Author Mention: After inhaling season 1 and 3 (It's a long and boring story of why I just now started season 2), I couldn't help myself. My first House MD fic, with an AU plot line, and a little, unfortunately, OOC. I don't have a beta, so apologies in advance for any obvious mistakes I made.
Rating: T - M
Pairing: Greg House and James Wilson
Disclaimer: I own two copies of Harry Potter and the Order of Phoenix, a VCR player, and some slippers. No House, MD, though. Sadly.
In The Night We'd Wish This Never End
They had fallen in love when James was nineteen, Greg thirty-one. It was easy, the falling part. It had been raining outside of the historic brick buildings of McGill University, brilliant red leaves filling the trees and littering the ground. James had a newspaper over his head, squinting to see what was in front of him. It was like his eyes were adjusting to the sunlight, when he saw Greg House for the first time. He was more than good looking, and dangerous rolled off of him in thick waves. More than dangerous, but fucked up.
James, even then, could never resist the urge to fix things that were broken.
Greg was yet to be burdened with leg pain, and abandonment, and bitterness, when they spent their first time together. It was the middle of the day. His apartment was minimal and hardly messy, except for the clothes on the floor. James had stuttered they made love for the first time, Greg hard and sweaty and encompassing on top of him. The sheets had been a dark gray, and there had only been one blanket, and they had lied together as if they were one underneath it. James had class that afternoon, and Greg was working at ten that morning. They watched the sun glow beneath the clouds and House told him of people he couldn't stand, his stupid dreams when he was kid, his past flings and encounters with the law.
James knew even then, even as a college student, how complex the man he was lying next to was. Greg's eyes shone with contempt and adoration and though he knew, even now, that he could never get Greg to admit it, but this was the exact time they had fallen in love. It was mutual, and conscious. They breathed it in before they fell asleep.
It was raining when Wilson broke House's heart the first time. Perhaps they had been seeing each other six months when Wilson's dad found out, and tried to end it. House had opened the door to find Wilson, soaked, skinny, and younger than he had ever seen him before.
"Ever heard of a coat? Or an umbrella? You're soaked." House muttered gravely, stepping aside for Wilson to walk in. But as soon as Wilson made movement to get inside, he spun around to meet House's eyes again The moisture was not just rainwater on his face.
"What happened?" It was a simple question but it was heavy with implications. The room was heavy, too heavy to be held up. They stood still, mirroring each other.
Wilson was breathing heavily. "My Dad, he thinks I'm not what I am. He thinks he could beat it out of me – who I am. He found out about. You. He told me not to see you again."
"You're okay, though. Should I check for any bruising, internal damage –" House went on, his eyes sweeping over Wilson's body, his lower lip taken between his teeth. Wilson knew this was a sign of avoidance.
"House. Greg. I can't – I can't see you again."
"Are you hurt? What did he do to you? When did this happen?" House began again, moving slightly closer.
Wilson put his hand up. "He won't let me finish college if I don't. He thinks I'm – they're convinced I'm – they hate me. They hate me. I'm sorry. I'm so – I'm so sorry."
Wilson had gripped the back of House's collar, his hands clenched in soft fists and as he covered his body on House's. They made love on House's bed, like they did countlessly other times, Wilson's skin cold to touch and House's lips ghosting, as if they were already gone. House's fingers glistened over the bruises left by whatever weapon was of choice, dark and menacing and heartbreaking. When Wilson came silent tears slipped out of his eyes, knowing this was the last time he would ever be here, experience this, feel this way. House held him quietly and glared out the window and stroked the hair, and when he fell asleep, Wilson gathered himself, his things, and left. It was a cowardly thing to do, leaving like this, but he didn't know if he could otherwise.
Years passed, and James got married, first, then second time. Each wife was a blur of floral fragrance, first dates, long hair. It was all wrong. He was too old now, for his father to beat him to submission, though his glares held enough poison. He was out of med school, and twenty-nine, when he found Greg again. They were at a benefit dinner, and Greg looked haughty and disgruntled next to a sour looking woman, who, without the expression, was very attractive. James barely noticed.
What he did notice though, was that even looking at House now he could remember the way he smelt; before sex, after sex; in the morning, during the evening. The taste of his breath, the roll of his eyes, the snide remarks at people passing by. It came back in a miniscule strike, hard enough to send James reeling. All he could do was stare at House, his profile, and the hands he was holding with the woman next to him.
Even though it had been ten years and James had left House, he couldn't help it. It had taken him almost six years to get over six months. To completely forget before he opened his eyes, every day that small shed of hope that House would wake up beside him. To eradicate what was so right inside of him. To lie and blame and cheat his way to not remember what it was like to be in love. House never reached out after the break up. James didn't blame him.
They made eye contact after the first hour, and James watched as House drew his bottom lip between his teeth, the hand on the woman's lap falling into his own. James watched as House looked back, and forth, smiling slightly, his eyes grave. They were falling in love again, when they had sex in the Men's restroom during the second speech, House topping, as he always did, James murmuring and issuing small noises in the back of his throat. They hardly spoke, and James's insides almost cringed with longing as he ran his hands through House's hair, cupping his cheeks, pulling in for one last kiss.
They were falling in love again. James could feel it when it rained hard that night, hours later.
They met every Thursday at House's apartment, because James's wife had a scrapbook meeting and Stacy, House's girlfriend, had three-day conferences until Saturday. It was mid-evening when James would knock, three times even, and House would stand behind the door, breathing, before answering it a second later. They would stand there, staring at each other.
The sex they had now was just as passionate as before, most likely heightened by the little they saw of each other. House was slowly approaching ten-year, and Wilson was looking for higher jobs that suited his level of education. Princeton Plainsboro, the teaching hospital House worked at, was brought up.
When Wilson arrived at House's apartment at eleven at night after a call from House, it wasn't a Thursday, but a Friday. It was dark in the living room, but even in the blackness, Wilson was confused by how clean it was. Barren, almost. In a moment he thought back to Greg's minimalist days, gray sheets and one blanket, mattress on the floor, no drapes. A few dishes, few books stacked in the corner. This too reeked of loneliness.
"Greg?" He pushed the bedroom door open to find House lying in the middle of the bed, on his side, his left leg curled up into his abdomen. He was wearing plaid pajama pants, which Wilson realized, were his. It was six months after House's infarction, the dead calf muscle causing him more pain than James had ever seen him in. It hadn't been a Thursday night of sex and random television for a few months, due to anger and bitterness and Stacy, Stacy, Stacy. Wilson knew House loved her. Wilson also knew House loved him.
"Stacy left," House muttered, his voice grim and behind that, broken. It was mid-October and the rain was coming down in buckets outside. Wilson slipped out of his jeans and let them fall to the floor. He left his old McGill sweater on, before lifting the blankets around House from beneath him, pulling them both under. There was more than one now, as James encircled his arms around House. Greg turned around in the embrace, his eyes murderous.
"I hate this," he says, and his lips spew venom. "I hate everything. I hater her. I hate you. I hate you." It's so quiet, how he says this.
Wilson nods, and he thinks he can hear House's heart breaking; again, though this time it wasn't his fault. Perhaps through all the anger, and snarky comments, and growing resentment since the infarction, and even way back when danger that seemed to emit from House, there was only vulnerability. And sadness.
James places his hands on House's cheeks and nods again, though they say nothing. He says nothing again when House falls asleep, soundly, small tears slipping underneath his lids and into James's palm, poised to catch them.
It's House's anger that drives Wilson to wife number three. He's fingertips away from being head of Oncology, after the Doctor before him retires for good. He meets Julie at the grocery store on a Thursday, in the produce section. He falls into bed with her an hour later.
They get married a few months after that, she's thirty, he's thirty-two. She's a republican, daughter of a Korean War Veteran, granddaughter of a War World II veteran, blonde and conservative, with a bright smile. Wilson's father loves her. More than likely thinks she's too good for him. They move in to a nice apartment, which she decorates. It's a comfortable life.
Until he starts to miss the musky, strangely comforting smell of Greg's T-shirts, and the bristly patches of beard starting to grow in. He misses House's Italian food, and the way he left the door open when he had to pee. Julie's eyes are dark brown; they're nothing like Greg's. She's nothing at all like Greg.
James kind of hates her. Wilson arrives at House's doorstep, armed with beer and pizza to have one of their movie nights. Ever since Wilson got married to Julie, who has affirmed her blunt hatred of everything Greg House (much to Wilson's father's pleasure) their relationship had ended. The love had simmered to a dull heat. Friendship was all they had right now after Wilson broke House's heart the second time. They were clinging to it desperately.
But it's easy to fall into patterns, especially one almost fifteen years in the making. They slip into bed together, and Wilson stutters like he did the first time they had sex together, House smothering him with want and affectionate and resentment, and need. The rain created a rhythm around them alongside their breathing; it had been a Friday, and Wilson stayed the whole weekend. They were falling in love. It was mutual. Conscious but silent. The marriage lasted three years.
When Wilson's father dies, and he's made head of Oncology; Wilson moves in with House. He didn't cry at his father's funeral, whose ongoing abuse had left more than a mark on him. Wilson didn't need to say anything. House knew. Wilson put his favorite books on the shelves, which he would sometimes, catch House reading. There were more sheets in the cabinets, a new vacuum in the hall closet. Wilson was sure House didn't even own one. In the mornings, if House could get up early enough, they would make love. They would drive to work together. Wilson would hum along to the music, and House would look at the red-golden leaves on the trees and the streets around them.
Dr. Lisa Cuddy, the dean of medicine, was constantly on House's tail for doing unethical or illegal practices on patients. House's team of ducklings trailed behind him, blindly search for their own answers to life, love, and above all, medicine. House would come to have lunch with Wilson, who would then buy both lunches, and once in a while they'd brush their fingers together, making silent promises. Waiting for a weekend to be alone in bed together, gazing outside at the rain around them.
James was thirty-six, House forty-eight. They were falling in love, like they had been for the past twenty years. It was easy, the falling part.
A review maybe?