A Bit of House and Wilson

fauxpocky @ 2007-03-28T18:16:00

2007-03-28T08:35:30Z

I got a virtual gift! *is touched* bethctg2, you're so sweet! *hugs her birthday twin*

Some quick recs of fic-love in the absence of any fic-writing ability of my own at the moment.

A Modest Proposal

An absolute epic of a fic. Set mid-Tritter Arc, and suggesting an alternate solution to stopping Wilson from having to testify against House. Brilliant and cute and kept me up half the night when I had an early start the next day. And I didn't care, it's just that good.

The One Where They're Girls, And Make the Most of It

Oh. Good. Lord. House and Wilson in a world where everyone has swapped genders. Or maybe just everyone in the hospital, I was too distracted by the lesbianHouse/lesbianWilson stuff *wibbles* Absolutely amazing, and jaw-droppingly hot. A sequel to the genderfuck genius that was The One Where They're Girls, and it's rekindled my love of f/f, so there may be some other fandoms or original pieces popping up on here if I ever work out where my muses wandered off to...

fauxpocky @ 2007-02-02T21:41:00

2007-02-02T10:41:53Z

Get your own valentinr

fauxpocky @ 2007-01-16T19:23:00

2007-01-16T08:24:27Z

When is a post, not a post? When it's a meme ;)

Cause I said I would...

Leave a comment here and I'll:

1. Tell you why I friended you
2. Associate you with a song/movie
3. Tell a random fact about you
4. Tell a first memory about you
5. Associate you with an animal/fruit
6. Ask something I've always wanted to know about you
7. In response, you MUST spread this disease in your LJ

Fanfic: Drabble - Games We Play

2007-01-15T08:25:10Z

Title: Games We Play
Characters: Wilson and House
Word Count: 100
Spoilers: None
Author's Notes: Trying and failing to work on something longer, and drabbles keep rearing their ugly little heads… ;D
Summary: House likes to be right.

House likes to be right.

It's the driving force of his existence, the reason he worked so hard at his studies and his justification for the frequently insane things he does.

It's not the most important thing in his life, but that's only because it is his life. It transcends any and all other things.

But it’s not his favourite thing.

His favourite thing in life is playing games.

He loves to play, tease, to indulge in foolishness. He loves to test people with his games.

But his favourite games are with Wilson.

Wilson knows how to play his games.

Fanfic: Drabble - Turtlenecks

2007-01-05T09:12:13Z

Title: Turtlenecks
Pairing: Wilson/House implied
Word Count: 100
Spoilers: None
Author's Notes: So I'm complaining about not being able to write anything, and Doctor Who interfering with my Housefic abilities, and cable TV provides me with a "Behind the Scenes Special" (aka, the Season One dvd extras), and The Socratic Method.
And I get to wondering, why does House keep wearing turtlenecks?
Summary: Sometimes even a random shot can hit a target...

"Turtlenecks make you look stupid!"

House actually stopped and stared at her for a moment, looking, almost guilty. It was a lame insult in response to another remark about her cleavage, Cuddy hadn't expected it would hit home.

A quick, curious glance at Wilson left her even more puzzled. He looked almost as guilty. What were they up to?

But the moment of guilt was gone in a heartbeat and House was stalking off and shouting behind him.

"I wouldn't have to wear them if Wilson would quit giving me hickeys!"

"House!"

Cuddy decided she didn't really want to know...

life gets in the way of fandom...

2007-01-05T08:02:02Z

Work's gone crazy. I've been struggling to find the time to work on my fic. Hasn't stopped the bunnies, of course. I'm halfway through a few things and I've got three new ideas I haven't even started making notes for. I think there was another one but sleep was more important than writing things down and I forgot the details.

Been rewatching old episodes of House (watching two seasons of Doctor Who in quick succession made the H/W muses uncooperative). Forgot how much season one Cameron shits me up the wall. I like her much better in season three...

Trying to resist the temptation to write Doctor Who or Torchwood fic, but I'm not sure how long I'll hold out. I refuse to claim I'll never do it, as much as I don't need another fandom to write for. I have a feeling I said I'd never write House/Wilson, and look what happened there!

Original Fiction

2006-11-27T11:06:27Z

Title: Always...
Word Count: 382
Summary: On fear of loss and love...

I can feel your fingers on my skin, though you're not here with me. I can feel your body next to mine. Echoes and images, unreal imaginings. Your fingers mesh with mine, your thumb strokes the palm of my hand and I shiver, remembering, wishing.

It's cold, when you're not really here.

I'm smiling at the world, presenting a bright and cheerful visage. Inside I'm always wondering where you are, what you're doing, if you're wondering about me. I smile warm and friendly, inside, I'm cold, without you.

I can feel it on my face, the difference in my smiles. When I see you, the smile that stretches my lips is so much it makes my cheeks ache, making all the grins that came before seem pale imitations, merely a shape of my mouth, not an expression of something that threatens to burst out of me in a blaze of glory.

Wish I could hold you, wish I could have you. Wish you were mine for always. Wish I could lay claim to you like I want to, wish I thought you'd let me. Wish I didn't have to let you go free.

It's always scary. Will you come back? Will I see you again? Will you disappear when I'm not looking? A car could turn a corner too fast, a desperate man could rob you of your money and your life. A disease could strike, a toxin spread, a thousand and one ways I could lose you, and never have a chance to try to save you. Every time you walk away, I have to make myself not cling to you, try to keep you with me.

I don't want to miss a single second of time that I could be spending with you. When I lose you in the end, as I know I must some day, I know I'll begrudge every minute I could have spent with you and didn't get to. I know I'll shed an extra tear for every day we didn't share.

Want to curl beside you, around you, within you. Want to lie by your side and bury my face in your hair. Want to be with you, always, in whatever way I can be. Never want to let you go.

But I always will.

Fanfic: Drabble - Inappropriate

2006-11-26T12:19:35Z

Title: Inappropriate
Pairing: Wilson/House
Word Count: 100
Spoilers: Son of Coma Guy
Author's Notes: Seriously, what is it about being in the shower and being assaulted by drabbles? About as sappy as it's possible to get in 100 words.
Summary: An inappropriate reaction and some reinterpretation.

If there was a scale for inappropriate reactions like this, this incident was probably one of the benchmarks.

He was pretty sure that a moment of sheer exultation was an inappropriate response to being ordered out of a hotel room in Atlantic City by his best friend so that said best friend could give suicide advice to a non-terminal patient who wanted to give his heart to his terminally sick and alcoholic son.

But he knew House, and he knew exactly what he'd really meant.

"Maybe I don't want to push this till it breaks," really meant "I love you."

Fanfic: Drabble - Choice

2006-11-07T08:50:32Z

Title: Choice
Pairing: Wilson/House
Word Count: 100
Author's Notes: Sleep deprived. Sick. Would quite like to be sleeping. Instead, House is bugging me.
Summary: What you need is meaningless, it's what you choose that matters.

He'd never say he can't live without Wilson. He could, easily. He just doesn't want to, just like the vicodin.

And why should he, when he doesn't have to?

Besides, what does it mean, to say you can't live without something or someone? It doesn't mean much at all. He can't live without air, but that doesn't mean he particularly likes it, he doesn't even notice it, only its absence.

Want means more. Want means he cares. Want means he has a choice, a conscious choice. That he makes a choice. And he chooses Wilson.

Every day, he chooses Wilson.

Fanfic: Honeymoon

2006-11-05T07:15:52Z

Title: Honeymoon
Word Count: 100
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: G
Author's Notes: Drabble, mostly dialogue, silliness, I blame the voices in my head. Anyone know where I can get a waterproof notebook for when bunnies strike while I'm in the shower?
Summary: Something always goes wrong when you go on holidays...

They stood and stared at the bed.

"It's heart shaped."

"Hey, you were the one who wanted the Honeymoon Suite, what did you expect?"

"A big bed, not a heart shaped one."

"You picked the wrong room then. They expect honeymooners to be romantic, not athletic. If you wanted a bigger bed you should have asked for the slut suite."

"There's a slut suite?"

"Presidential."

House's only reply was a snort.

"We could try to get a transfer to another room?"

"Nah, it's too late to change rooms now. Besides, did you see the size of the heart shaped spa?"

Fanfic: The L Word

2006-10-24T05:21:39Z

Title: The L Word
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1562
Spoilers: Reference to a pretty minor moment in Forever
Author's Notes: Goddamn fics jumping me in the early hours of the morning...I've been trying to work on several other things, and this popped up out of nowhere. It was very early in the morning, that's my only excuse for it *g*
Summary: An evening of normal male bonding...right?

Two thirds of the way through the bottle of scotch and an hour and a half into the L Word marathon, Wilson found himself wondering if there was a subtle way to shift in your seat to hide a slowly growing erection. He'd mocked House's suggestion of watching this, he certainly couldn't let on that it was getting him hot.

He tried to observe House out of the corner of his eye, to see if he was absorbed enough in the show to not notice him shifting. He certainly wasn't checking to see if House was reacting as well.

But while House did seem quite caught up in the on screen antics, it didn't matter, Wilson knew better than to think House wouldn't notice something like that. Besides, he realised, the thought drifting through the alcoholic fog like an iceberg, they were sitting close enough together that their legs were touching. Even if House were blind and deaf, he'd notice Wilson moving, particularly if he was fidgeting.

Another sideways glance. House was still staring fixedly at the screen. But he didn't seem to be focussing on it...

"I gather you've come around to my way of thinking on the subject of The L Word?"

"What?" Bemused, Wilson turned to look at House, who was still glued to the screen, but was now smirking slightly.

"Or are you just happy to see me?"

It clicked, and Wilson blushed. Not that he'd thought he'd get away with it. But it was still embarrassing, getting sprung getting hard over some soft core lesbian action. Especially by House, who, he knew, was never going to let him live it down.

He decided he needed another drink, and topped up House's glass as well without thinking, operating on polite autopilot. House, operating on drunken autopilot, threw back the nip of scotch in one gulp. Wilson sipped his more slowly, wondering how long he could avoid responding to House's teasing by hiding behind his glass.

House was still smirking, though he hadn't said anything else, and he didn't seem to be waiting for a response. The reprieve would only be temporary, of course, Wilson knew that, but for the moment, he relaxed a little.

Big mistake.

Seven eighths of the way through the scotch and two hours into the marathon, House put his hand on Wilson's knee.

He stared stupidly at it for a moment before looking up at House with what he hoped was a questioning expression but figured probably just looked confused. House was still watching the show with that same small smirk tugging at his lips.

Wilson's face went from confused to incredulous as the hand on his knee slid higher, and as it came within an inch of brushing against his now more rapidly growing erection, he felt it necessary to make some sort of protest. House must be really drunk. Whatever he was up to, he didn't mean it and would probably regret it sober.

"You right there?" As he spoke, House's hand reached what had clearly been its destination all along, pressing firmly against the bulge in his trousers and making his voice climb an octave on the word 'there'. "House!"

"Watch the show." House's voice was as calm and light as if he were discussing something completely ordinary, not ordering his best friend to watch lesbian porn while his hand got intimately acquainted with said best friend's anatomy.

"House!" Wilson squirmed, wondering why he was protesting and not just standing up and bolting. Except that, he was drunk. And watching porn. And it felt good.

"Just watch, there's a good bit coming up."

The suspicious part of Wilson's brain, the bit that agreed with House's assertion that everybody lies, wondered about the fact that House seemed to have already watched this, but, what with one thing and another, it wasn't till two days later that Wilson worked out the significance of that.

For the moment he was a bit distracted, and further protests died in his throat as House started stroking him through his trousers.

This was too weird. He stared at the tv, realising that House was right, this was a good bit. As the two women on screen kissed, slowly removing each others' clothes, he watched, rapt, not quite thinking about who owned the hand that had started to undo the button on his pants. The sound of the zip seemed abnormally loud, but then there was only thin cotton between the hand and his cock and he decided he didn't care if it was House dong this. A handjob's a handjob, when all's said and done, what should it matter where it came from?

Besides, they were drunk.

It certainly couldn't be worse than the one time Julie had tried and had practically given his cock a chinese burn.

In fact, it was already shaping up to be one of the better handjobs he'd received over the years. He was trying to stay focussed on the show, but it wasn't easy, and his eyes kept fluttering closed whenever House managed just the right combination of pressure and friction.

He felt House shifting slightly beside him and he looked down and realised he wasn't the only one reacting. This was a new situation for him, and he wasn't sure of the etiquette in a moment like this, but he felt certain reciprocation was good manners. It would only be fair.

So he ran uncertain fingers along Greg's inner thigh, half expecting to have his hand slapped away, but he met no resistance. The angle was odd, but otherwise the actions were familiar - for some time now his right hand had been more interested in him than anyone else was. Julie had been, elsewhere, and Grace was, well, chemo wasn't great for the libido. So it wasn't all that strange to slip his hand into y-fronts and start stroking. The only novelty was that it was someone else's y-fronts now.

House was never one to let anyone get one up on him, and a few moments later he'd worked his hand under cotton too. Wilson gave up on trying to watch the show - the good bit was over, anyway, they were just talking now - and concentrated instead on what they were doing.

Even as he bit his tongue to hold back a gasp, he marvelled at House's competitive nature. He'd upped the ante by returning the favour, so now House was pushing to step things up even more. It was only due to his years of practice that Wilson managed to keep up the rhythm of stroking as Greg's long fingers did indecent things to him, making his hips buck involuntarily off the couch and his toes curl in his sensible shoes.

Definitely one of the best handjobs he'd had in years. But he wasn't going to tell House that.

He was close now, and he snuck a peek at House, wondering if he was still watching tv or if he'd turned his observant gaze on him now. What he saw almost made him choke on his tongue as he came with a muffled grunt. The sight of Greg's face contorted with ecstasy would come back to him at highly inappropriate moments for a long time afterwards.

A few more strokes and House was coming too, with a similarly stifled sound. They sat, panting quietly, hands in their own laps again, for a few moments, refocusing on reality.

Wilson turned to look at House, who had gone back to watching the flickering screen again. He stared until finally House turned to face him, eyebrows cocked inquisitively.

"Yes?"

Wilson licked his lips, awkward, nervous.

"Thanks," he murmured, and leant forward to press his lips to his friend's.

House didn't really respond, but he didn't resist either, his mouth opening to Wilson's heated kiss. His body went lax, the usual tension draining away as he yielded to the touch of Wilson’s hands and lips.

As they broke apart, though, he was frowning, and Wilson wondered if he'd gone too far.

"Why did you have to go and do that?" For all his words were complaining, the tone of his voice, throaty and raw, said otherwise. "We were having a perfectly normal evening of male bonding - alcohol, lesbians and jacking off - and you had to go and kiss me."

"What's wrong with that? And in what universe is any of this considered 'normal male bonding'?"

House looked awkward now.

"A handjob's just, a handjob, doesn't have to mean anything between two drunk friends watching porn, but kisses are," he paused, almost squirming, "intimate. Personal. They, mean something." A thought seemed to strike him and he regained a little composure, even in the face of Wilson's growing, almost gloating grin. "That's why hookers don't do it."

"What's this? Greg House showing evidence of sentimentality?"

"Stop that, smugness is only attractive on me."

"Oh no, I'm not giving this up, you care about something, you think something sentimental is important, you," he paused, realisation striking, "you like me...I..."

Wilson had to break off as House kissed him, and this time there was nothing passive or yielding about it. So he didn't get to finish tormenting House over his admission and his newfound realisation, but he planned to get around to it later. For now, though, he was prepared to let Greg divert him from that topic. Provided he kept using this as his method of diversion, of course.

Fanfic: Not Normal

2006-10-13T23:54:50Z

Title: Not Normal
Pairing: House/Wilson by implication
Word Count: 404
Author's Notes: Another strange piece that popped up out of nowhere. I was thinking about Meaning and I wrote this. I'm not sure if it's something that would be said, or just thought.
Summary: Why are you trying to make me normal?

You're trying to make me normal. Why are you trying to make me normal? I don't want to be normal, don't want to be a respectable married doctor with two-point-four kids and a housewife hosting dinner parties. I don't want to go golfing on the weekends with the other doctors, or go to benefits to suck up to the wealthy benefactors. I want to be ME, Greg House, misanthropic and miserable as I might be. I want to be me first, and then anything else comes after that. I have to be me. If that means I'm not happy, that's just the way it goes. I'd rather be miserable and me than happy and someone else and if that doesn't make sense you haven't been paying attention.

I don't know why you try to be normal either. Because you're not. Normal people are boring, and you're interesting. Normal people don't have three failed marriages behind them. Normal people don't become the heads of oncology departments, hell, normal people don't work in oncology, period. It's too depressing. Normal people don't hang around me for very long, either. So you're not normal. You just do a very good surface impression of it. To a casual observer, sure, you're normal, but not to anyone who gets to know anything about you. And I've known you long enough to know you're not normal.

So quit trying to make me normal.

I was never normal. I was an army brat, and I wasn't even a normal army brat. I was above average in every class I ever took, from my first day of school to the day I graduated as a doctor. And then my leg happened, and I got yet another way not to be normal. It didn't make me abnormal, the drugs don't make me abnormal, I was never normal, and "fixing" me won't make me normal.

I don't want to be normal. Normal is boring. Normal people go through life with their eyes shut and never do anything interesting. Normal people live in tiny little worlds with tiny little rules and never step past the borders. Normal people never have any fun.

Normal people don't deal with life or death situations every day. Normal people don't routinely save lives. Normal guys don't know how to restart a heart.

Normal guys don't fall in love with their male best friends.

Why would I want to be normal?

Fanfic: Touch

2006-10-09T20:35:01Z

Title: Touch
Word Count: 100
Pairing: House/Wilson
Author's Notes: I was almost asleep when this thing jumped me and I had to get up and write it down before it went away. It's a drabble for now, but I think there's going to have to be an expansion on this one, at some point.
Summary: He could see how much Wilson wanted to touch him...

He could see how much Wilson wanted to touch him. Wilson was a highly tactile person, offering comfort, reassurance, expressing himself through physical contact.
And House, was not.
House was a man of intellect. He expressed himself through words and actions, and shied away from almost all human touch.
Respecting that, Wilson rarely if ever made direct physical contact with him, except in moments of extremity. Instead, House watched him find a million tiny ways to touch him incidentally, innocently.
As a mark of respect for the creativity he demonstrated in this, House always let him get away with it.

Fanfic: A Night Like Any Other

2006-10-09T07:47:02Z

Title: A Night Like Any Other
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: G
Word Count: 882
Author's Notes: Another experimental sort of piece. Second person narrative and a little strange.
Summary: It's a night like any other, except it's not. Sometimes a question isn't clearly a question until it gets an answer.

It's a night like any other, except it's not. House is never this drunk, and you're scared because he seems so out of control all of a sudden. He's always controlled, except now he's not. And you're trying to be supportive, trying to look after him, so when you get the page in the middle of the night, you go and find him in the less than salubrious bar he's chosen as the venue for the drowning of his sorrows.

He seems cheerful at first, but it's a mad and desperate cheer, and it worries you even more. It's the determined, despairing cheer of a man who expects the worst and is trying to get the most out of what time he has left before the worst arrives.

So you go along with his madness, just as you always do, but you refuse his suggestions of more alcohol, and bundle him into your car before he has time to realise what you're doing.

He's peering at you owlishly from the passenger seat, and you glance back over at him, waiting for the words that lie behind that expression, half expecting to be berated for being no fun and taking him home instead of staying out and drinking with him. But all he does is watch you.

It's unnerving, but that's normal by now. If House isn't being unnerving, there's usually something wrong with him. So you put up with his stare, and don't ask him what's going on in his head. He'll tell you in time, if it's important. Or, at least, he'll let you guess, if he thinks you deserve to know. And then he'll berate you for taking so long to work it out from the feeble snatches of hints he let slip.

You stopped asking yourself years ago why you still do this sort of thing. Why you dance to his discordant tune, why you keep coming back even if he pushes you away. You stopped asking because you knew the answer. Always had, always would. But you didn't want to hear it, not while there was still Mr and Mrs James Wilson to live up to. Now you don't ask because it doesn't matter anymore. You're there, he's there, that's all that matters.

You're taking him home, his home, and he still hasn't said anything, just watched you. Even for House, this is unusual. You cast him worried glances now and then, but he's not looking upset or closed off, he's looking like he's thinking, like he's having another of his lightning leaps of logic. You're never comfortable when he makes that face in your direction. It usually means he's worked out something about you that you'd rather he didn't know. But you can hardly blame him for picking up the pieces and working out the puzzle. It's his job, it's his nature, he could no more not do it than stop breathing. But you still don't like it when he works you out like a particularly interesting disease.

You want to say "what?", or "take a picture, why don't you?", but you settle for a quizzical look as you pull up outside his apartment. He understands, of course, and grins at you in that way that makes you feel sorry for the canary and its widow. He knows that you want to know, but he's not telling, not till it suits him.

With a mental shrug and a sigh, you get out of the car and come around to the other side to help him out. Even an able-bodied man would be struggling after the amount of alcohol he's had, so you know you're going to have to help him inside, put him to bed, ignore his attempts to brush you off, send you home, that crop up now that he really needs your help. He always calls you before he needs you, so he can still complain when you give him the assistance he knew he'd need.

You open the door and reach for his hand to pull him to his feet, and suddenly he's launched himself towards you, without warning or precision, but with plenty of force, and you're not expecting him so quickly, so you're off-balance, but that's such a familiar state for you now that you move quickly to catch him before you both go sprawling across the concrete. You'd tell him off, but he wouldn't listen, so you take his weight as he leans against you, and murmur quietly, "it's okay, I've got you."

He has this way of going still, like a hunting cat as it spots it's prey, that strikes him when an epiphany finally springs forth from his subconscious, and when it strikes him now, you're unprepared for it. One minute you're supporting his collapsing form and coaxing him towards the door, the next you might as well be trying to drag your car indoors for all the forward progress you're making. You look up into his face in confusion, meeting his eyes and seeing the light of comprehension and the strangest hint of, something - wonder/triumph/happiness/relief - that shines there. Then the moment is gone and he's boneless again, and you're almost through the door when he quietly answers the question even you barely knew you were asking.

"Yes. You have."

House ep thoughts: No Reason

2006-10-04T12:15:21Z

Just watched No Reason. Wow. Just, wow.

Those writers, they've been dipping into House's vicodin stash, right? Cause that, was trippy. I'm coming down with further sinus issues (it's spring, there's pollen, my sinuses hate me this season), and taking pseudoephedrine-based stuff, and the combination of pressure and drugs makes me whacked, and even under those influences, I found that trippy. But incredibly cool.

Although the scene with the robot surgeon made me cranky. Hardcore H/W-ers will understand why *g* Although I found it interesting that he was only interested in Cameron's appearance and so on. But he TALKS to Wilson. He figures things out when he's talking to Wilson. Even hallucination!Wilson. Cameron's just eye-candy, the art for the lobby. Also, talking in his sleep and saying Wilson's name? Now there's something that deserves to be taken out of context *G*

I'm going to have to watch that episode a few more times before all the new stuff about House's personality sinks into my brain. I should probably do that before I try to write much more of my latest fic.

Although, it would appear I'm at least vaguely on the same wavelength as the writers already *giggles* Canon!House said "I'm almost always eventually right". In "The Seduction of Jimmy Wilson", fic!House thought "...his logical deductions would be proved correct. Eventually. Still, always being right eventually was better than only being right sometimes." Well, it amused me anyway *G*

I'm seriously impressed that a prime-time drama would do something as bold and as brilliant as that episode. I was amazed enough by Three Stories, this is even more remarkable. Sure, the basic premise isn't too unusual, but the execution was. Turning the tables on the viewers, blurring the lines between what's real and what isn't...I'm starting to think that it's not out of the realms of possibility that this show would be brave enough to do more than just hint at H/W. I doubt they'd ever make it completely canon, but I could see them, pushing things a little.

I don't know, maybe it's just wishful thinking, but really, I doubt the people behind this show have any issues with taking risks or being different or being controversial. If they had a reason to go down that road, they wouldn't be held back by possible reactions.

It's interesting. While I'm fine with H/W not happening, I'm really, really determined that Cameron is utterly wrong for House. It's like the whole Sam/Jack=evil thing in SG-1 thing all over again *G* It might just be that her naivety makes me wince and her refusal to accept reality makes me want to hit her, but I really dislike the mere suggestion of it. Here's hoping the PTBs decide to keep things open and never commit to any one pairing *g* Keeping everyone frustrated but fascinated is much better than picking one and possibly alienating everyone else.

fauxpocky @ 2006-10-03T22:20:00

2006-10-03T12:49:55Z

Can't quite get over how much fun I've been having with this fandom.

Wish lj had a reply-to-all feature for comment replies. I keep wanting to leave one message for everyone who comments on my fics, telling them how much love I have for all of them *larfs* I never expected quite this sort of response. To be honest, I was thinking "Dreams" had gone wandering all over the place and was lacking cohesion, and it wasn't till I'd finished it and read it through again that I decided maybe it wasn't that bad, but I didn't think it could hold a candle to some of the fic I'd been reading. I was under the impression that I'd done my dash with "The Seduction of Jimmy Wilson", that I was a one-hit wonder, and that trying to write more was probably just going to be flogging a dead horse.

It seems people have disagreed with me there *g* I don't know that I've ever been so happy to be proved wrong.

With that in mind, I'm pushing on with the writing. I wasn't sure if I'd bother, but I'm having too much fun to quit now. Another bunny assaulted me the other night, and a very, very bad bunny attacked me this afternoon and is trying to interrupt my current fic. But it's going to have to wait. Starting something new when I'm already mid-fic is annoying. I'll get to it when I've finished this one. If all goes well, I'm going to have a lot of fun with both ideas. The second one gave me the giggles at work, so I think there's definite potential. Even if it is just a concept at the moment and suffering from a severe lack of plot. I'll think of something. Or else it can just be PWP, if need be *G*

Tomorrow night is House night for me. Channel ten airs episodes every Wednesday, and while I've given up on ten because they're evil and insist on playing repeats (Control? Are you kidding me??), I still watch the episodes I've downloaded on Wednesday nights. I'm limiting myself to one a week because I don't want to run out quickly *g* Although with the US having a four week break soon, I may actually almost catch up, and be able to read season three fics without fear of spoilers. I'm up to No Reason, so I'm particularly excited about tomorrow night *g*

I just wish channel ten would stop fucking everyone around. Fair enough, if the show before House has a special episode and is going to be half an hour longer, give us a repeat late at night so people don't miss the new episode, but what's with the padding out of the end of the season? As far as I can see, they're delaying so they can get to the end of the ratings season before they run out of new episodes. Or so the finale coincides with the release of the season two box set.

I'm still holding out hope that ezydvd will get that in a little earlier than they're supposed to and they'll turn up before they're supposed to. I'm also really looking forward to seeing the freebie I'm getting for pre-ordering. A House MD-branded electric thermometer *lmao* Ezydvd have the lamest merch ever, but it's hilarious all the same. So many bad jokes possible from one little piece of plastic :D

fauxpocky @ 2006-10-01T09:13:00

2006-09-30T23:13:50Z

favyan "pruned" my story "Dreams" on ppth_jelloshots.

I don't know whether to be confused, offended or flattered *larfs*

I'm going to go with pleased that my story caught someone's eye enough to be turned into poetry *G* Of a sort *g* And confused. Deeply, deeply confused *larfs*

On Writing

2006-09-29T22:28:13Z

I used to call myself a writer. I don't know when I first decided to, but it was a long time ago.

I carried a notebook everywhere, I was never without a pen. Any time I had a moment when nothing else was happening, I'd be staring into space composing poetry or prose. I even had a tiny little rainbow notebook for my poems. I think I was imagining it being found after I died and my true genius being belatedly discovered.

Partway through high school I started on what I considered to be an epic story, that was capable of becoming a novel by the time it was finished. It started as a two page story where I killed off all the characters, and having read back over it, it reads like it was written by a 15-year old (it was, mostly, it kept going for ages), but it kept me busy for a long time.

I always had it with me, or at least my basic notes. I had a big green folder I kept it in, which got more and more battered as time went on, and if I didn't have any new sections to write, I'd pull out what I'd written so far and go through and make corrections. My friends were written into it, with new characteristics or new names. My life revolved around this piece of writing that I was always working on.

I did finish it, eventually, and I still have it. I never did anything with it. But it was the story that completely convinced me that I was a writer. Why else would I work so long and so hard on something so otherwise pointless?

As time went on, I tried to continue to write. I wrote a lot of things that weren't really stories...I thought of them as diary entries, but they were always leaning a little towards the fictional, driven by my ever-present urge to write stories. Even my thoughts sound story-like. And sometimes I edit them, I re-word sentences after they've gone through my mind, repeating them until I find a version I like.

But for all of this, I wasn't writing all that much. I had a brief flirtation with a RP fandom of sorts, but it didn't last. When you've met the people you're writing smut about and had to look them in the eye, it does rather dampen the enthusiasm for writing fiction about them. And the (unintentionally) badfic side of the fandom scared me a little as well.

I still wrote the occasional piece, always short, always in-the-moment sort of stuff. Occasionally poetry. I always wrote my diary entries like I was writing a story, and I kept thinking in stories. But I wasn't really writing any. I felt like my muses has disappeared, like I was struggling to go on without a vital element, like I was trying to write but couldn't hold the pen.

It was, needless to say, frustrating. I'd started to give up. I still carried my notebook, but what I mostly wrote was lists and plans and notes to myself.

Then I wandered into the House/Wilson fandom. And my muses woke up with a jolt and started poking me.

It's been a bit over a month since I posted my first H/W fic. Now I have eight fics, 19967 words, and there was plot! I haven't finished a piece with plot in years! I don't even know if I'd STARTED a piece with plot for years before this!

These characters, this fandom, grabbed my muses as they slumbered and shook them into alertness. And now they appear intent on making me catch up for all the time they've missed because they overslept.

I feel like a writer again. It's wonderful.

Fanfic: Dreams

2006-09-29T21:54:56Z

Title: Dreams
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 6304
Spoilers: I suppose it has a vague reference to Sex Kills.
Author's Notes: This is the smut I wrote to counteract the sap I had planned for Degrees of Love. I'd planned to write some, then two of my friends came over for a Hugh Laurie and Robert Sean Leonard video/dvd fest. Half of "A Bit of Fry and Laurie", a lot of alcohol and my first glimpse of Robert Sean Leonard in "My Best Friend is a Vampire"/"I Was a Teenage Vampire" later, and this was well underway. It took on a life of it's own, has been driving me crazy ever since, turned out to be a LOT longer than it was supposed to be, and demanded to be finished before it would let me work on anything else (although I did manage to sneak out one drabble). I am incredibly relieved to have finally finished it!
And I'm sort of experimenting with POVs and switching here. Hope the results make sense.
Summary: Do dreams come true?

Part One

It was three in the morning when House woke up. He was flushed and sweating and terribly confused.

He'd dreamt. That was fair enough, although unusual, the vicodin usually made for undisturbed unconsciousness. He just hadn't expected the topic of the dream.

Okay, so he'd dreamt about Wilson before. Just that once. Maybe twice. Maybe.

But, in this dream, Wilson had been so young. He'd felt like a dirty old man - okay, so he kind of was a dirty old man, but he felt particularly dirty in this dream.

Wilson had been almost twenty years younger. He must have been in his late teens. He was so skinny, that was what had really startled him. And so pale. All ribs and shoulder blades and taut white skin.

That had been enough of a shock. It was what he was doing to Wilson that was of real concern.

He'd run his hands over the slim young body he found himself confronted with. Such soft, pale skin. He was so skinny. Ribs and shoulder blades, and knobbly knees.

The pale face had been turned up to his, red lips parted and dark, dark eyes fixed on his, staring into his soul.

He hadn't been able to resist. He'd bent and kissed those eminently kissable lips, that remarkable mouth.

So soft, so sweet, so hungry and demanding. He'd wanted more, taken more, moved to kiss his way down the bared white throat, trailing across skin that shifted with each panting breath. He found himself enthralled by the way Wilson's pulse beat under his skin.

He dropped a kiss on a shoulder, traced the lines of clavicles with his tongue. He'd licked (licked Wilson!) slowly, teasing, from the hollow of his throat, up to under his chin. Then back to that face, those smooth, pale cheeks now flushed red with desire, that hot, wet mouth open and panting with longing.

He took it all in in a moment, the flickering lashes that brushed against high sharp cheekbones, the dark brows drawn together with tension and focus, the way his forehead creased, the way he bit his lip. His hands slid up Wilson's sides, his fingers settling neatly into the gaps between ribs, his thumbs brushing over hipbones, soft flat stomach, more ribs, finding nipples that changed under his touch, stiffening as his thumbs ran back and forth.

God, he was a dirty old man. A filthy, dirty, despicable old man wanting to take advantage of a callow youth. But then, perhaps Wilson hadn't been as innocent as all that, in his dream. As his hands explored and he'd indulged himself with that sweet mouth, Wilson had arched under his touch, kissed back with equal, ardent fervour. He'd pressed his body against the invading touch, seeking more, demanding more. His mouth, oh, his mouth, those lips, not drawn in disapproval or yet dragged down by the sorrows of years, they'd welcomed his kiss. That sweet mouth had opened to his tongue's intrusion, drawn it in, sucked on it in a teasing prelude of what might be to come. And the way he moaned, wantonly, desperately, urgently…

But it had been a dream, he reminded himself harshly. All a dream. Wilson was not a pale fragile youth, but a grown man, strong and independent and, not to put too fine a point on it, straight.

He didn't think too hard about that idea. That he was awake at 3am, hard in his pants and sweating profusely, was clear indication that sexuality was somewhat fluid as a concept. He'd always assumed that he was straight, but there was no point now in trying to examine the idea. He was what he was. And what he was, was horny.

He slid a hand under the covers and into his pyjama pants, squeezing lightly, but firmly enough to feel a tingle sweep slowly through his body. He feathered his fingers over the tight white fabric of his y-fronts, before slipping them under the elastic and beginning to stroke.

Unbidden, the thoughts of Wilson, pale and slender, hot and wanting (oh god, he was a filthy, dirty, dirty old man, and fuck, did he love it) rose up in his mind. He bit down on a gasp, muffling the sound, remembering with a jolt that the focus of his dream was sleeping on his couch, so very close by (oh so dirty, because that thought was hot). He wondered if he could do this all without a sound and bit his lip.

As he arched his back and shut his eyes and began to surrender to the rhythm, he heard a creak. By the time the noise had registered, another hand was on his cock.

His eyes flew wide and he stared into those deep brown eyes he'd seen before, in his dream. Wilson wasn't a naive boy, but his mouth still drew the eye. Lines now creased his skin at the corners, the lips were thinner, slower to smile, but none of that mattered in the slightest right now. For right now, Wilson's fingers had wrapped tight around his cock, and his hand was starting to stroke slowly but assuredly, and that self same mouth was just as hot and wet and wanting as he'd dreamt it.

*****

Part Two

Despite the uneven surface of the couch he was trying to sleep on, despite his worries, his impending divorce, and the general chaos of his life, he'd slept. He had to.

But now he was awake, and staring at the ceiling, and wondering what the fuck that had been all about.

Stress, he decided, it must be stress. His life was difficult at the moment, busy, complex, more so than usual. Of course that chaos would manifest itself in his dreams. So it really hadn't been that strange...

Nope, it wasn't working. He couldn't convince himself that there was an innocent reason for the dream that had left him wide awake and more than a little flustered.

Maybe it was transference. He was projecting his desires for comfort and affection and everything, and it was only natural that his subconscious would focus on his best friend, even if he was male...nope, still not working.

No amount of psychobabble was going to give him a plausible excuse for dreaming something that only waking up had saved from being a wet dream (at his age, too!) about House.

Okay, so he'd had passing thoughts on the subject before, they just weren't usually so vivid - or so hot, he had to admit.

He wasn't surprised that he'd dreamt of House pre-infarction, he often thought of his friend as he had been before the pain and the surgery that had torn his life apart. It was how long before the infarction it must have been that surprised him.

He'd never really pictured House as a young man. Logically he knew he must have been one, once, there was just something about him that seemed so permanently fixed around his current age. One wondered if he'd spent all his life seeming old for his age, and he probably had.

So dreaming him young had been a shock (his subconscious' attempt to compensate for - oh enough already with the psych shit!). Dreaming him naked had been stranger.

He was tall, Wilson knew that as an objective fact, but until the dream he'd never translated that into what it would be like to be tangled in those long limbs. He couldn't have been older than twenty-five, and he was still long and lanky and awkward. But what he lacked in obvious grace, he'd made up for with enthusiasm.

His thigh muscles twitched a little as he remembered the way the young House had touched him, the way he'd explored his body with reverent fingers, finding everything, touching everything. How those luminous blue eyes had shone up at him, awestruck and innocent and beautiful. And how House had squirmed when he'd given in and kissed him, pinning him down with his shorter but stockier frame. Not squirming to get away, he'd discovered, but to push their bodies closer together, grinding their hips and forcing him to break the kiss to cry out at the sensation of House's length pressed against his own.

He'd pressed back, looking down into House's face and feeling his stomach turn over as he watched the expressions that crossed the mobile features. The way lust and desire had creased his forehead, the way his mouth had gaped in shock and open invitation to be kissed.

Wilson wanted to devour this slim young man beneath him, wanted to make him make that face again, so full of innocent amazement at the heat filling his body. He wanted to see that face, how it would change as the young House came.

He'd been shocked by the force of his own desire. He didn't just want to see House come, he needed to. He'd run his hands over the smooth young body, revelling in the guttural moans he could provoke with a flick of a finger or a flicker of tongue. He'd taken the young man's cock in his hand, wondering at the feel of the skin under his fingers and the liquid that was already beginning to ooze from the tip. He'd begun to stroke gently, watching that wonderful face contort, those lips part in shallow gasps, those eyes burning into him.

He'd woken up.

Alone. On House's lounge. With an erection that was not going to be gotten rid of by stern thoughts and picturing his soon-to-be-ex-wife's final expression of disdain when she kicked him out (a previously 100% effective libido destroyer).

Crap.

He couldn't help it. He still wanted to see that face. He wanted to watch House, his best, male, straight friend, as he came.

Oh god, he was so screwed. Or not, of course, and that was the problem. Even if he did try something with House, he didn't really think he was going to get sex out of it. However much his cock seemed to like the idea. And he could hardly just jerk off here, there was no way House wouldn't notice in the morning.

He didn't think he could get away with a cold shower right now, either. It was 3am!

A sound from the direction of House's bedroom made him stop and listen. He tried to put dirty thoughts out of his head, had House woken up in pain? It wouldn't hurt to just go and look in on him, surely?

There were only the slightest creaks caused by his passage as he padded down the hall to the bedroom. And the door opened near-silently.

His eyes grew wide in astonishment and every single dirty thought came flooding back at the sight that met his gaze. That face - not a dream now, not young, but very real - right before his eyes.

House was lying in his bed, his hands out of sight, but movement visible under the covers gave them away. And his face was contorted with lust and desperation as he stroked himself.

He could have resisted almost anything else, but not that expression. He needed to see House's face as he came. Wanted to make him come.

Suddenly he was beside the bed, with no memory of moving through the intervening space. There was nothing left in his brain now but desire, and he let it guide his actions as he took House's cock in his hand and took over the rhythmic stroking.

Blue eyes flew wide open and he stared into them, thrilling at the flare of lust that burnt there as he squeezed lightly. He was panting himself, though House wasn't aware enough yet of what was going on to be returning the favour, just the awareness of what he was doing made his breath catch in his throat.

And then he was being kissed, and later, he was pretty certain that this was when his brain had short-circuited.

*****

Part Three

The kiss was deep and strong and overwhelming. Wilson found his knees were going weak and he sat awkwardly on the edge of the bed. He slid his free hand up House's body, awed by the sensation of skin under his fingers. House was shuddering under his touches, thrusting into his hand.

He was going to get to see it, he was going to get to watch House come. He was going to get to make House come. That thought alone was almost enough to tip him over the edge.

And House, House was moaning, making this noise in the back of his throat that might possibly have topped Wilson's list of the sexiest things ever, if "being the person making Greg House moan and pant and sound so desperate and needy" hadn't trumped it before it ever had a chance. It was so hot - hotter than anything had a right to be - and it wasn't as though he'd really thought about it before, but doing this to Greg was almost unbearably good. Reducing the renowned and irascible Greg House to an incoherent, writhing figure, winning hungry, urgent kisses broken by moans and panting, was both deeply satisfying on an emotional level, and so hot he didn't think he could think straight anymore.

He knew he'd known House too long when he found himself amused that, under the circumstances, he'd be surprised to find he couldn't think straight.

Was he still dreaming or was this really happening? It didn't seem entirely possible that this could be real, but with Wilson's hand on his cock and his own tongue in Wilson's mouth, House decided he didn't care just now. If it was a dream, he wanted to get as much from it as he could before he woke up. If it was real, he wanted to get as much from it as he could before whatever the madness was that seemed to have struck Wilson wore off.

Besides, it was probably very bad manners to interrupt someone who was in the middle of jerking you off. He'd ask Wilson if he'd lost his mind after they were done.

If he didn't wake up first.

The dream (the first dream?) had left him hard. His own hand had gotten him started, and so Wilson's hand already had him dangerously close to the edge. He knew he was moaning as they kissed, and his hips were thrusting upwards, and Wilson's other hand was busily exploring every part of his body it could reach, drawing other noises from his throat. If he wasn't careful, this was all going to be over far too quickly, and he wasn't sure he was prepared to let Wilson take such total control of the situation. He wasn't sure he liked being the one moaning helplessly at another's touch. Okay, so he did like it, more than he wanted to admit, but damned if he was going to let Wilson have all the fun.

Wilson had moved up onto the bed to give himself greater range over House's body. Conveniently, this also made it theoretically possible for him to twist a leg between Wilson's, grip his hips, and roll over on the bed so the other man was pinned beneath him. Unlike some of his ideas, it worked just as well in practice as theory, and now Wilson was lying on his back looking up at him in surprise. He grinned down and it must have been a predatory grin, because he saw the flicker of anxiety mixed with the desire that showed in those warm brown eyes.

Wilson wasn't in his late teens now, but, leaning over him, House still felt like a dirty old man. Time, he decided, to start acting like one.

He was pinned to the bed, tangled in those long legs, just like he'd dreamt, with House staring down at him, eyes intensely focused on his, teeth bared in a wicked smile. This, thought Wilson, in a daze, as he swallowed nervously, must be what it felt like to lie down under a tiger. And as House stooped to kiss him, he unthinkingly bared his throat to the predator hovering over him.

His breath hitched sharply at the gesture of trust and submission. Wilson might be older than he'd dreamt him, but his gestures were as innocent, and his yielding as sweet. He bent to taste the smooth expanse of skin, softly trailing kisses along the jawline, nipping lightly at the point where neck met shoulder and hearing Wilson's gasp. He bit down harder, struck by an unexpected wave of possessiveness. He wanted to growl "mine" between his teeth, wanted to thrust into Wilson and pin him to the bed, lay claim to him body and soul.

He whimpered at the sensation of teeth on his skin, at the feeling of being so completely at the mercy of the man above him. He gave himself up to it, if only for the moment. He still had every intention of seeing Greg come under his touch, but this was so intense, so intimate, that he couldn't resist it. Greg always seemed to get his way with him, and that could get irritating, but in this moment, it was anything but. Because Greg wasn't just getting what he wanted, he was making it transparently clear that what he wanted was him, and he was showing just how much he wanted him.

The awareness of being so deeply desired was intoxicating, and he gave himself up willingly. He might have been vulnerable, but he wasn't powerless. He was definitely going to use this against Greg later.

He could feel the tension change in Wilson's body. There'd been a moment of nervous strain as he bit, before the edge of fear slipped away. There'd been a vague hint of relaxation before the tension reasserted itself, this time as arousal. And he knew that's what it was, he'd heard the whimpers turn to moans, felt the body beneath melt against his, before going taut again, arching up towards him.

He ran his hands possessively across Wilson's body, noting the differences between the dream-Wilson and the real one - assuming that this was real. The merest suggestion of rib bones under his fingers, a stomach no longer flat, but firm. His nipples still stiffened to the touch, though, just as they had in his dream.

And they weren't the only things.

When Greg's hand found his cock, he thought for a moment that was it, it was all over. His vision went dark for a heartbeat, and every nerve ending in his body seemed to explode. But the moment passed and he was still as hard as before, perhaps more so, if a little dizzy. He seemed hypersensitive, he thought he could feel every cane-callous on Greg's palm, on his fingers. As Greg squeezed gently he could hear his own panting turn to almost sobbing breaths. As the grip tightened he had a highly inappropriate moment of fellow-feeling for Greg's cane, and he would have laughed, if he had the air for it, knowing he was never going to be able to see him grip the wretched thing again without thinking of this. He wasn't sure if he should tell Greg that or not. He would certainly be teased mercilessly if he did, but then, it might make Greg a little less resentful of his cane.

God, what a time to be thinking about Greg's mental health issues! If he couldn't stay focused on this he probably had more issues of his own than he liked to admit. Just the fact that he was doing this didn't speak well of his sanity.

Not that he cared, right now. He wouldn't have cared about anything, as long as Greg kept doing that thing to his neck with his lips - and he knew he'd have beard rash later, but again, he didn't care - and as long as his hand kept moving like that. He knew he was whimpering softly, but all he could think about was that he still wanted, needed, had to see Greg come, had to see his face in that moment. Perhaps that meant he had to turn the tables again.

Whimpering Wilson. Writhing Wilson. Moaning, sobbing, gasping Wilson. And all his.

If this was a dream, he didn't want to wake up. Ever.

His possessive urges were being kept at bay by the tremendous sense of power he was feeling. All of this, he was doing. He was responsible for every gasp, every moan, every shuddering, sobbing breath. All mine.

His mouth was still occupied with the curve of Wilson's throat. On some level he was aware that he must be leaving marks, but he didn't care. He was glad, in fact. He was marking him, not quite as good as stamping "Property of Greg House" somewhere significant, but close. He wanted the world to see these marks, and to know what they meant.

Mine.

He wasn't expecting to suddenly lose control of the situation. Wilson was pushing against him, pushing him off, and he clutched urgently at the younger man, frightened, for an instant, that this was where dream turned to nightmare. But his grip only meant that as he was pushed over onto his back, Wilson was pulled on top of him, and he very rapidly realised that this had been the intention all along when his anxious gaze found Wilson's face.

He'd never seen Wilson look so undone. Not by trauma or sorrow or anger or loss. His usual composure was long gone, torn to shreds. He was flushed and sweating, panting heavily. And he was looking down at him like a starving man looking at a feast; like he was dying of thirst, and he was a glass of water. This was unnerving. In a good way. That look went right down deep and sent shivers to scale his spine. They didn't quite make it up to his brain, though, because it fried when Wilson gripped his cock and lunged forward hungrily to claim his mouth.

As soon as he broke the kiss, he locked his gaze on Greg's face, watching intently for ever flicker of emotion, every trace of a reaction. There was a pattern to it that he hoped to get to learn over time.

When he pressed just there, he could make Greg gasp. A slight squeeze here made him bite his lower lip, face contorting in a way that made Wilson's toes curl. And this triggered a grimace that might have been mistaken for pain, if he wasn't so familiar with the specifics of Greg's "in real pain" face. He liked this version a lot more.

He knew he was being watched closely - in the moments when he could focus, he could see brown eyes fixed on him. In the moments when sensation overwhelmed him and he could barely breathe, he could feel those same eyes, on his face, trailing across his skin. And he knew, too, what affect watching was having on Wilson.

He felt the patterns in the way he was touched, his clever mind could fit together far more complex puzzles, and even through the haze of his desire he understood what was happening. When something Wilson did made him react physically, when the way he felt was clear on his face or in his eyes, he would hear the shift of Wilson's breathing, note the way he would do the same thing again, testing his responses. It might have seemed clinical, without the sounds of Wilson's ragged breathing, and the drops of sweat that fell from his face. And when he could see clearly, when the fog receded long enough for him to meet those eyes, he saw their avid gleam, the way they almost seemed to glow when he let out a wordless cry under Wilson's touch.

He felt stripped bare and open, exposed in a way he hadn't been in a long time. He wasn't sure if it was wise, but he could no more refuse Wilson now than he could grow back his missing thigh muscle.

It couldn't be long now, he knew it. Even untouched, he was close, with his careful attentions, Greg could hardly be far from the edge himself. He began to increase the pace, seeking to push him over. He wanted to see Greg fly.

After long years of medical training and experience, and more than enough experience with his body's failings, Greg knew his own reactions well. And he knew he couldn't last much longer. Not like this, not with Wilson looking at him like that, as though he were willing him to come, as though he thought he could trigger an orgasm with the intensity of his gaze. Greg was never going to let on how much of an affect that look was actually having on him. He'd never be able to see Wilson glare at him again without getting turned on, after this. Which was certainly going to make their arguments interesting.

He knew it wouldn't be long, so he reached up to take Wilson in hand, thinking to drag him over the edge with him. But before he could make contact, Wilson had pulled back, sitting on his haunches, out of reach, but still free to touch and stroke as he chose. And he was getting faster and more demanding now, and as Greg let out a strangled moan, he saw a flash of pure lust in those eyes that burnt into his.

He pulled back when he felt Greg reach for him. He wanted to see Greg's face, and that meant no distractions. Anyway, he might have Greg on the brink, but he wasn't far behind him. Under Greg's touch, he might even have beaten him there.

As it was, he wasn't going to last much longer even without Greg touching him. He swallowed at the thought of being so aroused by someone that he would get off without them touching him. Or him touching himself. Previously he wouldn't have believed it was possible, but...he thought he'd better speed up.

Besides, Greg really was close. Making him wait much longer would be cruel.

He made a note to do that later if he got a chance. For now, he was much more interested in seeing Greg come. Much, much more interested.

Because Greg, having given up on the idea of returning the favour, at least for now, was gasping, sweating, biting his lip so hard he seemed about to bite through it. His whole body was moving, his hips thrusting, driving his cock into Wilson's hand, his head thrown back, his hands gripping the sheets under him, pulling them off the bed.

But Wilson wasn't paying much attention to all of that. His eyes were riveted on Greg's face. That wonderfully expressive face, currently contorted in the most delicious expression Wilson had seen cross it since that masseuse he hired had been working her magic. This was better than that, and this time he was causing it.

He pumped his hand faster. Come on, Greg!

He knew his mouth was opening and shutting and no sound was coming out. He knew his back was arched, his hands were gripping the bed like a lifeline.

He knew he was about to...oh god...

His eyes snapped open and found Wilson's eyes there, eager, desperate, yearning.

Oh, god!

He thought the thrill that ran through his body at the sight of Greg's orgasm was probably better than his own could possibly be. He felt it in his toes, it made his scalp prickle and every hair stand on end. In its aftermath, he sagged, just like Greg, both spent, in their way.

God, Greg's eyes as he'd come...the thought made his cock twitch, reminding him that he wasn't really finished here. But Greg was lying still, almost completely motionless except for the rapid rise and fall of his chest. The only sound in the room now was their harsh breathing.

He was still almost painfully hard, and seeing Greg's state he reached to take care of himself.

But suddenly a hand was gripping his wrist, vice-like, and those ice-blue eyes were staring into his again.

For a moment or two he was completely out of it. Better than the vicodin, better than the LSD had been, better than anything.

When he looked up after the dazed moment passed, he saw Wilson was about to take himself in hand. No way was he going to let that happen. That was his job.

And he had a feeling it was going to redefine the term "job satisfaction".

Now that was a thought. The addition of this would definitely improve his working days. Clinic hours would be a breeze.

He had Wilson's wrist in his hand. Automatically he'd grabbed it in the right way to feel his pulse fluttering against his fingers, like a trapped moth against glass.

Their eyes met, and he grinned, wide and slow. This would be fun.

Greg swung a leg over him and pushed him to the bed, grasping his cock and squeezing. He was pinned under his long, lanky body, their faces were inches apart, and Greg had already, without ceremony or delay, started a fast-paced rhythm.

He groaned. He couldn't last long like this. Didn't really want to have to wait any longer, even though he wasn't sure he wanted this to end. He didn't know what was going to happen after this was over, and he couldn't help being a little worried.

Of course, Greg's avid enthusiasm for what he was doing seemed reassuring. But he had to admit that he wouldn't put it past Greg to display such devilish glee for less than obvious reasons. It would be just like Greg to do this so he could torment Wilson later.

But, he probably wouldn't be kissing him like this if he was doing this as some sort of joke.

He loved seeing Wilson like this. He'd always loved seeing him disconcerted, seeing him let down his guard and just let go. This was better than just making him laugh. So much more intense.

It was so easy to lean forwards and kiss him, and so good. Every kiss tore away more of Wilson's remaining composure. Long kisses left him panting, quick, soft kisses, to his great delight, made Wilson follow him as he drew back, reaching for more. It was sweet beyond belief to see him arching up, begging silently for more, offering his mouth up to be taken.

He definitely had to try some of this at work. He wanted to see Wilson flushed with embarrassment and longing in his office, as he pressed him up against the wall and kissed him.

If he didn't have glass walls in his office he'd be planning on doing this as well as kissing him.

Maybe if he could find a nice, quiet exam room or store room. Cuddy would never approve, but he didn't give a damn. She never did, and he never did. And he certainly didn't now he had this on offer.

He stared down at Wilson with the same intensity that had previously been directed at him. Flushed, panting, furrowed brows and bitten-red lips, Wilson was a sight to behold. Oh yes, he planned to arrange things so he got to see this a lot more often.

As he'd expected, he didn't last long once Greg got a hold of him. He never lasted long under any of Greg's other assaults, why should this be any different? He usually didn't really mind Greg's manipulation under normal circumstances anyway, and he definitely didn't mind this.

In the end it was the look in Greg's eyes that wrung a desperate, almost choked moan from him, and sent him over. He thought he knew those eyes, thought by now that he'd seen every sort of emotion in them, but he'd never seen a look so fierce, so intense. Never seen Greg quite so intent on anything, ever, which in itself was almost frightening. He might have been scared if there was any room left in his head for fear. If that fierce, possessive stare hadn't been exactly what he'd wanted to see. If it hadn't been lit with something that might, seen from the right angle and under the right conditions, resemble affection.

In retrospect he would occasionally decide that he really, really should have been at least a little bit frightened by that.

In the moment, however, there was nothing but the rush of ecstasy and the sweet freedom of release.

They lay side by side in the dishevelled bed now, staring at the ceiling. Panting had given way to less frantic breathing, but still, that was the only sound that filled the room. Neither of them had spoken a word the entire time.

He wondered about that, as he regarded the familiar roof above him. Their silences were never truly silent, they spoke volumes, and this would be no exception. It was simply a matter of interpretation.

He could feel Wilson's tension through his skin, where their sides were pressed together, but he wasn't rigid, so, nervous, not scared. Nervous about what, was the question. How to leave gracefully? How to explain this to himself so he could still call himself straight and find another nurse to "comfort"?

He told himself off for being so negative - Wilson had walked into his bedroom, climbed onto the bed, grabbed his cock and kissed him. Whilst sober. Unless this was Sexomnia, which seemed unlikely, on the face of it, it was hardly likely that he'd now want to turn and run.

Besides, he'd seen the look in Wilson's eyes, through the haze blurring his own, when he was just about to orgasm. He had to suppress a shiver at the memory.

So Wilson wasn't lying there nervously trying to think of a way to leave. That left, what? What to say next? Certainly it wasn't easy to know what to say when you'd just had one of the most amazing sexual experiences of your life with your best, male, allegedly straight friend. He should know. "Thank you" seemed somehow insufficient.

But was that all? Wilson was rarely completely at a loss for words. At least, not for very long.

What Wilson was really good at in situations like this, he recalled, was guilt. He'd taken home flowers and chocolates and confessed to his sins, when he'd cheated on wives. So perhaps it was guilt? Not for cheating this time, because he wasn't, but for acting without waiting to find out if he wanted this too.

He sighed internally. Typical of Wilson to worry about something like that at a time like this. He elbowed the other man gently.

"If that's how you repay my hospitality, you're going to have to sleep on my couch more often."

It was stupid, he knew it was stupid, but he was anxious. The instant the post-orgasmic euphoria began to fade, anxiety crept in. It made no sense! Why should he be anxious now? It might have been sensible five minutes ago, but he hadn't been anxious then, when he was...oh god...had he really...?

Okay, yes, he had some reason to be a little anxious. He knew what he'd seen in Greg's eyes, but he also knew how convincing Greg could be when he wanted to be. Why he'd wanted to be misleadingly convincing about this was beyond him, but a lot of Greg's motives defied understanding, even when they were explained.

It startled him when he felt Greg's elbow dig into his arm, and when he spoke, shattering the silence that had built up around them, he jumped.

"If that's how you repay my hospitality, you're going to have to sleep on my couch more often."

For all his mind was a mess, his mouth was invariably on banter-autopilot when he heard Greg speak in that tone of voice.

"I still have to sleep on the couch?" His tone of injured innocence was a little shaky, but he was pleased he was able to speak at all at this point. The tension that had been buzzing under his skin began to ebb away in the wake of the surge of familiarity triggered by the casual conversation, masking, as it always did, the more complex issues they were really discussing.

"That depends," and now Greg rolled onto his side and was looking down at him.

"On?"

Greg leered, and something in his stomach turned over at the sight. Something else in the back of his brain rolled over and begged, but he wasn't going to listen to that just now.

"On what I'd get for sharing the bed, if that's what you offer for a lumpy couch."

He felt the final, barely noticed edge of anxiety fading, this time under the onslaught of desire at the thought of what Greg was offering, and the huge sense of relief. He wasn't entirely sure what he was getting himself into, but it seemed clear that, whatever this led to, the essence of what was between them wasn't going to change.

The edge of a tiny grin tugged at the corner of his mouth as he looked up at Greg.

"You should see what demonstrating a grasp of basic office etiquette can get you." It was probably a futile hint, but he thought, at this point, it was worth a shot. But the wicked grin that lit Greg's face made him wish he hadn't tried.

"On the subject of behaviour in the office, how soundproof is yours?"

"Do I want to know why?"

"Well, my office is all glass, so unless you're into exhibitionism..."

"Greg!"

No, nothing was going to change.

Fanfic: Degrees of Love

2006-09-29T21:45:51Z

Title: Degrees of Love
Pairing: Essentially House/Wilson
Word Count: 2502
Rating:PG
Spoilers: References to Control, Love Hurts, and Honeymoon through to Need to Know.
Author's Notes: Parts of this were quite difficult. I'm not used to writing some of these POVs and several of them I don't like writing, they clash too much with my own opinions of the world. But this fandom does keep testing my abilities with difficult bunnies, so I gave it a shot anyway.
The Degrees idea expanded out of the title. Everyone has their own "angle", as it were, on how they feel about House. And the four I deal with in here all love him, in their own strange ways. It's the differences in the kind of love they each feel that I was trying to explore a little.
And I don't really think Cameron is quite as scary a human being as she might come across in her section, but when it comes to House, she's lacking a vital element of rationality, and I tried to get that across because it's that dynamic I'm dealing with here for each character.

180° - Suddenly Facing the Opposite Direction
- Cuddy

When Vogler accused her of sleeping with House, Cuddy was actually so shocked that she'd answered him. Professionalism reasserted itself when he assumed that they had slept together, but she knew her refusal to discuss the issue only left him convinced that his suspicions were correct.

His constant conviction that she liked House, and that was why she wouldn't fire him, should have been her first indication that, money or no money, Vogler was a poor judge of people, probably a very bad manager when it came to dealing with people - which was pretty important in running a hospital - and, quite possibly, insane.

She didn't like House. It was impossible to like House. House himself went to great lengths to ensure that. No one liked him. They could tolerate him, ignore him, hate him or love him. Those were pretty much the only options.

The biggest priority in her life was the hospital, and for its sake she'd given up a lot, and tolerated a lot more. Knowing House's reputation and skills as a doctor, she'd been prepared to tolerate him for the sake of what he brought to her hospital.

She'd put up with his antics, his addiction, his rudeness to her and to his patients - she tried to prevent him from letting his ego and his attitude offend people too much, or, god forbid, get anyone killed, but she did let him get away with a lot. Because he really was an amazing doctor. He couldn't always immediately prove his theories, but he could always work out what was going on. And his personal motivations might be a little odd, but she didn't think she'd ever met a man more determined to save the lives of his patients - whether they wanted to be saved or not.

He really was a remarkable man. But she didn't like him. Respect him, sure, admire his dedication, fine, enjoy arguing with his razor-sharp wit at times and feel validated when he acknowledged that she'd scored a hit...okay, so maybe there was a hint of something more than tolerance. And she didn't hate him, and she couldn't ignore him, but she definitely didn't like him.

She was quietly but uncomfortably aware that this only left one option from her list of Ways People Feel About Greg House, but you couldn't cope with the conflicting ethical, social and medical dilemmas of working your way up to, and successfully running a teaching hospital without learning valuable skills in the field of nothing thinking about things that made you uncomfortable.

45° - Skewed from the Straight Line
- Cameron

She didn't care what he said, she knew how little it meant. He said it himself - "Everybody lies". That included him.

So when he mocked her, insulted her, "diagnosed" her behaviour and "explained" her, she took it all in her stride. He'd come around.

His actions spoke louder than his words, after all, and she knew she could read them well.

Hadn't he come to her to beg her to come back? That had to mean something. He'd even taken her on a date to get her to come back. If he didn't really like her, he could have just walked away then and there.

Regardless of how it had gone, that date had given her hope. She still had the corsage he'd brought her, carefully pressed flat and dried. Some days, when he was particularly cruel, or worse, ignored her, she would take it out and look at it, to remind herself not to give up on him.

He needed her, she knew it. He'd been abandoned by the last woman he loved, right when he needed her most, so of course he had trouble trusting her now.

When Stacy came back she'd watched him chase after her, gritted her teeth and waited for Stacy to show her true colours and walk out again. She'd gotten the flower out a lot in that time. Especially after that, thing, with Chase. She blamed Kalvin for that, taunting her for being dull, and practically handing her the drugs.

And then Stacy was gone again. She never really knew why, but she thought the other woman must have gotten sick of the way House was chasing her. He needed to learn that persistence was useless if you weren't really meant to be together.

Once Stacy was gone, House had been in even more pain, and she'd desperately wanted to help him, but she knew she had to wait. So she'd waited again for him to wake up and turn to her. Waited for him to admit how much he needed her.

She knew she could help him, knew he needed her. She knew he needed to open up, learn to love again, and she was determined to be there for him when he was ready for it again.

Any eccentric genius needed care, needed support. Even the most vitriolic, misanthropic doctor had some redeeming features, and for all his flaws, House was a good man, deep down. He worked so hard to save lives.

The least she could do was be there to support him.

He'd appreciate it. One day.

90° - Breaking Away
- Stacy

He hadn't changed. He was still manipulative, aggressive, attractive, intelligent, everything she couldn't stand and everything she wanted.

But he didn't want her.

So maybe he had changed.

She hadn't thought it was possible, but he actually seemed more bitter now than he'd been when he was first learning to cope in the aftermath of the infarction. That certainly seemed to explain the way he'd chased her, seduced her, used every bit of his not inconsiderable charm to win her back, then rejected her.

She'd thought it was safe to come back. James had been concerned for her effect on Greg, but assured her that he was doing as well as he would let himself these days. And when he was being charming, he'd seemed, almost back to his old self. Maybe better, because he seemed to be trying to apologise for how he'd treated her before.

But he'd just been setting her up.

James had been so concerned about her effect on him, why hadn't he noticed the bitterness, the drive for revenge? Unless he saved his bitterness for her. That would be like him.

She had to leave. Should have left long before now. The instant she realised he'd stolen her therapy file she should have seen what he was like now and walked away. But there was something...magnetic, about Greg. He drew her to him, even though sometimes he repelled her.

She'd cried, when it all became clear, when he stopped stringing her along. Then she'd been angry. With him and with herself. She should have known better. She was angry with him but she knew there was no point in showing that to him. She might as well scream abuse at a thunderstorm.

The only thing she could do now, as before, was leave. Get out of range of the force that drew her to Greg House, against all sense. Try not to think about what they'd shared, and how much more intense it was than the sedate emotions she shared with Mark. Try not to let the memories of her betrayal ruin whatever was left of what she had with Mark.

She was a pragmatist, at heart. She'd sacrificed Greg's leg for his life. She'd given up their love for her sanity. She could let go of her pain for a measure of peace. She could cut her losses and run.

She still loved him. She'd always loved him and always would, even when she hated him, couldn't stand him. She just wasn't prepared to pay the price required to be with him.

And she had too much pride to ever beg him to take her back now, after what he'd done.

360° - Always Coming Back to the Starting Point
- Wilson

At times he wasn't sure why he put up with House. Why he stood up for him, endured him, tried to protect him. Why he persisted with this stupid, screwed up friendship - even if he didn't have much else in life going for him. If there was really nothing worthwhile here, he could have moved on, found a new niche for himself. But something made him stay.

Something had made him stand up to Vogler and his reign of terror - although he would have objected to Vogler's actions under any circumstances, he'd lost his job defending House's. His only consolation then had been a vague idea of the two of them finding work elsewhere. He was sure they'd sell better as a pair. Who would want House without someone who could keep him at least half tame? And his own skills were more valuable when they came with a grumpy but brilliant diagnostician as part of the package.

He wasn't sure why anyone else put up with House either. And why on earth Cameron had been so intent on dating him was beyond him, too. He'd warned her to be careful, tried to explain that House was more emotionally vulnerable than he seemed, but he could tell she didn't quite believe him. She clearly didn't think House was so easily hurt, or that she was ever going to do anything that would hurt him. He wasn't sure which assumption scared him more, but Cameron's obsession worried him.

He'd hovered over House before and after the date like a mother hen (or a Jewish mother), watching for signs of hurt, but House hadn't let her close enough to hurt him. He hadn't let any woman close enough since Stacy.

She should have known better, when she came back. Should have sent Mark alone, or gone somewhere else. He couldn't tell her to go elsewhere, he couldn't let Mark die, after all, but he tried to warn her to be careful. She hadn't, of course, and then she'd hung around, causing more trouble. Bad enough that Greg had been annoyed with him for skipping the monster trucks to see her, but then having to watch him chase her around was irritating.

He'd been glad when she'd gone, even if it had left him picking up the pieces yet again. At least they'd had a bit of peace for a while.

The peaceful times, he decided, were part of why he stuck around. The times when they could relax and just be themselves. Not Drs House and Wilson, not two men trying to cheat death at every turn, just James and Greg. Two friends, always, through everything, just relaxing in each others' company.

It was in those times that he could best appreciate House's dry wit and wicked sense of humour, his intelligence, the comfort of his presence. His silences were expressive, and their silences together always seemed warm and welcoming, to him. It didn't seem to matter how they spent their time, so long as they were together.

And, in the end, they always were.

0° - The Central Point
- House

He thought he'd probably always watched other people, even before it had become the keystone of his career. He must have started honing his observational skills early, he reasoned, or it wouldn't come so easily to him now.

It was habit, as much as anything, to observe and study the people around him. Learning to draw conclusions from his observations had been the next logical step, and he'd begun to do it almost without realising.

It made for a fascinating hobby, and it had drawn him to medicine. What better way to exercise his skills of observation and deduction and make a career of them? He got to study the sometimes fascinating puzzles of diseases, toxins and parasites, and he got to study people and their reactions.

He didn't like people much. They lied and made mistakes and they were unconscionably stupid. He could conceive of almost no greater crime than to willfully choose to remain ignorant, and so many of the people he met insisted on staying in the dark. Claimed to be happy in their darkness.

How on earth was he supposed to like someone who would do a thing like that?

He could put up with his fellows. After all, they were there to learn - and from him, no less. But they still grated. Particularly Cameron, with her deliberate refusal to accept the evidence in front of her. It was bad enough that so many people chose ignorance, but for an intelligent person to refuse to acknowledge the truth when it was shoved in their face, just because they prefered their own, illogical views of the world was verging on insanity.

He had no choice about putting up with some people. Cuddy was his boss, she wasn't going away any time soon. He could live with that, though. She was mostly intelligent, trusted him more than most would have, and could take his snide remarks in her stride. She was just too intent on playing it safe.

They both knew, after all, that safety was usually an illusion. He was as willing to take a calculated risk as he was to take the unavoidable hundreds everyone took each day, unknowing, when they crossed the street, breathed in bacteria they couldn't see, trusted other people. At least he could measure most of his risks.

The people he did more than tolerate were few and far between. Stacy had been one of them, till his leg intervened. She was still the woman he'd loved, still just as fascinating and beautiful, but now he couldn't look at her without remembering.

Try as he might to see things differently, all she represented to him now was pain. The mental pain of betrayal, of her lack of faith in him and her denial of his wishes, and the physical pain that betrayal had bequeathed him. At one point he couldn't look in her eyes without his leg throbbing more fiercely for a moment.

There was only one person now he could admit to really liking. He knew people misconstrued, people thought he liked Cameron, thought he could still care for Stacy. They didn't seem to see the affection he did show. If they would only use a little intelligence, observe what they saw, and think about it properly, they'd get it.

They'd see, he was sure, how different he was around Wilson. How he'd accept things, comments, behaviour, from Wilson, that he'd never even tolerate from others. How Wilson was the only one he kept around for long periods, and certainly the only one he sought out.

And they'd be able to see why, although he thought they should be able to see that already.

Wilson was everything he needed, in a friend, in an ally. And most importantly, Wilson chose to be that, for him.

Why, exactly, he chose that, was probably the only puzzle he didn't think he'd ever be able to solve. But as long as Wilson never changed his mind, he thought he could live with a little mystery.

Fanfic: What's In a Name?

2006-09-27T07:49:52Z

Title: What's In a Name?
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: PG
Word Count: 100
Spoilers: None
Author's Notes: I was writing notes for myself about something I wanted to use in a later fic, and the way it phrased itself suggested this.

House knows that Wilson is always "Wilson". Would be Wilson even if the world turned upside-down or if everything fell down around his ears.
Even in his deepest and most personal thoughts, he knows that Wilson is always "Wilson".
He's occasionally mockingly addressed as "Jimmy", but he normally only gets "James" as part of "James Wilson".
But sometimes, in a moment of weakness, perhaps, or when the endorphins had influenced his thought processes, or in those rarest, strangest moments of intimacy and intensity, if he was anything other than Wilson, to House, it would only be a hoarsely whispered "James".

Fanfic: Fantasies

2006-09-10T11:24:22Z

Title: Fantasies
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2335
Spoilers: None whatsoever.
Author's Notes: I got mugged on the train home the other night by a rather insistent Wilson plotbunny. This is the result. Contains smut, fluff and phone sex. Un-beta'd cause I'm entirely too impatient for my own good *G*
Summary: Wilson has "issues" with fantasies. For various reasons.

Fantasies had always been a bit of a problem, until now.

It wasn't that James lacked the imagination necessary to concoct a suitably arousing scenario. It was just that fantasies were always, understandably, unfulfilling. His mind could create all sorts of arrangements of nubile young bodies, mouths and hands, but there was never any escaping the bare prosaic facts. No disguising that the hand on his cock was his own, nor pretending that the fingers that teased his nipples were the feminine fingers of, say, Julie, or one of the nurses.

Not to mention the distracting sense that his hands were caressing an unmistakably male body, something that always threw him off, made fantasies as insubstantial and as useless as wishes. Try as he might, there'd never been more to his masturbation than pure physical relief.

Until Greg.

Until the hands that he wanted to feel running across his body belonged to someone as male as he was, till the body he wanted to touch was as flat-chested, solidly muscular and hairy, as angular and rough as his own. Like, but unlike, familiar, yet different.

Suddenly, fantasies took on a new element. Now they were a different kind of problem. They started to take over.

As he washed his body in the shower, the sensation of his own skin under his fingers, slippery with the soap, called up memories of the morning after their first night together. Still uncertain, still unsure, he'd lingered by the door of the shower till Greg had cursed him for letting cold air in, and dragged him in and under the spray with him.

It had all been so new, so strange and exciting, pressed close in the cramped cubicle, which wasn't built for two, he'd been awkward still till Greg found the soap, and then all had been smooth, slick skin sliding under the spray, steam in the air and sweat that went unnoticed, until his tongue had tasted salt on Greg's shoulder.

The memories came back at less appropriate moments, too. Nothing wrong with taking a little longer in the shower than strictly necessary, but that wasn't the half of it. His hands lingered on his skin as he dressed, and he couldn't even run his fingers through his hair now without feeling his scalp prickle, and a shiver trail down his spine.

And then there were the spontaneous memories. Oh, those memories! They assailed him unexpectedly, inappropriately, filling his mind with illicit images and flooding his body with heat. They struck as he talked to patients, as he worked with colleagues, as he sat alone, working through the administrivia that came with the job. They urged him to stop whatever he happened to be doing, and seek out Greg, and get to work creating more memories.

And some of the fantasies that invaded his brain were vivid. Had he really only imagined Greg sitting on the floor under his desk, his hands working their way up his legs, while he'd tried to keep a straight face as he talked to Cuddy? It would have been just like Greg to mouth at the cloth-covered bulge of his erection while he listened to Cuddy's latest lecture about "not encouraging Dr House in his juvenile behaviour", but he was pretty sure it had all been in his mind.

After all, if Greg had really done that, he would have gloated about it till the end of time, and so far his gloating had been restricted to other topics. Like the time he'd successfully seduced him into secretive sex in a supply closet.

After that, he'd put his foot down about inappropriate behaviour at work. Bad enough that he was fantasising about Greg all the time, but he couldn't look at the nurses' carts without getting half-hard now, after having been bent over one in a darkened supply room, with Greg behind him whispering indecent things to him as he did indecent things to him.

There'd been an odd scratch mark on the surface of the cart, right in front of his eyes. He kept finding himself staring at every one he saw, wondering if that was the one with the scratch, if that was the one he'd come all over.

Fortunately, everyone seemed to assume it was the nurses pushing the carts he was staring at. Everyone except Greg, that is, who smirked when he caught him out, and teased him mercilessly about it later, trying to convince him to lift his ban on sex in the workplace.

He refused to concede that Greg had won, that one time in the men's room. After all, blow jobs weren't sex. And sure, he'd been the one on his knees, but Greg had been the powerless one.

The blurring of fantasy with reality had produced some benefits, of course.

They hadn't been together long when he'd been sent across the country to an oncology conference. Naturally, Greg had been left behind - he could get away with a lot of unorthodox behaviour, but he had no place at an oncology conference. He'd been left with the clinic, his fellows, and a patient exhibiting an odd collection of respiratory symptoms.

James had called home that night, from his hotel room - idly wondering at the thought that Greg's apartment was already "home" after so little time - and listened to Greg rant about moronic patients, lies, and the inability of his fellows to just accept when he was right and get on with the treatment.

He'd smiled to himself as he lay on the scratchy hotel blankets, listening to the familiar sounds of Greg winding down after a long day. An exasperated sigh in his ear, even without the usually accompanying gust of warm breath, had lifted the hairs on the back of his neck. If he'd been at home now, as Greg got to this point in his ranting, he would have stepped forward and slid his arms around Greg's waist and laid his head on his shoulder, and Greg always sighed, just like that, when he did. Exasperated, as always, that James could derail his ranting with such a little gesture. So hearing the sigh had made him long even more to be home, and able to use his usual methods of taking Greg's mind off work. If only temporarily, since work was never far from Greg's thoughts.

"Miss you."

Greg had breathed the words so quietly that he'd hardly heard them, but he'd understood. For all that their newfound relationship was still focussed heavily on the sexual side of things, they both recognised that it was symbolic of the way their emotional relationship had deepened. They'd always been close, getting physical had just been the final step, the last piece of the puzzle that was Greg-and-James. That had always been Greg-and-James. This final step had simply made them whole.

He'd sighed softly down the phone line, closing his eyes and rubbing his face with his unoccupied hand.

"I miss you too. I'll be home tomorrow night, and you can go back to ranting at me in person again."

"You know you love it," and they were past the moment of sentimentality as suddenly as they'd gotten to it.

It had puzzled him before then, but he'd been struck again by the strangeness of their flirting. Snarkiness and teasing really shouldn't be so sexy. But they always had been, and, as Greg continued to gently but relentlessly torment him, he'd listened to the breathy voice in his ear and taken a great deal of pleasure from knowing that he was allowed to find it sexy now.

He'd loosened his tie with his free hand, and slid it off, dropping it on the bed. He'd undone a few buttons and, after responding to a particularly wicked comment, thought again, and undid them all. As he lay there, teasing, being teased, trading insults with practiced ease, flirting, with Greg, he'd let his fingers trail idly across his chest.

It was a perverse pleasure, he knew, getting turned on by his best friend and lover's rudeness, his sarcastic, biting wit, so why not, he thought, indulge in another perversity at the same time. So very wrong, but he couldn't help himself. His fingers were walking down towards his belt when Greg had interrupted the smooth flow of their banter.

"Are you doing what I think you're doing?"

He'd blushed, though there was no one there to see him, and he could easily lie.

"What would you think I'd be doing?"

"You are, I know that guilty tone of voice," and Greg's voice had taken on a new tone too, it was deeper, huskier, laden with triumph at being right, sheer mischief and a familiar note of arousal, "But you can't have gotten very far yet, you haven't had time." Now he sounded thoughtful, considering.

"I can't imagine what you're talking about." It had been a pitiful attempt at denial, and Greg ignored it accordingly.

"Got your hand in your pants yet, doctor?"

The memory of the sound of Greg's voice at that moment still sent little jabs of pleasure all through his body, right down to his toes. He couldn't have not answered him, or held anything back from that point on. And he hadn't.

"N-no, not yet. I've taken off my tie and undone my shirt."

"Are you hard?"

"A little."

"Good. Don't want you getting too far ahead of me."

He'd heard noises in the background and figured Greg must have moved into the bedroom. The soft noises that followed, he assumed, were Greg taking off his shirt, and catching up.

"What about you?"

"Getting there."

"Are you..." the breath caught in his throat at the mental image of Greg stroking himself, and he couldn't finish the sentence.

"Ohhh yeah." Out on one long breath, and he felt a shiver course through his whole body.

"Wish I was there."

"To watch? Why Jimmy, I never had you pegged as a voyeur."

"To help."

He'd heard Greg gasp, and felt a moment of smugness, but only a moment.

"Oh, but you can help. Close your eyes, and no peeking."

"Cause you'll know."

"I always know. Close your eyes and touch yourself. Pretend it's me."

He'd gasped, eyes fluttering closed instantly, and fumbled one-handed with his belt.

"Pretend I'm touching you, or pretend it's you touching me?"

"Both. Do as I tell you, and tell me how it feels."

"And you'll do the same things to yourself?"

"Of course, that's how this works. You just have to do what I tell you."

His voice had been gently coaxing at this point, urging him to play along, but once he started giving commands, it changed, became aggressive, demanding.

And James had shut his eyes, and acceded to every order, every demand.

With his eyes closed, and his imagination running wild, he wasn't lying alone on a hotel bed, he was at home, with Greg. And the hands on his body weren't his own, and the body he was touching was Greg's.

His face burned as Greg made him confess everything he felt, every sensation at that assailed him, every desire that filled him. Even the blush that stained his cheeks as he whispered hoarse words across a thousand miles of phone line.

He imagined how this would be if they were together, saw it all in his mind. Greg's hands on him, his own hands mirroring every move in return, both of them gasping together when Greg's hand finally slipped into his pants, and his own hand returned the favour. He even confessed to that image, babbling more as Greg increased the pace of their actions.

He would have confessed to anything, in the final moments. Knowing he was close, Greg made him back off, an order that was hard to obey, but impossible to refuse. God knows why, he'd thought about it a lot since that night, and not just for the memories, but he still hadn't worked it out. Why, even as he'd wavered on the edge of orgasm, he'd bitten his lip, panting, and done what he was told. He'd waited, because Greg told him to.

And he'd begged. That still made him squirm, the way the words had spilled from his lips, how he'd pleaded for permission. It wasn't as though Greg could have stopped him if he'd done it. But he'd still begged.

He wasn't convinced that his begging had been the reason Greg relented. Greg enjoyed his begging too much - although that was probably part of the real reason. Power plays had always been Greg's idea of fun, it shouldn't surprise him to realise that would extend to this.

In the end, though, it must have been too much even for him, and with a strange, strangled noise, he'd practically ordered him to orgasm.

He hadn't wanted to hang up the phone, afterwards. He'd wanted to fall asleep listening to Greg breathe, but he didn't say so. It was far too sappy an idea to mention. Besides, it would have left him with an absolutely ridiculous phone bill. So once again, fantasy had come to his aid.

He'd fallen asleep imagining that Greg lay beside him, that he could hear him breathing, slow and steady. He hadn't even really needed to imagine it, he just had to remember the sound that routinely lulled him to sleep these days.

So maybe fantasies had their place. They could be useful, now and then. Just, not at work. Or the supermarket. Or while he was doing his taxes.

And besides, he infinitely preferred the real thing. Fantasies never kissed as well as Greg did, for one thing. And while every imagined Greg would whisper "I love you", it didn't mean a thing. It was when the real Greg really smiled at him, for no reason other than being happy to see him, just to have him there, that he knew this was real. That he was really loved.

Fantasies really couldn't compete with that.

Fanfic: The Seduction of Jimmy Wilson

2006-08-26T23:51:49Z

Title: The Seduction of Jimmy Wilson
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: Let's call it NC-17, better to be safe than sorry.
Word Count: 6315
Spoilers: Not really. Vague references to Love Hurts, that's about it.
Author's Notes: Don't look at me, I just write it. THEY did this. Okay, so I poked them for some smut, but this wasn't quite what I originally had in mind. A little silly, a little smutty, entirely against my better judgement. Enjoy!
Oh, and this is my first real attempt at writing from the House POV, so, yeah, it's been a bit of a stretch. Hope it worked.
Summary: House has a theory, and he's going to test it.

House had a theory.

This wasn't an unusual event. He often had theories, and after piecing together the evidence, his logical deductions would be proved correct. Eventually. Still, always being right eventually was better than only being right sometimes.

As a change of pace, today's theory wasn't medical. They weren't, always. There was a certain fascination in studying human behaviour, it just failed, usually, to hold his attention as long as diseases could. People were predictable, boring, and not worth the trouble unless he was trying to work out exactly how they'd lied to him and how it changed the way he had to look at the evidence of their symptoms.

There were...exceptions, however. And James Wilson, boy wonder oncologist and curiously flawed human being, was one of them.

Really, that went without saying. Or it should. Part of Wilson's appeal, to House, was his endlessly fascinating mixture of morality and flaws. Of course, it helped that Wilson was also astonishingly tolerant of his own set of interesting flaws. But his reasons for such tolerance had always escaped House, and things he didn't know niggled at him.

That, therefore, was why he had this particular theory.

He'd invested a great deal of time and effort in the observation of this particular subject, even going so far as to apply various stimuli in order to measure the responses. And he didn't like to admit how much time he'd put into consideration of the results of his observations.

But finally, he had the beginnings of quite a plausible and workable theory.

Clearly, Wilson was in love with him. He just didn't know it yet.

It wasn't as though the idea hadn't crossed his mind in the past, he just hadn't been prepared to entertain it as a possibility without copious observational evidence and logic to back it up. It was, however, quite a persistent theory. Quite elegant, when examined as a whole.

It all fitted, it made sense. Now he just had to get proof, and deal with the last few potential anomalies that might contradict his theory.

His preferred method for confirming a theory usually involved administering the cure and seeing if it worked, but, at times, he was prepared to accept that a little testing was advisable before commencing treatment. This was probably one of them.

Besides, the whole theory was dependant on a few lesser hypotheses, so it was probably a good idea to confirm them, first.

*****

The Seduction of Jimmy Wilson - An Experiment

Theory - That James Wilson is in love with me, Greg House, but in denial about it.
Aim - To verify the accuracy of this theory.

In order to prove this theory I need to prove three points.

1 - James Wilson Is ~~Gay~~ Insufficiently Straight
2 - James Wilson Cares About Me
3 - James Wilson is Attracted to Me

Methodology

I intend to test each hypothesis under carefully controlled conditions and observe and document the results to see if they confirm said hypothesis.
Assuming all three are proved correct, steps can be taken to provide final confirmation.

*****

Hypothesis the First
     - James Wilson Is Insufficiently Straight

There were days when Robert Chase wondered why the hell he put up with his clearly insane employer. He could cope with the abuse, the strange cases, the bizarre orders and mad tasks, the complete insensitivity to the feelings of staff and patients alike, the disparaging of any and all suggestions he and his fellow fellows made, even the routine assumption that Chase himself was, and he shuddered to think it, British. All these things had rhyme and reason, some degree of logic, and always made some sense in the long run. Even if the logic was just "House is being House".

It was when things stopped making any sense whatsoever that he started to worry.

He assumed that he couldn't quit on the grounds that his boss had asked if he agreed with Cuddy that this blue shirt made him look nice, and with Wilson that this tie went with it. Abuse he could live with, but requests for fashion advice?

Actually, trying to quit over this would create too much fuss, he decided, and he'd prefer it if it were never mentioned again. If he could wipe the incident from his memory, too, he'd be even happier.

***

House ticked off another point on his mental list. It wasn't exactly conclusive evidence, but every little bit helped. Wilson's opinion on the right tie to go with the blue shirt had been suspicious on its own, put it together with the fact that Chase agreed, and it was far more damning.

Sure, Chase wasn't exactly gay - there'd been that thing with Cameron, after all - but he was pretty sure Chase counted as "insufficiently straight" (or the Cameron thing would have continued, and he would have been spared). Or he was just Australian. The country that produced a road trip movie about three drag queens in a big pink bus probably had a lot to answer for when it came to Chase.

In any case, it was more evidence, but not enough. He had a lot of evidence, just no proof. Despite all the research he'd been doing on the internet, he hadn't been able to find any one thing to look for that would prove that Wilson wasn't straight. He matched a lot of points, but none of them were anything like incontrovertible or unique to the gay community. Apart from, possibly, the sex with men thing and so far there didn't seem to be a subtle test for that.

He had learnt a lot from his research, though, so it hadn't been a total loss.

Hypothesis the First - Unconfirmed but likely.

*****

Hypothesis the Second
     - James Wilson Cares About Me

This was an important one. House knew that he had a lot of pretty strong evidence already, but without proof that Wilson cared, his theory wasn't going to hold water.

With that in mind, he'd made his plans with precision. He needed to push enough to be able to trust the test results, but not so much that he seriously pissed Wilson off and alienated him.

It was a fine line. This was why he'd started by pissing off his fellows.

***

It was something of a revelation for Cameron when she realised she genuinely wasn't interested in House anymore (and he went back to being "House", not Greg, the minute she realised). The day had not gone well from the start, but by now she was resigned to tolerating his irascible nature, patiently awaiting the day that he finally turned to her for comfort and realised how loyal and helpful she'd always been.

She'd been trying hard to make things easier for him - his leg was giving him more trouble than usual, it seemed - she'd tried distractions, interesting cases, getting his work done for him, she'd even volunteered to do his clinic hours. But there she'd been disappointed, having to go back and tell him that Dr Wilson had beaten her to it.

She hadn't actually been sure then how Dr Wilson had known he was having a bad day, or why he'd taken the clinic hours. The two men had only seen each other for a moment or two so far that day.

***

So far, so good - House could tick off quite a few points towards his second hypothesis. A carefully timed and overdone grimace of pain - while Wilson was watching but while he didn't look like he knew Wilson was watching - and a complete lack of response to a perfect set-up for a snarky comment had been enough to send Wilson to the clinic to cover his hours through the morning. Cameron had tried to distract him, and even volunteered to do the clinic hours - which was how he knew Wilson had already done them - and once word of her attempt and his escalating bad mood reached Wilson, he appeared, reliable as ever, to try to distract him. Anything to prevent him leaning too heavily on the drugs, of course.

For once, however, Wilson's normally excellent distraction skills weren't going to work.

"Enjoying your holiday? I think Cameron is going to expect you to marry her if you keep her this busy on a regular basis."

No, he wasn't going to give in and look like he was enjoying himself, not even when Wilson handed him a line like that. Clearly, the man knew him too well. But this experiment was important. In the name of science. Or some shit like that.

***

The actual revelation didn't strike Cameron till the end of the day. She'd fielded calls, kept Cuddy at bay and found something for Chase and Foreman to do that didn't suck (it had been oddly easy to get Chase to go off and do other things, he kept muttering something about fashion advice for some reason). She'd generally run around like a mad thing to give him some time alone, once she'd realised that distraction wasn't going to work and Dr Wilson had trumped her with the clinic hours thing anyway.

In fact, the moment of awareness was entirely Dr Wilson's fault.

She'd walked into the diagnostics meeting room, thinking she'd do a little tidying - not checking on Greg, no, not at all - when she realised Dr Wilson had finished in the clinic and was in Greg's office, talking to him. She'd given way to a smug little smirk when she saw it wasn't doing him any more good than it had done her.

Almost as soon as she did, she'd felt justly punished for her moment of triumph. Greg was laughing. It was a weak, tired laugh, but a laugh all the same. He hadn't cracked even half a smile all day, no matter how much abuse he'd laid out. But Wilson was making him laugh.

She was familiar, by now, with the sensation of a wave of jealousy crashing against her, and she didn't even blink when it struck.

She did, however, blink a lot when she saw what happened next.

A look of compassion swept over Wilson's face at whatever Greg had just said, and he put a tentative hand on Greg's knee. And House, let him.

That was when she realised, not only that she really, really didn't ever have a chance, but why she didn't.

She left quietly, with only a quick but longing glance behind her in case they were fast movers (unlikely, they'd known each other so long, but then, after so long, a realisation like this could be like a dam bursting), and she might get to catch them doing something...interesting.

She also made a mental note to take a leaf out of House's book, and quit knocking before walking into rooms. Just in case they got indiscreet at the hospital.

***

He hadn't meant to cave so quickly, but when Wilson had resorted to a detailed description of just how twisted Cuddy's knickers had apparently gotten when she had two people volunteering to do his clinic hours today, he hadn't been able to resist laughing. He thought he'd covered it pretty well, kept it low-key and tired.

He wasn't tired, though, he was excited. Things were going to plan. Wilson had even reached out and put a hand on his knee, and that meant he was really worried. Even though he'd been snarky, and almost cruel, from the moment he'd walked in the door. If he hadn't cared, he would have walked away before then. Instead, he stayed to make him laugh, and to offer compassion. That meant that Wilson thought he could offer him compassion without being brushed off. That said a lot about what Wilson thought of him.

He did his best not to let on how nice that made him feel. Or how warm the hand on his knee had been.

Hypothesis the Second - Confirmed without doubt.

*****

Hypothesis the Third
     - James Wilson is Attracted to Me

Time for the big guns, he decided.

Carefully looking at the floor, out the window, anywhere but Wilson's face, he took a deep breath, and released it, sounding as resigned and miserable as he could.

"Could...could you help me get home?"

He wasn't looking at Wilson, but he felt the moment of shock. Greg House did not ask for help getting around. Not while he could still drag himself across the floor with his elbows. They both knew it, and that was what made it completely impossible for Wilson to say no. He could have had a terminal patient outside waiting to be told the results of the "is it in remission?" test, and he would have re-scheduled and helped House.

"Do you..." he heard Wilson swallow, he was clearly worried, "do you need a lift, or..." oh yes, he was going to make him say it.

"I think I probably need help getting out of the chair, to be honest," he let it out with another sigh, trying to sound like he hated every word as it left his mouth.

"And you'd never lie," good old Wilson, bantering at a moment like this.

He looked up into deeply concerned, warm brown eyes, and something in the pit of his stomach did something that resembled a backflip. But he pushed it aside and took the proffered arm to drag himself out of the chair. Once he was on his feet, he leant heavily on his friend. Rather than immediately shift so he stood beside Wilson, arm around his shoulder so he could lean on him instead of the cane, he stayed where he was for a moment, leaning on his shoulder, with his body resting against Wilson's side. He let his head hang, and his eyes were inches from that floppy wave of brown hair. He sighed again and breathed out all over the bare skin of Wilson's neck, watching goosebumps rise as he did.

He didn't smirk when he felt Wilson twitch, but he felt very smug.

Shifting around, he leant on his friend, picked up his bag with the handle of his cane, and tried to move both items into the hand on the end of the arm wrapped around Wilson. Who took them away from him before he could succeed, and slung an arm around his waist to keep him balanced.

"We look like the world's worst three legged race team." He ignored the fact that he was snarking to cover his own reaction to Wilson's hand against his side, and tried to pay attention to the reactions he was supposed to be testing. Which weren't his own.

"But everyone's gone, so we don't have anyone to race against." He had to hand it to Wilson, he could even manage a light-hearted way to reassure him that no one would have to witness his humiliation on the way to the car park.

He'd planned it that way, of course, but it was nice of Wilson to be reassuring.

They made their way to the door, slowly and with difficulty. Even though his leg didn't hurt as much as he was claiming, trying to walk leaning on Wilson was a very different process to his usual cane-assisted gait. Not that he was going to complain. One of the key benefits of this plan was that it would take quite some time to get to Wilson's car, giving him plenty of time to make his observations.

And to test Wilson as often as possible, of course. To that end, he paused just outside his own office door, breathing heavily and jerkily as though he were in pain. He turned to face Wilson, who automatically moved his other arm to better support the additional weight as House leaned forward and slumped against him.

When he felt Wilson's (ragged, he noticed) breath on the back of his neck, he wondered again if he might not have miscalculated a little. He wasn't expecting to feel his own skin rising into goosebumps. And the shiver he had to mask with a false shudder of pain was more than a bit of a shock.

Probably best to keep moving then.

They made it to the elevator without too much further trouble. After Wilson freed a hand to press the call button, he turned House and made him lean solidly on his shoulders again.

"I'm too heavy, I'll hurt you." The protest was muttered, feeble and without conviction, exactly as he intended it to be. But Wilson just braced his feet carefully and stood rock-solid. Except for those arms, back around his waist, which were light and innocent...and his hands. Which, House couldn't help notice, were ever so gently stroking the small of his back.

He wasn't sure if that could be interpreted as a purely friendly gesture or not, but he chose to take it as further evidence in favour of his hypothesis.

When the elevator arrived with a cheerful ding, his head was so low it was almost resting on his hand on Wilson's shoulder. He was flexing his fingers, ostensibly to settle his grip, but the way Wilson's breathing changed when he did it was terribly satisfying. Just like the way Wilson's jaw muscles were tensing and relaxing suddenly, right before his eyes, and the way his breath hitched in his throat when House let his nose brush against an ear.

"Dr House, Dr Wilson!"

He did NOT expect to hear Foreman's voice right at that moment.

***

When Eric remembered he'd left the files he needed to review in the diagnostics meeting room, he was halfway home, and nearly didn't bother going back for them. Now, as the elevator opened on one of the single strangest sights he'd seen in his entire life - and he'd been working with House for quite a while now, so that was saying something - he was really wishing he'd just gone straight home.

House and Wilson were standing in front of the elevator doors, holding each other tightly. Wilson's eyes were closed, and the expression on his face made Eric blush a little at having caught such a deeply personal and intimate glimpse of his feelings. House was leaning heavily on him, his face practically buried in his shoulder.

"Dr House, Dr Wilson!"

They broke apart the instant he spoke, and House wavered, unbalanced without his constant companion in his hand, but Wilson had grabbed him and steadied him before anyone really knew what had happened.

"I, ah, came back for some files. In the meeting room." He paused, awkward, and moved to pass them. "Excuse me."

"We, er, we could hold the elevator till you get back?" Wilson offered.

Foreman turned to look back, shaking his head, eyes wide, about to make some polite excuse why that wasn't necessary, but House beat him to it.

"No we can't!"

"I'll, ah, wait for the next one."

***

House's arm grabbed Wilson's sleeve, and he leant precariously towards the open elevator door, forcing Wilson to step forwards and hold him before he fell over.

"We could have waited, you know." Wilson's voice wasn't the slightest bit critical, despite his words, so House went back to leaning on him, this time allowing the wall to do some of the work too. "Or maybe we couldn't." House nearly let the smile escape this time as Wilson took in his slumped figure and the worry came back into his tone. "It's that bad?"

"The sooner we get to your car, the better." He felt a bit guilty for making Wilson worry that little bit more, but that really wasn't a lie. He had his evidence. As he mumbled against Wilson's skin and watched a blush making its way up Wilson's throat, he knew he had his evidence. As he felt a shiver scale his own spine at the gentle touch of a hand on his arm, he thought he probably had more evidence than he'd expected. Now he wanted to get home and see what he could do with his brand new, almost completely verified theory.

Not to mention some of that research from the internet.

Hypothesis the Third - Well and truly verified.

*****

Conclusions

The silence in the car might have been awkward, under normal circumstances. But then, these were hardly normal circumstances.

House was trying to look like he was on the verge of unconsciousness, and in a lot of pain, but he was having difficulty staying still. That might have worked in his favour - he could never sit still when his leg was bothering him - except that it wasn't jerky shifting he was trying to control, it was a somewhat worrisome urge to risk death and dismemberment by jumping Wilson while he was driving.

He wasn't completely certain at what point this whole procedure had gone from an experiment to trap Wilson into admitting that he was in love with him, to a genuine seduction attempt. In a way, he felt like his whole plan had backfired. He was supposed to be proving his points about how Wilson felt about him, not discovering that he felt the same way about Wilson.

Mind you, he wasn't really going to complain about it, as long as his initial supposition was proved once and for all. He liked being right. And he was really going to enjoy being right about this one.

He noted with interest that Wilson was driving very smoothly...considerate of him. It would be very rude to disrupt his careful driving by, say, placing his hand somewhere inappropriate.

They pulled up outside his place just as smoothly, but he stayed where he was. He had every intention of making Wilson manhandle him out of the car and into the apartment. As Wilson got out of the car and came around to the passenger side door, House mused pleasurably for a few moments on the multiple uses of the word "manhandle".

Then the door was open and Wilson was gently urging him to wake up so they could go inside. With a little help, he was on his feet standing beside his friend, and he happily sprawled all over him now, rather than just leaning. He decided that exhaustion was enough of an excuse for the additional weakness. But Wilson just slipped a careful arm around him and guided him into the apartment. He actually left his car wide open while he manoeuvred House onto the couch, before dashing quickly outside to lock up.

Lying across the leather of the couch, House pondered his next move. He knew what Wilson was like, he knew how he responded to needy cases. He was prepared to bet he was already going to offer to cook for him, and probably try to help him get to bed. That would seem to be the ideal moment to take the last step.

Let Wilson lead him into the bedroom, perhaps get some help getting changed, or at least stripping down to boxers, and then dragging him onto the bed for some seriously heavy petting. A few husky-voiced confessions and they'd be there all night. For some reason, the idea of waking up to see Wilson dishevelled in his bed was incredibly appealing.

Then Wilson came back inside, shutting the front door and turning, hands on hips, to look him over with an expression of concern and a little exasperation (as always), and a strangely deep affection, and House changed his mind. He wasn't going to wait that long.

"You should eat something, if you've got anything in the kitchen that's worth eating." Tick number one, Wilson was offering food. Time to press on to tick number two. Bed.

"M'not hungry."

"You should try to eat something...I could make those pancakes you liked?" Was that a wheedling tone in his voice? Of course.

"No, I...could you sit, with me, for a while?"

It took a lot of willpower to turn down those pancakes, but House had a feeling he could find a better use for the syrup later on.

Then, too, the look of surprise and wariness on Wilson's face when he did was worth something. As was the fact that he did indeed sit down on the empty part of the lounge House was lying on. There wasn't a lot of room down there with House's legs taking up plenty of cushion space, but once Wilson was sitting, he shifted one leg so his foot was underneath the arch of Wilson's knees, meaning he could trip him up with a quick twist if he tried to move any time soon. With the other foot moving onto Wilson's lap, he was effectively pinning him to the couch.

Even though his leg wasn't as sore as he was pretending, it was still an effort to get upright from his sprawled position, and he grunted in pain as he did. Instantly, Wilson had a hand on his chest, trying to restrain him, protesting the move.

"Greg, no, you shouldn't sit up, relax for a bit, okay?"

He ignored him, and sat up anyway, staring into those deep brown eyes for a few heart-stopping moments before looking down at the hand that was still against his chest. He looked back up at Wilson and a slow smile began to spread across his face.

"You're awfully concerned about my well-being, Dr Wilson."

"Greg? What..."

"Now I wonder why that could be?" He spoke lightly, with only a hint of the pained tone that he'd been using earlier. He wanted Wilson off-balance, uncertain, but he didn't want him hung up over the leg thing. He didn't want him cranky because House had basically been lying to him about it all day, either. Perhaps he'd just have to distract him from that.

"Greg..." the tone in Wilson's voice mixed warning and concern. And more than a little confusion. Perfect.

He leant forward, holding Wilson's gaze with his own, getting closer and closer. It wasn't till he was a mere few inches away from his face that Wilson seemed to realise how strange this all was. He went to move back, but there wasn't really anywhere to go.

"It wouldn't be because you like me, would it?" House flashed a quick grin before going back to the smouldering smile. He'd been practicing it in the mirror especially.

Wilson looked almost dazed. House savoured the moment. This close, he could count every eyelash, every hair in those absurdly thick eyebrows. He noted that Wilson's cheeks were flushed, his mouth was open, and he was blinking an awful lot all of a sudden. Better give him something to go all blinky about, then.

He closed the small gap that remained between them, and let his lips brush against Wilson's. He heard the gasping intake of breath immediately after the brief contact and smiled again, leaning back in for another, deeper kiss.

"Greg!" Another gasp.

"You keep saying my name, was there something else you'd like to tell me or are you just trying to get my attention?" He knew he was being evil, but this was far too much fun to stop now.

This time when he kissed Wilson, Wilson kissed back, and oh boy, now things were progressing. There was hunger in the kiss, an urge to devour, to be devoured. Wilson was leaning forward now, pressing against him, his hand still trapped between them, his fingers tightening spasmodically in the fabric of House's shirt. He let his own hand slip up to the back of Wilson's neck, stroking the skin and burying his fingers in the soft hair, which triggered a moan that tasted sweeter than even the pancakes would have.

Oh yeah, this was working. This must be all that repressed lust coming out all at once. House tried to smirk, but found it very difficult with Wilson's tongue in the way. He settled for a knowing quirk of the eyebrow and started to lie down again, using the hand on the back of his neck to pull Wilson down with him.

He liked this part. The weight of Wilson's body pressing down on his was firm, solid, but not uncomfortable. And Wilson had shifted as he'd been dragged down, ending up with his knees on the couch between House's splayed thighs. A strangled noise had happened somewhere down in his throat when Wilson wriggled and he'd felt thighs pressing against his groin. He slid his hands up Wilson's back, or tried to. The tucked-in shirt was getting in the way, so he dragged it untucked and let his hands run across bare skin, enjoying the way Wilson arched as he did, creating more pressure just where he wanted it.

And all the while, they kept kissing. He could definitely get used to this.

He considered himself to have quite a good grasp of the English language, and a reasonable working vocabulary in several other languages. And he knew for a fact that he had the most all-encompassing range of general knowledge, not to mention medical knowledge, of anyone in his acquaintance. But he lacked the words or concepts in any language or from any field to describe just how good it felt to kiss James Wilson. Who was, he had to admit, extremely good at this. There was this thing he did with his tongue that defied rational explanation and, quite possibly, a few laws of physics. Not to mention morality laws in several states.

It puzzled him that someone like himself, a doctor, someone who'd spent years studying the way the human body was put together, could find himself so deeply engrossed in the simple act of tracing the curve of a spine. For once, his mind wasn't on finding abnormalities or looking for the best spot for a lumbar puncture, he was just running his fingers along that line, enjoying the basic tactile sensation of smooth skin under his fingers. And the funny little noises Wilson was making while he did it, of course.

House's brain was not inclined to shut up, even in moments like this. Which, he decided, was a really irritating propensity. He wanted to let go, give in, and just get carried away with Wilson's soft lips, his smooth skin, learning the lines of his body and those really intriguing little noises he made.

Since his brain wasn't going to disengage, he decided to put it to good use. When they broke apart for a moment to breathe, he bent his head and let his lips make their way up Wilson's throat, heading for his ear. This put Wilson's mouth beside his own ear, and the panting, gasping breaths were doing strange things to his heart rate. Over the sounds of Wilson's breathing, he began to whisper, right into his ear.

"Still think I should eat something?"

He heard Wilson snort with laughter, and then his harsh intake of breath as House's hands, which had taken advantage of Wilson's distraction, reached their destination, pressing firmly against his arse. As House arched up to provide pressure on both sides, he was aware of a new weight against his stomach. If his mouth hadn't been occupied with Wilson's tongue again, he would have grinned at this fresh evidence in favour of his theory.

When they broke apart again, Wilson's breath was coming short and sharp, hot and damp panting into his ear. This was another sound he could learn to love, he decided.

He slid his right hand between their bodies, seeking the source of the pressure against his stomach. A gentle squeeze earnt him a moan that fought its way through gritted teeth, before Wilson's mouth latched onto the pulse point in his throat. He made a contented little noise before pressing more firmly and having the satisfaction of watching Wilson positively writhe against him.

Being proved right was always intoxicating, a heady rush, and this instance was particularly sweet. His left hand swept possessively over the planes of his friend's body, while his right remained occupied where it was. Vindicated and smug, he leant forward again to whisper softly, smirking all the while.

"I knew you couldn't resist my charms."

House hadn't really expected to hear Wilson start laughing at this point. Or to see him push himself up so he was on his hands and knees over House's supine body.

"You ass! I've been waiting for you to wake up to yourself for months! You knew I couldn't resist you? I resisted just fine while I waited for you to work this all out and quit groping me in the elevator and make your move!"

Wilson was grinning down as House stared up in shock. Had he really been blind to this for months? Was he really...then Wilson was kissing him soundly, hands busy at the waistband of his pants, and moving around, and when they broke the kiss, Wilson was on his knees beside the couch, still grinning in that disconcerting fashion, and House only had time to register the thought that his cock had been exposed surprisingly quickly and with disturbing expertise before Wilson's mouth had wrapped around him and House's brain, finally, mercifully, shut up and got on with just feeling.

Words and thoughts failed him, and his back arched convulsively. His hands clenched into fists, gripping at the couch beneath him.

Later, when rational thought returned, he might wonder about the talented technique exhibited by his much-married best friend, but in the moment there was nothing in his head but the sensations he was experiencing. Heat, damp, suction. Long smooth strokes and fluttering, flickering teases. Jolts of pleasure like electricity firing along his nerves, short-circuiting all normal and non-essential brain activity.

As his toes curled and every muscled tightened, it was all he could do to keep the essential, hindbrain functions, like breathing, operating. He clutched at the couch and held on for dear life as Wilson's gently exploring fingers found their goal between his thighs and pressed firmly against his perineum.

"Nnngh!"

House wasn't sure, afterwards, what he'd been trying to say - if anything - when he came. But the strained sound that actually emerged must have amused Wilson, who he now found grinning down at him again, looking far more smug than the newly seduced had any right to. Especially when kneeling on the floor with an erection you could use to propel a gondola. It shouldn't be humanly possible to appear smug in that position.

And as soon as he got the feeling back in his extremities, he intended to demonstrate why, exactly, he should be the one looking smug at this point in time.

To hell with finesse and subtlety, House decided, he'd spent all day being subtle and gotten mocked for his efforts. Time to go with simple and straightforward.

In a few quick moves he had Wilson's fly undone and had worked a hand into his pants. The gasp that action prompted - and the disappearance of the smug grin - did a lot to placate his ego. And he wasn't going to disregard the influence it had on his libido, either.

Ignoring the awkward angle and the constraining fabric, House took a firm hold of Wilson's cock, flexed his fingers once or twice - just to hear that gasp again - and got to work. The pace he set was slow at first, but he soon sped up as Wilson's hips bucked towards him, urgently, desperately.

He watched Wilson's face contort, enjoying the play of emotions that coursed across the youthful features. Sweat-matted brown hair flopped messily over Wilson's forehead, not quite long enough to hide his tightly closed eyes. As he watched Wilson bite his lip, clearly getting close, House barked a hoarse-voiced order.

"Look at me."

Wilson's eyes flew open to stare at him, warm brown meeting ice blue, and then Wilson was shuddering, crying out with half-formed sounds and almost-words as he came.

Extracting his hand with grace from Wilson's pants proved impossible, but House didn't care, wiping his hand casually on the tails of Wilson's shirt while Wilson was too overcome to really notice. He'd pay for that later, he was sure, but for now Wilson was slumped beside the couch, his head resting on the flat plane of House's hip bone. The sight was oddly affecting, almost sweet, and House found himself running shaking fingers through the soft hair, and wondering about the funny warm feeling in his stomach.

Wilson looked up at him with a smile, not smug this time, but genuine and just for him, and the warm feeling started spreading out through the rest of his body. He tried to cover his confusion with the familiarity of their normal banter.

"I knew I was right, I'm always right. I knew I had you worked out."

With a little snort, Wilson aimed a half-hearted slap at his arm.

"Yeah, sure,' he grumbled, not really annoyed, 'Eventually."

"Better always right eventually than only being right sometimes."

It wasn't a deeply compelling argument, but as House lay on the couch with his best friend by his side, he decided it wasn't worth pressing the point. It was enough that he'd been right, after all. He had his evidence. And maybe a whole lot more, he thought, considering their current situation. James loved him, and, maybe he loved James, too.

But that was a thought to be considered later. Right now he just had to work up the energy to stand up, and take Wilson into the bedroom. After a bit of a rest, they should be fine - even if that meant waiting till the next morning, as the tired little voice in his brain was suggesting - and he still had all those things he'd read about on the internet to try out.

puts on the rantypants

2006-08-23T11:36:57Z

Channel ten are complete morons. Again with the screwing us around!

At the rate they're going, I'll be able to go out and BUY the damn season two box set of House before they finish airing it.

On the other hand, Cameron circa Sports Medicine is almost not annoying. If she'd kept acting the way she did at the monster truck thing, she might have stood a chance with House and she wouldn't have been wince-worthy and I wouldn't have wanted to slap her upside the head.

Ah well, she showed her true colours and House ran away, as anyone with any sense would.

Trying to coax the boys to play nice for my latest fic. Stuck solidly just as things are getting interesting. Considering this is the first m/m smut I've written in years, I'm not terribly surprised. It'd better work soon or I'm going to have to tie them up and MAKE them play nice.

Of course, that could be fun too...

Fanfic: Cane Envy

2006-08-17T12:17:20Z

Title: Cane Envy
Characters/Pairing: House/Wilson
Word Count: 100
Rating: M (for innuendo again)
Spoilers: For Safe, sort of.
Author's Notes: Will make absolutely no sense if you haven't seen the stethoscope on the door scene in Safe.

He'd pulled a disgusted face as the realisation of what House meant had sunk in, but he'd known immediately that he'd overdone it. If House hadn't been so distracted by his current patient, he would definitely have called him on his overreaction.

Still, the idea of having sat out there (and stood, and leant, and wandered) for all that time, while House slowly worked himself to orgasm...gah! He tried to focus on the conversation at hand...oh dear...

Wilson was suddenly terribly, terribly jealous of House's right hand.

And, to his profound confusion, and not insignificant concern, his cane.