House, MD is the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions, Heel and Toe Productions, and NBC Universal. I claim no ownership to any parts or characters.
I am not a newcomer to the show or to writing. This my first test run into the House universe.
Consider this slash only because of the nature of relationship between House and Wilson. No graphics are mentioned.
His cell phone beeped at him as he was crossing around from his car to the curb of their apartment building. Wilson paused and pulled it out from his pocket, flipping it open.
A new voicemail. He furrowed his brow curiously while digging for his keys. The empty space where the motorcycle was usually parked was empty, so he was almost positive about who had left the message before he even heard it.
"It's me," House's voice announced bluntly, as predicted. "My team can't make up their minds about whether to treat this guy or kill him, so I can't come home until someone wins 'pin the diagnosis on the patient.' Hopefully it will be within the hour. I don't care if you order out or cook but I'm starving so make a decision soon. Please no vomit peppers."
The message ended as curtly as it started. Wilson grinned as he pushed open the front door. He had bought plenty of ingredients to make stuffed peppers the last time he'd been to the grocery store. Maybe he should make up a batch of them for dinner, tell House that it is a punishment for always being so mean to his underlings and a warning about what happens when he tries to diss Wilson's cooking.
What a look that would put on his face!
The thought made him chuckle out loud. He reached up automatically and turned on the light, tossing his keys on the side table.
Nothing happened. The smile slid from his face and he stood still, flipping the switch up and down again.
What the hell? he thought angrily as he forcefully slammed the light switch down several times in frustrated succession.
It was getting pointless and he was beginning to seethe. Calm rationality tried to remain prominent. There was probably just a problem with the power line. Glitches happen…come to think of it, the other windows had looked dark when he'd stepped up the front stoop.
Not that he had looked at any of the other windows. Or paid attention to anything other than getting inside.
And of course, since House lived like an agoraphobic without even having to try because he was too damn lazy to bother opening the curtains, there wasn't a speck of light visible in the entire apartment, save for the tiny red dot on the cordless phone base beside the couch. He could barely even make out the couch, which was going to make feeling his way into the bedroom for the flashlight…not fun, to say the very least.
He fished his cell phone out of his pocket and flipped it open. It wasn't even worth the effort but he held it out in front of him anyway as if the pale blue light from the screen was any help. Annoyance flared up again when he whacked his foot on back corner of the couch and stumbled in the midst of his toddler-like steps through the darkness.
So help him, if House had somehow gotten the electricity turned off….
He never left the bills up to House. If he did that they would have lost this apartment within a week. He hadn't found out until after his name was officially added to the lease that the only reason House had paid his rent on time when he was living there alone was because his landlord called him on the first of every month to remind him it was due.
That had absolutely astounded him(and pissed him off with jealousy…in all of the places he and his wives had lived before, they'd usually had to pay the rent earlier than when it was due because the landlords had been dicks who refused to accept anything that wasn't hand-delivered and they never seemed to be around on the actual due date). He still hadn't managed to get the full story about it, but was almost certain there had to be some kind of blackmail involved on House's part- all he ever said when Wilson asked about it was that the landlord owed him the favor because he had patched an injury of his one day at home.
Knowing him, Wilson thought wryly as he continued fumbling his way slowly into the hallway, he probably injured the man deliberately just so he could ask for that favor, the lazy ass. His left hand whacked the wall and he cursed out loud.
It wasn't until he was finally crossing into the bedroom that he suddenly thought about the possibility of the flashlight not even being in there. He thought he'd seen it a few days ago on the dresser, but considering how much of a slob House was, it could very well have found its way with all of the other stuff that seemed to go missing whenever the other man was within five feet of the room.
The sound of scraping in the front door lock echoed from the front of the apartment followed by the doorknob turning. Wilson turned his head as he felt around the bed frame.
"House," he called out. "Have you seen the flashlight in here anywhere?"
He began nudging aside piles of clothes that had been scattered on floor, trying to feel for the object with his foot. The puny cell phone light was still out in front of him but was barely even casting a shadow.
The sound of the front doorknob jiggling startled him and he turned around in surprise.
"House?" he called again.
Wilson started back out of the bedroom, momentarily forgetting about the flashlight as he realized that he had never received a response. Hearing the jiggling become violent made him roll his eyes but he quickened his pace as best he could.
"Hold on, hold on! Geez!" he said, raising his voice to be heard through the door. A hint of mischief colored his tone. "Just because you forgot your key doesn't mean you have to take it out on-"
Wait a minute. House has the motorcycle.
He lost his breath in the next instant just as he was about to reach to open the door.
All of his keys are on the same ring. So…how could he forget…?
A feeling like he had just swallowed a brick suddenly swirled in his stomach. He hesitated and left his hand on the doorknob.
"House?" he repeated uneasily.
There was no reply. He furrowed his eyebrows and swallowed. His heart began to pump.
This was stupid. House was just screwing with him, he always screwed with him. Things weren't out of the ordinary unless the man didn't. The power was out and he was letting himself get creeped for no reason. It was just House.
His brain was telling him this. His inner pride was mocking him over and over, calling him a child and ordering him to just open the damn door.
But the feeling in his stomach wouldn't go away. He carefully pressed his ear to the wood and had to hold his breath in order to listen for something other than his heartbeat.
There wasn't a sound on the other side. Not a thing. No feet, no shuffling, no breathing. Wilson swallowed. He straightened and exhaled shakily, biting his lip.
House always screwed with him…but not like this. The man was naturally obnoxious. He was always making unnecessary noise and demanding constant attention and delighting in making him flustered at every opportunity.
If House had forgotten his key, he would be yelling for Wilson get his ass off the couch and let him in. He would be pounding on the door with his cane. He would be serenading some annoying teenybopper rap at the top of his lungs to get his attention.
The jiggling abruptly stopped.
Even as his brain continued to yell at him that he was being stupid (while sounding suspiciously like House's voice), Wilson took a step away from the door.
The continued silence both inside and outside the door suddenly seemed deafening as he stood still with trepidation. He bit his lip again and then hesitantly stepped back toward the door.
The jiggling began again at almost the exact second he moved but the sudden addition of heavy beating against the door along with it made him jump and gasp out loud in surprise. He squeezed his eyes shut reflexively and began chanting assuredly to himself over and over, trying to quell the growing panic threatening to overpower his logic.
It's just House it's just House it's just House it's just-
"Open the door."
His eyes popped open in shock and utter horror at the sound of the words outside the door. He could hardly even consider them words as they were barely comprehended around a deep, gruff, growling sound that didn't sound like any human voice he'd ever heard before.
Even though he had been trying to prepare himself, actually hearing confirmation of what he was dreading sent his adrenaline and heart rate into skyrocketing overdrive.
That was definitely not House.
The rationale portion of his brain immediately jumped into action telling him to breathe, to get a handle on the situation, reminding him that he was doctor and knew how to react critically to stress. He couldn't let his imagination get carried away.
Unfortunately, that part was currently battling a duel with the pulsating signals shooting from the other portion of his brain- the mouth dry, blood rushing into his ears, holy shit someone is breaking in holy shit portion of his brain. As soon as he heard the pounding and jiggling doorknob start again, the rationale evaporated completely to allow the fear full reign.
Before he even realized what he was doing, he was scrambling toward the kitchen and pressing speed dial 1 on the cell phone in his hand hard enough to practically crush the keypad. Practicality was still hanging on, urging him to call the police, call the police now but his instincts were communicating fear and seeking out the only shelter he wanted whenever he was afraid.
"OPEN THE DOOR!"
The words bellowed through the door this time and the horrible inhuman sound became even more spine-tingling. Wilson's breath came out in short panicked gasps then as he stumbled around the kitchen island without comprehending a single thing he was doing. His entire world had become absolutely centered on the dialing in his ear.
"Come on, House," he gasped, listening as the line continued dialing. "Come on, answer…"
Bam bam bam…jiggle.
"I know you're in there," the voice continued to growl.
Jiggle jiggle jiggle.
"I know you're in there…."
Four rings. Five rings.
Bam bam bam bambambambam!
Tears began to bubble up in his throat of their own accord. "Come on-" he choked. Seven rings. He felt the wetness when it hit his cheeks. "Pick up, pick up, God please House pick up-"
Then suddenly there was pounding on the windows as well. He screamed and dropped the phone face-down on the hardwood floor, scrabbling across the island for something to use as a weapon while tears escaped freely to blur his vision.
"Oh God," he moaned as the torrential sounds hammered everywhere around him. He clawed through the appliances on the tabletop. "Oh God-"
Shaking hands shoved around blindly, trying to find anything of use in the darkness and making most of it crash to the floor without notice. The blender and the toaster and his cookbook and the plate he had left from breakfast and Jesus fuck why couldn't he find a knife, he needed a knife-
Wilson sobbed, stumbling over against the counter and yanking open the first drawer his hand contacted. The door sounded like it was a second away from being pushed off of its hinges and the doorknob still shook insistently. Whoever was out there was determined to get inside.
His hand closed around the blade of a knife and pulled it out. He couldn't tell what kind it was, he couldn't tell how big it was, he didn't even know if it was sharp. The instrument shook as he held it and not even grasping it with both of his hands could stop them from quivering. He breathed in through his nose and tried to be as silent as possible but couldn't make himself move. He was just frozen, standing there with a knife in the kitchen and wishing he could charge forward to defend his home instead of being so terrified that he thought he might die right there on the floor.
Boom boom boom against the windows, against the door, everywhere even though it had to be impossible, it had to be because how could someone be everywhere-
The doorknob slammed into the wall as the front door was thrown open.
Dear God. Dear Jesus God.
They were inside.
Wilson felt his heart stop. He knew it did, he felt it. There was no way he was alive. No way this was happening.
Whoever had been out there was inside the house. Right now.
Now his teeth were chattering. His entire body was shaking to the point that he couldn't keep still. He looked down at the phone abandoned on the floor. He needed to dial 911 now. He needed to run into the bedroom and lock the door, protect himself. He needed to brace the knife and meet the intruder head-on with it before the person found him.
Footsteps began advancing toward the kitchen.
He couldn't move. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't do anything.
Then there was silence. He closed his eyes and cried as he listened to the still darkness. His breath heaved as he tried to pinpoint where the person was.
Suddenly there was hot breath against his face and a roaring growl in his ear.
House thumbed the newspaper to the next page, sniffing and clearing his throat. He reached beside him for the glass of water on the coffee table without taking his eyes from the headlines.
His shoes and jacket were off, but he hadn't changed out of his jeans yet even though he'd been home almost an hour. He hated nights like this, when a case kept him too late to really do anything once he got home but not late enough that he wanted to just crash into bed immediately.
Wilson had, though, almost right after House had finally made it in. He had been home for almost three hours before House had even left the hospital, hadn't even waited for him to have dinner like he usually did. He had shuffled over to him as he was removing his jacket and one look at him was all it took to see that he was practically asleep on his feet.
It had made him smile when had taken Wilson into his arms and felt him almost fall into him, crumpling against his body like he was a pillow as he murmured something about having left dinner in the oven for him. He had chuckled before giving him a warm kiss against his temple and telling him to get to bed before he fell onto the floor.
He had attacked the food like a starving man after Wilson had turned in. The dishes were still on the coffee table because he hadn't felt like getting back up. There was nothing on TV, not even a decent movie, and that pissed him off so he'd settled back with the newspaper out of pure boredom.
After a few minutes, though, he had found himself becoming relaxed. No television allowed for the apartment to have a quiet feel about it without being the stir-craziness of complete silence. A photo on the sports page caught his eye. He scanned the article before starting to read it more thoroughly, his interest sparked.
Before he was halfway through Wilson screamed bloody murder from the bedroom and he was so startled that he jerked the paper up into his face. He froze for about half a second before pushing the newspaper aside and quickly reaching for his cane.
What the hell? he thought in surprise as he went toward the bedroom as fast as he could. He had never heard a scream like that before… it sounded as if Satan himself was in there clawing Wilson's eyes out.
He strode forward into the bedroom and smacked the light switch up quickly as he crossed over to the other side of the bed. Wilson lay writhing against his pillow fitfully.
"Wilson," he said urgently, the whimper he heard making his chest ache. He did his best to balance himself on the edge of the mattress without being kicked by the feet thrashing under the covers and then reached forward to shake him gently. "Hey…Wilson, wake up. Wake up."
Wilson screamed again. He jumped in shock and then winced sympathetically. His decision to act pained him even though he knew it had to be done. He swallowed and then grasped both of Wilson's arms gently but firmly to force him still. It only took a moment for him to start to struggle and the sounds he made tore House apart.
"Stop," he commanded loudly. He made his voice hard even though he hated to do it. "Wake up. Right now."
He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Wilson's eyes snap open and immediately let go of his hold. He squeezed Wilson's hands tenderly and then reached up to cradle the side of his head when he wailed hiccupping sobs of sleep-hazed confusion.
"It's okay," he soothed, struggling to exert assurance. His voice tinged with broken-hearted despair. He rubbed a palm tenderly over Wilson's right temple and blanketed him in a secure embrace, cheek resting against his hair "Shh, you're alright. You're alright."
Wilson sobbed against his shoulder, so much fear radiating from him that House could feel him quivering like he was frostbitten. He kissed the side of his head and rocked him, trying his best to hush him with an air of calm while his insides twisted with agony.
"Wilson," he soothed. "Wilson, hey…" He cradled the back of his head and stroked his hair. Wilson hiccupped out another sobbing breath, making him tighten the embrace. "It's okay, everything's okay now. I've got you. You're alright now."
House heard him swallow noisily and begin to murmur tearful words. He only made out a few syllables and something that sounded vaguely like "monster," but he made appropriate sounds of sympathy anyway.
"It's just a bad dream," he said tenderly. "That's all….just a bad dream." He breathed into Wilson's hair. "You know I'd never let anybody hurt you. Never."
Wilson sniffled and sighed. He finally lifted his face up after another minute but only to move it against House's chest. His arms clung to House's back.
"Stay here," he heard Wilson plead tearfully. "Will you stay here?"
House kissed his cheek. "I'm not going anywhere," he assured softly, rubbing a smooth circle over tense back muscles. "I'm right here."
After thinking a minute, House gently urged Wilson to sit upright. "Hold on," he said, seeing his eyes reflecting fear. He lifted the covers. "Here, scoot over a little." He eased himself down onto the bed and opened his arms again.
Wilson cuddled against him instantly, pillowing his face into his neck, and he draped the blankets over both of them
"How's that?" he went on.
Wilson nodded against him without saying anything. House pressed his cheek against his head and stroked his hair.
"You know what I was thinking about?" House asked softly as he brushed his fingers in a lazy rhythm over Wilson's forehead. He spoke in a quiet, lulling tone in attempt to relax Wilson into sleeping peacefully. "We should get a dog." He paused as if thinking about it, a smile curving his lips. "Maybe a Chihuahua."
He was relieved to feel a small chuckle. Both of them hated Chihuahuas and Wilson had never had to ask his opinion on having a pet in their home. House made no secret about the fact that the only animal he wanted living with them was a Chia and that he would probably even kill that after two days.
"Yeah," he continued to muse. "We'll spray paint him pink and call him Killer. He can sleep on your side of the bed and you can have the giant pillow." He nuzzled his nose lovingly against Wilson's temple, grinning. "Does that sound good?"
Wilson made an indistinct humming sound, sighing again as he snuggled against his side. He was asleep within minutes, his head flopping into the curve of House's neck and one fist gripping a handful of his shirt.
House chuckled and shifted a little to drape the blankets further over Wilson's boneless form now slouched over his side like a rag doll. He lay still a minute, listening to Wilson breathing, and sighed softly.
He wasn't anywhere near ready for bed. The light was still on and he was in his work clothes. His arm was falling asleep from where it was stretched behind Wilson's back and the waning buzz of pain told him he was going to need a Vicodin before the end of the hour.
House turned his head very gently so as not to jostle Wilson from his shoulder. He looked down into the peaceful face, flushed and sticky with tear tracks, and pressed his cheek to Wilson's tenderly.
He decided he didn't mind the sacrifice just this once.