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Another Year
by Nicola
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: #2.01, 'Acceptance'
"Why won't you ever fucking listen to me?"
Chase was officially shouting now, so it was one point to House. Hell, House was pretty sure he'd won, game-set-and-match, since it was—he checked his watch—9:47 and Chase hadn't yet come up with an excuse to leave his office. House reclined in his chair, gesticulating lazily with his cane.
"When you say something worth hearing, I might start listening," House said dismissively. Chase's eyebrows drew together in almost comedic consternation. House almost smiled.
"I really fucking doubt that's true," Chase spat. His accent thickened when was angry—no, pissed off—and he swore more. He became sloppy and irrational. And ridiculously endearing.
House couldn't help but compare him to Wilson, because he had spent years goading Wilson on in order to watch him unravel. Waiting for the fidgets and twitches—waiting for his voice to crack. Admittedly it had become less fun since he realized how easily he could break Wilson. House grimaced.
Chase unravelled and there was still layer upon layer underneath. House doubted he'd ever get to know the real Robert Chase, and that was . . . reassuring.
*
She really was very good at blackmail. The way she would tug at her hair nervously. That doe-eyed stare; a sweet and sympathetic smile that shaded into sadness. She was quietly, prettily devastating.
Perhaps, in the back of his mind, Wilson had always known that he would have an affair with Allison Cameron. Maybe he was just that predictable. He'd had an argument with House over her hiring—not a loaded, shouting match; the more insidious kind of argument that passed itself off as a joke. Wilson had taken issue with hiring a doctor based on how attractive she was; House had snorted, and then shot Wilson a look that had silenced the discussion.
"I won't tell," she said seriously, looking into his eyes. With a scraping sound, she used her fork to push her baby carrots across the plate.
Wilson choked slightly on his fish, feigning surprise. "Tell who?" he inquired, swallowing awkwardly.
"The others." Her face quirked briefly into a smile. "Cuddy." Her smile faltered into blankness. "Your wife."
"It would"—he paused to take a sip of wine—"be your prerogative to do so."
He had apparently piqued her attention, chafed at her ego a little, because her tone was sharp as she replied—
"You want me to call up your wife and tell her you're having an affair with another doctor? I'm sure she'd be thrilled."
Wilson was gently placating—a little wistful. "I'm sure she'd be . . . unsurprised."
He excused himself to go to the bathroom. He ended up lingering a little too long; staring uneasily at his reflection in the mirror. The worst part—he realized as he splashed water on his face—was that the date was going remarkably well, considering the circumstances. He'd been sincere when he complimented her on her shoes (they gave her legs Elle Macpherson would kill for). Their conversation had flowed easily; meandering through highschool plays (both his and hers—she was Titania, while he had been forced to struggle with the existentialism intricacies of Bottom's character) and the collegiate discovery of art and real theatre. They'd both got into medicine for questionable, idealistic reasons. And as the wine glasses refilled, they had expressed a similar wistful hopefulness with regard to how the rest of their lives might fare.
When he returned to the table, her face was unreadable. "Someone paged you," she said impassively. She handed him the pager, without apologizing for rifling through his jacket to find it in the first place.
"It's the hospital," he explained uneasily, although he knew she knew full well who it was that had paged him. "I should . . . go and call."
"Of course," she said. He watched as she crossed her ankles coltishly. The skin of her calves was creamy and perfect.
He walked slowly toward the restaurant's entrance. He flashed the hostess a smile and told her a version of the truth; watched her melt at the words "doctor" and "kind of important". He cradled the phone on his shoulder, dialling awkwardly as the hostess hovered a discreet distance away (presumably hoping to overhear some genuine ER-style drama).
"You paged me," he said flatly when House answered the phone. He lowered his voice. "What's the emergency? Did you miss the first five minutes of The O.C.?"
"You must be having dessert now," House said, ignoring Wilson's feeble attempt at a joke. "I seem to remember the cheesecake is good."
"I'd pegged Cameron as a chocolate fiend," Wilson replied.
"I bet you asked her what she likes. You're really a much better date than I was."
"I thought that was fairly obvious."
"Apart from the fact that you're married. I'd file that under deal-breaker."
"I think my marriage is the least of my shortcomings as a potential beau." He cast a sidelong glance in Cameron's direction. "Was there any real reason for the page? Other than wanting to annoy me—and her." He exhaled heavily. "We were actually having a nice time, you know."
"She's thinking about me," House replied promptly. "You're just the better version of me. Charming and accessible. With all limbs fully functional."
"Thank you for breaking it down for me," Wilson said wryly. He paused. "She says she's not going to tell," he continued slowly.
"There's not much to tell," House said, sounding suddenly irritated.
Wilson smiled vaguely at the hostess, angling his body away from where Cameron sat. He further dropped his voice. "Your tongue in my mouth." He quietly enunciated the words. "My hands . . ." He sighed.
"Oh, don't stop," House said throatily. "This is better than a 1-900 number."
"She saw enough to make things . . . messy," Wilson asserted.
"And you plan on buying her off with dinner at fancy restaurant. A superb strategy," House said brightly (Wilson could hear the brittleness in his tone). "Or was there more to it than that? Dr Cameron certainly seems to acknowledge sex as a bargaining tool."
"Was that jealousy? Are you really acting jealous when I know full well Chase is there in your office." Wilson was almost surprised at how furiously clear his voice sounded. "Or is this all part of the foreplay?"
Wilson heard muffled sounds of disturbance, as the phone apparently fell away from House's ear. House's voice was distant as he spoke carelessly: "Wilson says hi." Scraping sounds; indecipherable words, with an unmistakable Aussie twang.
"House—" Wilson began.
House's voice clicked back into focus abruptly. "Oops, sorry, I guess he's not in the mood to chat."
"Yeah," Wilson said wearily. "Chase really needs to work on his people skills."
"Go enjoy the rest of your date," House said lazily. Something squirmed in Wilson's stomach as he imagined Chase pacing House's office in half-darkness, antagonism and desire sparking off him in just the right measure to interest House.
"I'll see you tomorrow," Wilson said blankly, dropping the phone back into its cradle without waiting for a reply.
The hostess frowned slightly as Wilson passed her. "Crisis averted?" she asked skeptically. He smiled weakly in response.
Wilson walked briskly back to his table. Cameron had finished her wine and was busy shredding her napkin into a neat pile of paper snow.
"Shall we get out of here?" he asked brusquely. He had expected surprise—perhaps even a rebuttal—but she merely blinked and reached for her coat.
"He's a bastard," she murmured, with uncharacteristic vehemence. "He's a pathetic, horrible . . ."
Wilson cut her off. "Sometimes I wish I believed that," he said gently but firmly, putting a stop to further discussion.
*
Cameron's apartment was small and uncomfortably neat. It reminded Wilson of a particularly fastidiously-kept dorm room. She switched on two lamps ("mood lighting," House's voice supplied sarcastically in the back of Wilson's mind) and made a pot of chokingly strong coffee. They sat on the couch that was squeezed awkwardly between living room and bedroom, trying to pretend that the situation wasn't awkward and strangely awful—trying even harder to pretend that the spectres of two other people didn't fill the already too-small apartment.
It was three days ago that General Hospital and a light-hearted argument had strayed into something else. An empty room this time; House sprawled across the bed. Wilson had been unable to resist sinking on top of him, hands trapping him still as his lips sought out House's wry smile. Kissing was a good way to forget all the other stuff, Wilson had found.
Wilson was thinking about condoms—how, despite his assertions to House, he didn't actually have any to hand—when Cameron kissed him. Self-conscious and tasting of coffee, half on the lips and half off. Wilson wondered vaguely, as their lips realigned for a more satisfying second kiss, just how surprised Cameron had been when she'd walked in on him and House.
September 2005
Muse music: 'Another Year' by K's Choice
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