hw-fest, late entry.
Title: In from the Cold
Author: gena
Prompt: #180 - (AU) James was the one to end up on the streets instead of his brother. What happens when he meets Greg House?
A/N: Posted to house_wilson but forgot to post here. Better late than never.
Part One:
In From the Cold…
“And what fresh level of hell are you here to put me through?” House asked opening the door to exam two.
The man seated on the table raised dark eyes and gave him a bland look, “I don’t think I can top that kid with the cell phone stuck in his mouth.” He shifted carefully, unable to hide a wince of pain. “I’m just an idiot who got rolled for his wallet.” His mild expression faded, replaced with a mischievously warm glint and a tiny self-deprecating grin that seemed to spark an immediate attraction and cause the air between them to shimmer with something intangible but undeniable.
“Well, I save the last spot of the day for idiots,” House purred. “First are morons, followed closely by retards, then fools. Spazzs come in after noon, cretins about tea time and then - well, you.”
His patient gave a breathy chuckle that made House smile in return. “Good, I’d hate to disappoint.”
“If you’re stupid,” House said raising both eyebrows in mock delight, “you’ll never disappoint me. Now were you an idiot as a child or is this sudden onset idiocy?” The brown eyes crinkled with laugher and House felt an irrational jolt of pride as he used his cane to hook the rolling stool closer. It had been a long day and his leg hurt more than usual so he sat down with a grateful sigh. He noticed the young man’s gaze flick over his cane and readied a nasty retort for any invasive question but the man’s expression never changed. House gave the guy points for restraint and flipped open the file. “Okay, Mr. James Wilson, let’s see it.” He couldn’t resist adding a slightly leering grin, the man was nice looking.
According to the file he was 35, 5’11” and 170 pounds. What it didn’t say was that his chestnut colored hair fell across his forehead in a way that made him look younger, or that under thick brows his brown eyes were soft as melted chocolate and his lips full and red as wine. House couldn’t recall the last time such a great looking guy had wandered into the free clinic and he’d actually noticed. Usually the guys that walked in without being prodded every step of the way by a concerned parent or girlfriend were junkies or ex-cons and most of them just there to score drugs. He’d worked at PPTH for nearly nine years, five since the infarction that had crippled him, and not once in all that time had anyone awoken any kind of response within him like Mr. Wilson did.
“Couldn’t you just give me something for the pain?”
House sighed, and let his chin drop to his chest. He should have known. “If you’re here for a hit, you’ve come to the wrong place.” He scooted back, picking up his cane in case he needed a weapon. He’d made the mistake of having it out of reach only once when working in the clinic and still had the knife scar to show for it.
“What? No,” Wilson scowled. “No, that’s not - I just -“ Wilson broke off, shaking his head. He took a deep breath and after a second said, “I don’t do drugs. I just didn’t want to show you.” He reached for his shirt, slowly unbuttoning it. When he opened it even House felt his eyes widen in sympathetic shock. Wilson’s chest was covered with fading bruises, and there were welts crisscrossing his ribs. House blinked and moved closer, bending so that he could get a better look at the abused flesh. Wilson had not been entirely truthful, he might have been robbed but that was secondary to what had been done to him. Some crude hand had scrawled FAG across his stomach, it stood out below the prominent ribs as if it had been drawn in neon instead of with some sharpened instrument. The wounds themselves would have been bad enough but there were spots around them red and puffy with infection. It was obvious he’d not sought medical help when they first occurred. Wilson refused to meet his eye, and after a moment drew his shirt closed, sitting in mute embarrassment, the tension in the room shifted away from sexual to just thick.
“At least they spelled it right,” House said quietly. He watched the other man closely, the dark head lifted and though the smile that curled across his handsome face didn’t reach his eyes some of the tension in the room eased.
“Yes, because going through life with p-h-a-g-g across my stomach would have been so much harder to explain.”
“Or not,” House said, laying out supplies. “You could have told people it was an old college injury.” He slanted a mischievous look at Wilson. “Lay back.” Wilson shook his head over the remark and carefully leaned back on the exam table. He closed his eyes while House cleaned the rawest of the wounds, hissing over the sting. “So - wrong place at the wrong time?”
“You could say that,” Wilson admitted. He darted a quick look at House before saying, “I wa - I didn’t know I was in the wrong place but it turned out there were a few guys who thought I looked like an easy mark.” House didn’t react, just continued working, swabbing on antiseptic and covered the worst of the gashes. “I thought I cleaned it up okay but it got infected.”
“Yes, you’d think wound care in a gas station restroom would be almost as efficient as here at the clinic,” House sneered.
“Wha- what?”
“Your skin is chafed here,” he touched Wilson’s wrist, “that’s common when washing with the harsh soap most public restrooms use because it’s cheap. And this,” he picked up the sleeve of a gray McGill sweatshirt lying beside Wilson, sniffing noisily, “it smells like that same soap and its stiff because you can’t rinse something this thick out very well by hand.” He let his eyes rake the younger man, “you’re either a really lousy traveling salesman or living on a park bench.” Wilson jerked his arm away but the movement caused his breath to hitch and House took the opportunity to continue. “You seem to be well educated and your clothes are expensive but extremely worn. You haven’t eaten since this morning and you walked here in the rain. I’d say you’re hiding.” Those brown eyes widened, darting around the small space as if he half expected a group of thugs to show up right then. “Someone cares about you - friends - a sibling maybe, your mother probably, but you haven’t asked for help,” House mused, “probably had a falling out with your parents over being gay.”
“I’m not -“
“Please,” House drawled. “You’re very attractive and on the streets. I’d say you made a bad move, misjudged a trick and got a beating for your trouble.” He pulled off his gloves and tossed them away. “Call your family and go home before you end up dead.”
“Thanks,” Wilson snapped. “You’re good - I feel all better.” He grabbed his sweatshirt, and stood with one arm clutched around his ribs. “See you around, doc.”
“Hold it,” House called just before the door shut. Wilson paused, casting a tight look over his shoulder as House limped over to him. “Here,” he held out a prescription. “The pharmacy will fill it for free.” Wilson didn’t even look at the paper as he walked out the door. “Idiot,” House murmured.
The day passed as most did for House, a slow agonizing drain on his energy and stamina. Because everything from getting out of bed in the morning to walking across the room had become a struggle, nothing seemed worth the effort and nothing aroused his interest. He sought diversions from his own misery, but even Cuddy’s continued hounding about establishing a Diagnostic Medicine department, and her subtle attempts to persuade him to hire a team of doctors and take on cases could not diminish his apathy. So he spent his time struggling to entertain himself, to work the system like a wayward child might and slid by on the outside of the rules. It made for a long day, an excruciatingly tedious march of hours that had to be filled with something to keep his mind occupied and House found one such distraction in the form of his last clinic patient; Wilson’s face kept popping into House’s head at odd moments all day.
Concentration wandering from his latest video game, House considered the puzzle of James Wilson. He wasn’t a typical homeless man, educated, articulate, showing no signs of drug use or mental problems, he would have stood out at the local mission like a sore thumb. There had been the disturbing injuries and the fact Wilson hadn’t sough medical attention until infection had set in. He was hiding, of that House was certain, but from what? Intrigued, House went so far as to dig out the man’s file and go over it. The scant information gathered did nothing to dull his interest and night had fallen and the corridors emptied before House pulled himself stiffly from his chair and collected his things. House had never believed in Fate or Destiny, events happened because of what people did, not some Grand Scheme God or the Universe set in motion to teach him a Lesson, so when he passed the closest bus stop and glimpsed a familiar McGill sweatshirt, House’s first thought was that Wilson had set him up.
He circled the block and drove back around. Wilson was sitting in the corner of the covered shelter, gazing at the dirty sidewalk with all the absorption of a man reading a thrilling novel. House angled the ‘vette as close to the little plexi shelter as he could, rolled down the window and shouted. “Hey!” Wilson leapt to his feet, one arm protectively around his middle and even in the dim light House could see panic in those dark eyes. “Easy! It’s Dr. House.”
“House? Oh, yeah,” Wilson stepped a bit closer. House thought he could see rising color in the pale cheeks. “Uh, Dr. House, hey, I was waiting for the bus.”
“Were you?” Wilson glanced around, obviously seeing things from House’s point of view.
“Yeah, must have fallen asleep and missed it.” House continued to stare at him. Wilson shifted uneasily.
House cocked his head to the side and drummed his left hand on the dashboard. There was something about Wilson that intrigued him. “You hungry?” Wilson blinked at him but eventually gave a slow nod. “Good, there’s a diner a couple of blocks over and I’m starved. Get in.” He waited, watching indecision flick over Wilson’s mobile features; he knew the younger man hadn’t eaten all day but there was pride there in that pretty face. There was a mystery about Wilson that had pinged on the radar of his curiosity and House needed a distraction, something that would alleviate some of the loneliness in his life. He stubbornly refused to acknowledge that tiny voice inside his head that told him he had no life, he had nothing but the job that defined his entire world.
“So,” Wilson said an hour later, wiping ketchup off his bottom lip, “what was this? You have to do a couple of hours community service for pissing off your parole officer?”
House swiped a couple of French fries from the heaping mound between them. “I do have a record for being killer handsome and criminally witty, but what makes you think this wasn’t just my Good Deed of the Day?”
Wilson’s laugh was like everything else about him - unpredictable and utterly charming. “You might think I was born yesterday but I was up all night. A man doesn’t cultivate a prickly demeanor like yours if he’s all about “doing for others”. His dark eyes grew impossibly darker, seeming to lose focus as he looked at House. “I watched you in the clinic, you were arrogant and abrasive. You thought it was a waste of your time to treat people for cold sores or the flu when you could be saving lives. You think most people are idiots anyway.” House gave him a wry smile but Wilson went on. “I have no doubt you’re every bit as good as you think you are - you couldn’t be as difficult and rude and still have a job if you weren’t. And yet you don’t care if people know just how good you are, you don’t care what they think. It’s - for you - it’s something inside you that needs to be the best - to know you’ve met some standard.” House looked away, unable to shake the feeling those brown eyes had just seen his soul; every blemish and scar and bleeding wound that covered the very core of his existence was visible to this man. But Wilson hadn’t looked away, he just continued to gaze at House with those calm eyes and a gentle smile on his lips. House wasn’t use to anyone seeing beyond what he presented to the world, he’d spent years building an impenetrable shell and now a stranger had taken one look and seen beyond it to the real him inside.
“You done?” He snapped, pushing the plate away and reaching for his cane.
Wilson eyed him a moment then nodded. “Yeah, thanks.”
House started to slide out of the booth but knew the moment his foot hit the floor standing was going to be a problem. Cold, damp weather played hell with his leg and sitting with it crooked on the vinyl seat for an hour had been monumentally stupid. He fumbled out his pills, gulping one before he slowly levered himself upright. Wilson stood silently by, watching it all with interest but making no effort to help him. House straightened, finding the complete lack of pity or embarrassment a relief. Most of the people he worked with would have been gently clutching his arm and offering assistance and it would have made him sick. Wilson just raised one thick brow and asked, “Is it your knee or your entire leg?”
“Thigh. An infarction five years ago,” House said, surprising himself with the admission, “Lost most of the muscle.”
Wilson nodded. “Well, I best be heading - home.”
House surprised himself again. “You can come home with me.” As soon as the words left his mouth he wanted to take them back. He didn’t know this guy. A homeless man with who knew what kind of problems - maybe not a druggie or schizoid but surely with some kind of deficiency. Only Wilson didn’t act like any homeless people House had ever seen - not that he went around studying homeless people but Wilson was different and different meant interesting. He waited, watching the expression on Wilson’s face and was startled when something resigned settled there.
Wilson nodded, “Okay, thanks.” He followed House to his car and climbed in without a word. The drive wasn’t all that long, House had an apartment only a few miles from the hospital in a rehabbed neighborhood, but it was spent in silence. He pulled to the curb and got out, waiting for Wilson to do the same. “Nice place,” Wilson said, jerking his head towards the brick townhouse. His shoulders were hunched against the chilled air making House realize the other man had nothing but the sweatshirt as protection against the cold.
“It’s home,” House said. He unlocked the door and led the way inside. A brief flash of panic went through him as the lights came on; he had some valuable items, guitars, electronics and collectables that a doctor’s salary easily provided and there was no way he could stop Wilson from robbing him if that was the other man’s intension when accepting the invitation. But he was surprised for the third time that day, this time by his guest.
“So, uh, where’re we doing this?”
House blinked and shook his head, “What?”
Wilson dropped his gaze to the floor, shoulders hunching even more than they had in the cold. “Look, I’m grateful for the meal and for you letting me come here.” He looked up and House could see utter embarrassment. “I know what you think and that’s probably why you helped me, Dr. House. I’ve been on the streets for a while and I know you don’t get anything for free - you have to pay in some way or the other and I don’t have anything else I can use.”
“So you’re gallantly offering your virgin ass?”
Wilson flushed red. “Unless you like it the other way.”
Now House flushed. “No, I don’t.”
Wilson nodded, looking even more resigned than before. “Okay,” he said very quietly, looking up at House. A valiant effort at a smile wavered on his lips and he took a deep breath. “Okay,” he repeated louder, resolved.
House held his gaze. He shook his head, confused, “I’ve got the L-Word TiVoed.” Wilson frowned. “Look, I didn’t invite you here to have sex.” He saw Wilson’s skeptical expression but went on. “I invited you because -“ he stopped, suddenly angry and not knowing why. “I just did, okay? You can stay and watch TV with me or get the fuck out, I don’t care which.” He did but he would never admit it, even to himself. It had nothing to do with the way his apartment echoed or the way his leg hurt or even with the way he knew his life sucked, it had nothing to do with anything. House stalked over to the couch and threw himself onto the cushions, already flicking the TV to life and scrolling through his playlist. He could hear Wilson behind him, the minute shuffle of his shoes on the wooden floor, the faint rustle of his sweatshirt but he didn’t turn around. He’d been stupid - stupid and impulsive and those were two things Gregory House hated being.
“You, uh, like the L Word?”
“I watch it on mute,” House said, not taking his eyes from the screen. In his peripheral vision he saw Wilson come around the couch, hesitate and then sit gingerly on the far end. He looked ready to bolt at any loud noise but he was there and for the first time in a long time House could feel some of the emptiness in his life filling. “It’s got hot women making out with other hot women, what’s not to like?” Wilson huffed a laugh. It took an hour and a couple of beers but eventually Wilson began to relax, sinking back against the cushions with a tired sigh. House began to enjoy the verbal back and forth as Wilson’s halting, self-conscious comments became a real conversation. It turned out the younger man was well read and quick on the up take. He held his own with House, showing a streak of black humor as wide as his host’s and a jaded view on humanity that rivaled House’s own. The evening was one House knew he would not soon forget, it had been a long time, since before Stacy’s leaving, that he’d had someone of his own caliber to talk with, someone who held his interest and didn’t let him get away with anything. They were half way through House’s favorite list when he noticed Wilson wiping sweat from his forehead. “You okay?”
Wilson shrugged. “Fine.” He reached for his beer on the coffee table, downing it in one long gulp but when he wiped his mouth he swept his hand up and over his sweaty brow, and then wiped it on the leg of his faded jeans.
“You really are an idiot. You should have taken the prescription,” House admonished. “You’ve got a fever, you know?”
“Really? I figured it was just my close proximity to your blazing ego,” Wilson said. “Are you always such a jerk?”
“Pretty much.” House pushed himself to his feet with a painful grunt and limped sans cane to his bathroom. He had some antibiotics left from the knife wound someplace in the medicine cabinet and rummaged around until he found them. He brought them and a glass of water back to Wilson, holding the items out in his left hand. “Here, take these.”
“And call you in the morning?”
“Now who’s the jerk?” Wilson grinned at him and House felt that peculiar jolt in his chest again. Wilson was damn good looking and having someone to talk to, joke with, felt - nice. “I’m going to bed,” he saw Wilson tense, “you can sack out here on the couch. There’s some food in the cupboards if you get hungry and you can borrow any of my books if you want to read. I’m a pretty light sleeper,” House warned, “so if you need anything just shout.” He pulled a pillow and some blankets from the closet, holding them out with an impatient little shake. Wilson didn’t take them at first, just stared at him but when reached out, his knuckles brushed House’s as if that was his answer to some silent question he’d been asked. Neither man moved or spoke, but something shifted the air around them, causing both to smile. “Goodnight.” House said gruffly, and left Wilson sitting there staring after him. Later, when he made his way from the bathroom to his bedroom the sight of Wilson curled up under the blanket, his nose in a book brought a sense of peaceful companionship that stayed with House as he fell asleep and his dreams, for once, were pleasant.
Morning arrived and with it the smell of bacon frying and House found himself wondering if the dreams which had played through his mind were somehow becoming real. He staggered to his feet, hissing as his leg protested, and stumbled out of his bedroom without benefit of his cane. Using the wall to hold himself up House followed his nose to the source of the mouthwatering smell. Wilson, barefoot, hair sticking up, and wearing only his faded jeans and a gray t-shirt, stood at the stove. “You can cook?” His question took Wilson by surprise, making him fumble the plate he’d picked up. It fell, smashing to the floor, where it broke in half. Wilson stared in horror at the mess, but House was already limping close, asking, “Where’d you find pancake flour? I didn’t think I had any.”
“Dr. House,” Wilson started.
“It’s just House. And bacon!” He sniffed loudly, peering eagerly into the pan, “It smells great.”
“I’m sorry about the plate, I’ll pay -“
“You can pay by not burning this bacon,” House snatched a potholder from the counter and tossed it at Wilson. Taking the hint, Wilson rescued their breakfast as House got out another plate, filling both with bacon, pancakes and scrambled eggs. He followed House, who had grabbed the orange juice carton and a glass, and they settled on Wilson’s makeshift bed. “Mmm, good,” House murmured around a mouthful of pancake.
“Secret is putting syrup in the batter,” Wilson explained, “my mom taught me that. Hope you don’t mind my rummaging around your kitchen.”
“Not if this is the result.” He shoveled in perfectly round silver dollar sized pancakes with amazing speed. It had been years since he’d actually been able to eat breakfast; waking up in pain, and his morning dose of Vicodin normally quelled any desire for food until noon but Wilson’s cooking was making his mouth water, leaving him ravenous. He could see the shy smile on Wilson’s face as ate, a small pleased expression that made him look very young and vulnerable and that expression touched something in House that he had thought more lost than his appetite - contentment. He finished the eggs and bacon and belched loudly, settling back while Wilson finished his own breakfast. His companion ate slowly, savoring each bite as if it might be the last and House had a brief flash of Wilson staring longingly at the diner menu from the night before, his face a study in desire.
A strange feeling assailed House, it had been a while since he’d felt a sense of longing, but it had usually come when he pulled a life back from the brink of death, when he solved a riddle no one else could have and turned to find no one cared. He’d been alone most of his life, living inside his own head but there had been times he’d wanted to reach out, hoping to find an equal, a person whom he could talk to on an even footing, a person who understood his humor and could distract him from the swirling thoughts that raced ragtag through his brain 24/7. Stacy had almost been that, she had made him happy but she had hurt him in the name of love, she had taken away his choice, made it for him and left him crippled by it. Still, he missed her, the easy give and take between them and the feeling of being understood.
“My mom learned to cook on a camp stove when I was a kid,” House volunteered. He could feel the weight of Wilson’s stare, “My dad was a Marine pilot, we followed him from base to base and sometimes the amenities were a bit lacking.” He’d never told anyone about his childhood, but somehow telling Wilson felt, not so much like revealing a secret, but like sharing a memory.
“I bet you earned your first Merit Badge in fire making,” Wilson teased.
“Nah, kicked out for anti-social behavior,” House said. Wilson smiled, and his shoulder brushed House’s in a gesture that didn’t seem out of place between them at all. He would be the first to admit that Wilson probably wanted only a warm place to sleep and a good meal but he was smart and interesting and there was a puzzle behind his living on the streets. House had no illusions that Wilson was little more than a distraction. He would use Wilson and Wilson would use him and if for a little while they were content then it wasn’t such a bad thing.
Weeks passed and House found out having Wilson stay with him really wasn’t a bad thing. He grew to like the twinkle Wilson got in his eye whenever he teased House and the blush which colored his cheeks when House got his own back. Night became House’s favorite part of the day when before he’d dreaded the endless dark hours. He could leave the world of medical intrigue behind and know he would still find something to challenge him when he got home. To an outsider it might appear that all they did was watch TV and talk but their conversations curled and twisted back on themselves, sentences took on double then triple meanings, upping the ante with each word.
But even as he grew comfortable with Wilson, House knew he wasn’t capable of sustaining any normal human connection, he was all sharp edges, drawing blood with a refusal to pretend the world was a nice place and people loved one another. He knew life for the lies it held and the pain it caused but for a while he was willing to play along. But he could appreciate the fact there was someone when he came home, someone who didn’t judge him. He could be rude and petty and Wilson accepted that. He could rant about the stupidity of clinic patients and all Wilson would do would be throw in a helpful adjective when he got stuck for one. They might be using each other but House discovered that using each other had resulted in a bizarre thing - they had become friends and he wished it would last.
&&&
They settled into a routine; Wilson taking a job at the local market and acting as a weird kind of manservant in between, cooking and cleaning and doing laundry.
“What is this crap?” House asked, one evening, hovering over a steaming pan. He cautiously dipped a spoon into the bubbling concoction and lifted it to his lips to blow away steam.
“Just something I picked up,” Wilson said. He had his back to the stove, sleeves rolled up as he chopped vegetables, “you know, while I was rummaging through garbage cans. You like Alpo or are you more a Whiskas kinda guy?”
“Oh, snap,” House mocked and tasted the sauce. He turned to face Wilson, grinning at the domestic picture he presented. “I didn’t know the homeless could be so overly sensitive.”
“Some are,” Wilson said. “Me, I use to spend my days weeping - and talking to invisible clowns.” He glanced over at House, “Now they’re visible.”
House shot him a glare and reached over to snatch a green pepper from the cutting board just as Wilson, knowing what he was doing, shifted to block the theft and the two men collided with an audible thud. For a moment they stood, House resting against Wilson’s back, one arm over his shoulder in an awkwardly intimate embrace. House could feel the edge of Wilson’s spine press into him with every breath and as weird as it should have been, he found a strange comfort in it. Wilson seemed to feel it too and when he turned a questioning look on House his cheek brushed softly against House’s bare arm. House reigned in a crazy desire to kiss him, instead sighing, “Thwarted again.”
“Get out of the kitchen, House,” Wilson warned, and his voice carried a wistful edge that hadn’t been there before, “Or I’ll stab you to death and then eat spaghetti on your piano.”
“Kindly Doctor Gutted by Deranged Homeless Chef,” House declared. “This better be edible or you’re back on the streets, Bobo.” Wilson’s laughter followed him into the living room. That night as he lay in bed, House could still remember the warmth of Wilson’s cheek on his skin and that taste seemed to whet his appetite for more.
Poised for weeks on an edge of anticipation, that one touch seemed to signal the beginning slide and when, six weeks after Wilson’s first night on his couch Gregory House fell, they found themselves tumbling together into the unknown. House hated his physical vulnerability. He hated falling, he hated the horror on bystanders faces and their solicitous manners, their hands on his body as they tried to help him up. This time it wasn’t a particularly bad fall, he’d taken worse, but it occurred in front of patients and he could feel bruises forming as livid as the humiliation. He went home, aching and sore and in no mood for company. For just an instant when he opened the door to his townhouse he forgot Wilson was there but then he heard the man call his name. “House? That you?”
“Who the fuck else would it be?” House growled. He didn’t want sympathy or companionship, or the little woman soothing his fevered brow, he wanted a stiff drink and a hot shower and he wanted to be whole again. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Wilson hesitate in the doorway and a bitter and self-congratulatory sneer curled his lip. “Make yourself useful and get me a beer,” he commanded. “Least you can do,” House muttered, “sponging off me.” He didn’t need anyone. He lived with pain each and every day so Wilson could just get use to it, get him a beer and get out of his way so he could suffer in peace. House lowered himself gingerly onto the couch, unable to stifle the groan of pain which flared through him.
“What’s wrong?”
The voice cut through the roaring ache racing up his leg and made House grip the arm of the couch harder. “Nothing. Now either get me the beer or get out!” He’d come to like having the other man there more than he’d liked anything in years but that didn’t mean he wanted to suffer in front of him. He could feel the sweat trickling down between his shoulder blades and closed his eyes, willing the other man away. He heard soft footsteps retreating and a rueful bubble of resignation swept through him. Everyone looked out for themselves; it was human nature after all.
A moment later the footsteps returned but House resolutely kept his eyes closed. He’d swallowed three Vicodin since the fall so the fire in his leg and hip had died to hot embers, the throb in his swollen right wrist remained dull but the drugs had done nothing to ease the burning scrape along his cheek, it continued to nag at him like a thorn. “Here,” Wilson said quietly. House opened his eyes, ready to flay Wilson, but the sight of a cold beer and damp cloth stopped him. “Might help,” Wilson said, shrugging. He waited but when House didn’t take either, set the beer down and tossed the cloth onto the table beside it, sat down and flicked on the TV. “There’s a Cary Grant marathon on TCM tonight, wanna watch it?”
House stared at his companion’s profile in the silvery light from the TV screen, an involuntary smile curling the corner of his mouth. No sympathy, no fuss, nothing but a sincere attempt to help that could be taken or rejected without causing a scene. He reached awkwardly for the cloth, but a stab of pain caused it to drop from his suddenly nerveless fingers. Wilson caught it with a quickness that almost looked like he’d been waiting for just such an event to occur. “Let me,” he said quietly, eyes unreadable. House nodded and after a moment’s hesitation Wilson shoved back the coffee table and knelt in front of him. He worked slowly, efficiently, his touch warm and gentle against House’s cheek as he cleaned the wound. House took the opportunity to study Wilson’s face as he worked, liking what he saw. Wilson was handsome, almost too good looking with a broad forehead and high cheekbones and the darkest brown eyes House had ever seen. Most people with brown eyes had flecks of other colors within them; gold, copper, amber, or bronze but Wilson’s were rare, so dark the black pupil was nearly indistinguishable. When he finished and looked up they seemed to have taken on an even darker, savage hue. House reached out, catching Wilson’s hand, stilling it somewhere between them. The moment stretched to a fine brittle line, drawing out time until House was sure the world around them had stopped spinning.
“I - ,” he started but didn’t know what else to say. It had been too long since he’d sought comfort and even then it had been a prickly brand of unspoken emotion and clueless need. “I don’t need pity,” he rasped. Because he’d always been the smartest kid in the class and an outsider, he’d developed a curiously lopsided personality. He had tremendous confidence, bordering on arrogance, in his own intellect, others were idiots in comparison and that made making friends an impossible task. That lack of companions and socialization had, in turn, left him feeling vulnerable and self conscious which fed his solitary nature. He understood people, the study of human nature had become an obsession over the years but he’d never learned to apply that knowledge in the non-hypocritical way that friendship required.
Stacy had been an anomaly, a woman as brusque and uncompromising as himself, after she’d gone House had gotten use to being alone again. Now he realized the cynicism inside him had actually been loneliness and as weird as it seemed, it had taken a homeless stranger to make him understand that. He’d been a stranger to his own parents, a mystery to his peers, a presence more tolerated than embraced since childhood. Wilson instinctively understood him and as if to underscore that Wilson nodded, a wordless acknowledgement of the thing between them. “You’re hurting,” he said, “I can help you. It’s that simple.” They both got to their feet, Wilson smoothly, House with a gasping groan, and together moved to House’s bedroom. “This would be a good time to say something wittily ironic,” House observed.
“Or ironically witless,” Wilson said with a shrug. House laughed in spite of his embarrassment; somehow with Stacy’s departure he’d never imagine laughter in his bedroom again.
“How ‘bout - “Come here often?” House admitted it was a lame attempt but he was - lame. He sat down with a grimace, tired and sore, and lost inside his own heart.
“Take your pants off,” Wilson ordered.
“Wow,” House said with a smirk, “from hetro to homo in ten seconds flat.”
“Ha,” Wilson said. “Massage. Yes, it’s a euphemism for hot sex so humor me and strip.” Leaving House struggling with his shirts, he disappeared into the bathroom, returning with a bottle of scented oil and a thick towel. “Your enthusiasm is underwhelming.” He knelt and tugged off House’s socks, looking up with an another unreadable expression. “Your jeans,” he said quietly. House hadn’t stripped off in front of anyone since the infarction. He could feel his heart pick up speed and his mouth grow dry at the prospect. “I’ll help you,” Wilson said. His hands were sure and gentle as he worked the snap and zipper. He waited, providing support while House got to his feet, and shoved his jeans down, exposing the sunken mess of his right thigh. “Did they save your life?” Wilson asked. House could feel the heat from his palm as Wilson reached out, not touching the ruined muscle, but letting his hand hover a millimeter from his skin.
“That’s what they tell me,” House said. Wilson nodded, standing slowly until they were face to face.
“You don’t believe it.” Not a question. House shook his head anyway and Wilson nodded again. The first time they touched Wilson felt strange in his arms, like a rival on the basketball court who had stumbled into him, someone to be fought against, pushed. Their bodies did not fit together, their elbows jostled and their knees bumped but when Wilson leaned in and kissed him, it all changed. House could feel the tension inside him ease, his arms came up and folded around Wilson’s waist, his groin nestled against Wilson’s thigh and another set of strong arms tightened around his shoulders. It felt right, to stand like that in someone’s embrace, with their heart beating against his own - right up until his battered body rebelled. House sucked in a pained breath and Wilson chuckled. “Romance might not be dead but it’s badly bruised.” He helped House lie down then sat beside him. “Close your eyes.”
“Gonna go through my pockets for my wallet?” House asked.
“You’re not wearing pants,” Wilson pointed out.
“Metaphorically speaking,” House said but complied. The bed dipped and he could feel the silken brush of skin along his thigh as Wilson settled beside him. A moment passed in which he thought this was the worst idea he’d ever had but them a glorious sensation spread through his body. He’d always though sex the ultimate phenomenon but having Wilson’s oil slick hands gliding over his stomach and up his chest put that idea to rest. He sighed as his shoulders and biceps were massaged, Wilson lavished every inch of his skin with particular attention. House had a moment of panic when those talented hands slipped down his flanks; he couldn’t help his involuntary flinch as Wilson’s fingers trailed lightly over his right thigh, but Wilson quickly sensed his discomfort and began instead to work the knots out of his calf and foot. House could only moan his pleasure.
“Feel good?” Wilson asked.
“You must do this for a living,” House gasped. He could feel his muscles melting as tension drained away. For the last two years not a day had gone by that his shoulders hadn’t hurt from using his cane, now they oozed relief. His feet, back and both legs paid the price of his unnatural gait and sometimes the relief of just sitting down made him dizzy but Wilson had chased it all away. He’d tapped into ever ache, seeking them out with gentle pressure, coaxing the twisted and bunched muscles back into place until House imagined he could get up and run a marathon - once he slept for a week.
“I was an accountant,” Wilson said softly, bringing House’s wandering mind back. House opened one eye and peered at him. “Yep, boring number cruncher.”
“What happened?”
Wilson didn’t answer right away, he slid his hands under House and urged him onto his stomach, going to work on the thick bands of muscle along his spine before laying into the trapezoids. When he did answer it took House’s sluggish mind a second to catch up. “I - quit. My wife - hey!” House had jerked at the mention of a wife, but Wilson pressed him back down flat. “Ex-wife, I should say. My ex-wife was having an affair.” House could feel the tension which had left his body take up residence in Wilson. “My life was falling apart - I needed a change. She - she took everything and one day I woke up huddled under a shelter in the park.”
“How long ago?”
“Eight - no, ten months,” Wilson said. “I just drifted around until I got robbed and then -“ He broke off and House reached up awkwardly to grasp his hand.
“Until I rescued you like the cutest puppy at the pound.”
“That’s not exactly the way I remember it,” Wilson said. He grinned at House, running his thumb along the palm of House’s hand, soothing the callused skin with tiny little circles. He moved, lying down so that his chest covered most of House’s back, their hands still entwined. “You insulted me, and made me feel like - I had insulted myself.” His words were whispers but resonated through House as if they had been shouted. “I knew I wanted something else, something more.” His lips brushed along House’s shoulders, branding him with small kisses. “You ticked me off but even when I wanted to kick that cane out from under you, I - liked you. I’d never been with a guy but even right then I wanted to feel you against me.” House shifted onto his left side, and reached up to cup Wilson’s cheek, drawing him for another kiss.
It burned between them, melting their lips together until only the threat of suffocation forced them apart. “Like that?” He asked.
“Yeah,” Wilson said, “just like that.” His gaze flicked down to House’s mouth again and they traded kisses, each more possessive than the last. House remembered nights with Stacy and the gentle lovemaking which had seemed at odds with their stormy relationship. His relationship with Wilson had so far been smooth sailing maybe that meant the thing between them would be wild and uncontrollable. That thought ignited a base desire to test the limits and he surged against Wilson, wrestling control with a twist of his body. He looked down at Wilson’s face - the slightly swollen lips, the sharp planes of his cheekbones, the heavy line of his brows and found himself lost in the hooded hunger in turbulent brown eyes.
Sex with a man was different than with a woman in more than the obvious way; women wanted the build up, the soft climb to pleasure but men tended to be all about the end results. Neither wanted soft or gentle, the attraction that had grown between them roared to life like an animal. Wilson made a guttural sound and House clawed the bedside drawer open, groping for a tube of KY. He used his teeth or pry the cap off and sent a generous amount into Wilson’s waiting palms. They scrabbled around, pulling and pressing at each other, kisses more like bites until House settled himself between the strongly muscled thighs, using one hand to align their now lubed cocks and gave an experimental thrust into the hot center of flesh they had created. Wilson shuddered beneath him, his face tight with some emotion that flickered on and off in his eyes like a broken neon sign.
House settled closer, his weight trapping their erections together and forcing Wilson’s thighs just a bit wider. Cradled, his leg hurt, but the pain added an extra layer of sensation and sent his pulse jumping. Wilson’s slick skin burned along his flanks, clamping tighter around him and keeping him locked in place. Slowly, eyes seeking the elusive thrill just as their bodies were, they began to rock. Gasping and cursing, clashing in dull slaps of skin on skin, pulling apart and ramming together again, they built on their need, finding a rhythm that reached down and touched the white hot core of passion. House wanted to drive himself deep into Wilson, to breech him and discover every secret hidden inside him. He stared down into Wilson’s eyes, at once drawn in by a reflected desire but repulsed by the vulnerability such a desire created. He ruthlessly turned away from the emotionally need, instinctively backing away. Jerking each other off was just like fucking but fucking was nothing like making love.
House slammed into Wilson, twisting so that pain flared up from his leg, rode along his spine and down into his heart. He heard the muffled groan beneath him and felt Wilson rise up, one leg hooking over his lower back and clamping them tighter. It hurt, it roared through him in a sweltering flash that charred his nerves and it was all he could do not to howl. Wilson was gasping and pushing up against him, his face shining with need, his eyes wild, mouth forming his name in a throaty whisper. In that instant House forgot all about the distancing himself from emotion. He wanted Wilson to scream his name, he wanted to feel those limbs envelop him, he wanted to taste his mouth, his skin, his heart. Orgasm flashed through them like ball lightning, jumping from House to Wilson in an arc so bright the room seemed to turn white.
“Sh-shit,” House gasped and collapsed onto Wilson. He would have liked to roll off him, to just curl up and sleep as if none of this changed things, but Wilson put his arms around him and House closed his eyes. Something deep inside him relaxed and a deep sense of peace descended, his whole body sagged with weariness that had weighed at him for too long. Wilson moved beneath him and a second later the sheet was pulled up to cover their cooling bodies. House sighed, wondering how the hell he’d let this happened. What he had shared with Stacy had been nothing like this. Wilson dropped a gentle kiss into his hair and he couldn’t help but burrow closer as the arms around him tightened their hold, protecting him from the thoughts colliding inside his head.
Author: gena
Prompt: #180 - (AU) James was the one to end up on the streets instead of his brother. What happens when he meets Greg House?
A/N: Posted to house_wilson but forgot to post here. Better late than never.
Part One:
In From the Cold…
“And what fresh level of hell are you here to put me through?” House asked opening the door to exam two.
The man seated on the table raised dark eyes and gave him a bland look, “I don’t think I can top that kid with the cell phone stuck in his mouth.” He shifted carefully, unable to hide a wince of pain. “I’m just an idiot who got rolled for his wallet.” His mild expression faded, replaced with a mischievously warm glint and a tiny self-deprecating grin that seemed to spark an immediate attraction and cause the air between them to shimmer with something intangible but undeniable.
“Well, I save the last spot of the day for idiots,” House purred. “First are morons, followed closely by retards, then fools. Spazzs come in after noon, cretins about tea time and then - well, you.”
His patient gave a breathy chuckle that made House smile in return. “Good, I’d hate to disappoint.”
“If you’re stupid,” House said raising both eyebrows in mock delight, “you’ll never disappoint me. Now were you an idiot as a child or is this sudden onset idiocy?” The brown eyes crinkled with laugher and House felt an irrational jolt of pride as he used his cane to hook the rolling stool closer. It had been a long day and his leg hurt more than usual so he sat down with a grateful sigh. He noticed the young man’s gaze flick over his cane and readied a nasty retort for any invasive question but the man’s expression never changed. House gave the guy points for restraint and flipped open the file. “Okay, Mr. James Wilson, let’s see it.” He couldn’t resist adding a slightly leering grin, the man was nice looking.
According to the file he was 35, 5’11” and 170 pounds. What it didn’t say was that his chestnut colored hair fell across his forehead in a way that made him look younger, or that under thick brows his brown eyes were soft as melted chocolate and his lips full and red as wine. House couldn’t recall the last time such a great looking guy had wandered into the free clinic and he’d actually noticed. Usually the guys that walked in without being prodded every step of the way by a concerned parent or girlfriend were junkies or ex-cons and most of them just there to score drugs. He’d worked at PPTH for nearly nine years, five since the infarction that had crippled him, and not once in all that time had anyone awoken any kind of response within him like Mr. Wilson did.
“Couldn’t you just give me something for the pain?”
House sighed, and let his chin drop to his chest. He should have known. “If you’re here for a hit, you’ve come to the wrong place.” He scooted back, picking up his cane in case he needed a weapon. He’d made the mistake of having it out of reach only once when working in the clinic and still had the knife scar to show for it.
“What? No,” Wilson scowled. “No, that’s not - I just -“ Wilson broke off, shaking his head. He took a deep breath and after a second said, “I don’t do drugs. I just didn’t want to show you.” He reached for his shirt, slowly unbuttoning it. When he opened it even House felt his eyes widen in sympathetic shock. Wilson’s chest was covered with fading bruises, and there were welts crisscrossing his ribs. House blinked and moved closer, bending so that he could get a better look at the abused flesh. Wilson had not been entirely truthful, he might have been robbed but that was secondary to what had been done to him. Some crude hand had scrawled FAG across his stomach, it stood out below the prominent ribs as if it had been drawn in neon instead of with some sharpened instrument. The wounds themselves would have been bad enough but there were spots around them red and puffy with infection. It was obvious he’d not sought medical help when they first occurred. Wilson refused to meet his eye, and after a moment drew his shirt closed, sitting in mute embarrassment, the tension in the room shifted away from sexual to just thick.
“At least they spelled it right,” House said quietly. He watched the other man closely, the dark head lifted and though the smile that curled across his handsome face didn’t reach his eyes some of the tension in the room eased.
“Yes, because going through life with p-h-a-g-g across my stomach would have been so much harder to explain.”
“Or not,” House said, laying out supplies. “You could have told people it was an old college injury.” He slanted a mischievous look at Wilson. “Lay back.” Wilson shook his head over the remark and carefully leaned back on the exam table. He closed his eyes while House cleaned the rawest of the wounds, hissing over the sting. “So - wrong place at the wrong time?”
“You could say that,” Wilson admitted. He darted a quick look at House before saying, “I wa - I didn’t know I was in the wrong place but it turned out there were a few guys who thought I looked like an easy mark.” House didn’t react, just continued working, swabbing on antiseptic and covered the worst of the gashes. “I thought I cleaned it up okay but it got infected.”
“Yes, you’d think wound care in a gas station restroom would be almost as efficient as here at the clinic,” House sneered.
“Wha- what?”
“Your skin is chafed here,” he touched Wilson’s wrist, “that’s common when washing with the harsh soap most public restrooms use because it’s cheap. And this,” he picked up the sleeve of a gray McGill sweatshirt lying beside Wilson, sniffing noisily, “it smells like that same soap and its stiff because you can’t rinse something this thick out very well by hand.” He let his eyes rake the younger man, “you’re either a really lousy traveling salesman or living on a park bench.” Wilson jerked his arm away but the movement caused his breath to hitch and House took the opportunity to continue. “You seem to be well educated and your clothes are expensive but extremely worn. You haven’t eaten since this morning and you walked here in the rain. I’d say you’re hiding.” Those brown eyes widened, darting around the small space as if he half expected a group of thugs to show up right then. “Someone cares about you - friends - a sibling maybe, your mother probably, but you haven’t asked for help,” House mused, “probably had a falling out with your parents over being gay.”
“I’m not -“
“Please,” House drawled. “You’re very attractive and on the streets. I’d say you made a bad move, misjudged a trick and got a beating for your trouble.” He pulled off his gloves and tossed them away. “Call your family and go home before you end up dead.”
“Thanks,” Wilson snapped. “You’re good - I feel all better.” He grabbed his sweatshirt, and stood with one arm clutched around his ribs. “See you around, doc.”
“Hold it,” House called just before the door shut. Wilson paused, casting a tight look over his shoulder as House limped over to him. “Here,” he held out a prescription. “The pharmacy will fill it for free.” Wilson didn’t even look at the paper as he walked out the door. “Idiot,” House murmured.
The day passed as most did for House, a slow agonizing drain on his energy and stamina. Because everything from getting out of bed in the morning to walking across the room had become a struggle, nothing seemed worth the effort and nothing aroused his interest. He sought diversions from his own misery, but even Cuddy’s continued hounding about establishing a Diagnostic Medicine department, and her subtle attempts to persuade him to hire a team of doctors and take on cases could not diminish his apathy. So he spent his time struggling to entertain himself, to work the system like a wayward child might and slid by on the outside of the rules. It made for a long day, an excruciatingly tedious march of hours that had to be filled with something to keep his mind occupied and House found one such distraction in the form of his last clinic patient; Wilson’s face kept popping into House’s head at odd moments all day.
Concentration wandering from his latest video game, House considered the puzzle of James Wilson. He wasn’t a typical homeless man, educated, articulate, showing no signs of drug use or mental problems, he would have stood out at the local mission like a sore thumb. There had been the disturbing injuries and the fact Wilson hadn’t sough medical attention until infection had set in. He was hiding, of that House was certain, but from what? Intrigued, House went so far as to dig out the man’s file and go over it. The scant information gathered did nothing to dull his interest and night had fallen and the corridors emptied before House pulled himself stiffly from his chair and collected his things. House had never believed in Fate or Destiny, events happened because of what people did, not some Grand Scheme God or the Universe set in motion to teach him a Lesson, so when he passed the closest bus stop and glimpsed a familiar McGill sweatshirt, House’s first thought was that Wilson had set him up.
He circled the block and drove back around. Wilson was sitting in the corner of the covered shelter, gazing at the dirty sidewalk with all the absorption of a man reading a thrilling novel. House angled the ‘vette as close to the little plexi shelter as he could, rolled down the window and shouted. “Hey!” Wilson leapt to his feet, one arm protectively around his middle and even in the dim light House could see panic in those dark eyes. “Easy! It’s Dr. House.”
“House? Oh, yeah,” Wilson stepped a bit closer. House thought he could see rising color in the pale cheeks. “Uh, Dr. House, hey, I was waiting for the bus.”
“Were you?” Wilson glanced around, obviously seeing things from House’s point of view.
“Yeah, must have fallen asleep and missed it.” House continued to stare at him. Wilson shifted uneasily.
House cocked his head to the side and drummed his left hand on the dashboard. There was something about Wilson that intrigued him. “You hungry?” Wilson blinked at him but eventually gave a slow nod. “Good, there’s a diner a couple of blocks over and I’m starved. Get in.” He waited, watching indecision flick over Wilson’s mobile features; he knew the younger man hadn’t eaten all day but there was pride there in that pretty face. There was a mystery about Wilson that had pinged on the radar of his curiosity and House needed a distraction, something that would alleviate some of the loneliness in his life. He stubbornly refused to acknowledge that tiny voice inside his head that told him he had no life, he had nothing but the job that defined his entire world.
“So,” Wilson said an hour later, wiping ketchup off his bottom lip, “what was this? You have to do a couple of hours community service for pissing off your parole officer?”
House swiped a couple of French fries from the heaping mound between them. “I do have a record for being killer handsome and criminally witty, but what makes you think this wasn’t just my Good Deed of the Day?”
Wilson’s laugh was like everything else about him - unpredictable and utterly charming. “You might think I was born yesterday but I was up all night. A man doesn’t cultivate a prickly demeanor like yours if he’s all about “doing for others”. His dark eyes grew impossibly darker, seeming to lose focus as he looked at House. “I watched you in the clinic, you were arrogant and abrasive. You thought it was a waste of your time to treat people for cold sores or the flu when you could be saving lives. You think most people are idiots anyway.” House gave him a wry smile but Wilson went on. “I have no doubt you’re every bit as good as you think you are - you couldn’t be as difficult and rude and still have a job if you weren’t. And yet you don’t care if people know just how good you are, you don’t care what they think. It’s - for you - it’s something inside you that needs to be the best - to know you’ve met some standard.” House looked away, unable to shake the feeling those brown eyes had just seen his soul; every blemish and scar and bleeding wound that covered the very core of his existence was visible to this man. But Wilson hadn’t looked away, he just continued to gaze at House with those calm eyes and a gentle smile on his lips. House wasn’t use to anyone seeing beyond what he presented to the world, he’d spent years building an impenetrable shell and now a stranger had taken one look and seen beyond it to the real him inside.
“You done?” He snapped, pushing the plate away and reaching for his cane.
Wilson eyed him a moment then nodded. “Yeah, thanks.”
House started to slide out of the booth but knew the moment his foot hit the floor standing was going to be a problem. Cold, damp weather played hell with his leg and sitting with it crooked on the vinyl seat for an hour had been monumentally stupid. He fumbled out his pills, gulping one before he slowly levered himself upright. Wilson stood silently by, watching it all with interest but making no effort to help him. House straightened, finding the complete lack of pity or embarrassment a relief. Most of the people he worked with would have been gently clutching his arm and offering assistance and it would have made him sick. Wilson just raised one thick brow and asked, “Is it your knee or your entire leg?”
“Thigh. An infarction five years ago,” House said, surprising himself with the admission, “Lost most of the muscle.”
Wilson nodded. “Well, I best be heading - home.”
House surprised himself again. “You can come home with me.” As soon as the words left his mouth he wanted to take them back. He didn’t know this guy. A homeless man with who knew what kind of problems - maybe not a druggie or schizoid but surely with some kind of deficiency. Only Wilson didn’t act like any homeless people House had ever seen - not that he went around studying homeless people but Wilson was different and different meant interesting. He waited, watching the expression on Wilson’s face and was startled when something resigned settled there.
Wilson nodded, “Okay, thanks.” He followed House to his car and climbed in without a word. The drive wasn’t all that long, House had an apartment only a few miles from the hospital in a rehabbed neighborhood, but it was spent in silence. He pulled to the curb and got out, waiting for Wilson to do the same. “Nice place,” Wilson said, jerking his head towards the brick townhouse. His shoulders were hunched against the chilled air making House realize the other man had nothing but the sweatshirt as protection against the cold.
“It’s home,” House said. He unlocked the door and led the way inside. A brief flash of panic went through him as the lights came on; he had some valuable items, guitars, electronics and collectables that a doctor’s salary easily provided and there was no way he could stop Wilson from robbing him if that was the other man’s intension when accepting the invitation. But he was surprised for the third time that day, this time by his guest.
“So, uh, where’re we doing this?”
House blinked and shook his head, “What?”
Wilson dropped his gaze to the floor, shoulders hunching even more than they had in the cold. “Look, I’m grateful for the meal and for you letting me come here.” He looked up and House could see utter embarrassment. “I know what you think and that’s probably why you helped me, Dr. House. I’ve been on the streets for a while and I know you don’t get anything for free - you have to pay in some way or the other and I don’t have anything else I can use.”
“So you’re gallantly offering your virgin ass?”
Wilson flushed red. “Unless you like it the other way.”
Now House flushed. “No, I don’t.”
Wilson nodded, looking even more resigned than before. “Okay,” he said very quietly, looking up at House. A valiant effort at a smile wavered on his lips and he took a deep breath. “Okay,” he repeated louder, resolved.
House held his gaze. He shook his head, confused, “I’ve got the L-Word TiVoed.” Wilson frowned. “Look, I didn’t invite you here to have sex.” He saw Wilson’s skeptical expression but went on. “I invited you because -“ he stopped, suddenly angry and not knowing why. “I just did, okay? You can stay and watch TV with me or get the fuck out, I don’t care which.” He did but he would never admit it, even to himself. It had nothing to do with the way his apartment echoed or the way his leg hurt or even with the way he knew his life sucked, it had nothing to do with anything. House stalked over to the couch and threw himself onto the cushions, already flicking the TV to life and scrolling through his playlist. He could hear Wilson behind him, the minute shuffle of his shoes on the wooden floor, the faint rustle of his sweatshirt but he didn’t turn around. He’d been stupid - stupid and impulsive and those were two things Gregory House hated being.
“You, uh, like the L Word?”
“I watch it on mute,” House said, not taking his eyes from the screen. In his peripheral vision he saw Wilson come around the couch, hesitate and then sit gingerly on the far end. He looked ready to bolt at any loud noise but he was there and for the first time in a long time House could feel some of the emptiness in his life filling. “It’s got hot women making out with other hot women, what’s not to like?” Wilson huffed a laugh. It took an hour and a couple of beers but eventually Wilson began to relax, sinking back against the cushions with a tired sigh. House began to enjoy the verbal back and forth as Wilson’s halting, self-conscious comments became a real conversation. It turned out the younger man was well read and quick on the up take. He held his own with House, showing a streak of black humor as wide as his host’s and a jaded view on humanity that rivaled House’s own. The evening was one House knew he would not soon forget, it had been a long time, since before Stacy’s leaving, that he’d had someone of his own caliber to talk with, someone who held his interest and didn’t let him get away with anything. They were half way through House’s favorite list when he noticed Wilson wiping sweat from his forehead. “You okay?”
Wilson shrugged. “Fine.” He reached for his beer on the coffee table, downing it in one long gulp but when he wiped his mouth he swept his hand up and over his sweaty brow, and then wiped it on the leg of his faded jeans.
“You really are an idiot. You should have taken the prescription,” House admonished. “You’ve got a fever, you know?”
“Really? I figured it was just my close proximity to your blazing ego,” Wilson said. “Are you always such a jerk?”
“Pretty much.” House pushed himself to his feet with a painful grunt and limped sans cane to his bathroom. He had some antibiotics left from the knife wound someplace in the medicine cabinet and rummaged around until he found them. He brought them and a glass of water back to Wilson, holding the items out in his left hand. “Here, take these.”
“And call you in the morning?”
“Now who’s the jerk?” Wilson grinned at him and House felt that peculiar jolt in his chest again. Wilson was damn good looking and having someone to talk to, joke with, felt - nice. “I’m going to bed,” he saw Wilson tense, “you can sack out here on the couch. There’s some food in the cupboards if you get hungry and you can borrow any of my books if you want to read. I’m a pretty light sleeper,” House warned, “so if you need anything just shout.” He pulled a pillow and some blankets from the closet, holding them out with an impatient little shake. Wilson didn’t take them at first, just stared at him but when reached out, his knuckles brushed House’s as if that was his answer to some silent question he’d been asked. Neither man moved or spoke, but something shifted the air around them, causing both to smile. “Goodnight.” House said gruffly, and left Wilson sitting there staring after him. Later, when he made his way from the bathroom to his bedroom the sight of Wilson curled up under the blanket, his nose in a book brought a sense of peaceful companionship that stayed with House as he fell asleep and his dreams, for once, were pleasant.
Morning arrived and with it the smell of bacon frying and House found himself wondering if the dreams which had played through his mind were somehow becoming real. He staggered to his feet, hissing as his leg protested, and stumbled out of his bedroom without benefit of his cane. Using the wall to hold himself up House followed his nose to the source of the mouthwatering smell. Wilson, barefoot, hair sticking up, and wearing only his faded jeans and a gray t-shirt, stood at the stove. “You can cook?” His question took Wilson by surprise, making him fumble the plate he’d picked up. It fell, smashing to the floor, where it broke in half. Wilson stared in horror at the mess, but House was already limping close, asking, “Where’d you find pancake flour? I didn’t think I had any.”
“Dr. House,” Wilson started.
“It’s just House. And bacon!” He sniffed loudly, peering eagerly into the pan, “It smells great.”
“I’m sorry about the plate, I’ll pay -“
“You can pay by not burning this bacon,” House snatched a potholder from the counter and tossed it at Wilson. Taking the hint, Wilson rescued their breakfast as House got out another plate, filling both with bacon, pancakes and scrambled eggs. He followed House, who had grabbed the orange juice carton and a glass, and they settled on Wilson’s makeshift bed. “Mmm, good,” House murmured around a mouthful of pancake.
“Secret is putting syrup in the batter,” Wilson explained, “my mom taught me that. Hope you don’t mind my rummaging around your kitchen.”
“Not if this is the result.” He shoveled in perfectly round silver dollar sized pancakes with amazing speed. It had been years since he’d actually been able to eat breakfast; waking up in pain, and his morning dose of Vicodin normally quelled any desire for food until noon but Wilson’s cooking was making his mouth water, leaving him ravenous. He could see the shy smile on Wilson’s face as ate, a small pleased expression that made him look very young and vulnerable and that expression touched something in House that he had thought more lost than his appetite - contentment. He finished the eggs and bacon and belched loudly, settling back while Wilson finished his own breakfast. His companion ate slowly, savoring each bite as if it might be the last and House had a brief flash of Wilson staring longingly at the diner menu from the night before, his face a study in desire.
A strange feeling assailed House, it had been a while since he’d felt a sense of longing, but it had usually come when he pulled a life back from the brink of death, when he solved a riddle no one else could have and turned to find no one cared. He’d been alone most of his life, living inside his own head but there had been times he’d wanted to reach out, hoping to find an equal, a person whom he could talk to on an even footing, a person who understood his humor and could distract him from the swirling thoughts that raced ragtag through his brain 24/7. Stacy had almost been that, she had made him happy but she had hurt him in the name of love, she had taken away his choice, made it for him and left him crippled by it. Still, he missed her, the easy give and take between them and the feeling of being understood.
“My mom learned to cook on a camp stove when I was a kid,” House volunteered. He could feel the weight of Wilson’s stare, “My dad was a Marine pilot, we followed him from base to base and sometimes the amenities were a bit lacking.” He’d never told anyone about his childhood, but somehow telling Wilson felt, not so much like revealing a secret, but like sharing a memory.
“I bet you earned your first Merit Badge in fire making,” Wilson teased.
“Nah, kicked out for anti-social behavior,” House said. Wilson smiled, and his shoulder brushed House’s in a gesture that didn’t seem out of place between them at all. He would be the first to admit that Wilson probably wanted only a warm place to sleep and a good meal but he was smart and interesting and there was a puzzle behind his living on the streets. House had no illusions that Wilson was little more than a distraction. He would use Wilson and Wilson would use him and if for a little while they were content then it wasn’t such a bad thing.
Weeks passed and House found out having Wilson stay with him really wasn’t a bad thing. He grew to like the twinkle Wilson got in his eye whenever he teased House and the blush which colored his cheeks when House got his own back. Night became House’s favorite part of the day when before he’d dreaded the endless dark hours. He could leave the world of medical intrigue behind and know he would still find something to challenge him when he got home. To an outsider it might appear that all they did was watch TV and talk but their conversations curled and twisted back on themselves, sentences took on double then triple meanings, upping the ante with each word.
But even as he grew comfortable with Wilson, House knew he wasn’t capable of sustaining any normal human connection, he was all sharp edges, drawing blood with a refusal to pretend the world was a nice place and people loved one another. He knew life for the lies it held and the pain it caused but for a while he was willing to play along. But he could appreciate the fact there was someone when he came home, someone who didn’t judge him. He could be rude and petty and Wilson accepted that. He could rant about the stupidity of clinic patients and all Wilson would do would be throw in a helpful adjective when he got stuck for one. They might be using each other but House discovered that using each other had resulted in a bizarre thing - they had become friends and he wished it would last.
&&&
They settled into a routine; Wilson taking a job at the local market and acting as a weird kind of manservant in between, cooking and cleaning and doing laundry.
“What is this crap?” House asked, one evening, hovering over a steaming pan. He cautiously dipped a spoon into the bubbling concoction and lifted it to his lips to blow away steam.
“Just something I picked up,” Wilson said. He had his back to the stove, sleeves rolled up as he chopped vegetables, “you know, while I was rummaging through garbage cans. You like Alpo or are you more a Whiskas kinda guy?”
“Oh, snap,” House mocked and tasted the sauce. He turned to face Wilson, grinning at the domestic picture he presented. “I didn’t know the homeless could be so overly sensitive.”
“Some are,” Wilson said. “Me, I use to spend my days weeping - and talking to invisible clowns.” He glanced over at House, “Now they’re visible.”
House shot him a glare and reached over to snatch a green pepper from the cutting board just as Wilson, knowing what he was doing, shifted to block the theft and the two men collided with an audible thud. For a moment they stood, House resting against Wilson’s back, one arm over his shoulder in an awkwardly intimate embrace. House could feel the edge of Wilson’s spine press into him with every breath and as weird as it should have been, he found a strange comfort in it. Wilson seemed to feel it too and when he turned a questioning look on House his cheek brushed softly against House’s bare arm. House reigned in a crazy desire to kiss him, instead sighing, “Thwarted again.”
“Get out of the kitchen, House,” Wilson warned, and his voice carried a wistful edge that hadn’t been there before, “Or I’ll stab you to death and then eat spaghetti on your piano.”
“Kindly Doctor Gutted by Deranged Homeless Chef,” House declared. “This better be edible or you’re back on the streets, Bobo.” Wilson’s laughter followed him into the living room. That night as he lay in bed, House could still remember the warmth of Wilson’s cheek on his skin and that taste seemed to whet his appetite for more.
Poised for weeks on an edge of anticipation, that one touch seemed to signal the beginning slide and when, six weeks after Wilson’s first night on his couch Gregory House fell, they found themselves tumbling together into the unknown. House hated his physical vulnerability. He hated falling, he hated the horror on bystanders faces and their solicitous manners, their hands on his body as they tried to help him up. This time it wasn’t a particularly bad fall, he’d taken worse, but it occurred in front of patients and he could feel bruises forming as livid as the humiliation. He went home, aching and sore and in no mood for company. For just an instant when he opened the door to his townhouse he forgot Wilson was there but then he heard the man call his name. “House? That you?”
“Who the fuck else would it be?” House growled. He didn’t want sympathy or companionship, or the little woman soothing his fevered brow, he wanted a stiff drink and a hot shower and he wanted to be whole again. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Wilson hesitate in the doorway and a bitter and self-congratulatory sneer curled his lip. “Make yourself useful and get me a beer,” he commanded. “Least you can do,” House muttered, “sponging off me.” He didn’t need anyone. He lived with pain each and every day so Wilson could just get use to it, get him a beer and get out of his way so he could suffer in peace. House lowered himself gingerly onto the couch, unable to stifle the groan of pain which flared through him.
“What’s wrong?”
The voice cut through the roaring ache racing up his leg and made House grip the arm of the couch harder. “Nothing. Now either get me the beer or get out!” He’d come to like having the other man there more than he’d liked anything in years but that didn’t mean he wanted to suffer in front of him. He could feel the sweat trickling down between his shoulder blades and closed his eyes, willing the other man away. He heard soft footsteps retreating and a rueful bubble of resignation swept through him. Everyone looked out for themselves; it was human nature after all.
A moment later the footsteps returned but House resolutely kept his eyes closed. He’d swallowed three Vicodin since the fall so the fire in his leg and hip had died to hot embers, the throb in his swollen right wrist remained dull but the drugs had done nothing to ease the burning scrape along his cheek, it continued to nag at him like a thorn. “Here,” Wilson said quietly. House opened his eyes, ready to flay Wilson, but the sight of a cold beer and damp cloth stopped him. “Might help,” Wilson said, shrugging. He waited but when House didn’t take either, set the beer down and tossed the cloth onto the table beside it, sat down and flicked on the TV. “There’s a Cary Grant marathon on TCM tonight, wanna watch it?”
House stared at his companion’s profile in the silvery light from the TV screen, an involuntary smile curling the corner of his mouth. No sympathy, no fuss, nothing but a sincere attempt to help that could be taken or rejected without causing a scene. He reached awkwardly for the cloth, but a stab of pain caused it to drop from his suddenly nerveless fingers. Wilson caught it with a quickness that almost looked like he’d been waiting for just such an event to occur. “Let me,” he said quietly, eyes unreadable. House nodded and after a moment’s hesitation Wilson shoved back the coffee table and knelt in front of him. He worked slowly, efficiently, his touch warm and gentle against House’s cheek as he cleaned the wound. House took the opportunity to study Wilson’s face as he worked, liking what he saw. Wilson was handsome, almost too good looking with a broad forehead and high cheekbones and the darkest brown eyes House had ever seen. Most people with brown eyes had flecks of other colors within them; gold, copper, amber, or bronze but Wilson’s were rare, so dark the black pupil was nearly indistinguishable. When he finished and looked up they seemed to have taken on an even darker, savage hue. House reached out, catching Wilson’s hand, stilling it somewhere between them. The moment stretched to a fine brittle line, drawing out time until House was sure the world around them had stopped spinning.
“I - ,” he started but didn’t know what else to say. It had been too long since he’d sought comfort and even then it had been a prickly brand of unspoken emotion and clueless need. “I don’t need pity,” he rasped. Because he’d always been the smartest kid in the class and an outsider, he’d developed a curiously lopsided personality. He had tremendous confidence, bordering on arrogance, in his own intellect, others were idiots in comparison and that made making friends an impossible task. That lack of companions and socialization had, in turn, left him feeling vulnerable and self conscious which fed his solitary nature. He understood people, the study of human nature had become an obsession over the years but he’d never learned to apply that knowledge in the non-hypocritical way that friendship required.
Stacy had been an anomaly, a woman as brusque and uncompromising as himself, after she’d gone House had gotten use to being alone again. Now he realized the cynicism inside him had actually been loneliness and as weird as it seemed, it had taken a homeless stranger to make him understand that. He’d been a stranger to his own parents, a mystery to his peers, a presence more tolerated than embraced since childhood. Wilson instinctively understood him and as if to underscore that Wilson nodded, a wordless acknowledgement of the thing between them. “You’re hurting,” he said, “I can help you. It’s that simple.” They both got to their feet, Wilson smoothly, House with a gasping groan, and together moved to House’s bedroom. “This would be a good time to say something wittily ironic,” House observed.
“Or ironically witless,” Wilson said with a shrug. House laughed in spite of his embarrassment; somehow with Stacy’s departure he’d never imagine laughter in his bedroom again.
“How ‘bout - “Come here often?” House admitted it was a lame attempt but he was - lame. He sat down with a grimace, tired and sore, and lost inside his own heart.
“Take your pants off,” Wilson ordered.
“Wow,” House said with a smirk, “from hetro to homo in ten seconds flat.”
“Ha,” Wilson said. “Massage. Yes, it’s a euphemism for hot sex so humor me and strip.” Leaving House struggling with his shirts, he disappeared into the bathroom, returning with a bottle of scented oil and a thick towel. “Your enthusiasm is underwhelming.” He knelt and tugged off House’s socks, looking up with an another unreadable expression. “Your jeans,” he said quietly. House hadn’t stripped off in front of anyone since the infarction. He could feel his heart pick up speed and his mouth grow dry at the prospect. “I’ll help you,” Wilson said. His hands were sure and gentle as he worked the snap and zipper. He waited, providing support while House got to his feet, and shoved his jeans down, exposing the sunken mess of his right thigh. “Did they save your life?” Wilson asked. House could feel the heat from his palm as Wilson reached out, not touching the ruined muscle, but letting his hand hover a millimeter from his skin.
“That’s what they tell me,” House said. Wilson nodded, standing slowly until they were face to face.
“You don’t believe it.” Not a question. House shook his head anyway and Wilson nodded again. The first time they touched Wilson felt strange in his arms, like a rival on the basketball court who had stumbled into him, someone to be fought against, pushed. Their bodies did not fit together, their elbows jostled and their knees bumped but when Wilson leaned in and kissed him, it all changed. House could feel the tension inside him ease, his arms came up and folded around Wilson’s waist, his groin nestled against Wilson’s thigh and another set of strong arms tightened around his shoulders. It felt right, to stand like that in someone’s embrace, with their heart beating against his own - right up until his battered body rebelled. House sucked in a pained breath and Wilson chuckled. “Romance might not be dead but it’s badly bruised.” He helped House lie down then sat beside him. “Close your eyes.”
“Gonna go through my pockets for my wallet?” House asked.
“You’re not wearing pants,” Wilson pointed out.
“Metaphorically speaking,” House said but complied. The bed dipped and he could feel the silken brush of skin along his thigh as Wilson settled beside him. A moment passed in which he thought this was the worst idea he’d ever had but them a glorious sensation spread through his body. He’d always though sex the ultimate phenomenon but having Wilson’s oil slick hands gliding over his stomach and up his chest put that idea to rest. He sighed as his shoulders and biceps were massaged, Wilson lavished every inch of his skin with particular attention. House had a moment of panic when those talented hands slipped down his flanks; he couldn’t help his involuntary flinch as Wilson’s fingers trailed lightly over his right thigh, but Wilson quickly sensed his discomfort and began instead to work the knots out of his calf and foot. House could only moan his pleasure.
“Feel good?” Wilson asked.
“You must do this for a living,” House gasped. He could feel his muscles melting as tension drained away. For the last two years not a day had gone by that his shoulders hadn’t hurt from using his cane, now they oozed relief. His feet, back and both legs paid the price of his unnatural gait and sometimes the relief of just sitting down made him dizzy but Wilson had chased it all away. He’d tapped into ever ache, seeking them out with gentle pressure, coaxing the twisted and bunched muscles back into place until House imagined he could get up and run a marathon - once he slept for a week.
“I was an accountant,” Wilson said softly, bringing House’s wandering mind back. House opened one eye and peered at him. “Yep, boring number cruncher.”
“What happened?”
Wilson didn’t answer right away, he slid his hands under House and urged him onto his stomach, going to work on the thick bands of muscle along his spine before laying into the trapezoids. When he did answer it took House’s sluggish mind a second to catch up. “I - quit. My wife - hey!” House had jerked at the mention of a wife, but Wilson pressed him back down flat. “Ex-wife, I should say. My ex-wife was having an affair.” House could feel the tension which had left his body take up residence in Wilson. “My life was falling apart - I needed a change. She - she took everything and one day I woke up huddled under a shelter in the park.”
“How long ago?”
“Eight - no, ten months,” Wilson said. “I just drifted around until I got robbed and then -“ He broke off and House reached up awkwardly to grasp his hand.
“Until I rescued you like the cutest puppy at the pound.”
“That’s not exactly the way I remember it,” Wilson said. He grinned at House, running his thumb along the palm of House’s hand, soothing the callused skin with tiny little circles. He moved, lying down so that his chest covered most of House’s back, their hands still entwined. “You insulted me, and made me feel like - I had insulted myself.” His words were whispers but resonated through House as if they had been shouted. “I knew I wanted something else, something more.” His lips brushed along House’s shoulders, branding him with small kisses. “You ticked me off but even when I wanted to kick that cane out from under you, I - liked you. I’d never been with a guy but even right then I wanted to feel you against me.” House shifted onto his left side, and reached up to cup Wilson’s cheek, drawing him for another kiss.
It burned between them, melting their lips together until only the threat of suffocation forced them apart. “Like that?” He asked.
“Yeah,” Wilson said, “just like that.” His gaze flicked down to House’s mouth again and they traded kisses, each more possessive than the last. House remembered nights with Stacy and the gentle lovemaking which had seemed at odds with their stormy relationship. His relationship with Wilson had so far been smooth sailing maybe that meant the thing between them would be wild and uncontrollable. That thought ignited a base desire to test the limits and he surged against Wilson, wrestling control with a twist of his body. He looked down at Wilson’s face - the slightly swollen lips, the sharp planes of his cheekbones, the heavy line of his brows and found himself lost in the hooded hunger in turbulent brown eyes.
Sex with a man was different than with a woman in more than the obvious way; women wanted the build up, the soft climb to pleasure but men tended to be all about the end results. Neither wanted soft or gentle, the attraction that had grown between them roared to life like an animal. Wilson made a guttural sound and House clawed the bedside drawer open, groping for a tube of KY. He used his teeth or pry the cap off and sent a generous amount into Wilson’s waiting palms. They scrabbled around, pulling and pressing at each other, kisses more like bites until House settled himself between the strongly muscled thighs, using one hand to align their now lubed cocks and gave an experimental thrust into the hot center of flesh they had created. Wilson shuddered beneath him, his face tight with some emotion that flickered on and off in his eyes like a broken neon sign.
House settled closer, his weight trapping their erections together and forcing Wilson’s thighs just a bit wider. Cradled, his leg hurt, but the pain added an extra layer of sensation and sent his pulse jumping. Wilson’s slick skin burned along his flanks, clamping tighter around him and keeping him locked in place. Slowly, eyes seeking the elusive thrill just as their bodies were, they began to rock. Gasping and cursing, clashing in dull slaps of skin on skin, pulling apart and ramming together again, they built on their need, finding a rhythm that reached down and touched the white hot core of passion. House wanted to drive himself deep into Wilson, to breech him and discover every secret hidden inside him. He stared down into Wilson’s eyes, at once drawn in by a reflected desire but repulsed by the vulnerability such a desire created. He ruthlessly turned away from the emotionally need, instinctively backing away. Jerking each other off was just like fucking but fucking was nothing like making love.
House slammed into Wilson, twisting so that pain flared up from his leg, rode along his spine and down into his heart. He heard the muffled groan beneath him and felt Wilson rise up, one leg hooking over his lower back and clamping them tighter. It hurt, it roared through him in a sweltering flash that charred his nerves and it was all he could do not to howl. Wilson was gasping and pushing up against him, his face shining with need, his eyes wild, mouth forming his name in a throaty whisper. In that instant House forgot all about the distancing himself from emotion. He wanted Wilson to scream his name, he wanted to feel those limbs envelop him, he wanted to taste his mouth, his skin, his heart. Orgasm flashed through them like ball lightning, jumping from House to Wilson in an arc so bright the room seemed to turn white.
“Sh-shit,” House gasped and collapsed onto Wilson. He would have liked to roll off him, to just curl up and sleep as if none of this changed things, but Wilson put his arms around him and House closed his eyes. Something deep inside him relaxed and a deep sense of peace descended, his whole body sagged with weariness that had weighed at him for too long. Wilson moved beneath him and a second later the sheet was pulled up to cover their cooling bodies. House sighed, wondering how the hell he’d let this happened. What he had shared with Stacy had been nothing like this. Wilson dropped a gentle kiss into his hair and he couldn’t help but burrow closer as the arms around him tightened their hold, protecting him from the thoughts colliding inside his head.