Old Fic: Ownership

[aisalynn]

Title: Ownership (sequel to Posession)
Author: Aisalynn
Characters: House, Wilson. Friendship
Rating: PG 
Warnings: AU from No More Mr. Nice Guy
Summary: House didn't like it when people messed with his things. 

It only took a few months for Cutthroat Bitch to prove House right.

Oh sure, he’d helped things along: talking Wilson into going out with him on nights not agreed upon by all parties, more often than not bringing him back drunk, finding excuses to make an “urgent” phone call during many of their dates, deliberately involving Wilson in his cases just so that he would get home late…Yes, he did his part.

But it was still a surprise to open his door and find a morose Wilson standing in the entrance way, bags and suitcases in hand. He hadn’t expected him for at least another two more months.

Not that he was complaining.

Once he got Wilson comfortably settled in (jacket tossed over a chair, bags thrown carelessly in a corner, beer bottled placed in his hand), he asked the question.

“So…” he started once the episode of How It’s Made went to commercial, “what happened?” He tried to sound caring and concerned, instead of just extremely curious.

The annoyed, sideways look Wilson gave him told him he’d failed.

“She was offered a job in Boston. Massachusetts General.” Wilson took a sip of his beer and was quiet for a moment, gaze focused on the bottle as it dangled in between his fingers. “I thought she was happy here, content. Turns out she’d been searching for another job for months now, without even telling me.”

House wasn’t surprised, he had long ago figured out that nothing would stay in the way of Amber’s ambition. But he didn’t tell Wilson that. Instead, dropping all affectations of concern, he asked bluntly, “So just like that? It’s over? No future plans of moving to Boston, or continuing a long distance relationship? I thought the Bitch was more competitive than that. I was sure she would drag this out just to piss me off.”

Another annoyed glance. This one with more than a little anger to it. “That’s right, House. It’s all about you. In fact,” he turned to face him on the couch, bottle now clenched tightly in his hand, “In fact, you were the reason she didn’t want to continue the relationship. Said that she knew that I wouldn’t be willing to move to Boston and leave everything here,” he shot House a dark glare. “Said I wouldn’t be willing to leave you here. And that even if I were you would do everything in your means to sabotage us. So congratulations,” he said sarcastically, waving his arm in the air so violently that House thought for a moment that the bottle would fly out of his hands, “you have gotten your way and have successfully ruined my latest relationship.” His shoulder’s slumped and he gave a defeated sigh, turning around to face the TV. “Go be smug somewhere and leave me alone, will you?”

House was quiet as he stared at his friend. Wilson was slumped against the armrest, chin balanced on his right hand. His eyes were fixed on the television but his brows were furrowed and his jaw kept tensing and relaxing, telling House that his mind wasn’t on what was playing on the screen. He’d relaxed his hands, and his fingers were once again fiddling disinterestedly with the beer bottle. He was, House realized, quite set up for a spectacular sulk, one that could last for days, weeks even. And that would mean weeks of wounded looks, holier-than-thou lectures (more lectures than usual, that is), and pathetic, half-hearted banter.

He would have to put a stop to that.

“You do know what this means, don’t you,” he smirked and took a drink of his own beer when Wilson shot him an exasperated glare. “I really do own you.”

House was relieved when the corners of Wilson’s lip went up just a bit. “And how do you figure that? I still say that contracts signed under the influence of alcohol cannot be counted as valid.”

House’s smirk grew wider. “Give it up. Even your girlfriend knew it. I own you. Just admit it.”

Wilson rolled his eyes. “Alright, fine. You own me. Now leave me alone so I can wallow in misery instead of dealing with your twisted habit of turning people into objects you can toy with.” He turned to the TV again, but this time House could tell he was actually watching the show. Several minutes later, after the narrator on television finished explaining how the individual bristles of toothbrushes were inserted into the plastic handle, Wilson finally turned to him and asked, “Why are we watching this?”

And House knew all was well.

Though Wilson himself admitted that House did indeed own him, House figured he would need reminding every now and then. So over the next few days House did his best to remind Wilson just who he belonged to.

When Wilson complained about House stealing and eating his food, House had looked up from the chicken salad sandwich, blinked, and told him, “By default, everything you own I own. Seriously. It’s in the contract.” He then stuffed the remainder of the sandwich in his mouth, smacking his lips and making exaggerated chewing sounds until Wilson was forced to walk away, shaking his head in disgust.

He’d protested when House ordered him around (go get me another beer, go make breakfast, go service Cuddy so she’d be too distracted to force me into the clinic), but had--grumbling--gone on to do everything after House informed him that because he owned him, he could, in fact, tell Wilson what to do. Except for the Cuddy thing. Wilson had flat out refused to service her and so House had been forced to hide in the third floor storage closet to get out of clinic duty.

It was a good thing he’d had his Gameboy on him or else he’d have been really bored.

When Wilson found the spiked dog collar House had bought him on his desk he merely laughed and shook his head. The laugh immediately disappeared when, after he told House he wouldn’t wear the collar, House had presented him with a sparkly pink one instead. (“I thought you could wear it when you wanted to look pretty,” House said with a shrug.)

Funnily enough, Wilson’s only reaction to House sewing “Property of Greg House” on the pocket of his lab coat was a furrowed brow and a disbelieving “You can sew?”

But, as entertaining as reminding Wilson of his place in life was, he had more important things to do. So, a few days after Wilson had moved back into his apartment, he snuck into Cuddy’s office. While he’d been able to forge her signature for years, he still needed to get her letterhead for all official correspondence.

He had a rather unpleasant letter to write to Massachusetts General Hospital about one Amber Volakis.

He didn’t take it well when people messed with his things.