Title: Stalker Boy
Author: hwshipper
Prompt: Written for sickwilson_fest. Prompt: Wilson has a stalker.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Heel and Toe Films, Shore Z Productions and Bad Hat Harry Productions in association with Universal Media Studios.
Beta: huge thanks to triedunture

Stalker Boy

Wilson knew that the 911 page wasn't really going to be an emergency, but he headed to House's office anyway. He found Foreman, Thirteen and Taub sitting looking at the whiteboard. House was there, pen in hand, and STALKER BOY was written on the top.

"And here's the patient," House said brightly, as Wilson paused with his hands on his hips, looking at the board.

"House!" Wilson said in exasperation. "You are not doing a differential on my stalker!"

"Oh yes we are. You've got a disease, it's just a living walking talking one, following you around rather than lurking inside your body." House tapped the Magic Marker against the board. "Although his aim, apparently, is to get inside your body."

Wilson winced, and House's staff studiously kept their eyes on the board.

"Anyway, stalking causes illness. Victims suffer anxiety, sleep disturbance, anger, depression, paranoia, agoraphobia and post-traumatic stress disorder," House pronounced.

"Well, that's a lot to look forward to." Wilson sat down at the table and closed his eyes. "I'm kinda inured to some of this, House. I mean, I've had you following me around, going through my garbage and personnel files for the last twenty years."

House ignored this and addressed his team. "What do we know about stalkers?"

"They're usually male," Taub said in a resigned tone. "And they're usually stalking women."

"You are honored," House said to Wilson. "Unless he picked you up after your trip to Mary's Boutique."

"Ha ha." Wilson wasn't in the mood for cross-dressing jibes.

"Actually, men are as likely as women to suffer harassment, even if not stalking," Foreman said with a lofty air. "And men who are stalked are as likely to be stalked by another man as by a woman. More than three million people a year experience stalking in the United States."

"He's just showing off," House said to Wilson. "I've had them researching this the last couple days. So, oh wise ones, why does a stalker stalk?"

"He's… crazy. Obsessed. Attention seeking." Taub rolled his eyes. "Mommy and Daddy never loved him enough."

"Stalkers are obsessed with an individual," Foreman said authoritatively. "There are various types of stalkers - rejected, resentful, seeking intimacy, jealous." He looked at Wilson. "So what actually happened? How did you meet your stalker?"

"In the clinic," Wilson said with reluctance.

"And Cuddy wonders why I don't want to do clinic duty," House said in a tone of disgust.

Wilson sighed. "It was just an ordinary day in the clinic, I walked in the room, and there he was."

Obtaining personal information about the victim

"About fucking time," the patient said, acerbic, as Wilson walked into Exam Room One. "I've been waiting half an hour."

"Sorry to keep you waiting, the clinic's very busy today." Wilson was polite as he took the file out from under his arm and opened it.

The man looked more closely at Wilson, then held his gaze, lingering on Wilson's face. When he spoke again his tone was noticeably more conciliatory. "So. Doc. I got my arm patched up here a couple of weeks ago, I'm just here to have the dressing taken off, check there's nothing else wrong with it."

"No problem." Wilson smiled automatically at the patient. The man had slicked back blond hair, and would have been very handsome if his nose hadn't been a trifle crooked. Wilson thought it looked as if it had been broken in the past. He was still good looking in a suave kind of way. He was dressed casually but Wilson suspected both the shirt and jeans were expensive labels.

"Must be an interesting life, being a doctor. Perhaps we could go out for a drink and you could tell me more," the man said as Wilson unwrapped the bandage around his arm..

"I don't think so," Wilson said firmly, examining the wound underneath. It was a knife wound; the file said accidental although a clinic colleague had scribbled in the margin, Or from a fight. Quite a deep cut—the man was lucky not to have permanent damage. Instead, it was healing nicely. "I don't have much time for drinks."

"Oh come on," the man coaxed. "They must give you some time off. You play golf? Go fishing? "

"It's not a good idea, Mr.—" Wilson glanced down at the patient file.

"Call me Preston," said the man, and squinted to look at Wilson's long-erroneous name badge. "Dr. Wilson… Jack, if I may."

Wilson didn't want to insist on being called Dr. Wilson, but also didn't want this patient using his first name. He compromised and didn't correct the first name. "We're not allowed to socialize with patients, Preston, but thank you." He put on his most professional voice. "Okay, your arm looks good; I'm not going to replace the bandage. Just keep the wound clean and don't use that arm any more than you have to."


"So he hit on you, and you turned him down," Thirteen observed.

"Seeking intimacy," Foreman categorized. "The most common reasons for stalking that victims identify is retaliation, anger and spite, followed by wanting control. Attraction is up there too. Stalker Boy was obviously attracted to you--"

"And Lover Boy here didn't tell me," House reproached.

"I didn't want to give you another excuse to despise clinic duty," Wilson protested weakly. "I didn't think I'd ever see him again."

"So when did you see him again?" asked Taub, his curiosity now apparently raised.

Leaving unwanted items or presents

The next day Wilson was standing at the nurse's station looking at a patient file when a man materialized right next to him. Wilson jumped at the realization that it wasn't House. It took him a second to recognize the man as the clinic patient from the day before.

"Hey, Dr. Wilson. You're not Jack after all, you're James." He reached out and gave Wilson a playful little tap on the arm. "You need to get your name badge corrected."

It wouldn't have been difficult to find out his name, of course. It was alongside his photograph in the hospital brochures and medical directories. Wilson was nevertheless unnerved that this man had bothered to look him up. He also didn't like the tap on the arm, which seemed a little over-familiar.

There was no reason for Preston to be here, unless he was at the clinic again. He ignored the name thing, and asked, "How's your arm?"

"It's fine. Feels a bit weak all the time, I'm trying not to use it. Shame, I do all my favorite things with that arm." Preston reached into an inside jacket pocket, using his good arm. "I've got something for you."

And he handed Wilson an envelope. Wilson hesitated, then opened it. Inside were two tickets to a jazz concert. "What's this for?"

"It's a present. You like jazz, don't you? I thought you'd like to come with me."

How the hell had Preston known he liked jazz? Wilson's mind raced; he'd mentioned it a couple of years ago in a profile interview in the Princeton Plainsboro internal newsletter. Not impossible to find, but... not easy either.

"No thank you." Wilson went for polite but very firm, and he handed the envelope back to Preston.

Preston's handsome face twisted in annoyance. "What, you don't want to upset the boyfriend?"

This caught Wilson completely off balance. "What?"

"The gimp."

"He's not my boyfriend." He's much more than that. "And how do you know about House?"

"Best friend, boyfriend, whatever," Preston said dismissively. "You had dinner with him last night."

Wilson felt a muscle involuntarily jump in his face. He had indeed had dinner with House last night. That information wouldn't have been anywhere—it had been a spur of the moment decision to eat out. Which meant this guy must have seen them. Must have followed them.

Preston was watching him closely. A little smile played around his lips. "Looked like a good dinner. You had surf n'turf, he had fried chicken. He ate half of your shrimp, picked it right off your plate—"

"You've been spying on me." Wilson abandoned politeness as sudden rage descended. "Get out of this hospital or I'm calling security."

For a second Preston looked as if he might argue, but then he shrugged and left instead.


"After that, I told House," Wilson concluded.

"So at that point the stalker had to start looking over his shoulder," Foreman inferred.

House and Wilson looked at each other. Wilson raised an eyebrow, and House looked a trifle abashed.

"Actually, House told me I was lucky to receive that kind of attention, it showed I wasn't completely over the hill after all," Wilson said brightly.

House did not look pleased to have been reminded of this. "If you'd told me it was serious--you made a joke of it! Told me after all these years of stalking you, I finally had competition." House rolled his eyes.

Wilson tried to smile. He'd told House in the middle of the night, the two of them both post-coital and sleepy. House had taken the news as lightly as Wilson had given it. They'd laughed a bit, and House had fallen asleep soon afterwards with one arm thrown around Wilson's chest.

"I didn't know it was serious, then," Wilson said now. "Not until...the next day."

Waiting at places for the victim; following or spying on the victim

The following day a now-familiar figure appeared at Wilson's office door. He glared at the unwelcome visitor, but Preston didn't look in the least bit cowed.

"What are you doing here?" Wilson demanded.

"Just passing by." Preston was nonchalant. "Nice office you've got here." He was looking past Wilson at the range of trophies, souvenirs and toy bears. "Hey, you do play golf. I thought you might."

"I'm very busy," Wilson said frostily.

"Fine, I won't stay." But Preston didn't move. "Just wondered if you had a nice evening with Gimp boyfriend last night."

Automatic denial kicked in. "I told you, he's not my boyfriend."

Preston gave a dismissive snort. "Yeah, that's why you went back to his place last night and didn't come out until this morning."

"What?" Wilson couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"You walked in his front door at 10:19 PM and didn't come out again until 7:22 AM."

Wilson stared incredulously. It was one thing to be followed to a restaurant but quite another to be followed to House's house. And those times sounded ominously accurate. "You were outside House's apartment, all night?"

"You bet, Jimmy boy. You gonna tell me you were sleeping in his spare room? Crashing on his couch?"

"My private life is none of your business," Wilson spoke calmly but with an edge of barely concealed fury. "None! You hear that? Now, go away and stop following me." He picked up the phone. "And I'm calling hospital security right now."

"Okay, I'm going." Preston slipped out of the door and vanished down the corridor.


"That is not a good development," Taub said.

"You're not kidding." Wilson was droll. He felt a little odd talking about being at House's place all night… but it wasn't a secret anymore. Everybody knew, now… it was just taking a bit of getting used to.

"So, is this when you told Cuddy?" Thirteen asked, and Wilson nodded.

Showing up at a place where they had no reason to be

Wilson didn't waste any more time informing Cuddy. They met with hospital security, who got a decent image of Preston from CCTV cameras, and circulated it to all security staff. In view of Princeton Plainsboro's past record in dealing with gunmen, Wilson didn't have a great deal of faith that this would stop Preston if he really tried to get in, but it was better than nothing.

With Stalker Boy barred from the hospital, Wilson found himself not wanting to step outside. If he went out for lunch, for air, to do an errand, Preston was there; keeping his distance, but lurking. Wilson did his best to ignore him, feeling that giving him attention must be the wrong thing to do; but it wasn't easy.

Now House's interest had been aroused, he was busily engaged in investigation.

"Your stalker gave a false address to the clinic," House reported that evening. "Could be a false name, too. No other details he gave out check out, either."

"So we don't know anything about him." Wilson was frustrated.

"He's presumably staying in or near Princeton, or he wouldn't have come to the clinic in the first place," House suggested. "How about we stalk him?"

That made Wilson laugh, although it was a hollow laugh.

"If we can find out what hotel or motel or flophouse he's staying at, we should be able to get a lead on his ID," House insisted. "Driver's license, credit card…"

"He's always following me. He's always hanging around waiting for me, turning up wherever I am. I can't turn around and start following him without him noticing. And he knows what you look like, too."

"What you need is a PI," House said with the air of having made a brilliant discovery.


"You put Lucas on the case?" Taub asked.

"On Wilson's tab," House replied.

"What's mine is yours, right?" Wilson said with a hint of a smile, and House grinned back.

Damaging or threatening to damage the victim's property unwanted phone calls; sending unsolicited or unwanted letters or e-mail; making direct or indirect threats to harm the victim, their relatives, friends.

Wilson arrived back at his apartment for the first time in a few days to pick up some clothes. He was spending most nights at House's, but found himself wanting to keep his own place as a bolthole.

As soon as he stepped inside he found himself uneasy. He couldn't exactly remember how he'd left things… but not quite like this. It actually looked a bit tidier than he'd expected… a few items of furniture had moved around a little. Someone else had been there. A chill ran down Wilson's spine.

At that moment his cell rang. The number on caller display was unfamiliar. Wilson picked up. "Hello?"

"Well, hello Jimmy. How nice to have your private line."

Fuck. How had Preston gotten his cell number?

"You've been in my apartment." Wilson felt his blood start to boil as he spoke.

"Just looking around, Jimmy. You might want to watch out when you open your underwear drawer, though."

Fuck, fuck, fuck! Wilson headed into the bedroom, cell to his ear, and yanked open his underwear drawer. There was an immediate unpleasant smell. He looked inside at the neatly folded pile of boxer shorts. There was something on the top... sticky, white... FUCK! Preston had jerked off in his drawer!

Wilson slammed it shut and resolved to throw everything inside in the trash. His first impulse was to start shouting down the phone, but he resisted; that was what Preston wanted. A reaction. Attention. He tried to stay calm.

"I don't know what you want from me, Preston," Wilson said, keeping his voice as steady as he could. "But whatever it is, I can't give it to you."

"Oh, I think you can, Jimmy boy." Preston's voice was low and thoughtful.

Wilson knew he should hang up, but hesitated, and Preston carried on. "I want to hold you down and fuck the living daylights out of you."

Wilson was frozen in horror.

"I want to nail that pretty little ass of yours until you're way past pain and pleasure and you're just a big ol' heap of jelly underneath me," Preston carried on.

Nausea rose in Wilson's throat.

"And I'd like to have your boyfriend watch every helpless, agonizing minute," Preston added, and that was too much.

"You're a sick fucker. Don't you ever dare call this number again," Wilson shouted down the line, and slammed down the phone.


"So he broke in to your place, and made threats on the phone?" Taub asked. "To you and to House."

Wilson hadn't been specific about exactly what Preston had said to House's staff. Wilson hadn't even been able bring himself to report the whole conversation to House himself, but House had gleaned enough to make him look both worried and stern. And to tell Wilson he was an idiot who ought to leave that damn apartment and move in with himself.

"Yes." Wilson confirmed to Taub, sighed. "He's called every day since. He doesn't always say anything. And he calls from public phones so the numbers are always different. If I don't pick up he leaves voicemails--silent ones. Then he got my email address. I keep getting him blocked but he just sets up a new webmail account each time."

"He's a predatory stalker. Engages in tactics of harassment and intimidation," Foreman said. "May use violence."

"Is that really likely?" Wilson said uneasily. He pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Most stalkers are more into making repeated threatening phone calls, emails or letters than actually hurting their victim, but violence does happen." Foreman shrugged. "Twenty-one percent of stalking victims report being attacked in some way; usually hit, slapped or knocked down. Stalkers also harm pets and harass work colleagues and family. It's not unusual for stalking victims to lose their job or relationship, or be forced to move from their house."

"Stalker Boy already moved from threats to violence," House said ominously.

Fear for their safety or that of a family member as a result of the course of conduct, or additional threatening behaviors that would cause a reasonable individual to feel fear

Wilson was at his desk working quietly one afternoon when House stuck his head round the door.

"Cameron just called; Lucas is in the ER," House said, and vanished.

Wilson cursed and followed. They found Lucas sitting on a gurney looking abashed. He had a large and spectacular swelling over his left eye, the eyelid puffed up and a splendid greeny-purple bruise forming.

"For fuck's sake." House didn't waste any time on sympathy. "You're supposed to follow Stalker Boy, not let him give you a black eye."

"I was unlucky." Lucas sounded aggrieved. "He caught me by surprise."

Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose. "Lucas, you should stop. You don't want to get hurt—"

"It's you this psycho wants to hurt." House cut in. "And he wants to do a lot worse than give you a black eye. Get Cameron to patch you up, Lucas, then get out there and find out who the hell this guy is."


"Nothing from Lucas yet. So, that's the whole story. What am I supposed to do?" Wilson asked irritably.

"You shouldn't engage with him," Taub said, like this was the easiest thing in the world. "Don't show emotion, don't confront him, if you see him, walk away. Stay in public places with people around."

"Keep a diary of the harassment," Thirteen offered. "Phone calls, emails, everything. Write it down straight away. It might be useful evidence."

"Rely on your instinct." Foreman's advice was the loftiest. "It can work. And call 911 if you think you're in danger."

"Thanks." For nothing, Wilson added silently. He glanced at his watch, stood up and headed towards the door. "I have to finish my rounds now, got a board meeting at five. I'll see you later, House."

"What the hell is Cuddy playing at, board at five o'clock on a Friday?" House said with indignation.

"Re-arranged from Wednesday." Wilson was at his driest; House actually had the grace to look a little guilty. Board had been canceled on Wednesday because of a swine flu panic in the clinic. The fact that House had been about to go on his clinic duty shift at that time was not, in Wilson's opinion, a coincidence.

Three hours later, weighed down by the cares of several of his long-term terminal patients and by the news of the hospital's current financial issues reported to the board (one of their biggest donors had lost all his money with Madoff), Wilson headed back to his office. It was evening now and the corridors were quiet.

He felt his cell buzz in his pocket as he walked, and fished it out, glancing at the display. A missed call from House, and a new voicemail. He dialed through to the voicemail, and House's voice came through, low, urgent and deadly serious.

"Wilson, Lucas has tracked down Stalker Boy. Lucas found his motel and got a copy of his driver's license, which he presented as ID when he checked in. Your stalker's name really is Preston, and he lives in New York. Wilson, he's got form, he makes a habit of preying on men. Lucas made some calls, found outstanding warrants for Preston the Perv in New York and a bunch of priors in New York, New Jersey and elsewhere. He's done time for sexual assault, and—other stuff."

House paused for a second, then carried on, speaking more quickly. "He's got a modus operandi—he drugs men and assaults them in a van. Don't let him get near enough to slip you anything—watch your drinks in bars. Don't let him touch you or he might stab you with a needle. And don't for Christ's sake get into a van with him."

End of message. A trifle abrupt, but that wasn't unusual for House. Vaguely pleased that they were getting somewhere learning about Preston, even if the information was alarming, Wilson slipped his cell back in his pocked, unlocked his office door and stepped inside--

--and a cloth was pushed over his face. Wilson gasped; mistake. Chloroform. He felt an arm reaching around from behind, grasping him round the chest. He tried to wrench away, but already he was feeling distinctly woozy. The room started to go dark and his feet were unsteady on the floor.

"Jimmy," a voice purred in his ear. "Here, let me help you."

Wilson was dimly aware of Preston's arms reaching out to catch him as his body swayed and toppled over, and then unconsciousness took over.


Wilson woke to find himself lying on his stomach on the couch in his office, his arms pulled forward and downwards, and steel constricting his wrists. Panic shot through his body, his head spun and his heart started to pound as he realized he was wearing handcuffs. He pulled at them and found they were attached to the metal legs of the couch; fuck, fuck fuck!

"Welcome back," said an unwelcome voice, and Wilson turned his head and looked up, blinking into bright electric light, to see a smiling Preston standing above him, holding a large knife.

Wilson shut his eyes again, feeling slow and giddy, trying to absorb the situation. He was fully clothed, thank goodness, it didn't look like he'd been assaulted while unconscious. Of course, that might just be because Preston wanted him awake for that...

"Wilson," said another voice, strained, familiar, and Wilson's heart sank. Fuck it, there would be no dramatic rescue, House wouldn't be riding to the rescue through the door any moment. Wilson opened his eyes and peered forward, leaning his chin on the stuffed arm of the couch, to see House. He was sitting on Wilson's office chair, his arms pulled back and tied behind him.

"House!" Wilson could barely utter words through his slurring brain, but there was still a note of horror in his voice. House was red in the face and was bleeding from a large cut on his head. He was glaring at Preston through the angriest blue eyes Wilson had ever seen.

"He's fine." Preston said shortly. "He walked in the room at the wrong moment. Or the right one--I did want him to watch. I wouldn't have had to pistol-whip him if he'd just shut the fuck up when I told him to."

Pistol-whip? Wilson looked back at Preston, and saw the gun, lying on the coffee table a foot away. Crap. Shit. Fuck. This man was armed and dangerous, with a knife and a gun.

Wilson caught House's eye, made a brief, desperate connection across the room. What to do? Wilson struggled to remember psych training about dealing with psychos. He'd refreshed his memory after House's hostage situation. Try and talk. Try and appear to be a human being, not an object. But with chloroform still whirling around his head he could hardly talk at all right now...

"Preston, why Wilson?" House asked, abrupt, loud, direct. "Why did you choose him to stalk?"

"He's just too pretty, doncha think?" Preston answered. He stuck the knife in his belt and sat down, perching on the couch beside Wilson. He reached out and ruffled Wilson's hair. Repulsed, Wilson tried to pull away, but his body felt as heavy as lead, the drugs still in his system keeping him weighed down.

"If some other pretty doctor had walked into the exam room that day, would you have gone after him?" House went on. "Plenty of other pretty docs in this place. There's a surgeon I know--blond, British but don't let that put you off--"

House was trying to buy time, Wilson distantly discerned. He tried to evaluate his situation. The cuffs were short. His legs were free, he thought sluggishly, but he could barely move them.

"Nope." Preston slung a leg across Wilson's body and Wilson tensed as he felt Preston straddling his hips. He could feel Preston's cock rubbing against his ass even through two layers of clothes. Fuck, fuck, fuck. This was a nightmare and he couldn't see any way out.

"Gotta be Jimmy boy, eh?" House said, and somehow genuine curiosity shone through the note of desperation. "What is it, his lovable boyish charm? His charming bedside manner?"

"He reminds me of someone I used to know," Preston said, unexpectedly, and Wilson felt one of Preston's hands ruffle his hair again, as the other plucked at his belt.

"Really?" Wilson croaked. He tried to keep his voice steady, ignoring Preston's fingers sliding inside his shirt. "Who?"

"Guy I knew in college. Years ago." There was a short pause. "You look a bit like him."

Interesting. Perhaps this was a way in, a way to relate to Preston, to reason with him. House clearly thought the same thing, prompting from behind the desk, "Boyfriend of yours?"

Preston hesitated. "Yeah. Kinda. He was my twink for a while."

Wilson didn't like the sound of that. He wondered if Preston had wanted his twink trussed up on the floor of a van. Maybe that had happened… maybe the unfortunate guy had come to a sticky end…

"What happened to him?" Wilson wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know, but felt he had to ask.

"Nothing." Preston put both hands into Wilson's hair, mussing it up. "You don't look that much like him close up, and he wore glasses. But you do have the same hair."

Great. A reason for a hair fetish. Wilson wondered if Preston was deranged enough to want to do something with it… jack off in it… cut it off, perhaps, as a souvenir. He shuddered a little. God, his thoughts were getting more unpleasant by the second.

"I went looking for him a while back," Preston's voice was quiet. "Found out he'd died in a road accident. Years ago."

Oh. Wilson squirmed a little at that.

"So Wilson's some kind of substitute for you long-dead beloved twink," House said, his tone utterly contemptuous. "You want to recreate whatever sick stupid relationship you think you had--"

"Shut up," Preston said warningly. "Or I'll carve that big mouth of yours right out of your face."

Wilson screwed his neck around as far as it would go, to see with alarm that Preston now had the knife in his hand again, and was pointing it menacingly at House.

"Or just wait 'til I'm fucking your pretty boyfriend here," Preston went on. "That'll shut you up--"

"Really? I don't see it happening," House bit back. "I've been waiting for you to get your pathetic dick out for the last five minutes. I think Little Preston isn't playing ball; I think you've been looking forward to this a bit too much, and now you can't get it up--"

"Fuck--you!" Preston was off Wilson with a roar of fury, and plunged across the room towards House, moving around the desk, knife in hand.

Wilson gasped, but then he saw House's expression; like he was just waiting for the right second to do something. And then Wilson spotted House's cane. It was lying on the floor beside the desk. House's arms were pulled tight behind him, obviously trussed up, but his legs were still free...

Wilson's breath caught as with a swift but obviously painful effort House pulled a knee back--his bad leg, for Chrissake--and brought his foot sharply down on the cane handle. It shot upright, like someone standing on a rake, and hit Preston sharply on the arm. Preston let out a shout of pain and stumbled, and Wilson realized that whether deliberately or accidentally, House had got Preston's bad arm, the one that had been patched up in the clinic.

But this wouldn't hold Preston up for more than a moment. Wilson summoned all his strength and moved himself, swinging his legs off the couch, kicking out at the coffee table, knocking it over, and fortune smiled on him as the gun toppled off in his direction. He used his feet to pull it across the floor towards him, and just managed to reach it with one of his cuffed hands.

And then he brought both hands together to grasp the handle, tilted it upwards, aimed and fired. The back of Preston's head exploded in a shower of blood and bone and hair.

And suddenly, there was silence broken only by House's heaving breaths and Wilson's own ragged gasps. House and Wilson stared at each other across the floor, then House inhaled deeply, hauled himself awkwardly to his feet, and staggered around Preston's crumpled body across to the couch. Wilson yanked his cuffs as far as he could to reach House's hands, which were bound with silver duct tape. Wilson pried away a corner, and loosened it enough that House was able to pull the tape off himself. It came away with a loud RIP, and House was free.

"Wilson," House rasped, stretching out his arms to flex them, then pulling Wilson close. "Where'd you learn to shoot like that? I'm gonna get you a gun, we can practice blowing out tires in the parking lot from the balcony."

Wilson could feel House's body shaking. He buried his face in House's shoulder, and didn't reply.


A/N: I have written about Preston before (see my profile for link).