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Flying
by Michelle Christian
House rode out of the city along back roads, staying as far away from the more traveled streets and highways as he could. It didn't help his hay fever, but he didn't care, either, breathing becoming secondary to this feeling of running, flying, escaping from something to nowhere in particular.
He rode until well-past dark. He turned back only when the temperature dropped enough to make it uncomfortable to keep going. He kept to side streets and didn't really think much about where he was going until he found himself in front of Wilson's house.
Apparently all roads led to Wilson.
The thrum from the bike had felt good throughout the ride, but now, as he got off, the true length of time since he last rode and how long he'd been on the bike this evening hit home. Both his legs shook, weaker than ever, but in an oddly pleasant way, wavering around the ache in both his thighs. He pulled out his cane where it had been strapped down, leaning heavily against it, limping more than usual as he made his way up the walk.
After he knocked, Wilson came to the door, and oddly seemed to deflate when he realized who it was.
"What's wrong?" Wilson asked, sounding more tired than he had in days.
"Something has to be wrong for me to visit?" House elbowed his way through the door when Wilson kept standing there.
"For you to show up without calling? Yes," Wilson said. He didn't move, leaning on the open door, so House reached around him and closed it for him.
"Hey, is that your bike?" Wilson asked, looking through the curtains beside the door.
"I'm taking her out for a spin," he said casually, still feeling the warm purr at his legs and the low flying feeling, as he searched, searched for something. "So, do I get a drink?"
Wilson rolled his eyes and gave in. "You sure you should be drinking after you snorted earlier?" he asked as he walked towards the wet bar.
"The buzz is gone, doc," House assured him, only slightly lying. House wandered restlessly around the living room.
He hated this house. It had been Julie's idea. Wilson's last place had been the one he'd bought with Elizabeth, and Julie's house just wasn't big enough for two, she said. So, they bought a new place that was far too big for the two of them, and put in minimalist furniture and the occasional piece of modern art, everything perfectly placed and at just the right angle, until it felt less like a home someone lived in and more like an installation at a museum. She'd quickly maneuvered Wilson's trophies and mementos out until they were almost all in his office, since they "didn't really go with anything," and House knew she wished she could get rid of him as easily.
There was nothing with any cracks or dings, no dents you could point to and say, "See that? I remember we were having our friends over and..." No stories attached. No history. A moment in time kept frozen by perfect varnish and Pledge, like a bug stuck in lemon-scented amber.
Julie and Wilson didn't have friends over, anyway. They had dinner parties with bland important people and bland important food all arranged by Julie. Julie liked everything in its place, everything just so, so it was easy enough to understand why she couldn't stand House, who didn't fit in anywhere but the hospital, but seemed to clutter every corner of Wilson's life. She was always smoothing Wilson down, making sure no hair was out of place and his tie was perfectly knotted. House preferred him rumpled and ruffled and utterly creased.
House took great delight in coming over as much as possible and never using a coaster.
"Quiet in here," he said, filling the silence.
"Julie had a headache," Wilson explained, handing him his drink.
"Bet she gets those a lot," House said, knowing he sounded catty, caring about it as much as he usually did.
"What's wrong?" Wilson asked again.
"You're still pissed at me about the dying kid," House said, looking at his drink. It was not what he wanted to say and a lie and too close to the truth. He didn't know what was wrong and was taking a stab in the dark. "If I promise to weep over the next one, do you think we could move on? Because there will always be more."
"Yeah, I don't see there being a shortage anytime soon." Wilson collapsed back on the couch, but still looked like he was sitting up straight. It wasn't the kind of couch you could slouch in. "I'm not pissed at you. If I stayed angry at you every time you were a dick, I wouldn't have time for my other hobbies."
"So what's wrong with you?" House asked, watching him and pretending not to.
"I just wish that sometimes you weren't so..." Wilson trailed off, staring at the ceiling.
"Me?" House supplied.
"Crippled."
House blinked at him. Not the response he was expecting, and he wasn't sure if he should leave or beat the crap out of him. Or check his temperature.
"And I'm not talking about the leg," Wilson said, sounding not at all sorry. He stood up and walked back toward the window.
"Oh, I see. You want me to go out singing and dancing in the rain. Should I act like this," he said thrusting out his cane, "is an umbrella?"
"God forbid. You were hardly Gene Kelly before the leg." Wilson turned looked at him for a moment, leaning against the windowsill as if he needed the support. "I want you to stop treating life like it's a disease and every other person on the planet is a carrier. I want you to stop being so in love with your own misery, you can't enjoy anything that doesn't have a terminal illness attached to it."
"Life is a terminal illness," House interrupted.
"I want you to stop being so fucking afraid."
House looked away. Wilson was the only person who could make him feel like that: Stripped, exposed, raw. He hated him for it.
"As if you're any better," House attacked, unable to defend, unsure of his footing with this version of Wilson. Not sure where to run to. "I'm not in a sanitized bubble and married to someone who hates me. Look at this place," he said, waving his cane at the expensive emptiness around them. "You might as well be sharing an oxygen tent with Adolf Eichmann."
"Yeah, compare my wife to a Nazi. That'll get us far." Wilson seemed less offended than frustrated.
"If the elegantly tailored brown shirt fits."
"This isn't about me," Wilson protested, not looking at him.
Of course it was about him, it was always about Wilson.
Then it was like a switch in his head flipped, and some internal tracking program turned on and pointed to someplace he'd always known how to get to. Well, all roads did lead to Wilson, after all.
Wilson sighed, all the fight leaving him. "At least steal a kiss now and then."
House stood up just fast enough to catch him. Wilson thought this was another prelude to a fight, so was obviously startled when House grabbed and kissed him hard. After a moment of surprise, Wilson was grabbing and kissing back just as desperately.
"You," Wilson said between kisses, the two of them stumbling against the sofa, "have really crappy timing."
"It could have been worse, I could have groped you in Cuddy's office," House pointed out, and kept to himself the idea of doing that at a later date.
"Which I think would shock her a lot less than you think it would," Wilson said, reclaiming House's mouth for a moment.
"You were the one who wanted me to grab life with both hands," House rejoined and kissed Wilson harder.
When House let him up for air again, which was only so he could latch onto Wilson's neck, Wilson said, "I believe that's my ass you're grabbing."
"Mmm, life is good."
Wilson let out a little laugh and grabbed House's head to kiss him again. Shifting around, they ended up bumping into the coffee table, just avoiding falling on top of it. They did, however, manage to knock a tasteful little statue that House had always hated off the edge, and House froze in mid-grapple, listening for signs of someone coming down the stairs to investigate.
"How many valium did she take," House asked when no one came down the stairs.
"She's not here," Wilson said, as he tried to undo House's belt.
House stopped kissing his neck. "I thought you said she had a headache."
"She did. She went to get some aspirin three days ago."
"Long line at the drug store, do you think?"
"Look," Wilson said, exasperated as he got House's pants open. "Do you really want to talk about my wife right now?"
House gasped when Wilson wrapped his fingers around his dick. "Not really," he said and went back to kissing him.
After several minutes and much groping, Wilson pulled away, gasping for air, "We should probably make a change of position."
"I warn you, I'm not as limber as that gymnast you were talking to last week," House said from his current location of below Wilson's left ear.
"I already told you, I wasn't..."
"You so were," House interrupted.
"Anyway, I was thinking more lying down, versus standing up," Wilson said, not getting into the same argument again. "Although I suppose we could do it against the wall."
"How about complete the Married Man No-Nos and do it in your marriage bed?"
Wilson looked both tempted and horrified. "That's just...tacky."
"Only if we bring the caramel sauce with us." Wilson rolled his eyes and House responded in kind. "Alright, fine," he said and pushed Wilson. Hard.
"Hey!" Wilson said indignantly from the floor.
"You were the one who wanted a change of position," House pointed out reasonably, as he quickly unbuttoned his outer shirt.
"I was kind of hoping for it without the bruising." Despite the complaint, Wilson looked intrigued when House straddled his hips, standing over him.
"Whine, whine, whine," House groused, as he painfully lowered himself to his knees with the aid of his cane and the coffee table.
"We should..." Wilson started, obviously concerned by House's grimace of pain.
"Shut up," he said and went back to kissing.
Together--and with much reaching and rubbing, which was very pleasant--they got both their pants off, ending up with House stretched out over Wilson.
House finally took a deep breath, pulling away from Wilson and sitting up, keeping their groins in contact and rubbing them together as much as possible.
"So, here we come to the age old question: Where do you keep your lube?"
"Would you think less of me if I told you I didn't think I had any?" Wilson asked, breath hitching now and then at the friction.
"At this moment, very much so," House said honestly. He looked around for convenient lube: a tube of KY, a bowl of butter, anything. "Don't you have some massage oil around?"
"In the living room? No."
"You throw a crappy orgy," he grumped back.
"Our key parties are infamous."
"Now there's an image," House said, shuddering.
"I think there might be some olive oil in the kitchen," Wilson pointed out.
"If you move right now, I will smother you with my thighs." House leaned towards the end table and yanked out a drawer. "There's got to be something in here. Hand lotion, furniture oil, Crisco..."
"That would also be in the kitchen."
"You are never going to make it as a gay man at this rate," he pointed out and continued to rummage. He was starting to realize the contents were alphabetized. And nothing under "L."
"So I've noticed," Wilson muttered, dropping his head and hands back on the floor.
House was almost ready to give it up and send Wilson to the kitchen for that Crisco, when an idea occurred to him. "Ah-hah!"
"Find some Wet in there, did you?" Wilson sounded oddly detached and curious.
"Your dinner parties are much more interesting than I thought." House reached over to where his clothes were piled and pulled a tube of lip balm out of one of the pockets. "Ta-dah!"
"Should I applaud or hold it until later?" Wilson asked, letting his hands ghost back up House's legs.
"Definitely hold something for now," House suggested, and began to squeeze the Vaseline out of the small tube.
"Seriously, are you sure about this position?" House ignored him, continuing to slather what he could on Wilson's penis, saving some for preparing himself.
House pushed back and down, grinning at the pain. Pain he knew, pain he could deal with. It was his one constant, the one thing that could be relied upon. And it was a new pain, distracting him from the ache in his leg, distracting him from the pleasure.
"House..." Wilson moaned, hands gripping House's hips tightly, not demanding he move, but asking politely, whenever he was ready.
House hated when Wilson was polite.
He pushed back again, finding a rhythm and riding the burn as he settled most of his weight on his left arm and leg.
Soon, Wilson joined House in the movements, thrusting up as House pushed down, head thrown back against the floor, and hands constantly moving, on House's cock, across his hips. He looked debauched and messy and sweaty and just as ridiculous as anyone in sex ever looks. House had never loved him more.
When House finally reached his climax, it was barely soon enough, the ache in his leg starting to overpower the pleasure. Impatient and needing to steer, he finally batted away Wilson's hands, stroking himself to climax. Wilson gasped and thrust into him, gripping his hips so tightly House knew there would be bruises later. House brought himself over, between one stroke and the next, feeling Wilson shudder and moan in his own climax beneath him, the thrum going on and on between his legs and straight up his spine as he flew close, so close to the ground.
Getting off Wilson was more difficult than his earlier dismount, but at least this time, all he had to do was collapse on the floor.
"Is that enough living for you, doc?" House asked from where he'd collapsed with his head turned onto Wilson's diaphragm.
Wilson huffed out a laugh as best he could. "Not bad."
They lay there for several seconds while their respective heart rates slowed.
"Although," Wilson said, trailing off.
House turned his head and propped his chin on Wilson's stomach, enjoying the wince on Wilson's face. "Although?" he asked politely.
Wilson looked down at him steadily, a wicked light House knew so well and loved even better somewhere in the back of his eyes. His hand was resting on House's head, not stroking or petting, just touching. "You do realize that life is an on-going process, right? It's not really a one-time thing."
House looked back at him for a moment and again felt that movement, free and terrified and flying. Even when you weren't heading anywhere, you always ended up somewhere. Then he rubbed his chin against the soft skin below him and put his head back down, smiling.
"I'll keep that in mind."
--30--
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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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