Author's Note: This is a threesome story featuring House, Wilson, and Cuddy. It is told from multiple points of view, cycling between those three characters and occasionally covering the same periods of time and actions. Hope that minimizes the confusion, and that you enjoy…
Seven months ago, House might have told himself that he'd never get used to this. He'd gone so long without physical intimacy, without that feeling of just being happier because of that body curled around you, without that excitement of lips and hands and teeth. But more than the newness of it all, or at least the sudden return, it was the kinkiness that he hadn't expected to last the night, let alone seven months. Sure, there wasn't anything outrageously erotic about seeing his bathroom shelves covered with Cuddy's boxes of tampons or listening to her and Wilson bitch at him about laundry and sweat rings (except when it was erotic, because it was them, and they were there with him, and that fact alone was enough, sometimes). Still, before this … situation had come along, House had had a pretty standard sex life. Prostitutes aside, the sex itself had been vanilla. Run of the mill. Punctuated with moments of oh-my-god-what-was-that-do-it-again-please, but those moments had tapered off after the infarction because simple was sometimes just too much to hope for. So when he'd fallen into bed with both Wilson and Cuddy, he might have said that there was no way he'd get used to it. That he wouldn't even need to get used to it. That they couldn't possibly want to do it again.
But then they did. A lot. Sometimes twice a night. And he'd always had a problem distinguishing between habitual behavior and need.
He would fall asleep between them, face buried in Cuddy's shoulder, Wilson's arm draped around his hips, so warm and so missed in its absence, or even the threat of its absence, that he had no trouble believing that he was happy. It wasn't until he stopped waking up between them that he realized how fucked he truly was.
He thinks he shocked them, that first night. No, he knows he shocked them. He's just not sure why. Did they expect him to take turns with Wilson, watching it all with a critical eye and a ready retort until it was time for him to step up and pound Cuddy into the mattress? Did they think he'd be directing the whole thing, as commanding in one setting as he was in others? Defying rules of decorum and laws of physics, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound? Did they think those rumors about him and Wilson meant something more and that Cuddy being there at all was just an excuse? A beard? House doesn't know. All he remembers about that night, apart from every single flash of flesh, every sound, the smell of them and the slick of sweat, was being terrified, and the way they dealt with him, like he was a skittish colt. Pulled onto the bed, pushed into position, and he just let himself be there, between them. He let them manipulate him in all the ways they'd always wished they could.
In the morning, he heard Cuddy whisper, "I don't know why we're surprised. He always has to be the center of everything." He felt so fucking good. Don't get used to this.
When it kept happening, House expected the mechanics to change. He teased Wilson about going gay for him. He didn't say anything to Cuddy. But they never wanted him anywhere but between them. He wished he felt powerful, like he was the one holding together this one good thing. But he didn't. And he didn't feel powerful when he'd woken up one night, a month ago, to see them rutting quietly on the bedroom floor, stopping mid-gasp and looking at him with a guilt too heavy for him. He could have told himself that it was just the three of them, together in a room, but the looks on their faces told him. He wasn't supposed to be a part of this. This – it was just Lisa and James. They could hold that up on their own. And they wanted to. Because they could never be those people when they were with him. At least, House thought that explained why they seemed to hoard their first names, locking them in whispered conversations that stopped when he entered the room. It had been that way since the beginning. He didn't mind not being Greg. But he hated that Wilson was still James, and Cuddy was still Lisa, for each other. That was the first night House ever thought his bedroom was simply too crowded.
Now, it's been seven months. House is sitting in his office, trying to understand how suddenly a threesome could have a third wheel. It didn't make sense. Back in the beginning, when it had become clear that it wasn't just a thing to do when drunk and bored and lonely, Cuddy had come to them in near tears.
"I can't do this!" she shrieked, even when the look on her face so clearly said, I need to keep doing this. "You two go on like you always have, laughing and having lunch and being…you, and I'm just your boss until I go home with you and I'm not…I'm…I'm still the girl beating at the door, trying to get into a boys' club."
It was a reasonable concern. House imagined it always was, in these situations. Someone always felt expendable. He imagined at the time that they would fight over him. Because the way he saw it, he'd wanted Cuddy for the longest. And he'd loved Wilson for the longest. And those were the pairs that made sense. Cuddy and Wilson, on their own? What would they talk about? What did they have in common, except him?
"House, show her how much we need breasts," Wilson had joked. That night, it was enough.
Now, it wasn't a joke. And it wasn't ending the way he thought it would. Despite his certainty that this wouldn't last, and that he didn't deserve it to, he couldn't help hoping that, when things broke open, he'd still have one of them to go home to. Because he was their center.
But now, every morning he woke up, he'd be alone on his side of the bed, and they'd be curled around each other, keeping all that warmth to themselves.
Wilson had told him once, "You think too much, except when you're in love. Then you're like some stupid kid trying to hold on to a toy he's too young to play with."
But that was never House's problem. He couldn't stop thinking. He'd imagine the likely repercussions of every action, every word. And then, he'd do and say whatever the hell he felt like anyway. It kept him from being surprised, most of the time. But he couldn't always predict how people would react to him. And he couldn't always predict what it was he would want, in the end.
There were only a few ways he saw this thing going. He could ignore the fact that Wilson and Cuddy didn't want him in their (his) bed any more, get maybe a month more of great sex and then a lifetime supply of free lunches and blackmail threats to get out of clinic duty, all thanks to his friend Guilt. Or he could confront them, give them his blessing, and still reap the benefits of guilt, with a side order of Wilson and Cuddy thinking he needed to be put on suicide watch because clearly the world was coming to an end. Or he could try to drive them apart or try to make himself enough for them or try anything anything anything to keep them from letting him go. Or he could be as big a bastard as he knew how, pushing them away, pushing them towards each other, letting them feel lucky they escaped, some regret that things didn't work out between the three of them, maybe a bit sad that House was alone again, but no reason for guilt and no cause to worry.
None of these choices would get him what he wants. And only one would make Wilson and Cuddy happy.
Like he'd ever give them that.
"So. I've been sleeping with Wilson and Cuddy for the past seven months."
"Which one of them are you cheating on?" Stacy asked, without a blink (he guessed; hard to read facial expressions over the phone) and without a pause. He pretended that part of him didn't still…burn, just hearing her voice.
"We all cheat on each other at the same time. Three-ways are just so efficient."
"Either you're calling to brag or you're calling for help, and since I didn't hear from you seven months ago when this all started, I'm assuming it's the latter. Why don't you just get one of your people to buy Lisa some flowers and Wilson a tie and leave me alone?"
"I'm between people at the moment."
"Apparently."
"Nice. Listen, Wilson and Cuddy are forming an alliance and I think I'm going to be voted out in the next tribal council. I've decided I should bribe one of them with an immunity idol. Or start chucking spears and drag the survivor back to my hut. Either / or."
"Did you seriously expect me to give you relationship advice?"
"There's only one other person I'd ever bother asking and I can't talk to him at the moment."
"Well. If you're trying to decide which of them you want to fight for, I think you have your answer."
He's pretty sure that whole conversation was a mistake, but it was better than calling Cameron at BFE University or wherever the hell she is and asking her why he's always left behind. Maybe that would have got him a home-made sympathy card, some chocolate chip cookies and pity sex, but there's only so much glitter one man can stand.
As he sits in his office, watching the clock and knowing that Wilson will stop by for lunch any minute because he's still pretending that everything isn't going to hell, House does some quick mental calculations. He needs Wilson. He wants Cuddy. Neither of them would choose House over the other (yet). House would settle for being just friends with both of them, but he can't do that if they are seeing each other. Without him.
Wilson shows up before he finds a solution.
Later that day, House slips on the slick tile in the bathroom. He catches himself before he falls. He wonders if some life-threatening injury would make him seem needy enough to pull Wilson to his side for good. After he realizes that he'd been thinking of the advantages of broken bones, bike accidents, infarctions and ODs, he decides that maybe the best thing he can do is just get the fuck out of town for a while. He leaves a note saying, "You kids have fun" on his desk. He leaves his cell phone and pager next to it. He leaves New Jersey and hopes that, for every mile he rides, one day of the past seven months will disappear forever. And maybe if he keeps riding, 47 years will melt away and he can just start over. Or not. Either / or.