"I think I'm relieved," Wilson confessed, draining his glass and discarding it with an inelegant clunk on the coffee table "I think I'm relieved," Wilson confessed, draining his glass and discarding it with an inelegant clunk on the coffee table. The television droned in the background; the sober greys of a news report partially blocked by his sock-covered feet. He didn't remember taking his shoes off. "Sure. You're relieved," House was faring somewhat better, he suspected; although, with House, he was either sharply lucid or completely unconscious. There didn't seem to be any middle ground. "No jail," Wilson reminded him, watching House dilute his bourbon with five or six Star-of-David-shaped ice cubes. On some perverted level, it was touching House had purchased something tacky especially to annoy him with. "Right," House swirled his glass, creating a rocky bourbon vortex, "Some of the highlights include listening to your best friend convince a room full of people how pathetic you are, having a judge agree with him, and then being sentenced to an eternity of therapy and community service." " `Addicted' and `pathetic' are not synonyms." House shot Wilson a very sober look for however many glasses he'd already consumed, as Wilson added, "Besides, three months and 100 hours are not an eternity." "Says Mr. Witness." "You still have your licence," Wilson reminded him, "And look on the bright side--" "--I don't know why they think I need a shrink. I've already got one." "--No clinic duty for three months." House smothered what may have been a grin, "Don't let Foreman take over my office," He instructed, "He'll ruin my Feng Shui." "Well, you do have your trash in the `relationships' quadrant," Wilson pointed out, relaxing his chin against his collarbone, and staring thoughtfully at his unbuckled belt. "Pfft. You just want to watch him and Ms. Paediatrics have politically correct sex on my desk." "Why not? Closest I'll get to real live sex these days," Wilson's mouth blurted before he was able to contain it. To hell with it, he decided, House deserved to know about the proverbial Chernobyl that was Wilson's life. House's jaw set at an angle; apparently concentrating on the base of his glass as he drew a circle of condensation around a hole in the knee of his jeans. A long, thoughtful silence settled; Wilson was torn between wanting to medicate his far-too-pessimistic imagination with more alcohol, and trying to convince his inebriated body that it was still physically possible to heft himself towards where House had placed the bottle. At some point he was going to need to stagger toward the bathroom, as well. Nachos might be good now, too; but no amount of straining to concentrate was going to provide him with an answer as to whether he remembered seeing cheese on his last trip to the fridge. "You shouldn't have lied to him for me," House murmured, snapping Wilson out of his philosophical consideration of the contents of House's cupboards. "You should eat more green vegetables." That was at least one item that Wilson was absolutely sure House's crisper did not contain. House silenced him with a glance, "I mean it." "For once, and I'm too drunk to appreciate it," Wilson's eyebrows were halfway up his forehead, "Or remember it, possibly." In his peripheral vision, House was watching him with what he could discern to be a mixture of grumpy suspicion and strained, heavy thought. "You could nail any woman you wanted," House observed, finally. It took Wilson a moment to realize that he was referring to their previous conversation, as House continued, "But you don't. You hang around me." "Excellent. I was about to suggest we skip dessert and move straight along to the psychoanalysis." House ignored him, "I'm old. I owe you something like twenty-one thousand dollars--" "Don't forget the country music. That's always been very difficult for me," "I never gave back your PSP. Or your iPod. Or your... whatever that kitchen appliance with the stripes on it is. You'd've given me your TV, too, if it didn't belong to the hotel." Since House wasn't given to self-depreciative statements that weren't goal-oriented, Wilson was beginning to realize that humour wasn't going to deflect whatever point House was about to make. A growing apprehension, at least slightly dulled by the buzz of alcohol permeating his blood-brain barrier, began to well in his stomach. "It can't just be about the joy of giving," Here we go, Wilson realized, and found fear-inspired strength to propel himself upright, and toward the bathroom. Behind him, he could hear the groan of the couch as House stood to follow him, "You were going to go to jail for me, Wilson. What is that?" The bathroom door slammed with effective drama, muffling some of House's harping. Wilson fumbled with his zipper, staring angrily downward at his double-chinned reflection in the toilet-bowl. Disturbing it was a relief on a number of levels. Unfortunately, in a lapse that he attributed to alcoholic stupor, he'd forgotten that privacy was a foreign concept to House. The bathroom door exploded open, sending the handle swinging into the wall. Hastily finishing up, Wilson swung away from him to wash his hands, as House demanded, "At what point does that `biological imperative' to protect me become an active death wish? Where's your line, Wilson?" Wilson discarded the handtowel to level with House, one hand on the basin to prevent him from unbalancing, "I turned you in, didn't I?" He pointed out, coldly. "You used your charming wiles to somehow cut me a deal!" House had staggered closer, and the alcohol was obviously making it difficult for him to judge how loud his voice was. Wilson's eardrums pulsed as he spoke, "Which you then dedicated yourself to ensure I took!" It was just House's way of figuring everything out, he knew. The yelling, the accusations, the insults - it was defensive, somehow. Wilson's own thought process was somewhat smothered in his current state; and he couldn't figure out what on earth House would need to struggle against. He always suspected it was rejection; as if anyone in their right mind would think it were possible for Wilson to reject House. Well, whatever it was, now was not the time for them to be fighting over Wilson's motives for protecting House. "What do you want me to say, House?" Wilson's eyes locked with House's, so close he could see an errant blood vessel extending from House's conjunctiva. "That I hate you? That, actually, despite everything I do for you, I'm going to leave you to finish your spiral into the grave alone?" House's lips were tight, "You've done that already," He hissed, playing the guilt card. Which, as House knew, trumped whatever hand Wilson was holding. Wilson launched himself off the basin, initially because strangling House - or, at least, lashing out at him somehow - had seemed like an excellent impulsive action to be taking; but his brain caught up with him mid-flight and the movement turned into an awkward body-slam. The look of confusion on House's face was almost worth it; except it dissolved almost immediately, and in coordination that belied his disability and blood-alcohol reading, Wilson found himself swung against the wall. His wrists were pressed between cold tiles and clammy palms, and the towel-rail jutted into his lower back. House's eyebrows colluded like storm clouds. He caught the swing of House's hip in his periphery; and in a long-remembered reflex honed in grade school - Wilson jammed his eyes shut, stomach-muscles tightening to brace for the impact. Instead, somewhat prickly, hesitant lips touched against his. He turned his head violently, accidentally hitting it against the wall with a dull thump which would ache later, "House, I-- What are you doing?" "Nothing," House murmured, faux-innocently, with his face too close to focus on. Lips drew a slow, insistent line along Wilson's jugular. Opening his eyes slightly, Wilson could see the reflection they forged in the mirror. It was surreal, watching House's jaw work into the kisses. Like some sort of drunken hallucination - which Wilson had never had, but wouldn't put past himself. How ironic it would be, he reflected, heart racing as he felt (and watched) House's hips pulling in against his, how instead of punching House in his own hallucination, he was being kissed by him. Pathetic, even. If it were a hallucination, he would opt to keep the details to himself, he decided. House pulled away a little as his path reached Wilson's lips, his breath cooling the skin he'd moistened on Wilson's cheek. They locked eyes in the mirror. A ghost of a smile may have passed over House's lips, as they returned to the palate of Wilson's neck. It was mesmerizing, hypnotic, almost, watching House's lips at work; a mouth that would normally be delivering scathing insults caressing the lines of his jaw, his Adam's apple, the join of his earlobe to his neck. Even hindered by inebriation, it wasn't a difficult jump of logic to imagine what other parts of him would benefit from those attentions. He inhaled sharply just at the suggestion. Pulling his wrists free, he snaked a hand behind House's head, settling it over the halo of thinning hair on his crown. The hair threaded easily between his fingers; a sensation unfamiliar to someone used to stroking the heads of people with long hair. House's own arms now free, he leaned away from Wilson - hips pressing heavily against Wilson's for balance, and made short work of the buttons on Wilson's shirt, letting it fall open. A commanding stare made Wilson turn his head away from the mirror to meet it. House was considering him, trying to ascertain exactly what it was he was thinking - he may have been somewhat disappointed to learn that Wilson's brain was completely consumed with the slow rock of House's hips against his. It was probably unconscious; perhaps House was circling his weight so the muscles in his good leg didn't get tired - but pressed against Wilson as he was, Wilson was aware of every tiny nuance of movement. In boldness borne of alcohol, Wilson leaned perceptibly into it. House's lips parted slightly, and Wilson was rewarded with veiled surprise. To be perfectly honest, Wilson had to concede he was surprising himself. Still, the friction of denim drawing along the crotch of his suit pants felt too good for him to dwell too much on the detail of his partner being male, infuriating, and quite possibly a vortex of chaos and destruction. Having either discovered what he was after, or at least abandoning any immediate attempt to decipher him, House leaned into Wilson's lips with his own, forcing them apart. Wilson choked back a deep, guttural groan just in time; relaxing his hips against House's and tilting his head to deepen the kiss. The blades of their tongues brushed; lingering briefly in contact, before withdrawing as they cycled. Fingers traced teasingly along Wilson's lower stomach, causing the muscles beneath them to ripple, dipping mischievously beneath his belt, before immediately retreating. Wilson's own hands, apparently being divorced from Wilson's normal sense of restraint, moved to circle House's waist, then sunk to cup the seat of House's jeans, pulling them more firmly against each other. Their buckles ground together, the hiss and clink of metal accompanying each slow thrust. It was intoxicating; the creamy wetness of House's lips and tongue over his, and Wilson only realized how rough their movements had been when House was thrown off balance, stumbling a little, and catching himself on the basin. Wilson's hands still planted at House's sides where they had flung up to try and rebalance him, he took a full chest full of air, exhaling at length. His fallen comrade appeared to be doing the same. House slowly righted himself, fingers curling around the towel-rail, tongue clearing some of the residual saliva from his lips, then pausing at the corner of his mouth thoughtfully. "Hmm," He observed, as if he'd been handed the interesting and unexpected results of a lab test, and wasn't sure what to make of them. "Beats a punch-up," He eventually concluded, the backs of his fingers tracing along the ridge of Wilson's erection through his pants. Wilson's newly found breath caught in his throat. House flinched as Wilson mirrored the movement by dropping a hand to House's crotch, "Good Luck." "What?" Wilson managed to force out of his throat. "Jimmy may say yes, but Jim Beam says no." "Well, Jim Beam has no idea how persuasive `Jimmy' can be," Wilson informed the empty apex of House's jeans. House snorted, "Not all of us can get it up for anything with a pulse," He paused, "Although, do you still masturbate over cancer chick? Because I'm pretty sure by now that she no longer--" "House." He abandoned the lost cause in House's jeans and instead grabbed a fistful of t-shirt, silencing House by capturing his lips. Wilson could feel a wide smile against his mouth; the memory of that grin - now so rare - made his heart turn over. He would have been happy to kiss that grinning mouth indefinitely, pressed snugly against House's towering frame (so different from protectively enveloping the smaller bodies he was used to), but the insistent presence at his crotch had other ideas. He guided a hand into his briefs, shocked at its confidence as it happily located and captured his erection without encouragement. A thumb stroked neatly up the seam, brief assistance from another hand lead it through the front of his briefs. Unhindered, warm, expert fingers explored every inch in slow, undulating strokes. Wilson's eyes had fallen shut, he realised, as the back of his skull touched the bathroom wall. He wasn't sure he was ready to open them. There was no explaining that needed to be done, no instructions - House already knew not to vary his rhythm too much or hold too light a grip. He was vaguely aware of lips moving against his, down his neck, along his jaw - he ignored them - focusing on the sensation of being worked from a different angle, the friction of skin and the building of pressure. House experimented with two hands, working in tandem - and then stopped, abruptly, and his hands disappeared. Wilson's eyes snapped open when he heard the sound of the toilet seat being flipped closed. House lowered himself to sit on top of the lid, wincing a little at the movement, then beckoned Wilson to step over to him. Feeling a little awkward and exposed - and yet keenly aware of how conveniently located House's mouth now was, Wilson complied. The reward was immediate; no sooner had Wilson come into reach, House put a firm hand behind Wilson's thigh and drew an impressive amount of Wilson's erection directly into his mouth. Wilson was unable to smother an embarrassingly loud groan, throwing a hand out to the windowsill behind the toilet to prevent himself falling on top of House. God, it was... almost too much, Wilson realized, desperately willing his knees not to buckle. The tongue circling his head, the hand squeezing the base - so much more certain, more assertive than the hands he had been used to. He pushed against every advance, tried to mitigate every retreat, until he placed a hand on House's shoulder, whispering urgently, "House, I'm... " As he tried to pull away. The hand at the back of his thigh tightened, and prevented his departure. Against his will - and yet, who's will was it ever against? - he gripped House's shoulders for support, thrusting deeper than was probably welcome as a humiliatingly primal noise escaped from between his lips. He probably should have withdrawn at least somewhat when he felt House's throat buckle; but some part of him was sadistically happy he'd discovered a means to consensually choke House. He exercised this discovery for as long as he possibly could before one final surge brought the exercise to its happy conclusion - hopefully directly into House's lungs. Wilson entertained a vague fantasy in the throws of orgasm where House let Wilson call in sick for him. On speakerphone. Before he had a chance to recover and move away, House shoved him aside, and instead of emptying the contents of his mouth cleanly into the basin - he chose to eject it into a towel. "I think that was pure ethanol," House mumbled through the towel, "You just put me over the limit. Guess I can't drive you home." Still trying to steady his breathing, Wilson smiled. House emerged, making a series of contorted expressions as if he were stretching his mouth. "That can be your towel tomorrow," He instructed, bending over to retrieve his cane. "I need something to get that taste out of my mouth. Something really strong. Indian?" Wilson was struck by how surreal it was to be having a casual post-blowjob conversation with his best friend, "Okay," He agreed absently, before observing about the last fifteen minutes, "I have no idea where that came from. Should I ask?" "We don't talk about Fight Club," House recited cryptically, disappearing through the doorway. "Right," Wilson tucked himself back inside his briefs, following House as he fiddled with his belt. He could analyse the events of the evening to death at a later time, preferably when he wasn't buzzing with alcohol and endorphins. "Can I have one of those every time we argue?"