| |
Side Effects
by Isagel
It was only the second time House actually fucked him, but Wilson was rapidly gaining a new understanding of addiction. A crash course, but when had Greg ever taught anything else?
It had been Tuesday when Julie decided to kick him out. Not an unexpected development - he'd seen it coming for a long time, and he hadn't done all that much to prevent it. The two of them had been a mistake from the start, and he'd reached a point where he was able to acknowledge that.
On Wednesday, he'd ended up crashing on House's living room couch, and that was hardly surprising, either. After all, what were best friends for, if not taking you in in your hour of need and shredding all your major life decisions with merciless sarcasm until you started to feel like yourself again? After years of hanging out with House, he'd be damned if he knew anymore.
It should perhaps have surprised him when Thursday night came along to find him not twisting and turning on the lumpy couch, but lying flat on his back in the bedroom, with his legs spread and his hands gripping the headboard, but he'd been too busy not actually passing out from pleasure to bother with the pretence. Best friends were good for a lot of things, as it turned out.
And so, not a week after flunking marriage for the third time, he was spending his Saturday afternoon face down on House's bed, with House's weight on top of him, his lips on the back of his neck, his heat all around him, and the single thought in his head was that he'd never be able to live without this ever again.
And not even that was a surprise.
He'd known for years that once he gave in to this thing between them, there'd be no way to halt its progression. The fire would take him and he would go up like straw, and there would be nothing left but the need in his heart, in his body. Greg consumed people as a matter of course, simply by being who he was. To let him in that final bit of the way... Wilson had shied away from it so many times, dreading the outcome.
The reality of it in the here and now was like being burnt alive, and he couldn't imagine why he'd thought putting it off had been a good idea. It had always been what he wanted.
Greg's breaths in his ear were rapid and sharp, mixed with licks and bites and ragged words that made him squirm beneath the steady thrusts pinning him to the mattress. Slow, inexorable rhythm of House's cock inside him, the already familiar left-to-right slant of every movement reflecting the uneven distribution of strength in his friend's body, a constant reminder of who was claiming him.
Beneath him, his own erection strained between his stomach and the mattress, the friction a teasing pleasure feeding into the shattering bliss of each new rub against his prostate. He felt suspended outside time and place, lost in a world made up of cotton sheets bunching under his chest, of Greg's sweat dripping onto his back, of the breathless moans drawn from his own lips again and again and again. He had no idea how long they'd been at it, but he felt as though he could stay just like this forever.
Then Greg's breathing caught on a shuddering inhalation, and his measured control snapped like a breaking bone. The thrusts became hurried and urgent, driving into James's body with the near desperation of a man teetering on the edge of orgasm, the sudden increase in speed making Wilson's every nerve scream for release.
"Please," he managed to get out, the word a panted whisper half smothered by the pillow. "House, please..."
Not that there was anything House could do in this position that he wasn't already doing; with the bad leg, he needed both hands for support for this to work at all. Still... Splayed open like this, brought to the brink of what he could handle without falling apart, the only thing James knew how to do was plead.
"Yes," House said in his ear, and if there was smugness in his voice, there was also a streak of awe that made the marrow in Wilson's bones quiver. "Do it now. Touch yourself."
It almost surprised him that he didn't come from the words alone.
The grip of his own fingers around his cock was like a touch of lightning, a shock that made his muscles spasm and convulse. It didn't take much - two strokes, three - then his neck arched back and he was coming, impaling himself deeper on Greg's cock, the raw noise ripped from his throat blending with his friend's answering groan. Heady, crushing fulfillment, and somehow the sudden looseness of his limbs allowed him to spread his legs wider, inviting the pounding of House's thrusts, offering the same satisfaction in return. He could feel the tension in the body above him, the taut bow-string tremors of impending release, the coveted rush of his lover's orgasm so close he could taste it.
Except that it didn't come.
The moment stretched and expanded, turned into minutes measured in the disjointed beats of House's hips against his ass, and though it still felt incredible - better, even, now that the immediate hunger wasn't there to distract him - he was reaching the limit of what his out-of-practice body would be able to take. It was - God - two wives and change since he'd done this last, and it wasn't as if he'd ever made a habit of it. The burn inside was slowly closing in on pain.
And then it was gone, replaced by a piercing emptiness as House pulled out completely. It took seconds to realize that Greg wasn't going to push back in, that he was, in fact, moving all the way off with a scrambling rustle of sheets and a sharp inhalation of pain that meant he was shifting his leg without bothering to be careful.
"House?"
He must have been louder before than he'd thought, because his voice didn't rise above a crackled whisper. He swallowed hard and tried again, turning to look.
"House, what...?" Greg was at the edge of the bed, already getting to his feet, using the bedpost for leverage. His back was to Wilson, and he didn't glance in his direction. "Are you all right?"
As soon as those words were out of his mouth, he knew he'd said the worst thing possible. He could feel House fall through his fingers, snatching himself away from the open concern as if it were acid dripping onto his skin.
"Splendid. Don't get up."
Dismissive wave of his hand as he hobbled the short distance across the floor to the bathroom, voice aggressively stripped of emotion. Wilson wanted to stop him, hold him back, but his legs had somehow gotten twisted in the sheets, and before he could manage to disentangle himself, Greg had swung the door shut between them and he was alone.
Fuck.
He was an idiot.
With House, you needed to think fast, move fast, the speed of your reactions the only thing that could balance out the mental edge Greg had on the rest of the world. The fact that the two of them had stayed friends for so long had a lot to do with Wilson's ability to keep his wits about him, to keep up with the unpredictable twists and turns of House's behavior and remain unfazed by whatever madness came his way. If he let sex interfere with that, this new development in their relationship was likely to prove the death of it.
From the bathroom, he heard the metallic clang of the lid on the waste container falling shut, followed a few seconds later by the sound of running water. The shower. He wished he knew what the fuck to make of that.
Well, there was only one sure way of finding out. House knew him practically as well as he knew himself - if he'd truly wanted him to stay away, he would have locked the door.
Automatically wiping the semen from his chest with a corner of the sheet, Wilson slid off the bed and made his way to the bathroom. As his hand closed around the door knob, he wondered briefly if he was about to make another wrong move. But no... Though most of the time it was necessary to give House his space, there were also occasions when you had to push to break through all those layers of defensive bullshit. If by now he couldn't trust himself to know the difference, he might as well go beg his wife to take him back.
Turning the knob, he stepped inside.
House was standing by the shower cabin, apparently waiting for the water temperature to adjust. His hands were resting against the metal frame on either side of the open slide door, stretched-out arms supporting his weight, head bent between them in a posture that was...not despondent, but strained, curved by some internal pressure barely contained. When Wilson entered, he didn't look up.
"You want to tell me what's going on, or did we just skip the honeymoon and move directly to the part where your wife doesn't understand you anymore?"
House shot him a quick glance, a pale flash like magnesium fire.
"Wouldn't want you to get homesick."
Words that stung like a whiplash, but of course they were meant to. Wilson bit back the mental flinch and stepped closer.
"And long to leave you? Can't imagine why that would ever happen."
His tone was equal parts irony and annoyance; sharp, but nowhere near as scathing as the sarcasm of House's retort.
"How touching. He must really love me."
Yes, he wanted to say. Yes, he really does. But you didn't profess undying love for Gregory House any more than you showed him concern. He wouldn't let you.
"Talk to me," was what he said instead, carefully keeping his voice level, despite the weirdness of the situation.
House was standing there naked in front of him, the fine sheen of drying sweat on his skin reflecting the soft lights of the bathroom, and though the condom he'd worn before had been discarded, Greg's cock was still erect, still looked as hard as it had felt inside him only minutes ago. He was close enough now for Wilson to reach out and touch, close enough for him to feel the aura of warmth around his heated body, the contrast sharp against the chill rising from the cold water falling in the shower. He had to restrain himself not to close the distance.
And then the pieces fell into place, and he saw things for what they were.
Friday morning, up against the wall in a clinic exam room, House's hand inside his pants, stroking him. His body still sore from the first time, from the raw, incredible, endless fuck of the night before, the physical memory blending with the fresh sensations until the edges of reality blurred and he was coming, biting his tongue to stay quiet while House whispered things in his ear that made his legs shake beneath him. Knowing that his next patient was due any second, but not caring, moving to drop to his knees, aching to reciprocate. House stepping away, shaking his head. "Really, Dr. Wilson. What would the patients say? And to think people have you pegged as the respectable one." Familiar, exasperating dig, accompanied by a teasing smile that made him roll his eyes. But there had been something else on House's face the instant before the reassuring mask fell into place, something he'd allowed himself to forget in the rush of the parting kiss, in the thrill of promises half-spoken, the prospect of proper retaliation the second they stepped through the door of House's apartment.
Frustration. Agitation. Fear.
The same things he was seeing now, and perhaps he should feel compassion, but there was anger welling up inside him, his hands automatically moving to his hips.
"It's the pills, isn't it?"
House put his hand into the shower, up-turned palm testing the water. Theater movement, aiming for nonchalance.
"All drugs have side effects," he said, glance flicking in Wilson's direction, shifting away.
"And all addicts are inconsiderate jerks. Silly me, I forgot." The sarcasm in his voice was icy cold now, honed with rage and hurt. Cutting enough to make Greg turn to him, open his mouth to say something. He didn't want to hear it, though, didn't want to listen to the predictable defensive witticisms. "You can run away from every single difficult conversation, if that's what you want," he said instead. "God knows I'm used to that. But you don't get to ditch me in bed like some five-dollar hooker you picked up on a street-corner. You don't get to hide from this."
"Or what? You'll walk out? I know you're not the staying type, but two break-ups in a week must be a personal best, even for you."
It would be so easy, wouldn't it? To just turn his back and walk away and never have to bother with any of this crap again. But to storm out would be to leave House to his addiction and its goddamn side effects, and though he'd done that before, in frustration and impotence, sex did change things, made them intimate and personal in entirely new, unforeseen ways. He wasn't going to admit defeat, wasn't going to let the drugs drive him out of Greg's bed. He had gained something here over the last few days, something he had never had before, and he would fight to keep it.
Without breaking eye-contact with House, he leaned into the shower, the bitter chill of the spray like a rain of needles on the skin of his arm as he reached across to the faucet and turned the water from cold to hot.
"Get in," he said.
House raised a skeptical eyebrow, but the haunted desperation in his expression was giving way to curiosity. There would never be a better way of getting to him than doing the unexpected.
"You offering to give me a sponge bath? Picked that up from one of your dedicated nurses?"
Wilson didn't roll his eyes. He didn't move at all, but he knew that if he had turned to meet his own gaze in the mirror above the sink, the dark determination in it would have made him take a step back.
"If comments like that are meant to drive me off, you're seriously underestimating the level of tolerance built up by long-term exposure. Now get in."
House cocked his head to the side and studied him, the speculative scrutiny he might bestow on a particularly fascinating CT-scan. It was a look that often made Wilson blush or fidget, because it seemed able to cut right through him, down to the things he wanted most to hide, but he was too focused now to even blink beneath it. He didn't know and didn't care what House was seeing, but it must have been enough to hold his interest, because with a barely perceptible nod, he did as he was told. Wilson stepped in after him, sliding the frosted glass shut behind them.
Warm water on his face and on his chest, on House's skin under his hands as he grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him up against the wall. Wet slap of flesh hitting tiles, warning him to be more careful, but touching House was pure emotion, had nothing to do with self-control, and his hands were rough in dampened hair as he pulled Greg's head down for a kiss.
He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but House didn't fight him. Instead his lips parted instantly, a moan vibrating between them as Wilson delved deeper, pushed closer. Hunger, want, in the tongue that yielded to his own, in the body pressed against him, and he ran his hand down House's torso, feeling the need restrained as a shiver beneath his fingers. Hard expanse of chest, sprinkled with hairs that scratched his palm, followed by the sharp edge of bone where the ribcage ended. Dipping lower, across the softer stretch of stomach, and they both gasped when the back of his thumb brushed against the side of Greg's erection, his own spent cock twitching in response. Still so new, this, the fact of it still not quite comprehended. Deliberately, he let his hand retrace the motion.
Grip like iron around his wrist, then, Greg's hand not letting him move. The kiss breaking, and he was looking into Greg's eyes, reading lust in them, pain, along with something that might have been shame.
"Sometimes," House said, voice blending with the murmur of the water, "it just doesn't work."
Don't expect too much. Don't set yourself up for disappointment. Don't...
"And sometimes," James replied, twisting his arm free with a calm belied by the pulse throbbing in his neck, "you just have to trust me. Now shut up."
"You ask the most difficult things," House said, the hint of an ironic smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, but he closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the wall. "It's lucky for you I find challenges exciting."
"And lucky for you," Wilson said, leaning forward until only the thinnest sliver of air lay between his lips and House's ear, "that I'm the most stubborn person you're ever going to meet." The tip of his tongue along the contour of Greg's earlobe underlined his words, made them a promise he had no intention of going back on. He could hear his friend's breathing hitch in understanding. "Don't move."
Stepping away, he adjusted the shower head, angled it so that the stream of hot water fell on House's body while his face was kept dry. Then he reached for the shower gel.
"I'm afraid you don't have the basic equipment for a sponge bath," he said, filling the cup of his hand with liquid soap, the honey-colored substance cool in contrast to the steam beginning to rise around them. "We'll have to do this the primitive way."
House slit his eyes open, watched him as he put the bottle back on the shelf and worked the soap into a lather.
"Somehow," he said, voice not quite present, gaze glued to the motions of Wilson's hands, "I think you'll muddle through."
"How reassuring."
Approaching again, his own body holding the water back from the narrowing space between them as he raised his hands to House's shoulders and began to spread the soap onto his skin. Carefully, gently, palms sliding over the wet surface of Greg's torso; neck to sternum to hip bones, not lingering along the way; knuckles to elbows to clavicles, back to the starting point. Only when every part he could reach was slippery beneath his touch did he put strength into his caresses, rubbing at the tangled knots in Greg's muscles, at the tension that held him in its grip. To his exploring fingers it was clear in a way it had never been to his eyes how the disability was changing the landscape of his friend's anatomy, the right side of his upper body stronger now, harder than the left, bunched and twisted from the daily strain of balancing his weight on the cane. He'd known it was taking its toll, of course he had, but feeling it under his hands was a different matter, the palpable fact making his heart contract. He was glad that Greg had his eyes closed and couldn't see his face.
He could watch Greg, though; consume the sight of him, the sounds he made, the warmth and texture of his skin. He had always loved House's body, from the first time they met. The long, slim stretch of his thighs under the fabric of his jeans; the strong, elegant shape of his hands, half-covered, half-revealed by the unbuttoned cuffs of a burgundy shirt; the easy way he owned his space - the room and everything, everyone in it curving around his presence, the careless grace of his movements as spell-binding as the disturbing brilliance of his thoughts. James had seen and he had wanted, and he had gone home to his second wife, pretending that he didn't. Determined to keep his distance. He had always been good at pretending; the distance thing had proved entirely beyond him.
Then the infarction had struck, and he had seen Greg's body crumble. The effortless grace turned into a constant struggle, the forceful strides James had hurried to keep up with lost forever in the quagmire of pain that made every little step forward a battle as often lost as won. It had hurt to watch, and he hadn't known how to look away. Until one day he'd been walking his friend through the corridors of the hospital - back to his office where there'd be no work, no patients, nothing but the emptiness that seemed these days to echo around him - and, glancing at him, he had seen a rhythm, a flow to his steps that made his breath catch. A new kind of grace; shaped and contained by the limitations of the ruined leg, but grace nonetheless, as striking in its own way as what had been there before. That was the day he had started to keep an eye out for illnesses that couldn't be explained.
And now here he was, after all these years of admiration and worry, with that body at his disposal, his to touch and to pleasure. As he was there for House, willing to give everything. And still - in spite of the nearness, the intimacy they'd shared - he was forced to fight not to be shut out when it truly mattered. The unfairness of it stirred something savage deep within him, a creature with claws that wanted to lash out and punish. It struck him that if it had been any one of his wives shut in this tiny space with him, he would have been afraid to even lay a finger on her. This was House, though, who for all his weaknesses was as strong as James would ever be, and instead of fearing loss of control he felt focused, centered, able to channel the inferno inside him into all the right actions. He had always trusted House with his anger, and the possessive desire coloring it now didn't change that. His hands on Greg's flesh were absolutely steady.
Slowly, the sharper edges of tension eroded under his touch, washed away with the soap when he shifted to let the water rinse Greg's body clean. House was staying surprisingly still, head tilted back against the tiles, letting Wilson run the show. Giving himself up to the sensations offered, perhaps knowing that to speak, to touch would be to tempt fate. As the firm strokes of Wilson's hands turned lighter, more sensual, the thrumming of the shower could no longer mask the roughness of Greg's breathing, the groans escaping him. His arms remained at his sides, open palms pressed against the wall for support, but when James dragged his thumbs over the tightening peaks of his nipples, his fingers curled, nails scratching the smooth surface behind him. The rise and fall of his Adam's apple as he swallowed hard against the rush of pleasure flared like sudden heat in the pit of Wilson's stomach, and he bent his head to the arch of his friend's neck, trailed his lips along the blurred line of demarcation where stubble ended, tasting sandpaper hair and silken skin in one sweep of his tongue, one scrape of his teeth. By the time he bit down on the tender skin above the curve of Greg's collarbone, he was hard again, breathless with lust. The dark knowledge that the mark he left would be there for days made his body hum down to the bones.
He dropped to his knees, then, unable to wait, hoping that he'd waited long enough.
Hard tiles beneath him, slippery wet. Sound and feel and heat of water all around, like being caught in a tropical storm. He brushed dripping hair back from his face before running his hands up Greg's thighs, feeling firm, straining muscle under his right palm, only skin over dead tissue under his left. His instinct was to linger, to soothe and explore, but of course House wouldn't want him to. His hands didn't stop moving until they were gripping Greg's hips.
Glittering tendrils were winding their way down Greg's abdomen, rivulets snaking down his legs towards the floor or disappearing into the thick curls of his pubic hair. When Wilson pressed his lips to the flat expanse of his stomach, water trickled into his mouth, warm with the faint tang of metal from the pipes, prickly with the touch of salt from House's pores - the taste of this moment, imprinted on his brain, a sensory memory to ambush him thirty years down the road, transport him back into the here and now, into this clarity and turmoil of emotion. The harsh kisses he planted on his friend's skin were swept away by the rapid stream, one by one by one.
Then he was there, cheek just touching the shaft of Greg's cock, and his fingers tightened cruelly around sharp hipbones as he turned his head and ran his tongue along it, upwards from root to tip.
That was when Greg's balance folded under the effort of staying on his feet, the instinctive thrust of his hips undoing the strict control of mind over matter that had kept him upright, and his leg began to give out. Wilson was there, though, ready this time, prepared to grab hold of House before his frustration with his failing body became an excuse to push him away, before the walls had a chance to come up. Gripping Greg's hands, he placed them on his own shoulders. When he closed his lips around the head of House's erection, any protests that might have been forthcoming were lost in a groan of pleasure. His friend's weight settled on him without comment.
The world shifted and whirled, then, collapsed in on itself until all that existed was the hard length in his mouth, the water caressing his body and the blissful almost-pain where House's fingers dug into his skin, grip tightening with every swirl of Wilson's tongue around his cock. He had expected this to be awkward, uncomfortable, but the urgency in his blood made it easy, thick shaft sliding smoothly down his throat as he pushed forward, swallowing every inch of Greg's flesh that he could possibly take. The stretching of his lips, the weight on his palate, all of it was jagged, twisted perfection, and though there was no room for noises to leave his mouth, he could feel eager whimpers form deep in his throat, vibrating around the erection that filled him. With his hands, he held on to House's hips, held him still as he moved on his cock; sucking, swallowing, consuming, until with a last push of his tongue, he got what he wanted.
House plunging desperately into his mouth, breathing his name in a shuddering plea that echoed off the tiles, rattled in the steamed-up glass, made his heart sing and his bones ache as short nails sunk into his shoulders and semen spilled down his throat. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think, could only hold on to Greg's convulsing form and draw every last dizzying shiver from him, ride the wave of release until, slowly, it evened out into stillness.
Quiet, then, wrapping around him there on the floor, but it didn't last long. A few heartbeats of calm after he pulled away, a few moments of trying to catch his breath, of hearing House do the same, and then Greg's fingers were in his hair, tilting his head back.
The touch of relief and warmth in the blue eyes meeting his didn't make them any less piercing.
"Get up here. Now."
Roughened voice that went directly to his groin, and he was getting to his feet, drawn the way this man would always draw him. Then House's mouth descended on his, strong hands crushing him close, and the need he had put on hold flared like wildfire in the fierceness of the kiss. He didn't know how it happened, but suddenly he was the one with his back to the wall, House pressed along the front of him, long fingers curling around his cock. Jerking him off.
Keep up, he thought. Keep up when he spins the world around, that's all you have to do.
An old, familiar strategy with so many new applications it made his head swim, but he could still do it, no matter how things had changed. Had done it today, was doing it right now, if bracing himself against the tiles and letting Greg ravage him qualified as action. It seemed he wasn't losing here, after all, that he could trust himself to keep this together, in spite of all the added complexities.
House's hand moved faster, urgent, greedy strokes pushing him towards the edge, their mouths parting just enough for Greg to breathe broken words against his lips, sentences punctuated by devouring kisses.
"I always knew this would...kill me... You can never keep things simple, can you? Never let them...be?"
And the irony of that statement, the perfect fucking symmetry of it, was too much, the complete insanity of this whole screwed-up relationship flashing before his eyes, and Wilson found himself laughing, the absurdity of his life suddenly hitting home and bubbling over, the anger and the pain, the helplessness and the self-loathing, all of it pouring out of him in breathless, irrational, joyful laughter.
House looked at him as if he'd finally snapped and lost his mind, but then their eyes met and understanding passed between them, as, in the end, it always did. When orgasm struck, they were already laughing together.
Darkness had fallen outside while they'd been busy in the bathroom, and as Wilson slipped into his jeans, his eyes fell on his reflection in the bedroom window, nighttime sharp. Above his collarbones, dark bruises were forming, the size and shape of a grown man's thumbs. Absently, he put his hand to one of them, fingers tracing its outline as if there would be something to feel.
"It's a good thing you're always so properly dressed," House said from behind him, sitting on the bed with his legs stretched out. "If anyone saw those, they'd think you'd been attacked by a really inept copycat of the Boston strangler."
Wilson turned around, leaning back against the set of drawers beneath the window.
"The Boston strangler used neckties, not his hands. But I suspect that particular technique would be beyond you."
"Is that your way of saying that you're into erotic asphyxiation? Will I now discover that your wives left you because they couldn't live with your disturbing kinks?"
Another dig about his marriages, but the tone was different now - the usual mix of raillery and jealousy, with no intent to harm. There was a smile tugging at the corner of Wilson's mouth, even as he rolled his eyes.
"Fantasizing about you might be pushing the abnormal, but I doubt it quite qualifies as perverse. So, no. It's my way of saying that the next time I offer myself as a human crutch, you should remind me that you're like ten feet tall and weigh twice as much as I think you do."
House tilted his head consideringly, grazing Wilson's body with an appraising look. Sated as he was, it still managed to send tingles down his spine.
"That wouldn't be an issue if any of your wives had bothered to feed you and you actually consisted of more than skin and bones."
"And I suppose you're going to cook me a three-course meal?"
"Nope. But if you can remember where you left the phone, I'll be happy to order you a pizza."
"Ah," Wilson said, "I can see how that would add up to the same thing."
He found the phone on the piano, half-buried under a pile of sheet-music. As he unearthed it, he was still smiling at the reassuring flow of their banter, and it was almost easy to pretend he was too far away to hear the rattle of pills being shaken out of their bottle. For a moment, he stood frozen, fingers tightening too hard around the stack of papers in his hand, but then he shook his head and made the tension drain from his muscles. That sound would still be there to set his teeth on edge in the morning. He had done enough fighting for one day.
Please post a comment on this story.
Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of Fox Television, 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.
|
|
|