House MD Fanfiction

Medicine

Hilson, smut, 6,573 words

By: magie_05

Wilson sweats when he's angry.

It's always a bit embarrassing. People look at him like he's about to turn green and rip his shirt off and smash things, but he never does. He takes a breath, counts to ten, and mentally pictures all the horrible things he'd like to do to whomever it was that pissed him off, which is usually House. Inside Wilson's mind are scenes of unspeakable torture and disgusting new swear words, but he never, ever betrays his cool exterior. He just sweats.

He took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves before getting in the car, taking care to slam the door after him. Now that he was alone, it was safe to express his fury. He started the car with a deliberate vengeance, practically tore the tendons in his wrist on the ignition, slammed his foot on the brake, and yanked the car into 'Drive.' His knuckles were white on the steering wheel as he dove into the well-traveled path to House's apartment. He imagined the road was the bastard's face.

Okay, so admittedly, Wilson had been doing something illegal. Medicinal marijuana was frowned upon by old men and women in black robes; there were times when Wilson wished not altogether frivolously that the entire Supreme Court would develop terminal cancer and then pass laws against relieving pain and chemo-induced nausea. But there were two sides to the issue, both with good points. Wilson didn't care much about politics when it came to his patients. Lorraine Kesler, 42 with late-stage brain cancer had asked him for help, and he gave it to her; simple as that. Still, many would argue that if you're an oncologist rolling joints in a hospital, you're just asking for trouble.

And as it so happened, trouble came in the form of his asshole best friend.

He suspected that House had taken to searching his office randomly ever since he'd barged in on Wilson rolling marijuana cigarettes for another patient. Times like this, I wish I had cancer, House had said to Wilson's annoyance. That patient had died six months later. When Lorraine had brought in the tightly wound plastic bag and rolling papers that morning, Wilson had hid them well: wrapped in cafeteria napkins, underneath a stack of file folders in his locked bottom desk drawer. But sure enough, when he made it back to his office that night with the intention of rolling the marijuana before heading home, it was gone. The funny thing was, it was gone from his still locked and neatly organized desk drawer. He was pretty sure the average thief wouldn't have gone to the trouble of tidying up after himself. He was dealing with a real criminal mastermind.

Said mastermind was playing his guitar when Wilson got there. He could hear loud twanging all the way out to the street. Wilson marched to the door with his clear mission in mind: kill House and retrieve the marijuana. He hoped he wasn't too late, that House had only taken the weed to amuse himself, that he wasn't really planning to smoke it. An assault to the nostrils at the top of the stairs crushed that theory.

It smelled like college. Wilson couldn't stop a rush of instant memories from frat houses and dorm rooms, but he pushed them aside and focused all his energy on the task at hand. Sharp, sweet, bitter smoke kissed his face as he ripped open House's unlocked door. "What the hell are you doing!?"

It took nearly ten seconds for House to register that Wilson was in the room. He was grinning like an idiot on his sofa. "What's up, dude?" he said in his best impersonation of a drugged-out, tye-dye wearing stoner. It was a little too convincing.

Wilson swallowed a ball of fury and shut the front door before the smoke carried to the nearest law enforcement agent. He turned back to in time to see House shift his guitar off his lap in favor of a large, glass ashtray. It was coated with black, tarry soot. Not cigar ashes. "House. Where's the rest of it?"