Work Text:
No, I’m not sure/
Okay/
Oh, I think I’m sick again/
House felt his body relax in the steaming hot water. His throbbing leg subsided ever so slightly, but it was enough to give him some relief. He opened his eyes, unable to remember closing them, and saw Wilson start to turn away from the bathtub. House noticed Wilson faltering, hesitating at every shift of his feet. He figured Wilson was just being awkward around House right now because of his current state; after finally giving in to the pain in his leg and calling Wilson at 3 in the morning, he had rushed over to House’s apartment to help soothe him in any way he could. House’s leg hadn't shown any signs prior to this seize up, but that had never stopped it before, and had proceeded to leave him writhing in a pool of his own sweat, tears, and vomit. Only to reach for the phone had House moved in four plus hours.
Wilson took another tentative step. House ached. He couldn’t discern where or why. He wished Wilson wouldn’t leave; not only was he a great distraction from the pain, but he was also a source of will and humanity for House. He ached, and he wished Wilson would stay and not walk out the bathroom door. He wished he would stay and sit next to House. He wished he would climb into the bathtub with him, and they could lie together in the steaming water until it cooled and listen to the other’s heartbeat. House knew it would never happen, but when Wilson shifted his food forward once more, he couldn’t handle it anymore.
“Stay…” House pleaded, slicing through the silence like the knives he periodically took against his arm. His voice grated against his throat, and he saw Wilson flinch at its dry reverberation against the tile. House looked anywhere but Wilson and tried again: “ Get in,” he swallowed, “..with me.”
Shit. Fucking shit. House would reluctantly admit that at this very moment, he was not exactly in the state of power he so normally thrived in. Still, he never expected himself to show such an unguarded display of weakness. He snaked his eyes down in shame, the rest of his body frozen from embarrassment. He knew he had a mild (ok obsessive) tendency for self-destructive behaviour, but even this was far. I mean, grovelling, and in front of Wilson??? House knew, he knew nothing could ever become of him and Wilson. They were friends at best; acquaintances at most. No matter how many times he drank himself away or woke up crying from a dream, it could never happen, would never happen. He just… needed him, needed something. His leg hurt, damn it, and he wanted to be selfish. He wanted Wilson to sit beside him, to lie next to him, to hold him, and to slide his—
Wilson’s collared shirt rolled onto the floor. House’s desperate eyes glanced up, not moving his head. Wilson was pulling off his undershirt. Well, pulling was a strong term. Inching was a better term, House thought, or maybe dawdling (?). Either way, Wilson wasn’t exactly making much progress with pulling off his shirt, instead making a show of it. Moving his hand down to the bottom seam line, grasping it in his delicate fingers, he performed in front of House, private and personal.
…
House knew Wilson was straight.
If there was one constant in the world, it was that Wilson was and forever will be, attracted to women. With all the marriages he's had in the past, all of them being women is a pretty lousy percentage to present in favour of gay. …And yet.
Maybe House was delusional (most likely). He had taken more Vicodin than was proactive for his liver in the past few hours, so really anything in terms of House not thinking straight (hah) was on the table. What was not on the table, though, was Wilson stripping in front of a weak and naked House soaking in a bathtub, gingerly taking one piece of clothing at a time.
Wilson lifted his shirt over his head, arm muscles flexing and lessening in a way that made House exhale louder than was necessary.
Wilson, now bare-chested, folded the undershirt onto the bathroom tile. His hair was slightly mussed as his hands moved to his pants.
Wilson let his belt drip to the floor.
Ohmygodohmygod no no this is not happening this is just another sick Vicodin-induced dream this is not real this can’t be real it can’t
The sound of Wilson’s zipper tickled House’s ears.
House felt everything and nothing at the same time. He was simultaneously hyper aware of the hot water engulfing him and the steam in his nose and the searing bathroom lights and the sharp lines of pain radiating from his leg, while also disconnected, gently floating away from all feeling and hovering in blissful clouds, numb to the world around him. Wilson’s pants dropped to the floor.
Minutes passed. Years maybe. Or perhaps just seconds, now that House thought about it, but who cares really, because at that very moment Wilson’s buttery soft, puppy brown hair was freckling House's forehead as Wilson leaned into the bathtub. With both arms opposite of House, Wilson hovered above him, legs half-knelt at the side of the tub.
“Uhh, house?” Wilson’s voice was gruff, House noticed from his cloud up above. “I, uh, need you to move here.”
House didn’t respond. Wilson exasperatedly sighed, made less convincing by the deepening rose of his cheeks. He bedridgibgly lifted House forward a bit and resting him forward, making room behind him in the bathtub. Wilson crawled in, water splishing around House’s shoulders and knees, bringing one or two of his senses back down to earth. As Wilson slotted his outstretched legs on either side of House, he laid his upper body back to its relaxed position, this time settling on Wilson’s warm chest, as opposed to the cold plaster of the tub. House sighed again, sinking into Wilson behind him.
Wilson, noticeably cautious due to his slow and calculated movements, tentatively decided to rest his hand atop House’s head. House, and all the other Houses that lived inside his head, put forward and passed the motion that Wilson should make all the decisions from now on.
“House, is this ok?” Wilson whispered from behind House’s ear, sending a shiver down his body despite the lava-adjacent temperature of the water.
In his focus to please, oh god, please not get hard right now, House forgot to respond.
“House?” Wilson prompted again, worry dripping from his voice into House’s brain, liquifying whatever was left there.
“Yes..” House breathed, failing very noticeably at his current goal. New goal, he thought, don’t come in the bathtub with Wilson right fucking behind me.
Wilson ran a concerned hand through House’s hair.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” House rushed out.
“House? I can get out if you want me to.. You don’t have to let me stay in here…” Wilson flustered, albeit disappointedly.
“No, Wilson, please,” House begged. Again, not his proudest moment. “I need you… to stay,” he choked out.
“Ok, Greg. I’ll stay, it’s ok.” Wilson ran another hand through House’s sticky hair. “I’m here.”
House positively melted. He and the water became one as his atoms diluted into whatever was around him. Unfortunately for House, one of those things around him was Wilson, who, at the sound of House’s absolutely-too-loud-to-be-a-sigh sigh, reacted quite strongly. Fortunately for House, Wilson's reaction included a very hard dick on his back and a hand gripping at his hair.
“Wilson…” House whispered, reaching a weak hand out, blindly groping behind him. Wilson grabbed it firmly, sliding his finger through House’s. Wilson’s other hand moved from House’s head up top to his other one, slightly lower down. House groaned.
“Is.. is this ok?? I know you're in pain; Greg, you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to..” Wilson’s voice teetered on concern and lust. One of House’s favourite combinations, he concluded.
“Ugh, shut up. It helps, trust me..” House gripped Wilson’s hand with any strength he could manage.
Wilson grimaced slightly, not really wanting to know what House was insinuating, but gleefully moved forward. His hand on House’s cock squeezed and slid down.
“God Wilson, do you treat all of your wives like this?” House tried to offend, failing miserably when another moan gasped out of him.
“Hm, you like being treated like one of my wives, you know it.” Wilson moved his hand a bit faster.
“Slut,” House bit.
“Good boy,” Wilson soothed.
~-***-~
House shivered as the cold air hit his wet body. Wilson twisted the bathtub’s faucet handle back to on, then hot as dirty water drained into the hole at the end of the tub. House waited for Wilson to sit back behind him, then wrapped Wilson’s arms around him, Wilson’s chest to House’s back.
“You’re very needy, you know that, right?” Wilson halfheartedly deprecated, squeezing.
“You—“ House started.
“Crave neediness, yes, so I’ve heard.” Wilson finished.
House inwardly smiled. Ok, so maybe Wilson wasn’t straight anymore. Maybe that wasn’t House’s only constant in the world.
Constant or not, however, House figured he could live with that. He rested the back of his head against Wilson’s neck.
He could always find another constant.