Nothing to See, Here

heledren @ 2009-09-25T23:31:00

2009-09-26T03:43:28Z

Here they are, all the fics I've written, in reverse-chronological order:

*

Stages of Disintegration (Salami!Verse)
(In chronological order, for easier reading)

Salami Sept 13, 09 PG

The Saga of a Sausage Begins Sept. 27, 09 PG-13

*

Whisper Oct. 14, 09

Father and Son Oct. 2, 09

Simple Pleasures Sept 12, 09 PG

Untitled Aug. 14, 09 PG

Dance Aug. 14, 09 G

Deception July 24, 09, Hard R

Monday July 16, 09 G

Genuine July 15, 09 PG-13

Salt July 8, 09 PG

House and Wilson (Don't) Do It June 10, 09 Soft R

Leave of Absence May 17, 09 G

Balance May 12, 09 G

Loneliness May 10, 09 PG-13

All It's Cracked up to Be May 9, 09 PG

Confessor Apr. 28, 09 PG

Duck Tale Apr. 27, 09 PG-13

Under Control Apr. 24, 09 PG-13

*

Salami

2009-09-17T00:32:51Z

Salami

Author:
Characters: House/Wilson
Word Count: 747
Rating: PG
Warning: general grossness
Disclaimer: Not mine

A/N: Intended to take place shortly after Cameron is hired, pre-Foreman.

Beta: srsly_yes, that darling.
Summary: House and Wilson play a little game.

“Oh, my God! Dr. Wilson, what are you doing?” Cameron stood in the doorway of the conference room, the sheaf of test results she clutched forgotten. She seemed to have been rendered immovable by the strange and sickly odour that made its lazy way around the office, filling the air with a subtle but overpowering force.

Wilson froze in the act of removing most of the dirt from the potted plant in the window. His hands were encased in latex and beside him on the floor in a large freezer baggy was a small, evil-looking, log-like item.

Wilson stood so quickly that Cameron could hear his knees crack all the way from the door. He swooped down and picked up the… the thing, dropping it into his pocket hastily. He brushed past her, red-faced and without explanation. The smell lingered behind, leaving a taint in the air.

She was still standing in the same spot moments later when Chase returned to the room.

“Cameron, you alright?” Chase asked her warily, laying his papers on the table. He scanned the room, looking for anything that might have stunned Cameron and spotted the displaced dirt. He sniffed experimentally. “Oh, God, Wilson’s been here, hasn’t he? Did he make the drop, or run away?”

Cameron felt her powers of speech returning, and managed to stutter out, “He—uh, Dr. Wilson left.”

Chase nodded, and took her decisively by the arm. “Come on. We’ll go have lunch, and I’ll explain everything. We’ll just open the window, and hopefully Dr. Wilson won’t come back while we’re gone.”

When they’d settled in the cafeteria with a lunch tray each, Cameron had finally recovered from her confusion enough to demand the truth. Chase gave her a long look, as if judging whether or not she could handle it, and finally started.

“Do you know the game called ‘Hide the Salami’?”

Cameron choked a little on her water and nodded, setting the bottle down hard. She picked it up just as quickly and took another long gulp.

“House and Dr. Wilson have been playing ‘Hide the Salami’ for months.” A startle nurse glanced at them as she walked by, but Chase seemed not to notice. The nurse walked a little faster and started chattering quietly to a group at another table. “House invited Wilson to play it with him at last year’s Christmas function—very loudly and publicly. So the next week, Wilson put a salami in House’s backpack, and House put it in Wilson’s drawer the next day. Now it’s a game of hide and seek.”

Cameron looked repulsed. “Do you think it’s the same salami? Because the one that Wilson had was just…” She tried to find words for it and couldn’t.

Chase nodded, looking somehow disgusted and impressed at the same time. “And Christmas was months ago,” he reminded her, “I imagine by now the smell just makes it easier to find.”

Cameron shook her head in bemusement. “You know, I asked House about the smell once, and he told me that the sewage system was faulty.”

As they finished and cleaned up their lunch trays, Cameron glanced sideway at Chase, not sure how comprehensive his grasp of American slang was. “You know, ‘Hide the Sausage’ is a euphemism for—”

“I know,” Chase cut her off easily and shrugged.

Cameron shook her head in amazement. “Dr. Wilson seems so respectable, though. I can’t believe he’d allow rotting meat in his office. He meets patients in there!”

Chase nodded sagely. “And therein lies the difference between House and Wilson. After the first month, Wilson came into the office, slapped House in the face with it and started yelling because one of his patients had smelled it and vomited. That’s how I learned about the game in the first place. And a couple of days later, House pulled Wilson out of a patient exam in the clinic and yelled at him for desecrating his apartment with an unholy stench.”

“So Wilson hides it here, and House hides it at Wilson’s house?” Cameron mused. “That makes sense.” Then she shook her head sharply and contradicted herself. “No, it doesn’t! They’re still two grown men playing with a hunk of diseased meat! And isn’t Dr. Wilson married?”

Chase shrugged again. “Never seems to stop them. The way I see it, they’ve never been normal together, anyway. You’ll get used to it. Once you’ve been here a while, well, let’s just say the stench goes away.”

Simple Pleasures

2009-09-14T03:52:26Z

Simple Pleasures

Author: heledren
Characters: House/Wilson, slash-if-you-squint
Word Count: 1770
Rating: PG
Warning: Vague insinuations
Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: Beta'd by the long-suffering srsly_yes.
Summary: House sends Wilson for a much-needed vacation.

April

“God, Wilson, you must be the only guy on the planet without hobbies!” House bellowed as he let himself into Wilson’s apartment, juggling keys, cane, and a large paper bag.

Wilson stuck his head out of his bedroom door and peered down the hall, confused. “House? What are you doing here?” He hustled down the hall to relieve House of his burden, and put the bag down on the dining table, flicking on lights as he went.

House peeled off his jacket and got comfortable on the couch. “I’m making a point, Wilson,” he said, spinning his newsboy cap away in a graceful curve designed to buzz the side of Wilson’s head, which it did.

“Are you going to tell me what that point is, or do I have to do the work myself?” Wilson sniped, but he couldn’t help the little smile that curled around his mouth as he pulled out two cartons of Chinese and a Z-grade horror movie featuring Elvira, Mistress of the Dark. There was almost no amount of House-ish annoyance that couldn’t be cured by Elvira’s busty charms.

“Are you going to tell me what you were doing in the bedroom… all alone?” House countered, waggling his brows outrageously. Wilson rolled his eyes, bringing over the food and sliding the evening’s entertainment into the DVD player. After a pause, and just to stop House’s obscene gestures and accompanying noises, Wilson answered, “Paperwork.”

“Ah hah!” House exclaimed, as though he’d caught Wilson in a crime, “Paperwork! And my point is proven.”

Wilson sighed, and gave up enjoying Elvira’s low-cut costume. House obviously wasn’t in the mood for peace. “What point? What am I proving?”

“Don’t you ever listen?” House accused, “You have no hobbies. It’s Friday night, and I knew that you’d be here, alone, doing work. God, it’s enough to make me sick. You used to be interesting, you know… used to do stuff.”

“And you used to be pretty and charming,” Wilson huffed impatiently, “People change. So?”

“So,” House stressed the word as though it was obvious, “I booked you a week in a cabin for July.”

Wilson paused momentarily in his consumption of his chicken lo mein. “A cabin? The two of us in a cabin for a whole week—is there at least TV?”

House poked Wilson in the side, and said, “No, you in a cabin for a whole week. I’m not going. You need to get out and smell the fresh air once in a while, and that’s really just not my style.”

Wilson thought about mentioning that it had been House’s style once, about as long ago as it had been Wilson’s style, but he didn’t want to bring down the mood of the evening.

“Fine,” he sighed, trying to sound as put-upon as possible, but really, he thought, it would be nice to get out to the woods again. He’d always enjoyed the feeling of concerns slipping from his shoulders as soon as he hit the road.

July

The car was packed to the brim with foodstuffs, beach equipment, and hiking gear. House had watched in lazy amusement the night before as Wilson had checked and double-checked his packs.

“Isn’t the point of this vacation to escape your anal-retentive lifestyle?” he’d mocked, lounging on the sofa with a cold beer. Wilson watched a bead of condensation trace down the bottle.

“The point is to enjoy myself, which I will do once I’m sure that I have everything I need. Use a coaster.”

In the early, pale yellow light, Wilson made his great escape, feeling lighter with each mile he put between him and his office. He followed the GPS directions off the Jersey Turnpike, and eventually down the I-95. He settled into the smooth stupor of pleasant driving, and didn’t stop until his stomach startled him with a loud rumble some time before Baltimore. Wilson dined at a roadside café, smiled at the waitress and ate his pie slowly, saving the crust until the end. He reveled in the small joy of eating his own dessert.

It was after suppertime when the car drew up to a smallish cabin, one of several along the lakeshore. He unpacked his bags and chuckled to himself when he realized that he’d packed enough food for two. Old habits died hard. He was slightly less amused when Wilson realized that House had replaced his medical magazines—most of his reading material, in fact—with thick, glossy porn magazines. A note on the cover, in House’s unique scrawl, read: Relax, idiot. With a snort, Wilson moved to toss the note in the garbage, and then hesitated. Following an impulse that came to him from some long ago summer in his childhood, Wilson drew the spearmint gum out of his mouth and used it to fix House’s order at eyelevel to the door. The sweet smell of the gum filtered through the room as Wilson settled in.

The next four days dawned clear and compelling. Wilson packed his lunch everyday and set about exploring the trails that wound through the greenery and around the lake. The sunlight, the sweet air, and the quiet combined to sooth something in Wilson’s chest that he hadn’t known was ruffled. The fifth afternoon, Wilson donned his swim trunks and headed to the lake. A couple of dips in the still-chilly water were enough to convince him to stay ashore, and within half an hour, he’d dropped into a deep sleep.

“Sir? Sir? Are you ok?” Wilson cracked his eyes open to find a fellow beachgoer standing over him. Her three overactive children jumped around behind her, pointing at him and squealing. “You’ve been asleep a long time. I just thought…” the sentence trailed off, and so did her eyes. They tracked down his body unashamedly. “Wow,” she said.

Wilson felt a flush run through him. Although he certainly wasn’t adverse to women ogling his chest, three-time mothers of hyperactive children weren’t really his type, especially not ones that gaped at men in front of said children. Wilson was no shining moralist, but… well, really.

He got to his feet and gathered up his things hastily. “Excuse me,” he said, and began a fast trek to his cabin. He was still shaking his head over the brazen woman when he stepped into the tiny bathroom (toilet, shower, no sink and no mirror) to clean off the sand. He turn the shower handle, heard the creak and rattle of old pipes, and screamed as liquid fire rained down on him. He jumped out of the shower instinctively, and with a jolt of panic felt his feet slip out from under him. A shock of pain raced up his leg as his ankle twisted sharply, and merciful blackness descended.

An unmeasured amount of time later, Wilson came to himself, shivering on the tiles in the cramped, dim bathroom. He felt chilled clear through his skin and down to his bones, which he partially rectified by tugging the towel off of the toilet lid and draping it around his shoulders. Wilson realized with a twist in his gut just how close he had come to hitting the toilet as he fell, and swallowed back a small amount of bile. Had he knocked his head on the floor? The hard tiles were fully capable of concussing him.

He crawled out of the bathroom and dragged himself up on the couch. In a daze, he grabbed his cell phone off of the coffee table and punched in a few numbers. As he listened to the ringing on the other end, he stared in stupefied wonder at startling pinkness of his skin. Sunburn. No wonder he felt hot and cold chills crawling in turns over his body.

By the time House arrived, medical kit in hand, Wilson had gingerly dried himself off dressed himself warmly, if loosely, in a robe. He’d grabbed a bag of frozen peas that he alternated between his ankle and his head.

House pinned Wilson to the ugly old couch with a glare as he let himself in. “When I sent you away, I didn’t expect you to kill yourself. My God, you’re high-maintenance.”

Wilson shrugged, worry dissipating as House went to work, wrapping his ankle and checking his head in a professional manner. He felt his eyes drift shut as House’s fingers sifted through his hair. A gentle, unspoken sympathy seemed to pass between them, and Wilson relaxed into it, falling back…

A sharp pain lanced through his head as House pressed a finger into the bump on Wilson’s scalp.

“Stay awake. You’re not concussed, but there’s nothing good on basic cable, and I’m bored.”

“I saw a Chinese place in the town not too far away. Maybe they deliver,” Wilson offered grumpily, and House made the call. When the knock came at the door, Wilson made a half-hearted gesture to get up, but House pressed him back into the couch with his cane and answered it with only a small grumble.

They ate their Chinese on the tiny back deck. If Wilson ignored the fresh air and stars, he could pretend that they were on their balcony at PPTH, after a long day at the office. He leaned his head against his chair and breathed in a deep sigh. House glanced over.

“Good vacation?” the older man asked sardonically, and Wilson shrugged.

“Good,” he replied, “but now it’s better.”

House grunted and stole the last spring roll.

“Hey, House,” Wilson ventured after a pause, “How did you get out here so fast?”

There was a momentary halt to the crunching, and then House slurped back his chow mein as noisily as he could. Wilson was not to be put off. He shifted painfully in his chair to better look at his friend.

“It took me all day to drive here from Jersey, and you got here in less than an hour. Were you… stalking me?”

House snorted, driven from his original plan of ignoring Wilson by the absurdity of the question.

“Wilson, I booked your cabin. I watched you pack and said goodbye. I’m hardly stalking you. And secondly, would you actually be surprised if I was?”

Wilson acknowledged that he would not, but persisted.

“I was already staying in town,” House admitted grudgingly, looking away from Wilson and up at the distant stars. “I figured that since you weren’t around, I might as well take a vacation, too.”

The silence stretched out between them as replies raced through Wilson’s head, from So, you’re creepy, to I missed you, too.

In the end, all he said was, “Oh.”

Brain-poking

2009-09-12T16:30:52Z

Stolen from verbalkint, who's just ridiculously creative. Although she left it open to all fandoms, I'm only doing House.

Give me the title of your favourite story that I've never written, and feedback telling me what you did or did not like about it, and I'll tell you why I wrote it, the biggest problem I had writing it, and anything else "of interest."

Monday

2009-08-10T18:37:55Z

Monday

Author: heledren
Characters: Cuddy/Wilson friendship
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: cuddy_fest prompt # 267. Cuddy/Wilson. They're both brought together by their love for House.

Cuddy smiled at Wilson over the paper rim of her coffee cup. They were both here far too early for a Monday morning, but it was the established habit of three months. It had begun when Cuddy started coming in early to clear the weekend paperwork, and found Wilson already moving through the lobby. Curiosity piqued, she had started taking note of his hours. When one of her doctors left at 11 o’clock at night and was back by 5:30 am, she wanted to know why, and although she was nowhere near as obsessive as House—well, there was the reason right there.

House, the best friend of James Wilson; House, the current inmate of one of the finest mental health institutes in the country. Cuddy felt a rush of pity for Wilson and an undeniable sense of fellowship. With House gone from Princeton-Plainsboro, Cuddy found much of her usual passion for her job diminished. She usually enjoyed the sense of quiet power; the feeling of being astride a beast that could lash out or collapse at any moment without her firm hands on the reins. Lately, though, work was a bland dish, unleavened by the usual dash of salt that House threw into the mix. Without him around, Cuddy was forced to realize just how often she’d hunted and harassed him as a means of avoiding paperwork. There was no doubt in her mind that Wilson was taking the loss of his friend just as hard; obviously even harder, if he was unable to sleep, and had nowhere else to spend his time than his workplace.

After the first few Mondays, Cuddy brought two coffees with her and called Wilson into her office. She handed him one cup and smiled at his bewildered expression. Rachel sighed softly in her car seat in the corner, blissfully asleep and unaware of the bruised hearts in the room.

“You’ve been working hard. You need to relax a little,” Cuddy told Wilson, and his bewilderment faded into a fleeting expression of exhaustion and misery that made Cuddy ache.

Wilson drank swiftly to recover his composure, and gestured to the baby with his coffee.

“I didn’t realize that you bring her in the mornings.”

“Just until 8,” Cuddy smiled and sighed. “Her nanny picks her up here and takes her back home.”

“She’s—beautiful.” Wilson sounded mildly surprised as he peered from afar. He looked as though he were afraid to go too near the infant.

Lisa smiled her agreement and amusement, and Wilson smiled back shyly.

“Thanks for the coffee. This was—nice.” He made his way to the door and hesitated briefly.

“Have a good day, Lisa,” he said tentatively, and Cuddy felt a rush of tenderness.

“You, too, James.”

They moved on with their morning. They pretended that the pleasure of hearing their names spoken in friendly tones was just the warmth of the coffee staying with them as they worked.

The warmth stayed, and the next Monday, Wilson brought the coffee.

Genuine

2009-07-16T05:14:30Z

Genuine

Rating: PG-13 for harsh language and mild violence.

Disclaimer: I disclaim any right to anything.

Pairing: House/Wilson, friendship or slash… who can tell with these two?

A/N: For the purposes of this story, House and Wilson live together. Feel free to imagine this in whatever timeframe you’d like.

Summary: Feelings boil over.

“Seriously, House, what’s wrong with you?” Wilson knew the answer, but had to say something, anything to express his frustration with House’s prying. He slammed the car door harder than necessary, and they stumped up the front steps of House’s building. Both sets of footsteps resounded harder than usual. Early April sunshine played over the scene, belying the anger boiling within the hearts of the two mortal men.

“You passworded your schedule and booked a week off of work. What the hell is wrong with you?” House ground out, unlocking his door and thumping it open with the side of his fist.

Wilson tugged his hair in exasperation. If House kept this up, he thought wildly, he was going to be bald before his time off ever came. “You broke into my schedule anyway. So what’s the problem? You know my life story, now go away.”

“Life story, my ass, Wilson. What’s the big secret? What’s happening for a whole fucking week?”

House’s shoulderbag was thrown to the floor with no regard for its contents, which spilled across the entrance with a clatter. Wilson stepped around the items with more care and headed for the kitchen. He tossed his briefcase onto the island and started pulling ingredients out of the fridge for supper.

He was startled by the large hand that gripped his shoulder. A moment later he was whirled around and pushed into the fridge door. It closed with a whumph of frosty air and the handle dug into Wilson’s spine painfully.

House glared at Wilson from a few inches away. His cane pressed between them tightly, across Wilson’s upper torso, keeping him from moving away.

“Fine! Check the fucking mail, House. Go!” Wilson broke first, feeling the wood dig against his collarbone uncomfortably. He shook his arm out, massaging his shoulder, and followed the older man into the living room. He stood by the couch as House sorted through the pile left on the desk by their cleaning lady, sifting through the junk and finally coming to an envelope posted from a Louisiana address. It was marked Dr. James Wilson, and House wasted no time in ripping it open with his teeth. A pair of tickets for the New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival fell out. There was a long moment of silence, and House’s fists fell onto the desk, framing the white scraps of paper. He leaned on them hard with his head dropped low between his shoulders. The cane dropped to the floor unnoticed. He inhaled and exhaled sharply once, twice, then hobbled over to the couch.

Wilson sat down on the opposite, all anger washed away by the sight of House. He was slumped, one hand pressed into his eyes. For a moment, Wilson didn’t recognize his friend, seeing in his place a crumpled, drained man. They sat until House looked over at Wilson, still resting his head on his hand.

“Tickets.” His voice was hoarse, quiet and raw. “I thought… I don’t know what I thought. I was…”

Afraid, Wilson filled in silently, that I had found someone else; that I was going to attend a clinical trial somewhere; that I was burning out and you didn’t notice.

With a sigh, Wilson decided that he didn’t care what it was that House had thought. The expression in the haunted-looking eyes was enough to tell him what House genuinely felt.

Salt

2009-07-15T05:09:04Z

Salt

Author: heledren
Characters: House/Wilson, Gen
Word Count: 451
Rating: PG for mild violence
Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: Thanks again to srsly_yes, who found time for this amidst a vortex.
Summary: Taste often evokes memories

It happened in an instant, but his brain somehow found time between the fist and the floor to play back some memories.

Standing between the sand and sea and sky; Wilson is waist-deep in the waves beside him, the two locked in a contest with tide and nature as their girlfriends laugh and chat on the beach. The cold, salty spray leaps up to slap him in the face, and after he stops spluttering, he laughs and licks his lips clean, rolling the wild flavour over his tongue. To his right, his friend laughs, too, until the next waves gives him the same treatment.

The seats in the grandstand would have guaranteed both men discomfort within minutes, if they’d actually been using them. Instead, House and Wilson are sitting in far more comfortable seats, up in the announcer’s booth. They have to cheer quieter than they otherwise would, but it’s worth it for the unimpeded view and the assurance that no one will spill beer on them. House grabs a handful of Wilson’s fries as the next monster truck is being lined up, but nods in thanks. Wilson, procurer of the tickets for tonight, nods back. He mouths “wife—breast cancer” to House, and indicates the announcer with his eyes. House nods again, and turns his attention back to the main show. The fries must have been heavily salted, because no memory is as good as that of Wilson punching the air in excitement, and the cool beer washing away House’s thirst.

Another memory, but this one of the hospital—bursting into Wilson’s office with gossip and a grin, only to find his friend with blinds drawn, lying on the couch. House retrieves a fresh wet cloth for Wilson’s forehead, using his hand to wipe away the trails left on Wilson’s face by the old one. House leaves for his own office, gently shutting the door behind him, and absentmindedly licks away the moisture left on his fingers. With a shock he recognizes the taste of tears mixed with the water. It troubles him in a niggling way for the rest of the day, and it isn’t until he gets home that he realizes that he’s feeling regret—regret that he and Wilson touch so infrequently, and usually when one of them is incapacitated by pain.

Lying on the floor, House felt and tasted the first blush of coppery blood trickling from his lip. He looked up at Wilson, who was shaking his hand out and walking away. In the shock of the dizzy moment, House couldn’t remember much, not even what he’d said to set Wilson off, but he remembered enough to know that he must have truly deserved it.

Another Crack-Drabble

2009-07-08T18:58:49Z

Naive Lang Syne

Wilson sipped mournfully at his drink and stood naive behind a timer. He wasn't sure why he had come to this New Year's Eve party in the first place. He was no good at parties anyhow. They always made him feel clear and he ended up like he was now, hiding and hoping nobody noticed how sappy his chin got when he was nervous.

Well, truth be told, Wilson knew very well why he was at the party: to see House.

Ah, House. Just the thought of him, the chance of a glimpse of his red kneecap made Wilson's heart beat like a haiku poem with two extra syllables.

But tonight everyone was masked. Wilson peered gracefully through the crowd, trying to guess which guest was House. There, he thought, the man over by the rose, the sore one with the sparrow mask. It had to be House. No one else could look so glazed, even in a sparrow mask.

He began to walk Wilson's way and Wilson started to panic. What if he actually talked to Wilson?

House came right up to Wilson and Wilson thought that he was going to faint.

"Hello," House said gleefully. "What are you doing over here all alone?"

"Oh, just looking at the rope," Wilson said and immediately wanted to die because that sounded so spanky.

Just then, a crazy voice began to count down. "Ten ... nine ... eight ... seven ..."

Wilson's heart leapt. If they were together at midnight, that meant that House might ...

"Happy New Year!"

House swept Wilson into his arms, bent him on the sidewalk, and kissed Wilson quickly, slipping him the tongue and groping his eyebrows.

Wilson could hardly believe it. How wonderful! And now that it was after midnight, it was time to take their masks off. He reached out innocently and pulled House's mask off his face. It was House! "I knew it was you," Wilson said and took his own mask off.

"And it's ... you," House said. "You know, I'm just going to go get some punch."

Wilson watched him go. He would be right back, Wilson was sure. Just as soon as he had his punch.

And then they would fall in love.

House and Wilson (Don’t) Do It

2009-06-26T01:17:47Z

Title: House and Wilson (Don’t) Do It
Author: heledren
Characters: H/W slash
Word Count: 264
Rating: Soft R for naughty words and naughtier suggestions
Warning: Crackish
Disclaimer: Not mine. Don’t own DS, House, or Wilson. Don’t know if DS is really a sadist.
A/N: Beta’d by the fabulous srsly_yes!
Summary: It is time for the consummation.

“So, it’s time that we consummate our manly love,” House announced.

“What,” Wilson goggled, “Right now?”

“Of course, right now,” House maintained smugly, pleased to see Wilson’s gobsmacked expression. “I mean, I may have a fresh bill of mental health, fewer drug-related issues, and a new outlook on life, but David Shore still has me on contract for the next two seasons, and the man is a sadist. We may not have much time!”

“No, I mean, right now right now?” Wilson gestured at the TV. “We’re right in the middle of a show.”

“Oh,” House considered. “ Well, I guess it could wait.”

The show was duly watched, and the credits were cut off abruptly by Wilson’s finger on the remote.

“So,” Wilson said, less nervous than House expected him to be, “this is the part where you tie me up and blindfold me with all my terrible ties, right?”

“What?” House looked taken aback.

“Or maybe you’ll pin me against the piano and take me forcefully from behind!” Wilson continued hopefully.

“Hey, my piano?!” House sounded faintly outraged now.

“What about dressing up?”

“Uh, dressing…”

“Would you wear a skirt for me?”

“Wilson?”

“Can I call you Cuddy? Wait, could you call me Cuddy? Let’s call each other Cuddy. Stay here, I’m getting my whip.”

House gave a disbelieving snort. “I’ll settle for oral sex, Wilson. Fuck you.”

Wilson let out a peal of loud laughter. House relented with a sideways glance and a grudging smirk.

Wilson leaned over and planted a kiss on House’s bristly cheek.

“There: consummated,” he smiled.

House tried to hide his own smile behind a grumble.

“Fine, but keep your damn twisted self away from my piano!”

Wilson does not want...

2009-06-10T06:38:31Z

Wilson does not want...

A response to the Photochallenge #2 at the sick_wilson community.

Leave of Absence (1/1)

2009-05-28T16:57:21Z

Title: Leave of Absence
Author: heledren
Characters: House/Wilson, friendship
Rating: G
Word Count: 166
Warning: Angst, 5.24 spoilers
Disclaimer: Don’t own.
Summary: What’s going on in there?

Wilson stands with his hands on his hips, staring at his best friend while his best friend stares at nothing. He wants to know that House is still capable of hearing him, is still in there. He tries calling House’s name, shouting at him, shaking him gently. House’s head cocks slightly to one side at that, and Wilson’s heart leaps into his throat as his blue eyes finally track towards him. They slide on past his gaze without catching, though, and House whispers Dad, and crosses his arms over his chest, doubling over to rest his torso on his legs.

House has been at Mayfield for three weeks. Wilson doesn’t know whether Vicodin withdrawal is responsible for this current state of affairs, or if House has just wandered away, gone down the Yellow Brick Road for good. One thing is sure: there’s no use in being here right now.

House doesn’t notice the door shut amidst the hustle and bustle of his empty, overcrowded cell.

Balance

2009-05-17T21:07:28Z

Balance

Angst, spoilers for “Both Sides Now”

Thanks to my srsly fantastic beta, srsly_yes. Five re-writes later, it’s finally done! She is entirely responsible if this fic rocks you, and any inquiries regarding lost socks should be directed to her.

House and Wilson balance each other, two halves of one unique whole. Their set of scales is so much heavier than those held by Justice; their scales weighted by drugs and lies and burning truths, by broken laws and broken spirits. So often Wilson heaps the scale with lectures and guilt, trying to maintain their balance as House tries to shed his lot, flying high and swinging wide. Sometimes, House attempts to alleviate Wilson’s burden with pranks and mischief. So often, their words and deeds are morally ambiguous, would be precisely the wrong thing to say or do if they were anyone but themselves, anyone but each other.

Now, their delicate trapeze act has come crashing down. Wilson recognizes that nothing he can do is enough to smooth his friend’s crumpled wings and make him able to fly. House is broken.

With his counterweight suddenly detached, Wilson can feel the tumble, feels the spinning dizziness of horror and freefall in his gut that struck when House’s chain broke. Their innate balance is gone, and Wilson can do nothing but swing in the wind and wait to hit rock bottom.

heledren @ 2009-05-12T14:04:00

2009-05-12T18:18:59Z

Loneliness
Three short drabbles, collectively entitled.
Length: 50 words each
PG-13: Some language, sexual references
Disclaimer: If you’ve seen it before, it’s not mine

I.
The alarm blared, announcing the arrival of morning. Dusty sunlight slatted through the blinds and struck Wilson in the face. Too early, after a sleepless night.

“Fuck this,” he growled. “You go to work, I’m sleeping in.”

“OK,” said James agreeably, rolled over and got up to face the day.

II.

“Wilson, you dog!” House roared gleefully as he knocked open Jimmy’s door with his cane.

Jimmy looked up, bewildered. “What did I do?”

“Not what, who,” House snickered. Jimmy blinked nervously, and House prompted him with, “Ellen. Cafeteria Lady.”

James smiled to himself, and fingered the underwear in his pocket.

III.

“Doctor, don’t get scientific on me. Is it serious?”

Jimmy picked up the file to glance over it again. He knew the contents, but he couldn’t say the words. He wanted to tell the lady she would have children; would live.
James quietly discussed options for pain management. She wept.

Cracked up

2009-05-10T19:38:03Z

All It’s Cracked Up to Be

Rating: PG

Warnings: Spoilers for the Star Trek movie (2009)

Disclaimer: Everything belongs to the people who own it, obviously.

A/N: Just pointing out what a great person srsly_yes is. Srsly, I sent this to her at midnight, and she had it beta’d and back by 3am. What a champ!

Summary: Wilson really is a nerd.

“Did you see that?” Wilson enthused, bursting out of the theatre into the cool night air.

“I was there, wasn’t I? Could’ve hardly missed the gigantic screen with the flashing lights in front of my face.” House replied laconically.

“It was fantastic!” Wilson went on, undeterred by his friend’s cool attitude, “It was almost, almost as good as Star Wars, and that’s saying something!”

House snorted and glared at Jimmy. “You’re bordering on blasphemy, you know that? The other nerds are totally going to kick you out of the tree house if they hear you talk like that.”

Wilson was chastened, and back-pedaled hastily, “Discounting the last three episodes, obviously. Episodes One through Three don’t even count.”

House nodded, and conceded grudgingly that the special effects in Star Trek were, in fact, very good.

“Could have totally used a lot more Uhura, though. Like a make-out scene with her and that green chick. Or a pillow fight.”

Wilson scoffed, and began describing the fight between Spock and Kirk over again, as though House hadn’t just seen it himself.

“And that elbow across the face! Crrrack!” Wilson executed it as he spoke. House had to admit that for a forty year old oncologist, the move was pretty realistic, especially when an answering noise resounded from Wilson’s back.

They both froze. They shared a look of disbelief, House’s amused and Wilson’s horrified. Then Wilson gasped in a lungful of air, and managed to breathe, “House, help! I—I can’t move!”

House cracked his first smile of the night.

“Damn it, Jim, I’m a doctor, not a chiropractor!”

Confessor (1/1)

2009-05-09T16:51:35Z

Confessor

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: Aren’t they lucky that they’re not mine?

A/N: Thanks once again to srsly_yes, whom I srsly put through the wringer on this one. She’s wonderful, folks.

House notices. He notices everything in a compulsive way that he is helpless to ignore. He certainly notices one night after work when James Wilson starts talking. Talking during a monster truck rally is unheard of, practically a crime. House turns to tell him to shut up and show some goddamned respect for a fine American tradition, and Wilson stops before House can say a thing. Satisfied, House returns his attentions to the screen, but his mind is on the move, sorting through Wilson’s words. It doesn’t make sense.

It happens again, two weeks later. During a rerun of The L Word. They watch Lara and Alice make out and the murmur starts again, low and barely above a whisper, and not apparently directed at House. Wilson looks at the TV and talks about cancer kids. Bald ones. Dead ones. It totally ruins the mood, but House listens for a bit, just to find out what the man is talking about. And when he moves to grab his beer off the coffee table, Wilson stops immediately. Interesting.

The third time it happens, during How It’s Made, Wilson talks about failed marriage and dead partnerships. House waits until Wilson’s in the middle of a sentence before looking at him, just to see if he’ll finish. He doesn’t. Wilson just glances at House, and then away, pretending to be absorbed in the intricacies of ball bearings.

The fourth, fifth, and sixth times, House doesn’t interrupt, but tries to watch without being seen. Every time, the night starts with their normal routine: take-out, beer, TV. It’s the fifth time that House notices that Jimmy is strung tighter than a piano wire each night before the muttering starts, and it’s the sixth before he finally figures out the point at which Wilson will start talking. It always happens when Wilson has had to give someone bad news. And when he drinks too many beers. And after dark, when House’s living room is full of shadows in the harsh half-light of the TV, and when the volume is loud enough that maybe House won’t be able to hear.

So, mystery solved. Jimmy wants to talk. Needs to vent about his crappy life, his crappy relationships, his crappy job. Well, House isn’t getting paid by the hour. He looks at Wilson sharply whenever he opens his mouth during the show, or turns off the sound. Actually, he only did that once; the raw sound of Wilson’s voice, suddenly naked in the silence, was a shock to both men, and House doesn’t want to hear it again. Eventually, Wilson doesn’t do it anymore. He waits until the commercials, asks House if he wants more beer or more food, and that’s all. Peace returns to House’s evenings. He no longer has to listen to Wilson, no longer has to hear the usually mellifluous voice become jagged and grating. No longer has to wonder when Wilson’s crappy, empty life will become too much to bear.

But… his traitorous brain notices. It notices everything, from Wilson’s shortening temper at work, to the hand tight on the beer bottle almost every night, to the muscle in Wilson’s jaw that leaps convulsively when all else seems to be relaxed.

And House thinks about pianos and piano wires. About how the force of the taut strings is great enough to pull the instrument apart, if the body isn’t strong enough to withstand the pressure.

So the next night, House supplies the beers, and Wilson supplies the pizza. Dark falls and House turns up the volume, and feigns deafness while Wilson talks.

Duck Tale (1/1)

2009-04-28T05:23:48Z

Duck Tale

PG-13 for non-graphic naughty goings-on

Disclaimer: If they were mine, they’d be taken away from me for their own good.

Warnings: Pre-infarction era, slight spoilers for 5-22, “House Divided”

A/N: Wilson and House are not Heads at the time of the fic, and I put House in Nephrology, since the Diagnostics Department didn’t exist. I don’t think this flies in the face of any canon, but apologies if it does. Beta’d to exacting standards by the srsly fabulous srsly_yes.

“You are going to love this!” House insisted, his arm firm around Wilson’s shoulders. Wilson was doing his best to dig in his heels, but his tie was tight around his eyes—almost painfully so. Without sight, his balance was skewed, and it was all he could do to keep upright and keep pace with his enthused friend.

“House, I said not to go all out for this—Jesus, what is that smell?” Wilson nearly gagged as the pervading aroma of the cool evening air took a distinct turn for the worse.

He could hear the hidden smile in House’s disapproving tone. “Aw, Wilson, I think you stepped in the scenery.” There was a drawn-out creaking sound, and Wilson rocked back against House’s shoulder as his ears were assaulted by a cheer and a blast of music.

“Here’s the luckiest guy on the planet, folks!” House whooped into his ear as Wilson ripped off his blindfold. He stared in bewilderment as his co-workers and friends jostled around him, plying him with best wishes, drinks and bawdy jokes. It was obvious that the bartender occupying the far corner hadn’t waited for the guest of honour to arrive.

Wilson grinned and pumped hands, and even took the plastic pitchfork that was offered to him, and then the majority of the crowd dispersed, heading for the bar or the knots of strippers in—of all things—cowboy boots.

“Do I know how to throw a party or what?” crowed House, plunking a cowboy hat onto Wilson’s head. He already sported one himself, somehow looking at home in it as though he were born on the range. Wilson doubted that the hat looked as well on him as it did on the grinning nephrologist.

Wilson gritted his teeth and grabbed a shot from a passing tray. “House, why in god’s name is my bachelor party in a barn?”

House raised his brows in surprise and affected a country accent. “Why, a nod to your blushing bride, o’ course! Didn’t Billie come from the farm? Fresh from the pristine countryside of… what state again?”

Wilson flushed angrily. “Bonnie is from Pennsylvania, House. From Philadelphia.”

House waved petty details aside and handed Wilson a vodka shot. “Whatever. The place was cheap to rent, and the guy who owns it even knocked off the cost of the animals for the price of an invite.” He pointed to an unfamiliar man gyrating wildly with a pair of strippers across the room. “Farmer Joe says mazel tov.”

Wilson strained his eyes through the flashing lights and the gloom, and spotted a few cows and a donkey tethered in dim recesses along the far wall. He turned to House and—

Found himself confronted by a pair of breasts. Really, really great breasts.

“Meet Karamel,” grinned House.

“How do you like the party?” said the breasts.

“Animals… cowboys…” Wilson found himself explaining, before he managed to shut his mouth. His gaze traveled up to meet her eyes. He was moderately relieved that the breasts came with a pair of eyes.

“I like animals. I have a cat,” smiled Karamel, “and I love cowboys.”

Well, Wilson reflected, it was a pretty cool theme.

Later, with Karamel gone to freshen up, Wilson found himself back at House’s side, in an ill-lit corner away from the dancing. House was watching two strippers getting friendly with great interest. He took in Wilson’s appearance with relish. A satisfied smirk curled around one half of his mouth.

“So, it’s a party after all, Jimmy. Your fly is down.”

Wilson grinned guiltily at House. “Well, it is my party, isn’t it?”

House raised his hands in acquiescence. “Sure is, Jimmy. I got you something. Wait one sec.”

He strode away through the crowd, not hesitating to move several drunk oncologists from his path with firm pushes.

That’s my House. Pushy, pushy, pushy, thought Wilson mushily before House returned, hands behind his back.

“Close your eyes, Jimmy, and put out your hands.”

Wilson complied, any hesitation swept away in a tide of hazy good-feeling.

“It reminded me of you. Brown, bewildered, and kosher when properly prepared.”

Something silky and surprising warm was placed in his hands, and Wilson looked in startled incomprehension.

Brown eyes met beady eyes.

A wave of wild terror shot through Wilson, turning his blood hot and cold. A yell echoed around the room, drowning out even the thumping base. All eyes turned to them, and the DJ swung around a light to illuminate the source of the noise. Wilson, unaware, flung the duck as hard as he could away from him, and then let out a second high-pitched scream of alarm as the creature fluttered up to avoid the floor.

A shocked moment passed, and House started to laugh. One or two of Wilson’s co-workers joined in, and then the majority of the party-goers were rocking with laughter, leaning drunkenly on each other.

Wilson stared at House, seething, and grabbed for a fake pitchfork that was leaning against the wall.

“You bastard!” he howled, and brought the toy down across House’s shin.

Cllllaaaaaannnnggg!

Not a toy, after all. Wilson dropped the pitchfork in remorse and fell to his knees beside House. Several strippers rushed to House’s side, and one seized Wilson by the shoulder and dealt him a blow that would stun a mule. He saw white stars and put a hand to his nose incredulously. When he looked at his fingers, they were stained red.

An ambulance run and a couple of quick patch jobs later, Wilson and House sat in the lobby of PPTH.

House fiddled with the shiny metal cane that was his for the next couple of months.

“I can’t believe you fractured my shin over a duck. Seriously, who the hell has a phobia about ducks?”

Wilson glared at House over the large white bandage that held his nose in place. “Fug you, Houshe. Cribble.”

“Huh. I’m a cripple for a couple of months. Your pretty face may never be the same. You’ll have to resort to oncology to bring in the money from now on.”

House scratched around the top of his cast contemplatively, and glanced sideways at his bandage-swathed friend.

“Still,” he said with a smile, “what a party, eh?”

Wilson brought a hand up to pinch at his nose in a characteristic gesture, but found himself gingerly prodding at his face instead.

“Las’ dibe you eber throw be a barty,” he grumbled.

House chuckled, “It had better be. Remember, you’re getting married in the morning!”

Wilson groaned and slunk further into his seat.

Spectacular, Spectacular, No Words in the Vernacular...

2009-04-28T01:14:57Z

How great was tonight's episode? It had EVERYTHING from Hous trying to kill people to Wilson's spectacular history of embarrassing himself, to Chase nearly dying, to Cuddy letting all her doctors run around drunk. This is the end! It can't possibly get any better than tonight.

Unless they finally follow up on House's proclaimation of his gay love for Wilson.

*SQUEEEEEEEE!*

Under Control (1/1)

2009-04-26T16:26:41Z

Under Control

Rating: PG-13, some rough language

Summary: Wilson has a rough day at the office.

Warnings: Death!fic, Angry!Wilson, and a tidbit for those with slash goggles on.

Disclaimer: Don’t own ‘em.

A/N: Beta’d by the lovely, the incomparable, the srsly awesome srsly_yes. Thanks to her tightening exercises, I have paragraphs of steel.

It was nearing seven o’clock—a late work day, but not the latest Wilson had seen this week. He pushed the completed file away and eased himself back in his chair. His back muscles groaned and he sighed in sympathy. There was entirely too much paperwork lately, and not nearly enough playtime. Thank god that House was around to make sure Wilson didn’t become a dull boy.

Speaking of which… Wilson could hear shuffling steps through the thin wall between the Diagnostics department and his. What they put into pretty glass walls, they must have taken out of the quality control budget, Wilson thought to himself, and made a mental note to bring it to House’s attention one of these days. That should be good for at least an amused snort, and House would probably think of a dozen ways to casually ride Cuddy about it. I live but to serve, Wilson grinned to himself.

He gathered his things together and made his way next door. The rest of the work can wait, he justified to himself, Cuddy won’t kill me. Hadley was finally gathering up the scattered papers generated by their last case—a real emergency, the kind that left no time for breathing, let alone for being tidy. The patient hadn’t made it, despite best efforts, but at least, as House had said, it had been a truly cool way to go. House himself was standing in front of the empty whiteboard, just waiting. Wilson pushed through the door and they both turned slightly to look at him. Hadley’s eyes were red-rimmed and slightly bloodshot. Wilson ignored the symptoms, inured to them by long practice. He sympathized with the fellows on one level, but drawing House’s attention to them had never been a kind move in the past, and it wouldn’t be now.

“You leaving?” House asked, speaking over his shoulder. Wilson nodded, knowing that House would still see him out of the corner of his eye. He always did. “My place, Chinese and porn?”

“Thanks a lot, you know I can’t,” Wilson groused, albeit with a smile. House never changed, even if the circumstances did.

“Ah, yes. Got a hot date with yourself tonight? Planning to hold the old sausage hostage?”

“Right. You’ve been holding my sausage hostage for years, now, House. I practically have to book two weeks in advance to get a night with it,” Wilson snorted, as Hadley brushed past with an armload of papers and a sniffle.

“Like all of the best whores,” House agreed with a derisive glare at the retreating fellow.

“Making the children cry again, House?” Wilson asked pointedly. Sometimes the man was just impossible to get along with, and who would remind House of that if Wilson wasn’t around?

House snorted in irritation. “She’s just such a girl sometimes. You’d think she had no balls at all.” He turned to examine Wilson’s face from across the room. His eyes softened, if his demeanour didn’t. “You look like shit. Go home and get some sleep for once, will you?”

Wilson left with a shake of his head and a middle finger to his best friend.

Cuddy caught him as he crossed the lobby.

“Dr. Wilson!” she called, and beckoned him with a crooked finger.

He cast a longing look at the freedom just a few inches away—a beautiful night, with snowflakes drifting gently down to feather the ground—and followed his boss into her inner office. She gestured for him to sit, and leaned forward for a long moment, scrutinizing his face for traces of… what? Tension pooled in Wilson’s gut, shot tendrils of panic up his spine.

“Dr. Wilson—James—you haven’t filed for your leave of absence…” she hesitated, caring filling her face. “I realize that this is a very hard time for you. I’ll have my secretary—”

“No!” Wilson cut her off violently. He scrubbed at his face, reigning in his emotions. Goddamned bitch. Fucking—He hadn’t meant to snap at her. She didn’t understand. “I don’t intend to take a leave of absence. I’m fine.”

She sat back, breathing deeply, obviously controlling emotions of her own. “Wilson, you need… I appreciate that seeking out…help might be difficult inside the hospital. I know of several very good therapists that could help you deal with…with this.”

Wilson’s mind filled with red and black. He stood, barely aware of the chair skidding backwards and falling over. “What makes you think I need help with this?” He didn’t think he was yelling, but he realized dimly that his voice was echoing around her office in a way that a speaking tone wouldn’t.

Cuddy stood too, hands splayed on the desk as if steadying herself for battle. “Dr. Hadley—”

There was a white supernova in Wilson’s vision. Adrenaline pumped through him and he knew that if he didn’t leave, and now, he might hit her. Might track down Hadley, too, and… Goddamned fucking bitch! Either one of them. Both of them.

Wilson didn’t calm down until he was back in his own apartment, seated on his own worn sofa with his head clenched in his hands, door locked and barricaded from the world outside. They just don’t know… they don’t get it…

He didn’t know how long he was sitting there before the familiar step-thump invaded his haven. “Don’t you ever knock?” he asked, checking his pulse. It was slower, under control now.

“Never did before. Can’t imagine why I would start now.”

The cane was flung onto the coffee table before Wilson, and he didn’t bother to check whether or not it had scratched the finish. A heavy body landed next to him on the couch, and House propped his feet up on the table as well. With a sigh, Wilson flicked on the TV and heaved himself up to grab the beers out of the fridge. He set them on a pair of coasters—Wilson never changed, even if the circumstances did.

After a while, Wilson muted the TV and looked at House. He looked so…touchable, just a few inches away, watching the flicker of the silent monster trucks. Wilson knew he would never dare try. He wasn’t ready for it yet, didn’t need to in any case. He was happy just having House here.

“They think you’re crazy, you know?” House interrupted the quiet. Wilson scrubbed his eyes.

“I know,” he admitted. He was aware of House’s critical, skeptical gaze. “I’m not. I know that you’re dead. I just…I don’t want you to be gone. I can’t stand it if you’re gone.” He felt his eyes fill and glanced away, ashamed.

House’s arm settled over the back of the couch nonchalantly, protective in a subtle, Housian way. “Yeah, crazy’s fine. They just want their normal to be everyone’s normal.”

Wilson took in a breath, and let himself smile. House understood—always had. Together, they had things under control.

Hi, Livejournal

2009-04-26T16:02:22Z

My first post. What to post about? Hmm, well, the reason I made the journal in the first place was because I wrote a fic yesterday. First one in over a year, first one that wasn't Harry Potter. I guess this is as good a time to post it as any. Right after I find out how to do that. I'm off to sick_wilson to read up on how.