Seraphic Occupation, a house, m.d. fanfic

NOTE: For a prettier looking fic, head over to my Livejournal. The URL is in my profile. This place keeps messing up the layout.

Title: Seraphic Occupation (1/1)

Author: Antigone a.k.a. Anty

Fandom: House M.D.

Characters: House, Wilson

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: Supernatural (gasp!), wingfic (gasp twice!), cheesy biblical reference and blasphemy (going to hell), potential AU (like, duh!), utterly pointless (cringes).

Spoilers (reference to dialogue from): "Three Stories" (1x21), "Daddy's Boy" (2x05), "Fools for Love" (3x05), "Que Sera Sera" (3x06).

Summary: Wilson's been lying, House is dying, yet there is still a future.

Disclaimer & Notes: Wilson is fictional, so he'll never be mine to fu—. Same for House. Written, for the most part, during three hours of "The Clash of Civilizations" – lectures are always so inspiring to me, and not in the way they're meant to. Thanks to Nom de Plume for the beta. More author's notes and how I came to write this of all things at the end.

Seraphic Occupation
© Antigone, November 12th & 13th, 2006

"My trainees were beginning to question my gift of foresight, with the six hundred Vicodin and all." There was a disturbingly pleasant edge in the familiar voice. "But here you are," smug now, "which means I've won."

He was having a hallucination, House was dead certain of it. Bad pun. Experiencing a chemical reaction while his brain was shutting down. This was a gravel road, just after dusk, with fun, make that mean, dips obstructing the view of discarded metal scattered all over part of it, tricky metal that existed to stab you in the wrong places and fuck over your shiny vehicles. He moved his head just so for a second, taking in the motorcycle, smashed as his body, and decided that no, it made no sense for Wilson to be here, sans car, still in the white coat he'd put back on just moments ago, before heading off to the latest crisis in Oncology. It made no sense for him to simply be standing there, not kneeling down to perform any doctor's duties, and there certainly was no explanation for his blinding extra set of limbs, shimmering in prismatic colors in the last rays of light, and attached right between Wilson's shoulder blades.

"You've got something on your back," he said around the blood in his mouth.

"Oh, they don't get in the way," Wilson said in disturbingly Housean fashion. "And they never stain." He bent down, iridescent feathers dipping into the blood-soaked gravel. It would have looked striking, but their tips never turned crimson. Wilson cocked his head to the side, seemingly taking macabre pleasure in the fact that House was actually listening to him. "Well," he continued off-handedly, "except for that one time, before I decided to cut down for a couple of years. But of course dear old Lucy wasn't human."

"Housewife," House coughed.

The other shrugged. "Comes with the job." He finally sounded like Wilson again. "At least when dealing with people like you."

House snorted around his blood. "No wonder they always thank you."

He was his friend (still), so naturally Wilson picked up on it. "I'm sorry it was simply a test, House. I've been trying to tell Her the recruitment procedures suck."

Betrayal could taste worse. He figured he'd be able to live with it after all. Or be dead. Whichever. He spat out a particularly nasty wave of blood.

For a moment the most painful expression twisted itself across Wilson's features. "Any last words," he said in his most sympathetic voice, "while you can still breathe?"

He wanted to say, "Not taking care of a Cameron," but it struck him that the middle-aged woman stopping her car and running over to him, wholly oblivious of Wilson, might catch the name and report it and then the poor girl would never abandon her antics. He was going to settle for something more altruistic instead, and get off to a brilliant start:

"You can't bet when you know the answer beforehand."

Wilson smiled an angelic smile. It was still there, even when the pain was gone.

(Fin.)

More notes: Since this is meant as a death-is-not-the-end fic, I didn't label it. Inspired by a recent discussion about this fandom's lack of wingfic. Couldn't resist – thought it made for a great visual. Lucifer was of course defeated by the archangel Michael, also known as the angel of death, an angel of healing, the prince of light and patron of French shoes sailors (as well as other nifty things, I'm sure). Also, I now have a cringeworthy vision of House, grumpiest guardian angel ever, in a white robe, hitting his protégé with an I-still-use-it-for-convenience-purposes cane. Ouch.