Title: Twenty Years of Stealing My Food: Part 5
Author: hwshipper
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Heel and Toe Films, Shore Z Productions and Bad Hat Harry Productions in association with Universal Media Studios.
Beta: the always splendid triedunture

Summary: Learning to compartmentalize: Wilson returns from his honeymoon.
A/N: Part 5 of a backstory to take place over twenty years, all the way to canon.

Twenty Years of Stealing My Food - Part 5

"Is this seat taken?" a woman asked, friendly, smiling.

Wilson looked up, startled. "Um--sorry, yes, it is. I'm waiting for my wife."

He watched her face close up at the word wife; she nodded.

"We're on our honeymoon," he added.

At that she took a step backwards, and said, "Sorry to have bothered you."

"No problem," Wilson said, and went back to staring into the distance, at the sea rippling gently on the shore outside the restaurant window.

Wife. How strange to have a wife, to be somebody's husband. It was odd; he'd been going out with Cath for a long time, lived with her for months, and hadn't expected it to feel very different now they were married. And yet, and yet...

A couple of days ago it had been Thursday night, and Cath always phoned her mother on Thursday nights. She'd remarked laughingly on how she felt she should call home, but Mom wouldn't expect it, what with them being on their honeymoon. Wilson had laughed too, and Cath had gone off to the hotel beauty parlor for a facial. And Wilson had sat and looked at the phone by the bedside, and thought that it was probably quite natural for a newly married young woman to feel like having a chat with her mother.

But it surely wasn't at all normal for her newly married husband to want to talk to his best friend--to want it so fucking badly that it took a real effort of will not to pick up that phone. It was stupid and pathetic. And the only thing in the end that stopped him was that Wilson knew exactly what House would say if he did it. He could hear the very words in House's rasping tone. ("Wilson, what the fuck are you doing calling from your honeymoon? Go and have sex with your wife!")

And Wilson also felt extremely weird about the whole sex thing. Surely the sex he was getting at the moment--newly married honeymoon sex--really ought to be the best he'd ever had. But it was the night before his wedding that was staying with him. And now, when up close and personal, he didn't see the brunette locks and pert breasts in front of him. He saw clear blue eyes and stubble, felt firm biceps and strong thighs, tasted whiskey with just a hint of tobacco...

He hadn't called.

But he had sent a postcard. Thinking about this made his stomach curl into knots.

Cath's world view was that if you went on vacation, you sent postcards home. And you did so early on, to maximize the chances of the cards actually beating you back. She'd bought a handful of cards a few days after they'd arrived, including one for his own parents (which she wrote for him later too, after it became obvious that he wasn't going to do it).

As Wilson had loitered around the postcard racks with her, she'd said, "What about House? He's your best friend; shouldn't you send him a card?"

Wilson initially shook his head; House was quite possibly the last person in the world who would either expect or appreciate a postcard. But the idea of making some tiny contact with House appealed to him, so he changed his mind. He picked out a card picturing a blonde, tanned woman, topless and wearing almost non-existent bikini bottoms, photographed from behind walking along a beach. Partly because it would give House at least a few seconds of pleasure (hey, it was hot); partly to give Cath the chance to tut indulgently at his choice.

He wrote 'Saw this and thought of you' on the back in his messy scrawl, and decided to leave it at that; House would not appreciate the usual mindless blurb about the weather and the hotel. He then hesitated over how to sign it. As it was to House, he would have naturally have signed it Wilson, but realized that would look odd once Cath added 'and Cath' next to it. But he didn't want to put James as he'd signed all the other boring soulless cards.

So he settled on Jimmy, which gave Cath another chance to say, "You boys," and shake her head fondly.

Wilson had subsequently been given the job of taking the postcards down and putting them in the mailbox at the hotel reception. He put them all in the box except the one to House, which he felt rather dissatisfied with. He wanted to say more, try and convey something of how he was feeling; but it was a postcard, for God's sake, to be read by anyone in the mail along the way. And it wasn't even likely to reach House before they got back home.

He saw a pen lying on the hotel reception counter, and picked it up. He stared at the card for a minute, then wrote 'Wish you were here', on the bottom, underneath the signatures. He then posted it, quickly, before he changed his mind.

He soon regretted it, although not quite soon enough to do anything about it.

Now he sat waiting for Cath, looking at the sea without seeing it, wondering what House would make of it. He feared that House would understand both too well and not well enough.

House was standing in a bookstore flipping idly through the pages of a trashy novel looking for the sex scenes, when he heard his name being called. "House!"

House turned around, and it was Wilson, pushing his way through crowds of shoppers, beaming, and looking decidedly more tanned than when House had last seen him.

"Hey, Wilson," House greeted him casually, put down the book and glanced around. "Where's the wife?"

"She's at home. I just popped out to get a couple of books before term starts tomorrow. Wanna go get something to eat?" Wilson looked bright and well.

It was lunchtime. "Sure," House nodded, and they left the bookstore and fell into step towards the nearest deli. "You look sickeningly brown. Don't you want to be an oncologist? Hasn't anyone told you about melanomas yet?"

"I was careful, never got burned."

House looked at the top of Wilson's head; the sun had made his hair go one shade fairer than usual. It suited him.

They got a table and ordered meatball subs. House got a Coke and Wilson asked for coffee, claiming jet lag.

"So, when did you get back?" House asked, settling down in his seat.

"Yesterday." Wilson blew on his coffee. House watched Wilson's lips move and pucker. "Came home to find wedding presents everywhere, still wrapped up and everything. Need to send thank-yous. Lots to do."

House rolled his eyes. "Fucking wedding organization still going on."

"This is definitely the last part of it," Wilson said solemnly. "Please God, it has to be." Their sandwiches arrived. "Um, did you get the postcard?"

"No." House was intrigued. "You sent me a postcard?"

"It was Cath's idea." Wilson was immediately defensive.

"That is such a smug married thing to do." House was amused. He filched a meatball off Wilson's plate. "Did she buy it, too? And write it?"

"No," Wilson said indignantly, and hesitated. "I wanted to send it. Anyway, I'm sure you'll get it soon."

They ate, and Wilson talked a little about his holiday, the resort, the hotel; the sun, the sand, the sea, the sex. Actually he didn't talk about the last, but House took it as read.

"So, what have you been up to?" Wilson asked at the end, scraping a last bit of tomato ketchup off his plate with a finger.

House fidgeted with a packet of sugar, watching Wilson suck his finger. "Oh, stuff. This and that. Actually, I've been looking into where I might do an infectious diseases residency."

Wilson paused with his finger still in his mouth, and looked at House, wide-eyed and incredulous. "But you haven't finished your nephrology certification. You've got another year yet."

"But I would have to start applying well before," House pointed out. "Need to start thinking about where. No point doing it here, can't stay here all my life."

They both knew that Wilson, only just through his first year as a med student, had several years to go yet at Columbia. Wilson looked so stricken at the thought of House leaving town that House's heart nearly melted, and this unwanted feeling of weakness spurred him to be nasty.

"Oh come on, grow up, Wilson. Everybody leaves in the end, after all. They move on. Get new jobs. Get married."

Wilson frowned. "What, we're back to everybody lies and everybody leaves?" He paused, then went on, speaking carefully and quietly, "Just because I got married doesn't mean I left you."

"Wilson, you've got a wife," House reminded him. "That may mean jack shit to you, but it means something to me."

"It means a lot to me too," Wilson said indignantly, and dropped his voice, low. "But... what are you trying to say? Thanks very much for the last year, it's been great, now that's it?" He spread his hands.

"We're still friends," House said, irritated, and dropped his voice too. "I'm just saying we shouldn't be fuckbuddies any more."

Wilson stared at House. "And that's really what you want."

"You can't always get what you want." House stared back at Wilson's big brown eyes and steeled himself. There was a long silence during which House could feel his resolve crumbling, but Wilson cracked first.

"Okay. Fine. You're right." His voice was quiet and his gaze was on the ground. He put some money on the table and stood up abruptly. "I'll see you tomorrow."

As Wilson walked out of the deli, House's eyes followed Wilson, and fixed on the black jeans that Wilson was wearing. They were tight. Indeed they seemed to be stuck to Wilson's body. And they made him look incredibly cute.

Eventually House got up and headed home, and spent too long that afternoon pondering Wilson's ass in those jeans. Wilson's married and now sadly unavailable ass.

This was not going to be easy.

House considered how best to mitigate the side effects of losing Wilson's ass. Porn seemed like the best way forward, and he headed to the video store that evening to stock up.

He spent the night in front of the TV. It was better than nothing, but to be honest, not a hell of a lot better.

Wilson wandered around shops for some time after his lunch with House in the deli, mulling over what House had said. What actually bothered him most was the idea that House was looking to move away in a year's time. The thought made his stomach curl into a knot.

Wilson couldn't see that they would stay in touch if House moved away. At least, not with anything like the same relationship they had. He remembered past schoolfriends and past college friends who he had been sure he would stay friends with forever, who were now nothing more than out-of-date addresses in a battered address book. It just didn't happen. Maintaining friendships over distances required an effort that he'd never really found time for. Hell, he'd only left McGill a year ago, where he'd had a bunch of good friends, and he'd hardly even thought to ask any of them to his wedding.

He arrived home and found Cath sitting in the kitchen of their small apartment, writing busily with a tall fountain pen; thank-you letters, he knew. She had music on and didn't hear him come in. He paused in the hallway, looking in at her through the kitchen door. Her curly hair had fallen down across her eyes; her tongue stuck slightly out from her mouth in concentration. Unopened boxes of kitchen appliances sat on worktops; wedding presents waiting to find a place in a cupboard. Dinner was in the oven and a gentle scent of steak and onions was wafting through the air. He felt a wave of affection for the scene of domestic bliss.

He glanced sideways into the front room, which was cluttered and messy with books and papers. It was his study as well as their sitting room. Stacks of lecture notes, copies of journal articles, and piles of medical textbooks dominated; his future as a doctor there between the pages. He thought about himself in a few years time, through med school, going on to his own specialization. He thought of House, already there, seeking his own area of expertise. He thought of House's room, equally cluttered and messy; House's battered but comfortable couch, piano, TV... the double bed in the corner, old and creaky but cozy and warm.

The thought of losing a year close to House, probably the last year he'd spend in the same town as House, seemed like the most senseless waste.

And Wilson looked from one doorway to the other, and suddenly saw his life very clearly in two compartments. In the one compartment was his wife, his home, creature comforts, a stable family life, just as he'd always wanted. In the other compartment was his career, the hospital, House; blue eyes and stubble and attitude, intelligence and wit, and strong hands, firm arms, muscular legs...

And Wilson didn't for the life of him see why he couldn't have both. So long as they didn't interfere with each other.

It would likely only be for a year, after all.

A few days later, House bumped into Wilson in the bar near the hospital. The bar was packed for a big game on the TV: they stayed and watched and shouted at the screen, and rolled outside together afterwards. They headed towards House's house, laughing and talking, close, familiar. They got all the way to House's front door and were standing in the small porch outside, before House, fumbling for his keys, realized dimly where they were.

"Hey," he said, balling the keys into his fist. "You don't live here anymore. You moved out ages ago."

"Shucks." Wilson looked at the door. "I guess I hoped you were inviting me in for coffee."

Suddenly they were standing very close. It was dark, and although they were outside, it felt very private in the small porch. House felt Wilson's breath against his cheek, saw Wilson's dark liquid eyes shining in the moonlight. And then he couldn't see any more, just feel; Wilson's lips on his own, Wilson's tongue pushing into his mouth, Wilson's hands pressed up against his chest.

With an effort, House pulled his head back and said hoarsely, "Wilson, for fuck's sake. I should not have to be the strong one here. You got married, you got back from your honeymoon less than a week ago!"

It was so not fair to be trying to maintain the moral high ground with Wilson's hard-on digging into his thigh. Not to mention his own hard-on, tenting large in his pants right now. House stepped backwards a little, putting a few inches of space between them.

Wilson's pupils were dilated, his breathing fast. His cheeks were flushed pink and his hair mussed. After a minute, he said, "Yes, I know, it's just..."

House waited, his head tilted on one side.

"It's like... there's various compartments in my life, you know? And you're one, and Cath is one, and so long as I keep them separate, it'll be fine--"

House listened to Wilson try and justify adultery, and then cut him off mid-sentence: "Wilson, that is all such utter shit."

Wilson opened his mouth to reply, but at that moment another guy walked up the path, and stopped short at the sight of them, standing close together in the porch. House had no idea what his name was, but recognized him as the med student who lived in the room underneath his. He was scared shitless of House. House fixed him with a glare; Wilson smiled apologetically. The guy hurried past them and let himself in the door, eyes on the ground.

Alone again, Wilson put his hands on his hips, and House could see Wilson's expression was different from when they'd talked in the deli. Wilson wasn't uncertain any more; he'd come to some kind of decision. But he didn't argue any further.

"Fine. Have it your way," he said, and his voice was light, much lighter than House expected. "I'm not going to beg. I'll see you tomorrow."

Wilson walked away down the path, and turned left onto the street, going towards home.

House let himself into his own front door, too rattled to respond. Wilson's words rang in his head - I'm not going to beg. The emphasis was not lost on House. Wilson thought he'd got House wrapped around his little finger, did he?

Well, they'd soon find out who was really in charge of this relationship.

The porn that evening was even less satisfactory than before.

There were a few things House hadn't banked on before going cold turkey off Wilson. Firstly, Wilson was just as stubborn as he was. Secondly, Wilson was way more patient than he was. And thirdly, Wilson was a manipulative son-of-a-bitch.

A few days later House was in the bar near the hospital and saw Wilson enter with another group of people. Wilson spotted him and came straight over. He was wearing not only those black jeans but also a black T-shirt, and the T-shirt was cropped at the shoulders and as clingy as the jeans were. House watched the muscles move in his arms; Wilson's biceps weren't as toned as House's own, but right now, under the neon lights of the bar, they seemed to be rippling.

"Hey, House. What're you drinking?" Wilson asked brightly. His brown eyes shone in the dim light.

House muttered, "Bud," and Wilson turned towards the bar.

House watched the small square of skin at the back of Wilson's neck where his hair ended and his T-shirt began. And then House found himself looking at Wilson's jean-clad ass. Wilson obviously knew he was looking, and as House watched, Wilson placed one foot casually against a bar stool to give House a better view. And House looked, and couldn't help but remember that ass without the jeans, in the hotel suite, clenching against his cock--

For God's sake, he had to stop this. People would notice. With a supreme effort, House wrenched his gaze away and tried to think about something else, anything else. He thought of the diseased kidney one of his colleagues kept in a jar on his desk. That helped, at least momentarily.

Wilson joined him a minute later and handed him a bottle of beer. House took it and downed half in one gulp.

"So, how're things?" Wilson asked cheerfully.

House looked at Wilson, and Wilson was so desirable, it was almost indecent. He bit back the urge to bite Wilson on the neck and instead muttered, "Peachy."

A group of people pushed past them, and Wilson, jostled slightly, stepped to one side and his right shoulder brushed House's left shoulder. House felt as if he'd been scorched all down his left side. He flinched visibly; Wilson looked at him with raised bushy eyebrows.

House decided that Wilson had brushed against him on purpose. Somehow Wilson had gained the upper hand. House could feel himself losing control and he didn't like it.

House drained the bottle, slammed it down on a table, barked, "I gotta go," and strode out. He didn't look back, but he knew Wilson was looking after him, and smiling.

It took House several days to realize that Wilson was using the very fact of being unavailable to make himself more alluring. That it had been House who had drawn the line in the sand in the first place somehow seemed irrelevant.

It was, House realized, probably only a matter of time before he succumbed to the inevitable. Wilson was just too damn young and hot and attractive, and for fuck's sake, there were limits to what a man could resist. If Wilson wanted them to keep on fucking, and wanted to risk screwing up his marriage for the sake of some hot but probably doomed short-term sex, hell, it was his funeral.

Unexpectedly, however, something happened to make House see things a little differently.

House got home from the hospital one evening, opened his front door, and found a beach babe's butt staring up at him from the doormat. He picked up the postcard, amused. Impeccable taste, Wilson.

He started to walk up the stairs to his room, still looking at the picture, then he turned the card over. Jeez, Wilson had the worst handwriting ever. Clearly with writing like this Wilson was destined to end up as a doctor.

By the time he'd got to his room, he'd slowed his pace and was frowning. 'Wish you were here' - what sort of thing was that to say, on a card sent while on honeymoon?

Just a joke. Ha ha, very funny.

Except that Wilson had clearly written it last, after Cath had signed it (the pen was different and part of the initial W in Wish overlapped Cath's name). It was likely Cath hadn't seen that line.

So what. So it was still a joke.

House frowned, and tapped the card thoughtfully. He put it up on a bookshelf, propping it upright, picture side showing. He stood back and looked at it. He didn't see the broad-hipped, slim-shouldered blonde woman; he saw broad masculine shoulders, a thicker waist, firm buttocks and strong thighs.

The thought abruptly dawned on him that what he had in front of him was a love letter.

Or at least, the closest to one that he'd likely ever get from Wilson.

It was a silly thought, but powerful. House gulped a little, and berated himself; stupid, sentimental, slushy bullshit.

But it stayed with him all evening. House put on the TV and hardly saw or heard a thing; his gaze constantly swept towards the card on the bookcase. He tried to imagine what frame of mind Wilson, on his honeymoon, must have been in. Thinking about House.

House didn't bother with porn at all that evening. He relied on the memory of Wilson in that hotel suite the night before his wedding: brown eyes swimming underneath him, body rocking beneath his weight, ass ready and willing to take him.

The next day, House met Wilson over lunch, and goddamnit, this really was the last straw. Wilson had had a busy practical morning in the labs, and had clearly come straight from the shower. His cheeks were flushed red and his hair was still damp and plastered over his forehead. It was all House could do not to lean over the table and ravish him there and then.

Instead, House said gruffly at the end of the meal, "Wanna go for a drink tonight?"

"Sorry, can't do tonight," Wilson said. He sounded regretful. House couldn't tell if he was telling the truth or stringing him along. And he really didn't like not being able to tell.

"Tomorrow night, then." That was his last offer; anything more would sound desperate.

"Tomorrow, sure," Wilson nodded. "See you in the bar." He got up and left. House gazed after him, thinking, I'm being played by a master.

When the following evening came, Wilson was already in the bar when House approached. From outside the door he could see Wilson, leaning against the bar, talking to a woman serving drinks. He was wearing those jeans again, and a crisp white T-shirt that wasn't clingy but instead radiated brilliance and light. House watched as Wilson leaned forward, put his head on one side, and laughed at something. Goddamn it, he was flirting with her. Jealousy hit House in the chest like a freight train and temporarily paralyzed him.

When he was able to move, House walked away from the bar door and a few paces around the side of the building. He leaned against the wall. The brick was cool against his forehead. His head spun with the illogic of it all. Wilson was married, for goodness sake, and House had never felt anything more than slight contempt for his wife. Now here he was unable to watch Wilson exchange a few friendly words with a barmaid. He hated to admit it, even just to himself--but in this unspoken, undefined and ridiculous battle of wills between them, Wilson had won.

"House? Are you okay?"

House looked up to see Wilson standing just a couple of feet away, looking uncertain for the first time in weeks. Close up, he could see Wilson's hair was flyaway, as if newly washed and dried, and that his face was smooth and freshly shaven. House noticed Wilson's eyelashes--soft, curling, alluring.

"Come back to my place," House said in a low voice.

Now Wilson's eyes glinted with amusement, and, House observed, mischief. Wilson leaned against the wall, mirroring House's pose, and said slowly and deliberately, "You want to fuck me, House?"

My God, and now they were role-playing. A few seconds ago House would have bet that nothing in the world could have made James Wilson more attractive than he was right now. Clearly he'd been wrong, again. Wilson now not only playing hard to get, but also talking dirty.

House batted it straight back, and growled, "You bet your pretty little ass I do."

"Are you sure?" Wilson said innocently.

"You goddamn cocktease," House hissed. "You've been dangling that pretty little ass of yours in front of me for weeks. Come back to my place right now, or I'll swear to God I'll strangle you right here."

He saw Wilson's eyes darken and liquify, and knew he'd finally gotten to Wilson just as Wilson had gotten to him. Wilson simply nodded, and they both turned to walk away.

They arrived at House's room, and Wilson spotted the postcard on the shelf immediately. To House's amusement, he blushed. House suspected that Wilson had managed to convince himself over the last couple of weeks that the postcard had got lost and gone to postcard heaven, and would never actually show up.

"Um--you got the card," Wilson said hesitantly.

"I did," House agreed, pulling his jacket off. He turned and looked at Wilson with penetrating eyes. "I especially liked the wish you were her."

Wilson took a second to process what House had said, then his cheeks went a darker shade of pink. "I did not write that!" He fairly leapt across the room and grabbed the card off the shelf. "Here! Wish you were here! That is definitely an E."

"Here, her, her, here, whatever," House said, with a dismissive flick of the hand, and suddenly Wilson was right next to him, and then Wilson kissed House fiercely on the mouth.

House grabbed at Wilson, pushing Wilson's jacket up his arms, tugging at sleeves. Wilson yanked his T-shirt off over his head, and House plastered hands across the bare chest, waiting there for him. Wilson bunched House's own T-shirt up in his fists, and House pulled Wilson close to him. He breathed in Wilson's hair, treasuring the gentle smell of soap and shampoo, and his hard-on was positively painful now. This was not going to last long.

They fastened lips and grappled for a minute, competing not only to get each others clothes off, but also for control. But House, having conceded the wider position, was not going to let immediate domination slip from his grasp. This wasn't about stubbornness, or patience, or wiles anymore; it was about determination, and House was the more determined. He was also bigger and stronger than Wilson.

"Down on the rug," House commanded breathlessly and Wilson complied, dropping to his knees. House dropped down too, and with one hand on Wilson's shoulder, spun Wilson around to face away from him. He reached around to undo Wilson's belt buckle; Wilson uttering a series of small gasps as House's fingers probed beneath the denim, and eased jeans and boxers down together. The sight of Wilson's ass partially exposed made House's cock surge again; God, he had to do this soon, or he would come right there in his own pants.

House fished into a pocket for a condom, undid his own fly and pulled his pants down slightly, just enough to pull out his cock and roll on the condom. He wasn't about to stop and look for lube now, so he spat on his hand as hard as he could, and slicked his cock with that. He slid a wet finger up inside Wilson and the moan he got in return almost sent House into a frenzy. House came in hard and fast, the pants still round his knees driving him in at a tighter angle than he might have done otherwise. Wilson cried out and tried to move his legs further apart, but was also constricted by his own jeans, still sitting halfway round his thighs. House hardened his heart, ignored the cry, and thrust again.

Finally he had Wilson - after those weeks of being taunted, being tempted, that beautiful chest and that perfect ass were right underneath him, and he had control. His whole body shuddered with effort and desire; he reached around to grasp and pull at Wilson's cock. Soon Wilson's gasps of pain changed to gasps of climax as he spurted into House's hand; House then came inside him with a rush, and then pulled out almost as quickly, causing Wilson to yelp again.

"You bastard," Wilson panted, his arms and legs shaking uncontrollably.

"You love me like this," House responded, unable to stop trembling himself. He kissed Wilson deep on the mouth, then they flopped together on the floor in a half-dressed muddle.

House's last conscious thought before passing out was that perhaps he could learn to compartmentalize too.

END OF PART FIVE. TBC.

A/N: Next part: House has a run-in with Wilson's brother.