Genre: House MD
Pairing: House/Wilson friendship and later Slash
Timescale: Early Season 6
Rating: M this part.
Date of Creation: Fall 2009
Summary: House has returned from the Mayfield and Wilson struggles with his feelings
Spoilers: Through to Season 6.
Distribution: Fanfiction. net, otherwise just ask.
Disclaimer: Not mine. David Shore owns everything.
The sun setting in late fall tones, golden, clear, bathing the balcony in rich orange, pink and red. Above in the pink of the sky the mirage of a moon waiting to shine. Wilson leant against the parapet and watched as the evening coloured House's face, like candlelight, smoothing out the lines and shadows which had touched his features. He folded his arms and waited, suddenly in no hurry, content to watch, content to love quietly from the sideline as House finished up for the day.
The case had been solved, Cameron calling from the source of infection, describing fridge contents and pipes, a sink of week old washing up swimming in botulism and an old tank of an illegally siphoned water supply heavy with lead. He had grimaced at the image, the horror of such debris in a place where food was prepared and consumed, and then smiled to see the animation in House's face as he cracked jokes about hookers, about Wilson's cleaning habits and OCD and clichéd repulsed reaction to the discovery. They shared a glance, an intimate smile and Wilson chuckled to himself as House gave orders over the phone. A moment of relief in all the anxiety of the passing days; a genuine touch of familiarity and safety. Now he looked again at his friend and smiled to see the light in his eyes, the way it picked out the tones in his hair, the glow of his skin.
Wilson swept his gaze over House's cheekbones, the line of his jaw, the muscles of his neck. He studied the curve of his Adam's apple, the pattern of stubble, the hollow at the join of his clavicles. Hesitantly he allowed his eyes to linger there, appreciate the texture of his skin, the details of the light pattern of the hair which grew lower on his chest, and swallowed down the tingle of anticipation he felt at his throat.
House had finished the case, tied up the loose ends, even scripted a statement to the waiting media. He had been thorough and bizarrely conscientious and at least a part of that was driven by the knowledge of what was about to happen when he left the hospital. The conversation he had promised Wilson, and whatever came after... the need for that to be sacred and uninterrupted. Private. House was hard to capture, hard to interest, hard to maintain; but when he did focus, his focus was intense, unrelenting. Wilson watched as he closed the cell phone, turned to look at him across the balcony, that intensity now entirely trained on him, and it made him tremble a little inside. No going back. No more diversions. Just him, and House, and the journey home.
His eyes were blue and violet and dappled in the reflection of the fading sunset at Wilson's back.
'Let's go,' House said.
'You want to pick up dinner on the way back?' Wilson winced inwardly at the unnatural strain in his voice, aware of House turning to examine his profile curiously.
'We'll order in,' his reply came, 'After.'
Wilson dared to cast a glance towards the passenger seat. A pair of dark eyes met his in the gloom of the car.
'After we talk,' House explained. He turned his face to the window and looked out across the lanes of traffic.
'Oh... Ok,' Wilson resumed position. They had slowed almost to a halt behind a line of vehicles on the long commute home. Although Wilson's apartment was relatively close to the PPTH the journey could still feel interminably long in rush hours. And interminably long this evening. He was tired and his body felt stiff and awkward. He tried to shift in his seat, pushing down with his free leg to hoist himself upward, readjust his lumbar spine against the angle of the backrest, trying to work his shoulders loose as he continued to grip the wheel.
After we talk.
Wilson's mind flitted over the impending conversation. How much should he say? How much was he certain of? That he loved House? Yes. That House was ready to hear that? probably not. That he was ready to say it out loud? Maybe. Did he want to pursue this? Yes. Did he know how to? No. Did he want a relationship then, a fling, or a friendship with benefits? A level of intimacy above what they already fostered? Yes. How intimate?
He chewed on his lip and the car slowed to a standstill. He was dimly aware that he was tapping his fingertips against the wheel.
You're not exactly new to relationships, how do you usually figure it out?
He loved House. Of that he was certain, had always been certain on some level. When House hurt, which was most of the time, it hurt to look at him. When House did something reckless, Wilson felt nervous. When House succeeded, Wilson felt pride. When House went to the Mayfield, Wilson felt empty. When he came back...
'Wilson! Stop that.'
He started suddenly aware of his reverie. Of his hands tip-tapping on the wheel. Of House's rising irritation.
House rolled his eyes.
'This is driving you nuts isn't it?' House asked.
'Are we... are we talking now?'
'We're driving now,' House corrected. There was a blast from a horn behind them and a muffled shout outside. Wilson jumped, switched pedals, coaxed the Volvo into moving again. 'This is why we're not talking now, because you can't multitask.'
'I'm just a little tired,' Wilson said.
Wilson swallowed, 'Yes I am... and you're not?'
No reply. Just the weight of House's gaze on his cheek. He felt himself flush a little under the scrutiny. Long seconds, crawling in the middle lane, cars either side of them, spinning off onto the turnpike or sliding down into town; choosing directions, overtaking, undertaking. The creak of House's jacket as he turned back to the window, the soft thud of his cane between his knees as he lifted, dropped, lifted it in thought.
'What do you want, Wilson?' he asked suddenly.
A trickle of adrenaline spilled into Wilson's guts as he tried to answer. He wished he wasn't driving, wished he'd done as House had obviously intended and waited until they got home. He stared out into the rear window of the car in front. Counted the heads of the driver and passenger, the dog in the back leaping crazily from side to side, silenced by the distance and the glass.
'I...' he tried to find an answer, knew that if he did it had to be the right one. Something he wanted to say and something House would want to hear. But the truth was he wasn't sure of either; wasn't sure if what he wanted lined up with the needs of his friend. Wasn't even sure of anything beyond the need to feel the touch of his lips again. 'I...'
It felt like that was all he wanted. Like that was everything.
House sighed beside him.
'We're not going to get very far with this conversation unless you know... you converse... Talking is what you do Wilson, talking and 'exploring feelings,'' he framed the words in quote marks with his tone, 'So talk, we're on limited time here, you've got until the next turn off.'
'I... don't know. What do you want?'
'I'm not deflecting, deflecting is your thing. Are you... scared I won't want the same thing?'
'I don't know what you want so it's kinda hard to tell.'
Silence. The churn of gears and tarmac.
'I think...' Wilson began, 'I think we have to acknowledge this, I think maybe it's worth... trying...' God this was hard. So hard. Why wouldn't words come? Why couldn't he summarise this feeling into something concrete, definable?
Because this is love, it doesn't have a definition. It just is.
'Trying...?' House queried. 'Is that the end of the sentence? 'Trying?' Trying what? What do you want, Wilson?'
I want you, I want you.
Wilson could feel his heart rate picking up. If they were at home now, if they were sitting on the couch and not in the damned car then he could reach out, touch his arm or his knee, look into his eyes, use his charm to soften, reassure, express this. But here, half way to home, trapped in the car with his eyes on the road he only had words and they weren't enough. Wilson needed the physical; it was just how he communicated best, with his eyes, with his body.
House knows that. He knows this is torture. Why does he have to knock some sort of confession out of me? He saw it; I know he saw it, in the office. We both know it's there, why do I have to do this?
Because he can't.
'I want to kiss you again,' Wilson said suddenly, 'And after that... well I don't know... I don't know where this might go, House.'
Awkward. Painful. But they were words.
They were picking up speed, moving through traffic, the rush of speed around the vehicle blurring the road to each side. He had to focus now, on the passing cars, on the streetlights, on the signs, on the steering wheel under his hands. Picking up speed, and the slightest movement of his hands now could alter their direction.
'What if it doesn't work?' House's voice quiet against the traffic, just enough for Wilson to hear.
'Then... we ... reconsider, I guess.' Wilson changed lanes and the signs overhead pointed towards home.
'What if...' beside him House looked back through the side window, fidgeted. And Wilson realised why he had brought this up in the car. Because just as much as Wilson need to see, to touch, House couldn't. It was too bare, too raw. He needed the anonymity, the privacy of the dark car and Wilson's eyes on the road, unable to judge. 'What if we lose this,' House managed, 'What if things never go back to how they were... are now?'
Wilson nodded to himself gently. What if... what if. What if House had never gone to the Mayfield? What if he had never risked the DBS treatment? What if Amber had never died? What if Stacey had never left him? What if his infarction had been caught in time, or never happened at all? What if Wilson had never accepted the job in Princeton? What if... things had been different?
He still would have loved him.
And what if all of that just lead to this... what if this was somehow meant?
Wilson could just imagine House's response to such romanticism. But what if... what if they missed this somehow. What if they didn't do this?
A small noise at the end of his name. A question mark, hesitance and a fear. Wilson was the one thing House could always rely on, the one person who even at the worst of times would always be there, would always come back. The one thing he would never admit to needing, deep down on a level with food and air.
The realisation of his friend's fear formed like crystal in Wilson's mind and was reflected in himself. House would never confess what he needed; never believe that his friend might need the same, never believe that he might be enough. Instead he would circle Wilson's orbit for decades with his subtle unconventional infuriating love rather than risk telling him, taking him, losing him.
'You can't lose me, House. You just...' Wilson dropped his eyes to the dashboard, to the row of lights under the wheel and almost turned to his side to look at his companion but he knew that if he did the moment would shattered so instead he looked back again at the road, took the turning to their apartment.
'You can't lose me,' he said again. 'You won't lose me.'
Silence. Thought. Tarmac. The shape of the apartment door.
The car slid to a halt and the engine stopped with a turn of the ignition key. Lights died, the street outside was quiet and empty, leaves and litter twirling in the breeze. Wilson sat in the darkness and listen to the tick and creak of metal, to the deep rustle of House's clothes and his soft exhalation.
It was a tone Wilson had never heard before, deep and breathless, with an overture of longing. It told him that the conversation was over.
In the hallway Wilson reached for the light switch and felt House's warm dry hand close over his, stopping him, pulling him away, towards the solid height of his body.
'Leave it,' A soft whisper spilling warm breath across Wilson's cheek encouraging him to look up, House pulling him in closer, a shape made of bulky outerwear and the cool night air which clung to it. He smelt of fall leaves and soap and the barest trace of sweat, a myriad scent of his day and his essence held in suspension around him. He still gripped Wilson's hand and now reached for another, tugging until they were flush against each other. Dropping his hold House snaked his arms around Wilson's middle and then paused, searching, and finding what he sought.
No-one had ever looked at him that way before, and suddenly Wilson understood the need for darkness. That damaged love might burn in the light, too bright and harsh. In the dusk the blue shine of his eyes seemed greyer, darker; streetlight sparkles in their depths. And open, so open, a cautious window to what was left of House's soul. Wilson let his hands find their way across the broad back he held under them and closed the last of the gap between them, his forehead resting against his companion's, calm, ready.
The stood for a moment, mirrored; steady shared breaths passing between them and then House's head tilted, his lips brushing tentatively against Wilson's mouth, and they were kissing.
It was different. The dreamlike unreality of the first time lifted, replaced with the fire which threatened to streak and burn through Wilson's body, doubts shattered. House's tongue tracing over his lips, burning, parting them; the kiss deepening with insistent grinding rhythm. His hands moved under Wilson's overcoat, pushing it from his shoulders, reaching for his jacket, parting it, working across his body, his clothes; steady, demanding. Reciprocated.
The sound of a zip and House's leather jacket came away, the soft worn material of his button down under Wilson's hands. He looped his fingertips between buttons and sprung them free, another layer of material and warmth, another layer closer. His palms swept across House's chest, catching at a nipple and the soft grunt he received in reply shot to the centre of him with painful longing. Their mouths came apart for seconds at a time, hot breath panting against skin, lips moving across a pulse point, the lobe of an ear.
And hands under his shirt, Wilson's tension racked up a notch as he felt House's fingers run up his spine. He scrabbled for his friend's T-shirt and they came apart as House took over, backed away and pulled it over his own head. Immediately Wilson reached forward again, pulling him back, startled by the heat and burn of skin on skin, abdomens flush, chests pressed to one another, the soft tickle of hair under his mouth as he kissed wetly down House's torso.
House groaned and lifted Wilson's face to kiss his lips again, pressing hard against him, the heavy heat from his groin firm against Wilson's hip, his free hand moving to snatch at a buckle, loop his fingers under the belt and tug.
'Bedroom,' Wilson managed, moving in the darkness, guiding him. When they reached the threshold he didn't search for the light, instead using memory and moonlight to locate the bed, pull House to sit, let his hands slide down the other man's flanks to rest briefly on the top of his jeans. His lips occupied with House's mouth Wilson felt his heart flutter nervously. Under his hands heat burned, the denim dampening with sweat.
House broke the kiss as though reading Wilson's anxiety and looked for a second as though he might speak, back away; decide that it was all too much too soon.
It was enough to strengthen Wilson and at that moment his hand covered the hard shape in House's lap, drawing a sharp wheeze from his friend's lips and a twitch from his hips. Wilson bore down on him, pushing him back onto the bed, crawling over him, his fingers nimble with the zipper and fastenings of House's jeans. He felt hands on his own back, trailing down, halting at the waist to navigate horizontally along his belt line, unhitching, unclasping, material coming away, shrugged and pushed aside until skin was moving against skin and the sharp arousal of the hot heavy press of erection on erection tore through Wilson's body and drew a gasp from his lips.
He pushed down against House's hips, his mouth at his neck, then his chest, breathing him in, tasting sweat. House made a strangled noise, panted his name.
A scar, faded and twisted on his abdomen, marked by a bullet. Wilson's tongue traced the contours, aware of House's breath hitching above him, hands tangling in his hair, trying to pull him back, but he moved down, the scent of musk drawing him, moisture brushing against his chin. Lips searching now, around the base of House's arousal, tracing up and over the head, tasting. Wilson's hands pinning hips under fingertips, his mouth opening, taking House in; a gentle suction rewarded with a tremor in thighs, the twitch of his penis against Wilson's tongue.
Deeper now, the rhythm steadying, quickening, bitter salt in his mouth, swallowing down. A surge of heat ran through Wilson's body, pooling at his groin, a longing, aching to be touched. House's fingers tugging at his hair pulling him away with a slick wet noise, pulling him up, flipping him back onto the pillows, covering him.
He was under House's body now and Wilson's hands reached for his lover's arms.
The moment spilled into his memories, triggering images, recalling glimpses of the past. Pictures, words, skittering past his vision. A kiss, a taste of him, tongue pushing deeply until he moaned into his mouth.
The scratch of House's stubble as he wound his way over Wilson's chest, the flicker of a tongue across a nipple, a hand resting over Wilson's heart, the steady rapid beat fluttering against his fingers so that Wilson was sure House could feel it.
In the crook of his thigh he could feel House's erection, damp with need, driven by hips which moved by instinct. Wilson reached down and shifted, grasped both of them together, his hand covered by one of House's moments later. He begin a sharp rhythm, slick and wet, pumping harder as House bit down convulsively on his clavicle, thrusting forward until his narrow hips ground hard into Wilson's, a burn of pain mingled with pleasure.
Their breathing was ragged, now, their movements governed by something beyond their control, wet bruised lips seeking out heat and moisture, teeth nipping at the most sensitive spots, openly panting, rough sounds pooling in their throats.
'Wilson... I... nngh...'
He could feel House tensing, the moment rushing on them and the awareness of his partner's arousal sent fire down Wilson's spine. House's hand tightened over his and suddenly the rhythm was faster, harder, pushing them both forward, climbing now with the choking unavoidable conclusion. Wilson's breath stuttered, his body struggling to remember how to breathe and he held it until bright spots danced in his vision. All he could feel and hear was the burning need and the sound of House as he gasped against his ear, hot and damp, erratic.
The bed under him, the sense of it pulling away, leaving just this tension, just the promise of release. Blood pounding, House's body hard against him, shaking. The light growing brighter behind his eyes, a feeling of soaring, chest tight, lungs bursting.
He heard House's cry moments before his own. The hot spill of liquid across his stomach before the shock of his orgasm wrenched through him, hips bucking. Wilson's head slammed to one side and House was calling into his shoulder, his body shuddering over him, sweat and musk and senses melting.
Silence in his mind.
The slowing pant of House against his neck.
The press of body on body, slick with spent need.
Wilson closed his eyes and drew his arms up and around House, held him, planted kisses along his skin, let his tongue trace a trail to his jaw. A gentle noise from House's throat, warm tones, calm breaths, the soft blanket of fatigue settling over them.
With a slow movement House rolled to one side, eyes closed, and Wilson watched as cool moonlight picked out his profile, a trembling anxiety teasing under the surface of content. There was a gap between them, inches, but Wilson could feel his body chilling, his damp skin cooling. He swallowed and tasted House on his tongue, waiting for the moment, the true conclusion of the night to surface, for House to rouse and with him doubt and sadness. He closed his eyes, the cold tracking into his limbs now, afraid to move, afraid to break the quiet.
He was half dozing when he felt House turn beside him, inch closer. An arm, warm and heavy, tracing over his waist, fingers brushing his back, pulling him nearer.
The faint touch of lips on his face, the nuzzle of a nose against his cheek. A hurried shrug of movement as House grasped covers and pulled them over both of them. Wilson opened his eyes drowsily as fingertips brushed his cheek and looked back into deep blue flecked with starlight. Looked back and saw...
Bright sun beyond the ice, bubbles soaring to the surface, heart racing, burning. He would drown if he didn't break through.
A hand reaching down, and warmth spilling through him, the rush of air filling his lungs, the ice cracking, breaking.
Shattered. Not drowning.
A voice cutting through the image, quiet and certain, a whisper from a waking breathing world.
'I love you.'