Title: Wilson's Sex Substitute
Author: hwshipper
Pairings: House/Wilson, House/OFC
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Heel and Toe Films, Shore Z Productions and Bad Hat Harry Productions in association with Universal Media Studios.
Beta: the ever-helpful lazy_nightowl
A/N: This fic was a scene in the last part of Twenty Years of Stealing My Food, deleted for length and re-written as a standalone.
Summary: House has a weekend affair with a married woman. Wilson's lurking around.
Excerpt: Wilson's eyes skated back to the living room, and he stepped back into it and looked around. "It's tidy in here. House, I haven't seen it this tidy since... since I last stayed here. Something's going on."
Wilson's Sex Substitute
House didn't do seminars. Like he didn't do clinic duty, which he had managed to evade ever since he had been working at Princeton Plainsboro. But Cuddy was adamant that he go to this seminar. It was, after all, about diagnostics; and as the only hospital on the eastern seaboard with a department of diagnostic medicine, the hospital would be a laughing stock if its head didn't attend such a seminar.
House didn't give up without a fight. "It's a whole afternoon, and it's a two-hour drive away. On a Friday! Who organizes seminars for a Friday afternoon? And how am I supposed to spend four hours in a car in one day? My leg will seize up and then you'll be sorry. And I am not wearing a tie."
Cuddy eventually conceded that the hospital would pay for a motel for one night, so he wouldn't have to drive back that evening. "And you don't have to wear a tie, but you will wear a shirt with a proper jacket."
The seminar was not actually that bad in terms of content, but House had no patience these days for the whole networking-over-coffee-and-drinks-at-the-bar thing. He made his contributions by interrupting proceedings with questions and following papers with strings of devastating queries and observations, some of which were intended simply to annoy, some of which were astute and cut to the heart of the matter. The latter caused people round the room to nod and mutter that the legendary Dr. House had lost nothing when he had become crippled a few years before.
House went outside during the coffee break simply to escape. He called Wilson to pass some time.
"Hey, House. How's it going?" Wilson asked.
"Hell on earth. I'm stuck in a room full of idiots and sycophants. Worse, they want to repeat the whole thing next year and have me give a paper. Don't you dare tell Cuddy or she'll expect me to do it."
House could feel Wilson smiling down the line. "Hang on in there. Is there a dinner afterwards?"
"A booze-fest, you mean? Actually no, most people are off to catch flights home. So not even any consolation free food and drink."
"If you give a paper next year, you can demand free food and drink," Wilson suggested innocently.
"So not worth it. And my motel! Cuddy's gonna pay for this. It's called the Fleapit Motel, and it lives up to its name."
"It can't possibly be called the Fleapit Motel."
"The sign outside originally said the Flowerpot Motel, but it's long since been graffitied over. And it is a fleapit. I am not going to get any sleep in that bed tonight."
Wilson sighed. "Go sit in a bar somewhere; get laid perhaps."
"I will go sit in a bar. What are you up to?"
"Julie's giving a dinner party tonight." Wilson's tone was distinctly unenthusiastic. House was amused. Wilson was, of course, excellent at dinner parties. But Julie was on a roll at the moment; there seemed to be one every other night, which Wilson was obviously getting tired of.
House glanced at his watch. "Better go, the session re-started half an hour ago."
The seminar had been held in a nondescript conference center which was not a whole lot nicer than House's fleapit motel. When it was finally over, he ambled off down the road where he had noticed a much bigger and swankier hotel. Through the window House could see a bar which looked nice and warm and comfortable. He decided he would definitely get Cuddy to pay for this hotel next year. Not that there would be a next year, of course.
He went in and sat at the bar with a whiskey. Gradually he felt the stress of the day dissipate. Then he noticed a piano in the corner of the room, a white baby grand, quietly calling to him.
"Mind if I play?" he asked the bartender, who shrugged.
House sat at the piano, put his whiskey glass on top of the lid, tucked his cane around the side, and launched into a series of Chopin nocturnes which were beautiful and peaceful, and almost alleviated the thought of the Fleapit Motel bed awaiting later. He wondered if he could stay in this swanky hotel instead and wheedle the money out of Cuddy afterwards. He didn't rate his chances. It might be worth doing anyway.
Suddenly he became aware of a woman leaning on the top of the piano, listening. He barely glanced at her and carried on playing.
"I love Chopin," she said. "Do you know any of the Impromptus?"
"I don't do requests," House muttered, not looking up.
"I'm Clara, by the way," she said.
House didn't volunteer his own name. He really wasn't in the mood for this.
"And you're Dr. Gregory House," she said brightly.
That caught him off-guard and got him to look at her. No, he definitely didn't know her! How the fuck did she know him? She smiled at his obvious surprise, and nodded downwards. He glanced down and saw his suit jacket on the piano stool next to him. The seminar name badge, Dr. Gregory House. Head of Diagnostic Medicine, Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, was clearly visible. He shook his head in annoyance at being so easily fooled.
"You're some way away from Princeton here," she said. "Up for a night? Staying at this hotel?"
House wasn't intending to say anything further to her, but this hit a nerve. "I wish. My boss has stuck me in the Fleapit Motel down the road."
"Oh dear." She swirled her drink in her glass. "Well, you could always come home with me instead."
House was caught off balance again, and this time fumbled a note. This annoyed him in turn, and he snapped, "I'm off hookers at the moment."
She didn't appear to be insulted. "Actually, my husband and son are away at Disneyworld this weekend, so I'm on my own. I live in a nice house nearby. Comfortable bed. Definitely no fleas."
"Sorry, not tempted," House said breezily. "I'm married too. Three kids, happily ever after."
"You are not married." She sounded certain.
"Alright, I've got a gay lover and we fuck like bunnies every night."
Incredibly, this didn't daunt her either. "No, you don't."
Her perseverance finally caught House's attention. Her statement made him curious, so he stopped playing and looked at her properly. He reached for his glass on top of the piano and asked, "So what kind of wife and mother lets her family go to Disneyworld without her?"
She shrugged. "I had a big fight with my husband just before we were due to leave--he was cheating on me. With a work colleague. We couldn't disappoint our son by not going at all--he's six, and he's been looking forward to it for months. So they went, and I stayed home. But I got lonely, so I came out looking for a little company."
A revenge fuck, House thought. And why not? She was very attractive. Tall, with long dark hair. Pronounced cleavage visible from a tight, lacy top. No danger of any pressure to meet again, considering the hubby and son. Nor was it likely they would bump into each other again. And the alternative was a night at the Fleapit Motel. Actually it was that last point that swung it for him.
"Alright, you've persuaded me," he said gruffly.
She looked surprised and pleased. "I'll just get my coat." She turned and walked across the room towards the coat stand. House drained his glass, picked up his jacket, and stood up, leaning on the piano, watching her legs. Suddenly he saw the bartender looking at him with a world-weary expression, like he'd seen it all before. House scowled at him.
House picked up his cane and walked towards the door. As Clara approached him, he noticed her staring wide-eyed at his cane and his limp. He realized that she hadn't previously spotted the cane behind the piano. Great.
"If the idea of having sex with a cripple disgusts you, then you'd better say so right now before we waste each other's time," House said bluntly.
"No." She kept looking down, her eyes fixed on his hand resting on the top of the cane. "Far from it." And she placed a hand on his hand, just lightly, for a few seconds.
House inhaled sharply, as if she'd put a hand on his cock.
She walked out of the bar, and House followed as if on an invisible string.
Back at Clara's home, a large detached house on a nice suburban street, the answering machine in the hallway was flashing a red light. She ushered House into a room and excused herself, closing the door behind her.
House found himself in a living room, spacious and impeccably furnished. He wandered around and saw a raft of framed photographs on the sideboard: Clara, a dark-haired man, and a boy pictured in various stages from baby in crib to small sturdy boy posed in immaculate school uniform.
What the hell am I doing here? House wondered. His eye fell on a liquor cabinet, and he figured since he was there he might as well have a drink.
When Clara reappeared, he was comfortably ensconced on the big leather couch with a glass of bourbon, feet up on the coffee table, watching a late-night movie.
"Hubby checking up on you?" House asked brightly.
"Hubby apologizing and saying he hoped I was having a nice evening," Clara said, crossing the room to pour herself a drink.
"And you said 'oh yeah, just picked up a stranger in a bar for a revenge fuck,'" House said.
"Perhaps I should have." Clara's lips quirked a little, and she took a sip of her bourbon. She came to sit on the couch next to House, tucking her feet up underneath her. She cradled her drink in one hand and reached out to touch House's head ever lightly with her other hand, tweaking lightly at his hair.
House kept his eyes fixed on the TV screen. She continued to stroke at his hair for a minute, then asked abruptly, "Why are you here?"
"Friend of mine told me I should get laid tonight," House said. He wanted to kick himself; he'd intended to speak as if in jest, but because that was actually true, it came out sounding serious. Her fingers pulling at his hair suddenly felt as if they were sensing the truth, pulling confessions out of him. He veered the other way, going on, "Anyway, I'm a guy. I get offered no-strings sex by a hot woman in a bar. I need a reason to say yes?"
"No; but it clearly bothers you that I'm married."
"I think you're projecting your guilt onto me," House observed. "You should talk to my friend Wilson sometime; he has a very strange conception of fidelity in married life too."
"I think maybe there's someone else you'd rather be with," said Clara.
Now House was sure she somehow had a hotline to his thoughts, and suddenly aware he'd mentioned Wilson twice in the last minute, he hastened to lay a false trail. "That would probably be my girlfriend of five years, who dumped me when this happened." He indicated his leg. Having grossly slandered Stacy, he moved on swiftly. "So, no guilt, Mrs. Married Woman?"
"I just found out he's been fucking his secretary for the last five years," she said, bitterness seeping into her voice. "It started when I was suffering postpartum depression. I don't deserve just one night myself?"
House turned his head to look at her, his cheek touching the palm of her hand. He said gruffly, "Sure you do," and next thing her mouth was on his. And then desire seeped in and flooded House's brain, and he didn't think too much about anything more for a while.
Back at home in Princeton the next afternoon, House started washing the stack of dishes which had taken over his kitchen sink. It had been a while and he was quite pleased to find he actually still had dish soap. He suspected Wilson had surreptitiously dropped it in his shopping cart a while back.
Speak of the devil... "Go away!" House shouted at the familiar knock on the door.
Wilson breezed in cheerfully, through the living room and into the kitchen. "How was the seminar?"
"Crappy. How was your dinner party?"
"Tedious. I'd rather have been in the Fleapit Motel with you."
House, who had escaped having to sleep at the Fleapit Motel entirely, went quiet at that. Wilson didn't notice because he was too busy staring at House's hands in the kitchen sink. "House, you're doing the dishes! What's the occasion?" Wilson's eyes skated back to the living room, and he stepped back into it and looked around. "It's tidy in here. House, I haven't seen it this tidy since... since I last stayed here. Something's going on." He walked back into the kitchen. House stared mutinously into the sink. He hated it when Wilson did the differential diagnosis on him.
"You're expecting a visitor," Wilson concluded. "For dinner, which is why you need the dishes. And someone you want to impress, which is why you've tidied up. You met someone at the seminar!"
"Did not," House snapped.
"Afterwards, then. In the bar? Don't tell me you took my advice and got laid?" Wilson watched House carefully. House tried to look impassive and off-putting, but failed. "You did. And she's coming over for dinner? Does she know she's likely to get fed takeout pizza and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?"
House put a plate down on the drying rack with unnecessary force. "Fuck off and mind your own business."
Wilson sat down instead and just looked at House with bright eyes. House thought for a moment, then said, "OK, this is the deal. I'll tell you about her if you make your Vietnamese beef stew for tonight, and take off before she arrives."
Wilson blinked. "The Vietnamese beef stew takes two hours simmering, plus preparation, and you won't have any of the ingredients. We'll have to go shopping." He looked at his watch. It was 2.00. "When is she arriving?"
"5.30."
"That should be OK. Finish the dishes and we'll hit the grocery store."
They wandered round the store, House pushing the cart (or rather, leaning on the cart while it drifted) and Wilson systematically plucking items off the shelves. "So, go on House, tell me more."
"Don't get too excited." House was grumpy. "This is night two of a two-night stand. It's not the world's greatest romance." He took a deep breath, and spilled. "Her name's Clara. She's married with a 6-year-old kid. Hubby and kid are off visiting Disneyworld, back tomorrow afternoon. He screwed around, so she went out looking for a revenge fuck. I happened to be in the right place at the right time. Or the wrong place, depending on your point of view. So I skipped the Fleapit Motel for a night in her comfy king-size."
"You must have got on well, to be getting together again," Wilson wondered aloud.
House shrugged uncomfortably. Wilson was quite right; they'd got on well. The sex had been unexpectedly good, too, though he realized that, since the infarction, he had low expectations. That morning, House had been the one to suggest that Clara come to Princeton for dinner and stay at his place overnight. She'd hesitated before agreeing, insisting she absolutely had to be back home promptly the following day before her family returned.
"There's no future," he said now to Wilson. "Just one more night."
Wilson turned the heat off underneath the large pan of Vietnamese beef stew. It was steaming and smelt delicious. "Right, that's done now. Just put the heat on low half an hour before you want to eat and it'll warm up nicely."
House nodded. He didn't say "thank you," but Wilson nodded back as if he had, and went on. "And I guess I should go now?"
This time House said, "Thanks." He hesitated, and then added, "If she doesn't show, come back and help me eat the stew. I know you'll be sitting outside in your car until she arrives anyway."
Wilson had the grace to blush. "Of course she'll show."
"Humph." House was growing more doubtful by the minute.
But she did show; there was a knock on the door promptly at 5:30. House opened the door, and there she was. She moved forward and greeted him with a kiss. House peered over her head and said, "Do me a favor? Give a wave to my friend sitting in that beat-up old Volvo over there. He cooked dinner for us tonight."
She waved, and asked, "That's Wilson?"
Of course he'd mentioned Wilson. "That's right. Good memory."
"He the gay lover?"
House stared at her in alarm; surely he hadn't said any such thing! He then remembered his quip over the piano about fucking like bunnies. Of course, that had been when he was trying to get rid of her.
"I was joking about that."
"Of course you were," she said smoothly. "It's a bit tough on him out in the car, isn't it? Let's have him in, and I can meet him over coffee."
"Hang on!" House protested, but she was already moving towards the car. He watched as she reached the car and rapped on the window. Wilson, sunk deep in embarrassment in his seat, wound it down.
"James Wilson?" she said brightly. "I gather you've cooked for us this evening. Why don't you come in for coffee and meet me properly?"
Wilson looked over at House--who was trying to appear threatening in the doorway--and smiled. "Why--Clara--I'd be delighted."
House fumed silently for the next half hour while Wilson and Clara got on like... well, like a house afire. Both excelled at the small talk which House despised, and they chatted amicably about the weather and the state of the roads. Also about what was in Vietnamese beef stew, how difficult life must be as a doctor--and especially as an oncologist--and what on earth one did in PR, which had been Clara's field before giving up her job upon having her child. Wilson threw in the occasional reference to "my wife," which House silently appreciated. (The bunnies comment was worrying him slightly.)
Eventually Clara went to the bathroom. House leaned over, stabbed Wilson in the stomach with his forefinger, and said, "You've got five minutes to drink your coffee and get the hell out of here before I throw you out."
"House, she's great," Wilson said enthusiastically.
"Didn't you hear me?" House said dangerously.
Wilson sighed and drained his coffee cup. "Can you not hold on to this one?" he asked.
"She's married," House said through gritted teeth. "She's not going to leave her husband for me. Any more than you'd leave your wife for me."
That was designed to hurt, and Wilson duly went quiet.
"I have to go, anyway," he said at last. "Julie expected me back hours ago... I didn't know I was going to end up shopping and cooking for you."
"So go," House said with finality.
Wilson got up and went, silently.
Clara reappeared a minute later and looked around the room. "You sent him away."
"Damn right I did," House said. "Two's company, three's etcetera."
She sat down next to him and picked up her cup. "He seems very nice."
"Oh, he hides his fundamental screwed-up-ness very well. He's on wife number three, you know."
She considered that for a moment, sipping coffee, then remarked, "No wonder, if he keeps going around cooking Vietnamese beef stew for you."
This was such a neat encapsulation of the truth that House felt a flash of panic accelerate his heart for a few beats.
"Can we talk about something else?" he said, his tone acid. "Or better yet, not talk at all?"
Clara smiled, nodded, and put down her coffee cup.
"Well, I guess this is it," Clara said, standing in her coat in House's hallway on Sunday morning. "It's been... nice."
"Yeah," House said, very gruffly. He'd left his cane in the kitchen and suddenly missed having something to lean on. He put his hands in his jeans pockets, not wanting to risk some hideous goodbye hug. This morning had been awkward with her departure impending, although yesterday evening had indeed been nice. Very nice, partly because of the Vietnamese beef stew, partly because of the very decent sex that had followed, and partly because she was genuinely nice and easy to talk to.
She deserves better than me, House thought. Better than her cheating husband, too.
She read his stance perfectly and didn't try a hug or a handshake or any other horrific attempt at touching. Instead, to his relief, she stayed a couple of feet away and blew him a kiss. It was so much the perfect gesture that he actually smiled; she smiled back, opened the door, and was gone.
House stared at the door for a while, then ambled back into the living room and sat for a while.
He gave her a half hour head start, then got in his car and drove the two-hour trip to her house. Once there, he parked around the corner, popped some Vicodin, and settled down to lurk. He didn't have to wait long before an airport taxi swished past and turned the corner.
House got out of his car and inched around the corner, keeping well out of sight behind a large tree. The taxi stopped outside the house, and a man and a boy got out. He watched as Clara came out into the front yard to greet them, sweeping the little boy up in her arms. She then kissed the husband; a little formally perhaps, but House could see it was a reconciliation.
He turned around, got back in his car, and drove straight back home.
Wilson came into House's office late Monday afternoon holding a small paper bag. House--firmly entrenched behind his desk, with music playing and all the blinds closed--almost barked at him to go away, but he hesitated at the sight of the bag. Wilson sat down opposite House and put the bag on the desk.
"Comfort food, if you need it."
House opened the bag to find home-baked triple-chocolate-chunk cookies, still warm and slightly moist.
"I always need these." He bit into one and sighed. "Wilson, you could sell these and market them as a substitute for sex. I can see the ad campaign right now. Wilson's sex substitute: Not getting some? Come and get some."
"You're not seeing her again?" Wilson asked, cautiously.
"No," House said flatly. "Everybody leaves, remember? She went back home to hubby and kid yesterday."
"You didn't just let her go," Wilson detected. "You followed her home?"
House glared, not liking that Wilson could read him so easily. "I saw the family reunion," House said reluctantly.
"And you walked away," Wilson nodded. "Noble of you."
"Didn't you tell me I should pursue her?" House said, letting bitterness seep into his voice. "You're an idiot."
Wilson put his head on one side and said diffidently, "The cookies don't have to be a substitute, you know."
House looked up with suspicion and watched Wilson glance around the office at the closed blinds. Then Wilson got up and walked across first to one door, then to the other. A minute ago House hadn't been remotely hard, but the sight of Wilson's white coat swishing back and forth as he popped the locks, preparing for sex right there in House's office--Wilson you sex-starved bastard--well, it worked.
"I'm finally needy enough to turn you on?" House muttered, as Wilson slid behind House's side of the desk.
"Shut the fuck up." Wilson kissed House on the lips.
House sighed into Wilson's mouth, leaned back on his chair and let Wilson unzip his fly. He closed his eyes and felt the swoosh of air and rustle of clothes, as Wilson dropped to his knees and took House's cock in his mouth. Wilson offering comfort by blow job; House disapproved and did not want to dissuade him one little bit. Because as long as he could have Wilson's lips on his shaft, Wilson's tongue delicately probing his tip--the world was much more bearable.
House came in Wilson's mouth with a jerk and a gasp and felt Wilson's throat constrict as he swallowed.
Weak in post-orgasm afterglow, House made an inquiring hand gesture. Wilson shook his head and sat back on his heels, wiping his mouth.
"Lemme tell you again, because the last ten times I told you it obviously hasn't sunk in," House intoned. "Not letting me reciprocate does not somehow mean that you're not cheating on your wife."
Wilson sighed a little and got to his feet. "'Night, House."
END