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Turning The Tables
by Topaz Eyes
A/N: Just some AU speculation. Dialogue at the beginning is directly from the spoiler preview. Many thanks to karaokegal and nightdog_barks for their concrit!
~~~~~
Oh my God--you're sleeping with me!
Wilson looked away, his face reddening and his pulse racing at the accusation. Out of anger, or embarrassment, or both, he wasn't sure, but this definitely was not good. So not good. At all.
He knew he should have expected some outlandish comment from House, as soon as House saw Amber join him in the restaurant. As soon as House asked him if he had sealed the deal. This, though--this--he dug his nails into his palms, trying to think. As he closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, a small part of him did wonder, was House right? But, out of self-preservation, he quashed the thought almost as quickly as it formed. Right now, he had to get out of this, and quickly.
But when he opened his eyes again, House was smiling that smug smirk he always wore when he felt vindicated. That smirk that Wilson right now wanted to punch off his face, as House opened his mouth to speak.
His face...He silently uttered a prayer that the elevator would not stop for anyone else on this trip, at least not until he was done. Wilson felt a feral grin form, and he dropped his briefcase to the floor. Ignoring the metallic thud of hinges hitting tile, Wilson lunged at House, gripping his head firmly in both hands.
He just registered House's eyes widening in shock as he pressed his lips against House's. They were warm and slightly chapped, and the three-day growth of facial hair against Wilson's cheek and upper lip prickled his skin. Wilson's eyes fluttered closed, as he concentrated on the texture of House's skin, the tang of coffee and mustard on his breath. House's hair felt surprisingly soft under his fingertips, and he threaded them through with an appreciative sigh as he deepened the kiss. He probed along House's lower lip, feeling a brief tinge of annoyance when House curled both inwards in a stubborn line. Undaunted, Wilson simply slid over to lick the corner of House's mouth.
The elevator shuddered to a halt on the main floor and Wilson drew back. House's eyes had closed, his lips now parting slightly; his breathing was shaky, and Wilson noticed a fine tremble in House's hand on the cane. As the elevator bell chimed and House blinked his eyes open, Wilson quickly schooled his features into a self-satisfied grin.
"Yes, House, I am totally sleeping with you," Wilson deadpanned, just as the elevator door slid open.
He knelt to pick up his briefcase--while the hard landing had dented one of the hinges, fortunately the case itself had remained closed. Purposely not looking at House, he exited quickly, feeling his unfastened overcoat billow behind in his haste. Amber, a picture of gold and beige in her camel coat, knitted beret and gloves, was already waiting for him in the sunny hospital lobby. He smiled openly, hugged her and bussed her hair. Willfully not looking back, Wilson linked her arm in his, and they walked out of the main doors.
~~~~~
Wilson stood under the pulsing jets of the shower, letting the drops pelt his skin and loosen his shoulder muscles. Amber had already left, claiming she had an early meeting in the morning. Wilson was grateful; dinner had been excellent and the sex afterwards had been satisfying, but it had also been a long day of patients and meetings and he was tired. Shampooing and rinsing his hair, he entertained the idea of watching the rest of Sunday In The Park With George he'd previously recorded on the hotel's DVR, then heading to bed.
He hadn't even begun toweling himself dry when he heard the insistent rapping on his door.
Wilson groaned, recognizing the familiar sound of a cane hitting metal-reinforced wood. Though it seemed lower-pitched this time, as if there were extra weight to it. He wrapped a towel around his hips and briefly rubbed another through his hair before he went into the outer room.
"Pizza delivery," House called when Wilson reached the door. Wilson wondered whether House's hearing really was that acute, to hear his footsteps padding on thick pile carpet.
"Go away, House," he said, patting his shoulders and chest.
"I bring drinks and dinner," House announced.
Wilson peered through the peephole, to see House hoisting his cane, a full plastic shopping bag dangling from his arm, and a large pizza box balanced on his other hand. Wilson grimaced, but he was already feeling the weight of obligation outweigh his desire for privacy, so he unlocked and opened the door.
House grinned. "Took you long enough."
Wilson's mouth twitched as he took the pizza from House's hand. "You know, it is past ten in the evening, when normal people have already eaten dinner and now feel the need for sleep," he stated as he deposited the box on the coffee table in front of the TV.
"Since when have you been normal?"
Wilson felt the usual tightening in his back that occurred whenever House insulted him, but he pointedly ignored the comment. "I'll be out in a minute," he said instead, grabbing a bundle of clothes on his way back to the bathroom.
When he came out again, dressed in sweatpants and a McGill sweatshirt, House already had the pizza box open, two pieces laid out on a paper plate, napkins beside, and a can of Bud opened and sitting on a coaster on the table. House himself was reclining in the Lazy-Boy, his feet propped up and his plate in his lap. He was flipping through the channels on the TV.
Wilson raised an eyebrow, but moved to the armchair across from House and sat down. When he pulled the plate onto his lap, he did a silent double-take when he saw the mushrooms and green peppers on his slices.
"You--you hate mushrooms and green peppers," he said in disbelief.
House just shrugged, so Wilson grabbed his Bud and sipped. House was already sculling his, downing at least half in one swallow. House finally stopped at the PBS station, where Stephen Sondheim's Passion was airing, and left it there. It was Wilson's turn to stare now, directly at House's profile. Sondheim's musicals were an acquired taste; House had never acquired it, though he knew full well that Wilson had.
House was silently studying the pizza in his lap, pushing the crust around with his finger. Wilson turned his attention back to the screen, nibbling his lower lip in thought. Eating the best pizza in Princeton, on plates like civilized people did; House willingly paying for it; hell, House willingly watching Sondheim without his usual snide comments.
But after a while, Wilson began feeling increasingly put out by House's stubborn silence. He set his plate down on the table, grabbed the remote from the armrest of House's chair, and set the TV on mute. "Have we somehow morphed in time and landed on April Fool's Day?"
"April Fool's only runs 'til noon," House replied--automatically, Wilson noted.
"Are you sure that you're not some sort of pod person then?" Wilson gestured around.
House looked up. "Spending time with someone, hanging out with food and drink? Is part of this thing called 'friendship.' Perhaps you know of it?" He looked back down at his hands again.
Wilson blinked, his jaw dropping. When he composed himself again, he had to fight to suppress his suspicion. "Normally, "you" and "friend" are mutually exclusive, except for when there's an angle to it," he said, failing miserably.
At that, House stared at him. Wilson found himself actually shrinking back from the fierce scowl on his face.
"You're welcome," House snarled, and he dropped the Lazy-Boy down. He rose from the chair, knocking the pizza and empty can to the floor, and grabbed his cane. House brushed past him, knocking his shoulder on his way to the door.
Only then did Wilson see past the anger, to the yearning hidden carefully behind it. And everything suddenly clicked into place.
"House?" he said, very gently, reaching out. House did not stop; if anything, he moved faster.
"House," Wilson spoke loudly, firmly; enough to make him hesitate at the door at least, his hand gripping the handle. "Turn around."
He watched House's back tense, but House did turn, resolutely staring at the floor and leaning heavily on his cane. Wilson watched his mouth twitch.
"All this," Wilson continued more softly, taking slow and careful steps towards him like he were approaching a trapped animal, "the pizza, and beer, and Sondheim. Are you--are you wooing me?"
House flinched and ducked his head the other way, frowning, and Wilson nodded to himself. Bolder now, he moved until he was standing right in front of House. He reached out, tipping his chin up with his finger. House did not meet his eyes.
"You--you're not here because I want to sleep with you," Wilson said quietly. House blinked, once, twice. "You're here because--because you want to sleep with me." It was a statement, not a question, and Wilson was rewarded when House nervously licked his lips.
"Look at me," Wilson murmured. "Please."
Wilson counted the heartbeats until House did look at him, a completely raw and naked expression on his scraggly face. Then House closed his eyes, and Wilson felt a surge of anger.
"No," he said. "You are not avoiding this now." He leaned in and brushed his lips against House's.
In the elevator, House had been caught off-guard; this time he was subdued, even hesitant. Wilson pressed on, taking his time, sliding his other arm around House's waist while coaxing his lips open. When House finally opened his mouth, Wilson flicked his tongue in, smelling stale beer and garlic.
Somehow a switch flipped, and suddenly House was in control, nipping and nibbling at Wilson, exploring his mouth thoroughly as Wilson mapped his. Wilson heard the cane drop to the carpet with a muffled thud, and House's hands were roaming up and down beneath his sweatshirt. He moaned when they broke the kiss to breathe.
Wilson licked his own lips when House drew back, watching House's eyes, the pupils dilated and lips reddened. His hands roamed down, squeezing Wilson's buttocks as he pulled Wilson's groin against his, and leering as Wilson thrust forward at the contact.
"Now who wants to sleep with whom?" House said smugly.
"Shut up," Wilson said, drawing him forward, back into the room and towards the bed.
House stopped at the foot of the bed and raised an eyebrow. "Boinking me in the same bed you screwed the Cut-Throat Bitch," he remarked. "Nice."
"Her name's Amber," Wilson retorted, turning around to look at the rumpled sheets and dried wet spot in the middle of the bed.
"Whatever," House said, pushing Wilson down.
Wilson scooted up towards the head of the bed, resting against the pillows and waiting while House drew himself up more slowly.
"Take your shirt off," House said.
Wilson complied without hesitation, throwing it to the floor. When he looked down at his stomach, he saw the tip of his erection peeking out from beneath the waistband.
House noticed, and palmed it through the fleece. "At least you know where your priorities are," he commented, as he met Wilson's lips again.
This time House's kisses were wet and sloppy; he nuzzled and nipped at Wilson's jaw, his cheeks, dragging his lips around the shells of his ears. When Wilson tried to raise himself up to return his kisses, House simply pushed him down. So Wilson lay back against the pillows, letting House do what he wanted.
Soon House was licking, kissing and sucking his way down Wilson's collarbone and chest. He tongued his nipples into hard, small buds, buried his face in Wilson's sparse chest hair, all the while massaging Wilson's cock through his pants. His free hand mapped out Wilson's ribs, side, and waist as he slid further down, to Wilson's belly where he flicked his tongue into his navel, along the trail of hair that led to his groin. Wilson squeezed his eyes closed and licked his lips, feeling the cool air hit his dampened skin.
"I--I think I'm overdressed for the occasion," he gasped when House lapped at the tip of his cock, straining against the elastic.
"You think?" House agreed, raising himself up. Wilson lifted his butt so House could pull his pants down and off, groaning as the fabric dragged over his dick. He spread his legs so House could lay between. House then resumed his ministrations, along the juncture of hip and thigh, down to the skin behind his balls; Wilson sighed sharply as House drew one, then the other, into his mouth.
House's deliberate slowness was aggravating, and Wilson arched his hips impatiently. "Do you--do you mind hurrying up?" he breathed.
House raised his head from Wilson's groin and frowned. "Be careful of what you wish for," he said roughly--then his mouth engulfed Wilson's cock.
This time Wilson cried out and thrust up, up into the sudden warm wetness. House's lips tightened, and he began to suck, slowly and leisurely at first, sliding up and down to spread saliva from tip to root. Wilson arched his head back into the pillows, gasping and groaning and wondering, how in hell could House know about giving head like this? It wasn't entirely perfect--occasionally House used a little too much pressure with his hand stroking where his mouth didn't touch--but Wilson had to admit, this was one of the better blow-jobs he'd had. Especially when House grabbed his butt cheeks and squeezed, pulling him deeper inside.
Wilson's hands slid down to cup House's head; while he tried not to thrust, House always seemed to hit that precise point where he couldn't help it, making him curse under his breath. Just as Wilson was ready to push House to hurry up and finish, for God's sake, House sped up, starting to use his tongue to swirl around the head. Then his tongue hit just there, and Wilson's blood seemed to rush down to his groin all at once.
He felt his balls tighten, and he tried to push House's head away. "God, House, I'm gonna come, I'm gonna--"
House simply sucked harder, and that was it--Wilson was shuddering and gasping, his hips pumping with each burst. Some part of him thought he heard House gag, but he held on, all that wet heat--and when Wilson finally came to his senses again, with the final aftershocks, he found he was gripping House's head tightly. He let go, and House pulled off; Wilson felt the weight of his forehead resting against his thigh.
Wordlessly, Wilson reached over and pulled Kleenex out of the box on the bedside table, passing them down to House. He heard House spit, then felt tissue dabbing against his groin. Then Wilson felt the bed shift as House pulled up his pants, then dragged himself back up to lie beside him.
Wilson pressed tight against House's side--not cuddling, but just wanting to be close. House sighed, and covered his eyes with one arm. Somehow House's shirt had rucked up slightly, so Wilson slid his hand beneath, letting his palm rest on warm soft skin. He felt House's muscles tremble beneath his palm as he watched House's face (what he could see of it) in profile.
"Do you--do you want anything?" Wilson said, sliding his hand further down towards House's waistband. He was spent, but he might be able to manage a hand-job, at least.
House shook his head; it was then that Wilson realized that all of him was trembling. He reached down to pull the sheets and blankets up, belatedly noticing Amber's perfume on them. Then he leaned down to kiss House, soft and slow, tasting the beer again, and himself, on House's tongue; both slightly distasteful, but not annoying. He figured he probably tasted just as bad anyway.
When he drew back, he reached over to turn off the bedside light. House still hadn't moved.
"You okay?" he asked softly, laying back down and putting his hand back on House's belly.
House made a sound between a guffaw and a sigh. "Are you going to tell Amber?" he asked, avoiding the question.
Wilson looked up at the ceiling, considering. "I--I don't know," he admitted. "I--I suppose I will." He reached over and pulled House's arm off, turning his head gently to look at him. "Are you okay?" he repeated.
House licked his lips, his jaw clenching, but this time he did not shy away; looking at Wilson full-on, his eyes were bleak. "This won't work," he said dully. "This--it won't. One of us will screw this up and--"
Wilson lay a finger on House's lips, and he fell silent. "Sshh. House. Let's--let's just enjoy this tonight," he whispered.
House blinked, but gave one curt nod before turning back. Wilson lay against him, lending what he could until he felt House's trembling cease, to be slowly replaced by deep, even breathing. Of course he would have to tell Amber. Of course this probably wouldn't work--it would for a while, but one or the other, or both of them, would indeed fuck it up royally. Until then, though--Wilson smiled to himself in the dark. Until then--at least it felt good to be right.
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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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