Fandom: House MD
Notes: Written for MMOM 2012, Day 15. Full Metal Beta by evila_elf. Post-ep for Holding On. Comments and concrit welcome. Please read the warnings.
Spoilers: Up to and including Holding On.
Warnings: Dark fic. No fluff. No schmoop. No love. No joy. Read at your own risk.
Summary: House will do anything to get his own way; it doesn't always work.
House was convinced he’d won the minute he heard Wilson’s familiar knock on the door.
As long as Wilson was agreeing to treatment, House would still have his partner in crime, Scrabble opponent and occasional fuck-buddy on tap. There hadn’t been time for a whole lot of grab-ass while the big puke-a-thon was going on two weeks ago, much less during Wilson’s road-trip delusions of having a life separate from House. That seemed to be over for the time being. So far none of the ex-wives or girlfriends had put in an appearance. What good was a sick Wilson to them?
For House it was enough that Wilson was here and they had at least a night before the living room turned into Upchuck Central again. Scrabble could wait. There was only one word House was interested in, although it would produce a nice score if he could get the X on a triple letter space. What he wasn’t expecting in response was a two letter word.
“No?” he asked, not quite believing what he had clearly heard Wilson say. Perhaps because Wilson’s ‘no’s were generally just ‘yes’es waiting to happen. This one was different.
“No, House. I can’t.”
“You’re telling me that you’ve got five months to live and all of a sudden the schvantz is off-limits to anyone with a matching set? ”
“The schvantz, I can assure you, is not functional. Remember when you outlined all the exciting things I had to look forward to when I went through chemo? You forgot to mention acute erectile dysfunction. I called Julie yesterday. We had a good laugh over it. “
House felt a sudden heaviness in his leg. The elation of having Wilson completely to himself without distractions like patients or a personal life started seeping away, only to be replaced by a sense of panic. The emotional crap had felt real enough when he was dishing it out, but he also thought he’d still be getting some nookie out of the compassion deal. That was only fair, right?
Wilson seemed oddly complacent. He’d already started making inroads into the plate of cookies and had his feet up on House’s sofa. Why shouldn’t he be happy? All he had to do was exhaust House’s collection of Hammer horror films and then die.
It was hard to tell if this was a non-existent deity having a good laugh or a Wilsonion scam of the highest order. While keeping an open tab at three different escort services, House had still lived vicarious through Wilson’s amorous adventures. He especially admired the ones where he had a wife at home, a girlfriend in the psych unit (either a nurse or a patient, it didn’t matter) and a lady-in-waiting at the counter of a local coffee shop.
House had hated them for having any of Wilson’s attention, but he still envied the skill it took to pull it off. He could even applaud the amount of drama that inevitably ensued, leaving tears, broken hearts, alimony and a few precious weeks when Wilson would swear it all off until the cycle started again. In the interim, House would gorge himself on Wilson as only an addict could, with Wilson consistently able to go two or three times a night.
Now he was supposed to believe that pumping Wilson’s veins full of some of the most toxic chemicals known to man had transformed the Casanova of Princeton Plainsboro in Jake Barnes ? House wasn’t buying it. He’d managed to keep himself in wood, despite the best efforts of pain and opiate abuse, even if he did have to supplement his usual selection of goodies with some blue, just for color of course.
“Show me!” he demanded.
“House…” Wilson said, with a plaintive note in his voice. For a second, House thought the incipient whine meant Wilson was actually going to leave and renege on their agreement, but in this case it seemed to be coming from genuine weariness. House knew he should back off; unfortunately he couldn’t.
“I mean it,” he growled, all the niceness he’d been faking to get Wilson to change his mind was sticking in his throat. “I need to make other arrangements if all you’re going to do on that couch is take up space.”
“Fine,” Wilson intoned, in the voice he used when he seemed to be playing to an invisible audience that he was inviting to comment on House’s behavior. “And now ladies and gentlemen, for you viewing pleasure: behold Mister Softee.” As Wilson pulled down his pants and boxer shorts to expose himself, he actually hummed the familiar ice cream truck tune. Almost vindictively, House thought.
House felt a rage building. He knew how to get to Wilson; what had always worked. Even on the rare nights when Dr. Lightweight overdid the Jose Cuervo and ended up in a similar state. “No problem,” he’d claim, insisting that he had no intention of forcing himself on an unwilling participant. He had many crimes to his name, but that would never be one of them. Instead he’d lie next to Wilson in bed and put on a show.
He sat down in his chair, trying not to wince too obviously. He wanted Wilson horny; the guilt could come later. He undid his fly and got a firm hand around his cock. Closing his eyes, House summoned up a mental playlist of greatest pornographic hits starting with that first night in New Orleans when they’d both been young and whole. Wilson had rimmed and reamed him in the same night leading House to genuinely believe that maybe, just for once, he was going to get a break in life. He threw in a few frames of Stacy at the strip club, an old fantasy of Cameron sucking him off while he was high on LSD, and then honed in on a wide-angle shot of the last time he and Wilson had fucked before the infarction. He could still see the pretentious prints that Bonnie favored for her and Wilson’s bedroom and he could still feel, as surely as the pain that ran through his leg, the sheer ecstasy of Wilson spreading him wide, lifting his legs (his two good legs) and plowing into him.
By then he was on his way. He could just imagine the look on Wilson’s face, the light breaking through the grim film of self-pity and of course the resurrection of the dead that would be happening between Wilson’s legs. He expected to open his eyes and see the smile of relief forming, maybe feel a second hand on his dick and a finger starting to work its way between his ass cheeks.
Instead he saw Wilson staring at him with a half-smile of exquisite, vindictive pity.
Feeling a tremor in his arm that was anything but erotic, House started picking up speed, pulling at his cock almost to point of pain, angrily imagining himself with a woman, any woman, maybe Thirteen, possibly Stacy, just some faceless brunette that he could ravish while Wilson was forced to watch. If he couldn’t arouse, then he could at least shame. Yes, filthy, dirty, disgusting, ugly, fucking whores and shame and it worked, because at least he still could. He came hard and as devoid of happiness as it was possible to be when your bloodstream was flooding with endorphins.
He half expected to hear a slow clap, but unlike House, Wilson was known to be capable of self-restraint. It turned out he was just conserving his resources for a truly devastating blow.
“Feel better?” Wilson asked, like a mother who’d just watched a unruly brat tire himself out with a temper tantrum.
House nodded groggily, carelessly wiping his hand against the leg of his jeans before fishing in his pocket for some stray Vicodin, needing to quell pain that had nothing to do with his leg.
He might have talked Wilson into staying alive a little longer, but House knew he hadn’t won anything.