....? Yep, this time, it really was Billy, sauntering in as if he owned the place, hard gaze zeroing straight in on him, and it was all Peter could do to stop the whimper. This was it. The crunch. The showdown. He watched, frozen in place, as Billy headed unhurriedly towards him. He couldn't focus on anything else; just his former friend, face dark with hatred, and fists, clenched menacingly, held at the ready by his sides.

Billy would be able to see that he was terrified, wouldn't he? Like a dog, he'd be able to smell the fear on him. He'd would relish the palsied shaking, the droplets of sweat that seemed to be cascading like a waterfall from his brow, the jerky rise and fall of his chest. Billy was close now and relentlessly getting closer, and Peter had nobody to help him; no one at all. And nor could he think of a sanctuary, where he could run to and permanently hide.

Someone slid smoothly into the seat beside him.

Jumping, Peter checked to see who it was and saw that it was Brian. His stomach fell. He hadn't been expecting this, not a two against one attack. He wouldn't have a fair chance; he'd be pulverized. If only he had a weapon. He'd tried to cram his daddy's frying pan into his school bag that morning, but had ended up nearly hysterical, when the bag had started to split at the seams. He was weaponless. Defenseless. The fight was a foregone conclusion, even before the bell rang.

"You set me up." Billy was right in front of him, and Peter half expected to see his lives flashing before his eyes.

Peter shook his head in denial. "I didn't," he said. "I just invited you round House's to play games."

"Yeah, sure you did." Billy turned, expecting Peter's unquestioning obedience. "Let's settle this outside." He started to walk off.

Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God. Peter shakily got to his feet, ready to follow. He was expecting to die. Had he been good enough, this time around, to earn a place in heaven? Would they even let him back in, a second time? He squared his slim shoulders. He prayed that he at least looked like a warrior, and not a bulging eyed sacrificial goat digging its hooves in as it was dragged to the altar. His mommy was probably watching, and he wanted, very, very badly, to do her proud.

He'd taken his first reluctant step when, to his shock, Brian grabbed his arm none too gently, and yanked him roughly back down.

"Sit down, you fool," Brian hissed. "Stay put! Have you got a death wish?"

Peter gaped at him, open mouthed.

Billy turned around, surprised that Peter wasn't tagging along behind him. He glared at the smaller boy impatiently. "Well," he said. "Are you coming?"

Brian laid a restraining hand on Peter's knee, and from the way that hand was shaking, Peter knew that he wasn't the only frightened child around. "He's not going anywhere with you," Brian said quietly. "Now, fuck off."

Peter met Billy's shocked eyes, elated. He had support. He had a friend. He had this courageous, feisty guardian angel on his side, and even if the worst happened and he went down, it seemed he wasn't going down alone.

Billy stared at the two boys, taking in their defiance, the way they were sitting shoulder to shoulder, and glanced to the side, puzzled. He hadn't accounted for this, this display of courage. He certainly hadn't foreseen that Brian would step in and spoil his plans. He wasn't prepared to tackle the two of them, not here, in front of the teachers. Frustrated, he looked at Peter one more time, before pivoting and stalking off.

The two boys watched his retreating back without any real sense of relief.

"I can't believe he's gone," Brian gasped presently. He realized that his hand was still resting on Peter's knee and laughed nervously. He placed his hands in his lap. "I thought that you would tell me off for swearing," he said.

"It's better to say beep beep," Peter answered, "but I decided that for once, I would let it slide."

Humor glinted in Brian's eyes. "Now, beep beep off? Doesn't have quite the same threatening ring to it, does it?"

Peter thought about it. "I guess not," he said.

Nerves still jangling, both children fell about laughing. They sobered quickly.

"Billy will kill you if he sees you on your own," Brian warned. "You know that, right?"

Peter sighed. "Yeah, I know." He tried to smile at his friend. "I think that you were extremely brave," he said, and with those words, he cemented a lifelong friendship.

"I'm not really," Brian said. But inside, he was pleased. He searched the room for Billy, but the boy had left the hall. "Peter? I think that we should go and tell one of the teachers what's been happening. I know it's tattling, but I'm not always gonna be around. How about Mr. Atkins? He'll know what to do."

"I don't know," Peter murmured doubtfully. "I don't like the idea of running to a teacher. I feel like I should be brave enough to deal with this on my own."

Brian impersonated the call of a cuckoo, and twirled a finger next to his ear. "That's crazy. Billy's bigger than you. If we tell Mr. Atkins, he can help to keep an eye on you. What do you say, we go and tell him now?"

Peter stared at him unblinkingly.

Brian stood up and held out his hand. "Let's go," he said.

Unwillingly, Peter nodded. He grasped Brian's hand, and his friend pulled him onto his feet.

*

October 31st, 2012, 19:30 hrs

House laughed, without mirth, into the phone. "Look.... yes, I understand that he's been withdrawn.... I just..... I just want to speak to him. For a couple of minutes. Please." House fought to keep his tone reasonable, when it would have been so easy to scream at Peter's father, out of sheer, undiluted frustration.

God, he needed another drink.

He listened to Mr. Talbot prattle on, phone pressed painfully tight against his ear. Desperate to know how his young friend was getting on, he strained to hear any background noise, the faintest murmur from Peter. He couldn't hear anything.

"No.... no, I know he doesn't want to see me..... Look.... can't you persuade him to come to the phone?"

Masked revelers passed by his living room window. One of them glanced in, a bull-horned, snaggle-toothed monstrosity with snarling, obsidian eyes and House turned his back on him. He was battling enough demons of his own.

"Yeah, I get it.... sure. Okay. Please..... just give him my best." House clenched his jaws in annoyance when he heard the sound of the dialing tone. His tenuous link to Peter was broken.

House stood there in his darkened apartment for a moment, feeling totally lost, and then he carefully replaced the phone in its cradle. He poured another whiskey and took a long swig. It burnt his throat delightfully.

Braying laughter drifted back to him from down the street. It was October 31st, as good an excuse as any for having mindless fun, partying and scoffing too much candy.

House raised his glass in a mock toast. "Happy Halloween," he whispered.

*

November 2nd, 2012, 20:15 hrs

"Turn that light off, and then you can give me my key back," House ordered sullenly.

Lee switched off the light and walked further into House's dark apartment. "Forget it," he said. He pointed at his intoxicated friend. "This is precisely why I've got it."

"I don't want you here," House snapped at him. "I'm ill."

Lee sat on the opposite side of the sofa from House; his friend stank of booze and sweat. "You're not ill, you're drunk," he corrected him. "God, House, you've missed two days off work. What's this about?"

"Nothing." House nursing a glass of whiskey in shaking hands, spilled some of it on his jeans. He slammed the glass down on the coffee table. "Goddamnit," he cursed. He tried to soak up some of the liquid with a rumpled handkerchief.

"Is this about Peter? I know you two have had a row; his father called me."

House's head fell back against the sofa. "He's refusing to talk to me," he whispered. His eyes screwed tightly shut.

"Tell me what happened," Lee demanded.

And House, tongue loosened by inebriation and because he had literally nothing to lose, did. He told his friend everything that had transpired that previous Friday. Omitting only the fact that he had brought up the topic of Julie, House reported, word for word, exactly what had been said, and how it had been said, and when he was finished, he was spent.

Lee stood up. "I'm seeing Peter tomorrow," he said. "I'll sort this out then."

House's head snapped up. He switched on the nearby lamp.

Light flooded the room. Both men momentarily shielded their eyes.

"What?" House stared at his friend defeatedly. "You can't sort this out; it's over."

Lee shook his head. "What did Peter say to you? He told you that you'd made things worse. He's a very bright kid; he knew that there was already a problem. I promise you, House, by tomorrow evening, you and Peter will both be best buddies again."

House searched his face, eyes as ingenuous as a child's. "You think so?" he murmured.

Lee nodded confidently. "Know so," he assured him.

Hope blossomed before House could staunch it. He hauled himself painfully to his feet. "I'm going to get myself cleaned up," he said. The hint of his first smile in days curved his lips. He started to totter in the direction of his bathroom. "You can keep the spare key," he called over his shoulder.

Lee was watching House's shambling progress with apprehension. "Always my intention," he said.

*

November 3rd, 2012, 14:10 hrs

"Now! Legs straight out, lean back and pull on the chains. Excellent. Now! Relax." Lee was teaching Peter how to use the swings over the child's local park.

Arriving at Peter's house earlier that day, he had been disturbed to see how wan the child looked. He'd decided that his pre-planned walk out into the November air, might genuinely do the boy some good.

"Great. Legs out, pull...... that's it; you've got it." Lee considered the child meditatively. Peter was going through the motions mechanically, but it was obvious that the boy wasn't having a good time. Instead of being pleased that he was managing to gain some height on his own, the child looked unnervingly grave.

Peter looked down into Lee's eyes, and Lee shivered. Just the day before, Lee had been shocked to see House looking childlike and vulnerable. Now, the six year old in front of him looked old and jaded. The bond between his two friends had become skew-whiff, topsy-turvey, and the rift was hurting them both. Luckily, for all concerned, Lee was a fixer.

Lee looked around. There were only a couple of other people in sight braving the chill wind. Apart from that, it was easy to believe that they had the entire park to themselves. Huddling inside his coat, Lee put his hands into his jeans' pockets. "I love it here, don't you?"

Peter looked at him in bemusement. Lee didn't mean that, did he? The child glanced over at a lake swamped with algae. The swing he was sitting on was ancient, the chains covered with rust. The grass around them was patchy and blanketed with thousands of leaves, all blackening and curling up at the edges, rotting slowly away into dry, papery flakes. Winter was right upon their heels, eager to devour them, and as far as the child's eyes could see - like his mother, like his relationship with Billy, his friendship with House, everything was.............. "Everything's dying," Peter said.

Lee's smile faded. He caught the edge of the swing and gently stopped its momentum. Gradually, the swing slowed down until it had ceased to move altogether. Lee crouched down, knees creaking, in front of the child. He removed a small bottle from his back pocket.

Peter looked at it curiously. "What's that," he asked.

"Give me your hand," the doctor said. He took hold of Peter's right hand and eased it away from the chain. "You see this, here?" he asked, and pointed out the base of the child's thumb. "You see where the skin is all cracked and raw? That's because you keep sucking your thumb." He unscrewed the lid of the bottle he was holding, and pulled out a tiny brush. "I'm going to paint this liquid onto your thumbnail. It's clear, so you won't be able to see it. It tastes so horrible, that it will stop you putting your thumb into your mouth. It will help you to break the habit. This was House's idea."

"House?" Profound sadness flashed across the boy's face. The name still wrenched at his insides, but he was proud that he hadn't flinched. His father had helped him out with that accomplishment; obscurely, the man had been obsessively talking about House to him, all week.

Trying to sit still, he watched wordlessly as Lee liberally coated his nail and the surrounding skin with Stop 'N' Grow.

When he was finished, Lee recapped the bottle and slid it back inside his pocket. He patted the boy's knee. "Now that you've brought the subject up, perhaps we should discuss him," he said.

The child's face closed.

"I know you've had a disagreement with House. You want to tell me what's going on?"

Peter adamantly shook his head.

"Too loyal, huh? I went to see him yesterday, and he's not doing so well. You don't want that, do you? I know you care about him."

"He doesn't care about me," the child said, bottom lip quivering. "I'm getting cold. Please, may we go home, now?"

"No," Lee said. "You can't go around believing that House doesn't care about you. That isn't true. I want you to talk to me."

Peter looked at him unhappily, held prisoner on an antique swing.

"Why are you avoiding him?"

"We had a bad argument. We argued over my friends, Brian and Billy."

"But Billy isn't your friend, is he? He was bullying you."

The child stared down at his sneakers. One of them had a hole in it; he needed some new ones.

Lee gazed at him sadly. How could he get through to him, if the child was unresponsive? "You and I, we're both alike in the way that we try to befriend everyone. House isn't like us. He's a miserable bas..... he's a loner who prefers to keep himself to himself. Or, he did, before he met you. I heard rumors..... I don't know how true they are, but I heard that he lost someone very close to him, my predecessor actually, and it hit House extremely hard. So severely, in fact, that he started pushing everyone away."

Stricken with guilt, the child stared into the distance, his face, in essence, a mask of sorrow.

"I've been in the office next door to his for years," Lee continued. "On occasion, House and I would consult each other professionally, but other times, I would bump into him, in the carpark or around the hospital, and I would say hello, but he would just look right through me, his eyes blank. Cold."

"Like a dead fish's eyes?" Peter asked distantly.

"Exactly like that, yeah. But then, for some reason, he befriended you, and he began to change considerably. He started to reach out to people. Believe me, when people like House reach out to you, it's a rare and special thing. You don't turn them away. You should hang onto his friendship with both hands." Lee clasped his hands together to demonstrate. "You understand?"

The boy's gaze flickered up from Lee's hands to his face. "I do," he affirmed.

"I'm not saying that House dealt with your problem in the best possible way, but his motives were pure. He was only trying to protect you. He didn't mean to hurt you; he loves you. He wanted to stop Billy abusing you. Billy's not a very nice kid. You're very intelligent; I'm sure you know that."

Peter stared at him without commenting.

"Right?" Lee said, with the persistence that served him well, both as an oncologist and House's friend.

Slowly, Peter nodded.

"You and House have a wonderful relationship. I don't want to tell you what Billy said to House; you're too young to understand, but he said some really nasty things. Naturally, House was very upset, and still is. Don't let Billy tear you both apart; he's not worth it."

"House is still upset? Even now?" That knowledge didn't sit well with Peter. It didn't sit right at all.

"Yes. If I call him and ask him to come here, would you be willing to speak to him?" Lee crossed his fingers behind his back.

Ambivalent, Peter warily nodded.

Lee smiled at him and pulled out his cell.

Peter didn't know what he could possibly say to House. Assailed by an attack of nerves, Peter's thumb went into his mouth. He spat it out. The revolting taste lingering on his tongue, brought tears to his eyes. " Holy Moly!" he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "That's disg......" Catching movement out of the corner of his eye, he quit complaining as a stooped figure appeared on the horizon. He squinted against the sun.

"Well," Lee said cheerfully. "House must have broken all the speed limits to get here."

Peter thought it was more likely that House had been waiting for the call in the public carpark. But he said nothing and watched, heart in his mouth, as House made his excruciatingly slow way down the hill. Frankly, the boy was horrified. HIs friend could barely move, and knowing House as well as he did, he could guess why House had deteriorated so much.

Lee made as if he was going to meet House to assist him, but Peter stopped him.

"He won't like it if you try to help him," the child warned. "He'll be ashamed." But even as his words encouraged Lee to stay where he was, Peter had to fight the overwhelming need to help House himself. Every instinct made him want to dash over to House to support him, so he wouldn't stumble. If House had permitted it, the child would have carried him if he could.

It took an age, but House eventually reached the playground without serious incident, and all three of them sighed in relief. As House neared Lee, the two men had a silent and fleeting conversation. House jerked his head in irritation back up the hill, plainly saying, Choose somewhere to meet that's completely inaccessible, why don't you?

Lee met his glaring eyes bravely and shrugged. I'm doing my best here. What do you expect me to do?

You could lay on a cable car, or, at the very least, a Tuk-tuk, House's expression said, and then he was reeling, staggering past Lee and heading for the center swing. He hadn't once looked at Peter. He sank onto the seat with a muffled groan of relief.

Peter stared at him, concerned. The swing was way too small for House. He had to stretch his long, long legs out in front of him, and the chains were digging into his hips and shoulders. Wide-eyed, the child looked at Lee, and then back at House. "House, do you like kiddie swings?" the boy asked tentatively.

"Love 'em," House said. "They're a thrill a minute." He rubbed his face tiredly. "How are you getting on at school?"

"Very well, thank you, House. I'm at the top of my class."

House paused. "I meant..... how are Brian and Billy behaving towards you?"

"Oh. It's been very weird, House. Brian has hardly left my side. I think Billy's scared of him; he's keeping well away from both of us."

Abject relief crossed House's face. "Good," he murmured. He glanced, for the first time, at the child, and then looked quickly away. "Good," he repeated. House gripped the swing chains and started to lift himself to his feet.

Lee frowned. House wasn't leaving, was he? Nothing had been resolved. "Peter," he said, and both of the others glanced at him quizzically. "Peter, House has come here to say he's sorry. Haven't you, House?" he hinted heavily.

House shook his head. "I'm not sorry," he said. He stood up, breathing as if he'd not just climbed to his feet, but completed an Olympic standard, punishing routine on a pommel horse.

"What?" Lee stared at House in exasperation. "House, what's the big deal here? Just apologize." He indicated the boy and then the landscape around them. "If you don't, then what was the point of all this?"

"It's alright, Doctor Lee." Peter held up a restraining hand and Lee fell silent, abiding by the child's wishes. "Didn't you watch House as he walked across the grass?" He turned back to observe his old friend, his eyes glued to House's face. "When House is truly sorry about something, he doesn't say so with words; he says so with his entire body. Isn't that so, House?"

House jerked and almost fell.

Lee stepped forwards to try to catch him, but House regained his balance and impatiently warded him off. House trained all of his attention onto Peter.

"Doctor Lee has had another talk with me," Peter informed House. "He said that because you're a miserable bastard, and you have cold eyes like a dead fish, I need to grip onto our friendship with both hands." He took his hands off of the swing chains, grimacing when he saw the brown streaks of rust on them, and then, balancing carefully on the seat, he copied Lee's earlier gesture. "Like this," he said.

House looked at Lee. "You call that helping me out?" he asked.

Flustered, Lee cuffed Peter lightly around the head. "That's not what I said," he protested.

House forgave the blushing man. "Don't worry about it; he tends to paraphrase," he said. He nodded at the child. "That's what Lee thinks; what about you?" he probed.

The child seemed to be searching his face for something. He evidently found it because his gaze softened. "I think that you have the warmest eyes I've ever seen," he said.

"What?" Half laughing, Lee clipped Peter around the ear again. "I don't believe you," he scolded. "You make me out to be the bad guy, and then you sit as if butter wouldn't melt in your mouth, and sweet talk him."

"House asked me what I think," the child explained, and all of a sudden, he looked and sounded exhausted.

Lee felt a surge of compassion for him. He placed a huge hand lightly on the boy's shoulder, and the tiny boy sagged under its weight.

"I could do with a hug," Peter said softly, his face unutterably weary. Too dignified to resort to begging or whining, he held his arms out to House, risking rejection. Quietly, he waited doggedly to see whether House would pick him up.

For a heart stopping moment, Lee was afraid that House wouldn't, that he was rooted to the spot. But then his friend moved forwards, swept the child up into his arms and crushed the boy against his chest.

"I've missed you, House," Lee heard Peter whisper. "I've missed you very much."

Lee couldn't hear House's response, but the child gently kissed a cool, unshaven cheek, and wrapped his arms possessively around House's neck. Who was consoling whom, Lee wondered. He couldn't see much of House's face, but the part he could see, was recklessly unguarded.

The spat was over.

Lee turned his back to give them some privacy, feeling a little bit wistful and enormously smug.

Modern life was supposed to be a stressful one, or so the media would have him believe. Personally, Lee thought that was hokum. He heard Peter yelp and then chuckle behind him and his smile broadened. Unable to resist temptation, he turned his head to watch them.

Nope, Lee thought, in his vast experience, life wasn't too bad at all.

*

November 18th, 2012, 17:23 hrs

House watched his friend hug his father at his apartment door. He himself nodded goodbye to Mr. Talbot from where he was slouched on the sofa. Not very polite, but he was too lethargic to move. Besides, he was in a melancholy mood.

"Bye, daddy." Peter just about managed to refrain from shoving his father out into the foyer, and then he was leaning his body against the door to shut it, and running over to the other man's side. His face was flushed with pleasure. "Oh, House, I'm so excited," he said, bouncing on the carpet like a hyperkinetic flea.

House's lips twitched, a genuine smile lurking just around a corner. He raised an interrogative brow. "Really? I would never have guessed."

"House, get this, I can swim! Today, I actually swimmed three yards, and I didn't even drown much. Three yards! Can you believe it?"

"You swam three whole yards? Well, isn't that something." House steadied his friend as the boy clambered onto the sofa beside him, agile as a monkey. The child smiled at him joyfully, and his own smile broke free.

"My daddy said that I'm improving at an amazing rate," Peter continued. "I couldn't swim at all last week."

House thought that this might be the boy at his best. He loved the child beyond all reason, and all of his many moods, but Peter bubbling over with elation, and seemingly lit from within.... well, that was really something else. House forced himself to breathe.

"House, when I've got some spare time, I'm going to walk to the nearest beach. I've decided to swim to Tasmania."

"You have?" Used to the child's whimsical ideas, House didn't even blink. He brushed aside hair that was flopping into the child's eyes. "I take it, you're not worried about sharks, then?"

"Not now I can swim, no. Someone told me once, that the best thing to do if a shark comes up to you, is poke it in the eyes. If that doesn't work, you have to swim under the shark to the sea bed, and then it can't see you outlined against the sun. I think I'll do that. I can have a quick look for oysters with pearls in them, whilst I'm down there."

"Good for you. Never waste an opportunity." House snorted, imagining for a moment, Peter lying on his stomach at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean, squashed as flat as a pancake, and diligently stringing together a pearl necklace in the pitch dark. "Why Tasmania?" he asked, curious. "You want to see Cradle Mountain?"

Peter looked at House with pity. "I'm hardly going to battle sharks just to see a mountain," he said. "If I want to climb a mountain, I've got me plenty of them, right over here. Nope, I want to catch a Tasmanian devil. I saw one on the TV last week. I've never seen anything so cute; he looked just like a little teddy bear."

"Yeah, they're cute all right, until they decide they're hungry, sink their teeth into your forearm, and snap it off at the elbow. They can crunch through bone. They even eat each other if they're hungry enough."

Peter's face had taken on a strange greenish tinge. "House, you've got a real knack for spoiling my vacation plans."

Closing his eyes, House sank down even further into the cushions. "I'm multi-talented," he said. "But take my word for it; find a wallaby to stroke instead; they're not quite so vicious."

"Okey-doke." Peter turned to face his friend, sitting buddha like on the cushion. House's face was drawn. He looked pale, tired and was visibly moping. Had been, ever since their argument. Peter didn't know why that was, and having hidden talents of his own, he thought it might be time to draw him out. "Where did you last go on vacation, House?"

Opening one eye to peer at him, House said the first thing that came to mind. "I spent a week languishing in hell," he said. He sighed. He didn't want to be miserable in the boy's company, but despite his best efforts, his spirits weren't lifting.

The child was intrigued. "What on Earth made you want to go there?" he asked. "Did you see it in a brochure? What was hell like?"

"Hideously lonely," House reported honestly.

"I'll bet it was. I imagine that you had your whole hotel to yourself."

"Good grief." House looked up pleadingly towards the ceiling. "Why me?" he said.

"You must have booked it, House," Peter answered him. The child scrutinized him carefully, face no longer radiant but appraising and intent. "How did you travel there? Did you go there in a hand basket, or did you have to go out and dig a deep hole?"

"Paved road," House snapped. He shifted restlessly, aware that he was being truculent. But he was being plagued by nightmares, damnit, nightmares in which the child still shunned him.

Still, the dreams were in danger of becoming a reality, if he continued to behave like a sulky teenager. He opened his mouth, intending to tell his friend to ignore him, when he performed a classic double take. If Peter had been glowing with happiness before, now, you could have perched him on top of the Luxor in Vegas, and he wouldn't have looked out of place. He was incandescent. House regarded him with misgivings.

"Oh, man, is this some kind of riddle?" Peter enquired, rubbing his palms together with glee.

"No! I mean, no, sweetheart; I don't want......"

"House, wait; I'm good at these. The road to hell," Peter murmured. He was quiet for a couple of minutes.

House started to sit up straighter. "Peter, forget the whole thing. Let's play a game, or do some drawing. You decide; we'll do whatever you like."

"Don't sweat it, House; I'm getting there." Peter absently took hold of the older man's hand, his slim warm fingers interlocking with House's larger icy ones. "Isn't there a saying, House? The road to hell is paved with something or other? Help me out a little bit, okay? All you need to give me, is this one tiny clue."

What could it hurt if he told him, House wondered; the answer would still go right over the child's head. "Good intentions," he said softly. He waited for the look of confusion, but it didn't come. Peter squeezed his fingers.

The child was eerily silent again. Then he asked, "When did you go to hell, House?"

House's gaze traveled over his friend's face. What are you thinking? he thought. He began to feel really foolish. "I was there for Halloween," he mumbled resignedly.

Nodding, Peter's eyes were burning with intelligence. He had never reminded House so much of Wilson. "Did you take a different route back, House? Say, through a park?"

The child should have been incapable of interpreting his cryptic comments, and yet, their dual conversation had just been blended into one. Shocked wide awake, House felt ridiculously close to tears. He stared at his lap. "Yes," he said. "A park with a roundabout, three swings and salvation."

"Swings? It sounds like a neat place." The child's voice was impossibly gentle.

"The best part about that park was definitely the swings," House agreed.

"You see, House? Your vacation wasn't a complete washout. And, now that you've tried hell and didn't like it, there's no reason why you should ever have to go back there, so why are you still brooding?"

There's no reason why you should ever have to go back there. House's mind wrapped inextricably around that phrase so that he could examine it from all angles. The words could easily have been dismissed as the meaningless ramblings of a child, but the child in question was Peter, and that lent the words credibility. House was instantly comforted. "I've no idea," he said.

Warmth, originating from Peter's hand, was spreading throughout House's body, soothing the cold and the blues away. Perhaps, this was the child at his best, calm and compassionate, and with synapses firing on all cylinders. House lightly prodded at the boy's chest with his free hand. "You're one incredibly smart cookie; you know that?"

"I'm not a cookie, House; I'm a boy," Peter said, scandalized. "But people have told me that I'm smart, before." Peter smiled at House, to indicate that when he spoke next, he didn't mean any malice. "That's why I don't like being called an idiot."

House looked at him gravely. "It will never happen again," he promised.

"Good." The child's smile became impish. "House, have you ever thought that, maybe, you need to choose your vacations a little more wisely? If you pick somewhere that doesn't smell of rotten eggs, it would be a good start."

House laughed, feeling years younger and indescribably content. His friend, when he was irrepressible like this, was like a walking, talking Vicodin. "Like Tasmania, you mean?"

Peter frowned. "Tasmanian devils can really bite through bone?" he asked, to double-check.

"Like a chainsaw. Luckily, they mostly survive on roadkill."

"Wow. Looks sure can be deceiving." Peter settled in against the older man. His friend might have been a wannabe psychopathic serial killer, but so help him, House's side was still his favorite place. "House?" As Wilson, he'd been fond of musing that plans were like guitars. They might look well-constructed and feel elegant in your hands, but, invariably, they needed fine tuning. Peter was very flexible.

"Yeah?" Body relaxed, House looked down at him.

"How's your backstroke?"

The end.

Tinderbox-chapter 3

fayding-fast@supanet.com — Sun, 14 Oct 2007 18:34:22 GMT

Title: Tinderbox
Author: Fayding_fast
Sequel: Yes, to Duped.
Chapter: 3/4
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em
Wordcount: 4882
Spoilers: Minor for "Daddy's boy" and "Needle in a haystack"
Warning: Serious angst. Swearing.
Con-crit? Yes, please.
Rating: PG
Author's note: This really is a particularly sad chapter. Have faith!

October 23rd, 2012, 20:05 hrs

House straightened up, gaze Katana sharp. He glanced at the child's lunchbox and then back down. "Billy shares your lunch?" he asked, deceptively mildly.

"No," Peter answered him ingenuously. "He eats my whole lunch." Was his friend prepared to change the filling in his sandwiches? The child wrung his hands anxiously, unable to assess House's mood.

"How long has this been going on?" House probed, tone of voice still remarkably restrained.

Peter thought back. "It started shortly after we went round Doctor Lee's for dinner," he said. He looked at House earnestly. "I don't mind that he eats it, House," he assured his friend. "He needs it."

House was feeling sick to his stomach. Why hadn't he picked up on this before? Why? "Let me get this straight," he said. "Billy asks you to give him your lunch, and you hand it over to him, just like that? You go from breakfast time to your evening meal, without eating anything at all?"

Peter nodded uneasily, not liking the way House's face had paled, or how his mouth had tightened abruptly, into a grim, forbidding line. Was House furious with him? Was he ill? "He told me that he needs to eat a lot more than me because he's bigger than me, and his mummy and daddy don't have a lot of money." He reached out warily to brush House's hip. "House, are you feeling.....?"

"Excuse me," House interrupted him. Without another word, House grabbed his cane, turned his back, and limped towards the bathroom.

"House, what's wrong?" Disturbed, Peter started to follow him.

House quickened his steps.

"What are you doing? Where are you going?" Peter's voice was shaking with alarm. He started to run to try to catch up with him.

Almost desperately, House slammed the bathroom door in his face.

*
House held onto the sides of the washbasin with shaking hands.

The boy's peculiar questions about friendship, the previous week, now made a terrible kind of sense. And, he, not understanding the severity of the situation, had prattled on and on, like a fool.

A blissfully ignorant, stupid fool.

His tiny friend was being bullied.

House was sorely tempted to go to kindergarten with him. He wanted to attach himself to Peter like a shadow, like a second skin, and keep him safe for the rest of his days.

And, he couldn't. No matter how much he yearned to protect him, he knew that he couldn't.

Trying to stop the trembling, he gripped the basin even tighter until his fingers ached. He raised enlightened, seething eyes, and looked at himself in the mirror. The man standing there, just in front of him, looked unbelievably helpless and tired.

Damn it all to hell; Peter was the victim of bullying.

In the grip of an unspeakable rage, House raised his arm, and swept everything off a nearby shelf. Cans and bottles, lotions and shaving gear all went flying. The tantrum made him feel marginally better. His rampage might very well have continued, only, he then heard Peter's voice.

The boy had screamed his name in panic; the child was hammering on the closed door.

*

House hastily unlocked the bathroom door and threw it open. He stared down into the young child's terrified face. "Don't get upset," House said, "I'm fine. See? Not a mark on me."

Possessing the resilience of the very young, upon discovering that House was unhurt, Peter's terror abated rapidly. But, what, then, had caused that commotion? Confused, he peered round House's legs, and gasped in consternation when he saw the chaos. He pointed at it, deeply upset. "House, is that my Mickey Mouse flannel lying there on the floor?"

House swept him up.

"I don't know if I'm too thrilled about that, House."

House carted him into the kitchen. He sat him on the kitchen counter, and braced his hands on either side of him, so that he couldn't fall off.

The child looked up at him, reproachfully. "You scared me badly, House," he complained, "and you also shut the door on me."

"I know I did, sweetheart; I was out of order."

Tetchiness unassuaged, the child indicated the worktop. "You've sat me down in a lot of breadcrumbs."

"Totally unforgivable," House said to pacify him. "I'm an evil, wicked man. You can scold me to your heart's content later; right now, we need to have another one of our talks."

"We do," Peter agreed vehemently. "You need to take better care of my things. I truly love that flannel."

"Peter." House patted his cheeks. "I'm not kidding; you need to focus. Are you listening?"

"Oh, fine," Peter said, still peeved. But, if you think you can get away with messing with Mickey Mouse, you have another think coming. That disc.... dis.... Oh, boy! "House. What's another word for talk, that begins with dis?"

"Discussion? Discourse?"

"Thank you very much, House, that first one will do." That discussion is not over! Peter rested his chin on the heel of his palm, the poster child for the seriously put upon. "I'm all ears," he said begrudgingly. "Fire away."

If House hadn't been quite so agitated, he might have grinned. Instead, he gazed at the child pensively. "Do you know what can happen, if you keep skipping your meals?"

Peter put his thumb into his mouth. He nodded vigorously in assent.

House gently forced his friend to stop sucking on his thumb, and held both of the child's hands down, on his lap. "I want you to work with me, here," he said. "Tell me what can happen."

"Your daddy can call you a downright disgrace and force you to go and stand in the corner," Peter answered him instantly. "For a whole ten minutes."

"Ooo-kaaaay," House said, managing to veil his exasperation. "I meant more along the lines of, what can happen to the human body?"

"Oh. You should have said so." Peter frowned, accessing his prodigious store of memories, and then his brow cleared. "You could get a headache," he said.

"Good. What else?"

Thawing substantially because of the praise, Peter narrowed his eyes in concentration. "You could get pains in your tummy."

"That's right; you could," House concurred readily. "And, what else?"

"It can slow you down; you don't learn as quickly when you're hungry."

"Excellent." House smiled encouragingly. "I'll make a doctor of you, yet. Can you think of anything else?"

"I don't want to be a doctor, I'm going to be an elf," Peter reminded him. He glanced down at Katie's present. The child, drowning in his voluminous t-shirt, looked disturbingly small and frail. "You can lose a lot of weight," he said unwillingly.

"Yep, that's a biggie." House's voice was unusually serious. "That it? What about fainting?" He waited. His friend was bright enough to draw his own conclusions.

The child stared sombrely down at House's restraining hands,his heels tapping lightly against the cupboard. "You believe that's why I fainted last week," he whispered.

"Yeah, I do; don't you?" House watched him, apprehensive and quiet.

It seemed like the most logical explanation. Feeling suddenly insecure, Peter raised his head and searched House's eyes, looking for help. "I don't know what to do, now," he said.

"Bear with me; I have an idea." House released him and stood upright. "Stay safe," he warned and went to fetch Peter's backpack. He needed to move, needed to work some of the screaming tension out of his system. He threw the empty bag on the worktop, next to Peter, and opened it up. "This is what we'll do." He glanced at the boy, making sure he had his full attention. He did. "The cheese sandwiches, I'll wrap up and place in the bottom of your bag, here. Then, I'll place the lunchbox with Billy's food in it, on top, here." He pointed.

Peter frowned.

"You mustn't tell Billy that you have extra food in the bag. I want you to eat your cheese sandwiches, sometime during the day, when he's not in sight. Some place where he won't disturb you. Got that? At lunchtime, you can still give your friend some food, as usual. He won't be any the wiser, and you won't be hungry. Do you understand?"

"I do." Peter nodded, delighted. "House, that's a fantastically neat idea."

"That's my boy." He ruffled the child's hair. "You gonna be alright sitting there, whilst I finish doing what I've gotta do?"

"I'll be fine. I'll be very careful."

"You'd better be." House busied himself around the kitchen, thinking, plotting. It was imperative that he introduce himself to Billy and without delay. He wanted to confront him by the end of that week, if that were at all possible. He smiled innocently at Peter. "Your buddy, Billy. He the one that always mock shoots you, when you play games?"

Peter shook his head, unsuspecting. "No, that's Brian. He's my other school friend."

"They sound like interesting kids." House winked at Peter. "I'd really like to meet them." His friend was watching him thoughtfully, dark head tipped to the side. It made House nervous.

"You've never asked to meet any of my friends before," Peter said, curious as to why House would want to do that, now.

"A serious oversight." House fumbled around for a believable explanation. "You've met my friend, Doctor Lee. It's only fair that I should meet yours too, right? Get to know them a little. How about Friday? They can come round here, straight from school, and I'll make you all some dinner. Afterwards, you can all play together, or maybe watch DVDs. It will be great." House tried to disguise the sense of urgency he felt. He wiped sweaty palms down his jeans, took a calming breath.

Peter beckoned for House to step nearer to him.

Obediently, House stepped in front of him, forced himself to meet the intelligent, piercing eyes. "So, what do you say?" House asked brightly.

"House, why did you storm off to the bathroom? What caused that crash; did you fall?"

House stared at Peter, biting his lip. It would be pointless to lie; he'd never get away with it. Not with the child so close and scrutinizing him so intently. "No, I didn't fall," he admitted reluctantly. "I was concerned about you, and I needed to be on my own for a while. I lost my temper and knocked everything off the shelf." He grimaced. "I think the cap came off the shampoo."

Demonstrating a maturity beyond his years, the child shook his head, in dismay. "It's not a good thing to lose your temper, House. Have you ever thought about getting some help?"

"You mean, professional help? As in anger management classes? I haven't given that a great deal of thought, no," House said. "It's something I'll certainly consider doing, though, in the future."

"If you could, House, I'd sure appreciate it. I know that I, for one, will sleep a lot better at night." Satisfied with the other's pledge, Peter abruptly loosened up.

Sometimes, it was difficult to keep Peter on track. "About meeting your friends?"

"I think I'd like that; I'd like that very much." The child smiled shyly up at House, then, always quick to lavish affection, he stretched up, and coiled scrawny, loving arms, ultra carefully, around House's neck.

House automatically hugged him back.

"I'm so pleased that you want to meet Billy and Brian," Peter said.

House nodded silently, guilt and concern wrestling for dominance in his eyes.

Peter sighed audibly, relaxing against the older man. "House, sometimes you make me feel very, very happy."

"I'm glad," House said. He could feel the child's ribcage, outlined sharply, against his palms.

The boy was being bullied.

That hateful knowledge might well have stoked his, already, fertile imagination, but to House, his friend seemed sickeningly fragile, his body as delicate as a bird's.

House gentled his hold. He leaned in close to Peter's ear. "This Friday," he said gruffly and found himself convulsively swallowing bile.

The child nodded sleepily against his chest.

"Good boy." House was forced to swallow again. "Mention it to your friends, tomorrow, and whatever you do, don't forget."

October 24th, 2012, 12:50 hrs

"Would you like to come round House's, after school, this Friday?" Peter asked. "He said that he'll cook you some dinner."

Brian had already agreed to come, providing that it was okay with his parents. Now, Peter, bouncing a ball on the playground, was waiting for Billy's reply.

Billy wasn't so keen. "Why the hell would I want to do that?" he said.

Peter stared at him, incredulously. "House told me that you'd say that," he gabbled excitedly. "Almost word for word." He turned to Brian. "House knows everything, even things about people he hasn't met, yet. He's so amazing. You'll find that out when you meet him."

Grabbing the ball from Peter, Billy bounced it on his knee, annoyed that in the other kids' eyes, it appeared that he was predictable. "And, I'm guessing, he told you what to say in reply," he gibed.

"He did," Peter said nodding and held out his hand for his ball. "House said that if you don't want to come round and play with me, then you can't be much of a friend."

"Did he?" Billy could sense House was a fellow manipulator. A kindred soul. Perhaps, a couple of hours spent in his company, wouldn't be an absolute washout; he might learn something. He thought for a moment, then grinned. "Then, tell your crippled friend to set an extra place at the dinner table."

"Don't describe House like that," Peter pleaded.

Billy laughed at him and moved off, still entertaining himself with Peter's ball.

October 25th, 2012, 11:50 hrs

"You look tired," House commented with spectacular tactlessness, as he limped awkwardly into Lee's office.

Lee glanced up at him and scowled.

"And, grumpy." House gave him a knowing look. "It's got to be girl problems. Trouble brewing in paradise? Storm clouds gathering on the horizon?" He tapped the side of his nose. "Thingummy show you to the door?"

Lee looked even more annoyed. "Believe it or not, Thingummy actually has a name... Claire. And, no, we haven't split up; I'm seeing her tonight, after work."

Undeterred by Lee's less than chirpy mood, (most adults snapped at him, after he spoke to them), House sank into a chair opposite Lee, and snatched a stapler from his friend's desk. He lifted up the handle and pried underneath the hammer with a thumb nail. "So, what gives?"

Lee sighed heavily, debating on whether or not to say anything. "I'm afraid she's only after one thing," he confided, at last.

"Your money?" House suggested. He twanged the stapler spring with an inquisitive finger, then pulled back the pusher, and let it go with a resounding snap. Several staples went flying. Luckily for him, Lee was so embroiled in his own misery, that he didn't appear to notice.

"Sex," Lee said and shook his head dolefully.

"With whom?" Intrigued by his latest distraction, House was barely listening.

"A Mandingo in Timbuktu! Who do you think?" Lee threw down his pen in irritation.

House looked up, mystified. "When did she meet.....?"

"House!" Lee wasn't overly fond of violence, but right then, if House's neck had been within reach, Lee would very cheerfully have strangled him. "Me, you moron; she wants to have sex with me."

His new toy temporarily forgotten, House gawked at him, flummoxed. "How awful. You must be at your wits' end."

Lee nodded sadly.

House's bewilderment deepened.

On the verge of a stroke, Lee did his level best to calm down. He picked up his pen again and doodled idly on a patient's file. Now that he had started to tell House what was bothering him, he figured he might as well continue. "She's going too fast. What happened to wining? Dining? Getting to really know someone, before biting the bullet, and jumping into bed with them?"

Biting the bullet? "I don't know what the world's coming to," House sympathized. From Lee's description, Claire sounded as if she could be just his type of girl. He wondered if he should try to move in on her, and whether or not he'd be successful. He performed a quick mental comparison of himself and Lee.

The oncologist was younger, better looking, healthier, and in House's revised and unbiased opinion, a clueless nit.

House could, on his good days, walk at least fifty yards before howling in pain; he was more intelligent, wittier; in his heyday, he'd been a bit of a babe magnet; he was the incredibly proud owner of a cool motorbike and last, but not least, he had more hair.

Perhaps, he did stand a chance after all; by his estimation, the odds were heavily in his favor.... ninety-ten. It would be well worth his while, if he tried to obtain Claire's number, and, indeed, six months ago, he would have done. But, now?

Now, he was sitting, ceremoniously, on a pedestal, courtesy of one trusting, effortlessly beguiling little boy.

Removing a sheet of paper from Lee's desk, House folded it in two, and stapled it neatly along the edges. Peter, Peter, Peter, he thought. If you realized how much power you wield, you'd probably need to be sedated.

House smiled ruefully. For almost six whole years, he had survived without his conscience. Then, miraculously, he'd befriended a highly sensitive, solemn waif, and discovered that his conscience was back to prickle him, and with a vengeance. Sometimes, it seemed, he viewed the world through grey eyes. If he was honest, House wouldn't have it any other way.

Shame about his ambitions for his golden years, though; House had planned to be so mean and cranky.

"I suppose you think that I'm an idiot?" Lee mumbled sheepishly, and House blinked.

"Huh? Oh. No." Something was wrong with the stapler. House looked down at it, realized he'd jammed it, and slid it, as unobtrusively as possible, back onto Lee's desk. "I think you're just shy."

Lee stared at him, caught unawares.

House rolled his eyes and struggled laboriously to his feet. His thigh had been giving him hell ever since he'd found out about Billy. "Don't tie yourself into knots, brooding about Claire," he advised his friend. Hapless loser or not, House still liked him. "Go out tonight and enjoy yourself. Live a little."

"I guess." Lee's tone was skeptical.

House caught himself smiling affectionately at his friend and inwardly cringed. Forget about being as sweet as syrup in his old age; the rot was already setting in. He shook his head. "Just don't end up in jail," he warned, "because I'm certainly not bailing you out."

Grinning, Lee flapped a hand dismissively in House's direction. "Go on, get; I've got work to do." He had a sudden thought. "Unless you want to assist me with this patient's ....."

"See ya," House said abruptly and was gone.

Lee stared, goggle-eyed, at the closed door. Debilitating pain notwithstanding, House could certainly still shift when he wanted to.

October 26th, 2012, 16:10 hrs

House didn't know what to make of Brian. The boy was polite enough but oddly watchful. House decided to reserve judgment on him.

Billy was another matter entirely. When he'd picked the boys up from school, Billy had looked House over, with an impudent sneer on his face. Billy, House had hated on sight.

Nor did that first impression change, over dinner. Billy was by turns, scornful, cocky, ungrateful, and he kept ridiculing Peter, every single chance he got.

After they'd finished eating, Peter tried to show his friends a magic trick, with his miniature deck of cards. "Pick a card," he said to Billy. "Look at it, but don't show it to me. Remember what it is."

Whilst Billy looked at his card, Peter cut the deck in two, and discreetly looked at the card at the bottom of the cards in his right hand. He glanced at House.

House winked at his friend reassuringly and gave him the thumbs- up.

Peter smiled at him. He turned back to Billy. "Okay, give me your card back," he said.

Billy laid his chosen card on top of the pile in Peter's left hand, as directed.

Placing the cards he held in his right hand, on top of the cards in his left, Peter then loosely shuffled the deck. "Right, I'll tell you when I get to your card." Closely watched by the two boys, he started to lay his cards down carefully, one by one, until he reached the card he had memorized. Billy's card had to be the next one. Peter laid down the six of diamonds. "That's your card," he said confidently.

"Nope." Billy shook his head.

"No?" Peter stared at Billy, surprised. "Are you sure, Billy? It has to be that one."

"It's not. My card was the nine of spades." Billy looked disgusted. "That trick was useless."

Cheeks flaming, Peter looked over at House, unable to understand where he'd gone wrong.

House had seen and heard more than enough. "Peter," he said gently. "Would you please go and fetch me, my cell phone? I think I left it in my bedroom, in one of the drawers in my dresser."

"Sure, House."

The three of them watched, as Peter scrambled off the sofa, and disappeared out of sight.

House immediately turned to Billy, but the boy spoke to him, first.

"Nice piano," Billy said.

"Thanks." House held out crossed fingers. "Here's hoping you don't try to steal it." He smiled pleasantly. "Feel free to help yourself to anything in my kitchen, though. If you see anything that you fancy, don't be afraid to ask for a doggy bag."

The two boys stared at him curiously.

"What made you say that?" Billy asked.

"You're greedy, and you're a thief. Don't get me wrong, I'm not laying the blame entirely on your doorstep." House cupped his hand around his mouth and pseudo-whispered, "I gather that you're having a rotten childhood; I hear that your parents can't afford to feed you."

Understanding lit Billy's eyes. Visibly unconcerned, he slouched back on the couch, and raised his arms casually behind his head. "Peter told you about that, huh? Well, what do you expect me to do? One day, he just came over to me, and offered me his lunch. He's been giving it to me, ever since."

"That isn't true." Brian glanced quickly at House, then stared bravely at Billy. "You came up to him one lunch time, and more or less forced him into giving his lunch over. I know what happened; I was there."

House, who had never particularly approved of tattle-tailing unless he was the one doing it, suddenly warmed to the kid.

Billy threw Brian a glance that promised retribution.

House gifted Billy with a patented smirk of his own. "Your days of unfettered gluttony are over. Don't be surprised if, over the next few months, you start to shed a few of those excess pounds."

Fuming, Billy glared at him. "What's it got to do with you, anyway? Why do you even care?"

House leaned towards him. "I care, because he's my friend."

Billy shrugged casually. "Or, is it something else? Why are you friends? He's six; you're an old man."

Bristling, House glanced towards his bedroom door. No sign of Peter yet; good. He turned back to face Billy. "Peter's a great kid. Something, a mean-spirited child like you is never likely to understand. From now on, I strongly advise you to stay well away from him."

"Or what? Wanna know what I think?" Billy sat forwards, small eyes glinting. "My mummy and daddy have told me that there are some dirty old men out there, who like hurting little kids. I think you're one of them; am I right?"

House jerked as if shot.

Brian looked at Billy, thoroughly confused. "I don't know what you're going on about," he said.

"It's okay," House said. "I'm sure your friend doesn't know what he's saying, either." But, inwardly, House was reeling. How old was Billy? Peter's age? A fraction older? He hadn't been expecting such an offensive accusation, not from the mouth of a young kid.

"Yes, I do." Billy didn't, not really, but he wasn't going to tell them, that. He paused for effect. "I'm not the only one that thinks that," he said. "Everybody at the school's talking about it."

How dare Billy insinuate that he'd abuse Peter? How dare he? "That's enough," House said, voice ominously quiet.

Billy glanced at Brian but the other boy was staring studiously at his knees. Billy turned his infuriating smirk back onto House. "That why you ask Peter to come over here, all the time? You think his daddy knows what's going on?"

"That's enough!" House slammed his cane down on the carpet, felt the impact jar the muscles, brutally, in his shoulders and back.

Both boys jumped.

Goaded beyond all reason, House had taken a furious step towards Billy when, for the second time that week, he was brought back to his senses by Peter's terrified scream.

"House! Stop!" The little boy ran to stand in front of Brian and Billy, arms outstretched as if to shield them. "House, what do you think you're doing?"

House swayed as if waking up from a dream.

Peter turned to face his friends, who were both sitting, shocked and subdued, in front of him. Peter addressed Brian. "You both need to go home, now. Call your daddy, and ask him to come and get you."

Brian looked at House in the same way a bug might look at a snake.

"Go on, it's alright," Peter said. "He won't touch you. Please, go and call your daddy."

Whilst they waited for their lift to arrive, the boys waited, in tense silence, by the door.

*

"You were going to hit my friends."

"No." House denied the charge emphatically. He rubbed his temples. "I promise you, I wasn't."

"You tricked me, House. You told me that you wanted to meet Brian and Billy. That's the only reason I asked them over."

"Billy's a bully," House said bluntly." Brian doesn't seem to be too bad, but Billy's just using you. For some reason, you can't seem to see it."

"He's not a bully, House, he's my friend."

"He's not your friend! Who would want a friend like that?" House realized that he was shouting. He made a huge effort to modify his voice. "He's been stealing your lunch. Where was Billy when that drink spilled all over your sketchbook, huh? You're too careful to let something like that happen. Where was Billy then?"

Peter savagely wiped at his eyes. "He told me that it was just an accident, House. He didn't do it on purpose."

"Billy's nothing but a vicious, little jerk." House was shouting again but, this time, he made no effort to try to control it. "He had the nerve to accuse me of........" For a traitorous instant, his mind conjured up a snapshot perfect image of Wilson. Oblivious to House's deception, Wilson was stepping towards him, body open and wholly unguarded, his brown eyes shining with misguided joy.

Fuck, not now, not now! House blinked away the memory and swiped at a mouth tasting of ashes. He tried to reassemble his thoughts. "You latch onto people that end up hurting you," he said dully. "How long did you stay in the marital home with Julie, after it was all over? Night after night, you kept on crawling back to her, and she didn't even speak to you during the last six months. In the end, she was finally forced to throw you out!"

He stared at Peter, his hand white knuckled, where it was gripping his cane. God, had he ever, in his entire life, felt as angry as this? The next time he set eyes on Billy, he would probably kill him. "You're exactly the same, now," House continued relentlessly.
"You've come back to Earth for the second time, and you still haven't learned anything. You're an idiot. You don't know when it's time to let go."

Peter had listened to this tirade in silence. He was dreadfully pale. "I'm not an idiot, House," he said and rubbed his eyes again. "But, you made me look like one. You sent me in there." He jerked his head in the direction of House's bedroom. "Where is your cell phone?"

Despite himself, House's gaze flickered to his jacket, hanging up by the front door.

Peter followed his gaze. He nodded to himself. "I see," he said.

House looked down at the floor, chastened. "I needed to talk to Billy, without you interf......"

"You wanted to attack him," Peter said numbly. He could hardly believe the depths of House's betrayal. And, now, he had to face Billy again, on Monday. How was he ever going to be able to do that? "You've made things worse."

"No." House took a shaky step nearer to him, but stopped when the child flinched away. Wounded, he hunched over, leaning extra heavily on his cane.

"Call my daddy," Peter said, crying openly now. "I want to go home."

House's heart was racing. He pressed his hand to his sternum. "No! I mean..... please....just.... just wait a minute, okay? Let's both take a step back. I was only looking out for you," he stressed softly. "Billy had to be stopped." He dropped his cane and held his hand out, his posture still that of an octogenarian's. "Things have spiralled wildly out of control. Billy said some hateful things. Admittedly, he took me off guard, but I swear to you, I wasn't going to hit him. I was just trying to protect you, that's all. Please, sweetheart, come here."

Peter shook his head. "I want to go home," he said again, his tone flat and lifeless. He stumbled to the living room window and gazed bleakly outside.

Watching him, House knew only too well what the boy was looking for, and felt ill with grief. He covered his eyes.

House had to wonder if the world had stopped spinning, himself.

To be continued.

fayding-fast@supanet.com — Mon, 17 Sep 2007 19:32:10 GMT

Five drabbles.
Author: Fayding_fast
Wordcount: 100 words each
Spoilers: Minor for Human Error
Warning: Swearing
Rating: Gen to R
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em
Con-crit: Yes, please
Author's note: Enjoy

Wilson steps closer to House, too close.

"I'm not good with change," House reminds him, warily.

"That used to be true," Wilson murmurs, thumbs brushing House's cheeks, "but you changed."

Ten minutes later, House pulls his tongue back into his own mouth, and takes a fortifying breath. "I have other objections," he declares.

Wilson smiles against his friend's neck. "Undoubtedly, you do," he says, pulling House nearer. "What are they?" He nips playfully at an earlobe, then sucks on it, soothingly.

House's hips surge forwards, and his eyes roll back into his head. He moans with approval. "They can wait."

************************************************************

Air-conditioning full on, jazz blasting from the speakers, House is giving Wilson a lift home.

"Fuck," he shouts, when a car pulls out, without warning, just ahead of him.

Instinctively, he thrusts his arm out in front of Wilson, to try to brace him in his seat, and then he virtually stands on the brake pedal.

His car screeches to a juddering stop, a hairsbreadth from the other vehicle.

"What the.......?" House can't believe that he's alive. Eyes wild with shock, heart hammering, he pounds on the horn. He checks on Wilson.

Wilson looks happier than he has in months.

********************************************************

If you wanted to ooze sexiness, there was an art to wrapping a towel around your hips. Wilson had been practicing all week.

He was blow-drying his hair in House's bathroom, when his friend, eschewing manners, barged straight in.

House studied him. "What happened to the spare tire?"

"Traded it in for an airbag." Wilson looked pointedly at House. His fingers continued to rake through his hair, even as House's gaze raked over his body.

"Hmmmph," House grunted non-committally, and left.

Wilson grinned mischievously at his reflection. He'd accidentally forgotten to lock the bathroom door.

Very careless of him, that.

*********************************************************

House's confidence in his own abilities, knows no bounds.

"This is a waste of time," he grumbles, setting out the chess pieces. "You might as well concede now."

"I'll take my chances," Wilson says dryly, cracking his knuckles, then rotating his wrists.

One bloody battle later, and it's all over.

House only has one sorry looking knight and two pawns left. And his defeated king.

"Wasn't much of a challenge," Wilson complains.

House, disinclining to comment, stares gloomily at the chessboard.

"Tell you what." Wilson pats House's shoulder. "Get in some more practice; I'll give you another game."

"Shut up."

************************************************************

Before House, Wilson had always preferred laid-back, protracted sex. Location never mattered, but the pace did.

With House, it's different. Sure, sometimes they still revel in the languorous, sweet build up of tension, exchanging gentle caresses, leisurely kisses, both partners unhurried, lazy, prepared to take their time.

But, other times, their coupling is quick and frenzied. Relatively speaking; House does have his limitations. Nevertheless, buttons pop, fingers bruise, the sex is frantic, exciting, and overwhelmingly intense.

You wouldn't think Wilson would love sex like this, but he does.

When the sex is animalistic, House never tries to conceal his leg.

Tinderbox-chapter 2

fayding-fast@supanet.com — Sun, 02 Sep 2007 15:19:05 GMT

Title: Tinderbox
Author: Fayding_fast
Sequel: Yes, to Duped.
Chapter: 2/4
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em
Wordcount: 6168
Spoilers: Vague for seasons 1 and 2
Warning: Angst, swearing and a Frenchman joke!
Con-crit? Yes, please.
Rating: PG
Author's note: Thanks to sydneylover150 for the interesting tutorials on the U.S health system. Also, If I could tear myself away from the season 3 blooper reel, this story would be written a lot quicker.

October 15th 2012, 16:25 hrs

"The old dog. I never thought he'd get as far as a second date, let alone a third, did you?" House turned from shutting his front door, hand sweeping tenacious raindrops from his hair and shoulders.

Was House jealous, the child wondered. But, Peter certainly didn't have the energy to ponder about that; all afternoon, he'd felt increasingly dizzy. "No, I didn't," the boy answered him, weakly. He tried to draw in a breath, noticing with alarm, that his vision was starting to double and then treble. He recognized the signs. "I'm going to faint," he murmured aloud. He spun to face House in panic, eyes wide, arms stretching out for assistance.

House remained by the door. For a second, he genuinely thought the child was play-acting and stood watching him, with a half smiling, half expectant look in his eyes. That changed rapidly, when Peter slumped, gracelessly, to the floor.

Oh, crap. Cursing himself, House all but ran to the child's side, threw his cane aside, and fell, painfully, to his knees.

Face drained of all color, the child sprawled untidily, motionless.

Crap, House cussed again. Manhandling the child onto his back, he used one hand to take Peter's pulse and the other, to elevate the boy's legs up above his head.

Peter started to revive within seconds. He looked around him, then stared up at House, nonplussed.

The rush of toe-curling relief almost caused House to flake out, himself. He glared down into the grey eyes as if the boy had deliberately collapsed, just to annoy him. "Are you trying to scare the life out of me?" he snapped.

Hardly fair, Peter thought. He had given his friend enough warning. "No, House, I was just fainting," the child defended his corner vigorously. He inhaled deeply. "I seem to be okay, now." He tried to sit up.

House briefly put his hand on the boy's chest to restrain him. "Let me be the judge of that."

"It could be worse, House." Peter pointed at the nearby coffee table. "On my way down, I could have cracked my head open on that."

"Is that supposed to be reassurance?" House's scowl had intensified, but his hand was flitting from the child's wrist, to his chest, to his forehead, and back to his wrist again.

He'd given the older man a jolt, Peter knew. He lay there, blinking idly, and waited for his friend to stop freaking.

House sat back on his heels, heart still jackhammering. "Don't you ever do that again," he barked.

"Okay," Peter said in a hushed voice. He saw that his friend was wincing. "You shouldn't be kneeling, House; you'll hurt your leg." Once again, he struggled to get up.

"You're staying put." House pushed the coffee table out of the way, and whisked his friend around ninety degrees. He grabbed a cushion, and pushed it under the surprised boy's legs, to support them. Then, slowly, he laid down on the carpet beside his young friend, and lifted his own legs so his feet were resting on the sofa.

Confused, Peter's head swivelled to the left so he could look at him.

House stared up at the ceiling, breathless from all the activity. From this vantage point, it looked deplorably grubby. He would have to think about inviting lover-boy over shortly, so he could shove him up a stepladder, and hand him a tin of paint. He puffed out his cheeks. "Right," he said. "Any pain?"

Peter took stock, then shook his head. "No." He couldn't quite make out why House was lying on the floor, too. "You?"

Was he in pain? "No more than usual," House said crisply. He met his friend's eyes. "Were you bored?"

Peter smiled. "No."

"Any ringing in the ears? Blurred vision?"

"Not any more," Peter told him. "Honestly, I feel fine." He did.

"That's good, but something caused you to faint. Any breathlessness? Gunshot wounds? Stabbings? Terrified by my driving? Too hot? Too cold? Clothes too tight? Pregnant? Sudden shock? Felt like putting a dent in my floorboards? I'm warning you, if it's the last one, I'm gonna sue."

"I'm not pregnant," Peter said solemnly. Then he had a fit of the giggles.

House grinned at him. "That's what they all say."

Peter's laughter subsided. "As you said yourself, it was a shock that Doctor Lee's dates both went well," he said candidly.

Shrewd, blue eyes studied the child for a bit longer, then House relaxed. "Yeah, still can't get over it. Hungry?"

"Extremely." Peter hadn't eaten since breakfast. Billy continuing to take his lunch, was a cause for ever escalating concern.

House nodded. "I'll cook us something in a minute." He didn't seem to be in a hurry to move.

Peter turned on his side to face him. "I'd better take your pulse, House. Just to check you're alright."

House grinned and held out his forearm. "Knock yourself out," he said. Tiny fingers pressed against his wrist. Wrong place, but the general idea had been grasped. "Not there," he said, repositioning the child's hand. "You need to put your fingers here, in the groove under the thumb. Move your fingers along, until you can feel the pulse against your fingers..... there. Can you feel it? That's the radial pulse."

Fascinated, Peter closed his eyes so that he could better concentrate on what he was doing. "I can," he said awestruck. "It feels quite strong."

Unseen, House smiled at him. "Remember when you listened through my stethoscope to your heart? One pulse is equal to one heartbeat. There are other places where you can take the pulse, the neck, behind the knees, temple and the top of the foot, to name but a few. So. What's the verdict, doc? Don't mince words. I'm tough; I can take it."

"I have some good news for you, House," Peter said, eyes serious. "There's a very good chance that you're still alive."

"You don't say? And just as I was about to call the undertaker, too. That is good news."

The two friends smiled at each other.

Peter was still mulling over his apprehensions about Billy. "House?" he said.

"Yep?"

"You know when you used to take my food?"

House trembled in mock fear. "You're not thinking of a counter-suit, are you?"

"No." The child looked troubled. "Why d'you do it?"

"Why did I do it?" House put his left hand under his head and shifted slightly, to make himself more comfortable. "It began as a ploy to annoy you," he disclosed. "I'd steal small things.....fry, tomato, pickle, that kind of thing." He paused, deep in thought. "I used to live, for the sheer joy gained by aggravating people," he confided to the boy.

And still do, if Katie's stories are to be believed, the child thought. But, he kept this observation to himself. He nodded to encourage his friend to continue.

"Anyway, it didn't work. You never seemed to mind when I took your food, even when I gravitated onto the meaty stuff..... sandwiches, chicken breasts.... whatever I could lay my mitts on." Staring upwards, House watched as dozens of dust motes spiralled in the air. When Lee came over, he might have to lend his friend a feather duster as well as a paintbrush. He filed this thought away, for future reference.

"Go on," Peter urged, hand still wrapped around his friend's wrist. Feeling as if he was sheltering House's lifeforce beneath his hand, his grip couldn't possibly have been more gentle.

"Well, by then, I'd given up trying to get a rise out of you. Sure, you would gripe now and then, but it was only ever half-hearted. So, then, I did it as a kind of test. To see where you would draw the line."

"And I never did," Peter said.

"No, you didn't." House stared at him for a moment. Then he sighed. "After a while, my motives for doing it changed yet again. It became a non-verbal way of asking, Are we alright? Are we good? As long as you would allow me to get away with pinching your food, it was like receiving a solid confirmation that we were."

"I used to love feeding you," Peter said quietly.

House nodded. "I know." His thigh twinged warningly. Soon, he would have to haul himself to his feet, or he wouldn't be getting up at all. "Of course," he said, "once I hurt my leg, you started paying for my meals. Not every time, but enough that I knew I was onto a good thing."

"House!"

"Just kidding," House soothed him. "I'm not sure why you started doing that. You said it was because it was easier than waiting, whilst I fumbled around with the dinner tray and my wallet and my cane."

"It was," the child remarked.

"Maybe. But, you buying my lunch..... somehow, it wasn't the same. I didn't enjoy the food as much as I did, when I'd pilfered it from your plate."

"Why not?" Peter asked curiously.

House mused over it. "It wasn't as intimate, I suppose." The thought was a troubling one. House was silent for a very long time.

Peter waited.

"We had a row, once," House announced unexpectedly.

Peter jumped. His fingers scrabbled to find his friend's pulse point again.

"You barely spoke to me for three weeks. Don't know why. It was only over something trivial."

Peter pretended to glare at him.

Unscathed, House pressed on. "Tried everything to win you over again. I serenaded you with my guitar, out on your balcony."

"When I was with patients," Peter reminded him.

"Left you thoughtful gifts."

"I wouldn't say they were thoughtful, House. Didn't you leave me a jar of mustard mixed with sour milk?"

"Anti-aging cream. My own concoction," House corrected him.

"A tatty comic."

"My favorite issue of Playboy. You couldn't have hated it that much, you didn't give it back."

"You hid a dog turd in my drawer!" Peter shuddered.

"A fake one. Took me ages to select that down at the joke shop. Did you appreciate it? Like hell, you did."

Peter looked at him innocently. "I can't think why," he said.

"Finally, I had enough, and cornered you in your office. Told you that I was sick of your juvenile behavior, and as you'd been treating me so badly, the least you could do, was extend me an invitation to a home cooked meal. Did you accept this apology?"

"I would say.... no?" Peter guessed.

"Spot on. You said, that if I didn't get out of your hair, the only thing you'd be extending, was your foot, right up my......." House stopped, abruptly aware that he was talking to a six year old. And yet, Peter had once been Wilson. It blew his mind. "You get the picture?" he said roughly.

"I do."

"All that effort and money wasted, and y'know what got you talking to me in the end?"

"I can't really remember," Peter admitted.

"Saw you in the hospital foyer one Friday night, and you looked so tired and miserable, it prompted me to wish you a nice weekend. That was all it took." House barked out a laugh, but it sounded strange to the child's ears. It sounded quavery. House's forearm was shaking in Peter's hand.

Peter stared at the older man intently. "And, that's when I started speaking to you again, House?"

"You brought me a peace offering the following Monday." House seemed oddly subdued. "You hopped over our balcony wall, carrying your lunch, and you offered me your fork. Germ ridden, I know, but I still took it. I knew for sure, then, that our argument was over."

The child lay silently on his side, still observing him.

"'Have a nice weekend.' That was all it took," House repeated. He shook his head disbelievingly, and turned his face away.

House's pulse was suddenly galloping beneath Peter's fingers. The child frowned, knowing that House was upset. He wanted to try to coax his friend to look his way again. "House," he said gently, "didn't that argument start, when you paid a man to come and strip off all his clothes, when my wife arranged a nice birthday party for me?"

"A man?" House scoffed. He glanced at his friend, then shrugged dismissively. "You've been to heaven and back. That's bound to make your perceptions a little iffy."

"Okay," Peter said, unconvinced. If something had disturbed House, the indications were that House was now over it. Peter yawned, feeling bone tired himself. He released House's arm and rubbed his cheek against the gratifyingly soft carpet. It tickled. "And, would you say that friendship's very important, House?"

"Right up there with brushing after every meal," House said glibly. He turned his head to look at the child, noticed specters of uncertainty pooling in the boy's eyes. "Friendship's vitally important," he stressed, barely redeeming himself. His gaze became searching, probing, trying to see beyond the doubt. "No-one knows that better than you. Why did you even ask?"

Peter smiled at him shakily. "No particular reason," he said.

October 19th 2012, 07:00 hrs

"Daddy!" Incredulously, Peter glanced at his bed and then up at his father's face. He'd never seen the man so angry. "I didn't mean to," he said, his breath hitching. "I didn't even know I was doing it."

"Go to the bathroom and wait for me there," Mr. Talbot said, yanking the covers off the bed.

"Daddy," Peter said, tears starting to course down, his cheeks, "I'm so sorry, I don't understand why...."

"You know I've got an important meeting today," his father said, cutting him off. "You really think that I want to be messing around, clearing up this?" He indicated the sopping wet bedclothes with a violent chop of his hand.

"No." Peter stepped forward and touched his father's arm. "I'm s..s...sorry," he said again. "I'll clean it all up, I'll...."

Mr. Talbot rubbed his temple. "Just go to the bathroom," he said dully. "Please."

Extreme degradation finally rendering him mute, Peter backed subserviently out of his room.

October 19th 2012, 14:04 hrs

"Something's wrong. Your teacher sent you to the school nurse. She, in turn, tried to call your daddy, and, when he couldn't be reached, she contacted me." House was trying to find out what had upset the child so much. He wasn't getting very far.

"It's nothing," Peter told him. Curled up on the end of the sofa, face buried in his knees, he hadn't stopped crying, since House had picked him up at his school.

House stroked the child's hair. "Come on, sweetheart, tell me what's wrong."

The child wouldn't lift his head. "What's the worst thing that could ever happen, House?" he sobbed.

"Well." House rested his head back on the sofa. "If the world stopped spinning, that would be pretty catastrophic," he said.

Peter's crying got worse. "That's what happened," he said. "The world stopped spinning this morning, and then my alarm clock went off."

"Okay." House exhaled to calm himself. "Come over to the window, with me," he said.

Peter lifted a blotchy, puffy eyed face, and held out his hand.

House pulled him off the sofa, and steadied him on his feet. He drew the child over to the window, and they both looked out, onto the street. "You see that woman, walking over there?" House asked.

"No, I can't see anything."

House frowned. "She's wearing a purple coat and yellow shoes. How can you not see her? I thought that my eyes were bad."

Peter looked up at him, tears still streaming down his face.

House's heart ached. "You can't see anything, because you're crying too much. The woman's walking on the sidewalk. If the world had stopped spinning, she'd be flying off the ground, and into space. Everyone would."

Rubbing his eyes, Peter looked out again, onto the blurry world outside. "It was still very bad, House," he said.

"Does your daddy know what happened?"

Peter hid his face against House's leg. "My daddy hates me," he said.

"Of course, he doesn't; he loves you. What makes you think that?"

"He was furious with me," Peter said. Shoulders shaking, he let go of House, in order to head dejectedly back to the sofa.

House stopped him. "What did you do?" House asked.

Peter wished that the floor would open, and swallow him up. "I wet the bed," he whispered wretchedly.

"And then, what?"

And then, what? Had he heard House correctly? Peter looked up at his friend, frowning. He tried to read House's face, through the tears. "What do you mean?" he said. "I wet the bed. I thought that my daddy was going to kill me."

House lifted him up in his arms. "Everyone wets the bed, at some stage in their life," House said gently. "Everyone. Do you understand?"

Peter shook his head, thumb wedged between his white teeth.

House walked with him, into his bedroom. He put Peter down, lifted back the duvet. He pulled back he bottom sheet. "See this?" he asked. "I wet the bed. This is an incontinence pad. It protects the mattress. I'm not proud that I need it, but, sometimes, through illness, pain, or because you're very young, you can't get to the bathroom. Accidents happen."

Peter touched the pad.

"Cotton one side, vinyl on the other. Catches pee, and if you're very naughty, and smuggle drinks into your bed, it catches spillages there, too."

"I didn't know you wet the bed," Peter said.

House laughed. "You did know. You're too upset at the moment, to remember. I don't do it every night," he said, waving his finger in the child's face, "only now and then, when the pain in my leg gets especially bad." He smiled at Peter. "It's not something I like to advertise from the rooftops, but duvet covers, sheets, pajamas, they can all be washed. Life goes on. It's not something to get distressed about. You shouldn't feel ashamed."

They sat on the bed.

Peter wiped his eyes. "You never cried about it, House?"

"I used to worry about it," House said. "There was one particular time, I lay in my own pee for hours. Finally, I realized that I either had to swallow my pride, or die from thirst."

"Which one did you choose?" Peter asked.

The fact that he was still here to tell the tale, rather spoke for itself. But, Peter was only six. And, his eyes were so swollen from crying, that he could have been mistaken for Morocco Mole. All he needed was the fez. House hugged him. "I swallowed my pride," House said gently, "and I called you."

***************************************************************

"How long have you been lying like this?"

The sound of Wilson's voice, soft and appalled, jolted House out of his state of self- pity. He tried in vain to swallow. "Eight to nine hours; who cares?" he croaked. "I need a drink."

"God in heaven, House, why didn't you call me earlier?"

Yes, why hadn't he? Perhaps if he had, his tongue wouldn't be sticking to the roof of his mouth. He wouldn't be tempted to chop his own leg off, because of the pain. He wouldn't have been lying there, obsessing over Stacy, and wondering if he had the resourcefulness, to get away with assassinating her.

Not that he bore grudges.

He watched, grey faced, as his friend nearly sprinted out of his room. Dry, chapped lips stretched into a grimace. His damned leg. He feared that the pain would never be manageable again.

Wilson rushed back in, carrying a pint of water. He put it down on the bedside cabinet.
"Where are your pills?" he asked urgently. "Jacket?"

House nodded, too exhausted to speak. Stupid, he had been so stupid to not to place his vicodin close at hand the night before, but he hadn't been thinking. Waking up in the early hours of the morning, thigh cramping, he just hadn't been able to reach them and that, as they say, was that. For his folly, he was paying a very high price indeed.

"Here we go." Wilson put two pills into his hand, and then slid a capable hand under his head, to help him lift it.

House would have shoved Wilson away, but blessedly cool water was sliding blissfully down his parched throat and House swallowed first one pill, and then the other. He kept gulping until the glass was empty. "More," he rasped.

"'kay." Wilson left him alone again, whilst he went to refill the glass.

This time, House managed to raise himself up a little, and he supported himself on his elbows. He drank half of the second glass as well. Finally, he'd had enough, and he lay back, shattered.

He closed his eyes, listening to the distant sounds of Wilson moving quietly around his apartment. He drifted tranquilly along for a while, vaguely aware that his friend came back into his bedroom several times, but he couldn't be bothered to summon up the energy required to look at him. His eyes finally snapped open, when fingers lightly gripped his sweat pants, just above the knees.

"Did you fancy a swim?" Wilson teased affectionately. "C'mon, House, let's get you changed." For once, Wilson inadvertently said the wrong thing.

Embarrassment and misery flared again, transmuted into anger. "My goddamned leg hurts," House spat savagely, "and if you think this is the time for jokes, why don't you work on coming up with a fucking decent one?"

Wilson was silently berating himself. "Your entire body will hurt if you don't start co-operating," he threatened mildly, "because, so help me, I'm gonna be spraying it down with a hose." Icy eyes were firing an arsenal of daggers at him, but Wilson remained where he was, seemingly unmoved.

It had been a long, horrific day.

House stared at Wilson, who was watching him patiently, and it was then, right at that moment, that House genuinely resented him. Wilson's compassion and annoying stubbornness, his empathy; House decided that he detested everything about him.

Especially the fact, that Wilson could glide, oh, so gracefully, around his apartment, whilst he'd been lying for most of the day in his own urine, hewn down like an axed tree. "I hate you," he hissed venomously, and felt a perverse kind of satisfaction when slim fingers trembled against his legs. "Why don't you fuck off?"

Wilson rocked back, anguished, but he never could leave things alone. "Why do you hate me?" he said.

Teeth ground together as House rode out another wave of pain. It eased, and he glanced up, gasping, sweat pouring down his brow and into his eyes, and Wilson was still there, waiting determinedly for his answer. Wilson was always there. Well, damn him, House thought, livid, he would give him his answer. He drew in a deep breath, hands clenching into fists. "Because you keep badgering me," he yelled. "Because you're healthy. Because you're drifting around pain free."

"Because I'm healthy," Wilson echoed, gazing down into the snarling, reddened face.

It was the tonelessness of that voice that alerted House. He looked up, startled, into dark, dark eyes, that were at first uncomprehending, and then were turning eerily blank.

A sure-fire sign that House had truly hurt him. House's rage vanished instantly, as if it had never been. He frowned and opened his mouth to speak.

"You want a joke, I'll tell you one," Wilson said to him, still using that ghastly, inflectionless voice.

It made House shiver. "I don't want to hear a joke," he protested cautiously.

"That's too bad. I don't want to keep coming over here when you call me, only to have to listen to you screaming at me," Wilson said woodenly. The vacant look in his eyes was terrifying. "A Frenchman, an American, and a Brit, were all busy getting drunk in Saudi Arabia when the cops burst in," he intoned. "They were initially sentenced to death, but through the use of decent lawyers, the three men were able to reduce their sentence to life. Now, lift," he ordered quietly.

House stared up at his friend and could barely recognize him. His Wilson was never like this, was never this removed and unemotional. House had done this; wielded vicious, thoughtless words like a chisel, and re-sculpted Wilson's face. This, then, was the result; Wilson was wearing the cold, uncongenial mask of a stranger.

House swallowed apprehensively. "What are you going to do?"

Wilson ignored him. "Lift," he commanded, again.

House really didn't want to, but Wilson clearly wasn't going to back down. House reluctantly surrendered, raising his hips without objection.

"Good boy," Wilson said distantly, and pulled the stinking pants off of him.

House didn't register the praise, because he was sinking rapidly into a state of near panic. Not that he thought Wilson would try to hurt him; Wilson wouldn't, no matter how hurt he was, but his friend could certainly walk out. House had already lost his mobility, he'd driven Stacy away, if he lost Wilson as well....... "I don't hate you," he tried again, and once more, he went unheeded.

Wilson dipped a flannel into a bowl of hot, clean water he'd brought into the room earlier, rubbed it with soap and then handed it to House. A small gesture, but unexpected and House was pathetically grateful. He washed himself down, as much as he was able to, then handed the flannel back. Wilson waited again, whilst he rinsed himself off, and then he handed House a towel.

Wilson stared unseeingly into the distance. "As luck would have it, it happened to be a Saudi holiday, so the judge said, 'Because it's a holiday, you will each receive 20 lashes and then we'll let you go. It is customary to grant one wish before punishment.' The Brit ponders and says, 'I fink I'd like yer ter strap a piller on me back.' They do, but it only holds for 10 lashes."

Guarded and vulnerable, House stayed utterly silent, listening. He dried himself off briskly, then handed the towel back. "Thank you," he said meekly, and wasn't sure, but he thought his friend's expression thawed then, just a little.

Wilson nodded absently. He crossed House's right ankle over his left, and rolled the soiled sheet up close to his friend's right side. "The Frenchman sees this, and says, 'I vant two pillows on my back.' These only hold for 15 lashes."

Still, House didn't dare to make a sound. He allowed Wilson to push him onto his left side, and then his right leg was maneuvered into a bent position, so that he remained there. He couldn't help noticing that, as stressed out as Wilson was, none of that tension was conveyed through his hands. His touch was as light as ever.

Wilson pushed the sheet a little further against House, then turned to grab a clean towel. He placed it over the stain in the mattress, then unfolded a clean sheet, and laid it over the towel. He tucked in two corners.

Wilson crossed to the other side of the bed. "The judge turns to the American and says, 'Because you didn't drink as much as the others, you get 2 wishes.' So, the American replies, 'I wish to be flogged 100 times, not 20.' The judge thinks this is very honorable and asks, 'And your second wish?'"

He deftly pushed House over onto his back and then crossed his friend's left ankle over his right. He turned the man over onto his right side and kept his hand on House's back to steady him. Whipping the old sheet away, he tugged the clean sheet towards him. "Boy, you're heavy," he panted. His friend was like a lifesize doll under his hands, withdrawn and unexpectedly malleable. It was extraordinarily unnerving.

Wilson lapsed into silence. Once more, House was permitted to lie on his back, but this time, it was on a crisp, fresh sheet. Wilson smoothed it out, and tucked in the two remaining corners. He went to House's dresser to get him some laundered sweat pants. He slipped the sweats onto House as far as mid thigh. "Lift," he directed again. When his friend obliged, he tugged the pants all the way up and then stepped back, job finished. He wrapped his arms around himself, looking young and insecure.

House could see that his friend was going to bolt. "Tell me the punchline," he said.

Wilson's hands were shaking.

"What's the punchline?" House asked again, softly.

Wilson reluctantly met his eyes. "The American answers, 'Strap the Frenchman to my back.'"

House stared back at him, unsmiling.

Wilson nodded. "Guess I massacred it, huh?" He started to bend down, to pick up the dirty sheet.

Choking on regret, House sat up quickly and snagged hold of Wilson's arm. His friend straightened up. "I don't want you to go," House declared. He couldn't read Wilson's eyes and that made him catch his breath.

"Well, that's something," Wilson finally said.

House slumped, relieved. There was no way, he was going to let Wilson move out of his sight. "I don't mean to keep hurting you," he said.

Wilson's gaze flickered around the bedroom, brushing restlessly over duvet, lampshade, curtains.... all matching patterns and far too fussy for House's tastes. His friend would probably end up incinerating them. His gaze eventually found its way back to his friend's face. He shrugged indifferently. "Okay."

To House's astonishment, his friend crossed to the empty side of the bed and kicked off his shoes. Then, prissy, 'you'll have to hold me at gunpoint, to pry me out of the bathroom' Wilson, voluntarily laid down beside him, on a bed that was still reeking to the rafters of piss and sweat.

This was his Wilson.

There was an unacceptable amount of space between them. House tentatively reached out to take hold of Wilson's upper arm again, and wondered if his friend would shake him off.

Wilson didn't.

Both men lay together, without speaking, or looking at each other, for a while.

House stared towards the window. His friend had come over, as soon as House had called him, had caught him in a mortifyingly embarrassing situation, and he hadn't made a fuss. Now, with the vicodin kicking in, thirst quenched and his relief at being dressed in clean clothes again, House was starting to feel almost human again. Thanks to Wilson, the few remaining fragments of his dignity were still very much intact.

Wilson's arm was warm, under his hand. "Your cockney accent sucked," he said.

"I know," Wilson said.

"Your Frenchman sounded Russian. I'm telling you this now, rather than earlier, because, you know...." he indicated his groin, "I was buck naked."

"Wise," Wilson said. He, too, was looking out of the window. He was studying the full moon.

"I lurch. I can't walk upright like a normal man." House jerked and glanced nervously at his friend. What the hell had provoked him into saying that?

Wilson sighed, and House could see his expression darkening. "You limp; you don't lurch," he said.

House snorted. "Same thing." He rested his free hand on his stomach, tapping his fingers, jittery. "Stacy's left me," House said, and, again, he was amazed. Those bitter words surely hadn't been his? Not blurted out like that; not wrenched into the air, ragged and broken.

Wilson did turn his head then, so he could steadily meet House's eyes. "She called me this morning, to tell me, House," Wilson murmured regretfully. "I'm very sorry. I'm sorry for you both."

House could see that he was; the brown eyes were bright and tormented, Wilson plainly suffering, right along with him.

And, House had told this man, that he hated him.

House felt a surge of terror constrict his heart. "What I said to you earlier, about you being healthy....."

"You wish it was me that had had the infarction, instead of you," Wilson said evenly.

House laughed in shock, because his earlier implication was out, now; it had been dragged, grotesque and spiteful, out into the open. He felt ill with shame and guilt. "I don't," he said fiercely. "I was angry; I was upset over Stacy. I would never wish that; not on you." He gazed into the familiar, wide eyes and had no idea if Wilson believed him.

"I do wish it, House," Wilson stated matter-of-factly. "I do wish it had been me, in place of you."

"For God's sake!" Now, it was House's turn to go blank eyed. He covered his eyes with his forearm. He tried to control his erratic breathing. He struggled in vain. "Don't abandon me," House said harshly. "Please, whatever you do, don't abandon me." His fingers, curled around his friend's arm, were clenching hard enough to bruise flesh.

Wilson didn't budge. "Don't worry, House," he said gravely, as if conferring a vow or a promise. House was currently in pieces, but he'd been sticking and holding his friend together, practically from the very first time they'd met. Eyelids scraped across desolate eyes; he was deathly weary. "I won't."

**************************************************************

"I don't even get that joke," Peter fretted, leaning into House, the both of them sitting on the bed. He had finally managed to stop crying.

House sat on his hands, afraid that if he hugged the child then, he would crush the life right out of him. "It was the coolest joke, ever," he said.

House thought about Wilson and the hard-won comfort of unparalleled intimacy. He thought about ridiculously botched accents. He thought that the imbecile who'd come up with the platitude, 'Time is a great healer' simply hadn't had the first clue; the truth was, that sometimes, you were hit with a loss so grievous, the pain would never, ever, seem to diminish.

House pulled his hands out from under him. "Come with," he said, and lightly patted the salt stained cheeks. "I'm going to call your dad."

The child stared up at House with bloodshot eyes, as House balanced precariously on his feet. "You won't get hold of him," he murmured sadly. "He can't take calls."

"Oh, trust me," House said, and his smile was wolfish. "He's taking this one."

October 23rd 2012, 19:55 hrs

House washed an apple and some grapes and packed them, haphazardly, into Peter's lunch box, ready for school the following day. Peter was staying at his apartment overnight, because his father was stopping away on a business trip. He glanced down at his friend, pleased that for once, the child appeared to be content. Sitting on the kitchen floor, knobbly spine parked against the fridge, Peter was singing exuberantly like a canary.

"I look handsome, I am smart, I am a walking work of art....." Peter trilled.

House rolled his eyes and opened one of his cupboards to see if he had any cake. "If you're having to make up your own lyrics, perhaps you're not as smart as you think you are," he pointed out legitimately. There, chocolate sponge would suffice. He tore off the packaging and cut off a small slice. He wrapped it in foil; he was learning.

The child shrugged offhandedly and switched songs. "I feel pretty, oh so pretty, I feel pretty and witty and gay, and I pity, any girl who isn't me today," he sang passionately.

House stared at him. "Of course, that would sound infinitely better if you were actually, you know, a girl," he said. He took a loaf of bread out of the bread bin and checked it for mold. "I can tell you've retained your previous incarnation's love of musicals. Oh joy."

Undeterred by House's lack of enthusiasm, Peter jumped nimbly to his feet, and started swaggering around the kitchen, fist held up against his mouth, in lieu of a microphone. "Oh Lord, it's hard to be humble, when you're perfect in every way, I just can't wait to look in the mirror, 'cause I get better looking each day, to know me is to love me......"

"Yeah, I get the gist," House said, watching him out of the corner of his eye, and grinning. Where had his friend found the lyrics to that one, cave wall? Finished with the butter coated knife in his hand, he laid it on the counter and walked over to his fridge. "There seems to be a recurring theme running through your choice of songs. Something you're trying to tell me?"

Peter tapped his chest proudly. He was clad in an electric-blue t-shirt that virtually swamped his tiny frame. The garment was emblazoned with lurid, red lettering. 'I'm The Man' it said.

"Yeah, surprisingly, I've noticed it. Very nice. New?"

"Katie bought it for me as a treat," Peter told him. "She said I'd grow into it." He peered down and petted the logo, beaming. The child was still chuffed.

"She spoils you too much," House said. "Tomorrow, I'm going to have a word with her."

Peter smiled at him. They both knew that House wouldn't. He walked over to his friend and jumped in the air, trying to see over the top of the counter. "What are you making for my lunch?" he queried.

"I've packed some fruit, cake and fries, and now I'm making you a couple of cheese sandwiches. That okay?"

The air fairly crackled with tension. Diminutive fingers tugged reflexively at House's jeans, and the older man looked down, into Peter's transparently worried face. House bent to clasp his shoulder. "What's up?" he said.

Peter hesitated. He thought of Billy as his friend and yet, cold tension was twisting around in his belly. "I know it's a nuisance, House, but would you mind making me something else?" the boy asked nervously.

The ghost of a frown crossed House's face. "Why?"

Peter risked losing an entire layer of skin. He stroked his friend's abrasive jaw, in a gesture of guilty apology. "Billy doesn't like cheese," he said.

To be continued.

Extract from 'I feel pretty' taken from 'West Side Story', © 1961 Beta Productions.
Extract from 'It's hard to be humble' © Mac Davis
Extract from 'Joseph's coat' taken from "Joseph and the Technicolor dreamcoat' © 1981 The Really Useful Group Ltd.