karaokegal (karaokegal) wrote,

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"Silent Night" H/W angst NC17

Title: Silent Night
Author: Karaokegal
Word Count: 1123
Characters: House/Wilson, Julie
Rating: NC17 for language and descriptions
Warning: Spoiler for “Damned If You Do” and guess what, it’s H/W angst time again.
Summary: Wilson makes an announcement. Another take on the last scene of “Damned If You Do.”
A/N-I’ve had this bunny around the house for ages. Last night it broke out of its cage and attacked me in the middle of the night.

“Julie’s pregnant.”

“How the hell did that happen?”

“Come on, House. You went to medical school. I’m sure they covered it somewhere between pleural effusion and pulmonary edema.”

“You’ve been notching your belt since you got out of kindergarten without so much as a paternity suit and now you get a girl pregnant?”

“She’s my wife, House.”

“Were you trying?”

“We weren’t not trying.”

House sat on his couch; the remains of an egg roll in one hand and a nearly fresh Molson in the other, both tastes going sour in his mouth. He wondered if he should thank Wilson for telling him, the way his terminal cancer patients did. Hell of a Christmas present. When Wilson had practically invited himself over, House had expected something a bit more enjoyable. Not that Wilson coming over meant that anything was necessarily going to happen, but something always could happen.

We weren’t not trying, my ass.

Wilson had no time for a child, or any particular interest in one that House had ever been made privy to. Julie was a typical doctor’s wife; she wanted a little mini-me to cement her place as the final Mrs. Wilson or add decimal places to her alimony payments if that didn’t work out. House hated her or at least the idea of her, and the now unavoidable evidence that Wilson was still screwing his wife.

Julie had slithered into Wilson’s life sometime during that first hazy year after the infarction. More specifically, sometime after Stacy had misinterpreted, “get out of my life, you bitch,” as “get out of my life, you bitch” and left. Wilson had shown up, allegedly to watch “the game”. He offered awkward sympathy and eventually ended up proving that as long as James Wilson had two hands and a mouth, Stacy’s presence was no longer required.

That revelation eventually evolved into a more crucial one. It turned out that the nearly overwhelming sensation of Wilson’s cock pressing into his ass, hard and fast, with just shy of enough preparation or enough lubrication, or better yet, both, was the one thing in the world that could push the pain of his leg away completely. Not just the numbing effect of his so-called painkillers, but absolutely, completely out of his being. He quickly became addicted to those seconds of relief, as much as the Vicodin that made it possible for him to even contemplate dragging himself out of bed in the morning. There was pleasure too, but the orgasm itself was a spot of pastel lost in a vast canvas of brilliant red strokes and dark slashes of black. Sometime after that, come on Greg, be honest with yourself, he couldn’t wait a month after he started fucking you Wilson had gone to a friend’s wedding and come back with a bridesmaid or a flower girl or caterer or whatever the hell she was. Julie had bagged a rising star at PPTH and Wilson had been back in House’s bed less than a week after the honeymoon.

What did Wilson expect him to say? Was he going to ask him to be godfather to his zygote? The least he could do was offer a drink. Something better than this squirrel piss in a green bottle.

He been on the couch too long and it took a grunted effort to get up and make his way to the kitchen. The leg was in a particularly vicious mood, sending tendrils of pain all the way up his sciatic nerve and throughout his whole body. He told it to shut up, and that it didn’t look like Dr. Wilson would be applying his special treatment tonight. Instead there’d be a rare treat of drug/alcohol interaction. He poured two glasses of scotch and then realized that two glasses plus one cane could be dicey. Luckily, Wilson had already arrived to assess the situation. House could see Wilson trying to add up the number of pills he’d watched House take since he’d been there, along with however many he’d needed to gobble while dealing with a flock of penguins and diagnosing a nun with an IUD.

Normally he hated that “you shouldn’t be doing this” look in Wilson’s eyes. Tonight he decided to revel in it, and knocked back a healthy slug of his drink.

“Mazel Tov,” he toasted, not bothering to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

Perfect. Wilson looked guilt-stricken and concerned. Nothing he didn’t have coming for being a schmuck. All those hours of pretending not to watch General Hospital over his shoulder had clearly been wasted if he was stupid enough to let his wife get knocked up just to get her talons deeper into his dick and pocketbook. Of course, if Wilson’s life were a soap opera, then it was more than likely that Julie wouldn’t carry to term. Maybe she’d get into a fight at the top of a staircase and tumble down and grab her tummy and…
That’s low, even for you.

Wilson took a tentative sip of his drink, never taking his eyes off House. Looking for what? Clearly this wasn’t going to be one of those nights. He’d unburdened himself and would soon be looking for an excuse to head back to his pregnant sow, leaving House without even a hand-job. House was more than capable of making Wilson suffer with an extra wince on the way back to the living room or a particularly cold gaze. But it was Chanukah and he hadn’t even bought Wilson a gift.

“No, I mean it. Give Julie my best wishes. Tell her I’m always available for baby-sitting.”

“She doesn’t want to tell anybody yet. We just got the results today and she’s a little gun-shy. But I had to tell you.”

House didn’t bother to answer. He sat down at the piano and started playing. He hadn’t meant to play anything as sentimental as “Silent Night,” but there it was. He even felt his anger at Julie evaporating into the music. They’d make a pretty baby together, even if it had a workaholic, philandering father and possessive bitch for a mother. OK, maybe not all his anger.

By the time he finished the song, Wilson had gone, leaving empty cartons of Chinese food and a barely touched glass of scotch, like the stable father-to-be that he was.

House couldn’t let good scotch go to waste and his leg was still interested in that possibly dangerous combination of alcohol and Vicodin. He made himself comfortable on the couch before noticing that Wilson had also left behind a tie that he’d loosened and thrown off casually and would have to come back for.

Baby or no baby, Julie didn’t stand a chance.

Tags: house/wilson, housefic, nc17

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