and it's finally slowing down . . .
Jun. 13th, 2006 09:05 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
peg22mainly because Kass has put me on a tight leash and a deadline - which I am utterly thankful for.
Plus. I could just live in this world and that's not necessarily a good thing.
Plus, somebody somewhere has GOT to have a happy ending.
And so here is chapter six - out of seven.
and its partly LS's fault - I am nothing without her (well not exactly nothing, but parts of this would really suck . . .)
I will miss the boys, but I've got other boys who are feeling oh so neglected - they need some angst and some sex and some banter - and hey, they were here first . . . .
Things That Go Bump - Chapter Six
. . . still a little bit of your taste in my mouth,
. . . still a little bit of you laced with my doubt,
. . . still a little hard to say what’s going on.
With cancer, there’s rarely any guess work. Mutant blood cells, malignant tumors, dark shadows in places where dark shadows shouldn’t be – it’s all quite simple, really. Identify, calculate, eradicate. No looking back at the useless organs, the lost limbs, the scorched shells. It’s a war, and in a war you toss everything you have at the enemy. Unfortunately everything you have often leaves you with very little. And then there are the patients.
He closed Molly’s chart and pinched the bridge of his nose, frustrated. The chemo wasn’t working. Well, it was working if it was supposed to destroy her liver and kidneys. But destroying cancer cells? Not working so well. He reached for another chart on his desk and then stopped. He was stalling. He knew it. Get the MRI, Jimmy. And meet me at home. House’s words still echoed in his ears. Home? Not, “meet me at my house” or “meet me at the apartment,” no it was, “meet me at home.”
He knew two things about Greg House. He hated pity and he never, ever, said things he did not mean. Of course the Greg House he knew before today didn’t usually have hot sex in an elevator with his best friend, so perhaps all his calculations were off. Maybe if that kiss hadn’t been so . . . damn. If that alarm hadn’t gone off, he would have had House’s dick in his mouth in a matter of minutes. Without a second thought. Done deal.
He massaged his scraped cheek, felt the heat under the burns, rubbed raw from House’s stubble. Better than an exfoliation treatment. He was going to have to talk House into shaving if this were to continue. His delicate skin couldn’t take it. If this were to continue? He sat up straight in the chair and gripped the edge of his desk.
This? Continue? Did he want this to continue? And just what was this? Stolen kisses in the middle of the night? Bump and grind in an elevator? Broken bones and fractured heads?
He sat and allowed his mind to drift forward. Wondered how “this” would ever work – could he commit to House? Live together, eat together, work together, sleep together? The only difference in that and their present situation was the sleeping. Actually sleeping. Together. What comes next? Matching sweaters? Matching Airedales? Vacations on Fire Island? Fiesta ware?
Well, the first thing he’d have to do would be to buy better cookware. House’s were all hand-me-downs from his mother and Stacy. He needed a bigger stock pot, a sauté skillet, some real knives. Okay, that would have to be the second thing he’d do, because the first thing would be to throw away all those damn tea towels. Where in the hell had House gotten so many? They were everywhere. He had found them in most of the kitchen drawers, embroidered, starched, happy kittens and bright poppies. Must be his mother. So not House. So unsanitary. But so useful lately. Guess he’d better keep some around. The way things were going, he was going to need them. To mop up the blood. When he and House finally killed each other.
He looked at his watch. Foreman and Cameron should be coming in with his MRI results. Which he knew would be negative. There was nothing wrong with his head. He just needed one good night’s sleep, that’s all. That and a Rosetta stone to figure out where he and House were headed. And they were definitely headed somewhere.
Sometime in the past week, in the middle of a dark night, they had officially crossed a line. To somewhere else. Someplace different. Some kind of altered reality. The problem was that he liked that place. That reality. That House. He had always been a hopeless romantic and he couldn’t help himself. Maybe the MRI would show that. Then House would have the diagnostic differential he really wanted.
He finally went looking for his MRI and found Cameron and Foreman pouring over it, arguing. They were under pressure, he knew, to find something, anything that they could report back to House. He heard the same conversation three times in the space of ten minutes.
“What is that?” Cameron squinted at the image.
“What?” Foreman pressed in close to look.
“That shadow.”
“Where?”
“There.”
“There?”
“There.”
“Shadow.”
“But what is it?”
“It’s nothing. Keep looking.”
He finally put them out of their misery and retrieved the films, dropping them in the interdepartmental mail slot on his way to his car. He felt a little guilty about ignoring Cuddy’s directive about Dr. Haynes, but hell if he was going to comply if House didn’t. They were in this together, that was the one thing that remained very clear. For better or for worse. He wondered what his mother would think when he brought House home for Sunday dinner. As his date.
************
House was in the coma patient’s room, on the phone. He’d been on the phone for thirty minutes. Lost his patience after ten. His temper had bit the dust around twenty-five. Now at twenty-nine and counting, it was all wrath. All the time.
“Yes, that’s my correct address. Yes, that’s my correct zip code. Where in the hell are you talking to me from? Yes, I know it’s a final sale. Yes, I’m well aware, in fact, I’ve been well aware since the third day of med school that it can cause strokes . . . yes, med school – that place you people seem to send everyone to. Aren’t you all already doctors? What happened to you? Fell down a lot as a child?” The dial tone alerted him that he had gone too far. Finally. Jesus. Muhammad. Buddha. Whatever.
The door to the room slid open and a tall woman poked her head in.
“Dr. House?”
“Shhh, he’s sleeping.” House gathered the papers and files that were strewn all over coma guy and stood.
“Sorry, I need to talk to you.” The woman stepped forward and held out her hand.
House noticed the silver rings on the right hand, the red nail polish, the jangling charm bracelet. He ignored the hand and reached for his cane. “Sorry, wish I could. Important case. You understand.”
“I’m Dr. Haynes. Dr. Cuddy said I might find you here . . .”
House snorted. “Don’t believe a word that woman says. She asked to be tied up. Swear.”
“I’m sure she did – but did you have to use the good leather?”
House stopped trying to escape and took another good look at this woman. Who had just trumped him. Hard. She stood smiling at him. She held a chart in her hand and a messenger bag looped around her shoulder. She wore flats and still looked him in the eye. She had to be at least six feet tall. Great. Giant therapist kicks his ass. Coma patient wakes up to place bet. He’d never get home at this rate.
“I’m sure you have better things to do than to be Cuddy’s lap dog. And I don’t need a shrink.”
Dr. Haynes just stood in front of the door, smiling. House grew more uncomfortable. The woman wasn’t moving, wasn’t crumbling under his scathing wit. Wasn’t going to go away. Cuddy had done well. Too well.
“Okay, so – I wet the bed as a child. I had imaginary friends. I feel anger toward my father, and I sometimes steal lipstick from the drugstore. I have a debilitating handicap which causes me constant pain and has forced me into a life of drug addiction. And I hate hospitals. That about cover it?”
“Dr. House, if you’d stop running so fast, I’d tell you why I’m here.”
House eyes widened and he opened his mouth wide. “Funny, Doc. Bum leg. Can’t run. Thanks for reminding me, though. Will cry myself to sleep tonight.”
Dr. Haynes laid a hand on House’s shoulder. The contact itself was unusual, but it was the look in her eyes that freaked him out. She was serious. And concerned. Weird.
“I just want you to know that if you and Dr. Wilson want to come in together, then I’m okay with that. I know it’s unusual, considering you and he are not a couple, but from what Dr. Cuddy has said, as well as what I have observed, I think it might be a good idea . . .”
“I have a better idea,” House ducked under the arm of compassion that was making his skin crawl. “You see Wilson. Alone. He’s the one with the dreams and the screams and the guilt-induced injuries. I’m just the one with the great misfortune to always be standing next to him.”
“And why do you think that is?”
“Well, I’m sure you hope it’s because I’m in love with him, or that I have unresolved feelings or that it’s some manifestation of both of those. But it’s not. It’s proximity. That’s all.” House managed to get the door open and turned back.
“Thanks, though, Dr. Haynes. It’s been swell. Really. I feel so mental healthy now.”
“Dr. House, I don’t want to pull rank here.” Still the same damn smile.
“But you’re going to.”
“Yes, I am.”
House sighed and turned back to face her, but not close enough for her to try that touching thing again. That was just creepy.
“I’ll make you a deal.” Dr Haynes took a step toward House and put her hand on his arm, which caused him to flinch and swat at her with his cane. She just smiled wider.
“You and Dr. Wilson schedule an appointment with me. We’ll talk about the weather if you want. And then I can tell Dr. Cuddy that you complied, and you can keep the bedwetting to yourself. Okay?”
House’s eyes narrowed as he tried to find any hidden shrinkspeak in her offer. “What’s in it for you?”
“Ah, yes – because there must be. Altruism doesn’t exist. Your world works that way, right? ”
“Uh, THE world works that way, Doc.”
“Okay then, let’s just say that Dr. Gregory House as my patient makes my street cred soar. That your very presence on my couch . . .”
“ . . . hey . . .”
“. . . will have all my colleagues salivating at the next conference.”
“Right, because I’m such an interesting case. It’s all textbook here, lady.” House tapped the side of his head. “Run of the mill, sexually repressed white guy. Dime a dozen.”
“Dr. House, I doubt there is anything about you that’s run of the mill. The sexually repressed part – we can talk about that.” She opened the file in her hand, scanned the page as she continued. “Now we could stand here all afternoon discussing the merits of your psyche, but all I really need is a verbal commitment to an appointment. How about Wednesday at 3:30?”
Again with the smile. House frowned but nodded. She held out her hand and he held out his cane. “Oh no, enough with the touching. Isn’t that one of the first things they teach you at shrinky school? Personal space, boundaries, bad touch, good touch?”
Dr. Haynes dropped her hand. And smiled. Again. “You know, Dr. House, I think we’re going to get along just fine.” She turned and walked down the hall.
************
Wilson was surprised to find the house dark when he got home. He just dropped everything at the door and limped over to the couch, falling into the cushions with a heavy sigh. He unbuttoned his shirt and fingered his chest, which was tender, raised and raw. He had almost forgotten about his burns in all the crazy confusing aftermath. He wondered if House had any salve. Of course House didn’t have any salve. He didn’t even have a kit.
Wilson felt the exhaustion creep over his body and he closed his eyes and flopped a hand over his face. If he could just sleep for twenty minutes, even ten, he was sure he’d be better . . . feel better. He could face whatever would happen when House walked through the door . . . The doorbell jerked him awake. He glanced at his watch. Okay, well, two minutes might do it.
“Use your key.” Every muscle felt like jello. He didn’t feel like getting up. He wasn’t even sure he could get up. A loud knock echoed through the room.
“Use your key,” he said louder and put his pillow over his head. “I’m not getting up.”
The knock grew more insistent. Damn House. Probably forgot his key. More likely, it was just another of his thousand tests – how long will it take Wilson to open the door for me. And when he finally relented, and got up and answered the door, House would be standing there, keys dangling from his fingers. Victorious in his manipulation. Again.
Well, Wilson wasn’t giving him the satisfaction this time. He turned on his stomach and buried his head in the cushions. The knock continued. Stalemate.
“Uh, Dr. Wilson?” a muffled and familiar voice crept under the door.
Hell. Not House. Chase. Damn.
“Chase?”
“Uh, could you open the door? House said . . .”
Or maybe this was just House’s game taken up a notch. He’d hurry to answer the door for Chase, only to find House standing behind him, grinning like a madman. Wilson paused for a moment as the vision of a smiling House made his heart beat faster. It was a glorious sight – that scowl turned serene. He wondered what could make House smile like that again . . .
He sighed and sat up on the couch. He had it bad. For House. Damn.
“Dr. Wilson?”
“Hang on, I’m coming.” Wilson stood and limped slowly to the door. He peeked out the hole and satisfied it wasn’t House as Chase, he opened it and Chase shoved a sack in his arms.
“Here. Take this. I’ve got loads more in the car and I’m double parked.”
Wilson took a step back and then peered over the edge of the sack. Groceries. Good groceries. From Whole Foods. He didn’t even know House knew where Whole Foods was. He was pretty sure that House’s idea of Whole Foods was to eat the peanut butter straight from the jar. He walked into kitchen and set the sack on the counter. Chase followed him with two more sacks that were stacked on a large box.
“What the hell . . .”
“Don’t ask me. I just spent two hours hunting for all this stuff. Are you and he taking a cooking class or something? Having company?”
Wilson shook his head and read the side of the box. Le Creuset. French. Expensive. Red. To match the crock pot, probably. He started to look in another bag when Foreman appeared with three other boxes and a piece of paper between his teeth.
“Mmmmm ummm.” Foreman tried to gesture with his head. Wilson reached up and pulled the paper out of his mouth. “Where you want these?”
Wilson just pointed to an empty space on the counter. Foreman unloaded and turned around and walked back out, muttering, “I’m not a damn delivery boy – and that note’s for you.”
Chase was coming in with another load and chuckled. “He’s just pissed because he didn’t want to come in.”
“Why not?”
“He said he didn’t ever want to see where House lived. Might make him seem more human or something. Who knows with Foreman?” Chase set the boxes on the now crowded countertops. “That’s it, then.”
“Uh, okay – thanks I guess.” Wilson just stared at the stuff.
Chase patted him on the shoulder. “Yeah, man – have fun.” He headed out into the living room and then turned. “Oh, yeah – I’m supposed to tell you Gibbons took your call this weekend, so you don’t have to work.”
“I didn’t ask Gibbons . . .”
“House arranged it. Used Cuddy’s voice. I saw him – it was a beautiful thing.”
“But I don’t . . .”
Chase held up his hand. “Messenger here, mate. Oh, and he said he’d better smell something cooking when he got home or there’d be hell to pay.” He shrugged and closed the door.
Wilson just shook his head and limped back into the kitchen. He unloaded a sack of fresh produce. Good produce. Endives and garlic and tomatoes and asparagus. He moved on to the next sack. Beef. Good beef. Brisket and rump roast and ribeyes . . . he was halfway through the third sack of spices and imported cheeses, whistling and daydreaming about braised salmon with fresh asparagus when it hit him. He was being seduced. Through groceries. By groceries. By House through groceries. And he was falling for it. Hard. Lox, stock pot, and basil.
He turned to the boxes and read the labels. Sauté pan. Cutting board. Panini press. Dutch oven. Saucier. Damn. Seduced was not the word. More like hypnotized, mesmerized. He grabbed a knife and began ripping the boxes open, admiring the workmanship, the feel of the handles in his hands, recipes swirling in his head. He was in heaven.
************
House pulled his motorcycle onto the sidewalk, removed his helmet, and looked at his apartment. Lights streamed out the front window, which was open slightly, and he could hear Miles Davis drifting out into the street. Miles Davis and . . . garlic. Roasted garlic. He stopped for a minute to listen and smell. Generique. Perfect. He stood with his eyes closed, letting the music settle onto his shoulders, melt through to his bones. He opened his eyes and looked through the window and his heart fell to the concrete. Wilson stood in his kitchen, barefoot, in just a t-shirt and shorts, with his back to the window, head down, chopping. House watched as he moved to the stove, dropped something into a large steaming pot, and went back to chopping.
House swallowed hard and moved closer to the window, transfixed. He watched as Wilson dragged a hand across his forehead, and then turned to reach for something on the island. His face was calm, happy. He was smiling and nodding to the music. House found himself nodding as well, immediately caught up in the bliss that was Wilson. Cooking. In his kitchen.
Then Wilson looked up and saw House. Stopped nodding. Just stared. House stared back and gave a little half wave. Wilson waved back with the knife. Then pointed to the knife and smiled. Almost took House to a knee, that smile. He waved again and ducked out of sight. Damn. He couldn’t yet define the emotion that threatened to take him down, but it was strong. Potent. Dangerous. He moved into the doorway and made a decision. A resolution of sorts. To never come home to a dark, empty house again.
Don’t fuck this up, don’t fuck this up, don’t fuck this up . . . he whispered over and over again as he unlocked the door and let Miles and the garlic suck him in. He closed and locked the door, threw his bag on the couch, and limped into the kitchen. Wilson turned and opened his mouth, but House closed the space between them in two steps, tossing the cane against the refrigerator, and grabbed Wilson and pulled him towards him.
“Whaa . . . .” Wilson tried to speak but House just tugged harder.
“Just shut up and kiss me.” House demanded. Wilson dropped the knife he was holding and House ducked his head and captured Wilson’s lips, which tasted like garlic. And salt. Definitely salt. He placed both hands on either side of Wilson’s head and went to work, teasing and tasting and nipping at Wilson’s lips and chin and neck.
Wilson moaned and wrapped his hands around House’s neck, pressed his body closer, thrusting his hips, grinding them into House’s erection. House pushed Wilson up against the counter and forced his lips apart, his tongue into his mouth, and then hissed when Wilson sucked his tongue deeper into the heat.
And then they were sliding to the floor, ripping t-shirts over heads. House steadied himself against the counter and yanked Wilson’s shorts off with one hand and Wilson arched his back as House took his dick in his hands.
“Oh, God . . .” Wilson moaned.
“Hardly,” House whispered against Wilson’s neck. And then moaned as Wilson reached down and released his own dick from his jeans. And then they were rolling and kissing and they managed to wedge up against the leg of the island and for a while the only sound was a steady moan, rhythmically accompanied by Miles’ soulful horn. It was damn near perfect.
House threw his head back and shouted, hurtling over the edge half a second before Wilson’s sharp intake of breath served as exclamation. They melted together, arms and legs and bodies all over the kitchen floor. Miles continued to swirl around them and the pots on the stove hissed and the sounds of distant traffic merged with the sound of House’s heart, still beating out of his chest. Wilson crawled up House’s length, careful to avoid his thigh, and threw an arm around his chest, resting his head on his shoulder. Another thing House could get very used to. Wilson in his kitchen and Wilson on his kitchen floor . . . he sighed as reality cracked his high.
“What are we doing?” He absently rubbed Wilson’s back.
Wilson sighed and ran his hand up House’s thigh, running a finger just a little too close, a little too fast. “I don’t know. Don’t analyze. Just be.”
House chuckled. Wilson as surfer philosopher – who knew? “Yes, but after the endorphins wear off, then what, dude?”
Wilson pushed off House’s chest and looked him in the eyes. “Then we do it again.”
“Again?”
“You got a problem with that?”
House felt a shot of apprehension run through his spine. “Yes.” Wilson looked up quickly, eyebrows raised. “Okay, no. Not really. What do you have in mind?”
Wilson kept his eyes locked on House, but moved his body down between his legs. House took in a breath as he realized what Wilson had in mind. And then wiped everything out of his head and settled back to enjoy the ride.
tbc . . . finale to come. (so to speak . . .)
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-06-14 03:39 am (UTC)Oh god, whyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy?
*sob*
I'm cornflakes without the milk...
no subject
Date: 2006-06-14 01:53 pm (UTC)Seriously.
no subject
Date: 2006-06-14 04:58 am (UTC)And "shrinky school"!!! *dies*
And House all undone--and House still House, only undone so believably.
This is so cool, this story.
If I didn't also love your other boys, and if I weren't deeply and selfishly invested in the Kass-leash-thing (eee! Can't wait to see it), I would want you to stay here and write mooooooooooooooooooooooore! Now I'm torn. Torn, I say! But, the good thing about this kind of torn is that it's a total win-win situation from a reader's pov. :)
no subject
Date: 2006-06-14 01:55 pm (UTC)Yes it's a dilemma (as I eye my House/SH crossover)that I'm lucky to have, I guess. But Starsky is an impatient fella, and Hutch has been giving me the insistent finger so, yeah, better head to Bay City.
Plus they got better cars and tighter jeans. And real guns.
no subject
Date: 2006-06-15 06:30 am (UTC)Are you kidding me with this, bachgen? Do you know, *really know*, what a talented, witty little dramatist you are? Words almost fail me. Quite the best part so far. The characters again, spot on. The whole seduction scenario is a joy ( the idea of doing it through groceries and cookware - :joyous cackle:) and House..ahhh... House...
The show should hire you, I swear. Put us all down as references.
no subject
Date: 2006-07-17 10:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-08-17 11:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-06-23 01:04 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-08 07:05 am (UTC)*pats down the couch* Nope, not there....*looks in the freezer* Huh, not there either...
*flails* OMG! Chapter seven *has* to be around here somewhere!!
*blinkblink*
Yeah, silly, I know. But I've honestly been enjoying this fic. I even have you set on my favorites page so I can check the progress of the story.
I just want you to know your fans are out here. (..hopefully without sounding all pushy and rude?) True, we're a lazy bunch of SOBs who don't post comments nearly as often as we should, but we're out here! *sheepish*
Regardless, I think the story you've written here is great and I'd love to see more anytime the plot-bunny bites.
no subject
Date: 2006-07-12 03:09 am (UTC)love the idea of fans!
thanks so much for reading!
no subject
Date: 2006-07-12 03:44 am (UTC)No,no, you go right ahead and write up a zine story, got *no* problems with that! *g*
If I may be so bold, what zine? And when might it be published?
(loves the zines)
no subject
Date: 2006-07-17 05:24 am (UTC)Oh, and the fic too. :U
no subject
Date: 2006-07-24 11:47 am (UTC)Can't wait to read the last chapter.
Standing ovations, girl!
no subject
Date: 2006-08-16 03:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-08-16 04:40 pm (UTC)