Chapter Text
There had been a discrepancy between House’s actions and his behavior. That wasn't unusual, House had always been unpredictable in his predictability, but this recent turn of events had planted a seed of doubt in Wilson.
Sure, Wilson had started it. The proposal at an Italian restaurant might’ve been a little much but House had eventually liked it. Once Nora was gone, they stayed there, because House had already paid a reservation fee and because Wilson wanted to punish him further by ordering wine on his tab.
The single glass of Cabernet had turned into a bottle of Chianti. The Chianti had turned into shots of amaro after dessert, bitter and herbal and kind of disgusting. By the time they got home, they were drunk and giggly, swaying a little as they kicked the door shut behind them. Wilson hiccupped, cheeks flushed and eyes glassy. House smiled with teeth, a rare open grin he only wore when he was just intoxicated enough to forget to guard it.
They shed their coats in the entryway and headed straight for the couch, scotch in hand, the television already humming to life. A nature documentary filled the room with low narration and sweeping shots of some animal.
“I’m supposed to be sober.” House said when Wilson sat down with the bottle in hand.
“As your sponsor, I’m allowing this just once.” Wilson had slurred with a smile, pouring their drinks and handing House the one with less scotch. “Here you go, little less.”
“That'll make it right.”
House watched the way Wilson folded himself into the couch, careless and loose, claiming space without thinking about it. He didn’t sit on his half of the couch but right in the middle, shoulders flush with House’s, knees nearly touching. He nursed his glass with a giddy smile, eyes unfocused, warmth radiating off him like static. They sat and drank and talked for a while, giggling some more, until Wilson's head fell to the side, watching the documentary.
“I’ve always had the best sex of my life every time I proposed.” Wilson muttered into his glass, lips catching onto the rim.
"I doubt you're getting lucky tonight."
Wilson glanced sideways at him.
“You didn’t like the ring?”
“I can tell it’s rented.” House said, then took a sip.
“So what? It's the thought that counts.”
“It's borrowed.”
“Something old, something new…” Wilson said with pursed lips, eyes on the TV.
“You should've splurged more if your objective was to get touched tonight.”
“I thought I could get away with it.”
“You're calling me cheap?”
“Not cheap. Easy, maybe.”
“Alright.” House frowned.
“You can't really argue against that.”
“I won't.” House replied genuinely with a shrug.
“See? I didn't even have to wear heels and a pencil skirt and force you into a few hours of clinic duty.” The oncologist slurred.
“That’s third base.”
Wilson turned fully now, the documentary forgotten. He stared at House’s mouth, tracking the way his lips moved around the rim of the glass.
“What are the first two?”
House turned to look back at him, a small, puzzled smile pulling at one corner of his mouth, uncertain but intrigued.
“Why are you asking like you're interested?”
“You blew my chances to have sex with our neighbor, I’m allowed to look elsewhere.” Wilson shrugged.
“You never had a chance with her.” House said. Wilson raised his brows, scoffed, but didn’t look away. House followed his gaze, then realized where it had landed: on his lips. “If I didn't know any better I would think you’re looking elsewhere in my direction.”
“It would be kind of you to right a wrong for once.” Wilson mumbled.
House hummed, smirking. He was tipsy enough to enjoy whatever this was without interrogating it too closely.
“How long are you going to method act?” He asked, his voice low.
“How long do you last?”
“What are you doing?” House let out a breathy laugh.
“Wait, you told me. Six minutes.” Wilson answered his own question and pointed a finger at him, tapped his chest with it. “I last much longer.”
“Spoken like a stallion. You have anorgasmia from Paroxetine. You’re cheating. You could last a whole night.”
“Want to put that to the test? When I pop a viagra I can last three hours. And it’s not as medically concerning as it sounds.”
House’s face fell slightly. The joke had slipped a fraction too far, and Wilson wasn’t laughing.
“Wilson, what are you doing?”
Wilson pursed his lips, eyes drifting back to House’s mouth like he couldn’t help it.
“You look better than you usually do.”
“Not as ugly?” House asked, narrowing his eyes
“Not at all.” Wilson reached out, fingers brushing the collar of House’s pink button up. “‘S the shirt.”
“It always works with the ladies.” House said distractedly, eyes tracking Wilson’s hand.
“And I haven't had sex in so long.” Wilson almost groaned, then added: “Neither have you.”
“Despite the shirt.” House stared at him. “I’m not in withdrawal enough to turn to men.”
“I might be.” The younger man mumbled into his glass. “It did the job in boarding school.”
“I knew it!” House said, smile snapping back into place, victorious
Wilson paused, looking at him with a giddy smile. He was very drunk. Drunk enough that the fear came second to the momentum.
“Right now this sounds like a great idea.” Wilson mumbled, a single finger slipping up to caress the side of House’s neck.
“What does?”
“Tell me to stop.”
Before House could ask, Wilson leaned in and kissed him. The first kiss was impatient and soft at once, the second landed with a small, disbelieving laugh against House’s mouth.
It wasn’t graceful. Their mouths met off-angle, noses bumping, breath warm and heavy with scotch and wine. The kiss turned sloppy almost immediately, too much alcohol, too little coordination, but neither of them pulled away. They adjusted by instinct, clumsy and intent at the same time.
House’s surprise showed only for a second, a stiff pause that melted as quickly as it came. His hand slid up to Wilson’s cheek, thumb pressing there as he leaned in, closing the space between them without hesitation. The documentary murmured on in the background, blue light flickering over their faces.
Within a minute, they were making out.
Wilson shifted, rising onto his knees on the couch to get some leverage over House, one hand braced against the cushion near House’s hip. The couch creaked under the change in weight.
House’s hands moved from Wilson’s face to his arms, gripping there, fingers tightening into the sleeves of his shirt like he needed something solid to hold onto while he let this happen.
At some point Wilson’s hand slipped lower, almost absentmindedly, like it was following gravity more than intention. His fingers slid between House’s legs, hesitant at first, then testing, a slow, uncoordinated stroke that betrayed how drunk he was. It wasn’t skilled or precise but it was warm, searching, driven more by want than by plan.
“Wilson.” House said it on a breath that turned into a soft, involuntary moan. He broke the kiss just long enough to press a hand flat against Wilson’s chest, firm but not forceful. “Wilson.”
Wilson stilled for half a second, then looked at him. His eyes were glassy, lids heavy, mouth slack with a dopey, affectionate smile that didn’t quite understand why he’d been stopped.
“It’s fine that you’re not hard yet,” Wilson said gently, like he was reassuring a patient instead of the man beneath him. “I’m a patient man.”
“Wilson.” House said it again, this time steadier, grounding himself. “You don’t want to have sex with me.”
Wilson blinked, confusion flickering across his face as if the sentence didn’t parse.
“I do.” He frowned slightly, trying to line the thought up. “Do you? With me?” He searched House’s face, earnest and unguarded when House sighed. “Huh?”
“Don’t be an idiot.”
“Do you?”
“Yes. Of course. Don’t—” House exhaled against Wilson’s mouth as their lips brushed again, frustration and want tangled together. “Don’t make this difficult while we still have clothes on.”
Wilson stayed still, obedient for once. House ignored his own statement and leaned in and kissed him again, slower now, deliberate.
"This will get messy."
Wilson hummed softly into the kiss, a sound of contentment more than desire, pleased House had changed his mind.
“Would it be so bad?” Wilson murmured when they parted for breath for a moment, the words slurring slightly, a hiccup caught at the end of the sentence.
“Yes.” House said it without hesitation. “You’ll regret it in the morning. Maybe even in an hour if you throw up.”
“I’m not that…” Wilson waved a hand vaguely, as if dismissing the idea, framed House's face instead. “I don’t change my mind that easily.”
“Mmh.” House huffed quietly. “Odd, because you were straight this morning and now you aren’t.”
“Why do you care what it is?” Wilson leaned closer again, crowding into House’s space, pecking his lips once, then again. House let out a breathy scoff against his mouth. “You should care that it feels good. Doesn’t this feel good?”
“Mmh.” House nodded despite himself, a small, traitorous acknowledgment.
They kissed some more, slower, less frantic. House kissed back, carefully, memorizing something he fully intended to walk away from. Wilson smiled against his mouth, pleased, smug in a gentle, drunken way.
“I knew you’d feel good,” Wilson murmured. “Always wanted to… do this. You’ve always… looked like a good kisser with Stacy.” He smiled again, eyes half closed. “Mhh. Yeah.”
House pulled back suddenly, firm hand on his chest. He shifted away on the couch. The space between them instantly felt very real.
“I’m going to bed.” He said it quietly but decisively, pushing himself up, he swayed a bit, then grabbed his cane. “You should too.”
“Huh?” Wilson frowned, swaying slightly on his knees on the couch. House started walking towards the hallway. “Am I coming with you?”
House shook his head, firm now, already withdrawing to the kitchen.
“Nobody’s coming tonight.”
Things hadn’t felt dramatically different after that night. All morning, Wilson half convinced himself he’d imagined it, with the way House moved through the hospital with the same dry detachment he always had. No hesitation around Wilson, no awkwardness. No glance that lingered too long. If anything, House seemed more normal than usual, as if overcorrecting into casualness.
But when Wilson came home that afternoon, the shot glasses were still on the coffee table, each with a shallow amber line at the bottom. The air still smelled faintly of scotch. The evidence sat there quietly, undeniable. His memories had been too sharp, too physical, too vivid to be fantasy.
So why had House ignored it? Did he regret it that much? Had the mention of Stacy offended him?
He had seemed into it, he hadn’t been just compliant, nor passive, he’d been there, present, kissing him back for long enough that it couldn’t be dismissed as confusion. Wilson felt heat climb up his neck just thinking about it. The memory of their mouths clumsily pressed together, the warmth of House’s hands gripping his arms, the way it had felt messy and unfamiliar and nothing like anything he’d had with his wives.
And then nothing.
House never mentioned it. He didn’t avoid Wilson either. He didn’t push him away, didn’t change the routine. He simply went on being himself, as if the whole thing hadn’t happened.
They still lived together. Still sometimes drove to work in Wilson’s car. Still sat on the same couch where they’d almost had sex.
But where House could sit there without a flicker of tension, Wilson found himself painfully aware of the space between them. He squirmed, restless, nervous, almost anticipatory, reading too much into every shift of House’s posture, every glance, every sigh. His mind kept circling back to that night, imagining that every move his best friend made would lead to them continuing what they'd started.
He didn’t know when he’d started liking men. He remembered trying, briefly, in med school, out of sheer curiosity more than attraction, and finding the experience bland, forgettable. Maybe the issue had been the men he’d picked because House had never been anything close to bland and this certainly was nothing short of unforgettable.
But he’d known him for decades. Why now? What had changed that made the idea of pulling House into his bed feel less absurd and more possible?
Maybe sobriety had changed him. House had never been this present, this alert, steady. His hair was different now too, a silver buzzcut that managed to make him look older and younger at once. He went to therapy. He cooked, surprisingly well. He asked for help and, more surprisingly, accepted it.
By every measure, House had changed.
When Wilson framed it like that, his feelings felt less like a drunken mistake and more like a delayed realization. This version of House seemed capable of being something different to him. And hadn’t they always been something more than friends anyway? More intense. More codependent. More tangled together than most people ever were.
By the time he reached the end of that thought, Wilson felt almost convinced that what he’d done drunk wasn’t far from what he would’ve done sober. The alcohol had just given him the nerve to cross a line he’d already been standing on.
House, on the other hand, behaved like nothing out of the ordinary had ever happened.
Until he started acting strange.
He spent less time at home, blaming work. He stopped cooking, blaming his leg. When he was home, he read, quietly, for hours, a new habit that felt less like relaxation and more like avoidance.
Something was off.
Then House had found the porn Wilson had starred in in college, and for a brief moment Wilson felt an odd relief at having something — anything — to talk to him about again. The familiar rhythm of teasing and deflection returned, but even that felt slightly out of sync, like two musicians playing the same song half a beat apart.
Something kept them at a distance neither of them acknowledged.
Eventually, Wilson asked his team if they’d noticed anything unusual about House. Most shrugged and gave the obvious answer: He’s always weird.
Chase, however, after thinking for a long moment, said he had noticed something.
“He’s not reading The Golden Bowl.” He went on to explain.
The real copy of The Golden Bowl that House owned — the one Wilson had seen sit untouched on a shelf for years — was thick, dense, a book that could double as a paperweight. What House had been carrying around the hospital for days was thin, light. The wrong shape entirely.
That detail lodged itself in Wilson’s mind and refused to leave.
Later that afternoon, while House was in the OR, Wilson slipped into his office under the flimsiest excuse. The book was on the desk, face down. He picked it up, felt the weight immediately — too light, too narrow. He slid the dust jacket off.
Underneath wasn’t Henry James.
It was a small, baby-blue paperback. Soft cover. Creased spine. The title, embossed in modest serif letters, belonged to a collection of sermons written by Thomas Bell.
Wilson stared at it for a long moment. House? Sermons? He put the cover back on, returned the book to exactly where he’d found it, and left without touching anything else.
That night, in the condo kitchen, Wilson asked about it when House walked in.
“Why are you reading a book by a Unitarian minister?”
House didn’t look at him, just shed his coat with a sigh. “Oprah’s book club.”
Wilson waited.
“A patient wrote it.”
Wilson crossed his arms. He knew both answers were lies, lazy ones. House didn’t even try to make them convincing.
He kept pressing until House finally exhaled sharply through his nose.
“It's an assignment from my therapist.”
“No, it wasn't. No one you respect would give you this and expect it to be helpful.”
The argument unfolded before dinner, draining whatever appetite either of them had. House’s pace had slowed, then stopped altogether.
Wilson could feel it: this wasn’t random. The fact he’d stopped cooking, the amount of time it was taking him to come up with diagnoses, the long stretches where he’d go quiet and sit in the corner of a room, one hand resting absently on his thigh like he was grounding himself. And now this book. It had to connect.
"This is not just a book. You wouldn't just read this crap. You're acting weird."
“Just because someone rejects you for the first time in your life, you think there must be something wrong with them.” House accused.
Wilson blinked. That was the first time House had named it out loud. The air in the kitchen shifted. Wilson didn’t answer right away, caught off guard by how directly House had cut to it.
“This isn't about me.”
“The timing makes me think otherwise. Do you think every person that says ‘no’ to a night of passion with Wonderboy Wilson just can't be in their right mind?”
Wilson scoffed, stung in a way he hadn’t expected.
“You're being ridiculous.”
“And you're being self centered.” House almost yelled.
“This is not about me.”
“What is it about then?”
“I don't know! You won't tell me!” Wilson's voice pitched higher than he liked. “Are you so out of options, you're looking for answers in what you consider irrationality?”
House went quiet. Not sarcastic-quiet. Not annoyed-quiet. Just still. He bit the inside of his cheek, eyes fixed somewhere past Wilson’s shoulder.
When he finally spoke, his voice had lost its edge.
“I'm alright. Trust me.”
“Are you alright because you're back on Vicodin?”
House’s jaw tightened.
“I said, ‘trust me’.”
If there was something Wilson had learned over the last couple of years was that you just can't trust addicts. You might want to, you might believe you can, but you'll always be proven wrong in the end. He’d talked to Cuddy, expressed his concerns. But they'd been over this, they'd already done this whole song and dance merely two weeks prior. Could he keep living in constant vigilance of his best friend?
Yes.
The next morning, when House stomped out the door for work, Wilson found himself lingering by the hallway closet, keys in hand, just curious. Something in Wilson’s gut had poked him all night, uneasy and obsessive.
It started small. Nightstand drawer: lube, lotion, condoms, ibuprofen, thermometer, books, lots of uncapped pens and thin notebooks.
Desk: old receipts, loose change. pens, more books.
Closet shelf: nice socks he’d never worn, underwear Wilson recognized as his own, more pens, a lighter, a pack of cigarettes, more ibuprofen. Wilson opened the bottle to check inside just to make sure. He felt guilty about even questioning it, but he had to.
Then he moved to House’s bathroom, the one House used the least ironically enough.
Soap, a small cologne bottle only worn for special occasions, beard trimmer, deodorant. There were a couple of odd things, Wilson figured they might've belonged to one of his hookers. House had their cycles memorized, he would've easily kept meds for them. At his last apartment he even kept pads, contraceptive pills and Plan-B. At some point even pregnancy tests and vaginal estrogen suppositories. Wilson hadn't questioned it, the man did all sorts of depraved stuff, he almost felt relieved to know he was careful about it. His home had always felt like a pharmacy, House had a tendency to hoard drugs, even the over-the-counter kind.
He was about to give up, overtaken by the shame of questioning House, then he found it.
Under the sink, pushed back behind spare towels, discreet but undeniably there, a bright yellow and red plastic sharps container.
Wilson froze.
His first reaction was physical: a sigh, deep from his core. He knelt and pulled it out, feeling its weight like a punch to the ribs. He rattled it. It was half full.
Wilson uncapped it, finding syringes, not many, maybe six, but enough to be alarming. They were thin. The little residue inside them was viscous and slightly yellow.
Of course House could have a medical reason for needles. House was stubborn and contrarian and had strange hobbies, but the way his stomach twisted told Wilson exactly what his brain was trying not to think: IV use.
At least he’d been honest, it wasn’t Vicodin.
Wilson sat there on the cold tile floor for a long moment, eyes fixed on the red plastic lid, before he tucked it under his arm and left the bathroom quietly.
That evening, House was at the kitchen counter, ditching dinner for a bowl of cereal, when Wilson set the sharps container down with a heavy thunk.
House didn’t flinch. He didn’t even look.
Just raised the spoon, took a bite, chewed, swallowed, then set the spoon down again.
“I should've left women’s underwear and heels around. I knew you would've gone snooping. It would've been much more entertaining if you'd found hints of crossdressing.”
Wilson just stood there.
“You care to explain this?” he asked, voice quiet but shaking.
House blinked, eyes flicking from his cereal to the container without a hint of alarm.
“I don’t, actually,” he said, dry.
Wilson did not laugh.
“What are you using?” he said, jaw tight.
House pushed his bowl away like the thought of finishing it tired him.
“Only the word of the lord, I thought we’d been over this.”
“No,” Wilson said, staring at the container hard, “You’re using the book to distract me from this. What is it? Before I take it to the lab. Heroin? Fentanyl?”
House paused mid-motion. Then he lowered his spoon and smirked.
“You think I’m shooting up?”
Wilson’s voice went up a pitch. “Why would you have hidden needles if you’re not using?”
House leaned back, thoughtful for all of two seconds before shrugging.
“Taxidermy.”
Wilson’s face didn’t change. His eyes were serious, hunting for a crack in House’s tone.
“I’m not using,” House added, tone flat, bored, unimpressed.
Wilson lifted his hands, defeated. “Fine. Sure. I believe you.”
House rolled his eyes.
“No, you don’t,” he said quietly.
Wilson exhaled through his nose, confessing the truth out loud.
“I don’t,” he admitted. “Because you’re hiding needles from me.”
“I’m also hiding buttplugs, you should've dug a little harder.”
There was a beat of silence, thick and strange.
“What is this for, then?” Wilson asked. “If not drugs?”
“I needed percussions for a piece,” he said, casually, with a shrug, spoon in hand, “and they rattle beautifully.”
Wilson stared at him, weighing truth against habit, guesswork against loyalty. He didn’t argue further. But the container sat in his hands a little longer.
If House wasn't going to tell him, the lab would've.
The next morning, before he even set foot in Oncology, he went down two floors, badge-swiped into Clinical Pathology, and asked a favor from a tech who owed him one from a consult months ago.
“I need a chemical analysis,” he’d said. “Drug screen and full analytic workup.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“Patient had this in his home.” He added.
“What were you doing at your patient’s home?”
He stalled for a moment, he’d grown so used to House’s diagnostic methods he'd forgotten they were technically illegal.
“I was in the neighborhood.”
She handed him gloves, a sample vial, and logged the request under research testing rather than patient diagnostics. That bought him time and fewer explanations.
The syringe contained an amber, viscous liquid. Oil-based. That much was obvious as soon as he depressed the plunger and let a few drops fall into the glass vial. It clung to the sides instead of dispersing.
Not water-soluble. Not blood. Not saline. He knew enough medicine to know what that meant, and that knowledge made him more unsettled, not less.
Less than an hour later, he came back from clinic duty and checked the results of the first test, the immunoassay drug screen.
Negative for opioids.
Negative for benzodiazepines.
Negative for common injectables, sedatives, narcotics.
That ruled out the obvious fears. It did not rule out the strange ones.
So he requested gas chromatography-mass spectrometry.
That took most of the afternoon.
The tech prepared the sample, diluted it with solvent, ran it through the column. Wilson watched for a while, then figured his time would be better spent with patients. Still, he stayed a little longer. The chromatograph traced peaks across a monitor in slow, patient movements. Each peak represented a compound separating from the rest.
When the mass spectrometer began analyzing the fragments, the computer started comparing patterns against its reference library.
He decided to leave, maybe doing his rounds would’ve kept him distracted enough. He was confused, he’d expected drugs, any injectable drug really. This only complicated things, made him wonder if House was using this to distract him from something even worse. But what could be worse than a relapse? Especially from House’s point of view.
It took twenty-seven minutes for the software to return a match.
The tech frowned at the screen.
“Your patient’s into bodybuilding?” she asked, mockingly.
Wilson stepped closer.
The report said: Testosterone cypionate.
He stared at it, waiting for the word to rearrange itself into something that made more sense. It didn’t.
He asked for confirmation with liquid chromatography-mass spectrometry. Different method, same principle. If it was a false positive, this would catch it.
That test ran for another hour. Same result. Testosterone cypionate. High purity. Pharmaceutical grade. Injected oil-based anabolic androgen.
Wilson felt something cold and slow spread through his chest. He wasn’t confused about why a man would own injectable testosterone. He was confused about why House had it specifically and, mainly, why it had been hidden in a bathroom drawer behind towels like it was something more shameful than a relapse.
He printed the report and folded it once, very neatly. He thanked her and left, report in his lap coat pocket.
No opioids. No sedatives. No street cocktail. House had been telling the truth. He wasn’t using. Which somehow made this harder. It didn’t fit with that familiar, weary script his brain had memorized after years of House circling the drain and clawing back out.
Hypogonadism. That was the cleanest answer. Primary or secondary. Testicles not producing enough. Pituitary not signaling correctly. Either way, the result was the same: low serum testosterone, treated with an injectable ester exactly like this.
Years of Vicodin could’ve done that. Opioids suppressing the hypothalamic-pituitary-gonadal axis eventually lowered his GnRH, LH, his testosterone. It was well documented. He’d read the papers. Men on long-term opioids with fatigue, depression, sexual dysfunction, muscle loss. Treated with testosterone replacement. Usually prescribed by a physician.
Wilson was still technically his primary care physician. On paper. A name in a box. But House had always treated that like a bureaucratic inconvenience. He ran his own labs, ordered his own panels, interpreted his own results, which was a spectacularly stupid thing to let a brilliant, addicted, stubborn man do to himself.
Wilson had allowed it because he wanted to give House some autonomy. He wanted his best friend to know he still trusted him, even with all that had happened with Tritter.
Now that he thought about it, the hints had been there.
House had joked for years about not being able to get an erection. Had turned it into punchlines, deflections, insults. Wilson had laughed because that’s what House trained people to do. But now those jokes rearranged themselves into symptoms.
Low libido. Erectile dysfunction. Mood volatility. Fatigue.
And the urinary retention. The time House had gone three days unable to pee and, instead of going to the ER, had catheterized himself in his bathroom like it was a minor plumbing issue. Wilson had yelled at him for the recklessness, but he’d never followed the thread further than that.
Prostate enlargement could do that. Hormonal imbalance could do that.
Liver issues could play a role, too. And House’s liver had not had a gentle decade. Chronic opioid use, acetaminophen exposure, everything he’d put into himself without supervision. Liver dysfunction could alter hormone metabolism. Increase estrogen. Lower effective testosterone.
It fit.
Why hadn't House told him? It would've been so easy to reassure him if he'd just laid it all out.
He brought it up over dinner.
Wilson had picked up Korean on the way home, House’s favorite place, extra banchan, a small peace offering that didn’t necessarily look like one. They sat side by side at the kitchen counter instead of across from each other. Wilson kept the conversation light at first, easy. A joke about a patient. A complaint about hospital parking. He waited until House was smiling, chopsticks paused mid-air, shoulders relaxed.
Then he dropped it.
“Why are you taking testosterone?”
House’s jaw tightened so subtly it would’ve been easy to miss.
“Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve always wanted to become a boy.” He said it flatly, humor draining out of his face as his chopsticks began to stir his food without purpose.
“Don't waste my time, I know you're taking it.”
The smile collapsed completely.
“You tested it?” He scoffed without amusement, shaking his head. “You're unbelievable.”
“I can't trust you.”
“I told you I wasn't using!” House shouted.
“You're having hormonal imbalances and you didn't even care to tell your doctor?”
“Oh, shut up. When's the last time you've done my labs?” He paused for a beat. “Not counting when you routinely accuse me of relapsing, I’d say 2001.”
“You said you don't need me.”
“I don't.” House slid off the stool abruptly, chopsticks clattering into the takeout box. “You had no right.”
“You live under my roof.”
House let out a harsh scoff.
“You're talking like my father.”
“I haven't slapped some sense into you yet, have I?”
Wilson regretted it the second it left his mouth.
The mocking smile vanished from House’s face entirely. He didn’t even reach for his cane. He just turned and stormed down the hallway, footsteps sharp against the floor.
“House,” Wilson called after him.
The bedroom door slammed hard enough to rattle the frame.
Wilson stood there for a moment, then dragged a hand over his face.
He stayed at the counter longer than he meant to, trying to eat. At first he shoveled in a few bites mechanically, nerves making him chew too fast. The food turned to paste in his mouth. His stomach twisted. He poured himself a glass of scotch, hoping the burn would settle him, but it only made the nausea worse.
He set the glass down untouched. The condo felt too quiet.
Eventually he walked down the hallway and stopped in front of the closed door.
He knocked gently.
“House,” he said, softer now. “I’m sorry. I went out of line.”
Nothing.
“I was… I was wrong. And I was an asshole. But I need you to trust me.” A long pause. He tried again. “I know trust is earned—”
The lock clicked.
The door opened just enough for House to appear, still visibly pissed. He didn’t say a word at first. He shoved a folder hard against Wilson’s chest.
“Here’s your trust.”
Then he slammed the door again.
Wilson stood outside the bedroom door for a few seconds, the folder pressed awkwardly to his chest, listening to the silence on the other side. No footsteps. No movement. Just the low hum of the refrigerator from down the hall.
He walked back to the kitchen and set the folder on the counter carefully.
When he opened it, the smell of old paper hit him first, dry, faintly dusty. The documents inside were yellowed at the edges, softened by time.
The first pages were medical records printed on outdated letterhead from a clinic Wilson didn’t recognize. Lab results with hormone panels circled in pen. Notes in a tight, impatient handwriting he knew too well. Referrals. Endocrinology consults. A psychiatrist’s evaluation from years ago with entire paragraphs blacked out by thick marker.
He flipped further.
Legal forms. Name change petitions. Court approval stamps. Copies of affidavits. Bureaucratic language that reduced a life to checkboxes and signatures. Insurance correspondence. Letters denying coverage. Letters appealing those denials. Letters winning, eventually.
Informed consent for periareolar mastectomy. His fingers lingered there.
Beneath that were prescription histories. Pages of them. Testosterone prescriptions spanning years. The earliest ones were written on paper pads instead of printed scripts.
Wilson froze when he recognized the header. They were from his prescription pad, with his signature, clearly forged.
Only after all of that — after the clinical history of a life he hadn’t known existed — did he reach the identification documents.
An old state ID. A driver’s license. A copy of a birth certificate.
All under the name Gretchen House.
The gender marker read F.
He stared at that for a long moment, confusion bleeding into something colder. What kind of elaborate joke was this supposed to be? It wasn’t funny. It wasn’t clever. It was strange and deeply tasteless.
Wilson felt his heart rate pick up, then reached the end of the files, finding a stack of pictures, tucked in the very end of the folder.
They were unmistakably House. The same eyes. The same sharp line of the nose. But younger. Softer. No beard. Slightly longer hair that framed his face instead of being cut close. This version of him looked like he belonged to a time Wilson had never been allowed to see.
Wilson had never seen pictures of House before R2, and even then they’d only been blurry rowing team shots, tiny figures in the background of someone else’s camera. This was different. This was intimate. This was him in his early twenties, maybe even younger.
Wilson’s mind kept trying to correct what he was seeing, to fit it into something that made sense, but it wouldn’t. He could recognize House instantly, and yet every line of text on the page contradicted the image his brain had of him.
The first was of a child — House as a kid — wearing a striped shirt, grinning crookedly while posing with his father’s army hat and a ceremonial sword that looked too heavy for him. Wilson found himself smiling before he could stop it. He had never seen House like this. Open. Playful. So small and full of life.
The next picture was of House standing beside Blythe in bright sunlight outside what looked like a church on a military base. He had long hair here and was wearing a dress. Fourteen, judging by the date. Too tall already, shoulders hunched inward, trying to make himself smaller. Even in a still image, he looked uncomfortable, like he wanted to step out of the frame, if not his body, entirely.
Wilson’s smile faded.
The last photograph showed House biting down on a medal after winning some swimming competition. He wore women’s swimwear, but his hair was cut short now. There was a cocky, familiar smirk on his face, the earliest version of the expression Wilson knew so well. It was a beautiful picture. Confident. Defiant. Pretty.
Wilson could suddenly understand why someone who hated keeping photographs would keep this one.
He laid the pictures side by side on the counter, staring at them for a long time. After a moment, it occurred to him that maybe House had been justified all along in not keeping photos out in the open.
Wilson carefully tucked the photographs back into the folder, his fingers lingering over the faded edges as if touching them might somehow erase the weight of what he’d just seen. He reached for his glass of scotch again, the amber liquid catching the overhead light, and settled back onto the stool. His body was exhausted from the shift, but his mind refused to slow, spinning faster with each revelation. He took a slow sip, the burn scraping his throat, grounding him in the moment, barely.
House appeared later, moving through the kitchen without a glance in Wilson’s direction. He swung open the fridge and yanked the milk carton out with an exaggerated, deliberate motion, drinking straight from it in a way that usually made Wilson’s stomach tighten in irritation. House placed the carton in the fridge door with the same careless precision..
He grabbed bread from the counter and began making himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, the knife scraping rhythmically across the bread. Wilson watched, hands tightening slightly on his glass. The tension between them felt almost physical, pressing down from the ceiling.
“I’m sorry,” Wilson said finally, voice low but steady. “I was an ass.”
“Glad you know that,” House replied, licking the knife clean and tossing it loudly into the sink. His back was still to Wilson, shoulders stiff, posture deliberately closed off.
“I didn’t know,” Wilson pressed. “I had no idea.”
“You’re an idiot.” House didn’t turn, didn’t soften.
Wilson blinked, surprised, and tried a different tack. “You… pee standing up.”
“I have a great aim,” House said without looking, then added: “It’s silicone.”
A pause stretched between them.
“It looks realistic,” he added quietly.
“It was expensive,” House replied, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, sucking the peanut butter off his thumb.
“So the shots—”
“I started bleeding again in Mayfield.” House’s voice was low, tired, almost clinical. He chewed slowly before swallowing, deliberate and careful. “I stopped taking testosterone after the Tritter raided my house and took my stock. I couldn't forge more prescriptions so I just stopped taking it. I thought I’d gone through menopause but, turns out, it was just the Vicodin. Years of it shut me down. My ovaries were just on vacation, not retirement.”
Wilson’s eyes flicked to him, trying to read the subtle blend of humor and exhaustion in House’s tone.
“My hypothalamus wasn’t sending signals. The endometrium was atrophied, but it wasn't from the hormones, but from the pills. The body looked menopausal because the drugs told it to.”
House shifted slightly, uneven steps on the floor as he reached for his glass of water from earlier. His voice remained calm, detached, failing to hide the shame that Wilson could feel emanating from him. He took a sip, pursed his lips, set the glass down but kept his hands around it, to keep his fingers busy.
“Then I detoxed, pulled the opioids, and my pituitary started doing its job again. Ovaries respond, estrogen rises, endometrium rebuilds. And then you bleed again, at 51. It hadn’t been menopause. Just drug-induced amenorrhea. If you think detoxing is embarrassing enough, wait till you have to ask for pads while in solitary confinement.”
Wilson’s throat tightened. He remained quiet, letting the words settle like stones in his stomach.
“I need the shots to bring my levels up again. It’s looking better. I stopped bleeding.”
“You should’ve told me,” Wilson said softly.
“I didn’t have the energy to have this conversation. I still don’t.” House finally looked at him, the fatigue in his eyes sharpening the edge of honesty.
“I’m your doctor. If something happened to you—”
“It already has.” House lifted his cane slowly, deliberately.
Wilson hesitated, then asked, careful, probing, “Do you have… more to tell me?”
House’s shoulders stiffened. He looked away for a long moment before letting a dry, small smirk cross his lips.
“I had sex with your father in 2003. Very boring man, but incredible stamina.”
“I’m sorry,” Wilson said instinctively, cheeks warming.
“Oh, don’t worry. He makes a killer breakfast.” House paused, eyes flicking toward the counter, then back to the floor. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Wilson’s voice came quieter, tinged with self-reproach. “Didn’t do anything right, either.”
House nodded once, slowly.
Wilson stepped closer, the floor creaking faintly under his weight, and lowered himself onto the empty stool beside House. He didn’t crowd him, but the space between them felt charged, fragile, like glass stretched thin.
“I… I love you.”
House made a disgusted face without looking at him. “At least buy me dinner first.”
“We never tell each other, but I want you to know.”
“I don't want to know.” The older man whined childishly.
“This… changes nothing.”
“Oh, shut up. The last thing I want is a speech from you.” House groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. “I knew you weren't going to blink an eye. Sure, you're a pig, but you're not an idiot. You're confused. But you are about most things.”
The room went quiet. The hum of the fridge seemed heavier. Wilson could hear his own breathing, a little too loud in his ears.
After a long pause, he asked carefully, “Is this… why we haven't had sex?”
“Wow.” House actually laughed, short and sharp. “You're so self centered.”
“Because if that's the reason, you don't… have to worry about it.”
“That’s your first worry? I just told you I don't have a penis and you think that's what's stopping me from sleeping with you?”
“Well?”
“You're an ass,” House said, with a tight, humorless smile. Then, pointedly: “Maybe you're just a lousy kisser.”
“Now I know that's not true.”
House’s eyes flicked to him, irritated, searching. “Why do you care?”
“Because you didn't give me a reason! You just… forgot about it!” Wilson’s voice pitched higher despite himself. “Well, I can't.”
House watched him for a beat, expression flattening. “Why do you want to have sex with me that bad?”
“I—I don't know.”
“Why now?”
“I don't know.” Wilson gestured helplessly with both hands. “I don’t want to… end up someday wishing I had done something about this. I want to… do something now.”
“What if I don't want to?”
Wilson nodded, bit the inside of his cheek. “Then just tell me.”
“This is a waste of time.” House pushed himself up with visible effort, grabbed his cane, and started toward the hallway again.
“I’ll stop,” Wilson said quickly, raising his hands, the words tumbling over each other. “I’m sorry I even asked. I thought you… I think it was wishful thinking. But maybe it's best if we forget about it. It wouldn't have worked anyway.”
House stopped mid-step without turning. “Why?”
Wilson let out a short, mirthless laugh, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.
“You… don't like me.” He said it like a simple fact.
“And you do?”
“I’ve fucked up enough tonight. Don't… I should probably stop talking.”
“Answer,” House ordered, voice sharp, cutting through the room, turning around.
Wilson shifted his weight, one hand braced on his hip like he needed something to hold him upright. “I’m… confident enough that, even if I admit this, our friendship will stay the same, so at the risk of sounding insistent, yes. I do.”
House stayed frozen for a long moment, shoulders tense, then finally lowered his eyes. His voice was quieter than usual, almost careful.
“The book belongs to my biological father,” he confessed suddenly. “It’s a waste of paper.”
Wilson’s face twisted into genuine surprise, a sharp intake of breath escaping him.
“The man from the funeral?”
“I’m out of confessions now,” House replied, voice flat but genuine.
“Why don’t you call him?”
House let out a humorless snort. “And say what? ‘Hi, this is Greg. My mom was a slut and you’re my real dad’?”
“Wouldn’t put it past you.”
“I don’t care enough to call him.” House’s shoulders lifted slightly in a shrug.
“But you care enough to annotate every single sermon?”
House rolled his eyes, shifting away from Wilson. “A book is not a phone call. I can read that front to back as many times as I want. I can’t redo a call. I have nothing to tell him.”
“Is the book that bad?” Wilson pressed.
“It hasn’t been successful in converting me, has it?” House’s tone was deadpan, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly as if humor was unavoidable.
“Jesus could come down to earth and tell you about the kingdom of heaven in person, and you’d still be unsure.”
“I don’t have anything to tell him either,” House said. Then, almost as an afterthought, a ghost of amusement in his voice: “Except maybe, ‘Those are some ugly sandals’. Oh, and, ‘I liked the musical’.”
Wilson smiled, shaking his head. House gave a single nod and walked away. Wilson let him go, letting the silence settle between them.
Later, alone in the shower, Wilson laughed through tears. The hot water ran over him, masking the small sobs that followed. He just wanted to forget tonight, everything it had stirred up.
The next day, House had replaced all the old posters in the apartment with Feral Pleasures. The porno was out in the open now, everyone in the hospital staff knew. Surprisingly, Wilson wasn’t even mad. He just accepted House’s prank with a kind of resigned amusement, just glad maybe nothing had changed between them, no matter how bad he’d fucked up.
Wilson told himself he should be grateful.
House was acting normal. Their version of normal, at least. Snide comments, inappropriate timing, prank wars. As if nothing monumental had cracked open the night before. As if Wilson hadn’t spent half the night thinking about a folder full of a life he’d never known existed.
He could barely make it through the morning.
He sat in his office answering emails that went unanswered for minutes at a time. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, unmoving, eyes burning from how close he felt to crying since last night. Every few seconds his mind drifted back to the pictures. The documents. The look on House’s face when he’d thrown the folder at him. He had said the wrong things. All the wrong things.
A knock didn’t come. The door simply opened.
House walked in, shut it behind him with his cane.
“My patient is now under your care,” he announced.
“Great,” Wilson said flatly, not looking away from the screen. “The more the merrier."
He watched House in his peripheral vision cross the room and drop onto the black leather couch like he’d done it a thousand times before. Which he had.
“Subscribing to Thomas Bell’s newsletter?” House asked, draping his arms along the back of the couch, idly picking lint from the leather.
“Asking him over for dinner,” Wilson replied, just as deadpan.
A beat passed.
“I want to have sex with you,” House said suddenly.
Wilson’s eyes flicked toward him.
House added, with the faintest smirk, “The wood nymphs convinced me.”
Not having a visible reaction took a lot of effort.
“I’m a little busy at the moment.” Wilson tried for casual. His heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat.
“I can wait.” House sighed, gaze drifting toward the window. Then, almost conversationally: “Being partially equipped is not going to stop me. I’ve had sex with people without telling them before.”
Wilson narrowed his eyes. “That’s… dangerous.”
“Cuddy liked the surprise. I know Stacy did, but she was a lesbian before me so it doesn’t really count.”
“I wouldn’t have… said anything if we hadn’t stopped. That night… after Nora.” Wilson’s hands slid off the keyboard without him realizing. He was fully turned toward House now.
House nodded.
“I wasn’t afraid you’d be scared of my lady parts. I know you like them. Statistically speaking, I’m sure it’s the genitals you prefer. Who wouldn’t?” House still wasn’t looking at him. “But we were drunk. You were a step away from blacking out. I didn’t want that to be how it happened.”
“But you wanted it to happen?”
House glanced at him then. “I knew the most you would’ve done would’ve been looking around to see if it had fallen off.” A small, dry pause. “I have talked to your wives. I know you’re an oral pleasure. When you have a job to do, you take it to completion.”
“Yeah…”
“You never scared me.” The words landed heavier than anything else he’d said. “To be honest, I knew the moment you’d learn I was packing a love box down there, you wouldn’t have been able to contain your excitement. If I’d been a woman you would’ve married me decades ago.”
Wilson blinked, throat tight. He didn’t deny it.
“What…” Wilson started, voice softer now. “What made you change your mind about… having sex with me?”
House pressed his lips together briefly. “Never had to change my mind. I’ve wanted to have sex with you since 1991.”
Wilson turned back to his computer like muscle memory, but the screen meant nothing. Words blurred. He tried to type. Nothing happened. He lasted maybe thirty seconds before giving up.
He stood abruptly, walked to the door, and locked it.
Then he pulled the blinds shut with more force than necessary.
He crossed the room without saying anything else, sat down beside House on the couch, and kissed him.
Wilson’s hands lingered on House’s shoulders at first, unsure if he should push closer or pull back. The smirk against his lips told him what he already knew: House was enjoying this, but wasn’t about to make it easy.
He leaned in more, brushing his forehead against House’s, teeth catching briefly in a sloppy, shared laugh before melting back into the kiss. House tilted his head, letting Wilson explore, one hand sliding from his shoulder down to rest on Wilson’s upper arm, fingers digging in just enough to anchor him. Wilson’s own hands roamed more confidently now, brushing along House’s sides, feeling the tension beneath the muscles he knew too well.
The kiss grew heavier, messy. Lips parted, teeth brushed. Wilson felt House’s tongue tease at his, playful at first, then urgent. He responded in kind, matching the rhythm, the heat between them rising quickly. House’s hand moved to Wilson’s hair, tugging gently, tilting his head further back, giving Wilson more access, more control than either of them expected.
They broke for air only briefly, foreheads pressed together, breaths shaky. Wilson’s chest heaved against House’s. He could feel the heartbeat under House’s hand, steady but fast, and it made him ache.
House smirked again, breathless, before capturing Wilson’s lips once more. This time, the kiss was slower, more deliberate, exploratory, testing boundaries they hadn’t dared touch before.
“You actually want to have sex in your office?” He asked, almost giddy.
“They've seen me have sex with nymphs.” Wilson replied with a shrug, a faint anger lingering in his tone, House smirked.
They kissed again, and this time it felt more natural. Wilson was getting used to how much tongue House liked to use, and he found himself matching it without thinking, letting the rhythm build between them. House adjusted too, leaning in, tilting his head, matching Wilson’s pace, letting the kiss deepen without urgency or hesitation.
“Admit it,” House murmured against his lips, a teasing accusation laced through the words. “You like that I don’t have a penis.”
Wilson’s hands froze briefly on House’s waist. His face heated, a blush spreading across his cheeks.
“That’s not true.” He stammered, caught off guard. He pulled back to look at House.
“Admit it,” House repeated, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips, confident and slightly provocative.
“I… I’ve never been good at blowjobs. That’s all,” Wilson mumbled, voice barely audible, brushing a hand against the curve of House’s shoulder as he tried to distract himself.
“I won’t look like your wives down there,” House teased again, nipping at Wilson’s lower lip.
Wilson shook his head, firm, resolute. “I don’t want you to.”
His hands slid up, framing House’s face, fingertips brushing against his jaw and hairline. Without breaking eye contact, he leaned in and kissed him harder, deeper this time, letting the intensity of the moment speak for everything words couldn’t.
House responded immediately, hands sliding to Wilson’s hips, pulling him closer, tilting his head, lips pressing and exploring with equal force and ease.
Wilson’s hands trembled as he fumbled with the waistband of House’s jeans, fumbling and tugging in the dim light of the office. He cursed under his breath, caught between excitement and nerves, his fingers fumbling with the button and zipper like he’d never undone a pair of pants before.
House just watched, lounging back slightly, a smirk tugging at his lips. His arms were crossed lazily over his chest, one leg draped over the other, completely still, letting Wilson struggle.
Wilson’s movements were almost comical: one hand slipping down too far, the other gripping the fabric too tightly, teeth catching his lower lip in frustration. He shifted from side to side on the couch, trying to find leverage, muttering little apologies he didn’t really mean.
“Need a hand?” House teased, voice low and lazy.
Wilson’s cheeks burned red. “I… I got it,” he stammered, tugging again, fumbling with the zipper.
House tilted his head, amusement in his eyes, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make Wilson painfully aware of how awkward he looked.
Finally, with a mix of clumsy determination and pure luck, Wilson managed to free the waistband, dragging the jeans down over House’s hips. He froze for a moment, breathless, wide-eyed, and House only smirked harder, letting the moment linger, enjoying every second of Wilson’s nervous, fumbling energy.
The oncologist shifted onto his knees on the carpet, shoving the coffee table slightly aside with a grunt. His hands trembled a little from the adrenaline, nerves and excitement twisting together as he finally managed to pull House’s jeans down over his hips. He froze for a moment, breath catching, staring at the small bulge in House’s white boxers.
Without thinking, almost instinctively, he leaned forward, burying his face against it, nose brushing the fabric, nuzzling, inhaling. Hunger and curiosity tangled together in a dizzying rush, heat pooling low in his stomach. He breathed in his scent, feeling a hand finding its place on his head. He was getting lightheaded, he couldn’t believe this was happening.
He tugged at the boxers, pulling them down slowly, deliberately, and paused, taking in the view. Every detail seemed amplified, sharper, more intense than he’d imagined.
Then, feeling eager, he slid House’s sneakers off, tossed them aside, and reached for his jeans. With a deep exhale, he pulled them off completely, along with his remaining underwear, leaving them in a messy pile on the floor.
He sat back on his heels for a moment, taking House in fully. He needed a good look, needed to see it clearly, to memorize it, letting the nerves and desire mix into a raw, electric tension between them.
He’d never seen a clit that big, it had become a couple of inches in length, hard and pink, it stood up in a mound of soft, graying hair.
He was big, much bigger than he'd expected.
“I pump, twice a week.” House explained, almost reading his mind.
“Of course you'd be the type to experiment on yourself to make your dick bigger.” Wilson muttered, earning a lopsided smile from House.
Wilson knew he'd have fun with him. He wrapped his mouth around it immediately, House exhaled a breathy laugh.
He writhed under him instantly, hips jerking against Wilson’s hold, torn between shame and pure need. Every thought of stopping, every reason he had rehearsed to pull back at the last second, bled away with each wet drag of Wilson’s mouth.
He was hard and sensitive, already red from the brief contact. Wilson’s fingers traced the ridges and curves with curiosity, teasing along the swollen tip, marveling at the way House shivered and jerked instinctively. His lips followed suit, brushing, pressing, and licking with deliberate care, coaxing whimpers and gasps from the older man. House's eyes rolled back as Wilson showed all the skills he'd amounted in years of loveless marriages and one-sided pleasures.
Wilson pulled back, letting his thumb toy with the head of his cock, pulling it aside until it bounced back, pressing it up before venturing lower, between his folds, pressing in just slightly. He pinched it, rolled it, House’s back arched off the couch.
He dove in again, letting his tongue drag over the underside of his clit.
House’s body responded immediately, hips pushing up, thighs quivering against the couch, hands gripping at Wilson’s head and shoulders, desperate to draw the younger man even closer. Every flick of Wilson’s tongue, every gentle suck sent tremors through him, fingers digging into leather of the couch and skin alike. He was fun to toy with.
Wilson put in his all, licking deep stripes against him, his mouth warm and wet around him, enjoying every soft grunt the man made.
His legs spread naturally, instinctive and welcoming, revealing the contours of his legs fully in the dim light of the office, uncaring of the visibility of his mangled thigh. The small rise of his pubic mound led down to the sensitive, engorged tip, glistening with anticipation, and Wilson smirked at how sensitive it was, how every touch, every press, sent waves of heat spiraling through House. If he’d known about him being like this, he would’ve slept with him in New Orleans when he still had the libido of a rabbit.
House’s face was flushed, lips parted, eyes half lidded with both need and shame.
As Wilson continued, alternating between gentle nips along the thighs and focused bobs of his head, mouth wrapped around him, his strangled moans grew louder, rawer, his chest heaving as his fingers tangled in Wilson’s short hair. The younger man’s hands and mouth moved in perfect synchronization, drawing him higher, teasing, pulling, coaxing, and eliciting groans that reverberated in the small office. Wilson had to shush him at some point.
“You want your team to hear?”
“You don’t know how bad I want to page them to come here for a consult.” House said, choking up.
“Don’t.” Wilson said, thumb tracing his cock. House smiled.
“I’ll reserve that for the third date.”
Wilson’s tongue pressed harder, sliding lower, teasing at his entrance before moving back up to flick against him again.
House’s ass lifted off the couch, body angling to meet Wilson better. His hand tightened in Wilson’s hair, half pushing him away, half keeping him there. He hated how easily his body responded, how fast his arousal spiked under Wilson’s mouth. Shame and want tangled hotly in his chest.
His fingers pressed into the harsh edges of House’s hip, anchoring him as his tongue worked with deliberate precision, the way only a triple-divorcee could.
House couldn’t think anymore. He gasped, trembled, tried to speak but only managed broken syllables. He was so close, the edge rushing up faster than he wanted, and the thought of coming apart under Wilson’s mouth, of letting him see him like this, made his eyes sting with tears he wouldn’t allow to fall.
“Wilson—God-”
Wilson smirked, his index pressing against House’s head in circulatory motions. The older man’s jaw went slack, but it went past shock. Wilson’s fingers followed the faint wetness. He licked them first, making sure they’d be coated enough to slide in, slowly.
With just two fingers crooked inside him, he came with a strangled moan, his thighs instinctively tightening around Wilson’s head in a way the younger doctor discovered he found utterly intoxicating.
Wilson matched House’s breath, panting against him and watching the man’s reaction in awe. His broad thighs, spread in front of him, his shirt and button-up rucked up just slightly, his cock glistening with saliva, red and puffy. His mouth was agape still, his eyes half shut, the light from the window making his buzzed hair appear almost white. He was beautiful like this.
Wilson muttered under his breath, barely audible, “I need to fuck you.”
His fingers flexed at his sides, tense, and he pushed himself up from his knees, standing stiffly. Every movement felt half-assed, but his pulse hammered in his ears.
“Sure. I’ve got nowhere else to be.” House replied, still breathing heavily, making himself comfortable against the couch.
He crossed the room toward his desk, almost stumbling over his steps. He opened the drawers, fumbling through folders and office supplies, muttering curses under his breath at the clutter. His hands shook slightly as he rifled around, searching for what he needed.
Finally, he found a small box tucked to the side. He held it for a moment, took a deep breath, and turned back toward the couch.
House’s head had lifted, watching him with a mix of curiosity and pleased surprise. “You keep condoms in your office?” he asked, impressed and half-laughing.
Wilson’s lips pressed into a thin line, not answering. He moved back across the room, back to the couch, each step filled with a mixture of urgency and excitement. House’s eyes followed him the whole way, smirk tugging at his lips, clearly enjoying the nervous determination radiating from Wilson.
When Wilson reached the couch, he froze for a heartbeat, his chest hammering like it might burst out of his ribcage.
A small packet of lube in one hand, a foil-wrapped condom in the other, he started unbuckling his belt with a sense of urgency, fumbling slightly, fingers slick with his own sweat as adrenaline coursed through him.
He took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to steady himself, eyes flicking to House. House lounged lazily, one eyebrow raised, legs draped across the couch like he owned the space, a small smirk tugging at his lips.
Then came the knock at the door.
Wilson froze, every nerve firing. Time slowed, his mind running through the consequences in a split second. Then instinct took over. With a quick motion, he tossed the packet and the foil-wrapped condom into the tall plant vase beside the couch, the rustle of plastic and foil almost comical in its abruptness.
He jumped up, hastily buckling his belt again, fumbling with the clasp as his heart continued to hammer in his chest.
“Dr. Wilson?”
“Yes! I’m on the phone, give me a second!” he barked back, his voice strangled, higher than normal.
House, unfazed, moved with a lazy, deliberate slowness, tugging his underwear and jeans back into place but leaving his shoes off. Instead, he propped his legs up on the couch, still smirking, clearly amused by Wilson’s frantic movements.
“Clean up,” Wilson whispered under his breath, eyes flicking to the damp spots beneath House. House glanced down, then grabbed a nearby pillow and dabbed at the mess casually. Wilson grimaced, shutting his eyes briefly as he ran a hand through his hair, trying to regain some semblance of composure. He grabbed a tissue, wiped his face and mouth, and tossed it aside, fingers shaking slightly.
He unlocked the door, opening it just halfway, still flushed and breathing hard.
“Yes?” he asked, voice uneven, still feeling the lingering adrenaline.
“Are you… okay?” his assistant asked, brow furrowed with concern.
“Yes, I was just… on a call,” Wilson said quickly, gesturing vaguely with one hand. Then he realized his fingers were still wet and shoved them into his pocket. “What do you need?”
She explained that they’d just received a donation for a lung transplant for his patient and they needed to head to the OR immediately. Wilson nodded, snapping into a more professional attitude, trying to shove the lingering embarrassment and racing heartbeat into the background.
“I’ll be right there in a moment,” he said, straightening, smoothing his hair, still aware of the tension in the room behind him.
The assistant’s eyes flicked toward House, perched on the couch, legs draped lazily, one arm thrown across the back like he owned the space, but she didn’t think anything of it. She just nodded and closed the door, leaving Wilson alone with the unbearable hum of his own nerves, a low buzz that seemed to fill every corner of the office.
“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, hurrying to his desk. He poured hand sanitizer into his palms and rubbed them obsessively, over and over, as if the motion could scrub away the tension coiling through him. “Shit. Shit.”
“It’ll be fun explaining to Hourani why you’re at full mast during surgery,” House mocked from the couch, slipping his feet back into his sneakers lazily.
“I have a… kink for pulmonary transplants,” Wilson deadpanned, even as his urgency made his hands shake while he struggled into his lab coat.
“Who doesn’t?” House grabbed his cane and limped toward him, meeting him halfway to the door. “Very efficient service. Five stars. 7pm at your place?”
“Doesn't your shift end at 5?” Wilson glanced at him, furrowing his brows, trying to ground himself in some semblance of normalcy.
“Yeah, but a girl needs some time to douche.” House’s smirk widened, completely unapologetic. Wilson blinked at him, confused. House rolled his eyes and added, “I can say ‘girl’ because it’s funny.”
Wilson nodded slowly, squinting his eyes, unconvinced, then leaned in, impulsively, to kiss him. House’s hand shot up immediately, pressing against Wilson’s chest and keeping him at bay.
“Don’t even think about it. Your breath smells like discharge.”
Wilson froze, hands going to his mouth instinctively, sniffing, flinching at the thought.
“No, it doesn’t.”
“Just because you’re attracted to my pheromones doesn’t mean everyone else is.”
Wilson let out a long, frustrated sigh and pushed out the door. To his surprise, House followed him, limping with lazy ease, entirely amused by his companion’s fluster.
“Where are you going?” Wilson called over his shoulder, walking faster, the sound of his shoes echoing down the hallway.
“Where you’re going,” House replied with a smile, trailing closely, cane tapping on the floor.
Wilson pushed into the men’s room, heading straight for the sinks. He splashed cold water over his hands, then his face, rinsing his mouth repeatedly.
“You’ll be wearing a mask anyway,” House said from the doorway, leaning casually against the frame, watching him with amusement flickering in his eyes.
Wilson was quiet, nodding slightly to himself in that small, self-conscious way he had just before admitting something he felt embarrassed by. He dried his hands with a paper towel, then gestured lightly toward House, voice low and hesitant.
“I… liked it.” He paused, unsure, face tight. “Did you?”
“I came. You do the math,” House replied, voice clipped, almost annoyed by the question.
Wilson nodded, face falling into that familiar, slightly dazed expression. “Okay.”
House grinned at the nervousness radiating from him and followed him out of the bathroom.
“Why are you following me?” Wilson asked, cheeks flushed, trying to sound casual but failing.
“The OR has a gallery. It’s like watching a movie but boring and bloody,” House said, walking beside him down the hallway. He leaned just slightly closer, eyes flicking down at Wilson’s pants. “You’re still hard.”
Wilson shot him a sharp look, cheeks heating further.
“Hey, honestly, it’s kind of impressive how erect it stays, at your age,” House continued, grin widening.
“House,” Wilson warned through gritted teeth, frustration laced with embarrassment.
“What? I can’t even talk about the tent I helped you pitch? It’s going inside of me later. I’m getting accustomed to the idea,” House teased, nudging him lightly as they approached the elevators. “I’ve glanced at it in the urinals, I should’ve really started stretching yesterday You should be proud.”
Wilson shushed him before pressing the elevator button, exhaling sharply through his nose.
“Don’t make me regret this.”
“You’re not regretting anything,” House said smoothly, smiling, gesturing toward his crotch. “He surely isn’t.”