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Adding sex to their relationship changes remarkably little.
Sure, it’s weird at first—well, technically it’s weird after.
At first, it’s an hour and a half or so of mutual temporary insanity. They’re sprawled over House’s couch, both a little drunk off the bottle of scotch a grateful patient (Mr. Liu, going on six years of remission from NSCLC) gifted Wilson, then Wilson tries to get up to fetch something from the kitchen at the same time as House leans forward to pour them both another glass and Wilson loses his balance and falls right into House’s lap.
‘Oh,’ Wilson thinks, and the next properly coherent thought that enters his brain is ‘So much for being straight,’ because he’s naked in bed with his best friend, the best friend he’s just ridden like a bronco. The lube between his legs is slowly starting to dry and get itchy, and when he turns his head — yup, that’s his cum splattered in House’s chest hair. This sure happened.
He risks a glance at House’s face. He’s quiet for once, looking like he’s seen the face of God, which is saying something for a passionate atheist.
But of course that doesn’t last long. “How the hell are you divorced?!” House squawks suddenly, slapping the mattress with a flat hand. “How the hell does anyone get that on the regular and opt out?!”
Wilson rolls over, presses his face into a stray pillow and laughs until he cries.
They clean up, order pizza and eat in House’s thoroughly rumpled bed, neither of them bothering to get dressed again. They finish the scotch, too, trading the bottle back and forth. (Insisting on glasses seems a bit silly at that point.) In the morning, Wilson wakes with a raging headache, House plastered against his back, his breath warm against Wilson’s neck and his hand wrapped around Wilson’s morning wood, spit-slick and delicious.
They don’t make it into work until 9:30, and Wilson’s morning is spent frantically catching up on his appointments, leaving him no room to think about what they did yesterday. And then did again this morning, for good measure.
Lunch is like it always is. House defrauds the PPTH by hiding a snickers bar under his fries, even if Wilson is buying anyway. (“It’s the principle of things. I’m stealing back the raise I deserve fifteen high-fructose corn syrup covered peanuts at a time.”) They share a booth and bicker as usual, with the exception that just before he gets up, House reaches out with his good leg and runs the tip of his sneaker over Wilson’s ankle. Wilson kicks him, trying to suppress the heat rising to his cheeks, but before he can say anything, House is already booking it, shit-eating grin plastered over his face.
Wilson spends the rest of the day on the phone with an insurance company, trying to convince them, that yes, actually, the patient is going to die, and soon, if they don’t do the exact chemo combo he recommends, no, the cheap stuff won’t do, thanks very much, and the white-hot rage that always accompanies dealing with those bastards is enough to block out everything else.
It isn’t until Wilson arrives back home that evening that he notices he hasn’t freaked out about fucking House even a little.
Then he promptly freaks out about his lack of freak-out.
What the fuck is wrong with them — No, what is wrong with him?
Never mind House; he knows what’s wrong with House; everyone does. But Wilson is supposed to be the sensible one, to be the method to House’s madness, so why the fuck did he lean down and kiss him with more tongue than he’s ever kissed two out of three wives? Oh, sure, House gave as good as he got, but that’s not the point! House is impulsivity manifest, of course he’d go along, but Wilson was the one that pushed and escalated, that dragged him down the hallway, that shoved him onto the bed and peeled him out of his clothes, that went digging for condoms and lube in the nightstand.
More than a decade of friendship irrevocably changed, potentially ruined, why? Because Wilson always kind of wanted to know what House’s stubble would feel like on his skin?
He’s sitting at the kitchen table, head in hands, still wearing his shoes and jacket, the moment he kissed House replaying over and over in his mind. As if he could reach into the memory and slap sense into his past self, grab himself by the back of his dress shirt and pull himself away, if he just concentrates hard enough.
The landline rings. Wilson lurches to his feet and answers.
“You’re going coo-coo for cocoa puffs right now, aren’t you?” House asks cheerfully. “I’m impressed it took you that long, almost twenty-four hours.”
Wilson sighs. He kind of wants to cry, but that won’t solve anything.
“Okay, what do you need to hear?” House continues. “How about: We’re fine, nothing’s going to change, you haven’t ruined anything?”
“How can you say that?” Wilson croaks. The times they talk to each other with this level of candor are few and far between; sometimes a year passes without. But falling into bed together seems as appropriate an occasion as any.
“Because it’s true. You idiot. You cleaned me off the floor after Stacy left. I was so high, I’d pissed myself, for fuck’s sake. You got into the shower with me and sorted me out.” A noise, maybe static on the line, maybe House swallowing thickly. “You thought I didn’t remember that, but I do. If that kind of shit didn’t break our friendship, making the beast with two backs won’t either.”
Wilson laughs wetly. “Please don’t call it that.”
“How about: Hiding the sausage? Hanky panky? Dancing the goat’s jig?”
“Dancing the—what?” Wilson snorts.
“The goat’s jig! Don’t tell me you've never heard that expression!”
“House, are you saying we just pretend this didn’t happen?”
On the other end of the line, House makes a sound like a cat that got stepped on its tail. “Who said anything about that?! I’m saying you should stop worrying your pretty little head about social conventions and hop back on my dick at your earliest convenience!”
“House!”
“Wilson!” he mocks. “I’m serious! Give me one reason why we shouldn’t just have more sex that doesn’t boil down to ‘That’s not how you’re supposed to do it’.”
“Because I’m not gay!” Wilson blurts out.
For a moment the line is silent. Then: “You realize how delusional that sounds, right?”
“I—yeah, never mind.”
“Great! Anything else?”
Wilson licks his lips, looks around the living room for inspiration. Nothing. “House…” he tries.
“So that’s a ‘No’ then. Fantastic! Does that mean I can come in?”
“You—what?”
“I’m in your parking lot.”
“Of course you are,” Wilson groans and drags himself over to the window. Sure enough, that’s House, leaning on his bike and giving him the finger. “Rude,” he comments.
“Ruder of you not to invite me in already. I have unfinished business with the back of your thighs,” House says. Even from a distance, Wilson could swear he sees his eyebrows wiggle.
“The back of my thighs of all places?” Wilson asks, not quite able to keep himself from smiling.
“Yup. You have great legs, anyone ever told you that?”
“Not that I’m aware.” He’s received all kinds of compliments over the years, his mouth, his eyes, his hands, even his ass, but his thighs?!
“Seriously, Wilson, I’m going to get bite-y. No way around it. I’m going to straight-up gnaw on you.”
“And that’s supposed to make me let you in?”
“I’ll suck your dick, too?”
Wilson’s breath catches.
“Oh, you like that, don’t you?” House says, grin audible even through the shitty phone connection. “Just so you know, I sucked more dicks in med school than I attended lectures.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if you told me you somehow graduated without attending a single lecture,” Wilson deadpans.
“Okay, let me rephrase this. I sucked so many dicks. A lot. I’ll make it so good for you.”
“…You do have a key,” Wilson reminds him, trying and failing to keep the breathiness from his voice. He can imagine it vividly, the view of House’s lips wrapped around his cock, his glacier eyes watering.
“Oh, fuck yeah,” House says. “Put on something pretty for me, will you?” He pushes away from where he’s leaning against his bike and hangs up.
Wilson watches him cross the rain-slick expanse of asphalt, receiver still pressed to his ear, the beeping quiet in contrast to his galloping heartbeat. He hangs up slowly. There will be another minute or two until the elevator crawls up to his floor. Enough time to lock the door from the inside and leave the key in the lock. To keep House out and put an end to the madness.
So why is he shrugging out of his suit jacket, pulling off his tie? This is a horrible idea, a huge mistake. He’s berating himself at the same time as he undoes two buttons of his shirt, then another two for good measure. He rolls up the sleeves, too, remembering the way the eyes of past lovers have lingered on his bare forearms.
There. That’s as much as he can do regarding putting on something pretty in the time it takes House to come inside. He feels his ears heat as his mind unhelpfully provides images of skimpy maid or — oh, God — nurse costumes. He knows with absolute certainty that House would both love something like that and use it as blackmail material against him until one of them croaks.
Somehow, that knowledge only increases the appeal. (What is wrong with him!!)
Too soon, not soon enough there’s the sound of metal on metal as a key turns in the lock. House bustles inside with all the urgency of someone about to get his dick wet, closing the door behind himself with more force than necessary.
They stand there, facing each other across the living room, staring blatantly.
“This is the worst idea we've ever had,” Wilson says.
“Worse than when we went hiking in Oregon and decided to take that shortcut to the other trail?”
If the concept of two city-dwelling twenty- and thirty-somethings with no outdoor experience beyond some mild camping deciding to leave a hiking trail in the middle of the wilderness wasn’t clear enough: They’d nearly died.
“Okay, second worst,” Wilson concedes. “Still.”
House is inching closer, moving like he’s trying to pet a terrified animal, which is, in a way, exactly what he’s doing. “You’re making this a lot more complicated than it is.”
“Explain it to me, then.”
“Well champ, when a man and a man are both underfucked and—”
“House.“
“I’m serious! What’s there to explain?! You seemed pretty familiar with the concept of gay sex last night!”
Wilson flushes scarlet.
“Fuck, that blush looks pretty on you,” House whines. There are only a couple feet of distance between them by now.
“That’s exactly why we can’t just do this again! You can’t just say things like that and expect me not to want to talk about it first!”
House gives him his you-are-very-stupid-look (trademark pending). “You do remember that you started this?”
For the second time that night, Wilson hides his face in his hands and groans. He listens to House limp over to him, steps and cane dull thuds on the carpet. Then there are hands on his waist, pulling him in. Wilson goes easily, letting House gather him close.
“What are we doing?” he asks, muffled by his hands.
“Right now, I’m giving you a nice platonic hug,” House says, despite his hands already straying down into very much non-platonic territory. “But in fifteen minutes tops where going to be having sex,” he explains, squeezing Wilson’s ass with both hands for emphasis.
Wilson groans, half exasperation, half arousal. “I mean it. What the hell are we doing?”
“You need a label, don’t you?” House sighs. It sounds fond and warm, utterly at odds with the way he’s groping him. “How about friends with benefits? Fuck-buddies? It’s all the rage with the kids these days.”
It actually works. Just the knowledge that there’s a word for the colossal mistake they’re about to make, are already very much making, it eases some of the terror in Wilson’s chest. He would feel stupid for it if there weren’t more pressing issues to deal with, like the fact that their hips are flush and that House’s groping has turned into more of a grinding.
Wilson takes his hands away from his face, wraps them around House tentatively. “You’re sure that’s a thing?”
His chin is resting on House’s shoulder, and he can’t see his face, but he could swear he can hear House’s eyes rolling in their sockets. “Yes. This is normal, garden-variety deviancy. About as special as having a foot fetish.” He punctuates his reassurance with a particularly long grind of his hips. “Satisfied?”
Wilson bites his lip. “One more thing.”
House groans, pulling back just far enough that they can look at each other. “What?“
“Since, since when—” Wilson stutters.
“Since when have I wanted to fuck you?”
Wilson nods, grateful to House for spelling out the profanity. House swallows, a dry clicking of his throat. This close, Wilson can see exactly how clouded his eyes are, lids heavy and pupils dilated. He’s flushed, too, color creeping up his neck subtly. There’s a half-smile on his mouth, too soft to be called a smirk.
“Wilson, have you any idea what you looked like at twenty-two?” House asks. Twenty-two, Wilson was twenty-two when they met, his arousal-slow brain supplies. “I wanted to eat you up.”
“Why didn’t you?”
House snorts. “Uh? Because you were drunk? Because of AIDS? Because you were a kid and I was thirty-fucking-two? Because I didn’t want to risk you knocking my teeth out? Because I actually liked you as a person? Any other stupid fucking ques—”
Wilson shuts him up with tongue. It works like a charm. But it also has the unfortunate side effect of reducing his own mental capacities to standby mode, to where he’s starting to aimlessly push at House’s leather jacket, wanting it off, but too focused on familiarizing himself with the ridges of House’s palate to work out the logistics. Then, as House is wont to do, he ruins a good thing and steps back.
“Nuh uh, you had your way with me yesterday and, while that frankly rewired my brain, it’s my turn to be the way-haver!”
God, he looks good, Wilson thinks, in that fucking leather jacket, thin mouth pink from kissing, hair wind-swept from the weather.
“Did you hear anything I just said?”
“I’m about to be gnawed on?” Wilson guesses.
“Yeah, close enough. It’s definitely part of the plan. Underlined and in bold.” He picks up his cane from where it’s leaning against the bookshelf. “And as much as I appreciate your whoreishly unbuttoned shirt…” Wilson grins sheepishly. “Step one is getting you naked and in bed.”
To House’s endless mockery and amusement, Wilson is the type of person who makes his bed every morning. The pillows are fluffed, and he changed the sheets less than a week ago.
Wilson licks his lips, looking at the bed he’s about to christen with his best friend of over a decade. The trek to the bedroom has sobered him some and now the certainty that this can only end in misery is returning with a vengeance.
House snakes his cane-free arm around his waist from behind him, pulling Wilson against his chest. “I swear, you’re like a puppy with separation-anxiety. As soon as I’m not touching you for more than a minute, you might as well start chewing on the baseboards in distress.” Wilson watches with still somewhat detached arousal as House undoes the buttons of his shirt with nimble fingers. “Good thing I know exactly how to get you out of your head,” he continues, close enough to Wilson’s ear that he can feel the raspiness of his voice as much as he can hear it. “When I’m done with you, you won’t even remember what you were worried about.”
On one hand, Wilson doubts that very much; on the other, he’s crossing the line from half-mast to so turned on he’s squirming at Olympic speed. “You, uh, you mentioned a plan?” he asks as House’s hand slides into his shirt, stroking over his abdomen and chest, mapping out the shape of his ribcage. House’s hands are slightly calloused and warm on his skin.
“Curious, eh?” House asks and brushes his lips over the nape of Wilson’s neck in a barely there kiss.
“More like apprehensive,” Wilson lies.
“Liar.” House throws his cane in the general direction of the left nightstand and, with both hands free, undoes Wilson’s slacks. “Ask nicely and I might tell you.”
It’s been just under twelve hours since House has had his hand on Wilson’s dick, but they both groan as if it’s been a month. Wilson drops his head against House’s shoulder, shamelessly leaning on him with no regard to his leg. “Please tell me about your plan,” he asks very nicely, too turned on to care about how much power he’s handing House by just complying with his whims. It’s going to bite him in the ass eventually, possibly literally, if House’s earlier threats were anything to go on, but he can’t bring himself to give two fucks. True to his word, House noses his already slipping shirt away from his shoulder and gently but firmly bites the meat of it, then licks the mark he just left.
“Face down on the bed and take your pants off,” House instructs, and Wilson obeys faster than his cock-stupid brain can keep up with.
The mattress dips under House’s knees as he straddles him awkwardly, the fabric of his jeans brushing against Wilson’s calves. “Fuck yeah,” House hisses and strokes warm hands from the back of Wilson’s knees to the bottom of his ass. “I lied. There is no plan.” He’s running his thumb up and down the tender skin where the inside of Wilson’s thighs begins. “If there was, I forgot all about it when I looked at you with your shirt open down to your navel, you absolute nympho.” And he leans down and bites Wilson hard, exactly in the spot where cheek turns into thigh.
Wilson yelps, because ouch, and also because hot. He’s going to feel this when sitting behind his desk tomorrow, maybe even for longer. Dimly, he realizes that’s probably part of the appeal for House. “It was to my sternum at most,” he pants.
House is laving over the mark he left, stubble rough, but tongue and lips gentle against the abused skin. “Keep telling yourself that,” he says on his way from one thigh to the other. This time, when he bites — making sure it’s all nice and symmetrical back there — Wilson just gasps. House’s mouth turns tender again, trailing open-mouthed kisses and saliva, and Wilson all but melts into the comforter. “Did you know you somehow always end up taking off your pants when you have tequila?” House says and rubs his unshaven cheek over the left mark. (It feels exactly as good as Wilson always imagined.)
“I do?” Until now, Wilson thought tequila just made him black out.
“Yeah,” House rasps, cutting himself off by sucking a hickey into the skin a couple inches below the bites. “Only the pants though, shirt always stays on somehow. Makes you look like a girl in a babydoll, miles and miles of legs…” he trails off, distractedly nuzzling Wilson.
“Then why’d you never let me have any tequila?”
“‘Cause only looking, no touching is fucking torture.”
“You should’ve asked,” Wilson sighs. “I would have said yes.”
House laughs. “Yeah, out of your fucking mind on the Tijuana special, maybe. You wouldn’t have even remembered it in the morning.”
“Should’ve asked me sober then.”
House snorts into skin; it feels nicer than it has any right to. “What the fuck do you think I’ve been doing? There’s only so many gay jokes you can make about your best friend before you kinda mean it.”
Wilson laughs. “Yeah, right. You’ve been coming on to me since we met.” Then he remembers House admitted to wanting to fuck him the night they met some fifteen minutes ago, and the grin slides off his face.
This is a House classic: telling plain truth under the guise of a joke. Wilson has gotten a little better at recognizing it over the years, but most of it still goes right over his head or he only figures it out hours or days later. But years? That’s a new one. All those suggestive looks, waggled eyebrows, questions about booking a room with a queen for a conference to save the hospital some money, all those times House asked if he was ready to swear off women yet, and it never occurred to him once that House might have meant it all.
The axis of Wilson’s world tilts by two degrees.
House seems to have realized what’s happening, because he goes still, the kind of half deer in the headlights, half jungle cat thing he does sometimes.
Wilson squirms out from under him awkwardly and turns to sit against the headboard.
“What?” House asks. He’s still dressed, only the leather jacket is gone, but he has a tense, defensive look on his face, like he’s the naked one between them. “Don’t make it weird.”
“Too late for that.”
“So what if I’ve been testing the waters? You’re such a good Jewish boy, of course you didn’t pick up on it. Should’ve gone straight for ‘Hey, Jimmy, wanna fuck?’”
It’s all the right words, in the right order, but Wilson can’t help but feel that there’s more to this. It’s right there, but like a floater in his eye, it moves away when he tries to look at it directly.
“I already talked you through two completely unnecessary freak-outs today,” House says, waggling his index finger. “You’re not getting your dick sucked if you keep this up.”
The thing is, Wilson is fantastic at compartmentalizing. Putting things in mental boxes and not opening them unless he explicitly wants to is a skill that comes in very handy when one’s patients tend to die of cancer. It’s also pretty useful when you’re getting married and can’t help the occasional stray look at your best man’s obscene hip-to-shoulder ratio in his tailored tux. And as much as he knows House is trying to distract him from something important, he’s really hard right now.
“Yeah, okay, freak out postponed,” he says, firmly telling himself to open that box back up as soon as the postcoital bliss wears off.
House grins, face an odd mix of relief and arousal. “A man after my own heart. C’mon, sit at the edge of the bed.”
“Oh, God,” Wilson breathes, already complying. “You sure?” he adds belatedly as House clambers off the bed with a grunt. “What about your leg?”
For his concern, House grabs his ankles and yanks him down half the bed. People think House weak because of the cane, but Wilson never understood that. There’s a fluid strength to him, the kind of speed and dexterity that made him a fiend on the tennis court, that the infarction couldn’t erase. Yes, walking is hard for him now, not to speak of climbing stairs, but how can anyone overlook the sheer physicality of him? Wilson always found the way he moves profoundly erotic — In a platonic, purely objective way! — and to have his strength demonstrated like this, it makes Wilson want to throw his head back and moan.
“Right, I didn’t give you the hooker briefing yet,” House says as Wilson sits up, bracketing him with his legs. God, what a view! “The leg is fine unless I say otherwise. Nothing kills the mood like the person I’m fucking worrying about my leg, so don’t. Getting on my knees and getting up again sucks, but staying there is fine, or as fine as it is for anyone past forty. The only thing I can’t do is ride you, and I’m already grieving that enough for two. There’ are plenty of other ways in which you can fuck me, so let’s move on.”
“You’d do that?” Wilson asks, mouth suddenly drier than Death Valley.
“Do what?” House asks nonchalantly before he spits into his hand and fists Wilson’s cock.
“Let me fuck you?” Wilson gasps, eyes flitting between House’s face and where he’s touching him.
House’s laugh has a slightly hysterical edge to it. “Jimmy, I’ll let you do just about anything that doesn’t leave either of us permanently scarred.”
The box labeled ‘Imminent Realization About House And Me’ rattles. “That… seems like a totally healthy attitude.”
“Have you been reading Psychology Today again? I’m a freak and you’re not, so it’s not like you’ll ever come up with something I’d veto.” Which has barely anything to do with what he just said, but then House bends down and drags the flat of his tongue over the head of his cock, and Wilson moans like a pornstar. “Fuuuck, yeah. Knew you’d be loud,” House breathes and slides him into his mouth.
Turns out House wasn’t lying about being good at sucking cock. Wilson has had his fair share of blowjobs over the years, and while this one is not the most technically sophisticated, the sheer messy enthusiasm has him curling his toes into the carpet. House doesn’t just suck him like he’s doing something nice for Wilson; he’s sucking him like this is as much for him as it is for Wilson, maybe more. And those eyes — it’s better than Wilson could have possibly imagined — so blue, so piercing, staring like they’re trying to take in, catalogue and commit to memory every detail of Wilson’s reaction.
House is still inexplicably dressed, and when Wilson pushes him back to at least drag the shirt over head, hurt and rejection flash over his face for the split second until he realizes what Wilson is trying to do. “I thought you’d be more of a talker,” he says before he dives back in with renewed fervor. Shit, this won’t take long at all. It usually takes him a while to get there, but, as usual, all bets are off when it comes to House.
“You want that?” Wilson asks, voice already straining. Somehow, the sight of the freckles on House’s shoulders is as erotic as the view of House's mouth on him.
House nods and swallows around him with deliberate slowness and rolls Wilson’s balls in his long dexterous fingers. Wilson almost blacks out.
“You’re so fucking good at this,” Wilson says, happy as always to indulge House and for once too out of it to pretend not to. “You love doing this, don’t you? Love sucking me off?”
Again House nods. The confirmation sends a shudder down Wilson’s back that settles at the base of his spine, tingling and numb at once. He’s going to come.
“You look so good like this, on your knees for me. For me. Mine.” He doesn’t know when it happened, but his hand it in House’s hair, holding him tightly and it’s by sheer force of ingrained blowjob etiquette that he’s only rolling his hips a little instead of fucking his orgasm deep into House’s mouth like his body desperately demands.
House’s hands are on his thighs, squeezing him, petting him through it.
Neither of them break eye-contact until Wilson lets him go, leaning back on his hands with his head thrown back, chest heaving. Free to move where he likes again, House slumps forward into Wilson’s lap and presses his face into the softness above Wilson’s pelvis. Slowly, like a house cat that doesn’t understand that moving in stealthy slow-motion doesn’t work in the open of the living room like it does in tall grass, he wraps his arms around Wilson’s hips.
Wilson almost doesn’t catch it, but House lets out a shuddery little sigh. He’s heard this kind of sound hundreds of times in his office. It's the noise people tend to make when they’re trying not to cry.
The box bursts open, spills its contents everywhere, and spontaneously combusts.
“House?” Wilson asks, sitting up enough to look down at his lapful of melted diagnostician that’s nuzzling his belly, smearing the spit and precome from his chin onto Wilson’s skin.
House is silent.
Tentatively, Wilson reaches down and runs his fingers through House’s hair, at odds with how harshly he gripped it minutes ago.
“Hey, look at me,” he urges quietly, and House complies.
The look on his face isn’t entirely new. Wilson has seen it before, through the haze of alcohol or in the corner of his eye, after particularly trying days and only ever briefly, over too quickly to truly understand.
It’s longing.
“Oh, House.” Wilson cradles his face in his hands and kisses him. House responds easily, mouth sweet and slow, and Wilson can tell exactly when he comes back to his senses, because he stills and pulls away, dropping his head to the crease of Wilson’s thigh.
“Don’t do that.” House says, fingers digging into Wilson’s lovehandles.
“Do what?” Wilson asks, curling in over him.
“Encourage me,” House spits.
“Sorry,” Wilson says and presses a kiss to his hair, running warm hands over the bare expanse of his back. “My bad.”
House huffs and falls silent again. They stay like this, wrapped around each other, and Wilson lets his newfound knowledge settle in. It’s funny how two people confronted with the same situation — Whoops, fucked the person I have unrequited feelings for — can come up with entirely opposite solutions for it, running away from it and talking the other into more sex, respectively.
“I pretty sure this fuck-buddies thing isn’t gonna work out, House.”
House heaves a sigh with his entire body. “Because I have big mushy gay feeling for you, yep. Give me another minute and I’ll fuck off. We’ll try your pretending it didn’t happen bit next, alright?”
“No, I don’t think that’s an option either,” Wilson says lightly.
House sits back on his heels with a low grunt, squinting up at Wilson. “Then why the hell haven’t you kicked me out yet?”
Wilson tries for a grin, but it’s probably more of a sappy smile, which makes sense. He’s feeling pretty sappy right now. “You’re usually so clever, why don’t you figure it out?”
House squints some more.
“Do you need a whiteboard, or…?”
“Did you — You called me yours,” House states.
“Yeah, that wasn’t exactly subtle of me, sugarplum.”
House pounces.
Thirty minutes later, they’ve both made it onto the bed, House has finally lost his jeans and Wilson has gained more bite marks in new and fun places.
“We, we’re gonna have to tell Cuddy. Fill out some forms,” Wilson says. It’s been a while that he’s come twice in under an hour — not since he hit thirty now that he thinks about it — and his brain feels like it’s leaking out of his ears.
“We could,” House says from Wilson’s sternum. He’s lying half on top of him, and Wilson quietly worries that his arms will go numb from how they’re wrapped around his chest, limpet-style. “Or, we could find out exactly how much PDA we can get away with until someone figures out it’s not a prank.”
Wilson’s snort is drowned out by a growl of his stomach.
“Okay,” House says and levers himself off Wilson to go fishing for his jeans and the cellphone presumably still in the pocket. “I’m thinking Thai?”
“Sure.”
“Great, you’re buying.”
Really, hardly anything changes at all.