"Cats don't eat Froot Loops," House exclaimed as I walked through the door. We hadn't been together very long, but I already knew that when he said something like this, he had a point, and would get to it. Eventually. All I could do was listen, nod in all the right places, and wait.
"No, they don't, which is weird, 'cuz they drink milk, so you'd think that cereal might be a logical food choice, but I guess they have trouble holding spoons." He made that my god you are such an idiot face.
"The piss on my chair, reeked of that crappy, sugary—fake vitamin rubbish, and since you're the only supposed grown up I know who still eats Froot Loops, that means, the cat had nothing to do with the pee on my chair, or at least, that he didn't pee on my chair. Didn't your parents at leas try to cover basic potty training before they croaked? Like how to use the big boy toilet?" I rolled my eyes.
As cold and hurtful as he could be, I knew that this was the only way he knew how to cope with…God only knows what. There must have been something truly horrific in his past to make him turn out like this. Even Wilson didn't know what had happened, or he knew but wouldn't tell me. "Really, no retort? Not even to tell me to shut up? Oh well, I guess we have to go to the store now, and buy some rubber sheets," he taunted.
"Only if they turn you on," I replied, quickly, and felt proud of myself for being able to come up with it so fast. He made a little half smile, popped a pill, leaning back on the sofa. "Look, we gotta talk about something. You rag on everybody, treat them all equally bad, even Dr. Wilson, but you are way worse to me than anybody else." He snorted.
"So…you and Chase should start a Dr. House was mean to and then fired me club." I knew better than to ask whether or not I was actually fired. "You gonna cry? Beg me not to fire ya? Bribe? Granted you don't have any money, but you have a talented mouth, even if you're not all that attractive."
"Says the guy who's been sleeping with me for almost a year." Another smile, but also a snort. I sat next to him, placing my hand on the inside of his left thigh. "And there's more to my point than just bitching about getting treated badly. You don't hafta keep on pulling these—tricks—or whatever you wanna call them on me. I know I'm screwed up. So does everybody else. Messing with my head doesn't do anything except make me wanna not be around you. All I'm asking is that you treat me just a little bit better than you have been."
"I can't do that. I treat you better, people start to suspect that we're sleeping together, and I have to fire you before anyone can prove it. You sue me for sexual harassment, I lose my job, and end up practicing medicine out of a van in Fairbanks Alaska," he explained, almost proud of his logical leaps.
"I don't even know how to begin telling you what's wrong with those statements," I said, sliding my hand lower down his lap. Greg arched his back, leaning up towards my touch. Hs eyes practically popped out when I slid my tongue all around my lips, seductively. "Start treating me better or I'll put a padlock on my zipper, and staple my "talented mouth" shut." He picked up my hand, moving it away from his crotch. "I'm not asking for much, just don't spit blood in my face, and don't talk about my parents in front of everybody. If you wanna know about my—past, just ask me, in private, and I'll tell you." I knew he was about to claim he treated us all pretty much the same, even before he said it, but it was still shocking. "No, you don't! You're way meaner to me than you are to anybody else!"
"That's a good thing, you idiot. It's how I was with Wilson—I mean how I am with Wilson. For a while there—I treat everyone like garbage, but most of the time I don't care about them, at all. Only really give a crap about Jimmy and—actually that's about it. I don't hate you. Now, if you disappeared, wouldn't be happy, but it wouldn't break my heart either. Anyway—back to your getting treated "badly" by me. It's just not true." He folded his arms over is chest. "Besides, that wasn't blood, it didn't even look like blood," he explained, running his palm along the side of my face, and down my neck, shoulder, chest, stomach, hips, and thighs. Then he dipped down between my legs. Almost instantly, my cock leapt towards his hand. "Padlock, hu? Looks like my hairpin lock pick works better than I thought." House laughed at me, and all I could do was sit there, breath hitched, mouth dry, heart pounding in my ears, as my dick grew harder and harder. "So Can I take these off or do I need the secret password?" Greg lifted his hand, rubbed his own leg for a bout a minute, and then started to stand up. I put my hands over my lap, attempting to cover up. "I just had my hand pretty much down your pants, do you really think you can hide a hard on from me?"
"I want you to promise that you're gonna be nicer to me. Not much, hardly even at all. No one will notice. I just, I can't do this anymore, not unless you're gonna be just a tiny nicer to me."
"You do realize that there is a difference between me promising to not be "mean" to you so you'll sleep with me, and never following up, and my actually doing it, right," he asked, in that annoying, snotty, I-am-so-much-smarter-than-you tone.
"Shut up," I demanded, but—as usual—he didn't listen to a word I said. House started in about how pathetic I am, how stupid I am, how very, very, very little he cared about me. "Fine, keep talking. It's not like I'm listening," I explained, pushing him backwards a little, and unzipping/ unbuttoning his jeans, reaching inside for is semi-hard cock. Then, I removed my own pants, and carefully climbing onto his lap.
"You know, I've been thinking about all of this," House informed me, in between kisses. I nodded, knowing that if I interrupted, or tried to change the subject, he'd go on twice as long, and we'd never get anywhere. "You have a serious problem." And you don't, I thought, but couldn't say. "Way worse than mine. You're emotionally stunted at eight-years-old, hence the kiddy cereal, and peeing on people to solve problems, but that on its own isn't so bad. I'm more than twice your age, old enough to be our father, in fact—which if you—" I pinched his lips shut.
"Finish that sentence, and I walk out that door, and drive to a lawyer's office, and take away everything you own. Or you can shut up, and we can get started, and I can do that thing with my thumb…but it's completely up to you." Greg smirked, leaning forward, pressing his lips against mine. Next his tongue pushed through my lips, running along the roof of my mouth, then against my tongue, then out a little, then back in, swirling it around. His hand reached down into my boxers, and slipped a finger inside of me. "Don't—you wanna—you know—use some lube—or something—to be—a little more—oomph—okay that one actually hurt!"
"Opps." He wasn't sorry, but I let this go too. "You're the one who wants the stuff. I'm not getting up." I got up and started for the other room. "Hey, I am a little, sort of kind of, not really, sorry. At least, I wasn't trying to hurt you."
I moved quickly, grabbed a bottle of lubricant from the bedside table, and raced back to him, handing it over. "Better," he asked, squirting some on his hand, and going back to work at stretching me out. I nodded. "Good, now we can talk some more."
"Oh goodie," I said, sarcastically. House smiled, and patted me on the shoulder.
"I found your stash. Don't you know that grownups are supposed to hide pornography under their mattress, not comic books?"
"If you're gonna make fun of me, can this wait until we're finished? I don't enjoy making love while you tell me what a pathetic failure I am as a human being and an adult."
"Actually, I was surprised, is all. Superman, not really what I was expecting." Oh boy, here it comes. This i gonna be bad. I looked away. Please don't. He began to thrust his hips up and down, each moment a precisioned strike, right up into the perfect spot.
"Not now, please," I begged, pressing my face into his shoulder, closing my eyes slightly. I felt him nodding, his chin rubbing against the top of my head, as he sighed. "Sorry. I just can't do both at once."
"No, you were right." He kissed my forehead, and quietly went on touching me gently, and his movements becoming slightly more erratic. Afterwards, we curled up on the sofa, him with his pants around his ankles; mine balled up on the floor, my body carefully positioned so I didn't put any weight on his thigh. He smiled, playing with my hair. "May I speak now," he asked, pretending to be afraid of me. I nodded. "So, as I was saying, I was expecting to find some comic books somewhere, especially after that ridiculous Harry Potter reference you made—in front of Wilson no less—last week, but," he started to say, but stopped himself. I wasn't completely sure how to respond. I had a idea as to where this was probably going, but was powerless to stop it. "The children's books are obvious, but…well, I guess Superman makes sense too, on some level, just—not as much as Batman would."
"Bruce Wayne was raised by the butler, and he grew up to be angry and vengeful," I explained, stroking his hair and cheeks. "You should shave more often. Your skin felt so good all nice and soft and smooth like that." He shrugged. "Superman was adopted by parents who were almost the exact opposite of him, and yet they loved him, supported him, took care of Clark like he was their own kid. And he grew up to be happy, selfless, caring, and brave. He saves people. Batman just tries to get back at bad guys because they're bad guys. He's a vigilante, and nothing more." House's laugh was so unexpected and loud that I nearly fell off of the couch, which only made him laugh more, which made me angrier. "What's so funny?"
"Nothing, it's just that I was right." You usually are. "I'm dating an eight-year-old. I'm a pedophile." I couldn't tell how much of this he actually believed, so I was gentle, and careful with him.
"No, you aren't. I'm not physically a child. I just act like one. I look like a frat boy, eat like a ten-year-old, and work as a doctor. If you were a pedophile you'd be sleeping with a kid who actually looks like one. Besides, you're way more immature than I am, what does that make me?" House shrugged his shoulders.
"You're already thinking about what you're gonna say when I finish responding to your rediculus and stupid thoughts, might as well just ask me, okay?" He wasn't angry, at that moment, just tired, and bored.
"We both know why I'm—like this, but what happened to you? Why are you…well, you?" He didn't say anything, of course. House just sort of laid there, his mouth turning from a smile into a frown, and his eyes looking off in another direction.
"That is a very long story…for another time," he explained, pushing me away, standing, pulling his pants back up, and limping towards the fridge. "You want something to drink," he called from the kitchen. "I think we've still to a couple of those little juice box thingies."
"Is that what you're having?" This sort of comment always made him laugh, and his eyes did this weird sort of thing, it almost looked like he was proud or something. I really liked that face.
"No, well, yes…sort of. I'm having big boy juice. For grown ups only," he replied probably a lot prouder or his own comeback than anything I could come up with. When Greg didn't return, I went looking for him. In the kitchen he was laying out pages of newspaper all over the floor in one corner.
"What's that," I asked, eyeing him suspiciously.
"If I had known you were this big of an idiot, I never would of hired you. It's newspaper, in case you can' make it to the regular potty on time. You can't be having accidents all over the apartment." He stood up, slowly, and rubbed his thigh.
"I didn't have an accident. I was just making up for—I mean I was getting back at you for spitting blood in my face, and making me think you were going to die!" I wasn't actually mad at him anymore, even if he was going to be teasing me for all eternity because of this prank.
"Fake blood, not even fake blood! It was cranberry juice. Stuff doesn't smell, isn't disgusting and can be washed out of fabric in the washing machine. Not even close to what you did." House's definition of right and wrong were very clear—however screwed up they many have been—as was his opinion as to what was and was not fair, or equal.
"So what else are you gonna do to me?" I tried to make myself, especially my voice, sound stronger, more like an adult, but even I could hear it crack Greg just smiled and patted me on the shoulder.
"I'm gonna have much more fun if I keep it a secret. That way it can be a surprise, plus this way I get to watch you torture yourself and—don't make that face. You know I can't turn this off, even if I could… Wilson's probably more deserving of being treated well than you are, seeing as he's been putting ups with me since you were still in diapers. Alright, fine! Nothing, okay? I hadn't thought of doing anything other than making fun of you and the thing with the newspapers. Probably won't bother with more…if you never, ever, ever do that again." I nodded, quickly, pressing up against him, rubbing my face into his shoulder. 'Is it time to go beddy-bye," he mocked.
"Shut up or the next time I get the chance, I'll sit down, putting every once of my body onto your leg."
"No you won't," he said, with 100% confidence.
"No I won't," I admitted, "but I will do something." He smiled, and patted me on the arm. Sure you will, he said sarcastically, without even opening his mouth. I blushed a little, and yawned.
"If you're tired, you should go to sleep" he offered, in one of his nice moments. House even wrapped his arms around and pulled my body in close to his, hugging and holding me, sort of.
"Not alone," I begged, clinging onto him. Greg stared at me as if I were one of his patients, one he particularly despised. "I mean, I wanna know that you're there. So, I don't have to worry about waking up with my hand in a glass of warm water." I could tell he'd spotted my lie almost instantly, but for some reason he didn't call me on this one.
The guy nodded, smiled gently, and walked me back to the bedroom, where he said, "that would be incredibly foolish of me as you're sharing my bed, and I'm not into getting peed on." Then, he lay down at my side, and we both shifted into comfortable positions—House on his back, a pillow under his right leg, and me on my side, me curled slightly, with my face resting on his shoulder—and Greg wrapped an arm around me. Just as I was falling asleep, he leaned his lips right up against my ear and whispered, "you are way more screwed up than I am," but I was pretty sure he really meant, 'I love you.'