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The Crazy Thing
by marginaliana
The crazy thing was, House couldn't tell whether Wilson meant what he was implying, or whether he was just fucking with House's mind.
There were the gentle touches on his arm or his back as Wilson passed by in the hallway (not the helping kind of touches, which would only have irritated him, but the touching kind of touches); the glint in Wilson's eye as he licked grease from his fingers in the cafeteria; the way Wilson would occasionally smile and stretch and loosen his tie in the most unbelievably sensual manner. But then when House stepped closer, Wilson would step away, the corner of his mouth twisted up into something approaching a smirk; and when House raised a questioning eyebrow, Wilson would only roll his eyes and change the subject.
The crazier thing was, House's inability to figure it out almost heightened the attraction.
Wilson was playing him. Wilson was deliberately messing with him and it was working. House had wanted Wilson for a long time, though he'd firmly suppressed the idea. But now he'd had two weeks of feeling horny and unsure and trying to decide whether he wanted to risk it.
Because that had to be what Wilson wanted, if he wanted anything at all other than to drive House insane. It had to be that he wanted a declaration, wanted House to put his emotions and his dignity on the line.
And the smugness was attractive, dammit. It was attractive because a smug Wilson was happy and relaxed and alive; because Wilson's eyes were warm when they looked at House; because the idea of replacing that subtle smirk with a look of surprised pleasure was a worthy challenge for a not-quite misanthropic genius.
When a man starts thinking in voice-overs, thought House, you know he's in love. Dammit. But even his mental voice had lost its sting. Over on the other end of the couch, Wilson licked at the kung pao sauce on his bottom lip and House felt his own mouth draw up into a smile almost against his will.
"You find Chase's chances with the new radiologist that laughable?" said Wilson, smiling, and House's breath caught. Before he knew it he was leaning over, swiping his thumb across Wilson's soft mouth.
"House," Wilson breathed, and the smugness melted away into wariness, as if something inside him were coiled and ready to strike. But he only swallowed and stayed still, waiting.
It was a long moment before House could propel the words out of his throat. "I... Wilson." He choked and looked away, sliding his hand around to cup Wilson's cheek. What could he say? "I want you" seemed somehow inadequate, given that he was putting the only solid relationship he had on the line. At the same time, "I love you" was inanity, the kind of thing Wilson had said to his wives. House wasn't sure he wanted to be in the same category. This wasn't like that.
But if he didn't say something soon, this would slip away. House took a deep breath and forced his eyes back up to Wilson's.
"Stay with me," he said quietly. "Tonight, or... as long as you want."
And that must have been enough, because Wilson was turning his head, pressing those delicious lips against House's palm. House could feel Wilson's smile.
"Say 'please,'" Wilson murmured playfully, and House snorted. Then Wilson slid closer and at last they were kissing, all the uncertainty dissipating into a warm haze of sensual feeling. Wilson's hot tongue slid against his mouth and House moaned, feeling himself harden more quickly than he had since he was 20. He tugged at Wilson's shirt, wanting the smooth firmnes of Wilson's bare skin under his hands.
"God," said Wilson, arching backwards and pressing his erection into House's thigh. He braced himself against the couch with one hand while the other caressed House's chest.
"Please," said House, surprising himself with the sincerity of the plea. Wilson must have been surprised, too, because he gasped and ground down against House's cock while leaning in for another hard and fast kiss.
A few more minutes of Wilson's lithe body against his own and House was driven to the edge. He cupped Wilson's ass in both hands as he came, pulling the other man closer.
"God, yes," he hissed, and then Wilson was coming too, shuddering in House's arms.
After a long few moments, Wilson lifted his head. "Should go to bed," he mumbled.
"Mmm," grunted House, but nodded, helping Wilson roll off him safely. "You staying?" He tried not to be anxious about the answer.
"You idiot," Wilson murmured, levering House upwards. "You want to know where you stand. Of course I'm staying."
House felt something in his chest loosen and he gave Wilson a playful shove. "Get in there, then."
Wilson stepped towards the doorway, then turned, favoring House with a smirk. "But just because I'm staying," he said, "doesn't mean you get to take it easy. I'm going to keep you on your toes."
"Can we have this discussion later?" House whined. "I'm trying to ogle your ass at the moment." Wilson snorted and slipped into the bedroom. House waited until he was out of sight before letting a smile take over his face.
"I wouldn't have it any other way," he whispered, and moved to join Wilson in the bed.
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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 Fox Television, 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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