| |
What wasn't secret
by thinlysliced
It was never a secret; it's just that you happen never to have told anyone. House was fascinating, arresting, and for a time you even thought you loved him. But then he wasn't in pain any more and you realised that he'd been right. You were ashamed at how adolescent you'd been, how easy to read. Once he didn't need so much saving he just didn't pique your interest in the same way. Then, when the pain returned and he was the same again, you had finally stepped out of that clich.
Chase was... once, and high - just a flash of embarrassment. But House, that had been drawn out, obvious to everyone, slightly pathetic even. Which was probably the reason you'd never said anything about this, the secret you weren't trying to keep, but which just hadn't come out.
*
It's an unseasonably hot day. The sky is blue and empty and so bright it is painful to look at for too long. You go for a brief run after you wake up, thankful that you have no patients at the moment and can escape properly from the hospital this weekend. Stepping out of the shower you can feel the hot, moist air of the room on your skin and you can't help thinking of what you haven't told anyone. You're almost instantly sweating again from the heat. Still, you need groceries; you'll have to venture out.
The shops are crowded, noisy. You get more and more petulant as you work your way down your list, constantly stopping to mop traces of sweat from your face. Frustration is beginning to needle you, because you just want to get out of this bright, humid, din, but you don't want to be back at your flat so quickly - waiting the day out alone.
Five minutes later and the desire for quiet has won out and you're heaving your packets to the car. Just as you pack them into the trunk, though, you see the dark little coffee shop across the parking lot. You might as well have brunch; nothing you've bought needs the fridge right away.
The coffee shop obviously hasn't been redecorated in the last 15 years, but you kind of like that. It's cool and dim, and almost empty. Except, there near the back, facing away from you, is James - Wilson, you instantly correct yourself. You would have stood there debating whether to leave if the waitress wasn't already showing you to a table. You realise quickly that you'll only look foolish if you don't go over and say hi, if you try to pretend you haven't seen him, so you nod your head towards him to the waitress as you walk over, not even sure yourself exactly what you expect her to glean from the gesture.
"Dr Wilson," you exclaim brightly. "Having breakfast?" You look down at his half-eaten eggs on toast and kick yourself.
"Cameron." He smiles up at you, rubbing the back of his neck, almost nervously. He's wearing a t-shirt and jeans; you don't think you've ever seen him out of a suit. "Ah, join me?"
You hesitate a moment, before nodding, wishing you had that sense you assume other people do that would tell you whether you're pissing him off by interrupting his solitude or offering a welcome distraction. The menu immediately absorbs all your attention, in fact you read the specials section over for more than a minute without taking any of it in.
"The eggs are... great," he says helpfully, with just a trace of wince that makes you think perhaps he's as incapable of decent conversation right now as you are, which relaxes you a little. You cast around for a topic.
"Where's House?" The moment you ask it you wonder what possessed you.
Wilson glances down at the table for just a second before he replies. "Probably fast asleep still." He strains to look cheerful. It was just that you almost never see Wilson without House being there. Catching him alone is unexpected; the question just naturally popped into your head, and out your mouth.
It's strange. Three wives, so many nurses; he hasn't managed to keep his relationships going, but what has House had? Stacy, years of pining and now just the Vicodin. Yet it's clear that your question has left the same thought in both your minds. Despite all his charm, no matter how easily women fall in love with him, somehow he feels that House still eclipses him. Women adore Wilson, but they're obsessed with House, burned up by him. His wives had uniformly hated House, but that was because they knew, though no-one voiced the thought, that his friendship always meant more to Wilson than their vows. House had worked his way even into his marriages, pried them apart.
But you - now you are oddly free. You see his genius, and his harsh flirting still inevitably makes you blush, but you don't need him any more. You don't need to fix him. Finally, you don't want someone you have to fix. An edge of pity has crept in, for what he can never overcome, though you only dare so much as think of it when you're at home and alone. You'd never shame him with sympathy, but it's there nonetheless, and it's freed you from House.
You can't explain it all, but you have to say something. "It's good to see you on your own," you say to Wilson, your lips curling into a smile.
He starts slightly and shoots you a momentarily puzzled look, then smiles back. You haven't even ordered yet, you realise, and Wilson's eggs are congealing nastily. You're about to motion the waitress over when he gently takes your menu out of your hand and puts it back on the table. "Truth is, I make even better eggs myself. Just don't like cooking on my own."
*
Wilson's apartment is clean and conservative, much as you would have expected. But there are touches here and there that surprise you. "This is a beautiful Rothko," you call from the lounge as he scrambles eggs in the kitchen.
"Yeah," is all he says, but you can hear in his voice that he's smiling to himself. You hadn't quite expected him to actually make the eggs, but neither of you have really acknowledged that this might be anything more than breakfast. He'd walked over to the coffee shop so you drove him the few blocks back to his place and you couldn't stop trying to glance surreptitiously over at him on the way. Once you caught him looking back at you, but you both looked quickly at the road again. You found yourself studying his lips as he opened his door, and at that moment you knew you no longer cared whether your groceries made it to the freezer in time.
"Brunch's up." He comes through bearing two plates of gloriously light, fluffy-looking scrambled eggs. They're even better than they look and you almost close your eyes in pleasure at the taste. While you eat, Wilson looks appraisingly at you and you start to lose your appetite. You've hardly spoken to each other since you found him in the restaurant, but neither of you wants to talk this morning. His dark eyes stay on your face as he pushes his plate away from him across the coffee table, and a moment of stillness hangs between you; then you inhale sharply as you feel his fingers on the inside of your wrist.
For the first time Wilson doesn't look vulnerable to you, sitting there inches away on the sofa. That same soft flick of hair hangs across his forehead; his cheek is still the same smooth length of skin that you've wanted to run your fingers down for months now, but his gaze is suddenly harder and it sends a shot of heat through your body.
"Wilson," you breathe out slowly. He doesn't reply, just carries on running the backs of his fingers along the tender skin of your arm. Tentatively, you reach up and touch his face, feeling that skin you've been longing to - satisfying that one small need, only to create a great burning desire in your chest.
After minutes that seem like hours and seconds at the same time he breaks the contact with your arm and undoes the top button of your shirt. He slides one hand in under your shirt and hooks his thumb beneath your bra-strap, running it slowly up to your shoulder, then down again just to the top of your breast. "Wilson," you breathe out quietly again.
"James; James," he whispers urgently into your ear, as he leans in against you and kisses your earlobe, then trails his lips down your neck.
"James," you repeat, your hand slipping back from his face into his hair. He straightens up a little and undoes another button, then goes back to your neck, kissing it gently, maddeningly. One more button... back to your neck, his lips skimming your skin.
Suddenly, you can't stand it any more. You both fall back on the couch together as you grab the base of his neck and pull him onto you, his lips finding yours, tongue sliding possessively into your mouth. The heat in your chest, snaking down your body now, only gets more insistent as you kiss him. You pull his t-shirt roughly over his head and you can't help the breath catching in your throat as you look at him. Strong. Hard. He's unbuttoning you quickly now, fumbling in his haste to get your shirt off you.
Wilson pulls your shirt off and stops a moment, his lips parted, and he blinks slowly. "Allison, you're beautiful." The words are simple and unoriginal, but just hearing the way he says your name makes you feel that you're burning up inside. You arch back and he slips his hands behind you and undoes your bra, slipping it off you, and dips his head to lick at a nipple; first one, then the other. He bites gently and moves his mouth over your breast, then moves up to your collarbone, hands grasping your sides firmly and pulling you close, so he can suck at you harder until he's clearly marked you. Pressing the full length of your body against his you can feel that he's already completely hard. You kiss at his neck, but a second later it's out of reach as he lowers his head again to lick up from the base of your breast to the peak, before sucking the hard nipple into his mouth and you're gasping and whimpering .
His back is long and smooth under your hands, as they slide down into the hollow and over the perfect rise of his ass. Your fingers are insistent now, unbuttoning him and pulling his jeans down, taking his boxers with them, and he puts his hands on either side of you so they can take his weigh as he shakes his pants clear of his feet. He drops down onto his forearms, leaning to his right so that he can free his left hand to push your skirt up and then slide it back around your body to cup your ass in his hand, pulling you even harder against his cock.
You can feel that you're completely wet and slick, as drops his hand to your thong, pulls it to the side and pushes two fingers into you, his thumb softly working over your clit.
"James, James... oh, Christ."
It feels almost unbearably good, but it still can't relieve the burning heat that's pulsing through your body and into your cunt. With one hand you reach down to stroke him, the other clasps his wrist and guides his hand from between your legs, pulling it up to your lips; your tongue darting out to lap at his fingers and taste yourself. His pupils dilate even further, a low moan coming from the back of his throat.
He scrabbles with his hand on the carpet next to the couch, searching for his jeans. There's a quick sigh of relief as he finds the condom still there in his back pocket and he puts it on the coffee table. All his weight is on his elbows now as he raises his hands to your neck to hold it as he kisses and sucks at it, marking you there too. The heat's overtaking you now, and you swipe the little wrapper off the table, rip it open and push him up a little so you can reach down and roll the latex down the length of him. You guide him in, and he arches his back, moaning your name into your ear as he pushes up, fast and hard, until his cock is all the way inside you.
Wilson kisses you and bites at your lower lip, pulling away and then thrusting back into you. You're moving rhythmically against him now, your head thrown back and eyes closed against the force of the sensation. His muscles are tense beneath your hands; you dig your nails into his back as you bite his shoulder, then run your tongue over his smooth, firm skin to moan with pleasure against his neck. You can see his hands clenching; he's trying to stave off the inevitable, but you're so wet and tight around his cock and he's so turned on that he can't help himself. His breathing is fast and ragged, you can feel him tensing up even more, and then he's coming hard inside you.
"Oh, Jesus, god, Allison!" You tighten your muscles around him to draw out the sensation and he shudders into you again.
He lies still for a moment, breathing heavily, before he rolls off and settles next to you, slipping the condom off as he moves. "Baby," you can just hear him whisper into your hair, and the endearment surprises you and leaves you even more desperate for release. Wilson lies there, looking at your profile, the arm beneath him curving round to stroke your hair back from your forehead.
You let out a shaking, thankful sigh when you realise where his other hand is going. He pulls your panties right off now, and replaces his fingers inside you, still carefully rubbing your clit at the same time. His fingers are moving in deeper and curling round to press on your g-spot, thumb sliding down the full length of your folds and back up to your clit. You're already poised on the edge; it just takes one last stroke and you're clenching, spasming around his fingers and you can feel your orgasm run up from between your legs and engulf your body. Your head is turned to the side and you look right into his eyes as you come.
Wilson runs his fingers slowly in and out of you once more, then draws them back to hold your head in both his hands and kiss you.
Please post a comment on this story.
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.
|
|
|