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Five Random Glimpses
by cryptictac
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1. Beer and Baseball
It was a quiet night of shared beers and a baseball game on the television, House seated by Wilson's side on the sofa as they exchanged idle comments about how poorly pitched the third inning was, and about that homerun that the Away team against the Yankees didn't deserve.
They were seated close together, their knees occasionally brushing against each other every time one of them sat forward to reach for their beer, shoulders touching each time they took a swig of their drink. Wilson would never admit it, but he liked how warm House's body felt next to his -- it was comforting.
As the night progressed and the alcohol flowed through their veins, they shared heartier laughs and jokes, drinking until they were slumped lazily against each other.
It was somewhere between Wilson tiredly leaning his head against House's shoulder and House drunkenly patting Wilson's thigh that their hands met. When Wilson laced his fingers with his friend's, House asked in a slurred, slightly uncertain voice, "What are you doing?"
"I don't know," he replied sheepishly, and when House gently, almost inconspicuously stroked his thumb over Wilson's, he asked House, "What are you doing?"
House didn't say anything. He just kept on trailing his thumb up and down Wilson's, as though he had an answer but didn't know how to say it.
They stayed like that, silently holding each other's hand, until the baseball game was long over and the last of the beer was drunk.
~
2. Just As Sleep Comes
The night was late, the scent of pizza that they had eaten during the movie lingering in the air, and there was now nothing but the mindless drone of a midnight infomercial on the television and the sound of rain beating heavily against the windows of House's apartment.
Wilson had become drunk enough to start talking about Julie, something that he never discussed with anyone, House included. It was a bitter, self-pitying monologue about how empty his life was and he paid no attention to the awkward, uncomfortable look on House's face until his friend told him to shut up and stop feeling sorry for himself, or go home.
He'd given House a sullen look, to which House told him pointedly that if he started crying he wasn't going to give him a hug or wipe his nose for him. Wilson replied that Julie wasn't worth spilling tears over -- that none of his wives were worth crying over -- and when he shifted on the couch to lie down, resting his head drunkenly on House's good leg, he expected his friend to push him away.
He wasn't pushed away, however. House had silently allowed him to prop his head upon his thigh and Wilson lay there, staring at the flickering images on the television of a man with a dazzlingly overenthusiastic smile trying to sell a set of titanium kitchen knives. Listening to the relentless rain against the windows, Wilson noted how quiet and still his friend was. It was as though House wasn't entirely comfortable having Wilson's head resting on his leg, but wasn't in any hurry to do anything about it, either.
Soon, Wilson's eyes had become heavy with weariness and he began to fall asleep, his face tiredly pressed against the fabric of House's trousers. The sound of the television and the falling rain became distant background noises, his own deep, rhythmic breathing lulling him to sleep. Images of Julie and sharp steak knives flashed through his mind as the beginning fragments of a dream, and just before he succumbed to sleep Wilson felt House's hand smoothing over his hair tenderly, from his forehead to the back of his skull in soft, gentle strokes.
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3. Slow Hands
Greg's hands feel warm and soft as they begin to slowly travel up the length of James' naked back.
The room is dark, shards of late afternoon sunlight streaming across the expanse of House's bed from the slight parting in the curtains. The darkness and the stillness in the room makes James focused on Greg, on those slow hands caressing him. House touches him with precision and gentleness, with care that he never shows with words or in the presence of anyone else. It's a rare moment that Wilson cherishes in silence.
Greg starts from the base of James' back; his fingertips dimple into his flesh as James feels him lean in and place a chase kiss upon his bare shoulder, Greg's stubble grazing briefly across his skin. Those warm hands glide down over his hips first before they slowly begin to climb upwards.
There are many things James would like to say but this is a time where they don't speak. Many more things are expressed with clarity in the sound of their quiet, deep breathing and within the gentle touch of House's palms upon his skin than any words could ever offer.
He feels Greg's fingers spread as he leans in closer, and James closes his eyes and takes a deep, slow breath, bowing his head as another kiss is placed on his shoulder, closer to his neck.
He craves to be touched. He never feels hands this gentle touch him at home. Julie's hands are always cold and sterile, as though merely touching him is just another chore to do. House touches him with care; until he had ever felt House's hands on him, Wilson had almost forgotten what it felt like to be cared about.
Greg's hands move up steadily higher and James can feel each finger ghosting over every ripple of his ribs, thumbs trailing up along the curve of his spine. House's hands travel higher, over the shape of James' shoulder blades and then over the contour of his shoulders, Greg's fingertips briefly dipping into the canyon of his collarbones.
He feels Greg's lips brush against the side of his neck, warm breath upon his skin and, with his eyes still closed he lets his head lean back on House's shoulder. House's hands squeeze his shoulders briefly before they let go and Greg slowly begins to map his hands back down the length of James' back.
House silently touches him with slow hands until the sun goes down.
~
4. Minuet
The sweltering summer nights allow for little restful sleep, the humidity hanging thick in the air like a heavy shroud. James is dreaming restlessly of music, the clarity of piano notes floating in and out of his subconscious and when he rouses with a weary groan, he feels the sticky discomfort of sweat bathed across his naked body.
The bed is large, House's side of it empty, and the moonlight that is streaming in from the window shows the rumpled outline on the sheets of where House had been sleeping. It takes Wilson a moment to gather his bearings, shaking off the remnants of a groggy and listless sleep, and as he rolls from his back to his front, pulling Greg's pillow against his chest and curling around it, he hears the piano notes that he'd heard in his dream, drifting quietly from House's lounge room; a blues number, one that Wilson doesn't recognise.
He presses his face into the pillow and inhales the scent of House imprinted in the pillow's covering, wishing that summer didn't have to be so cruel with its unmerciful heat, and he briefly considers attempting sleep again before he relents and pushes himself up.
His bare feet touch the wooden floor, the brief shock of its coolness sending a quick, pleasant ripple of goose bumps across his perspiring skin, and as he walks silently from the bedroom out into the lounge, the melody House is playing changes to a livelier classical piece, a minuet; another one that James doesn't know. He sees the straight posture of House upon the piano stool, as naked as Wilson himself is, and he approaches him quietly from behind, making his presence known with a hand upon House's shoulder.
Greg doesn't change or miss tempo, his long, slender fingers trilling expertly across notes to form complicated chords as Wilson slips onto the stool next to him. He feels the sultry heat of their sweaty skin pressed against each other and as House builds the piece he is playing into a slow crescendo, Wilson slides an arm around House's waist and pushes himself up against him, his other hand snaking across to Greg's cock.
He hears the distinct sound of a few unintentionally clashed chords and wrong notes played as he begins to slide his sweat-slicked fingers up and down House's prick, pressing a kiss to his shoulder and tasting the subtle, salty tang of perspiration upon his lips. He watches House stare intently down at the keys, playing with his brows furrowed in concentration of both what his fingers are sounding out and of James' skilled hand moving up and down his cock, the tempo of the minuet growing choppier with each passing measure.
Wilson gradually increases the speed of his strokes and over the music he hears House panting quietly, the final bars of the piece thumped out in a cacophony of jumbled notes as he peaks. Wilson watches the way Greg arches his neck with his eyes closed, a restrained groan coming from his parted lips. The music is forgotten and Greg's face is a simple, rare expression of pleasure, glistening trails of sweat running in rivulets down his temples and down the slope of his throat. House's fingers remain held down upon the final keys he'd played and the resonating peal of notes slowly ebbs away into the silence of the stifling room until there is nothing but the sound of House's heavy breathing.
Pulling away from him, Wilson smiles faintly in smug satisfaction as he reaches up to the piano keys and he presses his finger down on one of the notes, feeling House's eyes on him. He can hear Greg is still breathing heavily and as Wilson begins to play the only thing he knows how to play -- an out-of-time, one-finger rendition of "Hot Cross Buns" -- he feels House's warm, sweaty hand curl around his cock and Greg's hot, moist mouth press against the side of his neck.
~
5. Closure
He received the phone call just before the break of dawn on a cold and rainy Thursday morning. It was Cuddy on the other end of the line, her voice tight, as though she was trying not to cry, and as the rain hammered against his bedroom window, he listened to her words and felt his world come crashing down around him.
"House... Greg... It's..." A pause. A shaky sigh. "It's about Wilson..."
He held the phone to his ear long after Cuddy had hung up, the sound of the dial tone filling his head, and the bleary rays of the cloudy day slowly crept into his bedroom like an intruder, an unknown amount of time ticking by as he remained staring numbly ahead of him. It was when House, with a sickening churn to his stomach, suddenly found himself unable to recall Wilson's face that he threw the phone against the wall. It shattered into pieces and he wished, wished that Cuddy's words could have shattered with it.
The numbness lingered, days turning into weeks, and each time House set foot into Princeton-Plainsboro it was as if Wilson's ghost was loitering in every corner; a faceless ghost. House even gave up trying to remember what Wilson's voice sounded like.
House didn't know what possessed him to go by Wilson's house one sunny Friday afternoon -- perhaps it was the need for closure -- but an intoxicated Julie greeted him at the door with a glass of whisky in her hand. She'd ushered him in drunkenly and as House sat uncomfortably upon the sofa with the overwhelming scent and reminder of Wilson everywhere around him, Julie attempted some forced conversation before suddenly breaking down into hysterical tears, crying into her drink.
He vaguely heard her sobbing about how much she missed her husband, asking why his car had wrapped around that streetlamp, and how long it had been since she had told Wilson she loved him and how it was now too late to ever tell him again, but House wasn't really listening. He was staring at a picture of Wilson upon the mantelpiece. In the photo, Wilson was smiling that sheepish smile he'd always sported and for the first time since receiving that phone call, House felt his insides clench as memories of Wilson came flooding back.
House left Julie to cry by herself on the sofa after patting her shoulder awkwardly, and when he stepped out of the house into the late afternoon, the sun slowly began to dry his tears.
~0~
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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 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.
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