House MD [No crossovers]
Title: Honesty Isn’t Always The Best Policy
Fandom: House MD
Word Count: 630
Prompt: House/Wilson, Wilson cheats (OFC or OMC, not Chase).
Notes: Well, this was just asking for angsty pain, wasn’t it? *snickers*
House’s expression is something Wilson’s never seen on his face before, and he can’t even begin to figure out what all the different emotions in it are.
His throat is dry, and his hands are shaking, but he forces himself to keep talking. It’s not as though it’s the first time he’s had to deliver this speech. Although he has to admit that it wasn’t this hard, it’s never been this hard, and Laura’s expression was more one of confused hurt rather than this. Whatever this is.
He’s good at this speech, although in front of House’s blue-eyed scrutiny it’s rapidly becoming less of a speech and more of a random collection of broken words, voice trembling. It’s like a sickness he can’t cure, or an addiction, or- or maybe he’s just a perpetual bastard who doesn’t deserve the chance to have a relationship. House suggested that notion a long time ago, but that was before and now things are awkwardly complicated.
I’m so sorry, I cheated. Again. I know, I said I wouldn’t, but I did. Because she was there and I didn’t know how to stop myself. Everything you ever said about me was right.
Wilson does his best to make his desperate and vague thoughts form coherent and apologetic sentences, and all along, House just keeps looking at him. If he looked betrayed, that would work, or maybe if he looked furious, that could work too, but he doesn’t look angry or betrayed or miserable. He just… Wilson doesn’t know, and even though House has never been what you’d call predictable, Wilson has usually been able to read him, and right now, he can’t.
The silence crawls up his spine and crackles anxiety across his nerves until he has to speak again.
“Well, say something.”
House blinks, and the silent tension snaps, which is a relief, only not that much of one.
“I always wondered if you sounded as insincere giving your ‘sorry I’m such a stupid bastard’ speech to the people it was actually relevant to as you did practising it.” House smirks, but it doesn’t fit on his face, “And you do. It’s rather depressing.”
“You don’t get to demand anything,” House reminds him in a low, dangerous voice, “You do not get to say what you want or don’t want to happen. You were the one who fucked up here. Fucked up big time.”
“I know that, and we need to-”
“We don’t need to do anything.” House twists his cane between his hands, his eyes are cruel scalpels but there isn’t any proper incentive behind his expression and Wilson wishes he could work out what the hell is going on here. Well, besides the obvious. “You screwed up, and now you want me to forgive you for it.”
“I don’t want you to forgive me,” Wilson mumbles. “I just had to tell you.”
The pause lengthens, stretches, gets razor-sharp.
“There are times, Wilson, when you are unbelievably stupid,” House tells him, rolling his eyes. “That conscience of yours does you absolutely no favours.”
Wilson flushes miserably. House gets to his feet, leaning a little more heavily on his cane as he walks towards the door.
“Did it occur to you, Wilson, that some people are perfectly content to live in ignorance? That they actually resent being told the truth?”
“You always want to know the truth,” Wilson replies, staring into those blue eyes, and suddenly he sees, and it hurts. God, it hurts, the discovery that this is the one lie House could have tolerated, would have welcomed, that House didn’t want the truth, just this once.
“Should’ve kept your mouth shut,” House tells him, and pushes past him and into the corridor before Wilson can ask him where they stand now.
Torchwood [No crossovers]
Title: Exception To The Rule
Word Count: 850
Notes: I got a couple of lines of dialogue and the rest of the fic just spiralled out. Yay etc. Someone should write a pornographic sequel. Not me though. I’m writing too much het porn atm.
A week after they return from the countryside, from the tiresome mad villagers who tried to eat Ianto (and he’ll never get over that, never never never), Ianto ends up staying at work for a drink with Jack. Jack doesn’t normally drink, sticking to water as a general rule, but it’s been a bloody long and kind of stupid fortnight, so Ianto doesn’t dispute it, just accepts a glass of scotch and undoes the top button of his shirt.
Jack’s smile is a little unnerving, in that it makes Ianto’s stomach lurch and pulse increase, and he knows that it shouldn’t, because it’s just a smile, just the twitching of eighty-odd facial muscles, and a view of some admittedly very white teeth, but Ianto has slowly come to realise that there is something unnatural about Jack; and it’s not just because he seems to know more than he should, contentedly reminisces about time periods he couldn’t possibly have ever been alive in (and Ianto isn’t sure what was so great about the 1880s anyway, but then he’s not really in any position to judge, is he?), and survives things that would kill a normal man. There’s something about Jack that seems to exude raw sex, like he sprays that pheromone stuff on himself every day, but Ianto knows that he can’t, because after Owen’s idiotic plan to seduce half of Cardiff, he himself hid all the various pheromone devices their archives contained somewhere very secret and far away where No One Would Be Able To Get At Them.
Ianto has learned that there’s no point in underestimating Torchwood’s employees; they take “if it’s alien, it’s ours” a little too literally.
Jack looks tired and Ianto can’t think straight, doesn’t feel right around him, although if he’s honest, he never has. Even before Jack found out about Lisa, and ever since then, it’s been so awkward Ianto’s skin crawls whenever Jack comes near. A mixture of something that’s hatred and disgust, and something that really, really isn’t.
“Was there something in particular you wanted, sir?” Ianto asks, halfway down his second glass when the world is getting warm and vague and fuzzy around him.
“Can’t I just want to have a drink with my employee?” Jack looks almost affronted.
“You’ve never expressed a wish to do this before,” Ianto points out.
“You’d never have let me before,” Jack replies, steadily, giving Ianto a faintly pointed look that makes him blush.
Three and a half glasses, and Ianto’s world starts to blur, and he murmurs:
“Talk to me.”
“What do you want me to say?” Jack enquires. He looks amused, but there’s a guarded look in his eyes.
“Surprise me,” Ianto shrugs.
Jack smirks, and then launches into the most unsettling, pornographic and hilarious stories Ianto has ever told, entailing Jack and most of the rest of the universe in ridiculous situations that end in strange sounding sex. Ianto finds himself alternately laughing and gasping in something approaching shock, and the little still slightly sober part in the back of his head mourns the fact he’s so drunk he won’t remember most of these in the morning. Well, he might remember the tentacles; that particular mental image is scarred onto his brain.
It’s almost a relief. Trapped in Jack’s off-kilter and extremely weird world, Ianto doesn’t have to think about the razored edges of his own problems.
Eventually, when Jack has listed more years of sexual exploits than Ianto thinks physically possible, he has to interrupt. Tonight, he’s heard about various kinds of alien, from humanoid right round to really, really not, androids, humans from all periods of history, telepathic spaceships, and various kinds of very special inanimate objects.
“Is there anything you haven’t shagged?” he asks, exasperated.
Jack looks like he’s really thinking about it, gnawing his lower lip in a way that shouldn’t distract Ianto as much as it does.
“Well,” he says after a moment, “There’s you.”
Ianto wasn’t expecting that, he doesn’t know why, but he wasn’t, and the way Jack is suddenly looking at him genuinely surprises him.
“But I-” he begins.
“You really do look fabulous in those suits you wear,” Jack points out, “And in those jeans, and I’m willing to bet you don’t look too bad naked.”
Ianto thinks, you haven’t seen the scars I got from Torchwood One, but all he says is:
“Sir, you’re drunk.”
“So are you,” Jack points out. He smiles slightly, and it’s the kind of smile that could make a cold, heartless robot put out (and Ianto knows this, because Jack spent fifteen minutes telling him).
Ianto knows it would be useless to resist.
“I’m going to phone a cab now, sir,” he says carefully. Jack pouts.
“I thought we’d established you were one of the only things in the universe I haven’t shagged,” he protests.
“We don’t have to rectify that right now,” Ianto says, clinging onto the upper hand and digging his nails in before it slips from his fingers, “It’ll be something you can work towards.”
Jack’s drunk laughter follows him all the way upstairs.