Title: Twenty Years of Stealing My Food: Part 8
Title: Twenty Years of Stealing My Food: Part 8
Author: hwshipper
Pairing/Rating: House/Wilson, NC-17.
Words: this part 4400
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Heel and Toe Films, Shore Z Productions and Bad Hat Harry Productions in association with Universal Media Studios.
Beta: masses of credit to triedunture
A/N: Part 8 of a backstory to take place over twenty years, all the way to canon.
Spoilers: Strange though it may seem for a backstory, this part contains spoilers for season 5. Spoilerphobes may therefore wish to skip this part.
CLARIFICATION NOTE: I have received a number of questions about the date I posted this chapter. I would like to clarify that it was based on spoilers, as I warned for at the time. All the ideas in this fic which also appear in the episode are those of the writers in House, and I claim no credit at all: my intention was merely to elaborate and build upon canon, as is the nature of fanfic. I never intended to dupe or mislead anyone about authorship, nor am I psychic. If I spoiled anything for you, I can only now apologise.
Summary: House goes to a conference in New Orleans. Wilson turns up too.
Twenty Years of Stealing My Food - Part 8
House had gotten through a hard day of interminably boring conference papers, seminars, and breakout sessions, and figured he was due a break. He was in New Orleans, after all. He found a tiny basement cellar bar where he drank decent bourbon and listened to some weird experimental jazz saxophone through the evening.
He headed back to his hotel later on, humming cheerfully and feeling he could now face another day tomorrow, when a voice hailed from off the lobby, from the direction of the hotel bar.
"Hey, House!"
It was Wilson. Surprised, House went in to find Wilson sitting on a barstool, glass at his elbow, a large overnight bag under the stool. House sat down on the next stool and picked up Wilson's glass. "What the fuck are you doing here?"
"Just felt like a trip. Never been to New Orleans." Wilson was smiling and bright, but House knew immediately this was a front, albeit a very convincing one. "All that jazz. Shame to pass up the chance."
"You don't even know anyone here." House took a gulp.
Wilson waved to the bartender, who brought another glass to House's elbow and tipped bourbon in liberally.
"Nope," Wilson agreed. "But I'm bound to meet a few people, aren't I? Multi-disciplinary convention, aimed at early-career professionals. Lots to be interested in. And I can sign up as a day delegate tomorrow."
"So wide ranging as to be utterly useless to everybody. The most boring conference in the history of the universe," House corrected him.
"Well, I needed to get away for a few days." Wilson dipped his head and dropped his voice. "Mom called... Jonathan's divorce came through."
"Fuck," House said gravely, knowing Wilson would recognize this as the sympathy it was intended to be. Jonathan was Wilson's brother. House knew Wilson's parents well enough to know they would be very saddened by one of their sons getting divorced.
"Indeed," Wilson agreed, his brown eyes dulled with sadness.
House could see this wasn't the whole story, but decided to leave it for now. Plenty of time to find out. And anyway it might be nice to have some company.
"I'm particularly bored of having to go to all the nephrology sessions," House explained, feeling the need to move the conversation away from Wilson's brother's impending divorce. "I was hoping to get to more of the infectious diseases ones, but they all seem to clash. And if I skip too many of the nephrology, someone will sneak to Dawlish."
It was still important to stay on the right side of his boss. House was now very close to getting his certification in nephrology, but not quite there yet.
"I'm gonna try and go to more infectious diseases tomorrow," House went on, and then stopped. There was one infectious disease session he was attending primarily to meet a doctor from Mass Gen who might, just might, be persuaded to take him on to do a residency there.
But he didn't want to mention this to Wilson. Not unless it actually happened. House had been angling for this for a while now, and knew Wilson was torn between encouraging him and getting depressed about the prospect of House living four hours journey away in Boston.
There was no point possibly upsetting Wilson unnecessarily. Especially not right now, when Wilson was downhearted about other stuff.
Fortunately Wilson had a question on his mind and didn't notice House's hesitation.
"House, can I crash in your hotel room? With three thousand doctors in town, I couldn't get a room anywhere." Wilson paused, then added, "Assuming you don't have a hot babe lined up to join you, of course."
House grinned widely, pleased that Wilson was apparently unsure if he'd be welcome or not. Things had been a little strained between them on that side of things since the whole affair-with-House's-boss's-daughter thing. House wasn't at all sure if Wilson had even broken up with Pearl yet: it wasn't a conversation he wanted to risk.
"No, that position is vacant," House said solemnly. "I found it hard getting a room too, though. I've only got a single."
"Then I'll crash on the floor," Wilson said deadpan.
House drained his glass and stood up. He muttered, "Room two-oh-four, see you in five," and left.
Five minutes later, there was a soft rap on House's hotel room. House opened it and there was Wilson, big brown eyes in full demure mode. "Room service."
House hooked an arm around Wilson's neck and pulled him in through the doorway for a kiss. "What kind of service do you offer?"
"Laundry, ironing, shoe cleaning." Wilson leaned back against the door to close it. "Sandwiches, pizza--"
"I want something off-menu."
"A good hard fuck?" Wilson muttered, and the words alone made House's cock almost bolt upright.
House leaned into Wilson, putting his palms up against Wilson's chest and practically smothering Wilson's face with his own. "So long as it doesn't appear on my bill like that."
Wilson grinned. "I think I can accept payment in kind." He eased House back slightly. "Just let me freshen up after the journey."
Wilson broke away and headed towards the bathroom, taking his bag with him.
House, who had already removed shoes and jacket, divested himself of his remaining clothes. He turned off the lights except for the bedside lamp, and got into bed, settling himself down comfortably. Wilson could take a long time in the bathroom sometimes.
Wilson emerged only a few minutes later, though; face pink, hair damp, and naked. House looked at him through slitted eyes, and Wilson walked towards the bed.
With no space next to House in the single bed, Wilson slid in on top of House. House sucked in his breath as Wilson's firm thighs and smooth chest came to rest on top of him, and then Wilson's semi-hard cock pulsed up against his hip. He reached around and placed his palms on Wilson's beautifully silky smooth ass, pulling him close.
"Hmmph," Wilson muttered close to House's ear.
House merely breathed back, then tilted his body to slide his own cock alongside Wilson's. The two of them both gasped involuntarily at the sudden sensation, the thrill of skin stroking skin. House felt his cock jerk of its own accord, pushing at Wilson's. He raised his hips, jutting against Wilson above him; fuck, he could probably come just like this, really quickly--
"Whoa," Wilson said, and raised himself on his hands, pulling back. "Not yet; that's not what I was offering..."
A good hard fuck. House shivered a little, and groped under the pillow for a condom and the lube. He handed both to Wilson, who sat back on his heels, rolled the condom on briskly, slicked a couple of fingers, and slid them up House's ass.
House growled a little, but took it, relaxed, pulled his own legs back, and then Wilson removed the fingers, sat back and--oof--God, so different, slid in his dick instead. Wilson started to thrust, and House realized Wilson was intent on a giving him a pounding. And somehow House, mellow from jazz and bourbon, was in just the right frame of mind to take it.
Flat on his back, House could barely move; the bed was so narrow there was nowhere to move to. Grasping the back of the bed with one hand and his own cock in the other, he lay back and gave himself up to the sensation; Wilson's cock up his ass, firm and sensual and pushing every nerve ending to a high point from which House never wanted to come down--
House brought himself off with a gasp and a choke, sticky mess spilling onto his stomach. His body shook and trembled as Wilson continued to pound. House heard incoherent noises babbling out of his own mouth. "Wilson, hell, argmumphargh--"
"House--" Wilson was losing his composure, going goggle-eyed.
With an effort, House clenched as hard as he could, and had the supreme satisfaction of making Wilson come with a shout. The next minute, Wilson collapsed on top of House and knocked all the breath out of him.
House couldn't push him off without pushing him off the bed entirely, so uttered a loud "OOF" instead to convey he was being squashed; Wilson shifted his weight slightly, but only slightly, apparently unable to do much more.
They lay in a mutual daze for a while, then House pushed Wilson again. "I can't breathe."
"You want to breathe?" Wilson muttered.
"No, I want to die of asphyxiation. No good coming here to stave off my boredom and then killing me--"
"You can't breathe, but you can, apparently, talk," Wilson said, his voice suddenly short. He rolled off House, dropping himself gently off the bed and onto the floor. He struggled to his feet and headed to the bathroom.
He emerged a short while later, headed for the closet, and found a spare blanket. He then proceeded to fold it up and put it on the floor. House watched with a raised eyebrow, and had to ask, "What are you doing?"
"I'm gonna crash on the floor," Wilson said, sitting down on the blanket.
"What?"
Wilson shrugged. "There's not really enough room in the bed, is there?"
House opened his mouth and shut it again. They'd slept in a single bed plenty of times before, back when Wilson had the smallest room in the shared house; they'd curled up together like spoons--
So Wilson didn't want to do that, and House wasn't about to beg, especially not with Wilson in the stupid fucking mood he was obviously in at the moment.
"Fine," said House, and rolled over and went to sleep.
Next morning somehow everything was wrong. Wilson was peevish; House was snappy. House grabbed the bathroom first and emerged to find Wilson impatient and lecturing on how House should have let him go first because he took more time to get ready.
"Like that's my fault?" House was incredulous. "If you just skipped blow drying your hair for once--"
Wilson stomped into the bathroom and banged the door shut.
House took a moment to cool down, got dressed and decided there was no reason for hang around for Wilson. He got his stuff together and walked around the room trying to find a pen. He had taken the hotel room issue pen the previous day and lost it. Unaccountably the hotel had failed to anticipate this eventuality and it hadn't been replaced yet.
His eye fell on Wilson's bag sitting on the floor by the bed; Wilson would have a pen. Wilson, ever prepared for all eventualities, always had a pen. And several spare ones. House took the bag, a large black holdall, and pulled it open.
He forgot about pens when he found an envelope lurking at the very bottom of the bag. A large, official-looking envelope with the stamp of a law firm in the top corner.
Very odd. What kind of legal papers would Wilson be carrying around with him? House was puzzled. He looked at the flap of the envelope; it had been slit neatly open. Practically an invitation to look...
Divorce papers.
Fuck. House flipped rapidly through, just enough to be sure what he was looking at. Definitely divorce. Wilson's wife had filed for divorce. And Wilson hadn't said a word.
House closed the envelope and sat back on his heels, his mind working rapidly. Doubtless Wilson had done his usual thing and confessed about his affair with Pearl: Cath had already been suspicious, House knew that. Apparently she'd been closer to the end of her tether than House had thought, and not willing to forgive this time.
This explained it; explained why Wilson had come haring down the continent to a conference he really had very little reason to attend. And this stupid fucking mood he was in. He was not dealing with it.
And, fuck! Right on top of Jonathan's marriage also ending. No wonder Wilson was trying to avoid this. The Wilson parents were going to be devastated.
Maybe Wilson was going to try and fix it, wanted to resolve it... but his wife was clearly not in a conciliatory mood right now, so Wilson had come away for a few days...
House tucked the envelope neatly back inside Wilson's bag exactly how it had been, and left the bag on the floor, as close as possible to how Wilson had left it.
Then he left for the conference. He briefly considered leaving a note, but couldn't think what on earth he'd write. And in any case he didn't have a pen.
House flitted around from session to session that day, putting in enough of an appearance at the nephrology events to show willingness. Occasionally he saw Wilson in the distance, also going from session to session, but they didn't meet.
House only cared about one event that day, the Infectious Diseases seminar in the late afternoon where he was hoping to meet Dr. Andrea Rusch, who might be persuaded to take him on to do a residency at Mass Gen. He'd been put in touch with her by his girlfriend (who wasn't actually his girlfriend anymore; she'd finally dumped him a few days before, after he'd asked her one too many questions about Infectious Diseases. He decided there was no need to mention that).
House hated the whole concept of networking; having to know the right people and worse, suck up to them. He felt strongly that he should just be able to breeze into Mass Gen and take their Infectious Diseases department by storm, and screw having to actually get along with anyone there.
But it wasn't easy. Even when you were brilliant, and you knew you were brilliant, and everyone else around you tacitly acknowledged you were brilliant too. It still wasn't easy to find somewhere, someone, willing to take you on to do a second residency. Especially when your short career was already checkered by an expulsion from med school.
"For what?" people inevitably asked, often ready to be sympathetic. Assuming youthful high-jinks, med school escapades gotten out of hand.
"For cheating," he had to admit, because they'd find out from Hopkins sooner or later, and you had to be pretty damn brilliant to come back from that one.
House knew he had to make an impact at the seminar that afternoon. As luck would have it, he was heading along there when Wilson appeared, hurrying alongside his elbow.
"Hey, House--"
"Hey," House said shortly. He didn't have time for any more shit from Wilson right now. "Busy. See you later."
Leaving Wilson standing in a corridor, House duly arrived late at the seminar. Only by a few minutes though. He sat at the back and interrupted a few times, then relentlessly hammered virtually every panel member with questions. He ruffled a few feathers, but he knew his questions had been pertinent, and if they'd exposed some level of ignorance of the field, well, it wasn't his field. That was precisely why he needed this residency.
Afterwards a tall woman with gray hair in a bun came up to him. "Gregory House? I'm Andrea Rusch, I believe I was supposed to be looking out for you here. You certainly made that easy enough."
They shook hands, and headed off towards the coffee table. Once ensconced in a chair with cup in hand, she fixed him with a penetrating eye.
"So just how badly have you screwed up in nephrology, that you're looking for a career change?"
House had been expecting this. He took a deep breath, and explained. That he did enjoy nephrology and was excellent at his job, thank you very much. "Just ask Seth Dawlish, my boss; he'll confirm that." (House crossed his fingers behind his back and hoped that Dawlish was still in blissful ignorance about Wilson and his damn daughter). But at the end of the day, it was all about kidneys; and House was interested in a lot more than that.
"I want to be a diagnostician, and unaccountably there's nowhere I can specialize in diagnostics," he explained to her. "So until the medical profession gets its collective ass in gear and sets up a department someplace, or until I'm out there running my own diagnostic department, infectious diseases is the closest I'm going to get."
He knew it was risky, but he also gauged her as the type to be amused, rather than offended, by the nerve and ambition of the young doctor in front of her.
"Well, you've got balls, I'll give you that," she said, not smiling but with a certain twinkle in her eye. She glanced at her neat little gold watch. "House, I have to meet my husband now for dinner back at the hotel. He works at Mass Gen too; he's an oncologist. Perhaps you'd like to come with us?"
Result. House did a mental air punch.
Andrea Rusch's husband, Vasilius Rusch, turned out to be a tall elderly man with an impressive gray beard who took one look at House's two-day stubble and immediately told House he had a long way to go to compete. House took to him instantly, unusually, and they had a surprisingly enjoyable dinner.
It was marred only by Wilson appearing on the other side of the room, apparently looking for House; House caught his eye and shook his head firmly. Wilson nodded tightly, and vanished again.
House got the Hopkins thing out of the way over dessert, and although Andrea pursed her lips and looked disapproving (he knew she'd be on the phone to them, and was glad he'd told the truth), she turned out to be a Michigan graduate herself and approved of where he'd ended up. And Vasilius actually said, "Reminds me of that time when I--" before his wife poked him in the ribs and he shut up.
House was actually starting to feel good about this.
After dinner they went to the hotel bar. House immediately spotted Wilson there, sitting nursing a glass of a whisky with a bottle at his elbow. House could see Wilson's face reflected in a ten foot antique mirror nearby; he looked melancholy. The room was large, and Wilson didn't see them come in.
House hastened to grab a table on the other side of the room behind a large pot plant, and angled himself away from Wilson.
As he chatted with the Ruschs, House was vaguely aware that a man had stationed himself at the jukebox and was relentlessly playing the same Billy Joel song over and over again, and that Wilson was getting increasingly annoyed with the jukebox guy. He dimly heard Wilson complaining, and then suddenly voices were raised in argument.
House looked around just in time to see Wilson fling up an arm, and then the large antique mirror shattered. A bourbon bottle seemed to stay suspended in the air for a second, until it came crashing down to the floor along with multiple pieces of dulled mirrored glass.
Wilson had thrown the bottle. Wilson had broken the mirror! House stared across at Wilson, agog.
Wilson was on his feet, his cheeks pink, his voice raised in recrimination at Jukebox Guy. "I told you to stop playing that song!"
Fuck it, Wilson had completely lost his temper! House was thrilled. Then someone previously completely uninvolved threw a shot glass across the room, another guy threw another glass in the opposite direction, and the bar descended into chaos and confusion. If House hadn't been with the Ruschs, he would have been only too happy to join in.
"What's happening?" asked Andrea, who had her back to the room.
"Some young hooligan just started a fight," her husband said, rising to his feet. "Shall we go and continue this conversation elsewhere?"
For a few seconds House contemplated the appalling idea that Wilson might actually scupper both his nephrology certification (if Dawlish ever found out about Pearl) and also his shot at infectious diseases (if the Ruschs found out who the hooligan was).
He took a deep breath and followed them out of the bar.
They went to another bar down the street, but the cozy momentum of conversation had been lost, and House decided to cut it short. He tried to be as friendly as possible, said he'd see them both at tomorrow's sessions, and could only hope he hadn't been too abrupt.
He returned to the hotel and found the bar quiet, but with broken glass and upturned chairs spread liberally across the room. He wasn't surprised to hear from the bartender that Wilson had been arrested.
"Although he wrote out a check out for the mirror before they took him away," the bartender added, and House rolled his eyes. Typical Wilson.
So, what to do? Well, Wilson would call his wife from jail, ask her to bail him... or would he?
Those divorce papers sitting at the bottom of Wilson's bag.
House headed off to the police station, which was conveniently just down the road. He mused on the way that this was probably the first time Wilson had ever been arrested. House had kind of lost track of how many times the same thing had happened to himself...
Wilson emerged from the police station, dazed and confused, exhausted with shock, and feeling grubby and cold. He found a grizzled lanky figure leaning against the wall waiting for him.
"I took care of it," was the first thing House said.
Wilson looked at House as if seeing him for the first time, peering at his face, trying to figure out what on earth was going on. They started walking down the street towards the hotel, falling naturally into step.
"You bailed me out?" Wilson was incredulous, although this was tempered by a feeling of complete flatness. His adrenalin had long since run out.
"Yeah. Charges will be dropped." House flipped Wilson a card. "Call him."
"Thanks." Wilson glanced at it; a lawyer's card. He pocketed it, not wanting to think about practicalities right now. "Um--this is very, er, kind of you."
"I was bored," House said flatly. "Couldn't let you rot in jail when you could be breaking more mirrors and causing more bar fights."
"Of course not." Wilson agreed, and there was a tightness in his voice.
The last few days had been a nightmarish fog. The coldness at home had been almost unbearable. He was still trapped in this ridiculous affair with Pearl, who was hinting strongly that if he dumped her she would tell her father. He was sad and sick to the stomach at the news about Jonathan, and had spent a difficult half hour on the phone comforting Mom about that. And then to cap it all, Cath had presented him with those papers...
Wilson was hanging on like grim death to the idea that after a couple of days away he would come home, Cath would have calmed down, they could patch things up, and nobody else need ever know about the fucking envelope at the bottom of his bag.
And although he was immensely relieved that his wife now didn't have to know about this ridiculous fracas in New Orleans, he was also bemused and suspicious at House. House, bailing him out?--House, who was always so much quicker to borrow money than to lend? Wilson suspected the price he would have to pay in return would be endless ribbing; hours of amusement for House.
House's comment about being bored grated on Wilson like fingernails down a window pane.
Back in their room, House pushed the door shut behind them and Wilson remarked, "So if you bailed me out because you're bored, then I guess I should make life interesting for you."
House smiled a wolfish smile, and remarked, "I'm just sorry I didn't get to see you behind the prison bars."
House's comment served only to confirm Wilson's conviction that House was out to get as much entertainment as possible out of his predicament. The smile Wilson cracked back had very little humor in it. "Sorry to disappoint you about that. How did you know what happened?... were you there, in the bar?"
"I was," House admitted. "I saw you throw the bottle. But I was with some people, just boring people from the conference." He shrugged. "It was tedious, but I had to get rid of them first."
"The police put me in handcuffs when they took me away, you know," Wilson said casually, as if he was talking about the weather. He pulled up a sleeve, showed a red mark around his wrist.
He watched House's blue eyes grow a little wider.
"Really," House said eventually, and his voice sounded suddenly hoarse. He sat down on the side of the bed.
"They took my belt, of course, when they locked me up... I didn't bother to put it back on when they gave it back." Wilson reached into a pocket and withdrew a narrow leather belt, coiled up in a circle.
House swallowed.
"Haven't got the handcuffs any more, of course. But..." Wilson unwound the end of the belt a couple of times, and drew it across his arm. House stared, mesmerized, as Wilson tied the end of the belt around his wrist.
Black leather gleamed against Wilson's pale skin. The belt was too stiff to knot more than very loosely, but that didn't matter: Wilson could see the effect right there in House's pants. Bored now, House?
House reached out and grasped other end of the belt. He gave it a tug, and pulled Wilson towards him. "Jimmy Wilson, I'm arresting you in the name of the law. I demand you, um, come quietly."
Wilson couldn't help but smile at that, in fact he might even have laughed, if it hadn't been for the knot clenched inside his gut.
It deserved a response in kind, however. "Yes, Officer House." Wilson reached down with his free hand, and cupped House's groin. "But can you come quietly?"
And Wilson unzipped House's fly and dropped to his knees. House shut his eyes and clutched at Wilson's hair with one hand and grasped the belt in the other, as Wilson practically swallowed his cock.
It didn't take long; Wilson knew exactly just what House liked, how to kiss the head ever so gently, then suck hard, up and down House's shaft while cupping his balls in one hand. And then a finger thrust up the ass at the exact second to bring House over the edge, probably sooner than he'd actually wanted. House didn't exactly come quietly, but he didn't shout; instead he tugged at the belt and groaned, and scrabbled at Wilson's scalp with his fingernails.
Afterwards, House gasped, "Now that would've been a fucking useful talent to have in prison. You'd have been somebody's bitch in no time."
I'm so glad I'm not fucking well boring you. Wilson was certain that if House hadn't been bored this evening, Wilson would probably still be rotting inside that jail cell now.
"I wasn't inside long enough to worry about dropping the soap in the shower," Wilson muttered, and got up to sit on the bed next to House. He sat back and unzipped his own fly. House lent him a hand, but Wilson really wasn't in the mood, and the resulting orgasm was good only in the sense that any was better than none.
House fell asleep soon after; Wilson lay awake for a long time.
After the conference, House waited for divorce news, but nothing happened; he guessed that Wilson had negotiated himself a stay of execution. As a result, House never did get around to mentioning he had seen the papers in Wilson's bag. By the time the divorce actually happened, six months later, they seemed unimportant.
It was to be many, many years before Wilson found out that House had seen that set of divorce papers in New Orleans.
END OF PART 8. TBC.
A/N: Next part: House moves to Boston.
Wilson discovers that House saw the divorce papers twenty years later, in Beauty Spots (2/2)