Either / Or (5/6?)
Title: Either / Or (5/6?)
Author: ISayToodlePip
Pairing: House/Wilson/Cuddy
Rating: R
Summary: How quickly a threesome developes a third wheel...
Previous chapters:
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
And now,
Wilson could see that she’d been crying. He could see that she was hurt, and anyone could see that she was mad as hell. But it didn’t matter. He had to find out what House had said to her and then speak to him himself, figure out what it was he wanted, what they both wanted, and then, if there was anything left to salvage, he’d be there for her. He was beginning to think that he’d been approaching this relationship from the wrong angle all along. It couldn’t be a one for you, one for you, and one for me equation. There had to be priorities. At that moment, House was his priority. Whatever Cuddy was feeling, whatever she wanted or needed from him, it would have to wait.
“What do you want to do?”
“To be honest, at this moment, I want to fire his ass.”
“You know you can’t do that.”
“Yes.”
“Yes as in he’s the best doctor in this hospital and you can’t afford to lose that resource, or yes as in you know it’d totally wreck him?”
“Does it really matter?”
“I need to talk to him.”
“Good luck with that. He’s at my place. You’ll have to knock down the door, because he’s not answering his phone.”
Cuddy had reported fragments of her conversation with House. The phrase, “didn’t do it to hurt you,” stood out most, and if there was a pang of jealousy and regret when she told him that House had kissed her, said he loved her, Wilson pushed it aside and focused on the puzzle, just as he pushed aside his bitter amusement that, when in doubt, he’d reverted to the age old question: What Would House Do?
I didn’t do it to hurt you. How many times during his many marriages had House sniffed out his infidelity, mocked him for his weakness, and then adamantly insisted that the worst thing Wilson could do was confess? You just want to martyr yourself because it’ll make you feel better. You don’t give a damn about what it’s going to do to her, or to whichever naughty nurse or grieving widow you’ve managed to get your claws on. Wilson wasn’t sure if House had ever cheated on Stacy, but he did know that he’d cheated on other women he’d briefly dated in the years before and after that hallmark relationship. And, every time House would mention it, Wilson would be disgusted. Because House never seemed to feel guilty about it. Regretful. Ashamed. Because…because it’d never been with him.
So maybe House hadn’t slept with those women to hurt Cuddy and him, but he sure as hell admitted to it in order to inflict the maximum amount of pain. The bastard knew what he was doing. Now if only he could clue Wilson in.
“I thought you said you were going to answer your phone.” That was the best opening line Wilson could come up with, and he’d sat in his car, parked outside of Cuddy’s house, for an embarrassing amount of time, trying to find just those words.
“I lied,” House shrugged, or at least, that’s what Wilson thought he was trying to do. House’s body language was one Wilson couldn’t understand, with the cane in the left hand. The hand that wasn’t broken and purpling and still untreated.
“Just like you lied when you said you were resigning?” Wilson challenged, walking into the living room but too uncomfortable to sit.
“Nice way to sort out her priorities, huh? And I never said I was resigning. I said I wanted some time off, and if she can’t give it to me then she can take this job and shove it,” House crooned, before dropping the act. “It’s not like I was planning on taking a case any time soon, and I’d rather sit on my ass at home than sit on it in my office.”
“Four days whoring in Boston wasn’t enough of a break for you?”
“It was more like three days drinking in Boston and one hour of whoring, and no, it wasn’t enough,” House answered, leaning against the back of chair and bouncing the tip of his cane against the floor.
“So you up and threaten to quit.”
“Look, if you’re really here to nag at me about work, I’m going to turn on the TV and drown you out, which will just lead to more nagging and it’ll be a whole big thing, so can we cut to the chase?”
And that was what Wilson had been waiting for - that retreat towards sarcasm, towards the predictability of constants, towards diagnosis. For once, he didn’t trust himself to leave House with that. He didn’t trust himself to outline all the fine points of House’s psyche like the man was incapable of recognizing his own intentions, his own emotions. For once, he was going to make House do all the psychoanalyzing.
“What is it you need from me, House? What do you want to get out of this? Obviously, anonymous sex in a hotel room isn’t doing it for, but you never...why don’t you just tell me what you want? Because I can’t guess with you. Not with you. And you haven’t changed at all. You still treat us the same way you’ve always treated us, except in the bedroom where you never say anything. Just…say something!”
“What do you think this is, a bartering session?” House snapped, pushing away from the chair and into Wilson’s face, leaving the cane behind as if to say all gloves are off. “We’re all supposed to fill in each other’s gaps, make up for individual shortcomings by pooling our resources? You pick up my slack in the emotional availability department by being there for Cuddy, even if the only way you can do it is by seducing her in the janitor’s closet and sending flowers after the fact? You compensate for Cuddy’s lack of a penis by having one? Is that what this thing is for you?”
Wilson couldn’t answer, could only wish that House wasn’t right, could only imagine what House and Cuddy gave each other to make up for something absent in Wilson. And House just kept talking.
“Maybe it wasn’t about being there for her at all. Maybe you just couldn’t stand the fact that I had her first, without you. Well, now we’ve both done her. That should help make things all nice and equal for you, just like you want them to be. Like you nee - “
And then Wilson shut House up, pushing at his shoulders to knock him off balance, then grabbing at his shirt and pulling him against him, their teeth knocking hard enough to cause both men to wince and recoil, but then Wilson’s tongue was in his mouth because he knew, knew, that it was the only way to get House to shut the fuck up.
That, and growling, “It still isn’t equal, is it?”
He didn’t have to explain himself. House’s hand, the one not clinging to his shoulder for balance, broken bones be damned, flew to the buckle of Wilson’s belt and was grasping him before he could articulate what it was he’d meant. It’s never been just you and me. I need it to be just you and me. For once.
“You always have to push,” House diagnosed against his bared neck. Wilson couldn’t tell if that was a complaint, an acceptance, or simply a statement of truth. But he had to agree with him, as he pushed House towards the bedroom. Once there, he smiled at the pictures Cuddy had propped around the place, and that was the last time he took his eyes off of House, until they both fell asleep.
He didn’t know if it was the rustling of sheets, the wisp of air against his skin, or the light pouring in from the hallway that woke him up. He simply opened his eyes and saw Cuddy, standing beside the bed, resigned affection tugging at the corners of her mouth.
“Well?” House grumbled, and Wilson realized that he'd been holding the bed linen above them, making a space for her between them.
Wilson watched as Cuddy slipped off her skirt, pulled her top over her head, and climbed over him to squeeze in beside House. Beside him.
“You need a shower,” she groused, worming her way beneath the sheets.
“You need better circulation to your feet,” House answered.
“You both need to shut up and let me go back to sleep,” Wilson contributed, trying not to feel too giddy about this small measure of normality, or at least what passed as normal for the three of them.
It was quiet, all of them wanting this to fix things, all of them knowing that it wouldn’t be that easy. But then Cuddy wrapped her arms around House and held him tight, close, and House completed that embrace by reaching out to tug on Wilson’s wrist, and Wilson couldn’t help but think that just being there with them, wrapped in a cocoon of Egyptian cotton that smelled of semen and sweat and now Cuddy’s jasmine vanilla lotion, that this was the closest to alright that any of them would ever get.
Part Six
Author: ISayToodlePip
Pairing: House/Wilson/Cuddy
Rating: R
Summary: How quickly a threesome developes a third wheel...
Previous chapters:
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
And now,
Wilson could see that she’d been crying. He could see that she was hurt, and anyone could see that she was mad as hell. But it didn’t matter. He had to find out what House had said to her and then speak to him himself, figure out what it was he wanted, what they both wanted, and then, if there was anything left to salvage, he’d be there for her. He was beginning to think that he’d been approaching this relationship from the wrong angle all along. It couldn’t be a one for you, one for you, and one for me equation. There had to be priorities. At that moment, House was his priority. Whatever Cuddy was feeling, whatever she wanted or needed from him, it would have to wait.
“What do you want to do?”
“To be honest, at this moment, I want to fire his ass.”
“You know you can’t do that.”
“Yes.”
“Yes as in he’s the best doctor in this hospital and you can’t afford to lose that resource, or yes as in you know it’d totally wreck him?”
“Does it really matter?”
“I need to talk to him.”
“Good luck with that. He’s at my place. You’ll have to knock down the door, because he’s not answering his phone.”
Cuddy had reported fragments of her conversation with House. The phrase, “didn’t do it to hurt you,” stood out most, and if there was a pang of jealousy and regret when she told him that House had kissed her, said he loved her, Wilson pushed it aside and focused on the puzzle, just as he pushed aside his bitter amusement that, when in doubt, he’d reverted to the age old question: What Would House Do?
I didn’t do it to hurt you. How many times during his many marriages had House sniffed out his infidelity, mocked him for his weakness, and then adamantly insisted that the worst thing Wilson could do was confess? You just want to martyr yourself because it’ll make you feel better. You don’t give a damn about what it’s going to do to her, or to whichever naughty nurse or grieving widow you’ve managed to get your claws on. Wilson wasn’t sure if House had ever cheated on Stacy, but he did know that he’d cheated on other women he’d briefly dated in the years before and after that hallmark relationship. And, every time House would mention it, Wilson would be disgusted. Because House never seemed to feel guilty about it. Regretful. Ashamed. Because…because it’d never been with him.
So maybe House hadn’t slept with those women to hurt Cuddy and him, but he sure as hell admitted to it in order to inflict the maximum amount of pain. The bastard knew what he was doing. Now if only he could clue Wilson in.
“I thought you said you were going to answer your phone.” That was the best opening line Wilson could come up with, and he’d sat in his car, parked outside of Cuddy’s house, for an embarrassing amount of time, trying to find just those words.
“I lied,” House shrugged, or at least, that’s what Wilson thought he was trying to do. House’s body language was one Wilson couldn’t understand, with the cane in the left hand. The hand that wasn’t broken and purpling and still untreated.
“Just like you lied when you said you were resigning?” Wilson challenged, walking into the living room but too uncomfortable to sit.
“Nice way to sort out her priorities, huh? And I never said I was resigning. I said I wanted some time off, and if she can’t give it to me then she can take this job and shove it,” House crooned, before dropping the act. “It’s not like I was planning on taking a case any time soon, and I’d rather sit on my ass at home than sit on it in my office.”
“Four days whoring in Boston wasn’t enough of a break for you?”
“It was more like three days drinking in Boston and one hour of whoring, and no, it wasn’t enough,” House answered, leaning against the back of chair and bouncing the tip of his cane against the floor.
“So you up and threaten to quit.”
“Look, if you’re really here to nag at me about work, I’m going to turn on the TV and drown you out, which will just lead to more nagging and it’ll be a whole big thing, so can we cut to the chase?”
And that was what Wilson had been waiting for - that retreat towards sarcasm, towards the predictability of constants, towards diagnosis. For once, he didn’t trust himself to leave House with that. He didn’t trust himself to outline all the fine points of House’s psyche like the man was incapable of recognizing his own intentions, his own emotions. For once, he was going to make House do all the psychoanalyzing.
“What is it you need from me, House? What do you want to get out of this? Obviously, anonymous sex in a hotel room isn’t doing it for, but you never...why don’t you just tell me what you want? Because I can’t guess with you. Not with you. And you haven’t changed at all. You still treat us the same way you’ve always treated us, except in the bedroom where you never say anything. Just…say something!”
“What do you think this is, a bartering session?” House snapped, pushing away from the chair and into Wilson’s face, leaving the cane behind as if to say all gloves are off. “We’re all supposed to fill in each other’s gaps, make up for individual shortcomings by pooling our resources? You pick up my slack in the emotional availability department by being there for Cuddy, even if the only way you can do it is by seducing her in the janitor’s closet and sending flowers after the fact? You compensate for Cuddy’s lack of a penis by having one? Is that what this thing is for you?”
Wilson couldn’t answer, could only wish that House wasn’t right, could only imagine what House and Cuddy gave each other to make up for something absent in Wilson. And House just kept talking.
“Maybe it wasn’t about being there for her at all. Maybe you just couldn’t stand the fact that I had her first, without you. Well, now we’ve both done her. That should help make things all nice and equal for you, just like you want them to be. Like you nee - “
And then Wilson shut House up, pushing at his shoulders to knock him off balance, then grabbing at his shirt and pulling him against him, their teeth knocking hard enough to cause both men to wince and recoil, but then Wilson’s tongue was in his mouth because he knew, knew, that it was the only way to get House to shut the fuck up.
That, and growling, “It still isn’t equal, is it?”
He didn’t have to explain himself. House’s hand, the one not clinging to his shoulder for balance, broken bones be damned, flew to the buckle of Wilson’s belt and was grasping him before he could articulate what it was he’d meant. It’s never been just you and me. I need it to be just you and me. For once.
“You always have to push,” House diagnosed against his bared neck. Wilson couldn’t tell if that was a complaint, an acceptance, or simply a statement of truth. But he had to agree with him, as he pushed House towards the bedroom. Once there, he smiled at the pictures Cuddy had propped around the place, and that was the last time he took his eyes off of House, until they both fell asleep.
He didn’t know if it was the rustling of sheets, the wisp of air against his skin, or the light pouring in from the hallway that woke him up. He simply opened his eyes and saw Cuddy, standing beside the bed, resigned affection tugging at the corners of her mouth.
“Well?” House grumbled, and Wilson realized that he'd been holding the bed linen above them, making a space for her between them.
Wilson watched as Cuddy slipped off her skirt, pulled her top over her head, and climbed over him to squeeze in beside House. Beside him.
“You need a shower,” she groused, worming her way beneath the sheets.
“You need better circulation to your feet,” House answered.
“You both need to shut up and let me go back to sleep,” Wilson contributed, trying not to feel too giddy about this small measure of normality, or at least what passed as normal for the three of them.
It was quiet, all of them wanting this to fix things, all of them knowing that it wouldn’t be that easy. But then Cuddy wrapped her arms around House and held him tight, close, and House completed that embrace by reaching out to tug on Wilson’s wrist, and Wilson couldn’t help but think that just being there with them, wrapped in a cocoon of Egyptian cotton that smelled of semen and sweat and now Cuddy’s jasmine vanilla lotion, that this was the closest to alright that any of them would ever get.
Part Six