No Planes Part 1

[alivehawk1701]

No Planes (Part 1 of 6)
Author: alivehawk1701
Characters: Wilson, House
Warnings: I'll say M further on
Summary: House, fearful of losing Wilson, takes a chance, a new step in their relationship, to the shock of Cameron (original ducklings) who proposes a double date . . .

My shoulder . . . My shoulder hit the door. I dragged my back leg back, obviously I'd over-shot it; and grabbed the cold metal of the handle, yanking the door open. Wilson looked up in surprise. Me running into his door is hard to miss.

"We should just share the same office," I suggested with bitterness, disliking the almost pitying look on Wilson's face as he glanced from me to the door. Gimping across the room I threw my cane on his couch, balancing on one leg as I turned on my heel, sitting down with a sigh, "That way I won't have to stagger my way across the entire hospital to come harass you," I raised both my arms to the back of the couch, leaning my head back.

"You need the exercise," Wilson commented from his desk.

I lifted my head, giving him my best injured expression.

"Well, you know what I mean," he said, shrugging one shoulder, leaning over the pile of papers he was assiduously working on.

"Are you saying I'm out of shape?" I asked in a hurt voice, regarding him coldly through narrowed eyes.

"No," Wilson responded hotly, pen bouncing in his hand, "You're not out of shape, but exercise is a good idea for everyone. Like drinking plenty of liquids or eating apples,"

"Is this your way of telling me I have a problem? Just say it, I can take it,"

"I'm not telling you anything. I just made a simple comment,"

I let one arm fall in my lap, tilting my head to the side, "Simple to you, hurtful to me,"

"I am trying to do some work here," he said, glaring at me before returning his attention to his desk.

"You do think I'm fat,"

"I do not!"

"Right. Not so much to qualify for the Big'n Tall store, just enough to be called a little pudgy,"

"House I didn't mean you're fat! You're not, at all, you have a great body, what I meant was your leg could—" he stopped suddenly, no longer holding his pen, having set it down in the middle of some overzealous hand gesture, "—use the exercise," His hand found the pen again, brow furrowed as he went back to his all-important paperwork, shaking his head slightly, then muttering, "You know what I mean,"

Interesting. I paused just long enough that it broke our rhythm. If anyone broke it, it was usually deliberate, and usually me, not Wilson. Maybe this is one of those fishing for compliments things, he says I have a great body and I say thanks, those are nice shoes.

"Hate to let a great body go to waste," I replied after the moment's pause, leaning forward to rest my elbows on my knees, passing my hand quickly over my aching brow, "Maybe I'm in the wrong business,"

"Yeah, you'd really saves lives as a model,"

"Everyone has to die sometime—might as well be by an overdose of me,"

"Always the humble doctor," Wilson said, catching my attention, "So did you come here for a reason, other than distracting me?"

"Am I that distracting to you? I'm just sitting here," I said innocently.

He almost glared but took a breath instead, "No, really, what is it?"

"Bored," I said impatiently, mind turning to the pill bottle I could feel in my pocket. Seven left, “Just finished a case.”

"And . . . you came here for excitement?"

I came here because I was lonely. Because I have no where else to go. Without a good case my mind's about as open as a glacier. Open and dark. If I don't find something to focus on I'm lost.

The increasing amounts of pills I'm taking aren't something. They're not anything. Just there, a ghost over my thoughts, always there. Within seconds of waking up I think about them and seconds before falling asleep they're there. I don't even know when it happened

"If I said yes would you do something exciting?" I asked him.

"Like what?" he asked, almost laughing, eyes still on his desk as his hand scribbled away at something as if I couldn't see he hadn't turned a page or written so much as a line since I'd come in.

What an opportunity. Finding the limits of James Wilson. I took a deep breath, letting it out dramatically, "We could have sex. Finally,"

He smiled, "No, seriously, what?"

I pursed my lips, squinting, "I was serious. We fight way too much not to be sleeping together."

"Is that the rumor?” he glanced up at me, “I dunno House, things get complicated when bodily fluids are exchanged.

"Mutual masterbation?"

"No!"

"I’m circumcised too," he looked up, shocked, “If you were wondering,” I sighed and reached for my cane, standing it up on the floor to spin it on the ground between my knees, "You're no fun at all,"

"I am the worst,” he agreed, “Are you really that bored?”

“Yes,” I met his eyes hesitantly.

Wilson stared calmly and steadily at me from across the room, with the kind of look he gave when he knew something was bothering me. He's not as stupid as everyone else. Did he know how annoying it was to be stared at like that? Stared at to death by eyes that have no business being that consoling. He must be aware of it.

My stomach turned, it's amazing how you can start to feel sick when threatened by something as serious as a sincere conversation. "I'm going to go get some coffee," I said abruptly, getting up as gracefully as I could. I moved toward the door, looking over my shoulder, "Need the caffeine. Haven't eaten today. Too much excitement,"

"House," Wilson shouted as I stopped, leaning heavily on my cane but not turning around. I heard his chair being pushed back, pen hitting the desk.

"Wilson?" I responded in a falsely sweet voice, turning to face him. He was interrupting my quick, limping exit.

He put both hands on his hips, looking like he had something really good to say but just couldn't say it. What a time to start hesitating before talking to me.

"I'm going to be leaving soon," he said, meeting my eyes, "We could get some coffee then, or if you're hungry more of a dinner thing, or coffee and dinner thing,"

I was hungry. I thought of saying no. Then a brief but disquieting image of pale TV light and a bottle of pills spilled across my coffee table in my dark apartment played grimly through my head—a forewarning of what my night would most likely be like.

“I could eat,” I said.

I waited by the door, resting all my weight on my good leg. He took his jacket off the back of his chair, tugging it on and straightening the collar. Wilson is a contradiction. From the outside he is calm, reassuring, even mello, at apparent ease even in the most stressful of situations. Some people might say that's why I hang around him so much. But just underneath the shining exterior is the asbestos lined, quivering innards of our heroic oncologist, wound up so tight it's a wonder he doesn't snap. I wonder what would happen if he did, I mused, at the same moment he turned to look at me, "Ready?"

"Yeah," I affirmed, turning around and quickly pulling open the door. Wilson automatically reached above me and grabbed it to let me through.

Wilson waved goodbye to the nurse at the desk on the way out. He took the time to be friendly to people. Even when he was hurting. It hasn't exactly been easy for Wilson since the divorce. We’d been here before though. Not that I was much of a help then. Or now. Didn’t like seeing him sad. And he'd moved out. I was supposed to be glad he'd moved on, that was the point, pick yourself up, don’t sleep on couches.

But I miss him.

He followed close at my heels outside to the parking lot. I stopped, "Where are you going?"

"Where am I going? Where are you going?"

"To your car?"

"I . . . don't have it today," he said grudgingly, eyes averted.

"Why not?"

"I borrowed it," he answered, "To my ex-wife,"

"Alright, so we take my bike,"

I turned back toward the handicap spaces, shaking my head, "Why does she have your car?"

"It's—"

"Complicated?" I offered.

He sighed, "It's . . . never-ending," he said.

I reached the bike, tossing my cane into my other hand to secure it on the side.

"That's an understatement," I said, trying not to look at the sad look on his face, I knew it was there. It was always there when he talked about her.

I'd been so convinced he'd been the one cheating. So like him to move too fast and latch on, or insert into, a vulnerable someone. I just had to feel like a jerk after finding out it was her all along. She was the one that hurt him. Cheating on him not only made her a bitch but an idiot too. She didn’t know how good she had it. But then maybe he was an idiot for marrying her.

I got on my bike, grimacing as I got my leg in the right position, pain flashing red in front of my eyes, "You'll like this place," I twisted around and grabbed the helmet, holding it out to him. He was lingering on the blacktop, running a hand over the back of his neck, "Problem?" I asked, helmet weighing in my hand.

"No," he said quickly, taking the helmet. He put his right hand on my shoulder, swinging his leg over with undoubtedly more grace than I had. After putting on the helmet he put both hands on my sides, "Let's just go,"

"Don't fall off," I told him harshly, revving the motor then lifting my left leg off the ground and taking off across the parking lot.

I'd never established if he didn't like the bike because it had been his money spent to buy it or if he just didn't like the bike itself. Pointless argument anyway; who doesn't like motorcycles?

Maybe he didn’t want to ride with me. It’s one thing for Cameron to be on the back of my bike, but Wilson is a whole other thing. Stupid but true. The fragile male ego is so fragile. I had the benefit of not caring what people thought about me or whose body was next to mine. Maybe the in public part makes a slight difference. At home, watching television, Wilson and I stretch out on the couch together, one of the several benefits of watching movies with Wilson. It’s comfortable. Nice.

I pushed the bike just enough to prove my point. Maybe to prove I could drive it. Not that Wilson thought I couldn't. Nonetheless, his hands tightened on my sides. Endorphins released into the brain during times of stress or danger, let's say, like when you're traveling at high speeds on a motorcycle, create feelings of excitement, they make you feel good. If Wilson's brain was working right he'd probably be feeling them right about now. I hoped he was.

Without the helmet the wind blew cold against my skin, through my hair, filling my lungs to the brim with each breath. Normally my mind would be for the most part occupied with whatever case I was working on, but seeing as the case was over I found myself instead thinking about the fact that Wilson had never been on my bike. As I said, Cameron had been. I don't think she liked it very much.

On the road, with the cars zooming all around us, Wilson's hands inched almost all the way around my waist. He was warm against my back. Distracting. Each time I shifted I could feel his arms around me. His hands were on my stomach. To pass an extremely slow vehicle I zipped between two cars, not nearly as dangerous as some of the other stuff I've done but enough for Wilson to crush my ribs.

Ride's over. We were there. I slowed and pulled to a curb.

"We're here," I said over my shoulder, cutting the bike's motor and putting my feet down.

"Here?" Wilson repeated, getting off, taking off the helmet, "House, what is this?"

I retrieved my cane, leg throbbing, "What does it look like?"

"A strip club," he answered exasperated.

I squinted and turned to look at the array of neon signs, the lack of windows, the overwhelming feeling that it was less a building and more of a hole to crawl into, "I think you're right,"

Looking around with wide eyes he took two steps closer to me, "Why did you bring me to a strip club?" his voice was hushed and panicked as he leaned towards me, two brutish looking guys passing by on their way inside, a faint trace of smoke, urine and a dull beat of music emanated from the opened door.

"I thought you'd like it," I said.

He looked speechless, mouth hanging open. He shook his head, neon lights showing in his eyes as he looked to the side.

"You said dinner," I said, putting a hand on my bike to steady myself. He looked almost scared, "They've got great nachos,"

He nodded, "Right, and what? Do they come with a lap dance?"

"Depends on how good of one you want,"

"House . . ." he said, backing up a few steps, running a hand through his hair.

"What?"

"I don't want to go to a strip club!" he stopped, running a hand over his mouth, looking nervously toward the door, trying not to yell, "How could you think this was a good idea?"

I paused, watching him. Obviously I was wrong. The bike threatened to sway under my hand. I closed my eyes, hand running down my thigh which was throbbing dully, "I was trying to be nice,"

He looked up at me from where he'd been staring at the asphalt. The hurt look on his face, and what looked like shock, made me look away.

"Fine," I sighed, "We can go,"

I got back on my bike, made more difficult now with the increased pain in my leg. I wanted pills. But driving and Vicodin don't mix. Anyways, if I took them and crashed I'd hurt Wilson. Think of all the cancer patients he'd never be to give teddy-bears to.

Wilson said nothing. He just wanted out of here. He got on the back, holding his hands lightly on my sides. I paused, wondering if I should say something before the sound of the bike drowned out all other sounds. But I couldn't think of anything. That's how good I am. I can find a snide remark for any situation, for anyone, but when it comes to just saying something, anything comforting, I can't.

I drove to the hotel he was staying at, stopping in front, cutting the motor. I got off after him but didn't grab my cane. Just used the bike. I brought my eyes hesitantly to his.

The sudden silence seemed almost overwhelming. A gathering wind was blowing through the darkened, nearly empty hotel parking lot played with Wilson's hair. His collar was askew from the ride.

"I didn't," I cleared my throat, "I didn't mean to . . ."

He nodded slightly, "But you did," he said calmly, then looked up, "Do you ever think about what you're doing . . . or do you just do it?"

"Is this the part where I lie and say, yes of course I do?"

Wilson sighed and shook his head, anger straining his voice, "I don't know why I actually fool myself into thinking I can have a real conversation with you," he stepped onto the curb, "I appreciate the gesture but I’m not interested," he turned and started toward his door.

I couldn't let him leave like this. Damnit. Before I could think about it, proving Wilson right in my total lack of thinking at times, I caught his arm in my hand, nearly falling over in the process. He braced his arm against my weight, shaking his head, "House, just let me go,"

Pain. The leg. Idiot. I held onto his arm, waiting for it to subside, "Why are you so upset?"

"You're the diagnostician, you figure it out,"

"Because you . . . don't like strip clubs?"

"I don't," he said defensively, "Not everyone does,"

"But you're mad at me. I didn't make you not like strippers,"

"I'm not doing this now," he said, "Now get your hand off of me or I'll get it off myself,"

I didn't move my hand. "I actually want to talk for once and you say 'not now'" I exclaimed in irritation, hating that he was running away when he was supposed to be the brave one, "I don’t get it. I thought it’d be nice to spend time together. Am I wrong? I haven't eaten anything all day, and just missed dinner, thank you very much."

"Yet more evidence toward that fact that all you think about is yourself. Do you ever actually think about me? How I'm feeling about something? Does that even, for a moment, come into the equation?" he sighed, eyes closing for a moment, "Sometimes I feel so, so close to you, and other times you feel so far away."

This was really bothering him. Maybe I am that selfish. And when it comes to putting on a face, Wilson is a champion. The amazing thing about Wilson is how incredible he is at deception. Maybe he had learned something from me after all. At that thought I felt an unexpected queasiness in my stomach. I didn't want Wilson to be anything like me. I swallowed, biting at my lower lip then taking a breath, "I'm not . . . totally detached."

He looked totally unconvinced, even a little annoyed. I met his eyes, finding it somehow easier than talking at the moment. If I could somehow convey what I wanted to say that way, it'd save time and the awful task of finding words for what I felt. It all felt more urgent now, standing outside his hotel on a Tuesday night, I don't know why, like time was running out.

Wilson looked back at me, unsteadily at first, becoming almost comfortable after a few moments. Fear. He was afraid. I looked deeper. One of the first things you learn as a doctor is that you don't always see what's right in front of you. It can be right there and you'd miss it because you weren't looking close enough, because you took something for granted, or negated the possibility altogether. I'm not a good friend. I never said I was. But I still paid attention to him. Depended on him. So why was I surprised that when I looked into Wilson's eyes I saw affection?

I licked my licks, lowering my eyes, throat tight, finding it hard to concentrate, "I didn't know you felt that way," I looked back up, "Maybe I’ve been a little distracted lately," I narrowed my eyes, thinking about the pills, "But I'm not a mind reader."

"I know, I know," he said, "I just . . . really feel like I need a friend right now."

"I'm here," I explained, "And?"

"And then you take me to a strip club?" he almost laughed, paused, "I used to think I could depend on you. I thought you would be there," he took a long breath," he sighed, "Maybe you can’t, maybe I'm just . . . "

His eyes turned up to the sky and shook his head. He looked like he was close to tears.

I raised my hand to his other arm, feeling him brace himself to handle the shift in my movements without my cane. I don't know what to say. I feel like my mouth is stitched shut. I don't know what else he wants. I'm out of options. After all that's happened, after all the times I'd fallen short, been selfish or just not been there at all, maybe I was going to lose Wilson. And maybe I'd just come to realize how terrible that would be. Fact was I couldn't speak, not sincerely, not warmly, not like he needed me to. And in a very cold world, where nothing really mattered, he's the one source of warmth I have.

"I . . . don't know how to help you," I said finally, feeling a shadow of fear darken my thoughts. He was standing close enough that when the night breeze ran past it my nostrils flared at his familiar smell.

"Yeh," he said, taking an unsteady breath. The cold had reddened the end of his nose, making him sniff as a few strands of dark hair blew across his brow, "House . . ." he started, eyes barely meeting mine, flickering from the ground to me, "I can’t . . ."

As the words left his lips I closed the distance between us. I shifted my weight to my good leg, heart pounding in my ears, breath short as I extended my unsteady, almost clumsy hand to touch his face. Wilson didn't move as I settled my fingers gently on his jaw-line. I licked my lips, his skin pleasantly warm against my hand. I could feel his pulse throbbing at his neck.

I was waiting for him to react. Wilson looked down, his right hand rising slowly up my arm, exhaling slowly as one of his hands came to my chest. For a second I wasn't sure if he would push me away. His fingers worked at the folds in my coat, gripping it tightly. This was nothing. So far just touching. No harm in that. Nothing. It's nothing.

Wilson always seemed so untouchable. He's just as smart as I am, enough to make it interesting but not as rivals. At the hospital, in everyday life he's warm and caring in every way I'm not. It's not like women don't notice him. They do. And I notice when they notice. When they say he has a nice smile I agree that he does. But I noticed it first. I could watch him, for whatever period of time, and call it professional, like, boy, Wilson's got a nice ass, how interesting. These are usually classified as happy feelings.

My reaction to these feelings? Push him away and see if it works. Say terrible things and see if he flinches. And when he doesn't it means something. Though I'm not sure what that something is. Or was. I can't mess with this. This can't change. I need Wilson.

But here, now, damn it, it's different. He's real. He's warm. And all I could think about lately was losing him. And the worst part is I would let it happen. I'd realize one day he was gone and I'd done nothing to keep him here. Like he is now. He's here.

I slowly leaned closer to him, eyes on his, waiting for him to stop me. Come on Wilson, stop me. I moved closer, enough to smell him when I inhaled. My eyes fell shut as I breathed. I opened them for a moment, looking down to his lips then back to his eyes. He did nothing. Still closer. Our lips were mere inches apart, his breath hot over my mouth.

My eyes slowly fell shut as I brushed my lips gently against his, feeling his lips move slightly under mine before I pulled back. I felt his hand move behind my head, through my hair that I wished I'd washed, and pull my lips back to his.

He kissed me. I let him. When I felt his tongue push past my teeth I let him. When a sudden flare of arousal coursed through me I kissed back. I slid my tongue deeper into his mouth, revelling in the taste. God it tasted good. The warm wetness of his tongue made me moan. My legs were starting to shake, making it hard to stand, I let both my hands fall to his hips and I dragged him toward me. Wilson kissed more forcefully, the wet smack of our lips seemed overly loud in the quiet parking lot, and I heard a groan resonate from the back of his throat as the undeniable hardness of my erection strained against the inside of my jeans, causing me to desperately press into him as his hips rose into mine.

Too much. What’s happening?

Too fast. Stop.

I gasped, jerking away abruptly, taking a panicked step backward, my bad leg buckling under me.

"Damnit," Wilson swore, grabbing for my arm to help me.

He was trying to catch his breath. Not doing too well. I was doing much the same. Standing, at least at this point, is the most important, just keep standing. He stood and held onto one of my arms as I gritted my teeth against the pain, feeling like an idiot for almost falling over, "I'm so sorry," he said, one hand went to his forehead, "I can't believe I—oh god—"

"Wilson," I snapped, stopping him, looking anxiously down each side of the street. I bit at my lip, trying to think, but stopped, panicked, tasting Wilson over my lips, not brave enough to look at him, my heart beat wildly in my chest, resonating in my groin.

"Sorry about dinner," I said, taking my arm back, limping down from the curb, "I have to go,"

I got back to my apartment in record time, breaking my previous 9.2 minute record. My leg barely bent going up my stairs, pain enough now to make my eyes water, clenching my jaw so hard I thought my teeth would break. Never had turning a key and opening a door been so difficult. Or taken so long—seconds wasted.

My helmet crashed to the floor, great for my piercing headache. I reached into my jeans pocket, the top of the pill bottle clattering to the floor, popping two in my mouth, letting them sit on my tongue just long enough for the bitter taste to wash over my tastebuds, then swallowed.

These pills aren't fast enough. I need to stop feeling. I ditched my coat, not bothering to turn on any lights, and started pacing, forcing air into my chest. Waiting. Waiting for the god damn pills to take effect.

Anger. Anger at what? Angry at not stopping myself when I should have? Anger at how much I hadn't wanted to leave him? Anger at imagining in one gasping, over-stimulated moment what would have happened if he'd asked me into his hotel room? Anger at being angry? Angry at myself for running away like that?

Not fast enough. It's been too long. I can't even tell I took them. I need more than pills. It hurt. My leg's hurting, I don't have a choice. I just want it to stop, damn it, for once leave me alone.

Morphine. I had a stash. For emergencies. Like now, now is an emergency.

I resisted, running a shaking hand through my hair, trying to get my head to stop pounding. It was on top of the bookshelf. It was practically screaming at me. I'm shaking too much. Doesn't take a doctor to know why. Tremors ran over my shoulders. Damnit. Take the drugs. Take them. Nothing else helps, you know that. Just take them. They're good, they help, take them. You'll take them in the end, you always do.

I stopped pacing, eyes squeezed shut, still not able to breathe. I can't. I can't do this. My eyes open and focus on my bookshelf. Next thing I know things are crashing down and I'm sitting on my couch, beat up tin box thrown open next to me. God I need this. I need it. Why am I so slow? My own shaking hands make the needle a virtual toy in my hand, I can't keep it straight. Luckily my veins are visible, risen under my skin. Any vein. Doesn't matter.

The needle plunged in my arm, my eyes close as I push the syringe down. Take the needle out, let it fall to the floor. Fall back on the couch with a sigh, mouth open, taking deep breaths. Oxygenating the blood, process the blood faster, feel it faster. My eyes fluttered open as I stopped shaking.

And then it all drops away from me. A dark tide washes over every limb, into my eyes, mouth, pulling me away. Time passed. The phone rang. Sounded a thousand miles away, somewhere lost in the fog.

Answering machine will get it.

"House?" Wilson. I knew he'd call. I know him. Knew him. Thought I knew him. I wanted to tell him it was okay. Nothing hurts anymore, I'm fine.

"I know you're there . . . pick up," his voice continued through the small speakers on my phone. Sound of him sighing. "If you need me, my help or anything, call me, okay? I'll . . . just call back later to check on you,"

*click*

Waited. Heard nothing more. So high. I could barely feel my arms and legs.

I didn't want to talk to him. I just want to talk to him. I'd tell him sorry for being such an ass and running away like that. I'd tell him to leave me the hell alone for once. Tell him to stop freaking out every time I take an aspirin. I'd tell him I don't want to be alone anymore. I'd tell him I'm not gay. Tell him I don’t know what I am. I'd tell him I never use the word love. That I don't believe in love. That it's been years and he hasn't said so much as a word. Tell him he's an idiot for getting into this. Tell him that he doesn't want to be close to me. Tell him I'm nothing but a washed up junkie, I don't even think I can love.

An hour later the answering machine picked up another message but I fell asleep before I could listen, only vaguely aware of what was going on, not sure it wasn't all a dream.