I like the cool and heft of it, dull metal on the palm,
And the click, the hiss, the spark fuming into flame,
Boldface of fire, the rage and sway of it, raw blue at the base
And a slope of gold, a touch to the packed tobacco, the tip
Turned red as a warning light, blown brighter by the breath.
The pull and pump of it, and the paper's white
Smoothed now to ash as the smoke draws back, drawn down
To the black crush of lungs, tar and poisons in the pink,
And the blood sorting it out, veins tight and heart slow.
-Elton Glaser, Smoking.
- -
"I know it's not exactly my place to say this, but that's truly disgusting."
Gregory House was leaning sideways against the brick alley wall, a black, high-necked blazer shielding him from the biting February wind. His brow was sunk in a low, permanent furrow of bitter dislike, of resentment. Appropriate for the season, James mused. At least he's appropriate for something, for once. Smoke from the Parliament twisting between two of House's fingers was seeping into the air, clouding his jawline, his cheek. He did not answer with words; instead he just shot James a curious sideways glance, eyes glinting with a strange superiority, a kind of shimmering arrogance. His eyes. Fuck. They, without fail, were always what made Wilson fumble, over a million things. Over his own words, his own steps, over buttons or zippers or kisses in the dark-
"And not just as a doctor. As, you know. A friend."
House let out a cheap snort of derision.
"Of course the saint from the oncology department has to provide commentary on the personal lives and habits of all of his colleagues."
Wilson flushed, returning, after a millisecond of hesitation, with a sarcastic, "Because obviously your personal life has nothing at all to do with me."
House looked away at last, the cigarette now resting between his lips once more. He spoke with it still hanging there, the orange tip tilting up and down in the darkness.
"It doesn't."
Wilson nearly choked, but he bit his tongue as House continued.
"The word personal is in there for a reason."
He spoke through gritted teeth. "Meaning?"
"Meaning that if you think it's okay for you to tell the entire hospital that you've been coming home with me for the last -What is it now? Three months?- I'd think again. Oh yeah. I'm sure they'd get a kick out of that one."
"I wasn't planning on-"
"Come on."
"House-"
"Let's leave." He stubbed out the cigarette on the side of the building supporting him and it fluttered to the ground as he let go of it.
"I-"
"What? Do you want to talk or something?"
But House didn't stay for an answer; he was already walking, hunched and limping, towards the car. Another fucking mood swing. What are we, Greg, sixteen? With an agitated sigh, Wilson relented and followed him, slamming the door shut as he slid into the passenger seat. He knew his face was red, and for this was glad it was dark- Nearly two in the morning. A dark, foggy, two am, and this wasn't the first time he had stayed to this hour at work without needing to.
All and only for House.
As it seemed almost everything was these days.
It was embarrassing, needing someone so needy. The things House did to him, the shivers at the base of his spine, the rush of blood to his head- He had been caught in a devious, clenching awe, with no means of escape, like being in some kind of deluded alternate reality. He wondered sometimes if he had any hope at leading a normal life, ever again.
The first time they had fucked, Wilson was so terrified he didn't think any of it was real. They were on the floor of House's apartment, with a low-budget sci-fi flick voyeuristically playing in the background; forgotten, the volume of the television turned up high. An ominous cosmic theme played while Wilson gasped and shook, palms slick on the hard floor, House biting against his shoulder, panting. Afterwards, he had to guide himself to the bathroom, had to look in the mirror, had to convince himself he was actually there. This is really me, and everything really happened. The indentations above his collarbone should have been proof enough, along with the rough scratches on his lower back, the unnatural color in his cheeks. Somehow, despite these things, a shadowy part of his conscience still nagged at him. It refused to accept that he was pathetic (or was it proud?) enough to have sex with Gregory House.
Even after the second time, the third, the fourth, and every time after that, Wilson couldn't make himself understand any of it, not one bit. The effort he put into this one man -now sitting on his left- the hours upon hours, were absurd. The desperation, the chase. Running and running and running, and then letting himself be captured anyway. It didn't make sense. Why he willingly chose to go out of his way to be degraded, be pushed around. How far he was willing to shove for the reckless anger, the anxiousness, the manic cravings. The sex. The act was more primal than anything; nothing like he'd experienced with a woman before. Nine parts animal and one part affection. A deadly concoction.
Even now, Wilson knew how it would be, that night, that morning. They would begin, here in House's car, which smelled of stale take-out and smoke, without a word. House would drive, always careless, twenty miles over the speed limit. Meanwhile Wilson would sit, knees pressing against the glove compartment, staring out the window at the grey skies beyond. Neither would say a word, never.
Wilson suddenly wanted to ask why he drove so fast, what the hurry was for, or where, (or most importantly who) but he swallowed the question with a gulp.
They would park outside of House's apartment complex, and both would, without saying what they were doing aloud, scan the area for anyone who might see them. Anyone who might guess. James would get out first, fishing a key from the glove compartment, which he would later hang up on a sloping hook beside House's front door. He'd leave all the lights on in the apartment as he went, making his way to the bedroom, or sometimes just the couch, if he was feeling particularly desperate. Wilson would take off his clothing and set them in a neat heap on the carpet, and he would wait for the door to click open once again. House would stray in, and always give James the same surprised, haughty look, before cutting the silence with a sarcastic remark directed at the naked man sitting upon his sheets, and before removing his own clothes and joining him. And afterwards, they never talked about it or anything so absurd that would make their contact, their intimacy take on a form other than physical. The ritual was unspoken, just like everything else they shared. And they were both content with it staying that way.
Interactions afterwards were kept to a minimum. Wilson would leave as close to immediately as possible, to (God, the stupid things I do for this man) walk home. Above all else, he would never, ever spend the night. Not when it was raining. Not when it was snowing. Not when he was exhausted, or when it was late enough in the morning that the sun was coming up. Not on Fridays, or Saturdays, or even when he just wanted to. Never. It was inappropriate in a way he couldn't quite put into words. The notion of staying the night was absurd; because then the truth would be there, in broad daylight; evidence that something was happening between them. It made the whole act more tainted, more unclean- Because things certainly weren't the same at seven or eight in the morning as they were at midnight. Things were sharper, more embarrassing at seven or eight; it was where shame, where reality came into play. Wilson didn't spend the night because doing so meant indirectly admitting things to House that he hadn't even admitted to himself.
It meant admitting that he cared.
That particular night, frost had spread across the windows of the car, obscuring the outside world. Wilson shot the older doctor a sidelong glance, and saw that his lips were a tight, blue line of weary concentration. Silently, Wilson reached over to turn on the heat, but by the time his fingers had touched the knob, House had gripped his wrist tightly and dragged it away.
You're kidding me, right?
House let go, depositing the hand into Wilson's lap.
A freezing, indignant Wilson lost whatever bit of calm, of rationale he had left, and snapped, "You don't need to be the martyr all the time. It's cold, for christssakes. Turn on the heater."
House didn't flinch, didn't even take his eyes off the road.
"No."
Wilson just stared at him.
"Turn on the goddamn heater."
"No."
"What are you trying to prove? To me? To yourself? There's no one here, House."
Except me.
"My car, my rules. It's a no."
Wilson sat quietly for a moment, then, with a frenzied lurch, lunged, grabbing at the knob, and missing as House did the same a split second. He instead hit the radio dial and a station playing a static-y rumba echoed throughout the car, maracas and drums booming in his ear as House groped with one hand towards him once more, missing his target and falling off-balance, his entire body swaying to the right, and against Wilson's shoulder, his leg. The wheels of the blue Ford skidded across the pavement with a squeaking scream, as they swerved left, right, left. House pulled himself back up and steadied the vehicle quickly, without looking at an embarrassed and fuming Wilson, whose wrist he had somehow clawed in his grasp once more. He was now driving with just one hand, eyes on the road, going at least eighty miles per hour.
"Great plan. Run us into a ditch. That'll solve everything."
Wilson hit the radio off switch with his free hand.
"What? Don't you like the sultry song stylings of-"
"House. Shut up. Cut the crap."
House paused momentarily, looking smug. "Well, this is new. I didn't think you had it in you."
His fingers were burning against Wilson's wrist.
"Stop the car."
"My car, my rul-"
"What makes you think you can be such an ass all the time?"
"To be fair, you've never had a problem with it before."
Wilson opened his mouth to speak, but immediately shut it again, without a word.
"Still want me to stop the car? We're almost there."
He yanked his wrist away and rubbed the now-red marks there with his other hand.
"And it'd be such a waste."
For some reason, the derision was hitting him particularly hard, as Wilson sat there, limp and helpless. House made a sharp turn into the driveway, killed the engine, opened the door, and climbed out, all in under thirty seconds. And without stopping to wait, to scan the area. Wilson found himself motionless, bewildered by the disruption to normality.
"Are you coming?" House threw over his shoulder, before slamming the door.
Wilson watched him go for a while, not looking back, before he got out of the car as well. The wind slapped at his face, at his legs. Something was off-kilter tonight, and he knew it. Something was out of place.
This should be interesting.
- -