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Under His Skin
by cryptictac
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The room is dark, the air slightly cold and stale -- Gregory House's home has always had a staleness about it; a home that's barely lived in or used, an impassive emptiness. Evidence that this is more his second home, while Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital is House's real home. The emptiness of this place used to disconcert James Wilson, but he's grown used to it. It's become almost endearing in a warped, highly unorthodox way, a bit like how House himself is. A characteristic familiarity that once irked James with uncertain intrigue is now a part of him. Gregory House has become a part of him. Like a tattoo permanently etched underneath the skin.
Just like House is now. Hot, sweaty, gripping the sheets with bony hands and pressing his unshaven face into the feather-down pillow while Wilson holds his hips and moves in and out of him with precision. James watches the way the muscles in House's back ripple and pull with each thrust into him, how House's spine shifts and rhythmically arches, how the beads of perspiration dot across his leathery skin like quivering crystals.
In all the months -- years more like -- that they have been meeting up and doing this, House has never once let James see his face. He has only ever allowed this to happen from behind, still maintaining that distance, in spite of how physically close they get. He's never allowed James to kiss him. He's never allowed James to hug him. He's never allowed James to suck his cock, nor has he ever sucked James' -- only has it been this: sex from behind, soundless and impassive, as impassive as House is as a person. He's never even been allowed to call House by his first name when they do this -- it's always been House, as if this is just another odd dimension to their working relationship and nothing more.
Even though James submits to these unspoken rules that he and House abide by, he has had enough. He'd had enough of this a long time ago but he never could muster the courage to tell House that he wants to see him when they do this. That he wants to kiss him and touch him. That he wants to be able to at least call House by his first name. That he wants more than just this empty lust. But he could never muster the courage because that would mean the end of it all -- he knows House has a phobia for human affection and emotion -- and this is truthfully better than nothing.
The bed creaks quietly as James pushes into House again, harder -- he's close to coming and by the way House's shoulders are tensed up, he knows he is close to coming, too -- and his fingers dimple into House's hips as he yanks the man back against him. He watches how House's knuckles whiten in time with the thrusts, fingers clenching each time that pleasurable spot in him is touched by the tip of James' cock, and -- not for the first time -- James finds himself wishing he could perhaps hold House's hands, maybe even entwine his fingers with his.
He's had numerous partners in his life, most of them women -- the ones that crave touch, that want to lace fingers together and hold hands when they make love -- yet he's never wanted to touch them like he wants to touch House. Maybe it's because House is a challenge that he wants it so badly. Maybe it's because human nature has it that what one can't have they covet in the deepest sinful way.
Or maybe it's because he loves --
He thrusts hard and deep into House to push that last deliberately interrupted thought from his mind and House reacts with a muffled grunt -- sounds are rare from him when they fuck. It's the only time James ever experiences the silent Gregory House. He should revel in it, because it's truly triumph when House is without words. But, ironically, it's the one time in all the time they spend together that James wishes House would speak. Or groan. Or offer something with his voice.
James pulls out and slides back into House again, the pace is picking up. Sweat is trickling down his temples to his chin and dropping onto the man's skin in faint splashes, mingling with the bathe of perspiration that is swathed upon House. He feels House push firmly back against him -- House is moments from coming; he only ever pushes back like that when he is close -- and James grits his teeth through the last three thrusts before he peaks, cock thickening within House before releasing into him in hot waves.
A few restrained groans come from the back of James' throat when House comes, muscles clenching around James' prick in twitched spasms. The scent of sex quickly washes into the stale air, James moving within House in a few more sharp strokes before he stops, breathless. The effect of his orgasm ripples through his muscles and bones, yet it feels like it is just an empty orgasm, leaving James feeling unfulfilled and listless.
House is panting into his pillow, ribs under his slightly sinewy skin expanding and contracting and James watches the way House tiredly turns his head to the side, eyes closed, face flushed. In any typical relationship, there would be an exchange of kisses or a hug after all of this, or a smile. Maybe a few tender words exchanged. James gazes at House longingly, still inside him, and he finds himself wishing House would do something rather than just lie there, waiting for him to leave.
He should draw out now. Get off the bed, silently dress while House falls into a light sleep and gather his jacket on the way out like he always does. James doesn't, however. He slowly begins to descend, damp dark hair falling over his eyes, his hot body pressing down upon House's back and his lips brush the back of the man's left shoulder. James closes his eyes and slowly increases the pressure of his lips to a faint kiss. He inhales deeply, takes in the musky scent of Gregory House. Pulling back slightly, he places another kiss next to the one he just gave and suddenly feels the sharp flick of House's hand swatting at his face.
"Get off," House gruffly demands.
James pauses. "House--"
"If I wanted things like kisses, I'd be facing you."
"Why don't you face me?"
"What are you -- stupid? Because I don't want kisses."
James sighs and murmurs against House's shoulder, "Well, maybe I do."
"Go and find yourself another wife, then."
"House, I'm sick of --" There's no point in discussing it. James abruptly pushes himself up and carefully draws out of House, sitting back on his haunches. He notices that House doesn't inquire for the rest of the sentence. There really is no point. Mopping away the sweat from his face with his hand, James slowly climbs off the bed and gathers his clothes from the floor. As he dresses, House remains on his stomach on the bed, eyes still closed.
Messily adjusting his tie, James takes one final look at House before he turns with a poise of defeat, leaving the bedroom and heading out to the lounge room to gather his jacket. He'll just leave quietly and never come back here. Except he will come back here because Gregory House is under his skin and having this is better than nothing.
Jacket scooped up into his arm, he reaches the door, turns the lock with a rattling click and just as his hand closes around the door handle, he's grabbed by the arm and spun around. Lips press against his -- a fierce, deep kiss that leaves him without breath -- and when House pulls away with a staggered step, dressed in only a crumpled grey t-shirt that he had obviously just thrown on and leaning against his cane, House utters simply, "Happy?"
No, he's not happy. His face shows it, too. James says nothing; he looks at House in the eyes, unblinkingly. So many things he'd like to say. So many things he can't say. How can he possibly begin to describe love to someone like House? Deep down, he knows House would understand. Deep down, where no one can touch. And because it can never be touched, there is no point in trying. It's best to just leave things the way they are -- fuck House the way House likes to be fucked. No love, no intimacy, just empty sex. After all, that truly is better than nothing. It doesn't matter how much Gregory House is under his skin.
His hand finding the door handle again, James turns it slowly and pulls the door open, and steps over the threshold. Facing away from House, who is standing there with an intensely curious look on his face, James closes the door quietly behind him.
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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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