Archive of Our Own

Housefic: These Crimes Between Us
Please read the warnings on this one.

TITLE: These Crimes Between Us
AUTHOR: nightdog_writes.
CHARACTERS: Wilson, House, two OMCs
RATING: NC-17, for mature themes and graphic content.
WARNINGS: Yes, for stressful situations that may disturb some readers. This is a rough, unpleasant fic involving an attack of a sexual nature; it is not a nice story, and I am being very serious.
SPOILERS: No.
SUMMARY: After a horrific act of violence, House decides that revenge is a dish best served cold. 2,782 words.
DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Never will.
AUTHOR NOTES: This story was sparked by a single line; everything else was written around it. Title and LJ-cut text are from the Dave Matthews song Ants Marching.
BETA: My intrepid First Readers, with especial thanks to mer_duff and topaz_eyes.

These Crimes Between Us

It's the easiest thing in the world, the oldest trick in the book when the guy excuses himself to go to the bathroom. Only he doesn't even say it like that -- he nods politely, sheepishly, says "Will you excuse me for a moment? I have to use the facilities."

The facilities. And he asks permission. Baker nods to Stockton across the room -- this is the one. He empties the tiny envelope of roofies into the guy's whiskey, watches as the powder dissolves, and when their new friend comes back he drinks the chemical cocktail right down.

"Careful," Baker cautions. The bar guy slurs something out through loose lips and almost falls. Lucky Baker and Stockton are there to catch him; they hoist the guy between them and the three of them make a staggering catwalk to Baker's truck.

"Wha," bar guy mumbles. "Home?"

"Yeah," Stockton assures him. "We're gonna take you home."

"House?" bar guy slurs, and Baker and Stockton look at each other over the top of the guy's slumping head.

"House, home, whatever," Baker asserts, and pulls the handcuffs from his jeans pocket. "Come on, gotta put these on," he says, as he and Stockton gently guide the bar guy's arms behind his back. "They're for your own safety."

"Uh?" the guy says, and although he's in no condition to know it, the fight's already over as Baker and Stockton push him into the crew cab, where he collapses, snoring.

Baker watches bar-guy's back, anticipating, awaiting the exact moment when the guy regains consciousness. It's always the best when their new toy wakes up with a dick in his ass. Baker rolls his hips forward, forcing himself in a little deeper.

The toy's head jerks up. His hands flex, he tries to pull his arms inward, tries to initiate some self-defense. Baker watches intently as the bar-guy turns his head; his forehead creases as he attempts to see through the blindfold.

The second best moment is when their toy realizes something's totally wrong -- he can't move, he can't see, can't turn over, and he starts to tug at the cuffs. Of course it's no use, but the toy doesn't realize that yet, and so he's yanking at the restraints and moving around and discovering he can't move his legs either and starting to make frantic mmmphhing sounds. All this and he's humping his ass, trying to throw Baker off, and all this jerking and thrashing and humping is so sweet and Baker starts to thrust hard, rocking back and forth and driving deeper and deeper, and the guy's yelling now, Baker can tell, even through the wadded-up cloth and the gag, and he leans down, resting his upper-body length over the toy's back, and bites the toy's right shoulder.

The bar-guy screams for real now, fighting desperately against what must seem an insane nightmare. Baker grips the guy's neck, pressing his thumbs hard into the base of the toy's skull even as he thrusts deeply into his ass. He comes in a rush of white-hot pleasure, rocking and moaning softly, and kisses the sweet spot between his toy's shoulder blades as the last of his come eases out.

"We're gonna have some good times," he whispers, and bites the bar-guy again until he can taste the blood between his teeth, bearing down as the man writhes beneath him. "Good times, you and me and Stock." Then he sits up so that Stock can bring down the strap, laying bright red welts across the toy's back.

Stockton's always had a good hand with the strap. A new toy has to learn his place, after all.

From the next room he can hear Stock grunting as he rides bar-guy into the mattress.

It had been a routine catch, Bakersfield thinks as he looks at himself in the bathroom mirror. By the time they get back to the cabin, the toy's always drifting in and out of consciousness and it's easy to lay him face-down on the bed, snap the leather-wrapped cuffs around his wrists and ankles, and use Momma's old shears to cut off his clothes.

If everybody knew how easy this was, Baker snorts, there'd be a run on roofies from here to Canada. This'll be their last catch here, though -- the county mounties are getting suspicious, and Baker's seen danger-stranger posters up in the 7-11 and the mom & pop gas station on the corner. He'd like to see his picture up in the post office, but he knows that's not gonna happen because so far nobody knows what he and Stockton look like. Still, the Feds are starting to put it together -- there's a name scrawled across some of the posters, and Baker thinks it's funny as hell.

The Tree-Hugger Killers, because of the way they leave their toys in the woods.

Baker stares in the mirror; a perfectly ordinary guy stares back at him, ordinary brown hair, ordinary brown eyes. He blinks and the reflection blinks back. The bed creaks in the other room, and then Stockton appears in the doorway, peeling a condom off his pecker.

"Hey," Baker says.

"Hey," Stock replies. He tosses the rubber in the trash and washes his hands; after a moment he looks up. His eyes are a lighter brown than his brother's but otherwise they look pretty much alike. "We got any of that cotto salami left in the refrigerator?" he says. "I'm hungry."

Bar-guy's a doctor, Baker notes as he goes through the man's wallet. Not just any doctor, either, but a department head at some hospital in New Jersey. Not a real surprise, he thinks, and takes another bite of his sandwich. Over the years, he and Stock have used the roofie formula on doctors, lawyers, airline pilots -- people you'd think would know better than to drink with strangers. Hell, that's how stupid their own mother had been, and then she'd gone and named all her kids after the string of towns where she thought they'd been conceived. Bakersfield, Stockton, Torrance, Barstow. He guesses he's lucky he doesn't have a brother named Walla Walla, but then that's just the way mom had been, naming the dog Texas and the cat New Hampshire. Baker flips the hospital i.d. card in the pile with the others -- the wallet had been full of high-end credit cards, ATM receipts, and other bank cards, but it'll all go into the furnace. They've already burned the toy's clothes.

He looks out the window. A light sleet is pattering against the glass, but inside it's warm and comfortable. His sandwich finished, Baker leans back in his chair.

They'll hold bar-guy a couple more days, keeping him alive and aware by pouring a few cans of Ensure down his throat, and helpless and pliable with more chemical cocktails. Turn him over, he thinks idly. Fill him up from both ends while he bucks. His cock twitches at the thought of straddling bar-guy's shoulders, hearing Stock's rutting gasps behind him, the high-pitched squeak of the plastic sheets, the wet warmth of the toy's mouth ...

"Ah," Baker whispers. Stock looks at him, nods.

Baker smiles. It's good they're on the same wavelength like this. He pushes his chair back.

"You done?" he says.

The pickup rattles along the narrow trail, the snow chains on the tires adding a whole new dimension to the words "road noise." In the crew cab, bar-guy's breathing loud -- ragged sighs through his broken nose. At the end, Stockton had gotten a little enthusiastic, given bar-guy a really good strapping and then dropped the strap and started in with his fists. Besides the nose, Baker thinks the guy's got a couple of busted ribs and maybe a fractured right arm from where Stock twisted it. He hadn't heard anything snap, though, not like that time when his brother had jerked Torry's arm so hard they'd all heard the crack. For all that, bar-guy's not moaning or whimpering -- must be the extra-large dose of happy juice they'd forced down his throat before they'd uncuffed him from the bed. When the pickup finally rolls to a halt they're deep in the woods, in a little clearing he and Stock had scouted out last month.

The freezing wind cuts deep when Baker opens the door, and he hunkers down further into his heavy coat and puts the hood up. Bar-guy's naked skin prickles instantly when they pull him from the cab; he stirs a little when they half-carry him across the snowy clearing, and comes mostly awake when they put his back against an ice-cold tree trunk. The blindfold's off for the first time and the toy's eyes are red-rimmed and teary, the pupils blown with chemical reaction.

"Nnnnn," bar-guy mumbles from beneath the gag. He shakes his head like he's drunk and rocks a little on his feet. Baker ignores him; they've got his wrists tied behind the tree -- a few more loops of rope pulled tight around the chest and legs and they'll be done here, ready to clean up the cabin and vamoose. Hypothermia'll finish off this one, and Baker packs a few double-handfuls of snow in the broken toy's armpits and between his legs to give it a head start. He steps back to survey their work; the guy's already starting to shiver and the muscles in his jaw are working like his teeth are trying to chatter.

They're wrong, Baker thinks. Facing the wrong way to be a tree-hugger, and he's actually considering cutting the ropes and starting over when a shout splits the air.

"Don't move! You're both under arrest! Turn around and put your hands on your heads!"

Baker whirls around; there are men coming out of the woods, men with guns and Kevlar vests with POLICE and FBI blazed yellow on the front.

"Ah, fuck," Baker grunts, but Stockton makes a very different sound -- a low snarl deep in his chest, and Baker knows immediately what he's going to do.

"Stock, no!" he yells, but it's already too late -- Stock's reaching into his coat, reaching for the Beretta he always carries on these little trips just in case a toy tries to run.

"Gun!" someone shouts, and the air erupts next to Baker's head as his brother falls backwards, his hand still inside his coat. Clouds of snow explode upwards, and then Baker's mouth and nostrils are filled with stinging, gritty snow as he's tackled to the ground and someone kneels on his back. More people are shouting, barking orders into collar mikes, calling for hot packs, blankets, to bring the ambulance in closer. Baker gasps as his head is wrenched upwards; someone informs him he has the right to remain silent, and if he knows what's good for him he'll do just that. Baker ignores the cop and instead stares through tearing eyes at a strange sight.

A tall guy, bareheaded in the cold, snowflakes melting in his close-cropped hair, stares back. He's standing next to bar-guy, who's been cut loose from the tree and is lying on the ground, more snow falling onto his upturned face. But that's not what's so strange.

The tall guy has a cane. A cane, out here in the middle of the woods. Baker's still pondering this when he's pulled roughly to his feet and escorted to the back seat of a police car.

"Hey, I remember you!" Baker exclaims. "You were at the ... you were there in the woods." He sits down, leans on his elbows and rests his manacled hands on the top of the cheap plastic conference table. "You had a cane then."

"Still do," the guy says. "Just not in here." He takes his own seat across the table, but leans backwards, away from the table's edge. He's got a couple of bottled waters, and he sets them down on the plastic. "I'm surprised you remember. There was ... a lot going on."

Baker shrugs. "Well, Stockton and I tried to keep the noise down, but ... "

The guy just stares at him.

"So," Baker says at last. "Who are you, and what brings you to this fine penal institution?"

The guy stares at him a moment more, then looks away. "I'm Greg House," he says. "I'm a friend of Doctor James Wilson."

"Doctor ... oh, yeah! Bar-guy!"

"Bar-guy?"

Baker smiles. "Where we took him from. But you knew that, didn't you?" He doesn't wait for an answer. "Your friend's famous now," he observes. "Only person to ever see the faces of the Tree-Hugger Killers and live."

"Yeah," Mr. House says dryly. "He feels really lucky."

Baker snorts out a laugh. "So how's bar-- Doctor Wilson doing?"

Instead of answering right away, Mr. House reaches into his jacket pocket. Baker watches curiously as a red and black packet of beef jerky and a package of bright orange peanut butter crackers emerge.

"Long drive out here," Mr. House says. "I missed lunch, and this stuff was all they had in the machine." He shoves the beef jerky across the table. "Want some?"

Baker looks at him for a minute, but the guy's already tearing open the pack of crackers.

"I heard those things have salmonella," Baker says.

"I'll take my chances," Mr. House mumbles. He's already stuffed one of the crackers in his mouth and is chomping away. Baker shrugs again and picks up the beef jerky.

The dried beef is salty and spicy, and he gestures towards the bottled waters.

"You gonna share one of those too?"

Mr. House makes a muffled noise that sounds like "sure;" he pushes one of the bottles forward, and Baker quickly unscrews the cap and takes a long draft to wash down the dry meat. The water's got kind of a chalky taste, and he glances at the label. No wonder -- it's one of those fancy mineralized drinks, supposed to be good for your immune system. He puts it down and slides another piece of jerky from the packet.

"Hmghh," he says, talking as he chews the tough strip, "you din't answer my other quest'ns."

Mr. House takes a long drink from his own water.

"I wanted to see the man who was about to kill my friend," he says. "And not that you care, because I don't believe for a minute you do, Doctor Wilson is recovering. Slowly." Those icy blue eyes fix on Baker again. "He's had to give up his practice," he says. "Doesn't leave the apartment for days at a time. Has nightmares, wakes up screaming."

Baker takes another drink of water, cocks his head.

"Nightmares. And you know this ... "

"We live together."

Oh. Baker sees it now. He nods.

"Okay, you're right," he says. "I don't care. But I can respect your wanting to see me."

"You should be dead," Mr. House says, as if Baker hasn't said anything. "Like your brother." He looks at his orange-dusted fingers, then back at Baker. "How many men did you kill?"

Baker knows it's another rhetorical question, but he answers anyway.

"Seventeen."

"And all in non-death penalty states," Mr. House murmurs. "Smart."

"That part was Stockton's idea," Baker admits. "Course, now he's dead anyway. Kind of ironic if you think about it."

Mr. House looks at him silently, then pushes his chair away from the table.

"Aw," Baker says. "Leaving so soon? You just got here." He flexes his hands and smiles a little as he sees Mr. House's gaze drawn inexorably to them. "Don't you want to hear any of the details? How your boyfriend -- "

"Nope," Mr. House says crisply. "Got another long drive back and I've seen what I came to see." He stands up, leaving the unfinished pack of crackers on the table. He nods towards Baker's water. "You mind finishing that?" he says. "I recycle."

The river House drives over doesn't have a name that he can see, and he thinks for a moment about stopping, walking down to the water's edge and tossing in the plastic bottle. Let the current carry it to the ocean.

He won't, though. Too much of a chance the bottle would get hung up somewhere, and he doesn't want even the most microscopic trace of what was in the bottle to make it into the watershed. He opens the window anyway, and takes a deep breath of clean Vermont air.

Best to stick to his original plan -- toss the bottle in the grill when he gets home, watch it melt into a congealed puddle of polycarbonate goo. Scrape it out and throw it away.

Then, and only then, will he tell Wilson what he's done.

~ fin