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Cowardly, Cowardly Custard
by Jaryn
The irony was killing him and it was going to be a slow and painful death.
Wilson sat for a long time on the bench next to the end of the bed. Why they even had such a bench in a hotel room was beyond his comprehension. Maybe only so men like him could sit and contemplate the futility of their lives within four square walls of crushing and lifeless reality.
"When are you going to love yourself? And I mean that in the literal way."
The words brought a twist to Wilson's lips, but it wasn't a happy smile. If only House knew, Wilson thought, he'd never have suggested such a thing. Not even glibly. Then again, he'd often wondered if maybe House already knew. It would explain the `big romantic weekend in the Pocono's' comment. House teasing him or... testing him.
Wilson shook his head and dropped his head down, rubbing both hands over his face. A shower, he decided, might make him feel better. At least it might make him feel warmer. Winter seemed to be seeping into his bones.
Straightening up, Wilson shucked off his jacket and went to hang it up in the closet. He then made his way into the bathroom and started stripping off the rest of his clothes, folding them neatly onto the vanity. He made sure not to look at himself in the mirror.
Once he was completely naked, Wilson opened the shower door and got the water running, as hot as he knew he could stand it. He went to step in and then paused. After a moment he stepped back and moved to switch the bathroom light off. The only light now was from the lamp in the other room coming in through the half-open door, which was barely any light at all. Satisfied, Wilson turned back and got into the shower, stepping under the water with his eyes closed.
The hot water prickled over his skin and for a few minutes Wilson only stood there and tried not to think at all. Opening his eyes, he looked hesitantly down at his body. The light, a soft yellow like a candle, was good. Much more flattering than the harsh bathroom lights. Things like those could give a person a complex.
"When are you going to love yourself?"
Wilson pressed a hand to his chest. He'd start loving himself when he stopped being disgusted with himself. And he'd stop being disgusted with himself when... No, not when. If.
If he stopped being such a coward. Such a downright, despicable coward.
"Cowardly, cowardly custard!"
They used to call him that when he was a kid. Little Jimmy Wilson never did anything that wasn't absolutely safe. He wasn't at all like the other boys, where recess was a constant competition to one-up each other in daring feats. Who could climb the biggest tree, who would run into the girl's bathroom, who could do a flip off the jungle gym, who could swing the highest. Never little Jimmy.
Nothing had changed, not really.
Wilson blocked those thoughts out of his mind. It didn't stop him from thinking about what House would really do if he just came out and said it. It was something he'd gone over in his head countless times before.
"House," he would say, "I want you."
Or... "Hey," he would say, walking right up to House, grabbing onto his shoulders and leaning in close. "Even though I'm not gay, at all, I'm in love with you."
No. No, no, no.
"Greg," he would whisper. "I want you to touch me. Just... touch me."
And it would be House's hand sliding down his chest and his stomach, to his penis. It would be House's fingers brushing over the head, the sensitive skin of his inner thighs, his balls, getting him hard. It would be House's strong, lean body pressing up against his back and Wilson would both hate it and love it.
A wrenching sob tore its way from Wilson's throat and he let go of his cock and slammed his fist into the shower wall.
He couldn't do this. There was no way. If he touched himself, thinking about House - and it was always House, no matter what he tried - he'd lose everything. There would be no hiding any more.
Wilson half-sobbed, half-laughed and pressed his forehead to the back of his fist. There was that irony again.
Pushing his face back under the water, Wilson considered the idea of hiring a hooker but dismissed the thought almost immediately. He wasn't like House. He couldn't just fuck for the sake of fucking. Wilson needed a connection to be there, no matter what type. It needed to be something. House, he was sure, would call him a woman for that.
Hell, maybe he was. Of all the fucked up things he was already, being a woman trapped in man's body would just add into the mix nicely.
Wilson put his hand on his cock again and squeezed, just once. Just that brief rush of pleasure. And then he knocked the lever to the cold side. Not all the way, just enough to make him break out on in goose bumps and for his erection to die.
There was a cold, empty bed waiting for him. And tomorrow... tomorrow always came.
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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.
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