Devil's Playground-chapter 1
Title: Devil's Playground
Author: Fayding_fast
Chapter: 1/12
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em
Rating: PG
Pairing: House/Wilson (pre-slash)
Spoilers: Yes, for Wilson's Heart
Con-crit? Yes please and thank you kindly.
Summary: House meets a strange man who promises House that he can help him to get his friendship with Wilson back on track.
"Hello. My name's Michael," the Englishman says politely as he slides into the booth and parks himself, uninvited, next to House.
House doesn't even bother to look up. "Suppose I just call you annoying, instead?" he mumbles and swills down another healthy quantity of beer. He wipes his mouth dry with the back of his hand. "Not in the mood for company, thanks."
"That's just not true," Michael chides him, sounding faintly amused, and House does look up then, sharply. He finds himself staring into eyes so dark, the irisis bleed seamlessly into the pupils, unsettlingly black. "We both know you're pining for it. His."
A quick flick of a supple wrist and photographs spray across the beer stained table between them, seemingly conjured out of thin air.
Glancing at them automatically, House's breath is suddenly expelled violently from his lungs. All of the prints have landed face-up, and in each and every one of them, the main subject is Wilson. Heart pounding, House lays down the drink he's been savoring and warily picks the nearest one up.
Ostensibly unaware of the camera, Wilson has been filmed catching up on paperwork in the so-called sanctuary of his office.
Flinging the photo down as if its burnt him, House quickly scans the others.
His friend has been filmed in a number of different locations, some public and others private. In some shots, he's at the hospital: on the wards, in the clinic or dining (conspicuously alone), in the hospital canteen. There are several photos of him in Amber's apartment, sitting listlessly in the bedroom or cuddling himself for solace, huddled up in the far corner of the sofa. There's a shot of him walking, head bowed despondently, jacket pulled tightly around him to ward off the chill, in the local park. One picture shows him sipping coffee in Starbucks. In another, he looks badly shaken when a cyclist apparently has to swerve to avoid him after he's stepped absent-mindedly into the street.
Judging by Wilson's ravaged appearance, House has reason to believe that the photos have all been taken over the last couple of months, and together, they hammer home two important facts: 1) that his friend has allowed his health to decline at such an alarming rate, he is now hovering on the trembling point of exhaustion, and 2) quite clearly, Wilson is in jeopardy and doesn't have the faintest idea that he's being stalked.
Terror clogs House's throat. He lowers his hands to his lap so that his companion can't see them shaking. "Stunning pictures," he manages casually.
"That's kind of you. Thank you very much," Michael replies. He seems pleased.
House endeavors to think clearly. "Friend of yours?"
"Oh, come now, he's a friend of yours. Forgotten him so soon? James Evan Wilson? Wonder boy oncologist?"
House's mouth stretches into a thin, mutinous line.
"Still not ringing a bell? How about recently acknowledged love of your life?"
House drops the charade. "How did you get these?" he asks. "How did you gain access to Wilson's home? To his office?" Cold dread has sobered him up. His eyes drill relentlessly into the perturbing, ebony eyes of the stranger, trying to unearth answers. "What are you doing here? What do you want with Wilson?"
His new acquaintance laughs shortly... an almost inhuman, barking sound that sends shockwaves rocketing down House's spine. "Wilson? Why, nothing. The boy is in no danger from me; I wish him no harm, whatsoever."
"Why do I remain unconvinced?" House snarls at him.
Shrugging, Michael collects the photos together into a neat pile and stares, with something akin to genuine sorrow, at the top one. "Don't you think he's already endured enough?"
House's gaze follows his line of sight. He can see Wilson lying, curled up on his side, on the bed he'd recently shared with Amber, and despite the grainy quality of the photo, he can still plainly make out the tear-tracks glistening on his friend's cheeks. Furious, he snatches the picture out of Michael's grasp and waves it under Michael's nose as evidence. "Look at him," he snaps. "Stop lying to me; you've hurt him."
"I've done no such thing." Michael is adamant.
House stares at him incredulously. "Then why is he...?"
"He cries in his sleep," Michael explains patiently, and House jerks in shock. "It's the same every night."
House's features pale, drained by regret. Head bending, he gently strokes the tiny figure in the picture with the pad of his thumb.
Even though it's dark outside, Michael turns to look thoughtfully out of the window. "Beautiful, isn't he?" he asks quietly. "He has such an expressive face."
His own face twisting expressively at this comment, House continues to peruse the photograph of his friend and realizes that this is not the Wilson he knows backwards, forwards and inside out; it's a brand new Wilson. One he is hard-pressed to recognize. This is the man that's left after grief and rage have swept the many masks and the protective shields clean away.
To his eternal shame, House finds him very alluring, this distilled new version of Wilson because his friend has no choice now but to be brutally honest. He's defenseless. Struggling unsuccessfully with bereavement has stripped him naked and left him utterly exposed.
Yes, House thinks, agreeing with Michael, and he detests himself, even as he does so. Yes, he is. Suffering has rendered him beautiful.
"I've sought you out to help you," Michael volunteers abruptly.
"Help me," House repeats flatly. "You can help me best by scuttling back out of that door." With the photograph of Wilson unconsciously weeping clutched tightly in his hand, House can smell beer - both in his glass and on his own breath - and he feels worthless and powerless and sick. Sick to the bottom of his stomach.
"You miss him," Michael points out, his face grave. "When was the last time you sat and had lunch with him? Spoke to him? You won't even go and visit him if you need his advice on a case; you always chicken out and send somebody else."
"Because I betrayed him," House grates out. "I killed his girlfriend. He has every reason to hate me."
"I'm sure he does." Michael stares at House and carefully lays a hand on House's shoulder, radiating sympathy. "I'm certain that he'll never want to look you in the face, ever again."
Stricken, House shakes the intrusive hand off. He fumbles in his pocket for his cell. "I'm going to ensure that you stay away from him," he says. "I'm calling the cops." Hands once again quivering, he starts punching in the numbers, but then he stills at Michael's next words.
"What would it be worth to you if he does look at you?" Michael asks, his ebony eyes abysmal - swallowing but not reflecting back any light. "Without distrust? Without hostility? What would you be willing to pay me if tomorrow he gazes at you for a moment with the caring, loving eyes of a friend? Fifty dollars?"
What price would he pay for Wilson to look at him as if he didn't hate him? If anyone could achieve that tiny miracle for him, House would be happily prepared to offer a lot more than fifty dollars; he'd gladly find the bluntest knife available and slowly hack off his left arm and both legs.
If only it were possible.
"You're mad," House whispers. He presses a hand against his stomach which is churning unpleasantly. "Completely insane."
"I can make it happen." Michael leans towards House intently. "You don't have to worry; I won't go near him. I won't talk to him or threaten him, but I can do it." He snaps his fingers. "Just like that."
House stares at him without blinking.
"Just like that," Michael recapitulates cajolingly. "Fifty dollars. Mere peanuts to you. What do you say?"
House is wholly unprepared to answer him. "You're not to follow him or take any more photographs of him."
"Okay," replies Michael agreeably.
Still not satisfied, House holds out his hand. "And I'm keeping the ones you already have."
Solemnly, Michael hands the rest of them over. He watches mutely as House slides them carefully into his coat pocket. "So," he says, "do we have a deal?"
"How will you do it?" House asks and curses himself for buying into this craziness. Wilson is now permanently estranged from him... cast adrift like a severed anchor. The friendship is over... smashed to smithereens and well beyond any hope of repair. He should attempt to come to terms with that, not persist in trying to fan its dead embers. He should bury it, wash his hands of it, hold his head up high with some semblance of dignity and do his utmost to move on.
And yet.
God help him, and yet...
Michael's face lights up in open delight. "You're really considering it, then? Let me fret over the trivial details. As I've mentioned before, you can rest easy. I won't touch a single hair on his head. You have my word."
"Your word means nothing to me. I don't know you."
"If my intention is to injure him, I would have done so already," Michael points out reasonably. He taps his watch. "I haven't got all day. What's it going to be, yes or no?"
Long fingers drumming a spasmodic beat on the table, House suddenly laughs bitterly. "You're wasting your time," he says bluntly. "I know Wilson. You don't. He'll never forgive me. Not in a million years."
Michael simply waits.
To his horror, House finds that he is disgustingly close to tears. He quickly gulps down the rest of his beer, trying manfully to regain his composure.
Perhaps he should have stayed on that bus with Amber. Only he hadn't, had he? He'd voluntarily jumped off, desperate to make things right with Wilson, and now, this wacky proposal... it might well be his only chance.
God, for Wilson to smile uninhibitedly at him, just the once.
House is silent for a moment, wrestling with his conscience, and then he comes to a decision. "We have a deal," he says. "If Wilson approaches me tomorrow and is civil to me, then I'll meet you back here tomorrow evening, and the fifty bucks is yours."
Smiling in satisfaction, Michael maneuvers himself out of the booth.
House grabs his wrist to prevent him from leaving. "But I'm telling you now..." Michael raises an enquiring eyebrow, and House's voice drops into a hard, menacing whisper. "If I find out that you've contacted Wilson... upset him, distressed him in any way at all, then there will be hell to pay." He lays his hand over his heart. "You have my word."
Averting his gaze, Michael is strangely subdued. "Well, I certainly wouldn't want that." He rallies, nods briefly. "Understood." He pulls free of House's grip.
Eyes following him as he leaves, House wonders, What have I done?
Guiltily and with a touch of hysteria: So help me. What Have I Done?
To be continued.
Author: Fayding_fast
Chapter: 1/12
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em
Rating: PG
Pairing: House/Wilson (pre-slash)
Spoilers: Yes, for Wilson's Heart
Con-crit? Yes please and thank you kindly.
Summary: House meets a strange man who promises House that he can help him to get his friendship with Wilson back on track.
"Hello. My name's Michael," the Englishman says politely as he slides into the booth and parks himself, uninvited, next to House.
House doesn't even bother to look up. "Suppose I just call you annoying, instead?" he mumbles and swills down another healthy quantity of beer. He wipes his mouth dry with the back of his hand. "Not in the mood for company, thanks."
"That's just not true," Michael chides him, sounding faintly amused, and House does look up then, sharply. He finds himself staring into eyes so dark, the irisis bleed seamlessly into the pupils, unsettlingly black. "We both know you're pining for it. His."
A quick flick of a supple wrist and photographs spray across the beer stained table between them, seemingly conjured out of thin air.
Glancing at them automatically, House's breath is suddenly expelled violently from his lungs. All of the prints have landed face-up, and in each and every one of them, the main subject is Wilson. Heart pounding, House lays down the drink he's been savoring and warily picks the nearest one up.
Ostensibly unaware of the camera, Wilson has been filmed catching up on paperwork in the so-called sanctuary of his office.
Flinging the photo down as if its burnt him, House quickly scans the others.
His friend has been filmed in a number of different locations, some public and others private. In some shots, he's at the hospital: on the wards, in the clinic or dining (conspicuously alone), in the hospital canteen. There are several photos of him in Amber's apartment, sitting listlessly in the bedroom or cuddling himself for solace, huddled up in the far corner of the sofa. There's a shot of him walking, head bowed despondently, jacket pulled tightly around him to ward off the chill, in the local park. One picture shows him sipping coffee in Starbucks. In another, he looks badly shaken when a cyclist apparently has to swerve to avoid him after he's stepped absent-mindedly into the street.
Judging by Wilson's ravaged appearance, House has reason to believe that the photos have all been taken over the last couple of months, and together, they hammer home two important facts: 1) that his friend has allowed his health to decline at such an alarming rate, he is now hovering on the trembling point of exhaustion, and 2) quite clearly, Wilson is in jeopardy and doesn't have the faintest idea that he's being stalked.
Terror clogs House's throat. He lowers his hands to his lap so that his companion can't see them shaking. "Stunning pictures," he manages casually.
"That's kind of you. Thank you very much," Michael replies. He seems pleased.
House endeavors to think clearly. "Friend of yours?"
"Oh, come now, he's a friend of yours. Forgotten him so soon? James Evan Wilson? Wonder boy oncologist?"
House's mouth stretches into a thin, mutinous line.
"Still not ringing a bell? How about recently acknowledged love of your life?"
House drops the charade. "How did you get these?" he asks. "How did you gain access to Wilson's home? To his office?" Cold dread has sobered him up. His eyes drill relentlessly into the perturbing, ebony eyes of the stranger, trying to unearth answers. "What are you doing here? What do you want with Wilson?"
His new acquaintance laughs shortly... an almost inhuman, barking sound that sends shockwaves rocketing down House's spine. "Wilson? Why, nothing. The boy is in no danger from me; I wish him no harm, whatsoever."
"Why do I remain unconvinced?" House snarls at him.
Shrugging, Michael collects the photos together into a neat pile and stares, with something akin to genuine sorrow, at the top one. "Don't you think he's already endured enough?"
House's gaze follows his line of sight. He can see Wilson lying, curled up on his side, on the bed he'd recently shared with Amber, and despite the grainy quality of the photo, he can still plainly make out the tear-tracks glistening on his friend's cheeks. Furious, he snatches the picture out of Michael's grasp and waves it under Michael's nose as evidence. "Look at him," he snaps. "Stop lying to me; you've hurt him."
"I've done no such thing." Michael is adamant.
House stares at him incredulously. "Then why is he...?"
"He cries in his sleep," Michael explains patiently, and House jerks in shock. "It's the same every night."
House's features pale, drained by regret. Head bending, he gently strokes the tiny figure in the picture with the pad of his thumb.
Even though it's dark outside, Michael turns to look thoughtfully out of the window. "Beautiful, isn't he?" he asks quietly. "He has such an expressive face."
His own face twisting expressively at this comment, House continues to peruse the photograph of his friend and realizes that this is not the Wilson he knows backwards, forwards and inside out; it's a brand new Wilson. One he is hard-pressed to recognize. This is the man that's left after grief and rage have swept the many masks and the protective shields clean away.
To his eternal shame, House finds him very alluring, this distilled new version of Wilson because his friend has no choice now but to be brutally honest. He's defenseless. Struggling unsuccessfully with bereavement has stripped him naked and left him utterly exposed.
Yes, House thinks, agreeing with Michael, and he detests himself, even as he does so. Yes, he is. Suffering has rendered him beautiful.
"I've sought you out to help you," Michael volunteers abruptly.
"Help me," House repeats flatly. "You can help me best by scuttling back out of that door." With the photograph of Wilson unconsciously weeping clutched tightly in his hand, House can smell beer - both in his glass and on his own breath - and he feels worthless and powerless and sick. Sick to the bottom of his stomach.
"You miss him," Michael points out, his face grave. "When was the last time you sat and had lunch with him? Spoke to him? You won't even go and visit him if you need his advice on a case; you always chicken out and send somebody else."
"Because I betrayed him," House grates out. "I killed his girlfriend. He has every reason to hate me."
"I'm sure he does." Michael stares at House and carefully lays a hand on House's shoulder, radiating sympathy. "I'm certain that he'll never want to look you in the face, ever again."
Stricken, House shakes the intrusive hand off. He fumbles in his pocket for his cell. "I'm going to ensure that you stay away from him," he says. "I'm calling the cops." Hands once again quivering, he starts punching in the numbers, but then he stills at Michael's next words.
"What would it be worth to you if he does look at you?" Michael asks, his ebony eyes abysmal - swallowing but not reflecting back any light. "Without distrust? Without hostility? What would you be willing to pay me if tomorrow he gazes at you for a moment with the caring, loving eyes of a friend? Fifty dollars?"
What price would he pay for Wilson to look at him as if he didn't hate him? If anyone could achieve that tiny miracle for him, House would be happily prepared to offer a lot more than fifty dollars; he'd gladly find the bluntest knife available and slowly hack off his left arm and both legs.
If only it were possible.
"You're mad," House whispers. He presses a hand against his stomach which is churning unpleasantly. "Completely insane."
"I can make it happen." Michael leans towards House intently. "You don't have to worry; I won't go near him. I won't talk to him or threaten him, but I can do it." He snaps his fingers. "Just like that."
House stares at him without blinking.
"Just like that," Michael recapitulates cajolingly. "Fifty dollars. Mere peanuts to you. What do you say?"
House is wholly unprepared to answer him. "You're not to follow him or take any more photographs of him."
"Okay," replies Michael agreeably.
Still not satisfied, House holds out his hand. "And I'm keeping the ones you already have."
Solemnly, Michael hands the rest of them over. He watches mutely as House slides them carefully into his coat pocket. "So," he says, "do we have a deal?"
"How will you do it?" House asks and curses himself for buying into this craziness. Wilson is now permanently estranged from him... cast adrift like a severed anchor. The friendship is over... smashed to smithereens and well beyond any hope of repair. He should attempt to come to terms with that, not persist in trying to fan its dead embers. He should bury it, wash his hands of it, hold his head up high with some semblance of dignity and do his utmost to move on.
And yet.
God help him, and yet...
Michael's face lights up in open delight. "You're really considering it, then? Let me fret over the trivial details. As I've mentioned before, you can rest easy. I won't touch a single hair on his head. You have my word."
"Your word means nothing to me. I don't know you."
"If my intention is to injure him, I would have done so already," Michael points out reasonably. He taps his watch. "I haven't got all day. What's it going to be, yes or no?"
Long fingers drumming a spasmodic beat on the table, House suddenly laughs bitterly. "You're wasting your time," he says bluntly. "I know Wilson. You don't. He'll never forgive me. Not in a million years."
Michael simply waits.
To his horror, House finds that he is disgustingly close to tears. He quickly gulps down the rest of his beer, trying manfully to regain his composure.
Perhaps he should have stayed on that bus with Amber. Only he hadn't, had he? He'd voluntarily jumped off, desperate to make things right with Wilson, and now, this wacky proposal... it might well be his only chance.
God, for Wilson to smile uninhibitedly at him, just the once.
House is silent for a moment, wrestling with his conscience, and then he comes to a decision. "We have a deal," he says. "If Wilson approaches me tomorrow and is civil to me, then I'll meet you back here tomorrow evening, and the fifty bucks is yours."
Smiling in satisfaction, Michael maneuvers himself out of the booth.
House grabs his wrist to prevent him from leaving. "But I'm telling you now..." Michael raises an enquiring eyebrow, and House's voice drops into a hard, menacing whisper. "If I find out that you've contacted Wilson... upset him, distressed him in any way at all, then there will be hell to pay." He lays his hand over his heart. "You have my word."
Averting his gaze, Michael is strangely subdued. "Well, I certainly wouldn't want that." He rallies, nods briefly. "Understood." He pulls free of House's grip.
Eyes following him as he leaves, House wonders, What have I done?
Guiltily and with a touch of hysteria: So help me. What Have I Done?
To be continued.