| |
Resigned
by Lilah
"It's personal," Wilson repeated, gesturing wildly. House couldn't help grinning. Wilson was hilarious on amphetamines.
"I know your life sucks," House answered helpfully. "How personal can it be?"
"Very personal." Wilson went to the kitchen to get water, taking up House's mug to put in the sink while he was at it.
"Can't be that personal," House called, settling down on the couch. "Anyway, I thought it would get you laid."
Wilson's sweating face came quickly into view, his thunderstruck expression making House laugh to himself again. Strangely, he was in a good mood.
"What?" Wilson asked, though it came out much like shouting. Wilson on speed was decidedly different from usual. And that made him less than boring.
"Amphetamines," House stated calmly, lacing his fingers together behind his head and taking in the sight that was Wilson drinking water angrily as he stood in the doorway to the kitchen, glaring at him. "They increase your sex hormones. Arousal, interest--all gets augmented. Don't tell me you didn't notice," he whined. "That was half the point."
"The other half being that you wanted me to tell you I was on antidepressants?" Wilson said in a rush. "Or that you wanted to kill me?"
"So you did notice," House grinned again. God, what was the matter with him? He wondered hazily for a moment, but Wilson, still red-faced and panting, was too intriguing to ignore.
"I hit on a patient," he yelled. "I winked. At a woman who thought she had breast cancer. You--you you you--" he stuttered wildly. "I can't believe you did that!"
"Seriously?" House asked dubiously. "That's so something I would do." He raised his eyebrows inquisitively at Wilson. "You obviously agree; you figured it out on your own."
"Yes, well, my brain's moving at four times its normal speed," Wilson gritted out. "I had an advantage."
"See?" House encouraged. "Drugs are good for you."
"Obviously I've accepted that, or I wouldn't be on antidepressants," Wilson shot back.
They were silent for a moment, or at least relatively so. Wilson paced the living room, sporadically gulping from a dirty glass of ice water. House leaned back on the couch to observe.
"The effects should last for another six hours," he informed him casually. Wilson shook his head, appalled and still twitchy.
"I was on DRUGS at WORK," he muttered, frenetically looking all around the room and rubbing his face in clear agitation.
"You were trying to get laid at work," House added.
"This is funny to you?"
"Oh, yeah," House admitted genuinely. "You're stoned, and the first thing you try to do is sleep with another cancer patient. That's funny."
"She's not another--she didn't have cancer--I don't know if she did, ho boy, and what if she sues? There's sexual harassment, I should've diagnosed her--if she's sick--"
House stood up with great effort, leaning heavily on his cane and walking at Wilson's constantly flurrying about form. He was a great ball of brown coat and fluttering hands, damp hair and twitching feet. "Wilson," he said clearly, trying to grab his attention. Wilson was freaking out considerably more than expected, though House had to assume that was because he was too tightly wound for his own good. Never mind that House had given him twice the amount of pills that Cameron had stolen from that patient the year before.
Wilson stopped, smacking his palms against his thighs as though he'd been waiting for House to interrupt for a long time, and House was just stubbornly refusing to comply.
"Shut up," he urged, eyes wide and understanding. "You're making it worse by--"
"Worse?" Wilson laughed dryly. "'M not sure this could get any worse."
House rolled his eyes and pressed on. "You're not going to tell me why you're depressed?" He asked. "You've been seeing a psychoanalyst for months to get those pills, and you're not going to tell me why?"
"What's the point?" Wilson asked breathily. "You'll get to your own damn conclusions all by yourself anyway." House could feel the energy radiating from Wilson's muscle spasms as the latter continued pacing.
"And you're not taking advantage of the sex--"
Wilson cut him off with a bitter laugh that made him sound more desperate than high. "Yeah. Who am I going to--" he broke off as House slammed their lips together.
If anyone had asked, House would have said that he didn't know what he was doing, that it just happened, that the sight of Wilson tweaking on 300 milligrams of uppers did something for him he couldn't have anticipated nor explained. But that wasn't true. As much as House had wanted to find out about Wilson's antidepressant usage and whether he'd been staying up late because of a secret affair with Cuddy, he'd also wanted to really see Wilson unravel. There was no way that on any given day an action or insensitive remark of his own could set Wilson off to the level drugs had sent him to. It was an experiment, and one not lacking in interest for House.
So this is what happened, House thought as Wilson balked and rubbed against him simultaneously. Intriguing, that Wilson's mouth would be close to paralyzed with indecision or hesitation, while his significantly (chemically) augmented sex drive had a life of its own. House wasn't sure if the drugs would lower Wilson's inhibitions to the point where he'd do something he'd never consider when sober. He couldn't tell if Wilson genuinely wanted to be kissing him, or if the sensation of being kissed was just too good when enhanced by the speed that Wilson's body wouldn't let his brain take over. House rarely took amphetamines himself, and anyway, the Vicodin negated a lot of the nervous energy, as Wilson would notice once the pill he'd popped five minutes before kicked in.
"I--oh god--I want you to fuck me," Wilson muttered incoherently against House's mouth. House snorted. "No, wait, I--what am I saying, I don't--this is such a bad idea," he decided, pulling back to stare at House's eyes. House noticed his pupils were blown and the corners slightly bloodshot. He was surprised, and maybe even a little impressed, that Wilson was even fighting against the pull of the amphetamines' effect on his libido. Hell, the fact he could string together a sentence when he was this wired spoke wonders for his self-control. It also completely shot House's confidence in their situation.
"This is a terrible idea," House agreed, pulling away only far enough to glance at Wilson again for a moment before kissing his neck fervently and steering them towards the couch. "What do you think, should we watch `The L Word' instead? I've got a season pass on TiVo..." The sincerity of the offer was somewhat called into question when he sucked at Wilson's jaw and licked the inside of one ear. No way was he stopping.
"I--I can't think," Wilson's face was scrunched into a mask of concentration, self-hatred, and fear. Only his eyes gave away a sense of inescapable desire. "Why--how are we doing this, we can't do this..." he drifted off as House wrenched his coat open, delightedly finding his nipples erect and his shirt far too easy to slip off. "Stop, stop," he gasped pathetically as House bit at his chest, running over the marks with a humid mouth. House didn't stop.
"Why do you want to waste this?" He murmured against Wilson's ribcage. "I'm not slipping you uppers every time you go a year without sex."
"So you're saying--I should just shut up and take what I can get?" Wilson asked, not even trying to stifle a moan as House rubbed aggressively against the front of his pants.
"Yeah," House said, as though it were obvious. Wilson pulled away. Damn. The Vicodin was slowing his heart rate down, House could feel it.
Wilson looked at him for a few long moments. "I'm going back to the hospital," he uttered, biting his lower lip, looking decisively more like himself. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"You can stay here," House said, still in shock as Wilson got up, buttoned his shirt haphazardly and pulled on his wrinkled coat. "You don't have to sleep on the couch."
Wilson huffed, smiling weakly in spite of himself. "Thanks anyway," he said, though House thought his tone was slyly sarcastic. Quickly, Wilson strode jerkily to the door, threw it open with more force than necessary, and waved energetically goodbye to House as he closed it behind him. House was still in position on the couch, unsure of what had happened. He felt his lips subconsciously, running a callused palm against his stubble. Then he got up, walked to the kitchen, and took a long swig from the water glass Wilson had left, half-full on the countertop.
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.
|
|
|