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The Truth is All in How you Look at It
by Gena Fisher
The Truth is All in How you Look at It
James Wilson stands at the window, watching as Cameron climbs into her car and drives away. Behind him House has taken a seat at the piano and the silky strains of Moon River drift lazily by him. He can see his own reflection in the glass and for the first time he wonders just what it is about him that people trust so much. He can't trust himself, how does he inspire others to abandon their fears and believe in the things he tells them? His gaze shifts and he stares at the reflection just behind his own. House trusts him. That knowledge makes him turn away from the window and move to the couch. He settles, lifting his feet onto the coffee table and slouching down so that his tie scrunches up on his chest. House keeps playing and Wilson watches him.
He likes to watch House play his piano. There is something so strong and elegant about him, in the way his hands caress the keys, the way he shifts his body as the rhythm flows through him. Wilson smiles as the music changes and strains of Someone to Watch Over Me fill the dim room. He knows House knew he was watching him and this is a subtle way of telling him to cool it, but Wilson isn't about to. He eyes the faded cotton t-shirt House wears as it stretches across his shoulders with his movements. He can see a flash of pale skin as House uses his left foot on the piano's pedals. The music drips over them, spreading layer upon layer of intimacy between them.
"Why did you lie to her?" He asks softly, his words subtle harmony to the music.
"I never lie," House responds.
The piano continues like a third person in their conversation, a person blithely unaware of the words unspoken. James smiles, wishing he had a glass of whiskey so that he could swirl it around like some actor in an old movie, maybe blow a thick stream of smoke towards the ceiling and laugh cynically. Instead he settles for smoothing his tie flat and asking, "What do you see when you look at me? Am I just a bridge to the past, to the times we raced up the stairs to smoke on the roof?" House's hands never falter on the keys as he looks over his shoulder at Wilson. "You remember when we danced until dawn then climbed into bed with our girlfriends and the four of us made love until dusk?" This time the music stops but House doesn't turn around. "I'm trying to understand," Wilson says. "You might not lie but you omit the truth."
"The truth is overrated," House tells him.
"Do you like me, Greg?" House swings around on the bench, light gleams off the piano and catches in his eye. James holds his breath, but can't still the wild beating of his heart. "Do you like me?" he repeats.
"No," House says so quietly Wilson would have missed it if he hadn't been staring at him.
"You don't like me?"
House tilts his head to the side as if thinking. "No," he repeats and reaches for his cane, an act so innate to him it wrings a smile from Wilson. "I don't like you," House says again, levering himself upright and limping over so that he stands looking down at Wilson. Wilson doesn't meet his gaze, instead he trails one finger along the polished surface of the cane. There are small imperfections, nicks in the wood, and he remembers the first time House threw it at him. They don't fight often but when they do it's always dramatic. "Is fondling my cane meant to change my mind," House asks, "because -"
Wilson tightens his hold on the cane, using it to draw the other man closer. House lets himself be pulled into the "v" of Wilson's splayed legs. "That isn't what will change your mind," he promises and his hand wanders further up and to the left, brushing over the warmth he finds there. House sucks in a breath and his startling blue eyes sink closed. Wilson allows himself a satisfied chuckle. "How are you feeling about me now?"
"I think it's you doing the feeling," House gasps.
Wilson concedes the point, laughing as he stands up. They're nose to nose, well nose to chin since House is a couple of inches taller than he is, and he is forced to stretch so that their lips align. The kiss is light, he's not sure how to kiss another man, but something about the moment, the hurt he's grown use to seeing in House's eyes and his own loneliness pushes him to be gentle. It seems natural, this progression from co-workers to friends and now to something more. He'd learned the Secret Code to Greg House's heart, earning an exemption from his scathing sarcasm by the very act of sticking around when others couldn't. He can feel House trembling beneath his hand and whispers, "Want to take this into the bedroom?"
House opens eyes but doesn't say anything, just stares down at him with a look Wilson knows. And then, slowly, as if every movement is paid for with a piece of his soul, House wraps his left arm around Wilson's waist, and there's a clatter as the black cane falls from his right hand and it, too, sneaks into place around Wilson. The embrace is alien for the simple fact that it's so different than anything he's shared with Julie and the others. Their soft curves welcomed him, fitting into his arms with delicate precision and allowing him the heady feeling of being their protector, their hero. It's different with House, his upper body leanly muscled, his strength in sharp contrast to theirs, but it's nice, too. Wilson pulls back just enough to maneuver them around the couch and down the hall towards the bedroom. Greg leans on him, his limping gait making them both sway like drunken sailors but it's a moment that Wilson knows will be burned into his memory forever. He takes a deep breath, letting Greg's comforting scent fill him, memorizing how House's shifting weight presses on him with each step they take, and the how golden fingers of streetlight reach out as they pass the windows, gilding House's profile.
Once they reach the bedroom House seems to hesitate. Wilson's first instinct is to urge him forward but he waits. Like most of the rooms in House's apartment the lights are dim and he uses the opportunity to let his eyes adjust. The bed is huge and looks inviting with its masculine green duvet and crisp white sheets. Other than a dresser and nightstand the room is large and uncluttered and Wilson feels relieved there are no chintz patterns or frilly curtains to make him dizzy because he feels lightheaded enough as it is. "This might not be a good idea," House says suddenly.
"Why?"
For a moment House doesn't answer but Wilson feels a slight warming along the inside of his arm where it's across House's back. "That exchange of bodily fluids thing," he says, "it could involve vomit."
"Uh, okay" Wilson blinks, then frowns, his dark brows drawing together as he ponders the statement. "Will this involve distance or maybe quantity? Or is it an involuntary reaction to the thought of me naked?"
House manages a glare though the heat of embarrassment intensifies along his back. "The thought of you naked makes me a little nervous but not nauseous. It's just that the first time I brought anyone home - after what happened to me, we had problems." He pauses like he's trying to put a positive spin on what must have been a disaster. "She put her weight on my leg and - "
"Good thing I didn't spring for dinner tonight. Okay, careful it is," Wilson tells him, "now can we move this to the bed before we both fall down?" It isn't as much of a struggle as Wilson has feared it might be. House has a well practiced system for undressing and does it quickly; cane hooked on the nightstand, he unsnaps his jeans and slides them down before he sits to remove his shoes, socks, and shirts, then kick the jeans and undershorts off and leans back on his elbows, naked, and looking wanton in a way that makes Wilson's mouth go dry..
House gazes up at Wilson, who is still fully dressed, "Your turn." Wilson nods and reaches for his tie. "No," House growls, "the tie stays on." With shaking hands Wilson begins working on the buttons of his dress shirt. He can feel House's sharp eyes watching every move he makes and his fingers slip. "Slow down," he's ordered and forces himself to obey. Julie doesn't like undressing in front of him and has never asked him to strip for her so the sensation of unblinking scrutiny is a bit unnerving. He starts to pull the shirt off but it catches on his hand and realizes he's forgotten to unbutton one cuff. House doesn't comment, but he does reach for his pill bottle and shake out a Vicodin. Wilson fumbles a bit more. It's hard to make taking his socks off while standing sexy and he tries to remember if he's ever seen it done in a movie by Antonio Bandares or Orlando Bloom. Thinking about Orlando Bloom while standing in front of a naked Gregory House freaks him out and in the end he just does his best.
"Okay?" Wilson asks. The room is warm but the sight of House spread out before him like a long, lean banquet makes him shiver.
"Yes." He walks to the side of the bed and kneels on it, letting his gaze rake over House. He's known the man since before his illness, when House had been a dedicated athlete but even now House is in good shape; slender and lightly muscled, his arms are more developed from the extra work they do. Wilson touches his chest, tracing a line down from the flat plain of his sternum. House makes a low sound, half moan half curse and reaches for him. They come together without hesitation and Wilson wonders why he'd thought the embrace in the living room strange. They fit perfectly now, he thinks it must have been the clothing which was throwing them off. He strokes House's erection, and a crazy memory flits through his brain. He thinks back on all the nights they use to sit side by side at his house and listen to Julie babble about her charity work and how in the future he will be thinking of holding House's dick in his hand. His thoughts shatter when House returns the favor, those long, artistic fingers closing over his penis, dragging their erections together. They thrust against each other, soft gasps and harsh grunts counterpoint to the faint squeak coming from the box springs. Wilson takes care even in the heat of passion not to bump or knock against House's bad leg, the warning about vomit sticking in his mind. When they come it's at the same time, each man straining, clutching at the other so hard they leave marks.
Wilson stirs first, using an edge of the sheet to wipe them both clean then drawing the duvet up over them. House lies limp and damp, a smug expression on his face. "Don't stare at me," he orders without opening his eyes.
"But I find you endlessly fascinating," Wilson says.
"And I find you endlessly annoying."
"Yes, but do you like me?"
House sighs and rolls himself up onto his elbow. "How many times do I have to tell you," he asks, bending close and kissing the center of Wilson's chest. "I don't like you." Wilson pushes him back down, settling his head on House's shoulder and slinging an arm around his waist. He doesn't think about Cameron or the look on her face when House said the same words to her. Instead he closes his eyes and begins to drift off to sleep feeling at peace with the world. And for just a moment he thinks he hears a voice, words so faint they must be part of his dream. "I don't like you. I love you."
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of Fox Television, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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