Say What Lies Between Us
It's not that House isn't capable of being loving -- he's just incapable of being loving during the moments where he's supposed to be loving. Or caring. Or affectionate.
Like those moments where Wilson really wishes House would keep his thoughts to himself: making comments about farts or how much Wilson's armpit stinks or how he treated a patient in clinic today who had a heap of smegma encrusted in his foresk--
"House," Wilson would interrupt in a sharp, annoyed, sometimes pleading voice, "shut up."
--aren't things that should be talked about while having sex. (Wilson called it making love once, and House mocked him for a month about it. Wilson's pointedly never called it that again since.) It's especially off-putting when Wilson's thisclose to orgasm and House stops thrusting or sucking or stroking to inform him that there's an important incoming message channelling through -- and loudly farts before resuming what he was doing.
Sometimes, only sometimes, Wilson laughs when House does things like that. Out of exasperation or frustration, occasionally just out of pure amusement -- though he quickly learned, when he and House first got together three years ago, that House is a lot like a child with everything: you laugh at something he does once, whether you like what he's doing or not, and House will just be encouraged to do it again. And again. And again. And... again.
"You're an asshole," Wilson sometimes snaps at House.
"Just the way you love me," House sometimes obnoxiously replies.
Wilson can never dispute that because, yes, he does love this annoying son of a bitch, loves him way more than House deserves a lot of the time, loves him like crazy. So, Wilson usually resigns himself to a scowl when House says things like that without saying anything.
House would smirk and murmur with his breath hot against Wilson's skin, "See? You're not denying it."
"Finish or I'll kill you," and before Wilson can call House any other names and get any more annoyed with him than he already is, House would thrust in hard, hard enough to make Wilson choke in pleasure and surprise against his pillow, or would resume sucking Wilson off, or stroking Wilson until he comes.
Wilson isn't by nature an affectionate person. In a lot of ways, in fact, Wilson's much less affectionate than House is -- which is saying something because House isn't all that affectionate himself.
The thing is, House will touch and grope and invade Wilson's personal space whenever he chooses, but half the time it's to annoy Wilson, to get in his way when he's late for work or to be a royal pain in the ass when Wilson's tired. Wilson really wonders at moments like that why the hell he puts up with House.
"Do you mind?" Wilson says in a sharp tone as he finishes doing up his tie, while House stands in the doorway of the bathroom, blocking Wilson's path.
House has a hand braced against the doorframe, his shoulder pressed up against the other side of the doorway, taking up the whole space. "No. I don't," House replies.
"I'm going to be late for work."
House shrugs, looking amused. "I'm always late for work."
"I'm not you," Wilson snaps. "Unlike you, I like getting to work on time."
House considers this thoughtfully, like he's got all the time in the world, which just makes Wilson all the more impatient. "We seem to have this conversation almost every morning."
"No," Wilson snorts with feigned incredulity. "You think?"
For some reason, House sees that as an opportunity to lurch into the bathroom and intrude on Wilson's personal space, nipping at his neck while Wilson fretfully tries to do his tie up. He feels himself being backed up against the bathroom counter and makes a sound of irritation as he tries to nudge House back from him with his elbow.
"Just a quickie."
Wilson nudges at him again, harder. "No."
House ignores him. "Won't take long."
The tickle of House's breath against his jaw irritates him. "When was the last time you, of all people, could associate the word `quick' when it comes to sex?" Wilson snaps, shoving House back from him this time.
The mischievous look on House's face quickly fades and Wilson, despite how annoyed he is, feels a stab of guilt; he knows making jarring comments about how long it can sometimes take House to get off because of his Vicodin use upsets House. "Right," House replies stiffly as he backs away. "I'll keep that in mind."
Wilson gives him a reproachful look. He finishes fixing his tie and drops his arms to his side, an apology on the tip of his tongue. Except he knows House will snap at him, so Wilson looks away before he awkwardly pushes past House and makes his way down the hall to fetch his jacket, briefcase and car keys.
He sees House still standing in the bathroom as he opens the door. House will get over it, he tells himself. He'll come home tonight and House will be his usual self. Wilson quietly closes the door behind him as he leaves the apartment.
And he's right: when he gets home that night, it's as if nothing happened this morning with the way House greets him with his usual demand, "I'm hungry, what're you making me for dinner?"
"A nice steaming hot bowl of shut the hell up," Wilson replies lightly, shrugging out of his jacket.
Wilson snorts. He hangs his jacket up, puts his briefcase away and rolls his sleeves up as he heads out to the kitchen. He listens to the sound of House channel surfing as he fetches vegetables out of the fridge and starts to cut them up on the chopping board. Between scraping the carrot peelings into the bin and taking up a potato in his hand, he hears House moving into the kitchen, followed by the sound of the fridge door opening. He hears it close again a moment later, followed by House's limped footsteps approaching him and glances at the beer bottle House sets down for him on the bench.
"Thanks," Wilson says absently, taking the potato peeler up.
House sets his own beer down next to Wilson's, hooks his cane onto the edge of the counter, and when Wilson feels House pressing himself up behind him, warm and firm against his back, Wilson can't help the way the corners of his lips lift in a faint smile. He stays focused down on what he's doing, though.
He feels House prop his chin on his shoulder and knows House is looking down at what he's doing. "You're stripping the nutrients away by peeling that thing," House remarks.
Wilson shakes away a strip of potato skin into the small pile of food scraps. "Since when have you ever cared about nutrients when it comes to your food?"
House braces a hand onto Wilson's hip. "I don't."
"Then why comment on it?"
"To annoy you."
Wilson snorts quietly, smiling. "Sorry to rain on your parade, but you're not trying hard enough."
"Damn it," House replies with feigned disappointment, and Wilson closes his eyes briefly as he feels House press his face in against the side of his neck. He stops what he's doing for a moment and rests the backs of his hands on the chopping board, one hand clutching the half-peeled potato and the other clutching the peeler, as House breathes in deeply and then lightly kisses the spot his face is nestled in against.
Wilson's not sure if this is some kind of silent act of forgiveness or apology for this morning, or if House is just choosing a random moment to be genuinely affectionate and loving. He's certain it won't last -- he finds himself bracing for House to do something obnoxious; make a remark, or a sudden lewd grope, or perhaps fart. He's a bit surprised when House merely remains pressed up against him and sets his chin back onto his shoulder. Surprised, but he appreciates House's rare display of affection. He appreciates it a lot.
House stays silently pressed up against him like that for a while, watching Wilson peel his way through four more potatoes, before House finally says, "God, you're slow at that."
Wilson pulls away enough to twist his head to the side to look at House. "Is that an offer to take over?"
"No," House promptly and indignantly replies.
"I suspected as much," Wilson says as he turns his attention back to the potato.
He feels House press one more kiss to the side of his neck before pulling back. "At least you know your place," House remarks.
"Ass," Wilson shoots back at him good naturedly.
House grins, swatting Wilson's ass before he grabs up his beer and his cane and heads back out into the living room.
Sex with House is almost always unpredictable.
It's not the sex itself that's unpredictable -- House is pretty vanilla in bed. It's the way House goes about it, with comments Wilson doesn't expect or things House does that Wilson doesn't anticipate. Like, yes, the farting. Or the comments about clinic patients, or random tabloid news he'd read in the morning paper, or remarks about how Wilson's getting soft around the middle or getting a double chin.
Sometimes, though, House can be very tender and loving, too. Slow and caring, quiet and considerate. Sappy as it sounds, it's moments like that which makes being with House worth it.
House had been taking a nap in the bedroom after dinner, telling Wilson to not let him sleep more than a couple of hours and when Wilson woke him up after the couple of hours were up, House drew Wilson onto the bed with him. It was just House pressed up behind him for a little while as they talked about nothing in particular before House started to softly kiss the back of Wilson's neck. Wilson felt House's hand start to roam across his chest and slip up under his shirt to his bare belly and soon Wilson was rolling over to face him.
He's naked now, much the same as House; sprawled out onto his back with House on top of him, cradled between his thighs. Wilson groans quietly as they kiss, their dicks rubbing against each other in slow thrusts. The kiss breaks and Wilson tips his head back as House kisses down his throat. He grips House's ass and rolls his hips up a little firmer when he feels House work his way down to his nipple. It's all soft, warm tongue and mouth over his skin, across his nipples, back onto his throat, his jaw, his chin and then back to his lips again.
House climbs off him after a while and, with Wilson still on his back, bends Wilson's leg up so his knee is bent up by his chest, his ass open and exposed to House. Wilson sucks on House's fingers, twirling his tongue around them slowly before House reaches down to Wilson's ass and strokes his anus. They kiss, Wilson murmuring breathlessly against House's lips to push his finger inside.
House slicks his finger up with lube before he slowly pushes his finger inside Wilson, their mouths pressed against each other in another hot, open-mouthed kiss. Wilson gasps quietly as House finds that sweet spot inside him and starts to stroke and rub it softly, causing hot ripples of pleasure to tingle up his spine and down into the depth of his balls. Wilson clutches House around the neck with one arm, his other hand sometimes clasping the bed sheets, sometimes clasping reflexively at his cock.
He arches his neck and twists his face into an expression equal parts pleasure and discomfort as House pushes in a second finger and soon Wilson finds himself riding back against House's fingers, trying in vain to get more pressure against his prostate. He arches his spine and grunts in frustration at how slow House is massaging his prostate, in lazy circles, driving him so close to the edge again and again. He grips House to him tighter, thrusting his tongue deep into his mouth, kissing breathlessly and feels House deepen his fingers.
"Oh yeah," Wilson breathes, tilting his hips up to get House to rub him right where he needs it most. He feels House help him prop his leg back further by leaning his shoulder against it, Wilson's knee now up by his shoulder. He has his cock in his hand, stroking it fast and desperately as he moves his hips, House quickly moving his fingers into rhythm with him. Wilson's mouth twists open and his eyes squeeze shut as his orgasm hits sudden and hard, House's fingers deep inside him.
He's still panting after House draws his fingers out and quickly rolls on a condom before mounting him. Wilson draws his other knee up to his chest and grips his legs to himself, letting out a strangled sound as he feels House push into him. House goes slow with his weight braced onto his hands, pushing in inch by slow inch until Wilson feels stretched and full. His ass burns as House starts to thrust and he digs his fingernails into the backs of his knees, each thrust causing the burning to give way slowly to more and more pleasure.
Soon, House is panting quietly, his face twisted in pleasure and Wilson watches him come undone as House orgasms. House draws out and tips over onto his back, breathing fast. Wilson lowers his legs with a quiet grunt of discomfort and stretches out carefully before looking across to House.
"Thanks for waking me up," House says in a scratchy, tired voice.
Wilson smiles. "I'm not sure if you should be the one thanking me, or if I should be the one thanking you."
"Me neither," House agrees in a slur. "Too post-fucked to care either way."
Wilson's cleaning his semen off his belly with tissues when House shifts onto his side and spoons up along side him. Wilson tosses the tissues to the floor and relaxes back, kissing House briefly on the lips. "Love you."
House, with his eyes closed, grunts. "Yeah," he says. "Same."
Wilson can always tell when House is tired or in pain, or tired from being in pain; he can tell the by the way House restlessly moves around the apartment, going from the kitchen to the living room to the bathroom, back to the living room to the piano, back to the couch after he's played for a little while. It used to bother Wilson a lot when House got like this because it made him feel restless, too. He's gotten used to it now and usually manages to ignore it because House hates having any attention drawn to his leg or to his pain unless House draws the attention to it himself.
It's getting a little bothersome tonight, though. He knows it's likely the sex that's caused House's leg to become sore like this, and he also knows that he shouldn't be getting so annoyed about it. But House has been pacing around aimlessly for the last hour and every time House walks in front of Wilson, interrupting his view of the television, Wilson gives House a look that gets increasingly more and more annoyed every time House does it.
"Are you going to keep doing that for another hour?" Wilson snaps when House walks in front of him again.
House stops in his tracks and turns to look down at Wilson. "Sorry," he replies sharply, not sounding at all apologetic, "had no idea it was bothering you so much. I'll try and be in pain where I won't be interrupting your precious Law & Order."
"Please," House snaps. "Don't waste your breath."
Wilson props his elbow on the arm of the couch and pinches the bridge of his nose. He doesn't want House to continue pacing around, and he's too tired to be the target of House's barbs tonight.
"Sit down," Wilson says when House starts to move off again.
House stops and looks at him again. "No."
Wilson holds his hands up in surrender. "Fine. Don't sit down, then."
He drops his hands back to his lap with an irritated sigh as House walks off, and he tries to ignore the sound of House's cane thump thumping down the hallway. He finds himself getting more irritated when House limps back down the hall to the living room again.
"Look--" Wilson begins sharply as he twists his body on the couch to look over his shoulder at House.
"Shut up, Wilson," House cuts him off just as sharply.
"Wilson," House mockingly interrupts. Wilson glares at him as House rounds the couch and, much to Wilson's surprise, slumps down next to him.
Wilson peers at him expectantly, waiting to hear House fire another vitriolic remark to him and when it doesn't come, the expression on Wilson's face turns questioning. "House?"
"Shut up," House says again, but he says it tiredly this time. "Yes, I'm in pain. Yes, my leg hurts. No, there's nothing you can do about it."
Wilson tries to shove aside his annoyance -- sometimes he finds House's pain extremely frustrating because House is right: there's nothing he can do to help. It's not right that he should get annoyed at House because it's not House's fault -- but sometimes, he can't help it. He gives his forehead a fretful rub with his hand before he stretches his arm up and around House's shoulders.
"Don't," House says gruffly.
Wilson ignores him. He's not typically very affectionate but when he's got nothing else to offer House but comfort, what else is he supposed to do? He stubbornly wedges his arm around House's shoulders and pulls House towards him, and of course House resists with a scowl on his face. Wilson ignores that, too, and just keeps continuing to pull House closer until House finally relents.
Wilson turns his attention back to the television, disregarding how stiffly House is pressed up against him, though as the minutes go by he feels House slowly, very slowly start to relax and sag against his body. God, House is impossible sometimes, Wilson thinks with an almost imperceptible shake of his head. He continues to ignore House until he feels House's head suddenly touch down onto his shoulder. He ignores that, too, until House starts to get heavier and heavier and Wilson hears his breathing evening out.
Looking down at House, Wilson sees him fast asleep. It's strange watching House sleep -- how unguarded he looks, how the lines on his face soften and how vulnerable he seems. Any shred of annoyance Wilson is still harbouring suddenly leaves, replaced with a strong feeling of affection and tenderness for House, and he lightly squeezes his arm as he drops his cheek down against the crown of House's head.
He lets House sleep against him until his eyes are burning with tiredness and he can't stay awake anymore, and after he quietly coaxes House to bed Wilson spoons up behind him with his face pressed into the back of House's neck.
"Love you," House mumbles sleepily.
Wilson blinks in surprise, not expecting to hear House say that at all. House sounded so sleepy that Wilson wonders if House is even aware of what he'd just said. He feels around in the dark for House's hand and when he finds it, he feels House squeeze it lightly.
Wilson smiles. "Yeah," he murmurs, lacing their fingers together. "Same."
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.