Fairy God Doctor Part III

By GeeLady

Summary: Wilson and House attend a medical conference. One of them gets into some unexpected and serious trouble and the other must come to the rescue in an unexpected way.

Rating: ADULT. SLASH. NC-17, M. Mature.

Pairing: House/Wilson

Disclaimer: I don't own Gregory House, dang-nabit!

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Wilson could not believe the last two days spent in House's presence; House in his bed, in his face - in his mouth. He rolled over and stared at his lover the second morning, wondering if he really did just spend the last forty-eight hours having intermittent, incredible sex with his best friend.

But there was that mouse-brown sprinkled-with-grey hair, and the straight nose staring at the ceiling softly snoring. Wilson laid a single finger on the potato brush growth of House's cheek; the brambly surface had left his own clean shaven skin rosy with abrasion. But the French kissing had been well worth the sacrifice of a few shed epithelials.

A tiny wrinkle formed between Wilson's eyebrows. This close, House looked older than he remembered. But what did he remember? House had always been older by nearly a decade. Yet his face had never changed; not in his mind; not in his memory or in his well-rooted sense of what House was and had always been. Or how he looked from day by day.

But, yes, House had aged. The years and stress, the loss of Stacey, the fear of having Cuddy in his life as more than a boss (a difficult enough give and take for House as it was), and the ever present pain - surely that too - had all stripped off their individualized slices of him. House was thinner than he had ever seen him, his cheeks sallow, almost hollow. Wilson could not help but wonder if House's - if this surprise sexual attack and consummation of their friendship - was the older man's final grasp at a morsel of happiness. Finally. At last.

Despite the agony of the daily betrayal of his leg, House had managed to retain a vulnerability in him that most missed as they looked over, quickly dismissed him, and passed on. One look; a cane, jeans, a scowl, a grimace, the mouth going mince-meat; a mile a minute, the brain going a bewildering thousand, . . .all that and still the more obstuse of the world dismissing him as a cantankerous (albeit genius), freak.

Wilson saw far, far beyond that. Deeper - to the root-in-soil of House. He knew what grew there. He knew the tiny living things House hid from everyone - the wonders encased in a man in pain and in need. And he knew also that he loved them very much. And he loved House.

The quiet peace of the room was shaken by the trilling phone and Wilson hurried to still it before it woke House who, for a change, was enjoying a restful sleep-in.

Wilson spoke softly into the mouth-piece, "Hello?" Sitting up, he eased his long legs from under the warmth of the covers to the shivers of the morning cool of his tastefully decorated bedroom. All the colors and nuances him. Amber's feminine presense he had gradually, gently bannished months ago. His toes curled on the chilled tiles. He must remember to adjust the heat setting; House preferred a warmer chamber.

Wilson spoke into the phone. "This is Wilson." He whispered until he made it to the kitchen, his goosed flesh protesting its lack of clothes.

"Doctor Wilson?"

It was his lawyer. It was early. Too early for a man who earned five hundred an hour without lifting a finger. "Yes. Mister Harcourt?"

"Yes. I'm wondering if you've heard?"

Wilson smiled a little to himself, unwilling just yet to let go of the memory of the delightfully naughty sounds that House had made the previous night. "Uhm, no. Heard what?'

"Doctor Morgan is dead."

-

"Your troubles are over, Doctor Wilson. I'll send you the final bill, unless you have any speeding tickets you want defended?"

Wilson frowned. Harcourt's sense of humor - and timing - sucked. "Dead?" Wilson's heart leaped in his chest. It was the oddest sensation: the quivering organ dancing with sheer delight, and drumming in abject terror, both at the same time. Wilson could not help but to himself put the question: Did Morgan die due to the physically detrimental, and inevitable, complications his own self-indulgent lifestyle or did he, Wilson, kill him? "What happened?"

"Attending wouldn't say, Morgan's lawyer said." Harcourt sounded like he was reading a script. "That's, I'm assuming, Doctor-talk for 'we don't really know.'"

Wilson remembered something horrible. A terrible, awful thing he remembered, standing there beside him in the white and sparking clean kitchen. "I...see. Uh. Okay."

"Okay?" Harcourt's voice said he had obviously taken on a man deficient in the subtlies of victory. "It's downright Hallelujah, Doc', for you that is. I've just lost a bundle in potential fees."

Wilson could care less a tic's ass-hole for Harcourt's problems from that second forward. "Right." He hung up without a twinge of conscience. The terrifying memory, the awful thing with its black, unblinking stare, did not look away.

Jesus. Wilson's heart thumped like a war drum. Oh-my-best-friend's-god-Jesus! He whispered it, afraid of whoever might hear and raise an alarm. "House..."

-

"House."

Wilson shook his friend's shoulder vigorously. This was no time to sleep, or to ignore the man over which you just may have committed a heinous crime for your own selfish agenda.

House stirred, rolled over and looked at Wilson with sleep-slit eyes. "No bacon odor." Yawning luxuriously, like a cat after a satisfying sleep full of dreams of warm mice and helpless baby pigeons, "No toast." He added.

"What?"

"Wake me when breakfast is done, not before."

"No breakfast." Wilson had slipped on underwear, slacks and a crisp shirt. Somehow, standing over House, facing him with his spent penis flopping around between his legs had not seemed a fitting show of Angry Wilson. "House, we need to talk."

House groaned.

Wilson knew House hated that opening line and, like clock-work, complained. "You need to talk. I need sustenance." House looked up at him with a frustratingly sexy smirk. "I mean the kind that goes in my mouth and doesn't squir - "

"-House!" Wilson could feel himself caving, and hardening just a bit, before the fight that he wanted to start had even begun. "This is serious." Wilson swallowed a lump of bitter fear. "You went to see Morgan in the hospital."

"I already told you that. He wouldn't talk to me."

"Well…" Wilson had no idea, really, of what he was frightened and mad about. House would never.... "Morgan's dead."

House sat up, subconsciously rubbing at his thigh.

A thigh, Wilson remembered, as scarred but still sexy, especially the sweet, inner side. "What...?" Wilson paused. This couldn't…? No. But... He squared his shoulders. "Did you...do something to him?"

House stopped his perpetual motion of palm on damaged-aching-leg and stared at Wilson as though they had only just met. "Do??" House mimicked. "Something??" Like what, give him an air-bubble? Smother him with a pillow? Kill him with guilt?"

House threw off the covers and Wilson got an eyeful of House in natural full-morning light. Golden skin and light feathering of hair over valleys of muscle shallowed by time. Delicious pink cock and smooth balls. The still formed, but older, remnants of an athletic body. The signs and lines of a man who used to run and leap and lift, all now tilted forward with the fatigue of years of unrelenting pain.

"Nice to know what you think of me." House said, struggling to his feet and pulling away from the reflexive helping hand Wilson extended. Years of unrelenting habit. "If you mean: Did I kill him? The answer is - no!"

"Why did you go to see him, then?" Wilson didn't know why he couldn't leave it lie as that. Relentless memory. Life with House – a guessing and guessing again game. A marathon of figuring; to try and understand even half of half of what House was. The man was so goddamn frustrating and so unbelievably captivating, you never knew if you wanted to stomp away in righteous fury or come all over him.

Wilson knew from his own history with the man that he lost too often to be absolutely sure about House. Any part of him, really. "Did you, did you kill a man to get me into bed??"

House laughed.

Despite his determination to ignore all of House's deflecting insults, that one hurt.

"Tuck that ego away before you get an embolism. You think the only way I can get off is to murder a human being? Or that I think that much of your dick?"

Yet Wilson saw the flicker of House's eyes and they travelled down his body with the leering leftovers of a very lovely time in bed. "You didn't seem to mind him last night."

House looked away. "I was only kidding. Just again and again."

Wilson accepted that it was a House-ish an apology, and the only one he was likely to get. "House. Promise me-"

"-I did not hurt him. He was dying. He was probably dying for months; long before you and your fumbling fist got to him."

Wilson stared at House, defying him to lie, or to continue lying. Or to see if House was indeed telling him the truth. "So you, Gregory House, man of limping action, drove an hour to just . . .talk to him?"

House set his jaw and began a visual search for his cane. "If it makes you feel better for me to say it again, I did not kill Morgan. He died of his own idiocy."

Wilson found the cane and handed it to him, now feeling rather foolish at his quick and ill-conceived assumption. House, in his memory, had never hurt anyone - at least not permanantly. "Here."

House took the cane with a gentle hand, one finger brushing his friend-lover's white knuckles. Wilson had a flash of insight that the touch was not accidental. An oddly endearing gesture from the physically reserved House. Though the previous night he had not acted, in any manner what-so-ever, reserved. It still seemed unreal that he had slept with House, though House seemed to be taking it as a perfectly acceptable and natural progression of their friendship.

The four months of his willed absense from House's life suddenly flooded back, filling him with shame at his own cowardice. All those weeks, he had harboroed but hid the surety that House still meant as much to him as ever. Maybe more.

But, until he had finally acknowledged it and returned, shuffling his size twelves, he'd had no inkling of how much he had meant to House. House's confession: "If you're coming back because of my pathetic neediness, that's okay with me."

A veritable stomach-full of confession on House's part. And as kind a gesture as House had ever layed on him; by not even mentioning how much he had been hurt by his best friend's abandonment in the first place. Wilson suddenly remembered not even asking after House's skull fracture after the DBES. Not bothering to inquire of Forman or Chase or anyone if House was going to be okay. An equally selfish oversight, also, was never thanking House for risking his life and sanity to save a woman who hated him.

Wilson suddenly felt the desperate need to touch him, to make a physical connection, however slight, and he stroked a gentle thumb across House's left temple. Sometimes I'm a real son-of-a-bitch.

House took the gesture for face-value. "You believe me?" He asked. Wilson lost himself in the sparkling blue of the man's hypnotizing eyes just for a second before dropping his hand and replying, "Yes, I believe you."

Then Wilson shook his head, adding, "I never had any solid reason to think . . .what I just thought - and said. It was stupid."

"That's the smartest thing you've said so far."

Wilson felt a bit anxious as House pushed himself to his feet. Because of the shin-level, Eastern-European style of his queen-sized bed, it took greater effort than usual for House to stand. Wilson made a mental note to buy and have delivered a second, thick mattress; a soft, pillow-top variety. "You're not leaving, are you?" Wilson glanced at the clock - Sunday, 10:21am. "We haven't had breakfast yet."

House brushed passed him. "Don't worry, James Juan, I'm just taking a leak."

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Part IV ASAP