Chapter Text
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House figures there must be a first time for everything. He must not have counted "Wilson getting ditched at a bar by his date AFTER midnight AFTER $50 (and some) of drinks" as a part of everything, though.
Minor impossibilities aside:
It had been torture getting Wilson out of that goddamn bar, having to get him to his feet and then get him to actually use them, his body stubborn, his mind much too far gone to deliberate over trivial things like stepping out with his left foot before moving his right. He'd have to wait to ask Wilson what the hell he was thinking, getting plastered before calling House to pick him up, to ask how he expected a cripple to carry him out since it's what he'd evidently banked on. He suspects he knows the answer anyhow. "Sorry," Wilson had mumbled in apology, crushed against House's shoulder after being pulled off of his seat, gripping his bicep with both hands as if he would collapse to the ground without it to brace himself with. Within a few minutes and nothing short of a miracle, he could walk relatively well, a sort of shuffling stumble that lasted all the way up to the open door of House's Dynasty—open courtesy of House, a kindness that Wilson's fried brain had distantly recognized—at which point his muscles gave out, sprawling across the back seat and already dozing off when House slid behind the wheel.
He watches now with bleary eyes as House unlocks the front door of his apartment, fumbling with the key and knob, hoping that Wilson could manage standing in one place without his supervision. He eases the door open using his cane and turns around to hold his arm out, relieved to find the younger man still all in one piece. More than once has House made the mistake of looking away from a drunk Wilson for more than thirty seconds. More than once, he's had to pay the price to him, hungover and supremely irritated, for his indiscretion.
After a moment of what appears to be consideration, Wilson takes hold of his arm, his eyes drifting listlessly to House's like he almost doesn't believe the gesture; by the way his fingers tighten, he seems cautious, letting his weight lean forward onto the other man's shoulder when he starts to move. He only trips once in the doorway, earning a teasing congratulations from House, a 'good job, champ' for his efforts in not bringing them both to the ground. "C'mon, just a little further," House says, trying for encouragement when Wilson groans and sags behind halfway to the couch, "my leg can't guarantee that I won't drop you, y'know."
A few seconds pass. "I- I know," he responds after swallowing, his words sighing out. They bleed a bit at the edges and border on slurring together. His breath is hot against the back of the older man's neck, spice-sweet, reeking of rum and tequila. Lord above, grant House the mercy to bury the terrible thoughts it stirs. Images flash through his mind at the suggestion that heaving breath brings. It's terrible how his mind has started to wander recently.
Wilson drags on reluctantly as they begin to close the distance between themselves and the couch, one trudging step at a time, those thoughts returning to the depths they'd risen from. "I know, House, I'm sorry for… for dragging you into this." He pauses for a moment, perhaps to gather his thoughts as they round the corner of the couch, promptly sinking into the cushions and closing his eyes. His right hand comes up to rest on his forehead, pinching the bridge of his nose, only partially masking his discomfited expression. House remains standing and watches his features twist, his lips pursing, brows furrowing. " 'S just—you know, I didn't- I-… I didn't know who else to call." Both hands fall to his lap, his chest rising and falling as he takes a deep breath and sighs.
"Don't be ridiculous," House says, throwing his cane off to the side, "I was the one doing the dragging. I'll put it on your tab if it makes you feel better."
"Oh, I'm sure you will," Wilson grumbles, unimpressed by his attempt at humor. House limps toward the other side of the couch, flopping down onto it. The room is almost too quiet, but he knows the TV is not an option at this hour, especially with Wilson in this state. When he looks left to the younger man, he finds that he’s staring back, still sporting the same concerned, in-too-deep look, now noticing the small curls of hair sticking to his temples and pink cheeks. "Do you think I… that I did something wrong? Maybe, maybe I said something that made her uncomfortable, o-or didn't say enough." He doesn't seem to know what else to say, instead turning his head away, looking down. House nearly scares himself upright with the attention he’s paying to the other's face as it moves, fixated on the shifting shapes and shadows that the low lighting creates. That spice-sweet scent is back burning in his nostrils, and oh, House is so fucked. He can't help but wonder what kind of senseless person would refuse the company of a pretty, young thing like Wilson, though his wandering thoughts don't come without a price. His stomach churns as he realizes what he's doing. Thinking. Now is not the time for this bullshit, he tells himself.
"I think that you're overreacting." Wilson lifts his head at that to see House facing the other way again. "I'll admit, it's pretty fucked up how she left you there like that, but you guys were basically strangers. It was your first time going out with her. Hardly qualifies you for any kind of commitment. Besides, if anything scared her off, it's your inability to hold your liquor. Don't you remember how I found you?"
His cheeks flush darker in embarrassment as he recalls the happenings from earlier that night, dropping another shade when House meets his eyes with a look about him that says I’m over it. "It's not my fault!" he protests, "she was the one who said- who thought it would be a good idea to order all of those drinks, okay? Ma- Maybe she was trying to test me, o-or something, I don't know. I mean, I hope she found what she was looking for." He flickers between meeting House's gaze head-on and avoiding it, busying his hands with the hem of his t-shirt, his drowsy demeanor growing restless, troubled enough to overcome his alcohol-leaden limbs.
House observes carefully. This can't all be about one girl that got away; especially someone that Wilson had only just met. Maybe she'd gotten him drunker than the older had realized, or maybe he was simply being his occasionally neurotic self. "Well, what are you looking for?" he asks, a hopeful attempt to feel him out, push a button or two. Get a real answer.
Wilson's fiddling movements come to a full stop. "What?" He blinks in bewilderment, still grasping his shirt hem tightly when House twists his upper body to face him, planting his left hand down as his shoulder moves back. The view is even more breathtaking like this, the full span of his attention focused, and he swears without a doubt that the streetlights outside of his window subtly backlight and outline Wilson's silhouette. Like nothing else matters, like he's the only thing in the room; like this is dangerous territory that House needs to get the fuck out of, fast, like he's in way over his goddamn head. Fuck. It's just that he's never really been known for his good decisions, either, or his ability to make haste.
"Don't play stupid with me. Obviously you're trying to fill some kind of hole, tick some kind of box, because the girl's not what you care about. It's the fact that she slipped through your fingers. You're upset about losing her, not because she's gone. Why should you care?" Another slow blink. He looks like a deer caught in headlights, wide-eyed browns searching sharp baby blues. This must not be the direction Wilson expected him to go, nor the sort of thing he thought he'd be asked. He tenses, at odds with the question being presented to him. House waits for him to deflect, to say something like 'no, you have it all wrong, stop trying to psychoanalyze me you freak,' but instead what comes out is:
"I… I don't know."
Glee fills every corner of House's body; being right will do that to a guy. "What do you mean, you don't know? That's a load of crap and you know it." He leans in as the words pour out, narrowing his eyes at Wilson, scrutinizing the unsettled look on his face. He has to know he's just thrown House a bone and that he won't let go until he has what he wants.
"Jesus, House, is it really that important to you? This might come as a shock to you, but I actually do like having some parts of my life to myself." The discomfiture in his face melts away into a defensive sort of irritation. Nerve 1: hit. He's not truly annoyed yet, though House knows it won't stay that way for long.
"Oh, right. So you can sit alone and stew over it while refusing everybody else's help? You asked me—you'll have to forgive me if I'm thorough. You wanted this to happen."
A bitter laugh bubbles up Wilson's throat. His patience is wearing thin already. House feels a tinge of something not unlike guilt for doing this, provoking Wilson when his self-control is so shot, but the ball has rolled much too far to concede defeat. He has to know. "I wonder who that could possibly remind me of," Wilson starts up, "shit, who says I didn't learn it from you, from- from spending all this goddamn time stuck in here with you?"
Nerve 2: good as gone.
"Right. You'd love to get off easy, blame me, but you're not ignorant. You know that's not what this is." A beat. Wilson falls silent, staring back again. That seems to defuse his short-lived obstinacy, oddly enough, the air between them falling thick with Wilson's unease and House's unwavering determination. His expression softens into something unreadable and vaguely embarrassed, looking away to count the individual fibers in the grain of House's wood flooring. Nerve 3 is withering away just keeping him afloat.
"Look, I just—" He exhales, deflating, letting the tension seep out from his body, slumping against the couch and rubbing his hands over his face in overwhelmed exasperation. When he meets House's eyes again, his own are watery and rimmed with red. House's guilt blooms in full flower—it's still nothing next to the privilege of seeing Wilson like this, having him vulnerable, his remorse diminishing to a blemish on his conscience. In other words: totally worth it. "I'm sorry," he says. "I know you want to help, and…" Almost unwillingly, he continues on and admits, "you're right about her, but w-what you're asking me, I-I- I really don't know. I don't have the answer you're looking for, House. I don't even have it for myself. I just know things haven't felt right." He casts his gaze down after that, opting this time to examine the hem and weave of his shirt rather than picking at it anxiously.
As far as uncertain answers go, House thinks this is the best one he's gotten yet, the most unintentionally revealing. He doesn't know how yet, but that's a problem for future-him to analyze; right now, the only thing he knows is that the temptation to reach out and feel warm skin under the pads of his fingers is unbearable, a cold chill running down his spine at the realization that what he wants to do falls in line with comforting. His fingers curl into the couch cushion as the progression of affairs plays in his mind. He can't, shouldn't, because he knows he won't stop there, that he'll want more and that he'll take it, ending either in flames or his bed. He knows he's being selfish and that this desire is not born—not wholly—out of his concern for Wilson. That he's actually worried about the outcome of his actions, meaning this isn't something he can bear to lose.
Oh, well. It's too late for second-guessing.
House reaches over, moving his left hand further across the couch. He places it close enough to Wilson's thigh that it causes the cushion under it to dip and catch his attention. He does a half-turn, barely able to make it the full way around before House has his other hand on his cheek and closes the space between them, swallowing the startled squeak he lets out in the back of his throat. His hands come up to House's shirt on impulse, unsure initially, grabbing fistfuls of it when the older man moves past his cheek and threads tentative fingers through his hair to hold him in place. Fucking hell if Wilson's lips aren't the softest he's ever touched. He half-expects to be pushed away, yelled at, cursed at, maybe lectured on the serious moral implications of kissing your still-half-drunk best friend, but the younger is surprisingly quick to yield. His lips part easily with another small noise as House's free hand takes a leap of faith, grasping his thigh. When he pulls his head back, Wilson is just a touch breathless, dark eyelashes against his flushed cheeks. He feels like he's watching it all transpire in the third person, so utterly alienated from the movements he's made, as if something baser has taken control of him and dared to show him what he could have. It takes a moment for Wilson to look back up and at him, wary. He's not sure if what just happened was real or imagined with it having started and stopped as abruptly as it did, his lower lip—slick with the shine of spit, House notices—trembling as he prepares to speak.
"H-House?"
The quiver in his voice is almost painful to listen to. For the first time in a long time, he looks completely lost, dumbstruck by the breakneck turn of events, fixing this doe-eyed gaze on House as if he has some sort of guidance to offer. Or, at the very least, an explanation for his actions, however flawed the reasoning—confirmation it wasn't a delusion. Something. Anything.
He affords Wilson neither of the two, his grip steeling. He's at a loss for words, fully absorbed in studying the younger's features, cataloguing the equal-parts terrified and entranced look about him. His heart could break like this. It's like staring into the sun, only that it carries far more risk. Unable to think of a response, he leans forward, close but not close enough, a question of sorts. If words will fail him, he doesn't need them. He brushes his thumb across Wilson's temple, petting the hair there down and stroking it, small sweeping motions that have the other man melting into his hand. His breath hitches, head slightly tilting into the touch. Every instinct in House's body fights back, a glaring indication that this closeness is too tender, too intimate, that it’s not safe to venture here, but he just can't stop himself, not wanting to lose what might be his only chance at this. Fear of intimacy be damned, he will have this. Wilson's eyes flutter shut as he pushes forward of his own accord and House decides that he can't see any reason why he should be doing anything different, because whatever this is is obviously working out in his favor. Their lips press together, hesitant, chaste at first, simply exploring the feel of one another. It must be a novel experience for Wilson, who breaks off to suck in a small breath at the sensation of stubble rasping against his skin, squirming when House surges back in and begins to deepen the kiss with tongue. He goes to pull back, thinking he'd made a mistake, stopped by an inward tug on his shirt.
"Don't- don't stop," Wilson breathes out, so near to him that the older man can feel it and even smell the rum that’s choking him up, close enough that he can see just how slick his lips are. It's the push House needs to curl his fingers tighter in Wilson's hair, pulling him in and kissing at the corners of his mouth, goading him, shifting back so that he has to draw his legs up onto the couch and crawl forward to follow after him. The hand on his thigh meanders to his side, just above his hip, urging him closer and closer until he's practically pressed up to House just trying to kiss him.
"C'mon," House whispers, squeezing his hip, "come here." He lowers his hands, one sliding down from his hip to his upper thigh, the other resting on the couch. Wilson pauses for a moment, seeming to understand the request. It appears to catch him by surprise in spite of his anticipation of it; he ducks his head, too shy to meet House's eyes as he tentatively slides his leg over the other's lap with guidance from his hand, straddling him, letting out a shuddering breath when he's cradled by the jaw and forced to look back up. He fully settles as House brings him closer by the back of his neck and tilts his head to the side, his knees giving out underneath him, too caught up in the sensation of a mouth on his bared neck not to relent and let his weight sink into House's. He clutches his shirt again while the other hand braces itself against the back cushion, gasping quietly when teeth scrape at his neck. House takes this as his cue to trail open-mouthed kisses along the younger’s pulse, sucking lightly at the pale skin there, trying not to focus too much on the warmth and heft of the body pressed against him or the sighing breath in his ear. Positioned like this, he can feel the swelling bulge in Wilson's jeans against his stomach, the inward clench of his thighs where they're spread and seated over his, can very well hear the soft, wounded sound he makes at the realization that House really can feel everything. His own pants tighten over his crotch, in near disbelief that he's gotten this far, that he gets to witness his friend—friend?—in this state.
“Don't get all shy on me now,” he teases, watching embarrassment paint the younger man's features red, chuckling quietly before obliging the apprehensive tug on his shirt by pulling him in to kiss him again. He moves the hand he has on Wilson's thigh down to feel just how hard he is through the denim at the same time that the warmth of Wilson's mouth opens to his, squeezing gently, noting how out of breath he gets, how sensitive he seems to be to such small touches. His jaw starts to go slack, kisses turning sloppy, a sign that it might all be too much for him to keep up with.
"Sorry, s-sorry," he stutters out, still catching his breath when House gives him the space to speak, looking down at his lap and exhaling shakily at the sight he's met with. "I just- I'm just not used to this, you know, it- it- I didn't know you-"
"Wilson—James. Look at me." His eyes snap up at the use of his name, rapt, his breath growing heavy. House doesn't miss the way his pupils dilate, how his erection stiffens in the older man's grasp, filling out under his palm; this can't be the first time that Wilson has thought about, dreamt of something like this, and the realization almost scares him.
"Shut up and relax. You worry too much," House says, running his free hand along his side in an attempt at comfort. He stops at Wilson's waistband as an idea pops into his head, tucking a finger into one of the loops, letting it rest there while he processes House's objective, watching the distraught look that forms on his face as he figures out what House intends on doing—something like an internal struggle between giving in to his impulses and maintaining his dignity. It must not be that important—or perhaps it's that he thinks it's already a lost cause, or maybe the tequila has seriously ravaged his higher-order thinking skills(really, how else could House have gotten this lucky?)—because he spreads his legs just a bit further, tilting his hips back, unable to take his eyes off of the hands undoing his belt buckle and zipper. House nearly tears at the waistband of his briefs just trying to get them down, holding his breath as he watches Wilson's flushed cock slap against his stomach, ignoring the flustered sound the younger makes in favor of tracing his thumb gingerly along velvet skin from the base to the wet tip.
"You're so worked up from nothing," he observes, pressing into the sensitive underside of it, petting at it with his fingertip. “Thought drinking was supposed to be your kryptonite.” He watches in fascination as precum beads up and drips onto his shirt, distantly aware of the unnerved moan Wilson lets out when he isn't quick enough to stop himself, the drop of his head as he attempts to avoid House's gaze and face his reddening cheeks away from him, dark hair falling over his eyes. His hips grind down against House's lap despite himself, clearly enjoying himself even as embarrassed as he is, gasping at the feeling of an erection pressing against him. It's a perfect display in the older man's eyes; something of dreams, and it's all for him—the shyness, the quiet, fervent longing that he knows is there, buried deep—it kills him to wonder how long it’s been there. Wilson's ass being crushed against his lap only makes it that much worse, hissing out a breath at the pressure. It kills him already to know how long he’s been waiting for this.
"I-I told you I wasn't used to- hah- used to-" Wilson cuts off at that, sucking in a breath as he rubs up against House's shirt, his words escaping him. It might be that in his eyes saying it aloud would confirm something he fears, give it solid ground to take root in; that he'd be admitting something he's ashamed of (House knows it must be something like this), squirreled away to some place in his mind that he's made impenetrable. Because he's another man, because he's House, he's not sure which it is, but he knows it's one of the two (if not both—probably both). Wilson stammers for the right words, straining to keep himself still as he tries to clear the mental fog.
Enough of this. "Used to what?" House asks, feigning innocence, working at the head of Wilson's cock, spreading the wetness gathered at the tip. Overwhelm his senses enough, House thinks, and he'll crack right through the center; it must not be too far off from the truth with the way he starts to pant, thighs trembling faintly, still dripping precum. House tilts his head mockingly, adding insult to injury.
"You- you know what," he says, sounding dangerously helpless. "Don't-" he trails off into a moan, grinding down desperately as House wraps the full breadth of his palm around him, "-don't antagonize me." His voice comes out a bit more breathlessly this time, looking down wildly at House's hand as it strokes him, feeling himself fill out completely in his grip as his cock twitches and drools. Wilson pushes into his hand to meet him halfway out of a rapidly burgeoning desperation, whimpering softly between panting breaths. The topic at hand is lost on him as his ability to keep it together frays and comes apart; he feels obscenely vulnerable being pressed this close, watching his cock disappear into House's fist, and it's only worsened by the look he sees in the older man's eyes when they meet his. Something incisive, not uncruel, wolfish and razor-sharp. Glinting with what could only be described as hunger. It's the kind of look he never expected to be on the receiving end of—the kind that has shivers of arousal pooling in his belly in hot, heavy waves as another gasp punches out of him, realizing just what it means to be the object of House's possessiveness. He feels pathetic at having been so oblivious to what that greed could've meant, what it does mean, exhilarated still in knowing that he belongs to it. The fact that House is still fully dressed doesn't help how exposed he feels either, being watched so keenly when he's at the other's mercy.
"Do I, though?" House pauses for a few moments, as if to consider something, stopping his movements. "You'll have to enlighten me on what exactly it is you're not used to."
"House," he tries, straining to roll his hips and thrust into the older man’s hand with what little mobility he has, "please, I– I can't do this right now." He's restless where House has him effectively trapped, his frustration growing with each unsuccessful attempt to get himself off, giving into a quiet, uncharacteristically petulant whine. At this point, he's so hard that it hurts, that the dull ache in the pit of his stomach has grown into an incessant, burning throb, and House knows what it's doing to him. It's exactly the kind of thing he'd imagined the other man would do and exactly what undoes him now. All that neediness he keeps neatly tucked away rushes out of him, reaching out for dear life like it could suck House in, his cock throbbing in the older's grip. "I- it's not that easy, I can't just—"
"Oh, but you can. C'mon, James," he murmurs, repeating that same petting motion, squeezing the base, "can't keep me in the dark like this. Promise you it really is that easy." Or: you don't get what you want until I get what I want. Wilson struggles to answer, visibly distressed at the conflict House has created, presenting an offer he knows the younger can’t refuse with a cost House knows will linger in his mind long after they've left this room. Of course, he would never have asked if he didn't think—know what Wilson would be willing to risk.
"I… I'm not used to this," he says, breaking eye contact. House can feel a faint trace of Wilson’s pulse thrumming against his palm now that his attention has honed in, and shit, it's really not a sensation he thought he'd ever become familiar with, alight with the sudden giddiness that knowing it brings. "I mean, you're the first man I've done this with i-in who knows- who knows how long, and—fuck, it- it’s you, you can't pretend that that doesn't mean anything, that—" Then, added in almost a whisper, his cheeks blazing: "that you don't know what this is doing to me."
That works. Okay, it more than works, but if House starts to think too hard about it, he’s not sure he’ll ever sleep again. He waits until Wilson meets his eyes again, watching him swallow and wet his lips nervously.
"There, that wasn't so difficult, was it?" House chuckles lightly at the anticipative tense and release of the other man's thighs before moving his hand again in small strokes, tracing circles into the ridge of his cock, smearing the fluid that'd started dripping down. That earns a gasp and a stunned sob from him, squirming and rocking his hips as House leans in to engage him with a kiss for a few moments, desperate to fit more of himself into the hand wrapped around him. He lets out another soft, impatient whine and grinds back into House's lap when he doesn't give in, pushing against the bulge underneath him to make his point.
"Not so fast," he chides mildly, rasping the words against the younger's lips before he pulls back, "need to keep you wanting more. I have to be sure you'll come back for it." He continues with the small, gentle touches, watching as Wilson whimpers and jerks into his hand, further devolving before House's eyes as he tries harder and harder (to no avail) to hide just how needy he's getting. How desperate the older man makes him, how badly he needs to cum, the shame that’s plaguing him now because of it. It's evident that his control over himself is slipping, that House's words have struck some deeper chord within, because his restraint crumbles, almost oblivious to the display he puts on with all of the pretty faces and noises he makes as the stroking becomes more relentless. He groans, taking a moment to look back up, fixing that same half-lidded, darkened gaze on House, urgent and electrified and at the same time glazed over with desire (House’s conclusion is that maybe there is a God).
Wilson's hand moves to the side and off of his chest, joining the other in bracing against the cushion behind the body beneath him, putting him just a few inches closer. He glances down, squeezing his eyes shut momentarily while his breath trembles, too overwrought to face the damp stain he'd left on House’s shirt or the upward push of hips into his. "I-I- Greg, if you- nh- if you don't stop, I—"
"If it's the mess you're concerned about making, I don't think you need to be worried about that," House interrupts, making a show of how his fingers pull away slick. He wipes it off on the other man's jeans and continues over the wounded sound he makes, speaking low, "you've already ruined my shirt. Might as well finish what you started, huh?" He takes Wilson's cock into his hand to drive his point home, rubbing his thumb over the slit, coaxing him to lean further in as he moans and jerks his hips involuntarily, unable to help himself from rutting into the touch.
"Greg, p-please, I'm serious," he chokes out, thighs clenching around House's hips. His arms buckle under his weight as House drags the edge of his nail across his slit, all tender and oversensitive from the attention, punching the air out from his lungs. He buries his face in the crook of the older man's neck, hooking his arms around his shoulders as he cries out, grinding down roughly like it might stave his need off.
"What makes you think I'm not?" House murmurs, biting back a groan. Fuck. If he was needy, he couldn't imagine what Wilson would be. He turns his head to kiss and nip at the younger man's neck, sucking gently at the soft skin there, flicking his thumb over the tip of his cock while he slides a broad palm over his hip to squeeze it in encouragement. It must be a bit too much for Wilson to handle—maybe it's the hot mouth on his pulse, the hands on his body, or the fact that he's crushed up against House and pushing feverishly into his hand while it touches him where he's the most sensitive—because in the next minute, Wilson is panting his name as he cums, letting out these soft, broken little noises, punctuated with a gasp before pitching high as the other man takes him and strokes him through it. He muffles his moaning in House's shoulder, still rocking into his lap, riding the high out, pushing through his fingers and smearing the slick mess he'd created until everything starts to feel a bit too raw. House, however, doesn't stop when Wilson does, only pausing for a brief moment; he keeps jerking his hand around just the tip, quickening to a jarring pace that has the younger sobbing and cleaving to him like a life raft.
"Too much," he whines against House's neck, squirming restlessly as overstimulation sears his worn nerves. His muscles flex weakly, panting open-mouthed into the collar of House's shirt, too weak and out of it like this to stop the other man from wringing out what little he has left in him to give. Tears prick at his eyes at the sensations overwhelming him and only then does House slow to a stop, hyperaware of the wetness on his skin, meanwhile watching how the fluid leaking from Wilson’s cock has turned clear.
"Shh," House soothes, turning to his overactive imagination to dictate the raise of his hand to the back of the younger man’s neck, his natural instincts short-circuiting from the novelty of the situation. His fingers thread through dark hair and clasp his neck, a small attempt to ground him, maybe even to make up for the tears he'd drawn. Words wouldn't work—something far darker than comfort would end up coming out of his mouth. They sit like this for almost a minute, only stirring to speak after Wilson has caught his breath.
"Your- your shirt," he exhales, lifting his head to look down, "I'm sorry, I-I couldn't-“
“Stop that—stop stressing about it. I know it’s what comes naturally to you, but… don’t.” He shakes his head, a small, subdued motion. “Not this.” Or: You act like this isn't what I wanted, having you like this. Even worse, House doesn't think it would matter either way; his mouth would hang open around the words, too overly self critical to allow them to come to pass. But it's nice to imagine.
A moment goes by. Wilson pulls away as he starts to come down, shifting his weight back, apprehension passing through his face as he shakily zips himself up. House knows he would bolt for the door if he were able—that the reality of this entire thing is starting to catch up with him and that his mind is beginning to reel, the sweat clinging to his skin growing cold. House desperately needs to instill some sort of damage control before the younger man slips through his fingers like mercury, stubborn and unwilling to meet his own want and its relationship to House eye to eye. Stage one of grief is denial. Probably, more importantly, he's too prepared for disappointment. "What about you?" Wilson asks, barely a whisper. He flickers again, stiffening, having nowhere to look that isn't a reminder of what he's already aware of. At least he hasn't fled just yet.
"I wouldn't want you biting off more than you can chew," House responds, painfully conversational in tone. He unclasps Wilson's neck and grabs one of his hands where it rests on his thigh, saying in a quiet, more earnest voice, "look at me, James." He waits until those dark, wide eyes are fixed on him, breaking eye contact for a second as he prepares what he wants to say. "Don't overthink this, okay? Just… do yourself a favor, and don't. Just let it be."
Wilson nods, unsure of what to say. Based on the dazed look on his face, his gears might still be turning, processing, translating the foreign words House has just said to him. He can still feel the hard line of the older man's cock trapped beneath him, pressing against his inner thigh; it's almost all he can focus on now, now that things have quieted down and he's retrieved his senses. What about you, he's probably still thinking with that stupidly caring conscience, searching as well for things to tack his sudden guilt onto, finding it in what feels now like an act of selfishness. Calling House in the middle of the night to rescue him from that goddamn bar, arguing with his (questionable) attempt at help, letting himself be overpowered and treated like this and indulged when he knows better and that it's a recipe for disaster. If he was being the more reasonable version of himself, he would tell himself, oh, how could he have known this would happen? how could he be to blame? how could he know House wouldn't run, isn't trying to do this to catalyze some sort of sinister plot? But the shadow of tenderness in House's eyes suggests otherwise, and Wilson has never been quite good at discouraging the older man's more reckless endeavors, especially not when it's something that's too good to be true (too good to let go so easily). Seeing the reverence and single-mindedness in House’s gaze makes his chest ache that much more, assuming, wishing that some aspect of disdain or regret would take its place and let him get away with the pitiful amount of dignity he has left. How long? he wants to ask—how long House has waited to act on his impulses. He's too scared to hear the answer.
"Hey," House says softly, "Ground Control to Wilson." His voice interrupts Wilson's train of thought, recapturing his attention, all too ready to hand those thoughts off to someone to speak over them. House runs a hand along his side, aiming again for comfort. "I gotta get cleaned up. Don't think you'd want me going 'n getting the next generation crusted into my shirt."
His cheeks color slightly at being reminded of what the other man has gotten to see, shifting off of his lap to allow him to stand up from the couch. When he rises to full height, he turns to the side and looks back at Wilson, standing idly for a moment as their eyes meet, still rolling his sleeves down and adjusting the cuffs. "I can still hear how frantically those wheels are spinning, you know."
"Well, you- you'd better get used to it. I don't think it plans on, um, going away."