Stay
Title: Stay
Author: Magie
Word Count: 1,716
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating/Warnings: R (I think. Sexuality mentioned, but not in graphic detail. I think all this smut has messed up my perspective, ha). Spoilers as far as the Season 5 promo.
Summary: I needed an angst quickie after all this smut. House never wanted sex with Wilson to make a difference to either of them. Until one day, he does.
He never looks at you on nights like this.
You insist on it. Depend on it. It makes it easier to remember that this is just sex. He’s warm, and here, and not a hooker. On these nights, he’s not your friend; he’s not the guy you’ll discuss hospital gossip and monster trucks with in the morning, and you can remember that, as long as he doesn’t look at you.
You don’t count how long it’s been since the last time, since the first time. You only know it’s part of your routine, part of your friendship, as commonplace as beer and pizza, as predictable as pills and lectures. You don’t know if it matters to him. He’s always connected sex with need, with comfort. You’re no different. He comes to you when you’re the last one left, and that’s why flirtations with nurses in the corridor scare the hell out of you.
You know these nights don’t matter to you. They can’t, because you don’t tell him things and you don’t look him in the eye. This is only important because it’s the best thing you can get.
He knocks at an absurdly late hour without calling first. The rhythm of his fist on the door is the same as it always is, but on nights like this, it’s quieter, furtive. Ashamed.
But even without the cane, it never seems to take you as long as usual to get to the door. You take a breath, wipe the anticipation off your face before you slowly turn the handle.
He stares past you at the floor, hands in the pockets of his slacks. He’s barely standing, like a strong wind or push or word will knock him over. He looks into your apartment for several seconds before his gaze breaks, his brow furrows, and he lowers his head to study the mat between his feet. “Hey.”
It’s just like any of those other nights. A flicker of understanding passes between the two of you, and you stand back to let him in. Routine. You know why he’s here and what’s about to happen. Already you’re regretting that third Vicodin, that glass of bourbon. Not that this is about you. Not this time.
It’s not because he’s lonely. With you, he’s always lonely, always will be lonely. But this happens because he doesn’t want to be alone. It happens because you hurt him, because you scared him, because he has to find out if you still need him. You’ve done this before just out of boredom, out of anger, out of something softer that you wouldn’t verbalize. But tonight, he’s here for a different reason, a simpler one.
He hates you.
Maybe he’s here to remind himself of that, of why, because he’s staring at the bourbon on the table like it’s what killed his girlfriend.
“Didn’t think I’d see you,” you mumble, just to speak, just to break the silence before it’s all that’s left between you. “Aren’t there boxes to pack? U-Hauls to rent?”
His shoulders tense, so you’ve succeeded, accomplished your goal. “I’m leaving tomorrow afternoon.”
His back is framed in the kitchen doorway, where years ago, it seems, his principal complaints involved pranks and undone dishes. Now he’s leaving, because there’s nothing else here that matters to him.
Tomorrow. He’s leaving tomorrow. Tonight, he’s here. Tonight you can pretend, like you pretended all those other nights. You can touch him and it won’t change a damn thing, and that’s exactly what you’ve always wanted. Isn’t it?
You drag yourself to him again. He hears you approach and his back heaves in a sigh, and you choose to ignore the moist shudder you hear behind it. If he cries, it won’t be for you.
He’s not crying as he turns, eyes firmly on your lips, your neck, darkly tracing you in cold, physical inspection. When he curls his fingers around the collar of your t-shirt, you take that to mean that you’ll do, for now; pressing his lips to your Adam’s apple and running his thumb through the hair on your jaw to remind himself you’re not her.
The fingers release your shirt and slip around the back of your neck, cold and desperate, in keeping with tonight’s theme. You put a hand on each of his shoulder blades and tilt your head back, ignoring all forms of pain as he stands here kissing you for the last time.
It’s just like all the other nights, no need to explain, unspoken mutual agreement. Just sex, remember? Just physical release that means nothing, changes nothing. One last time before he goes. You’re rubbing his back lightly and he’s wrapping his arms around you in return, nuzzling into your collarbone in nothing but sexual preparation. He can’t mean for it to feel so much like affection.
You screw your eyes shut, just in case, and your hands move to the sides of his head, thumbs brushing the tips of his ears. You pull him back and lean your forehead against his, flinching at the noise he makes in his throat. It’s not supposed to make your chest lurch.
He leans in and you can taste his breath, inches from you, but hesitant, like he’s unsure, like it’s the first time, like he’s asking for permission. Digging that answer out of your brain was meaningless. He still doesn’t know. You’ll give him anything he asks for.
You close the electric distance, slowly, pressing your closed mouth to his upper lip and shuddering as he opens his mouth in some kind of silent scream. Lick your way inside before he speaks, before this can become what you never wanted it to be. He kisses back, hard, stealing your breath and clenching his fists in your shirt.
There. This is better. This is what you know. A quick, no-strings fuck, and he’ll go back to a wife or a hotel or a ghost’s apartment. You feel his muscles working under the shirt, feel the effort of his jaw, and you remember all those times after sick, circular fights, times when he hurt you, times when you wanted him to hurt you.
You’d rather have him hate you than love you.
It makes this easier, because tonight he’s pushing you towards your bedroom and tomorrow he’s leaving. Your shirt falls to the couch; his is dropped to the desk. Between kisses, he watches your chest, keeps his eyes low. He brushes his fingertips over the green bruise above your heart, souvenir of CPR on the wrong bus as you lay dying, watching his life and her death flash before your eyes.
He remembers. He’ll never forget. But he pushes you against the hallway bookshelf and unbuttons your jeans. Shock runs through your ribs and vibrates in your skull; you’re not ready for this. You’ve been tossed around in a bus, gone into cardiac arrest, had a seizure, broke his heart.
But if he’s leaving, if he wants to leave, this is your last chance. You’re barely hard when he wraps a fist around you, too tight, and you grunt into his mouth. By the time you push him towards the bedroom, you’re both naked, and he’s devouring you with mouth and hands, and if you didn’t know better, you’d think he wants you.
He’s here by default. He pulls you down on top of him because he needs to feel a warm body and forget the cold one he lay with in the ICU. For the second time, he’s lying in a bed and saying goodbye.
He keeps his face against your neck as you move with him, short moans in your ear as your anatomy slides with his. Strictly biological, purely flesh and no meaning like any other night, because you can’t have more, can’t let yourself want more. You’re grateful now that your predictions are coming true, that he’s leaving and taking away the temptation. You’re grateful you can’t see his face.
He keeps his arms around your back and holds you to him, barely angling his hips in contribution, giving your fingertips a chance to memorize his body since, soon, that’s all you’ll have. Your nose is buried in his hair, and you breathe him in slowly, shutting your eyes and letting your senses find their closure.
Finally, he arches beneath you, and you hear your name slip out as a strained sigh. Your steadying hand slows, then stops, as your release joins his. Pleasure is a dim side effect.
You’re aching as you sink to the mattress, muscles clenched in orgasm, head throbbing with drugs and injury. It doesn’t distract you from the fact that he’s already wiping himself off, rolling away, putting you behind him.
There’s a word on your lips. It creeps in on these nights, these moments, watching his naked back as he gets up to leave. You don’t know where it comes from and you don’t question it. All you know for sure is it won’t do any good. You can’t say it and he already has his excuses ready.
He’ll see you at work on Monday. Thanks for tonight, but he really should be going. Recycled lies from those other nights, with no more truth than this last promise, “I’ll call you when I get to Boston.”
You could say it. You could say one word and forget that these nights aren’t supposed to matter. You could tell him you screwed up, that she shouldn’t have died because she never should have been allowed to fall in love with him.
But your relationship is built around missed chances. Saying it now won’t make a difference. Ironic, isn’t it, that now you want the sex to have mattered? Now, for once, your mantra has failed you. You’re getting what you want, what you wanted, but as you feel his warmth leave you, you know you’re never going to get what you need.
So you don’t try. You curl in a ball and listen to him leave. He’ll find his clothes in scattered rooms and walk out, like so many other nights, like this isn’t the last time. He’ll slip out of your apartment and out of your life and you’ll never know if these nights mattered to him.
The word dies in your throat. He’s not listening, anyway.
Note: Just for the record, I'm really not all that worried about the spoiler. I had this idea a few months ago and it just happened to fit in really well with the threat of Wilson leaving. Thanks for reading :)
Author: Magie
Word Count: 1,716
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating/Warnings: R (I think. Sexuality mentioned, but not in graphic detail. I think all this smut has messed up my perspective, ha). Spoilers as far as the Season 5 promo.
Summary: I needed an angst quickie after all this smut. House never wanted sex with Wilson to make a difference to either of them. Until one day, he does.
He never looks at you on nights like this.
You insist on it. Depend on it. It makes it easier to remember that this is just sex. He’s warm, and here, and not a hooker. On these nights, he’s not your friend; he’s not the guy you’ll discuss hospital gossip and monster trucks with in the morning, and you can remember that, as long as he doesn’t look at you.
You don’t count how long it’s been since the last time, since the first time. You only know it’s part of your routine, part of your friendship, as commonplace as beer and pizza, as predictable as pills and lectures. You don’t know if it matters to him. He’s always connected sex with need, with comfort. You’re no different. He comes to you when you’re the last one left, and that’s why flirtations with nurses in the corridor scare the hell out of you.
You know these nights don’t matter to you. They can’t, because you don’t tell him things and you don’t look him in the eye. This is only important because it’s the best thing you can get.
He knocks at an absurdly late hour without calling first. The rhythm of his fist on the door is the same as it always is, but on nights like this, it’s quieter, furtive. Ashamed.
But even without the cane, it never seems to take you as long as usual to get to the door. You take a breath, wipe the anticipation off your face before you slowly turn the handle.
He stares past you at the floor, hands in the pockets of his slacks. He’s barely standing, like a strong wind or push or word will knock him over. He looks into your apartment for several seconds before his gaze breaks, his brow furrows, and he lowers his head to study the mat between his feet. “Hey.”
It’s just like any of those other nights. A flicker of understanding passes between the two of you, and you stand back to let him in. Routine. You know why he’s here and what’s about to happen. Already you’re regretting that third Vicodin, that glass of bourbon. Not that this is about you. Not this time.
It’s not because he’s lonely. With you, he’s always lonely, always will be lonely. But this happens because he doesn’t want to be alone. It happens because you hurt him, because you scared him, because he has to find out if you still need him. You’ve done this before just out of boredom, out of anger, out of something softer that you wouldn’t verbalize. But tonight, he’s here for a different reason, a simpler one.
He hates you.
Maybe he’s here to remind himself of that, of why, because he’s staring at the bourbon on the table like it’s what killed his girlfriend.
“Didn’t think I’d see you,” you mumble, just to speak, just to break the silence before it’s all that’s left between you. “Aren’t there boxes to pack? U-Hauls to rent?”
His shoulders tense, so you’ve succeeded, accomplished your goal. “I’m leaving tomorrow afternoon.”
His back is framed in the kitchen doorway, where years ago, it seems, his principal complaints involved pranks and undone dishes. Now he’s leaving, because there’s nothing else here that matters to him.
Tomorrow. He’s leaving tomorrow. Tonight, he’s here. Tonight you can pretend, like you pretended all those other nights. You can touch him and it won’t change a damn thing, and that’s exactly what you’ve always wanted. Isn’t it?
You drag yourself to him again. He hears you approach and his back heaves in a sigh, and you choose to ignore the moist shudder you hear behind it. If he cries, it won’t be for you.
He’s not crying as he turns, eyes firmly on your lips, your neck, darkly tracing you in cold, physical inspection. When he curls his fingers around the collar of your t-shirt, you take that to mean that you’ll do, for now; pressing his lips to your Adam’s apple and running his thumb through the hair on your jaw to remind himself you’re not her.
The fingers release your shirt and slip around the back of your neck, cold and desperate, in keeping with tonight’s theme. You put a hand on each of his shoulder blades and tilt your head back, ignoring all forms of pain as he stands here kissing you for the last time.
It’s just like all the other nights, no need to explain, unspoken mutual agreement. Just sex, remember? Just physical release that means nothing, changes nothing. One last time before he goes. You’re rubbing his back lightly and he’s wrapping his arms around you in return, nuzzling into your collarbone in nothing but sexual preparation. He can’t mean for it to feel so much like affection.
You screw your eyes shut, just in case, and your hands move to the sides of his head, thumbs brushing the tips of his ears. You pull him back and lean your forehead against his, flinching at the noise he makes in his throat. It’s not supposed to make your chest lurch.
He leans in and you can taste his breath, inches from you, but hesitant, like he’s unsure, like it’s the first time, like he’s asking for permission. Digging that answer out of your brain was meaningless. He still doesn’t know. You’ll give him anything he asks for.
You close the electric distance, slowly, pressing your closed mouth to his upper lip and shuddering as he opens his mouth in some kind of silent scream. Lick your way inside before he speaks, before this can become what you never wanted it to be. He kisses back, hard, stealing your breath and clenching his fists in your shirt.
There. This is better. This is what you know. A quick, no-strings fuck, and he’ll go back to a wife or a hotel or a ghost’s apartment. You feel his muscles working under the shirt, feel the effort of his jaw, and you remember all those times after sick, circular fights, times when he hurt you, times when you wanted him to hurt you.
You’d rather have him hate you than love you.
It makes this easier, because tonight he’s pushing you towards your bedroom and tomorrow he’s leaving. Your shirt falls to the couch; his is dropped to the desk. Between kisses, he watches your chest, keeps his eyes low. He brushes his fingertips over the green bruise above your heart, souvenir of CPR on the wrong bus as you lay dying, watching his life and her death flash before your eyes.
He remembers. He’ll never forget. But he pushes you against the hallway bookshelf and unbuttons your jeans. Shock runs through your ribs and vibrates in your skull; you’re not ready for this. You’ve been tossed around in a bus, gone into cardiac arrest, had a seizure, broke his heart.
But if he’s leaving, if he wants to leave, this is your last chance. You’re barely hard when he wraps a fist around you, too tight, and you grunt into his mouth. By the time you push him towards the bedroom, you’re both naked, and he’s devouring you with mouth and hands, and if you didn’t know better, you’d think he wants you.
He’s here by default. He pulls you down on top of him because he needs to feel a warm body and forget the cold one he lay with in the ICU. For the second time, he’s lying in a bed and saying goodbye.
He keeps his face against your neck as you move with him, short moans in your ear as your anatomy slides with his. Strictly biological, purely flesh and no meaning like any other night, because you can’t have more, can’t let yourself want more. You’re grateful now that your predictions are coming true, that he’s leaving and taking away the temptation. You’re grateful you can’t see his face.
He keeps his arms around your back and holds you to him, barely angling his hips in contribution, giving your fingertips a chance to memorize his body since, soon, that’s all you’ll have. Your nose is buried in his hair, and you breathe him in slowly, shutting your eyes and letting your senses find their closure.
Finally, he arches beneath you, and you hear your name slip out as a strained sigh. Your steadying hand slows, then stops, as your release joins his. Pleasure is a dim side effect.
You’re aching as you sink to the mattress, muscles clenched in orgasm, head throbbing with drugs and injury. It doesn’t distract you from the fact that he’s already wiping himself off, rolling away, putting you behind him.
There’s a word on your lips. It creeps in on these nights, these moments, watching his naked back as he gets up to leave. You don’t know where it comes from and you don’t question it. All you know for sure is it won’t do any good. You can’t say it and he already has his excuses ready.
He’ll see you at work on Monday. Thanks for tonight, but he really should be going. Recycled lies from those other nights, with no more truth than this last promise, “I’ll call you when I get to Boston.”
You could say it. You could say one word and forget that these nights aren’t supposed to matter. You could tell him you screwed up, that she shouldn’t have died because she never should have been allowed to fall in love with him.
But your relationship is built around missed chances. Saying it now won’t make a difference. Ironic, isn’t it, that now you want the sex to have mattered? Now, for once, your mantra has failed you. You’re getting what you want, what you wanted, but as you feel his warmth leave you, you know you’re never going to get what you need.
So you don’t try. You curl in a ball and listen to him leave. He’ll find his clothes in scattered rooms and walk out, like so many other nights, like this isn’t the last time. He’ll slip out of your apartment and out of your life and you’ll never know if these nights mattered to him.
The word dies in your throat. He’s not listening, anyway.
Note: Just for the record, I'm really not all that worried about the spoiler. I had this idea a few months ago and it just happened to fit in really well with the threat of Wilson leaving. Thanks for reading :)