“Ah. Another new tie,” commented House, and Wilson wasn’t quite sure when he’d looked up from the chart long enough to notice. “Did you have lunch with the nurse again?”
Wilson just looked at him, confused; “What nurse?” and then he remembered the story he’d woven to get House to stop questioning him last week. “Oh,” he said, “the, the nurse. Yeah, we-“
House looked up at him with such a searching look he stopped talking, and couldn’t remember what he was going to say anyway.
“You’re a terrible liar,” House was shaking his head, putting away the chart. “And I’ll figure you out, you know. You can’t hide from me.”
“I await the day,” murmured Wilson, turning to follow House out of the clinic.
“And then, said House, tapping his cane on the ground for emphasis as he recounted his latest Cuddy Woes to his poor clinic patient, “she told me that I’d better make up the hours I didn’t do last week or else.”
House huffed a sigh, and finally looked at the young man who was leaning on the medical bed. About 19; chin-length white-blond hair covering most of his face. House titled his head to the side and asked, “So, what’s wrong with you, anyway?”
The man seemed to fidget, as if embarrassed or hesitant. “I think my boyfriend might have HIV,” he said, and he looked up with defiance. “He wants to have sex, he keeps buying lingerie and tight pants and shows them off a lot-“
House stopped listening; in fact, everything stopped all too suddenly. Boyfriend. A boyfriend that bought lingerie, tight pants – specifically, new clothes – to impress his lover.
The answer, it seemed – after a whole week of bugging Wilson about his new love interest – had been right in front of him all along. He nearly cursed out loud; he hated it when the answers were the simple, sensible ones, and hated it more when they had to be pointed out to him. Not that ever happened.
“-really hesitant about coming in for tests, he always gets angry with me for mentioning it, is there-“
“Come back tomorrow with him,” House interrupted, his mind elsewhere, “I’ll test you both.” The doctor opened the door, paused, and thanked the man before leaving.
Wilson was already waiting in his office when he arrived there. “I take it you were still on clinic duty when you paged me,” his tone was amused. “How is that going for you?”
House frowned. “Don’t mock me, and technically I’m still on clinic duty, only there were more important matters to attend to.”
Wilson was curious, now. “Such as?”
“Such as informing you that I’ve figured you out, just like I said I would.” House tapped his forefinger lightly, accusingly, on Wilson’s chest.
Wilson raised an eyebrow. “Did you? And, pray, what conclusions did you draw up?”
The smile playing on House’s face was a quirked, sadistic sort of smile, and Wilson got the distinct feeling that House really had solved this one. He was proved correct; House hooked his finger in Wilson’s labcoat and pulled him close, leaning down just a little to kiss him. It was a gentle kiss, a soft pull, a light scrape of teeth on his bottom lip, and it was over all too fast for Wilson’s liking.
He was too shocked to notice House making for the door, satisfied; by the time Wilson thought to follow House was out of sight.
“No. It’s the only way.”
House never took his eyes off General Hospital when the door opened: his reasoning was simple. If he was needed, they’d interrupt him; if he wasn’t, then it would have been a waste of his time to look up, anyway. Then, there were occasions such as this, when even without taking his eyes off the television he could tell it was Wilson. Still, he didn’t look up, not entirely; out of the corner of his eye he could see Wilson pour a cup of coffee – one sugar, half-and-half – and hesitate before pouring a second cup, leaving it black.
Wilson, having remained silent, as had House, placed the cup of black coffee beside his friend. Only when he heard the door shut did House pick up the cup and drink from it; the cup was on his lips when he heard the door open again.
“House.” Only it was an abnormal, welcome type of interruption.
House shut off the television, turned to his friend, and Wilson could see the amused spark in his eye. The scheming one. “Can I help you, Doctor Wilson?”
There was a brief hesitation. “How about you come over for dinner tonight?” and they both looked surprised to hear the words. House’s lips twitched, though he’d never admit to it; Wilson, he noticed, and didn’t say anything.
“Won’t your wife mind?”
It was a simple question; it held weight, there was more to it than just four words. Wilson shook his head, looked away. “She’s. Out tonight. Something.” And it was all that needed to be said. House nodded, raised his eyebrows and looked up at Wilson, mischief and havoc in his otherwise unreadable face, and it broke the mild tension of the room. Wilson smiled at his friend. “Let’s go, then.”
It wasn’t as uncomfortable as either of them had feared; the kiss, unmentioned but not forgotten, did not affect their usual mannerisms or jokes or off-handed, overly-friendly remarks. They had ordered out – Cantonese – and it’s as it’s always been; they’re on the couch, take-out on the coffee table, but tonight they’re sitting closer together, hips touching, legs brushing, and though they both notice and though the couch is big enough, neither move as neither mind.
The television was on, playing a movie both weren’t entirely watching. “Luke and Han? Are so having sex,” Wilson wasn’t slurring, not yet, but he was a notch past relaxed, House could tell by the way he’d unbuttoned his collar, first button, second button; his tie was on the armrest of the couch; his words were open, perhaps more vulgar than House was used to hearing from Wilson, but these changes weren’t unwelcome.
“It’s warm in here. Do you think it’s warm in here?” House didn’t reply directly; his fingers reached up to the third button of Wilson’s shirt and he said, “Let me help you with that,” and Wilson nodded; the fourth, fifth, and the sixth button and the sleeves and Wilson folded the shirt, putting it next to his tie on the armrest.
“Hey,” he said; House muted the television absently. Wilson wanted to look away but couldn’t, like one of those times where you hate yourself for watching something terrible and awful but would hate yourself for missing it, too, and you don’t know why. “About today, and you-”
House interrupted him with a look; “You want clarification on that?” he asked, incredulous, and he only had to lean in a bit to kiss the other man.
It was rougher than their first, perhaps more insisting, deeper and then Wilson opened his mouth a little wider; their tongues met, and suddenly there was nothing remotely gentle about their kiss any longer; it was desperate, unforgiving.
House broke the kiss, looked at Wilson with his head titled, eyebrow arched. “Clarified?” and it was rhetorical.
Wilson was a little shocked: prior to today he’d seen no signs from House of reciprocation in the attraction department, and still the man was more confidant about kissing than Wilson himself was. It didn’t seem fair, and Wilson smiled a little, mischievous smile as he decided to fix it. Looking up at House, their eyes locked for a moment, and House murmured, “What are you smiling at?” as if in anticipation. Wilson said, “You,” and it was simple; the guy’s night atmosphere, so to speak, had changed and it was softer, still friendly but warmer and hotter; Wilson grabbed House’s shirt and pulled him forward, towards him, kissed him while his careful fingers undid the buttons of House’s shirt. House shrugged off the shirt, said nothing because he was more than happy to have Wilson initiate their kiss, set the pace; he rather though it was wonderful to be kissed, though he’d never admit to it.
Wilson’s hands were roaming under the t-shirt House always wore under his button-down – today’s was dark blue under red – fingers memorizing and mapping and they brushed a nipple and he heard House gasp a little. They had to break their kiss to remove the shirt; Wilson took his time, running his hands up House’s sides and they were kissing until they couldn’t, and when the fabric was out of the way they were kissing again, neither and both initiating, no hesitation.
It wasn’t long before House’s hands were pulling Wilson gently down so he was lying carefully atop House, hips between his legs, and still kissing, tasting, sucking, nipping; wasn’t long before House’s curious mouth moved from lips to jaw to ear to neck to shoulder; wasn’t long before Wilson, shameless and quiet moans on his parted lips, found the clasp of House’s belt, and House, in turn, found Wilson’s. Pants slid to the floor, and boxers followed; the only pause came when, for the first time, they felt full skin-on-skin, all the way down: stomachs, legs, hips, cocks: House moaned, Wilson’s breath hitched auditable. Their eyes met. Wilson looked awed, afraid, euphoric, all at once; House’s lip twitched and he tried not to smile though it was helpless, and he slid his hand, palm open, down Wilson’s chest and stomach and navel and groin, and their eyes were still locked even as Wilson’s widened.
All Wilson could do as House felt and fingered and squeezed was dig his nails into House’s shoulder; House eyed him, brought his free hand to take hold of one of Wilson’s, and ran his tongue up the middle finger. Wilson moaned, louder than he had done before; House smiled wickedly against his hand before repeating the action, languid, thorough; he let go of Wilson’s hand and brought his own up to Wilson’s lips. Between his ministrations of the other man’s fingers and cock, he was almost surprised Wilson understood what to do with them, but he took the middle and forefinger into his mouth slowly, running his tongue between them.
House, ever competitive, brushed his thumb back and forth over the head of Wilson’s cock, and was rewarded with an almost-choke from his friend. Wilson tried to retaliate with his free hand, but House took his hand away altogether, a thing which Wilson vowed to never have happen again – thus, he replaced his hand onto House’s shoulder. “Keep sucking,” House said, rather hoarsely, “because I’m not leaving this couch for anything else.”
At first Wilson didn’t understand this; blame his naivety in House’s sex mannerisms, or perhaps blame his diluted, blissful state of mind. In his confusion, however, he stopped his play with House’s fingers – “Okay,” House was saying, “we can do it that way” – and they’d slipped down his shoulders, back, ass, and he gasped as one entered him. “Shit,” he breathed, though it wasn’t a bad thing. It was a rough pressure, dry, not quite comfortable, but it was House, fingers on him, in him; while he should have listened and kept sucking, it wasn’t a bad thing at all.
Belatedly, Wilson realized the fingers were gone – all of them; the ones from his cock went to his hip, steadying him; the ones from inside him, he felt those brush against his own fingers in House’s mouth, felt his tongue lave them, and when they were back inside him – there were two now – they were slick and easy. They teased for a while, scissoring, driving in and out; another went in; they pressed against his prostate and he shuddered and tried not to moan so helplessly.
“Gregg,” he said, and he wasn’t sure he’d meant to; at the same time he needed to say it again, “Gregg, stop fucking around.”
“It’s just nice seeing you so undone,” and the fingers were gone. Wilson nearly screamed. The sure fingers on his hips were moving to his stomach, chest, pushing him up until he was sitting, straddling House’s hips and lowering himself down onto his cock.
It was slow, careful, precise – the couch was narrow, after all – and it was uncomfortable only for a bit. House, too, was patient; he was still but for a steady hand on Wilson’s hips that helped guide his strokes. But slow can only last for so long. Wilson’s discomfort had turned to pleasure; he rode down faster, more firmly, with lustful urgency until he felt House ejaculate inside him, moan and jerk beneath him, and he, too, came, unmindful of the mess it would make on the couch.
They stayed still for a while, breathing heavily and watching one another, until House pushed lightly at Wilson’s hips, asking him to lay back down – and he did, for all he could he tried not to fall asleep on House, but it was late; they were tired; and the couch was exactly that, a couch. House said nothing, too, about the arm around his neck; Wilson smiled and tangled his fingers in House’s hair before he closed his eyes.
“Three? You’re taking three?” House glared at him briefly before popping the Vicodin.
“It seems,” he replied flatly once he’d swallowed the pills, “It’s worse than usual today. I suppose that happens, when people fall asleep on you.”
Wilson rolled his eyes and took another sip of coffee; when he lowered the cup, his eyes were fixed on House. Specifically, his chest.
Wilson smiled. “Hey, is that a new shirt, Gregg?”