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Functioning
by gena fisher
Functioning
House propped his cane against the wall and fumbled out his mailbox key. Inside the box he found two flyers urging him to hurry down to a once in a lifetime sale at the mall - this weekend and next only, an idiocy that didn't warrant more than a shake of his head. He fished out an electric bill that told him he spent too much time in the dark, a cable bill that insinuated he spent too much of his life watching TV and a Mastercard bill that said some type of eBay intervention might be in order. House picked up the mail, and his cane and made his way back up to his apartment.
He didn't particularly care for Saturdays, not anymore. Why care more for one day of the week than another? He functioned, he survived, that was the important thing. Satisfied he'd contemplated his life enough for one lifetime, not withstanding the possibility he might do it again next weekend, House settled into his favorite chair and flicked on his TV. He had the Grand Slam 200!, two hundred channels of entertainment for the low price of only $54.30 a month. Unfortunately there wasn't anything on. He flicked through 199 channels before caving in and watching a repeat of Mythbusters that he had seen two weeks ago. Jamie and Adam were trying to prove a trombone slide could be a deadly weapon. "Not unless Phillip Carter is playing," House said to the screen, thinking back to his days in junior high symphony band.
He often talked to the television; long one sided conversations that encompassed everything from dishwashing liquid to Alex's lesbian affair to why Ryan Seacrest wore the clothes he did. Sometimes the echo of his own voice made him look over his shoulder but there was never anyone there. Today it just made him cringe and click the off button. He heaved himself out of his chair, not bothering to use his cane as he hobbled to the window and looked out. Sunshine. The weather channel had predicted mostly cloudy skies, but that could have been for Butte, Montana now that he thought about it. It didn't really matter, sometimes he thought maybe he'd developed a rare form of color blindness, the world around him had slowly faded to shades of gray, getting darker each and every day. It hadn't always been that way, once he'd known sunlight was golden and grass was green but now everything looked bleak and dead but he didn't really care. House dropped his gaze to the sidewalks. There were people down there, couples strolling, kids running, morons using those inline skates without helmets. Ah, humanity. House gave thanks he'd had the sense to abandon the fools years ago.
He made his way slowly to the kitchen and rummaged through the fridge. Leftovers from a couple of different dinners stared back at him. House poked them but couldn't raise any enthusiasm for eating them. Along with humanity, he decided to give up on cooking, eating the same thing for days on end seemed too much like living the same day over and over for him. He picked up the phone and dialed. "Joey? It's House. The usual, okay?" He snagged a beer, pulled a twenty from his wallet and used the counter to steady himself as he went back into the living room. Thirty one minutes later he was sitting at his piano, pizza in one hand and plinking out Life is a Cabaret with the other. Just another Saturday afternoon.
!~~~~~~~
"What do you think House does on weekends?"
"Are you insane?" Eric Foreman glared at his companion.
"Why? Because I show a little curiosity?" Cameron asked
"No, because you're obsessed with the man!"
`"What'd I miss?" Chase asked. He carried a picnic basket and a six pack.
"Just Cam rhapsodizing about her favorite subject," Foreman said.
"God, not House, again," Chase sighed. "You really need to broaden your circle of experience."
"Look who's talking," Cameron charged. Foreman and Chase stared at her. "You two. Me. We see each other every day and now we're hanging out together on the weekend. Isn't that a little sad?" She dug into the picnic basket, handing out sandwiches.
"At least I brought a girlfriend," Chase said and waved at a petite blonde chatting with some other girls.
"She's not your girlfriend," Foreman said, "you met her at the snack stand."
"At least she isn't using me to get to House," Chase snapped. Cameron covered her giggle in a gulp of beer.
"She's not using - just shut up." The three lapsed into silence for several minutes. "He probably throws rocks at people," Foreman said after a thoughtful bite of ham and cheese.
"Makes crank phone calls to Cuddy and Vogler," Chase guessed.
"Nah, I bet he sits alone and just waits for Monday," Cameron said.
"No one is that pathetic."
"It's not pathetic," Cameron maintained, "It's just sad."
"He's not sitting at home," Chase said. "He's cruisin' for babes in his little red Corvette!"
Foreman spit beer. "Sorry, Cam," he said, and handed her a napkin. "Babes? House getting anything that could be called a babe is so against the laws of nature - Oh, sorry, Cameron."
"I am not in love with him or anything!"
"But you like him,' Chase and Foreman chorused.
"He doesn't like me."
"He likes Wilson," Chase said firmly.
"What??"
"He let Wilson ride in the Vette," Chase said, grinning. Cameron and Foreman exchanged uncertain looks.
He'd eaten, and read an amusing article on vasculitis by some lunatic calling himself a doctor. He picked up his Gameboy but tossed it aside after defeating a battalion of Lizardmen and stared at the wall for a while. Lethargic, he had no energy, and no interest in anything. House knew he could easily sit there for the rest of the weekend, but Wilson's nagging voice made itself heard inside his head and he finally resorted to chores, sorting the bills by date due and order of importance to him, then paused before writing a check for the cable. House flicked a few channels, deciding. Yeah, 200 channels of crap was still better than no channels. He wrote the check, sealed the envelope and finished the others. It was only 7PM and the wave of restlessness which had been building all day broke over him with surprising speed. House limped to the window again, brushing aside the curtain so he could stare out. People were still coming and going all along the street, their headlights dazzling him as they passed. Those people had lives, places they had to be, things they wanted to do. He watched them for a long time, trying to remember what it felt like to be interested in the world. He felt nothing anymore. It was as if more than his thigh muscles had died, some part inside him had withered and been cut out as well.
House leaned his forehead against the glass. John Henry had pegged his "one thing" correctly; solving medical puzzles no one else could but lately even his insatiable curiosity had begun to flag. It took more to engage his interest. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his Vicodin, shaking the bottle to gage the amount left. Hell, it even took more pills to let him achieve level. The grayness that defined his life had deepened to black, everything around him had faded leaving him to wander a spectral landscape like a living ghost. He was tired; physically, emotionally, spiritually, life had bitch-slapped him into submission. Sparring with Cuddy had once been the highlight of his day but with Vogler breathing down her neck the pleasure had gone out of it. He didn't know if he could trust his team and Cameron was insisting he had feelings when the well had gone dry a long time ago. Even Wilson was so preoccupied with the changes happening at the hospital that they rarely got more than a couple of hours together during the day. The other night when he'd cajoled Wilson into a quick spin in the `Vette had been the first time they'd spent with each other outside work in a month. House hated how grateful he'd felt for that.
"God, you're pathetic," he growled. House let the curtain fall back into place, his view of the outside world once again safely veiled. The television droned on in the background, annoying and comforting in a way only cable could be. He wanted a Vicodin, he wanted the numbness, and that detached state inside his own head where he could think without the staticy ache that never ended. Sometimes he thought he might go crazy from the pain. It was like voices never ceasing, always talking but not loud enough for him to understand. It left him wired, nerves jangling so much that, left unfocused, he would tear himself apart without distraction. Crossing the room in the oddly gracefully gait his bad leg dictated, House grabbed the remote on the way to his piano and stabbed the off button before he collapsed onto the bench. He didn't think about what he played, only that the music could cry out frustrations he could not voice. His fingers found the keys, the music he made freeing emotions buried so long within him that he could no longer name them. House closed his eyes, shutting out the vision of himself reflected in the dark wood, instead he pictured images from his life, letting his music become a soundtrack to years past. Rich, vibrant sound poured from his piano, the notes as bright and shiny with promise as the man he had been - young and whole, his life stretching out before him. He'd earned respect and trust, been given loyalty and love and like a fool he had taken it all for granted. He lost himself in joy, in the wonder of being alive and happy until the past caught up to him and the scene faded. When it did his music changed, fingers shaking with suppressed emotion, he drew discordant notes from the piano like harsh labored sobs from someone wracked with grief. He saw himself as he was now, standing on the outside of life, a spectator when he'd once been the player. He stood alone in the wreckage of what might have been, broken, abandoned and- afraid.
House's hands crashed down on the keys. "Maudlin as well as pathetic," he cuffed, "Two of the three signs you might be a Trekkie." He sighed; knowing from the stiffness in his back that he'd sat there too long, and pushed himself to his feet. A groan broke from between his clenched teeth when he attempted straighten and it took all his will power not to sit back down. "You're not going to win," he panted, "I have determination on my side." Achieving vertical House pulled in a deep breath, fished out his pills and popped one into his mouth, "And really great drugs." Ten minutes later he was heading out the door.
James Wilson pulled his sedan into the parking spot next to House's new corvette. He admired the cherry finish for a moment, a smile playing over his lips as he remembered the wild ride he'd taken with House a few days earlier. Needling House about his driving was a guaranteed way to get a rise out of him and Wilson had relished doing it. He needed a distraction, with the crap going on at the hospital. Covering his own ass was hard work, but making sure no one could get to Greg was leaving him exhausted. He just needed to convince House how serious the situation was right now and get him to cool his behavior. "Yeah, Jimmy," he murmured to himself, "why not teach pigs to fly while you're at it." Shaking his head, Wilson made his way to the elevator and up to House's third floor apartment.
When he stepped off the elevator, the sight of Allison Cameron scribbling a note against the doorjamb made him stop in his tracks. "Allison?"
"Dr. Wilson! Uh, hi," Cameron stammered.
"What are you doing?"
"I came by to check on Dr. House," she explained. At Wilson's cool look she added, "He seemed a bit weird yesterday."
"Weird is House's natural state."
"I was worried," Cameron said, admitting, "There's so much going on and I've kind of - pushed him lately."
Wilson's expression warmed slightly. "House engenders worry," he said softly with an unreadable inflection. Wilson rarely gave anything away, even hospital gossip couldn't portray him as anything more than an unconscious flirt, his friendly and sympathetic nature getting him in trouble. Very few people knew him beyond that harmless, boyish faade. Cameron guessed he had to be made of strong stuff to survive in his field for as long as he had, and stronger still to remain friends with Greg House. She'd often watched them together, their easy banter, the unflinching way they could argue, the strange bond which held them together despite their differences. She envied Wilson that. When she spoke to House it was as if they were each at the end of a deep well and echoes distorted the things they said to each other. "He's not here?" Wilson asked and surprised her by producing a key and opening the door. "House? Hey, Greg, you here?"
She watched from the threshold as Wilson disappeared down a hallway she assumed led to the bedroom. The apartment itself was nice and spacious, three large windows overlooked the tree lined street below and tastefully leather furniture gave it a masculine feel. It was clean and comfortable in appearance but gave no real indication of the occupant's personality. Only when her gaze fell on the piano sitting in front of floor to ceiling bookshelves, did the place seem to convey any sense of House. Books, journals, stacks of CDs and DVDs, even an ashtray filled with cigar butts cluttered the shiny dark wood surface. She realized this was where he spent his time, his whole life seemed to revolve around this one object. She hadn't known he played but now she imagined him sitting there, reading, thinking, playing as darkness fell around him. The thought made her chest tighten. "Well, he's not here," Wilson confirmed.
Cameron jumped, she'd almost forgotten how she'd come to be standing in the middle of House's empty apartment. "His car is here," she pointed out. "I don't think he could have gone far unless -"
"Someone picked him up?" Wilson finished for her. Shaking his head so that a lock of hair fell into his eyes he said, "I have a feeling I know where he is." He slanted a calculating look in her direction. Cameron could see him taking her measure, weighing her motives, before he gave a slight nod - of acceptance? "Come on," he said and led the way back out. Wilson didn't take the elevator down to the garage, instead he got off at street level. Cameron followed silently, curious as to their destination but willing to go along with Wilson. He knew House better than anyone, and if she wanted to learn anything about the mystery that was her boss she would need a native guide. They turned north; walking side by side past other upscale apartment buildings, and well tended yards. This was one of Princeton's older neighborhoods, one favored by professionals, quiet and shady and it made Cameron think of the place she had grown up. Neither spoke and Cameron wondered if Wilson's thoughts were anything like her own. She really knew very little about House's personal life. He claimed not to have one but she'd seen glimpses; his love of music, his passion for gossip, his juvenile sense of the absurd. What had he been like before?
Three blocks down Wilson pointed to a small hotel, prompting her to ask, "Why would he come here?"
Wilson just smiled. The Belleville Grand Hotel might have been grand once, but time had tarnished all but its marble floors. They crossed a cavernous lobby filled with faded furnishings and went into a bar where smoke shrouded light made dirty gray puddles on the tables. A pair of tired looking bartenders made their way along the square bar which took up the center of the room. About two dozen people, most businessmen from the looks of their crumpled suits and loosened ties, lounged against the polished wood, sipping drinks and quietly chit-chatting with other businessmen. A couple of women were busy looking nonchalant at a far table while several of the more boisterous men darted looks in their direction and egged each other on. Cameron had just opened her mouth to ask what in the world they were doing there when her attention was caught by the haunting notes of a piano. She turned back to Wilson, confusion written all over her face but he nodded towards the small area beyond the bar. House sat there, pale blue smoke ringing his head from the dangling cigarette between his lips, his hands moved over the keys as if the instrument was a lover. "But he hates people," she whispered.
"He's still drawn to them," Wilson said. They took a seat at one of the tables, towards the back but where they could still see House. Cameron sat mesmerized, House played beautifully. The lines in his face had smoothed out, he looked younger, unencumbered by anything but the limits of his own talent. As he played, the other patrons fell silent, even the desperately lonely ones abandoned their struggle for comfort just to listen to him. Music, raw and plaintive, washed over them, filling the room as House began to sing in a weathered baritone.
Love hurts, love scars, Love wounds, and mars
Any heart not tough or strong enough
To take a lot of pain, take a lot of pain
Love is like a cloud, holds a lot of rain
Love hurts......ooh, ooh love hurts
She had never heard anything like what he could coax from the piano, she felt as if he had tapped into her soul, setting it to music, exposing her every emotion. House's passion vibrated the air, causing her heart to beat with its tempo, igniting a fire that seared her veins. She could feel her body come alive, his music tingling along her flesh as if his fingers caressed her ivory skin instead of the keys. Blood roared in her ears, her palms felt slick with sweat and pleasure spread, warm and moist, until she panted for breath. Cameron wanted to go to him, to wrap both arms around him and hold on just to keep herself from shaking apart. House sat bent over the keys, head low, his voice hoarse and lonely, torn from the depths of some dark and wounded place. She could not look away from his hunched and hurting figure and when he lifted his head, blazing blue eyes locking unerringly to hers, Cameron felt as if she'd been slapped. Each word he sang pierced her, shredding flesh and blood and tearing straight through to what she had feared to face. He had said he didn't like her, didn't care for her, but those words had been lies, the truth rang in the air, raspy and brittle, but strong.
You're young , I know, but even so
You know a thing or two, and I learned from you
I really learned a lot, really learned a lot
Love is like a flame, it burns you when it's hot
Love hurts......ooh, ooh love hurts
Cameron resisted the urge to flee, drawing in a shaking breath, and was startled to hear it echoed beside her. She tore her gaze from House, turning slowly until she could stare at the man sitting next to her. James Wilson, unflappable and gentle, wore a look of yearning so naked it made her heart clench inside her chest. How had see missed that? She'd watched House and Wilson for months, envying their friendship, the kind of closeness House tolerated from no one else. And still she had never noticed that Wilson ached with want, that his eyes displayed something fragile and wounded whenever he looked at his friend. Wilson must have felt the weight of her stare because he turned then, those soft brown eyes, brimming with need, met hers. She could see his plea, hear the soundless way he begged her not to expose what he could never deny. Cameron wouldn't have spoken, she would have sealed her lips with an oath because she knew what the bittersweet stab of love paired with fear could do to you. But she didn't have to. She looked back to the piano and saw that House's gaze had shifted, the hot and hungry stare had affixed itself to Wilson with the same intensity. House's words clawed the air, desire tinged with anger.
Some fools think of happiness, blissfulness, togetherness
Some fools fool themselves I guess
They're not foolin' me. I know it isn't true, I know it isn't true
Love is just a lie, made to make you blue.
Love hurts.
Ooh, ooh love hurts.
Love is just a lie, made to make you blue.
Love hurts, love hurts, oooh love hurts.
When he finished the room fell silent, only the dying echo of his own words hung in the air. Cameron shuddered, like a storybook princess freed from a spell, her body and mind were once again her own. She cast a look in Wilson's direction and could see that he, too, had been released from the hold House's words had placed on them. Wilson managed a weak smile but averted his eyes so that she couldn't read anything else in them. When she looked back towards the piano it was just in time to see House scoop out a wad of bills from the tip jar, take up his cane and lever himself to his feet. He turned in their direction, his face devoid of emotion, and made his way straight to them.
"Don't you two look cute together," House said, lowering himself into the chair beside Wilson. He reached over, taking the glass which sat in front of his friend and sipped cautiously. "I never would have thought Jimmy here was your type," he told Cameron. "I thought you liked the bad boys, mean and miserable, not the Knight in Shining Armor." Canting Wilson a playful look he added, "of course he is boyishly handsome. I'd ask him out myself if I thought he'd go with me."
"Hey, I only stood you up once," Wilson said. His voice did not betray the look his eyes did.
House nodded, "True, but once burned twice shy."
"Do you ever listen to yourself," Wilson asked.
"You're the responsible one, you listen. I've got better things to do."
"Like play the piano for tips in a dive like this," Wilson said, taking his drink back and downing it in a single gulp.
"It's how I support my addiction," House stage whispered to Cameron. He turned back to Wilson and studied him for a moment. Cameron couldn't readily read his expression, but something about his eyes made her think he was looking for a retort from the other doctor.
"We," Cameron darted her own glance at Wilson but he was busy tracing rings on the table with one finger, "I was worried about you."
"Worried about me," House eyed her with mild amusement. "Why? Am I the cause of the week? Planning a telethon for Cranky Cripples? Put Wilson down for a hundred bucks, he's an easy mark." A waitress appeared and, tossing out a twenty onto the table, Wilson ordered three beers.
"Consider that a down payment," Wilson said.
"Money well spent." No one spoke again until the drinks came, then House asked, "So how are things with Vogler? Is he using the flaming hoops yet? Probably take a few weeks for the board to learn that one - it's tricky."
"We're trying to survive, Greg," Wilson said with a sigh, "you should give it a shot."
"What's it matter," House asked, "I don't give a damn anymore. I'm bored by the whole thing."
"Oh, that's your answer to everything," Wilson said, "You're bored so it'll just go away." He shook his head, obviously disgusted.
"That's right. I can't see him with my eyes shut," House smirked. "Worked when I was a kid, the theory is the same now."
"It's not a joke, Greg," Wilson nearly shouted. Cameron drew back in surprise, she'd never seen him angry but there was no mistaking his fury. "He wants you gone and won't stop until you are."
"He can try."
"He'll succeed if you keep fucking around!"
"I thought that was your forte," House said.
Wilson leaned closer, his face mere inches from House's and hissed, "Don't push me, House. Even I have limits."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`
House regarded his friend. He wanted to push. A huge knot of frustration curled and seethed inside him, and it needed a release. He wanted to lash out, to push Wilson hard because life had backed him into a corner. He wanted to see what it took to ruffle that calm exterior, he wanted to know what would make James Wilson shatter. "I have limits, too," he growled, "and I've reached mine." His hand shot out, closing over Wilson's wrist in a punishing grip. "Why are you here? Why are either of you here?" House tightened his grip. Everything felt old and stale and boring and he needed to strike out, to shake things up if he wanted to survive. House could feel James' pulse pounding beneath his fingers, pounding in time to his own heart, hot and alive and it took everything he had to keep from crushing the bones together in the hopes that James would finally see he was real and hurting and angry as hell. Cameron made a thin sound and he rounded on her, pinning her in place with a flat, hard stare. "No talk about feelings," he sneered. "I don't give a damn how anyone feels. I want to get laid," he said crudely, needing to hit out at them. "You tracked me down, now put up or shut up," he recklessly challenged.
"I - I-"
"We are way past the blushing virgin stage."
"Greg -"
"No," Cameron snapped. Facing House she ground out, "you're right. We're way past a lot of things, but you want to jack us around. Gregory House, the Great Manipulator." She gave a short, harsh laugh. "You're a fraud, House. You moon over me like a teenager then tell me I don't like you. What a load of crap. You haven't got the faintest clue as to what you want or what you could even have. Dr. Wilson here cares very deeply about you. I care about you but you like to think you're some tragic figure, all alone in the big bad world." She covered House's hand where it gripped Wilson, her slender fingers branding his flesh with her heat. "You want to get laid? Then stop hiding behind your pills and your cane! Stop feeling sorry for yourself!" Cameron's cheeks were red but she said, "I for one am calling your bluff. You want me to put up or shut up? Well, I'm putting it up."
House sat back, slightly stunned by her outburst. This was proving to be an interesting night. He turned to Wilson, holding him captive by sheer force of his will. "Anything you want to add, Jimmy," he asked with a grin, "go ahead." Wilson remained silent, but his dark eyes filled with fire. He knew Wilson so well. They'd come close so many times before, dancing around each other like Vegas showgirls, but it ended here, one way or the other. Neither Cameron nor Wilson moved, they sat, chests heaving, muscles quivering as he pulled the strings. "Come on," he purred, confident now in his prey. House got to his feet, holding himself steady on his cane as he stood staring down at them. "We don't have all night." He limped from the bar, not needing to look back to know that they were following. The walk back to his apartment took barely five minutes; he could feel the dull ache in his leg beginning to grow but it felt good to move, the spreading pain his reward for being a bastard. He would have run if he could, just to burn away some of the tension. He'd need a Vicodin soon, especially if he were to accomplish what he had in mind.
"You okay?" Wilson's arm bumped his and House looked over at his friend. Even when he pushed him, when he forced James to bend to his will, Wilson never stopped looking out for him.
"I'm fine," House maintained, struggling to keep his limp from becoming even more pronounced as they hurried along. Cameron walked on the other side of him, her presence a small silent shadow as they entered his building. They rode up in the elevator, Cameron defiantly fitting herself between them. House smiled over her head at Wilson but the half fearful, half dazed look he got in return made it fade. When the elevator reached the third floor, House opened the door very much aware of the two people at his back. "Step into my parlor," he invited. Wilson laughed lightly but Cameron didn't make a sound. When House turned he could see uncertainty clouding her eyes. "Changed your mind, Cameron? Surely an old crippled and his sidekick don't scare you."
"I'm not scared," she snapped and strode over to the piano. "I just never thought this would be something you wanted. You don't like me, remember?"
"But I like Wilson a lot," House said. His gaze raked the other man with obvious desire but the heat didn't diminish when he looked at her. "What do you think of Wilson?" He could see her confusion but it cleared almost instantly.
"Are you asking if I find him attractive?" Cameron asked, giving him a cool look. She didn't wait for House's answer, just crossed her arms and gave Wilson a surprisingly sultry smile. "He's handsome, charming, kind. What's not to like."
"I know you think she's hot," House said to Wilson. "Your eyes nearly fell out of your head the first time I showed you her photo."
"She's beautiful,' Wilson said softly.
House lowered himself into his leather chair, popping a Vicodin and staring up at them. He ached, pain radiated from his leg but the ache came from somewhere deeper, a place Vicodin soothed but never really made go away. "Why don't you kiss him, Cameron?"
Cameron tilted her head, regarding him for a long moment. House waited, heart hammering his ribs. He mouth felt dry as a desert and he could barely draw a full breath. "Does the thought of us," she moved to Wilson's side, "together, make you hot, Dr. House?"
"Very much so," House admitted. It did. Not so much physically, his body had endured too much pain, and he'd ingested too many drugs for him to get it up that quickly. It would happen, but not without a little work and watching Wilson and Cameron together was just what the doctor ordered. Cameron gave a defiant shake of her head, letting her dark hair swing like an ebony ocean wave. He'd never seen her like this - sexy - no sexual. She was sexy all the time but in a model kind of way, this - this was different. She prowled around Wilson like a tigress, trailing her hand over his chest, his waist, his hip like she was marking her territory. Wilson sucked in a startled breath looking both bewildered and turned on. The combination caused a tingle in House's groin. He leaned back, taking the pressure off his bad leg, letting some of the pain flow out of his grasp and took hold of this new sensation. "Kiss him, Allison," he challenged in a husky growl. Cameron pulled Wilson's head down, her lips brushing across his before her tongue darted out to trace over them. She smiled, then kissed him deeply, her arms snaking around his waist, her body sealing itself to Wilson's. But her eyes remained open and locked to House's. He could see the fire inside her, almost feel the heat from where he sat. James gave a low moan and House felt his throat tighten in response.
"House," Wilson croaked, breaking the kiss and holding out his hand to pull House to his feet. Pain cut a swath through his body, withering the pleasure which had been gathering but then Wilson slipped an arm around him and Cameron's hair brushed his chin halting its retreat. House stumbled, like Dorothy opening the door in Oz, his world shifted from gray to color in the time between heartbeats. Wilson steadied him, his hip nestling against House's groin, his own strong shoulder a stand-in for the forgotten cane. "Bedroom," Cameron whispered. She took his hand, following as Wilson led the three of them down the hallway towards the darkened bedroom. With each step House felt lighter, less encumbered, as if some of the frustration and bitterness were falling away. By the time he reached his bedroom, House knew the smirk which had taken root on his face had blossomed into a full fledged smile. He quickly schooled his features back into the habitual scowl he favored.
"Why don't you two get comfortable," House suggested. Wilson let him pull away and he limped to the right side of his king sized bed, settling into the chair beside it. The Vicodin had finally hit his system, cooling the white hot flashes of pain that sapped his strength. He clung to it, letting it haul him back out of the pit. House knew he'd shut everyone out, walled himself up in a tower of anger and self hatred, but Wilson had been chipping away at it for years. Now Cameron had entered the picture, her nave belief in goodness, in his goodness, a battering ram to the way he'd adapted to the world he'd built. He'd turned his back on life, convinced it couldn't possibly be worth the struggle to overcome the constant pain. For a long time now he'd been right, but House was astounded to learn that his best friend and the woman who thought she loved him - were life personified. House forced his thoughts away from such things and back onto the fact that they were going to do it - in his bed.
Wilson ran a hand through his hair, brushing it back out of his eyes and looked first from House to Cameron. House had taken a chair by the bed, leaning back, eyes slightly brighter than normal. Wilson had seen him pop the Vicodin and knew it had started to kick in, that the edge of his physical pain was beginning to soften. "You're a very beautiful woman, Allison," he said to Cameron. Wilson gently touched her cheek, he could see the apprehension in her eyes. It was one thing to throw down the gauntlet when you're angry and quite another to have sex with your boss's best friend. She gave him a shy smile and reach for the hem of her shirt. She cast a look over her shoulder in House's direction then dragged it up over her head and stood before them in her bra. House swallowed hard, shifting in the chair. Wilson could see how tired he looked, but House's eyes blazed with desire.
"You're turn," Cameron said. White skin glowing in the lamplight, she slowly loosened his tie and began unbuttoning his shirt. Wilson studied her as she did, Cameron's confidence seemed to grow with each second. She made short work of the buttons and soon had pushed the dress shirt off his shoulders, leaving him in his t-shirt. "You like that, House?" She asked. Wilson glanced over and saw House nod. Her hands were warm on his stomach as she smoothed them up his torso, bunching the t-shirt up and leaning in to kiss his chest. "Nice," she whispered. Wilson reached down and pulled his shirt all the way off, then gathered her into his arms. Her soft lace covered breasts pressed against him, the curve of her back welcomed his hands. She smelled like flowers and tasted like coffee. He kissed her mouth, her neck, nuzzled her ear and suckled the lobe. In that instant, in the indefinable way he loved all women, he loved Cameron. He walked her backwards, letting her knees bump the bed and urging her onto the king size mattress. Wilson followed her down, taking his weight on one arm and his knee.
He kissed her again, the thought that House was watching him do it made him lightheaded. Once, in the early days of their friendship, he and House had dated roommates. They'd gone back to the girls' place, a studio apartment with huge glass windows overlooking the river, and made love to them. Wilson could still remember the thrill of listening to Greg and Charlotte doing it only feet away from where he and Melissa were making love. He'd glanced over and met House's eyes that night. In the years since he'd often wondered what life would have been like if he'd told Greg then how he felt. But it hadn't seemed right. House, already a brilliant doctor, loved and worshipped by everyone, had seemed so far out of his reach that Wilson had just felt grateful to be his friend. Professing love and being rejected, or worse, laughed at, had not been an option.
It was the groan from nearby that broke into Wilson's awareness. House had levered himself out of the chair. Left hand bracing himself on the headboard, he loomed over them, chest heaving as he watched them. Cameron stretched up, arching under him, kissing Wilson's chin as she rubbed her thigh along his erection. "What do you want us to do, Greg?" He nearly howled.
"Wait," House gasped. He'd tugged off his t-shirt and stood bare-chested beside them. Wilson appreciated the lean lines of his chest, the powerful shoulders and arms but didn't like the way House's ribs showed. He'd have to make sure that Greg ate better, the man lived on junk food and burned off energy by setting a killing pace for himself. House sat down on the bed, tracing a hand over Wilson's bare shoulder before leaning in and kissing Cameron's hair. She responded by tightening her hold around Wilson, writhing beneath him. "Yess," House hissed and managed to swing both legs up on the bed. He sat against the headboard, eyes burning like blue fire.
Wilson felt small, quick hands at his waist, tugging insistently at his zipper. He took the hint and broke away from Cameron, undressing as fast as he could. She didn't hesitate either, a moment later she'd shed her jeans and lay there in panties and bra. Wilson covered her with his body, hands shoving her panties down while he suckled her nipples through the thin lace of her bra. He felt the mattress dip and then House lay on Cameron's other side. Wilson shivered when House reached across her, embracing both them with his right arm, the calluses his cane left on his palm scraped roughly down Wilson's spine. House met him halfway, his kiss hot and hard but filled with tenderness. Wilson grinned at him when they broke apart. "Niiice," he crooned and saw House smile.
Cameron closed her eyes and soaked in the heat of their close pressed bodies. Wilson lay along her left side and House against her right. The looks passing between them held the weight of years of close friendship, shared experience and deepening desire. Cameron felt her skin heat under the combined touch of their gazes. Wilson's hand reached out, cool against her hot flesh as he caressed her flank. She kept her eyes on House, tilting her chin up as Wilson moved his touch along her side and over her breast. They both leaned forward, their mouths meeting in a sensual kiss. A moist wave of desire rose from between her thighs, sending little spikes of pleasure along her nerves. She captured Wilson's hand and brought it tight against her, turning her head so that she could nuzzle House. They were so different, the feel of their chests a contrast that made her dizzy. Wilson was solid, smooth and pale, his nipples small brown nubs that hardened under her tongue. House was hairy, dark curls sprinkled with gray led down to his waistband and the sharp jut of his hipbones. "You have a certain je ne sais quoi," Wilson said and dipped his head down for another kiss.
"Nah," House growled, "I had the shot."
She watched them kiss, their mouths closing over each other, breaking apart and resealing above her. She'd never seen men kiss before, not as lovers, and the sight made sweat break out all over her and her breathing quicken until she was nearly panting. House's hand drifted across her, Wilson's joined it. A moment later she couldn't tell who was stroking her flank, her belly and cupping her breasts. Her own hands explored their courser skin, the ropy muscles of their arms, the hard planes of their chests. House still had on jeans and socks but she felt him work the snap and zipper and then hot flesh pressed her hip. It took some fumbling but soon she found herself on her side, facing Wilson as he entered her. House wrapped himself around them, his right leg hitched over Wilson's his mouth wet and hungry against her shoulder blades. Cameron threw her head back, letting House kiss her throat, his stubble scraped in a blur of pleasure and pain. She felt wild and wanton, freed from the constraints of expectation.
Her marriage had been little more than playing at grown-up. Jared had been ill even before their wedding and their sex life consisted mostly of holding each other and kissing. She'd loved him but it had been the kind of love a young girl dreams about before she knows what real love is. She'd thought loving House would be like that. He was so brilliant, and wounded, when she had gotten the job she'd thought maybe he'd hired her because he could sense in her a kindred spirit. But it wasn't like that, he didn't want comfort or sympathy, he made her angry, he knew what buttons to push, how to freeze her out. It should have stung, his rudeness, but she wanted it, she wanted someone to see she wasn't fragile or delicate. She could take what he dished out. She was just like Wilson and she'd seen respect in his eyes. House might not like her but he wanted her.
Tiny pinwheels of pleasure rocketed along her nerves like bottle rockets on the Fourth of July. Cameron tightened her hold as Wilson thrust into her hard, his body pumping against her. Behind her House gave a harsh grunt and came in thick streams that smeared the insides of her thighs, mingling with her sweat. Her own orgasm clenched around her, making her scream. Cameron rode it out, bursts of light flashing behind her closed eyelids, pulsing between her legs with each beat of her heart. It could have been hours later that she heard a stifled gasp from House and a murmur from Wilson. "You okay?" Then the warmth along her left side vanished and she opened her eyes to see Wilson come around the bed to House.
"Stiff," he croaked, "and not in the good way." Wilson helped House move his damaged right leg into a more comfortable position then disappeared into the bathroom. He came back with a wet cloth, gently washing her thighs before cleaning House and himself. She sound have been embarrassed but she wasn't. The three of them together had achieved a kind of intimacy that mere bodily functions couldn't ruin. She sighed and nestled down between them. Wilson mumbled a vague endearment, his breath warm on her cheek. House chuckled and reached over to the nightstand. She watched him swallow another pain pill.
"Gotta be ready for round two," he said but he looked worn out and all she did was grin at him. It might be awkward as hell tomorrow but right now, this was as close to heaven as she could imagine.
Gregory House eased himself out of bed. The alarm clock was blinking 3:12 AM but his leg was insisting it was time to get up and start moving around. He gripped his cane, clamping his mouth shut on the groan that movement warranted and made his way in the dark to the bathroom. He paid his housekeeper very well to keep everything in its place, he couldn't afford to fall on his ass when getting up was always an iffy deal. So wandering the place in the dark was easier than it might have been and a few minutes later he was in the living room, sitting in his favorite chair and thinking.
The day had started out much as all his days did. There had been nothing he wanted to do, nothing he had been looking forward to, just a instinctive drive to keep functioning. Non-work days were a chore to fill, he had to distract himself, keep busy with his trivial interests or else he dwelled on things he'd long ago decided he would not think about. But that had all changed when Wilson and Cameron came to the bar and he'd given into impulse. When morning came he would have to face them. He would have to either put on the mask of indifference which had formed itself to his features years ago or lay it aside. What to do? House closed his eyes and laid his head back. The image of soft blue eyes lingered in his mind and he smiled. A pair of dark brown ones glimmered there as well. How could he be expected to love others when he couldn't love himself? It would be an interesting diagnosis. House let himself think, running through all the symptoms, all the cures he might prescribe. He liked trial and error and this would be no different. He'd have to take it a step at a time and see if they flatlined or got better. Either way, it wouldn't be boring.
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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 Fox Television, 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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