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He is the worst person to be around. He is aware of his shortcomings, or rather what other people would see as such—he has never minded, and he certainly doesn’t care. Why should he? Patients die whether he smiles at them or not. Donors are just as likely to give the hospital no money at all if he treats them like they think they deserve to be treated. Friends … well, you can’t make them stick around by saying Please and Thank you. So why not save everyone the trouble and be honest, even if honest is never what people are looking for.
It's farcical, really, that Cuddy should think she can change anything about that by ordering him into her office to remind him of the importance of tonight’s Christmas fundraiser. He’s heard it all before.
“I will cut your salary.” You hardly pay me anything as it is.
“I’ll have you doing clinic hours until the day you die.” That should be any day now.
“If you don’t want them to shut us down, you’d better behave yourself.” Maybe that’s exactly what I want.
It should work, too. His refusal to cooperate should get him out of anything he doesn’t want to do. It always worked so well in the past. If he got on Cuddy’s nerves enough, she’d eventually lose patience and let him off the hook. But somewhere along the line, he made the mistake of letting Cuddy get to know some parts of him. And so, when Wilson knocks on his door later, in that polite way of his, House knows there’s an ulterior motive to this visit.
It's been a long day for the both of them. But whereas House always looks it, the cracks in Wilson’s carefully constructed and maintained exterior speak volumes to the stress he’s under. There’s the tie that sits slightly askew, the coffee stain on the carefully pressed shirt, the ink blot on his left index finger—he’s been through hell.
So that’s why he immediately leads with, “About tonight …,” forgoing any pretense and courtesy.
House glances up from his Game Boy, pretending to only now notice his friend. “It’s kinda late to ask me to prom, don’t you think?”
The soft smile Wilson gives him … well, it’s not always a good sign. “You know how important tonight is for the hospital.”
“When have I ever cared about the hospital?”
The smile flickers, and House feels a small twinge of satisfaction at the sight. “We’re having this conversation every few months. I’m not doing this today.”
“Come now, you like this. Admit it.”
“Like what?” Wilson sighs. “You psychologically torturing everyone around you every single day?”
“Yes. I mean—you like that I’m not boring, like everyone else.” House tries a little smile of his own. “You wouldn’t like me if I behaved myself.”
“I would like a few days off every now and then.” The words come as slowly as if they were wading through molasses to get out of Wilson’s mouth. He really must be exhausted.
“It’d be worse if I was normal. You’d be bored out of your mind by normal.”
“You got me all wrong.”
Maybe House does. Maybe Wilson doesn’t enjoy their little games after all. But there is no denying that his eyes brightened since he walked into House’s office, that his back is less stiff, that there is some color in his cheeks now. He can deny it all he wants, but he loves this as much as House does. Maybe even more.
House turns his attention back to his game. “Then give up.”
“Bad day, is it?” Wilson recaptures his attention.
It’s odd, the way Wilson stands there in the liminal space between House’s desk and the door. House doesn’t appreciate the sight of it when there is a perfectly empty chair right in front of him.
He sighs and puts down the Game Boy. If Wilson wants to be difficult … “It isn’t. Or at least it wasn’t until you and Cuddy tried to manipulate me into compliance.”
Wilson laughs, and when House lowers his gaze, he catches the annoyed twitch of Wilson’s hand. Half a minute longer and he’ll have Wilson ready to drop this.
“Just because you can’t be around people without manipulating them …”
House presses his palm against his chest. “Ouch.”
The hand twitches again, but Wilson is not yet ready to rub his eyebrows the way he always does when he loses patience with House. “Just … don’t make anyone sue the hospital tonight.”
“I don’t think I’ll be performing any surgeries tonight, so …” House picks up a folder on his desk and starts to thumb through it.
Wilson sighs, a grating sound. “Look—”
“I’ll behave,” House interrupts him, “if it means that much to you.”
Wilson opens his mouth, closes it. His gaze flicks up to the ceiling, then back down again to where House is still pretending to be only half interested in him. “Thank you,” he says, unable to hide the strain in his voice, even though he tries so valiantly.
“But only if you buy me a drink,” House tries to lighten the mood.
Wilson rolls his eyes. It’s better than nothing, better than that exhausted irritation. House would prefer another thing entirely, but he’s taken it too far already. They’d better go their separate ways here.
And yet, when Wilson leaves, the office feels way too big.
House is making an effort, just like Cuddy and Wilson want him to. But he’ll make sure they know he’s miserable every step of the way. He won’t ruin this perfect evening—he wouldn’t go as far as that—but he’ll make damn sure they’re not enjoying themselves either. If they end the night feeling half as wretched as he does now, it still won’t be enough. The tuxedo he’s wearing makes his nerve endings burn—the shirt feels scratchy against his arms and back, the trousers move in a strange way when he walks, the bow tie makes his throat feel tight, and his shoes are half a size smaller than they were a year ago.
Why does he go to these things in the first place? He doesn’t want to spend his evening looking ridiculous, performing at the snap of Cuddy’s finger, having to hold a conversation with the most boring people alive. Maybe he should ruin the evening for everyone after all … that’ll teach them to force him to attend these things.
It’s not as if anyone wants him here, he thinks, standing in front of the entrance to Prospect House. People won’t donate more money to the hospital just because he shook their hands.
“My, don’t you look handsome.”
House turns to find Cuddy climbing out of a cab, a bright smile plastered onto her face. Perfect! His first victim. She’s wearing a satin slip dress in dark red and black high heels that make her appear much taller than she is. He takes his time letting his eyes wander from the top of her head down to her feet and back up again, making sure she’s unnerved by the attention.
“And you look like you forgot your dress at home.”
To his annoyance, her smile doesn’t falter. “Always the charmer.”
“Stop that,” he says, regretting that he didn’t hurry up earlier when he had the chance to hide somewhere in the house before Cuddy caught him.
“No, I mean it,” she insists, placing her hand on his arm. The contact makes him flinch. “You’re very charming.”
“I don’t mean the compliment, I mean that smile. You look like a shark.” He turns back toward the entrance, subtly trying to shake her hand off, but she only tightens her hold.
“There’s no need to be cranky. I know you only come to these things for the free alcohol.”
“I wouldn’t come at all if you weren’t forcing me.”
She barks out a laugh. “As if I could force you to do anything you don’t want to do.”
“You’re right. I should just leave.” He slips out of her grip but before he can take two steps, her hand is holding his arm again, firmly this time.
“Oh no, you’re staying.”
From inside Prospect House, House can hear music, laughter, overlapping conversations, the sound of glasses clinking together, the sound of high heels moving on expensive floors. His ears are ringing already and he isn’t even in the thick of it yet.
“It’s not like you want me here anyway,” he snaps. He wishes he could pull his arm out of Cuddy’s grip, but his leg is burning from his escape attempt and his feet are killing him.
“Would I have invited you if that were true?” Cuddy asks.
With a subtle press of her hand, she makes him start walking, first through the entrance, then through the vestibule. The place is already packed with people standing around in tight-knit groups, expensive suits brushing against dainty, naked arms. Calling cards are being traded, embellished stories exchanged. The need to impress one another is like a disease, and not even Cuddy is immune to it. She raises her hand to wave at an older man whose much younger girlfriend is typing away on her phone next to him. She looks as bored as House feels.
“Why did you invite me?” he asks, scanning the walls for an emergency exit. But everywhere he looks he can only see strangers trapped between tight walls.
“Because I know how much you hate these things,” Cuddy admits, shaking the hand of a gray-haired woman who looks as if she could finance the whole hospital for ten years by writing one little check. “Eloise, have you met Dr. House?”
House ignores the wrinkled hand Eloise holds out for him to shake. “So this is payback? For what?”
There’s music coming from somewhere, a jazz quintet, and the guitar is painfully out of tune.
“Please excuse us for a moment,” Cuddy says to the rich woman before dragging House into a noisy stairwell. It hurts, the way she’s pulling on his arm.
“Not everyone is out to get you,” she hisses after checking if anyone can overhear them. No one is paying attention; they are much too absorbed in themselves. “You are here because you are a part of the hospital. And if you want to keep your department and your team and your job, you will shake some hands, compliment the women with the richest looking husbands, and you will behave yourself.”
House is tempted to say, “Make me,” and he should. But something tells him Cuddy will find a cruel and unusual form of punishment if he pushes her further right now. At least he killed her insufferable smile. So he shakes her hand off and hisses, “Fine.”
“Fine,” Cuddy shoots back. Then, thankfully, she leaves him standing in the cramped stairwell.
House reaches into the pocket of his trousers and takes out his bottle of Vicodin. For once, he isn’t sure if the pain he’s feeling is coming from his leg or from this situation he’s been forced into. He opens the bottle and takes out two of the white pills, holding them in his hand for a moment. If he OD’d … no, Cuddy would file that under him not behaving himself. With practiced ease, he swallows both pills before letting the bottle disappear in his pocket.
“Careful there, mister, the evening has barely started.”
“Oh no,” House says, quickly scanning Wilson’s impeccably pressed tuxedo and pristine white shirt, “one of us needs to go home and change.”
“Having fun?” Wilson asks.
“More fun than I’d be having at my own funeral,” House answers. “Where’s the bar?” He starts walking toward the back of the house where the infernal noise of the jazz quintet is coming from.
“Honestly, I’m surprised you showed up,” Wilson says, following him.
“Did you really expect me to disappoint you after you and Cuddy asked so nicely?”
“Yes … no,” Wilson stammers. “I wasn’t expecting you to make an effort, that’s all.”
House leans against the doorframe to the Garden Room to give his leg a short break. Wilson stops next to him, trying to pretend he’s not concerned by only looking at him for a second. Then he lowers his gaze to the chest pocket on House’s tuxedo.
“Is that—?” he starts, but House immediately interrupts him by taking off toward the bar.
“You know, you don’t constantly have to keep calling attention to the nice things you do for me,” he shoots back over his shoulder.
Wilson keeps following him, his face blank as he tries to hide the effect House’s words have on him. “I’m not,” he remarks in a voice that’s too steady.
“Yes, you are.” House stops in front of the small dry bar that’s been set up in one corner of the room. Luckily, it’s the one that’s farthest away from tonight’s entertainment. “Heard you were buying.” He props his elbows against the bar so his arms form a convenient barrier between him and Wilson.
“It’s complimentary, sir,” the barkeeper says in his best customer service voice.
Wilson leans against the bar next to House, desperate to catch his attention. “I don’t keep calling attention to the nice things I do for you.”
It’s nice, that feeling of House’s heartrate picking up speed. Who would’ve thought it would take this little effort to put Wilson on edge. “I’m not wearing it as a favor to you, I’m wearing it because I’ve been told it goes well with my eyes.”
Wilson shoots him a quizzical look. “Who told you that?”
“A lady of the night.”
“Sir?” the barkeeper interrupts them.
“Two scotch.” Wilson all but snaps the order at him, reaching for his wallet before remembering the drinks are free. He drops his hand so it hangs uselessly at his side.
The barkeeper picks up two glasses with well-practiced movements. “Would that be on the rocks, sir?”
“Neat,” House answers before Wilson can make the sensible choice. “And make mine double.”
“Having fun now?” Wilson asks once they’re both sitting on uncomfortable chairs at a round table.
It’s disappointing, really, how quickly he got over the revelation that House wears the pocket square Wilson gifted him when he meets hookers. Well, if he can’t get to him that way … maybe he should test his theory that Wilson would be bored out of his mind if House was on his best behavior.
“I don’t need alcohol to have fun,” he answers Wilson’s question, downing his whole drink.
“Cuddy won’t let you go home early just because you’ve got alcohol poisoning,” Wilson says, smirking at him over the rim of his own glass. “But I can’t blame you for trying.”
“Aha!” The exclamation is so loud that a man two tables over flinches. “I told you you’d find normal boring. You’re just as unhappy as I am.”
Wilson laughs, and this time he doesn’t sound exhausted, on edge, ready to give up and storm out. It’s a genuine laugh, and he looks it too, with his smooth forehead and relaxed shoulders. “Will you be entertaining us with one of your comedy acts later?”
House reaches for Wilson’s glass, brings it to his lips, and takes a sip. Wilson doesn’t stop him. “I thought you wanted me to behave,” he says, looking straight into Wilson’s eyes.
It has the desired effect—Wilson lowers his gaze to the expensive tablecloth, shifts in his chair, even clears his throat. House might get a semi-decent evening out of this after all. He lowers the glass slowly, keeps his fingers wrapped around it deliberately.
“Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind.”
There it is, that annoyed sigh that always makes House’s adrenaline spike. “House …”
“I know …” House rolls his eyes, adjusts his bow tie, “the hospital, the money …”
“Is it really that hard for you?” Wilson asks, and his eyes are back on House like he’s hoping to find a crack in House’s carefully constructed armor that he can poke into, tease open. “To act like a decent human being? Even if it’s just for one night?”
“My fairy godmother told me I have to be home by midnight.”
“And my fairy godmother told me I can’t spend my life waiting for you to change,” Wilson shoots back.
Oh, he’s making it interesting tonight. “Come on, you wouldn’t like me if I was any different.” Wilson opens his mouth, and House knows exactly where this will go … it’s nothing he wants to hear. “Why are you sitting around with me when you could be picking up some prep-school girl whose daddy would love to have a doctor in the family? Or a bored, rich widow who’d be happy to throw all her money at you?”
House is expecting Wilson to blush, to evade the question, to change the subject. Instead, he says, “I could ask you the same thing.”
“Prep-school girls aren’t really my type.” He raises Wilson’s glass to his lips again and finishes the whole drink.
“And neither are bored, rich widows,” Wilson adds.
The alcohol and the pills are racing through House’s blood, the out-of-tune guitar puts him on the edge just so. “You, on the other hand …”
“I’m also not your type,” Wilson says quickly.
House flashes him a smile. “I was about to say that you love prep-school girls and widows, but it’s interesting your brain would go there.”
“You’re exhausting.”
House can’t stop his fingers from brushing against the pocket square stuck in his suit jacket. “And you’re cute when you’re angry, honey.”
Wilson’s eyes darken as he lowers his eyebrows, but there is a flicker there; first, it’s a twitch right between his eyes, and then at the corners of his mouth when a smile threatens to take over. “You finished my drink,” he points out.
“Would you like me to get you another one?” House offers.
“No,” Wilson declines, and the smile is definitely there now, sending a bolt of pleasure through House, “you’ll just poison it. I’ll go get it myself.”
Wilson is halfway out of his chair when he freezes, eyes fixed firmly on a middle-aged man who is approaching him with intent. From the way his suit clings to his shoulders, his hairline is too full for his age, and his gait is too self-confident, it’s obvious that he is one of the donors tonight. Definitely not someone who works a nine-to-five to be able to afford to go on living for another week. The way Wilson’s entire body stiffens, his face adopts a professional mask, and there’s a nervous flicker in his jaw when he glances at House, it’s clear this man is important to him.
House straightens his back. It’s the perfect opportunity to test his theory and prove Wilson wrong.
The stranger stops right in front of Wilson with the air of someone who is used to invading other people’s personal space. “Dr. Wilson,” he says and holds out his perfectly manicured hand for Wilson to shake.
Wilson takes the man’s hand in his and gives it a firm, professional shake. He must be a patient then.
“It’s good to see you, Mr. St. John.”
The stranger lets go first, but there is something in the way he moves even closer that makes House lean back in his chair. Wilson, to his credit, doesn’t even twitch.
“How’s Henry?” Wilson asks.
“Oh, he’s …” Mr. St. John pauses. It’s not the hesitation of a father not wanting to talk about his son because he is embarrassed by his mere existence, something that House can recognize all too well. It’s not the hesitation of avoidance, of regret and shame either, but rather the one that comes with an overwhelming sense of being human. “He’s about to graduate.”
“High school?” Wilson probes. “Wow, that’s …”
Mr. St. John turns his attention to House in a way that’s too perceptive for House’s taste. “This man here saved my son’s life.”
House nods. “Oh, I don’t doubt it.”
A flush creeps into Wilson’s face. “I did no such thing. Any decent doctor—”
“A decent doctor,” St. John interrupts him, “would have sent us home with a prescription for some anti-inflammatory medication. What you did came close to a miracle.”
House looks up at where Wilson is towering over him. The flush isn’t only covering Wilson’s cheeks now; it has moved on to his neck, disappearing below the collar of his impossibly white shirt. He can’t look at St. John directly, and he shifts his weight from one foot to the other as if he’s contemplating disappearing from the room on the pretext of having to check up on a patient. House could help him—one rude remark, one purposefully placed insult, and St. John would forget all about being grateful to Wilson. On any other night, House would’ve come to his friend’s aid. But tonight, he’s going to let Wilson stew. He’ll be begging House to misbehave in no time.
But then Wilson’s gaze flickers to House, and there is something there House didn’t expect to find—a sparkle, betraying how much Wilson is enjoying the praise. House’s chest tightens.
“This is Dr. Gregory House,” Wilson introduces him.
Is this … a test? To see if he’ll behave himself? Well, if Wilson wants to make a competition out of this, House is determined to win it.
When St. John holds out his hand for House to shake, House takes it. He even pushes himself out of his chair to stand up, even though his leg protests with a sharp pang that shoots all the way into his back.
“Yes, the famous Dr. House …,” St. John remarks with a winning smile.
“Infamous is the word you’re looking for,” House corrects him, squeezing the offered hand an ounce too tightly.
That makes the other man laugh. “I’m sure it is. At least that’s what people say.”
Wilson’s whole body stiffens as if he’s been caught doing something illegal. “Dr. House is—”
St. John interrupts him. “He’s saving lives, I’m sure. Doesn’t really matter how he gets there, does it?”
There is something about St. John’s manner, the way he acts as if he’s in on some big joke, that makes House want to push a few of his buttons, just for fun, just to see what might happen. Wilson expects him to, too, warily glancing at him out of the corner of his eye. So House remains quiet, a solemn expression on his face.
“We don’t know where we would be without him,” Wilson says, driven by the need to kill the uncomfortable silence. A muscle in his jaw twitches.
House shoots St. John a smile that not even three people in the whole world would recognize as fake. “Dr. Wilson is exaggerating, naturally.”
Wilson shifts his weight again, moving away from House slightly. It’s almost as if he doesn’t trust him, as if he’s expecting House to deal the deadly blow any second now. House almost wants to put him out of his misery, but then he wouldn’t learn that his actions have consequences.
“Have you always been a supporter of the hospital?” he asks instead, “or did we win you over after Dr. Wilson worked his miracle?”
St. John returns House’s fake smile with the air of a rich boy who knows this kind of conversation is beneath him. “My family and I have been making sure to support important causes for many years now.”
“Well …” House clears his throat. He’s ready to administer that killing blow now. “We couldn’t save the lives we’re saving without the support of people like you and your family. Thank you.” He holds out his hand again, and St. John shakes it firmly.
“It’s an honor to hear that we’re playing a part in saving people’s lives, albeit just a small one.”
House can feel his fake smile flicker but he manages to keep it locked in place. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, sir.”
St. John turns to Wilson and shakes his hand too. “It’s always good to see you, Dr. Wilson.”
“You too,” Wilson replies with one of his professional smiles. “Give my best to Henry and your wife.”
House waits until St. John has turned his back on them before letting himself fall back into his chair. “Charming man,” he remarks. “He has the makings of a great psychopath.”
Wilson joins him back at their table, his gaze lowered to his hand that is resting on the expensive tablecloth. It must be a difficult situation for him, seeing House act like a—how Wilson would call it—human being. It’s not every day that House manages to have an entire conversation without upsetting everyone involved. House decides to let Wilson sit with his feelings for a little while—it’s vital Wilson comes to his own conclusion, namely to the realization that he doesn’t like this normal side of House at all. House can already hear Wilson’s apologetic words, see his tight jaw, as if it pains him to admit House was right yet again. Or maybe there won’t be an outright apology, not about something like this, at least. Maybe he’ll just change the subject, hope that House won’t remark on anything that happened between them and St. John. Or maybe—
Wilson leans forward in his chair as if he’s about to share a secret with House, and House can’t help but move closer. It certainly is an unexpected move on Wilson’s part. But, then again, this unpredictability is part of the reason House loves to spend time with Wilson; it’s what attracted him to Wilson in the first place.
They’ve known each other for years now—for more than a decade, in fact. It’s the longest anyone has ever born House, the longest anyone has ever tolerated his presence who wasn’t forced to. Wilson knows him better than anyone, and even though the same is true the other way around, Wilson still manages to surprise him from time to time. It’s what makes him so interesting.
And yet … even though House has had more than a decade to get to know Wilson, nothing in his ever-growing catalogue of Wilson-isms could have prepared him for the two words that come out of Wilson’s mouth now.
“Good boy.”
At first, House is sure he must have misheard that. Maybe Wilson said, “Well done,” (also not very likely, but still likelier), maybe he said, “Can I get you another drink?” (although it should worry House that his brain apparently only caught something that sounded like two words instead of six), or maybe Wilson just cleared his throat. All those options are considerably more likely than him actually saying what House thinks he heard. But then Wilson reaches for House’s thigh (the good one, he can’t help but notice) and pats it, like one would pat the head of an obedient dog.
House’s head is empty after that, probably for the first time in his life. It’s just static, like a complete white-out. If his thoughts were people trying to find their house in the middle of a snowstorm, they would freeze to death a few yards away from their front door. For a short while, the complete lack of thought feels like a relief, orgasmic almost, and House closes his eyes and falls back in his chair, bathing in the silence of it all. But then the bubble bursts, and he hears the voices and the laughter and the out-of-tune guitar, and most importantly his brain catches up and he realizes what just happened.
Good boy.
Wilson is still sitting next to him, a subtle smile playing around his lips. He has seen it all—the way every single thought disappeared from House’s brain, the way he lost himself for a moment, and now he has the upper hand, not just in this game, but in every single game they will play in future. House wants to hate him for it, but he can’t, not when Wilson is studying him with undivided attention, the way House studies his whiteboard every time a case holds his attention. And all House wants is for Wilson to keep looking at him like that.
Wilson has other plans. He squeezes House’s thigh (again, the good one) and then stands. “I need to talk to some of our donors. Cuddy gave me a list of people to accost.”
He is gone before House can say anything, think anything for that matter, leaving him wondering if he imagined it after all.
It’s been days, and not only is House unable to stop thinking about it, he also can’t make sense of it. He looked at it from every possible angle, he looked at it under a microscope and with a telescope so precise he could see far-away galaxies clearly if he wanted to. And still he can’t make sense of it. It’s the most delicious puzzle.
Wilson has messed with him before. He made House believe all sorts of things, like the one time he pretended to have a mid-life crisis that could only be cured by him moving to Spain, or that one time he was between wives and pretended to turn into a womanizer so House would stop setting him up with hookers, but he isn’t pretending to be or do or want anything this time. Then again, the tricks Wilson plays on him aren’t always about pretending. They’re often practical jokes too, a realization House comes to as he pours sugar into his coffee while drowning out the sound of his fellows’ voices as they work on a case. Swapping sugar for salt is a classic, and House has already fallen for it (more than once, although he would never admit that). But this doesn’t feel like a practical joke either—House didn’t embarrass himself or swallow something or trip and fall down the stairs. So no, this can’t be a practical joke.
Of course, maybe Wilson is losing it. Mental illness runs in his family, after all. Maybe the strain of the job is getting to him and he’s beginning to crack. It wouldn’t be entirely out of the question, and he definitely wouldn’t be the first doctor to have a mental breakdown. But that doesn’t explain the way he looked at House, like he saw him clearly for the first time. In fact, none of this explains anything.
It’s been days, and House is not yet ready to face the obvious explanation, the one that came to him in the back of the cab after the party as he was on his way home. The simplest explanation is usually the right one. And the simplest explanation is that, during the long years of his friendship with Wilson, something shifted. Several things shifted. House used to flirt with him all the time, back when it didn’t mean anything, and he just enjoyed watching Wilson squirm. Once it did start to mean something to him, the harmless flirting turned into something more aggressive. Still, House knew their friendship would always be safe, because Wilson was there to guard it, responsible and steadfast. So maybe, after playing this game for years, something finally made Wilson shift too.
James Wilson coming on to him is a ludicrous thought. That is what House decided in the back of that cab as it rushed over a speedbump that made him huff with surprise. He pushed it right to the back of his mind, locked it away behind a heavy door, lost the key at the bottom of a deep lake. It’s a terrifying thought because it means that for once he can’t predict what Wilson will do next. And he needs him to be responsible and steadfast because House is anything but.
Their case drags on and on, and they hook their patient up to a dialysis machine, then give him chemo, and still nothing works. House barely has time to go to the bathroom, let alone talk to Wilson. So they don’t see each other at all for four whole days. And when House finally goes home in the early morning hours of the fifth day, he’s finally ready to dive that key back up and unlock the door to reexamine that ludicrous notion that came to him in the back of a cab that smelled like cold cigarette smoke and air freshener.
House lies on his cold bed and stares up at the dark ceiling of his dark room. That terrifying possibility is right there with him, and the more time he spends with it, the more he stops seeing it as something to be scared of, and begins to look at it as something to challenge him. And he can work with that. He can look at the hard facts, collect more data, draw a scientific conclusion. If that conclusion should turn out to be that, yes, Wilson was coming on to him, then House will be able to work with that too.
He gets back to the hospital around midday after having slept for almost four hours. The minutes of REM sleep he got were around zero, but that’s only something he’ll start worrying about once it happens three nights in a row. Their patient is finally showing signs of improvement but that doesn’t necessarily mean he does have cancer, as Wilson would be sure to point out if House took the case to him.
Speaking of Wilson … House needs to find a way to replicate the conditions of the dinner to see if Wilson will do it again (it, of course, being calling House a “good boy” but House can’t even think about that because it gives him an irregular heartbeat). And the easiest way to do that is to show basic human decency in front of others.
He holds the door to the hospital open for a woman pushing a child in a wheelchair. Wilson is nowhere to be seen, but the two nurses working the front desk over lunch stare at him, their mouths hanging open. Even if Wilson doesn’t see him do it, word of it will reach him one way or another.
Wilson is in his office. House pushes the door open with a cheerful, “Good morning,” only to be met with a glare from Wilson and a confused look from an older man sitting opposite him.
“Pardon me.” House raises a hand in apology. “Dr. Wilson, I’d like a second opinion, please. Could you come see me in my office later?”
Wilson’s glare turns into a look of utter confusion, and then suspicion. House decides to go the extra mile.
“Again, I’m sorry for interrupting,” he says to the patient with a small bow of his head, exposing his head in a submissive motion that won’t be lost on Wilson. Then, before Wilson has any chance to react, he closes the door firmly. That should do the trick, if he’s not mistaken.
“Why?” is what Wilson says later, bursting into House’s office even though he can see perfectly well that House is deep in conversation with his fellows.
“You need to be more specific than that,” House says, his eyes following the whiteboard marker he just tossed into the air.
“Why did you burst into my office, only to apologize to both me and the patient?” Wilson huffs.
House catches the pen and points it at Foreman. “I meant him.”
“House.” Wilson pinches the bridge of his nose. “You have to stop bursting into my office.”
This isn’t going how House had planned. “I apologized, didn’t I?”
“Yes. Why did you do that?”
“I—you …,” House stammers. “That—isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?”
“You never once apologized for anything in your life. So what’s going on?”
House’s brain is trying to fill in the blanks, finish the equation, but no matter how hard he tries, he only ever arrives at the same conclusion—whatever Wilson’s intentions were that night, it was an outlier. Which means he got it all wrong.
“I told you you’d be bored if I behaved myself,” House reminds him.
“Bored isn’t the word I’d use,” Wilson sighs. “Concerned is more like it.”
Foreman, Chase, and Cameron are following the conversation as if they were watching a game of tennis. They expect House to make a snide remark, to put Wilson in his place, or, if he should fail at that, to let out his frustration on Wilson. But this is the first time since that party that House has Wilson’s attention, and it’s so different from last time, so much like it usually is, that House doesn’t feel like doing any of that. He just stands there staring at Wilson, trying to cope with a feeling he has made sure never to allow himself to feel before where Wilson is concerned—disappointment.
“You wanted my opinion on something?” Wilson changes the subject when House doesn’t say anything.
“File’s on the desk,” House replies, pointing at the chaos between Foreman, Chase, and Cameron. “I’m taking a break.”
He limps toward Wilson, making sure to keep him on his left side so he can bump his shoulder into him as he passes. Wilson grunts but allows it.
Their patient survives, and somehow House survives too. After all, he’s remarkably good at dulling every kind of pain. So he does just that, and when Wilson asks him if he wants to get dinner on Friday evening, House agrees, any plans to make Wilson do it again long forgotten.
Their usual place is crowded, but there is one booth in the corner left. House makes his way toward it with grim determination, but a young couple is quicker. She’s in the process of sitting down when House reaches the table, and he throws House an apologetic look that turns anxious when he sees the way House is leaning on his cane.
“I’m so sorry, sir,” the man mumbles. “Normally, we’d offer you the table, but my wife—”
House can see the woman’s big belly for himself. “It’s fine,” he sighs. “I’m not so badly crippled I can’t sit at the bar.”
“Are you sure?” the woman asks, shooting her husband an apprehensive glance. “We can share the table if you want to.”
That would be as if House was trapped in his worst nightmare. “It’s fine,” he repeats, gripping his cane harder. “Enjoy your evening.”
As he makes his way toward the bar to secure the last two empty stools next to each other, Wilson gently places his hand on House’s shoulder. House is about to snap some kind of insult at him (after all, he needs an outlet to get rid of all that pent-up irritation), but whatever he wanted to say dies right there on his lips.
“Good boy.”
Fuck.
It’s worse than the first time, because House buried any hopes of hearing it again, but he did such a bad job at it that the longing is still there like an ugly scar. His knees buckle, and he can only disguise that by bumping his cane into a chair. What the fuck is Wilson’s problem?
Wilson watches as House climbs onto the bar stool, looking the same as always. If House hadn’t felt that grip on his shoulder, he would have thought hearing Wilson utter those words was a figment of his imagination.
“The usual?” Wilson asks once House is seated.
House nods, then pretends to be interested in the decoration behind the bar while Wilson tries to get the barkeeper’s attention. Wilson has to be messing with him; that’s the only answer. It explains it all—but mostly it explains why he’s so volatile in distributing his praise. He only ever does it when they are in a public place where House can’t react without causing a scene, and he pretends that nothing happened to gaslight House into thinking he is imagining it all. Wilson can be such a bitch.
“There you go,” Wilson says, pushing a bottle of beer toward House before sitting down on the stool next to him.
House takes a swig with one hand while going for Wilson’s thigh with the other, possessively placing it high up where Wilson can’t possibly misinterpret his intentions. Sure enough, House feels the muscles beneath his hand shift, then stiffen, and Wilson clears his throat.
“Stop that,” he mumbles.
“Don’t like it that much when the tables are turned, do you?”
Wilson turns to glare at him. “Remove your hand from my leg, please.”
“If I do, will you praise me again?”
Wilson chuckles. Then he firmly grips House’s wrist and lifts his hand off his thigh. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
House’s mouth falls open at the obvious lie. “But you—”
Wilson’s pager chooses that exact moment to go off. He glances at it and his face falls. “I have to go, I’m sorry.” He stands, tucking the pager away in his jacket pocket. “Have this.” He pushes his beer bottle toward House.
“You can’t just—,” House starts but Wilson is out of the door before House can come up with a good enough reason why he has to stay.
He pushes Wilson’s beer bottle away. It sits there lonely on the bar for the rest of the night.
Not only is Wilson playing some dark, twisted game with him, he has the audacity to deny that he is. House, leaning back in his office chair, is tossing his red and gray ball up into the air, watching it fall back down again. He’s been doing this for half an hour now, trying to come up with an idea on how to get back at Wilson. So far, the only thing he could come up with is storming into his office and pressing his lips against Wilson’s, but that is taking it too far, even for him.
Cameron appears in the door to his office. “House, we have a case.”
The ball goes up, comes back down again. “What kind of case?”
“Patient broke both ankles sitting in a chair.”
“It’s a Christmas miracle,” House huffs.
Ball goes up, ball comes down.
“A miracle?” Cameron echoes.
“Now he doesn’t have to spend any time with his family during Christmas.”
“The patient is female,” Cameron corrects him. “And she would very much like to be home for Christmas with her three kids she is raising by herself.”
“A Christmas martyr, then,” House decides.
“Wilson is with her right now,” Cameron tries to bait him.
The ball goes up again, but when it comes down, it doesn’t land in House’s open hands but hits him right on the nose. “Why is Wilson with her?”
“Bones breaking out of nowhere? Could be bone cancer.”
“If Wilson is already with her, what does she need me for?” House rubs his nose that’s throbbing with pain he can feel, even through the Vicodin-induced haze he’s currently under.
“Wilson asked for you,” Cameron answers.
With a sigh, House lifts himself out of his chair. “Lead the way then.”
The patient sits propped up in a bed, both feet stuck in heavy casts. She is surrounded by her children, reading to them from a bible. Wilson is standing next to the bed, his brow furrowed with worry. House tries very, very hard to fight down a rude comment, but he can’t help it.
“The Physician Looks On in Worry,” he says, “that’s what this scene would be called were it an eighteenth-century painting.”
“This is Dr. House,” Wilson introduces him, smoothly covering up his comment.
House decides then and there to give this another try. One more experiment. If Wilson snaps at him again for acting like a decent human being, then he’ll give up and go back to being his usual self. He won’t be Wilson’s plaything that Wilson can manipulate however he pleases.
House leans his cane against the foot of the bed, his hand shooting for his trouser pocket where he keeps his bottle of Vicodin. He stops himself at the last second. “What seems to be the problem then?” he asks.
“Mrs. Miller was sitting at the kitchen table peeling potatoes when both her legs started to hurt. She couldn’t stand up without feeling excruciating pain, so her daughter Anna called an ambulance,” Wilson summarizes the case. “Both her ankles are broken.”
House swallows down a comment about the patient holding on to her ex-husband’s name, while the oldest child looks at him with big, innocent eyes. Another possible point of attack. But he can do this. “Well done, Anna,” he says, holding out his hand to Wilson, wordlessly demanding the file he is holding. “You did the right thing.”
Anna thanks him with a smile that would soften anyone’s heart.
House opens the file and scans it. “Dr. Wilson already did a bone marrow biopsy,” he mumbles, “and it came back … negative for bone cancer?” He shoots Wilson a questioning look.
“That’s why I would appreciate a second opinion, Dr. House,” Wilson says.
That’s the second Dr. House in just as many minutes. House will need to do better than he’s been doing if he wants to get a “good boy” out of Wilson before they’re through.
“We’ll start with an MRI,” House decides, closing the file with a snap. “Then we’ll take it from there. But whatever is happening to you, Mrs. Miller, I promise you that we’ll find out what it is.”
He glances at Wilson who is looking at him with concern, like an eighteenth-century physician at the bed of a dying patient. Not good enough then.
“Will they be able to stay with me?” Mrs. Miller asks, hugging her youngest child tightly. “It’s just …” She blushes. “They don’t have anywhere else to go.”
That’s the reason House hates talking to patients. No, they absolutely won’t be able to stay with her. This is a hospital, not a daycare center, is what he wants to tell her. What he says is, “We’ll do our best to accommodate them, Mrs. Miller. They will have to stay in this room while you get an MRI, but I will send you one of my team members to look after them.”
Wilson’s back straightens. If this doesn’t get him a “good boy”, House doesn’t know what will. But when he turns to Wilson expectantly, Wilson looks … troubled, his lips a thin line, his posture stiff.
“Unless Dr. Wilson would like to do the honors …,” he adds, trying to figure out what exactly it is Wilson wants from him.
Before he can find the answer, maybe even before Wilson can discover it for himself, their little gathering is interrupted by shouts from outside the room, panicked shouts you don’t hear too often, not even in a hospital where people fight in the battle between life and death every single day. Still, the cry of, “We need a crash cart!” is something that House has heard plenty of times before, so he knows that no matter how valiantly they will fight, there is a strong probability they will lose today.
Wilson hurries to the door, and House follows him, even if it’s just for show. There are ten other doctors who come running too, and one of them will be enough to save the patient. Wilson pales as soon as he spots a throng of people kneeling around a petite figure lying on the ground, and House tightens the grip on his cane. She is so tiny, so fragile, and there is simply no way she’s going to survive this without major damage to her brain. Why a five-year-old would go into cardiac arrest he doesn’t know, but from the way her parents are crying and clutching at each other for support he can tell it comes as a surprise to them.
“Fuck!” one of the nurses kneeling around the body curses. “It won’t work.
House doesn’t even realize he’s dropped his cane. He only misses it when he kneels down next to that tiny body. “Give me that!” he barks, and when the nurse hands him the paddles, he adds, “It would work if you’d had proper training,” for good measure.
It’s not the nurse’s fault. It pains him to admit that, but it becomes obvious when House shouts, “Clear!” and nothing happens. There is no life-giving spark, no breath taken. He tosses the paddles aside and presses both hands against the patient’s chest. They’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way.
“Don’t just stand there!” he shouts at no one in particular. “Go get another crash cart!”
There’s scurrying and rushing and shouts, and all the while House keeps up a steady rhythm, 120 beats per minute. Nothing else happens. The little girl continues to lie there, eyes closed, her chest only moving when House presses down on her thorax.
“House.” Wilson’s voice is like an anchor, tying him to familiar ground. “House, we should call it.”
House shakes off Wilson’s hand. “Not yet,” he growls. “We still have time.”
“House, you already broke two of her ribs,” Wilson points out, voice cautious. It’s his “you have cancer”-voice.
“Where’s that crash cart?” House shouts.
The only response he gets is a wail from the mother.
“House, that’s enough,” Wilson tries again. “It’s been more than five minutes.”
It has? But before House can call him a liar, the little girl gasps, then coughs, and the mother starts screaming. The father too, but his screams sound more like wails. House sits back on his heels, ignoring the pain biting at his leg. His shirt clings to his back, and there is sweat running down his neck, but none of these things matter. She’s alive.
Wilson’s hand is back on his shoulder and he squeezes it tightly. “Good boy.”
House scrambles to his feet, but his muscles are stiff, and his whole body is aching, so by the time he’s standing up straight, Wilson is already on his way up to his office. No, not this time. House won’t let him get away with this again. He limps toward the elevator, ignoring the father who is trying to shake his hand, ignoring the patient with the broken ankles wo his trying to get his attention, even ignoring the intern who picked up his cane and is holding it out to him. He will make Wilson tell him the truth. Nothing else matters.
“What the hell is your problem?” He bursts into Wilson’s office without knocking, not caring that Wilson might be talking to a patient. They can wait.
But Wilson is alone, sitting on the couch opposite the door, skimming through a thin file, one leg crossed over the other, jacket neatly discarded over the back of his office chair. He looks as if he’s been working in here for hours. And he doesn’t even deign House with an answer. He just looks at him with raised eyebrows.
House pushes one of the trinkets on Wilson’s desk to the floor and snaps, “I asked you a question.”
“Shut the door,” is the response he gets.
“Shut it yourself.”
Wilson closes the file, brushes his hands over his lap as if he’s trying to get rid of invisible crumbs. He walks past House, eyes firmly fixed on the open door, and closes it, unhurried, as if House is nothing more than a figment of his imagination and can’t hurt him. Oh boy, is he wrong.
“You were saying?” Wilson asks, sitting back down on the couch.
House can feel tension settle between his shoulder blades. It’s not the familiar feeling of holding his cane all wrong or of sleeping in a position he shouldn’t have slept in. It’s something different entirely. “What are you doing?”
Wilson crosses one leg over the other and his arms in front of his chest. “Working.”
The file Wilson was reading when House came in is lying on the couch next to him. House wants to do nothing more than to grab it and drop it down onto the floor. But that won’t get him any results. Instead, he steps closer to Wilson and towers over him menacingly. “Why do you keep calling me good boy?”
He doesn’t know what kind of reaction he is expecting from Wilson until he sees it. Wilson’s cheeks flush a deep red and his eyelids flutter as if he wants nothing more than to look away, but he’s forcing himself to hold House’s gaze. House can taste victory.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Wilson says.
House keeps going. “And why do you keep denying that you’re doing it?”
Wilson sighs. It sounds like defeat. “I was just trying to get you to act like a decent human being for once.”
“I was!” House’s voice is raised, maybe even to a level that can be heard past Wilson’s closed office door. “I was nice to you and your patient and you burst into my differential, berating me. I was being nice to that woman and her three brats and you looked at me as if I was trying to poison them.”
“I don’t care how you treat your patients.” There is a strain in Wilson’s voice, as if it pains him to say this out loud. “Everyone knows you’re an asshole. It doesn’t matter because you get results.”
“Then what’s up with—”
That’s as far as House gets before Wilson holds up his hand. House falls quiet immediately.
“This is about how you treat other people,” Wilson goes on, “people who aren’t forced to spend time with you, who are just trying to get through the day without losing face.”
House can’t believe this. Wilson is twisting the truth to make it fit whatever righteous cause he’s chasing now, when all he’s doing is playing games with House without telling him what the rules are. That just won’t do.
“That’s a load of bullshit, and you know it. That guy at the party—he was forced to spend time with me. That—that girl I just saved? You really think I’m that much of an asshole I would let a little girl die?”
House can feel the tension in his back get worse, and all he wants to do is shift his shoulders, but he doesn’t want to show any sign of weakness. Especially not now Wilson pales, which suits him even better than the blush—because it means House is right.
“Mr. St. John—that was an experiment.” Wilson talks slowly, as if the words are footfalls and the way he’s placing them determines whether he’ll make it across a minefield alive and in one piece. “You were trying to prove to me that I’d be bored if you behaved yourself, and I was trying to show you that something good could come out of that.”
“A hundred dollars is something good,” House growls, “not these—these mind games you’re playing.” This righteous anger feels good—it’s not surprising Wilson is addicted to this.
“It’s not—not that, it’s—,” Wilson stammers.
“It’s what, Jimmy? What?” House interrupts him.
Wilson stands, and House draws back his shoulders because for one wild, crazy moment he thinks Wilson is about to hit him. When all Wilson does is walk over to his desk, House feels almost disappointed, but the suspense of watching Wilson open a drawer and take out a small cigar box is distracting enough to keep him engaged. Wilson opens it and holds up a cigar, thick and light brown in color.
“Is that … a Cohiba Behike?” House asks, not quite sure if Wilson is really showing him a 450-dollar cigar.
“I wanted to give this to you if you got through the evening without burning the hospital down,” Wilson answers. “But then I slipped up.”
“You mean you decided on a less expensive reward.”
Carefully, Wilson places the cigar back in the box and closes the lid slowly, using both hands. The meticulousness makes House’s blood boil.
“It wasn’t supposed to be like that.” House rolls his eyes at Wilson’s righteousness, but Wilson ignores him. “It just … slipped out.” He walks over to where House is still standing in front of the couch and holds out the box.
House doesn’t take it. “It’s not like you to slip up. One time I can excuse, but three …”
Wilson places the box on his desk, carefully aligning it with its edge. Then he sits back down on the couch. “I liked the way you reacted the first time I did it.”
House isn’t sure he understood Wilson correctly, but after a brief moment of confusion he decides he must have, since Wilson is blushing again. It is the single most dangerous thing House has heard Wilson say, and when his brain catches up with his body, he notices his mouth is completely dry.
“It wasn’t supposed to be …,” Wilson goes on, “… what I said, all I wanted to say was ‘good job’, ‘well done’, I don’t know. But it came out all wrong. Only it—”
House has to stop him there or he fears that his body might overheat. “Please don’t say something as cheesy as it felt right.”
Wilson scrunches his nose, draws his eyebrows together. “In all the years we’ve known each other, you never reacted to anything I said like you reacted to … that. I liked the sense of control it gave me. And I wanted to see if I had found a way to get you to do what I wanted. So I tried it again.”
House decides there will be enough time to focus on Wilson’s confession later. What he needs to do now is punish him for thinking he could play House. “But not on my terms.”
Wilson chuckles and looks at House with a soft smile. House feels a weight settle in his stomach. “No, definitely not on your terms, not when you were desperately trying to get me to say it.”
Every word Wilson says feels like a punch. House needs to do something about it, but for once he’s out of plans and ideas. Still, he steps closer to the couch in a valiant effort to do something. “Wilson—”
Wilson’s hand shoots up again, and this time his command is a bark. “Let me finish!”
House stops. It doesn’t escape him how Wilson’s chest rises and falls when he sees House immediately do as he’s told. House’s mouth is still painfully dry.
“The second time I said it, it didn’t have the desired effect at all,” Wilson goes on.
“I thought you were coming on to me,” House admits.
Wilson laughs, but it’s a wet laugh, a strangling, gurgling sound. “Not everything has to be sexual, you know.”
House snorts. “You were running around calling me a good boy every chance you got. How was I supposed to interpret that if not sexual?”
“I didn’t mean it like that …,” Wilson starts.
House interjects, “Keep telling yourself that.”
“… until you grabbed my thigh,” Wilson goes on, unperturbed, “and I realized I might have more power over you than I thought.”
Wilson already admitted that having power over House does it for him. He said it, his body showed it, and yet, hearing him say it again when there is no way to interpret it any differently since they’re talking about sex now, and not in their usual, round-about way, but using words that can’t possibly have any other meaning … And it’s the way Wilson says it, too, eyes firmly fixed on House, his gaze not flickering, not even for a second, not afraid of seeing House’s reaction to his words … There really is only one thing House can do now.
The distance between Wilson and him isn’t that great to begin with, but he still lunges at the other man and drops to his knees right in front of him, not caring that the movement isn’t as fluid as he would like it to be when his leg picks exactly that moment to remind him of his limitations. It’s all worth it when Wilson’s legs fall open in a motion that seems like routing.
“What are you doing?” Wilson asks.
Instead of answering that nonsensical question, House puts his cheek on Wilson’s thigh, practically nuzzling Wilson’s crotch with his nose.
“House!”
It’s not a squeal—House expected it to be, and that it’s not makes him inhale sharply. It’s a deep, strained, rumbling sound instead, and it’s accompanied by Wilson’s hand going straight for House’s head, nails scraping against his skull before he grips House’s hair tightly.
House has to bite down a moan. “Say it again.”
“I’m not gonna say it.” Wilson tries to pull House off of him, and it hurts, the way he tears at House’s hair. House makes a sound that isn’t quite a moan yet, but it’s definitely on its way there, and Wilson might think he’s playing a game, trying to rile him up—little does he know House can’t form a single, coherent thought right now, even if he wanted to.
He nudges Wilson’s crotch with his nose. “Come on.”
Wilson hisses, shifts. He doesn’t let go of House’s hair. “Not on your terms, House.”
House runs his nose over the bulge in Wilson’s pants. “None of this is on my terms.”
Wilson must find some truth in House’s words. After all, House is on his knees, easily pushed away, easily overpowered, and Wilson’s hand is in his hair, holding him in place. Wilson also knows all he has to do is say, “Good boy,” and House will do whatever he asks of him. No matter what, Wilson is in total control of what happens next, while House is baring his entire heart and soul to him, along with his throat, as he rolls his head slightly to the side to expose it in a display of total submission.
Wilson’s voice is raw like a festering wound when he says, “If my pager hadn’t gone off …”
House knows Wilson is full of shit. If his pager hadn’t gone off, Wilson would have done an excellent job at pretending House’s hand wasn’t on his thigh. “What then?” he pushes. “Would you have been brave enough to do anything about it?” Like I’m doing right now, showing you what I really want?
Wilson lets go of House’s hair, but House can still feel the grip against his tingling scalp. It’s a nice feeling, he can admit that. Then an entirely different sensation takes its place, as Wilson pets his head, as if House was an obedient dog. And maybe he is. Maybe he can be if Wilson plays his cards—
“If I had known you could be such a good boy …”
It’s not just House’s imagination—he knows that, even as he can feel his mind spinning out of control. No, there is clear evidence that Wilson is enjoying this in a way he has been so good at denying himself for so many years. House can feel it against his nose and cheek, how Wilson’s cock hardens beneath those layers of fabric separating them. He lets House feel it too, as if he’s rewarding him with a treat. It makes House’s mouth water as he makes use of being able to lift his head again. He’d be a fool to let this opportunity pass without milking every last drop of pleasure out of it as long as he can. Licking his lips, he presses the heel of his hand against the straining bulge in Wilson’s pants. He’s rewarded with a twitch against his palm.
“Well, look at that.”
Wilson goes for House’s wrist this time. It was fun while it lasted, House thinks, but it’s not surprising Wilson would chicken out this close to the finish line. After all, there is still time for them to go back to being just friends before things turn messy. Of course, Wilson would choose the safer route, the one that doesn’t change anything between them, just as long as they’re good at pretending. And Wilson is a champion at that.
Wilson doesn’t pull House’s hand away though. He just holds it in place, almost as if he has forgotten that it belongs to his best friend; and then he rolls his hip up into House’s open palm.
House’s head is spinning so fast he thinks he might pass out. He can feel his own cock twitch in his pants, and he only now realizes that he’s completely hard. How could he have missed that until now? With his free hand, he palms himself through his jeans; an intense wave of pleasure shoots up his spine, and he drops his forehead onto Wilson’s thigh with a soft groan.
Wilson’s hand is in his hair again, and he pulls House’s head back sharply. “I didn’t hear you ask for permission to touch yourself.”
Wilson’s neck is flushed a deep red, a color House has never seen on him before. It suits him, especially since it is only there because House is letting him put him in his place. What Wilson sees from his point of view House doesn’t want to know.
“I don’t need your permission for that,” House bites back, surprised by how hoarse his voice sounds.
Wilson lets go of House’s wrist, and House’s hand falls down uselessly, as if it’s just a puppet and Wilson is its master. Wilson unbuckles his belt, and House’s gaze immediately fixes on Wilson’s fingers, intently watching him work.
“You do need my permission for that,” Wilson retorts, and if House wasn’t so busy watching him slowly unzip his trousers, he would have seen his best friend swallow hard, “if you want me to give you this.” He pulls his cock out of his trousers and gives himself a long, slow stroke.
There is an appropriate response rattling around somewhere in House’s brain, but he currently has no way of getting to it. All he can do is take in the sight before him—the color of Wilson’s cock that resembles the color of his neck, the way it twitches whenever Wilson’s palm brushes over the tip, that one thick vein that is just begging for House to run his tongue along it. So no, House can’t possibly give Wilson an answer right now.
Wilson chuckles. “Oh, come on, is this really all it takes to shut you up?”
“No,” House says, but the bite in his voice that has been his steady companion ever since he entered Wilson’s office is gone.
“Hm,” Wilson makes, and gives himself another stroke. There is a small tremble in his hand. “Do you think you’d be able to say ‘yes, please’ if I asked you if you wanted my cock?”
There is a tiny pause between the words wanted and my, but it’s enough to confirm that this is still Wilson asking this, although House would have never thought he’d use the word cock so freely.
Wilson drags his nails up House’s scalp and House’s eyelids flutter. “Why don’t you try and find out?”
House is enjoying this back-and-forth, and he knows he just needs a little more time to get Wilson to admit he’s messing with him. There is absolutely no way Wilson will actually let House suck him off. This is just another game of chicken they’re playing, and House is so, so close to winning this. His prize? He’ll get to endlessly tease Wilson about this.
Wilson flattens his palm against House’s head and pushes him forward, while guiding his cock right in between House’s lips with his other hand. It happens so fast House gags at the sensation, but Wilson doesn’t seem to hear. He groans, and the hold he has on House’s head goes slack. House hollows his cheeks and sucks.
“Oh, fuck,” Wilson groans.
It’s not as if House hasn’t thought about this moment before, hasn’t wondered if maybe some day either one of them would be brave enough to cross that line. In House’s mind, Wilson had never initiated anything—not their first kiss, their first time, and certainly not House giving him a blowjob. In House’s mind, it was always he who dropped to his knees in front of Wilson and unzipped his trousers, while Wilson blushed prettily and stammered something along the lines of, “You really don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”
But this? House can’t help himself; he palms himself again and groans deeply around Wilson’s cock, making Wilson sigh with pleasure. Well, if Wilson likes that … House takes him deeper, makes sure Wilson can feel his throat tighten, before pulling off almost all the way and swirling his tongue around the tip.
Wilson grips his hair so tightly it feels like he’s tearing out whole strands. “Do that again.” He sounds wrecked, but there is still the edge of command in his voice that makes House grow even harder beneath his palm.
Without hesitation, House does as he’s told, and is rewarded with a low, pleasurable hum.
And then Wilson says, “If I had known your mouth could be this useful …”
There are about ten different replies House could give him, each dealing a fatal blow. But House has finally found an ideal balance between putting enough pressure on his erection and rolling his hips against his palm in such small movements Wilson won’t notice. And besides, he doesn’t really want to say anything anyway—all he wants is for Wilson to keep talking and moaning.
Wilson bucks up into House’s mouth and when House tries to pull of his cock slightly, Wilson pushes him down harder. “Yeah. That’s it,” Wilson groans, and House can’t remember the last time he was this turned on. His head is swimming with pleasure.
“House, I’m going to—,” Wilson stammers, and now he’s fucking House’s mouth, so there really isn’t anything House can do apart from letting Wilson take whatever he needs. His brain must have switched off when Wilson decided to take charge of his own pleasure, and House is surprised to discover that he’s coming in his pants, just from rubbing himself through two layers of clothing, just when Wilson lets out one final groan.
House is still being held in place by Wilson’s vise-like grip, so he tries his best not to make more of a mess, but he can feel some of Wilson’s cum trickle out of his mouth. And then Wilson finally lets go of him and presses the heels of his hands against his eyes.
“Fuck.” It’s a whisper this time. Wilson’s head falls back against the backrest of the couch as he stares up at the ceiling. “Fuck.”
House is slowly regaining some of his basic motor functions, and he wipes the back of his hand over his mouth. Now that it’s all over, his leg pipes up with a vengeance, and he swallows hard so he doesn’t groan from the discomfort. As long as Wilson hasn’t given him any sign of what’s going to happen next, he’s trying to stay as calm and quiet as possible.
Wilson tucks himself away, and then he finally looks at House. “I don’t even want to know where you learned to do that.”
“What? Blow a guy?” House asks, relieved that Wilson still sounds like Wilson.
“Yes …” Wilson almost manages to hide his hesitation.
Their eyes meet briefly, and where House sees satisfaction but also insecurity in Wilson’s, he hopes Wilson sees nonchalance in House’s. Whatever Wilson decides to do next, it’s fine with House.
“Of course, I was much younger then,” House goes on, and fishes his bottle of Vicodin out of his trouser pocket. He unscrews it and takes out one of the white pills. “I could keep—”
Wilson snatches the pill away from him. “What are you doing?”
The nonchalance in House’s eyes turns to anger. “I’ve just spent the better part of thirty minutes on my knees! Even if my leg wasn’t useless, I’d still be in pain.”
Wilson glances down at House’s legs, and House hopes there’s no wet spot on his jeans Wilson can see. He would never hear the end of it. Luckily, Wilson is satisfied with a brief look, and then the single piece of Vicodin catches his attention as he rolls it between thumb and forefinger.
“No, you’re right,” Wilson sighs.
“Can I have it back?” House holds open his hand. “Or do you need me to say please?”
Wilson shakes his head, and before House can figure out which of the two questions that answers, his chin is trapped between Wilson’s thumb and forefinger.
“Open,” Wilson says, and House is so stunned he immediately does as he’s told. Wilson drops the pill onto House’s tongue before patting his cheek condescendingly. “Good boy.”