Title: Twenty Years of Stealing My Food: Part 11
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: much praise for triedunture as ever
A/N: Part of a backstory to take place over twenty years, all the way to canon. Later parts drafted and emerging slowly.
Summary: House has girlfriend problems. Wilson makes a new friend called Bonnie.
Excerpt: The only good thing about living four hours' journey away from House, Wilson thought, was that when they did meet, the sex was awesome.
Twenty Years of Stealing My Food: Part 11
Despite their divorce, Wilson managed to remain on good terms with Catherine, which he was glad about. She seemed to be getting on very well in her job and was managing to keep their apartment on her own, and he was happy that she was coping without him. They sorted out the terms of their divorce amicably over meals or drinks, and even occasionally met up as friends. Sometimes they went to the movies, occasionally to the theater.
Meanwhile, Wilson had his head down working hard; determined to finish med school as quickly and successfully as he possibly could. He spent some long lonely weekends in his small room, working his way through mountains of books and journals; memorizing, learning, studying. No wife any more, no other distractions. House was four hours away in Boston; working all hours as a junior doctor, while also juggling a demanding girlfriend who had her own ideas about how he should spend his rare leisure time.
The only good thing about living four hours' journey away from House, Wilson thought, was that when they did meet, the sex was awesome.
They could have drifted apart, but they didn't. Because it was all worth it for those occasional Friday evenings every couple of months or so. Long wearisome train journeys up to House's scruffy Boston apartment, or House arriving in New York, invariably looking completely exhausted and yet eminently fuckable. Those first nights were always aggressive, both of them just a bit too horny; barely waiting for the door to close behind them before one of them jumped the other. Sometimes they barely even bothered to shed any clothes; a couple of times Wilson found himself being fucked against the back of the couch, with pants around knees, still wearing his jacket and shoes.
Saturdays were spent eating and sleeping, discussing medicine and everything else under the sun. In the evening they sometimes went out, but more usually stayed in, and those nights were much slower. Wilson could spend what seemed like hours just lying next to House, the two of them kissing, nibbling, stroking; being kissed, nibbled and stroked. Leading to very long, very slow, fucking; Wilson luxuriating at the sensation of House's cock gliding in and out of his ass, House's stubble grazing the back of his neck; House taking it a little bit faster and harder each time, building up until the two of them were panting and almost deliriously close to orgasm, and waiting for that one--last--thrust that would take them both simultaneously over the edge.
Or they did it face to face, when Wilson usually topped; he liked to bury himself deep inside House and take his time, grinding slowly while House alternately relaxed and clenched and squirmed and eventually swore, and sometimes even cracked to the point of telling Wilson to just do it already, at which point Wilson could usually get House to beg for it. Which was always very satisfying, and it was evident to Wilson that House got a kick out of being occasionally broken like this too. House usually found some small way of reasserting dominance later on, like monopolizing all the blankets or claiming the TV remote; Wilson let him, satisfied that they both knew this was just saving face.
But the trouble with these Fridays and Saturdays was that the resulting Sundays were always clouded with eventual departure on the horizon, a four hour train journey looming for one of them; and even worse for the other, being left behind. They barely talked about it, both outwardly nonchalant; bye, see you in a few weeks? And yet each knew the other was desperately sad, and not talking about it was the only way they coped. Each such occasion was more painful than the one before, and sometimes Wilson was afraid they wouldn't meet again simply because one of them wouldn't be able to face the Sunday.
About nine months or so after he had moved out from his apartment with Cath, Wilson made another friend. He came home one evening to the shared house he now lived in to find a small dark haired woman in the hallway, struggling with two enormous suitcases. She had managed to get one half way up the stairs to the second floor, and was now sitting on the steps regaining her breath and apparently fighting back tears. Wilson didn't hesitate to carry the cases upstairs for her, for which she was pathetically grateful.
"Thank-you so much. I've had such a hard day, those cases were just the last straw. Could I offer you coffee or something?"
Wilson looked around her room; she had clearly just moved in. Bags and cases were strewn everywhere. "Why don't you have coffee with me instead?" he suggested. "My room's just downstairs. I'm James Wilson, by the way."
"I'm Bonnie," she said, large dark eyes brimming with gratitude. "Thank-you so much. I really appreciate it."
Over coffee, he asked conversationally, "So, what brings you here, you've just moved in?"
"Yes. It's been very stressful. I had to find a nice place in an awful hurry." She cradled her mug in her hands. "My boyfriend and I had such a fight, he's such a beast... I couldn't stay a moment longer... this was the only place I could find on short notice." She looked at him. "I think I fell on my feet, you're very kind."
Wilson demurred politely. He asked diffidently about the beast of a boyfriend, and was told a tale of woe about her college sweetheart quarterback, who had become insanely jealous for no reason and was now being borderline abusive. He expressed commiserations, and offered to help her in any way he could. She took him up on the latter, and Wilson found himself called on repeatedly over the next few days to change light bulbs, shift boxes, organize a new telephone line, and numerous other moving in problems.
They found common ground in that they were both from New Jersey and each had family in Trenton. They also discovered a shared appreciation for art, and started going out together at the weekends around New York museums; Wilson had managed to live in New York for more than three years without finding time to go to most of them. Bonnie knew them well, and was delighted to show him all her favorite places and all her most treasured exhibits. Wilson was pleased to have someone to share these interests with.
Along the way, they agreed solemnly that they were just friends. They weren't dating; neither of them were interested in a relationship right now. Wilson was newly divorced, after all; Bonnie was extricating herself from her relationship with the jealous quarterback.
It was late in Wilson's final year and nearing exam time when his friendship with Bonnie, and also House's relationship with Tigris, unexpectedly changed. It all started one weekday afternoon when Wilson was buried deep in past exam papers. There was a sharp knock at his door. It sounded like House--but he wasn't expecting House. House should be at work. In Boston.
He would have shouted Come in if he'd thought it was House, but as it wasn't, he got up to answer. And then it was House after all.
"What are you doing here?" Wilson said in surprise.
"Thanks for the warm welcome," House groused, stomping inside. "Seminar in New York tomorrow. The guy in my department who was supposed to be going is off sick. Acute gastroenteritis, and he calls himself an infectious diseases expert. So while he's puking his guts out, I get to go to the seminar instead. Thought I could crash here."
"Um, sure." Wilson shut the door and watched House drop his backpack on the floor and slump onto the couch. "I was just in the middle of studying , do you mind if I keep at it for a bit?"
"Sure. Go ahead. I'm working nights, I've come straight from my last shift. Might take a nap." House shrugged off his jacket and put his feet up on the couch.
Wilson went back to his desk and absorbed himself in medical terminology again. He glanced at the couch fifteen minutes later to see that House had indeed gone to sleep and was snoring gently.
Half an hour later Wilson got up to stretch his legs and House was still sleeping. Wilson wandered over to look at him. House lay on his back, one arm dangling off the couch, mouth slightly open. He looked tired--really tired. Wilson found a blanket and draped it over House, careful not to wake him.
A while later, there was another knock at his door. Wilson went to answer; it was Bonnie, returning a book she'd borrowed. Wilson thanked her. She was obviously hoping to come in and chat, so Wilson hastened to explain she couldn't.
"Can't really talk now, House has turned up, out of the blue." he explained, standing in the doorway. He kept his voice low, conscious that House was asleep. "He's in New York for a seminar."
"Your Boston buddy?" Bonnie said brightly. "The guy in the Cheers photo?"
Wilson kept the photograph of House outside the Cheers bar propped up on a high bookshelf in his room. It wasn't awfully obvious, but Bonnie had spotted it. "That's him."
"The one who's trying to help you get to Boston after med school," Bonnie clarified, and Wilson nodded. He very much wanted to do an internal medicine residency at Mass Gen, and House was doing all he could to facilitate this--helping Wilson study, passing on essential tips, exam techniques and medical mnemonics, and giving advice on his application from his inside knowledge. They didn't discuss it in words, but the prospect of Wilson coming to live in Boston was pretty much the only thing that made their occasional Sunday night partings bearable.
"You must introduce us sometime," Bonnie pressed.
Wilson wasn't keen to do this. He knew House was of the opinion that it was impossible for Wilson to have a friend of the opposite sex without it turning into something more, so had opted to say very little about Bonnie to House. "Um, absolutely. But not right now, he's asleep, crashed on my couch."
"Well, some other time." Bonnie lingered. "Speaking of Boston, I wanted to show you this." She produced a glossy leaflet and handed it to him. It was a flyer for a big exhibition of Impressionist art at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston. "You're always popping up to Boston, I thought you'd be interested."
"Absolutely." It looked like a great exhibition, all the big names. "Thank-you, that's very thoughtful. I'll definitely go next time I'm there."
"Actually," she hesitated, "I thought maybe we could go together? Next time you're going up to stay with your friend, I could come up to Boston for a night and stay in a hotel. We could meet up and go to the exhibition together. And maybe I could meet your friend, too...?"
"Um, sure." Wilson couldn't think of any reason why not. There was no fun in going to an art exhibition with House, who knew far too much about art but liked very little. Wilson had tried it before and it had never gone well. He'd only end up going on his own, so why not go with Bonnie? And he supposed Bonnie would have to meet House at some point. "Yes, that's a great idea. Look, I'll tell you when I'm next going to Boston and we can sort something out."
She left, content with that. Wilson shut the door and came back into the living room to find that House had woken up.
"New girlfriend?" House inquired through a yawn.
"Just a friend. Returning a book." Wilson waved the book as evidence. He perched on the couch next to House and ran an affectionate hand through House's hair.
"Yeah, right." House rubbed his eyes and leaned his head against Wilson's hand. "You should be in demand--cute, single--"
"I don't think being divorced helps," Wilson pointed out.
"It's been what, nearly a year? Surely you're due a rebound fuck or two." House leaned on his elbows and pushed himself upright a few inches.
"I'm really not thinking about that sort of thing right now," Wilson said firmly. "Anyway, I think her quarterback boyfriend might have something to say about it." He omitted to mention that the quarterback was now an ex.
"Not the sort of thing that's stopped you in the past," House countered, but Wilson's comment had appeased him, and there was no heat in it.
"How's your girlfriend, anyway?" Wilson asked, feeling the need to retort in kind. "Tigris? Still going out with her?"
House grimaced. "You'll need to buy me a few stiff whiskeys before I talk about that."
Interesting. Wilson raised his eyebrows. "All right. Give me another hour to work on this."
"Done." House slumped back on the couch and pulled the blanket over his head.
House had woken up by late evening, and they went out for a couple of beers. Then they had dinner, because Wilson insisted that they eat something, and House got through most of an accompanying bottle of wine. Then more drinks, tequila shots this time, with salt licked off the back of a hand between each shot. By 1 AM they were in a club, which had seemed like a good idea at the time House suggested it, music reverberating through the floorboards and hot sweaty bodies pounding the dance floor all around.
Several times during the evening Wilson thought about mentioning the seminar House was supposed to be going to the next day, but didn't think it would make any difference. There was something bothering House, something to do with Tig: House had come out to get blasted, and there was nothing Wilson could do about it except mitigate the worst effects as best he could. Wilson knew he was pretty drunk himself, but had deliberately kept a few drinks behind House for both their sakes.
House had staggered off to the bathroom, and while Wilson was waiting for him, leaning against a high table, a woman materialized beside him saying, "Hey."
"Er, hey," Wilson said, smiling automatically at her.
"Would you like to dance?" she asked, batting long eyelashes at him. She was blonde and attractive, and wearing a tight top that showed a lot of cleavage.
"I would," Wilson said, with as a regretful a tone as he could manage. "But I need to stay here and look out for my friend, he's pretty out of his head--he's over there."
House was weaving his way back across the floor towards them. Miraculously, he had bought drinks--the first he'd have bought all evening, Wilson reckoned. The only too obvious explanation for that, judging from the size of the glasses, was that House had decided to switch to whiskey.
"Well," she said, taking rejection with a smile. "If you're coming back here some time without him, give me a call." She fished a pen and a Post-It note out of her bag, scribbled down a phone number, and handed it to him. Wilson took it, to be polite, and nodded thanks; she smiled at him and vanished.
"Wilson," House said, arriving and putting the whiskey glasses down on the table. "I leave you on your own for five minutes and you've already scored."
Wilson put the phone number inside his wallet, and discovered House had somehow picked his pocket and removed all the remaining bills. So much for buying his own drinks. Annoyed, Wilson decided this was a good moment to ask, "Weren't you going to tell me about your girlfriend?"
Apparently House had finally reached the alcoholic tipping point where he was willing to talk. "That fucking bitch," he said unexpectedly.
Wilson blinked. "You've split up, then."
House laughed, a hollow sound. "Not that simple. Never that simple, with her." He downed most of his glass. "About a month ago she started seeing her ex again. But somehow we're still having sex."
Wilson tried to get his befuddled brain around this concept. "Um... so this is what, an open relationship?"
"She basically was going to dump me to go back to her bastard of an ex-boyfriend... fucking douchebag, with a penis substitute car." House almost spat with contempt. "But he treats her like shit. So she treats him like shit, and one of the ways she does that is to keep on having sex with me."
"And you're OK with that?" Wilson was feeling his way in the dark here.
"Do I look like I'm OK?" House demanded. "At first I thought it had its upside. Sex without worrying about the relationship stuff, great, isn't that nirvana or something? But it's been going on for weeks now, and I have no idea what's in her fucking head anymore."
"Have you tried... talking to her?" Wilson felt stupid, but had to say it.
"She's not one for talking about stuff." House took a gulp out of Wilson's glass. Wilson thought about the mixture of beer, wine and tequila sloshing around in House's stomach, and wondered what effect whiskey on top would have.
"Are you... in love with her?" Wilson asked, hoping that House wouldn't remember this conversation tomorrow.
"No I am not fucking in love with her. I am fucking in lust with her," House stated.
Wilson decided he could understand this. "So... is it really that bad? Presumably she'll get fed up with you or him in the end?"
"Wilson." House put Wilson's empty glass down. "I'm working nights. I have hardly slept a wink for weeks, because she's always popping up at strange times and dragging me places, and I never know when this is gonna be. It's affecting my job because I'm tired and I can't concentrate. Sometimes days go by, and I don't hear from her, and I think maybe that's it, kind of a shame but probably for the best, and then she's back. And next thing we're in the weirdest fucking places, doing some shit--and its fun the first time, but it always has to be more daring than the last time for her, more of a thrill--"
"What sort of shit?" Wilson had a bad feeling about this.
House shook his head. "She's a bit too fond of the white powder, to be honest."
Wilson froze, all amusement suddenly dropping away. "House. You're kidding.
"Oh, don't go all moral on me now," House groaned. "I'm just saying--"
Wilson grabbed House's arm and pushed up his shirt-sleeve.
"No needles," House said immediately.
"Because it's going up your nose instead," Wilson said viciously, and smacked House's arm. "House, you're such an idiot. This is so not worth it."
"Wilson, take a happy pill and relax," House snapped, and Wilson was now so angry that he couldn't look at House anymore, and just turned and walked away.
He left the club, and stepped out into the cool night air, and breathed deeply. Wilson knew House liked to get high, and tried hard not to argue about this because it didn't happen that often, and when it did House would say, what the fuck is your problem? to which Wilson would have to steel himself not to say, I saw what this did to my brother, you jackass, don't you dare put me through that again… Wilson didn't want to risk that conversation.
He looked around for a cab and wondered if there was any way House could find his way home on his own.
"Wilson." House came stumbling down the steps after him. Wilson stopped and let him catch up. "What the fuck?"
"You're an ass," Wilson said shortly, and waved for a cab.
"No need to go off the deep end like this, Christ," House growled, and swayed on his feet.
"You're a fool," Wilson grabbed House's arm to keep him upright. "Listen to yourself. You're a doctor. You're intelligent. You should know better than this."
He didn't expect an answer from House; he expected more argument. But instead House swayed again, and clutched at Wilson's arm, and Wilson saw he had turned green. Wilson hastily pulled House to one side of the steps, just far enough out of the way before House threw up spectacularly.
And because House needed him, Wilson stood and waited, one hand on House's back, until the beer, wine, tequila and whiskey combo had finally stopped their combustion. He then sat House down on the steps to recover for a few minutes, handing House a handkerchief to wipe his face. After a few minutes, when House was able to stand, Wilson managed to get them into a cab.
Back home, Wilson put House to bed on the couch--he really drew the line at House sharing his bed after all that--and placed a bucket next to him.
House, who had barely said a word since being sick, mumbled something unintelligible just as Wilson was about to turn off the light.
Wilson took his hand off the switch and came to crouch next to House. "What was that?"
"I can't seem to say no to her," House mumbled, and peered up at Wilson through bleary eyes. "It's funny; I always thought you were the one led by your dick."
Wilson smiled, a little, and left House for the night.
Next morning, House actually made it to his seminar, although only after Wilson dragged him off the couch, stuck him under the shower and forced coffee down his throat. Which was painful but necessary, as House reluctantly acknowledged to himself, as he suspected he might have been fired if he hadn't shown up at all. It was a rather perfunctory attendance as he arrived late and left early. He thought he could get away with it though, as anybody who saw him there would have agreed he looked like death warmed over. With luck he could even blame it on his colleague with gastroenteritis.
He headed back to Wilson's room afterwards, downed a handful of Advil for his raging headache (why Wilson couldn't keep some real painkillers around the place, House had no idea), and crashed on the couch for a few hours. When he woke up, it was late and Wilson was home, sitting at the table, deep in books.
House would have liked to have turned over and gone back to sleep, but instead hoisted himself up and went to sit at the table, trying to look as demure as possible. He wasn't entirely sure how Wilson was going to react to him.
Wilson looked up at him blandly and said, "Good seminar?"
"Waste of time," House said, and added hurriedly lest Wilson regret getting him there that morning, "Good thing I went, though. Friend of my boss was there, he'd have said if I hadn't turned up, and I would have been in deep shit."
Wilson nodded.
House drummed his fingers on the table and asked, "Did you phone her? The girl in the club. Who gave you her number."
He watched Wilson compute that yes, House did remember their conversation in the club the previous night. Wilson sighed a little, and said, "No."
"You should," House said, and watched Wilson raise a bushy eyebrow. "You should start dating again."
"And you," Wilson countered, "should get out of your miserable, self-destructive relationship right now. However hot the sex is."
House sighed this time, looked at the floor and didn't reply.
Wilson's expression softened a little. He leaned forward and touched House's hand. "Hey."
House took Wilson's hand, gladdened by the touch. "I'll try," he muttered.
"Do try," Wilson said sincerely, and squeezed House's hand. "How are you feeling, anyway?"
"Peachy." House felt his stomach turn a little at the question. He had eaten a large bacon and fried egg sandwich earlier and kept it down, although the thought of it now made him feel queasy again. "I just need more sleep."
Wilson's expression said he was more concerned than he felt able to say. "House, tomorrow's Friday, why don't you just stay here for the weekend?"
"Can't." There was nothing House would have liked better. "Have to go back to Boston tomorrow. Have to be back to do the Friday night shift."
"Surely you could call in sick..."
"No. I'm rostered all nights at the moment, have to do Saturday night too. I skived off last weekend, Dr. Rusch will have my hide if I do it again." The thought of going back to work brought on a wave of exhaustion. House stood up and moved back towards the couch. "I have to get some more sleep."
Wilson sat back in his chair, apparently thinking. House flopped down on the couch and pulled the blanket around himself again. Wilson then announced, "I'll come back to Boston with you."
House peeked out from the blanket, surprised. "I won't be around much. Gotta work at night and sleep during the day."
"I know. I'll bring some work. It'll be a change of scene, do me good, I've been spending a lot of time here, going a bit stir crazy." Wilson waved an arm across the table, spread with books and papers. "Anyway, there's an exhibition I want to go to at the museum."
"Fine." House yawned, and closed his eyes. If Wilson wanted to play the protective mother hen for a couple of days, House had no objection. His apartment would probably get cleaned, and maybe his kitchen cupboards filled too.
They were on the train halfway to Boston the following day before Wilson remarked casually to House that his friend Bonnie was coming down to Boston on the Saturday, to go to the exhibition with him.
"Bonnie?" House said suspiciously. "You've kept this very quiet." He put two and two together and swiftly made four, then eight, then sixteen. "She's the one at the door the other day. With the book. You said she had a quarterback boyfriend."
"She does," Wilson said firmly. "Well, she did. He was a brute and they split up... It's irrelevant, anyway. We're just friends."
House didn't say anything, just waited for Wilson to start protesting too much.
"Neither of us wants a relationship, House. It's too soon after my divorce, too soon since she split up with her ex," Wilson immediately fell into the trap. "We just like each other's company. She's a nice person. We've got a lot in common, she's from Jersey, we both like art museums--
"Did I ask you to tell me about her?" House said, in a bored tone. Wilson shut up like a clam, and House shut his eyes and pretended to go to sleep. The pretense swiftly became reality, and he snored through the rest of the journey on Wilson's shoulder.
Back at House's apartment that evening, House left for work and Wilson settled himself comfortably down on the couch with a stack of lecture notes. He was soon absorbed by it, and the sound of a key turning in the front door only a couple of hours later came as a real shock. It couldn't be House, it was far too early--who else would have a key--?
The girlfriend, of course. And as expected, Tigris stepped inside. She stopped short at the sight of him. "Oh! Hello. James, isn't it?"
"Uh, yeah, that's right. Hello, Tigris." They'd met a few times over the last year, but always only briefly.
"Greg not here?" she asked. She came inside, put down her purse and shrugged off her jacket.
"No, he's working the night shift. He won't be back until the morning..."
"Shame. I've been stood up, I was hoping for some company." Tigris put her head on one side and looked at him. She looked casual but dynamite in tight jeans and a red sweater. "You want to come out for a drink?"
"No," Wilson said hastily, and gestured towards the papers around him. "I'm studying... I've got exams soon... really can't go out..."
"Well, how about I join you here for a little while." Tigris headed into the kitchen and returned with a bottle of wine and two glasses. "Just for a quick one?"
It was impossible to refuse without being rude, and there was no call to be rude. Wilson accepted a glass of wine and was careful to drink it slowly. She sat in an armchair, long legs swung over one of the arms, and chatted merrily to him about movies, books, work. It was the first time Wilson had actually talked to her for any length of time, and he found himself warming to her despite himself. She might be screwing up House's life but... he could see why House liked her. And not just for the obvious.
"You were just finalizing your divorce when I last saw you," she said at one point, running a fingertip around the edge of her wine glass.
"That's right," Wilson confirmed. "It's all over and done with now."
"Isn't it a shame," she said. "Greg's got that photograph of the two of you at your wedding, both of you so cute in your tuxes. You look so... happy in that. Such a shame it all had to go wrong."
Wilson gulped a little: he wasn't at all sure where House kept that photo. Nowhere obvious on display: it must be someplace fairly private.
It was midnight when she drained the last of the bottle and said, "I think I'll crash here tonight. You don't mind, do you?"
"Um, of course not." Like he could say anything else.
"I'm just wondering if you mind if I take the bedroom." Tigris lowered a long set of eyelashes in a mischievous wink. Wilson felt his cheeks go pink; she was referring to how they'd first met, when she'd found him asleep in House's bed.
"Of course not. I'll be sleeping on the couch," Wilson said, very firmly.
She unwound herself from the armchair and took the bottle and glasses back into the kitchen. Wilson stacked all his books and papers on the floor, and hesitated over bedding: he had not, of course, been intending to sleep on the couch. He recollected that House kept an old sleeping bag in his closet: that would do. Wilson went into the bedroom and found it on the top shelf.
He reached up, pulled the sleeping bag down, along with an old spare pillow, and turned around to find Tigris standing only a few inches away.
"You don't have to sleep on the couch," she said, her voice low, and Wilson smelled violets and lavender, felt her breath on his face, saw the outline of nipples standing out from that red sweater.
"Uh. Yes I do," he said, and hated that his voice had suddenly gone hoarse. He was glad of the large armful of sleeping bag and pillow keeping them apart.
"You can sleep in here. We don't have to... do anything," she said. "We could just carry on talking. I enjoyed our talk just now, didn't you?"
For a wild stupid moment Wilson seriously considered this as an option, then mercifully, sanity prevailed. "I did, but I really must get some sleep now, and so should you. I'll be on the couch--"
He bolted for the door and didn't look back.
He settled himself down in the sleeping bag on the couch for the night, uneasily aware of Tigris in the bedroom, rather afraid she might come sneaking out to join him in the middle of the night. Fortunately she didn't, and after a couple of hours of fretting and trying to get rid of his hard-on by mentally reciting his way through all the bones of the body, Wilson eventually managed to fall asleep.
The next morning Wilson was poking around in House's kitchen, wondering what to make for breakfast and whether Tigris would want anything, when he heard the front door slam: House was home.
Wilson came out into the living room from the kitchen at the exact same moment as Tigris came out from the bedroom: House, standing looking tired and drawn, looked from one to the other in speechless astonishment.
"Hey, Greg," Tigris said brightly. "Sorry to miss you last night. I crashed here, hope you don't mind. James kept me company." She was fully dressed, and walked over to the door. "I have to go, I've got a tennis lesson at eleven. I'll try and catch you later."
She picked up her purse and jacket, kissed the still dumbfounded House on the mouth, turned and blew a cheeky kiss in Wilson's direction, and left.
House then recovered his voice and demanded, "What the fuck?"
"She turned up here last night, and made a pass at me," Wilson said bluntly, figuring House really ought to know.
"Surprise surprise," House said, then asked abruptly, "So, did you fuck her?"
"No!" Wilson was indignant that House would even wonder. "What do you take me for?"
"Oh come off it, Wilson!" House snapped. "She's hot, she likes you, you've never been able to keep it in your pants--"
"She's your girlfriend, Christ!"
"God, have I finally discovered where Jimmy Wilson draws the line?" House drawled.
Wilson was speechless with indignation. As he stood wondering how to respond, he saw House's eye run over the couch, with the rumpled sleeping bag and pillow at one end.
"You slept in my old sleeping bag," House observed, a note of amusement in his voice.
"Yes." Wilson realized with relief that House believed him. Thank fuck for that.
House shrugged off his jacket and kicked off his shoes. "I've always wondered what it would be like to have sex in that sleeping bag. With someone else, that is."
Wilson frowned, working this out. "You mean... you've jerked off in there?" He grimaced.
"Of course I have," House said briskly. "I've had that sleeping bag since I was fourteen, it's been all over the world and saw a lot of adolescent juices flow.--Oh relax, Wilson, it's been washed. A couple of times, anyway. Over the years. "
Wilson covered his eyes with a hand. "Thank you for that information, House."
House walked across the room, reached out and hooked an arm around Wilson's shoulders. "You know, sharing a sleeping bag is a recommended survival technique. If you're stranded on a mountain in the snow with someone else, you should both crawl into the same sleeping bag to keep warm, stave off hypothermia. It could save your life."
"I'm sure that could come in very useful." Wilson looked down at the sleeping bag. "Although I don't actually think more than one person could fit in there."
"I think maybe it's time to find out," House responded, and Wilson broke into a smile, and House leaned forward, and they kissed. House's lips were surprisingly gentle: Wilson read a small apology into it, sorry I doubted you. He kissed back, suddenly wholehearted, and fast recovering the erection he had so painfully willed away the previous night.
House eventually pulled back and said, a trifle husky, "Sleeping bag sex ahoy. No clothes, there's not going to be room for anything surplus to requirements..."
Wilson pulled off his T-shirt and jeans obediently, dropped his boxer shorts, and climbed into the sleeping bag. It felt a little strange to be naked inside it, and the thought of an adolescent House masturbating in there gave him a sudden thrill.
It also felt very snug. "There's just no way you'll fit in here too, House."
"We'll see about that." House stripped swiftly, revealing he too was already erect: Wilson's own cock surged with interest at the sight. House knelt on the floor next to the couch and reached for the zipper on the top of the sleeping bag. Wilson closed his eyes as House unzipped it very slowly and gently from top to bottom: it sounded just like a fly being undone, except that the sound went on and on and on, giving him the impression of being stripped utterly bare in one long glorious movement.
Then House clambered in next to him, facing away from him. "Gotta be spoons, to fit together--"
House pushed himself back against Wilson, and Wilson gasped involuntarily as his chest met House's back and his cock pushed upward, resting between House's ass cheeks. Wilson had one arm upwards, the other tucked rather awkwardly downwards, as the noise of the zipper started again. House pulling it carefully upwards this time, sucking the sleeping bag closed around both their bodies.
"You want to watch that--" Wilson couldn't help but say, as the zipper crept up towards House's crotch.
"Like I hadn't thought of that!" House eased the zipper up, shielding his groin with his other hand. And suddenly the temperature rocketed by one hundred degrees, as they really were locked together inside the sleeping bag, rammed up alongside each other.
There was no room to thrust, no room to do anything except rock and press, and only then if they rocked together so the sleeping bag moved with them. Wilson pushed against House, and House pushed back, and they built up a rhythm. Wilson's face was pressed up against the back of House's neck. Unable to do anything with his hands, he nipped at House's skin, chewing at the triangle of hair on the nape of House's neck as it tickled his nose.
The taste of hair and sweat sent waves of desire down towards Wilson's groin. The body heat all over and around them was intense, and especially around his cock, where it was hotter than Wilson thought he could bear for very long. He could feel House taking shallow, panting breaths, trying to wriggle where there was no space to wriggle, trying to jerk his cock up against fabric and metal teeth.
Heat and friction and sheer proximity, fuck, Wilson felt his cock swelling, engorging, this wasn't going to last long. Wilson shut his eyes, feeling the fabric of the sleeping bag clinging tightly to his back, and House's naked sweating skin and jutting shoulderblades pressed against his chest; House's ass cushioning his crotch, House's thighs pushed up against his own thighs. Wilson ground his teeth in a huge effort to stop himself biting House's shoulder, and came with a small sticky explosion up against House's tailbone. A minute later House squirmed too in orgasm, then his whole body went limp.
They lay there for no more than a few seconds before Wilson felt the heat becoming unbearable; he muttered, "Too freaking hot!--" and House reached out and yanked down the zipper. Air rushed blissfully all around them and they pulled apart with some relief.
Wilson breathed gratefully, but the feeling of suffocation didn't immediately lift. It had somehow been almost too good; so intense, so powerful that it scared him. He felt an abrupt need for breathing space--and not only from the confines of the sleeping bag.
"Might finally be time to get a new sleeping bag," House said rather ruefully, holding up his right hand and shaking it. Wilson peered over House's shoulder and saw one side of the bag was stuck firmly to House's hand.
"Gross," Wilson said, thankful for the moment of lightness to detract from the sudden cloud of dread he had felt settle on him. Wilson then found he was himself rather stuck to House's ass; he started to laugh, and House joined in.
The following day Bonnie arrived in Boston. House met her for the first time over a late lunch with Wilson; House took very little notice of her, indeed hardly spoke to her before he dashed off to go to work in answer to a page. Wilson and Bonnie went on to visit the exhibition, which they both enjoyed very much.
Over dinner and a few glasses of wine afterwards, Bonnie told Wilson the latest news of her ex, he had started making heavy breathing phone calls to her answering machine. Duly concerned for her, Wilson walked Bonnie back to her hotel, and went back up to her room with her for coffee.
He was startled when it turned out she wasn't interested in coffee at all, but rather in throwing her arms around him and kissing him, hard. But his cock responded swiftly; he remembered the desire he'd felt for some space, some room, and he wasn't inclined to resist. Because being with House, and only House, was simultaneously the most splendid and exhilarating and yet also the most terrifying and daunting place to be.
END OF PART 11
TBC. Next part: Wilson gets married, again.
A/N: You can read about Bonnie's first meeting with House in When House Met The Wilson Wives.