Fandom: House MD
Word count: 1727, including song lyrics.
A/N-Takes place immediately after “Detox”. Written for the fabulous Wallsmut Fic Challenge I thought I could write something besides House MD, but the obsession is too strong.
Seems I got to have a change of scene
Cause every night I have the strangest dreams
Imprisoned by the way it used to be
Left here on my own or so it seems
I got to leave before I start to scream
But someone’s locked the door and took the key.
Wilson knew he shouldn’t go back, but he couldn’t stop himself.
He left Cuddy standing by the elevators, shaking her head, silently trying to talk him out of it. She was willing to take the blame, but Wilson couldn’t let her. He was the guy who always confessed his affairs and now he was going to tell House the truth about the bet.
House wouldn’t believe it, wouldn’t want to believe it, but Wilson would convince him and then face the consequences. Maybe that’s why he was going now. Wilson had watched House take at least double his normal dose to make up for deprivations of the previous week. Maybe he’d be calm enough to accept the truth without a complete meltdown. Yeah, right. You’ll be lucky if he doesn’t try to break your kneecaps with the cane, snorted the House who lived in Wilson’s head.
He hesitated at the office door. The blinds were drawn and the door was closed. Clearly House didn’t want to be disturbed. Like that would stop him from busting in on you. Get your sorry ass in there and face the music.
In this case, the music was Joe Cocker leaking out of House’s headphones.
Not feeling too good myself.
Not feeling too good myself
Wilson thought of House’s many reasons why he needed the pills. They made him “neutral”. They let him do his job. None of that applied here. His eyes were heavy-lidded, face slack-jawed, body slumped into the chair as if his spine had gone on strike. House was fucked up.
Wilson felt nauseated by his own guilt. He’d pushed House to this state with his brilliant idea. He had to tell him right now.
“House,” he said, or tried to. His mouth formed the word, but no sound came out. He tried again. “Greg.” This time there was sound, but not enough to penetrate House’s opiate haze, much less Joe Cocker, the band and the back up singers.
Or maybe it was. Suddenly House’s eyes were open, staring at him. Even dulled by drugs, they were still the most brilliantly blue eyes he’d ever seen. Now they were contemplating him with a mixture of curiosity, anger and pity.
“Why, Jimmy?” House asked, removing the earphones. His voice managed to make “Jimmy” both a caress and a jibe.
“Why what?” he replied, plans for honesty evaporating in the heat of House’s gaze.
“Don’t lie to me like I’m your wife. For five years, my meds have shown up like clockwork and Cuddy didn’t suddenly hatch this scheme off the cuff. This has the fingerprints of someone stupid enough to think they were doing the right thing, someone who cares.”
House’s lips formed a vindictive smile.
“I’m sorry,” Wilson blurted, trying to explain himself. “I didn’t think you’d go long enough for it to get that bad. I wasn’t even sure you’d take the bet.”
“I play the ponies, I’ve got a weekly poker game and I’m in the hospital pool for fifty bucks that your marriage doesn’t make it till Tisha B’av. You dangled time off from clinic duty and made sure that Cuddy took some shots at my ego, and you didn’t think I’d take the bet?”
“I thought if you…”
“Yeah,” House snapped viciously. “You wanted me to take the first step. Admit that I’m an addict. I get it. When do you admit what you are?”
“Are you carrying the lube in your pocket Dr. Wilson? Is it time for my “Keep House Happy hand job in the supply closet?” Or is today “Blow a cripple” day. Cameron forgot to mark my calendar. I don’t need to be your dirty little secret any more Jimmy. I’ve got Ingrid’s phone number and my “leetle friends” right here.” House finished his tirade by rattling the pill bottle.
Wilson knew this was the drugs talking, abetted by pain and anger. He couldn’t deal with House when he was like this, despite Cuddy’s continued assertions that he was the only one who could. He shrugged his shoulders and headed for the door.
He’d forgotten how fast House could move, at least for a few steps, given enough motivation, adrenaline and, in this case, at least a double dose of pain killers.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
House had managed to come up behind Wilson and now had him firmly pinned to the office door, the balance of his weight against Wilson to keep it off the bad leg. Wilson felt House’s rough beard rasping against the back of his neck followed by hot breath in his ear.
“Leaving so soon?” he hissed. “The way I see it, you owe me some pain. The leg. The hand. The punch in the jaw. What do you think I can do to you that would equal that much pain?” House undid the belt of Wilson’s overcoat and peeled it away from his body, throwing it to the ground. “Not to mention the humiliation. Foreman saw me puking, Chase is going to need therapy and Cameron’s probably out registering a china pattern. You owe me, Jimmy. You owe me big time.”
Wilson knew he could have escaped. House was bigger and hopped up on his drugs, but he was still a cripple and it would have been easy to throw him off balance and get out the door, yet he didn’t move. House was grinding his pelvis against Wilson’s ass through the fabric of his pants, letting him know what he intended to do and what he was capable of, drugs or no drugs. Wilson finally did something. He pressed back, squirming against the heat in House’s jeans, trying to tell him yes, oh god, yes without saying it out loud.
House’s mouth moved down to his neck, breathing, biting, leaving a mark that Wilson would have to explain to Julie. Wilson didn’t protest. He wanted evidence of his guilt and lust to be marked on his skin. House’s hands moved to the front of his pants, massaging him through the material, which was now much too tight. He looked down at the left hand and saw the taped fingers. The brain has a gating mechanism for pain. Wilson hoped there was one for guilt too. He undid his belt and opened his pants, giving House access to what he wanted.
House was whispering in his ear again, with that mocking voice that sent every word directly to his groin.
“Ooh. Guilt sex. Haven’t had that since Stacy went bye-bye. So much better than that mercy stuff you’ve been peddling.,” House said casually, but his hands were expert and deliberate as he wrapped his long fingers around Wilson’s cock and started applying pressure, first barely enough and finally much too much.
“Lube’s in the front left pocket.” Wilson managed to gasp. House reached into the pocket before pushing Wilson’s pants and briefs down to his knees.
Wilson heard the snap and zipper of House’s jeans getting undone and then a few grunts, followed by distinctive slosh of lubricant being applied to hard flesh. The sound made him shiver.
“Don’t worry, Jimmy. I’ve been in hell for a week, but I don’t think your torture will last that long. Can’t go all night like in the old days. It’s been a while. Did you miss me?”
Wilson braced himself against the door. He felt House’s hands on his ass, prying him open, followed by the stab of burning pain that was oddly welcome because he knew he deserved it. “Oh god. Oh God! Greg! ” He tried to breathe. Tried not to scream. It had been a long time.
He missed the Greg who would fuck him hard anytime, anywhere. Being fucked against this door in this office was like coming home. The pain subsided into the unforgettable pleasure that was different and better than anything he could have with any woman. How else could he be filled like this, smelling House’s distinctive scent, with that low dirty voice still whispering obscenities.
One hand left the door to pump his own cock as House continued banging into him, seeking release, “Fuck you. Fuck you, Jimmy. You fucking son of a bitch. How. Could. Ahhhhhh. Ahhhhhh. Ahhhhhh.”
Wilson felt House coming inside him, shooting deep, and then the equivalent explosion in his own body. He looked down at his dick, sending out streams of white fluid onto his hand, as if he were an observer rather than a participant.
House sighed deeply, a sound of both satisfaction and sadness. His full weight collapsed against Wilson, pushing his face into the door. Wilson’s lips touched wood instead of turning around and kissing House and promising never to hurt him again, because he couldn’t promise that to anybody.
Eventually, House pulled out, got his jeans back up and hobbled back to the chair. He put his earphones back on, but didn’t bother closing his fly. As if to say that none of this had really happened, he programmed the music back to where Wilson had come in.
I ain’t feeling too good myself.
Before closing his eyes, House gave Wilson a half smile and a wave, indicating that he was dismissed. Wilson could only hope he was also forgiven.
He started rehearsing his lies to Julie as he pulled up and fastened his pants. There was no point tossing marriage number three out the window, he thought as he picked his coat up off the floor. On Monday, things would go back to the way they’d been for so long. Banter, lunch and the occasional blowjob during a commercial while General Hospital was on.
Wilson draped his coat over his arm and took a last look at House’s face in its state of perfect relaxation, before he left the office.
If pushed, House might try to blame the whole thing on the drugs.
What’s my excuse, Wilson wondered, closing the door behind him.