1. Straight from the shower, freshly scrubbed and carefully coiffed as an overgrown Boy Scout, and smelling clean and soapy from the body wash he keeps trying to scold House into adopting so he won’t leave scum in the tub.
Some mornings House can’t help tackling him in his towel, and if Wilson’s not in too much of a hurry, he’ll let House run his hands appreciatively over the smooth, milky shoulders and the soft slope of his belly.
And if he’s really lucky, House gets to come: crying out, curled around him, nose buried in the nape of his neck.
2. During the day, in House’s office, ostensibly on an oncology consult, but actually because he’s a cock-teasing, manipulative bitch.
Wilson lounges in the doorway, all deliberate lip-licks and come-hither looks, then acts all offended when he’s challenged to put out or stay out. The more he frowns and self-righteously resists, the more House wants to shove him up against his desk and fuck him until he howls.
But the instant he rises from his chair, of course Wilson recalls some kind of cancer doctor crap that can’t wait, leaving only the faintest hint of Cool Water to linger long behind.
3. Straggling home from work after an especially tiring afternoon, toeing off sticky shoes and collapsing on the couch.
If he’s feeling extra generous, House digs his fingers into the rigid shoulders until Wilson relaxes almost imperceptibly and releases a wistful sigh, then swiftly unknots the tasteless tie and tosses it away. The sweat-stained, lemon-sharp shirt soon follows, and by now Wilson is usually aroused enough to unbuckle their belts and slide out of his slacks.
But if House isn’t, he merely massages his own leg with a grimace, and Wilson obligingly merges hands and mouths. The end is the same.
4. In the evening after a martini or two or three, happily and pliably tipsy, and openly wondering whether “it” will work.
Doesn’t matter – when Wilson closes wet lips around House’s cock, the sight of his flushed face and half-lidded eyes more than makes up for any clumsiness.
Later he’ll return the favor, lying between Wilson’s legs, not minding that the booze has left his friend horny but only half-hard, and basically unable to help. House loves to look at him like this, loose-limbed and languorous, with that slightly goofy grin that rounds into a crisply juniper-scented O when he’s kissed.
5. Just as he’s falling asleep, when the worried wrinkle between his heavy brows smooths itself out and his head and hands warm, sending a waft of his scent over to House on the other side of the bed.
Some nights the pain is too bad or his brain too busy, and he just rolls away and abandons the bedroom to walk it off alone.
Some nights he shifts carefully closer, inhaling the complex mixture of mint, cedar, and musk, until he drifts off with his face pressed to Wilson’s pajama sleeve, his arm wrapped lightly around the other man’s waist.