Title: Reality Bites
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Heel and Toe Films, Shore Z Productions and Bad Hat Harry Productions in association with Universal Media Studios.
A/N: Written for gethouselaid prompt: House/Wilson -- The first time House has sex after his infarction.
Beta: the always fabulous and wonderful triedunture
Wilson had known it was coming at some point, but even so, it came as a great shock when it finally happened.
It was a Saturday morning, and he was standing on a chair in his living room, about to change the light bulb that had gone out nearly a week ago, when the phone rang. He clambered down to answer it, bulb in hand.
"James?" Stacy's voice, unusually high-pitched, strained. "I've left him."
Wilson felt a hollow feeling in his stomach. "No. Stacy--"
"James, I just can't take it any more. I've accepted that job in Short Hills; I'm on my way right now." There was a pause: Wilson could hear traffic in the background, cars moving quickly. He pictured her driving along the freeway. "I know you'll look after him. Goodbye, James." The line went dead.
Wilson hung up slowly. He stood still for a moment, trying to absorb the implications, then abandoned the dead bulb on the chair and headed for his car.
He drove straight to House's apartment and let himself in after only a perfunctory knock on the door. The living room felt immediately empty. Books, photographs, trinkets and CDs that had nestled on shelves there for years were gone; Stacy really had packed up and left.
Wilson went through to the bedroom. The curtains were drawn shut. A figure lay hunched up on the far side of the bed: House, fully dressed on top of the covers.
"Go away," House muttered.
Instead, Wilson kicked off his shoes, lay down gently next to House and put one hand on House's hip. House tried to shake him off, but Wilson wasn't moving, and after a minute House gave up.
They both lay there for a long time, quiet and still. The room was dark and peaceful. Wilson knew at some point they'd have to speak, discuss things, figure out how the hell House would go on now that Stacy was gone... but all of that could wait. Right now it was more important just to be there. And it was kind of nice, even in the circumstances, to have House resting under his hand. To feel House's hip bone arching through fabric under his palm. It made Wilson feel curiously comfortable.
It had been a long time since he'd lain next to House like this. The last six months had been spent tiptoeing around House and Stacy and their constant, furious fights. Before that, Wilson had been away, and there'd not been much opportunity before that, what with Stacy living there with House for so many years... Wilson realized with a sudden shock that this wasn't the case any more.
The irony was never lost on Wilson that after two failed marriages, he had himself finally been free and single when House, damnit, had gone and fallen in love with Stacy. And somehow Wilson had stayed more or less single ever since, while House and Stacy had gotten ever more close. And House, the monogamous bastard, had always been so full of hang-ups about fucking around while he'd been in a relationship with her. The guilt had usually been conveniently forgotten in the heat of the moment with Wilson underneath him naked and squirming, but invariably came back to bite House in the ass, making it even longer until the next time--
And for the first time in what, five years?--there would be no guilt trip to cast a shadow, because there would be no Stacy.
Wilson felt a hard-on coming and told himself firmly that this really wasn't appropriate right now. For fuck's sake, it had hardly been an hour since she had upped and left, and here he was, feeling the warmth of House's body only inches away, and wanting to move forward and press against that curved back, pushing his cock up against House's tailbone and reaching around to feel--
No, Wilson admonished himself. So not the time. He contented himself with stroking House's hip, just a small circular movement. His fingers traced downwards slightly, and he felt House flinch slightly: Wilson stopped hastily, realizing he'd been moving towards House's bad thigh.
Eventually House shifted position so he was lying on his back. Wilson hesitated, wondering what to do, when House unexpectedly reached over, grabbed Wilson's shoulder, and pulled Wilson towards him. Wilson was taken aback, and especially so when House kissed him very ferociously on the mouth. Tongue forcing in, the grate of enamel against enamel. He felt House's own cock press against his own through his pants and it was hard, even harder than Wilson's own. And then House bit Wilson sharply on the lip.
"Ow." Wilson let out a sharp exclamation as he tasted blood. He felt his lip start to swell up immediately.
He was sufficiently distracted by his ballooning lip that it took him a second to notice that House hadn't even paused, just carried on with sharp toothy kisses across Wilson's chin and down his neck. Wilson shuddered slightly as House's hair brushed lightly against his nose, tickling. House then nipped him twice more on the neck--hard, painful nips that Wilson knew were going to leave bruises.
"House!" Wilson hissed. Wilson pushed House away slightly, and House moved downwards and bit him on the shoulder. A proper bite this time, right through the cloth of Wilson's T-shirt.
"Fuck!" That had really hurt. Wilson pushed House away properly this time, onto his back.
House looked at Wilson through glazed eyes, and Wilson knew that contrary to what he'd just been telling himself, House wanted to fuck somebody right now, and Wilson was conveniently there. Wilson was well aware that this would be all about the rebound, a revenge fuck, whatever. So fucking what. Wilson was hard himself and House, goddamn it, had a week's growth of stubble on his chin and was as desirable as he always was.
Ignoring the throbbing pain in his lip, neck and shoulder, Wilson sat up and pulled off his jeans and boxers. He left the T-shirt on, as if it might protect him against any more bites. Next to him House was wriggling out of his own boxer shorts. Wilson groped in the nightstand drawer for condoms and lube--still in the same old place, Wilson noted, though pushed to the back of the drawer. House grabbed the condom, ripped the packet open and rolled it on swiftly: he then whisked the tube out of Wilson's hand and slicked on lube.
With House's leg now to be considered, and not being sure what to do about it, Wilson took his cue from House. House obviously wanted to be on his back, so Wilson moved to straddle House, kneeling back carefully, keeping an eye out for House's bad thigh. It lay there black and angry against the white sheets, contrasting markedly to House's red, throbbing cock. Wilson had seen House's potholed thigh many times during all these months of surgery, physical therapy and other treatment, but not like this; not with House's frenzied erection only inches away.
Abruptly, House grasped Wilson by the hips and thrust right up inside him, goddamnit!--much too fast, much too hard. Pain searing up his ass, Wilson really shouted out this time. He reached out to hold the headboard with both hands, partly to steady himself and partly so as to not put pressure on House's leg. House let go of Wilson, arched his back, bucked his hips and grabbed at the mattress with his fists to get leverage. He continued to grind repeatedly, ignoring Wilson's strangled gasps and ignoring Wilson's own hard hot cock slapping between them. Wilson found himself wavering between wanting House to stop, slow down, gimme a break--and yes, go on, do it--
And then with one particularly vicious thrust, House climaxed--and right in the moment, his eyes closed, his head rolled from side to side, and he almost spat out the word, "Stacy."
With House still right up inside him, Wilson froze. House opened his eyes and looked up. Just for a second Wilson saw ice-blue eyes fracture in alarm.
Then Wilson lifted himself and rolled off House. House turned away, pulled the bed covers over himself and buried his head under a pillow. He then reached out from under the covers, grabbed a Vicodin off the nightstand, and disappeared again.
Wilson felt as if all the stuffing had been knocked out of him. He swung himself off the bed and headed abruptly to the bathroom.
In the bathroom, the first thing Wilson did was jerk off. House might have killed the mood stone dead, but Wilson hadn't had sex in a long time and was still too hard to let go of this right now. A couple of swift hand movements and it was over. It was a pretty crappy orgasm, but hey, better than no orgasm at all.
That done, he leaned on the sink and looked up at himself in the mirror. He grimaced: he looked like a wreck. His lip was fast swelling up to twice normal size; the bites on his neck did not look like they would be readily concealed under shirt collars, and his T-shirt was a bloody mess where House had bitten into his shoulder. And that was just the visible marks--Wilson was terribly sore from being fucked far too hard. What the hell did House think he was doing?
Wilson pulled the T-shirt off with difficulty, as it was stuck to his shoulder with congealing blood, and stepped into the shower. With hot water stinging the raw skin on his neck and shoulder, he ran over what had happened in his mind. Stacy. House had been thinking about Stacy, maybe even pretending Wilson was Stacy. Wilson disliked the idea intensely. It made his skin crawl. It made him wonder if House had done that before. He didn't think so but...
House had been in love and living with Stacy for five years and she'd just left. Of course he'd be thinking about her. The surprising thing was that he'd wanted to have sex right now. And had really wanted, though in a desperate way. Wilson had had plenty of love bites from House in his time, had given plenty, too--but they'd usually been playful, almost always affectionate, sometimes intense and passionate, occasionally domineering and possessive--but never nasty. Never vindictive. He could not recall House ever hurting him like that before. Surely House hadn't been like that with Stacy?
Wilson had barely spared more than a passing thought for House and Stacy's sex life since House's infarction: he'd been too busy trying to reconcile, playing the monkey in the middle, the emotional punching bag. Too occupied with worrying about House being able to stand, to walk, to work, to function.
Now he found himself wondering about the reality of House and Stacy trying to have sex. Wilson imagined the initial embarrassment over the appearance of House's leg. The small likelihood of either of them feeling even remotely horny in the windows between House's stressful, resented physical therapy sessions. How they might have struggled to find a position that House could bear while not making him feel humiliated by his new physical inadequacies. Stacy always trying not to express pity, or anything that might be construed as such. And House dealing with the inevitably reduced sex drive that the Vicodin would cause. So much stuff to cope with. No wonder Stacy--
Suddenly Wilson knew exactly what had happened. House would never admit it, nor would Wilson ever ask, but Wilson knew right then that House and Stacy hadn't managed to have sex successfully, at least not to any mutual satisfaction, since the infarction. Which was the best part of six months ago. God, no wonder House had come so quickly just then.
Wilson turned the shower off, and as the water slowed and stopped, trickling down his back, so he also felt his own anger and indignation drain away.
He toweled himself dry, picked his bloody T-shirt off the floor between two fingernails, and decided it really was too disgusting to put back on. He found one of House's T-shirts in a washing basket of clean clothes, removed from the dryer but not yet put away. As Wilson didn't want to go back in the bedroom to rescue his own clothes right now, he also borrowed a pair of boxer shorts and some jeans from the basket. All the clothes hung a little too big on him.
He went into the kitchen, which looked just the way it had done for the last six months, a complete mess. Stacy clearly hadn't bothered trying to retrieve her half of any kitchen equipment; easier to start over with that kind of thing, Wilson supposed. He started washing up, partly just to give himself something to do that didn't involve sitting down.
After a while he heard House get up, and the shower running. Wilson put the coffee machine on.
He was turned towards the counter, his back to the door, when he heard House come into the kitchen. There was the sound of a chair dragging on the floor: House sitting down at the kitchen table.
"Wilson. Go home," House said in a weary tone.
"No can do," Wilson said briskly. "I have to stay here 'til the hickeys fade." He turned sideways, and had the pleasure of seeing House's face switch from grimness to genuine shock as he saw Wilson's now enormously swollen lip. Wilson then tilted his head from side to side to let House see the bruises on his neck, and as a piece de resistance he pulled down the neckline of House's T-shirt he was wearing to expose the bloody bite mark on his shoulder.
At the sight of the last, which looked fairly horrific in the stark daylight of the kitchen, Wilson saw House's doctor instincts took over. House rose to his feet, grabbed his cane, and strode swiftly across the kitchen.
"Lemme see that."
Wilson closed his eyes and stood still while House probed his shoulder, then his neck. Long fingers ran delicately across his tender skin; this was the kind of touch he was used to feeling from House. Grateful to feel it now, Wilson leaned into House's hand, shivered a little, and felt himself coming up in goose bumps.
House then looked at Wilson's lip, and reached up and touched it very gently with the very tip of his finger. The small burning sensation was as intimate as a kiss. Wilson knew this was House's way of saying sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you.
"You're up to date with your tetanus shots?" House asked, his tone gruff.
Wilson nodded. "Uh huh."
"Then you'll be fine. I can guarantee you I don't have rabies. Make sure you keep that shoulder clean." House plucked at the arm of the T-shirt, but didn't comment on its ownership. There was a pause.
"So--go home," House said finally.
"Not everybody leaves," Wilson replied firmly, and pressed a cup of steaming coffee into House's hand.