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...I don't even have anything useful to say up here. >_> Um, House has been on my mind lately. House and House-related angst. So I re-watched "Moving On" and this happened.
Title: More Important
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,100
Summary: House is always looking for an answer, but can’t always see one.
Warnings: *Spoilers for the finale.* Takes place a little while after 7x23. Aaangst.
It’s Wilson who eventually, impossibly, finds him.
Of course it is. It’s always Wilson. He doesn’t even look all that surprised to see House lounging on a beach chair, empty glass in his hand. House realizes he probably looks like he hasn’t moved or eaten or bathed in a few days. Maybe he hasn’t. He can’t remember.
It’s what he loves best about this place.
Wilson ruins all that ignorant bliss by standing beside him, hands in his pockets, sighing in that judgmental way he does… passively staring out at the ocean.
“You’re blocking the rays, dude.”
He can’t see it, but he’s sure Wilson rolls his eyes.
He does sit though, right in the sand without hesitation, knees pulled up to his chest and hair blowing in the breeze. House likes that look on him. He tries to imagine Wilson on a beach like this half a life ago, carefree and wild, chasing bikini-clad girls with that easy smile and playful charm. But he’s not young anymore and House hasn’t seen that laugh in too long.
His eyes follow the lines of Wilson’s pants down to his bare feet. Something about the sight of that makes his breath catch a little. It’s not sexy, but it is… intimate, somehow. Or maybe he’s just drunk.
He turns his gaze back to the shimmering water. Yeah, drunk is a good excuse.
The heat of the afternoon is getting to him, even with the ocean breeze and soon he’s impatient to be in the water. He strips and wades in until the waves are lapping at his stomach. It’s always colder than he expects and he’s never quite prepared for the rush of it on his skin.
He’s also not prepared for the way Wilson’s eyes follow him as he makes his way back to his clothes. House can’t read anything in his expression, but just the fact that he’s watching is strange enough.
House wonders if he’s even more drunk than he thought.
“It’s good to see you,” House says aloud before he can check himself.
Wilson frowns at him. “Don’t start this.”
His voice is a warning, but House takes it as a challenge.
“What?” he asks innocently. “Can’t a guy miss his best friend while he’s vacationing on a beautiful near-deserted island?”
Wilson just shakes his head.
“Vacationing?” he scoffs. “That’s not how I’d describe it.”
House shrugs.
“You’re a coward who doesn’t want to face his life.”
Here we go, he thinks.
“That makes you, what, the know-it-all who wants to shove my failures in my face?”
He pushes himself to his feet with a sigh.
“Guess vacation is over, huh?”
Wilson’s mouth is set in a firm line and his arms are crossed. There’s sand in his hair and clinging to his arms and his clothes are wrinkled and House wants to wipe that disappointed expression off his face one way or another. House still feels off-balance but he knows he can’t blame the alcohol anymore. This is all Wilson’s doing.
He shakes his head.
“Where are my manners? I should give you a tour.”
Wilson follows his lead without a word until they’re standing outside the door to the place where House is staying.
It’s a narrow hallway; their shoulders brush as they walk. House loses his balance for a moment and ends up with a handful of Wilson’s shirt as he steadies himself. He glances down and catches a glimpse of skin between the v-shaped gap where it opens. House presses his lips together tightly and fumbles in his pocket for his key. He has nothing worth stealing, but the door won’t stay closed unless it’s locked.
He explains this to Wilson, because he needs something to say. He still hasn’t let go of his shirt.
Their faces are too close. Wilson’s breath is warm and he might be pissed at House (like always, a little voice in the back of his mind needles) but he’s here. He’s here and he hasn’t left yet and House, God help him, doesn’t understand why.
He slides the key into the lock, but doesn’t quite make it to the door-opening stage before curiosity wins out.
“Why are you here?”
Wilson shrugs.
“That’s what I do, isn’t it? Follow you around, trying to help you when you don’t even want it.”
He sounds bitter. It’s a familiar enough tone, but House doesn’t like it, not now, not ever. Wilson shouldn’t sound like that. House shouldn’t make him sound like that. He wraps his fingers around Wilson’s wrist. Wilson looks down at his hand but doesn’t pull back.
This is why there are rules, House thinks. There are unspoken rules between them that keep them in check. Rules keep him from touching whenever he wants, rules make Wilson the one who decides ‘stop, this is enough’, even though he never says the words.
House is a fan of breaking rules, but here, in this place, though, he thinks that maybe the rules themselves are different. Taking a step closer, he slides his hand up to Wilson’s elbow. He watches Wilson’s throat move as he swallows. He can practically see Wilson thinking, figuring out which of those rules he’s willing to ignore.
“House,” he breathes, “if you-”
Quickly, House leans in, and presses his mouth to Wilson to shut him up.
Wilson’s lips are soft and he tastes like the ocean or pineapple or something clean and House wants to lick inside to get more, but Wilson pulls back a little.
“Please,” House begs, dragging his lips along Wilson’s jaw. “Let me. I need to know.”
“Why?” Wilson ask, the question barely a breath, like he’s afraid to even utter the word.
“Some things are more important,” he says.
The words aren’t his, but they’ve been flickering through his mind enough since he’s been here that they might as well be. He needs to know. Nothing is more important to him than his work, his mind, nothing he can conceive of, at least. People are temporary. They come and go and he always lets them down. Why should he want that? Why should he choose that? It seems so stupid, but he has to know.
“What is this about?” Wilson asks and he’s still not kissing House; he’s not pushing him away, but he’s definitely not kissing him and House is terrified, completely terrified.
“I need to know if this more important,” he says more urgently, tugging on Wilson’s shirt again to bring their mouths together.
But Wilson does push him away then, leaving House leaning against the doorframe.
He stands there, catching his breath for a minute before following him inside. He has a smart remark on the tip of his tongue, but Wilson silences him with a look, then a kiss, and pushes him up against the back of the couch.
House curls his fingers in Wilson’s belt loops and tugs him closer. Wilson doesn’t resist him at all, leaning in and tilting his head so House’s mouth can reach his neck and throat. It’s a heady feeling, touching him like this.
“So what exactly will it take for you to figure it out?” Wilson asks, sharply, “If we fuck, are you going to know then?”
House shudders at the harsh sound of the word on Wilson’s tongue and the images it creates in his mind. He knows this is dangerous territory, but he doesn’t stop touching. It’s selfish, but he doesn’t care. He wants this, and Wilson hasn’t stopped him yet.
“Maybe if I risk my job for you, that’ll be a clear enough sign. Maybe if I destroy every other relationship in my life for you, you’ll get it then?”
House’s teeth graze along his skin and Wilson shivers, one hand tightening on House’s shoulder, but he doesn’t stop talking…
“Or if I do whatever you ask because I always think maybe, maybe the next time will be enough and you’ll finally get it. Is that when you’ll know?”
“Shut up,” House breathes, taking Wilson’s face in his hands and kissing him.
Wilson’s arms wind around House’s back and he returns the kiss with a bruising intensity that takes House by surprise.
“Or what?” Wilson growls when they break apart, “You’ll drive your car into my house?”
He leans in to whisper in House’s ear, while he presses one of House’s hands against the front of his slacks.
“You’ll throw yourself off a balcony? Tell me, House, what incredibly stupid, selfish thing will you do if I don’t give you what you want?”
He punctuates the last question with a bite to the side of House’s jaw. House whimpers and kisses him silent, his hand working open Wilson’s zipper.
Wilson’s shaking - with anger or arousal, House can’t tell - but he knows he’s the cause of it. He hates himself for being so turned on by it, even though it’s clear that Wilson is, too. It scares him just how badly he wants this.
Wilson’s fingernails scrape teasingly along his stomach. It’s not enough, and he knows it. He’s torturing House and, judging from the dark gleam in his eye, he’s enjoying it. House doesn’t answer his taunts, just pulls him close and rubs against him shamelessly. Wilson is real and solid and hard against him and House revels in it, the feeling, the rawness of it. He can be greedy with Wilson because Wilson knows him. Wilson can handle it. Hell, right now, Wilson wants it.
They manage to push each other’s clothing aside and it’s Wilson who fits their hips together, skin against skin, and starts a slow, maddening rhythm.
House clings to Wilson, and moves with him, urging him on. The angle is not ideal for his leg, it’s on the edge of painful, but he’d never dream of asking Wilson to stop. He manages to slide a hand between them, fumbling and squeezing, as their movements become more erratic, Wilson’s hips relentless against his.
For all his angry words before, Wilson is silent now, face pressed to House’s shoulder, breaths sharp and fast. His fingers dig into House’s back as he comes, spilling over House’s hand, and it only takes a few more strokes for House to follow.
Sweaty and sticky, they stay like that, holding to each other to keep from falling. House’s face is uncomfortable and too hot, buried in the crook of Wilson’s neck, but he can’t find the strength to move away. Wilson’s hands are still holding loosely to House’s hips and with each breath, their bodies sway a little back and forth.
Everything feels… just as it did before. House isn’t sure if he’s bothered by that or not. Does that mean anything? He thinks if this were more important… if this, if Wilson mattered enough, then things should feel differently now. He should feel differently… shouldn’t he?
He wants it to matter. Is that enough? He’s worried it might not be.
Maybe he’s got it all wrong.
Wilson exhales slowly, the hammering of his heart beginning to calm. House doesn’t know what the hell he should be feeling. Finally, when he can take it no longer, he shifts and stands, shakily, letting Wilson help him.
“Need a towel,” he mutters. He finds that he doesn’t really want to look at Wilson’s face right now, doesn’t want to know what will be in his expression.
He hopes Wilson will say something, anything, but he doesn’t respond, just keeps his hands on House’s waist, steadying him. Wilson’s mouth is so close and House thinks about kissing him, but doesn’t.
“I didn’t want-”
“Don’t,” Wilson interrupts harshly.
“-it to be like this,” he finishes weakly.
Wilson gives him a small, humorless smile before handing him his cane.
“Yes, you did. You never wanted this to be easy or normal. Just like everything else, it’s got to be completely screwed up.”
House doesn’t bother to correct him, because maybe Wilson is right. Maybe there was no other way for this to happen. He doesn’t say anything more, just stumbles to the bathroom and runs his hands under the cold water, waiting desperately for an epiphany he’s horribly afraid will never come.
When he gets back, Wilson is already gone, the door left open in his wake. House doesn’t bother to close it.
It’s as if nothing even happened. But it’s no less than he deserves, he thinks bitterly.
It takes him a moment to realize that maybe that’s the whole point.
.
Title: More Important
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,100
Summary: House is always looking for an answer, but can’t always see one.
Warnings: *Spoilers for the finale.* Takes place a little while after 7x23. Aaangst.
It’s Wilson who eventually, impossibly, finds him.
Of course it is. It’s always Wilson. He doesn’t even look all that surprised to see House lounging on a beach chair, empty glass in his hand. House realizes he probably looks like he hasn’t moved or eaten or bathed in a few days. Maybe he hasn’t. He can’t remember.
It’s what he loves best about this place.
Wilson ruins all that ignorant bliss by standing beside him, hands in his pockets, sighing in that judgmental way he does… passively staring out at the ocean.
“You’re blocking the rays, dude.”
He can’t see it, but he’s sure Wilson rolls his eyes.
He does sit though, right in the sand without hesitation, knees pulled up to his chest and hair blowing in the breeze. House likes that look on him. He tries to imagine Wilson on a beach like this half a life ago, carefree and wild, chasing bikini-clad girls with that easy smile and playful charm. But he’s not young anymore and House hasn’t seen that laugh in too long.
His eyes follow the lines of Wilson’s pants down to his bare feet. Something about the sight of that makes his breath catch a little. It’s not sexy, but it is… intimate, somehow. Or maybe he’s just drunk.
He turns his gaze back to the shimmering water. Yeah, drunk is a good excuse.
The heat of the afternoon is getting to him, even with the ocean breeze and soon he’s impatient to be in the water. He strips and wades in until the waves are lapping at his stomach. It’s always colder than he expects and he’s never quite prepared for the rush of it on his skin.
He’s also not prepared for the way Wilson’s eyes follow him as he makes his way back to his clothes. House can’t read anything in his expression, but just the fact that he’s watching is strange enough.
House wonders if he’s even more drunk than he thought.
“It’s good to see you,” House says aloud before he can check himself.
Wilson frowns at him. “Don’t start this.”
His voice is a warning, but House takes it as a challenge.
“What?” he asks innocently. “Can’t a guy miss his best friend while he’s vacationing on a beautiful near-deserted island?”
Wilson just shakes his head.
“Vacationing?” he scoffs. “That’s not how I’d describe it.”
House shrugs.
“You’re a coward who doesn’t want to face his life.”
Here we go, he thinks.
“That makes you, what, the know-it-all who wants to shove my failures in my face?”
He pushes himself to his feet with a sigh.
“Guess vacation is over, huh?”
Wilson’s mouth is set in a firm line and his arms are crossed. There’s sand in his hair and clinging to his arms and his clothes are wrinkled and House wants to wipe that disappointed expression off his face one way or another. House still feels off-balance but he knows he can’t blame the alcohol anymore. This is all Wilson’s doing.
He shakes his head.
“Where are my manners? I should give you a tour.”
Wilson follows his lead without a word until they’re standing outside the door to the place where House is staying.
It’s a narrow hallway; their shoulders brush as they walk. House loses his balance for a moment and ends up with a handful of Wilson’s shirt as he steadies himself. He glances down and catches a glimpse of skin between the v-shaped gap where it opens. House presses his lips together tightly and fumbles in his pocket for his key. He has nothing worth stealing, but the door won’t stay closed unless it’s locked.
He explains this to Wilson, because he needs something to say. He still hasn’t let go of his shirt.
Their faces are too close. Wilson’s breath is warm and he might be pissed at House (like always, a little voice in the back of his mind needles) but he’s here. He’s here and he hasn’t left yet and House, God help him, doesn’t understand why.
He slides the key into the lock, but doesn’t quite make it to the door-opening stage before curiosity wins out.
“Why are you here?”
Wilson shrugs.
“That’s what I do, isn’t it? Follow you around, trying to help you when you don’t even want it.”
He sounds bitter. It’s a familiar enough tone, but House doesn’t like it, not now, not ever. Wilson shouldn’t sound like that. House shouldn’t make him sound like that. He wraps his fingers around Wilson’s wrist. Wilson looks down at his hand but doesn’t pull back.
This is why there are rules, House thinks. There are unspoken rules between them that keep them in check. Rules keep him from touching whenever he wants, rules make Wilson the one who decides ‘stop, this is enough’, even though he never says the words.
House is a fan of breaking rules, but here, in this place, though, he thinks that maybe the rules themselves are different. Taking a step closer, he slides his hand up to Wilson’s elbow. He watches Wilson’s throat move as he swallows. He can practically see Wilson thinking, figuring out which of those rules he’s willing to ignore.
“House,” he breathes, “if you-”
Quickly, House leans in, and presses his mouth to Wilson to shut him up.
Wilson’s lips are soft and he tastes like the ocean or pineapple or something clean and House wants to lick inside to get more, but Wilson pulls back a little.
“Please,” House begs, dragging his lips along Wilson’s jaw. “Let me. I need to know.”
“Why?” Wilson ask, the question barely a breath, like he’s afraid to even utter the word.
“Some things are more important,” he says.
The words aren’t his, but they’ve been flickering through his mind enough since he’s been here that they might as well be. He needs to know. Nothing is more important to him than his work, his mind, nothing he can conceive of, at least. People are temporary. They come and go and he always lets them down. Why should he want that? Why should he choose that? It seems so stupid, but he has to know.
“What is this about?” Wilson asks and he’s still not kissing House; he’s not pushing him away, but he’s definitely not kissing him and House is terrified, completely terrified.
“I need to know if this more important,” he says more urgently, tugging on Wilson’s shirt again to bring their mouths together.
But Wilson does push him away then, leaving House leaning against the doorframe.
He stands there, catching his breath for a minute before following him inside. He has a smart remark on the tip of his tongue, but Wilson silences him with a look, then a kiss, and pushes him up against the back of the couch.
House curls his fingers in Wilson’s belt loops and tugs him closer. Wilson doesn’t resist him at all, leaning in and tilting his head so House’s mouth can reach his neck and throat. It’s a heady feeling, touching him like this.
“So what exactly will it take for you to figure it out?” Wilson asks, sharply, “If we fuck, are you going to know then?”
House shudders at the harsh sound of the word on Wilson’s tongue and the images it creates in his mind. He knows this is dangerous territory, but he doesn’t stop touching. It’s selfish, but he doesn’t care. He wants this, and Wilson hasn’t stopped him yet.
“Maybe if I risk my job for you, that’ll be a clear enough sign. Maybe if I destroy every other relationship in my life for you, you’ll get it then?”
House’s teeth graze along his skin and Wilson shivers, one hand tightening on House’s shoulder, but he doesn’t stop talking…
“Or if I do whatever you ask because I always think maybe, maybe the next time will be enough and you’ll finally get it. Is that when you’ll know?”
“Shut up,” House breathes, taking Wilson’s face in his hands and kissing him.
Wilson’s arms wind around House’s back and he returns the kiss with a bruising intensity that takes House by surprise.
“Or what?” Wilson growls when they break apart, “You’ll drive your car into my house?”
He leans in to whisper in House’s ear, while he presses one of House’s hands against the front of his slacks.
“You’ll throw yourself off a balcony? Tell me, House, what incredibly stupid, selfish thing will you do if I don’t give you what you want?”
He punctuates the last question with a bite to the side of House’s jaw. House whimpers and kisses him silent, his hand working open Wilson’s zipper.
Wilson’s shaking - with anger or arousal, House can’t tell - but he knows he’s the cause of it. He hates himself for being so turned on by it, even though it’s clear that Wilson is, too. It scares him just how badly he wants this.
Wilson’s fingernails scrape teasingly along his stomach. It’s not enough, and he knows it. He’s torturing House and, judging from the dark gleam in his eye, he’s enjoying it. House doesn’t answer his taunts, just pulls him close and rubs against him shamelessly. Wilson is real and solid and hard against him and House revels in it, the feeling, the rawness of it. He can be greedy with Wilson because Wilson knows him. Wilson can handle it. Hell, right now, Wilson wants it.
They manage to push each other’s clothing aside and it’s Wilson who fits their hips together, skin against skin, and starts a slow, maddening rhythm.
House clings to Wilson, and moves with him, urging him on. The angle is not ideal for his leg, it’s on the edge of painful, but he’d never dream of asking Wilson to stop. He manages to slide a hand between them, fumbling and squeezing, as their movements become more erratic, Wilson’s hips relentless against his.
For all his angry words before, Wilson is silent now, face pressed to House’s shoulder, breaths sharp and fast. His fingers dig into House’s back as he comes, spilling over House’s hand, and it only takes a few more strokes for House to follow.
Sweaty and sticky, they stay like that, holding to each other to keep from falling. House’s face is uncomfortable and too hot, buried in the crook of Wilson’s neck, but he can’t find the strength to move away. Wilson’s hands are still holding loosely to House’s hips and with each breath, their bodies sway a little back and forth.
Everything feels… just as it did before. House isn’t sure if he’s bothered by that or not. Does that mean anything? He thinks if this were more important… if this, if Wilson mattered enough, then things should feel differently now. He should feel differently… shouldn’t he?
He wants it to matter. Is that enough? He’s worried it might not be.
Maybe he’s got it all wrong.
Wilson exhales slowly, the hammering of his heart beginning to calm. House doesn’t know what the hell he should be feeling. Finally, when he can take it no longer, he shifts and stands, shakily, letting Wilson help him.
“Need a towel,” he mutters. He finds that he doesn’t really want to look at Wilson’s face right now, doesn’t want to know what will be in his expression.
He hopes Wilson will say something, anything, but he doesn’t respond, just keeps his hands on House’s waist, steadying him. Wilson’s mouth is so close and House thinks about kissing him, but doesn’t.
“I didn’t want-”
“Don’t,” Wilson interrupts harshly.
“-it to be like this,” he finishes weakly.
Wilson gives him a small, humorless smile before handing him his cane.
“Yes, you did. You never wanted this to be easy or normal. Just like everything else, it’s got to be completely screwed up.”
House doesn’t bother to correct him, because maybe Wilson is right. Maybe there was no other way for this to happen. He doesn’t say anything more, just stumbles to the bathroom and runs his hands under the cold water, waiting desperately for an epiphany he’s horribly afraid will never come.
When he gets back, Wilson is already gone, the door left open in his wake. House doesn’t bother to close it.
It’s as if nothing even happened. But it’s no less than he deserves, he thinks bitterly.
It takes him a moment to realize that maybe that’s the whole point.
.