TITLE: Pushing the Swing: Five times Wilson gave House an alibi (and one time he didn't)
AUTHOR: hwshipper
DISCLAIMER: All characters belong to Heel and Toe Films, Shore Z Productions and Bad Hat Harry Productions in association with Universal Media Studios.
SUMMARY: Set during 3.07 Son of a Coma Guy, with flashbacks. Plot bunny from aithlyn on HHOW who wrote: 'I believe Wilson had to attempt the "swingers" alibi multiple times before he found Mrs. Not Interested because the first several women warmed up to him.'
BETA: Enormous thanks again to bornbeautiful
Pushing the Swing: Five Times Wilson provided an alibi for House (and one time he didn't)
"You've lied to the cops enough for me," House says. "Maybe I don't wanna push this 'til it breaks."
Wilson looks at House, and at Gabe, the vegetative state guy who wants to kill himself to give his heart to his son. Then Wilson walks out of the hotel room and down to the casino. He takes House's cane with him and House doesn't even blink.
It's not the first time Wilson's provided an alibi for House, and it won't be the last.
Wilson had spent an hour in his room trying to memorize the anatomy of the head and neck, and his brain was protesting that it was full. He looked at the clock; House would be home from work by now. House had gone through these exams when he had been a med student; he would probably have half a dozen medical mnemonics that would help. If not, House could usually invent some on the spot. Usually obscene ones, too.
Wilson climbed the stairs two at a time, until he got to the last ladder-like set of steps that led up to the attic room in the shared house. He climbed these carefully, hearing the sound of classical music get louder as he got closer to the door. As soon as he opened the door, and looked at House sitting at the piano, he knew something was wrong from the set of House's shoulders.
Wilson closed the door and moved quietly towards House. "Hey."
"Hey," House muttered. He continued to play. Wilson didn't know what the piece of music was, but it sounded anguished.
"Your patient die?" Wilson asked, pitching his tone fairly light. House never appreciated sympathy.
"Yeah." There was a pause, and House stopped playing. He folded his hands on his lap and added almost inaudibly, "Though he wouldn't have if I hadn't put a pillow over his face at 5 PM."
Wilson was still, shocked.
Then he placed a hand on House's shoulder and said, carefully, "This is the guy in a coma who's been dying slowly for the last two weeks. Agonizing minute by agonizing minute."
House nodded, and said, "It could have taken another two weeks."
He paused again, then added very quietly, "Never done anything like this before."
Wilson reached out to touch House's cheek lightly with his fingertips, trying to convey I understand. And I'm not judging you.
House reached up and grasped Wilson's hand with his own. His shoulders were still rigid with tension.
Wilson sensed House's worry here was not really the moral dilemma (House was not one to dwell on moral dilemmas, though this one had evidently given him pause for thought) but something else.
Wilson considered for a moment, and then asked, "Is anyone going to guess what happened?"
"Don't think so. But," House gnawed on his lip, "if so, I was the only doctor working on his case who would have been anywhere near at that time."
"At 5 PM?" Wilson said smoothly. "But you were here, home by then. You've been helping me remember the anatomy of the head and neck for the last hour."
House turned his head to look at Wilson. Wilson met the blue eyes unflinchingly. House dipped his eyes; thank-you.
"But of course," said House, his voice stronger, and Wilson felt House' own head and neck muscles relax slightly under his hand. "Now, did we cover the external carotid artery branches? Superior thyroid, Ascending pharyngeal, Lingual, Facial, Occiptal, Posterior auricular, Maxillary, Superficial temporal? Because you may not know that Some Aggressive Lovers Find Odd Positions More Stimulating."
Wilson smirked a little and fed back the obvious line. "Well, I didn't know it was a mnemonic."
Wilson walks into the casino with House's cane. It feels strange to be the one holding it. The handle is still warm from House's grip. He swings it back and forth as he walks.
He looks around the casino, and spies what he needs. A man, similar height and build to House, stubbled, leaning against a slot machine.
Wilson approaches him, and asks, "How'd you like to earn a hundred dollars?"
The man looks up and down at Wilson with an appreciative eye and winks. "You wanna do me, you don't have to pay me,"
Wilson blushes. "I didn't mean that."
The man shrugs and grins. "Offer still stands."
"Look," Wilson says firmly. "A hundred dollars to stand here for fifteen minutes, holding this cane, and answering to the name of Dr. Gregory House, who's staying in room 622."
"So where's the real Dr. Gregory House, if he's not here but should be?" the man asks shrewdly.
"I'll take my money elsewhere." Wilson turns to go.
"No, I'll do it," the man says swiftly, and holds out his hand for the cane.
Wilson hands it to him. The man presses his fingertips lightly on the back of Wilson's hand as he takes it. Wilson lingers a little, and then moves away. He turns to scan the casino.
The man watches, and asks, "So, what are you doing now?"
"I'm looking for someone to ask if they want to swing with me and House. Someone who'll say no, but remember it."
The man laughed. "Don't push that swing too much, baby, you might find people taking you up on it."
"Fuck!" House swore as the siren and flashing lights came on behind them. "Speed trap! I wasn't speeding, was I?"
"Um yeah, actually, you were," Wilson said flatly. "Pull over."
They both knew that this was serious. House had been steadily accumulating points on his driver's license for some time now, and was hovering perilously close to suspension. Even if that didn't happen, House's insurance premium would take another hit, and so soon after he had totaled another car (Wilson's, of course) that would also be very bad news. House didn't have any spare cash right now. After all, yesterday he had just been fired. Again.
House pulled over. The police car came in behind, but stopped some way short of them. Wilson glanced back to see what was happening. The traffic cops had gotten out of their car, but they were distracted. They were heading backwards towards another car, which had stopped behind them.
Wilson hit his seatbelt button, and said swiftly, "Swap seats. Now."
It was dark. The policemen would not have seen who had been driving.
House gaped for a second, and then undid his own seatbelt. "Jimmy Wilson, you never fail to surprise me."
Wilson stood up, as near as he could in the car, and said, "Watch the stick shift."
House slid sideways, underneath Wilson, and propelled himself into the passenger seat. Wilson moved across House to take the driver's seat. It was all very undignified, and if the situation hadn't been serious Wilson would have definitely had to stifle a giggle. Instead he felt House's groin brush lightly against his ass, and had to suppress the urge to press back. This was not the time.
House settled back in his new seat and buckled up. "You've got a clean license, haven't you? Smile nicely at the cops and they'll probably let you off with a warning."
"You just sit tight and don't say a word," Wilson warned.
He could see the policemen approaching them now in the rear view mirror. He wound down the window and plastered his most charming and apologetic smile across his face.
"Hi, I'm Dr. Wilson," Wilson says brightly, enunciating the words clearly.
He has picked a woman who looks like she wants to be on her own; she is concentrating hard on the roulette wheel. She glances briefly at him, then suddenly turns to face him.
"Maybe you're bringing me a change of fortune, Dr. Wilson," she says. "Red or black?"
"Uh." Wilson is caught off-guard. "Red?"
"Red it is." She turns back to the board.
The next ball lands on red. She looks back at Wilson with sparkling eyes, reaches out and lays a hand on his arm. "Fate has sent me a handsome lucky stranger. Dr. Wilson, do join me."
"Er, sorry, I can't," Wilson says rather desperately. He raises his voice a little and says, "I'm with my friend - Dr. House - " he turns to look for the fake House, but she grasps his arm and pulls him towards her with a jerk.
"Fuck that. Give me a number."
Wilson thinks of House, instructing a dying man how to kill himself while causing the least amount of damage to his heart. He hastily disentangles himself from the woman. "I'm sorry, I have to go." He wrenches his arm away and beats a hasty retreat.
He can see the man holding House's cane is watching with amusement.
Wilson and House were sitting on House's couch one evening; House channel hopping and Wilson flicking through a journal, when the phone rang.
House picked up and immediately pulled a face.
"Hi Mom," he said.
Wilson looked up with moderate interest.
"No - I haven't forgotten the wedding this Saturday, but I can't come," House said firmly. There was a pause. "Yes, I know she's my cousin. Yes, I know Aunt Sarah will be very disappointed. I can't come." There was another pause. House flicked his eyes up to look at Wilson. "Well, you see... I have to go to a funeral."
Wilson raised his eyebrows.
"Wilson's uncle's funeral," House said, apparently divinely inspired, or possibly just very desperate.
Wilson sat up in annoyance and leaned towards House, shaking his head. House held the phone well away from Wilson and carried on talking.
"Yes, I have to go to that. Sorry. How old was he? ... Um, Wilson's right here, he can tell you about it."
House thrust the handset towards Wilson. Wilson glared at House, but he took the phone anyway.
"Blythe? This is James," Wilson said smoothly. "Hi. I'm fine, thank-you." House dug Wilson in the ribs. "I mean, I'm fine, though a bit sad about my uncle dying, of course."
Wilson shot dagger looks at House.
"Uncle Alfred. My great-uncle. He was ninety-four, so it wasn't too much of a shock," Wilson paused. "Yes, he was my last surviving relative from my grandparent's generation, so it is a shame."
House, sitting just a few inches away from Wilson's, blew a silent kiss at Wilson. Wilson stuck his tongue out in return.
"Flowers?" Wilson's eyes rotated in panic. "No, no flowers, it'll be a very small family funeral." Pause. "Well, if you want to send a condolence card, of course... I don't have my aunt's address to hand. Look, if you just send it to me I'll pass it on, on the day." Pause. "Great. Thank-you, that's very kind. Not at all. Bye then."
Wilson ended the call and threw the receiver at House. "House, you're an absolute bastard. Why do I have to lie to your mother for you? Why can't you just lie yourself?"
"I did. But it's much more convincing when you back me up." House picked up the phone and put it back on its cradle. "Anyway, I didn't think you were lying, you certainly convinced me."
Wilson ground his teeth. "My Uncle Alfred is still alive and kicking and living in Trenton. You know that. Why do you need to lie anyway? Why don't you just bite the bullet and go to the damn wedding?"
"Because I'd rather slash my wrists than go on my own, and you wouldn't come with me," House retorted. "So it is your fault, really. Why didn't you want to come with me? After all, I'm coming to your uncle's funeral. "
"There is no funeral!" Wilson shouted in exasperation. "And it's your cousin's wedding, you know perfectly well why I didn't want to go."
House grinned. "If it's about that Christmas when she jumped you under the mistletoe and then my dad caught you both in the broom cupboard... that was two years ago and I'm sure she's forgotten about it by now."
Wilson threw a cushion at House. House caught it and threw it back, and in the mock fight that followed, they both forgot about family events for much more interesting stuff.
"Hi, I'm Dr. Wilson," Wilson says, clearly, brightly.
This time he has approached a very young skinny blonde woman who frankly looks too young to be in the casino. Wilson is sure she will think he's just an old pervert, and hopes for a swift brush-off.
He's out of luck. She turns melting blue eyes onto him. "You're a doctor? Wow, I really have a thing for doctors. Do you wear a white coat? What kind of doctor are you?"
"Oncologist. Not very exciting," Wilson says hastily.
"Cancer? Oh, my grandmother has cancer. You can tell me all about it."
Oh God this is useless. "Actually - I'm with a friend." Wilson looks over towards the slot machines again. "Dr Greg House - "
"Another doctor? Oh, two doctors at once! You know, I have a fantasy about this. I'm sick in bed and two doctors come along - "
"I really have to go," Wilson interrupts, and flees, thinking why the hell can't this sort of thing happen when I actually want it to happen?
He can see that the man with House's cane is laughing at him.
Wilson was inside House, thrusting repeatedly, one hand on the headboard and the other grasping House's hip. House's hands scrabbled frantically, uselessly, against the bed sheets as his body shook and spasmed to orgasm. Wilson ground fiercely into House once more and came himself, pumping until he was spent.
The two of them collapsed together in a tangled heap and lay gasping for a couple of minutes. Then, just as Wilson was on the verge of drifting off to sleep, House muttered, "I need an alibi."
"Now?" Wilson groaned in disbelief.
"I figure you're more likely to agree when you're totally shagged out."
"Yes, I am. I agree. Whatever it is." Wilson reluctantly opened his eyes. "What is it?"
"I didn't actually come to Penn just to have sex with you."
"I didn't suppose you did," Wilson said sleepily.
"I'm skiving off a conference by saying I had to come to Penn for a consult. So I need a letter, on UPenn headed paper, inviting me to come and visit. Or thanking me for coming. Whichever."
Wilson sighed. "I suppose it'll save you the trouble of stealing some paper and forging my signature yourself."
"I knew you'd see it that way," House said comfortably.
"All right," Wilson agreed. "If you give me an alibi too. Bonnie thinks I'm having an affair with the new departmental secretary. I want you to tell her I was with you this evening."
House digested this, then said, "But you are with me this evening."
"So?" Wilson said.
"So, that's not an alibi, is it?" House pointed out.
"Well," Wilson mused. "I was hoping you would leave out the part where we came back to your hotel room, fell on the bed and started rutting like rabbits."
Wilson was glad he was looking at House at that moment, because House's craggy face broke out into a smile, one of those real huge smiles that lit up his face. Sometimes Wilson thought he was the only person who ever got to see these smiles, and felt privileged.
"Deal," said House.
"Hi, I'm Dr. Wilson." Loudly. Clearly. Last chance - he is fed up with this. He's picked a respectable looking middle-aged woman. Bound to be married. Please God don't let her be divorced and on the rebound.
"I'm Mrs. Schaeffer," the woman says with minimum politeness.
"I'm from Princeton," Wilson carries on hopefully.
"My husband and I and our three children are from Philadelphia."
Perfect. Wilson nods. This is going to be corny, though. He rolls his eyes. "So, uh, do you like to swing?"
Mrs. Schaeffer looks at him and laughs. "No!"
"Well, if you change your mind, I'm in..." Wilson turns around and calls, "House! House! Is it Room 622? 642?"
"622," the man calls back.
"It's 622," Wilson says, relieved.
"Yeah," Mrs. Schaeffer says in a tone of finality, and turns away.
Pleased, Wilson walks back to the man, slaps the hundred dollars in his hand and takes back House's cane. He walks away.
Wilson doesn't look back at the man. Later on, though, he does muse quite a lot about which of the offers he'd had that evening he would have taken, if he'd been able.
House sat at the kitchen table. Wilson could tell House was in pain and suffering, badly, though without saying a word about it. He'd obviously left it too long since the last pill. House was still getting used to his new meds, the Vicodin; his body wasn't used to them yet, and he wasn't gauging how quickly or slowly they would work.
In the meantime House sat, face pinched and wan, his body juddering uncontrollably occasionally. Wilson wished he would go to bed. But House was trying resolutely to pretend everything was normal. Normal for House, anyway.
"She's going to leave me," House said, apropos of nothing.
Wilson blinked and looked up from peeling potatoes. "You're paranoid."
"She went AWOL yesterday afternoon," House said flatly. "It's only a matter of time before she goes away and doesn't come back."
"Yesterday afternoon?" Wilson started to peel again. "She was in court with me."
House raised his eyebrows. "You were in court yesterday?"
"Sure. You remember, my patient who died last week. Lung cancer. Family sued us saying we should have started chemo earlier."
House leaned on his elbows on the chair arm, frowning. "The one who lied about smoking? And about his former treatment? I bet Stacy whopped their asses."
"She did," Wilson nodded. "Judge threw it out. Took a few hours to get there though."
House settled back in his chair. He looked a little more relaxed.
Wilson carried on peeling, while watching House covertly. Wilson made a mental note to ring Stacy and inform her that their court case the previous day had been in the afternoon, not the morning. Although part of him wondered if it had been worth lying to House about it at all. To give him possibly only a few more days peace - if Stacy got that job at the Short Hills law firm she'd been at interview for yesterday afternoon, then she really might leave, and soon. Wilson felt a dull, guilty ache inside him.
But Wilson knew this was nothing to the agony House was going through right this very minute. He resolved to give House as many more moments of peace that he could in the meantime.
Wilson arrives back on the sixth floor of the hotel to find House sitting on the floor outside room 622. Wilson walks over and hands House his cane.
"Alibi," Wilson explains.
"I figured," House says.
Wilson leans back against the wall opposite House to wait for the sound of the thud. It's not the first time Wilson's provided an alibi for House, and it won't be the last.
END