Posted to house_wilson and volakis_wilson

Title: Contender
Author: Dee Laundry
Characters: House, Wilson, Volakis
Rating: PG-13
Words: 1256
Summary: ...how you play the game
Notes: Spoilers for episodes 4-11 and 4-12.

They’re in Round Two of the title fight and House just about has her on the ropes, when a large pale hand breaks into House’s narrowed field of vision, causing him to blink and halt his tongue mid-sentence.

“Stop it,” Wilson hisses low through clenched teeth, as he brings his hand to Amber’s wrist.

House preens in triumph that Wilson is preparing to haul Amber away. He nods cordially to the assembled crowd – that is, the three elderly relatives gawking at them from Mama Wilson’s couch – and begins preparing his victory speech… for all of two seconds, until Wilson’s other hand presses into the small of House’s back and shoves.

With Wilson smiling apologetically back over his shoulder at the confused couch trio, they’re dragged to the Wilson Family Hall of Accomplishment – trophies, ribbons, diplomas, and pictures of proudly smiling people in a variety of regalia – where Wilson steps in between them.

“You will behave around my family or you” – a pointy finger of doom in Amber’s direction – “will get no sex, and you” – jab into House’s shoulder, ow – “will get no drugs.”

“And you will get no rock and roll?” What lame-ass threats. “Withholding sex from women has never –”

“Sorry, sweetie,” Amber interjects humbly. House has to crane his neck around Wilson’s bulk to stare at her.

“What?” she snaps, giving House the evil eye. Of course her eyes are always evil, but this look is particularly malevolent. “He’s really good. I’m not missing out on that just for the minor diversion of kicking your ass.”

Wilson’s goofy smile makes House roll his eyes. Rookie move on Amber’s part – she obviously hasn’t yet realized that boosting Wilson’s ego can lead to no good.

“I’ll see what I can do to get dinner moving along,” Amber offers before planting a peck on Wilson’s cheek.

A brief “ka-shh, ka-shh” and flicking hand motion in Amber’s direction – universal signal for “you are so whipped” – gets House another glare from her. Yet another point scored! The bout is definitely his, although he regrets not getting a K.O.

“Maybe set the table? Mom’s been working all day on…” Wilson calls after Amber’s retreating form, until giving up.

“Your mother’s going to stab her with a boning knife,” House observes.

Hands on hips – in an amusing echo of the ancient family matriarch in the picture right behind him – Wilson retorts, “My mother is a kind and gentle soul.”

House stares at him.

Wilson looks away and drops his hands, admitting, “She’ll just talk about babies and scheduling a meeting with the Rabbi until Amber’s ears fall off.”

“I’ve always heard passive-aggressiveness passes down through the mother’s side.”

Wilson’s dad’s “study” is down this hall, if House remembers correctly… and he always does. He’s a little surprised when Wilson follows him instead of heading back to gab with the women-folk.

As House opens the door, he throws over his shoulder, “You do know your grandmother calls you ‘Our Solomon,’ don’t you?” There it is, the most awesome old recliner ever. House heads straight for it so Wilson can’t get his fat tuchis in there first.

Wilson hovers near the doorway instead, one ear no doubt cocked for the shriek of the banshee. “Um, well,” he says, “it’s because I’m so wise.”

“Yeah, right.” A quick slip of House’s hand down the side of the chair and he’s found the secret pocket – with the secret stash of brandy. “She asked me whether Amber was going to be one of the 700 or one of the 300.”

“Oy,” Wilson sighs, and steps fully into the room, shutting the door behind himself.

House holds the first sip in his mouth for several long seconds. Mr. Wilson always buys a good vintage. “Of course,” House notes when the mellow burn has finally slipped down his throat, “she also asked almost the same question about me.”

Looking up abruptly from his seat in the desk chair, Wilson gestures for the flask. “She asked you whether you were my wife or my concubine?”

“Whether I had been,” House clarifies, as he passes the brandy over. “She thinks you’re part faygeleh, you know. I told the sad tale of how you broke my heart, and how my gracious magnanimity has allowed us to manage to stay friends.”

“Great,” Wilson mutters and drinks deep, too fast to be tasting it. Heathen.

Snatching the flask back, House continues, “On the bright side, I now have a date with your cousin Saul next weekend.”

“Saul’s gay?” Wilson has sunk back into the desk chair. His shoes’ll be hitting the top of the desk any minute.

“Well, God, I hope so.” Mmm, second sip even better than the first. “I don’t want to go to all the trouble for someone who won’t put out.”

“Like you’d go to any trouble anyway.”

Wilson’s eyes are closing, and House can feel his lids getting heavy too. Behaving is boring.

“Wait a minute!” Wilson says, bolting upright. “You told the sad tale of woe before the concubine question, didn’t you?”

“No,” House says truthfully.

Wilson’s angry-exasperated face always cracks House up. He wonders if Wilson knows how thoroughly non-frightening it is.

“Before the second concubine question, about you,” Wilson says tightly. “You’re the reason my grandmother thinks I’m bisexual.”

“Well, I don’t think I’m the only reason. She must have had her suspicions before now.”

Wilson lets out a Marge-Simpson-esque tightly wound growl of disapproval. “That’s it,” he says. “No drugs for you.”

Sipping the brandy again, House shrugs. “Cuddy writes better scrip anyway.”

The flask is whipped out of House’s hands and stuffed back in the secret pocket. As Wilson rises from that task, it seems like every single muscle in his body tightens and then relaxes. Serenity fills Wilson’s face, and oh shit, that isn’t good.

“I’m telling Great Aunt Ruth you play the piano,” Wilson informs him, looking so much the cliché of the yellow-bird-eating feline that House is a tad nauseated.

But much as House hates anyone to know any of his business, it’s not dire enough of a threat to warrant that smugness. There must be some unexplained factor.

House flips through his mental Rolodex of Wilson kin. Names, names, why does Wilson always have to refer to them by names? House’s system makes much more sense: classify them by symptoms, diagnoses, unique characteristics, and annoying habits… Oh. Crap.

Flinching, House says, “Ruth is the one who sang, and I use that term extremely loosely, at your last wedding.”

“She’ll be thrilled to hear how skilled you are,” Wilson says as he sashays his low-down, dirty, manipulative ass out of the room. “She’s always wanted to learn how to play.”

House struggles to follow, catching up just before the living room. “I’ll get Grandma to tell Amber about your fondness for the fellas.”

Wilson stops and turns his head, and suddenly his lips are way closer to House’s than they’ve ever been before. “What makes you think Amber won’t like that?” Wilson says breathily and then he’s gone.

There’s a moment of blank nothing in House’s mind until he hears from the kitchen, “Didn’t I mention it? House is a vegetarian now.”

House shakes his head at that low blow. He’s taken to thinking of Wilson as the towel boy to Amber’s prizefighter, forgetting that the sneaky bastard always did know how to scuffle in the clinches.

He plants his cane and strides forcefully toward the kitchen, wanting to get in there before the bell rings for the next round.