![[info]](http://stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
Chapter Text
The sound of your footsteps, telling me that you're near.
Your soft gentle motion babe, brings out a need in me that no-one can hear.
On the surface, nothing had appeared to change between House and Wilson after their non-fight fight.
Except for Wilson not hanging around the Diagnostics conference room anymore, everything seemed more or less normal. The fellows noted the fallout, but wisely stayed out of the way, deciding silently en masse to let the past events between their boss and the Head of Oncology blow over. Chase and Foreman had learned it was best not to get caught between House and Wilson. Chase might have been bemused and Foreman resentful at the situation, but ignoring it was necessary to survive.
Even Cameron, who would normally stick her unwelcome nose into these things, kept her head down this time. She kept her concerned look to surreptitious glances when she figured House wasn't looking. The last time she'd timidly offered her support, he had had her charting a year's worth of his backlog.
Whatever had happened, even though it made their boss more surly and impossible to work with than he'd ever been before (and that was saying a lot), they said nothing, and simply bent themselves further backwards to accommodate his mercurial mood.
It was Cuddy who finally decided to take matters into her own hands. She didn't know what had transpired between House and Wilson, but she saw how it was ripping them apart. Watching House glower and sulk around the clinic for a week had been bad enough; watching him regress to the point of taking up his cane again had almost killed her. But she still kept quiet.
It was only when she caught Wilson standing at the nurses' station and staring at House's back—with his face such a heart-wrenching mix of frustration, guilt and defeat--that she knew she had to intervene. For both their sakes.
When Wilson saw Cuddy looking at him, he rapidly schooled his face to bland pleasantness. But Cuddy did not miss the dark circles under his eyes, or the haunted expression on his face as he turned his attention to the clipboard in his hand.
Her guilt gnawed at her. She hadn't wanted to go along with Wilson's plan not to tell House about Richard McNeil's near-miraculous recovery with the cortisol injection; but if anyone knew House at all it was Wilson and she trusted Wilson's judgment.
That had made Wilson's grievous miscalculation—and the turmoil from the resulting backlash—all the more painful.
Passing by House's office on the fourth floor, she stood for a minute, observing. It was time for House's soaps right now; the time when he should have been in the clinic, of course. She should have marched right in and dragged him down to the clinic by his ear, but she didn't. Not when she saw how he wasn't watching the show at all, but just staring blankly at the flickering TV screen. His hand squeezed the handle of his cane so hard his knuckles blanched.
Her heart contracted almost painfully. Seeing them both suffer needlessly like this firmed her resolve: forcing the issue was definitely in order. She turned and strode back to her office, her heels clacking down the hall as she formulated a plan.
~~~~~
House showed up in her office only thirty minutes after she had sent her third page. For House that was a record.
He did not sit, but rather towered in front of her, leaning with both hands on his cane. "What is it, Cuddy? You're interrupting my valuable clinic time."
Cuddy, sitting behind her desk, checked her watch, then looked up evenly to meet his annoyed gaze. She refused to be intimidated. "I'm sure General Hospital can go on without you."
"I'm a busy man," he snapped. "Get to the point."
She smiled sweetly. "All right. I need you to accompany Wilson to San Antonio."
House blinked, and he straightened, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. "What? Why?"
Cuddy did not flinch at the belligerent tone. "Here's the deal. Wilson is going to an oncology conference in San Antonio the day after tomorrow. Roddick was supposed to go with him, but she backed out yesterday. So you're going to San Antonio instead."
His face hardened. "That's crazy. I'm a diagnostician, not an oncologist. Since when did I change Board specialties?"
"Notice I didn't say you had to go to the conference. Just to San Antonio."
"With Wilson."
"Yes."
"No."
Cuddy sighed, rolling her eyes at House's flat refusal. "House, I'm not asking you to go--"
"Good, because I'm not going."
"--I'm ordering you to go. For your own good."
House stepped right up to Cuddy's desk, leaning his hands on the polished wood, face almost twisted in righteous fury. "Make me."
Cuddy blinked, but did not falter under House's threatening posture. She eyed him speculatively, considering. "How about--if you don't go, you will lose your fellows and the Diagnostics department entirely. You will be demoted to staff physician for the Clinic, and you will spend the rest of your working life there, tending to the humankind you adore so much."
Caught completely off-guard, his jaw dropped and his eyes bugged for half a second; then he recovered and set his features to nonchalance. "You wouldn't dare. Three-quarters of the staff would quit. I'd go elsewhere first."
Cuddy stared at him evenly. "We both know that as brilliant as you are, no other hospital on the Eastern seaboard would hire you. As for the staff, I'm willing to take that chance. I've done it before."
The sly reference to the Vogler debacle made House shift uncomfortably and he stared at the carpet. "It means that much?" he finally said, so softly Cuddy had trouble hearing.
Her face softened, grew imploring as she spread her hands in supplication. "Whatever rift exists between you and Wilson, you need to mend it, now. I don't know what happened. I don't think I want to know. All I do know is, you're both hurting and miserable from it."
House winced at that, only slightly, but Cuddy knew him well enough to see it. "And don't think it's not affecting anybody else, because it is," she added more insistently. "I need all my staff to have a good working relationship. So maybe—maybe going to a neutral location, away from here, will help you two settle your differences."
House grimaced, squeezing his eyes shut, and he grabbed at his leg. Cuddy watched him tense then deliberately relax. When he opened his eyes again he was controlled, though his face was pale. "You and Wilson hid brain cancer guy's recovery from me."
"I know," Cuddy acknowledged sadly.
"I was right. I was RIGHT about the cortisol! I deserved to know about that and instead he tries to teach me some inane lesson about humility."
"I am so sorry--"
"I was in pain and he just twisted the knife deeper. Some friend."
"He was trying to help you--"
"I don't need any help to deal with my life! Not from him and not from you--"
"—because he loves you! He's trying to help because he loves you!"
Cuddy's sharp voice bounced off him and he stared at her, dumbstruck.
Cuddy rubbed her cheek, feeling her eyes brim at the stricken expression on his face, and her voice lowered to a strained whisper. "Pull your head out of your goddamn ass, House! Wilson loves you. He always has. He's just scared you're going to revert back to your old ways, if not worse." Cuddy blinked rapidly and finally looked away. "Wilson's almost lost you twice already, he's terrified of losing you permanently the next time. That's why!"
Cuddy turned her head back just in time to witness the color draining from House's cheeks. He was wobbling slightly, but caught himself, and Cuddy watched him as he fought for control, setting his mouth in a thin line.
"He caused this mess," he said flatly.
Cuddy heard the effort House was making to restrain himself. "Wilson knows what he's done. But he needs you to forgive him."
House looked away, blinking rapidly. "I—I can't," House said uncomfortably. "I can't do that."
"You can," Cuddy assured him, "and you will. Besides, the arrangements are already made. Flights, accommodation, everything. You don't need to attend any seminars, you don't need to see any posters; you can stay holed up in your hotel room the entire five days if you want. But you and Wilson have to make amends somehow. You can't just let this blow over. Something like this—won't. So you have to try. That's an order."
House bowed his head, then turned away, limping out of the office without another word.
"House," Cuddy called.
House stopped at the door, his hand already turning the handle. Cuddy saw his back tense.
"What?"
Her voice gentled. "If you don't, and you lose Wilson over this, you lose everything. You know that's true."
House stood for a minute, shoulders hunched as if the weight of the world had suddenly descended. Then he left Cuddy's office, closing the door behind him without so much as a click.
~~~~~
Two days later, Wilson stared wide-eyed at House's form slowly making its way towards him. Sitting at his departure gate at Newark while waiting for his flight, his laptop balanced on his knees, he had been reviewing the Powerpoint presentation he was to give to close the conference.
His jaw dropped when House dropped down into the low plastic seat across from him.
"House?"
"Wilson."
Wilson did not miss the contempt dripping from his greeting. "So. Uh—what are you doing here?"
"What does it look like?"
"It looks like you're—you're traveling."
"Brilliant deduction, Sherlock. Where to?"
"I...wouldn't know." He dropped his gaze back down to his laptop.
"San Antonio, Jimmy," House replied bitterly. "Looks like Cuddy decided you needed a babysitter at that upscale cancer shindig after all."
He felt House's hostile glare but did not look up. Inwardly, Wilson seethed. Cuddy had promised that she would find someone to take Roddick's place at the conference. He'd never, ever imagined that that someone would be House. Wilson's jaw tightened and anger flared at Cuddy for putting him in this position. His was the closing presentation of the conference, so he could not back out now...What the hell was she doing?
Chancing a curious glimpse towards House, Wilson wondered what strings Cuddy had pulled to bully him into coming. Whatever it was, it was enough to throw House into full-on silent resentful mode.
All further contact between them consisted of exchanging puzzled, angry, uncomfortable and stony glances in turn across the row. When they were called for pre-boarding, House levered himself up with his cane, in some discomfort. Wilson rose to help but House stilled him with a black gaze. Wilson watched as House handed over his ticket to the gate agent.
Wilson sighed inwardly with relief when it turned out he and House had seats in different areas of the plane. By the time he boarded some ten minutes later, making his way to the back of the plane, House was already stretched out in the bulkhead row in coach, plugged into his iPod with his eyes closed and his hands folded on his stomach. Wilson, as was his habit, kept an eye on him from his perch in the back, though he didn't need to worry; House was almost civil throughout the flight, surprisingly. Maybe there wouldn't be fireworks to rival the Alamo when they got there after all.
But when they arrived at their hotel several long hours later, Wilson was in for another rude discovery.
Cuddy had made sure to secure one of the lavish suites for Wilson, but she'd canceled Roddick's room when she learned Roddick wasn't attending. This was before she'd cajoled House into going.
To make matters worse, the conference was the same week as several other major events in the area, and there were no more rooms available.
Wilson cringed and felt sorry for the young harried desk clerk who was trying to placate House.
"I'm sorry, Dr. House, there are no rooms left in this hotel or in the local area."
"There were two rooms booked for Princeton-Plainboro attendees! What the hell happened to the other room?"
The clerk glanced at the reservation screen. "One of the attendees canceled and the room was rented to someone else. I can try calling the airport hotel for you--"
Wilson rubbed his eyes as House's demeanor moved from pissed to downright threatening. "You can try finding me a room right here."
Wilson flipped his cell phone open and dialed.
His call was answered almost at once. "Cuddy."
"Did you know there were no more rooms left at the hotel when you decided to send House here to be a personal thorn in my side?"
"Yes."
"Really? Do you realize that there may well be an explosion with the force of a nuclear bomb if House does not get a room at this hotel?"
"Yes, I thought of that too. You're just going to have to defuse the situation."
Wilson rubbed the back of his neck, frustration tensing his muscles. "What do you have against San Antonio to unleash House on the unsuspecting population?"
"Nothing. Nothing at all. It's a lovely city and the Paseo del Rio is absolutely beautiful. You're a resourceful man. I'm sure you'll figure something out to save the populace from outright incineration." Wilson heard the definite click of the phone disconnecting.
Wilson groaned, seeing through Cuddy's plan. What the hell was she thinking, indeed. He knew damn well what. He fought both growing resentment and admiration for Cuddy; she was just as sneaky and underhanded as House, in her own way. Manipulating both of them. He was impressed.
A shout grabbed Wilson's attention. He turned to see House livid and the clerk shrinking back from the mahogany counter. At least one unfortunate soul could be saved, anyway. He rushed to intervene.
"House—HOUSE. It's OK. I have a suite booked. You can stay with me."
House turned from the cowering girl to him, his eyes blazing. Wilson stood his ground, willing himself to be calm; his gaze bored into House's frustrated one.
"Oh fine," House snapped, and stepped back from the counter.
Wilson stepped up and smiled apologetically at the terrorized clerk. "Sorry about that, he gets a little agitated when he's off his meds." House, who'd turned away, palmed and popped a Vicodin at that, turning back to scowl at him. Wilson shrugged and finished checking them both in.
It was only afterwards, as they stood uncomfortably in the elevator to ascend to their floor, that he realized that he'd just agreed to allow House into his life again for the next five days. House pretty much hated him now, so he was certain he was headed for five days of hell. Admittedly, that wasn't much different from when House liked him. It just added another awkward level of confusion that had always existed in their relationship; confusion that had already once come to a head when he'd moved in with House all those months ago.
Cuddy didn't know the half of it.
~~~~~
House had said that everything came down to sex, but Wilson hadn't wanted to believe it.
He really hadn't expected House to take him in after he left Julie, but he'd arrived on House's doorstep anyway, heartsick and hurting with nowhere else to go. And while House was a bastard, he did care in his own mixed-up way. So he allowed Wilson to stay in his apartment, and Wilson was grateful. Staying with House in the interim was a blessing in some ways because Wilson, still smarting, just could not bear to be alone. The company of his merciless prick of a best friend was better than nothing.
It turned out to be a bitch though, when privacy (or rather, lack thereof) was concerned. He might have left Julie, but he still had a healthy libido, with its associated physical needs. Sleeping on a couch in shared space didn't lend itself to easing them.
It was perhaps only a matter of time before House caught him masturbating very late one evening.
They'd watched porn, and it had been a long time, relatively speaking. Wilson found himself needing relief soon after House retired to his bedroom. Even though Wilson tried to do it quietly, curled up under the blankets and pulling furtively like a teenage boy-- taking care not to soil House's couch and stifling his groans into a pillow--it didn't matter.
Wilson whipped his head up at the noise of a clearing throat.
His hand still in his underwear, Wilson froze beneath the blankets and flushed with embarrassment at seeing House's still figure, silhouetted in the faint light of the kitchen stove.
"I thought we'd agreed on the stethoscope," House said amiably.
Wilson looked away, tongue-tied with shame, and pulled his hand out of his boxers. He cringed as he realized House was following every movement with his eyes.
To add the proverbial insult to injury, House limped over and lowered himself to the couch beside him. Wilson covered his burning face with his hand and steeled himself for the mocking that was sure to follow.
"Wilson," House said softly.
Wilson reluctantly uncovered his eyes.
House regarded him for a long moment with an expression he had never seen on House's face before—wry amusement to be sure, but also mixed with something that approached understanding. Wilson's eyes widened and he swallowed, his lips suddenly dry. House's mouth twisted in a crooked half-smile. Wilson relaxed slightly.
House's expression changed again, darkening and growing taut with something that looked like yearning, and Wilson held his breath, suspended in the moment. House did not say a word. If he had, Wilson realized later, he would have broken whatever spell both were under and nothing at all might have happened.
As it was, House simply pulled off the blankets to reveal Wilson in his underwear and T-shirt. Then, to Wilson's utter amazement, House reached his hand into Wilson's boxers, pulled out his half-hard penis, and picked up where Wilson had left off in the moon-slatted darkness.
Wilson knew he should push House away, but, paralyzed with shock and rapidly growing need, he didn't. He couldn't help himself, and he was even more stunned when he realized he didn't want House to stop either. Because oh God, House knew just what to do; his fingers wrapped around Wilson's length, pulling his shaft with an unfaltering, measured stroke, thumb teasing around the head. Wilson shoved his fist into his mouth to keep from crying out as he bucked under House's expert ministrations. He couldn't bear to look into House's eyes.
When he was done, House withdrew his hand and they both stared for a minute at the whitish stickiness on it, glistening in the faint light. Then he wiped his hand on one of the blankets.
"I'll--wash that tomorrow," Wilson offered, his still-breathless voice breaking the heavy silence that had settled in the room.
"We don't ever talk about this," House said, his voice like gravel.
Wilson swallowed. "Uh--OK." He nodded in agreement.
House's mouth twisted again, his head bowed. He looked up again, his eyes dilated with desire. Then slowly, very slowly, he reached out to grasp Wilson's hand and slid it over his own tented crotch.
~~~~~
Even House had to admit it was a pretty nice hotel. The Crowne Plaza on the Paseo del Rio, in the heart of San Antonio, had everything he expected a four-star hotel would offer. The suite itself was huge and graciously appointed, having two bedrooms with plush king-size beds, an expansive living room, and an in-suite jacuzzi. The full-size kitchen and sixty-inch plasma TV didn't hurt either, though he thought he could do without the gas fireplace. All things told, he'd never have to leave if he didn't want to.
"I have got to get me one of these babies!" House said approvingly, sitting down in the La-Z-Boy recliner in front of the TV. Behind him, he saw Wilson's rueful smile in the reflection of the screen. Suddenly uncomfortable, House picked up the remote and started flipping through the satellite channels.
"Oh yeah, just like home."
Over the next few days, though they shared the suite, House actually did not see much of Wilson. Wilson was up, showered, and out of the suite by seven every morning, and did not come back until past eleven at night. House had done his homework on the conference, and the topics were all up Wilson's alley. He was also chairing two panels on research and ethics, and of course had to prepare for the closing address. The rest of the time, House assumed, he was partaking of the social events.
The third night, Wilson didn't come back at all; when he returned the next morning he smelled as if he'd taken a bath in Chanel No. 5. House wrinkled his nose and said nothing, but wondered why he felt so resentful.
House took Cuddy up on her word that he would not need to attend any seminar, presentation or social function at the oncology conference. He slept in past nine every morning and lived on room service. While he did take in a couple of tourist sights (the Alamo was only a mile away and the Paseo del Rio really was a beautiful, garden-shaded walk) he mainly spent his days in the suite watching TV, surfing the computer, soaking his leg in the jacuzzi, and reading the notes and proceedings that Wilson left for him every morning—
And trying very hard not to think about what Cuddy had said about Wilson and the four-letter "L" word.
~~~~~
They'd never intended to add sex to their screwed-up friendship.
Indeed it should have only happened once; friendly hands reciprocating under the hush of darkness, to relieve each other's sexual tension. Only once; nothing more.
Instead, they graduated to mutual jerking off and blow jobs in fairly quick succession.
They didn't talk about any of that either.
Even when they began to spend entire evenings naked in House's bed or on the couch, bathed in each other's scent; with one writhing and arching under the other's hand, mouth or prick.
Curses and obscenities were exchanged at those times, though nothing about why they were doing it.
When they started with the anal sex, by mutual silent consent the condoms and K-Y simply appeared on House's night table. Who fucked whom at any particular time was resolved without discussion; it seemed that whoever wanted it up the ass first, got it. The style was never in question either: invariably hard, fast, deep, and facing away with no contact between them except the necessary parts.
The closest they came to talking was afterwards, lying side-by-side in House's rumpled bed and panting in the afterglow; sweaty, sticky, often sore from the pounding (welcome in House's case, since it soothed the leg pain temporarily), but sated and relaxed for the moment. Sometimes the words started to play on one or the other's lips in those moments. But something else held them back.
So they never, ever discussed what it was, let alone what it meant.
~~~~~
House did attend one presentation at the conference, on the last day: Wilson's closing seminar on unusual presentations of testicular cancer, featuring House's stunning catwalk model patient.
He figured he should show up just to see what Wilson had to say about it. So he walked the mile from the Crowne Plaza to the convention center in the warm dry heat. He was bathed with sweat from the effort and his leg was complaining quite loudly by the time he passed through the gleaming glass doors into the main hall. He popped a Vicodin and hunted around for Wilson's seminar room.
Arriving just as Wilson started speaking, House sat in the very back row, in the darkest corner of the conference room away from the podium and the lights of the door. He knew the case like the back of his hand; hell, he'd solved it after all. The acoustics were perfect for the resonating timbre of Wilson's speech. House closed his eyes against the dry clinical images and felt himself drift on the waves of Wilson's assured and steady voice; not listening to the words, just the soothing undulating tones.
His eyes jerked open when Wilson reached the closing of his presentation.
"It should be clear from these cases then, that one simply cannot make assumptions about anything when it comes to cancer, or, indeed, any medical condition. The young lady's diagnosis was not achieved until all empirical investigative approaches were exhausted. Testicular cancer simply should not appear in a young, healthy woman. Yet in this one, it did. It took the willingness to look outside the conventional norms, against all apparently rational thought, to arrive at the correct diagnosis. On the surface this diagnosis appeared to be a leap of faith, except to those who were able to accept that anything is, indeed, possible. Only in hindsight with the explanation laid out did the rationale become clear to everyone else. We must never discount inspiration when lives hang in the balance."
With a start, House realized Wilson had focused directly on him. He saw Wilson's face, pale under the strip lighting just above the podium; his eyes pierced through the low light to where House sat. House heard the slight undertone of wistful resignation in the otherwise professionally clipped words; the halting apology underscoring his calm, measured voice. Something clenched in his stomach but he still sat straight, watching the audience nod in agreement. They could not know what was truly going on; all the same he found himself almost overwhelmed that Wilson was offering his apology in such a public forum. He inclined his head very slightly, and Wilson's gaze shifted to the other side of the room.
House escaped before the lights came up again, and he bee-lined straight back to the hotel room, ignoring the growing ache in his leg and the matching one in his heart. He headed straight to the shower, Wilson's speech swirling in his head. Standing under the pounding hot water, his mind whirled, trying to figure out where it had all gone so fantastically fucking wrong.
~~~~~
The last time they'd had sex had been just after Foreman's brush with death from Naegleria; just before House's leg pain had worsened to the point of mainlining morphine.
House would never admit it, but he had been utterly shaken by his impotence at curing Foreman's illness. Wilson had been right about personal feelings getting in the way of his professional judgment--the bastard. When it came down to it, House could not be cavalier about risking Foreman's life the way he'd gamble an unknown patient's.
To add insult to injury, Cameron—Cameron—had dared to go ahead with the brain biopsy; the decision that in hindsight House should have made himself if he'd had the guts.
That burned.
He wanted—needed—to take that out on someone. Prove he hadn't fumbled the ball and almost lost a man's life to it.
He needed to show he hadn't gone soft.
Wilson made a most convenient target.
So that evening, when Wilson dropped by House's apartment after work with a six-pack and "The Fast And The Furious" on DVD, House greeted him at the door, a somewhat crazed look on his features.
Wilson almost shrank back from the threshold with the fierceness of House's glare. "Is—er, something wrong?"
"Yes," House snapped. "Blow job. Shower. Now."
Wilson swallowed at the strained note of need in House's voice, his pants already tightening around his groin at the command. He simply nodded, dropped the DVD and beer on the coffee table, and strode quickly to the bathroom. They shucked their clothes, letting them drop haphazardly to the floor. House had already turned on the tap, making the air as hot and humid as a sauna; beads of sweat soon broke out on both men's skin.
Wilson climbed in first, steam already billowing inside the small space, and pulled House in after him. House leaned on Wilson for a moment, kissing him ferociously under the spray of water, before sitting down on the specially-installed bench seat to get to the job at hand.
And, of course, he wasted no time. Reaching out, grabbing Wilson by the hips, he drew Wilson right up to him, pressing his face right into Wilson's groin, nuzzling Wilson's rapidly stiffening prick.
"Been waiting to do this all fucking day," House growled, fondling Wilson's sac.
Wilson only groaned in response, his fingers sliding through House's wet hair. House smirked as he pumped his shaft a few times, gazing up at Wilson's mouth forming a perfect 'o' of pleasure, his eyelids fluttering with sensation.
Without further ado he took Wilson's dick all at once into his mouth.
Wilson's knees almost buckled but House grabbed his thighs to steady him as he slid his lips up and down Wilson's shaft. He teased the underside of the head with his tongue as Wilson tried not to thrust. House smirked around the mouthful of Wilson's dick. Mild-mannered James Wilson, always so considerate and thoughtful of his lovers. Underneath was a true-blue bastard. Jimmy-the-bastard, who was never far from the surface; who existed to make House's life hell with his faux voice of conscience. Jimmy-the-bastard, whom House wanted to bring to his knees any way he could; by hook or by crook or, in this case, by suck.
House's hands slid up Wilson's wet skin to grasp his buttocks, pulling him in even deeper with a low hum. At that Wilson did begin to pump into House's mouth.
Good. Wilson never lasted long once he started bucking like this.
And House lived to do this, to drive Wilson crazy blind with his lips and teeth and swirling tongue until Wilson forgot who and what and where he was; to reduce all of Wilson's awareness to his firm swollen flesh sliding between House's eager lips. Breaking him in the process.
He raised his gaze to Wilson's face, those boyishly charming features now contorted with lust: wet hair plastered on his head and beads of water trickling down his body; shoulders rounded and knees bent; coming undone in front of him with each forward jerk. So very very close, right where House wanted him.
Now for the House-patented coup de grâce: one long finger snaking up behind Wilson's balls and sliding against Wilson's ass to penetrate his anus. He wiggled that one finger inside and oh yeah, there it was--obscenities spilled from Wilson's lips as he gripped handfuls of House's hair and threw his head back, exposing that oddly exquisite long line of throat. Wilson stilled for a split second before coming hard and fast in House's mouth, each thrust of his hips punctuated by a garbled shout that echoed in the wet confines of the shower.
House sucked and swallowed willingly, savoring the bitter-salt taste of Wilson's release. How convenient it was, what all the years of dry-swallowing Vicodin had done for controlling his gag reflex. He slid his finger out of Wilson's ass and caught Wilson in his arms as Wilson's legs finally gave out with glutted bliss, pulling him onto his good thigh and plundering Wilson's gasping mouth with a searing kiss. He made sure that Wilson tasted his own seed on House's tongue, the reminder of what House could do to him in a heartbeat. Wilson trembled at that, goosebumps breaking out on his skin even in the steam of the shower, and House smirked against his mouth.
Wilson had no qualms about reciprocating either; just as ruthless, just as insistent, half-sitting on House's lap and jerking him off with a firm and knowing hand. He knew by now just when to tug at House's pubic hair, when to squeeze his balls, when to bite his mouth as they kissed. Wilson grinned triumphantly when House shot his wad over his fist. Retaliation, when Wilson smeared House's lips with House's own come, was just as sweet.
But House refused to let Wilson enjoy his payback. House deliberately licked his lips clean, staring stubbornly right at Wilson as he tasted himself, refusing to break. Swallowing deliberately, he felt pleased when Wilson suddenly looked away. But the feeling dissolved to inexplicable emptiness when Wilson rapidly exited the shower without even soaping up.
A couple of days later House learned Cuddy had asked Wilson out to dinner, with the intent of auditioning Wilson for the role of sperm donor for in vitro fertilization. That was when House's leg pain began to spiral out of control, and the rest of his life with it.
~~~~~
The intervening weeks and months had been spent recovering from being shot, reveling in his lack of pain; but those other moments, though submerged, were never forgotten, even as the remnants swirled down the drain.
This, for them, was how their initial sojourn into sex had turned out: from a friendly once-off to desperate fucking in the moment. No romance, just a standing battle of wills, of who would conquer whom.
How fucking depressing. How fucking typical.
House braced himself against the wall with one hand, rubbing his face with the other. He didn't doubt that it soured every other part of their friendship too, like a mold with its insidious hyphae, releasing a toxin just as threatening as Wilson's deception between them. He hadn't wanted that, not when he'd started. He'd only wanted to make Wilson feel better that night. That's what friends did.
But—Wilson? Loving him? Come on. What did Cuddy know about love?
Then again...
He swallowed hard as he thought of Wilson, standing up in front of all those strangers, apologizing to the one person he knew in the crowd who would actually get it. Admitting to everyone in the room that he had been wrong, even if no one else knew why. Seeking atonement.
Damn Cuddy for wielding that dreaded four-letter "L" word like a truncheon.
Damn Cuddy for being right.
It didn't excuse what Wilson had done to him.
House had his own sins to atone for too. But maybe he could repent for his previous transgressions somewhat.
He didn't have much time left before he figured Wilson would return. He only hoped it wouldn't be too little, too late. He lunged to turn off the shower tap.