Smells Like Love
When you do it one night you're drunk.
On second thought, Amber probably isn't drunk. After all, she's the one in control of the bottle, pouring more bourbon into your glasses after every other drink.
You're all at your place because Wilson insisted on making dinner, Amber wanted to see the place, and you couldn't say no to Wilson's cooking. But you make a show about protesting anyway.
"Homey," she comments while Wilson rummages around in the kitchen. She eyes your Baby Grand and immediately wants you to play them something. You refuse, though; you don't take requests, but play what you want, when you want.
Wilson makes beef casserole and Amber sifts through your record collection, stopping to pull out Bessie Smith.
"Good choice," you comment when she puts it on. You say it like you're offering her a valuable piece of information to hide your approval.
"My dad used to play it for me when I was little," she says. "He died when I was seven. That's all I remember of him."
You don't know what to say to that. You don't recall your own father ever sharing anything with you besides cold discipline.
She joins Wilson in the kitchen and you leave them alone.
It's past dinner and the sports highlights and Amber is saying she played hoops for nine years. You ought to be just a little interested, but all you can see is Wilson watching her with brown eyes sparkling as she twirls a strand of hair between fingers with perfect rose colored nails. It's a very familiar look; god knows you've been the object of that gaze many times before. It's something you thought was solely for you.
Wilson brings you desert from the kitchen; chocolate chip ice cream.
"Where are the pancakes?" you complain, poking at the ice cream in your bowl with your spoon as if hoping to find it underneath somewhere. "I want pancakes."
Wilson gives you a tired look. "House, eat your ice cream like a good boy."
"You said you'd make us dinner including dessert. Cheater." You stuff your mouth and wince at the cold. "I want your pancakes."
"It's a little late to be making pancakes, isn't it?" Amber queries.
"It's never too late for Wilson's pancakes," you reply, realization slowly dawning on you. You look at Wilson who returns your gaze with stoic calm before he starts digging into his own portion.
Further prodding proves you right; it turns out Wilson hasn't made Amber his macadamia nut pancakes, and you feel obliged to tease him about it. Wilson does an admittedly good job at ignoring you. Years of experience has taught him a lot, unfortunately.
"You're such a lousy boyfriend," you complain.
Amber picks up on it. "You should make us pancakes more often," she chimes in.
"Macadamia nut pancakes," you specify and emphasize with a nod.
Wilson sighs, but still manages to look guilty.
"Nothing says 'I love you' more than macadamia nut pancakes in the morning," you continue.
"Maybe he only makes them for that special someone," Amber teases. Her tone is light and only mock accusing, and you have to give her points for being forward. You look inquiringly at a pained Wilson.
"I obviously didn't consider what two of you would do to my mental health," he mutters, rising to get beer. Amber laughs and you can't help but smile.
You soon run out of beer, and your bourbon is next. Wilson could never hold his liquor so it doesn't take long before he's sprawled on the couch with Amber curled up next to him. They're laughing quietly at the muted black-and-white movie showing on TCM.
You've left them there, preferring to be alone by your piano. You feel like playing now. Not for them, because they aren't paying much attention to you or your playing anyway, but because you like the company of music. Or maybe you just want to chase off the solitary feeling you won't admit to.
You're touching the keys in a slow melody without rhythm. It's not really any particular song, just whatever comes into your buzzed mind. The notes float through the room like a small stream twisting its way through the landscape, and you look up to observe your guests.
The feeling of sharing your couch with Wilson and his girlfriend is new. It's never happened before. Wilson's exes had only been over a few times, and mostly to demand that Wilson come home, or ask you if you'd seen him.
It's unfamiliar, yet also strangely comforting. Wilson relaxes in a way you haven't seen in a long time, and despite the indefinable feeling in your gut you can't deny that you like it.
Wilson gets up and goes to the bathroom and Amber rises and fills your glass where it's sitting on the piano. Her eyes are smiling and her eyebrow do that little thing, twitching into an upward curve. You can't decide if it looks ridiculous or endearing in some way.
What are you thinking? Amber is not endearing. She's a soul reaper. She's a fucking cenobite. One wish and she'll gut you with steel hooks on chains and laugh about it afterwards.
And she's currently standing less than a foot away from you, tracing the neck of the bottle with a finger. She raises the moistened digit to her lips, gently licking with the tip of her tongue. The eyebrow is still curved in that upwards arc in a decidedly suggestive manner and you get the odd feeling that you're flirting with yourself.
Wilson is back in the room, falling into the couch none too gracefully, coordination a bit off. Amber gives you one last look before she turns and joins him, and you look down at your hands where they've stilled on the piano.
She snuggles up next to Wilson, circling his body with an arm. He buries his hand in her hair and they kiss, chaste at first, but with grown persistence. Wilson squirms a little, not used to making out on your couch, not used to making out in front of you.
But she places her hand on his chest for support and angles her head, deepening the kiss. Her left leg rests almost nonchalantly on top of Wilson's left knee while she presses up against him and Wilson's protests cease. You hear the sloppy sounds of lips and tongues, hear a sigh, and it's all so candid and raw and you stare until your eyes sting and you finally remember to blink.
You can't figure out what the hell is happening, or what you should do. You can't just sit by and watch. You can't just walk out. It's your apartment. You should make them leave. This isn't funny, watching Wilson letting himself be ravished like a teenager, his hands splayed on Amber's lower back, pressing her close with her hand trapped between them low enough to be obscene.
Who does this kind of thing? It doesn't happen in real life, it just doesn't, or maybe it does, but not to you. You're too old for that. You're too tired, or too drunk, or it hurts too much, inside and out.
Then Amber's face is buried in Wilson's neck and Wilson turns slightly and looks straight at you. His pupils are dilated, making his eyes seem completely black in the subdued light of the living room. He just looks at you doe-eyed and you hate it because you want to look away, you really wish you could. But you can't, not now. You don't think you ever could.
Wilson's blinks and breathes in deeply, a near-sigh. He presses his lips together. Come on, House, it seems he's telling you.
You're going to Hell for it, you know it. You get up and limp over and sit down next to Amber. Keep your eyes in front of you, willing your pulse to stop racing like the goddamn bullet train.
Almost immediately the couch creaks as Amber turns to face you. There's a predatory intensity to her, the way she climbs off Wilson to straddle you, hands on either side of you on the couch.
Yes, definitely going to Hell.
"This a bad idea," you say, voice low and raw.
She quirks her head.
"No. It's a great idea. That's why you hate it."
You glance at Wilson's flushed face, looking for anything that indicates that you've made some greater error along the way, that you've misunderstood. You find only apprehensiveness and curiosity.
Amber leaves a wet trail of kisses on your neck, distracting you momentarily until she slides off you to kneel on the floor between your legs. You have to spread your legs further to give her room, and she skims her hands up along your legs until they reach your crotch. Your breath hitches when she expertly opens your pants and tugs your jeans down a little so she can pull you out.
You try to look everywhere but down at the sight. It's not the moral implications of having sex with someone else's girlfriend that gets to you; it's the intimacy of having Wilson next to you, wanting this, wanting you to be part of them. It makes you want to scream, or crawl into a hole and hide, and a number of other things you'd rather not think about.
She takes you into her mouth without warning and you bite back a gasp. There's movement next to you; Wilson has scooted closer to you, mere inches separating you, and you can feel heat emanating from his body. You have to look, natural curiosity taking over; have to see what this is doing to him.
Wilson's looking at Amber, watching her head bob up and down as she sucks and licks. He's breathing unevenly, clearly aroused by the sight. He doesn't look at you but touches Amber's shoulder, her hair. Then lingers momentarily on your naked hip. His fingertips are moist and cool against your warm skin, and it's a mesmerizing sight. There's nervousness, testing -- is this okay, can I touch? You dare not move.
Then Wilson lets his fingers slide up to play across your stomach, lifts the shirt a little, feels warm skin. Unfamiliar, muscles jumping under the light touch.
Wilson moves again and you glance down at him and at the visible bulge in his jeans - they're unzipped from Amber's previous ministrations. It looks uncomfortable, but Wilson makes no move to do anything about it.
Instead he leans in and rests his head on your shoulder, clutching a handful of material in his fist. Rubs his cheek against your stubble - you can feel him breathing hotly on you, shallow and uneven.
"I.. I want.."
The words are barely audible, only because his lips are so close can you hear them. He's almost up on his knees on the couch, pressing up close to your side, his hands clutching at your shirt, your arms, then shoulders.
You swallow and close your eyes. Amber's lapping at your head, jerking with her hand. Then she lets go and takes you all the way in and you reach up to grasp Wilson's damp hair so you can turn his face and press your lips to his before you can think.
It's clumsy at first, unaccustomed and the angle is wrong. But Wilson's lips are soft and yielding, opening up easily and wetly and definitely willingly to yours. You push your tongue in, make Wilson whimper and respond in kind, his hands cradling your face as if he's holding something fragile that might slip from his grasp and break on the floor. You find a rhythm, mouths working, tongues darting in and out eagerly. You feel Wilson's hand in your hair, fingers massaging your scalp, an oddly intimate feeling which only serves to entice you further.
You make a decision, and with a free hand, pull at Wilson's pants. Amber pauses to aid you until jeans and boxers are down Wilson's thighs. You grab his erection, eliciting a moan that's barely muted by his mouth on yours.
It's almost too hot, too much, not enough room to maneuver with Wilson pressing so close, but you grab what you can, clumsily jerking, touching the other's balls, grazing coarse hair and heated skin. Wilson's jaw goes slack and he withdraws from the kiss. Then he tenses up and a moment after breathes heavily as he's brought over the edge, messily coming over your hand and shirt.
There's sweat running down his temples and matting the hair at his nape. You are too stunned to do more than stare at his closed eyes as the other tries to regain some measurement of control.
It's only when you wipe your hand on your shirt you notice that Amber has stopped what she was doing and is touching Wilson's arm, caressing, soothing, encouraging. She reaches up and pulls his head down, and you think she's going to kiss him. But instead Wilson leans down, guided by Amber's hand, and touches his lips to your abdomen, moving lower. You lean back and bite your lower lip hard enough to bruise, because sweet mother of god!
It's like an electric jolt shooting through you when he takes you into his mouth and you buck. He sucks too hard or too soft, it makes no difference to your overloading senses. You want to pull him away, or at least warn him, but there's no time. The sight of that brown floppy hair going down on you is just too much and you come with a soundless cry, shooting down Wilson's throat until you think you're going to pass out.
Wilson sits up and wipes his mouth uncertainly as if he's only just now registered what happened. Then he stands and pulls up his pants, unsteadily going to the bathroom to clean up.
Amber gets up and lets you zip your pants even though the line of privacy has long since been crossed. You appreciate the gesture nonetheless.
"Why did you do that?" you ask, once you feel you've found your voice.
"I think he needed it," she answers with a smile. "Maybe you did, too."
Wilson comes back and stands there, lingering by the edge of the couch with unruly hair he clearly just ran a wet hand through, and you don't think you've seen a more beautiful sight.
He doesn't say anything but there's a ghost of a smile on his face.
Afterwards you let them sleep it out on the couch. Throw a blanket over them as you watch them snuggle close.
You dump your dirty shirt on the floor in your bedroom and kick your jeans off. You're not sure what you feel, but it doesn't quite feel like the hell you had expected. Explorers in the further regions of experience, you think, your thoughts on Amber and her cocked eyebrow and smug smile. Demons to some. Angels to others.
You really need to cut down on the horror flicks.
You hear the front door click after some time. They left, you think, and a corner of your mind can't help wondering if they planned this. Or maybe it's not if, but which one of them.
Another corner of your mind urges you to get up and check, but your apartment is silent and you don't feel like leaving the sanctuary of your bedroom. You lie on your stomach and listen to nothing until you're asleep.
The next morning you wake up to clattering sounds coming from the kitchen. The sweet smell of pancakes is drifting into your room, cutting through the early morning ache in your leg. Instinctively you know they're macadamia nut pancakes as only Wilson can make them.
He must have stayed behind last night. You can tell there's only him out there, padding around on the kitchen floor. You smile.
Some things are exclusively for you after all.
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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.