TITLE: Just the pain meds talking: Five times House said 'I Love You' to Wilson (and one time he didn't)
AUTHOR: hwshipper
WORDS: 2200
DISCLAIMER: All characters belong to Heel and Toe Films, Shore Z Productions and Bad Hat Harry Productions in association with Universal Media Studios.
SUMMARY: House/Wilson established relationship. 4.03 97 Seconds, with flashbacks.
BETA: the splendid and supportive triedunture
Just the pain meds talking Five times House said 'I Love You' to Wilson (and one time he didn't)
"Just looking at you hurts," Wilson said, hardly able to bear it, grabbing House's chart, grateful to be able to concentrate on something else, something that would make a difference. "I'm gonna order up some extra pain meds."
"I love you," House murmured from the hospital bed.
Wilson glanced fleetingly at House, but couldn't meet his eye. Typical House. Nobody could beat House at saying something like that accompanied by such defensive mechanisms. So he could always say later, Just the pain meds talking. And perhaps, Wilson told himself wretchedly, it was.
House pushed the door open and strode inside; Wilson followed a pace behind, slammed the door shut and slammed into House. House wrapped his arms around Wilson and attacked his mouth. They'd only known each other a few months and they were still at the stage where everything, everything, about the other was hot. The room was cold, and Wilson shifted sideways to kick the heater on. A gust of warm air floated up, and House pushed Wilson's jacket off his shoulders. Wilson wriggled out of the arms and dropped it on the floor. House shrugged off his own jacket, then pulled his T-shirt off over his head; Wilson did likewise. They were still learning about each other, what they liked, what made the other wince and groan and beg for more. Wilson leaned forward, tilted his head to one side and kissed House on the neck, on the throat; he'd discovered that one just a few days before. House growled, then pulled away and came back to kiss Wilson on the mouth, taking Wilson's lower lip in his mouth and sucking hard.
Wilson broke from House's clinch to lurch across the room and pull down the blind to shut out the street. It was just a student room, Wilson's room, badly furnished, small. House followed him, and once the blind was down, threw his arms around Wilson from behind and pulled him close. Wilson felt House's cock surging inside his pants, pushing against his ass. Wilson reached to undo his belt and heard the sound of a sliding zipper as House undid his own fly. Wilson reached behind him and placed a hand on House's hip, pulling House closer. House made an appreciative sound and rocked his pelvis more vigorously. Then he reached around and took Wilson's own hard cock in his hand—and Wilson's breath caught in his throat as he came right there, pumping into House's grip.
"Am I good or what?" House gasped, and reached up and put his hand to Wilson's lips.
Wilson, speechless, still shaking, tasted his own come on House's hand, and stood still for a few seconds, recovering.
Then he turned round and gasped back, "Too damn quick."
"You've got no self control—" House began, then stopped, his voice rising to a squeak as Wilson dropped to his knees and took House's cock in his mouth. Wilson ran his tongue up and down the shaft, teasing slightly with his teeth, then started to suck, moving up and down, rolling back and forth, his hands caressing, probing House's ass. House grabbed Wilson's head in his hands, scrunching his hair up in his fists, groaning, "Fuck. Fuck. Yes," thrusting into Wilson's mouth, and then as Wilson stuck a finger straight up his ass, House came with a shout of "God, Wilson, I love you!"
Wilson, engaged in swallowing as much as he could, couldn't reply. Didn't want to reply. House staggered backwards and dropped onto the couch; Wilson, still buzzing himself, flopped next to him, and concentrated on learning to breathe again. House, his own breath initially ragged and gradually slowing, slipped into what might have been real exhausted sleep, or the pretence of one, his eyes shut, his eyelids flickering slightly.
Wilson stared at House, and thought; that's so House. To say something like that, in a situation where he could pass it off with a snort, and a shrug; just the orgasm talking. And Wilson knew he couldn't have said it himself even if he'd tried, not to House - not without it feeling banal, awkward. Because Wilson said it every week, on the phone to his fiancée in Canada; love you too, honey—and he'd never realized before how flippantly he said it, how easily it slid off his tongue, how little it meant.
And he was afraid that he didn't know any other way to say it.
Ice skating was Wilson's idea. House demurred at first, saying he hadn't skated in years. "Neither have I," Wilson urged.
"It's the Rockefeller Center. It's for tourists," House protested.
"You are a tourist. A visitor, anyway." House was down from Boston for a few days, skiving off half of his conference to meet Wilson, who was cutting lectures himself to see House.
In the end, of course, it was House who stepped onto the rink and after a few tentative steps, was off whizzing around the rink as if he'd been born to it. Wilson reflected wryly that he'd never yet seen House try any physical activity that he hadn't excelled in. Wilson was actually quite a good skater himself, but rusty, and it didn't come back to him quite as quickly. The rink was also very busy and Wilson had to concentrate to navigate round other people. House, of course, simply expected everyone to move out of the way for him. Wilson was on his second time around the rink when his right foot slipped, and he would have fallen if a hand hadn't grasped his elbow and wrenched him upright. House held him like that for a few seconds, his fingers firm on Wilson's arm, and then he was off again, shooting across the ice.
The next time Wilson's feet slid out from under him, House wasn't close at hand, and Wilson landed on his ass. He sat there for a few seconds, slightly winded, feeling the ice cold underneath his backside, and House came skating up briskly, looking at him sharply, and apparently reassured that Wilson could get up perfectly well by himself, circled Wilson once and skated away again on one foot.
Before long Wilson was skating confidently himself, whooshing along, taking it faster. He was just thinking how well he was doing when someone crashed right into him from behind and they both went flying. It was House, of course, going too fast, showing off, flying around the ice at top speed, and misjudging ever so slightly. Other skaters scattered and fell too, as House and Wilson collapsed spectacularly in a heap together. Wilson felt House's head come to rest against his stomach, House's arm underneath his own arm, House's knee nudging his groin. House looked up at him and grinned, and Wilson grinned back, and then the two of them started laughing, and as House was still laughing when he said, "Your hair's all mussed up," and as Wilson put a hand to his hair, House got to his feet and added in a mischievous tone, "I love you like that," before skating away.
Wilson got to his feet slowly, mind suddenly whirling, suddenly conscious of the wedding ring on his finger. From the other side of the rink, House looked back over his shoulder and smirked, and Wilson knew there was no point catching up and saying anything even if he wanted to, which he didn't; House would just make out it was just the adrenalin talking, and it was easier to tell himself that was true.
Wilson burst in to House's apartment without bothering to knock. House, who was lounging on the couch flicking through a magazine, looked up first in surprise, then with a guilty look.
Wilson stood in front of the couch, and jabbing the air with a pointed finger, said, "House, you—fucking bastard."
"It was just a joke—" House protested.
"It's not funny!" Wilson shouted.
House grimaced, then turned doe-eyes up towards Wilson.
"I love you," he said hopefully.
"No you don't, or you wouldn't pull shit like this," Wilson said furiously. "You applied for a passport with my name and your picture, you could have got us both into really serious trouble! You never know when to stop!"
House didn't reply, just looked at him. Unable to stand the sight of those doleful blue eyes, Wilson broke eye contact and said abruptly, "I'm going home."
"But I thought we were—" House began
"You can deal with your own hard-on tonight." Wilson walked out and slammed the door. He strode down the street, fuming at what House had said. Damn House, saying that, childlike, beseeching, contrite. Trying to distract Wilson from his anger. It was just the guilt talking, the bastard could never actually bring himself to apologize, had to evade.
Damnit, and now he had to go home, and he'd forgotten to walk Hector. Bonnie wouldn't be pleased. What a day.
Perhaps he'd go sit in a bar for a while instead.
They were both very drunk.
It was just as well, Wilson reflected through the haze fogging his brain, that Stacy was out of town. Although if she hadn't been, they probably wouldn't have got so utterly shitfaced in the first place.
He and House had played some Playstation, eaten plenty of junk food, watched some crap TV, and Wilson thought it was even money whether they ended up fucking or fell asleep on the couch first.
"I love you," House slurred.
"You love Stacy," Wilson heard himself replying, intent on getting the situation correct, the alcohol making him pedantic.
"I love you too," House insisted. "You're my best friend." It was a drunken cliché, but didn't sound like it. Well, it did sound drunken.
House moved his hand upwards from where it had been resting on Wilson's knee, and Wilson inhaled sharply, then started to breathe a little faster. Hell, they didn't do this often these days. Didn't have much opportunity since Stacy had moved in with House. And House was usually too full of inhibitions, the monogamous son of a bitch.
Wilson shifted his own hand to rest on House's crotch, while also concentrating on trying to sober up slightly. House moved clumsily, hauling himself up onto the couch and straddling Wilson. House leaned forward and they kissed; Wilson tasted smoke and whisky. House's breath was an alcoholic cloud. Wilson reached to undo first House's jeans, then his own. House pulled out Wilson's cock, and Wilson pulled out Houses's cock, and they rubbed up against each other, and, goddamnit, a minute or two of that was all it took to bring them both to climax—the sensation of cock against cock, stroking, rubbing, rolling the skin—it had been too long since they'd last done this.
House slumped forward to rest against Wilson's chest, panting. Wilson leaned back against the couch, and shut his eyes, and felt his head swim, and his stomach lurch, and hoped he wasn't going to throw up. This one was surely just the alcohol talking. He probably wouldn't even remember it.
Wilson sat by House's hospital bed, half an eye on the monitors, half an ear listening out for the regular beeping that reassured him that House was alive, and stable. It was the early hours of the morning; Cuddy and House's fellows had all gone home. The corridors were quiet apart from the sound of night nurses moving around in the distance, and Weird Night Janitor mopping the floor.
Wilson gazed down at House, so still, so helpless-looking, with that huge bandage on his neck a constant reminder of what had happened. How the hell had House managed to get himself shot, in broad daylight, in his own office…? Part of Wilson wanted to know, and the rest of him didn't care at all, as the important thing was that House wasn't dead, just unconscious.
"You're not gonna die," he said to the motionless figure on the bed, hardly even realizing he was speaking aloud. He reached out and ran his fingers through House's hair, noticing that House was starting to go thin on top. "You're going to wake up and I'm going to tease you about losing your hair." Wilson tweaked his fingers, bunching strands of hair together, then ran the back of his fingers down House's face, avoiding the tubes. "You're not going to leave me, not this time anyway. I love you, House."
And he did, he always had, it was just somehow he found he could only say it when House couldn't hear him. And how screwed up was that, surely even worse than House, who could only say it when it could be laughed off as just the alcohol, the guilt, the adrenalin, the orgasm talking,
And yet perhaps it didn't matter, as Wilson understood House, and Wilson thought House could maybe hear him after all.
END