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Cat O'Ninetails
by Taima Hiroshima
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Whew, I can't believe people are actually reading this.
Birdie sat in the windowsill, watching the birds and butterflies. Though she was fixed and should have no desire to leave the house, she paced in front of the door and meowed to go outside.
"No, Birdie," Wilson would say patiently, often picking her up to come and sit with him on the couch. House just looked at her and shook his cane threateningly. Wilson knew House would never in his life hurt the cat, he just liked the scare her.
Birdie looked restless and angry most of the time, and Wilson was seriously starting to worry that she had picked up on a few too many of House's traits. The cat continued to sleep with either one of them on opposite nights, but House and Wilson never spoke again of the kiss they had shared the night she was away.
There was always something in the air between them. A look that lingered too long, a touch that was just a little too hot, arms that were just a little too close as they walked down the hall. Sometimes House would get out of bed in the middle of the night and see James sleeping, either sprawled on the couch or curled up with Birdie.
There was an urge, a desire to reach out and touch the skin on his face. There was the burning need to bend down and taste those lips once again. But always House shied away. He didn't want to be the one that ruined this.
This, this fucked up relationship. This, the way James looked at him. This was all that he had left in the world. Why did he want to be the one who threw it away?
One night James was very late. Birdie was crouched on the floor, stalking on of House's tennis shoes. House wanted to laugh at the way she wriggled her white little butt into place before she pounced, claws out. She chewed on the shoelaces and kicked it with her back legs for a bit before letting it go.
She'd then walk away as though she had no interest in the inanimate object, before turning back around to stalk and pounce. House wondered if perhaps she had picked up on a few too many of Wilson's traits. That was often the way he acted around cancer. Treating the dickens out of it, and then acting like maybe he was willing to let the disease win, only to lie in wait, waiting to whoop its ass.
House was watching television. He had quickly grown bored with watching the little cat play. He had better things to do, after all. Pam Anderson's breasts were on television, along with Pam herself. But really, whoever watched just for Pam? It's not like she actually had talent or anything.
House heard Wilson's car pulled up, and something resembling a genuine smile tugged at the corners of his lips. House quickly wiped it away before Wilson could see though.
He heard his friend stick the key in the lock. He heard his friend turn the key, and told himself that the reason his heart sped up was Pam's boobs were bouncing around his screen.
"House," Wilson said as he stepped in, arms loaded with paper sacks. Birdie was thankfully, smarter than she acted. She took one look at both her masters distracted and the open door and bolted. House turned in time only to see a streak of white fly out the door.
"Birdie!" House shouted. He snatched his cane and limped past his friend (lover? No, no, Greg, this isn't the time to think about that. The cat, just get the stupid cat.) through the door.
She was long gone off the porch when he got there. The white ball of fluff was nowhere in sight. House felt a wet drop on the top of his head and looked up in time to feel several more fall on his face. Rain.
"We have to go look for her." Greg said, turning back to pull on his coat and grab his keys. Wilson was almost finished putting the groceries away.
"She's really gone?" Wilson frowned. His eyes looked so warm and beautiful when he was concerned. House could almost lose himself in those pools of love.
"No, I just feel like going for a nice midnight drive. You know we gotta go and find an empty lot to go make out." House made his face perfectly serious. "You're an idiot, and I don't know why I keep you around."
Wilson says nothing as he dons his coat. Perhaps he too is concerned for their 'baby', or maybe he just knows it's stupid to try and tango with House when he's feeling like this. In fact, the only time Wilson has seen House like this was when he was on the verge of losing a patient.
They took Wilson's car. Wilson drove around the block once, twice. The rain was falling heavily by then. A peal of thunder rang out, more somber than mourning bells. A flash of lighting struck, and James saw Greg's face illuminated. He was suddenly struck by a memory of a painting he had once seen.
The Archangel Gabriel. He had the same look of determination that Greg had at that very moment.
They drove around and around, beyond their block. The cat was simply nowhere to be seen. James finally stopped the car in the parking lot of an abandoned building. It had once been a flourishing grocery store. James turned off the car and looked at his friend.
"Do you want to go home? I don't think we'll find her tonight." Greg didn't respond. "Cats come home all the time, Greg. They remember their way. Birdie's pretty smart." He reached for his friend. Greg's hand reached out and snatched James's. He squeezed.
"It's not the cat that's bothering me, James."
"What is it?" James felt his heart drop into his stomach. Greg turned, and since James's eyes had long since adjusted to the darkness, he could see the expression on his friend's face. It was one he wasn't sure he had ever seen before.
The rain fell sweetly on the roof of the car. Greg reached over with his free hand and touched the softness of the brown-eyed man's face. His fingers, long and graceful, caress the skin. He seemed to be memorizing James, the way he was staring at him so intently.
"Greg?" his voice was low and thick in his throat. Greg shook his head to shush the other man. He bent forward and kissed him, sweetly and softly just as he had done the first time.
Something snapped in Wilson. Something primal. He wondered if this was the sort of lust the rabbi had warned against in synagogue. James whimpered low in his throat and parted his lips.
Greg's tongue found its way into the tender mouth that had whispered such kind words. His tongue explored the warm, wet cavern. James whimpered again and let his tongue slide against the other man's. Greg shifted uncomfortably in his seat and put his hand to the back of James's head. His fingers were lost in the thick brown hair.
"You're beautiful," his voice was hoarse and gravelly when they came up for air. Wilson undid his belt and squirmed closer to House. They began kissing again, only this time they frequently broke apart. Their cheeks rubbed together, and James could feel Greg's breath in his ear.
Greg kissed down his jaw to his pulse point. He suckled and worried the point with his teeth. Wilson fidgeted now, grappling at House. He dug his fingers into the man's shoulders, surprised to feel the muscle beneath the skin. It was strong and thick.
James let his hand trail down to the small of Greg's back, where he held tight. House released his neck and came up, looking at his friend.
"Take me home, James." It wasn't a request, it was a demand. James painfully unwound his arms from Greg's back. It felt like high school all over again. The second they got to the good stuff, it was time to leave. He began driving while wondering just how much sound the shower muffled.
They arrived home, and he sat in the car a minute, collecting himself while Greg limped inside. He then went inside, keys jingling in his pocket. House was nowhere to be found. James shook the raindrops from his hair and looked around. The door to Greg's room was open just a silver.
James took a minute to hang up his coat and leave his shoes by the door. He was really just stalling for time, trying to make up his mind. This could be a screwed up House sort of invitation to come in, but James couldn't be sure. Why was nothing ever simple with that man?
He crept closer to the door, listening very hard. There as no sound from the bedroom. Wilson cleared his throat and walked closer, putting his hand on the door. He gently pushed it open.
House was lying on the bed, wearing nothing. James gasped and made to back out, put House beckoned to him.
"Come here, James." His voice was soft. Softest that James had ever heard it. James walked slowly inside. House held up his arms and scooted over. James lay down beside him. Gingerly, as though the other man would crumble to sand, he put his still damp head on Greg's chest. Greg lost his fingers in the hair.
"What--,"
"Not that." House cut him off. "Not tonight. Tonight, I just want to see all of you next to me. Is that okay?"
James nodded. He unbuttoned the shirt and tossed it over the side of the bed. He undid the button his pants, but nimble fingers batted his away, and undid the fly. These fingers hooked themselves in his boxers and pulled the whole lot down and off. James toed off his socks.
"Just for tonight, will you lay with me?" House buried his face in James' shoulder.
"All you ever had to do was ask, Greg." He smirked; glad to be repeating the man's words back to him. House gave him a very dirty look, a look that told him he was going to pay for that, before he settled down.
Suddenly, there was a cold wet weight on the bed. James bolted upright, along with House. A white, wet, shivering rat seemed to be at the foot of their bed. James stared in horror before Greg began to laugh.
"It's Birdie. I left the kitchen window open. She must have jumped in from that tree next to it. Are you cold?" he asked, picking up the cat. He snatched a towel from the floor (he'd forgotten to take it to the bathroom after his shower) and began to rub her with it. James smiled as he watched.
"Silly Birdie, adventures are for big kitties." She glared at him, and wormed her way between the two of them. She purred slightly, and it was obvious that this was the way she thought things should be.
James made to slide off the bed, when he felt sharp little claws sink into him. House laughed.
"It would see our child has spoken, James."
"Yes, I guess so." James sank back down.
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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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