(no subject)

Mar 24, 2009 10:13

Title: House Keeping: Make the Yuletide Gay (3/3)
Author: magie_05
Word Count: ~3100
Pairing: House/Wilson domestic
Rating/Warnings: NC-17
Summary: This is another installment in my random little series of fics that takes place after House and Wilson have decided to live together. This one is based on a lovely suggestion from 2801rosie: “How about their first holiday in their new house. Maybe with parents visiting.” Uh-oh. This means ‘original’ characters. It’s broken up because I’m not sure I could ask anyone to read all this in one sitting.

Final part, thank God. Took a long time to post 'cause I hate myself, etc. ;) Sorry.

This would have disappeared into my computer's recycling bin if not for phinnia. Love her, praise her. <3

Part 2.5



He spends Christmas hoping for someone to almost die from a rare, horrible illness.

Anything to give him an excuse to leave. He considers retreating to his darkened, empty office with his pills and PSP, but part of him wonders if that’s what the parents want, for House to stay out of sight, out of mind, out of Wilson’s life.

So he doesn’t skip town, assured that his mere presence will be enough to make Mom and Dad squirm.

Even if his presence is, for most of the day, confined to the bedroom.

He’s never realized how boring it is in here without someone to play with, reduced to watching holiday programming on the small, plasma-less TV and destroying futuristic robot-aliens on Wilson’s laptop. He’s only just finished downloading an application to make the computer moan every time Wilson presses a key when the door squeaks open.

“Hey,” Wilson’s head says from around the door. “Come and join us for coffee.”

He scrolls through a page of dirty pictures, looking for Wilson’s next desktop background. “Why? Do they miss my sparkling conversation?”

Wilson tosses a look over his shoulder, then squeezes himself into the room, shutting the door behind him, standing there with his hands on his hips. “I get that you’re pissed at me. Do you have to deal with it like a teenager?”

He considers pointing out that that would be the appropriate way to act, considering this week’s sexual frustration under the watchful eyes of Mom and Pop…but something’s different now. “I’m not pissed at you,” he says quietly, addressing the blur of flesh on the computer screen.

There’s a shift in both the air and Wilson’s voice. “You’re - not?”

“No reason to be,” he keeps scrolling, staring at the screen without seeing it. “You’re doing what you think you have to. It’s in your nature to be what everyone expects you to be. If I got pissed every time you did something in character, I’d have killed you years ago.”

Wilson’s voice flattens in derision. “I’m touched.”

Still doesn’t get it. “I’m not them,” House says testily. “I’m not waiting for you to change.”

He hears Wilson breathe slowly, like he’s coming out of a long sleep. “House. I-”

A knock at their bedroom door. Again. House looks up. “James?”

It’s Daddy this time. “Just a minute,” Wilson calls without turning around, eyes resolutely on the bed.

“What are you kids doing in there?” he asks merrily, without a hint of parental suspicion. “We’re headed out early in the morning, you know. The holidays are no time for closed doors.”

He can see the moment that he loses out to Wilson’s lifelong pattern, a certain twitch in his clenched jaw. “Okay,” he says in a defeated voice. “I’ll be right there.”

If Wilson hesitates as he walks out the door, House misses it, fixated as he is on redecorating the computer with a couple pairs of fake breasts.

It’s more than an hour before the door opens again.

This time, House is lying on his back in a half-doze; endless reruns of A Christmas Story will do that to you. He jolts a little when the doorknob rattles but relaxes when he sees it’s only Wilson, come to coax him into joining the family togetherness. He looks over expectantly, taking in Wilson’s slumped shoulders and sad smile.

“Finally got them both occupied,” he says tiredly. “Mom’s cooking and Dad’s in the bathroom. I’d say we have a good half-hour.”

House gives a crooked smirk but says nothing, turning impassive eyes to the ceiling when Wilson sighs and lies down next to him.

He mimics House’s position, lying on his back with his hands flat on his stomach, staring up at nothing. “I wasn’t actually going to make you stay at their place this summer.”

House doesn’t react, doesn’t betray his sudden sense of relief.

Wilson shrugs against the pillow. “Once we’re the guests, we’d have the upper hand. I figured I could politely decline, say we don’t want to impose. Find us a ritzy little hotel. Just you, me, the hot tub…”

“…your parents in their bathing suits. Endless lines of old people at every restaurant and bathroom, rush hours on an interstate filled with retirees, your mom pimping out your medical degree to every old lady with a suspicious mole down at the Senior Center…”

Wilson makes a small noise disgust in the back of his throat. “Fine; I get the picture.” There’s a pause. “Okay, new plan: we tell them we can’t make it and spend the week at home with the phones turned off.”

House lets out a burst of air and doesn’t question the fingers curling around his forearm. “You’d lie to your parents?” he asks, still looking at the ceiling.

“Wouldn’t exactly be the first time.” His palm is warm against House’s wrist, but his voice is soft, miles away.

He keeps his voice casual. “It’s obviously working for you.”

“It’s been nice,” Wilson says lightly, like House asked his opinion about the weather. “Makes them happy. Eating, visiting. Talking about the old days. Nice, safe subjects.” He lets out a slow breath. “It’s boring.”

“No shit.” First truthful thing he’s said in days.

A full minute passes in silence. He waits for Wilson to come to his senses, let go of his arm, get up and go talk about Aunt Pearl’s hip replacement, not acting like himself again until the plane starts boarding. He expects nothing to change.

Instead, Wilson mutters “Fuck this,” and drags House up by the arm.

He barely has time to grab the cane as he’s jostled out of the room by his elbow, unsure what’s going to happen…but suddenly sure it’s not going to be boring.

There’s no time to say anything before Wilson pulls him into the kitchen, where Mom is at the stove and Dad is rummaging around in the refrigerator, neither looking up to see Wilson standing in the doorway with tousled hair and flushed skin, a rumpled and pajama-clad House in tow.

“Mom?” he says innocently, and waits for them both to look up.

“...I…I hate your green bean casserole.”

House grins. The parents blink. Wilson laughs a little. “I’ve hated it my entire life. It’s like…snot crusted with French onions. It’s disgusting.”

Estelle’s hand pauses on the spoon mixing the cream of mushroom soup.

“Dad,” Wilson goes on, before she can say anything, “I lied about not making the swim team in seventh grade because I was tired of spending every summer at the Y. And it was me who covered Aunt Abigail’s cat in glitter that time; I blamed it on Rachel because I knew you wouldn’t yell at her. I also broke that antique water pitcher, lost the key to the grandfather clock, and watched The Exorcist at Joey’s house even after you said I couldn’t.”

He says all this without pausing for air, still gripping House’s elbow almost protectively. His parents are staring as if they’ve never seen him before.

“I got drunk for the first time the summer after tenth grade and pretty much every other weekend after that until I finished college.”

“James…”

“Let him finish, ‘Stelle,” his dad interrupts, fixing Wilson with a stern glare. “Unless that’s all you wanted to tell us?”

“Uh - no,” he stammers, and House thinks he might lose his nerve. But he rubs his neck and keeps going. “Mom, Bonnie didn’t leave me because she fell for someone else. I…had an affair.”

Woah. House didn’t expect that one to come out. All the air seems to leave the room and Wilson’s dad sinks to a barstool.

So awesome.

“Also, House wasn’t the first guy I ever slept with. It was that roommate I had in the first year of med school who you both hated so much. That was pot Mom found in my jeans pocket senior year. I was living with House in his apartment for almost six months before I even told you we were together. And this morning when the heater broke, he and I were trying to have sex.”

He gives a shuddering, semi-hysterical laugh/sob and shrugs, looking at the floor to avoid the parents’ wide, shocked gazes. “I guess what I’m trying to say is there’s a lot you don’t know about me. And that’s probably a good thing. But if things are ever going to work out, there are a few things you need to know about House.”

He barely has time to think, let alone escape, before Wilson’s hand is sliding down his arm to wrap his fingers around House’s limp hand, calmly and firmly and without fanfare. “He’s annoying and rude and childish,” Wilson says in a clear voice, looking directly at his folks. “He’s irresponsible and obnoxious and says asshole-ish things just to mess with people. So many times I’ve thought I was going to strangle him because he never knows when to shut the hell up--”

“You’re no picnic yourself, Opie.”

“…and he ridicules about fifty percent of what comes out of my mouth,” he continues tiredly. “And that’s never going to change. He’s always going to be a childish jerk and the most important person in my life.”

House doesn’t fight the tiny, smug grin pulling at his lips.

The parents exchange worried glances and Gerald clears his throat, speaking in a deep voice. “No one ever said he wasn’t, son.”

House is ready for this; keeping his mouth shut for a week has him primed with trenchant sarcasm just begging to be unleashed-

But Wilson jumps in for him, letting go of House’s hand to take a step forward, hands on his hips, that dangerous edge to his voice. “No, you just did everything you could to make him uncomfortable: shadowing his every move, all those stories about my past relationships, comparing him to those…mistakes. Excluding him from virtually every conversation.” Actually, House was kind of grateful for that one, but he’s keeping his mouth shut. “Clearing your throats every time he touched me. Finding a problem in everything we have together.

“Well, I’m sorry if you don’t approve of this house’s structural integrity or our choice of décor. I’m sorry I don’t lead the kind of life that you expected for me. But you should know I’m not going to make excuses for it anymore. It…” he waivers for a minute, reversing a lifetime of politeness. “It doesn’t matter what you think.” He drops his voice and gestures to House over his shoulder. “The jerk makes me happy.”

House would revel in the victory, if his head weren’t swimming.

“Things are going to be different from now on.” He instantly recognizes Wilson’s no-bullshit voice, the same tone he used to decree this week’s ‘rules’ in the airport lobby. “I hope the two of you can accept that.”

Wilson shoves his hands in his pockets and waits, his parents staring at him, seeing him (for once) for who he really is.

His eyes find the floor and his hand snakes up Wilson’s back, remaining there wordlessly while his parents make their decision.

“At least let us drive you to the airport,” Wilson’s saying apologetically.

The parents had the congenital good manners to hang around until the morning, but they have miraculously decided to get to the airport two hours early for being early.

Not that House is complaining. If the long looks across the breakfast table or that casual slide of hands over his shoulders are anything to go by, House has a lot of apologizing to look forward to once they’re gone.

“No, no, don’t you worry about that, honey; the taxi’s already on its way. And there’s no reason for you to get out in the cold,” Estelle smiles sadly, straightening Wilson’s collar.

On the surface, almost nothing has changed. They aren’t groping each other or sucking face in front of the parents, much to House’s disappointment. And Wilson had been too drained from his confessions to do more than lie awake in bed, although his half-dressed body pressed securely against House’s back made for a nice change.

But Wilson definitely wasn’t shy about pulling House’s face to his as he stood over the stove this morning, kissing him soundly with the parents five feet away, letting House pull his hips forward. “Morning,” he’d added in a low voice, grinning warmly, communicating his intentions for later with one long look.

And he hadn’t hesitated to join House for some sorely missed mockery, suggesting that Cuddy and her new female assistant were a little too professional around each other, oblivious to his parents’ scandalized faces.

He was still warm and polite in the living room as they started saying their goodbyes, still saying things out of Hallmark cards. But the stilted, slightly psychotic eighth-grade-yearbook-photo expression was gone from his features, leaving that open, easy-going grin that seemed to deepen each time he caught House’s eye.

It’s the most important change.

Estelle finishes her fussing and slowly crosses to House, who’s been leaning silently against the living room wall. Even with eyes head slightly downcast, he can tell she’s taking in his threadbare pants and ragged blue sweatshirt, seeing nothing that should appeal to anyone like her.

She looks up at him for a long moment. “That’s a lovely color on you, dear,” she eventually sighs, and stretches up to peck him on the cheek.

Fortunately, a car horns sounds before he has to say anything, breaking the silence and Wilson’s sadly affectionate gaze. “I’ll help you carry your things,” he mumbles, and picks up a suitcase in each hand.

He watches from the foyer as Wilson and the cab driver manuever the bags into the trunk, as he smiles and speaks inaudibly to his mother. He’s so caught up in Wilson’s contented posture that he doesn’t notice Mr. Wilson sidling up behind him.

The constipated look has passed from Wilson to his dad; Gerald has spent every moment since Wilson’s confessions alternating between grunting at the floor and staring from his son to House and back again, shaking his head to himself. Now he shoves his hands in his coat pockets and clears his throat, eyes fixed on the floor molding.

House straightens up, planting both hands on the hook of his cane, stretched to his full height. “Is this the part where you warn me not to hurt him?”

Gerald’s gray eyebrows twitch in a rather familiar way, his jaw tightening in annoyance. “Not exactly.”

“So it’s an apology?” House enjoys his victory, raising his eyebrows expectantly. “For a week of - let me think - having my house ridiculed, my hot, male lover transformed into a high-strung little poodle, my coitus-es interruptuss-ed…”

“I can’t claim I’ll ever know what it is he sees in you,” Gerald cuts in roughly. “But you’re obviously doing something right.” He jerks his head toward the driveway, where Wilson is talking with his mother, that easy, relaxed grin on his face.

“I haven’t seen him like that since he was a kid,” he goes on, still looking out into the yard. Slowly he turns his head, looking at House, and for the first time, actually seeing him. “Don’t screw it up.”

He walks to the car without another word, and catches Wilson in a brief, one-armed hug.

Twelve seconds after the front door closes, they collapse to the sofa with a mutual sigh.

House enjoys the quiet for a while, the barometric change in pressure as the tension evaporates. “Well, now I get why you fled the country the second you turned eighteen.”

Wilson snorts and slowly looks over, slumped low into the couch cushions. “Yeah,” he says, with an absent smile, “talk about motivation to go to college.”

He covers his grin with words. “Why, Jimmy. Did you just imply something negative about Mommy and Daddy?”

Wilson looks at him with uncertain eyebrows, halfway between being shocked and impressed with himself. “I think so.”

The only available response to that expression is to push a hand through Wilson’s hair, pull him closer on the pretense of messing it up. “Congratulations. You’re a grown-up.”

Wilson ponders this for a moment, the back of his head resting against House’s shoulder. “I’m sorry I made their feelings more important than yours,” he finally mutters, voice soft and eyes averted.

There’s nothing left to say, so House threads his fingers back into Wilson’s hair, kisses his temple before either of them can say anything unnecessary. “Care to make it up to me?”

Wilson pulls back to look at him with a twisted little smirk.

House considers it justice when Wilson ends up pushing him into the recently vacated guest bed.

The sheets still smell of Bengay and Old Spice, but Wilson’s hair is falling into his eyes as he crawls up House’s body. He’s still smirking, growling deep his chest as he leans in to bite at House’s neck, cupping House’s crotch with the same hand that just waved goodbye to his parents. It seems a week of good behavior has brought out Wilson’s cooler alter-ego, the one that occasionally ambushes House at his piano or in exam rooms.

“You wanna do it…on your parents’ bed?” House’s voice is completely stoic (and definitely not breathy and trembling) as he is systematically divested of his clothing. “Cool.”

“It was closer,” Wilson shrugs, then slides his palms luxuriously up House’s bare chest, the grin leaving his lips only when he leans down to trace House’s jaw with his tongue.

He has time to be smug only when Wilson whines in his throat and kisses him harshly, hopping off to the guest bathroom with a predatory, “Don’t move.” Already, House is calculating exactly how much awesome guilt-ridden sex this week has bought him, not to mention all the possible bonuses: pancakes for dinner with real syrup, getting Wilson to lie for him so he can get out of clinic duty-

Then Wilson’s clamoring back on top of him, dark look in his eyes and girly lotion in his hand, and House’s focus is very quickly redirected…

He lets Wilson grind firmly on his lap for several blissful moments, groaning erratically. The pent-up testosterone is turning him into a sucker, making him forget how the last couple of these have turned out for him-

He only lets Wilson rolls his hips around a few more times before he takes control, gripping Wilson by the hips to hold him still, making him look down with a flustered, bewildered expression. “Wuh?” is all Wilson can manage in the way of a question.

“You got anything important to tell me, you better do it before this goes too far,” House pants, raising his head off the old-person-scented pillow in an attempt to look intimidating. “I don’t want to have to clean up the mess when I kill you.”

Unnecessary or no, the words Wilson breathes into his ear this time only make him come harder.

house keeping, here endeth beowulf

Previous post Next post
Up