Sweet Charity fic: House/Wilson, "Back and Forth"

[triedunture]

Title: Back and Forth
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: R for frottage?
Summary: For purple_panacea, who won me at the Sweet Charity auction. She requested a House/Wilson fic with smut, snark, travel, and a lot of other things that I may or may not have been able to add in.
Warning: Spoilers for 5x04 Birthmarks

<><><><>


Abandonment doesn't make you interesting. That's not what it had been about. No, the reason Greg House craned his neck awkwardly to sneak a peek at the return address on that suspicious package, the one that was being carried like a totem, unopened, for the entire weekend of the conference, was not abandonment. Having your wife leave you was boring. Normal. Expected.

But to be abandoned and refuse to face facts, to carry those facts close but refuse to acknowledge them—that was kind of interesting.

Honestly, House was sort of worried that it might've been a bomb. The package, not the carrier's psyche, of course. But even a bomb would have been boring compared to seeing a straight-laced, hard-scrabble man of medicine slowly allowing his outer shell to crumble in a New Orleans bar to the crooning beat of Billy Joel.

A bomb may have done less damage.

House dove under that wooden table, the floor sticky and glass-strewn under his flattened palms, and so did the young man who was about to be put in handcuffs and tossed in jail for the crime of hating The Piano Man enough to incite a riot. And House thought to himself, yeah, it was a good thing he'd followed that young kid into the bar. This was way cooler than the dinner buffet in the third-floor ballroom, featuring rubbery chicken, scalloped potatoes, and schmoozing. Above their heads, glass was still raining down and the heavy bodies of men were being tossed and punched and kicked with vicious, drunken rhythm.

House looked up and locked eyes with the man who would become his best friend in the world, though he had no way of knowing that at the time.

Wilson blinked at him, a peanut shell stuck to his bangs.

"Who the hell are you?" he asked.

House opened his mouth to say "someone with more experience in bar fights, asshole," but before he could speak, several armed policemen came crashing through the front door.

<><><><>

Cuddy checks her watch with a pleased nod before click-clacking her way down the hall and into House's office, where the doctor is sprawled out on the floor in an apparent faint. Those drugs really did work wonders.

"He's out," she calls down the hallway. In the alcove by the men's room, James Wilson appears, slinking like a guilty shadow down the corridor that had once been his natural habitat.

"I'm not doing this for him," he reminds her as he approaches.

"For me, then?" Cuddy asks, kneeling beside House to check the pulse at his wrist. "Because I would rather he stayed. His patient—"

"His mom needs him." Wilson is firm.

"So you told me." Cuddy stands, smooths out her skirt. "Lots of people need him, Wilson. But he's never really there. Not like you need him to be."

Wilson takes a deep breath. "I'll make him be there. For her. Just this once."

"Well, good luck making a horse drink." Cuddy rolls her eyes, her voice dry, her arms crossed over his chest. "Need help getting him downstairs?"

"Yeah, you have a wheelchair?" Wilson bends to the task of lifting House's limp body, long limbs splayed like noodles. He grunts as he gets House's upper body upright by locking his arms around his chest and heaving to. Cuddy watches for a moment before clip-clopping her way back into the hall and into Wilson's old, empty office, where a wheelchair is waiting.

It takes some manhandling to get House into the chair. And by "manhandling," Cuddy supposes she means "Dean of Medicine-handling," because Wilson doesn't seem to have much practice in moving dead weight. (College. It had been good for something.)

"He's heavier than he looks!" Wilson pants, sweat on his brow, his sleeves rolled to his elbows as he lugs the unconscious body into the seat of the wheelchair. Cuddy clutches at House's hips and pulls him in the right direction before rearranging his twisted legs.

"He's thinner than he was," she retorts. "Someone hasn't been feeding the animals lately." Wilson glares at her, eyes sharp under his too-long hair. She's about to tell him he needs to get a cut, but she doesn't want to sound like his damn mother.

They stand back to survey their handiwork. House is slumped in the wheelchair, his head lolling to the left, his mouth slack, for all intents and purposes, dead to the world.

"He looks peaceful," Cuddy murmurs. She wedges his cane at his side before they forget it on the floor.

"He looks like a slobbering dog," Wilson counters. "Come on, we've got to get him out of here before anyone sees. The last thing I need is his team nailing him to the floor because they don't want to work this case on their own."

Acting as a team, Wilson wheeling, Cuddy on point to make sure the path was clear of fellows, they make it to the elevator and through the lobby. Chase sees them at one point, just as they pass the nurse's desk.

"What in the—?" Chase, just now coming in the entrance, startled.

Wilson stops, frozen. Cuddy whirls. House continues to drool.

Chase holds up his hands in defensive defeat. "Never mind. I don't want to know."

Cuddy gives a little head-tilt-nod and they forge onward, out into the parking lot to Wilson's waiting Volvo. His old PPTH pass is hanging from the rearview, Cuddy notices. The better to secure a close parking spot. But still. He had kept the parking pass. Maybe I'll finally get my Head of Oncology back, she thinks, if this insane road trip goes well. Which is the only reason she's allowing House to miss this case, really.

They work together to lift House and shove him into the passenger seat. Wilson fishes through House's pockets, pants and jacket, to retrieve all his effects: cell, pills, wallet, keys, tiny leatherman tool. He takes them for himself, his eyes daring Cuddy to stop him. Cuddy shrugs elegantly, more of a sigh than a movement of a shoulder.

"You know best when it comes to restraining him," she drawls.

Wilson slams the car door shut after only giving a quick downward glance to check that House's hands and feet are safely inside. "I'll give you a call from the road."

Cuddy hands him the smooth blonde cane. "Don't forget this."

Wilson takes it and walks around to the trunk, where he places it on top of a few stuffed bags. Cuddy wonders if the bags are full of overnight essentials gleaned from Wilson's own home or if he had indeed gone to House's apartment to gather what he would need for the trip. One of the suitcases looks vaguely familiar, like the one House had brought to Singapore. She smiles to herself. Either Wilson still has House's key or House made a habit of borrowing Wilson's luggage.

"And drive safe," Cuddy adds as Wilson climbs into the driver's seat.

<><><><>

New Orleans Central Jail was just as welcoming as it sounded.

The officer only let House into the holding area because he claimed to be the guy's brother-in-law. Not an easy feat when he didn't even know the guy's name, but call anyone under forty "junior" and it sounds like you've known him from the cradle. House found him huddled up on the thin cot, his back to the barred door, the picture of jailhouse defeat.

A living, breathing blues song.

House dragged his fingers against the bars loudly: Thu-thu-thu-thu-thump. That got his attention; Wilson uncurled and turned, looking at him with that calculating squint.

"I took care of it," House said. The other man sat up, stood, approached with caution.

"Do I know you?" Wilson threaded his fingers around the cool iron bars of the holding cell, peering at House with the lost look of the hungover and skeptical. "Did we meet during the conference? Were you in one of my classes at Penn?"

"Just a concerned party." House shoved his hands deep in his pockets and pulled out a ticket stub, a crumpled receipt, two pennies, and a creased business card. "A guardian angel for morons and idiots."

"Why are you helping me?" Wilson asked. "Did someone send you?"

House ignored him, held the business card out after separating it from the flotsam. "Here, you'll need this. Have you made your one phone call yet?"

"Does that really happen?" Wilson squinted at House before taking the card carefully between his middle and forefinger. "I thought the one phone call thing only happened in movies. No one's told me anything since they threw me in here last night."

"Trust me. The phone call still applies." House nodded at the card that Wilson was now studying. "That guy's a good lawyer. I talked to him, he talked to the cops; he'll settle it so you can get home." House's eyes flickered up to Wilson's before falling again. "Just in time to pack up your stuff."

Wilson's mouth fell open. "How did you know—?"

"I got to go." House turned, hands now stuffed in the back pockets of his worn, frayed jeans.

"Wait!" Wilson called. "I don't even know your name! I'm James Wilson."

House waved a hand over his shoulder, not turning around. "Nice to meet you. Good luck with the jail thing."

<><><><>

The car ride is long. After the first rest stop, Wilson refuses to make any other concessions to House's bladder or stomach. They drive in silence.

Lexington, Virginia is far away. And there's nothing to look at but trees, empty farmland, and gaudy billboards. X number of miles to South of the Border. Fresh pecans off exit 39. That sort of thing. House grows bored. He reaches for the radio tuner, but Wilson bats his hands away with a reflex faster than House was prepared for.

House tries again. Wilson smacks his palm away again.

They are silent.

"Even talk radio would be better than this," House finally sneers. "Come on. Put something on."

Wilson gives a light sigh, just a deep breath released through his flared nostrils, before twisting the radio knob. Static hisses through the car and Wilson scans up the channels.

"—the final debate will surely be a gamechange—"

Beep.

"—Livin' la vida loc—"

Beep.

"—the DOW dropped nine hundred—"

Beep.

"—AND GOD SPAKE UNTO—"

Beep.

"—you you, I don't like your girl—"

Wilson flicks the radio off again. "There's nothing good," he says with a sense of finality. House is about to point out tentatively, graciously, annoyingly, that Wilson has only tried five out of perhaps fifty possible stations, but Wilson holds up a hand. "Just. Sit there. Let's just get through this. Okay?"

House slouches in his seat, plays with his fingernails, trying to pick some unseen dirt from underneath them. "Fine," he says. For now, he thinks.

<><><><>

House sat in his rental car for a few moments, sipping from a water bottle; the man in the jail cell wasn't the only one with a hangover that morning. After the bar fight had been broken up, House had found himself wandering up and down the Latin district's streets, popping into bars here and there to have a drink, check out the bands, try and push the thought of that guy with the unopened envelope out of his mind. Shame he'd been arrested. But he had started it.

On the other hand, how many times could a man whose wife is leaving him be asked to listen to Billy Joel?

It wasn't sympathy, it wasn't understanding. It was the opposite, if anything. Intrigue. Opportunity.

It was the Wilson guy tapping on his window.

House looked up at him, newly sprung, hair askew. He swallowed his mouthful of water and cranked the window down a few inches. "Yeah?" he asked blandly.

"You were right, they let me go right after I talked to that lawyer," Wilson said, leaning a forearm against the roof of the sedan.

"Great." House took another swig of Evian.

"Look, I really appreciate everything you've done, and I know I don't have any right to ask you for another favor," Wilson said with impossibly pleading eyes, "but can you give me a ride back to my hotel? I don't have the cash for a cab."

"Ditching the conference?" House screwed the plastic cap back on his water bottle and tossed it over his shoulder into the backseat. "Only bad boys cut class."

"This entire weekend has been a bust for me. I may as well head home." Wilson shrugged vaguely. "Cut my losses."

House considered him for a long moment, then jerked his head towards the empty passenger seat. "Get in."

Wilson scrambled like a surprised squirrel to get into the car, buckling up and nodding thankfully to House. "I'm staying at the Holiday Inn on—"

"Uh uh uh." House shook his finger in the air. "I'll get you there eventually. But first," he gunned the engine and dropped the car into first, "we're going to get wasted." If anyone needed a chance to forget, House figured, it was this guy. And he was willing to help that along.

"Now? It's not even noon!" Wilson protested. "And after last night, I don't know if I can—"

"Scotch first. Talk later," House sing-songed and peeled out of the parking lot with a happy howl.

<><><><>

After the bottle of whiskey goes flying through the stained glass window, after House makes a droll comment, Wilson looks at House like a wild animal that stepped into a bear trap. The glass is still tinkling to the ground when House hears someone in the next room call out, "What in the world...?"

"Exit. Now." House begins limping as fast as he can towards the door, and Wilson is half-jogging at his side. By the time they clear the vestibule, someone is right behind them, going, "Hey, what—"

They make it to the car almost simultaneously, Wilson fumbling with his keys, unlocking the doors with a click of his keyring remote. House falls into the passenger seat and orders, "Punch it!"

Wilson burns rubber on his way out of the parking lot, not noticing or caring that House hasn't quite got his car door shut. They're on the main road in seconds. Both breathe heavily.

"Food?" House asks once he catches his breath.

"Yeah," Wilson agrees. "Nothing makes me want an omelet like crashing a funeral."

"Technically, I think that room's funeral was either over or hadn't started yet. I mean, the old lady was still in the box."

"Oh god." Wilson presses his forehead to the steering wheel as they wait at a red light. "Do you think any glass got in her coffin?"

"Nah. She was in the green zone," House assures him.

"I can't believe I did that," Wilson mutters. It's the first of many times he'll say that, House can tell.

As they drive slowly down Midland, House realizes Wilson is instinctively getting back on the highway to head north. To head home.

"Turn south when you get to 81," House says, slouching comfortably in his seat. "There's a pretty good place a few exits from here. If it's still in business." It doesn't hurt to be a few more miles away from Princeton. If it means more time.

<><><><>

It was only after a long day and night in downtown New Orleans that House and Wilson stumbled back to the hotel. It wasn't Wilson's room at the Holiday Inn; that had been too far away, and neither could drive. And neither could pay for a cab. Since Wilson had been out of cash, House had financed the drinks.

"You can owe me," he said when Wilson tried to refuse the first glass of single malt. "Now slug this back and make a wish."

They'd made a lot of wishes. They'd been thrown out of a few places. House had almost gotten into a fist fight with some stranger for no other reason than wanting to see how Wilson would break it up. (Turned out, he broke it up efficiently and with a lame joke. He was good at making peace. Good information to file away.)

It was House's hotel, where they ended up. Stumbling, blustering, scoff-giggling as House tried to open the hotel room door with the car key. Wilson leaned heavily against the railing that ran along the open-air corridor, three flights up. For a moment, House thought he was going to vomit, but no, just heaving with laughter.

"Get inside before someone calls the cops on us," House hissed in a stage-whisper.

"I haven't had this much fun since..." Wilson levered himself upright and gazed up at the tin underside of the walkway roof. "I don't remember."

"Doesn't take much. Play hooky, skip some appointments, just don't do what's expected of you for once." House swaggered into the room, his legs watery and about to buckle. He pitched himself on the hotel's scratchy bedspread, closed his eyes, felt the world tilt and sway like he was at sea. "Feel good, doesn't it?"

House heard the door creak shut, the bed shake as Wilson flopped beside him. "Yeah. Does."

At first it was just the tickle of sour whiskey breath along his cheek; House didn't open his eyes. Then it was the heavy feeling of Wilson's gaze on his face; House still didn't open his eyes. Finally, it was the clumsy crush of lips against lips, and House's eyes snapped open. Pulled away. Broke the kiss. Stared across the itchy hotel bed at Wilson.

"What?" Wilson said, a calculated word that tried to sound nonchalant but succeeded only in sounding terrified.

"That's not—" House just shook his head. This wasn't what it had been about; he hadn't set out to get this from Wilson, to profit like this. It wasn't about selfishness, either.

"Not what?"

House laid back down, arms and legs akimbo, and realized they were laying upside-down, with their heads at the footboard of the bed. "That's not what this is about," he said. "Just go to sleep." Rolled over, took his own advice, planned on waking up alone with a splitting headache.

For once, House was wrong. Wilson had brewed coffee in the tiny hotel coffeemaker.

<><><><>

It's nearly midnight. It's too late to make it back to Princeton. Wilson's already driven seven hours today.

"We were supposed to stay with your mother tonight," Wilson says as he drives onward. "Maybe we should call her. Make sure she's okay."

"She'll have better company than me at home," House says. He doesn't voice his theory, that perhaps the James Bond lookalike would be there, patting the widow House's hand, holding her close, perhaps a mirror image of what had happened nearly fifty years ago.

"I'm stopping at that Comfort Inn." Wilson points at the illuminated sign towering above the highway. House snorts derisively. "What, you have a better plan?"

He doesn't. But he continues to scowl.

Wilson parks the car, negotiates for a room with the front desk, grabs the bags from the trunk.

"Is that my suitcase?" House asks.

"I got a room on the ground floor," Wilson answers with a non-answer.

The room is like a million others: two double beds covered in ugly bedspreads, plastic cups wrapped in cellophane on the faux marble sink, a beige phone with a huge red light on top, heavy drapes that smell of cigarettes. House leans his cane against the chair that's a cross between office furniture and institutional waiting room decor. Was there a chair like this in New Orleans?

Wilson is busy settling in, however temporarily. Placing his toothbrush next to the sink. Unwrapping the plastic cup. Unpacking his contact solution and lens case. House watches this ritual silently. He turns to look out the window when he's had enough of that. The parking lot is nearly empty. Besides the Volvo, there's two pickup trucks, an SUV, three Harleys. There's a sad-looking swimming pool, fenced in, choked with dead leaves. A sign is tacked to a light pole: No life guard on duty.

Wilson pads over to the window with a sigh, pushing up his sleeves up his forearms, his tie undone. He stands next to House, looking out as well.

"This place is a dump," House says. It sounds too quiet, this half-hearted complaint, but he can't muster the strength for more.

Fingers brush his elbow, and he looks over at Wilson, whose face is half in shadow from the dark spilling in from the window, half glowing from the light from the bathroom.

"Yeah," Wilson says simply.

House rears back; he's too close. "That's not—"

"No." Wilson follows easily and presses his mouth against House's, swallows the objection. When the kiss ends, House has a hand on Wilson's shoulder, on his hip. Wilson is saying, "This is what it's about. It is." His voice gets softer, the shadows grow thicker in the room. "It is."

House shuts his eyes and nods, "Yeah."

A long moment. Wilson kisses him again, harder, and House allows it. He wonders why, after all these years, he allows it. Why he didn't let that young kid just blow him in New Orleans and get it over with. But as Wilson backs him towards the nearest hotel bed, House knows it's because he never wanted to get it over with. Like a band-aid you peel off too slowly, he had let Wilson stick around, become attached, become permanently fused.

"Missed me?" House asks, going for pointed sarcasm. It comes out distressingly like a real question.

"I'm not doing this for you," Wilson snarls. He's fumbling with House's belt, with the button on his jeans.

"Think this is gonna make it all better?" House snaps back. His hands fly behind his back, to brace himself against the nightstand. Wilson is pushing too hard; he's off balance. "Is this gonna change anything at all?"

"You don't change, House." Wilson's stripping his buttoned shirt from his shoulders. Across the room, the cane slides down the arm of the ugly chair and falls to the floor with a thump. House can see it happening, so it doesn't surprise him, but the soft sound makes Wilson jump and glare over his shoulder. "That's your problem," Wilson says, distracted and still looking over his shoulder.

"You don't think it's a little messed up for me to be your first after Amber?"

"How can you be sure you're the first?" Wilson turns back calmly, eyes focused on the jeans and boxers he's shoving down House's thin hips.

"Because I have eyes. Because you're an idiot."

"Fight back if you hate the idea so much, professor," Wilson says as kisses him again.

<><><><>

The coffee was terrible. They drank it out of the provided Styrofoam cups with lots of powdered creamer and sugar substitute.

"Doesn't that stuff cause cancer?" House asked as Wilson shook the pink packet between his thumb and forefinger like a pro.

"Everything causes cancer," he answered. "And after everything I ingested last night, cancer doesn't seem so bad."

"Wow. You'll make a great oncologist with pep talks like that." House waggled his eyebrows as he took a deep slurp of his coffee.

They were sitting side-by-side on the edge of the bed because the chairs were full of suitcases and dirty clothes that House had thrown there.

"Listen," Wilson said suddenly, "about what I did last night—"

House whistled, impressed. "I'll say. How many shots was that? Nine?"

Wilson screwed up his face in confusion. "No, I meant when I, you know..."

"Nah, I don't know." House drained his cup. "Come on, let's get some real food. I'm starving."

When House dropped Wilson off at the airport later in the afternoon, he gave Wilson his card. Wilson promised he'd keep in touch. House rolled his eyes the minute Wilson's back was turned. "Like I'm gonna hold my breath," he muttered to himself as he pulled away from the curb. People don't call people they tried to kiss after they've been refused. People didn't try to be friends with strangers that had brought them back to a hotel room just to sleep. People didn't do those sorts of things because it wouldn't fit any kind of accepted pattern.

People weren't that interesting.

His phone rang six days later.

<><><><>

House is on the hotel bed, on top of the itchy bedspread with the mint and purple fan pattern. They don't wash these bedspreads like the sheets, and House knows they're probably rife with dried body fluids. Doesn't seem to matter right now.

Wilson is on top of him, grinding away at him, his cock fitting neatly in the crease where his good thigh meets his hip. The A/C in the room is either turned off or busted, because it's too warm; Wilson is dripping sweat. More to add to the petri dish bedspread.

House's hands are clenched into fists at his sides. He feels like a wooden doll, incapable of moving. But he doesn't know where the hell to put his hands. After all these years, he's never even touched Wilson once, not like how Wilson is touching him now. Hands running up and down his chest, fingerpainting with perspiration. Call it shock, call it Stockholm Syndrome, but House doesn't think he can start touching now, not after being so careful to avoid it for so long.

Because that's what this has been about. This has always been about seeing Wilson as that hurt, angry, vulnerable young kid. About feeling protective of something for once in his life. Wanting to do the right thing.

Wilson rocks his hips again, his stomach brushing over House's own erection. "Touch me," Wilson growls.

"You're doing fine on your own," House ripostes. His fists tighten in the stiff, ugly bedspread. His leg hurts, throbs with the thrumming pulse of blood.

"House, please." It's a plea that's whispered into his hair, Wilson's lips against the crown of his head.

Would Wilson have called him after New Orleans if House had kissed back? House squeezes his eyes shut tightly; Wilson's pace is increasing.

"Come on, House, please." It's less of a grinding now and more of a close rocking.

House has to believe Wilson would have never called him. Because if he believes even for one moment that he might have returned the kiss, that he might have changed everything, that this warm, naked body might have been on top of him all these years if only he'd—

Wilson's hand snakes out to grab House's wrist, crushes it until he lets go of the bedspread. Uses brute force to bring the hand between their bodies.

"You fucking bastard, do it!" Wilson hisses.

House can see in Wilson's eyes that same look that heralds broken glass and mirrors. Seventeen years of bad, bad luck. That's what happened here. House's fingers come alive, wrap tightly, pump with caution, and then with masterful control. Wilson throws his head back and doesn't make a sound, his mouth wide open in a silent scream. Wilson's own hands palming him, rubbing him with abandon. And it's like House comes to life at last, sits up and draws Wilson closer in his lap with an arm around his waist, his right hand still jerking him.

Breathing fiercely through his nose, inhaling Wilson's scent, memorizing what his face looks like in the half-light. Turning his nose into Wilson's hair when Wilson drops his head against his shoulder, shaking with impending release.

"I've got it," House says. "I've got you."

I took care of it.

I'll take care of you.

When Wilson comes, it's warm and slippery against House's belly, his hand. Wilson doesn't stop tugging at his own cock, and it comes as a surprise that he's coming too, onto the top of Wilson's clenched thigh.

They breathe. The air is heavy, hot and dark. The bed is damp with sweat.

Wilson falls forward, taking House with him, laying prostrate on the bed. With no energy to pull back the military-tight sheets, Wilson curls against House's side and seems to drop off to sleep. House stares. Who can sleep after this?

His arm is still wrapped around Wilson's waist; he keeps it there, trapped as it is under Wilson's ribs. His arm will go numb, but he stares at Wilson's flickering eyelids. They still have to drive back to Jersey. House still has to do a DNA test on that sample. Still has to cure his patient.

He has no evidence that Wilson will stay after this. No idea if this is it, if this was the last hurrah, the final goodbye. If this is how Wilson ends things.

House suddenly has to know for certain. "Wilson?" he says, too quietly. He tries more volume, a firmer tone. "Wilson."

"Hm?" Wilson snuffles against his shoulder.

"I—" House pauses and tries again. "I hope you stay."

Wilson yawns. "I'm not going to abandon you in the middle of rural West Virginia, if that's what you mean."

House smiles to himself, because Wilson's eyes are still closed. "Yeah. That would be boring."

"Now go to sleep."

House grunts in acknowledgment and settles in to sleep beside Wilson for only the second time in his life.



fin.

I don't know what to say about this. I hope you liked it? It was a little For Serious? But I want to thank purple_panacea for bidding on me and giving all that lovely money to charity. And thanks for reading, y'all.