Archive of Our Own

Too Shy To Convey

Most days, Wilson finds the clinic soothing. He's scheduled for three hours a week, which is normal for all department heads who aren't House. It's a break from his usual routine, and he treats a few cases of the sniffles and several more of hypochondria, with the occasional strained muscle or case of the chicken pox for variety. Wilson sends most of his patients home with a prescription that will actually cure them. No one's even close to dying. House is usually elsewhere. It's...peaceful.

Most days. Today, though, every time he comes out of an exam room, it's to find Cuddy nearby, watching him speculatively. At first, he smiled and said hello, but it's been going on for nearly an hour, and he's running out of polite ways to avoid asking if she's started stalking him because of one evening of theatre.

It's unnerving, and for once, he's as eager as House to sign out, so he rushes through his last patient--allergy flare-up--and heads for the admit desk. He looks around for Cuddy, feeling unaccountably guilty, but she's disappeared for the moment. Wilson sighs, finishes the last of his charting, and is about to flee when Cuddy speaks behind him.

"Dr. Wilson," she says. "Can I have a minute of your time?"

He smiles at her. From the sound of it, the issue is purely professional. Nothing more. It's probably about House. He's between cases right now, which means he's moping around the various doctors' lounges mooching food from their fridges, when he isn't terrorizing the different care units with phony consult requests and kamikaze diagnoses. Wilson nods to Cuddy and follows her, expecting to hear some story of House storming in on the open-heart surgery Brown has scheduled for today and threatening to touch a scalpel just so that the entire transplant team will have to sterilize the room again. It wouldn't surprise him if House chose a ten-blade and licked it in front of Brown's face. Wilson's not sure what the story is, there, but Brown is second only to Von Lieberman on House's list of Utter Evil. Wilson wonders what Cuddy wants him to do about it.

Cuddy walks around behind her desk and leans forward on her hands. "I wanted to tell you that the flowers weren't my idea," she says.

"The flowers?" he asks, still thinking of Brown (whom House calls Ivanov, for whatever reason. Wilson hasn't asked). Then he remembers, and puts a hand to his face. "Oh. No, House sent them."

"You knew?" Cuddy asks.

"Yeah." Wilson sighs, and tries not to cringe. House was right. Wilson did wonder--for about two seconds, until he actually tried to imagine Lisa Cuddy calling a flower shop and realized House was the far more obvious culprit--whether she like liked him, a stupidly juvenile reaction and one he's not proud of. At least he hadn't started daydreaming of white roses and baby bonnets before he pulled his head out of his ass. Cuddy's a wonderful woman, and he's spent as much time as House ogling her breasts (he credits discretion, and a compassionate 'I am paying attention' expression, with the fact that he's never been caught). But she's not the type to send flowers, and he truly wouldn't have a clue what to do if she did.

Cuddy's studying him again, with a sort of amused intensity that reminds him of House. He's been dragged into the lioness's den, after all. "House sent you flowers," Cuddy says. "You don't think that means something?"

"Yeah, that he likes messing with me, if he can," Wilson says. "He tried to get me to come down here and kiss you."

"Really?" Cuddy says dryly.

"It was a prank," Wilson says, trying to reassure her even though she doesn't sound terribly surprised. "He knows that I wouldn't--I mean, I know that you're not--" He smiles awkwardly. He's butchering the explanation, but he tries again, "House only goes to plays with women that he wants to see naked, and--" That's worse, though, so he stumbles to silence and shrugs.

He's kind of astonished to see Cuddy flush, her cheeks turning a delicate pink. Her lips curve in the kind of smile that Wilson thinks he's not supposed to see; it's private, and intimate, and he has the sinking feeling that he knows exactly what's going on. "He...asked you out, didn't he?"

Cuddy's eyes fly open, startled. Wilson bites back a groan. He remembers this moment with Stacy, when she told him, "Greg's a black hole, and I'm just tired of fighting gravity." It shouldn't mean anything, other than the fact that it explains House's jealousy over Wilson taking Cuddy to see the play; but Wilson's surprised to find that he hates finding out like this. House should have told him. Said something, instead of jerking him around with fake flowers.

"He told me he got tickets to a play," Cuddy says.

"Mazel tov," Wilson says, trying not to roll his eyes. He's not bitter. Cuddy is a colleague, a friend, a sometime-ally. He wasn't lying when he told House he didn't want to start anything with her, not now. Still, he wonders what the hell she's thinking, going out with House. What the hell is House thinking?

"I haven't said yes yet," Cuddy says, deflating suddenly and sitting down in her chair. "You think I'm crazy, right?"

"I don't know," Wilson says, the words coming out in place of whatever encouragement he's supposed to be providing.

"That's not a no."

It isn't. Wilson feels a helpless sort of anger at the two of them--between them, someone should have had enough sense to know this wasn't going to work, and that Wilson would end up picking up the pieces, from both sides this time. Did you ever stop to think about me? is completely unworthy of him, so he bottles it up and only sighs. "Have you really thought this through?" he asks instead.

Cuddy shakes her head. "When's the last time I ever thought something through where House was concerned?"

Not lately, Wilson thinks. Doesn't say. Cuddy reads his face though, and she smiles again, something between her professional dear-donor effort and the more personal version he's come to know as her not-boyfriend taking her out for not-dates.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I didn't really mean to get into it. I did want to thank you for the play. I was wondering if you'd like to come over. Tomorrow, maybe? Drinks? I can cook."

"All right," he finds himself saying, hesitant with surprise but not willing to turn her down. She is, after all, a friend. "Uh, thank you."

Cuddy's smile, this time, is a dismissal. "I'll just," Wilson says, and she nods; and then he finds himself being ushered out of the office without her saying so much as a word, after promising to bring a nice shiraz. Once outside, Wilson turns back to her door, blinks, and stuffs his hands in his pockets before he heads for the elevator. He wants to ask, "Did that actually happen?" but there's no one around who'd know, except maybe House, and apparently, these days, House isn't telling.

Wilson's never understood House's urge to come banging into his office at any and all hours, regardless of Wilson's schedule (which House knows) or his wishes (which House assumes inevitably include "Gee, I wish I could be entertaining House right now."). Now, though, the shoe's on the other foot. Wilson storms up to the conference room, only to see House leading his staff through a differential. The whiteboard's covered in House's hasty block capitals, and he's holding the dry-erase marker like a baton, conducting his fellows' suggestions and his own biting replies. Wilson turns to go to his office, then turns back, pacing in front of the glass wall. He can't catch House's eye, but he knows House sees him--he's got a smirk on his face that's not directed at any of his underlings.

Wilson throws up his arms and heads back to his office. House will come sauntering in before long; he'll be too curious to stay away. In the meanwhile, Wilson stews and mutters and has to reread a memo three times because words like "glioma" and "antineoplastic nitrosourea" have stopped making sense.

He expects House from any direction--vaulting over the barrier that separates their balconies, or slamming in from the hallway mid-tirade. When there's a mild knock at the door, Wilson says, "Come in," almost without thinking, because he's starting to wonder if House is going to rapel down from the roof next, just to keep him on his toes. So, of course, it's House who gently opens the door and calmly takes a seat on Wilson's couch.

Wilson heaves a sigh and lets his shoulders relax a bit. He's pretty sure House is going to raise his blood pressure during the course of this conversation, but for now, Wilson enjoys the fact that House is being House: predictably unpredictable.

"So," House says, eyeing him speculatively. "You and Cuddy?"

Wilson nods.

"Thought so," House says. "You have that look of glazed panic that Cuddy seems to induce in her prey."

"She invited me over for dinner," Wilson says. "I think she really is trying to seduce me."

"Oh, sure," House says. "Don't expect me to come running every time you shout wolf."

"I didn't cry wolf! That was--that was you who sent me the flowers--"

"Yeah, and all day it was nothing but 'Should I kiss Cuddy? I want Cuddy to be my girlfriend.'"

"You didn't even try to stop me. You encouraged me!"

"Those are two completely different things," House says, in his entirely false 'I am morally outraged, no I swear, this time I really am' voice.

Wilson tries to come up with a retort, then stops short. There's been something not quite right about House's reactions. Nothing specific, but House's normal pinpoint timing is a hair off, his comments coming a second too soon or too late. Wilson sits back and narrows his eyes, trying to put his finger on what's going on. Then it hits him; House asked Cuddy out. With play tickets. Wilson thought it was a joke, but apparently Cuddy doesn't. She almost said yes.

Wilson leans forward wide-eyed as he studies House's expression, and asks, "Is there something going on between you and Cuddy?"

House's face goes still, and his glance flicks down and to the left. He hesitates for the slightest moment. "Yes," he says.

Wilson blinks. He's pretty sure his mouth has fallen open, too. He knows when House is bullshitting, he's always known; he's pretty sure that's one of the reasons House's tolerance grew into friendship. But this is House's serious face, the real one that he hides under sneers and double-takes: open and sad, with something vulnerable in his eyes. Wilson catches his breath every time he sees it. Except House can't possibly be telling the truth. "You--" he blurts, and then doesn't know what to say next.

"Seriously," House says, with a sudden grin, "you are so easy."

Wilson eyes him sideways. House sees lies coming from a mile away because that's what he expects from everyone around him. Wilson sees other people's lies because he's told so many himself, sometimes so smoothly that even House didn't know. Doesn't know, still. And there's something that doesn't sit quite right with House's grin. Maybe it's the tail end of his solemn look, or something else altogether, but Wilson knows he's lying.

He's just not sure about what.

Wilson spends the night agonizing over whether any of this is serious--on his part, on Cuddy's part, or on House's. He goes over House's story of the tickets, how he'd thought House was asking him to the play. How he'd reacted. The next day, his head is pounding before he's even halfway to work. The date is tonight, if it is a date, if Cuddy isn't playing some game on him, or on House, or--oh, hell. He's got to stop thinking.

He asks Nurse Previn where House is, and follows her annoyed look to Exam Two. He walks in with the words, "You bought those tickets yourself," already on his lips. He's taken a chance, but it's paid off; House is alone, his feet propped on the exam bed, twirling a pen in his fingers and reading charts. Wilson puts his hands on his hips. "There was no grateful patient. You don't have grateful patients. You wanted to take Cuddy to that play."

House looks up from his clinic chart. Wilson catches a glimpse of a copy of Seventeen hidden inside. "Did I say play?" he asks, his forehead wrinkling in confusion. "Because I'm pretty sure I meant 'ploy'."

"Oh, no," Wilson says, pointing at him. "You're not going to get out of this. You were going to take Cuddy on a date."

"And conveniently, you did it for me," House says. "You're a good friend. I'll send a wedding gift."

"I'm not marrying her, House. She doesn't even--she's a friend," he repeats. "You want to see her naked!"

"So do you," House accuses. He ditches the chart he was reading, leaving the magazine inside, and heads out of the exam room.

"I--" Wilson follows after him. He's running out of ways to refute that, ways that don't involve admitting that while Cuddy naked is an enticing thought, there are other people higher on the list. "She was...very forward. I don't know what to do with that."

"Of course you don't," House says, with a grin that hints at all sorts of things Wilson would rather leave unexamined. He raises his voice as Cuddy comes into view. "She really is cracking the whip today-- Oh, Cuddy," he says, as she falls into step on his other side. "Wilson was just talking about how powerful women turn him on."

Wilson raises his gaze to the ceiling, but as usual there's nothing written there to explain why House insists on dragging him into his sparring matches with Cuddy. He smiles a sheepish apology to the world generally. No one notices.

Cuddy slants a glance at him, but she seems more than usually unperturbed by House's remarks. "Wilson was, was he?"

"Either Wilson or me. Hard to tell the difference sometimes." House grins at her, a little lustful, Wilson thinks, and a little bit like he's trying to gauge the effect of his words.

Cuddy ignores him and smiles at Wilson. "Eight o'clock tonight," she says, and then, "House. My office. Now."

"She likes me on my knees," House informs Wilson over his shoulder, as he follows Cuddy without a single protest. "If I'm not out by noon, send in a defibrillator and a fifth of Maker's Mark."

Wilson stops and watches them go. They're still bickering, the sound of their voices but not their words drifting back to him. Wilson stuffs his hands in his lab coat pockets as Cuddy's office door closes behind House. He thinks of the work piling up in his office, the patients he has to see, the charts he has to double-check. He should go back to work. He should be doing something--something other than waiting to see if House will emerge from Cuddy's office unscathed.

He thinks all these things, and he realizes, then, that he's lonely.

House catches him leaving at the end of the day and heads out to the parking lot with him. Wilson doesn't even have to think before falling into step at House's side. "Going back to your hotel to get prettified?" House asks, tacking on an awful Southern drawl on the last word.

"It's just dinner," Wilson says, exasperated, although he does plan to shower at least, and maybe change into a nicer shirt than his usual work wear.

"You know," House says, as he lifts his leg over the bike and turns the key, "at the end of the story, the villagers don't rescue the boy. He gets eaten by the wolf."

Wilson shakes his head at the heavens. "I sincerely hope you aren't casting yourself as a villager in this scenario."

"Oh, not at all," House says, with a grin that Wilson can't quite interpret--eager, mocking, and something else that makes Wilson's heart beat faster. House opens the motorcycle's choke and revs the engine, and he's gone before Wilson can say anything more.

At the hotel, he showers and changes, choosing a cream-coloured shirt and a deep burgundy tie, and then stops at a liquor store for a bottle of wine before driving out to Cuddy's. He knocks on her door, wine in hand, trying to get over his ridiculous case of butterflies.

As he's standing there, he hears the burr of a motorcycle's engine, pulling up into Cuddy's driveway and then shutting off. Wilson sighs in defeat and directs a general question of "why?" at the universe. No one answers.

A moment later, House limps up beside him on Cuddy's front step. He grabs Wilson's arm and twists it so he can see the label on the wine bottle. "Mine's better," he says, showing off a bottle of Scotch, and then he raps on the doorframe with his cane.

Cuddy opens the door. House grins at her and heads inside. Cuddy doesn't even glance at him. She smiles at Wilson and takes the wine, and leaves him on the step, gaping.

That's when Wilson gets it.

Of course House isn't a villager. He's just one more wolf.

Wilson considers, briefly, standing on the porch for the rest of the night and indulging himself in feeling profoundly bewildered. Being worried that Cuddy was trying to seduce him is suddenly the easiest thing in the world to deal with, compared to the idea--which he's still trying to wrap his brain around--that House and Cuddy are both trying to seduce him. Together.

House breaks the paralysis, of course, by yelling, "Wilson! Get in here. Alcohol makes an excellent social lubricant."

He could leave, of course. He could turn around and walk away. But Wilson finds himself taking a breath and stepping over the threshold. He takes off his coat and hangs it carefully in Cuddy's closet, trying to determine when exactly, in his relationship with House, he'd gotten used to feeling this particular mix of terrified and resigned. He wanders down the hall and finds the kitchen, where Cuddy is bringing out a corkscrew and three wine glasses, and House is sniffing experimentally at a pot bubbling on the stove.

Cuddy opens the wine deftly and pours for the three of them. "House, get out of the risotto."

House leers at her. "I thought you'd want me to keep my strength up. I'm a growing boy, you know."

Cuddy doesn't even rise to the bait. "Behave yourself, or you don't get to eat dessert," she says.

"I love it when you get euphemistic," House says, shooting a look at her that's even dirtier and more knowing than any of his usual play-flirtations at work.

"It makes a nice change from all your single entendres," Cuddy answers, swatting his hand with a ladle and shoving him aside so that she can stir the rice.

"I try for double or nothing," House says, "but you keep raking in all my chips."

Wilson feels frozen with embarrassment. There's clearly something going on between them, something he hasn't even seen, that goes well beyond who bought play tickets for whom. He wonders how long it's been going on. He wonders how long he's been an idiot, hopelessly asking Cuddy out and watching, always, for House's reaction. House's jealousy.

House moves across the kitchen, picking up a wine glass. He heads for the dining room, brushing past Wilson on his way out. Very closely. "Better start drinking," he mutters in Wilson's ear. "I've discovered it's the only way to survive once you're in her clutches."

Wilson's certain he's blushing. The kitchen's warmer than it has any right to be, and he feels absurdly overdressed, and he replays every second that House's fingers grazed against his as he passed him the wine. Then he's left, stammering and uncertain, while Cuddy calmly transfers the risotto to a serving dish.

"What..." he starts, and then clears his throat. "What is this?"

"Dinner," she says, far too calmly, and he automatically holds the door for her as she carries the serving dish into the dining room.

Maybe expecting a straight answer from her was hoping for too much. He follows her, to where House is already sitting at the head of the dining room table, his cane hooked over the edge. There are three places set, more evidence that this was all planned, and Wilson wonders whose idea it was: Cuddy's, or House's? He wets his lips, trying to control his heart rate, hammering in his wrists. He pulls out a seat, trying not to show his nerves, but House studies him with a faint grin on his face, and Wilson knows he's flushed and breathing shallowly. Just friends, he thinks, just dinner; but he can hear the lie in his own thoughts.

The risotto is good, and the wine is excellent. Wilson drains his first glass quickly. House picks up the bottle and pours him a refill. Wilson watches his face, and there's a look of amused challenge in House's eyes. Wilson swallows, and can't look away. He only sips at the wine, afterwards, determined that if this is going to happen, then he's going to be sober for it. He doesn't want excuses. He smiles at Cuddy across from him, and compliments the meal, her dress--which is stunning, black, spaghetti-strapped, and shows off more than even her most daring evening wear. Wilson does his best not to stare, allowing himself tiny peeks, and decides that House was probably right after all; he does want to see Cuddy naked. He shifts in his seat, and lets his gaze sneak to House's face; House is making no secret of checking Cuddy out, and she is returning his stare with flickered glances of her own. Wilson can see the leap of her pulse in her throat, and when she looks at him, her eyes sparkle.

House nudges his foot under the table. "Going to ask about her dreams, hopes, and aspirations next?"

"I don't need to," Wilson says, and he's astonished at his own boldness, but it definitely doesn't hurt a guy's ego when he's clearly being seduced by not one, but two people. "I have a feeling this is a sure thing."

House frowns at him, a quick, evaluating look, and then he smiles. "Confident?" he asks.

He is, suddenly. "You had no clue I was going to ask Cuddy out to that play," he says. "When I told you, you didn't know which of us to be jealous of first."

Cuddy smiles into her wine glass. House's expression stills into seriousness as he watches her. Wilson's abruptly certain that this evening was Cuddy's idea. He turns to her and asks, "How long?"

"Three weeks," she says, her lips curving. Like a cat with cream.

Wilson nods. His fingers tighten on the stem of his wine glass, but he pushes down the flare of jealousy.

House nudges him under the table again. "You're the one who told me to reach out and touch somebody," he says. "You're just upset that I chose Cuddy instead of you."

"It would have been nice to know," Wilson protests, although he knows he doesn't have a leg to stand on in this argument. He's had ten years to tell House how he feels. The fact that he offered himself in a grand theatrical gesture a week too late rankles, but he's here now.

Cuddy sets her wine glass down and stands up, catching House's eye. "Now," she says, and House climbs to his feet. Cuddy smiles at Wilson. "He fantasizes about you, you know."

Wilson catches his breath and stares at House, but House is working hard at being inscrutable. Wilson gets to his feet, too, and his earlier awkwardness rushes back. They're standing in a loose triangle, almost in the doorway of the dining room. Cuddy's bedroom is only a few feet away, and House is watching them both as if he expects this to hurt before it's over. Wilson thinks, This is really going to happen, and his gaze darts to Cuddy and then back to House. House seems to be waiting for something, and Wilson has no clue what, because he's thought about this happening too many times, but in all his fantasies he was just suddenly kissing House, with no explanation needed or given. He's never imagined the moment right before, when House is staring at him solemnly and Wilson has no idea what to do.

"Kiss him," Cuddy says. Wilson turns to her, his mouth falling open, but she's watching House. "House. Kiss him."

Wilson thinks he won't--House might fuck him, might jerk him off, but he's not a kisser, not the way he was with Stacy. But House only nods to Cuddy and then Wilson's being kissed.

Warm, is the first thing Wilson thinks, and he realizes that House is holding his face with his left hand, guiding Wilson's mouth to the angle he prefers. Warm, and crazily gentle, and nothing really makes sense right now but Wilson doesn't care. House's lips are dry and soft, the scratch of his stubble heightening the sensation as he pushes Wilson to open his mouth and deepen the kiss. Wilson follows where House leads, eagerly, hungrily, tasting the lingering tartness of wine in the corners of his mouth.

Suddenly, there's a touch against his back, and Wilson remembers that Cuddy is watching, that Cuddy told House to do this. For a second, he pauses for breath and to wonder what that means, but then House catches his lower lip and sucks on it, and Wilson's lost again. House is in front of him, and now Cuddy's pressing nearer behind him, her breasts against his back, and he's surrounded by heat. Cuddy presses her palm between his shoulder blades, then moves her hand higher and starts pulling at his suit jacket. Wilson has to let go of House's shoulders to let her take it off--and he doesn't remember exactly when his fingers ended up on House's arms, squeezing his biceps and pulling him closer--but he lets go long enough for Cuddy to slide the jacket away, leaving him in his shirtsleeves. She takes his hands, then, one at a time, and undoes his cuff buttons. The whisper of her fingers against his wrists verges somewhere between tickling and a turn-on.

House seems completely unaware of Cuddy's ministrations, because he keeps kissing Wilson with a singlemindedness that is amazingly familiar. Wilson's been the focus of House's intensity before, but this isn't about scrutinizing his decisions, his wives, or his medical practice. It's about House finding the fastest way to turn his knees to water. Wilson's one more diagnostic experiment, and House is analysing the symptomology of Wilson through his kisses: the way he takes a sharp intake of breath when House increases the pressure of his lips, the way he can't help groaning when House slides his tongue against Wilson's, just so.

Cuddy circles him with her arms, her fingers reaching for the knot of his tie, for the buttons of his shirt. He feels her smile against the back of his neck when she's pulled his collar loose, the soft movement of her lips. Wilson shivers, the small hairs at his nape lifting under the not-kisses. Her hair brushes his cheek and the back of House's hand. House draws away from Wilson, then--his face is flushed and his mouth is open slightly as he breathes, and Wilson's never seen his eyes so guarded, and so intense. Wilson can't look away. He wonders if House is actually seeing him, if this is really about them; he wonders what the hell is going to happen tomorrow. Then House leans forward, pressing against Wilson's shoulder, and he's kissing Cuddy, with Wilson trapped between them.

For the first moment, Wilson drops his forehead against House's neck, and feels their bodies move against his, Cuddy's arm snaking around his middle and caught between his stomach and House's, and House's left hand hot against his hip through his pants. House's stubble burns against his cheek, and Wilson feels forgotten, as if he isn't filling all the space between them. He turns his face and kisses House's jaw, then finds his earlobe and sucks it into his mouth, exploring the warm skin of House's neck with his tongue. When he bites down, House jerks back and growls, and Cuddy muffles a giggle in Wilson's shoulder.

This time, when House looks at Wilson, he seems to really see him, because he grins the way he does when he's just come up with a new kind of mischief to mess with Cuddy's head. That's probably not too far off the mark, Wilson thinks, and apparently Cuddy agrees, because she makes an amused sound as if she's daring House to bring it on.

"Are we just going to stand around all night?" House asks, as if he's not the one clinging to both of them.

Cuddy steps back, and Wilson turns around. She smiles at both of them coyly, as much as Cuddy does coy; Wilson can't help feeling that she's a lot more dangerous than she lets on. She's lovely, her chest flushed and her eyes glowing. "Any time you boys are ready," she says, and sashays down the hall.

House and Wilson watch her go, and then Wilson gives House a sideways glance and asks, "Are we really doing this?"

House blinks at him incredulously. "Are you really asking that?"

They both turn at the same moment towards the door where Cuddy's disappeared. "Not really, no," Wilson admits.

"Last one there has to take it up the ass," House says.

Wilson raises his eyebrows at House's cane.

House taps it against his shin. "A little too turned on by the idea of losing the race to say anything?"

Wilson smiles slightly. This is natural. This is normal. This is so incredibly fucked up. "Just thinking of all the best ways to make it look like an accident when I trip you."

He does make it to the bedroom first, despite House jostling him as if they're competing in a roller derby. Wilson almost turns around in the doorway to mock him--and to see if he was being the least bit serious--but he's distracted at the crucial moment.

Cuddy is lying on her bed. Naked. And Wilson can't deny it any longer. House was right. House is always right. Wilson's very glad to see her.

"I've tapped that," House mutters to him, hooking his cane on the doorknob. "Hotter than hell, and I mean that in a literal she-devil sense."

"You're such a sweet talker," Cuddy says, rolling her eyes. Somehow that simple action seems to involve her whole body, in a sort of sensuous stretch that leaves Wilson's lips dry. "Clothes off," she adds. "This isn't a one person party."

Wilson half-expects House to make the obvious joke--but instead, House tugs off his t-shirt and drops it at his feet. He grins at Wilson, and Wilson doesn't miss the dare in his eyes for a second. He turns bright red--he really couldn't say how that's possible, given how much he's blushing already, but he's pretty sure he manages it--and he opens the rest of the buttons on his shirt, untucking it from his pants and letting it fall next to House's. He feels like he's on display, even though Cuddy's already naked and House is opening his jeans. He focuses on getting his shoes and pants off without looking foolish.

"All of it," Cuddy says, sharply, and Wilson looks up, wide-eyed. House is down to his boxer-briefs, the angry furrow of his scar still half-covered, and he's hesitating. Wilson's seen the scar before, of course, but never like this; never, maybe, when it mattered. House glances at him, but when he moves to push his underwear off his hips, his eyes are on Cuddy's.

Wilson follows his gaze. Cuddy is...amazing, it's the only word he can come up with. She's propped herself up on one elbow, and she's watching House so intently. She's in charge. In command. Despite his innuendos and his leering smirk, House hasn't once argued with anything Cuddy's told him to do. Wilson doesn't think she's asked anything worth squabbling over--they're barely demands--but this is House. Wilson can't imagine him giving up control anywhere, least of all in Cuddy's bedroom. He wants to say something--to needle House about his sudden submissiveness, or to ask where the hell this is coming from--but for once, instinct triumphs over his need (with House, he can't quite ever let it go) to make a point. House glances at him once more before he starts hobbling across the room. Without his cane.

Wilson watches, and realizes that House knows he won't be allowed to have the cane within reach. Cuddy meets his eyes, and smiles. It's not exactly for him, but it's not the polite not-boyfriend smile either. She's telling him something. That House likes this, or he wouldn't be here. That they...they can control House. The two of them. Like this, maybe only like this, but--House will allow it. Here. He trusts them.

Wilson's stomach flutters. Heat curls through him, and suddenly he wants them both, very badly. House lies down next to Cuddy, on the far side of her bed, and Wilson can see everything, the muscles in House's biceps bunching as he leans above her, Cuddy's gasp just before he kisses her. Wilson takes a breath, slowly, and it seems to fill him and drain away all his tension in a single moment. He's naked, and more than a little aroused, and he's watching his best friend run his hand over his boss's breasts, then down her stomach to dip between her legs. No, of course he isn't freaked out in the least. Why the hell would he be?

Cuddy lifts a hand, to beckon him, and Wilson crosses the room and slides on to the bed next to her. Her body, soft and warm next to his, the curve of her hip pressing against his half-hard penis, the scent of her perfume and her sheets. God, it's been so long. The empty hotel room, the endless nights waiting for House to either get over himself or overdo it for the last time, everything buried under worry and work and House pretending that he was fucking dying. He needs this, has needed this, hasn't dared to hope for this.

And it's better than he ever hoped for, because House puts a hand on his hip and yanks him closer, and now Wilson's touching both of them, and if Cuddy's warm then House's body is as hot as last summer, when they saw each other every day and never once admitted to this desire. Wilson can hardly breathe. There's so much skin within reach, and he wants nothing more than to touch and be told it's all right, that he can have all of this. House grips his hip and lifts his mouth from Cuddy's. He smiles at her, his smirk softened somewhat, and before Wilson knows what he's doing, he kisses House. Again. He is kissing House. It's bright and desperate and it's everything he never says, and House pushes back just as hard, for an instant. When they pull back, Cuddy hmms in her throat, low and amused.

"Told you," she says softly.

"I admit nothing," House says, turning to her, but his grip on Wilson's hip slides for a moment, almost a caress. Like he cares, like he wants to touch as much as Wilson does.

Wilson wonders whose permission he's waiting for. And he thinks, real. This is fucking goddamn real. If Wilson's nervous, then House must be terrified.

"Mind if I ask--" he starts, mainly to see what they'll say.

"Yes," House snaps, with a flash of annoyance that's so much a part of him that Wilson huffs a laugh.

Cuddy--their spectator, their conductor--only says, "Oh," and Wilson realises he's behind the curve again, because House's hand has left his hip and is moving between Cuddy's thighs.

He watches. He can't help it. Cuddy parts her legs and Wilson can see the tremble in her thigh muscles as she presses her heels into the bed, pushing upwards. House's fingers glisten, pressing soft slow circles, and Wilson watches his face, mesmerized by House's avid expression, the naked way that he wants. Cuddy's skin is flushed and salt-warm with sweat, and that is Wilson's leg, and his erection, not five inches away from House's hand. Cuddy's moan sounds in his ear and Wilson turns to her, instinct, instinct, wanting to please her because she has given him this moment. He kisses her, and she is sweet; he tastes the small whimpers that she makes. He would have thought that it was impossible to remember that Cuddy is the Dean of Medicine at an important teaching hospital, and he is her employee, and he never would have initiated any of this, because it wasn't his place. Now that he's here, though, there's nothing he can forget about her. The way she looks, in board meetings, in the reflected dimness of the theatre, and in this moment. Beautiful, always. Wilson listens to the wet sounds of House's finger sliding over her clit, to the harshness of House's breathing. Cuddy kisses him back, and it's becoming more ragged, and finally she pulls away to breathe and cry out. All of these sounds. Wilson thrusts a bit into her hip, and moves so that he can touch her breasts, rubbing his thumb over the peak of one nipple and kissing the other. Cuddy arches into his mouth, and her breath sobs in her throat. She moves, but she's pinned by the both of them, House's mouth against her throat and Wilson leaving sucking, licking kisses along the curve of her breasts. Cuddy holds his head, her fingers tight in his hair, and Wilson knows from her cries, from the quickening movement of House's hand, when she is about to come. He kisses her again in that instant, and swallows House's name when it passes her lips.

The kiss draws out, slowly. When Wilson lifts his head, Cuddy smiles at him. "Now that's a man who knows how to give a woman what she wants."

"This is because he took you to a play, isn't it?" House whines, either not hearing or not choosing to hear that she could have meant either of them.

"You had your chance," Cuddy says, looking past Wilson.

"Plays are boring. Plus I still get to see you naked."

"You owe me at least one more ticket," Cuddy says, and shifts slightly, stretching. Wilson smiles back at her and kisses the point of her shoulder, then her collarbone.

"Hah," House says. "I could have seen Wilson naked any time. Never a dull moment on the web feed from the boys' locker room."

Wilson ignores that, mainly because House has his hand on Wilson's back, and his fingers are still damp, and Wilson, right then, has his mouth occupied with better things.

"Like that," Cuddy says, "yes."

House squeezes Wilson's shoulder, and says, "So this is what the nurses are always gossiping about. I never thought you had it in you," and that's just not worth passing up, so Wilson smiles into Cuddy's side and murmurs, "I think it was the other way around."

House's hand stills, and then he laughs. "Thinking about winning our little race, Jimmy?"

Wilson shudders, because he is, has been. Thinking of driving into House, watching his eyes, half-closed and still so--intent. Focused. "Fuck," he breathes, and it's hard to remember what he's doing when House's hand curves over his ass. "Fuck."

"Trying to," House says, "but you're in my way."

Cuddy laughs, and her hand joins House's, and they are playing with him; there are fingers on him everywhere, moving between his legs, but not quite touching him, never quite. Wilson shifts so that he can find a better position for all of them, and continues his journey down Cuddy's body. He wants her to say his name the way she said House's, breathless and yearning. He has no doubt that he can, and he's warm with confidence and arousal. When he kisses her just above her pubis bone, she gasps and presses up to his mouth. Wilson tastes her, the heady scent of her orgasm filling his senses. She's so wet, and he remembers the sight of House's fingers, thrusting into her, and he follows their path with his tongue. House's hand drifts idly along his spine, and Wilson thinks he's watching, the way Wilson watched him earlier; the weight of his stare is almost more than the press of his fingers. His gaze is on Wilson's head as he moves, or on Cuddy's face as she moans and clutches at Wilson's hip. Cuddy's clit is swollen and from the way she's moving, Wilson knows how sensitive she is, and so he licks delicately, sucking along her labia and never applying pressure directly. He wants this to be so good for her, he wants to give this to her. Make it good. Make it better, even--

House touches him, then, and Wilson can't think, or breathe, or move. Cuddy protests, and Wilson kisses her inner thigh in apology, but House's hand is rough and callused and touching him and Wilson twitches his hips forward helplessly. House's thumb slides over his head, spreading his precum down towards his balls, and Wilson groans. He'd be embarrassed at the high, needy sound, but he can't even manage that; it's so fucking good and he wants to shove into the touch, but House pauses, and Wilson can only pant and rest and promise himself that he's not going to beg.

He hears Cuddy say, "Keep going," and so he tries to refocus. It's only a moment, though, before he realises she meant House, not him, and then--oh, God.

It's--not perfect. That's the best part, that this isn't how Wilson imagined it would be. House's fist jerks him sharply, almost harsh, and no one else has ever done this for him, taken him to the edge of pain and then left him there, hanging; it's pleasure and uncertainty, both, but with House, there's always uncertainty. Wilson has to work hard to keep his footing and his advantages. But it's too easy, if it goes this way, and he wants more, so even as he bucks into House's hand he returns to Cuddy. She writhes under him when he presses just a little harder, just a little faster; he teases her, circling his tongue. He knows--he's always known--when she tips over the edge, and it's easy--it's always been easy--to keep going, just a little longer than she expects, so that the pleasure lasts.

She doesn't say his name. He's not really surprised, but it doesn't matter, because the moment he stops concentrating, everything House is doing comes slamming back to his attention. Cuddy's stroking the back of his thighs and the crease of his ass, but House's hand--

Wilson licks his lips, and presses his lips to Cuddy's leg as a vague warning that he is going to come any moment. Which is when she says, "That's enough."

And House stops.

Wilson whines in protest, and moves his hips, but there's nothing, no friction, and he was so close. "What?" he asks. "Why--?"

"Not yet," Cuddy says, and she sounds so satisfied that Wilson has to prop himself up on his arms to look at her in disbelief. House just lays back and smirks up at him, that bastard.

"I--" he says, but he shuts up when he sees the gleam in her eyes.

"Wait," she says, and it's her turn to rearrange them; she slides down the bed, pushing Wilson into the spot she's left, until he's laying face to face with House, so close that he can feel House's breath on his cheek, and if he dares, he can look House right in the eyes.

If he dares. It's easier for both of them, maybe, to make this about Cuddy, about giving her control. About kissing for her enjoyment, maybe, as if he hasn't wanted House for years. So easy to let it go, even after he's tasted House's kiss, felt House's hand nearly get him off. But if he looks--if House lets him see--then it's different somehow, and Wilson can't deny that he wants that just as much.

House isn't looking at him, exactly, but he's not looking away, either. And then House's eyes widen and he makes a sound; Wilson nearly comes just from that, from the look on his eyes, from the way his chest vibrates with a sort of growling moan. Wilson glances down long enough to see Cuddy's dark curls spread across House's lower abdomen as her head moves, and then he moves up to his knees so that he can take House's face in his hands and kiss him.

This, he thinks, this is real. He moves his hands to House's chest, to feel the bunching of his muscles, the crispness of his chest hair. Strange, it's strange how real it can be, because House lifts one arm to circle Wilson's neck, to hold him right where Wilson so often rubs his tension away; the other hand circles his thigh to find his ass again. Wilson's practically high on desire, on--on the fact that House isn't hiding behind anything. Wilson doesn't want control exactly the way Cuddy does, to have House follow orders; he only wants House to give up all his goddamn pretense, to kiss like kissing's real.

He does. House kisses like he apologises, hesitant and half-sincere, but he doesn't hold back and Wilson would let this go on forever if he could. But all too soon Cuddy raises her head, and Wilson can't help looking, to see House hard and shiny with her saliva; Cuddy kneels behind him and whispers into his ear, "He wants you to fuck him."

Wilson's chest heaves, and when he looks down, House's eyes are as dark a blue as a summer storm. He doesn't say no, although he must have heard, and he lays one hand on Wilson's thigh, and clutches.

It's not surprising at all, really, that Cuddy has condoms and lube ready in the drawer of her bedside table. House watches as she rips open the packet and slides the condom on to Wilson's erection, and he closes his eyes and breathes hard, trying to keep control. He can't keep his eyes off House's face. He can't--do anything. He's so hard it hurts, and this isn't going to last no matter what; so he puts his hand over House's. House's eyes widen, for a second, and his grip tightens.

It's an awkward position for House, on his back, but Cuddy moves his left leg as best she can and he doesn't protest. Wilson rolls to House's right side, careful of his leg. Cuddy opens the lube, and she smiles, devilish and playful, before pouring some on her fingers. Wilson can feel House holding his breath, and Wilson kisses his neck, just below the scratch of his stubble. House hmms, and relaxes. Wilson keeps up the contact, but he watches, too, fascinated, as Cuddy warms the lube on her fingers, and grasps House's erection in one hand while reaching behind his balls with the other. House tenses, and Wilson tastes the pound of his pulse. "You lost on purpose, didn't you?" he whispers, and House's laugh turns into a groan.

"Good?" Cuddy asks.

"You know it is," House says, watching her.

"Yes," she says, "I know," and then she moves or twists or something, and House closes his eyes and says, "Cuddy," cautiously, as if he's afraid of what he's giving away.

Wilson strokes his hand down House's chest, to his stomach, feeling the tension in his muscles as he lets Cuddy in. "I want to," he says, into House's neck, "I've wanted to," but he doesn't finish the sentence. He's too afraid that House has already given away too much of his control, and he doesn't want to push this. But House nods, convulsively, and Wilson breathes into his shoulder, pressing closer, while Cuddy strokes House, inside and out.

"I'm--" House says, and Cuddy smiles again, that smile that isn't really meant for Wilson, no matter what they've done together. She pours more lube into her hands, and warms it before smoothing it onto him. Wilson pushes into her hand, and then, then, Cuddy guides him to House, slowly, excrutiatingly slowly.

Once he's inside, House grabs the back of his neck, and holds him still. Wilson waits, just feeling. House must have done this before, if he's this ready, and Wilson can't help wondering when, and who--if it was only Cuddy, or if Stacy did this, or if House has been with men. Wilson lifts himself, slightly, because he knows that if he looks at House, now, then all he'll see is truth, and he wants that. His body is on fire, wanting that, and when House lets him go, he moves. He can tell, from House's expression, when he strokes House's prostate--his mouth goes slack, and his eyelids flutter, and his breath hisses between his teeth.

Wilson wants him to make that noise, again, and he pushes in, until House groans. "I--better be getting--a nicer bouquet," Wilson manages, and House says, "I'll steal you...Coma Guy's weekly offerings. And...Cameron's chocolate stash."

"What do I get?" Cuddy asks, reaching between them to brush her fingertips along House's erection.

"You can go to all the plays with Wilson you want," House grits out.

"Without you interfering?"

"I might be--getting fucked out of my mind, but I'm not actually. Out of my mind." House drops his head back and says, "Fuck, please."

Wilson thrusts harder than he meant, out of pure surprise at hearing House saying please, but House's mouth falls open and there's that sound, that low rumbling moan, and Wilson picks up the pace. "Yeah," House says, and, "Cuddy, please."

Cuddy grips House and strokes him harder. "Now, House," she says.

House tightens around Wilson as he comes, and it's amazing, the pressure, the building pleasure of it; but it's not until he hears House whisper, "Wilson," that he lets go.

"Fuck, House," he says, and everything just: stops. The moment, the slick glide of their bodies, their movement and breath; everything leaves him suspended, and Wilson comes, and it's--wonderful, it's so good, that he gasps out words he knows he might not mean, or recall later. It doesn't matter, not here, like this. The moment is real but the fallout won't be, Wilson's somehow sure of that already. He takes what he can and collapses, sliding out of House, only just remembering to fall left, so that he ends up between House and Cuddy again.

Wilson feels like he'll never move again. He feels...strangely, wonderfully empty; like there's nothing left to worry about. There's no sudden desire to check in on his partners, to make sure they're recovering nicely, to fix and tidy and reassure. He shifts enough that he can remove the condom and tie it in a neat knot. He kisses House's shoulder, and brushes his lips against Cuddy's, as he gets out of bed. He finds the bathroom and cleans up, and brings a wet towel back out to House. The terrycloth is rough, and a little too cold, and House shivers and protests, but Wilson just wipes off his chest and belly. "Shut up," he says affectionately, and smacks House with the corner of the towel before he leaves. House grumbles, and Cuddy smiles a bit. "Baby," she offers.

The clean bright certainty fades a bit, after that. Once he's disposed of the towel in Cuddy's hamper, there's nothing left but to leave. He returns to the bedroom, and Cuddy's already curled next to House, under the covers, and House is brushing his fingertips over her shoulder, his eyes closed. Wilson sighs.

House opens an eye and looks at him, then lets it drift shut again.

It's an invitation. It's enough. Wilson climbs back in, next to them. He wraps himself around Cuddy, enough that he can reach House with one hand, and closes his eyes, warm and sated.

It seems like there's room enough for him, after all.