Fic: Powder Keg
Title: Powder Keg
Rating: T
Pairing: House/Wilson. Can be read as slashy or close friendship. Pick your goggles.
Warning: Moderate language, a bit of blood, and an OMC with some bad opinions.
Summary: One night and a step too far brings Wilson to a place he never thought he'd be.
Five drinks later, and Eddy Miles was still feeling the pain.
Downing the last of his bourbon on the rocks, he waved at the bartender and gestured to his empty glass. The bartender gave him a wary look, taking in his oversized frame perched precariously on the barstool, the broken capillaries on his nose and a growing paunch speaking of too many nights in places like this. After a moment, though, he seemed to give a mental shrug and added another splash of bourbon to Eddy's sweating glass.
"You need to slow down, buddy, or I'll have to cut you off," the bartender said, not unkindly.
Eddy snorted and wrapped his hands around his glass, seeking to draw the chill of the drink into himself. The heat in the bar was stifling, and he could feel sweat threatening to form in the furrow of his brow.
"I'm fine," he grumbled, refusing to meet the bartender's eyes. "And I'm not your buddy."
With an indifferent lift of his hands, the bartender left, and Eddy hardly noticed. Letting the bar chatter and bad music wash over him, he took a large swallow of the amber liquid, seeking to drown the wreck of his life with the familiar burn of his throat and the creeping, heavy warmth in his gut. Escape was getting harder and harder these days.
There was a sudden bout of laughter from across the bar, loud enough that Eddy started, nearly upsetting his drink. He looked up and glared blearily at the duo across the way, only to feel his face slacken and something ugly twist in his chest.
Two men near his age were sitting at the bar together, the brown-haired one laughing behind one hand, the other raised and waving in protest. The other man, long and lean, with a furrowed face and eyes that were startlingly blue even from his distance, took a swig of his beer in an effort to hide a smug grin. Their shoulders were pressed together, without a sliver of light between them.
Eddy frowned down at his glass, his body too numb from drink to feel his fingers tighten around the tumbler. He didn't consider himself to be a judgmental person, but he knew that it wasn't right for people like that to act so open and at ease in public. Let sinners sin, his dad had always said, as long as they keep it behind closed doors. Long experience had taught him it was foolish to think otherwise. His dad had always been right in the end.
His mouth twisted at the thought of the one time he had ignored his father's advice; a mistake that was even now waiting for him at home in a bathrobe and curlers, like some sort of sour caricature. He had loved Lynn once, he was sure, but nowadays the thought of her only conjured up images of sagging breasts and a grim, unsmiling mouth. It made his belly burn, every time, and drove him to seek shelter in places like this.
There was another bark of laughter, deep and gravely this time, and he looked up again to see the lanky one lean in and say something to his companion, his mouth much too close to the shell of the other's ear.
Feeling indignant, his night of quiet misery violated by the handsy couple across the way, Eddy waved the bartender over and said, "Do something about them, will ya?"
The bartender raised one pale eyebrow and had the audacity to grin. "The hell I will. They're some of my best customers."
Going back to his drink with an unhappy grumble, Eddy had just resolved to call it a night when he felt the chill of another's gaze on him. He looked up and was pinned like a moth to a corkboard by the flat stare of the blue-eyed man across the way. The look had long since passed uncomfortable when the man grinned slowly, his teeth bared like the devil, and nudged his companion, who was doing his level best to hide behind his beer bottle. Apparently, Eddy's request hadn't been delivered as quietly as he had thought.
"Look, Wilson, how cute. A bigot."
The brown-haired one -Wilson- said, without much hope, "House, leave it."
Embarrassed at having been called out, and infuriated by the mockery in the man called House's tone, Eddy drained the last of his shot and set the tumbler down with a loud clatter of ice cubes.
"I'm not looking for trouble," Eddy said, attempting to be reasonable. "It's just not right, you people doing that stuff in public."
Eyes lighting up with challenge, something gleeful and dangerous coiled within, House threw an arm around Wilson's shoulders. Ignoring the way the younger man's bushy eyebrows attempted to merge with his hairline, House said, "What, like this?" and planted a loud kiss on Wilson's cheek.
His face flaming like a brand, Wilson nudged House in the ribs, hard enough to send his garish tie swinging. "If you're not going to help, at least try not to make things worse."
House rolled his eyes with impressive drama; a gesture that Wilson ignored completely. "Sir," he said to Eddy, who was silently fuming, the bourbon churning in his gut like acid, "what my friend is trying to say, in his own inimitable way, is that what we are to each other-"
"And what we do, and in what positions, sometimes with that leather swing we installed in the-"
"-is not your business," Wilson concluded, shooting an unrepentant House a sharp look. "We're sorry we disturbed you, though. Look, let me buy you a drink."
Before he could beckon to the bartender, however, Eddy pushed away from his stool with the sharp squeal of wood against tile. He was tired of this whole thing, and suddenly home didn't seem so bad. "I don't take drinks from faggots."
Wilson had the gall to look wounded as Eddy threw a wad of bills carelessly onto the bar and made to move passed them to the door. His thoughts were already returning to the chilly reception he was sure to receive at home, when-
Wham
Suddenly, he was on his hands and knees, his shins stinging and the grate of mocking laughter in his ears. Wilson's cry of "House!" was all he needed to piece together what had happened, and he staggered to his feet with a low growl of anger. He rounded on the two men just in time to see the bartender pull away their beers and point to the door, his expression stony.
"Okay, you three, out! I won't have this nonsense in my bar."
House circumvented his companion's stammered apologies with an exaggerated tone of innocence, his eyes never straying from Eddy's face. "It was an accident, Mac. You know us limp-wrists; we're all just so clumsy."
Wilson stood up quickly, his hands raised in entreaty, but Eddy sidestepped him with the ease of fury and grabbed a handful of House's faded black t-shirt. He made to yank the bastard to his feet, but was brought up short by the sudden unexpected clatter of wood. Looking down, he saw a gleaming cane bisecting the space between them, its curved handle the obvious culprit of the barking of his shins.
Damn.
Drawing up his last reserves of restraint, Eddy uncurled his fist from the other's shirt, one reluctant finger at a time. "You got lucky," he said. The bar had gone quiet, and his next words echoed like the inside of a tomb. "I don't fight cripples, either."
Wilson looked up to heaven in despair as House's mouth stretched into a shark smile, his eyes gone dead. An instant later, Eddy reeled back in shock as the other man punched him full in the mouth.
For a gimp, he had a fist like a granite block, and the next few seconds were crowded with pain that pulsed in time to the fireflies darting across his vision. While he was still trying to regain his senses, another burst of agony blossomed in his guts as House surged from his barstool and buried a knee in his belly.
Eddy squeaked like a rusty hinge, vomit burning in his mouth, but proved his toughness an instant later when he lashed out and caught a glancing blow to House's throat. The man gagged and fell on top of Eddy, dragging them both to the floor in a tangle of fists and cursing and knees as hard as spikes. In the span of a few seconds, there was blood on the floor, and Eddy was reduced to covering his head with both arms as House wailed on him, his lined face drawn tight with grim determination.
His head was spinning and black spots were filling the edges of his vision, when it was all brought to an abrupt halt by Wilson, who grabbed House's shoulders with both hands and tore him away with surprising strength. Eddy unwittingly helped things along by lashing out with a steel-toed boot, sinking the tough leather sole into House's right thigh.
The bastard let out a strangled gasp, seemingly too hurt even to scream, and Eddy had one brief glimpse of him falling back into the arms of Wilson before the world was roughly twisted and spun around. By the time he realized that the bartender and another patron had grabbed him under the arms, he was already tumbling out the door, his hands scraped raw by the asphalt.
As the door slammed closed behind him, he spit out a slurry of blood and bile, still gasping from exertion. With rage burning in his chest and his head throbbing like a drum, he leaned against a silver Volvo parked in the handicapped space, trying to calm his racing heart.
God, Lynn was going to kill him.
***
A few minutes had passed, and the excitement brought about by the impromptu fight had died down considerably. By the time Wilson's hands had stopped shaking with the aftermath of adrenaline, most of the bar's other patrons had gone back to their drinks and conversation. Leaning against the bar's counter in belated relief, he blew out a breath and shot his friend a sour look. "I can't believe you did that."
House snorted eloquently, but didn't move from his hunched position on the barstool, his torso bowed protectively over the damaged thigh. Absently, he rubbed both hands over his denim pant leg, attempting to soothe away the pain twisting beneath it. Even after years of experience with the man and his moods, it was difficult for Wilson not to go to him then and attempt to ease the hurt himself.
"Really," House finally said, a grate to his voice that hadn't been there before. "What part about that was unlike me?"
Wilson's answering tone was wry and slightly pained. "It's not nice to fight the stupid, House. They can't afford to lose the brain cells."
"Hey, it wasn't exactly an uneven fight. Everyone knows that retards have super strength."
Unable to help himself, and acutely aware of Mac hovering impatiently behind the bar, Wilson stepped in front of House and ran long fingers over his throat, checking for bruising and other signs of damage. When House winced but didn't attempt to pull away, Wilson smiled tightly and ran a thumb over the line of stubble above his Adam's apple. "You're an asshole."
If there was a note of affection buried in the insult, neither one chose to acknowledge it.
After a moment, he nodded in approval and moved his hands up to cup House's head, running questing fingertips through his thinning hair. "Your throat's fine. Teeth?"
"Present and in place," House said, swallowing uncomfortably and shifting in his seat. Submitting to this inspection was the closest he would ever come to an apology, but he didn't have to accept it with grace.
Finally satisfied, Wilson let his hands drop away, and House pointedly did not mention the way his scalp tingled with the memory of the touch.
"No lacerations, swelling or soft spots, and your pupils are even and reactive. Looks like your hard head saved the day again." Crossing his arms, he then pinned his friend with a look that brooked no equivocation. "How's the leg?"
House's answering smirk contained little in the way of humor. "Give me another five minutes to answer that."
"Great. And if I were to recommend going to the hospital for an MRI, you would-?"
"Laugh in your face, yes."
"Thought so."
Mac the bartender, who had remained silent until now, chose that moment to round the counter to face them, his expression implacable. "Are you going to make it, Dr. House?"
"Unfortunately, yes," the diagnostician grumped, covering his scarred thigh gently with one hand. The unconscious gesture sent a stab of old pain through Wilson's chest.
"Good," Mac said with a nod. "Now get lost. You got blood all over my livelihood, and I'm kinda pissed about it."
Cheeks reddening yet again, Wilson cleared his throat. "Our bill-"
Mac jerked a thumb at House. "I'll put it on his tab. Leave now and don't let me see your faces again tonight, or I'll call the cops."
There was no arguing with an ultimatum like that. Handing House his cane, Wilson helped him lever to his feet, taking away the humiliation of the moment with an injection of weak humor. "Come on, Ali. There's a heating pad at the house with your name on it."
His friend made his slow way to the door, leaning heavily on his cane and pretending not to notice Wilson shadowing him a protective step behind. "Yeah. The beer is better there, anyway."
Mac opened the door for them, sending a wave of chill air over their skins. Wilson felt goosebumps breaking out over his arms as they stepped out into the parking lot, his Vovlo a dull silver gleam in the moonlight. As the door closed behind them without ceremony, locking away the light and warmth, Wilson scanned the lot for any unfriendly faces. Seeing nothing but asphalt and lines of vehicles, he relaxed a little and trailed behind House toward his car.
"Another night on the couch," Wilson mourned, fishing in his pocket for the keys. "Another night of bad television. I wanted to go out, damn it."
"Oh, stop with the Jewish guilt," House said easily, leaning against the passenger side door as his friend finally hooked out the keys. "We'll paint the town another night. Unknot your panties and quit acting like such a-"
"Asshole."
A chill shot up Wilson's spine, and he looked up sharply, his hands automatically drawing into fists. The keys jingled merrily in his grip as he took in the sight of a familiar figure stalking out from the side of the building, where the shadows had effectively hidden his form.
House straightened and his shoulders drew up like a bow, but he showed no other sign of unease as he said, "I was going to say 'girl,' but that works, too." He sighed and balanced most of his weight on his left leg, lifting the cane in both hands in obvious warning. Eyeing the paunchy man warily, Wilson rounded the car to join him. "Just get out of here, meathead. Getting your ass beat by a gimp twice in one night is going to murder your street cred."
The man glared balefully at them both through rapidly swelling eyes, a streak of blood slicing across one cheekbone, as if he'd made a botched attempt to clean himself. He looked dangerous and wild, rage emanating from him in almost palpable waves. They were alone with him in the moonlight, and for the first time, Wilson felt a stab of true fear.
"No, no, you!" the man sputtered, just this side of incoherent. "You are an asshole. I was going to leave until you tripped me up!" Rolling his neck with an audible crackle, he took a menacing step forward. "This isn't about you being a homo or a cripple, pal. You just deserve a beat down."
Wilson took a step forward in an instinctive attempt to shield his friend. Ignoring way House's furious gaze bore into his back, he lifted up his left hand in a consiliatory gesture, the keys hanging forgotten from one finger. With the other hand, he slowly reached into his pants pocket for his cell phone.
"Please stop this now," he pled, an ominious feeling swooping in his chest. "It's not too late for us all to walk away. We can talk-"
House grabbed Wilson by the collar and attempted to yank him back, but it was too late. Light exploded in his vision; a ringing eruption of pain that felled him like a tree with the taste of blood in his mouth. For a long moment, he couldn't move, could barely even breathe as unintelligible shouting seemed to come from far away. When the world began to make sense again, the fuzziness falling away from his mind, he looked blearily over to see two figures grappling against the car, arms locked together in a vicious dance. With the exception of a few pained grunts, the parking lot had gone eerily silent.
Wilson was just pushing himself to a kneeling position when the other man grabbed House by the shoulders, spun him around, and rammed his head twice against the hood of the car. Everything in him went cold as Wilson watched House go limp, sliding to the ground in a boneless way that made him want to scream.
"Stop," he protested weakly, staggering to his feet. "You can't-"
The man, standing triumphantly over Wilson's oldest friend, didn't seem to hear him. With an expression that spoke of the beginnings of madness, he drew back his foot and kicked House hard in the side, flipping him onto his back. As Wilson watched, a line of blood welled from a cut on the unconscious man's forehead and trickled down to tangle itself in the line of his eyebrow.
In that still, crystalline moment, something within Wilson snapped. With the same howling ire and sudden adrenaline spike that had once sent a bottle through an antique mirror, Wilson launched himself at House's attacker, blood glistening on teeth drawn back into an uncharacteristic snarl. He saw the man's face change, shock rendering him almost human again an instant before Wilson slammed into him, driving them both away from House and against the wall of the bar.
The man's head rapped sharply against the brick, and Wilson capitalized on that moment of weakness. Rendered savage and all but blind by a rage he had always felt, but never tried to understand, it was suddenly so easy to wrap his hands around that throat and to press his thumbs right there, locking away the blood and the air with a simple clenching of his fingers, never mind the other hands that scrabbled uselessly at his forearms, the pain of the scratches nothing, nothing, nothing beyond this-
And then wiry fingers slid passed the edges of his vision, gripping his thumbs with exacting pressure and pulling him away. He yelled something wordless and tried to rip away from those oddly familiar hands, desperate to regain his grip, to kill, to protect-
Three bodies fell in unison, the paunchy man sliding down the wall as Wilson's knees gave out, sending him crashing against the bumper of his car with a body sandwiched between him and the metal. The anger that had blinded Wilson to all else began to fade immediately, leaving numb horror in its wake as he listened to their attacker take sobbing, whooping gulps of air.
What did I-?
"House," he gasped, suddenly aware of the man beneath him, his rapid breaths warming the back of his neck. "You're bleeding. Your... your leg-"
"Shut up. Just shut up," House rasped, tightening his grip around the other's torso. He was trembling lightly, his heartbeat a rapid stacatto against Wilson's back. "Jesus, Wilson. Jesus."
Shame as thick as treacle welled up in him, and Wilson could do nothing at all as the defeated man staggered to his feet and began running in a shaky weave, the sound of his desperate gasps trailing behind him like smoke.
What did I just do?
Mute with a cocktail of emotion he couldn't begin to swallow, Wilson sought out the only anchor he knew. Shaking hard, he gripped the arms that still circled his ribcage and held on for dear life.
Rating: T
Pairing: House/Wilson. Can be read as slashy or close friendship. Pick your goggles.
Warning: Moderate language, a bit of blood, and an OMC with some bad opinions.
Summary: One night and a step too far brings Wilson to a place he never thought he'd be.
Five drinks later, and Eddy Miles was still feeling the pain.
Downing the last of his bourbon on the rocks, he waved at the bartender and gestured to his empty glass. The bartender gave him a wary look, taking in his oversized frame perched precariously on the barstool, the broken capillaries on his nose and a growing paunch speaking of too many nights in places like this. After a moment, though, he seemed to give a mental shrug and added another splash of bourbon to Eddy's sweating glass.
"You need to slow down, buddy, or I'll have to cut you off," the bartender said, not unkindly.
Eddy snorted and wrapped his hands around his glass, seeking to draw the chill of the drink into himself. The heat in the bar was stifling, and he could feel sweat threatening to form in the furrow of his brow.
"I'm fine," he grumbled, refusing to meet the bartender's eyes. "And I'm not your buddy."
With an indifferent lift of his hands, the bartender left, and Eddy hardly noticed. Letting the bar chatter and bad music wash over him, he took a large swallow of the amber liquid, seeking to drown the wreck of his life with the familiar burn of his throat and the creeping, heavy warmth in his gut. Escape was getting harder and harder these days.
There was a sudden bout of laughter from across the bar, loud enough that Eddy started, nearly upsetting his drink. He looked up and glared blearily at the duo across the way, only to feel his face slacken and something ugly twist in his chest.
Two men near his age were sitting at the bar together, the brown-haired one laughing behind one hand, the other raised and waving in protest. The other man, long and lean, with a furrowed face and eyes that were startlingly blue even from his distance, took a swig of his beer in an effort to hide a smug grin. Their shoulders were pressed together, without a sliver of light between them.
Eddy frowned down at his glass, his body too numb from drink to feel his fingers tighten around the tumbler. He didn't consider himself to be a judgmental person, but he knew that it wasn't right for people like that to act so open and at ease in public. Let sinners sin, his dad had always said, as long as they keep it behind closed doors. Long experience had taught him it was foolish to think otherwise. His dad had always been right in the end.
His mouth twisted at the thought of the one time he had ignored his father's advice; a mistake that was even now waiting for him at home in a bathrobe and curlers, like some sort of sour caricature. He had loved Lynn once, he was sure, but nowadays the thought of her only conjured up images of sagging breasts and a grim, unsmiling mouth. It made his belly burn, every time, and drove him to seek shelter in places like this.
There was another bark of laughter, deep and gravely this time, and he looked up again to see the lanky one lean in and say something to his companion, his mouth much too close to the shell of the other's ear.
Feeling indignant, his night of quiet misery violated by the handsy couple across the way, Eddy waved the bartender over and said, "Do something about them, will ya?"
The bartender raised one pale eyebrow and had the audacity to grin. "The hell I will. They're some of my best customers."
Going back to his drink with an unhappy grumble, Eddy had just resolved to call it a night when he felt the chill of another's gaze on him. He looked up and was pinned like a moth to a corkboard by the flat stare of the blue-eyed man across the way. The look had long since passed uncomfortable when the man grinned slowly, his teeth bared like the devil, and nudged his companion, who was doing his level best to hide behind his beer bottle. Apparently, Eddy's request hadn't been delivered as quietly as he had thought.
"Look, Wilson, how cute. A bigot."
The brown-haired one -Wilson- said, without much hope, "House, leave it."
Embarrassed at having been called out, and infuriated by the mockery in the man called House's tone, Eddy drained the last of his shot and set the tumbler down with a loud clatter of ice cubes.
"I'm not looking for trouble," Eddy said, attempting to be reasonable. "It's just not right, you people doing that stuff in public."
Eyes lighting up with challenge, something gleeful and dangerous coiled within, House threw an arm around Wilson's shoulders. Ignoring the way the younger man's bushy eyebrows attempted to merge with his hairline, House said, "What, like this?" and planted a loud kiss on Wilson's cheek.
His face flaming like a brand, Wilson nudged House in the ribs, hard enough to send his garish tie swinging. "If you're not going to help, at least try not to make things worse."
House rolled his eyes with impressive drama; a gesture that Wilson ignored completely. "Sir," he said to Eddy, who was silently fuming, the bourbon churning in his gut like acid, "what my friend is trying to say, in his own inimitable way, is that what we are to each other-"
"And what we do, and in what positions, sometimes with that leather swing we installed in the-"
"-is not your business," Wilson concluded, shooting an unrepentant House a sharp look. "We're sorry we disturbed you, though. Look, let me buy you a drink."
Before he could beckon to the bartender, however, Eddy pushed away from his stool with the sharp squeal of wood against tile. He was tired of this whole thing, and suddenly home didn't seem so bad. "I don't take drinks from faggots."
Wilson had the gall to look wounded as Eddy threw a wad of bills carelessly onto the bar and made to move passed them to the door. His thoughts were already returning to the chilly reception he was sure to receive at home, when-
Wham
Suddenly, he was on his hands and knees, his shins stinging and the grate of mocking laughter in his ears. Wilson's cry of "House!" was all he needed to piece together what had happened, and he staggered to his feet with a low growl of anger. He rounded on the two men just in time to see the bartender pull away their beers and point to the door, his expression stony.
"Okay, you three, out! I won't have this nonsense in my bar."
House circumvented his companion's stammered apologies with an exaggerated tone of innocence, his eyes never straying from Eddy's face. "It was an accident, Mac. You know us limp-wrists; we're all just so clumsy."
Wilson stood up quickly, his hands raised in entreaty, but Eddy sidestepped him with the ease of fury and grabbed a handful of House's faded black t-shirt. He made to yank the bastard to his feet, but was brought up short by the sudden unexpected clatter of wood. Looking down, he saw a gleaming cane bisecting the space between them, its curved handle the obvious culprit of the barking of his shins.
Damn.
Drawing up his last reserves of restraint, Eddy uncurled his fist from the other's shirt, one reluctant finger at a time. "You got lucky," he said. The bar had gone quiet, and his next words echoed like the inside of a tomb. "I don't fight cripples, either."
Wilson looked up to heaven in despair as House's mouth stretched into a shark smile, his eyes gone dead. An instant later, Eddy reeled back in shock as the other man punched him full in the mouth.
For a gimp, he had a fist like a granite block, and the next few seconds were crowded with pain that pulsed in time to the fireflies darting across his vision. While he was still trying to regain his senses, another burst of agony blossomed in his guts as House surged from his barstool and buried a knee in his belly.
Eddy squeaked like a rusty hinge, vomit burning in his mouth, but proved his toughness an instant later when he lashed out and caught a glancing blow to House's throat. The man gagged and fell on top of Eddy, dragging them both to the floor in a tangle of fists and cursing and knees as hard as spikes. In the span of a few seconds, there was blood on the floor, and Eddy was reduced to covering his head with both arms as House wailed on him, his lined face drawn tight with grim determination.
His head was spinning and black spots were filling the edges of his vision, when it was all brought to an abrupt halt by Wilson, who grabbed House's shoulders with both hands and tore him away with surprising strength. Eddy unwittingly helped things along by lashing out with a steel-toed boot, sinking the tough leather sole into House's right thigh.
The bastard let out a strangled gasp, seemingly too hurt even to scream, and Eddy had one brief glimpse of him falling back into the arms of Wilson before the world was roughly twisted and spun around. By the time he realized that the bartender and another patron had grabbed him under the arms, he was already tumbling out the door, his hands scraped raw by the asphalt.
As the door slammed closed behind him, he spit out a slurry of blood and bile, still gasping from exertion. With rage burning in his chest and his head throbbing like a drum, he leaned against a silver Volvo parked in the handicapped space, trying to calm his racing heart.
God, Lynn was going to kill him.
***
A few minutes had passed, and the excitement brought about by the impromptu fight had died down considerably. By the time Wilson's hands had stopped shaking with the aftermath of adrenaline, most of the bar's other patrons had gone back to their drinks and conversation. Leaning against the bar's counter in belated relief, he blew out a breath and shot his friend a sour look. "I can't believe you did that."
House snorted eloquently, but didn't move from his hunched position on the barstool, his torso bowed protectively over the damaged thigh. Absently, he rubbed both hands over his denim pant leg, attempting to soothe away the pain twisting beneath it. Even after years of experience with the man and his moods, it was difficult for Wilson not to go to him then and attempt to ease the hurt himself.
"Really," House finally said, a grate to his voice that hadn't been there before. "What part about that was unlike me?"
Wilson's answering tone was wry and slightly pained. "It's not nice to fight the stupid, House. They can't afford to lose the brain cells."
"Hey, it wasn't exactly an uneven fight. Everyone knows that retards have super strength."
Unable to help himself, and acutely aware of Mac hovering impatiently behind the bar, Wilson stepped in front of House and ran long fingers over his throat, checking for bruising and other signs of damage. When House winced but didn't attempt to pull away, Wilson smiled tightly and ran a thumb over the line of stubble above his Adam's apple. "You're an asshole."
If there was a note of affection buried in the insult, neither one chose to acknowledge it.
After a moment, he nodded in approval and moved his hands up to cup House's head, running questing fingertips through his thinning hair. "Your throat's fine. Teeth?"
"Present and in place," House said, swallowing uncomfortably and shifting in his seat. Submitting to this inspection was the closest he would ever come to an apology, but he didn't have to accept it with grace.
Finally satisfied, Wilson let his hands drop away, and House pointedly did not mention the way his scalp tingled with the memory of the touch.
"No lacerations, swelling or soft spots, and your pupils are even and reactive. Looks like your hard head saved the day again." Crossing his arms, he then pinned his friend with a look that brooked no equivocation. "How's the leg?"
House's answering smirk contained little in the way of humor. "Give me another five minutes to answer that."
"Great. And if I were to recommend going to the hospital for an MRI, you would-?"
"Laugh in your face, yes."
"Thought so."
Mac the bartender, who had remained silent until now, chose that moment to round the counter to face them, his expression implacable. "Are you going to make it, Dr. House?"
"Unfortunately, yes," the diagnostician grumped, covering his scarred thigh gently with one hand. The unconscious gesture sent a stab of old pain through Wilson's chest.
"Good," Mac said with a nod. "Now get lost. You got blood all over my livelihood, and I'm kinda pissed about it."
Cheeks reddening yet again, Wilson cleared his throat. "Our bill-"
Mac jerked a thumb at House. "I'll put it on his tab. Leave now and don't let me see your faces again tonight, or I'll call the cops."
There was no arguing with an ultimatum like that. Handing House his cane, Wilson helped him lever to his feet, taking away the humiliation of the moment with an injection of weak humor. "Come on, Ali. There's a heating pad at the house with your name on it."
His friend made his slow way to the door, leaning heavily on his cane and pretending not to notice Wilson shadowing him a protective step behind. "Yeah. The beer is better there, anyway."
Mac opened the door for them, sending a wave of chill air over their skins. Wilson felt goosebumps breaking out over his arms as they stepped out into the parking lot, his Vovlo a dull silver gleam in the moonlight. As the door closed behind them without ceremony, locking away the light and warmth, Wilson scanned the lot for any unfriendly faces. Seeing nothing but asphalt and lines of vehicles, he relaxed a little and trailed behind House toward his car.
"Another night on the couch," Wilson mourned, fishing in his pocket for the keys. "Another night of bad television. I wanted to go out, damn it."
"Oh, stop with the Jewish guilt," House said easily, leaning against the passenger side door as his friend finally hooked out the keys. "We'll paint the town another night. Unknot your panties and quit acting like such a-"
"Asshole."
A chill shot up Wilson's spine, and he looked up sharply, his hands automatically drawing into fists. The keys jingled merrily in his grip as he took in the sight of a familiar figure stalking out from the side of the building, where the shadows had effectively hidden his form.
House straightened and his shoulders drew up like a bow, but he showed no other sign of unease as he said, "I was going to say 'girl,' but that works, too." He sighed and balanced most of his weight on his left leg, lifting the cane in both hands in obvious warning. Eyeing the paunchy man warily, Wilson rounded the car to join him. "Just get out of here, meathead. Getting your ass beat by a gimp twice in one night is going to murder your street cred."
The man glared balefully at them both through rapidly swelling eyes, a streak of blood slicing across one cheekbone, as if he'd made a botched attempt to clean himself. He looked dangerous and wild, rage emanating from him in almost palpable waves. They were alone with him in the moonlight, and for the first time, Wilson felt a stab of true fear.
"No, no, you!" the man sputtered, just this side of incoherent. "You are an asshole. I was going to leave until you tripped me up!" Rolling his neck with an audible crackle, he took a menacing step forward. "This isn't about you being a homo or a cripple, pal. You just deserve a beat down."
Wilson took a step forward in an instinctive attempt to shield his friend. Ignoring way House's furious gaze bore into his back, he lifted up his left hand in a consiliatory gesture, the keys hanging forgotten from one finger. With the other hand, he slowly reached into his pants pocket for his cell phone.
"Please stop this now," he pled, an ominious feeling swooping in his chest. "It's not too late for us all to walk away. We can talk-"
House grabbed Wilson by the collar and attempted to yank him back, but it was too late. Light exploded in his vision; a ringing eruption of pain that felled him like a tree with the taste of blood in his mouth. For a long moment, he couldn't move, could barely even breathe as unintelligible shouting seemed to come from far away. When the world began to make sense again, the fuzziness falling away from his mind, he looked blearily over to see two figures grappling against the car, arms locked together in a vicious dance. With the exception of a few pained grunts, the parking lot had gone eerily silent.
Wilson was just pushing himself to a kneeling position when the other man grabbed House by the shoulders, spun him around, and rammed his head twice against the hood of the car. Everything in him went cold as Wilson watched House go limp, sliding to the ground in a boneless way that made him want to scream.
"Stop," he protested weakly, staggering to his feet. "You can't-"
The man, standing triumphantly over Wilson's oldest friend, didn't seem to hear him. With an expression that spoke of the beginnings of madness, he drew back his foot and kicked House hard in the side, flipping him onto his back. As Wilson watched, a line of blood welled from a cut on the unconscious man's forehead and trickled down to tangle itself in the line of his eyebrow.
In that still, crystalline moment, something within Wilson snapped. With the same howling ire and sudden adrenaline spike that had once sent a bottle through an antique mirror, Wilson launched himself at House's attacker, blood glistening on teeth drawn back into an uncharacteristic snarl. He saw the man's face change, shock rendering him almost human again an instant before Wilson slammed into him, driving them both away from House and against the wall of the bar.
The man's head rapped sharply against the brick, and Wilson capitalized on that moment of weakness. Rendered savage and all but blind by a rage he had always felt, but never tried to understand, it was suddenly so easy to wrap his hands around that throat and to press his thumbs right there, locking away the blood and the air with a simple clenching of his fingers, never mind the other hands that scrabbled uselessly at his forearms, the pain of the scratches nothing, nothing, nothing beyond this-
And then wiry fingers slid passed the edges of his vision, gripping his thumbs with exacting pressure and pulling him away. He yelled something wordless and tried to rip away from those oddly familiar hands, desperate to regain his grip, to kill, to protect-
Three bodies fell in unison, the paunchy man sliding down the wall as Wilson's knees gave out, sending him crashing against the bumper of his car with a body sandwiched between him and the metal. The anger that had blinded Wilson to all else began to fade immediately, leaving numb horror in its wake as he listened to their attacker take sobbing, whooping gulps of air.
What did I-?
"House," he gasped, suddenly aware of the man beneath him, his rapid breaths warming the back of his neck. "You're bleeding. Your... your leg-"
"Shut up. Just shut up," House rasped, tightening his grip around the other's torso. He was trembling lightly, his heartbeat a rapid stacatto against Wilson's back. "Jesus, Wilson. Jesus."
Shame as thick as treacle welled up in him, and Wilson could do nothing at all as the defeated man staggered to his feet and began running in a shaky weave, the sound of his desperate gasps trailing behind him like smoke.
What did I just do?
Mute with a cocktail of emotion he couldn't begin to swallow, Wilson sought out the only anchor he knew. Shaking hard, he gripped the arms that still circled his ribcage and held on for dear life.