Summary: House and Wilson have a manner of speaking. Rated M for explicit het with a side of slash, you'll get the idea when you read it. Not a songfic, but inspired by a song.

A/N: This is actually the first time I've written explicit het, which is really really weird now that I think of it, so just keep that in mind and any constructive criticism is greatly appreciated.

Disclaimer: I do not own "House M.D." or any of the characters. I do own a word processor that allows me to write about them, but that is irrelevant. This fic was inspired by a song by John Prine, entitled "Donald and Lydia." The song lyrics at the beginning and the end (in italics) belong to John Prine, not me.

Ten Miles Away

But dreaming just comes natural
Like the first breath from a baby
Like sunshine feeding daises
Like a love hidden deep in your heart

Hot love, cold love, no love at all
A portrait of guilt is hung on a wall
Nothing is wrong, nothing is right
Donald and Lydia made love that night


They made love in the mountains, they made love in the streams
They made love in the valleys, they made love in their dreams
But when they were finished, there was nothing to say
Cause mostly they made love from ten miles away...


He looked up from the couch to see the woman he had chased for so long. After years of flirting, comments bordering on sexual harassment, a passionate kiss and an even more passionate night that turned out to be fake, she was finally his. And after all that, he knew, though he couldn't admit to her or show it in any way, that she wasn't who he really wanted.

"You coming to bed?"

He looked at her. She was beautiful, that was certain. Just as lovely at forty as she had been at twenty. Her pyjama shorts exposed her long, shapely legs, and the matching camisole, just like everything else she wore above the waist, drew attention right to her perfect breasts. Her soft dark hair fell just past her shoulders, and her blue-grey eyes glittered Yes. He could tell from looking at her. She loved him. He wished he loved her.

"Yeah, Lisa, I'm coming."

Grabbing his cane from the end of the couch, he leaned his weight on it and walked steadily to the hallway where his lover waited. She took his hand, smiling up at him as they went to the bedroom.

He leaned his cane carefully against his nightstand and climbed on top of the bed.

She was already there, waiting for him. She sat cross-legged on the bed and continued to give him her dazzling smile. He smiled back, hoping she wouldn't notice that it didn't reach his eyes. She ran her fingers across his arm and he leaned toward her. She closed her eyes in anticipation, he did a second later, and pressed his lips against hers.

So soft, so gentle, why did they do nothing for him? The first kiss of their new relationship had been enthralling, romantic and perfect and sweet and loving, but this... He pressed his lips against her soft ones and felt nothing, even as she eased his mouth open and beckoned with her tongue against his, asking him to explore her mouth. He did. He felt the now-familiar shape of the roof of her mouth, felt the wet insides of her cheeks, the one metal filling on one of her molars, and her soft, submissive tongue.

The hand previously stroking his arm had gone to gripping it as she kissed him, and the other had worked its fingers into his hair, massaging his scalp. Her hands were small, her fingernails long. The scratching didn't bother him—he knew his stubble against her face must be worse for her—but it no longer excited him like it had the first few times they'd made love. For an instant he allowed himself to imagine they were someone else's fingers stroking his short hair, but he instantly forced those thoughts out of his mind. This was Lisa Cuddy, the woman he'd pursued on and off for years. He'd wanted her, he got her. This was her in the bed. He was going to make love to her.

His hands had made their way to her waist, where he'd slipped a hand beneath her camisole and was currently running it back and forth across her flat stomach, lightly enough to feel the fine invisible hairs covering her body. Her hands left him as she raised her arms above her head, allowing him to lift the cami gently and take it off. He spent a moment staring at her breasts and for the first time that night felt a slight tingling in his pants.

She took his chin in her hand, bringing his lips back to hers and averting his eyes from her chest. They started to lay down as they kissed, him on his right side, her on her left. She stroked his stubbly cheek with her hand, he began fondling her right breast.

"Hmm," she breathed into his mouth as he played with her, squeezing the hardening nipple. She slipped her hands beneath his shirt, and he paused kissing her and sat up again so she could remove it. They lied back down, closer this time. She ran her hands up and down his back. His hand had moved to her left breast, and he took the right nipple in his mouth. She gasped when he sucked on her. He wished the stimulation would have a similar effect on him. Every aspect of the sex had been fantastic for the first two weeks. Then it started to get...not boring, but...routine. The excitement was gone. He knew every contour and curve of her body, but instead of eagerly awaiting each new exploration like he had with Stacy, he began to wonder what the point was of going over the same thing again and again.

He knew what the difference was. Stacy he'd loved. Cuddy he didn't.

She dug her fingernails into his shoulders as he sucked on her nipple, starting to breathe faster. He was glad she hadn't stuck a hand to his pants yet; he tingled but wasn't even close to hard. He squeezed one breast and kissed the other. Why wasn't this doing it for him? He loved her breasts.

A thought crossed his mind, and if it hadn't caused a twitch in his cock he would have tried to force it away permanently. She would want to move on to the main event eventually, and he wanted to be ready for her. This was getting him nowhere. He tentatively, nervously, as though she might read his mind and shove him away, allowed the idea to reenter his thoughts. He pretended the nipples he was playing with didn't belong a woman, but a man. Not just any man, a specific man. Wilson. Ignore the flesh of the breast, pretend the erect nipple is his, Wilson's. Even as he felt the breasts against him and knew there was no way they belonged to anything with a Y chromosome, he felt himself getting harder at the idea and assaulted her nipples with twice the enthusiasm he'd had before.

"Oooh, Greg," she said, one hand on his hip and the other plastered to the back of his neck. She kissed his throat.

Wilson didn't call him Greg, but then again neither had Cuddy until they'd started sleeping together. Maybe Wilson would too, if they were making love. The lips against him...his would probably be soft. Not as fleshy as hers, certainly, but he shaved and his face would be smooth.

He knew it wasn't, but he could pretend...could was Wilson kissing him.

"Hmm," he murmured involuntarily, a rush of blood heading down to his now-half-erect penis. He abandoned her breasts, at least for now, and worked his mouth down her abdomen. Wilson was wider than her, and he had a trail of hair above his belly button and another below it, but he pretended it was him anyway, open-mouth kissing her slightly-perspiring skin.

"Hmm, Greg," she sighed, working a hand down from his back to grip his jean-clad butt.

He could pretend that was Wilson well enough, and smiled against her stomach.

"Yeah," he muttered to her, "keep doing that."

She squeezed his ass with both hands, then switched to massaging it. He worked his belt open and slid his pants and boxers down so she could reach him better. Her hands moved seamlessly to his bare flesh, squeezing and kneading. He ignored the occasional fingernail against the back of his thigh and kissed her body, grabbing her ass with one hand and fiddling with a nipple with the other. Wilson's ass would probably feel quite similar to hers, and he smiled against her at this thought. He slipped his thumbs beneath the waistband of her shorts and shimmied them down her legs. She helped, carefully extracting one leg and then the other.

He suddenly remembered a conversation in the condo a couple months ago.

"He just wants to get into your skirts. And I mean that literally."

"Well, he's got the legs for it."

He ran a hand up and down her thigh. He probably didn't shave (though with Wilson, one could never know for sure), but he could pretend the legs were his. He stroked the flesh lightly. She gave a contented hum. He pretended it was him.

She'd moved a hand to his front now, cupping his erect cock in her palm. He was internally relieved he'd found a way to get himself ready for her. Part of him knew he ought to stop thinking of Wilson now; hopefully the continued stimulation would prevent him from going soft, but he selfishly didn't want to.

He loved Wilson. He knew, over a year ago, after he'd hallucinated, well, this, and Wilson took him to Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital to help him recover. He'd looked into his best friend's eyes as they'd said a silent goodbye and he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the feelings he'd been denying to himself were there, were real, and even if they weren't returned, they kept him going. Where had Cuddy been? At Chase and Cameron's wedding. He'd gone to her, told her that he wasn't okay, and she'd just dropped him off with Wilson and prettied herself up to go to a wedding.

She was attractive, and he cared for her, but he didn't love her. He loved Wilson. And he wanted to make love to Wilson.

She was rubbing him, squeezing him, and he kept his face in her neck, panting, kissing every now and then, pretending it wasn't her. He gripped her hip and gently pushed her toward the bed. She took the hint and lied down on her back, breathing quickly, spreading her legs in anticipation. He kept his face buried against her so she wouldn't see his eyes shut tight. They each had a hand on his dick to guide him to her opening. He paused at the entrance, like he would with a guy, though it certainly wasn't necessary in this case. He entered slowly, almost hesitantly, and heard her moan out as he made his way inside.

This he couldn't compare to Wilson. Though he'd messed around a bit in college, he hadn't actually been with a guy this way, and he'd never done anal with a girl either. He wondered what it would feel like. Tighter, that was for sure. No natural lubrication from the point of entrance. Yes, he'd had to do rectal examinations as a doctor, but there was nothing even remotely erotic about that and he'd never thought about applying that kind of knowledge to a sexual fantasy.

Not wanting to kill the mood, especially when it had taken him so much work to get to this point, he pounded relentlessly into her, pretending she was Wilson, biting his lip so he wouldn't accidentally cry out his name.

Wilson, he thought as he thrust in and out of her, hands squeezing her hips, face in her neck. James Wilson. Wilson. Wilson is beneath me. James Wilson is crying out because I am ramming into him and this is the best thing he's ever felt and I'm kissing his neck because I love him, god I love him, and I am inside of him. His fingernails aren't as long as Lisa's, but I'm making him feel so fucking amazing that even his short fingernails are digging into my skin. He loves this. He loves me. He's moaning and calling my name because I'm making him feel things he's never felt before and he loves me. Is he almost there? It's getting louder, he must be close. Come on, Wilson, I'm fucking you so hard, so fast, so good, you must be close now.

He'd almost convinced himself that he was going to feel a spurt of warm release against him at the climax despite the obvious lack of an organ to ejaculate from. Instead, he just felt the muscles beneath him tense, the body arch into him, and the final shuddering moans before she fell, panting, against the bed.

Finally he came, collapsing against the woman who wasn't Wilson, gasping for breath and groaning. He felt her breasts pressing against him and wanted to roll off, desperate to continue the fantasy that he was with Wilson, but he stayed put. He breathed against her as his heart rate slowed, feeling her run a hand through his short hair.

They relaxed like that for a few minutes before he decided he'd paid his post-coital snuggling dues and got up. He opted to take a quick shower before bed, unsure if he wanted to wash off the sweat, her vaginal excretions, or the shame.

He got back in bed beside her. She wasn't asleep yet, but her eyes were closed and she looked relaxed. He scooted close to her in the bed and for the first time since their first night together, slipped his arms around her, holding her to him.

"Hmm," she murmured happily, spooning herself against him.

He could pretend he was holding her out of guilt and shame, making up for the fact that he'd been imagining someone else during their lovemaking, but the truth was he just wanted to pretend he was falling asleep with Wilson in his arms.


He finished putting the dinner dishes away and sat down on the couch. He'd barely been sitting a minute when she swooped down on him. Lips against his, tongue in his mouth, a hand behind his neck and another unknotting his tie.

His reactions were automatic. He kissed back, slipped an arm around her waist and ran his fingers though her hair without even thinking about it. There was no need to, at this point. He'd been married three times, one of them to her, and while they all failed eventually, he'd managed to keep them up long after he'd lost interest. He was good at this, kissing and everything that came after it on autopilot, touching them exactly how they wanted and needed to be touched without even paying attention. It was like a board meeting—he sat there and went through all the motions while his mind wandered.

Tonight, as he played tongue war and mussed up her perfect curls, his thoughts drifted to the news he'd learned this afternoon: House was dating Cuddy. They'd been together almost two months, apparently, and they'd kept it from him. She didn't want the hospital to know because, while it wasn't prohibited, the board likely wouldn't approve and might try and find an excuse to get rid of House or herself.

He didn't know why House hadn't told him. His best friend. It had...hurt.

Without letting his feelings out to anyone else, inside he pretended his feelings were hurt because his best friend had kept this information secret. But at the same time, he knew the worse blow was that now they'd never have a chance.

He wouldn't have let it happen anyway—he stubbornly refused to admit that his feelings that had grown over the last year had actually grown into something more than platonic—but if he ever did admit it...He knew he wouldn't, and that was what Sam was for, to distract him, remind him how attracted he was to women, and try and keep his thoughts off his best friend. That didn't mean he didn't want to keep his options open. Before, there was about a one percent chance of something happening. Now there was a zero percent chance of anything happening.

That depressed him.

And that bothered him.

He squeezed her tighter, holding her body against his, plunging his tongue into her mouth. He tried to focus on what they were doing, tried to think about how much he loved her.

But he didn't.

He'd loved her once, a long time ago, for a little while. But the feelings had faded and never returned. Just like they had with his second and third wives. This was why he'd become so adept at making love with his mind completely elsewhere without them catching on.

House. He'd never have a chance to be with House, to feel House touch him the way Sam was touching him. He wondered what it would be like.

Suddenly he started playing attention to the mouth beneath his, the tongue sliding itself along the inside of his mouth. Would House's feel like this?

Dominant, that was for sure, taking control. It would probably taste better than the healthy but flavourless food Sam ate. His face wouldn't be smooth, though, he'd have stubble around his mouth...and his hair...his hair was short, it wouldn't be this long, or soft.

He extracted his tongue from her mouth and moved to kissing her neck instead, slipping his hand out of her hair and gripping her waist with it.

"Mmm, James," she said when he suckled on her throat.

Would House call him James if they were ever a couple? It was hard to imagine, but then, he probably called Cuddy Lisa now...he tried not to think about that. Them together...not a cheerful thought.

Her hand had unbuttoned his shirt partway and was sliding across his chest beneath the fabric. She moved her other hand down to feel the bulge in his pants.

"Hmm," he exhaled against her neck as she fondled him through clothes. House would do that, certainly. He pushed his pelvis forward, leaning into her touch. She put her mouth to his ear and spent a moment kissing it before whispering a suggestion to move to the bedroom.

He nodded his assent and they made their way down the hall, hand-in-hand. He started undressing her once they got inside, removing everything, and she too stripped him completely. They fell on the bed together, him holding her against him, running his hands up her sides and moving her hair aside so he could kiss behind her ear. She gave a little whimper, clutching at him, rewarding him with a rub to his dick that made him shudder.

Would House ever whimper in bed? He couldn't help but wonder even as he squeezed at her breasts. He wondered if he could touch his friend that way, enough to make him lose control completely. The thought made him even more turned on than he already was.

She moaned as he pinched her nipple, and pressed her hands against his chest to lie him down on the bed. She turned around on him, straddling him backward, and guided his right hand back to her chest (couldn't she remember, after all this time, that he was left-handed?) while she leaned down and took his penis into her mouth.

"Ah-heh," he said when her tongue made contact with his tip. He grabbed her breast, not too roughly, and leaned his head back against the bed.

House would probably be good at giving head, he was good at pretty much everything he did. He held onto her waist and imagined the mouth against his dick was House's, House's tongue sliding up and down his shaft, driving him crazy with desire. House sucking at the pre-come he dribbled from thinking of sex...with House. House was feeling him, touching him in one of the most pleasurable ways, and he wanted to touch House, too.

She didn't have a penis.

He knew that as he reached up to touch her, and while a man's mouth was (probably—he didn't really know, he'd never kissed one) quite the same as a woman's, a clitoris was drastically different from a penis.

They worked similarly, though. He knew when he found it because she cried out against his cock when his fingers made contact, and when he started rubbing it he knew she must be feeling something similar to what he felt when she went down on him. He made circles, alternating directions.

It would be easier with House. There would be so much more of him to touch. He'd be able to fit it in his whole hand, in both his hands, even, if he wanted to. A slit to rub, a base to squeeze, balls to play with...Here there was just a tiny little nodule. Touching it was making her moan, though, he could feel the girl version of pre-come seeping from her vagina, and he thought about what it would be like to make House moan like that, come undone completely beneath his hands.

Even as her mouth sucked his dick, that thought alone brought him closer, and he retrieved his hand from her folds to grip her hips and nudge her further down on his body, signalling his intent to move from the appetiser to the entrée. She let go of him with her mouth and raised her body up so she could lower herself back onto him, letting his penis slip into her vagina.

They gave mutual content hums once he was in, and she immediately started rocking back and forth against him. Her back was still to him, so she couldn't notice that he kept his eyes closed.

Her back was too feminine, too her, and he couldn't look at it and think of House. He gripped her hips, though he knew gripping his would be an entirely different experience, but he still wanted to imagine it was his friend on top of him.

His hands migrated around her waist, her hips, her butt, and her thighs, where he paused for a moment. He felt the smooth skin of her right thigh. House had a scar there, from the infarction. He'd seen it enough times that he could trace its pattern on her unblemished skin. He gripped her thigh gently, holding it, pretending it was the marred flesh of his best friend, and that by stroking it during lovemaking he could make it feel better.

She was moving faster against him, panting and giving out a moan now and then. He added his own thrusts into her as he came closer himself. His eyes were shut tight as he held her waist with one hand, her thigh with the other.

It's not me hitting Sam's g-spot that's making those noises, he told himself. I'm hitting House's prostate. Gregory House is the one crying out with pleasure as I'm thrusting. He's here, on top of me, moaning because he feels me inside him and he wants me inside of him because he's in love with me. I should have let it happen! Why did I have to run away again? I want him here, I want him to be the one with me, here with me, sliding his body against me, making me feel this way, I want it to be him. And I want to be the one with him, the one who can make him feel things...more than he's ever felt. House...god, House, I love you. I want it to be you. Oh, House...

He came first, but, still holding her leg with his right hand, moved his left around to work at her until she finished. She fell back onto him, reaching a hand around to slide through his hair. He held her, arms across her stomach, letting himself breathe.

Eventually she rolled off, snuggling up next to him instead of on top of him. She laid her head against his shoulder and slipped an arm across his chest.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled. "Oh, I'm so sorry. I was so selfish...I did the easiest thing..."

"James," she said, chuckling, "It was great. It always is with you." She kissed his temple. "Relax. You are...amazing, and I love you."

She thought he was apologising to her for orgasming before she did. He wasn't. He wasn't even talking to her. Though the person it was intended for could not and never would hear it, he continued with his apology. "It's my fault...I should have...I shouldn't have...oh, I'm sorry..."

"James, it's okay," she mumbled into his shoulder, kissing it. "It's okay."

What did she know? She couldn't know anything, it wasn't her fault, it was his. He held her, but his thoughts continued to stray...out the window and across the town, and he wondered, no—hoped, wished with all his heart, that somewhere out there the man he loved was lying in bed thinking of him.

...But dreaming just comes natural
Like the first breath from a baby
Like sunshine feeding daises
Like a love hidden deep in their hearts