House Fic: Warning Signs (1/2)

[out_there]

Title: Warning Signs
Fandom: House
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: NC-17
Notes: Promised to researchgrrrl and it only took me a year to finish. Let's pretend it occurs towards the end of S3 but before Chase, Cameron and Foreman left. Thanks to nestra for betaing (and catching my many misused apostrophes. Isn't it lovely to know there's always a new part of English grammar that you start screwing up?).


Warning signs can indicate any potential hazard, obstacle or condition requiring special attention.

People, like illnesses, have warning signs. A sudden increase in temperature or a sudden decrease in blood pressure, it's all the same thing. An absence of the norm.

Gregory House was lying naked and silent on Wilson's bed, and calling it unnerving was like referring to a hurricane as a little gusty.

Wilson had no problems with the naked thing. They were both naked and sex worked better like that anyway. Same for the bed thing; the few times they'd tried using Wilson's stylish but ultimately impractical couch had proved beds the far better option. But the silence? That wasn't right.

House talked. It was what he *did*. He did it drunk, sober, half-asleep and wired on too much coffee. He talked in theatre, in patient's rooms, in the cafeteria and he definitely talked after sex. It was a norm, an expected reaction. House was not supposed to lounge about, staring at Wilson's ceiling with a slightly amused smirk and say *nothing*.

"You're very quiet," Wilson hazarded, just in case House was only being quiet for the sake of it, and being the first to speak would lose some game Wilson hadn't agreed to play.

"I'm basking." House kept his hands folded behind his head while giving a little roll of his shoulders. But he didn't say anything else. No rambling diatribe about the Red Sox, no discussion of the finer points of accepted idiocy, no rating Cuddy's wardrobe choice as appropriate hooker wear.

It was disturbing.

"Basking? In what?"

"The afterglow." House tilted his head towards Wilson and rolled his blue eyes extravagantly. "You have no sense of romance."

"I have no sense of romance? I'm not the one who bought a spare tire as a Valentine's gift."

"It was a gift for Cuddy. She thought it was romantic."

"She thought it was a sign that you were responsible for slashing one of her tires."

House grinned. "And she spent the rest of the day striding back and forth to the parking garage to try to work out which tire it was. Since I was smart enough not to touch any of them, I avoided clinic duty all day without her knowing."

Sighing, Wilson tried not to be charmed by the mischievous glint in House's gaze. "So it was basically a gift to yourself."

"And I thought it was very romantic of me," House said, wide-eyed and looking as innocent as Satan. "I was thoroughly smitten. Finally agreed to go out to dinner with myself. Even put out at the end of the night."

Wilson waited, expecting House to lead to a discussion of diners, the futility of Valentine's gifts or the rarity of sex at the end of the first date. To one of a hundred topics that could be argued endlessly without meaning anything. But House winked, then turned back to his quiet study of the ceiling.

Wilson looked up, but the ceiling remained plastered, white and completely unremarkable. "House?"

"Shh," House replied without looking around.

Wilson blinked. This was getting weirder and weirder. And weird, when it came to House, was a flashing neon sign screaming DANGER AHEAD. He carefully asked, "Because you're basking?"

"Yeah."

"You don't usually 'bask'."

"The afterglow isn't usually worthy of it."

One of the more interesting things about having any type of relationship with House was the range of emotions he'd provoke. Indignation, annoyance and amusement were the three that featured most prominently, normally all at the same time. "But tonight's performance was especially worthy of basking?"

"I've decided to bask. I'm not saying you've suddenly become the guru of blowjobs, but tonight's effort was above your usual standard." House slanted a sideways look at Wilson, pausing for a moment as if concerned. "Judging by your expression, you've decided to sulk."

"No," Wilson said, as sarcastically as he could, "I've decided to bask in your overwhelming tact."

House shrugged, as much as he could while lying on his back with his hands behind his head, and gave Wilson a far too satisfied smile.

***

Knowing House was acting unusually and therefore planning something -- a scheme, a dare, possibly an apocalypse -- and knowing what was actually going on were two different things. Wilson had no idea, but he was intrigued. It was like seeing a car suddenly slam on the brakes on a freeway: logic states it'll end in a four car pile-up, but it's still fascinating to watch.

For all his faults, House was always fascinating. When he had the grace to show up.

Despite the fact that he'd asked Wilson to lunch -- to the hospital cafeteria, but the phrase 'meal-time rendezvous' had been bandied about -- and Wilson had had to rearrange three appointments on a particularly busy day to clear the specified hour, House hadn't shown.

It could have been any number of reasons: a new patient, an unexpected complication in the clinic, a sudden plot twist on a soap. House skipping a meal wasn't unusual. It was a sign of selfishness and a disregard for other people, but it wasn't a warning sign. It would have been reassuringly normal if Chase hadn't come up to him in the cafeteria asking if he'd seen House.

"Why?" Wilson asked, pushing the last few limp shreds of lettuce around his plate. "What's he hiding from?"

"Nothing as far as I know," Chase said, shrugging and looking more bored than anxious, "but he's not in his office, or yours, or Cuddy's. He's not with Coma Guy, New Coma Guy or the broken MRI machine. And he's not answering his phone."

Wilson pushed his plate away and acknowledged that the cafeteria salad was a lost cause. "Did you need him?"

"No." Chase gave a quick shake of his head, sending the sandy blond hair flapping across his forehead. "Lull between patients. There's nothing to do. Cameron's researching a paper, Foreman's catching up on clinic paperwork and I just wanted to see if I could go home early."

"But no House to give you permission?"

Chase thought for a moment. "No House to tell me not to. Unless you know where he is?" he asked reluctantly.

"No idea," Wilson said, standing up. He piled the cutlery and napkin onto the plate. "Play hooky at will."

***

He didn't see House until after four that afternoon, when House limped out to his balcony, swung a leg over the divider and then produced a whiteboard marker from his pocket. Wilson got the door open before House started scribbling any offensive graffiti on the glass. (Last week, it'd been "Cancer is for morons" written backwards, so it read clearly from inside Wilson's office. Luckily, the patient who spotted it had a good sense of humour.)

"You missed lunch."

House's mouth dropped open in shock. "Your astute powers of observation amaze me. Come on, now guess my name."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Gregory House."

"My weight?"

"187 pounds."

House blinked. "That's pretty accurate."

"I saw you step on the scales yesterday."

"Don't spoil the mystery for me. A magician shouldn't reveal his tricks." House leaned the cane against the wall and braced both hands on the railing. "I'm still giving you points for it."

"Where were you today?"

"Missed me?"

"I had to rearrange three appointments to clear one o'clock, and you never showed," Wilson said, nowhere near as annoyed as any normal person would have been. That was one of the problems of dealing with House: you started to forget how a normal, sane person would react. "Where were you?"

House leaned closer. "Breaking," he said quietly, then paused to scan the balcony to make sure he wasn't overheard, "and entering."

Wilson groaned. "You don't currently have a patient."

"But felonies are such fun. Why does the guy have to be my patient for me to screw with his stuff?"

Burying his head in his hands, Wilson sighed. "Please tell me this has nothing to do with that plastic surgeon taking your car space yesterday."

Dutifully, House repeated, "This has nothing to do with the plastic surgeon taking my car space yesterday. I did not break the law simply to mess with that Nip/Tuck wannabe's things. Scout's honour."

"Oh, god." All the ways that this could blow up in House's face flashed before Wilson's eyes. "If Cuddy asks, I knew nothing about this."

"If Cuddy ends up asking you, I didn't do it right in the first place."

***

Since Wilson had moved out of his home, out of House's place, out of the hotel and finally into his own apartment, they'd developed a routine that usually ended at his place. Occasionally, he'd stay at House's -- after a long night at the hospital with a precarious, hours-to-live patient, or when there was something vitally important on TV, like the series finale of 'The OC', which the fifteen year old patient in orthopedics would completely ruin for House if he didn't see it first -- but House usually insisted on Wilson's apartment.

Except House kept inviting him over.

Wilson didn't have any fundamental objection to staying the night at House's. The commute wasn't much longer than from Wilson's place; the double bed was relatively comfortable (far, far better than House's couch). With the added incentive of sex, House could be convinced to go to bed at a reasonable hour.

House usually bitched about how early Wilson got up and how loudly Wilson used the bathroom. He loudly resented finding spare hangers for Wilson's change of clothes and the nuisance of purchasing groceries -- in order for Wilson to cook him dinner. Apparently, Wilson was quieter in his own place (he closed doors between the bathroom and the bedroom; he was considerate of the neighbours) so House could sleep later.

It was the change of expected behaviours that worried him. On the other hand, if House was lying in bed beside him, it wasn't like he could get up to too much mischief.

Whatever House was up to, it wasn't important enough to interfere with Poker Night. Judging by House's, "Just because you hang around hopefully, doesn't mean you get to play," Wilson's standing anti-invite still applied.

"I'm not hanging around hopefully," Wilson replied, searching through the pantry and finding it suspiciously free of snacks. "I was looking for snacks."

"Under the sink," House yelled from the couch. He was multitasking: watching Veronica Mars on TV and counting through the stack of chips, arranging them by denomination.

Wilson went to the sink, opened the cupboard door, and was surprised to find at least six family-sized bags of chips staring back at him. "Why are they under the sink?"

"So that when you get the munchies, you keep making those sun dried tomato and mozzarella cheese things."

"I thought you said those were a pale imitation of pizza?"

"A pale imitation, but they're still good." House shuffled into the kitchen and reached up to get the serving bowls. The thin college sweatshirt lifted with the movement, revealing a strip of bare skin. House grinned when he caught Wilson looking. "No matter how long you hang around, you're not getting any action tonight. Gambling or otherwise."

"I don't see why I can't play." It was a disagreement they'd had before and one that House refused to cave on.

"You throw off my game."

"You still win."

"Yeah," House said, stepping up behind him and snaking a hand across Wilson's hip, hooking his thumb under the waistband, "but having you there takes the fun out of it."

"Of course." Wilson ignored the hand and poured a packet of chips into a bowl. "I can see how playing with someone you actually know would make the experience miserable."

"It's not fun because I win," House said, breathing the words against Wilson's neck. Stubble scratched against his skin. It was fighting dirty, but the best part about arguing with House was when he fought dirty. "It's fun because poker is the most socially accepted reason for lying. Everybody lies so earnestly and carefully, and by the end of the game, I know how to spot it."

"Letting me play wouldn't stop the strangers from lying to you, House."

"But you're no challenge. I know when you're lying to me."

"Not always," Wilson said slyly, and House paused for a moment, watching him. Then he bit down lightly on the back of Wilson's neck. Wilson didn't bother hiding his answering gasp.

"Not always," House agreed, "but that's what makes *you* fun."

***

Wilson stayed until Bus Stop Guy turned up, and then headed back to his apartment. On the way, he stopped by his office, picked up a few files and used glass-cleaner to clean the 'Yes, this is a judgement from God' off his office door.

***

The next morning, House was waiting for him at the hospital elevator. (Not that House would ever admit it.) They walked through the metal doors in silence -- Wilson thinking about the morning's appointments, House thinking about anything and everything -- and stayed that way until House asked, "Is it boring?"

"Is what boring?"

"Whatever's bothering you. Because if it's boring, I don't want to know."

"Who said anything was bothering me?"

"You didn't need to say it," House said, making a little tsk-tsk noise as he wagged a finger at Wilson. "It's in the slump of your shoulders, in the frown lines developing on your forehead."

Wilson reached up to rub his forehead, then dropped his hand at House's snort. "It's nothing."

"No, see, it's something. If it was something medical, you'd be leafing through those folders in your arms. Since you're not, it's not something to do with a patient, so there's a high chance it's really boring." House made a show of thinking, then said, "Worrying about the use-by date on your milk? Forget to pay your rent?"

"Jenny didn't hold the elevator for me this morning."

"Jenny being your friendly neighbourhood hooker?"

"Jenny being my upstairs neighbour."

"The one with the cats or the one with cactuses at her front door?"

"Cacti."

House nodded. "Okay, so Cacti Girl didn't hold the elevator for you. Most people don't hold elevators for you and it doesn't bother you."

"Normally, Jenny holds the elevator for me. Normally, I call out and she holds the doors, and I don't have to wait for the next one. This time, she didn't."

House looked intrigued. "Did she hear you?"

"When I called out, she looked up and then looked down," Wilson said, still wondering over it. "I'm pretty sure she heard me. That's what makes it weird."

"You called out, she made eye contact and then broke it." The elevator doors opened and they walked out, heading to Wilson's office. "Did she lean backwards or to the side as the doors closed?"

Frowning, Wilson thought about it. "To the side, I think. Why?"

"Because if she leaned backwards, she was leaning away from the control panel. She avoided taking any action, so she might have been tired or running late, but she didn't want it to be her fault."

"And if she leaned to the side?"

"She leaned across to hide her hand hitting the buttons. So she actively wanted to keep you out," House said with a sharp grin. "I'd take that as a personal slight. Maybe you should stop trying to get her into bed."

"I don't flirt with her." This was another argument they'd had too often.

"Yes, you do."

"No, I don't," Wilson said, pausing at the door to his office.

"It's okay. You flirt with everyone."

***

Things seemed to settle back to normal. House got a patient who defied medical expectations and kept him on the hospital grounds for two nights. Wilson had to explain to an eight year old that her dream of growing up to be the lead singer of Evanescence would never come true.

Wilson was busy enough that he signed for the registered letter and forgot to open it until a cancellation left him with a spare half hour. He read it twice before it made sense.

He stormed into House's conference room just as House was writing 'liver failure' on the white board. "Did you know I was getting evicted?"

House ignored him and spoke to Cameron and Foreman. "Blood test, MRI, go."

"House--" Wilson started, but Chase interrupted.

"What am I supposed to be doing?" Chase asked, giving Wilson a half-apologetic shrug.

"Go over the lab results one more time. We're missing something," House said, annoyed, and the three of them fled. "Now you can continue with your dramatic entrance."

"I'm being evicted from my building. The Tenants' Committee had a meeting about it. Apparently, I'm not a suitable tenant!" Wilson said, clenching the eviction notice in his hand and waving it before House. "You got me kicked out of my apartment!"

"How did I get you evicted?"

"I don't know how, but I know you did." House reached over for the letter so Wilson passed it to him, adding, "I have never -- in my life -- been evicted from an apartment. I have never had a tenancy board vote to make me move. Then you come along, stay a few nights, and I'm being given twenty-eight days to exit the premises."

"Huh," House said. "If it's homophobia, it's not really my fault."

"You caused this."

"By staying over?"

"By staring at my ceiling," Wilson said, knowing from the amused smirk on House's face that he sounded ridiculous. He didn't care. "I've barely moved into the place, and then you stared at my ceiling and now I'm getting evicted!"

House's smirk turned into a grin. Then, from behind him, Wilson heard Cuddy say, "Has House developed x-ray vision in the last week?"

"I don't need x-ray vision to appreciate that outfit," House said with an almost comical leer.

Cuddy rolled her eyes, then crossed her arms, which really... proved House's point. "I'll take that as a no."

"I'm expecting my x-ray spectacles in the mail any day now. It won't make much difference when looking at you, but the nurses in Pediatrics will start looking a lot better."

"But you won't look any better to them," Cuddy shot back. "What's going on?"

Wilson glared at House. "I'm being evicted."

"Really?"

"Really," House agreed, passing her the letter.

"Oh," she said as she read it. "It's a private board who've agreed by a majority vote. Looks legally binding."

"In other words," House supplied helpfully, clearly enjoying this far too much, "you don't have a leg to stand on."

"I can't believe I have to move again. Do you know how many times I've moved in the last six months?"

"Wasn't my fault you got divorced," House said, shrugging. "Any sane person would have got a place when they moved out. You were the one who had to soak in denial and live in three places before you accepted the truth."

In that moment, the fact that House was right didn't make
Wilson hate him any less. "You are not visiting my new place. In fact, I'm not even going to tell you my address."

"You do know I'm not omnipotent, right? I don't actually have control of every member of your precious Tenants' Committee."

"I don't know how, but you did this. I know you did."

"Whether or not House arranged it, you still have to move. And you have a department meeting in ten minutes." As Wilson headed towards the door, Cuddy turned on House. "And you need to explain why I got a call from the clinic saying that you'd spent an hour in their waiting room telling everyone that our doctors wanted to amputate your good leg."

***

Wilson quietly fumed about it. He made appointments with real estate agents and saw three places (all three had stairs-only access, but one had a bad bathroom, one had bad parking, and one had eighties décor). He tracked down members of the Tenancy Committee and argued the eviction notice. Most of them said that an agreement had already been reached and it was out of their hands.

Mrs Murchensen sniffily avoided giving any details of who had complained about what and ended the conversation by saying, "It was simply felt by the majority that someone with your, well, your routines wasn't precisely the type of tenant that suited this building."

"But Mrs Murchensen," he'd started, and she gave him a chilly smile and said she had to be going.

He noticed that Jenny from upstairs didn't hold the elevator for him any more.

Deep down, Wilson knew he only had himself to blame. After all, he *knew* House. He'd known House before they ever got... involved, so it wasn't like he didn't know House was basically a hyperactive, precocious twelve-year-old. House screwed with other peoples' lives for fun, because he was bored, because he could. He didn't overstep other peoples' boundaries out of ignorance; he saw the boundaries and didn't care about them.

House didn't act like any normal, sane person in a relationship. Sometimes, that had its perks. House didn't take offence at things that had driven Wilson's ex-wives insane. If Wilson had had a bad week and needed some space alone, House would shrug and say, "See you tomorrow?" No questions, no doubts. No icy silences, no nagging, no entreaties to confide and share.

But it was frustrating to have to move everything -- furniture, clothes, books -- because of some immature, ridiculous stunt of House's. It was even more frustrating that he didn't know how House had done it.

When he saw House standing on his balcony, Wilson went out -- ideally to rant at House until he felt better -- but as he stepped closer and breathed in the brisk night air, something made him pause. "House?"

"Let me guess." Giving a small snort, House looked sideways at him. In the dusk shadows, he looked tired, lines crinkling the edges of his eyes, smirk sharp enough to cut. "You're about to give me a running commentary on the difficulties of finding a condo and the inconveniences of moving?"

Wilson turned his back on the view and leaned against the railing. There weren't a lot of things that could rattle House this much. He could probably count them on one hand. "Your patient?"

"Advanced Cirrhosis."

"But if it got to liver failure--"

"Fatal. I know," House said, running a hand through his hair. "She's got a day. Maybe less."

House stared down at the parked cars, trees and streetlights. He didn't look defeated, but even when he was, House didn't look it. He looked frustrated: brows lowered, jaw set. He looked as if he was trying to find a way to use willpower to bend reality.

Wilson buried his hands into his pockets. "Have you told her?"

"She's unconscious," House said, meaning that he hadn't. Meaning that he was postponing the bad news.

"If you want, I can tell her."

For a moment, he thought House would agree.

Then House huffed. "No. I'll tell her. But it's--"

"What?"

"It's too simple. Too obvious. It's clear, it's untreatable, it fits every symptom. Every single symptom. We should have seen it earlier."

"You can't blame yourself for not being in time to treat it. It's out of our control."

House rolled his eyes. "Acknowledge a higher power and your lack of control. Are you quoting a step from your Sexaholics Anonymous meetings?"

"I'm saying that you can't hold yourself to impossible standards," Wilson replied, not rising the bait.

"It was an easy diagnosis, an obvious fit. Foreman argued for it and I dismissed it as lazy detective work."

"So you had an off day," Wilson said, and House glared at him sharply. "Is it really bothering you this much?"

"That diagnosis," House said, throwing an arm out, "is like hearing that you got engaged to Cuddy. It seems like a perfect fit. You could get married and have attractive, middle-class, professional, Jewish, blow-dried children together, and everyone would say how obvious and right it was."

Pausing, Wilson pressed a hand against the rough concrete behind him. "I'm hoping you wouldn't."

"Of course not. As far as I'm concerned, it's completely wrong," House said, and Wilson realised it was only a metaphor, no deeper meaning to it. "But that might be because I have a vested interest. I don't want the obvious answer to be right, so I can't be sure of my misgivings."

"I think your misgivings would be caused by knowing the situation. You know us, House. Cuddy and I are friends, and regardless of the surface similarities, a marriage between us would be doomed for many reasons." He stopped when he saw the expression on House's face, the glitter in his narrowed eyes. "What?"

"Say that again."

"That we'd be doomed?"

"Surface similarities. It's just surface similarities," House said, and then limped back towards his team and, presumably, to another diagnosis.

Wilson watched him leave and decided that he could be annoyed about having to move tomorrow.

***

House didn't leave the hospital until after midnight. Wilson knew this because he hung around updating patient files until House shuffled through his door saying, "I thought you'd gone home."

"Then why come here?"

"To wreak havoc in your absence."

Nodding, Wilson cleared his desk of pens and folders. "And your patient?"

"We'll know by morning. Now are you giving me a lift home, or do I have to use my cane to knock you out and take your keys by force?"

"Since I'm rather fond of remaining conscious, we'll go with the first option."

***

It didn't occur to Wilson until the next afternoon -- after House's latest treatment had proved a success -- that he'd missed an opportunity to find out *why* he was being rendered homeless. Specifically, it didn't occur to him until he asked House about it and House threw a jellybean at his head, saying, "If you wanted to know that, you would have asked last night."

"Regardless of the timing," Wilson said, catching the red jellybean thrown at him next, "I still deserve to know the reason. It's my apartment!"

"Your reasoning is faulty."

"I'm being evicted because my reasoning is faulty? That's new."

House hmmm'd for a moment, gaze sliding down to Wilson's shined shoes and back up again. "I don't know if it's new. Your reasoning might have always been faulty."

"It's a new excuse for eviction."

"It's not why you're being evicted." House tossed a Vicodin and a green jellybean into the air, and the caught both in his mouth. "It's why I'm not going to tell you why you're being evicted."

"By my reckoning, my apartment has something to do with my life and therefore I deserve to know what's going on. How is that logic flawed?"

"You assume that because you deserve to know, you'll be told. People don't get what they deserve. If they did, I'd have a bevy of babes at the Playgirl Mansion and Hugh Hefner would be just another dirty old man who only ever gets a hand on himself."

Wilson sighed. He looked over his shoulder at the glass wall of House's office. "You know, I could close those blinds, beat you to death with your own cane, and nobody would care. In fact, I could leave the blinds open."

"Cuddy would care," House said smugly, then threw him a licorice jellybean. It was Wilson's favourite flavour, but it wasn't a thoughtful gesture; it was because House disliked them.

Wilson ate it anyway. "She wouldn't blame me."

"She wouldn't blame you, but if she had to get you out of a murder trial and then explain to the board that the sweet head of hair in charge of those lovely cancer patients had killed their best diagnostician in a violent rage, she'd be a little exasperated. Annoyed, even."

House grinned. It wasn't charming. Not in the least. (Well… maybe a very miniscule, stupid, masochistic part of Wilson found it attractive, but that part of Wilson's brain was scheduled for a lobotomy as soon as he could arrange it.) "You're really not going to tell me?"

"If you really wanted to know, you'd have asked last night and got an honest answer."

"When you were tired," Wilson said, counting his points out on his fingers, "preoccupied with a patient's failing health and distracted by the level of pain from a bad day. Clearly, I should have blindsided you and taken advantage of your vulnerability."

"You would have got gotten an answer."

***

Wilson wasn't entirely sure how he ended up in House's bed that night. Oh, he knew the mundane mechanics of it well enough -- his last patient left at 7.30pm, he was rubbing his forehead and staring blankly at the file, House came in and tossed a coin for the right to drive Wilson's car -- but there was an underlying *why* that evaded him.

He'd never been able to work out the underlying why of their friendship, let alone their… this. It was one of those things he didn't worry about analysing too closely but House, who analysed like a dairy farm produced milk, said it was a mutually beneficial melding of weaknesses, although he used more words. He'd actually said, "Your issues dovetail into mine. The things about you that would annoy the hell out of someone else generally don't bother me. And vice versa. Therefore, we can spend actual hours together without hating each other or resorting to physical violence. What more do you need to base a relationship on?"

Mind you, House had also explained it with, "Because I've always been a sucker for boyish good looks, and you think unshaved and sarcastic is hot," and all of House's explanations were likely to be lies if he thought it amusing.

But he was right that the unshaven thing was hot. Wilson couldn't deny that. Especially not when House had two fingers knuckle-deep inside him and was biting kisses across his shoulder blades, stubble scratching across Wilson's skin. Wilson twisted against the sheets, pressing his face into the pillow, riding the sensation of House's really long, really *good* fingers sliding in and out. Moving slow enough to keep him on the edge, to keep him so close, keep him tightly wound and straining, feeling every gust of breath, every touch of House's skin -- the graze of an arm, the weight of a leg, heavy muscle and hot skin and the soft brush of body hair -- hearing every gasp and groan.

Feeling so good he really didn't want it to stop. Not yet.

Distraction. He needed a distraction. Something other than the sharp sting of House's teeth and the smooth stretch of fingers.

"You should pay for my move." The words came out in a rush, breathless, half mumbled into the pillow. "Since you caused it."

"You're thinking about moving?" A twist of House's fingers, and Wilson couldn't help pushing back, groaning and closing his eyes. "Right now, this second, that's what you're thinking about?"

"I'm thinking about costs--" Wilson couldn't even get the words out, because House bit down hard and twisted his fingers, and he wasn't close, he was swearing and coming against cotton sheets.

"Such a dirty mouth on such a nice boy," House said sweetly, attempting -- but not managing -- to disrupt the afterglow of really good sex.

"Mmgrph."

***

As usual, Wilson woke up at a decent hour and got to work on time, so he didn't see House until mid-morning. They passed at the elevators (Wilson was heading out to see a patient, House was heading downstairs to clinic duty).

Wilson considered starting with a 'hello', but "Why am I being evicted?" seemed a higher priority.

"You're still on about that?"

"You still haven't told me."

"And I'm not going to," House said, smirking and standing there in a rock-and-roll t-shirt half as old as he was. "I've got more important things to think about."

"Like whether or not Ricki's baby was fathered by her comatose husband on 'Days of Our Lives'?"

"It was clearly her half-brother Jason from that night by the pool," House said dismissively.

For a moment, Wilson wondered if this was an actual storyline on the show. Then he remembered that it was a daytime soap opera and that he didn't care. "Good to know where your priorities are."

"I've got an important case of INLOHY to solve."

Wilson frowned in concentration. The condition wasn't familiar. "Inlohy?"

"Not inlohy, lowercase. INLOHY, uppercase," House said slowly, as if it was obvious. "INLOHY as in It's Not Lupus Or Hepatitis Yet."

"But you expect it will be?"

House shrugged. "You can never tell. Keeps my job interesting."

Wilson looked to the ceiling for patience. "As long as you're interested."

"Also stops the kids from getting complacent. And it sounds cooler," House added. "INLOH just doesn't have the same ring."

"You're still paying for my move," Wilson muttered spitefully.

***

It wasn't surprising that Cameron was the first to approach Wilson and commiserate with him. She understood how frustrating it could be to find yourself embroiled with House -- how hurtful and annoying his random selfishness could be -- and all the reasons why Wilson stayed around despite that. She left him with a pat on his shoulder and good wishes for the house hunting.

Chase was the next to stop by. They compared horror stories of bad moves -- damaged furniture; missing boxes; the hassle of remembering that you lived somewhere new and the embarrassment of showing up at the old address and wondering why your keys didn't work -- and discussed the amount of packing that was looming in Wilson's future.

When Foreman showed up at his office, Wilson started to put the pieces together. "Let me guess, you're here to console me about my enforced move?"

"No," Foreman said with a quick shake of his head. "I just wanted to know how much stuff you had."

With a flash of uneasiness, Wilson saw where this conversation was going. "To pay for my move, House is forcing his team to move my stuff?"

"Not forcing. Betting."

Wilson winced. "On a card game or a patient?"

"Patient," Foreman said with a careless shrug, leaning against the doorframe. This was what knowing House did to people: made them nonchalant about betting on a person's survival rate.

"Of course."

"Whoever doesn't get the right diagnosis is organising your move."

"You know that he'll win, right?"

"I know that at least two of us will lose." Foreman pushed himself upright and flashed a quick grin. "I just don't think it'll be me."

"Then why are you here?"

"Figured it can't hurt to stress the importance of finding a building with a good elevator. We already put up with House. We shouldn't have to deal with stairs too."

***

Apart from the occasional sympathetic smile from Cameron, the three of them didn't bother Wilson again. It didn't put his mind at rest.

House had promised to pay for the move, but this was House. The chance of House actually paying, and subtly accepting responsibility for acting badly, had always been slim. Wilson had been expecting a lot of griping about having to pay and a last-ditch excuse to avoid it.

House tricking his team into doing the move for him was a partway gesture. Not an acknowledgement of guilt, per se, but it was an attempt to soothe Wilson's ire. Which meant that House either regretted his actions -- a laughable thought, really, but there was always a chance the eviction hadn't been specifically planned -- or he really liked the idea of using well-educated subordinates for physical labour.

The sooner Wilson knew why he had to move, the better. He had a sinking feeling that it was going to be incredibly humiliating. He wasn't sure how -- couldn't imagine it because he wasn't a soulless, psychopathic, twisted diagnostician -- but House was capable of it, and anything House could do, he did.

Wilson opened his office door, wondering how bad it could be, and found the culprit sitting on his couch, cane resting across his lap. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm thinking about having sex in your office."

"With anyone I know?" Wilson asked, since it was pointless to ask how House had accessed a carefully locked office filled with confidential patient information. He glanced at his desk drawers nervously.

"I'm thinking about Nurse Alty. Rumour has it she's on the rebound." House held his hands out, palm up, as if considering a difficult choice. Then he tilted his hands up, fingers pointing towards the ceiling. "Knockers out to here."

Ignoring that, Wilson finished checking that his drawers were still locked and the files were as he left them. "Your team visited me today."

"All together? Did they sing in harmony?" House blinked and a quick frown passed across his face. "Wait. Do trios sing in harmony?"

"I would assume so, but they visited separately." Wilson watched House closely, but House was doing a wonderful imitation of being completely bored.

"What did Huey, Dewey, and Louie want?"

"To discuss my plans to relocate."

House shrugged.

Wilson sighed. "You realise all three of them will make woefully over-educated and under-experienced movers, right?"

"We agreed that I was paying for your move. Since their salary gets paid from the Diagnostics budget and that budget is technically mine, I'm arranging the payment as promised. You never specified professional movers," House said, standing up and shuffling across to Wilson's desk with a smug grin that made Wilson a little nervous. "If you don't specify, how am I supposed to know what's expected?"

"House--"

"Like that whole no sex at work idea of yours, where you specified that I would never, ever get any nookie in my office due to the glass walls and my team of under-experienced movers," House said logically, moving round the desk. Wilson lurched to his feet, trying to stall, but House moved faster than a self-labelled cripple should be able to and hooked an arm around Wilson's waist. "Your office, on the other hand..."

"Is still out of the question," Wilson managed as House cocked a hip against the desk edge, dropped his cane and started tugging at Wilson's belt. It was mortifying and completely inappropriate and so hot that Wilson had to remember to breathe. He gathered the brain cells that weren't blinded by the glint of House's victory grin or focused on the teasingly light slide of House's fingers and the low snickering of his zipper being opened (it felt like about twenty-three brain cells in all) and said, "House, stop."

House snorted. "No."

"House--" Wilson paused for an inconvenient gasp as fingers brushed over bare skin and those twenty-three neurons were reduced to fourteen. "Work and sex is a bad idea. A ve--" His breath hitched. "Very bad idea."

"It's a brilliant idea. After all, it's mine. Stands to reason."

"I didn't even lock the door..."

"Next time, you should remember to do that."

"No next time. No--" The hand on Wilson's back slid down, squeezing as House started a slow rhythm that made Wilson's breath catch. "No this time."

"You are such a spoilsport," House nagged, twisting his wrist just right and forcing those last fifteen cells to abandon the fight. Wilson closed his eyes and surrendered to the inevitable.

Then House suddenly pulled his hands back and turned as the click-click-click of angry heels became the low creak of a door opening.

Specifically, his door. And the angry heels were Cuddy's.

Wilson sat down as fast as he could.

"What you doing?" she asked, staring at House. For a moment, Wilson feared the worst: that she'd seen, that this incident would be hospital gossip for years.

"Playing hide the cane." House stood there insolently, clearly confident that his untucked shirt would hide his erection. "Want to play?"

Cuddy stared him down and for once Wilson was glad that House had an inborn ability to get on her worst side. Otherwise she'd have noticed the embarrassed flush Wilson could feel creeping up his neck. Fear of humiliation -- and the unpredictability of Gregory House, who could and would say anything -- made him unwilling to risk the sound of a zipper being pulled up, but each tiny breeze of air-conditioning left him quite aware of being exposed.

He'd be fine as long as Cuddy didn't step any closer or have any reason to look under the desk.

Cuddy, thankfully, stayed standing in the doorway. "I want to know why your three doctors have booked three MRIs for the same patient."

"I'm teaching them to be thorough."

"At the hospital's expense," she replied. "There is no way the patient's insurance will pay for that."

"I'm sure they would," House said, pausing for effect, "if you went over in person and asked very nicely while leaning over their desks."

Cuddy's entire face tightened, proving House's Botox theory wrong. "So you have absolutely no medical reason for this?"

"Is 'because I want to' a valid reason?" Keeping one hand on the desk for support, House leaned down and picked up his cane. On the way back up, he waggled his eyebrows at Wilson. Even though Wilson was certain House couldn't have seen under the desk from that angle, he had to fight to keep his expression calm. House grinned, then turned back towards the door. "What about 'my dog ate my homework'?"

If Cuddy noticed Wilson's reaction, she was too annoyed to care. "You just lost testing privileges, House."

"The ability to test isn't a privilege," House objected. "You can't expect me to diagnose patients based on a Magic Eight Ball. I need results."

"From now on, you need permission. Before you order any tests, MRI, blood-tests, anything, you need my permission." She turned her attention to Wilson, who tried to look concerned instead of mortified. "Don't even think about booking his tests under your name. I'll be checking on both of you and you don't want to push me on this. Understood?"

"Yes," Wilson said and nearly sighed in relief when Cuddy pierced them both with one final glare and then sashayed out.

House watched her go with a calculating expression. "That wasn't how I saw this tryst ending."

"Get out, House."

Sporting a wounded pout, House whined. "It's not my fault we were interrupted."

This time, Wilson glared at him. "Get. Out."

He waited until House left, closing the door behind him, before finally closing his fly and dropping his head to his desk.

Continued in Part Two.