Salacious Removal
By Angelfirenze

Disclaimer: Not mine, which everyone and the ants in the basement bathroom hiding from the cold outside should know.

Summary: He knows that feeling far too well. And, really, who to make it better than the biggest, bestest control freak to conquer all control freaks--Worrier Cuddy, who even gives Mother Hen Wilson a run for his money? Who better to make this cataclysmic, vitriolic dimension they seem stuck in go away? Or, at the very least, become a little less vivid.

Rating: FRMA. Like it could be anything else, really.

get-house-laid prompt: 331. House/Cuddy/Wilson -- Cuddy is ambushed. Risky/semi-public sex, half-naked sex, double penetration.

Timeline: Early Season Two, around 'Daddy's Boy'. Yeah, let's just say it's that one since it's my favorite from that season. nods

Notes: I have no idea why this was so difficult to get started on. I've decided to make like Abby Sciuto and 'let my fingers do the talking' since my brain doesn't seem like it wants to get it the right gear. Mentions of 'Three Stories'.

Inspiration: Um. Way too much time on my hands? Ah, yes, and my favorite Interpol song from their album, Antics, 'Length of Love', which is my penultimate House/Cuddy/Wilson song and also supplied the title. 'A Gentleman Caller' by Cursive comes in at a close second.

The world we live in is this one, House thinks to himself as he watches Jimmy reach out and grab Cuddles around her waist and haul her into House's office sometime in the ridiculously middle of the night. Part of him wonders why he's still here. There's nothing he can do for his patient and his parents have jetted off to Europe, his mother's eyes alight like they'd never seen any of it before.

He pauses, watching Jimmy's hand come to cover Cuddy's mouth and listening to him shush her, and wonders when he became so cynical. House knows, for all intents and purposes, that the kid was dead before he ever landed in the hospital and it may have had something to do with the week-old Chinese food that House had eaten the night before because at the time it hadn't looked all that bad (he was very, very wrong in that case), but maybe the downward slant of Jimmy's chicken scratch across House's whiteboard should have told him the case wasn't going to go well.

Then again, the fact that Jimmy hit him over the head with the damned case should have told him that, too. Still, there's nothing he can do about it now but the strangely cold feeling he's had all day (not that his leg has been properly warm in recent memory) has intensified and he just wants it to go away. Some small part of him thinks that Jimmy may have lost a patient today, or else one took a sudden downward spike. The strange little twist of a smile Jimmy'd had combined with those eyes told him that something hadn't gone the way it should have.

He knows that feeling far too well. And, really, who to make it better than the biggest, bestest control freak to conquer all control freaks--Worrier Cuddy, who even gives Mother Hen Wilson a run for his money? Who better to make this cataclysmic, vitriolic dimension they seem stuck in go away? Or, at the very least, become a little less vivid.

He'd rather something else be bright for a while.

This could be destiny, oh, sweetheart...

"Have you two lost your--" Lisa starts to snap but Wilson silences her with a kiss, his eyes closing at the sensation of her lips on his. He almost wishes House's Vicodin were intravenous because right now, he feels empty and lost on the outside and that walk to Cameron's car and her expectations that he explain a relationship (or three, really) he's only ever seen from a peripheral view as though he has the answers for everything didn't improve anything. He sort of wishes he did. He sort of wonders why House seems to just let it go when he does something so needless and bitter as lying. He never gets away with it, anyway. But it's a matter of control, he knows, because House wants it but gives it freely to him and while he doesn't understand why, that doesn't stop him from testing the waters.

Still, it seems...well, he doesn't know what it seems like, but he knows that every time House realizes that Wilson's lied to him again and gets that faintly shocked and oddly innocent look of dismay in his eyes, it sends a thrill through him that he doesn't quite know what to do with.

He almost--no, he wishes House wouldn't trust him so much. Maybe then, he wouldn't feel so heavy inside. It doesn't help that his profession, by the very nature of it, has what most others would call a very high failure rate. But maybe that's why he went into Oncology in the first place. He remembers House's words on deaths of patients.

"It's like asking an architech to explain why their building fell down."

But what happens when the foundation is sound, but rotting sets in and the entire thing falls in on itself? Or there's a tornado, or...

Wilson trails his lips along Lisa's collar and circles around to take hold of her waist in both hands. She's not talking anymore, just breathing, and he knows that he and House are going to pay dearly for this, but he can't help but go along. After all, for the first time in a long time, this wasn't his idea.

...It wasn't quite what it seems, the lack of pleasantries, my able body isn't what it used to be...

House can see in Wilson's eyes that he wants them both. Wilson may think he wants to be fucked, give over, lose, but he can't. It's just something House knows, the same as he knows that Wilson's ties are specious and ugly. Foreman's are, too, but he can't forgive that as readily. And at least Wilson would...

House pauses, trying to ignore the throb in his cock, because the idea of Foreman giving him a blowjob as opposed to Wilson giving him one is not supposed to be a good thing. It isn't a good thing. Fucking cock, he thinks for a second, glaring at the tent in the front of his jeans. As awesome as a blowjob from Foreman (or almost anyone, probably, given his endless capacity for open-mindedness on certain subjects barring a situation where he'd be killed) would probably be, it just wouldn't be as good as if he could run his hands through Wilson's hair or, even better, Cuddy's.

Wilson may want to be fucked, House believes, but in the end he'll take the control. And House will freely give it. He's getting too tired to care why. And bored, don't forget bored.

...Feelings entwine in the heat of the night...

She's going to kill them both, she's decided. Just as soon as she comes, she's going to turn into the praying mantis House always says she is and eat his head. She got a run in her stockings after her little (daily) interruption earlier and the rip is getting bigger with each passing hour. She doesn't want to think about how that may or may not mirror what passes for her life so for now she'll just watch as House slowly (because how else can he rise after what she's put him through?) gets to his feet and the drop in her stomach has nothing to do with the pure want she sees in his eyes. Impossible. No one's looked at her like that in forever and the rip gets a little...smaller as he comes over to her and gently cups her left breast through the fabric of her blouse, which Wilson has spent the last several moments slowly removing, replacing each inch with gentle nips on her shoulders and arms and there's House's thumb grazing back and forth over her nipple and it's all she can do not to moan when Wilson reaches under her skirt and trails a finger over the skin exposed by that...God, that lovely tear. She has to bite her lip now and she can feel House's stubble just barely brushing over her clavicle before his tongue darts out to taste her skin and his lips follow suit.

It's like a train, she thinks mindlessly, torn between yelling at them and grabbing both and...whatever she's been thinking, House's fingers dancing up and skimming into her panties as Wilson's hands lift her skirt sends her thoughts careening away. Who the hell cares what she's been thinking? Before she can register having done it, her hand is cupping the back of House's neck pressing his mouth onto hers, the other guiding his hand where she needs it, glad there are so many hands (she can't tell whose hands are whose and doesn't particularly care) to do what she needs them to. She gasps as Wilson begins to run the tip of his erection up and down the slit of her ass and suddenly it occurs to her that she would like nothing better than both of them inside her. She's sure that either would readily fuck the other and just the thought of that pulls another moan out of her. She wonders what it would be like to be a barrier between the two of them, as close as they are. She suddenly has a fierce ache to see what they'd do to overcome her obstacle.

But maybe that's just her vindictive side showing through.

...Good God, you're coming up with reasons...Good God, you're dragging it out...

"Both of you...now..." Cuddy moans. House chuckles and catches Jimmy's eyes over her shoulder where he's grinding away like a...well, hell, they're all in heat if he's going to say that. The look of surprised intrigue doesn't last long as Cuddy's hand comes to close around his cock and he can't do anything but shut his eyes and groan at the sensation of her dragging his penis out of his pants and rubbing it through all that wonderful, slick heat. Yup, he's a ready and willing participant, all right. Then he remembers that this was something he suggested and he'd be mystified at that if he wasn't slipping inside her right now.

Yeah, pretty much otherwise engaged. Brain, feel free to take a vacation. The joystick's earning its title right now.

But apparently, he can multitask after all because Jimmy's lips are crushing his all of a sudden and he's not expecting it so his mouth opens and Jimmy's tongue starts counting his teeth and God, he tastes good. Cuddy's hands are pressing against his chest and he manages to maneuver them all over to the desk in front of the balcony doors because it looks as though he's definitely going to need to sit for a while.

...Hum hallelujah, just off the key of reason...I thought 'I love you' was just how you looked in the light...

Wilson's brain is melting, he's sure of it. He's fucking Cuddy, who's fucking House. Or is House fucking Cuddy? He's too busy staring at the unbelievably perfect roundness of Cuddy's ass as he rams into her and part of him wonders if he might hurt her, but with the way she's reaching back to clutch at him the way she'd been gripping House a few minutes ago, she can't be that upset. All the hot showers and imagination and the Ivory soap House keeps in his bathroom in the world (well, actually, just in House's bathroom since that wouldn't be the world...or maybe it is...is he drunk?) doesn't measure up to tasting House on his tongue and feeling Cuddy on his cock. Fantasies are tantalizing and brief and this...well, it probably is, too, but at least he won't feel quite so alone in his solitude when this is over.

His heart pitches and Wilson realizes he doesn't want this to be over. But it will be. It always is.

...Leave my eyes in the clouds again...

House isn't quite sure, but he thinks he might be able to feel Wilson somewhere in here. His hands are tangling themselves in Cuddy's hair and around the hand Wilson has gripping her waist and they're all settled into an interesting rhythm where they've figured out how much weight his leg can take but he can feel them leaning on him and it's interesting in how extrinsic this entire experience is. Nobody but strangers depends on him (unless you count Wilson's twisted dependence on being needed by him) and right now if he were to stop, not only would he not achieve a satisfying conclusion, no one else would, either. Odd, that. Even more strange is how...well, he doesn't think 'responsible' is quite the right word to use right now. Not when any of the janitors or night nurses or who the hell ever could walk right by that door (and probably are, though mostly likely they'll have stopped to enjoy the show) and see them in all their...is this glory? Then his balls begin to tighten and Cuddy's trying to muffle her moans but can't quite manage it and Wilson's swearing as quietly as he possibly can and he's gripping some part of both of them as he feels himself run right up to that precipice and fall off of it.

Good riddance, he almost thinks, but wonders what would become of them and grips them a little harder, hoping he can pull them with him.

...Before we knew it, we stopped caring 'bout where we would do it...

Maybe one switch set off another, like a set of dominoes, but when they came it was as if someone had set off a chain of bombs or something. Only quieter. But this is really only a point of reference because the silence that set in afterward as they clung to one another, as if for dear life, was louder than any sounds they could have made only seconds before. Cuddy's first conscious thought is to worry about it, but she's trapped between House and Wilson and there's nowhere for her to go. She doesn't understand why Wilson won't get off her and let her go change her pantyhose so she can finish looking over those budget reports, and she almost wants to growl at him to move, but the tears in his eyes when she looks back at him stop her cold. House is watching both of them, too, she knows. She can feel his eyes on her like searchlights and feels flooded with his gaze. Dimly, she registers his hand stroking the top of hers and sees the other pass her head to go to Wilson somehow and instantly the urge to flee is gone, replaced by a laxity that presses her back into House's embrace and pulls Wilson with her.

It can wait, she thinks and wraps her arms around House's chest, taking comfort in their warmth and the quiet of the late night.

...I will wait for you, she said endlessly...

Wilson lets his head drop onto Lisa's shoulder and sobs as she places a hand on the back of his head.

...Paid vacation (more!), entertainment (more!), conversation (more!) gratuitous gratification...

House watches Wilson cry as Cuddy lays her hand on his head and reaches a finger out to touch one of the trails of tears now wending down his face. He brings his finger up and licks it. There's sour of Wilson and sweet of Cuddy on his hand and yeah, that decrepit Chinese food was definitely the wrong thing to eat this week, but whatever.

...The weight of the things we left unspoken built up so much it crushed us every day...

FIN