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Hazard Pay
by Topaz Eyes
Notes: Definition from definitions.uslegal.com. Many thanks to my f-list for their comments on previous drafts, especially cindy_lou_who, housepiglet and joe_pike_junior for their nitpicks.
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Hazard pay means additional pay for performing hazardous duty or work involving physical hardship. Physical hardship means duty involving physical hardship which may not in itself be hazardous but which causes extreme physical discomfort and distress and which is not adequately alleviated by protective or mechanical devices
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Wilson is already waiting in the car when House leaves the hospital. House leans on his cane heavily while he waits for Wilson to drive up to the handicapped pickup/drop-off spot. The adrenaline rush which sustained him for most of the day has worn off. All in all, a successful day: chronic melioidosis is not something you see often outside of Southeast Asia. Jason's cooling off with his ceftazidime in a holding cell. Foreman's got Thirteen on dialysis, Cuddy's desk drawer has suitably upended in her lap (rather ingenious, he had to admit, even for himself), he's given his deposition and didn't get arrested for pissing off the cop, and he's not needed anymore today. He can go home with a clear conscience.
Wilson reaches over to open the passenger door of the Volvo. As House slides in, he greets Wilson with, "Do you think Cuddy will start giving me hazard pay after today?"
Wilson's mouth twitches, though House notices the grin does not reach his eyes. "It should be enough to pay the extra life insurance policy the hospital will want to take out on you now," Wilson says evenly, looking over his shoulder.
Wilson puts the car in gear and they drive away from the curb. While pulling up to the intersection to turn, he asks, "Do you want Indian takeout tonight?"
"A proper celebratory meal," House replies. "Of course, the hero doesn't pay."
"Of course not." They turn right to head to House's apartment.
The sun is setting behind them, the sky darkening to that indistinct shade of gray that signals twilight, the streetlights already flicking on. The twenty-minute drive is silent, Wilson looking straight ahead, House absently rubbing his thigh and mentally reviewing the details of the diagnosis. Jason probably picked up Burkholderia pseudomallei somewhere in the Everglades or the West Keys. Guy lucked out with the chronic disease, given the fifty per cent mortality rate of the untreated acute variety. Definitely worth a write-up--he'll hoist that one on Thirteen after she recovers, as a favor. First authorship, even.
The Indian takeout arrives at the apartment not ten minutes after they do; House has barely had time to pee and crack open his first beer of the evening. He has to appreciate Wilson's foresight to call ahead. He's starved, too--it's amazing how seeing life narrowed to the diameter of a barrel pointing at you can make you hungry, he thinks as he enthusiastically digs into the lamb curry and samosas.
Half an hour later they sit side-by-side on the couch, feet crossed on the coffee table, the near-empty boxes of takeout and empty beer bottles scattered around. House notices Wilson has only picked at his food, has drunk only one beer with dinner, hasn't even bothered to sweep the leftovers into the refrigerator. He sneaks surreptitious looks at Wilson's face in profile. It's carefully schooled, inscrutable, which House knows is proof that something is bothering him. He's been subdued, too, which House doesn't like because tonight feels more funerary than celebratory. Kings of the world don't sit at home at six-thirty in the evening flipping through boring channels.
"I could be out at a bar having more fun by myself," he tosses out.
Wilson stiffens, and House realizes he sounded sharper than he'd intended. "I didn't mean that," he adds as a weak apology.
"No, of course not," Wilson says, tightness creeping into his voice. "Forgive me if I'm a wet blanket because my best friend almost gets himself killed. Again."
Damn. "Everything was under control," House replies carefully.
Wilson jumps to his feet, stands in front to face House. "Except you, I hear. What were you thinking when you gave the gun back?" Wilson doesn't sound angry at all, as House might expect, just--defeated.
"What could I have done?" House asks quietly, looking down at his thigh.
Wilson rubs his neck, looks at a coffee ring on the table. "You could have kept the gun."
"That wasn't the deal."
"Yes, of course." Wilson sighs; his smile is bitter when he catches House's gaze again. "Because you keep your promises to strangers and deranged gunmen, but not to your friends."
House thumps his cane against the wooden leg of the table. "I never promised you anything about me keeping out of danger."
"That's the point."
House slumps in his seat and scrubs his face. "Hello? There was a guy with a gun there. With hostages and everything. Not to mention a trigger-happy SWAT team. It wasn't a tea party."
"Solving the puzzle," Wilson retorts. "Getting the diagnosis. That's all you care about."
House looks up at him, sees the tired lines around Wilson's eyes. "That's not true," he says.
"Did you think of anything else besides the patient's symptoms? Anyone else?" Wilson shakes his head briefly. "Anyone else who wasn't there?" he clarifies.
House hangs his head in reply. "It doesn't work that way," he says past a sudden lump in his throat.
"I didn't think so."
House winces at the depth of hurt in Wilson's voice. He heaves himself up, forcing Wilson to step back to give him room, shifting the coffee table out of the way in the process. An empty beer bottle tips and falls to the floor with a thud.
There are only inches between them. The length of a gun barrel, House thinks as he licks his lips.
"It works that way now," he says, forcing himself to meet Wilson's skeptical face.
Slowly, he reaches up to cup Wilson's jaw. Five o'clock shadow prickles House's fingers; Wilson's tight face eases as House's gaze lowers to the curve of his friend's lips. He's already mentally calculating how long it's been since they've been this close--how long it'll be before they're even closer.
"Shouldn't you be with Cuddy for this?" Wilson asks huskily.
He hesitates at the roughness in Wilson's voice. Wilson's probably right--he could be seeking solace in Cuddy's arms tonight--but he's risked too much today already. He wants to feel anchored while he blanks out the memory, the eye of that gun staring at him. This is the only anchor he has. He shakes his head no as he caresses Wilson's cheek with his thumb and leans in.
The floodgates open with the slide of their lips. Fuck, it's been far too long. He loses himself in the surges of oxytocin and testosterone through his blood--the jumbled spices of Madras curry and Samuel Adams' finest on Wilson's breath--the remembered feel of muscle and bone under his fingertips, the sweep of tongues in each other's mouths.
House is reeling by the time they draw back for air, and then Wilson is seizing his head and diving in again, their teeth clashing together hard enough to jar House's jaw. Yeah, just like this, he thinks in a daze as he fights back, this need so hard it damn well hurts, Wilson finally letting go of his stuffy image to reveal the desperate man underneath.
Now Wilson's pushing him roughly against the back of the couch, straddling him, hands sliding beneath his T-shirt to ruck it up, each rock of their hips sending further jolts south to his groin. Wilson rakes his nipples with his fingernails, none too gently; House tilts his head back, exposing his throat, breathing heavily. Wilson bares his teeth, nips and licks from jaw to collarbone as House squeezes his ass, both their erections straining through layers of cotton, wool and denim. When he looks up to meet House's gaze, his eyes are jet-black and glazed. Oh, yeah, this is how it should be.
Kisses grow sloppy as House pushes Wilson back and they stumble to House's bedroom, already shedding clothes on the way, until they reach the bed, when Wilson shoves House onto the bed and mouths him through his boxer briefs. From there it's a blur, a haze of limbs and tongues and teeth. Wilson seizes House's head and pushes him down, forcing his erection into House's mouth. House sucks eagerly, moaning around Wilson's erection with a rush of dizzying pleasure when Wilson laps at him then shoves a finger inside. Oh, fuck--Amber had obviously taught Wilson a thing or two.
Wilson bucks up, his voice harsh. "House--I need--"
House lets Wilson's penis go with a wet sound. "Make it quick," he says gruffly, easing himself off and reaching for pillows.
House waits, impatient--naked, on his stomach, legs spread-eagled and hips propped; he's scrabbling at the bedsheet and rocking desperately to quell the throbbing as Wilson tears the condom wrapper open behind him. The sound of rolling latex onto an erect penis; the whish of a plastic bottle being warmed up between two hands; the squelch of lube being applied--he arches back with anticipation.
"Dammit, Wilson, hurry up!" he hears himself mutter through gritted teeth.
He moans as Wilson spreads him apart, as the dry room air tickles sensitive skin; to be replaced almost immediately with a sharp inhale when Wilson pushes against his entrance. House relaxes his muscles at the press of slippery heat which will soon be embedded within him. The body never forgets what happens. Wilson grips his hips, hard enough to hurt--
Reality crashes down as soon as Wilson slides all the way in.
His scarred thigh, halfway quiescent until now, starts to hum. House is used to it interrupting his pleasure, and so he generally ignores it.
But what he's not used to, is his side and his neck joining the sing-along. With a vengeance.
House trembles violently, his arousal receding just as quickly as it rose. He squeezes his eyes shut, clenches his teeth, writhes with the unaccustomed jolts, until the pain renders him completely flaccid. It had been over two years since Moriarty and the ketamine. Those gunshot wounds healed and they hadn't bothered him at all since then. Why the fuck are they acting up now?
Meanwhile, Wilson groans above him, apparently oblivious. Wilson slowly pulls out almost all the way then plunges back in, shuddering with pleasure. "God, House," he whispers in a voice reedy with need, "I--I forgot what this felt like."
House gasps with the thrust and tenses with the burning fullness. It's not enjoyable without the desire pulsing from his groin to transmute it. In fact it feels like Wilson's stuck a two-by-four inside him, not his penis. But the discomfort is something to focus on--something he'd wanted, he'd asked for, unlike everything else--so he clings to the uncomfortable reaming sensation inside, using it as yet another gating mechanism for the unwanted pain.
Wilson lowers himself down until he's lying on top of House, and House concentrates on that too: the weight of him bearing down, the sweat-slick warmth of Wilson's chest against his back, Wilson panting humid, curry-and-ale-laced breaths in his ear.
Soon it's obvious that Wilson's made his re-acquaintance with House's body; he moves in and out, in and out, maybe unsure at first but then with a more confident rhythm. House meets Wilson's cadence, matching thrust for thrust; Wilson would stop and withdraw if he suspected House was in pain.
Wilson does suspect, however; House realizes that when Wilson covers his fist with his hand and slows down.
"Your knuckles--are white," Wilson huffs. "Are you--you okay?"
"Peachy," House says, tossing in a few accomplished Kegels for good measure. He grins inwardly at Wilson's sharp gasp as House's muscles clench inwardly down his length. Who ever said that Kegels were just for women? "Keep going."
"You're lying," Wilson replies, his voice deepening with something that sounds like concern tinged with disappointment. "You tried too hard to convince me."
"What, using Kegels? Perhaps pleasuring one's lover is just that, pleasure." He tries not to wince at a gleeful cheer of agony from his side. "Not torture."
Wilson notices House's barely suppressed hiss, and stills. "Don't deflect. You're in pain. We should stop."
He begins to pull out but House clamps his muscles around him. "No."
Wilson's voice grows tight with suppressed exasperation. "House, don't make yourself suffer--"
"I said keep going."
House wriggles his fist out from under Wilson's palm to grasp his hand, and he squeezes it tightly. Please. As much as it hurts, he needs this distraction. Something within him is dangerously close to breaking. It's there in the sudden burning behind his eyelids; he feels it threaten to shatter in his chest.
Wilson presses his forehead onto House's shoulder for a long minute. Pre-Amber Wilson would misplace his concern, pull out, tuck House into bed and stay the night on the couch. House is still unsure of what post-Amber Wilson might do. A spasm jerks through his side again; he brings Wilson's hand to his lips.
"I need this," he murmurs against Wilson's knuckles.
That seems to decide it. Wilson drops a soft kiss onto his neck and rotates his hips slightly. Relief floods House and he relaxes, allowing Wilson to move again.
The tempo ramps up quickly from there. The force of Wilson's ever-urgent thrusts pushes House forward on the mattress, jostling House's thigh with each creak of the bedsprings; his punctuated breaths, through clenched teeth, whistle against Wilson's fingers. The thick fullness of Wilson's sheathed penis still hurts as it slides in and out, but it's bearable, and soon it drowns out the signals from his side and neck. The acridness of their combined sweat charges the air around them; it soaks into the bed sheets and stings House's nose, and smells too much like a discharged gun. He silently lists the microflora which live in the armpits and groin, which skin bacteria are responsible for producing the odor of apocrine sweat there, and tries to remember whether Cuddy's scent is compatible with his.
It's not long before Wilson's thrusts become erratic. House bears down with more Kegels to finish him off before the jarring discomfort becomes too much again. Wilson comes almost immediately with a protracted groan. House waits, with a mixture of dread and expectation, for the spasms to end, and thinks of nothing.
Except Wilson's orgasm seems to go on, and on--and soon, House's soreness does become nearly too much. He's on the verge of ordering Wilson to pull out and get off, but then the spasms cease and Wilson collapses on top of him, panting.
The room falls silent save for their breathing and the faint buzz of the alarm clock on the night table. House can feel the pounding of Wilson's heart through his back muscles. The weight of Wilson on top of him is oddly comforting, as is the way Wilson's lips brush across his shoulder. Even the pain in his thigh and the fullness inside him, now it's stopped moving, are muted. No sudden explosions of light, gunpowder, or agony; everything is steady again, as steady as it goes, anyway.
The feeling ends as soon as Wilson softens inside him. He pulls out and rolls off to lie on his side beside House. House suppresses a shiver as the cold air rushes across his exposed back, but he doesn't move, because that would mean exposing his front to the chill, too.
"Are you--" Wilson nods towards House's groin. "Do you--?"
"I'm good."
There's always the excuse of a dry orgasm if Wilson insists, but he doesn't. Instead Wilson rolls off the condom, swings his legs over, sits on the edge of the bed, tosses the condom in the wastebasket on the floor.
He then utters what House expects. "I should go."
House turns his head to look at Wilson. "You've been drinking," he says to Wilson's back.
They both know Wilson had had only one beer, and that an hour ago. Wilson doesn't turn around to look at him. "I have early rounds tomorrow."
Wilson pushes off the mattress with his fist. When he stands, it's obvious he's lost weight in the past few months; the roll around his waist is almost gone. House opens his mouth, but Wilson strides to the bathroom before House can formulate a reply.
House stares at the Wilson-shaped absence for a moment, then slowly rolls over onto his left side, reaching for the nightstand. He's too sore to get up; he shakes out four Vicodin and dry-swallows them. When he lowers himself back down, water's running in the bathroom. He pulls the sheets and blankets up around his neck but he can't stop shivering.
The Vicodin haze hits as Wilson returns. When House meets Wilson's gaze he can't help thinking Wilson and Jason have the same color of eyes. That strikes him as absurdly funny, but he doesn't feel like laughing through the shakes. He settles for a smirk instead, trying not to think of handing that gun back to Jason in the CT room earlier.
"I'm setting your alarm for five-thirty," Wilson says softly, and rounds the bed. "Shove over."
House scoots over, hitting the cold spot of the bed. "I hope you're happy that I'll die of hypothermia now."
Wilson only snorts. House listens as he sets the alarm, turns out the bedside light and lowers himself onto the bed. House protests when Wilson rips some of the blankets away from him.
"Hypothermia and pneumonia. Just so you fill out my death certificate correctly."
"Bite me." Wilson rolls onto his right side, pressing his back against House's.
"Comfy?" House says through chattering teeth.
Wilson snorts again. "When you stop shivering I will be."
They fall silent in the dark. The broad heat of Wilson's skin gradually suffuses House's body, driving the surface chills away; but as his subside, he realizes Wilson is trying not to tremble. That nameless something surges again in House's chest, along with the certainty that he owes Wilson more than a night's physical pounding. An explanation maybe, an apology--
"Wilson--"
He cuts House off. "You did what you had to do," he says, barely loud enough for House to hear. "You did what was right."
House closes his eyes reflexively. He wants a lecture from his friend, a haranguing about his recklessness--a fall back into the familiar feint and parry. Not this brittle declarative that forces him to confront their new reality directly.
He has to force the question past suddenly numb lips. "Are we okay?"
Handing the gun to Wilson. House steels himself for the impact...
It's a wry laugh. House feels his eyes widen with astonishment.
"I'm asking Cuddy for hazard pay at my next review."
For once, House takes the high road and refrains from stating the obvious. He grins instead and relaxes, feeling Wilson do the same behind him. He might not sleep well tonight, but at least there will be one less worry--one less gun going off--to haunt his dreams.
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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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