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Title: Invasion of the Wilson Snatchers
Author: [ profile] serotonin_storm
Fandom: House
Rating: R
Pairing: House/Wilson
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Word Count: 3200 words
For: [ profile] lostwiginity. Without her help - well, I probably would still be watching television, thinking about how cool this would be to write.
Summary: "One simple, straightforward pat on the shoulder. This is the exact moment House develops the theory that Wilson has been replaced by pod people."

It starts innocently enough - just a pat on the shoulder. Nothing suspicious at all (not if you aren't House, anyway, to whom "nothing suspicious at all" is a laughable concept). One simple, straightforward pat on the shoulder.

This is the exact moment House develops the theory that Wilson has been replaced by pod people.

"Get a CT scan of her brain," he says to Foreman, passing the chart over as pod-Wilson's hand slips discreetly back to its side. "See if the little buggers are hiding. You, half and half," he barks at Thirteen, "biopsy the tumor." The four minions shuffle out, Kutner glancing back to give a small thumbs-up that smacks of comic book conventions and no action in high school. House sees no point in attempting to hide his pained expression as the door clicks shut.

"So," he says conversationally into the silence that falls. "Who are you and what have you done with Wilson?"

Bemusement, wariness and confusion battle for dominance over pod-Wilson's features. House is impressed by the convincing imitations it has of Wilson's various bitch faces. "I'm sorry," it says, with just that healthy dose of sarcasm and condescension, "I forgot to introduce myself. How rude of me. I'm James Wilson, head oncologist here at Princeton Plainsboro. We met through eleven years of mutual friendship, I don't know if you remember."

Impressive. But not quite impressive enough. "Nice try. I'm not buying it."

"What game are you playing, House?" asks pod-Wilson.

"No, what game are you playing," counters House, thrusting his cane into pod-Wilson's soft, pudgy stomach. "Replacing best friends like that, that's not very polite. Is there some sort intergalactic society I can complain to? You will be in so much trouble, mister." He pauses, reconsiders after a moment and adds, "Creature."

"Okay," it says, scrubbing a hand over its face, "that's it. How many Vicodin have you taken, House? Have you been dipping into that LSD stash again? How much damage have you done?"

"Don't try to turn this around on me. What are you on earth for? Domination? It's always domination."

"I - I," pod-Wilson splutters. Admittedly, it's very Wilson-like spluttering. Otherwise it'd just be annoying. "I didn't think it was possible for you to be more unhinged than usual, but obviously I was wrong. Is this some sort of test? If I play along and pretend I'm an alien hellbent on world domination, do I get a gold star?"

"I don't know," says House suspiciously. "Are you an alien hellbent on world domination?"

It points a finger at him, cocks its head slowly. "I'm leaving. I have a patient. We can play aliens kidnapped Wilson later. Don't act like this around Cuddy," it orders quickly and seriously, then mumbles something that sounds vaguely like, "get yourself fired, you jackass..." as it stalks out.

House, unconvinced, hooks his cane into the door jam and leans out after to call, "I'm watching you!"

Pod-Wilson shakes its head and keeps walking.


Between the CT scan and the MRI that's delaying the biopsy, Cuddy pokes her head in, face pinched, and asks incredulously, "Wilson's a pod person?" She crosses her arms just under her breasts, pushing them forward onto display in a way that made House's happy bits, well, happy, if he can ignore the truly hideous look she's giving him.

"You said it, not me," he says, clicking the power button on his PSP and waiting for the screen to blink to life. "Who told you? Foreman? I should've known he'd go to mommy right after the conference."

"When you call your team together to tell them your best friend - my head of oncology - has been replaced by aliens that want to take over the world, people tend to talk."

He shrugs, furiously presses buttons as he's attacked, tells her, "I figured they'd want to know there was an imposture in their midst."

"You're losing it, House. This fiasco better not put any patients at risk. The last thing I need to do is explain to the board why the head of diagnostics is melting aluminum foil hats onto his patients' heads."

"That's crazy," says House, affronted, and is blasted out of existence. "Aluminum hats don't work on pod people!"

"Losing it," she repeats.

House slides the PSP back onto his desk, level lost. "It's not touching any of my patients. No biopsy."

"Fifty thousand dollars in legal expenses," Cuddy says to herself as, eyes narrowed, she turns on her heel to leave his office. A reassuring mantra if he'd ever heard one. "Fifty thousand dollars."


"Why won't you let Wilson do the biopsy?" Foreman demands. House startles, nearly falling from his chair as he's thrust out of sleep and into consciousness.

There was a time a man could sleep in his office without constantly being interrupted by furious hospital workers.

"I don't know what they're teaching it on whatever planet it's crawled here from," he informs Foreman, blinking hard to clear his head. "It could be completely incompetent with surgical tools, and then who'll you be bitching at, me or it? We've got a crappy enough rep around here without pod people killing our patients. Can't we do it ourselves?"

The file slaps onto House's desk. Angrily. Probably because Foreman's imagining hitting him over the head with it. House knows that particular glint in Foreman's eyes. "We can't afford to delay this biopsy because you're playing juvenile games with Wilson! This girl is dying," Foreman says.

"Okay, I admit this may sound crazy - "

Foreman shakes his head. "Not indulging you," he sing-songs. "If you have to act like a four-year-old, find someone else to do the test."

"Or what? You'll go to Cuddy?" House asks, making a face.

Foreman considers. "Yes."


"We're not killing this patient," says Foreman firmly. He grabs the file back when it's clear that House has no intention of actually looking at it and strides into the conference room to talk to Kutner and Taub, who are sitting around with their thumbs up their asses, or doing crossword puzzles, or something equally useless. Whatever it is his employees do when they're not screwing up procedures.

At his desk, House sighs loudly and says to the empty room, "Why is everyone else getting the parting lines today?"

Then, blessedly uninterrupted, he goes back to his nap.


Pod-Wilson turns out to be just as annoying as the actual Wilson, and of at least adequate medical skills, if the lack of recent gruesome cancer related fuck-ups is anything to go by. Still. It followed him to lunch, waited for him after work - thankfully, he'd managed to ditch it - and now seems to see no issue in showing up at his apartment at all hours of the night.

And yes, nine o'clock is "all hours of the night," thanks very fucking much. His leg hurts. Something the real Wilson always seems to know. He's really beginning to dislike the thing, Wilson-like or not. It didn't even bother to bring pizza and beer, or at least a bag of chips.

Freeloading pod people. "I'm not letting you in here," he informs the one in his doorway.

"Let me guess," it sighs, "I'm still an alien."

"Pod person," corrects House.

"From another planet."

"Aren't they always?"

Pod-Wilson cocks one bushy, stolen eyebrow, says, "House. Let me in." Tries to get a foot in the door, which House blocks smoothly.

"Go get me beer. The real Wilson would get me beer."

It rolls its eyes. "I left my wallet at home, House."

"That's too bad," he tells it, insincerity thick. "I was all ready to let you in, too. Oh, well."

"For god's sake, House! If I promise to get the beer next time will you let me?"

He eyes it carefully. "I'm keeping Wilson to that. I assume you're bringing him back once you're done executing your nefarious plans?"

"Agh!" it yells unintelligently. Then it pauses, glances at the doors of House's neighbors guiltily. House grudgingly gives it a point for its performance. Either that, or Wilson's pod double is equally as little fun. House wouldn't be surprised.

Pretending to be Wilson probably sucks the life right out through your ears.

"Look, if I play along, will you just let me in already?" it asks finally, agitated, wringing its hands.

"Possibly." Any way he can get it to be honest with him is an advantage, even if it still won't admit that it isn't his friend.

"Fine," says pod-Wilson tightly. "I'm a pod person."


It snaps, "And what?"

"You have a promise to uphold."

It grits its teeth. "And the real Wilson will bring you beer. Maybe then you can explain to him why he's always the one to buy it."

House steps back, gestures with a grand swoop of his arm. "You may pass."

"How gracious of you," it says as it pushes around him.  "Your kind and chivalrous nature never fails to amaze me."

"I aim to please."  He turns, limps into the kitchen and leans on the fridge.  "Do pod people eat?"

"Shouldn't you know this?  It's your own insane, irrational theory," pod-Wilson snaps, rubbing the back of its neck.  House wonders if the skin there is soft and why he's never touched it before.

"You'll forgive me if I didn't have time to catch up on my Invasion of the Body Snatchers trivia," he says, trying to lead his thoughts elsewhere.  "I was too busy, well - not watching lame sci-fi movies.  I hope you understand.  Those sick people are so demanding.  So.  Do you eat?"

Visibly pained by the effort, pod-Wilson grits out, "Yes."  House zeros in on its mouth as it moves.  Wilson has a nice mouth; he's noticed before.

"See," says House as he turns away to open the fridge, "that's all you had to - to..."  He shakes his head, tries to clear it. 

Because suddenly, all he can think about is running his fingers down Wilson's - pod-Wilson's, he corrects himself - chest and ripping open its stolen conservative button-up, kissing the pasty, middle-aged flesh beneath.  Seriously - even the fridge looks like pod-Wilson's chest as he strokes his fingers over and over the smooth surface and -


"House, are you okay?" pod-Wilson asks, concerned.

"I, uh - Jesus Christ," he says, clutching his head, because it's getting worse with every single breath.  Currently he's seeing pod-Wilson stretched naked across his bed, arms above its head, legs spread...  There is something seriously wrong with him, because even inside his head, he can't think of a joke to make the imaginary, sexed-up pod-Wilson uncomfortable, and that is just wrong.  He's too preoccupied by the desire to bite his way from its neck to its stomach, down to its -


"Huh?" says House eloquently.

"Are you okay?" pod-Wilson repeats.  House follows the line of its neck with his eyes.  "You're staring at me."

"I can't, uh."  He stops speaking, tries not to breathe, and the lusty fog crowding his mind dissipates slightly so that he can think.  He grasps at all the knowledge of pod people or any alien life form he can possibly muster up while attempting not to pass out.  "Did you turn on the pheromones?" he asks finally through clenched teeth.  The less air, the better.  Or he might do something extremely moronic, like jump a Wilson impostor. 

Said impostor blinks stupidly at him.  "Come again?"

"Pheromones!" hisses House.

"Pheromones, what..." pod-Wilson begins, question trailing into silence as its eyes wander down House's body and encounter the problem.  "Oh.  I get it now.  It's easier to hide behind crazy accusations of me being replaced by pod people who send out sex hormones just to screw with you than to admit that maybe - just maybe - you might have a little crush on me."  It smiles crookedly.  "That's mature of you, House."

"I don't - I don't," House says, but he never gets any further, because in his fantasy, pod-Wilson's getting on its knees again, and everything is scrambled because suddenly it's happening in reality as well (dear god, his life is so screwed up.  Maybe Wilson's right, maybe he is hiding behind crazy theories).  It reaches for his zipper, and instantly House sees how stupid he's being. 

This is Wilson, the actual thrice divorced, condescending Wilson that he might possibly look forward to seeing every day.  And admittedly he doesn't usually imagine pounding Wilson into his ergonomic mattress, but there's a first time for everything.  Especially his dick in Wilson's mouth.

Pod people.  Christ, what was he thinking?

He wonders this again two hours later when he wakes up alone in bed with a curiously tight-fitting gray t-shirt on, red text stretched across his chest. He plucks at it, pulls until he can read the words, "I Got Seduced By a Pod Person and All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt". With a groan, he rolls over and goes back to sleep.

Figures.  Damn pod people.


There's little in life that gets to House more than thunderous banging on the door of his apartment at four o'clock in the morning and a Vicodin bottle not within reach of his bed.

Except possibly the fact that he's still wearing that stupid t-shirt.

There is a Wilson-shaped form hovering in his doorway when he finally stumbles down the hall and yanks open the door, but it's too early for pod people. It's too early for damage control, or evil plans, or even completely awesome sex. In fact, it's too early for pretty much anything but five more hours of sleep. He moves to slam the door in pod-Wilson's face.

Then does a double take.

"Please tell me that's the real you," he says, eyeing the little pink biker shorts and distinctly feminine tank top that Wilson is hanging out of, "so I can never let you live this down."

"House - "


"Tell me you didn't sleep with it," Wilson implores.

"Define "sleep with". Does this involve actual rest? Because it was more of an orgasm and run type of pod person."

"House!" Wilson howls. Definitely the real Wilson. Only one being on earth or any other planet can hit that exact note of whining righteousness.

"What? You think I limit my philandering to this species? Or things that don't look like you? Do you know me at all?" he asks.

"It was trying to steal your sperm!"

"And decided it would be fun to crawl into your skin to do it?"

"They, uh, they mistook me for your mate."

The corners of his mouth twitch into a smirk even despite the lack of morning caffeine. Wilson clasps his hands together tightly. "Is this ensemble part of your usual leisure wear? Because then I can't blame them for assuming."

"House, I woke up naked in a ditch - "

"Next to a blind women's clothing store, of course."

" - and the only person around was a biker riding by. She fainted at the sight of a naked, groaning man crawling out of the ditch." He shifts back and forth from one foot to the other nervously.

"Wait." House holds up a hand. This is too good. "So you stole her clothes? The situation is more dire than I'd expected. The pod people have corrupted you. Does this mean I need a new best friend?"

"I was disoriented! I called 911 on her cellphone right after."

"I'm thinking Foreman. Cameron would want to talk about our feelings, and I know Chase has been dying to get those manicures. I just don't like people messing with my cuticles, you know?"

Wilson reaches out and slaps House's shoulder. Which is just - weird, that's what it is. "What is with the touching," House demands, watching Wilson twitch and tap his hand against his leg erratically, "and the fidgeting? Ants in your pants? They'd better be from this planet. We wouldn't want to damage the ecosystem."

"I can't help it," Wilson keens. "You must - you must still have some of the pheromone on you!"

"You think if I give them more sperm, they'll let me have some of the stuff in a bottle? I'd be a literal babe magnet. I'll have to fight 'em off with this." He brandishes his cane and swings playfully. The sound Wilson makes closely resembles of dulcet tones of choking on one's tongue.

"House, you don't know what they plan to do with it!"

"No." House squints. "But you do. How is that? They just told you? That's not what they taught me in Taking Over the World 101. Should I retake the course?"

Wilson groans, massaging the back of his neck. "They were very polite when they took me. It wasn't until they knocked me out and left me in the ditch that I was really worried."

"Of course," says House. "Because people get kidnapped by aliens every day. Par for the course. I played golf with the Martians last Wednesday."

"Ha ha," says Wilson sarcastically. 

"Seriously.  We went skinny dipping after."

Shooting him a dirty look, Wilson stumbles forward and around House, slumps onto the couch and says, "House, to say that I've had a bad day is the understatement of a century.  Can I please just sit here and relax?" 

And he does look like shit, all dark circles and bloodshot eyes, so House isn't too ashamed to give him a break this once.  He shuffles after, cradling his bad leg, and sits as well.  "Depends.  What am I waiting for here?  Aliens using my sperm in some sort of plot to destroy humanity is not usually one of my incentives to relax."

Wilson says, "I don't know, House.  But I'd watch out for ill tempered, blue eyed babies who seek world domination for a while."

"Creepy," proclaims House with a shudder.

"Mmhm," his friend agrees.

"Just how long are you going to be staring at my crotch, by the way?  Just as a reference."  House pushes a thumb in the direction of the bathroom.  "Me and my dick may need to make a pee schedule if you want to keep it up."

"Excuse me if it's difficult not to.  You're pantsless," Wilson points out dryly.

"Well, you're underwearless. And biker shorts designed for a woman three inches and thirty pounds smaller than you don't exactly leave much to the imagination, package-wise. Besides, Pod-you seemed to enjoy my pantlessness.  You should take a page from its book."

"So..."  Wilson shifts, stares hard at his hands in his lap.  "Was it... good?"

"The raunchy, interspecies sex, you mean?" House asks.

"I, uh.  Yes," says Wilson.

"Why don't you see for yourself?  Repeat performance."

Cheeks flushing red, Wilson glances towards the door tensely.  "Actually, I - " he starts, and trails off with a sigh.  "What the hell," he says, and tugs the ugly, flowery top over his head.  His hands find their way to the front of House's underwear and set up camp. "I've had a very bad day."


Thus, it doesn't end innocently at all, but at least Wilson is never replaced by pod people again.  And if there's just a few more cranky, sardonic geniuses stirring things up a couple decades down the line - well, the world isn't that much worse for wear.
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