Author's Note: I would like to apologize to everyone who was following this story when I abruptly stopped posting. My brain was taken over by a story that has consumed me for the last 3 years. As a result, I never got around to finishing this one. I promise that the rest of this fic has been written, and I plan on posting the remaining chapters over the next few weeks. I will not leave you hanging. I promise.
Disclaimer: Don't own. Don't sue
Chapter 4: Greg and James
It was 6:13 when House heard the key turn in the front door lock. Either the board meeting had gotten out extremely early (unlikely) or Wilson had broken several traffic laws on the way here. House smiled, and pushed himself out of the chair he was sitting in so that he was standing by the door when Wilson entered the apartment.
"You have a choice. We can either pretend that this afternoon never happened and we can sit on the couch and watch last night's episode of the L Word, or we can continue what we started. In the bedroom." His words made it clear that talking was not to be one of the options. "So… couch or bedroom?"
Wilson swallowed convulsively and seemed to be incapable of speech. House turned and began walking toward the bedroom, and behind him, he heard Wilson drop his briefcase and follow him.
Two hours later, House reluctantly returned to consciousness. He looked at the clock and estimated that he had been asleep for less than 20 minutes, but his leg was beginning to make its presence known. Damn, the Vicodin wasn't in its usual spot on the nightstand; he'd been a bit preoccupied at the time to worry about it. He tried to ignore his leg as he turned to look at the naked man in his bed. In sleep, James looked to be around twelve, all worry lines smoothed from his face and sleeping with his hand folded under his cheek. His gaze traveled lower to the sheet at James's waist, as if he had been too worn out to pull it any higher. It hid the lower half of his body from Greg's view, but it didn't matter because he was now intimately acquainted with every inch of his lover's skin.
It was strange to think that after all these years as friends, he and James were now lovers. He smiled at his thoughts; for sometime tonight they had ceased to be House and Wilson, but had become Greg and James. For so long, even in his thoughts he had kept his distance; always Wilson, never James. He'd flirted with the younger man, passing it off as a joke, knowing that nothing would ever come of his desires. Always consciously editing his stories so that Wilson would never suspect that some of the hookers were in fact men, or else he might suspect the truth behind the outrageous suggestions and innuendo. Hide the truth by making it sound like a lie. It was how he had hidden his desire for James for years. Until everything had changed this afternoon.
He cursed his leg as the pain intruded, interrupting his lazy post-coital ruminations. Damn, the Vicodin couldn't be put off any longer. He swung his legs off the bed, but realized his cane was not in its usual place next to the nightstand. He limped to the end of the bed, where he found it buried in a pile of discarded clothing. Wilson was going to have a fit when he saw the wrinkles in his shirt, but House left it where it lay, enjoying the thought of their clothing intermingling on the floor. He smirked; before today, he would have sworn that Wilson had never had a queer thought in his life, but he certainly had not shown any reticence about shedding his clothes, or helping House out of his.
He pulled on a pair of pajama bottoms, and shuffled out to the living room to find his pills. While he waited for the narcotics to kick in, he made a phone call. His leg had finally settled down to a dull ache when the doorbell rang. He picked up his wallet and went to open the door for the delivery guy, who was looking confused. "Where's the other guy?" the kid asked.
"What other guy?"
"Well, usually when you order chicken low mein, the other guy pays. He's a better tipper," the kid suggested hopefully.
"Well, given that the big tipper is naked and asleep in my bed, you're stuck with me," House explained, handing over the cash and enjoying the shocked look on the kid's face.
He closed the door and went back to the bedroom, where Wilson was beginning to stir. "Was that the door?" he asked. "I thought I heard voices."
"Dinner just arrived," explained House, sitting down on the bed next to Wilson, effectively cutting off the easiest escape route.
Wilson waited patiently, wondering what Greg was up to. He watched as his lover pulled open the bottom drawer of the nightstand and pulled out – oh good grief – a blood pressure cuff and a stethoscope. "Is this some sort of weird fetish I should know about?"
But House refused to talk to him until he finished taking the reading. "138 over 85," he reported. At Wilson's befuddled look he explained, "I had to make sure you were medically fit for further sexual activity. I assume your blood pressure is the reason you started seeing a therapist." At Wilson's nod, he asked, "is there anything else you aren't telling me? What about the fantasies?"
"Dr. Peterson's notes weren't detailed enough?" Wilson asked, trying to summon some form of exasperation.
For once, House was caught in a trap of his own making. "The thing is, I never read your file." Wilson's jaw dropped, and House continued. "She had me pegged from the minute I walked in the door. No way was she going to leave me alone anywhere near patient files. Believe me I tried."
Wilson was flabbergasted. "You lied? You let me think…" he couldn't finish the thought.
"Yeah. Everyone lies. Are you going to complain about how things worked out?"
"No, it's just…" Wilson sighed. "It's been a surprising day, that's all."
"Well, we can do something completely normal, if that will make you feel better – Chinese food and the L-word."
"As long as making out on the couch isn't completely forbidden."
Greg leered, and used the nightstand to help push himself off the bed. He tossed Wilson a pair of sweats and a Grateful Dead t-shirt. He was almost to the doorway when he casually mentioned, "by the way, I think Joe thinks we're sleeping together."
"Who the hell is Joe?"
"Delivery guy from the Wok Shop."
"His name is Steve, and why would he think we are involved?"
"I told him you were naked in my bed, but he probably didn't believe me."
Wilson shook his head. Typical House, always going for the shock value.
Like they had done so many evening, they sat on the leather couch, eating directly out of the Chinese takeout containers. When the cartons were empty, they sat side by side watching television. After a while, James moved so that he was leaning against Greg, and eventually, Greg shifted so that his arm was encircling the younger man. It was after midnight when they moved off the couch and went to bed.
