Chapter Text
"You're cooking..." Wilson trails off, looking part horrified part disbelieving from the entryway to their kitchen. House bristles at his tone and his expression but says nothing as he turns back to the pan in front of him and folds the omelet in half. He lets it sit for another minute before turning off the heat and walking with the pan to the kitchen counter where he slides the omelet on top of a plate of fluffy, white rice.
Wilson watches him quietly, expression now curious, amazed in the early morning light, as House picks up the bottle of ketchup and writes on top of the omelet 'U Suck’ before walking over to Wilson, grabbing the other Alpha by the tie and dragging him to stand in front of House's creation.
He hands Wilson a spoon and waits, moves the saltshaker an inch to the right in a pathetic attempt to appear unbothered, but feels his nerves exposed like live wire. He resolves not to watch Wilson's face.
He's not courageous by default.
It's a simple fare, nothing to write home about and yet as Wilson takes a bite, he moans like it's the best thing he's ever tasted, and House finally looks up to see a smile- a wide but gentle thing that pierces straight through his undead heart. And House would deny the fluttering in his stomach, the satisfaction that rumbles from deep in his chest where his alpha is, if anyone ever asked, but he holds onto the hope that Wilson will understand and appreciate the gesture for what it is- a declaration, a long-smothered instinct that House hasn't indulged in, ever (not for anyone, not even for Stacy) .
He doesn't smile back like he wants to, scowling in a put-upon way as if he didn't offer, out of nowhere, in the first place. The sun is barely out, the light low in their kitchen, the street outside is just as quiet as inside their home, and it's peaceful, domestic- different than what they are used to but nice.
(His mother's recipe book is hidden in the binds of Cardiology for the primary care Physician, sandwiched between cardiac and sexually transmitted diseases textbooks, where hopefully, Wilson will never see it.
It's gathered dust throughout the years but remained well preserved in disuse.
His mother will be happy to know that he finally has use for it, but House isn't about to call to thank her, lest she start prematurely planning a mating ceremony for her one and only child.
A mother can only hope.)
He observes as Wilson finishes about half the plate, still making exaggerated sounds of enjoyment that finally gets him a small closed lipped smile. House's alpha preens, he likes it, he likes us. He doesn't give voice to the thought but Wilson's eyes are warm and pleased as they stare at each other over the kitchen counter as if he could read the sentiment all the same.
He bites back a 'Sap' that threatens to cross his lips; that would be the pot calling the kettle black and feels a distinct shift in the air when Wilson suddenly puts the spoon down, moves to the other side of the counter and pushes him right up against the refrigerator. He boxes House in with strong arms, eyes hungry now for something else as he leans in for a salty sweet kiss that House accepts as his due.
(And if this is what House gets for cooking something as simple as an omelet, he'd gladly cook every day of the week.
Or maybe not.
Maybe just once or twice a week.
Can't have Wilson taking his cooking for granted.
He'd slaved over this breakfast, Goddammit.)
The kiss is slow and tender until it isn't- until Wilson's hands lower to House's hips, his grip hard and almost bruising, pulling and shifting ever so slightly so that they're pressed close. Wilson grinds against him and House can barely breathe with Wilson's tongue down his throat, and he should really thank his mother for teaching him how to cook, but now is definitely not the time, especially with their slow, wholesome morning taking a decidedly filthier turn than House had intended.
Wilson breaks the kiss to lick and suck at his jaw while one of his hands move lower, past a soft curve towards the hem of House’s thin boxer shorts and slips underneath, runs the pads of his fingers on the skin where thigh and cheek meet and House whimpers- the sound loud, jarring. Oh sweet, Jesus. He wants it. He always wants Wilson. He wants to give Wilson things, take him to nice places, hand feed him cheese and fruit to chase with his mouth- taste the salt and sweet on Wilson's tongue.
But what he wants more than anything now is to push Wilson down to his knees onto slightly greasy floors. Wilson would do it, would go down so easy. Wilson would worship at the altar of his feet, would turn him around and get his mouth where House wants it, would open him up with sure fingers and tongue before fucking him against the refrigerator like they're in a bad porno. He's done in before. They've done it in this kitchen at least a dozen times already- a surprise given Wilson's anal insistence on food sanitation. He's hard in his boxers and it's all Wilson's fault.
But before he can escalate, Wilson pulls away abruptly. It's a shock to the system that leaves him feeling bereft then angry. He shouldn't be so affected but he is. Porn would not do him dirty like this.
"What? Get back here.” He growls murderously as Wilson dances away- the fucking tease.
"Sorry. Can't. We're going to be late." Wilson doesn't look the least bit sorry- the corner of his mouth twitching upwards in barely restrained glee. House wants to punch his stupid face in.
"Don't care. The hospital can't suck it. Finish what you started." He points at Wilson, then at the tent in his shorts.
“See, I would- " Wilson glances interestedly at his crotch before taking another bite of the omelet. "- but I can't let this delicious food go to waste and you need to get dressed."
House narrows his eyes at Wilson, bares his teeth and tries to quickly think of a way to get Wilson to do the right thing here- which is to not leave House hanging. He won't beg because he's still him but he has his own ways, tried and true because Wilson is easy.
House tilts his head back against the refrigerator, glares at Wilson the way he knows gets Wilson hot under the collar, bites his lip- just so- while he runs his hand across his stomach to the waistband of his boxers and dips his hand inside. He grabs at his cock from underneath the cloth and pumps- closes his eyes and moans low like hasn't been touched in ages.
Come get me, Asshole.
Wilson puts the spoon down and it clatters loudly on the countertop.
"Stop"
"Make me."
Wilson moves fast, grabs his wrist hard as if to pull his hand from his boxers but doesn't. Instead he leans in close to House’s face, runs his nose and lips over a stubbled cheek before moving lower to bite the same spot that he'd been mouthing at on House's jaw from before. He'll leave a mark that House won't be able to hide, that House wouldn't care enough to hide either (There were rumors as soon as Wilson had moved in with House- rumors that House had broken up a marriage. It's not true, but House doesn't care.). He can't help the pathetic sound that escapes him at the feel of Wilson's teeth on his skin.
"If you're a good boy and stop- get dressed in the next ten minutes while I finish breakfast, I'll bend you over my desk." Wilson all but purrs into his ears.
(House is torn. He ought to refuse on principle. He ought to kick Wilson on the shin for his audacity, but he can't kick with his good leg now because his cane is off to the side, out of reach.
On the one hand, he should be angry at prospect of being left aching and wanting, unsatisfied.
On the other-
Contrary to popular belief, they have not had sex yet in the office.
Cuddy would explode like an airship if she caught them.
And Wilson isn't the only one who's easy.)
Wilson moves back, eyes promising sexy, illicit office debauchery in exchange for hurried, morning quickie and House pulls his hand slowly out of his boxers.
Fuck it. He can wait. Delayed gratification has its own rewards. He gives in.
"Fine. Have it your way. But if I'm not limping more so than usual after, I will sue your ass six ways to Sunday."
Wilson laughs like he's won something.
He spends the ten minutes willing his erection down, pulls on clean jeans and the rest of his clothing, and is waiting by the door, while Wilson finishes putting the dishes in the washer, like the good pup that he isn't. He grumbles about blue balls all the way to the car and for once he isn't late coming in. Cuddy grins at him in the lobby and he scowls at Wilson all the way to his office. Wilson just smiles at him indulgently and House wonders if he can make that stupid face permanent by punching it.
True to his promise, Wilson fetches him at lunch.
On his desk is takeout from the cafeteria but they don't get to eat it until much later.
Not until after Wilson's made him cum with his mouth and his fingers.
When he secretly stuffs his boxers into the crease of the sofa in Wilson's office, while Wilson idiotically leaves him unattended to freshen up in the nearest toilet, the red- faced, embarrassed spluttering from his alpha after a poor little cancer patient accidentally finds it, tastes a lot like victory.
***
The problem is: they started with the fucking.
Per the logical progression of any ten-plus-year friendship, Wilson had come onto him in a particularly vulnerable moment, after the divorce with wife number three- drunk, lonely, horny and desperate, predictable.
And like a predator, lying in wait, for the mousey oncologist to wander into it's trap, House had pounced at the opening.
The sloppy drunken rutting on the couch should have been disappointing after years of sexual tension thick enough to cut through with a knife- a will they or won't they office romance that everyone and their grandmothers watched, gossiped and bet on, but it wasn't. It was hot. It was gratifying. It was exactly how House plotted they'd eventually get there.
(In another universe, they'd skip the wives all together and go straight into friendship ruining sex, a brief interlude of macho angst- pining then a reluctant, albeit dramatic, confession set in the backdrop of the hospital after hours, in between the latest mystery case of the week.
In this one, all it took was cheap alcohol, a sprinkling of sexually charged innuendos and the 2001 Special Edition DVD of Basic Instinct because House is nothing, if not a little shit.)
That maybe he was a convenient, enticing, low hanging fruit did not particularly bother him. That it started much like an alpha-on-alpha bros blowing off steam, in a locker room, after losing the championship game, type of situation, did not in fact turn him off.
Because Wilson could have easily gotten with any nurse or omega of his choosing. And yet, he had gotten with House, stupidly and messily on the couch, before moving onto House's bed and staying and staying-
Wilson could have had anyone he wanted and yet he'd wanted House, selfish, cantankerous, alpha bastard that he was.
And Wilson continues to want him. Though, Lord knows, House can't fathom why.
And House would like to continue taking advantage, shackle Wilson to himself and keep him until the inevitable murder-suicide, thank you very much.
***
So that happened.
Yup.
Should we- I don't know- talk about it?
Nope. I vote we don't.
We just had sex, House. We can't not talk about it.
Watch me.
Tell you what, it'll take at least another thirty minutes for my knot to go down. We can talk about the sex, or I can describe in detail the oozing tumor we found on my 82-year-old patient's right testicle today.
Ew. You monster. You wouldn't.
We can start with how it smelled-
You fucking fucker. Fine. We had sex. What of it?
I feel like, and feel free to correct me here, but we went about this in the totally wrong order. Usually there would be a discussion before the sex- maybe even a date or two, maybe a kiss at the end of the night and here's a radical thought- maybe we tell each other how we feel before we jump each other's bones.
Hey- you jumped me. I was just admiring Sharon Stone's-
Don't finish that sentence. You planned this. You pushed us close to the edge. I called you out on it and leapt off the cliff. You followed.
That doesn't even make sense-
It does. You were giving me the signal. You wanted this.
I would like to call my lawyer-
Don't. Just. What happens now?
Depends. Do you regret jumping off the cliff?
No. Not at all.
Okay, then. I'll see you at the bottom.
Good, because I'm not going back on that couch, House.