Chapter Text
House is sprawled across his couch, one leg hanging off the armrest and his phone balanced on his stomach. He’s been idly scrolling through profiles for the last twenty minutes, thumb swiping more out of boredom than actual interest. The app is the usual buffet: shirtless bathroom selfies, gym bros flexing in bad lighting, one guy holding a fish.
He’s not that desperate. At least not yet. It’s been a while since he had an itch his usual rotation of female hookers couldn’t scratch. When that happens, he ends up on the apps. But the crop in Princeton is measly, to say the least. After one too many profiles describing their height, weight, and length in exaggerated detail, House is about ready to call it quits and end up on some sketchy porn site instead when something makes his brain screech to a halt.
The next profile is… familiar.
The guy’s wearing a crisp button-up, sleeves rolled just enough to show a watch that House knows costs more than his rent. The picture’s cropped at the nose, but the posture, the way the collar sits slightly askew like he couldn’t stop adjusting it, is screaming Wilson.
He swipes to the next pic. Another button-up. This one’s got a wine glass in it, of course, because apparently this mystery man wants everyone to know he’s classy. The next photo is the same watch, draped around a very familiar forearm that leads into a beautifully sculpted surgeon’s hand holding a cigar.
House props himself up on his elbows, suddenly much more awake.
The last photo seals it. Mirror selfie, phone covering most of the face, but there it is. The mole. The stupidly recognizable mole. ‘Holy shit,’ is his first thought, followed quickly by, ‘You slut.’
House stares at the screen, thumb hovering.
A normal person would back out. Close the app. Maybe give their best friend the courtesy of pretending they never saw it. But House isn’t normal, and the devil on his shoulder is already screaming at him to have some fun with this. Considering he doesn’t have an angel to balance it out, he’s already in the process of making a second account with similarly faceless pictures. He’s marginally smarter than Wilson, meaning he isn’t putting in clearly recognisable features of himself or his clothing. He tosses in a picture of a glass of scotch in his hand, a top-down photo from the poker fundraiser of him in his tux. He tops it off with his totally real age and considers a few fake names before giving up and just typing in Ben Dover.
The second the profile is up, he wastes no time finding the mysterious James, 39 and swiping right.
He doesn’t expect to get the It’s a Match! notification within four minutes, however, and instantly swipes on the profile. Before he has a chance to slide into Wilson’s DM’s all suave-like, he gets the message.
- Didn’t expect anyone on so late at night.
Biting back a nearly painfully wide grin, House quickly types back.
guess ur just lucky
- What’s with the fake name?
hey, u can’t judge
no face pics
sounds like someone’s a closet case
The typing bubble appears and disappears like Wilson is thinking too hard about how to respond. House readjusts in his seat to put all of his focus on the screen, failing miserably at suppressing his joy.
- Maybe I am. It gets complicated.
oh i get that
trust me
Blatant lie. House is as open as he could possibly be about his sexuality. Cuddy knows he swings both ways, considering he hooked up with her last boyfriend, but Wilson’s just so willfully ignorant that he hasn’t put two and two together yet. House isn’t sure how many innuendos he can drop before he just has to shake him by the shoulders and announce that he has sex with men every other weekend.
- So what should I actually call you?
im thinking we’ll stick to ben for now
gotta see if i like u before we ditch formalities
There’s a pause before the bubble pops up again.
- Bold. But I’m not calling you that.
House smirks, thumb hovering.
gotta keep things interesting
- Fair. Not much interesting on here most nights.
House can practically hear the sigh through the screen: Wilson, alone in his condo, glass of wine in hand, trying to pretend he’s not lonely. It’s enough to make House’s grin soften into something a little more genuine.
oh?
mr incognito spends MOST nights on here?
The bubble lingers longer this time.
- Maybe.
House’s eyebrows shoot up. Wilson’s halfway admitting something here. Interesting. Not surprising, though. Wilson’s an oversharer to a self-destructive degree. Of course he’d bare his soul to some random guy on the internet.
im sensing someone’s a little lonely
- Great deduction, Sherlock.
thats me
observant 2 a fault
- Oh yeah? What’s that mean?
its sorta my job
No more bubbles appear after House sends that message, making it clear that Wilson desperately wants clarification but is also far too afraid of seeming desperate in the conversation.
sorry
thats all ur getting
cant risk u coming 2 find me
- Don’t flatter yourself yet.
Why the secrecy? You a spy or something?
sure
that makes me sound cool n mysterious
- In that case, I'm an astronaut.
Actually, I’m texting you from the space station right now.
House actually laughs aloud at that one. Of course Wilson’s approach to flirting is no different than his usual speech; full of bad jokes entirely meant for the other person to build on. He doubts many other people on this platform have taken his alley-oops with the grace that House has been.
u’ll have to take me sometime
i hear the sightseeing is out of this world
Not every joke can be a home run, alright? But he knows Wilson, and Wilson eats up shitty lines like that every day. He’s gotta level the playing field if he wants this conversation to last. Somehow, Wilson takes that and runs with it.
- Wait until you hear about zero-gravity sex.
Hard to pull off, but definitely worth it.
Wow. What a segue. The bluntness actually catches House off guard, but not enough to make him lose his footing. He recovers quickly, typing furiously to make up for the few seconds he spent staring at the message. He’s not actually sure where he’s going with this whole thing. He probably should be leaving this at discovering Wilson’s a frequent flier on New Jersey’s hottest gay hookup app. But he can’t stop himself from keeping this branch of the conversation going.
i might need a diagram 4 that one
seems tricky w/o a headboard to hold onto
- Well, it’s a little friendlier to the middle aged joints.
dont sell urself short
u have some time before u hit the big four-o
- Yeah, like six months. I guess I’ll keep my hair and youthful glow until my next birthday.
enjoy it while it lasts
i stopped glowing years ago
- Oh, please, I doubt you ever had a glow.
ouch?
- I get the idea you’re more of the gruff, husky type.
yeah because boy scouts like u take all the glow from the rest of us
- Sure.
And you definitely don’t have a scotch/cigar habit to blame instead.
hey, u leave them out of this
- LOL. Don’t worry. They’re close friends of mine too.
careful
dangerous image to put in my head
- Oh? You have a thing for social smokers?
big time
nothing turns me on like looking in a mirror
- I don’t think trying to unpack that would be as fun as just sharing a cigar.
nice try, but i might be an even bigger closet case than u
Whoof. Dodged that bullet. Hopefully.
- That’s too bad. I’m sure you’d look good with one in your mouth.
House stares at the words for a second longer than he should, pulse jumping. Instantly, he checks his pulse with two fingers at his neck. Why is he reacting like this is actual flirting? He hasn’t even gotten to any real flirting yet, anyway. This is just… cyberbullying, basically. Which means he needs to get his pulse under control.
big words for someone who doesn’t know what i look like
- I can assume.
I’m getting the rough around the edges vibe from you.
Besides, who doesn’t look good like that?
you raise good points
careful ur starting 2 sound like ur picturing me already
House grins to himself, stretching out on the couch like he’s settling in for a good evening. He can practically see Wilson’s face: slightly pink, that fidgety little hand rub against the back of his neck when he gets flustered.
- I’d like to.
It’s a little tricky if I don’t know where to start.
ruggedly, rakishly debonair
back-of-the-bar kind of handsome
that good enough or should i incorporate a rhyme scheme
- I was hoping for a picture instead of an ode to your own beauty.
sry no pics
mystery is half the fun anyway
House hits send and props the phone on his chest, waiting. He knows Wilson, knows the man is sitting there, weighing how much to push. The typing bubble blinks, disappears, blinks again.
- You’re frustrating.
yeah i get that a lot
- I mean it. You’re making it impossible not to be curious.
good
means ur thinking about me
House smirks at his own reply, already picturing Wilson rolling his eyes and smiling despite himself. He can almost hear the little exhale Wilson does when he’s trying not to be amused.
- I am. Against my better judgment.
better judgment is boring
- So is mystery if it goes on too long.
wow
threatening to ghost me already?
ruthless
He shifts on the couch, stretching his bad leg until it gives a satisfying crack. This feels like a game of chicken, and House has never been the one to back down first.
- I just think you’d get more out of this if you let me see your face.
what if my face is disappointing
- Somehow I doubt that.
House stares at the screen a moment too long, that stupid jump in his pulse coming back. He hates that Wilson sounds genuinely curious.
ur too trusting
- Or maybe I just want to know who I’m talking to.
nah
u just want to know if im hot enough to risk ur pristine reputation
The bubble lingers longer this time. House drums his fingers against his stomach, savoring the thought of Wilson hesitating, weighing honesty against charm.
- Unfortunately I already think you are.
House blinks at the screen, caught off guard by how direct that is. Wilson’s flirting usually has at least three layers of plausible deniability built in, but this? This feels like he’s laying his cards on the table.
wow
moving kinda fast there, james
- Just being honest, stranger.
House can practically see Wilson shrugging innocently, which makes him grin. God, he’s easy.
what’s someone with a pristine rep doing here anyway
- Looking to fuck. What else?
House stares at the screen, blinking once, twice, like the words might rearrange themselves into something less insane. Looking to fuck. Oh, this is way better than he expected. Wilson has probably never been so blatant about what he wants. Jesus. Maybe he’s not as much of a pushover as House thought. His pulse picks up, and he forces himself to take a slow, exaggerated breath, just to feel like he has some control.
damn
going straight for it huh
- Would you rather I lie?
House’s grin spreads slow and sharp. No, he definitely would not. He props his head on one hand, letting his elbow dig into the couch cushion. This is going very differently from what House expected. He really thought Wilson would be just as fidgety and squirmy online, but no. Apparently James, 39, discreet vers is much more comfortable with himself than James, 39, repressed metrosexual.
nah honesty’s hot
- Then yeah. I’m not here to make a pen pal.
House chuckles quietly, tilting the phone so he can stare at it like a magic eight-ball. This was supposed to be a joke, a one-off experiment. He was going to poke Wilson a little, enjoy the mental image of him squirming, then bail. But the bluntness, the confidence, the way Wilson phrases even a dirty thought without embarrassment… It's oddly alluring.
good thing im not much of a writer
- Good thing you’re apparently my type.
That one hits harder than House expects, leaving a faint fizz under his ribs. He rolls onto his side, one hand tangling in his hair as he tries to process the absurd reality that he’s actually enjoying flirting with Wilson in secret.
bold of u to assume that sight unseen
- Then send me a picture.
House snorts softly, shaking his head. No. Not happening. Not after he got so carried away with the flirting. He can practically see Wilson’s earnest little frown through the screen, that tiny wrinkle between his brows, the one he’s memorized from hundreds of shifts in the hospital. He can feel the heat rising in his chest, the thrill of knowing he’s baited Wilson perfectly.
relax
its just a first chat
gotta give u a reason to come back ;)
The typing bubble hesitates this time, like Wilson is chewing over whether to let himself be teased. House’s eyes dart to the clock on the wall, but time feels irrelevant. He’s too caught up in the thrill of watching Wilson squirm from a distance, blind to the fact it’s him.
- To be completely honest, I already know I’m coming back.
have i wooed u already?
- Looks like it.
But it’s getting pretty late and it doesn’t look like I’m getting lucky tonight.
sorry james
i think tonight was more of a teaser
gotta get u hooked
- Consider me very hooked, then.
Goodnight, stranger.
night
The second he sends the text, House considers launching his phone out his window. What… the fuck just happened? He sits back, phone still warm in his hand, pulse finally starting to slow, but just barely. His brain is buzzing, rewinding every line, every pause, every little exhale he knows Wilson just let slip. He can practically see the man in his mind: furrowed brow, the faint pink tint on his cheeks, the way he fiddles with his own hand when caught off guard.
No. Nope. No need to replay it all. Tonight was about getting his rocks off, and he’s going to follow through, goddamn it. Just because he got a little distracted doesn’t mean his homosexual itch got scratched. He pushes Wilson completely out of his mind as he rummages in his backpack for his laptop before dragging himself into his bedroom.
House collapses onto the bed, laptop balanced awkwardly on his knees, letting a low, satisfied sigh escape as he flips through tabs he’s already bookmarked. He knows the drill, knows the old tricks, knows exactly what gets the blood going. The first images spark a slow, lazy heat, the kind he’s used to. He’s methodical at first, detached as he licks his thumb before reaching into his boxers and rubbing the tip of his half hard cock.
Eventually, still thumbing at his dick, he ends up on a video of a very well-endowed young man stroking the hard line of his erection through his slacks. According to the title, it was filmed in his office during a workday, and it’s exactly what House is looking for. He sets the laptop down between his legs as he shoves down his boxers, eyes on the screen and hand now wrapped around himself.
House groans low, leaning back against the headboard, letting the rhythm of the video take over his movements. At first, it’s purely mechanical, a familiar loop of pleasure he’s mastered over years of practice. His hips lift and fall almost of their own accord, eyes glued to the screen, his pulse slightly climbing with every deliberate stroke.
Suddenly, and completely against his will, Wilson’s face superimposes over where the camera cuts off at the man’s chin. House’s movements slow, then stutter, then pick up again, but now the video is only half of his mind. He can’t stop seeing Wilson. The young man on the screen becomes him, the office his office, the chair the one Wilson leans back in after a long day, maybe while swiping on and texting with men he’s ‘looking to fuck.’
The thought refuses to leave. The flush of Wilson’s cheeks, that fidgety hand twisting in his own hair, the way he bites his bottom lip when caught off guard; they’re all there, pressed into the fantasy with shocking clarity.
House’s hips lift of their own accord, each movement punctuated by a sudden, jagged inhale. He catches himself imagining Wilson glancing around his office, half-embarrassed, half-desperate, fingers teasing himself while still wearing a faintly disbelieving expression as if daring someone to walk in. The mental image sends a jolt straight to his cock, far sharper than anything the video alone could deliver.
He swears under his breath, squeezing his eyes shut like that might make the image disappear. It doesn’t. If anything, it sharpens. Wilson’s there now, leaning back in that office chair with his tie loosened, shirt rucked up just enough to expose the trail of hair down his stomach. His head’s tipped back, lips parted on a breathless sound House can almost hear, like he’s two feet away instead of in some theoretical fantasy.
His pace quickening despite his best efforts, House’s fist tightens around himself. The porn plays on, tinny moans coming through the speakers, but House barely registers them. He imagines the little noises Wilson would make: soft, choked off at first, then louder as he got closer, as he stopped caring if someone might hear. The fantasy only gets filthier the longer he lets it run: Wilson whispering his name under his breath, hand clenching in the arm of the chair, eyes glassy and crossing with want.
He groans into his own shoulder, trying to muffle it, but it comes out rough and broken. His hips jerk faster, chasing the heat pooling under his skin, everything inside him coiled tight and trembling. Every blink just brings Wilson’s face back, his pink cheeks, mussed hair, that mix of guilt and need that would be so very him.
When it finally hits, it’s sharp and almost violent, his whole body tensing before he spills hot ropes of cum across his stomach. His chest heaves, and he slumps back against the headboard, still gripping himself loosely as the last shudders wring through him.
Electing to not think about any of that, House slaps his laptop shut with his other hand, grabs some tissues to clean himself up with, and tugs his covers tight around his shoulders the second the tissues are crumpled and tossed on the floor. He rolls onto his side, staring at the wall. His breathing finally evens out, the rush fading into that uncomfortable quiet where his brain usually starts yapping again. Sure enough, it does, dragging him back through the texts, back through Wilson’s smirking little honesty, back through every image he just accidentally stapled to his libido.
House stretches once, then yanks the blanket over his head until the world is completely shut out. His leg twinges, his stomach is sticky, and his heart is still doing this irritating little flutter like he just got away with something. He groans into the pillow. It’s fine. It’s over. He’s not thinking about Wilson. Not thinking about how he looked tonight, or how he probably sounds when he jerks off, or how fast he answered those texts.
With one last irritated huff, House shifts until he’s half-buried under the blanket, one arm crooked awkwardly under his head. It takes him longer than usual to drift off, but eventually, he does; jaw slack, hair mussed, looking irritatingly soft for someone who just spent an hour catfishing and then masturbating to his best friend.
He wakes up to the sound of his alarm, and the memories of the night before don’t surface until he’s already out of the shower and dressed. Mid-reaching for his keys, he falters, but quickly snatches them out of the bowl and checks his phone on the way out to his car. Nothing. Of course there’s nothing. What kind of attention-starved person would send a good morning message to someone they just met and flirted with for an hour?
Wilson would, actually. Which is why he’s a little surprised to see a blank screen. But he shoves the thought away and drives to the hospital.
For the first hour, House actually manages to forget. There are labs to double-check, a clinic patient with a mysterious rash to annoy, and a vending machine lunch to scarf down between consults. He makes it all the way to lunch!
Which is exactly when his brain decides to ruin it.
He’s halfway down the hall when the mental image slams into him uninvited: Wilson, tie loosened, jacket on the floor, jerking himself raw in some guy’s apartment after work, murmuring the same (and worse) filthy things he’d said last night. House nearly trips over his own cane.
Well. Clearly he’s not getting anything done until he sees him. He detours into Wilson’s office without knocking, leaning dramatically against the doorframe. “Tell me you have something more interesting than clinic charts. I’m dying out there.”
Wilson glances up from his desk, brow furrowing briefly before softening into that vaguely indulgent smile. “Good morning to you too.”
House flops onto the couch, letting his head fall back against the cushions. “Morning, lunch, whatever. Time’s fake.”
Wilson just hums, turning back to his notes. “You’re unusually chipper today. Did you terrify another med student?”
“Nope.” House props his cane against the couch, folding his arms behind his head. “Just enjoying the fact that at least one of us has a pulse.”
It’s casual, easy, the same back-and-forth they always have, but House can’t stop looking at him. Can’t stop imagining that this perfectly put-together oncologist has spent God knows how many nights blowing strangers from an app, then coming in the next morning acting like this. Professional. Mildly judgmental. He has to bite back a smirk. Wilson is good. Better at compartmentalizing than House ever gave him credit for.
“You look tired,” is what he says instead, and Wilson shrugs.
“Sort of a long night.”
Holy shit. Did he… end up with a different guy last night? Now that House is thinking about it, it makes sense. Wilson, James, had ended the conversation by saying it didn’t seem like he was going to get lucky. House had taken that to mean he was going to bed, but did he just get right back to swiping until he found someone who was looking to fuck?
The images flood House’s mind again, worse this time. Wilson being someone’s booty call, winding up at some stud’s apartment and getting fucked stupid before just grabbing his things and leaving. Maybe Wilson calling one of the guys behind the profiles and bending them over in his own bed before kicking them out of his apartment.
House crosses one ankle over the other and digs his nails into his own palm, just to keep from groaning at the thought. Wilson, smug and sweat-slick, hair sticking to his forehead while some faceless guy puts his clothes back on. It’s filthy, and it shouldn’t be this indulgent, but something about Wilson being secretly that depraved has House almost vibrating with glee.
“You’re staring,” Wilson says, not looking up from his chart.
House blinks once, then lazily tips his head to the side. “Trying to decide if you’re having a stroke or just exhausted. Can’t tell if the droopy eye is new.”
Wilson gives him a flat look. “Go terrorize someone else.”
House pushes up from the couch, grabbing his cane and using it to rap on Wilson’s desk before ducking out. “You’re no fun.”
He’s already grinning by the time he makes it back to Diagnostics. He drops into his chair, kicks his feet up, and immediately regrets letting his mind wander again. The images are sharper, more detailed. Wilson with his tie halfway undone, flushed and panting, rolling on a condom in some stranger’s dimly lit bedroom. Wilson on his knees, sleeves pushed up, murmuring something filthy that makes the other guy curse and fuck up into his mouth.
House grumbles into his hands, dragging them down his face. This was supposed to be a prank. Harmless fun. Now he’s picturing Wilson as the guy in half the porn he’s ever watched, and it’s doing things to him he’s not ready to unpack.
Of course, that’s the moment his phone decides to buzz. He opens it instantly, humiliatingly eager to see who or what it is. Words cannot describe the feeling in his chest when he reads the notification.
- Morning, stranger.
House’s stomach swoops in a way he does not appreciate. He stares at the screen for a solid five seconds before his thumbs move.
took u long enough
He tosses the phone face-down on the desk and immediately picks it back up again, like he can will Wilson to reply faster by glaring at the screen.
- Was busy. Long night.
House’s pulse spikes. Long night doing what? His brain is already filling in the blanks with every mental image he spent all morning trying to suppress.
o yeah? long shift on the ISS?
- Oh, definitely. Air duct blew and sucked the pilot out into the vacuum of space. You wouldn’t believe the paperwork.
House smirks at the screen, already typing back.
taking that to mean u work an office job
im sure u looked great bent over ur desk
He tosses the phone aside, but this time he doesn’t even pretend he’s not waiting. When it buzzes again, he snatches it up so fast his chair creaks.
- Sort of.
And I should hope I look good doing it, considering I do it all day.
funny i took u as more of the bending type, not the one getting bent
- Honestly, this job sometimes makes me feel like all I do is get bent.
so u hit me up to bend smth back?
- Guilty. Maybe that’s presumptuous.
Don’t know which way you lean.
vers, same as u
kinda bottom leaning
Why is he being honest right now? This was supposed to be a glaringly fake profile. He should have said he’s a sixteen-incher stone top. Not actually start telling Wilson that he prefers to take it up the ass on Saturday nights.
- Good. Top leaning.
House presses his knuckles to his mouth, trying to swallow a laugh. The casual filth of it, the fact that Wilson is just sitting somewhere in the same building texting this to him without even knowing it.
too bad we’re not meeting up
- Yeah, damn shame. But you said it, I’m not middle-aged yet.
I have another few months until sexting is deemed age-inappropriate.
sexting is timeless
cave paintings were basically the first nudes
The dots appear almost instantly.
- Sure. “Buffalo with spears in its side” was definitely code for “breed me.”
House clutches his cane like it’s the only thing keeping him from keeling over. Jesus Christ, Wilson. If it weren’t for the fact that he uses full and proper punctuation, House would believe this really was a completely different person.
trying to tell me something?
- Could be. You into that?
convince me
The typing bubbles blink, vanish, blink again. House smirks, picturing Wilson weighing every word, trying not to sound too eager. He decides to give him a quick poke in the right direction.
c’mon, handsome
pretty sure we’re both on the clock rn
dont have all day
- Doesn’t that make it better?
The thought of me under your desk in your cubicle?
give me some credit
ive got my own office
- What I'm hearing is we’d have privacy.
definitely more than in a cubicle
- Enough that I could press your face into your desk?
Seems like Wilson’s not done throwing out lines that might be rewriting House’s brain chemistry. He can’t help but imagine it: Wilson leaning over him from behind, his meticulous, sculpted hand holding House’s face against the cold glass of his desk.
the thought might be growing on me
- Good. Exactly how much privacy do you have in there?
enough
theres windows but they have blinds
- How loud could you get away with being?
sry james im not much of a screamer
- You say that now. I bet I could bring it out of you.
u rly think u could fuck me hard enough to shatter my stoic personality?
- I’d certainly like to try.
Have you ever been bred, stranger?
House just about launches the phone across the room. What the hell. What the hell. Wilson is not supposed to be like this. Wilson is supposed to be buttoned-up, cardigan-wearing, missionary-only Wilson who apologizes after every orgasm. Not the kind of guy who casually texts a stranger asking if they’ve been bred.
House stares at the screen like it might explode in his hands. He should stop. He should absolutely, one hundred percent stop. Log out, delete the profile, go back to torturing med students and making Cuddy tear her hair out. This was supposed to be funny. It was supposed to be harmless. He was supposed to watch Wilson flail for a bit and then reveal the prank and laugh in his face. Instead, he’s rock hard in the middle of the day and his best friend is texting him like he wants to rail him over a piece of hospital furniture.
He types, deletes, types again. Every rational part of his brain is screaming to abort mission, but he physically cannot stop himself from answering.
define bred
- Filled so full you feel it for days.
House chokes on his own spit. Okay. Okay. This is not fine. This is Wilson. He should be horrified, he should be making fun of him for being this freaky, he should be doing literally anything other than picturing himself bent over his own desk with Wilson, sweet, gentle, apologetic Wilson, shoving into him hard enough to make him see stars.
bold of u to assume i wouldnt make u beg first
- God, I hope you would.
House groans out loud, slamming his phone face-down on the desk like that’ll stop it from burning a hole through his skull. This was a prank. This was a prank. Why does it feel like he’s the one getting played?
Heart beating too fast, he drops his head down on the desk next to his phone. Wilson is somewhere in this hospital, probably sipping coffee and looking all innocent, while sending filth like this with perfect punctuation. House has no idea if he wants to shake him, kiss him, or drag him into a supply closet and make him prove every single word he just typed.
Of course, that’s exactly when the door opens without knocking.
“House?” Kutner’s voice is hesitant, like he can sense the weird vibe in the room the second he steps in. “You okay?”
“Peachy,” House replies, voice muffled against the desk.
“We need to do a lumbar puncture,” Thirteen starts, but House just props his chin up on the desk and knits his brows together.
“So do it.”
“Not fighting us? No big declaration of our mental inadequacies?” Taub asks, mildly surprised.
“Don’t have the energy today. Go have fun with your needles.”
Thirteen and Taub exchange a look before shrugging and leaving, Kutner lingering a second longer. “You sure you’re good?”
House flaps a hand at him without looking up. “Go stick something sharp in the patient before I change my mind.”
When the door finally shuts, House exhales like he’s been holding his breath for ten minutes straight. He grabs his phone again without even meaning to, like the thing is magnetized to his hand. The last message from Wilson is still sitting there, taunting him. God, he’s a mess. He’s never going to be able to look Wilson in the eye again without thinking about getting bent over and filled hard and fast.
He can’t tell if this is the funniest thing he’s ever done or the single worst idea of his entire career. His phone buzzes again.
- You disappear on me?
employees picked a very bad time to come bother me
- Uh oh. Hope I didn’t get you in trouble.
only trouble is what im gonna do to u if u keep texting me like that
- Promises, promises.
House makes a strangled sound and shoves the phone so deep into his desk drawer it clatters against the back. Out of sight. Out of mind. He stands so fast the chair rolls back and nearly tips over, grabs his cane, and bolts for the door like the building might explode if he stays put.