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To Live Is To Die
by promisesyouwillnevermake
I used to be able to hear him coming from a mile away. My ears had tuned ever so finely to his unearthly rhythm of walking. I could hear it as he lifted the cane from the ground and slammed in down in another step. He could well have been in my head for all I knew. I didn't try to look busy anymore, when I knew he was on his way. I would end up stopping everything just to hear him speak. It's not my fault. I'm not as weak as you think. If you had those tortured blue eyes looking you over with such fierceness, you wouldn't think twice before succumbing to them. I gave in every time, and I hate it.
His eyes had the hold on my body, and my expressions, but his voice, the voice that was so tough and intimidating, had hold of my heart. I can't remember a day where I wasn't left faint-hearted from a single conversation, or even a simple sentence he'd said to me. He'd made my day, every day, leaving me breathless and yearning for more.
I can remember how panicked he was the day I told him I wanted him. It was out of the blue, and I never blamed him for the way he reacted. When I had said those words, I had opened a floodgate for every single emotion he had held back before. Every feeling he had ever felt came rushing over him, in one monumental explosion.
House and I had been standing on my office balcony. It was raining and to this day I still don't know why we were out there. It was late, later then we thought it was. He was leaning over the side like he often did for this was a somewhat comfortable position for him. I stood beside him, watching the space between us carefully, watching it increase or decrease whenever one of us moved. House would lose his footing sometimes, and we would end up far apart for a moment, but we would draw closer again.
There were no signs for him, and certainly no warnings. I was still his best friend. Nothing had changed in his mind. For years I had hid my infatuation for him. I knew it wasn't love. I could never love another man that way. I just wanted to know the feeling of him touching me. I wanted to know the feeling of his razor-sharp stubble on my face, leaving me red and raw. I wanted to brush my hand across his exposed chest. I wanted to place my hand on his scar and touch what he missed most of all. I wanted to be inside of him and him inside of me. I wanted to feel connected.
I was soaking wet from the rain, which grew harder and harder as it fell straight down onto us. He had saved his new jacket from becoming too wet by taking it off and throwing it inside my office. It only took seconds until his light blue shirt was completely soaked through. There was no evidence of an undershirt, just the contours of his body showing through. I couldn't take it anymore. I thought that this was the moment I had been waiting for.
I whispered it softly at first. He didn't hear me; he was busy listening to the rhythm of the rain. I said it again, louder this time. He stood up, and I noticed how he inched away from me very slowly. As if I wouldn't notice. But I could see him give in quickly to this temptation as he came forward his eyes searching me. I don't know what he was searching for.
I kissed him then, and out of his own curiosity, he kissed me back. It was not as special as I thought it would be. He barely touched my lips at all before he pulled away. He through his hands up in the air and walked away from me, cursing the sky as if I he was yelling at God himself. He left his cane outside and his jacket in my office. I could still hear him swearing through the odd groan of pain. And I could tell he wasn't about to come back for anything.
That was the last time I saw him. He never came back to work, and never told anyone why, but as I said, I don't blame him. And everything has changed for me. I am still James Wilson, and I know he is still Greg House, but I can't bring myself to do anything at all. Everything reminds me of him. And I don't love him. But I still lust for him, and pray for his company.
I wear his jacket around my apartment every night, and hold his cane when I feel especially lonely. His Vicodin bottle is still in the left pocket, half full. In the right pocket, a list of B-movies he wanted us to watch that weekend, and a few other odds and ends. I can never bring myself to wash it, or remove anything from the pockets. I just wear it. I sit on my couch, in the dark, in his favorite blue jacket, gripping his cane, hoping desperately that one day, he'll want them back, and come looking for me.
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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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