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Reverberation
by cryptictac
Suffering in silence is agony.
It's been weeks since the last time Wilson and House fucked. Feels like months to Wilson. Years. A lifetime. They don't talk the way they used to, don't meet each other's eyes when they pass each other in the hospital corridors the way they used to, don't touch, barely acknowledge each other outside of work. They only speak when they have to; when House wants something for a case he's working on, or when they're in the men's bathroom together because it's better to talk than to be burdened with stifling silence, or when they have to talk. To everyone else, it probably looks like nothing is any different, because Wilson makes retorts in all the right places to House's comments and House makes fun of Wilson at all the right cues. If anyone does suspect something's wrong or going on, they certainly don't show it.
But between House and Wilson lingers this silence: oppressing, suffocating, slowly hemming Wilson into a corner as far away from House as possible. Wilson thinks it's such a cheesy clich to say this silence between House and himself is killing him inside, but it is. Slowly, painstakingly slowly. Wanting to speak to House, knowing he shouldn't speak, knowing he shouldn't have spoken the last time they fucked, not knowing what House is thinking or what he wants. Or needs. Not knowing if House even needs him anymore -- that's what hurts the most.
He's found other ways to try and be close to House, to try and prove to himself that House does still need him. He knows House doesn't like being lectured, especially when Wilson's lecturing him again and again about the same thing, over and over: about his Vicodin, his addiction, about the way he treats people, how House thinks he's untouchable, sometimes going so far as to make claims that House is depressed. Yes, he knows House hates it, but if it gets a reaction from House -- something, anything -- then Wilson knows House is still hearing him, even if he's not listening. Being heard without being listened to is better than House not hearing him at all -- something Wilson is afraid is going to happen one day.
But it still hurts when House gives him that glare when he's had enough of hearing Wilson's tirades. That same icy glare he gave Wilson the first time Wilson broke the silence between them: cold and penetrating, completely closed off. It makes Wilson's chest twist and knot up, though he makes a good show of pretending he doesn't care. He always leaves House be when House starts looking at him like that, walking off like he couldn't care less. But then, when he gets to his office, he sits at his desk and drops his face into his hands.
Sometimes he thinks back over the last time they fucked. He thinks back to where he made the mistake of wanting more than what House was willing to give. He should've stayed happy with the kisses House gave, the way House touched him, tenderly or aggressively. He should've been content with what they had. He shouldn't have pushed. House might still want him, need him, if Wilson hadn't pushed. Because though it was silent, though it wasn't enough for Wilson, it was better than nothing. It was better than this.
But now...
Wilson focuses on busying himself when he finds himself becoming drowned in thoughts of House and what he should've done and what could've been and what would've happened had he kept his mouth shut. It's not healthy how much he's obsessing over this and he can't help but wonder if House is obsessing over this, too. He likes to think House is; he likes to think House does care, that he does still want him and need him.
He likes to think that maybe one day, maybe, House will break the silence himself so that Wilson won't have to.
Maybe is such a false hope to hold on to.
+++
It's sad that Wilson's still living in a hotel room.
He thinks that every time he arrives `home'. He switches the light on and peers around at all the things in the room that aren't his, things that aren't to his tastes; things that he has no choice but to rely on for comfort. The peach-coloured walls, the floral bedspread, the fake mahogany furniture -- all of it is sterile and impersonal, as much as Wilson tries to make this room his. He's got books stacked neatly on his bedside table, personal effects on the writing desk, things he took with him when he moved out from his home that he shared with his third wife to make this place belong to him, no matter how temporary it is.
But little things like the Do Not Disturb sign that always hangs on the inside door handle, the little useless bars of soap supplied by the hotel that never soap up properly when he washes his hands, the room service menu bound in faux leather on the writing desk -- all of those things remind him that this place isn't his.
Wilson is a man of strict routine, however. Routine is what keeps him going every day, from the moment he wakes up in the morning to the moment he turns in for the night. The more unsettled and uncertain he feels in his life, the more focused on routine he becomes. It's a way of shutting out what he doesn't want to think about, giving himself purpose, giving himself things to do to occupy himself. It's an almost effective way of trying to shut out how much this rift between House and himself is hurting him.
The first thing he does when he arrives at the hotel is toe his shoes off and neatly place them at the foot of the bed. He takes off his jacket and hangs it up, pulls his tie loose and unbuttons his collar and cuffs, and rolls his sleeves up. He goes to the toilet, washes his hands and face, comes back out into the room and places an order for room service -- usually a three-square meal, of red meat or chicken, and vegetables. While he waits for his meal to arrive, he lies back on his bed and watches TV.
He eats, watches a little more TV, settles down at his desk to work if there's any work to be done, and then showers once he's ready to go to bed for the night. Even his showering has routine: hair first, then his body, then an application of moisturiser to his skin once he's dried off. He shaves, sometimes tends to his nails if they need doing and then goes to bed, the part of the day he hates most.
The sheets are stiff and crisp as he slides his body between them, and he stares up at the ceiling, trying not to focus on the silence. This always makes him think back to the last time he and House fucked:
`Greg,', he foolishly said. `Greg--'
`Don't.'
`I--'
`James,' House had interrupted, and Wilson still can't work out if House had being serious or if he'd been mocking him, `don't.'
Wilson swallows. The memory of what happened hurts. It's been weeks since they fucked and it shouldn't still hurt, shouldn't hurt at all because they'd just been fucking and how stupid was it of Wilson to think he could ask for more than what it was. But it still hurts, and staring up at the dark ceiling with these thoughts going around in his head, with the silence all around him, the bed large and vacant, only serves to make him feel so incredibly alone. And lonely.
It's pitiable, he thinks to himself, that a man his age is as lonely as he is. Three failed marriages to his name, not even his own place he can call home, holding onto this thing between House and himself like it had been some kind of lifeline. Like it's still a lifeline. Like it's supposed to mean something, because Wilson desperately wants it to mean something. Needs it to mean something, even though House doesn't seem to want to know him anymore.
He turns his head and looks towards the window before he closes his eyes and tries to will himself to sleep. It's hard when thoughts of House start to manifest into memories of how House used to touch him -- the way they always started with kissing, sometimes hard and fierce, sometimes soft and tender. The way House knew all the right places to touch and bite and suck, and how good his hands felt down Wilson's chest, his legs, his arms and his back. Around his cock. How good it felt to feel House inside him. How good it felt to be inside House. The way everything was so damn intense because they never said a word or made a sound.
He reaches his hand into the covers, down to his dick and gropes himself through his boxers. The way it hurt whenever House pushed his cock inside him, god it hurt, hurt so much sometimes. But that feeling of fullness, of House surrounding him completely, inside him, on him, all around him, god he misses that. He misses the way House was so possessive of him, the way he made Wilson feel wanted and needed, the way he'd bite or scratch, or kiss and soothe with his tongue, or quietly grunt in his ear while he reached climax.
Wilson squeezes his cock and then runs his fingers up and down it through the material of his boxers, feeling his dick harden against his belly. He misses the way House used to struggle with him when the sex was rough and aggressive, how Wilson sometimes succeeded in getting House face down onto the bed to enter him.
Or those times when House was tender with him, almost loving. Wilson liked those times best of all. It was a completely different side to House, a side Wilson wanted greedily all to himself, a side he wanted to savour as long as possible when they were together like that. He pushes his boxers down over his cock, shoves them down his hips and grips his dick in his hand. Yeah, how House would press soft kisses on his lips, or down his neck, his chest, down Wilson's back if Wilson was on his front. Those were the times Wilson felt needed the most, like House was silently trying to communicate how much he needed him. It was those times that made Wilson hungry, gluttonous for more, made him want more than just sex.
He starts to stroke himself, an edge of desperation in the motion of his hand. He reaches his other hand down to his balls and tugs on them impatiently. The way House sometimes pinned Wilson's hands back against the bed while sucking his nipples, pressing biting kisses down Wilson's throat, chest, stomach... The way Wilson always bit back any sounds while House did things to Wilson with his mouth that Wilson always wished could go on and on forever... He lets his balls go and frantically shoves the sheets back so his cock is exposed to air, to give him more freedom to stroke himself, and he spreads his legs as he reaches his other hand back down to his balls again.
God, yes, and the way House knew how to fuck him in ways that made Wilson want to beg for more. Striking his dick against Wilson's prostate so that when Wilson came, it felt like his spine was being sucked out through his cock. The way House would push back against Wilson whenever Wilson was inside him, how House's body would seize up when he came, how undone and unguarded House looked during orgasm. Oh god, and how much Wilson wished so much to hear House groan, and how amazing it was when he finally heard him and--
Wilson bites back the want to gasp aloud; arching his back as he suddenly comes. His hand is a blur on his dick, his other hand no longer tugging at his balls but now grasping at the sheets for something to hold onto. The orgasm is intense and sharp and leaves him feeling like he's had his breath sucked from him, but as he relaxes back against the pillow he feels strangely empty.
He realises how pathetic this must look: lying there with his boxers rucked down around his thighs, his semen wet and haphazard across his belly and his softening cock in his hand while he recovers from an orgasm that's left him unsatisfied. Having just masturbated like the lonely, desperate guy he is, with thoughts of House to inspire this pointless wank. Listening to the silence of the room and hating how it reminds him of the distance between House and himself, the stereophonic silence that's become a chasm between them.
He cleans himself up, feeling stupidly ashamed of himself, and then burrows himself under covers while he lies curled up on is side, staring across at the window. He has to stop this; he has to accept the fact that this silence is never truly going to break no matter how much he wants it to. He has to stop doing this to himself. As he closes his eyes and tries in vain to will sleep to overcome him, he thinks to himself that he should find himself a woman, someone who wants him and needs him, someone who could give him what House can't. Or won't. End this cycle he's got himself into, get on with his life, stop living his life according to what he can't have.
It's not a reassuring thought, but it'll do. Amazing how a man who's used to getting everything he wants always ends up with second best, with things that never fulfil or satisfy him. With people who never end up wanting to stay, people who end up no longer needing him, people who grow and move on while he remains stuck in this rut of giving way more than he gets in the hope that people will continue to want and need him.
Yeah, he has to stop this. He rolls onto his other side to face the wall and sighs quietly. Maybe one of these days he'll finally find the answer to life, the universe and everything, and find himself a person who'll complete him. Maybe he'll find his niche in life and learn to appreciate that this is as good as it's going to get.
Maybe.
+++
Routine definitely makes it easier to cope. Wilson's able to ignore the downward spiral he's slowly slipping into. The tiredness in his face, the bags under his eyes, how puffy he looks, how drained he feels -- he can blame that on work. He doesn't like looking in the mirror to see how unkempt he is and how old he's starting to appear -- but yes, it's just work that's wearing him down, not House. Not his life. Not this lack of direction he's got, or this emptiness he doesn't know how to fill. Work, that's all it is. Work.
He pretends he's not hurt when he discovers that House has left on an overseas trip with Cuddy, without telling him. He's used to House not talking to him anymore, so he dismisses it as nothing. He'd made a pact with himself, after all, that he has to stop this thing he's doing to himself: pining over House, wanting what he can't have.
Being in charge of House's team helps him push those thoughts aside, too. He feels important, worthwhile, necessary, as he tells Chase, Cameron and Foreman what to do with Fran, even if he gets it wrong. At least they're listening to him and including him, and not being overshadowed by House. At least he's got something to focus on. He bustles from office to office, from lab to lab, determined to find a cure for Fran in a race against time. While he's doing that, he can't help but notice Robin -- and why not? She's pretty; she comes across as strong while possessing an element of vulnerability.
Of course, Wilson notices much more when it occurs to him that Robin's a callgirl. Without House around to interfere and occupy Wilson's thoughts, he finds himself wondering how lonely Robin is, being she's a woman who uses her body to service people. Not only that, but there's something genuine about her, the way she sticks around for Fran's sake at Wilson's suggestion, and he can't help being attracted to that, too -- that Robin listens to him. It's probably stupid of him to allow his mind to focus on Robin while House isn't around, but it's a nice change, to not be burdened with how much hurt Wilson feels at what he's lost between House and himself.
It's definitely stupid of him when he sits at this desk at the end of the day after giving Fran her diagnosis, with Robin's number in his hand. Even more stupid when he picks the phone up and dials, and clumsily tells her it's Dr. Wilson, Fran's doctor. James. There was a time when the idea of being around women, of asking them out, phoning them, wooing them, seducing them, came naturally to Wilson, came so easily to him that he didn't need to even think about his moves or his word choices. He just knew how women operated; the way they loved to be complimented on their clothes and their jewellery, how touched they looked if he asked them about their dreams and aspirations, and how dreamy-eyed they became if he did gentlemanly things like open doors and pull out chairs for them.
But that was before he retreated into himself, like he has recently. He doesn't feel as confident as he used to feel around women, around people, with himself. Marriage has always been a safety net for him because it guaranteed Wilson companionship whether his marriage was good or not, and perhaps it's sad that he's the type to always settle for second best just for the sake of not being alone. But second best is better than nothing at all.
Robin sounds pleased to hear from him, pleased that Fran's stable, and Wilson finds himself smiling. He's not exactly sure what he wants from Robin, especially when he starts persuading her to come back into the hospital to visit Fran. He explains that Fran's had acute to chronic exposure to methyl bromide, and due to the extensive toxicity she has to stay under observation for an unknown amount of time and have supportive care implemented for her. He doesn't tell Robin that there's no treatment for those exposed to methyl bromide. It's probably somewhat underhanded of him to get her to come back into the hospital for his own reasons rather than for Fran's, but Robin eventually agrees and Wilson feels relief at her saying she'll be in the next morning.
When he hangs up, he drops his face into his hands and tries to push aside the feeling of nervousness talking to Robin has conjured. He's not even sure why he feels nervous -- because he doesn't feel confident, because Robin's an escort, because... because there's a part of him that hopes, deep down, that maybe House will get jealous. Of what, he doesn't know and it shouldn't matter, seeing House barely speaks to him anymore. But if he can't get House's attention by talking to him, if he can't break the silence himself, then maybe... maybe he can get House to break it himself.
Maybe. Perhaps `maybe' isn't false hope after all.
Perhaps.
+++
Wilson greets Robin with a smile when he enters Fran's room, and he notices the way Robin's holding Fran's hand and the way her other hand is tenderly caressing Fran's shoulder. Strange how two people who barely know each other can seem like they've known each other for years and it makes something twist inside Wilson to see Robin be that way with Fran. Especially with how glad Fran looks to see Robin with her, and he can't help thinking to himself how nice it would be to have that with someone. With House, maybe.
He shakes thoughts of House from his mind, and focuses on asking how Fran is as he checks her over, glancing at Robin every now and again with a mildly charming smile which she returns as she strokes the back of Fran's hand with her thumb.
Eventually, Fran looks too tired to keep her eyes open, so Wilson quietly suggest to Robin that they leave her to rest for a while. When they step outside her room, he asks if she'd like to grab a coffee. She says yes, and as he guides her towards the elevator he glances into House's office when they pass it.
House is sitting at his desk, flipping through what looks like a magazine, and Wilson sees him look up. They catch eyes; an exchanged look that lingers longer than it should, and it's more calculated than Robin knows when Wilson lightly touches the small of her back. He looks away, but he can feel House's eyes on him, on where his hand is touching Robin, and it takes every bit of willpower not to look back to House.
He ushers her into the elevator and smiles down at her when the doors close.
+++
Robin comes back to the hospital every day, sometimes in the morning, sometimes in the afternoon, whenever she can get time off, and Wilson always manages to find the time to cross paths with her. He notices, each time he's in Fran's room, the way Fran and Robin keep touching, just a supportive squeeze of hands, or a gentle touch to Fran's shoulder. Sometimes Robin strokes the back of her fingers against Fran's cheek.
Wilson always feels torn when he's watching this exchange of affection. Torn between feeling awkward and feeling jealous. Awkward because he doesn't always know where to look, jealous because he wants that, too. And each time Fran says she needs a rest, Wilson always suggests for Robin to come back to his office for a chat, or to grab some coffee, or sometimes they sit on the benches in the waiting area, talking. Wherever it is they go, Wilson makes sure to pass House, and makes sure to touch Robin somewhere, lean in closer, walk closer to her like he's developing a rapport with her. Which he is in a way -- she's a nice woman, strong and confident with an edge of timidity to her that Wilson finds attractive, not to mention the fact that she's stunning to look at.
He knows House always watches them. He can tell. Sometimes he chances a casual glance in House's direction and sees House's gaze fixed soundly on them both. It causes a rush of hope, or vindication, or something triumphant inside Wilson when he sees House looking on like that, and he wonders how much he can push before House snaps. If he snaps at all. Maybe he won't; maybe he'll leave Wilson be in this spiral of destruction and Wilson will find himself in some kind of relationship with Robin that he never expected nor wants. But it doesn't hurt to try.
He knows he's pushing it a little too far when he asks Robin over coffee one afternoon, to come back to his hotel. She watches him from across the table with a sceptical look on her face, and then offers a smile as she agrees. She reaches her hand across the table to clutch Wilson's, and Wilson doesn't hold back with stroking the back of her hand with his thumb even though he knows he doesn't really want her. She obviously thinks he does, though, and that's okay. If she wants him, needs him, then at least somebody does. Better than nobody.
Just as she gives his hand a squeeze, Wilson catches sight of House wandering past slowly, and he sees the way House is peering at their hands. He's not sure how to describe the look on House's face -- disgust, jealousy, hatred. Whatever the look is, it's strong and fierce, and Wilson wonders if House even realises how easy his face is to read. Wilson squeezes Robin's hand again as he turns his attention back to her. The next time to looks away, House is gone.
Wilson smiles at Robin again. For the first time in a long while, he feels hopeful. Less worried about this silence between House and himself. Glad that he's met Robin. Glad that she seems to genuinely like him.
Maybe things are finally going his way.
+++
Wilson sits on the edge of the bed, nervously twiddling his thumbs.
Stupid that he's feeling anxious, when he'd felt so confident with Robin earlier in the day. It's this transition from coffee to her coming to his hotel room that has Wilson feeling uncertain, and more than that, he finds himself wondering exactly what the hell he's doing. The more he thinks about it, the more he's certain he doesn't actually want Robin, though it's nice that she seems to want him. It's nice to feel wanted. Maybe even needed.
He can't help but feel a little addicted to that thought. Whether House breaks the silence like Wilson so wants him to or not, at least he'll have someone to fall back on. Second best, perhaps, but better than nothing. Someone who's lonely like he is, someone who obviously likes giving affection if how affectionate she is with Fran is any indication.
A knock sounding on the door breaks Wilson from his thoughts. The first thought that crosses his mind is that he hopes it's House, and then realises how incredibly ridiculous that thought is. Like House would know what Wilson's plans are, like House would even care, given how little they talk these days. Still, the thought stubbornly lingers at the back of Wilson's mind as he gets up from the bed and makes his way across the door, and he's surprised to feel a stab of disappointment when he opens the door and sees Robin standing there. It obviously shows on his face, too, because the warm smile she greets him with falters.
Wilson shakes the feeling off and quickly pulls his lips into a falsely confident smile. "Hey," he greets as he pulls the door open wider.
Robin visibly relaxes. "Hey."
She steps inside and Wilson closes the door after her, and he watches her survey the room, taking everything in as though out of habit more than curiosity. Wilson stands behind her with his hands in his trouser pockets. He wonders how many homes and hotel rooms she's been in, and looked around in the exact same fashion, tallying up her client based solely upon what they own. She's an escort and Wilson's always known that, but the realisation doesn't really strike him until right now: she's an escort and she's in his room because he invited her back, and he's never once been interested in escorts, yet here he is. He's not sure if he likes that idea. He pushes it from his mind.
Robin turns back towards him. "Nice."
Wilson smiles, attempting to look at ease, and gives a mild shrug. "It'll do."
The story of my life, he thinks bitterly. Surprised by the sudden sour thought, he clears his throat and broadens his smile. He gestures to the loveseat. "Have a seat," he says, and as she sits down, he moves across to the writing desk where he has a bottle of red waiting to be opened which he purchased on the way home from work.
"Do you like red wine?" he asks.
"I love red wine. Though, I'm more of a gin and tonic person, I'll admit."
He smiles. He picks up the bottle opener and starts to uncork the bottle, and he asks her how she's been doing since they saw each other earlier today.
"Good," she replies. "Tired. Busy."
"Work?" Wilson asks, and he instantly wishes he hadn't said that. It just reminds him of that uncertain realisation he had earlier about her being an escort.
"Yes."
He just smiles again, because he doesn't really know what to say to that. He pours her a glass, then himself one, and takes the glasses over to the loveseat.
"What about you?" she asks.
He offers her a glass, which she takes in her hands. "Busy," he replies mildly. "Work. I'm sure you can relate."
She laughs and then sips her wine. "In my own way." Wilson sits down beside her and stretches his arm across the back of the loveseat. "But I'm sure you don't want to talk about work," she continues.
No. He doesn't want to talk about work. Thing is, it's the only thing he has in his life now. Besides House. And he's not sure he even has House in life anymore, either. "I'll talk about whatever you want to talk about," he offers.
Robin smiles. The conversation soon falls into an easy pattern of Robin telling Wilson more about her life that she probably intends to, and Wilson listening on with a practiced look of interest and concern. The more wine that he imbibes, the more interested in her he becomes. Maybe it's just the wine talking or maybe it's because she's experienced in making nerves in people dissipate, but she seems to have a way of calming him, relaxing him, making him feel more confident about himself than he's felt in a long while. He smiles at her, genuinely smiles, as she talks, and laughs at her jokes. He feels his muscles easing, his insides unclenching, and he finds himself wishing the night would never end.
As the bottle gets drained, he notices Robin doing things like laying her hand on his thigh, on his arm, sometimes his shoulder, and one point brushes back his hair from his forehead. Her touches are soft, tender, and when he feels her knuckles brushing against his cheek he closes his eyes for a moment and relishes the contact. God... It's pathetic that he craves contact that much. He feels turned on by it, too. After all, it's the first bit of attention he's received in as long as he cares to remember. Since the last time he and House had sex.
No... He pushes thoughts of House out of his mind.
He leans in and kisses Robin softly on the lips when the last of the wine is drunk and he can't hold back on wanting more of that affection from her. He feels her fingers knotting themselves in the front of his shirt, sliding down his chest, up to his neck, into his hair as the kiss deepens. Their breathing becomes quick and heavy, and Robin stands up and takes Wilson by the hand to lead him to the bed.
They keep kissing as they shed each other's clothes, Robin kissing his chest as she peels back his shirt and Wilson palming her breasts in his hands before sucking her nipples through the material of her bra. She's all soft womanly curves and beautiful brown skin, and the way she touches him, god... He loses himself in the way Robin's hands run down his arms and how her mouth presses soft kisses down his chest, while he strokes her hair and her back. He enters her from above after she rolls a condom onto him, and they move together hard and fast, Robin scratching her nails down his back while Wilson presses his face into her neck. She wraps her legs around his waist and angles herself up, and Wilson muffles a groan against her throat as he comes.
When he rolls off her, he stares up at the ceiling as he catches his breath, and he feels Robin spoon up beside him with her hand on his chest and her lips kissing his shoulder. He knows he should feel some kind of contentment because of how she's displaying affection, because of how this whole evening has turned out but now he feels strangely empty. Again. Like there's something missing. Something big, important, something he can't push out of his mind completely no matter how much he tries.
House. Greg.
Wilson turns his attention away from his thoughts by turning to Robin, and he runs his hands up her thighs and over her belly, focusing on taking care of her. She laps it up like a woman starved of attention and affection, and that makes Wilson feel a little better. Now that he's had sex with her, ideas of pursuing anything beyond sex have vanished from his mind. He doesn't really want her. He'll go along with pretending he does, though, in case it gets him what he wants. Or in case she's all he has to fall back on.
When he wakes up in the morning, Robin's gone, but there's a note on the pillow for him that reads, Maybe I'll catch you later today? Robin. xx. It even has a small lipsticked kiss mark on it, which Wilson's not sure what to make of.
He peers at the note for a while, wondering what the hell he's getting himself into here, and scrunches it up before tossing it aside. He has this uneasy feeling that this is all going to backfire on him somehow. He can't seem to shake that feeling, either, and it hangs low on him as he gets ready for work. He focuses on routine to keep himself structured and together, though the tiredness on his face gives away that something is wrong.
Maybe he should take a vacation. Do something for himself, by himself. Do something where he can be away from House, and work, and all his responsibilities, and work out what the hell he wants to do with his life. He can't keep holding onto House and he doesn't know why he is holding onto him. Other than the fact that he loves him.
That thought is like a slap to the face. He doesn't let that thought go any further. He doesn't like how sudden it occurs to him, or how it hits him in the gut like a punch, or how it won't go away no matter how much he tries to shake it off.
Maybe that's what this silence is all about. Maybe that's why he can't let House go. Maybe that's why he wants House to need him as much as Wilson needs him, or wants him, or lo--
Maybe... Maybe...
He's getting sick and fucking tired of maybe.
+++
Robin is beaming when Wilson crosses paths with her in the hospital. In truth, he'd hoped he wouldn't see her because he doesn't want to lead her on into thinking this is something more than just sex. He gives her a smile in return, a false smile, and stupidly touches her arm and rubs it like she means something to him. She stands a little too close to him in the corridor, and they exchange looks that are a little too revealing of what they've been up to.
"Will I see you tonight?" she asks.
Wilson feels his heart sink. No, he wants to say. No, I don't think that's a very good idea. "Sure," he finds himself replying. Like his mouth is on autopilot.
She smiles at him again, and leans up on the balls of her feet to press a kiss to his cheek. Wilson darts his eyes around him self-consciously, and suddenly spots House standing at the end of the corridor, staring at them.
Wilson freezes, feeling like a deer caught in the headlights, and he stares right back at House. The look on House's face is unmistakable jealousy. Or loathing. Or disgust. A look Wilson still can't seem to put a name to, but he can feel the force of House's stare like it's a heavy weight bearing down on him. It fills Wilson with hope and dread, and fear and something else he doesn't want to acknowledge. Maybe he's finally got House's attention. Maybe. He almost wants House to walk right up to him and say something, do something, anything to prove that House is finally listening to him.
But instead, House turns and walks away and Wilson watches him with a sinking feeling so heavy in his gut, it takes all the willpower in the world to give Robin a warm smile when she pulls back.
"Tonight," she says, walking backwards into the elevator when it arrives, and gives Wilson a wink.
He smiles and nods, pushing his hands into his labcoat pockets. And when the doors shut Robin out of sight, the smile drops from Wilson's face. He goes back to his office, sits at his desk, and buries his face into his hands.
He doesn't know what to do. He doesn't have a fucking clue. He needs to stop this god damn bullshit, stop getting himself into situations he can't get out of, stop getting himself into messes he creates without meaning to. Or maybe he does mean to create them. Maybe. Christ, all he wanted was for House to break the silence, pay attention to him, listen to Wilson for once, and now he doesn't know where he stands with anything.
All he has left is routine. That's all. Routine to keep him focused and structured, to give him purpose and direction. He drops his hands from his face and digs around is desk for some files to work on, dictations, something, anything.
Maybe he should phone up Robin, tell her not to come. Tell her a lie; tell her something's come up. A patient's sick or dying, or... or...
He sighs and slams his pen onto the file open in front of him in frustration, and looks across at the door that leads out to the balcony. Lie, yeah. More lies. Like he needs more of those. Like he needs to dig himself in deeper. He doesn't want to hurt Robin; he doesn't want to keep this going, either.
Fuck, he doesn't know what to do.
+++
Waiting for Robin to turn up is like waiting to receive the death penalty. Wilson thinks that's over the top, overdramatic, stupid of him, because Robin hasn't done anything here. This isn't Robin's fault. He should've told her tonight was bad for him... that every night from now on is bad for him. But instead he'd agreed to see her, so this isn't anybody else's fault except his own.
Or House's.
Wilson paces his hotel room, occasionally running his hand through his hair, rubbing the back of his neck, tugging anxiously at his collar, wringing his hands together. Not even routine is distracting him anymore because he's so damn focused on this chaos he's got himself into, all because of this silence he wants to break, this silence he could break on his own if he'd just face House and tell him. Demand to have House listen to him. Demand House to pay attention, break the god damn silence. The thing is, going to him now would be useless, ineffective, because every time he's gone to House to make him listen in the past, he's ended up lecturing him. Lecturing and lecturing, to the point where House just shuts him off completely. So, even if he tried to break the silence himself, it wouldn't work. House would ignore him, like he's been ignoring him in every other way.
Except when House has caught Wilson with Robin. Then he pays attention. Wilson can see it in his eyes, in his face. And so he should pay attention, because if it wasn't for House being so god damn adamant about the rules of silence between them, Wilson wouldn't have to play games, wouldn't have to resort to measures to get House to notice him, to listen, so this is all House's fault. Yeah. House is the one to be blamed for this, not Robin, not Wilson. House.
Wilson wishes that thought made him feel better. He wishes placing blame would dissolve this whole situation and make everything back the way it was when he and House were fucking, when Wilson had something rather than this quicksand of confusion that Wilson's sinking fast into. Whatever happened to stopping this bullshit and getting himself on track, working out his life, doing something with himself beyond screwing up every fucking time?
He sits down with a slump on the loveseat and drops his face into his hands. He has to make a decision here, get control of himself and of the situation before it gets any worse. He has to stop lying to Robin. He has to stop lying to himself, forget House, move on from him, stop pining over something he can't have. He has to.
Just as he pushes himself up from the seat, he hears a knock at the door. Loud and demanding, which makes Wilson frown. Why would Robin knock like that? Maybe something's wrong. Maybe she's just eager to see him. Maybe... maybe...
The knock sounds again, even louder and Wilson suddenly feels his stomach knot up. He's not sure he wants to answer the door because that's not Robin. She wouldn't be that demanding or loud, or insistent, he's certain of that. And he's not sure he wants to face who's on the other side of the door, not now that he's made a conscious decision to stop this. Maybe it's cowardly of him, but he can't help feeling scared of the mess he's caused for himself.
He crosses his arms over his chest and stares at the door.
The pounding sounds again. "I know you're in there," House bellows.
Wilson reaches a hand up to his face and anxiously rubs his jaw before running his fingers through his hair. He feels like shrinking into a corner, hiding as far away from House as possible. He hasn't got anywhere to hide in here, though, and he knows House will keep pounding, perhaps pound the door right off its hinges, commanding to be let in until he gets what he wants.
Wilson hesitantly starts for the door, feeling his pulse increase with each step he takes. This is ridiculous, this is so god damn stupid. A few days ago, the idea of House being the one to make the first move filled Wilson with hope, but now he feels nothing but dread. Cold, steel dread. Just as he nears the door, he suddenly sees the doorknob being rattled, hears House twisting and turning it impatiently. Then silence.
Wilson stops in his tracks. He listens hard, trying to hear what House is doing to anticipate his next move and when he hears nothing, he holds his breath. He's almost expecting House to suddenly bust the door down with his cane or maybe his shoulder -- he certainly seems determined enough. Why, Wilson doesn't know. He's not sure he wants to know. The silence is worse, though; it makes him feel even more on edge.
Another three loud pounds abruptly sound on the door, and Wilson can't tell if the sudden sharp breath he lets out is from fright or relief. He debates letting House in for another moment before he closes the distance between the door and himself, and braces his hand around the doorknob. Slowly, he turns it and opens the door wide enough to peer out, and he's taken aback by how close House is standing to the door. Wilson meets House's eyes, which are piercing and dark, and his face is distorted by shadows thrown down from the light hanging overhead. He looks angry and menacing.
Wilson swallows thickly. He opens the door wide enough to let House in because he knows House is going to demand to be let in, whether he wants House to come in or not. He'd rather not speak, would rather avoid speaking for as long as possible, avoid it altogether if possible. Ironic, seeing he's the one who wanted to break the silence in the first place.
House enters the room, brushing past Wilson roughly. Wilson stares out into the cold night, clutching onto the doorknob tightly like he doesn't want to let go of it. But he does, after a moment; slowly closes the door and then just as slowly turns to face House.
They stare at each other. It's like a never ending distance and a suffocating nearness between them at the same time. Wilson presses his lips together, determined not to be the one to speak first. He's just as determined not to look away from House's gaze, too, because submission of any kind would be breaking the silence. So, he continues to stare at House, staring at him hard and by some miracle House is the first to finally look away.
Wilson sighs a quiet breath of relief and looks down, setting his hands onto his hips. He listens to the in-out of his breathing, the tap dripping faintly plink plink into the bathroom sink in staccato rhythm, the occasional car driving by outside in the wet evening, someone with the TV on too loud down the corridor. All the noises seem loud, louder as the silence stretches and it's not until Wilson looks up that he realises House is staring at him again.
Say something, Wilson begs in his mind as he watches House watching him. Say something, anything. Please. It's on the tip of his tongue to say something himself, to break the icy silence because, god it's painful. Awkward. Uncomfortable. Stifling. A million and one things suddenly flood into his mind to say: how are you, and why are you here, and what do you want, and god damn it, talk, and the weather's shit, and get lost. Wilson has to look away again to stop himself from saying anything.
He half-turns on the spot away from House, his hand now rubbing the back of his neck anxiously. And just as he's about to head into the bathroom because he doesn't know where else to go to escape the oppressive silence, House says in a low voice, "She's coming here tonight, isn't she?"
Wilson snaps his head in House's direction, unsure if he's surprised at what House said, or surprised that House spoke at all. He swallows again and clenches his jaw, then nods once. What's the point in lying? There isn't any. What does it matter, anyway?
"When?" House asks.
Wilson feels taken off guard. He probably looks it, too. He doesn't want to talk, doesn't want to damn well talk, but he finds his mouth saying, "Half an hour."
The look that crosses House's face, Wilson can't place it at all. Somewhere between jealousy, and loathing, and disgust, those same expressions he'd seen on House's face every time House saw Robin and himself together. Except... Wilson can't tell, but maybe it's because he wants House to feel hurt that he sees a flicker of hurt in House's face.
"Call her," House says quietly, calmly.
Wilson feels taken off guard again. He gives House a questioning look.
"Call her," House repeats.
Wilson opens his mouth, wanting to ask why House want him to call Robin, but he can't bring himself to say anything. He closes his mouth again.
It's like House understand exactly what Wilson is silently conveying. "Tell her not to come over; you're cancelling."
Wilson stares at House for a moment and then nods once. He'd much rather Robin to be here instead of House right now. At least Robin wouldn't glare at him like that; at least Robin makes Wilson feel calm; at least Robin doesn't demand he do things; at least Robin doesn't play this game of silence. He moves towards the bedside table where his cell phone is lying, and he picks it up, throwing a surreptitious glance over his shoulder at House as he fishes Robin's number from his pocket. House is watching him, watching every single move and it's making Wilson feel nervous. He finds her number and quickly looks away so he can punch the number in, frustrated by how much his hands are trembling. When he places the phone to his ear and listens to the ring tone on the other end, he's acutely aware of House's eyes still watching him. Wilson suddenly realises he can't remember the last time he felt so scared of House.
"Hello, James," he hears Robin's voice say. She sounds pleased to hear him, flirtatious.
"Oh," he stumbles. He pulls his lips into a tight smile. "Hey."
"I'm just on my way over now--"
"Actually," Wilson cuts in. Robin falls silent on the end of the line and Wilson winces at how horrible and awkward this whole situation is. "I, uh... something has, uh..." He uses his free hand to rub his face. It really doesn't help that House is watching, listening to every single fumbled word Wilson's saying. "Something's come up. I, uh..."
"Oh..." Robin replies faintly, sounding disappointed.
Wilson inwardly cringes. "Yeah, uh. Work, you know. One of my patients is very sick and it's possible they may not see it through the night," he lies. And what a lie it is, because Wilson's just an oncologist - he delivers the news and offers treatment and monitors progress. He doesn't do bedside vigils to any of his patients.
Robin doesn't know that, though. "Oh, I see," she replies, still sounding disappointed but understanding. She pauses. "Another night, then?"
"Uh..." Wilson automatically glances over his shoulder at House, and the dark look House is giving him makes Wilson wish he'd never bothered with Robin at all. "Sure," he finds himself saying, though he doesn't mean it.
"Great," Robin says. She pauses again. "Is there something wrong?"
"No," Wilson quickly replies. He runs his hand through his hair and forces out a laugh. "No, just a bit preoccupied."
"With work," Robin says. "I understand."
"Yeah," he agrees absently. "Look, I've got to go. I guess I'll..."
"Talk to you later," replies Robin. Wilson can almost hear the smile in her voice, which doesn't make him feel any better.
"Yeah," he says again. "Talk to you later." He pulls the phone from his ear and presses end call, and he sets the phone down onto the bedside table.
"Did you just agree to see her again?"
House's breath is hot against the back of his neck, and Wilson almost jumps out of his skin. He hadn't heard House approaching him from behind and now that House has spoken, he's suddenly aware of how close House is. So close, he can feel House's body heat radiating against his.
Wilson's breath picks up a little, as well as his pulse. He feels trapped, cornered. "No," he lies, his voice tight.
"No?" House asks disbelievingly.
Wilson shakes his head, almost imperceptibly. "No."
House falls silent; so does Wilson. He doesn't get what House wants here, seeing House was the one who wanted everything to remain unspoken of. It was House that was angry with him, House that demanded he didn't speak, House who called him James most likely to mock him. He's not sure House even needs him; maybe he's just here because House doesn't like sharing, like a kid possessive of his toys whether he plays with them or not. Wilson doesn't let himself think that maybe House is here because House does need him. It would hurt too much to build his hopes up, only to have them knocked down yet again - that would leave Wilson even more crushed than he was the last time. It hurt when House told him, Don't, and then turned away from him in the bed, like he was rejecting Wilson, rejecting how close Wilson wanted to be with him.
How long does House plan on standing behind him like this? Wilson's feeling more and more nervous by the second. He doesn't know whether to stay facing away from House, or whether to face him. And if he faces him, what will happen? What more has he got to lose if he does face him, though? It feels like he's already completely lost House, anyway.
For that reason, Wilson slowly turns his head until he can see House in his peripheral vision, and then just as slowly turns his whole body on the spot until he's facing House. Staring at him right in the eyes. Watching House watching him.
"Why are you here?" Wilson finds himself asking after a long, stifling pause.
House's gaze hardens. "Don't."
Wilson stares at House in disbelief, and then feels a flood of anger burst through him. House has come over here, barged into his room, invaded his space and his time after making out he doesn't want anything to do with Wilson anymore, and then tells him don't? Again?
"Don't what, House?" Wilson snaps.
"Wilson--"
"Don't what?" Wilson cuts him off sharply. "Don't speak? Is that it? Because if you don't want me to speak, then why're you here? I'm sick of playing this game."
"You started this game," House shoots back and Wilson has to stop himself from shrinking back at the viciousness in House's voice. House gives him a mocking leer. "You're sick of playing your own game now, are you?"
Wilson glares at him. "You're the one that made this into a game."
House narrows his eyes. He takes a slow half-step closer to Wilson, their bodies now so close they're almost pressed up against each other. "You made this into a game just as much as I did. Don't blame me if you're the one who wanted more out of this."
Wilson gapes at House, feeling like he's just been slapped across the face. So, that's what it comes down to -- House never wanted more. Wilson's been holding onto false hope this entire time. He swallows hard and looks away. He feels crushed. House was just using him, and Wilson should know this because he was using House just as much - except he wanted more because he needed to know House needed him. Wanted him. Because he loves House, he loves him. He didn't want to keep playing this game, which was the whole reason he broke the silence in the first place.
He looks back to House. "Get out."
House squares his shoulders and stands taller. "No."
"Get out."
House gives him a challenging look, which just makes Wilson angrier. He wants to shove House back, push him, punch him... kiss him. Kiss him out of anger like those times where they were rough and brutal with each other; those times when they struggled and fought to get the other to submit until one of them succeeded. Kiss him because even if he's hurt and crushed that House doesn't want more, he still wants House, god he wants him. He wants House to want him. He wants... he wants House to need him and love him. He so damn sick and tired of how unrequited this whole thing is.
"God damn you," Wilson adds in frustration, and he lifts his hands to House's chest to push him back from him so he can escape being cornered between House's body and the bed. His palms press against House's wrinkled shirt and just as he's about to shove him back, House's hand suddenly dashes up and clutches the back of Wilson's neck.
Wilson instantly jerks back in surprise, which makes House clutch his neck tighter, and he pushes House once - and then starts to curl his fingers into House's shirt. He bunches the material in his hands, fists it, twists it, feels himself being tugged towards House. He tugs House in towards him, too, like a magnetic pull, until their bodies are pressed up hard against each other.
Suddenly House's mouth is on his, crushing and kissing, and Wilson lets out a sound of anguish before submitting. He kisses back, hard and angrily, feeling House's stubble grazing and burning against his chin and upper lip, feels House's teeth clashing against his own, feels House's tongue licking against his lips. Wilson opens his mouth wider and lashes his tongue against House's, tasting it as he grips House's shirt even tighter in his hands. His heart is pounding in his chest and his head is rushing with white noise.
He pulls back to gasp for air, only to be pulled straight back in again, House's mouth back on his. The second kiss is even more brutal than the first: savage, unrelenting, unmerciful, leaving Wilson's lips feeling stung and bruised by the time they break away from each other to come up for more air.
Wilson's hands start to shakily claw at House's shirt, latching onto the buttons to push them undone, and House is no less gentle as he yanks Wilson's tie loose. Wilson is still caught between wanting to shove House back as hard as he can, even more so now because he feels angry and upset and bitter, and god how he'd love to slam his fist into House's face or stomach, watch him double over in pain. But god, he wants him, too. It's such a contradictory feeling, one that's making Wilson more and more frustrated by the second.
Wilson manages to get the first button undone, the second, the third, finds himself being urged back with sharp shoves towards the bed by the fourth, and then gives up unbuttoning it altogether and grabs a fistful of House's shirt to yank it over his head. House fights against him, and Wilson grits his teeth as he stares House in the eyes, wrestling with the shirt fisted in his hands again. Come on, he's shouting in his head. Come on, you bastard.
He lets out a gasp as House suddenly kisses him again, more teeth against his lips than anything else. Wilson tries to bite back, determined not to let House get his way here, except House is getting his way because Wilson's hard in his pants, aching to feel House's hands grope and stroke him as angrily as House is kissing him. House reaches between them to grab at Wilson's belt at the same time that Wilson finally gets House's shirt off. He throws the shirt aside, then slaps his hands onto House's back, digs his nails in, hears House hissing as he scratches his nails down House's back. Their mouths are back on each other, consuming and vicious, House threading Wilson's belt free as Wilson starts snatching and scrabbling at the front of House's jeans.
"Oh--" Wilson starts without meaning to when House's hand unexpectedly grabs his dick through his trousers, and he bucks his hips up, also without meaning to. Fuck you, Wilson hisses in his mind. Fuck you, you asshole. With one hand snapping the button of House's jeans undone, Wilson returns the move by groping House through his jeans. He pulls back from the attack of House's mouth on his enough to see House's face, to watch his reaction - and sees utter fury and lust written on House's face. Wilson's not sure what excites him more - House's anger or desire - just like he's not sure why House is doing this, or even what House really wants. The last time they fucked, Wilson ruined it, he was certain he ruined it, by speaking, by wanting more. The silence that followed from House after all this time just confirmed to Wilson that he'd ruined it - so why is House here now?
Wilson feels another stab of frustration at House, at himself, at this whole fucking situation, and angrily squeezes House's dick through his jeans even harder. He hears House make an angry sound and Wilson barely has time to draw in a breath when House's mouth claims his again in another fierce kiss. Wilson braces his hands against House's chest with the intention of pushing him back, again - but feels House's fingers suddenly no longer yanking at his belt but pulling at his shirt, impatiently fighting with the buttons and Wilson breaks away from the kiss with a gasp of air to glare at House.
God, he wants to hate House for coming here and stirring things up between them like this again. And god, he loves House. And hates that he loves House and hates that he has no idea what House wants from him. And god, he wants House. Wants him so much. Hates him for wanting him, loves him for being here, hates him for making this so confusing, hates how slow House is being with these god damn buttons.
Wilson looks down and starts to shove House's hands away to take over, furiously unbuttoning his shirt, aware of House's quick breathing and aware that House's hands are back down on his trousers. Wilson looks back up to House just as he gets the last button undone, his pants now undone, too, and House doesn't waste time in roughly tugging the shirt from Wilson's shoulders, kissing him hard again, their bare chests now pressed up against each other and god, Wilson's missed the feel of House's skin against his, missed it so much. He bites at House's mouth in frustration, House biting back before House suddenly deepens the kiss, slows it down, right down until the kiss is almost strangely tender. Hard, but tender, the way his mouth moves over Wilson's lips in firm, focused motions, sucking and nibbling, tasting with his tongue. It's almost needy, something House has never done before.
The shift in House's attitude is so abrupt that Wilson has no idea what to make of it -- in fact, he doesn't make anything of it at first, just kisses back just as deeply and needily, losing himself in how much expression House is putting into the kiss. It's not until he feels House's hands start to tenderly touch his chest, with broad open palms over his pectorals, that Wilson snaps out of the moment, and he finds himself not liking how sudden House's change in attitude is, not liking how intimate and unexpected it is. He reaches his hand down between House and himself and gropes House's dick, squeezes hard, which makes House pull back in surprise, startled, as though the feel of Wilson's hand is a dash of cold water thrown on him and breaking him out of a trance.
House makes another angry sound and shoves Wilson backwards, causing him to fall onto the bed, and suddenly House is on top of him, consuming Wilson in another brutal kiss. The weight of House's body on him is intoxicating. Heavy and possessive and utterly suffocating, and Wilson swallows back a whimper at how much he's missed House, slapping his hands onto House's back to grip him close.
Wilson feels something twist in his chest, something fierce and burning and tight, something that makes him feel like he can't breathe. Greg..., he thinks desperately, his hands leaving House's back and snatching at House's hair, at his head. He opens his mouth wide and sliding his tongue against House's in another bizarrely frantic, needy kiss. Wilson squeezes his eyes shut and feels House pressing down even heavier onto him, like House is trying to get under his skin, kissing and kissing and, god, House has never kissed him like this before. Never. Never kissed with so much passion. Wilson has no idea where this is coming from or what's prompting it, and he's not sure he likes it. He's not sure because this is completely unfamiliar and revealing. Revealing of what, Wilson isn't sure. But House certainly isn't holding back and how many times had Wilson wished House would kiss him like this? And now he is, and Wilson doesn't know what to make of it.
He turns his head away to grab a breath of air, his lungs feeling like they're about to burst, and he feels House's mouth, wet and hot, drop to his neck to keep kissing as passionately as he was just kissing his mouth. Wilson grimaces at the sharp burn of House's bristles on his skin, his chin and upper lip burning, too. He keeps twisting and clutching at House's hair, arching his neck, biting back the want to moan or whimper or, god forbid, speak. He can't work out if he wants more or if he wants House to stop. He untangles his fingers from House's hair and drops his hands to House's shoulders to push him away -- or maybe to draw him closer, and House takes that as some kind of cue to pull back from Wilson's neck to crush their mouths together again.
House breaks the kiss again a moment later and pulls back enough to look down at Wilson. Wilson stares back up at him, still clutching House's shoulders, and for a horrifying moment he sees House open his mouth. Like he's about to speak. About to say something. Wilson suddenly seizes up in fear because he doesn't want House to speak, not after the way House kissed him. Not now. Not with how unfamiliar this feels. He watches House run his tongue along his top lip slowly, watches House blink, watches House's Adam's apple bob up and down as he swallows before he opens his mouth again.
"Wil--"
Before Wilson can stop himself, he tugs House down hard and crushes their mouths back together again, drowning out whatever it was House was about to say. Maybe House is frustrated by this, because Wilson feels House biting at his mouth again, fighting against him, which only makes Wilson more determined to keep House quiet. Grabbing House's hips, Wilson wrestles with him, struggles for a few moments, before he manages to get House onto his back. This seems to anger House --- Wilson sees it in House's eyes, and the kiss Wilson attacks against House's mouth is savage and full of rage again. He feels House's hands scratching at his back, feels House struggling underneath him - this is more familiar. This is the way it was between them those times they fucked with anger, fought over control, fought in silence.
Wilson breaks the kiss and drops his mouth to House's chest, one hand grabbing at House's wrist while the other digs in between their bodies to start tugging House's jeans undone, and House grabs a tuft of Wilson's hair and pulls. Hard enough to make Wilson snap his head back in pain, gritting his teeth to stop a hiss from escaping and before he realises it, he finds himself being shoved off, shoved hard, rolled onto his back with House climbing back on top of him.
Bastard, Wilson thinks angrily. Fucking bastard. They exchange another hard, violent kiss, arching and thrusting against each other, House yanking at Wilson's pants, Wilson yanking at House's. Everything seems to be the way it always was between them whenever they fucked roughly, as House drags Wilson's pants and boxers off his body without any gentleness. House impatiently pushes his jeans off, too, while he's standing up, and then climbs back onto the bed. They resume kissing aggressively, with House's body pressed heavy and naked and hard against Wilson's - oh, god, Wilson thinks to himself as their cocks slide alongside each other and as House's body consumes him once more, oh, god - when the shift in attitude suddenly changes again.
House's kisses get harder, yet strangely tenderer, desperate, needy, passionate, and Wilson finds himself being completely swept up in it. He kisses back with much the same passion, kissing and kissing and kissing, tangling his leg around House's good leg, thrusting up, feeling his chest tighten again. This feeling of passion feels uncontrollable and foreign, and when House pulls back once again to look down at Wilson, looking at him like he wants to say something, Wilson is quick to kiss him again, quick to shut off whatever it is House is insistently wanting to say.
Don't speak, Wilson thinks urgently about House. Don't speak, don't say a word. So strange, seeing the last time he'd wanted House to speak so badly. So badly. Wanted House to make a sound, wanted House to want more, wanted House to want him for more than just sex. And now House is giving it to him, or trying to give it to him, after all this time, for a reason Wilson doesn't understand, and the more House tries to say whatever it is he wants to say, the less Wilson likes what's happening between them.
He rolls House onto his back without breaking away from House's mouth, fighting against House's hands trying to push him back, and he shifts to his knees before straddling House's hips. He grits his teeth and grabs at House's hands as House tries to throw him off, watching the look of utter frustration on House's face. Wilson entwines their fingers together and manages to pin House's hands back against the pillow, holding him there as he leans down to kiss House again - another angry kiss, trying to coax House to fight with him rather than do anything unfamiliar. It works, for a few minutes, until House is kissing him passionately again, and Wilson finds himself drawn into it. Again. Because part of him does want House to want more. He loves House, god damn it.
He pulls away from the kiss with another gasp of air, suddenly desperate for House to fuck him. Maybe if House fucks him, House will be too distracted to say anything. Bracing a hand against House's chest, Wilson lunges forward with his other hand for the bedside drawers and fumbles with the handle, yanks the drawer open and clumsily grabs out the condoms and the lube. He feels House's hands sliding over his chest, in slow stroking motions which makes Wilson bite his lower lip because, god, it feels good when House touches him. Especially like that - slow, sensually, almost affectionately. Except House has never touched him like that before. It's the kind of touch that seems to speak more than words ever could.
Wilson shrugs away from it, confused by what the hell House wants. He peers down at House with a puzzled look on his face as he squeezes a dollop of lube out onto his hand. House watches him and responds to the look on Wilson's face by touching Wilson's thighs, his hips, his stomach, licking his lips like he's about to say something again. Don't speak, Wilson thinks desperately to himself and in a anxious bid to distract House, Wilson moves his left hand behind himself, leaning over House with his other hand braced on the mattress, and touches his anus. He quickly smears the lube around it, strokes it, starts to push his finger into himself with a fierce look of concentration down at House. House stares back up at him, mesmerised.
He pushes his finger in deeper, squeezing his eyes shut to try and get himself to relax. He focuses on memories of what it feels like to have House deep inside him -- how much it burns, hurts, how good it feels when House's dick hits that spot in him that makes his spine feel like it's melting. He drops his head, controlling his breathing as he awkwardly tries to reach deeper into himself -- and unexpectedly feels House's fingers running through his hair. Almost tenderly.
Wilson snaps his eyes open and nearly jerks back in surprise. He darts his eyes up to House's face, and maybe the look he gives House is uninviting because House drops his hands away with a look of perplexity on his face. Perhaps frustration. Wilson closes his eyes again; he doesn't want to focus on House's face or the way House is looking at him, doesn't want to try and understand why House is looking at him like that, and he starts thrusting his finger in and out. God damn it, this angle is awkward and uncomfortable. He stills his finger, keeps it inside himself as he carefully shifts back until he's sitting up a little more and resumes thrusting his finger in and out -- except sitting like this makes his anal muscles clench tighter and Wilson stops again with an impatient sigh.
"Do you want me to h--"
Wilson jumps at hearing House's voice. He snaps his eyes open again and looks sharply at House, so sharply that House falls silent and almost appears to shrink back against the pillow. For a split second Wilson thinks about climbing off House and forgetting about this whole thing. Getting dressed, making House leave the hotel, making it clear he doesn't want House to ever come back. Because Wilson really can't handle House's sudden desire to talk and acknowledge what they're doing here. He has no idea what's changed, but something has changed, something huge. Something he wasn't prepared for.
House's hand wrapping slowly around his dick jolts Wilson out of his thoughts. He looks down at House's hand and then back at House's face. Now would be a good time to end this. Right now. Before this becomes something Wilson's really not sure he wants. The thing is, he wanted House to break the silence, didn't he? He wanted that. And now House is, and... and...
Wilson swallows hard as House's thumb starts to tease the slit of his cock. He's desperately trying to keep focused on his train of thought, trying to work out what the hell he wants, but the way House starts to stroke him, slowly, firmly, Wilson wants... he doesn't know what he wants, but his body starts to react: his hips begin to thrust, pushing his cock through the tight circle of House's hand, his mind caught between god damn you, stop that and more, please, more.
He slaps his hand onto House's chest in frustration and glares down at him, House glaring right back up at him as Wilson grits his teeth and starts to finger himself in time with the strokes of House's hand on his cock. God damn you, he wants to hiss. God damn you for coming here, for making this so fucking confusing. He draws in a sharp breath, pushing a second finger into himself and, fuck, it hurts. Burns, stings as his anus stretches, but he keeps twisting his fingers in, feeling anger fire up in him as House starts to caress his chest, his neck, his face. Wilson closes his eyes while House's fingers stroke his cheek, sliding his tongue out to taste House's fingers as feels them trace over his lips. He coaxes House's forefinger into his mouth and sucks on it, gasping quietly as House squeezes his dick tighter. He thinks about biting down on House's finger when he hears House moan quietly.
Shut up, don't make a sound, Wilson commands in his mind. Please, don't make a sound. He releases House's finger from his mouth with a sucking sound and opens his eyes to peer down at him, and his chest twists at the way House is looking back up at him. Such an intense stare, too intense; an expression Wilson's never seen on House's face before. Wilson squeezes his eyes shut once more and focuses on the physical, on the way House keeps stroking his cock. He reaches deeper inside himself with his fingers, his arm aching from being twisted behind himself like this. He just wants House to fuck him, now, right now. Wants to fuck House out of anger and frustration, wants to clamp down on all these confusing emotions in himself.
He draws his fingers out and gropes frantically for the condoms on the bedside table. House obviously takes this as a cue to start roaming his hands over Wilson's body again, which just makes Wilson feel angry... and needy... and... and god damn it, stop doing that. His hands are shaky as he rips the condom packet open, even shakier when he scoots back and roughly rolls the condom onto House's dick. He makes a grab for the lube before House manages to get his hands on it. He squeezes a large amount out and slicks House's cock up, shoving House's hands away from himself when he feels them on his chest and shoulders.
He hears House make a sound of frustration, feels him struggling again for dominance, grabbing, clawing, trying to shove Wilson off and Wilson snatches House's wrists to fight back against him once he tosses the lube aside. Fighting is good, fighting is familiar; Wilson wants House to keep on fighting with him instead of breaking the silence and as he scoots back up over House's body he leans over to kiss House hard on the mouth. Fiercely, aggressively, biting and sucking, wrestling with House to make him stay on his back. He wants House inside him, wants House to fuck him now and the moment he releases his grip on one of House's hands to reach down behind him to feel around for House's cock, he feels House snatch a tuft of his hair.
Bastard, Wilson hisses in his mind as House twists his hair. Bastard. He kisses him again angrily as he closes his fingers around House's cock, angles it up towards him and swallows back a harsh grunt of discomfort when House thrusts sharply against his perineum. Wilson bites at House's mouth and can't help but whimper when the head of House's dick engages with his anus. He pushes back slowly, breaking the kiss with a pant and presses his forehead against House's because, fuck, it hurts, it hurts. It stings and burns as he eases back gingerly, as House's cock slowly stretches him.
He swallows back another whimper, exhaling sharply and he feels House's hands suddenly clutch at his head. Holding him close, almost tenderly, and Wilson just can't help letting out a grunt of discomfort as House's cock pushes deeper inside him. Oh, god, he's missed this. Doesn't matter how much it hurts, he's missed this, missed this closeness with House and he remembers for a moment why he wanted House to break the silence: because he wanted more of this, wanted this to mean more than just fucking, wanted House to want more.
He presses his mouth against House's, a kiss that turns into an open-mouthed grimace while House kisses and sucks at Wilson's lower lip, and Wilson grunts quietly again the deeper he takes House inside him, right inside until he can feel nothing but a deep sensation of fullness. He lets House clutch him close while he waits a moment to adjust to having House inside him, drawing in even, controlled breaths. Until he pushes back gently - and gasps sharply at the sensation of House's dick rubbing within him. He does it again, carefully, slowly, again and again, drawing in a hitched breath when he feels House thrust back. And again when House gives another small thrust, and another, and another.
Breaking away from the grip House has on his head, Wilson braces his hands on House's chest and pushes himself up. He squeezes his eyes shut and fights back he urge to groan as House's dick slides deeper inside him. He rolls his hips in slow, tense motions, and it's not until House suddenly groans that Wilson realises how this is exactly the same as last time - fucking House on top, wishing, praying, trying his hardest to coax a sound out of House to make him break the silence, just like the sound he made now.
Except Wilson doesn't want House to make a sound, not this time. He wants it to stay silent because at least that's familiar; at least he knows how to handle the silence, even if it isn't enough. He would rather something second best than something he doesn't know what to do with. Wilson opens his eyes and looks down at House, willing him silently to stay quiet. Don't make a sound, don't speak, Wilson pleads. He arches himself up and sinks back down onto House's dick, wanting to clamp his hand over House's mouth when he hears him groan again.
He shifts his weight on House and lets the pace pick up, his mouth twisting open into an expression of helpless pleasure when House's cock pushes and rubs right there, that very spot that makes Wilson's spine feel like it's weakening. Oh god, yes, he thinks, keeping himself angled so that House's dick keeps striking him there, right there. He leans forward and slaps his hands either side of House's head on the pillow, grips the pillow and fists it in his hands as the pace quickens, deepens, hardens.
Greg, oh god, Greg. House grabs him by the hips and starts driving in with sharp strokes, trying to control the rhythm, which Wilson tries to fight against, except he can't because it feels so good and it's all he can do to grab reflexively at his cock to start jerking himself off.
"Oh, god," he hears House pant, a sound that seems as loud as an explosion in the dead of night, and Wilson lifts his hand from the pillow to clamp his hand down on House's mouth. Except the next thrust into him causes him to over-balance and he makes a frantic grab at the headboard of the bed instead, to steady himself. And, god, the moment he regains his balance, he discovers this angle is better, so much better, and he arches his back as he grinds himself down onto House's cock.
Right there, he thinks desperately in his mind with the way House's cock is honing right in on that spot, again and again, right... there. The pace rapidly turns into a deep, grinding rhythm, turning Wilson's insides into molten liquid as his orgasm suddenly erupts from within him, hard. He grips the headboard until his knuckles turn white, barely able to keep himself upright as House starts to climax a few moments later. He hears House making sounds, quiet grunts, noises he'd never heard House make before in his life and as much as he wants to shut them out, he's too overridden with sensation to be able to do anything except cling to the headboard.
House slows down, slows to a stop and Wilson sags, breathing heavily, aware of his skin prickling with sweat - and suddenly aware of House's hands on his back, his shoulders, around on his chest. Everywhere. Touching with slow, weary strokes.
Wilson finds himself tensing up again. He licks his lips and chances a quick glance down at House's face, just as House murmurs in a slurred voice, "Wilson..."
"Don't," Wilson abruptly commands.
He sees House swallow in between catching his breath, sees him frown slightly and watches the light catch the beads of sweat on his forehead. He feels House's hands sliding down his back. "Wils--"
"Don't."
Before House can say anything further, Wilson lifts himself off House, feels House's cock sliding out of him, and quickly climbs off, tipping over onto his back. God, what the hell is House doing? What the hell has changed? When did it change? Wilson wipes his face with his hand and silently wills House to say nothing more. He doesn't want to hear it. He can't handle this sudden shift between them because he seriously didn't expect House to be like this. He thought House had come here tonight to do what they'd always done: fuck in silence, without saying a word to each other, during or after.
"Wilson," he hears House say again, almost a pleading tone to House's voice this time. Like House is confused, completely confused by Wilson's reaction.
Wilson tries to ignore him. He rolls onto his side away from House and stares across the room at the window. This is too much, way too much, after House not speaking to him for ages, after Robin, after realising the whole reason he wanted more from House is because he loves him. And doesn't want to love him. Can't help but love him. Wanted House to love him, too, but now... now, he's not so sure. It's so much easier to settle for second best when he doesn't really know what he wants. He's never known what he wants. Because he's never known what would make him happy - because Wilson doesn't even truly know what happiness is, what it feels like, how to get it and keep it.
House's hand suddenly touching his head snaps Wilson out of his thoughts. He tenses up again as House starts to hesitantly stroke his hair. Much the same way as House had done the last time, when Wilson was asleep, and maybe if Wilson had been awake when that had happened, he'd realise where House is coming from right now. In spite of how stiffly he's lying there, though, Wilson closes his eyes and, for a moment, he allows himself to indulge in the way House is touching him. God, yes... He almost, almost starts to shift over onto his back to look at House because as much as he has no clue how to handle House's behaviour, there's a part of him that craves this. So much.
House pulls his hand away before Wilson decides to give in, though. He feels the bed shifting as House sits up and Wilson tries to ignore the twisting in his chest as House stands and silently limps to the bathroom. He hears the light flick on, the faint buzzing of the fluorescent light, followed by the door closing. He lets out a slow, shaky breath and relaxes slightly. God, he doesn't know what to do now. He doesn't know, he has no clue. Whether to just keep ignoring House until House leaves, to maybe silently try and get him to stay, or to just... let the silence be broken. Because that's what he originally wanted, isn't it? He wanted the silence to be broken, didn't he?
Jesus, he doesn't know, he just doesn't know. He jumps when he hears the bathroom door suddenly open and, without meaning to, he lifts his head from the pillow to look over his shoulder at House, and sees him standing there, looking lost. Like he doesn't know what do with himself. House meets his eyes, slowly, and they stare at each other for a long, silent moment.
Wilson is the first to look away. He lays his head back down on the pillow and part of him wants House to take that as a silent invitation to come back to bed, and part of him wants House to take that as a silent command to leave. It's a testament, really, to what Wilson instinctually wants when he feels the other side of the bed dip under House's weight as he sits on the edge of it, and his heart surges in hope that House is going to stay.
But then House stands up again, and Wilson hears the rustle of jeans being pulled up, followed by the zip. He hears House moving around the room and knows House is pulling his shirt on, his socks and shoes, his coat, and Wilson swallows back the sickening feeling of disappointment that House is leaving.
House, he almost says when he hears the sound of House's footfalls moving towards the door. House, stop. Wait. Please don't go. He grips the edge of the bed and tries to work out what the hell he wants before it's too late, before House is out the door. Because once he's gone... Wilson doesn't know. He doesn't know anything. He just... maybe wants things the way they were. Silent and unacknowledged. Because at least then he had much less of a chance of losing House than he does now.
Except... except...
"House," Wilson finds himself saying when he hears the handle being turned. He lifts his head from the pillow to look at House and sees House standing there with his back to him, the door open ajar. Wilson swallows again. "House?"
For a terrifying moment, Wilson thinks House is just going to leave without a word. But then he turns, slowly, and looks back at Wilson, watching him, waiting expectantly, coldly, for whatever it is Wilson wants to say.
Except Wilson isn't sure what he wants to say. And the look on House's face is so cold, so cold that Wilson feels like shrinking back into the bed covers, as far away from House as possible. Yet, watching House now, watching how hurt he looks, Wilson decides he can't let House leave like this. He can't just let House walk out the door without at least knowing that they'll be okay. Somehow. He just can't.
He swallows again and shifts himself on the bed so he's sitting up more. "I... Don't leave."
House keeps watching him coldly for a moment, the hurt expression on his face making Wilson's insides twist. He's certain House is just going to leave. He's certain of it. But the cold look on House's face slowly drops away and Wilson is struck by how weary House suddenly appears. Weary and old. Like this has been weighing on House's mind just as much as Wilson's. The lines on House's face look deeper, his eyes look tired. His whole posture looks almost frail.
Wilson, in spite of everything that's just happened, is swept up with this sudden urge to somehow comfort House. Seeing House look like that... "Please?" he tries gently.
House sighs and he slowly, very slowly closes the door again. Wilson clutches the bed covers up around him as House limps back to the bed without a sound and sits down on the edge, shoulders slumped, head hanging low. Wilson doesn't know what to say. Perhaps it's best not to say anything because House silently decided not to leave and that's better than nothing. Except... Wilson has this sudden desire to touch House. To reconnect with him somehow.
He wants to ask if House is okay, if he needs anything, but he bites his tongue as he watches House just sit there. House finally stands up again and shrugs out of his coat, tosses it on the floor and sits back down to toe off his shoes. Wilson watches him strip silently and he can't begin to describe the overwhelming sense of relief he feels when House wordlessly climbs back into the bed.
He lies back down as House shifts onto his side, his back to Wilson, and Wilson feels torn between desperately needing to know that House wants and needs him, and gratefulness that this familiar silence has settled between them again. He almost wants to shift up behind House, spoon up behind him and touch him now that Wilson sees just how weary House is.
Looking up towards the lamp on the bedside table, he switches it off so the room plunges into darkness, save for the beams of moonlight streaming through the window, and looks back towards House. It's pitch black to Wilson at the moment because his eyes haven't adjusted to the darkness, so he can't see House. But he listens to House's breathing, steady and even. Just lying here, listening to House's breathing, realising how close he came to House walking out of him, Wilson feels a swell of love for House in his chest, for the fact that House is still here.
He rolls onto his side so his back is facing House, with a slight smile of relief on his face. They might be right back where they started from, right back at square one - with House on one side of the bed and Wilson on the other side, both in stereophonic silence - but at least House is there. At least House still needs him and wants him. That's all that matters.
Wilson closes his eyes, not realising how tired he is until he feels sleep tugging at him. His breathing evens out and his body eventually goes slack as he falls asleep, and he's completely unaware of House now lying on his back and watching him sadly through the darkness. He's completely unaware of House shifting in closer until their bodies are just touching, and he's completely unaware of the soft kiss House drops to the back of his shoulder.
Maybe, when Wilson wakes up, he'll find House asleep on the other side of the bed, no knowledge of House ever being close. Or maybe he'll wake up and find House asleep up against him, with House's arm securely over his body and House's face tucked in against the back of his neck.
Maybe the silence will have broken for good this time.
Maybe.
end.
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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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