Nov. 10th, 2005 02:02 pm
Title: Trigonometry
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lovely_ambitionTitle: Trigonometry
Pairing: House/Wilson, House/Chase, Wilson/Chase
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Not mine, nope.
Word Count: 673
Summary: On Friday, House and Wilson meet. On Saturday, House and Chase have sex. And on Sunday, Wilson and Chase recount the week.
Notes: Written for 'triangle' at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
fanfic100.
sin (opposite/hypotenuse)
On Friday, they meet. It’s always his place, the opposite of being caught in flagranté. His place is familiar with his piano and his couch – most familiar with both of them on it, practicing indelicacy – and strewn reminders of the life he leads; empty yellow bottles, the cane that’s broken in two, ghosts of a previous life.
They wind up in bed, inevitably, and the soft duvet comforts House’s back as he falls to the same vice, Wilson gently lowering himself atop. The same thing that always happens, happens again. “Are you okay?” Wilson checks. “Are you all right?”
James Wilson is a man who constantly needs to be reassured that everyone is all right. Jimmy Wilson takes it upon himself to make them all right. House never answers, not with words – pesky, meaningless words – and merely grasps Wilson by the collar of his pale-blue shirt and brings him down for a kiss that puts spoken words to shame, a kiss to punctuate a week’s worth of talking and not doing.
When they finish, House hands back the wedding ring that they keep in the drawer, the golden band glinting in the light and inspiring a whole different kind of silence. Wilson takes it back as he slowly crawls off of House, slips it back on and departs before the clock strikes twelve.
Commitment issues over a broken man equals something far gentler than it should ever be, but they manage it anyway.
*
cos (adjacent/hypotenuse)
On Saturday, they fuck. The office is perfectly adjacent and perfectly quick and Chase has been biting his lower lip all afternoon, brushing hair out of his eyes and stretching words like ‘can’t’ and ‘right’ and ‘fine’ into words that won’t be leaving House anytime soon, lingering in his mind like a good memory.
House pulls him to the public-and-sometimes-private fortress of solitude that is his office and they go clumsily tumbling to the couch, House crying out in pain and Chase hissing a, ‘sorry!’ but pain can so easily become pleasure and Chase is so eager to please, placing reverent kisses up the imperfections of House’s neck, ‘sorry’ repeated until it’s barely a mumble and then barely a moan.
House’s fingers push up the hem of Chase’s shirt, calloused and worn fingertips slowly brushing the smooth skin of Chase’s back – a thin strip of skin between fabrics. They lie there, Chase above House and allow the kisses to grow in intensity, allow Chase’s shirt to ride up a little higher until the room feels all too warm and the moment consumes.
When they’re done, Chase stands, shirt left unbuttoned and his thumb pressed to the corner of his mouth as he licks his lower lip. His eyes are undecipherable and neither of them says a word.
*
tan (opposite/adjacent)
On Sunday, they sin. While Julie is visiting her family, they recount the week. Wilson -- standing – leans over Chase – sitting atop the counter – and they steal tiny kisses, share larger secrets between themselves.
Wilson brushes whole handfuls of Chase’s hair back off his face – both hands cupping delicately, like he’s a piece of medical equipment to be protected – and presses lazy, slow kisses to Chase’s lips while he talks, recounts all the expressions on House’s face, the way he had reacted.
Oftentimes, they physically re-enact on Chase’s couch, on his bed; both professionally decorated, expensive furnishings to fill some void. Tangled in sheets, they’ll lay, never a constant position, always retangling.
“Do you think this week, he’ll…” Wilson always wonders, knows there’s no permanence to their arrangement – merely habit and convenience.
“Yeah,” Chase soundly responds, always answers with. He may not have faith, but he’s got blind belief in House.
When they finish, they part like amicable lovers, Wilson holding his tie in his hand and draping his jacket over his shoulder as he kisses Chase goodbye and they resolutely avoid talking about the strongest tie holding them together.
It may be an odd equation to work with, but for them, it works.
end
Pairing: House/Wilson, House/Chase, Wilson/Chase
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Not mine, nope.
Word Count: 673
Summary: On Friday, House and Wilson meet. On Saturday, House and Chase have sex. And on Sunday, Wilson and Chase recount the week.
Notes: Written for 'triangle' at
fanfic100.sin (opposite/hypotenuse)
On Friday, they meet. It’s always his place, the opposite of being caught in flagranté. His place is familiar with his piano and his couch – most familiar with both of them on it, practicing indelicacy – and strewn reminders of the life he leads; empty yellow bottles, the cane that’s broken in two, ghosts of a previous life.
They wind up in bed, inevitably, and the soft duvet comforts House’s back as he falls to the same vice, Wilson gently lowering himself atop. The same thing that always happens, happens again. “Are you okay?” Wilson checks. “Are you all right?”
James Wilson is a man who constantly needs to be reassured that everyone is all right. Jimmy Wilson takes it upon himself to make them all right. House never answers, not with words – pesky, meaningless words – and merely grasps Wilson by the collar of his pale-blue shirt and brings him down for a kiss that puts spoken words to shame, a kiss to punctuate a week’s worth of talking and not doing.
When they finish, House hands back the wedding ring that they keep in the drawer, the golden band glinting in the light and inspiring a whole different kind of silence. Wilson takes it back as he slowly crawls off of House, slips it back on and departs before the clock strikes twelve.
Commitment issues over a broken man equals something far gentler than it should ever be, but they manage it anyway.
*
cos (adjacent/hypotenuse)
On Saturday, they fuck. The office is perfectly adjacent and perfectly quick and Chase has been biting his lower lip all afternoon, brushing hair out of his eyes and stretching words like ‘can’t’ and ‘right’ and ‘fine’ into words that won’t be leaving House anytime soon, lingering in his mind like a good memory.
House pulls him to the public-and-sometimes-private fortress of solitude that is his office and they go clumsily tumbling to the couch, House crying out in pain and Chase hissing a, ‘sorry!’ but pain can so easily become pleasure and Chase is so eager to please, placing reverent kisses up the imperfections of House’s neck, ‘sorry’ repeated until it’s barely a mumble and then barely a moan.
House’s fingers push up the hem of Chase’s shirt, calloused and worn fingertips slowly brushing the smooth skin of Chase’s back – a thin strip of skin between fabrics. They lie there, Chase above House and allow the kisses to grow in intensity, allow Chase’s shirt to ride up a little higher until the room feels all too warm and the moment consumes.
When they’re done, Chase stands, shirt left unbuttoned and his thumb pressed to the corner of his mouth as he licks his lower lip. His eyes are undecipherable and neither of them says a word.
*
tan (opposite/adjacent)
On Sunday, they sin. While Julie is visiting her family, they recount the week. Wilson -- standing – leans over Chase – sitting atop the counter – and they steal tiny kisses, share larger secrets between themselves.
Wilson brushes whole handfuls of Chase’s hair back off his face – both hands cupping delicately, like he’s a piece of medical equipment to be protected – and presses lazy, slow kisses to Chase’s lips while he talks, recounts all the expressions on House’s face, the way he had reacted.
Oftentimes, they physically re-enact on Chase’s couch, on his bed; both professionally decorated, expensive furnishings to fill some void. Tangled in sheets, they’ll lay, never a constant position, always retangling.
“Do you think this week, he’ll…” Wilson always wonders, knows there’s no permanence to their arrangement – merely habit and convenience.
“Yeah,” Chase soundly responds, always answers with. He may not have faith, but he’s got blind belief in House.
When they finish, they part like amicable lovers, Wilson holding his tie in his hand and draping his jacket over his shoulder as he kisses Chase goodbye and they resolutely avoid talking about the strongest tie holding them together.
It may be an odd equation to work with, but for them, it works.
end
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MATH FIC!!!!!!!!!!! That was so cool!! I loved it, the last part tied it all in so well.
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Thank you for reading!