Chapter Text
In typical House-and-Wilson fashion, it doesn't get brought up tomorrow. Or the day after that, nor at any point in the following month and a half. Truly, Wilson thinks, the pair of us are masters of communication.
In that time, they’ve settle into a comfortable routine: they eat breakfast together, Wilson drives them to work, they try and come home at the same time. (He’s not quite sure when he made the transition from calling it ‘House’s place’ to ‘home,’ but it feels fitting. Anywhere that House is has always felt like a second home to him, anyway.)
He’s stopped looking for an apartment, too, surprisingly at House’s request. At the time, he’d been extolling the virtues of Wilson’s cooking and general housekeeping (hah, House-keeping); Wilson knows him too well to fall for that, though. It’s clear to him that House just enjoys having him around.
Either way, he’s fine with staying. He had never really had his heart in apartment hunting anyway.
Moving in together just feels like the natural progression of things, if he's honest. The way their lives have slotted together that much further is easy. It’s as if there was never any other option, that this is the way it would always happen - and he couldn't be more glad of it.
It’s made Wilson finally come to terms with a major aspect of himself, too: after realising that he’s in love with House, he had sat down and thought over his whole life. He thought about how his first crush was on a male actor of a TV show he had loved as a kid, and how when he had told his parents they’d shamed it out of him. How his gaze had lingered just a little too long in the junior high locker rooms, the way he’d been beaten when some of the older boys noticed. The way he’s been pushing and pushing this feeling down for years, denying any accusations, continually marrying women in the hopes that it would stop, that he could be ‘normal.’
But not anymore.
No, he’s finally decided that he’s had enough of stifling this, and at long last he’s admitted it to himself: Wilson is gay.
He’s not quite ready to tell anyone else, yet. He’s sure that someone has figured it out, somewhere (he’s pretty sure his department has a bet on it, in fact, but that’s neither here nor there). All that mattters to him is that he’s stopped lying to himself.
So overall, Wilson pretty happy. The only way things can be better is if him and House can fucking talk about it.
Unfortunately, he’s still figuring out how to broach the subject without House running (or limping) for the hills faster than he can say ‘lupus.’ He’ll get there eventually; for now, he can make do with what he’s got.
And what he’s got right this moment is House complaining very, very loudly from his bedroom.
“Wilsooooooooon,” he groans, unnecessarily dragging out the sound, thought it’s muffled by the door. “I need my pills.”
Wilson sighs, pausing the TV and hauling himself out of his comfortable spot on the couch. House had turned in early tonight, so he thought he’d get to have his old-movie marathon in peace, for once - though to be fair, he should really know better by now that nothing’s ever peaceful when House is nearby.
He heads to the kitchen and rummages through the drawers, pulling out one of the many Vicodin bottles that are stashed around the apartment. House must’ve forgotten to take some before bed, or maybe he’s run out. Either way, it’s Wilson who’s left running around after him, like always. He may love the guy, but fucking hell, he can be annoying.
Wouldn’t have it any other way, though.
Vicodin bottle in hand, Wilson makes his way to House’s room, making sure to knock just in case House is naked for whatever reason. He gets a muffled grunt in response, so he heads inside, taking in the sight of House; he’s hunched over in the middle of his bed in just his boxers and a faded band shirt. He’s sweating buckets, and as Wilson approaches he glances up and practically snatches the bottle, fumbling with the cap and dry-swallowing three pills in one go.
Must be a really bad pain day, given the look of him; Wilson decides to hold off his usual too-many-drugs lecture. Instead, he sighs, settling on the bed next to him.
“You should’ve called for me earlier, if it’s hurting this much.”
House grumbles at him under his breath, waving a dismissive hand at him, but Wilson’s not going away that easily. Instead, he maneuvres himself so he’s sat behind House, legs bracketing him in.
House tenses up, but soon relaxes again as Wilson rubs soothing circles into his shoulder blades with his thumbs.
“You’re mothering me again,” he gripes shakily, though it lacks bite. “And you’re getting way too touchy. I have a reputation to uphold, you know.”
Seems like the Vicodin’s kicking in, then, if he’s snarking again. Wilson just chuckles at him and leans a little closer to hook his chin over his shoulder. He wraps his left arm around House’s waist and brings his right only a little hesitantly to rest above House’s bad thigh, just hovering there.
“Can I - y’know,” he starts, miming a back-and-forth hand gesture in what is supposed to look like a massage; it misses the mark pretty spectacularly.
“...You want to give me a reacharound?” House asks, incredulous. “Coming on a little strong, aren’t we, Jimmy?”
“A massage,” he stresses, unable to stop the furious blush that colours his cheeks. Not that he’d particularly mind giving him a reacharound, but House doesn’t need to know that just yet. “Get your mind out of the gutter.”
“You and I both know that’s not possible.”
Wilson shakes his head fondly, hiding a smile against his shoulder. “Is that a yes or a no for the massage, then?”
House deliberates for a moment, making a show of hemming and hawing, before sighing exaggeratedly and leaning back into Wilson’s embrace.
“Fine, if it’ll satisfy your mother-hen instincts. Go on.”
Wilson tugs the hem of his boxers up just a little, taking note of House’s slight flinch as the scar tissue is exposed. He’s seen it plenty of times - he’d been the one taking care of him post-surgery, after all - but he knows how House gets about it, even now.
He presses a tiny, apologetic kiss to the back of House’s neck, delighting in the little shiver that he gets as a result, then grabs a bottle of lotion from the bedside cabinet. He squirts a little onto his hand, rubbing it a little to warm it up, before he smooths his hand over House's thigh, pressing his thumbs in around the damaged tissue. He moves them in tiny little circles at first, more to work out the tension than anything, before getting his fingers involved, moving up and down the muscles around the sizeable missing chunk. Wilson can practically hear the dirty-joke-gears turning in House’s head.
“Don’t start,” he warns lightly.
“I never even said anything!”
“You were thinking it, though.”
“...Yeah, you caught me.”
House leans his head back against Wilson’s shoulder, a surprisingly unguarded look of affection in his features. Wilson watches contentedly as House’s eyes grow heavy, letting out a satisfied little hmm as a particularly stubborn knot of muscle loosens in his leg.
“I like this side of you,” Wilson confesses quietly against his neck, nosing into him.
“What side?” House murmurs drowsily, drawing a shuddery breath at the close contact.
“The soft one.”
“’M not soft.”
“You are when you’re around me.”
He doesn’t get a response to that, but to be fair Wilson hadn’t really expected one. He suspects that there might be some introspection going on at House’s end, too, and he’s content to wait for him.
His fingers continue circling House’s scar all the while, keeping the muscles lax as he works. A particularly hard press makes House hiss a little, but Wilson feels him relax as he works the snarl out of him. Before long, he’s practically purring in Wilson’s lap, each roll of his thumbs forcing a soft, breathy noise out from his throat.
It sounds almost like a moan, thinking about it, and he quickly steers himself away from that train of thought lest he get too… distracted.
But then House does moan, long and low and Wilson scrambles to think of boring, unsexy thoughts like old ladies and taxes to ward off an imminent boner.
House is clueless to his plight as he turns to tuck his head under Wilson’s chin, clutching at the front of his shirt and tie. He has absolutely no right to be this sweet - who could’ve guessed that beneath all the snark, the great Gregory House is actually soft?
“Wils’n,” he slurs tiredly, nuzzling closer before latching his teeth into the junction of Wilson’s neck and shoulder. Wilson stops his massage, deciding that the House has been sufficiently kneaded, to run a slightly lotion-slick hand through his hair, amused by his weird obsession with biting.
“Are you that determined to cannibalise me?” he chuckles.
House grumbles at him sleepily, clamping down a little harder just to be petty. Wilson laughs again, petting him affectionately before guiding the both of them to lay down. He shucks off his tie, resigning himself to sleep in his work clothes as House settles more comfortably on top of him. His teeth are still embedded in Wilson’s shoulder, though he can’t find it in himself to care about the obvious mark that it’ll leave tomorrow.
He can feel sleep starting to claim him, and his eyes slip shut in contentment. Wilson presses one last kiss to the top of House’s head, relishing in the feel of the warm body pressed against his, before he drifts into unconsciousness with a smile on his face.