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now / doorstep
He’s imagining it, he’s sure—apartment complexes these days come with all sorts of pheromone-blocking interventions, by necessity—but his hindbrain swears he’s picking up the smell of House from the doorstep, his usual scent shot through with the thickness of heat and the ever-present peppery tang of pissed-off that he carries most everywhere. And even though it’s almost surely psychosomatic, Wilson clenches and unclenches his hands, fresh sweat beading along his hairline at the enthralling terror of what he’s about to do.
It'll be the single greatest test of his patience, his knowledge of House’s trigger points, and his good luck. But if he isn’t rolled out of here in a body bag, he’ll be walking out with a mate.
A mate. Imagine. Despite his reputation for whirlwind romances, Wilson had prepped for outright rejection, or at best a slow winning-over, not unlike the glacial pace of the last fifteen years of gaining—and keeping—House’s trust. But when he’d called from the parking lot, unwilling to endanger them both by bursting in unannounced, House had gone silent for a long while, then laughed, raspy and barely voiced. “You have to bite me, then—can you do that? Promise me.”
Jesus Christ. Sputtery and chopped up, in several different ways, Wilson asked him if he was sure. House answered, “I won’t do this every time. I can’t. I told myself after the infarction it’d be the last time I put you in the line of fire, so if you’re gonna make me break that promise, it had better be for good.”
Wilson rests his forehead against the apartment door and breathes in deep, as steady as possible. He undoes his top buttons, rolls up his sleeves—everything he needs to do to make his presence loud, unsubtle, nothing to hide, no threat. When he’s as calm as he’ll ever be, he puts his key in the door and turns it loudly, makes as much friendly, normal noise as possible coming in, keeping his shoes on. House is a lot more likely to lash out hard if he feels he’s being sneaked up on.
All the curtains are drawn, casting the whole apartment into a dark wash, but the meager light still catches House’s eyes. He’s lurking in the hall, watching, his bad leg tucked back, instincts telling him not to show weakness. The growling starts up right on cue. It’s all that keeps Wilson from forgetting every single thought in his head, because House smells just as good as he imagined, better, so much better because it’s real.
Wilson immediately turns his head to the side. Not down—better if House can see his neck, but enough to avoid direct eye contact. “House,” he says softly, and the growl kicks up into a warning snarl in answer. There’s a break in it, like he’s trying not to, but Wilson never expected it to be easy. “It’s okay,” Wilson continues. “Whatever happens, it’s okay.”
When Wilson next catches his scent, there’s maybe a muted note of apology in it, but it’s all washed over by heat and fear and rage. Despite that, a surge of confidence takes root. He knows this. They’ve been doing this dance for over a decade, in varying degrees, and every time they do, Wilson’s more and more in awe of House. Nobody knows what to do with him, and he holds his own, and he says “fuck you” to the odds every time they come calling. In illness, in heartache, in peril, House is a scrappy, stubborn bulwark. This, too, they’ll come through.
Wilson smiles, careful not to show his teeth. “Here we go,” he whispers, half to himself and half to House, and then he begins to move, inch by inch, unhidden but unyielding, a way of moving that he could never learn from anyone else, and—even as the snarl turns into a fiery spit, then picks back up—he has a feeling they’re gonna be okay. They’re gonna be just fine.
beginning / New Orleans
He’s been in the man’s company for an hour and a half, in muggy Louisiana spring, nonetheless, and he still can’t figure out his scent. It’s got a punchy, prickly presence, but it’s missing the low battery-acid hit of another unmated alpha. Regardless of designation, it’s mind-boggling that this stranger bailed him out of prison to begin with, though, so he reckons it’s one of the least nonsensical parts of their night, and he keeps deciding not to ask.
Not only is it none of his business, it’s also habit, and a point of pride. Wilson makes it a point to get to know the scents of others, to pick up the shifts, however subtle, when their moods change. Past girlfriends have sometimes found it creepy; he just calls it bedside manner.
So they talk about everything else, about cases and shitty conference hotels and sports, and Wilson’s just about decided Greg House is transdesignated when the other man knocks back the last of his beer and slaps his hands together with finality. “You’ve passed the test,” he declares.
“What test?”
“The nosy bitch test. You’ve been sat here with me half the night and haven’t brought up my scent at all. Though, don’t think I didn’t notice you wondering.”
“I inherited my father’s conspicuously-flaring nostrils, alas.” House snickers indelicately. Wilson notes with distant alarm that he finds it a bit adorable.
“So are you going to ask me? C’mon, what’s your best guess?”
“Transdesignated. Beta-to-alpha.” House’s lips turn up in a wry smirk, as if he hadn’t expected Wilson to guess so bluntly. Wilson figures if people want to talk about something, why pretend he doesn’t, just for the sake of politeness?
“An oldie but a goodie. Unfortunately, you are incorrect, so I’m not gonna pay for the next round.”
“You haven’t paid for any of the rounds,” Wilson objects good-naturedly.
“Precisely. So.”
“So…?”
“So…are you gonna ask?”
“Only because you insist. Dr. House, who paid my bail, why do you smell like the only beta at an alpha boarding school?” House flips him off, but his grin is toothy. And then he half-turns, so that his back is mostly facing Wilson, and tugs down the neck of his shirt.
“Get a good look, ‘cause you’ll probably never have the chance again.” Wilson stares blankly at the lasered mark under his mating gland (unbitten, though he won’t admit to himself he’s noticing until much later) before choking on his own spit at the realization.
When House turns back, it’s with a smug-but-cold look in his eye. Wilson will come to know him well enough to know that that look comes on when he’s right about something that hurts him. For now, he’s focused on drawing breath. The raised scar below his gland is a broken-O, the omega symbol slashed in two. “Jesus,” he chokes out, once he’s caught his breath. “I thought they outlawed that in—”
“The year after I presented. My old man made sure I was one of the last to get it.” Fucking hell.
“Wait, but—you couldn’t have been more than—”
“I was 13, yeah. Don’t ask me what led to me being classified as a feral that young.” Wilson winces internally; like most of the rest of the world, he’s aware the appropriate terminology is attachment-averse. “Feral” is a slur. Though, he guesses House gets to say it if he wants.
For a moment, he realizes the mildly sickening fact that most AAs get diagnosed at older ages, both because 13 is young to present and because symptoms usually first manifest during courtship and mating. House had said don’t ask, so Wilson doesn’t, and from the minute twitch of the other man’s mouth, he’s passed another test.
“Well,” Wilson says after a moment. “I think the broken-O looks kind of badass. If you ask me, you should get one of those tribal tramp stamps, really round the whole look off.” House’s eyes widen fractionally, as close to shock as he tends to get, and then he barks a laugh that’s surprised and loud and all too pleased. Wilson wonders mildly just how few get this far.
The years will show the answer: very, very few.
beginning / adaptation
Like most things regarding omega health and psychology, attachment aversion has been poorly understood for decades, and continues to be so despite certain advancements. Wilson had a distant idea that AA history was bleak, but the truth is it’s downright horrifying, rife with corrective rape and forced matings.
Once he gets past all that in an effort to understand his friend’s condition, he’s left with a handful of recent journal articles that offer only more confusion, conflicting information, and little to go off of in terms of high sample sizes. Because the fact of the matter is that attachment-averse omegas have little trust in authority, are reluctant to seek treatment, and are at even higher risk of violent crimes than attachment-favorable omegas. In addition, his dim awareness that attachment aversion stems from trauma is confirmed: high adverse childhood experiences on the BRFSS have a strong correlation to attachment aversion in omegas.
He grew up thinking it was just a male-omega thing. Toxic masculinity and social alpha superiority still correlates alphaness and maleness. By the time he was old enough to present, things were changing for the better, but the attitude was still generally that male omegas became ferals because male omegas were less natural than male alphas. It’s one of those correlation-causation things, though: males are more likely to become ferals than females because of abuse and toxicity stemming from alphamasculine ideologies.
It's all very depressing and confusing and…fascinating.
(An older, more experienced Wilson will later despair over this younger version: to him then, it was fascinating the way oncology was fascinating, in that it was small and tragic and maybe fixable, alpha- and doctor-ego in full force. It had that little twinkle of neediness that Wilson knew how to operate within, due likely to his own neuroses, his own risk factors. He saw their coping mechanisms as compatible. Time, alas, trudges on, and we either grow, or we don’t.)
When he next sees House at a conference in Philadelphia, he’s clocked immediately. Disappointment rolls off the other man in waves. “You’ve been reading, haven’t you?”
“How on earth could you have possibly just known that?”
“You smell like indecision and you look constipated. Goddammit, Wilson, I’m not a case study.”
“I just want—”
“You want what every alpha wants. To know your way around an omega. To know exactly what to do and what to say. And before you accuse me of calling you gay, it’s got nothing to do with attraction. You’re conditioned to expect it from the time you present, from before then, even. Tough shit: start from the ground up, buddy. Nobody can teach you your way around me.”
“I’m a doctor,” Wilson grumbles. “If one of my friends had a, a different chronic condition, I would want to stay informed. I—in case something happened.”
“Okay. And what are the all-knowing annals of medicine telling you about my ‘chronic condition?’ Are we back in a ‘forced contact’ phase or a ‘separate but equal’ one? I’ve forgotten.”
“I wasn’t—I didn’t say I was going to try and treat you. You don’t need to be…I just wanted to know how to talk to you about it, is all.”
“See point one: you’re caught on your back foot because you have never once felt like you didn’t know how to act around an omega. I’ll tell you how to fucking talk to me about it: on my terms. When I bring it up. Okay?”
“Okay.” Wilson holds his hands up, turning his head away, a sign of deference that he can’t remember having once used with anyone besides his own father. The rest of the day is a bit strained, but when House lands back in New Jersey, the first thing he does is call Wilson.
“You can’t come visit me,” he says.
Wilson feels something in his chest twist, thinking it means he’s failed the test—that he’s no longer welcome in House’s life. For some reason, the possibility feels like being buried alive. “Okay,” he says, his voice small, and House snorts softly.
“Don’t mope. Idiot. You can’t come see me because I can’t deal with anyone else’s smell around my place. So if you want to hang out outside of conferences it’ll have to be there.”
Wilson recovers quickly. “House. Hotels exist, as evidenced by the one we just stayed at.”
“What kind of guy has a friend come visit and doesn’t invite him over?” House asks, prickly enough that Wilson can almost taste the shift in his scent over the phone, and when had that happened?
“Who gives a shit?” Wilson asks. “I don’t care, House. Are you saying you want me to come visit?”
“You’re the one trying to convince me.” Does he hear a nip of flirtation in the canny way House says it? Does he hope for one?
In any case, he flies up for a dizzying 39-hour turnaround time. Being a doctor sucks that way sometimes, especially a young one. It’s a great time, like everything with House is a great time. They go on a hike even though Wilson feels the ache of a full shift and a flight and the uneasy hotel sleep looming, because he can’t find it in himself to say “no” to House, for whom all of Princeton is a kind of personal space. House doesn’t bring up his designation, and Wilson doesn’t ask, and he goes back home in higher spirits than he’s been in a long time.
Even after a divorce, Wilson is the same creature: being needed is his catnip. Certainly an alpha-aligned affliction, but cripplingly pronounced in Wilson’s case. And so. There’s House. Not—not in a romantic way, certainly, or so he would protest at this juncture. It’s not a thing limited to partnership. It’s an archetype he seeks in all of his most intense relationships.
But House is a balancing act. Look at him as if you want to dote on him, take care of him, and he’ll lash out. Wilson is one poorly-inflected “You wanna talk about it?” away from having his character brutally flayed open in a verbal attack. This is a trap he wanders into often, though less so as the years go on.
House has a way of cutting to the core of a person in a devastating way. An adaptation, Wilson sometimes muses, for the modern feral who doesn’t want to draw blood at every insult. (As it turns out, House prefers the word feral, as do many other AAs; call him “attachment-averse,” and he’s quick to give a scathing rundown of the history of the term, the gist of which is that attachment-favorable omegas coined the term in a well-meaning but ill-received movement.) Anyway, House can kill your confidence in an instant, send you running with your tail between your legs.
But over time, besides the odd spat over Wilson coddling him, he kind of forgets for long stretches that House is feral at all. Internship bleeds into residency and the main things that set House apart are that he doesn’t like to be touched, he startles easily, and nobody should be sweet to him under any circumstances.
Wilson only makes the mistake of sneaking up on him once, and it’s unintentional: he comes back from the outhouse of a trail they’re hiking to where House has sat on a large rock, and he’s coming from downwind. His sudden appearance at House’s side startles the other man so badly he falls off the rock, gashing his elbow open, but it goes unnoticed, House hunched and growling in the grass.
Hazy remembrances of a training on handling alpha rages must take point in Wilson’s brain, because in a moment he’s holding his hands up, his chin lifted but his eyes not making contact, holding still and breathing slowly. “House, it’s me,” he says, moving ever-so-slowly into the wind, hoping his familiar scent will travel and calm House down. “I just took the longest piss of my life, like you won’t believe,” he continues, even though his heart is pounding. “Sounded like Niagara Falls in there. Wish it smelled like it, too.”
The growl peters off into a low, shaky chuckle. “Don’t do that again,” House mutters, meaning sneak up on him.
“I won’t. You’re sort of terrifying.”
House huffs, pleased, and then winces, the pain in his elbow finally catching up to him. They work together to fix it in silence, and Wilson has the impulse a couple of times to say something more, but feels it wisest not to. They finish out the hike. From that point on, Wilson’s conscious of the direction of the wind, the loudness of his footfalls. If they’re in a crowded area, he takes to humming or keeping up a constant chatter. Eventually it becomes subconscious, habit.
(Years later, Cuddy will bring it up in a rare moment of derision. The two alphas butt heads over House often, but there are certain areas rarely trodden. This is one of those. She says, “You’re constantly modifying. Making yourself quieter, louder—all for him. I thought you weren’t supposed to coddle AAs. Just think about how much it takes out of you, James—he’s not even your mate.”
“It takes zero effort to be conscious,” he sputters. Even though, in the beginning, it was a constant correction. “It takes practice, sure. But it’s less stressful for everyone. You know how alphas get around a distressed omega.”
“Uh-huh.” Not saying: you go above and beyond for him, and we both know it. Not saying: there are best practices, and then there are addictions.
So they’re not even mates. So what? He’d…he’d do it for anyone. Obviously.)
It blends into the background. In the sense that everyone’s an individual, being friends with House is not unlike being friends with everyone else.
Princeton / vigil
When Wilson moves to Princeton, things change just a little. House gets nosy. He wants to know what Wilson’s doing 90% of the time, and—look, it’s not that Wilson is still doing that much reading. Certainly, the occasional journal article doesn’t change the way he treats House in their interactions: on his own terms. But a more recent overview of feral psychological behaviors suggests that socially unacceptable clinginess, sometimes to the point of stalking, is an early courtship behavior.
Wilson is deeply conflicted about it. To point it out as such would be to reveal to House that he’s been reading. On top of that, it’s not like he wants. Does he…?
No. Wilson’s always wanted children. Hasn’t he? He’s an alpha. Barefoot and pregnant omegas are his bread and butter, his ultimate daydream…nevermind that Sam was a beta. Not that adoption isn’t also great. But—
God, that’s not the point, the point is he isn’t gay.
Necessarily.
Fooling around with roommates as a matter of convenience does not a gay man make. Nor does the occasional rut-hookup. Courtship, dating, mating, that’s another issue altogether.
But, god. It’s House. Attachment-averse, prickly, caustic—Wilson almost feels like it would mess with his progress, somehow, to discourage this. (Years later, he’ll cringe at this memory; he’s still thinking, now, of House being feral as a condition to be treated, something to recover from.
In his typically roundabout way, once, House said, “You know, domestication and tameness are two different things.” Wilson nodded along. Still, it was different to agree with it than to internalize it.)
Anyway. House maims a guy and all bets are off.
Wilson gets a call in the middle of the night from a first responder to House’s apartment complex, where apparently there’s been an accident, and they just want to talk to him. Wilson knows the tone of that “just want to talk.” Hidden behind those words is a 5150.
When he arrives, double-parking in the process, in a mad sprint from the lot to the door, he’s waylaid by a paramedic with a scent-blocking mask. He hates these things, the adhesive always makes him itch, but he complies for the sake of getting to House faster.
It’s the first time he’s ever been in House’s apartment, but he’s a bit too preoccupied to take it in. House is tucked up under his kitchen table, back against the wall, snarling like a dog. He’s growled at Wilson before, but Wilson’s never heard it quite like this. A latent flare of alpha instinct—pin him, roar at him, show him who’s boss—lights up his spine, and he focuses on slow deep breaths. If he could smell him, it’d be easier, but just the memory calms him. House smells like sangria and rosemary, sweet but spiked with a wicked undercurrent.
It takes close to twenty minutes before Wilson can even get close to the table. During a break in the growling, he offers a hand, not invading the under-table space but close enough to see, smell. House swipes at it, but his claws are mostly sheathed, and a moment later he’s huffing hesitantly against Wilson’s wrist. Mortifyingly, a moment later his tongue flicks apologetically against the superficial scratches. Wilson closes his eyes and wills himself not to think about it.
A second later, House’s shaking hand is clenched in the side of his pants leg. “I need clothes,” he says, low and halting, and Wilson hurries off to find him some. Sees, during his search, a haphazard nest on the bedroom floor. Ah. He’s in heat. Or he was. When Wilson returns, there’s no flush to his skin, and his eyes are clear; he’ll learn later that ferals often stop heat spontaneously in the face of a threat, not unheard of in attachment-favorable omegas, but exceedingly rare.
As House dresses, Wilson’s back turned, Wilson says, “The paramedics think you’ve lost it.”
“Did you explain?”
I couldn’t think of anything but getting to you. “I thought I wasn’t supposed to bring it up.”
“Fuck you.” His voice is flippant, but shakily so. Perhaps because Wilson’s back is still turned, perhaps because his walls are crumbled by everything, House says, “I thought I could do it.”
“Could do what?” He keeps his voice light, unbothered. Not yet asking about the blood streaking his best friend’s face, his floors.
“I didn’t want to be alone.” A long few moments. Breathing. “Stupid. I thought—he came to the door, and I knew I couldn’t. I told him to go, I…he wouldn’t go.” Wilson bites his tongue hard against the immediate, reflexive protective rage that statement inspires. “He wouldn’t go,” House whispers again, his voice closer, and Wilson works very hard not to react as House leans his face against Wilson’s back, between his shoulders. On the end of every inhale, Wilson hears him sniffling.
“You did nothing wrong, House. You protected yourself. I’m glad you did.” A hand knots itself in the side of Wilson’s shirt, and he only hesitates for a moment before covering it with his own. House lets him. I want to kill that bastard, Wilson thinks, even as he tries to keep his scent from showing it. I want to rip his throat out.
A moment later, House has his head held high, blood-spattered and all, and Wilson at arm’s length like it’s never happened as he tells the paramedics what transpired. He ducks his head in a deliberate way that shows the broken-O symbol below his gland, and the questions quickly cease. As the paramedics dissipate, House exhales and wraps his arms around himself, shivering despite the mild weather. (Another point of cringe for future-Wilson: he remembers reading that ferals have more trouble with temperature regulation.) House says, “Fuck alphas. Never again.” Goes inside.
Wilson doesn’t follow; he hears the lock anyway. He wasn’t meant to. He leaves House with his attacker’s blood and drives aimlessly for over an hour.
It’s just that House had wanted to invite an alpha into his space—one who wasn’t Wilson. That he chose a male alpha, when Wilson’s always been right there. (Not that he’s gay, just—he hadn’t known that House was—anyway.) That this one piece-of-shit alpha has so deeply traumatized his best friend that House has sworn off alphas forever.
By the time Wilson pulls over, his hands are shaking, and he can tell the scent rolling off him is acrid and bitter. He’s gonna kill this guy. The ambulance waiting at House’s apartment was one of Princeton General’s. He makes his way over, but he’s stopped at the door by security.
House had told them he might show up. He’s escorted firmly back to his car. When he calls House, it goes straight to voicemail.
Nobody goes to jail. Neither will the state prosecute a feral, nor will they prosecute his attacker, even though the guy could come back—though, knowing how House looks when his instincts take over, Wilson has a suspicion he wouldn’t dare.
He sits vigil in the parking lot of House’s apartment building for exactly three nights before House raps on his passenger door. Wilson jumps, then sheepishly lets him in.
“Stop this, it’s patronizing,” House says shortly.
“I’m doing it for me, not you,” Wilson mutters, scrubbing his palms over his face. “Jesus, it scared me, okay, House.”
“It scared you.” His voice is tight, heavy with sarcasm.
“I know it’s fucking stupid. I just—”
“I’m not yours to protect.” At that, Wilson swings his head up and gives House an incredulous stare, his brain mashing thoughts together to the point he can’t put any of them in words. Thoughts like Of course you are, you’ve made sure of it, you’ve made it impossible for me to be around anyone else, you’ve cornered me.
“How can you say that?” he says at last.
“With my mouth.” House stares him down as he so often does when he’s afraid of being wrong. “You don’t have to do anything, Wilson. I’ve never made you do anything.”
“You’re impossible. You’re—god, House—” House gives him that look. It’s never guilty so much as it is resigned: that of course this would happen; of course his designation would eventually break things between them; of course Wilson would be too good to be true. “And I don’t mean you being feral,” he snaps tightly. “I mean you. You are like this, you would be like this no matter what. Selfish. You push and you take and you—and the moment someone needs—you just have the victim complex down pat. Jesus Christ, you treat the world like your oyster and the moment anyone tells you otherwise, it’s all about your designation. Fuck off. As if I’ve ever treated you poorly because of it, as if I haven’t modified my entire life to—god.”
House is growling distractedly by the end of it, probably because of his tone, his agitation soaking the air in the car, so Wilson punches at the window controls, letting some fresh air in. “My issues and yours feed each other,” House mutters, the growl still in his voice, and, dammit, Wilson should not like the sound of it. “I’m selfish and volatile, and you can’t help giving over. If I’m a victim, you’re a martyr.”
“Fuck you.”
“You shouldn’t have gone to Princeton General. And you shouldn’t be here.”
“Fuck you, House. I really hate you sometimes. You’re exhausting.” He’s spitting, and House is spitting right back, but when he looks into House’s eyes, he sees a spark of gratitude there. That he’ll fight with him, even when he’s feeling protective, when he’s coddling. That he’ll be angry with House even though House has just been through something awful. That he’ll treat House like someone who can fuck up—like it’s normal. He’s passing a test right now. God, is he ever tired of being tested.
“You couldn’t have done anything anyway. Nice, sweet, civilized Wilson would’ve kicked in, and if I hadn’t’ve stopped you, you would’ve found another excuse.”
“No, I would have fucking killed him,” Wilson snarls, the clutch of his instincts warping to a crescendo, the car thick with the combined scents of their rage and exhaustion. Mingling, almost, into something that Wilson strangely wants to huff in great breaths of, and he’s breathing hard anyway, so he can’t really help it. House, too, his teeth parted. “I would have finished the job. Someone should be behind bars for this. Hell, it might as well be me. I would have killed him, House. And you wouldn’t have thanked me, you selfish piece of shit.”
“Why would I thank you for something so stupid?” House hisses. “For taking away my best friend? If I’m so goddamn selfish, why would I ever thank you for that? I did you a fucking favor.” His hand whips out, palm shoving Wilson’s shoulder so he jogs in his seat, an unspoken challenge usually reserved for juvenile alphas jockeying for top dog. Wilson almost finds it cute beyond his anger. “Stop making this about you. This is some big event in your life, but it’s a lifetime for me.”
That statement drops the bottom out of his stomach. Remembering. Realizing. “You—this wasn’t—”
“Wasn’t the first time, no. Probably won’t be the last. Not that I’m planning to facilitate it ever again—this was the first and last time one had an invite.” His lip curls derisively, and he at last breaks eye contact, his growl petering out.
“God, House.”
“Don’t you dare hit me with some pitying bullshit.”
“House.” Maybe his voice breaks a little, because House looks at him again, wary but subdued. “You kind of amaze me.”
“Oh, god, that’s worse,” House mumbles, but his scent is faintly pleased.
“Seriously, if that last guy was anything to go off, I’m amazed you don’t have a body count yet. Or do you?”
“Fuck off.” But he’s laughing, shaking his head. “Come on. It’s warmer inside.” Wilson’s eyebrows jump up, and House snarls, “Don’t make a big deal out of it, I want the smell of him out of my place. That’s all.”
The place is so heady with House’s scent that Wilson’s head gets a little fuzzy. It’s no stronger than most living spaces, but he’s never been in here despite being quite close to House, so it’s a lot for him. A lot for House, too—he makes it thirty minutes before he’s kicking Wilson out.
But from then on, they build up slowly. They never talk about it. Wilson has the sense that to bring it up would be to backtrack. He’s just happy to be let in, to be part of House healing—again, that outdated mindset, but he’s a product of his time; it’s where his head is at.
Princeton / system
When House meets Stacy, something in Wilson breaks silently. Something he himself doesn’t understand.
It’s not jealousy. Not the kind he’s used to, anyway. It’s more a sense of wrongness in himself, like someone’s come in and moved around the boxes in his attic, like his organs aren’t where they’re supposed to be. Watching House be happy feels at once beautiful and sad. House doesn’t seem to notice.
Wilson doesn’t think Stacy really gets it, being a beta and all. For awhile, that alone is enough to make him wary. She’s good enough with the whole startle response thing, making her presence known anytime she’s around House, but he’s so quick to move in with her, to open up to her, that Wilson feels a sense of bitterness about it. How long it took him to get there…he’d assumed that was just House, but now it seems it was just because of his designation. Which…makes sense. But he can’t help but feel that Stacy got there too easily, that eventually something will happen with House that she hasn’t learned her way around.
Confusingly, House stays clingy. He bugs Wilson constantly at work, and outside of it, and Wilson feels even more out of sorts. The paper he read must be wrong about this being courtship, because House now has, if not a mate, then a partner.
Wilson’s witnessed a few altercations at the hospital. Misunderstanding abounds for ferals, and while Cuddy enforces a sensitivity training for new doctors and staff, patients aren’t under the same guidelines. It doesn’t often come to raised hackles unless they seek House out, though; it’s one of the reasons he refuses to see patients more often than not. But once in awhile an angry family member will storm into his office, and that family member will be an alpha, and that alpha will have some shit to say.
Wilson catches a whiff of pissed-off pheromones in the hallway and follows the woman in. They handle it. Which usually means Wilson standing by and letting House deal with it until the point where House’s claws come out, at which point he subdues the other alpha and escorts them out. It’s not fun, but they have a system. And after, he sits outside House’s office door until he’s calm enough to stop growling every time Wilson looks him in the eye, and that’s that.
How this became routine, Wilson doesn’t know. The first time was hard, the rest was easy; he knows House, he knows him down to the tiniest shift in his scent, the littlest flex of his fingertips. He didn’t have to think about it, but if he had, he’d have kept on just the same.
He’s surprised when Stacy’s waiting for him at the main doors when he leaves. “James,” she says, and it sounds strange in her mouth, and he realizes how little they’ve talked, how seldomly she’s had cause to address him—how much he’s avoided her. “Greg told me what happened.” Wilson forgets, sometimes, that that’s his name. “I wanted to thank you.” God, how little she gets it.
“Don’t. We have a system.” You’re not part of it. “That’s all. No thanks necessary.” He’s almost never this terse with anyone. God, something’s wrong with him.
“No, James, yes it is. Look, I’m out of my depth here. It’d be a disservice to him not to admit that there are just—there are things I don’t understand. I try, and I’ll keep trying, but I think today I realized it’s—well, it’s a way of living that I’ll just never have access to.” She palms the back of her neck, where the skin is flat, glandless. “But you’re there. You’re in it, with him. He needs that. You give him that. And I know it’s not easy. So yes, I do need to thank you.”
His chest tightens. “I’m not his alpha. I’m not trying to be.”
“I know. Fuck, look—I know that. You’re not trying to get in the way. If anything, you’re clearing it. He needs a safe alpha in his life, whether or not he wants to, so that he can feel settled—it frees him up to love. To love me.”
It’s like a punch to the gut. Still, he smiles. He can’t help it. The idea of House loving at all—being free—it’s good. It’s a good thought. “You’re good for him,” he tells Stacy. Maybe realizing it for the first time.
“You’re good for him, too. James, I wouldn’t have known what to do today, if it was me instead of you. I don’t have the instincts, I don’t have the experience. So I can’t do this without you. I want to know you. I want to know him the way you know him.”
And no matter how much it hurts—when has that mattered when someone needs him? There’s no good reason for it to hurt, anyway. Whatever he’s feeling is errant, stupid. So he folds in, like he always does when it comes to House, and he goes to dinner parties and golf and hikes and he laughs like he always does, and at night he runs into the arms of the nearest willing woman and drinks hard liquor for reasons he can’t understand. Something empty in him, something crying out in the dark in a language he doesn’t know. House smells happy, and for some reason he can’t stand it for very long. Always leaving. And then he meets Bonnie, and the emptiness eases. Sort of. Mostly.
Coming home to a bachelor party in his own apartment is a surprise. Thinking he’s subtle, House has cracked the windows, hoping to vent Wilson’s scent a bit so he can stay longer, probably. House dances and flirts with the strippers and hookers he’s hired, unapologetic, and Wilson knows Stacy doesn’t care, that she’s unbothered by this sort of thing, and he feels one more new facet of jealousy open up. Something about House just does that to him: twists his familiar emotions into jagged, unrecognizable versions of themselves. Wilson gets drunk, so very drunk. For fun, and for running reasons. Running from what, he doesn’t know, but it seems he can do it better with pants off. He stumbles. Warm in here, too warm—he goes out to the balcony, where the soft smell of weed mingles with sangria and rosemary, and there he is, there’s House.
Beautiful, unconscionably beautiful with the wan moonlight painting one side and his back lit by dim apartment glow. Red rimming his eyes from the joint, popping the blue into focus like a painting Wilson can’t afford but buys anyway. Sweat in his hair from dancing. House loves to dance, is surprisingly fluid at it—Wilson’s seen it how many times, but it always surprises him. “House, I really love you, y’know,” Wilson slurs, and House rolls his sluggish eyes, but a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
“Oh, god, We’ve hit this phase of drunk-Wilson, huh?”
“Shuddup.” Wilson goes near him but, even puddle-drunk, he remembers not to invade House’s personal space. “The weed? Helps?”
“Yeah. It coats my scent receptors, I think.” House ashes the joint and tucks it away without offering Wilson any, which hurts his feelings a little. And all of a sudden he’s sniffling, leaning heavily against the railing. “Jesus, Wilson,” House says softly, and then his arm’s around Wilson’s shoulders, and he’s warm, so warm, and Wilson’s turning his head to breathe in the scent near his neck without thinking about it.
“You never give me anything,” Wilson whispers.
“Ouch. I gave you this sick bachelor party. I can give you chlamydia, if you want. Just give me an hour or so to catch some.” He snickers at his own joke, but Wilson cries harder.
“I don’t know how to help you sometimes.”
“You don’t need to help me, idiot, where is this coming from?”
“Everywhere! All—everywhere. I can’t expl—asp—esplain. House. You just, I love you.”
“I know. Will you ever shut up about it? You’re so drunk right now.”
“You got high. On my balcony. Without me,” Wilson pouts, and then says, “Oh, no,” and leans further over the railing and throws up hard.
“Oh, god.” House starts laughing, dopey and lazy and beautiful, and Wilson cries and throws up some more and laughs at the same time. His head reels, and then he’s crying, just crying, and as his knees buckle House catches him, coaxes him inside. “I think it’s time you go to bed. Come on, let’s go.” They make their way haltingly, and once they’re there, Wilson just can’t stop crying. It’s like his chest is too tight, he can’t even remember why he’s upset but he’s so upset, and House clenches and unclenches his hands anxiously before reaching haltingly out and—
And the front of his wrist is pressed against the back of Wilson’s neck. Wilson realizes distantly that his mouth is open, saliva pooling under his tongue. Realizes this is not appropriate—omegas will platonically scent alpha friends to calm them, sure, but it’s wrist-to-wrist; this is far more intimate, reserved for lovers and family members and (occasionally) therapeutic interventions. But then, it’s House. He defies the mean, eschews the norm. It’s possible he doesn’t even know these things, that they’re not instinctive or socially ingrained for him the way they are for non-feral omegas.
Wilson’s scent-drunk, now, as well as tequila-drunk. The latter is probably the reason for the former, because—well, there’s no reason House scenting him should have this strong of an effect. He wills liquor-dick to kick in for the first time ever and negate the bolt of sleepy arousal in his belly, but he can’t quite focus enough to tell if it’s working. He’s purring in a confused way. And then House snatches his hand away, backs up a few steps. “Will you go to sleep now?” he asks, tone clipped. Mad at him, Wilson thinks drunkenly, though, in the morning, he’ll know it’s just House feeling awkward. “And don’t you dare bring this up. This never happened.”
Despite his inebriation, he smiles, automatically, thinking, oh, House, like he has a thousand fond times, and then the scenting does the trick and the exhaustion hits him all at once.
Of course, in the light of day, it’s starkly clear to him just what House did for him. House doesn’t scent anybody. Not even Stacy, who, of course, doesn’t expect him to, but it’s common for omegas to still scent beta mates for claiming and security reasons. House doesn’t mind Stacy smelling like him in a general sense, but he doesn’t like her wearing his sweatshirts, for example. Reluctant to scent others is in the latest diagnostic criteria, for fuck’s sake.
But he scented Wilson. He stopped a panic attack in its tracks, probably. He probably only felt safe doing it because he was high and Wilson was drunk, but for the first time Wilson doesn’t feel that empty pit inside him, even though the feeling only lasts a few hours. He’s not ready to examine that. So he doesn’t.
He muscles through the last bits of wedding prep. He finds he can’t look at House during his ceremony without crying, which, of course, everyone assumes is because he’s getting married. And it is—it definitely is. Just not in the way they think. Not in the way Wilson deludes himself into thinking.
For the first day of his honeymoon, he flings himself into all things Bonnie. She’s a sweet beta, but shy, needy—she’s been through some things in her life, sure, and there’s also the fact that she only dates alphas. She’s a chaser, Wilson knows that, House has so often pointed it out to him scathingly; the parts of Bonnie’s personality that aren’t based on neurosis are ripped from omega/alpha bodice-busters, but he loves her. He loves her, he does.
The only reason she’s not overtly jealous of House is because she doesn’t see him as a real omega. She’s not said as much, but Wilson knows it, and he knows it’s fucked up, but for reasons he refuses to unpack, he likes it better that House and Bonnie don’t get along. He likes it better that they don’t fit in a room together. His loves for them both entirely separate.
He loses himself in her, in her sweet noises and her warm, soft limbs and the space where their bodies press together and cling with sweat, in the contrast of her skin against the sheets and the shy daydreams she voices of houses in the suburbs and children on playgrounds. He tries to imagine a child that looks like both of them. He tries to imagine House as an uncle; he can’t. Half the time his imagination places House on the fringes, hating his pup for some reason; the other half, House is reading and tucking into bed and picking up from school as if he’s—what? A parent of some kind?
All his attention’s on Bonnie, anyway. For awhile.
infarction
House isn’t the one who calls when the infarction happens. He’s in no state to. Wilson, in the aftermath, goes back and forth on whether he would have, anyway. Anyway, it doesn’t matter: it’s Stacy who calls first. Wilson picks up and hears House has been brought in to PPTH. He’s worried, pacing up and down his and Bonnie’s hotel room, knowing she’s feigning concerned interest while secretly hoping this is just House being dramatic, convincing herself it’s House being selfish as always. Okay. Okay, there’s nothing he can do from here.
When Cuddy calls, though, he knows he can’t stay in this sweet bubble where it’s almost true that Bonnie’s all he wants, and nothing more.
“He’s stabbed an orderly,” she says softly. “By the time they got him here, he was—he’s…displaying an extreme threat response.”
“Okay—okay. You have to treat this like an alpha rage. You have to—”
“We’ve followed all those steps already, James, he—we’ve tried sedating him. His system’s flushing it.” Fuck. Similarly to alphas in protective rage states, feral omegas can display higher metabolic rates and higher thresholds for drug receptors. “He hasn’t said a word since getting here, he’s only growled and snarled and—I don’t—I can’t even go in that hallway without—whew.” He knows her pain. Omega-in-distress is a trigger so deeply entrenched in most alphas that it overrides most other norms and instincts. “It would take longer to get an AA specialist here than it would to…to ask you to come back.”
“When.”
“The next flight out leaves in 90 minutes. I can have a cab there in 10.”
“Fuck, Lisa.” He drags his hand over his face, chest heaving. Wanting to hate her, wanting to hate House, for dragging him back from what should be one of the happiest times in his life. But was it, anyway? Like House said, he’s never forced Wilson to do anything. He can say no, should, by all rights. But that place in his belly that’s been empty since Stacy came along is tugging, twisting, and no matter how much he roots himself here, that pull is always stronger. He loves House too much to hate anyone for this except for maybe god. It doesn’t matter what House does, how House hurts him, what House takes, so long as he’s okay. “Do you have any idea what’s wrong?” He’s already shrugging a shirt on, buttoning, snagging his wallet, his belt, as Cuddy describes what led to Stacy calling the ambulance, the few details House was able to relay before the pain overtook him.
There is nobody to blame for his leaving but him. He soothes it over with Bonnie like he always does, with sweet words and caresses and promises, all the right things, every bit the caring alpha he’s supposed to be, and by the end she gravely agrees this is the right thing to do, and isn’t he so sweet for doing it, and okay, fine, she’ll stay and enjoy the rest of the vacation but she’ll miss him the whole time. The words ring hollow in his ears, don’t register until he’s already in the cab, and by then he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care. Getting to House is the only thing that matters, the only thing there is.
(God. Idiot. He should’ve known, he could have realized so, so long ago—
But, in some ways, perhaps it’s better that he didn’t. You can always look back and romanticize some version of the past, some if-only, but it’s only so sweet because it didn’t happen. All you have is what there is.)
Even with the hospital-grade scent absorbers running in the hallway outside House’s hospital room, Wilson can taste the tang of distress and the bite of rage in the roof of his mouth. Stacy’s on a bench a couple yards down from the door, rubbing her hands together anxiously. She calls his name as he passes, but he doesn’t turn his head. Not until a hand catches his elbow, and he spins with a low snarl—it’s just Cuddy, holding out a scent-blocking mask. “I can’t let you in there without this.”
“You can’t make me put it on, and you can’t keep me out,” he answers shortly. “Don’t. Don’t quote some journal article at me, I need to be able to smell him. If you want me to calm him down, you will let go of me.”
“If legal asks,” Cuddy says tightly.
“If legal asks, I took it off when I got in there.” He can allow her this. He snatches it from her hand and shoves it in his pocket. “Now, will you please.” She lets go, waving him in.
“House, it’s me,” he calls outside the door, and then he opens it slowly but loudly, slipping in. The scent hits him like a wall, twisted with pain and sharp with anger-fear, a shudder running through him. His instincts scream at him to bolt to House, scent him and wall him off with his body until this is fixed, but he bears through it. All the growling and snarling is coming from between the hospital bed and the wall, where House has crammed himself, a trail of blood slashing across the blanket. God, surely some not his—the stabbed orderly’s, probably, but him apparently ripping the IV out doesn’t help. “It’s Wilson,” he continues, carefully rolling up his sleeves, unbuttoning his collar, letting his scent permeate the room. There’s the barest pause in the growling, but it’s enough.
“Yeah, you know me. It’s me, House, I’m just here to check on you.” He parts his teeth and breathes in, pushing through the nausea-inducing wrongness of it and focusing on what it’s telling him. Scared. Small. Hurting. Pissed-off. “I’m gonna turn the light off, but I’m gonna keep talking to you, I’m not trying to hide or sneak up on you, okay?”
More growling as he moves slowly towards the light switch, and it continues once the light is off, but his scent shifts slightly, a little more confident now. Feeling more hidden, more protected. “That’s better, huh?” He holds still, knowing that his eyes and House’s eyes will adjust to the dark at roughly the same rate. Once he can see the edges of the room again, Wilson sinks slowly to his knees, his chin up to show his throat, belly unshielded. “I just want to figure out what’s going on. I just—” As he rounds the corner of the hospital bed, House spits like a cornered cat, his eyes wide and sparking and desperate with pain. “It’s just me, it’s me, House.”
Fuck. Wilson wants to cry. House is out of his mind with pain, body shaking with adrenaline and tension, the claws of one hand digging into the hospital bed’s mattress. He’s curled around, twisted awkwardly, shielding his belly and the leg that Stacy said was hurt. With a snarl, he swipes at Wilson, though he’s too far away to make contact, but his eyes say he’s sorry, and it’s heartbreaking.
“It’s okay, House. You’re doing just fine, you’re doing everything right, you’re okay. You’re protecting yourself, you’re safe, that’s all I want.” He’s rambling, his voice shaking, but it’s working, House eyeing him cautiously from behind one raised arm. Wilson makes a chirping sound he remembers from his younger days, playing with his brothers, and rolls his neck over so his head rests on the wall, playful and submissive, despite the tense circumstances, and House’s growl falters for another half-second.
“Wil,” he mutters, and Wilson inches closer, even though the growling picks up again.
“Yeah. It’s me. I want to figure out what’s going on. I can tell you’re in pain. Tell me how I can help you, and I’ll do it. Anything.”
“Wilson?”
“I’m right here. I know it’s hard to think right now, House, but I need you to think. This is all on your terms, this is all up to you. Tell me how to help you so we can get you better. Please, House, I'm worried about you."
“Wilson,” he breathes again, unfurling a little with what seems a great effort, still growling on and off. “I—god this hurts.”
“I know. I’m so sorry, House.”
“Fuck off.” The words are followed by a soft whine of pain, the first he’s uttered since Wilson arrived. “I need to—I….” The words die off in a low snarl as the pain crests again.
“Please, tell me, House. Anything,” Wilson whispers, creeping closer. House’s next attempt at words comes out in a sob, and he turns his head, his back to Wilson for the first time—a good sign—the broken-O standing out starkly below his nape. “Do you—” Please let him be right, or House will kill him. “Do you need me to scent you? Glare at me if I’m wrong.” All House does is whimper, his hand digging into the mattress again, so Wilson shuffles closer, staying noisy the whole time, and tries not to hold his breath.
This isn’t weird. This is his best friend. This is a medical necessity. He can’t quite grasp why right now, but—but once House is better, he can explain it to him. This is—this doesn’t mean anything.
Still.
It’s just alpha instinct, to feel a thrum of satisfaction at the fact of his scent clinging to an omega. Any omega. Nothing to do with the fact that it’s House. When House inevitably lashes out at him with half-sheathed claws once he’s close enough, Wilson catches his hand, just barely, and presses their wrists together. For a moment, the growling and the writhing gets worse, but there’s only confusion and regret in House’s eyes, not anger, and Wilson hurries to bring his other wrist up to the back of House’s neck.
It's normal for alphas. It’s a physiological response, him huffing intently, a shiver lighting up under his skin at the taste of their scents mingling. Just—it’s evolutionary, if it’s anything, the way it catches in his chest and warms and spreads until he’s purring in a low rumble. And if he must pretend it’s intentional, it’s because an alpha’s purr is supposed to be soothing to omegas. House tenses for one last instant before going limp, without warning, Wilson only just catching him as House falls back against his chest. And Wilson doesn’t even think about it, the way he curls instinctively, protectively, this is his best friend, there’s nothing in the world that could stop him.
“There you are, House,” he whispers. House shivers, so Wilson curls tighter. “Are you with me?”
“Not…for long,” House pants. “Scenting—the sedatives. It’s, they’ll kick in now that you’ve—” He cuts off in a keening noise, clutching at his thigh, and Wilson hurries to pry his hand away, his claws still out. “God—hurts so bad.”
“I know. We’re gonna figure it out, House, I promise you.”
“I’m so cold, Wilson, everything’s cold. Do I—what’s my temp?”
“Don’t think about that. Don’t be your own doctor. You’re gonna be fine, House—”
“There’s some discoloration. I…Wilson, I dunno what to do….” His speech slurs, fades, the sedatives finally kicking in, and Wilson stays right where he is, leveling his breathing along with House’s. And if he stays a moment longer there than he strictly needs to, it’s only because he wants the scents of conflict to fade from the room a little, to ensure that House is well and truly sedated. And if he returns to this moment in his memory time and time again, to this moment where House is still and warm and contained in his arms, it’s because of the stress that follows. Or because for once House had shut the fuck up, not because he longs to be allowed to hold him, thanks very much. (God, the brutal sucker-punch of hindsight. It’s not 20/20, it’s a freight train going 60 an hour, barreling straight towards him, the whistle tuned to the key of you stupid bastard, you should’ve known.)
It's excruciating. The whole thing. But in all honesty, Wilson would prefer the days in the hospital, when sedatives flowed free and clear, to the days after discharge. House has never been more volatile, violent, and vicious.
There are times, hours, when they have to do it all over again, the scene from the hospital room. Minus the part where Wilson scents him at the end; even though he thinks it would help, he knows better than to bring it up. Stacy can hardly get near him, and Wilson happens to know she spends a lot of time crying in the parking lot. The second you enter the apartment, the scent of pain and pissed-offness coats your throat. Mealtimes are a battle. PT is a battle. Everything’s a battle.
Worse than the times House is lost to instinct and lashing out blindly are the times when he’s lucid, but horrible anyway. Spitting insults at Stacy when she tries to help him with anything, blaming her for the decision she made while he was comatose—he throws a plate at the wall, and that’s it for Stacy; Wilson can’t blame her, though he resents her, just a little, and just for show, for leaving him alone with House.
In truth, he’s relieved. It feels simpler, somehow, to deal with House on his own, without worry for what Stacy might think or where she might be.
middle / rock bottom
He wants, so badly, to…well, to alpha. He wants to soothe and coddle and protect, but House might genuinely kill him. Instead, he fights with House over every little thing, just the way House wants, the way he needs. Eat the fucking food, you stubborn bastard. I don’t care, we’re getting to the toilet on your own two feet or not at all.
The pain, the frustration of helplessness, House’s instincts, and his own personality create a toxic feedback loop of lashing out because he’s feral, then lashing out because he’s angry and embarrassed about the last outburst. Wilson sleeps on his couch a lot. Wakes to confused, territorial snarling, but there’s nothing else for it, and he and House both know it. He’s fighting his own recovery every step of the way, the only thing he has control over.
“As wrong as it feels to say, he needs to hit rock bottom,” Cuddy says at one point. “Just try your best, Wilson, not to hit it with him.” From the look in her eyes, though, she doesn’t have high hopes about that. Wilson’s marriage is a shell of its promised self, and he knows the end is not far off, but he can’t bring himself to care. He only has so much room in himself, in his world, and right now it’s confined to a dark apartment that reeks of pain and a wild creature who can’t settle.
The turning point comes on a cold, dark day where the pharmacy’s closed for the weekend and House is low on Vicodin, which he should be weaning off of anyway, and House is angry, so angry, lucid and purposeful and sharp-edged. “What the fuck are you still doing here?” he asks Wilson.
“I’m going to ignore that you’ve just said that.”
“How’s that working out for you? With me, with Bonnie?” House twists angrily on the couch. “Have you found a pharmacy that’s open yet, or not?!”
“If you would give me a moment.” Wilson is flipping through the phonebook, struggling not to snap at him. “I can run you a bath. That should help a little bit, in the meantime—”
“Oh, and next you’re gonna be scenting me again like some kind of pervert freak,” House snarls, and Wilson’s head snaps up. Shock and revulsion writhe in his belly.
How much he’s clung to that memory, only for House to throw it back in his face. “I—I cannot fucking believe you,” Wilson chokes out, feeling the blood rise to his face.
“I bet you liked it. I bet you got a sick thrill out of scenting the fucked-up omega that nobody else can get close to—”
“You are such a—an intolerable bastard!” Wilson’s shouting, and a snarl rips free from House’s chest, but his lips are twisted in a sick, painful grin. “Don’t you fucking act like I—like I victimized you. You scented me first—”
“—only because I felt sorry for you. Crying about your sham of a marriage.”
“That’s not what I was—”
“Dragging yourself around like a sad-sack, having a panic attack because you couldn’t face up to your next divorce, I wouldn’t have scented you if you didn’t look so pathetic—”
“—and I wouldn’t have scented you if you hadn’t presented your neck like a bitch in heat.” The words are savage, feel like they’re not even his, words he’s never once directed at anyone, dripping with contempt and omegaphobia, and the second they leave his mouth he feels like a stranger’s said them, and a second after that he bounces into his own body and deals with the sickening realization that they’re his.
And House has that look in his eyes again, the coldly-victorious one he gets when he’s angry to have been right about something. Fuck you, YOU pushed me to this. You did this to me.
“Just couldn’t help yourself. Despite your reputation, you probably don’t get omegas presenting to you, ever, you soft-knotted pushover,” House hisses, his voice cracked open with hurt. “So the minute one does, you lose your shit—”
“I’m not the one who was outta control.” Wilson’s up in his face now, the stress and fatigue and heartache boiling over. “Face it, House, when it comes to your outbursts I am the only one in the room thinking about what he’s doing. I don’t know why I expected you to appreciate it after all this time spent sucking me dry.”
“Then why are you still here?” House snarls.
“Good fucking question. It’s certainly not as though you deserve it.” He storms out, and the sound of glass breaking shortly follows, and for once he doesn’t turn back.
Not for hours. In those hours, he drives aimlessly around Princeton. Can’t go to House’s, can’t fathom dealing with Bonnie, can’t risk getting sucked into conversations at the hospital. He stops under an overpass to scream. Gets back in the car.
Goes and gets groceries. Tracks down a pharmacy that will fill an emergency scrip. Goes to a bar, drinks a single drink, drives back to House’s and sits in the parking lot, knowing this is where Stacy sat to cry so often. He gets it. He always has.
Not once does he ask himself why he’s back here. He doesn’t know how to be anywhere else.
Wilson forgets himself. House is collapsed in a heap in the hallway, unmoving, and Wilson runs to his side. Over the roaring in his ears, he hears the thud of dropped groceries; by the time he realizes this has woken House abruptly, he’s already there, and House’s warning snarl doesn’t erupt in time for Wilson to pull his hands back; House comes up swinging.
It really is a brutal thing, being ripped open by an omega’s claws. House flays him sternum to shoulder, slashing horizontally across Wilson’s left bicep as Wilson turns to pull away, and as House moves to strike again, Wilson scrambles backwards, the top of his right shin catching two claws, and then he’s out of attack distance. A ragged growl of pain leaves Wilson before he can think about it, sending House curling into the nearest wall, their growls tangling. “Goddammit, House,” Wilson snarls. His best friend’s eyes are wide and hazy, half-aware at best. “God, one thing after another with you. Jesus fucking Christ, this hurts.” Hands shaking, he strips off his jacket and presses it, balled up, to the worst of the bleeding across his chest. Leans his weight on that spot against a wall corner, the pressure making him hiss. The shin’s not that deep, so he leaves it be.
“Snap out of it, you son of a bitch,” Wilson whispers, closing his eyes, listening for the sound of House cooling down. All he can smell is his own blood. “I’m gonna need stitches, and I’m not doing this shit myself.” All he can do is wait. He doesn’t have it in him to pull House back into himself, not right now.
It feels like an eternity before House starts breathing harder, coming back to his own body. He does it wheezing, his own pain probably blinding him a bit, the knowledge of what he’s just done coming back to him. “Wilson—fuck,” he breathes, and Wilson glares weakly at him from where he’s propped himself up.
“I am so sick of you,” Wilson says darkly.
“I know.” His voice sounds choked, and he uncurls himself haltingly, shakily. “I’m sick of me, too.”
“Pity party’s over.” Wilson throws him the pills, and House breathes a ragged sigh of relief before popping two. “Tell me you have a suture kit here.”
“Yeah. I—yeah.” Despite the many betrayals of today, Wilson’s heart still hurts at the sight of House half-crawling towards the bathroom, then back down the hall. Wilson shouts hoarsely at the sting of alcohol dousing his wounds. “Fuck you, I hope you ripped a claw, motherfucker,” he whispers, and House chuckles shakily.
“Still intact. You could probably convince Cuddy to declaw me for you, though.”
“Just shut up and stitch me back together.” House’s mouth thins, unhappy to be ordered around, but he does as he’s told. His hands are steady, focused, the stitches neat and careful, but the second he’s done he starts shaking.
Silently, Wilson stands and grabs one of his own blankets from the couch, dropping it over House before handing him a bottle of water. “What happened?” he asks evenly.
“I fell. And then I got—tired.”
“You didn’t pass out?”
“No.”
With a sigh, Wilson drops back to sitting beside him. House’s scent is muted, weakened by exhaustion and pain, and he’s not meeting Wilson’s eyes. “I didn’t mean it,” he whispers. “Earlier.”
“I’m sorry I called you a bitch in heat.”
“I’ve had worse.”
“Not from me. Seriously, though, you are such an asshole. I get you’re in pain. I get you’re scared. I get that you hate needing anything, but you do. Get the fuck over it.” House flinches, drawing tighter under the blanket, his hand clutching the edge of it and starting to tremble again.
He turns and looks over, his eyes pinned to Wilson’s chest where he’s slashed open. “Wilson,” he whispers.
“I’m not mad at you for that. You didn’t know what you were doing.”
“Why did you come back?” House’s face crumples, and he drops it into his hands. “God, why did you go and do that? Why—why are you wasting time here, all I do is—” he gestures at the scars, and Wilson sighs loudly.
“Idiot. I’m about to hug you and you are going to be still and let me. Don’t do that, don’t use this as an excuse to wallow. Fuck you.” He drops his right arm around House’s shoulders, and House leans suddenly, heavily, into his side. Wilson closes his eyes and breathes slow and even, hoping House will follow along. “You’re part of my pack, whether you like it or not,” Wilson sighs. Maybe the only member of it. “Where else would I be?”
“Ew,” House sniffles, then laughs brokenly. “I just, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean, I never wanted to—”
“Shh. Shut up, I know you didn’t. It’s not your fault, House. I scared you. You were protecting yourself.”
“But you’re not—you don’t scare me, Wilson. Of all—in this whole world, you don’t scare me.” Vicodin and exhaustion are catching up with him, muddling his speech. Wilson runs his palm up and down House’s arm, shushing him.
“I know that. But your instincts are the way they are for a reason. I’m not taking it personally, so just shut up about it.”
“I don’t know what to do, I can’t keep doing this,” House mumbles thickly. “God, I’m so tired, alpha.” From the way his scent stays steady and his breathing doesn’t change, House doesn’t even realize he’s said it. Wilson reminds himself sternly that normal rules don’t apply for House, that the honorific probably doesn’t mean the same thing to him, if anything, and that even if it does, he’s not in his right mind, and that even if he were, it means nothing to Wilson because they’re just friends.
So Wilson doesn’t comment; he coaxes House to his feet and down the hall to bed, cleans his own blood off the floors, puts away the groceries. Inside him, something shudders, feeling broken. He tells himself it’s because it’s crushing to hear House call anyone “alpha” even by accident, and not because he’s upset that the first time House called him that, he wasn’t in his right mind.
It's a new leaf turned, though. House finally accepts using a cane. The Vicodin, however, remains a constant. Wilson finally goes home; when he gets there, Bonnie’s gone. House returns to work for about a week before going back home on heat leave, which Wilson takes as a good sign—his body probably staved it off until he was well enough.
And eventually things hit an equilibrium. House is as well as he’s ever going to be.
middle / emphasis
It’s not that Wilson doesn’t try to date omegas once in awhile. It just always falls apart.
Every unmated omega at the hospital kind of gives him a wide berth. In their minds, House has claimed that spot; he’s even heard some of them express bitterness over it, as if House is less deserving due to his designation. He used to be more militant about it, until House snarled at him for treating him like a charity case and gave out to him over the fact that this isn’t a new thing or an uncommon one. “Keep up this way and you’ll see half the hospital fired, and then what? They’ll look at it like it’s my fault. I was a hard enough sell to the board, all you’re doing is drawing more fire.”
So, much as it rankles him, he doesn’t react, anymore, to the cranky, jealous mutterings of certain staff members anytime House makes an appearance on the oncology ward. The end takeaway is that if he’s ever going to settle down with an omega, it won’t be someone he knows from work.
In the years between Bonnie and Julie, Wilson gets it in his head a few times that he wants to try omegas again. He’s never had a vast preference for them over betas, the way most alphas seem to, but even less so since he’s met House—not that the two are correlative, necessarily—anyway—
That Hollywood-perfect mateship dream still catches hold of him once in awhile. If he’s near rut, he finds himself goopily browsing Zillow listings for houses with big denning rooms in traditional styles, the ones with the sunken nesting chambers with safety cribbing built in for co-sleeping with an infant or several. Sometimes, if he’s feeling really sappy, he looks at old-timey pack housing from times when multi-generational households were more common, the kind with a central hub for meals and pack bonding activities and the private quarters spinning off like wheel spokes. Or the more modern alternative that’s laid out more vertically, like a small apartment building.
And then for a few short weeks he’ll hit a phase of omega madness. He’s gotten tired of dealing with bad reactions later down the line, so now, for better or for worse, he opens with the whole House thing, explaining on the first date that he’s looking to settle down, but his life is non-traditional. That his best friend’s an AA with a physical disability, and that he and Wilson are a platonic—strictly platonic—package deal.
Most of the time he doesn’t get a second date. The times he does are a rarity, with 80% of them seeming to be attachment-favorable omegas trying to prove how woke they are. If any of them get to the next stage, which is meeting House—again, another shortcut, because this is about the time where House will start stalking him if he smells another omega on Wilson’s person—most of them disappear quickly. Those that stay seem to think they can win Wilson over enough to get him to drop House.
Sometimes he and Cuddy will get drunk and lament their woes. She’s had bad luck with female-alpha chasers of all designations, or, on the flipside, male omegas who share a heat with her once and then want to get married right away. But she tends to be rather unsympathetic to Wilson’s particular plight. On one such night, wine-drunk and morose, Wilson says, “I just don’t get why some omegas think that alphas and omegas can’t just be friends!”
“Oh, because that’s what you and House are,” Cuddy snorts. “Totally normal friendship.”
“We are. I mean…but you also can’t hold House to the norm of—of whatever friendship is. Or looks like.”
“Uh-huh. Hmm. Let’s assess. You’re the only alpha he lets into his home. You’re the only alpha whose home he will visit without dipping after ten minutes. You let him swindle you out of your money, you spoil him, you handle his worst emotions, you make sure he’s taking care of his health, you’re his medical proxy, you’ll drop anything if he calls—James, all you’re missing is the bite.”
“I—you—you’re crazy. We’re friends. Sure, House needs more than the average friend, but he—he has a condition,” Wilson sputters, feeling his face get red. “I don’t—House doesn’t even fuck alphas, let alone date them.”
“Anymore.” Cuddy raises her eyebrows, and this is how Wilson finds out she’s fucked House before. “And I find it curious,” she adds, once the conversation’s dwindled from that particular subject, “that your protest was ‘House doesn’t date alphas,’ not ‘I’m not into men.’”
“Because it goes without saying.”
“Most straight men would have said it as the first point of order. But that’s neither here nor there. The point is, if an omega’s gonna even consider letting you into her nest to sink your fangs in and knock her up, your commitment to another omega, however ‘platonic’ in nature, is a red flag. Omegas needing your full attention—isn’t that the whole dream? And isn’t that what House already does?”
“House is not—”
“—a typical omega. Preaching to the fucking choir, James. I basically invented AA sensitivity training. But you cannot have it both ways. Even if you do find an omega who’s willing to put up with this…arrangement you two have, House will find some way to sabotage it. Even if she can stand not to be the only omega in your life, House certainly can’t.”
“I don’t think that’s true. If he—House would just want me to be happy. He knows…he understands I’m not…his alpha.”
“If you say so.”
“I mean, the sheer thought of it is ridiculous.”
“Clearly.” Cuddy arches a brow, her lip curling condescendingly, and this is about the point in the night where the two alphas tend to get exhausted of each other and the bickering’s no longer fun and good-natured, so they wisely call it here.
It bugs Wilson for weeks until, during a late-night television binge with House, he blurts out, “If I got serious with an omega, would you sabotage it?”
“Anything for you. What, you scared of being mated that badly?”
“I’m not asking you to, I’m—nevermind, all right?”
“Why the fuck would I care? Where is this coming from?”
“Cuddy thinks that you think I’m your alpha.” He cringes as the words leave his mouth, because it’s such a stupid thought to begin with, and at the way House rolls his eyes, he agrees. “Look—”
“That’s one of the stupidest things I’ve ever heard, and what’s even stupider is that it’s clearly been bugging you enough to bring it up to me. You wouldn’t have if you’d been able to dismiss it, which is obviously the correct choice. Jesus fucking Christ, alphas are lunatics. The minute an omega can stand to be in your presence you make it all about you.” His scent shifts to something defensive and sharp, which Wilson doesn’t understand.
Wilson is arguing back before he can think about it. “You’re telling me it doesn’t mean something that I’m the only alpha you can stand to be around half the time? Not that—I’m just saying, it’s not a baseless assumption that you might feel, I don’t know, threatened by the idea of me building a life with another omega.”
“It is so beyond narcissistic for you to even think that. As if I not only want an alpha mate, but like I’m using you as a proxy for that. Of all the knotheaded things you’ve ever said—get real. If anything, you’re the one putting too much emphasis on this relationship.”
“Too much emphasis—” Wilson’s sputtering now, feeling vaguely hurt, and he doesn’t understand why. “I’ve coaxed you out of a hundred violent rages, I’ve been there for you when you’ve attacked other people, I’ve nursed you back to health and been sliced open for my troubles—”
“I didn’t ask you to do that!” He’s yelling, and Wilson starts yelling in response.
“Of course you fucking didn’t! You don’t know how to ask for anything, House, you just take—”
“I have only ever taken what you give. I didn’t ask you to leave your honeymoon—”
“—because you were out of your goddamn mind. How could I not come back? Who else could’ve gotten through to you?”
“I would have passed out eventually.”
“You would have died.” They’re up in each other’s faces now, unflinching, this kind of juvenile, no-holds-barred spat that he’s only ever gotten into with other alphas, and even then only in his teens and early twenties. Their scents tangle together in the space between them, and Wilson shouldn’t like it. Doesn’t. “And still you’re sitting here acting like it was some big blunder on my part, and not the only reason you’re still here. Goddamn you, House.” He breaks eye contact, feeling suddenly wrung out and teary. House is silent for a few moments.
“You’re the one who’s too close to me, Jimmy.” There’s the edge of a growl in his voice, but when Wilson looks up again, he’s looking away. “I’m the fucked-up one, not you. It’s normal for me to be fucked-up, it’s not normal for you to go along with it, and you can blame me for it all you want but you don’t have any right to be fucking surprised. I’m like Fireball. If you keep downing shots like a ditzy co-ed, you’re gonna throw up, and it’s gonna burn.”
“You’re not fucked-up, House.”
“Of course I am.” He looks mildly offended, so Wilson lets him continue in the interest of cooling this whole situation down. “I turn every relationship toxic. I take boundaries as a challenge. I can’t predict my own outbursts. Even before the infarction, I never would’ve had a chance at a normal mateship. Don’t martyr yourself any more than you usually do. One of us might as well end up happy.”
It's both touching and heartbreaking to hear House put it like that. Touching, in that he so rarely thinks about Wilson’s needs, Wilson’s happiness; heartbreaking because House’s defeatist attitude towards himself is always heartbreaking. “I am happy,” Wilson blurts. “I’m happy with what I have. A mate would be nice, but I—you’re not dragging me down. Don’t be a sad-sack and accuse me of making it all about myself. You’re not broken, House, and if your past experiences have convinced you otherwise it’s because it’s the world that’s broken, not you.”
“Oh, don’t do that. Don’t lecture me about societal disadvantages as if I don’t live them. I can’t be normal around alphas, it’s kind of the entire disorder, Wilson. It’s taken you a decade and a lot of blood loss to sit here with me on this couch. Tell me what alpha wants to go through that shit for a miserable bastard like me, and tell me why the hell I’d want to put up with that.”
“Fine. I’m not gonna narrate your experience back to you. But you deserve to be happy, House. With or without a partner.”
“Shut up.” House pours another drink and downs it in two gulps. “I’m as happy as I’m ever gonna get.” It’s as close to a sappy admission as House ever gets, and Wilson valiantly keeps himself from getting gooey about it. “Go chase omega tail if you want to. And if I’m in the way, do what you need to do. Like I said, I’ve never made you do anything.”
That’s such a bullshit statement, and they both know it, but, for the sake of pretending he can ever find an omega of his own, Wilson lets it lie.
middle / fellowship
House begins to take on fellows, and for awhile that’s the main issue in their lives. Foreman and Cameron are both alphas, which takes some getting used to for both them and House, and Chase is an omega whose excitement at having an omega boss to look up to is somewhat scrambled by House’s…everything.
They all go through a rough few weeks. Foreman is holding onto some serious biases, while Cameron is a terminal fixer, and House is dealing with mounting stress over having both of them in such close quarters to him so often. Even with the scent absorbers running, he can’t get his head on straight. For weeks, he refuses to let Wilson step in, perhaps owing to their recent discussion about Wilson being “too close” to him, and perhaps because he feels he needs to do this on his own, but there’s always a breaking point.
It's just a series of mishaps: Foreman, nursing a headache, is sitting in the conference room in the dark, startles House into growling, growls back; Cameron comes running at the smell of omega fear and breaks a lamp, causing more snarling; Chase starts whimpering in the hallway, caught in indecision, which ultimately sends House bolting into his office to hunker down. Except Foreman and Cameron start fighting, which only ramps up the frenzy, and Wilson has fucking had it.
Not only can he not stand the smell of his best friend stressed all the time, but he’s sick of the three younger doctors jockeying like they’re in high school. It’s some kind of issue that typical As and Os have with ferals, it’s like they regress. House maintains it’s because he breaks every social and biological norm they’ve grown up with, and there may be something to that.
In any case, Wilson storms into the conference room and shoves the two younger alphas apart, asserting his superiority with a low, barely-bothered growl, as if to say, you simply annoy me. “Sit. Stop growling at each other or I’ll have Cuddy send you both home on unpaid leave. Chase, get in here.” He waits until the only growling is still coming from House’s office, then moves towards the door. “We’re gonna stop having days like this,” he says sternly. “You’re all gonna stay right where you are, and once he’s calmed down, we’re gonna have a serious conversation. If you can’t do that, you don’t deserve to be here.”
He goes into House’s office, and they do the slow dance they’re used to, and once House is calm, Wilson says, “If they’re going to stay, we can’t keep on like this.”
“And what do you propose we do?” House’s hands are shaking, exhausted; the stress is palpable. “Maybe we should only talk through conference calls from now on. I…oh, I don’t know how much longer I can do this. I told Cuddy this was a bad idea.”
“We can make it work. But you’re gonna have to let me step in. I can’t deal with this happening next door to me every day.” I can’t deal with seeing you this strung out.
“I can’t be here for it. I need—I just….” House shivers, and Wilson sighs.
“I’ve told you to start keeping a blanket in here. We both know you’re just going to end up stealing mine, so you might as well just stay in my office. I don’t have any appointments until 11.” It’s easy, now, to be careful about the way he takes care of House, the way House will let him. To make it sound like he’s giving in, instead of just giving.
“What would I do without my extremely white knight,” House grumbles, but he stands slowly from where he was hunched behind his desk and limps towards the balcony.
“You’re welcome.” Wilson waits until he’s gone before striding back into the conference room, part of him wondering if all three will still be there. They are; it’s a good sign.
Still, he doesn’t hide his disappointment and frustration as he launches into a lecture about the rules of engagement for House. Rule 1: don’t sneak up on him. Ever. Rule 2: don’t treat him like an omega. Rule 3: if he retreats, do not, under any circumstances, chase him.
From there, Wilson starts them all on a slow scent acclimation protocol, not dissimilar to those used for children starting school, foster pups, or people with sensory processing issues. The three fellows use strong scent-blocking soaps and lotions for a week before gradually dialing back, allowing their scents to take up a mild presence in the conference room, just to the point where the hospital’s HVAC starts to cover it.
It takes them all awhile to find a way of moving around each other. Wilson sets himself up as the arbiter of it all, mainly because House refuses to talk about it or cooperate with anything unless Wilson argues him into it. Foreman makes one singular throwaway comment about House just needing to be “settled down” with a mating bite before Wilson thoroughly disabuses him of that notion, first by chewing him out with a furor mostly reserved for House himself, second by assigning him a stack of journals about why he’s a fucking idiot for thinking that. Cameron starts nursing a pretty serious crush on House. But slowly, little by little, they learn to coexist, and the companionship actually seems to be good for House, professionally and personally.
House’s constant penchant for sexual harassment and juvenile pranks have always been his way of asserting his dominance, being territorial; Wilson knows he’s well and truly acclimated to the fellows when they’re all snapping back, falling into a rhythm. But Wilson is not prepared for his own reaction to hearing House make some flippant comment to Foreman about how “If you can figure out what the patient’s got, maybe I’ll let you rut me.”
And it’s just because Foreman’s got rut leave coming up. Which House shouldn’t know, but does. It’s not as though House actually means it. Either way, Foreman doesn’t like the way House smells, or much about House at all, so he wouldn’t want it—but it does get the other two clamoring jealously for House’s approval, which sparks competition, and House leans back in his seat, enjoying the chaos, and Wilson is left alone where he sits to figure out why he feels…just why.
Jealous, in that unique way House provokes that doesn’t feel like any jealousy Wilson’s ever known. Probably just because, their entire friendship, House has never once joked about spending a rut with Wilson. About fucking him, sure. But it’s almost like Wilson’s cycle is one of the few things off-limits. Anyway, it’s certainly nothing to do with the idea of House spending a rut with another alpha, because that would be non-platonic, which is—
Which is ridiculous.
But House keeps the cruel joke going, telling Cameron the same goes for her later that day, and Chase that he can join them if he wants to, if he’ll only convince the patient to go through with the brain biopsy, and Wilson feels like he’s crawling out of his skin. Like he wants to take House by the back of the neck and shake him, yell at him for something, and also like he wants to strangle Cameron a little bit, and—fuck, everything smells so strong right now, House the strongest of all, and he suddenly feels like the space he’s in is too wide-open and—
Oh, okay. This is a breakthrough rut. Strange; Wilson’s pretty regular when he’s on suppressants, but it’s not uncommon. He’s quick to call in from his office, and then he sends his beta assistant to grab patches for his glands so that he can get home without advertising to everyone in the hospital what’s going on.
Except House has horrible timing. He bursts in through the balcony door, which Wilson forgot to lock—goddammit—and he’s already demanding to know why Wilson called in sick before he inhales and freezes in place. Cocks his head quizzically.
His scent blooms with curiosity, and Wilson’s head feels hot and swimmy as it clings to his receptors. Wilson’s on his feet; he doesn’t remember when that happened. “You okay?” House asks cautiously, his eyes wide and blue and faceted with midday sun, he’s so unfairly beautiful, how could anyone else be good enough for him? Fuck, Wilson’s in trouble.
Carefully, House creeps closer, clearly trying to figure out why Wilson smells different, and by the time he does, he’s about two feet away. Wilson breathes shallowly, trying not to take in too much, but he can’t help but notice House’s curiosity only intensifies. He doesn’t get scared. He doesn’t bolt. He just stays right where he is, and Wilson should back away—no, this shouldn’t mean anything, but—
“What, you skip a suppressant dose or something?” House says, and it’s meant to be flippant but all Wilson can think about is that he’s heard House’s voice in so many ways by now. So many emotions.
“Must have,” Wilson says, his voice huskier than usual, and House cocks his head again. Wilson’s eyes get stuck on the lean line of his neck. He should be thinking; he isn’t.
“Are you gonna get to the parking lot okay, alpha?” Once he’s lucid, he’ll wrestle for awhile over whether this moment was an uncharacteristic gesture of care from House, the honorific dropped unthinkingly, or perhaps tenderly—or whether House was seeing if he could provoke Wilson into doing something stupid. For fun, or to prove something, or for no reason at all. Knowing House, it can very well be all of the above.
In any case, the word emboldens him. House’s collar is askew, and Wilson steps closer than he needs to to fix it, and not only does House let him, but when Wilson’s fingertips graze his neck, he tilts his chin up, breathing in sharply. It’s a submission gesture, baring the neck. And it’s not by much, but Wilson knows him by now—it’s huge, for House.
“Wilson.” His voice is soft, softer than it’s ever been, and the rut-beast is alive under Wilson’s skin, crowing at having him so close, at the way he smells, not a thought left in his head. His hand still resting on the side of House’s neck. Shaking. “It’s taking you quick, huh?”
It breaks through to his thinking brain a little. Not enough to move his hand. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I—sorry.”
“It’s okay. I shouldn’t have stuck around this long.” He’s unusually level-toned, docile. “You need to go home.”
“I know. I know I do, I just—I’m waiting for…Jenny.” House nods, understanding what he means.”
“Good call. You reek.”
“What do I smell like?”
“Like rut.” House narrows his eyes, clearly hiding something, though Wilson won’t figure it out for a long, long while. “Seriously, Jimmy, it’s taking you hard.”
“You’re telling me.” Unbidden, when House shifts on his feet, Wilson’s other hand closes around his wrist. He’ll never forget, it’ll haunt him forever: instead of tensing, House hums softly through his nose. Almost a whine. Almost. “Sorry—House, I—”
“You can scent me if you need to. It’s all right.” Wilson tries, unsuccessfully, to pull himself away, knowing deep down that it’s not all right, but rut-brain is in full effect, and he can’t quite bring himself to let go. “You’re never gonna get out of here otherwise. You need to calm down.” House’s eyes spear into his and he forgets everything, he just forgets— “Scent me, alpha.” It’s not a plea, it’s nothing close, it’s a command. One that Wilson can’t do anything but give in to.
He's a blur of motion before he can think about it, his wrists running over House’s, the back of his neck, which he’s then using to pull the other man in so that the sides of their necks press against each other. A thick, thrumming purr that Wilson’s never heard himself make before passes from his throat into House’s shoulder. House shivers in his hold—distaste? Excitement? Wilson’s too far gone to read his scent. When Jenny knocks at the door, Wilson growls, his hold on House tightening, but House calls, “One minute,” then shushes him.
“Calm down, Jimmy. Easy.” House turns his head, biting gently at Wilson’s ear, and while he’s distracted, House presses his own wrist against the back of Wilson’s neck and everything goes fuzzy and loose for a second.
When Wilson shakes it off, he’s sitting on the edge of his desk, House pressing patches over his glands. When he comes at Wilson with the scent-blocking mask, Wilson fights him, but House gets his way. With everything muted, Wilson comes back to himself enough to be mildly embarrassed, but House is already waving him off, shooing him to the parking garage, and Wilson’s all too happy to be leaving.
He spends his rut alone, tortured by visions of House the whole time. Only because they scented each other. That has to be it—that’s all it can be, that’s all it can possibly be.
Once he realizes it’s entirely probable that possessiveness over House likely caused the breakthrough rut, he does what he was always going to do: he runs.
middle / Julie
And there comes Julie. She’s a drug rep, so she knows House but doesn’t really know. She’s an omega, but she doesn’t seem particularly possessive. She says she doesn’t believe in mating bites, and it’s only dimly that Wilson registers that he’s relieved by that.
She’s detached, independent. Sort of the opposite of what Wilson thinks he wants in an omega. She can be cold at times, but she’s confident, sexy, intelligent. Even as he knows it’s a fallacy, he holds her up as an example of why Cuddy was wrong—it’s unconventional, sure, but it is possible for him to date an omega and be there for House.
His marriage to Julie feels like one big blur on the timeline. She’s everything, but not enough. Even though they’re not trying to avoid pregnancy, it’s not happening. (Wilson will later find out she’s been on the pill for most of their marriage, without telling him.) Her detachment, her lack of concern over House—maybe it should be a red flag, or at the very least an indicator of some sort, but Wilson is all too happy to overlook it if it serves his own state of denial.
Only in random, unguarded moments does he let himself think about the scenting in his office. Only on very dark and drunken nights will he allow himself to admit he wishes he could do it again. That Julie, with her maple syrup scent and her sweet voice and her self-reliance, is just a cover for the things he can’t find it in himself to own up to just yet.
So even as it widens the chasm between them, he overlooks her detachment because it allows him to keep House. He does the bare minimum to keep her happy, telling himself he’s living the dream. He has an omega mate, minus the bite—who needs it, anyway, she’s right, it’s a bit archaic, a ring is more than enough—and thus, he’s got it all.
He doesn’t think about how, when he’d returned from rut leave, House’s eyes snapped up to him when he walked into work with a reckless sheen of hope for just a half-second before he dialed himself in and said something crass about knots. Or about how, when he met Julie, House’s Vicodin intake jumped up for the first time in over a year; how it hasn’t come back down. How House started seeing patients in person after that, like he was out to prove something, running off and looking for trouble; he got more reckless, sure, but he also got better, his crazy antics ultimately solving cases faster and more decisively.
There was a time, between the infarction and Julie, when it seemed like House had reached an equilibrium of sorts, a state of mild happiness and, if not a positive, then a neutral outlook on life and his future, save the odd moments of self-deprecation. But the increased Vicodin intake and his eventual feud with Vogler mark a darker turning point, and for awhile, it feels like all Wilson can do to keep his head above water.
There are times, during the Vogler era, where he almost wonders if House isn’t punishing him for something. If the moment in his office at the start of his rut wasn’t some kind of missed opportunity. But it’s easier to be angry with him than to face certain truths, so they fight and they scrap and they fall apart, then together again, over and over. When Stacy reappears in their lives, Wilson tries to stave her off, but House careens headlong into a brief and bright-burning affair almost as if he’s doing so for attention. Flaunting it.
He wins, in the end. Gets to keep all three of his fellows, and send Vogler away, and Wilson doesn’t even know how he’s supposed to feel about it, except that the triumph spiking House’s scent after months of stress and anger and bitterness feels like coming home. And that’s so scary that Wilson goes to his actual home, where he expects to spend another night on the couch, only to find Julie sitting there, a stack of papers on the coffee table.
“You’ve met someone else.”
“I have.” Julie ducks her head, seeming almost sheepish, even though—really—Wilson can’t blame her.
He’s had one foot, at best, in the door their entire marriage.
“I’m gay, James,” she adds. As if that makes it better. Not that it’s bad, per se. It’s almost a relief. “I wasn’t hiding it, necessarily—more…in denial. So I think…I don’t know. It’s not that I didn’t love you. In a way. You were safe. You were never here. You never expected to be mine, and I didn’t want you to.”
He sits heavily beside her, feeling numb. “And what is that supposed to mean?”
“Both of us were running away.” She stares at him evenly, and his gut churns. “You still are. I’m done running, I—my next heat, she’s gonna bite me. But—you’ve been good to me. You’re a good man. I don’t want you to keep running.”
“I’m not running. What, you think I’m gay, too?”
“You’re in love with House.”
“I—what?”
“At the very least, he’s the only omega you really have eyes for. And you’re good for each other—or at least, you were. I’ve found my joy. Yours has been in front of you this whole time. You need to stop running from it.”
“You’re crazy.” There’s no bite in his tone, though. “Please, enlighten me. If you think I’m running from something,do me a favor and tell me what made you stop.”
“When you look at someone and nothing else matters—when the world just disappears? When you think you could live in a moment without thinking of the future, or the past, just because she’s there, and you don’t want to be anywhere else…that’s love. Not the kind that wears a ring and sleeps apart, but the kind that leaves a mark.” She reaches out and taps the scars that cleave the left side of his chest, which she knows well enough to find without being able to see, and his heart, at last, breaks under her touch. “James. If you finally wake up, don’t think about all the time you’ve wasted, and don’t let it keep you from stopping running. We only have today.”
“Even if you’re right about me, you’re wrong about him,” Wilson whispers.
“I never said he loved you back. It’s you I know. But you’re gonna be stuck this way unless you try, for better or for worse.”
He signs the papers, and he packs his suitcase. He could insist on keeping the house, he’s well within his right to, but he can’t see himself here. It’s always been the place where Julie doesn’t wait up for him.
*
It’s the longest he’s stayed at House’s since the infarction, the only time he’s stayed over when House was healthy, and Wilson wasn’t too drunk to drive home. For the first few days, they snap and snarl at each other, but things cool down, and they settle into a routine.
Wilson goes about his morning routine loudly even though it annoys House because he’d rather have House annoyed than startled into a feral threat response. No matter how loud he is, though, House wakes up growling at him, and then the growl grows in volume as House creeps closer, until he can see Wilson and assure himself it is Wilson.
Wilson tells House that Julie’s gay, but not the other stuff that Julie said. About Wilson being in love with House.
He’s not agreeing with her. But neither is he at the point, anymore, where he’s burying evidence.
House smells like home. When he’s pleased, the citrus undertones pop out, and when he’s tired, his scent boils down to mostly wine. Wilson keeps coming back to that moment in his office when House’s open, curious eyes and the sunlight catching his hair consumed him; to that moment on his balcony on the night of his bachelor party, when a nameless yearning had taken up inside him and he’d cried for reasons he couldn’t explain. As he tries to honestly rationalize these moments, to place them in a continuum of presumed heterosexuality, he keeps finding reasons to undermine himself, and eventually they grow too large to ignore. He’s always looked at House that way, it turns out; he’s just really good at pretending, unless he’s inebriated in some capacity.
end / accumulation
The thing is—
The thing is, Wilson has probably been in love with House for years.
And once he realizes it, like all loves do, it feels like it opens up his chest and it hurts at the same time as it feels like freedom. Once he’s owned up to it, there is so much to love. It’s like going through the process all at once, and then all over again. His strong hands and the lean lines of his body and the glint in his eyes when he’s solved a puzzle. The way he refuses to admit there’s anything he can’t do, maybe because there isn’t. His hair squashed on one side when he’s just woken up, his eyes still wild, growling until they find Wilson, like Wilson is the center of his storm. The mismatched accumulation of dishes in the cupboard, how he’s almost never sitting still, the way he holds olives and other small snacks carefully between his front teeth, like a bird dog, before snapping them into his mouth all at once—
“You’re staring.”
“You eat funny, that’s why.”
“Fuck you, you eat like someone’s father.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“If you don’t get it, it only proves my point.”
“You’re a child.”
“Yet still, you stoop to my level.”
—and he’s funny. So incredibly witty, and there’s this silently pleased look in his eye anytime he makes Wilson double over in earnest belly-laughter, like he’s won.
The first morning that House doesn’t wake up growling, Wilson knows he’s really in trouble.
He nearly startles out of his skin when House appears behind him in the bathroom doorway; he’s come to rely on the sound of constant growling to track House through the apartment in the mornings, and his startled yelp starts the growling. For the first time that morning. Wilson tries very hard not to make a big deal about it, but—
“You’re grinning like a fucking idiot. Spill.”
“You didn’t growl at me when you woke up this morning.”
“Would you like me to?” House glares at him pointedly, but his face is red.
“You’re embarrassed by—what, by not being constantly on guard anymore? Forgive me if I don’t sympathize.”
“Don’t take it to heart. And I’ll be laughing when I fail to wake up to a knife murderer because of you inuring me to your presence.”
“No you won’t, you’ll be dead. But you’ll have died in your sleep, feeling nice and safe.” Wilson bats his eyelashes at House, making an overly-sweet face, playing up his genuine feelings for laughs. House scoffs, but gets even redder. Interesting.
“I swear to god, do not bring this up at work. If you make me look like a pussy in front of the fellows, I’ll never forgive you.”
“You’re not a pussy for not starting the day with bloodlust.”
“9 out of 10 knife murderers disagree,” House mutters.
Every morning that he manages to sneak up on Wilson without growling kind of makes Wilson feel all gooey inside. Alpha instincts are smug and confident around House in a way they’ve never been, because he’s made an omega feel safe and protected, and it’s all he can do to keep from acting too alpha about it all.
House turns the non-growling into a game: how can he scare the shit out of Wilson most effectively? His favorite, for awhile, is jabbing Wilson in the side, right below the ribs, from behind. The fact that he’s willing to startle Wilson for fun, instead of avoiding any semblance of fear or offense out of protective instinct, is further evidence that…well, that something is changing.
One day, Wilson comes home to the smell of weed smoke, House lying boneless and uncharacteristically still on the living room carpet. “Sorry I didn’t warn you,” House says lazily. “I mean, you were there, I just—ugh.” Cameron’s about to start rut, and it looks like Chase is hitting a heat because of it, all of which is rankling Foreman, so, yes—their floor smells ungodly strong anytime it breaks through the scent barriers. In the end, Cuddy sent them all home early. Wilson remembers, from the night of his bachelor party, that the weed helps House with scent sensitivity. “It’s not helping, though,” House mutters.
Wilson kicks back on the carpet beside him, sitting up, looking down at him. “You haven’t changed your clothes, is why.”
“I haven’t touched any of them, though. Whatever was in the air has dissipated by now.” Wilson leans in and breathes through his mouth; yeah, House just smells like House. “I just can’t get it out of my system, but at least I’m stoned.”
“Hmm. Why’ve you got my jacket bunched up under your head when my pillow’s right there?” Wilson meant it as an honest question, but House’s face slowly reddens, and Wilson starts to think—
The jacket smells stronger. Because he’s been sweating in it.
“I don’t wanna talk about it.” House glares weakly, and Wilson leans over him, grinning.
“No? You sure?” They’re—okay, he’s flirting. Fuck. He didn’t really think about it.
House swallows thickly, looking anywhere but his face. “Sure,” he says hoarsely.
“You know, you never did tell me what I smelled like to you.”
“Shut up.” House’s eyes are pinned on Wilson’s wrist, braced against the floor as he leans.
Wilson’s heart is pounding. It’s probably wrong to push this; probably, like an adult, he should wait until House is sober and maybe—maybe have a conversation.
But he’s not used to making good decisions where House is concerned. So he leans away casually, shrugging out of his suit jacket and dropping it on the end of the couch, tugging his belt off. Strips off his tie with one hand, pops a couple buttons, shoves his sleeves up—normal things, things Wilson does all the time, really, there’s nothing to it—
“You’re a dick,” House whispers, and when Wilson looks over, House is staring, though he quickly averts his eyes. Interesting. House is one for open lechery unless he really likes someone.
“Why would getting out of my work clothes make me a dick? I’ve had a long day, House.” His voice has dropped lower, he’s not sure when.
House doesn’t answer, his eyes flickering with indecision, his jaw working. Wilson takes pity; he won’t make him ask. He offers his wrist wordlessly, and House barely hesitates before taking it.
His hands knead at it, pressing his own glands against it, and Wilson closes his eyes against the onslaught of alpha emotions, the way it makes his pulse jump. “Sit up,” he says softly, when he’s gotten his bearings again. House wrinkles his brow but obeys, slowly, lethargic from the weed, still holding on to Wilson’s wrist. Wilson doesn’t ask before drawing his other one across the back of House’s neck, a low thrum of possession lighting in his belly. He’s not prepared for the way House whimpers once, softly, which shoots straight to Wilson’s groin. No boner, thankfully. Yet.
When Wilson goes to take his wrist away, House whines again, clearly beyond words at this point, so he keeps his hand where it is, cupping the palm against the back and side of his best friend’s head. “I never stopped thinking about it,” Wilson says.
“Hmm?”
“I’d do this every day if you’d let me.” House shudders.
“You don’t mean that, Jimmy.”
“Of course I do.” Wilson brushes his thumb through House’s hair, scraping his scalp lightly, and House breathes out hard, the edge of a groan just barely tamped down. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“It wouldn’t last. It’s just that I’m all you’ve got right now.”
Still, he isn’t pulling away. So Wilson says, “You’ve always been all I’ve got because you’ve always been all I want.”
“Liar.”
“I’ll spend another fifteen years proving it to you if I have to, but I’d really rather not.” House’s eyes fly open, and he furrows his brow at Wilson, leaning back into his touch, and—oh, this is—
This is the perfect time for Wilson’s pager to go off. Fuck.
He’s on call tonight.
Of all the goddamn times.
He’s of half a mind to shut it off, to take whatever consequence Cuddy metes out, but it’s broken the spell, House pulling out of his grasp and stumbling upright, loping a few feet away before turning back to look at Wilson, his expression unreadable.
“House.”
“Wilson.” House scrubs his hands over his face, staring at a point on the wall. “I—you should go.”
Not This will never happen. Not Fuck alphas. Not Get over yourself. “You should go” is a step closer than Wilson’s ever been.
“Okay. But I’m coming back, House. If you’ll let me.”
“It’s not like you have anywhere else to go,” House says after a long, tense moment, looking at Wilson out of the corner of his eye. Something like curiosity in his eyes.
“We should talk.”
“I’m sure you’ll do plenty of talking at me.” There’s a bit of the usual bite in his tone, his lip pulled up to show his teeth—okay, he wants to be done for now. Wilson’s fine with that. Still, he finds himself grinning, and House scoffs loudly before backing down the hall towards his bedroom.
Okay. Later then.
Wilson goes into work and deals with the situation, then spends the rest of the night in his office, not wanting to wake House from a weed-laced sleep and end up with another scar.
He wakes to the sound of his office phone ringing. Sluggishly, he picks it up.
“Oh,” House says down the line. “Shit.”
“Were you hoping for my voicemail box?” Wilson yawns.
“I just—I didn’t expect.” House sounds out of breath, more scattered than Wilson’s used to, and his faculties snap back online suddenly.
“Are you okay? House? Did something happen?”
“Calm down,” he snaps peevishly. Probably okay, then. Oh, House. “I should’ve figured, from the scent sensitivity yesterday, but—point is, Wilson, you can’t come back here.” The words slam into him like a freight train, and he gasps. “You—I’ve got to go.”
The line goes dead.
Fuck.
He should’ve expected this, probably—he’d pushed it too far yesterday, but this—fucking hurts.
He sits entirely still for awhile, staring foggily at the carpet. Feels like a part of him has been scooped out and plopped on the floor carelessly.
That’s where Cuddy finds him, annoyance rolling off her scent, intensifying once she sees the sorry state he’s in. “Why the hell are you still here?”
“Uh,” he coughs. “I guess, I—I’m apparently not welcome back home. I mean, at House’s. Same old story, I guess—”
“James. You fucking idiot. What did he say to you?”
Now Wilson’s annoyed. “That I can’t come back there. Not that it’s any of your business, really—”
“Oh my god. You two deserve each other. He’s on heat leave, Wilson.”
“Oh. Oh, why didn’t he just say that?!”
“Because he’s House!”
“Well, that’s a relief. I guess. I’ll just get a hotel until he’s—”
“You are such a fucking shitty alpha sometimes,” she mutters. “Wilson, answer me this: when do male omegas go into heat?”
“Uh....” He creases his brow, caught off guard by the question. “Well, it’s when they have a mate, usually. Or a potential one.”
“And when has House ever gone into heat, that you know of? You know what, even that doesn’t matter. I’ll answer for you: it’s only ever been because of you for at least the last five years. I’m sick of it, and he smells stable for the first time in ages, and you’re finally single, so I’m putting my foot down: go and take care of it.” Wilson’s eyebrows jump, his mouth falling open.
Sputters at the sheer presumptuousness of her statement before saying, “Legal would have a field day with what you've just said.”
“Fine. All in, then.” She leans into his space, smug and dominant and challenging. “Go and take care of him or I will.”
It’s an empty threat—Cuddy, having actually slept with House once before, knows better—but damn, if it doesn’t make Wilson’s pulse jump, heat unfurling under his skin. He growls, instantly reddening because of it, an apology on the tip of his tongue before she grins and leans back out of his space.
“That’s more like it. You’ve got me for sexual harassment, and I’ve got you for aggressive challenging of your superior. Get out of here, James. And for what it’s worth, I’m rooting for you.”
Okay. All right.
He’s in his car on the way to House’s apartment before he’s really realized it. He’s in the parking lot, staring at the door to 221B, crawling with nerves and need and hope and fear.
He calls House.
“What.” House’s voice is breathy, raspier than usual.
“House, I’m outside.”
“I told you not to come back.” Still, no growl, not yet—a good sign.
“Why wouldn’t you tell me it was because you were in heat?”
“I—wait, did I not do that?” House growls aggravatedly at himself. “I’m further gone than I thought, then.”
“Idiot. I thought you just decided you didn’t want me around anymore.”
“And you were just gonna accept that? Some alpha you are,” House goads.
“House. I’m already struggling not to rush straight in there, don’t make this any harder on me.”
“God—” House cuts himself off with a strangled sound. “Don’t, please, don’t. You remember what happened—”
“I know. I remember. House, if you want to do this alone, I understand. I won’t come in.”
“It’s never been about what I want.” A soft sound, almost like a hiccup, or a sob. “Do you get that? I don’t…it’s never been a choice.”
“I know that. I know. But if you did get a choice, what would it be? If you could have whatever you wanted?” Silence on the other end of the line for a few minutes. Wilson forces himself to breathe slowly.
“If I could have whatever I wanted,” House breathes, “it would’ve been you instead of him that night, and I might’ve killed you.”
“Not what I asked.” His heart seizes at the idea of House entering heat, wanting him, even so long ago, and turning to someone else, perhaps at the last minute, perhaps afraid. “I had wondered if you were courting me, though the courts themselves would consider it ‘stalking.’” House snorts.
“I want you to go. I don’t…I’ll only hurt you.”
“You won’t.”
“You can’t know that. I don’t know that.”
“Okay, then you’ll hurt me.” He leans his head back against the driver’s seat, closing his eyes. “I can handle it. You know I can.”
“We can always talk after.”
“I know we can. But do you think you’ll stop being afraid by the next time? I’ll do whatever you want, House, but you have to convince me you want it. I can’t stand it otherwise. Me out here and you in there—searching for things that smell like me.”
It’s a gamble, but House sucks up breath sharply. Hisses, “Bastard.” Then, “Wilson, I’m scared.”
“I know. But I’m not scared of you. I love you, House. I always have.”
A long silence, the two of them just breathing in tandem. Wilson thinks House might be crying, just a little. And then he says, “You have to bite me, then—can you do that? Promise me.”
Oh. Oh, god. The thought makes Wilson’s jaw hurt, his fangs aching to slide down. Everything he wants, but quicker than he expected, his head spinning with it. “House—god, that’s—are you sure? I mean, do you—fuck, are you sure?”
As if House has ever been unsure about anything in his life. He tells Wilson he can’t do this every time. That he swore the infarction would be the last time he hurt him, that if Wilson’s making him risk that, he’d better be ready to go all the way.
Wilson’s been ready a long time.
now / still
So. Now.
As his eyes adjust to the dark of the apartment, House plastered to the side wall of the hallway, his eyes bright and searing in the gloom, Wilson thinks he’s never been more beautiful, or more wild. He’s in a threadbare Metallica t-shirt, which clings damply to his body, and a pair of underwear. When he shifts in place, a fresh wave of slick sharpens his taste on Wilson’s tongue.
Wilson’s having trouble breathing evenly, but he has to. He has to stay on top of his instincts, which don’t know the best way forward here. “Whatever happens, it’s okay,” he tells House, who snarls and backs away, sliding down to a crouch. Wilson slowly lowers himself, too, kneeling so that he’s on House’s level, still not making eye contact. “I know you’re scared,” Wilson breathes. “But I’m not gonna hurt you, and you’re not gonna hurt me. Even if you do, it’s an accident. I forgive you.”
Slowly, Wilson rolls his head over to one side, letting out that playful-submissive chirp that soothed House in the hospital, that’s worked on occasion to help lower his guard. It goes against every alpha instinct he has right now, which are all saying chase, catch, pin, but House’s growl stops for the briefest moment, his scent confused. Wilson inches closer, House inches back, and the growling resumes again.
Like this, little by little, Wilson gains ground. When he’s within a few feet of House—just outside of attack distance—Wilson lowers himself fully to the ground, rolling on his back to show his belly. He stretches his arm above his head, towards House, who spits angrily, then Wilson closes his eyes, despite the frisson of danger it inspires.
Come on. I know you’re in there. He keeps his eyes closed, waiting. The growling becomes intermittent, then goes silent. The softest shuffle as House creeps forward curiously. A minute more, and then Wilson feels hot breaths flickering over his wrist. “Wilson,” House whispers, though, when Wilson opens his eyes again, House growls and leans back.
This is dangerous. He’s right next to Wilson, he could slice him open at any time; Wilson doesn’t care. “It’s me, House,” Wilson says softly. Smiles, though he keeps his teeth covered. “Hi.”
Through a growl, House mutters, “’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. You’re doing just fine.” House’s eyes look wet for a moment, but he blinks it away.
“You always say that.”
“I mean it. You have to protect yourself, and I’m glad you do. If anything ever happened to you, I don’t know what I’d do.”
“Sappy bastard,” House whispers, and then whines softly, curling a bit. Heat cramps hitting him. He starts growling again afterward, upset to have shown weakness, and Wilson stays still, waiting him out.
“You’ve always been such a fighter, and I’ve always loved that about you.”
“Shut up.”
“No. If I have to annoy you into letting you near me, I will. I—” Wilson struggles not to react as House grabs his hand, raising his wrist up so that he can sniff at it again. “I think you’re hilarious, also.” He’d had something a lot more poignantly romantic to say, but he’s forgotten. House is biting cautiously at his wrist, eyeing Wilson like he’s waiting to be snapped at or punished for it. Instead, Wilson starts purring, and House glares and nips harder, which just makes him laugh softly.
“You’ve gored me open before, and you think a little biting’s gonna scare me, omega?”
“Don’t make fun of me.” House suddenly licks up Wilson’s hand and sucks a fingertip into his mouth, his eyes smug at the huff of surprised arousal Wilson lets out. Wilson doesn’t mind, he’d rather have House smug than scared.
“Can I sit up, now?”
“I don’t care. I’m not the sitting…police.” House looks away, clearly annoyed his wit’s been sapped by the onset of heat. Wilson doesn’t comment, just sits up slowly. House hunches into himself, though he doesn’t growl.
“Can I scent you? Would that help or hurt right now?”
“I’m not fragile, Wilson.”
“No, but your claws hurt like a bitch,” he answers honestly. House maybe preens a little at that, but ultimately nods, leaning his head forward so Wilson can get at his neck. Once Wilson’s wrist gland makes contact, House whines and sags forward, the cornered-animal tension that’s been masking his pain and fatigue dropping, if only for this moment. “The way you smell right now is driving me crazy,” Wilson murmurs, the purr putting a rumble in his voice. House could shiver for any number of reasons, but Wilson kind of hopes it’s that. “House, I—”
House cuts him off by kissing him, rather savagely, which Wilson supposes is fitting. There’s tooth and tongue almost immediately. House’s hand clenches in the front of Wilson’s dress shirt, and Wilson hears a few rrip-pop sounds, claws pinpricking the fabric. Their presence, close to Wilson’s chest, where there are claw marks already, gives him an illicit thrill of arousal-fear and fucked-up fondness. Not that he has time to investigate all that, because House’s stubble and the warmth of his skin and the taste of his mouth are driving Wilson up the wall. House’s scent is ratcheting up to a feverish bloom in the air around him, the few times Wilson thinks to draw breath, thickened to a jammy sweetness with arousal.
House breaks off with a distressed whine, and Wilson only just keeps himself from following, from saying we’re not done yet with his body language. That’s not what he’s here for, that’s not what House needs. “I don’t like it out here,” House whispers.
“I’ll go wherever you want me.” House pushes at him lightly, glaring.
“But my nest is weird.”
“You’re weird, sweetheart. I like weird.”
“Fuck off.” Even as he glares, his scent fills with a muted sort of longing at the pet name. Noted. “Don’t do anything to it. Don’t move anything around, or—just don’t.”
“I promise.” Wilson waits for House to stand before following suit; the other man tenses minutely, but doesn’t growl. He doesn’t quite turn his back on Wilson, but he does turn to the side—another good sign.
Wilson hasn’t been in House’s bedroom often; despite how often he’s here, it’s always been an unspoken private area, so, short of the times he’s had to help House to bed due to pain, he’s not spent any time in here. The curtains are drawn, and the mattress is missing from the bedframe; shortly, coming around the bedframe reveals that it’s tucked between it and the wall, all shaded over by a large swath of fabric. Wilson takes a minute to register it as one of the specialty blanket fort-style covers marketed for omegas who need extra privacy, designed to be affixed securely to walls and furniture.
“It looks cozy, I don’t see what’s weird about it,” Wilson says evenly. “As long as you’re comfortable in it, that’s all I care about—” House cuts him off with his mouth again, clinging to Wilson for balance as he tugs him backwards towards the nest.
“Shut up,” House whispers when he’s through. “I didn’t ask.” Still, he smells pleased. Then anxious, pausing right near the entrance.
“Don’t rush. We’ve got—”
“We don’t have time,” House spits, frustration and worry lining his features. “I don’t know when I—how long I’ll—”
“And if you do, I’ll wait you out, won’t I? Like I always do? House, will you look at me?” House complies silently, his eyes glittering out at Wilson, pleading, hoping, fearing. “Do you trust me?”
“It’s me I don’t trust.”
“Answer me, omega, do you trust me or not?” He keeps his voice gentle, open.
“Of course I do, or you wouldn’t be in here, idiot.” House’s face, vulnerable and uncertain, doesn’t match the sarcasm in his tone.
“Then if you lose track of yourself again, I’ll be just fine on my own until you’re back. Just like I always am. So don’t let me in there until you’re ready.”
“I was ready a minute ago, but you kept on talking.” The corner of his mouth twitches towards a tiny smile, and Wilson rolls his eyes fondly.
“Then lead the way.”
Inside, it’s dark and cool and surrounded by softness. Wilson’s pretty sure there’s an absorbent mat somewhere under the layers, just based on the weird springiness that feels distinct from the mattress, but the main thing he’s focused on is the fact that it smells like both of them in here—himself, more faintly, but his blanket is tucked up near the top of the nest, where House’s head would rest, and he sees a couple shirts that were definitely in the dirty laundry basket as far as he knew.
“I was right earlier, I knew it,” Wilson purrs teasingly, following House in, who perches near the top of the nest with his bad leg drawn up, seeming almost…shy. Not that that’s a word Wilson ever would’ve ascribed to him before. “Do you want another shirt to add to the pile?”
“Yeah.” House clears his throat embarrassedly after the quick admission. “And take your shoes off, for god’s sake, have some propriety.”
“Sorry.” Wilson kicks off his shoes, then makes quick work of his rumpled shirt, all while House watches him unabashedly, his eyes glittering and unreadable in the gloom. He hands House the shirt, then his pants, too, and then tries not to startle when House’s hand slips under the neck of his undershirt, tracing the scars it left there so long ago. His mouth replaces it a moment later, and then House is clutching at him silently as another cramp makes him twitch, huffing a labored breath against Wilson’s collarbone. “Wilson,” he says huskily.
“I’m right here, House. Tell me what you need.”
“I—you promised.”
“Yes, I’m gonna bite you. Do you want it to be the first time?”
“Please. Except, I—” His hand, knotted in the front of the undershirt, shakes. “I can’t be face-down. Not for long, anyway. So once you’ve got me there, you—make it quick.” Wilson’s blood thrums with sympathetic pain and anger for whatever’s made this a trigger for him. He swallows his anger, running his fingers up and down House’s spine before answering.
“What about on your side?”
“Damn. Didn’t think of that. That’s—way better, actually.” The other man relaxes, then tenses again, making a wounded sound into Wilson’s skin. “Please, I—if you wait any longer—”
“Okay, sweetheart, all right.” Wilson runs his hands up House’s sweat-drenched shirt, stripping it off him, before easing them both slowly over onto their sides, still facing each other, not moving too quickly, letting House see what he’s doing as he does it. House nips blindly at his skin, urging him wordlessly on, so Wilson doesn’t waste time shucking off his own underwear, then House’s. Rolling House onto his back, Wilson slips a finger inside him, then a second, heat making it easier. In the moment of reprieve, stretching him out, Wilson privately lets himself rake over as much of House’s body as he can, not lingering on the infarction scar, instead enjoying the strong ridges of his hips, the ripe flush of his dick, curving over his belly.
“Don’t drag it out, alpha, please,” House whimpers, and Wilson rolls his eyes, using his other hand to drag House’s hand to his own dick, where the knot is already starting to build.
“I’m not even fucking you yet. Tell me again to cut corners.”
“Yeah, yeah, gloat about your big fucking knot,” House sneers faintly, but the sarcasm dissolves shortly under another whine. “I can take it, Jimmy—”
“I know you can. And you’re gonna take it, over and over and over again,” Wilson purrs lowly, nipping at the side of his neck, “and I’m gonna make damn sure you don’t tear, because I’m gonna keep you on my knot for as long as I possibly can while I claim you.” A little cheesy? Perhaps. But it has the intended effect of distracting House and winding him up while Wilson works a third finger in, slow and steady. “I’m gonna take good care of you, even though you’re an asshole about it,” he adds, and House tries to glare. Can’t quite manage it, what with Wilson fisting his cock with the other hand. House bucks into it with a yelp, which gives Wilson just enough time to stretch him out just a little more before House is inevitably snapping at him to get on with it.
“Okay, all right, I’ve got you,” Wilson breathes, leaning over House to steal another kiss, trying not to freak out at the enormity of what he’s about to do. He arranges them so House is on his good side, the bad leg propped back and over Wilson’s.
As Wilson presses in, House keens out a sweet sound of relief and overwhelm, reaching a hand back to squeeze hard at Wilson’s hip. “Fuck, House,” Wilson groans, pressing kisses to his shoulder. “So good—perfect.” House throbs around him, impossibly hot and tight and up close.
House snarls discontentedly. “Fuck me like you mean it, alpha,” he hisses, and Wilson growls softly in his ear before complying, pulling back and snapping forward, House’s rim catching over his already-swelling knot. House shouts, throwing his head back, and Wilson reaches down to wrap a hand around his cock. He’s not gonna last. He doesn’t care. House is bucking into his hand, making throaty, needy noises, and Wilson thrusts into him a couple more times and knows that the next time he pops his knot in will be the last, so he pauses a couple inches in.
“Alpha, please,” House chokes out, his limbs trembling against Wilson’s. “I need you to bite me, please—you promised—”
“Right here?” Wilson laps teasingly at his mating gland, which is flushed, more prominent due to his hormones. House lets out a little sob of desperation, his cock pulsing in Wilson’s hand. “You want me to bite, omega, you want me to make you mine?”
Instead of snarling in annoyance at his teasing, House babbles out a string of pleading nonsense containing parts of the word please and Wilson’s name and alpha, and hell. Wilson is happy to oblige. He drives his knot in one more time, his fangs sliding out as it pops into place and swells further, locking House’s body to his, and then he sinks his teeth hard into the gland in front of his face. Against him, House goes completely limp, meanwhile Wilson’s shuddering with hormones and tension, dazedly jerking House off until he tightens enough for Wilson to start cumming. God, heat sex is crazy.
Not that it’s ever been like this. He holds House still in his jaws, his own eyes rolling in his head from the combined pleasure of cumming and House’s gland popping in his mouth. Dimly, he knows there’s a kind of resonance happening at the genetic level, the concentrated hormones at the mating gland doing a kind of crazy dance with his own, already-compatible scent profiles becoming so interdependent that their moods may affect each other’s, among other symptoms. But knowing the theory and biology behind the process is nothing compared to living it. It feels like all of his cells are lighting up with a sense of…not-loneliness. Like, at a cosmic, spiritual level, Wilson knows he’ll never be alone again.
When he returns to himself, his knot still firmly in place, he’s licking dazedly at the scar, already healing over. House is shaking with silent, relieved sobs, and Wilson squeezes him closer to his own chest, projecting his own calmness and happiness without really thinking about it. Like a wave’s come over House, he quiets, the tension draining out of his body. “Huh,” he mutters a second later. “Neat. And weird. And kind of fucked-up.”
“It’s like sexy Stockholm syndrome.”
“It’s not already sexy? I’ve been doing it all wrong, then.” Wilson laughs hoarsely, then presses his face against House’s shoulder blade. He dozes on and off, coming fully to when he feels a prickle of insecurity come through the bond. Definitely weird, but also definitely handy.
“What’s wrong, House?” He runs a hand up House’s side; he’s warm, on his way to another heat spike but not yet there.
“What if you change your mind?”
“I won’t.” His knot, at last, slips free, and he rolls onto his back, pulling House with him.
“You don’t know that.”
“What am I gonna be able to even do about it, though, once you’ve bitten me?” It seems a foregone conclusion to him, but from the look on House’s face and the surprise and hope Wilson can feel coming off him, he’s the only one. “Of course I’m gonna have you bite me, idiot. And before you throw my three divorces in my face, need I remind you that the only omega among them turned out to be gay, and in fact I only married her because I couldn’t handle how much I wanted you.”
House whistles through his teeth, the asshole, and Wilson groans loudly. “Defensive much?”
“Fuck you. You were going to bring it up.”
“Maybe I don’t like being mated, actually.”
“Yes you do, and I would’ve known you’d bring it up without the bite. Do you want to bite me now, or wait? It’ll probably spike you again, so maybe you should drink something first—”
“Shut the hell up. Show me your neck.” Wilson rolls his eyes and then rolls over, humming softly as House traces his mating gland with his fingers.
“Do you maybe want to—” Wilson makes an embarrassing sound as the bastard sinks his teeth in without any warning whatsoever, and the feeling from this side is no less intense. He whites out a little bit, time folding in on itself, like an energy conduit has switched directions, and when he’s back, House is basically vibrating in his skin, licking blood off his top teeth, the blue in his eyes swallowed up by black. “You’re such a brat,” Wilson whispers. “Do you need me again, sweetheart?”
Apparently beyond words, House just rolls over onto his back, whining. No way he can pretend not to like when Wilson calls him that now, since Wilson can feel that he’s pleased.
“Yeah?” Wilson imitates the whine, which only makes House whine again, more pitifully, until Wilson settles between his legs. He kisses House as he presses in, until House’s mouth falls slack, his back arching. “Perfect omega,” Wilson rumbles, his hands roaming freely over House’s body, this body he’s wanted under his for an unaccountable period of time. “Can you feel how much I mean it, House?” House just clutches at him wordlessly, a tear escaping one eye, and then a wall of his emotions hits Wilson. Disbelief. Worry. Love. Love. Love. Wilson stays where he is, weighing House down with his body and his mouth until the overwhelming tide turns fully over to unthinking need and House finds his voice again.
Turns out he’s unexpectedly vocal, at least right now. It’s an indecipherable chain of words that essentially adds up to begging for Wilson’s knot, and, with the mating bond in effect, it takes Wilson exactly two thrusts to figure out exactly the angle to hit House’s prostate. That, and House cums immediately. Not that his dick softens, male omegas being just as multi-orgasmic as females during heats, and the second he catches his breath he’s back to begging. Wilson wants to tell House that he has him now, that he’ll never want for anything, but he can’t quite find the words, so he just hopes the bond is passing it along.
After those two initial spikes, they’re granted a brief reprieve. Wilson manages to extricate himself from the nest for long enough to grab food and water from the kitchen and make a cursory lap around the apartment, because sure enough, when he cautiously returns, House is wide-eyed in the dark, alert. He doesn’t flinch at Wilson, his eyes instead pinned on the gap between Wilson’s body and the side of the doorway.
“I checked,” Wilson says softly. “Nobody’s here. It’s just us.” House scoffs and turns to fuss with the side of the nest, but Wilson feels his relief.
Attachment-favorable omegas tend to be reticent eaters during heat, but ferals are often the opposite, and House is no exception. He quickly scarfs down what Wilson’s brought him, then goes back to picking at the nest. There is absolutely nothing wrong with it that Wilson can see, but he doesn’t comment, instead sprawling back and letting House work around him, radiating out his own contentment and peacefulness until House scowls at him.
“You’re very distracting. You’re doing it on purpose.”
“What? Enjoying being here?” House grumbles under his breath. “Sorry, am I not supposed to enjoy being in the best nest I’ve ever seen?” House makes a loud retching sound, but he can’t hide his warmth at the compliment through the bond. Wilson lets him think he can, though. “It’s perfect, House, will you come lie down? Rest while you can, let that Vicodin kick in.” House makes a point of staying up for a few moments longer just so it doesn’t look like he’s listening to Wilson before joining him in repose. Wilson rolls his eyes, because House is laying a foot away from him, staring anxiously.
“Get over here, already.” He tries not to laugh when House inches forward like an uncertain cat, eventually taking matters into his own hands and pulling him into position, against his chest. “What, does wanting to be cuddled ruin your feral street cred?”
“Shut up. Alphas who smell like jasmine don’t get to talk about street cred.” It takes a minute to sink in, and when Wilson looks down, House is smirking.
“Seriously? This is how you tell me? As an insult, as if you weren’t huffing me like a spray can yesterday?”
“No, the huffing was because of the fennel undertones.”
“That is…not a combination that should work.”
“It’s horrible. I hate it.” This said just before he licks a stripe down Wilson’s wrist.
“Ah—yeah, I can tell you hate it so much,” Wilson says strainedly. House is opening his mouth. “House.” His claws are just barely peeking out, pricking Wilson’s arm almost playfully. Does he know what he’s—“House, if you bite me right now I don’t know what I—”
House bites, just hard enough to feel unpleasant, right over Wilson’s wrist gland and before he can get out another word of warning, Wilson flips him, pinning him by the wrists, an apology already on his tongue. But there’s no need for that, it would seem, because pleased-smug is rolling off House in waves, and he’s baring his throat. Wilson growls in mock annoyance. “Goddammit, ask for what you want for a change,” he mutters, but he doesn’t mean it. House wouldn’t be House if he wasn’t provoking and manipulating his way into everything.
Wilson cocks his head appraisingly down at his mate, whom he could never have imagined being this unguarded; from the smell of him and the feel of his skin, they’ve got ten minutes, maybe fifteen before the next spike. “God, you look good like this,” Wilson says, swapping both of House’s wrists to one hand and drawing the fingertips of the other down over his throat, his chest, his belly.
House draws breath to complain, no doubt, but a trill comes out instead, startling them both. “See, if you won’t tell me what you want I’ll just have to figure it out on the fly,” Wilson scolds lightly, and House is about to snap at him again when Wilson starts licking over his still-bared throat. Another trill. Under Wilson’s other hand, House’s belly flexes as he tries to press his dick against something. Wilson hums and presses his hips down, pinning him still. The pinning causes whining, House’s pulse fluttering under Wilson’s tongue. Wilson bites down gently, holding him there until he stops squirming.
Despite his scolding, Wilson’s not gonna make him ask. He’ll enjoy the begging when it’s freely offered, but one of the reasons he’s always had House’s loyalty is that he doesn’t place him at a deficit just for the sake of it, nor hold him to an arbitrary standard of conventional communication. So once House is still, Wilson wraps his free hand around his cock and strokes languidly base-to-tip, enjoying the low groan it draws out of his omega. “I didn’t get enough time to just play with you before, figure you out,” Wilson says conversationally, giving it another rough stroke, reading every flicker and twitch and clench in House’s body. God, it’s so easy to know him, it’s always been easy but with the mating bites it’s like he’s being let in. Like he’s being invited.
“Wilson,” House hums, lax and warm in a way Wilson’s never heard him before. He doesn’t say anything else, but Wilson’s read on him picks up want for something diffuse and unstated. Something he wouldn’t want to ask for; certainly not Wilson touching him more—Wilson’s pretty sure he has no qualms being vocal about that.
Wilson lets go of his wrists and weaves his fingers through House’s short, thinning hair instead, tugging his head back to expose more of his throat. “Good omega,” he tries, lapping at his jaw, paying attention: House’s dick twitches in his hand, and his chest hums with a swallowed trill, and he smells pleased, but he still wants something. “No? Not quite it? But you’re not gonna give me a single clue, are you? Oh, you’re such a brat, House.” This, too, gets him some reactions—interesting—but it’s not quite what he wants.
“Figure it out, alpha,” House goads, snappy and condescending as always, but for the way his eyes look fearfully hopeful and his scent hums with anticipation. Wilson pauses to think, sucking another mark into House’s upturned throat while he does it, and the want intensifies, and oh—
“My omega. Is that what you wanted to hear?” House bucks, his back arching lopsidedly, favoring the bad side. Pleasure suffuses the bond, chased quickly by an intensifying wantwantwant, and it’s not what he’d ever have expected, but it is incredibly satisfying. “Yeahhh, there it is. I've figured you out. Is that what you need, House? To hear me tell you you’re mine?” House’s lashes flutter, and his hips jerk again, but Wilson’s in kind of a mood and enjoying playing with him too much, so he pins House’s good leg and hip down with one of his own. He makes a pleading sound, but Wilson shushes him.
“You’re okay, I’ve got you. Be still for me, shh. There’s my omega.” House whimpers desperately, twitching, but Wilson’s holding him down too much for him to be able to do much more. “I bet I can get you to cum just like this.” He firms his grip on House’s cock, but doesn’t stroke it. “Don’t you think?”
“Fuck you,” House whimpers, the effect rather dampened by his panting and the fact that his hands are right where Wilson left them, his chin still tilted up.
“I’ll bet you wish you could right now, poor baby. My baby. My good omega.” House’s whine hits a frenetic pitch, his dick throbbing in Wilson’s unmoving grip. “Making all these pretty noises for me, being so still, wearing my bite—I’ve marked you up, and I’m not gonna stop, ‘cause you’re mine, aren’t you? All mine, House—” His scent roils, the zaps of desperation and delirious pleasure from his side of the bond making Wilson’s head spin.
House is close to cumming, and it's making Wilson’s chest rumble, possessiveness lighting up his veins, and he knows House can feel it, and it’s becoming a crazy pleasure-possession feedback loop between them. “Everyone’s gonna be able to tell you belong to me,” Wilson hisses, his voice a low growl that sounds like a stranger’s to him, holy shit, he has literally never done that before. But goddamn, if it doesn’t work: House’s dick gushes over his belly and Wilson’s hand, and Wilson’s quick to stroke him through it, prolonging the orgasm. “Perfect, House, so good.”
House’s head tips towards his, angling for his mouth, and Wilson indulges him in a round of sloppy making out. House’s skin is warming further under his hands. Not long now. “Alpha,” House huffs against his mouth, “gonna need your knot soon.”
“I know, sweetheart. Can you hold off a couple minutes for me?”
“For what?” House complains.
“Been wanting to get my mouth on you since I walked in here,” Wilson explains casually, already trailing it down his body, scraping his teeth across nipples and sternum and soft belly, the sharp, musky taste of cum lighting up his tongue.
“I—god,” House pants. “Always figured you had an oral fixation.”
“Oh? How’s that?”
“With those DSLs—it’d be a crime against mankind otherwise. I—oh—” this last sound as Wilson shoves his good leg up and back and sets to work chasing new flavors. Honestly, looking back, the sheer amount of rimming he did in pre-med was perhaps an indicator that he was not just conveniently heteroflexible. All of this to say he’s good at it, heat hormones certainly amplifying the experience, if House’s fatigued writhing is anything to go by, and Wilson starts to wonder if omegas who smell like alcohol can actually get one drunk. Or is that just him being knotheaded, stereotypically stupid over the too-good taste of slick and cum mingling together.
“Jesus Christ, Wilson,” House whispers when Wilson’s come up for air. “It is not the end of a rainbow, and you are not a leprechaun.”
“Are you insinuating that a leprechaun’s function is to fellate the pot of gold?”
“It’s a metaphor for sex if I’ve ever heard one. Alpha—” Wilson shuts him up by swallowing his dick in one go, and yeah, a) he’s still got it, and b) what the fuck, he was never straight. House’s fingers knot in his hair, claws only just poking out, sending an unexpected shudder through his body. He braces House’s hips down with one arm, the other busy with two fingers against his prostate, and swallows, and it’s over for House. Were he feeling uncharitable, Wilson could get in a few jabs about how shortly House is lasting, but he’s too fucking pleased with the effect to degrade it.
When he pops his mouth off, House lets out an almost-angry frustrated groan, thrusting feebly against Wilson’s fingers, and Wilson knows they’re drawing close to the spike. “One more, and then I’ll give you my knot,” he coaxes, nudging House’s prostate with his fingertips.
“Why do I have to wait?” House snaps. “Asshole—”
“Don’t complain, House, I know you want this. You wanna cum just like this, you wanna be good for me, don’t you?” House growls, but he’s showing his throat again. “Already so good for me, so wet for me, c’mon, baby, show my knot what it’s missing.”
“Fuck you,” House gasps, but he does as he’s told, and by the end, Wilson’s knot is indeed feeling desperately left out.
From the third spike on, the peak of heat is in full effect. The next 24 hours are a sweaty, humid blur of fucking, gulping down water, sniping exhaustedly at each other, micro-sleeps, and fucking again, spikes closer and closer together, then further apart. Despite his exhaustion, Wilson roughly keeps time. Once the gap between spikes is over an hour, he knows there won’t be a second swell. They’re in the home stretch now.
Beside him, House sleeps—all he’s been doing between the last few spikes; Wilson can’t blame him, but it’s only because he’s being awake and watchful that House is settled down at all. More so than any attachent-favorable omega Wilson’s ever met, he’s in an agitated state of territoriality whenever his instincts take over, so—just for the sake of getting him to sleep—Wilson has to stay awake. House is drooling on Wilson’s arm, still and boneless in a way Wilson doesn’t think he’s ever seen him, not even when he was comatose in the hospital after the infarction. Maybe it’s the bond elevating everything; House’s end of it is like a still pool of warm water, calm and clear and inviting.
Wilson’s arm is asleep. He would move it, and in fact has tried, but anytime he does, House bites it in his sleep and growls discontentedly. It would seem that Wilson’s entire body is part of his territory now; in all fairness, Wilson can’t actually argue with that sentiment, so, to distract himself from the maddening numbness of his arm, he traces his eyes over House’s form again and again.
It's peppered with marks from their shared heat. Hickeys line the column of his throat, his shoulders; Wilson’s sure he’s not faring much better. There’s a bruise on the hip of his good leg, more bites on his thigh. Stubble burn in more than a few areas, some you’d expect…some you wouldn’t. Wilson kind of can’t help but gloat. And then he falls knot-over-heels into grade-A sap territory because Jesus Christ, this is his mate now. From the tips of his oft-sharpened claws to the closely-guarded softness in the center, House is his, and Wilson’s never gonna be sat across the dinner table with another wife, wondering if this is it yet—if he finally feels the way he’s supposed to feel. That empty spot inside him has been full for weeks, ever since he moved in here, if he’s being honest. And probably all alphas say this about their omegas, but Wilson kind of thinks he might actually be right: there is absolutely nobody in the world like House.
“I can feel you being a sappy bitch in my sleep, asshole,” House grumbles, eyes still shut, but he radiates fond and smug and the ever-present smattering of disbelieving, which Wilson plans to wring out of him, starting now. So he runs his hand up House’s back and enjoys the way he stretches into it, skin shivering under Wilson’s palm.
“Someday you are gonna stop being surprised by my loving you.” At that, House cracks his eyes open, only so he can roll them at Wilson.
“Yeah, I will, because this is honestly so in-character for you. Biting the worst omega you know because you’re not like other boys.”
“Do not talk like that. I mean, yes, I have a complex, but you are the best omega I know. And I fell in love with the whole package, House, don’t make this about your insecurities.”
“Not insecure,” House grumbles, but doesn’t fight it when Wilson squeezes him closer, numb arm notwithstanding. Ouch, by the way. “Just…not used to being anyone’s first choice.”
“Because the world is—”
“—fucked-up, yes, Wilson, I am keenly aware,” House says snippily. “In a perfect world, alphas wouldn’t ride their own knots so hard and ferals wouldn’t be untouchable. But in a perfect world, ferals probably wouldn’t exist at all.”
“Well, it’s not a perfect world without you in it, Greg.”
“Oh my god, will you shut the hell up and knot me already.” Wilson laughs and manhandles him over onto his good side, holding his hips still, suckling gently at his mating gland just to get him squirming.
“House, I’ve been wondering.”
“Seriously?” House wriggles his ass appeasingly against Wilson’s swelling dick. “Slick omega-hole is right in front of you, hello??”
“Why don’t we just keep the mattress on the floor?” Wilson continues, as if he isn’t breathing hard and raspy and rapidly losing his composure. With the way House elbows him crankily, it’s believable. “I don’t mind it. And you clearly feel safe here. And I’d do anything to make you feel safe, House.”
House’s breath hitches, and Wilson smirks at the frantic emotions pelting him from House’s side of the bond: irritated and goopily in love and even more irritated because of the love. House sounds a little choked up when he says, “You already make me feel safe, idiot. Alpha, pleeease—” Fuck. Fuck. Wilson’s hilted before he registers the scent of triumph in the air. Little shit did it on purpose.
“Oh, was that fun for you?” he pants, winding his fingers in House’s hair, then lightly around the front of his throat. “You like pushing me until I snap, sweetheart?”
“Yeah,” House mewls, unapologetic, groaning as Wilson’s knot pops out, then back in. “Always got me worked up. Jesus, Wilson—” When Wilson goes to move his hand, House darts his chin down, trapping it against his neck, an unspoken plea.
“Okay, I hear you, omega, I’ll keep it right here. Maybe I should get you a collar, huh?” House makes an indecipherable noise and twists in his arms. Really shouldn’t be surprising, at this point. “Touch yourself, then, if you won’t let me move it.” House shakes his head restlessly, eyes desperate.
“No, can’t—Jimmy, I’m too tired. Too sensitive, everything hurts.”
“Not too sensitive to take my knot, though.” At House’s preemptive whine, Wilson clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “Shh, if you can take my knot you can cum. Maybe I won’t give it to you until you do.”
“Nooo, Wilson—I can’t.”
“You can’t do it, or you can’t do it yourself?” Wilson releases his neck, trailing his hand slowly down House’s body, giving him plenty of time to protest. “One last one, baby, I think your heat is breaking, it’ll help it break faster. Can you try for me?” House only whimpers, but the bond is ringing grateful-trusting-smug; clearly this was the intended outcome. Fucking brat. Heaven forbid House ever ask to be babied.
Wilson gathers up slick from his own knot and the place where they’re joined before closing a hand around House’s dick. God he’s tired. Still, he’s gentler than he’s been this whole heat; despite that, House turns his face into the mattress, crying out, quickly overwhelmed. “I know, House, I’m sorry,” Wilson croons, stroking lightly, even that light stroke precipitating a blast of manic sensation from the bond. “Fuck, I know, but you’re so close to the end, we’re almost done. I would just fuck you, but I’m tired too, I wouldn’t be able to go long enough, I’m sorry we have to do it this way.”
He works the tip of his cock gingerly in shallow thrusts, careful not to let his knot pop through, lest he lose his concentration when they tie. At last, with Wilson latching on to his mating gland again, sucking hard, House gets past the blinding pleasure-pain to mostly pleasure. “Come on, House, cum for me, come on, baby—” His head flashes white as House’s hole chokes his shaft, and Wilson slams home without thinking about it, his knot tying for what’s hopefully the last time…today, at least. He snarls into the back of House’s neck, having latched his teeth in it again, like some kind of beast. He supposes he’s in good company.
They lapse in and out of sleep for the time it takes his knot to deflate, unspeaking. Anything worth saying has been said, or can wait. The heat is over, but it feels like the rest of his life is just beginning.