Gone With the World


Part I

Pairing: House/Wilson/Multiples.

Rating: NC-17, Adult, +18, Mature.

Summary: Alternate Universe. Blue eyed males become a sought-after commodity in an all male society. Language. Rape. Sexual situations. Implausible medical situations. SLASH.

Disclaimer: I manipulate the sexy House to my hearts desire. No money, just fun.

NOTE: If you want to enjoy this, suspend your disbelief.



He was hungry.

The world had set before him a frightening certainty, that eventually, after he had eaten food long enough (if he could find it often enough), to grow old enough to care less about getting even older (dying was far more on his mind than anything else), one random day he would crawl into a corner and die.

But worse than hunger was the cold. He blew warm breath onto fingers curled and puckered from the icy air, but kept walking. It was an unusual gate, a lop-sided dot-and-go-one made even more hitching by three supports, only two of them made of flesh and blood -- minus a little flesh taken from him a long time ago.

A long time was anyone's interpretation. Time was subjective or non-existent, depending on one's point of view. Centuries could have passed without him noticing. Cold and hunger had reduce his vision of the world, shrunk it to smaller things such as Hungry-need-food and When that stranger finally dies, I get his coat. Central things overbearing anything else that would presume to interrupt his day. His internal clock that used to insist time mattered had stopped cold a while back.

In its' heartless tease of warm colors, yellow to orange to red, the sun said it was going down and everything in his tiny world would grow colder still, so he needed to find shelter fast. If he could find a place hidden enough, and deep enough, maybe he could light a fire and have some warmth this night. Not having to shiver his way through ten hours of darkness was a sought after but not often obtained treat. A fire might draw attention, but was better than a lover. A lover was nice against goose-bumped flesh but could you trust him?

There was no bright side to any of it. In troubled times, cliche's do not apply. No matter how hungry anyone got, each remembered his last meal. Countless sleepless nights could pass without an apology, yet each could recall his last warm, rested breath, however long ago. If the mercury dropped to a new low and the cold seeped like ice-water into his very bones, a man could still remember a recent night where he had felt even colder.

No matter how bad things became, and lately bad was the only direction on the compass, every man could cast his broken mind back and catch the elusive feeling of hope that once was. Comforting memories were, all of them, chained up tight in the reservoir of useless recollections. All men had them and all men ignored them as best they could because they existed as a torment to all. Happy hours, friends and family were forever beyond their reach because, in the current state of the planet, good experiences emerged somewhere between rarely and never.

On his rough two-by-two piece of wood called into service as a mans' cane, a strip of cloth wound and tied around the tip to serve both as a handle and as a protection from painful slivers, a tall, gaunt man slowly crept down littered concrete steps in the dusk, hoping for more than hope. Hoping for warmth. Needing it badly. His leg hurt all the time now, but he hardly noticed it against the ever present ache in his empty stomach.

Three days ago he had managed to catch a skinny dog. One or two wacks of his cane and it trembled once and lay still.

Less than two years ago the idea of killing a defenseless animal would never have entered his mind. But back then he had been well fed, warm and in charge of a important place with important people, he being the most disliked but the most valued.

Now he was wanted by all and lived lesser than most. It was a weird upside-down irony.

He would have no fire. Nothing presented itself that was combustible. The basement corner of just another abandoned and gutted building, was damp and cold but at least he was out of the rain. He ran a dry tongue over his lips, remember his meal of the dog and wishing he had it right now.

With a hand that had surprised him by how quickly he had mastered the art, he had drained the blood from and skinned the dog in under three minutes. Using the only weapon (other than the stick-cane), he owned, a small red locking knife, he had stripped the meat from the dogs back legs, and eaten that first. Once he had devoured the torso, the rest he cast away as far as he could throw it. The stringy and sour, but fresh meat, was still vivid in his mind. He'd survived two days on it.

As he wrapped his thick, ragged coat around him, one built for a much larger person and dreamed of his last dinner of raw, sinewy canine, his mind went to where it always did.

The man with the brown eyes. The man who had been a friend and whom he had not seen for over two years, not since he'd been forced to run, in a manner of speaking, for his life and freedom. Brown Eyes had been left behind.

For the thousandth time, Crippled man let his mind sift through the details. Brown Eyes had not even been around when the worst of the outbreak had occurred. He had been evacuated to Manhattan to ride out the riots, the pillaging, the looting, the mass killings.

Blue eyed people were barred. Soon they had been gathered up and immunizations tried with no success. Then mass gassings to rid the world of what it only saw as carriers of a disease that could mutate at any time and spread to those brown eyed ones snuggled safely across the water. The connecting bridges and gondola-works had been dynamited. All the boats in the harbor sunk.

All so the ones with blue eyes couldn't cross over. When it was all said and done, nearly every female human being on the planet was dead and almost every blue eyed male in existence was dying.

He had no idea why he had survived. Some sort of natural immunity maybe. He wondered if there were many others like himself? In two years, he had encountered three other blue eyes, all hunted and on the run like him. Rarely could he spare the time or energy to differentiate between the browns and the blues and they why-for's. Most of his day was spent on the move, trying to find food, shelter or safety from the rape gangs, the Traders or the Men in White.

Crippled man was in a serious minority. He didn't even use his own name anymore. No one cared what your name was when all you were was something to own or use, when all everything came down to was whether you had something someone else wanted, or whether you were strong enough to struggle through another miserable day.

Or whether your eyes were blue.

The man who used to be a doctor, the man who used to be Gregory House found a dark corner of the basement with a good view of the two exits (in case he needed to make a hasty one), curled himself into a shivering ball and tried to sleep away the chilling darkness.


The tall man with the gaunt look of a frugal eater, narrowed his brown eyes to his partner. "How far??"

The broad-shouldered man with the equally dark, alert eyes and chocolate skin, "We had to go five miles today."

Pretty eyes looked to the other of the men, a younger fellow with high cheek bones and sun-kissed features. He dropped the bag he had carried in, an old fashioned, double handled, plastic weave-type with a picture of a puppy on its side.

Pretty picked it up and looked inside. "Only," he counted, "nine cans of food?" And nothing else.

The taller man of the two locked and bolted the door to their high-rise apartment, then the two of them pushed a heavy chest of drawers in front of it. "We have to move."

As much as he hated the thought, Pretty agreed. But moving was risky. Out in the open was vulnerable, but to stay where they were meant starvation. With every nearby food store empty, moving was a necessity. They would hardly be able to stay fed on pigeons and stray dogs.

"Hey, Wil' – " Chocolate said.

Pretty didn't really like hearing his own name, or even a part of it. He was only Wilson, anymore, to the man that invaded his already disturbing dreams, marking them with longing - a far worse nightmare. Films flickered by in his sleep in the absence of someone who ought to be there. Always his heart ached with it.

To his lovers and survivors of time, Baby of the fine Asian eyes (who was no baby at twenty-four but the youngest of the three) and - simply enough - Chocolate of the lovely black skin, he was Pretty Eyes, or Pretty for short. The made-up monikers were easier on everyone's souls. The old days where anyone was someone were over.

Pretty, no longer Oncologist James Wilson, turned back. The place only had two rooms, it wasn't necessary to actually stop. He would be able to hear just as easily in the a-joining room -- the kitchen. But he had been raised to be polite. "Hm?

"Pretty, " Chocolate corrected himself. "I know it'll be a feast." Chocolate motioned for Baby to help him gather together the essentials they would need to take with them. Other than the pot bellied stove, which they would wheel along on a make-shift cart, only what they could carry would be packed. That included weapons, food, extra clothing, their meager supply of first aid materials and an old, much thumbed map of the city.

Using a sharp hunting knife, Pretty started hacking open the cans of mystery dinner.


Pretty traveled with Chocolate and, several hundred yards behind them, Baby brought up the rear. For safety it was best that way. In case the first two were attacked, the one would get away. One case the one, the two.

Baby often remarked that if they only had a fourth, he wouldn't have to bring up the rear on his own. But they all knew he was the faster of the three, and the quickest with a knife. Pretty had learned some fighting moves from the other two, but he mostly knew healing and they dared not ever risk him traveling alone just for the old-fashioned notion of fairness. Chocolate understood healing as well, the things that went bump in the brain, but he was the strongest of them all and set himself up as the leader. Since they depended on his strength and skill with a knife, it was a level exchange, though nothing was fair in love or war. Not anymore. The death and slow decay of human society assured them of it.

Seven miles in broad daylight -- they had been lucky to get so far without a single encounter of the marauding human kind. Chocolate, who had scouted far ahead while Baby and Pretty waited in a dark stairwell just off street level, returned with news they had walked and wished over for a day.

"I found a good hole. Fifteen floors up," (to discourage unwelcome visitors), "one stairway," (one access that could be blocked by all manner of wire, junk and anything else they could find to, again, discourage access), "metal doors," (impossible to wack a hole in or burn down), "four intact locks," (that they would crown with a cross-bar), "and only two windows with blinds." (to blot out their night fire). "Plus a garbage chute." (used for two things: disposing of garbage (which in their frugal life of little choice they made very little of), and directing the smoke from their night or cooking fires up and, unobservably, out). Chocolate would climb to the top and fashion a hole and piping leading to the outside, ensuring the smoke never built up and choked them.

Baby asked. "Food?" He was always the hungriest of the three.

Chocolate smiled a little at their youngest, most supple member of their life-triad. "Plenty of canned food left in the other holes. Enough for months."

"What about water?" Pretty was sick of rationing and hand-washes. They all needed a real bath.

"Lots. And we can siphon more." Chocolate assured him.

Pretty was terrible glad. He was the thinnest of the three. He ate as well as the other two but lately his appetite had been missing. Lots of things in his life were missing. Like clean water and soap. Clothes without patches and music.

Music he missed most of all. Especially the piano playing he had been privileged enough to hear all those years. Funny, he thought as he trudged up fifteen flights with his burden of goods and wares, how he had not appreciated it so much at the time.

But there was work ahead and he refused to feel sorry for himself. Chocolate had lost people and places and so had Baby. Any man who still lived was only alive because he had lucked out on one thing (his eye color) and lost everything else.

"Let's get this stove up." Chocolate said. That was he and Babys' burden and fifteen stories stared down at them, mocking their man-weak, but only, choice. If you wanted something to go up, you had to carry it yourself. No more working elevators when there was no more working electricity.




Crippled Man watched the three struggling along with their possessions and pot-bellied stove on wheels. If he wasn't so hungry, the sight would be funny enough to make him laugh he thought. More importantly, there was probably food in the bags they carried. Laughing had no place when you hadn't eaten properly for weeks.

He could take none of them. But he might be able to steal if their attention wavered long enough. If one dropped his package and walked far enough away to do . . he didn't concern himself with what as long as he did the walking away.

But these three were not careless men. His stomach growled, wishing they were stupider so it could eat.

He could just ask, he supposed, but he had been caught once before after asking for food. After months of being raped and given hardly anything enough to fill his stomach for his trouble, he had escaped. That man had not wanted a companion, just a place to shove and shove his lonely penis. He hadn't even cared that he was shoving it into a man of blue eyes.

He would follow these three until they reached their destination, if it wasn't too far, and try to steal the food there. If he was lucky, they might even have some 'shine. He had learned to almost ignore the pain in his leg. Almost was able to completely hide his limp and thus his weakness. But 'shine would nudge almost to completely for a few hours.

He followed in the shadows, dreaming of bitter liquid sleeps.


Pretty and his companions heated water, poured it into the white basin which Pretty had scrubbed with a soap and sponge they had miraculously found plenty of in their new hole. Chocolate had coined the phrase over a year ago when they had found each other and made their first home together. "Hole." Chocolate had said. "I'm never going to call anything in this lousy world a home." Anyplace you had to be ready and willing to leave at a moments notice wasn't a home, he said. Why get attached?

No one disputed it because they all understood. Each of them had lost a home and each of them grieved over it in their own way.

But this night, after warm food, each man took his turn washing up in the glorious four inches of lukewarm water, scrubbing off many days dirt. It was wonderful to feel fresh and clean. There was only a small, child-sized bed, but Baby pulled the mattress off and lay it beside the box spring. Then he removed the wooden feet from that and they had a bed just big enough for three. A bit cramped, but blankets were theirs for the taking from a small closet in the narrow hallway. Luxury had entered their sparse lives for a time. The hole was, used to be, a one bedroom apartment belonging to someone who would never return home so it was theirs now, for as long as it was safe. That was the way of the world.

Chocolate decided a right proper celebration was due and he encouraged his companions to bed. Soon they were making love in that desperate, hungry fashion people did who had been starved of it for weeks.

Pretty kissed Chocolate, running his hands appreciatively over his dark, muscled back, loving the way Chocolate was driving his cock into him with hard, urgent thrusts, taking what he wanted and grunting in his pleasure of it. Chocolate looked down on him with large, dark eyes, almost angry in his want. "I'm going to fuck you so goddamn hard." He loved to say. And he kept his word. Pretty delighted in Chocolates demands, and said so by the tiny cries of pleasure that escaped his lips whenever Chocolate's large penis struck his prostate. He grabbed Chocolate's head, the curly black hair soft, so soft, and kissed him, sticking his tongue inside, wanting him so much, so deeply. "Harder." He urged. "Please -- fuck – fuck me harder."

Baby was lying beside Pretty, stealing kisses and urging Prettys soft fist around his own erection, his youth demanding less a lovers touch and more a rough, fast stroking of his cock. His honey-shade body shivered in the contrast between Pretty warm body and the cool air of the room, confusing his senses. His narrow, Asian beautiful eyes closed as he came, shooting all over Pretty and Chocolate, making sure he was as much a part of their shared ardor as possible.

Chocolate was definitely the dominant of the three and usually lead where the love-making would go. Either kisses and gentle caressing that lasted for hours or impatient, demanding hard-core fucking that met only his, and perhaps their, immediate physical cravings.

Tonight it was a little of both. No one minded.

Chocolate obliged Pretty and drove his cock inside him over and over, feeling the clench of Prettys' muscles and the sweet, tight heat of him. Faster and faster he pumped madly, his climax building like a long, slow climb up a mountain. A few final merciless thrusts and he came with a long, low grunt.

His cock finally emptied out but Chocolate let himself soften inside Pretty only withdrawing after a moment, then rolling, exhausted and sweaty, to his side of the bed. Baby leaned over from his side and kissed Chocolate on the lips. "'Nite."

Chocolate reached over and pinched his youthful ass. Pretty, lying in the middle, accepted Babys quick warm kiss and mumbled goodnight to him. In minutes, Baby was asleep. Pretty was sometimes jealous of how he could do that.

Pretty got to his feet, trying not to disturb his sleeping lovers and found a rag to clean himself and his tired companions off. He cleaned Baby off while he drifted deeper into sleep, Pretty chiding the young man under his breath for having left the cleaning of himself to someone else. Chocolate took care of his own sticky mess and, not long after, was snoring softly.

Finally Pretty lay back, pulled the covers up around them all and tried to sleep. His mind drifted away, as it did every night, to the memory of the faint chords of a piano and the faded picture of strong hands moving across black and white keys. Eyes staring intently at him from the dark that smiled, wept or frowned. Eyes of life in a time that had passed away. Eyes that no longer lived in a world where only the brown-eyed were immune and still survived.

But each night Pretty tried to remember the dream mans' colors. The man of the bright, sky eyes. Impossible eyes. Beautiful eyes.

Beautiful blue.