| FIC: How To Shoot At Someone Who Outdrew You 1/2 (Wilson/House/Foreman, NC-17) | [Jun. 17th, 2007|03:55 pm] |
Title: How To Shoot At Someone Who Outdrew You (1/2)
Fandom: House, M.D.
Pairing/Rating: Wilson/House/Foreman, NC-17.
Length: 12 000 words.
Spoilers: Begins after 2.14, Sex Kills.
Author's Notes: For the foreman_fest on livejournal. Y'all are lucky--you get a sneak peak before I post it there. Betas by ![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) thedeadparrot, leiascully, daemonluna, and cadence_k. Prompt is at the end of the story.
Summary: Turns out it really is all about sex.
When House opens the door, Wilson sighs and picks up his suitcase. "Turns out you're right," he says. "It really is all about sex." He barely waits for House's nod before he walks in. He lets his shoulders slump, not expecting House to be anything resembling supportive. He scrubs at his face with his free hand, knowing that he'll soon be sleeping on House's lumpy couch and living out of a garment bag for the foreseeable future. He needs a distraction. House's place is so familiar that he heads into the living room with his brain and his body on autopilot. He's thinking about food, about a shower later, about phoning his attorney in the morning.
So, really, it's completely understandable that the last thing in the world on his mind is Foreman.
Foreman, sitting on House's couch, with a glass of whiskey in his hand.
Wilson blinks, looks over his shoulder, and then turns back to the couch. Foreman.
Wilson drops his suitcase. House wanders in and hands him a beer.
Foreman is still on House's couch.
"Um?" Wilson offers.
"Of course I'm right," House says. "It's always about sex."
***
Foreman rolls his eyes, grabs his jacket off the back of the couch, and heads for the door. Wilson turns to watch him go. He can't do much more than that; he's stunned, speechless. Foreman pulls open the door, throws another disgusted glance at House, and then slams out.
"Bye, Foreman!" House calls after him. He picks up Foreman's abandoned glass and drains the last of the drink. He twists his mouth and smacks his lips with satisfaction at the bite of the alcohol, then he shakes his head and sets the glass down. "Well, he was huffy."
"He--" Wilson spins around again, trying to point out all the things that are wrong, deeply and fundamentally wrong, with this entire situation. "You--"
"I know," House says. "My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard. Must be all that charisma I radiate."
"Since when?" Wilson demands, flinging out his hand and noticing that he's still holding the beer House gave him, like a broken pointer.
"Well, it all started one very special night when I was fourteen and I woke up with my pjs feeling sticky--"
"You and Foreman," Wilson clarifies, having made the brain-saving decision to ignore anything House says that isn't relevant. It's helped him so far in their crazy excuse for a friendship, and he's willing to continue relying on it to keep most of the worst mind-shattering ideas at bay.
House shrugs a bit. "Off and on. So, you got kicked out at last, huh?"
"Julie..." Wilson says vaguely. "I left her. She was sleeping with someone else."
"The pool boy?"
"We don't have a pool."
"I didn't say he had to be your pool boy," House says, in a way that's completely infuriating because of how reasonable he's pretending to be.
"She doesn't-- House. What the hell was Foreman doing here?"
"Not much," House says. "Your timing really sucks. You couldn't have put off your marital crisis for another hour or so? Some of us were actually banking on getting laid tonight."
Wilson raises one hand to stop House from speaking. The other goes to his eyes to massage away the imagery attendant on that statement.
"At least I got your mind off your troubles," House says.
"No, actually, you didn't," Wilson says, with a kind of desperate sarcasm. "I--I don't have a home any more. My marriage has fallen apart. I just learned that my wife has been cheating on me--"
"Oh, come on, it's not that bad," House says. "At least you've had the pleasure of naughty nurse nookie for months."
"I wasn't having an affair!" Wilson yelps.
"Huh," House says. "I was. Think I should've hung a stethoscope on the door?"
***
When the door knob rattles, they both turn to look at it, Wilson with the sad and futile hope that it will be Chase and Cameron dyed pink and riding a unicycle, thus proving that this is all a very bad dream; and House with a sort of innocent expectation.
This time, it's slightly less of a shock to see Foreman. By this point, he's got disgusted down to an art form, and he stares at House with his jaw set and one eyebrow raised.
"Oh, Foreman, you're back," House says, as if Foreman had just stepped out to the corner store for a quart of milk.
"I could go," Wilson says. "I'm-- I'll go." He feels about as awkward as he did at his first semi-formal, and just as invisible.
Foreman barely glances at him, but it's pretty much exactly the same as any look Foreman's ever given him, which is to say, a little bored and slightly dismissive. He's focused on House, his lips pressed together in anger. "Keys, House."
House blinks with his fakest fake bewilderment. "Keys?"
Foreman looks like he's inventing new ways to loathe House completely with each second that passes, but he just shakes his head and goes into the kitchen. House tilts his head at Wilson--it's a familiar gesture, one he used to use when Stacy was being (in House's opinion) totally irrational--and then he follows Foreman out of the room.
Standing around haplessly has lost a lot of its appeal, so Wilson takes three or four hesitant steps closer to the kitchen, and ignores the niggling voice that insists that he isn't going to like what he hears if he eavesdrops.
Foreman's moving stuff and opening the cupboards, searching for the keys that House presumably lifted when he wasn't paying attention. The fact that he opens the sugar bowl and looks inside suggests that this isn't the first time House has picked his pockets, and it's not the first time Foreman's run up against House's ideas of what constitutes a good hiding spot. Most people, House kicks out of his apartment by rote. Wilson thought he was the only one who knew what lengths House will go to to keep a guest if he wants to, but Foreman knows his way around House's kitchen so easily that this must be far from the first time he's been here. And Wilson, who's over at House's place so often that he already almost lives here, had no clue. He wonders how the hell they managed to hide it, considering he can't imagine Foreman letting House into his home. That doesn't mean anything, though, since before tonight Wilson would have been hard pressed to imagine House and Foreman exchanging a civil word, let alone bodily fluids. And, of course, now that he's managed it, he can't imagine why he tried.
"What the hell did you let him in for?" Foreman asks, as he slams the oven door closed. Wilson's not sure whether he should be insulted at how hard Foreman's working to ignore the fact that he's standing right there.
"Compassion?" House suggests. He's leaning hipshot against the island in the middle of the kitchen, not helping the search, and actively getting in the way whenever he can manage it. "Friendship? I have a weakness for kicked puppies?"
"No," Foreman says, as though explaining this for the tenth time to a slow child, "you don't. You wanted him to find out."
"Well, that's just crazy talk," House says. "If I'd planned this, we'd've already made it to third base before he walked in."
"Trust me, you're never making it to any base with me ever again," Foreman says. He gives up on the kitchen and heads back to the couch, shoving House's piles of medical journals around on the coffee table. Wilson wonders if he should offer to help, since House isn't doing much more than tilting his head to get a better angle for ogling Foreman's ass when he bends over to look under the couch. And that's something that Wilson does not want to be thinking.
"That's what you said the second time," House says. "And seventh. And the nineteenth." He scrunches up his face as if he's calculating, and adds, "Actually, once every three weeks, on average."
Wilson does his own math, and blurts out, "This has been going on for three months?"
"Anyway, he has a key," House says to Foreman, as if Wilson isn't there and trying to find any way possible to unknow what he knows. "He would have come in whether I opened the door or not. He has these knight-in-shining-armour fantasies where he gallantly saves me after I've fallen and I can't get up."
"I don't--" Wilson wants to object, but House just looks at him, and he has to admit that if House didn't answer, Wilson would probably bust down the door first and worry about what he'd find after. Although from now on he's going to have second thoughts. And thirds. And even then he's probably going to go to House's building manager rather than burst in himself. The possibility of hookers was bad enough. This is--he still can't quite picture it. It's like imagining House loving orphans and helping the elderly across busy intersections.
Foreman's digging behind the couch cushions, and at last, he comes up with a key ring. "You couldn't stand that I wouldn't let you rub this in anybody's face," he says. "You wanted him to know."
"Oh, give it up," House says. "I could've said something at work at any time. If I'd planned this, the camcorder wouldn't still be in the bedroom."
"Gah," Wilson says, or some sound to that effect.
"See?" House practically snickers. "His reaction shots are priceless."
Foreman throws up his arms, keys jingling, and stalks out of the apartment again.
House blocks the door before Foreman can slam it behind himself. "Also if I'd planned this," he shouts, as a kind of parting shot, "I'd've figured out a way to get Wilson to join us."
Then, House pauses long enough to stick his head back inside and roll his eyes at Wilson, and heads out after Foreman.
***
For a rare moment, it's quiet in House's apartment. No TV, no blasting music, no House. Wilson takes what feels like his first breath since he knocked on House's door. He sits down on the couch--slightly the worse for wear after Foreman's hunt through the cushions--and stares blankly at the wall. After a minute, he realizes he's still holding the beer House gave him, so he cracks it open and takes a drink.
It takes about that long for his imagination to catch up with him, and he starts thinking about how, exactly, Foreman lost his keys in the couch. House didn't necessarily take them, after all. Wilson's had his share of shameful moments digging through couch cushions for the contents of his pockets after make-out sessions got too vigorous. House didn't look any more dishevelled than he does on a regular basis. He could have rolled straight out of bed after a three-day bender and looked about the same. Foreman, though, was in his shirtsleeves, and he wasn't wearing a tie. He didn't look flustered, but there's not much about Foreman that's easily mussed, and any flush or beard burn probably wouldn't show much. Wilson clenches his bottle tighter, still wishing he could pass this off as anything except what it obviously is.
He nearly jumps off the couch when the door opens. House has been gone long enough to--what? Whisper sweet nothings in Foreman's ear? Apologise for having their...tryst...interrupted? Neither sounds anything like House, or like Foreman, for that matter. It's far more likely that House yelled at Foreman for chickening out of the threesome he'd set up, made a derogatory comment about Foreman driving a getaway vehicle, and then stuck his tongue down Foreman's throat as a reminder of what he's going to be missing tonight.
The fact that Wilson can guess that much about House's seduction technique is really, really disturbing. He decides not to think about it. Ever.
He kind of wants to ask what House said to Foreman, but then again, he really doesn't, so he just watches House nudge the door shut and head back into the living room. House glances at him when he sits down beside him on the couch, but he doesn't say anything. He reaches for the TV remote and flicks on the set.
"That's-- Are we just going to ignore this?" Wilson says. He's not usually the one left astounded at House's ability to avoid talking about anything that matters, but then, he doesn't usually walk in on House and Foreman. If it had been Cameron, or Cuddy--or hell, even Chase--then maybe he could have dealt with it. Wilson shifts uncomfortably. Maybe. Possibly. He's pretty sure.
"Monster trucks are on," House says gruffly, and turns determinedly to watch the television.
Wilson stares at the Crushinator tearing its way through a field of flaming wrecks and can't even take it in. He's too busy trying to blink away the thought, why Foreman? "He doesn't even like you," he finally bursts out.
"Yeah, but he sure likes fucking me," House says, not even missing a beat.
Wilson's halfway expecting something like that, so he barely pauses before coming back with, "How did this even start--?" Then House's words penetrate, and he shakes his head sharply. "He--fucks you?"
"If he gets me off first, then I let him," House says. "I'm an equal opportunity kind of guy."
"Stop. House." Wilson tries to push the words away. "I don't...I don't need details. Why on earth are you telling me this?"
"Other than, you asked?" House nods at the couch. "Guess where?"
Wilson scrambles to his feet. How easy it was to eradicate his own vision of House and Foreman getting it on. He's never going to be able to sleep here. "I'm getting a hotel room," he says, and he knows he sounds pissed off. Rightfully so.
House glances up at him levelly. "But not tonight," he says.
"You obviously don't want me staying here."
"I didn't say that."
"I'm happy for you, House. Really. Excuse me if I don't want to get in the middle of this..." He flails around for words that aren't 'sordid' or 'tawdry', and finishes with, "...whatever it is." He looks around again, as if the evidence that he's been somehow missing completely for three months will come out of hiding, and then stops, because House is peering at him as if he's the most puzzling specimen in the lab. "What?"
"You're interested."
Wilson throws up his hands. "I never wanted to know!"
"Yeah, but now that you do, you can't stop thinking about it. Wilson, you kinky bastard." House's look turns amused. He's got Wilson squirming, and House has never been able to stop poking once he knows he'll get a reaction. "To answer your question, it started because we were arguing over patient care."
"Patient care? You--"
"Don't remember exactly what the bone of contention was," House says. "Other bones were more on my mind just then."
Wilson rolls his eyes, scrambling to get his equanimity back. "Witty. Are you sure that's not the plot of a porno you watched?"
House leans back into the couch, the very picture of lolling comfort. "I was proving a point."
"And of course you had to take it as far as sexually assaulting one of your employees."
"It was a really big point." House's grin turns lascivious.
"And at this point, I don't even want to know whether you're talking about his dick or yours."
House nods conspiratorially. "Don't worry, I won't tell you. There are better ways of finding out."
Wilson can feel his jaw drop, but the incredulity is nothing compared to the flush of--embarrassment, of course it's embarrassment--rushing through his body. "You weren't joking."
"About getting off first? I'm a gentleman. I'd never suck and tell."
"You want me to...join you."
House smirks. "Let's just say I'm not the one you need to convince."
"I don't need to be convinced either!"
House raises his eyebrows. "Glad you're on board. Guess Foreman's the only hold-out."
Wilson wants to smack himself in the forehead for walking straight into that one. "House, I meant I don't want you trying to convince me to have a threesome with Foreman--"
"Cameron's more your speed, I know," House says, pursing his lips sympathetically. "Well, I'm not asking her. You're going to have to do all the work if you want that to happen."
"I don't want to have a threesome! At all!"
"It's really sad that you feel you can't share my love," House says, pouting. He pats his chest a little, and Wilson winces and turns away before he has to see House's hand come to rest just under his belt. "You don't have to worry. There's more than enough of this to go around."
That's over the top, even for House, and Wilson shakes his head, finally getting it. "Foreman was right," he says. "You wanted me to know."
House frowns, and reaches for his cane. "You were bound to find out eventually. I can't keep anything from you, Jimmy, can I? Because if I'm happy without you--"
"Don't try making this my fault," Wilson says. He's back on firmer ground now. He lets the happiness remark pass without comment, because it's already late, and that is more information that he should have known, somehow, before he walked in and had this...relationship...shoved in his face. If it was Cameron, or Cuddy, he could have understood it, at least.
He could have fought it.
He sets his jaw and says, "If you wanted to keep hiding this, you didn't have to let me in."
House gets to his feet slowly, and the playful glint has left his eyes. "Still don't," he says. "Good luck finding a hotel at this hour, if you're worried the couch will turn you gay."
That's never been the issue, of course. House brushes past him on the way to the bedroom, and Wilson says, "There's a reason you didn't tell me."
House turns around, eyeing him. "I don't want you sleeping here forever," he says, which, in House-speak, is almost an answer. "I don't like houseguests who don't put out."
He leaves Wilson to figure out what the hell that's supposed to mean.
***
For once, when Wilson comes by Diagnostics to steal Cameron's coffee, he doesn't time his visit by House's arrival. It's far too early to expect House to be in, and Wilson did his best to keep his morning routine of showering, dressing, and making breakfast quiet. House is a light sleeper, and Wilson probably woke him up, but he didn't emerge from his bedroom to complain (and, from other trips through other divorces, Wilson knows how House loves to complain in the mornings). Wilson left early, just so that he could hold on to the illusion that they're okay. That the only reason they didn't talk this morning is because they will when House gets in to work and needs someone to listen to his rants or back up his alibis to Cuddy. That everything is utterly, completely normal.
It's a nice dream, but it's not the truth. When Wilson pulls open the door to the conference room, Foreman's the only one sitting at the table, going over House's older charts and correcting the notations. Under House's messy scrawl of "Darwin-award contender adds illiteracy to his many charms", Foreman has added "accidental overdose of contraindicated medications" in tidy script. Wilson heads for the coffee machine without stopping. It's fresh, and just finished perking, and he debates filling two cups, but when he glances at Foreman he can see the tension in his shoulders. He'd reject anything Wilson tried to give him right now, so Wilson pours for himself and leans back against the counter to take a sip.
"Listen," Foreman says without looking up, his pen still scratching. "Before you say anything, let me make it perfectly clear that I don't want to talk about it."
Wilson grimaces. He hates being so transparent, but what other conversation could he possibly start? He can't even remember a time in the two years since Foreman was hired that they've even had a conversation, or been alone in the same room. "I'm...surprised," he says.
That gets him a look. Foreman raises an eyebrow, the picture of sarcastic disbelief. Wilson sees echoes of House in his expression, and bites down hard not to say anything. "You're surprised," Foreman says flatly.
"You don't find it surprising?" Wilson asks. "On the surface, there doesn't seem to be any...connection between you."
Foreman tosses his pen on the table and crosses his arms, leaning back in his seat. "Dr. Wilson. No offense, but it's not really any of your business."
This was easier with Cameron. At least then, when Wilson warned her what she might be getting into with House, he knew it was a remote possibility at best. Now he's floundering, uncertain of where he stands. "You're sleeping with your boss," he says. "You don't think I should be concerned?"
"You aren't my superior. If Cuddy has a problem with this..." Foreman trails off, but his expression implies that there'll be hell to pay if Cuddy finds out.
Wilson glances away, down at his coffee. He's not, should never be, the one turning House in for workplace indiscretions.
"It hasn't affected my job, or my ability to work with Cameron and Chase." Foreman gathers up the files he was working on and stands up. "Look, I know he's your friend, but...he didn't even tell you for three months."
Wilson puts down his mug. He wants to get upset, to be the injured party, but Foreman's right. It's none of his business. It's the first time in ten years that something House has done hasn't been. "He told me last night," he says, holding back the things he'd rather say. Rather ask.
Foreman shakes his head dismissively. "Because you walked in? That was a coincidence."
"This is House we're talking about," Wilson says. He's learned not to believe in coincidence over the years. "He let me in."
Foreman laughs. "And that's exactly the difference between us, Dr. Wilson. I don't actually care if he lets me in." He tilts his head, eyebrows raised, and tucks his charts under his arm. "Now," he says, "if you'll excuse me, I actually have work to do."
He walks out. After a moment, Wilson very carefully pours the rest of his coffee down the sink, and goes back to his office.
***
For the next week, Wilson watches them. He doesn't know what he's looking for, but it's got to be there. It started, and it went on, right under his nose, so there must have been a sign he missed--House watching Foreman with that look in his eyes that's mostly curiosity and almost tender; Foreman acting warmer, shaking his head over House's antics instead of turning away in disgust. Somehow, it started, and somehow, Wilson missed the whole thing. So maybe he wasn't paying close enough attention, and maybe that's what House was trying to tell him when he let Wilson interrupt them.
But the crazy part is, if Wilson didn't know, then there wouldn't be anything to catch them at. Foreman argues just as hard during the differentials, and House constantly pokes holes in his theories along with a parade of insults and jokes at his expense. Foreman mainly rolls his eyes and carries on with the day's business. He's not like Cameron, hanging on House's every word and watching soulfully for whatever effect she hopes to have. He's not Chase, always eager to be as much like House as he can and begging for a pat on the head.
When Wilson stops to think about it, he realises that Foreman's always been the aloof one, who acts as if he doesn't need anything from House. He's always said he's just there to learn, and once he's gotten everything he can from his fellowship, he'll move on and never look back.
That's probably what got House interested in the first place. Foreman's the independent one, so Foreman's the one that House wants. House likes toys he can't have. He likes ripping into careful packaging and then playing with the contents until they break. Since Foreman hasn't broken yet, that explains why House continued this...
Wilson stops before he gets to the word 'relationship'. He can't help it. He sighs, sits back in his office chair, and pinches the bridge of his nose. House hasn't been acting any differently towards him at all, barging in at all hours of the day, demanding money for lunches, seeking him out in the cafeteria or the oncology lounge or the clinic whenever it looks like Wilson might actually start being productive. And that, more than anything else, is weird as hell. House should be avoiding him like the plague, retreating to all his secret-secret hideouts that even Wilson's not supposed to know about. If this thing with Foreman meant anything, House would be doing his damnedest to get away from Wilson. He's got to know that Wilson would have developed this case of morbid curiosity. That he needs to know what the hell is happening inside House's head.
On the other hand, if this thing with Foreman meant nothing, then House would be broadcasting it with a megaphone across the entire hospital grapevine, and probably wearing t-shirts that proclaim "I Banged Eric Foreman. Ask Me How!" to all the department head meetings.
Wilson doesn't have the same craving for puzzles that House does...unless the puzzle is House himself. And none of this makes any sense. None of it fits. Wilson's left at the end of the day going home to House's apartment, making himself a meal and eating it alone, because House is hardly ever there. He can't even think about getting his own place. The idea stops him cold every time, and he can't get around it. Besides, things with Julie are still up in the air. Work is busy. Looking for an apartment on top of that is... Well. He can't, not now, not with...how things are.
He lays out his dinner on the coffee table and tucks a napkin into his collar. He turns the news on with the volume low enough that he doesn't have to listen if today's local disasters have been too depressing. The murmur of the newscasters will have to do to keep him company, since House has been keeping odd hours to match his latest patient's intermittent symptoms. Today, though, it looked like the girl was stabilized, and Wilson expected House to stake out his spot on the couch by six, demand to be fed, and refuse to move except to forage in the fridge for beer. By the time Wilson slips his dishes into the sink, it's past midnight, and the news spools out into infomercials that he doesn't care about but can't seem to turn off.
He's learning how to get grass stains out of socks better than the leading laundry detergent could ever hope to, when the front door clicks open. He jerks upright and turns, right on time to see House step inside, almost quietly enough that Wilson might think House is trying consideration on for size, if he didn't know better.
Except all Wilson needs to do is see the look on House's face, the way his lips tighten and he scowls as he pulls his motorcycle jacket off, and he knows. House was with Foreman. At Foreman's apartment. Fucking.
House moves into the living room, limping heavier than usual. Wilson carefully turns back to the glare of the television screen so that he doesn't have to think about why. The infomercials have switched over to test patterns, but Wilson leaves his finger on the remote resting on his thigh, and doesn't turn off the TV.
"Been waiting up long?" House asks, sharp and bitter, because he wants his words to cut before there's even anything to defend against.
"I'm not keeping tabs on you, House." There's no point in admitting that he was waiting for the rumble of the motorcycle, the snick of House's key in the lock.
"No, you're just watching test patterns at two in the morning because of the scintillating character development."
"The orange bar has the chops to go on to a solo career," Wilson agrees. It's not the time for jokes, but this is how they talk. "I think the soundtrack album's overrated, though."
From the corner of his eye, he can see House pause, his mouth twitching as he resists a smile. "That one piercing note? I can see how it could get annoying if you listened to it for too long."
Wilson sighs. He's exhausted, and worse, he's going to be exhausted all day tomorrow. The couch is lumpier than he remembered, and no matter what he tries, he can't get comfortable. "House, I'm not lecturing you." He's not; he's carefully holding his questions behind his teeth. He doesn't want to know. Still, he can't help adding, "Which makes me wonder why you're acting like a guilty teenager.
He can practically feel House tense and back off a step, like a bristly cat stalking its offended way out of range. "Gee, Dad, I didn't dent the car, and I promise I used protection."
Wilson's lips tighten before he can stop himself. Even in the dim light of the television, House has to have noticed. Wilson can feel his stare, angry and familiar, watching and waiting for a reaction. "I'd ask if you'll still respect him in the morning," Wilson says, "but I seem to recall that you never did in the first place, so I guess that's not a concern."
"Worried about Foreman's feelings? Trust me, he doesn't have any."
"That's fascinating," Wilson says, losing control enough that the sarcasm heats his throat and he can barely swallow. "I wonder what that's like for him."
"You mean that wasn't your first question during your little tete-a-tete last week?"
And of course House knows about that. Wilson imagines Foreman telling him, fucking him, pounding into him and hissing into his ear, exactly what Wilson said, what an idiot he made of himself. "No, I think my first question was how he manages to fuck you without gagging you first," he snaps.
"Who says he doesn't?"
Wilson jerks his head around. House is staring at him, leaning into the confrontation, all electric blue and shadows thrown from the television. So that's the reaction he was looking for. House wants to linger over details, describe everything: Foreman's skin and sweat and his weight against House's back, how he moves, what he says, how hard House comes when Foreman forces it out of him. He wants Wilson to ask. He wants him to know.
"Tasteful," Wilson says instead, straining his voice for that quiet, ironic disapproval that House hates more than anything. "If only Stacy had known, she might have kept you in line a little longer."
That's his trump card, one Wilson doesn't play often. It's a reminder that he can hurt House, will hurt him if he has to. House looks away, his anger turning inwards, and Wilson's won, for now, but he hates himself for it. House heads to his bedroom without another word.
Wilson switches off the TV. The room's dark even when his eyes adjust to the streetlight filtering in through the window. Wilson closes his eyes and spreads himself out as best he can. He can hear House in the bathroom, walking down the hall, limp-step-tap, and maybe even his breathing, if he strains his ears. The walls of the apartment are thin. He can hear everything. He's lying on the couch where House has sucked Foreman off, where House let himself be fucked, where Foreman took control and House wanted him to.
Beneath the scratchy blanket that still smells of House, he's hard, and there's nothing at all he can do about it.
Part Two |
|