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Changeling
by Topaz Eyes
Notes: Spoilers for House 5 x 22, "A House Divided." Vague ones for 5 x 23, "Under My Skin." Thank you to karaokegal for beta'ing.
~~~~~
"We should go apologize to Wilson for the bachelor party."
House frowns suspiciously and peers at Amber, who's sitting across from him on the balcony rail and jauntily swinging her legs in the air. It's just House on his office balcony right now on this quiet night, reclining in a deck chair and brooding alone under the late April sky. Without a patient to nearly kill then save despite themselves, the peons had left long ago.
Well, he's not quite alone, because Amber's with him.
She's always with him these days, bright and mocking and dangerous at his side; merrily sitting on his shoulder, though far from any definition of 'angel' he's ever heard. At first she'd been entertaining, given how they played off each other so well. She'd even been beneficial.
But after the party last night when she damn near killed the guest of honor, House no longer trusts her. In truth, he despises her. Unfortunately, though he can't live with her, he can't kill her, either, because she's him, subconscious personified. So he hates her guts, but he still has to deal.
"We don't do apologies," he points out.
"True," Amber concedes. "But you have to admit, we really did a number on his apartment. We should at least say sorry if we're not going to pay the thousands of dollars for cleaning up. Wilson always pays, it's the least we can do."
House shakes his head and chuckles in spite of himself. "Did we ever find out what happened to Wilson's pants?"
Amber shrugs. "Whatever happened, it had to be pretty minor. At least compared to the duck at the last bachelor party he attended."
House's chuckle turns into an outright snort. "It was a stroke of genius to hold it at his apartment."
She nods and they share a conspiratorial grin. Then after a minute, Amber tilts her head thoughtfully. "Hey, don't you wonder why Wilson was found on the street trying to go home?"
House looks away, trying not to squirm with sudden discomfort. "He just got mixed up," he says evenly. "He forgot where he was. It happens when he's that drunk. Doesn't take much."
"Trying to go home from his own apartment. Isn't that strange?"
"No." He means it to sound final, except it sounds flat, even to his ears.
Amber just smirks. "Of course you wonder. But it's not me you're trying to fool, so it doesn't matter."
House glares at her, nervous at the sudden turn of conversation, but she simply sits and continues kicking her legs. The heels of her high-tops thud rhythmically against the brick wall. She's wearing jeans and a pale blue, button-down shirt, almost exactly the same as his current attire. For some reason, that observation disturbs him, but he can't pin down why.
"Why are you dressed like me? Is it 'mock the cripple' day?"
She snaps her fingers. "I knew I forgot to send the memo."
Her attitude is too much, even for him. "If we go apologize, will you go away and annoy some other part of my brain for a while?" he asks, exasperated.
Amber's smirk curves enigmatically. "Maybe."
House shakes his head, knowing that it's the best answer he'll get out of her for the moment. "Fine. We'll go apologize. Assuming he's still awake at this time." He checks his watch. "It's past midnight."
"Oh, I'm sure he won't mind if we wake him up," Amber says breezily. "Besides, you apologizing will be a red-letter day for him." She hops down from the railing and holds out her hand. "Let's go."
~~~~~
Wilson's apartment is dark when House pulls up to the curb, as is almost every other window in the building. People sleeping. He used to remember what it felt like. He envies them.
When he looks at Amber in the passenger seat, at the carefully indifferent look on her face, his skin prickles with a vague sense of foreboding. "Can't this wait until morning?" he says.
"Carpe diem, House. We're feeling generous right now. We might not be so bighearted tomorrow."
House sighs, but heaves himself out of the car. He scowls at the flight of steps to the front door, but maneuvers himself up. To make up for the trouble, he leans on the buzzer. One step behind, Amber bounces on the balls of her feet.
Wilson opens the door after a few tortured minutes of waiting, barefoot, wrinkled and mussed from sleep. "House? What the hell--? You do realize it's one in the morning?"
House juts his chin. "Oh come on, like that's ever stopped my late night visits before."
"Some of us were trying to sleep." Wilson rubs his eyes and peers blearily past House, into the darkness beyond the front steps. "In what's left of our apartment, after you had your fun in it."
"Wonder what it looks like," Amber muses. House bats her away as he addresses Wilson.
"I seem to recall you enjoying the bachelor party more than Chase did."
"Despite my better instincts, and my missing pants, yes," he reluctantly agrees. Wilson fixes his weary gaze on House again. "Do you have a point to make or are we going to just stay here and trade barbs all night?"
"Of course not, you idiot. Just let me in."
Wilson scowls, but he steps back anyway, allowing House entry. Amber covers her mouth to hide a smirk and sidles in by House's elbow as he follows Wilson to his apartment door.
House is curious as to what damage fifty drunken morons and assorted strippers could make in one thousand feet of space, but when they actually enter the apartment and Wilson switches on the front hall light, House is amazed that it is set to rights again. Well, almost: there are a couple of lingering smudges here and there on the walls at about a stripper's height. Bubble Pink and Brilliant Bronze, if he remembers his lipstick colors correctly. Aside from that, it's perfectly neat and bland. Just like Wilson.
"Neat and bland on the outside, anyway," Amber says coyly.
Wilson cocks his head. "'Neat and bland?'"
House stops short. Did he just say that out loud? How--? "Your apartment. Neat and bland. The epitome of boring chic," House says, deflecting quickly. "At least it doesn't smell like a brewery anymore."
"Yes, it is amazing what fifteen hundred dollars' worth of professional cleaning services can do," Wilson agrees wryly. "Shall I add the cost to your tab?"
Amber raises her eyebrows in amusement; House looks away, embarrassed for a moment, but soon recovers. "Speaking of tabs, got anything to drink?"
Wilson rolls his eyes but pads into the kitchen nonetheless. House hears the whish of the fridge door opening and the familiar clink of bottles.
Amber looks around the room and nods in approval. "Maybe we should hire these guys to clean up after our next shindig. They're good."
House sinks onto Wilson's couch with a sigh and toes off his sneakers. Amber perches beside him, hands folded and waiting expectantly. They both look up when Wilson returns from the kitchen with a single opened beer.
House withdraws his pill vial from his shirt pocket and pops one Vicodin, then picks up his beer bottle. "You're not partaking?"
"I took a zolpidem earlier this evening. To sleep. Which, alas, I am not currently engaged in at the moment because I find myself entertaining you at one in the morning."
"Better living through chemistry." House takes a long pull from the bottle as Wilson plants himself down beside him, not touching, but close enough for House to feel the warmth of Wilson's body.
"'Earlier this evening,'" he muses. "What, ten, eleven? Zolpidem's half-life is three hours. You still have some left in your system. Strange though, you're such a lightweight with any mind-altering substance. I'm surprised you're even upright."
"Your power to re-order my cellular interactions is just that overwhelming."
House tips his beer bottle in salute. The three of them fall into an odd silence, House drinking his Sam Adams, Wilson relaxing into the cushions and Amber idly studying the cuticles of her nails. House looks around at the soft, pale green walls and beige leather couch. It's not his apartment, but as long as Wilson's there, it's like home. He sneaks sideway glances at Wilson, whose eyelids are starting to droop from the effect of leftover zolpidem.
"He's beautiful, isn't he?" Amber says, startling House.
House stares at her, at the entirely too-innocent smile on Amber's face, and tenses as he feels a sudden surge of--something--at her light words. Something unnerving. "We should be going," he says tightly.
"You can let yourself out," Wilson mumbles through a yawn.
Amber pouts. "But we haven't apologized--"
He glares at her. "We're not going to. We're leaving."
"Okay then. G'night, House." Wilson's already on the brink of nodding off.
House pulls himself forward to rise, but Amber shakes her head and grabs his elbow, grinning. "We're not leaving yet."
He closes his eyes in exasperation at the boldness of her statement. But when he opens them again, he finds himself, to his utter amazement, watching Amber and Wilson sit shoulder to shoulder on the couch.
Amber, sitting in his place.
Before his mind can parse what's just happened, the room drains of color, like at dawn or sunset when objects appear gray and indistinct in the half-light. Everything fades except for Amber and Wilson beside him, who seem to glow against the monochromatic background.
Their Kodachrome visages shine so brightly it hurts. He has to narrow his eyes to dull the brilliance to something tolerable. House looks down at his hands and blinks again, startled, when he sees that they are bled of color too.
When he looks up, triumph has marred Amber's features. "He's beautiful," Amber whispers, her voice haunting in House's head, burrowing everywhere under his skin. "He always has been, ever since we met him in New Orleans. So fucked-up and so gorgeous. Fifteen years later and we still can't get enough. It's no wonder we love him so much."
House hears the solid syllables roll off her lips, and concludes that they somehow have switched places in his head. He's totally locked in. He quickly realizes he has to wrest control back from her, try to think of a plan, but Amber is already shifting over to press against Wilson's side.
"It's apology time," Amber says softly.
Panic rises in House's throat as he intuits just how Amber plans to 'apologize.'
"No," he pleads with her desperately through the sinking lump in his stomach. "Don't. Amber. Don't do this--"
But he can only watch, frozen and helpless, as Amber slides her slim hand over Wilson's knee.
Despite his disembodied state he can still feel every sensation while Amber is in control. He keenly notes the nodding profile of Wilson's face, how Wilson's thigh is firm under her palm, how the muscles jump as Wilson startles from the verge of sleep. Wilson turns to stare at Amber, his zolpidem-hazed eyes widening with fear and--to House's shock--something else just as terrifying. Amber's hand gently strokes his thigh in slow motion.
"H--House?" Wilson licks his lips nervously. "What are you doing?"
It's not me, House wants to scream at the top of his lungs. I'm not the one who's doing this.
Except it totally is: while House sees Amber touching Wilson, he knows without a doubt, that it's his hand creeping up towards Wilson's hip, his body half-turning to face his friend, his other hand reaching across the distance to caress Wilson's jaw. House is the one who sees Wilson's lips glisten, feels the slight roughness of five o'clock shadow under the pad of his thumb, hears the sudden raggedness of Wilson's breathing.
"We're apologizing for trashing your apartment," Amber says softly.
House knows it's his voice uttering those words, too, just as he knows that it's his body that is starting to respond as she threads her fingers through the hair at the nape of Wilson's neck.
"Apology?" Wilson squeaks.
"It's okay. It's all right. Just relax."
"I--don't think this is a good idea," Wilson says, his voice trembling and reedy.
Well, duh, House shouts in agreement. Jesus Christ, Wilson, get the fuck away from us--!
But to House's utter astonishment, Wilson's not pulling away, either. And Amber is already tilting Wilson's face towards hers. She's leaning in, and House is trapped, motionless and utterly powerless to stop her.
"Nothing worthwhile ever is," Amber murmurs.
She's so close now, sharing Wilson's heated breath, laced with toothpaste, mouthwash and sleep; just another couple of millimeters, and he can taste the mint on Wilson's lips--
When Amber and Wilson kiss, the shock of contact jolts House enough to find he can move again. But, instead of forcing Amber to draw back and get the hell out of there, he stares, mesmerized, as Wilson seizes Amber's head to hold it in place.
Wilson's lips are soft yet resilient, moving tentatively across, asking the kind of question that can only be voiced through touch. Amber parts her lips in answer, tongue flicking lightly at Wilson's in invitation. House's jeans tighten over his crotch when Wilson plunges his tongue in Amber's mouth.
Oh, God, he groans inwardly, squirming in his seat in an attempt to relieve the building pressure. Amber is too preoccupied with Wilson's tongue to notice House fidgeting and watching beside her, and House thinks that's a good thing because he's still trying to make sense of all this. How the hell did Amber break free from his subconscious, take over his body like this, without him even knowing? He's still grayed out, nebulous; somewhere in the twisted labyrinths of his mind he wonders if this is what his hallucination normally sees when she looks at herself.
She's brilliant though, all spun gold and pink and light beside him, her head dropping back and hair brushing past her shoulders as Wilson trails damp kisses over her pale throat and down to her collarbone.
And Wilson--it physically hurts to look at him, like watching virtual Technicolor. Yet House can't close his eyes or look away, suddenly and irrationally afraid that he might fade away forever if he does, fade away and leave Amber fixed in his place. I'm losing it, House thinks.
No, check that, I've lost it already. I'm watching my projected subconscious make out with my best friend. I've undergone a complete psychic dissociation.
Another voice, from deep inside the twisted passage of his brain, adds helpfully, yeah, your best friend who's apparently had the hots for you for a while now. The voice eerily sounds like Kutner's. Hey, House, how long do you think Wilson's wanted to do you?
Great, just what he needed. Shut up, House rages at it, because he doesn't want another voice interfering with his already tenuous grasp on reality; because he can't bear to think of what it might mean. Thankfully, the voice falls silent.
But it had been long enough, he thinks, amazed at Amber's stark boldness when her hand slithers down to massage the prominent bulge in Wilson's pajama pants.
House's hips buck forward of their own accord, mirroring the movement of Wilson's hips against Amber's gentle squeeze. Locked in his sphere, he cups himself through his jeans, craving the presence of something firm to thrust against.
He freezes though, his heart in his throat, when Amber takes Wilson's hand and presses it between her legs.
"House," Wilson says hoarsely, touching his forehead to Amber's; House stares, mesmerized by the glistening redness of his lips. "I didn't know you--I've never done this with a guy before--"
"You're doing fine," Amber murmurs before House can open his mouth to stop her. She's reassuring and confident where House would be anything but. "It's only friction. Don't think about it. Just go with it, and let yourself feel." She reaches up to his head again, smooths the mussed hair at his temples and draws him back to her lips.
Soon Amber and Wilson are shamelessly grinding against each other's palms through their clothes, and House is pushing into his hand just as eagerly as he, through Amber, tastes the heat of Wilson's mouth and the saltiness beneath his ear; as Wilson untucks Amber's shirt from her jeans, slides his hand underneath to caress her skin. House gasps with Amber when Wilson's thumb flicks her nipples, teasing them erect. In turn, House revels in the soft moans Wilson makes when Amber explores the planes of his chest and stomach under his blinding white T-shirt.
After a few more minutes of mutual groping Amber pulls back and smiles. "Come on," she says, her voice low and urgent as she rises from the couch. Interminably tethered to her, House rises too, more stiffly, and stands beside her. She tugs at Wilson's hand. "Let's go where it's more comfortable."
Wilson rises obediently and leads them to his bedroom. Wilson's lips are parted, kiss-swollen and shining; his face is flushed, his pupils blown with desire when House looks at them. The sight leaves him speechless; a sudden and unidentifiable ache in his chest threatens to split him wide open.
Again the room is gray and the details are indistinct when Wilson switches on the bedroom lamp (and oh God, Wilson wants to do this in the light?)--all except for the orange bottle of sleeping pills sitting on the bedside table, and the bed, where the silkiness of the peach-colored sheets beckons. Despite the fear clogging his brain, House suddenly wants for a brief moment to sink into bed beside Wilson and lose himself there, maybe for the night, maybe for the rest of his life.
"That's the way to think, House," Amber murmurs approvingly. Her seductive voice reverberates down to his toes.
"Did you say something?" Wilson asks, distracted, his ridiculously adorable eyebrows furrowing with puzzlement.
Amber shakes her head. "Not to you," she replies kindly.
Thankfully Wilson doesn't press the point. Wilson's hand is on the small of her back; it slides down to her buttocks, and House groans as Amber leans back against it. Wilson sits Amber down on the bed and gently pushes her down, climbing in beside her on top of the sheets, helping to arrange her on the pillows, half-turning her to face him. House lies on his side behind Amber, propped on his elbow, because whether he likes it or not he's a part of this too, the gray moth hovering in the darkness, drawn relentlessly to their brilliant porch lights.
Wilson's hands are soon back on Amber's body, smoothing down her sides and belly, brushing the waistband of her jeans and occasionally dipping just beneath, his caresses equally deft and tentative. Each touch is maddening, and House thinks he can't get enough, can never get enough--
Wilson unfastens the buttons of her shirt, spreads it open and bends down to suck her nipples, drawing each one in turn into his mouth. House and Amber arch up, Amber twisting her fingers in his hair, encouraging him to lave his tongue over her. He complies, licking and suckling until she and House are both whimpering and writhing in delight.
She pulls him up again to kiss him, and House feels his eyes glaze over with the fervor of it, of Amber and Wilson at each other's mouths, of Wilson's strangled gasp when Amber breaks the kiss to lick up and down his throat, when she pulls at the hem of Wilson's T-shirt and raises it up. Wilson quickly takes the hint and peels it off; his skin is warm and firm, clean and with just a hint of sweat when Amber presses her lips against his neck to trace a damp trail down to his navel. Their hands travel lower, and soon they're rocking insistently against each other, their bodies fitting together hot and tight and perfect, with House following right along beside them.
"Too many clothes in the way," Wilson pants at length against Amber's collarbone. The harshness of need in his voice rushes straight to House's cock and it's almost too much to bear; he's never despised Amber this much, this twisted manifestation of his subconscious, for putting him in this position, of wanting to fuck his best friend to oblivion like nothing else mattered. Yet he's never loved her this much either, for drawing him into this tortured bliss.
Amber wastes no time in tugging Wilson's striped blue pajama pants down his thighs. House has seen Wilson naked before, in the men's showers and locker rooms at the hospital, but not aroused, and certainly not by his hand. Amber's hand, he reminds himself, just to stop himself from growing dizzy with horror for coveting his best friend like this. It's Amber's hand that's been touching and urging Wilson on, he's had nothing to do with it--
Despite that fiercely guarded thought, however, he finds himself joining Amber's appreciative mmm at the sight of Wilson's fully engorged cock jutting from his groin. Amber had been absolutely right earlier, Wilson is utterly beautiful in his twisted desire. He finds himself admiring Wilson's arousal, until he feels Amber's lips curve in an inviting half-smile and Wilson reaches down without hesitation.
House's horror grows to outright terror as Wilson unbuttons her jeans and unzips the fly.
He almost blacks out from panic. In reality, Wilson is pushing House's jeans and underwear down past his knees; Wilson is exposing House, just as hard and needy, and he cannot wrap his rational mind around it all. It's only sheer strength of will that keeps him conscious; it takes all his powers of self-delusion to convince himself that Wilson is touching Amber so intimately-- that it's Amber who's hissing with pleasure when Wilson wraps his hand around, Amber, not him. That the shocks are jolting up and down Amber's spine with each caress--because it's this sense of removal that House desperately needs just to survive right now, no matter how incredibly arousing it feels.
Wilson bends down to kiss Amber again, and soon they're sighing in each other's mouths as they work at each other. There's no finesse at all to Wilson's ministrations, but his enthusiasm and desire to please make up for the awkwardness. In contrast, Amber strokes Wilson as if she's been doing it all her life. In a way she has, House thinks in a daze--she has all his thoughts and memories. She knows that in his mind, jerking off another man is basically like jerking yourself off, just from a different angle.
Within minutes Wilson is thrusting into Amber's hand as if it were the most normal thing in the world. Tongues and hands merge in heated rhythm; House can't help but marvel at the juxtaposition of velvet skin overlaying hard flesh as Amber speeds up her fist, nor can he deny the slickness at the tip of Wilson's cock that she spreads with her thumb. Wilson moans into her mouth and stiffens in response, and his hand cupping Amber's groin relaxes as Amber, harder and faster, pulls him to the brink.
Wilson breaks the kiss to rest his forehead on her shoulder, clutching her bicep, his breath whistling through clenched teeth, thrusting erratically. Amber begins to murmur against Wilson's hair, urging him to let go. Hearing the tenderness in her soft voice, House damn near splits open again, this time with sheer need to see and feel Wilson come undone in front of him. He joins in Amber's whispered exhortations, their voices chiming in unison, almost chanting come for me. And Wilson finally hears them through his haze--he stills, then spurts over Amber's belly and hand, grunting hotly into her shoulder with each burst until the spasms fade and he sighs into the crook of her neck.
The puffs of Wilson's humid breath on her skin, the pungent smell of Wilson's come against the salt of Amber's body, are like slaps to House's face. He finally wakes up to reality, that dammit he wants the same thing now, wants to feel the same release and relief that has settled over Wilson's face, wants it at Wilson's hand.
Thank God Amber wants it too; as soon as Wilson comes back to earth she grabs Wilson's hand that is still cupping her groin, wraps her own around it and expertly guides his touch, showing him what he needs to do. Wilson is nothing if not a quick learner, and soon Amber's gritting her teeth, moving in tandem with his strokes.
Her head falls back, her eyes half-closed and glazed with pleasure. Wilson's supporting her half-upright against the pillows with an arm around her shoulders, brushing his lips at that unbearably sensitive point on the jawbone beneath her ear, silently urging her on with each nuzzle of her neck. House watches and groans and pumps his hips in time beside her, hopelessly caught up in the condensing whirl of sensation around them. He wants it to last, he silently begs it to, but despite his wordless pleas it's not long until she shudders and cries out. Dragged under with her, House comes together with Amber, hard and furious in Wilson's fist, neither knowing nor caring in the moment where she ends and he begins.
~~~~~
When House recovers his senses, Amber has already pulled herself together, neat as a pin as if nothing had happened. At first he's terrified, that while he was insensate they'd switched back, but he's still black-and-white and she's still Technicolor. House is not yet back in control of his body, and he's deeply and insanely grateful for this small mercy. He doesn't think he can handle putting a sated (and sedated) Wilson back together without breaking completely. He's only too relieved to stand back, out of the cone of light, and let Amber help clean him up, dress him and settle him under the covers.
That nameless ache returns though, as he watches Amber stoop over the side of the bed and smooth damp wisps of hair off Wilson's forehead, Wilson who's already dropped off with a speed that House can only dream of. Her hair curtains her face as she leans over and kisses the top of Wilson's head. To his surprise, House finds himself struggling to suppress an inexplicable urge to weep at the gesture as Wilson sighs and turns on his side.
When Amber straightens, he sees the tear tracks on her cheeks, but her face is otherwise inscrutable and her voice is steady. "We're done here," she says. "Let's go."
House blinks again, and his world re-orders; he's now standing by Wilson's bed, and Amber's in the shadows. He looks down to see the color return to his hand on the cane. Absently he scrubs the wetness from his face and follows her out.
But after they turn off the lamp and leave the room, the swell of emotion drains with a sickening whoosh; raw anger rushes in, replacing the ache in his chest. Confused, embarrassed, and almost physically ill, he takes a menacing step towards Amber.
"What the fuck did you just do to Wilson in there?" To me?
Amber stands her ground, raises her chin defiantly. "Oh, please. It was nothing you never wanted to do to him before."
House stops short. "What? No!" he protests. "I never meant to--I didn't want this. We came to apologize tonight, remember? Not to have sex--"
Amber spreads her hands. "Oh come on, it was just a hand-job. You're over-reacting."
"It was sex."
She puts her hands on her hips. "So? It's not like you'll ever let yourself do this again. I did you a favor. And don't tell me you didn't enjoy it because I felt you come."
"He's my best friend!"
House winces at the loudness of his voice. Amber looks away, biting her lower lip.
"I have to face him tomorrow," he continues hoarsely. "I can't afford to--how the fuck do I explain without losing--?"
"You saw the bottle of sleeping pills on the night table," Amber says quietly. She looks back at him again. "If he asks, tell him he hallucinated sex with you in his sleep. Zolpidem's a hypnotic, he'll believe it."
House gapes in disbelief. "He's not an idiot. That's not going to--"
"He'll want to believe it. For him, it's the same thing. Either way, we're clear."
He scowls, unconvinced, until a spark of hope lights in his brain. "Let's say he accepts what happened tonight as a zolpidem-fueled fantasy. I popped Vicodin before you--So this was just a Vicodin-fueled fantasy too--?"
Amber shakes her head. "Not a chance. It was all real."
The horror rises again, acrid bile burning in House's throat. He swallows hard, forcing the nausea back down as he stares at her, aghast. Amber steps forward until she stands in front of him, and lays her hand flat against his heart beating madly in his chest. "It scares you shitless, doesn't it. And it should."
He stares down at her palm as she adds somewhat wistfully, "You know Wilson is yours if you want him. Except all of you has to want him. Not just me."
House swallows again, unable to speak, as Amber steps away. "It's your call," she adds as she fades into the background. "Make it a good one."
He stares into the space where she'd stood, his hand shaking almost uncontrollably on his cane, but she doesn't reappear, even after several minutes of waiting. Eventually he stares at the floor, studying the carpet. He notices that the cleaners had missed another stain. Hard to see, because it is only a couple of shades darker than the surrounding pile, but it is there. It will always be there. With luck, Wilson might never notice it, but he always will.
He looks again at Wilson's bedroom door, left slightly ajar. There are no excuses, but he knows he will follow Amber's advice tomorrow anyway. His throat tight, he then lets himself out, trying not to wince at the click of the latch behind him.
I'm sorry, Wilson.
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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