ticcyyy: (Default)
ticcyyy ([personal profile] ticcyyy) wrote2008-11-22 05:35 am
Entry tags:

Just For A Little While, My Darling (H/W, H/Cu, H/S, W/A; mild R)

title: Just For A Little While, My Darling
pairings: House/Wilson, House/Cuddy, House/Stacy, Wilson/Amber
words: 1,692
rating: Mild R
disclaimer: When the vulture flies sideways, the moon has hair on its upper lip.
notes: A quick fic I wrote because I can't sleep.

summary: Ten fantasies House has.

Just For A Little While, My Darling
by Ticcy

'Cause this is my house,
It belongs to me,
Inside my head.
It's all that's left.
- House
; Elton John


In his dreams, House is whole.

His leg works. No missing muscle, no scar, no limp, no pain. He walks with confidence, moving from place to place, scene to scene, situation to situation, without a second thought about putting one foot in front of the other. No cane, no pills, no self-loathing, no fear.

Sometimes, in his dreams, he runs. His feet pound hard on the ground, sweat pouring down his temples, his face, dripping down his chest and back, his muscles burning beautifully like fire, his breath piercing and coppery in his mouth and lungs. He runs for his life, runs and runs and runs, going nowhere in particular, not even caring where he'll end up because he's running. He's whole. He's strong and fit and he remembers, just for a little while, how good it feels to be alive. And when he stops, he's so out of breath he can barely breathe. It's the most freeing feeling in the world.

He's whole. He's complete. He's the way he used to be. The way he should be.

And then he wakes up.


Sometimes, House imagines his life with Stacy.

Not the way it used to be. The way it could have been. The way it might have been. The way it should have been.

He pictures scenarios in his mind, of Stacy walking through the front door like she used to, after a long day in the office. She comes up behind him while he watches TV on the couch. She leans over him and he feels her hands on his shoulders, slipping down past the collar of his shirt to his bare chest, her lips pressed to his hair in a tired smile, the faint scent of her perfume wafting down and greeting him. Hi, honey, she says, and her voice is as tired as she probably looks. I missed you today.

Hi, sweetheart, he says back to her, and he feels her fingers through his hair. He smiles to himself. He's missed her, too. He's missed her touch and her voice, he's missed her so much. He's glad she's home.

And then his smile fades. He still misses her, he realises. After all this time. After everything that's happened. A piece of him is still missing, the piece Stacy took with her when she left. When he drove her away. Twice. The very piece he's never going to get back.

He swallows back the lump in his throat and pushes Stacy from his mind.


He's a superhero.

Not Superman, although he has Superman's strength. Not Batman, although he has Batman's mystique. Not The Flash, although he's faster than The Flash could ever hope to be. And he's not Bond, although he's far sexier than Bond is.

He's House Man. Destroyer of stupidity, jazz piano player by night as his unsuspecting, Clark Kent-like alter ego. He can do amazing things, like outrun a speeding bullet and scale walls with his bare hands. He has villains of all sorts after him, and he manages to outsmart and outdo every single one of them. He's untouchable. Unstoppable. He's no longer Greg House, the guy with the cane, the doctor who saves lives, the guy nobody wants to know. He's the guy everybody wants to know, the guy everybody looks up to, the guy who makes a mark in the world the way nobody else can or will.

He's almost fifty and he still has the fantasies he had when he was a little boy.

It's such a cool world to escape to. At least, for a little while.


I'm proud of you, his dad says to him. You did the right thing. You've made me proud. I love you, son.


He fantasises about Cuddy, a lot.

Her breasts, her ass, her legs, her hair. The way her lips would feel on his neck, the way her hands would feel on his chest, the sound of her voice low and husky in his ear. Sometimes, she's a naughty schoolgirl, her mouth curved into a pout, her hands braced stubbornly on her hips, her skirt so short it leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. Sometimes, she's a dominatrix. Nothing too hardcore. But he likes the thought of her in tight leather, breasts squeezed together in a corset while she looms over him and demands he do as she tells him.

But most of the time, she's just Cuddy. Tight skirt, push-up bra, high heels that show off the shape of her legs. Or just in a bra and panties while she kneels over him on all fours on his bed. She always has a wicked smile on her face, and she does the most obscene things to him with her hands and her mouth. He jerks off to the thought of her going down on him, or the thought of her riding him hard and fast, or the thought of her putting on a show for him that leaves him both speechless and brainless. Cuddy, Cuddy, god, Cuddy. Lisa.

He doesn't let his fantasies of her go any deeper than that. Because if he does, he ends up thinking and feeling things he can't put a name to. Things he doesn't want to put a name to. Things he's too scared to put a name to.

He sometimes wonders if Cuddy ever gets off thinking about him.


House has a To-Seek-Revenge-On list longer than his bum leg.

One day, each and every name will be crossed off that list. Somehow. Some way. Until those opportunities arise, he'll just bide his time, waiting and plotting their inevitable demise.

Which means he'll probably never get revenge on most of them. But fantasising about it makes it so worth it.


House doesn't hire prostitutes very often. But when he does, he forgets himself for a while. Pretends he's not who he is. Pretends he doesn't have the life he has. Pretends he's not as lonely as he feels. Just for a little while.

He buries his face in against the side of the hooker's neck and everything fades away. He pretends he's making love to someone who matters to him. Someone who loves him. Someone he belongs to.

Just for a little while.


Sometimes, only sometimes, he fantasises about Wilson.

Not like that. No, not like that.

Except... exactly like that. He sometimes imagines what his life would be like if Wilson was part of his life in that way. Maybe, maybe he'd be less lonely. At least he'd have someone. At least it would be someone he almost completely trusts. At least Wilson would keep his heart close and his secrets closer. Sometimes, often times, it feels like Wilson is the only person he has left.

But then House reminds himself that it's Wilson. He could never have a relationship with someone who knows him too well. There'd be nowhere left to hide, no secrets left untouched, no way to cover up the parts of him that House doesn't want Wilson to see. He's already exposed and naked to Wilson without even needing to be exposed. Or naked. That's just the way it is between them. That's the way it's always been.

That's why House never entertains these thoughts about Wilson for very long.


House thinks about death a lot.

It doesn't constantly plague his mind. But it's a thought that surfaces in his mind often enough. Particularly when he's in more pain than he can stand. Particularly when his entire world just feels like it's closing in on him. Particularly those times he feels like he's trapped underwater, drowning, no way out, no way to break to the top for a gasp of air. He feels that way often, and he never really knows why. He can never place a rational reason behind those emotions or those thoughts. And when it feels like he's hit rock bottom, he becomes so consumed in those dark thoughts that he's positive he'll never breathe again.

And that's when he thinks about death. The easy way out. The only way out. That final resting place where there's no pain, no melancholy, no suffering, no misery. That final resting place where nothing matters anymore.

But then, somehow, he breaks to the surface just enough to get a breath of air, just enough to make those thoughts of death ebb away. Not completely, but enough so that he doesn't feel like it's the only option he has left.

For now.


Wilson is the one who meets him at the bar, not Amber. Wilson. The way it was supposed to have been.

Wilson is the one who tugs House's arm around his shoulders and guides him out of the pub, staggering with House's drunken weight. Wilson unlocks his car, complaining about how much of an inconvenience House is and how much House owes him, and House slurs that Wilson loves it, that he wouldn't be here to rescue his ass if Wilson didn't like it. Wilson rolls his eyes as he starts the car. House gives him a lopsided, drunk grin.

Wilson drags him up the stairs to House's apartment and tips him into bed. Before he leaves, Wilson says something about how Amber's going to kill him, then adds that he hopes Amber will kill House instead. You deserve it, Wilson retorts tiredly. House just mumbles something into his pillow, too drunk to care, and the last thing he hears is Wilson telling him to sleep well, and then silence.

Wilson goes home to Amber.

There's no bus. No bus crash. Amber is still alive, Wilson is still sickeningly in love, House is still trying to gain joint custody of Wilson, everything is the way it should be.

And then House returns to reality.


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