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As You Aren't
by Topaz Eyes
A/N: Written for karaokegal's "Come As You Aren't" Halloween fest. Lyric snippet is from Grassroots, "Midnight Confessional", used as my costume prompt. Mad props to daasgrrl, deelaundry and secondsilk for the beta! Any remaining gaffes are my own.
~~~~~
The sound of your footsteps, telling me that you're near.
Your soft gentle motion babe, brings out a need in me that no-one can hear.
On the surface, nothing had appeared to change between House and Wilson after their non-fight fight.
Except for Wilson not hanging around the Diagnostics conference room anymore, everything seemed more or less normal. The fellows noted the fallout, but wisely stayed out of the way, deciding silently en masse to let the past events between their boss and the Head of Oncology blow over. Chase and Foreman had learned it was best not to get caught between House and Wilson. Chase might have been bemused and Foreman resentful at the situation, but ignoring it was necessary to survive.
Even Cameron, who would normally stick her unwelcome nose into these things, kept her head down this time. She kept her concerned look to surreptitious glances when she figured House wasn't looking. The last time she'd timidly offered her support, he had had her charting a year's worth of his backlog.
Whatever had happened, even though it made their boss more surly and impossible to work with than he'd ever been before (and that was saying a lot), they said nothing, and simply bent themselves further backwards to accommodate his mercurial mood.
It was Cuddy who finally decided to take matters into her own hands. She didn't know what had transpired between House and Wilson, but she saw how it was ripping them apart. Watching House glower and sulk around the clinic for a week had been bad enough; watching him regress to the point of taking up his cane again had almost killed her. But she still kept quiet.
It was only when she caught Wilson standing at the nurses' station and staring at House's back--with his face such a heart-wrenching mix of frustration, guilt and defeat--that she knew she had to intervene. For both their sakes.
When Wilson saw Cuddy looking at him, he rapidly schooled his face to bland pleasantness. But Cuddy did not miss the dark circles under his eyes, or the haunted expression on his face as he turned his attention to the clipboard in his hand.
Her guilt gnawed at her. She hadn't wanted to go along with Wilson's plan not to tell House about Richard McNeil's near-miraculous recovery with the cortisol injection; but if anyone knew House at all it was Wilson and she trusted Wilson's judgment.
That had made Wilson's grievous miscalculation--and the turmoil from the resulting backlash--all the more painful.
Passing by House's office on the fourth floor, she stood for a minute, observing. It was time for House's soaps right now; the time when he should have been in the clinic, of course. She should have marched right in and dragged him down to the clinic by his ear, but she didn't. Not when she saw how he wasn't watching the show at all, but just staring blankly at the flickering TV screen. His hand squeezed the handle of his cane so hard his knuckles blanched.
Her heart contracted almost painfully. Seeing them both suffer needlessly like this firmed her resolve: forcing the issue was definitely in order. She turned and strode back to her office, her heels clacking down the hall as she formulated a plan.
~~~~~
House showed up in her office only thirty minutes after she had sent her third page. For House that was a record.
He did not sit, but rather towered in front of her, leaning with both hands on his cane. "What is it, Cuddy? You're interrupting my valuable clinic time."
Cuddy, sitting behind her desk, checked her watch, then looked up evenly to meet his annoyed gaze. She refused to be intimidated. "I'm sure General Hospital can go on without you."
"I'm a busy man," he snapped. "Get to the point."
She smiled sweetly. "All right. I need you to accompany Wilson to San Antonio."
House blinked, and he straightened, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. "What? Why?"
Cuddy did not flinch at the belligerent tone. "Here's the deal. Wilson is going to an oncology conference in San Antonio the day after tomorrow. Roddick was supposed to go with him, but she backed out yesterday. So you're going to San Antonio instead."
His face hardened. "That's crazy. I'm a diagnostician, not an oncologist. Since when did I change Board specialties?"
"Notice I didn't say you had to go to the conference. Just to San Antonio."
"With Wilson."
"Yes."
"No."
Cuddy sighed, rolling her eyes at House's flat refusal. "House, I'm not asking you to go--"
"Good, because I'm not going."
"--I'm ordering you to go. For your own good."
House stepped right up to Cuddy's desk, leaning his hands on the polished wood, face almost twisted in righteous fury. "Make me."
Cuddy blinked, but did not falter under House's threatening posture. She eyed him speculatively, considering. "How about--if you don't go, you will lose your fellows and the Diagnostics department entirely. You will be demoted to staff physician for the Clinic, and you will spend the rest of your working life there, tending to the humankind you adore so much."
Caught completely off-guard, his jaw dropped and his eyes bugged for half a second; then he recovered and set his features to nonchalance. "You wouldn't dare. Three-quarters of the staff would quit. I'd go elsewhere first."
Cuddy stared at him evenly. "We both know that as brilliant as you are, no other hospital on the Eastern seaboard would hire you. As for the staff, I'm willing to take that chance. I've done it before."
The sly reference to the Vogler debacle made House shift uncomfortably and he stared at the carpet. "It means that much?" he finally said, so softly Cuddy had trouble hearing.
Her face softened, grew imploring as she spread her hands in supplication. "Whatever rift exists between you and Wilson, you need to mend it, now. I don't know what happened. I don't think I want to know. All I do know is, you're both hurting and miserable from it."
House winced at that, only slightly, but Cuddy knew him well enough to see it. "And don't think it's not affecting anybody else, because it is," she added more insistently. "I need all my staff to have a good working relationship. So maybe--maybe going to a neutral location, away from here, will help you two settle your differences."
House grimaced, squeezing his eyes shut, and he grabbed at his leg. Cuddy watched him tense then deliberately relax. When he opened his eyes again he was controlled, though his face was pale. "You and Wilson hid brain cancer guy's recovery from me."
"I know," Cuddy acknowledged sadly.
"I was right. I was RIGHT about the cortisol! I deserved to know about that and instead he tries to teach me some inane lesson about humility."
"I am so sorry--"
"I was in pain and he just twisted the knife deeper. Some friend."
"He was trying to help you--"
"I don't need any help to deal with my life! Not from him and not from you--"
"--because he loves you! He's trying to help because he loves you!"
Cuddy's sharp voice bounced off him and he stared at her, dumbstruck.
Cuddy rubbed her cheek, feeling her eyes brim at the stricken expression on his face, and her voice lowered to a strained whisper. "Pull your head out of your goddamn ass, House! Wilson loves you. He always has. He's just scared you're going to revert back to your old ways, if not worse." Cuddy blinked rapidly and finally looked away. "Wilson's almost lost you twice already, he's terrified of losing you permanently the next time. That's why!"
Cuddy turned her head back just in time to witness the color draining from House's cheeks. He was wobbling slightly, but caught himself, and Cuddy watched him as he fought for control, setting his mouth in a thin line.
"He caused this mess," he said flatly.
Cuddy heard the effort House was making to restrain himself. "Wilson knows what he's done. But he needs you to forgive him."
House looked away, blinking rapidly. "I--I can't," House said uncomfortably. "I can't do that."
"You can," Cuddy assured him, "and you will. Besides, the arrangements are already made. Flights, accommodation, everything. You don't need to attend any seminars, you don't need to see any posters; you can stay holed up in your hotel room the entire five days if you want. But you and Wilson have to make amends somehow. You can't just let this blow over. Something like this--won't. So you have to try. That's an order."
House bowed his head, then turned away, limping out of the office without another word.
"House," Cuddy called.
House stopped at the door, his hand already turning the handle. Cuddy saw his back tense.
"What?"
Her voice gentled. "If you don't, and you lose Wilson over this, you lose everything. You know that's true."
House stood for a minute, shoulders hunched as if the weight of the world had suddenly descended. Then he left Cuddy's office, closing the door behind him without so much as a click.
~~~~~
Two days later, Wilson stared wide-eyed at House's form slowly making its way towards him. Sitting at his departure gate at Newark while waiting for his flight, his laptop balanced on his knees, he had been reviewing the Powerpoint presentation he was to give to close the conference.
His jaw dropped when House dropped down into the low plastic seat across from him.
"House?"
"Wilson."
Wilson did not miss the contempt dripping from his greeting. "So. Uh--what are you doing here?"
"What does it look like?"
"It looks like you're--you're traveling."
"Brilliant deduction, Sherlock. Where to?"
"I...wouldn't know." He dropped his gaze back down to his laptop.
"San Antonio, Jimmy," House replied bitterly. "Looks like Cuddy decided you needed a babysitter at that upscale cancer shindig after all."
He felt House's hostile glare but did not look up. Inwardly, Wilson seethed. Cuddy had promised that she would find someone to take Roddick's place at the conference. He'd never, ever imagined that that someone would be House. Wilson's jaw tightened and anger flared at Cuddy for putting him in this position. His was the closing presentation of the conference, so he could not back out now...What the hell was she doing?
Chancing a curious glimpse towards House, Wilson wondered what strings Cuddy had pulled to bully him into coming. Whatever it was, it was enough to throw House into full-on silent resentful mode.
All further contact between them consisted of exchanging puzzled, angry, uncomfortable and stony glances in turn across the row. When they were called for pre-boarding, House levered himself up with his cane, in some discomfort. Wilson rose to help but House stilled him with a black gaze. Wilson watched as House handed over his ticket to the gate agent.
Wilson sighed inwardly with relief when it turned out he and House had seats in different areas of the plane. By the time he boarded some ten minutes later, making his way to the back of the plane, House was already stretched out in the bulkhead row in coach, plugged into his iPod with his eyes closed and his hands folded on his stomach. Wilson, as was his habit, kept an eye on him from his perch in the back, though he didn't need to worry; House was almost civil throughout the flight, surprisingly. Maybe there wouldn't be fireworks to rival the Alamo when they got there after all.
But when they arrived at their hotel several long hours later, Wilson was in for another rude discovery.
Cuddy had made sure to secure one of the lavish suites for Wilson, but she'd canceled Roddick's room when she learned Roddick wasn't attending. This was before she'd cajoled House into going.
To make matters worse, the conference was the same week as several other major events in the area, and there were no more rooms available.
Wilson cringed and felt sorry for the young harried desk clerk who was trying to placate House.
"I'm sorry, Dr. House, there are no rooms left in this hotel or in the local area."
"There were two rooms booked for Princeton-Plainboro attendees! What the hell happened to the other room?"
The clerk glanced at the reservation screen. "One of the attendees canceled and the room was rented to someone else. I can try calling the airport hotel for you--"
Wilson rubbed his eyes as House's demeanor moved from pissed to downright threatening. "You can try finding me a room right here."
Wilson flipped his cell phone open and dialed.
His call was answered almost at once. "Cuddy."
"Did you know there were no more rooms left at the hotel when you decided to send House here to be a personal thorn in my side?"
"Yes."
"Really? Do you realize that there may well be an explosion with the force of a nuclear bomb if House does not get a room at this hotel?"
"Yes, I thought of that too. You're just going to have to defuse the situation."
Wilson rubbed the back of his neck, frustration tensing his muscles. "What do you have against San Antonio to unleash House on the unsuspecting population?"
"Nothing. Nothing at all. It's a lovely city and the Paseo del Rio is absolutely beautiful. You're a resourceful man. I'm sure you'll figure something out to save the populace from outright incineration." Wilson heard the definite click of the phone disconnecting.
Wilson groaned, seeing through Cuddy's plan. What the hell was she thinking, indeed. He knew damn well what. He fought both growing resentment and admiration for Cuddy; she was just as sneaky and underhanded as House, in her own way. Manipulating both of them. He was impressed.
A shout grabbed Wilson's attention. He turned to see House livid and the clerk shrinking back from the mahogany counter. At least one unfortunate soul could be saved, anyway. He rushed to intervene.
"House--HOUSE. It's OK. I have a suite booked. You can stay with me."
House turned from the cowering girl to him, his eyes blazing. Wilson stood his ground, willing himself to be calm; his gaze bored into House's frustrated one.
"Oh fine," House snapped, and stepped back from the counter.
Wilson stepped up and smiled apologetically at the terrorized clerk. "Sorry about that, he gets a little agitated when he's off his meds." House, who'd turned away, palmed and popped a Vicodin at that, turning back to scowl at him. Wilson shrugged and finished checking them both in.
It was only afterwards, as they stood uncomfortably in the elevator to ascend to their floor, that he realized that he'd just agreed to allow House into his life again for the next five days. House pretty much hated him now, so he was certain he was headed for five days of hell. Admittedly, that wasn't much different from when House liked him. It just added another awkward level of confusion that had always existed in their relationship; confusion that had already once come to a head when he'd moved in with House all those months ago.
Cuddy didn't know the half of it.
~~~~~
House had said that everything came down to sex, but Wilson hadn't wanted to believe it.
He really hadn't expected House to take him in after he left Julie, but he'd arrived on House's doorstep anyway, heartsick and hurting with nowhere else to go. And while House was a bastard, he did care in his own mixed-up way. So he allowed Wilson to stay in his apartment, and Wilson was grateful. Staying with House in the interim was a blessing in some ways because Wilson, still smarting, just could not bear to be alone. The company of his merciless prick of a best friend was better than nothing.
It turned out to be a bitch though, when privacy (or rather, lack thereof) was concerned. He might have left Julie, but he still had a healthy libido, with its associated physical needs. Sleeping on a couch in shared space didn't lend itself to easing them.
It was perhaps only a matter of time before House caught him masturbating very late one evening.
They'd watched porn, and it had been a long time, relatively speaking. Wilson found himself needing relief soon after House retired to his bedroom. Even though Wilson tried to do it quietly, curled up under the blankets and pulling furtively like a teenage boy-- taking care not to soil House's couch and stifling his groans into a pillow--it didn't matter.
Wilson whipped his head up at the noise of a clearing throat.
His hand still in his underwear, Wilson froze beneath the blankets and flushed with embarrassment at seeing House's still figure, silhouetted in the faint light of the kitchen stove.
"I thought we'd agreed on the stethoscope," House said amiably.
Wilson looked away, tongue-tied with shame, and pulled his hand out of his boxers. He cringed as he realized House was following every movement with his eyes.
To add the proverbial insult to injury, House limped over and lowered himself to the couch beside him. Wilson covered his burning face with his hand and steeled himself for the mocking that was sure to follow.
"Wilson," House said softly.
Wilson reluctantly uncovered his eyes.
House regarded him for a long moment with an expression he had never seen on House's face before--wry amusement to be sure, but also mixed with something that approached understanding. Wilson's eyes widened and he swallowed, his lips suddenly dry. House's mouth twisted in a crooked half-smile. Wilson relaxed slightly.
House's expression changed again, darkening and growing taut with something that looked like yearning, and Wilson held his breath, suspended in the moment. House did not say a word. If he had, Wilson realized later, he would have broken whatever spell both were under and nothing at all might have happened.
As it was, House simply pulled off the blankets to reveal Wilson in his underwear and T-shirt. Then, to Wilson's utter amazement, House reached his hand into Wilson's boxers, pulled out his half-hard penis, and picked up where Wilson had left off in the moon-slatted darkness.
Wilson knew he should push House away, but, paralyzed with shock and rapidly growing need, he didn't. He couldn't help himself, and he was even more stunned when he realized he didn't want House to stop either. Because oh God, House knew just what to do; his fingers wrapped around Wilson's length, pulling his shaft with an unfaltering, measured stroke, thumb teasing around the head. Wilson shoved his fist into his mouth to keep from crying out as he bucked under House's expert ministrations. He couldn't bear to look into House's eyes.
When he was done, House withdrew his hand and they both stared for a minute at the whitish stickiness on it, glistening in the faint light. Then he wiped his hand on one of the blankets.
"I'll--wash that tomorrow," Wilson offered, his still-breathless voice breaking the heavy silence that had settled in the room.
"We don't ever talk about this," House said, his voice like gravel.
Wilson swallowed. "Uh--OK." He nodded in agreement.
House's mouth twisted again, his head bowed. He looked up again, his eyes dilated with desire. Then slowly, very slowly, he reached out to grasp Wilson's hand and slid it over his own tented crotch.
~~~~~
Even House had to admit it was a pretty nice hotel. The Crowne Plaza on the Paseo del Rio, in the heart of San Antonio, had everything he expected a four-star hotel would offer. The suite itself was huge and graciously appointed, having two bedrooms with plush king-size beds, an expansive living room, and an in-suite jacuzzi. The full-size kitchen and sixty-inch plasma TV didn't hurt either, though he thought he could do without the gas fireplace. All things told, he'd never have to leave if he didn't want to.
"I have got to get me one of these babies!" House said approvingly, sitting down in the La-Z-Boy recliner in front of the TV. Behind him, he saw Wilson's rueful smile in the reflection of the screen. Suddenly uncomfortable, House picked up the remote and started flipping through the satellite channels.
"Oh yeah, just like home."
Over the next few days, though they shared the suite, House actually did not see much of Wilson. Wilson was up, showered, and out of the suite by seven every morning, and did not come back until past eleven at night. House had done his homework on the conference, and the topics were all up Wilson's alley. He was also chairing two panels on research and ethics, and of course had to prepare for the closing address. The rest of the time, House assumed, he was partaking of the social events.
The third night, Wilson didn't come back at all; when he returned the next morning he smelled as if he'd taken a bath in Chanel No. 5. House wrinkled his nose and said nothing, but wondered why he felt so resentful.
House took Cuddy up on her word that he would not need to attend any seminar, presentation or social function at the oncology conference. He slept in past nine every morning and lived on room service. While he did take in a couple of tourist sights (the Alamo was only a mile away and the Paseo del Rio really was a beautiful, garden-shaded walk) he mainly spent his days in the suite watching TV, surfing the computer, soaking his leg in the jacuzzi, and reading the notes and proceedings that Wilson left for him every morning'"
And trying very hard not to think about what Cuddy had said about Wilson and the four-letter "L" word.
~~~~~
They'd never intended to add sex to their screwed-up friendship.
Indeed it should have only happened once; friendly hands reciprocating under the hush of darkness, to relieve each other's sexual tension. Only once; nothing more.
Instead, they graduated to mutual jerking off and blow jobs in fairly quick succession.
They didn't talk about any of that either.
Even when they began to spend entire evenings naked in House's bed or on the couch, bathed in each other's scent; with one writhing and arching under the other's hand, mouth or prick.
Curses and obscenities were exchanged at those times, though nothing about why they were doing it.
When they started with the anal sex, by mutual silent consent the condoms and K-Y simply appeared on House's night table. Who fucked whom at any particular time was resolved without discussion; it seemed that whoever wanted it up the ass first, got it. The style was never in question either: invariably hard, fast, deep, and facing away with no contact between them except the necessary parts.
The closest they came to talking was afterwards, lying side-by-side in House's rumpled bed and panting in the afterglow; sweaty, sticky, often sore from the pounding (welcome in House's case, since it soothed the leg pain temporarily), but sated and relaxed for the moment. Sometimes the words started to play on one or the other's lips in those moments. But something else held them back.
So they never, ever discussed what it was, let alone what it meant.
~~~~~
House did attend one presentation at the conference, on the last day: Wilson's closing seminar on unusual presentations of testicular cancer, featuring House's stunning catwalk model patient.
He figured he should show up just to see what Wilson had to say about it. So he walked the mile from the Crowne Plaza to the convention center in the warm dry heat. He was bathed with sweat from the effort and his leg was complaining quite loudly by the time he passed through the gleaming glass doors into the main hall. He popped a Vicodin and hunted around for Wilson's seminar room.
Arriving just as Wilson started speaking, House sat in the very back row, in the darkest corner of the conference room away from the podium and the lights of the door. He knew the case like the back of his hand; hell, he'd solved it after all. The acoustics were perfect for the resonating timbre of Wilson's speech. House closed his eyes against the dry clinical images and felt himself drift on the waves of Wilson's assured and steady voice; not listening to the words, just the soothing undulating tones.
His eyes jerked open when Wilson reached the closing of his presentation.
"It should be clear from these cases then, that one simply cannot make assumptions about anything when it comes to cancer, or, indeed, any medical condition. The young lady's diagnosis was not achieved until all empirical investigative approaches were exhausted. Testicular cancer simply should not appear in a young, healthy woman. Yet in this one, it did. It took the willingness to look outside the conventional norms, against all apparently rational thought, to arrive at the correct diagnosis. On the surface this diagnosis appeared to be a leap of faith, except to those who were able to accept that anything is, indeed, possible. Only in hindsight with the explanation laid out did the rationale become clear to everyone else. We must never discount inspiration when lives hang in the balance."
With a start, House realized Wilson had focused directly on him. He saw Wilson's face, pale under the strip lighting just above the podium; his eyes pierced through the low light to where House sat. House heard the slight undertone of wistful resignation in the otherwise professionally clipped words; the halting apology underscoring his calm, measured voice. Something clenched in his stomach but he still sat straight, watching the audience nod in agreement. They could not know what was truly going on; all the same he found himself almost overwhelmed that Wilson was offering his apology in such a public forum. He inclined his head very slightly, and Wilson's gaze shifted to the other side of the room.
House escaped before the lights came up again, and he bee-lined straight back to the hotel room, ignoring the growing ache in his leg and the matching one in his heart. He headed straight to the shower, Wilson's speech swirling in his head. Standing under the pounding hot water, his mind whirled, trying to figure out where it had all gone so fantastically fucking wrong.
~~~~~
The last time they'd had sex had been just after Foreman's brush with death from Naegleria; just before House's leg pain had worsened to the point of mainlining morphine.
House would never admit it, but he had been utterly shaken by his impotence at curing Foreman's illness. Wilson had been right about personal feelings getting in the way of his professional judgment--the bastard. When it came down to it, House could not be cavalier about risking Foreman's life the way he'd gamble an unknown patient's.
To add insult to injury, Cameron--Cameron--had dared to go ahead with the brain biopsy; the decision that in hindsight House should have made himself if he'd had the guts.
That burned.
He wanted--needed--to take that out on someone. Prove he hadn't fumbled the ball and almost lost a man's life to it.
He needed to show he hadn't gone soft.
Wilson made a most convenient target.
So that evening, when Wilson dropped by House's apartment after work with a six-pack and "The Fast And The Furious" on DVD, House greeted him at the door, a somewhat crazed look on his features.
Wilson almost shrank back from the threshold with the fierceness of House's glare. "Is--er, something wrong?"
"Yes," House snapped. "Blow job. Shower. Now."
Wilson swallowed at the strained note of need in House's voice, his pants already tightening around his groin at the command. He simply nodded, dropped the DVD and beer on the coffee table, and strode quickly to the bathroom. They shucked their clothes, letting them drop haphazardly to the floor. House had already turned on the tap, making the air as hot and humid as a sauna; beads of sweat soon broke out on both men's skin.
Wilson climbed in first, steam already billowing inside the small space, and pulled House in after him. House leaned on Wilson for a moment, kissing him ferociously under the spray of water, before sitting down on the specially-installed bench seat to get to the job at hand.
And, of course, he wasted no time. Reaching out, grabbing Wilson by the hips, he drew Wilson right up to him, pressing his face right into Wilson's groin, nuzzling Wilson's rapidly stiffening prick.
"Been waiting to do this all fucking day," House growled, fondling Wilson's sac.
Wilson only groaned in response, his fingers sliding through House's wet hair. House smirked as he pumped his shaft a few times, gazing up at Wilson's mouth forming a perfect 'o' of pleasure, his eyelids fluttering with sensation.
Without further ado he took Wilson's dick all at once into his mouth.
Wilson's knees almost buckled but House grabbed his thighs to steady him as he slid his lips up and down Wilson's shaft. He teased the underside of the head with his tongue as Wilson tried not to thrust. House smirked around the mouthful of Wilson's dick. Mild-mannered James Wilson, always so considerate and thoughtful of his lovers. Underneath was a true-blue bastard. Jimmy-the-bastard, who was never far from the surface; who existed to make House's life hell with his faux voice of conscience. Jimmy-the-bastard, whom House wanted to bring to his knees any way he could; by hook or by crook or, in this case, by suck.
House's hands slid up Wilson's wet skin to grasp his buttocks, pulling him in even deeper with a low hum. At that Wilson did begin to pump into House's mouth.
Good. Wilson never lasted long once he started bucking like this.
And House lived to do this, to drive Wilson crazy blind with his lips and teeth and swirling tongue until Wilson forgot who and what and where he was; to reduce all of Wilson's awareness to his firm swollen flesh sliding between House's eager lips. Breaking him in the process.
He raised his gaze to Wilson's face, those boyishly charming features now contorted with lust: wet hair plastered on his head and beads of water trickling down his body; shoulders rounded and knees bent; coming undone in front of him with each forward jerk. So very very close, right where House wanted him.
Now for the House-patented coup de grace: one long finger snaking up behind Wilson's balls and sliding against Wilson's ass to penetrate his anus. He wiggled that one finger inside and oh yeah, there it was--obscenities spilled from Wilson's lips as he gripped handfuls of House's hair and threw his head back, exposing that oddly exquisite long line of throat. Wilson stilled for a split second before coming hard and fast in House's mouth, each thrust of his hips punctuated by a garbled shout that echoed in the wet confines of the shower.
House sucked and swallowed willingly, savoring the bitter-salt taste of Wilson's release. How convenient it was, what all the years of dry-swallowing Vicodin had done for controlling his gag reflex. He slid his finger out of Wilson's ass and caught Wilson in his arms as Wilson's legs finally gave out with glutted bliss, pulling him onto his good thigh and plundering Wilson's gasping mouth with a searing kiss. He made sure that Wilson tasted his own seed on House's tongue, the reminder of what House could do to him in a heartbeat. Wilson trembled at that, goosebumps breaking out on his skin even in the steam of the shower, and House smirked against his mouth.
Wilson had no qualms about reciprocating either; just as ruthless, just as insistent, half-sitting on House's lap and jerking him off with a firm and knowing hand. He knew by now just when to tug at House's pubic hair, when to squeeze his balls, when to bite his mouth as they kissed. Wilson grinned triumphantly when House shot his wad over his fist. Retaliation, when Wilson smeared House's lips with House's own come, was just as sweet.
But House refused to let Wilson enjoy his payback. House deliberately licked his lips clean, staring stubbornly right at Wilson as he tasted himself, refusing to break. Swallowing deliberately, he felt pleased when Wilson suddenly looked away. But the feeling dissolved to inexplicable emptiness when Wilson rapidly exited the shower without even soaping up.
A couple of days later House learned Cuddy had asked Wilson out to dinner, with the intent of auditioning Wilson for the role of sperm donor for in vitro fertilization. That was when House's leg pain began to spiral out of control, and the rest of his life with it.
~~~~~
The intervening weeks and months had been spent recovering from being shot, reveling in his lack of pain; but those other moments, though submerged, were never forgotten, even as the remnants swirled down the drain.
This, for them, was how their initial sojourn into sex had turned out: from a friendly once-off to desperate fucking in the moment. No romance, just a standing battle of wills, of who would conquer whom.
How fucking depressing. How fucking typical.
House braced himself against the wall with one hand, rubbing his face with the other. He didn't doubt that it soured every other part of their friendship too, like a mold with its insidious hyphae, releasing a toxin just as threatening as Wilson's deception between them. He hadn't wanted that, not when he'd started. He'd only wanted to make Wilson feel better that night. That's what friends did.
But--Wilson? Loving him? Come on. What did Cuddy know about love?
Then again...
He swallowed hard as he thought of Wilson, standing up in front of all those strangers, apologizing to the one person he knew in the crowd who would actually get it. Admitting to everyone in the room that he had been wrong, even if no one else knew why. Seeking atonement.
Damn Cuddy for wielding that dreaded four-letter "L" word like a truncheon.
Damn Cuddy for being right.
It didn't excuse what Wilson had done to him.
House had his own sins to atone for too. But maybe he could repent for his previous transgressions somewhat.
He didn't have much time left before he figured Wilson would return. He only hoped it wouldn't be too little, too late. He lunged to turn off the shower tap.
~~~~~
The last day of the conference had been exhausting, and Wilson had never been happier to see one wrap up. Standing in the elevator about six in the evening, waiting for it to stop at the twenty-first floor, all Wilson wanted to do was spend one night in his luxurious Crowne Plaza suite and enjoy its amenities before heading back to Princeton. House had been hogging all of them all the time they'd been there; it was his turn tonight, he thought, feeling just a little territorial. Just one night wasn't asking for much now, was it?
Even if it meant spending that evening in House's surly company, wrestling for control of the remote and fighting for space in the jacuzzi. He smiled and shook his head fondly at the wry thought as he slid his key card into the slot to unlock the door.
When he opened the door, he stopped short and gaped, utterly stunned by what he saw.
House was waiting at the door for him: cleaned up and dressed in sky-gray dress shirt, charcoal slacks and jacket and pink-and-blue striped tie, all very tasteful and muted. He also wore his usual mask of indifference, though Wilson could detect an undertone of anxiety on House's features.
"Hi."
"Well. Ah. Uh--hi yourself," Wilson said, looking him up and down.
"Take your coat?" He held out his arm.
"Sure." Wilson shrugged off his suit jacket. House dropped it on the arm of the sofa.
"You--clean up nice," Wilson said slowly. "You look good." Indeed House did, and Wilson meant it; even his stubble was trimmed.
House half-grinned, looking pleased with the compliment, and stepped back to let him in. He'd been pacing for the past fifteen minutes, waiting for Wilson to come back from the conference center; his palms were actually sweating with nervous anticipation.
Wilson looked around, wondering if he'd somehow stepped into another dimension's hotel suite with House's good twin. Beyond, by the gorgeous bay window overlooking the Paseo del Rio, the dining room table was set with a pristine white tablecloth, two formal place settings and laden with various silver platters. Wilson nodded at the bucket of ice containing beer and a bottle of ros; though he raised one eyebrow in disbelief at the large arrangement of blue hydrangea, bright pink alstroemeria and Queen Anne's lace in the center of the table.
"Flowers, House?"
"They came with the room service," House evaded.
Wilson nodded. "Ah." He walked over, dazed, to inhale their scent. He smiled genuinely at the fragrance then turned to look at him again, peering at his neck. "Did you choose your tie to match the bouquet?"
House, following, rubbed his free hand on his trousers. "No," he denied flatly.
Wilson passed his hand over his face to hide an incredulous smirk. "Right."
"So. Um--ready to eat?" House asked, distinctly uncomfortable at playing host. "It's steak. And lobster. Steak and lobster. Ain't room service grand?"
Wilson blinked, the odor of hydrangea still heady in his nostrils. "Uh--yes, yes it is. But--surf and turf? Premium beer? This--this is quite the spread here."
"Nothing but the best. Besides, it's all on Cuddy's tab."
Wilson shook his head in amusement. "Of course. Why ever should I think that you might actually shell out for something like this?"
House shot him a strange, peeved but almost guilty look; it passed quickly, replaced by a pained eagerness. "Come on. The surf and turf is getting cold."
House moved towards him, and Wilson thought strangely that he might actually pull out the chair for him to sit down. Instead, House reached into the ice bucket beside him, pulling out two cold ones and setting them down at each plate.
House bent over the table with a lighter to light the elegant white tapers on either side of the centerpiece, then sat down. Wilson followed, still bemused at this scenario straight from The Twilight Zone. If he didn't know any better, he'd swear that House was taking him on a date. In their hotel suite. With flowers. He almost expected to hear music.
Just on cue, House picked up the remote and aimed it at the stereo CD player in the corner. The strains of Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata" wafted through the air, lending its graceful melody to the ambiance.
Wilson bent his head, studying a flub in the linen cloth, flummoxed. Maybe it was best to play along for now, he decided, and figure out what House was up to later. He watched House remove the lids from the platters with a flourish; the mouthwatering aroma of medium-rare steak, fresh-steamed lobster and garlic-roasted potatoes totally whipped the delicate grace of the flowers.
"Oh, that looks good," Wilson said honestly. "I'm starving."
"Great. Dig in while it's still hot."
They ate and drank, each regarding the other furtively over forkfuls of food. The meal was really quite excellent, tasting as fantastic as it smelled. House did not quite meet Wilson's eyes though, and Wilson was--well, shell-shocked was an apt term. Was House actually trying to seduce him? Why on earth? This was what Wilson did with his conquests, the long line of wives, girlfriends and casual lovers who lay behind him: whom he wined, dined, and conversed with, all of which leading up to the supposed goodnight kiss at the front door and the usual romp in the sack. He swore if House started asking him about his dreams, hopes and aspirations he'd strangle him with his own tie.
It was usually best to confront House on a full stomach, so when they finished, shifting contentedly back in their chairs, Wilson decided to take the chance.
"This--this is amazing," he began, gesturing at the table. His heart leapt to his throat when House actually smiled shyly, staring at the tablecloth. "So who are you and what have you done with House?"
House narrowed his eyes at him. "Come again?"
"Greg House? Doctor person, about six foot two, graying hair, all round bastard who packs heat in the form of a cane? Have you seen him?" He kept his voice light.
"You don't think I'm capable of doing a nice thing for a friend once in a while?"
Wilson spread his hands, trying to placate him. "Well, it is--unusual, though you have been known to do a good turn occasionally. It's just that I'm--I'm not used to being on the receiving end lately."
House had the grace to appear embarrassed. "I know," he admitted.
Wilson started, feeling as if he'd just suffered whiplash. "I--er--right."
They stuttered into silence, both looking anywhere but at each other. The discomfort grew until it was like the proverbial elephant in the room. Wilson suddenly felt tired, and passed his hand over his eyes.
"I--hope you don't mind, but it has been a long day. I--I'm going to take a shower and get ready for bed." It didn't matter that it was only about seven o'clock; Wilson really was exhausted.
House rose from the table and moved into the living room to pace. "Yeah, sure," he said, distracted as he turned a circuit around the coffee table.
Wilson stood with his hands on his hips and watched House limp around the table in obvious pain. This was more of what he'd become used to. He stepped forward to help--but at House's testy glare he backed off and headed to the bathroom to shower.
House kept pacing until he heard the water spraying in the tub, then palmed a Vicodin. He ran his hand over his bad thigh, rubbing with some pressure to alleviate the cramping. Dinner had, despite all the nerves, gone reasonably well. Wilson had been suspicious, but appreciative; really, that was the best he could hope for at this point. He lowered himself to the La-Z-Boy, sculled a beer and put his feet up to wait for the Vicodin to kick in.
Fifteen minutes later, Wilson came out, wrapped in a thick white hotel-issue robe and towel-drying his hair. "I didn't know there were pulsating jets on that shower-head," he said, walking towards the recliner as he rubbed the dampness off.
House stared straight ahead at the blank plasma TV screen. "Yeah. Great for all sorts of aches and pains."
Wilson rolled his eyes, then grew quiet, unsure. "So--ah--thanks for ordering in dinner. That--was truly fantastic."
House turned his head to look at him. The nervousness was back in spades now, but he forced himself to meet Wilson's uncertain gaze. "You're welcome," he said sincerely.
Wilson swallowed and nodded. "Uh--OK then. I think I'll head off to bed now. Good night." He half-turned to leave.
At that House straightened. "Wilson. Wait." He rose with some effort and maneuvered himself to stand in front of him.
Wilson had to look away, raising his hand to his neck. "What do you want from me?" he whispered shakily. He flinched when House raised one hand to his cheek.
House licked his lips, swallowed then tipped Wilson's chin up. His other hand grasped Wilson's bicep, running lightly along the cotton pile. "I don't know," House admitted. Then he leaned in.
Their lips met, sliding with the lightest of pressure. House tasted minty toothpaste and menthol mouthwash. His fingers slid up into Wilson's hair, threading through the damp strands. Wilson involuntarily leaned into his touch, rubbing his head against House's hand. House started to suckle on Wilson's lower lip, light and gentle. His other hand slid from Wilson's arm and beneath the robe, meeting bare cool skin, and he heard Wilson stifle a gasp as his fingers traced over an already-firm nipple.
He wanted Wilson, so badly, but he didn't want to rush it. They'd fucked so many times before this, hard and fast and without much regard to anything but their own pleasure. Now though, now he was determined to take things slow and easy. Tonight he was going to show Wilson just how much he mattered to him; show Wilson how much he really did appreciate him, with every touch, every kiss, every press and caress and thrust.
House began to drop fluttering kisses along the line of Wilson's jaw, trailing down his neck as Wilson leaned his head back. His lips dragged across Wilson's Adam's apple, down to the hollow that marked his collarbone; his arms encircled Wilson's waist, pulling him into a hug. He heard Wilson moan, low and eager from the back of his throat. Then Wilson slipped his arms around his shoulders, and a warm blissful feeling pulsed through his veins.
They stood, simply stood, in the half-fallen dark of the hotel room, holding each other and swaying back and forth slightly. House felt Wilson turn into his neck, pressing in and inhaling, and he tightened his embrace. This was what they'd missed the first time, this simple pleasure of touch, of warmth and closeness. They'd mistaken sex, their base desire to get off, for intimacy. House wanted more now, much more. He began to nuzzle Wilson's hair.
At that, Wilson suddenly broke the embrace and drew back to stare at him in confusion.
"Are you feeling all right?" he asked, nonplussed. "House? You're not normally this--this--" He waved his hand in the air as he searched for the right words. "Sweet. Considerate. Tender."
House, suddenly feeling lost without Wilson's closeness, glared down at him. "You don't want me to be nice?" he challenged with a suddenly hoarse voice. "I thought you liked this soppy emotional stuff. Coulda fooled me."
Still flustered, Wilson rubbed the back of his neck, staring at the floor. "No--no! I do like it! Uh, I' It's just that--it's just that it's not--you. I've learned to deal with it--"
House winced at that. He wanted to say, I've changed, but felt stupid for making that admission.
"So, I--I don't know what to do right now," Wilson finished weakly. He looked away towards the jacuzzi, feeling the embarrassed flush creep across his cheeks.
House tilted his head. "Oh. I see. You don't know what to do. OK then, here's a thought. How about just shut up and enjoy it?"
Wilson turned back, his mouth dropping open in stunned disbelief. Amused at Wilson's utterly gobsmacked look, House softened his scowl. "Don't worry, this will only happen once," he added more quietly. "Back to normal tomorrow, I promise."
Wilson grinned, reassured by the familiar testiness in House's voice. He was now certain that this all was only a temporary fit of insanity on House's part.
He felt his smile fade though, as House focused those disturbing blue eyes straight on his face.
Wilson's chest tightened as he shivered under the intensity of House's appraising gaze. He had been on the receiving end of many a piercing stare before, but not quite like this: boring through the layers upon layers of protective callus on his soul with the keen precision of a laser beam. He felt suddenly exposed; emotionally naked as House gently peeled back each layer to reveal the bruised core of his being. As much as he wanted to, Wilson couldn't tear his eyes away from that glare, so he stood his ground.
House watched as Wilson set his jaw to prevent the shaking from overtaking him. Wilson hid his damage well, almost too well. House sometimes envied him that; but he also knew what to look for, and tonight he found it in spades. Each emotion flickered across Wilson's features, plain as a book now that he was so off-balance.
Bemusement, check.
Sudden bravado as he withstood House's challenge, check.
Abject terror at revealing what he really was, check.
Resignation to his fate, check.
Complete and utter vulnerability laid open in willing sacrifice--check check check.
Oh God. House swallowed thickly. To see Wilson open before him like this, the sheer rawness of all that repressed anger and fear and (goddammit) love for him--to know that Wilson was allowing him this unfettered glimpse inside--it was damn near ripping him a new one. He felt it slice straight through to his own carefully guarded heart, tearing it wide open.
He was suddenly awed and humbled, and utterly terrified, at the depth of what Wilson was revealing right now; at what Wilson was willing to give up to him, knowing full well the likelihood of having it all flung back in his face later on.
Wilson's apology at the conference had been real.
More than that, Cuddy had been right. Wilson loved him. And still did. Always had.
He felt the ground give out beneath him, though he still stood upright. Up until that fucking Icarus speech of Wilson's, he'd prided himself on knowing which step to take. Wilson's admission then had sent him spiraling. Now in the face of Wilson's further unspoken revelation, he felt himself in free fall again.
There was nowhere else to turn to, either. So he had to admit it.
He still needed Wilson to catch him when he fell.
He reached up to cup Wilson's jaw with his own suddenly unsure hand.
"You are so beautiful," he murmured, praying to a God he didn't believe in that it was the right thing to say. He brushed his thumb reverently against Wilson's cheek.
Wilson closed his eyes, wincing at the gruffness in House's voice. "You--you're just saying that," he stated dully. "We both know that's not true." Nevertheless he leaned into his touch.
House snorted. "Yeah, I'm just blowing hot air. Like to hear myself talk." Wilson smiled ruefully against his palm and House's mouth twisted in an answering half-grin. He tipped Wilson's jaw up to look at him again; his breathing hitched at the pained fluttering of Wilson's closed eyelashes against his pale face. "God knows I'm an ass," he continued, his voice low and rough. "You know I'm one. But you accept it. Mostly."
Wilson's eyes flew open in disbelief at House's frank admission. "That's what makes me beautiful? Because I put up with the inner bastard that you wear on your sleeve?"
"That counts."
With that, still caressing Wilson's jaw, House leaned in and kissed him lightly on the lips.
Wilson didn't respond at first; his mind still reeling from the emotional volley, he barely registered the light pressure of House's lips moving against his own.
House pulled back and rolled his eyes. "You know, Jimmy, this kissing thing works a hell of a lot better if the recipient plays along."
Wilson blinked at that, snapping out of his reverie. He searched House's eyes for any signs of mockery and found none.
"Kissing? That's all you intend to do?" Wilson countered at last, feeling inexplicably weak-kneed at the pointed, yet soft look on House's craggy face.
"To start," House replied amiably, leaning back in.
This time Wilson was ready, his mouth opening eagerly as their lips met again. House reached out with his other hand to grab Wilson's waist, pulling him closer. He nearly stumbled, but Wilson instinctively slid his arms around House's shoulders to steady him, feeling the wings of his shoulder blades and the slight answering tremor of House's muscles beneath his palms.
House explored Wilson's mouth thoroughly, rolling the taste of him on his tongue. He savored the feeling of Wilson's soft lips mashing against his own, slow and sweet, rich and dark.
He broke the kiss to nuzzle Wilson's cheek, reveling in the contrast of clean-shaven skin against his beard. He dragged his lips along the high cheekbone, across his temple, along the firm line of Wilson's jaw, memorizing each taste and texture. Wilson exhaled shakily. That sigh resonated somewhere within him, and House couldn't help but tighten his embrace and bury his face in the side of Wilson's neck. He smelled the clean fragrance of soap and shampoo mingled with Wilson's own dusky scent, and felt content for the first time since before they'd fought.
"Come on," House murmured into Wilson's ear, his breath hitching just a bit. "Come lie down."
Wilson nodded with an answering catch of his own; they reluctantly broke away and moved to the fireplace in the middle of the room, where the blue gas fire waved cheerfully behind the tempered glass screen. Wilson chuckled, low and rich, when he saw that House had collected a pile of pillows--possibly every pillow in the suite--and built a makeshift nest on the carpet.
"Are we playing fort now?" he asked, amused. "A pillow fight perhaps?"
"I don't think you want to lie down on just the carpet," House countered, a little defensively. Standing behind Wilson, he reached around to untie the knot in Wilson's sash, then slid the white terry robe off his shoulders, letting it pool onto the floor. He reached around to Wilson's front, his hands smoothing over Wilson's collarbone and chest. Wilson's breath hitched audibly when House's fingers trailed over his nipples.
Undeterred, House's hands slid down lower, over Wilson's stomach, down to his hip, brushing his pubic hair but not going any lower. He nibbled at Wilson's earlobe; Wilson bent his head back to rest on House's shoulder and sighed with a shudder. House pulled Wilson tight against him, reveling in the heat and closeness of their embrace, and House was shocked to feel himself trembling.
"Lie down. You're feeling tense. I'll give you a massage," House offered, trying very hard not to let his voice waver.
Wilson shivered at the dark excitement underneath. He promptly knelt to arrange the pillows to support his shoulders and hips. He then stretched out on his stomach, letting his head drop over one pillow, forehead resting on the carpet.
House smiled indulgently, admiring the view of Wilson laid out naked and prone before him. He shucked his own clothes quickly, tossing them to join Wilson's robe on the floor. As he undressed, his gaze traveled from the back of Wilson's head, the dark hair damp and curling against the nape of his neck; it swept across the flex of biceps as he lay with arms bent, head pillowed on his hands. His eyes moved back, back along the muscles of shoulder and neck, that flowed into Wilson's back, the muted curve of rib meeting the ridges and bumps of vertebrae. God, the way Wilson's back tapered when he lay like this; with the oddly endearing softness around his waist that, if Wilson weren't careful, would translate into middle-age spread in a few years. Perhaps it was a good thing House insisted on stealing food off Wilson's plate.
He smirked at that thought, then sobered when he realized that, all the times they'd been together, he'd never really taken the time to really appreciate Wilson's body like this before now. The necessary parts, sure, he appreciated, but not the rest of him in between: the aesthetics of smoothness, of curves, of hollows, of planes and angles. House lowered himself to the carpet beside him, arranging his own pillows for support. Soon his hands followed the same path that his gaze had traveled, kneading gently to feel the give of supple flesh against his palms.
"Mmmm," Wilson moaned in appreciation. He was certainly doing his best at shutting up and enjoying it; the residual tension in his muscles drained away, leaving his whole body lax and lazy. He breathed deeply with each press of House's palms against his skin. His eyes closed and he began to drift, lulled by the hypnotic slide of warmth along his body; imagining House's finger pads marking him with their prints.
House felt an odd thrill at the timbre of Wilson's groan, resonating along his bones. He slid his hands up Wilson's thighs and gently squeezed Wilson's buttocks, massaging the muscles with his strong fingers. He felt, rather than heard, Wilson's second purr against the pillows; the soft rumble traveled straight to his dick and he felt himself growing aroused just at touching Wilson like this, slow and gentle.
He levered himself behind Wilson, his bad leg supported on more pillows; he found himself, grudgingly, blessing Cuddy's generosity at allowing them a hotel room with two king-size beds and all the king-size pillows that came with. Bending forward, he rubbed his prickly chin and nose playfully against Wilson's smooth butt-cheeks.
"Hey! House, that PRICKLES!" Wilson complained.
House simply pressed his chin hard enough against Wilson's skin to leave stubbly impressions, grinning at Wilson's indignant yelp. He then released the pressure to a light brush; slowly dragging his chin and nose down along the juncture of buttock and thigh, his lips tracing and tasting along the path.
Wilson sighed deeply, shifting just a bit against the scrape of stubble like fine sandpaper on his skin. He delighted in House's almost tender playfulness, a side to him that Wilson had suspected existed, but had never seen; simply enjoying what it led House to do tonight. He too regretted how it had all turned out the last time; from the first thoughtful, even comforting touch of House's hand on him, to how it degenerated into something angry and ugly. This though, this--was something else. Back to that thoughtful and comforting mien they'd once had--and something much more.
House drew back then, letting his vision feast on Wilson in front of him while he decided what angle to go for next. His hands slowly, slowly slid up and down the loose muscles of Wilson's thighs, then back up to his buttocks, spreading his ass-cheeks apart to reveal his small closed hole.
"House, what are you doing?" Wilson said, suddenly breathless with anticipation; his pelvis arching at the coolness of air moving over his exposed rear.
House knew Wilson liked anal play while House jerked or sucked him off. House was always willing to oblige, too. Sliding his fingers up Wilson's ass was guaranteed to drive him insane. So, staring at that inviting sight, he felt an almost irresistible urge to nuzzle and lick him, just to see what would happen. He wondered if Wilson would become just as helpless with sensation as he did when House fingered him. Judging from the way Wilson burrowed into the pillows and wiggled his butt in unconscious invitation, House had a pretty good idea that he would.
House leaned down, resting his head for a moment against the hollow of Wilson's lower back in a brief moment of indecision. He'd never done this before. It screamed too much of intimacy.
He decided to go for it anyway; the desire to make Wilson feel needed and wanted (and loved) was overwhelming now. And at least Wilson had showered just after dinner.
So, drawing back, he licked his lips, then leaned forward, his lips parted. And with his tongue he swiped gently, ever so gently, up from the sensitive skin around and just behind Wilson's balls, into the crack between his buttocks.
Wilson, completely unprepared for that particular assault, jerked reflexively into the pillows beneath his hips, eyes flying open in utter shock. He cried out as if he'd been slapped.
House smirked with smug satisfaction. Emboldened by Wilson's off-guard reaction, reveling in his sudden trembling, he leaned in further and continued sliding his tongue up, up, sampling that foreign, salty musk; until he reached that pink puckered entrance, pressing against but not quite breaching it yet.
"Oh GOD!" Wilson groaned, his eyes glazing over and lids fluttering closed; his hips bucked back violently, his whole body yearning for more of what House was doing.
House, thrilled by the ferocity of Wilson's response, drew back and responded by grasping Wilson's buttocks, spreading them open even further before diving in again to lick in between.
Wilson shook wildly, already almost completely undone. "House, what are you--?" He ended in a reedy moan; his head dropped forward, completely lax, as he whimpered quite incoherently into the feather ticking. He involuntarily thrust into the pillows again when House deliberately pressed his tongue against him, harder this time, the tip just teasing the outer ring of muscle.
House smirked again, as much as he could anyway with his face pressed in between Wilson's ass cheeks. He purposely exhaled a puff of warm air and was rewarded with another inarticulate groan. Wilson wriggled against him, trying to angle himself for better access to his tongue. "Wanton slut," House murmured fondly against his skin, feeling his words reverberate; and he chuckled at Wilson's answering shudder.
House laved his tongue back and forth slowly, almost languidly, up and down Wilson's crack, swirling the tip of it around the anal rim; going just beyond the outer sphincter, while his thumbs rubbed the exquisitely soft skin on either side. He felt Wilson writhe helplessly beneath him, almost sobbing with need now. House snaked one hand off his buttock, sliding it down to cup his balls; his long fingers slipped up to feel Wilson's cock hard and straining beneath him.
House found himself shivering at the strength of Wilson's response to his tongue. God, this was so different than the other hard and fast times before: this was so much more interesting, and satisfying, to watch and feel him squirm with pleasure. That he could give Wilson this--it excited him in a way he couldn't identify.
Wilson scrabbled against the pillows, arching his pelvis back as much as possible to meet that wet warm lapping. House always pushed the envelope, but he'd never, ever dreamed that House would be bold enough to tongue him like this; let alone that it would drive him so mad with need. Each moist brush against his hole sent another electric jolt straight to his brain; his cock jerked in response and he felt himself flail, lost in the onslaught of sensation cascading along his nerves.
"God--oh fucking God," he breathed between gritted teeth.
At that, House flicked his tongue rapidly around his entrance, his lips making a soft sucking sound against Wilson's crack; he fondled his sac and stroked the underside of Wilson's cock for good measure. Wilson bucked, seeking purchase and friction against the pillows on the carpet, and he heard himself babble almost incoherently.
"Oh--fuck that's--right--there--Oh God House keep this up and I'm gonna come--!"
House then plunged his tongue in, all the way in, and Wilson almost screamed with the welcome warm wetness pushing inside. Once, twice, and Wilson's mind started to fog with the blessed oblivion of orgasm--
No.
With a huge effort he wrenched himself back from the edge. Not yet.
He wanted to come; God, he ached with the need.
But as mind-blowing as House's tongue in his ass was, right now he craved the warmth of House's body wrapped around him; House's cock buried deep inside him; House coming with him. "House--" he gasped, forcing himself to still his wild thrusts. "Stop."
House nuzzled the sensitive skin around Wilson's anus. "Hmm--?"
"Stop. Please. Need--want--inside--"
He felt House stop and withdraw almost at once, his head leaning against him for a moment as he caught his breath. Then sudden cold hit his backside, and Wilson gasped reflexively, briefly bereft at the loss of heat and wet and prickly skin as House pulled away. He lay, violently trembling with lust but trying hard not to rub himself, desperate to delay his climax. He clenched his fists, concentrating on the bite of nails digging into his palms, waiting for House to fill him properly.
House reached for the bottle of beer on the floor just beyond the nest and drained the dregs from the bottle, wiping his mouth with a corner of Wilson's discarded robe. He was secretly more than glad that Wilson had stopped him. He would willingly have tongued Wilson to the end; but the memory of Wilson, flushed and undone and begging for House to enter him, burned into his brain. He wanted more, so much more it hurt to think about it; he wanted to join him as he fucked Wilson into oblivion.
He grabbed his cane, which lay beside the bottle; he held it out and hooked the coffee table drawer, pulling it to the ground with a dull thud. He pulled it over to him, just within reach; stretching, he reached in for the small bottle of lube and a condom he'd stashed there earlier. Turning back, he saw Wilson, still facing away from him, hair damp with sweat and body quivering with anticipation. House allowed himself a real smile, seeing Wilson so obliging and ready and trembling before him, and thought he had never looked so beautiful in his wantonness. He tore the condom wrapper with his teeth.
Wilson suddenly rolled over at the sound of crinkling plastic, a different need tearing at him now. He wanted House to come too; but this time, he had an inexplicable, but overwhelming, urge to feel House's release inside him. "House," he murmured, low and begging. "No condom. Please."
House, already sliding the rubber over the tip of his throbbing erection, froze with shock. At first he thought he'd misheard--no condom? What the hell--? Until he looked up and met Wilson's face; his cheeks were flushed, lips swollen. The firelight flickered across his face; his eyes were impossibly dark and imploring, the depth of his question written plainly on his features.
He swallowed, his own body suddenly shaking with the proposition. They'd never done it without a condom before. Part of him was more than amenable.
But an even larger part of him hesitated. "Jimmy--"
"We're both clean," Wilson said, and he rose on his haunches, turning around; he stilled House's hand holding his dick and the sheath. "You know we were both tested. I don't want to feel latex inside me. I want to feel you." Wilson gently stroked House's wrist with his thumb.
House licked his lips and looked down, his dick pulsing with the words and the proximity of Wilson's hand. It was true that they had been tested (House had submitted them under the auspices of being exposed to patient blood); but his mind was absolutely terrified at the prospect of removing that last physical barrier between them. Not for safe-sex reasons either. His mouth worked, but no sound came out.
Wilson's other hand came up to caress his jaw, tilting House's face up so their gazes could meet. House closed his eyes for a moment, though he rubbed against Wilson's palm, needing to feel the softness of that skin against his stubble. He couldn't avoid Wilson though, so he opened his eyes reluctantly, forcing himself to look into those brown eyes, dark with need, and something deeper.
"If you don't want to, it's OK," Wilson whispered, his voice wavering just slightly. "I'll-- understand. But Greg--please. Just once. Just for tonight." Wilson released his hold on the hand that held the condom, and leaned in so that their foreheads and noses touched.
House squeezed his eyes closed again at the soft words, at the use of his first name, at the sheer, almost unbearable tenderness of Wilson's plea. He knew Wilson would not refuse if he did roll the rubber on the rest of the way. They'd fuck, they'd come, just as before. Realistically, that was the best option. The safest option. In more ways than one.
But tonight they'd already been emotionally more intimate than at any time previously in their stupid, screwed-up relationship. Physical intimacy, without anything between them, was just the last logical step. Not a terribly big one, either: the distance less than a millimeter's thickness of latex.
Except there would be no going back after this.
Even if they did it only once, in this impersonal hotel room far away from their normal lives; if they did this only tonight and never again, everything from now on would be laid bare between them.
No more holding back.
He had never felt so scared of what that meant.
All the same, he had never wanted anything so much in his life.
He quickly weighed what he might lose if he did hold back.
The balance was simple, really. He'd already lost enough.
He couldn't afford to lose Wilson again.
He swallowed again and slowly rolled the condom off. Holding it in his hand, he closed his fist around it; then he opened his hand and held it in his open palm. He regarded it for a long moment before flinging it to the carpet, feeling as if he'd stepped off an invisible cliff.
"Roll over," he whispered gruffly.
Wilson smiled against House's lips, then withdrew and obediently rolled back over, face-down with his hips braced by the pillows beneath him; his pelvis arched back slightly to allow House better access to his entrance. Hands palm-down on either side of his head, he closed his eyes, trembling, waiting.
House placed a generous drop of lube on his finger and turned back towards Wilson. He allowed a brief moment to himself to feast on the sight of this man: his best friend, his lover in all senses of the word; ready and open and waiting to be filled. Yes, they were going to do this. Bareback, au naturel, unprotected, all the euphemisms and associated connotations flitted through his thoughts--but he ignored them all in his continuing free fall.
He slid a well-lubricated finger into Wilson, where just minutes earlier he'd been sliding his tongue. He felt Wilson arch up and clamp around to meet him. Withdrawing, he added a second lubed finger, and then a third, working quickly, his heart thumping wildly at the sight of Wilson writhing in pleasure beneath him. He was impatient too, but he still wanted to prepare him properly. Somehow that seemed crucial, not to make it hurt.
"Hurry," Wilson begged through gritted teeth. "Can't hold back much longer--please--Oh, God, Greg, hurry."
House's dick grew harder with each entreating word, and he couldn't help letting an answering groan escape at the sound of his name. He quickly slathered his aching prick with the slippery lotion and maneuvered himself into place, supporting his bad thigh on the pillows. Gripping Wilson's hips, he pressed the head of his cock against Wilson's opening and entered him slowly, his eyes widening in shock at the feeling of Wilson's unfettered heat closing around his unsheathed prick. Christ, this was it, and he'd never dared to imagine how it would feel without the condom between them--Wilson's body so hot and snug around him--nothing like he'd ever felt any other time when they'd fucked...
This wasn't just sex, or pleasure, anymore, this was something else, bigger than him, bigger than them, filling the room, embracing them both. Nothing separated them now, and it was a different sort of pain, bright but welcoming, displacing the constant agony of his leg, taking up residence in its stead. House shook with the power of it; felt his eyes sting in the overwhelming face of it, the air escaping from his chest as if he'd been punched.
Once all the way in, he slowly lowered himself against Wilson's back; his hands slid up from Wilson's hips, gently squeezing his waist and caressing his ribs, to finally clasp Wilson to his chest. Clutching Wilson's shoulders, House dragged wet, searing kisses against the salty skin on the back of Wilson's neck, burying his nose deep into the nape and inhaling the intoxicating scent of fresh sweat and shampoo and hair. He started to move in and out, slowly at first, feeling Wilson arch his hips beneath him to meet each thrust. House squeezed his eyes shut, reaching out blindly to grasp one of Wilson's hands; he linked their fingers together, desperately trying not to fall apart at this feeling that threatened to consume him.
Wilson groaned too at the feeling of House's bare dick, thick and hot and urgent, plunging deep inside with only the slickness of the lube between them. Oh God, the pain and anger and guilt of their fight had been worth it, worth it all to end up here and now with House filling him like this. House's wings might melt in the end, but if that happened then Wilson was determined that his would melt too, because then at least they'd fall together.
He felt House's chest behind him pressing on his back; House's breath huffed humidly by his ear. Wilson squeezed House's fingers tightly, then pulled them towards his mouth. His lips grazed House's knuckles, and he began to kiss and suck at them desperately. House gasped and picked up the pace. Wilson matched House's rhythm with its peculiar syncopated grace because of House's bad thigh; he rubbed and thrust his own aching cock firmly against the pillows. The sweet friction from both front and back echoed across his pelvis, building into a standing wave of pleasure in his veins.
House adjusted his angle just so and felt Wilson keening around his knuckles as he found Wilson's prostate. That high moan snapped something within him, and he brushed his lips against Wilson's ear, whispering words he'd never admitted before with each fevered thrust: "Oh, fuck--Oh, God, James--oh Christ, need--fucking want you--need you to come--love this--love you--come for me--come with me, Jimmy--God damn it--need you--want you--love you--God--!"
The words, the thrusts, the wet slapping together of their sweat-slick bodies, all wound tighter and tighter to a pinpoint of white-hot pressure at the base of House's spine; until it condensed so tightly it exploded, sending whirlwinds of flame all over his body, and he felt himself incinerate in the face of its brilliance. Only distantly did he feel his balls draw up and his release shoot out of him, deep into Wilson's body; crying out uncontrollably with each jet until he emptied himself completely and collapsed against him.
Beneath him, Wilson felt his own wave build, higher and harder; feeling rather than hearing House's words harsh in his ear, unable to keep from moaning around House's knuckles with each guttural entreaty. He squeezed House's long slender fingers in his own to anchor him; he tasted himself and House, feeling the pressure of House's body hot and slick above him, around him, inside him. The standing front grew and grew until Wilson found himself begging incoherently for release against House's hand; then he felt House shudder violently and cry out above him, and a warm wetness flood him from within. That broke his own dam; his own climax unleashed with the force of a tidal wave crashing on shore: washing over him, spilling out beneath him and dragging him under as he moaned House's name.
Afterwards they lay still, residual heat rising from their entwined bodies in the cool dry air of the hotel room. The noise of traffic from the street below, and footsteps from the corridor outside, wafted up muted as House rested against Wilson's back, his cheek pillowed on his shoulder. Boneless and sated, he was content simply to listen to his own and Wilson's pounding heartbeats slow to normal, sharing Wilson's humid air.
He could stay buried inside Wilson like this forever, he thought; the world could end and he would not want to be anywhere else. All he ever wanted was right here panting beneath him, and he'd been stupid not to understand it before. Until he felt his dick soften and his bad leg cramp; reluctantly, he pulled out and rolled off Wilson to reach surreptitiously for his Vicodin bottle stashed under the coffee table.
Wilson grimaced, but not in pain, as he felt House withdraw. He too could have stayed forever with House lying on top of him; the coldness of the surrounding air raised goosebumps on his skin when House moved off. He rolled over too, pressing up against House's back, flinging an arm over House's side and nuzzling his shoulder. He could feel House's release inside him threaten to trickle out, and he clamped his muscles tight together to hold it in, just for a while longer.
House palmed and popped a Vicodin, dry-swallowing it with effort, dropping the bottle back on the carpet beside him. It rolled away as he squeezed Wilson's hand.
"That was--that was--"
Wilson nodded in agreement against House's shoulder. "Yeah."
Neither wanted to voice what had just happened, both still in utter thrall. House rolled over to face Wilson, and Wilson's gaze faltered at the raw look on his face. He closed his eyes, his lips parted and trembling. House then reached up, swiping along Wilson's jaw with his thumb. They both leaned in at the same time, nuzzling each other's faces until their mouths met in a soft kiss.
House moved onto his back, awkwardly drawing Wilson with him. Wilson nestled in his embrace, pillowing his head against House's damp chest, listening to the steady heartbeat under his ear as House absently stroked his arm.
"I'm sorry," House uttered at length into the still air.
Wilson raised his head, a sudden lump in his throat, and stared at House for a long moment; then he lowered his head back onto his chest.
"Me too," Wilson replied hoarsely against him.
House blinked rapidly and embraced him tighter.
After a few minutes' more silence, Wilson began to tremble again. "I'm cold," he complained through chattering teeth. "You cold? Because I'm fucking freezing."
"Wuss," House replied fondly; he also felt goosebumps rising on his skin despite the warmth thrown off by the fire, but he was still too boneless to move. A minute later though, he felt his back twinge from lying too long on the carpet, and he grimaced with the spasm. "Dammit."
Wilson disentangled himself and rose to his haunches, extending his hand. "Come on, let's get into bed before you can't get up again."
"Get it up, you said?" House leered, delighting in Wilson's amusedly exasperated eye roll. But he gratefully took Wilson's hand and winched himself up. Leaning heavily on Wilson, they hobbled to the closest bedroom.
"Maybe we do deserve each other after all," Wilson mused once they were nestled together in bed under the covers. "Like--I don't know, maybe like oil and vinegar."
"Nitro and glycerin."
"Or George and Gracie."
"As long as you're Gracie."
Wilson snorted against his chest. "We're both a piece of work."
House nodded, though Wilson couldn't see. "Don't I know it."
Exhaustion settled on both of them, and Wilson felt his eyelids grow heavy. House's breathing soon became slow and regular as he, too, drifted towards sleep. Wilson was almost asleep when he heard House's drowsy voice.
"Think we should tell Cuddy her cunning plan worked?"
Wilson harrumphed, nuzzling against House. "That we spent our last night in San Antonio in the throes of unquenchable passion while declaring our undying love for each other?"
"If you explain it like that she might think it worked a little too well. Can't have her gloating."
"She'll be happy as long as we're not still at each other's throats. That's all she needs to know."
"Hmm. No passionate kisses with tongue in front of her then?"
"No."
"You're no fun."
"I am a professional killjoy."
House chuckled, and pulled Wilson in tighter against him. "Say goodnight, Gracie," he murmured, tenderly planting a kiss in Wilson's hair.
Wilson yawned. "Goodnight, Gracie."
They fell asleep at last, content and wrapped in each other's arms.
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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