Fandom: House MD
Challenge/Prompt: fanfic100, 074. Dark, also for karaokegal’s Halloween Fic Party, due to rating.
Copyright: Title from the song “My Finest Hour” by The Sundays
Summary: This is how it was always meant to be. They both know that.
Author’s Notes: I love Chase/Wilson fluff. I really do. But this is me mocking myself for my inability to write fluff. And I had to break my no smut rule, I think. I didn’t want to, but all I had was the mental image of Wilson pinning Chase to the wall and them kissing in a thoroughly nasty way, and after that it sort of wrote itself, except I was watching NCIS at the time so it might not make much sense.
No sun… no sun. The weather’s changed.
When it begins, Wilson’s divorce has finalised, he’s lonely as hell, and he asks Chase out for dinner. They barely manage to have a conversation, Wilson drinks too much wine, Chase doesn’t drink any, and the half-drunk kiss under the streetlight turns into sex in Wilson’s kingsize bed, fingers fumbling awkwardly over pale expanses of white skin.
They wake up in the morning, Chase with his face smushed into Wilson’s shoulder, both of them pressed thigh to thigh, Wilson hungover and Chase positively terrified. They lie in silence, unable to find words, not sure what they’ve done, unable to tell where to go from here.
Where to go turns out to be mildly complicated. Somewhere with no signposts and with no apparent transition between a morning after with oatmeal and awkward smiles and suddenly calling each other “Rob” and “James”. It’s unsettling, it’s scary, and Chase hopes that Wilson knows what’s going on because he has no idea.
There are butterfly kisses and tender touches, and monogamy and hugging and sleeping next to each other most nights, which is possibly scarier than anything else. Chase is not good at relationships and really, really not good at this kind, with Wilson crooning you’re so beautiful into his hair and kissing him on the mouth when he comes inside him, tastes familiar and intertwining and gentle.
The words I’m not your wife, I don’t want to be your wife, I didn’t actually sign up for this sit on the tip of Chase’s tongue and swallow themselves daily each time Wilson’s mouth brushes against them. There is something wrong here, something wrong with both of them, but they’ve yet to work out what it is.
Wilson presses butterfly kisses along his jawline and Chase closes his eyes against this affection and this disease of uncertainty they both share. He was not, not ever meant to be wife number four, at least in the eating-dinner-together watching-TV-on-the-couch-together soft-romantic-sex kind of way. It’s disturbing and Chase begins to think that he hates Wilson a little for making him do this, for putting him into this box and closing the lid and leaving him to suffocate without an airhole of any kind. They must be able to do better than this because this mush and this helplessness is not what they were made for.
At the first “I love you” Chase walks out and refuses to look back. This should not be about “I love you” even when he was crying and people were dying all over the place and Wilson’s arms were warm around him. He leaves half his belongings in Wilson’s apartment and doesn’t go and get them and finds them in a box in House’s office when he gets in early one morning to make coffee.
He goes out and has as many one-night stands as it takes to get his skin free of love, walking into work with hickeys and crumpled clothes and hangovers. Lets Wilson think what he’d like to think because he’s all about leaving things left to the imagination. But Wilson pretends not to look and Chase honestly can’t work out whether he cares. Surely Wilson couldn’t cope with their mush either.
Something still doesn’t sit right though. The relationship was all wrong and it broke off neatly but Chase still sort of misses Wilson but he wants everything to actually work.
It’s dark when the spaces between them close.
House has sent Chase to give Wilson a couple of patient files and then told him he can go home. Later on Chase will wonder just what Wilson bribed his friend with to get him to say this, but at this point in time all he’s thinking is get in get out go. Wilson’s blinds are drawn and he barely notices the other doctor as he puts the files down on the desk. He hears the lock click and then the lights are off.
It’s not pitch black or anything but it’s pretty damn dark. Shapes like shadows crawl up the walls and the blinds shiver. And then Chase finds himself pinned to the wall himself, Wilson’s hands tight around his wrists. He’s just thinking about saying but we’re over, really over, when he feels fingernails dig in. Ah, he thinks, this is different.
They meet in a deep, wet, open-mouthed kiss, nothing gentle, nothing held back, all teeth and tongue and no finesse and that doesn’t matter. Chase can’t breathe and Wilson’s got him good, unable to escape, unwilling to escape, wrists above his head, surrounded by nothing but dark.
They take a breath.
“Wilson-” Chase starts vaguely.
“Shut up, you little whore,” Wilson mutters against his mouth, and his voice has all this edge to it that Chase has never heard before, and it sends a jolt down his spine and his cock hardens painfully.
This is miles away from sunlight-filled rooms and early morning sex. There is nothing nice about this. Wilson tastes like anger and lust and he’s making no effort to be gentle, buttons spilling from Chase’s shirt as it’s torn from his shoulders, Wilson’s nails raking down his back.
Chase is pushed face-down on the desk, half-stumbling, banging his elbow and seeing stars in the semi-darkness. The wooden edge scrapes his stomach and he hisses. Wilson’s teeth nip down his spine. There will be marks tomorrow. The air is like ink. Chase closes his eyes because he can’t squint into the half-light any more.
Wilson pulls his pants down and there’s the unmistakeable sound of a condom ripping open, sliding on, and Chase realises with thrill and panic that Wilson has no intention of preparing him. He’ll be lucky if the condom’s lubricated. He bites his teeth together and his fingers splay on the varnished surface of the desk.
He actually shouts as Wilson shoves into him, unforgiving, too hard, too tight, and Chase’s arms give out. He falls forward, papercuts right up his forearms (damn patient files), lets out a sound through his teeth.
Wilson pulls back and Chase pushes himself up again, bracing himself, readier this time as Wilson thrusts again, hissing, feeling sweat running over his skin. Wilson licks it off one shoulder and then bites down on his neck. Chase moans and Wilson pushes into him again, and stills, cock pressed against his prostate.
Chase bites down on his lip until he tastes blood, clamps his ass muscles around the rigid shaft sliding in and out of him. Neither of them are going to last much longer and Chase’s body’s on fire.
This is how it was always meant to be. They both know that.
Wilson’s cock pulses inside him and he pulls out so abruptly that Chase gasps. It takes a moment when all he can hear is Wilson’s ragged coming-down-from-orgasm breathing for him to realise that Wilson isn’t going to let him-make him- come, and it’s either a punishment or half-promise of how things will be now. He pulls his sweaty, sticky hands away from the desk and slumps onto the floor, cock throbbing, mentally consigning himself to his own fist.
Chase can hear Wilson walking around and then the light snaps on, making them both blink owlishly. Wilson barely looks ruffled but Chase knows he must look terrible, semi-naked, sweating, bruised, cock hard against his stomach, weeping pre-come and desperate for any kind of touch.
Wilson takes him in with a calm stare, somewhere between smugly satisfied and slightly disgusted, and Chase is suddenly terrified of the shadows the blinds still cast across the floor, the streaks of dark creeping across them both.
They weren’t meant for the light, not either of them, they’re not men for making love or sharing dinner or even sharing smiles. This is how it has to be between them.
The door slams behind Wilson and Chase lets out a sigh of relief, wrapping his hand around himself and tilting his head back with a soft moan as he comes.
He’s almost afraid to turn the lights out when he finally leaves, afraid of the implications, aware that he doesn’t really want it any other way.