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  The Warner Brothers Matchmaking Service 
 by l57371  

 House stomped out of the elevator as soon as the doors opened, fury
radiating from his face as he hurtled down the hall. His cane thudded
hollowly on the carpeted floor, his shoulders were hunched and his eyes
flashed at anyone who dared look at him. His entire body screamed anger.
It also whispered hurt, but nobody could see that part as they rushed to
avoid the oncoming hurricane House.

He stopped abruptly in front of Wilson's office door, still closed and
locked at this hour of the morning. This was unusual. Wilson should have
been in his office with the door open, the very picture of dedication and
caring. It was also unusual that House should be in this early, as he
generally wasn't even out of bed for another hour.

He rummaged for his keys in his overcoat pocket, yanking them out with a
satisfying jangle and shaking them savagely until he found the one to open
Wilson's office door. He jammed it in the lock, turned it and threw open
the door, whacking it on the wall behind. He stalked into the room, mouth
open to deliver the scathing words ready at his lips.

Wilson lay on his couch, face down, dressed loosely in scrubs, and fast
asleep. His left knee was hitched up and falling slightly off the narrow
cushions while his right leg was stretched out behind him, his ankle
hooked over the arm and his bare foot turned slightly inwards as it draped
over the side. The blanket that usually lay on the back of the couch lay
crumpled below his foot. His right arm was curled under his head, raising
it slightly off the sofa cushions and allowing the drool to pool beneath
his chin. His left arm trailed down to the floor, his fingers curling
loosely upward. The scrubs Wilson had chosen were a little on the large
side and there was a gap between the tops and bottoms, exposing a strip of
his lower back where they pulled downward. He flinched slightly in his
sleep when the door banged open, but other than that was dead to the
world.

House took in the sight before him without a word, quietly shutting the
door behind him and locking it again. So this is what you were up to
instead of watching movies with me? He thought. Taking a goddamned NAP?

He breathed out forcefully through his nose and thinned his lips, forcing
down the wave of attraction that threatened to crash over him at the sight
of Wilson, relaxed and peaceful in sleep, and tried to remember that he
was angry instead. He raked his eyes over the sleeping form allowed
himself one quick fantasy of that body, warm and heavy, against his in his
bed while they slept together, then shook himself back to reality.

Wilson snuffled in his sleep, then shifted his legs and turned his head to
face the other way. It looked damned uncomfortable to House, but Wilson
seemed to settle back to sleep with no problem at all. In his fidgeting,
Wilson's scrub pants pulled down a little at the back, exposing the
beginning of the swell of his ass and showing House that there was no
underwear there either. But there was a bandage. A two by two bandage,
held on with first aid tape. Why was there a bandage on Wilson's ass?

House's curiosity got the better of him and he approached the sleeping
man, pulling gently on the scrub pants to expose the rest of the bandage
and incidentally a little more of that beautiful curving butt. He tugged
gently at the first aid tape, pulling back a corner of the bandage, then a
little more as the area was uncovered. It was shiny, glistening with what
looked like maybe a clear antibiotic cream, and beneath that was ' Tweety
Bird. A picture of a little yellow canary with a gigantic head. Yep,
Tweety Bird. Wilson had a tattoo of Tweety Bird on his ass. A brand new
one.

What the HELL did he DO last night, anyway?

House limped softly over to Wilson's desk, flipping through to the pages
to find the entry for the day previous. Under 6 p.m. he found a notation
in Wilson's scrawled, slanting handwriting, 'dinner with WR and DL' and
under 8 p.m. he found his own name. Who were WR and DL? House racked his
brain trying to find names to go with the initials but none were
forthcoming. He looked up suddenly and his gaze darted about the room,
finally finding what he was looking for: a gym bag on the floor, zipper
open. Wilson's clothes, it had to be.

He padded quietly over to the bag and rooted through it with the tip of
his cane. The wafting smell of rum rose up to assault his nose. Ah, well,
that was the reason for the scrubs, anyway. Wilson must have spilled rum
on his clothes, a lot of it, judging by the smell. Carefully, awkwardly,
he lowered himself to his knees and dug through the pile of sodden
clothing, feeling pockets until he found Wilson's cell phone in the pocket
of his suit coat.

Sitting back against the arm of the sofa, he flipped open the device and
accessed the address book function. Wilson mumbled in his sleep and
twitched the hand that was laying on the carpet and House froze, waiting
until his friend settled again. He scrolled through the entries but found
none that matched the initials in the datebook. House narrowed his eyes in
frustration and then hit the button for the recent calls list. Almost all
of them had names attached to them, and he snorted softly to himself to
find that his was the one that showed up most often. But there were two
numbers that were only numbers, no identifying names. One was a local
number, and one had an area code he didn't recognize, 514.

On the couch, Wilson began mumbling again and House figured it was time to
leave before his moving about the room woke Wilson. House wasn't ready to
confront him just yet. He levered himself upward as quietly as he could
manage, then pocketed the cell phone and limped quickly to the door. His
hand on the doorknob, he hesitated and looked back at his friend, his face
soft and open in sleep. Cursing himself for a sentimental sap, House went
back to the couch and picked up the fallen blanket, draping it carefully
over Wilson's prone form and tucking it around his torso. He rested his
hand lightly on the back of Wilson's head, petting his hair and sighing at
the feel of the soft, silky strands between his fingers. Briefly he had an
image in his head of how his hand would rest right in that very spot as he
held the back of Wilson's head while they kissed.

All too soon, House pulled his hand back, hobbled silently to the door and
slipped through, careful to lock it and pulled it closed behind himself.

* * *

House settled himself behind his own desk and booted up his computer.
While he waited, he went over what he knew so far. He knew ... well, not
much. He knew that Wilson was passed out and didn't look to be waking up
too soon. He knew the rum was probably responsible. The rum was probably
also responsible for the tattoo, though in theory it was illegal to tattoo
a drunk man, but he imagined that even Wilson would know how to get around
that rule.

The only trouble was, Wilson didn't drink rum. Beer, sure, wine on
occasion, even whiskey if House himself happened to be indulging, but
never rum. Even when they went out, he never drank anything with rum in
it. Probably because if this was the result, then better to not touch it,
House thought. So what possessed Wilson to go out drinking rum with two
people House had never heard of then?

The computer finally dinged its readiness and House quickly brought up a
telephone number search site. He typed in the unknown number but got no
results. Either private or a cell phone number then. He frowned at the
screen for a moment and then brought up the second number, but instead of
searching it he threw caution to the wind and just hit connect instead. He
waited while it rang once, twice.

''Princeton Marriott Hotel and Conference Centre, good morning!'' an
entirely too cheerful voice chirped in his ear.

''Ah, good morning,'' House said, forcing a friendly note into his voice
that he didn't in the least feel. ''This is Dr. James Wilson calling.'' He
cringed inwardly.

''Oh, Dr. Wilson! I'm glad you called back!'' Chirpy's voice rose higher
and higher as she spoke. ''I have a message for you here from your friend,
Dr. Lowell. He says, thanks for the great night, Jimmy, and you can pick
up your-'' her voice dropped to an alarming whisper, ''-boxer shorts back
at the restaurant.''

''Um,'' House said, his eyes widening and his eyebrows raising impossibly
high. ''Did you say, boxers?''

''Yes sir, Dr. Wilson,'' Chirpy's voice got even higher but stayed soft.
''That's what it says. Sorry.''

''That's okay,'' House replied, picking up a pen from his desk just for
something to fiddle with. ''I don't suppose it happens to say which
restaurant, does it?''

''No, Dr. Wilson,'' Chirpy said, sounding confused. ''But you were there,
weren't you? Shouldn't you know?''

''Right, sure,'' House said, annoyed at himself for the easy slip up.
''So, anything else there for me?''

''No, sir.''

''I don't suppose Dr. Lowell is still there, is he?''

''No, sir. He and Dr. Raff checked out about an hour ago.'' Aha! L and R,
the initials Wilson had dinner with, he'd bet on it.

''Thank you,'' House said distractedly as he flipped the phone closed.
Silently, he stared off into the distance, tapping the closed phone
against his chin as he contemplated the situation before him. Wilson had
gone off drinking with two doctors who didn't live in Princeton. He drank
rum and lost his underwear and got a tattoo. This information did not at
all jibe with the man House knew as his friend. Wilson was not
spontaneous, he was not a big drinker, especially in public, and he
absolutely did not go around getting tattoos of cartoon characters on his
ass. House felt a stirring in his belly at the thought of the tattoo and
the perfect ass on which it was etched. Well, not so perfect any more, not
with a misshapen yellow bird permanently coloured onto it.

Maybe this wasn't such a bad thing then. Maybe, now that the ass that had
haunted his dreams for years was mutilated with a giant-headed canary,
maybe he could finally let it go and stop obsessing over it. Over Wilson.

But he still had to find out what went on. There would be no way to let it
go until he did. Resolutely he opened the phone back up and scrolled
through to the number with the unknown area code and hit connect. He sat
back and waited.

''Bon matin, Jimmy!'' a smooth, rich voice purred in his House's ear.
''J'aurais pensé que vous  toujours dans votre lit!''

''Not Jimmy, sorry,'' House growled back. ''And he's not in his bed, he's
passed out on the sofa in his office. I don't suppose you'd care to tell
me why?''

''Ah, this would have to be the famous Dr. House, yes?'' the voice
replied. ''Jimmy may have mentioned you, once or twice,'' there was
chuckling in the background, and then someone else said loudly, ''Mais
oui, once or twice every ten minutes or so!''

House switched ears with the phone so that he could grab up his cane and
pace as he spoke. ''Do I have the distinct pleasure of addressing Dr.
Lowell or Doctor Raff?'' he grated out with as much insincerity as he
could manage.

''This is Dr. Lowell. Daniel, if you wish. My partner is Dr. William
Raff.''

''Salut!'' House heard in the background.

''Yeah, yeah, hi to him too.'' House covered his eyes with his hand and
stopped pacing for a moment. ''Okay, so, I'm going to guess that you are
friends of Wilson's, yes? Probably from University?''

''Got it in one!'' Lowell crowed. ''You are indeed tr futé, as Jimmy
said.''

''And you took him out for dinner, got him drunk and then ... I have no
idea how you got from dinner to tattooing his ass.'' House's voice rose at
the end of his sentence.

''We did not do that!'' Lowell laughed. ''Le petit oiseau, that was
Jimmy's idea. He said that the little thing reminded him of how he felt
much of the time.''

House squeezed his eyes shut and tried to process that little tidbit of
information, attempting to fit it into what he knew of his friend.

''The rum, though,'' Lowell's voice dropped back to the low purr, ''that
was our idea.''

''But Wilson doesn't drink rum,'' House protested.

''He used to. When we were in school, he used to drink rum when he would
come out with us to the clubs. It is maybe a shame that he no longer does
drink it, as it means that he no longer ... goes out.''

''He goes out,'' House replied. ''He goes out with me all the time.''

''I think that perhaps he does not go out like he used to go out, whether
he goes out with you or not.'' Lowell said cryptically.

''What in the hell is that supposed to mean?''

''Tell Jimmy he can find his underwear where we were last night.'' House
could hear Raff's laughter in the background again.

''Jimmy is busy sleeping it off right now. Why don't you tell me where I
can find them?''

''I would think that if Jimmy has not told you, maybe I should not
either.'' Lowell's voice was smug even through the tinny speaker of the
phone.

''I would think that if you were such a good friend to Jimmy, you'd want
to save him the embarrassment of having to track down his own underwear.''
House pitched his voice low and tried for menacing, but he had the vague
feeling that he was coming close to begging instead.

Silence on the other end of the phone. Then finally, ''Sophie's bistro. In
Somerset. The restaurant part should be open soon.''

House let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. ''Thank you.''

''De rien. And go easy on poor Jimmy, he's had a rough night.''

And from Dr. Raff, ''J'esp qu'il aura un meilleur jour, aujourd'hui!'

House closed the phone.

The Honda Repsol growled to a halt in front of a building that seemed to
house two different businesses. The one he was in search of, Sophie's
Bistro, was a small restaurant, unassuming, quiet, very quaint in a French
Provincial sort of way. It was located right beside a bar called ''The
Den'', which billed itself as 'Central Jersey's Best Night Club and Gay
Bar.'' Gay bar? Had to be a coincidence. They had just come for the food.
House clambered off the bike and pushed the door to the bistro open.

A set of bells tinkled overhead as the door struck them. The place seemed
to be deserted, not a soul in sight. House stumped further in, eying the
decor. Just Wilson's style, too. He always had an affinity for the
over-the-top European transplanted style of decoration. House supposed it
had come from never being able to tour Europe like a student and seeing
the seamy underbelly and only ever seeing it as a honeymooner.

''Sorry, we're not open yet,'' a voice said, followed by a woman in an
apron approaching from the kitchen.

''Not here to eat,'' said House. ''I'm here to collect something that
belongs to a friend of mine. He was here last night and left his-'' he
stumbled a little over his words as he took in the sight of the lovely
young woman in front of him. ''Left ... an article of clothing here. I'm
here to pick it up for him. His name is Wilson.''

The woman rummaged under the front desk but came up empty-handed. ''Sorry,
there doesn't seem to be anything for him. Are you sure he was here?''

''Fairly sure, yeah.'' House was studying the menu on the sandwich board
just inside the door as he spoke. ''I see a wine list here, but I don't
see any hard alcohol. Don't you serve rum?''

''No, we're not licensed for liquor, only wine and beer.'' She said. ''Why
do you ask?''

''He had rum last night,'' House's voice trailed off as he spoke.

''Oh, if he had rum then he must have been next door!'' the woman
exclaimed. ''Just hold on a second while I run over and check there. Can
you wait here?'' Her words floated back over her shoulder as she hurried
to the back of the restaurant and back into the kitchen.

Next door. House shook his head slowly. Wilson had been next door. At the
gay bar. With Lowell and his partner. His partner William. Wilson had been
at a gay bar with two gay men with whom he used to go to clubs when he was
in University.

House had to sit down. He sank slowly into one of the damask waiting
chairs beside the bistro door. None of this matched at all with the staid,
buttoned-down, uptight, thrice-married friend he'd known for more than a
decade. None of it was familiar at all.

It was better.

''I think I found it!'' the woman cried as she rushed back into the dining
room and toward House at the door. She brandished a manila envelope,
sealed, with the words ''Jimmy Wilson'' written on the front. 

''It was next door? In the bar?'' House asked, just to make sure.

''Sure was, sweetie!'' the woman replied. ''He must have had a good time
if he was leaving clothes over there.'' She leaned over the front desk and
looked up at him through long, probably false, lashes. Her Adam's apple
bobbed as she swallowed from a glass of water in her other hand. Wait.
Adam's apple?

''Must have been,'' House replied, a little weakly, and turned to go.
''Thank you. For this.'' He waved the envelope.

''Any time!'' she called back, wiggling her fingers in a delicate wave.

He pushed out the door and stumbled back to his bike, stashing the
envelope inside his jacket. He sat down on the seat and waited a few
minutes for his head to clear, looking around as he did so. Across the
street was a neon sign, blinking ''Jet's Tattoos and Body Piercing''. 

That looked like it was going to have to be stop number two.

* * *

House pushed through the door of the tattoo parlour. A large man was
standing in front of an autoclave sorting instruments. He had artwork all
up and down his bare arms and even across the back of his neck,
disappearing down past the collar of his sleeveless muscle shirt. He had
poles and rings and barbells in his ears, through his eyebrows, through
his lip. His long hair hung in lank strands over his beefy shoulders and
he wore a denim vest decorated with what looked like graffiti done in
sharpie marker on it. House was willing to bet there were no Tweety Birds
on this man.

He put the last of the instruments onto a metal tray and approached the
front of the store. ''Yeah? What you want?''

''You can tell me about a guy you put a Tweety Bird on last night, and why
you would agree to tattoo a guy who was obviously drunk,'' House replied.

''And why would I do that?'' The man spread his arms and leaned forward on
the desk menacingly, flexing his arm muscles. ''Inking someone who's been
drinking is illegal, y'know.'' He grinned ferally, showing off gaps
between brown and broken teeth.

House shifted and pulled a wad of bills from his hip pocket, peeling off
two under the counter where the other man couldn't see them. He placed
them on the counter.

The guy curled his lip, raised an eyebrow and snorted.

House pulled off two more bills, then another as the guy watched. The
tattoo artist reached for the bills and pocketed them himself.

''You're House, aren't you?'' the guy asked after a minute. 

House said nothing.

The guy almost smiled. ''You are. You're House. You're the one that makes
him feel like Tweety Bird. And you don't even know why, do you?''

House remained silent, shuffling his feet in discomfort.

The guy shook his head. ''Not my story to tell, man.'' He turned and made
his way back into the shop again. ''You should ask him.''

''Hey! I just paid you to tell me!'' House shouted at the guy's retreating
back. The guy ignored him. ''And- he won't tell me,'' House said quietly,
eyes on the floor.

Tattoo Guy sat on a wheeled stool and pushed himself over to a tilted
drafting table. He picked up a coloured pencil and began shading a
half-drawn picture attached to it. After a minute he looked back up at
House, who hadn't moved.

''His two friends brought him in here last night. Not even that late, only
about 9:30.'' He put down the pencil and turned on the stool to face
House. ''He said he wanted a picture of a fire-breathing dragon, all
across his back. Gigantic, with wings and everything, and the word 'House'
in big letters on the bottom. Would have cost a couple of thousand
dollars. Taken six months, maybe a year to finish. And he'd have sobered
up long before the first part was done anyway.'' The guy snorted. ''Or
maybe bled to death.''

House chanced approaching the man slowly, moving across the shop toward
him. ''And you talked him down to a cartoon character?''

''Hey, he was soused. He was drunk and he took off his pants and underwear
in my shop and he really, really wanted a tattoo. If I didn't do
something, he was going to stumble off somewhere else and maybe get that
dragon. Or at least the beginnings of it before he sobered up. What I gave
him was small, inoffensive, and easily removed if he wants to. Most people
will never even know it was there. Besides, he paid very well for it. Who
am I to say no to someone who throws down that kind of cash? The way I
figure it, you *owe* me. I coulda given him the dragon.'' 

House nodded vaguely in agreement. He couldn't argue; it was mostly true.
''Maybe I should call the cops and tell them about your taking advantage
of a drunk guy,'' House tried, knowing it was probably a useless threat.

''Prove it.'' Tattoo Guy's face hardened into a dangerous glower. House
shook his head and backed down. There wouldn't be any records, any
receipts. He knew that.

''He said you made him feel like Tweety Bird. He said that always felt
like you were going to eat him alive some day, just like Sylvester does to
Tweety. Then he said that he felt like Tweety while you were the bulldog
that always kept Sylvester away. He was kind of vague on which one you
actually were. I think he was getting a little blurry around the edges by
then.''

House merely nodded, taking it in. His lips thinned as he pressed them
together. He knew when he was beaten. He bobbed his head, muttering,
''Thank you. For doing that for him, I mean. Not the dragon.''

''You're welcome.'' The tattoo guy flashed his toothy grin. House turned
to go but the guy's voice followed him. ''For what it's worth, I told him
to tell you how he felt.'' House hesitated, nearly turned back, then
continued out the door.

* * *

House pounded on the door of Wilson's hotel room, then pulled out a
purloined key card and slid it into the lock. The light flashed green and
he pushed the door open.

Wilson lay on the bed, still wearing the scrubs, but now he was on his
back, all except for the tattooed butt cheek. He had tilted his hips so
that the sore one was raised slightly off the bed. He had one arm flung
over his eyes, blocking out the mid-day light.

''Wakey, wakey,'' House said as he sauntered into the room, letting the
door shut behind him. He nonchalantly reached back and flipped the
deadbolt too.

''How'd you find me?'' Wilson said, not bothering to lift the arm.

''Cuddy squealed.''

''I'm going to assume you have my cell phone too, then?''

''Why would you think that?'' House asked, injecting a note of hurt into
his voice and sliding the phone onto the small table by the window.

Wilson raised his arm a little, fixed one eye on House and snorted softly,
then let the arm drop back.

House let the silence stretch for a moment, then spoke. ''So, Tweety
Bird?''

Wilson moaned and turned over, facing away from House and toward the wall.
''Look, I'm sorry I missed the movie last night, and I'm really sorry I
didn't call. I didn't expect to be out so late for dinner. Some old
friends were in town...''

''Yes, I know. Daniel and William, right? Nice guys, we had a good chat.''

Wilson groaned again. 

House waited a beat, then said, ''I got your boxer shorts.'' He pulled the
envelope from his jacket and tossed it onto the bed.

Wilson pulled the pillow over his head and rolled right over onto his
stomach. This had the added advantage of showcasing his lovely ass, clad
in scrubs stretched tightly over the plump cheeks and bunched underneath
from the rolling.

House swallowed roughly and continued, his voice gravelly. ''You're going
to have to explain to me the whole Sylvester thing though. I don't quite
understand that.''

Wilson's voice was muffled. ''No, I don't think I will.''

House sat gingerly on the side of the bed and reached out a hand. It
hovered over Wilson's cotton-clad ass cheek and shook. He snatched the
hand back. ''Pepe le Pew.''

The pillow moved and Wilson's face appeared, his thick brows furrowed in
question.

''You make me feel like Pepe Le Pew. I feel like I'm always chasing and
chasing and chasing and you are always slipping away, just as I'm about to
finally catch you.'' House's eyes were on his running shoes, his hands
clasped in his lap.

Wilson pushed the pillow aside and raised himself up on his forearms,
tilting his head until he could look directly at House.

''Pepe Le Pew ... was chasing a cat who had no interest in him.''

''Yes he was.''

''Until the cat caught a clue and ... fell in love with the skunk.''

House's eyes flicked up to meet Wilson's.

''That analogy doesn't quite work either, does it?'' Wilson turned over
onto his side and rolled up to a sitting position, still keeping his
weight off the illustrated hip. ''Nobody had to hit me on the head with a
piece of wood.''

''So what are you saying, Warner Brothers is crap at relationship
analogies?''

Wilson shook his head slowly, keeping his gaze on the bed spread. ''I
never wanted this, you know? I never wanted to risk...''

''What risk? We've been through just about everything in the last ten-plus
years, I'm sure we'll survive this.'' House laid a cautious, careful hand
on Wilson's shin, slowly sliding it up to his knee.

Wilson's eyes flicked up to House's again. This time, instead of defeat
and hurt, House saw hope. House's gaze dropped to Wilson's lips, and
Wilson swallowed thickly.

''I think I lied,'' Wilson rasped. ''I want this.''

House shifted forward and leaned in, just a little, as Wilson did the
same. Their lips met in a dry press, brief, tentative, soft. They pulled
back slightly and Wilson's hands came up to grip House's biceps. House's
other hand strayed to the back of Wilson's head, cupping it softly, and
House's mind cast back to earlier that morning when he had touched this
same spot with wistful longing. Now he touched with intent, with the
knowledge that soon it wouldn't be just a soft touch he had to limit
himself to.

They came together again, this time harder and with heat and want rather
than questions. House groaned deep in his throat and opened his lips,
flicking his tongue along Wilson's, demanding entrance. Wilson complied,
yielding to the invasion and exploring House's mouth in turn. Impatiently,
he pushed at House's jacket, pushing it off his shoulders before turning
his attention to the buttons on House's shirt.

House eventually gave up and pulled back from Wilson's lips, flailing his
arms to rid himself of the jacket and the shirt, then pulled off his
t-shirt as well. Wilson sat and watched with his mouth open, lips swollen
and red, until House shot him a look as he pulled at his belt buckle.
Wilson visibly shook himself and yanked off his scrub top before laying
back and lifting his hips to work the scrub bottoms over his sore hip. At
that, House stopped pushing his jeans over his hips and stood, pants
sitting half way down his thighs, staring as Wilson revealed inch after
inch of smooth skin. He nearly lost his balance and fell over when Wilson
pulled the waistband of the scrubs over his erect, glistening cock and
then shimmied them down to his ankles, kicking them off.

Wilson lifted his eyes to House's and smiled slightly when he caught House
staring. ''Come on, then,'' he rasped heavily. ''I'll show you Tweety, if
you want.''

''Seen it,'' House answered as he kicked off the jeans and carefully
lifted the elastic of his boxers over his own hard on.

''When?'' Wilson asked absently as he looked at House's cock, long and
quivering against his belly.

''This morning,'' House replied, climbing back on the bed and laying down
beside Wilson.

''You looked?'' Wilson ran his hand up House's arm and across his chest,
feeling his way with his finger tips.

''I've been looking for a long time.'' House said, eyes closing at the
thrills of pleasure coursing through him at every spot where Wilson
touched him. He leaned forward again and captured Wilson's lips, shifting
forward so that his entire body was lined up with Wilson's, shoulder to
shoulder, hip to hip, knee to knee. He wound his arm behind and around
Wilson's shoulder, holding him firmly against his chest, then trailed his
hand down Wilson's spine to his ass, that lovely, beautiful curve of flesh
that started the whole ordeal.

Wilson bucked against him and pulled back to shout, ''Ow!'' as House ran
his hand over the bandage that covered the tattoo.

''Oh, sorry.'' House quickly moved his hand back up to Wilson's back but
his fingers again trailed down to grasp at Wilson's butt cheeks. Wilson
bucked again and grunted.

''Here, try this,'' House whispered. ''Turn over.'' Wilson did as he was
told and spooned back against House's chest, his butt nestled in House's
groin, tattooed side up and not getting any pressure from anywhere.

''Perfect,'' Wilson breathed, wriggling against House until he moaned deep
in his chest, burying his face in Wilson's hot neck.

House ran his hand over Wilson's jutting hip bone and pulled back
slightly, until his cock was nestled in the groove of Wilson's ass, head
just brushing against the small of Wilson's back, and thrust lightly
against it. House grunted helplessly at the spikes of pleasure shooting
through him and thrust again, more forcefully. His cock slid up between
Wilson's cheeks, brushing the sensitive skin of the underside against the
tight puckered entrance of Wilson's ass. 

Wilson moaned softly, ''Yes, House, god yes, more,'' until he reached down
and took his own cock in his hand, jacking it hard but slowly. House put
his hand over Wilson's, picked up the rhythm and then nudged Wilson's hand
out of the way. He wrapped his own long fingers around Wilson's twitching,
leaking cock and took up the rhythm that Wilson had set, thrusting himself
into Wilson's cleft at the same time. 

Quickly, the pressure and need built in both men, until Wilson reached
behind him and clenched House's ass in his fingers, bringing the other
man's cock even harder against himself and House's hips stuttered, losing
the rhythm. House cried out from behind clenched teeth and came, spurting
into the cleft of Wilson's ass. His cock stroked through the semen,
coating both himself and Wilson in it. The hot slide of House's cock made
Wilson's hips stutter and surge forward as he came too, shooting into and
over top of House's fist. House kept the motion up until Wilson pulled
away, the pleasure becoming too much to take.

They lay spooned up against each other for long moments, getting their
heart beats and breathing back to something close to normal. Eventually,
House just wound his arm around Wilson's chest and lazily wiped his hand
on the bedspread. He let the deep lethargy of sleep creep up on him as he
breathed in the scent of Wilson, sleepy and sweaty and sexy.

''House,'' Wilson began, ''I-''

''Sufferin' succotash, Wilson,'' House said, his voice a low sleepy growl.
''Go to sleep.''

Wilson snorted softly and cuddled closer, and House got his wish. Wilson,
warm and heavy in sleep, pressed against him in the night. 

* * *

Translations:

Bon matin - good morning

J'aurais pensé que vous  toujours dans votre lit! - I would have thought
you would still be in your bed

Salut - hello

tr futé - very smart

Le petit oiseau - the little bird

De rien - you're welcome

J'esp qu'il aura un meilleur jour, aujourd'hui - I hope he will have a
better day, today  
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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.