(no subject)
Title: House Keeping: Make the Yuletide Gay (2.5/3)
Author: magie_05
Word Count: ~3200
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.
Sorry for the delay. And the ridiculous word count. :\ At least it's partly smutty.
I decided to post this in halves since I've only just realized how unbalanced the parts are :\ I think it'll be better for reasons of sanity; I'll post the very last part after work tonight. Sorry :\
Christmas morning dawns with nauseating beauty, snow and ice on bare, skeletal trees, not a sign of movement. The view outside the bedroom window is good enough for a postcard. Or a commercial for herpes meds.
House figures it can’t hurt his chances.
Of course, the view House really appreciates is even closer. When he slipped into the bed last night, Wilson was curled into a tiny little ball of forced chastity, practically hanging off the edge of the mattress to avoid the accidental touch. Now, he’s laid out like a buffet table, half on his stomach and hugging a pillow, warm and helpless and inches from House’s side. Peeling back the covers, House can see that thin T-shirt riding up, dark green sweatpants slipping down past his hipbones. His mouth is slightly open and his features relaxed, blissfully unaware of his surroundings.
It’s almost too easy.
After a quick Vicodin, he smoothes his hand over Wilson’s hair; start this off innocently, affectionately, with surprise on his side and that view out the window, and it’s sure to turn into something more.
He waits until the slow, steady pattern of Wilson’s breathing is disrupted by a small grunt as he unconsciously turns into the touch, his eyebrows working. “Mmm.”
House grins; Wilson can’t see him anyway. He slowly extricates the slightly drooled-on pillow from Wilson’s grip and scoots in to replace it, sliding a hand down Wilson’s back in the process. This wakes him up enough to sigh, stretch, and curl an arm over House’s side without opening his eyes.
Just as planned.
It’s perfect, minus the morning breath, so he drags his mouth across Wilson’s lips in a sleepy sort of way, one hand sneaking below the covers to settle in its favorite location. “Hmph,” Wilson huffs against him, fingers scrabbling semi-consciously over House’s back, arching reflexively under House’s lips.
He focuses on Wilson’s neck until he wakes up enough to give a pleased grunt, pulling House back and kissing him softly, blindly, his grip tightening over House’s back to pull them closer. He hums again after a few slow moments, still not opening his eyes, smiling sleepily and pressing his mouth to House’s throat. “Hey.”
He’s known for some time that Wilson’s a slut, especially when he’s barely conscious.
He enjoys this fact for all it’s worth, shifting his attention to Wilson’s ear until he rolls to his back, smiling dreamily, tugging House on top of him. But before long Wilson is pushing his face back, still humming happily to himself, finally peeling open his eyes a few millimeters. “What time is it?”
“Early,” he says into Wilson’s mouth. “About six.”
Truthfully, he’s got no idea what time it is. Not that it’s relevant to his objective.
Besides, Wilson clearly has no real concept of what’s going on yet, murmuring and doing things with his tongue that shouldn’t be possible before 8 a.m. House barely remembers to congratulate himself on the success of his plan, too caught up in those low groans, in the soft friction of the hands sliding up and down his back, pushing up his shirt. He loves mornings like this: ambushing Wilson when his guard is down, making him forget about being late for work or yesterday’s argument or, in this case, the constant reminders of how much he has failed, the subtle comments revealing his parents’ lowered expectations. None of it matters with Wilson purring beneath him, slipping cold fingers below his waistband, rolling his hips up off the mattress -
Even with his shirt off, House barely notices the room’s unusually cool air, especially when Wilson drags the cover up over his shoulders. He presses his forehead against Wilson’s long enough to shift his weight, reaching down and fiddling with the perfectly tied Christmas bow of Wilson’s drawstring.
Minutes get lost in perfection, Wilson’s skin flushed pink, his sweatpants sliding down to his knees, stripping away layers of clothing and persona. “Oh,” he groans (rather loudly), cold hands meeting hard flesh as he arches his back. House’s ego scores ten points, the frustration of these past four days fading away into the sheets.
It’s totally not creepy that he’s taking his revenge on Wilson’s parents by nailing him. …Even if it is, they started it. Besides, this will work out for everyone; Wilson gets to walk around with this memory, this feeling, an all-day reminder of what makes him happy, regardless of what his parents want. Mom and Dad can make any comments they want, and Wilson can respond only with a smug, enigmatic grin. And House gets…well. The obvious.
He gets a pair of thighs pressing firmly against his hips, locking him in place. He gets to swallow Wilson’s short but forceful grunts, taking fistfuls of the sheets as their cocks slide together, heavy and warm in Wilson’s hand. He gets to roll around in bed with Wilson while the parents sleep peacefully in another room, oblivious. He gets a broad tongue across his neck and a hand in his hair and a breathy “oh, House--”
Suddenly Wilson stills and his eyes fly open. “Oh,” he says again, sounding more like his awake, neurotic self. “House.”
“No,” he groans in reply, dipping already slippery fingers lower between Wilson’s legs, pushing just barely into him.
Wilson shudders and shakes his head wordlessly, keeping his lips sealed together. “No-no-no,” he whispers in one breathy stream, wrapping a loose hand over House’s wrist and tugging noncommittally. “My parents - ”
“Are at the other end of the hall,” he kisses Wilson’s neck, “asleep,” twists his fingers around in that tight, hot space, “sans hearing aids.”
He kisses along House’s jaw, seemingly unaware that he’s doing it. “My parents don’t wear-”
“It’s Christmas,” House suddenly remembers. “The day of giving. Come on, think of the baby Jesus.”
Wilson giggles lightly when the tip of House’s tongue slips into his ear, but his internal wet blanket makes one last grab for dominance. “We…uh, can’t do this…” This would be more convincing if his legs weren’t drawing up, wanting to curl over House’s shoulders.
He smirks into Wilson’s spit-damp neck. “Promise not to make you scream too loud.”
He feels Wilson have a mental debate, shuddering and twisting around House’s fingers. Suddenly his whole body jerks in decision and he grabs House’s face in both hands. “Not one sound,” he rasps, and takes House’s bottom lip between his teeth.
It’s some kind of irony that those low, stifled yelps are exponentially hotter than any reckless moan could be right now; that slow, shallow thrusts can make House’s blood hum, the pitch rising with his speed, every nerve twisting up into a coil of white-hot energy. He presses his forehead against the pillow, eyes closed, jaw clenched as his hips grind in slow, silent, delicious circles. Wilson clutches at his shoulders, tightens his legs around House’s waist, whimpering into his neck as the bed makes a high-pitched whine. So good, so close, so Wilson--
Someone raps on the door. “James?”
Every one of Wilson’s muscles turns to stone. Including the ones around House’s dick. The jolt of sudden blinding pressure rips a groan from House’s throat and earns him a hand over his mouth. Wilson slowly unhooks his legs, clears his throat and speaks with a breathless, quavering, totally conspicuous voice. “Yeah, Mom?”
This has to be some sort of cosmic joke.
“I’m sorry if I woke you, honey!” she calls through the door. Which, House realizes, is probably unlocked.
“’S okay…uh…hang on a second.” He starts pushing against House’s hip with his free hand, and they have a second-long wordless fight, House glaring down over the fingers pressed against his lips, Wilson’s eyebrows gesturing wildly to the mattress. Meanwhile, Estelle keeps yammering.
“I know it’s early, but your father decided to take it upon himself to check your heating unit, and I think he’s blown out the pilot light or some such thing. Aren’t you frozen in there?”
“Uh - yeah!” Wilson says, mostly naked and sweating under House and the bedspread. “We’re getting up - er…” his eyes dart down his torso, then widen in horror, “I mean, we’re coming…” he winces and bites his lip. “Er - be right there!”
“…Oh-kay, sweetie.”
He doesn’t uncover House’s mouth until the footsteps fade away. “Okay,” he says, jerking his head to the side, “so this was a bad idea. Come on,” he starts pushing at House’s sides, “I need to get up.”
“Don’t you mean off?”
Wilson scowls up at him with his swollen pink lips and wrecked hair. There’s no choice but to curse and roll slowly to his back.
It becomes rather painful to watch Wilson cramming himself hastily back into the sweatpants, so he sits up and pulls on his T-shirt. “Second orgasm in a week that’s been derailed by your parents.”
“I’m aware of that.” Wilson stands and starts tugging on a never-before-worn green fleece bathrobe recently unearthed from the closet, a gift from his mother last year. Visibly frustrated, he smoothes a hand down his front, and then down the back of his head, doing nothing at all to hide the pillow-shaped indention in his hair. “Nothing I can do about it for forty-eight more hours.”
Nice. Now Wilson’s extra unsatisfied and pissy from almost getting caught. “You’re telling me you’d rather make latkes and listen to your dad discuss his bowel movements?”
“What choice do I have, House?” he snaps, his voice cracking slightly. “What would you do if your mother nearly walked in on us fucking?”
…Okay, so he gets the hard-on-killing factor. “That’s not the point. It’s not just the sex you’re ashamed of; it’s everything. Who you are, what you like. Books, movies. This house.” He turns his eyes away from those incredulous eyebrows. “Everything in it.”
Sincerity leaks into his voice, so he stops talking. Not like he’s saying anything Wilson doesn’t already know.
Across the room, Wilson pinches his brow in frustration. “I am not ashamed of you, House,” he says in a robotic, tiresome way, like it’s so obvious. “This is just…something I have to do. For my parent’s sake. Nothing to do with you.” He checks his reflection in the wardrobe mirror, trying to wipe off the last remnants of his real personality. “I’m not going to sleep with you just because you’re trying to make me feel guilty.”
“Right, that’s why I’m pissed.” Not that it has anything to do at all with watching Wilson tiptoe around reality all week for the benefit of two people who don’t even know who he is. House gives up and tugs his pants on crookedly. By the time he manages to stand, Wilson’s opening the door, turning to give him one last, tired look.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles with limited sincerity to House’s collarbone, “but this is the way things are going to be. It’s the way things have always been between my parents and me.” His hand goes to the back of his neck. “You get that, don’t you?”
He gets that Wilson’s a hypocrite; doesn’t make things better. He gives a half-nod. “You better go. Your mom’s calling you.”
After a long pause, Wilson shrugs dejectedly and walks off, leaving House alone in their freezing-cold bedroom.
He doesn’t even attempt to play nice.
Censoring himself is impossible after this morning’s cruel slice of normality. The anticlimactic build-up of hopeful hormones and the few minutes of empty endorphins have rendered him incapable of bullshit; every ounce of his (already limited) self-restraint is maxed out from resisting the urge to press Wilson into the sofa and do him in a mess of wrapping paper and Scotch tape. Just like last Christmas.
His thoughts thus occupied, House is barely aware of insulting Mrs. Wilson’s sufganiyot. “Nothing like the smell of liquid, bubbling fat to celebrate the miracle of Hanukkah.”
“Oh, Greg,” she laughs airily over the mini deep fryer that appeared out of nowhere when they moved in. “I know; they’re terrible for you, but it’s tradition.”
House stabs a fork into a greasy, fried ball of ‘tradition’ from the plate on the counter. He could do with the heart attack, anyway.
“Morning,” Gerald grunts when House plops into the dining chair across from him, the plate clattering loudly on the table. Mr. Fix-It-When-It-Ain’t-Broke says nothing about his pre-dawn escapades in the utility closet, peacefully reading the paper and sipping coffee. Just a little too comfortable, in House’s opinion. Like he knows something. Or knows that there’s nothing to know, thanks to his convenient mechanical mishap…
“Sleep well?” House asks innocuously, sitting back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest.
“I did, thanks. Minus the chill this morning.” He ruffles the paper and throws House a quick but determined glance. “Yourself?”
“Oh, like a baby,” House says, attempting a croon. “Wilson made sure of that. Nothing like spooning up under the covers on a cold night, huh?” The look on Gerry’s face is worth the gag-inducing chitchat. He gives a small wink. “You know how it is.”
Serendipitously, Estelle walks in from the kitchen at this very moment, carrying the plate of sacred Hanukkah donuts. “Here we are!” She pats her husband on the back and pecks his cheek before taking the seat next to him.
Even more serendipitously, Wilson bustles in from the direction of the hall, says “Morning, everyone” in a chirpy, slightly hysterical voice and takes his place next to House, setting a mug of coffee in front of him in passing.
He and his mother begin some inane discussion about tonight’s dinner. Neither of them seems to notice the silent glare going on between their partners.
Estelle, of course, is focused on infinitely more important matters. “You’re looking a little tired, Greg,” she says, eyeing the ragged sweatshirt House barely remembered to pull on over his most threadbare sleep pants. “Having trouble getting started this morning?”
“Oh, you’ll have to excuse me,” he says, ever so politely, since obsession with appearances is apparently a family trait. He drapes his arm over the back of Wilson’s chair and speaks directly to the cumbersome old man in front of him. “I woke up this morning with this massive--”
“Headache!” Wilson says like a Tourette’s patient. “He has a little bit of a headache,” he elaborates when everyone in the room looks at him like he’s nuts, chuckling nervously, reaching over to pat House on the knee under the table. As soon as the parents turn their suspicious gazes back to their plates, Wilson’s fingertips tighten on his leg like a vicegrip.
The fingers ease off a little when the conversation shifts to health concerns (from headaches to digestive problems to other issues only a parent would feel the need to discuss) but return in full force when House chimes in about the subject of Wilson getting yearly prostate exams. “Don’t worry about that; he’s getting plenty of close, personal attention in that area-”
Funnily enough, this effectively ends the health discussion.
But somehow, his usual personal humor doesn’t taste as sweet. While he enjoys the parents’ obvious discomfort, it’s not enough to make up for this morning’s (possibly intentional) fiasco. Today’s the last full day of torture before the parents head off to visit their next victims (Wilson’s brother and co.) for the second half of the holiday. Only one more day for Wilson to stand up for himself and he’s over there listening raptly to a lecture about green bean casserole.
So House keeps his mouth shut. The way Wilson apparently wants.
He figures it’s cliché to feel sorry for yourself at Christmas, but it’s hard not to feel rejected when you’re placed second to Mr. Wilson’s prostate problems. By the end of the meal, he’s managed to build an edible Zen garden out of his uneaten breakfast, dragging his spoon through trails of some kind of jam and speaking only when he has to.
“Well, you’ll have to tell me all about it in the car,” Estelle’s saying (about something House ignored) as she stands, gathering everyone’s plates in a maternal sort of way. “I think the fresh air could do us all some good. Are you still feeling under the weather, Greg? You’ve been awfully…quiet.”
He’s just finished adding a patio to the donut condo on his plate. “Sorry about that. Every time I open my mouth, I get this weird pain in my left knee,” he says, glaring straight at Wilson.
He hastily withdraws his hand. “Ah - it’s his…headache,” he stammers. “Makes him a little irritable.” He can almost hear Wilson’s neck creak as he stiffly turns his head to give him a quiet glare. “Wouldn’t it be nice to take a drive?” he ‘asks,’ menacingly calm.
“Drive?” This is what he gets for thinking about Wilson naked and covered in the jam while he’s supposed to be listening. “Where are we going?”
God, he’s sick of the eyebrow scrunch. It’s only fun to piss Wilson off when he has the capacity to fix it. “Mom wants to see the view from the hill, remember? Must be beautiful from up there. We must have gotten at least six inches last night.”
Sure, he’s talking about snow, but: “I wouldn’t anything know about that, would I?”
“Oh, neither would we,” Gerald interrupts. “Haven’t seen real snow since we relocated to Florida. Barely gets below sixty down there, even in the wintertime. But you boys’ll see all about that when you come to visit this summer.”
House feels his internal organs quiver. “…What?”
“That’s right. We’ve persuaded him to take his second week of vacation in May or June.” There is a creepy smile on the old man’s lips, one that makes the hair on the back of House’s neck stand up. “You boys will be staying at our house and we’ll take you to all the main attractions. That way, you won’t have to pay for a hotel.” He leans back in his chair and exudes smugness, mirroring House’s earlier posture and wrapping a hand securely around his wife’s hip. “Surely James told you?”
He says it like he knows Wilson didn’t mention a thing. “I just said he and I would talk about it, Dad,” Wilson blurts out, turning red.
“Hell, what’s to talk about?” He looks way too comfortable with what amounts to driving the last nail into Wilson’s coffin. “We don’t get to spend enough time together; wouldn’t you agree, Greg?”
He can’t imagine anything he’d like to do less, short of plucking out his own eyelashes or taking an enema of Icy-Hot. Thanks to Wilson, they’re stuck in this status-quo: he’ll never be allowed to feel normal or even okay around the not-in-laws.
When it comes down to it, Wilson’s more afraid of his parents than he is content with this relationship.
He grabs his cane and pushes back his chair. “Think I’ll take a rain check on the sightseeing, Wilson.” He starts out of the room without looking back. “Got a ‘headache.’”
Nobody follows him to the bedroom, and he sighs at the ceiling when he hears the car fire into ignition.
Author: magie_05
Word Count: ~3200
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.
Sorry for the delay. And the ridiculous word count. :\ At least it's partly smutty.
I decided to post this in halves since I've only just realized how unbalanced the parts are :\ I think it'll be better for reasons of sanity; I'll post the very last part after work tonight. Sorry :\
Christmas morning dawns with nauseating beauty, snow and ice on bare, skeletal trees, not a sign of movement. The view outside the bedroom window is good enough for a postcard. Or a commercial for herpes meds.
House figures it can’t hurt his chances.
Of course, the view House really appreciates is even closer. When he slipped into the bed last night, Wilson was curled into a tiny little ball of forced chastity, practically hanging off the edge of the mattress to avoid the accidental touch. Now, he’s laid out like a buffet table, half on his stomach and hugging a pillow, warm and helpless and inches from House’s side. Peeling back the covers, House can see that thin T-shirt riding up, dark green sweatpants slipping down past his hipbones. His mouth is slightly open and his features relaxed, blissfully unaware of his surroundings.
It’s almost too easy.
After a quick Vicodin, he smoothes his hand over Wilson’s hair; start this off innocently, affectionately, with surprise on his side and that view out the window, and it’s sure to turn into something more.
He waits until the slow, steady pattern of Wilson’s breathing is disrupted by a small grunt as he unconsciously turns into the touch, his eyebrows working. “Mmm.”
House grins; Wilson can’t see him anyway. He slowly extricates the slightly drooled-on pillow from Wilson’s grip and scoots in to replace it, sliding a hand down Wilson’s back in the process. This wakes him up enough to sigh, stretch, and curl an arm over House’s side without opening his eyes.
Just as planned.
It’s perfect, minus the morning breath, so he drags his mouth across Wilson’s lips in a sleepy sort of way, one hand sneaking below the covers to settle in its favorite location. “Hmph,” Wilson huffs against him, fingers scrabbling semi-consciously over House’s back, arching reflexively under House’s lips.
He focuses on Wilson’s neck until he wakes up enough to give a pleased grunt, pulling House back and kissing him softly, blindly, his grip tightening over House’s back to pull them closer. He hums again after a few slow moments, still not opening his eyes, smiling sleepily and pressing his mouth to House’s throat. “Hey.”
He’s known for some time that Wilson’s a slut, especially when he’s barely conscious.
He enjoys this fact for all it’s worth, shifting his attention to Wilson’s ear until he rolls to his back, smiling dreamily, tugging House on top of him. But before long Wilson is pushing his face back, still humming happily to himself, finally peeling open his eyes a few millimeters. “What time is it?”
“Early,” he says into Wilson’s mouth. “About six.”
Truthfully, he’s got no idea what time it is. Not that it’s relevant to his objective.
Besides, Wilson clearly has no real concept of what’s going on yet, murmuring and doing things with his tongue that shouldn’t be possible before 8 a.m. House barely remembers to congratulate himself on the success of his plan, too caught up in those low groans, in the soft friction of the hands sliding up and down his back, pushing up his shirt. He loves mornings like this: ambushing Wilson when his guard is down, making him forget about being late for work or yesterday’s argument or, in this case, the constant reminders of how much he has failed, the subtle comments revealing his parents’ lowered expectations. None of it matters with Wilson purring beneath him, slipping cold fingers below his waistband, rolling his hips up off the mattress -
Even with his shirt off, House barely notices the room’s unusually cool air, especially when Wilson drags the cover up over his shoulders. He presses his forehead against Wilson’s long enough to shift his weight, reaching down and fiddling with the perfectly tied Christmas bow of Wilson’s drawstring.
Minutes get lost in perfection, Wilson’s skin flushed pink, his sweatpants sliding down to his knees, stripping away layers of clothing and persona. “Oh,” he groans (rather loudly), cold hands meeting hard flesh as he arches his back. House’s ego scores ten points, the frustration of these past four days fading away into the sheets.
It’s totally not creepy that he’s taking his revenge on Wilson’s parents by nailing him. …Even if it is, they started it. Besides, this will work out for everyone; Wilson gets to walk around with this memory, this feeling, an all-day reminder of what makes him happy, regardless of what his parents want. Mom and Dad can make any comments they want, and Wilson can respond only with a smug, enigmatic grin. And House gets…well. The obvious.
He gets a pair of thighs pressing firmly against his hips, locking him in place. He gets to swallow Wilson’s short but forceful grunts, taking fistfuls of the sheets as their cocks slide together, heavy and warm in Wilson’s hand. He gets to roll around in bed with Wilson while the parents sleep peacefully in another room, oblivious. He gets a broad tongue across his neck and a hand in his hair and a breathy “oh, House--”
Suddenly Wilson stills and his eyes fly open. “Oh,” he says again, sounding more like his awake, neurotic self. “House.”
“No,” he groans in reply, dipping already slippery fingers lower between Wilson’s legs, pushing just barely into him.
Wilson shudders and shakes his head wordlessly, keeping his lips sealed together. “No-no-no,” he whispers in one breathy stream, wrapping a loose hand over House’s wrist and tugging noncommittally. “My parents - ”
“Are at the other end of the hall,” he kisses Wilson’s neck, “asleep,” twists his fingers around in that tight, hot space, “sans hearing aids.”
He kisses along House’s jaw, seemingly unaware that he’s doing it. “My parents don’t wear-”
“It’s Christmas,” House suddenly remembers. “The day of giving. Come on, think of the baby Jesus.”
Wilson giggles lightly when the tip of House’s tongue slips into his ear, but his internal wet blanket makes one last grab for dominance. “We…uh, can’t do this…” This would be more convincing if his legs weren’t drawing up, wanting to curl over House’s shoulders.
He smirks into Wilson’s spit-damp neck. “Promise not to make you scream too loud.”
He feels Wilson have a mental debate, shuddering and twisting around House’s fingers. Suddenly his whole body jerks in decision and he grabs House’s face in both hands. “Not one sound,” he rasps, and takes House’s bottom lip between his teeth.
It’s some kind of irony that those low, stifled yelps are exponentially hotter than any reckless moan could be right now; that slow, shallow thrusts can make House’s blood hum, the pitch rising with his speed, every nerve twisting up into a coil of white-hot energy. He presses his forehead against the pillow, eyes closed, jaw clenched as his hips grind in slow, silent, delicious circles. Wilson clutches at his shoulders, tightens his legs around House’s waist, whimpering into his neck as the bed makes a high-pitched whine. So good, so close, so Wilson--
Someone raps on the door. “James?”
Every one of Wilson’s muscles turns to stone. Including the ones around House’s dick. The jolt of sudden blinding pressure rips a groan from House’s throat and earns him a hand over his mouth. Wilson slowly unhooks his legs, clears his throat and speaks with a breathless, quavering, totally conspicuous voice. “Yeah, Mom?”
This has to be some sort of cosmic joke.
“I’m sorry if I woke you, honey!” she calls through the door. Which, House realizes, is probably unlocked.
“’S okay…uh…hang on a second.” He starts pushing against House’s hip with his free hand, and they have a second-long wordless fight, House glaring down over the fingers pressed against his lips, Wilson’s eyebrows gesturing wildly to the mattress. Meanwhile, Estelle keeps yammering.
“I know it’s early, but your father decided to take it upon himself to check your heating unit, and I think he’s blown out the pilot light or some such thing. Aren’t you frozen in there?”
“Uh - yeah!” Wilson says, mostly naked and sweating under House and the bedspread. “We’re getting up - er…” his eyes dart down his torso, then widen in horror, “I mean, we’re coming…” he winces and bites his lip. “Er - be right there!”
“…Oh-kay, sweetie.”
He doesn’t uncover House’s mouth until the footsteps fade away. “Okay,” he says, jerking his head to the side, “so this was a bad idea. Come on,” he starts pushing at House’s sides, “I need to get up.”
“Don’t you mean off?”
Wilson scowls up at him with his swollen pink lips and wrecked hair. There’s no choice but to curse and roll slowly to his back.
It becomes rather painful to watch Wilson cramming himself hastily back into the sweatpants, so he sits up and pulls on his T-shirt. “Second orgasm in a week that’s been derailed by your parents.”
“I’m aware of that.” Wilson stands and starts tugging on a never-before-worn green fleece bathrobe recently unearthed from the closet, a gift from his mother last year. Visibly frustrated, he smoothes a hand down his front, and then down the back of his head, doing nothing at all to hide the pillow-shaped indention in his hair. “Nothing I can do about it for forty-eight more hours.”
Nice. Now Wilson’s extra unsatisfied and pissy from almost getting caught. “You’re telling me you’d rather make latkes and listen to your dad discuss his bowel movements?”
“What choice do I have, House?” he snaps, his voice cracking slightly. “What would you do if your mother nearly walked in on us fucking?”
…Okay, so he gets the hard-on-killing factor. “That’s not the point. It’s not just the sex you’re ashamed of; it’s everything. Who you are, what you like. Books, movies. This house.” He turns his eyes away from those incredulous eyebrows. “Everything in it.”
Sincerity leaks into his voice, so he stops talking. Not like he’s saying anything Wilson doesn’t already know.
Across the room, Wilson pinches his brow in frustration. “I am not ashamed of you, House,” he says in a robotic, tiresome way, like it’s so obvious. “This is just…something I have to do. For my parent’s sake. Nothing to do with you.” He checks his reflection in the wardrobe mirror, trying to wipe off the last remnants of his real personality. “I’m not going to sleep with you just because you’re trying to make me feel guilty.”
“Right, that’s why I’m pissed.” Not that it has anything to do at all with watching Wilson tiptoe around reality all week for the benefit of two people who don’t even know who he is. House gives up and tugs his pants on crookedly. By the time he manages to stand, Wilson’s opening the door, turning to give him one last, tired look.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles with limited sincerity to House’s collarbone, “but this is the way things are going to be. It’s the way things have always been between my parents and me.” His hand goes to the back of his neck. “You get that, don’t you?”
He gets that Wilson’s a hypocrite; doesn’t make things better. He gives a half-nod. “You better go. Your mom’s calling you.”
After a long pause, Wilson shrugs dejectedly and walks off, leaving House alone in their freezing-cold bedroom.
He doesn’t even attempt to play nice.
Censoring himself is impossible after this morning’s cruel slice of normality. The anticlimactic build-up of hopeful hormones and the few minutes of empty endorphins have rendered him incapable of bullshit; every ounce of his (already limited) self-restraint is maxed out from resisting the urge to press Wilson into the sofa and do him in a mess of wrapping paper and Scotch tape. Just like last Christmas.
His thoughts thus occupied, House is barely aware of insulting Mrs. Wilson’s sufganiyot. “Nothing like the smell of liquid, bubbling fat to celebrate the miracle of Hanukkah.”
“Oh, Greg,” she laughs airily over the mini deep fryer that appeared out of nowhere when they moved in. “I know; they’re terrible for you, but it’s tradition.”
House stabs a fork into a greasy, fried ball of ‘tradition’ from the plate on the counter. He could do with the heart attack, anyway.
“Morning,” Gerald grunts when House plops into the dining chair across from him, the plate clattering loudly on the table. Mr. Fix-It-When-It-Ain’t-Broke says nothing about his pre-dawn escapades in the utility closet, peacefully reading the paper and sipping coffee. Just a little too comfortable, in House’s opinion. Like he knows something. Or knows that there’s nothing to know, thanks to his convenient mechanical mishap…
“Sleep well?” House asks innocuously, sitting back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest.
“I did, thanks. Minus the chill this morning.” He ruffles the paper and throws House a quick but determined glance. “Yourself?”
“Oh, like a baby,” House says, attempting a croon. “Wilson made sure of that. Nothing like spooning up under the covers on a cold night, huh?” The look on Gerry’s face is worth the gag-inducing chitchat. He gives a small wink. “You know how it is.”
Serendipitously, Estelle walks in from the kitchen at this very moment, carrying the plate of sacred Hanukkah donuts. “Here we are!” She pats her husband on the back and pecks his cheek before taking the seat next to him.
Even more serendipitously, Wilson bustles in from the direction of the hall, says “Morning, everyone” in a chirpy, slightly hysterical voice and takes his place next to House, setting a mug of coffee in front of him in passing.
He and his mother begin some inane discussion about tonight’s dinner. Neither of them seems to notice the silent glare going on between their partners.
Estelle, of course, is focused on infinitely more important matters. “You’re looking a little tired, Greg,” she says, eyeing the ragged sweatshirt House barely remembered to pull on over his most threadbare sleep pants. “Having trouble getting started this morning?”
“Oh, you’ll have to excuse me,” he says, ever so politely, since obsession with appearances is apparently a family trait. He drapes his arm over the back of Wilson’s chair and speaks directly to the cumbersome old man in front of him. “I woke up this morning with this massive--”
“Headache!” Wilson says like a Tourette’s patient. “He has a little bit of a headache,” he elaborates when everyone in the room looks at him like he’s nuts, chuckling nervously, reaching over to pat House on the knee under the table. As soon as the parents turn their suspicious gazes back to their plates, Wilson’s fingertips tighten on his leg like a vicegrip.
The fingers ease off a little when the conversation shifts to health concerns (from headaches to digestive problems to other issues only a parent would feel the need to discuss) but return in full force when House chimes in about the subject of Wilson getting yearly prostate exams. “Don’t worry about that; he’s getting plenty of close, personal attention in that area-”
Funnily enough, this effectively ends the health discussion.
But somehow, his usual personal humor doesn’t taste as sweet. While he enjoys the parents’ obvious discomfort, it’s not enough to make up for this morning’s (possibly intentional) fiasco. Today’s the last full day of torture before the parents head off to visit their next victims (Wilson’s brother and co.) for the second half of the holiday. Only one more day for Wilson to stand up for himself and he’s over there listening raptly to a lecture about green bean casserole.
So House keeps his mouth shut. The way Wilson apparently wants.
He figures it’s cliché to feel sorry for yourself at Christmas, but it’s hard not to feel rejected when you’re placed second to Mr. Wilson’s prostate problems. By the end of the meal, he’s managed to build an edible Zen garden out of his uneaten breakfast, dragging his spoon through trails of some kind of jam and speaking only when he has to.
“Well, you’ll have to tell me all about it in the car,” Estelle’s saying (about something House ignored) as she stands, gathering everyone’s plates in a maternal sort of way. “I think the fresh air could do us all some good. Are you still feeling under the weather, Greg? You’ve been awfully…quiet.”
He’s just finished adding a patio to the donut condo on his plate. “Sorry about that. Every time I open my mouth, I get this weird pain in my left knee,” he says, glaring straight at Wilson.
He hastily withdraws his hand. “Ah - it’s his…headache,” he stammers. “Makes him a little irritable.” He can almost hear Wilson’s neck creak as he stiffly turns his head to give him a quiet glare. “Wouldn’t it be nice to take a drive?” he ‘asks,’ menacingly calm.
“Drive?” This is what he gets for thinking about Wilson naked and covered in the jam while he’s supposed to be listening. “Where are we going?”
God, he’s sick of the eyebrow scrunch. It’s only fun to piss Wilson off when he has the capacity to fix it. “Mom wants to see the view from the hill, remember? Must be beautiful from up there. We must have gotten at least six inches last night.”
Sure, he’s talking about snow, but: “I wouldn’t anything know about that, would I?”
“Oh, neither would we,” Gerald interrupts. “Haven’t seen real snow since we relocated to Florida. Barely gets below sixty down there, even in the wintertime. But you boys’ll see all about that when you come to visit this summer.”
House feels his internal organs quiver. “…What?”
“That’s right. We’ve persuaded him to take his second week of vacation in May or June.” There is a creepy smile on the old man’s lips, one that makes the hair on the back of House’s neck stand up. “You boys will be staying at our house and we’ll take you to all the main attractions. That way, you won’t have to pay for a hotel.” He leans back in his chair and exudes smugness, mirroring House’s earlier posture and wrapping a hand securely around his wife’s hip. “Surely James told you?”
He says it like he knows Wilson didn’t mention a thing. “I just said he and I would talk about it, Dad,” Wilson blurts out, turning red.
“Hell, what’s to talk about?” He looks way too comfortable with what amounts to driving the last nail into Wilson’s coffin. “We don’t get to spend enough time together; wouldn’t you agree, Greg?”
He can’t imagine anything he’d like to do less, short of plucking out his own eyelashes or taking an enema of Icy-Hot. Thanks to Wilson, they’re stuck in this status-quo: he’ll never be allowed to feel normal or even okay around the not-in-laws.
When it comes down to it, Wilson’s more afraid of his parents than he is content with this relationship.
He grabs his cane and pushes back his chair. “Think I’ll take a rain check on the sightseeing, Wilson.” He starts out of the room without looking back. “Got a ‘headache.’”
Nobody follows him to the bedroom, and he sighs at the ceiling when he hears the car fire into ignition.