Fic : Twice Around the Garden
Title: Twice Around the Garden
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: PG-13ish
Words: Approx 2300
Summary: A sequel to Once Around the Garden. House needs his lawn mowing. Wilson obliges.
The message left on his answering machine had been terse, much like the man himself.
"221B Baker Street. Friday night after work. I have a lawn that needs mowing, pool boy."
Wilson toyed with the idea of not going, but only briefly. In their brief encounter at Cuddy's place he'd found House an intriguing proposition and he was fairly sure that House had felt some attraction for him as well. He wasn't expecting anything meaningful out of this encounter - House's invitation was for a one night stand not a marriage - but that didn't matter. With three divorces behind him he wasn't looking for commitment.
He didn't bother to take his lawn mower when he set off for Baker Street. Like any good citizen of the 21st century he'd googled the address and determined that the nearest patch of grass to House's apartment was a very sad looking park a half mile away. If House had anything greener than mould growing in his home Wilson would eat his best pair of gardening gloves.
When the door opened he was greeted by House who thrust a potted plant at him. A potted plant which had seen much better days. Wilson was no plant doctor but he was pretty sure it was beyond help.
"It's dead, Jim," he said and was rewarded with a quirk of House's lips.
"I hope you're better with pools than you are with plants."
"Why? Do you have a swimming pool hidden in your bedroom?"
"You're welcome to check for one."
Preliminary skirmish out of the way House stepped aside to allow Wilson to enter his apartment.
Wilson glanced around, it was crowded with House's possessions but wasn't messy. A large piano dominated the main room, and various guitars were arranged in racks on the wall. Sheet music was piled on the piano bench, and bookshelves along another wall groaned with an eclectic mixture of textbooks, novels, and the odd holiday memento. An expensive sound system was in the corner, next to a large vinyl record collection. The place practically screamed Musician.
"Beer? If you've finished casing the place that is." House was standing close behind him, well into Wilson's personal space, his presence impossible to ignore.
"Beer is fine."
"Kitchen's that way." House indicated a direction with a flap of his hand and settled himself down on one end of a battered leather couch, lifting his right leg up onto the cluttered coffee table with both hands and then tilting his head back to observe Wilson's next move.
Wilson stared down at him, his hands going automatically to his hips. He was torn between amusement and annoyance at House's constant need to make every interaction a battle of wits.
House stared back and shrugged slightly.
"Cripple," he reminded Wilson with a wave of his cane.
"Guest." Wilson indicated himself with a theatrical flourish of his hand.
When House just turned back around without another word and turned the TV on at full volume Wilson went to the kitchen and pulled one beer out of refrigerator and then made himself a sandwich out of his ‘hosts’ meagre ingredients. Then he joined House on the couch, sitting unnecessarily close to him on the adjoining cushion.
When House made a grab for his beer Wilson took it out of his reach.
"Get your lazy crippled ass into the kitchen and get your own, this is mine."
There was a glint of approval in House's eyes before he begrudgingly hauled himself off the couch and stomped into the kitchen, banging his cane heavily on the floor. When he returned he was carrying another beer and a bowl of chips which he put down in front of both of them.
Wilson said nothing but took a handful of the chips and then passed over half his sandwich to House. House complained briefly about the food and the unsuitability of pickles as a sandwich ingredient but Wilson ignored him and House set about eating the offending item in record time. Skirmish number two successfully concluded. House hadn't kicked him out yet so Wilson figured he must be winning, or at least recording an honourable draw.
House commandeered the remote control to the TV and proceeded to flip through the channels for the next hour or two. As he went from one show to the next Wilson discovered that his host was fluent in Spanish and had a smattering of other languages, was morbidly interested in both historical crimes and the various disasters of the twentieth century, could expound on the follies of various religions, the misdoings of A-list celebrities, and was up to date on the latest 'shocking' plot developments of Prescription Passion. Wilson didn't so much watch the television as he watched House, his initially mild interest in the man deepening as time went on. He'd come here expecting, quite frankly, a quick encounter with no strings. Instead he found himself engaging in lively conversation and swapping stories with House as if they had been friends for many years.
"So, you're a musician?" Wilson asked finally, during a lull between a Monster Truck Rally special event and the start of a baseball game. "When you're not trying to get small children into overpriced schools that is. Are you in a band?"
"Used to be. I fly solo now, play a few clubs, write a little bit."
The fact that House was willing to take on a babysitter job spoke volumes for the success of his musical career and House seemed to know that. He shrugged.
"Business has been slow lately." He rubbed at his leg and grimaced. Withdrawing a small amber bottle from his jacket he shook a couple of pills out and swallowed them dry.
"Painkillers?" Wilson ventured. It was none of his business but he wanted to know what he would be getting into if this became more than just a fleeting encounter. He caught himself at the thought - that wasn't what this evening was supposed to be about.
"I never go anywhere without my best friend, Vicodin." House tucked the bottle back into his jeans pocket and continued to rub his thigh, his eyes not meeting Wilson's.
"What happened to your leg anyway?" Wilson asked and then caught himself at the question - it was beyond obvious that House was a little touchy about his disability.
House looked back at him, those sharp eyes assessing him. After a moment he nodded and Wilson let out a breath. He had the feeling he'd passed another test - although he had no idea what it might have been.
"Infarction in my thigh. Took the quacks at the hospital three days to diagnose it accurately. Cuddy took over the case and let them butcher my thigh to save my life."
"Cuddy? As in Rachel's Mom?" Well that might explain the unlikely babysitting gig.
"Yep. She still feels guilty about this nice case of chronic pain she left me with so she gives me the odd job to do, and tries to talk her contacts into hiring the cripple to play at their weddings and fundraisers." He looked away again, his jaw tightening. Wilson moved a little closer to him, their shoulders touching and turned his attention back to the TV, taking the focus away from House and his leg. After a while the Vicodin seemed to lessen House's pain and his hand fell away from his leg. He leaned his head back against the couch with a sigh and met Wilson's eyes.
"So you gonna make a move, pool boy? Or shall we just stay up all night and chat about boys and do our nails?" He batted his eyelashes in a ridiculous fashion and Wilson laughed.
"You're the one who wanted to watch The Real Houseboys of Alabama," he pointed out.
"Hey, don't diss the Boys - it can't be easy having to look like that all day. Those abs don't oil themselves."
"House."
"Yes, Wilson?"
"Shut up."
"Make me." House's smirk was a challenge, and one Wilson was willing to take up.
Not taking his eyes off House Wilson lent in, one hand on House's left thigh, the other touching his shoulder. Their lips met, House's parting readily under his own.
Wilson slid his hand under House's t-shirt, feeling the rapid beat of his heart as the kiss deepened. He pulled House closer; sliding his other hand up to palm House's growing erection and pressing his own against House's groin. House moved into his touch, bucking his hips and running a hand through Wilson's hair, sending a thrill of arousal through him. He pressed himself further against House, wanting more contact. House was always so closed off, so guarded in his reactions, that Wilson loved to see him like this, needy and wanting but willing to give. He wrapped his leg around House's left one and pushed him further down towards the couch cushions.
House responded enthusiastically, again moving against Wilson but then he stilled and pulled away from their kiss. Wilson froze, thinking he had pushed too hard and gone too quickly but House shook his head slightly and gestured in the direction of the hallway.
"Bed will be easier," he said, his voice hoarse and his eyes not quite meeting Wilson's.
Wilson stood up, and reached out a hand to help House to his feet. His gesture was met by a truculent stare but Wilson was already becoming immune to those. Eventually House begrudgingly accepted the assistance, leaning against him as he gained his feet. Wilson slipped his hand lower and under the waistband of House's jeans as he, pulled him close and kissed him again, bracing both their weights against the wall.
Some time later they made it to the bedroom.
House stared at the ceiling of his bedroom, unable to sleep. Next to him Wilson kept snoring softly as he lay sprawled across most of the bed, making himself at home. House thought about shaking him awake and kicking him out, as he did most of the men he'd had sex with since the infarction but he realised he didn't want him to leave.
He hadn't expected much to happen with Wilson. He hadn't even known if the man would turn up. A brief flirtation on a suburban lawn could be something that was quickly regretted or forgotten. Maybe Wilson handed out dozens of his business cards every week to men much more likely to satisfy him than House. Even if he did come House had been expecting some quick sex, just a way of blowing off steam. Not whatever the evening, and then the night, had turned into. He hadn't expected something real.
He stretched out a hand and snagged his Vicodin from the bedside table. Gulping down a pill he levered himself to his feet with the aid of his cane. Wilson stirred and muttered but didn't wake up. On impulse House pushed Wilson's ridiculously floppy hair back from his eyes, keeping his touch light so he wouldn't disturb his sleep.
Once back in the living area House did a couple of laps around the furniture, trying to coax his leg into settling down. After the pain had abated enough for him to breathe again he sat down on the piano stool, his fingers lightly touching the keys. He didn't play very often anymore. Once he'd been a serious classical pianist, on his way to establishing himself amongst the best in the country. Then the infarction happened and everything had changed.
He had neither the strength, nor the stamina, for the lengthy practice sessions that life as a professional musician demanded, let alone for the actual performances. When he'd recovered enough to take an interest in his life again, however small, he'd turned to his guitars and to popular music instead. He made enough money to pay the rent, and played enough to keep that part of his soul content, if not happy. But he missed the piano and the soaring melodies he used to pull from it.
He let his fingers stray on the keys while he thought. He kept it quiet so as to not awaken either Wilson or his neighbours but still enjoyed hearing the sound again. Guitars had their place, but the piano was where his heart lay. After a while of that he began to get swept up in the music, losing himself to the intricacies of the notes and letting the constant pain in his leg fade away.
"Don't the neighbours mind?"
He startled at the soft voice, his fingers stilling on the keys. Through the window he could see the grey light of early morning and in the doorway an amused looking Wilson was watching him. Wilson was barefoot and wearing only the boxers he'd discarded last night somewhere in their trip from couch to bed. His hair was sleep messy and House felt a stirring of arousal just looking at him.
"I've been told they do," he said, answering Wilson's question. Stiffly he rose up from the piano bench, feeling his leg protest as he did so. As it threatened to betray him completely Wilson was suddenly there, his hand under House's elbow, providing support."
"You okay?"
"Long sessions with the piano don't agree with me anymore." House pulled his arm away and Wilson let go. They stood there for a moment, a little awkwardly. In a moment, House thought, Wilson would declare that he had to leave and that would be it.
Wilson yawned and ran a hand through his hair. "It's still early; I'm going back to bed. You coming?"
"And by bed you mean..." House countered automatically but he felt a smile growing inside him.
"Why don't you come with me and find out."
House smile grew. He snatched his cane up and followed Wilson down the hallway, enjoying the view and the hope of a future.
Sometimes life has a way of working out.
~ End
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: PG-13ish
Words: Approx 2300
Summary: A sequel to Once Around the Garden. House needs his lawn mowing. Wilson obliges.
The message left on his answering machine had been terse, much like the man himself.
"221B Baker Street. Friday night after work. I have a lawn that needs mowing, pool boy."
Wilson toyed with the idea of not going, but only briefly. In their brief encounter at Cuddy's place he'd found House an intriguing proposition and he was fairly sure that House had felt some attraction for him as well. He wasn't expecting anything meaningful out of this encounter - House's invitation was for a one night stand not a marriage - but that didn't matter. With three divorces behind him he wasn't looking for commitment.
He didn't bother to take his lawn mower when he set off for Baker Street. Like any good citizen of the 21st century he'd googled the address and determined that the nearest patch of grass to House's apartment was a very sad looking park a half mile away. If House had anything greener than mould growing in his home Wilson would eat his best pair of gardening gloves.
When the door opened he was greeted by House who thrust a potted plant at him. A potted plant which had seen much better days. Wilson was no plant doctor but he was pretty sure it was beyond help.
"It's dead, Jim," he said and was rewarded with a quirk of House's lips.
"I hope you're better with pools than you are with plants."
"Why? Do you have a swimming pool hidden in your bedroom?"
"You're welcome to check for one."
Preliminary skirmish out of the way House stepped aside to allow Wilson to enter his apartment.
Wilson glanced around, it was crowded with House's possessions but wasn't messy. A large piano dominated the main room, and various guitars were arranged in racks on the wall. Sheet music was piled on the piano bench, and bookshelves along another wall groaned with an eclectic mixture of textbooks, novels, and the odd holiday memento. An expensive sound system was in the corner, next to a large vinyl record collection. The place practically screamed Musician.
"Beer? If you've finished casing the place that is." House was standing close behind him, well into Wilson's personal space, his presence impossible to ignore.
"Beer is fine."
"Kitchen's that way." House indicated a direction with a flap of his hand and settled himself down on one end of a battered leather couch, lifting his right leg up onto the cluttered coffee table with both hands and then tilting his head back to observe Wilson's next move.
Wilson stared down at him, his hands going automatically to his hips. He was torn between amusement and annoyance at House's constant need to make every interaction a battle of wits.
House stared back and shrugged slightly.
"Cripple," he reminded Wilson with a wave of his cane.
"Guest." Wilson indicated himself with a theatrical flourish of his hand.
When House just turned back around without another word and turned the TV on at full volume Wilson went to the kitchen and pulled one beer out of refrigerator and then made himself a sandwich out of his ‘hosts’ meagre ingredients. Then he joined House on the couch, sitting unnecessarily close to him on the adjoining cushion.
When House made a grab for his beer Wilson took it out of his reach.
"Get your lazy crippled ass into the kitchen and get your own, this is mine."
There was a glint of approval in House's eyes before he begrudgingly hauled himself off the couch and stomped into the kitchen, banging his cane heavily on the floor. When he returned he was carrying another beer and a bowl of chips which he put down in front of both of them.
Wilson said nothing but took a handful of the chips and then passed over half his sandwich to House. House complained briefly about the food and the unsuitability of pickles as a sandwich ingredient but Wilson ignored him and House set about eating the offending item in record time. Skirmish number two successfully concluded. House hadn't kicked him out yet so Wilson figured he must be winning, or at least recording an honourable draw.
House commandeered the remote control to the TV and proceeded to flip through the channels for the next hour or two. As he went from one show to the next Wilson discovered that his host was fluent in Spanish and had a smattering of other languages, was morbidly interested in both historical crimes and the various disasters of the twentieth century, could expound on the follies of various religions, the misdoings of A-list celebrities, and was up to date on the latest 'shocking' plot developments of Prescription Passion. Wilson didn't so much watch the television as he watched House, his initially mild interest in the man deepening as time went on. He'd come here expecting, quite frankly, a quick encounter with no strings. Instead he found himself engaging in lively conversation and swapping stories with House as if they had been friends for many years.
"So, you're a musician?" Wilson asked finally, during a lull between a Monster Truck Rally special event and the start of a baseball game. "When you're not trying to get small children into overpriced schools that is. Are you in a band?"
"Used to be. I fly solo now, play a few clubs, write a little bit."
The fact that House was willing to take on a babysitter job spoke volumes for the success of his musical career and House seemed to know that. He shrugged.
"Business has been slow lately." He rubbed at his leg and grimaced. Withdrawing a small amber bottle from his jacket he shook a couple of pills out and swallowed them dry.
"Painkillers?" Wilson ventured. It was none of his business but he wanted to know what he would be getting into if this became more than just a fleeting encounter. He caught himself at the thought - that wasn't what this evening was supposed to be about.
"I never go anywhere without my best friend, Vicodin." House tucked the bottle back into his jeans pocket and continued to rub his thigh, his eyes not meeting Wilson's.
"What happened to your leg anyway?" Wilson asked and then caught himself at the question - it was beyond obvious that House was a little touchy about his disability.
House looked back at him, those sharp eyes assessing him. After a moment he nodded and Wilson let out a breath. He had the feeling he'd passed another test - although he had no idea what it might have been.
"Infarction in my thigh. Took the quacks at the hospital three days to diagnose it accurately. Cuddy took over the case and let them butcher my thigh to save my life."
"Cuddy? As in Rachel's Mom?" Well that might explain the unlikely babysitting gig.
"Yep. She still feels guilty about this nice case of chronic pain she left me with so she gives me the odd job to do, and tries to talk her contacts into hiring the cripple to play at their weddings and fundraisers." He looked away again, his jaw tightening. Wilson moved a little closer to him, their shoulders touching and turned his attention back to the TV, taking the focus away from House and his leg. After a while the Vicodin seemed to lessen House's pain and his hand fell away from his leg. He leaned his head back against the couch with a sigh and met Wilson's eyes.
"So you gonna make a move, pool boy? Or shall we just stay up all night and chat about boys and do our nails?" He batted his eyelashes in a ridiculous fashion and Wilson laughed.
"You're the one who wanted to watch The Real Houseboys of Alabama," he pointed out.
"Hey, don't diss the Boys - it can't be easy having to look like that all day. Those abs don't oil themselves."
"House."
"Yes, Wilson?"
"Shut up."
"Make me." House's smirk was a challenge, and one Wilson was willing to take up.
Not taking his eyes off House Wilson lent in, one hand on House's left thigh, the other touching his shoulder. Their lips met, House's parting readily under his own.
Wilson slid his hand under House's t-shirt, feeling the rapid beat of his heart as the kiss deepened. He pulled House closer; sliding his other hand up to palm House's growing erection and pressing his own against House's groin. House moved into his touch, bucking his hips and running a hand through Wilson's hair, sending a thrill of arousal through him. He pressed himself further against House, wanting more contact. House was always so closed off, so guarded in his reactions, that Wilson loved to see him like this, needy and wanting but willing to give. He wrapped his leg around House's left one and pushed him further down towards the couch cushions.
House responded enthusiastically, again moving against Wilson but then he stilled and pulled away from their kiss. Wilson froze, thinking he had pushed too hard and gone too quickly but House shook his head slightly and gestured in the direction of the hallway.
"Bed will be easier," he said, his voice hoarse and his eyes not quite meeting Wilson's.
Wilson stood up, and reached out a hand to help House to his feet. His gesture was met by a truculent stare but Wilson was already becoming immune to those. Eventually House begrudgingly accepted the assistance, leaning against him as he gained his feet. Wilson slipped his hand lower and under the waistband of House's jeans as he, pulled him close and kissed him again, bracing both their weights against the wall.
Some time later they made it to the bedroom.
House stared at the ceiling of his bedroom, unable to sleep. Next to him Wilson kept snoring softly as he lay sprawled across most of the bed, making himself at home. House thought about shaking him awake and kicking him out, as he did most of the men he'd had sex with since the infarction but he realised he didn't want him to leave.
He hadn't expected much to happen with Wilson. He hadn't even known if the man would turn up. A brief flirtation on a suburban lawn could be something that was quickly regretted or forgotten. Maybe Wilson handed out dozens of his business cards every week to men much more likely to satisfy him than House. Even if he did come House had been expecting some quick sex, just a way of blowing off steam. Not whatever the evening, and then the night, had turned into. He hadn't expected something real.
He stretched out a hand and snagged his Vicodin from the bedside table. Gulping down a pill he levered himself to his feet with the aid of his cane. Wilson stirred and muttered but didn't wake up. On impulse House pushed Wilson's ridiculously floppy hair back from his eyes, keeping his touch light so he wouldn't disturb his sleep.
Once back in the living area House did a couple of laps around the furniture, trying to coax his leg into settling down. After the pain had abated enough for him to breathe again he sat down on the piano stool, his fingers lightly touching the keys. He didn't play very often anymore. Once he'd been a serious classical pianist, on his way to establishing himself amongst the best in the country. Then the infarction happened and everything had changed.
He had neither the strength, nor the stamina, for the lengthy practice sessions that life as a professional musician demanded, let alone for the actual performances. When he'd recovered enough to take an interest in his life again, however small, he'd turned to his guitars and to popular music instead. He made enough money to pay the rent, and played enough to keep that part of his soul content, if not happy. But he missed the piano and the soaring melodies he used to pull from it.
He let his fingers stray on the keys while he thought. He kept it quiet so as to not awaken either Wilson or his neighbours but still enjoyed hearing the sound again. Guitars had their place, but the piano was where his heart lay. After a while of that he began to get swept up in the music, losing himself to the intricacies of the notes and letting the constant pain in his leg fade away.
"Don't the neighbours mind?"
He startled at the soft voice, his fingers stilling on the keys. Through the window he could see the grey light of early morning and in the doorway an amused looking Wilson was watching him. Wilson was barefoot and wearing only the boxers he'd discarded last night somewhere in their trip from couch to bed. His hair was sleep messy and House felt a stirring of arousal just looking at him.
"I've been told they do," he said, answering Wilson's question. Stiffly he rose up from the piano bench, feeling his leg protest as he did so. As it threatened to betray him completely Wilson was suddenly there, his hand under House's elbow, providing support."
"You okay?"
"Long sessions with the piano don't agree with me anymore." House pulled his arm away and Wilson let go. They stood there for a moment, a little awkwardly. In a moment, House thought, Wilson would declare that he had to leave and that would be it.
Wilson yawned and ran a hand through his hair. "It's still early; I'm going back to bed. You coming?"
"And by bed you mean..." House countered automatically but he felt a smile growing inside him.
"Why don't you come with me and find out."
House smile grew. He snatched his cane up and followed Wilson down the hallway, enjoying the view and the hope of a future.
Sometimes life has a way of working out.
~ End