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Wilson knew something was off from the moment he heard the knock. That was tell number one. It was a single, firm rap of the knuckles instead of the usual incessant banging, or yodeling, or, ever the favorite, plain old breaking in. Wilson hadn’t even been home long enough to change, so he sloughed his suit jacket as he headed towards the door. House was there on the other side, one hand reached up against the doorframe, weight leaned forward, small smile on his face.
“Wilson.”
House had a six pack in his free hand. Wilson stepped back to let him in, watched him drop his backpack on the floor and throw his coat carelessly over a hook, and followed him as he swung into the kitchen. House picked off two cans to leave on the counter, then opened the fridge to throw the rest in to keep cold.
“I thought you might not show.”
House’s head jerked back from behind the fridge door, and he stood back up while eying Wilson, leftover pad thai in hand.
“Why?”
Wilson leaned back on the counter and crossed his arms as House opened a drawer, fished out a fork, and began to eat. House solved his case early that day and disappeared from hospital grounds immediately after. It was the kind of freedom Wilson was quickly learning that House and only House had at Princeton-Plainsboro.
“Figured you might get started before noon and be passed out by the time us mere mortals got off our shifts.”
“There’s no food at my place.”
Wilson gave him an unimpressed look, pushed off the counter, grabbed the beers, and turned to look for suitable glasses.
“I’ll have to tell Bonnie I was the one who ate that, you know. She’s already plenty annoyed with you.” Wilson looked over his shoulder just in time to catch House scrunching up his nose and throwing the container onto the counter, as if the appeal of stolen food depended on who had ordered it.
“What reason could she have to be annoyed with me?”
Wilson cracked the beers and poured them, mouth turning up at the sides despite himself. He turned and pushed a glass into House’s waiting hands.
“Is that a joke, or do you really need to be told?”
House rolled his eyes. “She can’t be mad at me. I haven’t seen her since the wedding.” Wilson just raised his eyebrows and took a sip, waiting for it to sink in. House clicked his tongue impatiently. “What, we can't just peacefully coexist? I have to see her too?”
“She’s not an idiot, House. She knows you’re avoiding her.”
House pushed himself up to sit on the counter and leaned back jauntily on one hand. It should be tense, uncomfortable. It should be entirely the wrong way to start an evening in. But now that they lived in the same city, sniping at each other had quickly become their version of a greeting, a luxury born of seeing each other every day rather than every other month, of getting to bother each other in person rather than having to be two adult men who maintain a friendship almost solely over the phone. It still felt new and fresh - getting to be grumpy with each other, getting to experience each other’s personalities in grimy detail - and so it still felt good.
House’s eyes flashed. “She is an idiot if she can’t understand that’s preferable to the other option.”
“So what’s the plan, then? Only visit on nights when Bonnie happens to be away? Continue to dodge dinner party invitations until they stop coming? Doesn’t that seem hard to maintain?”
“You can just come to my place. Stacy doesn’t mind you.”
Wilson laughed, high and amused. “Because I’m not an ass.”
“Wilson. Don’t talk about yourself that way. Don’t worry, you’re always an ass to me.”
Wilson shot him a glare and reached for the abandoned take out. They ate and drank in silence for a moment, enjoying each other’s annoyance and thinking up new jabs. Bonnie had taken with their new dog to a training retreat for the weekend (which Wilson had managed to weasel out of by secretly asking to trade with Onken for Sunday call), and the general plan he and House had landed on was to get trashed watching the Final Four, pass out, wake up on Saturday, and do it all again. This tended to be a typical pattern for them, especially in their long-distance phase, when occasional weekends were all they had. They hadn’t done it since the wedding, though - just evenings at bars, outings after work. Things had been busy, between the honeymoon and moving into a bigger place now that Bonnie had joined him permanently in New Jersey.
House was still surveying him slowly. He squinted his eyes, and Wilson felt suddenly like he was being x-rayed - a House specialty. After a moment, he shrugged, as if giving up on a stray theory. “Alright. Let’s watch the game.”
Wilson tidied up a little in the kitchen before crossing into the living room after House, who he found planted a few steps into the living room, mouth slightly agape.
“Wow.” His voice was full of unbridled glee. “The place is… nice.”
Of course, Wilson realized belatedly. House hadn’t been here yet. Bonnie had certainly worked the kind of magic seemingly only familiar to married women over thirty. Wilson found it exceedingly, unaccountably soothing - pressed linens on the table, crystal bowls and curios filling the shelves, picture frames, and curtains, and china, and still lifes on the wall. The room (the entire apartment, actually) was dense with it: noise, and comfort, and just a touch too much clutter to be tasteful, but nowhere near enough to be tacky. As he had watched Bonnie fill the place up, Wilson had realized he’d been missing it for years. Ever since he went to college, actually, ever since he left his parent's place. He and Sam never had the time or money for tsotchkes and persian carpets and couple’s portraits. And he certainly never managed to assemble it all for himself.
None of this could be expressed to House effectively, of course, so instead, he said, “I’m happy, if you care.”
“No, no-” he suppressed laughter, then put on a mock-serious face. “It’s nice. Really nice.”
Wilson rolled his eyes and tried not to let his mouth curl in response. House walked slowly toward the centerpiece of the room - a large three-seater couch in neat, pastel florals. Bonnie had been over the moon when she found it, face beaming with pride.
House seemed at a loss for words.
“It’s chintz,” Wilson prompted.
“Gesundheit,” House said and smiled slowly at his own joke. Wilson had another, firm premonition of danger. “Well, don’t keep me waiting. How much did it cost?”
“That’s none of your-”
“Judging by the jump in octave there, I’d say over three thousand. Bonnie, Bonnie, Bonnie. Bleeding our poor Jimmy dry already.” He threw himself unceremoniously onto the couch in question, one hand still gripping the glass of beer, the other thumbing at the remote. Wilson had a terrible vision of stout spilled down the cushion.
“Why don’t you,” he said firmly and snatched the beer out of his hand, “sit on the recliner for today?”
House gave him a slow look up and down and narrowed his eyes. “I’m not sure I like you whipped.”
“I’m not sure I like you at all.”
House smiled up at him and scooched his butt to the edge of the couch, then pushed himself off and landed on the ground, hard enough to make Wilson cringe. He reached up for his beer, and Wilson handed it down to him. He thought about arguing with his petulance, but just lowered himself to the floor as well. He gave House a look out of the corner of his eye. He’d been expecting a normal night in, long overdue at this point, but House was clearly in some sort of mood. A good mood, seemed like, but House’s good moods were almost as disruptive as his bad ones.
“So?” Wilson said finally, when the silence had drawn on long enough. “Sitting on the floor past 25 seems a little foolish to me, but… we gonna turn on the TV?” He motioned toward the remote, which had fallen with House and was now laying on the carpet on the other side of him, out of reach.
House took a slow sip of beer and just eyed him. Wilson let himself look annoyed and pushed up on his knees to reach over him.
Wilson realized exactly what kind of mood it was half a second too late. He had his whole torso leaned over House’s lap, one hand planted on the far side of his legs, the other stretched out for the remote, when it hit him like a wave. His neck prickled with it, and he turned his head on instinct, slowly, but still in time to catch the unfiltered look on House’s face: amused, and irritated, and predatory.
Their eyes met, and Wilson jerked back to sitting, feeling his eyes go wide and his mouth pull down. One of House’s eyebrows shot up. He twisted in place, grabbed the remote, and offered it up.
“Were you looking for this?”
Wilson grabbed it and threw it lightly to the side. It made House loom closer and smile. He smelled good - like he smoked a cigar before he came. Wilson’s heart started to hammer. Almost unconsciously, he shrank back from House, leaning back on both hands.
“Wilson,” he scratched out. “You’re not running from me, are you?”
Wilson fought a smile. “No.”
“No. Didn’t think so.” He titled his head. “You’re not a coward.”
And then, it was almost like his vision doubled for a moment; he knew what would happen next a split second before it did. House reached out with one hand - slowly, almost cautiously - and stroked a knuckle down the knot of his tie before grabbing it tight in his fist. Wilson felt his cheeks get hot. He wondered if House was going to jerk him around a little.
Silence stretched one tick, then two. House seemed stuck. Wilson made an impatient sound in his throat and said, “Well?”
House gave a short laugh, and his grip tightened.
“I thought,” he said and leaned closer, “we weren’t going to do this anymore.”
Wilson let his mouth fall open in outrage, half genuine and half for show.
“I’m not the one panting like a dog and grabbing at you.”
The eyebrow went higher, and House moved in even closer. Wilson’s eyes slipped closed, and that smokiness filled his lungs again, and he found himself stretching up for it. His lips brushed gracelessly against stubble, but Wilson still groaned into it and reached up to pull at the back of House’s neck.
House pulled away quickly; Wilson didn’t open his eyes. He knew the self-impressed look he’d see there. He rolled his eyes behind his lids.
“Alright,” he sighed. “I said we shouldn’t do this anymore, but-”
“No.” House’s voice was teasing but firm. Wilson cracked his eyes. “You said we wouldn’t do it anymore.” He shook Wilson a little for emphasis.
“Oh, well, pardon me. I didn’t realize we had a transcription available.”
House’s hand loosened on his tie, but instead of pulling back, he dragged it down the front of Wilson’s shirt.
“I usually remember what people tell me immediately after they suck me off.”
Wilson cleared his throat to chase the vivid memory away. He had said that - two weeks before his wedding, the bitter taste still lingering at the back of his throat. It hadn’t been nice then, and it wasn’t nice to be reminded of it at that particular moment. Trust House for that. He kept his poker face carefully.
“Really? I think a blowjob might inhibit recall.”
“Want to run a trial?” House’s hand had made it down to his belt.
“No,” Wilson said sweetly. The hand froze at that, and House’s eyes darted up, expression suddenly serious and calculating. Wilson licked his lips. “I’d rather fuck.”
The look on House’s face just then - well, Wilson hoped he’d be able to remember it later, when he was alone. It was probably all he’d need. House’s hand grabbed at the buckle of his belt, again like he was going to jerk him around.
“So I ask again.” His eyes were fixed somewhere around Wilson’s mid-section. “What about the whole not doing this thing?”
“I guess I overestimated us.”
“Us? Or just yourself?”
He felt irritation heat his cheeks. “If you're trying to talk your way out of this one, you might just succeed.”
House shifted onto his knees, using his grip on Wilson’s belt to balance himself. He looked unperturbed at the hostile tone, but some of that confidence probably came from the way Wilson opened his legs to let House settle between them.
House started to pull at Wilson’s tie. His face had gone all soft, especially around the corners of his mouth and eyes. Wilson felt himself start to pant as House traced a finger across his neck, over his adam’s apple, and below the collar to pull at the first button. His voice came, low and rough. "You turn such a perfect color."
Suddenly, they were kissing, and Wilson only realized after, with his both of his hands gripped hard in the front of House’s soft t-shirt, that he must have initiated it. House used his weight and leverage to push Wilson down to fully lay on the floor, only slightly cushioned by the rug. His legs were up around House’s hips, and the heat and pressure of him was perfect, like a stretch after a jog, satisfying and a little painful.
House moved down to his jaw, his ear, his throat, and Wilson heard himself groan. House gave him a light nip in response, and Wilson tapped him on the back of the head as if to chide.
“House.”
They were both familiar with this game. There was only one rule: don’t leave marks. They had started having sex about a year after meeting while both of them were single, but that hadn’t lasted long. Soon after came a few girlfriends for Wilson, his first forays into dating after the divorce, then Stacy, then Bonnie after that.
House ignored the warning and propped back up on his knees to start pullin at Wilson’s shirt. This was shaping up to be a very rough and ready quickie, which suited Wilson fine. He almost couldn’t believe the unbridled need he felt, as if he’d been hiding it, even from himself, until House happened to look his way, eyes dark, mouth tight with desire. House pushed up his undershirt so his stomach was exposed so he could rake hands down his skin, nails stinging as he went. Wilson grabbed quickly at his own belt and yanked it out of his pants, watched as House tore at his fly. It took a little doing, but soon he was bare from the waist down, with House settling back between his legs, still clothed, eyes bright and pleased.
He fished in his sweatpants pocket and came out with a packet of lube, hospital-grade. Wilson managed to look judgemental through a haze of lust.
“A premeditated crime, I see.”
“Oh, yes,” House drawled and ripped open the packet, “I really takes a master plan to get James Wilson to give it up.”
Wilson felt himself blush, but reached down to spread himself, make it a little easier. He had built this wall between them, and he probably deserved some shame while they knocked it down together.
“Was leaving the clinic today and realized,” House talked casually while pushing at Wilson, pulling, prodding, watching him squirm under his hands and get fully hard, “maybe this is what you really wanted all along. Just to get me desperate enough to push you down and take it.” Their eyes met as House’s knuckles circled just under his balls, lube-slick and a little too rough. “Is that what you wanted?”
And suddenly, Wilson wasn’t sure. It had felt honest at the time. The impending wedding made for a logical ending point. Had he really been trying to get them back on track, back to being friends? Or had it been a power play? A trap he laid almost without knowing? He had already found himself singling out nurses and receptionists, unconsiously falling into old, bad habits. Was this more of the same? A rotten core wrapped up in sweet, altruistic, plausible deniability. And only House seemed to be able to tell.
House chose that moment to push two fingers into him, just to the first knuckle, pulling at him, massaging. So Wilson couldn’t do much except answer honestly.
“I don’t know. I don't-” He broke off and gasped. “Ugh, just fuck me, God, please.”
House was covering him again then, fabric on skin, lips on neck. Wilson pushed at the waistband of House’s sweats, eager, ready. They were both scrabbling, desperate, getting sweaty. House laughed into the crook of his neck. Wilson’s shirts were bunched around his armpits; House pushed his pants down to his knees and started to work himself in. Wilson squeezed thighs at House’s waist, encouraging him, pulling him.
“Mmm, it’s good. More. So good.”
House’s eyes flickered closed at that, brow furrowed, expression serious. Wilson enjoyed being able to just admire him without the chance of being mocked, felt a smile spread across his face, gasped as their hips met. House seemed stuck again; Wilson nudged him with his calf, wriggled under him.
He hissed through his teeth. “Wait, you fucking bastard. Wait.”
Wilson kept at it, and House raised his head to glare at him. But Wilson smiled back, and then House did too, warm and slow, and started to move.
It was a mess. They were a mess. House didn’t top often, and they were seven weeks out of practice besides. It didn’t much matter. If it felt for House anything like it felt for Wilson, nothing mattered. House drove him slowly up the carpet. Things grew hazy, hot. He clutched at House’s shoulders hard enough to worry about finger-tip shaped bruises, smoothed at the skin, clutched again.
"Missed you." It seemed to come out of him without any thought. House groaned, full body. Wilson said, "Please, please. Missed this."
House hit the right angle, and Wilson’s whole body locked up. House must have felt it, because he gripped at the leg of the couch behind Wilson’s head and used it for leverage to grind into him again, and again, and again. His voice came, sharp like a whip.
“Let me know when the wife position opens back up. I’ll show you how to spend 3k.”
“Yeah, I’m sure,” Wilson laughed and panted, “on hookers and blow and-”
“And you.”
That softness was back around his eyes and mouth. He’d missed that, too - the way Greg got romantic, the way he melted, just a little, just for him. Wilson wasn’t going to make it much longer. House kissed him again then, forcefully, so that his head hit the carpet and they both groaned.
Wilson reached down. He was sure it would only take a few good strokes to get him there, but House gave him a firm pinch on his side and batted his hand away. He grabbed him instead, hand still lube-slick, large and steady and so, so familiar.
Wilson couldn’t even bear to look down; his back was arching with it now, neck exposed, arms limp at his sides. He made some sort of extremely embarrassing, guttural noise and came, hard and blinding. It felt like it always did with House, no matter how they got there - intense to the point of pain, overwhelming, fast like fire and slow like heat. He came back to himself gradually, vaguely; House was still fucking him, thank god, he hated it when he stopped, hated to be taken care of in that way. Being used was the whole point.
He’d shot all over himself, up to a few drops on his jaw and throat, which felt hot and sticky and hurt a little, somehow. House’s mouth was on him soon enough though, lapping it up, sucking too hard for comfort.
“House- don’t-” he broke off as he got a nip and a deep laugh for his trouble. “‘S not funny.”
“Speak for yourself.” And he sounded so strung out that it got another little pulse out of Wilson, another little groan. House’s weight was pressing into him now, torso to pelvis, and his movements were fluid and insistent, automatic, like he couldn’t help himself anymore, like his instincts were taking over. Wilson knew the feeling, and knew it meant he was close. “I think it’s– uh, fuck, Christ, Wilson… I think it’s very funny.”
He finished then, and rode it out with his face buried in Wilson’s neck. He made hurt little sounds into the skin and ground into him, hard, and squeezed at his thighs.
The come down was slow and relaxed. House’s weight sagged on Wilson in a rib-crushing, pleasing sort of way. He ran hands up and down House’s back, enjoyed the way they’d barely managed to get enough clothes off each other, even though it meant he’d have to do a load of laundry before Bonnie got home. House was gnawing at his neck, trying to scare him again. Wilson was pretty sure he wouldn’t leave a mark, at least not on purpose, and ‘pretty sure’ had to be enough. Trying to stop House would give him the satisfaction he was looking for. And it felt really good, anyway.
House rolled off of him eventually. Their eyes met, but neither of them looked away. It was hard to be embarrassed at a time like that. Wilson scooched himself back closer to House, so that their arms were touching, shoulder to wrist. He leaned his face in to press at his jaw. The smokiness made him remember.
“Did you smoke a cigar without me?”
House laughed. “Yes. Is that not allowed?”
“Did you bring some?”
“No. I figured smoking was a no-go in Casa Wilson.”
“There’s a balcony.”
“It’s thirty-five degrees.”
Wilson sighed. “You smell so good, though.”
House shifted. Wilson watched his jaw work.
“Alright. Yes, I did bring some. But we’re smoking them inside.”
“Mmm… No.”
There was half a second of silence, then House started laughing again, and it made Wilson laugh too. Eventually, it trailed off into giggles, and House shifted, stretched, and groaned. Wilson sat up to look him over. His curls were sticking every which way, and his sweats were pulled back up, slung low on his hips. Things were quiet. House licked his lips, breathed in.
For a slim moment, Wilson was scared he might bring it all up again. He felt himself start to panic and brace. He couldn’t imagine what he could say back. Sorry for moving here like you asked, but not alone. Were you surprised? Sorry for trying to push you away. Were you hurt? We couldn’t even make it two months. What does that say? And House, House would enjoy it. Revel in it. Sledgehammer right through to the heart of it.
But when House spoke, his tone was still light.
“If sitting on the ground past 25 is a bad idea, what does that make fucking on the ground past 25?”
Wilson smiled in relief. He wasn't sure if it was concious for House, but it felt like mercy either way. House smiled back at him, still flushed, still soft. Wilson spoke quickly.
“A good idea. Of course. Always a good idea.”
House looked at him for a moment longer, eyes flashing, then rolled to his stomach and pushed suddenly to his feet. He disappeared into the entryway.
His voice came after a few moments, a bit too loud for the distance, "Alright, Wilson, whatever you say. But, a word of advice." He reappeared, cigar in his mouth and lighter in his hand. "From now on, only make rules you can follow."
And he flicked the lighter to flame.