Chapter Text
House is deep in REM sleep, dreaming about Cuddy reaming his ass for giving a twelve-year-old too much Vicodin, when he’s startled awake by a pounding on his door. He sucks in a breath and jumps a mile.
“What the fuck?” He mumbles, blearily eyeing his alarm clock and wiping drool from his chin. Three AM. House, having only fallen asleep about two hours ago after knocking back an extra pill (or two, or five), groans in frustration. Rain patters against the windows, and the repetitive sound begins pulling him back into slumber. House covers his eyes with his sweaty comforter, hoping the relentlessly obnoxious knocking will cease. It doesn’t.
Someone banging on his door at three AM could only mean one of two things.
1) He was about to get robbed.
2) Wilson.
He groans, leg protesting, as he sits up and grabs his cane. He throws on a dirty black t-shirt and some sweats. All the while, the sound continues.
“I’m coming, I’m coming!” He yells. “Jesus.”
He stares through the peephole. Option two. He rolls his eyes, smiles slightly to himself, and opens the door after steeling his expression into one of annoyance.
He’s greeted by a positively pathetic-looking Wilson. His white button down sticks to his skin, completely drenched from the rain. His hair is plastered to his forehead, and his brown eyes are slightly puffy. House swallows around the tension that rises in his throat. He’s used to this feeling, after all these years-- his compulsive, malignant obsession with his best friend. Malignant, House thinks. Because it’s slowly killing him.
“Get in here before you get pneumonia, you absolute buffoon.”
Wilson sighs gratefully and stumbles inside. House quirks a brow. He’s tipsy.
“Sorry it’s so late, I just--I just didn’t--” Wilson’s voice cracks, and House forces himself to roll his eyes. What he wants to do is pull the soaking man into his arms, rub his back, kiss it all better. House is perpetually disgusted with himself these days. Instead, he hobbles over to his bathroom to grab a towel. While at it, he picks out a light blue t-shirt and his last pair of clean sweats. He throws them at Wilson, who attempts to catch them and misses. Wilson looks like a sad puppy, standing there with his long arms outstretched, grasping at something that isn't there. He stares off into the distance, over House’s shoulder.
“You aren’t gonna make the cripple pick that up for you, are you?” House asks with a huff.
Wilson is startled out of his trance. He shakes his head, bends down, and grabs the clothes. He towels himself off in silence, and then pulls his shirt away from his skin. House’s mouth goes dry. God, he hates when Wilson does this. Doesn’t the man have any decency? Since when was it socially acceptable for grown men to get naked around one another? His eyes skirt over Wilson's thick arms, the soft dusting of light hair around his navel, and his slightly soft abdomen. Disgustingly attractive. House feels his face heat up when Wilson pulls his wet slacks off. Do not, House thinks to himself. Get hard right now. Don’t fucking do it. Don’t do it.
Wilson’s hands go for the elastic of his boxers and House turns around abruptly. Nope. Not today. The last time he’d snuck a peek, he’d had to jerk off twice a day for a week. Took a while for porn to start doing it for him again, after that incident. The image of Wilson's soft cock is still burned into his retinas two years later.
“Seriously?” Wilson asks with a chuckle. Despite House’s current predicament, the happy sound is music to his ears.
“Yeah, seriously. Have you no shame?”
“When did you become such a prude? You see people’s junk before you even have your morning coffee.”
“Sounds like you want me to watch you change. Freak alert.”
Wilson sputters and House smirks. He’s won again.
“You--you can turn around now.”
House rolls his eyes and does just that. His stomach churns. Wilson looks so damn good in his ratty old clothes-- so casual. House tries very hard not to pay attention to the fact that he knows Wilson is commando under his sweats, and that he could probably tell if he looked hard enough.
“So,” House says as he collapses on his sofa. He pats the spot beside him. “Why’d you get kicked out this time?”
Wilson plops down. Too close. Their thighs brush just slightly, but Wilson doesn’t seem to notice. His head is in his hands, and his cheeks are red. House narrows his eyes and tries to calculate where the sudden-onsent shame is originating from. Cheating had never been an issue for his best friend before…so what could he have done that was so embarrassing? Potential diagnoses run through House’s brain at lightning speed. Perhaps his best friend had contracted an STD and infected his lovely wife (what was this one’s name again?). Maybe he’d started shitting the bed.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Wilson whines into his hands.
“Uh, yeah, you do. Or else you wouldn’t be here. Spit it out, or I’ll start charging by the hour for these little therapy sessions.”
“I just-- I just need a place to stay tonight, that’s all.”
House shrugs and grabs the remote. “Fine. I don’t need the details. Watcha wanna watch? Girls Gone Wild?”
“Ugh. No.”
Interesting. House’s eyes narrow just slightly.
“No tiny bikinis and bouncing boobies? Who are you and what have you done with Wilson?”
“That’s…what I’m trying to figure out.”
House sighs, rolls his eyes for the second time that night. Wilson wants him to ask for more details. His deep sighs and dramatic body language are practically begging for House to probe further. House doesn’t, because no one tells him what to do, even with their body language. Instead, he puts Girls Gone Wild on anyway and, rather than taking in the tantalizing titties before him, keeps his gaze locked on Wilson. Studies him.
Wilson groans. “Really?”
“My house, my rules. It’ll make you feel better.”
“No, it won’t.”
“Just watch it.”
Wilson grumbles, crosses his arms, and reluctantly looks at the screen. A few Barbie-lookalikes are dancing in a hot tub, splashing each other and giggling like obnoxious demon children. Truthfully, it’s doing absolutely nothing for House when the warm, thick thigh of his best buddy is pressing up against him. It’s like comparing a soggy Big Mac to a $200 sirloin. Hell, Wilson probably has enough meat on his thighs and ass to fry up a juicy steak right now.
House continues to watch Wilson closely. Pupils normal size, flush on his cheeks slowly dissipating, posture relaxed. Gaze absent.
He’s bored. Wilson is bored by the hedonistic, objectifying display before him. House’s heart rate increases as he sifts through his memory. Wilson had always looked women in the eye-- never ogled them like House had, which he had interpreted as a sign of respect. Feminism. An intentional act of emotional intelligence.
Aha.
“Three wives, you’re out.”
“...What?”
House stands up, grabs his cane. He uses his other hand to grab a bouncy ball off of his counter, and begins bouncing it in earnest.
“Julie’s upset that you can’t get it up anymore.”
“Not exact--how did you come up with that?”
“I’m close. So, you can still get it up. What’s she bitching about, then?”
“I--It’s not that I can’t get hard. She gets upset because I can never…you know--”
“Orgasm? Ejaculate? Cum? Splooge? Spurt?”
Wilson makes a face. “Ugh. Yeah. That. She’s convinced herself that I must be--”
“Gay.”
There’s a moment of tense silence.
“Gay. Yeah. Which I’m not, obviously.” Wilson states this plainly, like he’s never even considered the outlandish possibility.
House says nothing. He raises his eyebrows.
Wilson looks offended. He scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous, House. Not to brag, but I’ve slept with more women than I can count!”
“Yes, and Elton John, the Rocket Man himself, was married to a woman for three years. What of it?”
“I’m not gay, Greg! And frankly, I find this pretty offensive.”
“Ooo, he used my first name. Scary. It’s 2006, Jimmy. Being called ‘gay’ isn’t supposed to be an insult anymore.”
Wilson glares daggers into him, posture tense. House places his ball back on the counter and hobbles to the cabinet next to his TV. He digs around a while, humming to himself.
“What are you looking for?” Wilson snaps.
House ignores him and blows the dust off of an old VHS tape. “This is a good one,” He says with a grin. Wordlessly, House pops it into his tape player. Wilson throws his hands in the air and leans back against the couch in surrender.
Sexy eighties music pounds out of House’s new speaker system and he turns the volume down a few notches.
“House…”
House places a finger to his lips. “Shh.”
Wilson shakes his head but does as told. The first scene fades in and gets straight to the point-- two men, one sporting a classic 80s porn-stache and high-waisted jeans, shove their tongues down each other’s throats. Wilson audibly gasps and covers his eyes.
“Jesus Christ, what-- why do you have this?!”
House ignores Wilson’s question. “Open your eyes and keep watching.”
“I--No! Is this some weird test? I already told you, I’m not gay! Turn this shit off!”
“If you want to sleep on my couch tonight, this is your fee. Watch. It.”
House observes Wilson’s Adam’s Apple as he swallows and slowly removes his hand from his eyes. The men have their cocks out now and are jerking themselves off, grunting and sweating. House remembers watching this fondly, back when he was in his 20s and exploring his own sexuality for the first time. Ah, the memories. His eyes flicker back to Wilson, who looks utterly disgusted. His pouty lips are twisted into an unpleasant shape, like he’s just eaten a lemon. House tries to ignore the stinging pang of disappointment in his stomach, though it does well to dampen his slight arousal at the scene infolding on his television.
“Huh. I really thought wifey was onto something,” House muses. Mustache-guy has the blondie bent over now. What a fantastic ass.
House is about to give up (though somewhat disappointed about missing his favorite part), having proven his theory incorrect, when he notices something. At some point during their special watch party, Wilson had grabbed a pillow and placed it on his lap. How the hell did I miss that? House thinks to himself as heat pools in his own stomach.
“Bingo!” House shouts and points to the pillow, and Wilson jumps about a mile.
“What?!” Wilson hisses through his teeth.
“Pillow. Take it off your lap.”
Wilson flushes beet red. He opens his mouth to speak, and then closes it. “I’m more comfortable like this!”
“You’re a board-certified master oncologist. There’s no way you’re dimwitted enough to think I’d believe that excuse.”
Suddenly, Wilson’s entire body seems to deflate. “Please,” He says, voice small and pathetic. “Turn it off.”
Blondie is getting a proper pounding, now, but House is no longer interested. He’s finding it difficult to swallow, and he’s tempted to reach for his Vicodin. He realizes with an internal groan that he’s left it on his nightstand.
“Turn it OFF!” Wilson yells, loud enough that House jumps this time. House scrambles for the remote and hits the off button immediately. He’s only seen Wilson so angry a handful of times in the past ten years, and has always found it hot as hell. He desperately sifts through his mind for a witty retort. Shit.
“Struck a nerve, did I?”
“I shouldn’t have come here.”
“Probably not. So, are you going to stop lying to us both or do I need to bend over?”
Wilson chokes on his own spit. “Shut up. For once. Please just shut the fuck up.”
Ouch. That stings a bit. And House likes it. He wants to poke the bear.
“Yeah, I’m probably just making assumptions. Every straight guy I know gets a raging boner from 80s gay porn. It’s perfectly normal--”
“It’s not normal. I know it’s not. But I’m not gay.”
House raises an eyebrow. “What has you so convinced?”
“I— I just don’t think about men that way, I don’t—“
“Your engorged phallus says otherwise.”
“You and I both know these things have a mind of their own!”
“So you’ve never fantasized about another man? Never jerked it to the thought of Chase sucking you off?”
Wilson grimaces. His cheeks are pink. House wants to make them pinker. “Ugh, no!”
“Ok, pretty boys aren’t your type. Fair enough. Who, then?”
“Nobody, House. Leave it alone.”
Wilson has sunken deeper into the couch. He’s given up. Not much fight left.
“What do you think about while you’re fucking all those women, then?”
“I don’t know! Nothing!”
“Absolutely nothing?”
“Not really. Just— pleasing them, mostly.”
House is silent. He stares at the wall above Wilson’s pretty little head and for a brief moment, he allows his filthy fantasies to run wild. House can practically see Wilson’s fearful gaze as he comes down House’s throat, or pushes inside of another man for the first time. It’d been a while since House had taken a cock, but muscle memory existed for a reason.
“Sex is supposed to feel good, you know,” House tries to keep his voice steady. He stands behind the counter to hide his incoming hardon.
“It doesn’t feel bad!”
House laughs. It’s fake, it’s forced, but it’s enough to display deceptive nonchalance. “I’m assigning you some homework. Bottom shelf, behind the TV. You’ll find my collection. Watch it all. Take notes. I’ll check back with you in the morning.”
“You have a collection of gay pornography? Why?”
“I’ve been waiting for it to increase in value so I can sell it on Ebay,” House rolls his eyes for what feels like the millionth time that evening.
Wilson’s eyes widen. House smirks. That’s a nice little power-trip.
“So you’re— but you love women! You’re a certified creep!”
“Being a creep defies gender, Jimmy. You think I keep gay porn in my house for funsies?”
Wilson’s mouth opens slightly but no sound comes out.
“Do your homework. Let’s get this sexuality crisis over with so I don’t have to listen to you whine about it anymore. I’m going to bed.”
He turns around and walks off, knowing damn well he’s not going to be sleeping much tonight.
_
House sits with his ear pressed up to his door for over an hour. His neck is getting sore and he’s growing quite bored-- but the thought of Wilson watching gay porn in his living room is too tantalizing to turn away from. He wouldn’t miss an opportunity like this for ten grand.
Thoughts ebb and flow as he waits for something, anything to break the silence. How had he not seen this sooner? Historically, House’s gaydar has been off the charts. How the hell had he been so blind when it came to his best (and only) friend? He groans quietly as he participates in his least favorite activity: self-reflection. Wilson had always been forbidden fruit-- a delicious secret between House and himself. Something untouchable, impossible-- the definition of a fantasy. Wilson being attracted to men was never on the table, so House simply didn't look for it. Regardless, it’s irrelevant, isn't it? Wilson, the handsome, rich, disgustingly sweet doctor could have any man he wanted. Fucking the shit out of House would be the last thing on his mind.
Now though, House thinks with only a small pang of accompanying guilt, he's vulnerable. He’s gay, confused, and lonelier than usual.
House wants to take advantage. He really does. If he were just slightly more evil, slightly more twisted…
He figures he’d probably have to lose his other leg to reach that point.
He groans, about to give up on his conquest. If Wilson was planning on doing what he was told, he surely would have done it already, wouldn’t he? House sits up, profoundly disappointed, when he hears the tell-tale saxophone intro of “Dudes in Denver”. House’s heart skips a beat. He resumes his previous position, ear pressed to the door so hard that his cartilage starts the ache.
Wilson mumbles “shit” and turns the volume way down. House chuckles silently. He can hardly hear what’s on TV, but that’s not what’s important.
He waits, barely daring to breathe. He strains his ears, listening for any evidence that Wilson is enjoying what he’s watching, a sigh, maybe a moan—
A moan.
A tiny, barely-there moan.
House feels like he’s been punched in the gut. Oh fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Yes. House is hard almost immediately, and he palms himself through his pajama pants. Had he died and gone to heaven? Listening to Wilson get off is pretty high on his Top Ten Sexual Fantasies list. In fact, come to think of it, most of them involve his best friend these days.
House has half a mind to record this. He’d never need any other jerk-off material. And when would he ever have such an incredible opportunity again? It would be an investment.
House‘s cock twitches beneath his hand when he hears Wilson’s breathy “ah, fuck” from the other room. House groans and shivers slightly. Hearing Wilson’s muffled, repressed sounds proves almost torturous. He wants to taste those tiny moans, wants to get up close and personal. House tries to picture Wilson’s face right now. His thick eyebrows would be knit together and his pretty little lips would be slightly parted in confused arousal. Maybe he’d be sweating a little, fluffy hair sticking to his forehead. Oh, Christ, House wants to lick the sweat off of his face. He wants to pull Wilson’s thick cock out his pajama bottoms and suck it, show him what a blowjob is supposed to feel like for God’s Sake—
House’s eyes widen and he stutters out a gasp, gripping the base of his cock. Whoa there. Slow down. Don’t come until he does.
House grits his teeth and focuses all of his mental energy into straining his hearing. He regrets all of those nights spent blasting music, now.
“Ah— Oh God, what the fuck?” Wilson’s a little louder now. He sounds existentially confused, slightly angry, and his voice is rough with arousal. Had he really never watched gay porn before? House pictures himself whispering in Wilson’s ear: It’s ok to like it. Pictures Wilson guiltily stroking himself, quick and hasty, with his big brown eyes glued to the screen as House talks him through it.
Wilson is silent for a moment, and House waits with bated breath. Then he groans, almost growls, and finishes off with the most beautiful whimper House has ever heard in his life.
Yes. Yes. There you go, Jimmy. Bet that felt good, huh?
House strokes himself once, twice, and then comes all over his door frame with a muffled shout into his fist.