Burn
Title: Burn
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: PG
Summary: Wilson doesn't like the burning. House just wants a sandwich.
A/N: Very short. Wrote on a boring rainy day, a long time ago.
Burn
Wilson never really understood House's reliance on sarcasm. Always a retort. Rough, jagged, piercing. Stinging and hot after wards. Like beard burn. Like the kind Wilson gets after House slams him into the wall of his office and sucks and licks and bites, and then walks away completely unchanged. Wilson is left, unkempt, and swollen lipped, and burning. Left with all the evidence.
"James Wilson is not in right now, if you are: My wife, 'insert name of present' press one. If you are Greg House, and are in need of a quick shag, press two. If you are A) Dying of terminal cancer, or B) Think you are dying of terminal cancer..."
"You're an ass."
"He speaks. How shocking!"
"What do you want? I'm working. It's what we do here. At work."
"A sandwich. But a 6-inch Reuben, sans the sauerkraut, isn't going to magically fly into my hands, now is it? Wait........ maybe if I wish real hard. Wait for it, wait for it.... Nope. Darn. I had my hopes up and everything."
"Fine. I'll go get it. But only because there might be a chance that you'll maybe go and actually work, instead of you know, not working."
"Get a bag of Lays too, just not the Ketchup. It's not Ketchupy enough for my liking."
Wilson gets up from behind his desk. Waiting for a retort from House, waiting for that remark. For the burn. But instead House just pulls on Wilson's tie, tugging him down to meet his face. His breath is warm, not hot, and when his lips meet Wilson's, it's not so rough. And when it's over, his cheeks and neck are red, but they don't burn. He's built up a tolerance. House lets go of Wilson's tie, pats it back into place.
"Oh and James, with my sandwich. Get me a Dr. Pepper."
House takes his iPod out of his pocket, and puts the buds into his ears. Wilson can hear the music pour out into House's ears, remnants of the chords slipping into the room. He wonders when the burn of House's words stopped actually burning. He thinks maybe because he loves House. And that maybe House doesn't need to rely on sarcasm anymore. Maybe he relies on Wilson. So Wilson leans down on his own and presses a slow kiss to House's lips. He kisses him again, quickly, chastely. Two times. Three times.
"What are you doing?" House says loudly, iPod still wafting music into his brain, into the air.
"I don't know." says Wilson. Because he really doesn't.
House takes the headphones out.
"Well whatever it was," he says, "I know for a fact it wasn't a sandwich."
The end.
Wow. First House/Wilson fic. I can't believe how long it took me to post this.
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: PG
Summary: Wilson doesn't like the burning. House just wants a sandwich.
A/N: Very short. Wrote on a boring rainy day, a long time ago.
Burn
Wilson never really understood House's reliance on sarcasm. Always a retort. Rough, jagged, piercing. Stinging and hot after wards. Like beard burn. Like the kind Wilson gets after House slams him into the wall of his office and sucks and licks and bites, and then walks away completely unchanged. Wilson is left, unkempt, and swollen lipped, and burning. Left with all the evidence.
"James Wilson is not in right now, if you are: My wife, 'insert name of present' press one. If you are Greg House, and are in need of a quick shag, press two. If you are A) Dying of terminal cancer, or B) Think you are dying of terminal cancer..."
"You're an ass."
"He speaks. How shocking!"
"What do you want? I'm working. It's what we do here. At work."
"A sandwich. But a 6-inch Reuben, sans the sauerkraut, isn't going to magically fly into my hands, now is it? Wait........ maybe if I wish real hard. Wait for it, wait for it.... Nope. Darn. I had my hopes up and everything."
"Fine. I'll go get it. But only because there might be a chance that you'll maybe go and actually work, instead of you know, not working."
"Get a bag of Lays too, just not the Ketchup. It's not Ketchupy enough for my liking."
Wilson gets up from behind his desk. Waiting for a retort from House, waiting for that remark. For the burn. But instead House just pulls on Wilson's tie, tugging him down to meet his face. His breath is warm, not hot, and when his lips meet Wilson's, it's not so rough. And when it's over, his cheeks and neck are red, but they don't burn. He's built up a tolerance. House lets go of Wilson's tie, pats it back into place.
"Oh and James, with my sandwich. Get me a Dr. Pepper."
House takes his iPod out of his pocket, and puts the buds into his ears. Wilson can hear the music pour out into House's ears, remnants of the chords slipping into the room. He wonders when the burn of House's words stopped actually burning. He thinks maybe because he loves House. And that maybe House doesn't need to rely on sarcasm anymore. Maybe he relies on Wilson. So Wilson leans down on his own and presses a slow kiss to House's lips. He kisses him again, quickly, chastely. Two times. Three times.
"What are you doing?" House says loudly, iPod still wafting music into his brain, into the air.
"I don't know." says Wilson. Because he really doesn't.
House takes the headphones out.
"Well whatever it was," he says, "I know for a fact it wasn't a sandwich."
The end.
Wow. First House/Wilson fic. I can't believe how long it took me to post this.