| FIC UPDATE: The Oncologist Trap (6/6) |
[Aug. 11th, 2007|05:23 pm] |
Title: The Oncologist Trap, 6/6
Fandom: House, M.D.
Pairing/Rating: House/Wilson, NC-17 this part.
Length: 4000 words, this part.
Spoilers: Post-ep for "Half-Wit", mentions of events up to "House Training".
Author's Notes: Thanks to ![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) thedeadparrot for the beta. All mistakes are mine--please let me know if there are any. What a fun ride this has been, guys! You chose your own adventure and here's the final installment. But man, I hope this cures me of writing WiPs.
Summary: House subtly seduces Wilson. Somehow.
Something is rotten in the state of Diagnostics.
Wilson has the uncomfortable feeling that he's been cast in the role of Guildenstern and/or Rosencrantz, and that huge, life-altering events have been going on around the edges of his perception all day, and each time he's just missed them by a hair. First was the call from the concierge at his hotel, apologizing profusely for letting his girlfriend in without his express permission--and was that other gentleman of his acquaintance, also? When Wilson rubbed his forehead and asked, "...girlfriend?" (he wasn't even going to touch the "other gentleman" part of that statement), the only response was a strained silence and then an offer of a complimentary meal at the hotel restaurant.
Wilson glanced at his appointment calendar and then his watch, decided he'd rather know than not, and took a quick drive to the hotel to make sure everything was in order. Nothing was missing; the only evidence that anybody had been by since the maids had cleaned was a pair of hospital-issue latex gloves in the bathroom trashcan. Wilson blinked, looked around the room, rifled through his suitcase to double-check, and then shook his head at himself for being paranoid.
Still, being paranoid counts for bonus points around House, so when Wilson gets back from the hotel, he drops by the conference room to see what House is up to. The moment he walks in, Cameron blushes like he's just propositioned her in the lewdest possible terms, Chase looks like he's about to choke on the air he's breathing, and Foreman just stares at him with a faint, condescending pity in his eyes. House is the only one who's the same as ever: lying his head off about what he's up to, and hitting Wilson up for lunch money.
"Seriously," Wilson says, as they make their way through the cafeteria, "you don't expect me to buy the 'it's a patient' story, do you?"
"No," House says, "just my lunch." He nudges his tray closer to Wilson's: he's hidden a packet of triple-fudge cookies under his mound of fries. He blinks innocently at the cashier while Wilson sighs and gets out his wallet.
The second sign comes not twenty minutes later when Cameron sits down at a table fifteen feet away and stares at him like he's on fire and simply hasn't noticed yet. Wilson leans closer to House under the guise of stealing one of his fries and hisses, "What the hell did you tell them about me?"
"Not everything is about you," House huffs.
"How silly of me, yes. Clearly your fellows are all staring at me because of some deeply personal revelation about you."
House rolls his eyes and scrapes his chair around the table a bit until Wilson isn't facing Cameron directly. "Happy now?"
"She's still looking." Wilson can feel her gaze boring into the back of his head. A moment later, he spies Chase and Foreman crossing the cafeteria. They sit with Cameron, and there's a hushed conference that Wilson can't quite hear, but he has a feeling that his name comes into it a lot. He closes his eyes with a groan and remembers the gloves in his trash. "You've got them stalking me," he says. "I don't suppose you're going to let me in on why."
"Not about you," House repeats airily, taking a handful of chips from Wilson's bag. "I thought you wanted me to make connections with people. They're still trying to figure out why I joined them for dinner yesterday."
Wilson stares at him. "You--?"
"Had a wonderful time. Wished you were there. I'm thinking of sending my host a thank-you note. Or maybe a fern." House smirks at him and then swipes his bag of chips entirely before he turns to watch the other table, as if Cameron and Foreman's argument is a spectator sport. In House's department, it probably is; Wilson wouldn't put it past House to list fellow-baiting as the next demonstration game for Olympic consideration.
Wilson sighs and looks down at his salad. He was so sure he could get to House through the brain cancer. It's been months since things have really been...right, between them. And if House's faked brain cancer wasn't a cry for help, he doesn't know what the hell is. The invitation out to dinner was supposed to be for his friend, not his employees. That's not fair is the first thing Wilson thinks, quickly followed by But I asked you out first, dammit, but those are both good ways to get House actively interested in mocking him, rather than the half-hearted attention he's getting while House does his best not to snicker too loudly at Foreman and Cameron.
"House," he starts, and he has no idea what he's going to follow that up with, but House interrupts, "Gimme a hundred bucks."
"What?" Wilson demands.
"For a bet against Foreman. It's a sure thing." House crooks his fingers, demanding Wilson's wallet. Wilson rolls his eyes. He can tell from the brightness in House's eyes and the nervous tap of his fingers against the table that whatever the bet is, it's about as far from a sure thing as fair odds in an Atlantic City casino, but he reaches for his wallet anyway. At least demanding the hundred bucks back will give him a lever to get House's attention the next time he needs it.
House snatches the wallet and rifles through it, comes up with a hundred--and why the hell Wilson carries that kind of cash around, unless it's to feed House's mooching tendencies, he really doesn't know--and he doesn't want to think about it. "Are you--" he says, but House has already gotten to his feet and walked away. He slaps Wilson's money down on the table in front of Foreman. Wilson can't see House's grin, but Foreman's disgusted glare and the way he slumps back suggests that Wilson at least has some hope of House winning the bet and paying him back.
Wilson concentrates on eating his salad and ignoring the surreptitious looks Cameron's still sending his way. A few minutes later, the fellows all start up and look at their pagers, and then he's left in peace to finish his lunch.
It doesn't last.
He's barely back in his office, and just settled in to some serious memo-writing (in the last month, Brown's chart annotations have gone from cryptic to completely illegible), when there's a hesitant knock on his door. Wilson would sincerely love to pretend he's not in, but it might actually be important, so he calls "Come in," between his fingers as he rubs the tiredness out of his eyes.
"Ah, Dr. Wilson," Chase says, clearing his throat. "Can I ask you a, um, personal question?"
Wilson raises his eyebrows. Chase is...blushing. Wilson thinks of Cameron's meaningful looks, Foreman shaking his head, and House...going on like he always has. Wilson's almost afraid to ask, but he needs to know. "It's fine," he says. "What's on your mind?"
"Are you--do you like men?" Chase asks.
Wilson blinks, feeling more bewildered than ever. Where the hell is this coming from? "Chase, you're a..." Friend? he wonders. Acquaintance? "Colleague," he says. "I don't think that we should, uh--"
"Not me," Chase blurts out, going wide-eyed and blushing even more. "Not--I'm not hitting on you," he says. "Just. In general. You and...guys."
Now it's Wilson's turn to flush, and he has no idea how much it shows. He's--well, he's done things; he's had his share of college experimentation, and of course there's always--Wilson yanks his train of thought to a halt. "Chase," he says, "what the hell is House up to today?"
Chase's eyes widen and he looks around as if he expects House to have materialized behind him without warning. Not, Wilson has to admit, an unreasonable fear. "Nothing," he says, "Um. Nothing."
Wilson tips his head back and does his own version of House's interrogating stare. Chase fidgets and looks anywhere but at him.
"Okay, sorry," he says. "Bad idea. I've just been trying all day to figure it out. I'll--" He points a thumb at the door, and Wilson nods, relieved, totally willing to overlook the fact that Chase has apparently been researching his sexual preferences on House's time.
And if Chase mutters something about bearded ladies on his way out, Wilson decides quite calmly that he will pretend he didn't hear.
After that, though, he can't concentrate on anything; not his half-written memo, not reviewing patient files, not even his usual looks-like-work-from-a-distance round of solitaire that has fooled House more than once. But he can't stop thinking about it; and the weirder things get, the more he wants to confront House. Except he knows that won't work; he needs to look like the innocent party, here, or House will just turn around and run at top speed in the other direction. Metaphorically speaking.
When his pager goes off, and it's Ann-Marie from the peds floor warning him that House is on the wards, Wilson runs a hand through his hair and drops everything to run upstairs.
He walks into the ward, to see House arguing with Tyler Clark about magic tricks. Nicole Lam hurries across the room to him and grabs his knees in a bear hug, piping excitedly about the nickel that the magician found inside her, and was that what cancer was made out of? Because it was no fair for Dr. Wilson to keep it, it was really hers, and she was going to buy candy with it.
Wilson puts his hands on his hips, noticing for the first time the horrified looks on the Lams' and Clarks' faces. He's going to be doing damage control for a good portion of the afternoon, and he's working up a head of steam to yell, when House turns away from Tyler and smiles at him. Really smiles, at first, bright and brilliant and a little bit repentant, and then it changes until House is smirking at him, from Wilson's mussed hair to the hands on his hips to his old loafers that apparently don't talk the way his French shoes do; and that's when Wilson puts it together. He gets it. Why House has his fellows stalking him, why they're following him to lunch, why Chase wants to know if he likes men, why Cameron has been staring at him like a sad puppy and Foreman's looking at him right now like he's one of his own terminal patients.
What the bet with Foreman--that has his hundred bucks riding on it--is really all about.
Wilson throws up his arms and can't get the rhythm of his banter right when House tries to make excuses. He's too busy staring (and trying not to) and kicking himself for assuming that House would ever go out with his minions for dinner voluntarily, and letting piece after piece of this crazy day fall into place.
When he walks away from House, Wilson can still feel him watching. He's not going to let on that he knows, even though there's an anticipatory heat rushing through him, and he's feeling more smug than he can ever remember. House is...doing the crazy thing that House does. Everything has to be roundabout, nothing can be simple. But now Wilson knows.
He spends the rest of the afternoon in a kind of haze, wondering when the next puzzle-piece is going to click in. There will have to come a time when House actually faces him. When Wilson hears that Cuddy is on a rampage trying to track down House's activities, he happily goes in and throws her off the scent. He finishes his memos and his reviews without remembering a word, and when it's time to go home, he's already smiling to himself.
House isn't patient. And Wilson doesn't plan to let this opportunity pass him by. Instead of going to his hotel, he drives to House's place.
There's no point in being nervous. He's wanted this for...he doesn't even know. And there have been hints that House felt the same way, but never enough that Wilson wanted to risk asking. He still doesn't. He's not going to.
He uses his key to get in, hangs up his coat in House's closet, and goes to the kitchen for a beer before he even ventures into the living room. There's the usual haphazard mess that gets left behind whenever House bothers to cook--sandwiches and some reheated store-bought lasagna. Wilson moves the dishes to the sink but doesn't bother washing them. He takes his beer out to the living room and sits beside House on the couch. House turns the volume down a couple of clicks as about the only acknowledgment that Wilson has joined him.
Wilson eases back into the couch and sighs. This is what he should have done from the start. Instead of lecturing or begging, just follow House's example and show up where he wants to be. Maybe that's how he should have interpreted House bursting into his office every day for years.
"You didn't bring pizza," House points out, when the commercials come on during the Devils-Flames game.
"You didn't ask me to," Wilson says, because this isn't his responsibility any more. He's going to sit back and wait. He smiles into his beer, confident already.
House glances at him, apparently serious for a moment. "Your socks were in the suitcase," he says.
Wilson brings the beer down from his lips and considers that. "Cameron and Foreman?" he asks. He already knows House had his fellows breaking in to his hotel room. He doesn't know what House thinks he's learned from his stuff.
"Hotel shampoo and soap," House continues, not deterred in the least, "and the green tie in the closet."
"I'm going to assume this means something beyond the fact that you need to obsess over the lives of everyone around you," Wilson says mildly. He can wait for House to say it. He needs to know what made House choose this moment, now, to bring this all up. House has always hated the fact that he's living in the hotel. So what's changed?
"You haven't even unpacked your socks," House says, annoyed, as if Wilson is being deliberately obtuse--which he is. "You don't plan to stay. And you want to look pretty when you go."
Wilson can't help smiling again. So House is fishing for girlfriends, or boyfriends--Wilson wonders briefly how premeditated Chase's question was--because he already knows that Wilson doesn't want to live here, with him. That's not exactly true: Wilson just doesn't want to live on House's couch, as if that's all he can hope for. "I'm not going anywhere, House," he says. "And if I was, I'm sure you'd know my itinerary before I did." He lets himself sound slightly bitter.
House snorts and takes another drink from his beer. Wilson turns his head enough to see him out of his peripheral vision. House looks...nervous, which is enough to set Wilson's heart beating faster. House sets the beer down, hard enough to clink against the table, and he heaves an exasperated sigh. "Of course I know more about your life than you do," he says. "That's why I can do this."
And he grabs Wilson's shirt and pulls him into a kiss.
Wilson's been waiting for it, though, and he kisses back almost before House is ready. He grins when House pulls back to stare at him. "Stunned that I'm keeping up?" he asks.
"Hardly," House says. "You asked me out for pizza."
"As friends," Wilson protests, which was almost true at the time, except if he admits that he was lying to himself.
"Right," House says, "that was a very friendly kiss you just laid on me."
"You--" Wilson starts, but it's pointless, and House is smirking, so Wilson lets it go with an annoyed sigh and kisses him. It works, this time, the angle and the fact that House doesn't argue the point. When he opens his mouth, House follows his lead without argument, and then it's even better, and Wilson hums satisfaction into House's mouth. It lasts, long enough that Wilson has time to explore, to feel House's hands digging into the muscles of his shoulders, long enough that he's getting hard before they're done.
At last, Wilson breaks the kiss to ask, "How long before you win your bet with Foreman?"
House's eyes widen. "You--"
"Figured it out," Wilson says. He wonders if smugness looks half as good on him as it does on House. It seems to, because House kisses him again, hard at first and then slow and lingering, until Wilson's hand is curled in the soft cotton of House's t-shirt and he's not paying attention to anything except House's mouth, the insistent swirl of his tongue. They're making out like teenagers, in a messy sprawl on House's couch, awkward with elbows and bad angles but neither of them cares enough to stop long enough to arrange things any better. This can't be good for House's leg, but he's the one pinning Wilson down, so Wilson's not too worried about it. He sweeps his hands down House's back and tugs at his t-shirt, trying to get it off, and House grunts and pulls back long enough to let him.
"How long?" Wilson asks again, his eyes drawn to the line of House's waistband, where his hipbones disappear under the denim. His erection is already pretty obvious, and Wilson feels like he can't breathe.
"A month," House mutters, focusing on getting Wilson's shirt buttons open. "If you want to see that hundred again, you'd better keep putting out for at least that long."
"So you will pay me back," Wilson says, laughing, then letting his breath hiss out when House skims his shirt off his shoulders and yanks him close. House's stubble grazes over his cheek, and he catches Wilson's earlobe in his teeth and sucks along the line of his neck before he answers, "Depends if you can earn your keep."
"I'm not actually a hooker," Wilson points out, but it turns out he can roll his eyes and gasp at the same time: House's hand has found its way down to his belt and Wilson wiggles back enough that he can spread his legs, leaving room for House to lean across him, closer, and he can feel House's dick pressing into his hip. His chest tightens, and he thinks: a month. "God, fuck--"
"Haven't even touched you yet," House says, amused.
"That's...not quite what I was, ah, talking about," Wilson says, lifting his hips, struggling out of his pants with House's mostly misdirected help. "You bet on us. Lasting."
House looks up at him, cautious, cynical. "Thirty days," he says.
"More than just this," Wilson insists, hooking his fingers in House's jeans just above his fly.
House's eyes go dark and hooded. His erection is hot and pressing hard against the crotch of his jeans.
Wilson skims a finger down its length. "A hundred bucks," he says.
"Yeah," House says, husky-voiced. "I did."
Wilson kisses him, lazy and pleased, letting his hand test the shape of House's dick through his jeans. Wilson's down to his shorts and socks and wristwatch, and he must look ridiculous, he thinks. It doesn't matter, because of how House grabs his shoulder in a bruising grip, bare-chested, jeans straining, while Wilson tastes his tongue and his throat and burns his lips on House's stubble, and strokes him, long and easy, over his zipper.
"Gotta--" House is panting now, and Wilson leans closer, getting on his knees so that he's on top and can lick and suck his way down House's chest. His nipples are standing erect, and Wilson runs his tongue over one, then licks harder when House moans. He's still rubbing his hand slowly across House's dick, and enjoying every moment of it. "Fuck," House says, "gonna come in my fucking jeans, would you--"
Wilson laughs into House's chest, but backs off long enough to finally get House's fly open and to strip his jeans off, trying to be careful of House's leg without showing it. He gets House's boxer-briefs off while he's at it, and then his own shorts. He's thinking about doing something about his socks when House grabs him and pulls him back down. Wilson barely stops himself from falling on top of House, and the couch cushions give absolutely no support, but then House's hand wraps around his erection and he groans.
"House..." Wilson lets his mouth fall open, breathing hard and struggling to keep his weight off of House's lap, but House pulls him closer, until their dicks slide together, and it feels like he's falling apart, until there's nothing left of him but that sensation and House's low rumbling moan in his ear.
This would be better with some lube, or some room, or a bed, but Wilson can't bring himself to care. They jerk each other off, Wilson's left hand getting in the way of House's right, quick and hard and awkward. He leans his shoulder against House's chest and watches House's hand move over his dick, faster and God it's good. When he leans back he can watch House's face, the way his eyes flutter closed, the softening of his frown-lines, the almost-pained (but different, because Wilson knows the difference) look on his face when he comes. When House opens his eyes again, there's something a bit easier in his eyes, smug tinged with contentment, and he teases Wilson for a minute before he brings him off. Wilson bites his lip when he comes, and breathes, until all he can feel is the warmth of House's body and his hand slowing to a gentle stop.
Wilson sighs, and grimaces at the mess on their stomachs. He gets to his feet, feeling shaky and suddenly exhausted. House is leaning back on the couch, his eyes closed. Wilson goes to the bathroom, kicking his pants out of the way as he does, and cleans himself up before bringing a cloth back to House. When House opens his eyes, Wilson sees his own tiredness reflected there: like they've both been waiting for a stay of execution and now that it's arrived all they're not quite sure what to do. Maybe they don't deserve it. Wilson holds his hand out, wondering if House will accept his help getting up. All he wants is to sleep, to savour the moment, to not worry about tomorrow.
House stares at him, at his hand, but he takes it after a moment and Wilson pulls him to his feet. "I have to go," Wilson says, even though he hates bringing it up. "Before work. My clothes are all at the hotel, and--"
"You've got tomorrow off," House says gruffly, limping to the bedroom. Naked, with his leg and his scar showing, he loses some of his strange grace, but all Wilson feels, watching him, is tenderness.
He lets out a laugh. "What does that mean?"
"I cleared it with Cuddy," House says. He glances over his shoulder, but he needs his momentum to get to the bedroom without his cane.
Wilson follows him. "She knows?"
"Everybody knows." House sits on the edge of the bed and smirks up at him. "I told them I was saving you from yourself."
Wilson opens his mouth to object to that, but it's easy enough to see what House really means. After the faked brain cancer, after all the shit House pulled with Tritter and after Wilson fucked things up during the ketamine treatment--after everything, they're really just saving each other.
"Pizza with a friend?" he offers, smiling.
House lies back on the bed. There's room enough for Wilson to join him, so he does. "It's something," House says, and he throws his arm across Wilson's chest before they fall asleep.
end |
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