Title: Forgive Me if I Slip Away
Rating: Hard R.
Summary: House is just in it for the sex, in the end. There's nothing more to this than the physical, and familiarity breeds a form of comfort. That's all it is, really. And so when Wilson says that, he'll just miss the easy piece of ass. And the cooking.
Disclaimer: If I worked on House, I wouldn't have time to write fic.
Notes: Thanks to my beta, stephbass, and my friend Arqueete for the song.
Forgive Me if I Slip Away
Sometimes it's the way the brown of his eyes glints at him when he says something snarky. Other times it's when he's serious or blank or focused.
Usually it's just because he's bored and he likes the sound of voice before it darkens, the color of his face as it lights up beside him, the hitch of his breath as he puts his face near his and lets his breath fall on his neck.
And it's a done deal when his hands slide up under James' shirt and he lets out that little groan.
House doesn't like to think that Wilson's got him at that, got him at a point where he can't back out of it, because then he isn't in control and it's a notion of romanticism, of connection that he isn't ready to admit just yet. Sure, he likes the look of Wilson's frame as he leans over the sink or the shape of his bulk curving into the bed, silhouetted against the pitch of the room. But that's just familiarity.
And so when Wilson's eyes are narrowing at him in the hospital, the dying sounds of a derogative statement fading from his lips, he tells himself it's just because he won't be getting any tonight. He takes a Vicodin and he rubs at his temples and he stares out his window. Because this is nothing more than the physical touch. Nothing more than the glint of an eye or a ghost of a scent. Nothing more than the indentation on his pillow next to his in the morning when Wilson wakes him up, slipping off to preen in the bathroom.
The silence of the figure on the couch when he comes through the door is perhaps the worst noise he's heard all day, but he limps to the bathroom, knocks Wilson's shaving kit into the sink. Oops. How did that happen? He leans over the sink and splashes water on his face, rubbing at his eyes. He's in the mirror behind him when he stands up.
"Do you get pleasure from tearing down others?"
He stares for a few moments before he wipes at his face with a towel, talking to the reflection that's staring him down. "You are aware who you're talking to. You're not sleeping with Cameron."
A glare and he's gone from the mirror. He has the good grace to set down the towel and rub his hand over his face before he limps back out, finds him on the couch again. He sits next to him, sees a glass with frost along the sides sitting in front of his usual seat. He casts a look between Wilson and it before he picks it up and takes a sip.
"Maybe this isn't a good idea." And it feels like the world swirls around his ears when he turns his head, as if the air has turned to clay. He eyes Wilson suspiciously. "This, us." He answers House's unspoken question. House watches Wilson's cheeks as they color. "If you can even call this an 'us.'"
"You knew what you were getting into." It's a small statement and he manages to breathe it out, wonders why he's so worked up over losing the best piece of ass he's had in a while. He doesn't let himself muse over the literal nature of that sentiment.
Wilson sighs and pulls a hand over his face. "I didn't think…" It goes unfinished and neither one has the effort left to change that.
The silence is heavy and it descends swiftly. They don't speak again, quietly watch the television. The clock ticks away and then Wilson is turning to House, and House watches Wilson hovering next to him. His heart beats against his chest but he stays still, waits to see what Wilson will do.
"Fuck." It isn't a command but an expletive and it's uttered under his breath as he drops his head, actually leans in to put it against House's shoulder. It's intimate and strange and he shifts in his seat but Wilson doesn't move until House's heart has stopped pounding. And then their eyes are meeting and he isn't sure if he's seen Wilson looking as miserable at that moment. He wonders if it's how he looks when he catches Wilson watching him sometimes, that line of worry creasing his brow. He doesn't have much more time to think about it because Wilson's mouth is against his.
The rest is motion.
Hands rake over skin and dip into hair and peel away clothes. Breath mingles as it wanders across paths. Eyes darken as voices cry out softly, grunt against the dark bedroom. They linger there longer than usual, crushed against the other with their mouths joined. A whispered command and positions are changed, and House decides maybe it wouldn't be so bad if he said he lived for the way Wilson's eyes flicker as his breath brushes against his ear.
That's just the sex talking, though, and he thrusts deeply, watching Wilson's hands curl against House's pillow, grinning as he slides his hands against hips, holding firmly and ohgod his eyes are sliding shut because this, really, is all he's here for anyway. It isn't how he can still taste Wilson's skin on his lips or the way his hair gets matted across his forehead like that, so different from how he meticulously styles it in the morning.
It's how he can make Wilson look like that, how he can angle his hips and find that right place to make Wilson groan out his name, his muscles straining and his body rigid while House curls a hand around Wilson's cock. It isn't how he nearly cries out Wilson's name when he empties himself.
They're silent when it's over. They're men and they sleep naked because who cares? Clothes get twisted and hot around slick skin and they never fail to get the other one coated in layer of sweat. The covers are pulled back and Wilson relinquishes House's pillow—he doesn't think about how Wilson always uses his for this—and they settle in, close enough to feel the body heat rolling off the other.
"I knew what I was getting into."
It's soft and he has to strain to hear it.
"I just didn't think I'd get so far into it."
But Wilson is on his side and he's turning out the lamp on the nightstand. House stares at the ceiling, watches the shapes dance in the dark. He thinks about when Wilson wasn't there next to him, when he didn't know what it was like to breathe words in his ear and hear Wilson utter miserable grunts of satisfaction. He turns his head to look at the bulk next to him, silhouetted against the pitch.
"Maybe this isn't a good idea," he tells the sheets, hearing his own voice rumble in his chest. He watches as Wilson stops breathing, feels the room chill around him. He thinks about what it'd be like if Wilson wasn't there in the morning. "But that's never stopped me before."
They face away from each other when they sleep. He wakes up when Wilson starts the shower. They avoid eye contact in the car ride to work, don't eat lunch together. It's in the silence of the night when the moon is behind a cloud that they shut their eyes against each other in the night, curled against the bed. They pretend to be asleep when their fingers brush under the covers.