Title: Twenty Years of Stealing My Food: Part 18/20
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: triedunture still putting up with me
A/N: Part of a backstory to take place over twenty years, all the way to canon. Later parts drafted and emerging slowly.
Summary: After the infarction: the aftermath.
Excerpt: House ambled out a minute later, fully dressed, shuffling awkwardly with his cane. Wilson came out into the living room and eyeballed him. "Hooker?"
Twenty Years of Stealing My Food: Part 18
Wilson let himself into House and Stacy's apartment, maneuvering bags of groceries through the door carefully. He found House lying flat on his back on the living room floor, his head and right leg propped up on cushions, his eyes fixed on the TV.
"Hey," Wilson greeted, and moved on to the kitchen without waiting for a reply. He found Stacy with her laptop on the kitchen table, listlessly tapping away at keys. She was pale and drawn, and her hair hung limply across her forehead.
"James, hi." She saw the bags of groceries, and her face creased into an appreciative and apologetic smile. "That's so thoughtful. You're very kind."
"It's no problem." Wilson meant it. He had found doing occasional food shopping an easy way of helping out: it tended to end up on the bottom of Stacy's list of things to do, and left until too late, until House was positively snapping and snarling about lack of sustenance. He moved around the kitchen, putting things away. He left out a tub of ice-cream, picked two spoons off the draining board, and headed into the living room.
House's gaze was still firmly on the TV, although the program was a re-run of an old General Hospital which Wilson knew House had watched. Wilson sat down on the floor, leaning back against the couch, and put the ice-cream tub down next to House's elbow. House picked up the tub and inspected the label critically. Apparently Chunky Monkey passed the test, as House pulled off the lid and dug in a spoon.
Wilson knew better than to ask how's the leg today, and in any case the sheen of sweat on House's face told its own story. Wilson was about to make some anodyne remark about the TV program, when unexpectedly House spoke up.
"You know," House said in a casual, conversational tone. "Sometimes I find myself thinking when the pain goes away I'll do x or y... and then I remember. The pain is never going to go away. Never ever. And then I realize that the human brain can't actually cope with that thought, or it would command the rest of the body to blow it away with a twelve-bore shotgun. So it pretends the pain isn't going to last, that it'll fade, just give it time, time to heal--," House was caustic on the last word, "--time to find some combination of painkillers that actually make the slightest bit of difference..."
House slid a spoonful of ice-cream into his mouth. Wilson reached over with his own spoon.
"I swear this ice-cream is as good as any of these fucking so-called painkillers." House dug his spoon into the tub.
"I'll tell Ben & Jerry's to take out a patent," Wilson said solemnly.
"Buy some shares in them first." House ate ice-cream. "You know, it's amazing what guilt will do. You think Stacy would let me get away with any of this B.I.?" B.I. was Before Infarction: A.I. was After Infarction. House waved an arm around the room, encompassing clothes and books strewn across furniture, plates of half-eaten congealing food sitting at intervals on the floor. "Again, sometimes I catch my brain thinking make the most of it while you're a cripple, milk it for all it's worth... only to remember I'm going to be like this for the rest of my life. I guess I can milk people's pity for the rest of my life."
Wilson was used to House's bitterness, but uneasy by the open way House was expressing it. He hoped House didn't have a twelve-bore shotgun hidden away anywhere.
"It's the same with Cuddy," House went on. "You know what she's agreed to?"
Wilson didn't, but he could guess. "Your Diagnostics group idea?"
"Not just a group. An entire department! And as a department head, I get tenure. And three staff--and she even apologized that she couldn't get me five as I'd originally asked for!" House rolled his eyes. "Christ almighty, getting crippled turned out to be my ticket out of Infectious Diseases at long last. I only wish I could say it was worth it."
Wilson was glad at this news. He'd known Cuddy had been steeling herself to drive this through Management Board; it was little short of amazing she had succeeded. He wondered how she had done it.
"It helped that I agreed not to sue the ass off the hospital," House added, as if in answer to Wilson's thought.
"You threatened to sue?"
"I served the papers." House's voice was flat. "Cuddy took one look and did the math. Between three days of misdiagnoses and an operation carried out under highly dubious consent, I could have cost them easily as much in a settlement as it'll cost them to set up the department. And this way Cuddy keeps my expertise and reputation, and all the potential for good publicity and income from donations in the future: she's smart enough to know when she's on to a good thing. Of course, residual guilt from complicity didn't hurt either."
Wilson was silent. House was unable to forgive Stacy and still resentful of Cuddy. Wilson, doing his utmost to help House while keeping out of crossfire, was trying very hard not to take sides.
House shifted his position a little on the floor, and winced. "Stacy's upset I didn't get her law firm to draw up the papers. Like the conflict of interest wouldn't have rendered the whole thing ridiculous... I said to her, you should be grateful I'm not suing you--"
"House." Wilson couldn't let that go. As well as having to cope with House's rage, Stacy was taking by far the worse of the brunt of coping with House's physical therapy--an ordeal Wilson would not have wished on anyone. Everything was new, strange, difficult and terribly painful, and House was not a patient patient. "Give her a break, for goodness sake."
House shut his eyes briefly, then opened them and stared directly up at the ceiling. "I give her a break when my leg gives me a break. Like for thirty seconds at a time. And then the fucking thing spasms and it's so unbearable I can't think of anything except just kill me now--seriously--"
"House!"
"The thing is," House dropped his voice so Wilson could hardly hear. "She loves me so much that she would do anything to keep me alive." As she did already, was the unspoken subtext. "Whereas you--" and House's voice suddenly cracked, but continued, barely audible, "love me so much that you would help me end it all. If it came to that."
Wilson sat very still, stunned by House's statement, and knew it was also a question. And Wilson had no doubt the answer was yes, although the thought of such a scenario was more than he could bear to consider.
He pondered his reply for a minute before finally saying in a deliberately light tone, "Well, I missed out on you dying the first time round. I couldn't possibly miss the second time."
And House actually laughed at that, just for a second or two, but a genuine laugh. Wilson relaxed a little, and smiled too.
A little later Wilson got up and took some dirty plates back into the kitchen. He found Stacy still sitting at the kitchen table, not typing any more but just staring at the screen.
"You made him laugh." she said quietly. "I haven't heard him laugh since B.I..."
Wilson patted her on the back, sorry beyond words, but with no other comfort to offer.
Several months on, Wilson found himself sitting at House's kitchen table, gazing at a laptop screen and quite unable to concentrate on the work he had to do.
He was on his own with House now: Stacy had lasted six months A.I. before she cracked and left, driven beyond the limits of any reasonable endurance. She had called Wilson to tell him while she was driving away. Wilson recalled House's mantra, second only to 'everybody lies'; everybody leaves. He was sure House had not ever envisaged Stacy leaving B.I. Now... she'd left. Although Wilson was gutted by her departure, his only surprise was that it hadn't happened earlier. This feeling was reinforced as he found himself trying to pick up the slack; putting up with House's periodic fury, despair and sadness was to be a verbal punching bag.
Emotionally, Wilson wasn't sure if House was ever going to recover. But physically, House was actually much improved: ever since he'd discovered that Vicodin could actually allow him to function. He'd even gone back to work, where Cuddy had built him a big glass office deliberately placed next door to Wilson's. House hadn't actually done much work yet and it was taking a while to recruit staff who could put up with him, but Wilson had hopes they would get there soon.
As he sat pondering, House stalked into the kitchen, leaning heavily on his cane. He looked at Wilson with an expression of incredulity, and barked, "Wilson, it's eleven PM. Don't you have a home to go to? Why are you still here?"
Because you fell on your ass in the bathroom last week and couldn't get up. Because you wouldn't have eaten dinner today if I hadn't bought groceries, and cooked, too. Wilson bit back such practical reasons, which he knew House did not want to acknowledge, and said instead mildly, "I'm just trying to finish this funding bid, I'm settled here now. I'll be done and out of your hair in an hour or so."
"Hmph." House opened the fridge door, extracted a soda, shut the door and stalked out again into the living room. Wilson heard the snap of the soda can opening, and the TV volume cranked up a notch.
Alone, Wilson rested his head in his hands in quiet despair. House had shut himself up in a little box where to try and enter was to intrude, yet to leave was to prove House's point that everybody leaves... Wilson couldn't win.
One day Wilson arrived at House's apartment after work to find, to his amazement, a stethoscope on House's bedroom door handle. Wild thoughts ran through his mind--had Stacy come back? He refrained from knocking with a great effort, and retreated to the kitchen.
He had been semi-living with House since Stacy had left, sleeping on the couch, as it was the only way of getting any sleep--the chronic pain had made House (never the best sleeper anyway) a real insomniac. But also, House could barely stand to be touched; physical contact these days meant being helped with walking, driving, even just standing up sometimes--and allowing people to help him in such a way went against every fiber of House's being. Their physical intimacy wasn't quite non-existent--they'd marked the end of the Stacy Convention with a bout of rough sex that had left Wilson hardly able to sit down and with some prominent bite marks. But it didn't amount to much, either.
Five minutes later the door opened and out stalked a tall thin brunette in a very short skirt and thigh high boots. Wilson managed to say, "Hi," but she barely glanced at him as she left the apartment.
House ambled out a minute later, fully dressed, shuffling awkwardly with his cane. Wilson came out into the living room and eyeballed him. "Hooker?"
"Uh huh." House met Wilson's eye.
Too hurt to speak, Wilson stared in disbelief. He knew House had used hookers in the past--but a long way in the past. He also knew that House's sex drive had taken a severe battering from the pain and from the effect of the Vicodin. But even so--
"Fuck you, House!" Wilson shouted, the force of his anger surprising even himself.
"Wilson," House snapped. He propped his cane up against the side of the couch and leaned on the back. "The day you get crippled and end up suffering constant agonizing pain, then you can lecture me on not doing whatever the hell I need to do."
"You need a hooker? For fuck's sake, House!"
"When you pay for it, you don't have to give a damn about a whole lot of things," House said, a trifle unexpectedly. "They're used to dealing with miserable fuckers who can't get it any other way. If you warn them in advance about ugly disfiguring disabilities, they don't bat an eyelid. And when you can only get it up once in a blue moon, they're on call."
"And do I not have a phone anymore?" Wilson yelled, and at that moment House grabbed him and kissed him hard.
When he was released a minute later, Wilson was rendered speechless; and then House seized Wilson's hand and placed it over his own crotch. To his amazement, Wilson could feel that House had an erection.
"Didn't you just?--" With his free hand, Wilson gestured madly towards the bedroom and then towards the front door, in the direction where the hooker had left.
"Actually, no." House's blue eyes bored deep into Wilson's face. "Funnily enough, I had a muscle spasm between making the call and her arriving, and the hard-on vanished along the way. She did her best, but... are you going to keep forcing humiliating confessions out of me, or help me do something about it?"
Wilson threw an arm around House's neck and kissed him back, while unbuckling House's belt with his other hand. Then he dropped to his knees on the floor, and took House's cock in his mouth.
House clutched the back of the couch with one hand and grabbed a fistful of Wilson's hair with the other. Wilson took House in as deep as he could, then shallow: up and down, back and forth, cupping and stroking at House's balls with his hand while lapping at the tip with his tongue, making House whine and swear. House's pants were halfway down his legs and the pitted black thigh nestled next to Wilson's face; Wilson didn't flinch, didn't either shy away or move towards it, just concentrated on blowing House the way he always had done.
Soon House's breath caught in his throat, and he pulled out just before he came, climaxing over Wilson's face. Wilson gasped a little, but took it, then sat back on his heels, running a hand across his face and regaining his own breath, while House rested against the couch.
At last, House was coming out of the little box he'd shut himself into. Not a moment too soon. Wilson was so horny he could barely stand, but he tottered to his feet, undoing his own fly, and said, "Turn around."
"My neediness turning you on?" House muttered, and turned around, facing the couch. Wilson reached for his jacket, slung on the back of the couch, and extracted his wallet from a pocket and a condom from the wallet.
"Shut the fuck up," Wilson muttered back, rolling on the condom. He spat on his hand, not wanting to stop and look for any other lubrication at this point, and moved up close behind House. "Gonna let me in?"
House spread his legs a little, awkwardly as he was resting almost all his weight on his left leg and on the couch. It was enough: Wilson reached for House's ass, probed briefly, then eased in. House's breathing became labored and heavy: Wilson ran tender hands across House's torso, stroking, caressing; House relaxed a fraction, and Wilson pushed in harder, clutching House's body up against his own, supporting some of House's weight with his own. House grunted, and the two of them moved together as Wilson closed his eyes and started to thrust using small, forceful movements.
Adrenalin coursed through his system, pumping through his blood; it was so utterly good that House was letting him close again. He reveled in the feel of House's sweat and skin under his hands, the taste of House in his mouth. He grasped House's hips with both hands and came with a rush of exhilaration and joy.
They collapsed onto the couch, and had been lying there together in a stupor for some time, when Wilson heard House speaking in a gentle voice Wilson hadn't heard in a long while.
House said, "We can't spend so much time together. It'll be better if you just come around once in a while."
Wilson twisted his neck to stare at House, and because he was Wilson and House was House, he understood completely. This wasn't a rejection. House was afraid--afraid that he was pushing too hard, that one day he was going to go too far, and he was going to drive Wilson away, just as he had Stacy. And afraid that they were driving each other around the bend, through simple proximity overload.
"I can manage now," House went on, now sounding defensive. "I can drive, I can tell now when the Vicodin's about to give out on me. And--you do have a phone."
Wilson realized House was nervous of being misunderstood. He rubbed his nose, and said, "OK."
He felt House relax under his arm.
The following night after work, Wilson went back to his own apartment rather than House's place for the first time in a while. He just stood in his living room for a few minutes, luxuriating in being on his own, in his own space, while knowing House was just a few streets away. He couldn't let go completely, but he felt much better about it than he had expected. He picked up a magazine, sat down on his sofa, and feeling curiously contented, thought that perhaps life was ready to begin again.
It turned out House was right, as usual. They got along much better with just a little bit of space between them, living close by, seeing each other often but not all the time, ending up in bed together sometimes. Wilson knew House occasionally saw hookers, and did his best not to mind.
About a year after the infarction, the Head of Oncology, Dr. Collins, finally retired. It had been anticipated for a long time. House was now functioning properly again, with three reliable staff and cases coming in, but Wilson, still exhausted from the whole House situation and other pressures of work, hesitated about whether to apply for the job. With the encouragement of Nora, the Oncology department secretary, he did so; and to the surprise of many, Wilson got the job. He was the youngest department head in the hospital and indeed the youngest head of an oncology department on the eastern seaboard. Wilson threw himself into his new role with care and dedication. As a department head he could have moved to Dr. Collins' big swanky office, but opted to stay where he was, next door to House.
The aftermath of the infarction continued to reverberate for a long time, however. Life really would never be the same again, and Wilson had this brought home forcibly to him when he encountered House's family and their reaction.
Early one morning, Wilson had stayed over at House's apartment and they were sleeping like spoons, Wilson with an arm thrown around House's waist, when the phone by the bed woke them up. Neither moved or opened their eyes, and the answering machine kicked in.
"Greg, it's your mother. Sorry to call so early. I need to tell you that Uncle Bill passed away yesterday. As you know, he'd been ill for a while. I'm staying with your Aunt Sarah to help her sort things out. The funeral will be this Saturday; it would be very much appreciated if you could come--"
House reached out and grabbed the phone, knocking the alarm clock onto the floor as he did so, and brought the receiver to his ear. "Mom. Hang on." His voice was groggy with sleep. He pulled himself up to a sitting position and cleared his throat. "That bastard finally fell off his perch?...."
Wilson kept a hand on House's hip and listened, half asleep, while House talked. Suddenly Wilson's attention was caught when House said, "And yes, Wilson will come too, can you book us hotel rooms?" There was a pause. "Great. Thanks. I'll see you Saturday."
As House ended the call, Wilson struggled up to a sitting position, and said indignantly, "Have I just been invited to a funeral? Of someone I didn't even know?"
"You met Uncle Bill; cousin Daisy's dad, remember?" House reached for the pill bottle on the nightstand and popped a Vicodin. "Anyway, I need a chaperone."
"That was... years ago. And since when do you do these family things anyway?" In all the time Wilson had known House, he had seen House evade almost every single family get-together possible--birthdays, Christmases, holidays, even cousin Daisy's wedding. He knew this had changed a little during the years that Stacy had been around, however; House's parents had adored her, and she had managed to get House to be civil and sit through at least a couple of dinners and other meetings.
"I don't," House said glumly. "Mom browbeat me about this one a long time ago. Uncle Bill's been dying by inches for the last five years, I always told her there was no fucking way I would visit him while he was alive but I'd see him when he was dead."
Wilson thought this was true, but not the whole truth. "And what if I don't want to come?" Wilson didn't mind coming, but felt bound to protest.
"You have to," House said firmly, in a tone that brooked no argument. "I can't possibly get through a thing like this on my own. Fucking relatives will be averting their eyes from my leg while telling me they're so sorry Greg, such bad luck, and then staring at me surreptitiously and nudging each other across the room. Anyway, it was Mom's idea, she asked if you'd come. She seems to think that having you along will stop me dropping out at the last minute."
So this would be the first time House had really faced family members since the infarction. Wilson gulped a little at the prospect. House's parents had visited after it had happened, of course, but House had been barely out of the hospital then. Stacy had been around to deal with them, so Wilson hadn't met them. He'd heard afterwards from Stacy that it had been fairly disastrous...
"She's probably right," Wilson said. He began to remember what Stacy had said. Blythe had been supportive and loving, but obviously upset at not being told the news sooner; House had not been quick to tell them. John had barely been able to look at his newly crippled son, and instead had given House grief about missing his and Blythe's fortieth wedding anniversary a few months B.I. Wilson remembered House evading that anniversary: House had told Wilson and Stacy he had no intention of celebrating a marriage he didn't think should have ever taken place. House hadn't been able to explain it in those terms to his Mom, of course, and Wilson thought House had actually felt guilty about not going. The decision to go to this funeral started to make a little more sense.
"Um, won't it look a little odd, me coming along with you to a family funeral?" Wilson asked. "Not the sort of thing... friends usually do."
"You mean it might look scandalous? Don't be silly, you're a respectable divorced man," House said, straight-faced. They looked at each other, sharing the same bed, and both started to laugh at the same time.
The funeral service itself, in deepest Arizona, passed without event. Wilson did indeed stop House taking a last minute case at work which would have made them miss their flight out. House and Wilson sat at the back at the service, and House provided valued assistance by distracting his cousin's two young children from the solemnity of the situation; he let them play with his cane.
The difficult part came afterwards when the family decamped for a buffet evening meal back at Aunt Sarah's house, and House discovered that they were expected to stay there the night. "Mom, I asked you to book us both into a hotel!"
"But there's no need, there's plenty of room in the house," his mother protested. "Your father and I are staying in the spare room, and you can have your cousin's old bedroom. We've put a mattress on the floor in there for James."
House looked positively murderous at the thought of having to stay at Aunt Sarah's for even one night, and Wilson hastened to say that would be fine. House flounced out in a sulk to the back garden where his cousin's children were playing. Wilson was tempted to join him, but feeling he was expected to be the responsible one (he was used to playing the same role in his own family) he stayed inside making polite chit-chat with elderly relatives. Even if they hadn't met him before, they all knew of him, House's best friend over more than ten years.
Inevitably after a short while circulating, he found himself face-to-face with House's cousin Daisy, who he hadn't seen for a very long time indeed. He still thought of her as a sulky teenager with a crush on him, and was rather surprised to find her all grown up into an elegant twenty-something, and a married mother of two. He expressed condolences for the death of her father. She thanked him prettily for coming, dipped her eyes and tossed her hair: Wilson, aware of her beefcake of a husband on the other side of the room, was careful to keep his distance.
"It's so great you and Greg are still friends after all these years," she chattered. "I was trying to remember when we first met, I was still in high school--such a long time ago now."
"Indeed," Wilson agreed.
"I've hardly got any friends still from that long ago... and those I do have ended up all over the country. They wouldn't have come along with me to a family funeral... you really must be such close friends."
Suddenly Wilson was uneasy. He looked at her, trying to fathom if she was implying anything more: he couldn't tell.
"Well, someone has to put up with House," Wilson replied with a laugh, trying to make light of it.
She looked at him carefully, then shrugged a little. "Yeah, I guess that's true. I know you're a doctor, but it's really very good of you to give him so much of your time."
"Uh..." Wilson wasn't quite such what she meant.
"Now he's a cripple, he must need someone to look after him. As, uh, a carer. I know some people find that kind of thing fulfilling, but I could never do anything like that. It must be such a sacrifice..."
The concept of himself as House's carer hit Wilson in the stomach like a physical blow and left him temporarily unable to breathe. On one level, it was true. On another level, the idea offended him so deeply--the idea that his relationship with House could be interpreted just as 'carer to the cripple'--he was tempted for a brief second to out them both there and then, and tell cousin Daisy that he and House had been friends and lovers for well over ten years, thank-you very much, and he wasn't about to abandon House just because House had become disabled--
Wilson escaped to the kitchen, where he drank a tall glass of water and tried to calm down. He told himself that Daisy was stupid and ignorant, but knew he was actually more angry with himself than annoyed with her. He had been so keen to escape the implications of his closeness to House that he had made her assume he was there out of pity. He knew his relationship with House was impossible to explain to anyone--he found it difficult enough to understand himself--but the idea that he was only there out of sympathy, or a sense of duty, upset him greatly.
He wondered what House would think if he'd heard their conversation, and realized abruptly that House was always accusing him of being around because he fed on neediness. Wasn't that the same idea? That Wilson was there because he got some kind of kick out of being needed?...
After a while he felt calm enough to leave the kitchen, but paused at the door as he overhead House's parents talking in the hallway outside. He glanced out; they had their backs to him. They were looking out through the back door at House in the garden. He was sitting comfortably in a deckchair, his cousin's children playing around him. A small boy whizzed around the garden riding House's cane like a broomstick, and a little girl played with a doll at his feet.
"He is very good with kids, isn't he?" Blythe said, ever the proud mother. Wilson thought she was right; House was good with kids, mainly because he never talked down to them.
"Suppose so," John grunted. "'Bout time he got married and had some of his own."
"Oh, there's plenty of time for that," Blythe said quickly.
John snorted and said, "Like any woman will be interested in him now he's a cripple."
Blythe protested, "That's ridiculous. He's still the same person he ever was--"
"How many women are going to saddle themselves for a lifetime with a man with a big black hole in his leg?" John steamrollered on. "Look what happened with Stacy. You had such high hopes of her. Intelligent and attractive woman, but couldn't handle spending the rest of her life with a gimp. "
Wilson grimaced.
"The situation was much more complicated than that," Blythe defended her son.
"Yeah, but that's what it boils down to." John spoke with an air of finality. "Look at him now. Here at this funeral with Wilson, for Christ's sake. Too goddamn close they are if you ask me."
Wilson froze; this was dangerous territory.
"Now, John," Blythe chided him. "I asked James to come today. And you know I won't hear a word against him, he's a good influence and always has been."
"Two divorces and no kids and you call that a good influence? And the two of them working in the same hospital, in offices next door to each other? If he wasn't my son, I'd say it was..." John paused for consideration. "Unhealthy."
"John, we should be really very grateful to James. If Greg didn't have such a good friend nearby, I dread to think how much more difficult life would be for him. It's quite difficult enough as it is."
"Yeah. We should be grateful that one person in the world is willing to put up with his crap. Now he's gonna be crippled for the rest of his life, he needs all the friends he can get. And he's never been any good at making friends." John's attention was caught by one of the children in the garden. "Look at those kids running wild. Their mother's much too lenient with them. They could both do with a bit of discipline. Never did Greg any harm."
The fuck it didn't, Wilson thought. He was unable to listen any more. He felt sick. He knew very little about House's childhood--and didn't ask, as he had no wish for House to ask about his own--but he had no doubt that House's relationship with his father had done him a great deal of harm.
Wilson slipped across the hallway into the living room, then headed out through the French windows into the garden, wanting to be with House, not wanting to talk to anyone else.
As Wilson approached, he saw the small girl at House's feet was playing at differential diagnosis. A doll with red dots lipsticked all over its face sat on the ground. There was even a small whiteboard, which had 'Measles' and 'Chicken pox' listed on it in a child's hand.
"Cute." Wilson sat in a deckchair next to House.
"Dolly's not responding to treatment," House said, and looked at Wilson. He frowned, and lowered his voice so the children didn't hear. "Looks like you're in need of some treatment yourself."
Wilson could lie to House better than anyone could, but knew he looked too shocked right now to deny anything was wrong. "I just overheard your father saying some stuff." Wild horses would not have dragged out of Wilson what House's father had said about Stacy, or the necessity of disciplining children, but he realized he could repeat what he'd heard about himself, which he cared least about. "Listeners never hear good of themselves, as they say."
"What did he say?" House asked quietly.
"Oh... I'm a bad influence on you. My two divorces and lack of children makes me suspicious. We're too close. Nothing, really."
House snorted, and shrugged. "Just the usual crap. Ignore him. I knew we should have gone to a hotel." He paused and looked ruminative. "He's not the only one saying that sort of thing. Did you hear there's a hospital betting pool about us fucking?"
"In Radiology?" Wilson had indeed heard. He hadn't been surprised, nor cared particularly--the hospital was such a rumor-mill. "Should we worry about it?"
"Nah. Radiology have had a pool about me and Cuddy for years. They just let these things run and run." House looked down at the little girl and her doll and raised his voice. "Dr. Wilson! I need a consult. Symptoms, red spots."
The evening dragged on. Eventually it was sufficiently late that they were able to withdraw from company and go to their room. It had been cousin Daisy's room before she had grown up and left home, and was still decorated with pictures of ponies and pop stars from ten years ago, which felt a trifle surreal. A mattress had been made up on the floor for Wilson, who initially settled down on it, then got up and slid into the single bed next to House. It was narrow, but cozy.
"Not a good idea," House muttered. "Mom and Dad are just next door."
"I just want to lie here," Wilson murmured back, nestling up against House's shoulder.
House nuzzled him back. "Still not a good idea. No lock on the door."
"No one's gonna come busting in, are they?"
House was silent for a moment, then said, "I never had a lock on my bedroom door when I was young, and my dad always used to barge in at odd moments. I think he thought he might catch me jerking off."
Such an insight into House's family background was a rarity indeed. Wilson didn't say anything for a minute in acknowledgment. Then he got up, took a desk chair, and wedged it firmly under the door handle.
"That's not gonna stop anyone," House said scornfully, but he was smiling now.
"True," Wilson said, getting back into bed with House, "But it'll hold them up long enough that I can roll out of bed and drop onto the floor, right?"
House looked at Wilson and smiled again. Wilson put his arms around House and hugged him through the night.
END OF PART 18
TBC. Next part: Wilson falls in love and gets married. But not to the same person.
A/N: For my other fics, click on my username. Some connected with this story here are as follows:
The bout of rough sex marking the end of the Stacy Convention is in Reality Bites.
Wilson's appointment as Head of Oncology is told from Nora's point of view in Memoirs of an Oncology Department Secretary, chapter 2.
Wilson's previous encounters with cousin Daisy are in Wilson the Parent Charmer.
And the story of the betting pool continues many years later in The House/Wilson First Fuck Radiology Betting Pool.