Work Text:
“I dare you.”
“No.”
“I double dog dare you.”
“Double no.”
“I triple dog dare you.”
“No amount of dogs will dare me into sleeping with you.”
“Jimmy!” House affected shock, “You make my kind offer sound downright filthy.”
“Right. Because it sounds so innocent coming from your pure lips.”
“I’m simply saying that you’re being a little bitch baby about sleeping on the couch. So, don’t. There’s a perfectly serviceable double bed in walking distance of your current, undesirable sleeping arrangements.”
“Yes, but that bed contains a deeply undesirable creature that I don’t trust with an inch, much less all of myself.”
“Again, you’re the one talking about your inches, not me.” House followed Wilson as he retrieved his leather toiletries kit from where he’d stashed it, having learned not to leave it unattended in the bathroom after an incident wherein his toothpaste mysteriously transmogrified into mayonnaise. “I don’t know why you’re turning down the offer of a lifetime. Do you know how much I usually charge for this kind of opportunity?”
“Aren’t you usually the one paying?”
House ignored this. “But fear not. Tonight, there’s a special discount on accommodations for handsome young oncologists, especially if they’ve got at least two divorces under their belts.”
“How specific.”
“We despise vagueness here at Chez House. That’s French for House-House.”
“I’m still-still not-not sleeping with you House-House.”
“Confusing use of the double negative. I feel like that implies we’ve already had sex.”
At this point, Wilson shut the bathroom door in House’s face. When he reemerged, business done and teeth brushed, House was still standing there.
“Sleep in my bed,” House ordered, “That will also totally incidentally have me in it.”
“No.” Wilson tried to dodge past. House blocked him with long limbs attached to the doorframe.
“Why?”
That finally brought Wilson up short.
He fumbled, fish-mouthed for a moment before offering, “Because…the couch is fine.”
“You’re usually a much better liar.”
Wilson scrubbed an exhausted hand over his eyes. “House. Whatever terrible practice joke you have in store that requires me in your bed will just have to die unfulfilled. I’m not falling for it. I’m too tired to keep arguing with you, but I’m not falling for it.”
House let his human-wall stance drop. “There’s no joke.”
“Right. Just an innocent sleepover. You want to braid my hair and stay up whispering after midnight.”
House cocked his head to an appraising angle, then shot a hand out to drag slowly through Wilson’s hair. His fingers slid in at the soft wave over Wilson’s forehead, nails dragging teasingly along his scalp, finally combing through the length and pinching a lock delicately between thumb and forefinger. Wilson gulped.
“Not long enough to braid,” House finally decided, his hand falling back to his side. He neglected to mention his other discoveries, namely, that Wilson’s hair was as silky and stroke-able as he’d feared.
“Okay.”
“I don’t actually know how to braid. It looks tricky as fuck, way too advanced for tweens. How do they do it.”
“I mean, okay, I’ll sleep with you. Sleep in your bed,” Wilson corrected, “Sleep in your bed with you in it, in a way that’s completely fine for grown men to do.”
“Very normally said.”
“Thank you.”
House stepped back and gestured grandly. “After you.”
With one last worried look back at House, Wilson went.
He wore a white V-neck tee and loose gray pajama bottoms. Regarding the latter, House stole a look from behind and was pretty sure he had nothing on underneath—which was a fun little factoid to stow away.
In a show of bravery, Wilson threw back the comforter of House’s bed and hopped in to the right side without waiting for permission or even doing a basic check for frogs/spiders/mice/snakes or any number of creepy-crawlies House might’ve planted there for their shared amusement. House regretted that he hadn’t bothered to do just that, since this had been a last minute idea sparked by the pained way Wilson rubbed at his neck when they were vegged out in front of hockey earlier that evening. No time for proper pranking prep.
He'd just have to do his best on the fly. “It’s kinda warm, isn’t it?” House remarked, and stripped off his own pants.
Wilson gaped briefly at House’s flamboyant boxer reveal (just a blue plaid, unfortunately, not the ones patterned with four leaf clovers and “RUB FOR LUCK” printed on the crotch) before snapping his mouth shut and redirecting his gaze to the ceiling without comment.
House hurled back the covers that Wilson had neatly—and defensively—tucked up under his armpits. Exaggeratedly following the instructions of years-ago physical therapists, he plopped down ass-first on the bed, then pulled his good leg up with a hip-swivel, and carefully lifted his injured one alongside. Wilson watched the doctor-approved in-and-out of bed routine as if waiting for the part where House started whipping daggers out of his socks. Not that he was wearing socks—he needed full toe-wiggling capabilities to torment Wilson with.
Officially under the covers now, House curled up on his side facing Wilson and jammed a fist under his chin. Prime gossiping position. “Time to talk about boys!”
“You can tell me about your Justin Timberlake sex dreams tomorrow,” Wilson replied wryly, “I’m tired.”
“Nope, you gotta pay the comfy-bed toll first. I need at least one embarrassing tale of coital misery before I’ll allow the sweet embrace of unconsciousness to take you.”
“Well, there was this one time my absolute freak of a best friend broke into my home to steal Cheetos and mooch off my cable, but my wife and I happened to already be making use of the couch—”
“Yeah, yeah, obviously ones where I was present don’t count. Consider that an automatic rider.”
Wilson groaned and dug the heels of both hands into his eyes. “Why did I agree to this. It’s not worth it just to avoid a herniated disc or two.”
Wilson started to move and House’s hand flashed out like a cobra to snatch at Wilson’s chest and flatten him back down to the bed. “Hey now. Let’s not be hasty.” Wilson didn’t breathe at all for a moment and then he started breathing too fast, heart hammering under House’s palm. Interesting.
“You want me to stay?” Wilson asked, voice perfectly ordinary. If House didn’t have the inside track on Wilson’s runaway pulse, he wouldn’t have guessed anything was amiss.
House shrugged and slowly loosened his hold. “Spinal health is no joke.” He felt Wilson relax under his apparently retreating touch so he detoured slightly to make sure his fingers brushed over a nipple during their tactical withdrawal. The answering twitch made House wonder if he’d finally caught Wilson’s defenses at low tide. Nothing like a third divorce to leave a man vulnerable to corruption.
“You’re still nervous.”
“Nope.”
“Worried I’m going to bad-touch you in your sleep?”
The sheets rustled with the intensity of Wilson’s eye-roll. “You bad-touch me when I’m awake.”
“True. Maybe you’re more worried it’ll be good-touch?”
“I’m not worried about anything, House. I’m an adult who can handle sharing a perfectly sizeable bed with another—well, whatever you are.”
“Scientists still haven’t found a term for me,” House concurred, then continued along his exploratory verbal nudging, “Maybe you’re more worried that you will be the one doing the good-bad touching.”
“Nope,” Wilson repeated. It was his new favorite word, apparently.
“I wouldn’t be mad. After all, it’s perfectly normal for a recently separated man to reach out for his wife in the middle of the night—”
“—not happening—”
“—and instead encounter the hard, lithe, virile body of his unsuspecting best friend.”
“I’m not going to be doing any reaching, House.”
“Won’t you? The idea’s in your head, now.”
“And whose fault is that?”
“Yours.”
“How is it my fault?” Wilson asked, disbelieving and indignant, one of House’s favorite combinations.
“You clearly engineered this whole encounter just to cop a feel.”
“I did?”
“Pathetic mewling on the couch about sore muscles, activating my deep wells of pity—”
“—I didn’t realize we were delving into total fantasy—”
“—just to find a way to totally accidentally bump n’ grind on my legendary mattress.”
“What is going on in your head. I’ve got to know.”
“Mostly satin, syrup, and improbably brief refractory periods.”
“Fine.” Wilson tossed his hands in the air. House watched the arc against the static darkness of his bedroom. “You’re clearly not going to rest until you’ve proven your theory that I’m some sort of somnophiliac lech intent on stealing your virtue in the dead of night.”
“What virtue?”
“Exactly.” Wilson scooted closer, a rustle of shadow. Then, his hand flew out and grabbed at House’s left pectoral. “Honk, honk,” he deadpanned, squeezing gently.
“You’re…grabbing my tit?” House wondered, “How’s that working out for you?”
“Not a lot to honk, here, honestly.”
“Yeah. Swing and a miss. You wanna phone a friend?”
“Sure. Hey, House, what part of your anatomy do I need to squeeze to get you to shut up and go to sleep?”
House’s silence rang with Wilson’s victory. The answer was so obvious, it was a physical presence between them. In normal circumstances—in Wilson’s office, with the lights on and clothes on and a desk between them—House wouldn’t have hesitated. He’d already be going on about the extensive time required for said squeezing and how Wilson could take a coffee break mid-length if he got tired.
But this wasn’t a normal situation.
Wilson’s hand retreated. House rubbed his clumsily-honked tit and wondered if he could get Wilson to at least match the damage on the other side. For symmetry, you know.
“I’m legally obligated to return the favor now,” House announced.
“That was the opposite of a favor,” Wilson pointed out, settling on his right side to mirror House’s position.
“Well, I’ve got to return it, whatever it was. I need my pound of flesh. To satisfy my inner pervert lest he break loose in the night.”
“Funny that you believe your inner pervert has ever been restrained,” Wilson sighed. “Alright. Get your grope on. Let’s be done with it.”
House considered. Wilson’s chest was an all-too-easy target. Surely he could get his hands on those masculine honkers any old time. There was one clear area that rested, round and perfect, in the golden zone of definitely sexual without actually starting something Wilson wouldn’t want him to finish.
He sent forth trailblazing fingers to locate Wilson’s elbow, then sneak below to his hip, and finally plant the flag—well, no real flag-planting just yet but certainly some vigorous land surveying—and scoop up a healthy handful of Wilson’s ass.
He squeezed. He massaged. He jiggled. Wilson just sighed.
“Should I listen to a podcast or something,” Wilson wondered, “or is this about done?”
“You can write up the workplace harassment lawsuit in your head.”
“We’re not in the workplace, and I consented to this harassment. Not to mention I’m about sick of lawyer fees.”
“This isn’t really motivating me to release my firm, peachy hostage.”
“You think I can’t sleep with someone feeling me up?”
“No way you could, because it would mean you left someone’s needs unfulfilled.”
“Goodnight, House,” Wilson insisted, trying to roll away.
House didn’t entirely let go. He loosened his grip enough not to damage the merchandise, but his fingers were still seeking purchase on whatever they could find as Wilson tried to rotate his body away from House. Imagine, if you will, the geometry of this move. House’s hand, staying cupped in approximately the same position. Wilson’s body, turning from lying on his right side to his left with a brief but necessary stretch of the process involving being on his back.
House’s hand curled protectively around Wilson’s dick. Both of them stopped breathing.
Wilson froze, a rabbit in the raptor’s claws. House licked his lips and appreciated the danger of the situation he’d created. One foot on the landmine, so to speak, but was it armed? It certainly felt live beneath his fingers.
Wilson’s voice cracked as soon as he spoke. “I thought this is what we were trying to avoid.”
“I don’t think I was avoiding.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Why do you think?” House gave an exploratory little squeeze and Wilson’s spine straightened like House had poured molten iron down his back. “Do you want me to stop? Say you do and it’ll be like it never happened.”
Guilty pants of breath. Finally, Wilson offered his own question, “Why are you doing this?”
House considered. “The same reason man climbs a mountain.”
“‘Because it was there’ is about the most insulting possible reason to get a handjob from your best friend.”
“That’s not why idiots schlep their way up mountains.”
“Oh, really?”
“No. They do it because it’s too damn beautiful and they can’t imagine living their life without trying to reach it, just once.”
“House…” Wilson’s voice was hushed. Awed. It made House’s skin try to crawl right off his bones, but he held firm (well, gently firm, no need to cause injury at this stage of the game).
“Why now?” One last quiet question. Then, House knew, he could take anything he wanted.
“Only you can answer that. I’ve been trying to climb this particular landmark since I met him. Never got past the visitor’s center, if you follow my metaphor.”
“This metaphor sucks. Mountains don’t get scared.”
House spidered his fingers up over Wilson’s growing erection to tease at the waistband of his pants. “Do I scare you?”
“House, you terrify me.”
House nodded to himself. Then he indulged his instincts and darted forward, nipping at Wilson’s chest through his shirt, teeth catching in cotton. “Alright. If we’re tossing out the mountain imagery, how about spelunking?” His hungry fingers dove beneath fabric to wrap around Wilson’s cock.
Wilson choked and grabbed House’s shoulder. One long stroke had his head slamming back into the pillow, neck a gorgeous arch, just visible in the dampened moonlight.
House dedicated himself to feeling out this new, thrilling, undiscovered country. The first and most immediate issue was acquiring visuals: difficult to manage with a layer of gray polyester blend barring his exploration.
He had to use both hands to grab the elastic of Wilson’s pajama bottoms and drag them downwards, none too carefully, feverish with the need to free up more skin for consumption.
“Going commando to sleep in my bed?” he observed happily, “Bold move.”
“Didn’t know—ah, mmm—that I’d…be…” Wilson couldn’t finish articulating that thought because House’s hand had wrapped back around him with purpose.
“Hey, I’m not complaining. Easy access and all.”
Wilson thrashed off the pants altogether and oh, yes, much better. The weak blinds-striped light wrapped snakelike over and around Wilson’s body, skin and muscle slipping and sliding in and out of view, the best kind of shadow play.
House had jammed himself up off the mattress by an elbow and the angle was an odd one for the athletic activities of his right hand, but he didn’t want to sacrifice his altitude. The view was too damn good. He only regretted wasting his whole left arm and hand on propping himself up. To fix this, he let himself tip forward and then threw his momentum back into a sitting position, good leg bundling under him while the bad stretched out so it wouldn’t complain.
Now, he had Wilson laid out in front of him like a piano begging for his touch. He tested a new key and began to play.
House dragged his thumb over the red, weeping head of Wilson’s dick and carefully noted the corresponding sound, inspected the respectable length in the chiaroscuro illumination, scratched lightly at the hair at the base, finally sank curious fingers down to fondle his balls and sneak a little further back, earning a yelp that made House grin evilly. More evilly, that is, as he was quickly approaching full-on supervillain status. Power corrupts etc. etc.
“God, look at you,” House muttered, only peripherally aware of his own voice, “Just from my hand. Imagine how you’ll feel in my mouth.”
Wilson’s hips bucked and a sharp whine slipped through the tight press of lips.
“Next time,” House promised.
“There’ll be…there’ll be one?”
“If you want.”
“I want. I want—House, god—”
Mentally, House added a few more chastising points to the Reasons I’m Going to Slash Julie’s Tires list because clearly she had not been taking care of Wilson. His pretty milk-and-coffee eyes were rolling back in his head and his heels were digging into the mattress just from the easy twist of House’s wrist on the downstroke.
Wilson’s nearest hand slid down from its death grip on House’s shoulder, squeezing past his bicep to take House’s free hand and pull it to his face, lips brushing over guitar callouses and old scars. House took advantage of the proximity to slip two fingers between Wilson’s lips and without instruction or hesitation Wilson sucked on them hard enough to rip most of House’s higher brain functions straight out of his gray matter.
The wet heat domino-ed some practical considerations in House’s remaining brain cells. A few torturous seconds as he decided which hand to sacrifice to utilitarianism, finally and regrettably removing his fingers from Wilson’s welcoming mouth to fumble ferociously with the side table until he could unearth the goddamn lube, he knew it was there, where the fuck had it gone—ah, there.
Wilson’s sad little noises at the loss of oral stimulation were enough to prompt a hushing response from House, whispered nonsense that may have included such unnatural phrases in the G. House vocab as “it’s okay” and “I’ve got you” as he wrestled open the lubricant and slicked his business hand up.
Now, that was the smooth slide he wanted, and if Wilson’s clawing at the bed and pumping hips were to be trusted, he was a pretty big fan too.
House wanted to get back into that sweet suction and he also wanted to get his own mouth in on the action but a kiss…
Nope. He might be 60-70% braindead by now but he couldn’t risk shifting even a little away from this one, safe track. A sleepy handjob in the dark, in the dead of night, as the result of some relatively innocent roughhousing, that could be forgiven and forgotten. If House kissed Wilson he would never forget and he certainly wouldn’t forgive.
To stop his mouth from misbehaving, House ducked forward to grab the hem of Wilson’s shirt in his teeth and tug upward, freeing the soft expanse of his stomach for House to bury his face in. Its own kind of intimacy, to be sure, but one that didn’t involve the possibility of eye contact.
At the new downward angle, House’s hips pressed into the bed, little abortive half-thrusts. He longed to find that friction against Wilson’s body, to absorb a little of that radiance. But he couldn’t. Not yet. The conductor didn’t play an instrument, the scientist didn’t interfere in the experimental conditions.
He kept pushing Wilson’s shirt further up, lips exploring soft dips of skin and rough patches of hair, until he’d shoved the fabric up to Wilson’s collarbones and then jumped past his self-made barrier to nuzzle at Wilson’s neck.
Wilson’s seeking mouth was so close. All House would have to do was tilt his head, just a little, and he could taste those candy lips.
He flattened his forearm across Wilson’s chest instead. Held him down. Pushed himself back upright. Wilson whined again, a sound that was devastatingly effective against House’s usually impervious battlements. Wilson reached out unseeing and managed to drag his thumb against House’s mouth. House nipped at it and then nudged the hand away with a jerk of his chin.
“After. You can kiss me after you come.”
House curled his fingers and watched Wilson fuck his fist, letting him set his own desperate pace. With no warning except a subtle change in the tense bow of his features, his body jerked and he started to come, striping his stomach and House’s hand with his release.
House observed it all intently and regretted not turning on the lights. But if darkness blanketed sight, other senses were still on the table. House bent forward to lick at the mess, each swipe of tongue eliciting a hop in the muscles of Wilson’s abdomen beneath and a breathless gasp, and finally a hand tangling in his hair to tug him upwards.
Wilson’s voice was rough and a tremor chased through his limbs, but his surety was unmistakable. “You said you’d kiss me after.”
Wilson didn’t wait to see if House would back out of his word, he just took House by the neck like he wouldn’t get another chance. He kissed the taste of himself out of House’s mouth, he licked deep inside with a confidence and experience that enlightened House as to precisely how Wilson had peeled all those mythical panties. If he’d done this to House before—any time before, at work, in the lobby, in front of god and Cuddy and the entire hospital staff—House would’ve been ready to drop trou without question.
Wilson clutched at him with hard-edged want and the blunt heat of passion, not dimmed at all by climax but instead sharpened and with a clear mind and a clearer purpose. He smeared away the remaining mess on his belly with the edge of his rucked-up shirt and tried to urge House to line their bodies up so he could reciprocate. House wriggled, just out of reach except for the brush of lips, teasing Wilson until he was incensed enough to take measures into his own hands.
Wilson shoved House onto his back. Not gentle, no finesse. He pressed House down into the mattress with both hands and climbed on top of him, thighs bracketing House’s hips as he settled astride him. Wilson pulled his shirt off in a liquid motion that caught the meager light, pale skin limned with blue night. House reached up to trace what he couldn’t see.
It was Wilson’s turn to observe. With focus and clarity that made House shiver, he reached out to trail the tips of his fingers against moon-gray stubble, up the line of high-shelf cheekbones, a thumb brushing over perpetually angry brows to finally settle in a warm cup of palm against cheek.
“Have any plans while you’re up there?” House prompted conversationally, hoping to put a wedge in this brutal examination. “Or just seeing the sights?” Even with the lights out Wilson might recognize an extra decade weighed against House.
But Wilson didn’t look like he was tallying up years and finding them lacking. He looked… House didn’t know. He’d never seen this before. The category hadn’t been invented yet.
“Just catching my breath,” Wilson replied, equally dry in tone, “Then I’m gonna catch yours.”
Wilson reached between House’s legs to free his hard-on from his boxers, gripping loosely and feeling out the details with his thumb. House’s answering gasp was sealed in with a crushing kiss. Wilson matched the slow strokes of his hand with the tempo of his tongue. The synchronicity made House’s bones feel radioactive. How long since someone had touched him like this, like they cared, like they wanted him specifically, not just any old warm body?
Keen hands ripped House’s shirt off and over his head, only separating their mouths for a moment before their chests could reconnect, bared and slick with sweat. House eighty-sixed the boxers too, allowing his legs to fall open wider under Wilson’s ministrations. With a frustrated grunt and the brief painful absence of skin-on-flushed-skin, Wilson rediscovered the abandoned lube and put it to good use. “Glad you’re a card-carrying degenerate,” he commented as House flinched under the shock of his newly cool but deliciously easy touch, “it’s really smoothed the way.”
“Degenerate? Excuse me for having a healthy relationship to my sexuality.”
“Uh huh. And when you were maintaining that healthy relationship with your right hand…what did you think about?”
House smirked, which was no simple feat when his facial muscles wanted nothing more than to go slack with pleasure. “Are you asking if I jerked off thinking about you?”
Wilson’s rhythm faltered slightly, then picked back up with a vengeance. “Yeah.”
“Well. I’m not totally lacking in self-preservation instincts.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Fine,” House admitted, gritting his teeth as Wilson leaned down so House’s cock was trapped between the heat of their torsos, the weight of Wilson’s body on his almost too much, “Sometimes. If porn didn’t cut it, and Cuddy had been too administrative to be hot that day, even in my rich imagination.”
House realized Wilson was hanging on his every word. He’d have to be more choosy with them. “But only when I was really desperate. When I had to cross the finish line with something so filthy, I couldn’t even think it when my head wasn’t full of endorphins. I’d imagine you.” House treasured Wilson’s answering bitten-off gasp, the almost-visible glow of heated skin. “In all sorts of places. I liked to think of bending you over your desk at work, barely pulling your clothes out of the way before shoving into you, hearing you choking for it. Or finding you on the floor, looking for something you dropped, but gosh isn’t your mouth at the perfect height for something else? And I’d push my cock into your waiting mouth and pull your hair and I’d be here in bed wishing I was shooting down your throat but then I’d have to pretend it never happened because the next day you’d be sitting next to me on the couch and I wouldn’t be able to slide into your lap and beg you to fuck my brains out.”
“House,” Wilson moaned his name and kissed him again, sloppier and fiercer. Wilson’s own cock lay soft against House’s hip, but not for much longer. Maybe double-joy tonight, assuming House could keep Wilson in his little circle of crazy at least until dawn broke. No promises Wilson wouldn’t realize House would never be the wife he wanted in the light of day.
The confident rhythm of Wilson’s skilled left hand had House’s toes curling fast, faster than he wanted, but also it couldn’t come soon enough. Wilson couldn’t stop kissing him, sucking down his neck and biting at stubble but always coming back to his lips, and it was the best feeling in the world to be someone else’s addiction.
House couldn’t coordinate his muscles enough anymore to properly return the kiss but that was fine, Wilson was ravaging his mouth with enough technique for the both of them. Warmth curled beneath his belly and House’s orgasm overtook him, thrusting helplessly against Wilson’s stomach and into his velvety fingers, and Wilson stroked him and whispered to him and dragged it out to the edge of delirium.
House gasped for air in the aftermath but was denied, Wilson kissing him ferociously long before he could do anything to reciprocate beyond holding him tight.
With oxygenation still a struggle, House poked forlornly at Wilson’s sides and murmured around his searching lips, “Any chance of shifting down a gear? A guy’s gotta breathe.”
“Breathing is boring,” Wilson said in a perfect mimicry of House’s harsh sneer, before fitting their mouths back together and sucking zealously on House’s tongue. House decided the dizziness was just fine and dandy actually. Fainting would be A-OK. He was already conveniently lying down, wasn’t he?
He let himself be kissed to damnation and back. It felt incredible. He hadn’t bothered with anything like it in years. He wished he could make fun of Wilson for being at least as, if not more so, obsessed with making out than he was with actually getting off. But that would leave House open for an incriminating parallel charge because as much as his dick appreciated the attention, the rest of him was tingling with a novel high that came just from having him so close and so totally wrapped up in them and them alone.
Maybe they’d never stop. Maybe House could keep dragging his hands up and down the smooth expanse of Wilson’s back, maybe he could keep curling brave fingers around the perfect curve of his ass and down the muscle and softness of his legs. Maybe he’d keep feeling Wilson’s heartbeat at the source, right next to his own, forever.
A cell phone beeped, somewhere deeper in the apartment. Then it trilled. As if sensing the intentional ignorance of its owner, it started to shriek.
“I think that’s mine,” Wilson realized against House’s mouth, brow furrowing like he was trying to remember what a phone was, and what you were supposed to do with it.
“Don’t answer it.”
“I…think…I have to.”
Wilson reared back on his haunches and House imprisoned Wilson with both hands tight on his waist. “If one of your patients has dared to start dying right now, I’ll kill them myself.”
Wilson’s eyes glittered as his body unconsciously coiled back towards House. “Why do I find you so attractive when you’re murderous?”
“Because you’ve got the survival instincts of a squirrel that enjoys running across highways. Plus a minor domination kink.”
“Is that all?” Wilson murmured, stealing a light, closed-lips kiss before heaving himself out of the comfortable straddle of House’s waist, and finally to his feet.
House listened as Wilson padded naked out to the living room where he’d abandoned his phone by the unused couch. Wilson’s quiet professional tones seemed to paint the nighttime colors a colder, more antiseptic navy.
This might be it. The tipping point. He was out of House’s bed, out of House’s arms, being reminded of work and colleagues and patients, no doubt thinking of all the reasons this had been a mistake. And House just lay there, flat on his back, barely covered by the comforter and freezing and not prepared to do anything about it.
“Alright, thanks Jackie,” Wilson’s sign off echoed into the room, followed shortly by the man himself, tossing his phone thoughtlessly aside. “Don’t worry,” he said, bouncing back into bed, “Dr. Lin can handle things for tonight. Now, where were we?” He threw a leg back over House’s waist, keeping his weight mostly on the bed but pulling their bodies tight together and dragging the sheets up over them as an afterthought.
House’s hand slid instinctively to the small of Wilson’s back but his mouth gummed up with the words he wanted to say and should say and really shouldn’t say.
Wilson noticed the icy atmosphere and grabbed House’s face in a hand, wiggling his chin by thumb and forefinger. “Hey. What could possibly have happened in the last forty five seconds to turn you from horndog to hangdog?”
“Not the last forty five seconds. More like the last ten years.”
“Ah.” Wilson seemed to understand, and he also seemed to be smiling knowingly, which was rude as all fuck in House’s humble opinion.
“What the hell are you ‘ah’-ing wisely about?”
Wilson’s hands framed House’s face and then parted ways, one going up to brush through his hair, the other skating down to scratch sweetly at his chest. “You’re worried I’m going to leave you.”
“I don’t worry about anything.”
“You worry about everything.” House tried to turn away but that just opened up the edge of his jaw for tender kisses. “But you don’t need to worry about this. Ten years, remember? Why would I leave now, just when things are getting good?”
“That’s when you always leave. When I’m good enough to be left alone with sharp objects.”
Guilt slowed Wilson’s response. “I didn’t…”
“You have every right to. I’m not your responsibility. I can dress myself and cook for myself and get myself to work and everything.”
Pain twitched Wilson’s fingers, like he was imagining picking out House’s clothes and preparing his dinner and driving him to the hospital, and it hurt not to do it. “I want you to be my responsibility. It’s what I’ve chosen, House. Every time. I always choose you. Julie…she said as much. That I might not have cheated like she did, not this time, but she’d never been my priority. Bonnie knew it too.”
House searched Wilson’s expression for any sign of deceit or delusion or plain old classic self-sacrifice. He found none. Just so much concentrated affection that it seared like acid through his skin. A little frantic, House finally asked, “Have I been your mistress this whole time?”
“I guess so. Though we haven’t been having nearly as much sex as my wives suspected we were.”
“Well, I can fix that. That, I can give you.”
“I want more than sex, House.” Wilson shifted a little more of his weight onto House’s hip and shoulder, not-so-subtly pinning him down. House tensed in the trap. “I don’t want this to end, I don’t want just friends with benefits, I don’t want anything but you, all of you, all the time.”
“You’re fresh off divorce number three. You’re not thinking straight.”
“I should hope not.”
House gave a derisive snort. “Tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow morning what?”
“We’ll see if you’re still singing the same tune.” House made a show of getting comfortable, punching up his pillow with one hand, trying to wiggle the other free from its Wilson-prison (no luck there). “In the cold clear light of day, you might not be so sanguine about hitching your horse to this particular post, no matter how admittedly large and satisfying it may be.”
“Shut up.” Wilson kissed House’s forehead decisively. “We’re going to sleep together. You can be the big spoon if you want, my masculinity can handle it. And when I wake up before you like I always do, I’m gonna rub myself against your morning wood until you’re awake and hard and wanting and then I’m gonna take care of you.”
House’s body clearly hadn’t gotten the mental ‘Run! Flee! Escape!’ memo because it was humming along to Wilson’s words. His voice was working for the enemy too, because he replied, “I’ll make the coffee, you suck at it. But you can handle the rest of breakfast. And when you go to shower I’m gonna follow you in and blow you on the lip of the tub.”
“Mmm,” Wilson’s rumble of pleasure rolled from the back of his throat into House’s as he kissed him down into the mattress.
But House was honor bound to share one last warning. For the sake of the feelings he knew damned well weren’t going anywhere. “I’m pretty messed up,” he whispered against Wilson’s cheek, “None of that might happen. I might just try to kick you out in the morning.”
“I can take you,” Wilson said confidently. “And yes, I mean that in the way you think. Which is why I don’t think you’ll leave before you get another taste. And after that…well. I can always hide your cane. Steal your bike keys. Hold your Vicodin prisoner.”
“Where did these big, sexy, self-assured threats come from? Not that long ago you were breaking out in a cold sweat at the thought of platonically sharing a bed with me.”
“Well, who in their right mind wouldn’t? You’re a frightening bedmate. But now I know I can hold sex over your head, and that’s the biggest gun of all.”
Wilson smiled, a flash of teeth in the moonlight, and then rolled over onto his left side. House automatically tucked himself around Wilson, arm encircling his middle, legs fitted together perfectly.
Finding his lips conveniently positioned next to the shell of Wilson’s ear, House murmured, “I hope you don’t think this means I’m going to be nice to you.”
“Banish the thought.”
“Or that I’m going to turn romantic overnight.”
“You already have a big gooey romantic heart.”
House pinched Wilson’s backside. Wilson squeaked, but didn’t relent. “You’ll give it all to me, I know you will. Sure, you’ll forget my birthday and alienate what few other friends I have and keep up your current hail of torment and mockery. But you’ll also give me all the domesticity you can stand. Because I want flowers on our anniversary and I want you to hold my hand in public and I want to argue with you every day to take out the trash and do the dishes.”
“You make it sound like we’re going to announce our engagement tomorrow. Our first kiss was like, ten minutes ago.”
“And I never want to have a last kiss.”
House squeezed him so tight, Wilson’s breath left him. But he just held it. Waiting.
“I’m glad you took my offer,” House finally said, grip relaxing. He added breezily, “Though I’m sure the couch misses you.”
“Well, I don’t miss it. That couch can kiss my ass. I never want to sleep on it again.”
“Sounds like you’re just going to have to keep sleeping with me.”
“No other choice.”
“What a shame.” House nuzzled the short hair at Wilson’s neck, tucked a kiss to the patch of skin behind his ear as Wilson yawned. “Goodnight, Wilson.”
Wilson laced his fingers with House’s and pulled them snug to his chest. “Goodnight, House.”
House didn’t mean to fall asleep. He had to keep watch, make sure this hadn’t all been a hallucination or an elaborate trick by an angry god. But Wilson’s breath evened out against him and everything was so warm and for once his leg wasn’t bugging him and in the end he had no say in the matter. Sleep took him in a close embrace, carrying him like-it-or-not on a journey to a less lonely tomorrow.