| |
180 Degrees
by Michelle Christian
Accelerate.
House hated Wilson at that moment. There he was, sprawled on the other side of the couch watching this stupid horror movie, relaxed, drunk, and more appealing than anyone had a right to be. House intensely wished he were the kind of person who would take advantage of a drunken friend. In fact, he'd always thought he was that kind of person. More than a few of his fantasies involved a happily--or even morosely, and occasionally angrily--drunk Wilson. He would be pliable and sweet and utterly at House's mercy. He would also be able to get into positions the laws of man and God would not normally allow.
"Who watches videotapes anymore, anyway?" Wilson asked, as the closet door opened on someone scared to death.
"Teenagers in the Pacific Northwest, apparently," House said, not moving away from the feet nudging against his leg. If he ignored them, maybe they wouldn't go away.
"You'd think they'd have brought their GameCubes instead."
"I would have. Of course, it's difficult to make out while you're trying to get Lara Croft to jump off a cliff."
"True. Sometimes the classics are best."
Wilson had been staying with him for four days. He'd looked through the real estate section of the paper every morning, talked about the kind of place he'd need, but seemed oddly reluctant to do anything about it.
They got up in the morning together, went to work together, and went home together. A few times, they had also had lunch together. House suspected this much togetherness was going to kill one of them, and he knew who he was betting on. Anyone else but Wilson he probably would have shot already, but it being Wilson was part of the problem: Even he was finding it difficult to fantasize about his best friend when said best friend was sleeping on the couch in the next room.
"So, is that what you're trying to do?" Wilson asked, smiling at him.
Most people thought James Wilson was a nice guy. Sweet, charming, good and true. Everyone's favorite cancer-fighting boy scout, ready to help little old ladies across the street or slay malignant growths as needed. House, however, knew him better than that, and didn't trust that smile. He didn't trust what it did to him, either. "No, I've already made Lara jump off plenty of cliffs," he said.
"Here we sit, watching horror movies. And you just said watching horror movies made it easier to get laid." Wilson trailed off, smile deepening, eyes twinkling like Tinkerbell on speed.
"Why would I bother?" House asked casually. Attempted casual. Fought for it like housewives fought for the last Kathy Lee Gifford top at Wal-Mart. He made himself turn back to the screen. "You're a cheap date as it is. Plus, you don't have the legs for my favorite cheerleading outfit, so what would be the point?" House felt a sock-clad foot nudge his thigh again.
"I don't think you have the legs for it, either, but I wouldn't stop you if you wanted to model it."
"I don't wear it for anyone who won't put out," House said, playing with fire and enjoying the slightly singed feeling and rush of panic.
Another nudge.
"Get me drunk enough and you might be surprised."
"Oh, I think you're well on your way, Captain Morgan," House pointed out, trying to take deep breaths without calling attention to the fact that he was taking deep breaths.
Then he had two socked feet in his lap. When he looked at Wilson, he was treated to a nonchalant shrug and Wilson in profile as he appeared to watch the TV intently.
"I need to stretch my legs," he said, all casual offhandedness, as if this were their normal position.
"That's what coffee tables are for," House grumbled, refusing to appreciate the warmth in his lap. Which kept making these little movements.
"Yeah, but it's not padded," Wilson pointed out.
"Well then, please: Mi groin es su ottoman."
Wilson snorted. "Yeah. Like you've never paid good money for this kind of thing."
House shot him a look, but Wilson was still innocently watching the movie, apparently absorbed in the ferry ride from hell.
They watched the movie for a little while longer, but House had long since lost both the plot and the will to care. Instead, all he could concentrate on was the feet that shifted slightly now and then over his crotch, almost caressing him through his pants.
To hell with it, House thought, and decided to enjoy this for as long as possible, even as he mentally cursed Wilson. There he was, smiling and even more flirtatious than normal (whiskey always made Wilson flirty, and House would deny to his dying breath that he kept it on hand at least in part for that reason), and playing footsies with House's dick. House couldn't bring himself to take advantage. Wilson was sexy as hell like that, but underneath the casual manner there was something...raw. Needy. And while that was attractive in its own way, House couldn't do it. He really wanted to, wanted to pin Wilson down and lick him and make him moan and demand House get the whipped cream, and he hated himself for not doing it. He would feel too much like a heel for far longer than even he could deal with.
There was a freakishly loud scream from the TV which made them both jump, mostly because neither of them had been paying attention to the movie for quite some time.
"Let me get that," Wilson said, and leaned over toward the remote, presumably to turn down the volume. The remote which was on the end table. Which was on House's side of the couch. Which was how House ended up with a lap full of Wilson.
House didn't know whether to thank God or slash all of Wilson's tires the next chance he got.
"That's better," Wilson said after turning down the TV. Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on how you looked at it--and House was looking at it from all angles for later use in fantasy material--Wilson did not move away.
"I think it's time you cut back on all those sympathy lunches you like to take the nurses to. You weigh a ton," House said, his loss of breath only partially attributable to Wilson's proximity.
"I am fit and trim, Dr. House," Wilson said. The fact that it sounded like a purr freaked House out more than it turned him on. "Want to examine me?"
"Okay, time for bed," House insisted loudly, trying to push Wilson off his lap. Being noble was the crappiest he'd ever felt.
Wilson grinned and stood up, holding out his hand. "Sounds good to me."
Wilson was so going to suffer for this for weeks. House was horny and cranky and not happy about being noble, and someone was going to have to pay for that. For now, he had to get Wilson to bed and himself into the shower. If he couldn't actually have sex with Wilson tonight, the least the lush could do was to fuel his fantasies. More of them.
"Come on, you drunk."
***
House looked up into the spray and wrapped his hand around his erection, his other hand braced against the wall.
He'd gotten as far as Wilson unzipping his pants with his teeth when the glass door slid open, and his fantasy stepped in behind him.
"I told you I wasn't tired," Wilson said, looking straight into House's eyes when he turned around, catching his arm before House stumbled slightly when he turned around too fast on the wet tile, and appearing startlingly sober. House supposed that was only fair, since he suddenly felt drunk.
Apparently, Wilson didn't have the same problem with taking advantage of House when Wilson was drunk.
"Excuse me, sir, but this is a private car," House protested half-heartedly. It was his better intentions' last gasp before he beat them to death with his erection, and they knew it.
"The porter told me everywhere else was full, so I should find someone to double up with," Wilson said, moving closer until House was backed up against the wall. House barely noticed the chill from having the hot water blocked by Wilson's body.
"Wilson...." It wasn't his best effort ever, but he thought he could be forgiven for sub-par banter when he was wet and naked and hard with an equally wet and naked and hard Wilson pressing him against the shower wall. Those good intentions were braver and more persistent than he'd thought, though.
"You know, if you're going to protest, it might be more convincing if you took your hand off your dick," Wilson pointed out, mouth moving against House's lips.
"How do you know it's for you? I could have been thinking about Pia Zadora."
"House. Stop," Wilson said and kissed him. At which point his good intentions fled the field.
It wasn't perfect. It was too wet, and not just from the shower, and their teeth clashed more than once. But it was Wilson, and House had been starving for this particular feast for what felt like eons, so it didn't need to be perfect, it just needed to be Wilson's firm lips and roaming hands and demanding tongue.
Warm, wet skin slipped under House's hands as he moved them from Wilson's shoulders, down his back to his ass. They stayed there for a while. He thought they might eventually need to be surgically removed, as he had no intention of giving up his hold.
Wilson's hand grabbed his dick in a possessive and only slightly too firm grip. In that moment, House imagined he could feel not just the fingers, but the fingerprints, the ridges and curves on each pad as they stroked him, identifying the man as Wilson more surely than he could have by blood, more surely than by sight.
Through all this, the kisses never stopped. He would never admit it, but House loved to kiss. He loved the flavor of each person, the warmth of every mouth, the slippery tangle of tongues and the press of lips. Stacey used to say that kissing him was like having a conversation with a different person: What he wouldn't share in words he'd put into his kisses. For years it had been enough, had been all she ever needed. Until it wasn't.
It was no surprise Wilson was so good at it. Most of the things they told each other they never said out loud, anyway.
Wilson finally pulled away and dropped to his knees.
"Warn me if the porter comes," he said, leaned forward, and swallowed House's cock to the balls.
"Why would I care if the porter was coming?" was what House wanted to say in the split-second before Wilson started lipping his testicles, but all that came out was something embarrassingly close to "Hergalp." Fortunately, he didn't think Wilson heard, what with House's hands clasped over his ears.
This had been years in the making, conversations and comfort and laughter and arguments and fantasies piled on top of each other. He thought about holding off the orgasm and making it last. He thought about waiting, and tried to figure out how to stop himself from coming. Then he thought, "Why?" and shot down Wilson's throat.
Far too much of life was spent not orgasming, he thought. It was stupid not to have one when you could.
House collapsed back against the tiles, letting Wilson's grip on his hips keep him vertical. He moaned a little when Wilson licked at his balls and absolutely did not yelp when he nipped at one before sliding back up.
"We're going to have to be a lot more horizontal before I can return the favor," House pointed out, once he let Wilson's mouth go.
"I think that can be arranged," Wilson said with a smile, then tried to kiss him again and turn off the shower at the same time, with limited success.
They got out of the shower and dried off, though they were still both slightly damp by the time they made it to the bed, despite the devoted and vigorous rubbing they had done. (Admittedly, they had paid more attention to drying certain parts than others.)
There was some laughter as they struggled with the blankets and each other. House would have said Wilson giggled while House himself chortled and laughed at Wilson, but he was still too close to his own orgasm to care.
House worked his way down Wilson's body and buried his face in Wilson's groin.
***
Slip into neutral to prevent the wheels from spinning.
House told himself that he wasn't surprised when he woke up the next morning and Wilson wasn't there. There was a note on the dresser, because never let it be said that Wilson was rude enough to his bed partners to leave without a note.
Blah blah, early meeting. Blah blah, thanks for last night. Blah blah, James.
James. The name flickered, as if written in old neon that was about to die.
Wilson had always been "Wilson" to House. They'd known each other first as colleagues, and become friends as "House" and "Wilson." Somehow, seeing "James" felt like more of a brush-off than the lame excuse of early-morning meetings, as if House were some woman Wilson had picked up in a bar, rather than someone he'd known for 12 years.
Sexual satisfaction replaced by irritation, House went in to the hospital, shrugged off the trio of children asking him to look at their homework, and went looking for Wilson. Unfortunately, there was no sign of him anywhere. Not in the clinic, not on his ward, and not in his office. Finally, he tried his last-ditch effort.
"Where's Wilson?" he demanded.
Cuddy looked up from her desk. "You don't know?" she asked before looking back down at the paperwork she was going through. "I thought you had each other Lo-jacked."
"My tracking software is on the fritz today," he told her, walking closer to the desk. "So where is he? He was supposed to have clinic hours this morning, but he's not there. And I know how you feel about doctors and their clinic hours."
"He asked for a couple of days of personal leave." Cuddy looked up at him after the moment of silence had stretched, looking genuinely startled now. "You really don't know?" she asked, sounding slightly worried.
"Well, he mentioned running away to join the circus, but I think that was probably the caramel corn talking," House said before turning back to the door.
He managed to dismiss Cameron's new case and decided to head home for lunch. No point in eating in the cafeteria when there was no one to steal fries from. When he came in the door, something felt immediately off. He wasn't sure what was wrong until he found another note on his dresser.
"Greg," the note said, and House could already feel his teeth grinding. "Sorry to leave you in the lurch, but I found a place this morning. I need a couple of days to think about things. We'll talk later. James."
Wasn't that just the way? His first and only foray into the land of homosexuality would have to be with the only man straighter than he was. They were lost in the middle of Gaytown without a map. And no way in hell either of them would ask for directions. Obviously Wilson's first thought was to look for the nearest exit ramp. House just hoped he could find a diner with decent coffee to wash his Vicodin down with.
It was good to have his space back, House decided, finding Wilson's toiletries gone from the bathroom, his suitcases and clothes gone from the apartment. No trace to show that he'd ever been here. Wilson had been getting on his nerves anyway, always being underfoot. And if he couldn't handle a little roll in the hay, then he shouldn't have started anything. It'd all settle down. Things would work out; they'd realize it had been fun and that that was all either of them wanted, and they'd go back to their peaceful, separate lives.
House didn't even convince himself.
***
Day Two of what House was now calling in his head The Great Rift did not go well for anyone, except possibly Wilson, who stayed conspicuously absent.
Once he got to his office, House snapped at the three far-too-young-and-fresh-faced doctors who sat in the room right next to his office reveling in getting laid regularly, and plotted ways to make Wilson's life miserable when he saw him next. The guy wanted space, fine, he would give the bastard space. For now. He knew once Wilson came to his senses he'd realize they were better together, and sex together was nothing to sneeze at. Once the proper balance was restored, however, Wilson was going to wish he'd left the country, because House was going to make him pay. For turning him into a 16-year-old girl, if nothing else.
He made it almost to lunch before he found himself on the receiving end of Intervention #1.
"What's wrong with you? Someone replace your Vicodin with Tic-Tacs?" Foreman asked when he dropped everything onto the table and headed straight for the coffee.
"Yes, my leg is in agony, but my breath is minty fresh. Seems a good trade-off to me," House said, popping another pill.
"Look," Foreman said. He was using his most reasonable, I-am-the-responsible-and-sane-adult-here-so-listen tone of voice, which normally made House want to stick out his tongue and go "nyah!"--which on occasion he had done. House thought the hands on the hips thing was a little over the top. The last time Wilson had struck a pose like that, House had told him he looked like Wonder Woman, then spent days with the mental image of him in the outfit. Picturing Foreman in a similar outfit would probably fuel his nightmares for weeks. "This has been going on for two days. Is something wrong with you and Dr. Wilson?"
House put on a mock-touched expression. "I had no idea you cared."
"I don't," he responded with his patented 'duh' look. "I just don't want to constantly worry about flying furniture for the rest of my life or until you two sort out whatever it is you need to sort out."
House went back to his game of Freecell and turned up the music. "Learn to duck. Ask Chase, he's pretty good at it."
***
Day Three did not start out much better. In spite of the fact that House knew Wilson was back, he still couldn't seem to track him down.
The problem with knowing Wilson for 12 years, knowing where he would go and who he would talk to and all the things he would do, was that Wilson had known him for 12 years, too. In the few times they'd seriously argued, Wilson had proven to be just as good at the hide part of hide-and-seek as he was at the seek, something which House took great pleasure in riding him about post-fight, but which was simply annoying mid-fight. The fact that they weren't technically fighting just added to the annoyance.
House caught up with him once or twice, but Wilson was always on his way somewhere else. There was a board meeting. (Pain in the ass being there really was one.) He had to go see a patient and break some bad news. (Not exactly out of the realm of possibility.) He had to meet with his lawyer. (Also possibly true, considering his circumstances, but that seemed awfully fast.) He couldn't meet for lunch because he had too much paperwork. (Which he was normally happy to have House distract him from.)
The worst part so far had been when Wilson had walked away (on my way to meet with a patient, can't talk now, no time) in the clinic, and Cuddy had looked up from the front desk where she had not-so-subtly been listening. "So, how is everything going?" she'd said, in such a casual tone she wouldn't have convinced a preschooler that she was just making idle conversation. Somehow, it just made his humiliation complete to have a witness who was obviously feeling bad for him, even if she had no idea what she had witnessed.
House had seriously wished they weren't on the first floor. He'd have walked up to the roof to jump off the building, but it seemed like too much effort.
Terrorizing his staff seemed like a better course of action.
Turn the wheel 90 degrees and put on the emergency brake.
Day Four turned out to be no great gem, either.
House was a patient man. Most people would have sworn otherwise, but for the right reason, he could lie in wait forever. Some might have thought Wilson was the only person House would be patient for.
The big problem with giving Wilson space, though, was that that left House to his own devices, and even he could only watch so many soaps, taunt Cuddy so many times, make his subordinates' lives so difficult.
He was bored. There was no one to discuss Marisa's latest affair with, or share the wonder that was Cuddy's latest plunging neckline, or scold him for being too mean. No one was there to mock and be mocked in return. No one was there to steal fries from at lunch or pretend not to laugh when he said something really nasty; no one to make his own offensive comments, cloaked in dry good humor. He was just amazingly, whole-heartedly bored. He even started looking forward to clinic duty so that he would have something to do.
Wilson must have decided to let himself be caught, or just let his guard down too long, because as House was sneaking past the clinic that afternoon, he saw Wilson open the door to Exam Room 3 to let a patient out, then turned back into the room to scribble a last note on the chart in his hand. As he crossed the waiting room, unmindful of which patient's foot was in the way of his cane, the anger he'd been deflecting to everyone else all week started to come to the fore.
"You do not have a meeting, you do not have a patient, and there is nothing in your office more important," House said, locking the exam room door behind him.
"Well, I do, in fact, have patients waiting for me. Strange, I know, with this being the clinic and all," Wilson said. The normalcy of his tone pissed House off even more.
"The leper colony can wait for its messiah," House said and glared at him.
Wilson stared back. "Am I supposed to crack under your icy glare? It might help if you told me what I'm supposed to crack over. Or is just the mere act of cracking enough for you?"
"If you even attempt to play off that you don't remember anything from the other night, you will know exactly what my cane feels like up your ass," House promised.
"No, thanks, I'm not into the kinky stuff," Wilson said, as if assuring him. "I remember. Of course I remember. Besides, I woke up the next day in your bed with your semen all over me. If I had somehow managed to forget, I think I had enough clues to deduce what happened."
"And you decided to just leave."
"I left a note."
"Yeah, thanks for that, James. That didn't make me feel like some cheap floozy," House said sarcastically.
"Wait, you're pissed because I signed my first name?" Wilson asked incredulously, almost pulling off the misdirection. "How many Vicodin did you take this morning?"
"Even the tooth fairy leaves a buck when he comes to visit."
Wilson snorted. "Yeah, I'm sure leaving a couple dollars on your nightstand would have made you feel much better about the experience."
"So, what? You freaked out? Not as straight as you thought you were?" House demanded.
"Yes, I freaked out!" Wilson shouted. "It's called human response, House, you might have heard of it. I've never done anything like that before, and--"
"Please, you don't do the blushing virgin at all well," House said, and started pacing in front of the door.
"Julie left me," Wilson said quietly.
"Yeah, I think that might have come up sometime right before you came on me." House hadn't realized he was quite so angry until he heard himself yelling. He hoped the patients outside were enjoying the theater.
"Stop it." There was no banter left in Wilson's voice, just fatigue and fear. "I can't do this right now. I know you don't understand, I know on your world things don't work like this, but my wife left me, I had sex with a man for the first time, and that man happens to be my best friend. I need time to process this."
"So, what? You can buy a nice mid-life crisis car and go out to meet the next ex-Mrs. James Wilson? Going to listen to a lot of Sarah MacLachlan and get in touch with your feminine side?"
"I think you have the market cornered on mid-life crisis vehicles. I could just borrow one of yours." Wilson sighed and looked right at House. "I need time," he said again.
House was leaning next to the door as Wilson came towards him. He suddenly felt drained of righteous indignation, of irritation, of the will to move. "And then?" he asked, more quietly than he meant to without the sarcasm and bitterness he thought should be there.
"I don't know. That's kind of what I need the time for," Wilson said in an oddly gentle voice. He looked at House for a moment longer before he went out the door, leaving House in an empty exam room.
***
He thought Day Four couldn't get any worse. Turned out that was simply a lack of imagination on his part. The problem with being the head of a department was that your people refused to leave you alone to wallow in misery with your soaps. The other problem was that one of his people was Cameron.
"Are you and Wilson...fighting?" she asked tentatively after ambushing him outside his office with Intervention #2.
Kicking Cameron felt like kicking a puppy sometimes. A little, eager-to-please ball of fluff that was all big eyes and enthusiasm.
House hated puppies.
"We've decided to separate. We've only been together the last few years for you kids, but now that you're mostly grown, we think it's better this way," House said, walking into his office and hoping against hope he would shake her.
"I just think," Cameron continued, predictably ignoring all signposts warning of rockslides and following him, "it would be terrible if you two stopped talking."
"Don't worry, Wilson's terrible at that Vow of Silence thing. He won't shut up."
"Is there anything I could do?"
House had a sudden, horrible image of Cameron offering herself as a beard, a way to make Wilson jealous. Which would be great, except for all the reasons it would be the blackest, bloodiest pit of Hell imaginable. For one thing, Cameron was likely to get all doe-eyed and start picking out china patterns within 20 minutes. For another thing, there was always the chance that, rather than getting jealous and staking his claim to House, Wilson was just as likely to get all soft and give him that particularly annoying, look like House was one of his cancer kids drawing him a picture. Then he would offer to be his best man and tell him how happy he was that House had finally found the right woman.
Even more frightening, though, was the most likely possibility: She was sincere. She would go to Wilson, pleading House's case with tear-filled eyes and begging him to reconcile with House. It might even be worth it to see the look of horror on Wilson's face as Cameron played gay couples counselor for them. If his luck with such things ran true, however, Wilson was just as likely to break down crying to her about his lost heterosexuality, she would in turn comfort him, then they'd end up having sex, all leading eventually to the inevitable toast to House at their wedding for bringing them together.
It all ended with Cameron and picking out china patterns, so he went for a different option.
Bloody, black pit of Hell. With leeches.
"Can't talk about it," he said, grabbing his cane and standing up. As he walked past her, he leaned in and said quietly, "Confidentiality, you know. There's all these rules about STD tests."
Her blinking rapidly and leaning back was both expected and gratifying. The loudly muttered "His or yours?" was unexpected, but caused him to turn and smile toothily at her as he walked out the door.
***
By Day Five, that throwing himself off the roof thing was looking better and better. Less because Wilson was still avoiding him than because he couldn't seem to avoid everyone else.
Chase was definitely easiest. He simply popped his head into the office and ducked when House threw the ball at his head.
"So, I suppose I should invest in a helmet," he said before giving House the test results on their current boring patient and ducking back out.
Cuddy, however, was much more straightforward. Harder head, House supposed.
"Are you planning to strafe the whole hospital?" she asked, after storming in. "Or are you going to take us all out one by one?" She had adopted that same hands-on-the-hips pose, and House just sat and stared at her.
"What?" she asked, exasperated and confused, when he said nothing after 10 seconds.
House put on a dreamy smile. "Just imagining you in a red and gold lam bra and panties."
Cuddy looked like she was going to lunge across the desk and strangle him. Good thing she didn't have the lasso. "House--" she started.
"They do both have their advantages," he said reasonably, picking up her earlier question. "Strafing is efficient, but taking out everyone individually gives it that personal touch."
Cuddy took a deep breath and walked forward. "Look, I don't know what's going on with you and Wilson, and I don't care. Just fix it before my entire nursing staff quits and firebombs the building."
"Hey, I thought I was the one with all the heavy ordnance," he called after her, as she opened the door to leave.
"It's an escalating war of attrition," she pointed out from the doorway. "And just between you and me, if it comes down to it, I'm joining the rebels."
If House checked his bike over more carefully than normal before he left that night, it was no one's business but his.
***
Put the car in drive.
He was working up to such a great morose night. He had the blues on the stereo, a bottle of JD, and about as much self-pity as he'd had in a long time. Everything you needed for an all-expenses-paid trip to cliche land.
People loved Wilson. It was the natural order of things. But they loved him in this nice, almost nondescript way. He was Mark Twain to House's Ambrose Bierce: He was warm and folksy to House's bitterness. People remembered Wilson with fondness, but rarely remembered anything specific beyond the fact that he was good-looking and nice.
Generally, people had no problem remembering specifics about why they didn't like House.
But people forgot that Twain, folksy and wholesome and nostalgic as he was, was bitter and angry by the time life got through with him. Wilson wanted everyone to like him, so he could manipulate them or so he could just smugly go through life being liked. Maybe he wanted everyone to think he was just good people. But House knew he hadn't gotten through life quite as unscarred and sunny-tempered as he appeared. House knew he wasn't as easy-going and normal and good as he seemed, standing next to House. Every woman who ever slept with him thought he was charming and sincere. Every woman who left knew how transitory that sincerity was.
Really, the three broken marriages should be a clue to everyone that he wasn't the great catch they all assumed he was.
House was believing himself less and less these days. This was probably the most depressing thought he'd had in a long time, so he was almost happy when someone knocked on his door.
If it was Cameron, he hoped she was wearing fireproof underwear.
"Hey," Wilson said when House opened the door. He looked a bit sheepish, but he was smiling.
"You know, it's easier to give you space if you don't show up at my house," House pointed out, not sure he wanted to hear the end result of Wilson's soul-searching. If he wanted to go on with the sex, that would be great. But he was just as likely to decide he wanted to stick with the straight and narrow and keep chasing female accountants. Which would be painful, but workable if he also still wanted to steal House's french fries and make fun of Cuddy's wardrobe. House just couldn't see how to get there from here.
And when the hell had he gotten this pathetic?
"I got the idea that you wanted me in your space," Wilson said, coming in and closing the door behind him.
"I got the idea that me wanting you in my space was freaking you out," House pointed out. Where was this going? And could they get there with him sitting down? He'd had enough Jack to not be as steady on his feet as he should be.
"I got the idea that me freaking out over you wanting me to be in your space was--"
"Can we stop with the sentence torture and get to the point?" House interrupted.
"Certainly," Wilson agreed, pushed House against the wall, and kissed him hard.
House suddenly felt a lot better about this conversation.
"So you're finished with your heterosexual freakout, I take it," House said between kisses, stumbling as they moved sideways, then started to stagger together back to the bedroom without letting go.
"This freakout is officially over. It got in the way of sex," Wilson mumbled. He seemed intent on getting House's pants open and down before they reached the bed, which was probably not a good idea, House thought with his last coherent brain cell, but he couldn't remember why.
They fell onto the bed sideways. If Wilson had maneuvered them so that House didn't land on his bad leg, he'd done it subtly enough for House to ignore.
They tangled together until Wilson lay stretched out on top, only occasionally kicking House in the shins.
"You are almost forgiven for the past week," House said into Wilson's mouth.
Wilson slid his right hand between them and grabbed House's dick through his pants before saying, "What do I have to do to be completely forgiven?"
House gasped, "Good start," and pushed up, baring his throat. Wilson seemed to take that as an invitation, since he started to nibble on House's neck. House had never been so appreciative of those perfect, straight white teeth in his life.
"I was thinking, though," House said, trying not to moan, "of something a little more proctological."
Wilson did groan and bit down hard enough to bruise. "I don't care if it is your fetish, I'm not going to get the rubber gloves."
"You only have to put on a one-fingered glove for what I have in mind," House pointed out and pulled Wilson's head up to do some biting of his own.
Wilson went still and pulled back, much to House's consternation. "Wait, seriously?"
"Well, I know I'm clean, since I've pretty much been going steady with Mr. Wiggles," he said, holding up his hand. "But since I have some idea where you've been..."
House really didn't want to have this conversation with Wilson. Had he ever done this before? No. Was he sure he wanted this? Yes. Really? Absolutely, love dumpling. Not only was it a horrible, gay romance novel kind of conversation, it was time consuming, time he'd rather not take away from actual sex and time it gave Wilson to come up with a reason why they shouldn't do this.
"I wish you would stop making it sound like I'm some gigolo working my way up and down the eastern seaboard."
"I know," House said, conciliatory and breathing an inward sigh of relief. "Just the Tri-State area."
Wilson made a face at him and pulled away to open the nightstand drawer. "For someone who wants to get fucked, you're doing a hell of a job convincing me to go curl up with a good book tonight."
House let himself grin when Wilson came back quickly to straddle him, lube in one hand, condoms in the other. "Apparently, I'm doing all right."
"This is just a show to put you off your guard," Wilson assured him, leaning down to kiss him roughly again. When he came up for air, he rolled off and pushed House to lie on his side, facing away. "Any second now I'm going to go take Moby Dick back downstairs and find out what happens with Ahab," he insisted, kissing along House's shoulders.
And, really, it would just be too rude not to take Wilson up on a straight line like that.
"Not the dick I was thinking about," House said and reached back to touch his new favorite appendage.
Suddenly, there was a finger in his ass.
"Jesus Christ, warn a guy!" House shouted.
"I would have thought the big tube of Wet and the pack of Trojans were kind of a clue," Wilson pointed out, adding another finger instead of stopping.
"Since they didn't have a timer on them, the question of when was still up in the air."
Wilson moved up against his back and eased House's top leg over his own.
"Are you sure about this?" Wilson asked while nibbling on House's ear.
"Yes," House said, trying not to moan.
"I don't want to push you into anything," Wilson said, rubbing his erection between the cheeks of House's ass.
"And I don't want to have to clean up the mess when I kill you. Get on with it!" House growled.
"Okay, okay," Wilson said hastily. He positioned himself at House's entrance. "Now, only if you're really certain."
"I will...FUCK!" House screamed as Wilson pushed in mid-complaint.
"That's the idea." He moved slowly, but without stopping until his pelvis met House's ass, Wilson's hands grasping at his waist. When he was in as deep as he could get, he lay against House's back, panting into his shoulder.
This was...different. You could know objectively how many nerve endings you had in any given part of your body, you could know the biology of what something felt like what when it was stimulated, but until you felt the pain, you never really knew what it meant. And until you felt the pleasure, you never knew how much you could take.
House reached back and slapped at one of Wilson's ass cheeks. "You could pick this up a bit."
"I don't need any front-seat fucking from you, you know," Wilson complained, but started to thrust anyway. House wasn't sure how he'd held still before.
Biology could be a marvelous thing.
Biology was also an impatient bitch, and before long, the good feelings weren't enough. Soon they were both panting and sweating, shoving against each other, the best game of bumper cars ever.
When House came, it was sensory overload, too many feelings to focus on any one. He missed when Wilson climaxed. He didn't miss the words Wilson moaned into his ear, but he did ignore them. What Wilson felt, whatever Wilson felt, this was not the time he would believe them. Wilson said the words because he needed to say them, and wouldn't expect House to say them back. If Wilson didn't know how House felt, then he was far stupider than House would have ever imagined.
"Now that," House said, panting to the ceiling, "was a satisfying end to a freakout."
"Glad you liked it," Wilson answered.
Step on the gas and go back the way you came.
When House woke up the next morning, he told himself he wasn't surprised to wake up alone and find another note on his pillow. Wondering where and how he could hide the body, he stayed on his side, face half-buried in the pillow, one eye staring at the innocent-looking piece of paper, wishing he could make it burst into flames with his heat vision. Since that would probably mean that the bed would then burst into flames with him in it, thereby meaning he wouldn't actually have to get up and deal with any of it, he was willing to call it a bonus.
He had to finally accept that he wasn't Clark Kent and his heat vision never had really worked. He was, however, a masochist, the kind that would always poke at a sore tooth to see if it really did still hurt that much, so he opened the note. And started to smile.
You're out of milk. You also drool into the pillow, Casanova. Remind me to bring my waders tonight. Wilson.
-30-
Please post a comment on this story.
Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of Fox Television, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
|
|
|