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Edison
by Or By The Sea
It was never supposed to happen like this.
No, that's not right; it was never supposed to happen at all.
She sure as hell hadn't intended *this* when she picked up the phone, and he couldn't have wanted it when they agreed on Moksha in Edison as a meeting place.
(Who the hell met in fucking Edison?)
He'd called and mentioned a detective, a lie, and Greg. He needed legal advice; she craved information. That was all. Simple, guiltless. She hadn't even bothered to lie to Mark about it.
(Not that she made a habit of lying to Mark. She had never been the type to lie directly; her sin was always that of omission.)
It was the lobster curry and the last glass of wine and he had always been a lightweight.
Years ago when the four of them went out together, she and Greg would gulp Maker's like there was no tomorrow, and Bonnie would sip the same glass of chardonnay all night, subtly taking the keys when he ordered that third beer.
James had ordered a fourth once, and after she'd batted Greg's hand away from her thigh in the car, he informed her that Wilson was having an affair. The fourth beer proved it. She'd disagreed because it was what he wanted and because they both loved to fight. Mostly, though, she fought because it scared the hell out of her. Such a simple thing, a fourth beer, and yet. And yet. A tiny deviation and he could see what the rest of the world was blind to. She never felt as vulnerable as she did in those moments.
(The next morning James was snoring on their couch, his wedding band resting on top of the last week's TV Guide.)
She wasn't sure how many he'd had tonight, but it was enough.
She'd had more than enough as well, and so the room key bit into her palm and his erection pressed into her back and even though he was speaking the only thing she could hear was Greg, smug and self assured.
("Wilson's about to tell Bonnie he's been ploughing Joyce from neurology.")
She moaned when his lips zeroed in on that spot below her ear, nipping in a way she'd long considered to be a patented Greg House move.
"Did he teach you that, or was it the other way around?"
He said nothing, and long forgotten jealousy flared up again. She hated Greg in that moment-- hated both of them. The look in Wilson's eyes betrayed him as well.
Their clothing couldn't find the floor fast enough.
"House would kill me if he ever found out," and it didn't matter which one of them was speaking.
(No, that's wrong. It was him, but she didn't want to admit that it turned her on.)
"This was fun." Sarcasm wafted out onto the balcony where she was sucking on the end of a cigarette. She'd forgotten, somehow, that none of his sweetness was real. James Wilson could be every bit as much a bastard as House. "We should do it again sometime."
Suddenly, the future was unfolding before her eyes. He would go home to House and she would go home to her husband and sometimes they'd call. There would be dinner and wine and another hotel room charged to his card. It would be easy and safe, jealousy and rage and hatred letting them rip each other apart. It would be hot and hard and angry, but it would never be *good.*
"Yes, we should."
(Who the hell met to fuck in Edison, anyway?)
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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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