Work Text:
Set On You
House cares only as much as it suits him.
Matty and Nick are both in intensive care. They will be, for a long time. Scott is working two jobs to keep up with the hospital bills that their insurance won't cover. Claudia rushes between work and the hospital every day for visiting hours. They are, all four of them, exhausted; Wilson feels just as drained, whenever he looks at them. He still has to. He doesn't have House's luxury, to forget their faces and their names by this time next week. House's brand of medicine is like a hurricane. He destroys everything in his path as long as there's an answer to find, then he disappears into the atmosphere without even a thought for what he's created.
Wilson picks up the pieces. He is conscientious. Methodical. House laughs at him for what he sees as Wilson's pointless devotion to paperwork because he doesn't see the people that those files represent.
House doesn't see anybody but himself, but what he wants. He doesn't see what he leaves behind, goddamn him.
Wilson cares for as long as it takes.
--
The charge on his AmEx bill almost doesn't register. Wilson's more than used to House's eclectic purchases. Boxes would show up at his door when he was married, prank gifts and more serious enigmas that he spent hours trying to decode with the cracked fragments of his House-to-normal-person Rosetta Stone. He always signed for them, silently thanking whatever lucky stars that House hadn't decided he wanted an elephant that week, or an ant farm. Bonnie would flutter and fret over the unopened packages, and Julie would just sigh and ignore them with pointed impatience.
Wilson cancelled his credit card more than once, but of course House took that as a challenge. He knows Wilson's birthday and his blood type and his childhood pets and his mother's maiden name. He knows everything, and he uses it to buy Wilson hand-buzzers and first editions of Nabokov and a plush syphilis microbe; so Wilson learned to accept it as House's version of caring. He drops hints and mysteries into Wilson's life where and when and only just as often as he wants. As much, and no more, as it suits him.
The hotel doesn't accept deliveries, so the stream of puzzles and impulse purchases has stopped. Charges still show up on Wilson's bill occasionally, though. He'd normally dismiss an item listed only with an obscure internet url as "seller" as porn. But that was before House and Cuddy invited him into their bed, before he'd kissed House and watched his eyes as Cuddy went down on him. It has to be another message. House is finally talking to him, even if it's only through his credit card statement.
Wilson calls the credit card company, and blushes his way through the song and dance of "forgetting" what he purchased. The woman on the other end of the line only hesitates a fraction of a second before reading off the description of the item. Wilson closes his eyes and says thank you in a tired voice. He closes his phone and then rubs his eyes with thumb and forefinger, dropping his head to his chest. The handcuffs. House bought the handcuffs with his card. Two weeks ago it would have been another joke, something that Wilson would blink away and dismiss. Now...
Wilson doesn't know House's body as well as he wants--one night could never be enough to learn everything he needs to know. He needs time, time to map House's flesh, to find the lines where the pain flares and soothe it away. And then, slowly--God, it would take a lifetime--find the hidden places on House's body that he could touch to make him arch upwards, and want him. Want him.
But Wilson already knows House's hands. He knows them lingering over the piano keys, clutching his thigh, twirling his cane, playing restlessly with his toys; he knows them performing surgery; he knows them pointing at him, at all the flaws in his life.
He knows House's hands as a hot weight against the back of his neck when House pulls him down and kisses him. He knows them stroking his erection, fingers tight and clever and flirtatious, thumb perfectly poised to circle the head. He knows them, scrabbling for something, anything, to hold on to, when Wilson thrusts into him and fucks him faster and harder because House asked him to. Said please. Wanted him.
Wilson can picture this: the black bands of leather contrasting with the pale underside of House's wrists. The leap of cool blue veins across the back of his hands when he clenches his fists and pulls. The jerk and slide of his muscles under the tan skin of his forearms when he struggles.
For Cuddy. He bought them for Cuddy, and now Wilson sees her sitting astride House. Naked--they both are--and Wilson's mind provides all the details, the scent of their skin, the flush of House's erection, the tilt of Cuddy's breasts. Cuddy throws her shoulders back, pinching and rolling her nipple with one hand, her lips swollen from House's kisses. Her other hand finds House's cock and guides it as she sinks down on him. House's eyebrows lift as his eyes slide closed, and Cuddy rides him, flushed and open-mouthed.
After they come, Cuddy brushes one hand up House's arm to touch the cold solidity of the cuffs holding him down before she kisses his lips, and he answers, fully and honestly, still inside of her as he softens.
Wilson crumples the bill in one hand and lets it fall in the garbage can.
--
Wilson makes his way downstairs near the end of another long day and finds himself on a battlefield instead of in the clinic. Cuddy storms out of her office, House at her heels, using his long strides to keep up with her. "Maybe you should wear a shorter skirt the next time you meet with a donor, instead of using the budget as some kind of catchall excuse--"
"It's not about the budget, or I'd just take the money out of your salary every time you pull this stunt." Cuddy slaps the file she was carrying down on the admit desk and spins around to face him. "Your patient is not the only one who's dying, House!"
"Yeah, but at least mine is dying interestingly," House shoots back. "Bleeding out of her toenails. Seriously, how cool is that?"
Wilson edges his way around the fight and works his way across the clinic to where Cameron is waiting for either Cuddy's permission or for House's next stab at subterfuge. "Has this been going on long?" he asks.
Cameron looks up from their patient's chart long enough to shrug. "We do need the MRI," she says, as if that explains everything.
Wilson stares at her mildly. It's a far cry from the young woman who once had a deep personal crisis every time House asked her to lie.
Cuddy stalks forward, grabbing House by his elbow, stopping him in his tracks. "I am not bumping terminal patients off the waiting list so that you can play peekaboo with a tumor!"
"This is the only test--"
"It's never the only test," Cuddy snaps. "Find another way. You're good at that."
"And then have you come after me like a hellhound for 'unauthorized use of hospital equipment'?" House manages to sneer and ogle Cuddy's breasts at the same time. "I want five minutes alone with your MRI machine, not the keys to your chastity belt."
Wilson looks around at the nurses, the waiting patients, at Cameron's studied indifference. How can they not know? House is grinning, leaning forward on his cane as if he's pushing his entire body into the argument. Cuddy's anger sparks higher every time she matches him insult for insult, without pausing for breath.
"The technician will page you when there's an opening in the schedule." Cuddy's voice is firm and icy. "Before then, I don't want you anywhere near Radiology."
"Fine." House's face is thunderous. "I'll go tell my patient that her death isn't a high enough priority for you."
Cuddy rolls her eyes. "After your last treatment caused her to vomit two pints of blood? Yes, I'm sure I'm the one she'll blame."
House slams his cane down on the linoleum. Cuddy gives him one final glare before turning on her heel and marching back to her office. House's pout turns into a leer as he watches her go. "Cameron, go and tell our patient that we couldn't convince our good Dean of Medicine," he says loudly. He catches Wilson's eye and starts for the elevators, inviting Wilson to join him with a nod.
"That was...heated," Wilson says, falling into step with him. Does House even know how that looked? They might have been moments away from playing out their little games in front of the entire clinic.
"That was diversionary," House answers. He stabs the button for the elevator and settles his weight back on his heels, the picture of smugness. "Foreman should be finishing up the scan right about now."
Wilson gapes at him. "That little performance...?"
House smirks at him as they step into the elevator. "God, she's fun." He looks like most of him is still downstairs, replaying the argument with Cuddy. Imagining how it might have ended differently. He's still grinning faintly, and his eyes are warm and amused and distant. Wilson tips his head back and frowns. It's the same look, almost, as when House kissed him...at Cuddy's insistence.
Wilson wants to kiss him again, now. Erase that distraction and turn House's focus to him. And maybe House wants it, too, because he turns his head enough to watch Wilson sideways, that grin now turned on him. He lifts an eyebrow, and Wilson feels suddenly breathless. Maybe House will finally say something. Acknowledge that night, and the morning after when he touched Wilson like a promise before he left.
But the elevator doors roll open, House shrugs and limps off, and the moment's lost.
--
Two weeks ago, Wilson arrived at Cuddy's door, carefully pressed and blow-dried, with a smile and a small bouquet of roses. She lifted them to her face and closed her eyes, inhaling their scent. Wilson waited in the doorway between the living room and the hallway while she found a vase and cut away the bottom of the stems. He glanced down the hallway to Cuddy's bedroom and remembered the last time he stood here, with Cuddy's breasts pressed to his back and House in front of him, the taste of his pulse under Wilson's tongue.
The drive to the gallery is mostly quiet. Cuddy tells him about an incident at the last board meeting, one he couldn't attend, and he chuckles obligingly at the punchline.
"Sorry," she says, shaking her head at herself. "It's all work. Politics."
What else do they have to talk about? The answer is so obvious that it's almost like he's there with them, goading them on. Wilson keeps glancing in the rearview mirror, but there's no telltale single headlight following them. He shakes off the feeling of being watched.
"Hockney's doing landscapes on multiple canvasses now," he says as they check their coats and walk into the exhibit. "It's supposed to be very, ah, peaceful..."
He trails off when he sees the first picture. Cuddy gasps lightly and raises a hand, almost as if she wants to reach out and touch the outline of the woman's body. The photograph is in stark black and white. Ropes crisscross over her flesh. Her eyes plead with the camera, and her face is twisted in what could be agony, or ecstasy, or both. Wilson swallows and looks away, but the next one is worse, a closeup of a man's torso as a whiplash comes down across his chest, the border of the picture cutting across his throat at his Adam's apple. He's painfully, desperately erect, his fingers splayed across his straining thighs but not touching the dark curve of his penis.
"Oh," Cuddy says, and tries to hide her smile.
"I--I don't know what happened," Wilson says. He squirms, but no matter where he turns, he's surrounded by writhing bodies tied down and strung with metal devices that he doesn't want to think too clearly about--alligator clamps on swollen nipples, penis rings suspending weighted barbells from a man's foreskin--oh, God. He checks his program for the first time. The Hockney exhibit ended a week ago. But he had his secretary double-check the entry in his Blackberry, and...
It doesn't take a diagnostic genius to figure out that House is behind this. "I'm going to kill him," he says calmly.
Cuddy takes his elbow, laughter dancing in her eyes. "Come on, let's keep going," she says, guiding him further into the maze of photographs. "Can you imagine his face if I said I actually wanted to try..." She pauses, and blinks at a picture of a bound, blindfolded man, a knife blade poised over his chest, a single line of blood starting on his skin like the first pass of a scalpel during heart surgery. She smiles again and he can feel her giggling against his shoulder. "Any of this."
"I actually don't want to think about it," Wilson says. He can picture House's face just fine, the jaw-dropping astonishment, followed by suspicion, followed by acceptance, he supposes. Desire. God. He doesn't want to think about it.
It's just--this is something he never knew about House. Certainly Stacy never breathed a word, and Wilson thinks she must have known--House couldn't have hidden it from her for all those years. Not when Cuddy could make House plead, could tip him over into orgasm with a word, after only a month.
Wilson never knew, but the problem is, he knows now and he doesn't know what to do about it. He's not aroused. He follows Cuddy, watching her half-laughing curiosity, that fades every once in a while into a quiet appreciation, at certain pictures. This is more than he needed to know about Cuddy, too. He watches her, and he feels like nothing so much as if he's standing in the middle of a cryptic love letter from House, and for once, he's the one missing the key.
"Do you...always?" he asks, hoping that his question will make sense without him having to clarify.
"Of course not," Cuddy says, not taking her eyes off the most recent photograph. She pauses before they move on, and looks at him thoughtfully. "It's...I don't know how to explain it. He asks."
Wilson stares at her. "Seriously?"
Cuddy shakes her head. "Have you ever known House to be serious? He..." She hesitates, but then she opens her purse and pulls out--Wilson's not even certain she's holding what he thinks she's holding, but it is. A pair of handcuffs, the chain clinking lightly in her hands before Cuddy puts them away again. "They showed up in my desk," Cuddy says. "And he sent us here a day later."
Wilson licks his lips and laughs softly. He's such an idiot, trying to pretend that House wants him for himself. It's all of--this--that he wants. "Maybe he asks you."
"James."
He looks up sharply. Cuddy smiles gently at him. "We don't always."
Wilson can see that she believes that. Maybe she doesn't tie House down every time they have sex, maybe it's not always about her toys and his safe word.
Wilson wonders, suddenly, what it is--the word House says when Cuddy pushes too far, and he can't sustain the role anymore. House is still House, after all, and it would be against his entire nature to let himself be exposed for too long. There must have come a time when he needed to pull back, to establish walls and barriers and a careful, terrified distance. For an instant, Wilson wonders if the word is anything to do with him. It's a ridiculous leap, but he can't help hoping that he's there, that some part of him has stayed between them since that night.
Cuddy obviously believes that she can be with House and have it only be about two people making love. Maybe, Wilson imagines, House even takes charge some nights. Maybe he pushes Cuddy down and holds her hand tightly to the mattress as he fucks her. His weight pins her to the bed and stops her from writhing free while he pounds into her, and he takes her to the edge of her orgasm and then stops... Wilson imagines Cuddy's frustrated groan before House slides all the way inside her. He grazes his thumb across her clit, in a gentle, tantalizing movement, slow and light. Cuddy thrashes beneath him, and she comes in a long, languid tide. Her muscles seize around House's erection as he urges her on, higher, until the aftershock becomes a second orgasm. House's body goes rigid for a second before he rolls his hips against her, helpless to do anything besides bury himself in her body, again and again. Wilson remembers the sound of Cuddy's high, rhythmic whispers, oh, oh House, and then the deep, hoarse moan that House can't contain when it's good. He comes inside her and keeps thrusting until every instant of his orgasm fades, until finally he slips out of her, spent.
Wilson squeezes his eyes closed. Just because Cuddy doesn't physically restrain House, demand obedience, that doesn't mean that it isn't what House wants from her. The sense that she would, that she might, is probably enough for him.
"You should talk to him," Cuddy says, and this time when she takes his arm, she guides him towards the exit.
"Right," Wilson says, walking uncomfortably. His imagination, at least, accomplished what the photographs couldn't. He flushes, wondering if Cuddy has noticed. "Is this the same House who would tunnel his way to China with his cane rather than have an adult conversation?"
Cuddy stops. He turns to look at her, and she raises an eyebrow at him. "Talk to him," she says, rolling her eyes meaningfully.
"Is that...permission?" Wilson asks incredulously. His penis twitches at the thought. He shakes his head. He needs to stay in touch with reality, even if they can't. "He's with you, he's--happy..."
"And we're out on a date," Cuddy says. "It's not a normal relationship. It's House." She takes her coat and leads the way out to his car, walking slowly even though the air has cooled. "It's what it is," she says. "I guess you need to decide if that's enough for you."
When they arrive back at her house, Wilson gets out of the car to walk her to her door. He means it to be good night when he leans down and presses his lips to her cheek. Cuddy smiles up at him, and he remembers seeing her naked, he remembers the taste of her, the way she lifted her hips to meet his mouth. He kisses her again, with intent this time, with desire. Her lips move against his, encouraging him. He twines his tongue with hers until she muffles a sound against his mouth. The photographs didn't turn him on, didn't do anything for him, but Cuddy's willingness sends a wave of heat through him, makes him push his body closer to hers. His incipient erection, that he couldn't quite talk himself down from earlier, nudges against her hip. Cuddy hmms when she feels it, and her lips curve against his. Wilson knows they could find their way to her bedroom, and he could make love to her, and it would be good.
But not, he knows, good enough. Cuddy pulls away gently. She smiles again, and runs her thumb over his cheekbone. "He still wants you," she says. She kisses him once more, reaching up to touch her lips to his cheek. "Good night."
"Good night," Wilson says, and Cuddy closes her door, leaving him outside.
He wants you. Maybe. As much as House wants anything; for himself, for the moment, without consequence. Wilson sighs and heads back to his car. "I want to," he had whispered to House, right before he pressed his cock, slick and hot and hard, inside him, felt him shiver, forced him to moan.
"I've wanted to," Wilson had said, but after tonight, he knows that's not enough.
He's not Cuddy. He can't give House what he wants.
--
Wilson doesn't know why he follows House to his office after that little scene in the clinic. It's late; he wants to go home.
To the hotel, he corrects himself, and maybe that's enough of an answer as to why he hasn't left yet.
He takes a seat in the chair in the corner, hiding a yawn and rubbing his eyes. He's exhausted, but he knows he wouldn't sleep. Every time he closes his eyes, he can see House and Cuddy--together, with or without him. Not even necessarily having sex, but like they were in the clinic just now, on their own wavelength. If House would just acknowledge what happened, that Wilson slept with them, then maybe he could finally put it behind him. Move on. If only House would say something.
But hell hasn't frozen over yet. Wilson puts his feet up and lets his head loll against the back of the chair. House ambles around the office, picking things up and setting them down again. His fidgeting is familiar, and it seems to mirror Wilson's restless desire to make him explain. He feels stupidly solemn, like he's already lost. Maybe it's time to throw the last of his pride away.
"Was that foreplay?" he hears himself asking, out of the blue.
House stops short before he turns to him, looking over his shoulder at first as if he might have been followed by a pod-person instead of Wilson. A second later, he recovers, and twists his face into shocked outrage. "Was Cuddy coming on to me at work again? What would the board think?"
"I meant you," Wilson says sharply. He can't believe he's continuing this conversation. "You were trying to provoke her. Acting like...you."
House scoffs. "Acting like me is not foreplay. Acting like you, on the other hand..."
Wilson sighs. "House, I don't--"
"Taking Cuddy to museums," House says, getting the look in his eye that makes Wilson take his legs down from the footrest before he gets another whack to his shinbone. "Plays. Art shows."
This is exactly the wrong time for House to play the jealous boyfriend. He engineered most of those dates himself, one way or another. "Sadomasochism art shows!" Wilson says, pointing at him.
House throws back his head. "Exactly!" he says, like Wilson's making his point for him.
Wilson throws up his hands. Keeping up with House's leaps in logic takes more energy than he can keep pouring into their friendship. If it still is a friendship, if they aren't something more. He's been spinning his wheels trying to figure it out for the past three weeks, and he's tired of thinking about it. "House, tell me what's going on. Are we--are you--"
"This isn't about me," House says. Wilson rolls his eyes, but House pins him down with a glare. "This is about your pattern. Bonnie called you a tampon--"
Wilson blinks. The first thing he thinks is, You were talking with Bonnie about me? but then he catches up long enough to blurt out, "She called me a what?"
"Perfectly protective, tailored to meet anyone's needs." House stalks forward, until he's looming over Wilson like he's the one who has some sort of right to be pissed off. "You save people, you don't even know that you're doing it, until they jump you out of self-defense..."
Wilson finally gets it. He laughs shortly. "You mean, like you did."
House freezes for an instant.
Wilson pushes himself forward in the chair. "Sorry that it turns out that you're just like the rest of them, House?" House would hate being part of a pattern, whether it makes any sense or not, whether it's true or not. Bonnie made the first move, but that doesn't mean that House is in any way like her. Wilson stands up, and House gives way. Wilson doesn't push past him, though. It's enough, right now, to be standing close enough to House to see the edges of panic underneath his anger. "Being friends was good enough for you until you and Cuddy decided to play your game with me," Wilson says quietly.
"And you're such a good friend, until anyone dangles sex in front of you!"
Wilson stares at him, clenching his jaw to stop himself from yelling. "Did you really expect me to act like nothing happened?" he asks. "You must have known that I...that things would change. You suck people in and you won't let go."
House smirks for an instant. "There actually wasn't any sucking. That time."
Wilson's breath leaves him in a rush, and he lets out a smile despite himself. That time, like a promise of more. "You've thought about it?" he asks. Trust House to turn fourteen years old in the middle of an argument.
"Like you haven't," House snaps, but Wilson catches the way his cheeks warm, the way he swallows. God, he's thought about it, yeah. House's mouth, the rasp of his stubble across Wilson's stomach, the bruising grip of House's fingers on his hips. He manages to hide the way his body shudders at the thought, but not the huff of breath that escapes him.
House's grin fades, even though he's obviously smug at distracting Wilson. "Make them trust you, that's your schtick," he says. He shrugs, and paces back to his desk, tapping out Morse code on its surface as he goes. "Make them want to do anything for you. Then you manipulate the hell out of them--" He stops, but Wilson's honest enough about himself to hear what House doesn't say: Then you leave them.
He frowns at House's back. Maybe he does have a pattern, but not all the blame for this one is on him. "Wasn't that what you were doing?" he asks. "Manipulating me? Sending Cuddy and me off on dates?" He holds out his hands, even though House hasn't turned to look at him, even though his shoulders are growing more tense as he stares out the window. Wilson licks his lips, and gathers himself. For once House is quiet enough that maybe he'll actually listen. Maybe he'll even answer. "Tell me what you want, House, and I'll do it," he says. "Just stop trying to make it a joke. Stop hiding."
House hunches over even further, pressing both hands to his desk, as if he's anticipating a blow and he's determined to keep quiet when it comes. Wilson crosses his arms, a silent promise that he won't. He won't do that. He can't.
"It's like the marrow brothers," House says finally.
"Matty and Nick," Wilson corrects him, and sighs, already resigned. He doesn't want the metaphor. He wants an answer. He wants the truth.
House straightens and picks up his cane, toying with it. He looks at Wilson, still angry, still bitter. "You chickened out, Wilson," he says, and his voice rises. "You could have had their parents turning cartwheels to let you do any procedure you wanted--"
"That you wanted," Wilson interrupts, his own anger flaring again.
House keeps going, talking right over him, almost a shout. "What's the point of being able to control people if you won't actually do it?"
"I don't--that's not what I want," Wilson says.
"Like hell it isn't. You want the world to dance to your tune." House's free hand curls into a fist, and Wilson's heart beats faster, as if House might actually lay him down with a punch. "You think I don't know what you did to me? You and Cuddy, curing my patient behind my back, to make me think--what?--that I still needed you, that I wasn't the perfect Greek metaphor anymore?"
"You're telling me...you want that." Wilson shakes his head, tries to understand. It's not the same as with Cuddy at all, but it's still about some form of domination. "You want--"
"No," House says. He's suddenly quietly angry, and he seems to see right through Wilson and throw everything he's hated, these past weeks, in his face. "You want it. You're aching for it, aren't you, Wilson? Getting hard remembering it? I bet you jack off in your hotel thinking about it, I bet you change your own sheets so that the maids won't find out how pathetic you are."
Wilson's mouth falls open, but he can't say anything. The words slap him viciously, as House meant them to, but Wilson's too used to that to care. Instead, he realizes that Cuddy was right. House is asking. Wilson feels lost, like there's a right path, but one he can't see and can't navigate. Maybe it's not fair to want House entirely on his terms, but House isn't willing to bend, either. There's no middle ground, no compromise he can reach. "House--"
"Stop thinking, Wilson." House pushes forward, far closer than even they normally get, and he leans in until Wilson doesn't know whether to watch his eyes or his mouth. "Stop maybeing yourself to death and fucking do something."
And then, with a shove, he's gone, the office door hissing closed behind him.
--
The handcuffs are sitting on top of a pile of journals on House's coffee table, as if they're just one more part of the clutter, along with the remote control, the used dishes, and the empty pill bottles. House: a still life.
Wilson's eyes slide over them when he walks into the room. House opened the door for once, but after taking a look at Wilson, he snorted and left him standing in the hallway. The door was open, though, and Wilson supposes that's as much of an invitation as he's ever going to get.
House limps back to the couch and puts his legs up on the coffee table. He's not admitting the cuffs are there, either, even though his fingers brush against them when he picks up the remote. He'd never leave them sitting out if he wasn't expecting someone he trusted. You could, he's saying. If you want.
No. Wilson stands just inside the living room, out of House's peripheral vision unless he turns to look. The answer is no. Excitement flutters in the pit of his stomach. He wants to insist to himself that it's nerves, but it sinks lower, and he knows better.
House frowns and stares determinedly at the television. He's already dressed down, even counting his usual lack of professionalism. His jeans are threadbare, he's only wearing socks, and he's taken off the button-down he was wearing earlier.
Wilson puts his coat away and opens the buttons on his cuffs, rolling his sleeves to his elbows. He feels like he's drunk three shots of espresso, his fingers stuttering, his heart hammering. He unknots his tie. House looks up briefly at the hiss of the silk sliding out of the collar of his shirt, and his eyes dip to Wilson's fingers when he undoes the first few buttons at his throat. His skin is sensitive enough that touch of his own fingers against his collarbone is enough to make his nipples tighten. He gasps and then lets the air out of his lungs with a hiss. He's already sweating. He sets his tie aside, toes off his loafers, and stops.
House glances at him again. He rubs his thigh with one hand, but it's a distraction, not to massage away the pain. It must have been the least sexy striptease in the world, but House's breathing has quickened, even though he goes back to scowling at the TV as if he's insisting that this just like any other night.
He's wrong.
"I'm here," Wilson says, and then he walks back to House's bedroom. He almost laughs out loud, because he finally gets it. House doesn't want a compromise, he doesn't want Wilson to be conciliatory. He wants to fight.
He just doesn't want to win.
--
The bedroom is filled with House's scent. Wilson goes to the bed and pulls back the covers, already twisted in a mess of tosses and turns. He sits down on the mattress, and anxiety hits him as if he's run into a wall. He's here, but he's never played anything without knowing what he's doing, without knowing if it's right. He undoes the rest of the buttons on his shirt, slowly, giving House time to think, then get to his feet, then to maneuver his way down the hall.
When he slips the shirt off his shoulders, already regretting the slight roll of his stomach over his waistband, he hears House's step in the doorway. "What are you doing?"
Wilson glances over his shoulder. House's eyes narrow suspiciously, but that panic, that uncertainty, is there underneath, if Wilson can just manage to reach it. "Fucking doing something, as you so charmingly put it," he says. He opens his belt, unbuckling it slowly, feeling House's gaze on him every instant as he slips it out of its loops. God, it's terrifying, putting himself out like this, taking a risk; but it's exhilarating, too, knowing House is watching, knowing that he won't be able to--won't want to--say no. He wonders if maybe this is what House feels, if he's looking for some thrill, if asking is the same for him as one more Vicodin, one more drink, one more push.
"All over my sheets?" House asks at last, trying to sneer. His sarcasm is cracking around the edges, though, and underneath he's wary. Scared.
"Yes." Wilson stands up. House's hand tightens on the handle of his cane. He's still hovering on the threshold, not committed yet.
Wilson closes the distance between them. House accused him of jacking off thinking about him. That's been true far longer than House realizes. And tonight it's just them, alone, themselves, without Cuddy or anyone else between them. Wilson wets his lips, but that thought, that he has House to himself, is enough to make him take the last step, and kiss him.
Carefully, oh, yes, he's careful. His hands settle on House's waist, his thumbs brushing across his t-shirt. House flicks his tongue out against Wilson's lips, a flicker of sensation that Wilson follows, as if he's chasing down one of House's logic trails, as if he's keeping up with every mercurial leap. He pursues House's tongue with his, slower but also deeper, the undertow to House's quicksilver surface. He finds his way into House's mouth, hot and so perfectly expressive, as if he's finally found the key to deciphering all his codes. A sound vibrates against his chest, and he's almost surprised to find that it's House, and not him, who was the first to admit how good this feels. His blood feels alive in his veins, and the texture of House's shirt against his bare skin is soft and tantalizing, until he wants to move closer, touch more, and then get House as naked as he is, and feel his skin.
House turns his head away at last, but he's not backing off; his forehead rests against Wilson's. They pant against each other's lips, desperate for air. Wilson's fingers tighten on the hem of House's t-shirt and lifts it slightly, suggestively. House blinks--Wilson can almost feel it, against his temple--and then he lifts his head long enough to meet Wilson's eyes. He still looks somber, as if this is somehow a dangerous step, a leap all on its own. He finds Wilson's hand and presses the handle of his cane into it.
Wilson blinks, but he knows better than to ask. Despite all his years of watching House use the cane, play with it, use it as a weapon, he's only held it rarely, and the cool wooden surface is unfamiliar in his hand. House left his cane across the bedroom when they were with Cuddy, and Wilson knows it's one more sign that House knows he's not going to be allowed to get away, a silent gesture of submissiveness. It brings Cuddy's shadow back between them and Wilson wants to give the cane back, tell House that that's not what he wants, that he isn't forcing House to do anything.
Except...maybe what House is really offering is trust. He'll need Wilson to get him to the bed, to bring the cane back afterwards, and...that's not so much to ask; that's only the least of how Wilson wants House to rely on him.
Wilson takes the cane. House shifts his weight to his left leg and pulls off his t-shirt, and that's enough to erase any doubts from Wilson's mind. He leans the cane against House's dresser, and this time, House grabs him and kisses him.
Hard now, and with his hands roaming over Wilson's chest. Not like he's using him for a prop, but like their first kiss was an illusion, nothing like how House really wants him. He attacks Wilson's mouth, lifting one hand to his jaw, holding him still and licking his way inside, and Wilson remembers this, how House kisses like he's finding out secrets and broadcasting them for the world to hear, like he knows exactly how to bury Wilson in sensation, how to turn warmth into passion. Wilson strokes House's back, reading the bunch and play of his muscles as House grips him and hauls him closer. He pushes his hips forward and Wilson groans when he feels House's cock against his, hot and hardening, through their pants. He thrusts again, to feel that, to feel the way House's body goes rigid for a split second every time their erections collide.
House breaks the kiss with a muffled mmph and then bites him, sharply, just under his jaw, making Wilson jump and swallow a yelp. House licks the spot, until Wilson can barely breathe, because every lick and nudge of teeth and scrape of stubble makes that one spot oversensitive, until it's shooting sparks of arousal to the rest of his body. House kisses his way along Wilson's neck, and Wilson feels like he can't do anything but hold on. He does his best to pull House backwards, until they can lurch the few steps from the door to the bed.
He stumbles back, and on the last step, House pushes him, and he falls onto the bed. He pushes himself up, but House is already working his way to his knees, in a series of awkward movements. Wilson knows better than to make a single comment. It takes time, but it's just enough for the anticipation to nearly reach up and strangle him, before House's fingers find his fly, and pause to taunt him, in slow, agonizing strokes over his pants.
"House--"
House doesn't even look up. He opens Wilson's pants and jerk them low around his hips. Wilson tries to thrust up, because God, he's hard, his briefs barely able to contain his erection, but House pins him with both hands and then covers his cock with his mouth, through his underwear.
Wilson can't stop his moan, and House's fingers tighten convulsively at the sound. He pulls Wilson's underwear down, just enough that he can lick the head of Wilson's cock, and, oh fuck, it's amazing, it's enough to make him shameless, to say a million things that he knows he'll regret when House throws them back in his face. He bites his lip and forces himself to stay as quiet as he can, as much as he can stifle every panting groan.
House goes down on him like he's been aching for it, like he's been waiting; thinking that, imagining that, makes Wilson gasp and try to move again into the deep, slick heat of his mouth. He wants to beg, but House is already doing everything, sucking him deeper, his tongue swirling when he pulls up, one hand cupping his balls now and rolling them in his fingers, already heavy and tight and wanting.
It astonished him, at first, how sweetly House can kiss, and as much as House's blowjob could make him come hard and fast and right the hell now, he wishes that he could have that House back, the crazily gentle side of him who Wilson thinks he could kiss for hours. This is good--so good, oh--but it's not, it's not what he wanted, it's not why he came here at all. The way House is sucking him, not looking at him, it could be anyone, and it's not, it's not--
"House," Wilson says, grabbing for House's hair and pulling him away. "Stop. Stop--"
"Why?" House mutters, and licks him again, just at the tip, and Wilson's so fucking hard, so close.
"Get up here," he manages to gasp out.
House's shoulders tense under his hand. Wilson rolls his eyes. If he's going to fight this, then maybe Cuddy is right to tie him down; at least that way, he'd have House where he wanted him, he could make him admit that there's more to this than two horny guys getting each other off.
"I want you to," he adds softly, and slides back on the bed, just enough that he's out of House's reach if he stays kneeling. House struggles to his feet, and Wilson doesn't say anything. He takes off his pants and lies down, half on his back, turned only enough that he can watch House. House scowls at him, but Wilson just shakes his head. "House," he says, an invitation, and he feels like he's never been more naked than when he's lying there on House's bed waiting to see if House will let this be more than sex.
House sighs and averts his eyes, but he sits on the bed, and then he lies down, and his back is turned to Wilson, all broad shoulders and warm skin; there is a mole just under his right shoulderblade, and that's where Wilson touches him first. "It's better," he says, "like this," and he touches House to prove it, softer than before, like that first kiss when he could feel House answering him with every movement.
After a moment, House turns to face him. Wilson meets his eyes, and House frowns harshly, and tries to kiss him, the angry, pushing kiss again.
Wilson shakes his head and refuses. He unbuttons House's fly, pushes his jeans off his hips. He hears House's shaky breath, and it's enough to make him go even slower, easing the denim over his leg, trailing his fingers over House's calves when he takes his socks off. He pushes his underwear off next, and then he closes his eyes for a moment, trying to keep control, not to give in and let House turn away. Wilson kisses him gently, and House answers as if it's only curiosity that's driving him, as if he's following Wilson only to see where he leads, not because he wants to go there too.
Wilson rubs his way down House's arm, along his chest, and finally cups his cock. House isn't hard yet, but he's more than interested now. He kisses Wilson harder for a moment when Wilson starts to stroke him. Oh, yes, this is what he wants, to turn House on slowly. He holds House still with his mouth and his hand, feeling his erection grow. House leans into Wilson's touch, both the kiss and the lazy, easy movement of his fist.
After a minute, House breaks the kiss so that he can breathe. His eyes are closed, his eyebrows lifted, his lips parted. Wilson loves watching him, the pleasure suffusing his face. God, he loves him so much. He strokes House's cock faster, enjoying its texture, its warmth, how hard he is. House grunts and reaches up to grab Wilson's shoulder, gripping him hard. "Yeah," he mutters, and Wilson increases the pace again, tightens his hand.
"I want to know why the hell I'm here, House," he says conversationally.
House's eyes fly open. He stares at Wilson, breath catching in his throat. Wilson twists his wrist, brings his other hand to House's dick, rubbing his balls and all the way up to the head, over and over again. House's hips twitch forward almost involuntarily.
Wilson takes his hands away, ignoring House's hand grabbing painfully at his shoulder. "Tell me," he says. "Tell me why I'm here."
"Wilson." House stops. Licks his lips. He's still wrapped up in the handjob, and Wilson takes a sudden, astonishing pleasure in turning the tables on him.
He's never seen House struggle so hard to maintain eye contact, but he does. His eyes move over Wilson's face and then meet his gaze again. He swallows, and he's so clearly fighting with himself that Wilson wishes he could break the tension. Touch House again, or kiss him, or tell him that it's all right. But he knows that if he does, then this is over, and he'll never, really, get what he wants; and he wants it so badly that no matter how long House leaves him hanging, Wilson will stay still, and quiet, and wait.
"Wilson," House says again, and Wilson's glad that he doesn't--not even now--become James. The intimacy isn't in his name, it's in House's voice, his eyes, the way they are naked together and not fucking each other senseless. "I want you," House says. Once he speaks, he doesn't hesitate, but his voice is so scratchy and low that Wilson strains to hear him, even in the silence of the bedroom. House presses his lips together, and this time, he does flick his eyes away. Wilson can hear the thunder of an ocean in his hears, but when House looks back and speaks again, Wilson doesn't miss a syllable.
"I love you," House says.
It's so simple. It's just words. But Wilson's chest constricts until his lungs and his heart are both squeezed to stillness. The entire world is pressing down on him, and at the same time, an immense weight has been lifted away.
Wilson massages his thumb in tiny circles just above House's hip, and watches his eyes. He doesn't want this moment to end. House's eyes slide closed, and he bends forward. Wilson kisses him slowly. Not enough of this, not ever enough.
"I want you to fuck me," he whispers against House's lips, and feels the same, unexpected flutter of excitement when House lets out that desperate, rumbling moan. He rolls Wilson to his stomach, already reaching for wherever he stashes his condoms and lube.
It's quick. By this time, they're both so turned on, and Wilson knows he can't wait once House lies down on top him, weight and heat and the insistent push of his erection against Wilson's ass. He can't help himself; he circles his hips, thrusting down into the mattress, then up into House's cock. He nudges impatiently against House's fingers, and then--God--freezes, when House finds his prostate and seems intent on burning his orgasm out of him with that one touch alone. "House," he says, and there's so much more that he wants to say, but House mutters, "Yeah," like he understands it all.
When House finally moves closer, his weight looming over Wilson, his cock poised to thrust into him, he grabs Wilson's hand in his, tangling their fingers together and gripping so hard it hurts; and it's perfect, more than perfect, better even than the first instant when he pushes in. House's panting breaths at his ear matter more, and his random, sloppy kisses at the nape of his neck. He feels like he's on fire, like he's going to explode at any moment, tension and pleasure building throughout his body. House holds still for an endless moment, and then he starts thrusting, and Wilson feels him inside and out.
And, at the last instant, right before he tips over into orgasm, he hears House's voice in his ear, "So much, so good, Wilson," as if, now that Wilson's made him speak, he can say anything at all.
--
Wilson can't remember the last time he slept so deeply. House's breath hitches unevenly, almost a snore, and he burrows his nose close up against Wilson's shoulder, wriggling nearer every time Wilson nearly rolls away.
In the morning, though, he's gone. Wilson swims towards wakefulness, and then blinks, feeling his sudden absence.
It's strange, rolling over and finding himself in House's bed. Alone. He stretches, his muscles aching a bit as a reminder.
He wonders if it will be like the last time, when House didn't say a word the morning after. He wonders, suddenly, if last night was about him at all, or if it was for Cuddy's benefit somehow--whether she'll ask House for details, whether he'll tell her everything.
Wilson frowns. He can hear the television from the other room, so House hasn't gone far. Not that it takes much distance for House to start hiding again.
Wilson sits up, and finds his clothes. He needs a shower, but for now he resigns himself to being late for work, and dresses in yesterday's outfit. Still in his socks, he walks out to the living room. He stops when he sees House sitting on the couch, talking on his cell.
It's not that Wilson thinks that last night was a lie. But he doesn't know what it means; he hasn't come out of this with any more answers than he had going in.
"You gonna go?" House asks, his voice warm and teasing. The television's turned to the Discover Channel, and a tiger shark just snatched a seal pup in its jaws, blood spraying in the flume of white-topped waves. House doesn't notice. He's leaning forward, elbows on knees, as if he can only see the person on the other end of the phone. Cuddy, Wilson realizes, when he sees House's affectionate grin. House says, "Yeah," and then pauses, holding his breath, as if he's on the verge of saying something more.
Wilson clears his throat. House glances over his shoulder at him, and his face is open, the way it was last night. "Yeah," he says again, as if it means everything.
Wilson doesn't know who it's meant for. Whether House is speaking to Cuddy or to him when he does--or doesn't--say I love you.
But then House smiles up at him. It's a little mischievous but totally real, and Wilson can't help smiling back. And finally, he understands; he has his answer.
He asks, one or the other? and House answers, softly, yes.
end