Blast Furnace

Apology - 1/1 (House/Wilson)

May 12th, 2008 | →

Title: Apology
Author: A. Manley Haight (ralaegidius)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: House/Wilson
Prompt: 095. House/Wilson — punishment/apology sex for the Tritter debacle, you decide who is the one apologizing  (”get_house_laid” Round 2).
Warnings: None

Flames are welcome and are, in fact, encouraged for psychological study.

This story is not in any way intended to infringe on copyrights held by David Shore, the Fox Broadcasting Corporation, or any other legitimate copyright holders of “House, MD”.  This story may be distributed only with prior permission of the author, and may not be published or posted to any archive, website, or other repository without the written permission of the author.  This story is distributed for the individual personal entertainment of persons of legal age for viewing sexually explicit material in areas where such viewing is legal, and is not subject to purchase or sale by anyone.

The same day that Wilson told him that Tritter had towed his car, House had stopped his bike in front of the bus stop.  It was intended to be an offer of succor.  Get on.  You can move back in with me until all this blows over.
But the resentment in Wilson’s face was enough to stop him from actually speaking, and the two men just gazed at each other for a long moment.  More than just anger in Wilson’s eyes was sadness — suffering — that usually made House feel a stab of irritation.  Wilson was so passive-aggressive and it drove him crazy sometimes.
This wasn’t, however, the aggrieved angst of someone angry because House hadn’t done the dishes, or cleaned the bathroom sink.  He knew Wilson was living in a hotel, and that there hadn’t been any new women on his radar since Grace.  In fact, Wilson was being bizarrely chaste, almost Spartan, as if intentionally isolating himself.
It was House that had done this to him, House knew.  What he didn’t know was how.  He could see it in the way Wilson looked at him now from the bus stop bench, had seen it in the body language during their conversation in the staff lounge.  Even before Tritter had come along, Wilson had been suffering because of him, and it wasn’t something minor that was going to resolve itself quietly the way their fights usually did.  This one was going to change them, and House was terrified that he might lose his closest friend and never know why.

****

He confronted Wilson the next day in the younger man’s own office, not bothering to knock before entering.  It was almost ten o’clock, and the only thing House might have interrupted was some awkward couch sex.  Lately, however, even that was unlikely.  Wilson was alone at his desk, working on the referrals he was forced to do now that he could no longer prescribe medication to his own patients.  Wilson glanced up as he entered, but then ignored him.
“You’re going to miss the bus,” House said.
“There’ll be another one,” Wilson said mildly.  There was a hardness in the tone that only House could hear.
“Last bus runs at 10:15,” House replied, shifting his weight as much as he dared to relieve the burning pain in his shoulder.  Wilson was probably right that it was a somatic manifestation of guilt, but that didn’t make it stop hurting.  “But I’m guessing you haven’t been taking work home, since home is a hotel room.  Patient confidentiality and all that.”
Wilson slapped his pen down on the blotter and rubbed one hand over his face.
“What do you want, House?”
“Why are you protecting me?”
Wilson stared at him.  “Why do you care?” he asked, an edge in his voice.
“It doesn’t fit,” House said, and Wilson’s face contorted briefly with disgust. “I haven’t done anything to earn it.  Letting someone walk all over you isn’t noble.  It’s self-destruction.  And one thing I know about you — you do have a spine.  Just not about this.  Why?”
“You think lying to the cops is spineless?” Wilson wondered.
“You keep bailing me out, literally and figuratively.  That’s spineless.”
“Are you actually telling me to stop protecting you?”
“As if that would work!” House exclaimed.  “Jesus Christ, Wilson, I forged your name on scripts.  I keep saying I’m not an addict and we all know nobody believes that.  And yet, and yet, you’ve lost your car, your prescription privileges, your money, rather than simply tell the truth to that asshole detective.”
“You going to jail is not going to help anyone,” Wilson said.  “You least of all.”
“And what do you think is going to happen now?” House asked.  “You think Tritter will just get bored and go away if you hold out long enough?  He has no incentive to give up.  You do.  So does everybody else.  The longer this goes on, the worse it’s going to be for you in the end.”
“What he’s doing isn’t legal,” Wilson said, suddenly animated.  He practically bolted out of the chair and began pacing the floor.  His dark eyes blazed with fury at someone who wasn’t in the room with them.  “It isn’t right.  The whole thing will fall apart the second a judge sees it.  I have nothing to lose by standing my ground.”
“And yet you’re angry with me,” House said, his voice quiet.  Wilson jerked to a stop, lifting his head to gaze at the other man with naked anguish.  “You’re not angry because of Tritter.  You’re angry because I lied to you.  Because I stole from you.”
“You’ve been stealing from me for years,” Wilson sighed, resigned.
“And it took you this long to blow up.”
“If you had just talked to me, told me the pain was coming back — ”
“I did tell you.  You told me it was in my head.  Not the first time you’ve said that, either.  What I don’t understand is why you’re so damn thick about it.  Just because it’s in my head doesn’t mean it isn’t real.  Okay, so it’s all in my mind.  What do I do about that?  You think a couple of sessions with a shrink is going to fix me?  You’ve seen what happens when I go off my pain meds.  When you refuse to give me a refill because the pain is in my head, what you’re really telling me is that it doesn’t matter that I’m in pain.  You’re telling me that you don’t care.”
“I don’t care?” Wilson said incredulously.  He stalked toward House as if to strike him, and House tensed reflexively.  “I don’t care?  I have nothing now because of what I did for you!”
“But why?” House demanded.  “Why would you do that?”  /Why would anyone do that for me?/
Wilson did lunge then, but it wasn’t to strike him.  He grabbed House by the leather motorcycle jacket and slammed him hard against the closed door.
“BE. CAUSE.  I.  LOVE.  YOU,” Wilson shouted.  With a disgusted shove, he pushed away and paced across the office.  “You motherfucker.  Are you happy now?  You finally made me say it out loud, after all these years.”
“You…”  House stood perfectly still, allowing himself to lean against the door because his knees were suddenly uncooperative.  Wilson spun around, as if anticipating House’s next question.
“Yes, I love you that way,” he spat.  Wilson made a rough, scoffing noise at the look of astonishment on House’s face.  “Don’t try to make me believe you didn’t know.  You can’t be that stupid.”
“Apparently I can,” House murmured, his gaze wandering over the office’s wood paneled walls.  Wilson studied him closely, hands on his hips.  Then, he gave a bitter laugh.
“You really didn’t know.  You weren’t trying to make me admit it.”  He looked away.  “You bastard.”
“Wilson — “  He had started to push away from the door, needing to move, to somehow make this okay.
“Get out of here,” Wilson rasped, turning away from him.  “Before I say something I can’t take back.”
House didn’t know what that might be, but for once he decided that he didn’t want to find out, and he left.

****

Wilson avoided him for three days after that.  Or perhaps House avoided him.  Either way, three days was all House could stand of it.  His shoulder had stopped hurting, but had been replaced by a constant ache in his chest that was still doing a damn good job of preventing him from getting any sleep.
At the end of the third day, it was raining, and House’s leg was killing him.  He had twenty-two Vicodin tablets left.  It would be enough for now.  He hadn’t taken extra today — the weather aggravated his leg but the Vicodin never did anything for that sort of pain.  He would try a heating pad later, and probably massage his quads as well as he could.
But he had things to do, and at around eight that night, he was walking across the parking lot of Wilson’s hotel.  The rain pilled up and rolled off his black overcoat like quicksilver, his cane’s rubber tip disappearing in half the puddles he stepped across.  He was still getting wet — his hair, his shoes, the hem of his jeans.  But being cursed to never run again had taught him to take his time in bad weather and just deal with it.  He would dry out in due course, and maybe look a little more pathetic when he reached Wilson’s room.
The hotel hallway was warm and muffled, sounds seeming to travel about a foot away before being swallowed.  There was a long pause after he knocked on the door, and he wondered for a moment if perhaps Wilson were not there.  But it was more likely that Wilson was simply debating whether or not to answer.  There was no sign hanging on the doorknob.
Finally the door jerked open and Wilson met his eyes for a split second before turning to walk back into the room.  House stepped through the open door that Wilson had abandoned, closing it as quietly as the damn thing was capable.  Wilson was still wearing his tie, albeit loosened, and the TV remote was on the bed.  His dark eyes were shuttered and unreadable, although his posture was decidedly confrontational.  House regarded him without embarrassment, planting his cane so he could shift his weight.
“You’re paid up through the end of the month,” House said, running one hand through his wet hair.
“What?”
“Your hotel room.  I paid off what you owed and for the rest of the month.”  He pitched something underhanded and Wilson caught it reflexively.  It was a car key with a tag for a car rental company.  “That fits the white Malibu in the parking lot.  I know the car sucks but it was all they had unless you want to drive around in a Geo Metro.”
“You can’t rent a car for someone else,” Wilson said.  “That’s illegal.”  House rolled his eyes.
“Fine, we can go down there tomorrow and fix it.  But we both know that you’d rather have that to drive to work in the morning than take the bus.”
Wilson tossed the key back to him.
“I didn’t ask you for charity.”
“Will you stop with that shit already?” House said, annoyed.  “I don’t do charity.”  He put the key down firmly on the side table.
“Then what is it?”
“Restitution,” House replied, gazing at him fixedly.  Wilson snorted.
“Guilty conscience finally getting to you?” he wondered archly.  “Or are you just looking for the cheapest possible way to make nice with me?”
“Hey, your hotel tab isn’t exactly lunch money,” House said.  “And have you seen what it costs to rent a car these days?  Besides, would this somehow be better if I didn’t feel guilty?”
“What do you want?”
“Why do I have to want anything?”
“Because everything is about negotiation with you,” Wilson said.  “What can you get for what price?  What currency can you use to get what you want out of people?”
“That’s what human society is,” House said.  “I just refuse to pretend it’s something else, like ‘charity’.  Or ‘doing someone a favor’.  Every choice we make is a calculation of an equation — what do I get out of this?”
“All right,” Wilson said, his eyes narrow.  “Then what do you want to get out of this?”
“I want you to stop suffering because of the things I did.”  House touched his own chest briefly.  “I want this clenched fist in my solar plexus to go away.  I want my friend back.”
“Paying my bills and getting me a car are just stopgap measures,” Wilson reminded him.  It was difficult to conceal his amazement at how much House had said already.  It was easily the most candid conversation they’d had in many months.  “You’re still a lying thief and a junkie, and Tritter is still trying to put you away.”  House’s slight flinch was almost imperceptible.
“Hopefully fixing the junkie part will take care of the rest,” House said after a moment.  “I talked to Tritter about an hour ago.  He’s agreed to drop the investigation and release everyone’s assets.  Your credit card should be working again by tomorrow morning.”
“How great of a blowjob did you have to give him for that?” Wilson asked sarcastically.
“I agreed to three months of rehab and physical therapy,” House said flatly, and Wilson stared.  “And one year of probation after that.  I get to keep my medical license, and Cuddy says I can have a sabbatical and come back to work when I’m done with rehab.”
Wilson turned away and paced a little, one hand on the back of his neck.  House was too smart to manufacture an elaborate ruse that was easy to disprove.  But then, Wilson hadn’t thought him capable of stealing his pad and forging his name on scripts, either.  “Call Tritter if you don’t believe me,” House said.
After a brief hesitation, Wilson took two steps to the bedside table and picked up his phone.  House didn’t move.  If it was a bluff, it was a good one.
House stood there as Wilson made the call, unperturbed.  He wasn’t lying.  Tritter had sounded very surprised when House had called.  The detective had also been unexpectedly open to the deal, and House wondered if he had been wrong about Tritter’s motives being entirely vindictive.  /Doing the right thing the wrong way.  He sounds like me./
When Wilson closed his phone, he just stood there for a long minute, his back to House and his head bowed.  The rain outside was picking up, pattering against the balcony doors behind closed heavy curtains.  The wind shifted and made the doors rattle slightly.
“And you think that now everything’s okay,” Wilson said, not as a question.
“No,” came the soft answer.  “But I’m not…good with words.  You know that.”
Wilson sighed heavily.  Even after all that, he wasn’t going to get even a simple ‘I’m sorry’ out of Greg House.
“I know.  Is that all you came for?”
“No,” House said again, and he came closer, his cane indistinguishable from his footsteps on the carpet.  Wilson’s thighs clenched in preparation to pull away, but House didn’t touch him, and he felt a bizarre mixture of disappointment and relief.  He heard House sigh deeply behind him, so close that he felt the warm breath on the back of his neck.  A hot thrill flickered up his spine and he clenched his jaw.  “I’m sorry.”
Wilson turned his head to one side involuntarily.  He could count on one hand the number of times House had apologized to him for anything.  There was a flicker of motion in his peripheral vision, and then a soft thump as House’s cane landed on the bed.  “I’m sorry, all right?” House said again, his voice rough.  “I don’t know what else to do.”
Wilson didn’t answer, and the ache in House’s gut turned to panic.  He had done everything he could think of, had repaired everything within reach, but he and Wilson were still shattered.  Was it too late?  This close, he could see that Wilson was trembling, his back rigid in some kind of defiance or protection.
And then he understood.
House closed a gentle hand around Wilson’s upper arm, felt the profound flinch in the other man’s being.  A sound tore out of him, a sob, and House’s thumb rubbed gently at the edge of his shoulder blade.
“James.”
“Stop it, House,” came the choked plea.  Even House wasn’t sure if Wilson understood what was going on right now, and maybe that was why Wilson was always still unhappy after their disagreements were resolved.
He slid his arms around Wilson’s body before the other man could pull away, tugging him back against his chest firmly and resting his chin on Wilson’s shoulder.  Wilson made a high, wounded sound, as if stabbed, and House hugged him tightly.  This was the only kind of apology that Wilson understood, deep in his bones.  Words were not enough, and the unspoken understanding between them that usually passed itself off as an apology was certainly not.  Wilson needed the touch.  That was what was real to him.
Wilson wondered if the warmth was a dream.  The heat, the strength in the arms that came around him threatened to consume him completely.  He leaned back into House’s chest without thought, and then felt stubble brush over the side of his neck.  The briefest hesitation, and House was pressing soft lips to his skin.  He couldn’t fit any of this into what he knew of House’s personality, but needed it so desperately that he didn’t dare stop the other man to question it.  He knew House could be gentle, had seen flashes of it in their long friendship, but to be branded by the man’s touch was more than he had ever expected or hoped for.
Had it been his confession three days ago that had provoked this?  Would House still have come here to apologize if he hadn’t admitted to loving the man?  What did it mean that House had found that spot on his neck, below his ear, and was nibbling it until he began to moan in the back of his throat?  The tip of House’s tongue darted out to dab his skin and he gasped.
House tasted the salt on Wilson’s skin, and laved the side of Wilson’s neck to savor it.  He liked the rawness of the sense experience, the complex tastes and scents of a lover’s body.  Here he tasted sweat, the slight bitter tang of faded aftershave, felt the edges of whiskers starting to grow in again at the end of a long day.  Wilson was making low, soft sounds that tugged at his gut.  He catalogued it all, eager to add it to the vast storehouse labeled ‘James Wilson’.
House pulled away from him long enough to step over to the thermostat on the wall.  It needed to be warmer in here for what he now intended.  When he turned back, Wilson had turned to look at him.  Pale, sharp eyes met deep ebony ones, and House could see the hollow dismay at his absence that had turned to sweet understanding when Wilson had seen him adjusting the heat.
House came back to him, his limp cautious since his cane was on the bed.  He gently finished unknotting Wilson’s loose tie and slid it free to toss it over a chair.  His hands went to the dress shirt next, working deftly at the buttons.  There was a hot shiver in his belly, and he tried to ignore analyzing what, exactly, he intended to do once Wilson’s shirt was off.
“Greg…”
“Don’t talk,” House murmured.  Then he glanced up anxiously.  “Unless you want me to stop.”
“No!  No, I…”  He swallowed tightly as the blue eyes watched him closely for a few seconds, the hands on his shirt buttons going still.  “Have you done this before?”  House just gazed at him, lips pressed into a thin line.
“Does it matter?”
That was when Wilson really understood that House hadn’t planned this when he’d shown up at the hotel.  And in spite of the strangeness of this overture, the stumbling into territory that their friendship had never experienced, he yearned so terribly to make things right that he was doing it the only way left to him.  /This is his apology,/ Wilson thought, awed.
Wilson just shook his head in answer to House’s question, and the strong fingers took up removing his shirt again.  When all the buttons had been parted, there was still his undershirt beneath, but House didn’t seem concerned.  Wilson gasped as he was touched again — House’s palm on his chest, just stroking calmly downward.  Almost comforting.  Blue eyes drank in his reaction, learning, and when the hand stroked him again, it was subtly different in some way. He shivered, eyes closing in pleasure.
When he looked at House again, a bit of the tension around the pale eyes had relaxed.  /He’s trying to please me./  It was almost impossible to wrap his head around this idea.  /He wants me to feel good./
House let his hand wander, now that he had an excuse.  Wilson’s chest was solid under his palm, pectorals yielding to gentle pressure.  He could feel the rise and fall of increasingly-rapid breaths, thudding heartbeat.  Wilson was watching him intently, as caught by his cerulean stare as he was by the impossible vastness of Wilson’s sable eyes.  How could eyes convey such a visceral sense of warmth?  He had seen that dark gaze become cold and hard.  Wilson’s face was capable of a shocking transformation from comfort and amusement to a distant iciness that rivaled anything House had ever displayed.
But right now, that face was utterly open to him, too surprised to be wary.  With the dark warmth, House also saw fear.  Wilson was wondering what this all meant, what tomorrow was going to be like.  House decided that the best way to deal with that fear was to surrender completely.  To show Wilson everything Wilson had tried to see in him over the years.  To invite exploration of everything House had refused to grant in their friendship.  That way, tomorrow wouldn’t really matter one way or the other, as long as his atonement was accepted.  He owed Wilson nothing less, after everything that had happened.
The pressure increased on Wilson’s chest — House was pushing him backward.  He stepped carefully, unsure of what was behind him but unable to look away from the man in front of him.  The edge of the bed hit the backs of his knees, and it took only a slight push of House’s hand on his shoulder to make him sit down.
House took his cane from the bed and used it to carefully lower himself to his knees at Wilson’s feet.  Wilson said nothing, just watched with his mouth open slightly as he tried to fathom what House was doing.  His skin still buzzed from the touch on his chest, the sensation of having his body shifted by those strong hands.  House laid his cane on the floor, making sure it would be within reach if he needed it.
It was getting a little warmer in the room, and House pulled his button-down shirt over his head to discard it to one side.  He realized that Wilson’s attention had fallen to his arms, where his T-shirt sleeves didn’t completely cover his biceps.  He was strong there, from the years of compensating for his bad leg, but he had never considered his physique at all remarkable.  Yet the way Wilson’s gaze lingered, a weight that House could almost literally feel on his flesh, stroking up his arms and over his chest and shoulders, told him that Wilson saw things he never would.
Wilson had watched House move during the shirt removal, for once not needing to be discreet about it.  House wore a long-sleeved shirt over his T-shirts most days, owing to the hospital’s tendency to be cool.  As much as Wilson loved the buttoned shirts, he also loved being able to see the strength in the man’s body.  Their eyes met for an instant, and Wilson felt himself blush.
House hesitated for the length of a breath, and then slowly peeled off his T-shirt, as well.  He held Wilson’s eyes steadily, taking his time pushing the shirt down his muscular arms and off to the floor.  He made himself stay still, displaying himself for appraisal.  If my body pleases you, I’ll let you see it.  Wilson couldn’t look away, face hot with the mixture of arousal and embarrassment that swelled in him.
What Wilson saw was power.  House was a guarded man with both his emotions and his inner thoughts.  But there was something raw, truthful, about the curve and cut of biceps that spoke of a determination to get up rather than stay flat on his back where the infarction had put him.  And he knelt now, to invite James to slake a thirst.
Wilson jumped when House reached for his hand, placing it lightly at that bare shoulder that held him so rapt.  The warmth of House’s skin startled him again, and he slid his palm down House’s arm to curl it around the top of muscles that twitched at his touch.  His thumb traced over the slight bulge of a prominent vein, and he wondered how something as simple as a man’s arm could be so beautiful.
House didn’t speak, just watched him with that carefully neutral expression that Wilson had learned meant that House was concealing conflicting emotions.  He didn’t move as Wilson’s other hand mirrored the first on his opposing shoulder.  The hands moved in unison, over his biceps, shoulders, tracing his collarbones.  Wilson shook his head slightly, as if in disbelief.  Suddenly the hands converged to sweep up his whiskered neck and lift his face as Wilson leaned in to capture his lips.
House opened to the kiss, yielding, stunned by the sweetness of Wilson’s mouth.  He let James take as much as he wanted, found himself kissing back hesitantly, breathless.  James spread his jaw, plundering with slow
relish.  Wilson loved him.  He could taste it.  It was in the way the soft tongue met his, the sigh across his cheek, the hands cupping his face.  He made a soft sound in the back of his throat, overwhelmed.
Wilson pulled back to look at him wonderingly.  House didn’t look disgusted, or even displeased.  He started when he felt House touch his wrist to begin unbuttoning his cuffs.  It was gentle, even sensual; House taking his time to undo each shirt cuff, warm fingers brushing the sensitive skin of his inner wrists.  He shivered suddenly as the hands slid up and over his shoulders to push the shirt off.  He felt his nipples harden with the tremor and arousal, and ducked his head as he then felt himself blush.  The dress shirt was pulled away from him and discarded somewhere.
Wilson wasn’t expecting what happened next.  Light fingertips found his nipples unerringly through the cotton undershirt, firing hot sparks down through his belly, groin and into his toes.  He gasped hard, the sound almost a mewl, and closed his eyes helplessly as House teased the nubs into further hardness and sensitivity.  Gulping for another breath, he reflexively writhed as if to avoid the touch.  House’s thumbs followed insistently, and he whimpered at the blaze of possession and dominance he felt in the gesture.
Then the fingers pinched, quick and light, and he was lost.
“Ah!”  It was a cry of surprise and need.  He had no voice for anything coherent, and fortunately House didn’t need words to understand.  He leaned back on both hands on the bedcovers, and House rose up on his knees a little to follow.  Thumbnails scraped over his nipples, down his ribs, and he whimpered eagerly.  His cock twitched hard in his pants, pressing against the zipped fly and presenting its hungry bulge to House’s gaze.
The corner of House’s mouth quirked up in a sly smile.  Wilson had turned to liquid in his hands, pliant and supple except for that signal erection that was almost right up against his sternum.  He pinched and rubbed Wilson’s nipples through the undershirt, watching each spasm and flinch that went through Wilson’s body and was echoed in his cock.  Wilson was flushed and sweating, head craned back to bare his throat, breaths coming fast.  “Puh…please…oh…”  He squirmed, hips shifting restlessly.
“Like that?” House murmured roughly, fascinated by the shameless display.  The question made Wilson buck, trying to rub his cock against the inside of his slacks.  House had never seen such desperation, especially not in his friend.  Wilson was moaning, whimpering, absolutely loving being pinched and fondled through his shirt.  The keening picked up in volume and pitch as House relentlessly toyed with his nipples.  He was thrusting his hips continuously now, aching for some contact other than air.  “Jesus, are you going to come?” House whispered.
“Want to,” Wilson admitted, gasping.  “Can’t…quite…get there…”  He heard House chuckle quietly, and growled in frustration.
“I have other plans for you,” House replied, letting up on the stimulation and instead starting to slowly pet Wilson’s chest and belly.  “Shh, don’t worry.”  It seemed to be what Wilson needed to hear, and for a minute or two he just breathed deeply, trying to relax and shake off the hard edge of need that House had brought him to.  “How about something a little less intense?”
“Kiss me,” Wilson whispered, pulling House up onto the bed with him.  He lay back on the thick, navy covers and let his hands wander as House settled the length of his own body onto Wilson’s.  House’s bare upper body warmed him like a furnace, and House obeyed the request with a low sigh that spoke not of annoyance, but a gentleness that Wilson had longed to know from him.
They kissed for a while, slow and sensuous.  Wilson hadn’t believed that House could be capable of such quiet, generous attention.  Wilson himself was a sensitive man, enough so that he was careful to hide it from others.  He had never asked for what he thought House couldn’t give, even platonically.  House just wasn’t the sort of man who hugged or put a comforting hand on a shoulder.  At least, so Wilson had thought.
And perhaps House still wasn’t that sort of man, generally speaking.  But for Wilson, he had tried to fix things, had come here tonight desperate to find some kind of apology that Wilson could accept.  House had burned too much of Wilson’s goodwill for anything that could be a bluff to be taken as sincere.  And so they found themselves in bed, House’s lips feather-light on his, because only real emotion could drive a straight man to make love to his decidedly non-straight friend.
It was so easy to kiss Wilson.  The man was so starved for touch and affection that he had nearly molded himself to House’s body when House laid half-on-top of him.  Wilson’s eager hands wandered over his back, his flanks, held his face lovingly or tangled themselves in his hair.  No resistance, no self-consciousness once past that initial contact.  Their kisses had becomes some kind of silent conversation, more about fondness and empathy than about sex.
“Take the rest of your clothes off,” Wilson murmured during one of their quiet pauses.  “I want to feel you.  Just…skin against skin.”
“Okay,” House said after a moment.  He got up carefully, standing beside the bed to lean against it for balance as he kicked off his shoes, then shed his jeans.  He hesitated longer at removing his briefs, but looked up to see that Wilson had gotten to his feet on the other side of the bed and reached a similar point.  Not that it wasn’t obvious that House’s body was interested in what was going on.  Wilson’s boxers were tented conspicuously, and the corner of House’s mouth quirked up.  Wilson flushed adorably, avoiding House’s eyes and pulling back the bedcovers to climb in quickly.  House could tell he was removing his shorts under the covers, and decided that was as good an idea as any.  House slid back into bed, nestling comfortably under the light blanket before shoving his briefs off and throwing them across the room toward the rest of his clothes.
Wilson was trying not to look eager as House turned toward him and scooted across the cool fitted sheet to resume his position on top of Wilson’s body.  But this time there was flesh to flesh contact, heat from neck to ankle, smooth along legs and arms (why had Wilson never noticed that House had so little body hair?), coarse furriness from chest to groin.  Their erections bumped, slid alongside each other with silky hardness.  Electric flashes down into each man’s toes.  Wilson shuddered and gave a low mewl, arching himself against House’s weight even as he embraced the other man tightly.
“God,” House panted.  So much warmth.  So much Wilson surrounding him and welcoming the whole of his being.
“Yeah,” Wilson agreed with a sigh, the sound melting into a throaty purr.  He was rubbing his legs up House’s, the insides of his knees across House’s hips.  His palms stroked over the bulge of House’s biceps.  “Jesus you feel good.”
House’s body moved of its own accord, hips pressing slowly into Wilson’s in an unconscious, stuttering rhythm.  Delicious pressure against his erection, sliding friction over the sensitive glans.  That motion was so primal that there was no consideration of what the recipient of it was.  Male, female, living or inanimate, it didn’t matter.  It felt good, so the urge took over.  Wilson’s hands were worshiping him, caressing over and over across his back, shoulders, biceps, ass — he bucked at that one, the grasp of strong fingers into his buttocks making him grunt.
Wilson struggled to control his breathing — it threatened to become panting and he didn’t really want to pass out from hyperventilation.  But it was so much to take in.  House’s body had surprised him with its solidity, its bulk.  His hands were finding a smooth back, hard-muscled from years of compensating for a treacherous leg.  Body hair was soft and fine, almost downy, letting him feel the fantastic curve of every muscle and tendon.  House had wonderfully sleek legs, the backs of his thighs silky, and Wilson caressed them lingeringly.
House had turned his face into the hollow of Wilson’s neck and shoulder, not daring to try to look the other man in the eye.  Wilson hadn’t asked him to kiss again, but it felt strange to not be doing something with his mouth.  So he nuzzled Wilson’s throat, taking in that warm scent of identity and maleness.  Sweat was slick there and he sucked lightly to taste it.  He reminded himself again that Wilson was a man, and unlikely to complain at a certain level of roughness.  On that thought, he rubbed his cheek hard against Wilson’s jaw and nipped sharply at the tender skin under the man’s ear.
Suddenly, Wilson came alive under him with strength and ferocity.  He rolled them, and House found himself on his back.  Wilson’s dark eyes blazed with something ferocious, needy, and House read the word Mine in them before Wilson bent down to kiss him bruisingly.  Wilson had lifted up slightly, resting weight on his knees rather than on House’s body.  House could feel the other man’s erection dragging heavily on his abdomen as the kisses devoured him.
Wilson gasped thickly when House’s palms cupped his buttocks firmly.
“Get up here,” House rasped, and Wilson drew back to look at him.
“What?  Why?”
“Why do you think?” House said, in a tone of you moron.  “You’re gonna explode.”  He was a little surprised by how quickly and eagerly Wilson obeyed.  Wilson knelt over his face, testicles full and warm as they brushed his chin softly.
“God, please,” Wilson panted, and any reluctance House felt disappeared.  James wanted him so badly that the shyness and embarrassment couldn’t compete and had fallen behind.  Wilson was trembling, a slight vibration he could feel on his chest and upper ribs where Wilson’s legs touched.  Warm musk close to his nose was surprisingly pleasant.  He thought to himself that Wilson’s Mohel had done a particularly good job; the scar was barely visible.  House teased with his tongue for a few moments, licking the ridge under the head, and Wilson gave a soft mew.  “Please.”
House shifted the angle of his jaw, and James moved as well when he saw what was needed.  House took that warm shaft into his mouth, lips wet along the length, tongue sliding over the tip as it went deeper.  Wilson moaned loud and deep, his thighs clenching against House’s sides.  He bucked suddenly, then stilled.  “Shit, sorry…”  House grabbed his rump, pulling him closer, coaxing that rhythm and Wilson groaned again.  “Oh God are you sure?  God…”  He was rocking gently, urgently.  House growled softly around his cock, accommodating the thrusts without complaint.  “Oh yeah, oh my God.”  The bed was moving now, not quite hitting the wall with each thrust.  “Oh I need…I need…House…”
Wilson was losing control, and it was the sweetest thing House had ever seen.  James rocked into his mouth, hands gripping the headboard for leverage, body slick with sweat, muscles clenching in an old rhythm.  He sucked hard and Wilson cried out breathlessly.  He was holding the man’s buttocks, feeling each thrust, dragging each one toward him because he couldn’t stand to not consume everything about James Evan Wilson.
“Fuck it’s so good,” Wilson panted.  “So good so good…oh God I’m…I’m…gonna…”  House tightened his grip on Wilson’s ass, not letting the other man pull away in some misguided consideration for his squeamishness.  He had taken this much of Wilson, and he wouldn’t let a single bit of it get away.  Wilson gave a quavering laugh of comprehension, and started to thrust harder.  “Ohh…please yes…gonna — oh fuck — ”
Wilson tried to hold still as the climax tore through him, but his body would not obey.  He bucked once, twice, responding completely to the release House offered.  He was safe in House’s arms, in the man’s presence.  That probably would have surprised people who knew House, but it was only with House that he felt accepted, seen.  A strangled groan unwound from his throat, surprising even him, and rose to a wail that held the briefest note of fear at how fast and how hard House had coaxed this from him.
House swallowed every surge of pleasure that filled his throat.  Chemical proteins and the white flame of ecstasy, overshadowed by that wonderful, delicious sound James was making as he let go into House’s mouth.  He wanted to give Wilson everything the other man might desire, every gentleness, every fierceness.  He realized only now, consciously, that he wanted that because he loved Wilson.  That love was at the foundation of their friendship, of their acceptance of the other’s faults and vices.
The problem was not that love was complex, but that it was excruciatingly simple in its most basic form.  How easily agapē became eros, if one merely permitted the love to extend there.  Complexity was created in trying to define it, to assign mental borders to something as primary as motion and difference in the operation of the universe.
And so it meant nothing to be straight, or to be gay, House mused.  It meant only to love.  It was not the sex, per se, that Wilson desired from him.  It was the intimacy, the proof of House’s love.  Sex was one of the most direct ways that House could give him joy, and that was why House was desperate now for something he had never done in his life and had never considered until tonight.  Wilson had always been open to this love between them, and finally House understood.  So, he swallowed, and held Wilson up carefully as the other man’s climax drove the strength from his limbs.
Wilson fell onto his back heavily, lying next to House and panting deeply.  He had been aware of House’s fear and uncertainty.  All of this was new for House.  Yet he had not detected any hesitation in the blowjob’s offer or its execution.  It had been…enthusiastic, completely willing.  No, more than that.  It had been loving.
He looked over, and House was watching him with those incredible eyes.  He had known people with blue eyes before, even the particular shade of House’s.  It wasn’t their color that made them so arresting, but the fact that their gaze carried the weight of House’s entire being.  Wilson wondered with a start if perhaps everyone’s eyes carried the weight of their being, and House’s was just that much greater.  Then House licked his lips, and Wilson’s stare dropped to follow the movement.  /Savoring the taste of me,/ Wilson thought.  /Oh God./
“Why?” he asked softly, wishing he could take it back immediately afterward.  Questioning this fortune was unwise, and exactly the kind of thing to make House bolt.  But House just looked at him.
“You’re not done, are you?”  Even though he ignored Wilson’s question, there was a strange lightness in House’s voice, a sort of freedom that Wilson usually only heard in their most casual and happy conversations.  “You’re not even forty yet.  At least I can blame my leg for being lazy.”
House watched him try to formulate some kind of reply.  It was cute when Wilson got all discombobulated, and House remained silent just to see how long it would take for the younger man to find something coherent to say.
“I was doing most of the work,” Wilson said after several seconds, his tone finding the right combination of mock irritation and amusement.  /He wants this,/ Wilson thought.  House was smiling at him, a sleepy, content expression that Wilson had never seen before.  /He wants me./  “As usual.”
“I’ll buy you lunch,” House said, waving his hand dismissively and glancing away.  Wilson took the opportunity to let his gaze linger over Greg’s body, the hard curve of biceps, flat stomach, lean thighs even with the deep scar on the right one.
/He’s still hard,/ Wilson realized, studying the tension in House’s abdominal muscles and the smooth length of his cock where it lay on his belly.  He hadn’t thought that House was actually aroused by this beyond the level of physical stimulation.  But the erection House had was not halfhearted or the result of mere animal reflex.  He glanced up and saw that the other man had closed his eyes.  That tightness was written in the lines of his face, too.  Hungry, but silent.  House wasn’t going to ask, nor was he going to do it himself.
Wilson sat up slowly, wondering how much of this was mutual.  He shifted closer, carefully, and put his hand on House’s stomach.  House flinched in surprise, his eyes slitting open to observe Wilson.  The touch was hesitant, curious, reflecting Wilson’s expression exactly.
House had wondered if Wilson had the ability to just accept what had happened, rather than feeling the need to reciprocate.  The light palm on his belly seemed to answer that question, and House sighed, annoyed.  /Why can’t the idiot just be selfish once in a while?/   But he couldn’t make himself pull away, or stop the stroking fingertips that circled his navel and traced through the line of hair from there down to his groin.  /Christ it’s like I’ve forgotten how it feels to be touched./  The contact was like an open flame, igniting his blood.  He sucked in a sharp, soft breath when Wilson’s fingers encountered the head of his cock.  Those fingers began to spread the wetness they found there around the glans, gently sliding back the foreskin farther.
House closed his eyes.  He wasn’t able to do much else, really.  He couldn’t have formed a coherent word to save his life just now, his leg was cranky enough that he had no desire to get up, and being passive was much easier than trying to figure out what to do with the arousal that was building inside him like a stoked furnace.  So he tilted his head back into the soft pillow, savoring the cool bedsheets against his back.  And God damn if Wilson wasn’t making him even harder with soft, teasing strokes down his shaft.  His shudder took him by surprise and he gave a choked moan.
Wilson smiled slightly as House’s hands clenched white-knuckled into the bedcovers.  He knew House wasn’t aware of doing it, because it wouldn’t have occurred at all otherwise.  House worked so hard to give nothing away.
“You don’t have to do this,” House suddenly said in a strangled voice.  “Stop being so damn giving.  Just take what you want.”
“I am taking what I want,” Wilson said, his eyes like flint.  House stared at him, shocked by the intensity in Wilson’s dark eyes.
“Oh,” House said stupidly.  “Okay.  Don’t let me…stop you…”  Wilson’s light caress reached his balls, curved under them to stroke slowly.  His eyes slid shut again.  “Oh God.”
There was something incredibly sublime about Wilson’s touch.  Much like Wilson himself, House reflected.  He could feel questions in the slowness of it.  The caresses were not just leisurely for the sake of drawing things out.  Wilson was asking him things.  Why are you letting me do this?  Why are you demanding it?  How many years has this been building?  What makes you moan?  What makes you scream?  How can I make you cry out my name?  House finally put one hand behind his head, under the pillow, because clenching there was less conspicuous than clenching into the bedcovers every time Wilson’s stroking moved him.  There were sudden fingertips on his biceps, close to the side of his face due to the position of his hand beneath the pillow.  He opened his eyes in surprise.  The question in the palm over his arm was in Wilson’s eyes too: How can you have no comprehension of how beautiful you are?
“I’m not,” House murmured, responding to that unspoken comment.  Wilson smiled slightly, contentedly.
“Yes, you are,” Wilson said.  He moved forward then, stretching out to lie half on top of House so as to avoid putting weight on his bad leg.  Wilson was looking down at him, one hand soft in his hair and the other stroking feather-light on his hip.  Wilson kissed him slowly, lazily, delving into his unresisting mouth.
But it wasn’t merely unresisting this time.  When Wilson drew back, House tried to follow and made a noise of complaint at the loss of the kiss.  With that small reaction, House suddenly became completely invested.  He had wanted to do this as a gift to Wilson, as an atonement that he couldn’t speak in words.  Now he realized how much he wanted it for himself, how warm and comforting Wilson was.  Heat surged deep in his gut and he arched his head back in a silent plea.
Wilson bent to nip House’s exposed throat, drawn to it by the sight of House deliberately baring it to him.  A soft moan vibrated against his lips, the tremor spreading outward so that Wilson felt it down the length of House’s body.
“What do you want?” Wilson murmured against his skin.  House let out a slow breath before answering.
“This isn’t about what I want,” he said, his voice wavering only slightly.
“It is if I want it to be,” Wilson replied, and House gave a low snort of amusement.
“No changing the rules in the middle.”
“There are rules?” Wilson asked, his voice just innocent enough that it made House shudder.  His tongue traced a wet line from his throat up over House’s chin, finding lips slack with pleasure.  He pulled back just enough to look at House’s face.  The older man looked utterly unselfconscious in that moment, aroused and trusting.
“Should have known better than to think you’d abide by them anyway,” House said, his voice low and raspy.  He reached up, unthinking, to stroke fingers back through Wilson’s hair.
“I just want to know what makes you feel good,” Wilson said softly, closing his eyes briefly at the gentle touch of House’s hand.  “I like seeing you happy.”  House chuckled raggedly.
“What you’re doing right now doesn’t suck,” he said, gazing at Wilson with undisguised lust, his pupils so large it almost obscured the color of his eyes.
“Hmm.  I suppose I could,” Wilson mused, his eyes sparkling.  His left hand was down at House’s hip, drawing slow, curving lines over the smooth flesh of House’s lower abdomen.  “Suck, that is.”  He loved the way House’s eyes widened.
“You think I’d say no to that?” House wondered.  Wilson shrugged slightly, pretending indifference.  His fingertips found the base of House’s erection, delving into the coarse curls there.  He felt House tense pleasurably.
“You did imply that this isn’t usually the team you bat for.”
“Correction.  It’s not a team I’ve ever batted for,” House said, although he sounded completely undisturbed by this fact just now.
“Which is why I want to make absolutely sure we’re on the same page here,” Wilson murmured.
“I told you to take what you want,” House said, his stare intent and serious.  “I mean it.”
“Do you really,” Wilson said, more to himself than to House.  His idly caressing hand closed suddenly around the shaft of House’s cock and gave a firm, twisting stroke.  House arched back with a choked sigh, squirming under the touch as if repressing the urge to just thrust hard into Wilson’s fist.  Wilson smiled slightly, reveling in the sight.  House had made the offer, but he was going to make Wilson fight for every moan and whisper and curse.  Wilson wondered if he should be disturbed by the thrill the prospect gave him.
He gave House’s cock another stroke, and this time House wasn’t able to suppress his reaction.  He thrust upward into the grasp, seeking.  A heartfelt whimper followed, a sound of surrender in the face of something too delicious to refuse.  It had been much too long since he had been pleasured with such care and attention.  Blowjobs were their own sort of indulgence.  But the touch of a hand — the sensuous teasing he was getting from Wilson just now — was more intimate in many ways.  Part of it was the way Wilson was looking at him, drinking in everything in House’s face, every twitch and shudder.
“I could just take you right to the edge and not let you come,” Wilson mused as he stroked.
“You could,” House agreed, his eyes unreadable even as he pushed into Wilson’s grip.
“You did say I could take what I wanted,” Wilson continued, letting House fuck his hand and tightening his grip slightly on the in-stroke.
“Yep.”  House closed his eyes briefly on the next thrust.  “God.”
“Keep still,” Wilson said softly.
“What?”  House was breathless.
“Don’t thrust.  Don’t move.  Just…let me.”  Wilson let go for a moment, watching House’s incredulous, aroused expression.  He could read House’s thought clearly: I’m not sure it’s possible for me to be still, and you’re insane to be asking, but I’ll try because I said I’d do whatever you wanted.  House’s body quieted, thighs quivering but his pelvis resting fully on the bed.  Panting breaths slowed, deepened.  House swallowed hard, then nodded tightly to indicate he was ready for Wilson to touch him again.  Wilson laid his palm on the shaft, feeling the heat rising from House’s body.  A shudder rippled up House’s legs into his belly, but he didn’t move.
Wilson’s hand closing around his cock, however, made him suck in a sharp breath.  A long stroke from that deft hand, and House pressed his lips together tightly.  He was breathing hard through his nose, trying desperately not to push into that sweet touch.  He was the sort of man who was cursed to be horny but not easily aroused.  He needed that mental component, the imperative of having various psychological buttons pushed.
Apparently, Wilson pushed every one of them, including a few he hadn’t known he possessed.  The man’s sable eyes devoured him just with a look, and he couldn’t stop staring.  No porn video, no sex magazine, nothing was as hot as the way James was looking at him right now.  And the sensual touch on his penis was more than just physical stimulation.  He could feel Wilson’s desire for him, the trust between them, the regret he couldn’t voice and the affection Wilson was afraid to speak aloud.  Fuck, it felt so good.  Everything.  The intimacy, the comfort, the incredible pleasure that was about to spill over.
“Wilson,” he rasped.  It was a warning, a plea.
“Shh,” Wilson said gently, stilling his hand.  House was right on the edge — he squeezed firmly and savored the moan that came out of the other man’s throat.  “Don’t come.  Not yet.”  House made a sound somewhere between and laugh and a sob, but didn’t voice one word of complaint or demand.  “Feels good?”
“Fuck yes,” House gasped.
“How long has it been since you last came?”
“What is this, Twenty fucking Questions?” House asked.  He regretted the antagonism in the next moment, when Wilson let go of his cock entirely.  “‘S been…I dunno…couple weeks,” he offered desperately.  “Everything going on with Tritter.”  Wilson nodded understandingly.  His fingers returned to House’s taut erection, lightly stroking up and down the satiny length.  House exhaled sharply with a grunt, his eyes closing in relief.
“What do you want more than anything, right now?” Wilson teased.  He expected a plea for orgasm, for a touch of some kind.  The way House hesitated intrigued him, and then the blue eyes opened again to look straight into his.
“I want us to be okay,” House gasped.  His left hand let go of its death grip on the bedcovers and came up to lay the back of knuckles gently against Wilson’s arm.  Not trying to grasp, or beg.  Just that soft, soft spread of fingers on the fine hairs of his arm while the rest of House’s body was wound up like a steel coil, sweaty and starving.
“Oh, House,” Wilson whispered.  “We’re okay.  It’s okay.”
“Be kinda nice to come, then,” House replied, licking his upper lip.  Wilson let go of his penis again, and a groan of frustration tore free from deep in House’s chest.  Wilson chuckled, and House laughed breathlessly.  This was a game, a delicious, pleasurable game between them like so many other games they had played in their friendship.
“Turn over,” Wilson said.  The shift in House’s expression was so fast it took his breath away.  Anxiety, questioning, a deep uncertainty that reminded Wilson just how inexperienced House was with men — and, apparently, some aspects of his own solitary pleasure.  “Do you trust me?”
That simple question made House visibly relax a great deal.  He didn’t answer, but merely moved to comply with the instruction.  Wilson shoved a pillow under his pelvis to raise his ass up in the air a little, and to give some support to his bad leg.  It also gave him something to rub his cock against, and he purred lowly, buttocks clenching as he pushed into the soft mass.  Wilson fought back a curse at the inviting sight of those strong muscles bunching up.  House had powerful legs, even the right one, because all the other muscles compensated for the ones that weren’t there.
The bed shifted as Wilson leaned over him toward the table by the bed.  House evened out his breathing carefully, his head turned to the side to watch Wilson take a bottle of warming lube out of the drawer.
“Just happen to be prepared?” he asked wryly.  He heard Wilson snort softly.
“For all those nights when my companion is my left hand?” Wilson replied, amused.  “Yes.”  House gave a low hum, smiling into the pillow.  “Let me go get a towel.”
The mattress creaked momentarily as Wilson got up.  He came back with both a towel and a damp washcloth.  House wasn’t entirely sure about this whole thing…what Wilson was probably going to do to him.  Wilson’s easy manner made it less terrifying — this might be new for House, but not Wilson.  House was willing to surrender himself to Wilson’s experience.  Wilson was nothing if not competent in everything he chose to pursue.  “You okay?” came Wilson’s low, gentle voice as he returned to the bed and settled himself.
“Yeah,” House said roughly, and it became true as Wilson’s palm stroked down his back.  He heard the bottle’s flip-top opened, a faint gooey sound and then the lid snapped shut again.  /Breathe.  Just breathe.  You know Wilson won’t hurt you./  The sticky, slick sound of hands being rubbed together.  Nothing could have prepared him for the palm on his left buttock, and he flinched hard.  The hand stilled immediately, warm gel damp on his skin.  He realized he was panting, and fought to slow it down.  Wilson must have been waiting for that, and the palm moved again, sliding over the firm shape of his rump.
A moan uncurled from deep in his belly, surprising even him.  It felt inexplicably good to have his ass rubbed, and Wilson’s other hand soon joined the first in a slow, pleasant massage.  Wilson’s thumbs were gradually moving inward, toward the cleft of his ass.  It was weird.  Sensitive, almost ticklish, alien in spite of his familiarity with his own touch when bathing.  One slick thumb finally slid over his anus, and he shied forward involuntarily with a gasp.
“Wilson — ”
“I know,” Wilson said soothingly.  “I don’t have to if you don’t want it.”
“As many DREs as I’ve had, you’d think I’d be used to it,” House rasped, attempting a casual tone and failing completely.  Wilson chuckled softly.
“It’s not the same.”
“Yeah, I noticed that.”
“You ever get hard from a DRE?” Wilson wondered.
“Nope,” House said honestly.  “Most unarousing thing I can think of that involves me dropping my pants and being fondled.”
“And is this…okay?” Wilson asked cautiously.  He was still stroking casually with one thumb, but not quite making contact with the anus like before.
“Wouldn’t be lying here with my bare ass in the air otherwise,” House said.  “Just…”  He exhaled tensely.  “Go slow, okay?”
“Sure.  Slow as you want.  I need to know, though…”  Wilson hesitated, as if fearful of the answer.  “Does this feel good, or are you just tolerating it because I’m asking it of you?”
“You kinda startled me before,” House murmured.  “It’s…unfamiliar.  But…yeah.  It’s good.”
“I’m going to do it again, all right?” Wilson said.  House grunted assent, and braced himself when he felt more lube dribbled between his buttocks.  Slow, sensuous thumb again, starting at the top of the crack where the skin was highly sensitive.  He shivered, and the thumb pressed downward, between firm muscles that trembled with the effort of not trapping the finger and denying access.
Warm, slick thumb pad over the delicate skin of his anus, sending little bolts of lightning through him and making him twitch with each stroke.  The only relevant body memory his brain coughed up was, indeed, a prostate exam.  It was the only thing even remotely similar that he had experienced before.  Ironically, it didn’t help, because a clinical exam wasn’t supposed to feel good, and the doctor performing it would have been more interested in palpating his anatomy than in providing pleasure.  /Of course, there are probably a few who try to do both and get off on it,/ House thought involuntarily.  He wondered vaguely if Wilson had ever performed a prostate exam on anyone in a professional capacity.
“Stop thinking,” Wilson chided, and House let out a surprised whuff of breath.
“Can’t help it,” House said.  “Brain won’t shut up.”
“Hm.  Obviously I’m doing this wrong, then.”
House wasn’t sure exactly what Wilson did to change his technique — possibly something to do with timing, or the delicacy of the touch on his anus and the surrounding hands on his ass.  Maybe it was the deliberateness of it, the focus Wilson was giving toward trying to find a way in through House’s unintentional emotional armor.  Whatever the reason, a flicker of pleasure found one of the nerve pathways up his spine to his nucleus accumbens, and he grunted.
“There,” he murmured.  Wilson hmmed again and carefully pushed his buttocks farther apart.  It was a struggle to allow it, because it was such a vulnerable part of his body, but having it teased like this was making him breathe out tiny moans with each exhale.  He spread his legs without thinking, heard Wilson inhale sharply in surprise, and pushed back against the touch.  “More,” he rumbled, nostrils flaring as his cock rubbed the pillow under him.  His hands clenched into the bedsheets, giving him leverage, and his back arched at the flare of need that ripped through him in a scalding wave.
Wilson nudged the slick thumb into him, answering his demand.  It was an invasion, private and wonderful, and burned a little even through the smooth lubricant.  He gave a choked gasp of astonishment — this was nothing like a prostate exam, not anymore.  Wilson wiggled his finger slightly, and House panted in echo of the flood of delicious ripples it sent through him.
“Okay?” Wilson asked worriedly.  House’s answer was a low growl that reverberated through the mattress.  His hand shaking, Wilson withdrew his thumb slightly, then nudged again in a tiny thrust.  The growl intensified, House’s body flexing like a lazy cat in warm sunlight.
“Yes,” came the hoarse response.  House knew that Wilson couldn’t afford to misinterpret his reactions, so the verbal consent was needed.  But, fuck, it was hard to talk just now.  The thumb started to move in small circles, stretching him ever so slightly, stimulating the highly innervated skin there.  He wasn’t sure exactly when this had become pleasurable, but God it was liquid flame through his veins.  “Christ, more.”
Wilson couldn’t believe he heard it at first.  But House’s skin was hot and damp in the room’s low light, gleaming with sweat, a pink flush spreading up to his nape.  Wilson withdrew his thumb quickly, carefully, and replaced it with his first two fingers together.  “Fuck!” House exclaimed, shoving back against the intrusion greedily.  “Oh…Jesus…”  Wilson could hear the incredulity, the amazement of this sensation.  He knew it himself, although it had been quite a while since he’d experienced it.
“Nice, isn’t it?” Wilson said, his voice having dropped almost an octave.  The hard muscles in House’s back rippled and that low growl reached him again.  “And maybe…this…”  He pressed deep suddenly, turning his hand to search for that prostate with the surety of a doctor’s knowledge.  It was small, and deceptively firm, but he knew that a gentle touch was the best to start.
The choked yell that House let out made him grin, and he had to move quickly to keep up as House bucked against him.  His finger darted lightly over the bump deep inside, tiny flicking strokes that made House’s entire body flinch with each one.
“Oh God…God,” House panted.  “I think…I’m gonna come…”
“No, you’re not,” Wilson said, amused, and withdrew his fingers just enough to avoid the gland.  House swore luridly, and Wilson fully believed then that the man had grown up with a Marine colonel for a father.  Only soldiers and sailors cursed like that.  “Creative,” he said.
“Fuck you,” House spat.  “Bastard.  How long are you going to drive me to the edge and then back off?  Am I going to go home sporting a boner in my jeans?”
“I’m not that cruel,” Wilson said reassuringly.  “But I do want to see what it takes to deprive you of the power of speech.”
“Ah, so this is a game to you,” House said sarcastically.  “And the whole thing is — “  The words choked off suddenly as Wilson thrust his two fingers in again, both fingertips finding the prostate.  House’s fists clenched into the bedsheets, white-knuckled, a raw moan cascading from his open mouth.  “Ahhh yeah.  Mmmm.  Never mind.  I take it all back.”
“Thought so,” Wilson said.  “You need to relax a little more or I’m going to wind up hurting you.”  He was slowing down, gentling the in-out movement of his fingers.  House realized he was right.  There was still that slight burn alongside the mind-numbing pleasure, and he closed his eyes to concentrate on relaxing pelvic and lumbar muscles that were clenched because they were  used to compensating for his leg.  “You’ve really never done this before?  Not even to yourself?”
“Never had a reason to,” House answered simply.  “Logistics of it with a bad leg are difficult anyway.”
“Seems unlike you not to explore,” Wilson mused, watching House’s toes curl as he gently eased a third finger in with the first two.  “I would have figured you to have quite a few kinks.”
“Who says I don’t?” House replied.  “Shoving things into my ass just doesn’t happen to be one of them oh Jesus…”  House was pushing back against his hand again, cautiously but eagerly.
“I think you might be wrong about that,” Wilson observed with a smile.  House’s response was a guttural moan and a subtle flexing of his shoulders as he tried to both press into the bed and thrust backward onto the three fingers impaling him.  Apparently he had reached the threshold for verbal coherence.  Wilson chuckled quietly, amused and pleased that he could elicit such a reaction in a man for whom language was a precise and easily summoned ability.
House growled again, vaguely irritated by Wilson’s smugness.  It shouldn’t have been attractive on him, but it was.  Wilson didn’t laugh enough, especially not lately, and he had a beautiful smile that House had always secretly admired as one of his best qualities.  He was trying to come up with something incisive to say about the laugh, though, and the fullness inside him was elbowing everything else out of his perception until only the delight of it remained.
“Sh…shut…up…” was the best House could manage.  “Oh…”
Wilson’s heat loomed over him suddenly, free hand burrowing into his hair as Wilson leaned down to kiss hungrily between his shoulders.  The fingers inside him were shifting minutely, an almost imperceptible twist and thrust that made his breath catch.  He had never experienced anything so intimate, so utterly overwhelming in its intensity.  It felt good, yes, but it was the fierceness of it, the strangeness, that was addicting.
The wet kisses down his spine were urgent and breathless, and he wondered what Wilson was feeling that had caused that quick change in mood.  He wasn’t used to this kind of passion from Wilson.  Strength, yes.  Determination.  But it was always quiet and restrained.  There was something frantic about the way Wilson stroked a hand down his ribs, teeth nipping at the top of his buttocks.  He felt the brush of soft hair, then sandpaper roughness of a cheek, and realized Wilson was rubbing his face against his back.  All the while, the fingers that penetrated him were gentle and measured.
Wilson pulled on his shoulder, and House rolled over again as the fingers slid out of him.  He barely had a moment to lock gazes with the younger man before he was being kissed savagely.  He kissed back, letting his mouth be opened by a needy tongue.  Just as quickly, the mouth moved away to rake down his neck, tasting his clavicle, sucking hard on one nipple until he groaned with pleasure.  Wilson’s lips slid lower, nipping lightly at his stomach and hipbone, laving the length of his cock until he arched into the promise of being sucked.
“Please,” House whispered, caught by the incredible weight and heat of Wilson’s want.  /God, he’s practically orgasmic just from touching me./  House himself was trembling, a sympathetic longing mingled with his own unrelieved arousal.  Wilson made a low noise at his plea, a pained whimper, and nuzzled his erection.  “James.  Look at me.”  Wilson raised his head, drawn by that serious, affectionate voice.  “You want to fuck me?” House asked quietly.  His eyes were unreadable, but there was nothing cold about his tone.  It was, if anything, accepting.  Wilson closed his eyes, bowing his head for a moment to hold back the sudden growl that wanted to come out of his throat at House’s question.
“Yes,” he rasped, and House could hear him panting.  Sable eyes as hot as summer earth lifted to him.  “Yes, I want to fuck you.”
“Then do it,” House said.
“I don’t want to do something you won’t enjoy,” Wilson said softly.  House startled him with a laugh that held too much pleasure to be considered sarcastic.
“Do I look like I’m not enjoying this?” he demanded, flushed, sweaty.  He pounded his head back down into the pillow.  “Now fuck me for Christ’s sake.  I’m dying here.”
“On your stomach,” Wilson demanded after a heartbeat’s worth of internal deliberation.  He still looked unsure, but the need in his voice made House’s gut clench.  “It’ll be more comfortable for you that way.”  House obeyed quickly, surprising himself with the urgency of his own desire for this.  Wilson made him lift up for a moment to put another pillow under his hips to support his leg.
Then there was warmth against the insides of his thighs as Wilson got between them.  Two fingers entered him again, and it was a lot less painful this time.  He’d missed the sensation of fullness even in the scant minutes since Wilson had withdrawn them.  “Relax as much as you can,” Wilson said, his voice almost a whisper.  “Let the pillow take your weight.  Tell me if you need to change position.”
All three suggestions were stupid, House thought, but he said nothing because the delight of having those fingers inside him again took all the passion out of his annoyance.  He felt more cold lube dribbled against his skin, and it quickly warmed with the friction.  Wilson’s free hand was rubbing his lower back, massaging out the tension there.  House realized his gut was a hot ball of anxiety, and he tried to let the touch soothe him.  The pillow under him was bunched up enough that he could go limp against it, relieving his knees and buttocks of the need to support his weight.  /Okay, maybe they weren’t stupid suggestions after all./
Wilson felt the way House’s body shifted, taut muscles becoming more supple, limbs letting gravity draw them to the bed.  He added a third finger very slowly, rotating them back and forth to make the passage easier.
“I don’t think I get any more ready than this,” House murmured.  Wilson’s massage of his back had taken on a note of nervousness — perhaps wary of the fact that House was nowhere near what would usually be considered relaxed.
“Okay,” Wilson said, exhaling tautly.  “You’ll feel the reflex to void — just try to relax through it and don’t push.”  He nestled closer, angling himself carefully with one hand, and pressed forward slowly, firmly.
The head of his cock was a more oppressive presence than just fingers, even if the width was the same.  House made a low sound that was of indeterminate emotion, and Wilson forced himself to stop just inside.  The rectum had two sphincters, and the inner one was involuntary.  That was always the hardest part to get past.  He rubbed his clean hand up and down House’s back, reassuring him as much as trying to relax the muscles there.  “Deep breaths,” he said softly, and House seemed to let out a lungful.  “Does it hurt?”
“Yeah,” House admitted.  “Feels weird as hell, too.  Don’t stop.  Just…real slow.”
“I will,” Wilson promised.  “I won’t move until you tell me it’s okay.  As slow as you want.”
It took a good ten minutes for Wilson to get himself fully sheathed.  His thighs were shaking a bit from the effort of staying slow and steady.  He drew a deep breath, leaning his head back for a moment to savor being completely inside the man he had loved for what seemed like years.  Perhaps it had been years.  God, it felt so good and House was a vision of power and maleness beneath him.  Now that he could relax and just rest inside his friend, he took a closer look at House’s face.
He could see House’s profile.  Eyes shut, mouth open in a silent cry — but it was pleasure, pleasure that suffused his features.  Wilson was used to seeing pain etched in House’s face, a sort of closed tightness that other emotions had to fight to get through.  But this was a slack delight, an absence of pain.  Wilson swallowed hard, unmoving, realizing that House had yet to speak.  Instead there was this…surrender, not just to Wilson but to himself.
One of House’s hands moved, releasing its death grip on the sheets and sliding back to give him some leverage.  Wilson gave a soft yip of surprise as House suddenly pushed back against him.  A low sigh rolled out of House’s chest.  Wilson took this as a sign that House wanted him to move, so he grabbed the man’s hips and pushed deep.  The room’s quiet broke with the sound of twin moans.
“Again,” House rasped, barely intelligible against the mattress.  “Just like that.”
Wilson withdrew an inch or two, carefully, gently, then slid deep again.  The angle must have been just right — House kept absolutely still, another low moan resonating in the bed.  Another slow, intense thrust.  “God…fuck…right there, that’s so perfect,” House sighed.
It was an easy, unhurried rocking, Wilson pulling House firmly to him as he rose up slightly with each thrust.  House was almost totally relaxed except for providing some resistance for Wilson to use.  Something had changed in the past few minutes, and Wilson realized just how closed House was most of the time.  Opening his body required a level of trust, but what House was letting him see was more than what was required just for sex.
/He’s not letting me fuck him anymore.  He’s letting me make love to him,/ Wilson thought, shocked.  Tears stung his eyes unexpectedly, and he let them fall because he was too busy with both hands to wipe them away.  I love you, he mouthed silently.  House was already saying it, just not with his voice.  He felt a shudder pass through the older man’s body, and glanced at House’s face attentively.
“I’m gonna come,” House whispered.  “Oh Jesus it’s big, oh…”
“Do it,” Wilson breathed, amazed.  It was rare for a man to orgasm just from being penetrated, at least in his experience.  Not to mention that this was House’s first time.  But they had been slow and careful, and House’s delight in the lazy lovemaking was tangible heat in the room.  Muscles were tightening under his hands, House’s body shivering in time with soft, incredulous moans.
“James…oh right there, right there.  God I can’t believe this — James — “  He cried out, louder than Wilson had expected, and then he was bucking into the pillows in long, agonized pulses.  “Fuck!”  He ground his cock into the pillow, Wilson still thrusting in that perfect spot.  He could feel himself clenching around Wilson, eliciting a gasp from the other man.
“Shit, I’m coming again,” Wilson groaned.
“Come on, Jimmy,” House panted, grinning as Wilson’s thrusts got rougher, prolonging his own orgasm.    Wilson rode over the edge almost soundlessly, gasping deeply.  For a few seconds they were flying together, and Wilson barked out a laugh of pure joy.
Wilson was still panting when he shifted to withdraw from House.  Endorphins were still flooding House’s veins and pulling out now would cause less discomfort than waiting to lose his erection.  Also, he was concerned that House’s leg might require some change in position, and he didn’t want to be in the way.  House grunted as he slipped free, and Wilson knew well the sensation of sudden emptiness that sometimes caused.  He rubbed House’s back, then bent down to kiss heated skin gently.
“Stay put and I’ll clean you up,” Wilson murmured, sounding satisfied rather than embarrassed.
“Mrnh,” House said.  His muscles were water, completely limp on the bed and weighing a hundred pounds each.  Wilson came back with a warm washcloth and wiped the oily lube from his back and rump.  It had the side-effect of cleaning some sweat away, and the evaporating dampness was pleasantly cool.
“Gonna turn you over,” Wilson said, and House helped as much as he could until he was on his back and could resume his imitation of cataplexia.  His belly was wet from his climax, and he purred low as Wilson cleaned him there, too.  The younger man was making quiet sounds of contentment, probably not even aware he was doing so, and House listened while he waited for his voluntary gross motor skills to return.  Wilson grabbed the soaked pillow and turned it over on the bed, damp side down.  “You get that one,” he said wryly.
“Usshl,” House mumbled, which Wilson took to be an extremely lazy utterance of “asshole”.  He smirked, then got up and went back to the bathroom.  House could hear water running from the sink, and guessed that Wilson was cleaning himself up now that his lover was taken care of.
/Lover,/ he thought with odd clarity.  /That’s the right word, isn’t it?  Yes,/ he decided.  /It is./
He had never felt like this after sex before.  Empty.  Full.  Neither one uncomfortable.  Just a delicious, exhausted limbo in which he felt no need to recover his composure or put his guard back up.  It was simply too much effort right now, and he had nothing to hide from Wilson.  /No desire to resume the facade because it never fooled him anyway./
When Wilson returned, he settled onto his side on the bed before realizing that the azure eyes were open and watching him silently.  There was a small smile on House’s face, weary and pleased.  The smile was a good sign.  He’d been afraid that panic would start to set in once the urgency of sex was gone.  But House didn’t look upset.  In fact, the openness of his expression was somewhat unnerving.
“You need a pill?” Wilson asked mildly.  House blinked at him slowly before drawing a deep breath for the energy to reply.
“Don’t think so,” he said.  “Probably will in the morning, and not for my leg.”  Wilson laughed softly.
“There’s no bleeding,” he said easily.  “I checked.”  He sounded proud of this fact.
“Could just mean you have a small dick,” House mused, and Wilson snorted.
“Had to use three fingers to get you ready, remember?” he said, arching one eyebrow.
“Believe me, I remember,” House said with feeling.  He sighed gustily, a sound of satisfaction.  “Sleep now,” he demanded, and Wilson settled in next to him with a smile.  He put one arm across House’s belly possessively, and House shifted closer before they surrendered to exhaustion.

****

It was his leg that woke House the next morning, as usual.  He fumbled for the night stand, searching for his Vicodin, momentarily confused when it wasn’t at the height he expected and his hand encountered air.  He forced one eye open and took in the warm, bland decor of Wilson’s hotel room.  The heavy curtains were drawn, but morning light made a sharp glow at the top edge.
/Oh.  Right./  His pills were still in his jeans pocket, on the floor.  Turning on his side to reach out of bed for them, he paused as an ache made itself known in his rectum.  /Oh.  Right./  But his jeans turned up empty, at least of pills, and a twinge of panic lanced through him.  /Where — /  Then his gaze caught on the familiar amber bottle, which was on the night stand with a sheet of hotel stationery under it.  Bottled water rested next to it.  Wilson must have fished the medication out for him.  He sat up carefully, wincing a little.  Sitting down was going to be fun for a few days.  He was thirsty, and the water was welcome as he took two pills.  The note was in Wilson’s neat, blocky script:

Went out to get a newspaper
and some coffee for both of
us. Back soon.

The note wasn’t signed, not that it needed a signature since it could only have been one person. But House smirked at the mental image of Wilson agonizing over how to sign it (Wilson?  James?  Just an initial?) before giving up and leaving it blank.
House waited a few minutes for the Vicodin to start taking effect, then carefully levered himself into a sitting position on the side of the bed.  He stretched his entire body slowly, and used both hands to massage his right thigh before attempting to stand.  His cane was propped against the night stand — another thoughtful gesture from Wilson.
/Not bad,/ House thought, gingerly testing some weight on his bad leg.  /A hot shower and it’ll be fine./  He ambled to the bathroom, amused at the prospect of smelling like Wilson’s shampoo and soap when he was done.

****

Wilson came through the door a while later juggling two large cups of Starbucks coffee and a newspaper.  House’s coffee habits were oddly normal compared to his own.  Wilson liked his to be sweet, which House declared to be capable of making Wilson’s dentist weep from afar.
The bed was empty, and he had noted on the way in that the bathroom door was closed.  He sighed.  House would probably steal some of his clothes to wear.  He had a mental image of House in one of his dress shirts, and his breath caught.  The man did clean up nice.  He had just reached the table in the room and set the coffee and newspaper down when he heard the bathroom door open behind him.
“I got you one of those ridiculous mocha/whipped cream things you claim to like,” Wilson said.  House’s uneven gait moved closer to him across the carpet.  “And I don’t recommend reading the front page of the paper unless you want to be pissed off.”
Wilson jumped when he felt two large palms cup his buttocks, sliding over his slacks for a moment before coming around his torso to embrace him.
“I never read the paper,” House said.  His lean body pressed up against Wilson’s back, warm and…naked.  “The news is already twelve hours old.”  One hand rubbed across Wilson’s chest, fingers slipping between the buttons to find his bare skin beneath.  Wilson moaned softly, leaning his head back to let House kiss his neck.
“Ancient history, hm?” Wilson said, his voice already rough.  He was smiling, surprised and pleased by this attention from House.
“Yup.”  House rocked his hips gently into Wilson’s rump, feeling and hearing the other man gasp.  “Internet’s faster.”  His other hand drifted down between Wilson’s legs and massaged the soft cock there.  “I need to know the instant Britney Spears does anything.”
“Do not invoke that name if you want this to go anywhere,” Wilson warned.  He realized he could smell spearmint toothpaste.  He scowled.
“Did you use my toothbrush?” he asked incredulously.
“A little late to be worried about exchanging bodily fluids,” House replied.
“Using another person’s toothbrush is just…gross,” Wilson said.
“Do you really want to be talking about that right now?” House wondered.  He was using the backs of his knuckles to stroke up and down the fly of Wilson’s slacks.  He could feel the presence there beginning to swell and harden.  Wilson cursed softly and gripped the table where he was standing.
“This isn’t…still you apologizing, is it?” Wilson asked hesitantly.
“Nope,” House murmured against his neck.  “Finished that last night.”
“So…what’s this?”
“Mmm, think it’s called being horny,” House said, nuzzling him and then nipping his earlobe.  “Are you objecting?”
“Uh…no…” Wilson said, although it came out more as a groan.
“Didn’t get much of a chance to touch you last night,” House mused, left hand roaming across Wilson’s chest and stomach.  “Definite oversight.”
“I wasn’t sure…you’d still be here when I got back this morning,” Wilson admitted.  He expected House to stop fondling him, to hesitate when confronted with the emotional foundation of the previous night’s activities.  But the hand between his thighs continued to explore and tease, finding the head of his penis and squeezing lightly.
“You’re the one who took the risk,” House said, his voice low.  “By admitting you were in love with me.”
“And that…made it okay for you to come here,” Wilson reasoned slowly.  “Because it was a safe bet that I wouldn’t freak out, even if I said no. I’d already bared my soul, so it was unlikely that I’d mock you if you bared yours.”  House took a deep breath, silent for a moment.  His embrace was warm and intimate — Wilson had never expected that House might be physically clingy in a relationship.  It was…nice.  It was very nice.
“Yeah,” House said finally.  “Something like that.”
House unzipped Wilson’s pants, not even bothering with the belt, and snuck his hand inside.  He found soft boxers, and navigated through the fly of those to pull out a thickening, eager half-erection.  Wilson’s thighs started to shake, and House pressed him more firmly against the table.  The cock in his hand was smooth and hot, firming quickly as he gave lazy strokes.  “You look so good like this,” House murmured against his throat.  “All your clothes on, freshly shaved, coming apart as I touch you.”
“Jesus, House,” Wilson sighed, starting to rock into his grasp, seeking friction against House’s palm and fingers.  House wouldn’t let him have much, controlling the pace to something right on the edge of ‘enough’.  Wilson started to keen low in his throat.  “God, faster,” he panted.  “Please…”
“But you sound so hot when I tease you,” House complained, smirking.  James was almost writhing in his arms now, delicious and flustered.  He knew the slow speed was going to have some nice results — he could feel the erection throb faintly on the in-stroke.  /He came twice last night and he’s still horny as fuck../  Wilson’s keening got louder, his entire body tightening up a bit more with each slide of House’s hand over him.  “Come on.  I want to see you come all over the place.  Just do it, right here.”
“Fuck,” Wilson gasped, beginning to pant hard.  “Fuck.”
He felt James’s cock twitch, and suddenly it was pulsing gently, steaming milky threads over his hand in a relaxed way.  Then Wilson moaned, the orgasm itself catching up to the urgency of the ejaculation.  “Oh yeah.  Oh yeah yeah there — “  James convulsed, his cock spraying hard halfway across the table with renewed eagerness.  House stroked him firmly, the semen becoming lube over the head and shaft, and Wilson spasmed again with a low cry.
“Yeah, that’s it,” House whispered.  “All of it, come on.”  He got a few more pulses before Wilson made a sound of complaint — too sensitive.  House let him go carefully, then wiped his hand on Wilson’s clean shirt.
“Jerk,” Wilson sighed.  House chuckled.  “Okay, that is disgusting.”
“What?” House said.
“Look at the newspaper.”
The paper Wilson had put on the table was covered in wet streaks, some of them still visibly pearly.  But Wilson didn’t move from House’s arms, and hummed quietly when House nuzzled and kissed his neck.  House shifted his hips a little when he felt Wilson’s hand reaching back to fondle him.
“Little too soon for me after last night,” House murmured as Wilson’s warm grasp enclosed his half-hard penis.
“Can I suck you anyway?” Wilson asked unexpectedly, his voice rough with arousal.  House considered.
“As long as you’re okay with the fact it probably won’t go anywhere.”
“Not a problem,” Wilson said, turning around to take in House’s fantastic nudity before pushing him back toward the bed.  House didn’t have his cane, so Wilson was careful.  But the scar on his leg wasn’t interesting at all compared to the overall picture.  /God he looks incredible.  He’s so body-shy, even before the infarction, and he’s just…magnificent./  He made House sit on the edge of the bed, then fell to his knees with a groan.
“Jesus,” House breathed.  “How can you — “  Wilson lunged for him, hot wet mouth taking him to the root, hands grabbing his ass.  “Unh, Christ…how can you be this fucking horny?”
Wilson just growled around his penis, sucking and licking him with truly indecent relish.  He leaned back on his hands, unable to look away from the other man’s bobbing head and wet lips.  The dark eyes met his for a moment, filled with a lust that went deeper than anything their bodies might be able to address.  He felt himself harden suddenly, and Wilson smiled.
And honestly, it felt absolutely delicious.  There was nothing in the world like having his cock sucked, especially when he wasn’t likely to be able to orgasm.  He was able to stay hard and sensitive for a long time, able to enjoy the attention and savor the heat and slickness.  House purred deep in his chest.  “Shit, that’s good.  Let’s just stay here and you can do this all day.”  Wilson chuckled.
“Up,” Wilson panted, drawing back just enough to speak.  “Onto the bed.”  House obliged, reclining on the bed and watching Wilson climb on the bed with him and turn around to face House’s feet in what was basically half of a 69 position.  The position allowed him to deep throat House’s cock perfectly, and House arched his back in appreciation.
“Holy crap,” he gasped.  “Uhhhhh yeah.  You know you’re going to have to teach me how you do that.”
Wilson got comfortable on his side, in for the long haul because he loved doing this and was going to do it as long as House would let him.  House was humming quietly, stretching and sighing and showing no sign of getting bored as the minutes went by.
After about twenty minutes, House spoke.
“You can stop if you’re getting tired,” he said.  Wilson let go to glance back at him.
“I…was afraid you were getting tired of it,” Wilson replied.
“Nope,” House said.  He wasn’t lying — his cock was hard and warm, definitely not the response of a man not enjoying himself.  “Vicodin makes it hard for me to climax sometimes…but it still feels good.  If you’re okay with doing this.”
“I’m very, very okay with this,” Wilson murmured, smiling before devouring him again.
House felt him shift on the bed, and noticed for the first time that Wilson hadn’t zipped himself up from before.  The very tip of his penis was just peeking out of the fly.
“Christ, Wilson, are you hard again?” House said incredulously.  He saw Wilson blush, and he grinned as he reached out to tickle the swollen glans of Wilson’s penis.  Wilson flinched and moaned.  “Ha!  You are!  No wonder you didn’t want to move back in with me.  You couldn’t whack off as much as you wanted to.  Are you always like this?”
“Not always,” Wilson mumbled before returning to pleasuring House.
“You mean…it’s me?” House said.  The blush on Wilson’s face was spreading down his neck, and House experienced a flood of pride and some other emotion he wasn’t sure about.  He used both hands this time, unbuckling Wilson’s pants and coaxing the other man into helping him get them off.  “Much better,” House declared, closing his palm around the cock that was once again hard just for him.  Wilson grunted and thrust into his grip.  “Just relax there, Jimmy.  No rush.”
And then he scooted across the bed to close the space between them.  Wilson moaned, high and loud, as warm, bristly lips slid down over his aching erection.  House hummed to himself, beginning to slowly rock in and out of James’s mouth even as he took James as deep as he could into his own.  This was nice.  Primal.  Wilson was whimpering, breaths fast and rough as he fought to keep his mouth around House and not pull away to just howl with delight.
Wilson couldn’t stop the noises coming out of his throat, however much they embarrassed him.  He wanted to stay like this forever; this perfect hardness in his mouth, the unbearable pleasure of House sucking him in those few precious seconds when he knew he was going to come hard into the other man’s throat.  He clutched at House’s legs as the flame rushed toward him, his entire body squirming in ecstasy.
The flood was his entire world for a few heartbeats.  His voice wasn’t his own anymore, sobbing and laughing and moaning as he spilled himself down House’s eager throat.  And House was coming, thrusting up against his lips and grabbing blindly at his ass, still going even as Wilson himself fell gently back to earth.  Wilson pulled out of House’s mouth, sated, and smiled as House kept arching into him.
“Oh fuck, James!  Shit…”  It seemed to wrench his very being, slow to leave even once his cock was spent.  Tremors rippled through him as he panted on the bed and Wilson licked him gently.  “God, I didn’t think I could…”  His hand wearily ran through Wilson’s damp hair, petting him.  “God.”
Wilson was making a sound against his hip, a breathless gasping, that worried House a little.  /Oh hell, I hope he isn’t crying.  Even if it’s good crying, I completely suck at dealing with it./  But then Wilson rolled onto his back, exhausted, and House could see the easy, joyful grin on the other man’s face.
“Hmph,” House teased.  “Proud of yourself, aren’t you?”  Wilson’s head turned toward him, and he was struck by how much younger Wilson looked when he was happy.
“Shouldn’t I be?” Wilson asked, smiling broadly.  “And yes, it’s you.”
“It’s me what?”
“It’s you that makes me this horny,” Wilson said, answering House’s question from before.  “You’re beautiful and sexy and right now I have too many endorphins flooding my body to care how stupid that sounds, or how much you’re going to poke fun at me for it later.”  He was still smiling.
“I’ll admit I think you’re nuts,” House mused.  “Since there is no measure by which I can be considered beautiful.”  Wilson’s hand came to rest on his ribs lightly, just stroking.
“You’re wrong about that,” Wilson said.  “And I’m not the only one who thinks so.  You just can’t see it when you look in the mirror.  A bit rough, maybe, with the whole ‘I shave when I feel like it’ look.  But gorgeous all the same.”
“Whatever.”  House sat up slowly, feeling energized rather than sleepy from their lovemaking.  “I require coffee,” he said.  “Then breakfast.”
“Coffee’s over there, getting cold,” Wilson said, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the table.  There was something odd about his tone this time, and House glanced at him.
“That’s what kitchenette microwaves are for,” House said, lifting his right leg over the side of the bed so he could get up.  He hobbled across the room, leaning on the table with one hand as he tasted the coffee.  He made a face.  “This one’s yours.  And no amount of microwaving is going to fix it, either.”
Wilson didn’t answer, and House looked over at him, wondering if he had dozed off.  But Wilson’s eyes were open, gazing up at the ceiling.  He felt a low ache of empathy in the pit of his stomach.  He knew was Wilson was thinking, and that was just no good.  “Hey,” he said quietly, hesitantly.  “I was thinking…maybe we could go out later.  For dinner.”
He saw Wilson’s brow furrow, and then Wilson craned his head back in an attempt to meet House’s gaze.
“You mean…like a date?” he said.
“Not just ‘like’ a date,” House said.  “But an actual, honest to goodness date.”  Wilson rolled off the bed suddenly, looking both ridiculous and hot wearing his shirt but no pants or boxers.  House smiled faintly as Wilson came toward him, knowing that his own nudity was far more absurd.  But for once, he didn’t feel self-conscious about it, not even about the scar on his leg.
“You mean that, don’t you?” Wilson said wonderingly, his joyful smile beginning to return.
“You don’t have to sound so shocked,” House murmured, dropping his gaze shyly.  He was startled when Wilson ducked down to catch his lips in a gentle kiss.  He kissed back, somewhat to his own surprise because this whole thing was just so weird and so comfortable at the same time.  Wilson smiled against his mouth, and was still smiling when they broke apart.
“I think we should put some clothes on if we’re going out to breakfast,” Wilson said.
“Yeah yeah,” House sighed.  “Laws and all that, depriving the world of my fantastic ass.”  Wilson laughed as he moved away to find a clean shirt.  House meant it as a self-deprecating joke.  But he did, in fact, have a fantastic ass, and would never believe Wilson if Wilson said so aloud.
They left the hotel together, unbothered by the rain that was still coming down since yesterday.  Their sun had already come out.

The End

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