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James is nothing if not curious when it comes to House’s (mis)adventures. In medicine, in life, and most of all, in his tumultuous often antagonistic relationships with others, House is a marvel to spectate and influence.
For the betterment of the world, he’d say, he is Gregory House’s friend. The irate, misanthropic, brilliant, graying bastard needs one friend, no matter that he doesn’t deserve one. For all that he touts the horn of selfishness, claiming that he performs medical miracles only for the thrill of solving the puzzle, James knows that House is not quite so clear cut.
After all, if medical puzzles were all he was after, House would have become a researcher, not a diagnostician.
So, that is what has led James into following House out tonight. In fact, James is the one who drove them here, antsy and energized by the thought of bearing witness to whatever happens tonight. On time, sitting in the theater, as the curtains open and the house lights dim, James bounces his leg, waiting for the twist.
Who is here that House is tracking down? Is Tritter somewhere in the audience, unknowing of an ambush? Will the lead actor fall into a dead faint? What will happen that made House show up here tonight instead of falling into an unhappy sleep from a potion of whiskey and vicodin?
Nothing, that’s what. Nothing happens. Nothing unexpected anyway. The show is perfectly benign. The actors are fine, the play is typical, and the theater is neither amazing nor grueling. For all intents and purposes, House has invited James to see a play and that is the end of the story.
Except that’s not true either.
House watches him. All night, in fact, his gray-blue eyes track him and his bouncing leg. He barely pays attention to the play and when he does, it is only to scoff derisively or critique the pronunciation of certain Middle English phrases (because apparently House is a genius in that too, now). His hand brushes against James’ when he stands, feigning instability on his feet so well that James wouldn’t have known any difference if he weren’t used to House using his impaired leg to get away with everything and anything.
House leans against him, pretending he needs to, and James lets him, because even then he is certain that this is part of a greater plan that will unveil itself. He bites his lip, carries his weight, and continues because he is sure that he will be more than a cog in the machine. He will be an artifact of greatness by proxy.
On the drive to House’s apartment, James tries to make idle chatter but House will not relent in his endless staring. At last, as he parks on the street across from the block of flats, putting the car into park, House makes a curious noise.
“What?” James glares. “No, what? Tell me. You’ve been sitting on something all night.”
“Are you sure you want to know?” House grins. “Once you know, you can’t unknow. Pandora’s box can’t be closed.”
James sighs, put upon. “Just tell me.”
House gives him a sultry grin and says, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Jimmy-boy. You see, tonight was an experiment.”
“On who? On me? ” James scoffs. “This ought to be good. What have you worked out from me seeing a play with you, then?”
“On us,” he corrects, lightly. His voice testing, testing, always testing, trying to find the line and make them both step over it. House taps his long articulated fingers on the dash, as if he’s playing his piano and not James’ emotions. “You hated that play. In fact, you hate all plays.”
“That’s not true,” James says, bemused. “I have no grand vendetta against the theater.”
“But you do,” House clicks his tongue. “Even if you won’t admit it to yourself, you find them soul-crushingly boring. The only time you ever went out to see any plays was for Julie.”
“And?” James makes a jerky movement with his hands, as if to say ‘get on with it’. “I’m on call tomorrow. I need to go home sometime this week.”
Cruelly, House announces, “You want me, Jimmy.” He draws his eyes slowly, purposefully, from James’ face to his lap and back up again. It’s as painfully obvious as blood in the snow. “Now I don’t know if it’s your vampiric neediness gone into overdrive or if you’ve always had a thing for tall, dark, and crippled but-”
“I do not want you!” James scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous, House.” There’s a twisting in his stomach like a piece of twine that has been gnawed on and played with until it's on the edge of breaking.
“It’s okay,” the man says, as if it is ever as simple as that. “I’ve suspected for a while and it’s no surprise you’re in denial. You’d hardly be yourself if you weren’t.”
“Your ego really knows no bounds.” James sighs, resting his face against the steering wheel. “Alright. I’ll bite. What is this theory about me? Do I have some sort of unrequited love for you, then? Am I Cameron 2.0?”
“Nothing so pure,” House smiles, all teeth. “No, I know you. You had me fooled for a while, I’ll admit, but you’re an utter scoundrel, Wilson. The things you want to do to me…”
A lump forms in James’ throat. He’s bluffing, he thinks. What goes on between a man and his left hand in the dead of night isn’t something that House can deduce the following day.
“Wow.” House whistles. “It’s true, isn’t it? I was only firing on sixty percent certainty but that expression seals it. You want to jump my bones, Wilson.”
Dry-mouthed, James says, “I think I’ve had a bit too much to drink.” As if he hasn’t been sipping on diet coke all night long.
“Now, now,” he croons, “don’t be so glum, chum.” House’s manic eyes are ringed white with the terrible brilliance he gets when he chooses a perilous high-risk high-reward course of action. Leaning back, telegraphing his movements so loudly that James worries the neighbors will see, House unbuckles his seat belt. “I never said I wasn’t interested.”
He can’t help how his heart skips a beat as House taps his fingers high on the inseam of his own jeans. Slowly, cautiously, James unclicks his own seat belt.
Callous and so deliciously curious, House offers, “So, what do you say? After all, you sat through three hours of Shakespeare. I think you might be entitled to a little spin around the old maypole.”
Before he can doubt himself, James slips his keys out of the ignition, double checks that the handbrake is on, and leans over the glove compartment to hover over House’s crotch. Nervous and so anticipatory that his hands are shaking, he slides a warm hand from the divot in House’s left knee all the way up to the crease where his thigh meets his bulge.
“Dear god, you’re wanton,” House says, sounding thrilled. “Eager little thing, aren’t you, Wilson? Undo your shirt, be a dear.”
“Don’t be terrible,” James complains, dutifully, fingers slipping on his shirt buttons as he tries to follow the instruction and reveal the blush that is steadily traveling from the tips of his ears to his neck to his happy trail.
“I wouldn’t say it if you didn’t love it,” House says, measuredly. He interlocks his right fingers with James’ hand, left hand still playing piano all the while, and leads him to House’s zipper. “Now is the time to tell me whether or not you want to swallow.”
“Wouldn’t that be hard to do with a condom?” James emphasizes, waiting for House to slip that little square pocket of sexual safety out of his wallet.
“Can’t blame a man for trying.” House grins, none too shyly, as he uses James’ hand to slip his half-hard cock out of his jeans. James tries not to look but he’s not a saint. “Maybe next time, right? What do you say, Jamie?” House’s eyes go half-lidded with devilish intent. “Can I raw you once I’ve done the bloodwork?”
James swallows, embarrassed and uncomfortable as he notices his own hardness pressing against the inside of his dress pants. At least he didn’t wear jeans to a high class theater venue like House did.
Hard enough for the condom now, James fumbles it over House’s length with none of the precision that one would expect of a doctor. He slips House's jeans down, knowing that the chafing of keeping them on would outweigh any sort of sexiness. He’s warm and full and so much that James wants to scream. It cannot be good for House’s monster ego to have that traveling around in his pants.
“How long have you wanted to do this, hm?” House asks, curious and skeptical as James leans down and starts to suckle at the tip. He plays with James’ hair, massaging his fingers into his scalp rewardingly, and James burns as he realizes that he can feel House getting harder inside his mouth. “Is it the age difference? Is it my personality? Hm.” House grunts, fingers tightening in James’ hair, “Did daddy not pay you enough attention as a kid, Jamie-boy?”
The pain is so sharp and bright that James wishes this moment could go on forever.
House is a conniving son of a bitch and knows exactly what he’s doing - waiting for James’ mouth to be full before he asks these questions.
“How long did it take before you got infatuated?” House says, gleefully. He sits entirely still and lets James do all of the work, selfish bastard that he is. “Would you have gotten on your knees the first time we met? Right then and there, in the jail cell, in front of those guards? Give them all a good show, right, Jamie?”
James lifts his head up, painfully hard but not impressed by House’s cut-throat dirty talk. The tip of House’s cock pops out of his mouth, filled with blood and ready to pop like a bottle of cola. “Do you want your cock sucked or not, House?”
“I’m doing this for your benefit, remember?” House smirks. He pats his bare thigh, invitingly, and trails a presumptuous hand down James’ chest. “You’re free to leave anytime.”
“It’s my car,” James says, dryly. He silently admits to himself that although his crouched over position is starting to hurt and his balls are starting to ache, that he still wants to be here.
When he leans back down, House continues his Socratic line of questioning, taking great pleasure in both James’ mouth and his dignity. “It’s the humiliation, isn’t it? Partly, anyway. No doubt you have feelings. ” He sounds derisive. “Did Julie-?”
When he hums around House’s length, James manages to elicit a sharp grunt of pleasure.
“That’s,” House pants, “That’s positive reinforcement, Wilson. If everytime I mention Julie, you-”
Again, James sucks, hard, as if he’s trying to draw House’s spirit out through his dick. The brilliant diagnostician falters, hips rising of his own accord. James takes extreme pleasure in causing him to lose control as this entire interaction has been in the palm of House’s hand.
“Good boy,” House bites out, in a way that is both genuine and ridiculing, as James kneels beside him like a man at the altar. He gives a sort of worship to his deity, the real and living man who solves not only medical cases but James’ burning need for a break-up of the monotony of the 9 to 5. With a final suck, House loses control, hips lifting even higher, hands white-knuckled on James’ car seat, as he fills the condom and James feels him pulse inside his mouth.
He leans back onto his knees, both men breathing heavily. James is still hard in his dress pants and House reaches across once he has caught his breath. The feeling of a warm hand around his cock and House whispering, “You’re a natural cocksucker, James,” has him coming undone in less than a minute.
Wet, sweaty, achey, and with a quickly rising tide of regret, James puts his hands on the steering wheel and considers what a wrench this has just thrown into their friendship.
“Now, Wilson, I should tell you now,” House says, gleefully, “I’m not the marrying sort.”
Fin.