FicWad

Painful Truth TITEL: Painful Truth
Part of the Denuo AU
AUTHOR: Macx and Lara Bee
RATING: R
PAIRING: House/Wilson
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!)



It had been one of those necessary seminars where all the big-time specialists talked about their achievements and got applause. Dr. James Wilson had attended out of the fact that he was one of those big-time specialists and had a few things to say on the latest research into leukemia and tumor cells in the human body, but that had been about it. He had rubbed shoulders with colleagues, he had joined them for dinners and drinks, but he had politely turned down offers to do more. He no longer wore a wedding band, and he had never worn it on such seminars, but he was committed. More than to any of his wives.
He sometimes mused about it. He sometimes wondered about it. And he refused to think more.
Coming home, feeling tired from the late last night of the week-long seminar and the flight on top of that, Wilson parked the car in front of House's apartment. He pulled out his travel bag and inserted the key into the outer door. He pushed inside and was about to let himself into the apartment when a piece of paper taped to the door caught his attention.
"Wrong address," it read. "Go here."
And there was an address scribbled underneath it in House's unique scribble. Wilson stared at the paper, then removed it from the door and opened the door into the apartment.
He was stopped again, frozen to the spot. Staring. Just staring.
The apartment was empty. Completely, utterly empty. There wasn't a piece of furniture left. Someone had cleaned it professionally, the wallpaper had been renewed, the floor was spotless, and the windows were sparkling.
Another piece of paper was pinned to the wall.
"I said wrong address!!!"
Wilson chuckled and tore that down as well. "I get it," he murmured. "Okay. Whatever's going on... I'll play along."
*
The other address was an old warehouse, of all places. One of those renovated, redone, hideously expensive lofts, actually. Wilson parked the Volvo, left the bag in the trunk this time, and walked to the three-story building. It was huge, it was all brick and old paint that must have been a can factory warehouse logo a long, long time ago, and it was where House had sent him.
There were only two post boxes and he figured out from how they had been arranged that he should go to the second floor. Mystified, Wilson rang the bell.
There was an old freight elevator getting upstairs, aside from the stairs, of course, and when Wilson got out he gave a laugh of disbelief.
All the furniture was here. Tastefully arranged on the hardwood floor. A freshly lacquered hardwood floor with rugs. The walls were still the original brick, the windows went floor to ceiling and took in most of the wall.
Wilson walked slowly into the loft, shaking his head. "What the...?"
His furniture was here; at least the little he still had had left after the divorce. And House's furniture. And the book shelves, that now formed what looked like a private reading space in one corner, complete with a recliner and some plants. There was an open fireplace, a seating area, a kitchen across the room, partially walled off, and stairs leading into what looked like a tiny studio room.
"Welcome home," House greeted him, smiling widely.
"What have you done?!" Wilson exclaimed.
"You don't like it?"
Wilson turned full circle, at a loss. "This... this is... House!"
"Right here," his lover announced.
"You moved my stuff!" was all he managed.
"And mine. I think it fits nicely. I kept my bed, though. Yours was a bit small. I gave it away." House shrugged.
Wilson couldn't really grasp the concept of what had happened in the week he had been gone.
"You moved all our stuff... here?"
"That would be a yes."
"Why? And... where did you get the money from to rent this place?!"
"Didn't rent it."
Wilson's eyes were huge. "You... bought it?!"
House nodded, smiling. "Come on, I'll show you around."
He was too dazed to object. Two bedrooms, two guest rooms, two offices... it looked like two apartments with a wall between them missing; the gigantic living room with the separate reading area had once been two separate rooms. House had apparently invested in a plasma TV and some other gadgets. All of Wilson's stuff was in one office and a bedroom, but there was a clear indicator that the master bedroom of House's loft apartment was for the two of them.
"Why?" Wilson finally whispered as he sank onto the couch.
A new couch. Rather comfortable, too.
"I thought it was time. We've been talking... I think we've been talking." House frowned a little. "Right?"
"Yes, but... you didn't say anything!"
"I wanted to surprise you." His lover grinned. "Surprise!" He spread his arms wide.
Wilson leaned back, trying to comprehend what House had done, and only partially succeeding.
"Where did you get the money from?"
"Oh, right to the heart of the matter. You are such a romantic, Jimmy," House chastised.
"Where did you get the money from?" he repeated forcefully.
"I sold the house."
"Huh? What house?"
The older man shrugged. "Brenda's old house."
Wilson blinked. "Oh."
"You said I could do with it what I want!" House whined, eyes huge.
"Of course you can do what you want! It's your house. I just didn't think you'd sell it so quickly."
House gave him a narrow-eyed look. "Still attached to the old thing?"
Wilson laughed softly. "No. Not really."
"Good. 'Cause I'm not getting it back."
"You already spent the money," Wilson reminded him.
"There's that."
He let his eyes roam around, impressed, breathless and astounded. He liked the whole feel of the place. It was old and roomy and nice and warm and... just nice.
"Who else lives here?"
"Oh, I don't know. Some kind of bigwig who works in New York and uses this as his weekend getaway." House made a dismissive gesture. "The ground floor is a garage. It's big enough for yours as well."
"I see."
"You like?" House asked, eyes wide and hopeful. It was such a blatant act, Wilson had to chuckle.
"Yes. It's... nice."
"Nice?" House looked shocked.
Wilson leaned back into the very comfortable couch. "Yeah, nice. Tell me, where did you get the rest of the money from?"
"Rest?"
"Yeah. This is a loft. In Princeton. It's huge and it looks like it was two lofts once."
House shrugged. "Yeah, it was. I had a few... modifications done."
"Costly modifications."
"What's money between lovers?" He grinned.
"It's money, House. So tell."
The older man shrugged. "I had a little bit saved and the house sold for more than I expected. I also seem to be good for some credit, as do you."
"What?!"
"Like you said, it's two lofts. Two owners."
Wilson sat up straight, staring again. His heart was hammering in his chest. "You... we...? What?"
House smiled devilishly. "You like?"
"I didn't sign anything!"
"But would you?"
"I... that's not... what papers?" Wilson stammered.
"They're in your office. I signed mine. If you want to, you can sign yours."
"And if not?"
"I'm good for some more credit."
Wilson knew he was approaching a coronary. "Good god..."
"You can still call me Greg, but 'god' is fine, too," his lover quipped.
"What about my place?"
"Paper's ready to get rid of that, too. Mine's gone as of next week."
He reeled. He officially reeled. "You never said you'd... and while I was away... and so suddenly..."
House leaned forward and pressed his palm over Wilson's mouth. His blue eyes were serious, no mirth, no joke, no sarcasm in them.
"If you want this, Jimmy, it's ready. I won't hold it against you if you don't. I needed to do this. I needed this." He removed his hand.
Wilson was inhaling shakily, gazing at his lover, reading so much more than the words had said. His eyes were caught by the red scar on House's neck. Bullet wound. Four months old. It had a matching scar on House's abdomen. His lover argued that the abdominal scar matched the leg scarring in ugliness, but Wilson was simply glad House had survived the shooting.
"And you call me romantic."
"No, I call you hopeless. Same difference, I know."
"Oh, shut up," the oncologist muttered and grabbed House's shirt front, pulling him into a kiss.
"Hm, good idea," House rumbled between kisses. "Christen the couch."
*
Wilson had explored all of their new place and he was truly astounded by the ingenuity of what House had done and what the architect he had hired had made out of it all. Two loft apartments made one. They had separate addresses since the entrance to the second apartment was on the other side of the building and had a different street name.
"You planned it this way?" Wilson asked as he came down from the small studio room that could be used for storage.
House shrugged. "It happened to be this way. It was a coincidence and I liked it."
Wilson nodded. It fit. It all fit. "It's great," he said.
House smiled widely, apparently pleased, and Wilson couldn't but grin back at him. "Cuddy will have a fit."
"Who says she'll find out?"
"The two of us moving into a new place around the same time?"
"Different addresses," House reminded him in a sing-song voice.
"She won't believe anything you say."
His lover smirked.
"She never did," Wilson added. "So, no party?"
"Party?" House echoed, aghast. "Party? Bah, humbug!" And with that he limped into the kitchen to get himself a snack.
Wilson smiled and just went over to where the new entertainment center sat. Both their DVD and video tape collections were now stored next to the plasma TV. He sat down on the couch, enjoying the feel of the new furniture, and closed his eyes, relaxing.
They were living together now.
Wow...
This would need getting used to. So far, they had had two apartments, two places, and while Wilson had lived with House more or less, there had always been the odd day or two when he had slept alone.
"Hey," House's voice interrupted his thoughts.
Wilson looked up and took the soda can.
"Deep thoughts?" the older man wanted to know.
"Not really. Getting used to this."
"This what?"
"Us. Together."
"We've been living together already."
"Yeah. In a way."
House frowned and lowered himself onto the couch. Wilson was studied closely and he could almost read his lover's mind.
"I want this, Greg," he told him. "I want us."
"But?" House insisted.
"No 'but'. This is new. New things take time to settle."
Those blue eyes were even more intense now, studying him as if House had the ability to read him. He did, actually. He was good at reading people, seeing the lies. Wilson wasn't lying.
"Okay," House finally said.
Wilson slid deeper into the couch, smiling to himself. It felt good. New, but good. Really good. House's hand caressed over his thigh and he turned his head, eyes warm.
"Thanks," he only said.
House simply leaned forward and kissed him.
*
It was mid-January that John and Blythe House walked into Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, covered in a light dusting of snow. The weather had turned to the worse last night and snow was blocking not only the streets but also the airports. Because of the airport trouble, the Houses had been forced into a layover of a day until the planes could fly again.
On their way to New Zealand to celebrate their 50th wedding anniversary and with the layover came the idea to visit their son. House had never told his parents about the near-fatal shooting and he had put Cuddy under oath not to ruin his life and do it for him.
It was the same day that Dr. Eric Foreman had the worst day of his life. The year had just begun, but it had begun with a bang for him. His girlfriend had dumped him over a lawyer from New York and had moved instantly out of the apartment they had shared for over five months. It had been such a slap in the face, he hadn't seen it coming, and his mood had dropped. When he had heard that one of his patients from the clinic had died because he had refused to take his medication, the day had only worsened.


John House walked into Diagnostics and Foreman was alone. Blythe smiled at the neurologist as he looked up from his work. Foreman recognized them immediately. He had never talked to House's parents before, when they had been here last time they had spent it mostly with their son; well, only with their son.
"Is Greg here?" John asked, looking around.
"No, sorry. He already left. You are Dr. House's parents, right? We didn't meet the last time you were here. I'm Dr. Foreman. I work with your son."
They shook hands and John House smiled. "Nice to meet you. Well, too bad we missed Greg. Is he home already?"
"Yes, he left early because of the weather."
"We have to go to his place then."
Maybe we can pay James a visit," Blythe suggested, smiling warmly. "Say hello."
"He's home, too," Foreman replied, a slight shadow crossing his features. "They left together."
"Oh, all right. Too bad."
"You can find him with your son, though. At their place."
Later, Foreman wouldn't remember why he had said the latter, but he had said it, and it had an effect. There was a frown on John House's face.
"Their place?"
"Didn't he tell you? They moved in about two weeks ago. Commuting was probably too much,"
Foreman answered with slight acid in his voice.
"What are you talking about? Greg hasn't moved," Blythe argued.
"He didn't tell you that either?" Foreman sighed. "Yeah, why would he? He moved all right.
Some weeks ago. And they moved in together."
"Well, they are best friends..." House's mother said.
"Right," Foreman snorted.
The older House's eyes narrowed. "What is that supposed to mean, Dr. Foreman?"
"They aren't just friends any more. He didn't tell you that as well, right? And here House always claims everybody lies. He isn't any better. Lying to his parents."
"Lying about what?" John asked levelly.
"His involvement with Wilson, for example?"
Foreman's bad day had just found one ray of sunshine - venting his anger about House to someone. He didn't realize he was venting to House's parents and what the consequences might be.
"He... he and James...?" Blythe touched her chest. "No!"
"Yeah."
"Since when?" House senior demanded.
"A while. A little over a year."
"What?!"
Foreman flinched, but he still didn't think any further than the small box he currently occupied. It was a dark box, with no windows, and it contained one very stressed-out neurologist with a giant chip on his shoulder. Foreman couldn't explain what it was that angered him about House and his relationship with Wilson, but something just rubbed him the wrong way.
"Blythe, we're leaving," John just growled and stormed out of the glass-walled room.
He nearly ran into Chase, who was just coming back from late rounds. The Australian stumbled back, eyes wide. Blythe was hurrying after her husband, looking distraught.
"Whoa," Chase exclaimed, looking at them leaving as he walked into Diagnostics. "Weren't that House's parents?"
"Yes."
"They looked mad."
"They should."
Chase tilted his head a little. "Come again?"
"Another typical House moment," Foreman muttered. "He rubs it under our noses, but he doesn't tell his parents."
"Tell his parents what?" Chase asked slowly, a strange expression in his eyes.
"About him and Wilson!"
"And you... just did... for him?"
"Yeah. They have a right to know."
"It wasn't yours to tell!" Chase exploded.
"What the fuck do you care? He should have told his parents!"
"And you tell yours everything? About every little hot date? About every woman you bed?"
"This isn't an affair!" Foreman snapped.
"No, it isn't! This is a relationship between two men, Foreman!"
"Yeah, House and Wilson!"
"Telling things like that to other people has destroyed the men in question!" Chase yelled. "Do you have any idea how this can damage a person? How it can turn your friends into enemies? How it can alienate you from your own parents? Do you know how many people this killed?"
Foreman stared at him like Chase had lost his mind. "What are you going on about, Chase? I just told House's parents what he should have told them already!"
"You are not family! You're not even a friend! This is personal! Nothing that goes on between Wilson and House is any of your business, and you have no right to make it anyone else's!"
"What do you care?"
"Why don't you care?" Chase shot back.
"Guys?" Cameron's voice interrupted them.
Chase hissed softly and turned on his heels, leaving the room. Cameron blinked, confused, and shot Foreman a quizzical look.
"What happened?" she asked.
"Nothing."
"That looked like something."
"Cameron, drop it."
She frowned, then turned and left, following Chase.
*
Cameron found Chase near the elevator, his cell phone out, looking impatient and worried.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
He shook his head and then said, "Hey, it's Chase. Your parents were here... yes... they talked to Foreman... he told them, House. He told them about you and Wilson."
Suddenly Cameron understood.
"Good god," she whispered.
And from Chase's expression, he was thinking the same.
*
House gazed at the phone he had in his hands, then slowly put the portable onto the desk. He was leaning onto his cane, his eyes staring at the floor, then his shoulders straightened. The call from Chase had taken him by surprise. He wouldn't have thought it in the Australian to give him a heads up, though Chase had done nothing to give the impression that he disapproved of a homosexual relationship. All House had gotten from his junior was a strange kind of resoluteness when it came to arguments with Foreman and infrequent flashes of something he still couldn't put his finger on. Then there had been the silent support the little wombat had shown in so many little gestures, how he had been around when House had been shot, how he had called, and how Wilson had looked mystified after that particular conversation.
Pushing the thought of Chase aside, House awaited the explosion about to come in form of his parents. Thankfully Wilson wasn't here. At least not yet and House hoped he would stay longer, take the scenic route home, find a nice little traffic jam to delay his arrival. Wilson was at his lawyer's office to sign the necessary papers for good that made him owner of his own loft apartment.
House limped over to the open kitchen and opened the fridge, combing through it for something to drink. He lingered on the beer for a moment, then decided that going into the coming argument sober might be the best idea. And he knew it would be an argument. A very strong one. So he took a soda can and closed the fridge door again.
*
He was halfway through the soda and listening to a piece of classical music gone rock, played by a very talented European orchestra, when the door bell rang. Contemplating whether to open or not, he finally limped over to the door and hit the buzzer.
The elevator delivered his parents right to his door step and if the expression on his father's face was any indication, he had worked up quite a high blood pressure on the way here.
"Don't pop a blood vessel," House only said as he left the door open and walked away. "I'm not good at first aid."
"Gregory House!" his father thundered.
He met the rage almost lazily. "Yeah, the one and only."
"Don't give me that lip!"
"Or what? No dinner? I'm an adult, Dad. Grown up. My own life. My own job. My own miserable existence!"
His mother stood just a step behind his father, House noticed. Her eyes were wide, her face having that pinched look he had seen in his youth so very often before. She didn't like what he had done, she didn't like the ensuing argument with his father, and she didn't like her own role as the mediator who could never really succeed.
There had been so many fights about so many things in the forty-something years now. Lying, mostly. Or the military. Or House's decision to go to med school and not follow in his father's footsteps. Or his lack of finding the right woman and have kids. His mother had wanted grandchildren, so his father had poked long enough until House had exploded and told them where to stick it. Oh, they had been so happy when he had found Stacy. Then the arguing had started as to why he wouldn't settle down. After the infarction it had continued. And today they were here.
His father still expected things. Like Greg House dealing with what life had given him. A bum leg, a handicap. House had never been good at confessing to a weakness, so rubbing the bike under their noses had been fun. The look had been priceless. Of course, his father had again not been pleased.
"Is this what your life is to be like?" John House demanded.
"Like what? Living here? Owning the place? You think it's too big? Too flashy?" House shot back.
"You live with a man!"
Ah, here we go. House let his face close off, but his eyes were alive with emotions. "Yes, Dad. With a man. And before you ask: he's not my room mate."
"You can do better! My son can do better than some... some..." There was a vein throbbing on the older House's forehead. "My son is not a fag!" he finally spat.
There was a dark cloud crossing House's features. "First of all," he said quietly, his voice dangerously flat, "there is nothing better than him. And he's not 'some... some', he's a human being. He's a person. I love this person."
"You can't love a man!"
"I already do."
House senior was speechless for a moment, hands clenching into fists. Blythe stepped in, her face compassionate. "This is not your life, Greg! This is the leg talking!"
"Well, excuse me for having the infarction, but it was so much fun at the time, I just had to get it!" House snapped.
"Don't talk to your mother like that!"
"Like what? Like you do with me?" House demanded. "My leg is my leg! I live with it. And Jimmy is Jimmy. I live with him, too! One doesn't have anything to do with the other? You think I couldn't get any chicks? Well," he spread one arm, laughing, "I could have had Cameron. Cute little caring and motherly Allison Cameron! I bet you would have loved her, Dad. Just like you. All moral and righteous! No lies, no hiding, just talking about it all! Getting it off your chest so you can cuddle at night! Yeah, you would have liked her a lot, but hey, it's my life! I didn't want someone like that!"
"So you took to men?"
"It's not the first time," House said scathingly.
His father stared at him, probably close to a coronary now.
"Greg," his mother tried to mediate, "you are angry, I understand. But to turn to a man... Your leg doesn't make you unattractive for women..."
"Oh gawd!" House groaned. "Didn't you listen just now? You still think this is about my leg or women? Goodness gracious! You are so dense!"
"Greg!" she chastised.
"What's wrong with you?" House demanded.
"Wrong?" his father snapped. "Nothing's wrong with us, Gregory House! You are the one sleeping with a man!"
"I also kiss him and we take showers together! We make out, we do the nasty, and we actually use condoms!"
His mother looked shocked.
"You are not my son!" John House exploded.
*
Wilson had the bad timing to come in right at that moment. There was a second of total silence, then John House shot him such a dark look, the younger man actually took a step back.
"Uh, hi," Wilson said slowly.
Brown eyes wide, he was frozen in the door, his slender frame hidden by the long coat.
"Hey, Wilson," House said, his voice far from calm. "Guess what, my parents are visiting."
"I can see that," was the careful answer. Wilson let the elevator doors slide shut. "Hello."
"Don't give me that!" House senior hissed. "You are responsible for this!"
"What?"
"Dad, stop it," House growled.
His father wasn't deterred. He was advancing on the stunned oncologist. "How many years? All the time? Even when he was with Stacy? You cheating son of a bitch! You were married!"
It was like a physical blow for the untrained empath. Wilson had moved back, bumping against the wall. "Mr. House..." he tried.
"Shut up!" House senior clenched his hands at his sides. "You used my son! You abused his injury!"
"Dad!" House bellowed. "Stop that! Now!"
The older man rounded on his son. "How else do you explain turning to him? He was always there when you needed him and he used your pain!"
"Right! I developed Stockholm syndrome! I fuck my best friend because the boobs are running away!"
"Greg...!" his mother tried again.
"Oh stop it, Mom! Stop trying to play the mediator! Stop trying to make everything so perfect! No one is perfect!" House snapped. "I'm not perfect, whatever you think! Stacy wasn't perfect either! And Wilson isn't perfect anyway! But we work! I'm happy!" He was breathing harder. "I can't say that of the last few years of my miserable existence!"
"You are not happy!" his father yelled loud enough to shake the walls.
Wilson's vision started to narrow, his head aching from the negative and very dark emotions flooding him. He could handle negativity, but not when directed solely at him, and especially not when he was the intended target. John House's hatred was suffocating.
"Of course not!" House shouted. "How can I know happiness? I need my father to tell me! Face it, Dad! I love a man! I live with a man! And I'm happy and miserable with this man!"
"What the hell are you talking about?" his father roared. "I won't allow this!"
"I'm an adult!" House shot back. "This is my life! You stopped running it the moment I had paid off my college loans! I earn my own millions! I own my own place! I have a job and a life, and you're not in charge of it!"
House senior was on a roll now, his face red with anger, and Blythe was looking rather distressed.
"You!" the older House hissed and turned to Wilson again. "You are responsible for this! You changed our son into a fag! You made him into this! You freak of nature!"
Each word was like a razor blade, cutting deeper, leaving bloody smears of his feeble shields. It was impossible to see just how wide Wilson's pupils had become in his dark brown eyes, but from his pallor, it was clear he was not working through this. Actually, he was quickly spiraling out of control.
"Leave him out of it! This isn't witch hunt!" House limped between his parents and his lover. "And you better leave now and never come back!"
"What?" his mother cried. "Greg..."
"You either accept my decisions, whatever they are in my life, or you can stay out of this life!"
"Greg..." Wilson tried, sounding shaky.
"This is not natural!" John House yelled. "I cannot accept it and I never will. He made you into something you are not and never were. My son is not homosexual!"
"I like women, too," House quipped. "Call me bi!"
His father was close to blowing a blood vessel. "Blythe!" he just barked. "We're leaving. There is nothing here."
"John?"
"We're going."
"Yeah, right, go! Leave!" House yelled back.
John House threw Wilson such a deadly look, the younger man actually bit down on his lower lip; hard. It wasn't because of the look; it were the accompanying emotions. By now, everything was one blazing migraine and the world was a tiny pin prick of existence in Wilson's mind. He wanted to scream in pain, but his whole body was betraying him.
And then they were gone, leaving nothing but negative energy, a furious Gregory House and a very shaken James Wilson.
Wilson's mind was on fire, each breath hurting, each heartbeat a million times louder than before. His very brain seemed to throb with the pulse. He was so tempted to give in to the darkness, to escape the blazing fire of dark emotions, but like a drowning man the empath in him reached out toward his lover to anchor himself once more.
It was a mistake.
*
House's anger knew no bounds. Inside, he was boiling with fury directed solely at his parents, mostly his father. Pain, disappointment, disillusionment, fury and a soul deep agony coalesced into one.
"The nerve!" he spat.
The nerve of his father to say what he had said. To attack his lover! To try and control his son's life! Even now, after so many years!
Damnit!
"House..."
"I'm grown up! It's my life, my decision! They always wanted me to be happy!" he ranted, fury rising once more. "They want my happiness, but on their own conditions!"
"Greg...!"
The call was weak and almost a sob and it was what alerted him. While Wilson was always the peacekeeper, the middle man, the catalyst, this didn't sound like a James who wanted to calm him down. This was a plea.
He turned and all anger slipped away.
Wilson was as pale as a sheet. He was almost green around the edges. His eyes were screwed shut, his breathing coming in short, painful gasps. He was leaning against the wall, upper body bent forward, knees already giving way, and those pants sounded like the desperate attempt not to throw up. One palm was pressed hard against his forehead.
"Jimmy..." he managed.
Those dark brown eyes opened and they were dilated, unfocused, and then Wilson bolted. His run to the bathroom was just in time and House grimaced in sympathy as he heard the sounds of retching.
"Damn," he murmured again, limping toward the bathroom, his parents forgotten for now.
Wilson sat on the white-tiled floor, shaking, his temple resting against the cool ceramic. His breathing was irregular. House ran some water over a hand towel and gently placed the cool, damp cloth against his lover's neck.
"Jimmy," he coaxed.
Wilson flinched like he had been slapped. House collected his emotions, tried to push them away. He knew the anger was still there, subtly, under the surface, and his lover was an empath. A low level empath, true, but the emotions alone that had been in the room... House had read enough about empaths in the files Tanner had sent him to know that this would have felled a stronger empath right away. His lover was low level. He was also rather fixated on House as a person and whatever negative emotions spiked from his lover, Wilson would be more perceptive to them than others. Add to that the fury solely meant for him, emanating from John House, and the distress was reaching a climax.
"Come on," he murmured. "Let's get you to bed."
The younger man whimpered as he touched him, but House didn't let up. He had to get this over with, one way of the other. Wilson was unsteady on his feet, but he managed to get to the bedroom more or less under his own power. He collapsed onto the bed, curling up with a soft groan, eyes once again closed. There were fine lines of distress around his eyes, an ever-steeper line between his eyes, and his clenched hands showed just how badly he was suffering.
House didn't touch him again, though he wanted to caress the unruly hair, soothe the pain. He knew he would only make it worse. Right now he was too angry, his emotions all over the place, and he would hurt his lover a lot more than he already had.
So he just watched for a moment, noticing how uneasy the sleep was, then he slipped out of the bedroom.
*
There was a snow storm outside and weather news gave a bleak outlook on the next few days. House couldn't care less about clogged airports. Some planes would make it out and he hoped his parents were on one of them. Memories of an agitated and distressed James overlapped whatever little positive thoughts he still had.
When his lover shuffled out of the bedroom, House looked up from the news, studying the younger man. Wilson looked rumpled, pale, like he had had a hard night drinking whatever he could get his hands on behind him. That couldn't be further from the truth.
He also looked too much like after the backlash he had gotten from the shooting, though that had hit him unprepared, with no shields. It had been House's original pain, not the hatred of another. Hatred burned brighter, was more destructive, than any pain from House could ever be. Sometimes, in times like these, House wished Wilson had never realized his powers so fully. Another part, the bastard part, was happy about it. Not the pain, no. He was happy about this man being so close to him, know him, touch him in a way that was beyond physical. Wilson was his alone, and he was Wilson's anchor.
"Hey," James now said, voice rough.
"Hey." House pushed himself up and limped into the kitchen.
When he returned, Wilson was sitting in a corner of the couch, looking lost and alone. Just looking at the slender figure made his stomach constrict and guilt wash over him.
"Here," he only said and held out the mug he had been carrying.


Wilson thankfully took the mug of hot tea and curled his fingers around it. He felt terrible. His head was pounding, his shoulders were tightly knotted, his stomach was a cold pit, and he was freezing. All of him hurt. Deeply. His very mind and soul felt raw, like someone had raked claws over it. He was vulnerable and open and, much to his again rising distress, almost fragile.
James Wilson wasn't a fragile doll. He was a man. He could handle this. Still, even the slightest spike from House had him on the edge and he was fighting the urge to run and puke again.
Shit. Shitshitshit.
Memories of the dark emotions attacking him, of the hatred he had seen and felt in John House, were still there, and quite vivid. Wilson was strong and he had been born naturally with these empathic powers, but this had been too much. It was a lot worse than being overwhelmed by House's pain after being shot. This was hatred. Hatred lingered and was alike a black mass about to choke him.
"Jimmy?"
He raised his eyes and winced as he looked into the blue depth of his lover's eyes. House was suffering, too. In his own way, in his own private hell, and there was nothing Wilson could do right now. It took all he had not to want to bury himself in some deep, dark hole.
"Sorry," he whispered.
"You have nothing to apologize for."
There was a spike from House and he winced again, rubbing his forehead. He was so hellishly perceptive, it frightened him. It was one thing to know you were an empath; a low level at that. It was another to suddenly climb the evolutionary ladder from low level to fully perceptive, even if it was only for a moment. That moment had been enough to really hurt him, and to really frighten him.
Wilson felt... weak. Depleted. Empty. Painful. All of him was so open and sore, and for the first time since he had realized his powers, he knew what it meant to be an empath. And something he had never thought about were shields. He was shielded against an overload like his brother Derek had experienced, but the negative emotions, the hate and anger and fury, and the betrayal... it had floored him. It had blown everything apart.
"How are you?" House asked quietly.
"Sore."
House wanted to reach out, touch him. Wilson could feel it, as if those were his own emotions, and he leaned into that sensation. He wanted contact so badly, too. He needed some support and right now Greg House was the only one there.
Brown eyes closed.
"You need to re-establish your balance," House murmured.
"Yeah. Don't even know how."
"Instinct? Natural healing?"
He cracked his eyes open again, smiling slightly. "Hopefully."
Wilson sipped at his tea. He finally placed the mug onto the table and sank back against the couch. He yearned to touch House, but like with the shooter incident, he was reluctant to reconnect. This time there was no wall keeping him from it. It was House's still present emotional upheaval.
"What now?" he asked.
"Hm?"
"Your father."
"Can go to hell for all I care!"
He cringed at the spike of emotions and House cursed softly.
"Sorry," he repeated.
"No, it's okay. It's not as bad as before. I don't even know why it affected me so badly," Wilson replied, voice too tight for his own liking. "I face suffering and anger on a daily basis, but this... this was like a hurricane."
"It was directed solely at you."
A sigh. "They hate me."
"I hate them. Makes up for it."
"Greg..." he begged.
"None of that," House interrupted whatever he had tried to say. "They are my parents, but I grew up some time ago. I make my decisions, they make theirs. They don't run my life."
"They worry. It's natural."
"That wasn't worry talking. That was prejudice. He's a retired marine pilot; he can't have a son who likes men more than women."
"You like both just fine," Wilson said with a weak smile.
"I'm bi. I like it all, I want it all, and I've got you."
"You make it sound like I'm something you found on the street," Wilson muttered.
House smiled and stretched out his leg. It didn't hurt, Wilson knew. It no longer hurt any more.
"I love you, Jimmy," he said, meeting the brown eyes, serious. "I stand by that. I love you and I want this. Parents be damned."
The younger man shivered with the intensity of those emotions. They didn't hurt; they felt good, warm, healing, and he finally gave in to the need to touch his lover. For a second he was afraid that the pain would return, but despite the mild shock the direct contact sent through him, there was nothing negative.
House wrapped his arms around him, pressing a kiss to his tousled hair.
"I love you," he repeated.
*
Wilson called in sick the next day, but he chased House into the hospital. One of them had to make an appearance or there might be even more rumors.
So House limped into the hospital, reflecting his mood quite openly. No one gave it much of a thought, even though his moods had been better for a while now. Cuddy frowned a little, but she let it go for now. House arrived on the fourth floor, pushing into Diagnostics, trying not to let his anger toward Foreman show. The neurologist looked up briefly, then turned back to his book. Cameron looked distraught, her eyes again too large for her face, and House just waited for something warm and fuzzy from her.
"Dr. House...?" she started.
"What do we have?" he cut her off.
"Uhm, forty year old housewife. Bleeds from her nose, short-term memory is coming and going," Chase answered. "She has lost sight in one eye, too."
House nodded and turned to the whiteboard. "You know the drill, kids. Differential diagnosis..."
And he continued to ignore all and every question pertaining his private life, James Wilson, or his parents.
*
Robert Chase had dreaded the return of House, but he had also hoped to see the other doctor, just to know that everything was okay. However he looked at it now, he couldn't be sure whether things were good, bad or somewhere between that. House had come in bearing a foul mood, but that wasn't a case for alarm. The diagnostician had them more often than not, mostly when his leg hurt. This mood was different, though.
Chase had watched House limp into Diagnostics, had seen Foreman look up briefly, but with no remorse at all, and then normalcy had forcefully settled in. House had dived right into the new case, no regard for anything else, and Chase had followed his lead.
Deep inside, though, he worried. What if something had happened? What if the call had come too late? It wasn't in his nature to meddle in the affairs of other people, especially Greg House who made it his single goal in life not to have a personal life - and he was failing completely in that regard. The man had a very intense personal life. Still, Chase needed to know.
When he discovered Wilson wasn't in today, had called in sick, the dread in his stomach settled for a longer stay. It didn't help his own mood when it came to working with Foreman. Their interaction was purely on a professional level and whatever ties of friendship there had been before, they had been severed.
Cameron apparently felt no better or more positive emotions toward their neurologist than Chase. She was curt, losing no personal word, and she mostly kept to herself.
They spent their coffee break together, both silent, both exchanging looks.
"You think something happened?" Cameron finally asked.
"Yeah, something did," was Chase's reply. "Wilson called in sick."
"And you believe it was because of House's parents?"
He shrugged. "Don't know. Maybe." Chase pushed the mug over the table surface, a slight tension settling in.
"You think it broke them up?" Cameron wanted to know.
He shook his head. "No. But if House's father reacted like some do... it was bad."
Bad enough for Wilson to call in sick. So it was very, very bad. Chase's imagination was coming up with all kinds of gruesome scenarios and he hoped no physical violence had been added to an argument he knew must have been heated.
The beeper had the bad timing of going off, joined by Cameron's a second later, and both doctors got up, hurrying to their patient. No more words were lost concerning Wilson.
*
Coming home, into their home, their own place, theirs together, House briefly scanned for his lover and found him in the recliner in the reading area. Wilson was enjoying the rare mid-winter sun that was shining through the high windows. After the snow storm, the sky had opened up and as the clouds broke, sun finally came in. It didn't raise the temperatures a lot, but it helped with the general mood of people.
"Honey, I'm home!" House announced.
Wilson smiled crookedly. "How was your day, love?" he played along.
"Oh, same old, same old. What's for dinner?"
He limped over and glanced at the book Wilson was reading. It was a crime mystery novel.
"You choose. We got take-out, microwave food or going out."
House lowered himself down on the couch chair next to the recliner. "I work all day, I come home, and there is no cooked meal on the table?"
"First," Wilson shot back good-naturedly, "you don't work all day. You shave off minutes or hours where you can. Second, I'm not the wife, Greg. Get that out of your head."
House grinned. "I bet you'd look pretty in pink."
Wilson tilted his head. "Did you sniff at the paint thinner again?"
"Aw, shucks, caught. I need one addiction!" House whined.
"Take up cooking," Wilson quipped.
"I'd make a mess."
"You make a mess eating take-out. Nothing new there."
House leaned forward and kissed him gently. "Because when I make a mess, I need to get out of my dirty clothes and I love how you ogle."
"I don't ogle!"
"You also protest too much." Another kiss was placed on Wilson's lips. "Way too much." The kiss deepened. "Mexican."
Wilson blinked. Then he grimaced. "No way!"
"I like Mexican."
"You hate Mexican."
"I do?"
"Yes."
House's brow furrowed. "Do I like Japanese?"
Wilson rolled his eyes. "You want to order out, do it. Choose something."
There was a slightly manic grin on House's lips. "Anything?"
"As long as it's already dead," was the dead-pan reply.
"Cool." House got up and limped over to the phone, hitting a speed dial.
When he was done with his order, he came back to his lover, who was watching him with faint amusement. Wilson had gotten up, the book now on the side table, and he was heading for the kitchen.
"How's the head?" House asked, suddenly serious.
"Great. And thanks for asking after we settled the food issue. Wouldn't want to think I'm more important than food," Wilson added.
The older man wrapped an arm around his lover's waist, pulling him to a stop, pulling him close.
"You are more important than food," he said calmly, still so very serious. "And you're more important than my father."
"Greg..."
"A lot more important," House repeated.
"Thank you. Will you... call them?"
"They are either in New York, stuck waiting for their flight; or they're on their way to New Zealand. Either way, I'm not calling. I don't need them or their approval, Jimmy."
"They're your parents."
"Yes, I know. And they're not like yours. I like yours better. So sixties."
Wilson chuckled. "So groovy, man."
House caressed the lean back. "They have to deal with me, not the other way around. I'm not sure they will recover from the shock, but if they do, I'd say phone calls first. Letters might be even better."
"Email," Wilson reminded him.
"Such new age crap."
He chuckled. "You're getting old."
"Am not!"
"What's five years between friends, hm?" Wilson teased.
"I've got a long stick," House growled. "And I know how to use it. Be careful."
The smile on the younger man's face grew. "And I'm so glad you do."
House waggled his eyebrows, but there was a glimmer of seriousness remaining. He meant what he had said. His father could go to hell. He had what he needed here, and he truly needed Wilson. Too much good had happened already and he wouldn't let go of his best friend and lover. Not even for his parents.
*
"Chase."
The Australian stopped on his way out of the meeting room, about to follow his colleagues. Cameron looked over her shoulder, a quizzical expression in her eyes, but then she walked on.
House leaned back in his chair, legs stretched out and crossed at his ankles. He gave Chase a scrutinizing look.
"You called me."
Chase frowned. "Uh... I did?"
"About Foreman and my parents," House said calmly.
"Yeah."
"You warned me."
Chase was silent.
"Why?"
The silence stretched, finally Chase caved under the cool blue gaze. "Because I think it's unfair to let anyone run blindly into such a situation."
House noticed with interest that the Australian accent was more pronounced now.
"Nice. Now the truth?"
Chase fidgeted a little. Just a little. House noticed. He knew people and he knew the lies, and he recognized the lie coming now.
"That was the truth. I didn't think it was okay for Foreman to tell them. It was your choice."
"That much I agree with. Still, why call me?"
"It was the right thing to do."
House looked intrigued. Chase had yet to answer the question.
"The right thing," he echoed.
Chase met the intense gaze with as much calm as he could muster. "Yes. Now if you excuse me, I have clinic duty. I'm late already."
And then he was gone.
House remained, brows drawn down in thought. Now here was something very, very interesting. And he wanted to know.
*
It took him all but thirty minutes to hunt Chase down in the exam room. The younger man was writing a prescription for an elderly woman, who was just buttoning up her blouse.
House ignored her.
"So, who was it? Friend? Brother? No, scratch that. You don't have brothers. And sisters don't count. Uncle? I don't take your Dad for a queer. A cousin, maybe? Or was it you?"
He gave Chase a look all the way from his feet to his hair.
"Why, Dr. Chase, I'd be surprised. Prim and proper rich boy? Maybe with a high school crush? Or college? I know the parties are wild."
Chase looked pale, with a hint of anger and a lot of suppressed outrage at the moment. He signed the prescription.
"There you go, Mrs. Willer."
She let her eyes wander from House to Chase and back again. She smiled briefly at Chase, then pushed past House and was gone.
"So, not you then?" House went on as if there had never been a patient. "You've got the looks, though."
"None of your business."
"You made it mine."
"What's it to you to know about the why? I called! I did the right thing in my mind. Maybe I should have let them come to your door and shoot you down unprepared!"
Yes, the accent was thickening again. Quite tell-tale. And quite some agitation, too.
"Hm, so it was you after all." House leaned on his cane. "How far did you go? A kiss? Hand-job? Blow-job? All the way maybe?"
Chase flushed with anger and his eyes flared. "It wasn't me!"
"So who was it? Who got you so protective of other queers? It has to be someone close to you. What happened, Chase?"
It was almost as if Chase had pushed the panic button. The door opened and a nurse came in, interrupting the cross-examination. Chase pushed past her with a last, dark look at House, then he was gone.
And House was even more interested now.
*
The one day at home had given Wilson the necessary recovery time to face the hospital world again. He spent most of it on rounds, doing paper work and the like. It was a normal day; nothing spectacular. He had lunch with a colleague, discussing a new case, and walked back to his office mentally going through the rest of the day.
Wilson tried not to think about Foreman too much. Whatever was going on with the neurologist, it was getting worse. He didn't know why the other man objected so strongly to the relationship, but he did. Never openly, never in a fight with House, but he did. Wilson would have understood the animosity if this was about him and Foreman being equals, vying for House's approval and attention. But Wilson had his own department, had nothing to do with Diagnostics, had no influence on Foreman, or House when it came to Foreman.
It was on his way back from lunch that Wilson ran into one of the three juniors - literally. Chase, looking harried, angry, eyes too bright, had rounded a corner and he had bumped into Wilson.
"Whoa," the oncologist exclaimed. "What happened to you? No, scratch that, I can tell what happened. House?"
Chase's expression was enough.
Wilson sighed. Great.
Damage control, he decided. And find out what happened.
"Coffee?" he just invited the younger man.
Maybe it was his ability to influence people in subtle ways, maybe it was Chase's own will, but he came with him into his office. Chase let himself fall into the chair, running a hand through his longish hair.
"What did he do this time?"
Chase took the coffee and stared into the mug. "Nothing."
The oncologist raised his brows in disbelief. "I know his 'nothings'. That doesn't look like it. This looks like one of his 'somethings' and not in a good way."
Chase smiled humorlessly. "He wants to know why I called him."
Wilson frowned. "Called him?"
"You know. About his parents."
"Actually, I don't know."
"He didn't tell you?"
"No," Wilson answered slowly. "At least I have no idea what this is about."
Chase fidgeted. "His parents came here first. They talked to Foreman, he spilled that you two are in a relationship, a couple, and House's father wasn't too excited about it."
Wilson felt something in his stomach clench. "No, he wasn't," he agreed.
"So I called House, to warn him. That his parents were on the way; that they knew."
Wilson was silent for a second, then gave his colleague a smile. "Thank you," he said warmly.
Chase shrugged. "I did what I thought was right."
"And now House wants to know why?"
"Yeah."
"And why did you call?"
It was probably the same question, but asked by a different person, in a different way, and with an a lot less confrontational air about it. Wilson was aware that his abilities gave him the advantage, but part of him was convinced he could talk to people, get them to talk, without being what he was, too.
Chase stared into the coffee mug, silent again. "He was my best friend. Since high school. We were seventeen at the time. His father was a big time business man. Really successful. I didn't know about him liking guys until then. I mean senior high. I started to notice things."
Wilson was silent, just listening.
"He looked at girls, but a lot more at guys. And finally I noticed that when he looked at girls, there was also always a guy there. He didn't have any girlfriends, though he flirted. Later I found out it was to keep a cover. His parents... they found out after graduation, when he went off to college. It was ugly. They cut all their ties... and he couldn't pay for college for very long. He had jobs, but they were demanding. And others found out. Some were indifferent, some turned away. He had to drop out in the second year."
Chase looked pale now.
"I tried to help. I wanted to pay... share room space. He stayed at my apartment for a while, but he wouldn't let me help with college. He... he had a lot of jobs. All kinds of jobs. Fast food joints. Temporary help. And then one day, he was gone. Just like that. Some money on the table to 'cover the costs' as he had written. I never heard from him again."
Desperation, anger, worry, sadness, it all came off the younger man and it was written in his face. Wilson briefly closed his eyes, only too empathic, in a totally non-paranormal way, to the story. Especially about people one cared for simply disappearing.
"I don't even know if he's still alive," Chase murmured. "Maybe he's trucking across Australia, earning big money, with a boyfriend. Or he's..." He stopped, hands clenching around the mug.
"Robert," Wilson said softly, making him look up, slightly surprised. "It wasn't your fault and you did a lot to help. As for House... and me... we appreciate the help. Parents are... difficult. To them, we never grow up. They will continue treating us like children for all our lives. They want to be part of our lives in a way we no longer appreciate."
"How did you parents react?" Chase asked carefully.
Wilson smiled. "My parents are a league of their own. They took it all in a stride, actually. Leftovers from a world peace and free love generation," he added in ways of a better explanation.
Chase nodded, understanding. "You're lucky."
"Yes, I figure I am."
The intensivist suddenly got up and placed the mug onto the table. "I need to go. Thanks, Dr. Wilson."
Wilson watched him leave the office, a mild frown on his features. He knew how troubled the other man was, but there was nothing he could do. This was something out of his past and he had dealt with it on numerous times already. It simply explained why Dr. Robert Chase was reacting so strongly in favor of House.
Wilson smiled a little. Now there was something even a Gregory House wouldn't have thought about.
*
He came home late. One of his doctors had waylaid him in his office, needing to talk about a personal issue, and Wilson had ended up with the bad news he was going to lose a colleague because the man had accepted a teaching job in L.A. of all places. Well, that was life and Wilson was stuck with finding a new oncologist for his department.
House was already home, reading the newspaper, the TV running an old crime movie, and there was microwave food on the table - already cold. Wilson took a quick shower, feeling much better after it, and then padded barefooted back into the living room.
He was still amazed at the place. It was incredible, it was so great, and it was theirs. He had signed the necessary papers the fateful day House's parents had come for a surprise visit. It was why he had stumbled into the whole argument when emotions had been running high.
Making himself a sandwich - reheated microwave food didn't appeal to him right now - Wilson sat down on the couch.
"So, what crawled up his ass?"
He glanced at his lover, swallowing the bite he had just chewed on. "Excuse me?"
"Chase."
"Chase?"
House half-rolled his eyes and looked at Wilson. "Cute blond Aussie. Great hair, nice bod, works for me?"
"What about Chase?"
House made a face at the innocent expression. "Something has him wound tighter than a spring when it comes to us. He even called to warn me about my parents coming. Fat lot of good it did."
Wilson continued to eat his sandwich.
"So?" he asked.
"Oh, play time!" House crooned. "Twenty questions? Okay, here's number one: does little Robert have a boyfriend?"
"How should I know?"
"He came running to you and cried his heart out."
Wilson grimaced. "He didn't."
"Okay, he didn't cry. He has a little more backbone now. Question number two: is he queer as folk or straight as an arrow?"
Wilson only shot House That Look, refusing to answer.
House snapped his fingers. "Now I know! He supports the local gays and needs our votes!"
"Greg, grow up," Wilson only sighed, undoing his tie.
"Puleaze tell me!" House pouted.
"Nothing to tell."
"Question four then: his father had an affair with a colleague maybe? Rich kid with a house of dark secrets? Oh, so full of promise," the older man mused, voice a little sing-song-like. "Oh, no, scratch that. If Daddy dearest had had an affair, he would react like Foreman."
"And how is Foreman reacting?"
"Like a brat," House quipped.
Wilson sighed and got up. He walked into the kitchen, getting himself a beer.
"Next question?" he prompted, enjoying the game.
House tapped his forefinger against his lips, looking thoughtfully against the ceiling. "All right, number five: he has a secret crush on you and wants to get on my good side because I might just rent out my boy toy. How much do you think I can charge for an hour?"
Wilson rolled his eyes.
"Or he has a crush on me!" House went on cheerfully. "I wouldn't turn him down. Nice butt. Cute accent. I bet he's flexible in bed, too."
"Yes, that's exactly what we talked about," Wilson told him dryly.
House grinned. "I knew it!"
James chuckled and sank deeper into the couch. "Dream on."
"Aw, come on! Don't lie. You talked about him and me. So, what did you say, Jimmy?"
"That I'm a jealous son of a bitch and don't share my toys well with other kids," was the level reply, but the sparkle in the brown eyes was telling enough.
"Oh, possessive," House purred playfully. "I'm flattered. You want rings next?"
"Are we done with the twenty questions?" Wilson diverted the question.
"Not unless you answer my last," House persisted, voice rough.
"No rings, no," Wilson just told him. "You and rings don't go well."
"Yeah, they clash with my beautiful baby blues." House batted his eyes.
"I was more thinking about a leash and a muzzle to keep you in line."
"I knew you had the right amount of kink in you," was the renewed purr.
"That's not kink. That's pure survival instinct."
Wilson got up, shot his lover a tell-tale look, and walked off into the direction of the bedroom. House had never been slow on the uptake and he quickly got up, limping after his lover.
*
House lay on his stomach, upper body pushed up with his weight on his elbows, and he looked at his sleepy lover. Wilson looked deliciously well-fucked, in which House had had a large part in, and his eyes were half-closed.
"Do I have to be worried?" House asked.
The eyes opened a bit more.
"About Chase," he elaborated.
He was given a long, penetrating, hard look. "No."
"He's fine?"
"Yeah."
House nodded. "Good."
Wilson rolled onto his side, a lot more awake now. "That's it?"
"Yeah. You say it's okay. That's okay for me." House lay back down again, silently encouraging his lover to snuggle closer.
Wilson just gave him another long look, then pulled House close. No more words were spoken and House closed his eyes, letting the sleepiness take him.
*
House gave it another twenty-four hours, then he actually started looking for ways to catch Foreman alone without the others actually noticing his stalking. He managed to grab a hold of the neurologist in one of the labs.
"Is this personal or professional?"
Foreman looked up from the microscope and frowned. "What is?"
House had both hands on his cane, leaning forward. "The problem you have with me."
"I don't have a problem with you."
"Right!" He laughed wryly. "Since when?"
Foreman huffed. "I have a problem with the way you run things, not with you. If I had a problem with you, I wouldn't have stayed as long as I already have."
"But you have. I'm so impressed."
"It's not because of your wonderful personality," Foreman growled.
"No, it's because you want to bask in the warmth and glory of the famous and loved," House told him, a smirk on his face. "You get a reputation here, working for this department. In neurology, you'd just be one of the guys. Here you're part of a very small team. We do things. We make things happen. You can publish outstanding papers. All part and parcel of being here."
House limped around to the other side of the table where the microscope sat on.
"So the whole deal with you blabbing out what is clearly my private life -- it's personal. Cool." He smirked more. "Well, that makes it easy: none of your business, Foreman. My private life is my private life."
Brown eyes flashed and Foreman rested his weight on his hands, leaning forward across the table. "Not when you flaunt it in front of everybody!"
"Flaunt? In what way?"
Foreman opened his mouth, then snapped it shut again.
"I repeat: in what way do I flaunt, Dr. Foreman? Is it the way I talk, I walk, or I breathe? Do I have a tattoo that proclaims my undying love for James Wilson? Do we wear each other's clothes?"
Again, no answer.
"Since my personal life is personal, which means it's my business and not yours, I'd like you to stay out of it." House's eyes narrowed a little. "You can gossip with the others, but there's a fine line between hospital grapevine and telling everyone who walks in here."
"These were your parents."
"Parents equal personal, too."
"You didn't tell them!"
"So you decided to take that burden off my shoulders. How very thoughtful of you."
"You should have told them. They had a right to know!"
"What are you? Cameron's stand-in for moral lectures on what I should and shouldn't do? Even she has the decency not to go running to my parents and give them a good talking to about what their son does in his private time."
"So I told them. Big deal," Foreman muttered. "They would have found out sooner or later."
House's expression was without humor now. "Let me make myself clear, Dr. Foreman: you work for me. We have a professional relationship. My life outside these walls is none of your business."
"Like you don't dig into mine!"
House smiled wryly. "Like I said: you work for me. I like to know about the people I work with. If you have a problem with the 'working for me' part, then tell me. Your contract's running out in six more months."
"So you're kicking me out?"
"No. I can tell apart private and professional. This between us, is personal. You don't like me. Fine. I can live with that. I'm not going to be all heartbroken about it. You do your job, I do mine. Should you decide to go, I'm not going to stop you this time."
Foreman's features were set, eyes dark and filled with anger. "Fine!" he snapped and walked past House, on his way out.
House watched him go, a thoughtful expression on his face. Foreman wasn't prejudiced in general, but he had a few problems. Homeless people were one. Homosexuals another. He could treat a gay patient, though, which was a puzzle. He just couldn't interact with a colleague who was together with another colleague.
Interesting.
*
A knock on Wilson's door had him look up from the report he was reading. His brows rose a fraction as Chase stuck in his head and gave him a quizzical look.
"Can we talk?" the Australian asked.
"Sure." He snapped the report shut. "How can I help you?"
There were no medical files in Chase's hands and he wasn't wearing his white coat. He was actually dressed in street clothes, his jacket on, a bag slung over his shoulder. A brief look at the clock on his desk told Wilson it was six p.m. and Chase was on his way home.
Now the younger man sat down in the chair opposite him, fidgeting slightly. Wilson waited. He could feel the agitation as well as see it, though Chase wasn't radiating strongly. Wilson only picked it up because the intensivist was currently the only one in the room and held all his attention.
"You didn't tell him," Chase finally said.
Wilson frowned. "Tell who what?"
"House. About what I told you."
The oncologist leaned back in his chair, interlacing his fingers. "That was between the two of us, Chase. It was confidential."
"Oh. I just thought... since you are together..." More fidgeting.
Wilson smiled. "I don't tell House everything someone else, even someone from his own team, tells me."
"Oh."
"Do you want him to know?"
"No! I mean... it is private... and maybe he'll find out one day... but I'd rather not..." Chase stopped, his accent thickening again. "He can use whatever against me... to tease, to taunt, to get me angry... but that's something different."
"It is," Wilson agreed softly. "And he wouldn't use it, Chase."
The younger man shrugged, unconvinced.
"He's not that bad an ass," Wilson added with a smile.
Chase chuckled a little. "Yeah. Probably."
Wilson chuckled. "Believe me, he isn't. There is a limit and that's where it is. He would understand, like I understand. And I'm thankful that you understand, too, Robert."
Chase met his eyes, smiling briefly. "I wish more people would."
"Me, too. I'm glad to know we have a friend in you."
"And Cameron," Chase immediately added.
Wilson nodded. "I know."
The younger man rose, hesitating, then he walked over to the door.
"Thanks," he said once more, then left Wilson's office.
The empath remained behind, thoughtful. There was a lot more to Chase than met the eye and what his colleague had told him already only proved that. House had employed him for a reason and it wasn't what he kept telling everybody, that it had been Chase's father calling Cuddy. No, Chase was competent. Still learning in many ways, but he had potential.
Wilson smiled a little, then turned back to his report.
*
He sat on the floor, on a rug, cross-legged, and with his eyes closed. Wilson had never tried meditation before in his life, and he wasn't attempting it now, but he needed to find a calm center. At least according to Tim Sunkeeper.
Wilson had called the Healer in San Diego a few days ago, had told him what had happened, and the other man had listened, had asked questions, and had given him a few pointers as to what to do to avoid overloads.
"You only react to negative emotions directed solely at you, Dr. Wilson," the Healer had told him. "As a low level empath you could never overload on general bursts, so even while working with a suffering patient you are relatively safe. But should anyone direct those emotions only at you, chose you at his sole target even on an emotional level, you're in trouble. Your relationship with Greg helps you to anchor yourself, makes him your buffer when it comes to his emotions. I'm guessing you are pretty good at picking up what he feels."
"Yeah. Kinda. It's subconscious really. I feel it most intensely when we..." Wilson broke off.
Sunkeeper laughed. "Oh, I know. Believe me. It's a classical example. Now, to train your mind to immediately shield itself against negative energy coming from others, you have to find your calmest center. It's where your mind will take you should anyone hurt you through his emotions."
So here he was, feeling his way through his mind. Wilson knew a lot about empathy from ally work, as well as from his own grandfather, who was a latent empath. It helped immensely.
Emotions that weren't his flickered over his mind, skittish and inconclusive, but he knew where they came from. House was currently reading up on his stack of medical journals and it probably was an article his lover was not pleased with.
Carefully feeling for his friend, he received some tightly bound emotional waves.
It was very easy to pick up House when he was close by. Normally, when Wilson was busy with something, like a patient, he didn't really consciously recognize House in the vicinity, but his mind did. It checked on him, alerted him to shifts, and it triggered Wilson's reaction. He knew when his lover needed him or when he was just blowing off steam.
Yes, he was very much fixated on the older man. Everyone else was a general sensation and the Soother, as Sunkeeper had dubbed his ability to calm people, instinctively applied the necessary power to relatives and patients alike. Wilson didn't really try to control that aspect of his powers. Not yet anyway. For now he would be happy about a little progress in ways of tuning out what hurt.

Nothing and no one disturbed him as he sat there, immersed in his exercise. Wilson felt House's arrival, his brief presence near-by as he probably watched his lover, but there was no comment. He sensed his lover sit down in the recliner, still silent, and finally a few soft tunes of music floated over to him.
Mentally, he smiled. On the outside, he didn't move a muscle.
It was nice to just sit and let it all wash over him. It was interesting to probe and prod, to interpret and snoop around, to see and find out what it all meant.
In the beginning, Wilson had expected House to mock him, but the other man had been strangely accepting. No taunts, no teasing, and he actually gave Wilson room when he did his meditations.
*
When he finally let himself rise from the depths of his consciousness, House was reading. He looked up from his book and gave Wilson a brief once-over, brows rising slightly in a wordless question. Wilson smiled back and got up from the floor.
"You've got mail," House commented and reached to one side, grabbing a few letters, which he tossed onto the couch.
Wilson sat down and flipped through them. Nothing important.
"So, how's it going?" House wanted to know.
"I'll tell you next time someone hates me," Wilson replied lightly.
The blue eyes darkened.
"Greg, let it go," the younger man added. "It happened. I need to deal with this, with my abilities. Curse of the paranormal."
House's eyes narrowed, but he didn't comment. Wilson got up from the couch, leaving the letters on the desk, and walked off to take a shower.
*
Wilson had stayed late two nights in a row, needing to catch up on board stuff and reviews, coming home tired. So it came as a surprise when House parked his bike in the first level garage and found Wilson's car already there. He smiled to himself as he limped to the elevator. It wasn't even seven yet, so that meant Wilson had left earlier than himself, which in turn meant some fun time. Not necessarily sex involved fun time. He enjoyed his lover's company, whatever they did, and to House Wilson's presence was a sign that everything was okay. It sounded corny, but it was what he had started to see in the last months of their relationship. He wanted the other man around. Not just a warm body in his bed, but a presence within the four walls they shared.
House dumped his helmet, jacket and backpack near the door and called "Honey, I'm home!" as he entered their home.
He was greeted by the enticing and rather unexpected sight of James Wilson in jeans, t-shirt and bare-footed.
"Hey," his lover said.
There was a depth in those chocolate browns that had House shiver.
Wilson smiled faintly, coming closer. House had the distinct impression of a predator circling his prey. Wilson reached up, right hand cupping the back of his neck, and pulled House toward him. Warm and tender lips brushed over his in what appeared to him like the most wonderful kiss he had ever experienced. It felt warm and right, being so close to Wilson, held by the other man, and kissed. Wilson ended the kiss, but before House could react those lips were back, as gentle as before, but with more intensity, nipping, caressing.
House felt the light touch of a tongue gliding over his lips, and he opened up instinctively, granting, inviting. He felt Wilson's increased breathing as he took the wordless invitation and intensified their kiss, pulling him closer. House heard a soft moan coming from somewhere and he realized it was him making that sound.
Wilson finally pulled back, and House dared to open his eyes again, face the man in front of him, wanting to express what that simple action had done to him. A hoarsely whispered "Jimmy?" was all he was able to manage.
The other smiled once more, this half-smile of his that always made House's heart skip a beat, and he reached out slowly, taking House's hand. He lifted the hand to his face and, without losing eye contact, turned it slowly. House gasped in surprise as Wilson bent his head and, very slowly, kissed the sensitive skin on his wrist.
"Jimmy..." he breathed in response to the warm lips of his lover caressing his wrist and closed his eyes again, enjoying the soft shudder the brief contact caused.
A tickling sensation of fingertips ghosting over his palm, followed by a hot breath as Wilson drew back made him shudder again.
"Is this a seduction?" House rumbled, but didn't fight the lips returning to his own.
"Apparently," a hoarse voice murmured in his ear, then the lips and touch disappeared.
House opened his eyes in confusion, and met that dark gaze again, the small cocky smile, as Wilson stepped away from him, stretching out a hand in a clear invitation. House didn't think as he reached out to take it. His lover pulled him toward their bedroom.
Damn good idea!
Part of him was intrigued by Wilson's behavior. Another part was too wrapped up in what more southern parts were telling him. For now he would follow both voices, see what was about to happen, because intriguing sex in form of James Wilson was always good.
The moment the bedroom door closed, House felt two arms sneaking around his waist from behind, slowly exploring his stomach and chest, a pair of lips placing a featherlike kiss on his neck, and he tilted his head to grant further access, excited by the shudder such a small contact could evoke. He leaned back into the light embrace as he caught Wilson's wandering hands, stroking his thumbs over the skin, and he felt James exhale in response.
The diagnostician was surfacing more and more, trying to put the pieces together while the human being was getting more aroused by the minute. House was being seduced by an empath who could also project if he wanted to. Wilson was a Soother, but right now soothing was the last House wanted. Wilson was also very receptive to emotions when he himself was vulnerable, like when they had sex, so whatever came from House, he picked it up.
House closed his eyes, taking in every sensation: the way Wilson's body was pressed into his without demands, the way his own body felt, responded to the breath on his skin, or the scent he seemed to consciously register for the first time today, the scent he knew was associated with Wilson. He thought he could stand there for ages, just being held by this man, feeling, touching.
Wilson moved a little, slowly turning him around.
"Love you. More than anything or anyone. I need you, need this," Wilson broke the silence between them.
James' hands were wandering up House's back to his neck, pulling the taller man close enough to gently kiss him again, and this time House did respond with his own growing hunger. Wilson moaned softly and pushed House forward until he felt the edge of the bed at his legs. He wrapped his arms around his lover and let himself sink backwards, pulling Wilson with him so he came to lay on top of him. His lover pushed himself up a little so he could look into House's eyes.
"I love you," he simply said.
"I know," House breathed. "Show me..."
Wilson bent down to demand another kiss before turning his attention on House's ears and neck, nibbling, licking, kissing. House weaved his fingers into the thick strands of his lover's hair, taking in a shuddering breath when an especially sensitive spot was hit. He had hardened some time ago, but much to his own surprise it wasn't what counted now. All he wanted was to be with this man, his lover, without rushing anything. Wilson moved a little, and he felt his hardness brush over his thighs, hearing him gasp into his ear and shudder against his neck, telling House clearly - if he hadn't known already - how much Wilson enjoyed this as well.
The younger man now lay only halfway on top of House, one leg carefully pushed between his thighs without moving any further, just letting House know it was there, while he continued to kiss and teeth his neck. One hand started roaming over his chest and arms, coming to rest just over his own pounding heart. Fingertips moved gently, teasing through the fabric, and House couldn't help but moan as he felt himself react to the gentle stimulation. He tightened his embrace around his lover, hands starting an exploration of their own, stroking Wilson's back and then slipping under the t-shirt to finally get some skin contact. Wilson raised his head at that, a fire now burning in those brown eyes, but his touch never lost any of its tenderness, as his own hand was pushing House's rumpled shirt up.
House shivered in delight and he pulled Wilson closer to request another kiss and roll himself on top of the other man, to get a little more active himself. Almost lazily his hand wandered over the younger man's chest, teasing and tickling while he paid some closer attention to the exposed neck and throat. His lips and tongue explored the scar there, kissing it. When House concentrated his action on one nipple, teasing it into hardness, he heard his lover suck in a sharp breath, felt him twitch underneath him.
How open was the empath already? From past experience House knew Wilson had a measure of control, but that blew the moment the haze of pleasure overcame logical thinking.
Wilson's hands had stroked his back, but now they were coming around, tugging at the shirt. It was tossed carelessly aside. House looked down at his lover. Their lips met in another slow, sensuous battle. House broke it off to lay claim to the skin underneath the t-shirt, pushing the fabric aside, kissing and licking what skin he could get to. He had Wilson laid out like a half unwrapped parcel, his very own present, and he ran massaging fingers over the contoured planes of his chest, drawing circles over the hard nipples, kissing where his fingers weren't or had just been.
Oh yes, the empath was by now sucking it all in, he noticed. The dilated brown eyes were a tell-tale sign.
Wilson's hands played over what parts of House he could reach. They fluttered over the abdominal scar in a feathery caress. One hand reached for the zipper and House pulled it down, leaving the pants still buttoned. He inserted his hand and played over the hardening erection, drawing an appreciative sigh. He rested his hand over the warmth, smiling at the stormy expression in his lover's eyes. Wilson's hand closed around his forearm, rubbing it up to the elbow, an inviting expression in his eyes. House bent down and nibbled at Wilson's lips.
"I thought you were supposed to seduce me?" he murmured.
"From what I can see, you are more than seduced already," was the hoarse reply.
"Looks can be deceiving."
"So you don't want to fuck me through the mattress?"
"Never said so," House growled, delivering a little bite to the unscarred side of Wilson's neck.
He cupped what he could reach with his fingers, delighting in the moan.
Getting rid of the clothes was a slow, erotic process, peeling layers away, wriggling out of confining pants. When they were finally naked, House ran a path down to Wilson's groin and back up again.
His lover used the moment to flip them over, being on top again. Their arousals brushed against each other and both men shivered with pleasure. House splayed his hands over the hard chest, massaging, rubbing, teasing, as Wilson let his head fall back, enjoying it. Finally he grabbed the maddening hands and slowly moved the arms until they were above the older man's head. House held on to the wooden bars of the bed, grinning.
"Bondage play?" he teased.
"Shut up," was the husky reply.
Wilson bent down to nibble at the neck and throat, licking over the bullet wound, then his hands and lips were on House's chest, giving it very detailed attention. House closed his eyes, simply enjoying the sensations. His arousal jumped, leaking, and he groaned as Wilson hit some tender hot spots. His hands tightened around the bars and muscles stood out.
"Damn!" he breathed.
Wilson looked up, licking his lips. His hair fell enticingly over his forehead, his eyes holding a seductive expression.
Gawd, he looked so hot, so desirable, so... so... sexy. And he was his, House thought. Mine.
His empath. Wide open, drawing in what he could see and feel, reacting in the most delicious way. House wanted to sink into him, hear him cry his name, make him shudder and come hard. And then do it again until Wilson wouldn't be able to sit down tomorrow.
Wilson prowled up his stretched out form. House wrapped his arms around him, crushing him close, devouring him. Their hips moved together, both their erections rubbing harder against the other, drawing twin groans. House cupped his lover's firm globes, pushing him harder against him.
"Want you," he growled.
They kissed hotly, more passionately. The slow pace had quickened by now, increasing the heat. Wilson raised himself, reaching over to the nightstand to grab the lube. He scooted back down his lover's body and ran gentle fingers over the hardness, drawing an appreciative sigh. House was about to bend a leg, to give Wilson better access, when a hand was placed on the knee, pushing it gently down.
"Jimmy?"
Wilson shook his head, smiling. He spread the lube over House's arousal and the other's eyes widened in understanding. Preparing himself as much as possible, spreading more lube over his opening, James smiled. Moving forward, Wilson raised himself, locking eyes with his lover. He grasped House's hardness with one hand and then began to lower himself.
House's hands rested on the tense thighs, running his palms and fingers soothingly over the hot skin. He moaned as the opening was breached, as the tightness enveloped him, as the heat sheathed him. Wilson arched his back slightly, head falling back. He was breathing hard, gasping suddenly when House was completely inside. They remained motionless, House giving his lover time to adjust. His hands entwined with Wilson's, squeezing them, and he felt a squeeze in return.
Brown eyes opened and locked with blue, revealing need and love, mixed with a stormy desire.
And then he began to move.
House tried to let Wilson set the pace, encouraged him softly, listening to the breathy moans, but it soon became too much for him. His hips twisted under their own account, needing to go deep, hard, deeper, harder. Wilson leaned forward, hands pushing House's down onto the mattress, his moves becoming equally more demanding and powerful.
"Let me touch you," House breathed.
It seemed to take half an eternity until one hand was released from the tight grip, but it enabled House to touch his lover, to urge him on. The second hand was freed when Wilson sat up once more, driving himself down hard, drawing twin cries of pleasure. House let one hand run over painfully hard nipples while the other pumped his lover's arousal in rhythm.
Whenever one of them came close, the other slowed down, drawing cries of denial and protest from the deprived party. House gasped almost painfully as Wilson brought him down from the high, his movements barely perceptible, just a twitch of hips now and then. The older man's hands held the erratic hips with almost bruising strength and Wilson's hands were wrapped around his forearms. His breathing was coming out in harsh pants, brown eyes wild and filled with need.
"Jimmy," House murmured. "Now..."
Release hit them not much later. Wilson was the first to go over the edge, the incessant stimulation of the small gland too much to endure any longer. His back arched as he climaxed, his cry echoing in the bedroom. The clenching inner muscles set off House in turn and he rode it out as the slender body collapsed on top of him.
For a while, there was only the harsh breathing, the hammering of hearts. Part of House kept an eye on his thigh, but it was pleasantly pain free. When Wilson moved, House slipped free, drawing a breathy moan. Drawing circles on the sweaty skin, House kissed the shoulder closest to him.
"Sticky," Wilson murmured, but he didn't move.
House chuckled. "All part of being human."
"Hmpf."
Wilson still made no moves. House grinned and summoned his remaining strength, rolling the pliant body off him. It got him a mutter of protest. He grinned more and limped into the bathroom, none too steady on his legs as well. Damn, it had been intense. He loved their fast and furious encounters, but the slow and erotic kind was just as satisfying. Just as intense. Maybe even more so.
Grabbing a washcloth and a towel, he went back and proceeded to clean his lover and himself. Wilson watched him with sleep-hooded eyes that reflected a passion spent, a fire squelched for now, and a soul-deep satisfaction. House dumped the cloth and towel and then bent down and kissed his lover. He scooted into the bed with him, drawing the blanket over their sated bodies. Wilson made a noise of contentment as he spooned up to him.
They stayed together for a long time, just dozing, enjoying each other's company, and finally fell asleep.
*
His mother tried calling a month later.
House let the answering machine record her brief message, then deleted it.
She called again a week after that, requesting that he call back, that they talk.
Again, House erased it.
Wilson didn't say anything, his face strangely neutral whenever he watched the ritual. He neither encouraged nor discouraged his lover, which told House just how badly this had hit the younger man. Wilson had been the target of John House's scalding and agonizing hatred, so there was no way he would actually push House into changing his mind about his parents.
He didn't hate them back either.
He just... stayed neutral. It was House's decision whether or not to let them back into his life.
The letter arrived the day after the second call had been turned down. House gazed at the neat, clearly female handwriting, then put the letter onto his desk and ignored it.
"Are you going to open it?" Wilson asked the next evening.
"No."
And with that, the topic was no longer pursued.
*
House leaned back against the warm body of his lover, enjoying the feeling of just being held. Wilson's hands caressed the bare skin of his shoulders and massaged gently, and House couldn't help but sigh in content. He loved the passionate nights and days they spent together, but there was something he enjoyed even more than the physical act of their relationship.
Times like these, just being together, quiet and comfortable, were rare enough, and sometimes House preferred them more than the heat of their lovemaking. In moments like these he truly knew they belonged together because in moments like these he could feel it. Wilson's hands massaged the tension of the last few weeks out of his body.
The matter of his parents still rested heavily on his mind, despite his claims to the opposite. He wouldn't talk to either of his parents, but he wouldn't let it go either. His father's anger and sheer hatred, his denial that his son loved a man, had left him with a feeling of disappointment. House had wanted to belief that his parents might accept this.
Hope dies last.
John House had projected such negativity at Wilson that the empath had collapsed. That was probably the moment hope had started to wither away.
The expression on his lover's face, the flicker of fear as his father had approached, would forever haunt House. No one hurt Wilson. No one.
He shuddered involuntarily at the very thought and reached up, pulling James into a warm soft kiss. It was pure affection, probably reaching Wilson on several levels as House let his emotions rise for a moment. Wilson tightened his hold, once again proofing House's theory that his lover was very closely monitoring what came from House himself.
Love you, he thought.
That was received, he saw. Wilson only smiled.