Chapter Text
Amber was dead. Dying. Their marriage disintegrated before his very eyes as she took her last breath, the bypass machines whirring to a stop to let the moment continue on in silence. It was no comfort; he’d much prefer the white noise, anything to drown out the ugly, tortured sounds of his own gasps as the muscles in her face slackened and she smiled up at him for the last time.
It was selfish of him to keep her alive for so long. She was tired and he’d known. He always wanted more. But this time, in this life, he should’ve gotten it. He had been so good, so nurturing and patient and kind to every soul on this vile Earth. All of that had been in vain. It wasn’t supposed to end this way. His fairytale ending, with its rainbows and ponies, no matter how inane, still had a chance of materialising out of the rain.
But someone had to interfere. Someone had to drag his lover out into a bar, needle her into getting a drink and who knows what else, force her onto a rickety bus driven by a sick Asian man and— and—
He got a call. The phone chimed persistently, the ringtone chirping and cheery as Wilson stared at it, eyes bleary with tears, jaw clenched in a rage about to unfurl. His palm slapped against the vibrating metal as he picked it up and shoved it against his ear.
“What?”
“It’s Cuddy. Are you okay? You sound—”
“What do you want?” He forced his tone to even out after finding out that the caller wasn’t House. Cuddy did nothing wrong. She wasn’t the one he wanted hung.
“House, he… he’s suffered some neurological damage from the DBS.”
Wilson really couldn’t care less.
Cuddy continued, “His only apparent symptoms are intermittent aphasia and complex partial seizures, though there’s only been one seizure so far.”
Wilson gritted out, “And what does this have to do with me?”
There was a pause and he imagined Cuddy thinking over her words carefully. Was he really in such a fragile state?
Probably.
“I’ve put him on bed rest,” she said finally, after much hesitation.
Wilson sucked in a breath and started shaking his head, “I don’t think—”
“He needs you.”
Are you fucking kidding me?
See, that was the problem, he wanted to scream. With him, it was all about his needs — his pills, his food, his hookers and his motorcycles. He took and took, sucking him dry, sucking Amber dry and leaving everyone out to die so he could run around in a dazed high, living his best life.
That fucking parasite.
“No, Cuddy. I won’t. I’m sorry,” even though he wasn’t. All he wanted was to go back to his apartment and have a good, long cry, or maybe fantasise about breaking House’s back with the rod that pierced Amber’s gut. It wouldn’t be the first time he thought about hurting, or killing, House in the night. But now, he feared that he actually might.
What would Amber think, if she’d known how he was really like?
She’d support him. There was no doubt about it.
“It wasn’t his fault,” Cuddy stated, and Wilson saw red but she must’ve known because she had already ended the call before he could get a single word out.
Touché.
He failed to let the matter rest, unable to let Cuddy have the last word, so he got out of his office and headed to House’s hospital ward. From the corridor outside, he could see the man tucked into his bed, the soft blue sheets bunched around his peaceful body. For a moment, he thought of Amber, of her last breaths as he held her face and kissed his last goodbye into her cold skin.
His hands curled into fists when he walked in.
Cuddy had been watching him, and she continued doing so now that he was in the room. Wilson eyed her with disapproval before turning to look at his best friend. House’s eyes were shut, face lax as… somebody’s, and Wilson felt the beginnings of a shudder culminate at the base of his spine.
“You’re worried about him too,” Cuddy observed, dragging Wilson’s gaze back to her with her words.
He set his jaw. “I’m not.”
A flash of disappointment-cum-amusement, that look she had whenever House proposed something ridiculous, coloured her features. Before she could say anything, House blinked his sleepy eyes awake and the room plunged into silence as Wilson stared at him.
His pupils were pinpricks in pools of glacial blue, courtesy of the bright white lights in the room. And lining those eyes was a thin, pink layer of skin, either from crying or irritation. Since House could barely lift his arms off the bed, let alone rub at his eyes until they were glossy and red, Wilson could only assume the former. He looked impossibly tender and beyond vulnerable and Wilson’s gaze raked down to the shaky breaths taking control of his chest. His gaze swept back up to the two bandages on House’s forehead, two markings from where he’d been drilled into unwillingly.
He wanted to rip that measly protection off and stick his fingers in, scrape his nails against his skull, make him writhe and kick. And he would, wouldn’t he? Cry and scream and yell for him to get his fingers out, as blood dripped into those eyes and the pain triggered a seizure. If only his fingers were made of steel instead of soft supple flesh, then he’d be able to finish what the DBS didn’t.
Against his better judgement, or maybe House didn’t have judgement anymore, the man lifted his head off the pillow to get a better look at Wilson, or to make himself taller, to make them see eye-to-eye, if not metaphorically then at least physically. He seemed to want to speak, but when he noticed the look in Wilson’s eyes wasn’t concern, nor detached indifference, but something else entirely, he rested his head back down and became content with simply breathing.
When Wilson tilted his head, slightly amused, Cuddy took it upon herself to explain, “He can’t speak right now. The swelling hasn’t gone down yet.”
“I thought you said his only symptoms were aphasia and seizures,” Wilson muttered. “So you can only confirm visual aphasia, not verbal—”
“You do care for him,” Cuddy cut in, smiling as Wilson caught himself and put his hands up, mouth ready to shoot out another excuse: it was just medicine. House would say that.
House was sick. House needed him, and the implication of that was finally starting to sink in. Actually, this was the best way to make House pay. He pictured it vividly, the sight of them alone in his home, without Cuddy, without his team. God, he really had nothing, didn’t he? It was perfect, almost like a dream. He could do anything to him.
“I’ll page you when he’s ready to go home.”
Startled, Wilson glanced back at Cuddy before nodding slowly. He narrowed his eyes and scrutinised the man, if only to make Cuddy think that it had been a hard decision. When he returned his gaze and mind to the body lying before him, he smiled internally.
He’d cleanse him of his sin.
He imagined that taking care of House would be like raising a child — or a pet, though he pushed that thought down for now. A sick, arrogant, needy child was still a child who needed food, sleep and basic toiletries, so that was what Wilson bought for him. He had thought about making a trip to his apartment and taking some of his mementoes to ground him or something, considered bringing his guitar over before realising that he probably couldn’t even play it if he wanted to.
He was excited to see just how much House couldn’t do.
It had been a week since Amber died, since Cuddy so unceremoniously dumped the manchild into his lap, which had given Wilson a long stretch of time to get his apartment child-friendly. Luckily, this was a favour and he could hypothetically back out at any moment, so he knew that Cuddy would let a few minor safety risks slide if it meant he took the slobbering puppy inside. In truth, he really wanted to leave the mutt out in the cold, to crawl and beg for scraps outside or stumble and break his neck in his own home.
It was better like this, though, he assured himself.
After all, what was the point of misery if there was no audience?
Which brought him to now, standing in House’s ward and watching the nurse help him into his wheelchair. House’s lips were wrapped around a red sucker, probably a gift from Cuddy or one of the kinder nurses. He was swirling his tongue around the oblong piece of candy, sucking every so often with a muted, almost demure squelch, his groggy muscles working around the sweet.
Wilson stared as the childish, neon red thing disappeared back into House’s mouth again, leaving only the white stick poking out, the length of it bobbing up and down as the sphere of sugar rolled on House’s tongue.
“He’s ready,” the nurse said to him, and he nodded solemnly, stepping in behind House and grabbing a hold of his wheelchair. Firmly and steadily, he pushed the man, who was still enjoying his spit-slick ball of candy, towards the elevators. As they approached the thick metal doors and waited for one of the two carriages to get onto their floor, Wilson watched House from above, privy to every movement from where he was, snugly tucked into House’s blind spot.
House dragged the sucker out of his mouth, twirling it between his fingers for a while as its glistening sheen was flaunted about. Curious, Wilson asked, “Is something wrong with it?”
Shaking his head, House turned, craning his neck to look up at Wilson and the position must feel like hell, especially for him. A hand guided House’s head back such that it was facing forwards once more, and Wilson muttered, “Don’t.”
House nuzzled against his palm, leaning his head back to rest more of its warm weight into Wilson’s skin. With a sigh, he spoke, “I… wanted to talk.”
“You can?” was Wilson’s response as the soft ding signalled the elevator’s arrival. He wheeled House in and tapped the button for level one, eyes flicking back to House throughout the movement. The man was pouting, maybe missing the support of his hand or sulking at how Wilson implied that he was sick and weak.
Which he was, wasn’t he?
“Duh,” was House’s delayed response, and he attempted to crane his head back up to give Wilson an eyeroll. Wilson’s hand returned to the back of his head, fingers clasping around his fragile skull and anchoring him in place.
It was slight, but House’s back arched against the wheelchair and they were lucky this elevator was empty. “Mmm,” he remarked, as if savouring the dig of Wilson’s fingertips. To him, it was probably relief, like a mild pressure on the temples to alleviate brain fog on a bad day. As for Wilson, all he could think about was how his hand was so close to the bleed, to where he’d been sliced open and speared, electrical probes cutting deep into his fleshy, messy brain.
This was where it all started.
Where God gave him his recompense.
The ride home had been rather uneventful. House had tried pathetically to initiate a conversation, but Wilson wasn’t being particularly cooperative. He didn’t need to be, at least not anymore. His sullen silence made House start sulking, and he had started drumming his fingers against the thick glass window in his car, the rapidly disintegrating glob of candy still bobbing inside his mouth.
By the time they arrived at Wilson’s door, the red sweet was practically gone, though House still stubbornly held it between his teeth. Wilson wheeled him to the couch and was about to help him out, but the man swatted him away and stumbled onto the cushions with a clumsy gait.
“You’ll hurt yourself,” Wilson warned, folding the wheelchair and tucking it into the storeroom as House pretended his empty lollipop stick was a cigarette.
“If I fall, I’m sure you’ll catch me.”
Right. Wilson scoffed, “Well, your language faculties seem fine.”
“Yup. I can even count all the way up to three.” House’s eyes followed Wilson’s figure as he sat down beside him.
“Want me to throw that away for you?” Wilson gestured to the small stick House was still holding, and he noticed the way his fingers twitched ever so slightly around its white cylindrical body. “You okay?” He asked, staring at those slender digits trembling involuntarily.
Glancing at his own fingers, House shrugged nonchalantly. “It’s nothing.”
“You never tremble,” Wilson pushed.
“Of course I do,” House retorted.
“No, you don’t.” Leaning slightly closer, Wilson prodded, “Are you scared?”
House barked a laugh but shuffled away. “Of what, Jimmy?”
Wilson leaned back and turned away. “You suffered brain damage. You’re in an unfamiliar environment. You have every right to be afraid, House.”
“Doesn’t change the fact that I’m not.”
“You don’t have to lie.”
“I’m not.”
Fine. Frowning, Wilson grabbed House’s wrist, which elicited a surprised yelp, and snatched the lollipop stick from him before getting up and discarding it in the kitchen’s wastebin. When he got back, House looked at him, eyes almost pleading, and he was about to say something.
“I’m…”
Arching a brow, Wilson said, “Go on.”
House gulped and glared at him. “I have aphasia, idiot.”
Wilson deadpanned, “Then point or act it out.”
“God, you’re so sensitive,” House spat.
When Wilson didn’t respond to that, House pointed to his stomach. So obedient. A warm tendril sprouted in Wilson’s heart, the length of it yellow and ambient and positively aglow. “Wasn’t that hard, was it?” He teased, heading into the kitchen to make PB&J, one of House’s comfort foods. He’d never openly ask for it, but whenever he was hungry late in the night, he’d make a little sandwich for himself.
Once he was done, he plated the unhealthy dish and walked back into the living room. House had been watching him the whole time, attentive and alert, perking up when the smell of peanut butter wafted into the room. As soon as Wilson got within range, House swiped the sandwich off the plate and started scarfing it down, taking greedy, jagged bites of the soft loaf.
“The hospital food’s that bad?” Wilson set the empty plate down on the coffee table and watched House eat his food. “Or did you just miss my cooking?”
“Little bit of both,” House replied, licking the last crumbs of wholegrain, organic bread from the farmer’s market down the street off his still-shaky fingers. The sight itself was delectable.
“Nice tongue,” and Wilson mentally slapped himself, the words having tumbled out without a second thought. House was staring at him, analysing and curious and partially disgusted, face twisted and nose scrunched up slightly, body tensing up as Wilson eyed him. Externally, his expression was neutral, brown eyes digging into House’s and by god was it unnerving.
House gulped, eyes roaming around, evading Wilson’s mahogany swirls of something he didn’t want to contemplate. Wilson pitied him, and a small part of him wanted to forget about this moment, wanted him to grab the plate and run back into the kitchen and act like nothing of the sort had been said. But a larger part of him wanted to hear how House responded.
And the man was about to, his eyes narrowed and locked back onto Wilson’s face. He opened his mouth and started with, “Moving on to your next wife so soon?”
“I wonder what Amber would say, though she must’ve already known, right?” He faked a gasp. “Don’t tell me you didn’t let her know about your chronic philandering. That’s just unethical.”
“Don’t talk to me about ethics.”
“Did you ever even love her?”
“What—of course I did.”
“Yeah, yeah. You loved her tits, her face, but most importantly, her personality. And now,” he gestured towards the couch and the apartment in general. “Now, you’re putting the moves on me, so maybe you were—”
“House, don’t.”
“She’s just me in a nicer, prettier wrapping. Easier on the eyes, for sure, but now you’ve got the real deal—”
“She’s nothing like you,” Wilson muttered, fingers digging into the plate he was suddenly holding.
“I think you meant “she was”, because, y’know,” House shrugged and turned away, gaze falling onto the remote. “Wanna watch something?”
“Do you feel nothing?”
“Uh, I feel bored. Wanna watch something?”
“She wouldn’t have been on that bus if you…”
“Shoulda coulda woulda.” House shrugged again and sighed, giving up on ever making Wilson switch the TV on.
Wilson was seething, though he did so privately and silently, teeth digging into his tongue without drawing blood. Not yet. Not his. House, meanwhile, was oblivious, drumming weak, pretty fingertips against the couch arm and studying the floorboards. He thought that this was a normal conversation, just some regular banter, like they were discussing a nurse’s love life over fries and hamburgers in the hospital cafeteria.
There were no nurses here.
“You’re not guilty,” Wilson stated, and House hummed in response, probably finding the conversation too uninteresting to actually properly look at him. Tiredly, as if he was repeating it for the fiftieth time today, he replied, “It wasn’t my fault.”
“It was.”
At that, House spared him a glance and he carried a look of confusion, like a child wondering where their mommy went as the shoppers around them clattered with their noisy carts. No, that metaphor wasn’t quite right. The panic and the frantic scrambling to reclaim what was lost weren’t apparent on House’s face. Not yet, at least.
“No, it wasn’t,” House said, though his tone lacked certainty and that could only serve to invite an opposing argument.
“Sure, you didn’t prescribe her flu meds or shred her kidneys, but you’re the reason she was on that bus.”
“I told her not to come,” he pouted, “I asked her—”
“Shut up, House.”
Surprisingly, he did, and Wilson realised rather belatedly that the hand holding the plate was raised, the slim disc threatening to dig into House’s skull. His arm was coiled and ready to slam down, if only he would give the word.
Would the impact make him herniate?
He couldn’t wait.
“It was your fault.” He spoke the words slowly, hoping that House would understand, if he even could. Superficially, he seemed just like his usual self, caustic and cold with humour drier than gunpowder. But something was definitely off. It was like he could no longer identify the line he shouldn’t cross, as if the emotion on Wilson’s face was just another card in his deck: meaningless and flat.
Or had he always been like that?
“Cuddy said—”
“Cuddy lied,” Wilson cut in. “She just wants you to feel better so you can go back to work.”
House’s eyes narrowed. “And you’re…”
“Why would I lie to you?” Wilson suppressed a grin as House’s eyes flicked down, his mind searching for an answer, for a reason. As expected, he failed, and his gaze returned to Wilson but his mouth didn’t open, keeping the jumbled words he didn’t understand locked inside.
Sucking in a breath, Wilson thought: so this was what drugs felt like.
Patting House’s thigh, Wilson reassured, “Don’t worry.
You can make it up to me.”
It was late. A glance at his watch told him that it was ten o’clock, which was usually when House would bring out the scotch and try his hand at getting alcohol poisoning. The night was young, he’d say. But now, they did things his way.
Wilson helped House off the couch, planting one arm on his shoulder and another on his waist. The man gave him a shrill hiss and twisted in his grip, so Wilson did the reasonable thing and dug his fingers in harder, forcing House onto his feet and muttering into his ear, “You can’t even do this for me?”
At that, House relaxed marginally, though the shift allowed Wilson to get a better grip on him before manoeuvring them both into the guest bedroom where he’d be sleeping. His sheets were silky and coloured a deep navy blue, his pillow propped up against the headrest, looking innocent and fluffy.
Wilson had seen his bedroom before; the piece of furniture one of those hazy focal points after the infarction, its position never changing. He’d witnessed countless events on it, morphine-induced nightmares, sleepless nights where House whined and begged for drugs, the occasional peaceful slumber and, of course, those drunken nights when House invited him in.
By now, the colour and the texture of it had been ingrained in his brain. Knowing House and his aversion to change, how could he get him anything that wasn’t exactly the same?
Well, something changed, but that didn’t stop House from gratefully flopping onto the mattress and rolling over the softness that embraced him, a sigh of comfort and pleasure escaping him. “Wils’n,” he murmured, eyes rotating a little to reorient himself and find Wilson’s face. “I missed this.”
“Me or the sheets?”
Chuckling, or perhaps giggling was the more appropriate word, House mocked, “Jealous?”
“Just curious.”
After letting out another contented sigh, House replied, “Both.”
Smiling warmly, Wilson sat down on the bed, watching as House shifted a little, getting his bad leg into a comfortable position. There was a nice side to House, though normally he’d never get the chance to see it. After all, there had to be a reason he’d stayed for so long, through the countless trials and tribulations. Moments like these, soft and tender as House was laid out before him, made his life worth living.
Without Amber, this was all there was.
Maybe this was how it had always been, and Amber had been a deviation. An anomaly. Something extrinsic to the system itself, disrupting the circuit and pulling it out of its perpetual loop.
Oh, don’t be ridiculous.
His romanticism always got the better of him, turning every fleeting second of joy with House into something memorable, locking him deeper in his destructive spiral, blinding him to the bigger picture, to the devious trickster. It worked against him, essentially, convincing him that the good somehow outweighed the bad, that he could never get this sort of feeling from anybody else.
Well, that might be true, in fact.
Amber had never been this open with him. Was “open” really the right word, though? House was… vulnerable in a specific type of way, completely trusting in him, his words, entirely dependent on him for basic survival. Like a leech, he was hanging onto his arm, and just one flick would end his sad, tiny life.
Just one hit and his skull would rip the blood-brain barrier.
Just one slip of an unlabelled drug and his eyes would look just like Amber’s.
Just one thought and the will to act on it and he’d bend and contort and take what he gave him.
Would he feel like her?
If House had been right, and they were exactly alike, then he’d taste like her and moan like her and wrap his arms around him and sing praises when he hit that spot just right and made her nerves come alive.
“Like what you see?” House yawned, stretching with the sound, his hands reaching past the mound that was his pillow, fingers scraping the wooden headboard. Wilson gulped silently and tapped his foot against the ground.
“Cuddy said that you thrash in your sleep,” he started, observing House for any sign of worry or resistance. Instead, the man grunted and let his eyes fall shut. Maybe he hadn’t heard him.
“Hey.” Wilson shook him, hands grabbing his shoulder and shoving it back and forth.
“Whaaa…” House complained, eyes blinking open, sleepy blues moistened by reflexive tears and Wilson had a sudden urge to call it sleep lubrication. “Wils’n…” He yawned again, excess liquid squeezing past his eyelids and disappearing into the hairline above his ears.
“This will prevent you from thrashing if you seize, okay?” Wilson’s fingers wrapped around House’s wrists, which were already by the headboard. Convenient. Slowly, careful not to scare House with any harsh movements, he retrieved the handcuffs from behind the pillow, sliding his left wrist into the allotted hole quickly.
With a click, the metal snapped snugly around House’s wrist, and he stirred, blinking past his slicked-up eyes to fix Wilson with his judgemental stare. Wilson paused for a moment, his other hand still around House’s remaining free wrist, swallowing as he waited for anything, even just a flicker of shock or fear on his face.
“I…” House started, brows furrowing as his throat worked uselessly, “Wils… I… maybe…” Frustrated, he grunted and whined, the sound strangled and choked in the back of his throat.
Wilson moved to secure the cuff.
“Hnn!—I—I…” House jerked his hand away, though that only made Wilson huff in annoyance and wrench his hand back where it belonged.
“Wil!” He pleaded, fingers grasping at the headboard as the cuff finally clicked into place, trapping his arms up above, leaving the length of his body so, so exposed. “I… I—nnn…”
“What?” Wilson asked, getting off the bed to check whether the cuffs had been securely attached to the headboard. “You, you, what, House?” He mocked.
“I…” The man blinked furiously, eyes wet with more than the necessary fluids for his beauty sleep.
Wilson admitted that it was sort of mean, what with the whole aphasia thing going on. Cuddy had informed him that such episodes were more frequent when he was physically depleted, like when he needed sleep or food or the bathroom, and boy did the man need so frequently. He was surprised that he had remained coherent for so long in the living room.
Snapping his jaw shut, House stared at the ceiling resolutely, almost as if throwing a tantrum. Soothingly, Wilson settled back on the bed and stroked House’s cheek, the stubble there rough and warm under his fingertips. House turned his head away, mouth opening before screwing itself closed again because the only thing that came out was “I… I…” and it was completely pathetic.
Satisfied with his work for tonight, Wilson got off the bed and switched off the lights, letting the diffuse moonlight cast House’s spread-out body in a pale glow. He turned to leave but halted his steps when House tugged at the handcuffs, the metal rattling against the headboard.
“S…” he managed, pupils blown wide in the dark, eyes fixed on Wilson as he turned around. “Sss…” House looked exhausted, sweat making his curls stick to his forehead, body still tense and rigid from the turn of events.
“You can sleep, House.”
The man shook his head and tried again, “Plnnn…?”
“What?”
Whimpering, if that word could be used to describe him, House thrashed harder against the handcuffs, his lower body wiggling on the bed. Stunned by the sudden display of movement, Wilson rushed back to the bed and held him down, assuming that it was a seizure or an attempt to break the handcuffs through sheer will.
When his hands pushed down on House’s shoulder, he immediately eased up and relaxed into the bed, nodding weakly.
Wait, seriously?
The nuzzling in the hospital, the arching and that satisfied “Mmm” in the elevator, together with this desire to be touched by him…
Wilson gulped, bringing his other hand onto House’s skin, running it over the length of his arm, from the wrist down his toned forearm to the elastic give of his biceps. House lifted his arm up, pressing it up against Wilson’s hesitant touch, a small sigh leaving his lips.
Emboldened by House’s desire, Wilson crawled into the bed, settling in behind House and wrapping his arms around his waist. It was narrow and tight, which meant that he’d lost weight, and his heart twinged a little. Some resentment towards the hospital stirred inside his mouth, and he muttered into House’s ear, “They starved you, didn’t they?”
“Wils…” was House’s response, his lashes fluttering as he relaxed into Wilson’s embrace. His breathing slowed, and his skin felt warm and tangible against his own.
Slowly, the hate about his weight started to dissipate as he rubbed his palms over the flat plane of his belly. House murmured at the touch, rolling his hips back into Wilson’s pelvis to give his hands more space to roam.
Like this, in the dark, with House so receptive… it almost felt like Amber. They’d cuddle like this in the night, the sheets sweaty with their love as their exhaustion mingled between them. She especially loved it whenever he nuzzled against the nape of her neck, tasting the scent of her. She’d part her hair to give him better access, but with House, that wasn’t necessary.
She wasn’t him, though, and he pulled away from House’s neck. A quick scan over House’s pliant body told him that he was oblivious to the happenings behind him. He trusted him.
To not go too far. To know when to stop. He just wanted touch, some reassurance, some physical sensation to help him ground himself, to make sense of the confusing world as his brain ticked incorrectly. He didn’t want love, no, definitely not.
Though, could House really fault him if he forgot where the line was?
His palms dragged down his waist, settling on his hipbones, fingers grabbing at the curves he found. God, he felt just like Amber; soft, firm, strong and vulnerable. Unafraid to be vulnerable, to let him care and support and heal with his touch. He hesitated for a moment, holding himself back, but the sight and the feeling of it all was irresistible.
Giving in, he let his mouth find House’s neck and pressed soft kisses into the pale, untouched skin there. At first, House shuddered, turning his head as if slightly panicked, but Wilson went on, tongue darting out to lick and taste and devour the offering. At that, House’s hip jerked into him, the impact of it making Wilson grunt as the bone dug into his skin.
His grip on House’s hips tightened, fixing the fidgeting man in place as he continued to wet his nape.
Even with aphasia, he could make the prettiest of sounds. Not quite like Amber’s, no. Hers were more confident, more controlled, as if she had known the effect it had on him. House’s were small and reluctant, coming out in bursts and gasps as if he had tried but failed to hold them back.
Wilson was getting carried away, and his tongue gave way to teeth as he grazed the sharp edges of them over House’s skin. He knew that he couldn’t leave a mark, so he just raked them lightly over his nape, revelling in the shudders and those sounds House kept making.
He leaned over, pushing House’s head down to get better access, his tongue flicking back out to lap at the new stretch of skin as his neck elongated. He pulled the collar of his shirt down and nuzzled into the upper part of his neck, inhaling the scent of his own saliva and House’s scent.
It was clean and muted, like an air-conditioned apartment with a sanitised bathroom. Nothing like Amber’s, which was bold and strong and sharp, and Wilson supposed that that last quality matched the cleanness of House’s smell. Something distinct and striking. That’s all it was, right?
He’d never overwrite her memory.
House was stirring, writhing and craning his head backwards in an attempt to knock Wilson off. He had been trying to say something, Wilson realised, with those sweet sounds he’d mistaken for pleasure.
“N…o—” House managed, shoving his head, trying to ram it into Wilson, trying to buck him off with mere neck movement. His actions were messy, wild, like he was lashing out, and Wilson watched as his head dragged across the bed, moving back and forth as it tried to knock his nose, but the force wasn’t even close to enough.
“You’re going to make yourself seize,” Wilson stated, one hand leaving House’s hip to press his bobbing head into the mattress.
“Hold,” he pouted, pushing his sweaty head up against Wilson’s palm. “Off… tongue,” he added before letting his head drop back onto the bed, thoroughly exhausted.
Wilson chuckled, nodding and brushing House’s neck with his nose as he did so. He could feel the jump, the little jerk as House’s neck twitched, muscles spasming to get away but going nowhere. Indulging him for a moment, Wilson stopped, breathing thick breaths into his nape, the traces of his saliva already evaporating into the dry air.
He was greedy, though, and that soon surpassed his desire to please House, to be the good guy, to be steadfast and accepting and wholeheartedly self-sacrificing. House was lucky that part of him still existed anymore.
His tongue barely peeked out, the tapered tip gently nudging House’s skin, when House abruptly flexed his arms, forcing them together, those toned, soft pillars closing in around Wilson’s neck. Trapped momentarily, Wilson felt how House’s sweaty limbs squeezed desperately around his neck, but the force wasn’t sufficient to cut off his air.
Now, Wilson had the excuse he needed.
The hand on House’s hip clenched and crawled down, intending to pay House’s infarction site a visit.
Wait.
Calm down, Wilson.
He thought of his nails ripping through the denim, leaving tiny little scars that he’d have to hide. No, he couldn’t have that.
Think.
And he did, deftly unclasping House’s belt and loosening up his jeans, shoving his hand beneath the fabric. The infarction site was cold and smooth, the concavity of it begging his fingers to dig in and widen it. Since he could, he indulged himself, wringing squirms and aborted, rabbiting pants from his prisoner.
The pressure wasn’t that bad. Not yet. Not compared to what he’d imagined doing to him.
He let his nails break the skin, wrapping his thumb around the back of his thigh to get a better grip. House was right. He’d never let him slip. House was screaming and crying genuinely now, the illusion shattered before him. House wasn’t Amber and he never could be.
Wilson wasn’t as disappointed as he’d thought he’d be.
Jerking against his cuffs, House shook his head and bucked his hips, shoving and writhing and thrashing violently. Like a wall, like he always was, Wilson remained, digging in his heels resolutely, pressing House into the bed, squeezing toxins out of his scar and into his bloodstream.
House repeated his elevator performance, arching against Wilson, though his satisfied moan was entirely absent. Instead, he was making garbled, angry sounds, the vocalisations accompanied by jarring clicks of serrated teeth knocking against each other like some organic drumbeat.
It hurts. Get off. Fuck you.
Wilson knew what he wanted to say but all he heard was “I” and “Wilson”. That wasn’t enough to stop him.
What was, then?
Eventually, House passed out from exhaustion, though not before yanking hard against his cuffs and bruising his wrists in the process. After getting out of the bed, Wilson had stared at those markings for a long time, thinking about how he’d explain them if anyone asked.
The simplest explanation would be the plain old truth. House always fought, even against things that were good for him. It was a reasonable line of thought. Plus, he wasn’t counting on anyone asking. After all, apart from him, who really cared about that sick, old man?
When morning replaced the night, he rolled out of his neat bed, the lined sheets looking like nothing but a ghost had slept in them. His socks were silent on the wooden, varnished floorboards as he entered House’s room. No, the guest bedroom. House didn’t own anything. Not anymore.
He had left the door open, knowing that House couldn’t have protested last night. Even if he’d been able to, perhaps making a ruckus in the middle of the night, he would just tell him it was in case he seized or needed the bathroom. Two true and medically sound reasons to keep him exposed and monitored. Any objections?
“No,” he’d imagined House replying, eyes flicking down as he complied, relinquishing his need to control, to keep Wilson out. The image was grainy, pixelated even, like Amber’s videotape of them, the explicit film waiting patiently in the Travel folder of his laptop. The difference was that one had actually happened while the other was pure imagination.
After entering, he’d lingered by the door, observing House’s breathing, his movements. He stared, pupils drilling holes into the man until he woke up and Wilson was thrilled at how he immediately clocked it. His respirations sped up ever so slightly, twitches getting sharper like he was regaining control of his body.
Sated by a restful night, House quickly blinked his eyes open and delivered some of his usual snark. Something along the lines of “Did little Jimmy wake up too?”, the crude joke making Wilson smile despite himself. The handcuffs clinked as House pulled at them, sliding up the bed to get into a sitting position.
“Don’t think I can be of much help,” House continued, yanking against his restraints again. Wilson crossed the distance between his bed and the door, retrieving a key from the nightstand deliberately slowly before freeing him with two quick clicks. As the metal gave way to purpled skin, House winced, rubbing at his injured wrists and the scene undoubtedly elicited sympathy.
Wilson pushed it down.
He dragged House out of bed and sat him down at the dining table, the man scowling at being handled so roughly, though he clearly preferred it to the faux gentleness of last night. Wilson imagined that now, House could clearly identify him as a villain. He hoped that doing so brought him comfort.
He was going to need it.
Was he? Frowning, Wilson poured a glass of milk for House, setting it down in front of him and watching as he greedily gulped it down. House was okay now, back to his usual self, and it was devastatingly endearing. He couldn’t bring himself to hate the man.
Well, not now.
He was sure he’d do something vile and stinging soon.
Patience, Wilson.
Good things take time.
He’d already made some macadamia nut pancakes during his week of preparation, and now he plated it and set it in front of House, who immediately started tearing into the sweet things and dipping them into the provided maple syrup.
House was avoiding his gaze, staring intently at the pancakes without sparing the chef a glance. So he hadn’t forgotten. From his casual lean against the counter, Wilson watched the man swallow his creations, forcing the smile from his face as he anticipated what House would say.
“Did you treat Amber like that?”
“What?”
He went on, “Feeling her up when she’s asleep; you into that?”
How did he know?
Choking a little, Wilson turned around and busied himself by pouring himself a cup of coffee, but the machine was empty. He’d forgotten to refill the beans, and when he checked his cupboards, he sighed internally. Trust him to get too preoccupied with House’s shopping list and forget about restocking on basic groceries.
“Or you could just not reply,” House offered sarcastically, jaw working around a large bite of tender brown pancake.
“You were thrashing.” He hadn’t been. He’d been still and quiet and definitely asleep, except, of course, Wilson couldn’t have known if the bastard had been acting the whole time.
House scoffed loudly, taking the time to dip a new piece of pancake into the maple syrup, shoving it so deep some of the liquid flowed over the edges of the tiny white dish, leaking onto the table. “I know the difference between a hold and a grope. I’m not that disabled.”
Not yet.
Wilson closed the cupboards and walked to the fridge to grab a carton of milk for himself. He still had the upper hand; he could still control this. Eyes darting back to where House was sprawled on his chair and enjoying his food, Wilson exhaled quietly, the breath popping out just as an idea popped up.
“If you want to break your arm next time, be my guest,” he snarled, setting his untouched glass of milk on the dining table before snatching House’s unfinished plate of pancakes away.
“Hey!” He protested, pointing the fork at Wilson’s face, the metal glinting menacingly, though he was too far away to really pose much of a threat.
“Oh, sorry. I thought you wanted to self-destruct. Wouldn’t want to feed you and risk preventing another aphasia flare-up.” With a blunt gesture, he poured the edible discs of dough into the wastebin before tossing the empty plate into the sink. “After all, speech is so overrated, right?”
The kitchen eroded into silence. Blue eyes flicked towards the wastebin, then to the table before him. After a few seconds, House’s fingers reattached themselves to the glass of milk and he sipped at the remaining liquid silently.
Wilson stayed turned away from the scene, though he could hear the subtle sounds of House gulping, of his tongue lapping and swiping off those last drops, cleaning his cup for him. That swell of pride resurfaced, fuelling his heart with hotter, redder blood that pulsed as he switched the tap on, beginning to clean House’s plate.
House’s empty glass thudded gently on the table and the man had his eyes on Wilson’s portion. Humming softly, Wilson dried the newly pristine dish and slid it back into its place on the rack, glancing over his shoulder at House. He gulped, eyes jumping between Wilson with his back still turned to him and the viscous milk sitting on the table, taunting him.
Wilson graced the dining table with his presence, settling back down with a knee supporting his ankle before picking the glass up and rolling it, letting the liquid slosh against translucent walls. House watched the movement, assessing Wilson’s reaction, trying to deduce if he would let him drink some.
Normally, he’d have reached out and swiped it by now.
“Thirsty?” Wilson initiated, still swirling the liquid. He watched as House nodded, the movement sheepish and humiliating for a man his age. It was small and he was scowling, obviously hating the position he’d been put in, like he hadn’t expected Wilson to withhold food from him.
He didn’t know Wilson that well.
He never did.
“Say it,” Wilson ordered, though he kept his tone light, even sparingly playful if House read it right.
He didn’t.
Rolling his eyes, he leaned back into his chair, the pose the epitome of disinterest as he sighed, “Really, Jimmy?” He sounded disappointed, as if he knew that Wilson could do better.
He could, but that didn’t matter.
He wasn’t the one performing now.
“The sink thanks you for your donation,” Wilson remarked, pushing off of his chair and dumping the milk into the sink. He held the glass high, ensuring that the liquid would hit the metal cavity loud enough for House to hear, not that that was necessary. The gurgling of wasted proteins and carbs flowing down the drain already made House straighten up, though the tension was pushed aside when Wilson turned back to face him.
“Kids in Africa are starving,” House noted.
“I know.” The only kid he gave a damn about was sitting right in front of him.
“Heartless bitch,” House muttered.
“What did you say?” Wilson’s stomach fluttered when House’s eyes instantly snapped up to his.
“Heartless bitch.”
The slap cracked against his cheekbone, loud and hard and immediately leaving a mark. Wilson tilted his head, slightly confused at how he’d gotten so close so quickly. He examined his palm for a while before House’s inevitable comment dragged his attention back to where it belonged.
“Wifebeating fr—”
Another slap, and this time Wilson could truly relish it because, well, House deserved it. He swallowed as House’s head whipped to the side, his neck contorting painfully, the motion probably dizzying and already making him nauseous.
Would he stroke out from this? Now, that was a show he didn’t want to miss.
House’s pupils spasmed a little and his neck stayed twisted for a little longer. He grumbled something indecipherable before slowly turning his head back to Wilson, eyes wide, though whether it was from fear or anger, Wilson didn’t know.
Then his calculating blues dropped back to the table, just like that. He didn’t even touch the blossoming bruise on his cheek, didn’t even glare at him or produce any sound of pain, anything that would… well, what would any of that do?
“That’s all?” Wilson prompted, eyes searching for House’s but the man wouldn’t indulge him. He just stared at the bleached birch surface of the table, gaze inscrutable as he ruminated, or sulked, or— or—
“You had plenty to say a minute ago,” Wilson pushed, his hand — the one that slapped him — cupping his jaw and rotating his head to face him, but House’s eyes stayed fixed on the beige tabletop.
Frustrated, Wilson tugged on his chin, and when that didn’t work, he ran a thumb over the blotted skin, nudging at burst blood vessels. House glared up at him, but he stayed quiet, jaw tense where Wilson’s fingers were splayed possessively.
Was he getting obsessed? Tripping over himself for House’s response, waiting and basically salivating — he was no better than him, actually.
No. He won’t see it that way.
If they were exactly the same, then House was as guilty as he was. Amber, he thought of Amber, her lifeless body in that white, cold room.
Why was she cold, Wilson?
He’d ordered that treatment, if it could even be called that. All it did was prolong her life, her pain, her suffering.
House was staring at him, and his face relaxed marginally and Wilson knew that he’d caught on, that he’d understood something. What was it? How badly he needed this? To drag everyone down for his own sake, to reduce them to their basic needs, to strip them of all of their dignity just to feed his own self-image?
That wasn’t true. It was his depression talking.
No, it was House talking.
Only he would say those things, and he’d never mean it. He only wanted to hurt him, to scratch at him with daggers to try and regain authority or the smallest scrap of agency. To get milk or food or to stop Wilson from hitting him.
He glanced at House but his lips weren’t moving. No part of him was moving. His eyes were rigid, almost unfocused, exactly like how they’d look when he realised how the patient’s symptoms all matched up, when he found a reason to explain the disease’s behaviour.
Smiling, House finally spoke up.
“You’re an idiot.”