By: Oldach's Dream
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Glass House
It could end at any moment, it could go on for eternity. It was perfect. It was strong. It was fragile. It cracked. It was killing them. It was all they had. Eventually, they'd have to decide. House/Wilson. A Drabble.
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They didn't have much in the way of traditions. They were men. Manly men, at that. They didn't need underlying meanings or established patterns to function through their day-by-day routines; besides, meanings and patterns might not mix well with all the subtext.
Whoever had more cash on them bought lunch, despite Jimmy's constant mumblings that that always seemed to be him. Whoever drank slower, ordered less or spent more time flirting with the bartender would drive them home on nights they went to public establishments. Or, when that failed, they'd call a cab.
They ordered food from whatever place happened to be having or special or one of them had a coupon for. They watched whatever happened to be on TV, they rented movies with the most graphic looking covers, or ones they saw teenagers with Mohawks picking out - just for fun.
They'd talk about work if work needed to be talked about; House would bug Jimmy about his latest Wife-slash-girlfriend-slash-mistress, or whatever happened to be the appropriate vocabulary at the time if he was feeling particularly lonely. Jimmy would ramble on about House's over-use of Vicodin, if he was feeling particularly lonely.
If they were really bored, they'd discuss Cuddy, or the ducklings. If they were really drunk, they'd discuss Stacy and the infarction. If House needed it, they'd talk about his past, his days in college and before that, when everything had gone wrong. Or Jimmy would talk about his brother, and House would wonder why he'd hidden it for all those years anyway.
They'd get philosophical if the mood struck them, or they'd get stupid and laugh, if that happened to be the atmosphere of the given setting. They'd plan pranks that they'd never pull off, talk about long ago ski trips and Lacrosse games, and House would smile a small, sad, but all around genuine smile.
They'd cuddle, if one of them needed to be cuddled; was feeling particularly useless, frustrated, sad or helpless. On nights when House ending up owing Jimmy a string a ten dollars that stretched so far it paid for dinner, the rented movies, the inevitable late fees and maybe even the psychotherapy they'd both someday need.
They'd kiss when one of them was desperate. Licking and nibbling, aroused and content, molded together, two intertwining bodies of heat and need. And sometimes they'd fuck. Sometimes Greg would be on top, sometimes Jimmy would, sometimes it was slow and sweet. Sometimes it was slow and frustrated. It could never really be fast, not with Greg's handicap. But sometimes it felt that way.
Sometimes they'd sleep in the same bed afterwards, wake up together. Sometimes they'd fuck again in the morning before the day really started and they went back to ignoring it. Sometimes they didn't ignore it. Sometimes it was thrown in a subtle comment, a quick glance - a hidden extension of their day-to-day flirting.
Sometimes Jimmy would sleep on the couch afterwards. He could wake up feeling cold and alone, or he could wake up feeling hung over and grateful that when he rolled over and spewed everything he'd eaten last night it wasn't on the older doctor; because that he would never hear the end of.
Occasionally one of them would want to bring it up. Why did Jimmy keep marrying women, when this had been going on for so many years? Why did Greg still call the hookers? Why couldn't either of them make that final leap into a real relationship?
Why'd they joke it away or ignore it? Why were the uttered, 'I love you's' so easily forgotten? How did all that meaning just drift away like the fading tune of whatever song Greg was plucking away at the piano, or the ending credits of the bad movie neither would recall come morning.
Why did their relationship get tossed out like the empty Chinese cartons? Why could they never hang onto anything serious?
They both felt alone, except sometimes when they were together.
Greg House and Jimmy Wilson didn't have traditions, underlying meanings or established patterns. They did what they did because it felt good, or because they cared about each other. They did it because they didn't know what else to do. They did these things, sometimes because they wanted to, sometimes because they had too.
"Greg." Jimmy spoke his name strong and firmly one night, in-between the licks and nibbles that were being bestowed up and down his neck.
The older man whimpered at the interruption, and frowned at what he saw in his friend's Bambi eyes when he dared look there.
"What?" He rasped, voice thick and raspy.
Sometimes they would talk in the middle of their non-patterns and anti-traditions. Sometimes it was serious, sometimes it was a joke. Sometimes they continued.
"I want this." Jimmy's eyes wouldn't look away from his. Those eyes had never been so serious; those words had never been spoken.
"We have this." Greg reminded, and leaned in again to continue the kissing.
Jimmy stopped him. Greg was confused.
"I want this." He repeated, "Forever."
He'd never said that before, never implied it or joked about it, not even in his most drunken of states; neither of them had. Because that would be crossing a line. Making real of something that was only a vague extension of something else. A shadow really, cast off their monumental, stupid, screwed up friendship.
Greg couldn't respond.
They shopped at different stores according to ongoing sales, talked in random circles about nothing and everything; they'd base their physical relationship on what happened to feel right at the moment. It had never messed with their friendship.
What Jimmy was suggesting now would mess up their friendship.
This had never happened before.
And Greg should have expected it. Because their lack of patterns and traditions was a pattern, deemed itself a tradition whether it wanted to be or not. And to stay accurately within its set guidelines, it would have to disobey its set guidelines.
It was almost beautiful in its irony.
Greg smiled. He leaned in again and whispered softly into the dimming light of their apartment, close to Jimmy's ear, breath hot, tone true,
"Yes."
Fin.