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Tell Me (or, Denial)
by nem
Title:Tell Me (or, Denial)
Author:nem
Rating:over thirteen
Disclaimer:does this honestly read like i might be making money off it? because, really.
Summary: "He wasn't thinking about anything, anyone, in particular. No, really he wasn't-really."
He wasn't thinking about anything, anyone, in particular. No, really he wasn't-really.
He gave his balls a squeeze and scraped his thumbnail up the ventral surface of his penis, all the way up to the head, where he encountered a bead of pre-come and spread it around before resuming the pace he'd set.
And, definitely, at that point he was not remembering the way Wilson had looked, sitting at his desk, head in his hands, when House had entered through the balcony door.
He wasn't thinking about the look in Wilson's eyes, that one, the one that said something small and innocent-looking had just died or been told it was dying soon, that pleaded 'Please, I don't want to feel this anymore.'
House had certainly not considered, even for the briefest moment, reaching out to his friend, placing a hand on his shoulder, just to say 'I'm here, you're not alone.' And he hadn't immediately rejected the option because of the logical progression of events his mind automatically lined up after it, because he'd never contemplated it in the first place.
It was not embarrassment or confusion or fear that sent him right back to the door, Wilson asking after him, "What, that's it?"
"Just thought you'd like to buy me lunch. Doesn't look like you're in the mood," his mouth had supplied without much input from the rest of him before he rushed back to his office and out the other side, into the hall, down the hall.
That little encounter was not what had him jerking off in a stall like he was in fucking tenth grade.
House's solitude was interrupted by the sound of a man blowing his nose from the direction of the sinks. He tried to still his hand, but at this point it was an uphill battle. He would not win.
The man turned on a faucet, making more noise than was necessary, probably trying to pretend he didn't know what was going on a few feet away, to drown it out.
Really, he tried to stop. He actually managed to stifle a moan or two, but he was so close now, so close, oh god, yes, that was it, oh... "Jimmy," was the lone, quiet, throaty word to escape his lips as his guard sank a little in the moment of his climax.
The busy sounds from outside the stall abruptly stopped. It was hard for House to focus, to think, to breathe right then, but what sounded like Wilson-footsteps rushed to the door and fled into the hall. But he knew his hazy, lustful mind had supplied the Wilsonishness of the movement, that it couldn't really be him.
He sighed, shifting his weight from the wall of the stall, where he'd leaned it just a moment before when all his muscles went slack, back onto his own legs (all three of them) so he could arrange his clothing properly.
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About thirty seconds after he lowered himself into the chair behind his desk, Wilson's face appeared outside the door. He walked into the room, but only got about halfway across before he stopped.
House's first impression was that Wilson looked lost. Or, no...was that hurt? Bewilderment? Embarrassment? He chided himself for not knowing exactly which.
House's body stiffened. Damn, it really had been Wilson in the restroom. Which meant the look was most probably something more like anger or indignity.
Regardless, House asked, "What do you want?"
Wilson faltered, like maybe he'd forgotten about talking, about speech, like he was searching for the meaning of the words.
"I, uh, thought you were hungry." He began to recover. "What, passing up a chance for a free meal? Should I call the Vatican to report a miracle?"
The words were there, they were the right words, but the voice and the eyes and the furrowed brow were all wrong, they didn't match.
House just looked at him, trying to figure out whether he'd just lost his only friend or not.
"You sure?" House finally asked, very quietly, like he was afraid some passerby might hear him caring.
Wilson shifted uncomfortably, clearly conflicted as to his answer. After a long moment, he gave a 'what the hell' shrug and a single nod of his head, and House rose from his chair, limping toward the door.
He walked just past Wilson and stopped, waiting for his friend to follow. When he didn't, House turned slightly to face him, a little shocked by how close they were standing.
"Was that...were you. I mean, I heard, or I thought I...House? My name?" Wilson whispered so quietly that House had to strain to hear. He seemed to be addressing House's left hand, which hung idly at his side.
House knew this wasn't good. He could feel his stomach clenching first, then every muscle tensed, poised for 'fight or flight,' though absolutely not out of fear, not panic. He was most certainly not contemplating running for his life, so to speak, before Wilson could take away the only thing he had, the only thing that mattered.
Wilson had finally looked up, and House raised his eyes to meet his friend's, willing his heart to beat slower, to stop pounding. For one of the few times in his life, he knew, the things he was fighting so hard to keep inside, to keep quiet, were too powerful. He knew they were showing in his eyes, just a little bit, so he quickly averted his gaze.
But Wilson had seen nonetheless. He could tell by the way his breath hitched, so he gave in to his impulse, which was definitely not fueled by anxiety, and started for the door.
Before he had taken two steps, he felt an insistent hand on his arm and stopped.
"Tell me. Please," Wilson begged the back of his head.
"I can't." House tried to pull his arm away, but the hand's grip was firm, persistent. He had to get away, he couldn't have this conversation, not now. Not ever. It was a pivotal conversation, literally. From here, they would have to turn, one way or the other, before they could continue, and while the possibilities for a positive outcome were tempting (so tempting), he knew a negative one was much more likely. And it wouldn't be something they could recover from.
"I can't," he repeated, almost pleading with Wilson to just let him go, let it go before it became inescapable and the world was torn asunder, swallowing him whole.
"Greg." Wilson's tone had changed. His voice now managed to convey, in a single soft syllable, something like tenderness or lust or warmth. It was enough to snap House's head back around to see those eyes again.
When he did, Wilson's hand was there to catch it, to cradle it, the thumb brushing gently against the roughness on his cheek. House had very little time to consider what this meant before he was presented with much more immediate concerns in the form of an arm around his back and a moist, warm pressure, a mouth, seeking purchase and hips pressing against his own.
(I am not even going to attempt the smut that inevitably follows, so imagine with me a tender but insistent, at once needy and generous, exploration of bodies, in which they tell each other 'I love you' with their eyes and their fingertips and their moans, but no words are spoken [but not that sappy, I swear], until [again, inevitably] Cuddy comes by to cajole House into clinic duty but stops suddenly at the sight before her, eyebrows raised, and House finally answers Wilson's earlier question-"Yes?")
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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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