"Apology" 1/2
Title: Apology
Part: 1/2
Author: A. Manley Haight (ralaegidius)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: House/Wilson
Prompt: 095. House/Wilson -- punishment/apology sex for the Tritter debacle, you decide who is the one apologizing ("get_house_laid" Round 2).
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: This story is not in any way intended to infringe on copyrights held by David Shore, the Fox Broadcasting Corporation, or any other legitimate copyright holders of "House, MD".
The same day that Wilson told him that Tritter had towed his car, House had stopped his bike in front of the bus stop. It was intended to be an offer of succor. Get on. You can move back in with me until all this blows over.
But the resentment in Wilson's face was enough to stop him from actually speaking, and the two men just gazed at each other for a long moment. More than just anger in Wilson's eyes was sadness -- suffering -- that usually made House feel a stab of irritation. Wilson was so passive-aggressive and it drove him crazy sometimes.
This wasn't, however, the aggrieved angst of someone angry because House hadn't done the dishes, or cleaned the bathroom sink. He knew Wilson was living in a hotel, and that there hadn't been any new women on his radar since Grace. In fact, Wilson was being bizarrely chaste, almost Spartan, as if intentionally isolating himself.
It was House that had done this to him, House knew. What he didn't know was how. He could see it in the way Wilson looked at him now from the bus stop bench, had seen it in the body language during their conversation in the staff lounge. Even before Tritter had come along, Wilson had been suffering because of him, and it wasn't something minor that was going to resolve itself quietly the way their fights usually did. This one was going to change them, and House was terrified that he might lose his closest friend and never know why.
****
He confronted Wilson the next day in the younger man's own office, not bothering to knock before entering. It was almost ten o'clock, and the only thing House might have interrupted was some awkward couch sex. Lately, however, even that was unlikely. Wilson was alone at his desk, working on the referrals he was forced to do now that he could no longer prescribe medication to his own patients. Wilson glanced up as he entered, but then ignored him.
"You're going to miss the bus," House said.
"There'll be another one," Wilson said mildly. There was a hardness in the tone that only House could hear.
"Last bus runs at 10:15," House replied, shifting his weight as much as he dared to relieve the burning pain in his shoulder. Wilson was probably right that it was a somatic manifestation of guilt, but that didn't make it stop hurting. "But I'm guessing you haven't been taking work home, since home is a hotel room. Patient confidentiality and all that."
Wilson slapped his pen down on the blotter and rubbed one hand over his face.
"What do you want, House?"
"Why are you protecting me?"
Wilson stared at him. "Why do you care?" he asked, an edge in his voice.
"It doesn't fit," House said, and Wilson's face contorted briefly with disgust. "I haven't done anything to earn it. Letting someone walk all over you isn't noble. It's self-destruction. And one thing I know about you -- you do have a spine. Just not about this. Why?"
"You think lying to the cops is spineless?" Wilson wondered.
"You keep bailing me out, literally and figuratively. That's spineless."
"Are you actually telling me to stop protecting you?"
"As if that would work!" House exclaimed. "Jesus Christ, Wilson, I forged your name on scripts. I keep saying I'm not an addict and we all know nobody believes that. And yet, and yet, you've lost your car, your prescription privileges, your money, rather than simply tell the truth to that asshole detective."
"You going to jail is not going to help anyone," Wilson said. "You least of all."
"And what do you think is going to happen now?" House asked. "You think Tritter will just get bored and go away if you hold out long enough? He has no incentive to give up. You do. So does everybody else. The longer this goes on, the worse it's going to be for you in the end."
"What he's doing isn't legal," Wilson said, suddenly animated. He practically bolted out of the chair and began pacing the floor. His dark eyes blazed with fury at someone who wasn't in the room with them. "It isn't right. The whole thing will fall apart the second a judge sees it. I have nothing to lose by standing my ground."
"And yet you're angry with me," House said, his voice quiet. Wilson jerked to a stop, lifting his head to gaze at the other man with naked anguish. "You're not angry because of Tritter. You're angry because I lied to you. Because I stole from you."
"You've been stealing from me for years," Wilson sighed, resigned.
"And it took you this long to blow up."
"If you had just talked to me, told me the pain was coming back -- "
"I did tell you. You told me it was in my head. Not the first time you've said that, either. What I don't understand is why you're so damn thick about it. Just because it's in my head doesn't mean it isn't real. Okay, so it's all in my mind. What do I do about that? You think a couple of sessions with a shrink is going to fix me? You've seen what happens when I go off my pain meds. When you refuse to give me a refill because the pain is in my head, what you're really telling me is that it doesn't matter that I'm in pain. You're telling me that you don't care."
"I don't care?" Wilson said incredulously. He stalked toward House as if to strike him, and House tensed reflexively. "I don't care? I have nothing now because of what I did for you!"
"But why?" House demanded. "Why would you do that?" /Why would anyone do that for me?/
Wilson did lunge then, but it wasn't to strike him. He grabbed House by the leather motorcycle jacket and slammed him hard against the closed door.
"BE. CAUSE. I. LOVE. YOU," Wilson shouted. With a disgusted shove, he pushed away and paced across the office. "You motherfucker. Are you happy now? You finally made me say it out loud, after all these years."
"You..." House stood perfectly still, allowing himself to lean against the door because his knees were suddenly uncooperative. Wilson spun around, as if anticipating House's next question.
"Yes, I love you that way," he spat. Wilson made a rough, scoffing noise at the look of astonishment on House's face. "Don't try to make me believe you didn't know. You can't be that stupid."
"Apparently I can," House murmured, his gaze wandering over the office's wood paneled walls. Wilson studied him closely, hands on his hips. Then, he gave a bitter laugh.
"You really didn't know. You weren't trying to make me admit it." He looked away. "You bastard."
"Wilson -- " He had started to push away from the door, needing to move, to somehow make this okay.
"Get out of here," Wilson rasped, turning away from him. "Before I say something I can't take back."
House didn't know what that might be, but for once he decided that he didn't want to find out, and he left.
****
Wilson avoided him for three days after that. Or perhaps House avoided him. Either way, three days was all House could stand of it. His shoulder had stopped hurting, but had been replaced by a constant ache in his chest that was still doing a damn good job of preventing him from getting any sleep.
At the end of the third day, it was raining, and House's leg was killing him. He had twenty-two Vicodin tablets left. It would be enough for now. He hadn't taken extra today -- the weather aggravated his leg but the Vicodin never did anything for that sort of pain. He would try a heating pad later, and probably massage his quads as well as he could.
But he had things to do, and at around eight that night, he was walking across the parking lot of Wilson's hotel. The rain pilled up and rolled off his black overcoat like quicksilver, his cane's rubber tip disappearing in half the puddles he stepped across. He was still getting wet -- his hair, his shoes, the hem of his jeans. But being cursed to never run again had taught him to take his time in bad weather and just deal with it. He would dry out in due course, and maybe look a little more pathetic when he reached Wilson's room.
The hotel hallway was warm and muffled, sounds seeming to travel about a foot away before being swallowed. There was a long pause after he knocked on the door, and he wondered for a moment if perhaps Wilson were not there. But it was more likely that Wilson was simply debating whether or not to answer. There was no sign hanging on the doorknob.
Finally the door jerked open and Wilson met his eyes for a split second before turning to walk back into the room. House stepped through the open door that Wilson had abandoned, closing it as quietly as the damn thing was capable. Wilson was still wearing his tie, albeit loosened, and the TV remote was on the bed. His dark eyes were shuttered and unreadable, although his posture was decidedly confrontational. House regarded him without embarrassment, planting his cane so he could shift his weight.
"You're paid up through the end of the month," House said, running one hand through his wet hair.
"What?"
"Your hotel room. I paid off what you owed and for the rest of the month." He pitched something underhanded and Wilson caught it reflexively. It was a car key with a tag for a car rental company. "That fits the white Malibu in the parking lot. I know the car sucks but it was all they had unless you want to drive around in a Geo Metro."
"You can't rent a car for someone else," Wilson said. "That's illegal." House rolled his eyes.
"Fine, we can go down there tomorrow and fix it. But we both know that you'd rather have that to drive to work in the morning than take the bus."
Wilson tossed the key back to him.
"I didn't ask you for charity."
"Will you stop with that shit already?" House said, annoyed. "I don't do charity." He put the key down firmly on the side table.
"Then what is it?"
"Restitution," House replied, gazing at him fixedly. Wilson snorted.
"Guilty conscience finally getting to you?" he wondered archly. "Or are you just looking for the cheapest possible way to make nice with me?"
"Hey, your hotel tab isn't exactly lunch money," House said. "And have you seen what it costs to rent a car these days? Besides, would this somehow be better if I didn't feel guilty?"
"What do you want?"
"Why do I have to want anything?"
"Because everything is about negotiation with you," Wilson said. "What can you get for what price? What currency can you use to get what you want out of people?"
"That's what human society is," House said. "I just refuse to pretend it's something else, like 'charity'. Or 'doing someone a favor'. Every choice we make is a calculation of an equation -- what do I get out of this?"
"All right," Wilson said, his eyes narrow. "Then what do you want to get out of this?"
"I want you to stop suffering because of the things I did." House touched his own chest briefly. "I want this clenched fist in my solar plexus to go away. I want my friend back."
"Paying my bills and getting me a car are just stopgap measures," Wilson reminded him. It was difficult to conceal his amazement at how much House had said already. It was easily the most candid conversation they'd had in many months. "You're still a lying thief and a junkie, and Tritter is still trying to put you away." House's slight flinch was almost imperceptible.
"Hopefully fixing the junkie part will take care of the rest," House said after a moment. "I talked to Tritter about an hour ago. He's agreed to drop the investigation and release everyone's assets. Your credit card should be working again by tomorrow morning."
"How great of a blowjob did you have to give him for that?" Wilson asked sarcastically.
"I agreed to three months of rehab and physical therapy," House said flatly, and Wilson stared. "And one year of probation after that. I get to keep my medical license, and Cuddy says I can have a sabbatical and come back to work when I'm done with rehab."
Wilson turned away and paced a little, one hand on the back of his neck. House was too smart to manufacture an elaborate ruse that was easy to disprove. But then, Wilson hadn't thought him capable of stealing his pad and forging his name on scripts, either. "Call Tritter if you don't believe me," House said.
After a brief hesitation, Wilson took two steps to the bedside table and picked up his phone. House didn't move. If it was a bluff, it was a good one.
House stood there as Wilson made the call, unperturbed. He wasn't lying. Tritter had sounded very surprised when House had called. The detective had also been unexpectedly open to the deal, and House wondered if he had been wrong about Tritter's motives being entirely vindictive. /Doing the right thing the wrong way. He sounds like me./
When Wilson closed his phone, he just stood there for a long minute, his back to House and his head bowed. The rain outside was picking up, pattering against the balcony doors behind closed heavy curtains. The wind shifted and made the doors rattle slightly.
"And you think that now everything's okay," Wilson said, not as a question.
"No," came the soft answer. "But I'm not...good with words. You know that."
Wilson sighed heavily. Even after all that, he wasn't going to get even a simple 'I'm sorry' out of Greg House.
"I know. Is that all you came for?"
"No," House said again, and he came closer, his cane indistinguishable from his footsteps on the carpet. Wilson's thighs clenched in preparation to pull away, but House didn't touch him, and he felt a bizarre mixture of disappointment and relief. He heard House sigh deeply behind him, so close that he felt the warm breath on the back of his neck. A hot thrill flickered up his spine and he clenched his jaw. "I'm sorry."
Wilson turned his head to one side involuntarily. He could count on one hand the number of times House had apologized to him for anything. There was a flicker of motion in his peripheral vision, and then a soft thump as House's cane landed on the bed. "I'm sorry, all right?" House said again, his voice rough. "I don't know what else to do."
Wilson didn't answer, and the ache in House's gut turned to panic. He had done everything he could think of, had repaired everything within reach, but he and Wilson were still shattered. Was it too late? This close, he could see that Wilson was trembling, his back rigid in some kind of defiance or protection.
And then he understood.
House closed a gentle hand around Wilson's upper arm, felt the profound flinch in the other man's being. A sound tore out of him, a sob, and House's thumb rubbed gently at the edge of his shoulder blade.
"James."
"Stop it, House," came the choked plea. Even House wasn't sure if Wilson understood what was going on right now, and maybe that was why Wilson was always still unhappy after their disagreements were resolved.
He slid his arms around Wilson's body before the other man could pull away, tugging him back against his chest firmly and resting his chin on Wilson's shoulder. Wilson made a high, wounded sound, as if stabbed, and House hugged him tightly. This was the only kind of apology that Wilson understood, deep in his bones. Words were not enough, and the unspoken understanding between them that usually passed itself off as an apology was certainly not. Wilson needed the touch. That was what was real to him.
Wilson wondered if the warmth was a dream. The heat, the strength in the arms that came around him threatened to consume him completely. He leaned back into House's chest without thought, and then felt stubble brush over the side of his neck. The briefest hesitation, and House was pressing soft lips to his skin. He couldn't fit any of this into what he knew of House's personality, but needed it so desperately that he didn't dare stop the other man to question it. He knew House could be gentle, had seen flashes of it in their long friendship, but to be branded by the man's touch was more than he had ever expected or hoped for.
Had it been his confession three days ago that had provoked this? Would House still have come here to apologize if he hadn't admitted to loving the man? What did it mean that House had found that spot on his neck, below his ear, and was nibbling it until he began to moan in the back of his throat? The tip of House's tongue darted out to dab his skin and he gasped.
House tasted the salt on Wilson's skin, and laved the side of Wilson's neck to savor it. He liked the rawness of the sense experience, the complex tastes and scents of a lover's body. Here he tasted sweat, the slight bitter tang of faded aftershave, felt the edges of whiskers starting to grow in again at the end of a long day. Wilson was making low, soft sounds that tugged at his gut. He catalogued it all, eager to add it to the vast storehouse labeled 'James Wilson'.
House pulled away from him long enough to step over to the thermostat on the wall. It needed to be warmer in here for what he now intended. When he turned back, Wilson had turned to look at him. Pale, sharp eyes met deep ebony ones, and House could see the hollow dismay at his absence that had turned to sweet understanding when Wilson had seen him adjusting the heat.
House came back to him, his limp cautious since his cane was on the bed. He gently finished unknotting Wilson's loose tie and slid it free to toss it over a chair. His hands went to the dress shirt next, working deftly at the buttons. There was a hot shiver in his belly, and he tried to ignore analyzing what, exactly, he intended to do once Wilson's shirt was off.
"Greg..."
"Don't talk," House murmured. Then he glanced up anxiously. "Unless you want me to stop."
"No! No, I..." He swallowed tightly as the blue eyes watched him closely for a few seconds, the hands on his shirt buttons going still. "Have you done this before?" House just gazed at him, lips pressed into a thin line.
"Does it matter?"
That was when Wilson really understood that House hadn't planned this when he'd shown up at the hotel. And in spite of the strangeness of this overture, the stumbling into territory that their friendship had never experienced, he yearned so terribly to make things right that he was doing it the only way left to him. /This is his apology,/ Wilson thought, awed.
Wilson just shook his head in answer to House's question, and the strong fingers took up removing his shirt again. When all the buttons had been parted, there was still his undershirt beneath, but House didn't seem concerned. Wilson gasped as he was touched again -- House's palm on his chest, just stroking calmly downward. Almost comforting. Blue eyes drank in his reaction, learning, and when the hand stroked him again, it was subtly different in some way. He shivered, eyes closing in pleasure.
When he looked at House again, a bit of the tension around the pale eyes had relaxed. /He's trying to please me./ It was almost impossible to wrap his head around this idea. /He wants me to feel good./
House let his hand wander, now that he had an excuse. Wilson's chest was solid under his palm, pectorals yielding to gentle pressure. He could feel the rise and fall of increasingly-rapid breaths, thudding heartbeat. Wilson was watching him intently, as caught by his cerulean stare as he was by the impossible vastness of Wilson's sable eyes. How could eyes convey such a visceral sense of warmth? He had seen that dark gaze become cold and hard. Wilson's face was capable of a shocking transformation from comfort and amusement to a distant iciness that rivaled anything House had ever displayed.
But right now, that face was utterly open to him, too surprised to be wary. With the dark warmth, House also saw fear. Wilson was wondering what this all meant, what tomorrow was going to be like. House decided that the best way to deal with that fear was to surrender completely. To show Wilson everything Wilson had tried to see in him over the years. To invite exploration of everything House had refused to grant in their friendship. That way, tomorrow wouldn't really matter one way or the other, as long as his atonement was accepted. He owed Wilson nothing less, after everything that had happened.
The pressure increased on Wilson's chest -- House was pushing him backward. He stepped carefully, unsure of what was behind him but unable to look away from the man in front of him. The edge of the bed hit the backs of his knees, and it took only a slight push of House's hand on his shoulder to make him sit down.
House took his cane from the bed and used it to carefully lower himself to his knees at Wilson's feet. Wilson said nothing, just watched with his mouth open slightly as he tried to fathom what House was doing. His skin still buzzed from the touch on his chest, the sensation of having his body shifted by those strong hands. House laid his cane on the floor, making sure it would be within reach if he needed it.
It was getting a little warmer in the room, and House pulled his button-down shirt over his head to discard it to one side. He realized that Wilson's attention had fallen to his arms, where his T-shirt sleeves didn't completely cover his biceps. He was strong there, from the years of compensating for his bad leg, but he had never considered his physique at all remarkable. Yet the way Wilson's gaze lingered, a weight that House could almost literally feel on his flesh, stroking up his arms and over his chest and shoulders, told him that Wilson saw things he never would.
Wilson had watched House move during the shirt removal, for once not needing to be discreet about it. House wore a long-sleeved shirt over his T-shirts most days, owing to the hospital's tendency to be cool. As much as Wilson loved the buttoned shirts, he also loved being able to see the strength in the man's body. Their eyes met for an instant, and Wilson felt himself blush.
House hesitated for the length of a breath, and then slowly peeled off his T-shirt, as well. He held Wilson's eyes steadily, taking his time pushing the shirt down his muscular arms and off to the floor. He made himself stay still, displaying himself for appraisal. If my body pleases you, I'll let you see it. Wilson couldn't look away, face hot with the mixture of arousal and embarrassment that swelled in him.
What Wilson saw was power. House was a guarded man with both his emotions and his inner thoughts. But there was something raw, truthful, about the curve and cut of biceps that spoke of a determination to get up rather than stay flat on his back where the infarction had put him. And he knelt now, to invite James to slake a thirst.
Wilson jumped when House reached for his hand, placing it lightly at that bare shoulder that held him so rapt. The warmth of House's skin startled him again, and he slid his palm down House's arm to curl it around the top of muscles that twitched at his touch. His thumb traced over the slight bulge of a prominent vein, and he wondered how something as simple as a man's arm could be so beautiful.
House didn't speak, just watched him with that carefully neutral expression that Wilson had learned meant that House was concealing conflicting emotions. He didn't move as Wilson's other hand mirrored the first on his opposing shoulder. The hands moved in unison, over his biceps, shoulders, tracing his collarbones. Wilson shook his head slightly, as if in disbelief. Suddenly the hands converged to sweep up his whiskered neck and lift his face as Wilson leaned in to capture his lips.
House opened to the kiss, yielding, stunned by the sweetness of Wilson's mouth. He let James take as much as he wanted, found himself kissing back hesitantly, breathless. James spread his jaw, plundering with slow relish. Wilson loved him. He could taste it. It was in the way the soft tongue met his, the sigh across his cheek, the hands cupping his face. He made a soft sound in the back of his throat, overwhelmed.
Wilson pulled back to look at him wonderingly. House didn't look disgusted, or even displeased. He started when he felt House touch his wrist to begin unbuttoning his cuffs. It was gentle, even sensual; House taking his time to undo each shirt cuff, warm fingers brushing the sensitive skin of his inner wrists. He shivered suddenly as the hands slid up and over his shoulders to push the shirt off. He felt his nipples harden with the tremor and arousal, and ducked his head as he then felt himself blush. The dress shirt was pulled away from him and discarded somewhere.
Wilson wasn't expecting what happened next. Light fingertips found his nipples unerringly through the cotton undershirt, firing hot sparks down through his belly, groin and into his toes. He gasped hard, the sound almost a mewl, and closed his eyes helplessly as House teased the nubs into further hardness and sensitivity. Gulping for another breath, he reflexively writhed as if to avoid the touch. House's thumbs followed insistently, and he whimpered at the blaze of possession and dominance he felt in the gesture.
Then the fingers pinched, quick and light, and he was lost.
"Ah!" It was a cry of surprise and need. He had no voice for anything coherent, and fortunately House didn't need words to understand. He leaned back on both hands on the bedcovers, and House rose up on his knees a little to follow. Thumbnails scraped over his nipples, down his ribs, and he whimpered eagerly. His cock twitched hard in his pants, pressing against the zipped fly and presenting its hungry bulge to House's gaze.
The corner of House's mouth quirked up in a sly smile. Wilson had turned to liquid in his hands, pliant and supple except for that signal erection that was almost right up against his sternum. He pinched and rubbed Wilson's nipples through the undershirt, watching each spasm and flinch that went through Wilson's body and was echoed in his cock. Wilson was flushed and sweating, head craned back to bare his throat, breaths coming fast. "Puh...please...oh..." He squirmed, hips shifting restlessly.
"Like that?" House murmured roughly, fascinated by the shameless display. The question made Wilson buck, trying to rub his cock against the inside of his slacks. House had never seen such desperation, especially not in his friend. Wilson was moaning, whimpering, absolutely loving being pinched and fondled through his shirt. The keening picked up in volume and pitch as House relentlessly toyed with his nipples. He was thrusting his hips continuously now, aching for some contact other than air. "Jesus, are you going to come?" House whispered.
"Want to," Wilson admitted, gasping. "Can't...quite...get there..." He heard House chuckle quietly, and growled in frustration.
"I have other plans for you," House replied, letting up on the stimulation and instead starting to slowly pet Wilson's chest and belly. "Shh, don't worry." It seemed to be what Wilson needed to hear, and for a minute or two he just breathed deeply, trying to relax and shake off the hard edge of need that House had brought him to. "How about something a little less intense?"
"Kiss me," Wilson whispered, pulling House up onto the bed with him. He lay back on the thick, navy covers and let his hands wander as House settled the length of his own body onto Wilson's. House's bare upper body warmed him like a furnace, and House obeyed the request with a low sigh that spoke not of annoyance, but a gentleness that Wilson had longed to know from him.
They kissed for a while, slow and sensuous. Wilson hadn't believed that House could be capable of such quiet, generous attention. Wilson himself was a sensitive man, enough so that he was careful to hide it from others. He had never asked for what he thought House couldn't give, even platonically. House just wasn't the sort of man who hugged or put a comforting hand on a shoulder. At least, so Wilson had thought.
And perhaps House still wasn't that sort of man, generally speaking. But for Wilson, he had tried to fix things, had come here tonight desperate to find some kind of apology that Wilson could accept. House had burned too much of Wilson's goodwill for anything that could be a bluff to be taken as sincere. And so they found themselves in bed, House's lips feather-light on his, because only real emotion could drive a straight man to make love to his decidedly non-straight friend.
It was so easy to kiss Wilson. The man was so starved for touch and affection that he had nearly molded himself to House's body when House laid half-on-top of him. Wilson's eager hands wandered over his back, his flanks, held his face lovingly or tangled themselves in his hair. No resistance, no self-consciousness once past that initial contact. Their kisses had becomes some kind of silent conversation, more about fondness and empathy than about sex.
"Take the rest of your clothes off," Wilson murmured during one of their quiet pauses. "I want to feel you. Just...skin against skin."
"Okay," House said after a moment. He got up carefully, standing beside the bed to lean against it for balance as he kicked off his shoes, then shed his jeans. He hesitated longer at removing his briefs, but looked up to see that Wilson had gotten to his feet on the other side of the bed and reached a similar point. Not that it wasn't obvious that House's body was interested in what was going on. Wilson's boxers were tented conspicuously, and the corner of House's mouth quirked up. Wilson flushed adorably, avoiding House's eyes and pulling back the bedcovers to climb in quickly. House could tell he was removing his shorts under the covers, and decided that was as good an idea as any. House slid back into bed, nestling comfortably under the light blanket before shoving his briefs off and throwing them across the room toward the rest of his clothes.
Wilson was trying not to look eager as House turned toward him and scooted across the cool fitted sheet to resume his position on top of Wilson's body. But this time there was flesh to flesh contact, heat from neck to ankle, smooth along legs and arms (why had Wilson never noticed that House had so little body hair?), coarse furriness from chest to groin. Their erections bumped, slid alongside each other with silky hardness. Electric flashes down into each man's toes. Wilson shuddered and gave a low mewl, arching himself against House's weight even as he embraced the other man tightly.
"God," House panted. So much warmth. So much Wilson surrounding him and welcoming the whole of his being.
"Yeah," Wilson agreed with a sigh, the sound melting into a throaty purr. He was rubbing his legs up House's, the insides of his knees across House's hips. His palms stroked over the bulge of House's biceps. "Jesus you feel good."
House's body moved of its own accord, hips pressing slowly into Wilson's in an unconscious, stuttering rhythm. Delicious pressure against his erection, sliding friction over the sensitive glans. That motion was so primal that there was no consideration of what the recipient of it was. Male, female, living or inanimate, it didn't matter. It felt good, so the urge took over. Wilson's hands were worshiping him, caressing over and over across his back, shoulders, biceps, ass -- he bucked at that one, the grasp of strong fingers into his buttocks making him grunt.
Wilson struggled to control his breathing -- it threatened to become panting and he didn't really want to pass out from hyperventilation. But it was so much to take in. House's body had surprised him with its solidity, its bulk. His hands were finding a smooth back, hard-muscled from years of compensating for a treacherous leg. Body hair was soft and fine, almost downy, letting him feel the fantastic curve of every muscle and tendon. House had wonderfully sleek legs, the backs of his thighs silky, and Wilson caressed them lingeringly.
House had turned his face into the hollow of Wilson's neck and shoulder, not daring to try to look the other man in the eye. Wilson hadn't asked him to kiss again, but it felt strange to not be doing something with his mouth. So he nuzzled Wilson's throat, taking in that warm scent of identity and maleness. Sweat was slick there and he sucked lightly to taste it. He reminded himself again that Wilson was a man, and unlikely to complain at a certain level of roughness. On that thought, he rubbed his cheek hard against Wilson's jaw and nipped sharply at the tender skin under the man's ear.
Suddenly, Wilson came alive under him with strength and ferocity. He rolled them, and House found himself on his back. Wilson's dark eyes blazed with something ferocious, needy, and House read the word Mine in them before Wilson bent down to kiss him bruisingly. Wilson had lifted up slightly, resting weight on his knees rather than on House's body. House could feel the other man's erection dragging heavily on his abdomen as the kisses devoured him.
Wilson gasped thickly when House's palms cupped his buttocks firmly.
"Get up here," House rasped, and Wilson drew back to look at him.
"What? Why?"
"Why do you think?" House said, in a tone of you moron. "You're gonna explode." He was a little surprised by how quickly and eagerly Wilson obeyed. Wilson knelt over his face, testicles full and warm as they brushed his chin softly.
"God, please," Wilson panted, and any reluctance House felt disappeared. James wanted him so badly that the shyness and embarrassment couldn't compete and had fallen behind. Wilson was trembling, a slight vibration he could feel on his chest and upper ribs where Wilson's legs touched. Warm musk close to his nose was surprisingly pleasant. He thought to himself that Wilson's Mohel had done a particularly good job; the scar was barely visible. House teased with his tongue for a few moments, licking the ridge under the head, and Wilson gave a soft mew. "Please."
House shifted the angle of his jaw, and James moved as well when he saw what was needed. House took that warm shaft into his mouth, lips wet along the length, tongue sliding over the tip as it went deeper. Wilson moaned loud and deep, his thighs clenching against House's sides. He bucked suddenly, then stilled. "Shit, sorry..." House grabbed his rump, pulling him closer, coaxing that rhythm and Wilson groaned again. "Oh God are you sure? God..." He was rocking gently, urgently. House growled softly around his cock, accommodating the thrusts without complaint. "Oh yeah, oh my God." The bed was moving now, not quite hitting the wall with each thrust. "Oh I need...I need...House..."
Wilson was losing control, and it was the sweetest thing House had ever seen. James rocked into his mouth, hands gripping the headboard for leverage, body slick with sweat, muscles clenching in an old rhythm. He sucked hard and Wilson cried out breathlessly. He was holding the man's buttocks, feeling each thrust, dragging each one toward him because he couldn't stand to not consume everything about James Evan Wilson.
"Fuck it's so good," Wilson panted. "So good so good...oh God I'm...I'm...gonna..." House tightened his grip on Wilson's ass, not letting the other man pull away in some misguided consideration for his squeamishness. He had taken this much of Wilson, and he wouldn't let a single bit of it get away. Wilson gave a quavering laugh of comprehension, and started to thrust harder. "Ohh...please yes...gonna -- oh fuck -- "
Wilson tried to hold still as the climax tore through him, but his body would not obey. He bucked once, twice, responding completely to the release House offered. He was safe in House's arms, in the man's presence. That probably would have surprised people who knew House, but it was only with House that he felt accepted, seen. A strangled groan unwound from his throat, surprising even him, and rose to a wail that held the briefest note of fear at how fast and how hard House had coaxed this from him.
House swallowed every surge of pleasure that filled his throat. Chemical proteins and the white flame of ecstasy, overshadowed by that wonderful, delicious sound James was making as he let go into House's mouth. He wanted to give Wilson everything the other man might desire, every gentleness, every fierceness. He realized only now, consciously, that he wanted that because he loved Wilson. That love was at the foundation of their friendship, of their acceptance of the other's faults and vices.
The problem was not that love was complex, but that it was excruciatingly simple in its most basic form. How easily agapē became eros, if one merely permitted the love to extend there. Complexity was created in trying to define it, to assign mental borders to something as primary as motion and difference in the operation of the universe.
And so it meant nothing to be straight, or to be gay, House mused. It meant only to love. It was not the sex, per se, that Wilson desired from him. It was the intimacy, the proof of House's love. Sex was one of the most direct ways that House could give him joy, and that was why House was desperate now for something he had never done in his life and had never considered until tonight. Wilson had always been open to this love between them, and finally House understood. So, he swallowed, and held Wilson up carefully as the other man's climax drove the strength from his limbs.
Wilson fell onto his back heavily, lying next to House and panting deeply. He had been aware of House's fear and uncertainty. All of this was new for House. Yet he had not detected any hesitation in the blowjob's offer or its execution. It had been...enthusiastic, completely willing. No, more than that. It had been loving.
He looked over, and House was watching him with those incredible eyes. He had known people with blue eyes before, even the particular shade of House's. It wasn't their color that made them so arresting, but the fact that their gaze carried the weight of House's entire being. Wilson wondered with a start if perhaps everyone's eyes carried the weight of their being, and House's was just that much greater. Then House licked his lips, and Wilson's stare dropped to follow the movement. /Savoring the taste of me,/ Wilson thought. /Oh God./
"Why?" he asked softly, wishing he could take it back immediately afterward. Questioning this fortune was unwise, and exactly the kind of thing to make House bolt. But House just looked at him.
"You're not done, are you?" Even though he ignored Wilson's question, there was a strange lightness in House's voice, a sort of freedom that Wilson usually only heard in their most casual and happy conversations. "You're not even forty yet. At least I can blame my leg for being lazy."
House watched him try to formulate some kind of reply. It was cute when Wilson got all discombobulated, and House remained silent just to see how long it would take for the younger man to find something coherent to say.
"I was doing most of the work," Wilson said after several seconds, his tone finding the right combination of mock irritation and amusement. /He wants this,/ Wilson thought. House was smiling at him, a sleepy, content expression that Wilson had never seen before. /He wants me./ "As usual."
"I'll buy you lunch," House said, waving his hand dismissively and glancing away. Wilson took the opportunity to let his gaze linger over Greg's body, the hard curve of biceps, flat stomach, lean thighs even with the deep scar on the right one.
/He's still hard,/ Wilson realized, studying the tension in House's abdominal muscles and the smooth length of his cock where it lay on his belly. He hadn't thought that House was actually aroused by this beyond the level of physical stimulation. But the erection House had was not halfhearted or the result of mere animal reflex. He glanced up and saw that the other man had closed his eyes. That tightness was written in the lines of his face, too. Hungry, but silent. House wasn't going to ask, nor was he going to do it himself.
Wilson sat up slowly, wondering how much of this was mutual. He shifted closer, carefully, and put his hand on House's stomach. House flinched in surprise, his eyes slitting open to observe Wilson. The touch was hesitant, curious, reflecting Wilson's expression exactly.
House had wondered if Wilson had the ability to just accept what had happened, rather than feeling the need to reciprocate. The light palm on his belly seemed to answer that question, and House sighed, annoyed. /Why can't the idiot just be selfish once in a while?/ But he couldn't make himself pull away, or stop the stroking fingertips that circled his navel and traced through the line of hair from there down to his groin. /Christ it's like I've forgotten how it feels to be touched./ The contact was like an open flame, igniting his blood. He sucked in a sharp, soft breath when Wilson's fingers encountered the head of his cock. Those fingers began to spread the wetness they found there around the glans, gently sliding back the foreskin farther.
House closed his eyes. He wasn't able to do much else, really. He couldn't have formed a coherent word to save his life just now, his leg was cranky enough that he had no desire to get up, and being passive was much easier than trying to figure out what to do with the arousal that was building inside him like a stoked furnace. So he tilted his head back into the soft pillow, savoring the cool bedsheets against his back. And God damn if Wilson wasn't making him even harder with soft, teasing strokes down his shaft. His shudder took him by surprise and he gave a choked moan.
Wilson smiled slightly as House's hands clenched white-knuckled into the bedcovers. He knew House wasn't aware of doing it, because it wouldn't have occurred at all otherwise. House worked so hard to give nothing away.
"You don't have to do this," House suddenly said in a strangled voice. "Stop being so damn giving. Just take what you want."
"I am taking what I want," Wilson said, his eyes like flint. House stared at him, shocked by the intensity in Wilson's dark eyes.
"Oh," House said stupidly. "Okay. Don't let me...stop you..." Wilson's light caress reached his balls, curved under them to stroke slowly. His eyes slid shut again. "Oh God."
There was something incredibly sublime about Wilson's touch. Much like Wilson himself, House reflected. He could feel questions in the slowness of it. The caresses were not just leisurely for the sake of drawing things out. Wilson was asking him things. Why are you letting me do this? Why are you demanding it? How many years has this been building? What makes you moan? What makes you scream? How can I make you cry out my name? House finally put one hand behind his head, under the pillow, because clenching there was less conspicuous than clenching into the bedcovers every time Wilson's stroking moved him. There were sudden fingertips on his biceps, close to the side of his face due to the position of his hand beneath the pillow. He opened his eyes in surprise. The question in the palm over his arm was in Wilson's eyes too: How can you have no comprehension of how beautiful you are?
"I'm not," House murmured, responding to that unspoken comment. Wilson smiled slightly, contentedly.
"Yes, you are," Wilson said. He moved forward then, stretching out to lie half on top of House so as to avoid putting weight on his bad leg. Wilson was looking down at him, one hand soft in his hair and the other stroking feather-light on his hip. Wilson kissed him slowly, lazily, delving into his unresisting mouth.
But it wasn't merely unresisting this time. When Wilson drew back, House tried to follow and made a noise of complaint at the loss of the kiss. With that small reaction, House suddenly became completely invested. He had wanted to do this as a gift to Wilson, as an atonement that he couldn't speak in words. Now he realized how much he wanted it for himself, how warm and comforting Wilson was. Heat surged deep in his gut and he arched his head back in a silent plea.
Wilson bent to nip House's exposed throat, drawn to it by the sight of House deliberately baring it to him. A soft moan vibrated against his lips, the tremor spreading outward so that Wilson felt it down the length of House's body.
"What do you want?" Wilson murmured against his skin. House let out a slow breath before answering.
"This isn't about what I want," he said, his voice wavering only slightly.
"It is if I want it to be," Wilson replied, and House gave a low snort of amusement.
"No changing the rules in the middle."
"There are rules?" Wilson asked, his voice just innocent enough that it made House shudder. His tongue traced a wet line from his throat up over House's chin, finding lips slack with pleasure. He pulled back just enough to look at House's face. The older man looked utterly unselfconscious in that moment, aroused and trusting.
"Should have known better than to think you'd abide by them anyway," House said, his voice low and raspy. He reached up, unthinking, to stroke fingers back through Wilson's hair.
"I just want to know what makes you feel good," Wilson said softly, closing his eyes briefly at the gentle touch of House's hand. "I like seeing you happy." House chuckled raggedly.
"What you're doing right now doesn't suck," he said, gazing at Wilson with undisguised lust, his pupils so large it almost obscured the color of his eyes.
"Hmm. I suppose I could," Wilson mused, his eyes sparkling. His left hand was down at House's hip, drawing slow, curving lines over the smooth flesh of House's lower abdomen. "Suck, that is." He loved the way House's eyes widened.
"You think I'd say no to that?" House wondered. Wilson shrugged slightly, pretending indifference. His fingertips found the base of House's erection, delving into the coarse curls there. He felt House tense pleasurably.
"You did imply that this isn't usually the team you bat for."
"Correction. It's not a team I've ever batted for," House said, although he sounded completely undisturbed by this fact just now.
"Which is why I want to make absolutely sure we're on the same page here," Wilson murmured.
"I told you to take what you want," House said, his stare intent and serious. "I mean it."
"Do you really," Wilson said, more to himself than to House. His idly caressing hand closed suddenly around the shaft of House's cock and gave a firm, twisting stroke. House arched back with a choked sigh, squirming under the touch as if repressing the urge to just thrust hard into Wilson's fist. Wilson smiled slightly, reveling in the sight. House had made the offer, but he was going to make Wilson fight for every moan and whisper and curse. Wilson wondered if he should be disturbed by the thrill the prospect gave him.
He gave House's cock another stroke, and this time House wasn't able to suppress his reaction. He thrust upward into the grasp, seeking. A heartfelt whimper followed, a sound of surrender in the face of something too delicious to refuse. It had been much too long since he had been pleasured with such care and attention. Blowjobs were their own sort of indulgence. But the touch of a hand -- the sensuous teasing he was getting from Wilson just now -- was more intimate in many ways. Part of it was the way Wilson was looking at him, drinking in everything in House's face, every twitch and shudder.
Continued in Part 2
Part: 1/2
Author: A. Manley Haight (ralaegidius)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: House/Wilson
Prompt: 095. House/Wilson -- punishment/apology sex for the Tritter debacle, you decide who is the one apologizing ("get_house_laid" Round 2).
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: This story is not in any way intended to infringe on copyrights held by David Shore, the Fox Broadcasting Corporation, or any other legitimate copyright holders of "House, MD".
The same day that Wilson told him that Tritter had towed his car, House had stopped his bike in front of the bus stop. It was intended to be an offer of succor. Get on. You can move back in with me until all this blows over.
But the resentment in Wilson's face was enough to stop him from actually speaking, and the two men just gazed at each other for a long moment. More than just anger in Wilson's eyes was sadness -- suffering -- that usually made House feel a stab of irritation. Wilson was so passive-aggressive and it drove him crazy sometimes.
This wasn't, however, the aggrieved angst of someone angry because House hadn't done the dishes, or cleaned the bathroom sink. He knew Wilson was living in a hotel, and that there hadn't been any new women on his radar since Grace. In fact, Wilson was being bizarrely chaste, almost Spartan, as if intentionally isolating himself.
It was House that had done this to him, House knew. What he didn't know was how. He could see it in the way Wilson looked at him now from the bus stop bench, had seen it in the body language during their conversation in the staff lounge. Even before Tritter had come along, Wilson had been suffering because of him, and it wasn't something minor that was going to resolve itself quietly the way their fights usually did. This one was going to change them, and House was terrified that he might lose his closest friend and never know why.
****
He confronted Wilson the next day in the younger man's own office, not bothering to knock before entering. It was almost ten o'clock, and the only thing House might have interrupted was some awkward couch sex. Lately, however, even that was unlikely. Wilson was alone at his desk, working on the referrals he was forced to do now that he could no longer prescribe medication to his own patients. Wilson glanced up as he entered, but then ignored him.
"You're going to miss the bus," House said.
"There'll be another one," Wilson said mildly. There was a hardness in the tone that only House could hear.
"Last bus runs at 10:15," House replied, shifting his weight as much as he dared to relieve the burning pain in his shoulder. Wilson was probably right that it was a somatic manifestation of guilt, but that didn't make it stop hurting. "But I'm guessing you haven't been taking work home, since home is a hotel room. Patient confidentiality and all that."
Wilson slapped his pen down on the blotter and rubbed one hand over his face.
"What do you want, House?"
"Why are you protecting me?"
Wilson stared at him. "Why do you care?" he asked, an edge in his voice.
"It doesn't fit," House said, and Wilson's face contorted briefly with disgust. "I haven't done anything to earn it. Letting someone walk all over you isn't noble. It's self-destruction. And one thing I know about you -- you do have a spine. Just not about this. Why?"
"You think lying to the cops is spineless?" Wilson wondered.
"You keep bailing me out, literally and figuratively. That's spineless."
"Are you actually telling me to stop protecting you?"
"As if that would work!" House exclaimed. "Jesus Christ, Wilson, I forged your name on scripts. I keep saying I'm not an addict and we all know nobody believes that. And yet, and yet, you've lost your car, your prescription privileges, your money, rather than simply tell the truth to that asshole detective."
"You going to jail is not going to help anyone," Wilson said. "You least of all."
"And what do you think is going to happen now?" House asked. "You think Tritter will just get bored and go away if you hold out long enough? He has no incentive to give up. You do. So does everybody else. The longer this goes on, the worse it's going to be for you in the end."
"What he's doing isn't legal," Wilson said, suddenly animated. He practically bolted out of the chair and began pacing the floor. His dark eyes blazed with fury at someone who wasn't in the room with them. "It isn't right. The whole thing will fall apart the second a judge sees it. I have nothing to lose by standing my ground."
"And yet you're angry with me," House said, his voice quiet. Wilson jerked to a stop, lifting his head to gaze at the other man with naked anguish. "You're not angry because of Tritter. You're angry because I lied to you. Because I stole from you."
"You've been stealing from me for years," Wilson sighed, resigned.
"And it took you this long to blow up."
"If you had just talked to me, told me the pain was coming back -- "
"I did tell you. You told me it was in my head. Not the first time you've said that, either. What I don't understand is why you're so damn thick about it. Just because it's in my head doesn't mean it isn't real. Okay, so it's all in my mind. What do I do about that? You think a couple of sessions with a shrink is going to fix me? You've seen what happens when I go off my pain meds. When you refuse to give me a refill because the pain is in my head, what you're really telling me is that it doesn't matter that I'm in pain. You're telling me that you don't care."
"I don't care?" Wilson said incredulously. He stalked toward House as if to strike him, and House tensed reflexively. "I don't care? I have nothing now because of what I did for you!"
"But why?" House demanded. "Why would you do that?" /Why would anyone do that for me?/
Wilson did lunge then, but it wasn't to strike him. He grabbed House by the leather motorcycle jacket and slammed him hard against the closed door.
"BE. CAUSE. I. LOVE. YOU," Wilson shouted. With a disgusted shove, he pushed away and paced across the office. "You motherfucker. Are you happy now? You finally made me say it out loud, after all these years."
"You..." House stood perfectly still, allowing himself to lean against the door because his knees were suddenly uncooperative. Wilson spun around, as if anticipating House's next question.
"Yes, I love you that way," he spat. Wilson made a rough, scoffing noise at the look of astonishment on House's face. "Don't try to make me believe you didn't know. You can't be that stupid."
"Apparently I can," House murmured, his gaze wandering over the office's wood paneled walls. Wilson studied him closely, hands on his hips. Then, he gave a bitter laugh.
"You really didn't know. You weren't trying to make me admit it." He looked away. "You bastard."
"Wilson -- " He had started to push away from the door, needing to move, to somehow make this okay.
"Get out of here," Wilson rasped, turning away from him. "Before I say something I can't take back."
House didn't know what that might be, but for once he decided that he didn't want to find out, and he left.
****
Wilson avoided him for three days after that. Or perhaps House avoided him. Either way, three days was all House could stand of it. His shoulder had stopped hurting, but had been replaced by a constant ache in his chest that was still doing a damn good job of preventing him from getting any sleep.
At the end of the third day, it was raining, and House's leg was killing him. He had twenty-two Vicodin tablets left. It would be enough for now. He hadn't taken extra today -- the weather aggravated his leg but the Vicodin never did anything for that sort of pain. He would try a heating pad later, and probably massage his quads as well as he could.
But he had things to do, and at around eight that night, he was walking across the parking lot of Wilson's hotel. The rain pilled up and rolled off his black overcoat like quicksilver, his cane's rubber tip disappearing in half the puddles he stepped across. He was still getting wet -- his hair, his shoes, the hem of his jeans. But being cursed to never run again had taught him to take his time in bad weather and just deal with it. He would dry out in due course, and maybe look a little more pathetic when he reached Wilson's room.
The hotel hallway was warm and muffled, sounds seeming to travel about a foot away before being swallowed. There was a long pause after he knocked on the door, and he wondered for a moment if perhaps Wilson were not there. But it was more likely that Wilson was simply debating whether or not to answer. There was no sign hanging on the doorknob.
Finally the door jerked open and Wilson met his eyes for a split second before turning to walk back into the room. House stepped through the open door that Wilson had abandoned, closing it as quietly as the damn thing was capable. Wilson was still wearing his tie, albeit loosened, and the TV remote was on the bed. His dark eyes were shuttered and unreadable, although his posture was decidedly confrontational. House regarded him without embarrassment, planting his cane so he could shift his weight.
"You're paid up through the end of the month," House said, running one hand through his wet hair.
"What?"
"Your hotel room. I paid off what you owed and for the rest of the month." He pitched something underhanded and Wilson caught it reflexively. It was a car key with a tag for a car rental company. "That fits the white Malibu in the parking lot. I know the car sucks but it was all they had unless you want to drive around in a Geo Metro."
"You can't rent a car for someone else," Wilson said. "That's illegal." House rolled his eyes.
"Fine, we can go down there tomorrow and fix it. But we both know that you'd rather have that to drive to work in the morning than take the bus."
Wilson tossed the key back to him.
"I didn't ask you for charity."
"Will you stop with that shit already?" House said, annoyed. "I don't do charity." He put the key down firmly on the side table.
"Then what is it?"
"Restitution," House replied, gazing at him fixedly. Wilson snorted.
"Guilty conscience finally getting to you?" he wondered archly. "Or are you just looking for the cheapest possible way to make nice with me?"
"Hey, your hotel tab isn't exactly lunch money," House said. "And have you seen what it costs to rent a car these days? Besides, would this somehow be better if I didn't feel guilty?"
"What do you want?"
"Why do I have to want anything?"
"Because everything is about negotiation with you," Wilson said. "What can you get for what price? What currency can you use to get what you want out of people?"
"That's what human society is," House said. "I just refuse to pretend it's something else, like 'charity'. Or 'doing someone a favor'. Every choice we make is a calculation of an equation -- what do I get out of this?"
"All right," Wilson said, his eyes narrow. "Then what do you want to get out of this?"
"I want you to stop suffering because of the things I did." House touched his own chest briefly. "I want this clenched fist in my solar plexus to go away. I want my friend back."
"Paying my bills and getting me a car are just stopgap measures," Wilson reminded him. It was difficult to conceal his amazement at how much House had said already. It was easily the most candid conversation they'd had in many months. "You're still a lying thief and a junkie, and Tritter is still trying to put you away." House's slight flinch was almost imperceptible.
"Hopefully fixing the junkie part will take care of the rest," House said after a moment. "I talked to Tritter about an hour ago. He's agreed to drop the investigation and release everyone's assets. Your credit card should be working again by tomorrow morning."
"How great of a blowjob did you have to give him for that?" Wilson asked sarcastically.
"I agreed to three months of rehab and physical therapy," House said flatly, and Wilson stared. "And one year of probation after that. I get to keep my medical license, and Cuddy says I can have a sabbatical and come back to work when I'm done with rehab."
Wilson turned away and paced a little, one hand on the back of his neck. House was too smart to manufacture an elaborate ruse that was easy to disprove. But then, Wilson hadn't thought him capable of stealing his pad and forging his name on scripts, either. "Call Tritter if you don't believe me," House said.
After a brief hesitation, Wilson took two steps to the bedside table and picked up his phone. House didn't move. If it was a bluff, it was a good one.
House stood there as Wilson made the call, unperturbed. He wasn't lying. Tritter had sounded very surprised when House had called. The detective had also been unexpectedly open to the deal, and House wondered if he had been wrong about Tritter's motives being entirely vindictive. /Doing the right thing the wrong way. He sounds like me./
When Wilson closed his phone, he just stood there for a long minute, his back to House and his head bowed. The rain outside was picking up, pattering against the balcony doors behind closed heavy curtains. The wind shifted and made the doors rattle slightly.
"And you think that now everything's okay," Wilson said, not as a question.
"No," came the soft answer. "But I'm not...good with words. You know that."
Wilson sighed heavily. Even after all that, he wasn't going to get even a simple 'I'm sorry' out of Greg House.
"I know. Is that all you came for?"
"No," House said again, and he came closer, his cane indistinguishable from his footsteps on the carpet. Wilson's thighs clenched in preparation to pull away, but House didn't touch him, and he felt a bizarre mixture of disappointment and relief. He heard House sigh deeply behind him, so close that he felt the warm breath on the back of his neck. A hot thrill flickered up his spine and he clenched his jaw. "I'm sorry."
Wilson turned his head to one side involuntarily. He could count on one hand the number of times House had apologized to him for anything. There was a flicker of motion in his peripheral vision, and then a soft thump as House's cane landed on the bed. "I'm sorry, all right?" House said again, his voice rough. "I don't know what else to do."
Wilson didn't answer, and the ache in House's gut turned to panic. He had done everything he could think of, had repaired everything within reach, but he and Wilson were still shattered. Was it too late? This close, he could see that Wilson was trembling, his back rigid in some kind of defiance or protection.
And then he understood.
House closed a gentle hand around Wilson's upper arm, felt the profound flinch in the other man's being. A sound tore out of him, a sob, and House's thumb rubbed gently at the edge of his shoulder blade.
"James."
"Stop it, House," came the choked plea. Even House wasn't sure if Wilson understood what was going on right now, and maybe that was why Wilson was always still unhappy after their disagreements were resolved.
He slid his arms around Wilson's body before the other man could pull away, tugging him back against his chest firmly and resting his chin on Wilson's shoulder. Wilson made a high, wounded sound, as if stabbed, and House hugged him tightly. This was the only kind of apology that Wilson understood, deep in his bones. Words were not enough, and the unspoken understanding between them that usually passed itself off as an apology was certainly not. Wilson needed the touch. That was what was real to him.
Wilson wondered if the warmth was a dream. The heat, the strength in the arms that came around him threatened to consume him completely. He leaned back into House's chest without thought, and then felt stubble brush over the side of his neck. The briefest hesitation, and House was pressing soft lips to his skin. He couldn't fit any of this into what he knew of House's personality, but needed it so desperately that he didn't dare stop the other man to question it. He knew House could be gentle, had seen flashes of it in their long friendship, but to be branded by the man's touch was more than he had ever expected or hoped for.
Had it been his confession three days ago that had provoked this? Would House still have come here to apologize if he hadn't admitted to loving the man? What did it mean that House had found that spot on his neck, below his ear, and was nibbling it until he began to moan in the back of his throat? The tip of House's tongue darted out to dab his skin and he gasped.
House tasted the salt on Wilson's skin, and laved the side of Wilson's neck to savor it. He liked the rawness of the sense experience, the complex tastes and scents of a lover's body. Here he tasted sweat, the slight bitter tang of faded aftershave, felt the edges of whiskers starting to grow in again at the end of a long day. Wilson was making low, soft sounds that tugged at his gut. He catalogued it all, eager to add it to the vast storehouse labeled 'James Wilson'.
House pulled away from him long enough to step over to the thermostat on the wall. It needed to be warmer in here for what he now intended. When he turned back, Wilson had turned to look at him. Pale, sharp eyes met deep ebony ones, and House could see the hollow dismay at his absence that had turned to sweet understanding when Wilson had seen him adjusting the heat.
House came back to him, his limp cautious since his cane was on the bed. He gently finished unknotting Wilson's loose tie and slid it free to toss it over a chair. His hands went to the dress shirt next, working deftly at the buttons. There was a hot shiver in his belly, and he tried to ignore analyzing what, exactly, he intended to do once Wilson's shirt was off.
"Greg..."
"Don't talk," House murmured. Then he glanced up anxiously. "Unless you want me to stop."
"No! No, I..." He swallowed tightly as the blue eyes watched him closely for a few seconds, the hands on his shirt buttons going still. "Have you done this before?" House just gazed at him, lips pressed into a thin line.
"Does it matter?"
That was when Wilson really understood that House hadn't planned this when he'd shown up at the hotel. And in spite of the strangeness of this overture, the stumbling into territory that their friendship had never experienced, he yearned so terribly to make things right that he was doing it the only way left to him. /This is his apology,/ Wilson thought, awed.
Wilson just shook his head in answer to House's question, and the strong fingers took up removing his shirt again. When all the buttons had been parted, there was still his undershirt beneath, but House didn't seem concerned. Wilson gasped as he was touched again -- House's palm on his chest, just stroking calmly downward. Almost comforting. Blue eyes drank in his reaction, learning, and when the hand stroked him again, it was subtly different in some way. He shivered, eyes closing in pleasure.
When he looked at House again, a bit of the tension around the pale eyes had relaxed. /He's trying to please me./ It was almost impossible to wrap his head around this idea. /He wants me to feel good./
House let his hand wander, now that he had an excuse. Wilson's chest was solid under his palm, pectorals yielding to gentle pressure. He could feel the rise and fall of increasingly-rapid breaths, thudding heartbeat. Wilson was watching him intently, as caught by his cerulean stare as he was by the impossible vastness of Wilson's sable eyes. How could eyes convey such a visceral sense of warmth? He had seen that dark gaze become cold and hard. Wilson's face was capable of a shocking transformation from comfort and amusement to a distant iciness that rivaled anything House had ever displayed.
But right now, that face was utterly open to him, too surprised to be wary. With the dark warmth, House also saw fear. Wilson was wondering what this all meant, what tomorrow was going to be like. House decided that the best way to deal with that fear was to surrender completely. To show Wilson everything Wilson had tried to see in him over the years. To invite exploration of everything House had refused to grant in their friendship. That way, tomorrow wouldn't really matter one way or the other, as long as his atonement was accepted. He owed Wilson nothing less, after everything that had happened.
The pressure increased on Wilson's chest -- House was pushing him backward. He stepped carefully, unsure of what was behind him but unable to look away from the man in front of him. The edge of the bed hit the backs of his knees, and it took only a slight push of House's hand on his shoulder to make him sit down.
House took his cane from the bed and used it to carefully lower himself to his knees at Wilson's feet. Wilson said nothing, just watched with his mouth open slightly as he tried to fathom what House was doing. His skin still buzzed from the touch on his chest, the sensation of having his body shifted by those strong hands. House laid his cane on the floor, making sure it would be within reach if he needed it.
It was getting a little warmer in the room, and House pulled his button-down shirt over his head to discard it to one side. He realized that Wilson's attention had fallen to his arms, where his T-shirt sleeves didn't completely cover his biceps. He was strong there, from the years of compensating for his bad leg, but he had never considered his physique at all remarkable. Yet the way Wilson's gaze lingered, a weight that House could almost literally feel on his flesh, stroking up his arms and over his chest and shoulders, told him that Wilson saw things he never would.
Wilson had watched House move during the shirt removal, for once not needing to be discreet about it. House wore a long-sleeved shirt over his T-shirts most days, owing to the hospital's tendency to be cool. As much as Wilson loved the buttoned shirts, he also loved being able to see the strength in the man's body. Their eyes met for an instant, and Wilson felt himself blush.
House hesitated for the length of a breath, and then slowly peeled off his T-shirt, as well. He held Wilson's eyes steadily, taking his time pushing the shirt down his muscular arms and off to the floor. He made himself stay still, displaying himself for appraisal. If my body pleases you, I'll let you see it. Wilson couldn't look away, face hot with the mixture of arousal and embarrassment that swelled in him.
What Wilson saw was power. House was a guarded man with both his emotions and his inner thoughts. But there was something raw, truthful, about the curve and cut of biceps that spoke of a determination to get up rather than stay flat on his back where the infarction had put him. And he knelt now, to invite James to slake a thirst.
Wilson jumped when House reached for his hand, placing it lightly at that bare shoulder that held him so rapt. The warmth of House's skin startled him again, and he slid his palm down House's arm to curl it around the top of muscles that twitched at his touch. His thumb traced over the slight bulge of a prominent vein, and he wondered how something as simple as a man's arm could be so beautiful.
House didn't speak, just watched him with that carefully neutral expression that Wilson had learned meant that House was concealing conflicting emotions. He didn't move as Wilson's other hand mirrored the first on his opposing shoulder. The hands moved in unison, over his biceps, shoulders, tracing his collarbones. Wilson shook his head slightly, as if in disbelief. Suddenly the hands converged to sweep up his whiskered neck and lift his face as Wilson leaned in to capture his lips.
House opened to the kiss, yielding, stunned by the sweetness of Wilson's mouth. He let James take as much as he wanted, found himself kissing back hesitantly, breathless. James spread his jaw, plundering with slow relish. Wilson loved him. He could taste it. It was in the way the soft tongue met his, the sigh across his cheek, the hands cupping his face. He made a soft sound in the back of his throat, overwhelmed.
Wilson pulled back to look at him wonderingly. House didn't look disgusted, or even displeased. He started when he felt House touch his wrist to begin unbuttoning his cuffs. It was gentle, even sensual; House taking his time to undo each shirt cuff, warm fingers brushing the sensitive skin of his inner wrists. He shivered suddenly as the hands slid up and over his shoulders to push the shirt off. He felt his nipples harden with the tremor and arousal, and ducked his head as he then felt himself blush. The dress shirt was pulled away from him and discarded somewhere.
Wilson wasn't expecting what happened next. Light fingertips found his nipples unerringly through the cotton undershirt, firing hot sparks down through his belly, groin and into his toes. He gasped hard, the sound almost a mewl, and closed his eyes helplessly as House teased the nubs into further hardness and sensitivity. Gulping for another breath, he reflexively writhed as if to avoid the touch. House's thumbs followed insistently, and he whimpered at the blaze of possession and dominance he felt in the gesture.
Then the fingers pinched, quick and light, and he was lost.
"Ah!" It was a cry of surprise and need. He had no voice for anything coherent, and fortunately House didn't need words to understand. He leaned back on both hands on the bedcovers, and House rose up on his knees a little to follow. Thumbnails scraped over his nipples, down his ribs, and he whimpered eagerly. His cock twitched hard in his pants, pressing against the zipped fly and presenting its hungry bulge to House's gaze.
The corner of House's mouth quirked up in a sly smile. Wilson had turned to liquid in his hands, pliant and supple except for that signal erection that was almost right up against his sternum. He pinched and rubbed Wilson's nipples through the undershirt, watching each spasm and flinch that went through Wilson's body and was echoed in his cock. Wilson was flushed and sweating, head craned back to bare his throat, breaths coming fast. "Puh...please...oh..." He squirmed, hips shifting restlessly.
"Like that?" House murmured roughly, fascinated by the shameless display. The question made Wilson buck, trying to rub his cock against the inside of his slacks. House had never seen such desperation, especially not in his friend. Wilson was moaning, whimpering, absolutely loving being pinched and fondled through his shirt. The keening picked up in volume and pitch as House relentlessly toyed with his nipples. He was thrusting his hips continuously now, aching for some contact other than air. "Jesus, are you going to come?" House whispered.
"Want to," Wilson admitted, gasping. "Can't...quite...get there..." He heard House chuckle quietly, and growled in frustration.
"I have other plans for you," House replied, letting up on the stimulation and instead starting to slowly pet Wilson's chest and belly. "Shh, don't worry." It seemed to be what Wilson needed to hear, and for a minute or two he just breathed deeply, trying to relax and shake off the hard edge of need that House had brought him to. "How about something a little less intense?"
"Kiss me," Wilson whispered, pulling House up onto the bed with him. He lay back on the thick, navy covers and let his hands wander as House settled the length of his own body onto Wilson's. House's bare upper body warmed him like a furnace, and House obeyed the request with a low sigh that spoke not of annoyance, but a gentleness that Wilson had longed to know from him.
They kissed for a while, slow and sensuous. Wilson hadn't believed that House could be capable of such quiet, generous attention. Wilson himself was a sensitive man, enough so that he was careful to hide it from others. He had never asked for what he thought House couldn't give, even platonically. House just wasn't the sort of man who hugged or put a comforting hand on a shoulder. At least, so Wilson had thought.
And perhaps House still wasn't that sort of man, generally speaking. But for Wilson, he had tried to fix things, had come here tonight desperate to find some kind of apology that Wilson could accept. House had burned too much of Wilson's goodwill for anything that could be a bluff to be taken as sincere. And so they found themselves in bed, House's lips feather-light on his, because only real emotion could drive a straight man to make love to his decidedly non-straight friend.
It was so easy to kiss Wilson. The man was so starved for touch and affection that he had nearly molded himself to House's body when House laid half-on-top of him. Wilson's eager hands wandered over his back, his flanks, held his face lovingly or tangled themselves in his hair. No resistance, no self-consciousness once past that initial contact. Their kisses had becomes some kind of silent conversation, more about fondness and empathy than about sex.
"Take the rest of your clothes off," Wilson murmured during one of their quiet pauses. "I want to feel you. Just...skin against skin."
"Okay," House said after a moment. He got up carefully, standing beside the bed to lean against it for balance as he kicked off his shoes, then shed his jeans. He hesitated longer at removing his briefs, but looked up to see that Wilson had gotten to his feet on the other side of the bed and reached a similar point. Not that it wasn't obvious that House's body was interested in what was going on. Wilson's boxers were tented conspicuously, and the corner of House's mouth quirked up. Wilson flushed adorably, avoiding House's eyes and pulling back the bedcovers to climb in quickly. House could tell he was removing his shorts under the covers, and decided that was as good an idea as any. House slid back into bed, nestling comfortably under the light blanket before shoving his briefs off and throwing them across the room toward the rest of his clothes.
Wilson was trying not to look eager as House turned toward him and scooted across the cool fitted sheet to resume his position on top of Wilson's body. But this time there was flesh to flesh contact, heat from neck to ankle, smooth along legs and arms (why had Wilson never noticed that House had so little body hair?), coarse furriness from chest to groin. Their erections bumped, slid alongside each other with silky hardness. Electric flashes down into each man's toes. Wilson shuddered and gave a low mewl, arching himself against House's weight even as he embraced the other man tightly.
"God," House panted. So much warmth. So much Wilson surrounding him and welcoming the whole of his being.
"Yeah," Wilson agreed with a sigh, the sound melting into a throaty purr. He was rubbing his legs up House's, the insides of his knees across House's hips. His palms stroked over the bulge of House's biceps. "Jesus you feel good."
House's body moved of its own accord, hips pressing slowly into Wilson's in an unconscious, stuttering rhythm. Delicious pressure against his erection, sliding friction over the sensitive glans. That motion was so primal that there was no consideration of what the recipient of it was. Male, female, living or inanimate, it didn't matter. It felt good, so the urge took over. Wilson's hands were worshiping him, caressing over and over across his back, shoulders, biceps, ass -- he bucked at that one, the grasp of strong fingers into his buttocks making him grunt.
Wilson struggled to control his breathing -- it threatened to become panting and he didn't really want to pass out from hyperventilation. But it was so much to take in. House's body had surprised him with its solidity, its bulk. His hands were finding a smooth back, hard-muscled from years of compensating for a treacherous leg. Body hair was soft and fine, almost downy, letting him feel the fantastic curve of every muscle and tendon. House had wonderfully sleek legs, the backs of his thighs silky, and Wilson caressed them lingeringly.
House had turned his face into the hollow of Wilson's neck and shoulder, not daring to try to look the other man in the eye. Wilson hadn't asked him to kiss again, but it felt strange to not be doing something with his mouth. So he nuzzled Wilson's throat, taking in that warm scent of identity and maleness. Sweat was slick there and he sucked lightly to taste it. He reminded himself again that Wilson was a man, and unlikely to complain at a certain level of roughness. On that thought, he rubbed his cheek hard against Wilson's jaw and nipped sharply at the tender skin under the man's ear.
Suddenly, Wilson came alive under him with strength and ferocity. He rolled them, and House found himself on his back. Wilson's dark eyes blazed with something ferocious, needy, and House read the word Mine in them before Wilson bent down to kiss him bruisingly. Wilson had lifted up slightly, resting weight on his knees rather than on House's body. House could feel the other man's erection dragging heavily on his abdomen as the kisses devoured him.
Wilson gasped thickly when House's palms cupped his buttocks firmly.
"Get up here," House rasped, and Wilson drew back to look at him.
"What? Why?"
"Why do you think?" House said, in a tone of you moron. "You're gonna explode." He was a little surprised by how quickly and eagerly Wilson obeyed. Wilson knelt over his face, testicles full and warm as they brushed his chin softly.
"God, please," Wilson panted, and any reluctance House felt disappeared. James wanted him so badly that the shyness and embarrassment couldn't compete and had fallen behind. Wilson was trembling, a slight vibration he could feel on his chest and upper ribs where Wilson's legs touched. Warm musk close to his nose was surprisingly pleasant. He thought to himself that Wilson's Mohel had done a particularly good job; the scar was barely visible. House teased with his tongue for a few moments, licking the ridge under the head, and Wilson gave a soft mew. "Please."
House shifted the angle of his jaw, and James moved as well when he saw what was needed. House took that warm shaft into his mouth, lips wet along the length, tongue sliding over the tip as it went deeper. Wilson moaned loud and deep, his thighs clenching against House's sides. He bucked suddenly, then stilled. "Shit, sorry..." House grabbed his rump, pulling him closer, coaxing that rhythm and Wilson groaned again. "Oh God are you sure? God..." He was rocking gently, urgently. House growled softly around his cock, accommodating the thrusts without complaint. "Oh yeah, oh my God." The bed was moving now, not quite hitting the wall with each thrust. "Oh I need...I need...House..."
Wilson was losing control, and it was the sweetest thing House had ever seen. James rocked into his mouth, hands gripping the headboard for leverage, body slick with sweat, muscles clenching in an old rhythm. He sucked hard and Wilson cried out breathlessly. He was holding the man's buttocks, feeling each thrust, dragging each one toward him because he couldn't stand to not consume everything about James Evan Wilson.
"Fuck it's so good," Wilson panted. "So good so good...oh God I'm...I'm...gonna..." House tightened his grip on Wilson's ass, not letting the other man pull away in some misguided consideration for his squeamishness. He had taken this much of Wilson, and he wouldn't let a single bit of it get away. Wilson gave a quavering laugh of comprehension, and started to thrust harder. "Ohh...please yes...gonna -- oh fuck -- "
Wilson tried to hold still as the climax tore through him, but his body would not obey. He bucked once, twice, responding completely to the release House offered. He was safe in House's arms, in the man's presence. That probably would have surprised people who knew House, but it was only with House that he felt accepted, seen. A strangled groan unwound from his throat, surprising even him, and rose to a wail that held the briefest note of fear at how fast and how hard House had coaxed this from him.
House swallowed every surge of pleasure that filled his throat. Chemical proteins and the white flame of ecstasy, overshadowed by that wonderful, delicious sound James was making as he let go into House's mouth. He wanted to give Wilson everything the other man might desire, every gentleness, every fierceness. He realized only now, consciously, that he wanted that because he loved Wilson. That love was at the foundation of their friendship, of their acceptance of the other's faults and vices.
The problem was not that love was complex, but that it was excruciatingly simple in its most basic form. How easily agapē became eros, if one merely permitted the love to extend there. Complexity was created in trying to define it, to assign mental borders to something as primary as motion and difference in the operation of the universe.
And so it meant nothing to be straight, or to be gay, House mused. It meant only to love. It was not the sex, per se, that Wilson desired from him. It was the intimacy, the proof of House's love. Sex was one of the most direct ways that House could give him joy, and that was why House was desperate now for something he had never done in his life and had never considered until tonight. Wilson had always been open to this love between them, and finally House understood. So, he swallowed, and held Wilson up carefully as the other man's climax drove the strength from his limbs.
Wilson fell onto his back heavily, lying next to House and panting deeply. He had been aware of House's fear and uncertainty. All of this was new for House. Yet he had not detected any hesitation in the blowjob's offer or its execution. It had been...enthusiastic, completely willing. No, more than that. It had been loving.
He looked over, and House was watching him with those incredible eyes. He had known people with blue eyes before, even the particular shade of House's. It wasn't their color that made them so arresting, but the fact that their gaze carried the weight of House's entire being. Wilson wondered with a start if perhaps everyone's eyes carried the weight of their being, and House's was just that much greater. Then House licked his lips, and Wilson's stare dropped to follow the movement. /Savoring the taste of me,/ Wilson thought. /Oh God./
"Why?" he asked softly, wishing he could take it back immediately afterward. Questioning this fortune was unwise, and exactly the kind of thing to make House bolt. But House just looked at him.
"You're not done, are you?" Even though he ignored Wilson's question, there was a strange lightness in House's voice, a sort of freedom that Wilson usually only heard in their most casual and happy conversations. "You're not even forty yet. At least I can blame my leg for being lazy."
House watched him try to formulate some kind of reply. It was cute when Wilson got all discombobulated, and House remained silent just to see how long it would take for the younger man to find something coherent to say.
"I was doing most of the work," Wilson said after several seconds, his tone finding the right combination of mock irritation and amusement. /He wants this,/ Wilson thought. House was smiling at him, a sleepy, content expression that Wilson had never seen before. /He wants me./ "As usual."
"I'll buy you lunch," House said, waving his hand dismissively and glancing away. Wilson took the opportunity to let his gaze linger over Greg's body, the hard curve of biceps, flat stomach, lean thighs even with the deep scar on the right one.
/He's still hard,/ Wilson realized, studying the tension in House's abdominal muscles and the smooth length of his cock where it lay on his belly. He hadn't thought that House was actually aroused by this beyond the level of physical stimulation. But the erection House had was not halfhearted or the result of mere animal reflex. He glanced up and saw that the other man had closed his eyes. That tightness was written in the lines of his face, too. Hungry, but silent. House wasn't going to ask, nor was he going to do it himself.
Wilson sat up slowly, wondering how much of this was mutual. He shifted closer, carefully, and put his hand on House's stomach. House flinched in surprise, his eyes slitting open to observe Wilson. The touch was hesitant, curious, reflecting Wilson's expression exactly.
House had wondered if Wilson had the ability to just accept what had happened, rather than feeling the need to reciprocate. The light palm on his belly seemed to answer that question, and House sighed, annoyed. /Why can't the idiot just be selfish once in a while?/ But he couldn't make himself pull away, or stop the stroking fingertips that circled his navel and traced through the line of hair from there down to his groin. /Christ it's like I've forgotten how it feels to be touched./ The contact was like an open flame, igniting his blood. He sucked in a sharp, soft breath when Wilson's fingers encountered the head of his cock. Those fingers began to spread the wetness they found there around the glans, gently sliding back the foreskin farther.
House closed his eyes. He wasn't able to do much else, really. He couldn't have formed a coherent word to save his life just now, his leg was cranky enough that he had no desire to get up, and being passive was much easier than trying to figure out what to do with the arousal that was building inside him like a stoked furnace. So he tilted his head back into the soft pillow, savoring the cool bedsheets against his back. And God damn if Wilson wasn't making him even harder with soft, teasing strokes down his shaft. His shudder took him by surprise and he gave a choked moan.
Wilson smiled slightly as House's hands clenched white-knuckled into the bedcovers. He knew House wasn't aware of doing it, because it wouldn't have occurred at all otherwise. House worked so hard to give nothing away.
"You don't have to do this," House suddenly said in a strangled voice. "Stop being so damn giving. Just take what you want."
"I am taking what I want," Wilson said, his eyes like flint. House stared at him, shocked by the intensity in Wilson's dark eyes.
"Oh," House said stupidly. "Okay. Don't let me...stop you..." Wilson's light caress reached his balls, curved under them to stroke slowly. His eyes slid shut again. "Oh God."
There was something incredibly sublime about Wilson's touch. Much like Wilson himself, House reflected. He could feel questions in the slowness of it. The caresses were not just leisurely for the sake of drawing things out. Wilson was asking him things. Why are you letting me do this? Why are you demanding it? How many years has this been building? What makes you moan? What makes you scream? How can I make you cry out my name? House finally put one hand behind his head, under the pillow, because clenching there was less conspicuous than clenching into the bedcovers every time Wilson's stroking moved him. There were sudden fingertips on his biceps, close to the side of his face due to the position of his hand beneath the pillow. He opened his eyes in surprise. The question in the palm over his arm was in Wilson's eyes too: How can you have no comprehension of how beautiful you are?
"I'm not," House murmured, responding to that unspoken comment. Wilson smiled slightly, contentedly.
"Yes, you are," Wilson said. He moved forward then, stretching out to lie half on top of House so as to avoid putting weight on his bad leg. Wilson was looking down at him, one hand soft in his hair and the other stroking feather-light on his hip. Wilson kissed him slowly, lazily, delving into his unresisting mouth.
But it wasn't merely unresisting this time. When Wilson drew back, House tried to follow and made a noise of complaint at the loss of the kiss. With that small reaction, House suddenly became completely invested. He had wanted to do this as a gift to Wilson, as an atonement that he couldn't speak in words. Now he realized how much he wanted it for himself, how warm and comforting Wilson was. Heat surged deep in his gut and he arched his head back in a silent plea.
Wilson bent to nip House's exposed throat, drawn to it by the sight of House deliberately baring it to him. A soft moan vibrated against his lips, the tremor spreading outward so that Wilson felt it down the length of House's body.
"What do you want?" Wilson murmured against his skin. House let out a slow breath before answering.
"This isn't about what I want," he said, his voice wavering only slightly.
"It is if I want it to be," Wilson replied, and House gave a low snort of amusement.
"No changing the rules in the middle."
"There are rules?" Wilson asked, his voice just innocent enough that it made House shudder. His tongue traced a wet line from his throat up over House's chin, finding lips slack with pleasure. He pulled back just enough to look at House's face. The older man looked utterly unselfconscious in that moment, aroused and trusting.
"Should have known better than to think you'd abide by them anyway," House said, his voice low and raspy. He reached up, unthinking, to stroke fingers back through Wilson's hair.
"I just want to know what makes you feel good," Wilson said softly, closing his eyes briefly at the gentle touch of House's hand. "I like seeing you happy." House chuckled raggedly.
"What you're doing right now doesn't suck," he said, gazing at Wilson with undisguised lust, his pupils so large it almost obscured the color of his eyes.
"Hmm. I suppose I could," Wilson mused, his eyes sparkling. His left hand was down at House's hip, drawing slow, curving lines over the smooth flesh of House's lower abdomen. "Suck, that is." He loved the way House's eyes widened.
"You think I'd say no to that?" House wondered. Wilson shrugged slightly, pretending indifference. His fingertips found the base of House's erection, delving into the coarse curls there. He felt House tense pleasurably.
"You did imply that this isn't usually the team you bat for."
"Correction. It's not a team I've ever batted for," House said, although he sounded completely undisturbed by this fact just now.
"Which is why I want to make absolutely sure we're on the same page here," Wilson murmured.
"I told you to take what you want," House said, his stare intent and serious. "I mean it."
"Do you really," Wilson said, more to himself than to House. His idly caressing hand closed suddenly around the shaft of House's cock and gave a firm, twisting stroke. House arched back with a choked sigh, squirming under the touch as if repressing the urge to just thrust hard into Wilson's fist. Wilson smiled slightly, reveling in the sight. House had made the offer, but he was going to make Wilson fight for every moan and whisper and curse. Wilson wondered if he should be disturbed by the thrill the prospect gave him.
He gave House's cock another stroke, and this time House wasn't able to suppress his reaction. He thrust upward into the grasp, seeking. A heartfelt whimper followed, a sound of surrender in the face of something too delicious to refuse. It had been much too long since he had been pleasured with such care and attention. Blowjobs were their own sort of indulgence. But the touch of a hand -- the sensuous teasing he was getting from Wilson just now -- was more intimate in many ways. Part of it was the way Wilson was looking at him, drinking in everything in House's face, every twitch and shudder.
Continued in Part 2