(no subject)
Title: House Keeping: Some Assembly Required
Author: magie_05
Pairing: House/Wilson domestic
Rating/Warnings: NC-17
Summary: More tales* of House/Wilson domesticity - their first night in their new place, complete with furniture assembly. For phinnia ♥
*If you’ve recently added me to your friends list, thanks and welcome! This is my ~*~super secret~*~ domestic-type series, if you were wondering: a series that takes place in a psychotic (but happy) AU in which House and Wilson have decided to live together for good. You can read previous installments here, but each can be read on its own. Or ignored altogether ;)
Well, fuck.
This was Wilson’s outlook on life in general on their first night in the new house, and he was starting to think the universe was trying to tell him something.
The movers were a half-hour late to the apartment that morning. Said they got lost. Then some sweaty guy named Ricky accidentally scraped the leg of the coffee table against House’s piano, which provoked a thirty-minute apoplectic tirade and cost Wilson a small fortune in tips. (This was after his plan to keep House busy and out of the way during the move fell through; Cuddy wasn’t nearly as good at manipulating House via medicine as she liked to pretend). Wilson’s ass was sore from a spectacular fall down the stoop, during which he was serendipitously carrying the last box of dishes to the car. With House’s gleeful voice in the background, it had been hard to tell which made the louder cracking sound: the only matching set of plates or Wilson’s spine.
By the time they pulled into the new, spacious subdivision with the final load of odds and ends, it was nearly dusk. Wilson was aching and exhausted in an old t-shirt, covered in sweat and bruises. House was sleeping with indecent enjoyment in the passenger seat, apparently exhausted from his long, hard day of watching four men empty his apartment, shoving pretzels into his mouth and loudly critiquing the movers’ technique, occupation, clothing, lifestyles…
Wilson really hoped this was going to work out, because he had a feeling both of their names would be blacklisted with any moving company in the tri-state area.
Of course, the house was a chaotic, cavernous vacuum broken up only by spires of boxes, cool and echoey and barren. The air had an unused scent, thick with paint and carpet cleaner, and half of the rooms were in desperate need of light bulbs (something Wilson had discovered only when the power company arrived to turn on the utilities, almost three hours late). Most of the furniture was in only the vaguest proximity to where it end up, and every available flat surface seemed to be occupied by boxes or bed sheets or large electronics -
A tower of folded blankets toppled off the couch and House plopped down in its place, leaning back with a giant sigh. “You couldn’t pay someone to unpack for us?”
Wilson raised his hand to squeeze his brow; even that well-practiced movement hurt right now. “We’re lucky they didn’t leave us stranded with all of the furniture on the sidewalk. Did you have to make those comments about the driver’s teeth? He does know where we live.”
He got that since House was taking a positive step in his life, someone had to be the target for his resulting freak-out, and Wilson supposed he was lucky to have (so far) escaped the line of fire. Still, that guy looked like he’d spent time in prison.
House made a noncommittal noise and leaned back into the sofa, closing his eyes and crossing his arms over his chest.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” Wilson sighed, glancing down at his watch. “You want to sleep tonight, you have to help me cut a path through the bedroom.” He still had to set up the new bed frame, drag out the sheets and towels and toiletries from the trunk of the car. They’d have to eat at some point. And then Wilson got to spend the entire three-day weekend making this place livable, putting everything in its place…figuring out what in the hell they’d just done…
For now, though, he’d settle for getting House to take the slightest interest in helping. “Come on,” he wheedled with the last store of patience he had left, nudging at House’s calf with his foot. “Sooner we do this, the sooner we can sleep.”
Of course, as his tone of voice implied, the sleeping part was optional. Wilson smiled to himself, taking in House’s slumped profile. Tired as he was, Wilson had to admit that part of the rush to get here was prompted by his wordless expectation of what would happen behind the closed door of ‘their’ bedroom tonight - the first night in a new home, new bed, new chapter. He’d been subconsciously looking forward to christening the place, pulling House close to him under a different ceiling, absorbing his familiar scents and tastes and moans as a simple, symbolic starting point -
And goddammit, he didn’t think that was too much to ask.
But it took another forty minutes for Lord Gregory to deign to help with the de-cluttering, and then only after numerous scowls and threats. By then, Wilson already had the bedroom in a state of organized chaos, boxes piled against the wall where their contents’ corresponding furniture would eventually be, a large rectangle of empty space for the bed, the new frame disassembled around him. Naturally, House’s definition of ‘helping’ mostly involved him standing around and complaining, barely holding up the headboard so Wilson could try to figure out how to attach the sides.
“It’s not rocket science,” House grumbled thickly, a large dollop of vanilla ice cream dripping out of the gooey, chocolate-wafer mess in his fingers - what had to be his fifth ice cream sandwich today - and landing heavily on the floor by Wilson’s ankle. “‘Insert Peg A firmly into Slot B’ - you’ve had plenty of practice.”
Wilson fumed privately for a second, blotting ice cream out of the brand-new carpet with the corner of his t-shirt. “My ‘peg’ is not the issue here. There are like eight different diagrams just under 'Getting Started'.”
When had furniture gotten so complicated? The bed he’d shared with his first wife assembled in about ninety seconds and it had held up just fine - not that he was around long enough to get an accurate picture of its longevity.
But this monstrosity - Wilson was probably better off reading the Swedish page of instructions. “Carefully align Figure 1.C with Figure 2.B. Pivot until Figure 1.C slides flush against the wood. Screw firmly in place; repeat for each post.”
House snorted down at him from over the naked headboard. “Ooh, baby. I love it when you talk dirty.”
“We have got to be missing some pieces, here,” Wilson said, ignoring him completely, staring at the Rorschach-like diagrams until he felt his eyes starting to cross. “There’s supposed to be a box of…oh, fuck."
There was a box full of screws and clamps and variously shaped Allen wrenches, included with the complicated bed frame 'for your convenience'. Wilson remembered, being the organized mover that he was, because he'd taken out each part for careful inspection while they waited for the workers to arrive, and labeled the small box with a blue Sharpie to indicate its importance. With these efforts, he'd hoped to avoid this exact scenario, to keep with the plan of setting up the bedroom first thing, taking a shower in the clean, spacious master bathroom, and then (apparently) making passionate love to House in his perfect little suburban bubble.
Instead, he'd left the box on the counter in the apartment, and stupidly asked House to grab it on the way out.
Wilson lay back on the cleared space of floor and put his hands over his face with a deep, aggravated groan. "You left it at home, didn't you?"
He thought he heard the (now useless) headboard hit the wall with a soft thump. "Technically, no," House said without a trace of guilt. "This is home now, remember?"
Wilson let his arms hit the floor and stared up at the ceiling, at the darkened (bulb-less) light fixture, and felt tension roiling in his stomach. "One thing, House. I ask you to carry one thing, put a tiny sliver of energy into this, and you left the one box we had to have tonight."
He heard the shrug in House’s low voice. "Surprised you missed it; I fully expected you to do one last, nostalgic walk-through, silently kvelling over all the places we’ve exchanged fluids over the years.”
It so happened that Wilson was planning on doing that tomorrow when he went to meet the piano movers, but that was a separate issue. “I didn’t think I had to, House. I guess I underestimated the difficulty of carrying one box to the - ”
Suddenly House was glaring down at him. “Nice plan, asking the cripple to move boxes even after you'd paid those Neanderthals to do just that,” he groused, his voice bouncing off the bare walls.
Wilson sat up too quickly, and his back squealed in protest. “Don’t give me that,” he said over the wince. “The box was tiny; your cane weighs more than that thing.”
House somehow managed to scoff and leer at the same time. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” He tried to divert blame while Wilson dragged himself to his feet. “Who buys furniture you have to build, anyway? As much as you paid for that thing, it should come fully assembled, fly, make us breakfast - ”
“Yeah, this whole thing my fault.”
“That’s not what I said,” House said matter-of-factly. “Although, one would think you'd be better at this moving thing, seeing as you've done it so many times. Then again, I guess that most of the times you've moved, all you had to carry was your suitcase, since everything else went in the divorce settlements.”
Oh-ho. No way House was going there tonight. Wilson felt his blood pressure rise and took an unconscious step forward, hands going to his hips. “House. My past mistakes do not absolve you of present responsibility. This isn’t going to work if you’re not willing to put any effort into-”
“Re-lax,” House said coldly, inches from Wilson in the dim light. “It’s not like you left your precious box behind forever, never to look back again. You want the damn thing so badly, drive back into town and break in to the apartment - you know, the one that I just sold after almost twenty years, totally giving up everything I’ve come to know so I could move to the suburbs and eat stuffed peppers with you for the rest of my life.” House leaned in even further, harsh words in a soft breath. “That is, if you think it’s worth the effort.”
Wilson dropped his head in the silence, unable to look at that much bitter sincerity in House’s face. He took a deep breath to dispel the frustration, running his hand over the back of his neck and swallowing a sudden surge of guilt.
At least they’d gotten this room’s first real fight out of the way.
“Alright,” he said to himself, acknowledging that he’d been partially wrong, but not yet willing to grant House a free pass to be an irresponsible jerk. Of course he recognized what a huge chance House was taking; of course he knew how much effort it took for House to try…
Still. One box.
“So,” he eventually sighed, feeling the awkwardness start to break as House’s expression softened. “It’s getting late. We’ve got no bed, and the couch is buried in boxes. What are we going to do tonight?”
The heavy feeling in his chest lightened a little more when House leaned toward him, pressing their foreheads together very briefly on his way out of the room. “I’m sure we’ll think of something.”
But the next couple of hours only reinforced Wilson’s previous attitude: Fu-uck.
This felt way more like college than Wilson was comfortable with. He’d managed to get House’s old, creaky box springs and mattress set up on the floor in the middle of the bedroom, several blankets thrown over it in lieu of sheets. Balancing on a stepladder, he discovered that the light fixture took some kind of non-standard bulb, so the room’s only source of light ended up being a small desk lamp set directly on the floor. Dinner was a quiet and depressing affair in the living room, using a large box as a dining table, underscored by House’s loud, periodic complaints about their current lack of cable. Wilson considered it a perfect end to the day when he discovered that there was no hot water, after wandering around the house in nothing but a towel until he located the breaker box, only to find that the water heater switch was turned off.
Home sweet home.
This didn’t count as their first night, Wilson decided as he splashed freezing cold water over himself. By this time tomorrow, he’d have most of the bedroom squared away. He wouldn’t feel (or look) so much like he’d fallen off a cliff. And with luck, he wouldn’t fight with House over anything more serious than his choice of new bed linens. Tomorrow, he could start over, and ignore the way that failure seemed to be following his every movement.
As for the vague fantasy of commitment-affirming sex, well…he was about to go to sleep cold and aching on a barely-supported mattress after sixteen hours of heavy lifting and frustration, including a fight with House and bruises in inconvenient places. Added to the cold shower, Wilson had no sexual impulse left in his body whatsoever. Besides, he figured House would be lucky if he could get comfortable enough even to sleep that low to the floor on his old, rickety mattress - but keeping it had been the only way to get House to agree to new furniture.
In any case, Wilson had no expectations when he dragged himself into the bedroom from the adjoining bath, ironically wearing his college running pants and t-shirt.
“Nice threads, dude,” said House, who’d taken great joy in highlighting the college-dorm-like atmosphere, speaking in his ‘surfer’ voice and proposing a game of Beer Pong over dinner.
“I take it you didn’t pack a change of clothes for tonight as I suggested?” he asked on his way to the makeshift bed, glancing at a fully-dressed House in the doorway.
Not that he really needed an answer. He heard House grunt and ease further into the room as he slowly lowered himself to the mattress, sitting barely two feet off the floor and rolling his head on his shoulders to work out the tension.
“Well, most of your clothes are…over there somewhere,” he said when House offered no further explanation, gesturing tiredly to a pile of boxes stacked four deep against the far wall. “There are probably some sleep pants in that one marked - ” House’s jeans (belt and all) suddenly sailed over his shoulder and landed on a box with a soft clinking sound - “…or that works.”
He knew better than to watch or (God forbid) offer help as House levered himself to their camp-bed on the floor, but he knew House’s breathing well enough to know when it was okay to relax. “Get some sleep,” he said, groaning a little as he stretched out on his side, facing the opposite wall. “You are going to help tomorrow.”
“Assuming either one of us can move tomorrow,” House grumbled, and the mattress sank down nearly to the bottom as he squirmed and shifted behind Wilson’s back.
“Of course,” Wilson sighed, because it was the only thing he could settle on that didn’t include the snarky (albeit true) reminder that this was almost entirely House’s fault…
Wilson stretched as far as his tense muscles would allow to click off the lamp sitting a few feet away on the carpet. When he returned his upper torso to the mattress, House’s arm twined firmly around it.
“’Night,” he said, smiling blandly over his shoulder, burrowing into his pillow to make his point…but House started tracing a slow, wet line along the side of Wilson’s neck, and he never was one for good-night kisses.
“That’s it?” he whispered incredulously into Wilson’s ear, right before his tongue darted out along the lobe.
“You have got to be kidding.” Of course, the fact that House was wearing nothing but his t-shirt and shorts and was pressing the length of his body firmly against Wilson’s back made it clear that he was, rather emphatically, not kidding. Still, Wilson squirmed against the mattress. “I’m tired; I’m sore; I’m barely clean -”
“So you’ve got nothing to lose, then,” House told him, sliding his hand under Wilson’s t-shirt, doing things with his mouth that clearly signaled his intentions to make Wilson even more tired, sore, and dirty -
Wilson frowned and tightened his grip on the pillow, eyes closed stubbornly, completely ignoring the chills breaking out under the movement of House’s hand. “I think you’re overestimating yourself, here, stud. We’re too old to do it practically on the floor; they’ll have to bring in some sort of crane get us out of here.”
“An acceptable risk.” House nipped at that spot on his neck at the precise moment his fingers found a very interested nipple, causing Wilson’s hips to push forward in pure reflex. House made an amused sound in his throat before kissing his way up and down Wilson’s neck. “Sixteen hours in suburbia and already you’re using the ‘not tonight, dear, I have a headache’ routine? Very disturbing precedent,” he added huskily in Wilson’s ear.
Even with the proximity, he barely heard House’s next words. "Enough changes for one day."
Maybe Wilson wasn’t the only one who had been half-fantasizing about tonight, about rolling around naked with an old friend in a new place, painting the walls of this room with moans and words and permanence -
“We are so going to regret this,” he whispered, and tried to believe it wasn’t true, tilting his head to meet House’s lips.
He told himself it wasn’t embarrassing that it took at least four distinct movements to maneuver onto his other side and bury his face in House’s neck. He practically shuddered with want when House kissed him, soft and warm and with just the barest, tantalizing hint of tongue - but logistics were still a problem. His back, House’s leg, the lump of springs and worn-out cotton they were writhing around on all conspired against anything too ambitious. But god, he wanted it, and House wanted him, and this was something that maybe they both needed, familiarity and the assurance that at least one thing hadn’t changed.
He wanted to crawl down House’s body, taking his time as his mouth fell down memorized paths, and then he wanted to swallow House’s cock until the room pulsed white around him -
This goal in mind, he peeled off House’s shirt, tossing it carelessly over his shoulder. Even with the room’s strange shadows and different angles of light, it was so easy to fall into an old pattern of touch: his hands slipping up House’s sides, one foot twisting between the lean muscles of his bare calves. Licking along a fluttering pulse while thick fingers worked through his hair, blunt nails dragging across his scalp - grunting when those hands pulled their hips together and slid without further prelude down the back of his sweats -
House pulled back with an amused snort when his hands encountered no barrier between Wilson’s pants and the cool skin underneath. “No underwear? Yeah, you totally didn’t plan for this.” His voice was sarcastically accusing, but in the darkness, Wilson just caught the hint of his smile.
He snickered softly against House’s lips. “I’m just trying to conserve the clean laundry - ” (cool new washing machine would arrive next week) “…Dude,” Wilson added, when he realized he’d unconsciously reverted to another college habit.
Then House laughed, that deep, silent sound Wilson could feel to the pit of his stomach, and the game plan changed rather quickly.
He cursed and his legs opened instinctively, one curling around House’s waist. With a soft groan, those palms started to move a little faster, cupping Wilson’s bare hip, sliding down his flank, briefly squeezing the underside of his thigh only to sneak back up along a dark, warm crease -
Wilson seized his wrist. “Hold that thought,” he breathed out desperately against House’s mouth and slowly extricated himself, rolling (literally) off the mattress before he thought about it and turning on the lamp with potentially embarrassing haste.
House was smirking at him when he returned from the bathroom, leaning back with both hands under his head. But fuck it; Wilson wasn’t going to be embarrassed about his eagerness, not now. He tossed the duffel bag that they’d be living out of for the next few days to House’s side, returning that smirk with a rather devious one of his own. Taking off his own clothes while he was still standing just seemed easiest on his back - it had nothing to do at all with the way House’s eyes were raking over him as he tugged off his shirt, as worn gray cotton pooled around his ankles.
House gave an amused grunt when he discovered the brand new, unopened tub of Vaseline in the bag of toiletries - the one that Wilson totally hadn’t bought and packed for this completely unplanned, spontaneous, first-night sex. Several joints popped audibly when Wilson crawled back onto the mattress, and dammit if the floor wasn’t a lot lower than it had been the last time Wilson had sex this close to it, but he quickly stopped caring because House was touching him again, all soft tongue and rough lips and slick, slick fingers…
It was a little awkward, finding the right position - not unlike those first desperate fumblings on House’s sofa, his hands shaking, the taste of fear and pizza. On top, Wilson’s lower back would start screaming; on his side, House’s leg wouldn’t allow him enough leverage. On his stomach was unacceptable, because he couldn’t see House’s face.
It was never made to be perfect; but then, when had they ever needed for it to be?
It took a few minutes, a few tries, a few muttered barbs at Wilson’s expense before they found the right angle. But when they did…
“Oh, God!” On his back, an old pillow crammed underneath him as he lay almost diagonally across the mattress, holding himself open while House pushed further into him -
The proximity to the floor became an unexpected benefit; House was able to brace himself with both palms to the carpet, one knee buried in the mattress and grunting with each hard, crooked, full-bodied thrust.
Wilson felt sweat breaking out on his forehead, his temples, his upper lip, biting the inside of his cheek and forcing his eyes to remain open, watching House fuck him in the cheap lamplight, under that new ceiling, surrounded by the beginnings of a wholly different life -
He wrapped his legs around House’s hips, even though it hurt like hell - needed to free his hands, needed to touch him, to pull him down for greedy kisses.
House bit down on his lower lip with a sharp, loud moan, his eyes slamming shut. A sudden, forceful thrust made Wilson cry out, sliding a few inches up the mattress, his head tipping back over its edge. This left his neck totally exposed to House’s mouth and he moaned under the prickly attention, his whole body throbbing in time with each thrust, with the soft, suctioning bites that he knew were leaving marks and couldn’t care, as every cell in his body edged further toward release -
House suddenly stopped.
“Noo,” he heard himself whining, totally lost, his hips pushing up desperately. “House - ”
It was perfectly clear that Wilson was quite enjoying the present arrangement; namely, House braced above him and fucking him hard enough to bruise.
So it must have been for other reasons that House’s right arm slid under his neck, holding him close while he worked the other arm around Wilson’s shoulder. He hiccupped when House started to move again, his nose in Wilson’s hair, soft mewls in Wilson’s ear. Pressed together like this, their hips barely separating, Wilson’s erection rubbing wetly against House’s navel, the pace was slower, each stroke of slick cock in and out of him less intense.
Inexplicably, it took less than a minute of this slow, patient rocking for him to come, choking out moans and soft sobs and remnants of House’s name.
He kept his arms around House’s back, their faces pressed together while House shuddered against him in rolling waves, warmth filling him, breath leaving him in gasps while the waves picked up to a sharp, blinding peak...and then stilled.
He never knew how much time passed before he felt House’s palm wipe the damp hair out of his eyes, clearing his vision so he could catch that smug little grin on reddened lips, his breath catching at the heavy-lidded peace in House’s eyes.
“Regretting it yet?” House asked with a raised eyebrow, but his voice was too soft to carry sarcasm.
Wilson ached everywhere. He was sticky and his legs were going numb, his neck covered in an untold number of hickeys that he wasn’t sure would fade before they went back to work. He was lying on a creaky mattress surrounded by dozens of boxes, doomed to sorting it all out in the morning.
He’d just sold his soul to someone he wasn’t sure could give one back.
But it was an easy question. “Never.”
Author: magie_05
Pairing: House/Wilson domestic
Rating/Warnings: NC-17
Summary: More tales* of House/Wilson domesticity - their first night in their new place, complete with furniture assembly. For phinnia ♥
*If you’ve recently added me to your friends list, thanks and welcome! This is my ~*~super secret~*~ domestic-type series, if you were wondering: a series that takes place in a psychotic (but happy) AU in which House and Wilson have decided to live together for good. You can read previous installments here, but each can be read on its own. Or ignored altogether ;)
Well, fuck.
This was Wilson’s outlook on life in general on their first night in the new house, and he was starting to think the universe was trying to tell him something.
The movers were a half-hour late to the apartment that morning. Said they got lost. Then some sweaty guy named Ricky accidentally scraped the leg of the coffee table against House’s piano, which provoked a thirty-minute apoplectic tirade and cost Wilson a small fortune in tips. (This was after his plan to keep House busy and out of the way during the move fell through; Cuddy wasn’t nearly as good at manipulating House via medicine as she liked to pretend). Wilson’s ass was sore from a spectacular fall down the stoop, during which he was serendipitously carrying the last box of dishes to the car. With House’s gleeful voice in the background, it had been hard to tell which made the louder cracking sound: the only matching set of plates or Wilson’s spine.
By the time they pulled into the new, spacious subdivision with the final load of odds and ends, it was nearly dusk. Wilson was aching and exhausted in an old t-shirt, covered in sweat and bruises. House was sleeping with indecent enjoyment in the passenger seat, apparently exhausted from his long, hard day of watching four men empty his apartment, shoving pretzels into his mouth and loudly critiquing the movers’ technique, occupation, clothing, lifestyles…
Wilson really hoped this was going to work out, because he had a feeling both of their names would be blacklisted with any moving company in the tri-state area.
Of course, the house was a chaotic, cavernous vacuum broken up only by spires of boxes, cool and echoey and barren. The air had an unused scent, thick with paint and carpet cleaner, and half of the rooms were in desperate need of light bulbs (something Wilson had discovered only when the power company arrived to turn on the utilities, almost three hours late). Most of the furniture was in only the vaguest proximity to where it end up, and every available flat surface seemed to be occupied by boxes or bed sheets or large electronics -
A tower of folded blankets toppled off the couch and House plopped down in its place, leaning back with a giant sigh. “You couldn’t pay someone to unpack for us?”
Wilson raised his hand to squeeze his brow; even that well-practiced movement hurt right now. “We’re lucky they didn’t leave us stranded with all of the furniture on the sidewalk. Did you have to make those comments about the driver’s teeth? He does know where we live.”
He got that since House was taking a positive step in his life, someone had to be the target for his resulting freak-out, and Wilson supposed he was lucky to have (so far) escaped the line of fire. Still, that guy looked like he’d spent time in prison.
House made a noncommittal noise and leaned back into the sofa, closing his eyes and crossing his arms over his chest.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” Wilson sighed, glancing down at his watch. “You want to sleep tonight, you have to help me cut a path through the bedroom.” He still had to set up the new bed frame, drag out the sheets and towels and toiletries from the trunk of the car. They’d have to eat at some point. And then Wilson got to spend the entire three-day weekend making this place livable, putting everything in its place…figuring out what in the hell they’d just done…
For now, though, he’d settle for getting House to take the slightest interest in helping. “Come on,” he wheedled with the last store of patience he had left, nudging at House’s calf with his foot. “Sooner we do this, the sooner we can sleep.”
Of course, as his tone of voice implied, the sleeping part was optional. Wilson smiled to himself, taking in House’s slumped profile. Tired as he was, Wilson had to admit that part of the rush to get here was prompted by his wordless expectation of what would happen behind the closed door of ‘their’ bedroom tonight - the first night in a new home, new bed, new chapter. He’d been subconsciously looking forward to christening the place, pulling House close to him under a different ceiling, absorbing his familiar scents and tastes and moans as a simple, symbolic starting point -
And goddammit, he didn’t think that was too much to ask.
But it took another forty minutes for Lord Gregory to deign to help with the de-cluttering, and then only after numerous scowls and threats. By then, Wilson already had the bedroom in a state of organized chaos, boxes piled against the wall where their contents’ corresponding furniture would eventually be, a large rectangle of empty space for the bed, the new frame disassembled around him. Naturally, House’s definition of ‘helping’ mostly involved him standing around and complaining, barely holding up the headboard so Wilson could try to figure out how to attach the sides.
“It’s not rocket science,” House grumbled thickly, a large dollop of vanilla ice cream dripping out of the gooey, chocolate-wafer mess in his fingers - what had to be his fifth ice cream sandwich today - and landing heavily on the floor by Wilson’s ankle. “‘Insert Peg A firmly into Slot B’ - you’ve had plenty of practice.”
Wilson fumed privately for a second, blotting ice cream out of the brand-new carpet with the corner of his t-shirt. “My ‘peg’ is not the issue here. There are like eight different diagrams just under 'Getting Started'.”
When had furniture gotten so complicated? The bed he’d shared with his first wife assembled in about ninety seconds and it had held up just fine - not that he was around long enough to get an accurate picture of its longevity.
But this monstrosity - Wilson was probably better off reading the Swedish page of instructions. “Carefully align Figure 1.C with Figure 2.B. Pivot until Figure 1.C slides flush against the wood. Screw firmly in place; repeat for each post.”
House snorted down at him from over the naked headboard. “Ooh, baby. I love it when you talk dirty.”
“We have got to be missing some pieces, here,” Wilson said, ignoring him completely, staring at the Rorschach-like diagrams until he felt his eyes starting to cross. “There’s supposed to be a box of…oh, fuck."
There was a box full of screws and clamps and variously shaped Allen wrenches, included with the complicated bed frame 'for your convenience'. Wilson remembered, being the organized mover that he was, because he'd taken out each part for careful inspection while they waited for the workers to arrive, and labeled the small box with a blue Sharpie to indicate its importance. With these efforts, he'd hoped to avoid this exact scenario, to keep with the plan of setting up the bedroom first thing, taking a shower in the clean, spacious master bathroom, and then (apparently) making passionate love to House in his perfect little suburban bubble.
Instead, he'd left the box on the counter in the apartment, and stupidly asked House to grab it on the way out.
Wilson lay back on the cleared space of floor and put his hands over his face with a deep, aggravated groan. "You left it at home, didn't you?"
He thought he heard the (now useless) headboard hit the wall with a soft thump. "Technically, no," House said without a trace of guilt. "This is home now, remember?"
Wilson let his arms hit the floor and stared up at the ceiling, at the darkened (bulb-less) light fixture, and felt tension roiling in his stomach. "One thing, House. I ask you to carry one thing, put a tiny sliver of energy into this, and you left the one box we had to have tonight."
He heard the shrug in House’s low voice. "Surprised you missed it; I fully expected you to do one last, nostalgic walk-through, silently kvelling over all the places we’ve exchanged fluids over the years.”
It so happened that Wilson was planning on doing that tomorrow when he went to meet the piano movers, but that was a separate issue. “I didn’t think I had to, House. I guess I underestimated the difficulty of carrying one box to the - ”
Suddenly House was glaring down at him. “Nice plan, asking the cripple to move boxes even after you'd paid those Neanderthals to do just that,” he groused, his voice bouncing off the bare walls.
Wilson sat up too quickly, and his back squealed in protest. “Don’t give me that,” he said over the wince. “The box was tiny; your cane weighs more than that thing.”
House somehow managed to scoff and leer at the same time. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” He tried to divert blame while Wilson dragged himself to his feet. “Who buys furniture you have to build, anyway? As much as you paid for that thing, it should come fully assembled, fly, make us breakfast - ”
“Yeah, this whole thing my fault.”
“That’s not what I said,” House said matter-of-factly. “Although, one would think you'd be better at this moving thing, seeing as you've done it so many times. Then again, I guess that most of the times you've moved, all you had to carry was your suitcase, since everything else went in the divorce settlements.”
Oh-ho. No way House was going there tonight. Wilson felt his blood pressure rise and took an unconscious step forward, hands going to his hips. “House. My past mistakes do not absolve you of present responsibility. This isn’t going to work if you’re not willing to put any effort into-”
“Re-lax,” House said coldly, inches from Wilson in the dim light. “It’s not like you left your precious box behind forever, never to look back again. You want the damn thing so badly, drive back into town and break in to the apartment - you know, the one that I just sold after almost twenty years, totally giving up everything I’ve come to know so I could move to the suburbs and eat stuffed peppers with you for the rest of my life.” House leaned in even further, harsh words in a soft breath. “That is, if you think it’s worth the effort.”
Wilson dropped his head in the silence, unable to look at that much bitter sincerity in House’s face. He took a deep breath to dispel the frustration, running his hand over the back of his neck and swallowing a sudden surge of guilt.
At least they’d gotten this room’s first real fight out of the way.
“Alright,” he said to himself, acknowledging that he’d been partially wrong, but not yet willing to grant House a free pass to be an irresponsible jerk. Of course he recognized what a huge chance House was taking; of course he knew how much effort it took for House to try…
Still. One box.
“So,” he eventually sighed, feeling the awkwardness start to break as House’s expression softened. “It’s getting late. We’ve got no bed, and the couch is buried in boxes. What are we going to do tonight?”
The heavy feeling in his chest lightened a little more when House leaned toward him, pressing their foreheads together very briefly on his way out of the room. “I’m sure we’ll think of something.”
But the next couple of hours only reinforced Wilson’s previous attitude: Fu-uck.
This felt way more like college than Wilson was comfortable with. He’d managed to get House’s old, creaky box springs and mattress set up on the floor in the middle of the bedroom, several blankets thrown over it in lieu of sheets. Balancing on a stepladder, he discovered that the light fixture took some kind of non-standard bulb, so the room’s only source of light ended up being a small desk lamp set directly on the floor. Dinner was a quiet and depressing affair in the living room, using a large box as a dining table, underscored by House’s loud, periodic complaints about their current lack of cable. Wilson considered it a perfect end to the day when he discovered that there was no hot water, after wandering around the house in nothing but a towel until he located the breaker box, only to find that the water heater switch was turned off.
Home sweet home.
This didn’t count as their first night, Wilson decided as he splashed freezing cold water over himself. By this time tomorrow, he’d have most of the bedroom squared away. He wouldn’t feel (or look) so much like he’d fallen off a cliff. And with luck, he wouldn’t fight with House over anything more serious than his choice of new bed linens. Tomorrow, he could start over, and ignore the way that failure seemed to be following his every movement.
As for the vague fantasy of commitment-affirming sex, well…he was about to go to sleep cold and aching on a barely-supported mattress after sixteen hours of heavy lifting and frustration, including a fight with House and bruises in inconvenient places. Added to the cold shower, Wilson had no sexual impulse left in his body whatsoever. Besides, he figured House would be lucky if he could get comfortable enough even to sleep that low to the floor on his old, rickety mattress - but keeping it had been the only way to get House to agree to new furniture.
In any case, Wilson had no expectations when he dragged himself into the bedroom from the adjoining bath, ironically wearing his college running pants and t-shirt.
“Nice threads, dude,” said House, who’d taken great joy in highlighting the college-dorm-like atmosphere, speaking in his ‘surfer’ voice and proposing a game of Beer Pong over dinner.
“I take it you didn’t pack a change of clothes for tonight as I suggested?” he asked on his way to the makeshift bed, glancing at a fully-dressed House in the doorway.
Not that he really needed an answer. He heard House grunt and ease further into the room as he slowly lowered himself to the mattress, sitting barely two feet off the floor and rolling his head on his shoulders to work out the tension.
“Well, most of your clothes are…over there somewhere,” he said when House offered no further explanation, gesturing tiredly to a pile of boxes stacked four deep against the far wall. “There are probably some sleep pants in that one marked - ” House’s jeans (belt and all) suddenly sailed over his shoulder and landed on a box with a soft clinking sound - “…or that works.”
He knew better than to watch or (God forbid) offer help as House levered himself to their camp-bed on the floor, but he knew House’s breathing well enough to know when it was okay to relax. “Get some sleep,” he said, groaning a little as he stretched out on his side, facing the opposite wall. “You are going to help tomorrow.”
“Assuming either one of us can move tomorrow,” House grumbled, and the mattress sank down nearly to the bottom as he squirmed and shifted behind Wilson’s back.
“Of course,” Wilson sighed, because it was the only thing he could settle on that didn’t include the snarky (albeit true) reminder that this was almost entirely House’s fault…
Wilson stretched as far as his tense muscles would allow to click off the lamp sitting a few feet away on the carpet. When he returned his upper torso to the mattress, House’s arm twined firmly around it.
“’Night,” he said, smiling blandly over his shoulder, burrowing into his pillow to make his point…but House started tracing a slow, wet line along the side of Wilson’s neck, and he never was one for good-night kisses.
“That’s it?” he whispered incredulously into Wilson’s ear, right before his tongue darted out along the lobe.
“You have got to be kidding.” Of course, the fact that House was wearing nothing but his t-shirt and shorts and was pressing the length of his body firmly against Wilson’s back made it clear that he was, rather emphatically, not kidding. Still, Wilson squirmed against the mattress. “I’m tired; I’m sore; I’m barely clean -”
“So you’ve got nothing to lose, then,” House told him, sliding his hand under Wilson’s t-shirt, doing things with his mouth that clearly signaled his intentions to make Wilson even more tired, sore, and dirty -
Wilson frowned and tightened his grip on the pillow, eyes closed stubbornly, completely ignoring the chills breaking out under the movement of House’s hand. “I think you’re overestimating yourself, here, stud. We’re too old to do it practically on the floor; they’ll have to bring in some sort of crane get us out of here.”
“An acceptable risk.” House nipped at that spot on his neck at the precise moment his fingers found a very interested nipple, causing Wilson’s hips to push forward in pure reflex. House made an amused sound in his throat before kissing his way up and down Wilson’s neck. “Sixteen hours in suburbia and already you’re using the ‘not tonight, dear, I have a headache’ routine? Very disturbing precedent,” he added huskily in Wilson’s ear.
Even with the proximity, he barely heard House’s next words. "Enough changes for one day."
Maybe Wilson wasn’t the only one who had been half-fantasizing about tonight, about rolling around naked with an old friend in a new place, painting the walls of this room with moans and words and permanence -
“We are so going to regret this,” he whispered, and tried to believe it wasn’t true, tilting his head to meet House’s lips.
He told himself it wasn’t embarrassing that it took at least four distinct movements to maneuver onto his other side and bury his face in House’s neck. He practically shuddered with want when House kissed him, soft and warm and with just the barest, tantalizing hint of tongue - but logistics were still a problem. His back, House’s leg, the lump of springs and worn-out cotton they were writhing around on all conspired against anything too ambitious. But god, he wanted it, and House wanted him, and this was something that maybe they both needed, familiarity and the assurance that at least one thing hadn’t changed.
He wanted to crawl down House’s body, taking his time as his mouth fell down memorized paths, and then he wanted to swallow House’s cock until the room pulsed white around him -
This goal in mind, he peeled off House’s shirt, tossing it carelessly over his shoulder. Even with the room’s strange shadows and different angles of light, it was so easy to fall into an old pattern of touch: his hands slipping up House’s sides, one foot twisting between the lean muscles of his bare calves. Licking along a fluttering pulse while thick fingers worked through his hair, blunt nails dragging across his scalp - grunting when those hands pulled their hips together and slid without further prelude down the back of his sweats -
House pulled back with an amused snort when his hands encountered no barrier between Wilson’s pants and the cool skin underneath. “No underwear? Yeah, you totally didn’t plan for this.” His voice was sarcastically accusing, but in the darkness, Wilson just caught the hint of his smile.
He snickered softly against House’s lips. “I’m just trying to conserve the clean laundry - ” (cool new washing machine would arrive next week) “…Dude,” Wilson added, when he realized he’d unconsciously reverted to another college habit.
Then House laughed, that deep, silent sound Wilson could feel to the pit of his stomach, and the game plan changed rather quickly.
He cursed and his legs opened instinctively, one curling around House’s waist. With a soft groan, those palms started to move a little faster, cupping Wilson’s bare hip, sliding down his flank, briefly squeezing the underside of his thigh only to sneak back up along a dark, warm crease -
Wilson seized his wrist. “Hold that thought,” he breathed out desperately against House’s mouth and slowly extricated himself, rolling (literally) off the mattress before he thought about it and turning on the lamp with potentially embarrassing haste.
House was smirking at him when he returned from the bathroom, leaning back with both hands under his head. But fuck it; Wilson wasn’t going to be embarrassed about his eagerness, not now. He tossed the duffel bag that they’d be living out of for the next few days to House’s side, returning that smirk with a rather devious one of his own. Taking off his own clothes while he was still standing just seemed easiest on his back - it had nothing to do at all with the way House’s eyes were raking over him as he tugged off his shirt, as worn gray cotton pooled around his ankles.
House gave an amused grunt when he discovered the brand new, unopened tub of Vaseline in the bag of toiletries - the one that Wilson totally hadn’t bought and packed for this completely unplanned, spontaneous, first-night sex. Several joints popped audibly when Wilson crawled back onto the mattress, and dammit if the floor wasn’t a lot lower than it had been the last time Wilson had sex this close to it, but he quickly stopped caring because House was touching him again, all soft tongue and rough lips and slick, slick fingers…
It was a little awkward, finding the right position - not unlike those first desperate fumblings on House’s sofa, his hands shaking, the taste of fear and pizza. On top, Wilson’s lower back would start screaming; on his side, House’s leg wouldn’t allow him enough leverage. On his stomach was unacceptable, because he couldn’t see House’s face.
It was never made to be perfect; but then, when had they ever needed for it to be?
It took a few minutes, a few tries, a few muttered barbs at Wilson’s expense before they found the right angle. But when they did…
“Oh, God!” On his back, an old pillow crammed underneath him as he lay almost diagonally across the mattress, holding himself open while House pushed further into him -
The proximity to the floor became an unexpected benefit; House was able to brace himself with both palms to the carpet, one knee buried in the mattress and grunting with each hard, crooked, full-bodied thrust.
Wilson felt sweat breaking out on his forehead, his temples, his upper lip, biting the inside of his cheek and forcing his eyes to remain open, watching House fuck him in the cheap lamplight, under that new ceiling, surrounded by the beginnings of a wholly different life -
He wrapped his legs around House’s hips, even though it hurt like hell - needed to free his hands, needed to touch him, to pull him down for greedy kisses.
House bit down on his lower lip with a sharp, loud moan, his eyes slamming shut. A sudden, forceful thrust made Wilson cry out, sliding a few inches up the mattress, his head tipping back over its edge. This left his neck totally exposed to House’s mouth and he moaned under the prickly attention, his whole body throbbing in time with each thrust, with the soft, suctioning bites that he knew were leaving marks and couldn’t care, as every cell in his body edged further toward release -
House suddenly stopped.
“Noo,” he heard himself whining, totally lost, his hips pushing up desperately. “House - ”
It was perfectly clear that Wilson was quite enjoying the present arrangement; namely, House braced above him and fucking him hard enough to bruise.
So it must have been for other reasons that House’s right arm slid under his neck, holding him close while he worked the other arm around Wilson’s shoulder. He hiccupped when House started to move again, his nose in Wilson’s hair, soft mewls in Wilson’s ear. Pressed together like this, their hips barely separating, Wilson’s erection rubbing wetly against House’s navel, the pace was slower, each stroke of slick cock in and out of him less intense.
Inexplicably, it took less than a minute of this slow, patient rocking for him to come, choking out moans and soft sobs and remnants of House’s name.
He kept his arms around House’s back, their faces pressed together while House shuddered against him in rolling waves, warmth filling him, breath leaving him in gasps while the waves picked up to a sharp, blinding peak...and then stilled.
He never knew how much time passed before he felt House’s palm wipe the damp hair out of his eyes, clearing his vision so he could catch that smug little grin on reddened lips, his breath catching at the heavy-lidded peace in House’s eyes.
“Regretting it yet?” House asked with a raised eyebrow, but his voice was too soft to carry sarcasm.
Wilson ached everywhere. He was sticky and his legs were going numb, his neck covered in an untold number of hickeys that he wasn’t sure would fade before they went back to work. He was lying on a creaky mattress surrounded by dozens of boxes, doomed to sorting it all out in the morning.
He’d just sold his soul to someone he wasn’t sure could give one back.
But it was an easy question. “Never.”