Work Text:
It starts with a mistake.
One tiny, insignificant, completely understandable mistake. How was House supposed to know that it would spiral so completely out of control?
One mistake that began with the words, “Bad pain day?”
Wilson asks it casually, rarely with sympathy and never with pity. House would prefer he didn’t ask at all, would prefer he didn’t notice his tells when the weather seeps deep into his skin.
That’s not really true. He wishes it was, but he’s never been able to not care about Wilson’s opinion of him, despite his best efforts.
“I’m fine,” he says, knowing he can’t bullshit Wilson but not giving any ground further than that.
“Do you want a massage?”
House pauses with Wilson’s stolen sandwich halfway to his mouth. “If I wanted to have lunch with my mother—”
“Why aren’t we having lunch in the cafeteria?” Wilson demands, leaning back in the chair across from House’s desk. “You yelled through the open balcony door for me to join you in your office for lunch. Usually you bully me in mine. We’re in here, which means you’re either afraid for your life—pissed off Cuddy, I’m guessing—or you don’t want to get up. Not up to walking today if you don’t have to.”
“I’m in pain,” House says with his mouth full of sandwich, figuring the boy crying wolf technique will get Wilson off his back this time. It doesn’t work. Wilson just shoots him an unimpressed look. “Like always.”
“So take some more pills.”
“Are you endorsing my overdose?”
“I’m calling your bluff. You just don’t want the massage. You care about it too much to want to prove me wrong.”
House has had massages before. The ducklings have walked in on a few that looked like something else. He’s had them many, many times from many different people.
It’s not a problem if he gets one from Wilson. Why would it be a problem to have his best friend’s hands on his thigh, just to relieve the pain that’s never been truly solved by a massage? Wilson has such big hands, such nice hands, the kind of nice that he uses to comfort dying cancer kids.
They’re soft. He probably moisturizes them or some shit, and he’s always warm, too, one might even say hot—
It’s not going to be a problem.
And Wilson’s right, the bastard. The little smirk of his prickling over House’s skin won’t stop bugging him until he does something about it. And that something is to say, “If I agree, will it get you to shut up?”
Wilson mimes zipping his lips. “I’ll forget about your leg pain for the rest of the day. I’ll forget you ever had chronic pain.”
“Alright, Mr. Magic Hands, come here.” House doesn’t get up, just sticks his leg out in the air. If Wilson is going to insist on this, he’s going to make it the most uncomfortable experience for him possible. Naturally.
“No, come sit on the lounge chair. I can’t reach—“
“Then leave,” House says, smiling as his game is sliding toward victory. “No one’s asking you to do this.”
“Do you get off on making every little task a lengthened chore, even the ones that will help you?” Wilson lifts his eyes. “Never mind, I know the answer to that. Silly me. Why are you so against this? Are you afraid it might work and I’ll be right?”
“Oh my god. Fine.” House hauls himself to his feet and hobbles over to the lounge chair. He drops himself down and stretches his leg out. “Happy?” Anything to get Wilson out of here sooner. He’ll do his stupid massage, it won’t do anything but make the pain worse, it’ll be incredibly awkward for them both, and Wilson will leave in bitter defeat. Perfection.
“Very. Thank you.” Wilson smiles, the little shit. He kneels beside House’s chair and rolls up his sleeves. House starts to flush, a visceral reaction.
Come on, damn it. He’s better than this. He’s a master of control, including his very traitorous, very bisexual body. What kind of red blooded animal wouldn’t think Wilson is hot? Wouldn’t imagine his hands in other places? It’s only natural.
Wilson reaches for the hem of his jeans, but House grabs his wrist. “Whoa there, sucker,” he says, noting how gravelly his voice has become. For fuck’s sake, they haven’t done anything yet. Not that they’re going to. Not that this is going anywhere. “You want to try anything below the belt, it’s another twenty.”
Wilson quirks an eyebrow but leaves the jeans alone. “I think I’d be the hooker in this hypothetical.”
Normally House would love nothing more than to run with that, point out how Wilson would provide the pleasure without expecting anything in return, would probably give a discount just because his client gave him puppy dog eyes.
Right now, he needs to get away from any and all thoughts of Wilson in the bedroom, a more frequent thought process than he’d like to admit. It’s not like Wilson is going to massage his ankle. It’s high up on his thigh, for fuck’s sake. Not a good time to be popping a boner.
Wilson starts the massage in silence. House tenses up. It’s been a long time since anyone touched him there deliberately, someone who mattered. He doesn’t let Wilson.
“Relax,” Wilson says gently. House wants to slap that gentleness out of him, but he’s glued to his seat. He can’t speak, can’t move, can’t snark, for fear of disrupting this moment. It’s a rare fear. One he only suffers when it comes to Wilson.
Wilson’s fingers slowly work the tension from his scar over his jeans. Even through the jeans, he’s burning hot, gentle but not pitying, thorough. He touches House as if he’s known him all his life, as if he knows just how House hurts and what to do about it. His chronic desire to help people extends to House, though never to fix him.
Their eyes meet, and House sees his goal: not to win an argument, not to get House to stop whining, but to take away his pain. It’s all Wilson wants to do for everyone he meets. Though there’s something different about it when it comes to House.
It’s more than a massage.
Wilson works carefully around the scar despite not being able to see it. House wonders how well he remembers it, if the shape of it is burned into his memory. Slowly, the pain is lifted from his muscle, and the pill he took ten minutes ago does the rest of the work.
Wilson doesn’t stop, doesn’t complain of cramping fingers, doesn’t let up his firm focus. House stares at his face, noting how Wilson is staring at his leg with a determined frown on his face, and tries not to gasp when Wilson’s fingers dig into just the right spot to relieve the pain.
Knots of tension in his leg that come from years of tiptoeing around it are relieved in a matter of minutes. House didn’t realize how tightly wound he was until Wilson unwound him. If this is how good with his hands he is for a massage, House can only imagine how he’d be with—
Wilson grunts with effort as his touch finally dissolves the toughest of the knots around House’s scar in firm circular motions. A truly filthy moan almost escapes, narrowly trapped by a sharp bite of his cheek. He should’ve let it free, should’ve exaggerated the noises with each touch.
It would’ve surely driven Wilson away just like House wanted. But that’s not what he wants anymore. When did he start taking this seriously?
House has to breathe slowly through his nose and think of the biggest idiots in the clinic in his desperate attempt to stave off a boner.
Wilson moves onto the outer areas, leaning back on his heels. A bit of the tension is broken. “Feel good?” he asks.
House nods sharply. “Fine.”
“Feel better?”
“Yeah.”
Wilson raises an eyebrow. “Anything else you’d like to add to this rave review?”
“Nope.”
Wilson sighs, exasperated. He takes his magic hands off House’s leg, and House wants to scream don’t go. Don’t stop. The magic hands joke was a joke, but it has a lot more truth to it than he expected. Wilson had the hot, perfect touch, and House can breathe easily without tensing up in pain.
“Alright. Same time next week?” Wilson stands up. “Just leave the tip on my desk.”
House nods again, not meeting his eye. Wilson lingers a moment or two, waiting, then sweeps out of the office. House can’t make his tongue form the words stay, please, though it’s all he wants in the world .
House sits in his lounge chair, his leg soothed and pleasantly sore but pain free, and thinks.
2
“Bad pain day?”
It’s starting to sound like their version of come here often, which House does not like.
He and Wilson are sitting on the couch in his apartment watching House’s favorite soap. He coerced Wilson into watching an episode, and sure enough, he got sucked into the drama enough to watch the next episode. Empty dinner plates lie on the table before them.
“I’m fine,” House says.
“Shall we avoid all that and skip to the massage? Same deal as last time. If you let me do this, I won’t mention it for the rest of the day.”
That statement annoys House enough to turn his head. “It’s nighttime, dumbass. Do you think I’m going to fall for that?”
Wilson grins with that twinkle of mischief that House loves. “You did once already.”
“I’m fine–”
“When have you ever hesitated to put your shoes in my lap? C’mon.” Wilson pats his lap. House shuffles awkwardly forward for reasons that have nothing to do with the pain in his leg.
He dumps himself in a heap onto the couch and shoves his leg into Wilson’s lap in the roughest, most cumbersome way possible.
Wilson isn’t deterred—he’s made it past the first line of defense. He huffs and shuffles House into position, manhandling him with his good leg. He treats the bad one a little more gently.
His fingers so high up on House’s thigh are no less devastating than they were the first time. With the low hum of the TV in the background, House full from dinner, and Wilson’s warm fingers teasing the pain from his scar, he wonders what it’d be like to have this every night.
Wilson relieving his pain so that he’s not tempted to reach for his pill bottle anymore than necessary, with both fingers on his thigh and fingers somewhere else. If anyone could give him an orgasm worthy of relieving his pain, it’d be magic hands Wilson. Knows-how-to-please-his-partners Wilson. Wilson, who can give his lovers whatever they want and do it well.
House throws his head back against the couch under the pretense of sleeping, though really it’s just focused concentration. He can’t risk looking at Wilson right now. As soon as Wilson deems it good enough, House leaps off the couch and runs to the bathroom to rub one out. He doesn’t care if it’s not subtle.
3
Wilson walks into the DDX room upon House’s request and instantly gets that look in his eye. That look like he knows exactly what House needs without him ever having to say it. Not that he would ever say it, for exactly this reason. Wilson is a mother hen, a worrywart, and House doesn’t need him.
He could do just with Wilson’s magic fingers, though, he thinks as Wilson chews his lip and stares at him thoughtfully. House is staring at his hands, interlaced in front of him. House remembers the way they felt on his leg the other times. House is an addict, and he’s craving his next fix.
He tears his eyes away once he notices Wilson noticing. When Wilson takes a step closer, House hobbles to the end of the conference table. The look in Wilson’s eye changes to one of familiar exasperated displeasure. He crosses his arms, tilts his head.
Oblivious to their silent conversation, the ducklings carry on about the case that they needed Wislon as a consult for.
House hardly hears a word they say—not that he needs to. This case is pathetically easy, he’s treating it as a challenge to them. How quickly can they figure out what he already figured out and solved hours ago?
Wilson makes the mistake of sitting down. House takes the chair next to him and drops his leg into Wilson’s lap without further preamble. He watches carefully for a reaction.
Nothing. Then, he crosses his ankles over the end of the chair so that his thigh is lifted and in prime position for Wilson’s access. Despite this, he jumps when Wilson’s fingers land on his skin.
“I’m assuming you’ve already checked for cancer,” Wilson says without batting an eyelash, working his fingers over House’s thigh without looking down. He isn’t affected in the least. House frowns, staring intensely at him. It doesn’t make him turn his head, doesn't make him look at the leg, doesn’t goad him into giving House one of those .
The ducklings exchange glances, but wisely keep their mouths shut. House struggles not to tip his head back and moan as Wilson’s fingers—warm, always miraculously burning hot over House’s jeans—work the tightness from his thigh.
Fucking magic hands.
“House?” Foreman asks. House realizes he closed his eyes, drifting into the bliss of Wilson’s touch. As punishment for drifting off, Wilson stops the massage. House shakes his leg and shoves his foot farther into Wilson’s chair.
Raises his eyebrows when that doesn’t immediately resume the treatment. Wilson shoves his leg out of his lap—still gently enough to prove that he cares about House’s pain, but firmly enough that the message is clear. Focus on your case and I'll give you what you want, not before.
House is overtaken by an urge to obey that, needless to say, he’s rarely struggled with. He shoves that back for later contemplation.
4
House walks into Cuddy’s office with an agenda, but that fades the moment he sees Wilson there with a pinched expression. Ah, he’s already annoyed about something. Good.
“Take a number,” Cuddy says, sparing him only a moment’s glance. Wilson continues talking about the conflict of interest he has in the cancer ward, and House plops onto Cuddy’s couch to not so patiently wait his turn. While he waits, he watches Wilson’s hands. Squeezed into fists at his sides. House wants them on his thigh, which has been feeling marginally better thanks to the massages. Not that he’d ever admit that.
He misses Wilson’s touch, plain and simple. At a pause in conversation, House strikes. “Since you’re here,” House says, and tugs on Wilson’s sleeve until he all but falls into House’s lap on the couch. Wilson curses,
Cuddy stares between them with an open mouth. “What–”
“Don’t ask, you don’t want to know,” Wilson interrupts, though he sighs and gets to work massaging House’s leg. House allows his brain to wander with the firmness of Wilson’s fingers to ground him.
He could get used to this. He’ll do whatever it takes to keep this as a permanent fixture in his life.
1
So, House settles into it.
He lets Wilson give him massages any time he damn pleases. As time goes by, the boners are less frequent, purely due to exposure therapy. House tolerates it. Wilson gets this proud, besotted little smile whenever House is able to get up and walk around easier because of what he does, so House lets him do it. Because making Wilson happy affects some rare part of him.
This happens anywhere—at work, at home, in moments of high stress and the calmest evening alone. Wilson doesn’t care. He can be with a patient, and House can barge in and silently demand a massage, and he’ll receive one. It’s the one area of their friendship where Wilson has no shame, it seems.
Although of course, the idea of getting Wilson to fuck his brains out and give him the ultimate pain relieving orgasm hasn’t left his mind. How could it? Has anyone seriously seen Wilson, let alone felt his touch?
The very idea makes House itch. No one else should ever get the privilege of Wilson’s hands on their skin. Even if Wilson hasn’t actually touched his skin yet. House has never allowed him to so much as tug the jeans up.
“Treatment time,” House says one night when they’re watching TV on the couch, plopping into Wilson’s lap. Wilson sighs but puts the remote to the side and begins working him over. House closes his eyes and falls into the blissful blankness that comes with Wilson touching him like this.
It carries on for a few blissful minutes before Wilson grunts. “This makes no sense,” Wilson says, taking his hands away. House narrowly avoids whining and grabbing those hands back where they belong. “I can’t administer the proper treatment if I can’t get at your skin. Would you let me massage you without the jeans?”
Wilson knows the enormity of what he’s asking. House swallows, then slowly nods. The thought of Wilson’s hands on him with nothing between them is outweighing the pit of anxiety in his chest at the thought of Wilson seeing his ugly scar again. Wilson won’t look on it with disgust, even though he should.
Wilson nods, distinctly pleased, though he tries to cover that up. “Do you have some sort of massage oil around here?” He stands up.
House nearly swallows his tongue, but he manages not to fumble open his belt too eagerly. Fumbling his leg off the couch, he manages, “I’m not sure what you’re doing with your hookers, but I don’t keep massage oil around here for them to use.”
“I am paying them. Well.” Wilson fixes him with a raised eyebrow. “Luckily for you, I brought some.” He pulls it out of his trouser pocket.
“You always come prepared?” House teases.
Wilson ignores him, slicking up his fingers with oil—and this is heading back into boner territory fast. House is unusually tense as Wilson kneels beside the couch, reaching for his leg with the same gentle but firm touch.
House bites his lip on a gasp as Wilson’s hot fingers work over his bare skin. Criminal, frankly, the way his touch slides over his scar. There’s not a trace of disgust in his gaze. Nothing but fondness, love. It was never about the massages. Never just about them.
Wilson has always loved him. Of course. Nothing else could explain it, his chronic need to take care of House despite every sign that he should run away. Everyone else always has. It’s House’s fault. Yet Wilson never stays away. He always comes back. He and House are stuck in each other’s orbit, and they always will be.
And of course, equally as obvious, House has always loved him back.
Their eyes meet. Wilson’s lips part, and the path of his gaze is obvious to trace. House couldn’t tear his eyes away if he tried. They lean together.
In the end, it doesn’t matter who kisses who first. They fall into a tangle of limbs together on the couch, and then Wilson insists on moving to the bed, because he knows House will regret it if they don’t. Old bones and all.
Wilson is finally, finally running his hands over the rest of House’s body with traces of massage oil mixing in with the lube. “Fucking magic hands,” House grumbles, trying furiously to hold in his noises.
“What?” Wilson gasps.
“You’re Mr. Magic Hands. It’s so unfair to the rest of us.”
And then Wilson makes sure that he can’t say anything else for a long while, and House lets the floodgates open on his noises.
Afterward, when they’re both heaving for breath, inexplicably, House starts chuckling.
“What are you laughing at?” Wilson demands.
House puts on a very serious, very bad imitation of Wilson and says, “I can’t administer the proper treatment if I can’t get at your skin. Give me a fucking break. Just tell me that you want in my pants, I would’ve let you in without another word. It would’ve been less obvious than you doing bad doctor roleplay.”
Wilson blows an exasperated sigh against the back of House’s neck. “While it’s true I wanted your pants off, it’s not for the reasons—”
“Oh, come on. You jumped at the chance to fuck me. You were running your mouth, telling me how bad you wanted me—”
“You were the one who begged.”
House’s cheeks flush, and he’s glad his back is turned.
“How’s the leg?” Wilson asks softly, running a hand gently up it. House leans back into it.
“Fine. Good. Better. I think you’ll need to administer more frequent doses of your new treatment.”
“I think I can manage that. Daily doses, perhaps?”
“At least. Twice daily would be better. Here, at work, in Cuddy’s office—”
“We’ll talk about it. At least you don’t need an excuse to ask me to touch you or give you a massage,” Wilson says. “You have the all access pass you always wanted now.”
House grins to himself. “Told you all massages turn sexy.”
“You never told me any such thing.”
“Well, I’m telling you now.” House looks back and gives him a kiss that’s much more tender than he intended. When he pulls back, Wilson is smiling so fondly House thinks it might make him burst. “Wait’ll the kids see the hickey you gave me. They’ll all be so jealous.”
“I didn’t give you–”
“Round two,” House says, using Wilson’s disoriented disadvantage to flip him on top of House. “Come on, Magic Hands, you need to keep up your reputation.”
Wilson doesn’t seem too mad about his newly designated duty.