Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

House returns to consciousness slowly, swimming up through many layers of murky memories and heavy haze. There is a faint, rhythmic murmur at the edges of his hearing that gradually grows louder as he surfaces. For a moment he can't place the sound - it could be the intake of the hospital ventilation system from his bed in the ICU or the muted roar of waves approaching a bright beach. He can feel the familiar dull throb in his right thigh and a warm pressure surrounding the fingers of his left hand.

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He opens his eyes and glances down at his hand, a crab is tickling his fingers, probing to see what this strange creature on the beach is. He watches the crab for a few seconds, fascinated by the way it moves but then shakes it off and sits up.

The sun is beginning to set, the warmth of the day giving way to a cooler evening. House gathers his cane up and gets to his feet, he limps off, thigh protesting at the tough going in the sand.

He is staying in a small place, just off the beach. There's not much there, just a place to rest at night. He spends his days on the beach, watching the ocean, drinking in the heat of the sun. He has no phone, no laptop, no internet, no television. As a child he'd dreamed of being a castaway on a desert island, this is the next best thing.

He knows he should be sorry about what he did, and he does regret that he scared Cuddy. He doesn't regret letting out his anger, his hurt, everything that had been building since the infarction, no, truthfully since before that, since the first time he'd been locked outside on a cold night.

He shakes off the memory of Wilson, standing there, cradling his injured hand. He'd tried to protect him, got him out of the car. Of course the klutz had to go and get in the way again. Wilson had always tried to get between House and trouble, he'd never quite succeeded.

He feels a pang of something as he thinks again of Wilson, he thinks it might be loss.

When he retires to bed that night he picks up a trashy magazine to read from the pile he'd purchased at the airport. A card falls out of the magazine and he stares at it, he'd chucked that it with the magazines, intending to send it to Wilson when he reached his destination, or not - he hadn't decided.

It's a silly 'get well' card, with a picture of a teddy bear on the front with a bandaged paw.

He opens the card and stares at the blankness inside, thinking that this is the last time he will ever communicate with Wilson. He should write down everything Wilson has meant to him, everything he could never tell Wilson to his face.

After a long time he picks up his pen and scrawls 'sorry' over the blank surface.

He'll post it tomorrow, or maybe he won't.

Chapter Text

Wilson's hand shakes as he tugs out a battered card from under an envelope with the AT&T logo on it.

It looks as if it had been folded and carried in a sweaty jeans pocket for a while, the edges frayed and gnawed, the paper spongy. It shows a teddy bear with gauze around his paw, his left paw. "Get well soon" it says in flowing script. Feeling a shudder run down his spine as if a ghost just has laid its eyes on him, Wilson has to hold the cardboard with both hands now to not to drop it. Time freezes as he stares at the teddy bear, so innocent, so not him, and nonetheless he knows that the card is not from a patient or college. He just knows as he never knew anything before.

A minute or a month later Wilson takes a deep breath and turns the card, hard pressing down on hope as hope brought only pain, pressing down on any emotion, on any thought so he could come out of this unscathed.

There is Wilson's address. Written in his hand. Hope laughs and bursts forward with vengeance—to be shoot down again as Wilson's eyes sweep to the left. There is nothing written there. Just a smooch of blue color. He brings the card nearer to his eyes, absentmindedly registering that the paper is not smelling of sweat but seawater. Squinting, he tries to detect letters in the washed out ink, his left eye mocking him as it rolls away, reacting to his agitation.

Exasperated with himself Wilson closes the offending eye and cants the card to the light and yes, now he can read the rinsed out word written there, barely visible. Sorry. It said sorry. Sorry. Does the bastard think that is enough? Does he think that could make it better? Wilson dabs at his eyes, not wanting to smear the card even more with salty water, with his emotional crap, as House would say, and what right does House have to say that anyway... Halting the bitter thoughts Wilson concentrates his wacky eyesight on the stamp, also washed into almost illegibility. After a bit trial and error he can decipher the first letters.

His breathing gets explosive as it leaves his nose, hope high, emotional crap dripping.

Wilson knows where House is.

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He sets down the card and takes a deep breath. He’s not yet sure what to do with this new information. He’s not even sure if he wants to do something about it anyway.

For the next few days the card is lying on his bedside table and every time he switches off the lamp to sleep he takes a quick glance towards it. He doesn’t pick it up. It almost feels that doing so will burn his hand.

One morning, at the hospital, when his workload isn’t that heavy and he has nothing better to do he finds himself browsing the internet on his macbook. He glances around. If House were still here, if things were still…normal, he could drop by his office to joke or see if he has any interesting cases. As it is, he is sitting alone in his office and there really is nothing better to do so he starts looking up info on the place the card came from. The place House is…or was , for that matter.

He looks up information on the weather, the bars, the interesting places…as if he is planning a trip there. Is he planning a trip there? Does he want to follow House? Confront him? Check if he’s OK? If he’s still overdosing on Vicodin or if he even has enough to stop the actual pain on his leg? Maybe he’s sitting on a bar drinking himself to oblivion and randomly diagnosing any unfortunate bastard with visible enough symptoms of some rare disease that just happened to catch his eye.

He slams his macbook shut, and sinks back to his chair. He doesn’t know what to do. All his instincts are telling him to go. To follow. To catch up to House because, really, life without House is……boring. Normal, he corrects himself but try as he might the words ‘boring’ and ‘meaningless’ are still flashing on his mind.

He knows he shouldn’t go. He knows he should simply cut himself lose from House and all his shenanigans. His insanity, really. He should be able to see that House is dangerous, off his rocker, the kind of person you should stay miles away from. Logic says that, people who know him say that…and yet Wilson always found it impossible to stay away.

Even after all this, even after what House did to Cuddy, Wilson still wants to be by his side. To joke with him, to take care of him, to help him even. Despite the millions of times he has tried and the million times plus one that House has denied his help.

“If he tried to push a knife on my heart to kill me, instead of trying to run away, I’d probably use my hands to pull the knife further in just to help him….” He mutters to himself and as much as he wants to deny it…he knows that he really can’t.

He turns the macbook back on and starts browsing for tickets.

Chapter Text

He spots House maybe a mile away, staring out to the horizon, the shining edge of the ocean creeping up over his ankles and retreating again with a hiss. He’s by no means the only man on the beach, and there are no nearby objects to allow an accurate estimation of his height, but even without the cane, Wilson would know him. He would know him the way he knows when House has called him in the middle of the night, simply from the quality of the silence on the other end of the line. He would know him from the way his heart clenches in his chest and he has to stand still for a moment and remember to breathe, breathe.

Wilson walks down to the water’s edge, where the wet sand is packed hard and far easier to negotiate. He runs the risk that House will turn and spot him before he can get close enough, but where is he going to go?

He’s out of shape, perspiring in spite of the cool breeze coming off the ocean as the sun sinks. About halfway in, he starts to see the occasional round depression, smoothed over by the waves but still evidence that House Was Here, even though the other man’s footprints have long since vanished.

Getting within calling distance takes Wilson forever and no time at all. He can see House clearly now, standing easily, bronzed and still as a statue, his cane relaxed in his right hand. And he’s still just staring out over the water, squinting a little against the sunset, his mouth stretched in a smile.

Then Wilson takes one more step, and House turns his head.

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House stands with his feet on the wet sand, waves washing over them occasionally, ignoring the fact that his sneakers will have to be washed tonight. He doesn't want to feel any trouble, any worry. He doesn't want to think of anyone.

The memory of the flight, the long hours spent accusing himself of having run a terrible risk, the fear of what might have happened, the concern for Wilson, everything had been locked away safely in a dark corner of his soul. What is left are the simple pleasures of life: food, sex, alcohol and drugs.

His body is slowly reminding him that it will soon be time for another dose. There's no Vicodin on the island and he hasn't dared bringing much, but there's no lack of opiates - especially for customers that, like him, are happy to pay cash.

When he turns around to start the long walk back to his hotel (not so long actually, but crossing the stretch of dry sand is slow and unpleasant) he almost collides with one of the rare other people on the beach.

Afterward he wondered what had come first: the moment of recognition, or his heart accelerating in a wild gallop that made his chest ache.

"You found me, finally."

Chapter Text

House hadn't realized how much he's missed that crooked grin until he sees it, now that Wilson is standing in front of him, sweating lightly in jeans and a T-shirt, a bag slung over his shoulder.

"I'm sorry it took me so long," Wilson answers, dropping the bag unceremoniously into the sand.

House shakes his head. "I think..."

He doesn't finish that sentence, but Wilson doesn't seem to need him to, as he walks closer to him, so their shoulders are touching. Wilson turns his face toward the ocean, and House suddenly forgets his plans to go back to his hotel as he does the same.

"It's beautiful here," Wilson breathes, and House looks at his profile, sees his eyes closed, his face tilted toward the sun. This is the most relaxed House has seen him in so, so long. He feels a flutter in his chest that he's afraid to name, and adds the vision of Wilson's relaxed visage to the mental list of things he'd left behind, and the list of things he'd locked away, convincing himself he was better off in doing so.

But, Wilson. How could he have ever thought he'd be better off...

"Yeah," House says slowly, not moving his gaze. "Yeah, it is."

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They walk up and down the beach silently, House limping with difficulty in the sand but showing no indication that he wants to abandon it for a firmer ground and Wilson easily falling into step beside him. They haven’t really exchanged any more words for a while now and the sun is beginning to set.

Wilson looks down at the waves, absentmindedly wondering if salt water is going to stain his shoes. Then he thinks of all the things he wanted to tell House, all the conversations he planned in his head during the flight, all the confrontations, the accusations, the confessions…everything was forgotten the moment he spotted him on the beach. Washed away like the city dirt on his shoes is being washed away by the waves.

“How did you find me here…?” House is the first who breaks the silence and Wilson instinctively knows he’s talking about the beach and not the town they are currently in. House certainly wanted him to find him or he wouldn’t have sent that postcard.

“Well, finding the town wasn’t that hard…and once I got here…you definitely leave an impression, you know? You’re not exactly the kind of person that can disappear into the crowd.” Wilson replied, the amusement in his voice clearly indicating that he heard some pretty interesting stories about House on his way to the beach.

“You must have talked to that idiot on the bar, right?” House questioned him raising an eyebrow. “Won’t let me back in there anymore. Says I’ve scared off a great deal of his customers….”

“Well, you have to admit it, berating people for spending their time frolicking on the beach and getting drunk on the bars while they should be rushing to a hospital to get tested for one thing or the other would definitely not endear you to the bar owner…” Wilson replied matter-of-factly, choosing not to mention who else should stop frolicking on the beach and actually run back to a hospital.

House shrugs his shoulders, not caring either way. He makes an offhand remark about the numbers of bars and restaurants he still hasn’t been kicked out from and invites Wilson for dinner. He is even actually planning to pay for a change, hoping that Wilson will understand the meaning of the gesture because House doesn’t think he can actually utter the words "Thank you for finding me. Thank you for still thinking I worth something…anything.” At least, not anytime soon.

As they sit on their booth, in a fancy, exotic looking restaurant which House assured him serves the best in local cuisine, Wilson is marveling at the absurdity of how normal being here feels. Away from Princeton, the hospital, his patients…

“So, what happened after I...left?” House interrupts his thoughts and Wilson gets startled, not even knowing where to start from.

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Wilson doesn't really want to talk about it, he wants to pretend that it never happened, that House has just flown out here for a well earned vacation.

House is looking at him, waiting for his response and Wilson rubs the back of his neck. He knows he has to answer his question.

"Well, Taub has apparently made two women pregnant."

House smirks, "I knew about one, who's the other?"

"His ex-wife. He's trying to hide them from each other at the moment, it's hilarious. Chase is running book on how long it will take them to find out."

They both laugh and Wilson takes a deep breath.

"Cuddy was devastated, House. The insurance company wants to demolish what's left of the house and rebuild, not worth saving. She's going to take the opportunity to move away, she's already resigned. "

"Leave the hospital? They'd have to pry her away with a crowbar to get her to leave."

"She says she wants to move on, to put this behind her, to forget."

"To forget me?"

"You drove a car through her house, what did you expect?"

House is silent, Wilson wonders if he is only now realizing the magnitude of what he did. House does so many outrageous things that Wilson thinks maybe he has lost the ability to tell just where the line should be drawn.

"She isn't the only one who wants to move on. I've had a lot of time to think, to think about what I really want."

House is staring at him with that intense look he reserves for his favorite puzzles and Wilson nearly changes his mind, nearly doesn't say it.
Then he remembers House walking off without a backwards glance, leaving him alone and hurting.

Things can't go on the way they have been.

Chapter Text

Wilson sighed. "You're accused of attempted homicide. Your contract has been terminated and your license has been suspended. All you own was impounded to pay damage to Cuddy. I… I did manage to buy your musical instruments, and your books."

House thinks he should be thankful. But he can't say anything. They both look relieved when the waiter comes: House orders for both of them, after Wilson nods his agreement.

Soon there's a cocktail in front of each, and tortilla chips to share.

Wilson makes his best "You won't like this" face. "You remember Dr. Whitner?"

When he sees House's puzzled face, Wilson adds quickly "You know, the woman in the wheelchair."

"Oh yes. The one I fought with about handicapped parking."

"Yes. She's the new Dean."

House makes his best "Why should I care" face. In fact, he really doesn't care. He won't go back.

"It means you can't go back, House."

He wonders annoyed whether Wilson really can read his mind. "What makes you think I even want to go back?"

"I… I didn't mean that. But it means I can't stay, either."

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House is lifting a couple of chips to his mouth, his mouth opening to receive them when Wilson’s statement makes him freeze with the food an inch from said orifice.  He lowers his hand and scowls at his younger friend.

“What are you talking about?” he demands, staring at Wilson intensely like only House can.  “Why can’t you?  You’re not being forced out because of your association with me…?”

“No,” Wilson assures him.  “No, it’s not that.”  He sighs, avoiding the meeting of House’s eyes with his.  House notes how nervous Wilson is behaving and tries to figure out why.

“So what is it?”

Wilson swallows hard, plays with the flatware set on the table in front of him.  He’s perspiring despite the fact that the restaurant is air conditioned.  House forces himself to remain quiet and wait for Wilson to gain the courage he obviously lacks at that moment.

“When you just took off,” Wilson explains slowly, “I was confused and pissed off that you ran away without telling me anything.  After a while the anger dissipated but it was replaced with a sense of loss.  I didn’t know if I would ever see or hear from you again.  It bothered me.”

House’s frown deepens but he isn’t feeling angry.  In fact, he’s forcing back a feeling of anticipation and hope, dangerous emotions to feel, particularly in association with his best friend.

“It did?” he asks hesitantly.

He receives a look of exasperation from Wilson.  “Yes.  What you did was horrible but…but not all that surprising considering what had been going on with you since the break-up.  I know that you weren’t trying to physically hurt anybody.  As angry as I was, I never for a moment thought you were trying to kill anybody.  I…I missed you…more than I had a right to.  I don’t want to feel like that again.  If you can’t come back, then I can’t stay there anymore; the hospital, Princeton.  That’s really why I came.  T-to be wi-with you.”

“Don’t be stupid!” House tells him a little more sharply than he’d intended.  “I’m a fugitive who has no home, no career and no prospects but you still have those things.  You need to go back…and move on.”

“I can’t,” Wilson insisted, frowning now too.  He finally meets House’s gaze and there is a determination in his eyes that hasn’t been there for a long time.  For House it’s good to see.

“Why not?” House demands, trying to ignore the voice in his head telling him that he already knows the answer; he can’t allow himself to hope.  “I’ve been the world’s worst friend to you.  Don’t be an idiot and throw away everything you’ve worked for.  Your career—“

“—Means nothing to me compared to you!” Wilson insists loudly, attracting attention from other patrons.

“Wilson—“

Wilson closes his eyes briefly.  “No! I have something I must confess.  House, I…”

Chapter Text

“Everyone down! Shut up! Down on the ground now!” There's a commotion, screams, as a group of men burst into the restaurant. One of them fires a gun into the ceiling, the shots deafening.

Wilson finds himself suddenly under the table, his mouth still hanging stupidly open – House has grabbed him and dragged him bodily down, ripping his shirt collar in the process. Next to him, House hisses, one hand convulsively kneading his bad thigh.

“Are you okay?”

“I'm fine! We're in the middle of a situation that's significantly more urgent than the damn leg!”

There's still women screaming and men shouting. Looking around, Wilson can see other restaurant patrons cowering under their tables.

“Raul Connor!” one of the...what the hell are they, robbers, bandits? Whoever they are one of them is bellowing that name, stalking from table to table, searching. The others have fanned out, some guarding the main doors while a couple emerge from the kitchens, herding frightened cook and wait staff.

“Who the hell is Raul Connor?” he mutters to House.

“Aw, shit,” groans a man huddling under the next table.

“What?” snaps House at him.

“Not good, man. Raul, this is his turf, you know? Big man here, owns half the damn town. Word is that something bad went down not long ago – something bad that went all the way to the top levels of government you know? No one seen him since, but I think we're about to see him now. And maybe we'll be the last ones ever. Not a good thing, you know? Fuck.”

House looks at Wilson. “Fuck.”

“Raul Connor!” The man suddenly thrusts his head under their table, scrutinizing them. His gun is pointed straight in Wilson's face, and before he can think about it he reaches out to grab House's hand. And then the man is gone, and Wilson sags against him. House's arm goes around him, clutching at him, and Wilson can feel him trembling.

A shout from the...what, are they government goons, mobsters, what? Wilson was not expecting to get caught up in the local gangster politics. This is so fucked up. A man is being dragged out from under a table and the woman under there with him is screaming fit to raise the dead. Oh god, he's about to watch someone get shot. He turns to look at House and is stunned to find that House has crawled halfway out from under the table. And more stunningly, he's ignoring the whole tableau and is staring fixedly at one of the other intruders. Wilson lunges forward, and this time it's him who grabs House by the collar and drags him back under the table.

“Are you insane?”

“Watch,” says House, nodding towards the focus of his attention. “He's the leader of the group, and he's going down in three, two, one...”

The man gives a strangled yelp, stiffens and then falls.

Chapter Text

There's more screaming and shouting as the gang leader falls to the floor. Wilson stares at House who grins back at him.

"I still got it, Jimmy."

"Great, you can spot when a criminal is about to collapse of some unknown mystery illness. Does the great Doctor House have any idea how we are going to get out of here?"

"Hey, I'm a doctor, not Bruce Willis. Being prepared for emergencies, that's your thing."

"Oh sorry, I left my handy 'escaping from mobsters kit' in my other pants, I thought I was coming out to see my insane friend and tell him that I love him, not to get involved in some third rate gangster war."

Suddenly a hand reaches down and a man drags Wilson out from under the table and looks down at him angrily.

"Sorry, I didn't mean anything by that third rate thing, I'm sure you're very good gangsters..."

"Shut up, " the man growls and then looks over at House who has also been dragged out from under the table.

"You two are doctors?"

Wilson realizes that the man must have overheard their conversation and he gulps.

"Yes, we are."

"Good. Then you go and help Pierre," he points to their fallen leader. "If he dies, you both die. Slowly."

House and Wilson look at each other, and then at the fallen mobster. Then they look around at the guns the other gangsters are pointing at them.

"This is another fine mess you've gotten me into," Wilson mutters under his breath.

"You love me?" House asks, staring at Wilson, his eyes wide.

Wilson thinks that his timing could have been better.

Chapter Text

“What the hell is this, some kind of soap opera?” asks the gangster standing over Wilson in exasperation.

“I think it’s kind of sweet,” pipes up another gangster.

“Shut up Bill,” chorus several of the other gangsters.

“Wilson?” prompts House, but the gangster who dragged him out hauls him to his feet. Wilson’s gangster shoves his gun in Wilson’s shoulder and Wilson scrambles to follow suit.

Just then sirens blare and everyone freezes.

“Go!” yells Wilson’s gangster, who seems to be the second in command. Several of the gangsters run to Pierre, while two others grab House and Wilson. They get hustled to the back of the house, through the kitchens – Wilson has a wild thought about grabbing a knife as they go by, but the gangster behind him shoves a gun hard into his back.

They emerge into an alley and Wilson’s blinking, trying to adjust to the dark after the bright kitchen when he’s shoved unceremoniously into a van. A few more thumps and grunts behind him and a clatter that must be House’s cane, and then a squeal of tires as the van peels out, sending Wilson falling backwards onto a body behind him.

“Oof!”

“Watch it!”

“Ow!”

“House?”

“Over here.”

“Who the hell are you guys?”

“Wait, what?” Wilson pats at the person he’s landed on, trying to find House’s hand.

A deep chuckle comes from the person he’s sitting on. “Go ahead and keep that up, but a little harder, hm?”

“Gah!” Wilson scrambles off of…whoever the hell the man is. “I am so, so sorry, I didn’t realize – “

“Jesus, Wilson, what the hell has gotten into you?” He feels House’s hand closing over his wrist, and now his eyes are adjusting enough so that he can make out the outline of another man now sitting up.

“So sorry,” Wilson says again.

“Quite all right, really, I enjoyed it.”

“Are all of you gay?”

“Would you fucking shut up, Bill?” says a rough voice – ah, two of the gangsters must be in here with them standing guard. “Actually, all of you shut up.”

And with that, Wilson starts to shake. He’s been running off of adrenaline, but now he’s being…oh god, they’re being kidnapped, they’re being taken god knows where, they’re going to be killed and chopped into pieces and fed to the fucking sharks and he’s scared to death of them and all he wanted to do was see House again and…

“Sh…” he hears House saying in a distant, soothing kind of way, and he thinks maybe he said all of that out loud. Somehow he’s got his face buried in the crook of House’s elbow, and he squeezes his eyes shut and just focuses on breathing in House’s scent. “It’ll be OK.”

“For you,” says the other guy in a sulky voice. “Me, they are going to feed to the sharks.”

“Well, you deserve it, Raul.”

“Shut up, Bill,” snaps Raul.

“Oooh…” comes a groan. Pierre is apparently waking up.

Chapter Text

"If you two have quite finished cuddling each other get over here." Bill calls out, glaring in their direction.

"Nope, not finished yet." House says, keeping his hand on Wilson's shoulder.

Bill whips around to point his gun at them.

"Get over here now."

"Well when you put it that way," House says, and disengages himself from Wilson. He pulls himself over the floor of the truck until he's next to Pierre. Wilson reluctantly follows.

"You know this place was really peaceful before you got here Wilson, not a gangster in sight." House peels back Pierre's eyelids, peers into his eyes.

"Well, forgive me for tracking you down, which wasn't easy by the way - you ever heard of putting a return address on your mail? and coming half way across the world for you." Wilson is taking Pierre's pulse, House isn't sure why but hey, it looks good.

"So what's wrong with him?" Bill growls.

"He has cat scratch fever." House pronounces.

"Seriously?" Bill asks.

"No."

Bill shoves the gun into House's shoulder.

"This isn't some sort of game."

"Isn't it? I thought we were playing 'diagnose the gangster in the back of a dark moving truck'. If you want us to do something for this guy before he starts bleeding out of every orifice, convulsing and dying dramatically you're going to have to take us to a hospital. We're doctors, not miracle workers."

"No hospitals."

House shrugs and sits back against the wall of the truck.

"Your choice, if he dies I guess you move up to chief gangster, I say let him die."

Bill stares at him, raises his gun and then stops. He smiles and swivels to face Wilson.

"You may not care if I shoot you, but I think you'd care if I shot pretty boy, wouldn't you? We'll get to a place I know, then you'll fix the boss. Or lover boy here gets it between the eyebrows."

Chapter Text

Wilson squeezes his eyes shut, obviously trying to hold as still as humanly possible. House decides to reconsider his position. "Okay, okay." he says in what he hopes is a soothing voice, although he's sorely out of practice. "Let's not do anything rash. Speaking of which, does he have a rash, by any chance?"

"How would I know?" Bill growls.

House opens his mouth to make a wisecrack, then thinks better of it. "Um, no reason. Well, only one way to find out. We're gonna have to take his clothes off."

"All of them?" Raul asks, and is clouted in the back of the head with the gun for his trouble.

"Try not to sound so eager," Bill scowls. He gestures with the gun at Wilson, who by this time has cautiously squinched one eye open. "Go ahead. Take his clothes off."

With Pierre too groggy to assist, his uncoordinated movements in fact making the process even more difficult than it needs to be, Wilson wrestles the lead gangster out of his pinstriped polyester suit and lemon yellow shirt. Pierre's chest is thickly matted with dark hair but unblemished. When Wilson gently pushes him forward, he can see no signs of rash on the man's back either. He looks up at House and shakes his head.

"Pants," House says,

Wilson glances at Bill for permission. "Go ahead. And hurry it up, babyface."

Wilson's lips tighten, but he obediently pulls off Pierre's shoes and then unbuckles his belt and unzips his fly. House watches intently as he peels Pierre out of his pants, and suddenly his eyes light up.

"I've got it," he crows. "Someone released sarin gas on the Tokyo subway."

Chapter Text

"Are you trying to be funny?" Bill growls, pointing his gun at Wilson. "The boss didn't release anything on the Tokyo subway, he's never even been to Africa."

"No, no, he's not, House this is no time for jokes." Wilson glares angrily at House. "The man has a gun in case you haven't noticed."

"It's not a joke, it's a colourful metaphor."

"It's a what-a-for?" Bill asks. There is the sound of contemptuous laughter from Raoul's corner of the truck. Bill points the gun to the corner and Raoul throws his hands up in mock surrender.

"It draws an analogy between complex medical processes and concepts and ordinary, every day, things so that the audience can gain a better understanding of what is happening."

"The audience?" Bill looks around the truck, there's another gangster, Raoul and smart ass Doctor's 'friend', and that's it.

"Another metaphor."

"So what the fuck are you trying to say? What's wrong with the boss?"

House points to the now naked Pierre.

"Your boss has been somewhere he shouldn't have been, doing something he shouldn't have done."

A look of fury, and something else, flies across Bill's face, he tightens his grip on the gun and Wilson shrinks back.

"I'll remind you again, House. The man has a gun." House is still standing there, grinning broadly, as if it's all a huge joke. Wilson is the one in danger of a bullet between his eyebrows. "And that's not a metaphor."

Just then the truck lurches to a stop, presumably at the gangster's secret hideaway, and one of the men who were in the cabin comes around and opens the back door of the truck, he looks at the still naked Pierre and does a double take.

"Bill, what have you been doing to the boss?"

Chapter Text

“This is not my fault,” says Bill peevishly. “Why do you always act like it’s my fault?”

“It usually is. Like that time in Caracas –“

“Okay, I am sick of hearing about fucking Caracas, you leave one measly body behind and suddenly everyone’s on your case about it forever –“

“Bored now,” announces Raul.

“Excuse me,” says Wilson, in his most soothing, please-don’t-shoot-me voice, “can we go home now?”

“No,” say both gangsters together, and two more squeeze into the van.

They’re hustled into a dilapidated-looking mansion, clearly on the city outskirts, and escorted to what must have once been a parlor.

Pierre comes in after, pants back in place, leaning on Bill and another gangster’s shoulders, and they settle him on a drop-cloth-covered sofa.

“All right Boss? Can I get you anything?”

“Thanks, Billy, I’m feeling fine now,” Pierre says. His voice is hoarse and his hands are trembling – Wilson watches House take those in, eyes narrowed – but Wilson can immediately see why he’s the boss. The man projects an air of menace and authority, and Wilson suddenly feels very sorry for Raul. Speaking of – Wilson glances around. Someone’s chained Raul to the radiator and he’s now sitting on the floor, looking forlorn.

And then Wilson looks back at Pierre. The look in Pierre’s eyes makes Wilson want to throw himself at his feet and beg for mercy.

“Back at it, then, pants off.”

“Ah, so you’re the one who decided to undress me in front of my men,” growls Pierre, turning to glare at House. House glares back.

“Hard to see the big red rash on your legs through clothes. I’ll diagnose you once we get a few conditions straight.”

“Conditions?” Pierre laughs. “The conditions are you figure out what’s wrong with me or you die.”

“I threatened to shoot his boyfriend through the eyebrows,” supplies Bill helpfully.

“Good initiative Billy,” says Pierre, giving him a predatory grin that Wilson thinks is supposed to be affectionate.

“The conditions are, I figure out what’s wrong with you, you let me and Wilson go unharmed and no bothering us again. I’m not about to become your personal physician, I’m retired.”

“What about me?” yelps Raul.

“What did you do?”

“Practically nothing!”

“You slept with my nephew and niece!” roars Pierre.

“They wanted it!”

“They’re seventeen!”

“Wait, I thought the president was involved?” asks House.

“The twins are his godchildren,” explains Bill sotto voce.

“Geez, this is a small island. So, Don Corleone,” says House. “Agreed?”

“Fine. You and the boyfriend –“

“I’m not his boyfriend,” interjects Wilson.

“Shut up. You two go free if you treat me. Raul,” he glares over at the miscreant, “we will negotiate later. In the meantime, if you value your dick, you will remain silent.”

“Now what’s wrong with Pierre?” asks Bill.

“It’s either an allergy or an overdose.” House stares at Pierre. “I’m guessing you used either drugs or a condom. Which?”

Pierre abruptly falls off the sofa and starts seizing.

Chapter Text

Wilson immediately goes into 'caring doctor' mode, kneeling down and clearing the ground around Pierre, then gently rolling him onto his side. House stares down at both of them with interest. Pierre's seizure isn't interesting in the slightest, its the same old, same old that all of his patients seem to do at one stage or another. Watching Wilson is interesting though. He had missed Wilson during his self imposed exile in this island 'paradise'.

Then there was the tantalizing 'confession' Wilson had made - 'I thought I was coming out to see my insane friend and tell him that I love him'. House had barely been able to think of anything else since, despite the dire circumstances they were in. He had felt a surge of hope at those words, after all these years of loving Wilson was Wilson finally ready to reciprocate? Or does Wilson mean that he loves House like a best friend forever, or a brother, or a really nice pair of new French shoes?

"Are you just going to stare at pretty boy's ass or are you going to do something about Pierre? You're a doctor aren't you? Don't you need to put something in his mouth or something?"

Bill's rough voice jolts him and he realizes that he has indeed been staring at Wilson's ass/ A very nice view too. Pierre is still seizing in a fairly spectacular manner and Bill is agitated, waving the gun in his face.

"You can put something in his mouth if you like, of course he might bite your finger off, or dislocate his jaw, and then who would give you..."

"Shut up! It's not like that - we're not..." Bill looks around at Raoul and the other gang members, "we're not...together..."

"House!" Wilson looks up from examining Pierre, who is finally still. "Look at this."

House bends in for a closer look. Damn! Wrong again.

Chapter Text

“What?” demands one of the other gangsters. “What's wrong with the boss?”

“Sores and swelling around the eyes,” House announces, straightening up and leaning on his cane. He stares down at Pierre with a thoughtful look.

“What does that mean?” asks Bill.

“Well, it means he's not allergic to latex or overdosed on morphine – so much for my first diagnosis.”

“Well, of course he's not allergic to latex, I could have told you that,” says Bill crossly. Everyone in the room gives him a look, and he turns red. “I...I just mean, he would have told me if he had any allergies, in case he needed, um, me to tell doctors anything...look, point is he's not allergic to anything, okay?”

“Encephalitis?” Wilson asks House.

“He hasn't complained about a headache.”

“Acute mercury poisoning?”

“No vomiting. Has he been scuba diving?” House asks, glaring around at the gangsters. A number of them shake their heads.

“No,” Bill confirms. “He's afraid of sharks.”

“Something we have in common,” mutters Wilson, taking Pierre's pulse again.

“This is stupid,” says House in exasperation. “Look, the man needs a hospital. We have no way to run tests on him, he needs to be on medication to prevent additional seizures and -”

“No hospitals,” snaps Bill.

“What, are you people telling me that you don't have one hospital that will treat your boss? I thought you guys had some kind of power on this island?”

“I have a hospital,” pipes up Raul.

Wilson raises his eyebrows. “You do?”

“Of course,” says Raul haughtily. “Look, I'll make you guys a deal – you let me go, I'll get my people to admit Pierre, no cops or nobody involved.”

Bill glowers. “When he wakes up, he can make the call. Until then, he stays here.”

House stamps his cane on the ground. “Fine. All of you out, I can't think with you here.”

Bill exchanges a glance with some of the other gangsters. A few shrugs and the gangsters start filing out of the room. Bill stays, crossing his arms.

“Better,” says House, glancing at Pierre again.

“A rash and eye sores...could it be chemical poisoning?” Wilson offers.

“A possibility but...” House frowns, then wheels on Bill. “All right, Billy, spill. What's with you and the Don?”

“Nothing!”

“If you're holding back on anything, he could die. I don't care if you two are playing Hide the Salami, if he dies you're not going to have nearly as much fun...”

“House?” Wilson prompts as House trails off, staring into space.

“Meds,” House says. “What meds is he on?”

“Nothing,” Bill replies.

“Are you sure?”

Bill hesitates.

“That's a no. We need to search his quarters – I have an idea.”

Chapter Text

"Bill, now you wait out here while Wilson and I do the search."

Bill looks unconvinced. "I don't trust you."

"Are there weapons here?"

"No, of course not. But…"

House looks at Bill with the annoyed expression he used to reserve for his team. "You wait outside, okay? I'm a doctor, and I want to find out what's wrong with your boss. And if, sorry, when I find out, my wimpy friend here will want to cure him. Now let me do my job so I can find out while he's still alive."

Wilson follows House inside, shivering with fear and yet comforted by this fleeting glimpse of normality. And by the fact that Bill's huge gun is outside with Bill.

"House, what do we do now?"

House looks at him like he's mad.

"We search for medicine, poison, parasites… the usual! I'm the one whose license has been revoked, Wilson, not you! Or did you leave your brain in Princeton?"

"I meant to escape."

"Later, now we have a case to solve. Get working, you can't have a cripple do everything for you."

Wilson has just finished going uselessly through a large and revolting pile of dirty laundry when House calls him from the bedroom.

"There's something here. Look."

Wilson rolls his eyes. House never has a clue when is the right time for things. Besides, is he even into that? "House, it's just an admittedly large collection of porn DVDs, well, with few ladies in them, but…" and then Wilson sees what House is pointing at. "Oh."

Chapter Text

“Why would anyone have a minifridge full of chocolate bars?” Wilson says. He reaches for a Snickers, but House bends over and smacks his hand away.

“He needs sugar. All of the time. And the entire bottom row is Corona. I could use a beer right now.”

Now it’s Wilson’s turn to smack House’s hand away. “So, he’s a fat drunk. What does that prove?”

There’s a loud knocking on the door. “What are you two doing in there?”

“The rhumba,” House snaps. “I’ve been meaning to teach Wilson since he got here.”

“House—“ Wilson whispers, then calls, “We’re working on the diagnosis!” He turns back to House. “So, we were on the fat drunk thing—“

“He’s a fat drunk with undiagnosed diabetes. Our would-be Scarface doesn’t get regular check-ups. Except maybe with Bill. I don’t think Bill knows how to check a blood glucose level.”

“So, his symptoms are probably caused by—“

“Undiagnosed diabetes leading to nephrosis. Nephrosis explains the edema in the eye area. The seizure could be from progressing kidney failure.” House grabs a Corona before Wilson can stop him, then House pops off the top with his thumb and takes a long swig.

“God, that tastes good,” House says.

“So, what do we do with our fat diabetic drunk?” Wilson asks.

Chapter Text

They look at each other for a second before Wilson answers his own question. “Well, I guess we turn him over to Raul's hospital for treatment.” He pauses. “And then they'll let us go, right?”

“That's the deal at least.” House nods at the mini-fridge. “Maybe you should have one of these before we go back out there. Just in case.”

“You think he'll renege?”

“I don't know. I know he's not going to be happy about hearing that he has a chronic disease that will likely require him to be indebted to one of his enemies for treatment. Guys like that, generally not a good idea to make them unhappy.”

Wilson looks around wildly. “Then we need to escape!” He crosses to a window and peers down at the ground a story below.

House snorts. “Right – how far do you think I'm going to get?”

“We've got to do something!” Wilson hisses. “Unless you want to become shark food?”

House looks about to retort, then a thoughtful look crosses his face.

“Wait, I know that look.” Wilson points a finger at him. “You've got an idea! Thank god.” He pauses. “I'm not going to like it.”

“Just follow my lead. Hey, Bill!”

The door opens. “What? Did you figure out what's wrong with the boss?” Bill scowls at the beer still in House's hand. “Hey, that's not yours!”

“It's not my fault you people are terrible hosts – you should have offered us a drink earlier.”

“So you're drinking while the boss is sick downstairs?” Bill glares at him. “Do I need to threaten your boyfriend's eyebrows again?”

“No,” says House coolly. “What you need to do is tell me what this thing is – I think it's what's making your Tony Soprano sick.”

“What?” says Bill, coming over. “I don't see noth-”

Faster than Wilson can act, House brings his beer bottle crashing down on Bill's head. As it shatters, he follows it up with his cane and Bill goes down with a grunt.

“House! Are you insane?!” yelps Wilson. “Now they really are going to ki- Hey!” as House seizes his arm and drags him to the door.

In the hallway House points down the right-hand corridor. “Go that way – opposite of where we came. Get out, I'll distract them.”

“Are you out of your mi-” Wilson is cut off by House grabbing his collar and dragging him in to crush their mouths together. House's tongue pushes past his open lips, mapping the contours of his mouth, ruthlessly stroking along Wilson's. Wilson freezes for a second, and then he's grappling with House just as roughly, their tongues sparring and twining. It's messy and passionate with an under-taste of Corona.

Then House clutches his shoulders and pushes him back.

“Go Wilson,” he says, turning to face the left-hand corridor. “Run.”

Chapter Text

Wilson runs down a dusty corridor, looking frantically around at the doors. There’s a little bit of blood seeping from his mouth from House kissing him. Damn, did it have to be so hard? Wilson can live with it if he’s going to die.

At least he got to tell House he loved him. Scratch that off his bucket-list.

He can’t let House die! But what can he do? How can he save the man he loves?

Wilson opens a door. It’s an unused bedchamber. For one insane second he considers putting a sheet over his head, running back and pretending he’s Pierre’s ghost.

Then he spots the backstairs, meant for the servants, and pounds down them, dust flying up from under his ruined wet shoes. Wilson freezes when he hears House’s voice in the parlor.

“He’s got stereophonic amyloidosis, which is fatal in 98% of all cases.”

“My uncle had that,” said one of the gangsters.

“Not to mention rapidly advancing kidney failure. And he’s ugly. Not that that has anything to do with his condition. Just thought I’d throw that in there.”

“I agree. Ugly motherfucker.” Raul’s voice.

“What I am trying to say to you sub-literate baboons is that unless Pierre gets to a hospital—any hospital, even a veterinary clinic—he is going to die of renal failure.” House stops and speaks very slowly. “That means his kidneys are going to go bye-bye.”

“That’s it!” says the same gangster. “I’m going up there to plug your pretty-face boyfriend between the eyes. If Bill doesn’t have the balls to do it—“

“Before you start plugging anybody, there’s one small problem,” House says. “Bill and my partner ran away together.”

Chapter Text

Wilson feels a flash of indignation. He didn't run off with Bill, Bill isn't his type. The only man he's ever been interested in is House. Well, there was Alex in high school, and then Juan in College, and then that cute massage therapist, Carl, at his first hospital, and of course Steve in accounting, but apart from them House is the only one!

"The cute guy with the eyebrows ran off with Bill?" One of the gangsters is saying and again Wilson bristles with indignation, there's nothing wrong with his eyebrows.

"Yep, we've been having problems, he's been complaining about where I put the milk in the refrigerator, and well, when Bill showed him the money in Pierre's room he just went with him. I couldn't stop them, what with my crippled leg and all..." House says.

"What money?"

"Where are you supposed to put the milk?"

Two of the gangsters are talking at once and Wilson begins to look around for a weapon, anything he can use against these guys, he can't leave House in there by himself.

"Bill and Pierre had apparently been stashing some cash away for the future. When I told Bill Pierre was dying, he decided to cash in his chips early. Took my partner with him. Well, you don't need me any more so I'll just be going. You'd better get Pierre here to a hospital..."

"Just a minute smart guy, if we don't need you any more then we might as well put a bullet in your big mouth."

Wilson is about ready to charge into the room, weapon or no weapon, when a hand comes over his mouth and a gun is held to his head. He's turned around and he's looking at three more gangsters. The guy with the gun talks in a menacing whisper.

"Who the hell are you, and where is Raoul?"

The hand is taken away and Wilson gulps.

"My name is Wilson, James Wilson, I'm a doctor. Raoul is in there," he nods at the door, "Pierre's men are holding him, and House. They're going to shoot him."

"They're going to shoot a house?"

"No, no, they're going to shoot Raoul. House is my...House is my partner," he says, a smile spreading across his face, despite the circumstances. "Well, we haven't, you know, done anything yet...but we will, because I love him, and he...well, he didn't say it, but he did, you know, kiss me, so I think..."

The gangsters are staring at him and he shuts up.

"Stay here. We're going in, we'll deal with you later."

"Be careful, they've got guns - like that," he points at the pistol in the lead gangster's hand. The gangster grins at him.

"That's not a gun," he gestures to one of his men and the men produce semi-automatic assault rifles, "now these are guns."

Wilson watches helplessly as they kick the door in and storm the room. Seconds later there is the sound of gunfire.

Chapter Text

Terrified in a way he’s never been before, Wilson drops to his knees, squeezing his eyes shut. He knows that somebody is going to shoot him for some idiotic reason. Maybe he will be with House in heaven, because there’s no way…

The gunfire has stopped. He can hear moaning, cursing, and movement. Wilson waits a minute, then gently pushes open what is left of the door. And stares.

House is standing in the center of the room, surrounded by unconscious gangsters, and gangsters in pain muttering obscenities. Raul is still chained to the radiator, rolled up into a ball, his hands over his hand.

House’s left shoulder is bleeding. His right side below the rib-cage is bleeding. But he’s got an insane smile on his face and he’s holding a .45 magnum in each hand.

“WHO DA MAN?” House yells at the gangsters sprawled around him. “You didn’t know my dad was a Marine, did you? I spent my whole life on military bases! Semper fi, motherfuckers!” He starts singing. “I am, I am, I am Superman, and I can do anything—“

“House!” Wilson yells.

House grins. “What, Lois?”

Before he answer, Wilson is pulled down to the ground by one of the gangsters, and feels the barrel of a gun against his temple. He’s so scared that he doesn’t care that he just wet himself.

“Put the guns down or your life partner is toast,” says the gangster, blood trickling down his face.

“You know what a life partner is?” Wilson asks in surprise

I used to watch "Queer Eye For The Straight Guy" . Now close that pretty mouth".

“Okay, tough guy.” House points a gun directly at the gangster, and swings the other gun in the direction in the direction of Raul, who yelps in fear. “Put down your gun or your boss gets it. Or you. It’s your life against his. I don’t care.”

“Do what he says,” Wilson pleads. If House misses, he might shoot Wilson. “Please. With sugar on top.”

A few moments pass. House has the two guns pointed, then he releases the safety catch on the gun pointing toward Raul.

“Okay, okay, I give!” The gangster simultaneously releases Wilson and drops his gun.

“Pussy. Wilson, go around and gather up all of the weapons. Anyone tries to grab one, stomp on his hand.”

“House, I—“

“Do you want to get out of here alive?”

“Yeah, I guess. You didn’t mind that he called you my life partner?”

“Shut UP, Wilson, and get your ass moving!” House rolls his eyes. “I’ll bet Dirty Harry never had days like this.” He looked closely at Wilson. “Did you piss yourself?”

Hands shaking, Wilson gingerly picks up the assorted guns and semi-automatic rifles, gathering the rifles into an untidy bundle against his body. He drops the first bunch in front of House and then goes to clean up the other side of the room. “Yes, I pissed myself,” Wilson mutters, sliding a .38 out from under an unconscious gangster’s hand. “Like to see what you’d do if our positions were reversed.”

“In that case we’d all be dead.”

Suddenly, there is movement in the corner. A gangster sits up on his knees and points a semi-automatic weapon at House.

“Drop the guns, asshole, I don’t work for Raul!”

House whips around, the two men are pointing guns at each other, when--

Bill comes running down the stairs, eyes wide.

"What the fuck ?" he yells. "Pierre is dying!"

Chapter Text

House, Wilson and the gangster follow Bill's gaze. Pierre has somehow managed to drag himself across the room and is now lying unconscious by the door. When House looks at him he sees that Pierre's many problems have now been compounded by a bullet hole in his chest. It doesn't take the leading diagnostician in the world to see that Pierre will shortly be shark bait, House is surprised that he is still alive.

"Yeah, he's a goner," he tells Bill. "Better say your goodbyes."

Bill looks at him angrily, blood trickling from his head where House smashed him with the beer bottle.

"Save him," he demands, looking wildly around the room. He focuses on the only gangster left with a gun.

"Claude, give me the gun."

Claude looks doubtful, his gaze going between the dying Pierre and the bruised and bloody Bill.

"The doc said you ran off with eyebrows over there," he points to Wilson. "Took some money."

"There's nothing wrong with my eyebrows, my mother always said they were one of my best features," Wilson mutters but everyone ignores him.

"Why would I run off with him? I wouldn't leave Pierre."

Just then Pierre begins to groan and Bill rushes to him, falling to his knees besides the fallen gangster. Claude points the gun at House who points his own back at him.

"If Bill is still here then that money is still upstairs," House points out helpfully and Claude wavers but then holsters the gun and runs off up the stairs.

Wilson approaches Bill who is cradling Pierre's head in his hands.

"Do something!" Bill yells at him and Wilson puts a soothing hand on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry Bill, I understand that this is a difficult time for you but there is nothing we can do, it's over."

House grabs Wilson's arm and pulls him away from the pair. "What the hell are you doing? This isn't 'breaking the bad news to families 101' , these guys are cold blooded killers. Bill was going to shoot you in case you've forgotten."

"It doesn't hurt to show some sympathy House, some empathy for what they are going through."

Bill ignores them and focuses on Pierre.

"I'm sorry Boss.."

Pierre grabs his hand and smiles.

"It's okay Bill. I'm going to a better place. Just one thing..."

"Yes, Boss?"

"The money is in the..." Pierre's eyes roll up in his head and he gasps one last breath and dies in Bill's arms.

Bill holds him for a minute, tears rolling down his cheeks and then gently places him down on the ground.

When he looks around House, Wilson and Raul are all gone.

Chapter Text

“How well do you know this place, House?” Wilson asks as they make their way down the back alley.

“Not as well as I should.” House had two guns tucked in his waistband and had retrieved his cane. Wilson had reluctantly accepted a semi-automatic rifle. The bump of the gun against him reminds him of when he was a child and a member of the Rough Ridin’ Gang. Or rather, of the Rough Ridin’ Gang TV show fan club. He wonders if he still had that cheesy bolo tie with the picture of Rough Ryder on it…

“Slow down, I can’t keep up,” Raul gasps

“Yeah, House, slow down!” Wilson begs.

“We’ve got to get somewhere safe,” House snaps.

“You’re not the one carrying the radiator,” Raul snaps back. Since they couldn’t undo the handcuffs, the three men had to pull it out of the floor.

“Can’t. Cripple.” House gives his two companions a wide smile.

Wilson and Raul shoot him poisonous looks as they carry the radiator.

Chapter Text

House limps along, the throb in his leg reminding him how long it's been since his last pill. He needs to get his wounds looked at too – his right side is still bleeding a little. He'd give a lot for a Vicodin just now, and he wonders if maybe he can get Wilson to write him a prescription. Maybe he can bribe him with a blow job. He has a sudden mental image of burying his face between Wilson's thighs and feels a rush of heat that has nothing to do with the exertion of their escape.

“Raul,” he calls back over his shoulder, “any ideas where to go?”

“None.”

“Dammit – don't you live here?”

“You think I would come to this part of town voluntarily? We're off my turf here. And besides, I have chauffeurs.”

“Useless idiot,” mutters House.

“Aren't we anywhere near a main street?” Wilson asks.

“What do you think I'm looking f-” House turns a corner and finds himself on a well-lit road. “Found one.”

“Well done,” says Wilson tiredly, setting his half of the radiator down. He sways as he straightens back up and House eyes him – between the long international flight and then the kidnapping and shoot-out, Wilson has to be ready to collapse. They need to get to somewhere safe, and fast, before they both give out from sheer exhaustion.

Raul peers up and down the street. “No one around.”

“It's got to be the middle of the night,” Wilson points out. “So now what? We wait for someone to come by, or keep moving?”

“I'm tired,” whines Raul, leaning against the radiator.

“How're you holding up?” House asks Wilson.

“Did you...just express concern for my well-being?”

“No, just wanted to know if this was a good time to ask your feelings on bondage.”

“Not a fan,”Raul interjects, tugging forlornly at the handcuff on his wrist.

Wilson stares silently at House.

“Bad time,” decides House, glancing down the street. “Hey – CAR!”

A blue SUV is barreling down the street, weaving back and forth across the lane.

“Hey – hey!” Wilson calls out, moving to the curb and waving his arms. “Help, need some help here!”

The SUV slows and stops in front of them. A trio of young women peer out.

“You guys need something?”

“Yes, can you take us to a hospital? My...partner needs medical attention.”

The girl in the passenger seat blinks slowly at him. “Wait, does that guy, like, have a radiator?”

“That is soooooooo cool,” squeals one of her friends. “We should get one!”

“You have really cute eyebrows,” the driver chimes in, eying Wilson flirtatiously.

“I am not getting in a car with teenagers,” declares House.

Wilson glares at him.

“Hell no.”

“What if I say I only use organically-grown hemp rope?”

Chapter Text

House stares at Wilson. “Wow, kinky and environmentally friendly!” House turns his most charming smile on the girl sitting next to the driver. “You’re really cute, you know that?”

“Yeah,” she says with a confident giggle.

“How would you like to have this radiator for your very own? For free?”

“OMG!” The driver scrambles down from her seat. Her flip-flops slap on the ground. "Can you believe it, Nikki? Our very own, like, radiator!"

Raul gives the driver a lascivious smile. “What’s your name, Senorita?”

“Tiffany.”

“Tiffany,” House interrupts. “Every pretty girl needs a radiator. You ladies don’t know how to pick a lock, do you?”

“I totes do!” says the redhead in the back. “That’s like how I get into my parent’s pot stash!” She slides open the back door of the SUV and jumps down. Wilson studies her pink toenails, studded with tiny rhinestones. “I’m Ashlee. Tiff, you got like a bobby pin?”

“Totes,” says Tiffany. House rolls his eyes. Tiffany pulls a hairpin out of the bun in the back of her hair and hands it to Ashlee. Raul and Tiffany’s eye contact is so sizzling it could heat the radiator. Ashlee kneels down and gets down to business. Wilson and House study her pert backside. Less than a minute later, Raul’s handcuffs are undone.

“Ah, gracias!” Raul says, still staring at Tiffany.

Tiffany puts her hands behind her back, striking a flirtatious pose. “You know like we can’t get the radiator into the back of our car, right?”

“Riiight,” says Raul, looking at House and Wilson. “Wilson, you give me help with this radiator?” He turns back to Tiffany. “Maybe you give us something in exchange for the radiator.”

“Totes!” Tiffany replies.

Chapter Text

House doesn't know, and doesn't want to know what Raul wants from Tiffany but he knows what he needs.

"You can have the radiator in exchange for a lift to Raul's hospital," he tells Tiffany, flashing her a smile at the same time. It takes a few seconds for his words to percolate up to her few brain cells but when they do she grins at him.

"Awesome! OMG! This is so exciting, are you guys like, on the run from the cops?"

"No, from gangsters," Wilson puts in, "my partner and I," and he pauses and smiles an adorable dorky smile at the word, "my partner and I were kidnapped by these gangsters. Their boss was sick and they wanted us to cure him. Then this rival gang came in and there was a shoot out and we barely got out of there. My partner," and there's that smile again, "was grazed by a couple of bullets, he needs some medical attention. Raul here has a hospital."

The three teenagers are staring at him, their mouths hanging open.

"O....M....G," repeats Tiffany, "that is like, the coolest thing ever!"

"So, if we could get a lift," House interrupts, trying to get them moving. They're more than a little conspicuous out here on the street.

"Absolutely!" Tiffany lets out a little squeal and runs around to the driver's side. The men barely have time to pile into the car before she's off, tires squealing, driving down the wrong side of the road.

"Oh, LOL, Tiff, you're supposed to be on the right hand side of the road," Ashlee calls out and the car weaves across the road.

"I thought that was the right!" Tiffany calls out and all three girls laugh hysterically.

As they career wildly along House looks at Wilson and thinks this is the best courtship ever. They're already at the 'partner' stage and they haven't had to have any awkward discussions about each other's feelings. There's been no flowers, no chocolates, no dates. Instead there's been kidnapping, mysterious illnesses, and a shoot-out, brilliant!

And when they can finally have a moment alone, together, there should be some really great 'just had a brush with death, need to affirm life' sex.

Provided, of course, that they survive this car trip.

Chapter Text

“We passed the hospital again!” Raul yells. “Why do you keep making wrong turns?”

“I’m not making wrong turns, these one-way streets go the wrong direction!” Tiffany calls back.

“They’re TWO-WAY streets!” Raul yells.

The SUV lurches to one side, throwing House against Wilson. Unfortunately, it’s House’s right side.

“Shit!” House exclaims in pain. Wilson is also in pain, because he hit one of the guns in House’s waistband.

“Here, let me put my arms around you,” Wilson says eagerly. “That way you won’t shift around so much.”

Before he can do what he wants so much to do, the van lurches again, and makes a hairpin turn. All three of the girls burst out laughing again. “You almost hit that guy!” giggles Nikki, the redhead. “His face!”

“This is better than Angry Birds!” says Ashlee.

“Totes! Who bets he crapped his shorts?” Tiffany asks proudly. She sniffs. “Why does it smell like pee in here?”

“My partner wet his pants,” House says gleefully. Wilson is filled with delight and humiliation at the same time. He throws his arm around House, not caring—almost—that this girl is the worst driver in the history of the automobile. House leans against Wilson's arm and gives him a radiant smile. Wilson is ready to pass out with adoration right there. Except that his dick will NOT allow him to pass out. "Wilson, I lo--"

“Turn here! Turn here!” Raul orders.

“Which way?” Tiffany asks.

“Not THAT way! Dios Mio, look out for that truck!!"

Chapter Text

Tiffany wrenches the wheel to the side with an excited squeal.

"That was, like, so freakin' cool, Tiff," Nikki crows with a clap of her hands.

"'Cool' is the last word I would use to describe this experience," Raul drawls tersely. "Make a u-turn and take that left and we will be there."

Tiffany complies with a rough u-turn and has everyone in the car holding tight to the nearest object. House looks down and sees that Wilson's fingers are wrapped tightly around his forearm, his nails biting into the flesh hard enough to leave marks. House catches Wilson's weary gaze and winks, gratified when the corners of Wilson's mouth turn up gently. He loosens his grip and rubs his thumb gently over the crescents etched into House's skin.

Suddenly the car lurches to a sudden stop with a squeal of the breaks. House and Wilson break their gaze to see that they've stopped in front of a large, well-lit building.

Tiffany turns toward them all with a pout on her face. "You guys can, like, totally just call me if you, you know, need a ride or anything."

The three men look at each other...then scramble as fast as they can out of the car.

Chapter Text

Wilson can't get out of the car fast enough and it seem House and Raul share his sentiment. They end up bumping into each other and by the time they sort themselves out Tiffany has roared off into the distance, narrowly avoiding two pedestrians and a guy on a motorbike.

Wilson looks happily towards the well lit building, he's anxious to get somewhere comfortable, get House patched up, and get himself some clean pants. Maybe the hospital will have a coffee maker, some snacks, and maybe a bed in a private room where he and House can...

He looks up as he notices Raul walking away from the building to small door set in a dingy looking shop front.

"Where are you going? The hospital..." Wilson looks wistfully towards the lights. Raul turns around and shrugs.

"That? That's the tax office, we go in here."

Wilson stumbles towards the shop, his mind numb, his dream of coffee and donuts (and other things) fading quickly.

"This isn't a hospital," he almost whines. "You said you had a hospital, back at Pierre's, you said we could take him to your hospital."

Raul unlocks the door and ushers them into the darkness.

"I exaggerated. Hey, I was handcuffed to a radiator and about to be fed to the sharks, can you blame me? This is more like a clinic."

Wilson sees House shudder at the dreaded word and look around for an avenue of escape. He shoots a hand out and holds him in place.

"Look, my partner is bleeding here, we need to get him fixed up."

Raul flicks on the light and Wilson sees it's a rundown looking office, with some chairs scattered around, magazines that are at least two years old and two doors that could lead to examination rooms, or could lead to torture chambers for all Wilson knows.

"A Doctor?" Wilson looks around, as if expecting one to materialize from the filing cabinet.

"I could call him in, but he's a bit of a drunk, he might not be the best option at this time of night."

"Never mind," House said firmly. "We'll manage."

Wilson sighs and rubs the back of his neck. This really hasn't been the trip he was imagining when he flew out from New Jersey. About the only thing that has gone right has been his hooking up with House. But they haven't really hooked up yet.

"Okay, I'll see to House, but...do you have any clean clothes?"

Chapter Text

Raul shrugs. “Back there? You don't think I spend any time here, do you? This is where I send my guys – I'm the boss, I get treated at an upscale place.”

Wilson takes a deep breath. He's exhausted, his pants are damp, he's had a gun held to his head multiple times and he's an inch away from throwing the lamp on one of the side tables at Raul's head.

Then he glances at House and his ire drains away. House is leaning heavily on his cane and under the dim yellow lighting his face looks gray with pain.

“Fine,” Wilson says. “House, let's get you taken care of.”

Opening one of the doors, Wilson is relieved to find that it conceals an actual exam room and not a torture chamber. House veers towards the supply cabinets, but Wilson catches his arm and herds him towards the exam table.

“Get up there.”

“I can patch myself up just fine,” House snips, easing himself onto the table.

“Just let me take care of it.”

“Seriously, you reek – go find something that doesn't make you smell like a Port-a-Potty. You don't need to fuss over me.”

“Maybe I just want to see you with your shirt off..”

House snorts, but the upward quirk of his lips signals his acquiescence as Wilson carefully slips his hands under House's shirt. For a moment he luxuriates in the feel of House's skin under his fingers. Then House grunts as he tries to raise his left arm to help in the shirt's removal and Wilson snaps into doctor mode.

The bloodstains against House's skin make Wilson's stomach twist, but an examination shows that things aren't as bad as they look. The bullet to the right side is just a graze and the bleeding is down to a slow ooze. The left shoulder is nastier – the bullet passed straight through, but ripped open a hole that will need stitches. Wilson carefully cleans the wounds, taping a gauze pad to House's side before hunting around fruitlessly for a suture kit.

“I'm going to look in the other room, stay put.”

House nods, gingerly touching the dressing.

“And don't pick at it.”

As Wilson steps out, he hears Raul on the phone. “You're not seeing the big picture here, Stuart. Pierre's death creates a power vacuum, got it? We have a limited time window to grab up some of his territory before Reynolds realizes. This is our chance to get in on the drug trade to Bangkok.” A pause. “Yes, I know drugs are bad, I didn't say we were going to use them.” Another pause. “I really don't give a damn that you're a volunteer anti-drug counselor at your grandkids' school, Stuart.”

Wilson shakes his head as he searches the next room. Whatever gangster maneuvering is about to break out, he doesn't see how it has anything to do with him and House.

Chapter Text

There’s no suture kit in the next room. Only empty sangria bottles (who drinks bottled sangria?) and a fair amount of syringes—used.

That’s when Wilson notices the door. Please, let it be a supply closet. And it might even have some hospital robes. He’s getting desperate to find SOMETHING to replace his pee-stained pants with. This climate is hot, which means the smell has been getting fouler as the night goes on.

And he’s so tired. The seat in coach flying over, squeezed between a mother and a screaming baby and an old lady doused with an entire bottle of cheap perfume, suddenly seems like heaven. He was sitting down…sitting down…oh, God, just sitting down…shaking his head to clear the fuzziness, he opens the door.

Five men in brightly colored tropical shirts sit around a rickety table playing cards. The air is gray with cigar smoke. A bottle of cheap sangria is on the table. So that's who drinks it. One man is wearing a snap-brim fedora. 

“Excuse me, do you know where I could find some medical equipment?” Wilson asks.

When the men see Wilson, they leap to their feet and pull out their guns.

Wilson wets himself again.

He wants to die.

“Drop your weapon!” yells Snap-Brim Fedora.

“I don’t—“ Wilson remembers he has a gun in his waistband. Fumblingly, he pulls it out and drops it on the floor. As it hits the ground, the gun goes off and hits the ceiling light, plunging the room into darkness.

Amidst the shouts and chaos, in the dark, Wilson pulls off his pants. He simply can’t stand it any more.

Outside, he hears more loud crashing. “Open up! It’s the police!”

Noise surrounds him. HOUSE! He left his friend-now-partner-they’d-know-better-when-all-of-this-was-over bleeding in an empty exam room! Wilson feels for the door, bumping against the hefty side of a gangster.

Chapter Text

Wilson shuts the door quickly, hoping that Raul will go and sort out whatever is happening with the card playing men.

"We need to get out of here," he says to House. "There's no reason we have to stick with Raul, we haven't done anything wrong. You need to go and get that shoulder stitched up and I need to sit down somewhere, I haven't slept in twenty four hours! There must be a proper hospital somewhere on this island."

House nods, patting his waistband where there are still two guns tucked away.

"But you can't go wandering around in the middle of the night in your boxers," he says, "those pale ass legs and cute butt of yours are off limits for anyone else except me from now on."

Wilson gives him that silly, goofy, grin again and House fights against the urge to gather him up in a big hug.

"I left my pants in the other room - where the card players were..."

"These pants?" The door is thrown open and Raul throws a pair of wet smelly pants at Wilson.

"If you two are finished in here we need to get out of here. The cops just staged a fake raid and the place is open to the street, all sorts of lowlifes might start turning up. This isn't a good neighborhood."

House is beginning to think that the whole island isn't a good neighborhood but for once he restrains himself from telling Raul exactly what he thinks.

Wilson puts the pants on, the strange grimaces crossing his face making it clear exactly how he feels about wearing them. House hastily winds a bandage around his shoulder wound and slips his shirt back on, it will have to do for now.

When they get back out into the front room five men in tropical shirts are leaving out the gaping hole in the front wall and Stuart is looking like he might join Wilson in wetting his pants.

"Who are these people Raul?" He asks anxiously and Raul waves at them.

"Two guys who rescued me from Pierre's place, they're okay. Eyebrows is a bit of a wuss but at least he's cute."

Suddenly there's a screech of vehicle brakes as a car pulls up outside the clinic. A man jumps out, an assault rifle in his hands, and murder in his eyes.

It's Bill.

Chapter Text

Bill looks wildly at the assembly, eyes flicking over Raul, a cowering Stuart and the five men who have paused in their departure before settling on House.

 “You!” he bellows. “You're the one who killed Pierre!” He brings the rifle up to aim at House.

 “NO!” yells Wilson, jumping in front of House and throwing his arms out. “Don't shoot him!”

 “Move, pretty boy,” growls Bills. “I have no problem taking you down too.”

 “Wilson, get out of the way!” House shouts, trying to shove him away.

 “Bill -” Raul starts but Wilson cuts him off.

 “NO! I have had enough of you, you, insane people and your guns and your clinics and your radiators and, and – and my name is NOT Eyebrows and I'm sick of these filthy pants and not being able to sleep and I DIDN'T TRAVEL SIX THOUSAND MILES JUST SO YOU CAN SHOOT MY PARTNER BEFORE I GET THE CHANCE TO FUCK HIM!”

There's dead silence as everyone, including a pretty female passerby currently ducking by a nearby dumpster, stares at him.

“So there,” Wilson finishes defiantly, pressing back against House protectively.

 Bill opens and closes his mouth a few times, then recovers. “But...but he k-k-k-killed m-my...my boss!” The gun in his hands wavers as the streetlight shines on the moisture in his eyes.

 “I didn't,” says House quietly from behind Wilson. He tries to step around Wilson, but Wilson pushes him back.

 “Yes you did!”

 “No, I didn't,” House says sharply. “He was my patient. I never aimed anywhere near him. He got caught in the crossfire, and I know it's all terribly tragic, but it wasn't mine or Wilson's fault – you people are the ones who started it all.”

 “Bill?” says Snap-Brim Fedora.

 Bill glances over at him. “Michael.”

 “Hey, man, we were wondering why you didn't show for poker tonight.” Michael holsters his gun and steps cautiously towards Bill. “Talk to me, Bill.”

 “Pierre's dead, Mike,” and despite the menacing picture Bill presents, the anguish in his voice is heart-breaking. “He's dead.”

 “Oh, Billy – I'm so sorry. But man, you don't want to do this.”

“Yes I do,” Bill chokes out.

“Nah, man, you don't – you're just gonna get yourself shot and you know Pierre wouldn't like that.”

“But...”

“Come on,” as Michael draws up besides him. “Come on, give it over. It's gonna be okay.”

 “It won't,” Bill manages as Michael gently pulls the gun out of his hands. “It won't, it w...”

 “There, there.” Michael pulls him into a hug, rubbing his back. “It's okay, big guy,” he croons. “Let it pour.”

“Why are you guys having poker nights with Pierre's men?” Raul demands, glaring at the other gangsters. He looks accusingly at Stuart. “Did you know about this?”

Chapter Text

Stuart looks at Raul, his eyes wide and his thick glasses sliding precariously down his nose.

"No, no, Raul, I've never been to the p..p..poker night, I don't know anything about it, Michael, tell him I didn't know anything about it, tell him Michael."

Michael steps forward, still cradling the sobbing Bill.

"Bill's just been over for poker a few times Raul, nothing to be concerned about. He's a good guy really, well except for the whole Pierre thing."

"Pierre is dead," Bill waits inconsolably, "Pierre is dead and nobody cares."

Raul steps forward and grabs the rifle from Michael while he's preoccupied with Bill. He points it in the direction of the other men.

"Bill kidnapped me, chained me to a radiator and threatened to feed me to the sharks and you think it's no big deal," he yells.

House quietly takes a step back away from the knot of gangsters, tugging Wilson with him. Their eyes meet in complete agreement and they fall back and start to sidle off down the street while the others are occupied. There is a lot of shouting and gun waving going on and no-one notices the pair making good their escape.

There's a dumpster a bit down the street and they duck behind it so they are out of sight.

"What now House? We can't just run around the streets, we have no idea where this is, and those lunatics will notice we're gone any minute, they might decide we know too much," Wilson whispers.

"Did you mean what you said back there? That you want to fuck me?"

"Well, not here," Wilson rolls his eyes. "But yes, if we ever get someone with a nice bed, with clean sheets, and some good lube, yes I do. Why do you think I left my job and flew out here? To get a suntan?"

"I want to fuck you too," House says sincerely, "many times, and in many different positions, there may even be ropes involved."

They lean in for a passionate kiss but House pulls away.

"After you have a bath, you stink Wilson."

Wilson huffs, "well, you don't smell all that fresh yourself."

From down the street there is the sound gunfire and running footsteps and the two look at each other.

"We gotta get out of here," Wilson says.

"Yeah, I'll limp off down the street, they'll never catch me."

They look up and down the street and are startled by the sudden appearance of a pair of headlights weaving towards them. House steps out of their hiding place and a familiar looking SUV pulls up with a squeal of brakes, the drivers door is thrown open before the vehicle has even stopped moving.

"Hey, that radiator you gave me doesn't work! Major party bummer!" Tiffany complains.

"Give us a lift and we'll get you another one," House says, grabbing Wilson and hurrying him towards the car.

Wilson starts shaking and backing away but there is a shout from the other side of the dumpster and both men quickly jump into the car, the door swings shut as Tiffany takes off.

There's a loud crack and a bullet hole appears in the windshield and Tiffany squeals.

"Oh, awesome! Just like in the movies!"

The sounds of shouting men and gunfire fade away as Tiffany leaves the area at high speed. 

Chapter Text

“Eew, there’s that pee smell again,” Nikki says, waving a hand in front of her face.

“Totes!” agrees Tiffany.

“Why did you like give us a broken radiator?” Ashlee whines. House and Wilson hold on as the SUV bumps and bounces down the night streets. Tiffany’s driving has not improved, if anything it’s worse. She’s clearly higher than a kite and drunk. The same for her companions.

“You need plumbing for—“ Wilson says.

House interrupts him, giving Nikki and Ashlee his most charming smile. “You girls are hot enough, you don’t need a radiator.”

All three of them squeal like little girls. “If you weren’t older than my dad you’d be like cute and stuff,” says Nikki. House's charming smile gets slightly less charming.

Tiffany takes a sharp U-turn into oncoming traffic, barely missing a red Cadillac. “Wheee!” she screams.

“She like stole her dad’s keys,” Nikki says conspiratorially. “They’re asleep back at the resort. Fucking great for someone who’s never driven before, yeah?”

Wilson wets himself.  Again.

 “SHE DOESN’T KNOW HOW TO DRIVE?? I—I’ve got to get into the driver’s seat—“

“Nu-uh! I know which one is the gas and which one is the brake, dude!”

There’s the sound of roaring motors. Wilson and House look out the back window of the SUV.

“Oh, shit…” House whispers. He looks at Wilson. “If we get out of this alive I’m going to fuck you until you don’t know your own name.” He has a bulging hard-on.

“I want some sleep,” Wilson whimpers. “And clean pants.” He can’t believe this turns House on. Bullets crunch into the metal of the car.

Quickly, House rolls down the back side window of the SUV, pulls one of the guns from his waistband and starts firing.

“O.M.G., we’re like Charlie’s Angels, right?” Nikki screams at Ashlee over the din.

“You got any more E?” Tiffany yells.

Chapter Text

House hangs out the window taking pot shots at the car behind them while Tiffany veers wildly across the road, both are clearly having the time of their lives.

"You'll never take us alive!" House yells out, shooting again.

Wilson grabs hold of him and drags him back into the car.

"Are you insane?" he asks. "Besides the fact that I don't want to be killed on some godforsaken, gangster riddled, island on the far side of the world, there are three teenagers in the car, in case you've forgotten. Now sit down, put the guns away and shut the hell up."

House's eyes have gone wide and the bulge in his pants has in no way diminished.

"What?" Wilson snaps at the expression on House's face.

"You're magnificent when you're angry," House tells him.

Wilson stares deeply into those blue eyes for a long moment and then clears his throat.

"Okay. Okay. Good. Now, Tiffany..."

Just then Tiffany wrenches the wheel to the right and does a wild handbrake turn. Wilson sees his life flash before him as a concrete wall looms into his vision. He's still reeling from the images of his three ex-wives, not to mention that little encounter with Jason in the back of his father's car,  when the car lurches desperately, wobbles and then straightens. Behind them they hear a crash as the following car impacts the side of a building they missed by inches.

"Yes!" Tiffany yells out.

Wilson shudders and closes his eyes.

                ----------------------------------------

Chapter Text

“I don’t wanna go home,” Tiffany pouts. “I wanna go to the beach party.”

“Tough,” Wilson snaps. “Give me your parents’ address and directions or I’ll let myself fall asleep at the wheel and kill us all. I’m tired and pissed off enough to do it.”

“Preach, Wilson!” House yells from the back.

“He doesn’t care about getting killed,” Wilson continues. “Trust me on this.”

There are annoyed moans of “Oh, man”, “This is totes suckage,” and words to that effect. Tiffany gives Wilson her parents’ address, 42 Flamingo Road.

Fortunately for everyone in the SUV, Tiffany is better at giving directions than she is at driving. Tiffany is probably better at everything than she is at driving.

After half an hour, they pull up in front of a luxurious gated community.

“No surprise here,” House observes. “With all of these gangsters running around.”

“Yeah, it pisses off my dad,” says Nikki.

“Why?”

“He’s the chief of police. He’s always like bitching about how many gangsters there are on this island. I mean, come on, who cares?”

“Your dad is the chief of police,” Wilson says slowly.

‘”He’ll be happy we got rid of a lot of gangsters tonight. They’ll have to ship new ones in.”

“Shut up, House.” Wilson gazes out at the gates, with the houses and palms inside. Then he reaches across Tiffany, opens the passenger door. “Get out,” he orders.

“No way! This is totes my car!”

Wilson pulls the gun out of his waistband. His hand is surprisingly steady as he aims it at her. “I’m so sorry I have to do this, but you and your girlfriends really have to get out of this car. I’m starting to get psychotic from sleep deprivation. I’d hate to do anything—stupid—and for that I am sincerely sorry.”

“A buzzkill and an asshole,” Nikki snaps. Reluctantly, the three girls get out of the car. Ashlee slams the car door hard.

“Get home safe, girls,” Wilson says, lowering the gun. He leans his head back against the driver’s seat and sighs. “I can’t believe I did that.”

“I can,” House says happily. “Underneath that smooth persona is a crazed assassin. God, I’m horny. Let’s get in the back and fuck!”

Wilson has to be the voice of sanity. Again. Shit. “House, we’re parked in front of a police chief’s house with his daughter’s stolen car.” He starts the engine. “Here’s my proposal. We drive straight to the airport, get a ticket to…ANYWHERE. And get the hell off this island.” Wilson starts the car and drives away from 42 Flamingo Road.

“Sounds like a plan.”

“And I get to sleep all the way there. Fucking has to wait.”

“Yes, Mom.” House sounds sulky.

They drive for an hour, then Wilson stops the car on a deserted road. “There’s something I have to do,” he says, sliding out of the driver’s seat. He strides away from the SUV into the dark. With a sigh of relief, he pulls off his pee-drenched pants, and throws them onto a nearby cactus.

“Let me help,” says House behind him.

Before Wilson can protest, House takes a cigarette lighter and sets fire to Wilson’s pants. They both whoop happily.

“Found the lighter on the floor,” House says, watching the flames appreciatively. He turns to Wilson. “If we can’t fuck, at least we can kiss.”

“Then can we go to the airport?” Wilson says pleadingly.

“Yeah. There’s a pair of swim trunks in the car. You can wear them on the plane. Show off your manly legs.”

“House, I love you,” Wilson says, his head spinning. Everything that has happened is a surreal cartoon, except for House standing in front of him, smelling of sweat and gunpowder. “You smell like John Wayne.”

“You don’t smell like pee.  Easier to love without urine stink.”  House gathers the unprotesting Wilson in his arms and kisses him hard, lips closed. Wilson sags against House, who laughs and holds him up. Wilson feels a sweet happiness flowing through him. This is how it should turn out…true love conquers all...they’ll flee to another island, this one with no gangsters…House’s mouth tastes so good…

Wilson drifts off to sleep, his tongue in House's mouth.