third_owl

House/Wilson Fic: Feed a Fever

third_owl — Sun, 20 Aug 2017 21:37:25 GMT

Title: Feed a Fever
Author: third_owl , with an epilogue by nightdog_barks
Characters: House and Wilson
Rating: NSFW or OH HAI THIS IS PORN
Warnings: Nope, other than the above NSFW
Length: ~1,600 words

"Next time you want to play Super-Wilson Saves the Day," House griped, "leave me out of it." He kept his feet on the coffee table, his eyes on Game of Thrones, and continued drinking his beer, because he wasn't going to elaborate. If they were lucky, his ridiculous, impossible theory would be wrong. The urge he felt would fade as it often did when he ignored it long enough, and Wilson would never have to know.

But if nothing changed soon, he was going to need a shower -- a nice, long, private shower -- and then ... what? Nothing, he hoped. Maybe that would make it go away.

It was eight hours since they'd witnessed the accident, eight hours since Wilson, not content to merely call 911 and let them do their jobs, had pulled over, leapt out of the nice safe Volvo, and gone forth to render aid. House, unwilling to sit in the car and be bored and have nobody to bitch to, had followed.

They'd found the driver dazed, still belted in, a compound fracture to the left arm, a probable broken right wrist, and his pants open, everything hanging out. The evidence of why he'd crashed was spattered on his clothes and on his skin. "At least you wrecked erect," House remarked. "You utter moron."

"Yes, yes, he's an idiot," Wilson said. "You check for head trauma, I'll talk to dispatch."

It had taken just ten minutes for the bus to arrive, the EMTs to take over, and the two of them to leave the scene.

Wilson squirmed in his seat, again, and refused to look at House. Instead, he attempted to cross his legs, and when that failed, picked up his TV Guide -- what kind of dweeb still buys TV Guide? -- and pretended to read the listings, with the pages falling over his lap.

A soft breeze moved the curtains and carried through the room, bringing Wilson's scent along. Wilson's cuffs and collar were undone, sleeves rolled up, tie gone. His hair shone in the lamplight. It was soft and House wanted to touch it, and then touch more than that.

"Why," he demanded, "are you still in that stupid dress shirt?"

Wilson failed to answer, but he did stop pretending to read. "House ..." he began, and the hoarseness in his tone made House want to grab that ridiculous magazine for himself, to hide the effect. "House ... I ... I think I'd better go home."

"I think you'd better go to bed." On some remote level, House was aware that his phone was ringing. His ears were ringing, too; he could feel his skin flush; he knew something was wrong, something he'd been thinking of just a few seconds ago. Right, right, the wreck. The guy was carrying something, had to be. Somewhere in the back of House's brain was the idea of a hospital, a diagnosis, something to make sense of this, but that thought was slipping away into the rhythm of Wilson's breathing and the curve of his mouth. "Go to bed," he heard himself say. "With me."

"Thirsty," was the first thing Wilson said to him, waking from their fitful, fevered sleep after they'd done, House figured, about half the things he'd ever imagined doing with Wilson, plus a few he'd never thought of, and then passed out on one another on the couch.

There was something he was supposed to remember about all this, but he couldn't. He was thirsty, too, and sweaty, and his skin was tingling, and he had to pee. "C'mon," he said. "Get up."

"You gotta go first," Wilson said, and finally House's addled brain worked out which of them was lying on top of the other. Up until that moment it had mostly been replaying what they'd done. He ran a hand down Wilson's side and noticed that they were both entirely naked, and he could reach Wilson's chest with his mouth, so he did, and that sound Wilson made, oh. He liked that sound.

His lips really were parched, though. He forced himself to untangle and get up, as Wilson tried to hold him there. A soft, hot shape poked House in the hip and he did his best to resist pressing into it.

"You'll die of dehydration," House said, his mind clearing a bit more. "Can't let that happen. Ruin our fun. And you need to take a leak."

Wilson groaned, and it was almost enough to drag House back.

The TV was still on. A bright red ribbon across the bottom of the screen carried a scrolling message, something House only half read. Storm warning, he thought. Didn't care. They weren't going anywhere for a while.

Somewhere in their barefoot shuffling back and forth to the bathroom and the kitchen, House recalled that they probably had a virus, some new thing that might or might not kill them, and they ought to call the hospital and the, uh ... CDC. That was it. They should definitely call the CDC.

Wilson stepped beside him, set his empty drinking glass on the counter, and took House by the wrist. "I don't know what's wrong with us," he said. "But I need a shower. Now."

House discovered he did not give a single shit about viruses, death, or the Center for Whatever. It was all receding anyway as he let Wilson lead him out of the kitchen.

A bottle of hair conditioner, left by some long-gone girlfriend, turned out to be just the thing for lubrication when giving hand-jobs in the shower.

House pinned Wilson to the wall, let the hot water spray against his back while they kissed and stroked and jerked one another, slowly, more slowly than anything they'd done on the sofa. For a few hazy seconds, House wondered whether it, whatever it was, was wearing off, and he hoped it was, and hoped it wasn't, and then Wilson reached around and slipped one fingertip inside him.

House forgot to wonder anymore.

"You know we have a ... virus, or something," Wilson said. "Right?"

They were waking up again, this time in House's bed. House's memory was clearing but his skin was still hot, the prickling sensation still traveling up and down his spine and then radiating outward, everywhere.

"There's no known virus that does this." Somewhere else in the apartment, he could hear his phone ringing again. "But I don't see how it could be anything else." He lay quietly, waiting for the next wave of lust to wash over him, slightly disappointed that the strongest sensation was not insane desire, or even his aching leg -- shockingly quiet for once -- but his rumbling stomach. How long had it been since they'd eaten? He didn't know.

"Let's order something. Athena's Palace delivers. Pay online, have 'em ring the bell and leave it at the door. Clean, no risk of contagion."

"I'll get my laptop," Wilson said. "House, we have to figure out what to do about this."

"Funny. I thought we already did."

It was either the best gyros and moussaka he'd ever had, House thought, or else it was just the circumstances, but either way, he was finally content.

And still mostly naked, hanging out in boxer shorts and drinking more beer, because he felt too hot for much else. Hotter than he'd been a minute ago, in fact. He should call in sick for tomorrow, if tomorrow was a work day. He didn't know anymore.

He'd have done it right then except he was sort of busy watching Wilson, whose fingers got slopped with tzatziki sauce, which he was licking off. The heat pooled in House's face, in his hands, in his groin. He knew where this was going, at least for himself, but what about --

"Oh, God. House." Wilson set down his empty plate and looked up, flushed bright pink across his cheeks. "It's not over. I thought it was over."

"Seems it just needed a snack." House swallowed the last of his beer, got up rather ... stiffly, and held out his hand. "Come on," he said. "Let's go get dessert."

Epilogue

The plague from outer space ... for that's what it had been, a wildly improbable real-life case of sex pollen and not some form of mass hysteria ... had finally burned itself out.

"Yes," the scientists on TV said, "the so-called Kooky Monkey Puppy Fever epidemic has abated." The scientists on TV always said this part looking as though they'd tasted something bad, but it was what the wisdom of the Internet had named the contagion so what could they do? There was no swimming against the tide. At this point the scientists on TV would clear their collective throats. "There are no incidences of spontaneous mass love-ins occurring anywhere." And then they looked sad.

House could sympathize. He didn't feel exactly sad, but he did feel as if something was missing from his life.

He tried biking more.

He took up go again, and played in the park with guys trying to hustle a buck.

He drank more.

He stopped drinking.

He drank again, sensibly this time.

He found himself outside Wilson's office door, his palms sweating, an indescribable itch at the base of his spine.

The door opened.

"House," Wilson said.

"Wilson," House said. "I miss it."

"I thought you'd never say so," Wilson said. He pulled House into his office, then into a kiss.

House's palms stopped sweating. The indescribable itch disappeared.

They lived happily ever after, and loved every fucking minute of it.

House ficlet: Questionable Motives

third_owl — Thu, 08 Oct 2015 15:54:09 GMT

Characters: House and Wilson
Rating: About the same as the show
Pairing: House/Wilson, except not quite yet
Notes: Originally drafted far too late/early, over on Tumblr.

Questionable Motives

“It wasn’t that you wanted to sleep with her, was it?” Wilson said, out of nowhere, a week after they’d both been declared mendacious dirtbags. “You just didn’t want me to.”

Well, duh, House thought. In no hurry to begin this conversation, he took another handful of popcorn and leaned back in that stupid double-lounge-chair sofa, which had been his own idea but which clearly had to go.

“Because we both knew how that was gonna end,” House said, and if Wilson were sensible, he’d have shut up after that.

Wilson had never been all that sensible.

“We didn’t know anything. She’s … she’s attractive, she’s sane, and she’s perfectly nice! Anything could have happened.”

“Sure, if you weren’t you. Because if there’s one thing you absolutely cannot cope with, it’s relationships with perfectly nice people.” To illustrate this point, House grabbed Wilson’s bottle of beer off the ridiculous center arm-rest of the ridiculous not-really-a-sofa and took a good, long drink. “Also, I would totally have slept with her. I just knew you’d never let it get that far.”

Someone was getting murdered on the TV show House was no longer watching. It was way more interesting to watch Wilson reclaim that beer and keep drinking it as if nothing had happened.

“You had no idea what I’d do,” Wilson insisted. “That was such an amazing look on your face.”

“I knew you’d eventually call my bluff. Just didn’t think you’d do it on one knee, in a crowded restaurant. I guessed you’d march in while she was over here, declare me taken, and swoop in for the requisite French kiss.” House glanced again at Wilson’s beer, considering a second round of theft, but it was too far gone to bother. “And then,” he said, as he got up to head for the kitchen, “we’d both have known how that felt.”

He saw just the beginning of Wilson’s startled scowl before he escaped. It was only a joke, right? If Wilson didn’t like it, it was only a joke.

“Get me another one, while you’re at it,” was all Wilson said.

No ‘please,’ House noted. Evidence of his own bad influence.

There might be hope for Wilson yet.

~*~

House fic: In a Heartbeat

third_owl — Tue, 22 Jan 2013 05:37:04 GMT

Title: In a Heartbeat
Author: third_owl, with contributions from nightdog_barks
Characters: House, Wilson, OC
Spoilers: For Season 8, but this is not part of the Riververse.
Warnings: none
Summary: None of this is real, but if it were, House would still do it. About 2,050 words.

"You aren't really in a position to be making demands, are you?" The man who claims to be an angel seems amused.

"I'll be dead either way, so obviously I can't enforce the contract, but you're asking me to pay a hell of a price. Fair's fair."

"Very well, Doctor House. What is it you want, in addition to our original offer?" The guy -- House doesn't know his name and doesn't care -- looks unsettlingly like Foreman in his full-on Smug Administrator Mode. He's taller, though, and wears flowing, embroidered silk rather than the tailored Italian kind.

"If you're going to be that much of a bastard to him, and take away his best friend, I want you to give him someone else." This is certainly a dream, but it's an interesting one. He's sitting on the bed, all the details of the room faithfully reproduced, as they almost never are when he's dreaming. He looks over at Wilson, who's asleep and oblivious, thinner today than yesterday. "He needs someone who loves him, and I mean really loves him. Not who he pretends to be, or tries to be. Someone he can call as soon as I ... get hit by a truck, or whatever it'll be." House stares steadily at the apparition, the figment who is not there. "You have to replace me."

The man stands there silent for a long moment, then another. He flickers out of existence, then back into it again.

"I have consulted with my superiors," he says. "We can do this, yes. I regret that I can't tell you how your death will occur."

"I don't want to know. What do I have to do, in this fairy tale? Cut my finger and sign my name in blood? The old candle, book and bell routine, maybe? But if that's it, you'll have to B-Y-O-Book. And candle and bell. Not like they keep this stuff at the Hyatt Regency."

"After I leave, lie back down beside your friend, and sleep. What must be done will be done."

The guy who'd said he was an angel disappears, and immediately House is overwhelmed with fatigue. He nestles in beside Wilson, going to sleep inside a dream, wishing it could be real at the same time that he knows, and hopes, it isn't.

Trading his own life for Wilson's -- that notion doesn't bother him as much as it probably should. But Wilson should not have to lose him. House is all he has left.

"I think you should get checked out," House says. "You've put on, what? Ten pounds in a week? You look ... good." He looks beautiful, in fact, but House has always kind of thought that. It's just easier to admit to himself, now. "If something weird is happening, like you got herpes from your bucket-list threesome and it's made your tumor shrink, you need to know."

"Wishful thinking," Wilson answers, but he's playing pool with House at an hour when, a week ago, he'd have already been passed out in bed.

House remembers the dream, and his skin prickles. This happens a lot, lately.

A short dude, built like a pit bull and sporting a cowboy hat, saunters up beside him. "Care for a third for the next game?" he asks. House is about to tell him three's a crowd, but Wilson's too fast.

"Sure," he says, and introduces himself. The interloper's name is Caton Marshall, some idiot hero right out of a pulp Western novel, and House wants to hate him. Roofing contractor, drinks Budweiser, drawls. Catches a film-noir reference from Wilson and the next thing House knows, he's on the outside edge of a whole laughing conversation.

Two games later, they've arranged to meet back there the next night, and do it again.

House briefly wonders if this could be his replacement, because he is a moron. There is no replacement. It was just a dream, House is still living and Wilson still dying. He looks better right now, but bodies are always making promises they don't keep. A few more months, and it'll be House who'll have to find another friend.

There is a sense in which he's glad Marshall -- he can't call the guy Caton, because seriously, Caton? -- has become a fixture. On those nights when House gets edgy, wanting to know why Wilson has more energy than he did a few days ago, why he's not taking pain pills anymore, what that look was and when the hell will they finally leave PoDunk for greener pastures? Those nights, they don't fight because Wilson goes to hang out with what is rapidly becoming BFF Number Two.

Or they go play cards with the guy, and thus avoid any conversation that might start with We need to discuss this, which isn't something Wilson says much anyhow. House just wants to make sure it stays that way.

About three weeks since the three of them met, they end up on Marshall's back deck, grilling New York strip steaks, drinking wine because Marshall and Wilson both like it, and being nosed by Marshall's big black Lab. There's no Budweiser in the fridge at this place, just a couple microbrews House has never heard of. He takes one, but it isn't nearly as much alcohol as he wants.

He can't seem to stop himself spreading his discomfort; he springs the question as Marshall is taking the steaks off the barbecue. "So. When exactly did you figure out you were gay?"

Wilson looks mortified, but Marshall only stops moving for a second before looking up at House. "Couldn't say there was a particular moment," he answers. "Was there one for you?"

"Touché," says House. It's all he can come up with. "Need anything from the kitchen?"

Dinner is excellent, but the next time House is invited, he doesn't go. Hanging out with Wilson and Marshall feels like being a stick jammed through the spokes of a bicycle wheel. It's nobody's fault it doesn't work.

Two months after the angelic visit that didn't happen, and he's standing beside Wilson, the two of them squinting and scowling at films that cannot possibly be real. House feels his skin flush and then go cold. That prickling feeling returns, spreading over his arms, down his back and his legs.

"You ... don't seem happy," Wilson says, when he stops gawping long enough to notice. "House?"

"It's a dream come true," House answers. "I'm just in shock. Let's go celebrate."

They leave the clinic, giddy and dazed.

"I do love you, you know." They're coming back from dinner, Wilson a little buzzed and House not, which is why he's driving, and he's wondering why he's saying it now, like some kind of last confession. "Pretty much always have."

"I know." Wilson smiles at him, a little loopy. "Wanted you to say it 'cause I can't. And it's true."

"You're such a sap." If there really was some cosmic trade-off, House thinks, it would have happened by now. Wilson's got his unexplained remission and his groovy, lonely, film-noir-watching cowboy. Dude hadn't even freaked out when he'd learned his new buddy wasn't long for this world.

It dawns upon House while they're waiting at a stoplight, a few blocks away from their latest temporary home: Wilson hasn't called Marshall today. In the ... six or seven hours since he got the proof the tumors had vanished, he hasn't called anyone.

They're just in the door of their place when it happens. The thing that feels like a mule kick straight to the chest.

"Wilson," he says. It's all he can manage while his knees are buckling for what he knows will be the very last time. His hand clutches his jacket, over the heart that is ready to stop.

The last thing he hears is Wilson dialing 911; the last things he feels are Wilson's hands, the first chest compression.

"You were steadfast," says the man who isn't an angel, who has to be some kind of subconscious manifestation of whatever the hell is manifesting here. "We were surprised, after his healing, that you remained willing to honor the agreement. You didn't want to die."

They are standing in a hospital room in a hospital House doesn't recognize, but he does know the pathetic specimen in the bed. Intubated, an IV, a catheter; how much time has passed? he wonders. The heart monitor is steady. Wilson, asleep and haggard in the world's least comfortable chair, looks almost more dead than the patient.

"Thought you were going to kill me," House says, "not turn me into a rutabaga."

"You did die. The bargain was fulfilled, and we ... replaced you. You failed to consider that the word has more than one meaning."

Oh, House thinks. "Replaced. In the sense of putting something back where it was."

"We had no choice; there was a ... complication."

"He's better, I died, and his buddy Marshall adores him. No wonder the world's a wreck, if your boss thinks this is complicated."

The angel, the hallucination who makes him outright miss Amber, only smiles. "Had you asked for any other thing, it would have been simple. Riches until your death, or fame after it, or some last pleasures for yourself. These are the things men want. But you bargained for someone to love that man, as he is." The divine bureaucrat holds up one huge hand, staving off House's protest. "It could not be done. There is no one else he allows to see him."

The words wend their way into House's brain, and his anger rises to meet them. "If that means I wake up and he dies of cancer all over again, you can shove that deal up your heavenly ass. He lives. That was the bargain."

The angel throws his head back and laughs, a laugh that shakes the walls and rumbles through House's chest as the room goes black and then bright again, and he wakes up, choking on the tube down his throat.

Wilson is up, hovering, hitting the call button as the last booming echoes fade away.

He's been over and over his own charts, courtesy of Wilson -- sly, charming, affable Wilson -- getting him every available scrap of information. They've tested and re-tested, MRIed and CTed and even X-rayed the hell out of him, and House is no closer to a rational answer. All he is, is bored.

There weren't any blockages to explain the cardiac arrest, no clots or swellings or anything that should have caused him to drop dead, or to be comatose for two days after heavy-duty voltage jerked him back to life. There's no arrhythmia. There's no nothing, anywhere; there's just him in this room with Wilson and the stupid basic cable package and not an answer in sight that doesn't involve stuff that cannot have happened.

They're waiting on the paperwork for House ("Robert Bell") to sign himself out against medical advice. The Price is Right ends and home shopping begins; House flips the channel. Gunsmoke. Flip. Soap opera House doesn't watch. His head hurts. Flip. An infomercial for exercise equipment consisting of giant rubber bands and kettlebells.

"Just twice a day for thirty minutes!" the guy says.

"You don't have to stay here," House says. He doesn't look around.

"I know," Wilson says mildly.

"Take some time off. Go get lunch with Caton," House says, and there, he's said it even though it makes his chest hurt in addition to his head.

Wilson eases back in his chair and watches the TV. "Nope," he says, and he's got that look in his eye that tells House it's the end of this conversation.

"Abs of steel!" the guy says. Flip. Televised Bible study; sometimes good for a laugh.

"No greater love has any man than this," the woman reads. She looks like his maternal grandmother, same glasses and hair and all. "No greater love has any man than this, that he lay down his life for his friend."

"How true," Wilson says, looking at House with a kind of fond accusation. He means the faked death, of course. Not the real one, because he has no idea, because it didn't happen.

"Don't be an idiot," House snaps at him, and he turns the thing off.

~end~</div>

Fic: Motel 6

third_owl — Fri, 28 Dec 2012 04:56:52 GMT

Title: Motel 6. This is a bonus scene for American Gothic, and takes place on the night following that story.
Authors: third_owl and nightdog_barks. Set in the Riververse in which Wilson has quite unexpectedly survived.
Characters: House, Wilson; 770 words.
Spoilers: Yes, all the way through 8.22 and then a hard left at Albuquerque.
Warnings: None.
Summary: After last night, they are glad for any place where they can leave the lights on.

They ought to be asleep, but they aren't. They are showered, in their loose soft shirts and shorts, propped up in bed with the bathroom light and the television both on.

"So why was it such a crappy year?" House is sipping Scotch, jiggling his elbow against Wilson's arm.

Wilson snorts (he does this a lot when he's drunk, and it's one of the countless things House finds amusing about drinking with him). "Which crappy year? You'll need to be more, um ... specific."

"You said what's-his-name was a good friend and it was a crappy year. The 'good friend' part, I got. Not the 'crappy year.' Pour me another."

Wilson does, a little unsteadily, and then clinks the bottle against House's glass before refilling his own. "I was sixteen. Crappy year by, um. Definition, right?" His words are all soft around the edges now.

"But really bad for you, if you bothered to say so. That when your little brother first went off the rails?"

"And!" Wilson waves an unsteady finger at him, for emphasis. "The year I figured out about ... my dad. An' his girlfriend."

"Huh. Well, that explains a lot."

"Does it. It ... does?"

"Haven't you spent years in therapy, you idiot? Go get your money back. You would have had to lie from the moment you knew. Because I know you never told on him."

"No."

"You were screwed no matter what you did. Tell, and you're the bad guy; mom and dad both hate you for telling. Don't tell, and you're a liar and you hate yourself, and your mom would hate you if she knew you knew and didn't tell her. That about the size of it?"

"And it sucked. Think of a, a ... thing that really, really sucks. And it was like that thing." Wilson, almost always a happy drunk, suddenly isn't, and House feels like that might in some way be his fault. He drapes his arm across Wilson's shoulders; it's easy because Wilson's kind of hanging his head.

"It wasn't your fault, Jimmy."

"That's what he said. Jason. I told him."

"And he was right. But you're an idiot, and you didn't believe him." House pulls him closer, which is also easy because Wilson gets sort of ... generally floppy, when he's wasted. His head comes to rest on House's shoulder. "So you grew up to be the lying, cheating, secretive, manipulative bitch that I love." A pause while brain catches up with mouth, there, and he decides to just let it go and hope Wilson will, too. "Because you didn't want to hurt anyone."

Wilson doesn't say anything, and House takes another sip of scotch, enjoying the deep warmth in his chest. He aims the remote at the TV and clicks, lands on a movie channel. "He ran into my knife ten times," a woman says. House decides to leave it on, just to see if Wilson knows the songbook for Chicago as well as he does for A Chorus Line, but Wilson is still quiet, so House turns his head just enough to peek at Wilson's face.

He's asleep, eyes closed, mouth slightly open, a delicate strand of drool threatening to drip onto House's shirt.

House grabs a tissue from the box on the nightstand, dabs away the drip, and sighs. "You're a cheap date, Wilson." Wilson's left hand is resting on his lap, still holding the tumbler with what's left of his Scotch. About to spill it, and that would be a waste, so House takes the glass and drains it before finishing off his own.

Wilson gives no indication of waking.

"Wilson. Come on, I don' wanna sleep like this." House shakes Wilson's shoulder until there's a grunt and whimper, and with some pushing and pulling, Wilson flops over sideways on the mattress. "Good enough," House mutters.

He ought to turn off the bathroom light, but no way is he getting out of bed. Too tired. The remote has vanished in the folds of the blankets, and he's too tired to hunt for that, either. The thing can just stay on. Volume's pretty low. It's okay.

"It's okay." He stretches his hand out and slowly ruffles Wilson's hair. Good little Jimmy, keeping his dad's secrets the way House never would have. Didn't, when the secret was his mom's. "It's okay," he repeats. He lies down with his arm around Wilson's waist, his chest against Wilson's back. The hair at the nape of Wilson's neck is soft and it smells nice, and House thinks he'll sleep this way.

There's a word for it, what he's doing, but he's sure he's too drunk to remember it now.

He just hopes, after last night, that he's also too drunk to remember any dreams he might have.

Home for Christmas, Part Two

third_owl — Wed, 26 Dec 2012 04:22:36 GMT

Title: Home for Christmas, Part Two. Part One is here, written by menolly_au
Characters: House/Wilson, Blythe
Rating: PG
Words Approx 1,160
Warnings: Fluff, Christmas sentiment, strangely absent Thomas
Spoilers: For Final arc
Summary: nightdog_barks and I wanted more of menolly_au's story. So, with her kind permission, we wrote it.

Three hours later, Blythe is still crying. It's quiet, unobtrusive; she turns her head if Wilson looks her way, quickly wipes the tears, and then turns back.

Wilson has been busying himself everywhere he can. Cooking, dishes, lighting and tending the fireplace, anything. He'd swiftly fled the scene after the Grand Reunion, leaving House and his mom in their embrace on the sidewalk and driving into town for reasons he could figure out later.

The only thing open was something called a Liquor Barn, with a bright yellow sign and a gaudy rainbow awning, so Wilson went in and dawdled in the glaringly-lit aisles, dodging other last-minute shoppers and not even minding the cheesy holiday playlist. Basically the same awful stuff he had put on House's iPod.

By the time he was done, he had enough bottles to stock a cabinet for a year. He'd bought the high-end stuff -- single malt from some island in the Hebrides with an unpronounceable name, good Kentucky bourbon, gin in a crystal-blue bottle that actually looked a lot like antifreeze and probably would've served the same purpose. He loaded up with red and white wines from France and Australia, California and Chile. He pulled a bottle of Bordeaux from a shelf, some small part of his mind identifying it as one he'd shared with Amber, and added it to the cart.

One of the stock boys had hoisted the carton to his shoulder, carried it out the car.

"Party?" the kid asked.

Wilson had looked up from opening the trunk. "I'm sorry?"

"You having a party?" The kid nestled the carton into the trunk and stepped back. "I mean, you got everything you need right there."

Wilson shut the trunk lid. "Yes," he said. "A family reunion."

Then he'd sat -- just sat -- in the parking lot another half an hour, watching other shoppers come and go, because whatever was going on at Blythe's, it was not for him to see. When he did come back, he had damn near tiptoed in, because this was House's only remaining family, and families were volatile at the best of times. But it had been all right, and if House's eyes looked almost as red as his mom's, Wilson wasn't going to bring it up.

They're going to be here a while, Wilson knows. Overnight, for certain, and probably a few days, because House is unemployed now and there's no place they have to be, no reason for them to leave.

Blythe stands so close to her son, finds every opportunity to be near, puts her arm around him, reaches up to put her hand on his cheek. Wilson pretends not to notice that raw joy, or the bitterness that jostles it sometimes.

As soon as he can reasonably fake it, Wilson says he's tired, needs a shower, and needs to sleep.

"Wuss," House says, but his body language sends out unmistakable signals of relief.

He can't sleep, and he doesn't know if it's because he's in a guest room, away from House, or if it's because he's away from House. He tosses and turns enough that his bladder finally informs him he needs to get up, but when he does there's a light on in the den, and he follows it to find Blythe curled up in a chair, feet tucked under her, with a book she isn't reading and the TV on, tuned to a show she isn't watching. A bottle and tumbler are on the side table by the lamp, and as Wilson draws near, she looks up and smiles.

"Oh, James," she says, and gets up and gets a second glass.

"It's selfish of me," she says, "but I'm happy you're here. Instead of ... wherever else you probably should have been tonight." Her gaze drifts downward, to the gold ring on his left hand.

It's been obvious since he returned from the liquor store that she doesn't know, and really, if he thinks about it, he can't blame House for not telling her yet. Maybe he figured one shock of a lifetime was enough for today.

He touches the ring, twists it on his finger, smiles. "My family understands," he says softly.

She handles the bottle and tumbler like it's very old hat, and pours him a drink -- the bourbon he bought -- without asking if he wants one. It's been the kind of day that makes drinking a foregone conclusion, at least for Wilson, and he's surprised to see Blythe make that same assumption.

Wilson takes a sip, and another, and thinks about his family. They're at his brother's now, celebrating his brother's birthday with the grandkids and cousins, and in its own way it's good.

But here, nobody will ask why he's still traveling, when he's going back to work, when he's settling down. He raises his glass and clinks it to hers. "To selfishness," he says.

He gives Wilson no warning before climbing into bed beside him, startling him awake. House is not trying to be quiet about this. He pushes at Wilson's hip. "God, move over, willya?" House grumbles.

"What?" Wilson says, his voice still fuzzy with sleep. "House? What are you doing?"

"Real question is, what were you doing. Having a party without me, sounded like." House stops wriggling his way under the covers and leans in close, sniffing, just for dramatic effect. "You've been drinking," he accuses. "With my mother." He shakes his head. "Dude," he says. "That's messed up."

"House!" Wilson pulls his blankets tighter, tensed up the way he gets when he's chilly or defensive. "House, what are you doing here? What if your mom -- "

"Looks in my room and doesn't find me?" House says. "She won't. My mom hasn't opened the door to my bedroom since I was fourteen."

He leaves it to Wilson to guess what a fourteen-year-old boy might have been doing in the privacy of his bedroom. In the meantime, House has settled down against Wilson's side and the bed is beginning to warm, soothing him with the mixed scents of clean sheets, bourbon, and Wilson. This was definitely a good idea, even if it was a bad one.

Wilson, obviously still a little drunk, scoots closer.

"Don't think you can cuddle your way out of this, you little weasel," House says. "I'll want a full report in the morning."

"Hm?" Wilson's stretching, settling again, already slipping away. "Oh. Yeah. You bet." His voice fades. "G'night, House." House stills himself against Wilson's side. Outside, it's begun to rain, the drops pattering against the window, but the bed is warm now, almost toasty. Wilson's alcohol-drenched capillaries are all wide open, flushing his skin with heat. Wilson was drinking with House's mom, and she was laughing -- House could hear her -- and that's two surprises at once.

If House can arrange for it to happen again, he might.

"'night, Wilson," he says.

"Nn," says Wilson, and then he's soundly asleep. The window above his head is strung with Christmas lights that shine on his hair and make Wilson's face look soft, boyish, innocent rather than drunk.

Innocent and drunk, House corrects himself.

And still, still not boring.

~*~

Part Three, by menolly_au, is here!

Playing in the Riververse again

third_owl — Wed, 18 Jul 2012 03:07:59 GMT

Nice night here in Owl-land, hot though it is where I am.

I'm drafting -- co-drafting -- another Riververse fic tonight. Hope to have it done in, IDK, a week or so? We're down to the last third of the little story, and it's kind of different and we're having a good time.

I saw a new fic from Namaste but I'm nervous about reading it. If Wilson dies, I still can't cope. I should be made of tougher stuff, but, alas, I am not. Eventually, I'm sure.

Danny Wilson's first arrest?

third_owl — Tue, 26 Jun 2012 04:01:41 GMT

I found this mug shot here.

Un-freaking-canny, ain't it? He's even got the slightly wonky left eye.

"Arrested for leaving the scene of a crash with damage, resisting arrest, and tampering with evidence," says the Smoking Gun site.

Sticky: The Riververse so far

third_owl — Thu, 07 Jun 2012 20:39:23 GMT

Putting this here so anyone who needs a handy reference can find the existing pieces of the Riververse, which began when nightdog_barks discovered a little known but very real medical phenomenon. And used it.

A River Out of Eden, the story that started it all, cowritten by nightdog_barks and blackmare.

Changing Pastures is Nightdog's, and gives us an outsider's point of view on the original story -- and what a story he discovers it is.

Sleeping in the Devil's Bed, another cowritten effort, some time after the end of the original.

Come Around Again to Find

Will it Go Round in Circles

This is all we have for now, but do note that this ficverse is open source. Fandom is welcome to play in it, borrow from it, whatever; just credit it and run.

Fic: Sleeping in the Devil's Bed

third_owl — Mon, 04 Jun 2012 19:08:02 GMT

Title: Sleeping in the Devil's Bed
Authors: third_owl and nightdog_barks . Set in the universe of Nightdog's A River Out of Eden. Read that first, if you haven't.
Characters: House, Wilson; about 1,350 words.
Spoilers: Yes, all the way through 8.22 and then a hard left at Albuquerque.
Warnings: None.
Summary: This is all pretty normal, for their definition of normal. And if it isn't, they'll just pretend it is.

As many nights as not, he sleeps in the same bed with Wilson. Not in Wilson's bed -- that would be the one in Princeton, empty and cold, unless Bonnie's managed to move the condo already -- but in whichever of the two hotel room beds Wilson also occupies.

It's one of those things they've been doing without mentioning it, the way they used to sit on House's (or Wilson's, but usually House's) sofa, closer together than they were supposed to, bumping shoulders, thighs, elbows; reaching across one another for the popcorn or angling for the last fried shrimp on the pupu platter or fighting for the remote. It's all the same, out here on the road, except that about half their hotel rooms don't have sofas, and of those that do, only half of those are comfy. But there are always beds, so House sits on the bed beside Wilson and does the same things as always and then, by accident, dozes off.

That had been going on for a while, with Wilson sometimes bitching that House snored or thrashed, that he stole the sheets, that he farted and oh God. But that would be morning, and at night Wilson would, by accident, doze off without making House leave.

Neither of them wanted to be alone and neither wanted to talk about it, and that was all right with House. And then Wilson got sick with that fever, and House went to sleep in a separate bed and woke up in bed with Wilson and could not, could not, remember how he got there. It was a minor glitch at the time, an anomaly he couldn't deal with because of the need to keep Wilson's brain from boiling away, but like most anomalies, it bugged him.

And now Wilson is going to live, and they have still been by accident falling asleep together, and that anomaly is still bugging House. It's not like it's something you just come out and talk about, though. Every time House thinks about it, he feels his stomach clench at the minefield he'd be voluntarily entering.

"Hey, Wilson! We sleeping together again tonight?"
"Hey, Wilson! I sure am happy we're sleeping together!"
"Hey, Wilson! You know what they call guys who sleep together?"
"Hey, Wilson! You wanna suck -- "

House breathes in sharply and swallows his own spit the wrong way, and suddenly he's bent over coughing and crying, reaching blindly for the tall plastic glass of iced tea. When at last his throat clears and he can see, he looks up to find Wilson staring at him.

"Thought for a minute there I was going to have to come to your rescue," Wilson says.

House coughs a couple more times, experimentally, but everything's open now and he picks up his fork again.

"Heimlich me, doctor," he says, and looks away, quickly, because if he keeps looking at Wilson, Wilson will know he just had an intense desire for Wilson to do just that. To wrap his arms around House's ribs and just ... hold on.

And that, House thinks, is crazy.

He's still thinking crazy thoughts as Letterman signs off that night and Wilson gets up, brushes his teeth, and then gets right back into bed beside him. In those thin cotton knit pajamas of his, ridiculous blue-striped things that erase every coolness point he's earned with a day of v-twin engines and leather. He doesn't even have the scuzzy biker beard to offset the dorkiness, because the Great Wilsonian Facial Hair Experiment lasted (to House's relief) precisely one week on the road. It was itchy, Wilson said. Then it was gone.

So Wilson just looks like Wilson, but that isn't helping. His short sleeves expose the shape of his arms, toned from the riding, and from the morning swims at every place that has a pool, and House needs to stop thinking about that.

"There's a second bed, you know," House says.

"Frightening how I got through med school without learning how to count." Wilson takes two of the four pillows and wedges them against the headboard to build a bed-recliner. "You want the other one, go take it. I like this one."

"It does offer a better angle on the boob tube."

"Correct. SyFy Original Movie tonight?"

"Only if we can't find any Bond."

"Or Hitchcock. Scoot over, you jerk. You're hogging my space."

Liar, House thinks. He is doing no such thing. Liar, liar, liar. "Make me."

"God damn it, House." Wilson's pushing at him, his hip and shoulder pressing into House's. "You could grow up a little."

"And monkeys could fly out my butt. Which do you think's gonna happen first?"

Wilson makes a sound that's somewhere between a groan and a sigh, and gives up, but -- this is the significant thing -- fails to move away. And House's mental soundtrack begins again.

Hey, Wilson? Mind if I hold onto you now?
Yo, Wilson. When you asked if I loved you --

"House?"

"Yeah."

"I've just been subjected to thirty seconds of Urkel. You are now in the penalty box. Gimme the remote."

House holds the thing as far as possible from Wilson's reach. "You do realize, now that you're not dying and I'm still a pathetic cripple, I don't have to do what you say anymore."

"Have to? No. Think of it as enlightened self-interest." And there's something in Wilson's expression that makes House think of it in exactly that way, surrendering the prize without further protest; and really, this degree of manipulative excellence deserves careful study.

"How do you do that, Obi-Wan?" says House, and Wilson smiles, and oh. That's how. Not the stick, but the carrot. Give in to me and I'll look at you like this, I'll laugh with you, I'll play; maybe I'll let you choose the next place we go, the next race we watch, the horse to bet on.

He'd hate Wilson for it if he weren't so busy loving him, and if he didn't know Wilson. The world's biggest giver is needy, and what he needs, wants, is House. Tell me that you love me.

Of course, Wilson was dying then. House rearranges his leg so his calf rests against Wilson's, and decides that even if Wilson still wants to hear it, right now is definitely the wrong time.

"Anything for you," House says, even though, strictly speaking, Obi-Wilson hasn't answered his padawan's question. "Anything."

In House's head there are all the things he may never get to say, all the Soundtracks of Crazy running at once, and he figures he'll have to be okay with that. At least Wilson is here and not in the ground, or in a white cardboard box in the saddlebag of House's bike. Or, hell, even in the other bed.

And that's when Wilson takes his hand.

Well, he doesn't really take it; it's more like he covers House's right hand with his left hand, and leaves it there, and it's all warm and everything. And somehow very, very comforting. The bastard.

House glances over, just out of the corner of his eye, careful not to turn his head. Wilson's not looking at him -- his whole attention seems to be focused on the TV, which is now showing what appears to be an extended infomercial called The Precious World of South Sea Pearls for Under $30.

He shifts in bed, readjusting his shoulders against the pillows, and casually threads first one, then two fingers through Wilson's. When Wilson doesn't immediately pull away, House allows himself to relax, a tiny bit, and then Wilson relaxes his own hand, arranging it so they're clasped. Not gripping or sweaty or any of that awkward shit, just ... clasped. Together.

Infomercial Girl is cooing something about oysters, patented nacre, luxury you too can lustrous traditional elegance yours for just guaranteed and it could be the Charge of the Light Brigade and House wouldn't spare it any more thought.

He's thinking of small steps, their order and direction, and how large they can loom in retrospect, and how that's something they can look forward to now, even though that's kind of paradoxical, looking forward to a retrospective, and --

"House," Wilson says, as he flips channels. "Your brain needs a 'mute' button. Find one."

So House tries. Wilson can have the last word.

Just this once.