Of Unexpected Manipulations (House M.D.)
Title: Of Unexpected Manipulations
Rating: PG
Pairing: House/Wilson Preslash
Length: ~1200 words
Summary: House found it difficult to understand just why his own thoughts sounded so ugly passing through his fellows' lips. Tritter Arc.
It all started with Foreman's rather unfortunate remark. Wilson told us he ratted. House hadn't even known he was going to react, really, until he heard his voice reply and realised belatedly that his mouth had indeed opened. "Your choice of verb, I take it?"
His voice had been bitter, but that was okay. This wasn't losing face; he had ample reasons to be pissed-off, after all. Foreman had no way to suspect that what he had really meant was shut the fuck up about things you can't possibly understand.
Foreman's passive-aggressive choice of word, of course, had nothing on Cameron's way of staying behind even as he sent the fellows to do more tests, on her cloyingly sympathetic tones.
"I'm so sorry, House."
His teeth clenched a little because truly, who wasn't sorry today? But he stayed stubbornly silent. His mouth apparently couldn't be allowed to run free anymore.
In retrospect, he should have known it would only encourage her.
"I was afraid that Chase was going to…But no one would have thought Wilson would be the one to betray you. I know how painful this must be."
House allowed himself to at least express part of his frustration by rubbing at his knee, still refusing to communicate in any other way.
"The nerve of him, pretending to do this to help you - if he'd just refused to speak for a few more days, everything would have been fine! But no, he couldn't deal with being parted from his precious little material comforts, even to avoid you going to prison!" Cameron's rant was picking up in speed now, proof that she was getting caught up in her own morals and reasoning.
"I gave him a piece of my mind earlier-" at this he raised his head to face her, but she had turned away and missed the quick movement "-and he just stood there and looked at me, like he thought he was in the right, that I had no business accusing him of anything. I tried to throw his egoism in his face, and he just stared at me like he was a goddamn puppy I'd kicked-"
"Enough."
She raised an eyebrow at him, clearly surprised, but he didn't add anything to his interjection, pointing to the door without a word and still rubbing his thigh in short, circular, almost violent motions. Eventually she left, breathing out her frustration at not being allowed to finish her lecture.
For a long while he sat in silence, absently playing with his oversized tennis ball, mulishly refusing to acknowledge the thoughts that tried to intrude on his very important silent-time. Like the fact that hearing his angry thoughts spewed from Cameron's self-righteous lips made him feel worse rather than better. Like the fact that apparently he was the good guy now - yeah, so he had stolen his friend's pad, stocked up enough Vicodin in his apartment to make quite a lot of profit as a drug dealer, insulted and provoked a policeman. But hey, Wilson had ratted him out, got him a shitty deal that he must have known House wouldn't take. He had betrayed him, and now everyone was on his side, except probably Bruised-Chase.
House had never cared much about being the bad guy. He followed his rules, his convictions, and he didn't give Steve McQueen's ass whether others approved. What mattered, all that mattered, was being right in the end.
Wilson cared, though.
Yeah, he did. Truly, the man's need for approval was almost pathological. And Wilson wasn't an idiot, no matter that House regularly told him so. He must have known what would happen if he went to Tritter - what it would change, not only in his interactions with House but in his relations with every single one of their common acquaintances. Which meant that even in what was supposed to have been a perfect act of revenge, Wilson had made a sacrifice.
And that didn't make any fucking sense.
So, hours later, House set a little test in place. He knew how to play Wilson, after all. Refused his offer to spend Christmas together - and firmly telling himself that the hurt on Wilson's face was the most pleasant gift he could have had on this horrible day, no matter that it perhaps made his stomach clench a little in a decidedly unpleasant way - took a little too much oxy, then really too much oxy, then a little of whisky, just to be sure. And waited.
There was one thing Wilson craved more than approval; he wanted to be needed. Or perhaps it was all linked, and Wilson's issues had issues. His identity reposed almost wholly on him being the care-taker, the concerned doctor, the perfect friend, the supportive husband.
And so, as he rested his face on the ground, staring at the small puddle of vomit next to him, at the empty bottle of pills Wilson had dropped beside him, he had to admit that Wilson's volte-face had nothing to do with him giving up on House - and everything to do with him still wanting to be a fucking martyr, but in a way that'd be unrecognizable by any of their acquaintances. In a way that had almost gone unnoticed by House himself.
It took him fourteen hours to get cleaned up enough to show up at the police station - it took him two more days to check into rehab.
And four more days before Wilson showed up for the third time since he'd been committed, awkwardly holding a small paper bag. Before House saw him glance quickly back at his leaving employees and got to wonder just what look Cameron had sent him to make him take on this particular expression. Before he reflected on what he had learnt this past week, on Cameron apparently throwing Wilson's egoism in his face, on kicked puppies, on eyes that wanted to be disappointed but were just very, very sad as they left the limited view range he had from his apartment's floor, on the lengths someone would be willing to go to to make sure that his friend got the help he thought he needed. On how hell being paved with good intentions was apparently sometimes more than a very shitty proverb.
He looked at the red tie he'd been offered, at what could be considered a noose or an offer for help, raised his eyebrows at the price tag, and suddenly it was easy to talk. "I had no business blaming you for any of this."
***
Two days later, Cameron suddenly hugged him.
"I just heard that you apologized to Wilson."
She was relieved. She wasn't surprised, she wasn't indignant. Relieved.
The manipulative bitch.
Unbidden, and certainly unknown from her, his mouth's corner raised the slightest bit - in unwilling admiration rather than amusement.
Rating: PG
Pairing: House/Wilson Preslash
Length: ~1200 words
Summary: House found it difficult to understand just why his own thoughts sounded so ugly passing through his fellows' lips. Tritter Arc.
It all started with Foreman's rather unfortunate remark. Wilson told us he ratted. House hadn't even known he was going to react, really, until he heard his voice reply and realised belatedly that his mouth had indeed opened. "Your choice of verb, I take it?"
His voice had been bitter, but that was okay. This wasn't losing face; he had ample reasons to be pissed-off, after all. Foreman had no way to suspect that what he had really meant was shut the fuck up about things you can't possibly understand.
Foreman's passive-aggressive choice of word, of course, had nothing on Cameron's way of staying behind even as he sent the fellows to do more tests, on her cloyingly sympathetic tones.
"I'm so sorry, House."
His teeth clenched a little because truly, who wasn't sorry today? But he stayed stubbornly silent. His mouth apparently couldn't be allowed to run free anymore.
In retrospect, he should have known it would only encourage her.
"I was afraid that Chase was going to…But no one would have thought Wilson would be the one to betray you. I know how painful this must be."
House allowed himself to at least express part of his frustration by rubbing at his knee, still refusing to communicate in any other way.
"The nerve of him, pretending to do this to help you - if he'd just refused to speak for a few more days, everything would have been fine! But no, he couldn't deal with being parted from his precious little material comforts, even to avoid you going to prison!" Cameron's rant was picking up in speed now, proof that she was getting caught up in her own morals and reasoning.
"I gave him a piece of my mind earlier-" at this he raised his head to face her, but she had turned away and missed the quick movement "-and he just stood there and looked at me, like he thought he was in the right, that I had no business accusing him of anything. I tried to throw his egoism in his face, and he just stared at me like he was a goddamn puppy I'd kicked-"
"Enough."
She raised an eyebrow at him, clearly surprised, but he didn't add anything to his interjection, pointing to the door without a word and still rubbing his thigh in short, circular, almost violent motions. Eventually she left, breathing out her frustration at not being allowed to finish her lecture.
For a long while he sat in silence, absently playing with his oversized tennis ball, mulishly refusing to acknowledge the thoughts that tried to intrude on his very important silent-time. Like the fact that hearing his angry thoughts spewed from Cameron's self-righteous lips made him feel worse rather than better. Like the fact that apparently he was the good guy now - yeah, so he had stolen his friend's pad, stocked up enough Vicodin in his apartment to make quite a lot of profit as a drug dealer, insulted and provoked a policeman. But hey, Wilson had ratted him out, got him a shitty deal that he must have known House wouldn't take. He had betrayed him, and now everyone was on his side, except probably Bruised-Chase.
House had never cared much about being the bad guy. He followed his rules, his convictions, and he didn't give Steve McQueen's ass whether others approved. What mattered, all that mattered, was being right in the end.
Wilson cared, though.
Yeah, he did. Truly, the man's need for approval was almost pathological. And Wilson wasn't an idiot, no matter that House regularly told him so. He must have known what would happen if he went to Tritter - what it would change, not only in his interactions with House but in his relations with every single one of their common acquaintances. Which meant that even in what was supposed to have been a perfect act of revenge, Wilson had made a sacrifice.
And that didn't make any fucking sense.
So, hours later, House set a little test in place. He knew how to play Wilson, after all. Refused his offer to spend Christmas together - and firmly telling himself that the hurt on Wilson's face was the most pleasant gift he could have had on this horrible day, no matter that it perhaps made his stomach clench a little in a decidedly unpleasant way - took a little too much oxy, then really too much oxy, then a little of whisky, just to be sure. And waited.
There was one thing Wilson craved more than approval; he wanted to be needed. Or perhaps it was all linked, and Wilson's issues had issues. His identity reposed almost wholly on him being the care-taker, the concerned doctor, the perfect friend, the supportive husband.
And so, as he rested his face on the ground, staring at the small puddle of vomit next to him, at the empty bottle of pills Wilson had dropped beside him, he had to admit that Wilson's volte-face had nothing to do with him giving up on House - and everything to do with him still wanting to be a fucking martyr, but in a way that'd be unrecognizable by any of their acquaintances. In a way that had almost gone unnoticed by House himself.
It took him fourteen hours to get cleaned up enough to show up at the police station - it took him two more days to check into rehab.
And four more days before Wilson showed up for the third time since he'd been committed, awkwardly holding a small paper bag. Before House saw him glance quickly back at his leaving employees and got to wonder just what look Cameron had sent him to make him take on this particular expression. Before he reflected on what he had learnt this past week, on Cameron apparently throwing Wilson's egoism in his face, on kicked puppies, on eyes that wanted to be disappointed but were just very, very sad as they left the limited view range he had from his apartment's floor, on the lengths someone would be willing to go to to make sure that his friend got the help he thought he needed. On how hell being paved with good intentions was apparently sometimes more than a very shitty proverb.
He looked at the red tie he'd been offered, at what could be considered a noose or an offer for help, raised his eyebrows at the price tag, and suddenly it was easy to talk. "I had no business blaming you for any of this."
***
Two days later, Cameron suddenly hugged him.
"I just heard that you apologized to Wilson."
She was relieved. She wasn't surprised, she wasn't indignant. Relieved.
The manipulative bitch.
Unbidden, and certainly unknown from her, his mouth's corner raised the slightest bit - in unwilling admiration rather than amusement.