By GeeLady

Pairing: H/W (just look through the curtain and you'll see...)

Summary: Wilson watches House shower. ONE SHOT

Rating: Adult, for suggestive things.

Disclaimer: I have only showered with House in my mind.



I see you...

...and it's killing me.

You're un-ashamed of your body, except for the scar. That, you hide from everyone - even me. Other people who by chance see it, stop and ask you "What happened?", "Did it hurt?" and all those other curious inquiries that are none of their fucking business. You reply with biting sarcasm or dismiss the limp as a "war wound", or throw them a curve ball like - "I'm limping on two different opinions", or "Too much sex with Wilson last night."

I wish.

Your body is aging but its form and measure, and imagined feel, intoxicates me in every way. The scar you hide because their buttinskie questions remind you of the pain you went through where the scar was concerned, from the agony to the betrayal to the end. Except you haven't reached the end yet. You will always be crippled.

I don't see the scar anymore. I don't comment on it because my hope is maybe that will help you to forget it's there. I don't ask about the pain unless it's obvious you're in agony because that's simply the way you want it. I want what's best for you but I don't insist you apply my own "expert" advice anymore because you are healthier, and you are making some better choices. I love you for that and I'm not going to look a gift-House in the mouth.

I'll kiss him for sure, if it ever comes up.

I don't prescribe for you anymore either.

So much has changed. Us - we've changed. You've been working hard to stay straight and get physically and mentally stronger. I've been taking care of you and though I used to resent it, I love it now.

I love you.

And I crave your body.

So I watch you. I plainly see you through the curtain Amber choose, not me. After she died, I was going to throw it out and buy a new one, one of those flowered jobs maybe, or the one with the sailing ships that was like looking at a holiday every time I turned on the water.

But when I knew you were coming home from Mayfield, I kept it. You were getting better, I was over Amber and when Nolan called me that day and said you would need a place to live with a room-mate; someone who could help his patient stay clean, keep him company and watch out for him - not let him be alone anymore (because loneliness is a classic trigger for addiction relapse), I jumped at it. My voice squeaked. I was suddenly giddy with excitement. I cleaned for two hours.

And then made you sleep on the couch because of guilt. My new feelings for you seemed like a betrayal of Amber. Yes, I'm a sentimental moron.

But I had soon discovered that I'd missed you way more than I thought I would. Differently than before, too. You coming home seemed like the holiday now because, as I said, we each had changed. You were better, and now I loved you.

Figuring out that was an atom bomb of a wake-up call.

You came home talking of Cuddy and seeing what you could make of something with her, so I bit my tongue and settled in with my new room-mate. Telling you now that I wanted you would have been selfish. So instead I encouraged you to try for your boss. I crossed my fingers for weeks and begged the gods that you would fail.

And silently did back flips in my mind when we both accidentally learned she was serious with that Lucas guy. Whom you introduced her to. No one noticed but me how upset you were over that. No one except me scolded Cuddy about playing with your heart.

Now you're sad and feel uncertain as to where that part of your life is now going to go. Who will have you? I see that question on your face every day. I hate that question. I'm at the front of the line and I'm not moving until you notice. I'm going to make as sure as the fires of hell, that part of your life ends up next to, and the largest part of, mine.

I see you through the curtain. For now all I can do is spy like a dirty-minded but love-sick idiot. I don't care. The spray runs down and washes the sleep from your eyes and cleans off the nightmare you might have had (it's all from the med's, Nolan says). You are naked through the curtain. Sexy. Vulnerable. Like a lover's white cloak, the soap foams across and down your chest, runs off your once secret places, and then down those perfect legs, both still so strong - the scar be damned. You smell good in there. You're getting well, and, ...and I love you. One day, just maybe, you'll be mine.

I wish I was the water.