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 Two:
“My, you look cozy,” Dr. Lisa Cuddy said from the doorway.
House opened his eyes, pulling one earbud free, his gaze raking her curvaceous figure, lingering on her breasts. “And you look positively slutty,” he replied, “and I mean that in the most flattering way possible.”
“Oh, I’m sure you do,” Cuddy said. Not the best comeback she’d ever delivered but she found herself momentarily distracted by House’s demeanor. He was ensconced in the yellow lounge chair in the corner of his office. She, herself, had arranged for its placement there not long after he came back to work. They never spoke of it, or the operation that had left him crippled, but she had known he would need to be off his feet at times during the day and the chair had been a slight appeasement to her own feelings of guilt. Right now House looked amazingly content in it, long legs crossed at the ankles, his lean face lit by a ecstatic smile, and his attention focused on a Tupperware container on his lap. Cuddy peered at the plastic bowl, the scent of chocolate suddenly reaching her in the still office air. “Are you eating - chocolate chip cookies?”
“Yep, chocolate chip and pecan slices of heaven,” he said biting into another cookie and smacking his lips noisily. She made a small move and he pulled the container protectively to his chest as if afraid she might be thinking about helping herself to one. Cuddy smiled, heartened by this brief flash of the old House, the one before pain had killed his unbridled enthusiasm and smothered the sliver of humility he’d occasionally shown. He had been funny, way too intelligent for his own good, active, almost charming at times, and as exuberant about his pleasures as any child. To see him sitting there, grinning at her, his chin dusted with cookie crumbs and his eyes dancing, made her heart contract with hope.
“Where’d you get these little celestial wonders?”
“A friend,” House replied coyly.
“A - friend?” Her skepticism reflected in her tone caused House to withdraw; walls came back up around his emotions, slamming into place with a resounding clank. Cuddy realized the moment was quickly passing.
“Yes,” he said with a petulant look and Cuddy had a sudden wild need to find out just who this friend was and how he or she had managed to make even a slight change in House. Even before his illness House hadn’t been sociable, he could be charming when he wanted something but his arrogance and razor wit were never tempered by empathy. He had always been an outsider, an acquaintance known by many but never truly known to anyone. Whoever this mysterious friend was, Cuddy hoped they stuck around, it would make life a lot easier for all of them and maybe it would bring House a little happiness.
“Here,” she said, tossing a file onto the ottoman beside his feet. She’d not planned on giving it to him for a few weeks, but his mood seemed, not quite receptive, but more lighthearted than she had seen him in years.
“What’s this?” He asked, nudging it with the toe of one Nike.
“Fellowship application. I thought you might like to go over it.”
House scowled at her. “Whose department?”
Cuddy gifted him with her most innocent smile. “Yours.” She walked away holding her breath. She’d been looking for a small opening that might allow her to help chip away the shell of anger and isolation that had scabbed over his heart. House had never been the most trusting of people but since - Stacy - he had retreated from the world. That had changed, he was different. Somehow, someone had started the process and if she could get him to accept a Fellow, maybe two, who knew, he might develop some kind of an emotional attachment to them. The thought cheered her, but left her feeling slightly uneasy.
&&&
Lisa Cuddy pulled up in front of 221B Baker Street, parked and got out. She had not been to House’s apartment, not this one. She and Stacy Rand had been friends, close friends, she’d introduced Stacy to Greg House and stood back to watch them work their way from mutual loathing to fiery passion in little more than two months. In those days she’d been friends with both, but after House’s illness and the resentment that had begun to fester and eat away at his love for Stacy, her own guilt in the events which left him crippled had driven a wedge between them as well. She regretted losing that closeness, they could still work together, he understood as a physician she’d had no choice but to follow Stacy’s wishes, but they were no longer the friends they had been. Her visit today was a culmination of curiosity and guilt. House had been acting differently, almost - happy since their little conversation in his office and a desire to know the source warred with a sense of relief. He hadn’t been anything other than miserable for nearly five years, his physical pain mirroring the pain in his soul.
She rang the doorbell, her surprise not that it went unanswered for a long moment but that when it finally opened she was greeted by a brown-haired young man whose heavy brows rose gracefully over chocolate brown eyes. “Uh, I was looking for House,” Cuddy said, leaning back to frown at the house numbers. “Dr. Gregory House,” she said again, returning her gaze to the young man.
“You must be Cuddy,” he said with a wry smile. His dark eyes dropped to her cleavage and rose quickly. “House described you.” He blushed hotly and stammered, “he said you were beautiful.”
“Was he high at the time?” Cuddy asked.
“Not - that I know of,” the man replied. He seemed to remember his manners and held out a hand. “I’m James Wilson. I’m, uh, staying with House.”
“The friend.” At Wilson’s startled look Cuddy added, “You made him cookies.”
“Well, yes. He threatened to shot himself with the nail gun if I didn’t.” Wilson stepped back and let her in, “I figure getting blood stains off the curtains would be more difficult than making cookies.” Cuddy grinned, liking Wilson already.
“Not the way I bake,” Cuddy said. She took a second to glance around the place, smiling at the chaotic collection of musical instruments, motorcycle magazines and video games. The place radiated a cozy warmth, book lined shelves flanked the fireplace, his baby grand piano gleamed under the front windows and everywhere she looked she could see his quirky personality. What she didn’t see was any evidence of his mysterious James Wilson’s influence.
“House isn’t here,” Wilson said, and gestured her towards the couch. “But as his boss I would assume you know that.” He smiled to lessen the bite of his words, “So I guess this isn’t about him.”
“No,” Cuddy hedged, “not exactly.” She smiled as well.
Wilson took a seat opposite her, fitting into the unorthodox surrounds comfortably. “You’re wondering who I am and why I’m here,” he said and went on before Cuddy could even pretend she wasn’t. “I’m a homeless clinic patient Dr. House took in out of the goodness of his heart.”
Somewhere outside traffic buzzed like a summer cicada but inside time sat quietly waiting. Cuddy stared at him, lips parted, brow furrowed and then she threw her head back and laughed, “He set me up!”
Wilson blinked. “What?”
Cuddy, still chuckling, said, “It’s okay, Mr. Wilson. I don’t need to know how you got here.” Her mirth faded but her smile grew warm, her eyes serious, “I’m just glad you are. House needs friends. He always has but no one has ever stuck around.” A tiny glint of steel appeared behind the warmth of her gray eyes, “I hope you will.”
Wilson regarded her for a long moment, “I plan on it, Dr. Cuddy. I really do but - life doesn’t always play fair.” She was surprised by the fear in his eyes.
“He doesn’t trust easily,” she said. “And if he lets you in and gets hurt - I don’t think he would ever let anyone else in. Don’t hurt him, please.”
Wilson’s gaze dropped to the floor. “I’ll try,” he whispered. When he looked up his eyes glittered with emotion. “I’ve never felt like this before, Dr. Cuddy. Believe me.” Cuddy did.
&&&
That night House came home exhausted, barely holding himself with his cane. “Big news,” Wilson said, picking up House’s discarded coat, “we got a shipment of fresh aubergine at the store.” House gifted him with a bleary stare. “Okay, I’m thinking you aren’t in the mood for eggplant parmesan.”
“Not the best offer I’ve had,” House said and managed to leer at him. He set his keys on the desk and as he did, dislodged a watch from one of the shelves. Wilson made a grab for it before it hit the floor.
“Here,” he held the watch out. It looked expensive, the inlaid face sparkling with a diamond at twelve and the case obviously 24 karat. Only the band showed its age, worn and cracked, the leather strap had been fastened through a set of beautiful weddings rings.
House took the watch and rings, holding them with a look of tender affection. “My grandparents,” he said by way of explanation. “I’d spend months at a time with them, when my parents couldn’t take me to a temporary posting.” He closed his hand around the precious heirlooms and shrugged. “These always make me think of home.”
“Everyone needs a home,” Wilson said quietly.
House nodded and put the items back where they had been. He hadn’t thought of his mother’s parents in a long time, they had been the only stable thing in his life as a child. He glanced at Wilson and saw a spark of sadness in the man’s face. Maybe he wasn’t the only one who missed the embrace of a loving home. “I think that eggplant can wait. I’m more in the mood for dessert.” A boyish grin spread across Wilson’s face and he leaned in to plant slow, chaste kisses along his jaw. He nuzzled House’s cheek, licked his earlobe then blew a sigh across the wet flesh, causing a shiver to race down House’s spine. “Are you sure you’re not a hooker?”
“A hooker would be better paid,” Wilson assured him. He proceeded to lead House back to the bedroom then stripped him and pushed him back against the pillows on their bed. “Maybe I can earn a few dollars.” Eyes locked on House, he seductively unbuttoned his shirt, peeling it off his shoulders to expose his smooth chest. Faint scars were still visible on his pale skin, reminders of how they had met, but Wilson didn’t dwell on that, just made a show of dropping the shirt and going to work on the snap of his jeans. With a sensual sway of his hips, Wilson teased the zipper down, inching the denim lower and lower. “Damn!” He’d forgotten to take off his shoes and his jeans got caught on his sneakers.
“I’d stuff a dollar in your pocket,” House roared, “but I don’t think you’ve got change!”
Wilson sat down in an ungainly heap on the floor, struggling to untie his sneakers, eventually ripped them and his socks off, then worked his jeans off. With a defeated sigh he climbed into bed beside the still sniggering House and settled against the headboard with arms crossed. “Now I see why they get the big money,” he said once House had quieted to the occasional giggle.
“You’ll just have to practice,” House advised him. After a pause their eyes met and both men began to laugh. House rolled over, taking Wilson in his arms and kissed him. Their love making had gentled from the first desperate time, now it seemed to stem from their teasing, boyish high jinx giving way to intense passion, their bodies moving together, seeking and finding the places which gave the greatest pleasure. House allowed himself a glimmer of happiness, to forget just for a little while how much life had hurt him. He came with a shuddering groan, straining against Wilson as they clung to each other.
Later as they lay together, sweat moist bodies cooling, House stroked Wilson’s damp hair. He was a fool, he knew it. How had he allowed himself to care for this man? They barely knew each other and Wilson was hiding something, but when they were together nothing else seemed to matter. They balanced each other, they each possessed what the other needed. House sighed and closed his eyes, wanting to hang onto the moment for fear it would vanish never to be retrieved. He was startled out of a light doze by Wilson asking, “Am I someone else in your head?”
And when he answered, House was genuinely surprised by the love he felt. “No,” he said, his head over Wilson’s heart, “you’re just you.”
&&&
Wilson wiped his hands on the dish towel, calling, “How could you forget your keys, the one for that damn bike is on the ring?” He snatched the door open, all ready to abuse House over his latest interruption but could only stand there, open mouthed at the sight before him.
“Why, Mr. Wilson,” Edward Vogler purred, “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.” Wilson’s chest heaved on a stifled shout and he made to slam the door but a beefy arm shot out and the wooden door bounced back with a crack. Vogler smiled, gesturing at the bodyguard. “This is Frank.” He followed his companion inside, looking around House’s apartment as if he meant to rent it the moment House was gone. That thought made Wilson go cold inside.
“You can’t come in here,” he warned. “This is a private residence. I’ll call the police.”
Vogler gave him a fond smile. “I don’t think you will, Jim. I hope you don’t mind me calling you that. We’ve been through so much together, I feel as if we have a special bond.” He picked up one of House’s records, a blues album by some long dead musician, pulling it from the sleeve to admire the gleaming vinyl disc, and with a grin he snapped it in two.
“No!” Wilson shrieked and lunged forward but the bodyguard caught him, jerking his left arm up behind his back, and pinning his right down as he struggled desperately to be free. Voglar watched without expression, seemingly unfazed by the fact Wilson was having his shoulder slowly torn from its socket.
“Now that I have your attention,” Vogler went on as if he’d merely commented on the wall color, “I want you to listen to me.” He leaned in, his bulky body so solid and wall-like that a feeling of claustrophobia arose in Wilson and he struggled harder. Pain seared along his arm and across his chest and breathing became difficult. “I thought you understood, Jim,” Vogler said, almost fondly, “I thought when I took everything from you that you understood just how angry I was with you.”
“You bastard!” Wilson hissed.
“Rich bastard,” Vogler corrected him. “I’m so rich I can buy and sell little accountants like you a hundred times before I’ve had my breakfast.” He smiled warmly, “I want you out of here, Jim. I want you back on the street where you belong, back with the filth and the whores and addicts. I want you crawling in the sewers and when you are I want you to be thinking about me. I told you that I would crush anyone you cared about and I meant it.” He glanced around House’s apartment, taking in the fine furnishings, the piano, the books before his eyes came to rest on Wilson’s obviously new clothes. He reached out, and Wilson flinched. “He treats you nice. You treat him nice in return?”
“He’s doesn’t-“ Wilson broke off, groaning as his arm was wrenched higher. “D-oesn’t know anything,” Wilson panted. “Leave him alone!”
“Oh, I think I should be the one giving orders,” Vogler said and shot a look at the bodyguard who immediately pulled his arm higher. Wilson instinctively pushed himself onto his toes, trying to take some of the pressure off his shoulder but Voglar laid a heavy hand on the side of his neck, keeping him firmly in place. “Here’s what you’re going to do.”
&&&
James Wilson stood with his back pressed to the wall, body shaking with the force of his rasping breaths. His eyes darted around the apartment, taking in what he had done with a kind of sick horror. He hated himself for it, hated Vogler even more. House didn’t deserve this - not this. He cared deeply for House despite the older man’s gruff exterior and arrogant manner. He could be disarmingly funny, there had been nights all they did was talk, House telling the most outrageous anecdotes and it was all Wilson could do to keep from falling on the floor with laughter. House could even be weirdly considerate; he’d spent a small fortune buying Wilson clothes, then acting as if the only reason was to keep himself from being embarrassed by Wilson’s company when they went out to eat or a movie. And when they stayed in that abrasive manner disappeared and House made Wilson feel - wanted. Sex had become making love, emotions tumbled around them like snowflakes, each one unique and delicate. Their bond defied logic and description but felt so right, went so deep that the knowledge of what he was about to do tore a gaping wound in Wilson’s soul, one that he knew would never heal. A sound reached his ears over the rasping of his own breaths, the sound of House’s Corvette pulling up outside. With a final desperate sound Wilson pushed himself away from the wall and straightened. He started to reach for the small duffle bag on the desk but a jolt of pain shot through his shoulder and forced him to use his right hand.
House’s distinctive gait echoed from the foyer an instant before he called, “Hey, Wilson!” The door swung open and House shuffled in, a brown bag cradled in his free arm. “Wilson, I got movies.” He stopped, frowning. Desk drawers lay empty on the floor, bookshelves were wiped clean, and his collection of toys lay among the debris. Wilson stood in the center of it all. “What’re you doin’?”
“What’s it look like?” Wilson snapped. He crammed House’s PSP into the bag, zipped it up and slung it over his shoulder.
“It looks like your stealing all my stuff,” House said.
“That’s exactly what I’m doing,” Wilson said. He moved towards House, eyes locked to the older man’s, his face as impassive as he could make it. “I’ve wasted too much time already. I usually don’t f-fuck my marks, at least not like I did with you. Thanks for everything. Forgive me if I don’t keep in contact but with this haul I’ll be able to get out of this goddamn town and away from you.” He brushed passed House, stopping only when the other man’s voice filled the space between them.
“Not even a goodbye kiss? Damn, Wilson, that’s harsh.”
“You aren’t going to try and stop me?”
House’s expression mocked him, “Uh, crippled, remember?” His withering gaze flicked over Wilson before he advised, “Pawn my DVD someplace close so I can get it back.” He turned away, limping to the couch and sitting down. “Don’t forget to lock the door behind you,” he said, “Wouldn’t want to get robbed in the middle of the night.” He flipped on the TV and lay back, feet on the coffee table. Wilson paused, wanting to say something, to wipe away the hurt on House’s face but Vogler’s voice rang in his ears, louder than the pounding of his heart. He closed the door behind him, flinching as the lock engaged and the cool air cut him to the bone.
&&&
House watched the images flicker before him with no idea who they were or what they were doing. All he could see was the flat brown eyes which had just crushed the small sense of happiness that had been kindled inside him. He reached for his pill bottle swallowing two before he closed his eyes and willed his mind to empty. Wilson had used him. He had come into his home and used him, stolen from him. He couldn’t live without his heart - House’s eyes sprang open. No, without his DVD player. He couldn’t live without his DVD player. He took a claming breath and lay back down.
He should have known all along it would end like this. Wilson was just like everyone else. Memories of brown eyes filled with laughter returned, making him smile. He could feel the caress of strong hands on his arms, muscled legs wrapping around him, a stubbled jaw rasping against his own. He didn’t want to remember or feel of think. He eyed the Vicodin bottle. People thought he had a death wish - Cuddy did, that stupid psychiatrist at PPTH did, but House didn’t want to die. Not now, not even after the infarction when he realized he would never have his old life back. Being crippled gave him permission to be himself, so what if he was an asshole, he had an excuse, didn’t he? He was crippled, he was in pain. He took another pill, washing it down with the scotch he saved for unbearable nights and closed his eyes. He was in pain.
&&&
“Christ, House! If you’re going to kill yourself could you give me two weeks notice?” Lisa Cuddy’s voice cut through the haze in his brain. House struggled to focus his eyes, finally succeeding enough that her cleavage swam into view. She straightened up and his vision wobbled with her until their eyes met. “How much did you drink?” She asked.
“Not enough,” House rasped. He reached out, clumsily knocking a bottle over as he tried to pick it up.
“Uh-uh.” Cuddy pushed everything out of his way, disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a plastic bottle of water. “Here.” House took it, holding the bottle with both hands, letting the cool liquid drip down his chin as he gulped it. His head cleared a little, some of the cotton wool unraveling.
“What’re you doing here?”
“You missed your clinic hours,” Cuddy explained. “I thought I’d come over and see if you were all right?” She cast a hard look around the place, “What kind of party did you have last night?”
“Shut up,” he whispered, then louder, “Shut up!”
“House?” Cuddy sat down beside him, her perfume and her warmth drawing him. “What happened here? Where’s your - friend?”
House glared at her, “How do you know about Wilson?”
Cuddy colored. “I - I came over a couple of days ago. He was here.” She waited but House didn’t say anything. “He seemed very nice. Where is he?”
“Pickin’ out his next boyfriend,” House said with a twisted grin. “He’ll be a great catch, got his own DVD, bunch of cash, my grandparent’s jewelry.”
“He -“
“What the hell did you expect?”
“But - I thought - he wasn’t really - “Cuddy stumbled to a halt, confusion written clearly on her face. “He said he was a homeless patient you’d taken in, but I thought he was joking.”
“Joke was on me,” House said. He slumped back against the cushions. “Look, I’m not up to working today.”
Cuddy’s eyes softened, “Fine.” He could see she wanted to say something to comfort him but she knew him too well to do so. “You can make up your clinic hours tomorrow.”
House’s breath rushed out in a half chuckle - half snort of disbelief. “Thanks.”
“House, I don’t know what’s happened, but I don’t believe it,” Cuddy said quietly, “I saw his face. He - he cares for you, House. This,” she glanced around the ruined room, “there’s some mistake.” She rose, looking around the room once more. “There’s some mistake,” she repeated. House watched her leave, he was so tired, he ached everywhere and all he wanted was to sit there and never have to move again. His right hand lay on his thigh, unconsciously rubbing the jagged and pitted remains of his muscle. There had been many nights that he’d lain just there, his legs stretched across Wilson’s as the younger man’s hands easing the dull ache.
House sat up again, too wound up to rest, and his gaze fell on the destruction around him. Books were tossed on the floor, his possessions lay scattered all around the room but it was the sight of a jagged piece of black plastic that made him freeze. He stood, picking his way unsteadily through the chaos until he could poke at the heap beside his stereo. One half a vinyl record slid out of the mess, its other piece lay beside it.
House looked around, puzzle pieces clicking together in his brain as he studied the scene. His things were all over, but nothing else was broken, nothing had shattered or cracked or been destroyed, just this one album. Why would Wilson take care not to harm anything but this one record? He slowly made his way across the room, heading for the desk. He’d told Cuddy the watch and rings were gone, but were they? His hand touched the small wooden cubbyhole, searching the smooth surface for a moment before closing on something cool and solid. He held the watch, the rings, knowing that both would bring a great deal of money from any jeweler or even a good pawn shop. Wilson hadn’t taken them. His mind tried to shy away from his last sight of Wilson but he persisted. There had been no triumph in his eyes, only - only desolation and despair. That wasn’t the look someone seeking revenge would wear. Wilson hadn’t done this willingly. One final oddity assailed House; Wilson had carried the duffle bag with his right hand, his left arm had been held tight against his body, as if moving it caused him pain.
This didn’t make sense, none of it. With renewed energy, House grabbed his bag, fishing through it for the file he had been carrying since the first day they met. He’d made a few inquiries, James Wilson was still a puzzle but over the weeks he had acquired more pieces. It was time to start fitting them together.
&&&&
“Welcome to Vogler Corp,” the perky receptionist said. “How may I help you?”
“Got any cocaine?” House asked. The woman gave him a wide-eyed stare. “Kidding,” he muttered, “unless you have some. No? Okay, I’m Dr. Gregory House. I’m looking for information on James Wilson. He worked here up until ten months ago.”
“Oh,” the pretty plastic face took on a closed expression. “What is the nature of your inquiry?”
House held out his PPTH ID card. “I’m Head of Diagnostic Medicine, Infectious Diseases.” He leaned close to the woman. “I can’t go into details but I need to talk to anyone who was - close - to Mr. Wilson.” He eyed her, “You don’t get tingling in your extremities, do you?” She shook her head, “Good. If you develop a rash or anything starts turning black - you might want to get it checked out.” She had paled so much she resembled a paper doll. “Now, about Mr. Wilson.”
“I’ll c-check for you,” she stammered. House watched her tap a button and speak into her headset. Whatever she said took less than ten seconds but had an immediately effect. A door opened somewhere just out of sight and heavy footsteps rumbled along the length of the hall towards the reception area. House turned to see a hulking man, bald head gleaming darkly under the florescent lights, steaming straight at him.
“Dr. House, I’m Edward Vogler.” He extended a beefy hand, ignoring House’s pointed look down at his own cane. “May I ask what your interest in James Wilson is?”
“You can ask,” House said with a grin. Vogler didn’t grin. “Okay, okay, you caught me. I’m actually with Publisher’s Clearing House. I left the giant check in the van, doesn’t fit in my wallet.”
“Very humorous,” Vogler said. House saw two burly men in impeccable suits take up positions on either side of Vogler and knew he wouldn’t be getting any answers.
“I need to know the circumstances around his leaving.”
Vogler displayed real emotion for the first time; a pleased smile lit his dark face. “I imagine he departed your place much as he did here - with more than he arrived. I pride myself on being a good judge of character, Dr. House, unfortunately I failed in the case of Mr. Wilson.” He shook his head with regret. “I found out he was stealing from the accounts and had to let him go.”
“Without involving the police?” Vogler didn’t seem like the forgiving kind.
“I felt sorry for him,” Vogler said. “He was having - problems. He was confused and, I don’t like to perpetuate gossip, but he was unsure of the choices he had made in life. His family and his wife took exception to his change in lifestyle.” Vogler shrugged. His shrewd gaze raked House. “You care about him, don’t you? And he’s let you down. It’s very hurtful to be disappointed by someone you’ve come to trust.”
“Yes,” House said, “I’m sure it is.” He glanced around, knowing he wouldn’t get any other answers here. “Do people actually believe anything you say, Ed?” He asked with real curiosity.
“It’s Edward,” Vogler snapped. His warm smile dropped a few degrees and he stepped closer to House. “And I don’t appreciate the insinuation that I would lie about this.”
House grinned. “I’m not insinuating anything, Ed. I’m calling you a liar to your face.” Vogler pressed forward, looming over House by a couple of inches and several dozen pounds. House kept his cane firmly planted and cocked his head to the side like a bright-eyed bird. “If Wilson was cooking the books a man like you wouldn’t let him go with a slap on the wrist. You’d make his life a living hell.” House took a shuffling step forward. “A man like you would want revenge, you would want to crush him, humiliate him, make him suffer.” He considered the hulking figure before him, Vogler’s pride and arrogance couldn’t be measured. His mind flashed the picture of Wilson the first day they met, the word etched into his flesh by some brutal hand. A taunt, a word meant to humiliate. “You slept with his wife,” House murmured, watching the scene unfold within his mind. “He confronted you, and you crushed him.” A surge of anger passed through House. He shoved his face close to Vogler’s growling, “You took everything from him. Threatened to hurt the people he loved if he so much as objected to what you were doing.”
“Get out,” Vogler shouted, face so twisted with rage his eyes were nearly rolling in his head.
House considered the man for a moment, his apoplectic rage would have been comical if not for the fact Vogler was the kind of guy that would hunt them both down just because they had defied him. “Do you know Senator McHenry? He’s chairing a committee on Corporate Business practices. I saved his daughter’s life. How ‘bout Donna Deavers? Professor Xio Wong? Maria Simmons?” He recited the names he remembered though he knew dozens more only by symptoms and solutions. “I’m not someone you want to threaten, Ed.” Vogler’s sneer faded and House could read real doubt in the man’s face. “Leave us alone. I just want him, nothing more.”
“Get out,” Vogler said again. “Get out and don’t ever come back here.”
“I’ll be glad to, Ed,” House gave the mogul a mocking salute and shoved his way between the muscled guards. Outside the afternoon air felt fresh and House drew in a relieved breath. He’d done his best but Vogler was rich and that made him powerful and than made him dangerous. “Where are you, Wilson?” He asked. It took him several hours, most of it spent sitting on a park bench in Cunningham Park but he eventually figured out where to look.
&&&
The rain didn’t help his leg, but House limped on determinedly. He’d narrowed down his search area, knowing Wilson had started his life on the streets huddled in a park shelter, washed up in a gas station restroom, and had walked to PPTH’s free clinic. Using the other information he had gathered living with Wilson and knowing he would try to avoid being out where House would see him, House settled on a Mission about two miles from the clinic. At five o’clock all the long tables were filled, men, women and children were hunched over plates of hot food, talking and laughing amongst themselves. No one spared House a second glance as he pushed open the door and stood breathing in the warm, rich aroma of cooking food. His stomach rumbled and he realized it had been more than a day since he’d last eaten. “Good evening,” a women wearing a green smock greeted House. “I don’t think we’ve seen you here before.”
“My first time,” House agreed.
“Well, you’re very welcome,” she said kindly. “We’re serving supper at the moment.” Her gaze dropped to his faded t-shirt and the cane in his hand. “We also provide clothing and medical assistance if you need it.”
House reigned in a growl and said, “I’m just hungry.”
“That’s fine”, she smiled again and gestured towards the short line of people still being served. House nodded his thanks, and glanced around. He glimpsed a familiar fall of chestnut hair in the farthest corner. House got in line, managing to fill a tray and fend off the helpful older women who offered to carry it for him, threading his way back to the last table. He spilled a bit of the stew from his bowl as he set his tray down and slid awkwardly onto the bench.
Wilson looked up, startled. “House! What’re you doing here?”
“Having supper,” House said and dug in, eating with relish.
“You came all the way down to the Bountiful Harvest Mission for supper?”
“They have a reputation,” House assured him, “discerning derelicts know.”
Wilson stared at him before beginning to laugh. He spooned up his own stew, slapping House’s hand away from his bread before shaking his head and finally tearing it in two to share with him. House grinned. “You came looking for me?”
“You have my DVD player,” House reminded him. He used his bread to sop up the last of the stew, licked his fingers and peered at Wilson’s equally empty bowl with resignation. House kept his gaze fixed on the table. “You didn’t take my grandfather’s watch or my grandmother’s ring,” he said softly. “They would have brought a good price.”
“Forgot,” Wilson said. An older man and a young girl came around collecting empty plates and handing out packets of cookies. House took his and Wilson’s. “I was in a hurry.”
“You said you were leaving town,” House pointed out. “Didn’t get far.” He broke a cookie in half and offered it to Wilson. Wilson shrugged, chewing thoughtfully. “Weren’t you afraid Vogler would find you?” The loud scrape Wilson’s chair made as he shoved it back silenced all amicable chatter in the room.
Heads turned towards the two men as Wilson demanded, “What?”
House grabbed his wrist, refusing to let him stand and leave. “I talked to Vogler, I pretty much know what happened.” He waited, releasing his grip when it appeared Wilson wouldn’t run. “Want to fill in the details?”
“Not here,” Wilson said. House picked up his cane and stood. City lights glowed around them, giving the cool night a festive feeling, though neither man seemed in the mood for a party. “I didn’t really love Julie,” Wilson began, “Our marriage wasn’t passionate or loving, it was just convenient. She wanted nice things and I wanted to get ahead in the company. A pretty wife was kind of like the right tie.” Bitterness tinged his words. “Vogler set his sights on her at a party, and she - she saw an opportunity to climb a lot higher.” He shrugged in a what-can-you-do way. “Vogler came to visit me.” House could imagine that scene for himself, Vogler and his bookend goons like a stone wall ready to come tumbling down on Wilson. “I made the mistake of standing up to him, I said I would tell his wife and it would cost him a fortune in the divorce.”
House canted a dubious look at him. “And how did he take that?”
“Not as well as you might imagine,” Wilson said with a laugh. “He pretty much vowed to squash me like a bug. And then he did.” Wilson shook his head. “I didn’t know what hit me. I mean, he fired me, ruined my reputation, had my finances frozen, and threatened to do the same to my parents and my brothers.” Wilson stopped and sat down on a bench. “My brothers both have families to support and my parents are retired. Can you imagine what that would do to them?”
“You, on the other hand, are macho enough to handle anything,” House said and sank down beside him.
“Macho? Here I was thinking I was the girl in our relationship.”
“So we still have one?”
Wilson stood, hands stuffed in his pockets as he regarded the dirty sidewalk. “I didn’t - I didn’t want to leave,” he said quietly. “But I couldn’t let him do anything to you.” He met House’s gaze. “I love you, House.”
House nodded and got to his feet as well. “That’s probably a good thing. Now go get my DVD player and we’ll go home.” Wilson stared at him. “Don’t tell me you already pawned it.”
“I can’t go back,” Wilson said. “Vogler will do something. He’ll find a way to ruin your life.”
“I’m crippled, in constant pain, I might have a drug problem and the man I love is sleeping in a bus shelter,” House pointed out. “How is my life going to get any worse?”
“Don’t joke,” Wilson warned. “Vogler is rich and powerful. He can hurt you.”
“He won’t,” House said with a confident smile. Wilson stepped closer, his dark eyes searching House’s face. House did his best to project confidence. “He won’t, Jimmy.”
Wilson must have found some measure of truth in his words because after a moment he smiled. “Come on, I’m cold. Let’s go home.”
Their feet echoed on the sidewalk, their steps synchronized, their lives connected by Fate and something much more powerful - love. House resisted the urge to cast a glance over his shoulder, knowing he had no real guarantee that he and Wilson would be safe from Vogler but accepting that life was sometimes like that and all he could do was take the good things that came his way and be grateful.
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 Two:
“My, you look cozy,” Dr. Lisa Cuddy said from the doorway.
House opened his eyes, pulling one earbud free, his gaze raking her curvaceous figure, lingering on her breasts. “And you look positively slutty,” he replied, “and I mean that in the most flattering way possible.”
“Oh, I’m sure you do,” Cuddy said. Not the best comeback she’d ever delivered but she found herself momentarily distracted by House’s demeanor. He was ensconced in the yellow lounge chair in the corner of his office. She, herself, had arranged for its placement there not long after he came back to work. They never spoke of it, or the operation that had left him crippled, but she had known he would need to be off his feet at times during the day and the chair had been a slight appeasement to her own feelings of guilt. Right now House looked amazingly content in it, long legs crossed at the ankles, his lean face lit by a ecstatic smile, and his attention focused on a Tupperware container on his lap. Cuddy peered at the plastic bowl, the scent of chocolate suddenly reaching her in the still office air. “Are you eating - chocolate chip cookies?”
“Yep, chocolate chip and pecan slices of heaven,” he said biting into another cookie and smacking his lips noisily. She made a small move and he pulled the container protectively to his chest as if afraid she might be thinking about helping herself to one. Cuddy smiled, heartened by this brief flash of the old House, the one before pain had killed his unbridled enthusiasm and smothered the sliver of humility he’d occasionally shown. He had been funny, way too intelligent for his own good, active, almost charming at times, and as exuberant about his pleasures as any child. To see him sitting there, grinning at her, his chin dusted with cookie crumbs and his eyes dancing, made her heart contract with hope.
“Where’d you get these little celestial wonders?”
“A friend,” House replied coyly.
“A - friend?” Her skepticism reflected in her tone caused House to withdraw; walls came back up around his emotions, slamming into place with a resounding clank. Cuddy realized the moment was quickly passing.
“Yes,” he said with a petulant look and Cuddy had a sudden wild need to find out just who this friend was and how he or she had managed to make even a slight change in House. Even before his illness House hadn’t been sociable, he could be charming when he wanted something but his arrogance and razor wit were never tempered by empathy. He had always been an outsider, an acquaintance known by many but never truly known to anyone. Whoever this mysterious friend was, Cuddy hoped they stuck around, it would make life a lot easier for all of them and maybe it would bring House a little happiness.
“Here,” she said, tossing a file onto the ottoman beside his feet. She’d not planned on giving it to him for a few weeks, but his mood seemed, not quite receptive, but more lighthearted than she had seen him in years.
“What’s this?” He asked, nudging it with the toe of one Nike.
“Fellowship application. I thought you might like to go over it.”
House scowled at her. “Whose department?”
Cuddy gifted him with her most innocent smile. “Yours.” She walked away holding her breath. She’d been looking for a small opening that might allow her to help chip away the shell of anger and isolation that had scabbed over his heart. House had never been the most trusting of people but since - Stacy - he had retreated from the world. That had changed, he was different. Somehow, someone had started the process and if she could get him to accept a Fellow, maybe two, who knew, he might develop some kind of an emotional attachment to them. The thought cheered her, but left her feeling slightly uneasy.
&&&
Lisa Cuddy pulled up in front of 221B Baker Street, parked and got out. She had not been to House’s apartment, not this one. She and Stacy Rand had been friends, close friends, she’d introduced Stacy to Greg House and stood back to watch them work their way from mutual loathing to fiery passion in little more than two months. In those days she’d been friends with both, but after House’s illness and the resentment that had begun to fester and eat away at his love for Stacy, her own guilt in the events which left him crippled had driven a wedge between them as well. She regretted losing that closeness, they could still work together, he understood as a physician she’d had no choice but to follow Stacy’s wishes, but they were no longer the friends they had been. Her visit today was a culmination of curiosity and guilt. House had been acting differently, almost - happy since their little conversation in his office and a desire to know the source warred with a sense of relief. He hadn’t been anything other than miserable for nearly five years, his physical pain mirroring the pain in his soul.
She rang the doorbell, her surprise not that it went unanswered for a long moment but that when it finally opened she was greeted by a brown-haired young man whose heavy brows rose gracefully over chocolate brown eyes. “Uh, I was looking for House,” Cuddy said, leaning back to frown at the house numbers. “Dr. Gregory House,” she said again, returning her gaze to the young man.
“You must be Cuddy,” he said with a wry smile. His dark eyes dropped to her cleavage and rose quickly. “House described you.” He blushed hotly and stammered, “he said you were beautiful.”
“Was he high at the time?” Cuddy asked.
“Not - that I know of,” the man replied. He seemed to remember his manners and held out a hand. “I’m James Wilson. I’m, uh, staying with House.”
“The friend.” At Wilson’s startled look Cuddy added, “You made him cookies.”
“Well, yes. He threatened to shot himself with the nail gun if I didn’t.” Wilson stepped back and let her in, “I figure getting blood stains off the curtains would be more difficult than making cookies.” Cuddy grinned, liking Wilson already.
“Not the way I bake,” Cuddy said. She took a second to glance around the place, smiling at the chaotic collection of musical instruments, motorcycle magazines and video games. The place radiated a cozy warmth, book lined shelves flanked the fireplace, his baby grand piano gleamed under the front windows and everywhere she looked she could see his quirky personality. What she didn’t see was any evidence of his mysterious James Wilson’s influence.
“House isn’t here,” Wilson said, and gestured her towards the couch. “But as his boss I would assume you know that.” He smiled to lessen the bite of his words, “So I guess this isn’t about him.”
“No,” Cuddy hedged, “not exactly.” She smiled as well.
Wilson took a seat opposite her, fitting into the unorthodox surrounds comfortably. “You’re wondering who I am and why I’m here,” he said and went on before Cuddy could even pretend she wasn’t. “I’m a homeless clinic patient Dr. House took in out of the goodness of his heart.”
Somewhere outside traffic buzzed like a summer cicada but inside time sat quietly waiting. Cuddy stared at him, lips parted, brow furrowed and then she threw her head back and laughed, “He set me up!”
Wilson blinked. “What?”
Cuddy, still chuckling, said, “It’s okay, Mr. Wilson. I don’t need to know how you got here.” Her mirth faded but her smile grew warm, her eyes serious, “I’m just glad you are. House needs friends. He always has but no one has ever stuck around.” A tiny glint of steel appeared behind the warmth of her gray eyes, “I hope you will.”
Wilson regarded her for a long moment, “I plan on it, Dr. Cuddy. I really do but - life doesn’t always play fair.” She was surprised by the fear in his eyes.
“He doesn’t trust easily,” she said. “And if he lets you in and gets hurt - I don’t think he would ever let anyone else in. Don’t hurt him, please.”
Wilson’s gaze dropped to the floor. “I’ll try,” he whispered. When he looked up his eyes glittered with emotion. “I’ve never felt like this before, Dr. Cuddy. Believe me.” Cuddy did.
&&&
That night House came home exhausted, barely holding himself with his cane. “Big news,” Wilson said, picking up House’s discarded coat, “we got a shipment of fresh aubergine at the store.” House gifted him with a bleary stare. “Okay, I’m thinking you aren’t in the mood for eggplant parmesan.”
“Not the best offer I’ve had,” House said and managed to leer at him. He set his keys on the desk and as he did, dislodged a watch from one of the shelves. Wilson made a grab for it before it hit the floor.
“Here,” he held the watch out. It looked expensive, the inlaid face sparkling with a diamond at twelve and the case obviously 24 karat. Only the band showed its age, worn and cracked, the leather strap had been fastened through a set of beautiful weddings rings.
House took the watch and rings, holding them with a look of tender affection. “My grandparents,” he said by way of explanation. “I’d spend months at a time with them, when my parents couldn’t take me to a temporary posting.” He closed his hand around the precious heirlooms and shrugged. “These always make me think of home.”
“Everyone needs a home,” Wilson said quietly.
House nodded and put the items back where they had been. He hadn’t thought of his mother’s parents in a long time, they had been the only stable thing in his life as a child. He glanced at Wilson and saw a spark of sadness in the man’s face. Maybe he wasn’t the only one who missed the embrace of a loving home. “I think that eggplant can wait. I’m more in the mood for dessert.” A boyish grin spread across Wilson’s face and he leaned in to plant slow, chaste kisses along his jaw. He nuzzled House’s cheek, licked his earlobe then blew a sigh across the wet flesh, causing a shiver to race down House’s spine. “Are you sure you’re not a hooker?”
“A hooker would be better paid,” Wilson assured him. He proceeded to lead House back to the bedroom then stripped him and pushed him back against the pillows on their bed. “Maybe I can earn a few dollars.” Eyes locked on House, he seductively unbuttoned his shirt, peeling it off his shoulders to expose his smooth chest. Faint scars were still visible on his pale skin, reminders of how they had met, but Wilson didn’t dwell on that, just made a show of dropping the shirt and going to work on the snap of his jeans. With a sensual sway of his hips, Wilson teased the zipper down, inching the denim lower and lower. “Damn!” He’d forgotten to take off his shoes and his jeans got caught on his sneakers.
“I’d stuff a dollar in your pocket,” House roared, “but I don’t think you’ve got change!”
Wilson sat down in an ungainly heap on the floor, struggling to untie his sneakers, eventually ripped them and his socks off, then worked his jeans off. With a defeated sigh he climbed into bed beside the still sniggering House and settled against the headboard with arms crossed. “Now I see why they get the big money,” he said once House had quieted to the occasional giggle.
“You’ll just have to practice,” House advised him. After a pause their eyes met and both men began to laugh. House rolled over, taking Wilson in his arms and kissed him. Their love making had gentled from the first desperate time, now it seemed to stem from their teasing, boyish high jinx giving way to intense passion, their bodies moving together, seeking and finding the places which gave the greatest pleasure. House allowed himself a glimmer of happiness, to forget just for a little while how much life had hurt him. He came with a shuddering groan, straining against Wilson as they clung to each other.
Later as they lay together, sweat moist bodies cooling, House stroked Wilson’s damp hair. He was a fool, he knew it. How had he allowed himself to care for this man? They barely knew each other and Wilson was hiding something, but when they were together nothing else seemed to matter. They balanced each other, they each possessed what the other needed. House sighed and closed his eyes, wanting to hang onto the moment for fear it would vanish never to be retrieved. He was startled out of a light doze by Wilson asking, “Am I someone else in your head?”
And when he answered, House was genuinely surprised by the love he felt. “No,” he said, his head over Wilson’s heart, “you’re just you.”
&&&
Wilson wiped his hands on the dish towel, calling, “How could you forget your keys, the one for that damn bike is on the ring?” He snatched the door open, all ready to abuse House over his latest interruption but could only stand there, open mouthed at the sight before him.
“Why, Mr. Wilson,” Edward Vogler purred, “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.” Wilson’s chest heaved on a stifled shout and he made to slam the door but a beefy arm shot out and the wooden door bounced back with a crack. Vogler smiled, gesturing at the bodyguard. “This is Frank.” He followed his companion inside, looking around House’s apartment as if he meant to rent it the moment House was gone. That thought made Wilson go cold inside.
“You can’t come in here,” he warned. “This is a private residence. I’ll call the police.”
Vogler gave him a fond smile. “I don’t think you will, Jim. I hope you don’t mind me calling you that. We’ve been through so much together, I feel as if we have a special bond.” He picked up one of House’s records, a blues album by some long dead musician, pulling it from the sleeve to admire the gleaming vinyl disc, and with a grin he snapped it in two.
“No!” Wilson shrieked and lunged forward but the bodyguard caught him, jerking his left arm up behind his back, and pinning his right down as he struggled desperately to be free. Voglar watched without expression, seemingly unfazed by the fact Wilson was having his shoulder slowly torn from its socket.
“Now that I have your attention,” Vogler went on as if he’d merely commented on the wall color, “I want you to listen to me.” He leaned in, his bulky body so solid and wall-like that a feeling of claustrophobia arose in Wilson and he struggled harder. Pain seared along his arm and across his chest and breathing became difficult. “I thought you understood, Jim,” Vogler said, almost fondly, “I thought when I took everything from you that you understood just how angry I was with you.”
“You bastard!” Wilson hissed.
“Rich bastard,” Vogler corrected him. “I’m so rich I can buy and sell little accountants like you a hundred times before I’ve had my breakfast.” He smiled warmly, “I want you out of here, Jim. I want you back on the street where you belong, back with the filth and the whores and addicts. I want you crawling in the sewers and when you are I want you to be thinking about me. I told you that I would crush anyone you cared about and I meant it.” He glanced around House’s apartment, taking in the fine furnishings, the piano, the books before his eyes came to rest on Wilson’s obviously new clothes. He reached out, and Wilson flinched. “He treats you nice. You treat him nice in return?”
“He’s doesn’t-“ Wilson broke off, groaning as his arm was wrenched higher. “D-oesn’t know anything,” Wilson panted. “Leave him alone!”
“Oh, I think I should be the one giving orders,” Vogler said and shot a look at the bodyguard who immediately pulled his arm higher. Wilson instinctively pushed himself onto his toes, trying to take some of the pressure off his shoulder but Voglar laid a heavy hand on the side of his neck, keeping him firmly in place. “Here’s what you’re going to do.”
&&&
James Wilson stood with his back pressed to the wall, body shaking with the force of his rasping breaths. His eyes darted around the apartment, taking in what he had done with a kind of sick horror. He hated himself for it, hated Vogler even more. House didn’t deserve this - not this. He cared deeply for House despite the older man’s gruff exterior and arrogant manner. He could be disarmingly funny, there had been nights all they did was talk, House telling the most outrageous anecdotes and it was all Wilson could do to keep from falling on the floor with laughter. House could even be weirdly considerate; he’d spent a small fortune buying Wilson clothes, then acting as if the only reason was to keep himself from being embarrassed by Wilson’s company when they went out to eat or a movie. And when they stayed in that abrasive manner disappeared and House made Wilson feel - wanted. Sex had become making love, emotions tumbled around them like snowflakes, each one unique and delicate. Their bond defied logic and description but felt so right, went so deep that the knowledge of what he was about to do tore a gaping wound in Wilson’s soul, one that he knew would never heal. A sound reached his ears over the rasping of his own breaths, the sound of House’s Corvette pulling up outside. With a final desperate sound Wilson pushed himself away from the wall and straightened. He started to reach for the small duffle bag on the desk but a jolt of pain shot through his shoulder and forced him to use his right hand.
House’s distinctive gait echoed from the foyer an instant before he called, “Hey, Wilson!” The door swung open and House shuffled in, a brown bag cradled in his free arm. “Wilson, I got movies.” He stopped, frowning. Desk drawers lay empty on the floor, bookshelves were wiped clean, and his collection of toys lay among the debris. Wilson stood in the center of it all. “What’re you doin’?”
“What’s it look like?” Wilson snapped. He crammed House’s PSP into the bag, zipped it up and slung it over his shoulder.
“It looks like your stealing all my stuff,” House said.
“That’s exactly what I’m doing,” Wilson said. He moved towards House, eyes locked to the older man’s, his face as impassive as he could make it. “I’ve wasted too much time already. I usually don’t f-fuck my marks, at least not like I did with you. Thanks for everything. Forgive me if I don’t keep in contact but with this haul I’ll be able to get out of this goddamn town and away from you.” He brushed passed House, stopping only when the other man’s voice filled the space between them.
“Not even a goodbye kiss? Damn, Wilson, that’s harsh.”
“You aren’t going to try and stop me?”
House’s expression mocked him, “Uh, crippled, remember?” His withering gaze flicked over Wilson before he advised, “Pawn my DVD someplace close so I can get it back.” He turned away, limping to the couch and sitting down. “Don’t forget to lock the door behind you,” he said, “Wouldn’t want to get robbed in the middle of the night.” He flipped on the TV and lay back, feet on the coffee table. Wilson paused, wanting to say something, to wipe away the hurt on House’s face but Vogler’s voice rang in his ears, louder than the pounding of his heart. He closed the door behind him, flinching as the lock engaged and the cool air cut him to the bone.
&&&
House watched the images flicker before him with no idea who they were or what they were doing. All he could see was the flat brown eyes which had just crushed the small sense of happiness that had been kindled inside him. He reached for his pill bottle swallowing two before he closed his eyes and willed his mind to empty. Wilson had used him. He had come into his home and used him, stolen from him. He couldn’t live without his heart - House’s eyes sprang open. No, without his DVD player. He couldn’t live without his DVD player. He took a claming breath and lay back down.
He should have known all along it would end like this. Wilson was just like everyone else. Memories of brown eyes filled with laughter returned, making him smile. He could feel the caress of strong hands on his arms, muscled legs wrapping around him, a stubbled jaw rasping against his own. He didn’t want to remember or feel of think. He eyed the Vicodin bottle. People thought he had a death wish - Cuddy did, that stupid psychiatrist at PPTH did, but House didn’t want to die. Not now, not even after the infarction when he realized he would never have his old life back. Being crippled gave him permission to be himself, so what if he was an asshole, he had an excuse, didn’t he? He was crippled, he was in pain. He took another pill, washing it down with the scotch he saved for unbearable nights and closed his eyes. He was in pain.
&&&
“Christ, House! If you’re going to kill yourself could you give me two weeks notice?” Lisa Cuddy’s voice cut through the haze in his brain. House struggled to focus his eyes, finally succeeding enough that her cleavage swam into view. She straightened up and his vision wobbled with her until their eyes met. “How much did you drink?” She asked.
“Not enough,” House rasped. He reached out, clumsily knocking a bottle over as he tried to pick it up.
“Uh-uh.” Cuddy pushed everything out of his way, disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a plastic bottle of water. “Here.” House took it, holding the bottle with both hands, letting the cool liquid drip down his chin as he gulped it. His head cleared a little, some of the cotton wool unraveling.
“What’re you doing here?”
“You missed your clinic hours,” Cuddy explained. “I thought I’d come over and see if you were all right?” She cast a hard look around the place, “What kind of party did you have last night?”
“Shut up,” he whispered, then louder, “Shut up!”
“House?” Cuddy sat down beside him, her perfume and her warmth drawing him. “What happened here? Where’s your - friend?”
House glared at her, “How do you know about Wilson?”
Cuddy colored. “I - I came over a couple of days ago. He was here.” She waited but House didn’t say anything. “He seemed very nice. Where is he?”
“Pickin’ out his next boyfriend,” House said with a twisted grin. “He’ll be a great catch, got his own DVD, bunch of cash, my grandparent’s jewelry.”
“He -“
“What the hell did you expect?”
“But - I thought - he wasn’t really - “Cuddy stumbled to a halt, confusion written clearly on her face. “He said he was a homeless patient you’d taken in, but I thought he was joking.”
“Joke was on me,” House said. He slumped back against the cushions. “Look, I’m not up to working today.”
Cuddy’s eyes softened, “Fine.” He could see she wanted to say something to comfort him but she knew him too well to do so. “You can make up your clinic hours tomorrow.”
House’s breath rushed out in a half chuckle - half snort of disbelief. “Thanks.”
“House, I don’t know what’s happened, but I don’t believe it,” Cuddy said quietly, “I saw his face. He - he cares for you, House. This,” she glanced around the ruined room, “there’s some mistake.” She rose, looking around the room once more. “There’s some mistake,” she repeated. House watched her leave, he was so tired, he ached everywhere and all he wanted was to sit there and never have to move again. His right hand lay on his thigh, unconsciously rubbing the jagged and pitted remains of his muscle. There had been many nights that he’d lain just there, his legs stretched across Wilson’s as the younger man’s hands easing the dull ache.
House sat up again, too wound up to rest, and his gaze fell on the destruction around him. Books were tossed on the floor, his possessions lay scattered all around the room but it was the sight of a jagged piece of black plastic that made him freeze. He stood, picking his way unsteadily through the chaos until he could poke at the heap beside his stereo. One half a vinyl record slid out of the mess, its other piece lay beside it.
House looked around, puzzle pieces clicking together in his brain as he studied the scene. His things were all over, but nothing else was broken, nothing had shattered or cracked or been destroyed, just this one album. Why would Wilson take care not to harm anything but this one record? He slowly made his way across the room, heading for the desk. He’d told Cuddy the watch and rings were gone, but were they? His hand touched the small wooden cubbyhole, searching the smooth surface for a moment before closing on something cool and solid. He held the watch, the rings, knowing that both would bring a great deal of money from any jeweler or even a good pawn shop. Wilson hadn’t taken them. His mind tried to shy away from his last sight of Wilson but he persisted. There had been no triumph in his eyes, only - only desolation and despair. That wasn’t the look someone seeking revenge would wear. Wilson hadn’t done this willingly. One final oddity assailed House; Wilson had carried the duffle bag with his right hand, his left arm had been held tight against his body, as if moving it caused him pain.
This didn’t make sense, none of it. With renewed energy, House grabbed his bag, fishing through it for the file he had been carrying since the first day they met. He’d made a few inquiries, James Wilson was still a puzzle but over the weeks he had acquired more pieces. It was time to start fitting them together.
&&&&
“Welcome to Vogler Corp,” the perky receptionist said. “How may I help you?”
“Got any cocaine?” House asked. The woman gave him a wide-eyed stare. “Kidding,” he muttered, “unless you have some. No? Okay, I’m Dr. Gregory House. I’m looking for information on James Wilson. He worked here up until ten months ago.”
“Oh,” the pretty plastic face took on a closed expression. “What is the nature of your inquiry?”
House held out his PPTH ID card. “I’m Head of Diagnostic Medicine, Infectious Diseases.” He leaned close to the woman. “I can’t go into details but I need to talk to anyone who was - close - to Mr. Wilson.” He eyed her, “You don’t get tingling in your extremities, do you?” She shook her head, “Good. If you develop a rash or anything starts turning black - you might want to get it checked out.” She had paled so much she resembled a paper doll. “Now, about Mr. Wilson.”
“I’ll c-check for you,” she stammered. House watched her tap a button and speak into her headset. Whatever she said took less than ten seconds but had an immediately effect. A door opened somewhere just out of sight and heavy footsteps rumbled along the length of the hall towards the reception area. House turned to see a hulking man, bald head gleaming darkly under the florescent lights, steaming straight at him.
“Dr. House, I’m Edward Vogler.” He extended a beefy hand, ignoring House’s pointed look down at his own cane. “May I ask what your interest in James Wilson is?”
“You can ask,” House said with a grin. Vogler didn’t grin. “Okay, okay, you caught me. I’m actually with Publisher’s Clearing House. I left the giant check in the van, doesn’t fit in my wallet.”
“Very humorous,” Vogler said. House saw two burly men in impeccable suits take up positions on either side of Vogler and knew he wouldn’t be getting any answers.
“I need to know the circumstances around his leaving.”
Vogler displayed real emotion for the first time; a pleased smile lit his dark face. “I imagine he departed your place much as he did here - with more than he arrived. I pride myself on being a good judge of character, Dr. House, unfortunately I failed in the case of Mr. Wilson.” He shook his head with regret. “I found out he was stealing from the accounts and had to let him go.”
“Without involving the police?” Vogler didn’t seem like the forgiving kind.
“I felt sorry for him,” Vogler said. “He was having - problems. He was confused and, I don’t like to perpetuate gossip, but he was unsure of the choices he had made in life. His family and his wife took exception to his change in lifestyle.” Vogler shrugged. His shrewd gaze raked House. “You care about him, don’t you? And he’s let you down. It’s very hurtful to be disappointed by someone you’ve come to trust.”
“Yes,” House said, “I’m sure it is.” He glanced around, knowing he wouldn’t get any other answers here. “Do people actually believe anything you say, Ed?” He asked with real curiosity.
“It’s Edward,” Vogler snapped. His warm smile dropped a few degrees and he stepped closer to House. “And I don’t appreciate the insinuation that I would lie about this.”
House grinned. “I’m not insinuating anything, Ed. I’m calling you a liar to your face.” Vogler pressed forward, looming over House by a couple of inches and several dozen pounds. House kept his cane firmly planted and cocked his head to the side like a bright-eyed bird. “If Wilson was cooking the books a man like you wouldn’t let him go with a slap on the wrist. You’d make his life a living hell.” House took a shuffling step forward. “A man like you would want revenge, you would want to crush him, humiliate him, make him suffer.” He considered the hulking figure before him, Vogler’s pride and arrogance couldn’t be measured. His mind flashed the picture of Wilson the first day they met, the word etched into his flesh by some brutal hand. A taunt, a word meant to humiliate. “You slept with his wife,” House murmured, watching the scene unfold within his mind. “He confronted you, and you crushed him.” A surge of anger passed through House. He shoved his face close to Vogler’s growling, “You took everything from him. Threatened to hurt the people he loved if he so much as objected to what you were doing.”
“Get out,” Vogler shouted, face so twisted with rage his eyes were nearly rolling in his head.
House considered the man for a moment, his apoplectic rage would have been comical if not for the fact Vogler was the kind of guy that would hunt them both down just because they had defied him. “Do you know Senator McHenry? He’s chairing a committee on Corporate Business practices. I saved his daughter’s life. How ‘bout Donna Deavers? Professor Xio Wong? Maria Simmons?” He recited the names he remembered though he knew dozens more only by symptoms and solutions. “I’m not someone you want to threaten, Ed.” Vogler’s sneer faded and House could read real doubt in the man’s face. “Leave us alone. I just want him, nothing more.”
“Get out,” Vogler said again. “Get out and don’t ever come back here.”
“I’ll be glad to, Ed,” House gave the mogul a mocking salute and shoved his way between the muscled guards. Outside the afternoon air felt fresh and House drew in a relieved breath. He’d done his best but Vogler was rich and that made him powerful and than made him dangerous. “Where are you, Wilson?” He asked. It took him several hours, most of it spent sitting on a park bench in Cunningham Park but he eventually figured out where to look.
&&&
The rain didn’t help his leg, but House limped on determinedly. He’d narrowed down his search area, knowing Wilson had started his life on the streets huddled in a park shelter, washed up in a gas station restroom, and had walked to PPTH’s free clinic. Using the other information he had gathered living with Wilson and knowing he would try to avoid being out where House would see him, House settled on a Mission about two miles from the clinic. At five o’clock all the long tables were filled, men, women and children were hunched over plates of hot food, talking and laughing amongst themselves. No one spared House a second glance as he pushed open the door and stood breathing in the warm, rich aroma of cooking food. His stomach rumbled and he realized it had been more than a day since he’d last eaten. “Good evening,” a women wearing a green smock greeted House. “I don’t think we’ve seen you here before.”
“My first time,” House agreed.
“Well, you’re very welcome,” she said kindly. “We’re serving supper at the moment.” Her gaze dropped to his faded t-shirt and the cane in his hand. “We also provide clothing and medical assistance if you need it.”
House reigned in a growl and said, “I’m just hungry.”
“That’s fine”, she smiled again and gestured towards the short line of people still being served. House nodded his thanks, and glanced around. He glimpsed a familiar fall of chestnut hair in the farthest corner. House got in line, managing to fill a tray and fend off the helpful older women who offered to carry it for him, threading his way back to the last table. He spilled a bit of the stew from his bowl as he set his tray down and slid awkwardly onto the bench.
Wilson looked up, startled. “House! What’re you doing here?”
“Having supper,” House said and dug in, eating with relish.
“You came all the way down to the Bountiful Harvest Mission for supper?”
“They have a reputation,” House assured him, “discerning derelicts know.”
Wilson stared at him before beginning to laugh. He spooned up his own stew, slapping House’s hand away from his bread before shaking his head and finally tearing it in two to share with him. House grinned. “You came looking for me?”
“You have my DVD player,” House reminded him. He used his bread to sop up the last of the stew, licked his fingers and peered at Wilson’s equally empty bowl with resignation. House kept his gaze fixed on the table. “You didn’t take my grandfather’s watch or my grandmother’s ring,” he said softly. “They would have brought a good price.”
“Forgot,” Wilson said. An older man and a young girl came around collecting empty plates and handing out packets of cookies. House took his and Wilson’s. “I was in a hurry.”
“You said you were leaving town,” House pointed out. “Didn’t get far.” He broke a cookie in half and offered it to Wilson. Wilson shrugged, chewing thoughtfully. “Weren’t you afraid Vogler would find you?” The loud scrape Wilson’s chair made as he shoved it back silenced all amicable chatter in the room.
Heads turned towards the two men as Wilson demanded, “What?”
House grabbed his wrist, refusing to let him stand and leave. “I talked to Vogler, I pretty much know what happened.” He waited, releasing his grip when it appeared Wilson wouldn’t run. “Want to fill in the details?”
“Not here,” Wilson said. House picked up his cane and stood. City lights glowed around them, giving the cool night a festive feeling, though neither man seemed in the mood for a party. “I didn’t really love Julie,” Wilson began, “Our marriage wasn’t passionate or loving, it was just convenient. She wanted nice things and I wanted to get ahead in the company. A pretty wife was kind of like the right tie.” Bitterness tinged his words. “Vogler set his sights on her at a party, and she - she saw an opportunity to climb a lot higher.” He shrugged in a what-can-you-do way. “Vogler came to visit me.” House could imagine that scene for himself, Vogler and his bookend goons like a stone wall ready to come tumbling down on Wilson. “I made the mistake of standing up to him, I said I would tell his wife and it would cost him a fortune in the divorce.”
House canted a dubious look at him. “And how did he take that?”
“Not as well as you might imagine,” Wilson said with a laugh. “He pretty much vowed to squash me like a bug. And then he did.” Wilson shook his head. “I didn’t know what hit me. I mean, he fired me, ruined my reputation, had my finances frozen, and threatened to do the same to my parents and my brothers.” Wilson stopped and sat down on a bench. “My brothers both have families to support and my parents are retired. Can you imagine what that would do to them?”
“You, on the other hand, are macho enough to handle anything,” House said and sank down beside him.
“Macho? Here I was thinking I was the girl in our relationship.”
“So we still have one?”
Wilson stood, hands stuffed in his pockets as he regarded the dirty sidewalk. “I didn’t - I didn’t want to leave,” he said quietly. “But I couldn’t let him do anything to you.” He met House’s gaze. “I love you, House.”
House nodded and got to his feet as well. “That’s probably a good thing. Now go get my DVD player and we’ll go home.” Wilson stared at him. “Don’t tell me you already pawned it.”
“I can’t go back,” Wilson said. “Vogler will do something. He’ll find a way to ruin your life.”
“I’m crippled, in constant pain, I might have a drug problem and the man I love is sleeping in a bus shelter,” House pointed out. “How is my life going to get any worse?”
“Don’t joke,” Wilson warned. “Vogler is rich and powerful. He can hurt you.”
“He won’t,” House said with a confident smile. Wilson stepped closer, his dark eyes searching House’s face. House did his best to project confidence. “He won’t, Jimmy.”
Wilson must have found some measure of truth in his words because after a moment he smiled. “Come on, I’m cold. Let’s go home.”
Their feet echoed on the sidewalk, their steps synchronized, their lives connected by Fate and something much more powerful - love. House resisted the urge to cast a glance over his shoulder, knowing he had no real guarantee that he and Wilson would be safe from Vogler but accepting that life was sometimes like that and all he could do was take the good things that came his way and be grateful.