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 Posting a reply to post #13245

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13245 No.13245
Can we have some House/Wilson stuff please?

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The bromance transcends the lack of /co/.

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You know, I should feel bad for posting this. But I don't. :D

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OMG House/Wilson chibis~

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Please don't let this ugly ass ship invade another part of my internet life.

Reported for no connection whatsoever to /co/. Go back to LJ, faggots.

well, it's essentially modernized Holmes/Watson, so in that light it could be considered related.


polite sage, no need to bump for drama

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Yeah, not to mention lazy-eyed.

Also, Holmes/Watson > this retarded ship, and STILL NOT /co/ RELATED.

"Not /co/-related" is kind of a moot point now. We've been having Kiss Kiss Bang Bang threads (which I guess are tangentially related because RDJ and Val Kilmer both played superheroes NOT THAT I'M COMPLAINING) and the District 9 thread is going strong (I could complain more about this one, but eh). TF2 (/v/), Doctor Horrible, and Doctor Who (both closer to the /tv/ end) are also somewhat grey areas, since their source materials aren't explicitly comic book or cartoon oriented, even if they have adaptations.

I think at this point, we just give the thread a go, like with KKBB. If it garners enough interest, just let it stay and ignore it.

>Modernized Holmes and Watson

There is nothing wrong with House/Wilson except for when their fans insist that they are the new Holmes/Watson. They aren't. House has very little in common with Holmes besides a self-destructive genius, and Wilson doesn't have much in common to Watson besides being a Doctor.


the show is entirely based on the premise of House as Holmes. he even lives at 221B. it might not be a very close match, but it was the intention of the creators just the same.

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Too late, asshole!


Nobody likes a wanker


I'm just going to point out a basket full of sleeping pink kittens can't be as cute as houses face here. I d'awwed like a bitch.

While you're correct that it has absolutely no relation to /co/, /pco/ and /coq/ are open for anything Western, Western-inspired, and drawn. (Seriously, look at /pco/'s listing in the FAQ.) They're meant to be as much a place to post toon porn as they are a refuge for similar interests that aren't allowed on most other *chans.

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Less talk more porn, please


Hey! It's gay, and It's porn.

What else do you want?

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Man, all I've got is SFW stuff. :/

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I know this is a House and Wilson thread, but I don't think you guys will mind if I post this, right?

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bumping to spite ass holes.

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I wish I could show that to House and Wilson. Just to see their reaction.

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needs more fic

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Thank you, sir.

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Post some fanfic pleaseeee

Okay, well, since there's no fic in here, I'm gonna dump some non-original content, but my fav fic for the pair so I'm going up. Hopefully, some of you haven't read it some place else.


Like most change for the worse, it starts out small.

Wilson stops coming to the cafeteria for lunch. At first House puts it down to fluke, but after three consecutive days of buying his own food he goes to Wilson's office to find it empty, his coat gone. Cuddy's office is next.

"Where the hell's Wilson?"

Cuddy doesn't look up from her paperwork.

"Don't know. Come in, by the way."

"He's not in his office."

"Then I guess he's at lunch."

"His coat is gone."

"Then I guess he's out to lunch."

"When does Wilson ever go out to lunch?"

"House, don't ask me, I thought you were the one with the tracking device on him."

"That would be intrusive. I'm merely concerned."

Cuddy rolls her eyes and stands up, carrying a stack of papers towards the doorway.

"You know, most kids are taught to share. You are both an only child and a jerk, so maybe you never learned, but once in a while you have to put the toy down and give the other children a chance."

"I have no problem with sharing, I have a problem with preternaturally cutthroat children. Which, by the way, I thought we were in agreement on."

"Wilson's a big boy. I told him what I think, it's up to him to decide how to use that information. Unlike some people, I can handle the possibility that I might be wrong."

"Gosh, what an attitude. If only I could be so well adjusted."

"Let it go, House", she warns as she leaves. "You're not losing him."

He stares after her for a while, trying to interpret the words as anything other than hollow.
There is no doubt in his mind whatsoever that his patient does not have cancer. Only three out of five symptoms match the diagnosis at all and the MRI couldn't have come back much clearer. He pages Wilson for a consult nonetheless.

"What about early onset Alzheimer's?" Kutner suggests. "Would explain the memory loss, the mood changes, the delusional behaviour--"

"You do know that early onset doesn't actually mean early, right? It sure as hell doesn't mean thirty one years old."

"Makes more sense than cancer," Kutner retorts.

"Wait, are we still on cancer?" Thirteen asks, bemused. "The MRI is clear."

"Doesn't matter. He needs an excuse to pester Wilson," Foreman explains.

"The MRI is inconclusive."

"House, there's nothing inconclusive about it!" Thirteen exclaims. "There's no tumour in her brain. Can we stop wasting time?"

"Actually, since when do you need an excuse?" Foreman asks, frowning. "Why not just barge in on him like you usually do?"

"Now that would be wasting time," House replies, feigning shock. "What I'm doing is taking precautions."

The phone rings, cutting Thirteen off as she opens her mouth to reply.


"This is Doctor Brown," comes the distinctly unfamiliar voice. "Doctor Wilson said you need a consult."

He stares at the receiver for a moment before replacing it, not bothering to reply. Without missing a beat he grabs his cane and strides towards the door, ignoring the array of bemused stares.

"Since when do you pawn my consults off onto Brown?"

Wilson looks up as House throws his door open, frowning.

" busy, figured Brown could handle it."

"You figured."

"Yeah." He crosses his arms over his chest, defensive. "Why, what's the big deal?"

"Where did you go for lunch?" House asks swiftly.

Wilson mouths incoherently for a moment or two, caught off guard.

"Why...Since when do you care where I go for lunch?"

"Date with the better half? And I use the word `better' in the sense of `pure evil'."

"I thought we were over this. I thought you''d reformed, you'd found the noble art of self-sacrifice."

"Your words, not mine. I told you, I don't sacrifice self."

"House," Wilson says, in a placating tone that sets his teeth on edge. "What was I supposed to do, invite you? Bring her along to lunch in the cafeteria?"

"Sure, why not?"

"Right, I'd forgotten how well you deal with change."

House glares at him in silence.

"Look, do you want me to do the consult now?"

"No," House mutters, averting his gaze. "It's not cancer."

Wilson sighs, nodding. Figuring it might not be too late to save face he turns to leave, shooting what he hopes is a flippant glance over his shoulder.

"You owe me lunch tomorrow. Reuben doesn't buy itself."

The last straw comes when House, more for symbolism's sake than anything, gets hold of the best monster truck tickets available for love or money. He doesn't even try to disguise the inherent guilt trip when he presents them to Wilson, the unspoken "hey, remember the last time you turned these down?", and can't bring himself to feel any hint of surprise when Wilson looks at him apologetically.

"Friday, I can't. I really, really can't."

"Conference? Rectal cancer?"

"Dinner. With Amber."

"So, cancel. Lie."

"I can't cancel on her, not again. Can't do it."

House smiles bitterly, his stomach churning.

"So how does this work between you guys? Is it like a timeshare thing, she gives you back your balls for weekends and public holidays...?"

"I already cancelled a date once this week, I had to work late. I have to go this time."

"Have to? Wow. Now that's romance."

Wilson gives him a look. "I didn't--"

"Most couples make it through at least the first six months before they get to that resentful sense of obligation stage, you guys are way ahead of the game."

"I want to go," Wilson amends, firmly. "Believe it or not, Amber actually makes me happy. Which I know to you probably constitutes the eighth deadly sin, but for some people it's actually a good thing. Healthy."

"Right, because you're the world-class expert on well adjusted. Keep kidding yourself." He can't keep the bitter edge out of his voice.

"This relationship isn't going to fail just because you want it to, House."

"No. It'll fail because you're you."

"Funny, I thought you said it was going to fail because she's you. A proxy, right?"

There are about a hundred things he wants to say then but he's said too much already, Wilson's looking intently at him and he can't remember ever feeling this exposed.

"She's not me," he snaps, his voice more brittle than he'd like.

For a moment, one brief, glorious moment he thinks he sees a flicker of something in Wilson's eyes, some acknowledgement of what he's sure his face is betraying.

"House," Wilson says quietly, unwaveringly. "Is there something you want to say to me?"

His throat clenches; they're standing so close now he can feel Wilson's breath on his face and for a moment he's frozen, they are frozen. He takes a breath, swallowing, yanks a smirk onto his face far too late.

"Wear a rubber."

It's a lame ender by anybody's standards, apropos of nothing, but the need to get out of there is suffocating him, away from Wilson and his familiar voice and his gentle eyes filled with something that looks suddenly, horribly, like pity.

Back in his office he takes three pills on the trot, viciously dismisses every diagnostic suggestion, threatens Kutner with suspension and yells at Foreman for no particular reason. None of it has any effect whatsoever on the haze of dread that's clouding his mind, the awful numbing sense of loss, of something slipping away like sand through his fingers. His patient is dying, and he doesn't care.

Even when his cowed team solve the case (Miller-Fisher syndrome), he feels nothing. He goes home, drinks his way through the remainder of a bottle of Maker's Mark and even as he's drifting, pleasantly numb, he can't escape the pounding echo in his skull, the truth that he is losing Wilson, losinglosinglosing and this is only what he deserves, this is poetic justice.

He wakes up hours later and sees the empty bourbon bottle lying in several jagged pieces on the floor, blood still drying on his hand.


He stays late in his office the next night, long after everyone else has left he sits in the semi-darkness, tossing his ball half-heartedly against the wall.


He doesn't look up. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Wilson silhouetted in the doorway, briefcase in hand.

"Want to get some dinner?"

House pauses, rotates the ball anti-clockwise between his fingers.

"Don't you have somewhere else to be?" he asks flatly.


"Amber got other plans?"

"What? She--" Wilson frowns. "Why does it matter? Come on, I'm starving."

House looks at him, pretending to consider.

"Sorry, can't do it."

Wilson blinks. "Right, no, I can see you've got better things to do. In your office. Alone."

House stands abruptly, tossing the ball aside.

"Didn't say I had better plans. Just that I'm not having dinner with you." He hates this, hates what he's become, the petulant edge to his voice and the way he can't ever let anything be easy. But he's never felt less in control and this is all he can do, now, strike pre-emptively, push harder and more viciously before Wilson has the chance.

"What...what's going on here?" Wilson looks somewhere between hurt and bemused, and House wants to grab hold and wipe the innocence off his face because he knows damn well what's going on, has to know what he's doing.

"I'm not into playing second fiddle," he says, pushing past Wilson. "Find another backup plan."


He feels a hand on his shoulder, and stops. It's ridiculous the effect it has on him, this small, meaningless touch, knocking the breath out of him for a second as a ringing starts in his ears and he can't look back, can't do anything but keep walking.

"I don't need to tell you how unreasonable you're being, right?"

Cuddy catches up to him in the halfway the next day and he braces himself for the lecture.

"Probably not. You'll have to narrow it down though, I can be pretty unreasonable a lot of the time."

"Hard to imagine. I talked to Wilson."

"Gotta love locker room talk. So, did you find out who he's asking to the prom?"

She stops him mid-walk, one hand on his chest.

"I said that you weren't losing him. If you carry on like this, you just might prove me wrong."

He looks slowly down at her hand, then back up at her.

"Get off me."

She takes a step back, eyes narrowing as she registers his tone, and he's walking away before she has time to regroup. He doesn't need Cuddy or anybody else to tell him he's being unfair, irrational, selfish, immature or frankly pathetic. He knows all this. He can't bring himself to care very much.

This whole thing would be a whole lot easier if his leg wasn't screaming in protest every time he so much as thinks of moving; he's double-dosing on Vicodin and still it isn't enough, and all he can think about is how much Wilson would love this if he knew. Psychosomatic pain, again, mind and matter colliding. It'd be beautiful if it weren't so goddamn painful.

As far as the five stages of loss are concerned, he's steamrolled past denial and forgone bargaining altogether in favour of anger, despair, and even, now, acceptance. He's beginning to resign himself to this reality, the constant sickening dread churning his stomach, the unfamiliar sense of emptiness and the throbbing in his leg, referred pain like he's lost a limb. Nonetheless something is creeping in around the edges, something he can't call hope but can comfortably label as denial, and it's never been in his nature to go down without a dirty fight.

Amber's apartment (Amber and Wilson's, he reminds himself bitterly) is every bit as coldly chic and uninspired as he remembers. She answers the door wearing another of Wilson's shirts, a button-down he recognises immediately.

"What are you doing here?"

"Selling cookies." He pushes through the doorway and she stands aside resignedly, arms crossed. "Do you actually own any clothes of your own?"

"If I'd known you were coming, I'd have dressed for the occasion," she deadpans. "Why are you here?"

"Wilson not home?" he asks, ignoring her question.

Amber sighs. "He's at work. Which you know. What is this, like you marking your territory?"

"Well, I figured he probably wouldn't appreciate me peeing on him. You, on the other hand, are marking your territory by aggressively wearing his clothing around the house."

"Yep. Got me. I saw you coming and ran to change into this, just to prove a point."

Looking around the apartment he can't see much that's changed since his last visit; there's no semblance of Wilson anywhere, none of his possessions scattered in the living room, no familiar posters on the wall or ridiculously specialised kitchenware on the countertop. Something about that makes him happier than it should.

"So, what's it going to be today?" Amber asks, leaning against the kitchen island in a poor attempt at nonchalance. "You're already bullied, bribed, I'm guessing blackmail's the next logical step? You going to snoop into my past, dig up some nasty little secret and threaten to expose me unless I ditch him?"

"Oh, I'm sure there's a goldmine of dirt worth digging. But no," House shrugs. "No, I just figured it was only right for you to know a few things, since you guys seem to be settling in for the long haul."

She raises an expectant eyebrow. "Go ahead. There's not a whole lot he hasn't told me. I know about the marriages, and that he cheated, a lot. I know he slept with a patient. I know you've been friends for years, I know he took care of you after your infarction and he's been taking care of you pretty much ever since. I know you were the main reason his marriages failed."

House narrows his eyes. "There's no way he told you that."

"I extrapolated."


"And I know you think you're always going to come first for him."

He smiles then, almost laughs as he raises his eyebrows in mock defeat.

"Well, clearly this was a waste of time. I mean hell, he obviously trusts you enough to tell you pretty much everything." He pauses. "I guess he told you about the time he gave up his job for me. Both times."

Her gaze is steely but there's a flicker in her eyes, betraying her surprise.

"Yeah," he continues, sighing as though lost in reminiscence, "I've got a habit of pissing off authority figures. The wrong people. And Wilson always gets caught up in the crossfire, always has to fight. What did you think about him lying to the cops for me? They took his car, his money, his medical license...still, he wouldn't let up. He wouldn't."

He has to stop for a moment then, the memory of Tritter bringing a cold weight to his chest even now. He's not enjoying this half as much as he'd hoped, reiterating yet again all the things he's losing, the things he never deserved.

"You're pathetic," Amber says, visibly shaken. "All the times he's put his ass on the line for you, it's all just ammunition as far as you're concerned. Points on a scoreboard. Those things...only you could use that against him."

"Against you," he corrects. "He would have gone to jail for me."

The words hang in the air between them and he swallows, something hard forming for a moment in his throat. He would have gone to jail.

Amber seems to struggle with herself, torn between the desire to know more and not wanting to give him the satisfaction of asking.

"No wonder you're so afraid to let him go," she says at last. His eyes level hers, laying down a silent challenge, daring her to compete, daring her to fight him and she looks back, defiant but a little less sure of herself. "I'm not leaving him."

House clenches his fists, nails digging into his palms as he resists the temptation to explode, to scream in her face that this is all wrong and she doesn't understand, can never understand what this is costing him, what Wilson is to him. Instead he pops the lid on his Vicodin bottle and tips one slowly, deliberately into his mouth.

"Why?" he asks at last, struggling to keep his voice level. "Why him? Why not just...go and find yourself some other poor unsuspecting sucker to leech off, somebody without all the baggage, the--"

"You may not have realised this," she interrupts quietly, "but guys like Wilson aren't exactly a dime a dozen. He's pretty special."

"I know." Better than you ever will.

She regards him in silence for a minute, her expression unreadable.

"Close the door on your way out," she says at last, turning her back on him and retreating into the living room.


He doesn't remember when the idea comes to him. There's nothing logical about it, nothing terribly calculated, but the fact of Wilson and Amber's three-month anniversary looms large for days until he's beyond the point of rational thought. He finds out from Wilson's secretary that he's booked a "romantic getaway" for the weekend, first-class tickets to Long Island, a suite in some pretentiously named hotel with ocean views.

At five o'clock on Friday, forty five minutes before their flight is due to leave, he pours a finger of Scotch and calls Wilson.


"I need you to come over."

"Now? This uh, this isn't the best time." He thinks he's being subtle. He'd told some barely convincing lie about a conference in Baltimore and House had played along, feigning disinterest as though the anniversary had passed him by altogether.

He modulates his voice a little, adds a slurring edge, the faintest hint of a tremor. "Wilson just...please."

He never pleads for anything, and for a moment he thinks he's gone too far, Wilson's seen through him.

"Okay, yeah. Of course. Give me twenty minutes."

As he hangs up he's already feeling like shit, Wilson's concerned tone ringing in his ears. Even for him this is low, but he's beyond caring now, beyond everything, beyond despair and acceptance and anger, even. The thought of Amber's face as she realises Wilson still puts him first, will always put him first when it comes down to it, is all he can think about, and maybe there's some wretched part of him that needs the reassurance too.

Wilson comes barrelling through the door minutes later, eyes wide and fearful.


His stomach twists with guilt but as Amber follows he pushes it aside, lets him face fall into an unruffled smile.

"House?" Wilson asks again, confused now and wary. "What--what's going on?"

"Hey guys," he greets, raising his hand in a mock wave.

"I thought you..." Wilson stares at him, hard. "What the hell is this?"

"It's exactly what I told you it was," Amber explodes. "James, he played you. He knew you'd come running, he's probably been planning this ever since he found out we were going away."

"You're going away?" House asks, feigning exaggerated innocence. "I had no idea. Special occasion, or--?"

"I thought something had happened," Wilson breathes. " wanted me to think something had happened." His eyes narrow, confusion turning to something else, something raw and hard. House looks away. There's nothing about this victory that isn't hollow; Amber's fury is not nearly as satisfying as he'd expected and all he can see is Wilson, his wounded gaze and the way he's stiffened, his jaw clenched in anger.

Wilson turns and walks out without another word, leaving a deafening silence in his wake.

"Congratulations," Amber murmurs. "Is this what you wanted? To make him miserable, again? To prove you still could?"

House is silent.

"You're more selfish than I ever was, you know that?"

"You don't deserve him." He's almost surprised to hear the words out loud, not really conscious of having spoken.

"Yeah, that makes two of us," she spits, turning on her heel and following Wilson out.

He doesn't move much after that. He drinks five sixseveneight more fingers of Scotch, watches game shows and entertainment news and late night movies without really watching any of it, and tries to think of anything but soft brown eyes hardened in accusation.

The weekend passes in much the same way, a semi-conscious blur of pills and booze and whatever crap's on TV when he surfaces, and though he calls Wilson more than once he's unsurprised each time it goes to voicemail. When Cuddy calls, late on Saturday night, it's more of a relief than he'd like to admit.



"Are you okay?"

He pauses. "Who's asking?"

"Uh, that would be me--"

"Did Wilson ask you to check up on me?"

Her silence tells him everything.

"He's worried about you. He's just about ready to kill you from what I could tell, but he still cares."

"Touching. Well, you can report back to Saint Jimmy that I'm just peachy."

"Yeah, you sound real balanced," she says dryly. "How much have you had to drink?"

"I'm a little surprised at your impartiality", he comments, ignoring her question. "After talking to Wilson I figured you'd be racing to give me a lecture on the errors of my ways."

She sighs. "What would be the point? Besides, I figure something's got to give. The whole situation's ready to blow up in your faces, at this point I'm just standing back and waiting for the dust to clear."

He doesn't tell her he's pretty sure something already has given. Maybe this is it, finally he's pushed too far, pushed this till it breaks.

At work on Monday he corners Wilson on the way to his office.

"So. Good weekend?"

Wilson looks at him for a moment, then turns away, keeps walking. Undeterred, House follows. He's pretty sure he can't dig himself in any deeper at this point and even now, when Wilson can't look at him and there's a distance between them like never before, still there's something he needs here, some comfort in the sheer fact of Wilson's presence that he won't find anywhere else.

"Did you take that trip in the end?" he asks, his tone absurdly light. "Anniversary and all, fancy hotel, walks on the beach..."

Still Wilson keeps walking, his face a mask.

"I figure you guys had a lot to talk about. You and Amber," he clarifies, as if it's necessary. They've reached Wilson's office now, and House follows him in.

"Or I don't know," he shrugs, determined to provoke a response, any response, "maybe your relationship isn't all that much about talking." He flops down onto the couch as Wilson stands stiffly at his desk, rummaging through papers with no clear objective besides ignoring House. "That's cool too. Always had her pegged as a screamer."

Finally Wilson turns, and he couldn't look more weary, more resigned.

"What do you want from me, House?" he asks, raising his hands in surrender. House doesn't answer. He can't. He can say anything at this point, anything except everything that matters.

"I mean, you want Amber gone, that much I get. But why? Why does it suddenly bother you so much that I'm in a relationship again, finally? You've known me through three marriages, a few ill-advised affairs, now suddenly you're turning into Glenn Close at the first hint of something serious?"

"Things change."

Wilson rolls his eyes. "Yeah, things change. Great. What's changed? What? I - I've spent way more time than is remotely healthy trying to figure it out and I don't get it. I don't."

"You can do better," House says blithely, a hundred other words sticking in his throat. He's staring at Wilson, willing him to hear something different, to see everything that surely, surely has to be obvious, has to be written all over his face.

Or not. Wilson turns away again, his head dropping into his hands.

"House," he says, voice low and dangerously level. "Get out."

He doesn't close the door behind him.


That night, thirteen hours after Wilson kicks him out for what just might be the last time, he sleeps with Cuddy. Though they both know exactly what it means and more importantly what it doesn't, they make a damn good go of pretending otherwise at first. He shows up all downcast eyes and desperate, silent touches and when he kisses her she lets him, even kisses him back like this is it, like this is the answer to their problems, the ending they've been waiting for.

For a while he even manages to fool himself; as she moans and shudders beneath him it's almost easy, almost right, she's soft and warm and everything he should want, everything he's sure he used to want. He manages (almost) for the first time in weeks not to think of Wilson at all, until he's close to the edge and his mind begins to spin out of his control, flooding with all the things he's trying to avoid and he bites his lip as he comes, tasting blood, and says nobody's name at all.

He can feel her eyes on him afterwards, as he stares determinedly up at her off-white ceiling. When he finally looks back at her there's something unsettling in her gaze, a sense that she has understood something, seen something in him she should not have seen.

"So, what was that?" he asks bluntly, mostly to get that look off her face. "Moment of desperation? Pity screw for old times' sake?"

"Are those my only options?" Cuddy answers calmly, not rising. "You came here."

"Well, yeah," he smirks, widening his eyes for effect, "I didn't expect it to go this well."

She doesn't reply right away, lets the full crude impact of his words sink in. "Nice. I think I finally get it. This thing with Wilson - you're a lot more predictable than you'd like to think, House. You're acerbic all the time but you only get callous for no reason when you think you've got something to prove, or something to hide."

He looks sharply at her, the use of Wilson's name disquieting him even further; her eyes are boring right through him and the worst part of it all is the softness there, the compassion. The pity. He turns his back on her, reaching for the Vicodin bottle in his coat pocket. Prays she'll let it drop.

"Don't worry. I'm not about to tell him."

His hand freezes in mid-air. She turns out the light, settles into the covers, doesn't say any more. He lies in the dark for hours, not sleeping, trying not to think.

He leaves Cuddy's house before dawn, and as he slips into his shirt and leaves her snoring lightly it strikes him how familiar this seems, not routine but somehow predictable, even mundane. This is not the first time between them and though it's been years it changes nothing, later in the hospital they will be the same as they ever were and it's good to know, he supposes, that some things are still permanent.

He gets back to his apartment to find Amber sitting on the steps.

"You know, street corner's probably a better bet. Somewhere downtown, maybe near the bus depot."

"You ought to know," she retorts, standing up and brushing dust off her jeans. "Your bike was gone. Figured you had to come home sooner or later."

"Right. I'd invite you in, only...I have no desire to do that." He looks around for no particular reason. "Wilson know you're here?"

"Do you love him?" she asks, bluntly.

He almost laughs then; she doesn't really seem to expect an answer and he figures she doesn't really need one. As he pushes past her she grabs his arm, forcing him to face her.

"You're not the only one who needs him."

Her voice is brittle and it sounds, oddly, like another question, like there's something she needs from him. Slowly, almost gently, he shakes her off, and she puts her head down in a jerky kind of nod as she turns to leave. He has a strange impulse to call after her, some kind of parting shot, but his mind is blank and all he can do is stare into the distance long after she's gone.

The next day he receives a FedEx package. Inside is Wilson's McGill sweatshirt, neatly folded with a note safety-pinned to the collar.

It'll fit you better.


He's somehow unsurprised when Wilson shows up at his door later that day, looking drained.

"I'm guessing this is down to you?"

House stands aside and lets him in, his mind racing.

"Amber left."

"As in...?"

"Left town, left me," Wilson clarifies flatly. His words hang in the air for a moment, silence ringing as House digests this. "But you already knew that, didn't you?"

"I didn't, actually," House mumbles almost under his breath. It feels irrelevant.

Wilson shakes his head like he's giving up on something, crosses slowly to the couch and sits down, his movements oddly deliberate.

"She give a reason?"

"No. No, not exactly." His voice is strained, every word measured. "She didn't really need to. Congratulations."

He moves tentatively to the couch, sits beside Wilson.

"This is what you wanted, isn't it?"

"What I wanted--" He swallows, his mouth dry. "Right." It's true, of course. This is victory. He doesn't feel much like celebrating.

"You'd better hope I'm right about this," Wilson murmurs, his expression unreadable, and before the words have time to sink in he's leant in and pressed his lips against House's.

House freezes; his heart in his throat, he can't move, can't breathe. Wilson leans back, looking beyond confused and sees his eyes, the desperation there, whatever it is that's written in agonizing lines across his face.


Wilson slips a careful hand around the nape of his neck, cradles his head, one thumb stroking along his jaw, and something shatters quietly inside him; he can breathe again, can clutch at fistfuls of Wilson's shirt and pull him close and crush their lips together like it's the last thing he's ever going to do. Wilson makes a sound in the back of his throat, raw and yielding as House kisses him fervently and he can't get close enough, his tongue pushes into Wilson's mouth and they're pressed together like this is the end, like the world is ending and they are all that remains, they are everything.

Once they break apart he can't stop shaking, his body no longer his own and he doesn't know what to do with this, this exquisite loss of control. Wilson seems to understand, pulls him in without speaking and House takes long, deep breaths against his shoulder, whispers jesuswilson into starched fabric as a hand strokes slowly through his hair. Even after his heart stops pounding in his ears and he can see straight again he doesn't move, draws the moment out for as long as he can.

"So," Wilson murmurs eventually, breaking the long silence, "that's what changed."

House laughs, an almost hysterical outlet of breath as he lifts his head.

"Took you long enough."

There's a part of him that wants to ask why now, what happened to precipitate the light bulb moment, but he doesn't want to question it, still barely able to absorb the fact that this is Wilson, this is them and this is real, this is the threshold of something. Maybe it was never really a change at all, they've both always known on some level and everything that's come before has somehow been leading up to this. Maybe.

Their gazes colliding, he leans in again and none of the reasons matter any more, after days and weeks of working overtime his mind is finally, gloriously blank. Wilson's breath is warm against his cheek, and everything else can wait.



Aw, shit, I totaly forgot there isn't any porn in that. Sorry, guys. Derp.

Doesn't even matter! That was brilliant! House was so perfectly written... it made my chest ache and as love goo filled my lungs and slowly suffocated me.

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There needs to be House/Lucas


It's terrifying.

Old news, but still very true.

Wilson/House rape fic provided by the good ole' folks at 4chan


Cuddy looked at Wilson in disbelief. She opened and closed her mouth a few times before Wilson led her to the couch in his office. She sank onto the cushions.

"How long," she asked. "How long do I have?"

"Wilson sat next to her and put a comforting hand on her knee. "Well, it's stage 4, so...not long. 2 months. 6, tops." He grabbed her hand and squeezed it. "I'm so sorry, Lisa."

Cuddy crumpled as the tears began to flow. She let her head fall onto Wilson's shoulder and was grateful for the half hug he gave her. "Will you do one thing for me?" Cuddy asked as she looked directly into Wilson's warm, brown eyes.

"Anything," he assured her.

Wilson didn't have to tell House that Cuddy was dying from pancreatic cancer. He didn't have to tell House that the cancer had spread from her pancreas to her lymphnodes to her liver. House wasn't an idiot, despite everyone around him tending to treat him like one. He put two and two together when he playfully slapped at Cuddy's hair as she walked past him in the clinic one day. He watched a lock of her dark curls fall to the floor. Cuddy went home early without saying a word to House. House made his stormy way to Wilson's office.

"How long has she been on chemo?" he asked as he burst through the door.

"I'm with a patient," Wilson said, indicating the middle-aged man sitting across from his desk.

"He can wait. Answer me."

Wilson tried not to let the annoyance creep into his voice as he said, "I'm busy. I'll talk to you when I'm done."

House thwacked Wilson's patient on the shin with his cane. "Get out."

The man looked horrified, but he gathered his things and left, muttering something about transferring to County General.

House slammed the door behind the man and immediately started yelling. "I can't believe you KEPT this from me! And don't tell me you didn't know!"

"She didn't want you to find out. At least not yet." Wilson scrubbed his hands across his face. "For some stupid reason, she still respects your opinion of her."

House scoffed. "What the hell did she think I'd do? Laugh at her? What?"

"Cuddy thought-" Wilson caught himself. "She just didn't want you to worry. That's all."

Limping menacingly towards Wilson's desk, House said, "You know, I'm tired of everyone walking on eggshells around me. Ever since I got out of Mayfield, everyone's been treating me like I'm some fragile child. The least I'd expect is for my best friend to tell me the truth, especially if it's about someone I care for."

Wilson faced away from House, but he made eye contact with him all the same. "You care for Cuddy?" he asked. The question seemed to take the wind out of House's sails, and he sat in the chair Wilson's patient had recently vacated.

"You know I do."

Wilson nodded.

"I noticed she'd started to lose weight about a month ago. I figured it was nothing. But when she started wearing extra concealer, I got suspicious."

"Why didn't you say anything, then?" Wilson asked. "You're usually the first one out the gate with some new theory about what makes a person's life screwed up." The words sounded harsher than Wilson intended, but he couldn't take them back. So he let them stand.

House bit his lower lip and averted his gaze. "I don't know, "he said quietly.

Wilson sighed and let the silence stretch between them for a moment. "A rabbi's meeting with Cuddy tomorrow evening. He's counselling her, helping her set her affairs in order, deal with Rachel. I knew Rabbi Bachman way back when I was a kid. He's a great guy. You wanna come? Cuddy actually mentioned the possibility of inviting you."

"Do I have to wear one of those ridiculous hats?"

Wilson smiled.

The next month went by way too quickly. Cuddy cut back on her hours at the hospital, and House's ducklings and former ducklings were intensely curious about what was going on. But he didn't tell them. Not even Foreman. He was sure they'd figure it out eventually, and he didn't want to be the one to tell it. He also didn't want to hurt Cuddy's feelings, and that's what scared House most of all.

He found himself hanging out in her office more often these days. And when she wasn't at the hospital, he was at her house, playing with Rachel and just watching Cuddy as she sat with a mug of tea. He felt the worst when she absent-mindedly toyed with the fringes on her headscarves. She wore a wig at work, but at home, she wore scarves. House couldn't stand it.

One day, as Rachel played out back with her Barbies, blissfully unaware of her mother's failing health, House pulled the paisley scarf off of Cuddy's bald head. They stood on the patio in full view of Cuddy's neighbors. The gasp of indignation didn't make it past Cuddy's lips because House leaned down and pressed his lips to hers. Before either of them could object to making out in front of a toddler, they'd engaged in a kind of desperate free-for-all, lips and hands everywhere.

They didn't hear the front door slam.

Cuddy's health suddenly took a turn for the worse. House and Wilson knew it was coming. They still hadn't told any of House's employees, so when a permanent replacement as dean of medicine was announced, Foreman was the first to demand the truth. They all gathered in House's office after the announcement.

"Leave of absence? Is that what they're calling it?" Foreman said sarcastically.

"I'd call it more of a 'leave of tits,'" House said. He glanced over at Wilson, who only rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest.

Cameron shook her head. "What I don't understand is why she didn't tell anyone. Surely she would have told you," she said, pointing to House. "Or at least you," she said, looking at Wilson.

"Maybe she didn't want to scare us," Wilson shrugged.

"Scare us about what, exactly?" Taub piped up.

"Cancer's a scary disease," Wilson said simply. 13 excused herself. House figured this was all hitting a little close to home for her. He might have done something comforting, but he didn't want to push his new-found humanity.

"Does anyone know anything about this new guy?" Chase asked. "He looks pretty old."

House sighed. "He was a great cardiologist in his day. Back when heart transplants were done by candlelight and everyone died from infection."

"I just can't believe it," Foreman whispered. "What are the odds of her getting pancreatic cancer with absolutely no family history of the disease?" He looked at Wilson for an answer. Wilson shook his head.

"Sometimes cancer just spontaneously occurs. Sometimes its genesis can be found in an environmental source. But at this point, it's completely useless to speculate on how she got cancer. She's dealing with it, and I think it would be best if we all did the same." Wilson added, "I'm sure that's what she wants."

Suddenly, Foreman's and Taub's beepers went off. They left to find 13 so they could tend to their seizing patient. Chase and Cameron left, as well. Alone in the office, House turned to Wilson.

"Sounded like a load of bullshit you just fed to Foreman."

Wilson smiled. "He's not an oncologist, and Cuddy told us. Not him."

Cuddy lived nearly a whole month after giving Wilson permission to adopt Rachel. He was the closest thing Rachel had to a father, and House was surprisingly good with her, too. Cuddy's last words were to Wilson.

"Thank you," she said.

Wilson's and House's lives were slowly getting back to normal. As normal as two guys raising a preschooler could be. House still felt a tug of sadness about Cuddy's death, but he wasn't torn up about it like he had been when it just happened. Wilson helped him through the worst parts of the depression. House was thankful.

So it came as a complete shock when he found the papers in Wilson's desk. The bottoms of the pages were frayed like they'd been put into a shredder. The rest of the papers were intact, though, so obviously the person shredding the documents had thought better of the idea. One word lept out to House's attention: radon.

A few minutes later, Wilson entered his office and hung up his coat. He looked suspiciously at House, who was seated behind his desk with a stack of papers in front of him. When Wilson saw the frayed edges of the papers, he knew.

"That's what you get for snooping," Wilson said softly. He grabbed the papers away from House. "What? Nothing to say? No, 'Wilson, how could you?' No, 'You evil bastard?'"

House stared dumbly at him. "You gave her cancer. You injected her with *radon* for God's sake."

"She thought they were vitamins," Wilson said plainly.

"You killed her!"

"You loved her." Wilson tossed the papers into his wastebasket. "It was really getting on my nerves."

House couldn't believe what he was hearing. He tried to stand up, but Wilson pushed him back down into the chair.

"Where are you going?"

"Wilson. Whatever you're about to do, don't."

"Don't do what? This?" Wilson's left fist connected squarely with House's nose. Blood spurted from the bruised and broken tissue, and House clutched his face with both hands. His cane fell to the floor.

Wilson picked it up. "You know what I don't appreciate? You hitting my patients with this damn cane." Wilson brought the cane down hard onto House's right shoulder and again onto the side of House's head. House tried once more to get to his feet, but since he was caneless and had both hands protecting his face, he only made it easier for Wilson to punch him in the stomach and knee him in the crotch. House toppled backwards, knocking over the chair.

"I love you too much to see you with that bitch," Wilson threw the cane far from House's reach and grabbed both of House's ankles.

"Wilson, STOP!" House cried. He kicked and connected with Wilson's jaw. Wilson fell back, but he grabbed House's ankles again. His nails dug into House's skin through the denim.

"I have to make sure you don't tell anyone. I've lost my practicing privileges once because of you. There won't be a second time."


Wilson knew exactly what House was doing. His ducklings must have been scheduled to return to the office soon. Wilson had to make this quick. With lightening speed, he crawled over the bucking House, undid his pants, and managed to flip House onto his stomach. House kicked even harder, but once Wilson had sat on his legs, his squirming was useless. Thankfully, House didn't wear his pants all that tight, so Wilson had no problem pulling House's pants down from behind.

The first howl was the most delicious, Wilson would later recall. He was hard from the moment he'd first punched his best friend in the face. He hadn't bothered to prepare House's ass in anyway for the reaming he was currently giving it. Blood and shit lubed House's asshole enough for Wilson. Wilson didn't like to brag, but he was impressed at how well House's ass took all 6 inches of his cock. Of course, House was still bucking and screaming--and crying, Wilson noted. Someone would notify security soon.

Wilson picked up the pace and leaned down closer to House. He put his mouth close enough to House's ear to make him shudder with an entirely different kind of pain. "I'm gonna come," Wilson said. "Is that okay with you?"

House said nothing. He bit down harder onto his tongue and let his tears fall into the carpet. He involuntarily stiffened when Wilson's orgasm hit, thick ropey spurts of semen mixing with the blood and shit that soiled them both.

"Will you tell?" Wilson hadn't pulled out yet, and from what House had heard from Wilson's ex-wives, he had the refractory period of a teenager.

House shook his head.

"I didn't hear you."

"No. I won't tell," House grunted.

"Good. Let's take the day off." Wilson sat up and reached for the phone on his desk. He told the new dean that House had taken ill and that he was going to take him home. A couple of days would be fine. The new dean called Wilson a fine, caring young man and gave him and House the rest of the week off.

"House?" Wilson asked. "How are you at blowjobs?"


I think I am scarred for life.




Brilliantly written.


Oh godddddddddddd. Can I tell you how much I love you? That was so, so perfect. Jesuss

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One of the best H/W fics I ever read (and re-read, many times) was called For Every Closed Door by starlingthefool
It's a House / Dead Like Me crossover and afterlife!fic, but even though I had never seen an episode of Dead like me, I didn't miss out on anything.
Basically, House dies. He is then chosen as a reaper and is given a new identity. He uses that identity to date Wilson. This author is amaazing. Her OC reapers are engaging, yet don't over shadow the main pairing.

BTW: this is Omar Epps (Dr. Foreman) naked, spoiler'd because it's IRL :D

aww that one is my favorite too! :D starlingthefool is awesome.

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I approve of this.

So, after watching today's episode I can't stop thinking about the potential of "House can't sleep and scoots off to Wilson's room"...
Oh, and let's not forget Wilson caught House masturbating on his couch today. This made me ridiculously happy. :D

Also, THIS.

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Out of curiosity, does House have a kink meme at all?

If there isn't, it's seriously lacking.

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I know the thread is strictly H/W, but is there any Taub related content in the fandom? Anon's weird crush is weird.

no, i second the taub crush.

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no idea sorry.

Also: wow. Everybody in the world should read this
I came like three times per chapter UNF
I love fourleggedfish so mother fucking hard now.

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so hot but SON OF A BITCH

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Even unfinished, that fic is still completely fappable :P


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;_; Don't remind me of him. His end was so goddamn awful.

So I don't suppose anyone else is watching and squeeing over the epic amounts of GAY in tonight's episode, are they?

(sage for lack of contribution, other than giddiness)


ohgod i DIED. unf


I'm still on Series 3!

I was trying to be vague and non-spoilery. That was the first ep of House I've watched since the season premiere--I really don't keep up in order. But rest assured, it WAS epic.

Ok, I'm going to ask this because I fail at the internets.

I suppose some people actually write drabblers and whatnot (really, anything) right after an episode, right? I mean, I just watched S06E11 and I can't find shit with spoilers of it. To be honest, I don't enjoy reading old H/W stuff very much, seen as their storyline changed so much since previous seasons. I feel like every episode changes their relationship a little bit, and I want to read things that work with the major events of episode 10 and, if possible, with the details of episode 11.

So what I guess I'm saying is that I never find any fics with spoilers of the latest episodes and it would be really awesome if anyone could point me the right direction. I'm pretty damn sure House fans are faster than that.

I know google and LJ are there for a reason, but I actually did try and fail. Thanks in advance.

Thank god. I thought I was the only one. I'm always hoping to see episode related drabbles, but am almost always disappointed.

It's quite possibly the reason why I crave a kink meme from this series, something similar to the Star Trek or Sherlock Holmes one would be awesome, I'm surprised there's hardly anything similar for House.

In the meantime, I'm reading 's stuff, mostly because it's rather vague at times when stuff happens and it's well written.

Just found this today:

I'll check it out, thanks.

You're awesome, but the lack of content is disturbing. Really, guys, one would think there would be so much House porn we'd all get sick of it (not really, no). I really can't understand that. People love this show and people love porn, AND the cast is hot. I just don't get it.

Check out
A hell of a lot of fics there. I suggest picking which ones to read based on how many comments they have.

Everyone needs to watch this, ASAP

oh god the ending of that episode is SO. CUTE.

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