Storyville Part one

Prologue: AU harlot!House. The near future. A fascist, totalitarian government has taken over the United States. PPTH is shut down and many of its staff escaped to Louisiana. House is a male prostitute in an establishment in Storyville, New Orleans. He is the parlors' and Madam Cuddy's biggest asset, women and men love him alike. The brothel is like a home and shelter for those who managed to escape the New Government's law enforcements. The ones who lost everything because of their gender, sexual orientation, their religion or their skin color came here to start anew. The New Government tolerates this small red-light district to reduce all prostitution to one place in the country, but tries to eliminate it completely and shut down the brothels eventually. Storyville has high crime rates. The brothels are regularly raided by police and their inhabitants deported or released into the streets, left to their own devices, prone to diseases, rape or murder.

Because many physicians and nurses from PPTH came here, the brothel is also an illegal clinic for outlaws who don't get treated elsewhere. House is an outlaw because he collaborated with other outlaws and because of his sexual orientation.

House and Tritter have never met before here.

"Detective Tritter! We secured the whole joint, sir. There must be close to a fifty people in there. Plus children. Six got away, possibly more. Hacker brought two down in Rampart Street. They're on their way back here."

The tall man, with white hair and alert, blue eyes, nods at him.

"Thank you." He takes out a small, flat square of gum and slips it into his mouth. Then he rights the jacket of his tailored suit and steps inside the old, formerly venerable house, now turned into one of many whorehouses in Storyville. Storyville has been brought back to life, indeed. Since the New Government a lot has changed. One has to be white, male and Christian to get a job and a certain liberty of action. No woman is allowed to hold money or have a job, no Jew is allowed to have a medical license, no African-American granted to practice medicine. This small town holds all of those who didn't flee the state and weren't detained or killed. Prostitution is a lucrative business, as is drug dealing. The brothels are raided regularly by the vice squad. And if there couldn't be made some kind of agreement with the brothel's in form of service or 'profit sharing', the places were shut down in an instant.

He side-steps tipped-over chairs, passed his men standing guard in the halls and entered the vast, elegantly furnished parlor with high ceilings covered in stuccowork, long drapes on every window and doorway. He looks around at the small crowd of people, whores and customers, standing or sitting in the plush loveseats and chairs. Whispers die as he stops in the middle of the room. He takes a breath and smiles a little, preparing to speak, to give his ultimatum for the shut-down.

"Hey, detective! Why don't you relax. Have a cigar and a bourbon. Get laid by one of the ladies, or gentlemen instead of doing nasty and unproductive things like destroying people's lives and other precious and beautiful things!" The room was quiet, everyone holding their breaths. The voice came out of nowhere, he couldn't locate it. He was instantly alert, searching the room with his eyes, turning. It was a firm, male voice but with a sensual undertone and a musical timbre to it. The hairs on the back of his neck suddenly stood on end and he started to sweat.

The owner of that voice was sitting in the big chair with satin upholstery, facing away, a pretty hooker on either side of him, dressed as valets. The tall, dark haired man with boyish features and chocolate brown eyes doesn't move, staring at him, calm and unblinking. The girl in a ruffled dress with long brown hair and big, almond shaped eyes looks at him evenly.

While the detective slowly rounds the chair, the owner of the voice comes into view.

His long, slender and very shapely legs are stretched out, clad in black, tight knee breeches and white silk stockings, his feet in black, fine leather shoes with a silver clasp resting on a footstool. Slender wrists and elegant hands lay on the armrests, dress shirt shamelessly gaping, showing his smooth chest and dip of navel.

His eyes as blue and fierce as St. Elmo's fire, his face long and finely boned, dusted with slight stubble. A beauty in his forties, a rebellious, defiant air about him, attractive, with a come hither look in his eyes, radiating the wisdom of ages, knowledge of seduction and debauchery, of man's desires and darkest secrets and wants, the certainty and cockiness of someone who's always right, who gets what he wants. A genius, well trained in the arts of manipulation, illusion and reading people, looking into them and seeing their needs.

He would beckon you, soothe you, lull you, take you in his arms and wrap his legs around you, take you inside his endless warmth, let you do anything. He has never seen anything so compelling before, so sensual, so cunning, so coquette and so wicked and accursed. He could smell the sex on him. A siren, surrounded by poor castaways. A minx, wanton, his body chemistry naturally compatible with many. He almost hisses as he inhales deeply, taking in the intoxicating scent and the trace of a smile on his fine features, those eyes that seem to wink at him with every blink.

The sudden, dizzying rush of blood from brain to his groin makes him panic for a split of a second, the loss of control not an option right now. But then he lets himself feel it, lets it all wash over him. All the little fragments of carnal fantasies light up in his brain; like firing an automatic gun in complete darkness, revealing a scenario in the frozen milliseconds of the bright as day flash. He sees this man, unclothed, skin gleaming with sweat, his face; eyes and mouth wide open in shock as he is taken savagely and rigorously, gasping and whimpering pathetically. He sees his own sex, engorged, slick, pistoning.

He lets the pictures pass his conscious mind, no reason to deny. That much he knows. It's no use hiding those things, might as well show them. And this is a hooker, that's the desired effect, arousal.

The man lets his chin fall to his chest, glaring at him from under lowered brows, then a devious smile spreads over his face, his teeth showing for a split second. His eyes drop briefly but deliberately to the detective's crotch. Then they fix him again. His voice is light and mocking, faking being impressed.

"Wow! You should see your face, and your crotch! Well, actually you could take a look at your crotch without needing a reflecting surface. At the moment you should be able to see it from the corner of your eye, without looking down. Wow!" He exhales a laugh and leans his head back, uncrossing his long legs, spreading them slightly, his feet on either side of the small stool.

"You really need a lay, now, don't you." It wasn't a question. His teeth flash again and his eyes drop to his own body, one hand hooking under his right kneecap, lifting his leg over the armrest, foot dangling, the fabric of his breeches pulled taught over his groin and showing the contours of what's beneath. He rests his elbow on the armrest, his fingers going to his mouth, plucking at his lips slightly. He looks up at the detective speculatively.

"Want this?" Several gasps, laughs and catcalls can be heard. The detective smiles, nodding to himself. He knows this kind of behavior. Provoking, pushing, until something breaks. He gathers himself and steps forward, noticing the movement in his peripheral vision, several people starting in their direction, held back by his men. The statuesque keepers on either side of the chair tense. He leans down into the personal space of this little minx until they're nose to nose, laying his hands on the armrests. The heat and scent radiating from his body is intoxicating, the wide blue eyes mesmerizing this close up. His dick has never been so happy to be near another man. He stops his brain from showing him what could be, ravishing that sweet mouth or biting that long neck, fucking that narrow ass that he so willingly presents. He swallows a groan and sees the flashing of teeth again, mocking him for being so weak, triumphant.

"How much?" He whispers raspily against the other's lips. Those lips part in a breathy laugh. Others can be heard murmuring, a slight disturbance in the crowd, his men possibly questioning his methods.

"I cost five Gs. Does your little policeman's salary allow such expenses?" He lets his eyes travel over the detective's face, considering him. "And you take your wild bunch and leave us alone. Regardless of what you might think, this is a shelter. It's a save place. People come here who have nowhere else to go. There are children living here. Can your copper's mentality grasp those contradictions?" The vulnerable, almost pleading look is quickly disguised by an arrogant smirk.

The detective straightens, inhaling sharply. "O.k. But I can't promise that we'll stay away, and you know that. I can put the DA off this time. We haven't found anything, no substances, no illegals, no prostitutes. But he won't let that slide a second time." He looks sternly at the man sprawled before him who suddenly looks strangely defeated. He nods, one quick jerk of the head.

"Good. That's a delay." He takes a deep breath, making big eyes, fixing them on the detective. "So! How are you gonna pay? Got some loose change in those bulge-y pants?"

The detective laughs throatily, nasty smile in place. He nods at one of his men who hands him a small leather etui.

He smiles at the bewilderment, the shock and realization on the man's face as the detective counts the bills, holding them up.

"Surprised, House?" The room was deathly silent. "Did you really think you can be this bordello's biggest asset without having a rep that crosses borders? Now, to who shall I hand this over?" The detective watches House staring at the armrest, his jaws working, the pretty, boyish whore leaning down to him whispering, hair falling into his face. House looks at him, shaking his head slightly. Then he directs his scowl at the detective. His features lighten but there remains an ornery glint in his eyes.

"Madam Cuddy is running this little business."

A petite, pale woman with ravenous, wavy hair and eyes almost as mesmerizing as House's in a long black satin dress approaches from behind two tall, muscled youngsters, the clacking of her shoes sounding harsh and authoritative, contradicting the soft sway of her hips and sensuous way she throws back her hair. She stands before the detective looking up at him with a raised chin, her strong jaw clenching lightly. He looks down into the low-cut neckline of her dress, the gentle and smooth swell of her breasts pulling attention away from the world's misery. He almost jumps at her throaty, satiny voice. Her face neutral, eyes ablaze.

"You have an hour. You may play wedding night, first time or other lovely scenarios. But no spanking, no rape fantasies, no bareback, extra charge for bondage. Condoms, shower, one cigar and one drink are inclusive. Shower before is obligatory. And when I hear the slightest sound of protest from him this whole thing is over in a second and you wish your mother had never squeezed you out into this world." Her voice has risen with the last part of her speech, eyes fierce. She casts an almost desperate look at House and he winks at her, a tiny smile playing around his lips. Then he turns to his pretty keeper, looking into his eyes, silently communicating with him. "Wilson" someone calls softly from among the crowd. A slender blonde stepping forward, laying a hand on his arm. Wilson's mouth is pressed in a line, dimples gracing pale cheeks with high cheekbones, eyes liquid brown, tears shining wetly in them. House gives him a smirk, but before he can turn away, Wilson darts forward and smashes their mouths together. He clings to House's head, and when he breaks their kiss he presses his cheek to House's and whispers something in his ear. He is pulled away by three others, the blonde, young woman laying an arm around his waist, talking to him soothingly.

The detective smiles obnoxiously at the dramatic display of affection, pieces falling into place in his head. House turns back to him, a challenging look in his eyes.

"Shall we?" The detective bows a little, indicating for House to lead the way. He looks on as the woman with the almond-shaped eyes hands House an ebony cane with delicate tendril patterns on its bend and House moves from behind the armchair, passing him and limping in the direction of the chambers in the back. The detective had heard of House's injury. He watches him gather his shirt over his chest, clutching the lapels, his lurching gait strangely graceful and appealing, so much vibrancy and strong will behind it.

House opens the creaky door to a dimly lit room, a huge canopy bed with heavy, dark drapes in its center, a small desk with an old bronze menorah and books and papers, a makeup desk with an enamel basin and a black baby grand piano arranged around it. It smells of wood polish, starch and lavender. Nothing like he had imagined. He inspects the bedside tables, one with liquor, glasses and cigars, one with the utensils for the main course. He smirks at the impressive, over-sized dildo, towering over a bottle of lubricant, an assortment of condoms, tissues and the like. He turns to House who's hooked his cane on the vanity and pulled off his shirt. He quickly peels out of his pants and stockings as well, turning around to face the other man who rakes his eyes over his body, lingering over the prominent scar on his right thigh.

"I'll need a minute. In the meantime you can take your shower. Through there." He indicates a door opposite the bed. "So, what name do you want me to moan? Or do you prefer 'officer'? Flatfoot, maybe, that's cute! Sounds a little labored, though." His eyes glint mischievously.


"What a rare and beautiful name, oh my god. Real? You seem to know something about me. You've followed or investigated me. Should I be worried, Michael? I mean, more than usual?" He lets his eyes go big and round in mock concern.

"Michael Tritter. No mysteries, detective and new chief of Storyville vice squad. Do I get to call you Greg, or do you prefer 'doctor'? Or maybe you like the more common 'titles' like 'little cunt'." House's eyelids had fluttered at the mention of his old profession, but a smirk is back in place at the vulgar 'title'.

"Now-now, careful with the foul language! Don't let our Madam hear this kind of talk! I don't care what you call me. If I had a say you wouldn't speak at all." He turns to the large bed and limps over to sit down on its edge, scooting into the middle and leaning over to grab the supplies laid out there.

Tritter stands in the shower, door left open, having a good view of the bed, watching House prepare himself, using the lubricant and the over-sized dildo. He strokes himself, admiring that beautiful man, all smooth skin and light hair, lightly muscled chest, long, slender, finely muscled legs which would spread for him in a moment, those strong thighs clenching around his waist. He quickly finishes the cleaning and steps into the room wrapped in a towel. House glances at him, taking him in. He is at least 6'4 and definitely bulkier, his chest and shoulders muscular. House puts aside the dildo and used tissues, briefly flashing Tritter the glistening place between legs. He lets himself sink back into the cushions.

"You just paid an obscene amount of money to do even more obscene things to me. Why would you do that?" House's calm voice carries a hint of suspicion.

"Why do you care, I paid. In advance. How many have already had you today?" The detective rounds the armchair and the small table with the absinthe tray and antique opium pipe.

"Why do you wanna know?" House looks at him, an amused twinkle in his eyes. He can play the deflecting game just as well. "I've paced myself, it's just you today."

Tritter chews on the inside of his cheek, smiling disbelievingly, "You wanna tell me you're happy here? Letting every dog fuck you that strays through your door?"

"Only the ones who can afford it. What about you? You're about to send all these people on the street by shutting down this place, let them work there with no shelter, unprotected from abuse and diseases. Can you sleep at night?"

"I'm giving all of you the opportunity to get out of here. This whole joint is very convenient for you, but there are other options, more respected and legal jobs. You were a doctor, you have many skills, you are a natural leader. Why put all that to waste."

"We are not talking about me. What about the others, hm? You think they have equal opportunities? And I can't work as a doctor, not with my new rep." House sounds tired. "Could we just go on with the business part of this? You have half an hour left. You want to spend it talking, fine. But I'm off topic."

Tritter looks him over. He knows he's not going to persuade him just like that. The overwhelming urge to hold him down and make him see shoots through him. He's been hard since their first encounter in the salon. He lets his towel drop to the floor, his gaze never leaving his reluctant bed mate, as he snatches a tin foiled pack, tearing it open and rolling the condom on himself. He advances quickly on House lying in bed, sprawled, ready for him. He lies between the long legs, jostling them apart and immediately enters his harlot's slick, hot tightness, both of them hissing. He sighs, lies fully on House and buries his face in his smooth neck, feeling momentarily soothed by the endless warmth, the soft rocking of his own thrusts, the body beneath him accepting him fully, engulfing him, his penis cradled in that incredibly hot, welcoming place inside House. His head spins, pleasure running in waves through him as he lifts up on his hands, looking down into the beautiful face, eyes half-lidded slits of blue, lips parted seductively, breathing out little sighs in time with his strokes. He bathes in House's clean scent of soap and sweat and arousal. Sitting up, kneeling, picking House up by the hips he increases the intensity of his thrusts, pulling House flush against him, up and down on his cock, meeting him with sharp snaps of his hips, their bodies making wet, slapping noises. House arches his back, moaning breathlessly. Tritter loves the view, House's taut body, arched away from the mattress, only his shoulders and head still pressed into it, his hands gripping the headboard, all fine muscles bulging and rippling with their movements, his long neck exposed, Adam's apple bobbing when he swallows a groan. He can tell he's hurting House, going too deep, too fast, too hard. He pushes House until his head bangs against the headboard to the rhythm of his brutal thrusts, listening to his brave and compliant little moans. Pain, amusement and defiance flicker in those ice blue eyes that never leave him. When the waves hit him he lets go and pumps frantically, holding the hips beneath him still, shooting his load into this sweet and luscious, willing minx, grunting. He leans down and plunges House's open mouth, swallowing his pained, involuntary groans, when he rides out the aftershocks. He hides his face in House's neck and breathes him in, nuzzling behind his ear. He could almost imagine they were lovers.

"Wrap your legs around me and stroke my hair." He waits. A few moments pass and then he feels the smooth inside of thighs brush his sides and strong calves settle on his lower back. Delicate fingertips touch the crown of his head, softly petting. He feels save and content, never wants to let go again, this man is his solace. It's been years since he's felt so secure and so loved, snugly tucked between the legs of this man. He feels his softened penis slip out, House's small intake of breath and clenching of stomach muscles making it twitch anew. He throws the used condom next to them on the bed.

"I want to come back here tomorrow." This time he feels House tense in his arms. He lifts his head and looks into House's eyes, seeing badly disguised confusion in them.

"You said you'd stay away, give us a delay." House lets his legs slide down, pushing up against him.

"I'll come alone. I want to see you again. And I'll bring some more money." He doesn't let House up, not yet. He slowly leans in, looking into the beautifully wide, upset, blue eyes, intending to kiss the parted lips. House avoids his mouth.

"You want to 'see' me again? There is a much more accurate terms describing what you want to do. Actually 'do' is also quite fitting." Tritter smirks. "You'll bring more money, why? I mean, it's smart, because there will certainly be a drastic, over-night rise in prices at this place! And you haven't seen Madam in full throttle negotiating mode, yet!" He snorts a fake laugh, rolling his eyes.

"You'll see what I'm going to buy with that money. Maybe I want to do things to you that cost extra." He looks evenly at House. Then he suddenly grabs him and presses their mouths together, lingering little presses of lips until House pushes him away.

"Time's up!" He says with raised eyebrows. He pushes up against Tritter and manages to throw him off, then grabs a light blue satin robe that reaches over his scar and wraps it around himself. "You should get dressed. Overtime costs double. I'm sure you already robbed the piggy bank for this little tryst." He walks to the small armchair and sits with one leg over the armrest, dangling, but covering his groin with the robe. He picks a red lollipop from the bowl and puts it in his mouth, looking expectantly at Tritter.

Smiling he stands and puts on his cloths while talking. He'd shower later, not wanting to wash away House's scent, yet. "I think I'm a little in love. You are everything they said you are and more." He takes in House's bewildered gaze and flaring nostrils, watching his expression morph into something comically, eyes wide, mouth pinched in fake smile. Then he shrugs exaggeratedly.

"Tsk, me too, dude, now that we know each other a little better." He puts a finger to his lips. "Now that I think about it, you really are a nice guy, and such a stud, oh my god…"

Tritter laughs, enjoying the show. "You agree then. How about I take you to my place tomorrow. Dinner. I have a piano. I hear you're petty good. And I have a nice, large bed and plenty of condoms. You would have to bring that dildo, though. What do you think?"

House smiles slowly.

"Yah, wouldn't you love that. No home visits for customers, no nights out. You should study the house rules some time – no pun intended." He sucks the lollipop back into his mouth, waiting.

Tritter has finished dressing and steps in front of House, reaching out to stroke his cheek. House lowers his hand with the lollipop, his face suddenly cold, his eyes blazing under his lowered eyebrows, all playfulness gone.

"I'm off the clock. My obligation to tolerate you and your bustling cock, smeary hands and hormone-high crazy-talk ends right here. Good bye."

The detective lets his hand fall to his side. But then he is suddenly in House's face again, nose to nose, looking into the defiant, unblinking eyes, the color of the irises bright and fierce like blue flames. How would he love to show the little whore who's in charge, rip off this ridiculous robe and just take him again.

"I can let this place blow up in no time. I want you to keep that in mind every time you feel the urge to get fresh. There would be no backdoor infirmary, no hiding illegals, no rescuing urchins and pickpockts. And no fucking your little boyfriend because you both would be too busy spreading your legs for other inmates." He sees House's eyelids flutter when he darts his hand inside the robe, kneading House's soft balls, smiling." You're lucky I'm in such a good mood and that I like you so much. You pleased me tonight. I would like to continue our little romance. I'll renegotiate certain terms in our 'contract' with your boss. With the right incentive I'm sure she'll be reasonable." He lets go of House's genitals and slips a finger into him, making him inhale sharply, eyes wide and disbelieving. "This is such a sweet place. I'll miss it when it's gone." He exhales a laugh. "But if you are willing to cooperate, I'm willing to look the other way so your people can make arrangements." He withdraws his finger and straightens, looking down at House, letting his eyes rake over him, loving the rapid, shallow rising and falling of his chest, the half-open robe and the parted lips under eyes filled with suppressed anger and resignation. Now he does stroke House's cheek, House looking away, working his jaws.

"See? You can be such a compliant little whore." He can see the hurt in House's face." I'll be back tomorrow." He leans down and kisses House's unresisting lips, dipping his tongue between them once.

The sudden burst of the door makes him break the kiss, standing up. Madam Cuddy strides into the room, followed by the two thugs, two other guys and two of his men. She looks House over, worried, seeing his disheveled state. House's eyes show her that there is indeed something to worry about. She directs her gaze at Tritter.

"Your time's up." She says in a neutral, cool voice, standing directly in front of him. He wonders how such a petite woman can appear so intimidating. "I'm here to remind you of our agreement and hope you will keep to your part of it." She looks up at him, calmly, but the little fluttering pulse on her slender, graceful neck betrays all demeanors. The detective smiles at her.

"Yes, after he fulfilled your part in such a satisfying manner! But I have to make some amendments regarding your side of the contract. And as I am in the better negotiating position I expect you to accept some new conditions." He inhales, raising his chin. "I want another night with your 'Satine'. A whole night. At my place. I'll pay you and you have him back in the morning."

Cuddy has listened to him, an angry, disbelieving frown on her face. She guffaws.

"No. You're new, so I tell you this once: No take away! I can't monitor him at your place and I have absolutely no insurance that you'll ever bring him back! What if you decide to arrest him, screw us all over! No, he's not leaving here with you." She looks at House, determined, taking in his deep scowl. "You can come back here and have your night with him, but you sure as hell are not going to take him anywhere beyond me reach. And be prepared to pay your pants off your ass, detective. Are we clear?" Her voice has gone soft at the last part, her eyebrows are raised, eyes heavy-lidded, but there was a strange threatening feel to her whole demeanor, like a lioness protecting her offspring. Tritter smiled at this image and at Cuddy's ultimately empty threat. Tigress without teeth.

"Clear. I will be back in an hour with two squads and let them go haywire." He leers at House. "And they will not use glacé gloves or condoms." He turns to go, nodding at his men, taking out his cell phone.

"Stop." House's voice sounded utterly defeated. He looks up into Cuddy's desperate eyes, then at the two young men standing at the door, clenching their fists. He closes his eyes for a moment, then raising them to Tritter's who's smugness oozes from every pore.

"Come here tomorrow at six to pick me up and pay Cuddy." His eyes narrow. "But I will take Foreman and Chase with me as chaperones. You will bring us back the next morning at eight and then you will give us a week, so we can make our arrangements." He has risen and stood up to his full height, his eyes boring into Tritter's. "And when you break the deal or try anything, believe me, you're gonna live in hell. Because one advantage of being an outlaw is that you don't have to play by anyone's rules!" He breathes fast, his eyes blazing with fury.

Tritter lets his head fall to his chest, hands in pockets, taking the few steps over back to House and stands in front of him. He looks up, smiling slowly, leaning in.

"I'm glad you changed your mind." He studies House. "Wear something nice. We're going to have dinner."

House looks back at him, coldly, but nods once. Tritter quickly turns to go, his eyes lingering on House. When he and his men disappear through the door Cuddy nods at the two boys, instructing them to make sure every cop leaves the building. Then she turns back to House.

"Are you insane? The guy is a complete nutcase and a corrupt cop. House, I can't protect you when you leave Storyville. Less so when you're in this creep's house. When he decides to break the deal, we have nothing! I know you love and hate this place, we all do, but you don't have to play martyr!" Her eyes widen at a sudden terrible thought, chin dropping, taking in House's somber, pensive stare. "You – you want to what – blackmail him? Torture him? Kill him? That wouldn't solve anything! You'd get the chair and they will make sure to make a big pile to burn us all at the stake. This place would be lost either way."

"Do you have a better idea?" House suddenly yells, his voice breaking slightly. "Do you think I like the prospect? This fucking maniac wants to play house with me!"

Cuddy looks at him, that desperate, sympathetic look back. She turns back to Foreman and Chase. "Get the others to my office, we'll have a crisis talk. We have to prepare for leaving and find a way to stop this cop!" They both nod and disappear.

Cuddy slowly walks over to were House is still standing and lays a hand on his arm. She regards him, her eyes soft.

"We'll find a way, House. We always have. This isn't going to destroy us. They took away our lives, our jobs and we survived. And we are still all together, that counts for something. We have to decide now what we'll do." House looks at her, a deep frown on his face. "Go, get cleaned up, I'll send Wilson in. He'll want to see you." She nods at House and turns to go.

Wilson. She's never seen him so upset as in the last hour since the government changes and their narrow escape from New Jersey when the hospital was shut down and all their licenses revoked. They had to hold him back so he wouldn't barge into House's room to kill the cop. And everyone would have loved to pass him the big knife and the hacksaw to assist him.

She finds Wilson in the small study on the settee, Cameron at one side, holding his hand, Taub at the other. They all look up, Wilson winding out of their grasps, standing before Cuddy, breathing fast, looking accusingly at her, his eyes almost black in the dim light and behind the curtain of his grown-out hair. It made him look fifteen years younger. She presses her lips in a line and looks up at him apologetically. She knows he blames her for House's situation. She could have said no. House could have said no. But they would all be sitting in busses on their way to the giant jailhouses, their home gone in flames.

"He's waiting." She croaks, her voice giving out. She watches him rush out the door without a word or another glance.

He runs through the narrow hallways of the old house, brushing people on his way and finally throws open the door to House's room, panting, out of breath. He stumbles into the small adjoined bathroom where House turns around in the shower with a surprised look on his face and catches him in his arms when Wilson presses himself against him, a desperate sound bursting from his throat and buries his face in House's warm, wet chest.

House lays a careful hand on his friends hair and strokes it. He feels himself smile at Wilson's impetuous gesture. He lays his hands on either side of Wilson's face and brings them nose to nose, looking into the beautiful brown eyes. Then he kisses his love softly and slowly, savoring him, his tears mingling with drops of water.

He hold's Wilson's head to his heart, thinking about how to tell him what he has to do tomorrow in order to protect them. He won't like it.