Fic: We, Ourselves (h/w, Wilson/Amber)
Fic: We, Ourselves
Author: Nakanna Lee
Pairing: H/W, Wilson/Amber by extension
Rating: R-ish
Warnings: Spoilers for 5.22.
Summary: During the bachelor party, Wilson finds House in the bathtub.
Word Count: 942
“Why does he go away?”
We shrug. “He’s drunk. He’ll wander back.”
“No.” We shake our head, look at ourselves. “You know what we mean.”
Or maybe it’s just the lack of sleep. Our fingers buzz against the bathtub. Fuzzy, warm. Vibrating with the music outside, our pulse deep in the bass line. Neon lights slide under the doorway. Swirl, disappear, green to yellow. Stretching out, our legs mix. We aren’t that uncomfortable. An alcoholic cushion helps. We’re one in the movement of our blood.
Lights scatter into the room. We look up. Door opens. One leg, then two. Hair and skin. Boxers, wrinkled shirt, tie undone and slung around the shoulders.
Wilson.
“Aha,” we say to each other.
“Hey,” we say to him.
“I was looking for you,” he says.
You. We glance at us. Amber tips the bottle to our mouth and flicks our eyebrows.
“Here,” we chirp with raised hand. The last of the drink vanishes down our throat and we set the empty glass aside.
Wilson grins, a smirk that turns his mouth into geometry-all triangles and sharp angles. “It’s official: I hate you.”
Judging from his words, the way they catch, run together, slick and wet with drink, Wilson has been throwing things back for at least an hour. We’ve seen him worse. He stumbles in, closing the door with a wheeling push of his hand. Sound clicks against the floor. He still has his shoes on.
“Karamel having fun?” we ask.
Wilson snorts, laughs, comes over. Drapes an arm over the bathtub as he crouches down next to it, so close the yellow reflects in his skin tone.
“And why aren’t you? Having fun. There are at least four poles out there and lots of things to set on fire.”
We look at him. Eyes glazed, intent on keeping contact with ours more so than when sober. A wriggling, amused wobbling of pupils and iris. He breaks into new laughter, resting his chin on his arm and tilting his head to the side.
“You’re in my bathtub,” he says. Laughs again.
“He put up less of a fight than we thought,” Amber says.
We nod. “Persuasion down to a science. He’ll indulge because of all the creativity put in to make him indulge.”
Wilson wrinkles his eyebrows. “I didn’t persuade you into my bathtub.” He taps the side, making it ring hollow.
“Bet we can persuade him in,” Amber says.
We look at us. Knees bent, chests rising in slow, low patterns.
Lighting changes. A wet warmth on our neck, instant condensation. Up to the ear, breathing, a flick of tongue.
We turn, take an unbuttoned part of Wilson’s shirt in our hand.
“Lime,” Wilson whispers. We count the moist drops across his forehead, by his sideburns and the birth marks there. He tilts his head and opens his mouth, breathing against our lips, brushing but lacking almost all pressure, keeping something for himself. “Lime. Good, right?”
Hot and tangy. We nip back, tongue skimming tongue.
“Tell him no teasing,” Amber says. “No drunken power kicks again.”
“Listen-” we say.
Wilson laughs against our mouth. He pushes his forehead against ours. Draws his lips away. Our hand curls around his neck, fingers shove beneath his collar and scratch against the tag there. Size, washing instructions. Damp from sweat that crept over the rest of his skin.
“Nice pants,” Amber says, craning our neck. Runs our eyes down to his legs, across his underwear. “You get some already?”
“Not that we’re doubting your stamina,” we say, “but if you’ve already tired yourself out-”
“We?” Wilson glances at us.
“Catch him off-guard, he likes that, remember?” Amber says.
We pinch the hairs on the back of his neck, waiting for his brief exhale of pain to cover his mouth with ours. A clatter and roll-our bottle knocked across the bathroom floor, courtesy of Wilson’s knee. Up and over-one leg, then two-settling in our lap.
“He forgot how much he likes drinking with us,” Amber says between kisses.
“He’s an idiot,” we say.
“Who?”
“You.”
“Well obviously.” Wilson moans, quiet, with no intention of keeping us the same way as his hips dig into ours. Fingers at the skin under our shirt. Under the fabric, curling beneath pants.
“Why does he go away?”
“I don’t know,” we say.
“Is it because we leave first?”
We close our eyes, Wilson erratic when losing clothes but admirably efficient.
“New idea,” Amber says, arching, “why don’t we put the alcohol money toward kinky toys instead?”
“What?” Wilson murmurs. It comes out in a hard breath, the word hissed into our mouth.
“Dirty thoughts,” we say.
“Oh.” Wilson, eyes shut and crinkled, grins. Tugs at our pants. “Good.”
“Why does-” Amber breaks off, our voice cracking as Wilson ducks his head. We shudder with new heat and pressure rising beneath alcohol. The bathtub glows yellow, shifting and slinking in and out of vision.
Sleep, we remember. Maybe sleep, maybe bodies and Wilson, maybe death and Wilson.
“Nobody leaves on purpose,” Amber says.
We thread our hands through brown hair, strange, still kept in place, moving. In this place.
“I remember this,” Amber says.
“I remember this,” I say.
Even if it’s not mine. Outside to inside-the buzzing burrows into my head, into Amber’s, there’s blood and broken glass and the refraction of light. Wilson’s tongue and lectures, a whole mouth where words won’t fit. Amber closes her eyes and drops her head back.
In the morning the pain in my neck will remember the awkward angle, and we’ll compare notes and stave off sleep together.
end