Hangman

PART EIGHT

Wilson shifts in his bed, his head pounding in his skull, his mouth tasting… *dirty*. He pushes himself off the pillows, his stomach churning in protest. He runs a hand through his hair, down his face and onto his neck. He can feel something swollen on his neck and he winces as he presses down on it.
“What the-”
Wilson cuts himself off as he catches sight of Gregory House lying naked beside him.
“House?!” Wilson’s voice hits a high octave he didn’t know he possessed. “House, what the fuck are you doing in my bed?”
House opens blue eyes and replies:
“Well, sleeping, up until a moment ago.”
He is way, way too calm, considering Wilson’s brain has gone into helpless babbling shock, and his whole body is trembling with a mixture of his hangover and sheer, unadulterated horror. He looks about him and realizes. His body is smothered in bites and bruises (House never did get the hang of having sex without leaving marks) and the bed is rumpled, the sheet sticky and damp in places, and Wilson feels sick. Physically sick.
“You *bastard*.” He gasps, feeling utterly betrayed. “You fucking bastard.” He pauses to take a breath. “Do you not know the meaning of the word ‘no’?”
“Yes, and you didn’t say it.” Snaps House. He’s starting to look annoyed now. Their positions-House lying on his back and reclining slightly, Wilson on his knees facing him-are reminiscent of a time that died a long time ago.
“I was so drunk I would have done fucking *anything*.” He says, wondering if there’s anything of the man he fell in love with left in that caustic, bitter shell.
“And you did me.” Responds House. “Isn’t that better than-”
“No, *you* fucking did *me*.” Snarls Wilson. “And that makes all the difference.” He swallows hard. Every inch of his body hurts and his eyes feel like they’re going to start crying any second. “You didn’t have my consent.” He whispers helplessly.
“*You* came onto *me*.” House points out, sitting up slightly.
“How many times do I have to say it- I was horrendously drunk. I had no idea what I was doing. You did. And you didn’t have my consent.” He can see House’s face twist into a scowl and don’t say it is written all over his features. But Wilson has to. He finally says aloud the words that are running, screaming, around his brain. “You *raped* me.”
The word ‘rape’ seems to pull all the oxygen out of the room. House gives him a very ugly look.
“I never took you for a coward, James.” He spits. Wilson flinches.
“What?!”
“If you thought that this was a mistake, then fine. But don’t you fucking DARE hide behind those lame excuses and lies.” House is angry, so angry, face twisted up, but Wilson is angrier.
“Get your clothes back on, and leave, before I do something else I’ll regret.” He says, cold and furious, but trying to keep control of himself. He takes a shuddering breath and rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands.
“Why did you do it?” he asks brokenly. “Is this your sick way of getting revenge? Aren’t I suffering enough *without* this?”
If he was looking, he would see House wince at that. But all he hears is House’s icy reply.
“Is that all you think of me?”
“All I know is that you fucked me when I didn’t say yes, and if you hadn’t been here when I woke up, I wouldn’t know anything about it. Get out. Right now.” Wilson snarls.
He watches House gathering his clothes, wincing from obvious pain in his viscously scarred thigh as he struggles back into his jeans. He doesn’t offer to help and House doesn’t ask. House pauses and looks over his shoulder.
“Last night,” he says, with a nasty glint in his eye, “You were screaming at me to go faster, to fuck you harder. You’re really not the injured party here, Jimmy, so don’t act like you’re some fucking martyr.”
“Can’t you just get it through your head?” shouts Wilson. “I DON’T WANT YOU. And I never, ever have.”
And that’s what finally breaks House. For one pure, sharp, painful moment, his face crumples and shatters and Wilson can practically *hear* Greg stammer “You’re- you’re *leaving* me?” ten years ago or however long it was. But what frightens Wilson, more than watching House fall apart from nine well-chosen words, is that he enjoys doing it.
*
House has staggered down to the car by the time Wilson finally pulls himself out of bed. He crosses over to the window and watches the older doctor limp over to his car. Greg turns and looks back up at his oldest friend through the window. A part of him wants to wave, wants to run back upstairs and scream his apologies at Wilson until he listens. But this is reality, and Greg has a fucked up leg and fucked up pride. So he gets in his car and drives away.
Back in the house, Wilson turns from the window, his face twisted and hardened. He winces slightly as he walks across the room. House’s ability to fuck hard hadn’t wavered over the years and Wilson runs a hand over the various scratches and bites on his chest.

House runs a finger down Wilson’s chest, pinching his nipples and scratching the sensitive skin. Wilson arches into the touch, his breathing harsh and ragged. House dips his head and sucks on the left nipple, teasing it gently with his teeth.
*
Chase opens the door after about ten minutes of loud angry knocking. House pins him against the wall with his body, kissing him hard, brutally. Chase can’t even breathe and House’s hand tangles roughly in his hair. It’s way too early in the morning to really register what’s going on, or why the hell House has suddenly decided to touch him again after days of glaring.

Wilson arches underneath him, head tipping back slightly, as House bites his way down his chest. His fingers run lazily through the older man’s hair and House hisses slightly and wonders why he didn’t miss this more.

Chase feels House’s hand slide down his back, pulling him closer, hand squeezing his ass, mouth still viscously kissing him, and he can’t help thinking that maybe this is House’s way of getting revenge; he’s going to fuck him and leave him and humiliate him. And then Chase realizes that if this is all he’s going to get out of House, then he doesn’t actually care.

Wilson is so drunk that his co-ordination is failing, but House doesn’t actually mind. He has a moment of trying to work out if this is wrong, if maybe he should stop, but he just *can’t*. Then Wilson’s hand slides into his jeans and he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to.

House is stroking Chase through and under his pyjamas, warm hand sliding over his skin until Chase is almost painfully aroused. And, abruptly, House stops.
“I still haven’t forgiven you.” He hisses, mouth swollen and wet and eyes blazing with a dozen different emotions Chase can’t place. And then the older doctor walks away.
*