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Schism
by Teyla
AN: Thanks to neery and elicia8 for betaing.
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I've done the math enough to know
The dangers of our second guessing
~ Tool, Schism
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Running. He was running running running, strapping on his harness so he wouldn't fall, tying himself down so he wouldn't fly away.
Wilson clutched his beer bottle tighter to hide the trembling of his hands and raised it to his lips in a jerky movement, draining the remains of the drink in one long gulp. He lowered his hand and almost flinched when House finally broke the silence.
"You're running away."
"Shut up, House." The response was quick and sharp and sounded almost like a plea. It went ignored.
"You're chickening out as always, and you're being more of a selfish bastard than I could-"
"Shut up!" Boy, wasn't he the bossy one tonight. Wilson wished for something more substantial than an empty beer bottle to hold on to. "Just- shut up. Don't go there."
"Why the hell not? If you're going to bolt, at least have the decency to admit it. Egotism only serves its purpose if you're not ashamed of it."
Wilson couldn't sit still anymore. He got to his feet - more like jumped to his feet, the alcohol making his head swim for a moment - and headed into the kitchen for another beer. "It's not egotism, House," he said, giving his voice a stern and sort of patronizing undertone. "Just let it go, will you?"
There was no reply, and Wilson almost didn't dare hope that House would actually leave it alone. If that happened, it would be a good thing. It would be the right thing.
He pulled the door of the fridge open, bottles clinking together and producing a high, almost painfully clear sound. He reached for one of them through the cold that wafted towards him.
There was the soft thump of a cane's rubber tip being set down on kitchen tiles behind him. His hand accidentally brushed against one of the bottles, and the jingling grated in his ears once more. He closed his fingers around the smooth brown bottleneck.
"What do you want from me, House?" From patronizing to begging in less than a minute. Way to go.
"I want you to stop being a goddamn liar." House's voice was harsh. "I want you to turn around and look at me."
Can't. I'm sorry, House, I can't, can't do this, can't undo it-
He turned away from the fridge slowly, mindful of closing the door properly. Then he raised his eyes even more slowly, meeting a piercing blue stare that made him reach behind himself, seeking out the stability of the closed fridge door. "Leave it alone, House." A last, feeble try. "For the sake of all that is holy, please, let this one go."
Frailty had never gotten anyone far with House. Wilson held his breath and gripped the beer bottle more tightly as House came closer. He was right in his face, his body mere inches from Wilson's, his scent of soap and sweat and person and House too strong in Wilson's nose. "Don't do this," House said, and he wasn't begging, oh no, he was commanding, except that maybe it was just that he didn't know how to beg in any other way. "No one is making you but yourself. We both know it's not what you want."
Wilson felt breathless, as if the air that he was breathing didn't contain any oxygen at all. "We made a mistake, House," he said, speaking too quickly. "I made a mistake. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have-"
"We did it more than once," House said, and this certainly wasn't anything else but disdain. "You're going to tell me each of those occasions, day after night after week after month, were a mistake? You're smarter than that."
Wilson had reached a point where he felt as if he were actually choking, the presence of House's body too close, suffocating him. He pressed his back harder against the smooth surface of the fridge door. "It's not- I can't do this, House. Should never have done it." He was babbling. "I'm sorry, I-" He started as House dropped his cane and took the beer bottle away, pinning him to the fridge by clamping his left forearm across Wilson's chest in one fluent motion.
"Tell me you don't want this." House's eyes were locked with his, and they were ablaze, blue irises sparking, and oh Lord, Wilson could feel House's right hand yanking on his pants and opening his fly, and the touch alone was enough to make Wilson hard. Blood was rushing downwards from his head so quickly it left him feeling dizzy, and still he couldn't look away, mesmerized by the two blue beacons that seemed to fill his whole field of vision. "Tell me this is not what you want, and I'll stop."
"I- House, I can't-" Words failed him as House fully freed his cock and began to masturbate him, hard, rough, almost hurtful. A moan escaped his lips, and he curled his hands to fists, pressing them against the hard surface behind him while he squeezed his eyes shut, desperate to escape this burning gaze. "House," he gasped, quietly. "Please don't- please, stop-"
"Tell me that this is not what you want, and I will," House repeated, his voice sharp against the roaring in Wilson's ears.
"I can't, House, please- " Words were hard to form as House's strong fingers continued to stroke his erection, up and down, up and down, fast, hard, each squeeze accompanied by an almost painful surge that ran through his whole body, each amplifying and echoing the preceding ones. Wilson opened his mouth in a silent moan, feeling the friction building up to the inevitable climax, squeezing his eyes closed even tighter and clenching his fists even harder, the small stings of his fingernails digging into his palm increased to painful stabs by his overstimulated senses, and as the tension maxed out and started to tear, he heard House's voice again, loud and distinct. "Tell the truth, Wilson! For once in your life, tell the fucking truth!"
A moan akin to a sob passed his lips as the waves began to roll through him, and the weight across his chest vanished, taking away his balance. He slowly slid down the wall and came to kneel on the cool kitchen floor, panting and out of breath, his eyes still closed shut very tightly.
"Tell the truth, Wilson. Admit that this is what you want."
House's voice, calm again, commanding again. Wilson opened his eyes, but he didn't look up, staring at the blurry image of the beige kitchen tiles instead. "I can't, House," he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. "I'm sorry, but I can't."
The silence that followed was long and absolute. Then Wilson saw movement from the corner of his eyes. House picking up his cane. He didn't move.
"You should go," he heard House's voice from somewhere off to his left.
Keeping his head lowered, Wilson pushed himself to his feet and zipped up his pants. He went to pick up his jacket which was flung over a chair just outside the kitchen, and then he was on his way out, quickly fumbling the door open, running again, picking up his pace and never turning to look back.
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The next day at noon, James Wilson recited his wedding vow to Julie Cote, soon to be Wilson. Each of the few guests agreed afterwards that it had been a beautiful ceremony. The best man, one Dr. Gregory House, smiled a lot and charmed the bride's mother into blushing in flattered embarrassment and upsetting her glass of white wine. The snapshots as well as the posed photographs all had photo album quality, and the weather could not have been more concessive on a late September afternoon.
In the early hours of the next morning, the newlywed husband lay next to his wife in their marriage bed, staring into the darkness surrounding him and feeling his own reality slowly readjust itself. He had known that it would. After all, he had long ago built it in a way so it would always morph back into the reality that he wanted. That he needed. And if each of these morphoses came with the feeling of a small part of him dying, well, that was only fair and just. After all, he had just been granted another few years of alleviating conformity. And for all that you got, you paid. Right?
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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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