Work Text:
“I have a suggestion,” House grinned, raking in a modest pile of chips from the round of 7-card stud he’d just won handily with four of a kind. “Why don’t we make this game a little more interesting?”
“For the last time, I’m not playing strip poker with my colleagues,” Wilson warned, tossing down his two pair with irritation.
House had merely been going to suggest that they up the value of the chips by a factor of ten, turning this from dime poker into real cash…but damn. Way better idea.
“What, afraid to show the kiddies your nipple piercing? I’m sure Chase would appreciate it.”
Chase’s mouth dropped open and his eyes zeroed in on Wilson’s chest, while Wilson sputtered and protested, “I do not have a pierced anything, House, but thank you so much for introducing the idea.”
“C’mon, House,” Cameron chided, “you’re just annoyed because all your winnings could barely buy you a McDonalds meal.”
“Yes. Which is why I think people should get some skin in the game.”
“I’m down,” Foreman assented, earning stares from his companions. “What? Like we haven’t caught glimpses in the locker room anyway.”
“I’ve clearly been missing out by avoiding those mildew factories,” House said to Wilson in an exaggerated aside.
“I’d rather lose a little dignity than next month’s rent,” Chase conceded, finally peeling his eyes away from Wilson’s (presumably, nipple-piercing-free) torso.
“Alright, I’m in,” Cuddy confirmed, “What’s the ante?”
“Doctor Cuddy.” House gazed at her with newfound respect.
“Someone better close the shades, though,” she suggested, pointing to the conference room’s zoo-like glass wall, “I don’t think our patients would appreciate seeing their doctors treating the hospital like a frat house.”
“I think some of our patients’ health would actually improve with a peek at their hospital administrator in the buff.”
This last came shockingly, not from House, but from Wilson.
“What?” Wilson’s cheeks went pink, “It’s what we were all thinking. And I’m in too, by the way. My comeuppance for agreeing to play with you, House.”
House offered a villainous laugh by rote, but he actually remembered it being the other way around. He was the one who hated playing with Wilson, the House-lie-detector, and had to be dared into it. Interesting.
Cameron was studying her nails with an intensity better suited to hunting down a microtumor in an MRI.
“Oh, Doctor Cameron,” House sing-songed, “are you in? This is the ultimate cool girl cred. Impress…everyone.” He caught her eye, then flicked his gaze briefly but meaningfully over to Cuddy. He recognized a battle-stance come into the bite of Cameron’s jaw.
“I’m in. Not because of your juvenile taunting, but because it’s a good group bonding activity, and this office could certainly use some social cohesion.”
“That’s a respectable excuse,” Cuddy nodded approvingly, “though it won’t stop me from beating you down to your last pastel pink stitch.”
“How did you know—”
“We all know, sweetie, your thong rides up in the back.”
Chase and Foreman oohed in harmony.
Cameron grabbed the deck. “My deal. Five card draw, two draws, aces high and lucky sevens wild. Ante’s five.” She handed the stack to Foreman to cut while Chase went to close the blinds.
Going around the table clockwise after Cameron—Chase, Foreman, House, Wilson, then Cuddy—everybody tossed a red chip into the pot, representing a measly nickel and the reason no one had been outbluffed that night. Why fold when the stakes were so low? Now, all the players’ shoulders squared.
“Betting is cash only, losers remove one article of clothing per round, winner takes the pot and watches the show,” House proposed as Cameron dealt, her hands moving neatly but slowly. (Clearly the silly girl had spent too much of med school studying and too little being drained of savings over red solo cups and sticky decks.)
“And…” he broke into the unanimous nodding, “to make sure the betting stays perky, an additional caveat. If anyone goes bankrupt, the game is over, and the uber-loser has to walk of shame down to the cafeteria in their current state of undress to purchase victory snacks for the rest of us.”
“Alright,” Cuddy stared him down, “I’d love to see you waiting in line to buy fries au naturel.”
“Seeing House paying for his own food would be a miracle, in the nude or not,” Wilson added.
“Then it’s agreed,” House turned a dramatically lascivious gaze on Wilson, “personally, I’m hoping it’s your sweet tuchus that’s gonna have to march bare past your darling patients.”
Wilson calmly replied, “Not if I get you naked first.”
Observing them with contempt and intrigue respectively, Foreman murmured to Chase, “If this turns into an orgy, I’m throwing you to the wolves.”
Chase nodded earnestly, “Sure.”
The first hand went quickly. Chase looked at his cards once, swore, and then tossed them down, reaching to untie his shoe. House wolfwhistled, “Starting the stripping out strong with Dr. Chase giving us a peek at his Aussie arches!”
Cameron got a little concerned dent in her forehead as she said, “I don’t want to know what you think is special about Australian feet.”
Foreman set a low bet and waited until after the second draw to fold. He silently removed a shoe as well. House offered him a throaty growl at the sight, so he wouldn’t feel left out of the workplace objectification.
“Time for the grown-ups to show their stuff.” House slapped down a pair of eights and a seven, “Three of a kind with this lucky little wild.”
Cuddy tossed down a trio of natural fours with disgust. Cameron muttered something about a straight that hadn’t materialized.
House made to ladle in the pot but Wilson coughed gently and set down his hand. “Flush.”
House froze and stared at the cards. All hearts. Wilson sweetly pushed his grasping fingers away from the winnings, “I believe this is mine.” He stacked up the fresh chips alongside his substantial existing stack and shot House a look. House gave as gentlemanly a nod as he was capable, reached down, and ripped off his tennis shoe, hocking it over his shoulder to clang into the bookshelf.
Chase stuck to five card stud and once again folded early, allowing Foreman a modest victory with pocket tens over everyone else’s zilch. Foreman dealt a round of Cincinnati that Cameron won with a gleeful four-of-a-kind, leaving everyone else bare- or sock-foot and staring down more serious clothing removal.
A brief discussion ensued as to the nature of jewelry qua clothing—ultimately it was decided that each sizeable piece (watches, necklaces, bracelets) could count as separate items while earrings and other paired baubles must come off two-for-one. This last point was significant as Wilson was, for reasons unknown and which he was cagey to reveal, wearing cufflinks.
“I’ve never seen you wear cufflinks to work before. What is this, the Oscars? Did I miss the invite to dinner with the Queen?” House accused.
“Just wanted to feel pretty, I guess,” Wilson replied lightly.
This kindled a suspicion that Wilson had somehow, someway, known what was coming and dressed accordingly. Which would mean this hadn’t been House’s move at all—instead, one of Wilson’s masterful manipulations. But to what end?
House’s bloodhound sniffing was sidetracked by Cuddy revealing a new mode of attack.
In deference to the lost stud hand, Cuddy took off her jacket. No one batted an eye. Then Cuddy started on the buttons of her shirt, and everyone took notice.
Instead of sticking to safe early strip-sacrifices, Cuddy brazenly unbuttoned her blouse and peeled it off toned shoulders to reveal her spectacular cleavage lovingly housed in a black lace push-up bra. This effectively distracted every single person at the table. Cuddy replacing her femme-cut suit jacket over the lost shirt only accented the perfect curve of her breasts peeking out from between magenta wool folds.
“I think I speak for us all when I say, bazoinga,” House snapped off a military salute.
Solemnly, Wilson added, “That goes double for me.”
Cuddy winked at Wilson and House’s stomach dropped. There was definitely something rotten in the state of Princeton-Plainsboro.
“Dr. House? I believe it’s your deal,” Cuddy smirked, full up to her weapons-grade tits with triumph.
“Definitely in the mood for Texas Hold ‘Em. Twos are wild.” House laid out the community cards face-down and then started on the hole cards, waiting for Wilson to post the small blind and Cuddy to post the big. Cameron was left sweating under the gun, and not just from the risk of high betting.
“Call,” Cameron chose, voice high and stringy.
“Fold,” Chase muttered, dejected, flicking away his cards.
“I’m starting to think you just really want to show off your birthday suit to the office,” Foreman chided as Chase peeled off his last sock, “And I raise.”
Cameron folded wisely after the flop. Foreman and Cuddy held out through the turn, but only House and Wilson were left by the river.
“Call,” House stared into Wilson’s eyes, searching for trace evidence of deception.
“Showdown,” Wilson agreed peaceably, flipping over his hole cards, “Couple of kings.”
“Couple—?” House laughed and revealed his straight, earning a groan from Wilson and hissing sympathy from the fellows. “You thought you could bluff me with that?”
“I thought you might still be caught up thinking about pairs,” Wilson said meaningfully. As if on cue—maybe actually on cue—Cuddy ran thumbs beneath the straps of her bra from cup to shoulder and snapped them. House didn’t break Wilson’s gaze but Cameron made a noise like a wounded puppy.
Wilson followed with another round of Hold ‘Em, spiking the betting as Chase aggressively pursued a full house that everyone except him could see just wasn’t going to happen.
“How,” Chase bemoaned as Wilson raked in a sizeable haul.
“Woman’s intuition,” House hypothesized, “some woman that is.”
He glared at Cuddy, who’d stood to reach under her skirt and start shuffling down—
“You’re wearing pantyhose?” House scoffed, watching the peachy nylon roll down her legs, “What is this, 1945? Are you going to start rationing sugar next?” (He was running low on judgmental metaphors for the night’s uncharacteristic choices in apparel.)
“It’s chilly outside. Wool socks don’t go great with Louboutins.”
“No, I’ve seen you bare-legged in a blizzard. You…were forewarned.” House turned his death glare on Wilson, who just blinked innocently back at him. Confirmation: this scheme was coldly premeditated. The masterminds had both dressed accordingly. Cuddy knew. Wilson knew. House didn’t know. Which meant he was the intended target.
Cuddy settled back in her chair and shuffled the cards with a quick, professional bridge. Wondering if he could shake loose any bricks in this foundation of deceit, House inspected Cuddy’s chest with a businesslike eye and asked Wilson, “Hey, you think if I drop a chip down her cleavage, she’ll dispense candy like a vending machine?”
Without deigning to look at him, Cuddy replied, “She’ll dispense a bloody nose if you try it.”
Cameron’s gaze was once again sucked into the Bermuda Triangle of bosom, brows drawn, likely transfixed by the vending machine comment. (You’re welcome for the imagery, House thought.) Out loud, he said, “Don’t worry, Cameron, if you eat all your veggies, one day yours will grow big and strong just like mommy’s.”
Cameron let out the squeak of a teddy bear being strangled with barbed wire. Cuddy tapped a nail on the table and shot back archly, “Size isn’t everything. You of all people should know that, House.”
Cameron finally sputtered out, “I’m not jealous!”
“Oh, I know,” House cracked, “But I didn’t realize you’d admit to craving instead so quickly.”
“Alright,” Cuddy interrupted, slinging cards to each of the players with expert precision, “Back to basics. Seven card stud, aces high, and…” she thought, “To keep it interesting, follow the queen.”
“Where’s he going?” House asked, looking naively at Wilson.
Wilson sucked the tip of his middle finger into his mouth then used it to blow a kiss at House.
Utterly derailed, House just grinned.
On the second circle ‘round the table, Chase was dealt a queen, and they all attended to Foreman’s next card. “Aaand Jacks are wild,” Cuddy revealed with a showman’s flourish.
As their final cards were placed face up, Cameron quietly called, Chase stubbornly called, and Foreman smugly raised. House saw the raise but Wilson frowned and pressed his cards to the table. “Fold.”
House’s attention was immediately arrested by the required disrobing. What next? he wondered hungrily. Wilson had managed to retain his socks through repeated wins, so probably just some pedestrian toe action up next, he concluded with minor gloom.
Cuddy meanwhile saw Foreman’s raise, but House caught her shooting Wilson a meaningful look that induced a nervous gulp from the recipient.
Wilson loosened his tie. He pulled it free of the collar. Then…he started at the buttons of his shirt. House was glued to the progress. A flash of collarbones, white cotton peeling back to reveal the shallow furrow between pectorals, a squeezably soft stomach and happy trail—and the shirt was half-heartedly folded and set aside.
Tie on, watch on, nothing else up top.
“House?”
“Leave a message.” House was thinking about grabbing the tie and seeing how much of Wilson would follow.
“House,” Foreman pressed more irritably, “Call or fold.”
“What’s the raise?”
“Fifty.”
“Fine,” House chucked the chips in, not looking away from Wilson.
“Call,” Cuddy smoothly unveiled a king in the hole to match with another showing and a newly wild jack.
“Dammit,” Foreman sacrificed his proudly visible jack-enhanced set of tens to the discard pile.
Still inspecting the fresh, enticing acreage of skin on his left, House casually displayed his hole cards.
Wilson checked them and grinned. “You’re really putting the ‘jack’ in ‘jackass’ tonight.”
House’s two jacks in the hole paired with the lonely ace in his upcards to scrape a win for the hand that had Cuddy grumbling about docking his salary. He finally took his eyes off of Wilson’s body, using both arms to drag in the substantial jumble of chips. He gathered them up suddenly in his fists and then turned, showering them over Wilson’s head.
They tumbled in a rainbow plastic hail over Wilson’s hair and shoulders, plinking down his chest and gathering in his lap and around his feet on the floor.
Wilson only flinched slightly at the deluge.
“Did you enjoy making it rain?” he asked, when it appeared House was done.
“Very much so.”
“Great. I hope you enjoy cleaning it up.”
House did, actually, because Wilson became profoundly uncomfortable when House slid to the floor and started feeling around in the dark around his feet and up his pants legs, like maybe some of those chips took off for higher ground.
Wilson stopped House’s probing hand when he started feeling up the seat of Wilson’s chair and edging further inwards. “If they landed on my balls, consider them sacrificed in payment.”
House darted forward to steal one last chip, balanced on Wilson’s knee, with his teeth. Then he fumbled his way back to his own chair, dumping the mostly-retrieved chips on the table and beginning to reorganize them into neat stacks. Wilson was still breathing tightly through his nose. Cuddy was grinning down at her winnings. The peanut gallery looked a little shocked.
“It’s like the Three Stooges meet Magic Mike,” Chase wondered.
“You’re not helping with that,” Foreman grumbled, flicking Chase’s nipple and making him squawk like a scandalized nun. Chase’s shirt had also come off this round, albeit with far less fanfare. He was silently sulking that no one seemed to care about the gym time he’d been putting in lately. “Somehow we’re stuck in hell’s version of The Birdcage, when I thought I bought a ticket to Casino Royale.”
“Then let’s get back to business, Mr. Bond,” Cameron drawled. She’d got some steel back in her spine. “My deal. Omaha Hi-Lo, armed and dangerous wilds.”
At Chase’s uncomprehending expression of horror, Foreman explained, “It’s like hold ‘em but with more hole cards, and the highest and lowest hands split the pot. And she means all the face cards holding weapons are wild. You want a chance to write that down?”
“Yes,” Chase begged.
“Too bad.” Cameron dealt.
House grinned, liking the fight in little miss tough guy, “This one’s a card sharp in disguise.”
“Shark,” Wilson corrected.
“Sharp,” House repeated, “‘Shark’ is just a bunch of modern idiots mispronouncing the nineteenth century term ‘sharp,’ meaning swindle.”
Wilson propped his chin on his hand, fanning himself lightly with his cards, “You know, you’re really sexy when you’re pedantic.”
House leaned in to match his pose, “You should hear me lecture on the etymology of pedantry.”
“Mmm, keep talking dirty like this and you won’t even need those trip nines you’re pretending to have to get me naked.”
“I could get you naked with a pair of threes and a four-dollar word.”
Foreman coughed loudly, earning a chip tossed in his face by Cuddy. “Hey, some of us were watching that,” she hissed as House and Wilson remembered they had an audience.
“What are you waiting for?” House snapped at Cameron, “Let’s flip this flop.”
Although Chase tried desperately to keep the betting low, starting with the most measly blind allowed, the roller-coaster choice of game style and competitive nature of his colleagues depleted his meager stacks by the time the river flowed around.
Everyone put forth the best and worst hands they could make with the community and hole cards, comparing and contrasting until:
“I can’t win,” Chase groaned, “even when the way to win…is to lose.”
“Sorry, bud,” Cameron gleefully scooped in half the pot with a club flush.
“Not sorry at all,” Cuddy took the other half with a smirk and an abominable set of mismatched low cards.
“Alright.” Chase stood, shoes and socks gone, tie and shirt gone, dignity all but gone, and stripped off his (regrettably fashionable belt-less) pants quickly and efficiently, as if increased speed might correspondingly decrease the humiliation.
Cameron couldn’t wolfwhistle as loudly as House, but damned if she didn’t try. Wilson clapped gravely and Cuddy muttered to him, “I remember the lesbian contract explicitly promising that I wouldn’t have to look at naked men anymore.”
“I’ll look twice as much to make up for it,” Wilson promised.
House experienced a familiar flare of jealousy as Wilson dutifully sized up Chase’s ill-hidden accoutrements. He probably would have dealt with this feeling by doing something loud and wacky and very inappropriate, but Foreman beat him to the punch.
“Tattoo!” Foreman called out like a fighter pilot spotting enemy aircraft, pointing somewhere south of Chase’s lower back.
“What, where?” Cameron leaned forward to rubberneck properly.
“Dear god, please let it be a tramp stamp,” House prayed loudly.
Chase yelped as Foreman unabashedly grabbed the elastic waistband of his underwear and pulled to get a better look.
“It’s…” Foreman squinted, inspected the evidence, and finally concluded, “Uh, yeah, it’s definitely Gandalf. Like, a pen style sketch of Gandalf, arms out with his staff and everything.” He turned Chase around by the grip on his underwear, “Why, man? Why?”
“It was—it was college! Lord of the Rings was all the rage, they’d been filming nearby, it was like, a dare, I didn’t—”
Chase’s pitiful excuses were drowned out by a chorus of follow-up mocking from the rest of the table.
“Looking for a lord of your ring, huh?”
“Someone who has the right magic staff?”
“You! Shall not! Pass…this ass!”
Cameron almost slid to the floor laughing.
“Alright, okay, it’s very funny,” Chase sat down, Foreman tilting back in his chair to monitor his discovery for as long as possible. “You guys have literally beaten the pants off me. Can we get back to the game? It’s my turn to deal.”
“No,” House shook his head seriously, “Because I cannot take a man with a wizard tattooed on his buttcheek seriously.”
“Well, it’s not like you took him seriously before,” Wilson pointed out fairly.
“Baseball,” Chase declared the variant, beginning to toss cards viciously at his companions, “All nines are wild, only threes in the hole are wild, but visible threes mean the player has to raise or fold, and if a four is dealt face up it entitles the player to an additional hole card.”
“Ugh, I hate this one. You would manage to bring sports into it,” Cameron complained.
“Poker is a sport,” Chase argued.
“I agree,” House chimed in, “we should really encourage our patients to gamble more. You know, for the exercise and health benefits.”
“Hey,” Chase narrowed his eyes at House as he finished dealing, “Somebody didn’t strip anything off last round.”
“Oh, didn’t I? Silly me.”
“Rules are rules,” Cuddy chided.
“Not all of us are so eager to show off our rack,” he retorted.
Socks and shoes disposed of, House deliberated over what to forfeit next. Like Chase, he’d been caught unprepared and had no sacrificial jacket or belt at the ready.
“Start from the top,” Wilson suggested, not taking his eyes off the deck.
“I’ve always preferred the bottom,” House shot back, enjoying the way Wilson’s fingers tightened around his cards. Enjoying even more the way his gaze trickled away from his poker hand to House’s hands as House stood and undid the button of his jeans, unzipping with a languid slowness of movement that made a few different breaths in the room catch.
Foreman was not among the breath-catchers. “The artful nudity distraction gambit won’t work so well for you,” he predicted with a cranked eyebrow.
“Are you body shaming me?” House stepped out of his pants and then flung them at Chase’s head. Chase was far too distracted to try and catch them, getting a smacking faceful of denim and blinking baffled out from beneath the barrage as Cuddy snorted an extremely unflattering laugh.
“Just saying your stems are nothing to write home about.”
“I’m sure Wilson has a few longing limericks about my knees.” House sat back down and stuck his bared legs up on the table, daring anyone (including himself) to care about vaunting the thick layer of scar tissue on his thigh, crossing them with his feet squarely in Wilson’s space.
Wilson accepted this, leaning his cards against House’s shins like they were just so much convenient furniture. “I prefer unmetered verse. And I’m more of an ankles man.” He patted the ankles in question.
“Jimmy…” House fluttered a hand to his chest. Wilson winked. House was vividly grateful that ankles couldn’t blush in flirtatious ecstasy and give him away. Just in case, he pulled his legs back down and safely out of winking, patting, and admiring range.
The play proceeded merrily, Cameron hating every confusing minute, Cuddy enjoying watching Cameron chew her lip in concentration, and Wilson looking fondly on at Cuddy’s lustful attitude like a doting grandparent.
Perhaps the sapphic setup had been the goal all along, House considered. Wilson had terminal wingman syndrome, he couldn’t stand to leave a match unmade, especially not for one of his closest friends. But Cuddy had House’s enthusiastic blessing to lure Cameron into whatever lesbionic mischief she could arrange, they wouldn’t have to hide those shenanigans from him…
House shouldn’t have let himself get distracted.
“I…won?” Chase doubled checked. Yes, indeed, his four of a kind blew the next highest hand (Wilson’s seven-seven-wild trio) out of the water.
“Congrats, Gandalf,” House sneered, discarding his useless pair and fidgeting open the strap on his watch, “Don’t have to dump the jewels out of the case just yet.”
Chase collected his winnings with one hand, the other lay protectively in his lap.
Cuddy lost her tortoiseshell hair clip, loosing dark waves to tumble over her shoulders. Wilson chose to unknot his tie and drape the silk stripe over the back of his chair. As delightfully dirty as the tie had looked against his naked skin, the unadulterated view of his bare chest against the backdrop of their workplace conference table was no less filthy.
House was glad he still had a collar, because he was getting hot under it.
“The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly,” Foreman named the seven card stud variant as he shuffled the deck and laid out the community cards. He took an appraising look at Chase’s nearly depleted stores. “The ante is…ten.” Chase threw in his last blue chip. Cuddy held hers out to Cameron, “Blow on it for luck, will ya sweetie?”
Cameron pursed her lips and blew with heavy eye contact. House raised an eyebrow at Wilson who raised one right back. Cuddy was so in.
The first reveal of fours wild didn’t spur any particular excitement in the betting. The second one, the jack of diamonds kicking all jacks out of the running, jumped a few pulses and raised the stakes. Chase nervously rubbed his last two chips together.
Wilson watched House watching Chase with malicious enjoyment. “Don’t look at him like that. Can’t you see the child’s suffering?”
“I hear it’s good for the soul.”
“And bad for the blood pressure.”
“You’re just pissy because you’re jealous of my pocket rockets.” House bounced his brows in time with those final words to maximize the double meaning.
“At least I still have pockets,” Wilson countered, before assuring the table, “He’s got a low pair, at best.”
“Blow me,” House simpered.
“Not for a measly pair. Come back with a full house, and we can talk.”
“I’ll give you a full House—”
“—the line between violent threats and sexual entendre has gotten disturbingly blurred—”
Cuddy cut in, “Can you two stop trying to fuck each other for a goddamn minute and tell us if you’re in or out?”
“I’ll see the bet,” House said primly.
“Me too.” Wilson shot his partner in crime—who it seemed had been lured off script by avarice and a lucky hand—a pouty look but added his chips to match.
“Raise,” Cuddy hurled a pair of greens onto the pile.
“Too rich for my blood,” Cameron folded, looking impressed with Cuddy’s aggressive maneuvering. Possibly with the way her aggressive maneuvers were spilling further out of her bra with every energetic raise. Cameron demurely shucked her own blouse, revealing the sheer camisole beneath. House stared (purely for intellectual purposes, of course) and prepped a few comments about how ‘gee, it’s true that you don’t need a bra if you don’t have breasts’ and ‘does it count as a nip slip if your nips show through your slip?’ But Cuddy kicked one of her discarded heels at him under the table and he was too busy nursing the injury to put them to use.
Out bet, Chase silently took off the watch he’d held in emergency reserve and made peace with his gods.
“I’ll keep my money and lose my shirt,” Foreman agreed, following Cameron in disrobing. Now House wanted to make a comment about how Foreman could probably benefit more from a bra than Cameron, but he had to focus on the actual game because both Cuddy and Wilson were in full stone-faced bluff mode and House didn’t really want to have to flash his tits in front of a bunch of sag-free thirtysomethings.
Wilson raised Cuddy’s raise. House nodded grimly and stuck around. The last card was dealt and an unobtrusive two was revealed, not matching any of the remaining upcards, and thus sparing the players an “ugly” fold. Wilson called.
Cuddy’s grin split with evil glee as she revealed her hole cards to be…queens. Matching the pair of ladies already showing.
“No way,” Wilson muttered, weakly peeling back his low straight.
“Should’ve known,” House started unbuttoning his shirt, “her milkshakes brought all the girls to the yard.”
“They are better than yours,” Cuddy agreed, making a rude gesture at his newly bare chest.
House cupped his—admittedly, nowhere near as perky—breasts protectively. “Don’t listen to the mean administrator.”
Wilson tried to wiggle out of his slacks without standing and giving his audience a proper peek, so House started barking at Wilson’s under-table action until he stood, muttering, “Never a rolled up newspaper around when you need one.”
Disappointingly, there were no tight undies to admire, as Wilson had chosen to armor himself with the kind of boxers that double as shorts for college bros, loose and uninteresting plaid. No more than House had already seen on a warm summer’s day.
“Is this what you call a strip tease?” House complained, “I’m getting the tease, but not the strip.”
“Would you like a refund?” Wilson held up a red chip, pressed a wet kiss to one side, then flattened it firmly to House’s chest, right over his heart.
House grabbed Wilson’s hand before it could flee. “I think you owe me a lot more than that.” He felt Wilson’s pulse flutter beneath the hold on his wrist.
Before Wilson could respond—or Foreman could get off the scathing commentary visibly bubbling on his tongue—House snatched up the deck and spread it in a flashy half circle across the table, flipping the lead card in his left hand to domino the overlapping cards upright in a fluttering rush over to his right.
“The game is Spit in the Ocean,” House announced, scooping the cards back into a tidy stack and then splitting them with one hand, shuffling them ostentatiously in his right palm while gesturing with his left, “two rounds of betting, the ante is five in deference to Dr. Chase’s imminent bankruptcy. One community card, all cards of that rank wild, and for spice…drawing the suicide king means an automatic fold. And don’t try anything tricky, I’ll be checking the discards, my magic eye sees all and knows all.”
House dealt the first hand, watching for signs of anyone catching the hot potato. They were all close to their skivvies now, scattered accessories the last thin line between a fun time and indecent exposure charges. Chase had no such protection and was visibly sweating despite the previously noted near-nudity.
The undercurrent of ribbing chatter hushed as what may well be the final round began.
The bets were low to start as players pinned their hopes on drawing better cards. Cuddy took only one card, Cameron and Foreman two each, Chase traded everything in like the gorgeous twit he was, and Wilson decided he was fine with his cards as is, thanks. House monitored him with suspicion as he dealt himself one fresh card.
The king of hearts. Sword raised, an optical illusion in perspective making the blade seem to pierce his own skull.
Keeping his expression mild, House used a simple conjurer’s trick to invisibly replace the deadly card with the next, an innocuous nine of diamonds, and hide the evidence in his palm to be disposed of somewhere safe. House thought fast and smirked as he picked out the perfect hiding spot.
Wilson, confident in his original cards, raised. Foreman, liking the look of his novel picks, doubled that. Everyone put in and Chase was forced to surrender his final chips.
“Cards on the table,” House exulted, laying flat his full house, nines high (thank you, next-card-in-the-deck).
Cameron bent graciously to defeat, Foreman slightly less so, as the well-layered duo were finally forced to sacrifice their pants. Foreman wore practical, sporty black briefs that inspired no particularly stunning riposte from House, and Cuddy had already stolen the relevant thunder when Cameron revealed skimpy baby pink silk. Cuddy glared at House from over her almost straight flush, where ‘almost’ counts for nothing, and dragged down the side zipper of her skirt to wriggle it over her ample hips.
Chase moaned piteously over his two pair. “It’s not fair. I got through all of med school without having to take my clothes off for money, but now that I’m gainfully employed, I’m being robbed and stripped.”
Wilson didn’t reveal his cards, just tapped them twice against the table and shot House an appraising glance.
“Seriously?” House tried to peer at Wilson’s hand, “No one caught the suicide king?”
“I could do with a blade in the ear right now,” Chase muttered, facedown on the table.
“Maybe Dr. Wilson could help you out, if he’s hiding a certain member of royalty in his hand.”
One of the darker variations of Wilson’s smile crept on to his face. Chills raced down House’s spine.
“Like so many guilty people,” Wilson began pleasantly, “Dr. House deflects his own crimes by accusing others of the same.”
“Nothing up my sleeve!” House waggled bare wrists and shimmied his pocket-less hips in his seat. “If you want to take this strip search any further, you’ll have to make me the next Mrs. Wilson first.”
Wilson leaned in close. His tongue darted out to wet his lips. House almost didn’t catch what he said. “Where is it?”
“Hmm? Gonna have to be more specific.”
“Our missing king, you louse.”
“Oh, you mean this card?” House reached behind Wilson and extracted the naughty little king from where he’d stashed it in the back of Wilson’s usefully loose boxers. “I don’t know why you think it’s mine when it was hiding in your intimates.”
Wilson sighed and tugged the card free of House’s grip, regarding it thoughtfully. “I do enjoy having men down my pants. I guess I must have put him there. But how could I have forgotten him, such an awfully handsome little guy…”
“Hey!” House tried to snatch his king back.
“Nope,” Wilson pressed it to his cheek, “You’re right, he’s all mine.”
“Give it here,” House began an ungainly sitting-down wrestling match, “stupid two dimensional whore…”
Cameron tilted towards Cuddy to ask in an undertone, “Is House jealous of…a playing card?”
“He’s jealous of his own shadow,” Cuddy whispered back, “but yeah, this is a new low.”
House finally reigned victorious, slapping the king of hearts down on top of his full house. His smile blazed. Then froze. Then faded.
Wilson finally revealed his own hand, also a full house, but with unimpressive fives high. “Now that you’ve done the gentlemanly thing and folded, that means…I win.”
“Hey,” Foreman interrupted the drama with a glowing grin, “Forget you two freaks, either way…we’ve reached the conclusion.”
“Chase is chip-less!” Cameron crowed, victory bringing out her latent mean girl. She ruffled Chase’s hair where he still lay prone and destitute on the table.
“Rise and shine!” Foreman grabbed Chase by the shoulders and dragged him bodily upright.
“Time to pay the piper. Let’s see that booty march on out the door!” Cuddy piled on, carried away from her usual professionalism by the pure joy of humiliating a hunk.
Chase’s panic increased. “What if someone spots me a few chips? I can jump back in the game, my luck’s coming back, I can feel it.”
“What you feel is flop sweat,” Foreman countered, “and who’s gonna spot you anything when we’d all rather spot you blushing down the hall in your tighty-whiteys? Or less.”
“Well, maybe my good, kind, extremely talented and handsome friend could see his way to a little generosity.” Chase poured his all into a set of heartbreaking puppy dog eyes. It was a sign of their potency that Foreman’s mouth tightened in a small frown before he chucked Chase’s chin and said, “No way in hell.”
“House.” Chase turned to his boss, who pointed theatrically to himself in a ‘who, me?’ gesture. “I’ll take your clinic duty for the next week.”
“Tempting, but no,” House clicked his tongue, “My sense of honor prevents me from saving your cute little butt.”
“Two weeks.”
“Nuh-uh.”
Chase slapped his palms down, “Alright, sexual favors are on the table.”
“Interesting,” House twiddled a chip across his knuckles, “What does a stack of blues buy me?”
Wilson cut in, “You were the one who said betting was cash only.”
“Who’s not trading in cash? I’m spotting him a few chips. His plight moved me.”
“His stupid wavy hair and recourse to slut-hood moved you.”
“Hey!” Chase patted said hair defensively.
“Forget it. I’ll spot you enough to survive just one more round,” Foreman slid a handful of reds over.
Chase blinked at him, wide-eyed and wondering. “You’re buying my sexual favors?”
“I’m preventing you from falling victim to intra-office human trafficking. Just take the damn chips and promise you’ll agree with me completely—I mean, pathetically, sycophantically—at our next DDX.”
“You are my personal god and hero.”
“Alright,” Wilson seized the deck and began to shuffle grimly, “One more round. Five card stud, aces high, sixes and nines wild.”
House blinked at the blatant innuendo. “Doctor Wilson.”
“Can’t handle the heat?” Wilson replied blandly.
“On the contrary, I love a good sixty-nine in the hole.”
Wilson’s lips quirked up at the corners and he dropped his right hand casually beneath the table. It landed on the edge of House’s chair. Knuckles brushed the bare skin of his thigh. Then Wilson was dealing the first face-up cards and it was gone and House couldn’t swear in a court of law that it had even happened.
From the start of play it had been clear that Cameron couldn’t bluff. But judging by the light in her eyes as the round progressed, she didn’t need to. Chase had no choice but to hang in there. Foreman folded without remorse and got rid of the belt he’d left slung fashionably around his waist as a last resort. Cuddy remained calm and steady. House…House was barely on this plane of existence right now.
Wilson’s hand was definitely on his knee. Thumb rubbing a half-circuit around his patella. Unless House was hallucinating. He glanced around. Well, Cuddy and his entire staff were in their underwear. Couldn’t rule out a dream state.
A warm nudge at his ankle. Wilson twined his bare foot around House’s, dragging toes up the inside of his shin. The cards blurred in House’s vision. His ears rang.
“House,” Cuddy said loudly, “unless you’re gonna pull another card out of Wilson’s ass, you’ve gotta see or fold.”
Wilson’s fingertips tickled the underside of his knee and his vision swam too much to know whether he was holding a potential winner or an absolute foot. “I’m in,” House mumbled, pushing in what seemed like probably the correct number of chips.
Wilson checked and dealt the final cards.
Cuddy bet a respectable sum, but Cameron sucked her lower lip into her mouth, bit it gently, then shoved everything she had into the middle. “All in.”
Chase folded instantly, jealously insulating the paltry chips he’d gotten from Foreman, like they were all that stood between him and the gallows. Which, of course, they were.
“Bold move. Pay up,” Foreman snaked a finger out to snap the elastic on Chase’s underwear.
Chase’s brain whirred away behind his eyes and he suddenly hopped to his feet. House thought he might bolt, but instead he simply retrieved a pair of scissors from the nearby drawers. Chase lifted a lock of blond hair out from the side of his head and snap! Dramatically cut it free with the scissors. He dropped his golden sacrifice on the table. “Enough?”
Foreman pulled a thoughtful face, “Yeah, I accept it.”
House matched Cameron’s gutsy bet, mostly because he didn’t have so much spare hair to sacrifice. Wilson folded and slipped off his watch, before returning his right hand to its new home, driving House crazy one knee-caress at a time. Cuddy called the bet, giving Cameron a once over before declaring, “I’ve got to know what’s in your hand.”
Cameron slapped down a triumphant nine and ace, next to her visible pair of wild sixes. “Four aces. Thank you, dirty wilds.” She made to gather up the biggest pot yet but Cuddy laid slim fingers across her forearm.
“Sorry, princess.” Cuddy also had a pair showing, though they were just ordinary threes. Then she revealed her hole cards: two nines and a six. “Five threes. Now that’s a wild hand.”
Cameron’s cheeks flamed. Foreman looked genuinely shocked. Chase seemed like he might burst into giddy laughter, but had just enough decency left to squelch it.
“That’s—” Cameron’s voice failed. “Well. The hand goes to you. And I’m…” she stared down at the empty space where her considerable stores had so recently sat.
“You’re bankrupt,” Chase proclaimed, apparently losing that battle for decorum.
Cameron nodded. Cuddy’s eyes glittered with curiosity. Chase’s with open malice. House was still too occupied with his own issues to care about little girl lost over there, hello, did anyone else see that Wilson was openly groping him?
Speaking of Wilson: “So, you lost, that’s fine. Obviously, you don’t have to go through with this childish dare.”
“No.” Cameron shook her head. She pushed nobly to her feet, giving everyone a view of her taut stomach and the pull of pink fabric over the flare of her hips. “I overestimated my hand and lost, fair and square. I’ll go to the cafeteria, like the bet said. Everyone cool with fries?” Her attempt at brave nonchalance was as transparent as the conference room’s walls.
Wilson bypassed House’s knee to slide his hand meaningfully up House’s left leg. He stared House down as heat flooded along the vulnerable skin of House’s inner thigh, foreign fingertips brushing the edge of his briefs—
“Stop,” House squeaked up at Cameron.
The rest of the crew turned as one to look incredulously at House.
“It was…just a joke,” he started feebly, glancing at Wilson for confirmation. Wilson nodded and gently ran his pinky along the crease of House’s thigh. “You don’t actually have to…” House waved a hand, trying to communicate ‘prance about in your panties publicly’ without saying as much.
The nauseatingly heartwarming expressions of gratitude coming off the room’s female population pushed House to grumble and smack Wilson’s shoulder, “When he gets all put out he doesn’t put out. This is just self-preservation. Don’t think I’m going soft. In any sense.”
“You weren’t so noble when it was my ass on the line,” Chase complained, pout at full power.
“That’s because Wilson wasn’t willing to sacrifice his body for you,” Foreman explained with a grin.
Wilson scratched the stubble under House’s chin like he was a very good dog. House panted accordingly.
“I don’t think it’s actually House’s decision,” Cuddy broke in with a serene smile. The temperature dropped in the room. “After all, I won the hand. Surely, I get to decide whether or not Cameron has to walk the halls of my hospital in her adorable little mismatched panty set.”
Cameron muttered under her breath, “They’re cheaper when you buy them as separates.” Then, with more volume and confidence, Cameron offered, “What if you took your winnings…privately?”
Cuddy’s grin turned wicked. “What an excellent compromise. Dr. Cameron, would you like to join me for a consult in my office?”
“I’d love to.”
Cuddy knelt and took Cameron’s sensible flats in hand, slipping them one after the other back onto Cameron’s feet.
She pulled Cameron out of her seat and made a show of thinking, hand laid along her jaw, before retrieving Cameron’s lab coat from the coatrack. Cuddy tucked Cameron back into it and tightly buttoned it down the front, barely covering her bosom and still allowing tantalizing peeks of thigh to flash out of the bottom flaps.
Cameron now looked every inch the doctor-themed stripper.
The absence of House’s color commentary was so striking that it drew Foreman and Chase’s attention away from the spectacle.
House simply wasn’t in the mood for a long drink of pretty girl—and wouldn’t that be a disturbing thought to find in his head, if he were conscious enough to notice it. But the only thing currently swimming through his mind was a final one-on-one showdown with a certain oncologist, loser takes it all off, and winner takes the loser.
“Seriously?” Foreman wondered aloud, “We’re in some vaguely creepy real life lesbian porno, and there’s no dialogue from the leering old man section?”
“As an out and proud opportunistic dick lover, I’ve got to say, you two are actually too gay to function,” Chase diagnosed.
“And they haven’t even screwed yet,” Cuddy added, one arm around Cameron’s waist.
“What?” The fellows said in perfect horrified harmony.
“Seriously,” Cuddy nodded, “They’re just like that.”
“That’s messed up, man,” Foreman said sagely. Chase nodded his agreement. Cameron was distracted again by Cuddy zipping up her own skirt but neglecting the blouse, just buttoning her jacket over her bra and calling it a day as she steered her prize towards the door.
Chase whispered, “Get sooome, Allison,” and they bumped fists in passing.
Finally tapping back into the proceedings, House shouted after them, “Don’t knock up my immunologist!”
“No promises!” Cuddy called back, middle finger raised.
Wilson looked after them paternally before dialing his gaze back up to scorching to ask House, “What do you say to one last round?” His hand, which had settled sweetly at the juncture of House’s neck and shoulder, now dragged down House’s chest.
House nodded jerkily and leveraged himself to his feet using the tabletop. “Sorry,” he shot vaguely in the direction of the remaining onlookers as he hooked his cane around Wilson’s wrist and tugged, “Private game.”
“Thank god,” Foreman declared.
“I’m never going to gamble again,” Chase vowed.
House lost no time ferrying Wilson out of the fishbowl and through his office, to sneak over the balcony and into Wilson’s (nice, opaquely walled) office without running the risk of the hallway stretch.
Chase took in the suddenly empty room and craned his neck to ask Foreman, “Do you wanna check out the Nutritional Health lounge? It’s usually empty by now. We could probably catch something decent on ESPN.” Chase nudged Foreman’s ankle with bare toes and sweetened the deal, “I’ll blow you on the couch…”
Foreman sighed. “Guess I don’t have anyone better to do.”
In the background, two grown men could just be spotted from the street, dashing across the chilly brick balcony in their underthings.
“So, your deal or mine?” House asked, pulling Wilson into his own office with a hand round the back of his neck. He flicked the light switch on with an elbow to avoid colliding with the furniture. Wilson grabbed House’s waist for stability. They were so close every harsh exhale brushed their noses together.
“Yours, I think. One last round, one last stitch to drop.” One of Wilson’s hands trickled lower, index finger running a maddening path along the hem of House’s underwear.
“But who gets naked, the winner or the loser?” Their lips almost touched.
“I don’t know, it is confusing,” Wilson agreed breathlessly, “What are we playing?”
“Uh. How about. War.” House sloppily cut the deck he’d stolen from the conference table, letting half of it rain to the ground. “Five of hearts,” he checked the top card. “Wow, beat that.”
Wilson twined the fingers of his free hand with House’s, sending the remaining cards showering down the length of his arm to the floor, until just one remained clasped between their palms. Wilson checked it and grinned. “One-eyed king. I’ve always thought that was my lucky card.”
Wilson closed the distance between them, a coin’s breadth that meant the world, and kissed House open-mouthed and desperate. House reciprocated eagerly, clutching Wilson in closer by every extremity he could reach and welcoming his tongue into his mouth.
It was a shock to feel so much hot skin against his own, all at once, no slow peeling back of layers. Their first kiss and House’s hands were skidding unbarred down the velvety line of Wilson’s bare back.
They tumbled backwards until House hit the desk. Wilson spread House’s legs with a knock of his knees, fitting himself between them and pressing House into a half-sitting lean, taking the weight off his leg while letting Wilson sink deeper into his embrace. Oh, Wilson had definitely thought through these logistics before, House thought with fiery pride.
“I won,” Wilson whispered, scraping teeth over House’s lower lip, “Do I get my prize?” Before House could respond, Wilson started to run the backs of his fingers up and down over the curve of House’s nascent hard-on, devouring his answering gasp.
Wilson started to suck his way along the rough line of House’s jaw, tucking his face into House’s throat and mouthing at the tender skin there until he dragged out the groan he wanted.
He worked an exploratory path further down House’s body, starting with kisses against his shoulder that magnetized House’s hands into his hair, sliding down to his knees and curving House’s spine after his so he could lick across his chest, laving the flat of his tongue over one nipple and then the other. He nosed down House’s stomach, pressing wet sucking kisses along every inch of his purposeful downward trajectory.
His hands were as busy as his mouth, stroking House’s sides and sweeping down his flank, rubbing the reddened slick skin Wilson’s lips left behind, fingers finally curling over the waistband of House’s underwear, ready to complete the unveiling and take his reward. He opened his mouth wide to breathe hotly against the erection straining beneath House’s briefs.
“Uhh…” House took Wilson by the hair and pulled him back, “I hate you.”
“Huh?”
“I really, seriously hate you,” House repeated, “Stand up.”
Wilson blinked up at him, hair fucked and mouth red. House thought this might be what madness felt like. “You know, I was kind of intent on blowing you just now?”
“I’m aware. But I’m not aware of the why,” House ground out, “You could’ve skipped the whole card game mirage and just grabbed me through my jeans any old day. Would’ve saved us a lot of time and money.”
“But I had no guarantee you wouldn’t call HR if I started molesting you through your clothes.”
“When have I ever called HR?”
“Slapped me like an offended Victorian maiden, then.”
“So…you were just afraid of rejection? Forgive me if I’m not convinced the great seducer of nurses was felled by cold feet when he upped his sights to an MD.”
Wilson rocked back on his heels, disbelieving. “You’re really not going to let me suck you off…until you have the solution to your puzzle.”
“Uh, yeah. I am who I am, regardless of gorgeous men with their mouths hanging open between my legs. Fuck. I really do hate you so much right now.”
“Such a gentleman. How is there any mystery as to why I want you.”
Wilson stood and his knees cracked. House wanted to lick his entire body.
“What was it?” House asked, on the edge of losing it completely, in more ways than one, “What made you snap so suddenly and violently and insanely? Why now?”
“Why not now?” Wilson deflected.
“Fine. You want me to figure it out on my own, I can do that.” House flexed magician’s fingers as he reeled out the facts. “Let’s see…you brought Cuddy into your little scheme. Clearly she wanted an opportunity to play naughty mistress with the sapphic stripling. But you…” House deduced at maximum intensity, monitoring Wilson’s carefully camouflaged tells, “I know yesterday was your and Cuddy’s bi-monthly girls’ night. Did you hatch the plan then?”
A flicker of tightening muscle in the jaw.
“Aha. Yes. Okay, so, what triggered it? What could possibly have happened between gossip and margaritas to change our status quo so drastically?”
Wilson chewed the inside of his cheek before accusing, “She saw you last week.”
“She sees me every day. It’s almost like we work together—”
“—she saw you at Café Spiletto with that drug rep.”
House had to think a moment. “…Vinnie?”
“I didn’t know his name. That’s a stupid name,” Wilson declared, uncharacteristically vicious.
“Why do you care that I let a drug rep buy me dinner?”
“You never do that. You think it’s too close to socializing.”
“I also think it’s free food. Most drug reps are too boring for it to be worth it.”
“Exactly!” Wilson gesticulated wildly.
“Exactly what?” House gestured back just as wildly.
“You were going to—you might’ve—did you do him?”
“Did I do Vinnie,” House repeated, disbelieving, “Did I do Vinnie, the big pharma shill, because he bought me spaghetti?”
“You would do an octogenarian with lethal halitosis for a good puttanesca.”
House’s sniper gaze zeroed in, prey acquired. “Then why haven’t you bought me any pasta?”
Wilson shuffled his feet. “I’ve bought you so much pasta.”
“And…you’re upset…because I didn’t fuck you for it?”
“Did you or did you not sleep with Vinnie the smarmy drug rep?”
“I did not have sex with that man,” House shot back a pitch-perfect Clinton.
“Great!” Wilson shouted.
“Why!” House shouted back.
“Because I don’t want other men…buying you spaghetti.”
“If women or hot genderless people shower me in red sauce, however…”
“Women are different. You’ve dated women before. I’m not a woman,” Wilson explained, as if this explained anything.
“I mostly agree with that statement.”
“You’ve never dated men before. Publicly.”
“That’s just because men are statistically more likely to be annoying. I have sex with men when I want to, I date women because they’re socially trained to be cute and friendly and find my abrasive personality charming.”
“That’s…an alarmingly self-aware read on the situation.”
“I know my own damage, Wilson. I apparently didn’t know yours.”
Wilson ground his teeth. “All these years, and you finally go out with a guy…and it’s not me. That’s not fair. You owe me a chance to try first. Before you lower your standards and let some jerk named Vinnie take you home.”
“Vinnie is a sexy name, actually, but you don’t need to worry. I’ve been keeping the number one spot open for you this whole time. I thought you knew and were politely declining for the sake of our friendship.” House recouped the distance that had spread between them during the explanations phase. “If I’d realized it was just textbook repression, I wouldn’t have bothered with years of queer semaphore signals. I’d have just jumped you.”
“You gonna jump me now?” Wilson asked, distinctly hopeful.
“Hmm.” House licked his lips. “I still don’t know how you thought up this convoluted strip poker scheme.”
Wilson admitted quickly and a little miserably, “Cuddy and I got so drunk on rosé and watched some eighties movie on cable that made it seem like a really surefire idea.”
“After that beautiful bitch finishes deflowering my babyfaced fellow, I’m buying her a fruit basket.”
Wilson threw his arms around House’s neck, “Please just make sure you deflower me first.”
House let his hands return to Wilson’s back, itching to explore, “I hardly think I’m going where no man has gone before.”
“I mean…to follow a moonfall metaphor, you’re not exactly Neil Armstrong. Or Buzz Aldrin, for that matter.”
“Just some schmuck from Apollo 17 that no one’s going to remember.”
“I’ll always remember this.” Wilson tightened his arms and pulled House down into a kiss.
Without shoes, their couple inches’ height difference seemed magnified. House let himself be pushed back down onto the edge of Wilson’s desk, legs parting and Wilson sliding instinctively between, so he could be kissed at easier altitude.
Wilson retraced his steps from earlier, working his way back down House’s body, this time with more worship than desperation but no less speed. House regained his hold on Wilson’s hair. It really was so soft, and if he had an obsession morphing quickly into a fetish, so be it.
The grip Wilson took on House’s underwear this time was sure, militant, unrelenting. “If you try and stop me now,” he warned, “I will be forced to use my teeth.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” House promised, heart in his throat.
Wilson pulled the briefs over, down, and off of House with impressive skill and velocity. He allowed a moment to appreciate the view, then grinned up at House, which was precisely when House knew he was about to get the most transcendental head of his life.
Wilson’s first excursion wasn’t flashy but studied and committed, a careful lick under the head before closing his lips around the tip and sucking experimentally. He released House’s cock just enough to blow a sharp breath through his teeth against the damp skin, earning a sharp jerking gasp and twitch.
“Tease,” House exhaled.
“You have no idea,” Wilson purred before going back in and feeling out every inch with his lips like there was gonna be a test at the end.
“Just familiarizing yourself with the territory?” House’s tone feigned disinterest but one of his hands had crept back to clutch helplessly at the edge of the desk.
“Don’t wanna get lost.” Wilson pressed far enough back to mouth at his balls and it was way too intimate and the lights were too bright and House loved seeing Wilson like this but he also couldn’t stand to see much more.
Nerves tingled on the border of pain throughout House’s body. The injured muscle in his thigh tightened with a deep warning ache. Then Wilson’s warm palm wrapped across the scarred patch on his leg, a soothing squeeze that held everything bad at bay, urging House to fall freely into the sensation without fearing the landing.
He closed his eyes and commanded his oldest enemy, his own body, to obey and relax. Nothing doing. Wilson sensed the rising tension and intensified the damnable nuzzling. “Shh,” Wilson kissed the inside of his thigh, the smooth brush of his cheek against tender skin a firebrand, “You’re allowed to stop being miserable for a few minutes. Enjoy it. I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”
“I am the king of bacchanal,” House protested, “I enjoy myself constantly.”
“No.” Wilson’s eyes flashed, a sure sign of a speech coming on. And with his mouth where it was, House was a captive audience. “You feed yourself cheap food that makes your body feel like shit, you have sex with hookers that couldn’t care less about your feelings, you waste time watching crap TV instead of finding hobbies you might actually like. You gorge yourself on meaninglessness and deny yourself everything that matters. You’re turned pleasure into punishment. But I won’t let you do that now.”
“I—” House had a vibrant protest on his tongue but it evaporated into a ripped-out moan. Oh, sure, now he guzzles House’s cock so deeply neither of them can speak. Right when Wilson was definitely going to lose the argument.
House felt himself hit the back of Wilson’s throat and fought twin instincts to push further and pull back. Wilson pinned his hips to the desk so the choice was out of his hands and began to slid his mouth up and down, not letting up on the suction for a moment. He sank lower and lower, taking more and more with each rocking rhythm back and forth, until his face was buried in House’s crotch with every deep swallow.
Need flared deep in House’s stomach and Wilson pulled back, teasing again at the tip with a tongue that should require extensive licensing to conceal and carry. House was having trouble keeping his eyes open, the need to squeeze them shut and just pump mindlessly into wet heat tamed only by the equally consuming urge to watch every second. Absorb it directly into his DNA. Wilson, in all his hidden glory, sucking on him like a champ. Like a starving man. Like a man in love.
Fuck, it was just supposed to be a card game on a quiet late shift.
Wilson’s lashes fluttered to reveal those captivating brown eyes gone dark with desire, pupils blown, cheeks pink with exertion.
“Wilson…” House didn’t mean to talk. It hadn’t seemed right, somehow, that they always talked and never fucked for years and years and now it had all come unraveled and reversed.
But god, it had to be said. “Wilson. You—” Words failed and pleasure prevailed, but Wilson started taking House deeper again and loosened his hold on his waist and House cautiously let his hips snap forward like they wanted to so badly and Wilson moaned happily around his full mouth.
House tried again. “You look so…” ‘Beautiful’ was a dangerous word, if the truest one, “…so good.” Better. Safer. Not enough. “Your mouth…all stretched out…fuck, you take it so good.”
He traced a finger along Wilson’s wet lips where they connected with House’s own flesh. A more desperate sound, closer to a whimper, and House cupped Wilson’s cheek, hollowed with suction and then filled with himself and House wondered what he’d have to give to lay exclusive claim to this glorious sight for the rest of his too-short life.
House didn’t want to get overly poetical about some oral between friends, but Wilson had turned this into a fucking symphony of sensation, humming frictive reverberation between bouts of engulfing heat and all timed to the pulse of his hips shuddering with destructive downward-spiraling pleasure.
House vaguely recalled some rules of propriety that said you weren’t supposed to come in someone’s mouth without giving them a chance to back off and say, ‘no thanks, actually,’ and he respected that, even though he was pretty sure he’d die instantly if Wilson took that option now.
“You should…” he stroked slightly shaking fingers along Wilson’s jaw, “I’m gonna…”
Wilson locked their eyes together and swallowed stubbornly around him and House poured down his throat before he could begin to cohere a full warning. He fucked himself out along the ridge of Wilson’s tongue until the crest of his orgasm finally crashed to shore and he fell spent from Wilson’s mouth with a whine. Wilson chased one last lick at oversensitive flesh before letting his head tip to rest against House’s thigh.
Wilson hmmed sleepily and nestled his cheek against House’s skin.
“Okay,” House panted, “Five stars. Or four, if you prefer a tastefully restrained scale. Glowing reviews coming in from the critics. Instant smash hit.”
“Mmm. Tastefully restrained, that’s the first thing I think of when it comes to blowjobs. Can’t wait to add a line about award-winning fellatio to my CV.”
“You can edit your resume after I return the favor. Just…gotta get my breath back,” House held up an impatient finger.
“Not in a hurry,” Wilson smiled, sweetly unselfish as always, which House found infuriating. Wilson would be demanding more, and soon, if House had to absolutely choke himself on Wilson’s cock to get there.
Breath under control, House stood on unsteady legs and pulled Wilson back to his feet in an ungainly armpit-lift. No time for subtlety, the gauntlet was thrown and his mouth was watering.
House directed Wilson by the slight billow of his unbearably modest boxers and dragged him groin-first towards the couch. “You set a very high standard of care,” he admitted, collapsing into the worn cushion and arranging Wilson’s hips. Pleased to find them at perfect mouth-level. “But you know my competitive streak. I hate to lose.”
Where Wilson favored finesse, House favored get-in-my-mouth-right-the-fuck-now. He ripped those stupid boxers down and out of the way and dug in.
Wilson was hard to a flattering degree, considering House hadn’t gotten his hands or mouth or any decent body part onto his dick before now. Not surprising, on reflection, considering how much Wilson had always clearly gotten off on giving more than receiving. Still. House was pretty sure he could sway him to the dark side of slothful lust with a little time and the judicious application of suction.
He opened his mouth and took Wilson to the root in a smooth swallow. Fortune granted him the suavity not to choke, though his eyes watered a little, but that touch of discomfort only highlighted the devastatingly hot reality of it all. Wilson, naked and sweating and panting and wild in the middle of his own damn office, all for House.
The musk of him was intoxicating, the sound of rigid flesh sliding through giving lips, incandescent, the bottled-up gasps and moans tearing loose when House flexed and contracted the muscles of his throat along Wilson’s length, even more so.
Wilson was clearly enjoying himself, eyes closed in pleasure and head rolled back with a gratifying kind of helplessness between his shoulders. But House wanted a lot more than a darned good time. He wanted Wilson to mark his life around this point, Before House a colorless period of waste and After House the only era that mattered.
House took a firmer hold on Wilson’s hips, urging them to thrust without consideration, trying to telegraph how much he wanted Wilson to stop thinking about House as a friend to be protected and realize he was a lover to be taken.
Come here, his hands said, asked, begged. Use me, please.
Wilson got the message. Or maybe he was just as insatiable as House after a decade of wanting. He caught a hand under House’s chin and tilted his head back, raising a leg and propping his knee on the arm of the couch to hit a deeper, rougher angle, filling House again and again as he held him still with hands so gentle by contrast.
House closed his eyes and let it carry him away. No effort, no need to think, giving everything he had without trying and it felt so good.
Wilson had done better at keeping their unspoken promise about speaking, but now as he chased his release in House’s mouth the words started slipping through the cracks. “God” and “fuck” and “oh, House, House, please” and whispered confessions of emotions House couldn’t stand to feel whipped against his skin except in the company of this simultaneous cede and possession of control—both of them at the total mercy of the other.
Wilson fucked his mouth long and hard enough for a real ache to gather and House celebrated it, filed it away to cover up the bodily hurt that he couldn’t stand, pleasure painted with a brush of pain he chose. He loosened the frantic grip of his fingers to brush a soothing path from Wilson’s side down his hips to flank and leg, the other arm looping under Wilson’s arched thigh to keep him close, pressing him to give in and let go.
Truthfully, House preferred the former in the spit vs. swallow dichotomy, but that was in the context of meaningless stress-relief back-alley hookups, not consummating the sexual portion of the most important relationship in his life. He was out to impress. Oh, you want another ticket to this show? Why certainly sir, that’ll just be one promise to stay with me forever and ever, thank you.
Wilson came hot and bitter on the back of House’s tongue and he drank down every drop with a so there kind of relish. When House had wrung the last keening bolt of gratification out of him, Wilson was left swaying slightly, out of breath. His knee slipped off the couch and foot hit the ground with a hollow, exhausted thump.
House silently guided Wilson down to sit beside him before any other limbs started giving way. Wilson blinked dazed, bliss-bleary eyes at him and reached out to touch his face, like it might sneak away if he didn’t hold on.
Then he laughed once, a quick bark as he rubbed away a dribble at the corner of House’s mouth with his thumb.
“Pardon?” House replied to the sound peevishly.
Wilson’s grin widened. “Just thinking. About what you said before…now that’s a full House.”
A high, totally illegal giggle burst from House’s chest. He held the next volley back. But then Wilson started laughing in earnest and now House was cackling so hard he could hardly breathe and they collapsed against each other and the low back of the couch in the most hysterical laughter they’d shared since the time they’d been smashed on Jager at a medical conference and had crawled under a dining table to tie the philandering keynote speaker’s shoelaces together as he shared cherries jubilee with a high-priced hooker.
“Oh my god. This is insane,” Wilson hiccupped through diaphragm-wobbling laughter, “We’re insane. I mean, I knew you were, but I thought I might still be in the clear.”
“Nope. It’s highly contagious. And incurable. You’re gonna be like this forever now.”
“God, I hope so.” Wilson glanced at their surroundings, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye as House schooled his last rebellious giggles into submission, face pressed into Wilson’s shoulder. “Look at us,” Wilson gestured, hand disobeying orders halfway through the motion to wrap around House’s neck and scratch affectionate fingernails into the hair at his nape. “We’re lounging naked on the couch in my office. We are at work and, I really cannot emphasize this enough, in the nude.”
“I think nudity is underrated.”
“I know. I woke up to you proving that opinion one morning when I was sleeping on your couch, and you were making toast bare-assed, not a care in the world.”
“See!” House bubbled upright with renewed vigor, “You didn’t have to engineer this elaborate plot just to get me sans-clothing. I’d get that way willingly if you turned the heat in my apartment past seventy degrees.”
“Well, notes for next time.”
“Next time you can just ask me. Or, a little sexier, tell me.”
Wilson descended on his mouth for a sloppy kiss, both of them still sticky-lipped and turned on remembering exactly why.
House nudged Wilson’s mouth aside as he realized, “Wait. Who the fuck actually won that poker tournament.”
Wilson shrugged, lazy and content, “I guess it doesn’t matter since it was all just a ruse to get each other naked. Well, for two-thirds of us at least.”
“Chase and Foreman are definitely fucking and/or sucking on a horizontal surface somewhere, don’t you worry.”
“I wasn’t worried. A little icked out now, though.”
“Imagine what it’s like to work with them. Anyway,” House made to get up and Wilson hurled himself around his waist to stop him.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“To see who had the most chips in the end.” House’s ‘duh’ was silent but resonant.
“You’re going to do that…naked?”
“No,” House shook his head, tweaking Wilson’s nose, “obviously I’m going to put my underwear back on first.” He managed to snag his briefs with extended toes, dragging them close enough to grab up and tug into place. Wilson watched this with open distress.
“Stop that. I was enjoying the nudity.”
“I will bless you with my bared form again soon, I swear, my sweet sugar blossom.”
“Don’t sweet sugar blossom me, you twat. We’re having a moment!”
“We had a moment. And I’ll just go check the chips real quick and come right back and we’ll have another moment. As many moments as your stamina can take.”
Wilson swapped his usual tactic (browbeating) for the newest weapon in his arsenal (seduction). “Alright, listen. If you stay here, with me, and don’t give in to your ridiculous curiosity…” Wilson trailed tantalizing fingers through the hair on House’s chest, “I will let you take me home…and spread me out in your bed…and fuck me bare until I can’t stand.”
House didn’t resist Wilson’s lips parting his own. He took Wilson’s shoulders in hand and pushed lightly, kissing him down into the corner of the couch until Wilson relaxed and sighed against his mouth. And then House hopped up and dashed away through the door and across the balcony with all the cane-less speed he had available, calling over his shoulder, “I’ll be back before you can miss me okaybyeseeyousoon!”
He skidded back into the abandoned conference room, scanning over the chips still amassed sporadically around the table. A quick visual inspection showed that he, Wilson, and Cuddy had all made a decent profit. A closer look revealed that Cuddy’s pile was weighted toward green, while House and Wilson were rich in blues and reds. A little mental arithmetic and the winner was clear: House irritably knocked over Cuddy’s tallest stack of chips like that could defeat her in absentia.
“Cuddy,” House declared out loud as Wilson ambled in behind him. The dreadful boxers were back in place, House noted with the muffled regret he so often ignored vis a vis the direct consequences of his own actions. “The ice queen reigns. If I had to lose, I just wish it had been to you.”
“Then it all would’ve gone right back into the Greg House Lunch Fund.”
“Exactly.”
Wilson in his resigned composure had not forgotten House’s cane, and handed it to him.
House avoided eye contact as he leaned gratefully on the support. “So. Five minutes out of the gate of our new…whatever this is. And I’m already in the dog house.”
“Five minutes? Try five seconds. And you’re not in the dog house.”
House peeped hopefully over his shoulder. “No?”
Wilson shrugged, his unbothered calm apparently genuine. “We had to come back here to get our clothes anyway. Unless you were planning on parading your body for all the world to see on the way home.” He knelt to scrape up his rumpled pants and shirt from the ground, shaking them out with a rueful smile.
House moseyed up behind him so when Wilson stood, he slid right into the envelope of House’s arms. Chest comfortably pressed against Wilson’s back, House flicked his tongue against Wilson’s ear and asked, “Do I still get to take you home, then? Even though I failed the test?”
“You better take me home or I’ll sue.” Wilson leaned back into the embrace. “And it wasn’t the kind of test you could pass or fail. I just wanted to see if my feminine wiles had any power over you. I’ve seen Cuddy stop traffic with her breasts, apparently I can’t even make you tap the brakes with mine.”
“Your body is worthy of a ten-car pileup,” House assured him, hands taking a tour of the manly breasts in question, “And I approve of your methods. Feel free to continue trying to modify my behavior with sexual considerations.”
Wilson nodded and let his head fall back, tilting to try and catch House’s eye and then his mouth. They kissed lazily, standing in their underthings amongst the poker debris while the hospital buzzed on around them.
“How long do I have you for?” Wilson stole another kiss before leaving House room to answer.
“As long as you want. You won our private game, remember? One-eyed king takes all.” Innuendo forcing its way out, House added, “And there is a lot to take, if you know what I mean.”
Wilson laughed into House’s neck, turning in his arms so they were properly face to face. “Is this a lifetime prize? You’re not…looking for another tournament to enter?”
“The only tournament I’m looking to enter is you.”
“That makes no sense. But I’m on board. Get us out of here and you can do all the entering you want.”
House nodded vigorously and dove for his jeans.
Wilson zipped up his slacks and pulled his shirt back on, doing up the buttons and haphazardly tucking it in. House started sorting through the chaos of discarded socks and pulled up short as he spotted something underneath Wilson’s chair.
“Holy shit.” He reached into the metal slats and pulled out a card. Then another. “You…” House could hardly put into words what the evidence so manifestly spelled out. “You…cheated. You. Cheated. You mucked bad deals and subbed in high cards.”
He stared at the secreted king of spades with dinner-plate eyes. “You didn’t need to do this. You routinely kick my ass in poker, and I’m no lightweight. You read people so well that you can’t be outbluffed. And I know you haven’t been cheating me in my own home. So why the hell would you cheat now?”
“I told you.” Wilson’s fingers nervously twiddling with his undone tie were the only outward sign of guilt. “Tonight wasn’t about cards. It was about…winning. I couldn’t leave that up to chance.”
House was agape. But not for long. He launched himself at Wilson, kissing him roughly with arms around his neck, cane and recently retrieved wardrobe tossed to the winds.
“Take those clothes back off,” he insisted, nipping at Wilson’s mouth and licking up his startled gasp, “I have to have you, again, right now. On the floor. There will be carpet burn and I do not care.”
“Okay,” Wilson acquiesced with enthusiasm, letting House pull and tug and finally collapse them to the ground. House jammed his good thigh between Wilson’s legs, half-unzipped pants the only thing standing between them and some good old-fashioned frottage. “I—ah,” Wilson groaned and clutched at House, “I didn’t realize you’d find dishonesty such a turn-on.”
“Everyone loves a bad boy.”
“I should have cheated you at cards years ago. Just bamboozled you at bingo. Scammed you at trivia night.”
“Just me. I love it when you’re bad for me.”
“Clearly,” Wilson stopped feeling House up just long enough to gesture pointedly around them, “I’m down bad for you.” He kissed the laugh out of House’s mouth. “And you…you’re good for me.”
“Seriously?” House reared back, propping himself up on a forearm, “Did you hit your head on the way down to this grungy carpet for your ravishing appointment?”
“Probably.” Wilson’s grin was indolent and sweet and totally content. “Better get back down here and pick up the ravishing pace before I come to my senses.”
House did just that, locking their mouths together and fitting their bodies in tighter sync with a sharp pull on Wilson’s knee to get his leg around House’s waist. He hurried because his sheer want was climbing the walls, but he knew deep in the unmoored and creaking lava fields of his damaged psyche that Wilson wasn’t coming back to his senses anytime soon. He’d been gone on House at least as long as House had been gone on him. They were going to stay gone, together.
.
.
.
Chase peered through the cracked-open conference door morosely, whining, “But I left my wallet in there…”
Foreman ruffled Chase’s hair sympathetically, then gently slapped the back of his head. “It’s a lost cause. C’mon, the late night waffles are on me.”