I've always been the easy kill

Dr Who; Doctor/Master; PG-13

Sun, 19 Aug 2007 20:20:43 GMT

Title: Illusion is the First of all Pleasures
Author: kiwi_from_hell
Pairing: Doctor/Master
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: Approx. 3000

Notes: This was written for nebularific, as part of the masterficathon. The request I have chosen is "Request 1: Sound of Drums/Last of the Time Lords AU(s)." It is probably worth noting that the title of this fic, and the final line, are both Oscar Wilde quotes.

Summary: Last of the Time Lords AU. A prayer cannot save the world.

The girl is on her knees before him, head bowed, her family looking on. It’s beautiful, really. Like a sacrifice, a symbol, and it’s exactly what this play has been lacking. The poetry of the first blood of a war, to be spilt where it will hurt so much. All the pain they will feel, he muses, the onlookers having their hearts torn out so thoroughly, making the last year of servitude seem like bliss. Such immense power is contained in every person, he marvels that they can hurt so much, so much that the emotion seems like burning suns coursing through ice cold veins. And he controls every one of them.

“And so it falls to me, as Master of All, to establish from this day a new order of Time Lords. From this day forward – ” And the girl is laughing, laughing and interrupting his speech. “What’s so funny?”

She raises her head. Impudent child. “A gun?”

“What about it?” The Master does not have the patience for this. The clock is ticking and her voice is covering the countdown. She’s saying lines that were not written for her, stepping on his cues.

“A gun in four parts?”

Her tone is bothering him; one facing execution should have a considerably smaller amount of confidence. The back of his neck starts to prickle, and thoughts of where she is leading with this whisper between the drum beats. “Yes, and I destroyed it.”

“A gun, in four parts, scattered across the world? I mean, come on. Did you really believe that?”

“What d’you mean?”

The wizened figure in the cage raises it voice, now barely recognizable. It’s not someone who matters, anymore. A toy in a cage; the Master is free from whatever judgment he may pass. “As if I would ask her to kill,” the creature rasps.

“Oh well, it doesn’t matter. I’ve got her exactly where I want her.”

“But I knew what professor Doherty would do. The resistance knew about her son. I told her about the gun so she’d get me here at the right time.”

“But you’re still gonna die!”

“Don’t you wanna know what I was doing? Traveling the world?”

Fine then. “Tell me.”

“I told a story, that’s all. No weapons, just words. I went across the continents all on my own and everywhere I went I found the people and I told them my story. I told them about the Doctor, and I told them to pass it on. To spread the word, so that everyone would know about the Doctor.”

The Master feels like laughing. “Faith and hope? Is that all?”

“No, because I gave them an instruction, just as the Doctor said. I told them that if everyone thinks of one word at one specific time-”

“Nothing will happen! Is that you’re weapon? Prayer?”

“Right across the world, one word, just one thought at one moment, but with 15 satellites.”

“What?” No, no, no, not this. Not another plan of the Doctor’s, the sickly little creature getting the best of him again. It sounds like it could work, it could…no.

“The Archangel Network.”

“A telepathic field, binding the whole human race together with all of them, every single person on earth thinking the same thing at the same time, and that word is Doctor.”

The countdown is at zero. The steady beeping has stopped, Martha’s voice is gone. There’s a pause.

The word Doctor echoes around the room. First from his prisoners and camera screens, then one by one, his crew betray him. Even his wife.

Nothing happens.

Now the Master does laugh, and the stricken horror on the faces of everyone else in the room is simply delightful. He stops abruptly – oh, the wonder of that effect, the sudden silence. He is giving a fine performance today. All the puppets are trembling, just begging to bend to his will. He walks over to his real live toy, and looking into its pitiful eyes says, “You see, Doctor? How cruel you are to your disciples. You are not the messiah you trick them into believing you are.” As he speaks, he raises his arm to point out behind him, the laser screwdriver gripped in his fist. “You can’t save any of them.”

“Martha!” her mother wails, a split second before the thud of her daughter’s body hitting the floor.

The Doctor recoils, pressing his small body to the bars at the back of the cage, and though it’s hard for the Master to judge, his expression seems like one of horror. He may even be slightly surprised.

“That’s one,” the Master grins. And there are so many more to be taken care of now.

There is a loud blast as thousands of rockets break the sound barrier. They flash past the windows of the Valiant. It has begun. He runs to the window for a better view, and glances at the monitors of earth as he passes. Everywhere, people stand crying in the street as hope abandons them. His ships look glorious, divine. There is such beauty in the world.

“Guards!” He is confident that his command of their fear is enough to guarantee obedience, even now. He needn’t turn around, nor be afraid of a bullet in his back. “Line everyone up. That includes Lucy. The Doctor can stay in his cage, and take Jack back to his chains.” God, to tear himself away from the spectacular sight of his weapons flying past the window, it’s cruel. But there is work to be done, and though his pulse is racing from this vision, the next thing on his to-do list will provide equal thrill.

Oh, look at that. He smiles at his lovely, well behaved subjects. All lined up already, even the Jones woman, though his guards are holding her as she reaches for the body of her dead daughter with hands twisted by anguish.

“It is a glorious new day, and I’m so disappointed that it started with betrayal. The guards are forgiven because, let’s face it, I need staff and I’m too busy to fly anyone new in right now – though don’t any of you go thinking you’re indispensable, this is a decision based on convenience. Everyone one else,” he tuts, “What can I say? It’s been fun, but we all knew it couldn’t last forever. Doctor, I hope you’re watching.”

One by one, they fall. A delicious shiver graces his spine as he feels life escaping the room, leaving a silence that only gets heavier and heavier. The peace is so clear, like waking up on a cold morning. So quickly, the Jones family have joined their daughter in the imagined afterlife. It’s almost sad that he’s losing so many of his staff; they’ve almost bonded over the past year. Oh, and dear Lucy. She’s trembling ever so slightly, her eyes are watering, but she is holding her lip stiff and desperately groping for a look of defiance. It’s such a shame, the Master muses, that the aspects he had cared for of her personality are only starting to show themselves again now, after her steady decline throughout the year. He almost recalls entertaining the thought he could love her. How terrible, that it should only be shown in her last moments.

He nods to the door, and the guards leave as commanded. Amongst the bodies, he lifts the Doctor’s cage down, sets it on the table and opens the door. He instructs him to come outside.

The feeble being cringes as the Master points his laser screwdriver at it. Churning and whirring and moaning, and the Doctor, back to his young self, is sat naked on the table. He shivers. His knees are drawn up to his chest.

“You’re no fun when you can’t do anything,” the Master says by way of an explanation for granting the transformation.

“You can still stop. Call them back. You don’t have to…no one else has to die.”

“Oh, Doctor, but I have great plans! I put a lot of work into this, and I’m not a quitter. Would you like to hear my plan?” he asks, and then continues without pausing for an answer, “Firstly, we’re going to gather some people from the slave colonies on earth to make sure we’re fully staffed. I’ll drop Jack off while we do that; I would have rather liked to kill him but that pesky immortality gets in the way. Still, he’ll make a good worker. Then onwards. The children are headed for the Wolf 359 system, and the rockets for Luyten 789-6. It all sounds rather messy to me, especially these early stages, so I rather fancy keeping up with orders from a distance. We can go anywhere.”

“You mean hide anywhere. Stand well back so you can destroy them, but they can’t fight back. Like blanket bombing people throwing stones.”

“Precisely. Haven’t you noticed the bombers always win?”

~

It’s been weeks, so long that the Doctor can hardly believe anything has really happened. He remembers things like a dream; Martha dying, Jack being sent to fight, fifteen people executed in front of him. It’s all been lost in the monotony of the day to day routine of the space ship. They drift.

The Master is almost like a friend. However much he hates him – and he does, he can’t deny it any more than he can pretend that hate is the only thing he feels – time together is always the same. From the first heart break to this, the final destruction, their connection always wins out.

Perhaps the most distressing thing is that the Doctor can’t stop it, even by calling Martha’s dead face to his mind. It wasn’t the Master that killed her, it can’t have been, not the boy who was with him at the academy, not the man who convinced him to be a renegade, not the man who had changed the worlds when they met. He can almost make himself believe it when they’re sat talking about times that have passed. He wants to believe it. It would be easier, and he’s so tired.

“Do you remember that night at the Academy?”

The Doctor is sat leaning on the side of the ship, on a closed in deck as they spin through space, engulfed in darkness. The Master’s words are like crystal in his ears, they feel like the most real thing in the universe, the only real thing, with that ringing clarity. But he can’t see him; the night is so black. Above, the moons of the planet they are orbiting glitter. It is a kind of eclipse, a rare occurrence, as the angles and atmospheres aligned perfectly to cast the effect of the Northern Lights on the three objects floating through the sky. He’s never seen it from above before.

“The one when the flare hit the Citadel roof?” the Doctor asks, though he already knew the answer. The Master could’ve been talking about hundreds of nights, but the Doctor could always tell exactly what he meant.

“Yeah. We were both so afraid when the Prefects told us what would happen. You couldn’t understand how that could happen, and the city wouldn’t burn.”

“Well, come on, I was only 14. We’d barely covered astrophysics, and I thought the Citadel roof was just made of glass. I may be brilliant now, but it took an architecture course or two.”

The Master laughs. “You hid under the blankets in your bunk.”

“I was sleeping!”

“You thought the world was ending. So did I.”

“Then you can stop making fun of me and watch the pretty lights.”

The Master has edged closer in the dark, and now the Doctor can feel his body heat radiating. He moves his hand instinctively and their fingers brush, just lightly, just in quiet affirmation of presence. Turning his head, the Doctor finds even with mere inches between them, the darkness is too thick.

“You took me outside,” the Doctor whispers.

“I wanted to watch the world end.” The Master places his hand over the Doctor’s. “And I wanted you to be there when the sky would fall.”

He’s just too tired. So much has been lost, so much, home, friends, family, everything he loves, everything he fought for, it’s all dying. The Master is sat beside him, and it’s the person he always knew. His old life, old moments of happiness, breathing beside him and waiting to be reclaimed. There’s nothing left to save, and he might as well tear himself apart.

The kiss is soft and slow at first, tentative like their first, even though it’s already too late to stop. He might as well let the Master tear him apart.

In the midst of their desperate grasps for each other, harsh kisses and pounding hearts, the Doctor murmurs, “I forgive you.”

~

“Look.” The Master’s voice is a whisper in his ear, so quiet he isn’t sure if it is really spoken, or just a shared thought.

The Master has been blank for so long. He’s watched his empire expand over light years. He has shown the Doctor one example of carnage after another, and always asked the same question.

They are stood on the deck of the ship, almost identical to The Valiant, but for the encasing glass dome. Instead of clouds, the surrounding is nothingness, urgently pushing at the edges, searching, striving for a point of entrance. The light from a far off star, someone else’s sun, casts a cold illumination over them and stretches their shadows into dark spectres. The constellations are new.

Below them, a civilization lies in ashes. The Doctor has watched the Toclafane – he still cannot bring himself to use their real name – descend upon the planet in swarms of silver. He has seen the faces of the dead on the monitors, and now here he stands in the perfect, crystal silence.

The Toclafane have moved to their next duty, and this solar system can now be classified as uninhabited. All is quiet, but for the imagined screams ringing in the Doctor’s ears. But it’s an illusion; there is nothing in the darkness. It is the first of the battles he has witnessed up close. It’s the first time he’s seen the fire and smoke rising from the surface of the planets. The Master has bought him closer and closer to the destruction.

The Master rests his hand on his lower back. The Doctor cannot believe, simply cannot understand, that the familiar touch belongs to someone who commits systematic genocide. It should make his skin crawl. It should be cold.

“I don’t know what you expect me to say,” the Doctor states grimly, if only to fill the air with something other than screaming.

“Do you forgive me?”

“Yes.”

“Liar,” the Master claims instantly.

The Doctor doesn’t know anymore. He forgives, of that he is certain. But ‘me’? That is more complex; the Master can’t be the same person the Doctor has been holding in his mind for so long. He forgives what he has become, and mourns for the soul that has been lost.

The Master’s hand on his back moves in slow circles, his thumb dipping below the waistband of his trousers.

“Don’t.”

“Look around you, Doctor!” The Master flings his arms open and spins, looking to the emptiness above them and laughing. “There’s nothing left to be righteous for! It’s just us amongst the wreckage.”

“I’m going inside.” The Doctor walks away, feigning confidence to hide his fear of the all too likely punishment. The sound of each footstep rings out across the deck.

The Master’s harsh laugh follows him over the floor.

The Doctor sits picking at his middle fingernail with his thumb. He’s taken to biting them again, an old habit he had thought he was rid of. The skin around his nails is red and cracked. It feels like hours before the Master comes inside.

“Let me go.”

“Excuse me?”

“Let me go,” the Doctor repeats.

“I’m not sure you entirely understand how this prisoner thing works.” The Master sits down at the long conference table and looks at the Doctor, who is sat opposite him. “Do you forgive me?”

“Yes.”

“If I keep you here, if I keep you like a real prisoner, put you in a cage and abuse you whenever I’m bored. Would you forgive me?”

“Yes.”

The Master reaches across the table and smacks the Doctor with the back of his hand. Steadying himself of the table, the Doctor wipes blood from the corner of his lip.

“Well?” the Master asks.

“I forgive you.”

~

“You know I’m going to fight against you?”

“Of course.”

The Master is sure he cannot remember a more bizarre situation. They are in a destitute corner of some world or other, with ships of war waiting just above the atmosphere. He is bidding his prisoner farewell, at his request. This is a beautiful planet; it’s like home. Mountains rise far into the distance. The sun is coming up opposite them, casting shadows and highlights.

They’ve never said goodbye before. It always used to be a promise of when they’ll see each other next, when they were young. Even when it was a casual “Catch you tomorrow,” it was a promise. They stopped promising long ago, instead leaving in silence, leaving with the lights out.

It still doesn’t feel right. Instead, the Master says, “When the gods wish to punish us, they answer our prayers.”

Dr Who; Doctor/Master; G

Sun, 01 Jul 2007 22:58:41 GMT

Title: Run
Author: kiwi_from_hell
Rating: G
Pairing: Doctor/Master
Summary: Things were never really simpler, even when they were children. But they were different.
Notes: I'm actually working on something else of the Master/Doctor kind, but I got block and wrote this as a writing exercise, then decided I really like it. Also, I thought we needed something nice after LotTL. About 350 words.

The Academy was a great place for adventure; it was a right of passage for young Gallifreyans, age 15, to be shown the secret corridors and hide-aways by their peers. The Doctor had already found most of them, and in turn had shared them with the Master, as he always did when he was ready to give up a secret. Still, there was one new one to add to the list, and it was beautiful.

It was only a small space, just big enough for two boys who were barely children anymore. With their backs wedged against the sloping eves, they looked out across the plains of the planet. Orange and red, as far as the eye could see, like fire burning on the horizon. There was nothing outside the citadel, nothing for miles. It felt like looking into the end of the world.

The Master quietly nudged the Doctor’s ankle with his foot. “Why do you think they don’t let us see this?” he said. “Doctor,” he added as an afterthought. He was still getting used to the new names.

The Doctor shook the look of reverence off his face as he drew himself back to something approaching reality. “Maybe they thought it would be dangerous.”

“How could something this beautiful be dangerous?” The Master’s tone was one of genuine puzzlement; he was lost in the logic of the constraints surrounding him. Every now and then, he got the distinct sensation that this life was floating away from him, and he needed to desperately cling to anything he could. Nothing belonged to him. Except, in some moments, the quiet times like this, he thought maybe the Doctor could. One day. If he made it, with himself still his own.

“I don’t know; I’m not them.”

“But you care. You want to know, you just never ask.”

“Wouldn’t it be torture, if the answer isn’t good enough? To know it all, and know we can do nothing? Like the vortex.”

The Master visibly flinched. He turned to stare out the window, and waited for time to pass. After a while, he felt the Doctor’s fingers loop between his own.

The Master almost smiled. “We could run.”

Dr Who; Ten/Master; NC-17

Wed, 20 Jun 2007 23:15:56 GMT

Title: Whiplash
Author: kiwi_from_hell

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: Doctor/Simm!Master
Summary: This is exactly what you shouldn't be writing. It's terrible and wrong. Doctor/Master? Ugh. I thought you all could do with an example of exactly the kind of porn none of us want to see.
Notes: I haven't written in this fandom before, or written much of anything for a long time. So, forgive me.

“Doctor!”

Martha’s shrill cry drew him out of his thoughts. Sound came rushing back to his ears, and he could feel his hearts pumping again. It was thunderously loud; his hearts, his blood careening through his body and making his fingers tingle. It wasn’t a feeling he had a lot anymore.

“Doctor!”

“Oh…Jack!” The Doctor broke his gaze away from where the TARDIS had stood, and ran to the door. A future kind, covered in piercing and baring sharp, white teeth, had its shoulder pushed through the door. “Can you handle this?” He knew Jack would say yes, no matter what. Pride will kill him one day, immortal or not.

“We…yeah. What’s the plan?” Jack punctuated his question by punching the future kind sharply in the face. The door slammed closed.

The Doctor scrabbled to pull Jack’s wrist band off. “Find something to barricade that with,” he shouted. “How the hell do you get this thing off?”

“I told you, the vortex manipulator burnt out – Ow, fingernails – there’s a clasp.”

The Doctor came away with Jack’s skin under his nails and a space hopper in his hand. A deflated space hopper. He pulled out the sonic screwdriver, and with a blue whir the buttons and dial lit up; the space hopper filled with air, to carry on a tired metaphor. “It’ll only take one of us.”

Martha pushed a box against the door. Dragging a sweaty hand across her brow, she said, “So what are we going to do?” But the Doctor had already slipped out of the room.

“Typical,” muttered Jack.

The Master spun around. “Where did you come from? I’m sure you weren’t here just now. I would’ve noticed you.”

“Nice to see you too. I like the shirt.”

“A little too baroque for my tastes,” he dismissed. “Really, how did you get here?”

The Doctor raised his arm.

“Oh, a vortex manipulator.” He laughed. “Well, needs must. Darling, tell me what you’re planning to accomplish will you? As much as I enjoy it, I don’t have time for games right now.”

“Strange, I remember when games were all you were ever interested in.” Good show, the Doctor thought to himself. You lasted all of three sentences. He forced himself into a harsher tone of voice, “I’m here to stop you.”

“We both know that isn’t true. Help me, or sit in the corner quietly until I’m done, okay?” The Master hopped from monitor to monitor slamming down buttons and switches. The TARDIS was never meant to come this far forward; getting back was going to be a challenge as well. It would take time. The Master laughed as he bounded across the floor to face the Doctor.

“Things have changed.”

“So you said. We’re the only ones left? Must’ve been lonely.” He rolled the cuff of his shirt sleeve between his fingers.

“Look, the evil overlord bit may have been cute when you were just trying to piss people off, but if I have to kill you to stop you now, I will. Drop the rebellious act; there’s no one left to rebel against.”

“Kill me and you’re all alone in the universe,” said the Master, rocking forwards on his heels.

“I was anyway.” The Doctor tried to ignore the close proximity of the Master’s face, smiling inches away from him, eyes dancing. He hated him for enjoying this.

“Come now, you didn’t really think I was dead, did you?” The Master drew his fingers slowly over the Doctor’s jaw line. “If I was gone, you would’ve felt it,” he whispered.

“No.” The Doctor turned his head away from the warm hand, and took a step away. “No, don’t flatter yourself.”

The Master laughed again, and the Doctor’s face darkened. He clenched his teeth and tried to formulate a plan. He imagined he could still feel the Master’s hand on his face. Watching the Master dancing along the control board in his new regeneration, the Doctor stood frozen. This body suited him. It had the spark, the energy, it moved with expression.

“Have you worked out how to kill me yet, Doctor?”

“We don’t have to do this,” he replied through gritted teeth.

“No, in fact there are a lot of other things we could be doing which would be infinitely more entertaining, but you seem set on that saving the world thing and it rather cramps my style.”

The Doctor took a deep breath and dropped his shoulders. Plans weren’t working, reason wasn’t working, and he’d transported himself straight into a pointless situation. “How’s she flying?”

The Master’s grin widened. “It’ll take a while. We have plenty of time to catch up.”

“Where are we going?”

“Now, now, spoiling the plan. I can’t very well tell you that, can I?”

The Doctor had visibly loosened; he was breathing easy again, his face was softer. His finger tips still tingled. He leaned against a support strut and let his eyes slide shut, listening to the Master jabber. The sound of the TARDIS’ engines gently thrumming coasted him into peace, and he realised just how tired he had been. Leaving Jack, leaving Rose, seeing Sarah again; it had been so long since he’d travelled with anyone. He loved humanity, really, there was nothing better – but a human companion was a guaranteed hell, and barely worth the trouble. Nothing but someone to leave behind.

He was so tired. The wall was warm against his back, the soft curve of the frame fitting his relaxed spine. And the Master’s voice, a voice from home, dredging up all the feelings it used to; anxiety, anticipation, excitement, shelter. He smiled to himself and whispered, “Just call me Pavlov’s dog.”

“What did you say?”

The Doctor blinked his eyes open. “Hm? Nothing.”

“Look, I can’t help but notice you’re not saving the world.” The Master walked over and rested on the wall beside him.

“I’ll have you know, I’m busy formulating a plan as we speak.”

The Doctor felt the air shift around him, and a hand slipped onto his hip. When he opened his eyes, the Master’s face was mere inches away from him. The hand on his hip slowly moved down to stroke his inner thigh through the fabric of his trousers. The Master leaned forward menacingly, their torsos touching now, and as he stretched up to equal the height of the Doctor his hip brushed against the Doctor’s growing erection.

“We can’t have that.” The Master whispered, his breath gliding across the Doctor’s cheek. “I shall have to distract you.”

The Doctor’s head was filled with wool; he couldn’t think of a reply, couldn’t even contemplate telling himself to move. As he exhaled a breath he hadn’t noticed he was holding, the Master’s lips pressed against his own. The lips were soft and full, warm against his own. The Master’s fingers massaged in circles on his thigh, and he slipped his other hand around his waist.

The Master’s kiss turned fierce, sliding his tongue deep into his mouth and crushing their lips together as his stubble scrapped soft skin. The Doctor kissed back, pulling his Master closer by his shoulders and breathing heavily into his mouth as he gasped to regain the air that had been knocked out of him. He curled his fingers under the Master’s shoulder blades. He sucked in a breath and the Master took the opportunity nip at his lower lip.

The Doctor bowed his head to catch his breath; already his lips were swollen and his face was flushed. He tried to turn away as the Master pressed his mouth to the exposed curve of his neck, and murmured, “No.”

“I’m sorry Doctor, that was thoroughly unconvincing,” The Master said, his hands roving across the Doctor’s body and finally settling on his shoulders. Gently turned his thumbs on the pressure points of The Doctor’s collar bone, he worked his tongue on the soft skin at the base of his neck. “You’ll have to say it once more, with feeling,” he said, the words muffled by the Doctor’s shoulder. He bit down on the bare flesh and the Doctor only moaned in reply.

The Master’s hands continued down the Doctor’s arms, to his wrists. Tightening his grip, he pressed their bodies closer together, not allowing a slither of light between them. The Doctor arched his neck backwards and issued a quiet groan of pleasure mixing with pain as the Master bit him just below his ear, then began lapping at the red spot with the tip of his tongue. He tried to pull his wrists away, but was held firm. The Master’s thigh was settled between his legs, and he rolled his hips just slightly with every lick of his tongue.

The Master jerked his hands outwards, pulling the Doctor’s wrists and forcing him against the wall of the TARDIS. As they slammed into each other again, the Master’s lips regained their purchase on his neck and he moaned, sending vibrations ringing all over the Doctor’s skin. The Doctor began thrusting his hips to meet him, grinding, and between the biting kisses his breath was ragged. He still struggled against the Master’s grip on his wrists feebly, too caught up in the moment to care.

The Master pulled his head back from the kisses and grinned. “Want me to let go?” He dug his fingernails into the Doctor’s arm. “Ask me.”

“Let go,” the Doctor said hoarsely, barely able to contain his arousal at the sounds the Master was making in his ear. As soon as he felt the grip on his wrists lessen, the Doctor turned and grabbed hold on the lapels of the Master’s waistcoat, pulling him in for a lip-crushing kiss and forcing his tongue deep inside his mouth. He ran his hands across the new regeneration’s chest, feeling the muscles tense and relax under his touch. He felt the two heartbeats, the only ones like it left in the universe.

The Master dropped to his knees.

He looked up once, eyes shining and bright, lips red and face flushed, before sliding the Doctor’s trousers and boxers down over his hips. The Doctor shuddered in anticipation, unable to stop a whimper escaping from his lips. The Master teased. He ran his fingertips up and down the Doctor’s inner thighs whilst sliding his tongue across any available skin.

The Doctor moaned, “Oh, God,” and the Master grinned.

He opened his mouth around the head of the Doctor’s cock and exhaled, breathing out hot, moist air. He felt hands in his hair, fingers wrapping around strands, and closed his lips. The Doctor instantly thrust into his mouth and he swirled his tongue. His hands wandered over the Doctor’s body absently. He rolled his tongue and heard his named gasp, felt the tightening on his hair. The Master pulled back and drew his tongue leisurely over the Doctor’s penis, licking it from base to tip. When he saw that the Doctor’s legs were starting to tremble, no longer able to support his weight, the Master wrapped his warm, wet mouth around him once more and sucked, pressing his cock to the roof of his mouth and sliding his tongue across it.

“Oh…God.”

He wrapped his hand around the base of the Doctor’s cock and pumped, moving his mouth back and forth in time.

The Doctor thrust uncontrollably into the Master’s mouth. He cast his eyes upwards and watched him grit his teeth and throw his head back; displaying the tiny bite marks he had left, as he came with a shudder and a final guttural moan.

The Master spit on the floor and walked back to the control panel of the TARDIS, wiping his hands on his trousers. “We should get to London any minute now.”

The Doctor stared at him from the other side of the room with clouded eyes. “I’ll still kill you if I have to.”

“Of course you will - you’re the hero. Tell me, how heroic do you think it is to leave your friends under attack so the bad guy in this little drama can suck you off?”

The Master heard the bleep of buttons being pressed. He turned around to see the Doctor teleport out using the vortex manipulator. “Typical,” he muttered.

Fic: Scrubs - Reticent

Thu, 01 Mar 2007 19:51:02 GMT

Title: Reticent
Author: kiwi_from_hell
Fandom: Scrubs
Pairing: JD/Dr Cox
Rating: NC-17
Summary: After 5x20 My Lunch, JD pays Dr Cox a visit. But when he gets there, he doesn't know what to do.
Warnings: Light-possible non-con, and father-son dynamic.
A/N: This is the first thing I've written for the Scrubs fandom. It got a little dark and twisted, somehow.

Reticent

Oh, God. It echoed in JD’s head, it had been reverberating through him for hours. When Dr Cox had whispered those words to the bleeping pager, for a moment everything was frozen. It was just wrong; it was…JD had been fairly certain this was not how life was supposed to be. God with a capital G, he could see it written in his head. The God, the one Dr Cox either doesn’t believe in or hates. He didn’t answer. He’s wasn’t listening, or the feelings between him and Perry are mutual. Or he’s just not there, but there are reasons JD became a doctor and not a philosopher and avoiding questions like this is one of them.

But as JD found himself with his hand poised to knock on the door, he wondered if his time would be better spent contemplating these things by himself. Oh, God. He knocked once.

“Dr Cox?” JD knocked again. He imagined a gruff, “Fuck off,” drifting through the wooden door, but wasn’t certain. “Dr Cox? Will you let me in?”

“Fuck off.”

JD definitely heard it that time. Banging on the door, he said, “I drove across town after a twelve hour shift. Me and Sasha are exhausted. Open the door.” Slumping against the door jam, he awaited a stream of curses. Instead, there was silence, and JD was about to walk away, give up and go home when he heard a click and the door swung open.

He paused in the open doorway. Dr Cox has already made it back to the couch and his glass of scotch. JD wondered why he bothered bringing beer. Almost scared, he tried to fix eye contact, but the blood-shot, dead stare went right through him. The image of Dr Cox looking like a broken child was something JD had hoped he wouldn’t have to see. He pushed the door shut behind him, and it swung on its hinges with a squeak. JD didn’t move.

Oh, God.

JD’s feet were itching, but he didn’t know how to move, besides letting his fingers twitch nervously. There was a thick silence in the air and the stillness of a grave yard. They both had beating hearts, but damn if they were alive at that moment. They were just there, waiting for it to fall into something one of them knew how to react to.

JD set his helmet on a small table to his right. The sound of plastic on wood filled the apartment; Jordan must be out. He probably hadn’t even told her yet. JD kept hold of the beer. The condensation on the glass was covering his finger tips in a chill. A metal top bit into his skin.

Oh, God.

There was some resolute defiance in the way Dr Cox tossed back his scotch, JD thought. Like he was wilfully tearing himself down and JD had to watch as punishment. Another glass. The gentle clang on of the bottle on the table.

Oh, God.

Punishment for what? Helping? Caring? Showing up like he has any right to be there? The silence remained but JD’s mind was racing.

Oh, God.

How many people was he going to lose today?

Oh, God.

“Just tell me what to do.” JD didn’t mean to shout, but once he started talking the words got away from him.

“I don’t know,” said Cox, in barely a whisper. “Hard fact of life: no one does.”

“So, you figure you might as well do anything? Damn the consequences?” He didn’t mean to shout, he really didn’t.

“So I can’t take one night to drown my sorrows without needing an intervention?”

“You just, you walked out! You left.”

Dr Cox slapped on a drunken grin, “Well, what does one day matter?” He dragged himself to his feet and waved towards the door. “You can leave now.”

“Do you see what you’re doing?” JD felt his voice cracking. “Do you want to turn into your father? Is that what you want for Jack?”

“Get out.” Dr Cox took hold of JD’s arm and pushed him towards the door. His grip was tight; there would be bruising. “Get out now.”

“Alcoholic, abusive, what else are you going to add to the list?”

Oh, God.

JD slammed into the wood-panelled door and he felt the collision on his shoulder blades and through his back. It was jolting; the air was knocked from his lungs. He could feel Dr Cox force his tongue into his mouth, feel the stubble grating against face. He either said no or thought it, but he honestly can’t tell which anymore. He didn’t understand why his mind was retreating from the scene while his hand twisted in Dr Cox’s t-shirt and his body arched forward.

Oh, God.

Dr Cox, always Dr Cox in JD’s mind. Mentor. Guiding hand.

Oh, God.

JD clenched his hands on Dr Cox’s hips, sliding inside his sweatpants. His nails grated over the skin. Not moving his body, JD stayed pressed against him, as they kissed fiercely. It was a pattern of pulling away and attacking again, crushing lips and clashing teeth. But he wouldn’t let go. He was not going to let go.

Oh, God.

Dr Cox fumbled with his fly, and JD couldn’t help his hips bucking forward and a gasp of breath escaping. The hand around him was warm and strong. JD slid Dr Cox’s pants and boxers down. They stopped kissing now. Their foreheads were pressed together, leaning on each other with enough force to cause pain. Heavy, slow breaths filled the room. JD started moving first, tentatively rolling his hips to bring their cocks into contact.

Oh, God.

Teacher. Student. Guidance. Father. Son. Friend.

Oh, God.

Dr Cox broke eye contact, so JD dropped his head forward; they were cheek to cheek. The stubble still burned. JD thrust his hips and watched intently as Dr Cox spit into his hand then took hold of both of their cocks. The hiss let out a hiss from between his clenched teeth ran across JD's face. The pressure was building. Grunting and harsh gasps of air were the only sounds. JD watched the pumping hand with his eyes wide open.

Oh God. Oh, God

“Clean yourself up,” Dr Cox murmured.

JD gratefully took the tissue he was holding out. Looking down, he saw he had dropped the beer. There was broken glass on the carpet and the liquid was beginning to seep away. He zipped up his fly, straightened his shirt, and looked into the middle distance. He could see Dr Cox in the corner of his vision, but couldn’t take looking directly at him.

“You’d better go now.”

“Yeah, yeah,” JD replied quietly. He picked up his helmet and it hung loosely from his hand.

“Newbie,” Dr Cox said, just as he JD was turning the door handle. “I am not my father. And you don’t have to be me.”

Fic: Snow

Wed, 31 Jan 2007 21:54:02 GMT

Title: Snow
Author: kiwi_from_hell
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I wish
Summary: Wilson needs to make sure House is okay. A short post-ep ficlet for "One Room, One Day."
Notes: My first piece for a while. I hope I still have their voices right.

“Why haven’t you gone home? Or back to that hotel room you call home now.”

“I saw the light on.”

House imagined his pores tightening in the cold room; the heating systems to the offices had clicked off for the night, and the stifling warmth was filtering away. Soon it would be bitterly cold, he supposed, and he would get up to turn the radiator on manually. It was always hard to find that balance. He blinked once, slowly, to focus on the sharp air against his face.

House was resting his forehead to the top of his cane, using the pressure to relieve the pain in his head that Vicodin just wouldn’t work for. It made a black line down the centre of his vision, a solid block he couldn’t see. On one side was his desk, the other the window.

He turned his eyes to the window and watching the snow turning to a light slush on the concrete. It had been pretty earlier, gracing the landscape and gently weighing down tree branches. Like a Christmas card, with significantly lower levels of God and good tidings. It settled up here more. The park had been clear during the day, with enough exposure to sunlight and enough people traipsing through to make it melt. Droplets of rain were falling now.

A metaphor could be pulled out of that, House thought, if he tried. Best not to. The desk on his other side; it had pens, papers, more pens…more papers. There was nothing interesting about the desk; it was another distraction, another step back. This time, a distraction from the person sitting just to the other side of it. Wilson had been sat there for how long now? House hadn’t been paying attention.

Without moving his head, House could only see his hand, and he didn’t want to move his head as that would invite conversation. One hand was resting on a clear space on the desk. House could see the pale ring left by Wilson’s wedding ring, a chewed shard at the side of his nail that must have been painful. The skin was slightly inflamed around it. House timed his breathing to the soft sound of Wilson inhaling and exhaling.

“Are we going to talk then?”

The sudden sound was enough to make House’s chest clench. “I told her the truth. That was all she wanted to hear.”

“It’s all any of us do.” Wilson tapped a pen on the edge of House’s desk. “You okay?”

House shot Wilson a look. “One day, pay attention to a speech I make.”

“One day, let me answer it before you walk out of a room. I’m not asking because I want you to feel pain, get over and become a healthy human being. I don’t want miracles. I’m asking because I want to know if you’re okay.” Wilson paused, and looked over to House. He wasn’t responding. “It’s this thing called compassion. Some of us are able to display it for more than once a lifetime without bursting into flames.”

“I’m okay.”

Wilson dropped his hands down onto his knees and eased out of his chair. “You’re not going to tell me anymore than that, are you?”

“It’s not important,” House said. He looked up met Wilson’s eyes for the first time, just briefly. The concerned look was familiar; a few curls of hair out of place, a weary control over his features. His office was too dark to make it out, really, but he didn’t need to see it.

“Yeah, it is.”

“You are in every room, every day. I have to keep something quiet or I’ll lose my air of mystery.”

“Yeah,” Wilson murmured. “How much longer are you planning on sitting there?”

“Until the snow goes away.”

Fic: Glass

Sun, 05 Nov 2006 21:33:10 GMT

Title: Glass
Author: kiwi_from_hell
Fandom: Torchwood
Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Rating: NC-17
Summary: The Torchwood Institue has always reminded Ianto of glass. It's physics and sex.
Disclaimer: I wish.
Notes: This is my first fic for a while; it took me far longer than it should have. Also, it's my first venture into the Torchwood fandom.

Incident Ray: Light striking glass at any angle other than the normal.

The Torchwood Institute has always reminded Ianto of glass. Despite the dark metal struts and hard, plastered walls, he can’t shake the association. He’s in a prism; light refracts and splits, it makes blinding focus. He’s had it since he started working there, or perhaps, he sometimes wonders, since he first saw Jack working there.

Not since he first saw him, he fleetingly reminds himself. Nothing remains from the first meeting. In the course of the interview, all candidates were introduced to the workings of the institute, as well as some of its more unusual residents. As procedure dictates, they then took a drink with the Captain that erased their memories. All the best drinks with Jack do that.

Ianto has been told the first time he saw a weevil, he squealed like a girl. He doesn’t believe it. In his second time, the time he recalls as the first, he remained calm. Of course, logic isn’t something Jack cares for or something that’s suited to Torchwood.

He’s also been told he was hired for more reasons than looking good in a suit. He isn’t sure about that either; a lot of people can make coffee.

When Jack slips his hand between Ianto’s thighs and remarks, “That suit really is stunning,” with a mischievous grin, Ianto doesn’t know if it counts for the suit argument, or defines another reason. Not that his mind is really on that topic as he pretends to continue reading the file over Jack’s shoulder, trying to keep cool, trying not to gasp.

“Thank you, Sir,” he half-stammers, well and truly caught off guard.

“Ianto,” Jack says, “I would appreciate it you could work late tonight, I have a few thing I need you to give me a hand with. So long as that’s not a problem for you.”

No one has so much as glances up from their work stations, so Ianto leans in and shifts his leg to give Jack more opportunities for his circling fingers. “No problem at all, Sir.”

Refraction: Changing the speed, wavelength and direction of the incident ray.

Toshiko is the last to leave. Ianto holds the door open for her and bids her a good evening with a smile and a nod. As soon as the door clangs shut, he leaves the lobby and enters the Hub. He closes that door too, glancing across the room to Jack’s desk. It’s empty.

Before he has time to react, a flash of movement to his right has him pinned to the door. Jack’s face is inches from his own and his breath is hot and fast.

“Ianto Jones.” Jack seems to relish saying his name. The words roll around his mouth and his lips shape each sound carefully.

Ianto moves to try and find a more comfortable position and realises Jack is holding him firmly by his upper arms, pressing him against the cold steel with the weight of his body. He is savouring the sensation of being held between the cold and the heat when Jack bends his head. Waiting for the meeting of their lips, Ianto is surprised at the precision Jack has. He is being teased; Jack nips his bottom lip, repeatedly pulling at it and tempting with the very tip of his tongue until their hips are swaying together and Ianto’s mouth is open.

Ianto feels pressure relent on his arm and Jack’s fingers trail over his neck, causing him to shiver, then to his face and lips. He takes one finger into his mouth, passing his lips slowly over it and twirling his tongue. A slight salty tang, he notes. As Jack bites his neck, Ianto presses his teeth down, mimicking the motion. He feels a slow stream of air across his collarbone as Jack exhales.

“I’ve been waiting for this all day,” Jack whispers.

With Jack’s tongue flicking against his ear, Ianto struggles to find a reply, but all he has are vowel sounds, followed by, “Sir.”

The reply is just a laugh, before Ianto’s shoulders are seized once more and he is spun to face the door. Jack is breathing heavily on the back of his neck and his hands are around his waist, deftly lowering his trousers and boxers. For a brief moment, Ianto reminds himself that this is his work place, and that is his boss. Just for a brief moment, before he hears Jack unzip his own pants, when he is reminded he doesn’t care.

Jack’s mouth is working on the back of his neck insistently, but he won’t meet his lips no matter how Ianto tries to turn his head. He sees Jack’s coat swish in the corner of his eye, and hears the wet slap of lubricant being applied to skin. A cold finger sliding into him elicits a gasp.

“Ready?” Jack breathes in his ear.

“Y-yes, Sir.” A delicious shiver of anticipation runs down Ianto’s spine. He raises his hands to the door and braces himself.

Jack’s hand digs into his right hip, the nails will definitely leave crescent indentations, maybe even bruises. Before he has time to stop himself, Ianto hopes they’ll leave bruises. The curve of his hipbone fits into Jack’s hand perfectly; he is pulled back and forth in time with Jack’s thrusts. Breath burns in Ianto’s chest as Jack grunts and moans in his ear. Already, Ianto can see his vision blurring and feel his arms trembling as each thrust sends a bolt of pleasure through his body.

“Jack,” he says in a strangled cry.

Jack does exactly what Ianto was pleading for, begging for, in that one syllable and reaches around to grab his cock. Gasping, Ianto lets his head fall forward and watches Jack’s hand pulling slowly over him, matching the rhythm they’ve built up together. The quickening of pace is the only sign that Jack is starting to lose control; his grunts and moans remain the same, with a muttered word thrown in now and then. Ianto’s body tenses as he gets closer to the edge, and he feels Jack tense behind him. Jack’s hand draws up and away from his hip, leaving red scratches over Ianto’s abdomen as he searches for something to hold onto.

Ianto comes with the same strangled, pleading and begging cry he uttered moments ago. Haze swims in front of his eyes and he struggles to calm his breathing; he’s so light-headed he fears he may pass out. Jack has pulled out of him – Ianto doesn’t remember him coming, he was too caught up in his own affairs – and is leaning against the wall beside him, hair stuck to the sweat on his forehead and a blissful smile on his face.

He feels like making a butler-style quip, like, “Would you like some coffee?” or “Is there anything else I can give you a hand with?” but right now, he can’t quite remember the proper grammar.

Emergent Ray: Parallel to the incident ray, refracted through the glass and angled away from the normal.

“Good morning, Sir. I trust you slept well?”

Jack nods. He isn’t much of a morning person.

Ianto hands him his coffee with a coy smile. “If it is at all possible, there is some information I would like you to assist me in updating in the archives.”

Jack raises an eyebrow.

“So long as that’s not a problem for you, Sir,” Ianto says, eyes twinkling. “I have some things to do for the moment, but say, tonight, assuming no aliens run amuck throughout Cardiff?”

Jack takes a long sip of his coffee and nods approvingly. “Assuming no aliens, I should be free around lunch. I might need another cup of coffee though, I’m exhausted this morning. Can’t think why.”

Fic: Lab Coats

Wed, 20 Sep 2006 17:02:25 GMT

Title: Lab Coats
Author: kiwi_from_hell
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: House/Wilson
Disclaimer: What, you think I'd take responsiblity for something like 'Informed Consent'?
Summary: It's smut. And it's about lab coats. Set immediately after 'Control'. Don't look for a plot, you'll only hurt yourself.
Notes: I figured fic was needed after the last episode, but since what I'm working on right now will probably take a while to get done, I'm posting this. I wrote it for a friend a little while ago. No great literary work, it was designed for fun and fun alone.

One thing Wilson had never expected to see was House standing in his back garden in the middle of the night. He had also never expected to see House in a lab coat, and he at no point in his life imagined that one day he would be peering out of the window of his marital bedroom, to see the gay man who co-ordinated his extra-marital activities throwing stones to gain his attention.

Life is funny like that.

Life is fun like that.

Wilson locked eyes with House for a brief moment, trying to appear stern, trying to appear like he wasn’t just dying to dash downstairs. If he let House think he could get away with this, the next step would be House turning up for dinner and dragging Wilson off to the bathroom between the main course and dessert. Wilson didn’t try to appear too stern.

With a quick glance at Julie, who sure enough was sleeping peacefully - Wilson was suddenly pleased he snored, so she had learnt to ignore noises in the night - Wilson pulled the curtains closed and crossed the room in the dark. He fumbled for his robe, but after stubbing his toe twice on…something, decided the night was warm enough to go outside in his boxers.

Wilson’s garden was the picture of suburbia; a pristine lawn lined with prim flower beds. All that was missing was a white picket fence. He’d have to settle for a wiry man in a lab coat – he’d never seen the attraction in picket fences anyway.

“What are you doing here, House?” he whispered from the back step. Shivering, he realised he’d over estimated the warmth of New Jersey summer nights.

“I’m showing my appreciation for keeping your mouth shut on the transplant committee by wearing my lab coat. It still itches,” House pouted.

“I think Cuddy and Vogler cared more about the lab coat than I did.”

“You’re the only one who wouldn’t just throw a bucket of cold water out of your window when you saw me though. That makes you special.” House walked towards Wilson, meeting him at the side of the house.

“Well gee, I feel all warm and fuzzy inside,” Wilson smirked. “Except for the part where you dragged me out into the freezing cold in the middle of the night.” Verbal parry and thrust, they exchanged it every time. Wilson would pretend he was just pissed off at House’s usual antics, and House would play at flirting and seduction, while they both tried to push each other into making a definite move.

“You should wear a coat,” House said.

“Yeah, I guess I should,” Wilson’s eyes roved down House’s body, and the bare calves confirmed his suspicions. When House said he was wearing his lab coat, he was giving a thorough description of his outfit. “I know you’re not the gentlemanly type, but mind if I borrow yours?”

Even before Wilson put his arm through the second sleeve of the lab coat, he felt a lot warmer. House standing naked in his garden certainly had the effect of getting his blood flowing. His boxers felt a bit tight.

House stood inches away from him, hair silvery in the moonlight, lips shining and wet and warm breath caressing his cheek. Wilson bent into to expectantly parted lips, brushing them with his own and teasing them with the tip of his tongue. He raised his hand to cup the back of House’s neck.

Wilson gasped as House propelling himself forward, turning the gentle kiss fierce and slamming Wilson into the wall of the house. In a split second he mentally noted they had just trampled a flower bed, then turned his focus to House’s neck. He kissed the soft skin and drew a fingernail along House’s jaw line. Tingling from the touch of House’s roaming hands, Wilson licked from his collar bone to his ear and bit down gently on the lobe, running his tongue over the flesh held between his teeth. House’s hands were on his back and stomach, turning in slow, lazy circles and ghosting teasingly lower.

“Come on,” Wilson whispered, breathless, and urging House on before he even realised he’d spoken.

“Hmm?” House was kissing his chest, and spoke murmured words against his skin. “‘Come on’ what?”

“Come on, stop playing and…God,” Wilson moaned the last word. House had bent down to one knee, lowered Wilson’s boxers and pressed his lips to his hipbone.

House’s mouth was tantalisingly close to Wilson’s cock, but despite the hands in his hair pushing him downwards, House ran his tongue over the curve of jutting hip, holding the opposite side firmly with his fingers digging into Wilson’s back and his thumb rubbing in circles. He nipped, pinching the skin between his teeth and tugging it back and Wilson arched his back against the cold, stone wall. His face was flushed and his mouth hung open.

When House ran his fingers along his own cock, he moaned against Wilson’s hip. Wilson had to fight down a groan as the vibrations ran through his body. Vaguely, somewhere in the back of his mind, Wilson hoped Julie couldn’t hear anything.

“Please, House…” he choked out.

House laughed quietly, mouth still pressed to his hip and that feeling was almost more delicious than the moan.

“Please,” Wilson repeated. He felt House smile against him.

House took two tentative swipes at the tip with his tongue and Wilson’s head fell forward. He looked down at House as he pulled his tongue from the base to head of his cock, then took it into his mouth. The wet, enveloping warmth radiated through him, and Wilson moaned deeply from the pit of his stomach. He kept his eyes open, locking on the sight of House’s bobbing head, the occasional flash of blue as House looked up at him. Wilson’s breath ripped through his chest in gasps. He felt everything in his body tighten. House’s tongue rolled around his cock. Chipping his nails, Wilson scrabbled at the wall, trying to find something to hold on to, until one hand found the top of House’s head. Wilson couldn’t control his hips bucking, thrusting forward into House’s mouth, and spots swam in front of his eyes.

Between the blur, he saw House take his own cock in his hand and start rubbing rapidly, tugging and pulling in desperate strokes. Wilson felt House moan around him and was pushed over the edge, coming in a shuddering gasp that was so close to pain it was euphoric. In the post orgasm haze, sliding down the rough wall as his knees buckled, he was dimly aware of House crying out and then his warm body falling against him.

“Ungahf…” House murmured.

“Huh?” Wilson cracked open an eye.

“Nothing, just incoherent post coital sounds of appreciation. I’m gonna need my coat back.”

“Uh huh.” Wilson nodded.

“And you need to go back upstairs.”

“Uh huh…damn. I hope she didn’t hear anything.” He blinked and sat himself up, breathing in the cool air to make himself more alert.

“Neither of us have been murdered, so I guess not.” House smiled. “See you tomorrow.” He hoisted himself off the ground and helped Wilson shrug the lab coat off.

“Uh huh.” A wicked grin spread across Wilson’s face. “Hey, do you want to come to dinner tomorrow night?”

Dream Journey

Fri, 08 Sep 2006 15:52:20 GMT

Hey all, I thought I'd share with you a writing exercise from one of my English Language questions, and what I came up with. Basically, it was to imagine what's being a described and write a paragraph on each prompt. I found it really awkward because I hate writing in first person POV, plus I had no idea what was going to happen how or when, so the mood is really inconsistant. I'm really selling this here, aren't I?

One: Imagine yourself walking done a path, and write a paragraph describing this path.

Sunlight is falling in dappled pactches on the earth and reflecting off the leaves, which are damp from a recent rainstorm. Casting shadows and blocking out the sights of the surrounding world, trees grow from the hedges, lining the path abd obscuring the view of the sky. Birds and insects make soft noises close by, while the dull drone of the motorway, far in the distance, makes a monotonous undercurrent of sound.

Two: As you walk along the path, you find a key.

The key is waiting when I turn a corner, resting on the wet earth with dead leaves scattered about it. Weak sunlight makes it shine and the glare catches my eye. Small and silver, the key is light as I pick it up and toss it between my hands. I let my mind wander, enjoying contemplating all the possibilities of its origins. It's cool to the touch. I drop it in the dirt and walk away.

Three: You come to a body of water; it could be a stream, a river, a puddle or even a random bathtub. What is it, and how do you cross?

I hear the stream before I see it; the calm sounds of the trickling water seem to radiate down the path like an echoing hall. There's a bridge which could've been lifted from a gothic tale and I half expect someone to come running across it, sobbing and screaming for their lost lover. I cross - afterall, what else is there to do? In the middle I pause for a long time and look into the water, seeing how it reflects everything around it. I watch the images distort in the flow, going from beautiful swirls of colour to gnarled and twisted depictions, until a bird crows and I snap back to reality.

Describe a tree you come across on your journey.

There's a tree by the side of the path as I continue. Actually, there are lots but only one catches my eye. At first there's nothing special about it except that I'm looking, I'm drawn to it. It's not a beautiful willow tree or a strong oak; it's plain, it's the kind of tree you pass everyday and never notice. As I look, it seems like new things are emerging, colours and contours that are starlingly amazing in their simplicity.

Ahead of you, there is a bend in the path. Describe walking towards it, and seeing a man coming around the corner and walking towards you.

My heart sinks. Up ahead, it looks like the path comes to a dead end. I pause and lean against a tree; the bark digs into my back. As I sigh and consider turning back, I hear the crunch of footsteps on dry leaves. A man has appeared at the end of the path, or what I thought was the end. Feeling slightly stupid and thanking God that people can't read my thoughts - something I find myself doing increasingly often - I nod a greeting.

Fic: Closure

Mon, 14 Aug 2006 21:48:21 GMT

Title: Closure
Author: kiwi_from_hell
Rating: NC-17
Prompt: Prompt #4 - Bruises.
Summary: House goes with Wilson to move the rest of his things out of Julie's. Post "Sex Kills".
Disclaimer: I wish.
Notes: Pure smut. Written for the 2dozenowies hurt/comfort challenge.

The previous evening, Wilson had thought it was almost a sign of support and caring when House had offered to come with him today. Squinting against the bright morning light, he realised it just an exercise in cruelty. In the time it had taken to walk from the car to the front door, House had already passed judgement on the garden, the neighbour’s garden and the entire neighbourhood.

Julie had been out of the house for at least half an hour; Wilson made sure they didn’t run into her – he learnt two divorces ago that moving his belongings out of the marital home was a lot less dangerous without an ex-wife overseeing. The danger level of bringing House along was unknown. Rubbing his neck absentmindedly, Wilson wondered if something could be counted as dangerous if you’d been made to beg for it first.

It didn’t feel the same, for a moment when Wilson stepped through the front door he had to convince himself it was the same place he had been living for the past three years. It didn’t feel like home. But then, had it ever? He wasn’t so sure anymore. The flagstone flooring that led from the entrance and into the kitchen had been Julie’s idea, the terracotta paint on the walls was the shade Julie had wanted, the pictures were all of Julie’s family. Any trace of Wilson ever having lived there could be taken away in boxes.

“Stop being such a wimp,” House said, indicating the yellowing bruise just above Wilson’s collar. “There’s barely a mark there.”

Wilson tucked his hands into his pockets silently and walked into the kitchen. A few paces behind, House followed and hovered around the space, observing Wilson. He was stood leaning against the counter top, looking sullenly at the floor. House coughed.

Startled, Wilson looked up and smiled weakly. “I tried to make this one work, you know,” he said as he picked up a flat cardboard box and began struggling to assemble it. “It was doomed from the beginning, obviously.” He half laughed, and touched the mark on his neck again. “But I did try.”

House limped across the room and took the box out of Wilson’s hands. “If you ask me, it all worked out for the best.”

“Yeah, yeah of course it did. I just…” He trailed off and sighed.

House pressed his lips to corner of Wilson’s jaw and whispered, “You need some closure.”

“I’ve already had that kind of closure.” Wilson smiled but squirmed away. “It left me with bruises and bite marks, and as much as I’d love to have hot gay sex on my ex-wife’s kitchen floor, I think I need a few more hours to recover.”

“Meaning you’re anal and want to get all the packing done?” House made a trail of tiny kisses down to the most prominent mark he had left on Wilson. He ran his tongue over the tender spot and Wilson shivered against him. “If the aches and pains really are the problem, I know how to stop them bothering you.” Under Wilson’s t-shirt, he brushed his hands over his ribcage and swiped his thumb over a nipple.

With House’s voice rasping in his ear and House’s fingers exploring his body, Wilson sighed and his head dropped back, knocking against a cupboard with a dull thud. House’s teeth and lips and tongue played against his neck. Wilson took a step forward, causing his body and House’s to come into full contact; his hands gripping House’s shoulders, clutching at the fabric of his shirt. They stumbled, and Wilson’s hands slid down over House’s back to his ass.

Thumbs slipped through the belt loops, Wilson pulled House closer and pressed their groins together. House raised his head from Wilson’s neck and bit his bottom lip, nibbling and sucking while he opened Wilson’s pants, sliding a teasing hand into his boxers and then out again, eliciting a whimper from Wilson’s parted lips. Shedding their clothes, House kissed any bare skin as soon as it became available and Wilson scrapped his finger nails across House’s chest, making red welts.

Heart pounding and breath clawing at the insides of his throat, Wilson slipped and landed with a thud on the cold stone floor. He cursed and looked up at House, who looked back with a gleam in his eye. For a moment, Wilson took in the sight of House stood above him with his lips reddened, face flushed and his clothes strewn across his ex-wife’s kitchen. They were both dishevelled, sweat was sticking their hair to their brows and they gasped in shallow breaths.

House knelt with surprising speed, ignoring the sharp jab of pain in his leg, and placed his knees on either side of Wilson’s waist. Relishing the anticipation, he slowly dragged a fingernail from Wilson’s left hipbone to his right, following with his thumb to smooth over the scratch. The only sound was their panting as, staring into Wilson’s eyes, House kneaded the sides of Wilson’s body, grinding his palms and fingertips in the flesh. He started at his hips and made his way up at a painfully slow pace until with his hands on Wilson’s shoulders he was leant forward, their faces inches apart.

Wilson grabbed the back of House’s neck and pulled him in for a kiss. House pressed down on Wilson’s shoulders, pinning him to the hard floor and kissing him fiercely, crushing their lips together. Settling one leg between Wilson’s, House thrust his hips, rubbing their cocks together. Desperate for more contact, more pressure, Wilson thrust back, raising his hips from the floor and grasping at House. He pulled away from the kiss and tipped his head back against the flagstones, moaning as his orgasm built; House attacked the curve of his neck, pressing his lips onto the exposed skin. He moaned onto Wilson’s neck, and the vibrations drove Wilson closer to the edge as his fingers scrabbled for something to hold onto.

Wilson came first, clutching House’s shoulder blades; his head flung back, he let out a shuddering gasp. House followed at the sight of Wilson with his eyes closed, sweat dotting his face and lips open. They rolled apart and lied side by side, letting the sweat and come dry on them while they were caught up in afterglow.

***

The kitchen still smelt of sex. Wilson had tried to cover it, but to be honest he hadn’t tried very hard. He held the last box of his things under one arm, ignoring House’s calls to hurry up. Julie would be home in a few hours, and the house looked exactly as it had when Wilson stepped in that morning, but for a few empty closets and his key on the hall table.

I'll Try to Remind You

Mon, 07 Aug 2006 22:07:51 GMT

Title: I'll Try to Remind You
Author: kiwi_from_hell
Rating: PG
Pairing: Gregory House/James Wilson
Prompt: 15 - Neurological Disorder
Summary: He won't die right away, he'll just want to.
Notes: Written for 2dozenowies, a hurt/comfort challenge. The medicine was researched, but I'm not a doctor, so I can't guarantee it's correct.

Wilson squinted at him under the fluorescent lights of the cafeteria. Pressing his hand down onto the table, perhaps a little harder than was necessary, House met his scrutinising gaze with a blank look.

“I saw that,” Wilson stated. He raised his eyebrows and tried to keep the concern from his voice; it would only make House even harder to talk to. However, he couldn’t keep the slight sinking feeling from attacking his stomach, despite its irrationality. Panicking over a twitch was ridiculous, as a doctor he knew that – but as a doctor he also had a list twirling through his mind of everything it could mean.

House took a napkin from the side of his tray and dabbed at the coffee he had spilt. “My hand cramped, it’s probably just a result of repetitive strain; you’re to blame for that.”

“Haha,” Wilson said dryly. “I’ll just make you some hot cocoa and sit you down in front of a black and white movie tonight then.” More quietly, attempting to take over mopping up the coffee until House smack him away, Wilson continued, “Seriously, get it checked out. It could be myoclonus.”

House snorted. “I twitch once, and you sign me up for a battery of tests.”

“It’s not just once though, is it, House? You almost poured boiling water over your arm yesterday, and how many times have you dropped the remote? Or slipped when you’re writing a differential on the whiteboard?” He held back from mentioning the increasing frequency with which House had been forgetting his keys or spent far too long groping for the right word. Cheap scare tactics would only earn more a more derisive response.

“If I think it needs checking out, I’ll get it checked out. I’m a doctor too, you know.”

A stubborn House was a House Wilson wanted to smack over the head with a lunch tray. Being concerned for someone who seemed to have so little concern for themselves frayed his nerves and made him weary, especially knowing how little good it did. He had given up on trying to ensure House got enough sleep months ago, resigning himself to the fact that waking in the night he would find the other half of their bed empty and hear music drifting in from the living room; he comforted himself that most nights he heard a sweet melody instead of harsh, discordant noise. He had never expected House to change, but he always wanted him to be safe.

“I need to get back to work,” House said, jerking Wilson out of his thoughts. He left the cafeteria without another word, without the slight brushing of hands that had become custom between them.

Wilson hadn’t noticed the pager beep, he assumed it must have just been set on vibrate.

His assumption lasted about five minutes, before he decided to go back to his office and maybe just look in on House on his way. He plucked an untouched bag of chips off the table as a peace offering, or at least a buffer.

Looking through the glass door, Wilson saw House sat with his neck bent, his entire posture slumped and his forehead resting on his cane. Wilson hesitated for a split second then walked in and settled into his familiar seat on the opposite side of House’s desk.

House didn’t look up.

Wilson tapped his fingers on the desk. “What’s going on, Greg?” They rarely used first names; they were reserved for sex and fights. Now, Wilson was trying to remind him that they were linked.

“I need a blood test for Tal proteins,” he said quietly.

“Christ, House, that’s a big leap. The twitch could mean anything. It could be an infection, or a metabolic disorder…” Wilson trailed off as his heart sank. Hot prickling began on the back of his neck; House had a reason for everything he thought. Suddenly stumbling over words in his mind, Wilson shot him a questioning look.

House took a tourniquet and syringe out of the top drawer of his desk. Methodically, he laid the syringe in its sterile wrapping on top of a case file and tied the strip of rubber around his arm. “My grandmother had Early-onset Alzheimer’s.”

“But your parents…”

“They’re still within the presentation age range.”

Wilson snatched the syringe off the desk when House reached for it, and moved around to kneel on the floor in front of him. He took House’s hand in his own and curled the fingers over into a fist. Pressing the needle against House’s flesh, Wilson hated the frailty; he could feel the bones of his thin arms. Wilson looked into his eyes as the needle broke the skin, the first time they had made eye contact since he came into the room. House looked away first, resuming staring at the floor.

When the blood was drawn, Wilson slipped the vial into his pocket and House snapped the tourniquet off his arm with a loud ping.

“You should go home and rest. You look wrecked,” Wilson said, only aware once the words were out of his mouth just how bad House looked. His entire body seemed introverted, his muscles tense and limbs held close. The whites of his eyes were a dull cream colour from lack of sleep. “I’ll run the test.”

He hadn’t been expecting House to agree. Somehow, that was the most worrying thing.

***

The test was simple. With the miracles of modern medicine, all Wilson had to do was place a sample in a machine, press a few buttons and wait for the beeps as the results printed out. Much harder was stopping his legs from buckling beneath him as he cast his eyes over the piece of paper.

***

Wilson wasn’t sure how he made the drive home. He alternated from complete numbness to a sharp, tight pain in his chest. Stood at the front door, digging through his pockets for his key, Wilson’s vision blurred and he had to blink hard. His movements were uncontrolled; he pulled the key from his pocket too hard and slammed his hand into the wall. Unlocking the door, he faltered. For a fleeting moment, he wanted to leave. He wanted to run, or lie, in the blind childish hope that if he ignored it, it wasn’t real. Then he heard the piano being played.

“Hey,” Wilson half-whispered. House turned to face him, spinning on the piano stool, and he couldn’t say anything else. He crossed the room and handed him the test results.

House slammed the lid of the piano keyboard down and stood up, knocking the stool to the floor in his abruptness. The silence that followed the eruption of noise was deafening.

Wilson followed House to the kitchen, where he was leaning over the sink and breathing heavily; gripping the counter top, his knuckles were white. Quietly, Wilson said his name but received no response, no sign that he’d even been heard. He took a tentative step forward and laid his fingertips on House’s wrist. “It’s not conclusive; we’ll need to do other tests. Even then, there are treatments, new medications are being developed.”

“Is this the part where you pat my head and tell me it’s all going to be ok? I only have one thing, just my mind, my thoughts, and I’m going to lose them,” House snarled.

Wilson took House’s shoulder and forced him to face him. “You have more than one thing,” he said fiercely.

“I don’t expect you to stick around. You’re only human, and the romance tends to go out of a relationship when one person can’t remember the other’s name.”

Wilson brushed his fingers over House’s damp cheek. “I’ll remind you.”

***

Lying in bed that night, Wilson stared at the ceiling. For once, he was wide awake when House got up; he heard every creak of bed springs and the soft click of the light switch. He listened to the soft tune coming from the piano, knowing that one day House wouldn’t be able to remember which notes to play.

Two dozen owies

Mon, 07 Aug 2006 00:18:46 GMT

I just claimed House/Wilson at the 2dozenowies challenge comm. 24 hurt/comfort prompts. I must admit, I wouldn't have gone in for it - especially as my writing tends to be in sporadic bursts - but some of the prompts seemed awesome. Ideas for amputation, bruises and cancer sprung out at me, and I just couldn't say no.

1. Allergic Reaction	2. Amputation	3. Broken Bone	4. Bruises
5. Cancer	6. Cold/Flu/Fever	7. Concussion	8. Crushing injury
9. Drowning	10. Electric Shock	11. Frostbite/hypothermia	12. Heat exhaustion/stroke
13. Infection	14. Minor annoyances - paper cut, hangnail, etc	15. Neurological disorder	16. Puncture/Laceration
17. Psych Trauma	18. Sensory loss/impairment	19. Skin disorders	20. Sleep disorders
21. Sprained/Strianed Muscle	22. Routine surgery	23. Writer's Choice	24. Writer's Choice

I'll update the table with links every time I put up a new fic (as well as posting the fic, obviously) and repost once I've got them all done. Away we go...

Mirror

Fri, 07 Jul 2006 20:13:27 GMT

Title: Mirror
Author: kiwi_from_hell
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I wish.
Summary: Everybody keeps things hidden, everybody has something dark below the surface. House is more honest than most, but Wilson's appearance is only polish and shine.
Notes: Written for the slash appreciation day. Smut that turned dark.

It had started in with the differential diagnosis, or rather, the few seconds before House made his presence known by a loud clearing of his throat. His team had been idly chatting; throwing out random comments with the kind of comfort only days upon days of shared boredom could bring about when there were no common interests. Foreman had been leaning forward to take a bite of his cereal without spilling any on the table as he said “Face it, he is more screwed up than any of us are even able to comprehend,” punctuating his point with a crunch of his breakfast. House hadn’t heard the preceding comment, but judging from Cameron’s slight blush, it had come from her.

Foreman’s words faded from his mind almost as soon as he had heard them, until he was eating lunch with Wilson. The cafeteria had been over run with noise and the sandwiches were soggy; their lunch time banter consisted of putting the world to rights – starting with the food. Nauseous doctors are careless doctors, after all. Wilson had been poking dubiously at the meat protruding from between the slices of bread when House’s pager buzzed in his pocket, vibrating against his hip. He pushed back from the table and stood up with the explaining comment, “Gotta go save a baby, else I’ll be handing a shoe box to the parents in a couple of hours.”

Wilson had blinked, laughed that little laugh, the one he always held back on because somehow he felt he shouldn’t be laughing, and said dryly, “I think there’s something seriously wrong with you.”

When a woman all but ran out of his clinic exam room in the afternoon, pulling her child behind her, Cuddy had sighed and told him that though New Jersey pharmacists may suffer from the reduced Vicodin sales, the general populace would be far happier if he went to a shrink.

It didn’t bother House. To him, normality was an almost frightening concept and the peace it offered wasn’t worth the stupidity that seemed to be a side effect. The thing that caused the irritated weight on his shoulders was that people couldn’t see it in themselves. Foreman was a few more bitter years away from becoming House and Cameron could only drum up compassion when she could simplify people to victim status. Cuddy was a successful, intelligent woman who’d never had more than a passing interest in children, yet suddenly wanted to be a mother; the only reason House could see for the sudden change in her was that she still felt she needed to prove she could have it all, be everything that was expected of her. Chase’s problems could fill a psychological study, depending on your perspective it could affirm or rewrite every possible cliché.

Wilson was the worst of them. He practically shone, but a step below the surface he was darkly convoluted, so much so that anyone who caught a glimpse should have been repulsed; only they never were because the shine and polish were blinding.

Strange, the things that make you wind up in bed with your best friend.

House was having dinner in Wilson’s new apartment when he decided to pose his question. “Why are you a better person than I am, just because you’re so self-loathing that you can’t let people see anything beyond the suits and ties?”

“I’m too tired for an analysis of my psyche.”

“You marry women because you want the conventional life as a respectable doctor; you marry needy people because what could be better than a knight in shining armour? You had sex with a patient and you can only sleep at night because you tell yourself it was good for her, it was something she needed, and cleverly gloss over the fact that you needed it too. If no one needs you, if you can’t help anyone, what are you? Do you have any worth at all without that? You think every part of you that doesn’t fit with the perfect life of restrained contentedness you were raised to have is wrong and you keep it hidden from the world. How many of your wives really knew you, Jimmy boy? How many knew you like I know you?”

Wilson kissed him, fiercely forcing his tongue into his mouth and pushing him back against the couch, knocking the air out of him.

House remembers seeing hands fumbling with the buttons on Wilson’s shirt, but he doesn’t know if they were his own. He remembers a blind stumble to the bedroom, with a brief pause as Wilson pinned him to the wall, grinding their groins together and breathing heavily in his ear. He remembers tripping against the closet and knocking the clothes Wilson had hung up for the next day onto the floor. House remembers muttering “Proving you’re not afraid of what’s underneath, eh, Jimmy?”

He remembers Wilson answering, “Proving there’s a reason to keep it hidden,” as he pushed him onto the bed, the bed where House now lies, watching Wilson watching him.

Wilson is stood at the foot of the bed, staring down coolly while House tries to stop his chest heaving. There’s something in his friend’s stare that tells him not to move. Wilson is removing his clothes like there’s no one watching; he sheds his shirt and pants with grace, and House nearly laughs when he breaks it all to bend down and take his socks off. Nearly. Wilson stands up again and meets House’s eyes. As much as House would like to watch as Wilson hooks his thumb under the elastic of his boxers and pushes them past his hips to fall to the ground, the eye contact is a like a challenge and he can’t break away. Not as Wilson crawls on his hands and knees from the foot of the bed to where House is sprawled, and not as he slowly removes everything House is wearing. A sigh of relief drops from House’s lips as Wilson’s eyes slide closed and he kisses him softly.

There’s a faint smile on Wilson’s face as he pulls back, just tugging at the corners of his lips. He runs his hands up House’s chest, dragging his nails across the skin and feeling each indentation between his rib bones. He holds tightly onto House’s shoulders and pushes him against the mattress, not allowing any movement, and he swings his leg over House’s waist so he’s on his knees, with only inches to lower for their cocks to come into contact.

Wilson leans down and kisses House again, not softly but not as fiercely as it first was either. Now it’s like he’s taking possession, nipping at his lips and breathing his breath as if they were his own, as if they were purely there for his pleasure.

A glimpse of the Wilson that is presented to the world can be seen as he shifts his legs to make sure there’s no pressure on House’s damaged thigh, before he slides his tongue along House’s jaw and down his neck to the sensitive hollow created by his collarbone. He sucks on that spot so the skin pulls up into his mouth and he can bite it, making House hiss through his teeth. Wilson’s hands stay on his shoulders, a constant pressure, as his tongue and teeth play over his upper body, and all House can do in response to the sensations is arch his back and buck his hips to try and make some of the friction he is craving. Wilson is still up on his knees, holding himself out of reach.

House moans as Wilson’s tongue swirls around his nipple and Wilson pulls back to look down at House, making him squirm for a few seconds beneath his gaze before his twists House’s shoulders, forcing him to turn over. He plants a kiss on the back of House’s neck, scraping lightly with his teeth then following with his tongue, before getting off of the bed. House rolls his now free shoulders to release the tension that built up in them and listens as Wilson rummages through his bathroom cabinet, dropping things with a clatter into the sink. When he walks back in he throws the lotion onto the bed, and House bites back a comment that having a tube of KY would make him look straighter than unscented hand lotion for sensitive skin.

Wilson opens the top drawer of his bedside cabinet and pulls out a condom. The bed sinks and shifts, indicating Wilson has resumed his position behind House and House can feel his breathing quickening again. He sees Wilson’s hand out of the corner of his eye grabbing the lotion and hears the tearing of the condom packet. There’s a soft sound like the end of a kiss as Wilson slicks his cock.

He leans down and kisses the small of House’s back and runs his tongue up along his spine, supporting himself with his left hand while his right plays around House’s opening. Never pushing into him, Wilson teases him enough to make him raise his hips and a whimper escapes from his lips. He kisses again at House’s neck then grabs his waist and pulls him up onto his knees, digging in his fingernails and rubbing his thumb back and forth over the hip bone.

“I didn’t think you’d be the kind to wait through a lot of prep,” Wilson whispers in his ear, his thumb still gliding back and forth over his hipbone. “Tell me what you want me to do. Tell me to fuck you.”

To House’s ears, the words fall between commanding and pleading. He’s happy to play the game. “Fuck me.”

“Tell me you need me.”

House doesn’t know if he hears or imagines his voice cracking on the last words, but Wilson sinks his teeth into his shoulder and all thought flies from his mind. “Oh god, I need you.”

Wilson thrusts into him, making him groan aloud in pain. His muscles aren’t given a chance to relax, Wilson continues to thrust, rolling his hips and pulling House back against him. The pleasure as each stroke hits his prostate is a sharp contrast to the pain of movement, every motion is spliced with a jolt of ecstasy.

The ache fades away completely when Wilson reaches around and grabs House’s cock. Murmuring House’s name over and over between harsh gasps of air, he strokes quickly with a tight grip. House bucks his hips in time with Wilson’s thrusts until they become erratic, both men losing control as they reach the brink of orgasm. Wilson comes first, shuddering and whispering “Oh god” into House’s ear. House follows with two more frantic strokes to his cock, a guttural moan tearing from the back of his throat.

When Wilson slides out, they roll apart, panting on opposite sides of the bed as their sweat dries.

“Y’know, I don’t think you quite understood my point,” House says, slipping under the covers.

“Did you understand mine?”

“Not at all.” House turns over and says, “Turn out the light.”

Casting bleak illumination over the room, light from a street lamp creeps under the curtains. Wilson falls asleep looking at his shirt and tie in a crumpled heap on the floor.

Fic: Solace

Wed, 21 Jun 2006 20:14:23 GMT

Title: Solace [1-5/?]
Author: kiwi_from_hell
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I wish.
Pairing: House/Wilson
Summary: Life was a stumble to begin with, so how can you even move when the only thing you care about is gone?
Warnings: Major character death.
Notes: It's been an awfully long time since I updated this story, sorry, but it's one of those things I can only write when I'm in the mindset. Behind the cut are chapters one to five, five being the new addition of course.

~One~

Wilson looked pale, almost milk white. Tiny blue lines criss-crossed beneath his skin. The long dark eyelashes seemed deepest black, like negative space resting upon his cheekbones. His neck curved gracefully and a faint shadow was cast in the hollows created by his collarbone. James looked ethereal. The image would be the most beautiful House had seen, were it not for the blue tint of his soft lips and the fine pink scars standing out vividly in the morgue lights.

His left hand rested on cold steel and his right felt like it was the same, only this cold steel used to have a name. The pulsing light that House had seen within him was gone now. The switch had been flicked off by broken glass and twisted metal, by a man fiddling with his car radio instead of watching the road. Swerving, screeching, shattering and the only thing in House’s world was gone. Synapses had been cut off, neurones had stopped firing, blood no longer pulsed and James Wilson’s eyes stopped dancing, his lips could no longer quirk into a devilish smile and his nose would not crinkle with laughter.

Greg’s eyes stopped dancing when Wilson’s did. He could not smile, he could not laugh, all he was capable of was sitting with his hand on the corpse of his friend, tears falling unnoticed, praying to a god he had long ago stopped believing in for a miracle. House could not understand why he was here. Wilson was gone, over, ended. There was no spark anymore; his body was just one more object, inanimate and room temperature. It lost meaning; everything had lost meaning. An image filled House’s mind, washing across his eyes, of Wilson’s body in the ground surrounded by the constant force of earth on all sides. He imagined the slow decay of his friend’s body, skin and muscle fading to bone then dust. Light faded to dark, Wilson faded to nothing and House went with him.

Greg faced blankness. A day in day out routine of empty space around him and within him, months of ordering twice the Chinese takeout he needed and his birthday without the offhand acknowledgement. He faced the day when he would wake up unable to recall the way Jimmy looked when his face creased with laughter, and finally the day he couldn’t even remember this, the final presentation of his friend’s form, cold and broken.

House’s hand rested on Wilson’s chest, trying to remedy the cold that had engulfed the body, trying to give the corpse some semblance of life. All he could feel was a tingling chill spiking through his fingers, spreading numbness over him.

Life invaded the room and it told House he had to leave, told him to take time off work and gently laid a hand on his shoulder. “Greg, they need the…for the funeral…” Cuddy’s breath hitched and she gently squeezed House’s shoulder. Her heels clicked on the hard floor as she left House alone again.

Tremors wracked his body unheeded when he stood, removing his hand from the…object on the cold metal table. He leant over the corpse and pressed his lips to its brow. Greg pulled back and looked at the forever closed eyelids. He limped out of the room, leaving his tears glistening on the face that had once belonged to James Wilson.

House sat in his office and watched the ducklings talk quietly. Chase had turned away from the others twice now, briskly wiping his eyes. He had grabbed Cameron’s arm and pulled her back when she started towards the office, for which House was grateful. He wearily ran his hand across his face, only vaguely aware that it came away wet. The doctor struggled to his feet and pulled open his office door. “Go home.”

House settled back in his chair and called his own home, dialling into the answering machine. The messages were still there.

“House, you’re needed at the hospital.” The first of the messages, from Cuddy as they all were. She sounded choked. Her voice was weak and thick from crying. House couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed it; he had ignored her.

“House, are you there? You have to come to the hospital.” This was message two, also ignored while House sat at the piano, picking out a tune and watching Wilson’s Chinese go cold.

“Greg, get to the fucking hospital now.” On the final message her sob sounded clearly. “It’s Wilson.”

When he arrived at the hospital, two hours and thirty eight minutes after the first phone call, Cuddy had led him to the morgue. He could tell now from these messages, from the different levels of pain permeating them, that if he had been there sooner he could have spoken to the only person he believed in one last time, and held his hand while it was still warm. He could have told him all the things he was grateful for and he could have said everything he never even realised needed to be said. Wilson could have forgiven him for not saying all the things he wanted to say sooner.

“House, you’re needed at the hospital”
“House, are you there? You have to come to the hospital.”
“Greg, get to the fucking hospital now. It’s Wilson.”
Two hours and Thirty eight minutes.
“House, you’re needed…”
“House, are you there…”
“It’s Wilson.”
It’s Wilson. It used to be Wilson. It’s nothing.

House hurled the lacrosse ball across the room, throwing it hard against the window. The pane shuddered with impact, but didn’t even crack. He released a long, faltering breath. Leaving his cane discarded on the floor House limped out onto the balcony that joined with what had once been Wilson’s office. He leant on the railings, head pressed against the same hard surface his hands were, eyes closed. He listened closely, letting all the sound of the surrounding world seep into him. The main road sounded like dull, relentless thunder, a background for all other noises. The everyday world continued around him. Nothing would stop because one man died. The sun was even shining today, blistering cold daylight illuminating everything in the same harsh glare as the morgue lights. House scratched his fingernail over the railing, chips breaking off the rough surface and scraping the sensitive skin of his fingertips. He jumped and turned at an imagined sound behind him, expecting Wilson to walk out onto the balcony and join him. The door to Wilson’s office remained shut, and the blinds were pulled closed. Sunlight reflected off the glass, temporarily blinding House. He squinted into the brightness, then turned in a circle, taking in the way everything looked out here, covered with blotches of purple and blue as an after effect of staring into the light.

House blinked. He was at his front door. He could not remember leaving the hospital, or driving home, or even taking the elevator up to his floor. The collar of his shirt had started to chafe at his neck, sticking to skin that was damp with tears. The corners of his eyes hurt; the effort to keep them open was more than he wanted to give. When he blinked his eyes resisted reopening, just faintly; salt stuck the lashes together. He fumbled in his pocket for his keys, finding a peanut and a few cents worth of change in the process. House held all three in his fist, then uncurled his hand slowly and focused his eyes on the objects flat on his palm. He counted the change, then lifted his opposite hand and flicked the peanut away. The change was placed back in his pocket. He slid the key into the lock, the scraping noise clear inside his head. He turned the key rotating his entire hand, instead of grasping it between thumb and forefinger.

Windows were open in his apartment, curtains pulled back. Brash light shone into the room, illuminating the dust motes floating through the air. House reached out his hand and tried to catch them as he had done as a child. Everything was how he had left it. His half eaten takeout sat on the piano; Wilson’s was untouched on the coffee table along with a bottle of warm beer. House’s jacket was tossed over the edge of the couch; he had not stopped to put it on when he rushed out last night. Two DVD rentals were on top of the TV set, both unwatched. House flicked the light switch on and off, on and off, on and off, until the bulb broke with a dull bang.

Greg dropped onto the centre cushion of the couch, leaving his cane to clatter to the floor. He popped open the beer that was sitting on the coffee table with his thumb and pulled back the lid flaps of the carton containing cold chicken lo mein. Using one chop stick he speared a piece of meat. The dry chicken broke down to paste on his tongue and small lumps of congealed sauce caught on the roof of his mouth. The food slid slowly down his throat, bite after bite settling heavily in his stomach. House pushed the carton away onto the floor, scattering the few remaining scraps. He left the remnants there sinking into the thick carpet pile to stain.

House tipped his head back, closing his eyes. Food churned in his stomach and he felt a lump in his throat, acid on his tongue. His diaphragm heaved in warning, and he covered his mouth, blindly staggering for the bathroom. Another jerk from his diaphragm threw his balance and sent him to his knees in front of the toilet. His knuckles turned white gripping the side of the bowl as food crawled slowly, painfully up his oesophagus. Acid stung on the back of his throat and tears stung his eyes. A furry taste already settling in his mouth, House leant against the cold tiled wall, softly banging the back of his head in repetitious motion, letting the rhythm remove all thoughts from his mind.

~Two~

House could see most of Princeton from up here. Orange lights, magnified by toxic fumes, formed hundreds of points in the darkness. The drone of the traffic rose up, making a white noise background for House’s thoughts. Lights swung around the corner, casting illumination on the flowers adorning the tarmac, before flitting away again. House sat on the cold ground, dampness seeping through the seat of his pants. His good leg was drawn up to his chest, and he wrapped his arms around it, resting his chin on his knee. Wearing only jeans and a monster truck t-shirt, he shivered from cold. Always staring out over the city, he kept in his periphery vision the flowers that had been laid.

This was the first time he had been up here. He did not bring flowers. He hadn’t even looked directly at the flowers yet, but he held in his hand a twisted piece of metal that had been at the side of the road. House pulled it back and forth in his hands, the rough edges burning his skin. The grass a few feet away was scorched. It had turned brown, the exact shade of his hair and eyes. Dark red paint had scraped itself onto a tree. Dark red blood stained the ground; it stained and tinted everything till all colours blurred into one. Everything looked the same but it all felt red.

House dug his fingernail into the soft, damp earth beside him; the mud and grit clotted beneath his nail. His finger scrapped over a stone and his nail snapped down to the quick. In an absent attempt to take the edge off the stinging, he placed his finger in his mouth and sucked, the taste of salty skin and acrid dirt staining his tongue.

“What’s the differential for chronic headaches, localized paralysis, anaemia and low bloody sugar that’s not responding to glucose or insulin? Cameron thought Lupus, big surprise.” House paused, cocking his head to hear an invisible sound. “Foreman took the neurological route, a tumour messing with things in his head but the MRI didn’t show up more than a spot – probably anomalous.” He nodded slowly. “There were a few psych symptoms, nothing interesting though.” Sighing, House continued, “I can’t remember the last time I saw a good bit of plague.”

House tossed a stone between his hands, back and forth, back and forth, just like he had done so often with a lacrosse ball. The stone beat rhythmically on his palms and the feeling took on familiarity; it became another part of the constant sensory bombardment that he was steadily learning to filter out.

“Can you believe Julie was laughing at your parents’ house, while they were Sitting Shiva? She cried at the ceremony but…well you know I never liked her. I wasn’t surprised in the slightest that you cheated on this one – well, I wouldn’t have been surprised anyway, but you didn’t even try this time. I always wondered if you got the third wedding free, but I thought it would be a bit tactless to ask. Yes, I do have tact. Anyway, it wouldn’t have been any fun if I couldn’t say it in front of Julie, and after The Jennifer Incident you didn’t let me near your wives for any reasonable amount of time.” House laughed. “Do you remember the look on Jennifer’s face when I told her you had fishnets and a little black dress for the special parties? Actually, it’s a pity you couldn’t see the look on your own face, that one was a classic – especially when she found the dress.”

House drew back his right arm and paused for a moment before throwing the stone over the grassy bank with a flick of his wrist. He listened to it tumble and thud dully down until it came to a stop with a sharp clack against another rock. “Cuddy found a replacement. I was a little surprised she found one so soon, but I guess everyone wants to head a department. I don’t quite see why anyone would want to head oncology – spend all day telling people that they’re going to die and there’s nothing you can do about it. I don’t know how you managed it for so long; that’s one of the many confusing things about you, James. How could you spend everyday so…helpless, like that? You couldn’t fix them. You didn’t pretend that you could.” Sudden parallels struck House as he realised what he was saying. “I better not have been just one more pet project for you, just another needy person scoring points on your twisted self-worth meter.”

“This guy, the replacement, is starting next week. Your office hasn’t even been cleaned out yet. I don’t think Julie’s going to come in to do it, that would be far too much trouble, so I suppose I have to. Or else Dr Hamster – oh yeah, this guy really does look like a rodent. It’s uncanny. I bet him and Steve will get along well – he’ll have to clear out your office himself, probably throw everything in the trash. So that leaves it up to me. I hope you appreciate it; it’s a lot of work for someone with a bum leg.”

Tears had begun to flow unnoticed down House’s cheeks. He continued speaking as normal, “Delivery fucked up with my Vicodin again today. I was 4 hours without any pain control at all.” House didn’t say that the delivery had only been half an hour late, but he had waited longer before taking them because he had started to feel something. The throbbing pain in his leg anchored him to the real world for a few hours. It wasn’t something he planned to do again. “I…uh, in General Hospital, it turns out Lucy did kill him. Told you so, didn’t I?”

A biting wind had started battering against House, pulling his T-shirt tight to his body and skimming through the fabric to assault his skin. He slowly levered himself up from the ground, a process taking several minutes, and leaned heavily on his cane as he started the walk back to his Corvette. He looked at the ground as he walked, following the edge of the sidewalk, and found himself looking down at the flowers that had been laid for Wilson, strewn about by the wind. He lifted his head and looked at the points of light in the city once more.

“I shouldn’t have bugged you to come over. I knew it would cause an argument with Julie…that’s partly why I did it. But I had stuff I wanted to talk to you about; it’s not important now. Julie said that she was screaming at you as you left the house that night, you must have been upset, not paying attention as you drove. And all because I asked you to come over. Then Cuddy kept calling, telling me to come to the hospital and I didn’t because I was waiting for you. I couldn’t work out why you were so late, I never thought…I was cursing you in my head for being so late.”

“Cuddy took me straight down to the morgue when I finally got to the hospital. Too late, as I always was with you.”

House ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “I miss you, Jimmy.”

~Three~

Soft lips whispered against House’s ear as he sat at the piano, hands flowing over the keys and throwing out the sounds of a guitar, eyes fixed on the condensation pouring down a glass of scotch. He felt warm, chocolate brown eyes stroking the back of his neck. “It goes like this,” silken words echoed in his mind. “The 4th, the 5th, the minor fall and the major lift.”

“Hey, stranger.” House mumbled over the music soaking into him. “Past, present or future?”

“Past.”

“Did God tell you that I had to change my ways or go to hell? ‘Cus I don’t believe a word of it; that guy’s always had it in for me.”

“Since when did you believe in him?”

Eyes always fixed on the glass, on the tracks of water and the melting ice diluting amber liquid. “I don’t believe in anything. You’re nothing but worms and meat.”

“But I’m still here.” The words were tempting, caressing.

“I wish you would go. Leave me be.”

House was alone in the dark. One room, one dark room and he knew there was a door somewhere but it was too noisy. If the music would just stop, if the drumming and strumming would leave and the piano would be silenced, he might be able to remember where it was. He might be able to hear the voice telling him how to get out. Light flashed and in a brief moment that lasted forever House saw the door to his right, Wilson holding his cane to the left and Vogler behind the glass holding a clipboard. Then dark again and the music stopped. His ears ached in the silence, buzzing, ringing. Breathing echoed around him; his breath and Wilson’s mingling into a sound more deafening than the music.

House was sat on his couch with Chinese takeout in his hand. A man whose hair smelled of coconut walked in and handed him a beer. They laughed and talked and smiled and learnt everything they had to know and House could not hear a word of it. Breath still stung in his ears and drowned out the rest of the world. He felt the vibrations of his own voice deep in his throat as he spoke but couldn’t process what he was saying. A carton of takeout fell to the floor, the remnants sinking into the thick carpet pile. House left it to stain.

Coconut filled his nostrils as the couch dipped beside him. Warmth radiated from the body next to him. Breathing stopped, his own chest was still and so was Wilson’s. The chocolate brown eyes glazed and did not move, the skin turned dull and grey and House felt the warmth drain away from him far too soon.

Icy air tingled over House’s skin when the blue lips moved. “I’ve seen your flag on the marble arch.”

“You never saw anything.” House couldn’t feel the vibrations anymore.

“I saw you.”

“Lies. Everybody lies; you’re just one more body.” House felt cold hands close over his face and darkness consumed him again, all the more terrifying when it was accompanied by silence. “The world still moves without you.”

“You don’t.”

House was lying in a hospital bed wearing a gown, with an IV hooked up to his right wrist and blood draining from his left. A green tie hung where his chart should be. A man sat beside him, nose crinkled from a smile that had spread across his perfect features. The man spoke with relief in his voice, “You woke up.”

“You didn’t.” House replied.

“I’m not sleeping. She left you a gift.”

“I’ve seen this room before.”

“You work here. Today you get to be the puzzle.”

“Think you can solve me?”

Wilson laughed. “If I can’t, I’ll die trying.”

House stood shivering on the balcony that joined their offices. It was night and the stars were shining but the moon was no where to be seen. He stood close to James, looking directly at him, taking in the image of his face, his body, his life.
James cast his eyes down with something like regret. “Remember when I moved in you?”

“Never happened.” House shook his head.

“You’ve thought about it. You’ve dreamt of me before.”

“Dreams don’t mean what they say.”

“When you kissed me and touched me, came for me and made me come for you, held me and whispered that you loved me, when you woke up with wet sheets, what did those dreams mean?” Wilson leant in close, they were brow to brow and cobalt blue eyes locked with chocolate brown ones.

“Probably just some sort of issues with my parents.”

So close to him, Wilson laughed.

“You know what? You left. You don’t get answers anymore.”

““Anymore?” When did I get them before?”

“You never asked before.” House retorted. He found himself where he had began, back to square one with lips whispering against his ear and a glass of scotch the only thing in his line of sight. The ice had melted now, amber liquid sat warm and dilute in a dry glass.

“The 4th, the 5th, the minor fall and the major lift.”

“Shhh.” House played piano. He felt warm lips pressed to the back of his neck, a tongue firmly working away the knots in his muscles. Guiding hands coaxed him away from the piano and lead him to the bedroom, supporting him but never allowing him to turn around and see the face. Coconut and bitter, dark chocolate engulfed him.

Red and black. Crimson. Sheets and sodium light. Slick, sweat, friction. Burning. Pulsing. Throbbing, pounding rhythm. Writhing. Sheets; bitter, binding, torn. Electrical shocks. Cobalt. Chocolate. Luminosity. Salt skin. Silk. Force and pressure and penetration. Hollow. Clutching, craving. Tangled. Saturated. Bucking. Arching. Cold and broken release.

~Four~

House woke abruptly from his dream, cold sweat coursing down his back, running over and between his shoulder blades, making him shiver. First light was beginning to seep through the curtains, casting faint lines and deep shadows. He could still taste the dream in his mouth. Shivering, he pulled the covers tight around himself, sitting and staring at the wall until he began to feel warm and the damp sheet started to chafe. Birds twittered outside his window, making meaningless, tuneless sounds.

House rose, and crossed to the window. Pulling back the curtains, he looked out upon a clear, cold day. He opened the window a crack, wincing at the heightened noise, and put his face close to the frame, letting the biting air revive him. The memories of things that never happened in reality were burned onto his mind. Every time he blinked images appeared in negative behind his eyelids. He got frustrated trying to pin point them. When he tried to think back to the dream, to revisit that place, shivers ran up his spine and blood pulsed in his cock, but all he saw was a swirl of skin and heat, all wrapped up in red.

Staring blindly out of the window, House ran one hand down over his chest, feeling the ridges of his ribs with his forefinger and pressing into the soft flesh below his diaphragm. He continued sliding his hand down, hooked a thumb around the waist band of his boxers, and pulled, shedding his last remaining item of clothing. Eyes closed, he tipped his head back as he began slowly trailing his fingers back and forth over his hardening cock. Pumping at an achingly slow speed, House filtered out the sounds of real life that had been constantly pounding at him, splintering his skull and penetrating his mind since…since then. He blocked it out, and rubbing his thumb over the head of his penis, found clearer moments of the dream returning to him. He could feel Wilson’s mouth, warm and wet, wrapped around him. The sensation was as strong as if he was really there, and House’s hips thrust. His back arched and he imagined James entering him, full and hard, moving inside him. House moved his hand faster. He could feel James gripping his hips, holding on as he thrust deeper, harder, sucking on the back of his neck as he slid in further with each buck of his hips. Burning spread over him. House tightened his fist and flicked his wrist faster until he came with a harsh groan echoing from the back of his throat.

House could still smell the semen on his hands as he walked through clinic and onwards to his office. As had become routine now, he did not speak to Cameron, Chase or Foreman, only sat in his office all day reviewing charts and writing instructions on them for the ducklings to pick up later. A scan crossed his desk and immediately he saw cancer present. He stuck a purple sticker on the file and threw it to the other side of the room. Swinging his chair around, House looked out onto the balcony and tossed the lacrosse ball against the glass, catching it on rebound. Continuing the game with one hand, he flicked the dial of his iPod, and music blared from speakers, filling the office with noise. Heavy rhythm made the floor shake, vibrations travelling through House and shaking inside his chest.

Foreman brought him coffee in a red mug at 11 o’clock. He took it from him with a grunt of thanks and poured the dark bitter liquid into his mouth, gulping it down and scolding his throat. The hot drink made the insides of his mouth tingle, the soft skin of his cheeks protesting at the heat. He could still sense someone in the room but did not turn around. He tried to do nothing that would invite conversation, only stare at the balcony and wait to be left alone once more.

Foreman coughed. “You should take some leave.”

“I don’t recall asking for your opinion.”

“So you plan to sit in this office and sign off on boring cases for the rest of your life?”

“It beats sitting at home thinking.”

“How?”

House didn’t answer. He just looked blankly out of the glass doors.

“You can’t do your job like this.”

House pointed over his shoulder to the stack of charts.

“He wouldn’t want you to be like this.”

House laughed bitterly. “True. But then he probably didn’t want to die, either.”

“Cuddy said the new guy starts tomorrow. If you want to clean out his office…” Foreman sighed. House faintly heard him say to the others “I tried,” as he walked into the outer office.

House bounced the ball against the glass one last time, before taking a small key from his desk drawer and venturing out onto the balcony. Cold air hit him full in the face, shaking him to the bone with vibrations stronger than the music had been. He bathed in it, in the intense feeling and spreading numbness.

Wilson’s office had acquired a musty scent over the days it stood empty. A photo of Julie sat on the desk, turned face down. House hadn’t known things had gotten to that point in his marriage. There was a stained coffee cup to the right of it. Nobody had been in here except to remove case files. A chewed up biro had leaked, leaving a dark blue stain on the wood. There was a thank you card on display in an open cabinet on the back wall. House did not need to open it to know it was from a little girl who had just gone into remission. Wilson had told him about it at lunch, joking that getting a card should be worth at least $50. House had seen that beyond the humour, Wilson was truly happy about it. It was the only time he had really understood why James had chosen to work in oncology.

Steadily, House filled boxes with James’ things, some destined for the trash, some to be sent to Julie if she would take them, and a few things House wanted to keep for himself. The thank you card, the chewed biro, a board meeting memo and the pocket protector from his lab coat. He sifted through paperwork in the drawers, trying to find what was important and needed to be dealt with and what was irrelevant. In his outbox for internal mail there was an envelope marked “House”. Greg ripped it open, and tipped the contents onto the now empty desk.
Two monster truck rally tickets and a note looked up at him.

If we do this, we could die. I’d be willing to risk it with you.
Oh, and I guarantee I’ll be more fun than Cameron.

House smiled. James had always loved dramatics, and he must have been relishing seeing House burst into his office, flapping tickets in the air. He settled in James’ chair and read the note over, turning the tickets between his fingers on the other hand. For the first time, House could feel himself crying.

~Five~

Smudges of ink from a blue biro stained House’s left palm and index finger, as well as a chewed nail. He wound the pen around his fingers, watching the shattered end circling, rising and falling in its path around his digits. The tendon linked to his pinky stiffened and he lost the rhythm, his fingers tripping, the pen clattering and bouncing onto the table top, scratching a blue line onto the soft, pale pink material of the top right corner of a thank you card.

House leant his head back, closing his eyes and breathing deeply, feeling Wilson pricking at the edges of his consciousness. The scent of beer and Chinese food suffused his nostrils and the good memories that had been plaguing him forced entry again. A warm, rich world blurred with the lines of this one, then sharpened as it drove deeper. He had eaten nothing but Chinese takeout for days, always ordering enough for two though he struggled to eat enough for one. He struggled to eat at all. Nothing in the world had texture or taste anymore. It all turned to ashes.

His leg was cramped. Bolts of pain exploded from random points every few minutes, sending his hand flying down to suppress the feeling. He would grit his teeth against the pain, breathing so hard his chest hurt. He was trembling; he didn’t think he’d be able to stand up. When he shifted his body weight forward, starting to transfer the balance to his feet, another jolt of searing pain hit him, sending shards spiralling through his chest. The Vicodin bottle in his shirt pocket had no rattle, all the pills were gone. House hadn’t bothered to do this math – he used more than he should, he’d lost count of how many over the last 24 hours. His mind checked that the bottle had been close to empty before anyway, he hadn’t taken enough to do any damage, though he didn’t think it would have bothered him if he had. There was another bottle sitting on his kitchen counter.

To get to the kitchen counter, he would have to stand up. He would have to make it past the blinding ache, the knives under his feet. But he knew he didn’t have to a choice. Tonight, House had to go out.

Jacket on, fresh pills taken and more stashed in his pocket, sneakers on and cane in hand, House leant his head to the cool wood of his front door. He squinted through the peephole and watched the building’s entrance hall. The refracted light twisted the image, distorting the view. It made the way out seem tiny.

~

Screaming and shouting and cheering filled the air around House. The hard plastic seat dug into his back, making the base of his spine ache with a dull, warm pain that spread steadily with the passing time. He pressed the heel of his hand down sharply on this damaged thigh, closing his eyes to allow the familiar sting to wash over him. He took pleasure in knowing that for the most part, he could hide the severity of his pain. His cane leant against the empty seat beside him. Two tickets were in his hand, one a torn off stub and the other whole and unused.

A brief breeze whipped through the stadium and tugged at the tickets in his hand. Below him, House saw cars being crushed. Metal screeched and glass shattered. His head started to spin. Mud was thrown up from the ground to splatter the sides of vehicles and tyres span in the dirt. Loud music blasted from speakers, accompanied by wrestling-style commentary. Intricate, elaborate displays ended with trucks crunching over cars or spinning them to the side of the arena.

House snapped his head sideways, convinced he had glimpsed something, someone, in the corner of his eye. The seat remained empty. Always empty. If Wilson had been there…snippets of old conversations played through House’s head. What if Wilson had come the first time, instead of having dinner with Stacy? One extra evening together, one more round of banter, one more night of bliss, probably followed by one more morning of soul searching. Maybe one more drunken event never again mentioned, that may or may not have happened. The most vivid memory House had of his whole life was alcohol being sucked off his fingers by Wilson, and he wasn’t even sure if it had happened.

Pressure was building on his shoulders. Everywhere House turned, he felt people, so many people, closing him in, denying him peace. The cheering, the crunching and keening of metal, it all invaded his breathing space. Instinctively he tried to pull his body inwards, to take up less space and put some air between him and the rest of the world.

He stood, leaving his jacket thrown over his seat, and began to push his way past the people sat in his row. He smacked at their feet with his cane, mumbling for them to move, to let him out and studiously avoiding anybodies’ eyes.

When he got home, the first thing House did was pull a bottle of scotch from his drinks cabinet.

House immediately noticed when he woke up the metallic tang in his mouth. Glass was crushed below his hand, one shard still stuck into the heel of his palm. He looked at the skin surrounding the fragment, perfectly sliced, with blood congealed and clotting around its edges. He pulled the shard free and the blood flow began again. It was deeper than he had expected. House levered himself into a sitting position and realised he had been lying on his living room floor. A small pool of blood stained the carpet, and he felt it crusting his face as well. A broken glass was scattered over the floor, responsible for the cuts on his hand and arm, and a scotch bottle lay horizontal on his coffee table, more than half of its contents poured out.

His cane was leaning against the mantle, on the other side of the room.

House grimaced as he wrapped a bandage around his hand, and whispered into his empty apartment, “The broken cannot be repaired, the dead cannot be raised and there’s no fucking point in any of it.”

Fic: Betrayed with a Kiss

Tue, 20 Jun 2006 02:02:19 GMT

Title: Betrayed with a Kiss
Author: kiwi_from_hell
Rating: Pg-13
Pairing: Jesus/Judas (No, I'm not joking.)
Summary: The last supper, his last night of freedom, and though he knows he's going to a better place, fear makes everything give way to feelings.
Warnings: This is Jesus/Judas slash. I understand some people will not like this, hence the warnings. You do not have to open this fic, and trust me, it's the least of the things I will be burning in hell for, so don't waste time with concern over my soul. This is biblical slash, people, and while I recognise you have every right to disagree with it, I also have every right to write it.
A/N: Did I mention - Jesus/Judas, bible fanfiction, contains slash. I just want us all to be clear on that. This is an idea I've had in my head for a while now, and tonight, feeling more than a little stressed about the conditions of society and it's view of homosexuality, a view which has been enforced by religion for years, I felt compelled to get it set down on paper. Those who venture past the LJ cut - I hope you like it!

Damn those were a lot of warnings...

Lord.

The word rolls about in his mind, just as it always has done, which ever mouth it comes from. Tonight, it comes from the mouth he would hate if he could hate, the mouth he would love if he were allowed to admit that love was more than the goodness he preached. Love is everything, every feeling and emotion curled into a writhing mess inside your soul and that is the everything he feels as he hears that word, from that mouth.

Lord.

His head snaps around and he blinks quickly, realising he has been lost in solitary thought. Judas is standing before him, gazing down solemnly, twisting his hands together in front of his chest. The sounds from the main room are echoing and filling the background in this, the smaller room where food is prepared. He’s out here because the glances and words of comfort and praise from his followers have become too much, and he doesn’t know why Judas has followed him.

“Lord.”

Judas is stood close, so close and he’s pretending he doesn’t notice; he’s pretending that it being his last night of freedom doesn’t change anything, and he can’t let go of everything he’s been told his father believes, though all his father has ever told him is to love. It's never been love like this. He swallows hard and forces those thoughts to the back of his mind. “Yes?”

“I’m not going to betray you.” Judas cannot meet his eyes, but he steps forward and lays a hand on his arm.

“I’m sorry,” he can’t say how truly sorry, he’s a master of words but nothing quite covers this, “but you are.”

Judas is a step closer to him now, so there is no space between them. But for the thin fabric, their skin would be touching. A few measures shorter than him, Judas’ breath is hot and moist on his neck, and though he knows soon he will be in a better place, the fear is pounding within him until all he can do is feel. All focus is on the hot, moist spot of his neck, inches away from his follower’s mouth.

“No,” and it’s the first time Judas has openly defied him. He’s never had call to before. Judas’ breathing quickens, he feels his heart beating faster and faster, the pressure building until it’s a sickly sensation in his stomach and he’s all too aware that he’s only human; he reacts like a man.

“You will.”

At first it isn’t a kiss, it’s just their lips pressed together in a comfort act. He almost pulls back, but instead finds his hands twisting the material of Judas’ tunic, clenching his fists so tightly his fingernails dig into his skin, and pulling the other warm body close. All the sounds fade and neither can hear the men talking quietly in the next room, the world falls away to nothing but the feeling of their lips pressed together, their saliva mingling and breath and blood resonating loud in their ears.

In the second they pull apart, they both know how this is going to finish. It’s the beginning of the end, and the beauty of a moment ago will descend into betrayal.

Drabble: Physicality

Thu, 15 Jun 2006 15:27:50 GMT

Title: Physicality
Author: kiwi_from_hell
Rating: PG
Pairing: House/Wilson
Disclaimer: I wish.
Words: 100
Summary: Don't think in words. "No Reason" spoilers.
Notes: Another drabble, because I can't seem to find the energy to commit to anything longer, and I'm trying to increase my precision with language.

He’s right. He wasn’t real, he was a dream, but he was right. Wilson’s words were right, and it’s the defining thought of everything between them.

House doesn’t like defining words. He doesn’t like “friends” or “love” or even “close”, but he can deal with a defining thought. It doesn’t have assumptions included. It’s just a sense.

They defy the labels, every one of them, falling into bed together on cold nights. It’s meaningless, but it happens. They’re not friends. House can’t be a lover.

The physicality is gone but the words are gone too now, transcended by a sense.

Drabble: Beautiful

Wed, 14 Jun 2006 16:22:28 GMT

Title: Beautiful
Author: kiwi_from_hell
Rating: G
Pairing: House/Wilson
Disclaimer: I wish.
Words: 100
Summary: It's just a smile.

No one else understands what’s in that smile, he thinks. Beautiful is the only word for it, and he mentally chides himself for being so stupid, so sentimental. He can almost feel himself turning into one of those fools who believe fate and destiny will make everything ok.

Beautiful is the only word he can think of though, the only way to describe the tiny moment as Wilson’s lips quirk upwards, the moment when it’s a genuine spark and the emotion is pure.

House thinks, just in those tiny moments, the world could be beautiful, if everyone understood that smile.

Drabble: Sanctity

Wed, 14 Jun 2006 15:26:08 GMT

Title: Sanctity
Author: kiwi_from_hell
Rating: G
Pairing: House/Wilson
Disclaimer: I wish.
Words: 100
Summary: My first drabble. Dying is like a step further than alcohol, your inhibitions become stripped of all meaning.

Stacy has never told anyone what House said when he was dying; she doesn’t think he remembers, she doesn’t think anyone else heard.

She doesn’t know he voiced the sentiment twice, using different words for different people, but with the same look upon his face, the same weighted meaning sitting uncomfortably behind his eyes, like it wasn’t used to being known.

Wilson’s never told anyone what House said when he was dying; he knows House remembers, but he’s content with the dying moment. It has sanctity. He is preserving it, keeping the desperate pits of House’s soul from being tarnished.

Attrition

Tue, 13 Jun 2006 20:03:02 GMT

Title: Attrition
Author: kiwi_from_hell
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: PG-13/R
Summary: You think that from the moment you take that final step, the moment you get there, the rest of the world is going to be perfect. You don't expect a date to come with recovery time.
Disclaimer: House MD, its characters and settings are not owned by me.
Warnings: Strong themes of violence and homophobia.
Notes: Currently to be read like a oneshot, but I may continue it at some point. Feeback is treasured. This is another one of those it took forever to write because I could never decide on what I was doing.

Attrition

Wilson glanced nervously across the bar. It was rougher than the places he and House tended to frequent, and in a place that seemed to be filled with regulars, they stood out like sore thumbs. Low lights and sticky tables were nothing new, they were almost a requirement in most of House’s favourite places, but periodic rising of voices from the clientele coupled with what Wilson was sure were blood stains on the carpet set this place apart. Not to mention, every single person in the bar had turned to look at them with a sneer as they entered.

A night out drinking had led them here but neither had the energy to be downing shots anymore; if they had, perhaps the venomous looks in their direction and the rotten stench of stale beer would be less offensive. House remained intentionally oblivious and continued fondling Wilson’s leg under the table. Wilson was between enjoying it for a few more minutes, or letting House know they needed to leave.

He picked secret option number three; probably not the brightest move but his bladder insisted he took it. Slipping out of the booth, he informed House he was going to the bathroom and gave his hand a quick, reassuring squeeze. It was for his own sake more than House’s.

There was a pool table by the door marked with a little man logo, the universal symbol for “pee standing up here”, and around the table playing some version of pool that looked like it involved drinking and smoking more than anything to do the game itself. Every head turned to look at Wilson as he passed with their brows drawn together and their cues held at their sides like rifles.

“Fuckin’ fags.”

Wilson’s head snapped around to meet the eyes of the stereotypical beefy biker. The common sense of not fighting with a man who was 200 pounds of pure muscle won out over the anger that flared up within him. He continued to the bathroom, his entire body tense and the hairs rising on the back of his neck, fists clenched at his sides. He kept his eyes on the floor and tried to stop himself straining to hear the muffled conversation taking place behind him.

Wilson jumped when the door to the bathroom swung open, then sighed to see it was House who had entered. “You nearly caused a very painful accident with my fly.”

“That wouldn’t have been good for either of us.” His eyes twinkled.

Wilson couldn’t help but smile in return and followed the impulse to plant a soft kiss on his lips. The soft kiss turned more passionate as House grabbed the material of Wilson’s shirt and pulled him close. They stood, House’s back pressed against the wall, wrapped in a slow kiss and sinking into the familiar sensations and flavours.

The door swung open again and they sprang apart. Wilson tried to smooth the creases from his clothes. After what seemed like an eternity of standing under the man’s harsh gaze like guilty teenagers, he went into a stall and House and Wilson collapsed against each other in barely stifled peals of laughter.

Still chuckling, their foreheads touching, House suggested, “Back to my place?”

“Absolutely.”

Biting cold air hit them as soon as they stepped out on the street. It was near deserted; one car rolled down the street and its lights glinted off the ice patches. House was trying to calculate the likelihood he would fall on his ass if he tried to walk home and Wilson was contemplating calling a cab when four men appeared on the sidewalk next to them. Wilson was fairly sure he recognised them from the bar.

“Goddamn disgusting,” one man sneered, his face inches away from House’s.

“House…” Wilson reached out his hand to House’s arm, gently warning him.

House ignored the warning. “I’m disgusting? It smells like your mouth hasn’t seen a toothbrush for months,” he said in a perfectly calm tone. “Y’know, personal hygiene really improves your love life.” House looped his arm around Wilson’s waist.

“House, let’s just go home. Now.”

“Of course, I suppose any person willing to look past your hideous features and loathsome personality thinks 50 bucks is enough to ignore the bad breath.”

“House!”

“Now, now, Jimmy, calm down. I’m just giving these nice men some relationship advice.”

Wilson tipped his head to the sky in exasperation, and heard the crunch of an impact, followed by wood clattering against concrete and suddenly House was laying on the floor, blood dripping from his mouth. Wilson dropped to his knees beside him. He heard a crack and it took him a moment to feel the searing pain spearing his side. In the haze he noted that the kick had probably broken some ribs.

“House, you know those instances I was telling you about?” Wilson said breathlessly.

House tried to struggle up and received a boot in his stomach. A shoe stamped down on his hand, crushing the fingers that had been splayed against the ground and he cried out. Through gritted teeth, he said, “Those times when I should keep my mouth shut?”

Wilson gasped by his side and House turned to see him being pulled up into a sitting position, hands digging into his arms. His eyes were unfocused, bloodshot and glassy as he stammered out, “This was one of those times.”

House’s face was pressed to the floor, the cold numbing his cheek. Someone pulled on the back of his shirt collar then slammed him to the ground again, spitting the words “fucking butt-pirate.” House would have laughed if he wasn’t too busy raising his arms as a cushion to stop his head smashing open on the ground.
He could hear Wilson’s muffled groans and gasps, along with the thuds of punches and kicks. Pulling his arms down and opening his eyes, House saw Wilson receiving blows all over his upper body. His legs were drawn up as if he had been trying to get into the foetal position, trying to protect himself, but he had been frozen by pain.

House watched as Wilson’s head lolled backwards, only to be held up by his hair. Smatters of blood were all over his face. Wilson’s eyes rolled back into his head, then forward again and they locked with House’s, unwavering.

Until a final kick to the face knocked Wilson unconscious.

House’s own hair was tugged back, but he kept his eyes fixed on Wilson’s unmoving body. His head was snapped sideways by a punch and a kick to his back sent him sprawling on the floor. Pain exploded from a thousand points within his body, like ice cold needles shoved below his skin.

Face down on the black concrete, House didn’t even register the blow that sent him spiralling into unconsciousness.

~

His senses came back one by one. Warmth, cotton sheets around him, a sterile smell, the tastes of antiseptic and blood, a beeping machine. The last to come was sight, and after the return of the first 4, and the pain they had brought with them, House wasn’t sure if he wanted to take the last step. He flexed his fingers and toes, sending fresh sparks of pain all along his body. Even breathing hurt. Wilson. He remembered. He remembered what happened and his eyes snapped open. Cuddy was in the chair at his bedside, half asleep.

“Cuddy!” House croaked. His intended yell barely made a sound.

“House, how are you feeling?”

She was in doctor-mode. She checked his stats and morphine drip. She looked like she had been crying.

“How’s Wilson?”

“House, can I make sure you’re ok first?”

“No. How is he?”

She rubbed her hand over her face and sighed. “He’s…alive. If you can turn your head, he’s in the bed next to you.”

It hurt. Everything ached but trying to move his head brought tears to House’s eyes, partly from the pounding that started in his head and the stings sent all the way down his spine and partly from his inability to even see Wilson. He ignored the pain and forced his head to turn.

Wilson looked pale. Vivid purple bruises stood out on his swollen face.

“How bad are his injuries?”

“House, you’re awake. I have to make sure you’re ok. We’ll talk about Wilson in a minute. Now, tell me, do you know the year?”

“1912.”

“House!”

“The year is 2006, the president is…God help us, I just remembered who the president is. You’re Cuddy, the sky is blue, chikungunya is an arbovirus and Wilson and I got attacked, and you need to tell me the extent of his injuries now.”

Cuddy flopped down into her seat. House was sure he saw her eyes starting to glisten again. “One of his broken ribs punctured a lung, his jaw was broken and had to be pinned and the severity of the trauma to his abdomen caused some internal bleeding, which was successfully operated on.”

“Prognosis?”

“House, you heard the inju-”

“You treated him; I want to know what you think.”

She spoke slowly, cautiously. “He should wake up, if in pain, fairly soon. But, with the loss of blood and the probable concussion, there’s a possibility – an extremely small possibility – the damage was too extensive for us to have helped.”

House looked away from Cuddy and stared at the ceiling. The tiles had dots on. Hundreds of dots on each tile. The beeping was suddenly loud in his ears.

“House…”Cuddy started, trying to find the words. “His outlook is good, I swear.”

“I know,” he said quietly. How many dots were there? How many beeps? A heart beats more than two and a half billion times in the average life.

“Your team asked me to let them know as soon as you’re able to see visitors, then police are going to want to talk to you. I can ask them to come back later.”

“I might as well get it over with. I don’t want them hanging around outside my room anyway – how will the hookers get in?”

Cuddy smiled, pleased by the attempt at humour. At least House was still House. “They said…they think it was a homophobic attack.”

“Yeah.”

“Oh. Oh! I didn’t know.”

House moved his focus from the ceiling tiles, looking at Cuddy through the corner of his eye, not wanting to move more than that. He quirked an eyebrow. “Because I didn’t tell you.”

“Well,” Cuddy stood up and smiled down at House, “good for you, for both of you. I thought you were being less of a jerk recently. I’ll give you a minute then tell them they can come on in.”

House thanked Cuddy silently in his head.

He saw them outside his room, conversing quietly. From the shocked look on Cameron’s face and Chase’s uncomfortable shifting, it was clear Cuddy had spilled about him and Wilson. House sighed, realising it was probably a little redundant to care about that anymore.

The door opened and they trooped in, lining up at his bedside.

“How are you feeling?” Cameron asked.

“3 guesses.”

Cameron smiled lightly. “Cuddy said the morphine hadn’t improved your mood.” She moved away to the end of the bed. She pulled her glasses from her lab coat and flipped open House’s chart. “You could have told us about you and Dr. Wilson, you know.”

“Yeah, at least give me something to hit back with after comments about my hair,” Chase said from the top of House’s bed, hand resting on his boss’s upper arm.

“It’s looking great today, by the way.”

“That’s what a few days without you around will do,” Chase quipped.

“But is it really worth it compared to all the dead patients?” Foreman was stood to the back, observing the scene and quietly smiling, so of course House pulled him out. “No comments to make on my sexuality, my homeboy?”

Foreman shrugged. “I’d kind of figured.”

House raised an eyebrow, “Oh, yes?”

“There’s only one person you actually enjoy being around. Makes sense you’d be getting sex out of it.”

“Well…yeah. That basically sums it up.”

“You’ve still got the cops to talk to and you look tired already. We’ll leave you be.” Foreman ushered the other two out of the room, amid their calls of “See you later!” and “Get well soon!”
~

“Dr. House?”

House blinked, squeezing his eyes tightly shut then open again. He wasn’t aware he had fallen asleep again, but suddenly two cops had appeared in his room and he doubted magic was involved. He pushed himself up on his pillows and cleared his throat. “That’s me.”

“How are you feeling today?”

“Are the questions with obvious answers really necessary?”

“No, no, of course not. We’ll try to get this over with as quickly as possible.”

The speaking man was young, House observed, younger than Wilson, probably just into his thirties. He settled down into Cuddy’s chair. His silent companion looked older, thinning hair and a drooping eyelid. He stood beside the chair like a soldier.

“Can you tell us, from the beginning, what happened?”

House told them.

“Can you tell us, in as much detail as possible, what your attackers looked like?”

House told them.

“Can you tell us any further information you think may be relevant?”

House told them.

“What about your relationship with Dr. Wilson?”

“How is that relevant?”

“Well, if it was an attack based on your sexual orientation-”

“I’ve already told you it was.” House had had enough. He turned away from the officers and looked at Wilson, lying still, chest rising and falling gently, face desecrated. “Their perceived opinion was that we were in a relationship. The reality of it is none of your business.”

“Sir-”

“Just what sort of information were you looking for? Positions? Lubricants? Kinks? You have your information. Go do your job and stop pestering me.”

“Thank you for your time, sir.”

House heard shuffling and the door clicked closed. The older man had never spoken, just stood quietly making notes, even when House hadn’t been speaking, it seemed. House scanned his eyes upwards from the bottom of Wilson’s body and jolted when he reached the open eyes staring back at him.

Wilson tried to speak, but winced in pain.

“Don’t talk. They put a pin in your jaw, it’s gonna hurt like a bitch for a while.”

House struggled out of bed, groaning at the pain and having to stop with every big movement to catch his breath. He limped over to Wilson’s side, hospital gown flapping around his knees, and hoisted himself onto the bed. He pulled the small whiteboard and pen that had been left in preparation for Wilson’s early waking moments from the bedside cabinet and held it out to him.

Trust you to piss off the people who are on your side.

“Right, blame me for their stupid questions. How are you feeling?”

Duh.

“Right, right.” House traced his fingers across Wilson’s face, following the contours of his bruises and brushing back his hair. He kissed the only clear patch on Wilson’s forehead and whispered, “I’m sorry.”

Wilson slipped his hand out from the covers and laid it on top of House’s; for the first time, House remembered it had been crushed in the fight.

~

“Cuddy says tomorrow, you may be free.” House flopped down into the chair by Wilson’s side, it moulded to his shape over the past week, and propped his feet up on the bed. “And you can come back to work whenever you feel up to it.”

“Good. That’s…good.”

“You sound positively overjoyed,” House said dryly.

“No, it’s good. I just…” Wilson’s face flushed. The bruises had faded to green-yellow and the swelling had gone, save for a crooked bump on his broken nose. The pink spots flooding to his cheeks only served to highlight the injuries that had yet to heal. “I don’t want to be on my own.”

“So move in with me.”

“Are you serious?”

“Someone paying half the rent, cooking my meals and you’re still recovering, you could use a doctor around.” House shrugged.

“For once, could you ask me to do something for reasons that aren’t entirely practical?”

“You mean “Move in with me because I love you”? Why must people insist upon making me state the obvious?”

~

House had brought fresh clothes to the hospital for Wilson to change into – old, paint splattered jeans and one of his sweaters from med school. Leaning on his cane, stood by the door, House took in the sight of him; thinner than he had been ten days ago, he looked small hunched inside his baggy clothes. He hadn’t spoken to anyone but the police – who thus far had be useless – about the attack. Neither had House himself, he realised, but he didn’t feel like he needed to. All things in good time.

“Ready to go?”

Wilson nodded. House hoisted the bag of Wilson’s things onto his shoulders. On the way to the elevator they passed their offices, Wilson picking up a few things he intended to work on at home and House informing his team that if they killed anyone during his time off, they should blame Chase. They walked down to the lobby together, for once Wilson leaning on House for support, his arm wrapped tightly around his waist.

Cuddy was waiting for them at the main desk holding out a file and a pen, smiling. “Sign this and you’re out of here.”

Wilson took the pen and file and signed his name by the cross. “Thanks.”

“Like I said, just call me when you’re ready to come back.”

“Vacation time.” House grinned.

“Not for you – you’ve already been discharged for a week. I expect to see you in the clinic first thing tomorrow.”

“What?”

“Not as quick as you once were, are ya? Take care of him, Dr. Wilson.” Cuddy winked and waved goodbye, returning to her work.

Wilson looped his arm back around House’s waist, digging his fingers against his hip, and they walked out slowly, warmed by the smiles of semi-acquaintances and laughing quietly at the scowling nurse Wilson said had been hitting on him for the past month. They both pretended they didn’t notice the muttering that started in their wake, nor the “ugh,” of a middle-aged woman who pushed past them, three children in tow.

They rode home in House’s car quietly. The sun had gone down already and the lights of the town sparkled off the windscreen from the shops and bars along the sidewalk. Wilson fidgeted in his seat, eyes darting to look out the window every few seconds. Only a few other cars passed them on the road, too late for commuter traffic and too early for people to be heading out for dinner. Wilson’s hands clenched around the fabric of his pants.

“Everything ok?” House asked.

“It seems like forever since I was outside anywhere but the hospital gardens.”

“I’ll take you for a walk tomorrow, get you re-socialised,” House smirked.

Wilson laughed softly and hit House on the arm. “I’m not a dog, you know.”

“Does that mean you won’t be wanting the collar and leash I got you?”

They pulled up in the street outside House’s apartment and sat still for a minute, both men nervous about the next move for their own reasons. They were about thirty seconds away from officially living together. House moved first, unclipping his seat belt and pulling the keys from the ignition. He took Wilson’s bag out of the back while Wilson went to the door and unlocked it with his own key.

House joined him in the hall, and they stood on either side of the door marked with the letter B. Wilson stepped forward and gingerly laid his lips against House’s; his jaw still ached. He let the soft scents and flavours wash over him as their bodies pressed together and House slipped his hand around to rest on the small of Wilson’s back, drawing him closer.

The door to apartment A opened and they sprung apart. An old, blue haired woman walked out and smiled at House.

“Good evening, Ida.”

“Good evening, boys.”

When the main door closed they collapsed against each other in barely stifled peals of laughter. “The misanthropic bastard knows his elderly neighbour’s name?”

“Shut up; just be pleased she didn’t beat you up with her Zimmer-frame.” Still chuckling, foreheads pressed together, House gave Wilson another soft kiss. “Can we finally get back to my place now?”

“Absolutely.”

Endangering The Universe

Sun, 04 Jun 2006 20:21:33 GMT

Title: Endangering The Universe
Author: kiwi_from_hell
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: R
Warnings: References to child abuse
Disclaimer: I don't own House MD, or any of it's characters.
Summary: Wilson notices something in House's reaction to his new case.
Feedback: Is love.
Notes: I've been back and forth over whether the write this, then I went back and forth over how to write it, then over what should happen. But it's done now, and I'm proud of it.

Endangering the Universe

There are days when everything feels close. His memories, his stupid, screwed-up friendship, his limp, his ex-love, his job, his need all pile onto his shoulders. They wrap around him in a shroud, and he almost wishes the metaphor were real, because at least he would get some peace. House hauled himself out of bed on another of these days, needing the balcony. Pulling the sheets away from his face, House knew he needed to be outside in the bleaching sunlight, looking down and feeling vertigo, knowing that right beside him was the tether that caused half the problems.

His eyelids still felt gummed together; opening them was a strain. The air was oppressive. It was summer, and the sun had been up for several hours already, the heat coming through his windows and getting trapped by the thick curtains, insulating the room. Too uncomfortable to say “fuck it” and go back to sleep for a few hours, he swung his legs around to the side of his bed and looked at the glowing red lights on his clock. Seven Thirty. With his sparse morning routine, it seemed like for once he could be on time for work.

It didn’t hurt to do that every now and then; it kept Cuddy and his team on their toes, not to mention he could catch a few minutes with Wilson as an elixir to get him through the rest of the day sans homicide. Of course, there were side effects to his dose of sanity - a sense of emotional impotence coupled with a deeply introspective manner; neither a recognisable difference to an observer but House felt the effect on his tolerance levels. It was a small price to pay, he had concluded, for the occasional feeling of fitting somewhere.

House pushed himself up, leaning forward slightly to compensate for lack of balance, and colours swam before his eyes. He drew in a deep breath and paused, then went about his morning ritual, after setting some Stones playing on his stereo. House smirked to himself – you could tell you were getting old when you actually preferred music at a low-murmuring-background level to pounding-so-loud-the-floor-vibrates level. Catching site of his ever greyer hair and receding hair line in the mirror, House twisted the dial up; there were enough signs already.

House was yanking the worn red T shirt, which he always felt had the best fit of all his clothes, over his head when he heard that knock at the door, instantly followed by a key twisting in the lock. He pulled the shirt down the rest of the way and slipped into his leather jacket, even though he knew it was too warm.

“Thought you might want a ride,” said Wilson, barging into House’s bedroom.

House didn’t know how he only ever did this on days when House was up and ready to go. “Sure.”

“You coming?”

House realised he had been staring absently at the blank space on the wall next to Wilson’s head.

They drove to work in compatible silence, low level jazz music coming from the radio. At one point, Wilson had begun humming along to the music. House caught his eye with a look that said “Tuning, please” and they shared a quiet laugh. A serendipitous feeling spread over House and for a moment he allowed himself to smile out the open window, happy that in that moment everything was as it should be.

The car felt small, and House instinctively shifted away every time Wilson’s arm came close to him, changing gear. The air blasting in through his window was warm and stale with fumes. He started to shift restlessly, the seams of the seat chaffing through his clothing. Closing his eyes, House tried to move his focus to the music, allowing every note to melt into his mind, filling the air around him and creating some kind of privacy. The approach of the hospital, as well as the noise and dirt outside the car, were grating on House’s mood already. Childlike as it was, he just didn’t want to get out of the car. In a small part of his mind he wanted there to be a traffic jam, or some problem parking; he wanted an excuse for a few extra minutes of peace.

From car to building to office, Wilson walked with him acting like he did everyday, because in essence this was every day. Light was annoyingly bright, and the heat in his office was magnified ridiculously. He slipped his jacket off and dropped it on the back of his chair, then squinted into through the glass walls. Wilson had waved wordlessly, with a slight brush of his hand against House’s arm, as he went into his own office. He could have been preparing for rounds or just starting some paperwork. House limped out to the balcony, leaving his cane leant against the desk.

Paper work. The sun reflected on the door to Wilson’s office, over the wall that split the balcony in two, and behind the glare House saw him bent over making notes on a chart and sipping coffee from a red mug that no doubt had been prepared by his secretary. As if he sensed him looking, Wilson glanced up and their eyes met. A brief smile twitched on his face, then he flipped the chart closed, set down his beverage and came to join House. They looked out over the lives taking place below.

Wilson’s elbow nudged his. “Got any cases?” It was the Wilson-code for “are you ok?”

House nudged back. “Something’ll probably come up later.” House-to-Wilson translation “shut up, I’m fine.” That’s the “shut up, I’m fine” that would be accompanied with a fond smile, if House displaying such an expression wouldn’t cause the universe to collapse in on itself.

They remained standing in silence together, both leaning their forearms on the hot brick of the wall. House watched a bug crawling along the leaf of a tree to his right. The sun was beating down on his back; sweat was starting to stick his t-shirt to him. Wilson had rolled his sleeves up, revealing well defined arms and hands, with a thin covering of hair. The tiny details, the pores, the scars drew House’s attention away from the bug, until Foreman came out waving a file in his face.

Their fingers brushed almost unnoticeably as House moved away. Just a silent good-bye, a ghost of an anchor, and nothing more.

When Cameron was running gels and Chase and Foreman were using their masculine charms to wangle an MRI appointment sometime before the apocalypse, House took an elevator ride down to the patient’s room. He had no intention of speaking to him or the parents, of course, but a lot could be learnt from observation. Glass wall were useful for something; even looking between the slats of blinds, House could learn things. Like the man in the room was quite probably not the boy’s father. A teacher, he assumed. Chase had said he was bought in from school; the parents probably hadn’t arrived yet.

“House, we got an MRI slot in two hours.”

“If you’d flicked your hair like I told you to, you would have gotten it in one.” House didn’t move his gaze from the pair in the hospital room; he didn’t need to see Chase pouting in response. “He’s the kid’s teacher?”

“Yeah, he came with him in the ambulance.” Foreman confirmed.

“Get him out of the room. Try talking to the kid alone, don’t let the guy back in. Ask the parent’s about any recent changes in behaviour when they get here and you might wanna test for STDs.”

“House you can’t just make accu-” said Foreman, but he was left talking to House’s back as he limped away.

Tests and parental complaints and lies and theories took a break for lunch, or at least House did. He sat with his Nike Sox clad feet on the corner of his desk, Wilson in the chair opposite and a bowl of weird lettuce-less salad between them. He licked dressing off his lips.

“Foreman’s right, you know. You can’t randomly accuse people of molesting their children.”

“He’s the teacher, weren’t you paying attention?” House hit Wilson’s fork with his own, diving into the salad and making Wilson wait.

“You can’t just randomly accuse anyone.” Wilson amended, still far more interested in getting within range of the food he had prepared.

“It wasn’t random.”

He waited for continuation, but none came. Swallowing his mouthful, Wilson said, “How did you know?”

“Body language was wrong.”

“Ah yes, and you’re an expert in the body language of paedophiles.”

“The kid was acting like he was feeling guilty for something unforgivable. Every time a nurse walked into the room, he put on a smile. Kids don’t fake emotions. The teacher was too close; I almost mistook him for a parent, except the kid wouldn’t look directly at him.”

Wilson eyed House carefully, hearing an unexpected edge in the man’s voice. There was something unnerving about the lack of condescension in the information he passed on. “Wouldn’t the guy be the one looking guilty?” He saw a definite flicker of something on House’s face.

“No. The kid is 5, for god’s sake. Old enough to know it’s wrong, not old enough to realise it isn’t his fault.”

Wilson sucked the dressing off one of his fingers, resisting the urge to wipe his hands on his newly dry cleaned pants. House had dropped his fork onto the desk with a surprisingly loud clang, making Wilson twitch. “House…”

“What?”

Wilson honestly had no clue how he had intended to end that sentence. “Nothing. Want me to come over tonight?”

“You’re inviting yourself into my space. Nice.”

“I meant I’ll cook for you.”

“You bring the groceries, I’ll set out the candles and the good silverware,” said House as he brushed his hands off on his pants, or perhaps brushed his pants off with his hands, and exited into the outer conference room.

~

House gagged as Wilson unceremoniously put a plate of stuffed pepper on the table before him. Rolling his eyes, Wilson tucked his napkin into his shirt collar – no need to be polite, it was just House – and propped his feet on the coffee table.

House followed suit but said, “When you said you were gonna cook, I thought you meant real food.”

“You love it really. Idiots with power tools?”

“Shoot.”

Wilson stabbed the remote with his spoon. “Any progress with the case?” The New Yankee Workshop did not require listening to. It was background noise to their conversations.

“Nope, no treatments, no nothing.”

“You’re just gonna wait for him to get sicker?”

House nodded, “It’s a simple plan, much like my Uncle Bob. Unlike my Uncle Bob, this might just work.”

An insistent buzz from an impressively sized saw cut short Wilson’s laughter and drew both men’s attention to the screen.

When the credits of The New Yankee Workshop rolled, House groused, “And not one severed appendage,” rolling his shoulders. Sitting still too long had caused a dull ache.

“You need to stand up,” Wilson commented.

“Don’t doctor me, I’m fine.”

Wilson smacked himself internally, realising hell would now have to freeze over before Greg took his advice. He hadn’t seemed quite like he was really there all day, never invested in the proceedings. Wilson was worried. Not worried in any serious way, it was just a peak of the constant twinge of concern he had been in possession of for the past 7 years; it never quite went away because House was never quite honest enough with him. For someone who didn’t lie, he was a master of deception.

“House, turn around.” Wilson grabbed House’s shoulders and turned as he spoke anyway, aware he wouldn’t follow instructions.

“What are you doing?”

“Being far nicer than you deserve.”

Wilson settled himself behind House and ran his hands across the shoulders in front of him. Slowly and carefully, Wilson traced his entire back, hands ghosting under the cotton at the small of his back, though both would deny it. He pulled his fingers up along either side of House’s spine, causing him to arch. Upon reaching his neck, Wilson pressed down onto the muscle with the heels of his hands.

House gasped. He closed his eyes.

Wilson worked the knots with his thumbs, moving out in ever growing circles while the rest of his fingers stroked the surrounding areas into relaxation, barely making contact. He pushed hard against the sensitive areas until he elicited a hiss from between House’s clenched teeth. One hand drifted down to his lower back and he rolled the hem of his T-shirt between his fingers. His knuckles grazed House’s bare skin; the other hand carelessly kneaded his shoulder.

Wilson’s breath was hot on the back of House’s neck. He could smell the stuffed pepper on his breath, practically taste it. The warm air caressed his neck and right ear lobe and he felt Wilson’s head move forward. His breathing quickened. Wilson’s fingers moved in slow circles against his skin. He heard Wilson’s tongue wetting his lips.

“Feeling better?” Wilson was so close when he whispered, his lips brushed against House’s ear.

House swallowed hard and replied in the same low tone. “This is the sort of treatment I only expect after The L Word.”

Wilson’s laughter in his ear made House shiver. He moved back a little so their bodies were touching.

Wilson snaked his hand around from House’s lower back to his stomach, remaining beneath the fabric. “I…I should probably go,” he whispered. “Early morning tomorrow.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you probably should.”

Neither man moved for a moment, then Wilson stood up, trailing his hand over House’s skin, around his back until it reached the opposite hip and running the other from his shoulder down House’s arm. Wilson squeezed House’s fingers, and went home to an empty apartment.

~

House woke the next morning with the feeling of a hangover, despite the absence of alcohol in his system. He realised that when he had finally stumbled to bed at 3am, mind spinning, he had neglected to brush his teeth. He could still taste stuffed peppers. Even then he hadn’t slept in more than fitful bursts, a thousand different things in his mind all clamouring for attention, but none making as much noise as his stupid, screwed up friendship. He was awake early again, but House doubted Wilson would be offering him a lift to work today.

Teeth cleaned, breakfast dismissed and pills downed, House was startled by a knock at his door. The sound of the key turning in the lock never came, so House limped over to the door and looked through the view finder. Wilson wasn’t there. The hall was empty. “Stupid bastard,” House muttered to himself before he turned around and picked up the keys to his bike.

House walked past the wards on the floor that held the office of diagnostics. Loved ones dropping in for a visit before work, nurses administering morning drinks while checking blood pressure and rows and rows of sick people; House hated hospitals. Then he came to his patient’s room. His family were donators – that’s why Cuddy gave him the case and why they got a private room. He definitely looked sicker. Hopefully there would be some new symptoms on the whiteboard.

That wasn’t why House had gone on this little journey, though it did help loosen his leg after the motorbike ride, his real reason was the opportunity to walk past Wilson’s office. He could casually glance in and check Wilson’s presence.

He was in, House saw through the small windows beside his door, hunched over paperwork and drinking coffee from a red mug. Without pause House walked through his own office and out to the balcony. He intently did not watch Wilson, so there was no way he could have looked away when Wilson glanced up. Nor did he flinch as a butterfly invaded his periphery.

Wilson touched his arm in greeting, joining House on the balcony and uttering a quiet “Hey.”

Yesterday’s compatible silence was today’s awkward silence.

House broke first, pushed by the stress that had been building up while he pretended to follow the actions of a tiny spider crawling along the wall. “Do we need to talk?”

“We never needed to before.”

“No. Ok.” Try as he might, House just couldn’t convince himself and couldn’t force his tone to be as confident as he wanted. At least the possibility of change was gone; he could cope with things as they were, he was safe with them. “I should go back in there, see how the case is.”

“Wait, House,” Wilson called, “How come this case is getting to you so much?”

“It’s not.” House couldn’t understand what made Wilson think that, what he’d noticed. Suddenly House felt he had been laid bare, by one little insight.

“Yes, it is.”

House shook his head and spoke the mantra of an impossible time ago, alone in his room. “I’m fine, it’s all fine.”

~

“House! House!”

House blinked awake, wincing against the bright light and loud noise. Someone tried to pull his half closed eyelids open and gently slapped his face.

“Are you ok? House!”

“W…what?”

“What did you do, House?!”

“Shhh, please.” House tried to push the as yet unidentified him away and caught sight of a green tie behind the whirl of hands and the persistent, loud voice. “Wilson?”

“Yeah, House, it’s me. I’m here. Tell me how much you took.” Wilson was pulling his cell phone from his jacket pocket.

House snatched the phone away and sat up. “2 Vicodin before I went to sleep. What’s wrong with you?”

Wilson giggled nervously, and sat back on his heels, leaning against the coffee table. He looked at the empty bottle of Vicodin on the table and House’s answer machine, which was flashing 8 messages. “I…” Wilson coughed, ran a hand through his hair and started again. “You didn’t answer.”

“You didn’t think I possibly could be, oh I don’t know, sleeping?”

Wilson folded his arms over his chest, trying to hide that he was shaking. “You’ve been…off, lately. I came over to check on you, just…to make sure. I saw the empty bottle and-”

“Didn’t even bother to look at the date before you decided I hate my life so much I want to die?” House said in a chirpy tone, ignoring Wilson’s shining eyes.

“Pretty much,” he admitted. Wilson stood up on wobbly legs and collapsed onto the couch beside House. “Sorry. You haven’t been yourself.”

“I’m fine.”

“Can you stop saying that please? It makes me nervous when you lie.”

“Evidently,” House smirked.

“It’s to do with the case, isn’t it? Or is it to do with me?”

“It can’t be both?”

“Is it both?” Wilson watched House’s face go blank as he stared at the wall; his hand was trembling, his little finger brushing against his thigh. “Are you going to answer?”

“No.”

“House…”

“What do you want to hear?” House snapped. “There is nothing you can do about either thing, or that I want you to do.”

“I just want to understand what’s going on in your head.”

“I thought we weren’t talking about it. I thought we didn’t need to.”

“I thought you tried to kill yourself. Misconceptions abound. Tell me what’s wrong with you.” Wilson instructed, sounding a lot more confident than he felt.

“You’ll make that face. That stupid “oh, that explains so much” face when in fact it doesn’t explain anything, except why I’m able to analyse paedophile behviour patterns and that I overestimated your level of acceptance of my more annoying traits and I’m an idiot for giving a damn about you and thinking you might actually be…something.” House trailed off.

“I might still be…something.”

“No, nothing’s changed for you. The stupid, screwed up friendship remains.” House said quietly. “It’s ok, I can live with it.”

“It’s changed for you? We’ve kissed before, we’ve…done stuff. That never meant anything.”

“I let you touch me. That’s different, that works differently.” House bowed his head and looked intently at the floor.

“Like this?” Wilson caught House’s hand and stopped it from shaking, and moved it just a little onto his leg.

“Don’t. Don’t even. You can’t just…sympathy is not a good reason to get into this and your cock will not heal all wounds. Despite what some of your patients may say.”

“How about if I told you this is exactly what I wanted to do last night?” Wilson was close, so close, whispering against House’s lips in a spoken kiss.

“That...would be acceptable.”

House smiled into the kiss, and the universe didn’t implode.

3 Days, 7 Hours, 48 Minutes

Wed, 24 May 2006 19:19:36 GMT

Title: 3 Days, 7 Hours, 48 Minutes
Author: Kiwi
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: PG
Summary: Post-ep, "No Reason"
Disclaimer: Season 3 probably won't be starting like this...It's up to David Shore, not me, sadly.
Notes: Spoilers for the Season 2 Finale. Just a little thing I had to write after that episode.

3 Days, 7 Hours, 48 Minutes.

House tried to shift a little under the blankets, the rough cotton irritating his skin. The sheets had been washed one too many times; they felt stiff. Pushing his chest forward against them, House found they were tucked tightly around him. A harsh but familiar burst of claustrophobia shot through him then subsided into that weight he always carried around in the pit of his stomach. His stomach…something didn’t feel right. He twisted his neck to the side, looking around for someone to help him, some clue of where he was, and realised he had yet to open his eyes.

His head felt fuzzy, like someone had wrapped a blanket around his brain as well. Tiny movements took infinite effort, and House gave up for the time being on opening his eyes. The sharp whiteness when his lids fluttered had discouraged him anyway. His senses were starting to come back. The scent of disinfectant filled his nose and he could taste the sterility in his mouth. The Hospital. Sounds kaleidoscoped until the shards made up a complete picture.

“House? You’re awake?” A hand shook his shoulder. “You are, aren’t you? Your nostrils have stopped flaring.”

“Unghahg.” House felt his bed shift as the weight balance changed and some of the warmth that had been pressing against his side disappeared.

“House? Can you open your eyes?”

“Yes.”

“They aren’t open.” Panic sparked through Wilson.

“I know. You just asked if I could.” House heard Wilson sigh in response, and gingerly blinked his eyes open to see him in a chair at his bedside, one hand clasping his own. Instinctively, he pulled it away but the sudden movement caused a flare of pain. He groaned.

Wilson jumped out of his seat, knocking his tie off the arm of the chair and onto the floor. Sweat had caused his shirt to stick to his body, and now dried held creases firmly in place.

House waved him back. “I’m ok.”

Wilson nodded and settled back into his seat, trying to calm his heartbeat. Fussing would just get House angry; somebody else could be doctor, today he was needed as a friend. “Do you remember what happened? You were shot.”

“I remember. I hit you. Sorry.”

“You only just woke up.” Wilson blinked, a perplexed expression drifting across his face.

“No, I…you…I was hallucinating.”
“You lost a lot of blood, which probably had something to do with it.” Wilson shot a glance at the monitor. Heart rate and blood pressure were stable. He snatched his gaze away, not wanting House to see him checking. He felt an extra pang for his friend’s condition when he realised he hadn’t noticed a thing.

“How long was I out?”

“3 days.” 3 days, 7 hours, 48 minutes. He forced a smile, “I was actually telling the truth when I said you looked good unshaven.”

House peered at Wilson, unnerved by the shakey attempt at humour. His eyes were rimmed with red, the lids were puffy. “What happened?”

“You were shot, I just told you. You said you remem-”

“No, what’s wrong with me? Why are you so upset?”

“House, you got shot! You nearly died!” Wilson’s voice cracked and he looked down, studying the floor as he had done countless times when nurses and doctors had entered over the past 3 days, 7 hours and 48 minutes. He squeezed his eyes shut.

“If I’m fine now, what’s wrong with you?” House automatically ran his hand over his thigh, over the scar.

“You could have died! I could have lost you!” His shoulders shook violently as he heaved in gulps of air. Wilson pulled his arm up to cover his face, wiping salt water and mucus on his sleeve. Pain hooked underneath his ribcage and he felt as though he was going to throw up, despite having eaten nothing for 3 days, 7 hours and 48 minutes. Air clawed at his throat as he sucked it in, corroding the soft tissue.

When the tears stopped flowing and he gathered his breathing into a normal pattern, Wilson sat trembling, looking at House, who was staring right back at him. His eyes were glassy from morphine, but they still pierced in the same way they always did.

House’s voice was barely a whisper as he said, “I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t hit me, you were hallucinating. I’m sure my hallucinatory self will forgive you anyway,” he tried to pull back from the brink, to find some tone of normalcy.

“Not what I meant.”

House clasped Wilson’s hand in his own, holding on for dear life.

Dream in Colour

Sat, 13 May 2006 21:33:13 GMT

Title: Dream in Colour
Author/Artist: kiwi_from_hell
Rating: PG-13
Words: 2,000
Prompt: 55. House discovers just how deeply Wilson's preoccupation with keeping up appearances goes.
Disclaimer: I don't own the show, I don't own the characters and I am very, very sad about this fact.
Notes: The title has nothing to do with the content, I just couldn't think of anything else. I think it may stray away from the prompt a little tiny bit, but not too much. Beta'd by fftf

House smiled inwardly when Wilson came into the exam room accompanied by his traditional furtive glances for patients and staff. In reality, both knew the only people who would even consider bursting into a room that House was listed as in occupation of was Cuddy, and today was nearly the start of the new financial year; she would be locked in her office attempting, often in vain, to rectify the dents that had been made in the budget over the past 12 months. Wilson’s glances were purely because that was the way he had learnt to open doors that had House behind them.

His smile became visible as Wilson sauntered over and planted a sweet kiss on his lips.

“Hey, move over.” Wilson shuffled onto the exam table.

“Hey, ask nicely or I’ll push you off.” He marvelled at the small tremors sprinting up his spine when Wilson’s fingers grazed his. “What time do you get done tonight?”

“Maybe 6, probably more like 7. Sorry.”

“I could wait,” House pulled back from adding ‘for you’, instead choosing, “Cuddy will be wearing my balls on a chain around her neck if I don’t do something with my charting.”

“You voluntarily do extra work, and then we both leave together? Way to make people suspicious, House.”

House cocked his head. “Is that a problem?”

“Well…I just didn’t realise we were, that we were telling people.” He averted his eyes, looking up at House through lowered lashes.

“Why wouldn’t we?”

“It’s private.”

“Wilson, half the hospital follows your life like it’s a soap opera.” He studied him. “Don’t want to lose your rep as panty-peeler?”

Wilson pushed himself down off the table. “Can we talk about this later?”

“You have no intention of talking about this later.” Narrowed eyes.

“I don’t want you broadcasting the details of my sex life, ok?”

“‘Sex life’?”

Wilson put his hands over his face, shaking his head and bending slightly at the waist. “House, don’t do this, don’t…”
“Perhaps if it was the details of your relationships you didn’t want broadcast, I’d be a bit more understanding.”

After months of playing games with each other, or possibly years depending on how you looked at it, Wilson wasn’t willing to let things go on in their weird code speak when neither really knew what was being said and heard. It was a defence mechanism, and had only served to make things more difficult. “Stop it! Stop pretending to be hurt so I feel guilty and you get your own way. Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing.”

House smirked. “All’s fair in love and war.”

Wilson didn’t want to venture a guess as to which applied here. He took a deep breath and forced himself to speak evenly, “I don’t want people to know. I don’t want people to speculate, I don’t want them to interfere.”

“People are idiots. What does it matter?”

“You might have created a separate universe for yourself, but I still have to live in the world with all the people.” Wilson leant against the wall and ran his hand back through his hair, pushed to the edge of his nerves by House’s flippant attitude.

House just paused and looked for a moment, not failing to admire the lines of Wilson’s body. “I could tell them you are always the one giving.”

He groaned. “I’m already making my life a hell of a lot harder by being with you, why do you want to make it worse?!”

Hopping down from the table, House headed for the door, leaning heavily on his cane. He refused to let himself wince as he mistakenly put weight on his injured leg for balance. “I’m sorry; I certainly wouldn’t want to be causing you any trouble. Congratulations for making it the whole week though, you should get a medal or something!”

Into the now empty room, Wilson whispered, “fuck.”

~

Every canteen in the world has some basic similarities. The canteen at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital always gave Wilson the vague feeling of being back at McGill, in his first year of study. Truly away from his family and their attitudes, experiencing a world where he felt freer. He could never decide if this was because Canada really was more liberal than his family world in the suburbs, or if he never became part of a life or community that had any interest in passing judgement on him. Either way, the hospital reminded him of that. Every day he went to work and felt a slight tang of elation that he was working and coping in his own life. When he started eating lunch with House, if felt like he was living within his own morals. Quiet achievement was the feeling that linked these two places.

Quiet achievement and lights that shoot into your temples, fuzzing your head enough to make you a little less likely to notice the not-quite-right taste of the food.

Paying for his food a few hours after the first real “couple” argument with House, Wilson felt more like the hospital canteen was High School. He had been a gawky kid, too thin, too smart, and too nice. As a junior, he had fallen into a gang of giggly girls, though in all honesty they made his ears want to drop off. As a senior he had stayed gawky, too thin, too smart and too nice while all the other kids became jocks or intellectuals. He hadn’t filled out to quarterback proportions like both of his older brothers had. His image went from just another “out of place teenager” to “doesn’t like sports, doesn’t have a girlfriend, eats salad at lunch and might as well be wearing a tank top standard gay boy”. One in every school, apparently. The girls he hung with the previous year distanced themselves because fag hag wasn’t a good look for aspiring prom queens. Reluctant to fall into the crowds that were expected of him and adamant the labels were wrong, he spent most of his senior year eating lunch alone.

When he turned around, a faint feeling of High School lingering on him and making him half expect he would trip over his own feet, Wilson realised he had been staring at House. He was eating what looked like the pasta bake – which looked like the pasta mom left in a pan overnight to eat as leftovers the next day, before she learnt it would have to be peeled from the metal, sprinkled with the bits of crusty cheese that formed when it wasn’t properly wrapped. Wilson wondered why he wasn’t eating a Reuben.

House met his eyes with a glare that had the clear message “I don’t want to talk to you”. Usually Wilson ignored it but he didn’t feel like he had the energy for more games today. He glanced around for someone else he knew, someone he could sit with and make it look like they had business things to discuss. Debbie from accounting smiled at him and Laura from paediatrics waggled her fingers. Neither seemed like a good option. He looked to House again, who responded with another glare, a loud, hacking (and fake) cough, and raising his hand in a stop motion. Wilson dumped his tray on the empty table to his right and slid into the chair. If he needed to behave childishly, Wilson was done pandering to him.

It’s not like High School had been so bad. And at least this grown-up version didn’t include his family at the end of the day.

House had finished eating and risen from his seat, leaving his tray for the staff to deal with. Wilson had been watching him out of the corner of his eye. Instead of taking the easiest and most obvious route to the exit, he had pushed and edged between tables and chairs in order to pass Wilson. He stood looking down for a moment, staring at the contents of Wilson’s plate.

“Hey,” House mumbled.

“Hey.”

“Good call. The pasta tasted like crap.”

“Yeah, I didn’t think it looked all that appetising.”

“Yeah.” House walked away without warning, leaving Wilson’s “I’m sorry” hanging unheard in the air.

~

Wilson had ducked into House’s office mid-afternoon, and found it empty. There were no symptoms listed on the whiteboard; everyone was on clinic duty. No doubt House was trying to be good to appease Cuddy.

Looking on the board, he saw House was assigned exam room four and a patient called Keating. Flicking quickly through the stack of charts, Wilson confirmed that Mr Keating was still in the waiting room and House was alone in exam room four. He glanced down the corridor for any signs of suspicious, approaching members of staff and slipped into the room.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” House didn’t look up from his magazine.

Leaning back against the door, hands in pockets, Wilson sighed. Already, this wasn’t going as planned. He was used to House being cold; he wasn’t used to not having the option of walking away, at least, he didn’t have that option if he wanted to fix things. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“Oh, come on, House.” House only glanced up to raise an eyebrow, then returned to his reading. Wilson continued, “Fine. Sorry for saying something stupid earlier – that for the record I didn’t mean – and sorry for not saying sorry sooner.”

“’Kay.”

“Yeah, that was convincing. You’re still pissy.”

“Sorry is a word. People lie with words. Actions tend to speak to me more.”

The familiar sinking feeling struck Wilson. “What do you want me to do?”

“Kiss me. In clinic, in front of everyone.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Wilson shook his head incredulously.

House closed his magazine and discarded it, casually dropping it to his side. He folded his arms. “Why is that so ridiculous?”

“Because…why do you want to make a spectacle of everything?”

Something in the tension broke, the air felt lighter. House had switched from annoying, defensive questions to annoying, analytical questions and things were back how they should be. Or as close to how they should be as they ever could get. Wilson closed the distance between them, leaning back onto the counter top opposite House’s position on the exam table.

House just looked at him.

A thousand starts of sentences swam in Wilson’s mind. “My parents-”

“Oh story time, fantastic.”

“Can I talk please?”

“Oops. Go ahead.”

“My parents, my family, just about everybody I knew thought I was gay when I was growing up – House, just don’t say it. I know it’s not a big deal, but I lived in a small town where there might as well have been witch hunts, and my brothers with shining examples of manhood. Everyone knew. Or at least, everyone thought they knew.”

“So you forced yourself into a succession of terrible marriages to prove them wrong? Smart move.”

“Don’t start the gender-fuck thing, House. I’m straight, you just happen to be a manipulative bastard with great skills at confusing things. That wasn’t my point.”

“Your point was,” House paused for a moment and softened his voice, “what people think they know bothers you, so you’d rather they know nothing at all. And if what they think they know sometimes turns out to be at least partly true, you start to think their opinions have an effect on you. Your life isn’t yours anymore.”

“Exactly…except for all that crap that came after the first sentence.”

House laughed. “Ok.”

“Ok?”

“Yeah. We can keep things quiet to compensate for your screwed up childhood.”

House walked out of the exam room feeling some of his good mood flooding back. In fact, he hadn’t really wanted to walk out but recognised sex in the busy clinic in the middle of the afternoon, which was where things would have headed if he’d stayed, probably wasn’t the best way to keep things quiet. He saw he had been assigned a patient about an hour ago and yanked the chart from the rack.

Turning to face the despondent occupants of the waiting room, House was startled by Wilson, who had somehow managed to sneak up close behind him, and whose lips were suddenly very close to his own. Soft and slow, eyes closed and resting his hand on the side of House’s face, Wilson kissed him.

“Wait for me after work.”

Games - complete version

Thu, 27 Apr 2006 20:32:41 GMT

Title: Games - Complete version
Author: Kiwi
Rating: Something around PG-13
Pairing: HouseWilson
Summary: What's happening behind the canon. This part takes place just before "House vs God"
Notes: Final part included. I've tried something *new* with the relationship now, and it's ended up angsty in a bittersweet way.

“Have you ever?”

“Nope.”

“Truth or dare?”

“Nope.”

“Spin the bottle?”

Wilson grimaced, “I’m not that drunk.” He took another swig of beer, before decisively setting it down.

House stared at him across the kitchen table, pizza box between them, and held his eyes. “My house, my rules.” He declared. “And one of my top rules is when I’m bored, the guest has to entertain me.”

“We could just watch a movie…” Wilson broke his gaze; all his energy for banter had run out.

“Nope.” House grinned.

“Fine. Truth or dare. Without the dare part.”

“So it’s just truth? Jimmy, you should know I never lie anyway.”

Wilson smiled inwardly at House calling him “Jimmy”. He hated it really, from anyone else he always hated it, but House’s accompanying smirk always made him warm up. “Then you’ll probably win.”

House went first. “Why did you decide to stay with me?”

“You know.”

“Yeah, but I want you to say it.”

“Because there is no one else I would want to stay with.” House fixed him with a steely glare, and Wilson gave up all hope of getting out of tonight with his dignity…with what remained of his dignity after finding his wife had been cheating on him. “Because I doubt I would be welcomed by anyone else.”

“How many friends do you have?” House asked, again fully knowing the answer.

“Hey, I answered one question, now it’s your turn.” He thought for a second, dramatising the process with “hmmm”s and “eerrrr”s. “Do you like Cameron? Wait, wait, let me rephrase – do you want Cameron?”

“My god, is this a slumber party? Just a second, let me get my pink jammies!” Wilson tapped his fingers on the table top. “No. Her technical aesthetics are flawless. She’s too…perfect, to be sexy.”
“K.” Wilson shook his head and smiled a little.

“What?”

“‘Too perfect to be sexy’? What the hell does that mean?”

House laughed. “She’d be boring…ok, she’d be fun for a limited time only. But when someone looks so perfect they get by on their appearance. They don’t develop any skills.”

Wilson laughed back. “Same as Chase.”

“Oh I don’t know…his oral fixation suggests a certain love for things being in his mouth. I bet he’s got some real good techniques. Jesus, Wilson, you giggle like a little girl!”

“Well you sound like a creepy old man…did we really just discuss if Chase could give a good blowjob?”

“Just have some more to drink.” House leant over the table and nudged Wilson’s beer back to its owner. “My turn to ask a question…what is your worst memory?”

“Shit, House, you could get some real bad answers if you used that one irresponsibly. My worst memory is…when everyone in my second grade class followed me around calling me “freak” for 4 and a half days.”

“Aww.”

“Shut up.”

“That’s not your worst memory.”

“It was horrible.” Wilson protested.

“I’m sure, but it was not your worst memory. I know you; your worst memory is going to be something you feel guilty about.”

“Fine. My worst memory is of one month ago next Tuesday, when I realised that there was no way my marriage with Julie would work, and I had put her, and myself, through it all for no reason.”

“What made you realise that?”

“You’ll have to wait your turn to ask that one. I answered your first question. What precisely did you mean by that kind of a friend and deeper errors?”

“What?” House looked closely, and saw Wilson’s eyes were beginning to glaze over. He was leaving sober land. “I mean exactly what you think I meant.” This is true, if you are in fact thinking what I think you are; which is probably what you are thinking if in fact it is your knee that has been pressed with more than casual closeness against mine all night. Or something to that effect. House shook his head with a soft grunt, in an effort to clear away the bad grammar and run on sentences.

“What did you realise?”

Wilson sighed. “I knew you were going to ask that.”

“Well then you should have an answer all prepared.”

“I realised…no. I’m not telling you. I guess I lose the game.”

“My house, my rules.” House repeated. “You aren’t out of the game yet. Answer the question.”

“Well I quit. Let’s just watch a movie, relax or something.” Wilson abruptly rose from the table and walked in the living room.

House braced himself, then followed, bringing two fresh beers with him. Two bottles were held between the fingers on his one spare hand, and he wondered for a second if he would be able to pick up the pretzel bowl as well, but decided against it. Picking up his cane from its resting place on the side counter, he could see Wilson through the door running a hand over his face, his shoulders shuddering briefly. They watched the movie – something about a volcano, or earthquake, or something like that – House wasn’t really paying attention, in silence. He ran over thoughts in his head, processing information and always coming up with the same, vaguely disturbing answer. The fact that they were on a large couch but still sat in contact, that Wilson flinched when House reached across him for the remote and let out a shaky breath when he moved back fuelled House’s theories. When the thought had crossed his mind earlier…it had been an idea, a whim, which had grown roots at Wilson’s shocked reaction. His hurt reaction.

“Ok, what was it?” House poked Wilson in the arm.

“Hmm?”

“What did you realise?”

“House, will you just drop it?”

“No. And I’m not going to until you tell me. I’m also going to operate on my personal theory to see if I get any definite response.”

“Meaning what?”

House brought his face in close to Wilson’s, so their lips were almost touching, and looked into his eyes. “Oh I don’t know…” He didn’t move.

Wilson held his gaze.

House pushed his body closer.

Wilson sharply drew in a breath.

House winked.

“I realised…I realised I wanted to do this.” Wilson closed the space between their lips.

PART TWO

House pulled back, breathing heavily, with his heart racing, pounding so much it felt as though his chest was about to crack open. He stared at Wilson, watching as his eyes fluttered open. "What the…why did you do that?"

"I thought you…I mean…you wanted to know!"

"Words would have passed on the message just as effectively." House dryly, shuffling back to his end of the couch.

"Oh and that’s why you decided manipulate me by throwing yourself at me? Either you knew, or you had no idea and just happen to enjoy close bodily contact." Wilson felt sick. The butterflies that had been in his stomach sprouted razors on the end of their wings. Anger welled up in him when he recalled House’s taste, though at House or himself he could not tell.

"I suspected. I didn’t think you actually…I mean, I didn’t think you would…"
Wilson laughed harshly. "Don’t tell me that you, of all people, actually have a problem with this."

"I think most people would have a problem with their best friend’s tongue being in their mouth." House’s head span a little bit then. His best friend had just kissed him…Wilson had just kissed him. Lips. Wilson’s lips, his lips. Wilson’s hips…no, wait, why his mind going there all of a sudden? He felt a faint flush start to creep over his face and broke eye contact. First the slumber party, now I can’t look at him. It’s official; I’m a thirteen year old girl.

“Right, of course.” Wilson stood and tried to walk out past House, who thwacked his cane against Wilson’s chest. He turned to go the other way and his foot collided with a leg of the coffee table. “Fuck!” His beer had fallen and was rapidly spilling out all over the floor. He bent down and hit his head on the corner of the table.
He heard a soft laugh behind him. “Screw you, House.”

“You wish.” He chuckled louder. He couldn’t think of any other way to react. This was ridiculous, a completely absurd situation.

“It’s not funny!” Wilson rose again, this time hitting his knee. “What the hell did I ever do to you?” he yelled at the coffee table, his shoulders shaking, half way between laughing and crying.

House hauled himself out of the chair and stood behind Wilson, who appeared to have turned into a quivering wreck in the middle of his living room. He laid a hand on his shoulder and spoke softly, “Take a breath, Jimmy.”
Wilson shrugged his shoulders, a weak protest at House’s proximity. House just squeezed briefly. Humiliation washed over him, looking down at the spilled beer now forming a dark patch on the red carpet, his shoes haphazard by the door where he had slipped them off as he came in, his jacket slung over his suitcase, still by the door. Above his suitcase, which contained the few things that seemed relevant to his life, was the mirror – a silver circle in an angular frame. He could see himself, trembling with hunched posture and streaks down his face which suddenly alerted to him that he was crying. This was what he amounted to; the bags, the pathetic person in the mirror. And the warmth from the hand on his shoulder. “I’m alright,” he whispered.

“Yeah, I know.” House whispered in return.
~
Wilson felt House shifting behind him, and heard his hand rubbing against his thigh. He hadn’t heard the rattle of a Vicodin bottle since House stood up, and now they’d been here…Wilson didn’t know how long, but his own muscles were starting to stiffen so House must be in pain. He peeled open his eyes, not that he had been aware that they were closed. Salty deposits irritated in the corners and he rubbed them away. “House?”

“Yeah?” His breath ruffled the hairs on the back of Wilson’s neck.
The house suddenly seemed so quiet. “I…ok, I think we should sit down now.” The hairs ruffled again on the back of his neck when House exhaled in a short, silent laugh.
They sat at the kitchen table, facing each other with the pizza box between just as it had been earlier. It seemed a lot colder now. House spoke first. “You could have said something sooner. You should have.”

“Yeah, ‘cus who would want to delay going through this?”

“So…you’ve been through numerous-” House raised his eyebrows as he wrapped his tongue around the word “numerous” – “relationships with women, and now you’ve decided that you’re gay?”

“I haven’t decided I just…it’s become something I’m interested in exploring.”

“With me?”

“With you.”

“Ok.” It all felt fake. Filling in the lines that were expected, asking the predictable questions…not saying what you wanted to. Not saying the thing that was constantly pushing to the front of your mind, the one sentence that forever sat on the tip of your tongue. “You realise how much this could screw up our friendship?” What? I wasn’t even thinking that.

“I know; it would be a risk. I don’t even know if I want to do anything, but the feelings are there.” Wilson sounded like he was reading from a script. “Do you…feel anything?”

“I don’t know.” Don’t lie, Greg.

“Ok.” Wilson laughed uneasily. “This is awkward.”

“Yeah.” They sat in silence for a few minutes.

“I think there’s something wrong with me. I mean, sure I might be gay but I know what you’re like and still want to be with you? That’s just messed up.”

“Can’t argue there. Of course it’s not like I relish the idea of dating the man who hasn’t been able to be faithful in a relationship for longer than it takes most people to consider a proposal.”

“Yeah, but admit it, you’d love to tell Cameron that you’re gay.” Wilson smiled, and House smiled back.

“I must be tired – it’s actually starting to sound appealing.”

“It’s like…” Wilson checked his watch, “2 a.m. Sleep now?”

“Yeah and look…we’re friends. Probably best to leave it at that for now.”
Wilson slept on the couch, under rough blankets and on a too-soft pillow. He knew he would wake intermittently throughout the night; that is if I ever got to sleep in the first place. House slept in his bed, familiar sheets and pillows, the same ones he sunk into every night, and just like every night, he could not sleep. Usually his leg kept him tense for a couple of hours, now he replayed the events of the evening, going over and over the conversations. Not one word was true.

PART THREE

Click. Click. House groaned and rolled over, pulling his blankets up around his chin. How fast did that man’s toenails grow? He’d been keeping count; Wilson clipped them every other morning. Perhaps it was indicative of OCD. House smirked to himself as a clinic patient from the previous day floated into his mind – a young woman who was convinced she had OCD because she washed her hands every time she went to the bathroom. Some people should not be allowed to mix in society. House opened his eyes and, feeling a huge weight on his eyelids, closed them again. If this was a good day, he could get another 12 minutes sleep before the persistent wurr of the blow dryer drew him fully into the waking world.

House settled back to enjoy the remaining peace, soaking up the warmth of his body that trapped by the sheets and making the most of the simple, fuzzy world before his mind had kicked in and letting his leg wake up. His eyes shot open. The fuzzy world disappeared with a sharp intake of breath. Last night. Last night with Wilson. He groped within his mind for a second to assure himself it had been real and not part of a deeply disturbing concoction cooked up by his subconscious mind. The feel of Wilson’s lips on his own, the taste, the warmth, it all lingered at the back of his mind and destroyed any protests House might have made as to the reality of the situation.

He stared at the ceiling. It wasn’t even – little flakes of paint, or was it plaster, were only just defying gravity and the colour had faded to not-quite-white. The blow dryer started for a moment, and then stopped. There was a knock at his door and Wilson’s head poked around without waiting for a response, damp hair sticking to his forehead.

“Gonna be late if you don’t get up soon.”

House groaned again, but Wilson had already left, gone back to making himself pretty for the day.

As had become the norm, House took the halt of the blow dryer, the sound of the bathroom door clicking shut and Wilson scuffling around in the kitchen as his cue to haul himself out of bed. Discarding his t-shirt and pyjama pants, House pulled fresh clothes for the day (ironed by Wilson, he was sure, though his room-mate refused to admit to this fact) from his cupboard and dumped them on his bed. He paused to dry-swallow his first Vicodin of the day. Dressing was a slow process. House pulled one pant leg on, his right, while balancing putting his weight onto his undamaged leg. He then sat on the edge of the bed the pull other one on. This was his morning ritual, every morning, always the same. The late night before made this morning easier; there was still at least a small amount of Vicodin in his system. He could smell pancakes.

Wilson passed the maple syrup across the table to House after he served the pancakes. Apart from muttered “good mornings” nothing had been said, and though that wasn’t unusual – after all, House was hardly a morning person – it felt awkward. The silence had an expectant presence. Wilson slowly ran his finger around the ring that had been left of the table from a beer bottle. The air still smelt faintly of pizza, underneath the scent of pancakes. House was attacking his breakfast with aplomb, after thoroughly dousing them with syrup (which he had informed Wilson one morning was the only real way to eat them), and Wilson followed suit though without the poise, confidence or attacking. So really, Wilson just ate his breakfast staring at the table to avoid eye contact.

House took his plate to the sink and it clattered in, hitting cutlery and other china. He went to leave the kitchen when Wilson’s spoke, his voice seeming loud, though unsure, breaking into the silence.

“It’s your day for the washing up.”

House turned. “You lie.”

“It’s Wednesday. Wednesday is your day.”

“I think you’ll find, after the recent incident when I may or may not have skipped my day, that Wednesday has become your day.” House stated as a matter of fact.

“I can’t cook unless the cooking implements are clean.” Wilson stared at House, calmly looking up at him from his seat at the table, unmoving.

“Are you threatening to withhold food?”

Wilson nodded.

House laughed. “Bastard. I taught you too well.” His smile was genuine. Things were still as close to normal as they ever were.

PART FOUR

House watched Wilson pushing the chicken stir fry around on his plate; his fork grated against the ceramic in a sharp, piercing sound and he set the plate down. He had been quiet every evening for the past week, and “unavailable” at every lunch time. Conversation had been stilted, the simple answering of questions usually with no more than a grunt of agreement or a short, obligatory laugh. House hated small talk, had no idea how to keep it up, but the silence was unbearable. He spent the evening commenting on TV, on the food, talking about patients and all the while it was like Wilson wasn’t even there. He was simply delivering a dull, irrelevant monologue. Things had picked up with the poker game. Alcohol was flowing and people were around to act as buffers for any awkwardness. House fell back into his usual pattern of friendly mockery, and Wilson had responded as expected. Soon, Esther and cards had taken over, and House allowed the memory of Wilson’s lips against his to slip from his mind.

Hell, he even started playing up to it like he used to before it actually was something. Waggling a cigar in Wilson’s face in that exact manner could only be interpreted one way, even if its intention was to gain knowledge of his hand of cards. The next morning had come around and they were both exhausted, but elated in their own ways. House had saved the kid, solved Esther’s case, seen Wilson smiling and punching the air in triumph at his poker win, and Wilson had won the poker tournament and seen House content at his own victory. 7am and half asleep, they had gone home together making juvenile jokes about penises (the best kind).

House had fallen against him as they went into the apartment, just for a second. His face was flushed and his mouth ever so slightly open. Wilson could feel his breath on his neck and the warmth radiating from his body. He held his gaze for a moment too long.

Now it was evening and mostly uneaten meals were on the coffee table, positioned so not to be knocked off by feet, the smell of vegetables, spice and meat cloyed the air. House slipped into a trance, focusing on the monotony of the television and jumped when Wilson’s voice snapped.

“So we’re just not gonna talk about it at all then?” It was the fifth time he had opened his mouth to speak in the past 25 minutes, and the only time that any sound had come out.

“Oh. I figured…I didn’t think we needed to.” He didn’t need to ask what.

“Right. Of course not.” Wilson turned up the TV and folded his arms.

“Hey, now.” House found himself inexplicably brushing his hand against his friends arm. As soon as the uncharacteristic nature of the action struck him, it was too late to undo and he had no option but to feel uncomfortable, “Is there anything else you want to say?”

“Don’t bullshit me, House. Like I don’t feel stupid enough already.”

Ah, right. That’s why I don’t bother being nice. “Fine then. If you aren’t gonna talk, stop bringing it up.” House pulled himself out of his seat, picked up his and Wilson’s half eaten meal and took the dishes to the kitchen. He tipped the remains into the garbage and dropped the plates into the sink with a short burst of water. A crack appeared on the edge of one, but House ignored it and went back to his seat on the couch. Instead of sitting on the middle cushion, as was his custom, he positioned himself to the far left.

“I’ll set up some more apartment viewings tomorrow.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Well I don’t want to stay here forever.”

House blinked, hurt. He was hurt and more importantly, surprised at being hurt. He didn’t want Wilson to move out, but he knew he would at some point. No, House realised what his problem here was; Wilson wasn’t just moving out, House had driven him out. “Fair enough.” He said, dejected.

Wilson sighed, shook his head and stood up, striding to the bathroom. “I’m gonna get ready for bed.”

House snapped. “What the hell do you want from me?”

He thought he heard Wilson mutter as he left the room. “Perhaps some sign that you actually give a crap.”

~

Wilson kicked out his legs in a lame attempt to untwist the duvet and cover his feet. His toes twitched. He wasn’t tired – he had slept for several hours this morning then went to work in the afternoon, just to keep a few bits and pieces ticking over. Even if he was tired, he doubted sleep would come easily tonight. His mind raced in the circles that had become so familiar over the past few months. He replayed everything House had said to him, every possible interpretation of every sign and realised, with a sharp feeling rising in his stomach, that he hadn’t been given a flat out rejection. Damn it, Wilson didn’t want this. Back and forth, back and forth with feelings and thoughts and fantasies, and all he wanted was to curl up at home with his wife. Wilson rolled his eyes in the dark. His wife, whom he hadn’t given as much thought to as one might expect considering the circumstance. His wife, whom he had barely cried over. His wife, who a part of him had been secretly relieved to find was cheating on him. It simplified things. It made everything hurt like hell, but it wasn’t his responsibility to do the right thing, to try anymore. It wasn’t his guilt.

House tensed his whole body then relaxed it, in a lame attempt to make his thigh stop aching to move. He pushed one hand down under the covers and slowly ran it up and down the offending leg, pressing as hard as he could take, feeling every inch of the scar through thin cotton. A part of him still shone with elation at solving Esther’s case, it was a warmth that would radiate for many days to come, but it was tainted by Wilson. House couldn’t understand the sudden change. Things had been awkward, then better and now suddenly so much worse again. House barely allowed himself to admit it inside his own head, but his mind had been flicking back to Wilson suggestion that they explore the possibility of a relationship between them and it was becoming less and less unpleasant with every passing moment. And now he was actually scared that Wilson might leave. House rolled over and sighed. Head-fuck city.

PART FIVE

“I suppose you haven’t found an apartment yet, then?” House looked quizzically at Wilson as he pushed through the door and dumped his briefcase on the floor like he was angry with it.

“No.” He stalked into the kitchen.

House heard pots and pans clinging and clattering. He tipped his head, the back of the couch against his neck, and dragged his hands across his face. He had two options here – let Wilson get on with it, or go and try to make peace. The second option was made it more likely he would keep his only friend. Of course, there was a third option, but House pretended it hadn’t even crossed his mind. “Fuck it” he muttered, heaving out of the chair and padding across the carpet in his socks.

House leant on the kitchen counter. He opened his mouth and closed it again, truly unsure of how this situation was supposed to work. Wilson shot him a glance that could have been fiery, but had weakened to its last embers. “You don’t have to move out.”

“I shouldn’t imagine it’s very comfortable for you to have me living here.”

“Keep your hands to yourself, and it’s all good.” House winced at the look that crossed Wilson’s features. He took a step closer and laid his hand on his arm, tentatively, “I like having you living here.”

Wilson loved that House showed him those little vulnerable moments, and he knew there was no one else he did it to. He hated that House would only show him in order to fix something, and only when it served House himself. He shrugged the hand off. “I don’t.”

“Then why don’t you go to a goddamn hotel?” House went back to his position in the living room.

* * *

House didn’t think he could take another night like this. He was no stranger to insomnia, but found it was a lot less fun when what was on his mind was so important, when he spent the time lying in bed, blue eyes focused on the ceiling and feeling the pressure build behind them. His throat started itching. Stumbling a little in the dark, not wanting to wake Wilson, House found his way to the kitchen. Dishes lay dirty in the sink. Wanting to avoid whatever it was he had stubbed his toe on walking behind the couch, he went in front this time, praying the coffee table was in a good mood. Wilson’s face glittered in the light that shone from the crack opening of his bedroom door.

Blurry from lack of sleep that he sorely needed, House found himself sitting on the edge of the table, level with Wilson’s face. A thought flitted through his mind that this made him ever so slightly creepy. There were tear stains on Wilson’s cheeks, as well as a smear from leftovers he must have eaten after House had retired to his room. Though there was something haunting about his sleeping image, the peace over him that House had not seen in months, he looked ridiculous. The image was spoiled. House dipped his thumb into his glass of water, then gently wiped the stains from Wilson’s face.

His eyes flickered open.

“House?”

“Yeah.”

“What are you doing?”

“You looked ridiculous. Can’t you eat like a grown-up?” House’s voice was low, warm.

“Can’t you act like one?”

House pulled a face. Wilson laughed sleepily. He swung his legs around to sit up, and House took up the space next to him.

“Y’know…if I was gay, I wouldn’t hesitate.”

“House, I’m not gay.”

“So the tongue was just being friendly?”

“This isn’t…it’s not about sex. It’s not because I want to fuck you. It’s because I want…to be closer. Closer than we can be as just friends-”

House interrupted. “You sound like a woman.”

“If you aren’t gonna listen, go back to bed.” House didn’t move, so Wilson continued. “It’s because this isn’t enough anymore. Our friendship is…the strongest thing I’ve ever felt.”

“Then why can’t it stay that way?”

“Can you keep your mouth shut for two minutes? It’s stronger than what I’ve had in any relationship with a woman, and it’s lasted longer. My feelings for you,” Wilson bowed his head, waiting for the laughter that would surely follow, “they transcend love. The way I want to express that…I want to be close. Physically close. In you, part of you.”

House didn’t move.

Wilson looked up. “You can talk now.”

House’s lips closed on his, soft and warm. He planted soft, small kisses on Wilson’s lower lip, gently pulling it back between his own. Wilson slid his hands up House’s back, feeling the muscles ripple beneath his thin night shirt. Heat filled his mouth, probing into every corner and he kissed back with passion, relief flooding from him. House could taste the peppermint toothpaste in Wilson’s mouth. Their bodies pressed together, House marvelled at the warmth, the security and love and Wilson’s touch, the feel of his heart beating against his own. The warmth they were sharing. A hand wound its way down House’s chest, making him quiver. It reached his groin, and House flinched, tensing in Wilson’s arms.

Wilson pulled back and lent his forehead against House’s. “Are you ok?”

“I don’t think…” House looked down at his pants, and the hand that now hovered over his thigh. “I don’t think I can. The Vicodin…” he muttered.

“That’s-” Before Wilson had a chance to finish his sentence, House wriggled out of his embrace and limped to the kitchen.

***

Wilson had been sat on the couch in a daze, for how long he didn’t know, before finally snapping back to reality and following House. He pulled two beers from the fridge and settled himself at the table, the chair opposite where House sat.

“The Vicodin wasn’t a problem with Stacy.”

House lowered his eyes to the table.

“If you weren’t interested, what the hell did you do that for?”

“What you said. You were right. About us, about…all of it. I thought…I wanted that.” House finished feebly.

“Clearly, you didn’t.”

“I wanted…to give you what you wanted. To try, for you. For everything you feel. I can’t believe you feel all that.”

“You don’t?” Wilson met his eyes and held them.

“I…yeah, I do, but I’m fairly certain that loving you is easier than loving me.”

“I don’t care if it’s easy or not.”

“Well that’s the difference. You can fight all the time for some false glimmer of hope, but I can’t.”

“You’re perfectly good at giving the false hope, then pulling the rug out.”

“I’m sorry.”

Wilson watched House walk back to his room, hand rested on the small of his back for support. His anger dissipated when he realised something.

House had tried, for him. That meant more than anything they could have done together. For the time being at least, it was enough to content Wilson that he could keep his part in the game, that one day House might drop the "defense is the best form of attack" mechanism, and one of Wilson's pieces could make it to the other side.

Games, Part Four

Sun, 16 Apr 2006 21:51:53 GMT

Title: Games, 4/5
Author: Kiwi
Rating: Pg-13 for one naughty word.
Summary: Following the canonical (is that a word? If not, it should be) line of the episodes currently being shown in the US. This is what's going after the credits roll.
Warnings: Spoilers for "Sex Kills" onwards.
Notes: The next part will be the last one, and to me this chap feels a little too much like a stepping stone to that point. Short, and basically just a set up of where our guys have gotten to. Part One Part Two Part Three

Games – Part Four.

House watched Wilson pushing the chicken stir fry around on his plate; his fork grated against the ceramic in a sharp, piercing sound and he set the plate down. He had been quiet every evening for the past week, and “unavailable” at every lunch time. Conversation had been stilted, the simple answering of questions usually with no more than a grunt of agreement or a short, obligatory laugh. House hated small talk, had no idea how to keep it up, but the silence was unbearable. He spent the evening commenting on TV, on the food, talking about patients and all the while it was like Wilson wasn’t even there. He was simply delivering a dull, irrelevant monologue. Things had picked up with the poker game. Alcohol was flowing and people were around to act as buffers for any awkwardness. House fell back into his usual pattern of friendly mockery, and Wilson had responded as expected. Soon, Esther and cards had taken over, and House allowed the memory of Wilson’s lips against his to slip from his mind.

Hell, he even started playing up to it like he used to before it actually was something. Waggling a cigar in Wilson’s face in that exact manner could only be interpreted one way, even if its intention was to gain knowledge of his hand of cards. The next morning had come around and they were both exhausted, but elated in their own ways. House had saved the kid, solved Esther’s case, seen Wilson smiling and punching the air in triumph at his poker win, and Wilson had won the poker tournament and seen House content at his own victory. 7am and half asleep, they had gone home together making juvenile jokes about penises (the best kind).

House had fallen against him as they went into the apartment, just for a second. His face was flushed and his mouth ever so slightly open. Wilson could feel his breath on his neck and the warmth radiating from his body. He held his gaze for a moment too long.

Now it was evening and mostly uneaten meals were on the coffee table, positioned so not to be knocked off by feet, the smell of vegetables, spice and meat cloyed the air. House slipped into a trance, focusing on the monotony of the television and jumped when Wilson’s voice snapped.

“So we’re just not gonna talk about it at all then?” It was the fifth time he had opened his mouth to speak in the past 25 minutes, and the only time that any sound had come out.

“Oh. I figured…I didn’t think we needed to.” He didn’t need to ask what.

“Right. Of course not.” Wilson turned up the TV and folded his arms.

“Hey, now.” House found himself inexplicably brushing his hand against his friends arm. As soon as the uncharacteristic nature of the action struck him, it was too late to undo and he had no option but to feel uncomfortable, “Is there anything else you want to say?”

“Don’t bullshit me, House. Like I don’t feel stupid enough already.”

Ah, right. That’s why I don’t bother being nice. “Fine then. If you aren’t gonna talk, stop bringing it up.” House pulled himself out of his seat, picked up his and Wilson’s half eaten meal and took the dishes to the kitchen. He tipped the remains into the garbage and dropped the plates into the sink with a short burst of water. A crack appeared on the edge of one, but House ignored it and went back to his seat on the couch. Instead of sitting on the middle cushion, as was his custom, he positioned himself to the far left.

“I’ll set up some more apartment viewings tomorrow.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Well I don’t want to stay here forever.”

House blinked, hurt. He was hurt and more importantly, surprised at being hurt. He didn’t want Wilson to move out, but he knew he would at some point. No, House realised what his problem here was; Wilson wasn’t just moving out, House had driven him out. “Fair enough.” He said, dejected.

Wilson sighed, shook his head and stood up, striding to the bathroom. “I’m gonna get ready for bed.”

House snapped. “What the hell do you want from me?”

He thought he heard Wilson mutter as he left the room. “Perhaps some sign that you actually give a crap.”

~

Wilson kicked out his legs in a lame attempt to untwist the duvet and cover his feet. His toes twitched. He wasn’t tired – he had slept for several hours this morning then went to work in the afternoon, just to keep a few bits and pieces ticking over. Even if he was tired, he doubted sleep would come easily tonight. His mind raced in the circles that had become so familiar over the past few months. He replayed everything House had said to him, every possible interpretation of every sign and realised, with a sharp feeling rising in his stomach, that he hadn’t been given a flat out rejection. Damn it, Wilson didn’t want this. Back and forth, back and forth with feelings and thoughts and fantasies, and all he wanted was to curl up at home with his wife. Wilson rolled his eyes in the dark. His wife, whom he hadn’t given as much thought to as one might expect considering the circumstance. His wife, whom he had barely cried over. His wife, who a part of him had been secretly relieved to find was cheating on him. It simplified things. It made everything hurt like hell, but it wasn’t his responsibility to do the right thing, to try anymore. It wasn’t his guilt.

House tensed his whole body then relaxed it, in a lame attempt to make his thigh stop aching to move. He pushed one hand down under the covers and slowly ran it up and down the offending leg, pressing as hard as he could take, feeling every inch of the scar through thin cotton. A part of him still shone with elation at solving Esther’s case, it was a warmth that would radiate for many days to come, but it was tainted by Wilson. House couldn’t understand the sudden change. Things had been awkward, then better and now suddenly so much worse again. House barely allowed himself to admit it inside his own head, but his mind had been flicking back to Wilson suggestion that they explore the possibility of a relationship between them and it was becoming less and less unpleasant with every passing moment. And now he was actually scared that Wilson might leave. House rolled over and sighed. Head-fuck city.

Luck

Sat, 15 Apr 2006 19:36:02 GMT

Title: Luck
Author: Kiwi
Rating: All ages
Pairing: HouseWilson
Warnings: Spoilers, in the form of a quote only, for Safe.
Summary: It all comes down to luck.
Notes: Really short. This was actually meant to be a drabble, but I ended up having too much that I really wanted to say.

Luck

You could create the perfect person inside your head, your ideal and perhaps if you were lucky you could find them in the real world as well. If you were really lucky, someone would come into your life that blew your ideal out the window, being nothing you expected but redefining everything you wanted and needed. They’d make you smile that smile.

Wow, looks like someone filed half way through your cane while you were asleep.

If you were really, really lucky, you would be able to tell them. You wouldn’t keep it all inside your head for fear that your happiness would become their property.

Do you really think this is going to end well, for anyone?

House knows all about luck, because when luck is what it comes down to, it's one less thing to hate yourself for.

Update

Sat, 15 Apr 2006 17:14:46 GMT

I haven't posted for weeks again. I am sorry. Soon, I promise I will update everything I have that needs updating. Even Solace. What I need to do:
Finish chapter four of "Games" (It *is* started)
Write chapter five of "Solace"
Write my submission for hw_fest
Write the story for a "Behind Blue Eyes" bunny from karaokegal
Perhaps write a continuation of "Bored"
Write some angry smut (cus I need it!)

Anything else?