Title: Twenty Years of Stealing My Food: Part 7
Author: hwshipper
Warning: Also some Wilson/OFC in this part.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Heel and Toe Films, Shore Z Productions and Bad Hat Harry Productions in association with Universal Media Studios.
Beta: this fic again greatly improved by triedunture.
A/N: Part 7 of a backstory to take place over twenty years, all the way to canon.
Summary: Wilson has an affair. House grapples with the implications.
Twenty Years of Stealing My Food - Part 7
Wilson first met her in the library. She'd been close to tears because the last copy of an essential basic biology textbook which she really, really needed for an assignment had just been checked out by someone else. She was small and pretty, wearing a not terribly flattering dress over a flowery blouse, and had long dark hair hanging down in corkscrews.
Wilson stopped, told her he had the same book at home from his own undergrad days, would be happy to lend it to her. She'd brightened up immediately and been enormously grateful.
He brought the book in the next day. They'd gone for coffee--she'd insisted as thanks for his help. She'd flirted with him across the table, batting large eyelashes, nudging his knee. He'd mentioned his wife a couple of times, in a rather self-conscious way. It didn't make any discernible difference. Then he found she was set on repaying him in an additional way--up against the outside wall out back behind the hospital, by the garbage cans.
"I'm married," he managed to gasp as she unzipped his pants.
"I know. It's a real turn on," she breathed in his ear, then dropped to her knees.
Wilson's brain stopped working at that point and didn't return to full function for quite some time.
House had been in a few bands in his time, but inevitably found in the end that his ideas as to the kind of music they should play were vetoed unanimously by all other band members.
He was, however, occasionally pressured into playing in the unofficial hospital band, which periodically formed to play Rolling Stones covers on occasions like fund raisers. House had ceased to be a member after a heated fight with the lead vocalist, an obstetrician who talked incessantly about how he'd once nearly gotten a record deal in his college days. But in emergencies this dispute was forgotten and House was called in, as House was able to effortlessly step in to play either keyboards or guitar and perform with almost no rehearsal.
This was one such occasion, as the band were supposed to play a gig as part of a fund raiser the hospital was putting on to raise money for a new pediatric ward. The usual keyboard player, a toxicologist, dropped out with suspected food poisoning the day before. Despite House's protestation that there were quite enough sick children in this hospital without encouraging more, House was eventually persuaded to play.
The gig, on a makeshift stage in the half-built new ward, went well; lots of hospital staff came, and House secretly enjoyed it, although was careful not to let on.
He was packing up afterwards when his girlfriend came striding up onto the stage. The steps were steep and she was wearing a short skirt. House, along with half the other people in the ward, admired the length of exposed leg.
"Congratulations," she greeted him. "That was cool."
They kissed, then House pulled back to ask, "Did you manage to talk to your friend in Boston?"
An impatient look passed over her face. "Yes, I did. Yes, they might be prepared to take on another resident in Infectious Diseases there next year, yes, she'll be at that conference in New Orleans, but honestly, Greg, I wish you'd stop bugging me about this."
"Sorry," House said insincerely, and seeing this wasn't good enough, added a slightly more heartfelt, "Thanks."
House then spotted Wilson and his wife making their way onto the stage, and waved. His girlfriend moved off to say hello to Catherine, and Wilson came up to House with a grin. "Sounded good."
"Have I got myself a groupie?" House grinned back.
"Yeah, can I have your autograph?"
House dropped his voice, and muttered, "I'll autograph your butt."
Wilson smiled and also dropped his voice. "That might just get me into trouble. Listen, House, can you do me a favor?"
House looked at him suspiciously. "Nope."
Wilson ignored this and went on, "I was out late with you last night if Cath asks you, OK?"
House reflected yet again that James Wilson somehow always retained the capacity to surprise him.
"But I was rehearsing for this last night." House waved an arm around the stage.
"Then I was here listening. And we went for a drink afterwards, okay? Thanks," Wilson said brightly, and turned as if to walk away.
"Whoa, hold on!" House said firmly. Wilson turned back to him. "You don't get to ask a favor like that without saying why. Where were you last night?"
"Where do you think?"
House rolled his eyes. "With another woman, I assume."
"That's right. So now you know. Thanks!" Wilson turned again. House, infuriated, grabbed Wilson's arm.
"Uh huh. I want names, I want places, I want dates. Anyway, why are you lying to your wife about it? Don't you usually tell her about your affairs?" House looked intently at Wilson, differential diagnosis in full swing. Wilson glared back. House continued, "But not until after it's all over. So this one's still going on. You're seeing her again. Who is she?"
Wilson looked at him steadily. "I'm not telling you."
"You realize that's only a delaying tactic." House paused, then said magnanimously, "I'll lie to your wife if you come over tomorrow evening, and I'll autograph your butt."
"Just so long as you don't use permanent marker," Wilson muttered back, and House grinned broadly.
There was a reason why Wilson didn't want to tell House who she was.
After their third up-against-a-wall encounter, Wilson had been definitely feeling in need of some creature comforts next time. He couldn't possibly take her back to his and Cath's apartment, of course. And hotels were unacceptably expensive; he was an impecunious medical student and she was an even more impoverished undergraduate.
"We can go back to my house," Pearl said. "We just have to pick a time when my dad's working. He hates me dating. He'd never let me see you if he found out you were married. Actually, he'd probably kill you."
"You live with your father?" Wilson was surprised.
"Well, he works here, he's a doctor. Perhaps he teaches you?--he's head of nephrology."
Crap. Crap, crap, crap! "Nephrology? You mean--" Wilson scrabbled around his brain for the name, "--Dr. Dawlish? He's your father?"
She nodded. "You know him?"
"Uh. Yeah. Kind of."
As a mere med student, Wilson wouldn't normally have been anywhere near the radar of a department head. But as the best friend of House, the brilliant but tempestuous nephrology resident, he was.
Dr. Seth Dawlish was Head of the Nephrology Department, and Wilson knew his reputation was hard but fair. He'd heard House chafe somewhat under his leadership sometimes, but then Wilson couldn't imagine a boss that House wouldn't chafe under.
Wilson knew him only very slightly. But--and here Wilson's heart sank--the one thing Dr. Dawlish would remember about Wilson was that he was married. Dawlish had given House time off work during the week of Wilson's wedding . Dawlish had been amused at the whole idea of House being a best man, he'd even popped into the bachelor party for a swift half, said congratulations--
Crap, crap, crap!
"I don't think we can see each other anymore," he blurted out.
She reared her head back, astonished. "What, because of my dad?"
"He knows me. Knows I'm married. If he ever saw me with you--"
"He doesn't have to." Her face displayed alarm. "Please don't break up with me because of my dad! He's driven away boyfriends of mine before, it's horrible, he just doesn't want me to have any social life at all!"
Her eyes filled with tears. Wilson bit his lip and put his arms around her.
She got her way. (The sex was really good). Dawlish worked long hours, was predictably busy for long periods of time during the day and sometimes at weekends, and occasionally away for a night. They just had to be careful when they went there.
Wilson arrived at House's the following evening as promised to find House on him as soon as he walked in the door. Blue eyes gleamed brightly as House pounced.
"You are a bad fucking boy, Jimmy," House growled in his ear, hands roving underneath Wilson's jacket, pulling at shirt buttons. He slid his fingers onto Wilson's torso, sliding fingertips across Wilson's smooth chest.
"Uh," Wilson said weakly. He could feel House's cock hard against his thigh. He supposed it was better to have House angry and horny than simply angry.
House nipped Wilson on the earlobe, then kissed him on the mouth. "You've got a wife, and me, and you still want a bit on the side, Jimmy, you fucking slut."
Wilson breathed into House's mouth. "House..."
"Tonight's my turn," House breathed back, and Wilson felt electricity crackle through the inch of air between their mouths. His nipples tingled where House was fingering them, and his groin started to throb.
Propelled into the bedroom, Wilson stripped quickly while House nonchalantly pulled off his own clothes, then House fairly leaped at Wilson and pushed him down onto the bed. Wilson tried to move, and House bore down with his full weight; Wilson wriggled slightly, and House grabbed him by the wrists and held him down.
House's cock pulsated against his own, and Wilson closed his eyes; God, he was practically ready to come already.
"Not so fast," House hissed, and flipped Wilson over onto his front. Wilson pressed his hard-on into the mattress, simply wanting relief now, but House shoved a strong arm underneath his chest, flexing powerful muscles, pulling him onto his knees.
Wilson stayed still for a minute, listening to the rip of foil and the snap of latex, then shivered at cold gel on House's finger; and then, finally, clenching and relaxing at House's cock easing swiftly in and slowly out.
"Now, I've always thought my boss's undergrad daughter was hot," House murmured in Wilson's ear, and jutted his hips forward sharply. Wilson gasped in surprise and pain.
House went on, "But, God, I always had the sense to stay ten feet away at all times." Thrust. "You, on the other hand..." thrust, "clearly have no common sense whatsoever," thrust, "and are just led by your dick."
And on the last word House reached around with one hand, grasped Wilson's cock, and squeezed. Wilson let out a stifled cry.
"You're having an affair with my fucking department head's teenage daughter, Wilson, you fucker!" House reached out with his other hand to Wilson's head, and grabbed a fistful of ear and hair.
Sweat broke out on Wilson's forehead as his body shook from House's continuing thrusts. "I didn't know, not at first--"
"You fucking know now." House's palm ran the full length of Wilson's shaft and landed a fingertip on the very top. The world went black, then exploded into a starburst, as Wilson came with a strangled gasp, pumping into House's hand.
Barely able to stay on his hands and knees any more, Wilson tried to control his juddering muscles long enough to support House, who was now pressing his body along Wilson's back, stubble tickling the back of Wilson's neck. Then House climaxed with one last stupendous effort, and Wilson collapsed down onto the mattress.
House stayed sprawled on top of Wilson for a minute, then pulled out rather too sharply, and fell onto the bed beside Wilson.
Wilson lay for a few minutes regaining brain function, then muttered, "How did you find out?"
House didn't reply; Wilson interpreted the silence as smug. He tried again. "Does anyone else know?"
"Nope," House said. Definitely smug.
"Well I guess that's something to be grateful for," Wilson said grumpily.
House yawned. "You know, he's a terribly possessive father. His wife died when she was little, so he brought her up all by himself. She's the apple of his eye."
"Yes, I know."
"Nobody is good enough for her. If he finds out she's seeing you, a married man, he will cut you into little pieces and feed you to the birds."
"I know!"
"The sex must be really good, is all I can say." House wrapped an arm around Wilson's chest and settled comfortably down into the pillows. "And you know what? You'd better not ever be found out, because Dawlish will never believe I didn't have something to do with it."
House was sitting in the nephrology conference room, exhausted after a long shift, listening with less than half an ear to colleagues discussing the latest case of acute renal failure, when he saw Pearl walk past down the corridor outside. She was going towards her father's office; House knew Dawlish wasn't there.
House hesitated for a fraction of a second, then grabbed a file as a cover, got up and followed.
His initial outraged triumph at identifying her as Wilson's squeeze had faded, to be replaced by gnawing indignation. House could cope with Wilson's wife; she'd known him longer than he had, she'd gotten there first, and in any case it was obvious to him that their marriage was sleepwalking towards eventual doom.
Coping with Wilson's girlfriend was an entirely different thing. It set a green acidic ball of barbed wire curdling in his stomach. She was a couple of years younger even than Wilson, and to House she was very young indeed. He'd noticed she was attractive in an abstract sort of way, hey, Dawlish has a hot teenage daughter, but he hadn't really thought of her as a sexual being before: he'd only seen her in terms of her father. The idea of her with Wilson...
House strolled into Dawlish's office to find Pearl sitting in an armchair in the corner sorting through a pile of books and files in her bag. He put the file down on Dawlish's desk and turned to look at her. She glanced up at him, uninterested, seeing only a doctor in a white coat.
"You have to stop seeing James Wilson," House said, and somehow uttering the words intensified the burning ball inside his gut, like turning up a gas burner.
He watched successive expressions of shock, fright, outrage and hostility pass swiftly across her face.
He also couldn't help but think wow, she is hot. Beneath a baggy T-shirt and unflattering long skirt, there were curves in all the right places. In fact, a real sex kitten right in the midst of finding its way out. Trust Wilson to find out.
"Who are you?" she said eventually.
"I'm his friend. You're screwing up his marriage, ergo, his life." House kept it simple.
She glared at him, and said with some petulance, "Why does everyone have to keep telling me what to do? My dad, my tutors, and now you! I'm sick of it, I really am!"
She picked up a book and threw it on the floor.
"I don't give a damn about you and your pathetic teenage angst," House stated. "You're just getting a kick out of going behind your father's back. You don't give a damn about Wilson."
"You don't know anything about me!" she cried. "My life sucks! And James is the only thing in it that makes me happy! And you are nobody! So get the hell out of my life and stop interfering!"
She actually stamped her foot. House hesitated, but found himself unusually unsure what to say next. Also he rather thought that Dawlish was likely to come in his office any minute, which would not be good.
A tactical retreat seemed wisest in the circumstances, so he withdrew, pondering what to do next.
Tackling Wilson rather than Pearl seemed like the best way forward, but events intervened before he figured out how.
That weekend, Wilson was on his way to the Dawlish house. It was a good time to meet Pearl; her father was usually working at that time, and he had a convenient Saturday afternoon excuse for Cath--that he was going to watch House play lacrosse. He'd been in the habit of this for a while, they usually went for a couple of beers afterwards. It was an excuse good for a few hours.
He got out of the cab two blocks away from the house, not wanting to have to give out the address he was going to. When he walked down, however, he found Pearl waiting outside for him.
"Thank God I caught you, Dad's here after all," she said, her tone dismayed.
"Oh." Damnit, Wilson had been semi-hard for the last half hour in anticipation. Also she was looking particularly attractive right now: her eyes were big and bright and she'd tied her hair back, pronouncing her cheekbones.
She sighed and looked forlorn. "Don't you know anywhere else we could go?"
Wilson started to shake his head, and then he stopped. He realized abruptly that there was, in fact, another apartment for which he had a key.
And House would be out playing lacrosse for the next couple of hours...
No, he couldn't do that. House would be furious. House disapproved heavily of his relationship with Pearl. There was no way he would countenance Wilson borrowing his room like this. It would be a betrayal.
Wilson looked at Pearl, her eyes hopeful, lips slightly parted in anticipation.
He figured House never had to know.
Cath had their car right now. "Can you drive us?" he asked.
House sat on the bleachers, watching his lacrosse captain argue with the field hockey captain about who had booked the pitch first. It appeared that the lacrosse team had the moral right, but the hockey players had turned up half an hour earlier and were already out playing. Possession being nine-tenths of the law, it didn't look like there would be lacrosse practice after all.
The lacrosse captain waved a disgusted hand and turned away. The hockey team played on. House sighed and started to gather his stuff together.
"Hey, Greg."
He looked up; it was Catherine. House had no wish to chat with Wilson's wife, and said curtly, "Hey."
"Is James not here?" she asked.
"Am I his keeper?" House snapped, not thinking ahead. "Does it look like he's here?"
"He said he was going to watch you this afternoon." Catherine's voice was flat.
Too late, House's brain clicked into gear. Fuck it, Wilson must be off with that silly bitch Pearl again. Well, how was he supposed to lie if Wilson didn't warn him? "Uh--"
"Don't worry," Cath said tiredly, and turned away. House looked towards her, and spotted her car on the roadside.
"Could you give me a ride home?" he asked, knowing it was ballsy but thinking it was worth asking. He'd jogged to the sports ground as his warm-up; he couldn't be bothered to jog back again. "Please?"
He half-expected to be told to fuck off, but after a small hesitation, Catherine said, "Sure."
She must want to talk to him. Probably to ask who the hell Wilson was fucking at the moment. Well, he could stonewall that if he had to. House grabbed his gear and followed her to the car.
"Did you have a good holiday, House?" Catherine asked, putting on her seatbelt.
This was a dig and House couldn't resist rising to the bait. He turned large innocent blue eyes on her. "Oh, lovely, thank-you. And did you have a happy Hannukah?"
"Yes. Or at least, I would have," Catherine fixed him with a stony stare. "If James hadn't gone dashing off to spend Christmas with you."
"Very kind of you to let him go," House said with complete insincerity.
She glared at him, and pulled the car away from the curb. She asked with considerable naivety, "Could your girlfriend not have gone with you instead?"
"She was away, spending the holidays with her folks back west," House said. This was true, although the thought of inviting her to his parents house had never actually entered his head. He shuddered inwardly at the thought.
"Anyway, my Mom and Dad wanted to see Wilson," he added instead. "They adore him, you know." This was also true.
Cath looked straight at him, and said, "I bet they do, with you as a son."
Ooh, that was positively nasty. House beamed at her, delighted to have provoked such a reaction. "Are you suggesting I'm not a model son? Well, I'm hurt, I really am. Wilson is, of course, a model husband, which is why you're so happy with him right now."
Catherine turned her eyes back to the road and shrugged a little. "He spends way too much time with you, that's all."
House didn't like the tone of this one. If Wilson's marriage was going belly-up then he had no intention of being blamed for it. Especially when Wilson was off having sex with someone else right this minute. He slid a scalpel into his voice. "Nobody's forcing him to spend any time with anyone. Don't you blame your marital problems on me."
"I don't have marital problems!" Cath said furiously.
The hell she didn't. House was quite sure she knew Wilson was having an affair, with a woman. Why else would she be sneaking around the lacrosse field?
"Fine. Then quit moaning to me." House was firm. "He's a big boy; he's quite capable of telling me to fuck off if he wants to."
"No, he's not," Cath said, surprising House. "If you tell him you need him, he can't say no." She took a left turn, swinging the wheel with more than necessary force.
House thought this was a perceptive comment, and wondered if Catherine had thought of applying the same to herself. She had changed; she was quite different from the timid little mouse who had come down from Canada to join her fiancé a year ago. She was even different from the knowledgeable but self-conscious woman planning her wedding six months ago. She was... stronger. She didn't seem to be sheltering under Wilson's wing any more.
And he suspected that was actually why Wilson was less inclined to spend time with her now than previously. And preferred instead to spend time looking after the poor little girl with the nasty possessive father.
"So maybe you need to tell him that you need him," House said cautiously, wondering how on earth he had just ended up giving marriage guidance.
"Or you need to stop needing him," she countered. A thought apparently struck her. "James says you're thinking of doing a second certification, in Infectious Diseases? And that would be... someplace else?"
House nodded, suddenly sobered by this reminder. He was plotting a move to Boston. He was going to a conference in New Orleans in just a couple of weeks time to meet his girlfriend's contact who would also be there, and discuss the possibility.
"That's right," he acknowledged. "So... gimme another six months and maybe I'll be out of your hair."
Catherine looked at him for a long moment, and then said, "If only I believed that would actually happen."
House looked back, frowning, not altogether sure what she meant.
"Wherever you end up--in the next state, on the other side of the country, on the other side of the world." Cath waved an exasperated hand. "I just can't see it making a difference."
And House found himself genuinely surprised, to the extent that he didn't actually know what to say.
They pulled up outside his house. House put a hand on the door handle, and remembered something that had been annoying him.
"Hey, Wilson left a bunch of files at my place a few days ago, they're cluttering the place up. Could you take them back with you?"
Cath shrugged and put the brake on. "Sure."
House got out of the car, and then Cath called, "Actually, no--I need to do some shopping. He can pick them up some other time."
"Okay." House shut the car door, and Cath pulled away.
House headed inside and up to his room in the attic. As he climbed the last set of stairs, he wondered absently if Catherine was sufficiently annoyed with her husband to sleep with someone else out of revenge. Someone like his best friend, perhaps.
Of course, she hated House's guts, and he didn't find her remotely attractive... but even so, the mere idea kept House fantasizing for ten seconds or so, and it was in those ten seconds that he opened his door and strolled in several paces, before being startled out of his reverie by the sight in front of him.
Wilson was there, half naked on the couch, and a woman--Dawlish's daughter, fuck!--half naked, on top of him. In his room! What the hell were they doing in his room--!
"WILSON!" House bellowed.
Neither of them had seen him before he shouted. Wilson jumped so high in the air that the woman fell right off him onto the floor. Wilson sat up, apparently torn between helping her up and looking at House: he opted for the former first, pushing a blanket into her hands.
"Get some clothes on and get the hell out of my room," House snarled at her. She looked back at him, apparently quite unafraid. She wrapped the blanket around herself, bent to pick up a small puddle of clothes, and marched into the bedroom, closing the door behind her.
House didn't want her in his bedroom but he also didn't want to watch her getting dressed, so he let it go. He turned the full force of his glare on Wilson.
"You had better have a damn good explanation for this."
The look on Wilson's face said plainly that he didn't. "Um, we needed somewhere to go..."
"You needed! You needed! You need to get your head out of your ass!" House shouted, and Pearl emerged from the bedroom at that point. He had to give her credit; she was fully dressed and looked immaculate.
She completely ignored House, paused to say to Wilson, "Call me, James," then she marched out of the door. Her shoes sounded loudly on the stairs outside, and then faded into the distance.
Alone, House stared at Wilson.
"Wilson, how could you?" House couldn't get his head around it all. He remembered Wilson inviting him to spend the night at his apartment a while ago when his wife had been away, and had a nauseating thought. "You sick fucker, did you want to do her in my bed?"
"Christ, no." Wilson looked genuinely horrified. "House, it was just a place to go. I even said to her, we won't go in the bedroom--just the couch--"
"Oh well, that's all fucking right then!" House bellowed, and slammed a fist down on the back of the couch. It was dawning on him that this had been a really, really close shave. "Wilson, your wife came looking for you at my lacrosse practice, she gave me a lift back and damn nearly came up here!"
Wilson looked suitably abashed. "House, I'm sorry..."
House took a deep breath, and said, "Wilson, you cannot keep on fucking her or you will get into very serious grave deep trouble, either with your wife, or her father, or both. And I'd happily stand back and let them teach you a damn good lesson, except that they will both blame me and I will get into very serious grave deep trouble too."
"I know," Wilson whispered. "I'll stop seeing her."
"Fine. Good." This wasn't enough. "But even if she was someone else, even if you weren't married, for Chrissake..." House heard his voice quiver, and swallowed.
When he spoke again, his voice was perfectly level. "This is not why you have a key to my room."
Wilson was silent for a moment, then said very quietly, "If you want, I'll give it back."
And he fished into a pocket and pulled out a bunch of keys.
The words and the jangle of keys struck House as hard as any physical blow. He pictured Wilson taking the key off the bunch, handing it over. And it was as if such a thing would leave no hope at all that Wilson would ever come back.
It was irrational, perhaps, but so highly symbolic that House could not contemplate allowing it to happen. He remembered the squabble over Wilson getting that key in the first place (they'd kissed for the first time in the aftermath, Christ...).
House discovered in that moment that he would let Wilson get away with a great deal, so long as he was left with the hope that Wilson would come back.
"No, keep it," he said, his tone gruff. "Just--don't fucking do it again."
Wilson looked so relieved that House realized belatedly that Wilson had been as mortified as he was at the idea of giving it back.
"Of course not," Wilson said, as sincere as House had ever heard him. "I screwed up. I'm sorry."
House couldn't cope with any more of this right now. He waved a hand. "Go. Just go. Dump your girlfriend and make up with your wife. I'll see you on Monday."
Wilson rose silently and left.
House went and poured himself a drink. Three shots of bourbon later, he felt a little better.
He decided he'd really been outrageously lenient with Wilson; and spent the rest of the evening wondering where, if anywhere, he would draw the line.
END OF PART 7
A/N: TBC. Next part: House goes to the New Orleans conference. Somehow Wilson ends up there too.