(no subject)
Title: Either / Or (2/?)
Author: ISayToodlePip
Pairing: House/Wilson/Cuddy
Rating: R
Summary: How quickly a threesome developes a third wheel...
Part One
Author's Note: I just wanted to say thank you to all who reviewed the first part of this fic. I've been so busy with work (including avoiding said work and fretting over said work) that I never replied to your replies, much to my eternal shame. Anyhoo, I'd never planned to continue the last piece, so I hope this installment doesn't disappoint people who were hoping for a sequel. I'm not comfortable inside Wilson's head, but I gave it a shot. This chapter covers the same timeline as the first, only told from Wilson's POV. Now, on to the fic.
Wilson notices the disconnect weeks before Cuddy comes to them complaining about roles and intimacy and being left out or, even worse, being left behind. And it’s not the lunches with House, or the laughter with House, or the lounging in front of the TV with House, all without her, that makes it obvious for him. Because when he started this whole thing (and he can’t deny that it was him that started it), he knew there was no way she could catch up with them, and he’s sure she did as well. He’d accepted that he’d have to do a bit of wooing on the side, and he even envied House for having already won that battle with both of them years ago. Wilson thought, if everything fit in the darkness of House’s bedroom, then that was more than half the work done. Romance, or whatever Cuddy was looking for, was easy. Romance, he could do.
But not everything fit.
He didn’t realize he was glaring at her until she glared back. Didn’t realize he was taunting. Didn’t realize it was a contest. At first, he could only stare at the images beneath him. Run his fingers along House’s side, dip down to graze the softness of her breast but always keep moving, back to House. Watch the way House buried his face in her shoulder, her lush dark hair. Watch the way House would rarely kiss, only kiss back. Lean forward to touch his back with lips, nose, forehead, and hear the keening and low-frequency growls, muffled by hair and pillows and teeth clamped on lips. It was all about House, as it should have been, until it wasn’t. Until he found himself glaring at Cuddy, as she glared back. And they both picked up the pace and pulled House this way and that, and it was as if he disappeared. House was gone, just a space to be fought over, just a warmth to be coveted, and still there was a disconnect between Wilson and Cuddy. A House-shaped hole.
Cuddy blinked first, that night. And somehow it was decided that they’d always keep House between them. They had to. They had to keep fighting until someone won.
Wilson tried not to let that dynamic seep into the other aspects of this new relationship. He cut back on the in-jokes, when the three of them sat on House’s couch, watching TV. He said things that would make her smile, even if he knew House was rolling his eyes, and took her side on issues of décor and dining. But then she came to them, threatening to call it off if they didn’t offer her more permanence, and he realized she was playing dirty. It was easy to call her Lisa, then. Easy to whisper in her ears, take her out to galleries and plays and concerts. He was good at holding onto the things he wanted, until he stopped caring enough to keep them.
Everything changed, like it always did. One night, nearly five months into this thing between them, somebody broke the rules. But then, House never put much stock in rules, did he?
No matter how good he was at reading people, House was a lousy poker player as far as Wilson was concerned. The man simply had too many tells. Shifty eyes. Downcast eyes. A slight widening of eyes, and not in surprise. It was as if he was asking, “Well? What are you gonna do about it?” There was the pumping of his fist when he was uncomfortable about what he was about to do or say or hear, the drawn-out syllables when he admitted a truth he’d wanted to keep secret. Fingers splayed when he was in pain, because clenched fists were too obvious. Small upturn of the lip when he didn’t want to know you’d made him want to laugh. Poker face when he gave you the truth and wanted to see if you believed him. Full of tells, and Wilson knew most of them. So he knew that when House caught Cuddy’s face with a shaky hand and kissed her eyelids and smiled into her cheek, he was perhaps the happiest he’d ever been. It didn’t matter that maybe, in House’s mind, the fact that Wilson was on top of him, inside of him, all around him and warm, was a large part of that happiness. He only saw the flush of triumph on Cuddy’s face as she kissed House back, and he felt as if he was losing something.
And he wasn’t ready for that.
That was the first night he kissed Lisa. Pushed into House hard enough that he groaned and buried his face into the pillow to keep from calling out, and then Wilson swooped in and caught Cuddy’s lips, which had been open in surprise, with his own.
Just like the first time, it felt like House had disappeared, but now James was anchored to Lisa so the loss was barely noticeable.
Two days later, James fucked Lisa in her office. Then he went and found House, let him steal most of his lunch, and wondered exactly which one of them he was fighting now, and whom he was fighting for.
James was skilled in the art of the affair, but this time, it was different. There was all of the illicit thrill, the rush of adrenaline as he dragged Lisa off to hidden corners, the simple elation of having a second human being to make love to. But there was none of the guilt. Not really. There was even some smugness over the fact that he was getting away with it, that House didn’t know. There was a hint of superiority when Lisa made sounds she never did when it was House thrusting into her, and even better, even better was when it was the three of them again, and they silently fought over House’s body, but this time with playfulness. This time, it finally wasn’t all about House.
The guilt didn’t come until House caught them together on the floor of the bedroom, but faced with the shock in House’s eyes, Wilson decided that he’d ignore all the man’s tells. House had to have known this would happen.
Lisa said she felt awful. She said they couldn’t let House go. She said, without House, everything would collapse. Wilson hated House for that, for just a moment, and then he agreed, because Lisa was upset and, really, wasn’t what they had between the three of them enough?
He couldn’t stop feeling as if he’d lost something. He’d lost one of them. When Cuddy and House were asleep, he’d try to figure out which one of them was slipping away from him, which one he couldn’t afford to let go. He thought about Cuddy, her beautiful body. Her blue eyes (not as blue as House’s). Her sharp humor (not as sharp as House’s). He thought about House and all the tells he’d been showing since he caught them, a month ago. Fingers splayed, eyes downcast, never kissing, not even kissing back. Wilson thought about House disappearing and went into a blind panic, and when he slept, he moved to the only source of comfort in their bed. And when he woke, he’d curse himself for finding his arms wrapped around her, and House, alone, left behind.
Part Three
Author: ISayToodlePip
Pairing: House/Wilson/Cuddy
Rating: R
Summary: How quickly a threesome developes a third wheel...
Part One
Author's Note: I just wanted to say thank you to all who reviewed the first part of this fic. I've been so busy with work (including avoiding said work and fretting over said work) that I never replied to your replies, much to my eternal shame. Anyhoo, I'd never planned to continue the last piece, so I hope this installment doesn't disappoint people who were hoping for a sequel. I'm not comfortable inside Wilson's head, but I gave it a shot. This chapter covers the same timeline as the first, only told from Wilson's POV. Now, on to the fic.
Wilson notices the disconnect weeks before Cuddy comes to them complaining about roles and intimacy and being left out or, even worse, being left behind. And it’s not the lunches with House, or the laughter with House, or the lounging in front of the TV with House, all without her, that makes it obvious for him. Because when he started this whole thing (and he can’t deny that it was him that started it), he knew there was no way she could catch up with them, and he’s sure she did as well. He’d accepted that he’d have to do a bit of wooing on the side, and he even envied House for having already won that battle with both of them years ago. Wilson thought, if everything fit in the darkness of House’s bedroom, then that was more than half the work done. Romance, or whatever Cuddy was looking for, was easy. Romance, he could do.
But not everything fit.
He didn’t realize he was glaring at her until she glared back. Didn’t realize he was taunting. Didn’t realize it was a contest. At first, he could only stare at the images beneath him. Run his fingers along House’s side, dip down to graze the softness of her breast but always keep moving, back to House. Watch the way House buried his face in her shoulder, her lush dark hair. Watch the way House would rarely kiss, only kiss back. Lean forward to touch his back with lips, nose, forehead, and hear the keening and low-frequency growls, muffled by hair and pillows and teeth clamped on lips. It was all about House, as it should have been, until it wasn’t. Until he found himself glaring at Cuddy, as she glared back. And they both picked up the pace and pulled House this way and that, and it was as if he disappeared. House was gone, just a space to be fought over, just a warmth to be coveted, and still there was a disconnect between Wilson and Cuddy. A House-shaped hole.
Cuddy blinked first, that night. And somehow it was decided that they’d always keep House between them. They had to. They had to keep fighting until someone won.
Wilson tried not to let that dynamic seep into the other aspects of this new relationship. He cut back on the in-jokes, when the three of them sat on House’s couch, watching TV. He said things that would make her smile, even if he knew House was rolling his eyes, and took her side on issues of décor and dining. But then she came to them, threatening to call it off if they didn’t offer her more permanence, and he realized she was playing dirty. It was easy to call her Lisa, then. Easy to whisper in her ears, take her out to galleries and plays and concerts. He was good at holding onto the things he wanted, until he stopped caring enough to keep them.
Everything changed, like it always did. One night, nearly five months into this thing between them, somebody broke the rules. But then, House never put much stock in rules, did he?
No matter how good he was at reading people, House was a lousy poker player as far as Wilson was concerned. The man simply had too many tells. Shifty eyes. Downcast eyes. A slight widening of eyes, and not in surprise. It was as if he was asking, “Well? What are you gonna do about it?” There was the pumping of his fist when he was uncomfortable about what he was about to do or say or hear, the drawn-out syllables when he admitted a truth he’d wanted to keep secret. Fingers splayed when he was in pain, because clenched fists were too obvious. Small upturn of the lip when he didn’t want to know you’d made him want to laugh. Poker face when he gave you the truth and wanted to see if you believed him. Full of tells, and Wilson knew most of them. So he knew that when House caught Cuddy’s face with a shaky hand and kissed her eyelids and smiled into her cheek, he was perhaps the happiest he’d ever been. It didn’t matter that maybe, in House’s mind, the fact that Wilson was on top of him, inside of him, all around him and warm, was a large part of that happiness. He only saw the flush of triumph on Cuddy’s face as she kissed House back, and he felt as if he was losing something.
And he wasn’t ready for that.
That was the first night he kissed Lisa. Pushed into House hard enough that he groaned and buried his face into the pillow to keep from calling out, and then Wilson swooped in and caught Cuddy’s lips, which had been open in surprise, with his own.
Just like the first time, it felt like House had disappeared, but now James was anchored to Lisa so the loss was barely noticeable.
Two days later, James fucked Lisa in her office. Then he went and found House, let him steal most of his lunch, and wondered exactly which one of them he was fighting now, and whom he was fighting for.
James was skilled in the art of the affair, but this time, it was different. There was all of the illicit thrill, the rush of adrenaline as he dragged Lisa off to hidden corners, the simple elation of having a second human being to make love to. But there was none of the guilt. Not really. There was even some smugness over the fact that he was getting away with it, that House didn’t know. There was a hint of superiority when Lisa made sounds she never did when it was House thrusting into her, and even better, even better was when it was the three of them again, and they silently fought over House’s body, but this time with playfulness. This time, it finally wasn’t all about House.
The guilt didn’t come until House caught them together on the floor of the bedroom, but faced with the shock in House’s eyes, Wilson decided that he’d ignore all the man’s tells. House had to have known this would happen.
Lisa said she felt awful. She said they couldn’t let House go. She said, without House, everything would collapse. Wilson hated House for that, for just a moment, and then he agreed, because Lisa was upset and, really, wasn’t what they had between the three of them enough?
He couldn’t stop feeling as if he’d lost something. He’d lost one of them. When Cuddy and House were asleep, he’d try to figure out which one of them was slipping away from him, which one he couldn’t afford to let go. He thought about Cuddy, her beautiful body. Her blue eyes (not as blue as House’s). Her sharp humor (not as sharp as House’s). He thought about House and all the tells he’d been showing since he caught them, a month ago. Fingers splayed, eyes downcast, never kissing, not even kissing back. Wilson thought about House disappearing and went into a blind panic, and when he slept, he moved to the only source of comfort in their bed. And when he woke, he’d curse himself for finding his arms wrapped around her, and House, alone, left behind.
Part Three