Pathetic

The shoes are back.



The soft shuffle of rubber soles on pavement sends shivers down my spine. I don't know why I had thought them unfamiliar, because the red striped laces on black are unmistakable.



So is the cane.



"You already have my car," I say, trembling, "what the hell else do you want?"



"Nothing important," House replies, eyes blackened by shadows, "just your heart." He hefts his cane into the air and poises it over my chest. In the dim light of the parking lot halogens, I'm shocked to see that instead of its normal rubber-traction tip, the end of his cane is capped with a shiny metal spike.



It glimmers as darkly as his eyes, as he plunges it down and into my chest.



"NO!" I cry, grabbing at my chest. The bed creaks beneath me, and I am at once mortified at my outburst and relieved that it had just been a dream. House snorts and rolls over, oblivious.



I struggle to take charge of my erratic breathing, as each intake of air is like being rib-kicked anew. The muscles of my chest wall have stiffened in the last hours and the edema in my face is reaching a peak.



Fuck, it hurts like a bitch. The back of my head feels like a family of woodpeckers has moved in. I put my hand there to check for bleeding, but the room is too dark to tell.



Two hours ago my bladder had mentioned being full. Now it is downright flailing and stomping its feet. The bathroom seems no closer, but pissing the bed on a first date is never good protocol. I manage a half-scootch, half-roll to the edge of the bed, then slowly achieve a standing position, shuffling my sorry self down the hall.



I sit on the cool seat and curl into a fetal position as at least my bladder finds some relief. My left eye is alternating between pounding and stabbing and I decide to search out House's stash of vicodin.



If I ever stop peeing…



I'll have to check and see if diuretic is listed as a side effect. When the seemingly endless flow of urine tapers and stops, I wash my hands and dig through House's medicine cabinet. You know, for a doctor, he has surprisingly few medications. Well, legal ones, anyway.



Rolaids, Orajel, a set of toenail clippers, a box with Chinese writing on it that could be a wart remover or penis enhancer (or both!), and a crumpled up tube of Polysporin. No vicodin.



I should probably just wake him up and ask him where the keeps it, but after all of the hassles I've given him about his addiction, I wouldn't feel right. So instead, I shuffle to the kitchen to search there.



Honestly, for a man who likes to eat, he keeps very little food: a box of Quaker Oats (untouched), a box of BranFlakes (half full), and an empty box of Lucky Charms (they're magically delicious!).



I close the pantry door and practically jump out of my skin to find House standing there.



"Shit, man!" I say, not relishing the panicked beating of my heart, "don't sneak up on a victim of violence like that!"



House just shrugs. "I couldn't sleep. You were making too much noise."



"I was not."



"Not now," he says slowly, as if speaking to an imbecile, "before … in bed."



"Was I? Sorry."



"Does your face hurt?"



"Yeah."



"It's killing me."



"Ha ha, very funny. How long have you been holding that in?"



House checks his watchless wrist. "Oh, about five hours." He gives me a small nudge with his shoulder. "Do you want something for the pain?"



"No. Well, yeah, but…"



He holds out his fist, palm down, then turns it over and opens his fingers, revealing the topaz vial. I hesitantly reach out to accept it.



"Are you sure?" I ask.



House gives an easy nod. "Sure. I never knew that being an enabler would be so fun!"



"Great," I say, looking around for a clean glass. I know where they're kept, but my sore side won't allow me to reach up that high to get one. "We can go to meetings together."



House reaches above me and opens the cupboard, retrieving a tumbler.



"Here," he says, a raspy edge to his voice. I turn and fill it with water, mindful of his heat and proximity. I swallow the pill and turn around, but he is as close to me as ever. I'm nude, and I blush despite myself. I'm normally a very modest person. I wear a towel in and out of the shower, even alone in my hotel room, but House's bedroom was too dark to find my pants, and the call of nature too strong to ignore.



House has donned a pair of boxers, but they do little to hide his intentions. He grins like he's about to devour me, then leans in for a kiss. My cock says "yes", but my lips and head say "OUCH!" I lean back to break the kiss, but slip an arm around his waist to let him know I'm interested.



"Just … give me a sec, okay? The vicodin …"



He nods and gives me a gentle peck over my good eye. Then my stomach gives a mighty rumble and we both smirk.



"Okay, then," he says, turning towards the fridge, "let's eat."



House opens the fridge and I see something familiar.



"My cake!" I say, peering over his shoulder.



"Well, of course. I wasn't going to let a perfectly good cake go to waste. That's sacrilege." House lifts the clear plastic lid and places it on the counter, then makes a grand gesture, inviting me to have the first taste.



I waste no time swiping two fingers through the white icing, but as I bring them to my mouth, House grabs my wrist and brings my hand to his face.



"Your mouth might hurt, but mine feels just fine." He raises one brow suggestively then proceeds to lick and suck my fingers clean.



"House…" I say, doing a very bad job of protesting. "I thought I said that we should wait…"



"For what?" he asks, bobbing his head up and down the length of my digits. "Can you stand up?"



I nod, confused, for I am already standing.



"Good. That's all you have to do."



He scoops up a generous dollop of icing and smears it in a line down my chest, and lower.



"Oh, fuck," I say, my mind slowly wrapping around what I think (hope) he's going to do. Another swipe at the cake and my cock is coated in the sugary mess. House begins to work his way down, licking and slurping, stopping at my nipple for an extra taste, then over to the other with a gentle rake of his teeth.



"Oh, fuck," I say again, and an outbreak of gooseflesh engulfs my body.



"Not tonight, Jimmy," he says, tonguing my bellybutton, "tonight it's all about the suck."



Oh shit, oh god, he IS going to do that! And when he finally captures my prick with his mouth, I groan with delight. His mouth is even more talented at this than sarcastic banter, and I force myself to open my eyes and see it for myself.



The sight of my purple head breaching those lips as he works me with his mouth is overwhelming, and I don't know how my brain hasn't melted from the hotness of it, and when he looks up at me, blue eyes dead serious as he smiles around his prize, I have to fight the urge to buck my hips and have him take me deeper.



Thank god for his hands, pinning my hips to the counter, because I don't think I have the fortitude to hold back on my own.



"Do you like this?" he asks between sucks, and the question is so ludicrous that I'm sure I've misheard him.



"Do I like this? Um … like ? Does Pete Rose like gambling? Does Paris Hilton love showing off her cooter?"



House makes a face. "Please don't ever mention Paris Hilton when I'm doing anything remotely sexual to you, okay? Just talk to me." He removes a hand from my hip and snakes it down to the bulge in his boxers.



"Huh?"



"Tell me. Talk to me." He goes down for another mind numbing suck and I'm truly at a loss. "You mean, like … talk dirty?"



He grins around my cock again and I'm suddenly willing to do just about anything that will encourage him to continue.



"Hmm." I grapple with what to say. I rarely even tell off-colour jokes, let alone wax poetic about blowjobs. "It feels … good."



"Uh huh," he says, encouragingly.



"Yeah. Um … my penis feels really … good … in your mouth."



House snickers and shakes his head. "Perhaps you should be the one on your knees, 'cause you really suck."



"No, wait!" I say, hating the pleading tone in my voice, "I can do better. I just … I don't know what you want me to say." He's making me nervous, and oddly, that's making me even more aroused.



"Just tell me what you like, Jimmy. Tell me what you want me to do to you."



I chew my bottom lip, thinking. "Uh, your mouth."



"Yes?" he asks, licking up the underside of my cock.



"It's uh, hot and um, wet."



"Yeah?"



"And, oh Shit! Yeah, when you do that … thing, with your lips, when they … oh God! Harder!"



House complies and starts to stroke his own cock while still working on mine.



"It's so hot … and tight."



House hums his encouragement and the vibrations reverberate all the way up my shaft and into my belly.



"Oh fuck, Greg!" I say, knees buckling. "Just-don't-stop!"



House takes his other hand from my hip and drags it through some excess icing on my groin, then slips it up and behind my balls. I jump a little at the intrusion, but he's very gentle and I'm more distracted with what's going on in front of me, anyway. At least, I am until one slick finger circles my entrance, then slips inside.



Oh shit, oh god! House just stuck his finger in my ass and damn if it doesn't feel good! He wriggles it and twists it a bit, sinking it in deeper. I grunt out my approval and push back onto that finger until it hits … just … there! Just there! He wiggles it again and presses towards my perineum, and I'm done. I'm toast. I've passed the point of no return.



I tug at his hair with shaking hands to warn him, but he grips me more tightly, shoving that wonderful finger even deeper, and I come. And come. And come. Like a teenager, and he stays with me until the end. In fact, he stays with me past the end, still sucking and probing, and it's becoming uncomfortable. I'm just about to wonder why, when his breath hitches and he gives a small, satisfied grunt.



I feel the warmth of him spatter across my shins, and he finally relaxes his mouth, and lets that wonderful finger slip free. We both remain this way for a few minutes, catching our breath, but then stiff muscles and shaky limbs demand that we move, and we stretch, clean ourselves, and then sit down and actually eat some cake.



I can't help but stare at him through mouthfuls of chocolate. Such an enigma. A walking contradiction. And he's with me! He's chosen to be with me. I smile, and his brow furrows.



"What?"



"You know," I say, picking my words carefully, "you didn't have to, um … finish that by yourself. I'd be more than willing to … reciprocate." I attempt a smile, and House does his best to not cringe.



"Thanks Jimmy, but I think I'll wait until you get those teeth fixed. I kinda like my foreskin right where it is."



I laugh, and after a moment he joins me. We finish our cake in silence, and after I put our dishes in the sink and wipe the excess icing from the counter (at least, I hope it's icing), he takes my hand and we both shuffle to the bedroom.



The bed is soft. There's no stupid dip in the middle. But most of all, I'm not alone. His hand is resting on my thigh, and I think he is asleep until he gives a gentle squeeze. I put my hand over his and squeeze back. I definitely am not alone.



**





Epilogue

Six months later:



"Pick a hole, any hole."



My head is lounging on his belly, my fingers tracing lazy circles through the dark hair below his navel. His cock is already more than interested, but perks up even more at the myriad of choices.



"Ear?" he asks hopefully.



I grin and comply, dutifully trying to impale my head on his cock.



"I dunno," I say with mock confusion, pressing my ear to the not-so-soft head, "I think it's gonna take more lube."



He smiles and my heart practically leaps from my chest. There isn't anything I won't do to elicit that dopey expression, especially after almost losing him like that. I am the luckiest man in the world, and I've promised myself that I would never take him for granted again. The smile falters and I realize that I've been staring.



"What?" he asks, brown eyes clouding with concern. He's healed up nicely these past few months. Just a little pink line through one of those crazy Marx Brothers' eyebrows. He still has the dreams sometimes, but they rarely wake him up anymore. I slide up to smooth the crease from his brow and kiss that beautiful scar.



"Are we okay?" he asks, pressing tiny kisses to the line of my jaw.



"Oh yeah," I sigh, my chest tight, "we're okay, Jimmy. We're more than okay."



THE END