Until a Quieter Time (R)
Title: Until a Quieter Time
Author: Dee Laundry, with contributions from Blackmare_9
Pairing: House-Wilson friendship, mention of Wilson/OFC
Rating: R for language and implication
Summary: Wilson's famous now, as Baker pointed out. Only person to ever see the faces of the Tree-Hugger Killers and live. Anyone might be curious to meet him.
Notes: Sequel to These Crimes Between Us by nightdog_barks. "These Crimes" should be read first, but please READ THE WARNINGS and the tags; it is NC-17 for violence and rape/non-con. Grateful appreciation to nightdog_barks for allowing me to write in this 'verse, and for beta duties. Posted for Camp Sick Wilson Worried Sick challenge. This 'verse diverged from canon around early Season Five. In this story, Wilson is staying with House at House's apartment.
House walks in the door to the sound of vomiting, and he's filled with a poorly mixed cocktail of annoyance at Wilson's pussy fear -- no pun intended -- and anger at the sick fucks who drilled it into Wilson -- no pun intended that time either, and God he's a sick fuck himself, but he's just so tired of this shit. He wants his best friend back, the charming jerk, the never-the-safe-choice sweetheart, not this scared-of-his-shadow churchmouse.
"Date couldn't have gone that badly!" he yells down the hall, expecting a feeble "Up yours" but getting nothing. Whatever. Hard to talk when you're puking up a lung.
He's still annoyed until he walks into the bedroom, and then he's shocked. There are two open suitcases on the bed, and clothes flung all around.
"What the fuck?" he says to himself, and then Wilson walks in the room, head bowed down and hairdryer in hand.
"Starzewski's brother-in-law's cousin is a cop in Greenwich," Wilson says. "He'll let me stay with him a couple of days until I can find somewhere else to go." The hairdryer drops into the nearest bag, and Wilson folds the clothes on top of it, shoving them in in a most un-Wilson way.
It takes House a few moments to cycle through his internal database to work through who Starzewski is (Wilson's supervisor in his second fellowship at U. Penn); during that time, Wilson's stuffed more clothing -- some portion of which is actually House's -- into the bag and zipped it up, and fled from the bedroom.
"What the hell is going on?" House asks as he follows Wilson down the hall to the kitchen.
"She knew," Wilson throws over his shoulder, which says nothing at all.
The knives are sliding perilously out of Wilson's knife block, zinging as they go. "What?" House asks helplessly.
"She knew," Wilson repeats, with a zing and another, and all five knives from the block are in his hand, held in a white-knuckled grip. "That bitch knew what her boys were doing."
Wilson whips past House, knives held high like a flagstaff, eyes dead. Fuck. House has no clue what's going on, but it isn't any damn good. Annoyance and anger are gone, never to return, leaving in their place only dread.
"Wilson," he calls, as the man stalks away, as House's leg gives out at exactly the wrong moment. "Wilson!"
It takes longer than House can bear, but Wilson is back in front of him, suitcases in hand, fabric hanging out the side, and all House can think of is Huckleberry Finn with his bandanna tied around a stick.
"Give me a couple of days," Wilson says, "and then you can come if you want. I'll have someone leave you a message at the hospital. Is my cab here yet?"
"No." House grabs at the nearest suitcase, misses and wraps his hand around Wilson's hand instead. "What happened?"
Wilson's face crumples. "I have to go; you have to let me go."
"Greenwich is on the other side of New York; cab won't take you that far."
"Yes, they will," Wilson insists. His eyes are closed, and he's starting to rock on the balls of his feet. "I asked. Let me go; I have to go."
House wants to scream so very badly. They're back in the days after Wilson was first cut off the tree in the woods. "Let me take you," he says, in the most normal voice he can muster.
"You can't. I can't let you. She knows my name; she could find my address; she can figure it out; she can know; she knew; she knew all along; she knew."
"Wilson!" House jerks the shaking, quivering, babbling man toward him. "Tell me what happened."
Wilson bends his head, forehead pressing onto House's shoulder, and speaks in the voice of the grave. "Jen didn't want to come to our date alone. Perfectly normal thought, guy you've only met a few times, perfectly normal. So she brought a friend. Day. Day was her name, the friend. Older lady, very nice, very gentle, very sweet."
House's arm has come across Wilson's shoulders, holding him, and somebody's shaking, but House doesn't know who.
"But Jen had to go," Wilson says. "Work needed her, some emergency, so I stayed with Day. Nice lady, very gentle. Tough life. Never a good job, criticized by her father, abused by her first boyfriend, difficult kids, but still sweet. Still sweet."
House wants to stop him, stop these words, because he's already figured out the punchline,but he doesn't. He wants Wilson to call him from the mentor's brother-in-law's cousin's house; he couldn't stand it if Wilson went where House couldn't follow.
"When dinner was over, she asked me to dance on the little dance floor, some cover of some old song, and it wouldn't've been right to say no, to disappoint her. Just a dance, and she needed something nice after such a terrible life, and I said okay. Small dance floor, couple of couples, and I said okay, and we danced, slow song, and she smelled like flowers. But so many women do. So many women do. Flowers are everywhere; you can't hide from them; and I wanted to go but I didn't because she needed a man to be nice to her for once and there was no salami and no cigarettes and then she said it."
House thinks his shirt ought to be wet by now, but it's not. And somehow that's even scarier.
"She said." Wilson stops a moment, panting. "She said."
"You don't have to --"
"She said her boys were so mean to her, never sharing their toys with her, leaving them out in the elements to rot so she never got a chance to play." Wilson lets out a long, loud breath, during which House's heart breaks, and finishes, "I pushed her away, and she smiled. Smiled with big ugly teeth and flowers in her breath, and said she'd always wanted to play with the pretty toys her boys found, and I ran."
"Wilson."
Soft hair brushes against House's neck as Wilson shakes his head. "I have to go. My cab should be here."
"Let me take you." Christ, if that isn't an inadequate offering, but Wilson pushes away from House, still shaking his head.
"No. She might see you or know or follow and... no. A cab is safer." Wilson's at the window, peeking around the heavy drape. "It's here." Wilson's turned back to look at House, eyes gone, voice like a slab of marble. "You'll get a call in a few days telling you where the fish are biting, so you might want to get a rod and reel."
House has already shrugged out of his button-down shirt. "Here." He's crossing the room, holding it out. "It might help you sleep better tonight."
Wilson shakes his head, and House feels the most furiously impotent he's felt this entire time. "Take it," he demands, and Wilson shakes his head again, dipping his head low, huddling.
House is on the verge of tears when a quiet voice comes out from under that huddled frame. "T-shirt," Wilson says, and House strips it off gladly and watches his best friend walk out the door with cotton wrapped around his neck.
The fish, it turns out, are biting on Tall Oaks Lake.
A few clicks on the internet, and a couple hours' drive, and House is noticing that practically every other driveway on this wide sunny street has a cop car in it.
Number 211 has no car at all in the driveway, but the decals by the door indicate a cop car probably parks there every night, as well.
House knocks on the door. "It's me, Wilson." There's no answer from within, but a tiny motion of the drapes gives away Wilson's presence in the house.
That, or these people have a cat.
"Open up," House insists. "The coast is clear."
Wilson, for all his fright and in spite of the dark, dark circles beneath his eyes, is fully dressed, shod and combed and shaven. House isn't sure what to make of that. "Going somewhere?" he asks.
"I hope so. Just... out of the house for a while. You're late."
"There was a wreck on the highway. And where you're going is home. She's gone."
Wilson falls completely still. "She's... oh God, House, you didn't --"
"Hell, no. She's in LA and will be for the rest of her life. Probably trying to break into the movie business. You gonna let me in?"
"They'll have to fix her teeth," Wilson says, blinking while he steps back from the door. "Before they can put her on screen."
House hugs him.
"You owe me twenty-five hundred," says House, a few weeks later, in the middle of dinner. Wilson's been going to culinary school during his leave from work, and he's getting very, very good at this cooking stuff.
"I'm already paying my half of the rent."
"This is your half of the private eye."
Wilson squints at him, glaring. "You had me followed, and you want me to pay for it?"
House rolls his eyes. "I had your suspiciously-disappearing date Jennifer followed, and I had her house and Mother Fuckwit's apartment both bugged. If they were conspiring, I wanted to know."
Wilson's eyes seem to deepen, filling with what looks like grim disappointment. "Please tell me they weren't."
"Sadly, no," House says, infusing his tone with the flippancy needed to get this conversation back on a positive track. "I can't give you a good reason not to ask Jen out again, other than that she speaks baby-talk to her annoying Pomeranian."
There's now a glint in Wilson's eyes, and his dimple has appeared. "And that you think I'll marry her on the fourth date."
"Your cooling-off period is that long now? Seriously, though. A girl who speaks goo-goo ga-ga to her pets will do it to you, too."
"Well, maybe that's how I roll."
"Shut up before I puke on you. The other thing it means is that Jennie-poo's maternal instincts are in overdrive, and that means --"
"How long will she be gone?" Wilson interrupts, serious once more. "The Mom from Hell."
"I told you, for the rest of her life. Which is about four more weeks."
Blinking, Wilson asks, "What? House you promised --"
"Cervical cancer, metastasized to both lungs. Not nearly as excruciatingly painful as the woman deserves, but absolutely as fatal as she deserves. That's actually how she found you."
Wilson's inspecting his plate, fork dragging slowly through the scattered food. He's not replying, but he's not bawling into his mashed potatoes either, so House continues the tale. "Nimrods at her local hospital had fliers on different cancer centers and your ugly mug happened to grace the back of one. She matched the name to the face, and decided to come on out to Princeton to try to meet you."
"Is she being treated by my department?"
"I told you, she's in LA. Enrolled in a four-month clinical trial. And if she ever decides to jump out AMA, our boy Lucas has a 'colleague' out there who will let us know. Actually he'll let me know, and if it's important I'll tell you."
Wilson's fork twirls a few more figure eights, and then Wilson looks House directly in the eye. "You're showing me the bill before I blindly shell out twenty-five hundred dollars."
"You think I'm padding the figures?"
"Like a twelve-year-old girl with a Wonderbra."
"Fourteen-year-old," says House. He's grinning now; he can't help it. "I only added five hundred. Tell me there's dessert to go with this?"
Wilson leans back in his chair, looking for all the world the way he did Before. This won't last, House knows, but small increments are better than nothing. "Show me that bill," Wilson says, "and I'll think about it."
Author: Dee Laundry, with contributions from Blackmare_9
Pairing: House-Wilson friendship, mention of Wilson/OFC
Rating: R for language and implication
Summary: Wilson's famous now, as Baker pointed out. Only person to ever see the faces of the Tree-Hugger Killers and live. Anyone might be curious to meet him.
Notes: Sequel to These Crimes Between Us by nightdog_barks. "These Crimes" should be read first, but please READ THE WARNINGS and the tags; it is NC-17 for violence and rape/non-con. Grateful appreciation to nightdog_barks for allowing me to write in this 'verse, and for beta duties. Posted for Camp Sick Wilson Worried Sick challenge. This 'verse diverged from canon around early Season Five. In this story, Wilson is staying with House at House's apartment.
House walks in the door to the sound of vomiting, and he's filled with a poorly mixed cocktail of annoyance at Wilson's pussy fear -- no pun intended -- and anger at the sick fucks who drilled it into Wilson -- no pun intended that time either, and God he's a sick fuck himself, but he's just so tired of this shit. He wants his best friend back, the charming jerk, the never-the-safe-choice sweetheart, not this scared-of-his-shadow churchmouse.
"Date couldn't have gone that badly!" he yells down the hall, expecting a feeble "Up yours" but getting nothing. Whatever. Hard to talk when you're puking up a lung.
He's still annoyed until he walks into the bedroom, and then he's shocked. There are two open suitcases on the bed, and clothes flung all around.
"What the fuck?" he says to himself, and then Wilson walks in the room, head bowed down and hairdryer in hand.
"Starzewski's brother-in-law's cousin is a cop in Greenwich," Wilson says. "He'll let me stay with him a couple of days until I can find somewhere else to go." The hairdryer drops into the nearest bag, and Wilson folds the clothes on top of it, shoving them in in a most un-Wilson way.
It takes House a few moments to cycle through his internal database to work through who Starzewski is (Wilson's supervisor in his second fellowship at U. Penn); during that time, Wilson's stuffed more clothing -- some portion of which is actually House's -- into the bag and zipped it up, and fled from the bedroom.
"What the hell is going on?" House asks as he follows Wilson down the hall to the kitchen.
"She knew," Wilson throws over his shoulder, which says nothing at all.
The knives are sliding perilously out of Wilson's knife block, zinging as they go. "What?" House asks helplessly.
"She knew," Wilson repeats, with a zing and another, and all five knives from the block are in his hand, held in a white-knuckled grip. "That bitch knew what her boys were doing."
Wilson whips past House, knives held high like a flagstaff, eyes dead. Fuck. House has no clue what's going on, but it isn't any damn good. Annoyance and anger are gone, never to return, leaving in their place only dread.
"Wilson," he calls, as the man stalks away, as House's leg gives out at exactly the wrong moment. "Wilson!"
It takes longer than House can bear, but Wilson is back in front of him, suitcases in hand, fabric hanging out the side, and all House can think of is Huckleberry Finn with his bandanna tied around a stick.
"Give me a couple of days," Wilson says, "and then you can come if you want. I'll have someone leave you a message at the hospital. Is my cab here yet?"
"No." House grabs at the nearest suitcase, misses and wraps his hand around Wilson's hand instead. "What happened?"
Wilson's face crumples. "I have to go; you have to let me go."
"Greenwich is on the other side of New York; cab won't take you that far."
"Yes, they will," Wilson insists. His eyes are closed, and he's starting to rock on the balls of his feet. "I asked. Let me go; I have to go."
House wants to scream so very badly. They're back in the days after Wilson was first cut off the tree in the woods. "Let me take you," he says, in the most normal voice he can muster.
"You can't. I can't let you. She knows my name; she could find my address; she can figure it out; she can know; she knew; she knew all along; she knew."
"Wilson!" House jerks the shaking, quivering, babbling man toward him. "Tell me what happened."
Wilson bends his head, forehead pressing onto House's shoulder, and speaks in the voice of the grave. "Jen didn't want to come to our date alone. Perfectly normal thought, guy you've only met a few times, perfectly normal. So she brought a friend. Day. Day was her name, the friend. Older lady, very nice, very gentle, very sweet."
House's arm has come across Wilson's shoulders, holding him, and somebody's shaking, but House doesn't know who.
"But Jen had to go," Wilson says. "Work needed her, some emergency, so I stayed with Day. Nice lady, very gentle. Tough life. Never a good job, criticized by her father, abused by her first boyfriend, difficult kids, but still sweet. Still sweet."
House wants to stop him, stop these words, because he's already figured out the punchline,but he doesn't. He wants Wilson to call him from the mentor's brother-in-law's cousin's house; he couldn't stand it if Wilson went where House couldn't follow.
"When dinner was over, she asked me to dance on the little dance floor, some cover of some old song, and it wouldn't've been right to say no, to disappoint her. Just a dance, and she needed something nice after such a terrible life, and I said okay. Small dance floor, couple of couples, and I said okay, and we danced, slow song, and she smelled like flowers. But so many women do. So many women do. Flowers are everywhere; you can't hide from them; and I wanted to go but I didn't because she needed a man to be nice to her for once and there was no salami and no cigarettes and then she said it."
House thinks his shirt ought to be wet by now, but it's not. And somehow that's even scarier.
"She said." Wilson stops a moment, panting. "She said."
"You don't have to --"
"She said her boys were so mean to her, never sharing their toys with her, leaving them out in the elements to rot so she never got a chance to play." Wilson lets out a long, loud breath, during which House's heart breaks, and finishes, "I pushed her away, and she smiled. Smiled with big ugly teeth and flowers in her breath, and said she'd always wanted to play with the pretty toys her boys found, and I ran."
"Wilson."
Soft hair brushes against House's neck as Wilson shakes his head. "I have to go. My cab should be here."
"Let me take you." Christ, if that isn't an inadequate offering, but Wilson pushes away from House, still shaking his head.
"No. She might see you or know or follow and... no. A cab is safer." Wilson's at the window, peeking around the heavy drape. "It's here." Wilson's turned back to look at House, eyes gone, voice like a slab of marble. "You'll get a call in a few days telling you where the fish are biting, so you might want to get a rod and reel."
House has already shrugged out of his button-down shirt. "Here." He's crossing the room, holding it out. "It might help you sleep better tonight."
Wilson shakes his head, and House feels the most furiously impotent he's felt this entire time. "Take it," he demands, and Wilson shakes his head again, dipping his head low, huddling.
House is on the verge of tears when a quiet voice comes out from under that huddled frame. "T-shirt," Wilson says, and House strips it off gladly and watches his best friend walk out the door with cotton wrapped around his neck.
The fish, it turns out, are biting on Tall Oaks Lake.
A few clicks on the internet, and a couple hours' drive, and House is noticing that practically every other driveway on this wide sunny street has a cop car in it.
Number 211 has no car at all in the driveway, but the decals by the door indicate a cop car probably parks there every night, as well.
House knocks on the door. "It's me, Wilson." There's no answer from within, but a tiny motion of the drapes gives away Wilson's presence in the house.
That, or these people have a cat.
"Open up," House insists. "The coast is clear."
Wilson, for all his fright and in spite of the dark, dark circles beneath his eyes, is fully dressed, shod and combed and shaven. House isn't sure what to make of that. "Going somewhere?" he asks.
"I hope so. Just... out of the house for a while. You're late."
"There was a wreck on the highway. And where you're going is home. She's gone."
Wilson falls completely still. "She's... oh God, House, you didn't --"
"Hell, no. She's in LA and will be for the rest of her life. Probably trying to break into the movie business. You gonna let me in?"
"They'll have to fix her teeth," Wilson says, blinking while he steps back from the door. "Before they can put her on screen."
House hugs him.
"You owe me twenty-five hundred," says House, a few weeks later, in the middle of dinner. Wilson's been going to culinary school during his leave from work, and he's getting very, very good at this cooking stuff.
"I'm already paying my half of the rent."
"This is your half of the private eye."
Wilson squints at him, glaring. "You had me followed, and you want me to pay for it?"
House rolls his eyes. "I had your suspiciously-disappearing date Jennifer followed, and I had her house and Mother Fuckwit's apartment both bugged. If they were conspiring, I wanted to know."
Wilson's eyes seem to deepen, filling with what looks like grim disappointment. "Please tell me they weren't."
"Sadly, no," House says, infusing his tone with the flippancy needed to get this conversation back on a positive track. "I can't give you a good reason not to ask Jen out again, other than that she speaks baby-talk to her annoying Pomeranian."
There's now a glint in Wilson's eyes, and his dimple has appeared. "And that you think I'll marry her on the fourth date."
"Your cooling-off period is that long now? Seriously, though. A girl who speaks goo-goo ga-ga to her pets will do it to you, too."
"Well, maybe that's how I roll."
"Shut up before I puke on you. The other thing it means is that Jennie-poo's maternal instincts are in overdrive, and that means --"
"How long will she be gone?" Wilson interrupts, serious once more. "The Mom from Hell."
"I told you, for the rest of her life. Which is about four more weeks."
Blinking, Wilson asks, "What? House you promised --"
"Cervical cancer, metastasized to both lungs. Not nearly as excruciatingly painful as the woman deserves, but absolutely as fatal as she deserves. That's actually how she found you."
Wilson's inspecting his plate, fork dragging slowly through the scattered food. He's not replying, but he's not bawling into his mashed potatoes either, so House continues the tale. "Nimrods at her local hospital had fliers on different cancer centers and your ugly mug happened to grace the back of one. She matched the name to the face, and decided to come on out to Princeton to try to meet you."
"Is she being treated by my department?"
"I told you, she's in LA. Enrolled in a four-month clinical trial. And if she ever decides to jump out AMA, our boy Lucas has a 'colleague' out there who will let us know. Actually he'll let me know, and if it's important I'll tell you."
Wilson's fork twirls a few more figure eights, and then Wilson looks House directly in the eye. "You're showing me the bill before I blindly shell out twenty-five hundred dollars."
"You think I'm padding the figures?"
"Like a twelve-year-old girl with a Wonderbra."
"Fourteen-year-old," says House. He's grinning now; he can't help it. "I only added five hundred. Tell me there's dessert to go with this?"
Wilson leans back in his chair, looking for all the world the way he did Before. This won't last, House knows, but small increments are better than nothing. "Show me that bill," Wilson says, "and I'll think about it."