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On The Commission Of Unnatural Offenses
by Topaz Eyes
Notes: I owe many, many thanks to nightdog_barks for her invaluable comments and beta. Brilliance is hers; gaffes are mine. Concrit is love.
~~~~~
The rapid chirps of snowy tree crickets greeted James Wilson as he approached the window to look out over the grounds of 221B Baker Street one torpid summer's night. August had been sweltering that year, the night air oppressively still; all the windows of the manse were currently thrown wide open to capture any hint of stirring breeze. Wilson, unclothed as was his wont after lovemaking on unbearably muggy nights like these, was grateful for the singular privacy afforded by the overgrown groves of beech and hickory that surrounded the manse. The night sky was clear for the moment, the waxing gibbous moon emerging from the clouds to cast her gentle light over the herbal gardens just outside; the bracing, minty aroma of American pennyroyal infused the humid night air.
Wilson turned away from the window to contemplate the bed, with its pillows in disarray, its sheets tangled at the foot, and Gregory House, his longtime best friend and recent lover, lying uncovered, naked and supine upon it, resting easy if not wholly asleep in sated afterglow. Wilson's breath caught at the sight of his friend, who lay with one arm flung over his eyes and the other outstretched, his good leg drawn up, and his recumbent form limned in the moon's silver sheen. A fond smile curved Wilson's lips as his gaze traced the smoothed outlines of House's face and down the length of his lanky body. In this graceful half-light even the gruesomeness of House's scarred leg was agreeably subdued.
Wilson found himself reflecting on the events that had transpired to bring them to this juncture. After years of ever more intimate friendship, their unspoken longing for each other had at last been brought to light by an unguarded kiss. Had it been only a few short months since he threw caution to the wind and arrived at House's door? Since that early spring morning when mutual desire had been requited at last?
Oh yes, and all the nights since, spent together upon returning from the college faculty club after an evening of delightful food and spirited conversation; these new nights when one would seize the other's lapels almost before they had locked the door behind them. Caught in Eros' dizzying spin of clashing teeth and twining tongues, hurriedly shedding clothes and inhibitions on the way to their shared bedchamber, fingers and lips searching frantically to caress whatever exposed skin they could find; then upon reaching the bed, breaths panting and pulses racing, pulling at whatever garments remained on them until they were naked and falling onto the bed.
And then--Wilson always had to take great care to suppress these fervid thoughts when he was out in public, lest his subsequent arousal be noticed--and then. Lips, tongues, fingers, hands, tasting and mapping every plane and angle of each other's body; each man arching and quivering under the other's ravenous touch; then indulging in acts so potent he could scarcely believe...
Like tonight when they lay curled round each other like inverted commas; Wilson resting his head on House's good thigh and taking House in, swirling his tongue around House's firm heaviness; and House reciprocating in kind, engulfing Wilson in the wet heat of his mouth. The pungent scents of spiced cologne, perspiration and musk steaming around them as they thrust in tandem; each glide of their cheeks across the silk of the other's inner thigh, each slide of their lips up and down the other's straining flesh, each rhythmic pull of their mouths drawing in and out, driving each other ever higher towards the peak. The hum of muffled groans resounding through their bodies, making them writhe yet further with longing--
Wilson, drawing ever closer, his thrusts growing ever more urgent with impending orgasm; hurling to the brink, clutching House's hips, his mouth falling slack with the hunger for air. House, clamping his mouth around him, matching Wilson's rhythm with jaw and tongue to hasten Wilson to completion. Wilson, writhing delirious to all sense except touch and heat and motion until scant moments later: stilling, tensing, release, and House eagerly swallowing with each burst; finally, Wilson's mouth tightening of its own accord around House's engorged member, urging House forward to his own forceful spilling.
Such ecstatic bliss, to fill and be filled at once! Afterwards, when they had kissed, Wilson had tasted himself on House's lips; even now the flavors of their mingled essences lingered on his tongue as he stood at their bedroom window overlooking the grounds.
Wilson felt another stirring in his loins, though it was not urgent enough to indulge it. Just as well, he thought, looking over at House's weary countenance; he did not wish to disturb his friend's ever rarer moments of peaceful rest. There were increasingly many nights now of late--too many for Wilson's comfort--when House was too racked by his pain; when House was rendered impotent by the opium and whiskey required to subdue it--for him to actively relieve Wilson's urges. Those nights, House could only watch with lustful envy in his hooded eyes as Wilson pleasured himself in front of him. Those nights, Wilson would bring himself to climax under the spell of House's husky encouragements, and then drop beside him, sated from his exertion, to drift off to sleep--yet always aware of House rising from their bed, stumping heavily from the room to brood in the confines of his study.
On this quiet, late August evening, Wilson pondered all of these events which had occurred since arriving at House's door all those months ago. He turned his head towards the door, registering the low chimes from the hallway beyond, the mantel clock announcing midnight. When silence returned, he again turned his thoughts to his position. Gazing on his friend and lover, washed in the shine of Luna's benign light, Wilson could almost forget the ever-present spasm of House's injured thigh; the pain which insinuated itself like an invisible snake in all of their activities, intimate or no; the fact that House, near fifty years of age now, would likely not survive another decade because of the necessary vices required to control his misery; and that Wilson himself was past forty and not growing any younger. Yes, almost forget--but almost was not enough to negate the truth, that they had no choice but to seize any opportunity for happiness that chanced their way.
At that thought, the moonlight dimmed, then disappeared entirely as heavy-laden clouds shrouded it again.
Of course, Wilson was, at heart, a pragmatic soul well aware of the immorality of their acts; certainly more so than House, whose blithe dismissal of societal standards was often maddening (to the point of contemplating his bloody murder, Wilson thought sometimes). Despite that, Wilson had slowly become accustomed to thinking of their intimate activities--oral and manual--not as degenerate crimes against nature, but as a simple extension of their years-long friendship: impassioned, unusual, even mystifying at times, yet deeply satisfying in body, mind and soul. And, watching House at rest, this thought allowed Wilson to set his mind at peace with his lot for the moment.
~~~~~
Yet, as Wilson sadly came to learn, all the heated evenings, all those months sleeping in House's bed, would still leave him woefully unprepared for the most unusual, and disturbing, proposition the man had ever let loose upon him.
The arrival of September and the new college semester in Princeton had done nothing to assuage August's torpor. The clouds hung low and ponderous over the town, rendering the sun's light anemic. Sol's heat, however, continued unabated, allowing no breath of cool wind to lighten the air whatsoever. Under such climatic onslaught, even those with the sweetest and mellowest of humors were hard-pressed not to turn sour and harsh.
House, whose demeanor was fractious enough in the everyday, was so irascible in this heat that he was almost impossible to reckon with. At the manse, his servants, Foreman, Chase and Cameron, stayed well out of his way. Wilson, too, took great care in stepping around his friend. House's leg could not bear the humid weather, he decided, which was therefore responsible for House's unrest. It required all of Wilson's prodigious skills, medical and otherwise, simply to keep House placated.
But when the promised downpours arrived a few days later, cleansing and cooling the air, House's ill-temper remained. Indeed, it had ratcheted up to a point that Wilson knew something else was agitating the man. Clearly it was a matter that delved deeper than his scorched nerves, for the usual opium and whiskey did not seem to quell House's restlessness. Yet, despite Wilson's many attempts, House refused
to seek or accept Wilson's counsel.
One evening, when Wilson dined alone at the club (for House was sulking in his apothecary back at the manse), Professor Petty approached his solitary table. In rather an amused manner, the good Professor commenced to relay a tale in which House, earlier that day, and with his cane no less, had upbraided one of his medical philosophy students for "gross stupidity unbecoming a flea--and that's insulting the flea, sirrah!" after which he had drummed the unfortunate boy straight out of class.
"I say, Wilson, House himself will be lucky if Dean Cuddy does not drum him out of our august College this time," the rotund Petty said, his squinty eyes gleaming and mustache twitching like a rodent's whiskers. "The lad is the son of Mister Weatherlee Smith. Needless to say that Smith and the Dean are on the war path."
Weatherlee Smith was, as Wilson well knew, the town's premier barrister and the College's foremost patron. (Mrs. Smith was also one of Wilson's more frequent hysteria patients.) Wilson pinched his nose in chagrin. House invariably ended up having to defend his tenure every year for some outrageous insult or other against colleagues, students or benefactors. This latest trouble occurring only one week into the semester did not bode well. He thanked the man, thinking meanwhile that perhaps he should pay a visit to the Dean's wife, Mrs. Cuddy, in the morrow, to see about smoothing out this latest uproar.
~~~~~
This incipient college scandal notwithstanding, it was also about this time that House took to staring at Wilson--neither with his usual nonchalance tinged with affection, nor the smoldering glare he bestowed upon Wilson in private, but rather with a peculiar, almost unbearable intensity. Wilson knew that keen, probing look from long acquaintance but it had never been directed at him to such a degree. He found himself suppressing shivers at its depth, for it felt as if House were trying to dissect his soul with those clear, piercing eyes.
The reason became apparent the very next day after Wilson had heard the academic gossip from Professor Petty.
Wilson had arrived home the prior evening to find House locked in his study. He had raised his hand to knock at the door, ready to inquire about the Smith incident, but lowered it upon hearing the heavy tap-thumps of House's restless pacing. In this mood, none of Wilson's exhortations would be of use, so he had retired, hoping that House would join him when he eventually hit the point of exhaustion.
However, the sheets on House's side of the bed had remained undisturbed when Wilson woke the next morning. House's study still remained closed, and no sound emanated from the room whatsoever. Wilson's subsequent inquiries of the servants revealed no useful information. Foreman had not arrived yet for the day; Chase only shrugged as he headed to the stable to groom the horses; poor Cameron mumbled something incoherent, avoided meeting his eyes, and scurried away like a frightened mouse after she laid the dining-room table for breakfast.
Piqued, Wilson sat down to breakfast alone in the dining room. He was spreading Cameron's freshly-made apple preserves onto buttered toast when the study door banged against the wall with sufficient force to rattle the table legs. Wilson looked up expectantly; at last House had arrived at his epiphany. Certainly he would soon enlighten him of the solution to his predicament.
Sure enough, the man himself appeared at the table as if seemingly out of nowhere. Wilson felt indescribably moved at House's careworn appearance: the heavy-lidded eyes with purpled circles beneath, the pale skin beneath the overgrown stubble in his beard, the unkempt hair and rumpled days-old clothes, all contributed to age him significantly beyond his fifty years. Yet despite his haggard look, his ever-startling cobalt eyes blazed with the energy and passion of a man half that.
House slid into the chair opposite Wilson and nodded decisively to himself. He must have resolved the issue with the Smith boy, Wilson thought. He had just opened his mouth, about to congratulate his friend, when House spoke brusquely, forestalling Wilson's accolades.
"I want us to consummate our relationship."
Wilson froze, his mouth agape a long moment, as the meaning of the straightforward declaration slowly sank in. It took a minute or so to regain full use of his senses in the face of the request; when it did, he snapped his mouth shut and swallowed with difficulty. "I--I beg your pardon?"
"You heard me the first time." House sniffed, his eyes roaming the table and settling on Wilson's plate.
Indeed Wilson had heard the statement the first time, but he was still trying to reconcile his mind to what it meant. "There is only one way for us to engage in coitus, of course," Wilson replied slowly. He forced a casual tone, although his knife still hovered unsteadily over the open preserves.
House stared at Wilson with such focused intensity that Wilson could not help but shift uncomfortably in his seat, feeling not unlike the prized jeweled beetle pinned to the wax by House's sharp glare. Meanwhile, barely noticed, the jam slid off the butter knife and landed with a soft plop on the tablecloth.
"You wish us to commit--" he added at length.
House waved his hand impatiently. "Hardly. 'To commit' implies a crime. I prefer to think of it not only as consensual intercourse, but also the logical next step."
House extended an index finger to scrape up the drip of jam, then stuck the digit in his mouth. The sight of House slowly withdrawing that finger--the wetness glistening on his lips, his eyes closed in rapt appreciation of the apple's tart sweetness--distracted Wilson momentarily.
Wilson shook his head to clear it. Not now, man, he berated himself. Not here. Aloud he said, with as composed a voice as he could muster, "Whatever you choose to call it, it--it is not something that I can agree to on mere whim."
House did not scowl, precisely, but clearly he had expected an affirmative answer, and thus his eyebrows rose in puzzlement with Wilson's reply. "Reluctance, Wilson? Given your prodigious carnal urges of late, I would have expected complete agreement, if not immediate retirement to our bed--"
"Time, House," Wilson interjected with haste. "I simply need--time to consider your proposition." He scolded himself again, for how his voice broke on that word.
"Time." The lines on House's expressive face furrowed deeper, this time with derision. "You have already spent months at my side, in my bed, yet you need time."
"Yes." Wilson replaced the now-cold toast on his plate, having lost any trace of his appetite. He nodded toward the mantel clock. "It is almost eight-thirty and I must leave soon to open the office," he added. "As much as you may think otherwise, it is impolite on my part to keep my patients waiting."
As Wilson wiped his hands on a napkin, House commandeered the apple toast for himself. "That is a non-answer," he said as he regarded the toast on the plate.
"It is as much of an answer as I'm ready to give at the moment," Wilson said.
House frowned. "You are evading."
"What do you wish for me to say?"
"I wish for the truth. And your answer." He picked up the pilfered plate and raised the toast to his mouth.
"No."
House bit into the toast, chewed and swallowed, then cocked his head. "No? Is that another feeble attempt at evasion, or is that your answer?
"That is my answer."
House's face hardened. "Explain your reason."
Wilson met House's shortness with his own. "It is universally acknowledged that sodomy is perverted and depraved in our society. And rightly so, I must add."
House scowled. "Society considers us 'perverted and depraved' for what we already do in the privacy of our bed."
Wilson opened his mouth to reply, but bit his tongue as he witnessed a grimace of pain contort House's face. His fingers clenched convulsively, the toast slipping from them; the toast landed face-down on the tablecloth and was instantly forgotten.
"So I hardly think that matters of degree are of consequence now."
Wilson detected the distinct undertone of melancholy in House's words; their profound wistfulness tore deep at his heart. Despite House's widely-known reputation for capriciousness, he approached every problem with meticulous care. Indeed, the deliberate thoughtfulness of his actions served to define him as the best physician in Princeton par none, if not the entire Eastern seaboard.
Thinking in that vein, it was clear that House had agonized over this question for many days, and that it had been the main source of his sour mood. Loathe to add to his friend's unhappiness, Wilson phrased his response as carefully as he could.
"That still does not mean we should cross that line, House. There is still a difference between what we do and--and engaging in anal sexual relations. With or without that kind of consummation we are still lovers in every sense--"
"Are we?"
Wilson reeled, taken aback by House's seemingly accusing tone.
"What the devil--? I should think so, man, given the untold pleasure we receive from each other!"
Cameron peeked out from behind the kitchen door; both men glared at her until she timidly retreated, after which Wilson lowered his voice to a harsh
whisper.
"House. I have not felt such passion, such--desire for another soul in a very long time. Surely you must believe the depth of my feelings for you? I do not need intercourse of any kind to continue to feel as I do for you. I have never been more content than with what you have given me--"
"You have always been satisfied with just 'content.' You forget that perhaps some of us feel a need to give even more."
Wilson's jaw dropped. "You--you are not satisfied with what I give you--?"
"I did not say that."
Wilson waited for more of an explanation, but none was forthcoming. Rather, House tapped a cryptic rhythm with his fingers on the cane. His head bowed, his mouth twitched; as the silence wore on the tuneless tapping ceased and he clenched his fist on the pommel, the tendons of his hand taut, the knuckles white.
House's heart was the most complex puzzle Wilson had ever had to solve. As blunt, even ruthless as the man was at demanding straightforward answers from everyone else, House stubbornly refused to divulge his own. His secrets lay buried so deeply under layers of subterfuge, bluster and indifference that Wilson sometimes thought even House did not know what they were anymore. Over the years Wilson had learned to read the subtle clues in his friend's words and demeanor, but sometimes even he could only guess and pray he was right; such was what he faced now.
Mulling over House's previous comment, a nugget of suspicion formed in Wilson's mind. He stepped forward, covering House's clenched fist with his palm.
"When you said 'us,' were you referring to yourself?"
House shifted his gaze away, clearly unwilling to meet Wilson's sympathetic stare. With his desperate mien he resembled a trapped animal, and so Wilson had no doubt his intuition was correct. Studying his friend, this man he loved and cherished like none other, he chose his next words very carefully.
"What more do you need to give me, House?"
House's breath hitched as he mumbled his answer to the tabletop in front of him, in a voice so soft Wilson could barely decipher it; he had to lean in to hear its essence.
"Myself. To you."
Wilson drew back, his mind reeling. House wanted Wilson to take him--wanted Wilson to visit upon him--
Had House always wanted--?
"For how long?" Wilson whispered.
"That is irrelevant." House looked up, his face carefully schooled, though Wilson still saw the ragged fear and sadness at its edges. "What matters is that I did not believe you were ready to consider this proposition until now."
Wilson squeezed House's hand, his eyes moistening with regret at what he knew he must say. "I--simply cannot abide the thought of committing sodomy," Wilson said as gently as possible. "Even if you desire it--even if it is the only way for two men--for us--to consummate--I cannot accept it. I am sorry."
"Then I was mistaken." House pursed his lips and nodded curtly, pulling his hand away. "Perhaps I should have known better than to ask in the first place. You have always one who would rather commit himself to his persona than his substance. This is no different."
"Come now, House, that's not fair--" Wilson spluttered, regret forgotten now, but House simply dismissed him with a disgusted wave of his hand as he turned away to limp down the hall. The soft click of the latch on the bedroom door was louder than any slam Wilson had ever heard.
~~~~~
That night, when Wilson finally crept into bed after the long and emotionally bereft day that followed their argument, House lay stiff and untouchable beneath the covers. When Wilson reached out to give solace, House turned away from him, refusing all of his attempts at consolation, instead lying completely straight on his side, as close to the edge of the bed as possible without tumbling out. So rebuffed, Wilson gave up his advances and lay facing the opposite direction.
Soon the air in the room grew stifling and Wilson could not sleep. He dared not toss and turn, for fear of disturbing House's repose, although he was certain House was also sleepless tonight; House's respirations were too regular and careful for restful slumber. Instead, Wilson rose and dressed, and stepped outside the manse to wander the grounds, vaguely thinking the fresh night air might clear his thoughts.
Through the tangled herbal garden, past the front spread of lawn and towards the wooded edge Wilson traipsed. The night was starless, the air unnaturally hushed; the pale light of the full moon shone only weakly through the clouds which promised rain later on. Wilson stared up at Luna's veiled face, with her rainbow crown shimmering around her edges, but he could find no comfort in her.
How he wished it were only her lunatic effects that had moved House to his extraordinary confessions this morning!
How often had he pressed House to admit his true feelings to him, to no avail--? And when House finally allowed himself a moment of deepest vulnerability--uttered the most fervent desires of his heart--Wilson dismissed them. As kindly as he could, of course, but it was what it was, and he had caused House great suffering from his rejection.
All the same, he could not set his own moral convictions aside as easily as House. Wilson was not, nor ever had been, a particularly religious man, but sodomy was still an abhorrent act against Nature itself--never mind that solid medical opinion held the practice unclean. Though House had asked Wilson to do so--was giving himself up willingly to be entered in that manner for the purpose of their consummation--the idea ranged beyond Wilson's ken...
Suddenly, unbidden, a fuzzy image formed in his mind's eye, rendering him breathless for a moment. House, undressed and prone on their bed, his hips and leg propped on pillows, trembling with anticipation. And himself, fully unclothed and aroused, kneeling behind and spreading the globes of his lover's buttocks, to reveal the small, puckered entrance hidden between...
Wilson stopped walking all of a sudden, his cheeks flaming with shame. There was no place for such prurient thoughts in his mind. For his sake, even House's, there could not be. The anus was the most forbidden bodily entrance of all; though hardly the size to admit an erect member, its penetration meant the difference between the immorality in which they had already indulged, and the utter depravity which, as he had been taught, defined men of their ilk.
Yet here Wilson was on this still September night, contemplating it--even desiring it--against his will....
He tried to force the salacious pictures from his thoughts but they would not cease; instead they surged to the forefront, as vivid as if they were happening right in front of him. He watched himself, stroking one sure finger down House's cleft; hearing House's hiss of outright need as he pressed his finger against House's anus; feeling his own throbbing arousal as he slicked warmed olive oil onto himself and House's entrance. He trembled violently as he watched himself cross that final barrier between them: could not deny the feeling of completion which engulfed him as he watched himself slowly, gently pushing inside House--as he heard, in his mind, the dizzying groan of House's unfolding as he gave himself wholly to him.
Wilson stumbled in his haste to reach the foliage of the lilacs which were already heavy with the seed pods for next year's blooms. All the while his hands fumbled at the buttons of his trousers. His fingers, however, did not want to obey; desperate for relief, he ripped the fly open in his urgency. Blindly he shoved the offending garment down to his thighs to free his straining erection. He began to stroke himself fiercely, dropping to his knees on the dewy grass under the power of this all-consuming lust.
More obscene visions flooded his senses, holding him fast in their thrall: Wilson thrusting inside House, sheathing himself to the hilt in such tight, tight heat--House, rotating his hips and arching back to draw him in further than Wilson believed could be possible--feeling the softness of House's bare shoulder under his lips, the firm and tensing muscles beneath; tasting the salty dampness of House's back against his belly, reveling in the sheen of his skin, sharing his humid breath in a deep, all-claiming kiss--finally the clasp of their hands, their bodies moving as one in ever-increasing rhythm until they both began to shudder with impending orgasm--
"Oh, God!" Wilson cried as he stilled, then ejaculated forcefully onto the ground and over his hand.
Afterwards he slumped in the shelter of the bushes, trembling and ashamed, thought consuming his brain in a heated vortex. He had already allowed himself to compromise his morals by becoming House's lover. It had been a willing choice to submit, for otherwise he would have been driven insane had his passion for his friend remained unrequited.
But surely even this desire, had its limits, its bounds within their little propriety?
Or was it only a matter of degree, as House claimed: that once started on the downhill path, one was destined to plumb to absolute sexual depravity no matter what? First their masturbation, both singular and mutual, then the fellatio in a similar vein; Wilson had slowly come to rationalize these admittedly spiraling acts as extensions of their friendship, the physical manifestations of their mental and emotional intimacy.
Practically, turning to each other for relief from their natural urges was just as expedient as hiring whores for the same purpose.
But how could he excuse this sordid climax, one as intense as he had ever known, derived from simply the contemplation of sodomy--?
Wilson angrily wiped his sullied hand on the wet grass, wrinkling his nose in sudden disgust at the pungent smell of his semen. He was a man of medicine, of high regard and impeccable reputation. Nevertheless he had allowed himself to be subsumed by his base desire. Had this carnal weakness been over a woman, he would, eventually, be understood and forgiven by his peers. An illicit affair was naught compared to this. He remembered the warnings of his fellows all those years ago, warnings that sometimes still resonated in his mind, of the trouble that would most certainly await him by involving himself with a man such as House.
Yet here he was.
At this point in his tortured reverie, the clouds above opened, releasing their watery burden in a rushing downpour, obliterating any trace of the moon's illumination; yet providing no relief for his anguished and now divided heart.
~~~~~
"Mrs. Cuddy is here to see you, Dr. Wilson."
Wilson startled from a drifting reverie. His eleven o'clock appointment finished, he had a half-hour free during which he had planned to finish writing his patient notes from the morning--or, more correctly, ponder how to repair his now-sorely damaged relationship with House after yesterday's failed revelations. He looked up from his desk to see Robert, his round-faced office assistant, standing in the threshold of his office, awaiting his reply.
Robert, perceptive young man that he was, knitted his eyebrows in faint concern. "Would you prefer I ask Mrs. Cuddy to return at a more convenient time, sir?"
Wilson shook his head. "No, Robert, I shall receive her now. Please show her in."
"Of course." Robert turned smartly and left. A minute later he returned with Mrs. Liza Cuddy on his arm. Wilson stood and bowed slightly to her, warming at Mrs. Cuddy's dazzling smile.
"Thank you, Robert," Wilson said. Robert nodded, and silently disappeared again to the outer office. Wilson stepped forward to take Mrs. Cuddy's delicate, fine-gloved hand.
"My dear Mrs. Cuddy," he said, bending down to peck her cheek, noting her subtle perfume of rose geranium and lavender and how they complemented her choice of deep mauve walking costume. "It is always a pleasure to see you."
"And I, you," she replied.
"Would you care for some tea? I can have Robert--"
She drew back, the smile fading somewhat. "If only this were just a social visit, I would, but I'm afraid I must decline. Thank you for offering, James."
"Of course. I understand. And I must admit, I did have plans to call on you today as well," Wilson said. "I can only conclude that your reason for calling, and mine, are one and the same."
Mrs. Cuddy's smile disappeared altogether. "I assume you are aware of the latest developments concerning our mutual friend?"
"Professor Petty saw fit to fill me in the night before last at the club," Wilson concurred, then checked himself for his lack of decorum. "Please, Liza, pardon my manners. Do sit down." He guided her to the chair opposite his at his desk and waited until she had settled her skirts before assuming his seat across from her.
"What have you heard about the Smith incident, James?"
Wilson had always appreciated Mrs. Cuddy's direct manner. He informed her of Professor Petty's account: House's outburst, his verbal whipping and dismissal of the Smith lad, and of Smith Senior's vexation. "And the Dean's, as well," he added, "for which I apologize to you, Liza, on House's behalf. Although from what I know of the Smith boy, House may have been justified in his actions."
Mrs. Cuddy nodded her thanks and acceptance. "Yes, I too have heard similar comments from others of his acquaintance. Unfortunately, it is not young Mr. Smith's behavior that is under question."
Wilson felt a twinge in the back of his neck; being in polite company, he actively suppressed the urge to rub it. "Of course not. It never is."
"Dismissal of the Smith boy from his class is House's prerogative as lecturer no matter what my husband would have otherwise. As you know, the Dean is bound by the College rules of academic governance." Mrs. Cuddy leaned forward, her face softening with regret. "However, despite the threat posed by House to Mr. Smith's continued goodwill and financial support of the College, that is not where the real issue lies."
Wilson felt a cold chill creep up his neck, the hairs standing at attention. "There is another reason why House's tenure is in jeopardy again?"
"Yes, and I am afraid it is more than Mr. Smith's influence on the governing Board. Dear James. I have learned of an upcoming lecture that House plans to present tomorrow. It concerns a topic which is--controversial, at best."
"All of House's lectures are 'controversial, at best'," Wilson rejoined evenly. "What distinguishes this particular discourse from any previous he's delivered?"
Mrs. Cuddy wrung her delicate hands; though her cheeks flushed with undeniable embarrassment, she spoke directly. "He plans to--as my source stated--'compare the male and female responses to erotic stimulation, in the context of evolution of the human sexes'. To my great dismay, my husband has regrettably seized upon this opportunity--"
Wilson found himself fighting a wave of sudden nausea as he felt the blood drain from his face.
He swallowed, hard, to contain the acid already rising in his gorge. Clearly his expression must have alarmed Mrs. Cuddy, for she leant forward, her striking aqua eyes widening. "James! You are grown so sudden pale, are you all right?" She rose from her seat and flew to the door. "Robert! Dr. Wilson has taken ill, please bring us a glass of water and salts at once!"
His sight dimming, Wilson closed his eyes, frantically attempting to compose himself. Distantly he heard the clinks and rustles from the outer office and beside him. He smelled rose geranium around him as he felt nimble fingers loosen his blue silk cravat, then press a cool glass into his hand. He raised the glass to his lips and drank from it automatically, letting the liquid soothe his throat and settle his roiling stomach.
He opened his eyes to see Mrs. Cuddy, now sitting in a chair beside him, and Robert looking distinctly nervous. "Ought I go fetch one of Dr. House's servants?" Robert asked, tensing as if readying to sprint out of the room.
"No," Wilson whispered, testing his voice and relieved that it did not shake. "That won't be necessary." In a stronger voice he said, "I am fine now. It was just passing. Robert, you may go, and thank you for your concern."
Mrs. Cuddy and Robert exchanged a meaningful look, but the young man left as directed.
"James, I am so sorry, I did not know you weren't aware of House's planned lecture topic," Mrs. Cuddy said after the office door closed. "I thought--I assumed--that he had kept you in his complete confidence regarding the matter, given your intimacy with him."
At that Wilson blinked, his head threatening to reel again. "My--my intimacy with House? What do you mean--?"
A small, wistful smile played on her ruby lips. "It has never been a secret to me that you share his bed."
Wilson looked away, initial bewilderment at Mrs. Cuddy's knowledge transmuting to shame, as he knew he was unable to refute that candid statement. He felt the blood drain from his face again, though not the accompanying faintness this time; but as her words sank in, he steeled himself for the condemnation he thought was sure to follow.
However, when he chanced to look at Mrs. Cuddy again, her gaze was forthright in its kindness.
"James. When we first made our acquaintance so many years ago, I expressed the hope that you would provide House some passing measure of happiness through your friendship. My sentiment has never wavered in that regard. And you did not fail. If anything, you fulfilled my wish all too well." She arched her eyebrows delicately.
Wilson graced Mrs. Cuddy with a wan smile. "Is it--are we that obvious, Liza? That we are more than just friends? More than confidantes?"
He was rewarded with a warm twinkle in Mrs. Cuddy's blue-green eyes. "To those of us who know and care for you both, the signs are--shall we say--less than subtle."
"Thankfully there are very few who do feel so deeply for both of us, then," Wilson replied, perfectly straight-faced.
Mrs. Cuddy cast a most unladylike roll of her eyes. "James," she sighed fondly, "if I had held any previous doubt that you and House were perfectly suited for each other, I certainly have none now."
They shared a conspiratorial chuckle, after which Mrs. Cuddy said, "Now, publicly, as the wife of the Dean, of the College of New Jersey in Princeton, I cannot sanction your--your current domestic arrangement with House. However, I do hope you know that privately, as your and House's friend, I am exceedingly thankful that it exists, for both his sake and yours."
She leaned forward in her chair and clasped Wilson's icy hand. "And it is as your friend, James, that I am come here to warn you," Mrs. Cuddy continued most sincerely. "I have protected House from personal censure as much as I
can over the years of our acquaintance, but I have no power to intervene in matters of academic, professional or financial bearing. There my influence ends. Academic matters, tenure and patronage are strictly my husband's domains."
"House will be relieved of his position once he concludes his upcoming lecture," Wilson declared with leaden certainty.
Mrs. Cuddy nodded once in affirmation and squeezed gently. "Dear James. Not only shall he be dismissed if he continues with his lecture, but also my husband has arranged for a constable to attend as a witness to it."
The silence of sick realization descended over both of them. Incongruously, the mantel clock in the outer office chimed twelve noon.
"Then he will be arrested as well," Wilson announced heavily, after the last chime died away. "Following which, there will be investigations into House's professional conduct." At Mrs. Cuddy's sad nod of agreement, Wilson added in a defeated tone, "The results of which will necessarily lead to further inquiry into our personal affairs. They will discover he had my willing assistance in his 'studies.' Then everyone will discover the true nature of our relationship." He leaned forward, his elbow on the desk, and covered his eyes with his free hand. "Oh, God."
Mrs. Cuddy patted the hand she held with sympathy. "To those who know you--who truly know you and House--it will not matter. It does not matter."
"Yes, but to everyone else..."
Both of them knew he did not need to finish that sentence.
"What do I do, Liza?" Wilson continued, fighting back an overwhelming sense of helplessness. "How do I convince him not to go forward with this foolhardiness? House cares nothing about his reputation. The man has no concept of 'ruin,' personal, professional or otherwise--he would willingly serve hard labor in prison if it justified his convictions."
"He would die for them if it ever came to that," Mrs. Cuddy agreed.
"We have already argued about my persona versus my substance once," Wilson said softly to himself. "He will take any attempted dissuasion on my part as motivated solely by protecting my own self-interest, my position in society, not because I need to protect him. Not to mention our current intimate disagreement--yet--I must, if only because I do not believe he realizes just what is at stake."
He looked up into Mrs. Cuddy's sympathetic face. "Thank you, Liza," he said most sincerely. "I cannot express how much I appreciate your visit, and your forewarning."
"I wish you my most fervent success, James." She rose, and Wilson rose as well. "I must be on my way."
"Before you take your leave, may I inquire as to your source for the information you have just imparted?"
She shook her head apologetically. "No, I'm afraid I cannot say. My source requested complete anonymity. Good day, James. And good luck." With that Mrs. Cuddy exited, the rustles of her mauve poplin walking dress trailing with her leave.
~~~~~
When Wilson returned to the manse that evening, skipping dining at the club altogether, he actively sought House out to confront him.
However, House was naught to be found inside: study, dining room, bedchamber, were all bereft of his presence. Inquiry of Cameron, Chase and Foreman provided no information, either as to House's whereabouts or who had divulged the topic of House's lecture to Mrs. Cuddy, for he was certain her anonymous source had to have been one of the three. Their possible motives did not concern him at the moment; about those, he would confront them later. For now, finding House was his uppermost priority.
When he stepped outside to check the grounds, the sun was dropping just below the horizon beyond the groves; long shadows were already reaching towards the twilight sky. After what felt like an hour of fruitless searching, he felt himself beginning to despair of finding the man. House was frightfully adept at hiding when he did not wish to be found--until, upon rounding the side of the manse, he saw a familiar lopsided movement in the far sunny corner of the herbal garden.
He met up with House by the mat of Eastern teaberry, where House was thoughtfully regarding the ripe red berries amongst the succulent, aromatic leaves. House did not turn around at his approach, nor did he acknowledge his presence when Wilson stood at his side.
"The teaberries are ready for harvest," he pronounced instead, gently lifting the leaves with the tip of his cane. The pungent scent of wintergreen plumed around them. "Chase will begin gathering them tomorrow for Foreman and Cameron to replenish our supply of balms and liniments."
"I beg of you not to go through with your lecture tomorrow," Wilson said through a suddenly tight throat.
House lowered his cane back to his side and leaned on it. "Tell me, how did Mrs. Cuddy react to the indelicate matter when she communicated it to you? One can only imagine her blushing cheeks and heaving bosoms as she uttered--"
Wilson felt his knees grow weak. "You--you know of all this?"
"I am only surprised you did not come to confront me any earlier, seeing as you learned of it this morning."
"What--? How--? Were you the one who approached Mrs. Cuddy--? Why on earth--?" Wilson spluttered.
"If it would appease your mindless gibbering, no, I did not inform Mrs. Cuddy. She came to inform me, not a minute after she visited you." The man's mouth twitched. "I must say, I am disappointed in this turn of events; I was hoping on the element of surprise for presenting my findings. A lecture, once delivered, cannot be penalized by the governing Academic Board; neither can its presenter."
House then sighed, and shrugged. "At least I am now aware there is a traitor among our merry ranks, who shall pay dearly for his or her perfidy when this is over."
Wilson swallowed with difficulty. "You--you still intend to follow through?" he asked in disbelief.
"You would expect any differently? Truth is the truth no matter how we perceive it. It must not be silenced no matter how uncomfortable or distasteful it appears to be."
"Of course, you would champion that position," Wilson said heatedly, "but there are still rules and laws governing conduct which, in our civilized society, take precedence--"
House pivoted to face Wilson, his face twisting in a fearful scowl. "You would champion that position, since you cannot deal with the truth as it stands."
"And you cannot accept that in our august society, perception supersedes the truth as it stands!" Wilson's hands clenched at his sides, his jaw aching as he grit his teeth in frustration.
"Perception implies there must be more than one truth when in reality, no alternatives to it exist," House scoffed. "Perception is therefore the root cause of lies in both personal and professional relationships. Society is based on perception, so therefore it is based on lies, not truths."
"Yes, my point precisely!"
House stared at him, shock outlining his features, then a studied indifference. Still, he did not reply.
"Think of how you arrived at your conclusions, House," Wilson pressed. "Do you not realize that it is not just your livelihood at stake? When one of your students questions how you accumulated the data which support your conclusions, how will you answer without exposing your methods--"
"If this is about your scholarly contributions regarding the data from your practice--"
"--as to how you obtained the male response?"
House tore his gaze away, appearing to study the lengthening shadows encompassing the mat of teaberry in front of him.
"Good God, House! How can you, of all people, not understand that men can and will draw their own conclusions from whatever answer you supply, whether it be truth or no?"
"I am not ashamed of whatever conclusions other men may draw from the data. Mine are the truth; that is what matters."
"No, you are not ashamed. 'Shame' does not exist in your vocabulary. However, some of us cannot afford--"
House glowered at him. "And here we see your truth yet again--that you are more worried about what this lecture will do to your reputation in Princeton, than truth in knowledge."
"You seem to completely ignore the truth that it is my reputation which currently affords us our protection."
"That is your perception," House said. "Though not necessarily the truth."
"Whether it be perception or not, surely even you know that what we do together in private must not be opened to such public scrutiny. If you carry through with your lecture you will guarantee exposure of the true nature of our relationship!"
"You speak of 'the true nature of our relationship' as if it were a deplorable thing," House said softly. "Is that what you believe?"
Wilson felt his jaw grow slack, struck by the sudden turn of House's fervor into melancholy. "House, no, of course not--" he began; then another line of thought suddenly leapt into place. "Is this because I refuse to give you what you want?"
"What I want from you is not relevant."
"It most certainly is! You cannot tell me otherwise--"
"This lecture had been prepared long before I asked you to consummate our sexual relationship."
Wilson paced up and down the path, stunned by the admission, his thoughts surging; House regarded him with a cool, apathetic look, at least on the surface.
Wilson knew that beneath it was anything but. Presently he turned to face House, pointing a trembling finger at him. "Would you really throw us--what we have between us--all away just to prove a niggling point about evolution of the masculine and feminine sex? Do you--do you really care so little about me, that you would rather see me rot in jail in consequence?"
At that House blinked. "I care for you," House muttered. "If you cannot see--"
"But do you care enough not to continue this foolhardiness?"
At that House looked away and remained silent.
"I see. Well. At least I have my answer," Wilson said, his voice strained with the effort to control his emotion. He turned on his heel and strode out of the garden. He did not turn around when he heard House call after him; he simply marched to the stables, and ordered Chase to ferry him back to town, to spend a fevered and sleepless night in his office.
~~~~~
Wilson canceled all his scheduled appointments the following day, feeling too unwell to administer any procedures to his patients. The untoward events of the last few days had left him with a nagging headache and a disagreeable stomach; worse, they had left a constant dull ache in the center of his chest and, as of this morning, a lump of grim anticipation in his gorge.
To Wilson's dismay, word of House's planned salacity had spread like wildfire throughout the College that morning. Everywhere he turned--as he sought Mrs. Cuddy's sympathetic company at morning tea, and as he took up sanctuary in the College library on pretense of catching up on his literature; student and faculty gossip buzzed with speculation above his head.
House of course was nowhere to be found. That was not unusual; he often did not show up for his lectures until the very last moment, and today should be no exception to that rule. Wilson endeavored to ignore the raunchy conjecture as much as he could. Eventually, however, it rose to the point so that when he was lunching alone at the club, two short hours before the planned lecture was to commence, he clearly overheard the good Professor Petty crowing in glee.
"At last, there shall be incontrovertible proof of Dr. Gregory House's sorely lacking fitness to mold the minds of the next generation!" Petty declared, his pudgy face alight with sick gloating. "This time I doubt even the lubricious words of our dear Mrs. Cuddy can save him from outright dismissal."
Wilson closed his eyes in resentment at the loud chorus of agreement joining in. There had never been love lost between House and his colleagues. Knowing that, he still was hard-pressed to tolerate this level of vicious Schadenfreude at his friend's expense. But tolerate he did, for he thought he had no other choice; until another professor whispered in Petty's ear, gesturing towards the dim corner where Wilson sat and fumed.
Petty did not lower his voice; nor did he even deign to appear contrite. Instead he stated, in an even louder tone, "Dr. Wilson chooses willingly to associate with the scoundrel, sir, to the point of taking up residence with him. I should not concern myself with Dr. Wilson's opinion or feelings on the subject. He made his bed a long time ago, and so he must now lie in it."
Disgusted, Wilson threw his napkin onto his barely-touched food, stepped up to the offending man, and coolly punched him square in the face. The circle fell silent. Immediately he stormed out of the dining room, shaking off any arm that attempted to stay him, not acknowledging any word of the men gathered. Petty's voice, marred by the blow Wilson had delivered to his mouth, followed mockingly behind him. "Of course, I would not be surprised if House's demonstrated and prodigious appetite for indecency has extended to those who do choose to associate..."
Wilson walked swiftly to the nearest water closet, where he finally let himself expel the bile that had been building all that morning. Weak and shaking, he balanced himself on the sink basin while he wiped his face and forehead with his handkerchief. All of this misery, he thought, borne of his supremely unwise affection, and unbridled passion, for his friend, this impossibly polarizing man who was surely leading them both to destruction.
Make my bed and lie in it, indeed, he thought. If Petty had not surmised before, the truth of his off-handed and flippant statement, no doubt he would before the clock rang three.
Still, the truth of his love was what it was, and Wilson was irrevocably bound to it. That thought finally settled his stomach. Hence he strode purposely towards the lecture theatre to meet his fate, with his head held high, and consciously oblivious to the pointing and staring of his fellow colleagues and assorted students. Upon entering the empty theatre, he chose his seat in the front row, close to the burnished maple lectern, and waited.
The room soon filled up bursting to the rafters; in what seemed an instant not one seat was left unoccupied, nor stair, nor spot on the polished wood floor. The scent of expectation mixed with those of tobacco and cologne and heated wool, the room growing humid with it; the ornate ceiling fans high above the domed ceiling were barely able to keep the air circulating.
Three minutes before the appointed hour, Wilson heard the familiar and beloved thump-taps of House's uneven gait approaching from the side door of the theatre. He sat straight-backed and resolute as House approached the lectern. House was, as was his custom, rumpled and ill-dressed with his lack of waistcoat and cravat; his beard was scraggly, his short hair sticking up in places, and from the heavy lines around his dour mouth, he looked as if he hadn't slept. But his eyes were clear, and his demeanor almost jovial--
And as House passed by Wilson's seat in the front row, he surreptitiously winked at him.
Wilson felt his eyes widen in astonishment. What the devil--?
The annoying buzz of conversation grew almost unbearable as House strode to the lectern; whereupon he set his tattered copy of Origin of Species and rifled through a series of curled papers tucked in its pages. When he finished, a good minute or so later, he looked up, his lined countenance completely inscrutable--though Wilson thought he detected a faint glint of amusement in his friend's startling blue eyes.
As the Princeton tower clock rang two bells, an anticipatory hush settled over the crowd. Many leaned forward eagerly to catch House's first words.
"It seems that I have misplaced the notes to my planned lecture this afternoon," House announced cheerfully.
Stunned, the room fell utterly silent for a moment, long enough to hear the calling songs of the black-throated blue warblers, preparing to migrate to their winter nesting grounds, outside the windows of the theatre. The silence was soon followed by the sounds of buzzing disbelief which filled the hall. House then added, with a barely controlled triumph, "My apologies to those who attended today solely for the anticipated titillation. I hope your disappointment is not too deflating."
Upon that announcement, over three-quarters of the audience filed sullenly out of the theatre. Wilson hid a chuckle behind his hand at the unhappy mutterings of the exiting crowd. When he chanced a look at Dean Cuddy, sitting in the row above him, he appeared positively apoplectic. The portly constable, who had sat beside the Dean, glared at him before taking his leave; Dean Cuddy stormed out not five seconds later. Wilson also did not miss Professor Petty slinking meekly behind the Dean; at that he grinned widely, waving when Petty caught him watching. The man pursed his swollen rat's lips together and scurried out.
Turning back to face House, their eyes met and held for a moment; House nodded at him minutely in acknowledgment, and, Wilson thought, in apology. When the crowd in the theatre had thinned to just his regular students, and Wilson, House then stumped to the blackboard behind the lectern, where he wrote PERCEPTION and REALITY in huge block letters, with a sharp line drawn between. Turning around, leaning on his cane on the middle of the stage, House began to speak without his notes; which, Wilson suddenly realized, had been House's intention all along.
~~~~~
That night they formally consummated their relationship. When Wilson breached House for the first time, safe in the nested comfort of their bed, House's groan of total surrender to him moved him to a state of wonder. This was what mattered, he thought as he tasted House's skin for the first time in this new vein: the heat of House beneath him and around him, House's body opening and melding to him more with each thrust--this utter completion and conviction that they were truly lovers in every sense of the word.
For indeed, society's perception was not their reality and never had been. And so, as they plunged headlong towards their mutual release, Wilson decided, with utmost certainty, that perception no longer mattered: for this 'unnatural offense' in which they engaged was the truest reality they could ever hope to know.
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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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