Work Text:
“Honestly,” Wilson says, trying to sound nonchalant, “it’s been so long that a light breeze would do it.”
House isn’t buying it. “You have,” he says, almost triumphantly, as though he’s diagnosed something tricky, the way he so often does in the presence of a bunch of starry-eyed fellows, “an erection.”
*
RICE. Rest, ice, compression, elevation. That’s the medically-approved plan of action for a sprain - in this case a sprained wrist, acquired thanks to a particularly childish prank that left Wilson sprawled on the floor of the cafeteria and House feeling maybe-vaguely-guilty that the stealthily-tied-shoelaces gag actually worked.
It wasn’t supposed to work. Wilson was supposed to notice, before the fall happened. Maybe it’s not guilt House feels so much as a sense of poor sportsmanship.
But he didn’t notice, which means that House has been corralled into being helpful. It’s not a natural state for him. Wilson insisted, though. “You broke me, you can help out,” he grumbled, and so House has been in his hotel room the past 24 hours, assisting with tiresome domestic duties. He has made tea, and tossed items in the general direction of the laundry basket, and flung empty bottles from the minibar (emptied mainly by him, admittedly) into the trash.
But now -
*
“I really don’t need your help in the shower,” Wilson spluttered twenty minutes ago, and still House stayed, and now they’re here on the bed and Wilson is in a towel, wrapped around his waist, and House has noticed, because he always notices.
“Honestly,” Wilson says now, trying to sound nonchalant, “it’s been so long that a light breeze would do it.” It has the virtue of being true - since things ended with Julie, he hasn’t seen a tremendous amount of action. Work has kept him busy, and he has barely had time to notice any cute new nurses that might be hovering around him.
House isn’t buying it. Typical. “You have,” he says, almost triumphantly, as though he’s diagnosed something tricky, “an erection.”
“So? It happens. Not a big deal. Let’s move on with our lives.” Wilson’s face is a little warmer than usual, perhaps, but he does genuinely believe this. It’s not worth dwelling on. House just enjoys tormenting him.
“Or,” House says, and then his hands are in places that make strange squawking noises emerge from Wilson’s throat.
*
House has been trying, trying-ish, anyway, to be helpful. It doesn’t come naturally.
He sucks at laundry.
But now. Now, this feels like - fun.
*
“Don’t,” Wilson mutters, half-heartedly.
“You want me to stop?” House asks, his hands still moving.
“No,” Wilson admits, and buries his face in the adjacent pillow. Because oh - it’s good.
Oh, it’s so good.
*
House likes the way Wilson relaxes, once he gives in - how he gives himself up to pleasure, how he lets out little moans and grunts completely unselfconsciously. It’s a beautiful thing to watch. Even more beautiful to make happen.
*
“Oh, god,” he chokes out, and he knows there are other things he should be thinking about. What exactly does it mean that his best friend is jerking him off? Does House - like him? Have feelings for him? Should they be talking about this?
All excellent questions but right now he just wants that hand on him to keep going.
“Fuck,” he mumbles.
And then - oh, he’s close, he’s close - “Greg,” he cries out, and there’s one last jerk of his cock, and he’s closed his eyes automatically, and it takes him a moment or two, after, to understand what’s happened. House has walked out.
*
When House gets home, he punches the wall. For the hell of it.
Or maybe because he can’t get that sound out of his ears. Wilson, breathless, moaning: “Greg”.
Fuck it.
*
Typical, Wilson thinks. House running away from intimacy, from closeness. They should’ve talked about it, before. Which would’ve meant it wouldn’t have happened - he can live with that, he supposes, if it means keeping House.
Their friendship has to be strong enough to survive one stupid handjob, doesn’t it? They can go back to normal. It doesn’t have to be a - thing.
*
House is not avoiding Wilson. He’s just making sure that he is unavailable, a lot. Completely different.
*
Wilson keeps thinking about it. That moment. House’s hand on him.
He’ll live if it doesn’t ever happen again. He can live with it. House is too important, too essential to him, for this to break everything.
There’s just this niggling feeling that if House were less… House, then he could maybe have…
This is where he stops himself from thinking.
*
House keeps thinking about it. How he wants, or would have wanted, to do it again, but it’s dangerous, now.
*
They’re both working late when it happens. The cafeteria’s quiet now, ready for people who need a sad soggy sandwich at this time of night, and Wilson’s paying for just that and a bag of chips when a voice behind him adds, “and this”, and tosses a second bag onto Wilson’s tray.
Wilson pays. It still surprises him when House joins him at the table.
“You speak to me if I pay for your food?” he checks.
House crams a fistful of potato chips in his mouth and nods.
Wilson takes a few careful bites.
“You called me Greg,” House says, seemingly out of nowhere, but immediately Wilson is flung back to that moment.
“My bad,” he says, operating on 85% instinct.
House inclines his head slightly.
“So if I moan House, that’s okay?” he checks, half-incredulous, half-relieved.
House sighs. “First names are - you do that with your girlfriends. Your wives. You tell them you love them, and then - ”
“And then I divorce them,” Wilson fills in. Oh. He understands. He forgives, instantly.
House nods once more, tersely.
I love you, Wilson thinks, but does not say. He has some sense of self-preservation. “House,” he says now. “Come over tonight.”
“You going to take advantage of me?” Part sardonic, part - hopeful?
Wilson lets out a strangled laugh. “I hope so.”