Devil's Playground - chapter 3
Title: Devil's Playground
Author: Fayding_fast
Chapter: 3/12
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. We meet again."
"Hi." House waits until Michael has settled before reaching into his back pocket to pull out his wallet. "Fifty dollars," he murmurs. "Isn't that what we agreed?"
Michael regards House with his peculiar, beady eyes. "You were pleased with my services, then?"
House looks away, hoarding secrets. His face and back, even hours after the event, are still tingling where Wilson had touched him; his nerve endings are still twitching as if brushed by fire. "Yes," House says. "I don't know how you did it, but I was satisfied."
"That's good to hear." Michael takes House's money and squirrels it away. "Your panic attack. Stroke of genius, don't you think?"
House looks at him dubiously. "What do you mean?"
"I induced it." Michael's chest swells with pride.
"What?" House stares at him, mind racing.
"Why look so shocked? It worked, didn't it? Within moments, Wilson quickly dashed to your side." Michael smiles in fond remembrance. "He was badly shaken, you know that? Oh, no, you wouldn't; you had your head down between your legs, but believe me, he was rattled. It nearly brought a tear to my eye."
"Goodbye," House says shortly.
Michael doesn't stand to let House out. A yellow nail taps thoughtfully against his front teeth. "I have another proposition for you."
"I don't want to hear it." Still hemmed in, House glares at Michael impatiently.
Michael's tone is patronizing. "Of course you do."
Gritting his teeth, House stares at his lap, but he stays where he is. He makes no move to slide round the booth in the opposite direction so that he can reach the other side.
"I've been thinking," Michael says. "Seeing how much you relished that fleeting moment with Wilson, how would you like to spend a whole evening with him? Go out together for a meal?"
House loses his temper. "Wilson isn't going to..."
"Five hundred dollars," Michael says.
House looks into the black eyes, spellbound.
"Forget these fifty dollar trysts. They're too short. Nothing can be achieved."
"I don't know," House says, torn.
"There's someone else worming their way into Wilson's affections," Michael says.
Startled, House sits up straight. He hadn't seen this coming. "Who?"
"Wilson's assistant. Andrew." Michael pats House's knee pityingly. "You have a rival. Seems that Andrew fancies himself in the role of Wilson's best friend."
Wilson's best friend? But he had always worn that mantle, hadn't he? Since their first, fateful meeting in New Orleans. Worn it, not just as a privilege but as his right. He'd crowed about it often enough; even had the gall to use it as ammunition, whilst hammering Wilson to the cross with outraged eyes: 'How could you do this to me/keep this from me/say this to me? Your Best Friend.'
Wilson had never contradicted him. Not once.
"Wilson already has one," House whispers.
Michael shakes his head. "It's not you. Not any more."
Something twists in House's gut. Wilson's assistant? He feels numb with pain. He looks at Michael helplessly. "What can I do?" he asks.
"You can go out for this meal," Michael advises him. "Next Friday. If you remain on your best behavior, I assure you, you'll be able to woo him back."
House exhales through his nose. "And what's going to happen to me if I go out for this dinner? Am I going to have a stroke? Choke to death on a slice of beef?"
Laughing merrily, Michael nudges House's shoulder. "You'll have a good time," he promises. "I guarantee it. That's what you'll be paying me for. Have I ever let you down?" Taking out a cigarette, he lights it up.
"They're banned in here," House says.
"If anyone says anything, I'll put it out," Michael says. "Now, this meal. You interested or not?"
Who is this Andrew? How dare he move in on Wilson? "Yes," House says slowly. "I'm extremely interested."
"Splendid." Michael stands up to let House past. "There's no need for you to meet me back here to pay me," he says offhandedly. "I know your bank account details. When the deed is done, I'll just take the money directly out of your account."
"Now, wait a minute..."
"Only if you enjoy yourself," Michael reassures him. "Trust me, I'll know."
"I can transfer my funds into a different account," House threatens.
Michael smiles at him gently. "You won't."
Five hundred dollars. A lot of money but, for that, he'll be able to spend approximately three straight hours with Wilson. Longer, if he deliberately lingers over dessert. And Michael has promised him that he can get back into Wilson's favor.
House starts to walk away.
"Oh, by the way... House?"
House's back stiffens.
"If you want to use my services again, you know where to find me."
House carries on walking. After this one meal, he's never going to contact Michael again. He's dead sure about that. Before he steps through the exit, he turns to take his very last look at Michael, but he can barely see him.
Wreathed as he is in thick smoke.
*
Wilson's office door is flung open with such force, it smashes into the wall.
"House," Wilson's says mildly in greeting, barely glancing up.
Limping moodily into the room, House positions himself confrontationally in front of Wilson's desk, places one hand on top of the other and leans heavily on his cane.
He's just spent five wonderful minutes dry-heaving in the men's bathroom, and the reason for that is... well, actually, he's not sure of the reason. He doesn't understand why he's wearing such a ferocious scowl, either. It's certainly not doing his looks any favors, and yet, for the life of him, he's unable to wipe it off.
Still, he's agitated.
Because it's all very well paying Michael a small fortune so that he can indulge in some stress-free quality time with Wilson. It's simplicity itself to select a restaurant that will send Wilson into paroxysms of delight and audaciously book a table for two. It's cool to blow off work so that he can slink out to get his hair trimmed and also buy a new silk tie that perfectly matches his eyes.
Oh, he can make countless plans; he can nurture foolish hope; he can count down the days, hours, minutes until Friday night; he can easily do all of these things and much more. But that morning, whilst he'd been playing with a Slinky, an unwelcome thought had occurred to him that had spectacularly thrown a spanner in the works.
He's eagerly looking forward to a dinner date with Wilson. And Wilson, damn him, doesn't even know!
"I love it when you barge in here and glower without actually telling me what's wrong," Wilson says brightly, gazing up at him. "Means that I can dust off my crystal ball and try to guess."
House inwardly winces. "Who's Andrew?" he demands abruptly.
Wilson looks at him evenly. "You know who Andrew is," he scolds lightly. "By now, you probably even know his inside leg measurement. He's my assistant." His face softens, hurting House like a physical blow. "He's also my friend."
Michael was right? "Close friend?" House snaps, too jealous to manage reasoned thought.
"Extremely close," Wilson fires back, becoming irritated. For a terrible moment, his eyes go completely blank as if his soul has fled, and then he looks down at his paperwork and scrawls a signature like chicken scratchings on a patient's report. "See if you can leave my door still attached to its hinges when you go out."
A dismissal? The frown finally melts from House's face. Is that it? At a loss to explain how he'd managed to so thoroughly screw everything up, he stares at Wilson, but his friend is already reaching for another file. Defeated, House starts to turn away.
Confused by House's silence, Wilson glances up at him. "Wait," he orders. He stands up, moves around his desk and blocks House's exit. "I know you feel insecure if someone comes within one hundred feet of me, but Andrew cares about me," Wilson doggedly explains. "I care about him." He looks at House pleadingly. "He's kind. You'd like him if you took the time to get to know him." He waves his hand between the two of them. "He's not a threat."
House's gaze darts to the ceiling, floor, Wilson's boring Columbia University school of oncology diploma - anywhere, but at his friend. He sighs wretchedly. "I didn't come here to discuss Andrew," he mumbles.
"House," Wilson says, eyebrows drawing together quizzically, "what the hell is going on?"
House huffs out a breath. "I came here to ask you something else," he says peevishly, "but I can't see the point. You're only going to say no."
Nodding sagely, Wilson says, "Fair enough."
House can see the amusement in Wilson's eyes. "Move," he says curtly. He tries to push past Wilson, but his friend is being mulish and, again, gets in the way. House considers concussing him with his cane.
Studying him for a long, excruciatingly uncomfortable moment that leaves House squirming, Wilson shrugs and steps aside, sweeping his hand in invitation towards the exit. "Leave if you want to," he says magnanimously.
Gratefully, House makes a break for freedom.
"But whatever it is that you did come in here to ask me, how do you know, for certain, that I'll say no?" A teasing note creeps into the cultured voice. "I know it doesn't bear thinking about, but you have been wrong before."
Halting just in front of the door, House hesitates. This is his final chance. He doesn't know if he could bear it if he asked if Wilson would be prepared to join him for an evening out and Wilson turned him down flat. On the other hand, if he's too damned spineless to ask at all, there would be nothing to stop Wilson growing closer and closer to his new assistant, and how can he be expected to just roll over and accept that?
Squandering the last remaining drops of his courage, he bravely faces Wilson and resolutely fixes his gaze on the knot of Wilson's tie. "Would you...?" He grimaces and wets his lips. "Would you like to go out for a meal on Friday night?" he blurts out. "With me?" He sneaks a quick look at Wilson's face from below his lashes, but Wilson is as inscrutable as a Sphinx. Great. Absolutely great. Gloomily, he looks down at the floor. "You can invite other people to come along as well, if you want," he offers quietly. Reluctantly. "Even Andrew, if you must. My treat."
"Sounds good," Wilson answers him cheerfully.
"Sounds... what?" House says stupidly.
"Good." Wilson rolls his shoulders, then looks at House expectantly. "We'll go out, just the pair of us, shall we? Pick me up about seven?"
"Seven? You know it's me asking, right? Greg House? Was that a yes?"
"It is a challenge for me to recognize you - if only you'd wear your I.D. badge - but I guess that my countless years of associating with you are thankfully paying off."
"Was that a yes?" House repeats softly.
"It was, House; that was a yes. Now, scat." He opens the door. "One of us, at least, has got work to do."
Wilson shoos him out into the corridor, but House wedges his cane in the door. "Wilson?" he says, eyes serious.
"Yeah?"
"Are you sure? You didn't feel... compelled to say yes, did you? By some external force?" House examines his friend anxiously.
"You think that because I answered in the affirmative, I'm under the influence of some voodoo mumbo jumbo?" Wilson rolls his eyes. "No, House. It's a meal. I'm looking forward to it." He smiles briefly at him, reassuringly, whilst pushing the cane back with the toe of his shoe.
Breathing a huge sigh of relief, House stands there rooted to the spot, looking goopily back at him. Was there anyone else in the world comparable to Wilson? Come to think of it, does he truly need that hair cut? It's not as if he's tripping over it, and at the moment, he has no patient. His devices are his and his alone, and if left to them, he can beam at Wilson all day.
Wilson pokes his tongue out at him, large eyes warm with affection. Then he gently closes the door in House's face.
To be continued.
Author: Fayding_fast
Chapter: 3/12
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. We meet again."
"Hi." House waits until Michael has settled before reaching into his back pocket to pull out his wallet. "Fifty dollars," he murmurs. "Isn't that what we agreed?"
Michael regards House with his peculiar, beady eyes. "You were pleased with my services, then?"
House looks away, hoarding secrets. His face and back, even hours after the event, are still tingling where Wilson had touched him; his nerve endings are still twitching as if brushed by fire. "Yes," House says. "I don't know how you did it, but I was satisfied."
"That's good to hear." Michael takes House's money and squirrels it away. "Your panic attack. Stroke of genius, don't you think?"
House looks at him dubiously. "What do you mean?"
"I induced it." Michael's chest swells with pride.
"What?" House stares at him, mind racing.
"Why look so shocked? It worked, didn't it? Within moments, Wilson quickly dashed to your side." Michael smiles in fond remembrance. "He was badly shaken, you know that? Oh, no, you wouldn't; you had your head down between your legs, but believe me, he was rattled. It nearly brought a tear to my eye."
"Goodbye," House says shortly.
Michael doesn't stand to let House out. A yellow nail taps thoughtfully against his front teeth. "I have another proposition for you."
"I don't want to hear it." Still hemmed in, House glares at Michael impatiently.
Michael's tone is patronizing. "Of course you do."
Gritting his teeth, House stares at his lap, but he stays where he is. He makes no move to slide round the booth in the opposite direction so that he can reach the other side.
"I've been thinking," Michael says. "Seeing how much you relished that fleeting moment with Wilson, how would you like to spend a whole evening with him? Go out together for a meal?"
House loses his temper. "Wilson isn't going to..."
"Five hundred dollars," Michael says.
House looks into the black eyes, spellbound.
"Forget these fifty dollar trysts. They're too short. Nothing can be achieved."
"I don't know," House says, torn.
"There's someone else worming their way into Wilson's affections," Michael says.
Startled, House sits up straight. He hadn't seen this coming. "Who?"
"Wilson's assistant. Andrew." Michael pats House's knee pityingly. "You have a rival. Seems that Andrew fancies himself in the role of Wilson's best friend."
Wilson's best friend? But he had always worn that mantle, hadn't he? Since their first, fateful meeting in New Orleans. Worn it, not just as a privilege but as his right. He'd crowed about it often enough; even had the gall to use it as ammunition, whilst hammering Wilson to the cross with outraged eyes: 'How could you do this to me/keep this from me/say this to me? Your Best Friend.'
Wilson had never contradicted him. Not once.
"Wilson already has one," House whispers.
Michael shakes his head. "It's not you. Not any more."
Something twists in House's gut. Wilson's assistant? He feels numb with pain. He looks at Michael helplessly. "What can I do?" he asks.
"You can go out for this meal," Michael advises him. "Next Friday. If you remain on your best behavior, I assure you, you'll be able to woo him back."
House exhales through his nose. "And what's going to happen to me if I go out for this dinner? Am I going to have a stroke? Choke to death on a slice of beef?"
Laughing merrily, Michael nudges House's shoulder. "You'll have a good time," he promises. "I guarantee it. That's what you'll be paying me for. Have I ever let you down?" Taking out a cigarette, he lights it up.
"They're banned in here," House says.
"If anyone says anything, I'll put it out," Michael says. "Now, this meal. You interested or not?"
Who is this Andrew? How dare he move in on Wilson? "Yes," House says slowly. "I'm extremely interested."
"Splendid." Michael stands up to let House past. "There's no need for you to meet me back here to pay me," he says offhandedly. "I know your bank account details. When the deed is done, I'll just take the money directly out of your account."
"Now, wait a minute..."
"Only if you enjoy yourself," Michael reassures him. "Trust me, I'll know."
"I can transfer my funds into a different account," House threatens.
Michael smiles at him gently. "You won't."
Five hundred dollars. A lot of money but, for that, he'll be able to spend approximately three straight hours with Wilson. Longer, if he deliberately lingers over dessert. And Michael has promised him that he can get back into Wilson's favor.
House starts to walk away.
"Oh, by the way... House?"
House's back stiffens.
"If you want to use my services again, you know where to find me."
House carries on walking. After this one meal, he's never going to contact Michael again. He's dead sure about that. Before he steps through the exit, he turns to take his very last look at Michael, but he can barely see him.
Wreathed as he is in thick smoke.
*
Wilson's office door is flung open with such force, it smashes into the wall.
"House," Wilson's says mildly in greeting, barely glancing up.
Limping moodily into the room, House positions himself confrontationally in front of Wilson's desk, places one hand on top of the other and leans heavily on his cane.
He's just spent five wonderful minutes dry-heaving in the men's bathroom, and the reason for that is... well, actually, he's not sure of the reason. He doesn't understand why he's wearing such a ferocious scowl, either. It's certainly not doing his looks any favors, and yet, for the life of him, he's unable to wipe it off.
Still, he's agitated.
Because it's all very well paying Michael a small fortune so that he can indulge in some stress-free quality time with Wilson. It's simplicity itself to select a restaurant that will send Wilson into paroxysms of delight and audaciously book a table for two. It's cool to blow off work so that he can slink out to get his hair trimmed and also buy a new silk tie that perfectly matches his eyes.
Oh, he can make countless plans; he can nurture foolish hope; he can count down the days, hours, minutes until Friday night; he can easily do all of these things and much more. But that morning, whilst he'd been playing with a Slinky, an unwelcome thought had occurred to him that had spectacularly thrown a spanner in the works.
He's eagerly looking forward to a dinner date with Wilson. And Wilson, damn him, doesn't even know!
"I love it when you barge in here and glower without actually telling me what's wrong," Wilson says brightly, gazing up at him. "Means that I can dust off my crystal ball and try to guess."
House inwardly winces. "Who's Andrew?" he demands abruptly.
Wilson looks at him evenly. "You know who Andrew is," he scolds lightly. "By now, you probably even know his inside leg measurement. He's my assistant." His face softens, hurting House like a physical blow. "He's also my friend."
Michael was right? "Close friend?" House snaps, too jealous to manage reasoned thought.
"Extremely close," Wilson fires back, becoming irritated. For a terrible moment, his eyes go completely blank as if his soul has fled, and then he looks down at his paperwork and scrawls a signature like chicken scratchings on a patient's report. "See if you can leave my door still attached to its hinges when you go out."
A dismissal? The frown finally melts from House's face. Is that it? At a loss to explain how he'd managed to so thoroughly screw everything up, he stares at Wilson, but his friend is already reaching for another file. Defeated, House starts to turn away.
Confused by House's silence, Wilson glances up at him. "Wait," he orders. He stands up, moves around his desk and blocks House's exit. "I know you feel insecure if someone comes within one hundred feet of me, but Andrew cares about me," Wilson doggedly explains. "I care about him." He looks at House pleadingly. "He's kind. You'd like him if you took the time to get to know him." He waves his hand between the two of them. "He's not a threat."
House's gaze darts to the ceiling, floor, Wilson's boring Columbia University school of oncology diploma - anywhere, but at his friend. He sighs wretchedly. "I didn't come here to discuss Andrew," he mumbles.
"House," Wilson says, eyebrows drawing together quizzically, "what the hell is going on?"
House huffs out a breath. "I came here to ask you something else," he says peevishly, "but I can't see the point. You're only going to say no."
Nodding sagely, Wilson says, "Fair enough."
House can see the amusement in Wilson's eyes. "Move," he says curtly. He tries to push past Wilson, but his friend is being mulish and, again, gets in the way. House considers concussing him with his cane.
Studying him for a long, excruciatingly uncomfortable moment that leaves House squirming, Wilson shrugs and steps aside, sweeping his hand in invitation towards the exit. "Leave if you want to," he says magnanimously.
Gratefully, House makes a break for freedom.
"But whatever it is that you did come in here to ask me, how do you know, for certain, that I'll say no?" A teasing note creeps into the cultured voice. "I know it doesn't bear thinking about, but you have been wrong before."
Halting just in front of the door, House hesitates. This is his final chance. He doesn't know if he could bear it if he asked if Wilson would be prepared to join him for an evening out and Wilson turned him down flat. On the other hand, if he's too damned spineless to ask at all, there would be nothing to stop Wilson growing closer and closer to his new assistant, and how can he be expected to just roll over and accept that?
Squandering the last remaining drops of his courage, he bravely faces Wilson and resolutely fixes his gaze on the knot of Wilson's tie. "Would you...?" He grimaces and wets his lips. "Would you like to go out for a meal on Friday night?" he blurts out. "With me?" He sneaks a quick look at Wilson's face from below his lashes, but Wilson is as inscrutable as a Sphinx. Great. Absolutely great. Gloomily, he looks down at the floor. "You can invite other people to come along as well, if you want," he offers quietly. Reluctantly. "Even Andrew, if you must. My treat."
"Sounds good," Wilson answers him cheerfully.
"Sounds... what?" House says stupidly.
"Good." Wilson rolls his shoulders, then looks at House expectantly. "We'll go out, just the pair of us, shall we? Pick me up about seven?"
"Seven? You know it's me asking, right? Greg House? Was that a yes?"
"It is a challenge for me to recognize you - if only you'd wear your I.D. badge - but I guess that my countless years of associating with you are thankfully paying off."
"Was that a yes?" House repeats softly.
"It was, House; that was a yes. Now, scat." He opens the door. "One of us, at least, has got work to do."
Wilson shoos him out into the corridor, but House wedges his cane in the door. "Wilson?" he says, eyes serious.
"Yeah?"
"Are you sure? You didn't feel... compelled to say yes, did you? By some external force?" House examines his friend anxiously.
"You think that because I answered in the affirmative, I'm under the influence of some voodoo mumbo jumbo?" Wilson rolls his eyes. "No, House. It's a meal. I'm looking forward to it." He smiles briefly at him, reassuringly, whilst pushing the cane back with the toe of his shoe.
Breathing a huge sigh of relief, House stands there rooted to the spot, looking goopily back at him. Was there anyone else in the world comparable to Wilson? Come to think of it, does he truly need that hair cut? It's not as if he's tripping over it, and at the moment, he has no patient. His devices are his and his alone, and if left to them, he can beam at Wilson all day.
Wilson pokes his tongue out at him, large eyes warm with affection. Then he gently closes the door in House's face.
To be continued.