| FIC: How To Shoot At Someone Who Outdrew You 2/2 (Wilson/House/Foreman, NC-17) |
[Jun. 17th, 2007|03:56 pm] |
Title: How To Shoot At Someone Who Outdrew You (2/2)
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.
Wilson catches them making out in the parking lot three days later.
It's an accident. He's working late, and by the time he looks up from his Phase II clinical trial proposal, the hospital is mostly deserted. Wilson packs the draft of the informed consent forms into his briefcase. It's likely he'll have House's apartment to himself, and he needs something better to do than watch reruns of Bewitched and take a lot less pleasure from them without House barking at him to switch channels to anything else, ever.
Diagnostics is dark, and the clinic is closed. Most of the office wing of the hospital is dim and empty, and Wilson steps out into the evening without passing anyone. He curls deeper into his coat, keeping out the wet New Jersey cold. Fresh snow skiffs the sidewalks, and there's enough still drifting down that Wilson feels the sharp touch of each snowflake against his cheeks when he tilts his head back, trying to stretch the tension out of his neck. The parking lot's full, with spillover from the ER lot and the night shift's cars, and Wilson's digging his keys out of his coat pocket, so he doesn't see them right away. He hears them first, and he's already blushing when he looks up, thinking he's stumbled on some kids having fun.
Instead Wilson sees...not much, because it's dark--two figures, and the lunging movement of a desperate kiss. Then Foreman moves back and for a moment Wilson can see House's face, his ragged look of defiant concentration, the steam of his breath. They're about ten feet away, standing next to House's old beater, and Wilson can almost make out Foreman's low murmur before he moves back in and they're kissing again. House is taller, but Foreman has him trapped against his car, shoving into his space, holding him by his upper arms. Wilson can see the indentation of House's motorcycle jacket under Foreman's fingers, and thinks he must be gripping hard enough to hurt.
Wilson knows he should leave, escape before he's seen, forget it's ever happened, but House is leaning into Foreman's body, and his left hand is fisted in the back of Foreman's jacket. Wilson can't breathe. The air is cold but he feels hot right through. He tightens his grip on his briefcase. He wants to back away, but the sound of them stops him. He's burning, anger and embarrassment and that heat that's not quite either, and he can hear them. The brush of cloth, House's soft grunt, the way Foreman breaks the kiss to growl short, quick words. Wilson doesn't have to hear them to know they're questions, Foreman asking, "You like that, House? You want it?" House doesn't answer, but he bends closer and moves his grip higher on Foreman's back.
"Yeah," Foreman says--Wilson hears that clearly, the amused and dismissive tone of his voice, when Foreman steps back. Wilson can only see the confident set of Foreman's shoulders, and he knows that Foreman's relaxed, in control.
Wilson takes another step back, his foot scraping gravel, and House looks up, scowling. Wilson knows what he must look like to House: mouth open, wide-eyed, innocent little Jimmy. He snaps his mouth shut and glares back. He expects House to call out to him, something as loud and embarrassing as possible.
But House only watches him, and when he leans in to murmur something to Foreman, he's still meeting Wilson's eyes.
Wilson twists on his heel and heads back to the hospital.
***
Fuck House.
Wilson doesn't know where he's going, and he doesn't care if anyone sees him. His heart's pounding, he can't catch his breath, he can't see anything except House's eyes. Watching him. Fuck. He's almost back to his office--the couch there is even less comfortable than House's, but there's no way he can stay at House's place tonight--when he hears footsteps behind him. His whole body tenses. Foreman, of course. There's no way House could have caught up.
"Wilson!"
Wilson hunches his shoulders and stops, his hand white-knuckled against his office door.
"Wilson." Foreman stands right behind him.
Wilson turns around, wondering when he stopped being Doctor Wilson to Foreman. "Sorry to interrupt," he says mildly, leaning his head against the door. He feels crazily ironic, and somewhere at the back of his mind he's rolling his eyes at himself. He's doing his best not to despise Foreman, who probably doesn't deserve it. "Again."
Foreman slants a glance at him. Then, completely unexpectedly, he tilts his head back and laughs. "Okay," he says. "Message received."
Wilson frowns at him. He's never understood this about Foreman, the detached way that he sits back and watches confrontations, and never seems touched by them. When House acts the hotshot, there's always the sense that he knows he's putting on a mask, that he's watching carefully in case someone can see past it. When Foreman raises his eyebrows and chuckles, like he can't believe the people around him could possibly be quite so dense, there's never any doubt behind it. One day, House is going to prove Foreman irrevocably wrong, and Wilson knows that's the day that this thing between them will end.
"Look," Foreman says indulgently, and Wilson wants to wipe the smugness right off his face. "It's pretty obvious that you're interested. You can go ahead, you know. Make your move."
"I'm not--" The lie comes easily. Three marriages later and it still does. As long as he's denying there's anything wrong between him and his wives, he might as well go one step further and deny the problem that was there since the start. "I'm not interested."
Foreman lets out another snort of laughter. "You were watching."
"I didn't know--" It sounds pathetic, but Wilson almost wants to say I didn't know House could look like that, kissing. If Stacy ever brought that expression to House's face, then Wilson must have turned away, focusing his attention to other things. He didn't think anyone else would ever come close to seeing past all of House's bullshit barriers. Foreman has no idea what he's been given--something that Cameron would kill for, even now, Wilson thinks, something Cuddy wishes she had, to keep House in line.
Something that should have been Wilson's.
Foreman shakes his head, his smile a flash of white in the hall's low light. "You were turned on," he says. "House knew."
Wilson swallows, clears his throat. House knew. "You don't care?"
"Listen, you're not going to cramp my style." Foreman takes a step forward, and Wilson straightens against the door's support behind him. Foreman leans in, like he's delivering a secret, when he says, "I don't need House."
Wilson snorts. "You were kissing him."
Foreman shrugs, but Wilson's found his way in, the hole that Foreman's armour doesn't quite cover. Wilson gave the same speech to Cameron, and hearing it from Foreman doesn't make it much different. "Why are you fucking him, then?" he asks.
Foreman rolls his eyes and steps back a bit, enough to give Wilson his space. "House puts me through a lot of crap," he says. "If I get this in exchange, then that works for me. It's not anything more than that."
"Right," Wilson says, drawing the word out just enough to grate on Foreman's nerves. The hole is there and he's apparently learned more from House than he ever thought, because all he can think of is proving to Foreman that it's there, that he's just as weak as anybody else. "That's why you cared enough to follow me. This isn't about warning me off? Maybe you're right. Maybe I'm going to tell House--"
Wilson stops, but it's enough. Foreman's shoulders are bunching, and his lips are set. "He told you I fuck him, didn't he?" Foreman says, his teeth grazing his lower lip on the fricative. "He wanted me to, right from the beginning. Didn't say anything, but he made it pretty clear from the way he was shoving his ass against me."
A breath passes while Wilson imagines it--House silent and sly and needy, spreading his legs as best he can, holding himself up and slanted and pushing back onto Foreman's cock, relishing the pain because it means he can allow himself two, three, half a dozen Vicodin afterwards--and then Wilson lets Foreman's words pass through him. He's supposed to be getting angry, but Foreman doesn't have House's touch for finding exactly what button to press, ten years of friendship to learn how to say exactly the wrong thing. And Wilson has all the ammunition he needs. "Did you enjoy that, Foreman?" he asks. "Being in control of the department wasn't enough for you, and so you decided to take it one step further?" Foreman's eyes widen, and Wilson catches his breath in a helpless laugh. "That's it, isn't it? There wasn't any argument about patient care. It was while you were running the department--"
Foreman's building up like a bomb about to explode, anger gathering in his arms, in the jut of his jaw. Wilson laughs again, incredulously. "You think this means something, that he lets you fuck him? That you're in charge?" Even Wilson doesn't have that kind of fantasy, that House would let it mean more than House wants when someone touches him. "You're just a convenience to him, and cheaper than a hooker."
"It's more than you've got," Foreman says. "More than you'll ever--"
He's right, of course he's right; and knowing that, Wilson moves forward, and kisses him.
House isn't the only one who can do this, after all.
It's not a shock when Foreman kisses him in return. Wilson lets Foreman push him back, until they reach the wall, and Foreman's hands are pressed flat against it on either side of his shoulders. Wilson's taller, but Foreman tilts his head back easily (three months with House) and presses up into him. Wilson's jacket is undone and he can feel the heat of Foreman's body through the gap, the potential weight of him. Foreman doesn't touch him anywhere else, just cages Wilson with his arms and kisses him. Foreman's lips are soft, the brush of his goatee unfamiliar and tantalizing. Wilson closes his eyes, lets Foreman kiss him like he's got something to prove. Wilson's been frozen since the parking lot, and now he feels warmth come creeping back, washing through his arms and legs and torso. He breathes into the kiss and frowns away the idea that there might be some remnant of House in the taste of Foreman's mouth. That's not what this is.
Wilson moves his hand forward, brushing against Foreman's stomach, to his hip. Foreman kisses him harder, a warning more than encouragement, but Wilson doesn't stop, lets his hand drift lower, over the front of Foreman's pants.
Foreman breaks the kiss and steps back, breathing quickly, eyes darting to Wilson's hand. Wilson drops his arm.
It's only a second later that Foreman looks up at him, his mouth soft, his dark eyes warmed by a slight smile. "Sorry," he says, and he hasn't lost an inch of that puffed-up condescension. "I'm not that easy." He raises his eyebrows and backs off one more step, before turning around and sauntering towards the elevator.
Wilson leans back against his door and watches Foreman go. When he realises he's thinking about following him, Wilson licks his lips and rubs his fingertips against his thigh. They're still tingling. Foreman was hard, his cock pressing hot and firm into Wilson's hand.
He can't help thinking that Foreman is exactly that easy, and the first one to prove it to him was House.
***
Wilson's finishing the consent forms the next morning, between nervous glances out at the balcony and across the office to the hallway door. For years he's been used to House's intrusions, to the small interruptions of his daily life. He gathers together stories and gossip and decides how he will respond the next time House makes a joke about the toys that line his shelves, or his latest patient who is, inevitably, dying, or his ties or his shoes or his wives. He's ready for House. As much as every time House bursts in is a surprise, it's also got its own routine, and Wilson knows exactly how to effect maximum damage control with minimum time loss. And House knows just as easily how to convince Wilson that neither time management nor damage control are what he really wants, so Wilson finds himself playing games of quarters and dominoes and (just one time, before House dive-bombed Cuddy with a beautiful shot) water balloons. Wilson's used to House. It's not House he's waiting for.
He ended up spending the night in his office. He has an extra suit hanging in a garment bag on the back of his door, but his shirt, tie, and socks are the same. At some hour of the morning that he hasn't been awake to see since he was cramming for his exams during his residency, Wilson snuck down to the locker room showers and turned the water on full and hot. He jerked off, leaning his right forearm against the cool tile, resting his forehead on his arm, biting his lip and trying not to breathe until the slickness of the soap washed everything clean. He wasn't thinking of House, not exactly. Instead, in his mind it was Foreman he watched, the broad muscles of his back, the clench of his ass as he drove into House. Wilson's hand knows the size and weight of Foreman's cock, and when he squeezes himself, remembering, he can't quite stop a gasp that could be heard over the torrent of water, if there was anyone around to hear.
Wilson's pen trails off the end of the consent forms, his handwriting even more of a disaster than usual. Christine's going to sigh at him and promise to do her best at typing it up, and Wilson will smile apologetically at her and nearly blush because the clinical trial was the last thing on his mind when he wrote it. He clenches his hands on top of his desk and is glad, instead, that today's schedule isn't filled with appointments and sympathy, because he doesn't think he can show his face outside his office.
He's so lost in his thoughts that for once it's a complete surprise when House bangs his door open and steps in, already halfway into a complaint, something about Cuddy and clinic hours that Wilson's heard a thousand variations on before. House is the consummate jazz musician, because somehow the same whine never sounds the same way twice. Wilson takes a breath and looks up, and he's already given himself away, even before he says anything, even before he looks House in the eyes.
House is smirking at his tie.
Wilson grips the edge of his desk and doesn't even bother pretending not to know what comes next. Still, it's worth a token effort to head House off at the pass, so Wilson ignores his stare and says, "Cuddy told you she was tired of you ogling her breasts, told you to go ogle someone else's instead, then gave you a patient file? How is this a surprise to you?"
House shrugs. "The patient had unresolved mastitis." Wilson wrinkles his nose, but House is already stalking closer, his story forgotten. "Nice tie," he says. "I'm pretty sure it was the height of fashion...say, yesterday?"
"I'm hoping that my absence on your couch last night might have tipped you off to the fact that I slept here sooner than my tie would," Wilson says. "Then again, the only reason you might have noticed I was gone would be when they arrested you for shoplifting your lunch from the cafeteria when I wasn't there to pay."
"Didn't quite make it home early enough to catch you sawing logs," House says. "Foreman was late getting in, though."
Wilson swallows. Blood rushes in his ears. He licks his lips, remembers the touch of Foreman's mouth against his.
House's gaze drags over him, rough and searching as his touch would be. "Energetic, isn't he?"
Wilson shifts in his chair, horrified to realise that he's getting turned on, just from the way House is watching him, something he's done every day since Wilson has known him. And the only thing that's changed is--
"You'd know," he says, "better than I would."
"Yeah," House says. Wilson wonders if he's imagining the flush creeping higher on House's face. The fever-hectic brightness of his eyes is nothing new, but now Wilson knows what's going on in House's head. Just like he always wanted.
"Nothing happened," Wilson adds. He's watching House's fingers stroking the head of his cane. He shifts again, thinking of House's fingers grasping a pillow, the sheets--something in soft pastels, with an astonishingly high threadcount, because Foreman wouldn't settle for anything less. House out of control. House wanting, needing. And Foreman laughing breathlessly in his ear when he comes.
"Obviously," House says. "Foreman was very emphatic about that."
"How?" he asks, and his throat stops. He tries again, asking, "What...did he do?" and as much as he didn't want to know yesterday, or the day before, now he's burning with curiosity. He knows how Foreman kisses. Now he wonders how he touches, whether his hands are as soft as his mouth, what his body is like underneath the careful press of suits and ties.
"Enjoyed winding him up, didn't you?" House has no intention of telling him anything. "Jimmy the flirt," he says. "Jimmy the tease."
Wilson shifts his gaze to House's face, wondering how he got quite so close. The desk between them feels as insubstantial as air. House knows every secret it hides, after all. "All right," he says, and he's astonished at how calmly his voice comes out. "You got me. I want him. That doesn't mean I'm going to have him."
"Why not?" House circles the desk, fingertips playing idly through the sand in Wilson's Zen garden, drifting along the surface of the desk.
Wilson turns his chair to face him. He can't let House get close if he's not watching every move. "This is a bad idea."
House pauses, looks out the balcony window as if he expects Foreman to show up, too. "Well, if you're going to let that stop you--"
"I'm not," Wilson says. "I didn't stop him, House."
House is close enough to loom over him, and Wilson pushes his chair back and stands up to find safer footing. It's not the right move; House is in his space immediately, warm and close and Wilson almost thinks that House is going to kiss him, too. If he does, Wilson wonders if he can bring that open, uncertain look to House's face if he tries. He can almost taste House's breath, can nearly hear the irregularity of House's heartbeat, and the space between them is so slight that he would barely have to reach to settle his hands on House's waist and pull him close. He wants to know what it would be like--the scrape of House's stubble, the dry press of his lips, the way his fingers would curl into Wilson's body until he felt tousled and sharp with pleasure.
House leans in, but he's canted off-course, because he doesn't come near Wilson's mouth, open already in anticipation. "You know what I want," House says, his voice and his cheek raspy beside Wilson's ear, and then the space in front of Wilson is cool and empty, and his office door bangs shut behind House when he leaves.
***
When Wilson arrives at House's apartment, he hesitates before using his key. Already, in the days he's been staying at House's place, more of his things have migrated from Julie's house (already he thinks of it as hers). There was a time he felt just as comfortable walking in House's front door as his own, and some nights he couldn't imagine going home to any other place. Now, when he opens the door without knocking and heads into the living room, he feels like a stranger, like every step is taking him into a world that isn't his.
That feeling is only compounded when he finds Foreman on House's couch, again, House sitting beside him this time and nursing a beer. For once, Foreman looks less than comfortable, although he's hiding it well behind a truly pissed-off expression. House has his feet up on the coffee table, and when Wilson catches his eyes, he doesn't give anything away.
Foreman moves first, impatiently, snatching the beer out of House's hand and setting it on the table. "Bastard," he mutters, shoving closer to House and kissing him, lifting one hand to his face to hold him still. House moves his legs down from the table, tilts his head back to the angle Foreman wants, and Foreman hums approvingly. Wilson watches them, and there's an instant when he wants to walk away, not have to deal with the fallout, but it doesn't last. No matter what he imagined, the reality is hotter. The line of House's neck as he arches back, Foreman's hand gripping his shoulder and forcing him deeper into the couch--it's enough, he's convinced. Wilson tugs at his tie, loosening it around his neck, then slips it off with a quick hiss of fabric. He heads to the couch, feeling like he's in a trance, and pulls Foreman away from House. He's here. If this is what House wants, Wilson wants it too.
He kisses Foreman first, because it's easier. They start slowly, but Foreman turns impatient and playful, nudging closer and then backing off. The two of them kneel over House on the couch, and by the time Wilson realises that there are more hands than he can account for groping at him, his shirt is flapping open, untucked from his pants. House sits up, then, and murmurs in his ear, "Easy," and Wilson's caught between rolling his eyes and laughing, because this is anything but.
"Come on," Foreman says, standing up. He offers his hand to Wilson and pulls him up, shoving his shirt off his shoulders and then kissing him again. Wilson does his best, clumsy with the distraction, to undo Foreman's buttons too, while they wait for House to get to his feet. They both know him well enough not to try and help.
House glares at them, then he finds his cane and heaves himself up. He swats Wilson's calf with it, then growls, "Get going," and heads for the bedroom.
Foreman eases back and raises an eyebrow at Wilson. Somehow his conceited grin is much hotter when he's smug because of how he can rumple Wilson to breathless disarray. "Yeah," Wilson says, and they follow House down the hallway.
Wilson worries that getting undressed will be awkward, but it's not at all; Foreman stands in front of House, sitting on the bed, and strips off his t-shirt and jeans with practiced efficiency. He glosses over House's leg like it's nothing, which isn't surprising now, but Wilson wonders if he ignored it the same way his first time with House, and if that had anything to do with why House let this grow as complicated as it has. When Foreman takes off his clothes, he shows more grace than Wilson's ever seen, and his body is amazingly beautiful, warm rolling muscles and smooth skin. He looks over his shoulder at Wilson, once, and his eyes are soft enough to be nothing but invitation.
Wilson loses track then, because they tangle together on the bed, and it's nothing but contrasts. He holds Foreman's back, firm and broad, and House's hands are touching him, long clever fingers finding places he didn't even know he could feel so good. House bites at his chest and collarbone, mutters, "Flirt," and "Moron," and other love-words into Wilson's skin. Foreman laughs and kisses House, his hand reaching for House's erection and stroking him until he's hard. "Shut up," he says, and House does, mostly, keeping his groans low and panting.
Then, Wilson's kneeling behind Foreman, where he can press his dick into the curve of his ass. He pumps Foreman from behind, and Foreman closes his eyes, his mouth open in a silent groan. Over his shoulder, Wilson can see House's face, his eyes sleepy with desire, and for a moment, House's hand joins his on Foreman's cock and they're stroking him in syncopation. There's no rhythm to it, and Foreman thrusts gently into their hands, his breath hissing between his teeth. "I want," Wilson says, "I want to watch you fuck him." He watches House's eyes as he says it, watches him lick his lips in anticipation.
"Turn over," Foreman orders, and House hesitates for only a second before he rolls over without a word. Foreman stretches out, sorting through the mess on House's bedside table until he finds a condom and a bottle of lube.
"Let me," Wilson says, hoarsely. Foreman glances at him, then hands over the lube. Wilson opens it and spreads it over his fingers, slick and warming in his hands. House shudders when Wilson first touches him, sliding one finger along his ass to his perineum. Wilson presses two fingers in, slowly, wondering if it'll be too much, but House is already impatient, pushing back. Foreman rips open the condom and rolls it on. He's on House's other side, massaging his shoulders, one hand covering Wilson's on House's shoulder to keep him still. Wilson shifts so that he can work another finger in, and mutters into House's spine, "I know. I know what you want," as he reaches further, deeper. More lube, and then Wilson fingers him again, until House gasps, his back jumping sharply underneath Wilson's hand.
"Think you could get on with it?" House says to the pillows, and his voice grits harshly in his throat.
"Thought I was a tease?" Wilson asks him. "At least, so you said..."
"I was talking," House says, "to Foreman," and each word comes out its own breath, while he fucks himself on Wilson's fingers like he can't, doesn't ever want to stop.
"Someday you're going to learn some fucking patience," Foreman mutters, but he's already moving into place, holding himself as he slides in. Wilson drops back to the bed, breathing hard, because House is pushing up on his elbows and his good leg, and Foreman is panting with every thrust. Sweat gathers between them. Wilson can't help touching himself, trying to find the same rhythm.
"Come on," Foreman says, his voice pitched high and urgent. "Christ, House, come on--"
Wilson reaches out, right-handed and awkward, and lets his hand stroke along House's back. House grabs his arm, shoving it against his stomach, until Wilson's hand is trapped between House and the bed, and he barely has enough leverage to grasp his dick. House groans and his movements turn stutter-sharp, and a second later he comes, hot and sticky over Wilson's arm. A moment later, Foreman moans, and collapses to one side, rolling over and panting up at the ceiling.
Wilson strokes himself faster, closing his eyes and reaching for his climax. House makes an irritated sound and pushes himself up. "Stop it," he says, batting Wilson's hand aside, and then he moves lower and closes his mouth over Wilson's dick.
Wilson rolls his head back, sprawling shamelessy under the wet heat of House's mouth, the quick gliding movement of his tongue. "Oh," he says, losing track of his words even as they fall out of him, "fuck, House, oh--"
Somewhere near his ear, Foreman's whispering, "Yeah, suck it, House, do him," and then he's kissing Wilson, his breath hot and moist, and Wilson kisses him back until he feels like every touch is the same touch, House's mouth moving on his cock and Foreman's hands rubbing across his chest. It's so fucking hot, and House is holding him down, fingers digging into his hipbones, and Wilson moans into Foreman's mouth, moving into the pleasure as well as he can. He's ablaze with electricity, completing the circuit between them, thrusting helplessly into House's mouth. His orgasm overtakes him without warning, flooding bright and hot through his body, until he's left lying boneless and panting, sweat-sticky and sated.
House licks him slowly for a moment longer, then shoves up on the bed and buries himself face-down in the sheets. He turns sideways just long enough to eye Foreman and say, "Shouldn't you be off somewhere getting your beauty sleep? We've got a patient to kill tomorrow. Or is that cure? Either way, you come in late, your ass is fired."
"Good night to you, too, House," Foreman says, but there's nothing put-out about his voice. He gets to his feet and reaches matter-of-factly for his clothes. He pulls on his shirt and pants, throws his tie around his neck, and picks up his socks and shoes. Wilson watches, seeing in the way that Foreman dresses that this is their routine. It's easy to picture Foreman throwing House out of his place in exactly the same way. It's all a ritual where neither of them has to care in the least, right up until the last moment, when Foreman brushes a hand down the center of House's back in a way that's almost tender. House grunts softly, a sound that's already half-asleep, an acknowlegement.
Foreman glances at Wilson as he pulls his hand away. Wilson waits for him to speak. Foreman looks at House again, and only nods, as if to himself. He leaves the room quietly, and Wilson listens until he hears the click of the apartment door, as well.
Wilson closes his eyes, listening to House breathe, deep and regular. The strangest part of all is that House hasn't nudged him out of bed, throwing him back to the lumpy couch. He wonders if he should follow Foreman. Maybe leaving is supposed to be something he figures out on his own. But then House's fingers brush against his arm, gripping his wrist lightly, as if he's searching for a pulse, and then he's still again. Wilson sighs, relaxing, glad he doesn't have to move. Not tonight, anyway.
But even as he slides into sleep, with House's fingertips circling his wrist, Wilson's still waiting for the moment when House will kick him out.
***
It's been a long time since Wilson woke up pressed into the warmth of another body. It's comfortable in a way that means more than the missing blankets and morning breath. As he drifts out of sleep, Wilson's aware that he's lying on his back, and that House is tucked next to him from shoulder to hip, long and muscle-lean, with his knobby knee brushing Wilson's thigh.
"You can quit faking," House says, and if it's his usual sharp voice then it's too early for Wilson to pretend away the fond note he hears underneath. "No, you can't have five more minutes, and yes, you do have to go in to work today."
"Do you give yourself the same speech every morning?" Wilson asks, giving in and opening his eyes. He wants to hide the way his heart stops when he finds House leaning over him, resting on one elbow. There's nothing beautiful about him. Tiredness draws bags under his eyes, and up close there's more salt than pepper in his stubble. Still, Wilson can't help the smile tugging at his lips, the way his chest tingles as if he's not getting quite enough oxygen.
"Since Cuddy refuses to program her voice into my alarm clock, it's the best I've got," House says. "Get up. You're a lump when you sleep."
"Mmm," Wilson says, and yawns just to be contrary. "Didn't feel you kicking."
"Possible CIPA symptoms, too," House growls. He pokes Wilson in the ribs, roughly, and Wilson jerks away. "Much better."
Wilson rubs his ribs, but the annoyance isn't enough to entirely break up the lazy edge of sleep. He yawns again and watches House through half-closed eyes. House shakes his head, like he can't believe it's come to this, then wraps his hand around the back of Wilson's neck, forcing him up. Wilson blinks at the change, and lifts himself enough to meet House's lips without straining his neck. House kisses him, slow and tender, his thumb rubbing circles at the base of Wilson's skull, where the tension always seems to build. Wilson feels his entire body loosen, falling open, warming like wax under a flame. He nudges closer to House and kisses him unabashedly, anchoring himself with one hand on House's shoulder.
"House," he says, a little breathless, not quite a moan. He wants to see House's face, and he draws back for a breath to look for that expression, uncomplicated by Foreman's presence.
It's there, for an instant, and then House rolls sideways and grabs his cane all in one movement. He sits on the edge of the bed, his back turned to Wilson, and says, "The hospitality suite closes today."
"What?" Wilson asks, even though it's completely clear what House means.
"Time's up," House says. He climbs to his feet, cautiously, and Wilson can see the marks that pain has left, in the line of his back, in the off-center development of his muscles. "I could've found a dozen apartments in two weeks. You're cut. Off the dole."
With that, House limps out of the room. Wilson hears the bathroom door shut, the hiss of the shower. It feels nothing at all like an ending. Wilson turns his face to the sheets, warm from their bodies, smelling sharply of sex. He knows he's awake, that this is real.
He dresses in carefully-pressed clothes, and takes his suitcase with him when he goes.
***
Cameron's making coffee and Chase is paging through a medical journal when Wilson wanders in, halfway through a very boring morning of budget planning and staff requirement meetings. It's been impossible to keep focused, and he's just called a break with a well-worn smile, one that his staff will take as sympathy rather than strain. Wilson glances at the whiteboard, and he's grateful to see that it's a whirl of symptoms in House's block capitals, some underlined and others linked with helpful arrows. He waits while the coffee drips through, then pours himself a cup after Cameron and Chase take theirs. "What's the current theory?" he asks, nodding towards the board.
"Could be Wegener's granulomatosis," Cameron says, eternally hopeful.
Chase grins and shakes his head. "Foreman's taking the history. We'll know more then."
Wilson nods absently, and takes a sip of his coffee. The heat is welcome, but he feels disconnected, listening with half an ear to Cameron and Chase debate the significance of the patient's various symptoms. A minute later, Foreman pushes into the conference room with House on his heels, mid-argument. "She's prone to infections, her family doctor forwarded her history, and with the white cell count--"
House heads for the whiteboard and starts scribbling. "Let's poll the masses," he says, capping his pen and turning to Cameron and Chase. "Who here has a specialty in infectious disease--me?"
Cameron rolls her eyes. Foreman slaps the chart down on the conference table, glaring. Chase tentatively raises his hand.
"That's one for me," House says. "Or choice B, the woman who doesn't have so much as a temperature to go with her astonishingly high white count? No one? Great, I win, one-zip. Now, let's get going." He pivots on his cane and starts barking orders, sending Chase off to prep the patient for an angiogram and Cameron to plead her way into an earlier appointment with the MRI machine. "And, Foreman, since you're so interested in the history, track down what we can verify about these former infections. Hearsay is only for criminals who are probably guilty anyway." House glances at Wilson, dismisses him completely, and heads into his office. "She better not be dead before something interesting turns up," he calls over his shoulder, "or I'm bringing popcorn to the next M and M. Nothing goes better with mortality and morbidity than the taste of artificial butter."
Cameron shrugs, and follows Chase out the door. Foreman gives a disgusted sigh and turns to follow them.
"It's not going to last, between you," Wilson says. Maybe only to the empty room. Maybe Foreman's already out of earshot, or doesn't care. But the hiss of the pneumatic door pauses, and Wilson turns to see Foreman standing impatiently on the threshold.
"Don't you think I know that?" Foreman says. He taps one hand against the glass, irritated, then comes back in to the conference room. "What do you think, that what House and I have got is true love? That I want to chain myself to that for the rest of my life? I'm actually not that crazy."
Wilson straightens his shoulders, frowning. "You've been together for months."
"Look, Dr. Wilson. I'm only going to say this once. You want to know why House is with me? The big secret? It's that I'm not you." Foreman points at him, a short jab of his finger. "I know how to leave. You don't."
"Actually," Wilson says dryly, "he kicked me out. It's a moot point, I guess--"
Foreman gives an exaggerated roll of his eyes. "Of course he did. You've probably got him shit-scared that he might be in love."
"House may not be capable of that emotion," Wilson says, trying not to sound bitter.
"Bullshit," Foreman says. "I think I know what the man is capable of, by now. And I'm not the only one." He looks pointedly at Wilson, and then he shrugs. "Believe what you like. I don't really care." With that, he heads out into the hall, already paging through the patient's file.
Wilson stands in the empty conference room, left with the burble of the coffee machine, the sigh of the breeze through the open balcony window. In his office, House is fiddling with his iPod, his feet propped up on his desk. When House looks up, Wilson doesn't turn away, even though House has caught him at it again, wanting what House won't let him have. Wilson might say something, but the glass walls of the office would muffle any sounds, and he's trapped, anyway, by House's expression. A little hurt, a little scared, a lot yearning. House isn't going to let it show any time except now.
You know what I want, House said, and it's true. House hates to lose. What House wants is to know it's possible between them, and keep playing it safe anyway. For now. For as long as House wants, until maybe, one day, he thinks it might be worth it to take a chance. He wants Wilson to accept that for now, and in that moment, if it ever comes, he wants Wilson not to say no.
Wilson has rounds in an hour, a full afternoon of patient consults after that. When he needs to be, he'll be in control; he'll be Dr. James Wilson, compassionate and caring, the man anyone can turn to in a crisis.
Until then, he goes back to his office, leaving the balcony door unlocked, and waits for House.
end
69. Foreman/House/Wilson - House and Foreman have a little somethin'-somthin' going on (if you know what I mean) when Wilson comes to stay with House. Revelations occur. |
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