The One in Which Wilson Plays a Mafia Punching Bag so House Can Comfort
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  The One in Which Wilson Plays a Mafia Punching Bag so House Can Comfort
Him (A Birthday Tribute) 
 by bironic  

 Wilson knelt on the floor in the dark basement with his back against a
rough-hewn wooden post, wearing nothing but his boxers and undershirt. The
only light in the room came from a single bare bulb directly above him. He
glanced around with wide eyes and breathed hard through his nose. He
couldn't do much else; a cloth gag had been stuffed in his mouth, a thin
leather strap collared him to the post by his neck, and his wrists and
ankles had been lashed together behind him.

"He could feel the splinters of the post prickle through his t-shirt as he
struggled to free himself to no avail--yes, that's nice," said the
short-haired woman sitting in a chair a few feet away from him. She was
typing away at a laptop. 

"Hello," she said when she noticed Wilson staring at her, and gave him an
earnest smile. "I'm nightdog_barks. We're going to play with some
hurt/comfort today. Naturally, you'll be the one hurt--"

Wilson made a distressed sound and yanked at his restraints.

"--and comforted afterwards," she finished. "By House, of course. You'd
like some comfort, wouldn't you? You haven't been getting very much
support lately, poor baby."

Wilson stared, still twisting and tugging at his bonds, which held fast.
He coughed a little against the pressure of the collar.

"I know, it's the 'hurt' part you're concerned about. But don't worry--I'm
not going to kill you this time. And there won't be any sexual assault;
House would be too afraid to touch you afterwards." She cocked her head
like a bird considering a particularly juicy worm. "That is to say, I
haven't planned any. One never knows where a story will take you.
Sometimes I just can't help myself where you're concerned." 

Again, Wilson struggled against his restraints. This time, he winced and
tried to look behind him at his wrists, which had begun to redden from all
the chafing. 

"Oh, I'm sorry. Let me..." She moved the cursor back and edited the
next-to-last sentence. With a few keystrokes, the lengths of tough twine
securing Wilson to the post transformed into soft leather cuffs. Wilson
blinked, then swiveled his wrists and relaxed a little.

"Yes, that will do. Now, where were we? Right: hurt/comfort. You can't
have comfort without the hurt. The pain is the price you have to pay in
order for House to show you the love and affection he normally hides. It's
a crappy bargain," she allowed, "but you do already have a lot of
experience with suffering, being friends with House, and on the bright
side, you're fun to hurt."

Wilson looked affronted.

"Well, you are. On your knees, or bent over a table, or hanging from your
wrists, or all spread out, tied up, trembling, your hair mussed, your pale
skin flushed, those beautifully expressive brown eyes filled with helpless
agony as you're beaten or whipped or cut or shocked... and you scream and
whimper and plead so prettily..." She sighed.

A pointed throat-clearing from the man on the floor brought her back. "If
it helps," she went on when she had recovered herself, "I promise your
reward today will be better than anything you've ever gotten from House
before. You should be flattered, really. You're the one we love best. We
think you deserve better than how House treats you."

Wilson was regarding her now as though she had gone completely insane.

"Now let's see," she muttered to herself. "Who should it be this time?
Tritter, Moriarty, or maybe a gang of hired henchmen? A convenience store
robber? House on drugs? More drugs than usual, that is. An ancient
Germanic chieftain? Or perhaps an evil angel--or giant alien birds..." As
she typed and deleted, each of the potential villains in question appeared
and vanished before Wilson's increasingly terrified eyes. By the time the
huge black anthropomorphic crow loomed over him with its sharp beak
clicking menacingly, Wilson was straining at his bonds and shaking his
head back and forth despite the tight collar, whimpering softly.

"Ah!" nightdog_barks exclaimed. "It's first season and a slight AU, but
it'll work..." She trailed off as she began typing with a speed rivalling
House's thumbs on his Gameboy. Wilson shimmered for a moment, and when he
solidified once more, he'd lost a few pounds, his cheekbones stood out,
the bags under his eyes had faded, and his hair had gone fluffier.
"Classic Season One," nightdog_barks murmured approvingly. More typing,
and five men appeared around him: two beefy bouncers to his left, two
thick-necked thugs to his right, and one shorter, trimmer, dark-haired man
in his thirties directly in front of him, dressed in a smart grey suit.
Wilson had to crane his neck against the post to see his face.

"Hi, Dr. Wilson," the man said in a soft, slightly nasal voice. He
continued with a pronounced Jersey accent: "I see you don't recognize me.
I'm an acquaintance of your friend Dr. House. He's supposed to be helping
my brother, Joey."

Wilson's eyes widened as he made the connection, wrote nightdog_barks. He
was tied up on his knees before Bill Arnello, mafioso, and his no-doubt
equally ruthless henchmen. Bill Arnello, whose brother had almost died
that morning when House's treatment backfired. He said the name around the
gag, and it came out "ih ah eh oh."

"At your service," the man said with a tilt of his head and a ghost of a
smirk. "I'm afraid I can't shake your hand. Can't leave any evidence. You
understand. You're smart; you're a doctor, like Dr. House.

"Except Dr. House isn't always so smart, is he? He makes these wild
guesses, and then he goes ahead and treats people for shit they don't even
have, and when that doesn't work, he does it all over again." Arnello
dropped to a squat in front of Wilson, his eyes fierce in their intensity,
and spoke even more softly. "He almost killed my brother today. I told him
if he fucked up with Joey, I'd take away the things he loves one by one.
And guess what, Dr. Wilson?" His mouth twisted into a lopsided smile.
"From what I hear, you're near the top of the list."

Wilson wrenched his gaze away from Arnello and pleaded silently with
nightdog_barks over the gangster's shoulder. "Don't look at me," she said,
raising her hands palms-out from the computer. "It's him you need to make
those adorable eyes at."

"Eyes on me, Dr. Wilson," Arnello snapped, taking Wilson's chin in a vise
grip. Wilson obeyed instantly. His throat worked against the strap as he
swallowed. Arnello went on in his previous soft tone: "Dr. House loves his
job and he needs that medicine he takes, but I can't take those away,
because he has to keep working on Joey. His ex-girlfriend is too far away
for the time frame I'm working with. So that leaves..." He tapped Wilson
on the nose. "You."

He stood then and put his hands on his hips, drawing back his sport jacket
to reveal the glint of a handgun at his waist. Wilson jerked back and
renewed his struggle, bare biceps and calves defined with the effort. He
let out an animal whine low in his throat.

"Aw, relax, I'm not gonna kill you yet," Arnello said. "We're just gonna
hurt you. Take some pictures. Send 'em to Dr. House for a little extra
incentive to get things right with Joey. If Joey makes it out okay, we'll
let you go. If Dr. House screws up..." He shrugged. "I lose the person
closest to me, so does he."

Shaking his head and trying to protest through the gag, Wilson looked back
and forth between nightdog_barks and the pair of mafia guys (one from the
left, one from the right) who stepped forward at a quick gesture from
Arnello. Lefty brandished a stiff rubber truncheon, while Righty caressed
the handle of a short, thick whip tucked into the front pocket of his
jeans.

nightdog_barks typed. Arnello nodded. The thugs went to work.



Wilson groaned around the gag, his body a throbbing mass of pain. He
didn't know how long he'd been here, only that it had been hours and
hours, possibly days. They'd taken the gag out to give him water and some
bread a couple of times between beatings, and they'd let him up now and
then to relieve himself in a pot in the corner. He'd slept once, too,
albeit badly, woken with a stinging slap to the face. He was sore and
tired and scared and pretty sure he was losing short stretches of time. He
had no idea whether nightdog_barks was still in the room orchestrating
this madness or if she'd left him at the gangsters' mercy. Sometimes he
thought he heard typing mixed in with his cries or the clinking of his
chains, but he didn't fully trust his senses anymore.

They'd taken his watch, and there weren't any windows in this godforsaken
place, but it wouldn't have mattered anyway; the blindfold had gone on
almost immediately after Arnello had announced what he planned to do with
him. After they'd tied it on he'd heard a series of soft, chittering
snaps, and it had taken a few moments for him to recognize them as a
digital camera shutter. Arnello was taking pictures of him for House's
"incentive" file. Swallowing down his panic, Wilson had tried to tell them
that holding him hostage would only distract House from saving Joey's
life, that it was normal for House's patients to flirt with death on the
journey to a successful diagnosis, but the gag had muffled his words, and
nobody'd moved to take it out.

Then they'd started to hurt him.

The rubber truncheon had come down with a startling blunt force, again,
and again, and again, patternless. With the blindfold on, there was no way
for him to tell where the next blow would fall or how hard it would hit.
He'd grunted every time Lefty had struck, feeling the bruises bloom across
his chest, abdomen, quads and arms. He'd barely stifled a yell when one
particularly savage blow had landed on his nipple. He hadn't been able to
hold back a scream when another strike lower down had grazed his balls.
He'd sagged in his bonds as the agony whited out his mind, but the collar
had forced him to kneel upright again or risk strangulation. Lefty hadn't
paused in his assault. 

There'd been a break afterwards for pictures, water and rest; long enough
that Wilson figured Arnello had gone back to the hospital to deliver the
folder and check in on his brother. Trembling with exhaustion and the
remnants of adrenaline, he'd tried to regroup. 

Inevitably, Arnello had returned, muttering something about a pig and a
convertible. Wilson had still been trying to make sense of that when
they'd untied him from the post. He'd moaned with relief when the collar
and two pairs of cuffs loosened, only to find himself stripped of his
shirt, turned around and restrained once again, still on his aching knees.
"No," he'd tried to say, "No, please," but they'd just pushed his
tenderized chest against the rough wood and stretched his arms out in
front of him, attaching the cuff chain to some sort of bolt in the floor.
At least they'd left the collar off. 

He'd thought the truncheon was bad. The whip, though--when Righty had
started in on him, Wilson had discovered a new level of pain. Stripes of
fire had lashed across his back, singing up and down his spine. Every few
strokes, the whip had curled around his ribs to bite at the bruises on his
sides and front. It had laid stinging welts on the backs of his thighs. It
had even snapped at his buttocks through his shorts. Wilson hadn't been
grunting then, he'd been crying out, choking on the gag, fighting his
chains, helpless tears wetting the blindfold. With his chest pressed up
against the post, he couldn't arch away from the terrible lash.

He vaguely remembered through the haze afterwards that they'd taken more
pictures and untied him again, let him curl up shaking on his side on the
cold floor. After a while, he'd become aware that his wrists were tied in
front of him and he'd been chained to the post by one ankle; as if he
could have sat up, let alone tried to run away. His back had been smeared
with something he hoped was an antiseptic. Arnello was gone once more.
He'd heard the others playing cards and smelled them smoking on the other
side of the room. 

Fading in and out of consciousness, the sound of typing taunting at the
edge of his awareness, he'd tried to focus on House and block out the pain
and fear. nightdog_barks had said she wouldn't kill him, but then she'd
come out with that far-from-comforting qualifier. Wilson had felt it was
safer to trust in what he knew. House wouldn't let Joey die, he'd told
himself. But he also knew House didn't work well when he was distracted,
and he was distracted when the people he cared about were in danger. 

Wison had had a sort of epiphany then, lying there in total darkness.
House cared about him. He'd known it before, of course, intellectually,
but he'd felt it then like one of Lefty's wallops to the gut, leaving him
breathless. Arnello had said Wilson was the most important person to House
besides Stacy; he was here because it would hurt House to lose him more
than anyone else. Wilson had blinked behind his blindfold. If he got out
of this, they'd probably hate each other for a while--he wouldn't have
been here if not for House, and House wouldn't have been under so much
pressure if he hadn't cared so much for Wilson--but afterwards, when the
anger betrayed the fear beneath and then the fear gave way to something
else... Who knew what might happen?

He must have faded out again after that; suddenly he'd been on his knees
again with his screaming back scraping the splintery post, the awful
collar snugged back on, and Lefty and his truncheon (he assumed it was
Lefty; the soft grunts as the hardest blows struck home sounded the same
as before) had gone another round with him.

Then they'd let him rest for a long time. Things with Joey must have been
approaching critical, because Arnello had stayed at the hospital since the
whipping and relayed all his orders by phone. They hadn't whipped him
again, thank God (thank nightdog_barks? he'd wondered a little
hysterically), only roughed him up a little once or twice with some
punches to his face, ribs, stomach and kidneys. One of the attackers
seemed to like kicking his knees out from under him and watching him
struggle to regain his balance before the collar choked him.

That had been it for the last few hours. The other men were back at their
card game. Wilson groaned again and squirmed around in an attempt to find
the least uncomfortable position for his numb knees and aching shoulders.
He was trying not to think about which part of him hurt the most.

The phone rang. The mafioso with the deep, scratchy voice who'd been
taking Arnello's calls picked up. A few moments later, the group walked
over, and something cool and hard pressed against Wilson's left temple
above the blindfold and stayed there. 

Wilson went stock-still. This was it, then. Joey had died, and he was
about to join him. He was going to die tied up in a basement in his
underwear with drool on his chin. They were going to shoot him in the
fucking head and drag him out of this basement and stuff him in the trunk
of their car and bury him in some unmarked grave in a landfill or maybe
tie him to a cement block and dump him in a river and oh God what had been
wrong with Joey that House couldn't figure it out and Christ now he'd
never be able to tell House how he felt--

Seconds, minutes, half an hour ticked by, and nothing happened. Nobody
spoke. Wilson's breaths came heavy and fast, and he sweated and shook with
anticipation. Every time the man holding the gun to his head shifted, a
thin, keening whine would escape Wilson's throat. His thoughts wound down
to a cycle of Please, no, please, House, please, I don't want to die.

They waited.



A tableau:

Wilson, kneeling, nearly naked, bound, gagged, collared, struggling to
stay still. Sweat-damp bangs falling over his blindfold. Bruised chest
gleaming with perspiration in the dim light. Lips swollen around the strip
of white cloth tugging at the edges of his mouth. Behind him, hands
clenched into fists. In front of him, four men in a loose semi-circle: two
at ease; one turning a cell phone over and over in his hand, slowly; the
last pressing a pistol with infinite patience to Wilson's left temple.

And nightdog_barks saw that it was good.



nightdog_barks let Wilson wait an hour before Joey Smith, nee Arnello,
woke from his coma at the hospital. She allotted another fifteen minutes
for Bill to visit his room and enjoy the mobster family version of a
heart-to-heart. Five more minutes for House to accost him in the hallway
and demand that he let Wilson go. Only then did she have Bill make the
call.

Wilson flinched so hard when the phone rang that his head thunked audibly
against the post. A moment later, a damp patch spread across the front of
his shorts. One of the men snickered. 

The thug Wilson called Lefty (his Dog-given name was Francis) was grunting
assents over the line to Arnello. Something snapped in Wilson's chest,
wrote nightdog_barks. He started babbling and couldn't stop: lame
action-movie lines like, "Please don't, please don't kill me," and "Money,
I have money," and even "Shooting me won't ruin House's life." Last words
ripe for House's ridicule, and they were incomprehensible around the gag
besides, but he was desperate to say something.

Wilson went quiet when Lefty snapped the phone shut. Lefty shook his head
at Righty, who cocked the pistol up and away from Wilson's head. Wilson
turned his head slightly from side to side as if straining to see what was
going on.

"Congratulations, Doctor," Lefty rumbled. "Boss says you get to live."

Wilson slumped against the post with a long, sobbing exhale. As Righty
tucked the gun away, Lefty went down on one knee in front of Wilson and
placed his thick hands on the sides of Wilson's face. Wilson flinched back
at Lefty's touch, but Lefty only reached around and untied the gag,
pulling it almost gently from Wilson's mouth.

"Want some water?" Lefty asked. At Wilson's hesitant nod, he jerked his
head for Righty to get one of the Evian bottles off the card table in the
corner. 

"Co--" Wilson began, then coughed. His voice was mostly gone. "Collar?
Please."

When Lefty obliged, Wilson awkwardly maneuvered himself off his shaking
legs and into a sitting position with a groan. Righty handed off the
half-full water bottle; Lefty held it to Wilson's cracked lips and let him
sip from it until it was empty. 

"Thanks," Wilson whispered. In his head, nightdog_barks wrote, House
snorted. 'James Wilson, ladies and gentlemen: thanking the mobsters who
were ready to shoot him two minutes ago.'

"Need a piss?" Lefty asked. Wilson shook his head. Straightening, Lefty
said, "Stay put, then, until he gets back. He wants to talk to you before
you go."

Wilson would have pointed out that he couldn't very well have walked away
while tied to the floor, but he was too shaken for anything coherent,
nightdog_barks happily tapped away. They were going to let him go. He lay
his pounding head against the wood and narrowed his attention down to each
agonized part of his body in turn as the other men went back to their card
game.

Arnello returned an hour later. Within minutes, Wilson's chain had been
released from the floor bolt and he was dragged across the room and
plunked in a chair with his wrists still bound behind him. For the first
time since they'd begun their attacks, they took the blindfold off. He
squinted in the sharp light of the desk lamp in front of him. One of his
eyes was swollen from an earlier punch, and a nearly black bruise crept up
from his cheekbone; the other eye was bloodshot and bleary. He swayed
slightly.

"Dr. Wilson," Arnello said from the opposite seat. "Dr. House came through
for us. Joey's gonna be okay. Now here's what you're going to do if you
want to go home." He slid a set of 8x10 photos across the table. They were
surveillance shots of men Wilson had never seen before. "Their names are
Tim, Nick, Ray and Bobby. This is their ringleader; goes by Grey Eyes.
They are the ones who abducted and assaulted you."

Brow furrowed, Wilson looked up at him, then at the thugs on either side
of him, then back down at the photographs.

"Dr. Wilson. Listen carefully. These are the men you will identify to the
police when you tell them what happened to you. Grey Eyes, Tim, Nick, Ray
and Bobby. Take a good look. Commit their faces to memory. Listen to what
I tell you about how they sound, where they took you and what they said.
Do you understand me?"

Wilson swayed again; someone gripped his shoulder from behind to keep him
sitting up straight. "Who...?"

"Bunch of dickheads playing on our turf who don't know what 'get lost'
means. Don't worry about 'em. You just give the names and descriptions.
I'll make sure they're indicted and found guilty. You won't even have to
testify at the trial." 

Wilson was looking dazed. "Trial...?"

"Hey." Arnello patted him a few times on his unbruised cheek. "Pay
attention, Dr. Wilson. This is your story. They took you from the parking
lot at your hotel. They roughed you up. They wanted money. You gave it to
them. They let you go. Grey Eyes"--he pointed to the picture of a
middle-aged man with a craggy face and appropriately grey eyes--"Tim,
Nick, Ray and Bobby"--the last, a vicious-looking blond in his late teens.

Arnello stood, then, planted his fists far apart on the table, and leaned
towards Wilson. His pink tie swung forward, brushing the pictures. "These
are the only names that will come out of your mouth. To the cops, to your
colleagues, and to your friends. If you in any way so much as suggest that
someone else may have been involved, it's you we'll take everything from,
piece by piece. And then we'll come for you. I'll ask you one more time:
Do you understand?"

Wilson looked at Arnello and at the pictures. He licked his lips. "Grey
Eyes, Tim, Nick, Ray and Bobby," he whispered.

"Very good, Dr. Wilson," Arnello said, and sat back down. "Now. Let's get
started."



"...wanted...wanted money..."

"...Ray and Bobby..."

"...they had a whip, and...and a baton..."

"...Grey Eyes, Tim, Nick..."

"...jumped me outside my hotel..."

"...they took me...out into the rural areas..."

"...Their names...their names were..."

Arnello drilled Wilson on the details of his cover story until Wilson
passed out in his seat. Lefty revived him with a few slaps and some
splashes of cold water. Then they went on until Arnello was satisfied and
Wilson was half-delirious with shock and exhaustion. 

"Grey Eyes, Tim, Nick, Ray and Bobby... Grey Eyes, Tim, Nick, Ray and
Bobby..."

Wilson muttered the names as they untied and dressed him, put the
blindfold back on, and dragged him upstairs, outside and onto the floor of
a car. He murmured them during the ride, fumbling the recitation only when
they rolled him out onto the pavement in front of the Princeton General
Emergency Department and peeled off. 

He landed face-down with his arm curled beneath him, pressing on his sore
ribs. Pain stabbed through his head with every heartbeat. His tie and
collar stung the chafed skin of his neck, and he could feel his undershirt
sticking to his throbbing, bloody back. He couldn't bring himself to move;
only named his captors over and over into the grit on the cold, wet
driveway.

"Sir. Sir? Oh my God. I need some help out here! Sir, can you hear me?"

Mostly unconscious, he mouthed the list as E.R. staff dropped to their
knees all around him, snapping orders at each other, checking his vitals,
unfastening his clothes, gently restraining him when he feebly tried to
stop them, asking him questions that didn't appear to register. 

"Sir, can you tell me what happened?"

"He still has his wallet--"

"What's he saying?"

"James E. Wilson--he's a doctor over at Princeton-Plainsboro--"

"Sir, can you repeat that?" 

"We need to get him inside, now."

He was lifted onto a gurney and bustled into noisy brightness. The scents
of sweat and blood and antiseptic swept over him. Hospital, he thought.
Home. House. Safe, before he slipped into unconsciousness once again.



"Time to move things along," bironic nightdog_barks murmured, "so we can
get to the good stuff." 

She outlined:

They've told House where to find him, and he arrives at Princeton General
soon after they've taken Wilson in. Tally of injuries: chafing on neck,
wrists and ankles; contusions, both superficial and muscle bruising;
splinters; bruised ribs; sprained wrist(s); bloody urine from minor kidney
trauma; dehydration [look up medical terms/additional possibilities
later]. House alternately terrorizing staff and holding vigil at Wilson's
bedside. Covered in bandages and bruises, face pale and pinched beneath
butterfly Band-Aids and a black eye, Wilson looks small and young and
frightened. House touches his hair while he sleeps when no one else is
around to see.

When he wakes, Wilson talks to police (Bennie and Trevor); all goes
according to plan. Arnello & co. arranged for the money transfer and
evidence planting; everything checks out with Wilson's story. If there is
any hesitation as Wilson talks, if his voice sounds flatter than it
should, the cops attribute it to post-traumatic stress. Only he and House
know the truth.

Complication with infection from the whip wounds--fever, flashbacks, much
emotional drama.

Wilson moves in with House while he recovers. House replaces the couch
with a pull-out sofa. Nightmares. Physical and emotional healing. Powerful
unspoken pull towards each other growing each week. Tense moment one night
where House rubs prescription cream on the almost-healed whip marks on
Wilson's back and thighs, but just when things are about to cross the
line, House pulls away and retreats to his bedroom.

"And now," nightdog_barks announced to herself, "the stage is set."



It was a Friday night, after dinner, and House was watching the Sci Fi
Channel in the den while Wilson brought fresh laundry into House's room.

Wilson flipped on the bedroom light and took a few steps toward the
dresser before he noticed the woman sitting in a chair against the far
wall, hands poised over her laptop. He promptly dropped the folded pile he
was carrying. 

nightdog_barks grinned and waved. "Hi, Dr. Wilson. Long time, no see."

He stared. She waited. "You..." he finally managed.

"Me," she confirmed. "It's lovely to see you again. I'm so glad you're
mostly recovered. Arnello's boys were pretty hard on you, weren't they?"

Wilson flinched.

nightdog_barks sighed. "Yes, I'd say I'm sorry about that, only I'm really
not. But I'm not here to hurt you this time. Tonight, you get your
reward."

"You..." He swallowed. "You're not real. I... You're some kind of
trauma-induced hallucination."

"Don't be silly. I'm just as real now as I was before we decided to do
this mobster-style."

"Wilson!" House called from the den. "Who are you talking to in there?"

Wilson just stared, still pale and spooked.

"You and House have been circling around each other since you got back
from the hospital," she coaxed. "It's time to do what you longed for while
Arnello had you on your knees."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Wilson said, but his voice
cracked halfway through. 

"You can't pretend with me," nightdog_barks reminded Wilson gently. "I
know what you were thinking the whole time. You want House. House wants
you, even if he won't admit it yet. I promised you comfort, and you will
have it."

Wilson shook his head. "You're not real. Go away."

"Wilson?" House called again. "You'd better not be having phone sex on my
bed."

"Think about it, Dr. Wilson. Think about giving in to what you've been
feeling these past few weeks whenever you're around him. Think about what
it would be like to cross those last couple of inches and kiss him. To let
him help you forget, let him apologize for what happened with more than
words."

Wilson was looking a little dazed at her suggestions, but then he seemed
to shake himself out of it. He closed his eyes and whispered, "Just a
dream. Wake up. Wake up, wake up, wake up..."

"Are we gonna have to get you one of those 'I've fallen and I can't--'"
House stopped just inside the doorway. "Who the hell are you?"

Wilson blinked at that. "You can see her too?" he asked.

"Uh, yeah," House said in his best "duh" voice.

"This--she--you--" Wilson's legs gave out and he sat on the dresser.

House turned to nightdog_barks. "How did you get in here? Did Wilson let
you in through the window? I swear to God, Wilson, you won't even go
outside by yourself, but you think you're recovered enough to have trysts
with strange women and their computers in my bedroom?"

And just like that, Wilson was back to himself, pinching the bridge of his
nose. "House. We are not sleeping together. We were not going to sleep
together." He glanced at her, looking worried suddenly, but she didn't
contradict him, so he continued. "She, uh--she was there when I woke up in
Arnello's basement. She said she arranged the whole thing."

House sobered instantly and took two steps forward until he stood between
Wilson and nightdog_barks. Without taking his eyes off her, he said
tightly to Wilson, "And you didn't mention this before tonight why?"

Wilson laughed a little. "Why didn't I mention seeing a woman who could
manipulate reality by typing on her laptop? A woman who only I seemed to
notice? Who made giant crows and the guy who shot you appear and disappear
in front of me? Who didn't show up again once I woke up in the hospital?
It would've landed me in the psych ward."

House studied him for a few moments before he nodded. "Okay, let's try
this again," he said, and turned back to nightdog_barks. "Who are you?" He
squinted. "Your face is blurry."

"My name's nightdog_barks. I'm not going to--"

"Wait," House interrupted. "Say it again."

"I'm nightdog_barks," she repeated. "And I--"

"When you say your name, a booming voice speaks over it so I can't hear
it. And a cartoon head and shoulders appears."

Wilson murmured behind him, "See? Crazy." 

"Oh, that." nightdog_barks waved dismissively. "It's only an avatar to
protect my real identity. If it makes things easier, you can call me
Nightdog."

House's gaze flicked through the air between them. Apparently satisfied at
the absence of a Hollywood voice-over or mysterious floating text, he gave
a short nod of agreement. "And you're a business associate of our nice
mafia friends?"

"Not exactly, no. Wilson and I have a hurt/comfort contract. The first
part of the deal is done. I'm not here to hurt either of you."

"Okay," he said slowly. "What do you want with us?" 

At the "us," Wilson shot a quick, grateful look at him.

"It's simple, really," she said. "All I'm asking the two of you to do is
make sweet, sweet love while I and my very appreciative audience watch.
Then I'll be on my way, and you'll never see me again."

Wilson's eyes went wide as he swung his gaze up to House, who'd raised his
eyebrows. "Despite Jimmy's occasionally questionable masculinity," House
said, ignoring Wilson's sound of protest, "and the rumors circulating at
the hospital that I may or may not have started, the two of us are not
actually having sex with each other."

"Oh, but you will now," Nightdog assured him.

"Oh, but I don't think so," House rejoined, eyeing her in a way that
suggested he was weighing the odds of taking her in a fight and coming up
optimistic.

Nightdog sighed. "I see you need to be reminded who's in charge here," she
said, and began to type. "House turned to Wilson," she read aloud, "leaned
his cane against the dresser and pulled out the guitar he'd left behind
his bedroom door."

Looking every bit the unwilling marionette, House did as she said. "What
the--?" was all he got out before he began to strum a slow series of minor
chords. A deeply earnest expression settled over his face. "Wilson, this
is a song I wrote about my feelings when you were kidnapped."

Wilson fought a smirk and lost. 

"Oh, you think this is funny?" House snarled over the sickly sweet,
mournful notes. He managed to turn his head to glare at Nightdog. "If you
make me sing, you will be very, very sorry."

Nightdog seemed to consider, then relented, allowing him to ditch the
guitar and reclaim his cane, if not his dignity. Wilson was still
not-smiling. "I wouldn't be so quick to laugh," she warned him, and typed
some more. "I can push you both into this if I need to. And it can be as
humiliating as you could imagine."

On cue, House and Wilson turned to each other with smoldering eyes.
Wilson's hand went to House's cheek.

"Greg," Wilson breathed.

"Jimmy," House whispered back.

They both made horrified faces at each other that would have been comical
if... No, they were definitely comical.

"Now, I know you like to be in control of yourself as well as of everyone
around you," Nightdog addressed House once she'd let them jump apart.
"Wouldn't you rather do this of your own volition than have me play
director?"

House glared, but remained silent.

"Great," she said. "Let's get started. First, as a gesture of my
goodwill..."

House drew in a quick breath and shifted his cane. 

"House?" asked Wilson. "What is it?"

"My leg." He bent his knee and straightened it out. "Pain's gone."

"For the duration," Nightdog said. "You have my word."

"Oh, I have your word," he muttered, but his complaint lacked the usual
bite. He flexed his thigh, then bounced on his toes, then tried a little
jump. When that didn't seem to cause any pain, he kicked Wilson in the
shin.

"Ow! I thought you're supposed to be helping me here." Wilson bent to rub
the spot House had struck. "Wait--that didn't hurt you?"

"Nope." House raised his eyebrows at Nightdog and laid his cane aside. He
glanced at Wilson, who stood up and shrugged. 

Finally, House cleared his throat. "So, how do we do this?"

Nightdog replied, "You get naked, you get on the bed, you get sweaty,
everyone goes home happy."

"Right," House said under his breath. He stood there, looking Wilson up
and down and up again. Wilson didn't move, either, except to lick his dry
lips.

Nightdog prompted, "You can start by undressing him."

"Thanks, I did figure out that you wouldn't be satisfied with me just
shoving my hand down his pants."

"Uh, neither would I," Wilson volunteered.

Nightdog began magnanimously, "If you want to skip the foreplay..." but
shut up with a small grin as House rolled his eyes and turned back to
Wilson. 

"Arms up," he said. Wilson obeyed as best he could--his still-healing ribs
didn't allow him to raise his left arm all the way--and House lifted
Wilson's sweatshirt over his head. Tossing it to the side, he tugged
Wilson's white cotton t-shirt out of his jeans. There was a pause during
which House met Wilson's eyes; then Wilson lifted his arms again, and
House pulled the shirt off. 

House stood still, taking in the sight of Wilson's tousled hair and slight
blush, his pale chest, flat nipples, the soft-looking hair on his
soft-looking stomach, darkening in a line below his navel. Faint
yellow-green bruises still mottled his torso, and thin pink lines remained
where the whip had broken the skin when it had snaked around to his
stomach and chest. Tentatively, House touched one of the longest scars,
shiny and baby-smooth, curving below Wilson's ribs like a scythe.
Goosebumps rose around the scar beneath his fingers. His hand fell back to
his side.

"Now you," Nightdog said quietly.

Wilson reached immediately for the few buttons on House's outer shirt that
weren't already undone. He slipped the shirt off House's shoulders,
letting it drop to the floor, and held House's gaze as he slowly lifted
the vintage t-shirt over House's stomach and chest. House bent forward so
Wilson could slip it over his head and down his arms. House swallowed.

Wilson moved his hand as if to touch House, but stopped halfway, looking
over to Nightdog for permission.

"Yes, please," she said.

Wilson circled his fingertips through the graying hair on House's chest,
stroking from the sternum out, making sure to brush House's nipples with
his palms on each pass, then moving up to House's collarbones, across his
shoulders, down his arms and up again. After a minute of this, he slid his
hands around to House's back and took a step closer. Bare chest to bare
chest, they were starting to breathe harder. House looked equally likely
to bolt or lean forward and start the world's hottest make-out session.

Nightdog edged forward in her seat, fingers poised on the keys. "Kiss him,
kiss him, kiss him," she chanted under her breath.

House must have heard, because his expression hardened and he tried to
step back. Wilson, however, wouldn't let him go. Holding House captive in
his arms, he whispered, "Try not to think about it."

"This is ridiculous," House said. "Either of us could take her. Two
against one, she doesn't stand a chance. We don't have to do this."

Wilson shifted. "Actually..."

"'Actually' what? If we don't play porn stars, Big Scary Night Hound over
here will put us in tutus? Let her; at least afterwards we can cry rape."

Wilson rubbed the back of his neck. "No. 'Actually' as in 'Actually, I
kind of want to.'"

House tried to step away again; Wilson held him still. "That's because
you're under her evil spell."

Nightdog raised a finger to set him straight (so to speak), but Wilson
beat her to it. "No, I'm not. I--When I was--When Arnello and his guys had
me, I kept--I--"

"I--I--I--" House mocked, though he looked nervous.

"I kept thinking of you, okay?" Wilson snapped. "When they were hitting
me, when they wh--when they whipped me," voice breaking slightly, "when
they had me tied up and helpless, and I didn't know if I'd make it out of
there, I kept thinking of you." 

"I'm not into bondage, and I'm definitely not into pain, giving or
receiving," House said. "Get Cuddy if that's what you want."

(Off to the side, Nightdog was muttering something about "never can do
this the easy way.")

"Trusting in you," Wilson went on, glaring. "Wanting to believe you'd save
Joey so I could get out of there. But more than that--lying there in that
goddamn basement, I started thinking about how I'd never--how we'd
never--and I wanted--" He sighed, and his shoulders slumped. "You." Very
quietly, he added, "And in case you're thinking that was all a trick too,
it wasn't the first time I've thought about us together."

"She could have planted false memories in your head," House countered.

"House," Wilson said. "I want you. I just went through hell because of
you. We're doing this."

"Yes, you are," Nightdog broke in. "I hold your free will in this
keyboard, remember?"

House turned his glare full-force on her, then.

"House," she said gently. "I don't want you to fight, and I don't want to
force you. Let go of your fear of intimacy and your anger for a minute and
let yourself feel this. You almost lost him." 

House's gaze softened somewhat and returned to Wilson's face.

"Remember how helpless you were when Bill Arnello showed you those
pictures, and you knew you couldn't touch him even though you wanted to
shove him against the wall with your cane across his throat and make him
let Wilson go."

House grit his teeth, clearly remembering all too well. Wilson looked at
him with some combination of surprise, concern and affection.

"Remember sitting in your office imagining what they were doing to him
while your team ran tests." 

House's hands closed and opened at his sides.

"Remember the urgency of convincing Bill to stop the treatment, the
terrible stress of the vigil, knowing Bill's goons were holding a gun to
Wilson's head, and the relief when Joey woke up and Bill said he'd let
Wilson come home."

He reached for Wilson, stopped.

"Remember how it felt when you saw Wilson for the first time in the E.R.,
covered in bruises and shivering with pain. Remember how grateful you were
that he was alive. Now he's standing in front of you, whole and healthy,
waiting for you to make your move."

With a growl, House pulled Wilson in by the back of the neck and kissed
him; hard, lips-only kisses at first, then escalating quick as brush fire
to fast and hot and open-mouthed, all wet sounds and softly urgent moans,
roaming hands, quick gasps, Wilson's nose in House's cheek, House's
fingers raking up through the short hair at the nape of Wilson's neck.

They broke for air but didn't stop moving. Wilson pressed sucking kisses
to the side of House's mouth and jaw while House trailed his free hand
over the map of scars on Wilson's back. When House reached Wilson's left
flank, Wilson twitched. House stiffened. 

Once more, Wilson held him when he tried to pull away, asking gently,
"What?"

House averted his gaze. "You're not ready for this."

"Not--House, I'm ticklish."

House squinted, then deliberately touched him in the same place, and
Wilson squirmed once more. This time, though, he pushed towards House
instead of away from him. Their belt buckles clinked.

After studying him a few moments longer, House said shortly, "Get on the
bed." Wilson and Nightdog both shivered in pleasure at the low command,
and Wilson moved to obey. "On your stomach," House specified. 

Wilson lay down in the center of the bed, tucking his left arm into his
side and supporting his head with his right. He buried his face in House's
comforter for a moment and took a deep, appreciative breath.

That breath left him in a rush when House hopped onto the mattress, sidled
over on his knees and swung one leg over Wilson's so he was straddling
him. Shooting Nightdog a look of gratitude for the painless agility, he
settled back on his haunches and began to trace the marks on Wilson's back
one by one with his fingers. Wilson's breathing hitched at the
feather-light touches as he reveled in House's scent in the bedclothes,
Nightdog wrote. House continued his slow, gentle attentions, laying claim
to the skin from Wilson's shoulders, along his sides and down his spine,
all the way to the marks low on his back that disappeared beneath his
jeans. 

That was as far as they had gone the night with the ointment, Nightdog
typed unobtrusively in the background; now, House planted his own hands on
either side of Wilson's head and leaned down to press his lips to one of
the scars criss-crossing Wilson's shoulder blades. Wilson bit back a
whimper and closed his hands into loose fists. By the time House reached
the edge of his jeans again, Wilson was flexing slightly beneath him.

"Feel good?" House asked in the same low voice, his tone making it clear
that he already knew the answer. "Is this the kind of comfort you've been
wanting?" Sitting up, he hooked his thumbs in Wilson's belt loops; resting
the heels of his hands on Wilson's butt, he pushed Wilson's pelvis down
into the mattress.

"Ah," Wilson breathed, squirming a little. House let up the pressure only
to press him down again, and then again, earning sharp exhalations each
time. When Wilson began to roll his hips on the upstroke to get more
friction, though, House abruptly let go of him. 

Wilson's protest cut off when House slid his hands under him and tried to
unbuckle Wilson's belt, fingers working in the cramped space between denim
and duvet. After the first failed attempt, Wilson let his forehead rest
against the mattress as he reached down with both hands and raised his
hips to do it himself, fingers brushing House's as he worked. Belt and
jeans open, he helped House push his pants and underwear down to where
House still sat on him.

His eyes fixed on the newly-bared skin in front of him, House stroked his
palms across Wilson's pale ass. The marks there were fainter than those on
his chest and upper back, Nightdog wrote, but they were still visible
reminders of what had happened. Shifting further down Wilson's legs, House
leaned forward, balancing on his forearms, and kissed the most prominent
scar on Wilson's right buttock. 

Wilson gasped and moved under him again, spreading his thighs as wide as
he could with his jeans restricting him. House pressed his lips just above
the cleft of Wilson's buttocks and breathed out through his mouth, long
and warm. Across the room, Nightdog echoed Wilson's soft moan of approval;
typing as quickly as ever, she murmured, "Rimming... Need to remember to
give them to topaz_eyes next." 

The sound of her voice or of the pseudonym voice-over was enough to jar
House and Wilson out of their own private world. They glanced at Nightdog
as if remembering they had an audience, then looked at each other for the
first time since getting on the bed. House pushed himself upright on his
knees, but instead of trying to back out of the deal, he dragged Wilson's
jeans and underwear off completely, taking his socks with them, and said,
"Turn over."

Naked, Wilson turned onto his back, his face and dick flushed. He watched
House study him from head to thighs. When House didn't move, he licked his
lips and rose to his elbows. Still glazed with arousal, he took in the
lines of tension on House's face, followed his gaze down to the fading
bruises and marks scattered across his own body. "House?"

House shook his head. "Jesus, Wilson..."

"Hey," he said, and reached up to slide his hand behind House's neck.
"Hey. I'm okay. I'm right here." He tugged, and House allowed himself to
be pulled down for another kiss.

Their lips parted with a sticky sound that made Nightdog smile. "Yeah,"
House said. Wilson ran his hands soothingly over House's neck and back
until he relaxed. 

Once House seemed under control again, Wilson teased, "So, who's supposed
to be comforting whom here?" With a snort, House kissed him and sat back
so he could give Wilson's torso the same treatment he'd given his back.
House could feel Wilson's heartbeat fluttering beneath his fingers like a
caged bird, Nightdog wrote. Wilson lay quiescent, eyes hooded, arms
resting out to the sides, gasping a little whenever House caressed a
particularly sensitive spot. 

When House reached the marks on the soft skin of Wilson's pelvis, Wilson
thrust into the touch reflexively; but House took his hands away, denying
Wilson relief. At Wilson's groan, House gave him a feral grin and widened
his stance so he knelt with one leg across each of Wilson's, preventing
Wilson from lifting his lower body. Careful to avoid any contact with
Wilson's straining dick, he bent to kiss his nipple. Wilson whined as
House sucked and tongued the sensitive nub of flesh, then pulled his
shoulders back to lift his chest as House replaced his mouth with a
circling finger and moved to bite gently at the other nipple.

There came another tappity-tap-tap from the corner, and a strip of condoms
and tube of lubricant appeared on the bedside table. Nightdog considered,
then typed some more. The men stopped what they were doing to stare at the
mound of toys that popped into existence. They watched in silence as a
blue rubber dildo rolled down the unstable pile and flopped onto the
floor. A large pillow feather drifted down after it.

"In case you feel like getting creative," Nightdog said innocently.
"You're both clean, by the way, so you don't strictly need the condoms."

"No ties," said Wilson, eyes fixed on a set of restraints peeking out
beneath a cock ring. "House. Don't tie me up."

"Of course not. Don't be an idiot." He ducked to place a kiss gentler than
his words on the nipple he'd been worrying between his teeth, then began
to kiss and lick his way down Wilson's chest and abdomen. Successfully
distracted, Wilson moaned, trying to push his whole body up. "Stay still,"
House said. Wilson subsided, and House continued his journey southward.

Approaching Wilson's groin, House left increasingly light, fleeting
touches with his mouth and fingers, providing stimulation everywhere but
where Wilson clearly wanted it. He swirled a fingertip through the curly
brown pubic hair; stroked Wilson's inner thighs and the hollows of his
hips; rubbed his thumb gently back and forth along Wilson's perineum; bent
lower and took some of the delicate, wrinkled skin of Wilson's scrotum
between his lips. The paradoxic stubble-silkiness of House's mouth pricked
and soothed the sensitive skin, Nightdog typed; Wilson wasn't sure whether
the sensation was painful or pleasurable, but he was too overwhelmed to
care. Wilson twisted, then regained control and lay still once more,
trembling. 

When House placed a teasing kiss at the base of Wilson's penis, Wilson
broke. "House," he groaned. "House, please."

"Please nothing," House said without lifting his head. "Shut up and let me
comfort you." Wilson huffed out a laugh that turned into another groan
when House (finally, finally, added Nightdog) encircled the shaft with one
hand and began to pump slowly. 

While Wilson clenched fistfuls of comforter and dug a heel into the bed,
willing himself not to buck into House's grip, wrote Nightdog, House
stared at his hand on Wilson's dick, slicking pre-ejaculate around the
glans with his thumb almost absently, and considered the best way to
proceed. Sweat was beginning to shine on Wilson's face and chest; musk
filled House's nostrils.

House gestured in Nightdog's direction, as if her attention weren't
already fixed on the both of them. "Hey. Hot Dog."

"Nightdog," she said.

"Whatever. That laptop of yours--I don't suppose it could pull a Matrix
and upload knowledge into our brains instead of turning us into
sentimental idiots."

"Sure can," she said. "What do you have in mind?"

House looked pointedly at Wilson's penis, which he was still casually
stroking, then looked back at her and licked his lips.

She grinned. "You got it."

House nodded, and, Nightdog having been kind enough to extend the length
of the bed, he stretched out between Wilson's legs. A nudge, and Wilson
raised and spread his knees so House could work comfortably. No sooner had
Wilson settled than House firmly grasped the root of his cock, eliciting a
gasp. Angling the throbbing erection and shifting his own position, House
took the tip into his mouth, wrapping his lips around the glans and
sucking once, hard--and then went all the way down in one long, slow (wet,
hot, tight) slide.

Wilson gave an equally long high-pitched whine and pushed into House's
mouth, even though he couldn't go any further in with House's lips already
touching his balls and pubic hair. House chuckled around him, earning
another uncontrolled thrust, and slung an arm across Wilson's pelvis,
effectively pinning him. As House pulled almost all the way off and slid
just as slowly back down, Wilson could do nothing but moan and grip the
sheets.

House thoroughly exploited his newfound expertise, alternating long, slow
strokes with short and fast bobbing; taking Wilson all the way in and
pausing until Wilson swore and shook under the arm holding him still;
tonguing superficial veins and gently probing the urethral opening;
swirling and sucking and licking and fluttering and stroking; adding a
hand to play with Wilson's scrotum, all while Wilson writhed beneath him.
Lost in the sensations of House teasing and deep-throating him as if he'd
been honing his skills on Wilson for years, typed Nightdog, Wilson was
barely aware that he was moaning almost continuously, turning his head
from side to side, tightening his legs and letting them fall loosely open.

"Time for the final act," whispered Nightdog, hands never stilling on the
keyboard. 

On one of his lighter upstrokes, House smacked Wilson on the hip and
pointed at the nightstand. It took a few moments for Wilson to register
that House was trying to get his attention, and even then he only stared
hazily at the pile of toys beside him. "Unnngh," House said around his
erection, and changed the single extended finger to a "gimme" motion. 

"He wants the lube," Nightdog translated. Wilson managed to snag the tube
on his second try and tossed it onto the bedspread before collapsing once
more. 

House popped the cap and wet his fingers single-handedly, then traced a
slippery path from Wilson's balls to his anus. Circling the tight pucker,
he lifted his mouth off Wilson's erection and stayed off until Wilson
craned his neck to look at him. Hawk brown met Arctic blue, Nightdog
typed. Wilson shivered under the intensity of House's gaze as much as his
single teasing finger. 

Gazes locked, House slowly, slowly sank back down Wilson's erection at the
same time he pushed his slick finger slowly, slowly up Wilson's ass.
Wilson whimpered, tightened, shifted, breathed, blinked, and finally
relaxed, allowing House to slide his finger in and out. House quickened
the pace of the blowjob to create a different rhythm, Nightdog tapped
away, and when Wilson looked almost ready for it, he rubbed the pad of his
finger back and forth across Wilson's prostate. 

Wilson jerked and panted, his head falling back to expose his throat.
"House," he gasped. He jerked again as House started to push in a second
finger. "House, I'm going to--" 

House hummed something that sounded like "go ahead." Taking a deep breath,
he went down on Wilson one last time and stayed there, swallowing and
swallowing, two fingers now stroking inside him. Wilson's balls drew up,
his ass clenched, his back arched like a drawn bow, and with a low,
keening cry, he came down House's throat. 

House swallowed it all like the pro Nightdog had made him. When Wilson's
dick stopped twitching, exhausted, he let it slip from his mouth, and
carefully pulled his fingers free of their tight confines. Wilson lay
sprawled, sweaty and spent, so flushed his scars were hardly visible.
House wiped his hand idly on the bedspread and rested his cheek on
Wilson's trembling thigh. "Comforted?" he asked. Wilson snorted and didn't
move.

"You can be as sarcastic as you want," Nightdog piped up from the corner,
looking rather flushed herself, "but we all know you did everything but
stamp 'Property of Greg House' on Wilson's forehead just now. I'm
surprised you didn't growl 'mine' and bite him."

"Still could," House said, and turned his head to nip at the skin within
reach. Wilson shivered a little.

"Nah, we'll save that for another time," she said, and then resumed
typing. "For now, you've done your part. Let's get you squared away, and
then I'll go as promised." A few keystrokes, and House took a sharp breath
as he was suddenly made aware of his own aching arousal. While he'd been
busy reasserting his claim over Wilson, he hadn't realized how much
sucking Wilson off had turned him on, seeing Wilson undone like that,
surrendering to pleasure--surrendering to him.

"Gahhh," was all he managed, and he thrust into the bed.

"James," Nightdog said softly. "Help him out. He's close."

Wilson rolled onto his side and reached for House, who scooted up the bed
to rest eye to eye (and groin to groin) with him. Wilson helped him open
his jeans and gently maneuvered his hard, leaking dick out through the
flap of his white cotton boxers. He searched for and found the lube,
squirted some onto his hand, warmed it. "C'mon," House gritted out. They
watched each other through blown pupils as Wilson stroked firmly and
quickly. Less than a minute passed before House squeezed his eyes shut and
came with a groan, spattering Wilson's abdomen and hand with pearly semen.

House reached up to smear his come across some of Wilson's nearby bruises
and whip marks. "Mine," he said, shot Nightdog a smirk, and went
completely limp with a satisfied sigh. Wilson watched him for a moment,
then draped an arm over him. House didn't protest.

There was a soft creak, and the two men blinked blearily over to where
Nightdog was shifting in her chair, clicking and typing and generally
looking as if she were about finished with them. 

"Well," muttered House (who'd found his own arm draping across Wilson's
back as if of its own accord). "It's been...interesting."

"That it has," she said, smiling. "Always a pleasure with you boys. Shame
about the toys, though." The pile disappeared with a few taps.

"Always?" murmured Wilson, surreptitiously snuggling closer to House.

"Mm," she said absently. "You two manage to surprise me every time."

"Every time?" House lifted his head, squinting.

Nightdog looked up, soaked in the sight of the two rumpled figures lying
entangled on the less-rumpled bed, and looked back down at her laptop with
a smile. "Yes, this is a good place to leave them," she said to herself.

"Every time?" House repeated.

"Well, you don't think a person can try this just once and then leave you
alone, do you? Oh, goodness, no. You two are like Vicodin: a good escape,
an instant high, a little dangerous, and extremely psychologically
addictive. And there are so many of us who want to take our turns with
you."

"I feel violated," Wilson murmured into House's neck.

"Wait--you're telling me you've--"

"Shh," Nightdog soothed. "Go to sleep. Enjoy the rest of the night without
your leg pain, in Wilson's nag-free company. He's earned it, and you want
it, and you know it."

House frowned but settled down again, nodding a grudging thanks as
Nightdog replaced his jeans and sticky boxers with a pair of his favorite
pajama bottoms, dissolved the comforter from beneath them and put them
both under the sheet, and shut off the light. Within minutes, the only
sounds in the room were keystrokes and light snoring.

Nightdog smiled her soft, happy smile, saved and posted her story, and
closed her laptop with a quiet click.

~ fin  
   Please post a comment on this story.  


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.