Title: Idée Fixe
Author: htebazytook
Rating: PG-13 (I'm lame)
Disclaimer: —
Pairing: House/Wilson (House/Cuddy as a result of canon (sorry) and even a smidgeon of Wilson/Cuddy)
Time Frame: Directly after 5.07, 'The Itch', in a manner that has obviously been done A LOT already (well at least once that I can remember), but was just too irresistible to pass up.
Author's Notes: "Fixed idea", pretty transparently, but more specifically a recurring theme that undergoes transformations but stays around persistently and has general connotations of inexplicable romantic obsession. Ish. Go read about and/or listen to Symphonie Fantastique if you aren't satisfied with merely translating the title since it's a pretty kick-ass piece that everyone should know and love! :D Also there's a random hint plagiarizing from Dorian Gray in here. Wow, that was a pretty lengthy description for such a short, ambiguous fanfic :P
Wilson is watching CSI: Miami—no, idly observing schizophrenic colors and zippy camera effects on the television screen—when the Big Bad Wolf tries to kick the door in. That's what the cane thwacking impatiently against it sounds like, anyway.
Worry sets in as he gropes for the mute button, stands, fixes his scrunched up T-shirt. He's not in the mood to tuck House back into bed after another nightmare filled with phantom mosquitoes.
The last time House had been such a frequent visitor to Wilson's current place of residence Amber had been there to glare at House for being there and Wilson had felt glowy and wanted while they fought.
In the here and now, he really hopes House hasn't gone and done something stupid like listen to him.
"Hurry up, Wilson, Fate is knocking at the door!"
"If you were really Fate you'd have . . . a fanfare. A dramatic chord. Something. What do you want, House?"
"Just open the damn door."
"Look, I don't have my prescription pad here, so I don't know what you—"
"Wilson."
Wilson sighs and opens it, isn't prepared for the determination writ over House's features.
"Uh . . . ?"
House's face gets too close too quickly for Wilson to react and he's stumbling backwards—result of House's hand firm on his arm. Wilson can't focus properly and he opens his mouth to speak but House leans right in and kisses him instead.
Response is even slower now. Wilson's just letting his lips stay parted passively under House's, too disoriented to keep his eyes open. He starts to think about how House doesn't taste like anything in particular, hears him groan softly and press into him. Wilson figures he might as well kiss back since House doesn't seem keen on letting up any time soon—
That's when he pulls back.
"I . . . what?"
House takes a deep breath. He's still awkwardly near and seems to realize this after a minute, shifting away just as awkwardly.
For some reason being able to focus on him for the first time since the door opened makes Wilson's heart jump.
"I kissed Cuddy."
"And now you're . . . going around kissing everybody else you know (i.e., just me) to level the playing field? To . . . negate it? Somehow?" Ah, Wilson's sure he's hit on it now. Finally . . .
"No. You're an idiot," House sighs and Wilson thinks he might be about to drop it. "I don't want her now."
"Oh, come on, Cuddy's not a bad kisser—I, I mean . . . she doesn't look like she would be. You know, hypothetically. Look, kissing isn't exactly rocket science so I don't know why she'd be . . ." Wilson needs to shut up because he might or might not have kissed Cuddy experimentally on one of their not-dates and he really, really hopes House never connects the dots.
Anyway she tried to jump him, so.
Luckily House is lost in deduction. He continues: "I thought I wanted her. It makes sense. It does. So I kissed her because that's what you do when you want someone—but there wasn't any . . . it turns out I only I wanted it because it makes sense, but I really don't. And I don't understand why, considering her two biggest attributes. But I don't." House is looking at him like looks are a cutting-edge means communication and the only thing Wilson can do at a time like this is analyze him blindly.
"Right. So you kissed me because . . . ?"
"Well, kissing you makes sense too—you're the one who pointed it out, remember?"
Wilson supposed he had, but that was just a little pocket of logic locked away in the ether of their philosophizing. Wasn't it?
. . . House's expression is so unguarded it has to be premeditated.
"And you came back," he says to his hands, fiddling with the cane.
Wilson hates it when House gets like this. There's something tragic in a friendship so colored by romance. And House has already fucked up their friendship enough times to make the notion of anything more complicated a deeply stupid one.
And for Wilson's part, it's not like it could last. So then where would they be? Pathetic and emotionally distant and weighing the pros and cons of capitalizing on Cuddy's similar position and—that's exactly what they were already doing. Damn.
It wasn't supposed to be like that was it? Less of words like 'compromise' and 'compatibility' and what's expected. It was supposed to feel good without strings attached, simple, impossible to let go. And that's why Wilson can't kiss House back.
Or at least why he won't initiate it.
Someone really should break this awkward silence. Any minute now House is either going to invite himself in to mock Horatio Caine or just leave.
He's still looking at him, and that relentless openness is very nearly making Wilson blurt something embarrassing and inexplicable—it can be easy to confuse the softness in House's eyes with a personality that matches, and even after Wilson's glanced down self-consciously the idea of dating House continues to makes sense.
"Say something." A bit of anxiousness underneath the neutral grumble.
"Are you going back to Cuddy's or what?" And while Wilson is talking House is moving and Wilson's heartbeat clogs his ears all of a sudden.
House fixes him with a fairly deadly Housean Stare but Wilson has had years to learn how to keep from squirming, no matter how much he may get lost in blue and ache to kiss him.
"You're not going to say anything are you."
"Probably not. House—"
House's eyes go from flashing to dead in ten seconds flat and his voice comes out fake and painful: "Well, I'm glad we had this little chat!" And then he does leave.
It's not surprising. And Wilson knows it's probably a missed opportunity, and he certainly knows that he's pathetic. But he also knows that he can live with it.
. . .
It's not until House is actually on his bike that Wilson catches up with him—he even has to yank the helmet off before he can bring House's mouth onto his decisively and the night air is invigorating and House's hand slicing through his hair to keep him from leaving again makes Wilson fall in love with him differently. House doesn't want to let the kiss stop even after it has and drags him back in for another small eternity and God, Wilson wants him to come back inside.
Wilson finally escapes, stands back a bit because otherwise he'd be unbalanced and half on top of House's bike. "Is that how you kissed her?"
"I didn't love her," House says, terribly matter-of-fact, honestly offhanded.
Wilson laughs in a very unfunny way. "This . . . will not work."
House thinks about it, shrugs. "No."
"Sorry."
House puts his helmet back on, starts up the bike. He's looking ahead at the empty road as he says, "It's gonna be like thirty-nine tomorrow—you're picking me up right?"
"Yeah."
And he's off.
And somehow, Wilson can't help feeling good anyway.
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