Word Count: 4078
Warnings: NC17, Angst/Fluff/Angst, Spoilers for "Sports Medicine", Springsteen lyrics.
Disclaimer: The characters belong to FOX, the lyrics belong to Bruce.
Notes: Thanks beyond words to Beta Goddess Carol, who doesn't believe in H/W fluff anymore than I do and still helped me try and make this plausible.
“Gravedigger never disappoints.”
Unlike some people he could mention. On the other hand, House lived to be right and he’d had a banner week uncovering the lies of lesser mortals.
And now with your kind indulgence, ladies and gentlemen, the band and I will play a medley of the week’s greatest hits.
Numero uno-Eric “Dr. Love” Foreman and his liaison with the pharmaceutical rep, although Foreman almost made it too easy with his ludicrous car trouble excuse.
Hank Wiggan had given him two separate scores, one for steroid use and one for his not-so-little pot habit. So what if Chase had actually pinpointed the weed? House had nailed the cadmium poisoning, so he got the points.
The “Liar Of The Week” award had gone once again (drum roll please) to the incomparable James Wilson. You had to admire the wide-eyed conviction with which he’d delivered, “I’ve got the Oncology Dinner. They booked me a year ago.” And never mind what House had gone through to get them the VIP passes to the Monster Trucks rally. That level of deceit took years of practice. All those wives and girlfriends had been good for something besides the obvious. And busting a champion liar took nothing less than a genius, plus some help from Cameron.
Dinner with Stacy. Wilson thought he’d be upset. Like he gave a damn. He’d just been shocked to hear they were still in touch.
To prove the point, he’d gone out and had a great time with Cameron at the rally. She’d gotten into the spirit enough to instigate a popcorn fight with a family of Snakebite fans and scored some direct hits on their mouthy brat.
The girl had moxie and you couldn’t ignore the babe factor. If he were really the bastard that everyone thought, he would have accepted the invitation to her apartment that she’d been smart enough not to offer. Christmas had been over a month ago and since then Wilson had been prone to tedious babblings about how much he loved his wife. You’d think the boy wonder would know a terminal case when he was living it.
All he needed for a clean sweep was to win a bet with himself that Wilson couldn’t stand to leave things as they had been and would show up at his place before midnight. In the meantime he had a Heineken in his hand, Mingus on the stereo and the day’s triumphs to gloat over as he flipped through the program book that he’d conned Cameron into buying for him.
The familiar three knocks came at exactly ten to midnight. Damn, I’m good, House thought, licking an index finger to chalk another win into the air.
“It’s open,” he called, using his cane to hoist himself off the couch and watching the entrance. Beer, Vicodin and being right made him happy, but if anything looked better than Wilson coming through his door with his tie off and collar open, looking like he’d won the New Jersey State Lottery, House had no idea what it was.
The highway’s jammed with broken heroes on a last chance power drive. Everybody’s out on the run tonight, but there’s no place left to hide.
Wilson loved to blast Springsteen when he drove alone at night, especially with miles of turnpike ahead. It reminded him of seeing Bruce at the Meadowlands in 1985 with fifty thousand people singing the opening lines to “Thunder Road”. He had been sixteen and, if not completely carefree, then significantly freer of care of than he would soon become.
Driving home from dinner with Stacy, Wilson felt nearly that good. He steered with one hand, pulling off his tie and unbuttoning the top of his shirt with the other and singing joyfully the whole time.
Together, Wendy, we can live with the sadness, I’ll love you with all the madness in my soul.
For five years, he’d stayed in touch with Stacy. They had dinner a few times a year to rehash the good old days and keep each other up to date.
He’d sided with House before, during and after the breakup. He’d joined House in a “good riddance” booze fest after she was gone, he told himself he would never do what she had done to House, no matter what, and yet he kept up the chats and dinners and stories as though none of that were true.
The connection was important to him. They shared all the history that existed up to one second before House started complaining that his leg hurt while they were playing miniature golf and getting drunk on Stacy’s birthday. So, rather than breaking the date as soon as House told him about the Monster Trucks Rally, he lied and got caught and felt like crap about it until he got to the restaurant and it all turned out to be worthwhile.
Tonight, over paella and Sangria, Stacy had glowed and waved her sparkly diamond ring in Wilson’s face. His name was Mark. He made her happy. She loved him. Wilson plastered a smile on his face and listened to twenty minutes on the virtues of Mark Warner. When he finally got a chance to speak, he did not say the first thing that came to his mind, which was “You were in love with Greg House and now you’re going to marry a high school guidance counselor?” or even the second thing, which was “How dare you be happy?”
He said, “Mazel Tov,” offered a toast and practically offered to be Stacy’s maid of honor just to make sure she went through with it. A happily married Stacy was a Stacy who would never show up at House’s door ready to break his heart again.
He hadn’t been this happy about a wedding since his first ex-wife got hitched, freeing him from his first round of alimony payments. He found himself actually being happy for Stacy, even though she’d gone the whole night without mentioning the large, limping elephant in the room.
Wilson looked at his watch and it was nearly eleven o’clock. Time to tell Stacy he needed to get home to Julie and see her smile as if she believed him.
After an evening of studiously not asking, Stacy finally said what she always said when the check arrived.
“How is he, James?”
Wilson responded with his usual combination of a shrug and a sigh.
“Take care of him,” she said solemnly, as if it absolved her of anything. She’d said it the day she left and she’d been saying it for five years. If she knew all the ways in which Wilson took care of House, it was another of their unspoken secrets.
He saw her to her car with a promise that he’d bring Julie to the wedding. Then there were hugs and another round of congratulations. Wilson watched her pull out of the parking lot and drive away before practically sprinting to his own car, eager to get back to Princeton.
Someday, girl, I don’t know when, we’re gonna get to that place where we really want to go and we’ll walk in the sun. But till then, tramps like us, baby we were born to run.
Wilson sang to the night through his open window. He could only hope the highway patrol wasn’t on his tail. His driving was within bounds, but House always said his singing was criminal. He didn’t care. Stacy was getting married.
He arrived at House’s place slightly hoarse from singing and flushed from drinks and happiness. He knocked on the door and heard “It’s open.” Wilson knew about the open door, but didn’t like to be presumptuous in case House had company. Not that he ever did.
Wilson locked the door behind him and then locked eyes with House, who’d gotten off the couch to greet him for a change.
House’s eyes reminded him of Stacy’s ring. Wilson smiled back, moving closer. House was holding his cane, but didn’t seem to have all his weight on it. He must have had a very good time at Monster Trucks.
“How was the rally?” he asked casually. “You went with Ken, didn’t you?”
“As a matter of fact, I went with Cameron. But you already knew that. Probably from the biggest mouth in my department.”
“You mean Chase? He didn’t tell me--”
“Ha! I meant Cameron herself, but I knew you knew.”
House had come close enough to encircle Wilson’s body with his arms without actually touching him or letting go of the cane. He leaned down to kiss Wilson’s neck, following the nuzzle with a sharp nip. Wilson felt his legs starting to shake.
“Are you jealous?” House taunted.
“Of Cameron? I’d sooner be jealous of Cuddy.”
“There is nothing going on between me and Cuddy,” House said emphatically, using the cane to move around so that he was pressing his body against Wilson’s back. Wilson leaned against him, feeling heat through his shirt and more heat where one of House’s hands was stroking his right thigh.
“Exactly,” Wilson pointed out victoriously, tilting his head back against House’s shoulder, hoping to draw attention back to his neck. Once again the lips brushed over his skin, making him shiver, before moving up to his ear with an insinuating whisper.
“But if I were doing something to Cameron, you’d like to watch, wouldn’t you?”
“House.” Wilson’s mouth was getting dry.
“Or maybe you’d like me to watch.” The hand on his thigh was burning through the material. “Come on, Jimmy, tell me what you’d like the sweet, innocent Dr. Cameron to do to you.”
This was a dangerous game House had been playing the last few months. It started innocently enough with Angelina Jolie. What else could you really do after watching “Lara Croft, Tomb Raider”? Telling House his fantasies of Angelina while they necked on the couch had felt like a harmless bit of kink, but House hadn’t stopped there. He’d escalated from the unattainable Ms. Jolie to real, if anonymous women, like a waitress at their favorite diner, to real, real women they actually knew. At Christmas, he’d brought up Debbie in accounting. Wilson had played the game and his body had responded (his body always responded) but he hadn’t been able to look at Debbie without thinking of her that way since. Bringing Cameron into it was one step too far.
He wondered why House encouraged him to fantasize about women while they were together. Was it for himself or for Wilson? Was he afraid that Wilson was losing interest? Maybe that’s why he’d started initiating sex on the couch or in the kitchen or any possible location in the apartment that avoided the simplicity of two people making love in a bed.
“I don’t want to talk about Cameron.”
House moved his hand just enough to find out that Wilson’s body was reacting to something.
“How about Chase? He’s got a nice little tuchis.”
Wilson knew he couldn’t duplicate House’s throaty growl, but he dug into his raw vocal chords to express his desire.
“You know what I want, House? I want to get you in the bedroom and get your clothes off. I could tell you what I’d like to do once I get them off, but I’d rather show you. You and me, naked in your bed. If that’s not enough for you, I might as well leave right now.”
He took House’s hand and placed it firmly on top of the bulge at the front of his pants, pressing his own hand down on top of it. He felt himself growing even harder as the contact continued. House took a breath and let it out slowly. Wilson felt like he could hear House absorbing his words and deciding what to do about them.
“Well, it would be a shame to waste your night out, wouldn’t it?” House’s voice managed to mix lust and mockery.
Wilson nodded. “Big waste,” he managed to gasp as House’s mouth clamped down on his neck and the hand on his crotch started massaging him through the pants. If this kept up, he wouldn’t make it to the bedroom.
Suddenly the hand, mouth and body pressed against him were gone. With typical dexterity, House had detached himself and taken two long strides toward the bedroom. He leaned on the cane, looking back at Wilson over his shoulder.
“Come on, Mr. Vanilla Bean. Race you to the bedroom.”
Wilson didn’t even try. He watched House, gauging the leg to cane ratio of his gait with a practiced eye. He liked what he saw: a happy, horny House.
Show a little faith, there’s magic in the night. You ain’t a beauty, but hey you’re all right.
He hadn’t realized he was singing out loud until he walked into House’s bedroom and found him lying on top of the bed, propped up against some pillows, hands behind his head.
“And that’s all right with me,” he finished softly. House made a great show of wincing and shaking his head, but couldn’t hide his dimples.
“You’d rather I sang Bon Jovi?”
“I’d rather you used your mouth for something that doesn’t cause me pain. I’d also like you to keep your promises. You specifically mentioned nudity to lure me in here and all I see are clothes.”
Wilson set about correcting that situation, starting with his own shirt and pants. He relished the sight of House enjoying the show, then coyly turned his back to remove his Jockeys, making sure the whole pile ended up in a spot near the door. He turned around again to drink in the sight of House’s smile. Cameron, Cuddy and Chase put together would never win a smile like that. There was no doubt about House and Wilson’s desire for each other. That uncertainty had been resolved years ago. The variable was what either of them was willing to do about it at any given time.
Tonight, House was willing to lie back and let Wilson remove his clothes. He’d taken off his Nikes and socks, but Wilson got the privilege of unbuttoning House’s blue and white striped shirt, his fingers taking time to appreciate the softness of the fabric. Like all of his shirts, it had been washed and worn into rumpled submission. He needed House to adjust his position to get the shirt off.
“I thought you might just rip it off my body, you brute. Or maybe you could cut it,” he leered. “There must be scissors around here somewhere.”
“Nothing kinky tonight,” Wilson chided.
“Yeah, yeah. Normal sex in a bed,” House snapped, moving forward to facilitate removal of the button-down and then lifting his arms so Wilson could peel off the black Ramones t-shirt.
Wilson lay down on the bed next to House, propping himself up on one arm, treating himself to a long look at House’s naked torso while trying to assess his mood. House lay still, giving him ample time to look before indulging his tactile longings, first brushing the stubble with the back of his knuckles and then moving down to his chest. Wilson closed his eyes and let his fingers play over the different textures, relishing the contrast of hair and skin and muscle. He’d grown tired of so many things and people in his life, but his hands would never get bored with the feeling of House’s body under them.
He buried his face in the coarse growth, breathing in something that was ineffably, indescribably House, before starting to lick and tease a nipple, which hardened against his tongue. House let out a long, contented sigh.
Wilson moved his attention back to House’s face, this time tracing his lips with his index finger until House opened his mouth. Wilson brought his head down to meet it, their lips connecting briefly before Wilson let his tongue start a fresh exploration of the heat inside.
You can’t start a fire without a spark.
Yeah, yeah, Bruce. But this gun’s for hire right now, if you catch my drift.
Wilson smiled into House’s mouth. He wanted to prolong the moment, but knew he had to come up for air eventually. The issue was resolved by House thrusting his hips up, reminding Wilson that the nudity pledge hadn’t been completely fulfilled.
He didn’t remember crawling on top of House during the kiss, but there he was, instinctively keeping his weight away from the bad leg. He felt House’s chest hair rough against his own smooth skin and well-worn denim pressing against his naked legs. He eased himself back onto the bed so he could undo House’s Levis and tug off the remaining garments with some assistance.
“Ta-da!” he announced, as if he’d performed a magic trick. The sight of House completely naked, his long cock at full attention, certainly had a magical effect on him, making him practically dizzy. He let his eyes explore, memorizing as though he’d be given a test and had to know every detail, from the exact pattern of chest hair to the veins along the top side of the cock. On the return trip, their eyes met again. House’s eyes were bright enough to let Wilson know he was still having a good leg night.
Just as Wilson’s hand was starting to reach out, House rolled himself over onto his stomach with a slight grunt of exertion.
Wilson didn’t mind. House’s back turned him on nearly as much as his face and chest. There were muscles to explore, vertebrae to knead, soft skin under his fingertips. He reached around the left hip and took House’s cock into his hand, where it seemed to fit perfectly. He could spend all night exploring this body with his hands and mouth and eyes, but a good leg night could go sour with no warning.
House was like hot metal in his hand, already starting to melt at the top. He gently ran his right hand over the smooth buttocks before teasing his fingers between them, making House squirm upwards.
Wilson honestly had no idea whether or not Dr. Chase had a cute tuchis, but it couldn’t be sexier than the one under his hand right now. He couldn’t help himself. He brushed his lips against the left cheek, hoping he could distract House with another squeeze and stroke under his body.
“I always knew you were an--”
“Only for you, Greg,” he replied, risking endearment and intimate use of the first name only because House wasn’t in a position to look at him. Wilson still felt himself tensing up, waiting for a typical House ninja comment, the kind that drew blood before you even knew you’d been cut.
“Well, I wouldn’t kick you out of bed for eating crackers either,” House muttered into his pillow just loudly enough for Wilson to hear and reluctantly enough that Wilson knew he should pretend he hadn’t. “Now get on with it,” he continued in his usual tone. “Wouldn’t want you to turn into a pumpkin at a crucial moment.”
“That would be interesting.”
“That would be painful.”
He reached for the drawer of his nightstand and produced the needed items. Wilson briefly regretted the need for the condom, but slid it on anyway. Too many variables, himself the most variable of all.
Having established himself as House’s ass-kisser, he made the most of it, nibbling and biting, while working his fingers deeper, making sure House was ready.
House reached his arm back and Wilson transferred some lubricant from the tube to his own hand to House’s. Their fingers slid against each other but found no traction. Instead, House took himself firmly in hand, picking up the tempo, pushing himself up slightly on his left knee to create more space.
Wilson used the rest on himself, moving one finger deeper. House’s body seemed to swallow it, demanding more. The second one was met with a lewd groaning “Yesssssss” and faster action under his body.
Wilson held his fingers inside just a second longer, relishing the heat of House’s body against his naked skin, which he’d soon have to abandon. House’s strokes were getting short and his breathing hard. Wilson didn’t want to get left behind.
He slid his fingers out and placed his left hand on House’s hip to steady himself. House was jerking off so hard, it was difficult to get a clear angle. He used his right hand to line himself up and pushed in. House pushed back, taking him in instantly, demanding that Wilson match his frantic pace.
Typical House. In control, even when I’m fucking him.
The realization that he was fucking House in a bed, without any extras, made him want to cry and shout and come then and there, even though his body hadn’t quite caught up yet.
Following House’s lead, he picked up the speed, slamming in and pulling out as fast as House was jerking himself off, everything forgotten but House’s almost animalistic grunts and his own need. Wilson needed to come, to fill him, to own him, to love him as much as…
He heard a prolonged wail. His whole body tensed up before he drove himself into House one last time and felt a tremor in his loins that matched the fire blazing in his mind. It was from a vast distance of inches that he heard House grow silent before letting out a shout that skirted the line between pleasure and pain. Wilson absorbed the sensations of House twitching and jerking against him. He reached around wanting to feel the actual waves and eruption of House’s orgasm with his own hands. If he’d been able to say anything at that moment, it would have been, “I told you so.”
House let himself drift and dream a bit in post-coital haze before deliberately returning to planet Earth and that pesky reality.
In his reverie, Wilson returned from the bathroom to stay for another few minutes, an hour, a lifetime. House smiled to himself. Even full of sex-induced endorphins, he knew better. Whatever current arrangement existed at Chez Wilson, the contract didn’t include all-night slumber parties.
“Thank Julie for me. I appreciate the loaner.”
House didn’t have to open his eyes to know that Wilson was shaking his head and biting his lower lip. Maybe there was some hair falling down onto his forehead.
“Or does she think the Oncology Association are such party animals that they go till two in the morning? You could tell her they pulled out the Twister and the Wesson Oil and things really got crazy.”
He could hear Wilson dressing. The clothes were all conveniently near the door.
“Just tell me which story you told her so I can back your play if she calls.”
“She won’t call. She knows I’ll be late.”
“You’re a lucky guy, Wilson,” he said meaning it and hating what it meant. “I got you a present. It’s on the coffee table. ‘Gravedigger’s Greatest Rumbles’. It makes a great double feature with ’My Fair Lady’. You haven’t told me about Stacy.”
“You haven’t asked. We ate paella. She’s--”
“I don’t care.”
“I didn’t think you did.”
House finally opened his eyes. Wilson stood awkwardly in the doorway of the bedroom, hands jammed into his pockets. Waiting to be dismissed or forgiven or something. The best House had to offer was an invitation to a baseball game.
“Hank’s going to get us tickets for opening day. I’m letting you know so you can arrange your social calendar now.”
“I can’t miss opening day.” Wilson smiled like a kid. “I’m the Cy Young…”
“The Cy Young of medicine. Right.”
And lies. And leaving. But it was just as well. In a few hours he’d wake up needing caffeine and Vicodin. Not the suave stud-muffin he played on these occasions but the bitter cripple he really was. Better not to inflict that on Wilson, or anybody else for that matter.
Wilson had won this round. He had a romantic, if misguided, need to turn House into another wife, whether he realized it or not, including normal sex in a bedroom. But House had fresh tricks up his sleeve for next time and no doubt that there would be a next time, even though Wilson was leaving now. And singing again.
“Everybody’s got a hu-hu-hungry heart.”
Don’t they just.