Summary: “Where were you when the pain started?” Infarction fic.
Warnings: NC17, Pain, Spoilers for "Three Stories".
Notes: Expansion of This drabble Thanks to everyone who encouraged the expansion and sent food for the bunny.
Special thanks to Jae Kayelle, whose hot West Wing story "Fumble" inspired one of the images here.
Beta-ed and hand held and whipped into shape by the imcomparable Beta-Goddess Carol and her fabulous stilettoes.
“What were you doing when the pain started?”
“Golfing,” House managed to grunt, even though he wanted to throttle the idiot with the white coat and the stethoscope who was asking stupid questions instead of getting him relief.
“Golfing,” he had told Stacy. “Golfing,” he told Dr. Idiot a/k/a Sid Shapiro, a nebbishy proctologist who had drawn the short straw and ended up in the clinic this particular Sunday afternoon, and drawn the even shorter straw when Dr. Gregory House came in with leg pain. “Golfing,” he would say automatically, no matter how many years went by.
Nobody needed to know that he’d actually been in a motel room with Dr. James Wilson. They certainly didn’t need to know exactly what position he was in at the moment he first became aware of the pain.
He’d been trying to deny the thing between him and Wilson for nearly a year. He’d ignored it, mocked it, and just plain told it to go to hell. It wouldn’t budge, and Wilson wouldn’t give up. He just kept giving House those looks, knowing that House had to look back eventually. Once House looked back, it was just a matter of time until he told Stacy he was golfing and ended up at the Motel 6 in East Brunswick.
“I don’t think this is what Tom Bodett had in mind,” he commented as they entered the utilitarian room, complete with desk, coffeemaker and fake fireplace.
“We’ll leave the light on anyway,” Wilson replied with a lewd grin that none of his patients would have recognized. “I can’t believe I’ve finally got you here.”
“Grandma, what big eyes you have.”
Wilson did look wolfish, removing his clothing with smooth motions, keeping his eyes on House, who didn’t feel ready to strip yet. He was still coming to terms with being seduced. There was also that whole being seduced by a man thing, a worry he’d managed to put on hold while he was still trying to deny that he’d ever cheat on Stacy with anybody.
Wilson, naked in the gloomy light of the motel room, was a revelation of smooth skin, muscular forearms and runner’s legs. House might have noticed a certain softness around the middle that spoke of future paunch, but his eyes were drawn lower, to Wilson’s cock, emerging from a sprinkling of dark curls, already rising in anticipation. The underused word “girth” came into his mind, uninvited.
He stared frankly, as if he’d never seen a naked man before. He’d certainly never seen one who made him need to rip off his own clothing and lie down on a bed with his legs spread and one hand wrapped around his erection. The sight of Wilson’s body did all that and more. He couldn’t remember ever getting so hard so quickly, at least not since he’d said goodbye to puberty.
His body was reacting, but his mind still felt detached, as though he were watching a dirty movie starring James Wilson and himself. He practically expected to hear the appropriately cheesy music as Wilson approached the bed, surveyed House’s naked body and licked his lips. Who’s directing this piece of crap? he thought, until Wilson’s body was on top of his, skin on skin, mouth on mouth. Who the hell knew that a mouth could feel like that? Suddenly detachment was as much a thing of the past as thoughts of Stacy. Wilson’s mouth possessed him, first with tentative licks and nibbles, then with a full scale attack, his tongue thrusting into House’s mouth as if advertising what was to come.
He found himself strangely shy about what to do with his hands. His arms ended up awkwardly bent at the elbows, hands near his head as though he might make a sudden attempt to push Wilson away. Without breaking the contact, Wilson found his hands and interlaced their fingers together, squeezing tighter as his tongue delved deeper into House’s mouth.
When he was given the opportunity to breathe again, House tried to think of something witty to say, but all he could come up with was, “Oh my god. James.”
“Don’t say anything.”
Normally telling House not to talk was asking for trouble. Stacy had learned that the hard way. “Just shut up, Greg,” had been the escalation point in more than one Greg/Stacy argument. But the mouth and hands were moving down his body and House found himself reduced to one word. “James,” he gasped again, even though the spectator in his mind, watching from the sidelines, was still calling the other player “Wilson”.
His eyes had closed, but snapped open at the feeling of Wilson’s mouth enveloping his cock. He was transfixed by the sight of Wilson between his legs, head moving up and down. If this was a porno movie, it should win some kind of award. The nominees for best performance by a mouth… Wilson was able to gauge exactly how much pressure and motion he could take without ending the game early. At the same time, his hands caressed House’s balls. House knew he was getting close, so close. He could hear himself panting, thinking this was it.
He realized that Wilson had released him. The lack of touch was suddenly unbearable. House groaned in frustration. “Jimmy?”
Wilson stood up to get something from the pocket of his pants. House had a fairly good idea what it might be. He thought this would be a good time to mention something, although he knew it was another line from the script.
“I haven’t done this before,” he remarked, trying to sound casual.
How did I get cast as the virgin in this thing?
“I have,” Wilson replied matter-of-factly.
“Yeah, the gold medal blowjob was a bit of a giveaway. The training program must have been intense.”
Wilson grinned without a hint of embarrassment. He moved back to the bed and started a fresh assault on House’s body. Wilson’s hands ghosted down his torso, barely making contact with the hair on his chest, causing shivers to break out all over. He’d never known how ticklish his abdomen was until Wilson laid a hand on his stomach and it clenched under his touch. The touch was followed by kisses, then nibbles, then licks. House closed his eyes and focused on Wilson’s tongue making long strokes, moving lower, spreading heat through his body, which was finally matched by the heat of Wilson’s mouth, covering his cock and sucking in earnest again.
House wanted to believe it was just the novelty of being with a man, or the titillation of cheating, or anything besides the attraction between him and this specific man. He tried to imagine an anonymous encounter, one of his old fantasies. Just a hustler, somewhere in an alley, sucking him off. But it wasn’t like that at all. This was Dr. Wilson, whom he saw every day at the hospital and half the time after work or on the weekends, who was taking him deeper into his throat than he would have believed possible.
Suddenly he was aware that James was also working his hands up towards his ass, and those hands had become slippery. Relax, he told himself, and suddenly found himself smiling, thinking of the 80’s and Frankie Goes To Hollywood and fantasies he’d never acted on. Maybe he had to wait fifteen years to have James Wilson make his fantasies come true.
Wilson used his tongue and lips to push House toward the brink with frantic licking and nibbling, until he stopped abruptly, letting House go with a last obscene slurp. The slippery-fingered teasing continued. He looked up at House’s smile, brows raised. House didn’t want to say something as idiotic as “I’ve been waiting for you all my life,” a line that didn’t belong in the cinematic epic “The Young and the Hung” and had obviously come from a sappy chick flick that House wanted no part of. Instead, he nodded, and Wilson seemed to interpret that as “Full Steam Ahead”. He made full use of the lubricant, applying it generously to his own fingers, which stopped teasing and started making serious inroads, House gasped as the first finger actually crossed the line. He tried to breathe, tried to relax, tried to pretend it didn’t hurt a little, because he wanted it. The finger moved inside him, and he felt himself squirming, his body trying to reject the intrusion, but also wanting more of it.
Wilson knew what he was doing, all right. He was looking for…there it was…right there. House let out a moan as his whole body arched upwards. The second finger moved in quickly. He would have liked to slow things down and give himself a chance to experience every sensation to the fullest, because he wasn’t sure this would ever happen again. He couldn’t believe it was happening now.
He certainly couldn’t believe that Wilson was repositioning himself between his legs, taking House’s ankles and strategically placing them over his own shoulders. He doubted that could be comfortable for Wilson and he wasn’t too sure how long he could do it himself. Didn’t this sort of thing usually take place in a more prone position, or was that supine?
“Are you sure about this, Doctor? Not exactly Olga Korbut here.”
“It’s those tight jeans you wear. Every time I see your legs in those jeans, I imagine them thrown over my shoulders while I fuck you senseless.”
There was no way to argue with that. All he could do was watch, transfixed, as Wilson opened a condom package and put on the rubber with a practiced efficiency that made House quiver, squeezed lubricant onto his hand, and then stroked it onto his dick, making himself even more erect. House felt his own breath getting short. He wanted it. He was ready. He just hoped he was ready enough.
He took a deep breath and nodded. Soon he felt the head of Wilson’s cock pushing against his ass. The head started to slip in easily. Piece of cake. What’s the big…holy shit! Blinding pain at the point of entry. As if a serrated knife were cutting into his body. He hadn’t expected it to hurt like this. He knew he was screaming and hoped no one would feel obliged to call the police. Sorry to trouble you, Officer. Nothing to worry about. Just a big, thick cock trying to get into my ass.
He expected Wilson to stop and express concern. Something along the lines of “Oh my god, Greg, are you ok? I’m sorry I hurt you.” At least the same amount of sympathy one of his patients could expect after a particularly rough round of chemo. Instead Wilson kept going, until his cock was filling a space that House didn’t think could contain it. He was able to stop screaming, but the pain radiated through his body, almost bringing tears to his eyes. He managed to get them open and focused on Wilson’s face. Wilson was totally lost in his own pleasure. You selfish bastard., House thought, planning to announce a delay, if not cancellation of the game.
Wilson must have gotten the idea, because he started to pull out. House breathed a sigh of relief, until he realized that Wilson wasn’t stopping at all. He adjusted House’s legs and drove in at a slightly different angle, this time hitting that spot. The pain didn’t go away, but suddenly there was another sensation, as if the same level of pain was being translated into pleasure in the same location. Wonderful thing, the prostate.
He tried to focus on the shot of pleasure that went through his body with each of Wilson’s deep thrusts, but the pain was still burning through him as well. Maybe I’m not cut out for this. House wanted to tell Wilson he couldn’t go on. Before he could form the words, he looked at Wilson’s face, feral in its need, as he lived up to his stated desire to pound into House’s body. The pain started to recede and the plot took a turn for the better. Wilson reached down to grasp his cock, causing House to thrust against the wet skin of Wilson’s palm. The pain decreased until it was nothing but a mild counterpoint to growing ecstasy as House’s mind was consumed by the jolts, Wilson’s hand, the rhythm, and the look of pure desire on the other man’s face. He barely noticed the discomfort developing in his right thigh.
“Yes, yes, yes. Fuck. Oh god. Yes!” The dialogue left much to be desired, but the explosion in his cock, in his ass, in his legs, in his heart and head and whole body couldn’t be beat.
House let his head fall back on the bed in exhaustion. He felt sweat beading on his upper lip and tasted the salt when he licked it. He needed to get his legs down, but couldn’t because Wilson was still thrusting into his now over-stimulated body, looking for his own release. Maybe a little cheerleading was in order.
“Come on, Jimmy. Give it to me. Come in me. Oh god. That’s so good. Come in me now.”
Was Wilson smiling in recognition of his lame attempts to move things along, or was he too far gone to even notice? The thrusts were getting faster, the groans longer and deeper. Wilson looked like he was going to pass out or die or scream. “Aaaaaahhhhhh. Oh. God. Greg.” House felt the explosion building up just before it happened. Wilson’s balls tightened, his cock got even more swollen, and finally, dear god finally, there it was. Wilson, screaming, shouting his name, letting go inside him.
House had never seen anything like the ugly contortions of Wilson’s face just before he came or the blissful relaxed beauty immediately after. No wonder the man had already trashed one marriage. It must be hard to stay faithful if the payoff was that good. Now that Wilson had finished and was getting his breath back, House hoped relief for his legs wouldn’t be far behind.
An old Borscht belt punchline ran through his head.
“What’s so funny?” Wilson asked, proving he was capable of coherent speech and therefore able to release House into a more natural position.
“What do these goyim know from fancy fucking?”
Wilson laughed as he pulled out and lowered House’s legs to the bed with a gentleness that had been completely lacking in his ravishing of House’s body. Jimmy Hyde was gone and Dr. Jekyll-Wilson had returned.
Wilson grunted as he got off the bed to dispose of the condom. House could tell that the sexual gymnastics had been rough on Wilson’s knees as well.
“Next time, something a bit easier on the old bones. OK, stud?”
“Is there going to be a next time?” Wilson asked a little too seriously, as he sat down on the bed.
That was the question, wasn’t it? House loved Stacy. He had never been with a man before today and had no idea what the whole thing meant. Wilson had experience, and yet he’d married Jennifer just six months earlier. This needed some serious thought.
“I’m only asking because you let out such a geshrai, I thought you were going to go running out of here and I’d never see you again.”
“Didn’t stop you. Barely slowed you down.”
“Yeah. Well.” Wilson shrugged guiltily. “I figured I could make it OK. Did I?”
“You mean, was it good for me, darling?” he mocked.
“Pretty good for a first time. Just the position. Kind of rough on the legs. Or maybe just leg. My thigh is kind of…I don’t know. It’s still numb.” He frowned as he noticed just how different the two legs felt.
“Here?” Wilson asked, as he started kneading the thigh muscle with his thumbs, trying to work out the kink he’d caused. House found himself wincing. He couldn’t figure out what was bothering his leg so much. It was both numb and tingling. However, the more Wilson tried to massage the muscle, the more sensitive it got. House had to ask him to stop.
“You got an ibuprofen on you?”
“In the car.”
“Get some ice too.”
Over the next few hours, instead of indulging in afterglow, they tended to House’s leg. They tried ice and heat, elevation and even compression with a makeshift bandage made out of Wilson’s undershirt. Three hours later, numbness had given way to burning, then to a definite throbbing.
Wilson started to panic and urged a trip to the emergency room. House procrastinated, telling himself it was just inflammation. He’d go home and rest. He’d be fine. He’d tell Stacy he’d twisted his ankle in a sand trap. Maybe he’d drop by the clinic in the morning.
Except he couldn’t walk to the car. The pain had become so intense he could barely think straight. Somehow he managed to find the twisted humor in the situation. He remembered how much it had hurt when Wilson’s cock had first driven into him. Compared to his leg, right now, it wasn’t so bad. He thought of the knife line from Crocodile Dundee and mentally paraphrased, “That’s not pain. Now this is pain.”
Wilson finally insisted on driving him to PPTH. Since he was a known non-golfer, he made himself scarce while House screamed at Dr. Idiot, who kept dithering about whether or not to give him the Demerol he so desperately needed. “How bad is the pain right now?” he asked. It took everything House had not to respond,”Worse than getting fucked up the ass.” That was when he grabbed the hypodermic and injected himself, bringing nearly instant heavenly relief and creating deep suspicion when he returned that night after the dose had worn off and the pain had returned, bringing a whole gang of new agony to join the party in his thigh.
Stacy brought him back to the hospital. By that time Wilson had gone home to his wife, to a marriage that had barely begun its descent into tedium. House didn’t see him again until after the infarction had been diagnosed.
Between the general chaos and her concern for House, Stacy didn’t seem to notice the absence of the man who’d been a fixture in their lives for over a year, but House felt it almost as acutely as the pain that made him wish for death and settle for morphine. He knew they’d made an unspoken pact of denial and Wilson didn’t trust himself to keep it in the face of the crisis. He must think that staying away was the better part of valor. Or maybe he felt guilty, which was ridiculous. No sane person would believe that the gymnastics in the motel room had anything to do with a blood clot that led to muscle death. Wilson had nothing to feel guilty about and House had nothing to blame him for. Especially since they both knew he’d been golfing.