When James Wilson first opened his eyes
Sunday morning, he found that he was no longer spooned against Gregory House as they had been when they went to bed the night
before. Sometime during the night Gregg had turned himself all the way around
in the bed. He was flat on his back with his head at the foot end and turned
toward the wall, covers bunched beneath him. The thing was, as James saw it,
House’s defensive mechanisms were in full play even while he slept. His
gamy leg was half on a pillow again, but it was on the opposite side where it was safe from nocturnal mishaps. Somehow, the realization that this might be so, made Wilson a little sad.
Even the unconscious guarding against more pain where there was already too much, must terrify Gregg even more than
Wilson had thought.
He held his own body still and just watched his friend’s uncomfortable posture.
Thirty seconds later, the straw-stack head
turned deliberately in Wilson’s direction and the electric
blue eyes pinned him in place where he lay. House had not been asleep. “Damn it, Wilson, your eyes are burning
a hole in the side of my head!”
A sense of guilt crept up James’
body for staring too long and thinking too much. “I’m sorry,”
he began. “I thought you were asleep.
I just …”
“Jimmy. I know what you were doing. I can read your mind. Not only that, but your thoughts are still seared in flame across your forehead.”
“Oh yeah?” Wilson cocked an arm and leaned his head
on his hand. “So what was I thinking?”
“You were pitying the cripple!”
“I was not!”
“A lie is a crappy way to start the
day.” House gathered himself with his weight on both arms and slid to a
gradual sitting position. His leg slid off the pillow and slipped over the edge
of the bed. Impaired muscles had no strength to halt the downward momentum, and
Wilson heard his heel hit the rug on the other side with a
soft thump. “Ow! Fuck!”
A hand came up in warning. “It’s all right. Just surprised me is all.” He shook his head, sighed and leaned backward again onto both elbows.
moved around to grasp his friend’s shoulders, then reached under both arms and dragged him across the mattress. When he was finished, their faces were nose to nose at the foot of the bed. They were both grinning. House arched his back, brought his
stubbled face upward in a quick maneuver and touched his lips to Wilson’s
mouth in a gentle suggestion, causing his startled friend to shy away in surprise.
“What?!” House taunted in a teasing
voice. “You didn’t want me to do that?”
“Jesus, Gregg! I …”
“You don’t believe in Jesus!” House reached out again and pulled Wilson’s mouth back against his own. “You didn’t want me to do that either?”
frowned. He was ready this time. He
grabbed House’s tee-shirt quickly, closing the gap between them to return the kiss.
He was dead serious. He forced his tongue easily between House’s
teeth until Gregg pulled back in equal surprise.
“I guess you got it right the first
time!” Wilson grunted, eyebrows rising in smug satisfaction.
This time when they came together
it was mutual. No more pulling away, no more expressions of startled innocence,
and certainly no more embarrassed restraint. The next kiss was tender and deep
and full of breathless promise.
“So how does that strike you?” Wilson
“Two more strikes like that and I’m
fuckin’ out!” House whispered.
They embraced at last, both trembling
with anticipation. Both could feel the beginnings of pent-up emotions turning
physical. Both knew that the moment they’d each been anticipating so long
was finally at hand. Neither man could tear his attention away from the other’s
face; neither man could wait any longer. They removed their remaining clothing
very slowly and deliberately, eyes locked and glittering. This was too important;
too intimate a moment to be taken lightly. They moved with care, gentle with
each other though still clumsy in the newness, each knowing it was a unique experience for both.
Soft, supple doctors’ hands moved
with shy, tentative grazes against each other’s skin, examining avenues where they had never dared venture before. Not rushing, not crashing upon
each other’s space with the wild abandon of foolish exuberance. Instead,
they were now exploring, learning, mapping the vast differences in loving an all-male landscape.
This was so much more than an adventure. It was a step into a different reality; the furthest they had ever been with each
other physically outside their own fantasies. It was nearly dream-like in the
excitement of discovery. James Wilson held Gregory House’s face gently
between both hands, dark eyes mapping out every centimeter of weathered scruffiness.
He kissed the tip of Gregg’s nose, smiling blissfully, while House allowed it to happen with a fascinated expression
of his own. He, in turn, tousled James’ thick auburn hair, running it between
his fingers, feeling the silky texture with childish wonder. He had touched Wilson’s hair before, but only as a fleeting dash of friendly
affection. It was the same this time, but also lingering, and so much deeper;
almost possessive. Wanton.
Slowly, softly, they clung together and
aligned the lengths of their slender, linear male bodies. They edged closer, experimenting; chests, bellies, hips, erections thickening, straining outward, one against
the other, making their guts churn and their breaths quicken. But still they
did not push. It would come in natural fashion or it would not come at all. They wanted it to last as long as humanly
possible; drink in the essences, each from the other in breathless proximity until the bottom dropped out of the world which
sustained them and everything around them went up in glorious fireworks that set their souls aflame.
Their legs began to entwine, as legs
must under such circumstances, and now Wilson must become
the dominant partner. There was a chance of danger here, resulting in accidental
harm and painful aftermath. He must not allow it, or the joy for both of them
would be lost. Together they explored the possibilities with tender caution until
they discovered that it was indeed possible for them to fit together intimately and still find a modicum of safety for a crippled
man’s damaged leg. With this question answered at last, they were free
to find the highest pinnacle of erotic human sensation and explore that also.
Their arousal intensified.
They rolled together, embracing, Wilson still dominating and initiating a unique canted rhythm, the way
it had to be between them, each reaching inward and down, caressing each other’s hardness with mounting fervor. Their bodies responded eagerly, shafts pulsating with growing demand, physical excitement
peaking in unison and erections straining sensuously within the grasp of each other’s flesh. Their bodily fluids surfaced in lustful eruptions, slicking their cocks, pulling their life essences, molten,
to lubricate their skin. The climax sapped their strength and merged their energies
with a final surge that united them in an erupting supernova of being.
Spent, they lay with limbs still entwined,
whimpering like puppies sated with mother’s milk. Breathless. Exhausted and empty, yet fulfilled. Wilson caressed House’s hair, soft now with sweat. Gregg’s gaunt body was musky
with the aftermath of joyous post-coital repose.
House’s shoulder cradled Wilson’s cheek while his long fingers reached for and fondled
a soft earlobe. Gregg felt weak and exhausted and totally amazed.
After a time they rolled apart, still spent. On their backs, relaxed as deflated balloons, looking, studying, staring at each other’s
faces. Fascinated, startled, bemused.
“I love you.”
“And I love you. I thought it could never happen again. But it has.”
They lay like that for nearly an hour,
allowing their bodies to recover. They embraced again, tenderly. Then they got up, showered, helped get each other dressed. Wilson tied House’s shoes.
They tore the bed apart and remade it. Walked silently to the kitchen
and made coffee at 10:00 a.m. Somehow they resumed their normal, snarky banter. But their tone had changed. Awed.
had become shadows upon one another; dark and light.
“You haven’t taken a Vicodin
“I noticed that. My angry friend noticed it too.”
“Going to? Better do it before your angry friend really hurts!”
“Probably should, I guess.”
They left the house at 11:15 a.m. and got
into the Pacifica. Wilson backed out of the garage and headed toward town via Ridge Road and Rt. 206.
“Where are we going? You still haven’t told me.”
“Oh yeah … guess you do need
to know, don’t you? Is your leg good enough that you can drive?”
“Yeah … You did ask me last night if I thought I could drive today.
Well, I can. So?”
“So, we’re going to Vince’s.”
“Bought a car.”
“You bought a what?”
“You heard me.”
“What kind of car??”
“Old Dodge Shadow.”
“What-the-hell for? Ahhhhhh … never mind … got it!”
“So, now I get to drive the beater,
“No, House … I get to drive
the beater! You get to drive this!”
“Oh joy! Lucky me! I get to pilot the cruise ship, and you get to paddle
the canoe. This venture has ‘disaster’ written all over it. So you bought another car … for George and Gracie, I presume.”
“’Roger Rabbit’ and ‘Jools
“Shut up, House! Smartass!”
Some of House’s former uneasiness
came floating back.
wrote out a check for the Shadow. They visited with Vince Crane in his private
office until Vince had to watch Gregg lift his bad leg with both hands and prop it on a stool.
After that, Vince averted his eyes and began to squirm with discomfort. They
got up again and said their goodbyes. By then, Gregg was grinding his teeth,
but holding back any scathing comments. He and Wilson got into the two vastly
different vehicles and headed back north on 206.
They pulled in for lunch at Appleby’s,
ate like starving bears, staring intently at each other the whole time, intrigued and filled with a strange sense of wonder. They then got back into the cars and continued toward home.
House pulled the Pacifica
into the garage and Wilson parked outside, all the way over
near the opposite side of the driveway.
met him as they both went up the two steps into the kitchen. House mounted them
with effort, planting his cane firmly, and Wilson stayed close
behind him in case his leg buckled. Fortunately it didn’t.
“It’s not a bad car for three
hundred bucks,” Wilson said. “It’s a four-cylinder … hatchback …
lots of room for the wheelchair. 150,000 miles.
Runs good. Doesn’t use oil.
Carpets are shot though, but I can get some rubber floor mats. There’s
a cigarette burn in the passenger seat, so it needs seat covers. Would you believe
the damn thing has a cassette deck in it … Don’t
know if it works or not … the radio does …”
House glared at him. “Are you bitching or bragging? It’s a tossup either
way. How about a George Jones … or maybe a Willy Nelson? Patsy Cline would be good.”
“Neither. Both. All three. Ahh
…never mind. Want to help me finish off the coffee from this morning?”
“Yeah, why not … Jules should
get his drivers’ license before he drives that thing …”
“I know. I forgot. I have to check on that …”
“Anything else you forgot to check
“Oh … I don’t know …
insurance? … but I was thinking …maybe this afternoon we could go back to bed for awhile?” James tweaked his eyebrows suggestively.
“Oh no you don’t, Buckaroo!
Give the old crippled guy a break!
Besides, there’s a Cup Race on.”
“Oh shit! Where?”
“Ah, wonderful! I meant … which track?”
“Double wonderful! You watch the race and I’ll read the Sunday paper.”
They both fell asleep. Dale Jarrett’s #88 UPS Ford Fusion won the cup race by the thickness of the paint on his front bumper. The comics section of the paper made a thin tent over Wilson’s relaxed upper body.
House snored right through the checkered