AN: So, I finished this then saw the new episode of House and found out how House and Wilson really met, and thought, "Guess that makes my story an AU." Plus, I messed with the ages. On the show, I'm sure their closer to ten or fifteen years apart, but I made them little less than three years apart here ... for reasons you will soon find out.
WARNING: This is rated M for SEXUAL SITUATIONS between two guys, so if you're offended, please don't read, yea?
Disclaimer: I do not own the television series House, MD. I do not own the characters of the television show House, MD.
Enjoy!
I'm Still Driving Away
The first time James Wilson steps foot into the 'House'hold, he is nine and Greg is eleven. Greg's mother is kind with the same sad, blue eyes as her son. Her yellow sundress and powdered apron smoosh against his small frame as she hugs him upon introduction, the fabric crinkling audibly from layers upon suffocating layers of starch. White streaks of flour appear on his finely-pressed shirt, and she tut-tuts as she gently brushes them away. Greg, in his fading and tattered Van Halen t-shirt, snickers.
"Jimmy's parents are never going to let him come over here again if we make him dirty, Mom," the older boy chides with humor. James smiles and laughs anxiously, thanking Mrs. House for her help and trying not to let his friend see the distressed look on his face.
Later, when they are up in Greg's room, Greg says, "They wouldn't, though, would they?" It's more of a statement then a question, but James is still confused by it.
"Who wouldn't what?" He asks, his eyebrows furrowing as he turns from the window and looks towards the other boy as he riffles through the closet.
"Your parents," Greg explains as if James should already know the answer. "They wouldn't let you come over here if you went home dirty."
James turns back to the window and shrugs, even though Greg isn't looking at him. "They might," he says hopefully.
"No they wouldn't," Greg states matter-of-factly, pulling a game from the bottom of the closet and smiling widely. "Here it is! I told you I have Battleships." James doesn't point out the fact that he never doubted Greg to begin with. Years later, Greg will need to hear it, though . . . many, many times.
The second time, James is still nine, but Greg is turning twelve. Greg doesn't have any friends at school, so it's just his mother and James gathered around his birthday cake, Greg rolling his eyes as his mother snaps pictures and almost cries, saying that she wishes his father was there. When she tells James that her husband is in the Navy and that he is gone for many months at a time being "very important," James only smiles and nods, having heard all the lurid stories Greg has told him about his father using the Navy as an excuse to fuck women across the globe.
"He wouldn't really, though, would he, Greg?" He asks later, when the boys are upstairs putting together Greg's newest model airplane.
"Don't be naïve, Jimmy," Greg says absently. "Of course he is. He's probably fucked all the women in Europe by now. Maybe even most of the men."
The third time, James is eleven and is introduced to Playboy magazine. Greg has a dozen, maybe more, stashed underneath his bed, and James is fascinated.
"How do they get so . . . big?" He wonders aloud, and Greg chuckles from the bed.
"They're called 'implants,' Jimmy," he says, turning the page of his magazine. "And that thing bulging in your pants? That's called an 'erection.'"
James looks down and is almost horrified. His mother had explained sex to him before, but only the basics. She hadn't really gone into . . . detail.
"Wh-What do I do?" He asks frantically, trying to hide his tented pants behind the magazine.
Greg doesn't even look up. "You whack off."
"I . . . I what?"
"Yank the snake. Choke the chicken." Greg rattles off a few more obscene metaphors, looking up when he is finished to gauge the younger boy's reaction. At James's utterly confused expression, he sighs and shakes his head. "Jesus Christ, Jimmy. You masturbate!"
"I . . . I've never . . ." James turns an embarrassing shade of red.
Greg's nose scrunches slightly. "Really?" He asks, more out of curiosity than insult.
James looks down at the magazine as his eyes fill with unwanted tears, and Greg rolls up off the bed, crouching beside the younger boy with a passive expression.
"Jeez, Jimmy. It's nothin' to cry about," he says softly. "Look, I'll show ya."
James's eyes widen, and his head snaps up. "You'll what?"
"Stand up." Greg demands, doing so himself and starting to unzip his jeans.
The younger boy glances towards the door. "Greg, I don't think we should-"
"Mom's at the grocery store. She'll be gone for at least another hour. Now, stand up."
Carefully, James closes the magazine, setting it aside, and stands to his feet, shifting as an uncomfortable feeling settles in his stomach. "I don't think I want to-"
Greg has a hold of James's pants before he can finish, pulling his slacks and underwear down around his knees. The only thing covering him now is his button-down shirt. "Like this," Greg instructs, slipping his jeans down over his lean thighs and pulling out his hardened member. James stares in fascination, not meaning to but curious about another person's body. He hasn't even seen anybody naked before – besides himself – and he won't even get to those kinds of diagrams in school for another year.
Greg sneers. "It's only bigger 'cause I'm older," he explains, as if that's what James has been thinking about. It isn't, but it's nice to know. "Now, you just gotta grip it-" He does so, wrapping his lanky fingers around the base. "-and start moving." He slides his hand forward, letting loose an involuntary gasp as his thumb brushes the tip. James feels the warmth in his belly churn, his heart beginning to hammer against the inside of his ribcage.
Greg strokes himself a few more times before nodding towards James. "Give a try." His words are breathless, and James barely notices that he has been holding his own breath until it whooshes out in a stuttered huff. He looks down at himself, seeing the tip of his penis sticking out from behind his shirt, then he looks up again with an uncertain expression. Greg stops his ministrations and frowns at the younger boy. "What's wrong?"
"I . . ." James really doesn't know what to say. He's shaking too much to think properly. "I . . . I can't."
Greg smirks. "Well, if you needed help, you should have just said so." He steps forward, and James backs up against the wall, finding nowhere else to go.
"Greg, wait," he tries to whisper, but it comes out as a strangled gurgle. Greg stands close to him, almost pressing himself against the younger boy. James stops breathing as warm fingers reach into the part of his shirt, grabbing hold of him, but he pulls in a sharp breath at the contact, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. They stay like that for a moment, James attempting to get his breathing under control and Greg watching him intently.
"You all right?" The older boy asks calmly, smiling as James nods vigorously without opening his eyes. "Okay." He starts to move his hand, and James give a small moan. Shudders run through his body with every stroke, every pump that tightens his stomach further and further. He opens his eyes slightly, finding Greg's blue orbs locked on him and the older boy's other hand tending to his own hardened length.
"G-Greg," he breathes, panting and letting loose little sounds of pleasure. It doesn't last long, which Greg later tells him is okay. It's not supposed to the first time. But when James does come, it's with a flash of white light and one thought running through his head; he is utterly and unconditionally in love with Greg House.
The fourth time, James is nearly sixteen, having not seen Greg for a few years while he was in Japan, where his father was stationed. Greg teaches James Japanese curse words, and they laugh as they shout them at passing people from the porch, watching the strange looks on their faces. Greg's father is there, and the house is silent, almost as if a blanket is covering everything – a two-ton lead, invisible blanket. Even Greg, who is normally quite boisterous, is quiet and resigned. Greg's mother whispers that the boys should go upstairs until dinner is ready. The teens climb out Greg's window and sit on the roof until it gets dark. After dinner, they go back out the window, laying side by side with their arms tucked under their heads.
"I missed you," James says softly, blushing at the sheer "girlishness" of the statement. But Greg only smiles widely, turning his head towards him.
"I missed you, too, Jimmy," he returns, poking the other in the side to lighten the mood some.
A comfortable silence takes hold of them while they stare at the night sky before James finds his voice again. "Hey, Greg?"
"Yea?"
"You . . . You remember that time you showed me those magazines under your bed?"
Greg smirks. "Sure. They were the only things that got me laid in Japan." He shifts onto his side, his head propped up in his hand so that he looks down at James. "American porn is pretty popular over there. Not a whole lot of big tits, if you know what I mean."
James doesn't, but he nods anyway.
Greg's eyes narrow. "Why do you ask?"
The younger teen looks completely taken aback, as if he hadn't expected the question. "I . . . No reason. I was just . . ." His jaw tenses as he clenches his teeth and swallows hard. "I think about it sometimes . . . I thought about it while you were gone, mostly."
Greg nods, an odd-looking gesture with his head in his hand. "I thought about it too." He grins. "Even learned some new tricks. Wanna see?"
James licks his lips and sucks in a deep breath before nodding almost eagerly. "Yea."
In an instant, Greg is on top of him, settled between his legs and bracing himself with a hand on either side of the younger teen's head. James is startled by the sudden movement, and he stares up at the other with wide, uncertain eyes. Greg only looks down at him with that smirk that James has missed for so long. He'd seen it in every picture that the older teen had sent to him – pictures of Greg at a Japanese McDonald's, Greg wearing his Japanese school uniform (smirking only because his mother had begged him to smile), Greg and his mother in their Japanese-style home.
And all too soon the smirk is gone, replaced by the most serious expression that James has ever seen on his friend. "You trust me, don't you Jimmy?" Greg asks tentatively, blue eyes reflecting the light from the window above them.
"Of course," James says without hesitation, putting a glow of reassurance on Greg's face.
"Good." Greg, suddenly, grinds their hips together, eliciting a sharp gasp and a wide-eyed gape from the younger teen beneath him. James's hands come up, his fingers grasping Greg's shoulders in vice-like grips.
Greg hisses. "Jesus, Jimmy," he groans, "ease up, would you?"
James's fingers loosen their hold slightly. "S-Sorry," he breathes heavily. "Shit, Greg . . . D-Do that again."
The older teen can't help but chuckle at the request, reaching between them to unbutton their pants and heighten the experience. "Your wish is my command." As soon as their pants are shoved halfway down their thighs, Greg moves again, this time with less pressure. James closes his eyes and arches beneath the other teen, whimpering. After a few thrusts, James opens his eyes again, finding Greg staring at him exactly as he had years ago that very first time.
The younger teen swallows and takes a breath. "Kiss me," he begs, realizing a moment later that those two words can very possibly ruin everything. What if Greg is only in this for the pleasure? What if he doesn't want that kind of intimacy between them? What if-
James's thoughts are abruptly interrupted as Greg's warm lips engulf his own, the younger teen opening his mouth to deepen the kiss. Greg's tongue swirls, exploring and obviously well-practiced. The contact grows more desperate, the older of the two grabbing hold of the windowsill to get more leverage as he continues to thrust against the other. A familiar warmth begins to swell within the pit of James's stomach, and he breaks the kiss.
"Greg," he says breathlessly. He chants the name over and over, like a mantra, in time with the increasing speed of the thrusts. "Greg. Greg. Gr-" His cry is swallowed by the older teen's mouth as it covers his own, Greg thrusting a few more times before he shudders and stills, collapsing on top of James. For a while, the only sound filling the night air around them is their heavy breathing.
Greg finally finds the strength to lift himself up somewhat, looking down into James's half-lidded eyes and grinning exhaustedly. "So . . . You wanna spend the night?" James laughs and closes his eyes with a nod.
The fifth time, James is seventeen. Greg is nineteen . . . and leaving. Most of his things are on the porch as James hesitantly walks up the front steps. He could hear the yelling from down the street and had immediately known it was Greg and his father, as it often was.
Greg bursts through the front door, his father's furious voice following him and an angry look twisting his face sourly as he hauls a rather heavy suitcase one-handed past James and down the porch steps to his fading-blue 1962 Ford T-Bird. He throws the offending object in the back seat and stalks back towards the house and the continuous shouting from within. He brushes by James without so much as a glance and slams the screen door open.
James cautiously takes a step towards the door, watching Greg stomp up the stairs to his room. Mr. House stands at the base of the stairs, gesturing wildly and flinging insults after him, and Mrs. House stands beside her husband, clutching desperately at his sleeve and attempting to get a word in edge-wise.
James tries to tune out the man's ugly words, but a few slip through anyway . . . and none of the good ones: "ungrateful," "spiteful," "bastard," "no-good," "leaching," "shit." He cautiously opens the door, slipping inside as Greg is making his way down the stairs again. He walks right past his parents and stops in front of the younger man, holding out a lamp and a tin toolbox. It is only now that James sees the deep purple ring around his friend's left eye. He wants to reach out and examine the injury, having seen too many on Greg before, but just as he starts to, Greg thrusts the objects into his hands.
"Here," he says forcefully. "Take these out to the car." The older teen turns again, heading up the stairs. Mr. House continues to scream after him, but Mrs. House scuttles over to James, a watery smile tainting her lips.
"Oh, James, I really wish you'd eat more. You're so thin," she says, fussing over him momentarily as she relieves him of the lamp and toolbox and sets them aside. She says that every time he comes over, which is usually followed by his insistence that his mother feeds him quite enough, which is then preceded by a large meal while Greg snickers about 'poor starving Jimmy.' James doesn't think there will be food today . . . or any day, for that matter. Not anymore.
"Where's Greg going?" He asks Mrs. House quietly. Her smile only widens, causing her eyes to crinkle and a few tears to slip down her cheeks. She turns away and scuttles back towards her screaming husband. Greg stomps down the stairs with what looks to be the last of his things in a large cardboard box. James quickly grabs the lamp and the toolbox, opening the door and holding it for the older teen.
No more is said – other than Mr. House's yelling, of course – and with James's help the T-Bird is loaded within ten minutes. Greg stops only to give his mother a hug and whisper a few comforting words in her ear before irately seating himself in the car, slamming the door shut, and revving the engine to life. James stands on the sidewalk beside the passenger door, hands in his pockets and a confused look contorting his face.
"Jimmy, get in the God damn car!" Greg shouts after a moment, and James jumps slightly, opening the door without hesitation and sliding in. He quickly buckles his seatbelt, offering Mrs. House a sympathetic look before Greg peals away from the house.
James doesn't say a word for over an hour, not really concerned with what his parents will think about him leaving without so much as a warning but more worried about Greg. "What happened?" He almost doesn't think the other teen has heard him, but as he is about to drop the subject and stare out the window at the passing scenery, Greg speaks.
"Dad . . . said some things," he says gruffly, his voice closer to cracking than James has ever heard it. "Some bad things."
"What things?" James presses, but Greg only shakes his head.
"I don't want to talk about it. I just . . . I don't want to think about it."
James nods and looks down at his clasped hands, his brows furrowed as he contemplates what to do next. Without a word, he unbuckles his seatbelt, sliding over slightly so that he can lay his head on Greg's shoulder and snake his arms around the older's torso. Greg stiffens at first, unready for the sudden contact, but soon relaxes, releasing one hand from the steering wheel and wrapping an arm around James's shoulders. Later, they will stop in a small town with no more than a couple of shitty motels. James will call his mother and insist that he is fine and hang up on her when she screeches that he had "better not be with that House boy!" The two will stay in a motel room, making love until exhaustion finally lulls them to sleep. In the morning, Greg will put James on the earliest bus back home, and the two will say "see you later," like this is only a vacation, like Greg will be back in a couple of days and all will be well again. They'll both know it's a lie, and James will sit in the back of the bus and cry the whole way home.
But for now, Greg drives and squeezes James closer into his side.
When James is thirty, he is the youngest man to ever hold the position of Head of Oncology at the Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. It was more of a chance of luck, really. He had interned here as a student, and his attending had offered him a job right away as a chief resident. When the former Head had retired, he had named James as his successor, and no one had disputed the decision. James was, and is, a gifted young man; no one could, or can, deny that.
So when James hears that their beloved diagnostics doctor has been diagnosed with cancer and plans to spend the rest of his time with his family, he waits with bated breath to see who will be brought in to fill the space down the hall.
He sits outside the empty office of the former Head of Diagnostics, watching with fascination as the letters are scraped from the glass door and new ones are added: Dr. Gregory House, MD. He should be in later today for orientation and a tour of the facility. Doctor Lisa Cuddy, another new addition to the hospital who has caused quite a stir in the male-centric ranks, walks past him, stopping as she catches sight of his steady gaze. She looks towards the office, where maintenance has just finished re-lettering the door, then returns to the perplexed young man.
She met him a few days ago when she was making the rounds in her newly-promoted position, introducing herself to staff and patients. He had seemed quiet and polite at the time. She didn't think he would be the cause of much trouble. They had even sat together at lunch, making small talk about the hospital and current patients. Her impression of him then was that he had a good, sturdy head on his shoulders . . . but now, as she stares at his almost awe-stricken face, she questions whether she has seen the real James Wilson or merely a single personality.
"Doctor Wilson?" She asks, stepping towards him. He starts, whipping his head in her direction and standing quite suddenly.
"Doctor Cuddy! I-I . . . I'm very sorry, I was just . . ." He points pathetically at the diagnostics door as his shoulders slump. This is not boding well for him.
Lisa smiles reassuringly. "Curious?" James returns the smile with a sheepish one of his own, and she nods. "I think everyone is a little anxious to meet the illustrious Doctor House. A man hired by reputation alone warrants intrigue."
James can't help the huff of laughter that escapes his throat. "He certainly warrants . . . something."
Lisa's eyebrows rise. "You know Doctor House?"
The young man shifts uncomfortably, cocking his head and saying, "We're . . . childhood friends."
"Well, your 'friend' is late by almost an hour. Be sure to tell him that sort of thing won't be tolerated while you're giving him a tour of the facility." Lisa starts to turn away, missing James's dumbfounded expression.
"Me?" He asks incredulously. "But . . ."
"Thank you, Doctor Wilson!" She calls over her shoulder as she steps into an elevator, bumping into someone who steps out. "Oh! Excuse me." She hits the lobby button and waves to James airily as the doors slide shut. The stranger who she had bumped stares at the elevator long after its departure, turning to James and smirking.
"Quite the ass on that one," he comments.
An easy smile spreads James's lips. "I hadn't noticed. She's . . . not really my type."
The other man takes a few steps forward. "Oh? You have a 'type'?"
James nods once. "A very specific type."
"Let me guess," the man says, squinting. "Tall, blue eyes, devilishly handsome-"
"Snarky-" James starts, pointing to a finger as he begins to list the certain qualities of a certain someone. Both men take a step towards each other with every word.
"-quick-witted-" The other man continues.
"-sarcastic-" Wilson contrasts.
"-fantastic in bed-"
By this time, the two are standing directly in front of each other, barely a few inches of space between them.
"-knew I was in love with him at age eleven . . ." James finishes, halting any other quips from the other man. James can only smile at the partially-open-mouthed stare he is receiving, taking a shallow breath and letting it loose in a sharp, shuddering gust before saying, "Hey, Greg."
"Hey, Jimmy," Greg replies, a familiar smile easing onto his lips. "You been a good boy while I was away?"
James shrugs. "It wasn't easy."
"It never is."
James is thirty-five when he enters the living space of Gregory House for the first time . . . as a co-owner. He sits on their couch, in their apartment, drinking their beer – which, coincidentally, he bought – as Greg sits beside him, staring intently at the television. Greg's arm is precariously draped along the back of the couch near James's shoulders. The younger man smirks, grabbing hold of the other's hand and tugging the arm fully around himself. Greg's attention never wavers from the movie, but James watches a smile play across his lips in the flickering light of the television.
The smile quickly disappears, however, as James takes a deep breath and says, "Greg . . ." The older man can tell by the tone of James's voice that he is not going to like this conversation. "You remember that day . . . that day that you left your parents house?" Greg says nothing, his stomach dropping at the mere mention of that day, but James continues. "You said something in the car . . . That your dad said some things. Bad things."
Greg closes his eyes, sighing. "Please, Jimmy, not tonight." He rubs gingerly at his right thigh, wincing at the pain it elicits.
"You said 'bad things,'" James continues. "What did he say that made you want to leave?"
The memory washes over Greg's mind like it happened only a few days ago. His father yelling about the noises from his room whenever James is over. His father telling him that James is no good, that he doesn't want faggots in his house. His father punching him in the eye when Greg tells him that he is jealous because he and James are happy together and that the older man has to fuck other women to get satisfaction.
Greg doesn't want James to hear these things. He doesn't ever want the younger man to think less of himself. So Greg becomes a statistic of his own theory: everybody lies.
"He called me a faggot. Said he didn't want a cock-sucker like me in his house. So I left."
James is quiet for a moment, letting the sounds from the television blanket them before wrapping his arms around Greg's torso and leaning his head on his shoulder – the exact position they had been in when they were driving away from that horrifying experience. And that is exactly what James wants now; he wants to pick up and leave those memories behind, drive away and never look back.
So they do, and Greg squeezes James closer to his side, just as he had so many years ago.
AN: Well, it's been a while since I actually wrote a one-shot. I'm normally all over the chapter fics ... and never finishing them, so this is one hell of an accomplishment on my part. :) Later, Gators! Catch you on the flip side.