FIC: Hold the Key
TITLE: Hold the Key
PLAYERS: House/Wilson
RATING: R
A/N: HAPPY BIRTHDAY ME! I tried to make this pornier, I did. Tragically, moony has ("happily!") used up all my porn. I will, however, thank her for the read-through <3




You remember Bart and the electric cupcake? Yeah, well, the hamster has one up on me tonight as I find myself gazing philosophically up towards the bargain basement ceiling panels of a familiar office. I hear muted pigeons cooing on the balcony; muted because my triceps are pressing against my ears, which appears to be because my arms are stretched straight above my head and dangling in mid-air. Ordinarily, this apparent malfunction of the laws of physics would probably concern me -- or at least interest me. Right now, however, I'm much more interested in closing my eyes and sinking my head peacefully back into Wilson's pleather couch.

That's when I remember stealing Wilson's abandoned coffee, and my eyes snap open.

I drive the back of my head into the cushion to look up my arms. Through the aquatic swirling of my vision, I spy a glint of metal at my wrists, and a chain looped around the steel door handle. Not just one of the handles, either: both of them. Just in case I happened to feel like unscrewing the door from its hinges with a nail file, or something. I look over towards Wilson's desk and try to calculate the likelihood of him having a nail file in with all his metro gadgets, but eventually decide that it's a pointless exercise. Even if he has got a nail file stashed in there, I'm strung to both doors and the distance away from the desk would elude even Yao Ming's giraffe-like limbs.

Experimentally, I rattle the chain.

Then, I try calling for help.

Finally, I try shouting strings of expletives, obscenities, and long creative insults directed at Wilson's many life failures.

When all that fails to achieve freedom, I'm back to philosophy.

Wilson would probably call it karma, I suspect, that I find myself handcuffed to his door on the night that Cuddy takes TallDark&Handsome69 or whoever out to dinner and sucks out his soul through his comparatively undersized gonads. Wilson'd call it that, forgetting the part where he poured out half his coffee to make me think he'd drunk it, mixed in some benzos and then waited until I was unconscious to chain me to his fixtures. I'm pretty sure that in order to call it 'karma', the universe has to do the bad stuff by itself. It's just called revenge, retribution or retaliation if a sentient being exacts the punishment. Although I'm totally stretching it by referring to Wilson as a sentient being.

Speak of the devil.

The devil's ass, dressed in tan-colored pants, backs slowly into the room, dragging behind it an audio-visual unit on a cart with squealing wheels.

Unfortunately, I'll never know if my glare would have actually turned Wilson to stone, because he doesn't look at me as he tilts into an awkward arabesque to plug the AV unit into the socket under his desk. I spend a second distracted by the disturbing visual of Wilson in tights as a ballet dancer prancing around a stage like a springbok, which I futily try to attribute to the waning effects of whatever drugs Wilson slipped me.

He spends a moment amateurishly fiddling with the portable aerial on the unit before sweeping a tiny key off his shelves and slipping it into his pocket, and then dragging one of his visitor chairs beside me and flopping into it despite the fact he's barely managed to achieve a serviceable picture.

It's at that point, listening to American Idol blaring through the static hiss of a poorly tuned TV while being tied up and unable to either fix the tuning or brutalize my captor, that I realize Wilson is trying to torture me.

Right now, Cuddy is probably picking the remnants of Mr. Prey Date out from between her teeth.

When one of the contestants starts to sing hideously off key and Wilson leans forward to turn up the volume, it's all too much. “You win,” I tell Wilson's double-chinned profile.

“Mmm,” the smirking profile responds non-committally.

“I said,” I yell, emphatically rattling my restraints, “You win!”

“I heard you,” Wilson says with infuriating calm, leaning back in his chair and lacing his fingers across his paunch. “And I know.”

The off key singing starts swelling to a torturous climax; insanity is imminent. I picture myself in the landscape of Evward Munch's The Scream, clawing helplessly at my bleeding ears. The outline of the key in Wilson's pocket is the only thing that rescues me from the brink of musical hell.

I need to somehow get that key out of Wilson's pocket, which means somehow getting his pocket near my cuffed hands. I look upward towards the door and spy the Venetian blinds: if he got up to close them, his hips would be close enough for me to dart a hand in and secure the key. The trouble is, Wilson is perpetually on to me. I tap my thumb against the glass window, trying to think of something that would throw him enough for him to not think a request to close the blinds was suspicious.

When brilliance comes to me, it's almost too perfect. Someone needs to build a shrine to me, seriously.

“I know why you did this,” I say.

Wilson glances vaguely toward me. “Because 'Don't ruin Cuddy's date' is more like an exciting challenge to you than a genuine plea to leave her alone?”

“Please. The guy looks like a walking penis, he has less hair than one of your stage fours. I'm practically saving the world from having to look upon his offspring.” Whoops. I wince, and remind myself of my genius agenda. “But that's not why, is it?”

“I need another reason?”

I pause in staged consideration, watching him. “You could have just put a double dose in the coffee and knocked me out for the evening. Why put a half and handcuff me in here?”

“Can't I just enjoy torturing you?” Wilson kicks an ankle up, resting it on his knee. Brown socks perfectly coordinated with his tan pants and gold tie peek out from under his tailored hems. I briefly wonder if he sewed them himself, and if it's possible for him to actually be more gay. He glances towards me. “Although, you could use a haircut.”

Okay, apparently it actually is possible for him to be more gay. “Are you going to be my hairdresser?” I inquire, and then point out, “Still easier if I'm unconscious.”

“Though less fun. If you struggle, I might actually get to stab you with the scissors.”

“Don't stop there,” I tell him, “if pain's your thing, I think Cuddy has a riding crop in her office.”

He looks sideways at me with a you've-got-to-be-kidding frown.

“It's true.” It is true, in fact. I just accidentally came across it when I was scouring her office for evidence of Spank_Me_Mommy while Cuddy trailed a series of false pages all the way up to Peds. “So, if it's pain you want to--”

“You want me to spank you?” His face is all screwed up like he's trying to imagine the fourth dimension.

“Hey,” I remind him, “you're the one who slipped Rohypnol into my coffee and handcuffed me to your office door.” He squints at me, and I add, “Perhaps that sort of spank isn't the one you were after?”

Now he looks like a ten year old having procreation explained to him by his fat, balding father. “House!” he manages, and then presses his fingertips against his eyes and moans.

“Because if you are, dude...” I nod towards my recumbent figure, and then snort. “What are you waiting for?”

He shakes his head incredulously, like the concept is too complex for him to process. “You're serious.”

Eyebrows in my not thinning hairline, I nod innocently.

Tongue darting out to moisten his lips, he watches me for a moment. Then, shockingly, he lifts his ankle off his knee, places both French leather-shod feet on the floor, and stands out of the chair.

Mental trumpets to my genius are somewhat muted by the fact I have an adult man approaching with the intent of actually touching me inappropriately. Also, that the adult man is Wilson, the same guy who freely vomits all over my bathroom floor four or five times a year. Also, with this guy, you never really know where his dick's been; I'm not sure its twelve month quarantine without Wilson keeling over or wandering deliriously around the hospital is enough to seal him with the Healthy stamp. There was that one Bond-esque black chick I had to hurriedly shoo off.

There really is such a thing as knowing too much about someone.

By the time I reach that particular realization, Wilson's put a hand on the spine of the couch, swung a knee over my hips, and is leaning oppressively over me. He looks terrified, a moment that deserves to be immortalized on film and plastered on every wall in the hospital. Tragedy is defined as not having a camera at this second.

I accidentally glance downward towards the V of his crotch, which thankfully does not contain any sort of tumescent mass. Although, I'm a little insulted he's straddling me and so clearly not impressed. Then again, maybe it's the stage fright of being about to fuck your bestest buddy who serendipitously also happens to have a dick.

He leans his face toward mine; I feel a weight rest against my lap, and feel a hipbone jutting into my waist. Pressure there reminds me of thrusting my hips and watching breasts and hair flopping energetically around the bodies they're attached to. Baaaad time to get the twitches, Greg, I tell myself, going cross-eyed at the approaching lips. Especially bad when I'm supposed to be somehow turning smooches-with-Wilson into Greg-deftly-steals-key-from-Wilson's-hip-pocket.

His breath tickles my lips; he smells like a mixture of coffee and Cheetos. His skin, predictably, looks like skin that's been moisturized for twenty years: it would take a neutron microscope to locate his pores. It's like chick skin. I can do this, I think, just lie back and think of Barbara Eden.

His lips are so close to mine I can feel the air between us shift as he moves them. “Nice try,” he whispers smugly, making my eyes snap open. He's sitting back on my lap, arms laced across his chest. “I can't believe you were going to let me do that.”

Rats. “You're the one sitting in my lap,” I point out. In the background, another idol contestant sings Madonna with sloth-like enthusiasm.

“You invited me over here.”

“To try and get the key, which, by the way, you wouldn't have slipped so obviously into your side pocket if you hadn't wanted to make absolutely sure that I saw where you put it.”

“Which naturally means I want to have sex with you.” He nods sagely. “Yes, I see your logic.”

I vault him off me with a pornish thrust of the hips. “Change the channel,” I order, as he stands and dusts all the Greg off him. “Unless you want to clean pieces of my exploded skull off the ceiling.”

“Not the best type of explosion to be cleaning off the ceiling.”

It takes me a second to register what he's just said; I attribute it to the blanket of waning benzos. I stare. “What?”

He smirks, settling back down into the visitors chair without changing the channel. “Maybe you've got it wrong,” he suggests.

“What wrong?” I ask suspiciously.

“Maybe it's not the fact I put the key in my pocket that you should be focusing on, but the fact you were looking at my pocket in the first place.”

I'm too drowsy for psychobabble. “Change the goddamn channel,” I demand, leaning my head back against the arm of the couch.

It's going to be a long night.