Title: A House Distracted - Part 2: House
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.
Beta: the always splendid starlingthefool
A House Distracted - Part 2: House
House was at home one Saturday afternoon, going through a painful few hours of muscle spasm with his leg. He was sitting on his couch, feeling blades turning in his thigh, grinding his teeth and waiting for the Vicodin to kick in, when there was a knock at the door. He didn't recognize it.
"Go away!" he shouted.
Instead the door opened, and there stood a man House hadn't seen before. Tall, skinny, fair hair, greeny-blue eyes. Maybe a year or so younger than House himself.
"Hey," he said. "I'm Gary, your new neighbor in apartment D upstairs. I just moved in today and I can't find the box that I packed my kettle in--I was wondering if I could scrounge a cup of coffee?" He put his head slightly on one side, his mop of hair falling to one side, and smiled sheepishly. "I'm not an ax murderer or anything--I'm an IT engineer, very boring. Just suffering from caffeine deprivation."
Clearly this man needed a lesson. House was not the kind of neighbor you borrowed coffee from. House was the kind of neighbor you avoided like the plague if you didn't want guitar solos through your floor at 2 AM. House opened his mouth to deliver such a lesson, but then his eye fell on his laptop, currently sitting closed and useless on the coffee table. An IT engineer, quite possibly sent from heaven.
"You fix this laptop, I'll think about coffee," House said gruffly. The man looked a little surprised, but came in, shutting the door behind him. He moved across the room padding along like a large cat.
"What's the problem?" he asked, picking the laptop up and looking at it from side to side, turning it over with long bony hands.
"Won't charge." House was no IT slouch himself, and was fairly sure this was some sort of electrical fault, maybe a problem with the lead. Perhaps this man would have a spare lead he could use. "Battery finally conked out yesterday. In the middle of Sexy Schoolgirl Slumber Party Live, if you were watching."
House was aiming to shock, or at least to startle. Instead the man's mouth curved upwards in a smile, and he said, "Missed that one. Must've been too busy with Barely Legal Frat Boys Pillow Fight."
House looked at the man with interest. Capping a schoolgirl porn joke with a schoolboy porn joke was unexpected, and therefore interesting.
"Got a pair of pliers?" the man asked.
"Pliers?" House said suspiciously.
The man turned the back of the laptop towards House. "Look at the charger socket. The pins have got bent; that's why it won't charge. I guess you stuffed the lead in a bit too hard last time. Those schoolgirls have a lot to answer for. Actually, it's a common problem with this kind of laptop. If you've got a small pair of pliers, I can straighten the pins out."
House could have kicked himself. Such a simple mechanical problem, practically physical--he should have been able to do such a diagnosis himself, and fix it too.
"Under the kitchen sink," House said with reluctance. He didn't want to move right now, his leg was complaining too loudly.
The man walked towards the kitchen without hesitation; his apartment would have the same layout, of course. He returned with House's toolbox, put it down on the coffee table, and rooted through until he found a small pair of pliers. A minute later, the pins were straight; he plugged the lead into the laptop and lo and behold, the charger light came on.
House being House, he didn't hesitate to welch on the deal.
"Thanks," he said brightly. "Unfortunately I don't drink coffee. Health reasons. Caffeine addiction, you know--so there's none in the house. Try the old lady over the hall. Or there's a Starbucks two blocks away."
The man looked at House, amusement sparking in his eyes. "For someone who doesn't drink coffee, that's a mighty fine coffee machine in your kitchen."
Blast. House did indeed have a magnificent and expensive coffee machine which had pride of place on the kitchen worktop.
"A friend gave that to me." This was true. "I only keep it because I don't want to hurt his feelings." That wasn't true.
"Looks like your friend gave you some quality Venezuelan coffee to go with it, as there's a real nice looking bag of it on your windowsill," the man said. "Be a shame to let it go to waste, wouldn't it?"
And he got up and walked off towards the kitchen.
House was temporarily dumbfounded by the cheek, although this was definitely underpinned by grudging admiration.
"You sure you don't want one?" the man called through from the kitchen.
"No!" Suddenly coffee did indeed sound attractive, but House wasn't backing down on this now.
The man walked out of the kitchen five minutes later: House had his eyes shut, concentrating on controlling the pain in his leg. He heard a sound close to his elbow, and opened his eyes to see a steaming mug of coffee on the table. Damnit. His new neighbor was reading him suspiciously well. That was something Wilson might have done, and Wilson had years of House-experience behind him. House looked up just in time to see the man heading out of the door, holding another mug.
"And don't think you're stealing that mug from me," House called after him.
The man paused in the doorway, looked back, his mop of hair falling to one side again, and apparently recognized this as House's way of saying thank-you, because he grinned. Then he closed the door behind him.
House picked up his coffee, and found his mood strangely lighter than it had been half an hour before.
Half an hour later, the Vicodin had had some effect, although House's leg was still quite extraordinarily painful. There came another knock at the door. Before House could say anything the door opened, and lo and behold, it was his new neighbor again. Coffee Guy, House now mentally labeled him. He came inside, looking tired and sweaty, dangling House's mug in one hand. His hair straggled lankly around his face.
"Brought the mug back," Coffee Guy said.
House looked at it, and then at him, with suspicion. "You haven't even washed it up!"
"I haven't found the box with my washing-up liquid in it yet. Anyway, I'm returning it in the condition I found it in. I had to wash it up before I could use it. You need to fire your washer-upper."
House grunted and said without thinking, "He's not been so hot since he went off and got married."
There was a slight pause, then the man said, "Actually, I need a favor."
House rolled his eyes. "It is so not your turn to ask a favor."
"Yes it is. I asked you for coffee, you asked for help with your laptop."
"Meaning it is now your turn to never bother me again." House was firm. He had a reputation to uphold here.
The man ignored that comment altogether. "You're a doctor, I just dropped a box on my hand. It weighed a ton, and a staple was loose and ripped my hand up, it hurts like fuck. Could you take a look at it?" Coffee Guy held out his left hand, previously hidden behind his back. A bloodstained handkerchief was tied loosely around it.
House grimaced. It looked gross; he had no intention of looking at it. "Who said I was a doctor?"
"You're Dr. Gregory House. I saw your name on the pill bottle on the kitchen counter. The Vicodin."
"Ah. Well, sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not a medical doctor, I'm a doctor of philosophy. English Lit," House improvised without even thinking about it. "I believe Princeton Plainsboro has a free clinic. Why don't you pop along there, it's not far. Ask for Dr. Wilson. I'm sure you saw his name on my pill bottle too."
"You know there's a clinic there because you work there." The man's tone was amused rather than annoyed. "I googled you."
"Oh I've got myself a fucking stalker now, have I?" House didn't know whether to be flattered or outraged. "Well, if you googled me, you'll know I'm Head of Diagnostics. I do not do clinic duty and I do not fucking well bandage people's hands up for them when they've been stupid enough to drop a box on them." Another thought struck him. "You googled me? Then you've managed to unpack enough to set up a computer, even though you can't find coffee."
"First thing out of the box. Got to get priorities right. Need my computer to keep up with those barely legal frat boys," Coffee Guy said, with a wink. "Though I think I may have found a new kink. I'm going to have to google cranky grizzled doctors with bum legs."
House stared in surprise. Damn it all to hell, his neighbor was flirting with him. And not being at all subtle about it, either. What the fuck was this all about?
"Just as well it's my left hand," Coffee Guy added. "Seeing as I do all my favorite things with my right."
"Lemme see your hand," House said gruffly.
The man sat down on the couch next to House and held out his paw. House pulled off the handkerchief, and scrutinized a mess of blood, torn skin and new bruising, including a couple of fingernails that were going to turn black. But it looked worse than it was; the lacerations had already stopped bleeding.
"Go and run your hand under the tap," House instructed. "Wash off all that blood. And then get my first aid kit. I know you'll have noticed it under the kitchen sink."
The man stood up obediently.
"And wash my mug up while you're at it," House added, and Coffee Guy rolled his eyes and took the mug with him. House sat back on the couch and listened to the sound of running water.
The sound had an unfortunate effect: House had been trying to avoid having to go to the bathroom until his leg eased up. If he'd been on his own he'd have grabbed that nearby cup and... but his new neighbor was just in the kitchen. House gritted his teeth and looked around for his cane. He then remembered he'd left it in the bedroom.
He stood up and made his way across the room, holding onto pieces of furniture for support. House could do without the cane for short periods with no problem usually, but his leg was really pounding at the moment and every step was an effort. As he stepped towards the bedroom, he felt his foot fall a little awkwardly: pain shot through his body. Damn damn damn--
Suddenly the man was there beside him, grabbing House's arm with his good right hand. A second later House found himself leaning hard on the man's shoulder, his new neighbor taking his weight. House registered that his visitor knew what he was doing, knew how to provide support to a crippled man.
"You got crutches or a walking frame somewhere?" the man asked, confirming House's thoughts.
"Cane. In the bedroom." House barely got the words out; he hated appearing weak beyond all else. However he was favorably impressed that the man hadn't asked him if he was okay. The man moved House slightly so House was leaning against the back of a chair, then let go of him and headed towards the bedroom. Again, knowing the layout.
"They teach you care of cripples in IT these days?" House asked as the man returned with the cane.
"My last boyfriend was a wheelchair user." The man handed the cane to House. House grasped it, nodded curtly, then headed towards the bathroom, careful not to wobble.
He emerged a few minutes later, feeling considerably better. He found his neighbor sitting on the couch, nursing a clean hand and with the first aid kit on the table in front of him. House sat down next to him and opened the box. He hadn't opened it in quite some time and dimly remembered it being almost empty, but the contents were all present and correct. Wilson must have restocked it. He found a bandage and put a new dressing on the man's hand.
"Keep it clean," House said, smoothing the last edge down. "And take some Advil. There's a pharmacy down the road, if yours is in one of your many unpacked boxes still."
The man, leaning in close, flexed his wrist: House felt tendons move and stretch under his palm. "Don't need any right now. I took one of your Vicodin when I was in the kitchen, that should keep me going for a while."
House stared at his neighbor, speechless with annoyed surprise. "You what?"
The man looked at House, his face just a few inches away, his expression outrageously innocent. His eyes shone with mischief; at this distance House could see deep brown flecks glinting in the greeny-blue sea.
"You've got some--fucking--nerve," House said eventually, and this time he couldn't quite keep the admiration out of his voice. He was still holding the man's bandaged fist in his own right hand. He gave it a squeeze.
The man let out a startled exclamation. "Ow! Fuck!"
House, still hanging onto his fist, applied sustained pressure. The man wriggled his fingers, but House placed his other hand on top so he couldn't escape.
"I patch you up and you steal my drugs in return," House said, and this time his voice came out low and a little husky. "That's gratitude for you."
"I'm grateful," the man said, and reached to put his good hand on top of House's left hand. House leaned in a little, and that was enough; the other man closed the last inch or two of air between them, and their mouths met. Barely brushing at first pass; fastening at the second.
Coffee Guy had dry lips and tasted of coffee, unsurprisingly, sweat and cigarette smoke. As his tongue pushed into House's mouth, House felt an immediate rush of blood to the groin; a simple physical reaction to stimulated nerve endings, but surprisingly powerful. It had been a while since he'd kissed anyone, he realized. Wilson had been so much more evasive since he'd gotten married, again, and the hookers just wouldn't do this. The intimacy was, well, nice.
He felt a hand in his hair, feather-light touch of fingers against his scalp, and by now House was definitely aroused. He reached out himself, a little tentatively: putting a hand on his neighbor's arm.
After a few minutes necking, Coffee Guy pulled back, a slightly startled expression on his face.
"Sorry," he muttered, averting his eyes.
"Don't be," House muttered back, also avoiding eye contact.
"Thanks," the other man said, indicating his hand, and he got up and left.
House sat back on the couch, wondering what the hell had just happened. Probably the guy had simply realized how pathetic it was to start necking with a grizzled old cripple, and had got out while he could. Meaning House had just let himself in for God knows how long a period of awkward hallway encounters.
House couldn't even remember the guy's name. Although he wasn't sure he'd been told.
Well, at least he'd got his laptop working again. House leaned forward and opened the lid. Perhaps he'd leave those schoolgirls for now and try and find those frat boys instead.
The following day, a Sunday, House slept in late, then embarked on a quiet afternoon slumped in front of the TV. He wondered idly when would be the best time to go round and barge on Wilson's weekend with Julie. Wilson was supposed to be putting up shelves, or something equally tedious; House was looking forward to walking in and causing some havoc at some point.
But before he got round to it, House's new neighbor appeared at his door. He looked fresher and brighter than he had done yesterday. His mop of fair hair no longer straggled round his face but shone with health and vigor, and his strange greeny-blue eyes (which House was starting to feel quite drawn towards) gleamed with energy.
"Hey," he said. "I'll trade you. Caffeine for alcohol. A cup of that Venezuelan coffee now, for a beer in a bar this evening."
House regarded him through narrowed eyes. "What is this, a date?"
The man shrugged. "If you want. I'll fumigate the mugs and make the coffee, shall I?"
"If you want." House said, thinking rather ridiculously, that he did have a vacancy for a washer-upper, after all.
"What the hell is your name?" House called, as his neighbor went through to the kitchen.
He grinned. "I'm Gary. And you're… Greg?"
House winced; not many people called him that and it made him think both of his parents and of Stacy. "Call me House."
They had coffee while watching the end of the original Godzilla, and discussed in a fairly light-hearted way merits of different sequels and remakes. They didn't touch, but House found himself acutely aware of the other man's presence a few inches away; his neatly bandaged hand resting on the top of the couch near House's shoulder.
Then well before outstaying his welcome, Gary stood up to go, saying "Pick you up at seven?"
"If you must," House said gruffly.
Gary picked House up at seven, and drove them out to a bar House had never been to before. Not too surprising as it was some way out of Princeton, and mostly frequented by men. With other men. They had several beers, and mostly argued about sport and politics, and mostly agreed about religion and music. House devoured a burger and fries, and ate most of Gary's fries too. And Gary kept touching House's knee with his thigh, and House didn't move away, but brushed right back, and felt a hard-on develop gradually through the evening.
And when the barman called time and Gary said, "Home?" House realized with a shock that this had been the most fun evening he'd had in ages.
Because home was actually the same building for both of them, they ended up right outside House's door, where House said casually, "Guess as I'm the only one with coffee, you'd better come in."
And once inside they didn't bother with coffee at all, but started chewing on each other's lips instead.
Mouth on mouth, House really was horny by his time, and more so than he had been for a long time. Gary pressed one hand up against his chest and grasped around his back with the other; House quivered and groped right back, clutching a handful of Gary's shirt in a fist. Fingers fiddled impatiently with buttons, palms slid against skin. Gary's breathing quickened rapidly as House pressed a hand up against his crotch.
House jerked his head in the direction of the bedroom; Gary nodded.
Once there, House sat down on the bed and pulled his pants leg down his bad thigh with a touch of defiance. He waited for some sort of reaction, any reaction. The hookers he occasionally indulged with were always warned, and the room was always in semi-darkness, but he still saw the odd flash of revulsion or pity in their eyes. He watched carefully, but Gary's eyes merely rolled over his blackened, pitted thigh and then up to his cock, at which point House observed an eyelid twitch of appreciation.
House knew this might be a stupid thing to do, but he couldn't let this go without a comment. "You like this sort of thing?" he asked, pointing at his leg.
Gary shrugged. "I've seen worse."
House abruptly recalled Gary's remark from the previous day; my last boyfriend was in a wheelchair. Resolving to get that story at some point, he put it aside and returned to the moment. Gary was also now naked, and although the man was a bit too skinny, his legs and body were whole and flawless, and his dick was long and upright and ready. House's own erection jerked slightly at the sight. Gary moved forward and straddled House, still perched on the bed, and the sensation of cock rubbing up against cock made House's brain short-circuit.
They sprawled on the bed together, kissing, pressing, panting, entangled. They ended up side by side, and Gary came with his cock pressed hard up against House's tailbone; House came into Gary's fist a minute later. House fell into orgasm-induced unconsciousness almost immediately.
Sometime later, House opened bleary eyes. The room was dark and empty and the apartment was quiet. He let his memory of the evening seep back.
Fuck. Somehow he'd ended up screwing around with his new neighbor. This had to be a bad idea.
At least Coffee Guy had the decency to leave without feeling the need to talk about it or (horrors) leaving an embarrassing note.
After a while, House got up, grasped his cane (which was conveniently to hand by the bed; he didn't think he'd left it there) and walked through to the living room. He stopped at the sight of his laptop, open on the coffee table. A screensaver rolled across: You know where I live.
House harrumphed, but couldn't quash a feeling of amused pleasure.
He realized later that he'd never got round to interrupting Wilson and his wife putting up those shelves that weekend after all.
A week later, House lay in bed in a similar state of post-orgasmic stupor, and mentally ran over the tally of the last seven days. Three blow jobs (two given, one received), three hand jobs (one given, two received) and two good hard fucks (honors shared). Frankly it was all pretty goddamn great. It had been a long time since he'd got nearly as much sex, and enjoyed it, too.
There were various reasons it seemed to work. One was that Gary didn't take any crap from House. The first time House decided it was a good idea to summon Gary by banging on his ceiling with his cane, Gary flew down only to tell House in no uncertain terms that he had better not fucking well do that again, ever. And for all House growled back, "Or what?", House didn't do it again.
And the sex was really very good indeed. So good, in fact, that House was able to assure himself that that was all this was about. Two lonely single guys with a shared ceiling/floor, getting each other's rocks off of an evening. Except that deep down, House knew it wasn't that simple.
The man next to him yawned and stretched, then sat up. "I should go."
House reflected that another reason this seemed to be working was that Gary had an almost Wilsonesque knack of knowing when to hang around and persevere with House's company, and when the best thing to do was just bugger off.
"See you tomorrow?" House said casually.
"Sure. I'll come down about six?" Gary pulled a T-shirt over his head. "Hey, you should come up and see me sometime."
"Make you smile?" House responded, and they both grinned. House added, "Cripple here, remember? I don't do stairs."
Gary turned and looked at him, and his mouth twisted upwards. "Except when you want to poke around when I'm not there."
House had indeed hauled himself upstairs to poke around, and was surprised that Gary had realized. He decided not to admit it, though. "I'd rather you were the one going down."
Gary grinned and poked House in the ribs. "I will. Tomorrow."
Gary kept his promise the following night. And they rolled on to a really very satisfactory pattern of spending most evenings out, followed by freaking hot nights in.
Gary had been on the scene a couple of months when House discerned that Wilson, too, had a distraction. He learned the hospital gossip from Chase, and pursued Wilson at a likely moment into a patient room, only to find that Chris was there, with his friend who was the mystery patient. House couldn't remember his name, he'd only met him once.
House shut Linus's room's door behind him and strode off down the corridor, tapping his cane thoughtfully. He was genuinely surprised: this was all completely out of left field.
Was it possible that Wilson was seeing Chris again? House mulled this all the way back to his office, and dismissed it as he arrived at the door. He saw Chase at the conference table, and changed his mind about going in. House headed for Wilson's office instead, grabbed a red lollipop from a bunch on Wilson's desk, sprawled on the couch and started to eat it.
Wilson came in a few minutes later, eying House cautiously, and sat behind his desk.
"Should you even be treating him?" House asked, without preamble, stretching his full height along the couch. "Medical ethics and all that."
Wilson put his hands on the desk and laughed incredulously. "Like you have the first idea what those are."
"You were in a relationship with him," House stated.
"I was in a relationship with Chris," Wilson corrected.
"Which involved you fucking Chris's friends," House spoke frankly. "Including Prostate Pal there."
Wilson stared at him. "House!"
"It's true, isn't it?" House sucked on his lollipop.
Wilson took a deep breath. "It's not relevant. And it was well over a year ago. It's over. We're just friends now. Anyway, I'm being very careful to see that Linus gets appropriate treatment. He's my patient, but I've asked Brown to oversee the treatment too, give me a second opinion. Brown says he'd have done everything I've done."
"Except be fucked up the ass by the patient. But hey," House waved a hand, feeling magnanimous, the thought of being fucked up the ass bringing on pleasant recent memories. "Live and let live. I won't tell Cuddy if you won't."
"You," Wilson said, obviously seeking to change the subject, "have been in a good mood for weeks now. It's starting to unnerve me. It's not natural! Even Julie said the other day you hadn't been such a pain in the ass recently as usual. Why?"
"Cuddy's dropping by my office each morning to blow me," House said in a solemn tone.
"That's not even funny." Wilson threw his hands up.
"I've found that Chase puts out if you give him just a little bit of praise."
Wilson stared hard at House, then said, "I don't believe you."
"I'm fucking the new guy upstairs," House said, straight.
Wilson rolled his eyes. "House, please."
House rolled on seamlessly. "The escort agency is giving me a discount for bulk buying hookers."
"Now that might actually be true," Wilson said resignedly. "OK, fine, don't tell me."
House grinned and bit into the lollipop, tasting strawberry splinters on his tongue.
It was, of course, only a matter of time before Wilson and Gary ran into each other. Gary had picked up Wilson's significance in House's life immediately. House had never realized how much he mentioned Wilson in conversation until he found himself trying to avoid doing so. Gary asked a couple of pointed questions, but House told Gary in no uncertain terms to mind his own damn business.
Wilson, for his part, hadn't been in the habit of dropping by House's apartment so much since he'd married Julie, but he still did occasionally. And inevitably, there came an evening when he did so, and Gary was there too. It was late; Gary had wandered down a couple of hours before, claiming he was bored. House had suggested brightly that giving a blow job might relieve the monotony; they'd retreated to the bedroom, and Gary delivered, and got to fuck House in return.
House was lying back in post-orgasmic bliss, admiring the sight of Gary reduced to a very satisfactory panting twitching heap at the end of the bed, when there was a knock on the door. Then Wilson's voice came from outside; "Hey, House!"
"Fuck," House said, hearing the key turning in the lock.
Gary looked up with interest. "Wilson?"
"Yeah." House sat up and pulled on his bath robe. He would have told Gary to stay in the bedroom and keep his mouth shut, but he knew Gary wouldn't do that. There was no way out; they were going to have to meet.
Actually, it should be interesting. Suddenly House was curious to see what would happen. He struggled to his feet and limped into the living room. He found Wilson just taking off his coat.
"Wilson," House said. "I should have left the stethoscope on the door handle."
"What? Oh!" Wilson colored slightly, and looked around the room. "Hooker?"
House sat down on the couch and stretched out his leg. This was definitely going to be interesting. He looked up at Wilson with large innocent eyes. "Actually, no."
And Gary appeared from the direction of the bedroom. House had to hand it to him. Gary was fully dressed, except that he was deliberately just buttoning the top button of his jeans. His hair was carelessly mussed up; the post-coital impression was unmistakable.
Gary and Wilson looked at each other across the living room. Wilson looked like a startled deer, with his head back, eyes wide, ears flattened. Gary, deliberately not mirroring Wilson, had his head forward, hair flopped down over narrow eyes. House could see that as far as Gary was concerned, Wilson might as well have had COMPETITION tattooed on his forehead.
"You must be Wilson," Gary said silkily, leaning casually against a chair. House couldn't help but admire Gary's tone, which was outwardly friendly but with just enough disinterested disdain to be a real barb.
Wilson opened his mouth, shut it again, then looked accusingly at House.
House sighed loudly. "Wilson, this is Gary. He just moved into this building."
Wilson's mouth opened again, and he said slowly, "The new guy upstairs..."
"That's right," House said. "Aren't you the clever one?"
Wilson visibly pulled himself together, and spoke rapidly. "Nice to meet you, Gary. House--I'll see you at work tomorrow." He picked up his coat, turned and walked out with a reasonable amount of dignity. He shut the door firmly behind him, but didn't slam it.
Gary looked at House and shook his head.
"What?" House said irritably.
"House, you're a bastard," Gary said. "I'm going home."
"House, you're a bastard," Wilson said, sitting down opposite House's desk the following morning, and went on immediately, "So... tell me about him."
"He's a great lay," House offered promptly.
Wilson grimaced. "That's not quite the sort of thing I had in mind."
"He likes to top," House said, with an air of one trying to be helpful.
Wilson put his hands over his ears. "Way too much information. I was thinking more along of the lines of what does he do for a living, how come he's moved into your building, what's his favorite food?"
"Bor-ing," House pronounced loudly, but when Wilson continued to look at him, House relented a touch.
"He's an IT engineer for some faceless bloodsucking corporation. He moved 'cause his boyfriend dumped him and he had to find somewhere in a hurry. He lives on coffee and potato chips." Now he'd started, House found himself going on. "He's an even worse insomniac than I am. Works strange shifts and spends too much time online. Oh, and he has a cripple kink. Bet he couldn't believe his luck when he moved in and found me downstairs. "
"A cripple kink?" Wilson looked uncertain.
"His last boyfriend was in a wheelchair. Wheelchair boy fell in lurve with someone else, moved him in; Gary was the one to leave because their apartment had been made handicapped accessible." House paused, then added, "He doesn't know that I know that."
Wilson drummed his fingers on the table. "Could be awkward, him living upstairs, don't you think? I mean, if you broke up?"
House thought Wilson was being terribly diplomatic with the if, or possibly just fishing. "He's only there on a short-term lease and it's not his dream apartment. He wants to buy somewhere nearer where he works, if he ever gets round to it."
"Right." Wilson took a deep breath. "Maybe we could all go out together sometime, go for a meal or something, get to know each other?"
"You've got to be fucking kidding me!" House spoke from instinct.
Wilson grinned a little. "Oh? I'd have thought you might go for it."
House had to admit the idea was tempting in a watch-the-lab-rats-fight kind of way, but not worth it. "Only if you bring your wife," House retorted, knowing this would eliminate this idea once and for all. "We can double date."
Wilson looked so horrified that House nearly burst out laughing. "Wilson, Jesus, this is not the world's greatest love story. I'm fucking him. He's fucking me. That's it."
"Yeah?" Wilson looked like he wanted to believe.
"Yeah." House nodded. "The other day he went through my porn collection and rejected 95 of it on the grounds that there were women involved. For Chrissake." House threw his hands up.
Wilson was sufficiently intrigued by this anecdote to spill something back. "You know, Chris was the just the same. He once told me he really couldn't see the attraction of breasts."
House and Wilson shared a moment of mutual lack of incomprehension.
Wilson said eventually, "Actually, it's kinda sweet. Gary and Greg. Greg and Gary."
House gave Wilson a look that said you had better not say that EVER--AGAIN, and then a thought struck him, and he snorted with amusement. "You can talk. We should double date just for alliteration's sake. Greg n' Gary n' Jimmy n' Julie."
Wilson's face creased in revulsion, and then in laughter.
"So tell me about him," Gary said that evening. They were slumped on the couch together, Gary had his head on House's shoulder.
"Nope," House said, shutting his eyes, nuzzling silky fair hair.
"I've googled him--" Gary began.
House sighed loudly and opened his eyes. "James Wilson. My best friend, God only knows why. Known him for donkey's years. He's an oncologist at the hospital, made department head at an absurdly young age. Everyone thinks he's Mr. Nice Guy. On his third marriage."
Gary pondered this. "You don't think he's Mr. Nice Guy?"
"I know he's not Mr. Nice Guy."
"Are you fucking him?"
"No," House said truthfully. Not recently.
Gary thought about this, then said, "But you used to."
"If you're going to answer your own questions then you can go home and do it there," House said peevishly.
"Not yet." Gary slid a hand down towards House's crotch. House sucked in his breath sharply. "You were fucking him before he got married, right?"
"Either jerk me off or ask me questions, but not both at the same time," House snapped. "And guess which one I'd rather you did?"
Gary obviously wanted to ask more questions, but apparently decided to save them.
One day after work House had a hankering for a cappuccino that wasn't pumped straight out of a machine, which meant leaving the hospital. Wilson had had a good day, and was happy to leave at a reasonable time and accompany House to a nearby cafe.
"So how's Prostate Pal?" House asked, licking chocolate from around the rim of his cup. He already knew the answer, had found his own way of keeping tabs on the situation, but saw no harm in pretending he didn't.
"Linus is doing well, although finding the side effects pretty grim," Wilson said, sipping his own coffee. House watched Wilson's lips sucking up froth.
"Seeing much of Chris?" House asked casually. He felt Wilson's ankle under the table, resting against his foot. He pushed back.
"Not much." Wilson looked up and looked House right in the eye. "He visits, of course, but it's quite a drive for him."
"He still run that club by the beach?" House asked, struck by a sudden thought. Gary was always taking him to places he'd never been before. This was the kind of place he could take Gary. And maybe they'd run into Chris. That could be amusing.
"Uh huh." Wilson drank coffee, then licked foam off his lips. They sat in companionable silence for a moment, brushing knees. House wondered just how much sex Wilson was getting from his wife right now. Not a lot would be his guess.
Wilson remarked idly that the new cute short administrator in HR (four feet eleven inches tall) was apparently doing a tall doctor in radiology (six foot six). This provided an amusing ten minutes of speculation as to how they managed to have sex and what positions would or would not be viable. At one point Wilson snorted cappuccino out of his nose with laughter. At another House leaned forward to impart a particularly ribald suggestion and Wilson leaned forward to hear it, and the two of them briefly touched foreheads over the table.
As Wilson sat back in his chair, smiling, his expression suddenly changed to surprised. "House--isn't that Gary over there?"
House looked around: it was indeed Gary, on his own, leaning against the counter, watching them. His expression was carefully blank.
"He been there long?" House said, also surprised.
"Don't know," Wilson said cautiously.
House waved at Gary, who came across the room towards them. He didn't bring a cup, which House interpreted as meaning he'd been standing there long enough to finish at least one coffee. Wilson started to gather up his things.
"Don't go on account of me," Gary said, arriving at their table. House again admired Gary's tone in front of Wilson, which was ultra-polite and yet with a slight accusatory hint. Beautifully calculated so as to get Wilson scooting away as quickly as possible.
"No, no, I have to get home anyway." Wilson pulled on his jacket. He looked at House. "Um, nice to see you again, Gary. See you tomorrow, House."
House looked back at Wilson, trying to read those deep brown eyes. Wilson gazed back for a few seconds. Then Wilson was gone, and Gary slid down into his seat.
House waited for a question like what the fuck is going on between you two? to which he was prepared to snap back are you spying on me? but it appeared Gary wasn't ready to have that argument yet, and House, who was actually in a relatively good mood and not spoiling for a fight either, was glad.
Instead Gary chose to ignore Wilson altogether and said, "D'ya want to go out somewhere tonight?"
"Sure," House said, and remembering his earlier thought, added, "How about a drive down to the coast?"
It had been many years since House had been to Chris's club, but he remembered where it was and it looked much the same as ever. New paint job, perhaps. He told Gary that he knew Chris, the owner, and wondered inwardly how best to get them up to the inner sanctum, the bar upstairs. House had complete faith in himself to bag his way past the doorman, but wasn't so sure that Chris might not then chuck them out. House had no illusions; Chris and Wilson might or might not be able to be friends (not was House's bet, although he was sure nothing had happened yet), but Chris had never done more than tolerate House.
The situation was unexpectedly resolved a different way, as no sooner had they walked inside they bumped right into someone else House knew. "House? Christ, it is you! Now what the hell are you doing here?"
Dan barely waited for a reply, but chatted on, greeting House like a long-lost friend. Which was kinda true, actually. Dan was an ex from a long time ago, and House didn't actually have many ex's. There was the Lost Love of his Life (Stacy) and the Soul mate, still hanging on in there (Wilson), and quite a few Short relationships, Very Short relationships and Hardly-even-one-night stands to look back on; but not many ex significant others. And especially not ones which had ended halfway amicably.
Gary hung back a little. Dan took one look, sized the situation up accurately, and started talking loudly about his own long-term boyfriend; Gary relaxed a little. House was pleased to have Dan there to get them up to the private bar, and even more pleased that he was chatting to Dan when Chris appeared, and thus avoided the possibility of being thrown out. House was amused to see Chris make a bee-line for Gary, and wondered if this would all get back to Wilson in due course.
Later Dan remarked to House over the poker table, "Gary seems like a good guy."
"Hmm," House said, only half-concentrating. He had one eye on Gary talking to Chris at the bar.
"So how's Wilson?" Dan asked ultra-casually, almost in an undertone.
"Married," House said brutally, and drew on his cigar.
"Huh. Again?" Dan considered this for a moment, staring at his cards. "What a senseless waste."
House grunted in agreement, and was intrigued at that moment to see Chris give Gary a truly murderous glare.
At the back of his mind, House knew it wouldn't last. How could it? How could a bright hot man with the balls that Gary had, not afraid of anyone (including House)--how could someone like that be satisfied by surreptitiously hanging around with a bad-tempered cripple?
The evening it all came crashing down, House had arranged to meet Gary in a bar. Wilson wandered into House's office near the end of the day, and House, feeling expansive, said, "I'm going drinking with Gary. Wanna come?"
Wilson looked at House a trifle uncertainly, then apparently decided House wasn't serious. "Well, you know I'd love to. All that awkwardness, I hate to miss it. But um, I'm already busy tonight. I'm having dinner with Chris."
"You're having dinner with Chris?" House echoed incredulously. "The guy who practically rapes you with his eyes each time he sees you?"
"House!" Wilson said reprovingly. "He's a friend. That's all." He paused, then added defensively, "He was upset about Linus."
"Crap, he's needy as well," House diagnosed. "You are so going to end up in bed with him."
"House, for God's sake!" Wilson glared at House. "It's just dinner!"
Wilson left, closing the door behind him with more than necessary force. House shut down his computer, grabbed his jacket, and headed off to meet Gary. But House couldn't stop thinking about Wilson, having dinner with Chris across town. It bothered him a lot more than he'd immediately realized. And this annoyed him, because fuck it, so what if Wilson ended up having sex with Chris? What did he care? (Of course, House knew the answer to that already. If Wilson was going to cheat on his wife with anyone...)
House hoped that a few drinks would put it out of his head, but found instead the thought growing and mutating. His chest started to feel tight as he thought about Wilson and Chris, eating together, flirting over the table, going back to a hotel room afterwards. Wilson and Chris, seeing each other again. Wilson falling back into Chris's social life down at the beach with all Chris's friends. Wilson, divorcing Julie and going to live with--
"What the fuck is wrong with you tonight?" Gary was looking at him oddly.
"Nothing," House snapped, and tried to think of something to say, something to talk about. He couldn't manage it. Couldn't sit and be sociable, even with someone who gave every appearance of liking him and wanting to be with him. House could feel himself poisoning this relationship, driving Gary away every passing moment with his silence. And was somehow powerless to do anything about it.
"Patient die on you?" Gary asked, seeking a reason.
"No," House barked.
Gary looked at him and blew out a breath, ruffling the hair hanging over his forehead. He reached out and took House's hand gently. "Talk to me."
House could have taken criticism or abuse, but the kindness, the attempt to understand, was too much. He could feel his stony facade start to crack, and shut his eyes in an effort to hold together. "Nothing to say."
"That is so not true," Gary said, and an edge entered his voice. "Why won't you let me in, House? Why can't you open up for just one second?"
There was a long pause. The House felt Gary's fingers arch and tense on his palm. "It's Wilson, isn't it."
House couldn't answer that. He kept his eyes shut and kept breathing, and that was all he could cope with.
"I'm not like Chris," Gary said, his tone very even and calm. "I don't share."
House opened dry lips to mutter, "I'm not fucking Wilson--"
"You might as well be." Gary's fingers curled, his nails scraping House's hand. "Seems to me you're just waiting for Wilson's marriage to implode on him. And then you'll be there for him."
House opened his eyes and looked at Gary. Gary looked back at him squarely, and whatever Gary saw in House's eyes apparently convinced him he was right. Gary broke eye contact, let go of House's hand, and sat back in his chair. House sat back in his own chair, his throat tight.
"Which is the biggest waste of fucking--time," Gary continued, a note of frustrated anger entering his voice. "Because of course his marriage will end. But he didn't end up with you the last two times, and it won't be any different this time."
House's knuckles were white as he grasped the arm of the chair. "Shut the fuck up."
"I'm not hanging around until you to realize that," Gary said flatly. "You want to be with me, you be with me. But you have to give up waiting for Wilson. It's pathetic and pointless, and I am not fucking well putting up with it anymore."
"You better fuck right off then," House said, quietly but without hesitation.
Gary stared at House for a moment. "So that's that, then."
"I guess so." House bit the words out.
Gary stood up, picked up his jacket, and walked out of the bar. He didn't look back.
House stayed still for a long time, still gripping the chair arm as if his life depended on it.
END OF PART 2. Next part: Wilson