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Gross
by catseatbugs
He finds House with Coma Patient and a vague guilt wells up in him when he can't recall the patient's name. House is sitting with his legs stretched out like a doll that only bends at the waist, a sandwich in his hand and Wilson can see that this is a good day. On bad days Wilson wants to hurt House, hurt House for hurting himself, hurt House for making Wilson want to hurt him. They sit, the electric hums and flares of dramatic music washing over them, comfortable because they're familiar, or maybe vice versa. Wilson waits, patience outdone only by the Coma Patient.
House, eyes trained on the television, takes a bite of the sandwich. Wilson watches. splutters, face contorted in an impressive display of disgust. "This is terrible."
Wilson is awash with smug amusement. "I know. Julie packed it."
House scoffs, and takes another bite of the over salted sardine-mushroom-avocado-something on rye; Wilson thinks it's just to be contrary. Wilson is watching House chew, the subtle movement of his jaw behind the stretch of stubbled skin, and Wilson sees that he has a smear of that disgusting, drippy orange sauce, caught right in the corner of his mouth and Wilson, Wilson with the dying patients with yellow play-dough skin on bones, Wilson who has been around to smell the inside of a stomach, is thinking, Gross.
Absurdly, this is when Wilson realizes he wants to touch him. He wants to run his palms over the bony knobs of his elbow. He wants to touch just behind his ear where the hair doesn't grow and he wants to trace the curve of House's ear with the tips of his fingers.
House is looking at him now, with dissecting eyes, with the orange drippy smear in the corner of his chapped mouth. "That's why she hasn't left you yet. She's punishing you with sandwiches."
Wilson doesn't relent with a smile, doesn't even understand at first, watching the slow globular trail of the sauce. `Who?' he wants to ask, the memory of Julie coming at a distance, the shrill tone she'd used the last time they spoke, how many days ago? He looks away, at the t.v., but he can feel House watching him even then and it makes the hairs on his arms raise. Wilson is looking at the woman on the screen; she's sobbing sobbing sobbing perfect quiet sobs, her face pressed into the handsome doctor's shoulder, and he puts an arm around her, careful not to touch her perfect perfect hair. That's me, Wilson is thinking. The doctor is letting her wrap her slender little arms around his waist as she sobs and sobs. Why can't he just say no? Wilson is wondering.
"No one's making you eat it," he tells the doctor on t.v., he tells House, House with his long legs stretching out next to his not quite touching and House whose tongue is out and running across his lips and Wilson is staring again, and wanting. Wanting to step on House's foot just to feel its warm shape with his own, wanting to pinch the bridge of House's nose until his fingertips have memorized the distance.
"No," House agrees, "It's the principle of the matter; you know I'm a stickler for principles." He tosses the sandwich into the garbage bin where it thumps dully, and leans back in the chair, nostrils flaring with inhalation.
Wilson watches, imaging the route of the air, House's lungs inflating. Wilson's mind knows House, able to keep up with twists and turns of the internal labyrinth, and Wilson's eyes know House, his shape so familiar that Wilson realizes he'd stopped looking before now, and his ears know the ssft ssft tunk of his three legged gait, the gravel in his voice, but it's not enough, Wilson is thinking. He wants to know House with his fingers, his mouth, his skin. He wants to know if the front of House's teeth are smooth like his own.
"You're staring," House is saying, House who always has to know know know and always finds out, House with dangerous interest in his face and that disgusting orange smear right on the corner of his mouth. Wilson wants to laugh, wants to make House laugh at the irony that House wants to know everything but all Wilson needs to know is House.
"You've got some of my sandwich on your face," Wilson says.
House's fingers outlined in dry heat on his wrist (Wilson's pulse is up, the final telling symptom) and House is looking straight into him, certain, because House is always completely certain, even when he's wrong, and Wilson doesn't think there's any room for doubt in him.
"You want it back?" House asks, the sauce at the edge of his smile crusty and orange like a fake tan.
It tastes like orange peel and mouthwash, but Wilson can't say no.
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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 NBC/Universal, 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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