Wait Until Dawn

[julesisfire.livejournal.com]

Wait Until Dawn
Fandom: House MD
Author: Julesisfire
Rating: PG, sexuality
Characters/pairings: House/Wilson
Summary: House drives around at night, pulled toward a certain destination.
Obligatory Disclaimer: I don't own anything--but you know what House and Wilson would be doing if I did.
Unbeta'd. All mistakes are mine.
Concrit/Reviews are better than Christmas presents.




A/N: All comments/reviews are greatly appreciated.


It’s late. The sun fell long ago, snuffing the light out as it went. Darkness didn’t scare him (absolved him). It spread itself around him, cloaked him. Kept him safe. He moved through it, driving to nowhere. Driving as fast as he can. What he drives away from, he doesn’t know (himself). But it doesn’t matter because the window is open and the cool wet air of the night rushes in at him and for a moment he knows what it feels like to move fast. Adrenaline floods into his bloodstream and he feels electrically, wildly happy. There’s a stoplight up ahead, though, so he brakes and hits the clutch. The car idles powerfully under him as he’s bathed in red light, waiting to move again (the car does what his body cannot). Green replaces red and he’s off; first flows in to second until he’s racing in fifth. He’s been driving randomly, taking left and rights almost too late, making U-turns; but now he’s on a main street. It’s illuminated, almost too bright and he’s uncomfortable. He wants the blind anonymity of the dark. He feels too…visible (vulnerable).

But he swallows his discomfort and pulls into a parking spot. There’s a meter next to him and he digs around for change, successfully finding more than enough quarters (more than enough time for what he plans to do). He didn’t mean to come here; didn’t really even want to, but he has. And now he’ll follow through, because Greg House does not lose his nerve (goes through the motions that make him look brave). So he gets out of the car carefully, makes sure the ground isn’t too slick and moves toward the meter. The metal is cool, wet under his fingers. The rain was coming down hard before; it drips intermittently now, leaving the world underneath damp (slippery; hard to pin down). His hand opens; the quarters slide into the slot, one after the other with a faint metallic clank. His palm smells like metal now; the realization comes when he moves a hand to scrub at his face, to disguise the tired eyes (fake away exhaustion). He tries to wipe away the smell, but he knows water is really the only thing that will help. It’s not that big a deal, really. He moves away from the car, begins to cross the street but is pulled back (almost like someone grabbed him from behind) by memory. He unlocks the car quickly, reaches in towards the passenger seat and pulls out a slip of paper. He looks at the number, 1218, scrawled hastily, and mutters it under his breath. It’s his destination; he’s tried to avoid it all night but it pulled him, made his turns for him until he arrived (just in time).

He makes his way across the street again; nothing pulls him back this time. The sidewalk is empty save for a few tired-looking people getting into or out of cars. The door he opens is large, ornate, even and he has to lean back with his body weight to keep from staggering under it. He slips inside once it’s open. A neatly dressed man greets him, asks him if he needs any help, but he waves him away, offering a clipped ‘no’ in response. He’s not quite sure where he’s going, but these places always have elevators on the first floor, and he moves through the lobby to find them. They’re out of the way, around the corner. He enters an empty lift and jabs at the button with a 12 on it; he’s bobbing up and down, filled with energy in need of an exit. His synapses are on fire, processing information, thoughts, actions (emotions he denies having.) The walls of the chamber are too small; he needs air, needs to get out, to go where he’s supposed to be. Finally, finally the twelfth floor approaches and he’s let out with a mechanical ding (feels nostalgia for stairs).

He’s walking as quietly as he can, trying to find the room. An arrow points him in the right direction and he’s counting…….1202…….1208……1210……1216....1218 appears before him and he breathes in deeply (why is the air so thick?) and knocks a few times, loudly. There’s a voice inside, and even through the walls it’s thick with sleep. Just a moment, it tells House. Wait just a moment. But He doesn’t have a moment; every cell, every membrane of his body is aching now, begging for relief. And then the door’s opened and Wilson is standing in front of him, looking so confused, asking why he’s there, then remembering his manners (to make up for House’s) and invites him in. House is eerily silent; he stares at Wilson for a moment before pushing him in the room, fumbling towards the bed and crushing his lips against the man now under him. Wilson is completely still for a moment before reacting under him, responding so fiercely, so passionately that he’s breathless for a moment. It’s a mass of heat and motion; lips move and open while tongues explore; hands move up and down, caress and scratch, trying to explore everything at once (everything they’d wanted to touch from the first moment). House’s eyes are closed, but he senses light around him. He pauses, breaks away from Wilson and looks out the window at the rising sun.

“Why..” Wilson whispers under him, wondering at the sudden stop.

“Nothing,” House says. He looks at Wilson’s flushed cheeks, feels his excitement near his own hip. He bends low, puts his lips on Wilson’s ear and whispers something. Wilson laughs, then recaptures House’s mouth.


“You’re going to be late for work.”