the breakdown of metaphor (2/3)
Title: the breakdown of metaphor (2/3)
Author: azuredamsel
Pairings: House/Wilson, House/Cameron, Wilson/Cameron, House/Wilson/Cameron
Rating: R
Word Count: 1213
Summary: Sometimes it hits you that you have no idea what you want. (Three years ago you could've said it was to be a brilliant immunologist.) All metaphors break down somewhere.
Notes: For fated_addiction, because she's lovely. I said there would be three parts, but now I think there may be more. Maybe. I hope you enjoy. ♥
People say, "Why don't you say what you mean?" We never do that, do we, being all of us too much poets. We like to talk in parables and in hints and in indirections -- whether from diffidence or some other instinct.
--Robert Frost
The morning after, you leave them behind in the bed and start the coffee machine.
You're tempted to think of them as polar opposites. To make Wilson the saint and House the devil; House the controller and Wilson the controlled. It's simpler that way.
But you're not sure where that puts you. (With House's tongue at your neck and Wilson's fingers between your legs and your lips kissing, kissing, kissing.) You're not sure there's a middle. (House rested a finger in your belly button while Wilson bit at your earlobe.)
You can't do this. Of course they'll wake up and they'll realize this can't happen and they'll go back to Princeton. Three years don't vanish after one night. Three years matter.
Which is what you want to tell yourself. (House is still taking Vicodin.)
You need to do groceries; you open the fridge. Might as well make a list.
But just as you're opening the fridge, you hear footsteps and you look up (your house is tiny) and Wilson's in your kitchen. You try not to think about fucking him.
"Good morning," he says with a hint of a yawn. You're not sure if this should be awkward or not.
"How long are you going to be here?" You might as well get to the point. If you get side-tracked you might kiss him.
"We're going back to Princeton in a week."
"Oh." You both know he didn't really answer the question you asked. "Are you..." You brace yourself against the fridge.
"I." He covers his face with his hands.
It would be so easy to tell him (tell House) to leave. You think about the groceries. About juxtaposition (good and evil, all contained in your little house), and how you don't know anything about this man in your kitchen. (You screamed his name last night.)
You think about how you don't know anything, when you stop to think about it. About the color gray, or shades of meaning.
And you want to tell him to leave. To make him the shoulder-angel you should have gotten rid of along with religion.
But you want to know if he really likes being called "Jimmy" and if he ever thought his ties were really all that ugly.
So you say, "Stay, James" right before you kiss him.
(You think you see a few gray hairs right at his temple.)
.
During the drive to the grocery store, Wilson asks you about your job. You tell him about the clinic and new drug cocktails and the years and months added to life expectancies. About the HIV-negative babies who smile at you while you give their mothers better pills. (You don't tell him how you come back to your little empty yellow house and cry when your patients die. You like to think you've gotten to be so much stronger than that.) He smiles back at you.
You ask him about the hospital, when you get to the parking lot. He says it's all the same, pretty much. The clinic hours and the cancer patients. He doesn't say anything about House. Instead he takes your hand and squeezes it. You wonder if he's missed you -- it's not like you left a mailing address.
Sometimes you wonder about parallel loneliness.
It's not until you're in the produce section that he mentions House. They've been together for two years, Wilson tells you. You want to roll your eyes at the smile on his face. But you know what it means. (You've fucked him too.) He puts a bag of mangos in the cart and your forearms brush against each other.
You don't say anything more until you're in the frozen food aisle. You start to shiver and he wraps his arms around you. He doesn't ask you if you're lonely. Instead, he kisses you.
And you don't try to contradict him. You slide your tongue against the inside of his lip and let yourself shiver against his chest.
.
Wilson's flipping pancakes in the kitchen and you're putting milk and orange juice in the fridge. You think "domestic". And you wonder if this is as near domestic as you'll get, like some sick kind of asymptote, never quite approaching something.
Sometimes it hits you that you have no idea what you want. (Three years ago you could've said it was to be a brilliant immunologist. To marry House, or at least kiss him. To save lives again and again, and to raise little genius children with bright blue eyes and dimpled cheeks. But you gave up thirty-six months ago. Like leaving a room and turning off the light.)
"Chase sent me a Christmas card," you hear yourself say. Wilson tests the edges of the pancake and you wonder if it's so he doesn't have to look at you. Maybe he's guilty.
"Oh?"
"He's in seminary now." You're sure Wilson knows. (Married couples, you'd guess, talk like this. Stating the obvious.)
"You should've told him they're not letting priests mess with ten year olds anymore." You should have figured House would wake up soon. That three years wouldn't change him. Even two years with Wilson.
You're pretty sure you didn't want House to change in the first place. Something needs to stay constant.
"Why didn't you?" You try not to let the smile creep into your voice.
House smiles and you feel yourself falling for him again. (He's constant but he's dangerous and you want want want him.) And you start to figure out what you've wanted.
You're not sure if you should be ashamed that he's the answer. Or that you're adding Wilson to the equation. (The pancakes smell like love.) So you try not to think about it.
His hard-on is just showing through his boxers, so you don't feel guilty when you lean over and kiss him.
He works his fingers between your legs and you want want want him. And it's starting to sound something like love.
You can feel that without thinking. Somewhere between your legs and your heart.
.
You're curled up on the kitchen floor with House and Wilson and the pancakes are burning but you don't care.
You're not sure you can care. (House told you he called you in sick to work. Right after he came.)
Wilson's head is resting on your stomach and you start to stroke his hair in lazy circles. It wasn't hard to make him stop with the pancakes.
House is making a big show of kissing your toes and you want to swat him off (it tickles) but you can't move. It should probably bother you.
These things, you think, should probably matter to you. So much more than they do -- the clinic and connections and your fucking job. (You can count your fuck the world moments on one hand.)
House's tongue makes a slow little circle on your pinky toe and you try not to gasp. But he hears you (of course) and does it again. Again. Again. You can feel your arousal. (It's not fair; he's not even kissing you.)
You press your fingers to Wilson's lips and dip them inside his mouth, run a finger against his tongue and feel it curl in response.
And you think about sex and love and contentment. Because you can't think about much else right now.
Which is probably wrong.
So this is what you say: "Do you want to go to the Everglades today?"
And you know what they're thinking when they agree. (You're not entirely sure.)
Author: azuredamsel
Pairings: House/Wilson, House/Cameron, Wilson/Cameron, House/Wilson/Cameron
Rating: R
Word Count: 1213
Summary: Sometimes it hits you that you have no idea what you want. (Three years ago you could've said it was to be a brilliant immunologist.) All metaphors break down somewhere.
Notes: For fated_addiction, because she's lovely. I said there would be three parts, but now I think there may be more. Maybe. I hope you enjoy. ♥
People say, "Why don't you say what you mean?" We never do that, do we, being all of us too much poets. We like to talk in parables and in hints and in indirections -- whether from diffidence or some other instinct.
--Robert Frost
The morning after, you leave them behind in the bed and start the coffee machine.
You're tempted to think of them as polar opposites. To make Wilson the saint and House the devil; House the controller and Wilson the controlled. It's simpler that way.
But you're not sure where that puts you. (With House's tongue at your neck and Wilson's fingers between your legs and your lips kissing, kissing, kissing.) You're not sure there's a middle. (House rested a finger in your belly button while Wilson bit at your earlobe.)
You can't do this. Of course they'll wake up and they'll realize this can't happen and they'll go back to Princeton. Three years don't vanish after one night. Three years matter.
Which is what you want to tell yourself. (House is still taking Vicodin.)
You need to do groceries; you open the fridge. Might as well make a list.
But just as you're opening the fridge, you hear footsteps and you look up (your house is tiny) and Wilson's in your kitchen. You try not to think about fucking him.
"Good morning," he says with a hint of a yawn. You're not sure if this should be awkward or not.
"How long are you going to be here?" You might as well get to the point. If you get side-tracked you might kiss him.
"We're going back to Princeton in a week."
"Oh." You both know he didn't really answer the question you asked. "Are you..." You brace yourself against the fridge.
"I." He covers his face with his hands.
It would be so easy to tell him (tell House) to leave. You think about the groceries. About juxtaposition (good and evil, all contained in your little house), and how you don't know anything about this man in your kitchen. (You screamed his name last night.)
You think about how you don't know anything, when you stop to think about it. About the color gray, or shades of meaning.
And you want to tell him to leave. To make him the shoulder-angel you should have gotten rid of along with religion.
But you want to know if he really likes being called "Jimmy" and if he ever thought his ties were really all that ugly.
So you say, "Stay, James" right before you kiss him.
(You think you see a few gray hairs right at his temple.)
.
During the drive to the grocery store, Wilson asks you about your job. You tell him about the clinic and new drug cocktails and the years and months added to life expectancies. About the HIV-negative babies who smile at you while you give their mothers better pills. (You don't tell him how you come back to your little empty yellow house and cry when your patients die. You like to think you've gotten to be so much stronger than that.) He smiles back at you.
You ask him about the hospital, when you get to the parking lot. He says it's all the same, pretty much. The clinic hours and the cancer patients. He doesn't say anything about House. Instead he takes your hand and squeezes it. You wonder if he's missed you -- it's not like you left a mailing address.
Sometimes you wonder about parallel loneliness.
It's not until you're in the produce section that he mentions House. They've been together for two years, Wilson tells you. You want to roll your eyes at the smile on his face. But you know what it means. (You've fucked him too.) He puts a bag of mangos in the cart and your forearms brush against each other.
You don't say anything more until you're in the frozen food aisle. You start to shiver and he wraps his arms around you. He doesn't ask you if you're lonely. Instead, he kisses you.
And you don't try to contradict him. You slide your tongue against the inside of his lip and let yourself shiver against his chest.
.
Wilson's flipping pancakes in the kitchen and you're putting milk and orange juice in the fridge. You think "domestic". And you wonder if this is as near domestic as you'll get, like some sick kind of asymptote, never quite approaching something.
Sometimes it hits you that you have no idea what you want. (Three years ago you could've said it was to be a brilliant immunologist. To marry House, or at least kiss him. To save lives again and again, and to raise little genius children with bright blue eyes and dimpled cheeks. But you gave up thirty-six months ago. Like leaving a room and turning off the light.)
"Chase sent me a Christmas card," you hear yourself say. Wilson tests the edges of the pancake and you wonder if it's so he doesn't have to look at you. Maybe he's guilty.
"Oh?"
"He's in seminary now." You're sure Wilson knows. (Married couples, you'd guess, talk like this. Stating the obvious.)
"You should've told him they're not letting priests mess with ten year olds anymore." You should have figured House would wake up soon. That three years wouldn't change him. Even two years with Wilson.
You're pretty sure you didn't want House to change in the first place. Something needs to stay constant.
"Why didn't you?" You try not to let the smile creep into your voice.
House smiles and you feel yourself falling for him again. (He's constant but he's dangerous and you want want want him.) And you start to figure out what you've wanted.
You're not sure if you should be ashamed that he's the answer. Or that you're adding Wilson to the equation. (The pancakes smell like love.) So you try not to think about it.
His hard-on is just showing through his boxers, so you don't feel guilty when you lean over and kiss him.
He works his fingers between your legs and you want want want him. And it's starting to sound something like love.
You can feel that without thinking. Somewhere between your legs and your heart.
.
You're curled up on the kitchen floor with House and Wilson and the pancakes are burning but you don't care.
You're not sure you can care. (House told you he called you in sick to work. Right after he came.)
Wilson's head is resting on your stomach and you start to stroke his hair in lazy circles. It wasn't hard to make him stop with the pancakes.
House is making a big show of kissing your toes and you want to swat him off (it tickles) but you can't move. It should probably bother you.
These things, you think, should probably matter to you. So much more than they do -- the clinic and connections and your fucking job. (You can count your fuck the world moments on one hand.)
House's tongue makes a slow little circle on your pinky toe and you try not to gasp. But he hears you (of course) and does it again. Again. Again. You can feel your arousal. (It's not fair; he's not even kissing you.)
You press your fingers to Wilson's lips and dip them inside his mouth, run a finger against his tongue and feel it curl in response.
And you think about sex and love and contentment. Because you can't think about much else right now.
Which is probably wrong.
So this is what you say: "Do you want to go to the Everglades today?"
And you know what they're thinking when they agree. (You're not entirely sure.)