Nothing Left to Lose (2/2)
It was dark by the time they emerged onto the street, Wilson a little more unsteadily than House, even taking House’s innate mobility disadvantages into consideration. He wasn’t all that drunk, but he wasn’t exactly a poster child for AA either. House was just hoping he could support his own damn weight across the street.
Right now, House’s thoughts were on getting Wilson and himself back home. He’d decided to throw Wilson on his apartment doorstep and just drive the car back home; Wilson could damn well work out how to get it back later on. It was the least he could do, after all House had done for him today. He’d traded in clinic duty for corpses and weak beer with a side order of moroseness, and for once he wasn‘t entirely sure he had come out on the right side of the bargain.
“Come on,” he said, in the tone people reserve for children and drunks, “let’s get you home.”
He’d reached the driver’s door only to realize Wilson was there as well, probably operating on instinct. He turned around to head him off at the pass.
“If you weren’t driving before, you’re really not driving now.”
“Wasn’t planning on driving.”
“Oh?”
One of Wilson’s hands came to rest on House’s hipbone; the other pressed against his chest, pushing him gently against the car. His cane made a hollow thump against the metal as he shifted instinctively to keep his balance.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Not giving a damn. For once.”
Wilson’s face was way too close, and House could smell the scotch on his breath just before Wilson’s mouth closed on his. He pulled back a little, but Wilson was insistent, and House gave in to it, curiosity getting the better of him. A memory of Stacy flashed across his mind, but vanished as quickly as it had come. Wilson’s presence was real and solid, warm in the chill of the early evening, and it was a good kiss, as long as House didn‘t think too much about it, and so he didn‘t. Until it stopped.
“We’re in the middle of the road,” he pointed out, as though this were the thing that mattered.
“Yes,” said Wilson, way too calmly, and one hand started to make its way to House’s left thigh.
“Your hand is on my leg.” It seemed somehow vitally important to House that he clarify the situation for both of them.
“Yes.”
“Ooo-kay then.”
The hand made its way to the front of House’s jeans and began stroking him. House felt an almost clinical detachment as his body responded automatically to the stimulus. There was definitely something wrong with this picture, but his brain was having difficulty pinpointing exactly what it was. He cast a slightly alarmed glance up and down the street, but it was empty under the streetlights, and Wilson’s body was shielding his actions from random passersby anyway. That wasn’t it.
His mouth opened again to ask Wilson once again what he thought he was doing, but he had to concede the answer was fairly obvious. The hand was making it hard to think.
Wilson seemed to sense his confusion, and kissed him again.
“Wait. This…This is one of the things you want?” he finally managed. Ah, that was good, his brain was finally catching up. Although he was still having some difficulty grasping the implications. “Couldn’t you just buy a sports car like everyone else?”
There was no answer. Hands reached for the button of his jeans, and a rising panic finally managed to clear his head and quell his erection, at least for the moment. He removed Wilson’s prying hand gently, but firmly, with his own. Now that he had breathing space to think, House could sense the uncertainty beneath Wilson’s boldness. He knew if he said no, that it would end right here. Even with the assistance of alcohol, there was no way that Wilson would force the situation. But it was more than clear that no matter what House decided, Wilson had already stepped over the line. He was just waiting to see if House would join him there.
“Not here,” he managed.
“So does that mean… elsewhere?” The intensity in Wilson‘s eyes was making him slightly dizzy, and House felt the shock of desire course through him again, even without Wilson‘s hands on him. He was sure there were also moral and ethical elements to this, and he should probably sit down and think through them all, but Wilson was right there, and he was offering. If he wanted him. And he found, in a corner of his mind completely divorced from rational behaviour, that he did want him. Maybe he always had. He would have to think about that later, as well.
“Yes.”
A smile tugged at the edge of Wilson’s mouth. It made House want to kiss him again, but he resisted for the sake of what dignity he still possessed. Finally, Wilson turned away, and House drew in a long, shuddering breath. He got into the car, and waited until Wilson had settled himself and shut the door.
“So, where are we going?” House asked. He wasn’t entirely sure at that point if the question was literal or metaphorical. Or both.
“Not your place. Not my place.” Another tilt of the head from Wilson. “That way.”
“Just once, it‘d be nice if at least one of us knew what we were doing.”
***
The motel’s fluorescent sign stood out garishly against the evening sky. Wilson had made no attempt to touch him during the drive, but House seemed to be hyperaware of every turn of his head, every slight shift in position. He glanced over once or twice, but Wilson was always staring into the night. They had passed a convenience store on the way, and Wilson had made him stop and wait while he went inside. As Wilson’s back disappeared through the sliding doors, the reality of the situation started to sink in, and House had a sudden vision of driving away and leaving him there. This wasn’t a Wilson he was entirely comfortable with. This Wilson made him nervous. Instead, he dry swallowed a Vicodin and waited, and soon Wilson was back, and in the car again, and then there was the motel sign lighting up the highway.
House waited in the car while Wilson went into the light of the badly whitewashed office, returning with a key dangling from a piece of battered orange plastic.
“I asked for a first floor room.” A tilt of his head indicated House’s leg.
“There you go, caring again.” House’s voice sounded strained in his own ears.
Wilson got back into the car and they drove down in front of the long, low building, through the patches of light and dark. Most of the rooms seemed to be occupied, even though it was still relatively early. House parked in front of the room. He left the safe cocoon of the vehicle somewhat reluctantly, but Wilson showed no such hesitation. By the time House had made his way to the door, Wilson was inside, and the lights were already on.
Wilson ambushed him the moment he walked in the door. The door was shut and the chain latched behind him, and he had barely an instant to take in the room before Wilson was kissing him again. There was very little to see, anyway. It was a little dingy, the carpet faded to some indistinguishable color, and the bedspread a washed out shade of blue. The bed took up most of the space nearest to the door, and there were the usual hotel accessories - a couple of lamps, a small TV, a cheap wooden desk. The overhead light was on, but it barely helped. The sodium arc glow of the parking lot guide lights filtering through the thin, closed curtains seemed almost as strong as the interior lighting.
House felt that he could deal with the situation as long he didn‘t think too deeply. But the problem was that, even now, there were too many opportunities for stray thoughts to intrude. The kissing was fine, and the subsequent groping, but then he had to sit down on the edge of the bed and take off his shoes, and socks, and watch Wilson do the same, and the absurdity of the situation almost overcame him. The feeling of unreality only grew stronger as he watched Wilson remove the courtesy towels and soaps from the bedspread and put them neatly on the desk. Wilson’s quiet deliberation was unnerving.
After they were done with the footwear, and the coats, and Wilson’s tie, Wilson finally pushed him, none too gently, onto the bed. His head fell back against worn chenille, and then Wilson was straddling him, cloth rubbing against cloth, and the distracting, maddening heat was back. House was grateful for it. Wilson’s lips were slightly parted, his eyes dark with arousal. It was a side to Wilson he’d never seen, and House was fascinated despite himself. He ran a hand down Wilson’s arm, just to check that he was real. Wilson responded by sliding his hands up under House’s T-shirt, and House shifted enough to allow the T-shirt to be pulled over his head.
House lay back again as Wilson made his way down his chest in a series of kisses and sharp nips, his hands stroking House‘s skin wherever he could reach.
“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do this,” Wilson said at last, staring into House‘s eyes as though daring him to protest.
For once in his life, House was at a loss for words. There were so few people in his life who had genuinely liked him, and even then, most of them had wanted things from him he couldn’t give. Wilson had seen him at his very worst, and still wanted him despite everything. It made House feel humbled in a way he really didn’t want to talk about.
“Well, get on with it,” he said, his response coming just a little too slowly and lacking most of the sharpness he had intended. Wilson smiled, reading his expressions all too well.
Wilson turned his attention once more to House’s chest and stomach, hands reaching for the button of House’s jeans, and this time House let him continue. He groaned and closed his eyes as Wilson’s hands finally freed his cock from his jeans. Then there was a sudden moist heat, and House’s eyes flew open again, long enough to take in the sight of Wilson with his mouth around House’s cock, his eyes intent. His arousal flared sharply, and he clenched his hands into the covers, not wanting to come too soon.
There was a period when his thoughts fled again, as Wilson lapped, and sucked, and there was only the moist heat, the building pleasure in his groin. He groaned again as Wilson released him from his mouth before he could come.
“Bastard,” he muttered, craning his neck to see what was happening.
He was dimly aware of Wilson removing the rest of his own clothing, and then Wilson’s hands reached out to strip his lower half. Instinctively he reached out to slow Wilson’s progress. The thought of his leg suddenly bothered him. It was ridiculous after what they had just been doing, and it wasn’t like Wilson hadn’t seen his scars before, but at that moment House needed to feel in control of himself again before allowing that particular intimacy. His hand went to his right thigh protectively. Wilson stopped, resting his own hand on top of House‘s.
“It’s OK,” Wilson said, and House believed him, but held his hand in place a little longer before letting go.
He allowed Wilson to slip his jeans and boxers off, lifting awkwardly to help. The sense of unreality was beginning to creep back in. He remembered just that afternoon sitting on the little three-wheeled stool in Exam Room One, examining an eight-year-old’s sore throat, when Wilson had tapped on the door and offered him a Cuddy-approved early out. He was already halfway out the clinic doors before he even bothered asking how Wilson had managed it. And after that there had been really no easy way out. Or at least, none that he had wanted to take. Since then the afternoon and evening had been one long surreal blur. Now he was lying naked in a motel room somewhere off US Highway 1, and Wilson… he almost couldn’t bring himself to look at Wilson. He had to remind himself that it was the same Wilson, the Wilson he had always harassed and teased and stolen food from. Who just a minute ago had wrapped his mouth around House’s cock and was now staring at him intently like an apparition, all pale skin and dark hair and eyes, his own cock half-hard against his body in the bad light. House felt like a stranger in a strange land, with this other-Wilson his only guide. Exam Room One seemed a very, very long way away.
For the first time, he reached out for Wilson, drew him down into another kiss, feeling the weight and the warmth of him, the long slide of skin against skin from shoulder to hip to groin. He murmured against Wilson’s mouth, nonsense words, saying nothing, although not without meaning. Wilson was stroking his chest, his leg, his scar, with gentle, reassuring hands and House finally began to relax. It was going to be all right, after all. Wilson’s hand closed around his cock again, stroking it, stroking them both, and then stopped, before indicating that House should turn over.
Suddenly, the anxiety was back in the pit of his stomach. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he had known what Wilson wanted from him, known it since Wilson had asked him to stop across from the store. He knew that tonight Wilson wanted to feel in control, even if it was just an illusion. He had never done this with anyone, and he trusted Wilson, but he wasn’t entirely sure he was ready. While he was way too old for the blushing virgin act, some things just never got any easier.
“House?” Wilson asked, the question in his voice obvious, and it was there again, the tone that was both an order and a plea.
Reluctantly, House obeyed, and a moment later felt Wilson’s hands digging into his shoulders, paying particular attention to the tightness he always got on the right side from using the cane. Wilson continued with massaging the long muscles in his back, and House could feel the brush of Wilson’s erection as his hands worked their way slowly down to his thighs and all the way to his feet. Gradually, House began to relax again.
Wilson finally stopped and ran one hand over his back, waiting for House to fill the silence.
“You bought condoms, didn’t you?” House said finally. “And lubricant.” It was not really a question. He knew perfectly well what Wilson had been buying.
“Yes, on both counts.”
“Then… OK.” He turned his head just enough to catch Wilson’s eye.
“You sure?”
“Hey, you bought the things,” he snapped, turning away again. He was aroused, and curious, and nervous, and while he could cope with the other two, the nervousness annoyed him.
He felt Wilson take his hand away, and heard, rather than saw, Wilson’s movements around the room as he rescued the items from wherever it was he’d put them. Then Wilson was kneeling beside him, and putting what felt like cold cream on his ass. He almost yelped.
“You could have warned me!”
“Oh, shut up and try to relax.” He could hear the smile in Wilson’s voice, and felt suddenly better. Still strange, but better.
House tensed at the first slippery intrusion of Wilson‘s fingers, but Wilson was slow and gentle, and House gradually began to enjoy the sensations. If he remembered his anatomy classes, relaxation was going to be key. Wilson’s fingers moved in a little further, and then a sudden electricity rippled up his spine, and he gasped involuntarily. This was not something completely unfamiliar to him, but he had forgotten how much of a kick the prostate had in it. Wilson’s fingers continued to open him up, stroking him gently, but having gotten over the initial trepidation House was getting more impatient by the minute.
“So is this going to be sex, or a prostate exam?” he growled.
Wilson responded by planting a quick kiss on the back of his neck and withdrawing his fingers. He helped House with the pillows, positioning them to lift his hips a little and avoid too much strain on his leg. There were the small rippling sounds of plastic and foil and House turned his head to watch Wilson give his erection a few quick strokes before unrolling the condom.
Initially there was only pain, and then a sensation of fullness that House wanted to instinctively pull away from. He forced himself to relax, breathing through it as Wilson pushed into him more deeply. Then finally, there was the pleasure again, acid-sharp with hints of pain at the edges, and this time it brought with it a blissfully complete absence of coherent thought. His world reduced to the sound of Wilson’s harsh breathing above him, his hands digging into House’s hips, the sweat-slick running between their bodies, the slide of his own erection against the bed, and the almost unbearable sensations that fed his arousal with every second. Before very long, he was meeting Wilson stroke for stroke, shamelessly, if a little unevenly. Wilson’s thrusts began to increase in tempo, and a soft litany began issuing from his lips, from which House could pick out his name being taken in vain with increasing frequency and volume.
“House… House… Oh God, House!”
It might have been comical under other circumstances but House was in no mood to laugh as his hands clutched at the covers and his orgasm shuddered through him, driven by Wilson‘s transparent need. He felt Wilson pushing more desperately into him, crying out, his body shaking with effort, before finally becoming still. Wilson’s warm weight pressed into his back, and the room suddenly seemed very quiet despite the rasp of their combined breathing. Gradually, the world expanded to include his surroundings. House shifted a little as he began to feel the first warning cramp in his leg, and he felt Wilson withdraw, letting House slip tiredly onto his side. Because of his leg, and the position they had been in, he lay on his left, facing away from Wilson. He lay there, recovering, hearing Wilson shifting around the bed, probably disposing of the evidence. He waited a while longer, drowsing, expecting the imminent return of Wilson’s soft heat against his back, but it didn’t come. Puzzled, he flipped over.
Wilson was curled up on the other side of the bed, facing the door. His face was covered with one arm and his body trembled slightly, although there was almost no sound. It took House only a moment to perform the diagnostic. If his day had been surreal, Wilson’s had probably been something out of Hieronymus Bosch, and a stress reaction was only to be expected. As far as treatment went, the patient was probably best left on his own, but he still reached out to touch Wilson’s bare shoulder, on the off-chance. Wilson shrugged him off furiously, which he had expected.
House settled for pushing himself awkwardly up and off the bed. He was in a little discomfort, but a preliminary evaluation indicated that he had survived more or less undamaged - well, at least, no more than usual.
He reached for his cane and the towels and went into the bathroom. The strong fluorescents and cracked tiles were a harsh dose of reality, throwing his face in the mirror into sharp and ugly relief. House sighed. He wet one of the towels under a trickling tap and made a perfunctory effort at cleanup, before tossing it aside. He then moistened the other towel and brought back into the room for Wilson. Wilson took it without a word and scrubbed his face roughly before getting up and taking his turn in the bathroom. By the time he got back out House had managed to dig out his tablets, dry swallowed one, and turned down the bed, more or less. Wilson got the remainder of the lights and they settled in between sheets that were at least clean and dry, if a little musty-smelling. This time Wilson responded to House’s touch, and came to rest with his back settled against House’s chest, House’s arm slung over his.
House had often been accused of heartlessness, but that only went to show that people were, on the whole, stupid. He did, in fact, care deeply about things, about people - caring was a fundamental human design flaw. The man who truly cared about nothing would be dead by his own hand within a week. The difference was that he didn’t need or want people to know exactly who, or why, or how much, because once they had the measure of it they never stopped trying to use it against you, to make you demonstrate it to their satisfaction. House lived very simply; he spent time on the things he cared about and neglected the things he didn’t. Work took up most of his time, then time spent on himself, and then time putting up with Wilson. The math was simple enough for even Wilson to figure out, and one of these days he would, if he hadn’t already. Damn him.
The orange light still seeped through the curtains, casting the bed in a faint, unearthly glow. Unfamiliar sounds filtered through the thin walls - irregular thuds and canned laughter, the distant rumble of laden trucks heading north. House placed a small, soft kiss on the back of Wilson’s neck, and held him until he fell asleep.
***
House let Wilson drive on the way back. The day was clear and bright, but they were both subdued, and the inane chatter of morning radio was a blessing. They stopped briefly at House’s place, and Wilson waited in the car while he changed - he had a spare set of clothes at the office, but showing up in his previous day’s clothes would have attracted too much attention. Not that he cared too much about that, but he didn’t want to have to deal with the questions. It was mid-morning by the time Wilson finally got him to the hospital. He was a little late, but it had been a slow couple of days. Wilson had offered him a wave and a small, crooked smile as he got out, but nothing else. House let him go in silence. “Have fun burying your brother,” was just a little too crude, even for him.
House didn’t see or hear from him again for ten days. He wasn’t invited to the funeral, and that was fine by him, because he wouldn’t have wanted to go.
***
Monday, a week later, he passed by Wilson’s office as usual on his way in and saw the door was finally open again and the lights on, but there was no one home. As he entered his own office he saw the white slip of paper on his desk, neatly folded in the middle and tucked under a book. He picked it up, and recognized it as a sheet torn from a prescription pad. Unfolded, it revealed Wilson’s neat, blocky script - “Thanks. I‘m sticking with the Volvo.” No signature. House smiled.
“Doctor House?”
He looked up. Cameron had entered the office, and was holding out a file, while eyeing the note and House with some curiosity. House wondered if she’d already looked at it - he certainly would have done given a similar chance. He slipped the paper into his top drawer and took the folder.
“Now what?”
“Transfer from Jersey General. Thirty-two year old white male, displaying stroke symptoms but the MRI was clear…”
She continued reciting the details as House leafed through the file. He looked up as Wilson finally made an appearance in the doorway. House let out a breath he hadn‘t realized he‘d been holding. He didn’t know what he had been expecting, but Wilson looked the same as he ever had, and suddenly everything seemed to click back into its proper place.
“Excuse me, Doctor Cameron. Lunch?” The latter was addressed to House.
House looked at his watch. “It’s nine-thirty.”
“I meant at lunchtime.”
“Either way is fine, as long as you‘re buying.”
Wilson gave him one of his long-suffering looks and turned to walk off, but paused to glance at House’s desk and back again. House nodded, and held Wilson’s gaze for just a moment longer before turning back to Cameron, and the folder, and his latest case.
***
The grave markers lay in neat rows, all facing east; a sea of memorials for the dead in blacks and browns and grays and whites. A slight breeze brought with it the late-flowering scent of a summer just gone. Two figures made their way slowly up the gentle grass slope, threading their way through the corridors of space that divided small sections from each other.
“Are we there yet?” House’s gait was awkward on the uneven terrain, his cane leaving a trail of small indents behind him.
“Well, if you would stop complaining for a minute, and let me think. There’s the big tree, so another two rows and turn left.” Wilson took a small lead, turning into the row in question to check on his claim, to save House the trek if he proved to be wrong. “And eight in. Yes.” He waited for House to catch up.
“It’s like being a lab rat. Except with a body instead of cheese. Inspiring.”
“Come on. You promised.”
“Only to shut you up. First week we have off together, ever, and you spend it visiting your relatives.”
House stopped next to Wilson, and together they surveyed the grave they had come to visit. It was a simple one-person plot with a low stone marker engraved with a Star of David and the basic details. Just over a year had passed since the funeral. The whiteness and sharp bevels of the stone made it stand out a little from the markers surrounding it; time and the elements had not yet had much chance to weather it. A handful of stones of various sizes were scattered around its base like leaves.
“Here.”
Wilson held two rounded pebbles in his left hand, taken from the tiny patch of rock garden in their yard. The yard of the single-story row house they had been occupying for the last two months. Together. And not as roommates, this time around. He pressed one of the pebbles into House’s free hand.
Then he stepped forward, and placed his pebble gently at the left side of the marker’s base. House followed, bending awkwardly to deposit his own. They stepped back together, and Wilson put an arm around House’s waist. They stood in silence for a moment or two, or about as long as House could keep from fidgeting.
“Do you want to say anything?”
House looked at Wilson incredulously.
“OK, I just thought that since… well… it’s kind of because of him that we…”
“Hi David, it’s nice to meet you - actually, we’ve met before, but under the circumstances, you probably don’t remember. Oh, and I’ve been doing your brother - I hope you don‘t mind.”
Wilson winced. “That was… wildly inappropriate.”
House gave him a quick kiss. “Look, I’ll take a walk. Check out the other dead people. Take your time.”
He walked off and left Wilson alone in front of the grave. Wilson muttered a quick prayer for his brother, and then began to talk. Although this was the first time he had brought House, he had visited several times during the last year. Each time he would stand there and tell his brother about his life, the things he was doing, the things he hoped for. It soothed him, somehow, just to finally know where his brother was, even if he was beyond hearing.
The stream of water sent rainbows shimmering in the yard as David began washing the suds off his beloved car. Eight-year-old Jimmy stood by with the clean rags and the wax, doing his best to avoid the splashes that David deliberately sent his way.
“Will I be like you when I grow up?”
David gave it a few moments’ thought as he continued hosing down the car.
“No, kid, you’ll be like yourself, only bigger.”
“But I want to be just like you. You’re the coolest person I know.”
“Cooler than Ian’s brother?”
Jimmy gave the question some serious thought. “Yes. Because he shows off too much. He has to let everyone know he’s cool. You just are.”
David grinned at him. “So wise at your age.” Jimmy handed him a rag, and he started drying off the surface of the car.
“Jimmy, the most important thing is that you work out who you are. Don’t try and be something you’re not, just to fit in with other people think. You’re a great kid. Better than all of us.”
“Easy for you to say.” Jimmy sighed and handed him another rag.
“It’s true, though.”
“Love you, David.”
“Yeah, same to you, kid.”
Wilson told him about moving into the new place with House, finally (after the three weeks of pretending nothing had changed, and the ten months of coming to terms with the fact that everything had). He touched on family, work, his plans for the week ahead. Finally he finished up, gave the headstone a last glance and a brush with his fingertips, and went off to look for House. His footsteps receded on the grass, there was a brief exchange of words, and then that section of the cemetery was quiet again, temporarily deserted by the living. The two newest pebbles rested side by side, barely touching, gray against the white stone.
***