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Spit Polish
by Slipstream
The thing about House that Wilson always seems to forget (and that always seems to get him into all sorts of trouble) is this: if you give the man an inch, he'll gleefully snatch several hundred miles.
They're sitting in Wilson's office. Wilson is at his desk, charts spread out before him. House is lounging on his couch, both hands resting contemplatively on his cane. To the casual observer the scene would seem calm, tranquil, but Wilson, who has many years' experience with such deceptive tableaus, knows that this is merely the calm before a very destructive (though no doubt entertaining) storm.
"So what you're saying--" House drawls, his mouth twisting into a devilishly perverted grin. "--is that you want me to give you a blowjob."
Wilson groans and buries his head in his hands in mortification. This is just the sort of thing he'd expect from House, and exactly what he doesn't need right now. It's only 10 in the morning but already his workday is hell. He'd been called in early after one of his chronic patients coded out, only to be greeted with a small mountain of paperwork on his desk when he finally made it to his office. He'd barely begun to shift through it all when House showed up, and since then its been one distraction after another. "I do not want a blowjob!" he insists, the words slightly muffled.
House cocks his head to the side. "This I do not believe. You are a red-blooded American man. Of course you want a blowjob." He gestures at the pile in Wilson's inbox. "You need one, and I have it on good authority from one of the night nurses in pediatrics that our Jimmy Wilson never turns down a free suck."
"I do not want a blowjob from you," Wilson clarifies, lifting his head up long enough to glare at his best friend. House doesn't take the hint to let the subject drop.
"But you asked me to!"
"I did not!"
"I believe the particular phrase you used was `blow me,'" he says, replacing Wilson's previously exasperated utterance with a breathy, lusty turn of the phrase. When Wilson stoically turns back to his work, House sighs dramatically. "You dangle sex in front of me and then you pull it away. These mixed signals of yours are getting incredibly frustrating, Jimmy. This must be why all your wives have left you."
"Context, House, context." Carl Thornburn (52, at the end of a tricky battle with colon cancer) has requested a Do Not Resuscitate form. "And I'm still married."
"Not for much longer."
"This is ridiculous." Wilson slams the file shut, frustrated with everything, but especially House. "Humorous, yes, but you're missing out on most of your potential shock value because I know you aren't gay."
"Oh do you now?" House raises a dramatic eyebrow. "And here I thought I was the local man of mystery: the wounded, ruggedly handsome doctor with the tragic past. If this was General Hospital my repressed homosexual urges would be the cause of all of my doomed flings with the female cast."
"But this isn't General Hospital," Wilson points out. "And I've seen your porn collection. Lot of girl-on-girl action for a gay man."
House shrugs, forced to concede to a point. "Okay. Maybe not gay gay." He twirls his cane flamboyantly. "Maybe only a little gay."
"'A little gay'? Is that like being a `little' pregnant?"
"Maybe I'm only gay for you," House winks.
If Wilson could beat himself to death (or at least unconsciousness) with paperwork he would. "Stop. Talking."
House smirks. "Oh? You want me to put my mouth to better use?" He licks his lips until they're shiny and wet and smacks them playfully.
And... Whoa. That's kind of.... But no. Wilson has his mouth open to tell House exactly what anatomically impossible thing he wants him to do when Dr. Lisa Cuddy knocks at the door.
"Good morning, Dr. Wilson." She smiles at him with polite neutrality as she closes the door behind her, but her expression sours when she spots Greg on the couch. "House," she greets stiffly. "Is there a reason you're here and not in the clinic?"
"I'm negotiating sexual favors with Wilson," he replies. "When I do that with patients I tend to end up bent over your desk with my pants around my ankles, and not in that fun, kinky way."
Wilson freezes, but Cuddy just rolls her eyes and turns back towards Wilson's desk. She has a stack of manila folders in her hand, half of which she extends to him. "Here. Rotation schedules for this month. Extra fun because Dr. Silas decided to skip off without two weeks notice."
Typical. Wilson sighs, mind already turning to the temporary chaos that this will cause in his department. Cuddy smiles with professional sympathy and pulls out a white, legal-sized envelope from the rest of her paperwork. "And congratulations, it's a boy."
He's confused until he spots the law firm logo at the top of the letterhead. Wilson's day just keeps getting better and better. "Who's suing us this time?"
"Mr. David Olsen, on behalf of his mother." Cuddy has a way of shrugging that makes her cleavage crease extra-enticingly. House once told Wilson that he saw her practicing that gesture in the mirror of the women's bathroom. "Brain cancer never turns out pretty."
No, it doesn't. Wilson has his attention set firmly on Cuddy, a list of questions about the lawsuit on the tip of his tongue, but out of the corner of his eye he catches movement from House on the couch. Allowing himself a curious glance, he finds that House is sitting relatively quietly. He has his cane across his lap and is giving it a quick polish with his pocket handkerchief, apparently behaving.
House glances up, catching Wilson's look, but turns his attention back to his cane. There's a quick flash of movement around his mouth that might be a smile. It's innocent on the surface, but Wilson has known House for long enough to spot the predatory bite of teeth underneath it.
This does not bode well for Wilson. Oh no, it does not bode well at all.
Cuddy's voice in his ear, Wilson watches House's long fingers run the cloth up and down the cane's shaft. Turning it over in his hands, House brings the subtle, graceful arch of the handle up for closer inspection. The dark, glossy wood gleams golden under the glow of the overhead lights, but he gives it a quick spit polish anyway, briskly rubbing the wet sheen into the wood.
Wilson forces himself to tear his gaze away, to give Cuddy and whatever assuredly important administrative drivel she's spewing the attention they undoubtedly deserve, but his eyes keep drifting back to the little show his friend is putting on on his office couch. House's strokes smooth and lengthen out, until he's dropped the handkerchief entirely in favor of a loose fist that he pumps with slow, smooth surety. He ads a deft twist to the end of the upstroke, further enhancing the pornographic aspects of this seemingly simple task. The tip of the cane rests lightly against his mouth, a gesture that Wilson has seen often when House is caught deep in thought.
And then... So fast he almost doesn't catch it, a pink flit of tongue. Wilson blinks, thinking he might have imagined it, but House does it again, slower this time, like he's tasting his cane. Inexplicably Wilson can taste it on his own tongue: the wood cool and with the slight chemical, bitter burn of furniture polish. House nips at the wood then, a flash of white teeth. His lips settle practically around the tip, as if it was the next logical step in a completely casual act. Contrasted against the dark stain of the wood, they are astonishingly pink.
House looks up then, eyes locking with Wilson's. The intensity of his blue eyes isn't lessened by the distance between them. Mischief glitters there, the same mischief that drew Wilson into this friendship in the first place. Cuddy is still talking, oblivious in her own paperwork, and Wilson realizes exactly what it is his friend has in mind.
Oh no, he thinks desperately at House. Oh no no no no...
Ignoring him, House's eyes laugh maniacally as he deepthroats the handle in one smooth gulp, sucking in his cheeks obscenely.
Swallowing hard on a squeak, Wilson rips his attention away, reattaching it forcibly to Cuddy. He hopes desperately that Lisa doesn't notice, but something about his body language must have given him away. She pauses in her tirade, sighing an extremely put-upon, administrative sigh. "He's making faces at me behind my back, isn't he?"
Quick as a flash the cane is out of House's mouth (Wilson pointedly does not hear the little pop it makes as it slips from between his lips), the rubber tip resting innocently once more on the industrial grey-blue carpet. "Me? No, never! Scouts' honor." When she doesn't turn to look at him, he gives the cane a few more loving strokes with his fist and winks at Wilson.
"Don't you have clinic duty or something? Haven't I already implied that you should be there seeing patients and not here bothering me?"
"I always have clinic duty," he says, hoisting himself stiffly to his feet. "Because I avoid it if at all possible."
"You're finishing those hours one way or the other, House."
Watching their little tennis match of wills, Wilson is glad for the moment's distraction to compose himself. Cuddy is still oblivious to the attentions House was lavishing upon his cane behind her back, but Wilson knows that he hasn't heard the last of it. House's stance is full of a happy sort of swagger that he only gets when he's been laid or has a particularly juicy tidbit of information with which to torment his victim.
"Might as well go and knock a few of them out, then, imbue you with a false sense of hope." He leaves, giving Wilson a slight salute with his cane at the door, and Wilson goes back to his legal discussion with Cuddy.
He is not hard underneath his desk, he tells himself firmly.
He is not.
~*~
He so totally was. He isn't now, of course, several hours and patient rounds later (dying people tend to throw a monkey wrench into the piping, so to speak), but while the physical effects of House's mimed blowjob have waned, the mental components have only grown, like a virus House has implanted in his head.
This can't be happening. Chase, with his endless supply of chewed-up pens and pencils, is the one with the oral fixation. And yet Wilson can't get House out of his head: House on his knees (physically impossible, he knows, but this is his fantasy), the slow pump of his hand along the shaft of his cane, the satisfied quirk of his mouth as he went down on the handle.
They've joked about how House's cane, like many other things in his life, is just an extension of his penis. He's even thought about House sexually before--it's natural and inevitable in a friendship as close and long-lasting as theirs--but never with anything beyond passing curiosity. Wilson has always been a (relatively) good Jewish boy, but Christ! House... Greg is completely impossible. You give that man an inch...
And he'll blow you for a mile.
He's hard again. Not by much, but enough to know that fleeting arousal from before maybe wasn't so fleeting after all, enough for him to fidget in his pants and feel the tightness of the zipper pulled against him. Wilson allows himself one tiny, tiny rub underneath his desk but quickly finds something innocent and work-related on his desktop to occupy his hands. The glass separating his office from the rest of the hospital isn't exactly conducive towards privacy, and Wilson's professional aesthetic looms over him with enough guilt to squash any urge he might have to close the blinds for the express purpose of masturbation.
He's half-heartedly thinking about finding a patient in the midst of projecting bodily fluids so that he has an excuse to change and jerk off in the shower when his pager goes off. It's House, requesting a consult. Fuck!
On the elevator down to the clinic, Wilson's brain scrambles for images to help turn his thoughts away from the increasingly attractive idea of his best friend sucking his cock. Mrs. Choates in 201 (73, skin cancer) naked. Julie's face these past several months when he comes home from work. His cancer kids, with their big eyes and gleaming heads. That patient he'd had during the ER rotation of his residency who'd come in vomiting shit and blood.
Being a doctor, he muses, provides one with a veritable slew of libido-killing life experiences.
House is waiting for him when he steps out of the elevator, tapping the rubber tip of his cane impatiently against the floor. Wilson stares at his hand on top of the cane, the way those long, piano-player fingers (calloused, he knows, from years as serving as a sort of third foot) curl around the handle, and the memory of his mouth wrapped around that elegant wooden curve sideswipes him with sudden intensity, and yep, there he goes. Fuck fuck fuck.
He is never going to be able to look at House's cane the same way again.
Ever.
House doesn't seem to notice. "Come on!" he says, jerking his head in the direction of the clinic. "I've got something you have to see!"
He sets off at a brisk pace, his gait wobbly but stronger than it normally is. Wilson jogs a little to catch up, wondering what it is in the clinic of all places that has House so excited. Probably a patient exceptionally-endowed in the breast department, he muses, or some unusual and disgusting STD. That's what House's "consults" usually amount to, anyway, at least once his soaps are done.
House bustles them past the nurses' station and into Exam Room 3, locking the door behind them. A quick survey of the room reveals no patients whatsoever. What...?
"Hop up," he says, patting the end of the exam table with his cane.
Wilson doesn't budge. "What's going on?" he asks, hands on hips. He's in no mood for games.
"Nah-ah-ah! If I tell you now it'll ruin the surprise."
When Wilson still doesn't move, the playful glint in his eyes is briefly replaced by a more serious look. "Trust me," he says.
Wilson sighs, throwing up his hands in defeat, and seats himself on the end of the high exam table. The paper that the nurse pulled down after the last patient crinkles slightly under his butt. Settling his hands beside him, he lets his feet swing carelessly.
House looks on with approval. He stands there for a moment, regal and upright, resting casually on his cane. He looks like a general surveying his troops and finding them in top form. Wilson suppresses the strong urge to snap to attention (though a certain part of him really wants to).
"I've been thinking about the physics required for your blowjob."
"What?!" Wilson starts to stand, but finds himself pushed back down again.
"Now, knees are the traditional way to go, but this grumpy old guy with fantastic sneakers and a pain management problem came and nixed that idea. The next most obvious method requires a bed, preferably one with more room than the piece of shit cots they have in this place, but that means waiting until at least after work and I'm feeling particularly impatient today."
"House..." he starts to say, nervous about where this conversation is going. His friend and colleague silences him with a raised finger.
"And then I was in the middle of a yeast infection and it hit me!"
Wilson snorts despite himself. House smirks back, but at the same time he's fishing out the rolling black stool from the corner with his cane. It's one of the kinds that can raise and lower as needed. It's as high as it goes at the moment, and House has to hop a little to perch on its edge. Sitting on the stool, he's about level with Wilson's eyes, his long legs just grazing the floor. Using his feet as paddles and his cane as a rudder he steers it closer to the exam table, to the point that they're nearly touching. Wilson doesn't realize it, but he's holding his breath.
House smiles, a real smile, for once, though its sincerity is belayed slightly by the suggestive waggling of his eyebrows. "Going down?" he asks. Before Wilson can reply he's pushed the lever with his cane, and the chair is sinking with a faint pneumatic hiss, down, down, down until Dr. Gregory House's head is exactly on level with Wilson's crotch.
Wilson panics, tries to scramble off the end of the exam table, but he's stopped by the insistent pressing of polished cherry against his belly.
His dick did not jump at that touch.
"Let me go, House," he says, struggling to keep his tone and breathing level. He finds that he can't look his friend in the face, but he can feel House's steady gaze burning into his flushed cheeks.
The cane lingers against his groin, caresses him slightly before sliding up his belly and back down again, the handle hooking into the waist of his pants. "I don't think I will," he says.
God. Fuck! He tries to think of something articulate to say, something witty enough to end this strange mood that's descended upon the cold sterility of the exam room, something to bring them back to the precarious balance that they've existed at all these years before his thoughtless aside from this morning tipped them into this, but...
The cane is gone, dropped with a clatter to the floor, but as Wilson tries again to stand he's once more pushed back down by House's long, thin hands. His fingers are hot and firm on the inside of his thighs, the thumbs pressing down in slight circles just below the inseam, and when did khaki ever get to be so thin?! "Don't try to lie to me," he growls. "This close I can smell how much you want it."
"House," he gasps. "Greg. This isn't... This isn't funny anymore."
House just stares at him, his eyes bright and pale under the fluorescent lights, pupils tiny, dark ships in a blue-white sea. He pushes Wilson's legs open further with one hand and reaches for his fly with the other.
"No," he says softly. "It isn't."
Oh God, this is actually happening. He braces himself against the table, eyes squeezed shut, his entire body a tense, screaming line, but the anticipated touch doesn't come.
"Jimmy..." House's voice is soft, gentle. The hand on his thigh shifts to a less intimate position. "I can stop, if you want me to. We don't have to do this."
Wilson's breathing heavily, his heartbeat erratic, and he takes a moment to calm himself, to think it through seriously. When he opens his eyes, House is still looking at him, his face neutral, asking nothing.
"Please," he says. The world doesn't feel like its going to be ripped out from under him any more, but his voice is still rough, raw with arousal. "Please, I..."
He can't say the rest, so he just blushes pointedly in the direction of his crotch.
House's hot fingers knead into his thigh. "Your wish is my command."
In the absurdly grey normalcy of the exam room the pop of his pants' button and the hiss of the zipper being pulled down seem obscenely loud. House gropes at him for a moment through his underwear, feeling out the size and shape of him, before pulling him out into the cold clinic air through the slit in his boxers.
Wilson grits his teeth hard, biting down a moan at the relief of finally being touched after a day spent half-hard and frustrated. House's hand is worn and calloused from his cane, just like he'd imagined it to be, and it grips him with the same sure, quiet strength. He strokes him to full hardness, using the same moves he'd demonstrated earlier on his cane. His mouth is close, so close. His warm breath tickles the sensitive skin of his dick, makes it twitch embarrassingly, and Wilson is surprised to find himself on shaking hands. House doesn't look away, and Wilson can't look away as House leans forward, licking at dry, thin lips, mouth parted just enough to brush his swollen glans lightly, so lightly, with his teeth before swallowing him in a long, slow lick.
Wilson can't swallow this sound. It rips itself out from deep in his chest, echoes embarrassingly off of the linoleum. House's tongue is hot and wet, firm and eager. He's quickly slick with sweat and saliva, House's hand coming up to catch that wetness and spread it down over the rest of him.
House barely blinks, keeping his eyes locked on his face. Wilson burns under the intensity of his gaze. His entire body is blazing, his clothes suddenly too tight, his skin too sensitive. Desperately he looks elsewhere--the clock, the jar full of cotton swabs, the door behind which a waiting room of patients sit oblivious--but he keeps being drawn back to House and his insistent mouth. House waits, content to suck while Wilson gets used to the idea, but as soon as their eyes lock once more he lets his hand drop away, smiles, and swallows Wilson to the root.
Wilson has watched him dry-swallow Vicodin for years, but he's never thought of what implications that has for House's gag reflex, or apparent lack there-of. "Oh... G-God!" he groans. At the base of his penis, House hums something appreciative that sounds like "Close, but not quite" and feels fucking fantastic.
This is great. This is greater than great. Despite his earlier protests, Dr. James "Jimmy" Wilson actually quite likes blowjobs--loves them, in fact--and it's been a good while since he's had one (Julie has never really been into oral, and unlike during previous marriages, Wilson is not actually sleeping with most of the women he flirts with). Still, it is entirely unlike any blowjob he's ever had. There's the psychological aspect, of course--House is his best friend, and the years of emotional connection and masculine trust that the two share lend overtones to the sex act that were absent from all of the casual flings he had with his other affairs--but it's physically different as well. The calloused pads of his fingertips and the dry, thin rasp of his lips catch and pull at the sensitive skin of his penis in a way that is almost uncomfortable but overall teasing, right up there with the scruff of his stubble that burns on each raspy downward suck. When Wilson finally wraps his fingers into House's hair its length is initially surprising, causing him to dig further into the almost-curls for support, and the slight thinness he finds there is weirdly intimate. House doesn't let many people touch him, and Wilson knows that nobody's touched him like this in a long time, if ever. That fact makes him cling tighter, the salt-and-pepper strands wrapping possessively around his fingers, clinging back.
House sucks him with slow, sure motions, tongue dancing along the shaft, teeth occasionally catching and nipping in a way that could hurt but is mostly incredibly, insanely, inexplicably hot. He shifts his hand to cup at his balls, still trapped in his boxers, and at the edge of his vision Wilson can see the other hand at work between House's own legs, his cock a dark hint of flesh at open apex of his jeans. He watches, arousal rising, as House brings that hand up to steal some of the slickness from his cock--mouth open and swollen and red and panting as his piano fingers swipe saliva and precum from his aching head--to lubricate his own fevered jerkings.
It's this sight coupled with the unguarded, needy noise House makes as he goes back down to swallow Wilson again that finally sends him over the edge, the hot flush of his body focusing down into the singular, burning point of House's mouth, where it ignites.
When he comes back down to Earth he half expects to be alone in the exam room, but his friend is still there between his spread legs, resting his head against his hip. Wilson is tucked back into his underwear but his fly is still spread open. House is playing absently with the zipper while he catches his own breath. The warm puffs of air tickle against the exposed flesh of his lower abdomen. Something tugs hard at his insides, but Wilson's older now and despite his desires it'll be a while before they can try that again.
They stay like that for a few minutes, relishing in the post-coital quiet, but eventually House sits up, letting Wilson zip up his pants and re-tuck his shirt. In those moments where Wilson was off in outer space on an orgasmic rocket ship House must have reached his own climax, because his own pants are zipped and untented, only slightly more rumpled than usual. House watches him intently as Wilson finishes composing himself. There's a rough, ridged line across his cheek from where Wilson's zipper pressed into his flesh. Wilson is captivated by it, by the perverse implications of it, and abandons his struggle with his buckle for a moment to run a tentative finger along the red indentation. House leans into the touch, his eyes drifting half-closed.
Wilson can't take it anymore. Grabbing House by the collar of his sports coat he pulls him up to his feet. He wobbles for a moment, weak on his legs, but Wilson steadies him with a kiss. House's mouth opens immediately to his, lips swollen but firm and hungry. The tongue that drove Wilson wild not minutes before feels just as good in his mouth as it did on his cock, and he tries to tell House this with own.
They break apart, breathless, and any fears that Wilson has are chased away by the amused look House gives him. It's the same Greg there, and he's the same James. Nothing has really changed, or at least not for the worse.
"Now Jimmy!" House's tone is light, and he grins like he just stole some of Wilson's chips. "You know I don't kiss boys on the first date."
Wilson should know better, but if this is what getting his words twisted gets him, he's eager to try it again. "Fuck you!" he laughs.
From the way House kisses him back, Wilson knows that House will make sure he keeps his word.
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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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