Chapter Text
INT. BEDROOM — 7 PM
The figure sat hunched over a laptop, eyes staring straight into the screen displaying a practically nude man. The man was sitting in a bathtub, with his chest and thigh exposed above the water’s opaque surface.
LUST (L): He’s so… (drools, mouth slightly parted)
INTELLECT (I): You know he’s probably wearing underwear, right?
The figure clicks to a different scene, one where the man was supremely bare, save for a tiny silver laptop covering his genitals.
I: (rolls eyes) Okay, you got me.
Without moving a finger, the scene changes. Probably a progression of the clip. A woman moves onto the screen and straddles the very naked man.
I: (grimaces) Oh, really… (winces)
L: (in awe) She’s pretty.
I: I noticed that.
The two start engaging in coitus, and the figure leans closer, his butt barely touching the chair.
I: Why are we watching this? (exasperated) Are we really that much of a loser?
L: It’s fun. (mouth agape, cross-eyed)
The figure unzips their pants.
I: No, oh, you have got to be kidding me.
L: C’mon (slurs), loosen up. (giggles) Ha, get it? ‘Cos he’s loosening her up… (licks lips)
Moans emanate through cheap speakers as the pair continue going at it. The figure tilts his head back, though his eyes remain fixed on the digital scene.
I: There are better things to be doing.
L: Like what? (bites lip, exhales slowly, breath stutters) The patient’s fine.
I: How about dinner with Wilson? He’ll be over in—
L: (rolls eyes) That can wait.
I: No, it—
L: (shushes intellect) Just enjoy it.
The figure lets out a groan which fills the room much better than the tinny moans from the film. Degrading dialogue filters through the lewd slaps and thrusts. Hearing this, the figure reacts viscerally, arching his back and twisting his hips. More sounds, as if he were communicating with the porn actors, fall from his lips.
I: This is so, so, (shakes head) nasty. Why are we like this?
L: (eyes roll back) Ha, ha… mm?
I: The acting; it’s not even good, and the dialogue is obviously scripted. No passion nor originality whatsoever. (pauses dramatically, closes eyes) This is against all our beliefs.
L: (moans, rolls hips) Nhh, mm, yeah… (head tilts back) Beliefs… ah…
A frustrated grunt leaves the figure. He shakes his head, pausing the movie briefly to down another shot of whiskey. He gasps at the burn but for a moment, immediately unpausing his entertainment and returning to the task at hand.
I: (muffled) This level of alcohol consumption is seriously cause for concern.
L: What’d… (sigh of contentment) you say?
I: (even softer) He should stop drinking so much whiskey, don’t you think?
L: (squints eyes, furrows brows) Uh… hm… think?
I:
L: (nods groggily) Yep, I think that this (hiccups), is very… ah.
L: Yeah… mm, nh.
INT. BEDROOM — 8 PM
“House?” Shoes scuffed against the wooden flooring as Wilson let himself in. “I brought Chinese.”
Blinking awake, House replied, his words slow and drawn-out, “Yeah… thanks.” A few more blinks allowed him to realize his current state of 1) being naked and 2) having ejaculate all over his… well, everything.
“I, wait, don’t come in!” Polished dress shoes screeched to a halt outside his bedroom door. Luckily, the green oak was sealed shut. Well, metaphorically; he didn’t actually lock doors inside his own house. Who does?
“I need to, uh,” the wheels of his chair squealed as he attempted to sit up, “get dressed.”
Wary of the Wilson-tries-to-contemplate-this silence, House grabbed a tissue from his desk and very quietly cleaned up his mess.
“You’re naked?” Another pause, this time the Wilson-is-utterly-shocked silence. “Why on earth would you… I told you I was coming over for dinner!”
“What, it’s illegal to shower now?” Smirking to himself, House tugged on his boxers and jeans before shrugging out of his ruined shirt. His eyes scanned the heaps of discarded tees sitting on the floor, pupils landing on a black, relatively clean-looking one.
As he hobbled over to pick it up, he added, “Actually, I’d be all for that law.”
A wheezy, exasperated chuckle echoed from the other side of the door. Ah, the classic Wilson-can’t-believe-this laugh. “Yes, I think it’d suit you,” came the reply.
Momentarily offended, House snapped, “The scent of a man—”
“Is enough to kill me. Right,” footsteps, softer now, receded into his living room, “I’ll get us some beers.”
Black shirt tucked into his jeans, House opened his bedroom door with a slam. He called out, “Actually, I think I’ve had enough. Get me some water instead.”
Another bout of silence. Making his way to the couch, House tried to pinpoint the exact identity of this quietness. His mind flipped through the mental notebook documenting each of Wilson’s subtly varied reactions to his antics. Hm, seems like this one is the Wilson-thinks-something-is-wrong silence. Oh, shit.
“I already had—”
“Why?
“Well, if you let me finish—”
“You already drank?” Wilson appeared, his familiar form standing rather menacingly near the TV. “Without me?”
House had thought that Wilson would be hurt, that his eyes would go big and moist, that he’d act like a total wuss and cry about this tiny act of betrayal. Unfortunately, he was wrong. Wait, what?
House licked his lips, eyes alternating between Wilson’s dark face and the suggestive movie playing on the TV. “I… uh,” he blinked a few times, hoping that it’d buy him some time, “I got carried away.”
Seeing Wilson’s unchanged demeanor, House added, “Long day today, hard case, and my leg…” He winced and ran his hand lightly over the knot of dead thigh muscle. At this, Wilson’s shoulders relaxed marginally, though his eyes remained cold and… unfriendly.
“I thought alcohol didn’t help with the pain,” Wilson deadpanned.
House scoffed, “C’mon, it’s a nervous depressant and pain’s transmitted via nerves.” He shook his head, “You sure you’re a doctor?”
“Normally, pain’s transmitted via nerves.” Wilson started advancing on House, approaching the couch in long, languorous strides. “But everyone knows that you’re not normal, right?”
House gulped, despite him trying not to. When did it get so tense? A nervous laugh slipped through his lips, “Yeah, uh… I guess.”
Wilson was clearly gaining the upper hand, and boy was he relishing it. This wasn’t natural; it had to be stopped, but his mind was blank. Not a single witty retort, strange connection to the case or absurdly sexual joke was available. An obvious symptom of panic. Yeah, he was panicking because of Wilson, like he’d ever…
“So why did you do it?” Wilson was in front of him now, his knees brushing House’s, staring down at him like he was some sort of filthy vermin. Well, of course he was. Next to Wilson, House was always going to be dirty.
“Think you don’t need me anymore?” He continued, the sleek fabric of his dress pants catching on the rough edges of House’s jeans. Then, his knee slipped in, nudging House’s thigh away.
Breath hitching, House muttered, “What are you doing…” But there was no question. He knew exactly what Wilson was doing.
A hand landed on Wilson’s knee, pushing it away, but Wilson didn’t relent. Strong arms pressed House back into the couch, eliciting a yelp as Wilson’s knee bumped against his scar.
“Wilson, stop,” he tried to pry the hands off of him, but to no avail. Another rock of Wilson’s legs brought searing pain into his leg again. House gasped, abdomen convulsing as he tried to curl in on himself, “Please, ow, ah…”
Another nudge, a filthy grin.
“No.”