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Title: Dark Redux
Episode: 1.9 -- DNR
Disclaimer: House, Wilson, and all other characters/ideas taken from the show are not my own, and I'm making no profit from the writing of this fiction -- just for fun, I promise. :P (Some dialogue this chapter taken directly from the episode.)
Author's Note: In this particular 'verse, I've changed one thing about the canon timeline. At the beginning of the story, when House and Wilson first get together, Wilson is already recently divorced from Julie.
Story Warnings: slash, dark Wilson eventually -- specific warnings for each chapter as necessary
Chapter Warnings: mild violence
Story Summary: A darker version of how canon might have gone, if House and Wilson had entered into a relationship from the start -- and if that relationship took a gradually dark, disturbing turn.
Chapter Summary: Wilson thinks that House's Vicodin use -- not to mention House *himself* -- is starting to get out of control -- and that simply won't do.
“Congratulations. Impressive legal argument.”
There was amusement in
“I watched Matlock last night,” House explained with a self-satisfied smirk, as he removed the tie
“Oh, say no more,”
“Neither did I,” House confessed, looking no less self-satisfied for the confession.
“So, the family history thing…”
House shrugged, no longer bothering to hide his smirk. “Every family has some history of heart disease.”
“And mental illness,”
“Of course not,” House scoffed with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I know exactly what I’m doing. And besides – it’s not like I had a choice, really, did I?”
“You had a choice about messing with his treatment in the first place,”
“I’m a grown up,
“Yeah. Have fun taking care of yourself in jail.”
The humor faded from House’s voice as he snapped, “None of your business,
“I just… don’t want to see you get into trouble, House. That’s all.”
“Well… then you might want to get out while you can,” House replied, his voice softening slightly at the concern in
And the problem with that is… those rules are called laws… and when people break them, they end up in jail. And, well… that just won’t do,
Despite the legal issues with the patient’s case and the numerous difficulties that came up during the course of the treatment House wasn’t even supposed to have been administering, in the end, as usual – the patient was cured. House had taken a particular interest in this patient, finding that he was able to relate to John Henry Giles and his obsession with his music in a way that he was often unable to relate to other people.
Perhaps that was why he found himself in the lobby of the clinic for no particular reason, just as John Henry was leaving.
“Dr. House!” John Henry sounded very pleased to see him as he approached with the aid of a cane, carrying his trumpet case under one arm. “Cora’s meeting me outside with a limo. I’m being discharged.”
House smiled, glancing toward the door, popping open his Vicodin bottle and tipping out a pill into his hand as he quipped, “Fifty bucks says I can beat you to the curb.”
John Henry laughed, shaking his head slightly before becoming serious, gratitude in his dark, searching eyes. “Thanks for sticking with the case.”
House looked away with a dismissive shrug, unable to bear the man’s perceptive scrutiny. “I can’t do anything else,” he admitted as he took the Vicodin in his hand. He swallowed it before observing, “You’re much more easily amused when you can walk.”
“How bizarre.” John Henry’s face bore a pensively ironic smile as he looked House over speculatively. “I’m guessing you weren’t exactly Mr. Sunshine even before your leg got messed up.”
House had no time to think of a response to his observation before John Henry surprised him by placing his trumpet case in House’s hands.
“I want you to have this.”
Awed, House stared down at the treasured instrument in his hands. “Wow,” he murmured, momentarily too stunned by the depth of the gesture to remember to guard his reaction.
“You can sell it if you want to. Just promise me you won’t play it,” John Henry teased.
House couldn’t suppress a smile of gratitude and appreciation as he looked up to meet the other man’s gaze. House was so touched by the unexpected gift that John Henry’s next words caught him completely off guard.
“How many of those pills you taking?”
House’s smile faded completely as he looked away, immediately self-conscious. “I’m in pain.”
“Yeah. Aren’t we all.”
Thankfully, John Henry seemed content to let his concerns go at that, and waved goodbye as he headed out the doors to the waiting limousine. House returned his wave and watched him go for a moment before looking down again at the trumpet, wondering at the generosity of which it spoke.
There was a suspicious burning sensation behind his eyes, a choked feeling of constriction in his throat, and House ducked quickly into an empty exam room, unwilling to allow any evidence of just how much the gift had touched him to be seen by any of the hospital staff. Once he was alone, House set down the trumpet, raising a hand to press his thumb and forefinger against his eyes, physically resisting his unexpectedly emotional reaction.
“… how many of those pills are you taking, House?”
House swallowed convulsively, looking away, a resentful note in his voice as he turned back toward the trumpet, one hand absently stroking the surface of the case.
“None of your business.”
An instant later, House felt a warm, strong hand rest possessively on the side of his neck, felt the heat of
“No… no, it’s not that easy, House,” he declared, his voice full of conviction, despite the fact that it was barely over a whisper. He punctuated his words with a series of light, enticing kisses along House’s throat. “See… I love you… and that makes… you… my business.”
“Everything about you… is my business.”
House swallowed hard, inexplicably aroused despite himself by
“Only… if I decide to… to make it your business. Some things… are still private.”
There was a visible tic in
“There’s nothing private about how many Vicodin you’ve been taking, House,”
“Too damn many,” he muttered with restrained anger and frustration as he turned on his heel and stalked away from a stunned, hurt House, slamming the exam room door behind him.
Cuddy hardly noticed the sound of her office door opening, glancing up with distracted interest – that swiftly shifted to something resembling alarm when she saw who her visitor was.
“Can I help you?” she asked coolly, casting an instinctive glance over his shoulder toward the busy clinic beyond, for once grateful for the glass walls which were so often so inconveniently annoying.
“I… I’m sorry,”
Cuddy swallowed, holding his gaze and trying to measure his intent, resisting the urge to give in completely to the sense of relief she felt at the words, which seemed to indicate that Wilson had somehow come to his senses after a rather disconcerting lapse in judgment.
“Okay,” she replied in a cautious, reserved tone. “That’s… good.”
“I guess I’ve just been a little… defensive, about him. It’s just that… I’m worried about him, lately. Worried about his… his judgment, and… and I don’t want to see him… get hurt, when he’s… not thinking clearly, all the time.”
Cuddy frowned, puzzled and troubled by
Cuddy blinked, taken aback a bit by
“I… I think you’re right,” she confessed in a hushed, conspiratorial tone. She shook her head, looking down grimly at her desk. “I mean… he violated that patient’s DNR… and that’s not the first time lately that he’s… had a similar… lapse in judgment.” She hesitantly echoed
Cuddy’s brow creased slightly, eyes narrowed in a curious frown.
“What exactly did you have in mind?"