Categories > TV > House > A Little Bit of Your Taste In My Mouth
You glide through the next day, and it’s like you’re moving through water. Everything’s heavy, slow and your movements ripple around you. House is there and he’s…different. He’s not gentle (does he know how to be?), but he’s not acerbic. He talks to you like you’re a person and you wonder if he’ll lose interest in you, now that he knows your history. What makes you tick (why you want so, so badly to be needed). You’re worried that he’ll reject you, push your hand away but he doesn’t; you’re amazed that you can reach out and touch his inner-wrist, feel the warm, smooth skin there (you wonder how it exists in someone who is all angles and rough, hard responses). You keep two fingers there, like you’re feeling for his pulse and you are in a way, making sure he’s alive, making sure this is real. His pulse is strong beneath your fingers and it tells you that you’re not dreaming, you’re not insane, this is happening (and he wants you). So you sit near him, look at him through your eyelashes and keep your hand on him until he pulls you in, splays his hand on your back and puts his lips to your neck. The area is sensitive and it sends little zings of electricity throughout your body and you almost start laughing because the feeling is so intense that it needs to escape your body, become real and tangible in the air around you (the air that’s not enough, you’re breathing fast bust still drowning).
A chuckle leaves your lips and as it reverberates into his hair his tongue hits your skin and he’s tasting you, bringing you back into his mouth and you feel him smile, feel his lips stretch then place a goodbye kiss on your sticky skin. Then he’s sitting next to you again, acting like this is normal, that this happens everyday so get used to it (and you think that you’d really, really like to get used to it). You move your hand to his face now and touch the skin there; it’s smooth today and when you lean in he smells like soap. You kiss the corner of his mouth, the part that pulls up and makes the hard line of his lips melt into a smile. He closes his lips on yours and tries to open them with his tongue but you shake your head, push your tongue into his mouth and he’s surprised at your dominance. He tastes like cinnamon and syrup, though he ate the pancakes you made him (and those you made for yourself) hours ago. And then you feel it, the stirrings inside that want House, that need him to touch you. You pull away for a moment to concentrate, to stop the feeling in its tracks but House looks down and then back up at you and smiles.
“Down, boy.” He gets up and goes to the fridge, offers you a beer but you can’t hear him because you’ve fled to the bathroom where you hit the wall with your fist. You’re cursing your crotch now but it doesn’t listen; it’s standing at full attention and you need to take care of it. You feel like a teenager, unable to control your own hormones and then you hear House. He’s sitting up against the door, tapping his cane idly and you’re so mortified you could die, but then he speaks.
“Are you thinking about me?” You answer in your head Of course I’m thinking about you! And you want it to be him in here, laying next to you or on top of you, making you shudder and groan and then go blind from pleasure. Instead you just tell him to go away, that you’ll be out in a few minutes.
“Just take care of it and come out,” he says. “Or should I come in?” Oh, God you want him in there but you know he won’t touch you until you fix yourself and who knows when that will be? But the knob’s turning and then he’s with you, leaning against the wall, looking at you as if to say, Well, what are you waiting for? So you pull your pants down and begin stroking but you close your eyes because this is so strange and unfamiliar (two days ago he was your best friend, now he watches you touch yourself) and he tells you to look at him, so you do. You lock his gaze and keep going and you can’t keep quiet; you’re calling out Greg even though you’ve always called him House, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He watches on, hungrily almost and then you gasp and shudder and relax into a gelatinous pool of contentment. You stay still for a moment, don’t want to get up and won’t be able to for a few moments when you hear the sink running. Then you’re wet (again) but this time it’s water; House is cleaning you with a washcloth. He places a hand on your hip and you want him to stay there with you, to match you stroke for stroke, but he moves his hand and gets up. You hear the door shut behind him and are left with his fingerprints on your skin, which may as well have been burned there.
You pull yourself together (pull your pants up) and leave the bathroom (even though you kind of want to stay in there, hide away from him) House sits at the piano like nothing has happened—like he didn’t just witness one of your most private moments. He scares the shit out of you sometimes; he has to know everything and you’re not sure if there will be any of you left once he’s explored everything he needs to see. But you push that thought away and sit down. Your hands don’t know what to do with themselves so they bounce around on your knees. He moves one of his hands and covers yours; he’s a parent correcting a child.
“You need to find a place,” he says. You snatch your hands away. He wants you out. He’s seen you at your most vulnerable (in more ways than one) and he doesn’t want you, doesn’t need you. You’re up, collecting your possessions and your teeth are gritted because you don’t want to say what you feel. You’re in his bedroom, almost done getting your stuff when he comes up behind you and grabs your arms.
“You don’t get it,” he says, but you pull away.
“No, House. This time I really get it. I’m not needed or wanted; you’ve figured me out and now you’re done. I’m one of your puzzles. Congratulations in making me think you wanted me; I really hope you enjoyed the show.”
His eyes take on a hard look but he stays there, reaches out for you again and holds you in a death grip.
“I want you. But I’m not a rebound. So if you want this, you need to find a place. I won’t sleep with you until then, because this isn’t real until you get on your own feet.”
“What do you mean?” You’ve relaxed in his arms but you’re so confused; you’re always wrong and it’s so hard to keep up with him (what his injury takes away his mind more than makes up for).
“You’re still with your wife. Until you leave, get a lawyer and actually divorce her, this isn’t real. This is some fantasy vacation that you’ll forget about, convince yourself it didn’t exist.”
You tell him you’ll start looking for apartments tomorrow. The night moves quickly after that; House orders Chinese (you pay). Your mouth is full when he speaks, and you think he’s planned it that way.
“Have you ever been in love, Wilson?” You swallow hard, choke a little and try to answer, but he doesn’t leave you room to respond.
“I think you get off on people needing you, but you never let yourself love—or need—anyone else. I mean, that’s why this friendship began. The Vicodin. And you’ve used me because I needed you—or at least, your signature. You’ve let me ruin at least two of your marriages; you’ve lost your job because of me, but because you know I need you, you stick around.”
You want to yell, to disagree (you even want to hit him, make him bleed and see how much he needs you then), but you can’t because you know it’s true. You’ve never been in love. You don’t know if it even exists. But there’s this feeling in you, this faint tugging feeling that tells you something big is happening and if you mess it up now, you’re done. There will be nothing left for you. So you cradle the feeling gently, try not to break it, and try to figure it out. House stares at you, waits for you, and then you see.
“You’re everything I’m not.” House is mean when he wants to be, doesn’t care about societal norms. He’s acerbic, brilliant, damaged. Broken. You’re kind all the time, but only to respect the norms. You’re gentle, you’re smart. But you’re broken too, even worse than House because at least he can admit his problems (he won’t fix them, but he knows them better than anyone else). You fit together; you soften his angles and he sharpens yours. You afraid now, because you see how everything could be and you’re afraid what you want will never come to pass.
“You get it now.” He smiles at you and you’re a new person.
“Why did you tell me all that now?” Your voice is low.
He leans back and that superior, smug look is on his face. It curls his lips and makes his eyes gleam (and you wish you had blue eyes because if you could possess one-tenth of the beauty he doesn’t know he has, you would be satisfied.) “I got tired of waiting for you to figure it out.” He takes the lo mein from your hand and loops it around his chopsticks. He slurps loudly and the noodles stick out of his mouth, wriggle like worms (your stomach twists at the image). You pick up a dumpling and take a bite. The texture is off-putting because your teeth sink into it, then snap through the dough and you can’t help but imagine you’re biting into flesh. It’s cold, anyway.
When you’re finished you clean up because you know he won’t. You make your bed on the couch, but he stops you, asks you what you’re doing. You resist the urge to say ‘duh,’ and tell him you’re sleeping on the couch (you don’t tell him you won’t follow him to bed because you’re not sure you can control yourself and you don’t want to take another bathroom break in the middle of the night). But he eyes you knowingly and acquiesces without too much scoffing. You watch him walk away and feel that tugging again so you stop him and taste his lips one last time before trying to fall asleep on an impossibly uncomfortable couch. The task proves too difficult and you remain awake. You hear House’s faint snoring (they’re almost delicate, and you laugh at the thought of House being dainty) and you get up. You don’t know why you want to watch him sleep, but you do so you creep closer. There’s an empty glass on his nightstand and a bottle of Jack Daniels next to it. It probably assisted the Vicodin, and somehow you’re relieved at this because you’re pretty sure that he won’t wake up to your snooping. His face is relaxed and the moonlight washes it out, making him look impossibly pale—almost otherworldly. You decide not to go back to the couch. You’re careful enough not to wake him while you get in the bed, or at least you think so. When you move to pull the covers up he smiles, asks if the couch was uncomfortable and turns so he’s on his back.
You shake your head. Somehow, you’re already falling asleep.
A chuckle leaves your lips and as it reverberates into his hair his tongue hits your skin and he’s tasting you, bringing you back into his mouth and you feel him smile, feel his lips stretch then place a goodbye kiss on your sticky skin. Then he’s sitting next to you again, acting like this is normal, that this happens everyday so get used to it (and you think that you’d really, really like to get used to it). You move your hand to his face now and touch the skin there; it’s smooth today and when you lean in he smells like soap. You kiss the corner of his mouth, the part that pulls up and makes the hard line of his lips melt into a smile. He closes his lips on yours and tries to open them with his tongue but you shake your head, push your tongue into his mouth and he’s surprised at your dominance. He tastes like cinnamon and syrup, though he ate the pancakes you made him (and those you made for yourself) hours ago. And then you feel it, the stirrings inside that want House, that need him to touch you. You pull away for a moment to concentrate, to stop the feeling in its tracks but House looks down and then back up at you and smiles.
“Down, boy.” He gets up and goes to the fridge, offers you a beer but you can’t hear him because you’ve fled to the bathroom where you hit the wall with your fist. You’re cursing your crotch now but it doesn’t listen; it’s standing at full attention and you need to take care of it. You feel like a teenager, unable to control your own hormones and then you hear House. He’s sitting up against the door, tapping his cane idly and you’re so mortified you could die, but then he speaks.
“Are you thinking about me?” You answer in your head Of course I’m thinking about you! And you want it to be him in here, laying next to you or on top of you, making you shudder and groan and then go blind from pleasure. Instead you just tell him to go away, that you’ll be out in a few minutes.
“Just take care of it and come out,” he says. “Or should I come in?” Oh, God you want him in there but you know he won’t touch you until you fix yourself and who knows when that will be? But the knob’s turning and then he’s with you, leaning against the wall, looking at you as if to say, Well, what are you waiting for? So you pull your pants down and begin stroking but you close your eyes because this is so strange and unfamiliar (two days ago he was your best friend, now he watches you touch yourself) and he tells you to look at him, so you do. You lock his gaze and keep going and you can’t keep quiet; you’re calling out Greg even though you’ve always called him House, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He watches on, hungrily almost and then you gasp and shudder and relax into a gelatinous pool of contentment. You stay still for a moment, don’t want to get up and won’t be able to for a few moments when you hear the sink running. Then you’re wet (again) but this time it’s water; House is cleaning you with a washcloth. He places a hand on your hip and you want him to stay there with you, to match you stroke for stroke, but he moves his hand and gets up. You hear the door shut behind him and are left with his fingerprints on your skin, which may as well have been burned there.
You pull yourself together (pull your pants up) and leave the bathroom (even though you kind of want to stay in there, hide away from him) House sits at the piano like nothing has happened—like he didn’t just witness one of your most private moments. He scares the shit out of you sometimes; he has to know everything and you’re not sure if there will be any of you left once he’s explored everything he needs to see. But you push that thought away and sit down. Your hands don’t know what to do with themselves so they bounce around on your knees. He moves one of his hands and covers yours; he’s a parent correcting a child.
“You need to find a place,” he says. You snatch your hands away. He wants you out. He’s seen you at your most vulnerable (in more ways than one) and he doesn’t want you, doesn’t need you. You’re up, collecting your possessions and your teeth are gritted because you don’t want to say what you feel. You’re in his bedroom, almost done getting your stuff when he comes up behind you and grabs your arms.
“You don’t get it,” he says, but you pull away.
“No, House. This time I really get it. I’m not needed or wanted; you’ve figured me out and now you’re done. I’m one of your puzzles. Congratulations in making me think you wanted me; I really hope you enjoyed the show.”
His eyes take on a hard look but he stays there, reaches out for you again and holds you in a death grip.
“I want you. But I’m not a rebound. So if you want this, you need to find a place. I won’t sleep with you until then, because this isn’t real until you get on your own feet.”
“What do you mean?” You’ve relaxed in his arms but you’re so confused; you’re always wrong and it’s so hard to keep up with him (what his injury takes away his mind more than makes up for).
“You’re still with your wife. Until you leave, get a lawyer and actually divorce her, this isn’t real. This is some fantasy vacation that you’ll forget about, convince yourself it didn’t exist.”
You tell him you’ll start looking for apartments tomorrow. The night moves quickly after that; House orders Chinese (you pay). Your mouth is full when he speaks, and you think he’s planned it that way.
“Have you ever been in love, Wilson?” You swallow hard, choke a little and try to answer, but he doesn’t leave you room to respond.
“I think you get off on people needing you, but you never let yourself love—or need—anyone else. I mean, that’s why this friendship began. The Vicodin. And you’ve used me because I needed you—or at least, your signature. You’ve let me ruin at least two of your marriages; you’ve lost your job because of me, but because you know I need you, you stick around.”
You want to yell, to disagree (you even want to hit him, make him bleed and see how much he needs you then), but you can’t because you know it’s true. You’ve never been in love. You don’t know if it even exists. But there’s this feeling in you, this faint tugging feeling that tells you something big is happening and if you mess it up now, you’re done. There will be nothing left for you. So you cradle the feeling gently, try not to break it, and try to figure it out. House stares at you, waits for you, and then you see.
“You’re everything I’m not.” House is mean when he wants to be, doesn’t care about societal norms. He’s acerbic, brilliant, damaged. Broken. You’re kind all the time, but only to respect the norms. You’re gentle, you’re smart. But you’re broken too, even worse than House because at least he can admit his problems (he won’t fix them, but he knows them better than anyone else). You fit together; you soften his angles and he sharpens yours. You afraid now, because you see how everything could be and you’re afraid what you want will never come to pass.
“You get it now.” He smiles at you and you’re a new person.
“Why did you tell me all that now?” Your voice is low.
He leans back and that superior, smug look is on his face. It curls his lips and makes his eyes gleam (and you wish you had blue eyes because if you could possess one-tenth of the beauty he doesn’t know he has, you would be satisfied.) “I got tired of waiting for you to figure it out.” He takes the lo mein from your hand and loops it around his chopsticks. He slurps loudly and the noodles stick out of his mouth, wriggle like worms (your stomach twists at the image). You pick up a dumpling and take a bite. The texture is off-putting because your teeth sink into it, then snap through the dough and you can’t help but imagine you’re biting into flesh. It’s cold, anyway.
When you’re finished you clean up because you know he won’t. You make your bed on the couch, but he stops you, asks you what you’re doing. You resist the urge to say ‘duh,’ and tell him you’re sleeping on the couch (you don’t tell him you won’t follow him to bed because you’re not sure you can control yourself and you don’t want to take another bathroom break in the middle of the night). But he eyes you knowingly and acquiesces without too much scoffing. You watch him walk away and feel that tugging again so you stop him and taste his lips one last time before trying to fall asleep on an impossibly uncomfortable couch. The task proves too difficult and you remain awake. You hear House’s faint snoring (they’re almost delicate, and you laugh at the thought of House being dainty) and you get up. You don’t know why you want to watch him sleep, but you do so you creep closer. There’s an empty glass on his nightstand and a bottle of Jack Daniels next to it. It probably assisted the Vicodin, and somehow you’re relieved at this because you’re pretty sure that he won’t wake up to your snooping. His face is relaxed and the moonlight washes it out, making him look impossibly pale—almost otherworldly. You decide not to go back to the couch. You’re careful enough not to wake him while you get in the bed, or at least you think so. When you move to pull the covers up he smiles, asks if the couch was uncomfortable and turns so he’s on his back.
You shake your head. Somehow, you’re already falling asleep.
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