Title: Twenty Years of Stealing My Food: Part 6
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: this fic greatly improved by triedunture.
A/N: Part 6 of a backstory to take place over twenty years, all the way to canon.
Summary: Another run-in with Wilson's brother, last seen punching House on the nose in Part 4.
Twenty Years of Stealing My Food - Part 6
Wilson slid down into the seat opposite House and put his tray on the table. "Hey."
"Hey." House scanned the tray expertly, and as Wilson had expected, plucked the cherry tomato resting on the top of the salad and popped it in his mouth. "What's with the salad, wifey got you on a health kick?"
It was Monday lunchtime, and they hadn't seen each other for a few days. Wilson had enjoyed a nice cozy weekend at home with Catherine.
"Just giving you the chance to pop my cherry," Wilson said, absolutely deadpan. "How was your hot date?"
He knew House had had a date that weekend with a long-legged brunette who worked as an attending in Infectious Diseases: House had been pursuing her partly for the long legs and partly because he was researching possible places to do an Infectious Diseases residency.
"Hot." House grinned. It was a self-satisfied grin, and Wilson deduced that House had spent some time finding out just how long those legs were. They had spent an inordinate amount of time debating this the previous week.
Wilson began to eat, then remembered he had something to show House.
"We got the wedding photos back from the photographer," Wilson said, and reached for his inside pocket. "Now we have to hawk them around friends and family and see if anyone wants to order any copies."
House eyed the envelope with alarm and said, "You don't seriously expect me to."
"Of course not," Wilson said with mock indignation. "That would be boring, and suburban. But... you might want to take a look at a few. You are in some of them, as you were the best man."
House took the envelope, opened it and removed a small sheaf of photographs. Wilson had carefully filleted them and there were no shots that were just bride and groom or family to endure; just the pictures House himself had been in. House flipped through in an offhand way (which didn't fool Wilson at all) and stopped short at the last one.
The photographer had wandered around taking some candid shots, and Wilson couldn't remember this photo being taken at all; from the look on House's face, neither could House. Wilson did remember the point in the day; a shared moment of conversation, standing, waiting for drinks before dinner. There they were: both in tux tails, Wilson immaculate, House with his cravat pulled loose and his stubble scored across his jawline. Wilson was smiling at something House was saying, and leaning in slightly, eyes on House; House was standing with one hand upturned and head slightly on one side, apparently making a point, looking straight at Wilson.
They weren't touching, but they were close. Not too close, not so close that a casual observer would have thought twice about it. But close enough so that if you were looking for it, it looked like an intimate moment.
House gazed at the picture for a moment, then slid it into his own inside pocket, saying, "You don't expect me to pay."
Wilson, who had already put in an order for another copy of this picture, dropped his voice. "Cash, checks, Visa, Amex, blow jobs. All welcome."
A slow smile crawled across House's face.
"Look," Wilson added, getting to the real point. "Cath is flying out to her mom's this weekend, taking the photos to get orders from her family. I thought maybe I could come over Friday night?"
Friday night, House lay on his front, eyes squeezed shut, pillowcase balled up in his mouth.
Wilson had been sitting atop fucking him very, very slowly for at least a quarter of an hour now, and House had been riding a steady roller coaster of agony shot through with bright gleaming threads of ecstasy for quite some time. His own cock, huge and swollen and leaking, was pressed painfully between his belly and the bed sheets.
Wilson's knuckles kneaded House's shoulders as he thrust again, and House bit down on the pillow and felt another wave of amazement that Wilson could do this; keep him teetering on the edge for so long, while holding off from what must be a really painful near-orgasm himself...
This had to stop. With an effort, House bucked his own hips and clenched his butt cheeks together as hard as he could. He heard a very satisfying exclamation from Wilson at the interruption to his flow. A few seconds later, Wilson grabbed House's shoulders so tightly that House knew he'd have bruises, pressed further up House's ass than House would have thought possible, and came. House saw stars and as Wilson ground him furiously into the bed, House climaxed messily into the mattress too.
Wilson fell off House, and they lay next to each other for a bit, recovering.
After a while, House muttered, "If you're staying, you can change this sheet."
"Huh." Wilson sounded amused. "Well, I was gonna stay, until you said that..."
House reached out and flicked the top of Wilson's head affectionately. They both knew that Wilson was staying over. It was the first time his wife had been away for a night since he'd gotten married, and they were both thoroughly enjoying it.
"Tomorrow," Wilson said sounding a trifle sleepy, "I was thinking maybe you could come over to my place."
House disliked Wilson's apartment, which had Catherine's interior design stamped all over it. "Don't tell me you want to get ass-fucked in your marital bed."
There was a short silence and House knew he'd hit on the truth. "No," Wilson said, too late.
House rolled his eyes. "You fancy a bit of frottage among the frills? A bijou blow job?"
"No!" Wilson protested unconvincingly. "But... there's a freezerful of food and a cabinet of decent alcohol. It'll be fun. So long as we don't trash the place."
House instinctively didn't like the idea. He had found that the way to cope with Wilson being married was to conveniently forget that fact at all crucial moments. Such as moments when Wilson looked at him through large swimming brown eyes and muttered through the corner of his mouth, wanna fuck? This strategy would be difficult at Wilson's apartment. There would be wedding present kitchen appliances, wedding present Egyptian cotton bed sheets, and stultifying heavy floral curtains to cast a shadow.
On the other hand, it might be quite fun. Just for the change of scenery. After all, they were pretty much confined to House's room otherwise, for that sort of thing. House remembered the last time elsewhere, the night in the hotel before Wilson's wedding, the two of them face to face on that couch, Wilson's brown eyes shining in the dark, his cock sliding up Wilson's ass. The thought was so evocative that House knew he'd be hard again right now, if he hadn't just come as hard as he had.
"I call guest room," he said, in a vain attempt to mitigate Wilson's grossly inappropriate suggestion.
"We don't have a guest room," Wilson pointed out. "You can sleep on the couch, if you really want..."
House rolled his eyes, knowing Wilson was going to get what he wanted.
Wilson left House's room the following morning after a pleasant breakfast (he had had the foresight to bring Cheerios along for them both), and spent some time finding books in the library and doing a bit of shopping in a leisurely fashion. He then got himself some lunch, and arrived home mid-afternoon humming cheerfully and looking forward to House's arrival later on. House was at lacrosse practice, which took place regularly on Saturday afternoons.
However, Wilson found his plans thrown into upheaval when he let himself in to his apartment building, and found a figure sitting on the step outside his front door.
"Jon!"
It was his brother, slouched slightly sideways, eyes closed. He opened them when Wilson spoke, and peered blearily upwards. Wilson looked into the deep brown pools and immediately diagnosed drunk. Dammit. Jonathan was not good when he was drunk.
"James," Jonathan said, and his voice was slurred. "Where the fuck have you been? I've been here for hours."
"Um, sorry, I didn't know you were coming to visit," Wilson evaded the question. He turned the key in the lock; Jon leaned away from the door as it opened.
"I phoned you this morning and left a message, but you haven't been home." Jonathan hauled himself to his feet, and followed Wilson inside. "Laura's left me."
"What? Oh no!" Laura was Jonathan's wife; they'd been married several years and had two little girls. "God, I'm sorry Jon, what the hell happened?"
"What the hell happened is your fucking friend House happened," Jonathan declared, and sat down heavily on a chair. Wilson realized Jon wasn't just drunk, but angry, and bitter. This really was not good. "At your fucking wedding. Talking about that hooker right in front of Laura--she gave me no end of shit about it, hasn't forgotten, has been bugging me about it ever since. Yesterday we were fighting about it again and she snapped and said she was going home to her mom. And she took the kids with her."
"Shit."
"Yeah. So I followed her to New York...but she won't see me." Jonathan's voice clotted with self-pity. "Won't even open the fucking door. I stayed out there all night. Then I thought I'd come and see you. I thought you could talk to her."
"Uh?" Wilson said uneasily.
"Tell her anything, whatever might work. It was a bachelor party, for Chrissake. Your bachelor party. She'll listen to you. She likes you." Jonathan looked at Wilson appealingly. "Tell her everyone was doing hookers, not just me."
"I'm not saying that," Wilson said sharply.
"Why not?"
"Because it's not true! And if it got back to Cath--"
"You won't go out on a limb for me." Hurt filled Jonathan's voice. "Your only brother." Jonathan stressed the only.
Wilson glared helplessly in the face of emotional blackmail, and after a minute said, "I'll talk to her. But I'm not going to lie to her."
"Yeah, because you never lie to anyone, do you?" Jonathan mocked, and Wilson looked away.
As soon as Jonathan was sufficiently distracted with a homemade club sandwich between his jaws and a bottle of whiskey at his elbow, Wilson rushed off to call House. No answer, though; House would be at lacrosse by now. Wilson breathed out through his teeth in exasperation. Damn it, he had no way of contacting House out there on the practice field. House would come straight from there to here, via the showers... and Jonathan was here, and there was nothing Wilson could do about it.
Since Jonathan was already drunk and maudlin, Wilson decided the best thing to do was keep him like that. They sat and talked for a bit, Wilson explaining about Cath having gone away for the weekend, Jonathan elaborating moodily on the fights he'd been having with Laura recently.
Eventually Jonathan slipped into a drunken doze, which was exactly what Wilson had hoped for. He took the glass out of Jon's hand and propped a cushion behind Jon's head. He then moved around the apartment quietly, tidying up, hoping his brother would stay asleep for as long as possible.
After a while, Wilson heard the sound he'd been waiting for; a key in the door. House, letting himself in. Wilson glanced at Jonathan, who had his eyes shut and his mouth hanging slightly open, then tiptoed out of the room. He crept into the hallway just as House was closing the front door behind him.
"House," Wilson whispered, and House looked at him in surprise. "Change of plan. You remember Jonathan, my brother? Who gave you a nosebleed at my wedding?"
"He may be your brother but he's a Grade A bastard," House growled. "Why?"
"He's here. His wife left him. He's drunk and miserable. And, um, he blames you."
"Me! What the fuck?" House's voice rose in indignation and Wilson shushed him hastily.
"You let on about that hooker in front of his wife, remember?"
"That was an accident!" House was outraged. "I didn't know she was there. And he's got nobody to blame except himself for his miserable fucking sex life."
"Look, we're going to have to take a raincheck." Wilson spoke as apologetically as he could. "I'm going to call his wife, see if I can get her to see him..."
House took a deep breath. "Fucking great. Call me when he's safely in the next state."
"I'm sorry," Wilson said sincerely, and House reached out to pluck Wilson's sleeve gently.
Wilson raised a hand and brushed it briefly against House's stubbled cheek, wanting some small contact, regretting the night they weren't going to have together after all. House stood still for a second, his hand curled round Wilson's arm, then turned and left. Wilson paused for a moment, then turned and went back into his apartment.
Immediately he realized he'd made a mistake; Jonathan hadn't been asleep after all, or he had just woken up. He was sitting up now, glaring through bleary eyes. Wilson's mind raced. The door had been slightly ajar. If Jonathan had seen through the doorway to the hall--if he'd seen Wilson and House--what would he have seen? (Thank fuck they hadn't kissed...)
"That was House," Jonathan observed, his voice thick with sleep and alcohol.
"He just dropped by. He's gone now," Wilson said firmly.
"Bastard," Jonathan muttered. He rested his head in a hand, apparently thinking things through. "He let himself in. He had a key."
Wilson wasn't sure where this was going, but it couldn't be good. "He keeps a spare for me, Jon, it's no big deal--"
"He still live at your old place?" Jonathan asked.
"Er, yes." Wilson didn't really want to answer this, but it seemed silly to lie. "Jon, he didn't know Laura was there when he mentioned the hooker. It was an accident. That's all." He reached out and put a pacifying hand on Jonathan's arm. "He didn't mean--"
But at Wilson's touch, Jonathan reacted sharply, throwing up his arm, catching Wilson off balance. Next moment, Jonathan roared, "Don't you apologize for that fucking bastard. He wrecked my marriage--I'm gonna find him, and I'm gonna beat the crap out of him!" and Wilson felt the flat of his brother's hand slap sharply against his face.
Wilson fell, and a sharp pain flashed in the side of his head as he did so; he'd hit it on the corner of the coffee table.
He lay on the floor for, momentarily stunned. The deep pile of the carpet tickled his cheek. He looked up, his vision slightly blurred, and saw Jonathan moving around the room, then leaving the apartment. The door slammed behind him.
Wilson felt the side of his head had become wet, and put a tentative hand up to touch it. It came away red with blood. Feeling a little weak, Wilson lay still for several minutes.
House arrived home in a sour mood, his evening with Wilson apparently down the drain. Wilson's asshole brother screwing things up, the jerk. House wondered if it would be too short notice to call the long-legged brunette from Infectious Diseases.
He didn't pursue this because he had no sooner come in the door and taken his jacket off when the phone rang.
House picked up. "Hey."
"House, he's coming to find you." Wilson sounded shaken. "Jonathan's gone out to find you. He says he's going to beat the crap out of you."
House was alarmed. "What the fuck happened?"
"He just left my place. He's drunk, House, he's not rational at all." Wilson's voice cracked slightly.
House sensed something else was wrong. "Are you alright?" he asked sharply.
"I'm fine."
"Don't lie to me, Wilson," House snapped, feeling anxiety rising in his gut. "What happened?"
"He--slapped me--it was nothing, but I fell and hit my head on the corner of the table. It's bleeding, just a bit."
House had no doubt this was an understatement. Fury balled inside him at the thought of anyone hitting, hurting, Wilson. Wilson's fucking brother being free with his fists again--if House had had Jonathan in front of him now he would have killed him. "Wilson, stay where you are, I'm coming right over."
"House, there's no need--I'm fine, honest."
"You know how serious head injuries can be. Sit down, stay still, and don't move until I get there." House moved swiftly through the room, picking up jacket and keys. "I'm on my way."
He left the house and was walking swiftly down the driveway towards his motorcycle, when someone came up from behind and punched him in the back of his head.
House felt the rush of air coming towards him at the last moment and dodged, but the blow still caught him across the ear and made him stumble. A second blow on the back made him lose his balance, and he fell to the ground. His assailant grabbed him by the arm and pulled him several feet across the ground to the alleyway round the side of the house, then kicked him hard in the stomach.
Winded and caught by surprise, House was temporarily helpless to do anything but try and roll out of the way while Wilson's brother aimed repeated kicks at his stomach and head. Jonathan was moving slowly, so House was able to evade the worst of the blows and aim a couple of kicks back, but he couldn't get quite far enough away to stand up.
Eventually Jonathan stopped, and said roughly, "You fucker, you broke up my marriage."
"Fuck off," House gasped. He propped himself up on an elbow and wondered if he could scramble onto his feet quickly enough. Jonathan kicked his arm, and House fell to the ground again.
"I've been married four years, two kids, nice home, everything fine. Then James's freaky, fucked-up, friend comes along and screws everything up. " Jonathan spat the word friend out.
"Fuck off, you cheating asshole," House hissed, and rolled swiftly to the left as Jonathan aimed a kick at his crotch this time. Shit, that was close. If he could just stand up, he was sure he could take Jonathan out...
"Do you want me to keep kicking the shit out of you?" Jonathan demanded.
"What do you want?" House panted, but Jonathan was distracted. House had dropped his jacket on the ground in the fracas, and Jonathan picked it up. A photo was poking out of the inner pocket; the photo of House and Wilson at the wedding.
Jonathan looked at it through suspicious eyes. He frowned, his brain apparently clicking through gears, and his face darkened. He looked down at House with a newly suspicious expression.
"What are you, a faggot? Is that why you hang around my brother--you trying to do him? Fucking pervert!" Jonathan screwed the photograph up into a ball and slammed his foot into House's groin. This time House couldn't move out of the way quickly enough.
House couldn't speak at all now, though he knew exactly what he would like to say--I've been doing your brother ever since I met him and he loves it. So shut the fuck up about what you don't understand, asshole. Instead he tried to breathe, stared at the crumpled photograph on the ground where Jonathan had dropped it, and wondered if he could manage to gather the strength to hit the bastard at least once.
A new voice intervened. "Jonathan!"
Jonathan looked round, and saw his brother, standing a few feet away, having just got out of his car. Wilson was as white as a sheet, except for red blood persistently trickling down from under a bandage on the side of his forehead. He looked unsteady on his feet, too. House's heart was in his mouth at the sight of the blood.
Wilson didn't look at House. Instead he concentrated on staring at his brother.
"Go home, James," Jonathan commanded.
"Jon," Wilson stepped closer. "You need to go home. Sober up. We can talk this all out in a few days' time."
"This has got nothing to do with you," Jonathan shouted, and House started to gather his strength together again.
"You've done enough damage for one day," Wilson continued, and stepped closer. "Leave it. Go home. Take some time out."
Jonathan was distracted, and House took his opportunity. He put all the effort he could into one kick at Jonathan's legs, whipping them out from under him.
As Jonathan crashed to the ground, both House and Wilson were on him, pinning him down. House grabbed Jonathan's head and brought it sharply down on the concrete with a crack. Jonathan's eyes went sideways and he slipped into unconsciousness.
"Didn't you just tell me about head injuries?" Wilson couldn't help but rebuke.
House glared at him. "I don't care if he's your brother or not, he's a fucking asshole."
House dosed himself up on the strongest painkillers he could find and had a long bath, to try and soak away the bruises on his battered body. It helped, a bit. Afterward he went to watch TV and drink brandy (for medicinal reasons, of course), but found after a while that sitting too long hurt his aching ribs, and wearing clothes rubbed on his bruises. He went to undress and lie down in bed instead, and fell asleep.
He was woken that evening by Wilson arriving. "Hey," Wilson called as he walked in the door.
"Hey," House called from the bedroom. He stretched out, and found he was still sore and smarting all over.
Wilson came in, looking pale and tired, and with a large fresh sticking bandage on the side of his head. He sat down on the side of the bed next to House.
"I left him with Laura and Laura's mom," he said. "Halfway sober and starting to feel fucking ashamed of himself, thank God."
"Huh." House turned his head to nuzzle Wilson's thigh.
Wilson sighed a little, reached down to stroke House's head, and said, "I told him whatever he might have thought he saw in the hallway, and in the photo, he hadn't seen anything, because there was nothing to see. He took it like a baby."
House hummed a little into Wilson's leg. Wilson bent down to take off his shoes (typical Wilson, being neat), then flopped down on the bed next to House. House moved forward, caught Wilson's lips neatly between his own, and sucked briefly before letting them slide away. Wilson made a small humming sound of pleasure back.
House lifted a hand to touch the sticking gauze on Wilson's head, radiating silent concern.
"Just a cut," Wilson assured him. "And what about you? I thought you might have broken a rib or something."
"No broken bones. No thanks to your brother." House moved his hand to curl around Wilson's neck. "Lot of leeway you and your family seem to give him."
Wilson was quiet for a moment, then said, "We cut him some slack."
House thought something new might be coming, and waited.
But instead Wilson just shrugged, and said lightly, "You've met my parents; you know how it is."
"You're the one living up to their expectations," House interpreted, and nodded, satisfied with this. He decided this was a good moment to plant the seed of something he wanted to pursue in future. "Well, you owe me, big time. I've had enough of your family recently to last a very long time, so it's your turn next."
"Oh?"
"I have to go see my parents this Christmas and you're coming with me."
"I don't think so," Wilson protested, with a small incredulous laugh. "I can make it up to you another way..."
He reached down and pulled back the bed sheet, and exclaimed out loud at the marks arching down House's body. House had a number of small cuts from Jonathan's boots and from rolling on the concrete, which showed up as prominent red lines. House also had a lot of bruises, mostly still pale and yellow, but some already coming up pleasantly purple. House lay back with his eyes shut while Wilson ran his hands lightly over the sore spots on House's chest, then downwards, running oh-so-gentle fingers over House's crotch.
Wilson then stopped and gasped in horror at a particularly large bruise on House's right leg, which was blacker than the rest. It stood out as a large ugly blot on House's powerful, muscled thigh.
"Jon did that?"
House took pity on him, and explained, "Actually, that one was from lacrosse this afternoon."
"Oh." Wilson touched it, tracing lightly around the edge. Then he moved down the bed, clambering carefully over House's dark thigh, and took House's cock in his mouth.
House, still a trifle sore down there, had barely begun to get hard until that moment, but the sensation of Wilson's tongue lapping gently at the tip soon changed all that. He lay back and closed his eyes, feeling Wilson's lips run up and down his shaft, feeling blood rushing to the area. Wilson cupped his balls in one hand, and traced the fingers of the other down House's ass, running delicately along House's butt cheeks, all the while carefully lapping and sucking.
He then abruptly stopped to jam a finger up House's asshole. God, Wilson was just so good. House groaned heavily, feeling his whole body twitch and jerk in response, and came a minute later, pumping hard into Wilson's mouth. Wilson, still fully dressed, fished in a pocket for a handkerchief and spat expertly.
House watched through bleary eyes as Wilson sat back on his heels, unzipped his own fly and took out his cock. He started to jerk himself off, running his hand backwards and forward. Fuck, what an awesome, glorious sight. House wondered if the sight of his bruises were providing an additional turn-on here; he kind of thought they were. Wilson, full of surprises as ever.
After a few minutes House found the strength to join in; he reached forward and wrapped his own fist around Wilson's, pumping along in unison. He then ghosted a thumb over the head of Wilson's cock, and that did it; Wilson lurched forward and came with a cry, spurting across House's bruised chest.
They lay close together in post-orgasmic exhaustion, not touching but a comfortable inch apart, and House fell asleep almost immediately
Wilson lay awake watching House long after House had gone to sleep, turning his secret over and over in his mind, silently relieved that he'd managed to keep it. He'd rarely come that close to spilling it.
Jonathan could be a complete ass. He wasn't always, it was alcohol that fueled his unpleasant side, and it was unusual to see him quite this bad. But nevertheless his opinions were deeply ingrained, drunk or sober. Wilson knew if he ever admitted to an intimate, physical relationship with House, then he'd lose his only remaining brother.
Wilson just couldn't let that happen. Because Jon was his only remaining brother. He thought of Jonathan's face, twisted in anger and fury, and then a different face--different but also the same, Jonathan's identical twin, David. They had been inseparable, once upon a time. Until the day their father had finally had enough of all the shit David had put their family through, and kicked him out, never to be seen again.
It had come as such a relief to Wilson at the time, back in high school. But the relief had curdled over the years into regret, and a nagging doubt that surely they could have done things differently somehow.
And ultimately, this was why Wilson was willing to give his remaining brother so much slack. Because his nagging doubt was Jonathan's private torment. If Wilson sometimes felt David's loss as the aching absence of something that really should be there, like a missing tooth, he knew that Jonathan felt every minute of every day that his soul had been torn in two.
END OF PART 6. TBC.
A/N: Next part: Wilson has an affair.
The story of Wilson's House family Christmas is told in Wilson the Parent Charmer: Five Times Wilson met House's Parents (and one time he didn't).
And the New Year that followed is Countdown.