The Canterbury Drabbles

[triedunture]

Title: The Canterbury Drabbles
Pairing: House/Wilson, with some cameos thrown in
Rated from G to R.

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One.

In all Four Orders there was none so mellow,
So glib with gallant phrase and well-turned speech.

“Wilson,” House barked, shoving his way into the oncologist’s office.

The other doctor continued chewing. A half-eaten chicken Caesar wrap sat on the folded wax paper in front of him, and Wilson instinctively grabbed for it.

House was quicker. “Do that thing you do,” he ordered, holding the wrap, allowing dressing to dribble from the untucked end. He took a healthy bite.

“What thing?” Wilson sighed, making a half-hearted lunge over his desk for his food. House pulled back just enough to avoid his grasping fingertips.

“The thing where I get stuck on a particularly bizarre case,” House muttered through a mouthful of lettuce, “and you walk into my office, put your hands on your hips, and try to make me ashamed of my behavior. And then you say something that jogs my memory, and everything clicks into pace. Ta da.” House waved the wrap in a small flourish. “Case closed. Patient lives.”

Wilson leaned back in his desk chair, crossing his arms over his chest. His dark blue sweater vest crinkled at the action. “If that’s what you want, shouldn’t I be over in your office right now?”

House paused in mid-chew, then nodded sharply. “Good point.” He hobbled out the door, still holding Wilson’s dinner hostage.

Wilson counted to five, drew in a deep breath, and stood up to make his way into House’s glass-walled office. He pushed open the door with a scoff and said, “Could you at least let me have the last few bites?”

House tapped his cane on the floor in agitation. He rapped his knuckles against his forehead as if knocking on a door. “I’m getting nothing. Try again.” He gestured with the whole wheat wrap. “Remember, hands on hips.”

Wilson, unconsciously, had already started the motion before aborting it in embarrassment. “This is insane,” he cried, throwing his hands in the air for lack of anywhere else to put them. “Give me my food!”

“Food.” House hummed, gaze fixed on the floor. “If it’s bacterial…” His bright eyes swung upwards again, and he grinned at Wilson. “I’ve got it.”

“Great.” Wilson pursed his lips. “Now can I have—”

House shoved the rest of the wrap into his mouth and raced out the door. “Got to run. People to save,” he mumbled around the mouthful.


Two.

Holy and virtuous he was, but then
Never contemptuous of sinful men,
Never disdainful, never too proud or fine,
But was discreet in teaching and benign.

“I never slept with them.”

House paused in his tinkering at the piano, looking quizzically at the man half-laying on his couch.

“I didn’t say you slept with them,” House said at length. “I said you’ve had affairs. You cheated on your wife. Well, at least one of them. Possibly two; I’m not certain about the legalities of steppin’ out.”

“I know, I know,” Wilson moaned, rubbing his hands over his face like he was trying to clear cobwebs out of his eyes. “But there was no sex. Never.”

House tapped out a small fanfare on the piano’s keys. “Give the man a trophy,” he said dryly.

Brown hair fell over brown eyes as Wilson scooted further down the length of the sofa, lying down with a sigh. “It doesn’t make it right, I know that,” he said softly, staring at some spot on the rug. “But holding hands, whispering to someone…” He looks up at House. The older man has begun to play again, but keeps the music quiet so he can hear Wilson. “When I think about what I’ve done, what I’ve actually done,” he says, “it seems too small to matter.”

House shrugged. “If you didn’t think it meant anything, you wouldn’t try to hide it,” he pointed out. “Maybe next time, you should cheat in a big way. A way that matters.”

Wilson rested his cheek against the couch’s arm and regarded House’s profile. “Maybe I can’t,” he whispers, thinking of Julie still sitting at home.


Three.

Up rose our Host and roused us like a cock,
Gathering us together in a flock,
And off we rode at a slightly faster pace
Than walking to St Thomas’ watering-place


Jimmy knew it was a dream, but he still wanted to enjoy it. It was a classic, really. He was in a giant, pillow-laden bed. The circular kind of bed, with sweet-smelling flowers strewn all around. And long fingers, strong and sure, rubbing slow patterns on his skin.

First there was a light massage for his back and shoulders, the phantom hands working at the knotted muscles under his flushed skin. He pressed his face into the fresh bed sheets and groaned at the luxury. Then, with that business taken care of, the touches became lighter, more teasing. Little floating brushes on his arms and neck. A single fingertip stroking his ear. A warm breath against his…

Wait. Coffee-scented dream breath? That was not part of the classic James Wilson half-asleep fantasy hour.

Jimmy jolted awake as if he’d been shot, arms flailing and feet kicking. House leaned back, sipped from his coffee cup, and watched the panic run its course. His hand stayed on the small of Wilson’s back, and he kept his spot on the edge of the couch cushion by Wilson’s hip. The flailing didn’t seem to faze him.

“Now that you’re up,” he said with faux cheer, “maybe you should start on breakfast.”

Jimmy twisted his head around to peer over his shoulder at House. “You— I— That—” He buried his face in the cushions, muttering through the stuffing, “I’m not getting up. Not for a while.”

House waited a beat before slurping his coffee again. “Damn,” he cursed. “I was only trying to wake you up, not Little Jimmy too.”

The only sound from the other end of the sofa was a long groan.


Four.

Imprisonment was not what made me cry.

House hobbled into the kitchen in the early hours of the morning, hoping to find some pills in the cupboard that may help him get a few hours of sleep, at least. Instead, he found Wilson, who was supposed to have gone home to his wife. House had told him so. Had yelled so. House…hadn’t planned it like that, but that’s how it came out.

Wilson was bent over the sink, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hands were braced against the countertop. The faucet was running, but there were no dishes in the sink. His shoulders shook with faint tremors.

“Are you crying?” House asked incredulously. When Wilson didn’t answer, House sighed and leaned heavily on his cane. “I told you before,” he said in a quieter voice, his eyes trailing along the kitchen’s tile pattern. “I don’t want you getting trapped here. With me. You think I’ll fall apart without you, but it’s you that can’t—”

Wilson slammed the water off with such ferocity that House went silent. The younger man didn’t turn around and didn’t move, his left hand still loosely grasping the silver faucet.

“It’s not that,” Wilson stated, his voice strained. “It’s…House, I think Julie’s seeing someone else.”

A thousand witticisms came to House’s mind, the frontrunner being: Well, that’s a role reversal, isn’t it? But he couldn’t bring himself to say it, not yet.

He limped over to Wilson’s side and flipped the coffee maker on. Wilson avoided his gaze, staring into the empty sink.

“You want a cup?” House asked. Wilson nodded, and the older man reached into the cupboard for two red mugs.

Five.

And on the following day
Arcita proffered at the gate for hire
To do what drudgery they might require.]


House had just struggled into a pair of dry pajama pants when he heard the knock at the door. Couldn’t be Girl Scouts or Witnesses, he thought. Those types didn’t come out in this sort of weather.

It was snowing in violent, windy puffs. House had ignored his bike in favor of his beater car when driving to work that morning. But the walk through the parking lot had been wet and bitter cold. On his way out, House had nearly taken a dive headfirst on the sidewalk when his soggy sneakers slid on a patch of frost.

His hair was damp, and his feet were coming back from the brink of numbness, and they hurt. And all he wanted to do was curl up on the couch with some hot coffee or burning scotch and order delivery for dinner. He did not want to open the door and let in more cold, but he did.

Jimmy stood on the stoop, his entire left side caked in snow, holding a paper bag.

“Can I come in?” He gave a lop-sided smile.

House moved aside enough for Wilson to step inside and shut the door firmly. The younger man set the bag on the floor and shook the ice from his coat and hair.

“What are you doing here?” House asked, poking the bag with the tip of his cane to peer inside of it.

“The roads are supposed to close tonight,” Wilson said, hanging up his dripping coat and scarf on the stand by the door. “Without delivery, I figured you’d starve.”

House raised an eyebrow at the contents of the bag. Chicken, vegetables, a few canned goods. “So you’re here to cook for me?” he asked with a frown.

Wilson nodded, still rubbing his pink hands together for warmth.

“And the furniture polish?” House needled, picking said item out of the bag and holding it up for inspection.

Jimmy tipped his head from side to side as if trying to decide on an explanation. “I thought your place could use a little help, too,” he said.

The older man twisted his mouth in thought before shrugging. “Well, as long as you don’t mind getting paid in sexual favors.” He tapped his fingers against his cheek as if remembering. “Oh wait, wives don’t get paid.”

Jimmy rolled his eyes and plucked the can of cleaner from House’s hand. “You wish you could afford me,” he said, not unkindly.


Six.

O Sir, what need of further word or breath?

“House.” Wilson gasped and tipped his head back onto the pillow. His eyes squeezed shut, twin tears leaking from the corners. “Greg,” he said, trying the rusty name in his throat.

House leaned forward, dragging his lips across Wilson’s sweat-slick forehead. His steady, certain hand held Wilson’s leg, curling around the soft back of his left knee and drawing to limb up to Wilson’s chest.

“Don’t say anything,” he whispered through his own panting breaths.

Wilson thrashed his head back and forth, the damp strands of his hair wild. “I can’t…” He gave up that speech with another sharp intake of breath, desperate to drag more oxygen into his fluttering lungs. “I can’t breathe,” he said. His hands didn’t seem to care about this deprivation, grasping onto House’s bare shoulders and pulling him closer, guiding him and his relentless pace.

House sank his teeth into the exposed, white skin below Wilson’s right ear. A lingering bite, followed by a pleasing lave of the tongue. “Don’t breathe,” his voice rumbled into the shell of Wilson’s ear.

Seven.

And high above, depicted in a tower,
Sat Conquest, robed in majesty and power,
Under a sword that swung above his head,
Sharp-edged and hanging by a subtle thread.

Cuddy levels a cold stare at House. “If you think you can do a better job running this hospital,” she begins.

But she stops when House’s eyes light up. “No, no,” she backpedals. “You aren’t going to run this hospital, because you have no real skills beyond solving puzzles.”

“Not true,” House drawls, bouncing the tip of his cane on the floor. “My poetry is a crowd favorite at open mic night.”

Cuddy rolls her eyes and turns on her heel to get away from him. “If we switched places,” she calls over her shoulder, “you’d be dead within an hour.”


Eight.

Then, from the faggot’s tip, there ran a flood
Of many drops that had the look of blood.

It wasn’t Harry Potter, but one of those cable fantasy movies for kids who couldn’t wait for the next installment from Hogwart’s. There were dragons and knights and a princess who was currently making an impassioned plea with a goddess.

In these sorts of movies, pleas often required a bit of witchcraft.

“Whoa,” Wilson said suddenly, averting his eyes as the princess’s wand magically dripped blood into a cauldron. “No more of that, please.”

House scoffed. “It’s rated TVPG. And haven’t you seen a little bit of blood before? I hear it’s the newest thing in doctoring.”

“It’s not the blood, it’s the bleeding of inanimate objects,” Wilson protested. “Ever since Amityville, I can’t stand it. Makes me think the walls are going to start oozing gallons of O neg. And then it all goes downhill from there.” Wilson made a blinder of his hand and turned to House. “Change it. Please?”

House thought for a moment before tipping his head in agreement. “Fine. I’ll put in a DVD.” With a bit of effort, he hauled himself off the couch and over to the entertainment system.

Wilson sighed in relief as House clicked the TV to the blue video screen. “Thanks, I really appreciate…What the hell is that?”

House looked up innocently from the DVD case in his hands. “Only the best in German pornography. Don’t you want to broaden your horizons?”

“House,” Wilson groaned. “I don’t want to watch porn.”

“But those inventive Germans. Aren’t you a little curious?” House waggled the rainbow-splashed cover art in Wilson’s incredulous face. “Maybe you’ll learn something new.”

“Yeah right,” Wilson snorted. “You know what they say about old dogs and new tricks.”

“Dogs? It isn’t that kind of porn,” House said in mock horror. He popped the disc in the player and sat down with an air of finality. “Just relax your hoop skirt for a minute and enjoy,” he suggested.

The movie started, and bright flickers of colored light played over the two occupants of the sofa. The sun had just gone down, and the room was dim. Wilson shifted a little closer to House.

“He kind of looks like me. A little.” Wilson gestured to the screen.

House gave him a wolfish grin. “I know.”

Wilson smirked, imagining House in the local adult movie store, flinging aside DVD after DVD in search of a cover model that had his brown eyes, his nose and his mouth. “That’s kind of sweet,” he murmured, watching the slow build-up of action of the screen. “In a disturbing way.”

The smug look did not leave House’s face as he reached an arm over Wilson’s shoulder and allowed him to curl against his side. His other hand played with the hem of Wilson’s worn sweatshirt, occasionally brushing the soft skin underneath.

“Your hands are cold,” Wilson protested softly, capturing the wayward fingers between his palms and rubbing the warmth back in.

House muttered his thanks and brushed his raspy cheek against Wilson’s neck. The other man leaned into the contact. From the television, panting moans were mixing with German curses.

They watched in silence for awhile, touching with seeming innocence the inside of the other’s wrist, or the fine hairs at the back of the neck.

“This isn’t half bad,” House finally said, dropping a kiss on Wilson’s jaw while keeping his eyes on the screen.

“Yeah,” Wilson agreed breathlessly. “They’re pretty good.”

House hummed to himself. “Here it comes.”

Wilson couldn’t help the soft oh that escaped his lips as the characters in the movie seemed to move towards the inevitable conclusion.

Then, suddenly, House and Wilson both froze.

“Holy shi—”

“What the fuck!”

“Turn it off, turn it off!” Wilson clapped his hands over his eyes and hunched over to, presumably, keep his corneas from exploding.

“I’m trying!” House screeched. “Where’s the remote?”

There was a clatter as plastic cups and old magazines were swept off the coffee table, and finally, House was able to find the controller and stop the DVD.

“It’s off,” he told Wilson, who was peeling his hands away from his face. The younger doctor glared at House.

“I’m going to bed,” he said stonily.

“Look, I didn’t know—” House chuckled a bit. “Are you really going to let a little hematospermia ruin an otherwise magical evening?”

Wilson levered himself off the couch and put his hands on his boxer-clad hips. “Yes. I am. Because, while the presence of blood in semen is usually good for diagnosing infections or blockages, it is distinctly bad for trying to get your boyfriend horny.”

House watched Wilson’s retreat into their bedroom and called after him, “At least it wasn’t an inanimate object bleeding this time!”

Nine.

Who clamours now in grief but Palamon
That may no more go in again and fight?

“I’m done,” Wilson tells him over lunch one day out on the balcony. They’re leaning against the balustrade, munching on chips and watching the people walk below.

“Done with what?” House asks, sucking nosily on his soda, which is now just ice.

The younger doctor balls up his sandwich wrapper and drops it into the bag at their feet. “The divorce. Papers are signed, everything’s been divided up. I’m done.”

House pulls his head back a little more, like he’s trying to fit all of Wilson’s expression in his vision. “What happened to therapy?”

“I’m done fighting,” Wilson says. “It’s not worth it.”

House cocks an eyebrow. “She’s not worth it? Or the marriage?”

“All of it.” Wilson nods as if confirming with himself. “No more women, ever again.”

House tilts back his head, looking at the clouds and thinking about Wilson’s choice of words.



Ten.

And then it seems they held a parliament
At Athens touching certain points and cases


Wilson bustled into the Diagnostics department with his nose still buried in a file. “This better be important, House,” he said. “I’ve got a patient waiting with—”

“He’s not here,” Cameron’s nervous voice replied. Wilson looked up, and the three department fellows stared back at him from their places around their meeting table.

“But he paged…”

“No, we paged you.” Chase tapped a half-chewed pencil on the lip of the table.

Wilson took a moment to think about that, confusion furrowing his brow. He closed the folder and crossed his arms over his chest. “Okay. What’s going on?”

Chase and Cameron glanced at Foreman, who rolled his eyes and sighed heavily. It seemed he had been chosen as the speaker.

“Dr. Wilson, we need to ask you a favor,” Foreman said, clasping his hands on the table with an air of professionalism. “We want you to do something about House.”

“Uh, well, wait,” Wilson said, his eyes wide and his hand raised to forestall any more talk. “If you want me to somehow fix him, that’s not possible. At all.”

“No, we know,” Cameron said with all her sincerity. “It’s just that, lately, he’s been a little…”

Foreman took over once again. “Sad,” he said bluntly. “It’s getting out of hand.”

Wilson looked at each of the fellows’ faces for signs of jest, and he had the strange feeling that he had walked into the wrong hospital.

“What?” he asked. “You are talking about House, right? He’s not exactly the picture of happiness.”

“This is different,” Cameron said with all her sincerity. “He’s stuck on a case; we all are. The tests don’t show anything, and instead of getting new ideas, House is just…moping.”

“But what do you think I can do?” Wilson asked.

Chase shrugged and tilted his blond head to the side. “That thing of yours. You know, where you barge into his office, and you wag your finger at him…”

“No, it’s more of a hands-on-the-hips thing,” Foreman argued.

“But then you say something that connects all the dots for him. It makes him ecstatic, and he runs to us with all these new theories.” Cameron looked up at him, hope shining in her eyes.

“Just hearing your voice might help him with this,” Chase suggested quietly.

Wilson wondered at his suddenly soft tone, but a tingle on the back of his neck gave him his answer. Turning, he saw House on the other side of the glass wall, frowning at the lot of them.

The younger doctor sighed and went through the transparent door to get to House. The door swung shut behind him, and the fellows couldn’t hear the words he was saying.

“Think it’ll work?” Foreman asked.

“If House has any hope, it’s Wilson,” Chase said.



fin.