Phantom Limbs
Title: Phantom Limbs
Author: magie_05
Word Count: 3,880
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating/Warnings: NC-17, I guess
Summary: Sequel to Anhedonia. How can something hurt when it's not there?
Thanks to bmax67 for looking over this for me...she's a saint. Honestly, lol <3
Note: The title is used in the figurative sense, just to clarify; it's got nothing to do with the physical, medical phenomenon of phantom limbs.
He’ll get used to it eventually.
Maybe in another week, he won’t wake up wondering why it’s so cold. In a month, his fingers will stop plucking out slow, nostalgic songs on darkened piano keys. In a year, he won’t find himself staring at clocks and mirrors and wondering what the hell comes next.
Or maybe by then, it won’t matter.
The apartment suddenly has too many rooms. There aren’t any ties draped over doorknobs or bedposts. He wakes to the sound of his head pounding, only eats to quell the nausea. He breathes, Wilson’s shampoo in the sheets, his cologne in the bathroom, and he knows he should stop. Should distance himself. Get away from reminders of the things he can’t have, put up the golf clubs, drive past diners with stairs. Forget what it feels like to run, to run his fingers over Wilson’s skin.
But he doesn’t compare it to being crippled. It’s not the same thing. Losing the leg changed everything; losing Wilson…stopping Wilson only means that everything will go back to the way it was, before him. It’s not as if he didn’t spend years this way; he should be used to the silence, used to the images flickering before his eyes. It’s not like the leg. This time he controlled it, expected it, knew what he had to look forward to.
He shifts on the wrong side of the bed, leg throbbing, limbs heavy. It hurts too much. Doesn’t make sense. The pain has to go away soon, another day, another pill, pulling him away from what he’s lost. It’s just because it’s new, like the first steps with a cane; it gets better. You get used to it. It can’t hurt this much for the rest of his life.
But House, of all people, knows the flaw in that theory.
It’s pouring one cup of coffee.
It’s Wilson’s aftershave in the medicine cabinet. It’s his CD in House’s stereo. Men with brown hair and trench coats on the sidewalk. Riding past his car in the parking garage and trying not to notice it’s still full of boxes.
It’s five days that feel like years.
He’s managed to avoid the big things so far, phone off the hook, cell battery dead. He wonders if it was necessary, if Wilson’s even called. Probably not. Probably hates him, or wants to forget him, or is on the path toward someone else. Each is better than the alternative, and Wilson will realize that at some point. They’d just been wasting each other’s time.
Sounds so good, House almost believes it himself.
He shouldn’t be here, on his way to an office next door to Wilson, the colleague he used to go out with. It’s the problem with getting entangled with your best friend and then pulling back. There’s nothing left but awkward silences.
He keeps his eyes front and limps out of the elevator. Nothing’s really changed. He’ll take a case and do his job, because that’s his excuse. He’ll take his pills and snap at employees, because that’s what they want to see. That keeps it normal.
The only difference is he doesn’t look up to see who comes in the door; there’s no one he wants to see. He doesn’t drag his leg out for its mid-morning limp around the hallways. There’s a hollow in his abdomen he suspects has little to do with the lack of pilfered French fries. Other than that, it’s your average day. Many more to look forward to.
House twirls a forgotten pair of cufflinks around the desk and tries to accept that.
He waits to leave until it’s dark.
Easier to pretend he doesn’t care if the room next door is empty. The longer he’s here, the less time he’s at home, the less there is to remind him.
But a triangle of soft light breaks up the dim corridor, and his shoes squeak abruptly on the just-waxed floor. Wilson’s door is barely open, revealing nothing more than a corner of the room, but his lamp is still on, the letters of his name standing out in stark relief against the door.
He always did accuse House of being self-destructive.
The door falls open the rest of the way under the cane. He must not hear it. Doesn’t tear his gaze from the balcony, takes a sip from the black coffee mug in his hand and shudders slightly. House highly doubts he’s shuddering from coffee.
He’s not sure what he expected. Wilson looks the same. Shirtsleeves rolled up, tie undone. It must be darker than he’d realized, because there’s a shadow over the visible part of Wilson’s profile, darkening his face. Just a trick of the light.
His office is the same, too, no outward change, gifts from patients and Hitchcock posters. The only difference is the thin blanket thrown carelessly on the sofa-
“This is where you’ve been sleeping?”
Wilson’s shoulders tense, like he’s preparing to be hit. He breathes carefully for a moment, staring into his cup, voice heavy and monotone like a drumbeat. “Where did you expect me to go?”
House limps another step into the room, silhouetted in the doorway. “Hotel? Another cancer patient’s apartment?”
Wilson’s jaw tenses, his eyes close, still not looking at House. “You just stop by to rub it in?”
He has to swallow a momentary surge of guilt. “You’re being stupid.”
He scoffs. “Right, House, I’m being stupid.”
“You can’t stay here forever pretending this is just a fight. It’s pathetic.”
He turns, slowly, that look of defeat taking House’s breath away. “So stop doing this and let’s go home.”
His eyes close, can’t help but entertain the thought, walking once more with Wilson down the hall, across the parking lot, to his apartment, to his bedroom-
“Not happening.” What Wilson calls self-destruction, House calls self-preservation. Get out of the water before he drowns, before he pulls someone down with him. “You need to get used to it.”
Wilson’s shaking his head numbly, like he’s trying to convince himself he hasn’t heard. “No,” limp hair falling around his face, eyes darting around the room like he’s lost, “because you’re going to forget about this in a few days. Probably bitch that I wasn’t there to get you food,” he takes a step forward and House wishes he didn’t feel the need to step back.
“Then this will all be over,” Wilson finishes, a hitch in his breath.
He shouldn’t say it, shouldn’t take the last thing Wilson’s holding onto. “It already is.”
Hope is a lie. Better Wilson knows that now, even though his features fall and all the air in the room seems to freeze, even though he’s looking at House like it’s the break-up all over again, like this is the first time he’s heard ‘goodbye.’
He wishes he could apologize, wishes he needs to apologize, wishes this were the wrong thing to do.
“Go back to the hotel,” he says instead, cold as he can manage as he turns to leave; if Wilson doesn’t hope, then he can’t be disappointed, “at least there, you’ll have the high-def porn to keep you company.”
Nothing makes sense when Wilson loves him. So he’ll make it as easy as possible for Wilson to hate him.
Wilson practically hiccups, scorn and shock, “Right, because you’re suddenly so concerned about my well-being. I’m obviously benefiting from your last fit of altruism.” He steps closer in the lamplight, dark circles under blank eyes.
“Feeling sorry for yourself,” House rasps; it’s hard to speak over the sudden tension in his throat, so he raises his voice, “it’s useless. Besides, I did you a favor. Just think of all the pity sex you’ll get!”
The words slap Wilson in the face. He looks as if he’s barely standing. “So you admit it, at least. You’re telling yourself this is some grand gesture, sacrificing your happiness for mine.”
He means to speak, means to tell Wilson to get over himself, that it hadn’t been a sacrifice because House hadn’t been happy.
It must be the truth, because he can’t bring himself to say a word.
No surprise that Wilson takes silence as confirmation. He exhales some kind of bitter laugh, the kind House has grown to fear. “Of course. You’re afraid to be happy, so you’re going to make us both miserable. Makes perfect sense.”
It makes more sense than the alternative. “I’m not making you miserable; you’re doing that yourself.”
“Yeah, this is all me. I guess I should be thanking you,” he spits the words, a familiar, dangerous edge to his voice.
“Careful, Jimmy. You just dived headfirst out of denial into the anger stage already. Wouldn’t want your martyrdom to be over too quickly.”
Wilson closes his eyes and lowers his head, hurt rolling off of him, tension in his shoulders and hands on his hips. “Why are you doing this?”
He doesn’t know the answer; he never should have come here tonight, never try to walk without a crutch. “Why are you?”
Wilson looks up, knows the answer immediately, says it with no pretense. “I love you.”
Wilson loves him, so he’s holding on, sleeping in his office and living out of his car. Wilson loves him, despite every attempt to stop him. Wilson loves him, so he’s miserable.
House turns to leave, deciding at the last second to make it worse, since it can’t get better.
Wilson loves him. “Doesn’t matter.”
He goes home and tries to make it true.
The problem with Wilson becoming everything is that it means House has lost everything.
Or thrown it away. Semantics. This end was always inevitable; he just preempted it, and Wilson should realize that, stop staring at him with those damn eyes through glass walls.
He thinks the pain is getting worse.
He functions.
Days, he keeps to his office, because it’s got the most distractions. He takes a case, not sure if he’s too relieved when the symptoms rule out cancer. The routine is still there, ideas and angry loved ones and saved lives. Not having someone to talk to about it, not being endlessly preached to over each small moral decision is no reason it shouldn’t feel the same.
But it doesn’t, and he can’t bring himself to care.
Nights are harder. Eyes glued to mindless TV, so he can’t notice the empty seat next to him. Doesn’t matter that he’s barely spoken about anything real since two weeks ago in Wilson’s office. He’ll ignore those sudden, irrational urges to pick up the phone or talk to a friend he doesn’t have anymore.
Nights, his body betrays him.
Not that that’s anything new. But it’s been a while since he can’t close his eyes without seeing his, can’t forget what it felt like. He slumps back on the couch, arms crossed over his stomach to dispel the ache, memories of skin and lips and smiles awakening his senses. His body misses Wilson, even if the rest of him can’t, but he keeps his hands crossed under his arms and his eyes to the ceiling and his mind on the pain.
It’s by no means the first time he’s been alone and pensive and horny. There’s an easy solution to that last one, multiple solutions, and it couldn’t possibly make him more pathetic than he already is. But he won’t touch. He won’t call.
Won’t accept that this is what he’d wanted.
He’s proven himself right. If losing him hurts this much when House controlled it, what would have happened if it wasn’t his choice? If it were unexpected? If Wilson were to leave instead of being pushed. Surely, this is better for them both.
He takes a pill and another drink and a breath of still, silent air. He exists.
Whether he wants to or not.
He knows he’s had too much when he hears footsteps outside his door.
There’s no way Wilson’s really that desperate. He hears heavy shuffling and the jangling of keys, thinking it must be some neighbor, wrong apartment, asshole, because no one he knows would come here this late, when he’s this drunk and this lonely. No one he knows should care.
But the doorknob jiggles as someone on the other side grabs it, tries to force in a key. Seconds later, there’s a clatter of metal against wood, as Wilson apparently realizes the locks have been changed.
A weak knock somehow jolts his heart into life. “House.”
Not fair, that he’s never heard his name said that way, that helplessly. It pulls something from him before he can hold it back, hand to cane, cane to floor, swaying slightly in his living room because he’s got no place else to go. Another knock. “House. Please.”
He sounds drunk. That’s the only reason Wilson’s voice is muddled and quavering; it’s the only reason he’s here. It would be the only thing that makes sense.
As he limps towards the door, House has every intention of lying.
Of telling Wilson he’s pathetic. Saying that he wants Wilson to leave, drown his sorrows in Jack Daniels like a normal person. Telling Wilson he’s not missed.
But this time, he’s too goddamned weak. Lies shrivel on his tongue at the sight of his friend on his doorstep once again.
Wilson’s not drunk. He’s just been crying.
House has to clear his throat before he can speak. “Why are you here?”
He shrugs helplessly, his arms hanging limply at his sides, like he’s got no clue what the answer is. His eyes are dry now, dark and sunken, web of capillaries breaking up their color. “Can I come in? Just…just for a minute.”
Carefully controlled breathing, so Wilson won’t suspect the knot of anxiety in his stomach, “Why? You forget some of your stuff over here?”
He watches a muscle twist in Wilson’s jaw. “Please.”
Of course, House stands back to let him in. At least tonight, he can blame the alcohol for his lack of self-control.
He stares and says nothing while Wilson looks around the apartment, as if it’s been years instead of weeks, as if he’s expecting some big change. His eyes linger on the remains of alcoholic distraction on the coffee table while he takes a deep breath. “I made some calls today,” he rumbles, his voice rough and almost secretive. “I can’t stay here. Not like this.”
So he’s leaving. Just as House had anticipated. Exactly the reason why breaking it off before this happened was the only way. “Right.”
“Is that all you have to say?”
He’s not sure what he’s supposed to say after ten years to his best friend, the same person he almost tried to love. He stares at the floor.
Wilson huffs in his chest. “You know, I expected some version of this. You can’t just accept anything without picking it apart, seeing how far you can push it. Stupid of me to hope for anything different, I guess.”
If he keeps staring at the floor, keeps both hands firmly on the cane, Wilson won’t see him shaking. “I guess so.”
He sees Wilson nod to the floor through his peripheral vision. “You can’t trust this. I knew that, I just…thought you might be willing to try.”
Against his will, House becomes aware of Wilson slowly moving toward him, slowly cutting off his exits, subtly backing him against the wall. He’s caged in, in all possible meanings of the word.
“You figure anything that makes you happy also has the power to leave you with nothing,” Wilson continues, and god, House wishes he would stop, wishes he’d never come here, wishes Wilson would just forget.
“So you push it away, or you don’t let yourself get close to it at all. You stay miserable because you’re afraid of something else making you miserable. You think you’re protecting yourself, or me, or both of us.”
He’s inches from House’s shoulder, so close House can smell him, taste him, miss him. He flinches but doesn’t look up when a heavy hand lands on his arm, just above the elbow, keeping him in place.
“There’s just one flaw in your grand theory,” Wilson’s whispering now, his voice running like a chill down House’s spine. His words are somewhat confident, as if rehearsed, but there’s a moist, breathy shudder and fear behind them. “Me. And I’m not going to let you do this. I can’t. You’re not going to push me away like everyone else after all we-”
He shuts up when House kisses him.
It’s light at first, chaste, and nearly over before House realizes what he’s done. But by then, Wilson’s reacting, a relieved groan in his throat, arms slipping around House’s shoulders to hold him there as his mouth opens-
He knows better than this. He’s learned what it feels like to have what he wants and then lose it, what it’s like to run to work one week and be a cripple again the next. He doesn’t take chances on people because history has taught him that the odds are usually against him.
But he’d do it again.
He knows the ending already, knows that when the pain comes back it will only be worse for the reprieve, but he can’t stop, can’t deny himself this, not tonight. He twists his head and his tongue seeks out that taste, that warmth, which his memory has been a poor substitute for these last few weeks. Hands moving to Wilson’s hips, cane clattering against the floorboards, inhaling more noises or perhaps making some of his own. Electricity takes over until their mouths are sealed together, until Wilson’s stealing his breath-
He’s drowning, like the first time, like every time he let himself fall closer to Wilson; doomed and powerless to hold back. He’s stealing quick breaths in between kisses because he can’t stop, because once he stops, it’s over again. He’s not sure which of them started moving, too focused on the way Wilson feels, the way he tastes, the way he whines in his throat when House pushes up his shirt.
Just like the first time, so House barely notices that they’ve moved into the bedroom, or the trail of clothing left behind. Too absorbed in right now, too obsessed with every detail, Wilson’s skin, Wilson’s mouth, Wilson’s hand on his cheek. The needy, almost pained noise he makes when House pushes him gently to the mattress.
House kisses him again, just to hold off talking, just so it feels like the first time. Desperately relieved, frantic and fragile, House unable to think of the future, Wilson forgetting the past, nothing existing outside this room.
With Wilson naked and squirming beneath him, there’s no chance to regret or second-guess, no point pretending he doesn’t want this. “Wilson.”
He gasps, apparently unable to answer in words, shoving a pillow under his lower back before he settles into the mattress, dragging House down with him.
It’s too much, Wilson’s fingers in his hair, chest heaving under House’s lips, skin shining under sweat but warm, here, finally, exactly where he doesn’t belong. The problem with Wilson giving him so many chances is he has so many opportunities to fail.
But Wilson’s murmuring quietly, mindless little affirmations that would be disgusting from anyone else, and House can forget that it’s still over, for now, reach for a familiar bottle like this is still routine.
For a while, it feels good.
His face is buried in Wilson’s neck, so he doesn’t have to see, and there’s a whole new kind of tension in his muscles, this kind having nothing to do with pain. If he bites down on Wilson’s shoulder, he can hold back speech, keep it safe, keep it normal. He can move in warmth and softness and comfort and forget it’s not his. He can listen to Wilson gasp and whimper and feel good, just for a little longer.
He doesn’t regret it until it’s over and Wilson moans in relief. Until it’s too late.
He’s done it again, same fucking mistake, started something without thinking, and if the last few weeks have taught him anything, it’s that he’s not going to be only one he hurts. He pulls back, only dimly aware of finishing, heart catching in his throat at the sight below him.
Wilson’s panting, damp hair on the pillow, a wide, open smile on his face. Hurts more when he laughs breathlessly, happily, reaches up to bring House’s forehead against his own.
He has to get up, has to leave, has to stop this. He’s already screwed up, made Wilson happy for a brief, cruel moment that can’t possibly last. No reason to drag it out. He flinches away, straightens his arms, starts to pull away-
“Don’t,” Wilson whispers, hot breath in House’s ear as he clenches his muscles, wraps a leg around House’s hips, holds him close and inside, won’t let him go. Wilson doesn’t want it to end yet.
It’s more than House deserves.
Hands slide over his shoulder blades. “Don’t,” Wilson whispers again, but this time, he means something else.
“Have to,” House rasps into Wilson’s kiss-burned neck, “eventually.”
He hears Wilson breathe and this time his voice is stronger. “No, you don’t. You just think you have to.”
He shifts inside Wilson, pretend that’s what they’re talking about. “Can’t do this forever.”
“Why not?” Wilson’s thighs against his hips, palms up and down his sides. “When’s the last time you let yourself get close to this?”
“Didn’t work out so well back then, in case you forgot.”
“I know,” he whispers, “but there’s no reason for you to keep punishing yourself. Or me.”
Wilson’s fingers in his hair, Wilson’s heartbeat under his ear. Three weeks that only made things worse, the pain not wearing off until right now in this moment, cruelly content in Wilson’s arms.
Barely a whisper, “I don’t know how to make this right.”
He makes House look at him, fingers twisted in his hair, echoing House’s own, hated words in Wilson’s office, “It already is.”
He’s smiling, running a thumb over House’s lips.
For the first time in too long, it doesn’t hurt to smile back.
He wakes to Wilson’s elbow poking him in the back.
It’s entirely too hot and too early and too perfect. It’s only a few minutes before he can poke Wilson back with a part of his own anatomy, grin his ‘good morning,’ lie back and let himself go. Another few minutes, and he’s smiling. Feels good.
Feels right.
He doesn’t question that until Wilson’s making his usual noises around the apartment, slipping straight back into routine, breakfast and banter and hairdryers.
It’s not that anything’s changed. It’s still there. He still wants it to end before anything gets worse. Sometimes he wants things to go back to the way they were, just friends, less risk. He wants Wilson to find someone else to take care of, someone who can actually return the favor. But then Wilson looks at him, or smiles at him, some smartass remark undercut by a kiss, and for the first time, he’s grateful.
You can’t always get what you want.
A/N: Guh. So cliched. I'm working on a hair!smut fic next. Then there's like a million other ideas I've got going on. Plus there's the college. Basically, I'm just fantasizing about guy-on-guy porn while I'm supposed to be studying Trig and Genetics and British Literature. So...that's what's going on with me :)
Author: magie_05
Word Count: 3,880
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating/Warnings: NC-17, I guess
Summary: Sequel to Anhedonia. How can something hurt when it's not there?
Thanks to bmax67 for looking over this for me...she's a saint. Honestly, lol <3
Note: The title is used in the figurative sense, just to clarify; it's got nothing to do with the physical, medical phenomenon of phantom limbs.
He’ll get used to it eventually.
Maybe in another week, he won’t wake up wondering why it’s so cold. In a month, his fingers will stop plucking out slow, nostalgic songs on darkened piano keys. In a year, he won’t find himself staring at clocks and mirrors and wondering what the hell comes next.
Or maybe by then, it won’t matter.
The apartment suddenly has too many rooms. There aren’t any ties draped over doorknobs or bedposts. He wakes to the sound of his head pounding, only eats to quell the nausea. He breathes, Wilson’s shampoo in the sheets, his cologne in the bathroom, and he knows he should stop. Should distance himself. Get away from reminders of the things he can’t have, put up the golf clubs, drive past diners with stairs. Forget what it feels like to run, to run his fingers over Wilson’s skin.
But he doesn’t compare it to being crippled. It’s not the same thing. Losing the leg changed everything; losing Wilson…stopping Wilson only means that everything will go back to the way it was, before him. It’s not as if he didn’t spend years this way; he should be used to the silence, used to the images flickering before his eyes. It’s not like the leg. This time he controlled it, expected it, knew what he had to look forward to.
He shifts on the wrong side of the bed, leg throbbing, limbs heavy. It hurts too much. Doesn’t make sense. The pain has to go away soon, another day, another pill, pulling him away from what he’s lost. It’s just because it’s new, like the first steps with a cane; it gets better. You get used to it. It can’t hurt this much for the rest of his life.
But House, of all people, knows the flaw in that theory.
It’s pouring one cup of coffee.
It’s Wilson’s aftershave in the medicine cabinet. It’s his CD in House’s stereo. Men with brown hair and trench coats on the sidewalk. Riding past his car in the parking garage and trying not to notice it’s still full of boxes.
It’s five days that feel like years.
He’s managed to avoid the big things so far, phone off the hook, cell battery dead. He wonders if it was necessary, if Wilson’s even called. Probably not. Probably hates him, or wants to forget him, or is on the path toward someone else. Each is better than the alternative, and Wilson will realize that at some point. They’d just been wasting each other’s time.
Sounds so good, House almost believes it himself.
He shouldn’t be here, on his way to an office next door to Wilson, the colleague he used to go out with. It’s the problem with getting entangled with your best friend and then pulling back. There’s nothing left but awkward silences.
He keeps his eyes front and limps out of the elevator. Nothing’s really changed. He’ll take a case and do his job, because that’s his excuse. He’ll take his pills and snap at employees, because that’s what they want to see. That keeps it normal.
The only difference is he doesn’t look up to see who comes in the door; there’s no one he wants to see. He doesn’t drag his leg out for its mid-morning limp around the hallways. There’s a hollow in his abdomen he suspects has little to do with the lack of pilfered French fries. Other than that, it’s your average day. Many more to look forward to.
House twirls a forgotten pair of cufflinks around the desk and tries to accept that.
He waits to leave until it’s dark.
Easier to pretend he doesn’t care if the room next door is empty. The longer he’s here, the less time he’s at home, the less there is to remind him.
But a triangle of soft light breaks up the dim corridor, and his shoes squeak abruptly on the just-waxed floor. Wilson’s door is barely open, revealing nothing more than a corner of the room, but his lamp is still on, the letters of his name standing out in stark relief against the door.
He always did accuse House of being self-destructive.
The door falls open the rest of the way under the cane. He must not hear it. Doesn’t tear his gaze from the balcony, takes a sip from the black coffee mug in his hand and shudders slightly. House highly doubts he’s shuddering from coffee.
He’s not sure what he expected. Wilson looks the same. Shirtsleeves rolled up, tie undone. It must be darker than he’d realized, because there’s a shadow over the visible part of Wilson’s profile, darkening his face. Just a trick of the light.
His office is the same, too, no outward change, gifts from patients and Hitchcock posters. The only difference is the thin blanket thrown carelessly on the sofa-
“This is where you’ve been sleeping?”
Wilson’s shoulders tense, like he’s preparing to be hit. He breathes carefully for a moment, staring into his cup, voice heavy and monotone like a drumbeat. “Where did you expect me to go?”
House limps another step into the room, silhouetted in the doorway. “Hotel? Another cancer patient’s apartment?”
Wilson’s jaw tenses, his eyes close, still not looking at House. “You just stop by to rub it in?”
He has to swallow a momentary surge of guilt. “You’re being stupid.”
He scoffs. “Right, House, I’m being stupid.”
“You can’t stay here forever pretending this is just a fight. It’s pathetic.”
He turns, slowly, that look of defeat taking House’s breath away. “So stop doing this and let’s go home.”
His eyes close, can’t help but entertain the thought, walking once more with Wilson down the hall, across the parking lot, to his apartment, to his bedroom-
“Not happening.” What Wilson calls self-destruction, House calls self-preservation. Get out of the water before he drowns, before he pulls someone down with him. “You need to get used to it.”
Wilson’s shaking his head numbly, like he’s trying to convince himself he hasn’t heard. “No,” limp hair falling around his face, eyes darting around the room like he’s lost, “because you’re going to forget about this in a few days. Probably bitch that I wasn’t there to get you food,” he takes a step forward and House wishes he didn’t feel the need to step back.
“Then this will all be over,” Wilson finishes, a hitch in his breath.
He shouldn’t say it, shouldn’t take the last thing Wilson’s holding onto. “It already is.”
Hope is a lie. Better Wilson knows that now, even though his features fall and all the air in the room seems to freeze, even though he’s looking at House like it’s the break-up all over again, like this is the first time he’s heard ‘goodbye.’
He wishes he could apologize, wishes he needs to apologize, wishes this were the wrong thing to do.
“Go back to the hotel,” he says instead, cold as he can manage as he turns to leave; if Wilson doesn’t hope, then he can’t be disappointed, “at least there, you’ll have the high-def porn to keep you company.”
Nothing makes sense when Wilson loves him. So he’ll make it as easy as possible for Wilson to hate him.
Wilson practically hiccups, scorn and shock, “Right, because you’re suddenly so concerned about my well-being. I’m obviously benefiting from your last fit of altruism.” He steps closer in the lamplight, dark circles under blank eyes.
“Feeling sorry for yourself,” House rasps; it’s hard to speak over the sudden tension in his throat, so he raises his voice, “it’s useless. Besides, I did you a favor. Just think of all the pity sex you’ll get!”
The words slap Wilson in the face. He looks as if he’s barely standing. “So you admit it, at least. You’re telling yourself this is some grand gesture, sacrificing your happiness for mine.”
He means to speak, means to tell Wilson to get over himself, that it hadn’t been a sacrifice because House hadn’t been happy.
It must be the truth, because he can’t bring himself to say a word.
No surprise that Wilson takes silence as confirmation. He exhales some kind of bitter laugh, the kind House has grown to fear. “Of course. You’re afraid to be happy, so you’re going to make us both miserable. Makes perfect sense.”
It makes more sense than the alternative. “I’m not making you miserable; you’re doing that yourself.”
“Yeah, this is all me. I guess I should be thanking you,” he spits the words, a familiar, dangerous edge to his voice.
“Careful, Jimmy. You just dived headfirst out of denial into the anger stage already. Wouldn’t want your martyrdom to be over too quickly.”
Wilson closes his eyes and lowers his head, hurt rolling off of him, tension in his shoulders and hands on his hips. “Why are you doing this?”
He doesn’t know the answer; he never should have come here tonight, never try to walk without a crutch. “Why are you?”
Wilson looks up, knows the answer immediately, says it with no pretense. “I love you.”
Wilson loves him, so he’s holding on, sleeping in his office and living out of his car. Wilson loves him, despite every attempt to stop him. Wilson loves him, so he’s miserable.
House turns to leave, deciding at the last second to make it worse, since it can’t get better.
Wilson loves him. “Doesn’t matter.”
He goes home and tries to make it true.
The problem with Wilson becoming everything is that it means House has lost everything.
Or thrown it away. Semantics. This end was always inevitable; he just preempted it, and Wilson should realize that, stop staring at him with those damn eyes through glass walls.
He thinks the pain is getting worse.
He functions.
Days, he keeps to his office, because it’s got the most distractions. He takes a case, not sure if he’s too relieved when the symptoms rule out cancer. The routine is still there, ideas and angry loved ones and saved lives. Not having someone to talk to about it, not being endlessly preached to over each small moral decision is no reason it shouldn’t feel the same.
But it doesn’t, and he can’t bring himself to care.
Nights are harder. Eyes glued to mindless TV, so he can’t notice the empty seat next to him. Doesn’t matter that he’s barely spoken about anything real since two weeks ago in Wilson’s office. He’ll ignore those sudden, irrational urges to pick up the phone or talk to a friend he doesn’t have anymore.
Nights, his body betrays him.
Not that that’s anything new. But it’s been a while since he can’t close his eyes without seeing his, can’t forget what it felt like. He slumps back on the couch, arms crossed over his stomach to dispel the ache, memories of skin and lips and smiles awakening his senses. His body misses Wilson, even if the rest of him can’t, but he keeps his hands crossed under his arms and his eyes to the ceiling and his mind on the pain.
It’s by no means the first time he’s been alone and pensive and horny. There’s an easy solution to that last one, multiple solutions, and it couldn’t possibly make him more pathetic than he already is. But he won’t touch. He won’t call.
Won’t accept that this is what he’d wanted.
He’s proven himself right. If losing him hurts this much when House controlled it, what would have happened if it wasn’t his choice? If it were unexpected? If Wilson were to leave instead of being pushed. Surely, this is better for them both.
He takes a pill and another drink and a breath of still, silent air. He exists.
Whether he wants to or not.
He knows he’s had too much when he hears footsteps outside his door.
There’s no way Wilson’s really that desperate. He hears heavy shuffling and the jangling of keys, thinking it must be some neighbor, wrong apartment, asshole, because no one he knows would come here this late, when he’s this drunk and this lonely. No one he knows should care.
But the doorknob jiggles as someone on the other side grabs it, tries to force in a key. Seconds later, there’s a clatter of metal against wood, as Wilson apparently realizes the locks have been changed.
A weak knock somehow jolts his heart into life. “House.”
Not fair, that he’s never heard his name said that way, that helplessly. It pulls something from him before he can hold it back, hand to cane, cane to floor, swaying slightly in his living room because he’s got no place else to go. Another knock. “House. Please.”
He sounds drunk. That’s the only reason Wilson’s voice is muddled and quavering; it’s the only reason he’s here. It would be the only thing that makes sense.
As he limps towards the door, House has every intention of lying.
Of telling Wilson he’s pathetic. Saying that he wants Wilson to leave, drown his sorrows in Jack Daniels like a normal person. Telling Wilson he’s not missed.
But this time, he’s too goddamned weak. Lies shrivel on his tongue at the sight of his friend on his doorstep once again.
Wilson’s not drunk. He’s just been crying.
House has to clear his throat before he can speak. “Why are you here?”
He shrugs helplessly, his arms hanging limply at his sides, like he’s got no clue what the answer is. His eyes are dry now, dark and sunken, web of capillaries breaking up their color. “Can I come in? Just…just for a minute.”
Carefully controlled breathing, so Wilson won’t suspect the knot of anxiety in his stomach, “Why? You forget some of your stuff over here?”
He watches a muscle twist in Wilson’s jaw. “Please.”
Of course, House stands back to let him in. At least tonight, he can blame the alcohol for his lack of self-control.
He stares and says nothing while Wilson looks around the apartment, as if it’s been years instead of weeks, as if he’s expecting some big change. His eyes linger on the remains of alcoholic distraction on the coffee table while he takes a deep breath. “I made some calls today,” he rumbles, his voice rough and almost secretive. “I can’t stay here. Not like this.”
So he’s leaving. Just as House had anticipated. Exactly the reason why breaking it off before this happened was the only way. “Right.”
“Is that all you have to say?”
He’s not sure what he’s supposed to say after ten years to his best friend, the same person he almost tried to love. He stares at the floor.
Wilson huffs in his chest. “You know, I expected some version of this. You can’t just accept anything without picking it apart, seeing how far you can push it. Stupid of me to hope for anything different, I guess.”
If he keeps staring at the floor, keeps both hands firmly on the cane, Wilson won’t see him shaking. “I guess so.”
He sees Wilson nod to the floor through his peripheral vision. “You can’t trust this. I knew that, I just…thought you might be willing to try.”
Against his will, House becomes aware of Wilson slowly moving toward him, slowly cutting off his exits, subtly backing him against the wall. He’s caged in, in all possible meanings of the word.
“You figure anything that makes you happy also has the power to leave you with nothing,” Wilson continues, and god, House wishes he would stop, wishes he’d never come here, wishes Wilson would just forget.
“So you push it away, or you don’t let yourself get close to it at all. You stay miserable because you’re afraid of something else making you miserable. You think you’re protecting yourself, or me, or both of us.”
He’s inches from House’s shoulder, so close House can smell him, taste him, miss him. He flinches but doesn’t look up when a heavy hand lands on his arm, just above the elbow, keeping him in place.
“There’s just one flaw in your grand theory,” Wilson’s whispering now, his voice running like a chill down House’s spine. His words are somewhat confident, as if rehearsed, but there’s a moist, breathy shudder and fear behind them. “Me. And I’m not going to let you do this. I can’t. You’re not going to push me away like everyone else after all we-”
He shuts up when House kisses him.
It’s light at first, chaste, and nearly over before House realizes what he’s done. But by then, Wilson’s reacting, a relieved groan in his throat, arms slipping around House’s shoulders to hold him there as his mouth opens-
He knows better than this. He’s learned what it feels like to have what he wants and then lose it, what it’s like to run to work one week and be a cripple again the next. He doesn’t take chances on people because history has taught him that the odds are usually against him.
But he’d do it again.
He knows the ending already, knows that when the pain comes back it will only be worse for the reprieve, but he can’t stop, can’t deny himself this, not tonight. He twists his head and his tongue seeks out that taste, that warmth, which his memory has been a poor substitute for these last few weeks. Hands moving to Wilson’s hips, cane clattering against the floorboards, inhaling more noises or perhaps making some of his own. Electricity takes over until their mouths are sealed together, until Wilson’s stealing his breath-
He’s drowning, like the first time, like every time he let himself fall closer to Wilson; doomed and powerless to hold back. He’s stealing quick breaths in between kisses because he can’t stop, because once he stops, it’s over again. He’s not sure which of them started moving, too focused on the way Wilson feels, the way he tastes, the way he whines in his throat when House pushes up his shirt.
Just like the first time, so House barely notices that they’ve moved into the bedroom, or the trail of clothing left behind. Too absorbed in right now, too obsessed with every detail, Wilson’s skin, Wilson’s mouth, Wilson’s hand on his cheek. The needy, almost pained noise he makes when House pushes him gently to the mattress.
House kisses him again, just to hold off talking, just so it feels like the first time. Desperately relieved, frantic and fragile, House unable to think of the future, Wilson forgetting the past, nothing existing outside this room.
With Wilson naked and squirming beneath him, there’s no chance to regret or second-guess, no point pretending he doesn’t want this. “Wilson.”
He gasps, apparently unable to answer in words, shoving a pillow under his lower back before he settles into the mattress, dragging House down with him.
It’s too much, Wilson’s fingers in his hair, chest heaving under House’s lips, skin shining under sweat but warm, here, finally, exactly where he doesn’t belong. The problem with Wilson giving him so many chances is he has so many opportunities to fail.
But Wilson’s murmuring quietly, mindless little affirmations that would be disgusting from anyone else, and House can forget that it’s still over, for now, reach for a familiar bottle like this is still routine.
For a while, it feels good.
His face is buried in Wilson’s neck, so he doesn’t have to see, and there’s a whole new kind of tension in his muscles, this kind having nothing to do with pain. If he bites down on Wilson’s shoulder, he can hold back speech, keep it safe, keep it normal. He can move in warmth and softness and comfort and forget it’s not his. He can listen to Wilson gasp and whimper and feel good, just for a little longer.
He doesn’t regret it until it’s over and Wilson moans in relief. Until it’s too late.
He’s done it again, same fucking mistake, started something without thinking, and if the last few weeks have taught him anything, it’s that he’s not going to be only one he hurts. He pulls back, only dimly aware of finishing, heart catching in his throat at the sight below him.
Wilson’s panting, damp hair on the pillow, a wide, open smile on his face. Hurts more when he laughs breathlessly, happily, reaches up to bring House’s forehead against his own.
He has to get up, has to leave, has to stop this. He’s already screwed up, made Wilson happy for a brief, cruel moment that can’t possibly last. No reason to drag it out. He flinches away, straightens his arms, starts to pull away-
“Don’t,” Wilson whispers, hot breath in House’s ear as he clenches his muscles, wraps a leg around House’s hips, holds him close and inside, won’t let him go. Wilson doesn’t want it to end yet.
It’s more than House deserves.
Hands slide over his shoulder blades. “Don’t,” Wilson whispers again, but this time, he means something else.
“Have to,” House rasps into Wilson’s kiss-burned neck, “eventually.”
He hears Wilson breathe and this time his voice is stronger. “No, you don’t. You just think you have to.”
He shifts inside Wilson, pretend that’s what they’re talking about. “Can’t do this forever.”
“Why not?” Wilson’s thighs against his hips, palms up and down his sides. “When’s the last time you let yourself get close to this?”
“Didn’t work out so well back then, in case you forgot.”
“I know,” he whispers, “but there’s no reason for you to keep punishing yourself. Or me.”
Wilson’s fingers in his hair, Wilson’s heartbeat under his ear. Three weeks that only made things worse, the pain not wearing off until right now in this moment, cruelly content in Wilson’s arms.
Barely a whisper, “I don’t know how to make this right.”
He makes House look at him, fingers twisted in his hair, echoing House’s own, hated words in Wilson’s office, “It already is.”
He’s smiling, running a thumb over House’s lips.
For the first time in too long, it doesn’t hurt to smile back.
He wakes to Wilson’s elbow poking him in the back.
It’s entirely too hot and too early and too perfect. It’s only a few minutes before he can poke Wilson back with a part of his own anatomy, grin his ‘good morning,’ lie back and let himself go. Another few minutes, and he’s smiling. Feels good.
Feels right.
He doesn’t question that until Wilson’s making his usual noises around the apartment, slipping straight back into routine, breakfast and banter and hairdryers.
It’s not that anything’s changed. It’s still there. He still wants it to end before anything gets worse. Sometimes he wants things to go back to the way they were, just friends, less risk. He wants Wilson to find someone else to take care of, someone who can actually return the favor. But then Wilson looks at him, or smiles at him, some smartass remark undercut by a kiss, and for the first time, he’s grateful.
You can’t always get what you want.
A/N: Guh. So cliched. I'm working on a hair!smut fic next. Then there's like a million other ideas I've got going on. Plus there's the college. Basically, I'm just fantasizing about guy-on-guy porn while I'm supposed to be studying Trig and Genetics and British Literature. So...that's what's going on with me :)