Chapter Text
There's glass in the bathtub behind him. House sits on the cold tile and rolls two white pills around in his hand. Thinks and then tries vainly not to think about the day. Crane collapse, amputation, no amputation, amputation again, she died anyway. The words beat an unforgiving tattoo in his head. She died anyway.
There's glass in the bathtub behind him, an ugly, yellow fluorescent light above him. The mirror is broken, but he knows what he'd see if he looked. Pale, sallow skin, careworn wrinkles around his eyes, bristly grey hair that hasn't been brushed since he graduated medical school. The Vicodin rattles suggestively. She died anyway. She died anyway.
The Imaginary-Foreman in the back of his mind says he shouldn't be alone right now. She died anyway, snipes the little voice. It drowns Imaginary-Foreman out faster than he can pop the lid on the bottle, which he does. Imaginary-Foreman is dead and buried by the time he shakes two more of the white pills out into his palm.
There's glass in the bathtub behind him, an ugly, yellow fluorescent light above him, and Wilson in front of him. One of these things is not like the other.
House meets his gaze, feels a bit like a child caught with his hand caught in the cookie jar, and then promptly feels ridiculous for feeling that way. He's a grown man, for God's sake. He can make his own decisions. Still, something in Wilson's face makes him hesitate. "You going to leap across the room and grab them out of my hand?" He's going for boisterous. It comes out somewhat pathetic.
Wilson inhales and shakes his head. "No," he says after a beat. "You need to rebandage your shoulder."
He sits heavily on the floor next to House and pokes at the gauze, prompting a wince. "Foreman sent you."
"Not just Foreman."
"Cuddy?" He nods.
"And Chase. And Thirteen. One of the EMTs. Percy," House gives him a blank stare. "The triage nurse Cuddy hired a few months back."
"Seems like everyone's in my business today."
"They're worried about you," says Wilson placatingly. It makes House want to smack him.
"And why did you come?'
Evidently done fussing with the bandage, Wilson looks down at his hands. "I was worried about you too. But I know better than to ask how you're doing." Perhaps he'll save the smacking for another day. "What do you need?"
"Two days of outrageous sex and a very large, very stiff drink," he says without thinking. Then, because maybe he sounds a bit too earnest, "Or a minimum of three Vicodin." He turns his head in time to catch the tips of Wilson's ears turning red.
"Well, I can help with one of those." To his credit, he manages not to stammer too much.
"Please tell me it's the outrageous sex," says House, crossing his fingers. Wilson shoves his good shoulder.
"Perv," he mutters, but he's smiling. Groaning, he gets to his feet and makes his way to the kitchen where House can hear him puttering around, clinking glasses together and popping the cork on something. A moment later, he returns with an exceedingly generous pour of scotch and another bottle of whiskey.
House downs a quarter of the drink in one gulp, hissing as it burns warmly down his throat. "You're a peach," he toasts, before taking another long sip.
"Not really," laughs Wilson. "You're going to have a killer headache tomorrow and I'm fairly sure I took an oath to do no harm."
There's a lot House can say in response to that but he's feeling generous, so he drinks his scotch and watches the bathroom lights sit heavy on the mess of soft brown hair. Half an hour later, he's suitably drunk and brooding on Wilson's shoulder, taking frequent sips from the whiskey until a large hand finally pulls it away.
"I think that's enough," says Wilson, setting the bottle down with a pleasant tink against the tile floor.
"But mom," he whines, more to be a bother than anything else. Unfortunately, Wilson is well versed in the art of House-handling, and simply hauls him to his feet, conscious of his bad leg. The pills fall to the floor but, for once, House pays them no mind.
"Ah, ah, ah, bed. I'm going to get you a glass of water and an aspirin." House leers at him the whole way to the bedroom, pleased at the flush that's suddenly come back to his ears.
For reasons he doesn't want to interpret, House keeps a steady grip on Wilson's arms as he tries to deposit him on the bed, sending both of them crashing onto the mattress. The alcohol sloshes around his system and now he's staring into big brown eyes instead of his ratty ceiling. He decides he likes this view a lot better. "Knew you couldn't keep your hands off me," he slurs. "Who's the perv now?"
"Still you," hedges Wilson, looking flighty. He makes no move to get up, though he flinches pleasantly when House grabs his ass. "What the hell are you doing?"
House contemplates the squeaky pitch that his voice has taken on. "Grabbing your ass, duh."
"You're drunk, I'll go get you that aspirin," Shifting his weight, he makes to push himself off the bed when all of a sudden House sits up, kisses him, and promptly sticks his tongue in his mouth. For a few, blissful seconds, Wilson complies. Then hands start wandering to the hem of his shirt and he shoves him off, sitting firmly across his hips. "What the hell are you doing?" House laughs and runs his tongue along his teeth. He likes the way it makes Wilson shudder. "You. Are. Drunk," He punctuates each word with a jab to House's chest. "Go to sleep. We'll forget it happened in the morning."
Fat chance. He skims his fingers along Wilson's sides, lingering suggestively at his belt buckle. "I'm not usually in the business of forgetting" He thumbs the buttons on his slacks. "You know, you're pretty freaked out for a guy that literally straddling me at the moment."
The blush spreads all the way to his cheeks and down his neck. "Listen, even if this was something- Even if I wanted- It doesn't matter. You're drunk and dead on your feet, you're dealing with the trauma from today, it's a bad idea. I don't want to take advantage of you." He sounds so sincere it makes House laugh and press an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of his wrist.
"Hey, I thought tonight was about what I wanted," The way his pupils expand cuts off the retort that springs to the tip of Wilson's tongue. House's fingers start to roam again. This time, he lets him. "Dopamine, endorphins, oxytocin are all released during sex," he says casually like he hasn't got his hands up Wilson's shirt.
"I know. I did, in fact, go to medical school," says Wilson tersely. "You may be surprised to find that I'm also a doctor."
"I bet you use that line on all the cripples." House brushes his thumb over a nipple and catalogs the resulting gasp for future reference. "And I'm pretty sure this is a valid treatment to prescribe."
"Ah, yes, why didn't I think of it before? I'll just blow you and magically fix your leg." He laughs dryly. House's hands stop moving, stunned. "Hey, you started this."
"Would you?" asks House, sounding more sober than he has in the past forty-five minutes. "If I said it would help my leg. If it would help me tonight. Would you really?"
It's a bad idea. It's a terrible idea. Wilson knows he should be out the door by now. Yet, he's still here, sitting atop his best friend who's looking at him with icy blue irises barely a sliver around the pool of black. Maybe it's the late hour, maybe it's the quiet, earnest undercurrent beneath all the brashness. Maybe because he's chronically incapable of saying no to him.
House watches in near awe as Wilson throws a leg over the bed and slowly gets to his knees. The clink of his belt buckle, the squeal of his zipper, even the rustle of his boxers are too loud in the stillness of the bedroom. He's already aroused, and it doesn't take more than a tentative pass of Wilson's hand over his cock to get him hard. Like a reflex, he tangles a hand in the hair he was admiring not so long ago and tugs him closer, legs twitching as he kisses a spot on his inner thigh.
Stopping just shy of his cock, Wilson looks up at him and braces his hands on the undersides of his legs. "House...". He doesn't know what case he's trying to make. Their eyes meet and evidently, Wilson finds what he's looking for because he leans forward and sucks the tip into his mouth, letting his eyes flutter shut.
House makes a noise he will deny later as Wilson takes him deeper and moves a hand to wrap around what he can't fit in his mouth. It's not the best blowjob he's ever had, but all he can think about is the heat and suction around his dick and how pretty Wilson looks beneath him, lips stretched wide. At some point, he becomes aware that he's babbling right along with the sweet pressure that's building in his groin.
One of them is making terribly obscene noises, and he can't tell who. For his part, Wilson looks pretty blissed out, spit leaking from his lips and spilling down his chin. His eyelashes dance against his skin, shifting delicately with his eyebrows. Experimentally, House shoves his hips forwards and feels himself hit the back of Wilson's throat. He gags before redoubling his efforts, tears running down his cheeks to join the sloppy mess between House's legs.
He makes the mistake of looking down, the sight sending electricity up his spine. "Fuck," he moans. "Wilson, I-" That's as much warning as he gets before he's coming with a shout. Wilson works him through it, swallowing what he can. House goes a little dizzy at the sight of his cum dribbling from the corner of Wilson's mouth.
Panting, he flops back down on the bed, petting Wilson's head a bit like a dog. "Good enough?" he asks and oh god, his voice is all low and raspy.
"What's it look like?" House grumbles before remembering that Wilson himself is painfully hard and still kneeling at his feet. "Get up here and let me help you out."
He practically trips over his own feet to comply, ending up flat against the mattress with House looming above him and sucking marks into his lower neck and collarbones. He knows he's moaning too loudly for the late hour, but when House worries a rosy nipple between his teeth, he can't really find it in himself to care. Instead of sticking a hand down his pants as he expects, House shoves his good knee between his legs and rocks forward, sending delicious friction along the length of his cock.
"Jesus," he gasps, eyes shooting open. House does it again, with a little more force this time and Wilson swears he's starting to see stars.
"Ah," chides House, grabbing a hand that's started to wander downwards. "Wanna see you get off like this. Think you can do that for me?" The next thrust makes Wilson whimper, which would be embarrassing if not for the way House's eyes get impossibly darker at the sound.
He goes liquid as he lets himself drown in the waves of sensation crashing over him. Hands and lips roaming everywhere, House growling absolute filth in his ear. One particular thrust makes Wilson's back arch off the bed and tears spring to his eyes. "Oh, god, oh, fuck. House, please."
Had House been twenty years younger, he'd have been hard again. That's not to say his dick doesn't make a valiant effort. "I'm not even fucking you properly and you're already a mess," he coos, glancing down at the growing wet spot on Wilson's boxers. He grinds his knee in circular motions, grinning as Wilson tries to match his movements. "C'mon, let me hear you."
Wilson makes a high keening noise and tumbles off the edge when House bites his exposed throat. He palms his quickly softening cock as he trembles through the aftershocks. The pleasant buzzing feeling that's racing through his body makes up for the mess in his pants. House rolls off of him and pulls his own underwear back up, wrapping himself up in blankets. "Should I say thank you?" asks Wilson awkwardly.
"Better not." The orange streetlights splash across the angles and planes of his face, outlining his stiff grey hair in a sort of orange halo. He's as beautiful as Wilson's ever seen him and he has to make an effort to tamp down the helpless smile that threatens to break out. Propping himself up on an elbow, he leans down to kiss him, only for House to turn away so that his lips graze the edge of his jaw instead.
The pleasant buzzing turns to pins and needles and his pants are suddenly cold and sticky.
"Can't I?"
"No."
"Why not?" Wilson very carefully doesn't let his heart shatter
"We are not talking about this now," mutters House, tucking his head underneath his blankets. "Or ever, actually."
"What are you doing?" asks Wilson for the third time that night, sounding resigned.
"Not talking about it, get with the program," His words are muffled from beneath the duvet. "Why do you care so much anyway? It's just sex."
Instead of a snort, a scathing remark, or some awkward squeak about how it technically didn't count as sex, he only gets silence in return. He peeks out from his cocoon to find Wilson watching him with a closed-off expression, eyebrows hastily smoothing into place.
"Right," he exhales. "Of course."
It's only a little humiliating scrambling back into his clothes, acutely aware of House's eyes on him and the wine-colored bruises covering his collarbones. He wriggles back into his jacket and rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet. "I'll be seeing you, then," says House. It isn't a question.
He nods before he realizes what he's doing. "Uh, yeah. I'll be back later."
"Good," House dismisses him with a sharp jerk of his head. "Close the bedroom door on your way out. Can't sleep with the light from the kitchen." He shuffles into a more comfortable position.
Wilson, faithful mutt that he is, does as he's told and leaves with his tail between his legs.
True to his word, Wilson comes back when House calls on him. It had been a bad pain day, bad enough that even his fellows noticed. Bad enough that Wilson says "Give me fifteen minutes," when he picks up the phone instead of "Hello".
He brings dinner to the apartment, which goes uneaten. House hauls him in by his tie and makes short work of his shirt and slacks, artfully dodging the kisses Wilson keeps trying to press to his lips. Eventually, Wilson gives up and lets him push two fingers into his mouth.
House bends him over the living room couch, tells him to relax, and kisses the middle of his spine as he slowly fingers him open. It's on the side of painful, he hasn't done this in a while, but it sends a jolt to his cock all the same when he remembers that it's House doing it to him. Wilson bites down on his knuckles when he finally presses inside, listening to the blissful groan that spills from his lips. Like before, he gives himself over to the incredible rush of sensation, the drag of House inside him.
When House hits his prostate, Wilson wails and gets his hair pulled for his troubles. Of course, it only makes him cry out louder. "Slut," House laughs darkly, and that particular comment has Wilson clenching up and coming all over himself. In the haze, he feels House finish, too boneless to flinch when he pulls out. Looking far too satisfied with himself, House pulls up his sweatpants and puts his shirt back on, retreating to the bedroom. "Don't worry about locking the door," he calls over his shoulder.
A minute goes by, then three, then five. Wilson lays on the couch, arm over his face, still naked and messy with release. He tries not to feel gross when he wipes himself off as well as he can with a few napkins and gets dressed. Glancing at the closed door of House's room, he silently resolves to not come back.
Three days later, he gathers that it takes House an average of ten seconds to get him out of his clothes, thirty-four seconds to get him hard, three and a half minutes to prep him, and any number of minutes to finish. He also gathers that it takes him an average of three seconds to put his clothes back on and go to bed. Wilson spends less and less time in the afterglow.
As shitty as he feels afterward, he can't ignore the effect it has on House. He gets to work more or less on time, he takes only some of Wilson's food at lunch, he's walking a little faster around the hospital and the fellows are as cheerful as he's ever seen them. It's why he can ignore the dark circles under his own eyes and the sick feeling in his stomach after being tossed out along with the used condom.
Everything changes and nothing changes. They shoot the shit at work, they go watch monster trucks together, and they still end up in seedy dive bars. The difference is that instead of the cute bartender he'd been eyeing up, he goes home with House and has the air knocked out of him with the force of his orgasm. On days when he's contemplating calling the whole thing off, House makes him laugh or slips him one of those private smiles, and suddenly, everything is okay once more.
He's never been afraid of working for what he wanted, and what is House if not a full-time job? He consoles himself with the thought as he drives home alone again, squirming uncomfortably in the seat.
It takes Cuddy three weeks to catch on, and quite by accident. Wilson is filling out form 5B in the lobby when she creeps up behind him with a paper cup of coffee. "Happy Hanukkah," she says, handing it over.
He raises an eyebrow in thanks. "It's June."
"I figured you needed it," Wilson takes a sip. She times her next words carefully. "All those sleepless nights bedding House, of course."
He chokes, coffee goes everywhere. The janitor shoots him a dirty look from across the room. "Wh- What makes you say that?" he coughs, grimacing at the stains on his white coat.
"Oh, you know. His lack of limp, your sudden limp." She's already laughing, but Wilson shifts guiltily and clears his throat, turning back to his incredibly important form. Cuddy's mouth drops open. "You're serious?"
"You weren't?" he hisses. His eyes dart around the lobby. Luckily, no one seems to have heard the exchange.
Cuddy folds her arms. "Jesus, Wilson. When?"
He rereads the top paragraph of Form 5B for the fifth time. "After the crane collapse, I found him in his apartment. He was going to go back on Vicodin."
She looks him over like a puzzle that's missing a piece. The puzzle is pissing her off too, if the arch of her eyebrow is anything to go by. "So obviously, the only alternative treatment was to sleep with him."
"He needs this," he replies sharply. "And I need him to need me." He can't decide whether her expression is pitying or if she just thinks he's stupid.
"He already does." Wilson makes a noncommital sound that puts Cuddy on high alert. Only now does she notice the shadows on his face, the deeper frown lines, the way he holds himself like he wants to disappear. Self-sacrificing idiot. "You realize St. James was the patron saint of pilgrims, not playing hooky with cranky cripples."
"Hilarious, you should consider being a rabbi."
"My point," she says over him, "is that House can take care of himself. This is eating you alive."
The pen scratches louder on the paper. "I can take care of myself too. I know what I'm doing."
"I forgot to mention that St. James was also martyred for his faith."
Wilson clears his throat. "Good thing I'm not a saint. I can't pretend I'm not getting anything out of this, either."
Cuddy juts a hip against the counter and watches him blush. "I'll have to schedule a meeting with HR."
He snorts. "Hardly. I wouldn't call it an office romance. It's just sex." The words sound weak to his own ears. "He's been doing his clinic hours, the number of patient complaints has gone down. I'm doing you a favor."
The background chatter of nurses surrounds him as Cuddy searches his eyes, digests his answers. He can see exactly when she figures it out and places a far too gentle hand on his shoulder. "You're in love with him," she says like it's a surprise.
"A little louder. I don't think the coma patients on the fifth floor heard you."
"And you think this is the only way you'll have him in your life. Oh, Wilson."
He shrugs her off and ticks a box with more force than strictly necessary. "It's fine. It helps his leg, makes him feel better. You know House, he does what he wants."
"What about what you want?"
Wilson gives her a tight smile and throws the clipboard into the outbox pile. It clatters loudly. "It's never been about me," he sighs, then shuts up very quickly as he notices a figure with a rather distinctive limp exiting the elevator.
"My place tonight. Bring dinner," says House, not bothering to slow down.
"Chinese okay?" Wilson calls after his retreating back. He raises a hand in acknowledgment before steamrolling into the clinic. Probably to bite someone.
Cuddy's disapproving glare is nearly unbearable. Wilson feels his shoulders wilt under the weight of it. "House doesn't know how good he has it," is what she says instead of chewing him out for being a moron.
"With any luck, he never will."