Fandom: House MD
Notes/Warnings/Spoilers: Icon Prompt from khylara. Beta by the awesome tag team of hannahrorlove and leiascully. Spoilers for the whole series including allusions to the events of Baggage. Massive amounts of angst.
Summary: Well, once we had an easy ride and always felt the same
Time was on our side and I had everything to gain.
“This used to be fun,” he remarks absently, squeezing Wilson’s cock, every bump and vein so familiar to his fingers that he could pick it out of a line-up by touch alone.
They’re alone in the fifth-floor supply closet, like they have been so many times over the years. House can remember when it was still a dirty thrill to page Wilson away from one of his patients, or those bull-shit departmental meetings that Wilson claimed were so important, even though he always left when House called. They’d stand together like this, House leaning against the door to take the pressure off his leg, heads bent together, pants quickly pushed down around their respective ankles, and it would be an absolute joy for House to know that he’d defeated Bonnie or Julie or Debbie in Accounting, or whoever Wilson was currently using to pretend that this wasn’t the truth of his life.
Back then he’d be hard just thinking about Wilson’s hands caressing him. Those hands were fully capable of overcoming the effects of pain and opiates, stroking House to an erection with an alacrity that would make any of House’s hookers jealous. The furtive sessions were the only thing that kept House going. They made the misery of his daily life recede, and reminded him that Wilson would always come back to him, although he’d always leave again as well.
House doesn’t believe in fate or miracles, but it took the aftermath of a bus crash to give him Wilson all to himself with absolutely no obstacles. Night after night, in the same bed, finally able to take Wilson’s mouth and ass, as he’d always wanted to, and House had been enough of a fool to think it might actually last.
Fool is putting it nicely. Make it schmuck. You were thinking with your dick, after all.
And his dick, like most of them, is still an idiot, responding like Pavlov’s pathetic drooling dog, rising to the occasion, long after they should be past doing it among the cleaning supplies, jerking each other off in this tawdry way, because Wilson has decided he needs to be Wilson again, at least for public consumption.
Now they’re going through the motions, and House can’t fool himself any more. It’s not fun, it’s not kinky, it’s not even dirty. It’s just sad.
House recognizes the exact breathing pattern that signals how close Wilson is to coming. They both are. At least the motions still work. There’s the requisite amount of muffled groaning, and House feels himself spilling out into the tissue that Wilson always seems to keep at hand, whereas House likes to let Wilson’s come coat his hand, a tangible reminder that something did happen, no matter how much Wilson tries to deny it.
He watches Wilson tuck the wadded up Kleenex into his pants pocket, no doubt for disposal in an incinerator, so intent is he on hiding all evidence of their liaison.
“We can stop, if you like,” Wilson says in his “reasonable” voice, again casting House in the roll of the addict, while Wilson plays the “nice guy,” giving his friend a hand job out of sympathy.
House deliberately wipes his own hand off against the back of his jeans in a show of casual defiance. This is the one thing he has to torment Wilson with; the threat of exposure. It’s cruel, of course, but he’s spent a year trying to be nice and it’s gotten him back in his apartment, alone with his demons while Wilson plays house with his ex and gives House scant minutes of mutual masturbation as a fucking consolation prize.
If his only possible victory is to rub Wilson’s face in his own hypocrisy until Sam walks away, or falls victim to some natural disaster, then he’ll take it and he’ll remind Wilson of the power that House still has over him; that they still have over each other.
“No, we can’t.”