Categories > TV > House
What Lies Beneath TITEL: What Lies Beneath, part 1
Part of the Denuo AU
AUTHOR: Macx and Lara Bee
RATING: R
PAIRING: House/Wilson
SPOILERS: No Reason
DISCLAIMER: not mine. Wish I could have them, but whoever all owns them, I'm not trying to infringe on anything. All rights are with the creators of the show, the studios, whatever.
The Denuo universe was created by Lara Bee and myself. More stories from different shows can be found here: http://home.arcor.de/larabee/mag7/denuo.html
Macx's Voice of Warning (aka Authors' Note): English is not my first language; it's German. This is the best I can do. Any mistakes you find in here, collect them and you might win a prize The spell-checker said everything's okay, but you know how trustworthy those thingies are.....
WARNINGS: paranormal element, slash (duh!), violence
I warped some scenes of the episode to fit this AU: Lines taken from No Reason and adjusted to Denuo, too.
When it happened, Wilson had no time to prepare. He actually had no time to do anything, either prepare or defend or retreat or whatnot. He was wide open, he was completely vulnerable, and it hit him with the force of a small missile right between the eyes.
His schedule had been blessedly appointment free for a few hours and since there was a lull in reports and he didn't feel like tackling the consults and journals right now, Wilson had decided to work on a different kind of track - empathy.
He had gotten better with his abilities. A lot better. He could control his shields to a degree, though massive emotional overload from one person, directed solely at him, would still be painful. So far, there was only one person he was trying to shield from, and that was Foreman. He was getting used to the feeling of walking on broken glass when he was around the man. It stung to be looked at with a bland expression while Foreman's emotions went into the negative field of the scale, grating on his nerves, making his brain cringe and head hurt.
But he was getting better.
So now Wilson worked on actively using his empathic powers to scan people, to be more in control of what he could pick up. He couldn't work on relatives or patients, since for now it required his full concentration.
Currently he sat in his office, eyes closed, reaching for the presence of his lover, which he could distinguish easily. House was a complicated mix of sarcasm, cynicism, with a healthy dose of absolute bastard and a lot of cranky genius thrown in. Underneath so many snarky, snappy and snarly responses lay someone only Wilson had ever really seen. It was a tender person, gentle and warm, so completely not the House that was on the surface. It was a person who hid and liked to stay hidden. That he had seen that man warmed him, made him happy.
House made him happy.
Huh, what a contradiction. House... happy... No way that could work, but it did. It had for a long, long time.
Wilson knew the tenderness this man could give, the gentle kisses, the caresses. There was nothing rough or dominating, nothing possessive or more than a hint of temporary bastard in their encounters. Of course, House teased and taunted, and he could develop a mean streak, but never with malicious intent.
Cameron, Chase and Foreman were in the same room. Wilson would attempt to seek them out individually and 'read' them. He knew they were working on a case, one that had captured House's attention, that didn't let him go, and Wilson loved to sit back and watch the genius at work.
There was a shift in House's presence and Wilson frowned. From one moment to the next the playful taunting had shifted to alarm. The alarm was rising, became overwhelming. Then there was a moment of total shock, panic, and then...
Wilson didn't know if he screamed. He might have.
The pain was terrible.
It seared into his mind, cut through his brain, and it overwhelmed his senses. It wasn't just there either. It went through his body, his right side burning, then turned into pure agony.
He didn't hear the shots from the other room.
He didn't hear the cries, other than the scream in his mind.
He lay on the floor of his office, panting, eyes screwed shut, his body trembling. His neck was on fire. His side hurt like hell. His mind was a raw, open wound that was being fed by House.
Greg... something had happened to Greg...
Wilson whimpered.
He wanted to move but couldn't. It was an all-freezing sensation, the pain making him immobile and sending spikes of agony through his receptive mind.
Greg...
His breathing sped up, and he was close to hyperventilating.
Control the pain. Raise shields. Get the damn shields up!
Wilson had no idea how much time passed before that order finally reached his overtaxed mind and he could place a few moderate shields around himself. It was a relief how much the agony faded, left only the sharp throb of each heartbeat and the frantic pants.
He blinked his eyes open, his vision blurry.
He was on the floor of his office, the door was still locked, no one was banging against it to get inside.
Getting up was a master piece of coordination and trying not to throw up. Wilson managed both, but it was a close call on the vomiting part. At least until he stumbled to the door and unlocked it. The moment he was outside his office, blinking into the lights, he lost the battle. He made it to the men's room and threw up, his body heaving painfully.
Again, an unknown amount of time passed. He sat in the stall, trembling, fighting the echoes of what he had gone through, and pushed his shields higher.
When Wilson finally left the men's room, he was pale, looked like he hadn't slept in days, and he was still shaky. Eyes roamed the curiously silent corridor and his feet took him to the glass-encased office next to his - Diagnostics.
There was no one there.
But there was evidence. A lot of evidence.
Something shivered through him, something sick and foreboding and something screaming 'nononono' all the time.
Because there was blood.
Lots of blood.
Red and still sticky, close to the whiteboard. Smeared in places.
Blood.
His stomach lurched as he connected the emotions he had felt to the blood he saw.
"No..." he breathed his denial.
Wilson wanted to reach out for House, check on him, but his overtaxed brain refused to listen to his orders. It was survival instinct, pure and simple. Touch House now and lose it. Totally.
Bloody towels drew his eyes to them and he shuddered. There was some emergency medical equipment, too.
Wilson turned away from the gruesome sight of what had happened here, still not understanding why, and stumbled toward the elevator.
When it opened two floors later, he almost ran into Cuddy. She looked as bad as him. Her hair was a bushy mess, her eyes too large for her pale and narrow face, and when she looked at Wilson, she immediately reached out to steady him.
"House..." the oncologist managed.
"Come with me," was her reply and Wilson was glad for her hand on his arm, leading and steering and strangely supporting him.
They ended up in the doctor's lounge outside surgery. Cuddy made him sit down, pushed a hot drink into his hands, then took a seat across. Close, but not crowding.
"Do you know what happened, James?" she asked softly.
"No... I wasn't there... I.... I saw the blood..."
He could hardly tell her he had been there, in House's mind, when it had happened. That he had spent whatever time curled up on the floor of his office, fighting the echoes.
"House was shot."
Wilson's head whipped up, his eyes widened, and he stared at Cuddy, unable to comprehend.
"Sh-shot?" he stammered.
"Yes."
"How...?!"
"A former patient. Security got him. House is in surgery."
"How bad?" Wilson managed, his mouth dry, his hands clenching around the mug to stop the tremors.
"One bullet lodged in his abdomen, the other in the neck. We don't know any more right now."
The world seemed to fade around him and the pain in his own neck and abdomen was a faint pulse, a reminder of what House was going through.
"James?"
He blinked and looked at Cuddy.
"They're doing everything they can."
"Yeah."
He gazed at his by now much colder coffee and finally closed his eyes. Wilson took a few deep breaths, trying to calm himself, to keep his shields. He was bad with shields on a good day, and this had wiped everything away in a heartbeat.
House had been shot.
House was in surgery.
Greg was...
A hand was on his, fingers closing over the white knuckles. Cuddy said nothing as he looked at her, no smile, no empty words. She just met his gaze and touched him. It was enough. It was his only support.
*
Cameron, Foreman and Chase drifted into the lounge throughout the next hours. Cameron looked as bad as she had throughout the first days after the possible HIV infection. Foreman's face was unreadable and Chase was the total opposite, an open book. The Australian leaned against the wall next to where Wilson sat, a silent show of friendship and support. Foreman just sat on the other side.
Wilson tried to tune out what came from the neurologist. It was thankfully very muted, Foreman being in too much of a shock right now.
"Anything?" Cuddy broke the silence.
Cameron shook her head.
It was all that was spoken.
Hours passed.
And finally Dr. Mike Gillick walked into the lounge, looking tired. He was still in his surgical scrubs and Wilson could have thrown up at the faint traces of blood. He had never been that touchy before when it came to post-op appearances.
But this was his lover's blood.
Five pairs of eyes were on Gillick and the surgeon smiled. "He pulled through. Not out of the woods, but we didn't lose him again."
Again... the word echoed through Wilson's head. Didn't lose him again.
He tried to hide his anguish and nearly missed Chase shifting slightly closer. The intensivist never made eye contact, his attention on Gillick, and Wilson couldn't help but wonder. Then he was listening to Gillick again.
"The bullet in his abdomen pierced the stomach, nicked the bowel, and lodged in the posterior rib. The one in his neck went right through, severed the jugular. It was a clean through-and-through. No spinal damage, it didn't nick either the esophagus nor the larynx. We patched him back together and he's currently in ICU. We'll move him when he's stable enough."
"Thanks, Mike," Cuddy said, her voice heavy with relief.
The others said something, asked questions, but Wilson didn't hear it. He only felt the squeeze on his shoulder and glanced up at Chase, who met his gaze with a firm, reassuring one. Then the hand was gone, and so was Chase.
Wilson closed his eyes, drawing a deep breath, then opened them and pushed to his feet. Cuddy was still there, her expression very empathetic.
"I want to see him," Wilson only said.
She nodded, expecting no less.
*
Dressed in the appropriate gowns that covered their clothes, Wilson and Cuddy were allowed to enter ICU. Wilson's eyes were immediately drawn to his lover, and he didn't even notice that Cuddy stopped a little further away, giving him privacy.
House looked... like House. Just worse. A lot worse. The stubble did nothing to help alleviate the condition of looking bad. Pale skin, closed eyes looking bruised, sunken, a thin tube leading to the nose where it was fastened securely under the nostrils. Air. To help with the oxygen intake. Thankfully there was no ventilator. The bandage on the neck showed a few flecks of blood. The other, over the abdomen, was hidden from Wilson's view. It was underneath the gown, underneath the blanket. An IV line ran into one hand. Attached to the IV was another drip. Morphine.
Wilson stopped at House's bedside, reaching slowly for the hand that didn't have the IV in it, and ran his finger pads over the too cool skin. The empath in him was drawn between reaching out and shying away in fright of what might happen.
Another breakdown. Another vomiting fit. Mental pain.
His emotional pain was too great already to consider this option. He had to make due with physical touches, with looking at the unconscious man, and hoping. Hoping for a full recovery.
"James?"
Cuddy's gentle voice drew him out of his study. He glanced at her and she smiled a little.
"Give it time. Gillick is a great surgeon. The best. I'll have his report and all of us want to make sure House is okay. Go home, shower, sleep. I'll call when something changes. And give Williams a call."
Tom Williams was an oncologist, working in Wilson's department, and he usually took charge of matters when Wilson wasn't there. James nodded tiredly.
He wanted to argue, to scream, to fight. He wanted to stay and watch. He wanted to wait as close as they would let him, wanted to be with his lover, but he knew he would lose any of those fights. Almost everyone knew or was aware of the relationship between House and Wilson. At least all department heads and many of the other doctors. Gillick would probably let him stay. So would Manning, who ran ICU. Irene Manning was a hard-nosed woman, but she had a soft spot and that soft spot included Wilson, and with it, to an extent, House.
"Go home," Cuddy repeated.
"Call," he only said tiredly.
"I promise I will."
Wilson squeezed the lax hand he had been caressing. He had to force himself to let go, but he did, and he walked out of ICU.
It was the hardest thing he had ever done.
*
The apartment seemed barren and empty even in its cluttered state. Wilson walked in on automatic, dropped his bag and his coat on the couch, then proceeded into the kitchen. The fridge was near-empty. He had planned on going shopping tomorrow. There was some alcohol, but the mostly sane part of him decided that getting drunk wasn't top priority.
Later.
Yeah, later sounded fine.
So he got himself a glass of water and walked into the bedroom.
Their bedroom.
He shivered as he looked at the bed, mechanically pulling off his tie and removing his jacket. The shirt and pants followed until he was naked. Wilson padded into the bathroom and turned on the shower, stepping under the hot spray that started to pound his skin.
The tremors increased and he braced himself with his palms flat against the cool surface of the tiles, feeling the tightness in his chest increase. Water ran into his eyes, mixing with the tears starting to leak from his eyes.
He didn't want to cry.
Crying was... weak. He wasn't weak. He wasn't going to break down over this.
But his mind had the bad timing of dredging up memories of what he had felt throughout the shot, when House had gone down, and he groaned. Fingers curled, trying to bury in the hard tiles and he rested his head against the coolness, such a difference to the hot water.
House had been shot.
So had been Wilson.
House had been in surgery.
For Wilson, surgery had been a nightmare of hoping and waiting.
House was in ICU.
Wilson was at home, sobbing painfully under a hot shower.
House would probably tease him to no end about it. He laughed weakly, a bubble of desperation rising. He wanted to get teased. He wanted to hear the sarcastic remarks. He wanted the taunts and the warmth of the blue eyes and the touches, and the kisses...
Wilson's hands were curled into fists now and he banged them against the wall, all his fear and anger and frustration unloading. It was a rather weak and brief display. It ended with a silent scream, and he viciously turned off the water.
Dripping wet, shaking, hands hurting, he stood in the shower cubicle.
He couldn't lose House. Not like this. Not after things had started to look up. Not after Greg had gone through so much with the healer in San Diego, getting the pain in his leg treated. Not since the pain there was gone.
Wilson dried himself, then curled up on the large bed, still in the nude, still shivering. The empath was reeling with the echoes and they wouldn't stop. Nothing would ever stop. Someone had tried to kill his lover and he had hit them both.
With the echoes of the pain, the shock and the agony of the bullet inside his abdomen, Wilson drifted off into an uneasy sleep.
*
House was unconscious for two days. Wilson was with him as often as possible, simultaneously trying to work his department until Williams got into his way.
"James, take some time off," the older man had told him.
"I'm fine," had been the automatic answer.
"You're not. You look like a ghost. I wouldn't trust you to read an MRI scan."
Williams had looked sympathetic and Wilson had hated him for it. Just a second. He felt like House that moment, hating the sympathy, the pity, the empathy. Then that feeling had vanished, leaving only his mental exhaustion. He slept badly, he kept reaching for House, always running into the last wall he had established himself. It was a wall built of fear, of apprehension to touch something that had hurt him so badly, and so he lingered there, needy and wanting, but unable to take the last step.
"James, go sit with him. Just sit," had been Williams' last advice before he had turned to get to work.
Wilson had taken his advice.
Sometimes one of the team joined him, mostly Cameron. She looked as bad as he did. Chase dropped by repeatedly, always in the evening. Cameron had told him that the Australian was pouring himself into NICU work. It helped him forget for a few hours.
Foreman was rarely seen. He just looked in, saw Wilson, and left again. Wilson didn't care. He couldn't care less about Foreman.
It was on that third day that House woke. Slowly, eyes sticky, blinking once, twice, then closing again. When he finally opened them for good, Wilson knew he was smiling a rather goofy smile, but he didn't care. He was holding his lover's free hand, squeezing it gently.
"Hey."
House was looking at him, a glimmer, maybe even a spark of recognition in the blue depth, then he closed his eyes once more.
A nurse came in, checking his vitals, and shortly after that Gillick appeared, looking pleased.
"He's sleeping naturally now. So far his injuries are healing perfectly. I'll keep him in here one more night. If nothing happens, if his temperature stays down, we'll move him to a normal room."
Wilson nodded, relief making him weak-kneed.
When House came around the second time, he was a lot more awake. The spark was stronger and the lips twisted into a smirk.
"I always say, if you're going to get shot, do it in a hospital."
His voice sounded raspy and the words were a little slurred.
Wilson was smiling widely. "Yeah. So you."
"Did I lose any organs?"
"No. All accounted for. Pierced stomach, nicked bowels, and the bullet in your neck went right through the jugular. Looks like your vocal cords are working, though."
That had been a fear. Wilson only knew too well what that meant. The scar on his own neck proved it.
"Second bullet?" House asked. "Don't remember that one."
"You're lucky. Surgery went fine. No post-op complications."
"Who?"
"Gillick."
House nodded minutely. He looked tired again and his eyes were drooping. Wilson reached out and caressed one heavily stubbled jaw. There were flecks of gray and he smiled fondly.
"Sleep."
"Doing nothing but," House murmured, but he couldn't fight it. He was asleep not much later.
Wilson closed his eyes, feeling so very tired. He had read Gillick's report and he knew that while the gun shot wound to House's neck had bled a lot, it wasn't all that bad.
There had been injury of the right internal carotid and internal jugular vein. House was neurologically intact and his bleeding had been completely controlled. Gillick had made the decision to treat him conservatively and so far House recovered uneventfully with no neurological deficit and no further bleeding.
His stomach was a bit more difficult, but Gillick had said it could have been worse. Much worse.
House could have died.
The empath grit his teeth at the image and pushed it forcefully away. He didn't need this right now. House had woken, he was coherent, and things were looking up. That counted.
*
Recovery was going well. House was bitching and complaining in no time, especially about the fact that he was stuck in a hospital bed and Foreman was probably running the Diagnostic Department into the ground. Wilson dutifully gave him reports on what was going on, which wasn't all that much. The Scoobies were still rattled by the attack.
For the first few days House wasn't allowed any food other than IVs straight into a vein. His pierced stomach wasn't able to handle digestion yet. Unlike the myths floating around outside the hospital walls that IV treatments let you lose weight rapidly, he didn't starve down to skeletal. IV nutrients were plenty and he actually gained two pounds.
The shooter had been arrested and Wilson hadn't really followed what had happened to him. Cuddy had, though. A detective had been in to ask House a few question, leaving a scowl on his face not much later.
"You really had to annoy him," Cuddy commented when she entered not much later.
"He was asking stupid questions," House growled. "I don't know who the guy is, why he shot me, and what happened after that first bullet. Still he keeps asking questions. Idiot."
Cuddy sighed. "Well, at least you're feeling better. Gillick is all for releasing you home."
"Good! I'm fed up with this bed and this room and the whole nursing stuff!"
"Doctors make the worst patients."
"Last time I was here I woke with a few less parts," House snarled. "Sorry for not being more enthusiastic."
"You still have all your parts," Cuddy replied wryly.
"Why, Cuddy, you sneaked a peek!"
She grimaced. "It's not like I haven't seen male body parts before, House. Yours aren't special."
He grinned. "Ask Wilson. He thinks they're a treat."
Cuddy sighed the sigh of the martyr dean of medicine.
"Go and get my papers signed by whoever needs to scribble something underneath the release form," House told her. "I'm packing."
"You're impossible," Cuddy only said, then her face changed into a much softer expression. "And I'm glad you're okay, House."
With that she left. House smiled with a little amusement, then wondered how to manage packing, dressing and everything else associated with leaving this hell hole.
Damn.
Where was Wilson when you needed him?
And thinking of him, why was his very empathically linked to him partner and best friend not walking in right after Cuddy had left? He must have felt House's emotions, which were all over the place.
Curious.
*
House clenched his teeth, cursing softly all the way from the car to the apartment door, up the two stairs, into his living room, and over to the bedroom where Wilson was steering him with gentle insistence. The shot wound in his side hurt like a bitch and he barely had the strength to keep upright, using the cane to limp along, and coordinate where he was going.
Sinking onto the bed he closed his eyes as the pain spiked.
House knew pain. Really, really well. He knew it intimately and he had lived through worse, but the last few weeks had been incredibly pain-free, thanks to the healer. His leg was giving him no trouble, but the new injuries did.
"Lay down," Wilson ordered, voice firm but gentle.
Patient voice. Relative voice. His doctor voice. House smirked, but the smirk was wiped away by the new wave of needles and fire emanating from the wound. He breathed a sigh of utter relief when he was prone on his back.
Wilson was looking at him, visibly fighting with himself. House reached out and grasped one hand, squeezing it.
"Come," he murmured, wanting his lover with him, pain be damned.
"I'll get your medication. You need to take something for the pain."
House sighed, but he dutifully swallowed the pills Wilson brought him, then grabbed the hand again, tugging insistently. There was enough room and Wilson could join him on his good side.
"I might jostle you," James argued.
"I don't care."
"You do when it hurts."
"I didn't care when it was still the leg."
Wilson was fighting with himself now. It was all in his eyes.
"Bed's big enough," House told him.
"I better take the couch."
"Jimmy, please..." He let enough plea seep into the word to make Wilson wobble in his decision. "Please," he added with a little more power.
"Greg, I..."
"What are you afraid of?"
Wilson drew away, but House held on tight to the trapped wrist.
"You've been shot, House!" his lover argued. "You're in pain! If I jostle you, the pain will multiply! You don't need that right now!"
"I need you," he played one of his best cards.
Wilson's defenses were crumbling. House wasn't a malicious man when it came to his lover. He knew what buttons to press, but so did Wilson. They knew each other too well to play the other for too long. Right now he wanted the younger man with him, in his bed, at his side. There would be no cuddling, but he wanted the simple presence. A week of lying in a boring hospital room, with only his overactive brain and his faulty body had driven House up the walls. He was like a hamster with a broken wheel. No more exercise.
"Greg..."
He tugged again and Wilson came forward. Another tug and his lover surrendered.
"I need both hands to undress," James said softly.
House leered. "Make it a slow strip."
"You're too doped up for sex."
"Not to mention in pain. But I can still enjoy."
Wilson indulged him to a degree, peeling out of his clothes until he was only in an undershirt and boxers. He oh-so-carefully joined House on the bed and drew the blanket over them. Laying on his side, he watched House, the deep brown eyes full of untold emotions. Wilson brushed a kiss over his lips and House smiled. His neck hurt, but the injury was less extensive than the stab wound Wilson had suffered.
House let himself drift off into sleep, his still too weak body demanding rest. Compared to the hospital, his home was heaven, mostly because of the company. And it was easier to let himself relax here than in an environment he knew too well.
*
Things were complicated in the beginning. Getting up was more difficult than with a bum leg. House cursed every morning when the abdominal wound reminded him that things were not as a good as they seemed. He could barely turn his neck to the right and he was limited when it came to the left. The wound either pulled or pulsed.
Wilson weathered the storm of indignant curses, or yelling, of ranting and even threats against the shooter, Cuddy and whoever else House thought of. He silently waited for House to wind down, then helped him as much as House accepted help with anything.
He couldn't shower, so it was washing himself in front of the sink, and that was limited because of his restricted movement. House accepted Wilson's help on the third day at home. As much as standing naked and getting wiped down by his lover looked erotic, it was far from it. Wilson was professional.
Throughout the days at home, where Wilson was mostly with him and rarely went to work for more than half a day, House began to notice that while he himself had reason to look bad, Wilson shouldn't. His lover was almost a mirror image of a man with gun shot wounds, but he hadn't been shot. And even a worried Wilson never neglected himself.
So far House had noticed Wilson's tendency to eat little, sleep even less than House, and work himself into the ground in the few hours he was at the hospital.
It was all symptomatic, but of what, House had no idea - yet.
So he kept watching, and cursing the pain.
*
"Hey, matching scars."
House looked at the rather red and ugly scar that was visible against his neck in the mirror. The bandage had come off and now it was only taped. House had been given an antibiotic cream to treat the wound with and he applied it liberally before covering up the injury.
Two weeks had passed and things were looking up. The pain was receding and everyone was happy with the speed he was recovering.
Glancing at the man leaning against the door jamb of the bathroom, he saw the shadows dancing in Wilson's eyes. His lover had become quiet in those two weeks. Very, very quiet. He was his usual caring self, tender and gentle and helpful. Just Wilson. But something was underneath that shell, underneath all the care and worry, and it lurked and prowled and wanted out.
House turned and limped toward the other man, gazing into those dark brown eyes, reading more than ever. This need... it was only matched by the need he had seen in James' eyes the first time they had kissed after his separation from Julie. The first time they had truly let themselves feel, when House had been unable to let go of Wilson. When he had been shown that life was fragile and Wilson could be taken from him by some crazed out man with a glass shard.
He trapped Wilson against the door jamb, touching the healed but still visible scar of that attack. Wilson shuddered, but he didn't move.
"Yours is prettier," House whispered.
Because of his injuries there had been no physical activity in bed or anywhere else. Even a blow job would require functional and pain-free stomach muscles, which he didn't have. He was only now getting around to that. The occasional twinge was bearable.
House leaned in, capturing his lover's lips before he could reply. Wilson's scar was a stab/cut wound. It was cleaner, thinner, with the one or two irregularities. And it had started to fade from red to white. House's was ugly. Shot wounds tended to have frayed edges and he knew it would be much broader when it was finally healed.
Wilson made a soft sound, one hand clenching into House's shirt, the other resting on his left hip.
"Starved," House rumbled as they separated.
He looked into the deep browns, needing and loving the emotions he could see there.
"Very, very starved. I really need to find you a hooker for the occasions I'm not around."
Wilson swallowed, looking away briefly. "I'm fine."
"Sure. You're always fine. Getting overwhelmed by emotional outbursts from people who dislike you and you're still fine."
His lover was paling a little, one cheek muscle jumping. House's mind suddenly put the last puzzle pieces together, came to the right conclusions.
"Getting backlash from someone close to you as he's shot... and you're just fine," he added.
Wilson closed his eyes and the hand clutching the shirt clenched.
"That's it, isn't it?" House went on relentlessly. "You got empathically whiplashed. Somehow all that happened, it happened to you, too? What did you do? Touch me?"
"I was training," Wilson whispered, voice painful. "I didn't know..." He broke off and bumped his head against the door jamb.
House looked at the delicious piece of neck that just begged to be kissed, and he couldn't help himself. He leaned forward and planted kisses along the smooth column, down to the neckline of the t-shirt Wilson wore, where he nipped gently. His lover's hands clenched again and he hiccupped slightly.
"You felt everything," House went on.
Wilson didn't look at him and his pulse was speeding up. House felt it under his touch as he again caressed the scar.
"You felt everything," he repeated. "You were wide open. The pain and the agony and the confusion..."
"Stop!" Wilson cried out, pushing at House's chest to get room.
House remained where he was, trapping his lover, looking into the frantic eyes.
"You touched pain, Jimmy. My pain. Sudden, acute, fresh pain. Not the old one. You know the old one. You could have handled it."
"House..."
"But you couldn't deal with this. You're too much anchored to me, too empathic..."
He knew he was cruel. He saw it in his lover's eyes, saw the emotional pain, saw the memories.
"Greg, stop! Stop it!"
"You haven't stopped it, Jimmy. You're not letting go."
"W-what?"
"When was the last time you touched me?"
"I...? What? What are you talking about?"
Things were crystal clear now and House smiled more, knowing the answer to the puzzle that was James Wilson.
"You touched pain and like everyone who has, you shy away from it. You've been burned. You are wary. You hide."
"I'm not...!"
He leaned in again. "You do. You look as bad as you did after I went to San Diego. I was gone and the empath was lonely. I was shot and the empath was burned, retreating into his hole and crying himself to sleep. Touch me, Jimmy."
"I'm not hiding," Wilson protested.
"Touch me."
"I... Greg, it's not easy..."
"Do it. Open up and touch me. There's no pain, Jimmy. None at all. It's safe. Lower that barrier and touch me."
Wilson looked ready to bolt. Like an animal trapped in a corner, he was torn between fight and flight. He was scared and House could see it, but if he gave up now and soothed away the hurt, it would serve nothing.
Wilson screwed his eyes shut, biting his lower lip, and his body was as taut as a wire, ready to snap. House leaned forward, stubble scraping over clean-shaven skin.
"Open up for me," he whispered into one ear.
His hands started to caress the frightened man. He drew circles over the chest, caressed his arms, kissed him, repeating his request. There was a tiny whimper and Wilson seemed to sag a little.
House caught him in an embrace, pressing their lips together, demanding entry into that mouth. He was granted permission and he proceeded to give his lover a first class tonsillectomy. Wilson was clinging to him, still unconsciously keeping away from the abdominal wound, and while House's neck muscles protested, he ignored them.
The feverish kiss turned gentler, loving, House's body almost flush against Wilson. He felt every little tremor, knew that his lover still held on to that last wall, but he was fighting.
House smiled as he blindly reached for a small cabinet and his fingers found what he wanted.
Pushing Wilson away from the door, he maneuvered him deftly over to the couch. The bedroom was too far and he wanted this right now. He needed this right now. Glassy brown eyes regarded him, filled with need and so much more, and House ignored a few more twinges of healed flesh as he got Wilson where he wanted him. On the couch, no longer fighting, so close and still not ready to take the last step.
His leg was good. It was actually fine. No overexertion, but he had to be careful of the shot wound. It had been a little over three weeks and while his intestines had finally assumed their original positions after being pushed around throughout surgery, thankyouverymuch, House knew better than not to listen to the pain.
Right now, no pain. Just twinges. He could live with twinges.
Wilson was prone on the couch and he smiled down at his lover as he undid the fly of the pants and pushed inside to find what he was looking for.
Starved, yes. Very starved. Wilson was pushing up toward his questing hand with a sigh of appreciation.
House took the hardening length and stroked it firmly. There was no time for finesse, other than seducing his lover with what little mobility he had. He would have loved to give him a thorough blowjob, but that would have resulted in some embarrassing moments afterwards, with House cussing whoever had shot him and Wilson guiltily dragging him back to bed.
He would leave the blowjob for later.
So it was his hand now, squeezing and stroking and fondling, fingers playing with the growing arousal and knowing some mean tricks. He stopped for a moment, enjoying the confusion and need in his lover's eyes, as well as the realization as he opened a small tube and squeezed some lube into his hand. So much better for this.
Wilson was watching him with rising passion, and when House undid the shirt buttons, leaving him bare-chested and looking oh so deliciously debauched, his lover surrendered to the inevitable. House risked leaning down and his side didn't protest too much, giving the perked nipples their deserved attention. He bit each before going back to the other. It was a light bite, just enough to stimulate, and Wilson reacted beautifully. Like expected.
So needy.
House felt his own rising arousal, but it was weaker, battling through too much medication and physical weakness to be a runner-up for Wilson's hard-on.
Their lips crushed together and House gave Wilson's hardness a rough tug, making his lover moan with pleasure.
"Open up for me, Jimmy," he whispered against the thoroughly kissed lips. "Touch me."
Wilson screwed his eyes shut in ecstasy as House sped up his motions. The other hand was finding the nipples quite interesting and when he flicked one with a thumb, Wilson cried out softly, jerking. It took another moment for the oncologist to finally lose it, coming hard and with House's name on his lips.
House couldn't feel the connection. He wasn't an empath. But by the expression in Wilson's face, James had finally broken down the wall. He was breathing hard, shaking all over, and it wasn't just the orgasm. It hadn't been such a spectacular session. House had been aiming for only one thing, and he had gotten it - through sex.
He looked into the still rather dilated brown eyes, smiling wryly.
"You're so easy, Jimmy."
Wilson laughed breathlessly. "Bastard."
"Love you, too."
House gazed at the other man, shirt undone, leaving his chest completely bare, pants open, showing everything, and the face flushed.
Yeah, debauched. And so fuckable. If not for the fact that House couldn't do anything about it, this would be perfect. And he refused to fuck his lover with a dildo.
Nudging Wilson a little, he got him to scoot up so House could sit down. House leaned over and capture the familiar lips in a much more tender kiss, stroking over the bare chest, hands coming to rest over the deflated erection. Cupping it, he pushed the length back into the pants, humming when Wilson deepened the kiss.
"Think of it as an emergency meal for the sexually starved," House murmured huskily. "You'll get the main course soon."
Wilson chuckled, leaning against him with a tired but pleased sigh.
"Still hurt?" House wanted to know.
"No."
"Told you so."
That got him a weak glare. "I know. And I knew. It was just..."
"The memory."
Wilson nodded. He looked embarrassed and House was torn between teasing him and letting it slide. He let it slide in the end. His lover had gone through the same hell he had; unwillingly.
He rose with some difficulty, feeling his torn muscles protest. With a little grimace he straightened. Wilson's worry was immediately back and House gave him a warning look.
"Come on," he said instead, limping toward the bedroom.
Wilson followed and he didn't protest much when House told him to get into bed. House followed. It was much easier to cuddle like this, Wilson against his good side, and he knew from past experience that his lover needed this. Wilson was a touchy-feely guy. He had always teased him about it, but now he understood. It had been the empath in him, back then just breaking through. Now he was fully there and he needed this reassurance.
House had been, much to his own surprise, very willing to give it.
His side twinged more and he shifted a little, Wilson smoothly adjusting his position. His eyes were closed, one hand was resting on House's chest as he lay on his side, and House played with the longish strands of chestnut hair. Smiling to himself, he enjoyed the warmth of his lover.
*
It took him six more weeks to be allowed to return to work. Six weeks at home, three of them able to finally take advantage of the fact and have his wicked way with one James Wilson. Not that Wilson objected much. It was a token protest, actually. The empath was in need of the reassurance, of the physical contact, and House willingly gave it. Wilson did go back to full time work at the hospital the day after he had torn down that last wall, and he was visibly improving.
Cameron came by once, bringing him some hospital stuff and spending an awkward hour with House. Foreman was a no-show. Chase called. Wilson looked mystified after the phone call and House just shot him a 'tell me' look.
"I'm not sure."
That was all Wilson would say, and House left it at that, too. For now.
Coming back into the hospital, his department, the place where some crazy guy had shot him, had House feeling strangely apprehensive. He hadn't told Wilson about the dreams he had had in the beginning, of the fragments of nightmarish moments when some faceless creature had pointed a gun at him, pulling the trigger once, twice, three, four times. All bullets had torn through his body and he hadn't been able to move. He hadn't gone down. He had stood there, bleeding, and then he had seen his lover. Wilson had shown the same wounds, barely hanging on to life, pleading with him to help him.
House had a suspicion that Wilson knew. After the connection had reopened, the younger man was again very much aware of him in ways House wouldn't have thought possible before.
He gazed at the pristine, blank whiteboard. The floor was scrubbed clean, no sign of blood. There was the smell of coffee and a bowl of animal crackers was on the table. He smirked.
"Welcome back," Cameron said, rising from where she had sat at the table.
"Got no case to work on?" House asked gruffly, brushing off her concern and wide-eyed look.
"Dry spell," Chase remarked, his crossword puzzle before him.
"Huh, figure that. All those healthy people. Gotta hate them."
Foreman gave him a once-over. "We didn't expect you before Monday."
"What can I say? I was bored. At home, only my TV for entertainment, not to mention that hot body in bed..."
Foreman looked like he wanted to say something, then just kept his mouth shut.
"All right, if there's nothing to do, I'll be at lunch. Page me if you can dig up an interesting case."
He pushed open the glass door, strangely relieved to be out of the room. He shook his head at his own stupidity. As he limped into the cafeteria, many eyes on him as he got himself a coffee and something sweet, House was joined by Wilson. His lover looked his smooth, professional self. Hair combed to perfection, clean-shaven, tie in place - a dark green one that fit nicely to the dark suit he wore and that House found very, very attractive on the slender frame.
"First days suck," House grumbled.
"That bad?"
"That boring."
"You could do some clinic hours."
House gave him a scandalous look and Wilson smiled. House stole the last piece of donut from his lover, smirking. Moments like these let him relax and enough time back at the hospital would help with the apprehension. That and cases that occupied his overactive mind. He needed to stretch his brain muscles, get them going again, and any case would do. Even ones solved within an hour.
So maybe the clinic was an idea, he mused.
Figure that. Voluntarily clinic time. Cuddy would have a coronary. Pop a blood vessel. Well, pop a blouse button, too.
House grinned. Yep, clinic hours it would be.
As he rose, Wilson shot him a quizzical look.
"Clinic," House answered the silent question.
"Clinic? For real?"
"No, I'm hallucinating and the clinic is a figment of my imagination," House replied sarcastically. "Of course the clinic. I like to suck up."
Wilson chuckled, raised his cup in a toast, and House limped off, feeling strangely happy.
Part of the Denuo AU
AUTHOR: Macx and Lara Bee
RATING: R
PAIRING: House/Wilson
SPOILERS: No Reason
DISCLAIMER: not mine. Wish I could have them, but whoever all owns them, I'm not trying to infringe on anything. All rights are with the creators of the show, the studios, whatever.
The Denuo universe was created by Lara Bee and myself. More stories from different shows can be found here: http://home.arcor.de/larabee/mag7/denuo.html
Macx's Voice of Warning (aka Authors' Note): English is not my first language; it's German. This is the best I can do. Any mistakes you find in here, collect them and you might win a prize The spell-checker said everything's okay, but you know how trustworthy those thingies are.....
WARNINGS: paranormal element, slash (duh!), violence
I warped some scenes of the episode to fit this AU: Lines taken from No Reason and adjusted to Denuo, too.
When it happened, Wilson had no time to prepare. He actually had no time to do anything, either prepare or defend or retreat or whatnot. He was wide open, he was completely vulnerable, and it hit him with the force of a small missile right between the eyes.
His schedule had been blessedly appointment free for a few hours and since there was a lull in reports and he didn't feel like tackling the consults and journals right now, Wilson had decided to work on a different kind of track - empathy.
He had gotten better with his abilities. A lot better. He could control his shields to a degree, though massive emotional overload from one person, directed solely at him, would still be painful. So far, there was only one person he was trying to shield from, and that was Foreman. He was getting used to the feeling of walking on broken glass when he was around the man. It stung to be looked at with a bland expression while Foreman's emotions went into the negative field of the scale, grating on his nerves, making his brain cringe and head hurt.
But he was getting better.
So now Wilson worked on actively using his empathic powers to scan people, to be more in control of what he could pick up. He couldn't work on relatives or patients, since for now it required his full concentration.
Currently he sat in his office, eyes closed, reaching for the presence of his lover, which he could distinguish easily. House was a complicated mix of sarcasm, cynicism, with a healthy dose of absolute bastard and a lot of cranky genius thrown in. Underneath so many snarky, snappy and snarly responses lay someone only Wilson had ever really seen. It was a tender person, gentle and warm, so completely not the House that was on the surface. It was a person who hid and liked to stay hidden. That he had seen that man warmed him, made him happy.
House made him happy.
Huh, what a contradiction. House... happy... No way that could work, but it did. It had for a long, long time.
Wilson knew the tenderness this man could give, the gentle kisses, the caresses. There was nothing rough or dominating, nothing possessive or more than a hint of temporary bastard in their encounters. Of course, House teased and taunted, and he could develop a mean streak, but never with malicious intent.
Cameron, Chase and Foreman were in the same room. Wilson would attempt to seek them out individually and 'read' them. He knew they were working on a case, one that had captured House's attention, that didn't let him go, and Wilson loved to sit back and watch the genius at work.
There was a shift in House's presence and Wilson frowned. From one moment to the next the playful taunting had shifted to alarm. The alarm was rising, became overwhelming. Then there was a moment of total shock, panic, and then...
Wilson didn't know if he screamed. He might have.
The pain was terrible.
It seared into his mind, cut through his brain, and it overwhelmed his senses. It wasn't just there either. It went through his body, his right side burning, then turned into pure agony.
He didn't hear the shots from the other room.
He didn't hear the cries, other than the scream in his mind.
He lay on the floor of his office, panting, eyes screwed shut, his body trembling. His neck was on fire. His side hurt like hell. His mind was a raw, open wound that was being fed by House.
Greg... something had happened to Greg...
Wilson whimpered.
He wanted to move but couldn't. It was an all-freezing sensation, the pain making him immobile and sending spikes of agony through his receptive mind.
Greg...
His breathing sped up, and he was close to hyperventilating.
Control the pain. Raise shields. Get the damn shields up!
Wilson had no idea how much time passed before that order finally reached his overtaxed mind and he could place a few moderate shields around himself. It was a relief how much the agony faded, left only the sharp throb of each heartbeat and the frantic pants.
He blinked his eyes open, his vision blurry.
He was on the floor of his office, the door was still locked, no one was banging against it to get inside.
Getting up was a master piece of coordination and trying not to throw up. Wilson managed both, but it was a close call on the vomiting part. At least until he stumbled to the door and unlocked it. The moment he was outside his office, blinking into the lights, he lost the battle. He made it to the men's room and threw up, his body heaving painfully.
Again, an unknown amount of time passed. He sat in the stall, trembling, fighting the echoes of what he had gone through, and pushed his shields higher.
When Wilson finally left the men's room, he was pale, looked like he hadn't slept in days, and he was still shaky. Eyes roamed the curiously silent corridor and his feet took him to the glass-encased office next to his - Diagnostics.
There was no one there.
But there was evidence. A lot of evidence.
Something shivered through him, something sick and foreboding and something screaming 'nononono' all the time.
Because there was blood.
Lots of blood.
Red and still sticky, close to the whiteboard. Smeared in places.
Blood.
His stomach lurched as he connected the emotions he had felt to the blood he saw.
"No..." he breathed his denial.
Wilson wanted to reach out for House, check on him, but his overtaxed brain refused to listen to his orders. It was survival instinct, pure and simple. Touch House now and lose it. Totally.
Bloody towels drew his eyes to them and he shuddered. There was some emergency medical equipment, too.
Wilson turned away from the gruesome sight of what had happened here, still not understanding why, and stumbled toward the elevator.
When it opened two floors later, he almost ran into Cuddy. She looked as bad as him. Her hair was a bushy mess, her eyes too large for her pale and narrow face, and when she looked at Wilson, she immediately reached out to steady him.
"House..." the oncologist managed.
"Come with me," was her reply and Wilson was glad for her hand on his arm, leading and steering and strangely supporting him.
They ended up in the doctor's lounge outside surgery. Cuddy made him sit down, pushed a hot drink into his hands, then took a seat across. Close, but not crowding.
"Do you know what happened, James?" she asked softly.
"No... I wasn't there... I.... I saw the blood..."
He could hardly tell her he had been there, in House's mind, when it had happened. That he had spent whatever time curled up on the floor of his office, fighting the echoes.
"House was shot."
Wilson's head whipped up, his eyes widened, and he stared at Cuddy, unable to comprehend.
"Sh-shot?" he stammered.
"Yes."
"How...?!"
"A former patient. Security got him. House is in surgery."
"How bad?" Wilson managed, his mouth dry, his hands clenching around the mug to stop the tremors.
"One bullet lodged in his abdomen, the other in the neck. We don't know any more right now."
The world seemed to fade around him and the pain in his own neck and abdomen was a faint pulse, a reminder of what House was going through.
"James?"
He blinked and looked at Cuddy.
"They're doing everything they can."
"Yeah."
He gazed at his by now much colder coffee and finally closed his eyes. Wilson took a few deep breaths, trying to calm himself, to keep his shields. He was bad with shields on a good day, and this had wiped everything away in a heartbeat.
House had been shot.
House was in surgery.
Greg was...
A hand was on his, fingers closing over the white knuckles. Cuddy said nothing as he looked at her, no smile, no empty words. She just met his gaze and touched him. It was enough. It was his only support.
*
Cameron, Foreman and Chase drifted into the lounge throughout the next hours. Cameron looked as bad as she had throughout the first days after the possible HIV infection. Foreman's face was unreadable and Chase was the total opposite, an open book. The Australian leaned against the wall next to where Wilson sat, a silent show of friendship and support. Foreman just sat on the other side.
Wilson tried to tune out what came from the neurologist. It was thankfully very muted, Foreman being in too much of a shock right now.
"Anything?" Cuddy broke the silence.
Cameron shook her head.
It was all that was spoken.
Hours passed.
And finally Dr. Mike Gillick walked into the lounge, looking tired. He was still in his surgical scrubs and Wilson could have thrown up at the faint traces of blood. He had never been that touchy before when it came to post-op appearances.
But this was his lover's blood.
Five pairs of eyes were on Gillick and the surgeon smiled. "He pulled through. Not out of the woods, but we didn't lose him again."
Again... the word echoed through Wilson's head. Didn't lose him again.
He tried to hide his anguish and nearly missed Chase shifting slightly closer. The intensivist never made eye contact, his attention on Gillick, and Wilson couldn't help but wonder. Then he was listening to Gillick again.
"The bullet in his abdomen pierced the stomach, nicked the bowel, and lodged in the posterior rib. The one in his neck went right through, severed the jugular. It was a clean through-and-through. No spinal damage, it didn't nick either the esophagus nor the larynx. We patched him back together and he's currently in ICU. We'll move him when he's stable enough."
"Thanks, Mike," Cuddy said, her voice heavy with relief.
The others said something, asked questions, but Wilson didn't hear it. He only felt the squeeze on his shoulder and glanced up at Chase, who met his gaze with a firm, reassuring one. Then the hand was gone, and so was Chase.
Wilson closed his eyes, drawing a deep breath, then opened them and pushed to his feet. Cuddy was still there, her expression very empathetic.
"I want to see him," Wilson only said.
She nodded, expecting no less.
*
Dressed in the appropriate gowns that covered their clothes, Wilson and Cuddy were allowed to enter ICU. Wilson's eyes were immediately drawn to his lover, and he didn't even notice that Cuddy stopped a little further away, giving him privacy.
House looked... like House. Just worse. A lot worse. The stubble did nothing to help alleviate the condition of looking bad. Pale skin, closed eyes looking bruised, sunken, a thin tube leading to the nose where it was fastened securely under the nostrils. Air. To help with the oxygen intake. Thankfully there was no ventilator. The bandage on the neck showed a few flecks of blood. The other, over the abdomen, was hidden from Wilson's view. It was underneath the gown, underneath the blanket. An IV line ran into one hand. Attached to the IV was another drip. Morphine.
Wilson stopped at House's bedside, reaching slowly for the hand that didn't have the IV in it, and ran his finger pads over the too cool skin. The empath in him was drawn between reaching out and shying away in fright of what might happen.
Another breakdown. Another vomiting fit. Mental pain.
His emotional pain was too great already to consider this option. He had to make due with physical touches, with looking at the unconscious man, and hoping. Hoping for a full recovery.
"James?"
Cuddy's gentle voice drew him out of his study. He glanced at her and she smiled a little.
"Give it time. Gillick is a great surgeon. The best. I'll have his report and all of us want to make sure House is okay. Go home, shower, sleep. I'll call when something changes. And give Williams a call."
Tom Williams was an oncologist, working in Wilson's department, and he usually took charge of matters when Wilson wasn't there. James nodded tiredly.
He wanted to argue, to scream, to fight. He wanted to stay and watch. He wanted to wait as close as they would let him, wanted to be with his lover, but he knew he would lose any of those fights. Almost everyone knew or was aware of the relationship between House and Wilson. At least all department heads and many of the other doctors. Gillick would probably let him stay. So would Manning, who ran ICU. Irene Manning was a hard-nosed woman, but she had a soft spot and that soft spot included Wilson, and with it, to an extent, House.
"Go home," Cuddy repeated.
"Call," he only said tiredly.
"I promise I will."
Wilson squeezed the lax hand he had been caressing. He had to force himself to let go, but he did, and he walked out of ICU.
It was the hardest thing he had ever done.
*
The apartment seemed barren and empty even in its cluttered state. Wilson walked in on automatic, dropped his bag and his coat on the couch, then proceeded into the kitchen. The fridge was near-empty. He had planned on going shopping tomorrow. There was some alcohol, but the mostly sane part of him decided that getting drunk wasn't top priority.
Later.
Yeah, later sounded fine.
So he got himself a glass of water and walked into the bedroom.
Their bedroom.
He shivered as he looked at the bed, mechanically pulling off his tie and removing his jacket. The shirt and pants followed until he was naked. Wilson padded into the bathroom and turned on the shower, stepping under the hot spray that started to pound his skin.
The tremors increased and he braced himself with his palms flat against the cool surface of the tiles, feeling the tightness in his chest increase. Water ran into his eyes, mixing with the tears starting to leak from his eyes.
He didn't want to cry.
Crying was... weak. He wasn't weak. He wasn't going to break down over this.
But his mind had the bad timing of dredging up memories of what he had felt throughout the shot, when House had gone down, and he groaned. Fingers curled, trying to bury in the hard tiles and he rested his head against the coolness, such a difference to the hot water.
House had been shot.
So had been Wilson.
House had been in surgery.
For Wilson, surgery had been a nightmare of hoping and waiting.
House was in ICU.
Wilson was at home, sobbing painfully under a hot shower.
House would probably tease him to no end about it. He laughed weakly, a bubble of desperation rising. He wanted to get teased. He wanted to hear the sarcastic remarks. He wanted the taunts and the warmth of the blue eyes and the touches, and the kisses...
Wilson's hands were curled into fists now and he banged them against the wall, all his fear and anger and frustration unloading. It was a rather weak and brief display. It ended with a silent scream, and he viciously turned off the water.
Dripping wet, shaking, hands hurting, he stood in the shower cubicle.
He couldn't lose House. Not like this. Not after things had started to look up. Not after Greg had gone through so much with the healer in San Diego, getting the pain in his leg treated. Not since the pain there was gone.
Wilson dried himself, then curled up on the large bed, still in the nude, still shivering. The empath was reeling with the echoes and they wouldn't stop. Nothing would ever stop. Someone had tried to kill his lover and he had hit them both.
With the echoes of the pain, the shock and the agony of the bullet inside his abdomen, Wilson drifted off into an uneasy sleep.
*
House was unconscious for two days. Wilson was with him as often as possible, simultaneously trying to work his department until Williams got into his way.
"James, take some time off," the older man had told him.
"I'm fine," had been the automatic answer.
"You're not. You look like a ghost. I wouldn't trust you to read an MRI scan."
Williams had looked sympathetic and Wilson had hated him for it. Just a second. He felt like House that moment, hating the sympathy, the pity, the empathy. Then that feeling had vanished, leaving only his mental exhaustion. He slept badly, he kept reaching for House, always running into the last wall he had established himself. It was a wall built of fear, of apprehension to touch something that had hurt him so badly, and so he lingered there, needy and wanting, but unable to take the last step.
"James, go sit with him. Just sit," had been Williams' last advice before he had turned to get to work.
Wilson had taken his advice.
Sometimes one of the team joined him, mostly Cameron. She looked as bad as he did. Chase dropped by repeatedly, always in the evening. Cameron had told him that the Australian was pouring himself into NICU work. It helped him forget for a few hours.
Foreman was rarely seen. He just looked in, saw Wilson, and left again. Wilson didn't care. He couldn't care less about Foreman.
It was on that third day that House woke. Slowly, eyes sticky, blinking once, twice, then closing again. When he finally opened them for good, Wilson knew he was smiling a rather goofy smile, but he didn't care. He was holding his lover's free hand, squeezing it gently.
"Hey."
House was looking at him, a glimmer, maybe even a spark of recognition in the blue depth, then he closed his eyes once more.
A nurse came in, checking his vitals, and shortly after that Gillick appeared, looking pleased.
"He's sleeping naturally now. So far his injuries are healing perfectly. I'll keep him in here one more night. If nothing happens, if his temperature stays down, we'll move him to a normal room."
Wilson nodded, relief making him weak-kneed.
When House came around the second time, he was a lot more awake. The spark was stronger and the lips twisted into a smirk.
"I always say, if you're going to get shot, do it in a hospital."
His voice sounded raspy and the words were a little slurred.
Wilson was smiling widely. "Yeah. So you."
"Did I lose any organs?"
"No. All accounted for. Pierced stomach, nicked bowels, and the bullet in your neck went right through the jugular. Looks like your vocal cords are working, though."
That had been a fear. Wilson only knew too well what that meant. The scar on his own neck proved it.
"Second bullet?" House asked. "Don't remember that one."
"You're lucky. Surgery went fine. No post-op complications."
"Who?"
"Gillick."
House nodded minutely. He looked tired again and his eyes were drooping. Wilson reached out and caressed one heavily stubbled jaw. There were flecks of gray and he smiled fondly.
"Sleep."
"Doing nothing but," House murmured, but he couldn't fight it. He was asleep not much later.
Wilson closed his eyes, feeling so very tired. He had read Gillick's report and he knew that while the gun shot wound to House's neck had bled a lot, it wasn't all that bad.
There had been injury of the right internal carotid and internal jugular vein. House was neurologically intact and his bleeding had been completely controlled. Gillick had made the decision to treat him conservatively and so far House recovered uneventfully with no neurological deficit and no further bleeding.
His stomach was a bit more difficult, but Gillick had said it could have been worse. Much worse.
House could have died.
The empath grit his teeth at the image and pushed it forcefully away. He didn't need this right now. House had woken, he was coherent, and things were looking up. That counted.
*
Recovery was going well. House was bitching and complaining in no time, especially about the fact that he was stuck in a hospital bed and Foreman was probably running the Diagnostic Department into the ground. Wilson dutifully gave him reports on what was going on, which wasn't all that much. The Scoobies were still rattled by the attack.
For the first few days House wasn't allowed any food other than IVs straight into a vein. His pierced stomach wasn't able to handle digestion yet. Unlike the myths floating around outside the hospital walls that IV treatments let you lose weight rapidly, he didn't starve down to skeletal. IV nutrients were plenty and he actually gained two pounds.
The shooter had been arrested and Wilson hadn't really followed what had happened to him. Cuddy had, though. A detective had been in to ask House a few question, leaving a scowl on his face not much later.
"You really had to annoy him," Cuddy commented when she entered not much later.
"He was asking stupid questions," House growled. "I don't know who the guy is, why he shot me, and what happened after that first bullet. Still he keeps asking questions. Idiot."
Cuddy sighed. "Well, at least you're feeling better. Gillick is all for releasing you home."
"Good! I'm fed up with this bed and this room and the whole nursing stuff!"
"Doctors make the worst patients."
"Last time I was here I woke with a few less parts," House snarled. "Sorry for not being more enthusiastic."
"You still have all your parts," Cuddy replied wryly.
"Why, Cuddy, you sneaked a peek!"
She grimaced. "It's not like I haven't seen male body parts before, House. Yours aren't special."
He grinned. "Ask Wilson. He thinks they're a treat."
Cuddy sighed the sigh of the martyr dean of medicine.
"Go and get my papers signed by whoever needs to scribble something underneath the release form," House told her. "I'm packing."
"You're impossible," Cuddy only said, then her face changed into a much softer expression. "And I'm glad you're okay, House."
With that she left. House smiled with a little amusement, then wondered how to manage packing, dressing and everything else associated with leaving this hell hole.
Damn.
Where was Wilson when you needed him?
And thinking of him, why was his very empathically linked to him partner and best friend not walking in right after Cuddy had left? He must have felt House's emotions, which were all over the place.
Curious.
*
House clenched his teeth, cursing softly all the way from the car to the apartment door, up the two stairs, into his living room, and over to the bedroom where Wilson was steering him with gentle insistence. The shot wound in his side hurt like a bitch and he barely had the strength to keep upright, using the cane to limp along, and coordinate where he was going.
Sinking onto the bed he closed his eyes as the pain spiked.
House knew pain. Really, really well. He knew it intimately and he had lived through worse, but the last few weeks had been incredibly pain-free, thanks to the healer. His leg was giving him no trouble, but the new injuries did.
"Lay down," Wilson ordered, voice firm but gentle.
Patient voice. Relative voice. His doctor voice. House smirked, but the smirk was wiped away by the new wave of needles and fire emanating from the wound. He breathed a sigh of utter relief when he was prone on his back.
Wilson was looking at him, visibly fighting with himself. House reached out and grasped one hand, squeezing it.
"Come," he murmured, wanting his lover with him, pain be damned.
"I'll get your medication. You need to take something for the pain."
House sighed, but he dutifully swallowed the pills Wilson brought him, then grabbed the hand again, tugging insistently. There was enough room and Wilson could join him on his good side.
"I might jostle you," James argued.
"I don't care."
"You do when it hurts."
"I didn't care when it was still the leg."
Wilson was fighting with himself now. It was all in his eyes.
"Bed's big enough," House told him.
"I better take the couch."
"Jimmy, please..." He let enough plea seep into the word to make Wilson wobble in his decision. "Please," he added with a little more power.
"Greg, I..."
"What are you afraid of?"
Wilson drew away, but House held on tight to the trapped wrist.
"You've been shot, House!" his lover argued. "You're in pain! If I jostle you, the pain will multiply! You don't need that right now!"
"I need you," he played one of his best cards.
Wilson's defenses were crumbling. House wasn't a malicious man when it came to his lover. He knew what buttons to press, but so did Wilson. They knew each other too well to play the other for too long. Right now he wanted the younger man with him, in his bed, at his side. There would be no cuddling, but he wanted the simple presence. A week of lying in a boring hospital room, with only his overactive brain and his faulty body had driven House up the walls. He was like a hamster with a broken wheel. No more exercise.
"Greg..."
He tugged again and Wilson came forward. Another tug and his lover surrendered.
"I need both hands to undress," James said softly.
House leered. "Make it a slow strip."
"You're too doped up for sex."
"Not to mention in pain. But I can still enjoy."
Wilson indulged him to a degree, peeling out of his clothes until he was only in an undershirt and boxers. He oh-so-carefully joined House on the bed and drew the blanket over them. Laying on his side, he watched House, the deep brown eyes full of untold emotions. Wilson brushed a kiss over his lips and House smiled. His neck hurt, but the injury was less extensive than the stab wound Wilson had suffered.
House let himself drift off into sleep, his still too weak body demanding rest. Compared to the hospital, his home was heaven, mostly because of the company. And it was easier to let himself relax here than in an environment he knew too well.
*
Things were complicated in the beginning. Getting up was more difficult than with a bum leg. House cursed every morning when the abdominal wound reminded him that things were not as a good as they seemed. He could barely turn his neck to the right and he was limited when it came to the left. The wound either pulled or pulsed.
Wilson weathered the storm of indignant curses, or yelling, of ranting and even threats against the shooter, Cuddy and whoever else House thought of. He silently waited for House to wind down, then helped him as much as House accepted help with anything.
He couldn't shower, so it was washing himself in front of the sink, and that was limited because of his restricted movement. House accepted Wilson's help on the third day at home. As much as standing naked and getting wiped down by his lover looked erotic, it was far from it. Wilson was professional.
Throughout the days at home, where Wilson was mostly with him and rarely went to work for more than half a day, House began to notice that while he himself had reason to look bad, Wilson shouldn't. His lover was almost a mirror image of a man with gun shot wounds, but he hadn't been shot. And even a worried Wilson never neglected himself.
So far House had noticed Wilson's tendency to eat little, sleep even less than House, and work himself into the ground in the few hours he was at the hospital.
It was all symptomatic, but of what, House had no idea - yet.
So he kept watching, and cursing the pain.
*
"Hey, matching scars."
House looked at the rather red and ugly scar that was visible against his neck in the mirror. The bandage had come off and now it was only taped. House had been given an antibiotic cream to treat the wound with and he applied it liberally before covering up the injury.
Two weeks had passed and things were looking up. The pain was receding and everyone was happy with the speed he was recovering.
Glancing at the man leaning against the door jamb of the bathroom, he saw the shadows dancing in Wilson's eyes. His lover had become quiet in those two weeks. Very, very quiet. He was his usual caring self, tender and gentle and helpful. Just Wilson. But something was underneath that shell, underneath all the care and worry, and it lurked and prowled and wanted out.
House turned and limped toward the other man, gazing into those dark brown eyes, reading more than ever. This need... it was only matched by the need he had seen in James' eyes the first time they had kissed after his separation from Julie. The first time they had truly let themselves feel, when House had been unable to let go of Wilson. When he had been shown that life was fragile and Wilson could be taken from him by some crazed out man with a glass shard.
He trapped Wilson against the door jamb, touching the healed but still visible scar of that attack. Wilson shuddered, but he didn't move.
"Yours is prettier," House whispered.
Because of his injuries there had been no physical activity in bed or anywhere else. Even a blow job would require functional and pain-free stomach muscles, which he didn't have. He was only now getting around to that. The occasional twinge was bearable.
House leaned in, capturing his lover's lips before he could reply. Wilson's scar was a stab/cut wound. It was cleaner, thinner, with the one or two irregularities. And it had started to fade from red to white. House's was ugly. Shot wounds tended to have frayed edges and he knew it would be much broader when it was finally healed.
Wilson made a soft sound, one hand clenching into House's shirt, the other resting on his left hip.
"Starved," House rumbled as they separated.
He looked into the deep browns, needing and loving the emotions he could see there.
"Very, very starved. I really need to find you a hooker for the occasions I'm not around."
Wilson swallowed, looking away briefly. "I'm fine."
"Sure. You're always fine. Getting overwhelmed by emotional outbursts from people who dislike you and you're still fine."
His lover was paling a little, one cheek muscle jumping. House's mind suddenly put the last puzzle pieces together, came to the right conclusions.
"Getting backlash from someone close to you as he's shot... and you're just fine," he added.
Wilson closed his eyes and the hand clutching the shirt clenched.
"That's it, isn't it?" House went on relentlessly. "You got empathically whiplashed. Somehow all that happened, it happened to you, too? What did you do? Touch me?"
"I was training," Wilson whispered, voice painful. "I didn't know..." He broke off and bumped his head against the door jamb.
House looked at the delicious piece of neck that just begged to be kissed, and he couldn't help himself. He leaned forward and planted kisses along the smooth column, down to the neckline of the t-shirt Wilson wore, where he nipped gently. His lover's hands clenched again and he hiccupped slightly.
"You felt everything," House went on.
Wilson didn't look at him and his pulse was speeding up. House felt it under his touch as he again caressed the scar.
"You felt everything," he repeated. "You were wide open. The pain and the agony and the confusion..."
"Stop!" Wilson cried out, pushing at House's chest to get room.
House remained where he was, trapping his lover, looking into the frantic eyes.
"You touched pain, Jimmy. My pain. Sudden, acute, fresh pain. Not the old one. You know the old one. You could have handled it."
"House..."
"But you couldn't deal with this. You're too much anchored to me, too empathic..."
He knew he was cruel. He saw it in his lover's eyes, saw the emotional pain, saw the memories.
"Greg, stop! Stop it!"
"You haven't stopped it, Jimmy. You're not letting go."
"W-what?"
"When was the last time you touched me?"
"I...? What? What are you talking about?"
Things were crystal clear now and House smiled more, knowing the answer to the puzzle that was James Wilson.
"You touched pain and like everyone who has, you shy away from it. You've been burned. You are wary. You hide."
"I'm not...!"
He leaned in again. "You do. You look as bad as you did after I went to San Diego. I was gone and the empath was lonely. I was shot and the empath was burned, retreating into his hole and crying himself to sleep. Touch me, Jimmy."
"I'm not hiding," Wilson protested.
"Touch me."
"I... Greg, it's not easy..."
"Do it. Open up and touch me. There's no pain, Jimmy. None at all. It's safe. Lower that barrier and touch me."
Wilson looked ready to bolt. Like an animal trapped in a corner, he was torn between fight and flight. He was scared and House could see it, but if he gave up now and soothed away the hurt, it would serve nothing.
Wilson screwed his eyes shut, biting his lower lip, and his body was as taut as a wire, ready to snap. House leaned forward, stubble scraping over clean-shaven skin.
"Open up for me," he whispered into one ear.
His hands started to caress the frightened man. He drew circles over the chest, caressed his arms, kissed him, repeating his request. There was a tiny whimper and Wilson seemed to sag a little.
House caught him in an embrace, pressing their lips together, demanding entry into that mouth. He was granted permission and he proceeded to give his lover a first class tonsillectomy. Wilson was clinging to him, still unconsciously keeping away from the abdominal wound, and while House's neck muscles protested, he ignored them.
The feverish kiss turned gentler, loving, House's body almost flush against Wilson. He felt every little tremor, knew that his lover still held on to that last wall, but he was fighting.
House smiled as he blindly reached for a small cabinet and his fingers found what he wanted.
Pushing Wilson away from the door, he maneuvered him deftly over to the couch. The bedroom was too far and he wanted this right now. He needed this right now. Glassy brown eyes regarded him, filled with need and so much more, and House ignored a few more twinges of healed flesh as he got Wilson where he wanted him. On the couch, no longer fighting, so close and still not ready to take the last step.
His leg was good. It was actually fine. No overexertion, but he had to be careful of the shot wound. It had been a little over three weeks and while his intestines had finally assumed their original positions after being pushed around throughout surgery, thankyouverymuch, House knew better than not to listen to the pain.
Right now, no pain. Just twinges. He could live with twinges.
Wilson was prone on the couch and he smiled down at his lover as he undid the fly of the pants and pushed inside to find what he was looking for.
Starved, yes. Very starved. Wilson was pushing up toward his questing hand with a sigh of appreciation.
House took the hardening length and stroked it firmly. There was no time for finesse, other than seducing his lover with what little mobility he had. He would have loved to give him a thorough blowjob, but that would have resulted in some embarrassing moments afterwards, with House cussing whoever had shot him and Wilson guiltily dragging him back to bed.
He would leave the blowjob for later.
So it was his hand now, squeezing and stroking and fondling, fingers playing with the growing arousal and knowing some mean tricks. He stopped for a moment, enjoying the confusion and need in his lover's eyes, as well as the realization as he opened a small tube and squeezed some lube into his hand. So much better for this.
Wilson was watching him with rising passion, and when House undid the shirt buttons, leaving him bare-chested and looking oh so deliciously debauched, his lover surrendered to the inevitable. House risked leaning down and his side didn't protest too much, giving the perked nipples their deserved attention. He bit each before going back to the other. It was a light bite, just enough to stimulate, and Wilson reacted beautifully. Like expected.
So needy.
House felt his own rising arousal, but it was weaker, battling through too much medication and physical weakness to be a runner-up for Wilson's hard-on.
Their lips crushed together and House gave Wilson's hardness a rough tug, making his lover moan with pleasure.
"Open up for me, Jimmy," he whispered against the thoroughly kissed lips. "Touch me."
Wilson screwed his eyes shut in ecstasy as House sped up his motions. The other hand was finding the nipples quite interesting and when he flicked one with a thumb, Wilson cried out softly, jerking. It took another moment for the oncologist to finally lose it, coming hard and with House's name on his lips.
House couldn't feel the connection. He wasn't an empath. But by the expression in Wilson's face, James had finally broken down the wall. He was breathing hard, shaking all over, and it wasn't just the orgasm. It hadn't been such a spectacular session. House had been aiming for only one thing, and he had gotten it - through sex.
He looked into the still rather dilated brown eyes, smiling wryly.
"You're so easy, Jimmy."
Wilson laughed breathlessly. "Bastard."
"Love you, too."
House gazed at the other man, shirt undone, leaving his chest completely bare, pants open, showing everything, and the face flushed.
Yeah, debauched. And so fuckable. If not for the fact that House couldn't do anything about it, this would be perfect. And he refused to fuck his lover with a dildo.
Nudging Wilson a little, he got him to scoot up so House could sit down. House leaned over and capture the familiar lips in a much more tender kiss, stroking over the bare chest, hands coming to rest over the deflated erection. Cupping it, he pushed the length back into the pants, humming when Wilson deepened the kiss.
"Think of it as an emergency meal for the sexually starved," House murmured huskily. "You'll get the main course soon."
Wilson chuckled, leaning against him with a tired but pleased sigh.
"Still hurt?" House wanted to know.
"No."
"Told you so."
That got him a weak glare. "I know. And I knew. It was just..."
"The memory."
Wilson nodded. He looked embarrassed and House was torn between teasing him and letting it slide. He let it slide in the end. His lover had gone through the same hell he had; unwillingly.
He rose with some difficulty, feeling his torn muscles protest. With a little grimace he straightened. Wilson's worry was immediately back and House gave him a warning look.
"Come on," he said instead, limping toward the bedroom.
Wilson followed and he didn't protest much when House told him to get into bed. House followed. It was much easier to cuddle like this, Wilson against his good side, and he knew from past experience that his lover needed this. Wilson was a touchy-feely guy. He had always teased him about it, but now he understood. It had been the empath in him, back then just breaking through. Now he was fully there and he needed this reassurance.
House had been, much to his own surprise, very willing to give it.
His side twinged more and he shifted a little, Wilson smoothly adjusting his position. His eyes were closed, one hand was resting on House's chest as he lay on his side, and House played with the longish strands of chestnut hair. Smiling to himself, he enjoyed the warmth of his lover.
*
It took him six more weeks to be allowed to return to work. Six weeks at home, three of them able to finally take advantage of the fact and have his wicked way with one James Wilson. Not that Wilson objected much. It was a token protest, actually. The empath was in need of the reassurance, of the physical contact, and House willingly gave it. Wilson did go back to full time work at the hospital the day after he had torn down that last wall, and he was visibly improving.
Cameron came by once, bringing him some hospital stuff and spending an awkward hour with House. Foreman was a no-show. Chase called. Wilson looked mystified after the phone call and House just shot him a 'tell me' look.
"I'm not sure."
That was all Wilson would say, and House left it at that, too. For now.
Coming back into the hospital, his department, the place where some crazy guy had shot him, had House feeling strangely apprehensive. He hadn't told Wilson about the dreams he had had in the beginning, of the fragments of nightmarish moments when some faceless creature had pointed a gun at him, pulling the trigger once, twice, three, four times. All bullets had torn through his body and he hadn't been able to move. He hadn't gone down. He had stood there, bleeding, and then he had seen his lover. Wilson had shown the same wounds, barely hanging on to life, pleading with him to help him.
House had a suspicion that Wilson knew. After the connection had reopened, the younger man was again very much aware of him in ways House wouldn't have thought possible before.
He gazed at the pristine, blank whiteboard. The floor was scrubbed clean, no sign of blood. There was the smell of coffee and a bowl of animal crackers was on the table. He smirked.
"Welcome back," Cameron said, rising from where she had sat at the table.
"Got no case to work on?" House asked gruffly, brushing off her concern and wide-eyed look.
"Dry spell," Chase remarked, his crossword puzzle before him.
"Huh, figure that. All those healthy people. Gotta hate them."
Foreman gave him a once-over. "We didn't expect you before Monday."
"What can I say? I was bored. At home, only my TV for entertainment, not to mention that hot body in bed..."
Foreman looked like he wanted to say something, then just kept his mouth shut.
"All right, if there's nothing to do, I'll be at lunch. Page me if you can dig up an interesting case."
He pushed open the glass door, strangely relieved to be out of the room. He shook his head at his own stupidity. As he limped into the cafeteria, many eyes on him as he got himself a coffee and something sweet, House was joined by Wilson. His lover looked his smooth, professional self. Hair combed to perfection, clean-shaven, tie in place - a dark green one that fit nicely to the dark suit he wore and that House found very, very attractive on the slender frame.
"First days suck," House grumbled.
"That bad?"
"That boring."
"You could do some clinic hours."
House gave him a scandalous look and Wilson smiled. House stole the last piece of donut from his lover, smirking. Moments like these let him relax and enough time back at the hospital would help with the apprehension. That and cases that occupied his overactive mind. He needed to stretch his brain muscles, get them going again, and any case would do. Even ones solved within an hour.
So maybe the clinic was an idea, he mused.
Figure that. Voluntarily clinic time. Cuddy would have a coronary. Pop a blood vessel. Well, pop a blouse button, too.
House grinned. Yep, clinic hours it would be.
As he rose, Wilson shot him a quizzical look.
"Clinic," House answered the silent question.
"Clinic? For real?"
"No, I'm hallucinating and the clinic is a figment of my imagination," House replied sarcastically. "Of course the clinic. I like to suck up."
Wilson chuckled, raised his cup in a toast, and House limped off, feeling strangely happy.
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