Fic: Fight or Flight, 3/3
Fic: Fight or Flight, 3/3
Author: Nakanna Lee
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Stephen had planned on coming along for the morning shoot until Hugh silently suggested otherwise. The dynamic between he and Robert onset was something private. He'd tried thinking of ways to explain, but they all sounded ridiculous when crammed into actual words. It was a risk for Stephen to see too much of how House and Wilson worked together. He could bring that evidence back to England. Back home, he could let something slip, inadvertantly acknowledge what he'd watched.
Hugh stood hopelessly slack-jawed when Stephen looked at him, slightly confused at his exclusion. Gesturing at nothing in particular, Hugh tried to make it seem unimportant, just an acting preference. It was easier to get through the personal scenes if everything else was blocked out. Hugh aimlessly suggested that Stephen might be a slight distraction. No offense intended, he was quick to add.
Nodding, Stephen had asked for no further explanations, and Hugh had to wonder how it was that the workings of the universe thought he deserved Stephen's company.
Attias had spent some extra time briefing them on the kiss for this particular scene. The lip-lock, he said, was supposed to indicate a deeper dependency and a growing openness between them, without being “too repulsive” (was his left-footed phrasing) for the viewers. Hugh wanted to ask Attias if everyone was supposed to believe that House and Wilson were always so demure with each other, if they ever actually slept together. A couple morning shots of House trudging out of the bedroom in sweatpants and t-shirt, and Wilson following to head towards the shower, remained vague so as not to offend, but it also left Hugh with the feeling that they were cheating something horribly. The show seemed to favor distancing itself from the H/W most times, but then-as if to remind viewers where they stood-a nondescript kiss or slight touch would be added to a scene.
This kiss in particular, however, was much less fleeting. Hugh and Robert had long given up working the choreography to each interaction, so it would be as much of a surprise to them as to everyone else how it would develop and ultimately look onscreen.
“We can try a couple takes,” Attias told them as they lingered onscreen, waiting for the cameras to get set. “We figured we could either use this in the scene or take it out later, or we could splice it in at the end when we show a couple seconds of each character over music.”
Hugh caught Robert’s eye, amazed that the show would even consider ending on such a blatant note. Robert shrugged.
Still unsure how Robert was going to make the scene work, Hugh found a comfortable Housian slouch on the swinging bench. The wraparound porch onset--a new addition that they'd added for when House had gone to investigate the Major's daughter's home, only to find it abandoned property--was really only half of its length, but it looked convincing between the lenses. It was actually attached to the other side of Cuddy’s house. Still, any viewer would immediately assume that he was on the back porch looking out into the yard. The giant fans were blowing full force to create some movement of bushes and trees, as if they were outside. The metallic hum would have to be edited out later. At least now it took away from the silence; it was a relief, hearing something besides Robert’s breath growing uneven in his ear.
Robert ascended the steps two at a time, but slowly enough so that it was natural. There weren’t any words written for this part of the scene, and Hugh was beginning to wish that there were. It was much easier to pretend to be House when he was spurting harsh dialogue.
The bench swung subtly as Robert sat beside him, their knees brushing. Wilson wore faded jeans, a rare sighting at most times, and a plain short-sleeved shirt that still looked too formal against House’s worded tee.
Hugh stared off into the mass of cameras and lighting technicians mulling around the set. Further out into the drastically open room, a couple others were moving around costumes and set props and medical beds down the artificial hallways. He couldn’t make out individual faces because of the lighting glare. He blinked slowly and envisioned what backyard should have been there, the overgrown weeds crisping brown from the approaching summer, trees clustering a few meters beyond. A rusted swing set would lay decaying in the far corner.
Robert quietly thread his fingers through the side of Hugh’s hair and curved trails of his fingertips across his ear. Hugh tried to locate House in his head again. After a second, he turned to Wilson with detached suspicion. Robert’s eyes flickered down to his mouth as he leaned in, but as their lips brushed Hugh recognized immediately that Robert wouldn’t be prodding for anything more than sparse contact.
Still. He didn’t pull away for a long time.
Hugh kept his mouth half-parted as Robert tilted his head at different angles, dragging his lips against Hugh’s, pausing to peck sharply once or twice and sigh into his mouth, nudging for a different angle with a raise of his chin or the press of his hands to Hugh’s face.
Wilson kissed like this, Hugh reminded himself; Wilson stayed careful and exploratory as he waited for House to grow comfortable with the unsteady newness of it all. Robert would have had him pressed up against a wall by now.
Hugh touched his hands to Robert’s chest and slid them around to his sides, a distance firmer and wider than a woman’s. This was wrong, he thought, how the writers wanted it to go. House wouldn’t still be waiting for Wilson to make the moves; House would be the possessive one. He would have damned the torpedoes long ago and claimed Wilson for himself, not tolerating this dallying around the subject like they were doing onscreen. Canon-wise, House and Wilson had been an official couple for six months. House would be too insecure to not assume power and control of the relationship. But instead, for the sake of those eggshell-esque ratings, he and Robert were tiptoeing around kissing scenes.
They’d considered talking to David about that specifically. Sure, House would be tentative and skeptical the first couple weeks, maybe even a month into his relationship with Wilson; but there would come a point where he’d contribute too much to continue being passive. Manipulation would show through; he’d take control of Wilson in bed, boasting by each touch and kiss how well he knew Wilson’s likes and how expertly he could tease him to the edge.
He’d make Wilson acknowledge it-make him cling to his shoulders and stifle cries into his neck, legs tensing around his waist-that House now knew both his pathology and his body inside-out. House would be a control freak six months into this. There was too much to lose otherwise.
Hugh closed his eyes and wanted House to let go.
Attias cut them off and asked them to do it again, but Hugh was already willing to bet money that the first take would be the one they went with in the end. The writers would never go for anything else, even if Hugh and Robert pushed it. Still, Robert apparently thought it was worth a try. At first, as a buffer zone during the next couple takes, he purposely botched the kiss, either bumping noses or leaning at the wrong angle. On the fourth take Robert deepened the kiss, and nearly the second his tongue touched Hugh’s bottom lip Attias was saying to wrap it up, they’d gotten what they needed. The back of Hugh’s neck burned, wondering what indicting expression the cameras might have caught on his face. As long as House’s mask never dropped, they were still okay.
* * *
“So there are, what, five episodes left in the season? Another six weeks or so?”
“Two solid months probably,” Hugh figured. Attias had thoughtfully let them go home early--eleven pm--this Thursday night. Which could only mean tomorrow was going to be a rough way to end the week, Seated on the edge of the bed back at the apartment, Hugh hesitatingly looked up at Robert, who was slipping his shirt off. He blinked, tensing. “What are you doing? Stephen’s right in the living room.”
“We’ll be quiet.”
Hugh gave a short, doubtful laugh. A couple nights ago, he’d found just the right way to drag his teeth along the inside of Robert’s thigh; and Robert had writhed and moaned so loudly that Hugh had stopped dead, startled.
“What? Don’t you think I can be quiet?” Robert pressed.
“Uh, no, not particularly.”
“The door’s closed. We’re fine.” Robert knelt one leg on the bed so he could lean down and kiss Hugh. He slipped his hands up by Hugh’s neck and undid the first two buttons of his shirt, observing the revealed skin with careful precision. His eyebrows knit together above his lenses. “What are you doing this summer?”
“What I always do. I’ll go back to London.” Hugh hesitated but didn’t have a chance to ask anything. Robert kissed him again, moving his knee between Hugh’s spread legs and easing them both towards the center of the bed.
“I want to get a place in New York,” Robert said.
Hugh kept his eyes closed as Robert’s lips glided down his neck, sucking lightly so he wouldn’t leave marks, but hard enough to remind him this was familiar, that he’d tasted his skin across this area and various other places.
“You should,” Hugh murmured, his breath hitching slightly when Robert pressed his thumb firmly into the angular slant of his waist. He felt his jeans being pushed down a few centimeters. Robert could be preposterously slow when he felt like talking at the same time. Hugh inhaled unsteadily. “You mean…a new place, now that…” Now that Gaby’s gone, he finished in his head.
Robert deserted his neck with just enough distance to stare seriously across from him. His eyes stayed hooded by half-closed lids and dark lashes. When he blinked, it was hard to tell if he even opened his eyes again.
“I want you and me to get a place in New York.”
Hugh froze. He felt the sad steadiness rising in his expression, but Robert ignored it, answering Hugh’s silence with another series of kisses that urged him lie flat on his back. Straddling Hugh’s waist, Robert rocked their hips together as he pinned Hugh’s wrists by either side of his head. He grinned insistently into each kiss, deep, tongue rubbing along gums and his thumb imitating the stroking patterns against Hugh’s palm. Inhaling irregularly, Hugh caught Robert's moans as they toppled into his mouth.
Claustrophobia suddenly descended and Hugh made a protesting noise in his throat and turned his face away. Robert followed quickly, but Hugh evaded him again with an upward tilt of his head. Instead Robert kissed his chin, releasing Hugh’s hands to skim them up over his stomach before settling on his chest, swirling his fingers in the central patch of light hair.
“Bobby, stop.”
“What?” he breathed sharply.
Hugh turned his head to the side again so one cheek rested fully on the air-conditioner-cooled sheets, the locked door against the far wall in clear view. He felt Robert lean back on his haunches and shift above him.
“That’s a ridiculous thing to ask me right now.”
“Why? Why is it?”
“Because I’ve already told you, I’m not leaving anyone.”
“I never asked you to leave. I said I want us to get an apartment in New York together. For the summer.”
“Bobby, what’s the point in that? I won’t even be here then-”
“You could split the time. Go to London for a couple weeks, and then spend the second half of the summer with me.”
Hugh stared up at him, unable to hide his annoyance.
“I don’t spend enough time with you? I have three months with the family, Bobby, that’s all. I can’t give you any more of my year.”
Robert watched him as if something might change, but when it didn’t, he swung one leg back over Hugh and rolled off to the empty side of the bed. The space was small given that Hugh was still sprawled in the middle; after a moment, Robert turned to lie on his side facing Hugh to fit better. His glasses shifted against the pillow, and Hugh could see the light indentations against the side of his nose.
“It’s not that important,” Hugh felt obligated to continue. “I’ve already been staying here.”
“That’s not the same. This is my apartment, it’s like you’re just on an extended visit. We should have our own place.”
Hugh frowned and looked upwards at the ceiling. “I don’t see why there’s a difference.”
“I don’t want to live here,” Robert insisted. His voice hit a rough patch that was slightly unfamiliar when he was outside of Wilson, but Hugh didn’t look over. “I want to show you New York and have that be home. I want it to feel relaxed and normal, three thousand miles away from work.” He paused, then scooted closer to whisper into Hugh’s ear, lips and tongue just brushing his lobe. “I want to fuck in our bed.”
Goosebumps flickered in bolts up and down Hugh’s arms, fraying into a burning afterthought. He cleared his tightening throat and hated how professional it sounded, even while Robert kissed his cheek and along his jaw, hand skimming under his jeans and across his boxer’s waistband.
Hugh tried to think above the sensation of Robert’s touch, slipping lower. “It’s not realistic.”
“Why not?”
“Because I can’t be Gaby for you,” Hugh snapped, pushing Robert’s hand away. The second he’d said it, he felt himself scrambling to retract the words.
Robert stopped to stare at him. “Well you might as well be,” he returned, deceptively light as he backed away. “Stay with me here until you suddenly realize how inconvenient it is, then leave for another country. That’s fine. England isn’t as far away as Israel, but-”
“There’s no comparison,” Hugh cut him off. He faced him briefly, eyes flashing in disbelief that he would even try to relate the two situations. Glancing away, he rested his folded hands against his forehead as the room seemed to be shrinking closer and closer, suddenly starchy. “You said you two were growing apart for the last couple months. Don’t make it seem like you’re the unsuspecting victim two times around.”
“I haven’t-”
“Do you know how easy this is for you?” Hugh stared at him, demanding. “You’re not lying to the people you care about. You don’t have commitments somewhere else. There’s no guilt involved.”
“Well if this is so hard for you maybe we should just stop.”
* * *
Memory flung itself in casual, random pieces at Hugh, like glass bursting under pressure, sending shards popping in languid decadence towards blank, anticipatory space. Parts belonged to California, others to England, many people claiming ownership. Robert’s hands sparkled with all the pieces he’d plucked from the ground.
Hugh rose and left the bedroom before Robert awoke and had little idea of where he was going, other than someplace that had more space to think. He knew Stephen was no longer asleep almost automatically. The white bedsheet over the pulled-out sofa bed shifted to confirm it.
Bare feet plodding against the floorboards, Hugh hovered in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen. He wanted to feel torn but gave up when the energy deserted him.
"Hugh?" Stephen sat up halfway in bed. He blinked across the dusty darkness of the early morning, trying to make out his face. "What are you doing?"
The phone felt unreasonably heavy in his hands. Hugh could hear the dialtone buzzing generically, growing louder as he held it to his ear.
"I'm calling Jo."
END OF PART 1, PART 2 tbc...