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How Wilson Put Things Right (or What Happened When Wilson Emerged From the Closet)
by Housepiglet
It was Tuesday evening at House's apartment, and Wilson sat alone on the couch. The television flickered dimly in front of him, and as the episode ended and the closing credits began to roll he made a jabbing motion with the remote and switched it off.
He sat for a moment in dazed stupefaction, and as he stared blankly towards the screen he lifted his right hand subconsciously towards the back of his neck. WTF was that about? he wondered, aghast, as he cast his mind back to the episode he'd just watched. Just 2 miserable appearances, and 30 minutes into the show, at that? Wilson virtually squeaked with indignation and dismay, and his eyebrows rose so high on his forehead that they almost disappeared into his fringe. A moment later he frowned, though, and began to toss the remote distractedly from hand to hand.
What the hell were the writers thinking? Did they think they could write Wilson out House's life and just... get away with it? The thought was so appalling that he rose from the couch and walked quickly towards the kitchen for a beer. Hadn't they read the back-story? He twisted the top off the bottle, and threw it violently towards the sink. Surely even the *writers* knew you couldn't have an episode without a conversation between Wilson and House!
Indignation began to turn to annoyance, and as he thought further about it Wilson's face developed a ruddy hue. He ducked his head suddenly, and when he looked up a few moments later his eyes were suspiciously bright. Well, he simply wasn't going to stand for it! He'd put up with The Tritter Arc, and he'd even suffered through The Cameron Kiss, but this was a step too far. He'd just have to... Wilson ground to a halt at that point, and reached for the back of his neck again. To be honest, he wasn't entirely sure just what he was going to do, but he was absolutely sure he'd think of something. He dropped back down on the couch, and a look of studied concentration spread across his features as he settled down to think.
-- --- --
An hour later, Wilson turned into West Pico Boulevard and drew his car to a halt. The air was damp, and he shivered as he made his way towards the studios. It was dark as he crossed the parking lot, but Wilson was a man on a mission, and he remained undaunted. This wasn't his first nocturnal visit, and in fact he was developing a degree of familiarity with the layout of the thick shrubbery which skirted the lot.
As he approached the buildings Wilson lowered his head between his shoulders, and shrugged up his scarf to obscure the bottom of his face. After that he glanced nervously to his rear and stepped quickly into the bushes, and then he began to pick his way carefully between rhododendrons towards the back of Studio 10.
Arriving at the studio he noted light streaming from the second floor, and he made his way cautiously around the back of the building to a small and dusty window looking into a tiny sub-textual editing room. Then he slipped a hand into his pocket, and extracted a long wire. Reaching up, he poked the wire through a gap towards the top of the window, and after what felt like an eternity of pulling and pushing he felt a satisfying ping as the small metal arm holding the top of the window closed popped out of its resting place.
Wilson slipped the wire back into his pocket, and sneaked another look over his shoulders. A minute or so later he was heaving himself with some difficulty through the window and into the room. This was a lot easier back in Series 2! he reflected, as he yanked himself forwards and over the ledge. It was hard work, and he frowned as he wiggled his hips through the gap.
Eventually he was in, though, and he quickly made his way towards the door, and opened it slightly. Then he placed his ear against the crack. Hmm... He thought he heard the sound of distant laughter, but there was no sign of anybody close at hand. He edged through the crack in the door and closed it carefully behind him, and then he made his way to the second floor.
Emerging from the stairwell Wilson saw that the writers' room door was open, and he slipped quietly into a conveniently located closet. Leaving the door slightly ajar, he could hear brief snatches of conversation from the other room.
"Yeah, so tomorrow night... House... restaurant with Cameron... back to her place... Ha ha!... lingerie drawer... stay the night... electric blanket... play with his cane...Ho ho!..."
Wilson's eyes opened wide with horror as he realised what they were planning, and he stole a little closer to the door. At that moment, though, he heard the noise of chairs shifting, and the voices loomed suddenly closer as the writers gathered their things together and began to leave the room. He pressed himself back against the coats, and held his breath until the voices died away. A minute or so later the lights went out, and a short time after that the closet door opened slowly and Wilson emerged cautiously into the shadows.
He crept across the corridor to the writers' room, and pushed open the door. There were bits of scripts lying around on a long table, and jostling for position with empty coffee cups and half-eaten sandwiches and cakes. He soon spotted what he was looking for at the far end of the room, and as he sat down in front of the computer he reached for a muffin and began to read.
SCENE 3: HOUSE IN CAMERON'S APARTMENT
[Wednesday night. Opens with House and Cameron in Cameron's bedroom]
Cameron: Oh, House! I've dreamed of this moment for such a long time! [Cameron simpers. Reaches for House]
House: Hey, careful there! You're crushing my cane.
Cameron: Oh, I'm so sorry! [Backs off. Looks mortified. Eyes drop to cane.]
House: [Swallows a Vicodin. Gruff.] Always so literal. [Moves towards Cameron.]
Wilson couldn't stand it any longer! He dropped the muffin on the floor and reached for the mouse. Then he reached for the 'delete' key. After that he began to type, and for an hour or so the only sound to be heard in the room was that of Wilson's fingers moving rapidly across the keyboard.
-- --- --
The following evening Wilson got back from the hospital and dumped his bag by the door. He was smiling to himself as he loosened his tie and made his way to the fridge. He carried his beer to the couch and slung his jacket over the back of a chair. Then he sat down, and his smile widened as he thought back to the events of earlier that day.
House had poked his head around the door to Wilson's office at about 2pm. "You cooking tonight? I've had a change of plan. My... appointment's been cancelled. I'll be home about six."
Wilson had smiled. "No problem. How does Kung Pau chicken sound? I picked up some chillies at the market at the weekend."
"I'll bring beer," said House, and then he'd paused. A look of mild confusion had appeared on his face, but he'd continued. "Maybe I'll pick up a movie too. Have you seen Lost in Translation?"
"Sounds good to me. See you later, then," Wilson had replied, and he'd shifted his gaze rapidly back to his paper-work to conceal the grin he'd felt twitching at the corners of his mouth.
Finishing his beer, now, he got up and made his way to the kitchen. 30 minutes later the chicken was sizzling in the pan, and by the time House got back Wilson had everything under control.
-- --- --
By half past eight the meal was over, and House and Wilson were established on the couch. The air of mild confusion that Wilson had noted earlier in House had been apparent throughout the course of the evening, and it was apparent once again as House pushed himself up from his seat and limped towards the kitchen. "Wanna beer?" he asked, and without waiting for an answer he leaned into the fridge and extracted two bottles.
Returning to the couch he sat down next to Wilson, a little closer than before. His leg brushed against Wilson's, and Wilson felt his breath hitch involuntarily in his throat. He kept his eyes focused on the screen, but House didn't appear to be giving his full attention to the movie.
A minute or so later House reached to the table for his beer. He chugged it slowly, and after he set it down again he shifted imperceptibly closer to Wilson, and laid his arm along the back of the couch. Wilson felt the small hairs on the back of his head prick up, and almost without thinking he leaned further back into his seat. He couldn't be sure it wasn't his imagination, but he was almost certain that he could feel the warmth of House's arm radiating against his neck.
Remembering the movie, Wilson realized he was losing the plot, and he was in the act of refocusing his attention when he suddenly felt House's hand settle upon his knee. His gaze dropped to his leg and then he swallowed hard, and turned towards House. House was staring at him, intently.
"Wilson..." said House, and then stopped.
Wilson's heart began to pound, and he waited for House to continue. House seemed incapable of further speech, though, and so Wilson spoke for him. "House?" he ventured, in an encouraging tone. After a moment he lowered his eyes again to his knee, and then he looked up and met House's gaze.
House's gaze dropped to Wilson's knee too, and it was his turn to swallow hard. His fingers twitched reflexively on Wilson's leg. "Wilson, I..." He stopped again, though, and Wilson began to be concerned that they might be stuck there like that indefinitely. For a brief but anxious moment he cast his mind back to what he'd written the night before, and he experienced a momentary frisson of panic at the idea that maybe he'd forgotten to save the final draft...
At that moment, though, House appeared to make a decision. He looked across with uncharacteristic uncertainty, and then he leaned forwards in his seat and pressed his lips softly against Wilson's.
Wilson sighed, and closed his eyes, and slipped his hands gently under House's shirt. House was trembling slightly, and Wilson moved a little closer and pulled him in. He ran his hands reassuringly over House's back, and as he leaned into House's deepening kiss his last conscious thought was that he was actually rather glad he'd finally written it himself.
The End
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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