After all it's not easy (Banging your heart against some mad bugger's wall)

By Clarity Scifiroots

Regular disclaimers apply. Title from Pink Floyd’s “Outside the Wall”

Wilson/OMC, pre-House/Wilson

Teen

Summary: For an anonymous request - What's House's reaction to losing his best friend to a new, MALE lover? House doesn’t take too kindly to the newest addition in Wilson’s life.

May!fic 8 of 31

---

Observations:

One, it takes a lot more than usual to dampen Wilson’s mood. In fact, House has yet to win by a satisfactory margin at their usual bantering games for more than a week.

Two, Wilson quickly dismisses his badgering with an amused eye-roll and a grin.

Three, Wilson walks by Diagnostics without even looking in. (He sometimes passes with coffee in hand from some unknown resource.)

Four, newly added today—Wilson’s tie is loose.

House rests his chin on his cane as he narrows his eyes in concentration. He pulls up the memory of seeing Wilson in the elevator. The other man was actually late and he looked a little harried. Not only had his tie been loose, his hair looked a little wild as if he’d tugged his fingers through it, the top two buttons of his shirt were undone, and his collar had been askew.

This, House decides, is not good.

---

“His face was cherry red!” Chase exclaims as House walks in. Cameron and Foreman look thoroughly engrossed in whatever their colleague is sharing.

“What’s the gossip on the playground?” House asks, striding (as well as he can) to the whiteboard to note the patient’s allergy to the latest IV drip.

Cameron starts hesitantly, “Well... down at the clinic someone came in with flowers.” House looks over his shoulder, eyebrows raised; what the hell does that matter? “Ah, they were for Wilson.”

House narrows his eyes. Tapping the marker on the edge of the board, he asks, “And who was this person?”

Chase looks at his fellows with an expression of dread. Ah yes, fair haired Chase had been on clinic duty this morning.

“Well?” he prompts.

“It was, er, a man,” Chase starts, shifting uncomfortably. Foremen and Cameron are watching House while (ineffectively) pretending not to. “He was maybe six-one. Tan. Short black hair. Stubble and a goatee?”

“Congratulations,” House says dryly. “Given your close attention to detail, you’ve apparently decided to come out of the closet.”

Chase sputters incoherently, blushing fiercely. Cameron’s mouth drops open a little and she quickly puts her hand on Chase’s arm. Okay, maybe not gay, but definitely bi.

“And who is this mystery man?”

Three blank faces meet his stare. House scowls and flings the marker at the table. “Chase, you’re on recon. Cameron, you’re trying option B on the patient, and Foreman, you’re talking with Grandma.”

House turns towards his office, mind already working in overdrive to place this new piece into his current puzzle.

---

Wilson joins him on the balcony before lunch the next day. House glances sidelong at his friend and switches the tongue depressor he’s chewing on to the other side of his mouth.

That damn smile that seems to be permanent lately lights up Wilson’s face—a boy in a man’s body. House shifts his gaze.

“I found Chase dodging around corners and nurses in attempts of following me,” Wilson says, a hint of laughter in his voice. “I was wondering when one of your ducklings would turn up. I think you’re getting slow, House.”

Scoffing, House turns around and leans back on the wall. “That’s ridiculous,” he says—or tries to. He plucks the wooden stick from his mouth and glares at it. “I have perfect timing. Let you alone a while, keep you anxious, then sic the dogs on your trail.”

Wilson copies his pose and chuckles. “Is that so? Do you realize that there’s been something different for going on three weeks, now?”

House says nothing, internally cursing himself for only noticing a week ago. Maybe Wilson is right, he might be getting slow. Then again— “I had that neurosarcoidosis case two weeks ago.”

Wilson grins, a shine of teeth exposed by parted lips. House narrows his eyes suspiciously. “That’s it, who the hell slipped you a happy pill? I thought you scorned recreational drug use.”

“And why should I tell when you’ve got Chase on the hunt?” Wilson responds, straightening up and lifting his arms in an overly casual shrug. “I have a patient, sorry. Good luck, House.” He grins before turning back to the office.

“Heard some guy brought you flowers,” House calls. “Fending off gay stalkers now? Or is the potential fourth Mrs. Wilson too shy to approach you herself?”

Wilson shakes his head and steps inside.

Damn. He needs to send in reinforcements. If that doesn’t work... well, he’ll enter the playing field himself, and pretend to do clinic duty while he’s at it.

---

Chase reports further sightings of who Cameron has taken to calling “Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome.” She apparently has seen the man as well. Both of his spies report seeing Mr. Dark with Dr. Wilson at odd moments during the day: out front in the morning before Wilson checks in for the day; midmorning with a bakery bag in hand; at lunch in the cafeteria, sitting close enough that they might as well be sharing one try; downstairs at the elevators, waiting.

House is not amused by the obvious conclusions that his spies are wisely not speaking aloud. After all, Wilson, he knows, is straight as a two-by-four and a devout skirt-chaser. Unfortunately, all evidence turning up on this mysterious Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome is throwing those base assumptions off kilter. House is not pleased when his assessments turn out to be wrong; adding to that the fact that he’s known Wilson for roughly a decade, and his blood is boiling.

No more time for the kiddies to play around, this is personal.

---

“So I was thinking,” House says as he barges into Wilson’s office, “beer and pizza and black and white monster flicks.” He promptly sits down in a chair across from Wilson, conveniently ignoring that Wilson had to hurriedly say goodbye and hang up the phone.

For the first time in ages Wilson looks annoyed. “No.”

House frowns. “No?”

Wilson gives him the “I-don’t-have-to-translate-that-for-you” look.

“Why not?” House demands, irritated that Wilson would dismiss him.

“For starters, I’d be paying. But mostly, I have plans.” He suddenly finds the file sitting in front of him captivating.

House watches the avoidance tactic and attempts to assess how best to crack open the situation.

“Cameron’s calling your other half Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome,” he announces. He smirks when Wilson’s head snaps up and a scandalized expression crosses his face. Pleased, House leans back in the chair, shifting into a more comfortable position. “If I didn’t know better, Jimmy, I might say all your panty-peeling’s been a ruse.”

Wilson narrows his eyes. “And that matters why?” he asks.

House widens his eyes innocently. “Why would it matter to your bestest friend? Do you need to ask?”

“Nice try,” Wilson says. He bows his head to gaze at his hands resting on the desk, fingers interlocked. “So you think you know everything about my sex life?” He glances up at House through the fall of hair brushing over his brow. House finds himself a little unsettled at the image that presents.

“You do tell quite a lot after that messy kissing business,” House responds.

Wilson’s eyes trail to the side. “Mmm. But do you really think I’d tell it all?” He licks his lips nervously. “I admire your intuition, I assume by now you’re drawing your own conclusions. Probably as lurid and outrageous as possible to avoid the truth.” His smile seems genuine enough but House sees a glimmer of bitterness around the edges.

“Chris is... well, that’s Cameron’s ‘Mr. Tall and Dark.’ We’re dating.” He says it plainly, as if he’s talking about the weather and not coming out to his best friend. House keeps his reaction in check. “Yes, he’s given me flowers and shows up sometimes in the afternoon to drive me home. And yes, sometimes he drives me to work because I spent the night.” He looks up and fixes House with a challenging stare. “Do you really care for me to get into the details?”

House meets the stare unflinchingly, but his expression remains a neutral mask. Eventually the corners of Wilson’s mouth tighten and he looks away. “Go away, House,” he says quietly. His head drops heavily to his chest.

House stands up without a word and walks out.

---

A few days later House finds himself parking his bike out-of-sight at an ungodly early hour. He pops an extra Vicodin as he settles in to wait. He watches as a red Audi pulls into temporary parking and two men get out of the car. Chris is taller than Wilson by a couple inches. Even at a distance House can tell Chris is an athlete and his job entails some heavy-lifting. Construction, maybe, which would help explain the tan. House’s lips thin in irritation.

Chris leans into Wilson with familiar ease, exuding confidence that he has the right to get so close. Wilson places a hand on Chris’s hip and lets the taller man kiss him. House glances away for a moment, steadying his breathing and trying to ignore the pounding in his ears. He looks back and finds that this is no simple kiss—Wilson’s back is against the car and Chris has his hands low and clutching Wilson’s ass. House snarls quietly and turns away. He tugs off his sunglasses and hurls them at an unsuspecting Chevy a few feet away.

Sometime later he is able to look again. Wilson has organized himself, although his tie is still askew, and he walks towards the entrance. He turns to wave; Chris is waving back, a huge smile taking up most of his face. House doesn’t just dislike this man, he loathes him. He wouldn’t mind administering a LP or doing some surgery without anesthesia...

Chris stands around even after Wilson goes inside. House limps himself with determination towards Mr. Tall and Dark. Chris turns, curiosity written across his features, as House draws closer. The man doesn’t register the danger until House swings his cane out to strike him in the shin. Chris swears loudly and curls over reflexively. House happily punches the guy in the face and watches as Chris loses his balance and falls on his side.

“Jesus Christ!” The man pushes himself up quickly and takes a defensive stance. “I don’t usually feel like beating on cripple, man, but I’m definitely reconsidering.”

House snorts at the threat. “Where’d you get those muscles? From some Boflex special? Or is it a special steroid of choice?” He pokes Chris’s chest with his cane.

“You should leave and get into your doctor’s appointment, gimp.”

“Ooo, I’m scared,” House mocks, waving his hands dramatically in the air. “And ‘gimp?’ You’re one uncreative son of a bitch. I’m sure that’s a big turn on.”

Chris’s eyes narrow suspiciously. “What is this, your sorry attempt at gay bashing?”

“No,” House draws out the ‘o’ and leans forward on his cane. He explains slowly, “Gay, happy, cheerful, whatever, can’t bother myself tracking down all those stupid people. But you seem like a perfect target.” He fixes Chris with a grin.

He doesn’t even see the fist, only feels it as knuckles slam into his jaw and he twists on his bad leg. He stumbles backward and throws out his arms to catch himself on a car before he can fall to the ground. He takes a moment to collect his bearings, then smiles. “Heh, nice one. Feel good to pick on a cripple? I’m sure that impresses all the boyfriends.”

Chris flexes his fingers in another warning. House ignores it as he stands up straight. His cane is on the ground off to the side somewhere; he’ll get it later.

“Then again, it seems to me Dr. Wilson isn’t a big fan of violence.” He purses his lips and stares at the hospital thoughtfully. From the corner of his eye he sees Chris start at the mention of Wilson. He recovers quickly, and looks even angrier.

Real smart, Greg, part of his mind chides.

“Who the hell are you?” Chris demands, sounding as much frustrated as he is mad.

House smirks. “He’s too good for you, and you don’t deserve him.”

“Oh really?” Chris eyes him scornfully. “I suppose you’re a jilted lover. No, you’re too pathetic for that. You’re some gutless fool who couldn’t take what was up for grabs.” House’s eyes narrow. “You’re one sorry SOB,” Chris says, cold amusement cutting through his anger.

“What was up for grabs?” House doesn’t miss the implication. He steps toward Chris, fingers curling into fists without thought as he swears up a storm in Arabic. (English always fails to carry the appropriate measure of vehemence.)

House’s punch brushes past Chris’s shoulder as the man effortlessly shifts out of the way. It feels like a boulder hurls into his stomach. The air in his lungs disappears in an instant. The shock of the gut punch muffles the feeling of a fist crashing into his chin. House drops to the ground, gasping for breath.

He vaguely hears the sounds of angry footsteps and the slam of a car door. Instinctively he forces himself to roll away from the car backing up. He squints his eyes open in time to watch the front tire crunch over his cane. The son of a bitch stops and runs over it twice more before pulling out and taking off, engine revving loudly.

House closes his eyes, still gasping for air and cursing himself. Wilson is definitely going to kill him. Or he’ll let Chris finish the job. He grimaces at the thought.

He’s far from fine at the moment and in no condition to even try standing. He hopes he’ll have a snappy comeback for whoever finds his sorry ass lying out here. In the meantime he wants the pain to go away. He digs in his jacket pocket for the pill bottle, ignoring his body’s screams of pain. Two Vicodin and a little time go a long way in helping soothe the worst of it.

---

Cameron stops mid-sentence and stares in horror as House limps into the room on a hospital-issued cane. He hates the damn things, but now is not a good time to argue with Cuddy. (Of course it would be her who finds him. She isn’t amused or impressed by his sarcastic recollection of a fantasy encounter. For once, though, her anger is targeted on the third party who’d whooped his ass and broken his cane in the process. House refuses to admit that he can identify his assailant.)

Chase and Foreman are on their feet, both wearing shocked expressions. House waves them off irritably and limps towards the coffee. He snaps, “Who’d you find? Please regale me with the tales of your latest failures.”

With that, things go back to normal with Chase and Foreman, although it won’t stop the glances or gossip behind his back. Cameron, of course, is hard to shake. He recognizes the worried look in her eyes that means she’ll be bothering him all day in attempts to kiss his owies and make it ‘all better.’ He gulps his coffee (grimacing at the pressure on his split lit) and mentally prepares himself for the day.

---

House finally chases Cameron out that evening by flinging a patient file at her and bopping her on the head with the oversized tennis ball while she’s kneeling down to pick up the papers. He smirks in her wake and leans back in his chair. He grimaces now that he’s alone and carefully props his bad leg on the foot stool. His gut hurts, his jaw aches, his split lip stings, and the pain in his leg is all-consuming—more than the usual thigh damage, he has a minor ankle sprain.

Eyes closed, he rubs his thigh and hisses at the tight muscles. Definitely did a little too much dancing with Mr. Big and Dark. (And did Cameron—more importantly, Wilson—really find the guy attractive?) He frees a hand and blindly reaches for his trusty pill bottle.

Even though he feels nothing but the usual desktop odds and ends beneath his fingertips, he hears the shake of pills sliding around their little plastic home. He frowns and opens his eyes. Ooh goody... Wilson is standing at the edge of his desk, staring directly at him with a shuttered expression. He holds the Vicodin captive.

“Give me a break,” House mutters, making a “gimme” motion with his fingers. “Look at my beautiful face—wrecked! Want to see the bruise under my shirt? I swear to God it’s looking like the Virgin Mary,” he says with wide eyes.

Wilson barely blinks. Fuck, this does not look good.

House refuses to start the real conversation. He focuses on his thigh again, rubbing carefully, wishing that it actually did something to help.

“I should take this and flush every last one down the toilet,” Wilson says with a shake of the pill bottle. House glances up quickly, the streak of horror at that threat striking quick enough that he can’t hold back a reaction. He stares up at Wilson and realizes moments later that his friend wouldn’t do that.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Wilson demands, face contorting in a mix of confusion, fury, and concern. “What the hell were you doing? You punched him? Verbally assaulted him? And hit him with your cane?” His voice rises with every question.

House leans back and steeples his fingers together. He stares at his fingertips when he answers. “Actually it was whack, punch, verbal, some colorful language, and an attempt of another punch.”

Wilson remains silent.

Eventually he sighs in resignation and tosses House the pill bottle. Wilson slumps into a chair. He studies Wilson with a critical eye as he tosses back a few Vicodin.

“I don’t get you,” Wilson mutters, staring up at the ceiling. “You walk out of my office the other day acting like I’m some sort of threat or an enemy and then— Were you spying on me?” He looks at House and faintly blushes. “You’re a pervert.” Without allowing House a chance to respond, Wilson returns his stare to the ceiling and continues. “You come up and punch my boyfriend and proceed to put him on the defense by attacking with your usual diplomacy. Do you enjoy tempting fate?”

He checks himself and smiles a little. “What am I saying? Of course you do.” He looks down and fixes House with a disappointed stare. “What’s the problem? Is it that you don’t know everything about me? Or is it that I’m bi and I’m sleeping with a man?” He waits and House finds he can’t answer; not right now. Wilson’s eyes widen slightly and he visibly swallows. His fingers dig into the arms of his chair and he shifts minutely. “Or is it that it’s not you?” he whispers.

House sits straight up with a protest already spilling past his lips. But the anger is a brief burst that abruptly disappears and leaves him surprisingly empty. Despite the Vicodin he’s keenly aware of every body ache and an on-coming headache. He slumps in the chair with a deep frown. Fuck.

Wilson is leaning forward, staring at his hands hanging between his legs. He shakes his head slowly, clearly in disbelief.

“House, I... Jeez.” He buries his face in his hands.

House snorts in irritation. “Don’t worry, I’m not a big threat, especially after your butch boyfriend laid me flat. Hmm. Suppose that’s a bad choice of words.” Wilson looks up helplessly, and House flashes him a toothy grin. Wilson just looks devastated. House scowls and glances away. “The guy’s an ass and an idiot. Said you’d been up for grabs. Seems like you were advertising yourself, Jimmy.” He tilts his head and looks back at Wilson, willing the other man to pick up on the underlying advice.

Wilson gives a tiny smile. “Funny you should say that. You’re a bigger jerk than he’ll ever be... and yet you still win out.” He narrows his eyes. “You want every person I meet to pass through your own personal filter. As if you’re a good judge of character.” He eyes House skeptically. “Why do you always screw with things?”

House has no answer. Wilson stares at the floor. They both wait. House knows Wilson longs for an apology while recognizing he won’t ever get one. House secretly wishes Wilson would come over and run his thumb over House’s split lip before kissing him.

Yeah, he’s definitely fucked things up this time.

--- ---