Title: I am the Walrus (Part 2/2)
Author: hwshipper
Pairing: House/Wilson. Reference to Wilson/OMC.
Beta: I've had this fic stalled on the back burner for nearly two years. Completion is entirely thanks to the brainstorming and other efforts of srsly_yes
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Heel and Toe Films, Shore Z Productions and Bad Hat Harry Productions in association with Universal Media Studios.
A/N: Set in a slightly alternative season 6. Written for an old sickwilson_fest prompt. A new head of the board has it out for Wilson and makes his life as miserable as possible without having to fire him. Oh yeah, he was an "ex-boyfriend", or at least, he thinks. ObsessionVictim!Wilson.

I am the Walrus (Part 2/2)

House sat by the unconscious Wilson's bedside, hiding concern behind a ferocious glare. How had this happened? How the fuck had Wilson been so absent-minded as to get himself hit by an ambulance, of all things?

"They have fluorescent stripes, flashing lights and sirens." House mentally practiced his welcome-back line on the comatose Wilson. "When you wake up you're never going to hear the end of this. Right after we test your sight and your hearing, that is."

Wilson wasn't badly hurt, fortunately; the ambulance had just caught him, knocking him to the ground. He had been picked up by the paramedics and rushed straight into the ER for prompt attention. He had extensive bruising all down his left side and concussion, but all the vital signs were good and House hoped he would wake up fully (to be insulted and questioned intensively) within twenty-four hours. In the meantime he sat in Wilson's room, waiting for him to stir.

His patience was rewarded after an hour, when Wilson groaned and muttered something, words buried so deep in his throat that House could barely discern them. He leaned forward, putting his ear practically to Wilson's mouth, and was rewarded by a further iteration: "Kevin, please…. Don't do this, I'm a good doctor..."

Kevin? House's brain flipped through a Rolodex of Ks. The only one that made the slightest sense was…

Well, how about that.

With a succession of tricky cases, his hotline to Cuddy and interesting developments in the female dimension of Thirteen's love life to occupy him recently, House had barely noticed Dr. Kevin Walvin. He'd misbehaved a few times, just to see what happened, but had encountered only indulgence and excuses on his behalf.

Basically, he hadn't checked out the new boss at all. That would never do.

House planted his cane firmly on the floor, levered himself up, and headed back to his office. He found his fellows sitting idly around the conference room, and went to join them.

"Tell me about our new uber-boss, Dr. Kevin Walrus," House demanded. There were shrugs all round.

"Doctors generally think he's very efficient," Thirteen offered. "He's not liked much, perhaps, but he's respected for getting the job done."

"Some people think he's a bit odd," Taub related. "He seems prone to mood swings. Can be happy one minute, shouting and swearing the next."

"It's rumored that he's got it in for Wilson, but nobody knows why," Foreman contributed. "You must know, House?"

"Nope," House said truthfully, knowing that Foreman wouldn't believe him and taking some pleasure that Foreman would be wrong. "I want a résumé on Dr. Walvin. Everywhere he's worked, everything he's done. Go."

When Wilson woke, he found House at his bedside, glaring at him.

"The Kraken awakes," said House. "Despite the best efforts of the Walrus to bring him down."

Wilson sighed and closed his eyes. "Hey, House."

"He's spent almost the whole of his career on the West Coast," House quoted. "The operative word being almost. It's not something that's generally known, in fact it's almost vanished from the records, but he had a brief stint as an attending at UPenn."

"How about that," Wilson said feebly.

"At the same time you were there, with your prestigious double fellowship." House concluded triumphantly. "Spill."

"It was a long time ago," Wilson murmured.

Wilson had had a crappy day. A patient previously in remission was no longer in remission. He didn't want to go home because Bonnie would have the house full of fellow students from the dog obedience classes. So he went to a bar instead. An anonymous kind of bar, some way from the hospital, where he wouldn't know anyone and nobody need know who he was.

There was a man sitting in a corner, moping over a beer. Older than him, dark hair, dark eyes. Square shoulders, lean torso, taut cheekbones. Wilson sat watching for a minute, until the guy looked up and caught his eye. That was enough; Wilson went over to join him.

"Hey. Bad day?"

"Boyfriend dumped me," the guy said in a whisper.

"Aw, crap," Wilson was sympathetic, but the words rebound fucksprang unbidden into his mind. "Do you want to talk about it? I'm James, by the way."

"Kevin. Well, I don't want to bore you, James..."

People always wanted to talk about their problems to Wilson. Wilson bought Kevin a drink and surreptitiously admired his cheekbones while listening to a tale of woe; boyfriend turned out to be a cheating lying asshole, yadda yadda yadda.

"I knew it was coming, but it's still like a slap in the face," Kevin concluded. "He got a good job here in Philly so I got a job too and came out here all the way from LA to be with him… waste of time. I got nothing to stay for now."

"No?" That sounded rather good too. They could be like ships passing in the night.

"Well, not until now." Kevin dipped his eyes. Wilson twitched his hand and let his fingertips brush lightly against the back of Kevin's hand. Kevin fluttered his own fingers back.

They left the bar ten minutes later, Kevin muttering, "My place or yours?"

Mindful of Bonnie and the dog-students, Wilson hastened to say, "Yours. It's kinda awkward back at my place. The wife, you know."

Kevin laughed and nodded, and they walked on. Wilson glancing down at Kevin's feet as they walked. He was wearing sleek tan leather shoes with trim laces. "Hey, nice shoes."

"Thanks, they're French," Kevin said, and Wilson resolved to look out for French shoes in future.

"Never skimp on buying beds or shoes, 'cause you're always in one of them," Kevin went on solemnly, with a wink at the mention of beds. "So my mama used to say."

"Mothers are always right," Wilson said, equally solemnly.

Kevin lived in a clean comfortable apartment just down the road. Wilson squeezed his way around unpacked boxes to find a large double bed with a plump fluffy coverlet. Nice to find that Kevin hadn't skimped on the bed-buying side of things either-

Arms slid around his body from behind and a soft mouth nuzzled the back of his neck. Wilson sighed a little as he arched his body backward to feel a hard-on rubbing against his tailbone through two sets of pants.

"James," Kevin murmured into his shoulder, and Wilson turned to kiss him.

Conversation melted into moans and gasps as clothes were shed. The thrill of bare skin against bare skin became all-embracing; mutual blow jobs were lingered over, then finished by hand. It was hot and satisfying.

Afterwards, Wilson stood up to find the bathroom, and knocked over a box. He was surprised to find medical textbooks spilling out of it, with titles like Advanced Cardiology.

"I'm a doctor." Kevin had seen the direction of his gaze. "Just started as an attending over at UPenn."

No shit. "Really, I'm a fellow there," Wilson blurted out.

"Hey, that's nice. I don't know many people yet." Kevin sounded pleased. "I'll look out for you. I'm Dr. Walvin in the cardiology department."

"I'm in oncology," Wilson said, automatically helpful, but apprehension began to creep through his mind. This… could be awkward.

Wilson's orgasm-fuddled brain cleared a little as he splashed water on his face, and he decided it was probably best not to hang about. He went back into the bedroom to find his clothes.

"You're not staying?" Kevin said in a tone of surprise, as Wilson pulled on his shirt.

"Sorry, no. I kinda need to get back to Bonnie, my wife-"

"Your wife?You're married?" Walvin's voice shot up an octave and he sat up in bed. "You've got to be fucking kidding me!"

Wilson flinched. "I'm sorry, I thought I told you¬¬-"

"You were serious? Fucking hell!" Walvin shouted. "Why would I think you were serious, you let yourself get picked up in a gay bar! What the hell is wrong with you? I thought… I hoped…" His voice trailed away, his eyes closed and his face scrunched up tight, and for a horrible second Wilson thought Walvin might start crying. Instead he opened his eyes and said, "Get the fuck out of my house."

"I'm sorry," Wilson mumbled, and fled.

"So he hoped you might actually be interested in him. But no, you were only using him for his body." House rolled his eyes, semi-annoyed but also vaguely amused. "Really, Jimmy!"

"It was a long time ago," Wilson repeated weakly. "He was looking to move back West anyway, and he left soon afterwards."

"And he never forgave you."

"Apparently not. And what can I do about it? Nothing!"

"He's only here temporarily," House parried. "Just sit tight and wait for Cuddy to come back."

"All very well for you to say, in your happy little bullet-proof diagnostic department!" Wilson rubbed his face. "I don't know if I can stick it out for five months, House, I don't even know if I can stick with it for one more month. Patients are going to suffer. My entire department will suffer."

"Go see Cuddy," House suggested. "You're her poster boy. She'll take your side."

"No. She needs to bond with her baby, she handed over things to Walvin and she shouldn't be distracted. I'm not going to get her upset over this." Wilson sighed. "Maybe I'll take a leave of absence myself."

"You can't let the Walrus push you out like that," House objected. "You took those two months off only last year…" after the death of Amber, but House didn't need to mention that. "If Brown gets another stint in charge of oncology, he might start thinking he can run the place himself."

"Well, I'm not going to let Walvin hurt my patient care," Wilson lay back and closed his eyes. "If I have to leave for a while to stop him sabotaging my department, so be it."

So, Wilson was set on being a martyr. This would not do. House spent some time pondering what to do over a nimble yo-yo, humming the Beatles' song I am the Walrusover and over again, until Taub begged him to stop.

"Any song but that! If I hear 'I am he as you are he as you are me,' one more time, I may have to kill someone. Hopefully a colleague," Taub's eyebrow arched toward House, "rather than a patient."

"I am the Eggman,"House ignored him and sang on, deep in thought. Should he play some pranks on the Walrus? Walvin couldn't fire him, Cuddy had kept that the ultimate jurisdiction for herself. So Walvin would eventually go to Cuddy to complain, and House could explain why...

"And who is the Eggman anyway?" Foreman asked peevishly.

But he couldn't explain why Walvin had it in for Wilson. Cuddy would just think he was just pranking Walvin for the hell of it…

"Ah well, many have attempted to identify the Eggman of John Lennon's song," Thirteen pontificated. "The most likely candidate is the lead singer of the Animals, Eric Burdon. He was known as the Eggman, for his habit of breaking eggs over naked women's bodies."

Foreman wrinkled his nose.

"And then what did the he do?" Taub asked. "I mean, raw egg. You wouldn't exactly lick it off."

House wallowed briefly in the knowledge that Taub would be cracking an egg over his wife's naked body that evening, then resumed his Walrus analysis. Know your enemy. Always a good adage. House was already in the possession of valuable knowledge about Walvin—his relationship with Wilson—that Walvin didn't know he had.

"You wouldn't?" Thirteen raised an eyebrow.

"Salmonella risk," Taub pointed out.

"Minimal," said Foreman. "Fresh raw eggs are nutritious."

How to make good on it?... Some kind of blackmail? But Walvin could retaliate by threatening to spill the beans about Wilson…

"As a hangover cure only," Thirteen opined. "And if you've got a naked woman in front of you, you're probably not hungover yet."

"Whoever the Eggman was, it doesn't matter." House cut into the conversation. "John Lennon was fed up with people reading too much into Beatles lyrics, so he set out to write the most truly meaningless lyrics ever..."

His voice trailed off as an idea struck.

Further ideas followed. Necessary, as this enemy required battle on several fronts. House tackled the Western Front first; this involved a couple of judicious phone calls to California.

Then the Eastern Front, which required some email invitations and some careful additions to the report on Fainting Fit Insomniac patient that Thirteen had written for him.

Finally, the Home Front, for which he needed to recruit the inhabitants of 'Deadwood'.

He spent some money from the Oncology hospitality budget to gather them all in one room, with a simple bribe of coffee and cake. Almost by definition, the dead men walking were all susceptible to long coffee breaks. There was Jones, an anesthesiologist; Smith, a gastroentrologist; Simpson, a pediatrician; and Bloggs, a rheumatologist. Smith and Jones were sleep-working their way toward retirement, Bloggs was an okay doctor and Simpson, House would have grudgingly admitted under torture, had a lazy streak but was actually quite good.

"So what are we all doing here, House?* Bloggs asked, biting into a cupcake. "You looking for company now that Wilson's in the ER?"

House thumbed his nose and asked brightly. "What do you all have in common? You're on a warning, right Jones?" Nod from Jones. "And you're just back from suspension, Smith?"

"One more strike and I'm out," Smith confirmed dolefully.

"Dr. Walvin has a bee in his bonnet about some people, who happen to be us. The man's impossible to please." Simpson was surly.

"I want to quote you all some lyrics from the brain of John Lennon," House declared, and declaimed, "I am he as you are he, as you are me and we are all together. You don't need to drop acid to understand what the great man was getting at. We have to all stand together and resist the reign of the Walrus, for the greater good!"

"And you suggest we do this how?" asked Jones.

"You all stand together. Go see Walvin and tell him you know what his game is. He hasn't any real just cause, he's nit-picking you all into a corner. Let him know if he fires you, you're all act together and sue his ass off for wrongful dismissal."

"But he does everything by the book," Smith whined.

House waved a contemptuous hand. "The mere threat of litigation will be enough. And besides, there's a couple of big donors to this hospital who wouldn't react well to four long-standing doctors getting fired at once and suing the place. Simpson, didn't you treat the kid of one of the Super Donors recently, the banker guy?"

"Yeah, I did." Simpson suddenly looked animated. "He'd complain to the board if he thought Walvin was screwing the place up."

"As he is." House slid the point in delicately.

"Walvin isscared of litigation," Smith's enthusiasm had also grown. House was pleased to see the caffeine-enriched cake was having the desired effect. "He talked down a patient of mine who was on the verge of suing. Y'know, Jones, I think we could argue age discrimination if he fired us. Like, us both approaching retirement, hospital trying to limit the pensions it owes us. Even if it didn't stick, that octogenarian shipbuilder donor would hit the wall and take away all his money. He's very sensitive about age."

"That's the kind of constructive idea that we need!" House avoided the question of what Smith had done to have a patient of his want to sue. "Walvin the not-so-secret bigoted bastard who'll scare off the big bucks this place so sorely needs to function. Bloggs, maybe we could argue a different kind of discrimination."

Bloggs rubbed his coal-black cheek. "And Wilson?"

"Oh, Walvin can't stand to have anyone as pretty as him around the place," House said airily. "So, shall we all go see the Walrus in his lair?"

The day went down in PPTH legend: a chorus of disaffected doctors turning up to Walvin's office to read him the riot act, to find him entertaining a trio of Super Donors who had showed up in response to emails that Walvin apparently hadn't sent. House beamed, sat on the sidelines and provided commentary to Banker Guy and Octogenarian Shipbuilder Donor. One heated debate later, Banker Guy marched out saying he'd be filing a complaint to the Executive Board to report gross mismanagement of the hospital.

Only to bump into Dr. Cuddy in the lobby, already on her way in, clasping Rachel under her arm, demanding to know what House was up to. It transpired that House had edited Thirteen's report on House's last patient to make it nonsensical. Cuddy had been getting copied in on House's reports; after twenty-four hours of puzzling over possible hidden messages (including lines such as Yellow matter custard, dripping from a dead dog's eye) and failing to get House on the phone, Cuddy had decided Something was up.

And faced with angry donors, revolting doctors and a suspicious Cuddy right there on the spot, Dr. Kevin Walvin decided now would be the moment to accept the offer he'd just had elsewhere. The hospital administrator job which was waiting for him back in California had become mysteriously available five months early.

Rumors later abounded that House had agreed to a consult with the long-ailing daughter of the previous administrator, who had chosen to take his retirement early, although House never admitted it one way or the other.

"I can't believe you got rid of Kevin Walvin," Wilson marveled, taking careful steps as he walked out of his hospital room for the first time. "People have been flocking to tell me. It's amazing. You're the hero of the hospital."

House was keeping a close eye on Wilson's gait. "You wobbled. Go back to bed."

"And miss Cuddy's welcome-back party?" Wilson said indignantly. "No way. The hospital's closed early tonight for this."

"It may not be all it's cracked up to be," House tried to dissuade him, but Wilson merely shook his head and headed into the elevator.

They got out at the lobby and stopped dead at the sight; loud music, hospital staff standing around, a mixture of agape and aghast at the semi-clad women looped around poles which had been erected on the reception desk. The Deadwood doctors were at the center of attention, Smith and Jones whooping away with feather boas around their necks.

"House!" Foreman approached, his voice pained. "Strippers! For Cuddy's party! Those asshole doctors say you organized it all. Cuddy says you're going to pay for the child therapy Rachel's gonna need after this."

"So much for House the hero," Wilson sighed, but with amusement behind it.

"Crabalocker fishwife, pornographic priestess," House crooned, pushing past Foreman and ushering Wilson toward the exit. "Don't tell Taub, but I've got some raw eggs waiting for us at home."

END