Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Day 1

Friday, 9:05 AM

“You must be incredible in bed.”

“Excuse me?” Wilson didn’t even slightly fumble the half-done knot of his tie, which ruffled House’s feathers. Shoot and a miss.

“It’s the only reason I can think of that your wives stuck out your snoring for so long.”

“I don’t snore.”

House shrugged and inspected the hotel’s room service menu. “Maybe not, but can you prove it?”

“I’ll see you in court, then.” Wilson stepped out of the open bathroom and grabbed the jacket he’d laid across the foot of his bed.

They were stuck in one room with two queens for the conference, because Cuddy was a cheapskate who didn’t think House would follow through on his threats to smother his roommate. That she was right was just salt in the penny-pinching wound.

House had comprehensively destroyed his bed when they arrived late last night, but Wilson had made his neatly that morning, because apparently he didn’t understand the concept of maids. House grasped the concept quite well. This was why he intended to grind the packet of Ferrero Rochers from the minibar carefully into Wilson’s pillow after he left, to ensure he got all the potential bang from those big conference hotel room bucks.

Wilson shot a resigned look at House’s ragged sweatpants, “From your state of slovenly undress, I take it that you’re not attending any morning panels?”

“Take out ‘morning,’ and you’ve got it.”

“Right. You’re not going to any of the conference events.”

“Correct-a-mundo.”

“You’re just going to sit here and become one with the expensive hotel sheets, paid for by our hospital, in the hopes that we might use this trip to—oh, I don’t know—learn how to better practice medicine?”

“Lame. And yes, that is step one of the plan.”

“And what’s step—oh. Right.” Wilson retrieved keys and wallet with a roll of his eyes. “This is the Kerry conference.”

“The Kerry conference,” House repeated with satisfaction. “The perfect relationship. Three nights a year, we meet up for a vigorous exchange of bodily fluids—”

“Gross,” Wilson said patiently.

“—with no emotional or social attachments to clutter up that flawless chemistry.” House might’ve expounded on the virtues of this lifestyle, but the painful clutch in his leg he’d been trying to ignore was no longer brooking his polite refusals of attention.

Wilson noticed, because Wilson was stupidly attentive like that, stupid Wilson with his stupid sweet face and his stupid nice hands coming stupidly closer—

“Did you take your meds?”

“No, I decided a cross country flight with lots of walking and lugging was a good time to go cold turkey.”

“Uh huh.” Wilson then violated the terms of friendship or decency or something by plopping down on the edge of House’s bed and digging a very professional hand into the aching meat of his injured thigh muscle.

The flesh computer some doctors fondly refer to as the “brain” immediately went haywire in House’s skull.

Generate: possible responses >>>

> if your hand slips I think you’ll have to marry me

> don’t start something you can’t finish

> so this is how you paid for med school

> hey, might as well measure my inseam while you’re down there

> will this massage have a happy ending?

“My mommy said to tell an adult if someone touched me there,” House finally said, in a very good copy of his usual sardonic tone.

Wilson glanced up through his eyelashes—an unfair kill shot under any circumstances, and especially circumstances where he was making that kind of motion with his strong fingers. “Don’t worry, you can trust me, I’m a doctor.”

“How am I supposed to believe that when you’re not even wearing one of those cute little white coats?”

“I’m sure I could dig up a stethoscope.”

“Now that would definitely be too sexy.”

“Wouldn’t want things to get out of hand.”

House reflected on the earlier tabled responses, flickering towards the ‘happy ending’ comment even if it wouldn’t win him any originality awards.

He ultimately decided, however, on the simple yet punchy: “Ow.”

“Don’t be a baby.”

“You are literally bed-side, yet your manner is appalling.”

“Have you heard the one about the pot and the kettle?”

“Do they have sex at the end?”

“Sure, if that’ll entice you to listen to the story about hypocrisy and humility.”

“I’ll fast forward.”

Wilson sighed, but it was of the variety comfortably categorized under ‘Response: House absurdities, fond.’ And more importantly, the impromptu massage therapy didn’t come to an end.

So, of course, House had to end it himself. No rest for the wicked, and no slightly-arousing-pain-relief-from-your-bestie either.

“Go,” he shoved Wilson off the bed with a hand flat to his chest, “You have boring doctor stuff to do. I have to make myself pretty.”

Wilson cast a doubtful look down at him, hands hovering in worried on-hips territory, before he made some internal judgment House couldn’t read and turned for the door. “Alright. In that case, say hello to your fairy godmother for me.”

“Oof,” House scrunched up his face in an exaggerated wince, “I say 3 out of 10 on the zinger.”

“I’ll practice my repartee while I’m banished from the room for your torrid affair.”

“Then you’ll have plenty of time. You know I like to be thorough!”

Wilson didn’t even offer him the satisfaction of a disgusted moue. House had noticed a statistically significant reduction in reactions, rises, and recoils as of late. Was Wilson simply growing immune to his charms (read: systematic campaign of infuriation)? Was House losing his touch? Was there a third variable effect at play?

This last deeply concerning possibility had House diving for the clothes spilling out of his still-packed suitcase. He needed some nice, fun, no-strings sex with someone who he cared for not-a-whit and he needed it now.

“In the last year?”

“Yes.” Kerry nodded solemnly. They were standing beneath the hotel awning, shielded from the sun, which really should’ve been buried in dark rainclouds if it had any sensitivity to House’s mood at all.

“How did you manage to get married in less than a year?”

“Greased a few palms. Hobbled the favorite.”

House ground his teeth. Now that he was legally forbidden from finding Kerry’s lightning strike comebacks sexy, he predicted they’re metastasize into unbearable irritants in under an hour.

“Well, at least tell me you hitched your horse to his for the right reasons. He’s good looking?”

“Extremely,” Kerry tucked a dark lock of wavy hair behind her ear, “I’d go so far as to say he’s hot.”

“Even with me in the room for comparison?”

“Especially with you.”

“Well, that’s that, then.” There was a bar two blocks down that had looked sufficiently sleazy and full of potential health code violations that the conference crowd wouldn’t break quarantine. Whiling away the afternoon with booze instead of pills could be a nice change of pace.

“Right, because you live in a When Harry Met Sally world where men and women can’t be friends.”

“Pretty much. If I try to talk to you without hitting on you, Billy Crystal will materialize here to personally kick my ass.”

“I can take him.” Kerry hooked their arms together and House’s neat mental schedule of “attend bar, avoid food poisoning, inspect local wildlife,” which had only recently overwritten “sex, obligatory social catch up, more sex,” was replaced with a question mark. “C’mon, let’s grab lunch. If you get fresh with me I can throw a drink in your face, and I think we’ll both enjoy the drama of that.”

They ended up at a pop-up hole in the wall that exclusively served fancy waffles and the kind of cocktails that depressed housewives paid $15 a glass to mainline. The harried waitress crammed them into a corner at a shiny white plastic table, surrounded by kitschy posters. House’s skin crawled, but once he’d drank something high in both sugar and alcohol content and had a plate of indulgent cinnamon-chocolate-chip-whipped-cream monstrosities placed in front of him, he made peace with the choice of dining establishment.

Less so, with the concept of having a social encounter not motivated by sex or medicine. He wondered why he hadn’t declined the offer, i.e. taken the low road and blown her off when the possibility of getting some was taken off the table. Curiosity? Boredom? Little of Column A, little of Column B?

“So,” Kerry politely started the conversation as House attacked his food with misplaced vengeance, “how have you been?”

House chewed as rudely as possible before answering, “Just peachy. Or dandy. You can fill in whatever adjective you want.”

Kerry sighed in a way that reminded him of Wilson. House wondered what he was doing right now. Probably that thing where he stabbed himself in the kneecap with a ballpoint pen to keep himself looking alert and engaged with the conference’s invariably soporific speakers. Or at least, House hoped Wilson was bored silly, it was only right that they both suffer.

“Somehow, I always forget what you’re like,” Kerry mused. “Or, I guess, it’s less that I forget, and more that I imagine no one can actually be as much of a jackass as I remember you being.”

“I am unique.”

“Yes. You’re like a unicorn. A unicorn that sucks.”

House grinned through a mouthful of whipped cream. “Thanks. Anyway, let’s get to the interesting stuff. Tell me about your husband’s dick.”

“Gladly. Any particular dimension you’re curious about? I’ve got a good girth-related limerick I’ve been drafting.”

“I do love poetry. Don’t you, ma’am?” House asked the middle-aged mother seated next to them in the crowded mini-restaurant, glaring at them with righteous outrage.

“If you’re angling for a threesome, I’m afraid that Dave—that’s the husband, in case you were distracted thinking about dick—is stuck on the opposite coast. And I’m sorry to point out the larger problem than geography, which is that I agreed to a monogamous relationship,” Kerry blew a raspberry, beating House to the punch, “so I can’t join in with you and your boyfriend.”

House exaggerated a double take to cover a real double take. “I don’t have a boyfriend. I even do a monthly self-exam to make sure there are no signs of one forming.”

“You know who I mean. I can’t remember his name, but I’ve seen him with you at these things before. Kind of average looking guy with brown hair and bad ties, seems very sweet and cuddly, can often be spotted with you traipsing after him like a loyal dog?”

“His name is Wilson and I am not the dog. He’s my sidekick, everyone knows that.” House was glad he could be affronted by the accusation of hero worship, so he wouldn’t have to face how offended he was by anyone calling Wilson something as idiotic as ‘average.’

“I think everyone knows you two chase each other’s tails before anyone else’s.”

“Right. So, you’re jealous. Did you go and get married just so that you could get back at me for having a friend?”

“Yes, House, my marital life revolves entirely around you, a dude I encounter annually for mercenary sex.”

“Biennially would be enough to hook most people.”

“Yes, that’s why there’s this crowd of people around, hungering to know you biblically.”

“Well, other than naughty momma over here,” House hooked a thumb at their neighbors. Mother decided to take her daughter’s hand and their waffles to go.

“I’m sure there’s at least one man, woman, or gender-non-conforming person at this conference who’d be willing to jump in the sack with you. Maybe you should circulate a pamphlet detailing your qualifications.”

“You’d supply a glowing testimonial?”

“Of course,” Kerry nodded regally and recited, “Dr. House is attentive, thorough, and creative. Would recommend to any person or persons seeking meaningless but enjoyably distracting sexual encounter. 5 out of 5 stars.”

“Does Dave get 5 stars in your pamphlet?”

“Dave bought the printing press.”

“Yuck.”

“Affection is icky?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“That’s fair,” Kerry sipped her margarita straw primly. “At least you’re in the right place to find another person who’s allergic to human emotion.”

“Doctors are notoriously prone to sociopathy.”

“So, go find yourself a sexy sociopath. Just remember to check their closet for dismembered human remains before you take your pants off.”

This was solid advice, and House intended to take it, with just a simple shift in setting.

That bar he’d mentally circled in red with X-marks-the-spot earlier was starting to fill up when he finally wandered in late that afternoon. (He’d actually spent some time at the conference first—don’t tell Wilson—sneaking into the back of an unpopular panel on histology and showing his appreciation for their genuinely intriguing research by not asking a single question. Or throwing any shoes at their heads.)

A few co-ed types immediately caught his eye but didn’t hold it. After getting Kerry-baited he was in the mood for maturity. Maybe the conference would’ve been better hunting grounds, but that ran the risk of requiring polite professional conversation before the distraction, and he was not prepared to pretend to be fully human tonight. Besides, the ‘I’m a doctor’ line rather lost its shine in a room full of MDs.

He’d discounted the prospects of a C-cup bottle blonde (suspected halitosis), a freckled redhead (he wasn’t about to approach a ginger alone and unarmed), and a long-legged teacherly-looking type with dark tresses (the washable paint stains on her practical jeans indicated kindergarten, and he wasn’t looking to be put to bed with a lullaby at 8pm) when House spotted him.

Medium height, medium build, brown hair that curled around his ears. Slight dents at the temples from glasses he’d apparently discarded, given the slight glimmer of contact lenses in his dark eyes. Only had taken a single grimacing sip from the scotch wasting away in front of him. Nervous tic with the left ring finger—almost too easy a deduction. The tennis shoes at odds with the neatly pressed slacks was a little trickier clue, but followed from the first: recently separated or divorced, hitting the gym after work before he hits the singles market.

He was cute. He was vulnerable. He had brown hair. Two of the three were non-negotiable, and House had never cared much one way or another about cute.

House made his move before he could overthink it and end up retreating to the hotel room and his own lonely right hand.

“Have you considered a cocktail?”

“Huh?” Lonely Hearts Guy blinked big sad eyes up at House. Nice.

“If you’re not enjoying the scotch, get something to take the edge off.” House gestured for the bartender, “I promise your masculinity will survive a little fruit juice.” He was laying it on thick, and it was still sliding right off this dude. Explained the neutral choice in venue, definitely a newbie. That was cool.

“Get my friend here a Sex on the Beach. Extra entendre,” he winked and his intended victim bit his lip.

House slid the barely touched drink away from its unappreciative owner. “Personally, I like the burn,” he said, before downing it in one go. From the way this guy watched his throat work, House wasn’t even really going to have to try. Stealing third base before dinner, he predicted.

Man, men were easy. He needed to stretch his wings more.

House was enjoying watching the guy struggle up to an actual verbal response to the brazen flirtation when his phone rang. He cocked his head, keeping eye contact with his target as he slid a disinterested hand into his pocket and flipped open his cell.

“Hey.”

“Hey yourself.” Wilson. Naturally. “Surprised you even answered. Aren’t you occupied with flaming passion, or whatever?”

House explained simply, “Kerry went and got married.”

“That kind of rhymes.”

“Yeah, that was my big takeaway too.”

“Sorry. And, sorry. You wanna grab something to eat?”

House gave Desperate Divorcee another up-and-down visual inspection. Definitely something nice hiding under that ex-business-major wardrobe. He hadn’t even gotten the guy’s name. “Don’t you have big wigs and up-and-comers to schmooze with over the dinner table?”

“If I have to shake another hand I’ll kill myself. Or them. Or both.”

“Nothing like a conference to make you wish you were a hermit.”

“You would know. There’s an Italian place on the corner, I think the name starts with a G, and I’m craving ravioli. Meet you there?”

“Arrivederci.”

House clicked his phone shut and slid off the barstool. “Sorry. Gotta go.”

“Boyfriend?” The Could’ve Been guessed.

“No. Though you’re the second person today to think that.”

“Could we be on to something?”

“No,” House repeated, then jerked his chin towards the far side of the bar. “See that big guy over there? Sandy blonde, looks like his IQ is probably in the single digits?”

“Yeah?” More a nervous question than a confirmation.

“He just got dumped. Don’t ask me how I know,” House forestalled the question with a raised hand, “I know the same way I know that you’re freshly separated and wondering if the problem was the wife or just a wife. So, if you still wanna find out…” He raised a meaningful eyebrow and then followed up with an unsubtle pantomime involving his cane, figuring this guy probably needed the spelling out.

“Right. Uh, thanks?” More statements-that-thought-they-were-questions. Maybe House was lucky that he wasn’t getting lucky with this rocket scientist.

House took off for the restaurant he vaguely remembered being in spitting distance of the hotel’s far wing. That made it about six blocks away from the bar as the crow flies (so, more like eight blocks, as the House walks). This was approximately five blocks more than was a good idea on foot. Ideas being not-good, however, rarely stopped him.

Because he was a big strong man who didn’t need no help, he did not ask for directions. Therefore, like a big strong man, he fruitlessly hiked about half an exhausting mile before actually locating the place (whose name started a T, just for the record). House looked with a tired anger at the steep set of concrete steps leading down to the below-ground eatery, then marched into the drugstore above to inquire about a service elevator. Two conversations, a lost key for the basement level, and a very bumpy ride later, House was startling the kitchen staff and kicking open the employee-only doors with his cane to get into the restaurant’s main floor.

He zeroed in on the back of Wilson’s head and threw himself into the table’s opposite seat.

“Where did you come from?” Wilson asked with a quizzical glance towards the normie entrance.

“The land of Oz.”

Wilson looked behind himself and then back at the stairwell before realizing, “I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking—”

“Don’t,” House said crisply, and Wilson wisely dropped the line of conversation.

“So. I assume Kerry’s marriage is tragically closed to third parties?”

“Yep. Apparently the new guy is handsome and a total tightwad, speaking sexually.”

“You usually do.”

“So, the tail forecast is officially none with a chance of zip.”

“Tastefully put. I suggest you try and drink your problems away, like a responsible adult.”

“And this is…?” House tried to look at the label of the wine Wilson had already put a respectable dent in.

“Alcoholic,” Wilson plucked the bottle from his hand and poured him a generous glass.

“Ah, my favorite vintage. So…” House sipped the wine, agreed that ‘has a high percentage of alcohol’ was indeed its best trait, “what sorrows are you trying to drown in carbs and booze?”

“No actual sorrows. Sometimes I just forget what people are like.”

“People?”

“You know, human beings.”

“I’m familiar with the concept. Thought you were the expert.”

“Thought that too. But maybe I’m just the expert on you.”

A waiter swung in just then with two hot white ceramic plates, setting down marinara-smothered ravioli in front of Wilson, and what appeared to be Lasagna Bolognese in front of House.

House looked at the lasagna. The lasagna did not look back (undoubtedly, a good sign for the lasagna). He looked at Wilson. “You ordered for me?”

“Was I wrong?”

House twirled a fork across his knuckles then stabbed his entrée with a smile. “You’re avoiding answering my first question by making me ask a different question. I reiterate, what made you want to skip sharing this meal with one of your illustrious conference acquaintances and instead break bread with your admittedly sexy and debonair parasite?”

“Well, that’s the thing. You’re not a parasite. You’re the person I want to eat too much cheese and drink too much wine with.” Wilson shrugged.

House pondered. He then diagnosed, “You’ve already had too much wine.” He picked up the bottle. “Have some more.”

Wilson did have more. Much more. A drunk Wilson was a rare Wilson these days, and House shamelessly egged him on, curious in what direction the sudden lack of impulse control may take his inebriated friend.

It mainly took him in the direction of scarfing ravioli and laughing too loudly at even House’s most shoddily crafted jokes. Wilson was loose-limbed and even looser with smiles, so House didn’t think too hard about how what started as a childish series of kicks under the table during dessert had morphed into a discreet game of footsie.

They left through the kitchen after a luxurious multi-hour meal, House scowling at the staff while Wilson handed out apologetic smiles, and made their slightly unsteady way back out through the drug store and onto the chilly, windswept Chicago street.

“Alright, um…Angelina Jolie…and Nicole Kidman….” Wilson racked his brains, “and…insert the name of another female celebrity here.”

“Insert a joke about insertion here. And, Cameron Diaz,” House completed the fuck-marry-kill trio of possibilities, “You really need to spend less time reading medical journals and more perusing the gossip magazines. It’ll do you a world of good.”

“I’m sure. Anyway, what’re your answers?”

“Well, obviously I have to kill Diaz. She’s got a crazy energy, can’t trust that. She’d absolutely poison my Cheerios.”

“To be fair, most people would poison you if given the opportunity.”

“You haven’t poisoned me yet.”

“Well, I’m not that bright.”

“And I don’t want to get into that post-Cruise mess with Kidman long-term. So, it looks like a night of magical passion with Nicole and a ball-and-chain with Angelina.”

“I’ve got another one for you.” Wilson’s smile betrayed what he clearly thought was going to be a curveball question. House bet himself a million dollars this would be about his three little kiddie doctors.

“That’s not how it works.”

“Oh, you make the rules now?”

“I always make the rules.”

Blundering on unrepentantly, Wilson announced, “Fuck, marry, kill…Cameron, Chase, and Foreman.”

Wow, what a genius you are! House congratulated himself. Tragically unrecognized and unappreciated, but still a genius.

House sighed, putting on a bigger show of annoyance than he felt. “Fine, if you insist. Well, I obviously have to marry Cameron, she’s the only one I have a chance of surviving cohabitation with.”

Wilson shrugged, “I give it a year.”

“Only a year before the divorce?”

“No, a year before I track down the mysterious method she used to kill you, and I avenge your death. Obviously you’d be in the ground within a month.”

“Right. Your confidence warms my heart.”

“Oh, I’m confident. Confident nobody can live with you and not turn into an Agatha Christie villain.”

“Speaking of murder! Naturally, I’m going to kill Chase, purely for the pleasure of it,” House continued, shepherding Wilson through the hotel’s revolving door, which challenged his current motor skills.

“Ugh. You’d make me help you hide the body, wouldn’t you?”

“Who else? Hope you’ve got a lot of bleach.”

“Which only leaves…”

“A night of terrible, frustrating, resentful sex with Foreman.”

“This got disturbing.”

“I don’t know what else you expected. Now shut up for a second, it’s my turn. Let’s see…” They waited for the hotel elevator, House watching the dim evening light cast Wilson’s face into noir shadows. “Ah, I know what you need, Mr. Late Night Vintage Movie Marathon.” House held up three triumphant fingers and counted off, “Fuck-marry-kill, Humphrey Bogart, Danny Kaye…and Jimmy Stewart.”

Wilson gasped, partly for effect and partly because he actually was drunk enough to be shaken by the evocation of his favorite Hitchcock star.

“You’re going to force me to kill a classic of the silver screen?”

“I’m also gonna force you get lucky with and hitched to some stars of the silver screen, so don’t complain.”

“Well…obviously. Obviously. I have to marry Mr. James Stewart.”

“You do already share a name.”

“We share a heart. And if I took his last name, we’d have the same full name. And that seems funny.”

“It’s not.”

“Let me have this. Okay? Okay. Okay, um, so when they say ‘kill’ in fuck-marry-kill, is it about—about, like, successfully killing someone, or just attempted murder?”

“Where are you going with this?”

“I’m going—I’m goin, you see,” Wilson gestured and the enthusiasm of it had him dipping dangerously starboard. House sighed and ducked in under his raised arm, acting as the extra leg Wilson so clearly needed, three sheets to the wind as he was. “Thank you,” Wilson said very sweetly, and House viciously smacked the elevator “up” button with the foot of his cane to avoid meeting Wilson’s eyes.

“What was I saying?”

“I think you were trying to wriggle out of taking the life of a dead movie star. Coward.”

“Oh, yes. Yes. Because have you seen Danny Kaye?”

“Not recently.”

“He’s slippery. I mean that as a compliment! But, if that tall, slender, bisexual minx saw some…some very, very handsome and talented but senselessly bloodthirsty doctor sneaking up on him with a carving knife, I think he’d be pretty…pretty darn fast on his feet. He’d be out the window like that!” Wilson snapped his fingers and the elevator doors opened with pleasing timing.

“Fine. I’ll accept the attempted murder of Danny Kaye as an alternative to completed murder, since it means you’ll be on the run for the rest of your life, and that’s debatably worse.”

“Aaand it means I get to go all the way with Humphrey Bogart. And that’s worth being pursued by the police.” Wilson leaned back against the elevator’s mirrored wall, head lolling and grin wide. House politely allowed him to remain in the Bogart-hookup-fantasy for the ride up. Not because it was fun and a little hot to watch Wilson looking free and turned on, of course, but simply because House was a bastion of good manners.

“Alright,” Wilson gripped the elevator banister and shoved off, propelling himself through the doors as they were decanted onto their floor. “It’s my turn again, and I have one…”

“This game is getting boring,” House grumbled.

“No, you’re just getting bored.”

“Is there a difference?”

“Grace! Kelly!” Wilson shouted and House rocked back on his heels, wincing. “And…Katharine Hepburn.”

“She was totally a lesbian.”

“Maybe so. But this game does not discriminate. And…shit, can you think of…a woman?”

Wilson was thinking so hard, his eyebrows were all pinched and his lips were pursed and he suddenly grabbed House’s shoulders with both hands so he could gaze into his eyes in the apparent search for the name of a woman, any woman. House was, himself, not thinking of women at the moment.

“Pfft,” Wilson suddenly laughed, “I’m so stupid.”

“Hmm, I don’t think I’ve heard of her.”

“Marilyn…Monroe…” Wilson punctuated each syllable with a gentle pat of his palm against House’s cheek. House wasn’t sure what this emphasis was meant to accomplish. He now knew that Wilson’s hands were very, very soft. This did not seem useful knowledge for the current game.

House let his own hands travel to Wilson’s elbows, ostensibly to remove his wandering fingers from House’s facial region. This was not actually what he did. Instead, he just sort of embraced Wilson’s elbows and stared into his pretty brown eyes or whatever. Allegedly. But facts are really so difficult to pin down sometimes, aren’t they?

“Excuse me, gents,” a balding man carrying a bottle of champagne and all the symptoms of an affair-in-progress squeezed past them in the hall, buffeting a highly suggestible Wilson into House’s arms.

“Oops,” Wilson faceplanted into House’s chest and sent them both tumbling back against the hall’s shiny striped wallpaper.

“Give me a break,” House complained as Wilson snuffled against his collarbone and clutched at his waist for balance. Who was he asking for a break and from what, you may wonder? Thanks for your curiosity, but House wasn’t answering any more questions.

“You do still have to answer the question,” Wilson announced, like he was reading House’s mind, which he probably was, the cheeky fucker.

“What question.” Was the question whether or not he’d like Wilson to get out of his personal space? Because the Magic 8 Ball says ‘answer unclear’ and also ‘fuck off it’s none of your business if I like how warm he feels.’

“Fuck! Marry! Kill!” Wilson said, way too loudly for the given context.

“I will do all three to you if you don’t shut up and get in our room.”

“You can’t choose me,” Wilson argued, baffled, “I’m not one of the options.”

“Then get off me. I can barely walk for one person, much less two.” House shoved Wilson away and shuffled down the hall, wrestling his jeans pocket for the stupid electronic key to their stupid shared room with the two stupid big beds—

“Wait, fine, okay…” Wilson followed too close behind, wine breath on House’s ear, “You’re bored with the old celbret—celebert—famous. People. You want real options…”

“I want nothing but real peace and quiet,” House replied waspishly, throwing his weight against the door as soon as the lock blinked green.

Wilson stumbled through the suddenly open door, only avoiding eating shit on the hotel carpet by virtue of House grabbing the back of his belt as he passed.

“Jesus, Wilson. Get your shit together. I’m not supposed to be the responsible one in this relationship.”

“Yeah, it must be a total buzzkill,” Wilson grinned and resumed using House for balance as he announced, “New fuck-marry-kill. Me. Cuddy. And—”

“Kill Hepburn.”

Wilson rolled his eyes. “That’s not—”

“You said you had one more,” House emphasized, “I will do one more. Because I am a handsome, suave, and virile man of my word. I repeat: Kill Hepburn.”

Wilson hung his head in acceptance. It bobbed back up as he noted with an imaginative twinkle in his eye, “I dunno, she’d put up a fight.”

“She definitely would. Tough cookie. Maybe she can join Danny Kaye in his journey for revenge on his would-be assassin.”

“Are you and me…on the run, together, in this scenario?”

Yes. House had obviously, automatically, naturally imagined himself and Wilson in matching black leather, taking to the wide open road as they fled the law’s punishment for their transgressions against long dead stars and starlets. Irrelevant.

“I’ll marry Grace Kelly,” House continued calmly, “And you’d hang around me even more than usual for the opportunity to flirt with your second favorite Hitchcock blonde. Seems like the least disruptive option.”

“It seems like I’m fucking your wife in this scenario.”

“You can fuck us both if that would ease your conscience.”

Wilson had to give that one some thought.

“And that leaves Marilyn…” House watched the gears turning in Wilson’s head. “I mean, there was only ever one option with…her. If you’re standing in front of someone…with that soft hair…” House’s hands were misbehaving. They looked like they were framing Wilson’s face, sneaking into his hair. Felt like it too. “And that big, warm, welcoming smile…” Wilson wasn’t smiling, it was something more intense, like fascination. Apprehension. Anticipation? “And that perfect little beauty mark…” House’s thumb brushed along the line of Wilson’s bottom lip, tracing out to press into that sweet little mole that accented his jaw. How many times had he thought about doing this, touching him like this, holding him like this?

He leaned forward and kissed Wilson’s jaw, right on his Monroe-esque mark, because if he didn’t do it he was going to go completely fucking crazy, and then he kissed Wilson on the lips because hell, he was in the neighborhood—

Wilson’s mouth opened against his and House bailed as fast as his one-and-a-half legs could take him.

He left Wilson near the door and got Wilson’s bed safely between them. He’d prefer if a less tempting bit of furniture was acting as his personal wall of Jericho, but beggars can’t be choosers.

“You kissed me.” Wilson’s words were toneless, no clues.

“No, I didn’t,” House countered hopefully, “You’re just drunk.”

“I’m suddenly very sober.” He did look sober. Violently so. Probably his drunkenness had had more to do with the social contract allowing for stupid behavior while under the influence than a half bottle of wine taken with copious amounts of pasta.

House wasn’t actually interested in the differential for sobriety.

“Fine. You caught me. I kissed you.” House put his hands in the air. “Arrest me.”

“Why did you do it?”

House mimicked a buzzer noise. “Dull. More interesting and important question, what are you going to do about it?”

“Why?” Wilson repeated, heedless of House revving up his defensive theatrics.

“You could hit me, if you wanted,” House offered his chin.

“I don’t want to hit you. Which,” Wilson added after a beat, “I realize is something you don’t hear very often. Why did you kiss me?” He started to advance around the bed and House realized he’d committed a tactical error by boxing himself in between the two mattresses.

“The usual reasons. Tax write-off. Nothing good on TV. Because it was there.” House could keep babbling nonsense until the cows came home but Wilson was getting close now and his only escape route was overland across his bed. Getting chased across a big cushy hotel mattress by a determined Wilson would only end one way at this point.

He made the dive.

Wilson intercepted, throwing an arm around House’s middle and flipping his momentum so he fell back on his ass on Wilson’s bed instead. He sat there, dizzy with more feelings than he knew even existed, Wilson looming above him with his hands on his hips. Wilson’s belt buckle was at House’s eye level, which felt like a particularly dirty move.

“You really want me in your bed, huh?” he muttered, hooking two fingers into Wilson’s waistband because it was right there.

Wilson covered House’s wandering hand with his own, gripping hard to keep him still. “Why did you kiss me?”

“I’ll answer your question if you answer one of mine,” House bargained, speaking to Wilson’s tie (a boring red stripe that House wanted to wrap his hand around and tug like a leash). “Why don’t I annoy you anymore?”

Wilson’s frustrated confusion was palpable. “Excuse me?”

“I know you haven’t developed sudden hearing loss, so I guess you’re trying to avoid the question and play for time.”

“No, I was just giving you a chance to correct your mistake. Because, you know, you asked why I don’t find you annoying.”

“You barely find me annoying. It’s practically imperceptible.”

“Right,” Wilson brusquely yanked House’s curious fingers up and away from his slacks, the better to put a couple feet of puce carpet between them, “The ulcers, heart murmur, and deep-set anxiety are so easy to ignore.”

“You have one of three, at best, and not because of me. Well, not just because of me.”

“I’m sorry, I still can’t answer this question, because I don’t understand the terms.”

“Listen!” House threw up his hands, wishing for a visual aid, “If I had my whiteboard and plotted a graph of your exasperation levels on the y-axis matched to time on the x, we would be heading at a precipitously downward angle.”

“Don’t say ‘precipitously’ when I’m still drunk, it hurts my brain.”

“Why don’t I annoy you anymore?”

“You annoy the hell out of me!” Wilson shouted, and it was a measure of his emotion that he only stole a fleeting glance of embarrassment at the thin hotel walls. “You still annoy me,” he repeated. “You will always annoy me. I will be annoyed by you…til death do us part.”

“Let’s say I believe you. After all, you’ve allowed divorce to part you from three wives, but I haven’t shaken you loose yet. I can only conclude that you get off on being pissed off.”

Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose. A clumsy move to avoid eye contact. House mentally deducted two points from their eternal scoreboard. “Yeah. Sure. I mean, for fuck’s sake, House, do you think I’d be here if I wasn’t enjoying myself? I’m not a masochist.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“No, you’re not,” House finally agreed, drawing his index finger slowly across his chin as he incorporated this new perspective. “The game?”

Wilson shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You can’t acknowledge it. That would break the rules.” House stood heavily, letting the space between them shrink past 90s-box-TV conversational to intimate filmic close-up. “Wilson’s the good guy, he doesn’t play games, and he certainly doesn’t enjoy them. I make you play and you love it. It’s not just how badly I need you. You need me too.”

Wilson kissed him. No mistaking it, Wilson was the initiator and boy did he initiate.

House was almost frustrated he couldn’t see the look on Wilson’s face, the look that would prove House was right, but who cares about seeing it when he was tasting it?

House reveled in the win-win: either they'd stop to talk about their apparently mutual attraction (getting under Wilson's skin, metaphorically) or he got to keep kissing Wilson (and get under his skin, literally).

Wilson broke their embrace with an angry huff, but he didn’t go far, trapped in the gravity well.

“Oh, you’re in a pickle now!” House used his cartoon announcer voice, and he would have put more body comedy into it, but he wasn’t willing to give away the necessary personal space. “You either have to talk to me, which you’re suddenly loath to do, or you need to fuck me into shutting up. And I’ll tell you now, that won’t be easy.”

“I can’t…we can’t.”

“Sure, we can. It’s common enough. I’d bet you the hospital’s annual budget that half the visiting doctors on this floor are currently engaged in the noble tradition of inconsequential conference sex.”

Wilson shook his head again, but his hands were still gripping House’s hips, so it wasn’t super convincing. “We can’t have inconsequential conference sex.”

“Why not?”

“Because it wouldn’t be inconsequential.”

“By definition, inconsequential conference sex is inconsequential.”

“That’s semantics.”

“Ooh, talk dirty to me, doc,” House ran a knuckle down Wilson’s loose tie and was rewarded with a satisfying shiver. “I really think you’re missing the point of inconsequential conference sex.”

“Can we stop saying ‘inconsequential conference sex’?”

“How about ‘ICS.’”

“That sounds like a bowel condition.”

“Listen,” House stopped pussyfooting around—because ‘pussyfooting’ was a stupid word and he wanted nothing to do with it—and demanded to know, “do you wanna fuck me or not?”

“Yes!”

This immediacy and certainty of the answer was a surprise to both of them.

“Hmm. How long have you had these symptoms, sir?”

“Shut up.” Wilson said this often enough for it to be a non-registering phrase.

“Then be a man, and do something about it.”

For the second time in as many minutes, Wilson took the only guaranteed path to getting House to shut the fuck up.

Wilson grabbed House’s face in both his hands and kissed him, even harder than before. Nowhere was the gentle caution that marked their rare platonic touches—this wasn’t Wilson putting his hand on House’s shoulder, slow and careful like he was a horse ready to kick. This was Wilson getting a fist in the short back of House’s hair and tugging while his tongue traced House’s teeth.

It bordered on rough but it was still warm, Wilson’s trademark soft heat radiating into House’s skin and bones and tearing through his defenses like they were especially flammable tissue paper. House was reminded of why it had been of paramount importance to keep a safe—indeed, properly misanthropic—distance between them before. Even a kind brotherly hand to the elbow could’ve ignited something. Too late to worry about that, with the house burning down around them.

“Bed,” Wilson ordered against House’s mouth, kissing him once more before shoving him down to bounce on the mattress. House let himself be manhandled, using the logic of laziness to justify someone else doing all the damn work for once. Wilson spread House’s thighs to make room for himself, hands in places that were dangerous for different reasons, leaning down until they were chest to chest and mouth to mouth again.

Pleasure crackled a disused path up House’s spine as Wilson grabbed his ass then pulled House’s good knee up to wrap around his hips. House thought about all those wives and all the women in between (and maybe men, too, now there was a whole ‘nother group for him to jealously hoard Wilson away from) and he wondered if Wilson had molded himself to each and every one of their desires too.

And then it changed, and House realized.

Wilson was a reverse honey trap. Prickly to match House’s defenses at first, but all sweetness inside, and House had rolled out the fucking welcome mat.

Too late now. He couldn’t get out from under Wilson even if he wanted to, and the brutal fact remained that he did not want to.

Wilson’s kisses weren’t frantic anymore, the hunger still vibrating under the surface but each touch was first and foremost tender. He kissed across House’s face, attending to jawline and cheekbone and nose and forehead. He pressed his lips to House’s closed eyes, his eyebrows, and House wanted to shake out of his skin.

“If you don’t stop—” he growled, glad that at least his voice was steady, even if absolutely nothing else was.

“Stop?” Wilson repeated patiently, pulling back so cold air could sweep in where his body had been.

“That is not what I meant.”

“Oh, I know.” Wilson cradled House’s cheek, and House seriously considered biting his hand. Then Wilson slipped his thumb into House’s mouth and biting was suddenly off the menu.

“I knew you’d be good at that,” Wilson breathed, pad of his thumb pressing on House’s tongue, “always showing off with those suckers.” House could hear the silent ‘you big slut’ at the end of that sentence, politely left off because apparently Wilson’s dirty talk was PG on the first fuck.

He bent back down to recapture House’s mouth, wet thumb dragging through his stubble before Wilson’s hand closed lightly around his throat. House’s hips jerked up and Wilson ground down and made a pleased sound between a laugh and a groan and if House couldn’t get Wilson’s shirt off in the next ten seconds he was going to commit some sort of federal offense.

Wilson decided to be helpful and so with the practical knowledge of two medical degrees they managed to disappear his shirt and tie onto the floor. House dragged open palms down Wilson’s chest and back, collecting all kinds of delicious somatic data with reverence. He ignored Wilson’s attempts to do the same to him, because no one could accuse him of being helpful.

Where his hands didn’t succeed, Wilson decided to apply his mouth to the disrobing efforts. He slid suddenly down House’s front to bury his face in the strip of skin exposed from his rucked-up shirt. He nipped and licked his way upwards and yeah, fine, point to Wilson—House finally let him push his T-shirt and rumpled button-down over his head and off his shoulders because he’d give anything for the cause of getting Wilson’s hot tongue against his skin.

“What do you want, House?” Wilson asked from the neighborhood of his clavicle. “What do you want me to do to you?”

Between listing a creative litany of sex acts and being an asshole, there really was no choice. “Oh, am I in charge? Didn’t you once say you were the boss in this relationship?” He smirked down at Wilson, who rolled his eyes from beneath his fringe of disarrayed hair, “You still wanna tell me to do your laundry right now?”

“Only if ‘laundry’ is an unusual euphemism.”

“Do me like the laundry,” House tested it out with a slow drawl, “nope, I—” His negative assessment of what was, in his opinion, an unimaginative simile, collapsed into a moan because Wilson was attacking his belt with both hands and had his teeth in the elastic of his briefs like some kind of lunatic.

House couldn’t watch as Wilson eagerly dragged his jeans and underwear off. He started a staring contest with the ceiling light fixture instead. Two dead bugs visible against the buttery ceramic casing. Wilson kissed along the inside of his left leg and then dodged right and tried to put his mouth in the one place House didn’t want it, and House swatted him irritably away, still not looking down. Spiderweb of cracks in the paint. Maybe three bugs in that light.

“Alright,” Wilson breathed against House’s stomach, returning to safer altitudes. “I assume given your intended conference-of-debauchery that you didn’t come here unprepared?”

House grinned. He slung his arm out and knocked meaningfully on Wilson’s half of the bedside table. Wilson narrowed his eyes and pulled open the drawer. He sighed. He retrieved a package of condoms and gestured sternly with them.

“You were gonna fuck Kerry in my bed?”

“I was gonna fuck Kerry in a lot more places than just your bed.” House inspected Wilson’s features—conveniently close and in tracing-with-the-tip-of-his-finger distance—and asked with a caustic edge, “Jealous?”

“If I’m going to be jealous of every person you’ve slept with, then we’ll be here all night, and not in the fun way. You’re already covered, I guess. You saved a lot of effort by being jealous in real time. Is this,” Wilson tweaked House’s nipple (Hey ump! Foul!), “why you sabotaged, interrupted, and generally butted into every romantic relationship I ever attempted to have?”

“Don’t turn this into a real conversation,” House grumbled, “Let’s go back to the part where you’re saying how badly you want me.”

“There was no part where I said that.”

“Then this conversation has gone terribly awry.”

House tangled both hands in Wilson’s illegally soft hair and kissed him before more talking could intercede in the non-talking activities.

Although a noble attempt, it didn’t last. Wilson’s mouth wandered off the beaten path and after he’d finished nibbling at House’s earlobe and generally driving him to distraction and back, he was talking again.

“Are you sure about this? Are you…really going to let me have you?”

The note of wonder in Wilson’s voice was way too much. And the words themselves? Hardly bore thinking about. It was definitely time for violence.

House sank his teeth into the juncture of Wilson’s neck and shoulder, just shy of really-not-kidding-around. Wilson gasped and clutched at the bedframe and his head sank to House’s chest. House released him with a satisfied grin.

“Yeah.” House helped himself to two handfuls of Wilson’s ass, kneading through his slacks, “I’m gonna need to see the merchandise before I agree to terms.”

A light red flush was spreading across Wilson’s chest as he slipped away to stand and House was fighting the urge to bite again. He crushed the pillow more comfortably beneath his head, mostly to keep his hands from misbehaving while Wilson got to his feet and very slowly—excuse him, there was no call for this torture—undid his belt and unzipped his fly. Just when House was trying to wade through his brain fog for an appropriately snide comment—

> …something about…strippers…

> slow SLOW

> hurry the FUCK up

> hey wait here’s the stripper one:

> do you charge by the minute, or what?

—Wilson finally dropped trou like a big boy. And, well. ‘Big boy’ pretty much covered it. Not in some absurd pornographic way, just in a ‘gee, I sure would like that inside of me’ kinda way. Which, to be candid, was the only way House’s brain was working right now.

“Get back down here,” House said, and he said it very seriously.

With gratifying speed, Wilson complied.

They kissed, messy and hurried, a distraction and a promise all at once. Despite his significant wants, turning quickly to needs, House wasn’t prepared to move into checkmate. Wilson would have to be the first to prove he was all in if he wanted to get in this.

The fallout of either of them being ‘all in’ on a self-labelled inconsequential hookup was not something House cared to linger on. It would hurt. It always hurt. At least this would be a new hurt. New was good.

“Okay. Okay.” Wilson brushed the hair off his forehead with a practiced automatic swipe, soft brown eyes hotter than House had ever seen. He wanted to freeze the moment in time and study it. “You’re sure? We’re doing this?”

“Not if you keep asking me—”

“Alright,” Wilson covered House’s mouth with one hand and stretched to retrieve the lube with the other.

House submitted to more rearranging of pillows and comforter and limbs on the bed, going cold and disinterested when Wilson tried to be careful with what was left of his bad leg. Wilson’s fingers brushed the scarred, gaping hole and House returned to spending time observing his good friends, the dead hotel light fixture insects.

Wilson clicked the cap on the lube and took a tentative nip at House’s hipbone and House rejoined the moment. He heard the noiseless whisper of Wilson’s lips parting to Say Something.

“Do. Not. Talk.” House threatened. He didn’t know what he was threatening, but he sure meant it.

“I was just going to comment on the current state of the stock market, but I suppose that can wait,” Wilson said mildly, and when that forced a laugh from House he got to work.

At the first press, House bit his lip. It had been a while. He was getting to an age where he didn’t want strangers rearranging his guts (in either a sexy or a medicinal sense), and trusted partners were in short supply. Not that he’d ever been big on trust. But he’d always been big on sensation and that had trumped other, paranoiac inclinations. He leaned on those memories and tried to relax.

Wilson slid back up his body so he could kiss him while he stretched him open, and House hated that it worked. That he chased Wilson’s mouth when he pushed a few centimeters between them for breath.

This was taking too long. Time for a favored pastime: breaking his own rules.

“Don’t be gentle,” House spat.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It is. Stop it.”

“Or what?” Wilson pressed an open-mouthed kiss above House’s heart and House wished his hand didn’t automatically sink into Wilson’s hair to keep him pressed there. So many traitorous appendages acting up right now.

“I can’t—can’t think right now. For. Reasons. But later. I’ll do something to you.”

“I can’t wait.” Wilson twisted his fingers and House couldn’t complain that it was too gentle, even if he had the air to speak.

His spine arched and Wilson nosed his way along the column of House’s throat. House sank his nails into Wilson’s smooth back, thinking—hoping—he’d get a chance to tear it open before the night was over.

Then he slid his hands lower. Around to Wilson’s sides.

He tickled Wilson’s ribs.

“Hey!” Wilson tried to jerk away but House was undeterred. “Stop that, you—” Wilson couldn’t finish the toothless insult because he was too busy choking on giggles.

There it is, House said only to himself. That smile. Those dimples. If a tree falls in the forest but Wilson isn’t there to laugh, then it’s not a tree that’s worth a damn. Or something.

House felt strangely cognizant of the fact that he must be losing his mind.

He was watching Wilson gasp for breath, eyes squeezed shut and smile still easy on his lips, and he wanted to rake his claws into the exposed feelings, he was going to—

He kissed Wilson, he kissed him through the last of the laughter and into whatever was next and he poured everything into it no matter if it was some fucked up good or mundane evil and he wrapped his arms around him and wouldn’t let go even if it suffocated them both.

You think because kindness is your weapon, you can’t be killed by it? If I burn, you burn with me.

“Do it,” he whispered, voice cracking against Wilson’s reddened lips, his stubble-burned chin, “now.”

It wasn’t obedience that had Wilson sliding inside, pressing past physical and emotional barriers House would’ve sworn just an hour ago were impenetrable (insert penetration joke here—wait, he’d never figured out that ‘insert’ pun from earlier…hell, his wise-cracking circuits were really fucking fried).

“Oh, god,” Wilson gritted his teeth against the skin of House’s shoulder.

“Just Greg is fine.”

“Not calling you ‘Greg.’ House.”

“Good.” House didn’t know what that meant. A lone train of thought would anxiously pick apart that statement while the rest of him was at Defcon Four of body-pleasure-pain.

Wilson found a rhythm almost immediately. Goldilocks zone of speed and pressure. No complaints from the home office.

Lots of practice, House supposed, and an angry wave rolled through his body. He wasn’t usually jealous, or rather, he was deeply jealous, all the way down to a molecular level, but not in the sense of denying lovers the right to a past. Of course, Wilson was an exception that had House developing some Genghis Khan, serial killer kind of feelings beating a tattoo of mine-mine-mine on the inside of his skull.

“You feel incredible. Let me—ah—” Wilson’s fingers sank into the flesh of House’s hips as he adjusted their angle and House’s eyes closed of their own accord as his hands scrabbled over Wilson’s back, his shoulders, those strong forearms that always teased him when they peeked out of rolled up sleeves…

House pried one of Wilson’s hands free and pulled it up over their heads. Wilson got with the program and interlaced their fingers, pressing House’s hand back into the sheets, holding him down as he took him, faster, harder.

“Fuck, House, it’s so good. You’re so good…” Wilson was incapable of shutting up. House found that he loved it, actually, not that he intended to admit it to anyone, including Wilson, God, or whatever law enforcement official he assumed would eventually waterboard him in the natural course of life.

House, on the other hand, was packed to the ceilings with silence.

Words and comebacks and insults pecked at the walls but nothing was getting out. He always said the wrong thing, he prided himself on it, he worked on it, finely honed act-and-react experiments to locate the ideal mixtures of verb and noun precisely calculated to produce the desired reactions of disgust and rage.

He knew how to get the other stuff, too. Joy and respect and gratitude. He could do it, he just didn’t usually bother, because it was boring and meaningless.

This wasn’t boring or meaningless.

But he didn’t want to do it. Didn’t want to get what he wanted and know he only got it because he pulled the right strings. He couldn’t say a thing. Not now. It would taint the results.

A gasp snuck past his guard, and no officer he had no idea where that moan came from, and whatever his hands said when they stroked Wilson’s hair or scratched up his back was not admissible in court.

Wilson kept whispering, sweet things and dirty things and desperate things, and House ate them all up and waited to hear the one in a million that might mean nothing to Wilson, the boy who cried love, but which would change the rules of the game for House.

Say it say it say it. Say it, c’mon I know you want to. You love everybody, you love me, I know you love me of course you love me, why aren’t you saying it, if you feel it you’d say it, you’re saying everything else, please do not make me fucking say please, please say it—

A fever pitch rose and House lost even this golden thread, pulse beating loud in his ears, and perception of the universe narrowing to friction and flesh.

Wilson came suddenly with a harsh exhale and an oath, hand squeezing House’s hip hard enough to leave finger-shadow bruises. The pressure and heat faded and Wilson pulled out with a kiss to House’s temple, which was unacceptably sweet, he would certainly be having a word with the manager.

Needles pricked House’s fingers and toes, itching with unspent energy, and he was all set to get back to his regularly scheduled asshole commentary if this motherfucker didn’t do something and soon—

Wilson slid clumsily down House’s body and didn’t say a word before sucking House into his mouth. His clever tongue moved with purpose and one soft hand took what his throat couldn’t and House racked up a few choice remarks about ‘who has an oral fixation again?’ that he’d make when he wasn’t busy groaning and stroking Wilson’s jaw, feeling himself move in and out through the skin of his cheek.

House came mostly in Wilson’s mouth but a little on his face too and the sight was nearly enough to knock another wave out of him, pushing-fifty-and-exhausted or not.

Wilson kept their eyes locked as he crawled up on his elbows back until they were face to face, then very slowly and purposefully kissed House, smearing his mouth with his own come and then licking it away, dragging his tongue across House’s stubble until he shuddered.

“Fuck,” was House’s first contribution to the conversation, and he figured it pretty much covered the essentials.

“We sure did,” Wilson agreed, sliding just enough off of House that he wasn’t crushing him under his sated weight. He propped himself up on one arm, leaving his other hand free to trace elaborate patterns across House’s chest. He closed his eyes as he kissed House’s shoulder, and House took the moment of privacy to try and expel all the horrible feelings of peace and contentment that were burrowing heavy roots into his bones.

It didn’t work. He still wanted to kiss the knuckles of Wilson’s hands and listen to him complain about trivial things and steal food off his plate only to feed it back to him and let his fingers linger against his lips—

Slightly panicked, House hid his face in Wilson’s hair and breathed deeply, wondering if this condition was fatal or if he’d be a normal fucking guy in a few minutes when his neurochemistry settled down.

“You okay?” Wilson asked, because he was a Grade A jerk like that.

“No, I’m House.”

“Hmm. It’s a joke, which is a good sign, but a lazy one, which maybe isn’t.”

“Psychoanalysis is a good way to get your subscription to this ass cancelled.”

“Well, I don’t want to risk that.” Wilson sounded unaccountably pleased, and House had to pull back to get a look at his face and compile evidence. That blissful expression wasn’t a credit to the joke, certainly, but presumably to House’s talents in bed, which wasn’t so scary. Unless it wasn’t just the sex, but the more, that had Wilson looking so unbearably soft and happy and forever-able.

“A dozen years of friendship,” Wilson murmured, brow creasing. House chased the change, smoothing a thumb along the line until it disappeared back into a smile. “Why haven’t we done this before?”

It was a question House had expected. He had several prepared answers, but discarded them in favor of a combination of misdirection and truth, “Well, you were married for most of it. And I was stupid for all of it.”

Okay, House noted as he was engulfed in a fiery kiss, Wilson thinks glib humility is very hot.

“Plus,” House said as he urged Wilson to take his ministrations to the tender part of his neck, “you’re not usually such a whore after half a bottle of wine. I’ve had you drunk plenty of times but never with such satisfying results.”

Wilson laughed against the dip of House’s collarbone, “I think this was a lot less to the credit of the wine than you’re making out.”

“Oh? So, I didn’t have to ply you with spirits to get you into bed?”

“The way I remember it, I was the one doing the plying.”

“In multiple ways,” House said with satisfaction, “and I never said I was easy.”

“You sure fucking aren’t,” Wilson smiled, pointer finger tracing the shell of House’s ear. “But you wouldn’t be fun if you were easy.”

“I don’t think there’s any risk of me being less difficult in the future, don’t worry.”

“Oh, I’m so relieved.”

Wilson nuzzled at House’s neck. House let his eyes close. He considered falling asleep. Or rather, he considered how he was so tired that sleep would soon not be a choice. Damn, it had been too long since he got fucked into unconsciousness, it was way better than getting whiskey-ed to sleep.

Wilson’s hand stilled on House’s chest. “So, let me get this straight.”

“Huh?” House blinked, then recouped, “Oh, too late for that.”

“This,” Wilson waved away the obvious joke and gestured to the wrecked bed in one smooth gesture, “doesn’t really count. Because it’s at a conference.”

Doesn’t really count. Conference. Right. House vengefully kicked a lingering tender emotion back under the mental rug before answering, “Yep. That is the beauty of ICS.”

“I mean, it’s a totally arbitrary construction.”

“So are those painted lines on the road. They still work.”

“Fine. To keep with your metaphor, we’re exiting the friends-with-benefits highway…when?”

“When do you think?”

“Oh, please don’t pull that with me—”

“I’ll pull anything I damn well—”

“Stop, never mind!” Wilson surrendered, then kissed House’s nose unexpectedly, which made House blink and twitch like a startled hare. “I shouldn’t have brought it up. You’re the king of avoiding issues, I am but a humble jester in your court.”

“Jester…” House echoed vaguely, feeling wildly on-the-wrong-foot.

“No need to spoil the afterglow.”

“Uh huh.”

Wilson tucked his face neatly into the crook of House’s neck and shoulder, one arm wrapped tightly around House’s middle like he might make a break for it in the middle of the night. Who could say that he wouldn’t? It did sound like House. But House had the warm line of Wilson’s body pressed up all along his, the gentle in-and-out of Wilson’s breathing against his shoulder, the strong beat of his pulse against House’s fingers when he wrapped a cautious hand around Wilson’s wrist. He wasn’t going anywhere.

It was late and their limbs were wine-sleepy, tangled together in sweaty sheets and not caring that they’d wake up sticky and sore. Those were problems for tomorrow House and tomorrow Wilson, and frankly, those sons of bitches had bigger issues than the state of their bedclothes to worry about.

“Goodnight, House,” Wilson murmured sleepily, each syllable a comforting brush of lips against House’s skin.

House generated and evaluated possible responses.

> I want to bury my face in your hair forever I never want to smell anything else

> If you ever try to leave me I’ll kill you or myself, whichever’s easier

> These feelings always end up destroying me

> But I can’t let that happen to you

“Goodnight, Wilson.”

Chapter Text

Day 2

Saturday, 8:03 AM

House was experiencing a very strange sensation. It greatly resembled waking up in the morning, except it couldn’t possibly be that, as it was missing all sorts of important hallmarks of that experience such as Ouch and Hell-damn-and-hell-again and Consciousness Was A Mistake. Also, this particular suite of feelings included a warm body against his back, a soft hand on his hip, and playful teeth nipping at his ear.

He was no doctor (ha) but he was pretty sure that meant he wasn’t alone. Which was unusual.

“G’mphm?” he inquired.

“Morning,” Wilson replied.

Right. Wilson. The details of last night slotted slowly into place: dinner, wine, banter getting out of hand, kissing, Wilson’s hands sliding down his sides to his waist and around—

Oh, wait, that was happening now. Nice.

“Feeling me up before coffee?” House commented, “You’re more desperate than I thought.”

“I figure if this is just a special Limited Edition Pliant House, I’d better get my time in while I can.”

“Wow. I can hear you using capital letters, you loser.”

“Ah, asshole behavior restored. At least I know you’re awake.”

“Wouldn’t want to engage in somnophilia.”

“Exactly.”

House had migrated onto his side during the night, and as much as he appreciated feeling just how interested Wilson was pressed against his back, he needed to kiss him more. Unfortunately, the attempt to roll onto his back required engaging muscles that had been peacefully dormant and were none too happy to be called into service.

Ah, agony, my old enemy.

House’s whole body seized and he slammed his eyes shut against the roaring flood of sensation. He’d been an endorphin moron last night, too out of it to remember that Vicodin was his only real friend. Now, he wished Wilson would disappear in a puff of smoke so House could endure this without an audience.

“House, are you—” Wilson cut himself off before he could ask the world’s most inane and obvious question, but not soon enough.

“I haven’t taken anything but dick in twelve hours. So, yeah, I’m in a lot of fucking pain.”

Wilson ran a hand down the length of House’s side, making a soft soothing noise—in other words, begging to be slapped across the face. House would’ve answered the call to maim but he didn’t have the energy for anything except forcing himself not to black out through sheer force of will.

The pain decreased fractionally once he shoved himself upright, able to stretch his leg out, get the blood moving through what was left of the muscle. Wilson’s presence was a shadow. Just warmth and noise he couldn’t quite process yet. Something heavy and comforting at his back as his hands reached blindly for the pill bottle that wasn’t waiting for him on the bedside table.

The presence left and there was a rustle and a rattle and then the blessed pills appeared in his hand. He swallowed them so fast he would’ve choked if not for extensive practice. Immediately, he began to feel better. Just washing away the panic of experiencing his fucked-up body without a chemical barrier was a relief.

He dared to open his eyes.

Wilson was kneeling in front of him, big brown doe eyes wide and worried under the deep crease of his brow. House did an internal sensory audit: visuals, check. Sound?

“Is there anything else I can get you?” Wilson’s voice and the movement of his mouth were in sync. Good.

“Fuck off,” House replied, without venom. His own voice, working, good. He breathed deeply. Wilson smelled like hotel soap. He hadn’t left, but he was standing slowly, tension bleeding away as he apparently decided House wasn’t going to up and die of misery just at that moment.

He’d handed House two pills, though, right away. Without any conversation. House must’ve really scared the shit out of him. Or maybe fucking him had just softened him up on the topic of medically advised drug habits.

Wilson cradled House’s cheek in one hand, the other steadying on his shoulder. House thought that Wilson might be checking his vitals, but deduced after a moment that he was simply being held. Comforted. Not fondled (sexual) or inspected (medical), which were the only two acceptable forms of touch in his book.

“Don’t…do that,” House grated out, “I’m only letting you stand here at all because I intend to wring sexual favors from you in a minute.”

“Sorry. If you want my dick you’ll have to put up with the rest of me too, ooey-gooey feelings and all.”

“I don’t want your dick that badly. Sorry to disappoint.”

“We’ll see.”

What House saw was mostly that Wilson was wearing boxers, rather than the nothing he’d been wearing when they fell asleep, and he didn’t appreciate it. Either House needed to put on some clothes to even the odds or he’d have to get Wilson naked again. Obviously, he preferred one of these options over the other.

He tried for a sneak attack on Wilson’s underwear.

Wilson spooked. “What are you doing?” His voice climbed half an octave and he stopped House’s hands in a very pearl-clutchy kind of way.

“I think you know what I’m doing.” House leaned forward, intending to finish the job with his teeth (what could he say, Wilson’s performance undoing House’s belt with his mouth last night had been inspiring), except Wilson grabbed him by the muzzle like an unruly dog.

“Fine, you’re right. How about: why?”

“Again, I think you know why.”

“No, I don’t. I don’t know why you’re trying to get into my pants—yes, the pants I’m not wearing, metaphorical pants, if you will—when you’re clearly still riding out a serious pain episode. Can you even get hard right now?”

“Wow! That’s an extremely rude question. I’d be impressed you had the balls to ask it. If I wasn’t so insulted.”

“You are rarely insulted. It’s part of your charm.”

“That’s true. And to answer your incredibly invasive and hurtful question, no, probably not, but it’s irrelevant.”

“Doesn’t seem irrelevant.”

House put his all into rolling his eyes, wanting to make absolutely sure Wilson didn’t miss it, even at close range. “It’s irrelevant. Because what I want when I’m in pain—more than anything else—is a distraction. And that’s a nice big distraction you’ve got there.” He leaned forward, eye contact locked, and mouthed at the beginning of Wilson’s erection through his boxers. “Are you gonna give me what I want or not?”

Wilson didn’t stop him as he slowly, carefully, slid the boxers over the swell of Wilson’s ass and down to the floor. He stepped out of them and kicked them away, which House figured was as loud a ‘yes’ as he was going to get right now.

House bent forward, catching just the tip of Wilson’s cock with his lips. He sucked until Wilson made an anguished noise then took him deeper with a laugh in the back of his throat. Wilson clutched at House’s shoulders for balance and House mirrored the move, gripping Wilson’s waist. He could feel himself leaving half-moon dents in Wilson’s flesh with his nails. He looked forward to kissing them later.

He bobbed his head, upping the tempo, pouring his sizeable decades of experience into driving Wilson crazy with flattering alacrity.

“Slow down,” Wilson bit out, just shy of begging.

House pulled off with an obscene pop and grinned up at Wilson, “Nope, I’m going for the land speed record. You'd better buckle up.”

Wilson groaned and grabbed House by the hair.

House mentally rolled out his bag of tricks like he would his leather medical tool kit. The ways he could twist his tongue. The places his fingers could go to spread the sensation outward. The use of cold air and hot breath to generate heightening tactile contrast that made the recipient—to put it in scientific terms—go absolutely fucking nuts.

But Wilson was clearly practiced (House begrudgingly gave the ex-wives some credit) and he wasn’t nearly as out of his mind as House wanted him to be. He wasn’t on the verge of babbling like yesterday, he was still gentle and sweet and controlled. Totally unacceptable.

If they only had a couple more days of this—no. House cut down a redwood on the tracks of that thought. It didn’t matter. He was holding plenty back on other fronts, no need to keep hiding something as simple and harmless as a skill he’d perfected in college. Anyway. Imagine Wilson’s face. See his face when he felt—

House concentrated, had a little pep talk with his oral musculature, and then let Wilson’s dick slide all the way into his mouth and down his throat until his lips circled the base.

Wilson choked. It was appropriate, if slightly misplaced between which of the two of them had an (enjoyably) obstructed airway.

He pulled House’s hair hard enough to hurt and House would’ve smiled if his mouth wasn’t so very much otherwise occupied.

“You son of a—ah—bitch, how’re you…where did you learn to—fuck, fuck—do this?”

House gave him a dark look. Wilson’s chin jerked in a fierce nod. “Right. Yeah. Don’t stop.”

Plenty of time for the tale of Deepthroating 101 with Practice Makes Perfect And Yes That Means What You Think It Means and I’m A Doctor You Idiot I Know How Throats Work and You Don’t Watch This Much Porn Without Picking Things Up.

House loosened his hold on Wilson’s hips, encouraging Wilson to thrust into his mouth. If he’d done his job right, Wilson would overcome the fear of being impolite with the power of Extremely Horny and—

Yeah, Wilson didn’t hesitate.

It was a good thing House was already sitting down because he was getting a little dizzy, which was awesome, and Wilson was looking at him like he couldn’t bear to look at anything else, which made House feel like the insanity-inducing effects of his mad sex skills might have a little backlash.

Wilson came saying House’s name so desperately it was almost a sob, and House liked this distraction so much.

It looked like Wilson didn’t have enough braincells left to give his body orders, so House grabbed his wrist and pulled him down to sit on the edge of the bed with him. Wilson followed amiably, blissed out with his eyes half closed and his mouth half open.

House rubbed at the ache in his jaw, reveled in it, anything that was the result of external stimuli and not internal damaged nerve endings was delicious and welcome. He was sure that a smile had snuck onto his face but he decided not to bother banishing it.

“So, scale of one to ten?” House asked casually.

Wilson hummed. He blinked. He turned to House with an expression that was the perfect blend of empty and happy. “What?”

“Blowjob rating time. One to ten. So, eleven, or…?”

“If I answer honestly, I think your ego will actually explode.”

House’s grin reached staggering heights of smugness. “That good?”

“That good,” Wilson confirmed without any irony or deflection, and sort-of-leaned sort-of-fell onto House to kiss him thoroughly.

Wilson was touching up a hickey he’d left on House’s neck last night—because no matter what outsiders thought, Wilson was undoubtedly the freak of their duo—when there was a knock on the hotel door.

House frowned, pointed at himself and then Wilson in a mockery of counting. “We aren’t expecting anyone. Unless you got me a stripper?”

“It’s either a stripper who works the early bird shift or the room service order I called in before you woke up,” Wilson explained, hand lingering in House’s hair as he stood, “Figured you’d be hungry.”

“And pancakes beat out strippers,” House slid carefully back into bed, stretching out and pulling the comforter up as the Wilson-warmth faded.

“What about a stripper with pancakes?” Wilson wondered as he retrieved his boxers and then added a fluffy white hotel robe for decency’s sake.

“That’s pretty much what you are to me.”

“Think if I add ‘stripping pancake provider’ to my CV that Cuddy will give me a raise?”

“If she doesn’t, I will.”

Wilson wheeled the room service cart into the room, very kindly placing it next to House’s side of their bed—‘their’ bed, House realized. Hmm. That was something to…not think about.

“And for you, sir,” Wilson affected a phony French accent as he lifted the plastic cover, “the best pancakes made by underpaid strangers forty minutes ago that money can buy.”

“You spoil me.” House tried to reach for the plate but Wilson lifted it just out of his grasp with waiterly precision.

Wilson climbed onto the bed, straddling House and balancing the plate on the bunched up comforter between them. He took a fork and neatly cut through the stack of pancakes, dragging the bite through a pool of maple syrup before lifting it to House’s lips.

House was not one to turn down free carbs no matter their unconventional delivery system. He chewed thoughtfully and tried to read Wilson’s expression. “How long have you been cooking up this fantasy?”

“Mock me and you won’t get any whipped cream,” Wilson replied shortly. “And yes, I mean that in every possible sense.”

House relaxed against the headboard, lazy grin comfortably in place. He almost said, ‘I could get used to this,’ but it reminded him that he wouldn’t have the opportunity to do so, and if that wasn’t a goddamn buzzkill he didn’t know what was. Instead, he simply said, “No complaints. Feed me, Seymour.”

Wilson’s smile at that looked as sweet as syrup, and as soon as House had sated one hunger, he was going to find out if it tasted as good too.

“So…” Wilson tugged on the vowel in a way that usually would have set off alarm bells in the Real Talk department of House’s brain. That system was currently down for maintenance. “How are you taking this?”

House settled his hands on Wilson’s thighs. He liked the way his fingers looked spread out wide over the flesh and muscle. “I think I’ve been taking this pretty well. From both ends. Though you’d be the real judge of that.”

Wilson’s smile turned a little dopey, and House was glad to see he had a whole new button to press in Wilson’s psyche. “Yes, well, setting sexual entendre aside—painful, I know, but you’ll live—I was referring to how you’re dealing with a sudden shift in the central relationship of your life. I know how you are with change.”

“What’s changed? I am lounging like a king on my throne of overstuffed pillows, thoroughly debauched, being fed sweet nectar by a young, promiscuous hottie. This is what my mornings are always like.”

“That’s true. I usually like to start my days with being serviced by a grumpy yet distinguished older man. Same old, same old.”

“Gonna need the names and addresses of all these distinguished older men, ASAP.”

“Thinking of taking up serial killing?”

“Everyone needs a hobby.”

Wilson slipped a kiss in between the bites of pancake. “Probably a bad sign that I find violent jealousy hot.”

“I’m starting to think you find all my red flags hot. Which does not bode well for your cover as a normal human being.”

Wilson shifted uncomfortably. House opened his mouth to comment and Wilson used the tasty, tasty room service pancakes to shut him up and distract him in one go.

“Sex and food,” Wilson shook his head, “I guess I already knew those were your pressure points. It’s just that I only used to have access to one.”

“Two out of two. Dangerous for a single man to have all the launch codes. I trust that you’ll only use your newfound power for good?”

“Of course,” Wilson laid a soothing hand along House’s neck, scratching his nails lightly at the base of House’s scalp. There was a playful, knowing, dangerous flicker in his innocent brown eyes.

Wow, House was screwed. (And not just literally, if that play on words wasn’t obvious enough.)

He was considering launching another offensive on the Hey Wilson You’re Kinda Fucked In the Head, You Know That? campaign, but Wilson was way ahead of him.

“I should get dressed.” Wilson was suddenly gone but the pancakes remained, and House was momentarily paralyzed with indecision—which part of his heart to follow? In his absence of action, Wilson went to root through the closet for the day’s suit. “There’s a pediatric oncology special interest group meeting before lunch I’ve got to make. I’m the assistant secretary or something.”

“Do you wear a short little skirt and take notes on a steno pad?”

“I send some emails.”

“In a little skirt?”

“What do you think?”

“I think that these special interest groups would be a lot more interesting if they had a dress code. One created by me.”

“A parade of oncologists dressed up as French maids and schoolgirls would certainly make it a conference to remember.”

House shoved an entire pancake in his mouth then heaved himself out of bed. He started to say something that was going to be flirty and debonair but Wilson tutted at him.

“I don’t speak idiot-choking-hazard.”

House chewed and flipped him off in the meantime. Wilson leaned over and licked his extended finger, a hot wet stripe of pink tongue. House forgot a fair chunk of the English language.

“So. Which presentations are you going to today?” Wilson asked blandly.

“Don’t know.” House crossed his arms and leaned against the bathroom doorframe, chilly in the nude but not ready to bother with clothes just yet, “I didn’t look at the schedule.”

“I know. You never look at the schedule, because you know I’ll look at it for you, and point out what you’ll find interesting.”

Wilson retrieved House’s copy of the cheaply bound conference program, which House had apparently not discarded thoroughly enough despite dropping it in the garbage on the first day. House flipped through it and found that indeed, someone (Wilson) had marked a number of panels, roundtables, and interest groups with little post-it markers and red pen circles.

“Check out Dr. Gibson,” Wilson recommended, “You’ve consistently rated her the least annoying doctor in your field and I remember you once said her new research line ‘had promise.’”

“I knew you’d hold that against me.”

Wilson sighed, heavy with fondness. “Well now I’m legally obligated to make a remark about how there are other things I’d like to hold against you.”

“If I know what you mean.”

“Yeah.”

House hurled the program onto the disheveled bed and grabbed Wilson by the robe-belt, wheeling him in. “You still need to shower.”

“This is true.”

“I can think of a way to save some time and water—because the environment is important or dying or whatever, and that matters to me.”

“I know it matters so much to you,” Wilson murmured, letting House nip at his lips and peel back the folds of the robe, hands exploring each new plane of skin it revealed. “Fuck,” he hissed when House suddenly dug his fingers into the marks he’d just left on Wilson’s waist.

“Got it in one,” House agreed, before hauling Wilson over the bathroom threshold.

He was immediately sidetracked by the sight of the sink, trading the cold ceramic for Wilson, who made a pitiful little noise at the abandonment.

House didn’t say sorry, because he hadn’t actually been replaced by a pod person, but he did explain, “Between the bj and the pancakes, my toothbrush is crying out for me. Go heat up the shower while I make my dentist proud.”

“God. You always say everything like it’s a secret sex code, but now…”

“What’s sexual about pleasing dentists?” House asked as innocently as a man could while sticking a long, hard object in his mouth.

“What’s not sexual about pleasing dentists.”

House hmmed agreement of the point around a mouthful of toothpaste.

The shower roared awake with a rattle of industrial pipe. House heard the soft fabric rustle of Wilson shucking his boxers before a warm body pressed up against his back, arms going around his waist, nose poking softly at his neck.

He spent the remainder of the time it took to complete his basic act of personal grooming desperately thinking of something snide to say. Nothing came to mind. House finally offered, in an unfamiliar tentative voice, “Something about…dental hygiene?”

“Huh?”

“There’s another joke in there but I can’t find it.”

“I’ll call lost and found.”

“No!” House rinsed his mouth and spat aggressively. “Let me try again. Um. Penis?”

“That’s a start.”

House grimaced.

“Did I break you?” Wilson asked, mostly amused.

“No, I come pre-broken, that’s one of my many special features.” House relaxed back into Wilson’s arms. “Okay, we’re back. Never mind. Call off the dogs.”

“I knew you had it in you.”

“Well, not right now, but in a few minutes…” House waggled his eyebrows.

Wilson sighed, “Can’t believe we were even worried.”

House was still worried. He was worried as he kissed the soft half-smile of Wilson’s mouth. He was worried as he pushed Wilson roughly towards the shower so he wouldn’t see how House had to hobble cane-less across the tile. He was worried that he was worrying because that was altogether different from his usual comfortable territories of obsession and complete disregard.

Wilson was giving the local architecture a quick safety inspection. He stood under the spray, one hand on his hip, the other testing the shower’s grab bar.

“Worried it’s not up to code?” House slid in behind, using Wilson as a counterweight to get over the lip of the tub, “I know where the joke is in that line, by the way, and I’m just choosing not to illuminate it.”

“Well, when I go down on you, I want to make sure you have something sturdy to hold on to,” Wilson replied, nonchalant as he turned back to House.

House’s mouth went dry. “Noble of you.”

Wilson shuffled their positions so House could lean against the shower wall—and yeah, he grabbed the safety rail—and Wilson could resume leaving unbearably tender kisses along the line of House’s neck. “That’s the kind of guy I am.”

“Speaking of. Guys.” House let his fingers join the water running through Wilson’s hair. “Are you a budding fellatio prodigy or have you been holding out on the spicy bits of your sexual history?”

Wilson shrugged, “Who didn’t blow a few guys in college?”

“Straight men.”

“Their loss.” Wilson started mouthing at House’s collarbone, sinking lower and lower.

“Couldn’t agree more.” But House didn’t actually want Wilson traveling south just yet. He wanted… “Stay.” It sounded way too serious, reverberating in the tiny ceramic space. He tried to soften it with a light, “You think I went to all that tooth-brushing trouble for nothing?”

It didn’t work. When Wilson kissed him up against the chilly tile it still felt like Chicago had developed a serious fault line. He wished he could blame the earth-moving sensation on some sort of life-threatening neurological issue rather than the far more frightening alternate diagnosis.

House flinched when Wilson’s hand starting skating down his stomach.

“Can I just touch you?” Wilson asked, movement stilled, a genuine question, “No endgame.”

House nodded slightly, the movement brushing their lips together. Wilson let his hand finish the journey, wrapping lightly around House. Wilson stroked him, so gentle it bordered on its own kind of pain, and House was a stew of sensation and misery and elation cooking away in the shower steam.

Neither of them paid attention to the time slipping by. House privately hoped he could keep Wilson sequestered in here until they were both pruny and had fully undone whatever green benefits sharing a shower had accumulated. Possibly until Wilson had missed his meeting of the baby cancer carers, or whatever. Possibly forever.

The showerhead sent a warning layer of freezing water down on their heads before reverting back to lukewarm.

“OK, I do actually have to wash my hair,” Wilson announced briskly.

“Prissy,” House declared, but he was the one reaching for the hotel shampoo. He poured it directly onto Wilson’s head.

“Ah, shampoo in the eyes, sexy,” Wilson winced preemptively.

“I would never hurt your eyes.” House almost said ‘they’re your best feature,’ but realized just in time that it would sound earnest rather than sarcastic. “Wouldn’t deny you the intense carnal pleasure of seeing me with them.”

House started massaging Wilson’s scalp and those pretty eyes of his closed of their own accord. There was a distinct air of dog-getting-scratched-behind-the-ear about him. House enjoyed the sight for a minute before doing his duty and wryly commenting, “I think you like this better than oral sex.”

Wilson’s mouth opened to reply, but then just hung there. The dopey expression of pleasure morphed into an equally gormless grin. “I think you like this, too.”

House huffed. He also didn’t stop. Damn Wilson.

The water hissed another chilly breath at them and Wilson shivered. House’s heart clenched. Goddammit.

He roughly rinsed the suds from Wilson’s hair, which was so terribly silky soft when wet, and decided to beat a tactical retreat before the shower really turned against them.

Wilson remained behind (House wanted to tell him not to be a hero) with the excuse that he still needed to condition.

“Alright,” House grumbled, toweling off, “Dig your own grave, Dr. Vainglorious.”

“Fine, I’m vain. But you don’t get these glorious locks without conditioning.”

House had no reply. (The symptoms are worsening, Doc.)

He pulled on shorts and stole the robe Wilson had been wearing earlier. A quick review in the mirror told him that his facial hair could go another day or two without attendance before it started shimmying into actual-beard territory. He scraped a hand over his head, ruing the slight thinning of hair taking place up there. Unlike certain other doctors in the room he could mention, he didn’t hang on his looks. But he also hadn’t been in a relationship in so long, he hadn’t cared—

House slammed the brakes and grabbed the edge of the sink. Think about viral infections, he self-counseled. Fungal infections. Wilson was humming in the shower. Nasty, nasty bacteria. Parasites!

Wilson hopped out of the shower with an exclamation, “Cold. Freaking cold.”

House turned and drank in the sight of Wilson wrapping himself in towels ala a human burrito.

“C’mere,” Wilson demanded, narrowed eyes fixed on House.

“Why?”

“I’m freezing.”

“The shower was still warm when I left,” House pointed out innocently.

“Yes, you’re a genius, I’m an idiot,” Wilson’s shivering did not impede his eyeroll, “but I’m an idiot doing upkeep on the soft hair that you were pawing obsessively all last night, so warm me up.”

House crossed the few feet between them. He let Wilson claw open the robe and bury his nippy face in House’s flushed neck. His chilled hands sent icy tendrils along House’s skin where he spread them over House’s ribs, and House rubbed Wilson’s back on the off chance the lunatic had actually given himself frostbite in the quest for perfect shiny hair. It would totally be worth it to House if Wilson had, but still.

“Wish this bathtub was bigger,” Wilson noted, twisting to give the treacherous shower a stern look, “I bet we could get up to all sorts of trouble in there if it were.”

“I’d still be willing to give it a shot.”

“The hotel’s resultant water damage bill, be damned?”

“Making you pay for my decadent sins is always a perk.”

“Well, it would at least be our decadent sins.” Wilson didn’t seem inclined to abandon their impromptu vertical cuddling session, but House wasn’t good with standing flat-footed on cold surfaces for extended periods. Movement was the name of the game.

“Alright, I’ve dispensed first aid, my medical duties are absolved,” House announced, dropping his arms, “Go get dressed, you hypothermic moron.”

Wilson just smiled and trailed House when he went back to the sink.

“My turn to brush my teeth,” he explained, giving House’s shoulder a quick peck as he reached past for his toiletry kit.

Now House was left standing next to a merrily brushing Wilson, unsure what to do. He was clean. He was getting a chill of his own, even with the robe. But leaving to get dressed? Unconscionable.

House snuck a deep breath, then offered, “I could shave.”

Wilson laughed.

“I do know how to shave,” House continued, peevish, “it’s simply that I choose not to.”

“I…know that.” Wilson almost dropped his toothbrush. “Are you being serious?”

House made a vague grumbling noise but didn’t rescind the proposal.

Wilson tapped his foot against House’s. “Does. Uh. Does ICS allow for opinions on personal grooming habits?”

“You’ve got the special loyal customer rate. Comes with benefits.”

Wilson rinsed pensively. He wiped his mouth. He examined House in that unsettling, looking-right-through-you way he sometimes had, before leaning in close. “I’ll probably regret this when the endorphins fade and the beard burn sets in but…no. Don’t you dare.” He breathed against House’s cheek, “I like how it feels.”

It was a few more minutes before House allowed Wilson to escape the bathroom.

Wilson eventually pleaded tardiness to his SIG meeting, which left House unmoved, but in one-on-one combat it turned out Wilson fought dirty (House’s right nipple may never be the same) and so he soon found himself victorious in unzipped slacks and an open button down. House lay prostrate on the bed, watching the reverse striptease.

Despite his visible interest in observing the slow covering-up of all of Wilson’s tasty bits, House’s mind was only a scant thirty or forty percent invested in sexual contemplation. The rest? Absolutely fucking bedeviled by terror at what less than a day with Wilson-the-more-than-friend had done to him.

He’d followed orders. He’d offered to change his habits. He’d considered others needs before his own. Maybe House had been replaced by a pod person, or a clone, or he was being telepathically controlled, or Wilson had some insane Star Trek style pheromones that were blocking the logic centers in House’s brain, or—

“What do you think?” Wilson held up two ties he’d been hemming and hawing over.

“Those are exactly the same and you know it, you sick bastard,” House replied on automatic.

“Damn, another gaslighting attempt down the tubes,” Wilson sighed, choosing the one in his left hand apparently at random.

Anyway, what had House been thinking about, before images of Wilson strapped down to the bed with a different 90s-reject tie at each wrist and ankle had led him astray?

Oh, right. Well. He’d been kidding himself about not recognizing the signs.

It’s not like House hadn’t been in love before.

.

.

.

Alright.

That’s it.

With the emotional equivalent of a ten car pile-up in his cardiac system, House took the only route remaining: retreat.

He flipped over and slammed his face into a pillow, grabbing another to smash on top of his skull, duck-and-cover style. If he was going into denial, then it was going to be a full-scale, all the stops, no holds barred refusal of reality. He usually accomplished this by refusing to leave bed, mainlining mind-altering substances, and shouting down anyone who dared to get too close. That didn’t sound so hard, did it?

“Huh. Are you miming out a threat to suffocate yourself if I don’t stay?” Wilson asked, mildly intrigued.

House wanted to flip him off, but that had already backfired on him once today. He stayed quiet. But he also rearranged the smothering fabric so he could crack open one eye and monitor Wilson pottering around the room in an adjusted version of his morning routine.

Wilson inhaled some cold toast from what remained of the room service, bypassing the tepid coffee after it failed a sniff test. He slid his wallet and hotel key into his pocket. But House didn’t really panic until Wilson flipped open the program, no doubt to check where the SIG meeting room was, the son of a bitch.

“And where do you think you’re going?” House asked in his best sitcom-harpy voice.

“Sorry, did you say something?” Wilson didn’t look up, “I thought we’d entered the sulking portion of the day.”

“I can’t get up a really good sulk without an audience.”

“And here I always thought you did your best work on your own,” Wilson shot him a sly grin.

Somehow, House had lost his defensive pillow-shield, and was once more on his back, sprawled in an undeniably inviting posture. Shit, fuck, and a side order of damn-it-all-to-hell.

“You need a hand before I leave?” Wilson asked, pouring on the innuendo as he strolled back towards the bed.

“I want a handie and for you not to leave.”

“Mmm. Tempting.”

Wilson crawled slowly—deliberately—on top of him, in what was frankly a lot more seductive an action than House had previously thought him capable of. That said, House had only been putting serious consideration into the “Wilson” and “seductive” Venn diagram for about twelve hours, so perhaps it wasn’t so unusual. Maybe Wilson was frequently this heart-poundingly attractive, and House had just been selectively ignoring the evidence for the sake of his health.

Wilson was saying something. He was also lacing his fingers with House’s and pressing their hands into the mattress above his head, so the talking thing was distinctly in second place on the attention-scale.

“Are you listening to me?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll take that as a no.”

“Take it however you like as long as you take me with it.”

“Maybe I will.” Wilson sucked House’s lower lip into his mouth, teasing with teeth, then pulling sharply back in way that left House gasping. It was so hot that House didn’t mind how desperate it made him look. So sue him, he was desperate. “Maybe I’ll come back here between panels, and take you instead of a coffee break.”

House didn’t reply. This seemed the safest move. His reply might sound a lot like, “god yes please,” and he wasn’t that far gone. Yet.

Wilson must’ve sensed the hesitation, or maybe he really was just dedicated to attending his stupid little meeting, because he pressed one last hard kiss to House’s mouth before rolling off him.

House made a noise so tragic Wilson did actually pause and look back over his shoulder.

“I’m going to a meeting, not the moon. And it’s not like I’m leaving you in a Soviet prison. There’s a TV, room service, a comfortable bed. You can survive a few hours without me.”

“I think you’ve tragically underestimated your sexual potency.”

Wilson clipped his stupid little conference ID badge onto his stupid little jacket lapel. The final distinctive touch.

“Seriously.” House put on his best serious face. “If this turns out to be a fuck or die situation, what then?”

“Then I’ll sure have egg on my face at your funeral.”

House bypassed the obvious but vague ‘I’d like to put something else on your face’ in favor of a needling, “Now I know what all your pretty little conquests felt like. Abandoned and forgotten when you’re done with them.”

Wilson didn’t rise to the bait. He just gave House an even look and said, “Oh, I’m not done with you.”

Then he turned around and left, which was both extremely rude and extremely hot.

Fuck.

House rolled over to re-smother himself in pillows. The hotel bleach-y smell mostly overpowered the eau de Wilson, and House couldn’t decide whether that was a good or bad thing.

So, here he was. Near-naked and alone. Not unusual. But not fun, either.

He could do as Wilson suggested, which was what he’d already intended to do, i.e. loaf around the hotel room performing the holy trinity of eating-napping-and-TV-watching. Or he could stubbornly refuse to be locatable on the hotel’s premises, wandering the lonely streets purely to spite his best friend who now came with sexual favors.

He did not immediately choose the second option.

This hesitation was enough to get him up, dressed, and tying his shoes in record time, speeding down the hotel corridor like an off-kilter Formula 1 driver. As if one fuck between friends was going to disrupt his entire code of behavior? Denial could be accomplished in places other than bed—the bed, ground zero for this disaster, the last known location of House’s fucking rationality.

The great city of Chicago surely had many features of interest to offer a worldly man such as himself. However, the great city of Chicago was also pouring buckets of freezing rain down on its denizens, and there were few features of interest worth weathering that.

Feeling like he’d somehow wandered into a trap (but wondering where exactly the cheese was, if he was gonna be stuck here), House reluctantly consulted the conference program that had somehow made its way into his coat pocket. He decided to attend the mid-morning panel Wilson had marked for him, not because Wilson had chosen it but because House was a doctor, in case anyone had forgotten, and he was occasionally interested in doctorly things.

The panel sucked. It sucked so bad. Its extreme suck-age reminded him why he only ever attended these ridiculous confabs for the sake of sex, gossip, and maintaining the bare minimum of professional credentials. Yet, he found that he didn’t have the heart to really dig in to berating the panelists. He didn’t bother interrupting their discussion, he actually gave them their due time, and—shame of shames—he raised his hand during the Q&A. He gave a merely tepid five minute “more a comment than a question,” briefly followed by a “this time it’s a question, I swear, and the question is: are you stupid?”

He was asked to restrict his contributions but he was not summarily thrown from the room, nor was security called, which let him know his disruptive capacities were seriously below par. When one of the speakers had the absolute gall to approach him after their talk, thank him for his interest in their work, and ask to shake his hand, he considered doing the honorable thing and putting a gun to his Most Annoying Person In Any Room certificate.

He stormed out of the post-panel socializing scrum, contemplating various modes of drastic action. Primary among these was simply throwing a tantrum in the lobby. Although it would make him look and sound like a four year old, he would surely feel better. He wanted to scream at someone. He wanted to make someone cry. He wanted to have a well-timed epiphany and get to stalk dramatically into a room to save someone’s life with a single injection.

Distantly, he knew that this intense craving for his usual life patterns was caused by more than the conference’s interruption of such. He knew that a person in a position like his might feel a need to talk to someone (yuck) about what they were going through. Not him, of course, he was fucking spectacular thank you so very much. But theoretically, this person who needed to talk to someone about their alleged complicated feelings for their alleged friend with whom they were now in some sort of alleged temporary relationship…who were they meant to reach out to? Certainly not the alleged fucking friend, he was the center of the whole snafu.

Ah, of course. This was what minions were for.

House propped his feet up on one of the hotel lounge’s expensively upholstered chairs, taking care not to remove any mud from his shoes before doing so, and hit the third speed dial on his phone (the first being a certain doctor whose name rhymed with Dilson, the second being a Jersey pizza palace of great disrepute).

“Cameron. I need a consult.”

Her sigh rattled the phone speakers, which House appreciated. Certain people had been denying him a properly riled reaction to his antics lately. “You're at a conference full of doctors.”

“Not that kind of consult.”

“Okay.”

“It’s about...” House almost said ‘feelings’ but got the heebies and a good helping of jeebies, and veered instead to, “Wilson.” The two were practically synonymous anyway. “We kissed. A few times.” The term ‘few’ was flexible. “So. Are we dating? Do I need to start buying roses in bulk?”

Pensive silence. “Why are you asking me?”

“You know why. You’re naturally suited.”

“I’m naturally suited to interpreting whatever insane bisexual guy drama you’ve got going with Wilson? You do know I’m a woman, right? I’m pretty sure it’s come up before.”

“That’s true. Where’s Chase? Hey, Chase!” House shouted and then smiled at the disgusted little noise Cameron made as she handed the phone over.

“Hello?”

“Yeah, hi, how many times do you have to kiss a man before you’re officially in a relationship?”

“Somewhere between one and fifty,” Chase answered without missing a beat.

“You’re no use.”

“I could have told you that,” Chase replied equably, “You wanna try Foreman?”

“Absolutely not,” House heard Foreman call over a distance, where he was probably doing something dumb like working instead of assisting in the untangling of House’s love life. Sex life. Whatever.

Cameron sliced back into her usual form with a cautious, “House, you should just talk to Wilson—”

“How many times can we have sex before he has to marry me?” House countered. “You know how he always gets ‘em in the end with the holy matrimony.”

“You’ve already had sex?” This astonished and slightly scandalized comment came from Chase.

“You kinda buried the lead there,” Cameron added drily. 

“I sure buried the lead somewhere,” House leered, hoping it would travel audibly.

“Alright, that’s enough.” Foreman’s voice was a lot closer this time. “House. Either fuck things up with your only friend, or don’t, those are your options. Pick one. We don’t care which.”

“I care!” Cameron protested.

“I’m kinda invested in the drama at this—” Chase started to say before the line went dead.

House growled out a few choice comebacks to empty air and made a mental note to up his unpleasantness towards Foreman by 10%. Between Cameron’s soppiness and what House suspected was a very colorful sexual history on Chase’s part, they might have been able to come up with a halfway decent differential for House’s severe case of Wilsonitis.

He surveyed the branching nooks and crannies of the mid-scale hotel. Although he recognized several faces among his fellow conference attendees, this was primarily by dint of him despising their work and having noted their appearances so he could avoid and/or disparage them given the opportunity. Or because they’d filed some sort of complaint against him in the past. Neither seemed a promising avenue in the search for a sounding board—and if he needed anything, it was the opportunity to crack open a dry erase marker and figure out just what the hell was going on.

He was seriously considering waylaying random passersby and urging them with the careful application of cane-to-foot to weigh in on his personal issues. This seemed to have as high a likelihood of success as any possibility, which was to say nil, but at least he’d get to cause problems, which might make him feel more like himself.

Then he turned a corner and spotted the only person at this conference other than Wilson that he’d even consider holding a civil conversation with, tucked away in the corner of the built-in Starbucks.

“Of all the coffee shops in all the conferences in all the world, he walks into mine,” Kerry drawled as he threw himself into the empty seat across from hers.

“Keep quoting Bogart and this will be the end of a beautiful not-friendship.”

“What did Humphrey ever do to you?”

House didn’t want to explain that all classic film stars were now indelibly linked to thoughts of peppering kisses along Wilson’s stupid perfect chin. Fucking Wilson.

“Uh oh,” Kerry drew her mug to her lips, eyebrows rising, “I may not know you that well, but that’s a pretty universal expression. Who did you fuck who you shouldn’t have?”

“You don’t wanna guess?”

“Oh, I do, actually. Hmm. Well, there’s only one person who would make this an interesting conversation. And you’d rather die than be boring.”

House started doing an autopsy on Kerry’s half-eaten biscotti. Who voluntarily ate almonds and cranberries, burnt into a crispy pseudo-cookie? Perhaps it wasn’t too late to reroute this conversation into a nice little rampage about the evils of healthy foods masquerading as baked goods—

“Finally got Dr. Teddy Bear to spread it for ya, huh?”

“I did the spreading, if we’re painting a picture.”

Kerry whistled appreciatively, “Nice.”

“Come by and watch next time.”

“I will. Is there gonna be a next time?”

House made a soft noise, the lovechild of a frustrated groan and a whine. He considered murder by biscotti inserted forcefully through the eye socket. He did not answer.

“Stop acting like a teenager,” Kerry decreed, “If you’re having a good time with him, what’s to stop you continuing to have a pants-off good time with him?”

“The terms of the agreement.”

“What agreement?”

“The ICS agreement.”

“What is—no, listen, am I gonna have to drag every single detail out of you like this?”

“Yep.”

“I wonder if this place serves gin.” Kerry glanced hopefully towards the barista.

“ICS, inconsequential conference sex,” House made a brisk c’mon-keep-up gesture. “The ill-advised hookup in question took place under the banner of ‘this doesn’t count, it’s just blowing off steam while we’re stuck in a hotel together.’”

“Ooh, that ICS,” Kerry nodded, “Yeah. Really useful when you wanna bang someone and then never speak to them again. Less helpful when you want to braid flower petals in their hair and write poems in their name.”

“His hair is soft and girly enough for the flower petal thing.”

“I can tell you’re trying to be sexist and insulting, but you just sound pathetic and longing.”

“That’s not what I’m looking to hear.” House tried to push her coffee off the edge of the table like a petulant kitten, but Kerry was too fast for him.

“What do you want to hear? I’ve got a couple options for ya. One: get over it, enjoy the fun while it lasts, then say sayonara to easy pal sex. Two: don’t get over it, tell him you’re in deep disgusting dying-in-a-shared-bed-at-ninety love with him, and see if he reciprocates.”

“Three: I take hostages in this shitty little coffee chain and force Wilson to admit his feelings for me first.”

“You do see how a tendency to resort to domestic terrorism might be a factor in this guy not wanting to shack up with you.”

“It’s not ‘terrorist’ if you’re the good guy, then it’s ‘freedom fighter.’”

“You’ve never once been the good guy, Gregory House.”

House picked up the biscotti remainder and chucked it viciously at a nearby customer’s bald spot. It hit dead center and the man spluttered half his coffee onto his shirt.

“Bullseye!” House slapped the table, “Twenty points.”

Kerry concealed her instinctive cringe. “Proving my point for me?”

House shrugged as he stood. “Whatever. Bad guys have more fun.”

“Yeah.” Kerry watched him walk away. “Cause you’re having so much fun.”

House tried. He really did.

But everything he did and everywhere he went was saturated with Wilson’s absence. He went to an antique car museum and wanted to infodump about the running boards and whitewall tires but he had no audience. He wanted to play Name That Condition on the subway trip, which was less about diagnosing fellow passengers than imagining gruesome ways their probably harmless sniffles could snuff out their lives on the train ride home, but it was no fun in his own head. The solo supper was exactly as lonely and pathetic as solo suppers always were. He couldn’t even appreciate the curvy brunette who gave him an interested second look when he ended up slumped back at the hotel bar, because his first thought (well, second, obviously he clocked her cup size, dental quality, and lack of wedding ring first, like a sensible lecher) was to knock his elbow into Wilson’s and debate how much plastic had contributed to the perkiness of her tits.

He couldn’t even bring himself to get properly drunk, not when he thought about all the things he still wanted to do to Wilson that night—assuming the ICS deal hadn’t dissolved over the course of the day—which would require a full meter of sobriety.

“Vodka soda, rocks, lime twist.”

“I’d know that careful order anywhere,” House commented, not looking up from his scotch, “not macho, but not girly either. Not pretentious or complicated, just detailed enough to show a little sophistication. Even your drinks are people-pleasers.”

“Thanks,” Wilson slid onto the stool that had been left conspicuously empty next to House. No clue why no one wanted to sit by him. He’d only been growling a little. “I’d started to miss your aggressive analysis after all these hours. I couldn’t even enjoy that turkey sandwich I had for dinner with no one there to tell me what it meant about my deeper psychological issues.”

“Willingly eating a turkey sandwich when you’re surrounded by Chicago’s famous cuisine is, in and of itself, a deep psychological issue.” House chanced a look at Wilson.

Wilson was smiling at him over the lip of his glass. “So. Where’ve you been?”

“Out.” House narrowed his eyes. “Were you sad to find our little room all empty and cold?”

“I didn’t bother looking. I knew you wouldn’t be there.”

“Why?”

“Because I wanted you to be there.”

House plucked an ice chip out of Wilson’s drink and chewed obnoxiously on it. Hopefully this covered what a complete K.O. that line had been.

Wilson was still cucumber-cool and collected. He put his elbow up on the bar and sipped his drink. “Honestly, I’m a little insulted. I thought for sure you’d bust in to harass me at the SIG meeting. Or the lunch after. Or at least the afternoon panel if you were really lazy. But you didn’t stalk me at all.”

“Sorry, double booked my stalking for today. There’s this hot geneticist I spotted in the room down the hall from us. If you’d seen his ass, you’d understand why I had to point my trench coat and sunglasses in his direction.”

Wilson pouted, like maybe there really was a geneticist with ass for days that House had been trailing across Chicago. “Is that how it is? Now that you’ve gotten a taste, I’m not interesting enough to bother anymore?”

“Are you actually complaining that I didn’t heckle you in front of a national gathering of your respected colleagues?”

“I enjoy a good heckle.” Wilson paused, then said at the same time as House, “If you know what I mean.”

“Dammit,” House skidded his glass along the bar, flinging drops of alcohol every which way, “You know me too well. I need to develop new, bigger, better annoying habits.”

“You wanna workshop those now, or you wanna go upstairs and fuck?” Wilson downed the rest of his vodka soda and left without House’s answer.

When Wilson reached the elevator bank, a familiar hand smacked against the up button before he could get to it.

“Yeah, yeah,” House leaned over Wilson’s shoulder, “my priorities aren’t that out of whack.”

As soon as the key card turned the lock green, they dragged each other into their room. Wilson shoved House up against the door, the hydraulic closer squealing unhappily under their weight as House’s cane clacked to the ground, forgotten. House let Wilson plunder his mouth, unable to control how light and comfortable his body became when Wilson’s arms were around him. It was offensively saccharine to literally melt at Wilson’s touch, but if today’s exhausted search for sense had taught him anything, it was that there might not be a damned thing he could do about it. Incurable.

“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” Wilson whispered, teeth scraping House’s stubble en route to worrying his earlobe.

“Oh yeah?” House breathed, “Any particular parts of me?”

“Mmm…yeah…” Wilson’s tongue flicked out and House clutched him for balance, “Your cheekbones…your shoulders…” Wilson’s hands traced his words’ journey, firm caresses that felt filthy even though Wilson was purposefully avoiding the red-button areas, “your forearms…your stomach…god, I was positively salivating over your calves…”

House’s helpless laugh was foreign to both their ears.

Wilson hauled him towards the bed, clumsy moving backwards and half-carrying House but neither of them caring. Wilson pulled House down with him, a mess of limbs and complaining middle-aged muscles as they rustled their way into the middle of the bed.

House enjoyed being on top of Wilson, crushing him into the mattress through pure lazy gravity, but he didn’t mind when Wilson rolled them over so he could clamber into place, straddling House and grinding their hips together. It felt right.

“It’s my turn,” Wilson declared, hot against House’s mouth, “Or your turn, I guess, depending how you think about it.”

House made a questioning noise. Actual language was for suckers.

“I want you to fuck me.”

House made another noise. Actual language was for those with operational higher brain functions.

Wilson started sucking a path down House’s neck, undoing buttons on his shirt so he could keep going across his chest, speaking into House’s skin as he did so. “I’m gonna spend the rest of my life thinking about how it felt to be inside you. I want to know what it feels like to have you inside of me.” He pushed himself up with arms propped on either side of House so their eyes could meet. “Is that okay?”

House had been ready—more than ready, eager even—to take it every night they had together. This little ICS bubble was so delicate already, he hadn’t been about to pop it by asking for something Wilson might not want, certainly not when House didn’t particularly care what went where as long as something went there.

But now…

“I’m vers if you are,” House agreed, only a little breathless.

Wilson grinned, hair falling in his eyes, and House decided this might be Wilson’s all-time best viewing angle. In the exceedingly unlikely event House ever gave up medicine, then he was going to become one of those eccentric artsy photographers and his first shot was going to be an extremely tasteful nude of Wilson looking down at him, just like this.

“Stay,” Wilson pressed a hand to the center of House’s chest as he crawled briefly away to the nightstand to retrieve supplies. House stayed, but he took the opportunity to divest himself of clothing, hurling garments in every direction to maximize the clutter he knew Wilson would eventually be the one to deal with. When Wilson was back in groping range, House peeled the shirt from his shoulders and stuck his hands down Wilson’s pants.

Wilson kissed him back down into submission, shucking his own slacks and boxers before slipping back into his previous position. It was a great position, as House had just been mentally extolling, but it may not be ideal depending on the details of the desired activity.

House had been developing a tantalizing image of Wilson on his hands and knees, but truthfully, the actual logistics hurt just to think about. Still.

“Don’t you want to lie down, or…?”

“Oh, I’m going to ride you,” Wilson announced, in a breezy tone more suited to sharing a weather forecast.

“Yeah. Okay. Fuck. Yeah,” was the complete range of House’s responses, so he aired all of them. He watched Wilson warm lube up on his own fingers with interest. “You want me to—”

Wilson brushed his hands away, “I’ve got it.”

“I should’ve known you’d be a bossy bottom, too.”

“I can now say with confidence that you get off on me being bossy.”

“Lucky me.” House watched Wilson’s efficient work and calculated a negligible likelihood of it being the mere result of medical knowledge rather than practical experience. “How many men have you done this with?”

“None.”

“Right.”

“That’s his first name. His last name is ‘of your business.’”

“Har de har har.”

“Listen, you might not know this, but women can also participate in anal sex.”

“Sure, but not—oh.” House’s eyes widened. His grip tightened on Wilson’s thighs. “Which one? Which wife was into pegging?”

“Again, none. Two of them tried it when I asked, but neither of them really liked it. Aaand that’s all I’m telling you.”

“Two,” House marveled, “pegging. You. Wow.”

“Yeah.”

“Did the length of your respective marriages correlate to the length of their strap?”

“In years or months?” Wilson pretended to go along with it, which succeeded in driving House just that little bit more insane. Wilson’s skin turned white under the pressure from House’s hungry hands.

“Are you going to be ready sometime this century, or should I go find a magazine…”

“You got somewhere to be?” Wilson was still devastatingly calm for a man with at least two fingers inside himself, “Don’t get all rabid on me.”

“I can now say with confidence,” House quoted, “that you get off on me being rabid.”

Wilson grinned. “Maybe just a little.”

House snatched up the discarded lube. “Alright, I’m getting this party started.” He got his right hand ready and started to jerk Wilson roughly without warning.

Wilson choked, “God fucking dammit,” torn between shoving back on his own fingers and forward into House’s hand. “Okay. Jesus.” With extreme self-control, Wilson pulled House’s hand off his dick and onto his hip. “You. Hold on. Here.”

“Until later?”

“No. Don’t touch me, even if I beg.”

House surged up to kiss Wilson, because if he didn’t, he had no idea what would come out of his mouth at that.

Wilson broke the kiss to pant for air, and fumbled beside them on the bed. Condom. More lube. House’s breathing was shallow. This shouldn’t feel like such a big deal, not after last night, but apparently Wilson didn’t follow the usual rules. Apparently everything he did to House was going to be new and raw and too-much-not-enough.

House didn’t say a thing as Wilson hovered, breathing deeply. This was Wilson’s show. He didn’t need House’s permission to press play.

Wilson gave House a couple of strokes and then lined him up at his entrance, starting to slide slowly, torturously, downward.

A soft little, “ah, ah,” slipped free from Wilson’s mouth. His head fell back and muscles stood out in his neck. House followed orders, holding Wilson’s waist in a death grip, even though his body strained for touch touch touch, more more more. A wince tightened Wilson’s features and House found himself making shushing noises as his thumbs rubbed circles against Wilson’s hipbones.

Wilson finished his descent and House had to close his eyes against the sensation.

“Are you alright?” Wilson asked, his voice hushed.

“Am I alright?” House echoed, faint but incredulous.

“Yeah. You.”

House’s mouth opened and closed and finally said, “I don’t know. But for the love of any god you may or may not believe in, please move.”

“Anything for you.” Wilson flexed his thighs and pulled up before slamming back down, ripping a gasp out of both of them.

He started a tentative rhythm, just enough friction to leave House breathless. House could already tell this no-wandering-hands thing was gonna be the death of him. It left him helpless, nothing to do or focus on or feel except the exquisite sensations where their bodies met, the filthy noises that sounded so much better without the static of a porn soundtrack, the image—the vision of Wilson above him.

“Bet your wives didn’t feel like this,” House muttered, not entirely consciously.

“No. No they didn’t.”

Wilson picked up speed and confidence, riding House with an expertise that was itself a massive turn-on. House flattened his good foot against the bed for leverage so he could meet Wilson’s rocking with thrusts of his own. That ratcheted up Wilson’s moaning from an R-rating to the XXX back-of-the-store-good-stuff.

House never prayed but he did occasionally hope, and right now he was hoping he could keep it together long enough to bring Wilson over the edge before he fried House’s very last brain cells.

Sweat gathered along the centerline of Wilson’s chest and House bent forward to meet the arch of his spine and lick it away. Wilson groaned, tangled a hand in House’s hair, and then shoved him back flat against the bed.

“No mouth either.”

“Masochist.”

“Just determined—oh.”

“You’re gorgeous when you’re determined. It’s so unfair. How am I supposed to live my life knowing this—” House jerked his hips up and Wilson cried out, palms landing on House’s chest for balance, “—is hiding away under those expensive yet ugly fucking suits.”

“I think…oh oh, I think our future consults are going to be—ah—a lot more interesting.”

Wilson’s voice failed, no more talking just a stream of delicious sounds, which left House muttering shamefully sweet (if also dirty) nothings that were apparently the unstoppable result of being inside his best friend. Fuck.

“I really—uhh—really need you to stop being so, so good. So beautiful. Can’t take it.”

“Yeah,” Wilson’s no roaming law didn’t apply to himself, his hands were all over House, “Yeah, tell me again.”

“You feel so fucking incredible. Oh. God. Wilson, let me touch you. Please. Please let me touch you, please, please—”

The litany of pleases had Wilson moving faster, harder, urging House on, gripping the headboard.

Wilson pried House’s right hand free (of course, Wilson was the only one who could break the rules) and dragged it to his face, pressing his open mouth against the palm.

“Please, Wilson, please,” House watched each syllable hit Wilson harder, he wondered what would happen if he spoke the subtext, the only thing worse than pleading for Wilson’s skin would be speaking his old and bloodied heart through the desperate IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou beating in time with his flying pulse.

House went for the kill before all this killed him. “Wilson. I need you.”

Wilson shouted and came all over House’s stomach and his own. The entire porn industry had nothing on this, House thought, mentally burning his entire extensive collection.

House was shaky and teetering right on the edge. He still gripped Wilson’s hip in one hand, strength matched only by how softly his other hand held Wilson’s cheek, thumb tracing the line of his chin. Wilson looked like he’d been hit over the head with a blunt instrument, in the best way. House’s hips shuddered up and Wilson choked a little and clutched at House’s wrist. Then he met House’s gaze through hooded eyes, sucked House’s index finger into his mouth, and there was that cliff House had been skating along beside, hurtling past in a flash of white.

A fluffy crash signaled Wilson collapsing onto the pillows next to him. House put in the gargantuan effort to tilt his head on its side so he could observe Wilson’s slack-jawed eyes-closed happy face.

Neither of them was in any way ambulatory yet. House grabbed a fistful of tissues from the bedside table and cleaned them up as best he could, having remembered that he was not a big fan of waking up covered in dried bodily fluids. He tossed them in the general direction of the garbage can, knowing they wouldn’t make it unless he were temporarily possessed by the spirit of an NBA champ. He smiled at the thought of the growing mess that wouldn’t bother him at all but which would gross Wilson the hell out. It was the little things.

House’s smile curled up and faded. His brain had just kicked back into gear and he didn’t care for it.

The orgasm was past. His head should be his own. But he was still thinking in circles.

> I want to spend every night underneath your hands

> I want to fall asleep with my arms around you

> I want to wake up to those brown eyes looking back at me.

He couldn’t have any of that. And if he couldn’t have it, then he couldn’t let himself want it. He couldn’t—

“You listened to me.”

“Hrgh?” House was thrown by Wilson’s intrusion on his private spiraling.

“You didn’t break the rules,” Wilson clarified, “You didn’t touch me. You did what I asked.”

“And if you tell anyone, I’ll deny it.”

“I won’t tell anyone. I wouldn’t want to. I’ll never want to share this part of you.” Wilson finally opened his eyes, fingers reaching out to trace up and down House’s chest.

House covered the wandering hand with his own. “See, no one would believe me if I tried to tell them what a possessive little freak you are.”

“Nope, they wouldn’t.”

“Your devious plan all along.”

“If only I could get my evil laugh in order. I hear supervillainy pays well.”

“I thought I was the supervillain of this duo.”

“You’re an anti-hero at best. Don’t worry, anti-heroes are—” Wilson interrupted himself with a yawn, “—very in right now.”

“Hey,” House jiggled Wilson’s hand, held hostage against his heart, “Don’t fall asleep.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s too early.”

“You’re choosing now to follow social convention?”

House reached without looking for the TV remote, managing to smack the alarm clock to the floor before he found it. “Watch something with me,” he demanded, mostly keeping the petulance out of his voice.

Wilson made an indecisive drowsy noise and House repeated the demand with full petulance.

“Fine,” Wilson rearranged his limbs until he was properly squashing House under his weight, pressing his nose into House’s neck. “You pick.”

House navigated immediately to the pay-per-view menu, down past the pro sports and towards the adult section.

“Not porn, you depraved lunatic,” Wilson snatched the remote away from House.

House grinned where Wilson couldn’t see. Sometimes he was as easy to play as a fiddle. “I thought I was choosing?”

“And I thought you could be trusted to make a decent choice. That’s my bad.” Wilson flipped through the cable channels until he landed on HBO.

“Thelma and Louise?” House scoffed as the picture solidified into Susan Sarandon’s scarf and lipstick, “I didn’t realize you were a frustrated middle-aged housewife seeking adventure.”

“I just fucked the hot older man from work while I was out of town,” Wilson deadpanned, “I’m absolutely a frustrated middle-aged housewife seeking adventure.”

“This is boring,” House sidestepped that whole thing, “You know they only let the women kiss once?”

“And that is a shame. But I still think you have something to learn from ol’ T & L.”

“Is it a proper appreciation for Geena Davis’s ass? Because I assure you, that’s already covered.”

“I was thinking more about the takedown of sexism and the objectification of women, but sure, since you’ve clearly already absorbed that…”

House made a half-hearted play for the remote. Wilson held it out of reach and somehow House ended up kissing him and forgetting what he was doing.

When they settled back down, House realized he was still watching a chick flick, and that merited further bitching. “Change the channel. Maybe there’s a documentary about caterpillars on somewhere, to up the thrill factor.”

“I like this movie.”

“Then I’m sorry about your menopause.”

“Did I or did I not just give you one of the best lays of your life?”

“If you want your ego stroked this bad, you’re going to have to stroke my—”

“Don’t tempt me.”

House took the warning for what it was. They were both exhausted and oversensitive but also competitive and stupid enough to start some game of sex-chicken.

“They do drive a cool car,” House admitted. “If I’m banned from watching for ass—and I’m sure as hell not watching for the plot—then I suppose an auto-fetish will have to do.”

“You old romantic.”

Wilson didn’t make it anywhere near the end of the film. At the point where he dropped off, the girls were still trapped in a heterosexual nightmare and Brad Pitt was there for some reason. House stuck around and could privately admit that it wasn’t just for the seafoam green ’66 Thunderbird.

“Something’s crossed over in me and I can’t go back.”

That’s what she said. The sumptuous Miss Geena Davis, and House wasn’t thinking about her anatomy at all when those words socked him like a blackjack behind the ears. Something’s crossed over in me. And there was no going back.

He glanced down at Wilson and asked quietly, “Any chance menopause is contagious?” No response. Just as well. It was a rhetorical question, House knew the symptoms of sentimentality well enough, though it was still jarring to find them in himself.

The movie credits rolled and House shut the TV off with a vicious press of the power button. Wilson slept as only the dead and the well-fucked can. House wished for the oblivion he’d sank so comfortably into the night before. Tonight, there was no such relief.

His brain was in racecar mode with no safe track to roar down. He didn’t want to drive into the canyon, even holding his same-sex bestie’s hand, no matter how much fun Hollywood made it look. He couldn’t go forward, couldn’t risk the emptiness underneath his wheels, but there was no going back. Only stalling in place.

He kissed Wilson’s forehead once, twice for good measure, then slowly slipped away. Wilson grumbled and slid into the warm patch of mattress he’d left behind but didn’t wake.

House retrieved his boxers, a pair of sweatpants, and finally his cane, and began to pace.

Chapter Text

Day 3

Sunday, 8:12 AM

“Mmm…” Wilson’s fingers scratched sleepily across House’s chest, “How long have you been awake?”

House didn’t break his staring contest with the dead bugs in the ceiling fixture (bet you’d forgotten about them, huh? He hadn’t!) “I’m not awake. I sleep with my eyes open. Vigilance!”

“Okay. So. You didn’t sleep at all.”

“That’s a lie. I definitely passed out at some point because when I came to I made coffee. Had to do it in the dark. Didn’t want to disturb my princess.” He patted Wilson’s hand.

Wilson squeezed one eye shut, frowned, and shoved himself up on an elbow to inspect the damage by the minibar. “I see…by ‘make coffee’ do you mean, poured grounds into tap water and drank them?”

“It wasn’t very good.”

“No kidding. Are you…I mean, I know you’re rarely alright, but it feels like I should be doing some kind of intervention.”

“Is ‘intervention’ code for ‘blowjob’?”

“No.”

“Then I’m not interested.”

“Are you interested in a blowjob?”

“No, thanks.”

Wilson sat all the way up in bed, covering his face in his hands. “I think this is the point where your fellows usually call me in to talk you off the ledge. Not sure who I’m supposed to call.”

“I pinky promise not to climb the clocktower.”

“Your pinky promise means nothing to me.”

“I don’t even have a gun.”

“That is a small comfort.”

“Stop worrying,” House stepped out of their bit, itching and furious that Wilson had been awake for nearly a minute and hadn’t kissed him yet. “My insomnia hasn’t driven me to public violence yet. And today I’m in bed with a very hot, very slutty man, so the chances of mass murder are slim to none.”

Wilson melted into a soft smile—and of course he would smile because House called him a slut and promised not to shoot up a diner. He framed House’s face in his hands and let House pull him back down to the bed and into a kiss. House felt all that restless energy and simmering ever-present anger boil away as he sank into it, arms going around Wilson.

“Is this the price I pay for keeping you from going full-on reign of terror?” Wilson asked, hands skating up and down House's back while House licked along the shell of his ear.

“You feel hard done by?”

“Mmm, not yet, but getting there,” Wilson brushed a hand between their legs.

“What about breakfast?” House asked innocently.

“Forgot to put the order in.”

“I knew it. I fucked your brains entirely out of your pretty little skull.”

“I guess you did,” Wilson nuzzled his cheek.

A short professional knock at the door. House smothered a grin. Even he couldn’t have arranged that timing.

Wilson watched with a mix of curiosity and suspicion as House wrapped himself in a robe for the sake of the hotel staff (it wouldn’t be fair to them, after all, if they caught sight of his glorious body and fell madly in love with him when he was currently—if temporarily—spoken for). He pulled open the door, hooked his cane around the handle of the breakfast trolley, and wheeled it inside and over to the bed.

“Why look, what could this be?” House lifted the cover from a plate of French toast, forming his mouth in an exaggerated oh.

“You are magic.” Wilson leaned forward on his hands, a feline hunting posture completed by dark eyes. House hurried back to bed so he could get properly pounced on.

No one needed to know that one of the dozen random activities he’d undertaken last night during his extended manic/panic session had been creeping into the hallway to fill out the little white card hung on the doorhandle requesting more breakfast food than even he could eat. Passersby may also encounter origami cranes made of toilet paper.

Wilson was chewing on House’s neck with slightly alarming focus by this point, so House grabbed the French toast off the cart and held it out an alluring distance away from that dangerous mouth. Wilson did not hesitate between the choice of meal, relinquishing House to tear into the breakfast like he hadn’t eaten in days.

Wilson caught House’s raised eyebrow and gestured fiercely with his fork, “You may recall, I did most of the work last night. I’ve earned this.”

Although such a comment surely deserved a snarky reply, House’s mouth didn’t want to do anything but grin stupidly at the memory, and maybe plant a few kisses along Wilson’s shoulder. He stole a plateful of bacon and started munching grimly to stop himself from doing just that.

They collectively put a respectable dent in the French toast, waffles, sausages, bacon, and scrambled eggs. House claimed the croissant for himself and didn’t fight Wilson for the selection of fruit. The coffee was just barely worth drinking, mainly for its value as a caffeine source.

They went on to quietly attend to morning necessities, passing each other in the bathroom, wearing each other’s sweatpants and not mentioning it. It felt like the time they’d lived together, but with a delicious thrumming undercurrent of sexual tension ready to break. Or maybe that had always been there, and they’d just ignored it, or let it pour out through stupid pranks (House) and aggressive tidying (Wilson).

House wondered if he’d missed his morning-glory moment. Had he needed to jump Wilson before he left the bed, when he was still vulnerable with breakfast? Was Wilson now going to run off and be a stupid, responsible doctor and attend stupid, responsible panels and leave House behind to waste away in the wilderness of his own mind?

“Your leg isn’t bothering you?” Wilson suddenly asked, coming to sit next to House on the bed, where he was picking morosely at a loose thread in the sheet.

“What?” House felt like he’d just fumbled a football pass.

“This morning, it’s not like yesterday. Your leg—”

“What leg.”

“Fair enough.” Wilson let House glare him into silence for all of three seconds before breaking, “No, sorry, I’ve gotta ask: have you been popping Vicodin like Tic Tacs or what?”

“Or what.” House had actually had to cut back during the night in order to maintain focus on the Issues At Hand. Also, to prepare for being—cough, cough—all present and accounted for this morning. But now was not the time to let Wilson go thinking that he was having a positive influence.

“Fine. Whatever. Let me know if you’re going to stop breathing.”

“You’ll probably notice before I do.”

Wilson gently tugged the sheet free of House’s fingers before he destroyed the hemmed edge completely. He replaced his hand in House’s where it had been. “Then I suppose I’d better stick around.”

“Not going to hit up all those unpopular Sunday morning panels? Show support for your miserable, untalented colleagues who got stuck with the worst slots?”

“They’ll just have to struggle along without me.” Now he pulled House’s hand up to his mouth, started kissing his fingertips. House wasn’t letting him get away with this affectionate shit again—he grabbed Wilson’s face and kissed him hard, sucking on his tongue as he crushed him down against the swirling folds of the comforter. He threw his leg (which did ache, but was low on his scale of priorities) over Wilson to straddle him, and Wilson immediately gripped his waist, hands slotting into place like they belonged there.

“I’ve already missed coffee with Diaz-Evans and her partner,” Wilson mumbled vaguely, like he was dictating a message to his future self, “gotta make sure and send her an apology email.”

“You’re skipping brekkie with the lesbian rheumatology wunderkind and her girlfriend to play tonsil tennis with me?”

“Well, you’re worth at least two lesbian rheumatologists to me. Maybe three.”

“Mmph,” House said, which was untranslated mouth-on-mouth for fuck me you selfless hottie. “What else?”

“What, what else? Oh,” Wilson put it together fast. “What else, um…I am also going to irresponsibly skip the Sunday brunch with the other ped-onc SIG members.”

House ground their hips together. “Yeah? They’ll be so lost without their sexy secretary to take notes on how many Bloody Marys they imbibe.”

“It’s tragic. And…um. There’s the, uh…” Wilson was losing focus. House rubbing his nipples with his thumbs probably wasn’t helping, “The panel on…new recommendations for…psycho-therapy to accompany chemo…” He gasped and said in a rush, “Dr. Townsend, you know, Jessica from Cal with the legs all the way down to Mexico, is gonna be pissed that I’m not filling out the audience. I promised her I’d be there.”

House kissed that broken promise out of his mouth.

Wilson politely did not point out how weird and/or pathetic it was that House got off on a recitation of Wilson’s wrecked professional calendar, and so House decided the only equally polite thing to do in exchange would be to blow him. Unrelatedly, he really fucking wanted to get his mouth on him.

He slid down Wilson’s chest, leaving a few nipping kisses along his journey, before shoving the sweatpants out of the way and taking a lick of Wilson’s hardening cock. The taste of last night lingered and it probably should have been gross, maybe distantly was, but House was preoccupied with imagining different ways to keep Wilson in bed. Trap him there, if necessary. Tying him down was the obvious and extremely appealing option. Blackmail was a possibility. Perhaps pleading, pure and simple. The lure of a good deal? Any hole in my body is yours for the taking if you just please fucking stay?

No matter what Wilson was saying now, he always left in the end.

“Mmm…House…” But right now, Wilson was there, and he was petting House’s hair and shifting his hips. “When we get back…I’m going to keep you under my desk. Chain you up. Leave you there so I can use your mouth whenever I want.”

House swallowed hard around him, making Wilson break into a rush of swearing, to cover how much House wanted that. Not just the unrealistic debauchery, but the when-we-get-back. The later. The future.

House knew he needed to be needed, but he hadn’t realized how much he wanted to be wanted.

And now he was going to lose it all. Just because this ridiculous conference had the nerve to end.

By now, House was less interested in the sex aspect of the current situation and more in proving a point. He wasn’t sure what point, precisely, but he was sure he’d figure it out. In the meantime, he pulled some truly exquisite nonsense words from Wilson’s lips as he went deep again and again and again until Wilson shot down his throat with a moan.

He wiped his mouth and heaved himself up to sit propped against the headboard with Wilson. His leg was killing him, for the usual no-good-reason.

“Mm, this is the life,” Wilson declared, eyes glassy beneath heavy lids, “Breakfast and blowjobs in bed.”

Too bad this was the last time. House projected that thought in Wilson’s direction.

Wilson shot a sudden, sharp look at him, like maybe he’d heard, and House dived for cover in the face of this terrifying telepathic possibility.

“House?” Wilson tried to touch him and House pulled away. “Is this our new morning routine?” Wilson asked, more bewildered than anything, “You blow me away and when I try and return the favor you hiss like you need distemper shots?”

“Now that’s catty.”

Wilson didn’t retreat, which meant House hadn’t been mean enough. But he wasn’t sure he could summon up that much cruelty right now. He rolled onto his side, into the fetal position.

“Tired. Leave me alone.”

Wilson’s fingers played invisible piano on House’s back. Terrible form. Probably couldn’t even do his scales.

“How ‘bout a shower?”

Olive branch. House set it on fire. “Already had one. I believe around 4 AM. Plenty of hot water then.”

“Plus, I’m sure our neighbors appreciated the ancient rattle of the pipes in the early hours of the morning.”

“You really get me,” House said with exaggerated adoration.

“Maybe you could take a quick power nap. Store up some energy so you don’t pass out the next time I ravish you.”

“I didn’t pass out when I was doing the ravishing,” House pointed out, forced to turn back towards Wilson so he could give him a full-force stare.

“I’m not critiquing your stamina,” Wilson ran his hand through House’s hair, soothing. “Just making sure I’ll have your full attention for the rest of the day.”

The rest of the day. Surely, House could be alright, if he’d get to keep Wilson the whole rest of the day. One day. “I guess I could cancel those cooking classes I had scheduled for the afternoon. The birdwatching tour. And the orgy.”

Wilson grinned like he always did when House was being ridiculous, and stuck his tongue in House’s mouth, which was a pleasant new addition to their customary patter.

When he pulled away, House found that he’d been swaddled in the comforter, pillow under his head. He was surprised there was no teddy bear.

“Sleep,” Wilson ordered.

House grabbed his wrist as he made to leave. “And you. Get clean. Very, very, very clean. Everywhere. You understand?”

Wilson’s tongue darted out to wet his lips. “Oh. Yeah. Yeah, I think so.”

House released him with smirk. He made a show of getting comfortable. Wilson watched him for a long, heated moment, and finally left for the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

House’s eyes shut before he’d strictly speaking ordered them to. Maybe a nap wasn’t such a bad idea…

An absence of noise jolted him awake not much later. The shower turning off, he determined. He rolled over and glared at the bedside table clock.

Maybe forty minutes. An eternity by residency standards, a pittance by his usual slothful ten-hour measuring stick. He felt unexpectedly…okay.

House shoved his way into the bathroom without knocking. Wilson had a towel around his waist and was digging amongst the various products and tools scattered on the bathroom counter. He spared a glance for House’s abrupt entrance, asking, “Did you actually sleep, or just plot world domination?”

“I plot best in NREM stage 1. Multitasking is key to our modern age.”

Wilson nodded, this being one of the least concerning things he’d heard House voice upon awaking from one of his naps. He cracked open the shaving cream and House decided to get comfortable on the only seat in the room.

Wilson shaved and House watched. He wondered if Wilson would ever let House get near him while holding a razor. Probably not. Still, it was a nice little barbershop sex fantasy to keep him entertained.

The hair was next, and House knew from experience it could be an extended event, but he didn’t move from his observatory slouch on the toilet. It’s not like there was anything better on.

Wilson frowned and set down the hair dryer. He held his hands in front of him in the universal ‘looking for an object and not finding it’ position.

House spotted the comb hiding underneath a washcloth and retrieved it, handing it without word or thought to Wilson. It was simple and instinctive and nothing. House might not have even noticed he'd done it except that Wilson had clearly noticed. Wilson was acting like he'd just spotted Bigfoot skiing by outside the window and was trying very hard not to tell anyone.

“…Thank you,” Wilson said, the silence prominent at the beginning of the phrase.

“Don’t mention it. Really, don’t,” House added.

“I feel like I should reinforce it when you’re accidentally thoughtful.”

“Finish your primping so I can blow your back out, and we’ll call it even.”

“Seriously, House,” Wilson brushed aside the lurid suggestion, “that was a normal and helpful thing you just did. You’re never normal or helpful.”

“Correct. You must be confused.”

“And it’s not just that—”

“—Good lord, I’m never handing you anything ever again—”

“—You’ve been weirdly quiet lately,” Wilson soldiered on, hair care forgotten, “Not lashing out. Not quipping at the speed of light. It’s almost…polite.”

House gasped. “You take that back!”

“I’d love to! So, stop being nice.”

“I’ve never been nice in my life and you know it.”

“Fine, so, cordial then. Agreeable.”

“I’m going to sue you for libel.”

“The only reason you ever stop snapping and snarking is because you’re afraid of something else slipping out between the snide comments. You clam up when you’re afraid of being too real.”

“I haven’t had the time to snap and snark because my vocal schedule’s been full of sexual moans. It’s that simple.”

“If it were that simple, then you’d be a prince every time you got a hooker.”

“Maybe I am. Stick around and watch next time I get the itch.”

Wilson’s expression darkened. House didn’t recognize it at first, but when he did…

“Oh my god. You’re jealous. You’re jealous of my ladies of the night.”

“Who wouldn’t be? They’re better paid than I am.”

“I’m not paying you anything. In fact, you’re typically my sugar daddy.”

Their eyes met in the mirror. “Some sucker I am.”

“Forget this,” House knocked the comb out of Wilson’s hand so it skittered into the sink (he figured that cancelled out any incidental politeness he may or may not have engaged in), “I’m about to fuck your hair to hell anyway.”

He clashed their mouths together so he didn’t say what he really wanted to say, the things Wilson was all too right about him hiding. All of it, all the huge, insane, desperate, too-soon and too-much, threatening to spill out of him.

He kissed it into Wilson’s warm shower-damp skin instead: I’d never touch anyone else again if I had you.

House’s caustic, warping train of thought had him on the verge of screaming, and in a distinctly horror-movie-about-asylum-ghosts kind of way, not the unrealistic porn climax way. So. Redirect towards that second thing.

He sucked on Wilson’s lower lip as he pulled them both stumbling out of the steam-heat of the bathroom.

“On the bed. Face down.” House whipped the towel off Wilson’s hips and then snapped his backside with it.

Wilson hissed but did as he was told. House climbed slowly, carefully, onto the bed after him, molding himself against Wilson’s body to whisper in his ear, “I told you to get really, really clean. Did you listen?”

“To you? Not usually. This time…”

House kissed his way down Wilson’s back, hands smoothing over planes of skin. When he passed the dimples at the small of his back, Wilson tensed. House grinned and gently set his teeth into the soft flesh and muscle. He heard the thump of Wilson gripping the headboard. Good.

He spread Wilson’s ass with both hands. Hot breath. Just a hint of tongue. Wilson sounded like he was doing a speedrun on developing asthma.

House held back. He asked, “You want it?”

“Oh god—”

“Is that a yes?”

“House.”

“Say yes.”

“Yes, yes, I want it, please House—”

That was all House needed, more than he needed, in fact. He dove in, curling his tongue and remembering some tips he’d picked up during a particularly intense night in medical school. Thinking of that nameless guy (who’d probably had a name but House had only bothered to remember his mouth) made him wonder if he was the first to mark this territory, this way.

He leaned back. “Let me guess. None of the Mrs. Wilsons ever did this.”

“No,” Wilson panted, “Virgin ground, if you will.”

“Oh, I will.”

He did. It was messy and filthy and indecent and House was transcribing every single one of Wilson’s twitches and moans in his mind to be replayed over and over and over in the empty, lonely times that he couldn’t bear thinking about but which were nonetheless bearing down on him.

Between the unshakeable desolate thoughts and the unbelievably hot feeling of Wilson wriggling with anguished ecstasy under his tongue, House was in an extremely confused state of arousal when his phone started ringing.

It was so discordant, he reared back on instinct, just to try and remember what could possibly be making such a sound.

“Nooo,” Wilson complained when House started struggling up in the direction of the phone, “don’t you dare.”

House dared. “Hello?” he answered, slapping Wilson’s ass (hard) when he kept grumbling. In his most chipper tone of voice he asked, “Who the fuck is calling?”

“Your fucking boss,” Cuddy answered without missing a beat.

“Who is it?” Wilson grumped. Then, “Never mind, just tell them to go fuck themselves.”

“Wilson says to go fuck yourself, boss,” House relayed promptly.

“That doesn’t sound like him.”

“He’s very busy. I was eating out his ass when your call interrupted us.”

Wilson choked, tried to smother himself with the pillow, then narrowed his eyes at House. House put a few more inches between them just in case Wilson actually tried to throttle him in a non-sexy way.

“Right. Anyway,” Cuddy breezed past this announcement with her customary lack of care for Housian antics. “I thought I’d better check and make sure you’re still alive. I haven’t gotten any furious calls from the conference organizers about you setting fire to the hotel or organizing a coup or anything. Your untimely death was the likeliest explanation for the radio silence.”

“I already told you exactly what I’m so occupied with.”

“Fine. I’m certainly not going to complain about you not causing trouble. Give Wilson’s ass my regards.”

House tutted and slung the phone back onto the bedside table. “Not even a goodbye. So rude. But then, the thought of you and me in the throes of passion probably made her unimaginably horny. I can respect a woman who knows when to take herself in hand—”

“I am begging you to stop talking and get back down here.”

“You’re not begging. Yet.”

And oh, Wilson did beg. He begged until he was wet and open and writhing and when he pleaded for House to fuck him it was all House could do not to faint or thank him or something equally ridiculous. His hands threatened to shake when he pushed inside, and it was just as good as last night, it was better, and he kept pressing open-mouthed kisses to the back of Wilson’s neck just for the chance to smell his hair and listen to his breathing and ground himself.

House came first, absolutely undone by everything Wilson had given him without question or hesitation. He reached around and stroked Wilson before he could say anything other than a quiet, keening, “please,” running fingertips along his length and swirling his thumb at the head before starting up a hot staccato pace that had Wilson spilling onto the sheets with House’s name on his lips.

After a few wordless minutes to catch their breath, Wilson took House’s hand and dragged him onto the other, cleaner bed with a vague muttered, “Housekeeping’s problem, now.”

House was exhausted but also way too jazzed for unconsciousness to be in reach. So, they talked. They talked like they always did, the perfect blend of snark and reality wrapped up in a game of one-up-man-ship that neither of them really wanted to win. They talked about which of their colleagues most likely worked their way through med school as a singing strip-o-gram, and how the Mets were going to do, and which pro sport was actually the most boring to watch live, and how a Mets game could really be spiced up by the addition of some well-placed strippers, and which of their colleagues was most likely to secretly be a member of the Mets. The usual dumb, circular, empty conversations that existed purely for the pleasure of the mental exercise and the stretching of bad jokes to their absolute limits.

Only now, when Wilson’s smile bloomed across his face and House wanted to brush his thumb along the laughter lines that formed, he did. He touched him. Because he was greedy and selfish and not about to deny himself one moment of this exquisite, hideous, unimaginable closeness. And better yet, Wilson touched him back. He clutched House’s arm when he laughed so hard he could barely breathe, and he jabbed his index finger into House’s chest when he was making a point, and he started kissing House to distract him whenever he realized that he was losing an argument.

They’d scavenged through the edible remains of breakfast and the minibar by noon. Not liking the look of the hotel’s lunch service, they searched the directory of nearby restaurants until they agreed on a Greek place that was absolutely, positively, a sit-down establishment. Except, they didn’t feel like sitting anywhere except in bed, in their underwear, ergo, they picked up the phone.

House was the military, threatening to nuke the joint if they didn’t deliver. Wilson brought his state department touch and got them to sweetly promise to bring their order right on up to their door, and he only had to offer a hundred dollar tip.

That diplomatic touch of Wilson’s had House cursing and sweating and right on the edge when the food arrived. Wilson lazily answered the door, taking his sweet time and chatting with the delivery guy, before deigning to return to bed. He set the food aside and finished House with a hand and a smug grin.

They ate with a trivia gameshow on in the background, House preening whenever he guessed an answer before the contestant.

“I hate how hot you are when you’re right,” Wilson complained around a mouthful of salad (because he didn’t understand the meaning of cutting loose).

“That’s what my fellows say all the time. And Cuddy.”

“I imagine they’re usually dressed in lingerie and covered in chocolate sauce in these scenarios.”

“Or blindfolded and wearing fluffy handcuffs. Hmm, maybe I dreamt that part.”

“Yeah, just that part.”

“Anyway, the solution to your problem is simple. You just—oh, that’s Luxemburg, you idiot,” House threw a cucumber slice at the screen, “What was I saying? Oh, right. You just have to give in to your lascivious urges every time I’m an intolerably sexy genius. Exposure therapy. Fix you right up.”

Wilson rubbed his foot against House’s calf under the covers. “Exposure, huh? Think I’ll get sick of it if I get enough?”

“Only one way to find out.”

Wilson prowled forward and House awaited capture, breath catching as his attention completely abandoned the feta and phyllo on his fork.

“Lay back. I’ve gotta floss.” Wilson pressed a hand to House’s chest, putting him in place and pushing off the bed in the same motion, “I haven’t sucked you off yet today, but I need to get rid of this spinach in my teeth first.”

“Wow, talk like this, I’m shocked you’re a triple divorcee.”

“Yeah, they all cited ‘insufficiently romantic about oral’ in the paperwork.”

Since Wilson was safely out of sight, House allowed the goofy smile to spread across his face. He could go back to repressing in a few minutes.

“So,” Wilson returned with a businesslike clap of the hands, “Any advice before I start?”

House screwed up his face in a soundless ‘what?’

“Just checking if you have any tips for the padawan learner. Since, you’re clearly the fellatio expert.”

“Hmm. Sounds like a compliment, but feels like an insult.”

“I know that’s confusing, since you prefer insults that are secretly compliments.”

Wilson splayed one hand across House’s chest, the other on his hip, and started to do dangerous things with his lips low on House’s stomach.

Fighting for focus, House asked, “Was that secretly an insult?”

“It’s not secretly anything. You have the most terrifyingly adept mouth I’ve ever encountered. And I want to make you feel as good as you made me feel. So, I’m accepting constructive criticism.”

House opened his mouth to construct some damn criticism, but Wilson opened his mouth just then too, and all House found himself able to say was: “No notes.”

The afternoon wore on. His meager hour or so of scattered sleep left House flagging by midday, though he’d start biting (actually biting) if Wilson said so much as a word on the subject. Being an expert in Dealing With House, Wilson managed to instead extract a promise that House (the real needer of REM) would nap if Wilson (the person who got a complete refreshing eight hours) also did. So that Wilson wouldn’t feel bad for passing out in the middle of their silently agreed upon day of decadence, of course.

Since House’s promises meant slightly less than squat, he did not nap. But he had no problem with watching Wilson sleep. He was so quiet and soft and peaceful, just the way a specimen should be, and House observed and he thought and he planned and he plotted and he wondered, and that was the worst of all.

Wilson was still dozing lightly, head pillowed on House's chest while some breed of pay per view porn played on the hotel flatscreen. (House had barely read the description, just picking the most expensive option he saw and smiling at the thought of the impressive bill he'd racked up especially for Cuddy.)

His phone rang and he snatched it up before it could wake sleeping beauty.

“Twanda's palace of sensual massage, what can I do you for?” he answered.

“House, this quiet is making me nervous. Just tell me what you’re up to so I can start setting aside funds to fix it.”

“Dr. Cuddy, I was just thinking about you.”

“Glad to be fodder for your sad little fantasies. Why do I keep putting up your plane fares to these things?”

“Because it's a great way to stick me in a different state than you for a few days, and that's something the whole population of New Jersey appreciates.”

A beat of crackly silence accompanied her contemplation of this valid point. “Huh.” That single syllable dripped with suspicion. “You know, I just had an interesting conversation with Cameron.”

“If you were both wearing clothes during it, then I'm not interested.”

“She seemed to be under the impression that you were using this medical conference as an excuse to shack up with Wilson all weekend.”

“Blabbermouth,” House returned mildly.

“No denial?”

“That's just a river in Egypt.”

“So…when I called before...and you said you were—”

“I was tongue deep in the back door and about as interested in talking to you then as I am now.”

“Oh. Hell. Ok.”

“Ok.”

“Well, that's. It’s, ah. Hmm. I suppose...congratulations, House. I hope for all our sakes you somehow manage not to screw this up.”

And with that glowing pep talk, Cuddy killed the call.

House tossed the phone aside as Wilson stirred, swiping sleep out of his eyes. “Who wuzzat?” he asked.

“Cuddy, again. Overcome with lust, needed me to phone-sex her libido into submission so she could get on with her life.”

“Right. I’ll add that to my diary right after ‘spotted pigs flying near the thirtieth floor.’”

“I think she just wanted to see if Cameron had been jerking her chain when she said that you and I were doin’ the nasty.”

Wilson sat up straight. “You told her about us?”

“Which ‘her’?”

“Both hers!”

“Technically, I can’t answer that without knowing what ‘us’ means. ICS is an ambiguous concept, at best.”

“You told them we’re having sex.”

House shrugged. “So?”

“So, what if I didn't want her to know?”

“Because I'm me or because I'm a guy?”

“Both come with problems.”

“Our platonic friendship already tainted you, so I guess you're just a cock-sucking homophobe.”

“No, but I don't enjoy being subjected to homophobia, and I'd really appreciate it if I didn't get it from the guy I'm homo-ing with, you hypocrite.”

House glazed over the hypocrite comment to keep up the tirade of questions, “Why are you afraid of a little name calling and workplace discrimination?”

“Why are you?” Wilson shot back.

“I told Cuddy,” House reminded him, “I told the team.”

“Yeah, because you thought if you could get out in front of it they wouldn't be able to hurt you with it. It didn't even occur to you that they would never do that because they're good people.” Wilson huffed and put a cold foot of mattress between them. “Though now, I kind of hope Foreman calls you a fag to your face.”

“That’s racist.”

Wilson shook his head. “You don't want to reveal another vulnerability, one that you would happily exploit in someone else.”

“Fear of vulnerability, huh. I literally walk with a cane.”

“And you hate how it gives assholes an opening to insult you before they know all the perfectly valid reasons they should be calling you a cunt.”

“How did you manage to twist this into a lecture about my issues, when it started with you flipping your lid over getting outed?”

“Because you haven’t outed anything meaningful! Congrats, now everyone in the hospital will know I’m an easy slut of convenience for all genders, like that wasn’t already printed on my resume.”

“Yes. What?” House wasn’t following whatever was getting Wilson so worked up, and he hated not being a conscious part of the blood-pressure-raising.

In what felt like a tangent, Wilson demanded to know, “Is this thing between us gonna be over when the conference is over?”

“That was the agreement.”

“Then there’s nothing to out. Or to worry about.” Wilson crossed his arms and leant back against the headboard, staring straight ahead.

“Fine.” House matched the posture.

“Fine.”

Silence crawled in around them. House chewed the inside of his cheek, finger tapping against his bicep. “Sounds like we should just get back to having sex—”

“Yep.” Wilson was on top of him before the words were out of his mouth.

The rest of the day was as primal as you could get while bundled in a three-star hotel: they napped when they were tired, ate when they were hungry, screwed when they were horny. The perfect animal schedule. And if House put his considerable brainpower into the effort of forgetting, he could just about scratch out the fact that it would all be over soon, rotting like Cinderella’s pumpkin at the stroke of midnight.

It was getting late. Wilson had packed up most of their things. House had ‘helped’ by trying to steal the hotel robe, stuffing it in Wilson’s carry-on, and wishing he had some good drugs to plant there too so they could party with the TSA.

All that was left was getting out of bed, getting dressed, and getting in the taxi. But House had never met a flight he wasn’t ready to delay, and he still wanted more—they could call another taxi.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Wilson asked, muffled against House’s mouth.

“Making up for lost time. And the time we’re going to lose.”

Wilson stopped pretending to resist. “Do we have to lose it?”

“Them’s the rules.”

“We make the rules.”

“Then it would be pretty stupid of us to break them.” House silenced him with another kiss. “Come on. I want you one more time.”

He rolled onto his stomach and guided Wilson up against his back. Wilson was a pretty sharp guy and didn’t have to be told twice. He nudged House’s legs apart and there was some rustling of supplies and then the first touch. House tensed.

“Hey,” Wilson kissed the back of House’s neck and then whispered, “I can’t see your face like this. You have to tell me if something’s not right.”

“Yeah,” House said easily, which should’ve been a sign.

Wilson kept trailing kisses along House’s back as he slid careful fingers in and out of him, and it was all House could do not to shake him off. He finally pushed inside and House hardly felt it with the ache in his leg. And his shoulder.

It wasn’t working. This was supposed to be the big send-off, the one to hold onto once he was dumped back out in the cold. But he couldn’t see Wilson. Couldn’t memorize the micro-expressions, couldn’t match the movements of their bodies to the way he bit his lip and squeezed his eyes shut.

House knew he couldn’t bear to see Wilson, either. But he also couldn’t stop wanting it.

What did Wilson’s face look like, now? It wouldn’t be the same shocked wonder as that first night. How much would it have faded? Was House’s body just another hunk of flesh to him? Just a friend and a benefit and a hotel mattress they’d never feel again?

The touch wasn’t enough and the sound wasn’t enough.

Wilson was gentle where House needed him to be rough, and strong where he needed him to bend. How could they be such a bad match and yet the only thing in the world that made sense?

House didn’t know what gave him away. He wasn’t paying enough attention.

He realized Wilson had been saying his name for a little while when Wilson pulled out and pulled away and started trying to coax his face out of the pillows.

“M’fine,” House couldn’t turn away, there was nowhere to turn to, nowhere was safe, “Keep going.”

“You’re not fine.”

House didn’t argue the point, which was even worse than confirming it.

Wilson shifted until he could wrap his arms around House, still keeping his warm weight against him, which was good, because otherwise House would probably fly off the face of the fucking planet.

Wilson’s fingers trailed up and down House’s forearm. “I don’t know how to help you.”

“Yeah. Good.” Warmth crept back into House’s icy hands. “That’s the mystery that keeps you here.”

“House...do you really think that if you got happier or healthier that I’d leave you?”

“I know you would.”

Wilson’s heavy sigh tickled House’s ear. “Well, then I guess it’s a good thing you’re incapable of being truly happy.”

That could’ve settled it, but House wouldn’t let it. Pick-pick-picking at the scar. “You’ll still get sick of me someday. When you figure out you really can’t fix me.”

“So, it’s lose-lose? You get better, I bail, you don’t, I still ditch?”

“Sucks to be me.”

“Oh, for god’s sake, enough with the self-pity,” Wilson grabbed House’s shoulders, not gentle at all, forcing him onto his back so their eyes finally met. They both froze except for the too-fast rise and fall of their chests.

House finally got to see. Wilson’s face was tinged pink. Sweat had started to collect at his hairline. But now his mouth was pinched with anger and his blown pupils were hard to see under drawn brows. House’s hand floated upward to trace the lines of Wilson’s expression, softening it with feather-light touches into something sweeter.

The rush of feeling so much better and so much worse all at once was heady and awful.

“I think…we were in the middle of something.”

Wilson gave an abortive scoff, “If you think I’m going to—”

“I am asking you to give me something I need. Give it to me. Give it to me until I forget.”

“What do you need to forget?”

“Everything.” House clutched at Wilson’s sides like he could tear inside him and put the answers in his lungs, “Everything but you.”

Wilson’s mouth fell open and House didn’t let him speak. There would be no lingering over that admission. Not now, not ever.

He kissed Wilson, wild and all-consuming. He dragged his nails down Wilson’s back and used his good leg to leverage their hips together. He kept fighting and clawing through Wilson’s walls and his façade of docility and his boy-next-door sweetness until the spark lit and Wilson was clutching his wrists and shoving them up against the headboard and biting his jaw between gasps.

“We’re going to miss our flight.” Wilson’s protest wasn’t very convincing when his hardness was pressing against House’s hip.

“What do you want more, a soda-stained seat in business class or me?”

“You know it could be a stain-free throne on a private jet, and it’d still be no contest.”

“Careful, keep saying things like that and you’ll never get rid of me.”

“That’s the idea. Glad you’ve finally caught on.”

Wilson rearranged them until House was close to comfortable on his back, so much like that first night, and he pushed back inside without the hushed asking for permission, not at all like that night, and House let him fuck away the tension with harsh thrusts and panting wet breath against his neck and one of his wrists still pinned above them.

House tried to fight off Wilson’s hand when he started stroking him in time with his thrusts. No way he got to the finish line first—

“Wanna feel you come, wanna feel it from the inside,” Wilson whispered, tongue flashing against House’s skin.

Okay, then. That was too hot a concept to pass on.

House gave up. He let his body respond without thinking and he stopped frisking all his words at the exit for hidden weapons and he just plunged into feeling it all—there was so, so much to feel. It wasn’t all good, but it wasn’t all bad, and it felt incredible to sink into the good and just let the bad do as it may.

He felt himself tighten around Wilson as his climax snuck up on him, washing away everything downstream of consciousness. Before he’d gotten his bearings back he felt Wilson moaning his name against his neck, and he just wrapped his arms around Wilson and held him through it, without thinking or worrying or calculating the fallout.

House realized he was humming something. Not quite tuneless, maybe it had a jazz backbone. He was humming to himself and carding a hand through Wilson’s hair and keeping Wilson pressed to his chest and oh god he would never learn, would he, he’d never fucking learn how to save himself from this.

“We are. So late,” Wilson muttered.

“I dunno. I thought we were just on time.”

Wilson laughed at the weak attempt at humor, which was something. He groaned as he pushed himself upright, scrubbing a hand over his spectacularly wrecked hair. “Okay. Uh. Alright. I’ll get us another car and hope it has a jet engine. You,” Wilson shoved House gently in the direction of the bathroom, “go get decent.”

“Not enough soap in the world for that,” House trilled, enjoying the last word as he always did.

A hand locked around House’s upper arm just as he decided to actually stand up and do as he was told. Wilson pulled House in and kissed him so roughly House was sure there would be blood this time. Wilson bit down on House’s lip and then licked the pain away, finally pressing a discordantly chaste kiss to where he’d just been ravaging. Then he let House go and picked up the phone.

Wilson had just found something a hell of a lot better than the last word. The last word meant jack shit. Wilson had gotten the last kiss.

Chapter Text

Day 4

Monday, 1:03 AM

“The plane was delayed.”

“I know.” Wilson tried to speed-walk ahead but he was weighed down by (of course) both their carry-ons.

House continued at a leisurely pace, “We didn’t miss it, despite your nuclear-powered worrying.”

“I’m aware.”

“I delayed it with the power of my mind. And my—”

“If I get arrested because you’re shouting obscenities in an airport, I swear to god—”

“Ooh, tell me what you’ll do. I bet it’s something that’s way more likely to get us arrested in an airport.”

Wilson wasn’t amused. Certainly, this had more to do with having been recently poked and prodded in sensitive places by a suspicious TSA officer than with House’s humor being amiss.

“You’re awfully cheery for 1 AM,” Wilson noted as they arrived at their gate, a darkened lobby filled with other sleepy passengers.

“Well, you did give it to me good before we left the hotel,” House said loudly, pleased when this made no less than three fellow travelers think better of the seats near them.

Wilson winced and pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something that sounded like, “Can’t take you anywhere.”

“What’s that?”

“Just bemoaning how we’re booked on the redeye because Cuddy hates you and wants you to suffer, and I always get caught up in the backlash.”

“If you weren’t hovering so close to me, you wouldn’t get my backlash. Or backwash. Or—”

“Again, I haven’t figured out what your punishment for the arrested-by-the-TSA scenario would be yet, but I promise it will be agonizing.”

“Early boarding is now beginning for passengers requiring extra assistance,” The perky blonde behind the counter announced into the loudspeakers.

“My timing is perfect,” House crowed.

House surrendered his cane to the flight attendant in exchange for a wheelchair. He plopped down in it with a pleased sigh, then fluttered his eyelashes up at Wilson. “Oh, young man? Could you help a sexy old geezer board this here airplane?”

“Of course, always happy to assist the elderly,” Wilson affected a simper, then leaned down to whisper, “You know that I like taking care of you.”

House scowled. “And you know that takes all the fun out of it.”

“I do.” Wilson patted House’s cheek.

Wilson took the window seat, not that there would be much of a view this late and with cloud cover, and House took the aisle, where he could more easily harass both flight attendants and other passengers. They settled into comfortable bickering while the plane filled up around them, exchanging meaningful looks when a currently sleeping infant took up residence two rows behind them, and betting quietly over how long it would take the guy kittycorner to House’s right to figure out his seat belt (House won—four whole minutes).

Takeoff was uneventful, as takeoffs ideally are. Wilson paid polite attention to the safety demonstration, and House showed that he could be taken places thank you very much, by merely ignoring it rather than openly mocking it. He afterwards regretted missing a prime opportunity to humiliate Wilson in public while he was literally strapped down and unable to escape.

The attendant looked like she was going to resort to violence by the third time she told House through a gritted-tooth-smile to please power down his cell phone, sir, until the plane reaches ten thousand feet. House retorted that a stellar hand of mobile Solitaire like this doesn’t come around every day, you know. Wilson ended the stand-off by plucking the phone from House’s hand and slipping it into his back pocket.

“You know you’ve just given me an excuse to go rooting around in your pants now, right?” House asked as the attendant fled gratefully.

Wilson raised his eyebrows. “That would make this a more interesting flight.”

House swiveled towards Wilson, appraising. The seat-belt light dinged off and he made up his mind.

“You know, we’re still technically on conference time. Enjoying our fine accommodations on Cuddy’s dime.”

“So?”

“So, come to the bathroom with me.”

Wilson raised an eyebrow. “Funny, you don’t look like a seventh grade girl.”

“I don’t kiss like one either.”

“Ew. Please proposition me in a less disgusting way.”

“Join the mile high club with me and I’ll proposition you six ways from Sunday.”

“There’s an episode of Friends with this plot,” Wilson sighed, “And I’m pretty sure it ended in marriage.”

“Is that a threat?” House’s hand bypassed the armrest to lay on Wilson’s thigh. Currently at an acceptable altitude, but going by House’s track record, it wouldn’t stay that way for long.

“You would see a loving commitment as imminent peril.”

“Am I in peril?” House’s pinky finger was inching up, up, up, soon they’d probably be violating some kind of air safety ordinance.

“Ugh,” Wilson grabbed House’s wandering hand and stood, head bent so he didn’t concuss himself on the low ceiling, “Move it, already.”

House’s flight-attendant-nemesis speared them with a skeptical look as they approached the curtained divider and House reached for the bathroom door handle without letting go of Wilson.

“I need a lot of help in there,” House explained to her at unnecessary volume.

“I am a doctor,” Wilson confirmed, professional smile neatly in place.

House hobbled into the cramped plastic walls, Wilson piling in after him.

“Huh.” House found himself jammed up on the non-sink (just a hand sanitizing station) with one foot practically in the tiny toilet and the ceiling fan screaming in his ear.

Wilson’s playing-along expression had morphed into his equally familiar I-told-you-so one, “Not how you imagined? I could’ve warned you.”

“Then this isn’t your first time at ten thousand feet? Oh, Jimmy…”

“Three honeymoons. Three. And it only would’ve taken one for me to tell you that two grown people do not belong in an airplane bathroom. It’s not sexy, it’s just claustrophobic.”

“On the contrary, it’s intimate. And it has one benefit over the rest of this equally squashed, stinking, ear-popping tin can.” They were already chest-to-chest and basically embracing through pure practicality, but House turned up the heat, sliding one hand down to massage Wilson’s ass while the other tangled in his hair, “Privacy.”

Twenty minutes and an extremely steamy make-out session later, Wilson dragged House back out of the bathroom with complaints of oxygen deprivation. The same flight attendant gave them the same look, and so House gifted her with a particularly lascivious wink.

House behaved for the rest of the flight, at least, by Wilson’s dismal standards for such. He barely hit on the crew, just lightly insulted the strangers across the aisle, and only made three 9/11 jokes at cabin-wide amplification. Sure, he stole Wilson’s peanuts, but that was just SOP and really, well, peanuts compared to his usual tier of stuntwork.

As they began their descent, House picked up the trashy magazine that had been left in the mesh seatback before him. He was enjoying some years-old goss about the cast of The OC, not plotting to do a thing in the world, when Wilson snapped, “Will you stop it already?”

“What?” House had to knock the dust off his genuine copy of ‘baffled innocence.’ “For perhaps the first time ever, I can honestly say I wasn’t doing anything.”

“Yeah. And it’s freaking me out.”

House looked helplessly to the woman across the aisle whose husband he’d chastised earlier for having the unmitigated gall to bring a tuna sandwich onboard. “Ma’am, may I pass a rude comment about your breasts? It’s for my friend, here.”

She blinked, considered, then asked, “Would that…be helpful?”

“Greatly.”

“Sure,” she sighed, and shot a meaningful glance at her snoring hubby, “it’s not like they get a lot of play lately, anyway.”

House gestured wildly, “I can’t work with this kind of cooperation!”

“My Bob here says they’re kind of uneven,” the woman offered, “maybe start with that?”

“No! Your breasts are a renaissance painting in symmetry, and your Bob is a useless boob—pun intended—if he doesn’t appreciate that.” House turned back to Wilson with a pained expression, “You see what you’ve brought me to? I’m paying compliments to strangers.”

“And offering relationship counseling,” Wilson added, a haunted look in his eyes, “are you sure we’re not in that one Twilight Zone episode with Shatner on a plane?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” House said, but he also checked out the window for any cryptids that may be chilling on the wing.

“By the by, you two make such a sweet couple,” House’s should’ve-been-victim leaned across the aisle with a smile, “It’s good, being adventurous. Keep the spark alive!” she advised, before putting in iPod headphones and leaving them in silence.

House stared down at the magazine centerfold (a photo of Ben McKenzie with pink paper hearts around his face) and wondered which move to make: mock, ignore, or…accept. He couldn’t think of a decent comeback for the life of him, which was probably a sign of altitude sickness, so ignore was—

Wilson’s hand slid onto House’s knee. And stayed there. Wilson reopened his cheap airport paperback with his free hand, though his eyes didn’t start moving over the words yet.

House looked down at the hand. He looked up at Wilson. He opened his mouth and said nothing. He finally smacked the hand with his magazine in a parody of offense. “Fresh!”

“Yep,” Wilson agreed, squeezing lightly, “getting it in under the wire. Conference time, and all.”

“Conference time,” House repeated and covered Wilson’s hand with his own. He didn’t look at what he was doing, so he figured, it didn’t really count.

The casual-hand-on-knee incident (5 dead, 17 injured) left House internally hydroplaning. His thoughts couldn’t latch on. He was at risk of spinning out and the one person who knew how to catch him was spreading ice under his tires, to really beat the metaphor into the ground.

Wilson didn’t let go of him when they hit the tarmac, or when people started bustling in the overhead compartments. It wasn’t until they actually rose to their feet that his fingers slipped away. And even then, Wilson didn’t stop touching him. A hand on House’s shoulder in the wheelchair ride out, gripping his elbow once they’d deplaned and de-chaired, scandalously brushing the small of his back to steady him on the escalator. House was storing up so many bitchy comments about Wilson’s sudden and violent attack of the touchy-feelys that he would probably burst before they left the terminal but he couldn’t seem to voice them. Not when it ran the risk of making Wilson stop.

Wilson had driven them both to the airport those three days (years? decades?) ago. House would’ve lone wolf-ed it to the taxi stand to avoid an awkward drive, but Wilson wordlessly grabbed House’s luggage as well as his own and headed for the parking garage instead.

The atypically silent ride back to House’s place was surely making Wilson at least as miserable as House’s constant low-grade norm, which was maybe why House didn’t break it. Loves company, etc. etc. But then Wilson parked and threw open the car door with every intention of following House inside and it became clear speech was the only recourse.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m bringing your things inside,” Wilson said, with the tone of one currently hefting several bulky objects and thinking they spoke pretty fluently for themselves.

“Yes, thank you Prince Charming, but I meant more generally.”

“Generally? Searching for the meaning of life.”

“42. Next excuse.”

“That’s what this is, an excuse,” Wilson unlocked House’s door with his key and dumped House’s stuff unceremoniously over the threshold. He waited until House followed to shut the door behind them both. “An excuse to talk.”

“I knew the silence was too sweet.”

“You hate silence.”

“I hate this kind of talking more.”

“Thanks for demonstrating once again that you’re a temperamental, stubborn, obnoxious child.”

“I live to serve.”

“You live to annoy. Yet here I am. And I want to stay.”

“Stay?”

“Stay,” Wilson confirmed, shuffling his feet in a manner that was both nervous and determined.

“Stay…”

“Stay with you, House. I don’t want what we had these last few days to end.”

This was exactly what House had wanted to hear. It was terrifying. He waited, searching for something in Wilson’s words that he could attack, sink his teeth into and mangle until it was a little less real, a little less paradigm-shifting.

“I don’t care about the imaginary rules of ICS,” Wilson tossed up mocking air quotes, “or whatever horrible relationship baggage you’re carrying around, or anything else. I was happy being with you. And I think you were happy with me, too.”

“Oh, was I?” House cut in eagerly, “Good to know.”

“You were happy,” Wilson insisted, “you were happier, more stable, I think you were even less drug dependent—”

Wilson was offering him—them—a lifeline. So, House did the only thing he could.

He pulled out his knife and started sawing.

“You think your dick heals all wounds?” he snapped, “Gee, if only we could patent it.”

“I think that the Cartesian mind-body split is a load of bull and you know it. That’s why you distract your mind when your body is in pain. I am offering myself,” Wilson gestured theatrically, “as a distraction.”

“You already are. That’s why I’m constantly invading your office to bug you.”

“Yes, because you enjoy fucking with me. Well, now you have the option to drop the ‘with.’”

House leaned on his cane, giving Wilson a heated yet skeptical inspection.

Wilson rocked a little on his heels, cool as can be. “So? Is it agreed? When you feel like taking drugs, I want you to take me instead.”

“This plan doesn’t sound very workplace friendly,” House pointed out, “Cuddy’s lenient, but she’d draw the line at exhibitionism, even for such a good cause.”

“Kiss me, then. Our colleagues can handle the sight of a little tongue.”

“I’d be kissing you all the time. I’m talking threat of asphyxiation.”

“Then choke me, daddy,” Wilson deadpanned, hands on hips in classic scolding form. 

House gave this the moment of silence it deserved, allowing his brain to reboot. 

Wilson took advantage—the bastard—and moved in close, cupping House’s cheek in his hand, thumb chasing across stubble. “Dreaming about Vicodin?”

“Fuck Vicodin.”

“No, fuck me.”

“Shut up—!”

House chased Wilson’s triumphant smile, kissing him with too much teeth and too much feeling. The only consolation was that Wilson’s lips, hands, body, were just as desperate against his.

What a joke, that House had ever believed he could give this up. He was an addict through and through.

He hooked his cane above the door to free up both hands for dragging Wilson closer, tangling in his hair, smoothing down his back and palming his ass, sliding back up his front to divest him of shirt and jacket. Wilson yanked off House’s tee, contributing to the trail of clothes behind them. House thought they were headed for the bedroom, but Wilson apparently lacked the patience for the trip, guiding House until he tripped and fell back onto the couch, Wilson on top of him, a perfect crushing weight.

Had Wilson thought about this, the way House had? When he was crashing on this couch, had he ever picked up on House’s silent, sneaking desires, the things House wanted to do to Wilson and have done to himself on this worn out piece of furniture? Had he ever caught House watching his chest rise and fall from the threshold, did he know House had watched him sleep every night, a private ritual torture before consigning himself to his own cold bed?

Wilson must have tasted the questions on House’s tongue because he asked, “When I was asleep out here, did you ever think—did you ever want to come out here and…?”

“Molest you while unconscious?”

“Kiss me awake. Touch me.”

“What would you have done if I had?”

“I’d have begged you to bend me over the armrest and fuck me til I forgot my name. And then I’d have told you to go do the damn dishes.”

House’s moan turned into a laugh and Wilson sucked at his pulse point and got a hand in his jeans.

The truth was they were jetlagged and exhausted from everything—the conference, travel, emotional upheaval, rationalizing away the emotional upheaval—and not up to bending each over anything. Extended antics were out, so Wilson worked them both with one hand while House did his best to make trouble with his mouth. He treasured the sound Wilson made when he came and was so wrapped up in the feel of leather against his bare back and Wilson’s softening cock against his stomach that his own orgasm caught him by surprise.

He was mellow enough in the afterglow not to feel self-conscious about Wilson nuzzling his jaw in a distinctly kittenish fashion, but he did have enough electricity left in his brain to offer complaint when Wilson wiped his sticky hand on the couch cushion. “Defacing my furniture?”

“This couch has seen worse, as you well know,” Wilson replied primly, “I’ll get it dry cleaned. So we can ruin it again.”

House had no choice but to kiss Wilson thoroughly for that remark.

“C’mon,” Wilson rose unsteadily, half-pulling House with him, “I spent enough nights on this couch to know it’s not fit for human habitation.”

House was all ready to introduce Wilson to his bed. He wanted to see how the dark sheets looked against Wilson’s skin, how the early morning light slanting through the shades lit up the honey colors in his hair—

Wilson froze and squinted vengefully at the wall clock. “Shit. Is that really the time? I told my assistant I’d be in by nine at the latest…”

“If you really wanted to leave for work on time, you wouldn’t have called me ‘daddy.’”

“Yeah, that’s on me,” Wilson agreed, looking altogether too pleased.

House started tugging him bed-wards, exaggerated come-hither look in place, though he was sated and only dreaming of some long hot REM action. Wilson laughed and stumbled after him. House pushed him onto the unmade mattress, slipping in behind him and dragging the sheets up to their chins. It was an oddly practiced motion, like they’d been doing this for more than a long weekend.

“We really don’t have time to sleep…” Wilson half-heartedly—barely quarter-heartedly—protested.

“I’m cranky if I don’t get my twelve hours.”

“You’d be cranky if you pulled a Rip Van Winkle and slept for a century.”

“Well, yeah. Think how many episodes of General Hospital that I’d miss.” House felt Wilson’s back shake with laughter against his chest. He kissed Wilson’s neck and let his fingers play against Wilson’s skin and tried not to give in to the madness and tell Wilson that it wouldn’t be soap operas he’d miss the most.

“I should go. You can sleep without me.”

“Yeah.” House waited. Wilson didn’t leave. Instead, he took House’s meandering hand and pulled so House’s arm wrapped properly around his middle.

“I guess an extra twenty minutes wouldn’t matter.”

“My slovenly habits are rubbing off on you already. Sexually transmitted laziness.”

Another laugh rumbled through Wilson’s chest and into House’s, and House’s whole body thrummed with satisfaction and victory, and his usual insomnia was no match for this perfect golden feeling.

The fragile sugar-spun state of fulfilment decayed in barely an hour. Heavy anxiety weighed against House’s chest, unease spiked by sedentary dread clotting in his veins.

He jerked out of a vague dreamstate filled with hungry shadows and chains that wound through his bones and held him down. He’d been too deep in sleep for a morning nap and his head felt heavy and cotton-stuffed and he was in no mood for Wilson kissing the bridge of his nose like he was.

“Good morning,” Wilson said, like he hadn’t also spent the night not getting any sleep in airports and airplanes.

“S’really not.”

“Bad morning, then.” Wilson turned fully around in House’s arms so they were face to face. Their legs wound together. One of Wilson’s hands scratched at House’s stubble while the other rested comfortably on his hip. “It’s time to get going.”

“No.”

“Please? For me?” Wilson kissed his cheek, which was admittedly a compelling argument.

“No,” House repeated, and then for good measure, “I don’t like you.”

“Will you like me if I suck you off?” Wilson’s tongue teased at the skin behind House’s ear, sending frissons of excitement chasing down his spine.

“Is that why everyone likes you?” House woke up all the way at the opportunity for mocking, “You’ve been exchanging sexual favors for popularity this whole time!”

“It’s true, that’s why the board meetings always run long. It takes forever to work my way around the room.”

House wasn’t sure if horror or arousal won the day with that mental image. Then, a more pressing matter sprang to the fore from what had started as a joke. “Is that why you’re in my bed?”

“What, so you’ll like me?” Wilson’s amused expression faltered. He sensed the danger. “I was the exception to your universal-hatred rule before this.”

“So, no.”

“No.”

“Too bad. It would’ve been better.”

“Better than what?” Wilson asked, exasperated now. It was comfortable ground and House relaxed even as he felt himself gearing up to say something particularly nasty.

“Better than screwing me out of some misplaced sense of guilt.”

“That’s not—”

“‘Less drug dependent,’” House quoted, “you’re trying to get me to trade opiates for the natural high of convenient sex-on-demand. I’m not mad about it.” House patted Wilson’s head with maximum patronizing force, “But don’t act like this is a love story when it’s just another manipulative intervention.”

House heaved himself out of bed. He felt sick to his stomach. Probably just the jetlag.

“Why are you doing this?” Wilson asked, vulnerable, wearing nothing but House’s sheets.

“Doing you? For the convenience, like I said.” House grabbed clothes at random from drawers, “I’m gonna shower first. Don’t follow me, I know you can’t control yourself when I’m wet and naked.”

House slammed the bathroom door on Wilson’s angry response and collapsed against it, breathing heavily. In a truly spectacular showing, he’d managed to find the only outcome worse than losing what he had with Wilson—keeping it under false pretenses.

A pity fuck. He’d become what he’d always despised, another one of Wilson’s girls, taken to bed because he was just too goddamn pathetic to abandon.

He didn’t wait for the shower to heat up, letting the freezing water beat against his skin as he tried to scrub away the evidence of three days and three nights of letting his libido—no, worse, the festering remains of his heart—guide his choices.

Worst of all, he knew he’d do everything he could to keep it, this awful not-enough-by-half whatever the fuck they had.

He brushed past a stony Wilson as they crossed on the bathroom-to-kitchen path. He looked unfairly good, sleepy and annoyed with sex-hair, and it took all of House’s considerable stores of misanthropic iciness not to touch him as he passed.

House chewed on a plain bagel straight from the fridge (he didn’t deserve cream cheese today) and listened to the water hiss back on. The desire to leave before Wilson was decent and therefore capable of pursuit (if he even would pursue after what House had said—who knows, maybe he’d finally won the push-‘em-away-before-they-leave prize) battled with House’s usual pre-work inertia and tendency for tardiness. This concluded with the result that House was conveniently ready to go just as Wilson was. Probably this was fate’s punishment for all the times he’d snatched patients back from death’s door. Even universal forces could be petty.

House had the keys for his bike in hand, planning on riding a few loops around the hospital to think some things out and avoid arriving at the same time as Wilson, when he was shoved suddenly face-first against the door.

“Hey!” House complained, startled more than hurt, “You that eager to pay for my nose job?”

“You think this is guilt?” Wilson asked, and his voice was in that deep, fast, hurt, do-not-fuck-with-me-motherfucker zone that House rarely got to hear. “You think this is pity?” His hands, balled up in House’s jacket, relaxed slowly, sliding to his waist. He still kept House against the door, but barricaded him in with the application of hips. It was extremely effective.

“I don’t know what else it could be.”

Wilson laughed, breath tickling the back of House’s neck. “I believe you. You really are stubborn enough and stupid enough to discount the other possibilities.”

“Alright, genius, what possibilities are those?”

“Affection,” Wilson suggested, punctuating the word by grinding against House’s back, which made him grin darkly.

“Lust is not the same thing.” But it was better than pity. Or guilt.

“Maybe,” Wilson pulled back and House was temporarily disappointed, but Wilson just flipped him around so they were nose to nose, chest to chest, everything else to everything else. “Maybe I think sex is the best way to something more with you.”

House licked his lips. He could ask. He could make Wilson tell him. What is more? How can you want more with me?

Instead, he said, “I never answered, before.”

“Hmm?”

“I will like you if you suck me off. Like you more.”

Wilson dropped to his knees.

“You don’t actually have to—”

“Shut up.”

Wilson made fast work of House’s zipper and faster work with his dick. House hadn’t had any complaints the first time Wilson went down on him, but that wasn’t to say he hadn’t also been improving. Gold stars, all around. House had to let go of Wilson’s hair (so so soft and curling damply at his neck, god) to lean heavily on his cane. Without pulling off, Wilson dragged House’s aching leg over his shoulder, taking some of the weight and almost all of the pain. House came almost immediately after and it felt so good he wasn’t even self-conscious about it.

Wilson let House’s leg drop and leaned back with a little gasp, catching his breath and wiping his mouth absently with the back of his hand.

“Wow.” House looked down at the sight—and what a helluva sight Wilson made. “I wouldn’t mind more mornings like that.”

“I’m open to most mornings being like that,” Wilson replied, from where he still knelt between House’s legs. This was an unbeatable position, argumentation-wise.

“In that case, I’m gonna need to put a rug here or something. You’re getting up there, your knees won’t hold out forever.”

Wilson got to his feet with a wince and some minor clicking from the affected region. “Did I forget to mention, I’m sending you my orthopedic bill.”

“I’ll happily sponsor your replacement joints for such a worthy pursuit. See, we can be mutual sugar daddies.”

“Doesn’t that actually negate the sugar daddy concept?” Wilson parried. He watched House bend and retrieve his dropped motorcycle keys, then delicately lifted said keys and tossed them back on the hook. “You’re riding with me.”

House smirked. Wilson’s tie had gotten loose and his hair was almost as bad as it had been pre-shower. “You’re hot when you’re bossy.”

“Yeah,” Wilson passed him with a cool look, “You’ve mentioned that.”

They arrived several hours later than Wilson had intended, and several hours earlier than House had, considering he’d planned on sacrificing most if not all of the day to conference-recovery. Wilson bought House coffee on their way upstairs and House licked Wilson’s ear in the elevator when a nurse’s gaze lingered a little too long. It was different than their usual and also totally the same. It was…good.

The ducklings paddled out of the fishbowl as soon as the elevator deposited House and Wilson on their floor. The three young doctors observed their boss and his longtime partner in crime (literally and figuratively) with great interest.

“Damn,” Foreman concluded first, “it wasn’t all a joke.”

“Pay up,” Chase held out a hand.

Foreman peeled off two twenties and handed them over with a grimace.

“You didn’t bet against us?” House observed of a quietly proud Cameron.

“No, I could tell that you were genuinely freaking out when you called. That meant there were real feelings involved.”

“Don’t listen to her,” House said to Wilson’s smug little smile, “she’s just saying that to be hurtful. Anyway, you also didn’t bet in our favor, I see.”

“I know you, House. Odds were good you’d screw this up before you got back, rendering the whole thing null and void.”

“Now, see,” Wilson explained in his teacher voice, “that was hurtful.”

“Don’t you have dying children to go soothe?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact.”

“Cool.” House grabbed Wilson’s ass and grinned, “See ya later, honeybunches.”

Wilson didn’t miss a beat before mirroring House’s ass grab and replying, “Not if I see you first, pookie.” Wilson squeezed once and patted twice, then relinquished his hold and marched calmly away.

House watched him go, dazed and weirdly proud, and a little turned on.

Cameron whistled appreciatively, earning her a dirty look from Foreman. “What?” she grinned, “You guys laugh at every tasteless joke House makes about lesbian sex, so I get to enjoy a guy-on-guy show.”

“Sounds fair to me,” House passed her on his way into the conference room, and to his delight, she shot her hand out for a high five.

Foreman’s perma-frown deepened. “I suppose it would be too much to expect us to actually talk about work when we’re, you know, at work.”

“Not to mention it would go against precedent,” House agreed, settling into his favorite of the uncomfortable metal chairs and heaving his legs up onto the table.

“We still don’t have a case,” Chase pointed out, “which does leave the schedule open for a thorough examination of our boss’s private sexual life.”

“I knew I hired you for more than your pretty face,” House winked at Chase, who preened.

“Chase, stop angling to be their third,” Foreman pleaded, “or at least don’t do it in front of me.”

“You can do it in front of me,” Cameron clarified, looking at Chase with new interest.

Cuddy chose that moment to arrive, and Foreman looked up at her with the kind of gratitude usually reserved for helicopters in flood-zones.

“Yes, whatever the case is, yes, we’ll take it.” Foreman was outright begging. It was cute.

“Sorry,” she held out empty, file-less hands, “nobody’s shown up with any unusual—excuse me, interesting—symptoms all week. Which leaves you,” she pointed happy finger guns at House, “plenty of time to catch up on your egregious backlog of paperwork. And if that sounds too boring, there’s always your other egregious backlog of clinic hours.”

“I’ll take the third option.”

“Avoidance isn’t an option.”

“I was thinking more of ambushing Wilson with whipped cream and candle wax.”

“No. And if you think I won’t take Wilson’s office door off its hinges to stop exactly that eventuality, you’re underestimating me.”

“Fine, no Wilson. Chase, be under my desk in five minutes.”

Chase seemed fine with this suggestion but a distressed noise slipped out of Foreman’s clenched mouth.

“Oh, don’t worry, I wasn’t gonna leave you out,” House waggled his eyebrows, “that desk is very roomy.”

“Stop propositioning your employees,” Cuddy ordered, “I don’t have the budget to buy another cabinet to hold all your sexual harassment complaints.”

“But wait, I haven’t gotten to all three of them yet today. Cameron…”

Cameron smiled, the kind where she was actually laughing on the inside but didn’t want to show it, “Consider me covered. I assume everything you say to me is an ongoing proposition.”

House put a hand to his heart, “The complete set.”

“Alright,” Cuddy turned to leave and House dutifully inspected her ass, “you three, try to make him do something useful. Otherwise, just dunk him in freezing water on a regular basis to keep him from ruining the furniture.”

Obviously, House did not do paperwork. Foreman did fill a bedpan with cold tap water, however, clearly just waiting for an excuse to use it, so House wandered off in the direction of the clinic. Whether or not he actually made it to the clinic, well, that was a different question.

The hospital was full of distractions. Nurses to flirt with, janitors to prank (or janitors to flirt with and nurses to prank, depending on his mood)—a cornucopia of recreation for the discerning doctor and his inner twelve year old. It was perfect. Except. It somehow wasn’t any fun at all. Not today.

House knew he had it bad when he paid for his own dinner (his own! dinner!), just so he could make a quick escape from the cafeteria to his third tier avoidance area, the Nutritional Health wing (those lazy sons of bitches were always gone by 5pm). He ate an unsatisfying sandwich and aggressively mowed through several bags of chips before he realized he was thinking ‘damn, if only the clinic hadn’t closed already, at least down there I’d get to talk to somebody.’

This was out of control.

Wilson’s door was open when he arrived. House poked it forlornly with his cane as he plodded into the office, begrudging the opportunity to throw it open and potentially startle a reaction out of its occupant.

“Hey,” Wilson looked up. Not just his usual ‘oh, yep, there’s House’ glance before turning back to his work. This was a full, heavy, hot-eyed look.

“Hey.” If House couldn’t have his dramatic entrance, then he’d settle for a slam. But the door didn’t cooperate, closing silently as if to mock him.

“I was waiting for you to come by,” Wilson leaned back in his chair, “Surprised it took so long. Get a patient?”

“No, I was just attending to some very important paperwork.”

“I’m gonna assume that means playing your Gameboy in Coma Guy’s room.” Wilson thoughtfully sucked his bottom lip into his mouth. House’s pulse jumped. “Did you undo that extra button just for me?”

House glanced down at the crinkled folds of his sky blue button down.

“No.” Yes.

Wilson started chewing on the end of a pen, because he had a grudge against House’s healthy blood pressure or something. “Lock the door and close the blinds.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Lock the door. Close the blinds. Get over here.” Wilson pushed away from his desk, legs falling casually apart.

“Okay.” House didn’t move. “I might need a minute. I think I got sent the wrong script.”

“Sorry, was I supposed to be the one nixing the workplace nookie?”

“Yes! You shouldn’t even know what that word means!”

Wilson was rolling out a classic table-turning gambit. Unfortunately, House recognizing the strategy did nothing to negate it. His only moves were to call it out or fall into it.

“How horny are you?” he decided to inquire. He also decided to lock the door and close the blinds.

Wilson grinned, “I’ve been thinking about the House-chained-under-my-desk fantasy all day, so I’ll let you take a guess.”

“Funny, I tried luring each of my fellows under my desk earlier. It didn’t take.”

“They’re not as easy as you.”

House huffed, a smile fighting through his pretend offense. “I’m not actually going under your desk. It’d be dusty. Not to mention painful, because I’m not a fucking contortionist.”

“Right.” Wilson’s eyes flashed.

House took a few steps forward, swore, then used his cane to slowly lever himself to the ground. He got under the desk. It was dusty, it was moderately painful, and a course in the contortion arts would certainly have been helpful. He was also practically salivating as Wilson slowly slid his chair back in closer.

House attacked Wilson’s belt, gratified to find that Wilson was on the verge of panting before House had even gotten his zipper down.

He pulled Wilson’s pants apart and slid him out through the slit in his boxers. After admiring the wanton sluttiness of the whole situation for a long, tingling moment—during which Wilson held his breath—he got down to business.

House bobbed his head, working up and down the length with great attention to detail, putting the last three days and nights’ experience into very wet, very thirsty practice.

He kept his hands clamped on Wilson’s thighs. If he didn’t need them for counterbalance he’d put them behind his back—to complete the chained-under-the-desk imagery—but there were limits to his gymnastic feats, even those in the service of hot illicit workplace sex. Still. House hoped Wilson knew that he had an open invitation to thrust into House’s mouth pretty much whenever he opened it, good manners and breathing be damned.

House started moving more aggressively, not the smooth-slow licks he’d taken Wilson apart with before when it felt like time was gathering warm and wooly around them, but fast and messy. When Wilson started uncontrollably muttering, “fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuck,” House knew he’d hit the right pace.

Shoes clacked outside and there was a knock at the door. House froze, mouth full, and Wilson looked as close to committing murder in that moment as House had ever seen.

The heels had sounded too short for Cuddy, too high for Cameron—so, most likely candidate was Wilson’s new assistant, a lipstick lesbian House secretly respected for her so-far-unswerving capacity to not switch sides for her hot, kindly boss.

“With a patient,” Wilson announced shortly, in a voice that was way too calm and normal for the circumstances.

The heels clicked obediently away but House still pulled back.

“I’m seriously offended by how not mind-blown you just sounded.”

“Don’t be. Years of your exciting company have just taught me to lie well under fire.” When House threatened to pout, Wilson added, “You’d have preferred, ‘give me five minutes, my colleague’s just finishing up my blowjob’?”

“Hmm,” House considered, “five minutes?”

“Four if you keep doing that thing with your tongue.”

“I bet three,” House countered, and got back to doing that thing with his tongue, repeatedly.

They both forgot to time it.

When he was done House tucked Wilson back into his slacks, all neat and tidy like nothing had happened, while Wilson was still coming down. His eyes were closed, fingers fondly combing through the short hair at the nape of House’s neck, and there was a little smile on his face that House thought should probably be preserved in a museum.

Wilson blinked sleepily back from the post-orgasm world as House quizzed him.

“So, was the desk-pet fantasy as hot as you thought it’d be?”

“Mmm. Hotter.”

House generally agreed, but in the fluorescent light of reality, he also found the underside of a desk looked less like a porno set and more like so much musty unfinished wood. He grimaced and reached for his cane, which had deserted him at some point during the festivities.

Wilson’s satisfied smile bent under the weight of concern, which in turn put a dent in House’s buzz. “C’mon,” Wilson reached for him, “let’s get you outta there.”

House moved slightly and then cut that shit out immediately when his leg sent out a warning spasm. “Think I’ll stay down here, thanks.”

“As much as my downstairs brain is obsessed with that concept, my doctor brain tells me that it’s a bad idea.”

“The bad idea stage has already come and gone, emphasis on the come.”

The smile flickered back and House decided he had enough energy (and emergency Vicodin in his pocket) for one big heroic push to his feet.

Through virtue of Wilson fussing over his head like a toddler getting out of a car he managed not to bash his skull in on the edge of the desk on his way up. The effort still knocked the wind out of him, and he had to fall back into a weak lean against the drawers.

Wilson’s worried hands landed on his hips. House couldn’t quite open his eyes yet, but he felt Wilson’s breath on his bare skin—Wilson was leaning in, nosing apart the folds of his (yes, significantly unbuttoned) shirt, pressing a kiss to the central ridge of his ribs. The mother-hen hands changed their tune, softening along House’s waist, tracing his hipbones through his jeans, sneaking carefully across the tops of his thighs so fingers could brush playfully against his inseam.

House felt his body relax. Unbidden. Listening to Wilson better than it ever listened to House’s desperate begging, his unrelenting orders to behave and do what it’s fucking supposed to.

“Don’t you have work to do?” House asked, looking up at the ceiling, “I know I do.”

Wilson removed his face from House’s shirt to stare incredulously at him, but House was busy glaring heavenwards and giving away no clues. “I don’t know who you are, but you can’t be Greg House. But you give great head, so I guess I’ll keep you.”

“Not body-snatched. Though, if I had been, it’s not like I’d tell you.”

Wilson relented and checked the clock on his desk, a soft frown pulling at the corner of his mouth. “I do have the evening rounds. I probably can’t leave until ten or eleven, but I could meet you—”

“Nope.” House propelled himself off the desk and ripped open the thin metal blinds on his way to the door, “Sorry, you’ve used up your daily subscription to House M.D. All slots booked. Check again tomorrow.”

“Fine,” Wilson accepted the rejection gracefully, “Buy you coffee whenever you drag yourself to work tomorrow? In compensation for your services, of course.”

“My services deserve coffee and a donut.”

“Two donuts,” Wilson agreed.

House swung out of the office at top speed, tossing back a double dose and contemplating a third. He wondered if that little show of insanity in there called for a trip to the Thinking Roof, a really scuzzy dive bar, or if he should just cut out the middleman and hop a jet to Argentina to go raise sheep in isolation.

Wilson’s assistant (he didn’t respect her quite enough to consign her name to memory) almost bumped into him, disrupting the getaway.

“Oh, I—sorry, Dr. House,” she sent a suspicious frown up at him from her five feet in height. “I thought Dr. Wilson was with a patient.”

“Yeah. Me. There’s something wrong with my knees. He thinks I don’t get down on them enough. Don’t worry, he gave me a very thorough treatment.”

“Ah. That’s cool,” she shrugged, “Maybe just leave a sock on the door next time.”

He went home.

He sat at the piano and played sad half-written love songs that he would swear aren’t about anyone in particular and he started drinking early and thought about calling this one unlisted number for some intimate paid company and just the thought made him nauseous so he drank some more and played some more and finished the evening by passing out blackout drunk on the floor outside the bathroom. 

Pleasant, classy, a typical evening with Greg House. He was glad he was too intoxicated to think or he’d be thinking about Wilson.

But even the booze couldn’t keep him under for long. Leg pain from his current hardwood mattress, jet lag, a raging hangover sneaking in an early appearance, you name it, it was hammering at his brain stem shouting ‘don’t even think about sleep you dumb fucking bastard.’

So, he mixed meds he shouldn’t. He saw those fairies Arthur Conan Doyle claimed were real, dancing on his windowsill. He threw up.

And still, it was only 2:39 AM. Barely tomorrow. What to do. What to fucking do.

Chapter Text

Day 5

Tuesday, 3:11 AM

House rapped harder on Cuddy’s front door with his cane. He’d break it down soon if she didn’t answer. This is what he got for being a gentleman and knocking rather than jack-in-the-box-ing up at her half-open bedroom window.

A dog started barking and lights went on at the neighbors just before Cuddy swung the door open with an exhausted kind of mania in her eyes (and a lacy pink nightgown that gathered nicely around her thighs, for those watching from home).

“What—House? What?” her knuckles were white where she gripped the doorframe like it was House’s neck, “Good god, you smell like a whiskey-coated car crash.”

“That would be the whiskey. No car crash, though, I took a taxi like a responsible citizen. Wave to Steve!” House waved over his shoulder at the taxi driver, who waved cheerily back like he wasn’t ferrying around a tanked lunatic in the dead of night.

Cuddy smiled grimly over at Steve and tugged at the hem of her nightie. “You don’t even have a patient, what possible reason could you have for being here?”

“Wilson’s in love with me,” House announced, then paused for a reaction, which he didn’t get. “Don’t you have some sort of bureaucratic protocol for that?”

The raw hatred that comes of being woken rudely in the middle of the night began to fade from Cuddy’s eyes. Slightly.

“So, he loves you,” she repeated, unblinking, “Water is wet, more news at ten.”

“That’s not the kind of love I’m talking about. It’s the love he won’t tell me about that’s the problem.”

“I don’t think I could follow that even if I was fully conscious.”

“Wilson’s totally in love with me, but he won’t admit it. That has to be grounds for suspension.”

“If I suspended everyone who wouldn’t say they’re in love with you, then you’d work in a very empty hospital.”

“Fine by me.”

“Listen, House,” Cuddy pressed a manicured nail to her temple, “I’m too tired for the usual verbal sparring. Let’s skip ahead to the real issue.”

“Oh, do tell me what that is.”

“That you’re in love with Wilson and that scares the shit out of you.”

House let the silence stretch. Maybe it was because it was 3 AM or because of the unprescribed who-knows-what still swimming through his system or because it was Cuddy—Lisa—or because he really was just that freaked that the trembling house of cards he called his life was about to get blown down. But he was quiet, and that was more than enough affirmation for her.

Her lips pressed together in a sad line. The corners of her eyes turned down. She crossed her arms and caught his flittering gaze. “House. Whatever kind of love you’re capable of experiencing, you feel for him. Anyone who knows you two can see that.”

“Then you think I should go for it.”

“Since when has what I think mattered?”

“It’s always mattered.”

Cuddy scoffed, “Please don’t bother. It’s not my pants you’re trying to get into.”

“The pants have already been gotten into, that’s not the issue. Though, side note, I’ll always be interested in getting in your skirt. If I ever stop trying to do that you’d better send me in for a CAT scan.”

“That’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Yeah, you can tell the story at the wedding.” House’s shoulders stiffened as he rewound the joke. “The wedding that isn’t going to happen.”

“Right.”

“Because of institutional homophobia.”

“Uh huh.”

“I’m making a very important political statement, here.”

“You often are.”

“Seriously. And you should be aware for the next time you want to trample my human rights by not letting my cut off a patient’s head or whatever, that you’re just being super biphobic.”

“Cute. I’ll tell my girlfriend that one.”

“Your what—”

“Goodnight, House.” Cuddy gently but firmly clicked the door shut in his face.

1:55 PM

House had several consecutive hours of sleep, a diner brunch, and a plan (in that order). With the sleep slept, the brunch dined upon, and the plan polished, House began the assault.

He swung himself over the brick wall dividing his and Wilson’s balcony, swearing quietly at the discomfort, then swearing loudly for Wilson’s benefit when he looked up from his desk.

“I’ve got it,” House announced as he shoved open the glass door.

“Well, ‘it’ could be any number of things,” Wilson mused, attention already back on his paperwork, “Golden ticket, the meaning of life. Syphilis.”

“If it were the last one, I’d be saying we’ve got it.”

Wilson rubbed the joint of his thumb into his eye socket. “And you’d announce the need for a mutual STD panel with more evil glee. No, this is…” he squinted at House and decided, “kamikaze. Okay.” Wilson slowly closed the file folder in front of him. “What are you about to do, and before you do it, who do I need to call, EMTs, FBI, lawyer, exorcist…?”

“I have figured out why you should stay in a relationship with me.”

“Uh. I thought we talked about this yesterday.”

“No, we talked about why I should stay in a relationship with you.”

“Those aren’t the same thing?”

“Only if you’re an idiot.”

“Please, go on,” Wilson deadpanned, “You’re overwhelming me with romance. Tell me why you’re such a prize.”

“I’m not,” House stuck a victorious finger in Wilson’s face, “but you have clearly decided to stick around anyway. Friendzone or sex zone, you’re in it to stay. And since you’re getting the worst parts of me no matter what, then you might as well get the best parts of me too. It’s just logical. Cost-benefit analysis.”

The thinning of Wilson’s mouth grew more pronounced. “Mmhmm.”

“The best part is my penis,” House clarified.

“Yep, got it.”

House matched Wilson’s deductive grimace. “Huh. Thought I’d get more fireworks from that.”

“From your penis?”

“Well, yes, always. But also from the perfect rationalization for our ongoing thing that I have just so brilliantly laid out for you.”

“Our thing?”

“Is there an echo in here?” House hooked his cane around a metal pencil holder on Wilson’s desk and sent it crashing to the ground, “Huh, guess not.”

“House,” Wilson pressed his palms together and pointed them at his agitated office-invader, “I already agreed to keep our thing going. In fact, I’m the one who initially pushed the thing-agenda. I like our thing. I also like your thing, just for the record, since I figure you’ll get nervous if we talk about something other than sex for five seconds.”

“At what point have we not been talking about sex?”

Wilson very carefully did not throw his hands in the air. “This is just your usual paranoid jealousy, but dialed up to eleven, and with new weapons in your arsenal. I wouldn’t be surprised if you tried to baby trap me next week.”

“Gross,” House paused. “Would that work?”

“No. Also, I’m going to tell the Maternity nurses to shoot first if you turn up down there.”

“Back to the issue at hand—”

“What issue?”

“The one where you claim you’re gonna stick around but you’re only doing it to make sure I don’t fall into some drug-induced spiral. Oh, poor House with his poor gimp leg, Dr. Wilson better fuck him all better.”

“You’d rather I fucked you purely as a side benefit to our dysfunctional friendship?”

“I’d rather have a guarantee that this isn’t just extended pity ICS. If there’s an expiration date I have to know.”

“ICS!” Wilson finally snapped, rising to his feet, “I don’t want ICS, I never wanted ICS, I want—I want…C-F-S!”

“What?”

“Consequential forever sex!”

A grin tugged suddenly and irresistibly at the corner of House’s mouth. Wilson spotted it and immediately backtracked, “Which should probably be listed as a warning sign of mental illness.”

“Oh, it already is. And you’ve got it bad.” House advanced but Wilson was light on his feet, beating back the opposite way so they were circling the desk like lions around a wounded gazelle. “Terminal love syndrome.”

“Love isn’t a sickness. And even if it is…” Wilson mimed taking his own temperature and gave a faux-mournful shrug.

“Right. I’m a fifty year old drug addict with all the charming personality of a sucking chest wound. Either you’re in love with me or you’ve got a serious fetish for crippled old men.”

“You’ve caught me. That’s why I’m always hanging around the geriatric wing, I’m picking up dates.”

House hurled the wheeled office chair into Wilson’s knees, blocking his escape. “Say it.”

“Say what?”

“Don’t play dumb.”

“I don’t need to play, it comes naturally.”

House had Wilson cornered now. The coatrack was digging into Wilson’s back. House twisted the door lock shut, just in case. “Say it. What you say to all of them. Your trail of broken hearts. The thing that locks them down. The three scariest words in the English language.”

“Taxes are due?”

“Why won’t you say you it?” House’s voice went hoarse.

“Why would you want to hear it?” Wilson matched his volume, “Those words don’t mean anything to you. And you’ve made it very clear that they especially mean jack shit coming from me.”

“Yeah. Love is a finite resource but you pour it out like dirty water. So, why won’t you give it to me?”

Wilson scoffed, a volatile mix of confused and enraged, “You want me to tell you that I love you?”

“Yes!”

Wilson’s hot brown eyes cooled. His fists clenched at his sides. “You really want me to say it?” His voice dipped low, and House felt the watery, uncertain sensation of stepping onto a half-frozen lake in November. “You want me to tell you that I’ve loved you for years, that I’ve loved you for so long I don’t even know when it started? That it’s a bruise I refuse to stop pressing and let heal?” His gaze was like flint now. “Yeah, I’ll say it. That’s my job, right? I’m the good one. The sensitive one. I’m not an insane, manipulative, stubborn liar who’s so miserable that he can’t express affection for other people, because that might mean he’s worthy of receiving affection in return.”

“You deserve better than me.”

“You’re damn right, I do!” Wilson exploded and House flinched back. “I deserve someone decent and kind and loving.” He let out a long, shuddering breath. “Too bad I don’t want them. Whoever they are.”

House wasn’t sure when it had happened, but he was definitely drowning now. He half-shook his head, pulse pounding in his ears, grip on his cane slick with sweat. He finally hedged, “I don’t want to be the fourth Mrs. Wilson.”

“You wouldn’t be,” Wilson nearly shook with exasperation, “You’d be Mr. Wilson. Or, no, you’d be the other Dr. Wilson, and you’d use it as an excuse to mess with all my patients by showing up pretending to be me, and then we’d make dinner reservations for the Doctors Wilson and confuse the hell out of some poor maître de, and I’d forgive you for racking up credit card debt in my name because it would be your name too and I’d love it every time I heard it.”

Gaze fixed firmly on the industrial carpet beneath his sneakers, House suggested, “We could hyphenate.”

“Wouldn’t sound right. House and Wilson, the names are too…autonomous.”

“Yeah. Heavy-handed with the symbolism, there.”

House startled when Wilson laid a hand on his shoulder.

“You don’t have to lose yourself to care about someone.”

“You wouldn’t know,” House sneered, shrugging off the Dr-Wilson-delivering-bad-news hand of kindness, fuck that, “Who you are is caring about people.”

“Yes. I do care about people. A lot of people. But there’s only one I’ve waded through a fucking lot of hell and high water to stay with over the last dozen years.”

Wilson had said so much, but he hadn’t said it.

“Please,” House spoke so quietly, his voice was hardly recognizable as his own, “please, say it.”

“Why? Only actions count, words mean nothing, that’s your line.”

“They don’t mean nothing to you.”

“Well, they haven’t meant as much as they should. I told all my wives I loved them, and I meant it, at least in the moment. And yet…”

House met Wilson’s eye. “And yet. But did you say it first?”

“Huh?”

“Did you,” House poked Wilson in the chest, “say it first? Or did you say it after because it’s what they wanted to hear?”

“I don’t—”

“Because I should’ve already ruined it. I’m practically begging you for it, you should’ve been rushing to give me what I want. Your motivations are already poisoned. But you still won’t say it. I don’t understand.”

A laugh ripped out of Wilson before he could cover his mouth with shaking fingers. “That’s…you really don’t, do you?”

“No,” frustration rose to the surface in House’s maelstrom of emotions, “I really fucking don’t.”

Wilson waited, holding a hand between them like that could physically stop the tide. Finally, he said, “Because I know you won’t say it back. Because I can’t stand to be alone in it. You’re right, when my wives told me they loved me, I said I loved them too. It’s a hell of a lot easier to say it back than to be the first.”

“So…” House licked his lips, “we’re both just cowards?”

“Looks like.”

“Huh.” It was unexpected, almost too simple to be true, but the pieces fit. And House had acted in the past on a lot less evidence than this. “Fine. Alright. But you have to promise that you won’t—” his voice failed him, just for a moment, “promise that you won’t just say it because I want you to.”

“What? House, that doesn’t—”

“Promise.”

Wilson huffed, then held up the boy scout salute, “I promise.”

“Okay.” House carefully leaned his cane against the wall, so he could use both hands to grab Wilson’s lapels and reel him in close. “Wilson, I love you. I’m not good at love and I’m not good to you but whatever love and whatever good I have left are yours. If you want it. If you want me.”

“Of course, I want—of course I—House—for fuck’s sake, you fucking idiot—” Whatever Wilson was saying deteriorated into so many desperate noises as he crashed their mouths together. There was too much pressure and it was messy and off-target and still the best kiss of House’s life. They were both off balance, Wilson clutching House’s arms and neck and face and overcorrecting them both backwards until House bumped into the desk. Wilson reached behind him and swept aside everything, regardless of importance or sentimental value, to make room enough to sit House down so Wilson could stand between his legs and keep kissing him until they both suffocated or the world ended or whatever happened now that the impossible had occurred.

“I love you, I love you, I fucking love you, I can’t believe you—goddammit, I love you,” Wilson whispered harshly against House’s mouth between furious kisses.

House ate it up, every syllable, every breath. He greedily stowed them all away in pockets of his mind for rainy days, knowing he’d return to the memories and polish them like stones, no matter what else came to pass.

“Keep going,” House insisted when Wilson ran out of breath, “don’t stop.”

“I love you, I love you, you ridiculous awful man, you disgrace to the profession, you hedonistic masochistic contradiction in terms, I love you so much you fucking bastard.”

House dragged Wilson’s shirt out of his pants and rucked it up enough to get his hands on bare skin. He wrapped his legs around Wilson’s waist and Wilson grabbed him by knee and thigh to grind in closer. House reached up to hold Wilson in place with one hand on the back of his neck and the other in his hair (he hadn’t gotten a chance to wreck it yet today, and Wilson had been looking far too tidy and well-kept) and only let Wilson stop saying it over and over and over because now he could taste those words at the source and it really was everything.

They broke apart at the faint sound of a digital camera shutter. House spotted Cameron with her phone out, peering through the blinds they had not remembered to close this time.

“Those better not end up on the internet!” House shouted through the closed door.

“Just consider it an insurance policy!” she called back.

“And that is why we can never risk recording a sex tape,” Wilson concluded.

“Darn, there go our Sunday plans,” House snapped his fingers.

“So…are we closing the shades or calling time out?”

House reached out and snapped the shades shut with a deft tug on the drawstring. He wrapped Wilson up more tightly in his arms, a Venus fly trap with a medical degree and a motorcycle and more issues than even a glutton for neediness like Wilson could consume in a lifetime.

“Hey, Wilson?”

Wilson sighed against his cheek, “Are you ever gonna call me James?”

“Absolutely fucking not. Hey, Wilson?”

“Yeah, House?”

House pecked a kiss to Wilson’s nose, because he could, and because he couldn’t help himself. “I love you.”

“Condolences.”

“I love you.”

“Seriously, a bummer. I hear insurance doesn’t cover that.”

“I,” House beat his chest gorilla-style, “love you.”

“I think you’ve officially moved through all the possible emphases on those three words.”

“Then I’d better hire a sky-writer to revive the excitement.”

“Please don’t.”

“I have an aerial advertisement company on my speed dial.”

“That’s just crazy enough to be true.”

“And yet, you still love me.”

“Yeah,” Wilson framed House’s face in his hands, thumbs stroking down rough-hewn skin and graying stubble and worry lines, “I still love you. And I’ll tell you that I love you whenever you need to hear it.”

“Always. Forever. Constantly.”

“Sure. Can do. Because I love you.” A kiss. “Also…I love you.” Another kiss. “And I’ll keep telling you I love you every day until I die.”

“Which will probably be sooner than you thought, if you keep on loving me.”

“Definitely.”

“But you’ll still love me,” House checked, “even if and when I kill you.”

“Wait a minute, you’re actually killing me now? Like, directly?”

“Don’t ruin the moment.”

“Oh, sorry. Yeah. I’ll love you even when you inevitably cause my untimely demise.”

“Okay.”

> I love you

> I love you

> I love you

House leaned their foreheads together and closed his eyes, “Love you too.”