Fandom: House MD
Pairings: Chase/Wilson, Cameron/Foreman
Challenge/Prompt: fanfic100, 032. Sunset
Summary: Crackfic for me. Chase and Wilson have been broken up for years but meet again at Cameron and Foreman’s wedding.
Author’s Notes: Not nearly as well written as it ought to be. On the other hand, I enjoyed writing it. So; crap, but it makes me happy.
House is, upon closer inspection, reading a Sin City graphic novel, leaning it against the back of the pew in front, free hand fiddling with his collar. Robert reads it over his shoulder for a couple of pages, and then feels mildly guilty and tears his eyes away.
Cameron- he supposes he should think of her as Allison now, but whatever- is looking radiant, with a white veil frothing down her back and a white dress that is vaguely reminiscent of a meringue, but with beading. Foreman-or Eric- can’t stop staring at his bride, like he’s afraid she’ll vanish if he takes his eyes away. Robert studies the ceiling while the vows are said, because although it’s rude, it’s less rude than reading A Dame To Kill For.
It looks like Allison has invited everyone she’s ever met to this wedding (he’s frankly surprised not to have run into Stacy), and Robert did think for a while about not dragging his sorry ass back from Australia just to wear a suit for a couple of hours and attempt to look happy, but on the other hand it would still be a little like kicking a puppy. So he got a plane ticket and obediently dry cleaned his best suit and came back to America to watch his two ex-colleagues tie the knot.
There are lots of reasons as to why he didn’t want to come back here, but Robert carefully doesn’t think about any of those. Instead, he focuses on light and colour and the happy sounds of the other guests. The soft sound of House turning pages. Is he jealous? Robert doesn’t want to and will never know.
Instead he concentrates on the little things, because it’s easier to watch light play on the floor and off the silk of Ca-Allison’s dress than to think about anything else.
At the reception, Robert drinks far too much champagne until the whole world goes a little bit bubbly around the edges. He carefully doesn’t mention things like the needle-stick incident where Foreman essentially tried to kill Cameron, has long, rambling conversations with people he’s never met before, and avoids people he actually does know like the plague.
House sits at a table and eats an entire tier of the wedding cake (there are five in total; Robert reckons he should’ve known that Allison wouldn’t do things by halves) and reads another couple of Sin City books. The only two words he says to Robert are lucky escape (causing Robert to blush profusely and once again curse crystal meth) and the only two words Robert wants to say to him are where’s Wilson? so he just keeps his mouth shut.
“I hate weddings,” he murmurs to himself, trying to work out which canapé looks edible and concluding that none of them do.
“Oh, me too,” a voice says behind him. “It’s infinitely worse when they’re your own.”
It’s just as well that he isn’t holding a canapé because he thinks he would drop it if he were. Instead he slowly turns around.
Wilson looks much like he did four years ago when Robert informed him he was going back to Australia and Wilson looked very impassive because they’d broken up months before (if what they were doing could even really be broken up- it wasn’t like they were even vaguely in a relationship). His hair is a little longer. His smile is a little more twisted.
God, Robert’s missed him.
“I take it marriage number four didn’t work out then?” he asks, and it tastes bitter in his mouth even as he says it. Wilson bites his lip before replying that no, it didn’t. It’s awkward and Robert desperately doesn’t want it to be. He’s got a flight back to Australia in twenty-four hours and then he never has to think about Wilson again except late in the night when he’s counting his regrets off on his fingers. He wants to be able to look back on this emotionlessly.
Maybe Wilson knows this too. Maybe he doesn’t. He glances back over at where House is immersed in That Yellow Bastard and drinking red wine straight from the bottle, at where Cuddy is flirting outrageously with the best man, and where Allison and Eric (oh, fuck it, they’ll always be Cameron and Foreman in his head) have eyes for no one but each other. No help coming. It occurs to Robert that he doesn’t want to be saved.
“Come on,” Wilson says, hand moving to Robert’s elbow.
“You want to stay here and watch everyone get more and more drunk? It’s only a matter of time before House starts going on about how Cameron had that thing for him, and it will be resoundingly uncomfortable.”
Chase considers this for a moment or seventy, and nods. It’s true. Even escaping with a man he has distinctly complex emotions for is a better idea than staying here to watch the mush.
“How did you do it?” he asks when they’re in the hotel elevator, apparently going to wander around the corridors. Robert doesn’t mind. He doesn’t have to listen to sickly music any more which really is all to the good. “Weddings are just…”
“I don’t know,” Wilson replies, shrugging absently, “When you’re actually getting married yourself it’s different.”
Robert shakes his head, stepping out into a red-carpeted hall.
“I don’t suppose this is the moment you whip out a key?” he asks, hoping he doesn’t sound too hopeful.
“Not as such,” Wilson replies. Robert swallows down a what, you weren’t going to try and seduce the bridesmaids? Nothing like a wedding for desperately needy young women who want to be reminded they’re still beautiful. He’s on shaky and frankly confusing ground right now, and doesn’t want to tip the balance.
They make their way up to the hotel roof, which has a roof garden, oddly enough, and is mercifully empty. The sun is setting and it feels uncomfortably like the ending to a romantic movie of some kind. Robert shudders inside.
“How’s Australia?” Wilson asks vaguely, pinky orange light bathing his face. He’s aging well and he still has that irritatingly beautiful boyish face.
“It’s got a nice big stretch of ocean between me and House,” Robert replies, watching a smile crease the corners of Wilson’s mouth. “Which is all you really want from a country, of course.”
He’d forgotten how, when Wilson smiles, you can feel like the only person on Earth. It’s frankly embarrassing to feel like this. He hopes he can blame the pink flush in his cheeks on the sunset.
“And…” Wilson begins. Robert sighs.
“Is the point where you ask me whether I’m involved with anyone, I say I’m not, and then we stand in awkward silence for a while?” he asks hopelessly.
“Possibly,” Wilson replies, turning to look at him, “But with a slight difference.”
Robert tilts his head quizzically.
“I don’t give a shit whether you’re involved with anyone,” Wilson tells him simply.
“Ah.” Robert knows he’s flushing now and he hates himself for falling so quickly for that James Wilson charisma again, even with extra years of bitterness and experience behind him. Wilson’s smirk broadens slightly.
“You’re still a bastard,” Robert mutters, turning away, deciding that the wedding will somehow be more fun than this.
“Some things never change,” Wilson tells him, and then a hand is closing around Robert’s arm, spinning him back around. Robert’s mouth opens to tell him to fuck off, or something like that, but instead he swallows a sound of surprise as Wilson’s lips meet his. Sudden and violent and like a storm breaking and Robert closes his eyes against the sunset because he’s spent years telling himself he doesn’t want this and never did.
“I missed you, you know,” Wilson murmurs, drawing back.
“Liar,” Robert sighs. And maybe Wilson did. Maybe he didn’t. It doesn’t fucking matter either way. “There’s nothing you can say to make me stay.”
“Who says I want you to?” Wilson asks, but he’s lying and Robert can see it.
“I walked away from you once and I can do it again,” Robert informs him, leaning in for another kiss, enjoying the taste of champagne on the other man’s tongue.
“I don’t doubt it,” Wilson replies.
“Can leave any time I want.”
It’s an age-old conversation, one they had a million times over the course of their several month almost-relationship, four years ago but really no time at all. Robert pulls back.
“I won’t let you do this to me again,” he says. Wilson smiles. They both know just how deep Wilson’s flaws run, intentionally or not.
“Ok then. I guess you can get back to the party.”
Robert pictures the alcohol kicking in downstairs, a roomful of people he doesn’t want to spend time around, and glances back at Wilson, momentarily disconcerted.
“You bastard,” he whispers.
Wilson smirks and Robert knows that he’s letting him win as he kisses him again, deeper and more desperately, but on the other hand, it’s the lesser of two evils.