Title: In for a penny, in for a pound
Author: LaSuen
Pairing: House/Wilson
Summary: House makes a bet about Wilson. Will Wilson play along?
A/N: Takes place around 6 season, the guys live together. The fic is likely to be three-chaptered. Remember, reviews are muchly appreciated :)
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"No way House would do that," says Foreman, tilting his head on one side and smiling with complacency. Though, what actually there is to be complacent about, is hard to tell.
"Well, I think it's Wilson who'd never do anything of the kind." This is Thirteen's voice, a note of mischievous glee wandering there in its sound; a biro between her thin fingers thumping on the transparent table in House's office.
Chase's pupils are moving from one colleague to the other, his brow furrowed as though in deep concentration and an attempt to imagine minutely the whole scene. "I can't believe you guys would even think of…" He falters, his face wincing at the all-too-vivid picture in his mind's eye. "This is just sick."
"Come on, Chase, it's fun!" Foreman urges.
"And it's a win-win," points out Thirteen with a sly invisible fox on her lips.
"Yeah, it is," says Foreman. "Let's make a small character diagnosis on House. First, he hates losing; second, he loves games; and third, he won't refuse because refusing itself would mean losing. Here we go. We're out to win." Foreman spreads his hands in a gesture that calls to leave all doubts behind.
"Fine," answers Chase with a deep sigh, looking quite displeased. "I'm in."
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House approaches the door, whose surface greets him with the even gilded letters saying James Wilson M.D., and due to the fact that he never was a person who'd consider it worth trying to knock, House grabs the handle and pushes it down. He enters, his appearance solemn and slightly intimidating. Maintaining the same grave expression, House closes the door shut, steps into the room and halts right in the middle.
The man at the desk goes on writing. Or, possibly, pretends to go on writing. Or both. Wilson doesn't take the trouble to acknowledge his understanding that the content of his office was in any sense changed.
Seeing as his meaningful intrusion doesn't afflict Wilson that much he hoped it'd be, House referees a local mind battle between a couch and a chair and lets the latter win. So he limps to the seat in front of Wilson, sits down and gives his friend an intense look.
"Good morning, House." Wilson says in a fake cheery voice, then looks up and proceeds in his normal one: "Now, would you rather get out of my office, because I'm working."
House arches his left eyebrow, not tearing his glance off the paper, in which his friend's hand scribbles something that suspiciously resembles recurring zigzags in the form of a heartbeat wave.
"Good morning to you, Wilson!" he says, the tone of his voice unprecedentedly friendly. "And no, you're not."
The last bit makes no impact upon Wilson, who stays altogether undisturbed by House's scrutiny. Composedly, he reaches for the nearby folder and opens it demonstratively, barricading himself from House's curiosity. House starts beating time with his fingertips on the hook of his cane. Getting bored, he leans forward and whispers in a conspiratorial manner:
"Wilson! I'm not sure if you're aware of the fact that somebody here desperately craves your attention, so I thought I'd better inform you myself."
"Very astute," comments Wilson, lowering the folder and putting on the mask of coerced attentiveness. "What is it?"
House waits a dramatic pause, making a face of a buddy in distress. The short silence draws Wilson's eyes to him.
"I made a bet."
"And you came to me because…?"
"It concerns you."
"Allright," Wilson signs, putting the folder aside and clicking his pen shut. The expression on his face gets troubled. "Now I am concerned."
"Yeah," House nods. "You would be."
"Care to beam me up?" inquires Wilson.
"You must kiss me."
The tone of his voice being that ordinary and casual, House could've perfectly said 'You must put only two spoonfuls of sugar and one lemon slice in my tea cup'. Thereupon, Wilson even feels an impulse to inspect his writing desk in search of earlier unheeded cups, saucers and sugar bowls. No success there. Thus, Wilson clears his throat and looks at House as if the latter is mentally handicapped. That is to say, almost as always. House continues:
"Well, as an option, I can kiss you first, and then you'll just have to kiss back. We've already discussed this possibility."
"Discussed?" Wilson manages, clearly on the edge of a faint. To say the least of it.
"Yeah. You can thank Thirteen afterwards. She literally teemed with ideas."
Something that's painfully close to panic is written all over Wilson's face. He stares blankly at House, neither averting his eyes, nor blushing, nor speaking and nor even giving out any sign of awareness. Only his eyes run the gamut of emotions from utter astonishment to sheer consternation.
"Ideas?" echoes Wilson. "House!"
"Eider!"
"What?" asks Wilson in confusion.
"Ah, you meant me. I thought we were playing this word game."
"You were playing. I'm not playing anything."
"Come on, it's not that big a deal. We're best friends. It's not like I'm asking you to make love on Cuddy's desk."
Wilson almost twitches.
"Oh, let me see. That must be the core of the second bet you're planning to make?"
"Nah, haven't yet thought of the second one. But thanks for the tip, I'll bear in mind this ardent desire of yours."
Wilson chooses not to hear that. All of a sudden, the office room seems distant and far-away. He is wandering in the heart of the Sahara Desert, he's halfway through towards the Qomolangma Peak, he's on the raft in the center of the Laptev Sea. He doesn't really want to say what he says next.
"So, let me get it straight." No pun intended, thinks Wilson to himself. "What do you get from this?" He begins counting off on his fingers. "You get fun. You get money. You get undying attention for God knows what time. You get Cuddy pissed off. You get… Meh, wait a sec, why are we revolving around you? Let's see what I get," he feigns a hard thinking. "Oh, right! Nothing whatsoever! Now give me at least one legitimate reason why I should help you win this stupid bet?"
"Whoa, whoa! Who says 'nothing'? Who told you kissing me is no fun? You never tried it, after all! And this money thing. I was going to offer you half of it, that is to say, three hundred bucks," noticing Wilson's amazed face, House moves on: "Yeah, it wasn't so high at the beginning though, but I pushed it as far as I could. They are so innocently sure they are going to win. They wish." He smirks.
The extrapolation doesn't bear a fruit. House purses his lips, realizing that those abovementioned don't suffice to get Wilson persuaded. So, he speaks further:
"I saw this one coming. Now, my priceless gratitude granted, you can also have me doing whatever you say for three days."
Wilson raises his eyebrow in question. "And the reason I should believe you will is..?"
"House's word of honor," he answers solemnly.
"There's no such thing as your word of honor, House."
"Sure. That's why I've just created it."
Wilson's eyes absent-minded, he stares into the void, right through House. He's not sitting in his chair at his writing desk; he is in the wretched boat with tumbledown sides, reeling on the verge of the tsunami wave. He furls its tattered sails and lets it go of its own accord.
"For a week," says Wilson finally, and in the next moment cuts himself short. The mere idea of actually having House to do what he, Wilson, wishes has carried him a long track away, making him forget the essential condition of the bet, which was… Wilson shuddered internally.
"Gee! When have you become that possessive?" asks House with a jocund whistle, a radiant smile lodged on the curves of his lips. "And remember, your power over me does not extend to my patients' treatment. Of course, as long as you don't want all of them stone dead." He thinks for a second and adds: "Or ordinary dead. They wouldn't care less anyway."
A grave rational Wilson would never cave in. The words 'your power over me' resound in his head to and fro, back and forth, hither and thither. Lead us not into temptation. He'd never go for it. He'd never cut the deal. He'd never agree. He'd never consent to this. He'd never yield––
"So what are you saying?" House prompts, the corner of his mouth lifted up a little.
TBC
