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This Habit
by Topaz Eyes
Author's Note: Spoilers for season 2 episode 14, "Sex Kills." Beta'ed by jazzypom.
~~~~~
The beer House first offered Wilson when he arrived segued to whiskey so quickly that now one empty twenty-sixer sits between them, a second one is cracked open, and Wilson is plastered and laughing hysterically at whatever House says.
Wilson, still giggling at House's sarcastic comment about Cameron's frilly blouse from hell, rises from the sofa; House stands too, vaguely thinking of heading for the fridge for something a little more nutritious than ninety proof single malt. Stumbling in his drunkenness and falling against House, Wilson clutches wildly at House's shoulders for support and nearly pulls both of them off-balance. House stumbles back against the coffee table, blindly grappling for support for both of them and just barely manages to stay on two feet.
"Whoa there, big fella," House says, a little peeved because he's really not as high as he hopes. (He never is anymore.) His voice is still lucid with no sign of slurring. Not that that ever stops him, even if he is a little jealous of Wilson for being already there. Though Wilson's always been a lightweight.
Wilson slides down, soon slumped in a pool of giggling anguish at House's feet.
At least he's laughing, House thinks.
He can work with that. It's better than the alternative.
Grabbing at his jeans, Wilson's fingers clutch a fistful of denim and he leans his head against House's good leg, threatening to throw him completely off-balance again. House has to lean almost all his weight on his cane to compensate.
"Teach me how to be a bastard, House," Wilson begs.
The unpleasant chortle that follows confirms that Wilson is only half-joking.
House still pauses at that. After a moment he lays his hand on top of Wilson's head in some warped benediction. Wilson's hair is ridiculously soft and pliant under his palm.
"You don't need lessons," House says finally.
He knows it can be taken either way. He tries to make it sound caring to soften the blow. (What passes for caring with House anyway.)
Wilson shakes his head, disbelieving.
"I suppose I could just observe you and do the exact opposite then." House hears the slur in his words. Wilson has chosen to ignore the implied slight. Thank God for alcohol then.
"You already do that."
Wilson snorts his reply.
"Get up, Jimmy. You've had enough."
"Can't. Legless." He chuckles. "One up on you." He laughs at his own joke.
House rolls his eyes and whaps Wilson on the shoulder (though gently) with his cane.
Wilson wheezes, an ugly sound that makes House wince. "They're never enough, Greg," he says, voice sobering just a bit. "They've never been enough. I've never been enough." He tilts his head to look up then, and House can just barely meet his gaze. Wilson's eyes are glassy. "I don't know what to do anymore."
Neither does House. Except for perhaps one thing.
He can solve the immediate problem of Wilson's despair. Temporarily anyway. It works even when alcohol is not enough of a distraction.
Even though it's the epitome of bastardry and he hates to do it, but it's better than the alternative.
"Come on," he says quietly, and hauls Wilson up to standing. "Let's go."
This is what it means to be a bastard, Jimmy.
~~~~~
There haven't been many times they've done this; just once after every wife and serious lover in the time House has known him.
House can still count them on his fingers (though after tonight he's going to need his toes).
Well then, maybe it was more times than he thought.
Or not. Maybe he's confusing the asking with the doing.
The first time (after Rachel), House said no.
As he did the second (after Andrea), and the third (after Naomi).
Each time started with Wilson getting piss-plastered drunk. (Like this.)
Each time started with Wilson leaning his head on House's shoulder and laying his hand on his leg. And slowly sliding it upwards.
Each of those times he'd plucked Wilson's sloppy groping hand from his thigh and poured his drunken form onto his own bed (or sofa, as it were) to let him sleep off the grief. And no harm done.
The fourth time, Stacy had already been gone six months.
House was too lonely, too sore and too high on Vicodin and whiskey at that point to care anymore who Wilson was mourning (it might have been Sharon; possibly Shannon).
So when Wilson's hand slid past the point of propriety to fumble at the fly of his jeans, he let him do it. He was in mourning too. And he didn't particularly care.
But though the spirit was (more or less) willing, the flesh was weak. After what seemed like hours of trying to get it up he just gave up and left Wilson snoring on the sofa.
Though in the meantime he had managed to jerk Wilson off, and something had broken in the process; in those glassy brown eyes, in his own withdrawn resolve.
House was afraid of what it might have meant. Except when Wilson came around the next day, he acted as if it had never happened. Perfect forgiveness. Which suited House just fine.
Now, when Wilson asks, House always answers yes, and refuses to think of whatever harm they may end up doing if they ever figured it out.
~~~~~
Tonight would be no exception. Tonight in some ways was the biggest blow of all. Julie had turned the tables on Wilson.
Even though he was waiting for the knock at his door, House had never expected that Julie would be the one to do the wronging this time.
Or for Wilson to be so devastated by it.
Crap. Crap crap crappity jack shit.
In House's universe, turnabout was fair play. Though he certainly hadn't expected the deep-seated pain on his friend's face as he begged for a place to stay.
In the end, he knew he couldn't refuse his plea. But tonight required a preemptive strike.
So after the beer segues to whiskey and then threatens to devolve to self-recrimination at his feet, House refuses to let Wilson wallow.
"Come on," he says quietly, and hauls Wilson up to standing. "Let's go."
Wilson nods his acquiescence.
House still can't figure out how they get from living room to bedroom, just that they do (he thinks it involved stumbling); that somehow House dons pajama pants (such a domestic thing) while Wilson sheds his trousers and shirt and socks, sliding between the silken covers in boxers and T-shirt and waiting.
House slips into bed himself and rolls onto his side (his left, his good one), moving until he is alongside Wilson. He props his head with his left hand, elbow resting on the pillow. Wilson lies splayed on his back, one arm flung across his face; he cannot stop trembling, and House's own hand can't seem to cease its shaking either. He lays the palm of his other hand flat against Wilson's belly under his T-shirt and presses down gently on the soft warm flesh. At Wilson's sharp intake of breath he slides his palm lower, eyes trained on what he can see of Wilson's face.
"House, please--"
It's a dangerous question not meant to be answered, let alone asked. Especially in that harsh, plaintive tone.
"Shut up. Just shut up," House says, answering anyway. He hates how it sounds like pleading but he can't stand any words right now. Words would make this too real. Luckily Wilson complies, and any further communication on his part is conducted through inarticulate gasps and moans.
He eases Wilson's boxers down over his hips and to his knees. His cock, already hard and straining against the fine cotton, springs to attention once freed. It might be comical if it weren't so -- needy. Desperate. His thighs fall apart, an unconscious invitation for easier access. House watches Wilson gasp, his mouth a perfect "o" as House's warm hand slides up his inner thigh then loosely wraps itself around his cock, adjusting his grip to find the perfect fit.
House isn't sure which is worse right now: the doing or the being done.
"It's OK, Jimmy," House murmurs, breaking his own rule, words shattering the heavy silence like glass. There's a need in House's low rough voice, one he can't identify; but it's not lust, not desire. Though certainly there's resignation. "It's OK, it's all right--" Repeating over and over until the words blur into one another and the boundaries dissolve.
House wonders whether he's uttering them to reassure Wilson, or soothe himself.
Whatever it is, they work; he feels Wilson relax slowly with House's lulling words in his ear. Wilson stops shaking. They both swallow and Wilson nods. House knows Wilson is, still, keeping his eyes closed under his arm.
He stays oddly detached throughout. The always-lucid part of House's brain marvels at how quickly Wilson grows accustomed to House's hand touching him. (Each and every God-damned time.) How quickly House grows accustomed to touching him there. How warm and heavy and familiar it feels, like yet not like his own. Only the angle is different.
His fist brushes against Wilson's pubic hair, wiry and damp with sweat and musk, on each downward slide; his thumb brushes the head on each upstroke. It's fast and dirty; no teasing, no drawing it out, it's just about getting the job done. Wham bam thank-you ma'am.
Wilson's free hand scrabbles for purchase against the bed, against anything he can hold onto. He blindly pulls at a fistful of cotton and grabs so tightly his knuckles blanch. House lets him clutch his T-shirt. Wilson holds on, a drowning man clinging to the only anchor he can find.
House gazes steadily at Wilson's clenched face (what he can see of it), studying the fall of light and shadow on his jaw and cheek. Even in the dim light he can see the deepening of lines around Wilson's mouth.
House isn't even getting aroused. He never does, he never has. The Vicodin takes care of that, thank you very much.
But maybe that wasn't the point.
Wilson's face grimaces in pleasure as the pressure builds. Or maybe it's in pain. The expression is the same. He writhes, his hips thrusting in rhythm with each stroke of House's fist, faster and tighter.
Why do they keep doing this, when House doesn't and Wilson can't enjoy it?
(Well, that's not precisely true. Wilson does enjoy it immensely, during the act. It's just that he's blessed with the envious ability to forget it ever happened the next day. Wilson is an endearing drunk that way, satisfied in his oblivion. On the other hand House remembers everything, even when he's coasting high on Vicodin and whiskey.)
If there's any feeling House might derive from this at all, it's from watching Wilson come. The split second when Wilson stills, when his balls pull up and he hovers suspended over the abyss; this is perhaps the only time House ever sees Wilson for who and what he is, completely laid bare and vulnerable. The point where they can finally commiserate.
This is Wilson under his hands, raw and open, as House draws each groan from somewhere deep in Wilson's belly; as his release spills over his hand.
Wilson falls limp all at once, spent and sated. House still studies Wilson's countenance as Wilson's breathing slows and his flush fades; stares at the fine stubble dusting his friend's jaw.
Wilson lies insensate while House wipes off his hand, then cleans him up with tissues from the box at the bedside. House even tugs his boxers back over his hips, reaches down and pulls the blankets up over him; putting him back together almost where they started.
Wilson rolls to face him, angling his chin up. His eyes are still glassy from the alcohol and unfocused from the afterglow; his breath is sour whiskey and stale beer. House averts his head, suddenly afraid of that gaze.
Wilson reaches out his hand then and draws it down House's arm and side in one long slow caress. House inexplicably shivers at the touch and closes his eyes in reflex as Wilson slides it towards House's crotch; perhaps to try to return whatever favor House bestowed on him. But desire wars with glutted exhaustion and his hand almost immediately drops to his side, intent forgotten; his eyes shutter closed.
House exhales the breath he did not know he was holding.
But he blinks and swallows when Wilson, in one last effort before succumbing, reaches out again and takes his hand, lacing their fingers together. House does not squeeze back; he just stares at their enjoined hands.
Only after Wilson's sprawled and snoring beside him does House finally extricate himself. He pulls himself out of bed and limps to the bathroom sans cane. After the semi-darkness of the bedroom, the brightness stings his eyes when he flicks on the light. He washes his hands thoroughly under scalding hot water, scrubbing them with soap until they're raw. He does not look in the mirror.
He uses the toilet but does not flush, suddenly afraid of the rushing sound, the opening of floodgates. Without pulling up his pajama pants he closes the toilet lid and sits down. Head bowed, shoulders rounded, House contemplates his own flaccid penis under the bright fluorescent light, in garish contrast to the muted moon and streetlight in the bedroom.
House already knows it's no use, even if he wanted to; even if he tries.
The Vicodin's worn off enough now to let him, sure; but he'll feel the blood throb not only in his cock but also in his thigh, under his scar. There's not enough distraction in his own hand to quell the protests from his leg, and topping up the Vicodin in his bloodstream just won't let him at all.
Fucking vicious cycle.
He stares at his penis; he stares at the whorls and puckers of his scar.
No contest.
He goes with the Vicodin. The pills are bitter on his tongue.
Stumping back from the bathroom, he pauses briefly in the doorway. House's nose wrinkles at the tang of male sweat not his own, at the residual smell of semen (also not his own) permeating his bedroom as he crosses the threshold. He reminds himself to leave a note for the maid to change the sheets the next day.
Standing at the side of the bed, House stares down at sleeping Wilson, who rolls over with a grunt but does not wake up. Wilson burrows his face deeper into the pillow, a slight trail of drool already gleaming down his chin.
House thinks of Wilson's hand clutching his own. Idly he wonders what would happen if he climbed into bed right now. He wonders what would happen if tomorrow morning Wilson woke up with House beside him.
If House made this real, not just a habit.
Instead he makes his way to the living room and sits slumped on the sofa, twirling his cane, and waits for the morning sun to wash everything away.
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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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