At The Spectra
Disclaimer: House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.
A/N: This is a post-ep for "Knight Fall". S6 Ep. 18 thus contains spoilers for season six up to and including this episode. This will be a short chaptered fic of no more than five chapters. It was an idea that struck me at three o'clock in the morning so if it's too weird, you now know why! Un-Beta-ed. Please remember to review. Con-crit welcome but no flaming, please.
Warning: This is a H/W pre-slash/slash fic. If you are not into that, this fic is not for you.
Rated M for explicit sexual content, coarse language and violence. Reader Discretion is advised.
He dodged clinic hours as well as Wilson by leaving the hospital early. His case with the fallen knight was solved, his leg hurt more than before he took his last ibuprofen, he was disheartened and all he wanted to do was go somewhere no one would think to look for him and get very, very drunk—drunker than he had been since before admitting himself to Mayfield. Shit-faced--that's what he wanted. It had to be somewhere close enough to the loft so that he could walk there after (assuming after he finished consuming the kind of quantities he was thinking about that he could still walk) but a place where absolutely no one would expect him to be. He didn't want to be found by his team if a new case was found but he especially didn't want to be located by Wilson.
Just thinking about his best friend reminded him of the harpy who had broken the oncologist's heart twenty years ago and was back to cut it into tiny pieces and feed upon it so that there was no way House could help Wilson put it back together again. He thought about the unopened manila envelope Lucas Douglas had given him, full of juicy and incriminating information that he'd hoped would give him the upper edge on defeating that foul blonde beast once and for all. The only reason he hadn't opened that envelope was because of Wilson. House was certain that Samantha Carr was nothing but a heartache in the waiting for the oncologist but not so certain that she wasn't slightly less harmful for Wilson than he was. If there was a chance that Wilson could find happiness with Sam, the diagnostician didn't want to deny him that—Wilson deserved to be happy with someone. He certainly didn't seem to be all that happy with House as his friend anymore. He knew how badly his scheming and jealousy had hurt the younger man in the past and was determined not to be that kind of asshole anymore but it was pointless; he would never change.
This was all because the truth of the matter was…House loved Wilson enough to let him go and be with Sam if that was what was in the oncologist's best interest. He wanted to believe that Sam was anything but what Wilson needed, but he didn't know that for certain. All House did know was that all he had ever brought anyone whom he'd ever loved was misery.
House rode his motorcycle fast and dangerously, as he always did, but this time there was a careless recklessness in what he did, and he was only partially aware of it. He rode into the parking lot of a nightclub that was located a little less than a half-mile from the loft. He chose this place because it fit all of the criteria he had decided upon; it was within walking distance of home and no one would ever suspect him of frequenting (in truth, he never had been there before); the Spectra Lounge was a gay nightclub.
The moment he approached the converted automotive supply warehouse he could hear the sound of dance music leaking out of the club underneath the doors and through every crack in the walls, or so it seemed. The steady, pounding beat seemed to be harmonic with the beating of his heart. A few men stood around talking or smoking outside the establishment and a few were engaged in free enterprise, both in entertainment and pharmaceuticals. Following the musty, earthy scent in the air, House contributed to the capitalist system, buying two joints and pocketing them in his jeans. He noticed a couple of pairs of eyes follow him with some interest as he headed for the entrance and he had to admit that it didn't bother him at all. It felt good to still be able to draw a little attention at his age. If only he wasn't a gimp, he might have a greater range of possibilities, but there were some willing to overlook nuisances like a crippled leg.
It wasn't like this was the first gay establishment the diagnostician had been to in his life. For a time when he was an undergrad he and a couple of guys from the dorm would gravitate that direction when the rest of the young men would head to the peelers or campus pubs to get drunk and pick up some tail. House alternated his choices in destination, never one to limit himself to just one way or another. It was like doubling his odds of success and he had always been fairly open-minded to just about everything when it came to pleasure and self-indulgence. Life was too short and miserable not to be. As he grew older his tastes had leaned towards the heterosexual, but he had never ruled out the homosexual either. He just didn't discuss his alternative proclivities, not even with his best friend; House didn't know how Wilson would react to knowing that his best friend got just as hot with men as he did with women and in fact lusted over the oncologist secretly all the time.
At the door he noticed the very large door man and wondered fleetingly if the guy ever took anything into his body that wasn't steroidal in nature. House stood nearly six-foot-three but the tower of muscle mass glaring at him was easily a head taller and had to have been at least two hundred and fifty pounds of protein.
He paid the cashier his thirty dollar cover charge and walked into a dark, hot cavern of music, dance, negotiations, hunting and pure carnality. It was a kaleidoscope of colors, flashing lights and the constant movement of strutting, undulating, twisting and pumping bodies on the dance floor. Men of all types, shapes and sizes moved and shook around him. Some were more conservatively dressed as he was, others were flamboyant, others were tastefully refined and others liked the macho look. There was a lot of flesh exposed, and House wasn't just a little bit enthralled with a lot of what he saw. The air was heavy with the scent of cologne, sweat, musk, alcohol, and sex.
He found an empty table back from the dance floor and sat down, hanging his cane on the back of his chair. For obvious reasons he was more a watcher than a participant these days, but before the infarction, and after a couple of drinks and a toke or two, he had been known to produce a little sweat on the dance floor himself. House grinned at the thought of the expressions on the faces of Wilson and his team if they ever found out about this private and secret aspect of his life. It wasn't that House was ashamed; he simply valued the privacy of his personal life, was all. It was nobody's business whom he screwed but his own.
A well built and endowed waiter clad in a tight white muscle shirt and a pair of some of the tightest black denim shorts the diagnostician had ever seen on anyone, man or woman, arrived at his table to take a drink order. House thought for a moment; he hadn't done much drinking since his release from Mayfield, a couple of beers here, a glass of wine there, and he didn't know which liquor he missed the most. That, and his indecision kept the waiter at his table a little longer, giving the diagnostician a chance to check out his total package a little more completely.
"Double Jack's, neat," he told the waiter and then watched the guy's ass as he walked away to fill the order; tight, firm, very nice. His drink was back nearly right away, giving House both the coming and going view. He brought his glass to his mouth and took a deep swallow, cringing slightly at the burn as the whiskey made its way down his gullet to his empty stomach. There was no point in eating anything that would slow the absorption of the alcohol into his bloodstream when his primary purpose for being there was to get as drunk as he could as quickly as he could and then maintain that as long as he and his money held out.
Despite the selection all around him, however, the only person he could think of was Wilson, the last person he wanted to think about that evening. How long had House known that he was in love with his best friend of over a decade? He knew that there had been the definite pull of attraction from the moment House walked into that fateful bar in New Orleans and saw the younger doctor for the first time. Wilson had been so young, so drunk and so beautiful. Beautiful was a word House had spoken aloud perhaps a handful of times in his life, one of them to Wilson although no one had heard it when he had said it, not even Wilson himself; the oncologist had been passed out at the time and the diagnostician had been nearly as out of it but not so much that he didn't remember whispering it into Wilson's deaf ear just before kissing his lips chastely when no one else was looking.
He had known for certain that he was in love with the boy-wonder oncologist after the younger man's common-law, Amber, died in a fateful and tragic bus crash that both she and House had been a part of and which he had been accused of dragging her into. The day Wilson had told House that he had to leave, that he wondered if he and the diagnostician had ever really been friends in the first place, and ran away—that was the day he had had the epiphany of his true feelings for the most important person in the world to him, then and now. Just the memory of the heartbreak House had felt that day was enough to cause his throat to tighten and his eyes to sting with emotions he now felt more often than he wished he did.
Just when House was beginning to believe that there was the smallest possibility that Wilson harbored some kind of deeper feelings for him as well, that bitch Sam turned up again like a bad penny and distracted him again. Yet another woman to interfere with his relationship with the oncologist and threaten to destroy the good thing they had going and the possibility of a better thing to come. She was yet another rival, just as Julie, Bonnie and Amber had been—another fucking hurdle that his crippled ass had to jump over again.
How could Wilson be so stupid to try to make a go of it with her again after such a long time divorced and after the deep depression and stab to his self-esteem he had suffered because of her the first time around?
House finished his drink and ordered two more of the same in quick succession. He knew that pickling his liver today would come back to haunt him tomorrow, but he didn't care.
How could Wilson do this to him? After all of the effort he had gone through to kick the Vicodin and work on his issues so he could come close to being the kind of person that would make the younger man happy the younger man had to go off and fuck his ex-wife. Didn't he have a clue what this woman was going to do to their friendship? She was going to tear them apart and take over Wilson just as Amber had begun to do. House would be left all alone. If he lost Wilson, his life would be meaningless and empty—emptier and more miserable than it had ever been.
His ruined thigh spasmed at the thought of that, but as it had been doing now for the past bit, the pain now extended up into his lower abdomen and was much stronger that it had been just a few months before. It was getting worse, whatever it was, and that terrified him. He knew he should have the MRI and arteriogram done to find out what exactly the problem was, if it was in fact the artery or not, but he was terrified to know. He feared another infarction, or worse. He feared having to have his leg amputated altogether, and was pretty certain that he would rather die than have that happen. He has been debating telling Wilson about it, and his best friend seemed to be oblivious of anything out of the unusual with the diagnostician. Now, House wondered if there was any point. With Sam back in his life, would Wilson even care?
He felt the alcohol begin to deaden his emotions but he wanted to forget as well as become numb. He ordered yet another drink. When it arrived the waiter set the glass on the table and whispered to House, "This is compliments of the gentleman in red at the bar."
House didn't have to move his head to look, which was a bonus. The guy in question sat at one end of the bar. He wore a casual button up shirt in red and black form-fitting trousers. He was quite handsome, in his forties with dark blond hair cut short, although not as short as House's and a well-built body. He looked like he played racquetball or squash on a regular basis and did some running, as well.
Tempted not to acknowledge him, House paused a moment at that thought. It was possible that Red could be a distraction from thinking about what he was about to lose with Wilson. His best friend was getting some, why couldn't he? House smiled to himself again, thinking about dinner the other night with Wilson, Sam and the cross-dressing hooker he had brought as his date to embarrass Wilson, make Sam uncomfortable and otherwise ruin the evening. It had backfired on him, but he wondered what would have happened if he'd brought Red along instead.
House turned to look at Red briefly, whom was watching him, and nodded in acknowledgement before turning back to his drink. It was now up to Red to make his move. Usually House would assert his dominance by making the first move, but tonight he simply wanted a lay and was willing to be wooed rather than put out the extra effort. He could assert himself in bed instead.
As expected, a few minutes later Red came up to House's table.
"Hi, I'm Davin. Mind if I join you?"
House looked up at him and smiled thinly. "Isn't that what we're here for?" he asked.
Davin sat down in the chair next to the diagnostician's, grinning. "Good point, uh…?
"Just call me House."
"Okay," Davin said agreeably, shrugging. "So do you come here of--?"
House rolled his eyes and cut him off mid-sentence. "Look, let's skip the clichés, shall we? I don't really care who you are and I'm pretty certain you feel the same way. From the strip of lighter skin on your left ring finger I can tell that you ordinarily wear a wedding band so your spouse probably has no idea you're here and you want it to stay that way, which is cool. I don't want any strings either. You're here to get laid and so am I. Another drink and we can meet both of our expectations. There's no need to get personal about it."
An amused smile crossed Davin's face, causing his green eyes to sparkle. Under the table he placed his hand on House's left thigh and began to move it slowly up the inseam towards his groin.
"You don't mince words, do you?" he said to House. The diagnostician kept his voice even despite the fact that the sensation of Davin's hand now brushing against his hardening cock threatened to cause him to gasp.
"Who has time?" the doctor told him, smiling slyly. Fuck, that felt good!
They both had more to drink, but with each passing minute they moved closer to each other and began to tease , getting each other to the point where it was silently and mutually agreed to take this elsewhere.
They left the club with House's hand unashamedly on Davin's ass. They went around the building towards the parking lot, groping each other, and headed for Davin's black Porsche. House was so hard he could barely stand it, his cock pressing hard against the fly of his jeans, wanting to be freed, to be satisfied. Davin was just as ready. House decided it was time to assert his position and grabbed Davin, pushing him up against the front hood, kissing him bruisingly, hungrily. He pressed his tongue forcefully against the other man's lips and Davin allowed House access to his mouth where their tongues took over the fight for dominance. Their hands were all over each other, rubbing, pinching, squeezing. There was no gentleness or care involved here. It was purely sexual, hot and animalistic. They pulled away from each other until they were both in the car, where they resumed to paw, kiss and bite.
"My wife's out of town," Davin said, pulling his tongue out of House's mouth long enough to talk. "We can go to my place." The diagnostician shook his head.
"No, my place is closer," House growled, panting. "My roommate is working late tonight. We'll go there."
It was agreed and within two minutes the Porsche pulled up at the curb outside of the condo complex. Both men took it upstairs to the loft, unable to keep their hands off of each other even before they entered the front door. House broke away long enough to grab a scarf from the coat rack and wrap it around the outside door knob before shutting and locking the door behind him.
The rest was a blur of clothes being removed and dropped as they made their way to House's bedroom, hands groping, rubbing, pinching, spanking. A cane was discarded along the way. Bodies were rammed against furniture that stood in their way and it was decided that the corridor wall would serve their purposes for round one. House had grabbed a condom out of his pocket before discarding his jeans and put it on now. He slammed Davin against the wall face first and proceeded to pull down the other man's boxers; Davin's pants had been discarded along with House's just inside the living room. Once his sex partner was freed of his underwear, House unceremoniously pushed into him and began to fuck him right there. There were growls, gasps and groans coming from both mouths. Davin cried out in pain when House sunk his teeth into the tender flesh where the other man's neck and shoulder met. It only fueled the fires. House was pounding him into the wall for all he was worth. It was a frenzied rut, selfish and hot. Although he wasn't at all concerned about how it was for Davin, the diagnostician was good at everything he applied himself to and Davin came just before House did, leaving a stain of cum dripping down the wall and all over himself.
It wasn't over yet. Davin literally pushed House through the open doorway to his bedroom and onto the bed. He slammed the door behind them and then followed House onto the bed, earning a quick warning about avoiding House's wounded thigh. The diagnostician had been self-conscious of his scar but Davin hadn't seemed to notice so he forced it out of his head. It was House's turn to be fucked, and midway through Davin suggested they experiment with erotic asphyxiation; House had tried it once before, a long time ago, and hadn't been all that thrilled with the experience but the blond man insisted and House gave in, going along with it. They used one of Wilson's older, less favored ties, which Davin wrapped around House's throat. They faced each other now and Davin, holding up the diagnostician's legs on his shoulders entered him again, holding tight to the tie with his hands. At first House felt a little panicky but chided himself for being such a fucking wuss. The harder Davin thrusted, the tighter he pulled on the tie.
For House it was one of the most amazing sensations he had ever experienced but Davin continued to get rougher and pulled tighter until House couldn't draw in any air at all. He was being strangled. Realizing that his drunken mind had made a serious error he began to pull at the tie around his neck as he desperately tried to loosen it so he could breathe. House began to flail his body, kick with his legs and pound on Davin's arms but the other man simple continued to choke and fuck him mercilessly. House was strong and knew how to fight when he needed to, but as his body became increasingly oxygen-depleted, his muscle strength and coordination failed him. The diagnostician knew he couldn't last much longer. He was already beginning to fade out and he realized that this was no overexuberance or misunderstanding between the two of them. Davin was intentionally trying to strangle him to death, and was succeeding.
House's last sight before unconsciousness was that of Davin's maniacal smile grinning in sadistic ecstasy and his final thought was that he would never see Wilson or hear his voice ever again.
Dr. James Wilson decided to take the elevator upstairs to the loft rather than take the stairs. It had been a long day at the hospital and he had felt a migraine coming on so he wanted to keep the physical exertions to a minimum. He had planned on taking Sam out to dinner tonight but had begged out when the vertical squiggles began to play along the periphery of his vision. He had immediately taken one gram of ibuprofen to knock the migraine out before it had a chance to hit him, and he'd staved off a complete attack, but he still had a headache and felt nauseous so Sam had understood when he said that he had to go straight home and go to bed.
When he stepped off of the elevator and saw the loft door standing wide open, he paused a moment and questioned why House would leave it like that. It wasn't like him. House highly valued privacy and never left the door open unless they were carrying in or out items which left them with hands that weren't free to open and shut the door every time they went through. Since Wilson knew that they weren't expecting anything to be delivered and House wouldn't even attempt to move anything large or awkward in or out of the loft on his own, it seemed unlikely the door had been intentionally left open.
A shiver ran down the oncologist's spine. Something didn't feel right. At first he thought it could be a break in, but there wasn't any sign of damage done to the door or the door jambs so that seemed unlikely. House had left a message at the front desk in the hospital lobby for Wilson stating that he was leaving early, that he was feeling under the weather. House never admitted to being sick unless it was something serious that he couldn't hide or deny. What if House was seriously ill? What if he had been too sick to remember to close the door, or to have been able to close the door? A sick feeling came over Wilson that had nothing to do with his previous nausea.
Wasting no more time, Wilson ran into the foyer of the loft and looked around.
"House?" Wilson called out worriedly, dropping his briefcase by the still open door. "House, are you here? Are you okay?"
As Wilson walked out of the foyer he stopped short. House's clothes were heaped together in a small pile on the coffee table in the center of the living room. He shook his head, baffled. What on earth were they doing there? Wilson began to move around the loft, looking for House and calling out his name. After checking the kitchen and House's bathroom, Wilson decided to check his bedroom next. As he headed down the corridor his eye spotted the stain on the wall. He frowned, outraged. So House had had someone in the loft with him after all. Thoroughly disgusted, Wilson stormed into House's bedroom, not caring if he was 'disturbing' anything and stopped short, letting out a strangled cry of horror at what he saw.
The diagnostician, his best friend, lay unconscious on top of his bed, completely naked, with what appeared to be one of Wilson's ties tightened and knotted around his throat. The bulging eyes, the appearance of petechial hemorrhaging clearly evident in the whites of them, and the cyanotic color to his skin instantly told Wilson that the older man had been strangled and appeared to be dead. He was frozen in place for only a split second and then exploded into instinctual action. He ran to House and began to work at untying the knot but he was having no success. He ran for the kitchen, grabbed one of his razor sharp utility knives from the block and hurried back to House where he quickly but carefully cut through the silken material. Once cut, he quickly unwrapped it from around House's neck and then felt for a carotid pulse. He found one, but it was dangerously slow and weak. He placed his ear next to House's mouth. The older man wasn't breathing.
Shaking violently and near tears Wilson grabbed his cell phone from where it was clipped onto his belt and called for an ambulance. Next he grabbed House and carefully lowered him down to the hardwood floor where the diagnostician rested on his back on a firm surface. He proceeded with Artificial Respiration, breathing for his friend. Tears were rolling down the oncologist's face and every time he stopped in order to check his pulse and breathing all he could do was murmur his name between sobs.
"Greg," he said desperately, "please. Please, Greg, I need you to start breathing! I need you to fight!"
Wilson was still breathing for House when the paramedics stormed into the loft five minutes later and headed in the direct of Wilson's shouts. They urged the oncologist to the side and took over from him. As he watched the two men work diligently over his best friend, Wilson could only wonder what the hell had happened just a few minutes earlier. What he saw terrified him to the core and for the first time since Amber lay dying in his arms Wilson prayed; he begged God to save House's life because the younger man really didn't think he could make it if House didn't.