You should know by now that I suck with deadlines.
Title: For Every Closed Door (13/14)
Fandom: House MD/Dead Like Me crossover
Author: Starling
Rating: R overall
Characters/pairings: House/Wilson, original characters.
Warnings: Afterlife!Fic. Thus, by necessity, also a death!fic, but not depressing. Also, I have a tendency to leave cliffhangers, in case that's not your thing with WIPs.
Summary: "Mabel nodded. 'Ain't that just the way of it. It's always the good tippers that leave.'"
Obligatory Disclaimer: I don't own, write for, or produce either of these fabulous shows. I'm just a geek with too much time on her hands.
A/N: Boy, I suck. Sorry for the delay in updating. I have my excuses, really I do, but I won't bore you with them.
Unbeta'd. All mistakes are mine.
Concrit feedback gives me warm fuzzies.
x-posted to housefic and house_wilson.
Previous Chapters
Humans beings are simple, predictable clichés. Broken hearts, betrayal, it's all been done a billion times before. The problem is, every time still hurts like the first. And if you're lucky enough to recover, you can be sure that just as you finish filling in all the cracks in your life, the next one is starting to open.
-From Dead Like Me
"What do you think about death?" Wilson asked philosophically. They were lying in bed in House's new apartment. House had to admit that, despite having a fetish for small stone fountains, ugly tapestries, and Buddha statues, whoever had lived here before really understood the importance of having a nice bed. He and Wilson had been laying in it for close to four hours now, intermittently talking, napping, making out, and watching the Sci-Fi channel.
Beelzebub was curled up next to Wilson's hips, purring. They'd tried and failed to eject him from the room a few times already, but the cat had formed a stubborn attachment to Wilson. House could sympathize with that, even if it was incredibly irritating. The only way to get Beelzebub to leave was to either feed him or start having sex again, in which case he'd exit voluntarily. Thanks to the recent excess of the latter, House had no energy to get up and do the former, so they were stuck with the furry bastard.
"Did you hear me?" Wilson asked when House didn't answer him.
House shifted so he could face the other man. "Is this your idea of pillow talk?"
Wilson shrugged and stroked Beelzebub, who upped the level of his purring from content to ecstatic.
House tried to think of a way around the question. He was still unsure of what was okay for him to talk about, and what would bring the swift vengeance of The Powers That Liked To Fuck With Him. In the four days since he'd ambushed Wilson at his old apartment (or "The Day of Glorious Resolution," as House had come to think of it), he'd been struck dumb only once, and he had no intention of having a repeat occurrence.
Two days ago, Wilson had come back from the hospital talking about a weird biopsy result. House had been about to respond when his entire mind had gone terrifyingly blank. When he had come back, he had no memory of the conclusion he'd just drawn, though he assumed it was an answer to whatever mystery the biopsy presented. Wilson, thankfully, had been busy cooking dinner for the both of them, and hadn't seen it. Otherwise, he would probably have thought House was having an absent seizure. That's certainly what it felt like.
Since then, House had been careful what he talked about. His previous life was out, obviously, as were the subjects of the hospital and anything medical-related. The subject of death seemed like dangerous territory.
"From what I hear," House said, "it's like taxes. Just as annoying and unavoidable." Wilson rolled his eyes, and House hauled himself out of bed. He pulled on a pair of shorts and padded into the kitchen to look in the fridge, hoping something besides old orange juice and condiments would have magically shown up in there since the last time he'd looked.
No such luck. The fridge was empty, and worse, Wilson had followed him out of the bedroom, obviously intent on pursuing the conversation.
"You want some pizza? I think I'm going to call in a delivery," House said, hoping to distract Wilson from any further questions. He picked up the phone, prepared to dial Dirty Dave's. He figured they could probably use the business, considering not many people wanted to eat from a kitchen in which an employee had died.
"Whatever you want," Wilson replied. "I'm not really hungry."
House cast a not-so-subtle look at Wilson; the man had lost weight in the almost-month since House had died. Not a lot, but it was noticeable, especially when you'd gotten as personal with James Wilson's body as House had in the last few days. The curves of his cheekbones were more pronounced, as were his ribs and hips, which protruded above the pair of pajama pants Wilson had filched from his dresser.
The look was not lost on the other man, who returned it with a wry shrug. House suppressed the uncharacteristic twinge of concern and watched Wilson as he sat down on the couch. House hung up the phone without dialing and followed him, shoving the cat aside to make room.
"You didn't answer my question," Wilson said, after House had sprawled out next to him.
"Yes I did," House argued. "Annoying and unavoidable." Just like this conversation, apparently. House shifted to lay down on the couch, putting his feet in Wilson's lap.
"I mean after we die. What do you think happens?"
"What do you think happens?" House asked, nudging Wilson with one of his heels. If he had to have this discussion, maybe he could at least get a foot rub out of it.
Wilson obligingly put his hands on House's ankle, rubbing small circles around the joint and tendon. He looked lost in thought, or maybe memory. House closed his eyes, enjoying the soothing feeling of Wilson's hands massaging him.
"I'm not sure. House..." House looked up sharply, but Wilson wasn't looking at him. "House thought this was it. He said once that he wanted to believe that life wasn't just a test. I think he either wanted all this," he gestured vaguely, "To be completely meaningful, or not at all."
House swallowed. It never stopped sounding bizarre, to hear Wilson refer to him not only in the third person, but in the past tense. Thankfully, the subject of himself hadn't come up too much. He had an idea that Wilson was avoiding it, which was just fine with him.
He nudged Wilson again, and because a conversation about death seemed less likely to inflict memory loss than a conversation about his previous life, asked, "Do you believe that?"
He knew that the other man didn't, but couldn't remember ever asking before.
Wilson squeezed House's arch gently, rubbing a thumb along the underside of his foot as he thought. "I'd like to think that there's something after all this. That we'll..." He hesitated, his hands momentarily stilling. The haunted look, which House had first seen in the cafe after playing the piano, came back briefly into his eyes. "That we get to see the people we've lost. Or at least know that they're all right," Wilson finished.
He wanted to say, You didn't lose me, dumbass. And you couldn't pry me away with a crowbar at this point. But that, of course, was impossible, as well as unforgivably sentimental. Instead, he reached up and grabbed Wilson by the wrist and pulled him until the other man lay sprawled on top of him. He shifted around until their bodies aligned, then drew Wilson into a long kiss.
He'd done this a lot in the past few days. Kissing Wilson was the best way to distract him, and it was easier than lying to him whenever an uncomfortable subject came up. And since it usually led to another round of fantastic sex, there was no real disadvantage to it.
Wilson ran a hand down the length of House's side, lightly raking his nails against the skin of his chest. House responded by nudging Wilson's legs open, pressing softly against the other man's crotch with his thigh.
It should have been stranger, to make the transition from being Wilson's friend to being his lover. But considering all that had happened, what with first dying and then becoming a bona fide psychopomp, having sex with his best male friend seemed fairly tame.
Besides, he now had first hand (so to speak) evidence that Wilson's reputation as a great lay was well deserved. That had certainly helped ease the transition.
Wilson moved his mouth to House's neck, dragging his lips and tongue along the sensitive skin, then shifted lower to nip at House's collarbone.
What was more shocking than the quick transition was how comforting it had become. Like now, for instance. There was no passion, not yet at least. A Reaper's miraculous recovery powers unfortunately did not seem to extend to the sexual realm, and it would be a little while until House could get it up again. But it didn't matter. For now, it was just the feeling of Wilson's bare skin warm against his own, moist lips and hard teeth on his throat, the other man's heart beating close to his own; gestures that were equal parts soothing and distracting.
Damn. Apparently, dying meant becoming a sap. The worst thing was that, for the most part, House didn't mind.
Decapitation could really fuck you up, House mused, running his fingers down the notches of Wilson's spine and slipping them under the other man's waistband. He blamed it on the instrument of his execution. If he'd been killed by a Slayer album instead of James Taylor, he probably wouldn't be lying here, doing what could be conceived of as cuddling by the ignorant masses. This is what happened when the guy that sang "Fire and Rain" was the cause of your death.
Wilson moved his mouth lower on House's chest, and House thought maybe he'd been too quick in assuming that a Reaper's recovery powers didn't extend to his cock. Or maybe it was Wilson who had some kind of super power. The way he was biting at House's stomach and hips was too arousing to be merely human.
"Holy fuck..." House muttered as Wilson blew warm, moist breath against the thin fabric of his boxers.
"Isn't that an oxymoron?" Wilson asked, pulling at House's shorts.
"Not anymore. The way you give head is- oh fuck, that's good- is pretty damn divine. In my honest - Jesus, Wilson- and impartial opinion."
"Mika," Wilson said, glancing up.
"What."
"Shut up, would you?" Wilson asked,.
"Make me," House challenged.
Wilson smirked, then bit House softly on the thigh. "All right."
Later, with Wilson asleep and snoring in his arms, House thought about how he might have answered Wilson's question about death, had he been able to.
When you kick off, there's someone there with you. Someone who will pat you on the back and commiserate about the many ways dying sucks, who will talk and trade dirty jokes with you until your version of Paradise shows up. And then when it does, some place that you've always loved or fantasized about, you're on your own.
House fell asleep wondering why almost every version of heaven he'd seen had been empty.
****
House was late meeting his fellow Reapers the next morning. He and Wilson had decided to conserve water and energy by taking a shower together. Which was just a nice way of saying he'd been able to pay back Wilson for his amazing incoherency-inducing blowjob of the night before.
"You're late," Colby said as House slid into the booth.
"And you're wearing an ugly shirt. Again. Anyone else want to state the obvious this morning?"
"You need to shave," Kay said, without looking up from writing her Post-Its, "and you're a jerk."
"Well, that's a matter of opinion," House said, stealing a piece of her toast.
"That you're a jerk is undisputed," Ada interjected.
"I meant about shaving. Scruff is so in."
Ada and Kay rolled their eyes, but Colby actually looked a bit thoughtful. House had high hopes for him possibly becoming sort of cool some day, though he would forever be stuck in an eighteen year old's nerdy body. It was kind of tragic, really.
Kay handed Ada and Colby their Post-Its, and put away her notebook and pen.
"Forgetting someone?" House asked, holding his hand out.
"You don't have one. You get the day off," she said brusquely, digging back into her omelet.
"How come he gets off?" Colby whined. "He's been here less than a month. I worked for two years before I got a day off."
Kay glared at him, and at House too, for no reason he could see. She shoved another forkful of eggs and ham into her mouth and said, "That is not for you to know, or me to tell you."
Colby withered a little under her scowl. "Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed today," he muttered.
"And somebody better get his ass to his Reap before he misses it."
Colby looked at his note, cursed, then rushed out the door. Ada snorted, then turned to look back at Kay, who was still devouring her eggs like they'd said nasty things about her mother.
"You all right?" she asked.
Kay waved at her dismissively. Ada cocked an eyebrow, and looked as though she were about to say something else, then decided against it. Probably for the best. Kay looked positively murderous this morning.
With that in mind, House addressed Ada. "We get days off?"
"It happens," Ada said. "Not very often. A couple of times a decade, so don't plan any trips to Cancun."
"A couple of times a decade? Is there no Reapers union? We should strike."
"Death waits for no man," Ada misquoted loftily. "Or woman, or pissed off undead lackey."
"What about the drag queens and gender neutrals? Sounds like a loophole." House watched as Ada nearly spit coffee out her nose laughing, but Kay only scraped her fork around her plate, chasing the last scraps of her rubbery eggs. Interesting.
Ada laid some money down for her half-finished breakfast burrito, then stood.
"Gonna finish that?" Kay asked, pointing.
Ada shook her head. "It tastes like ass."
Kay shrugged and pulled the plate over to her. "So does all the food here."
"So why do we still have to meet here in the morning?" Ada said, gathering up her coat and purse.
"I like it here," Kay growled, then took a huge, spiteful bite of Ada's burrito. Ada threw up her hands.
"You're impossible. I'm going to get some food that doesn't make me feel like dying all over again. See you all later." Ada walked out, braids swinging in haughty half-circles over her back.
Which left House alone with his boss, who was looking more homicidal by the second. He wondered if the amusement gained from trying to goad her further would be worth the bloodshed that would probably follow.
Mabel, the oldest, toughest, and bitchiest waitress at Hennry's, hobbled over to refill Kay's mug. Last week, she'd dumped coffee all over House's lap after he'd made some remark about using their sludge to re-tar his roof. Instead of apologizing, she'd made some comment about how her eyes were going in her old age, then tossed a towel at him and demanded he clean it up himself.
This time however, she just ignored him and addressed Kay in an almost maternal tone. "Where's your friend? The pretty one that always used to meet you here. Haven't seen her in a while."
House sat back, awaiting the inevitable explosion. Mentioning Delia on top of Kay's already dangerously bad mood seemed like inviting bloodshed.
To his surprise, Kay just shrunk down in her seat a little. "She had to move on. You know how it is."
Mabel nodded grimly. "Ain't that just the way of it. It's always the good tippers that leave." She directed her half-blind glare at House momentarily, then turned and hobbled away.
House looked at Kay. So that was why she still came into Hennry's. "How sentimental," he said.
"Says the man stalking his best friend from beyond the grave," Kay replied. She took a sip of her coffee, then said, "Speaking of which, don't you have somebody else you could be bothering?"
House was tempted to stay just to piss her off more, but Wilson was at home. He'd taken the rest of the week off, with Cuddy's approval, and House had coerced a promise out of him to make dinner that night. It would be easy enough to move that to lunch, and spend the rest of the day lounging around naked with him.
If he hurried, he might still catch Wilson in bed. Or in the shower. That thought was enough to get him moving.
As he was walking out, he turned and glanced at Kay, but she was looking out the window grimly, the rest of the burrito and coffee untouched. He left her to her mopey contemplation.
****
They ended up skipping lunch, and Wilson never did get around to making dinner, but House was forced to forgive him after the man gave him an impromptu massage with a very happy ending. And after he offered to pay for their takeout.
They were back at what had been House's and was now technically Wilson's apartment. House was careful to ask stupid things like where the bathroom was and which drawer the forks were kept in. It was awkward, but the TV was bigger, and Beelzebub wasn't around to annoy them.
"I'm going to take a quick shower," Wilson announced.
"Should I join you?" House offered. He didn't feel the need to shower, but Wilson plus naked plus warm water tended to be a very enjoyable equation.
"Then it wouldn't be quick. And the delivery guy will be here soon."
"Oh, sure. Run off to take a shower and leave the unemployed guy to pay for the pizza."
Wilson rolled his eyes. "My wallet is on the coffee table. And I thought you had a trust fund."
He'd forgotten that part of Mika's story. House shrugged noncommittally. "Why should that stop me from taking advantage of you? Enjoy your shower."
Wilson pulled off his shirt and threw it at House's head.
"Tease!" House shouted to the other man's retreating back. When he heard that the shower was running, House sat down at the piano. Of all the detritus of his old life, he missed his piano the most. He'd been hesitant to play it around Wilson since the cafe, but figured there was no harm in it right now.
There was sheet music on the piano. House lifted the top page off, and was surprised to see that it was the same song he'd been playing in the cafe. "My Life" by Phil Ochs, which he'd learned ages ago and knew by heart at this point. Ochs had never been a great pianist, but you had to like any songwriter who went nuts and started performing in an Elvis costume, and was rightfully convinced that the FBI was keeping novel-length file on him.
The paper was creased, House noticed. He'd never kept his sheet music in pristine condition, but this looked like it had been handled a lot.
A knock at the door interrupted his musing. House stood, snatched Wilson's wallet off the coffee table, and then opened the door.
"How much do I owe you?" House asked, pulling out a twenty.
"At least a couple of drinks, but I'm not really keeping track," Kay said.
House looked up, hoping he'd heard wrong. Then when he saw her, he hoped he was hallucinating. "Unless you just got a job at Dirty Dave's, you shouldn't be here," he said.
"Neither should you, but I guess that's a moot point, isn't it?"
"Yes, very moot. And I'm looking forward to arguing this incredibly moot point with you tomorrow, or the day after. Or never. Goodbye." He slammed the door in her face, then locked it for good measure.
"Who was that?" Wilson asked. House spun around, saw Wilson watching him from the bathroom. He was buttoning up his shirt, which was wet from where water had dripped onto the collar, and steam drifted out around him. Of course this would the one time Wilson decided to actually take a quick shower.
"Nobody," House answered. "At least, nobody that had pizza, and therefore, none of our concern."
There was another knock at the door, more forceful this time.
"Aren't you going to get that?" Wilson said.
House shook his head. "No."
"Mika!" Wilson said.
"Mormons," House said. "They're very persistent. I told them I was an atheist and you were Jewish, now they're desperate to save our souls."
Wilson moved to open the door, and House blocked him. "Bad idea," he said. "Do you want them to try and exorcise us in the living room?"
Kay was now pounding at the door.
"Move," Wilson demanded.
"No."
Wilson glared at him, then reached for the doorknob. House moved to block him again, but it was a feint. Wilson shoved him out of the way, and opened the door before House could stop him.
Fuck. He'd forgotten what a sneaky bastard Wilson could be.
"Hi," Wilson said to Kay. "Sorry about that."
House pushed him aside and glared at Kay. "I told you I didn't want any of your damn pamphlets. Now go away."
"Quit being an ass," Wilson said. "She's dressed too well to be a missionary."
Kay glared witheringly at House. "You told him I was a Jehovah's Witness?"
"Mormon, actually," Wilson said apologetically. He cocked his head. "Aren't you Mika's cousin? The one from the bar?"
She glanced at House. "Oh no. We're not related."
"She's the friend. Or was. Now she's just a pain in my ass." House shot her his best "Fuck Off and Die" glare, but she just ignored him.
"Somebody has to be," Kay said. "Are you going to introduce me?"
"No." Jesus, what the hell did she want?
"I'm Kay," she told Wilson.
"James," he said.
"James Wilson?" Kay asked.
Wilson raised an eyebrow. "Have we met before?"
Kay smiled and shook her head. "No, but Mika's told me a lot about you. Nice to meet you, at any rate."
She held out her hand, and that's when everything crashed into place. Why Kay had allowed, hell, encouraged him to be with Wilson. Her wretched behavior this morning. Probably even why Wilson could see the ghost of the girl at the bar. He searched the street until he found Kay's familiar Jetta, and could see two shadows leaning against it. He could make out the ugly stripes on Colby's polo shirt from here.
House shot his hand out and grasped Wilson's wrist before he could touch Kay's.
"Wilson, could you go get my wallet? I think I left it in the bedroom." Actually, it was in his coat, which was crumpled somewhere in the living room. That would keep Wilson busy for a while.
Wilson started to glare at him, but the anger turned to confusion when he saw the look on the other man's face. House became aware that he was holding Wilson's wrist in a vice grip, and loosened it slightly.
"Please," House muttered.
Wilson looked at him searchingly for a moment, then at Kay. Finally, he nodded. "Yeah, okay. Bedroom?"
House tried not to let the relief he felt show on his face as he nodded. He let go of Wilson's wrist, then gently shut the door behind the man as he went back inside.
"Let me see it," he said, his voice low but his tone venomous.
Kay's face was as expressive as a slab of granite. "See what?" she asked blandly.
"You bitch," House spat. "What do you think?"
Kay sighed, and her stone face cracked open a little. "Please don't make this any harder than it has to be."
"Fuck you," he said, and punched her in the face.
The smaller woman went down like a ton of bricks, falling roughly onto the cement sidewalk. House could see both Ada and Colby running over, but he didn't give a damn. He knelt down next to her and dug his hands into her coat pockets.
"Not there," Kay mumbled. "It's not in there. Get the fuck off me, I'll show you." She shoved him away and sat up, blood flowing from her nose. She pulled a small, folded square of yellow paper from her breast pocket and held it out.
House snatched the Post-It from her. Kay watched, holding the sleeve of her coat against her bleeding nose, as House unfolded it.
J. Wilson
221B Baker Street
ETD: 6:18pm
That was less than fifteen minutes away.
Fandom: House MD/Dead Like Me crossover
Author: Starling
Rating: R overall
Characters/pairings: House/Wilson, original characters.
Warnings: Afterlife!Fic. Thus, by necessity, also a death!fic, but not depressing. Also, I have a tendency to leave cliffhangers, in case that's not your thing with WIPs.
Summary: "Mabel nodded. 'Ain't that just the way of it. It's always the good tippers that leave.'"
Obligatory Disclaimer: I don't own, write for, or produce either of these fabulous shows. I'm just a geek with too much time on her hands.
A/N: Boy, I suck. Sorry for the delay in updating. I have my excuses, really I do, but I won't bore you with them.
Unbeta'd. All mistakes are mine.
Concrit feedback gives me warm fuzzies.
x-posted to housefic and house_wilson.
Previous Chapters
Humans beings are simple, predictable clichés. Broken hearts, betrayal, it's all been done a billion times before. The problem is, every time still hurts like the first. And if you're lucky enough to recover, you can be sure that just as you finish filling in all the cracks in your life, the next one is starting to open.
-From Dead Like Me
"What do you think about death?" Wilson asked philosophically. They were lying in bed in House's new apartment. House had to admit that, despite having a fetish for small stone fountains, ugly tapestries, and Buddha statues, whoever had lived here before really understood the importance of having a nice bed. He and Wilson had been laying in it for close to four hours now, intermittently talking, napping, making out, and watching the Sci-Fi channel.
Beelzebub was curled up next to Wilson's hips, purring. They'd tried and failed to eject him from the room a few times already, but the cat had formed a stubborn attachment to Wilson. House could sympathize with that, even if it was incredibly irritating. The only way to get Beelzebub to leave was to either feed him or start having sex again, in which case he'd exit voluntarily. Thanks to the recent excess of the latter, House had no energy to get up and do the former, so they were stuck with the furry bastard.
"Did you hear me?" Wilson asked when House didn't answer him.
House shifted so he could face the other man. "Is this your idea of pillow talk?"
Wilson shrugged and stroked Beelzebub, who upped the level of his purring from content to ecstatic.
House tried to think of a way around the question. He was still unsure of what was okay for him to talk about, and what would bring the swift vengeance of The Powers That Liked To Fuck With Him. In the four days since he'd ambushed Wilson at his old apartment (or "The Day of Glorious Resolution," as House had come to think of it), he'd been struck dumb only once, and he had no intention of having a repeat occurrence.
Two days ago, Wilson had come back from the hospital talking about a weird biopsy result. House had been about to respond when his entire mind had gone terrifyingly blank. When he had come back, he had no memory of the conclusion he'd just drawn, though he assumed it was an answer to whatever mystery the biopsy presented. Wilson, thankfully, had been busy cooking dinner for the both of them, and hadn't seen it. Otherwise, he would probably have thought House was having an absent seizure. That's certainly what it felt like.
Since then, House had been careful what he talked about. His previous life was out, obviously, as were the subjects of the hospital and anything medical-related. The subject of death seemed like dangerous territory.
"From what I hear," House said, "it's like taxes. Just as annoying and unavoidable." Wilson rolled his eyes, and House hauled himself out of bed. He pulled on a pair of shorts and padded into the kitchen to look in the fridge, hoping something besides old orange juice and condiments would have magically shown up in there since the last time he'd looked.
No such luck. The fridge was empty, and worse, Wilson had followed him out of the bedroom, obviously intent on pursuing the conversation.
"You want some pizza? I think I'm going to call in a delivery," House said, hoping to distract Wilson from any further questions. He picked up the phone, prepared to dial Dirty Dave's. He figured they could probably use the business, considering not many people wanted to eat from a kitchen in which an employee had died.
"Whatever you want," Wilson replied. "I'm not really hungry."
House cast a not-so-subtle look at Wilson; the man had lost weight in the almost-month since House had died. Not a lot, but it was noticeable, especially when you'd gotten as personal with James Wilson's body as House had in the last few days. The curves of his cheekbones were more pronounced, as were his ribs and hips, which protruded above the pair of pajama pants Wilson had filched from his dresser.
The look was not lost on the other man, who returned it with a wry shrug. House suppressed the uncharacteristic twinge of concern and watched Wilson as he sat down on the couch. House hung up the phone without dialing and followed him, shoving the cat aside to make room.
"You didn't answer my question," Wilson said, after House had sprawled out next to him.
"Yes I did," House argued. "Annoying and unavoidable." Just like this conversation, apparently. House shifted to lay down on the couch, putting his feet in Wilson's lap.
"I mean after we die. What do you think happens?"
"What do you think happens?" House asked, nudging Wilson with one of his heels. If he had to have this discussion, maybe he could at least get a foot rub out of it.
Wilson obligingly put his hands on House's ankle, rubbing small circles around the joint and tendon. He looked lost in thought, or maybe memory. House closed his eyes, enjoying the soothing feeling of Wilson's hands massaging him.
"I'm not sure. House..." House looked up sharply, but Wilson wasn't looking at him. "House thought this was it. He said once that he wanted to believe that life wasn't just a test. I think he either wanted all this," he gestured vaguely, "To be completely meaningful, or not at all."
House swallowed. It never stopped sounding bizarre, to hear Wilson refer to him not only in the third person, but in the past tense. Thankfully, the subject of himself hadn't come up too much. He had an idea that Wilson was avoiding it, which was just fine with him.
He nudged Wilson again, and because a conversation about death seemed less likely to inflict memory loss than a conversation about his previous life, asked, "Do you believe that?"
He knew that the other man didn't, but couldn't remember ever asking before.
Wilson squeezed House's arch gently, rubbing a thumb along the underside of his foot as he thought. "I'd like to think that there's something after all this. That we'll..." He hesitated, his hands momentarily stilling. The haunted look, which House had first seen in the cafe after playing the piano, came back briefly into his eyes. "That we get to see the people we've lost. Or at least know that they're all right," Wilson finished.
He wanted to say, You didn't lose me, dumbass. And you couldn't pry me away with a crowbar at this point. But that, of course, was impossible, as well as unforgivably sentimental. Instead, he reached up and grabbed Wilson by the wrist and pulled him until the other man lay sprawled on top of him. He shifted around until their bodies aligned, then drew Wilson into a long kiss.
He'd done this a lot in the past few days. Kissing Wilson was the best way to distract him, and it was easier than lying to him whenever an uncomfortable subject came up. And since it usually led to another round of fantastic sex, there was no real disadvantage to it.
Wilson ran a hand down the length of House's side, lightly raking his nails against the skin of his chest. House responded by nudging Wilson's legs open, pressing softly against the other man's crotch with his thigh.
It should have been stranger, to make the transition from being Wilson's friend to being his lover. But considering all that had happened, what with first dying and then becoming a bona fide psychopomp, having sex with his best male friend seemed fairly tame.
Besides, he now had first hand (so to speak) evidence that Wilson's reputation as a great lay was well deserved. That had certainly helped ease the transition.
Wilson moved his mouth to House's neck, dragging his lips and tongue along the sensitive skin, then shifted lower to nip at House's collarbone.
What was more shocking than the quick transition was how comforting it had become. Like now, for instance. There was no passion, not yet at least. A Reaper's miraculous recovery powers unfortunately did not seem to extend to the sexual realm, and it would be a little while until House could get it up again. But it didn't matter. For now, it was just the feeling of Wilson's bare skin warm against his own, moist lips and hard teeth on his throat, the other man's heart beating close to his own; gestures that were equal parts soothing and distracting.
Damn. Apparently, dying meant becoming a sap. The worst thing was that, for the most part, House didn't mind.
Decapitation could really fuck you up, House mused, running his fingers down the notches of Wilson's spine and slipping them under the other man's waistband. He blamed it on the instrument of his execution. If he'd been killed by a Slayer album instead of James Taylor, he probably wouldn't be lying here, doing what could be conceived of as cuddling by the ignorant masses. This is what happened when the guy that sang "Fire and Rain" was the cause of your death.
Wilson moved his mouth lower on House's chest, and House thought maybe he'd been too quick in assuming that a Reaper's recovery powers didn't extend to his cock. Or maybe it was Wilson who had some kind of super power. The way he was biting at House's stomach and hips was too arousing to be merely human.
"Holy fuck..." House muttered as Wilson blew warm, moist breath against the thin fabric of his boxers.
"Isn't that an oxymoron?" Wilson asked, pulling at House's shorts.
"Not anymore. The way you give head is- oh fuck, that's good- is pretty damn divine. In my honest - Jesus, Wilson- and impartial opinion."
"Mika," Wilson said, glancing up.
"What."
"Shut up, would you?" Wilson asked,.
"Make me," House challenged.
Wilson smirked, then bit House softly on the thigh. "All right."
Later, with Wilson asleep and snoring in his arms, House thought about how he might have answered Wilson's question about death, had he been able to.
When you kick off, there's someone there with you. Someone who will pat you on the back and commiserate about the many ways dying sucks, who will talk and trade dirty jokes with you until your version of Paradise shows up. And then when it does, some place that you've always loved or fantasized about, you're on your own.
House fell asleep wondering why almost every version of heaven he'd seen had been empty.
****
House was late meeting his fellow Reapers the next morning. He and Wilson had decided to conserve water and energy by taking a shower together. Which was just a nice way of saying he'd been able to pay back Wilson for his amazing incoherency-inducing blowjob of the night before.
"You're late," Colby said as House slid into the booth.
"And you're wearing an ugly shirt. Again. Anyone else want to state the obvious this morning?"
"You need to shave," Kay said, without looking up from writing her Post-Its, "and you're a jerk."
"Well, that's a matter of opinion," House said, stealing a piece of her toast.
"That you're a jerk is undisputed," Ada interjected.
"I meant about shaving. Scruff is so in."
Ada and Kay rolled their eyes, but Colby actually looked a bit thoughtful. House had high hopes for him possibly becoming sort of cool some day, though he would forever be stuck in an eighteen year old's nerdy body. It was kind of tragic, really.
Kay handed Ada and Colby their Post-Its, and put away her notebook and pen.
"Forgetting someone?" House asked, holding his hand out.
"You don't have one. You get the day off," she said brusquely, digging back into her omelet.
"How come he gets off?" Colby whined. "He's been here less than a month. I worked for two years before I got a day off."
Kay glared at him, and at House too, for no reason he could see. She shoved another forkful of eggs and ham into her mouth and said, "That is not for you to know, or me to tell you."
Colby withered a little under her scowl. "Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed today," he muttered.
"And somebody better get his ass to his Reap before he misses it."
Colby looked at his note, cursed, then rushed out the door. Ada snorted, then turned to look back at Kay, who was still devouring her eggs like they'd said nasty things about her mother.
"You all right?" she asked.
Kay waved at her dismissively. Ada cocked an eyebrow, and looked as though she were about to say something else, then decided against it. Probably for the best. Kay looked positively murderous this morning.
With that in mind, House addressed Ada. "We get days off?"
"It happens," Ada said. "Not very often. A couple of times a decade, so don't plan any trips to Cancun."
"A couple of times a decade? Is there no Reapers union? We should strike."
"Death waits for no man," Ada misquoted loftily. "Or woman, or pissed off undead lackey."
"What about the drag queens and gender neutrals? Sounds like a loophole." House watched as Ada nearly spit coffee out her nose laughing, but Kay only scraped her fork around her plate, chasing the last scraps of her rubbery eggs. Interesting.
Ada laid some money down for her half-finished breakfast burrito, then stood.
"Gonna finish that?" Kay asked, pointing.
Ada shook her head. "It tastes like ass."
Kay shrugged and pulled the plate over to her. "So does all the food here."
"So why do we still have to meet here in the morning?" Ada said, gathering up her coat and purse.
"I like it here," Kay growled, then took a huge, spiteful bite of Ada's burrito. Ada threw up her hands.
"You're impossible. I'm going to get some food that doesn't make me feel like dying all over again. See you all later." Ada walked out, braids swinging in haughty half-circles over her back.
Which left House alone with his boss, who was looking more homicidal by the second. He wondered if the amusement gained from trying to goad her further would be worth the bloodshed that would probably follow.
Mabel, the oldest, toughest, and bitchiest waitress at Hennry's, hobbled over to refill Kay's mug. Last week, she'd dumped coffee all over House's lap after he'd made some remark about using their sludge to re-tar his roof. Instead of apologizing, she'd made some comment about how her eyes were going in her old age, then tossed a towel at him and demanded he clean it up himself.
This time however, she just ignored him and addressed Kay in an almost maternal tone. "Where's your friend? The pretty one that always used to meet you here. Haven't seen her in a while."
House sat back, awaiting the inevitable explosion. Mentioning Delia on top of Kay's already dangerously bad mood seemed like inviting bloodshed.
To his surprise, Kay just shrunk down in her seat a little. "She had to move on. You know how it is."
Mabel nodded grimly. "Ain't that just the way of it. It's always the good tippers that leave." She directed her half-blind glare at House momentarily, then turned and hobbled away.
House looked at Kay. So that was why she still came into Hennry's. "How sentimental," he said.
"Says the man stalking his best friend from beyond the grave," Kay replied. She took a sip of her coffee, then said, "Speaking of which, don't you have somebody else you could be bothering?"
House was tempted to stay just to piss her off more, but Wilson was at home. He'd taken the rest of the week off, with Cuddy's approval, and House had coerced a promise out of him to make dinner that night. It would be easy enough to move that to lunch, and spend the rest of the day lounging around naked with him.
If he hurried, he might still catch Wilson in bed. Or in the shower. That thought was enough to get him moving.
As he was walking out, he turned and glanced at Kay, but she was looking out the window grimly, the rest of the burrito and coffee untouched. He left her to her mopey contemplation.
****
They ended up skipping lunch, and Wilson never did get around to making dinner, but House was forced to forgive him after the man gave him an impromptu massage with a very happy ending. And after he offered to pay for their takeout.
They were back at what had been House's and was now technically Wilson's apartment. House was careful to ask stupid things like where the bathroom was and which drawer the forks were kept in. It was awkward, but the TV was bigger, and Beelzebub wasn't around to annoy them.
"I'm going to take a quick shower," Wilson announced.
"Should I join you?" House offered. He didn't feel the need to shower, but Wilson plus naked plus warm water tended to be a very enjoyable equation.
"Then it wouldn't be quick. And the delivery guy will be here soon."
"Oh, sure. Run off to take a shower and leave the unemployed guy to pay for the pizza."
Wilson rolled his eyes. "My wallet is on the coffee table. And I thought you had a trust fund."
He'd forgotten that part of Mika's story. House shrugged noncommittally. "Why should that stop me from taking advantage of you? Enjoy your shower."
Wilson pulled off his shirt and threw it at House's head.
"Tease!" House shouted to the other man's retreating back. When he heard that the shower was running, House sat down at the piano. Of all the detritus of his old life, he missed his piano the most. He'd been hesitant to play it around Wilson since the cafe, but figured there was no harm in it right now.
There was sheet music on the piano. House lifted the top page off, and was surprised to see that it was the same song he'd been playing in the cafe. "My Life" by Phil Ochs, which he'd learned ages ago and knew by heart at this point. Ochs had never been a great pianist, but you had to like any songwriter who went nuts and started performing in an Elvis costume, and was rightfully convinced that the FBI was keeping novel-length file on him.
The paper was creased, House noticed. He'd never kept his sheet music in pristine condition, but this looked like it had been handled a lot.
A knock at the door interrupted his musing. House stood, snatched Wilson's wallet off the coffee table, and then opened the door.
"How much do I owe you?" House asked, pulling out a twenty.
"At least a couple of drinks, but I'm not really keeping track," Kay said.
House looked up, hoping he'd heard wrong. Then when he saw her, he hoped he was hallucinating. "Unless you just got a job at Dirty Dave's, you shouldn't be here," he said.
"Neither should you, but I guess that's a moot point, isn't it?"
"Yes, very moot. And I'm looking forward to arguing this incredibly moot point with you tomorrow, or the day after. Or never. Goodbye." He slammed the door in her face, then locked it for good measure.
"Who was that?" Wilson asked. House spun around, saw Wilson watching him from the bathroom. He was buttoning up his shirt, which was wet from where water had dripped onto the collar, and steam drifted out around him. Of course this would the one time Wilson decided to actually take a quick shower.
"Nobody," House answered. "At least, nobody that had pizza, and therefore, none of our concern."
There was another knock at the door, more forceful this time.
"Aren't you going to get that?" Wilson said.
House shook his head. "No."
"Mika!" Wilson said.
"Mormons," House said. "They're very persistent. I told them I was an atheist and you were Jewish, now they're desperate to save our souls."
Wilson moved to open the door, and House blocked him. "Bad idea," he said. "Do you want them to try and exorcise us in the living room?"
Kay was now pounding at the door.
"Move," Wilson demanded.
"No."
Wilson glared at him, then reached for the doorknob. House moved to block him again, but it was a feint. Wilson shoved him out of the way, and opened the door before House could stop him.
Fuck. He'd forgotten what a sneaky bastard Wilson could be.
"Hi," Wilson said to Kay. "Sorry about that."
House pushed him aside and glared at Kay. "I told you I didn't want any of your damn pamphlets. Now go away."
"Quit being an ass," Wilson said. "She's dressed too well to be a missionary."
Kay glared witheringly at House. "You told him I was a Jehovah's Witness?"
"Mormon, actually," Wilson said apologetically. He cocked his head. "Aren't you Mika's cousin? The one from the bar?"
She glanced at House. "Oh no. We're not related."
"She's the friend. Or was. Now she's just a pain in my ass." House shot her his best "Fuck Off and Die" glare, but she just ignored him.
"Somebody has to be," Kay said. "Are you going to introduce me?"
"No." Jesus, what the hell did she want?
"I'm Kay," she told Wilson.
"James," he said.
"James Wilson?" Kay asked.
Wilson raised an eyebrow. "Have we met before?"
Kay smiled and shook her head. "No, but Mika's told me a lot about you. Nice to meet you, at any rate."
She held out her hand, and that's when everything crashed into place. Why Kay had allowed, hell, encouraged him to be with Wilson. Her wretched behavior this morning. Probably even why Wilson could see the ghost of the girl at the bar. He searched the street until he found Kay's familiar Jetta, and could see two shadows leaning against it. He could make out the ugly stripes on Colby's polo shirt from here.
House shot his hand out and grasped Wilson's wrist before he could touch Kay's.
"Wilson, could you go get my wallet? I think I left it in the bedroom." Actually, it was in his coat, which was crumpled somewhere in the living room. That would keep Wilson busy for a while.
Wilson started to glare at him, but the anger turned to confusion when he saw the look on the other man's face. House became aware that he was holding Wilson's wrist in a vice grip, and loosened it slightly.
"Please," House muttered.
Wilson looked at him searchingly for a moment, then at Kay. Finally, he nodded. "Yeah, okay. Bedroom?"
House tried not to let the relief he felt show on his face as he nodded. He let go of Wilson's wrist, then gently shut the door behind the man as he went back inside.
"Let me see it," he said, his voice low but his tone venomous.
Kay's face was as expressive as a slab of granite. "See what?" she asked blandly.
"You bitch," House spat. "What do you think?"
Kay sighed, and her stone face cracked open a little. "Please don't make this any harder than it has to be."
"Fuck you," he said, and punched her in the face.
The smaller woman went down like a ton of bricks, falling roughly onto the cement sidewalk. House could see both Ada and Colby running over, but he didn't give a damn. He knelt down next to her and dug his hands into her coat pockets.
"Not there," Kay mumbled. "It's not in there. Get the fuck off me, I'll show you." She shoved him away and sat up, blood flowing from her nose. She pulled a small, folded square of yellow paper from her breast pocket and held it out.
House snatched the Post-It from her. Kay watched, holding the sleeve of her coat against her bleeding nose, as House unfolded it.
J. Wilson
221B Baker Street
ETD: 6:18pm
That was less than fifteen minutes away.