Get House Laid prompt 069: First Time with a Dildo (The Big Blue Part 1)

[triedunture]

Title: The Big Blue
Author: triedunture
Words: 14,700
Pairing: H/W
Rating: NC17
Prompt: get_house_laid prompt 069. House/Wilson -- first time with a dildo.
Warnings: uh, sex toys? Possible spoilers for Half-Wit, Airborne, the end of season 3, and Alone. It's kind of like an alternate universe, but based on canon? Let's call it an alternate timeline.

<><><>

The night before House left for Singapore, Wilson hefted a suitcase from the top shelf in the hall closet. A dozen hats and wire hangers came down with it, pelting Wilson's upturned face.

"House!" He covered his head to protect himself from the falling debris. When the pattering of items died down, he glared in House's direction. "You could have told me about the imminent landslide."

On the sofa, House clicked through channels and swung his sneakered feet onto the coffee table. "Didn't I? Oh, and pack a pair of my board shorts, will you? The hotel has a pool."

"I am not packing for you." Wilson dragged the empty suitcase through the living room and down the hall. "And you won't have time to swim. Cuddy wants you to actually attend this conference, remember?" he called over his shoulder.

"Don't remind me," House returned.

Wilson's cell phone vibrated at his hip, and he briefly thought about how great it was going to be when he upgraded to an iPhone in a few months. He flipped open his dinged-up Nokia and looked at the incoming number. "Hey, Cuddy," he greeted.

"Is he going to be ready?" she asked.

"Yeah, I'll make sure we're on time." Wilson glanced at his wristwatch, jerking his arm so the cuff of his shirt didn't obscure its face. "I'll swing by your place around 4:30?"

"God, how are you going to get House awake at that hour?"

Wilson peered back into the living room; House was watching a documentary on octopuses (octopi? Wilson wasn't sure) on Animal Planet. Apparently, they could squeeze themselves into tiny boxes if they wanted. "I think we're just going to stay up. He can sleep on the plane," Wilson said into his phone.

House flapped his hand in the air to show he'd overheard and agreed with this plan.

"Great. So I'll be the one dealing with his cheerful self," Cuddy drawled.

"Afraid so." Wilson laughed. "Get some sleep. We'll see you soon." Cuddy wished him a good night and he snapped his phone shut.

"If you don't pack for me," House shouted from the couch, "I might just forget to bring any underwear."

"And that's my problem how...?"

"I might also forget to pack deodorant." House tipped his head back to look at Wilson from upside-down eyes. "Think that'll make the wrong impression on Cuddy's conference buddies?"

Wilson threw his hands up in the air and went into House's bedroom to throw together some essentials.

After Wilson finished stuffing House's suitcase, they both ended up on the sofa, trying with valiant effort to stay awake until four in the morning. House nodded off somewhere around two, and Wilson allowed his own eyes to slip shut as well. His phone was set to ring at the right time; there was no harm in getting a few minutes' rest.

That was fine, until Wilson felt a warm tongue tracing his collarbone. His eyes cracked open to see House, brow furrowed in concentration, licking a delicate whorl against his skin. Startling blue eyes looked up: the rushing, dark waters of a cold riptide.

"Octopus cyanea," House whispered to him. "Though it can grow up to sixteen centimeters without even counting its arms, it can squeeze through a one-square inch hole."

Wilson frowned. "What? What are you talking about?"

"They call it the Big Blue." House licked his lips. "Except it can actually change color. Sometimes it's pink." His mouth descended slowly, slowly, oh so slowly...

Wilson shot straight up, violently awake on the sofa. House's head rested on his bicep, heavy and warm. In Wilson's pocket, his cell phone was vibrating itself to death. Wilson fumbled to silence it, finally stabbing the button with his thumb. He glanced down at House. The older man wasn't licking him, he was just drooling a little. The television was still flickering away on mute, and it cast weird shadows over the planes of House's face.

Wilson took a deep breath to calm his racing heart, his gaze on the ceiling. He resolved never to watch documentaries before sleep ever again.

<><><>

After depositing House and Cuddy at the airport and dragging himself to the hospital, Wilson walked through his workday in a kind of sleep-deprived daze.

He swung by House's office at five only to find an empty desk, an empty chair, and an empty whiteboard in the adjacent conference room. He was almost startled. House wasn't there. Why couldn't Wilson remember that? It had slipped his mind half a dozen times already during the course of the day.

Well, it was the first time House had left town during the week in a long, long while. There had been that trip to Boston, the usual faking-brain-cancer trip that everyone embarks upon at least once in their lives, but that had covertly taken place on a weekend when Wilson had been busy with a crashing patient. Now, the entire end-of-workday routine had been disrupted. No House, no sarcasm-sparring on the way to the parking lot, no option to grab takeout or a six-pack, no Netflixed movies or TiVoed trash television. Wilson stood in the hall, letting nurses and patients flow around him, and stared into the darkened office.

What was he supposed to do with himself now, he wondered.

<><><>

Instant pornography: one of the many upsides to hotel living. Other pluses included cleaning services, a constant supply of fresh towels, emergency mini-bar snacks, and in-house laundry. To be honest, Wilson preferred living in the Holiday Inn to living alone in a house or apartment.

When he'd lived with his wives, he'd had to take care of them. The women Wilson attracted tended not to be the best cooks or caretakers. Julie, at least, had been pretty decent at doing laundry, so Wilson had allowed her that domain. But she had been helpless when it came to simple repairs or periodic tidying. Wilson had been both wife and husband in those instances. Now, someone (invisible and indigent) was finally taking care of him. It felt nice, in a perverted sort of way.

But back to the pornography:

The selection wasn't the best, but Wilson couldn't complain. It was just a quick jerk after a long day; it wasn't Shakespeare. So he settled on some pretty vanilla Pay-Per-View: Taking it from Behind Trollops #8. He set the remote down on the nightstand after a few moments of evaluating the hard-gasping, nail-dragging action. The woman had beautiful cascades of dark hair. The man was lithe and blue-eyed. She said, "Oooooh." He said, "Urgh!" It would do.

After he was finished, Wilson said this to himself: it had happened to everyone, in the heat of the moment. It was like those weird sexual dreams. When you spend so much time around one person, he starts floating into your thoughts unbidden. That was normal. That was to be expected.

That was why he'd shouted House's name when the come flowed over his knuckles. Really. Very normal. No need to think too hard about it. It was just one of those things.

Wilson wiped himself with a tissue and went to sleep, resolved to think no more about it. Ever.

A few days later, Wilson was holding a seizing woman down on the clinic floor with all his might. Robin, the leggy beauty who had brought in the patient, flitted at the edge of his vision.

For the second time that week, Wilson cried out for House without remembering he wasn't there.

<><><>

When it was all over, and the patient was cured, Wilson slumped at his desk and considered. He picked up the phone.

He couldn't help a glance at the clock on the wall while he listened to the phone ring on the other end of the line. House's plane wouldn't be landing for another two hours; he had plenty of time to get to the airport. He tapped the folded piece of paper, the one with the phone number scrawled on its face, against the lip of his desk. He was going to hang up. He was. After one more ring.

She picked up. "Hello?"

"Hi, Robin? This is," he paused, "Dr. Wilson, Fran's doctor? James."

"Oh." Was she annoyed or surprised? It was hard to tell with a tone like that. "Figure out what's wrong with her?"

"It was a toxin," Wilson said. "We caught it in time and she's gonna be fine."

"Wow." Robin laughed, a light tinkling sound, through the phone line. "That's great."

"Yeah, it is."

"I didn't think you really would. Call me, that is."

There was an awkward silence on Wilson's end of the line. "Uh, listen, I was just wondering if you were coming back in again to visit."

"I can meet you somewhere," she purred into the line, not missing a beat. "Wouldn't that be better? Get out of that stuffy old hospital?"

Wilson, chewing on his bottom lip, happened to glance at the picture frame on his desk. It was an old photo of him and House, where the both of them were spattered with paintball reds and yellows, hefting their guns with matching looks of mock-Rambo. It had been a gift from House after Divorce Number One. "To replace her picture," he had said in that half-caustic, half-serious tone of his. Wilson had ended up placing it on his desk after each subsequent divorce, and it had usurped his wedding photos of Lucy, Bonnie, and now Julie.

"Hello?" Robin drawled on the phone. "You still there, Dr. Wilson?"

"Uh..." This was ridiculous. This was pathetic. This was something House would do, call up a beautiful woman and pay her for sex. Wilson rubbed the back of his neck, his face twisted in a concerned frown. He had spent the whole day in House's shoes, leading the team through their latest mystery. But he wasn't House. He didn't want to turn into House. He just wanted...

"I'm sorry. I really just called to say that Fran might like the company," he finally blurted out.

"Hey, not a problem," she said smoothly. "Maybe some other time." And before Wilson could correct her, the line was dead.

Wilson sighed and put the phone back in its cradle. So much for that heart-of-gold cliche.

<><><>

Wilson pulled the Volvo up to the international arrival gate of the Newark airport just as the figures of his two colleagues stepped out of the sliding doors.

"Holy shit," House moaned as he tossed himself into the passenger seat. His eyes were squeezed shut and his face was drawn. "I'm going to sleep for days."

"Didn't you get any rest on the flight?" Wilson asked. Outside the car, the skyhop closed the trunk lid and tapped twice on the bumper to signal that all the bags were stowed.

The back door slammed shut and Lisa Cuddy poked her head between the front seats to glare at Wilson. If anything, she looked even worse than House did. Her eye makeup was smeared into raccoon circles. Her lips were pale, and her hair was bunched into a hasty rat's nest on the top of her head.

"I don't want hear one more word about that goddamned flight. Ever. Okay?" she said in a hoarse voice.

Wilson glanced at House, but the older doctor was already snoring away, his cheek pressed up against the window.

"Okay. Fine. Forget I asked." Wilson put the Volvo in gear and carefully pulled out of the arrival zone.

He dropped Cuddy off and helped her lug her baggage into her foyer. Once the suitcases were beyond the threshold, though, she gave up, dropping them in a messy heap. "I'll unpack later," she mumbled. "I need a shower first. See you, Wilson."

And she wobbled up the stairs, her slingbacks dangling from her fingers. Wilson raised an eyebrow, but let himself out quietly. House was still asleep in the car. He slept the whole way home.

When Wilson pulled up the the curb on Baker, he killed the engine and turned to regard House. His mouth was hanging open just a bit, and his nose was whistling with every breath. Singapore must have been crazy, Wilson thought, but not as crazy as what had happened in House's absence, surely. He had been looking forward to telling him all about the case. Oh well. Another time.

Wilson reached over to shake House by the shoulder, but he ended up just resting his hand there, his pale fingers a stark contrast to House's yellow print shirt. He thought about taking him back to the hotel. (Why, he couldn't say. It would be just as difficult to get a sleepy, grumpy House up to his hotel room as it would be to get him up the steps and into the apartment. It was just one of those thoughts that seemed to be cropping up a lot lately.)

He finally snapped out of it and gave his friend a jostle. "Wake up. We're here."

<><><>

Wilson dropped House's suitcase just inside his bedroom, grunting with the effort. "What the hell did you buy in Singapore?" he called over his shoulder. "A dozen bricks?"

There was no answer save the familiar flump of House falling back onto the couch cushions in the living room. Wilson padded over to find House draped over the sofa, his eyes shut, for all purposes dead to the world yet again.

"You just spent the last twelve hours in an airplane seat. Don't you want to lie down in bed?" Wilson perched his hands on his hips and looked down at House with an amused quirk growing on his lips.

"It's so far." House turned his head and groaned into the leather. "I traveled enough today."

"Here, I'll give you a hand." Wilson reached down and grasped House's bony wrist. He tugged. No dice. "A little forward motion, House. If you could."

House complied with only a few half-hearted grumbles. Wilson carefully steered them around the cane that had fallen to the carpet, then down the hall and into the bedroom. He propelled House into bed with a light push to the small of his back. House went down like a stone, face-first, limbs splayed to the four corners. Like a cartoon character.

Wilson shook his head at the sight. "At least take off your shoes," he admonished.

"Make me." The growl was muffled by a pillow, but House's peevishness came through loud and clear.

Wilson rolled his eyes skyward, but bent to the task of unlacing House's bright orange Nikes and pulling them off his feet. "So what the hell happened on the plane? Cuddy didn't get airsick or something, did she?"

House turned his head to speak properly. "You might say that. Get my socks too, will you?"

Wilson peeled them off with a minimum of fuss. "Would you like me to dress you in your suit of pajamas as well, Lord Gregory?" he retorted in a stuffy British accent.

"Oh my god, I would pay you a million dollars," House moaned.

Wilson snorted and carried House's shoes over to the closet, where he set them neatly in the jumbled row of sneakers. "Yeah, right." The socks got balled up and tossed in a nearby laundry basket, already overflowing with wrinkled button-downs and jeans.

"I'm serious." House rolled over onto his back, his eyes still squeezed shut. "These clothes stink of recycled air and vomit. And I'm way too tired to lift my arms right now."

"So she did get airsick?"

"Come on. Help a guy out." House thrashed his head back and forth on his pillow in impatience, ignoring Wilson's questions. "I should have some clean things in that top drawer." He pointed a barely helpful finger.

Wilson considered for a moment; House was acting awfully needy, even for him. Maybe it was just a product of being away from home for so many days, of having no one but Cuddy and room service for company, of being in a strange country where no one got his jokes and snide references to American pop culture. Unless, that is, House was well-versed in Singapore's pop culture. (Wilson wouldn't put it past him.)

"Top draaaaaawer," House keened, snapping Wilson from his thoughts.

He slid the drawer open to find one single pair of flannel lounge pants. Light blue, almost gray, and soft, very old and worn. Wilson shook them unfolded. They would have to do.

"Quit whining," he told House as he returned to the bed with the pajama bottoms. "I'm right here."

The bed dipped as Wilson placed one knee on it to lean over House and undo the buttons on his print shirt. It was so incredibly ugly, Wilson could only imagine it had been purchased from a tourist stand to annoy Cuddy; perhaps House had even worn it to some of the conference functions. The thought made Wilson smile.
"What's so funny?" House murmured. He was now watching Wilson through slitted eyes.

The offending tropical shirt and a black undershirt were shucked from House's tanned shoulders. (Guess he had gotten to the pool after all, Wilson mused.) "Just imagining that this print was what made Cuddy reach for the barf bag," he said.

House grunted at the jibe. Wilson tossed the shirts into the laundry basket and tapped House's belt buckle with a fingernail. "Let's go, sailor. Get 'em off."

"Do it yourself. You're already halfway there," House mumbled, his eyes drifting closed again. He pressed his face into the pillow, sighing tiredly, his naked chest rising and falling with his breaths.

"God, you're impossible." Wilson unclasped the leather belt and tore it free from the belt loops. It produced a satisfying whipping noise, but House was unmoved. "Okay, now you're seriously in charge of the pants. I'm not your mom," Wilson said, rolling the belt into a neat circle in his hands.

House fumbled with his fly, eyes closed, before shimmying out of his loose jeans. Wilson handed over the pajamas and turned to find a good place to stow the belt. He placed it on the top of the dresser next to a stack of books and DVDs while House pulled the flannels over his boxers.

"All right," Wilson said, looking around the room with a nod. "Well, see you tomorrow." He turned to leave, but House's long, nimble fingers closed around his wrist.

"Where you going?" House mumbled, now face down in his pillow. His voice was thready, like he could drift off at any moment.

"I'm going...home." Wilson patted House's arm with his free hand. "It's bedtime for all good doctors."

"Stay," House said.

Wilson paused. Gave a short laugh. "I'll see you tomorrow," he repeated. His eyes were softening, his forehead creasing in confusion.

House didn't say anything else, just tugged at Wilson's wrist until Wilson was pulled back to the bed. One knee on the covers, then the other. House's fingers still circling his wrist. Wilson toed his loafers off easily: twin thumps on the carpet.

"I'll stay for a little while," he conceded. "Just until you fall asleep."

House hummed, his eyes still squeezed shut, laid out on his stomach over the bedclothes. Wilson pulled a knitted afghan from the foot of the bed and draped it over House's bare back, arranging it over his long legs as well. It didn't quite reach his feet. House didn't seem to mind.

Wilson stretched out next to him in his dockers and pressed shirt, loosening the tie at his throat. He rested his head on a free pillow and looked over at House. His thin eyelids were already flickering in REM sleep, it looked like. His feet paddled against the sheets. Wilson smiled. House was dreaming like a puppy would.

Wilson meant to get up, grab his suit coat, and go back to the hotel. It wasn't even 10 o'clock yet, according to the small clock on House's bedside table. He had some files to look through before work tomorrow. But his eyes drifted shut, and before he knew it, Wilson was snoring right alongside House.

He dreamed:

He was floating in a pool, much like the one in his old high school. (He'd never joined the swim team, though his brothers had. He didn't like the idea of sweating in a pool of water and inhaling it again. All those bodies . . . it was an outbreak waiting to happen.)

But this is a dream, he reminded himself. Not high school.

He was naked in the water, and he tossed his head around, trying to find the steps so he could climb out and get his clothes. But whenever he tried swimming for the edge of the pool, it only got farther away. Wilson, exhausted, began drifting on his back. His wet hair stuck to his forehead.

Something brushed against his ankle.

Wilson jerked in the water, working it into a froth as he desperately tried to swim for a ladder. Something was surfacing, it was underneath him, it was hungry, and it was going to eat him alive.

Wilson woke up with a gasp. His shirt was damp with sweat. House's arms were somehow wrapped around his torso, and he was still sound asleep. His grip was incredibly strong, his fingers digging into Wilson's ribs. After some careful extrication, Wilson crawled off the bed and crept out of the apartment, like a one-night stand leaving before dawn.

<><><><>

"So what do you think all this means, James?" Dr. Pollingsworth, the overpaid and over-accredited psychiatrist, asked Wilson during his next weekly appointment. He hadn't told her about the dreams; he'd only told her about falling asleep next to House twice in one week. He had been trying to make a point about House's strange neediness, but of course Pollingsworth always brought it back to him.

Wilson shrugged. "It means I'm tired?" he tried, giving a short laugh,

Pollingsworth didn't even crack a smile. "I don't refer to your sleep. I refer to where you choose to do it. Have you always slept well in the presence of others? Does it make you feel safe, or does it make you feel wanted?"

"I don't think it's either of those things. This is normal. You know, this is the longest I've been single in, God, years. I'm more used to sleeping next to someone. Just takes a lot of getting used to." He picked at a stray thread on the visitor chair. "Bumps in the road," he mumbled lamely.

Pollingsworth eyed him over her notepad. She was a small woman with a wisp of blonde-white hair coalescing in a halo around her head, but she still managed an imposing stare. Wilson regrouped.

"It's not a big deal," he continued. "House and I have fallen asleep on the couch or in a car a bunch of times. It's just, I don't know. Normal."

"You keep using that word." Pollingsworth made a note on her paper. "What does 'normal' mean to you, James?"

"Well. It means normal. Nothing extraordinary. I mean, it's fine."

Chilly blue eyes peered over horn-rimmed glasses. "Do you feel 'fine,' James?"

Wilson fought the urge to shrug. He smiled instead. Pollingsworth hummed: not impressed, it seemed.

"I'm going to start you on a regimen of anti-depressants." She continued scribbling on her pad. "A very low dosage to start."

The gears clicked in Wilson's head. Hell, if he was going to be taking pills, he knew at least one other person in the world who should be taking them also. He cleared his throat.

"I don't think that's really necessary, do you?" Wilson queried innocently. "I mean, everything's nor—" He paused, wide-eyed, as if he just realized Pollingsworth's point. "Everything's fine," he said instead, gauging her sharply raised eyebrow.

"Maybe not such a low dosage," she murmured, and proceeded to write out the prescription. Wilson tried to look contrite as he took the slip of paper from her. But inside, he was chuckling with smug aplomb.

<><><><>

Unintended side effects of some prescription medications: vivid or nightmarish dreams. If the subject is already experiencing such symptoms, there is the chance they could be exacerbated. Or, alternatively, the pills can make sleep more peaceful for certain types of insomniacs. It's difficult to tell; if it's not one thing, it's another. You're either a sleeper or a dreamer.

Wilson dreamed:

Same thing. High school pool. Blue and cold. No clothes. Can't reach the edge, always stuck in the middle. Something's in there with him, something below the surface. It's a dark shadow, flitting back and forth beneath the lapping waves.

Wilson tries to swim, but he sinks like a stone. Water is flooding his mouth. He'll die, he knows he'll die. He opens his eyes and it's a blank world of slick, blue tile and burning chlorine. He'll die.

House is there. Except it isn't House. Except it is. (This is how fevered med-dreams work.)

House flows back and forth in front of him like a dolphin, like a fish. He's some sort of underwater creature: he has eight arms, like a Hindu god. He's draped in kelp. His leg is whole, and he has gills beneath his ears, little fluttering vents in his flesh. Wilson is clutching at his own throat, shouting silent-muffled cries into the water for help. House turns deep blue eyes on him. He swims to him and reaches out with one of his eight hands. He cups the back of Wilson's head, petting his seaweed-waving hair. A calming gesture.

Another hand goes around his shoulder, another on his chest, over his sternum. One arm curves around his waist, one hand touches his cheek, one fingertip is on his lips. There's one last free hand, and it skates over Wilson's stomach to wrap around his cock.

Wilson woke up hard. Frightened. Out of his mind.

He would only take a fraction of the original dosage. Not even a half. The rest had a better place to go.

<><><><>

"Why am I going there?" Wilson asked, turning to glare at House in the passenger seat. He had nearly managed to get back into a fitful sleep when House had called him up and demanded they drive to some secret location in the middle of the night. Not too strange for House, but Wilson was still disgruntled by it.

"It's vital to my newest case." House popped a cherry-red Dum-Dum from his mouth and twirled its white stick between two fingers. "Carter and Johnson think the patient has some unheard-of strain of syphilis. But I know—"

"Wait. That's not your case. That's . . . Carter and Johnson's case." A car honked at them from behind. With a muttered apology that the other driver would never hear, Wilson guided the Volvo through the intersection and turned into a parking lot as House had originally directed. On tall metal stilts high above their heads, a blinking neon sign proclaimed: The Blue Parrot.

"It was their case, until their treatment made the guy vomit two pints of oh-neg." House sucked on his lollipop again and unfastened his seatbelt. "Now Cuddy says it's all me," he growled around the candy.

Wilson shook his head. It had only been a few days since Foreman had left, followed by Chase and Cameron. House wasn't ready to go it alone, not yet. "You need your team."

"I need fifteen bucks for the cover." House got out of the car, then reached through the open window with an open palm. "Gimme."

Wilson exited the car as well, ignoring House's glare of impatience. "I'm coming in too. I want to be there when you get tossed out by a bouncer for swabbing the men's room."

"You're not coming in," House said, limping around the car. "Give me the cash."

"I am coming in." Wilson glanced at the innocuous bar across the crowded parking lot. Some chipped paint, some foggy windows, but it wasn't anything too bad. "So this is where the patient works?"

"Worked. He got fired when his hands were shaking too hard to pour drinks." House held up a single finger as Wilson opened his mouth to reply. "It is not syphilis. And you are not coming in."

"Why don't you want me to go inside with you?" Wilson cried, tossing his hands in the air. "What's the point of me driving us here if you won't let me—"

"Hey, I'm not gonna stop you. You're going to stop yourself." House tipped his chin at something over Wilson's shoulder, and Wilson turned to see two younger men walking hand-in-hand toward the bar's front door. The pair eyed them silently as they passed. Wilson averted his gaze after a second.

"Fifteen," House repeated, holding out his hand again. "And some twenties for bribes."

Wilson flicked his eyes upward in an abbreviated prayer. "I'm not a complete moron. I'm going with you," he said resolutely. "If nothing else, I'd like to know my money's not being used for giant fishbowls of tropical drinks."

"What sort of cheapskate doesn't even get his date a daiquiri?" House scoffed and shrugged. "Suit yourself. Let's go." He spun on his cane and hobbled towards the entrance. Wilson followed at a slower pace.

It turned out (Wilson quirked an eyebrow at House) there was no cover to enter the establishment. Part-bar, part-dance floor, part-billiard room, The Blue Parrot wasn't the seediest place Wilson had ever been. It did have an old-fashioned cigarette machine near the bathrooms, which rankled Wilson just a little. (Wasn't that illegal?) But other than that and the distinct absence of the fairer sex, the place seemed above-board. Even the few couples dancing were tame: bluesy '80s ballads were as crazy as it got.

House was already halfway across the room, limping cheerfully along. Wilson was glad to see the pills were working. He followed, making his way past the pool tables with muttered apologies as he dodged cues and men gesturing with their drinks.

"What are we looking for?" he asked when he got closer to House. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the music. House didn't seem to care for that tactic; he just spoke straight into Wilson's ear.

"If I knew exactly, then we wouldn't be here. We'd be prescribing a cure," House said. His breath was warm and sugar-scented against Wilson's neck. "Keep your eyes peeled."

They must have looked strangely out of place in the middle of the floor, because one of the patrons shimmied up to them and said, "Never seen you guys around. Do you live in the area?"

"Do you have any unexplained pains or difficulty breathing?" House shot back.

"Not really," the man answered slowly.

"Then buh-bye." And House was already storming right along towards the bar at the other end of the room.

"Sorry about him. He's just . . . sorry." Wilson held his hands up in embarrassed surrender and edged away. Once he was fully turned around, his apologetic smile fell to a worried wince. House had approached a large decorative bird cage that stood guard over the top shelf, home to the bar's namesake, apparently. Well, the parrot was actually green instead of blue, but that didn't stop it from squawking at House's invasion like it owned the place.

A lot of conversations had stopped so that everyone could stare. Even the bartender, who had been shouting out last call, was frozen in place.

"House, what are you doing?" Wilson hiss-shouted over the music.

"Knitting a sweater. What do you think I'm doing?" House unlatched the cage door and reached his hand inside. "I need to look at Polly here."

"Can I help you?" the bartender called to them from behind the safety of some stacks of glasses.

"Have you been vomiting or experiencing blurred vision?" House snapped.

"Uh, no."

"Then, nope. Don't need your help." House's palm closed around the parrot's shiny beak, and the bird flapped its wings and ricocheted around the cage like a thing possessed.

"House! Don't hurt it!" Wilson cried, grabbing the thin metal bars to keep the cage from swinging free of its stand.

"I'm not going to—"

"I have to ask you to leave," the bartender said in a stern voice, lifting up the hinged portion of the counter. Wilson noted he was very broad-shouldered, and he was about to make a sincere apology to him (as per his policy of not being beaten up on a Wednesday night) when House interrupted with an "Aha!"

"Aha what?" Wilson demanded, still clutching the cage.

"Aha: feather mites." House's fingers parted the soft green plumage at the back of the parrot's neck, revealing tiny brown specks that moved and jumped when disturbed. "This little fella is a true exotic. Very rare, very illegal, and very covered in parasites. Parasites that our patient is incredibly allergic to."

"Okay, now you guys are gonna have to go!" The bartender was actually rolling up his sleeves. Wilson wondered briefly when he had signed up as an extra in a 1940s gangster film.

"Oh, really?" House sneered. He turned back to the bird trapped in his palms. "Polly want a health code violation?"

"We're going to need to take the animal," Wilson said in his best authoritative voice. "It might be what's been making Mister..." He glanced at House.

House made a show of recalling. "Futch? Flitch?" He snapped his fingers and pointed in the air. "Finch."

"...Mr. Finch ill." Wilson registered the man's blank stare, so he clarified. "We're doctors."

The bartender was about to say something in return, but the bar's lights suddenly snapped on and the music stopped. Wilson blinked in the brightness. The bartender shrugged at him. "Whatever. It's closing time; if it's got bugs I don't need it here."

Wilson had to give up his light jacket to fling over the cage. "Now I understand why you wanted me to drive," he grumbled at House. "You just didn't want to get mites in your car."

"One of my better plans," House said. He limped slowly through the surging crowd toward the exit. Wilson followed, carrying the shrouded bird cage by its handle.

The patrons all spilled out into the parking lot at a steady trickle. Most of them didn't seem to be in any hurry to get to their vehicles; House weaved around the clumps of men chatting over cigarettes on the pavement. Wilson craned his neck to figure out where he'd parked.

A cop car was sitting in the lot as well. A uniformed officer was directing people to leave in an orderly fashion. Wilson caught sight of the female cop and groaned. "We can't go that way," he hissed at House, grabbing his elbow and pivoting them both around.

"How come?"

"That's the mother of one of my patients." Wilson jerked his head in her direction in what he hoped was a covert gesture. "Her son starts chemo on Monday. I can't let her see me here!"

House screwed his face up. "It's not like she's busting this place for crack or hookers. She's just doing DUI checks. Plus, maybe you haven't gotten the memo, but dudes doing it with dudes ain't a crime no more."

"Yeah, but she doesn't need to think that her son's doctor is going out every weeknight and picking up men at gay bars," Wilson snapped. He glanced back over his shoulder. "Oh god, she's coming this way. Just stand in front of me and—"

House was quick to act, as usual. Before Wilson could even finish, House grabbed him by his shoulders and whirled him around. Wilson found himself pressed against the brick facade of the building. The heavy bird cage slid the short distance to the ground, the metal handle slipping from his fingers. The bird within gave one surprised cry, but nothing else.

Wilson didn't even have time for that. House was already kissing him, looming over him, covering him with his own body. House's hands were pressed into the brick on either side of Wilson's head. The wooden curve of a cane handle brushed Wilson's temple; the thing was dangling from House's wrist. House's good leg insinuated itself between Wilson's knees. His lips pressed harder, his face tilted more to the left, and Wilson followed out of habit.

He kept his eyes wide open. House's were closed.

When House finally broke the strangely chaste kiss, he moved back and blinked his eyes open. He put his mouth right up to Wilson's ear and whispered, "She still there?"

He peeked past House's shoulder; Officer Dover was nowhere in sight.

"Yeah," Wilson said quietly. "She's still there."

"Okay." House dipped down again for another kiss. This time, Wilson did shut his eyes.

<><><><>

"...And that's pretty much how my week has been," Wilson said, slouching in the comfortable armchair in his shrink's office. "Just the daily grind. You know how it is."

Dr. Pollingsworth carefully removed her gold-rimmed eyeglasses and leaned over her notebook to stare at Wilson. "James," she said, "you just described the last six days in minute detail. Yet I didn't hear you say anything about your friend, House."

"House?" Wilson made a show of thinking. "Yeah, I guess I haven't seen much of him lately. He's been busy on this weird new case. Get this, I hear there was this parrot—"

"Pardon me," Pollingsworth interrupted, "but I get the impression that you are hiding something from me."

Wilson shifted in his seat. "Oh?"

She nodded in return. "I must remind you, James, that I am here to help you work through your issues. If you lie to me, you're only making things more difficult for yourself. What value do these sessions have for you if you don't feel you can be truthful?"

"I am being truthful." Wilson smiled. "And I do think these sessions have helped me. We've talked about Julie and Bonnie and—"

"And House." Pollingsworth replaced her glasses. "We've talked about him at great length. Except for today, when he seems suspiciously absent from your meandering narrative."

"If you want to talk about House," Wilson said with a shrug, "we can talk about House."

She was frostily silent for a good half-minute. Which is a long time in an hour-long appointment. "I fear you fall into patterns of behavior, James, that can be very destructive. We've discussed this, I know. But I want you to consider, seriously consider, going outside your comfort zone once in awhile. Do something unexpected for yourself. Try to break the cycle. Maybe then you will feel safe speaking to me about what's truly bothering you."

"Maybe I don't know what's truly bothering me," Wilson said, looking down at his hands and rubbing them together.

Pollingsworth placed the tip of her glass stem at the corner of her mouth. "I don't think that's true," she said. She glanced over at the clock on the wall. "Our time is up."

<><><><>

It was 8:15 on a Thursday night, and Wilson was in the kind of store that had black paint over the windows.

The girl behind the counter chewed noisily on her Slim Jim. "You need any help?" she asked, bright-eyed.

"Uh, no." Wilson shoved his hands in his pockets and regarded the massive display wall. This was worse than the electronics store. How did you know what to get? There were just too many options. Glow in the dark might be useful if he had the lights out. But maybe he should see what he was doing. Variable speeds sounded good, but maybe it was better to start out with something that didn't move around so much. Then there were the rabbits; those seemed too expensive and advanced.

Wilson leaned closer to peer at one particular package.

Was that . . . corn?

"You probably want silicone," the shop girl sing-songed. Wilson turned to watch her flip a page of PC magazine. "It's more hygienic."

"Okay," he answered slowly.

She glanced up at him with a shrug. "You look like a clean guy."

"Oh. Thank you?"

"Have you thought about size?" she asked.

"Um." Wilson turned back to the toys. Some of them were a foot long, or more. "Something smaller, maybe."

The girl bounced off of her stool and strolled over to the display. "The beginner ones are down on this end," she directed. "Is this for vaginal or anal play?"

"I—"

"Or it could be both. Like, between washings, obviously. Double duty!" She laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world and smacked Wilson on the arm. "You know what I'm saying?"

Wilson frowned. "I think maybe I should just decide for myself."

The girl's bubble deflated. "Oh. I'm sorry. Thursdays are just so boring around here." She cast her eyes around the otherwise empty store. "I guess I'll leave you alone, then."

She trudged back to the counter, tugging on one long, braided pigtail, the picture of dejection. Wilson looked at the drop-panel ceiling and muttered a curse to himself. "It's anal," he finally said aloud. He shut his eyes in embarrassment. But there. He'd finally said it.

The clerk was back at his side in a snap. "Fantastic! We have a pretty awesome selection. Let me show you."

In moments, Wilson was being shown more molded plastic, silicone, and rubber than he'd ever wanted. The shop girl was waxing poetic on the merits of each, even going so far as to take them out of their boxes.

"See, silicone retains body heat, just like skin. Go ahead, feel," she insisted, thrusting a gigantic purple twisty cone at him.

Wilson looked scandalized.

She huffed. "This is the floor model. We wouldn't sell anything that isn't sterilized. Plus we include a complimentary set of batteries. Don't want to get home and realize you don't have any C's, am I right?" She twisted the base of the purple model, and it buzzed to life with a loud whir. "Whew! That'll wake the neighbors, huh?" she exclaimed.

"Something without a motor, I think." Wilson shouted over the noise. "Something simple?"

The girl silenced the vibrator with a frown. "Oh, okay. Let me see."

She reached out, her fingers skimming along the boxes and packages stacked on the display shelves. Wilson was watching her contemplate between two different blister-packs when he spied a model on the end of the row. It was simply called The Big Blue.

The hairs on the back of his neck prickled.

"That's the one," he said, pointing. "I'll take it."


Continue to Part 2.