Chapter Text
Mouth feeling gummy, leg protesting, House resurfaces. He is still feeling dazed, House seeks out Wilson, who is reading the in-flight magazine right next to him. There is some movie playing in front of House, its characters jumping into a pool.
“Kidnapper,” House grunts out with difficulty. Wilson smiles before turning to him.
“It’s only fair. Also, you received an unprecedented number of death threats from your colleagues recently, so Cuddy sort of insisted.” He holds up an unopened-looking bottle of water, holding it tantalizingly under House’s nose.
“I can’t believe they let you take an unconscious person on a flight,” House retorts, mentally weighing the urge of his thirstiness against the effort it would take to raise his hands to take the water. But he is getting clearer every second, so when he finally makes grabby fingers, it’s not too bad.
“I’ve already had to have papers for all your Vicodin, so it wasn’t actually that big of a deal,” Wilson shrugged, looking unrepentant. “Turns out nobody wants to bother disabled, overworked doctors going on their winter holiday. Also, you looked mostly conscious, and you were answering my questions, so you probably just forgot.”
“Medical malpractice at its lowest,” House mutters, attention pulled away by one of the actresses on screen in a tiny pink bikini. Perhaps this is salvageable. Maybe they can both get with foreign beauties of the female kind.
He just has to be nasty enough so Wilson leaves him be.
He could start with throwing up in his lap. He’s only feeling vaguely nauseous, but maybe he can work up to it.
House falls back asleep at some point while planning his vomiting revenge. The next time he comes to, Wilson is reading a paperback romance he probably brought at the airport.
“Mggh,” House says, which of course means both ‘you absolute girl’ and also ‘how many hours left of this torture?’. His thigh is making his back hurt, and he’s absolutely miserable.
“I’ll give you your pill if you eat something,” Wilson says, eyes subtly cataloging him.
“Fuck you,” House barks, shoving a tomato of his leftover salad into his mouth, then holding his hand out. If Wilson’s playing with him, or if he tries to delay him further, he’ll hit him. Thankfully, Wilson sees his murderous intent in his eyes, and he gets the orange relief out of his pocket.
“Two!” House demands.
“Okay, but eat some more, please. I’ve ordered you some sandwiches.”
House is too drained to put up much of a fight. The placebo effect of swallowing his little white friends eases his pain somewhat, and he nibbles on the things Wilson pushes in front of him, plied with the promise of some shitty on-board alcohol after.
“I hate you,” he tells Wilson once he no longer has to grit his teeth.
Wilson offers his wine-glass for a clink.
“Happy holidays, Greg.”
“Fuck you very much, Jimmy.” House mocks.
“All right, I’ll just call you grumpy-pants, then.”
Besides the weird signs (not that House doesn’t speak some rudimentary German, but he’s ignoring that to be difficult and to see Wilson embarrassed) Austria is really quite beautiful. Small, quaint, snowy, and their driver is chatty in broken English, recommending them the Christmas market and the best kebab in town.
The resort is very picturesque too, their receptionist a young blonde with a cute accent (slightly too young for Wilson, she must be working on her winter holiday) but House only wants a bed, and not a tour of all the facilities. Who cares where the indoor pool is? It’s not like it’s not clearly signposted in English too on the elevator buttons, what's the point in moving around to look at them?
“Do you have a wheelchair?” Wilson asks after his second (okay, maybe forth) rude comment.
“Just give me the key and show him everything.”
The Austrian receptionist doesn’t seem very put off, perhaps eager to be left alone with the more handsome doctor. Wilson is more hesitant to leave him to his own devices, but House ignores him and limps away confidently.
He needs to wait for them to get in the fucking elevator and disappear before changing direction and going to the right way for their room.
He is annoyed and keyed up and has nothing on him but his cane and the winter coat Wilson grabbed for him, which is too hot now for that he’s inside. They got a double bed, which House ignores in favor of the pamphlet on the pillow which tells him the Wi-Fi password, checks the old but functioning-looking fireplace, the TV channels and the hours for the sauna and the massage-times.
It’s not a bad idea. He puts the TV on the only porn channel it has, turns the volume up, and picks up too many towels to locate the masseurs.
Two hours later, House is close to putty in Sofie’s capable hands. He knows he needs to get his Vicodin back from Wilson at the first possible opportunity, but the full body massage has got the aches of the travel out of his body, and for the first time he thinks maybe it’s not the most unfortunate thing ever that Wilson brought him with on this holiday.
When he gets back to their room, relaxed to the point of being half-asleep but strangely re-vitalized at the same time, Wilson is sitting in their bed - nibbling on whatever he ordered from room service. Looks a bit like carrots, mashed potatoes and some sort of meat. House feels like making a gay joke about how Wilson’d better not molest him in his sleep, but thinks better of it at the last moment. Bit too close to home. Also, his bottle of Vicodin is on the side of the bed that will be his - the one closer to the en-suit bathroom. Damn Wilson and his considerate fucking empathy.
“Thanks for the surprise,” Wilson says offhandedly, waving at the television when House gives him a questioning sound. “I love to start my stay at a new place by explaining to barely legal girls how my best friend is a porn-addicted fiend.”
“Next time I’ll make sure to be here with my hands in my pants,” House promises with a salacious grin, and enjoys how Wilson huffs, then changes the topic, the tips of his ears coloring in embarrassment.
“So dinner is in two hours, buffet-style on the ground floor, then I’m assuming you’d want to sleep in? I’m thinking we could go discover the activities tomorrow morning? She already recommended a few things I wouldn’t mind checking out.”
“Hm,” House says nonchalantly, sitting himself down on top of the covers and stealing away the controller, navigating to the channel that is the next most likely to piss Wilson off (German cartoons).
Wilson refuses to rise to his bait (it’s early, and he is riding the high of House’s abduction still) and continues his book while House takes his Vicodin and steals some of his food. It’s surprisingly nice and domestic.
They get to dinner too early, so not a lot of eligible women cross their way yet. There is a Spanish family with four annoying kids and an older French couple, but they are all occupied and Wilson doesn’t seem eager to start up conversations with them, entertaining House instead with his nurses’ new threats on House’s life and body parts, which they chuckle about while trying out various bratwursts. Wilson also has a theory about how Chase and Cameron are managing their most recent break up, and House realizes that annoying urges to kiss Wilson aside, he’s really missed this - in the last two weeks they barely ever ate together.
He is in a good enough mood to be convinced of a swim in the indoor pool (because Wilson packed him even his swim shorts, the absolute menace), and he ends up spending the whole time looking at him, wet and carefree and so fucking pretty. They splash each other like unruly puppies or pupils on a break from swimming-lessons, and House wants nothing more than to push him against the side of the pool and rub their bodies against each other. Thankfully his leg is distracting enough that he doesn’t get an erection, but it’s a near thing. Despite what House initially said, the extra weight looks fantastic on Wilson, filling out his previously skinny form, and the wet blue briefs he’s wearing shows the outline of his cock clearly.
House puts his head under the water and tries to swim properly to block him out.
They are absolutely knackered by the time they get back to their room. Wilson tries to convince him that he should shower, wash off the chlorine and dry his hair, but House ignores him, stripping off his wet swim trunks (Wilson sputters and escapes to the bathroom, slamming the door shut), and barely puts on a clean pair of underwear before climbing into bed. The water took every last of his energy out of him, and their room is toasty warm, the bedding fresh and soft. He is out in seconds.
He wakes once in the middle of the night to Wilson snoring softly next to him. He is a bit warm, but when he pushes one of his feet out from under the covers, that’s enough to balance him out. He falls back asleep.
Next time he wakes it’s with a start - his leg hurts. He dry-swallows some Vicodin, but it doesn’t go down as well as usual, so he takes himself to the bathroom - step after unsteady, agonizing step. Wilson, who is both an angel, a perfect maid and someone waaaay too unconcerned with touching House’s stuff has put out his toothbrush and toothpaste, and even House’s slippers. He never uses these at home, but puts on one on his good leg as the tiles are cold. He brushes his teeth - convinces himself to shower, because he’s sweaty and smells like pain. The hot water feels nice.
House knows that he should make some plans for the day, or maybe disappear entirely to force Wilson to spend some time actually sporting and getting to know women - but when he steps back into their room, Wilson is still asleep, face turned towards him, looking so innocent, so cozy. House has to lie back and stare at him, debating if it would be creepier to touch his hair or his jaw. His hand makes half of the journey before he’s lulled back to sleep.
Wilson is up and dressed and drinking something that smells like blueberries next to him.
“I’ve got you a coffee,” he is told when he wants to complain and turn around to sleep more (or maybe just pretend until Wilson gives up and leaves).
“How is it a holiday if you don’t even let me sleep in?” He argues.
“Oh, you are not here on a holiday. You’ve been kidnapped, remember?” Wilson asks as if commenting on the weather. Looking very proud to have House staring at him. “House, you are only here to keep me company while I’m having a holiday. It’s the least you can do after forcing me to spend a ridiculous amount of my money.”
“Didn’t you buy everything here with my credit card?” House asks, suspicious. He should get his phone back, there might be a case he’s missing back at home, especially with all the time difference.
“And I’ll continue to do so. So come on, I bet you can eat more eggs for breakfast than I can.”
Ugh, what a pathetic attempt to get him to cooperate. Breakfast does sound good, though, and maybe this time there will be women to thrust Wilson onto.
“That’s not true. Fatso.”
Wilson just rolls his eyes at him, swatting at his shoulder lightly once he passes him on his way to the bathroom.
Despite House taking way too long in the bathroom in hopes of Wilson getting bored and leaving without him, Wilson’s still around, lounging on a red armchair, reading his cheap airport romance.
“Well come on, then,” House limps past him in an already sour mood, “I always have to wait for you.” He grumbles while Wilson takes care to put his bookmark in and get to his side.
“I’ve been thinking about going tobogganing today, or maybe snowboarding? What do you feel like?” Wilson asks while they are collecting their breakfast.
“Like I’m definitely not going to do either one of those things.”
“Why not?” Wilson asks, clearly too distracted by the yogurt options to use his mind.
House hits him on the leg with his stick.
“Ow!”
“That reason enough for you?”
“It shouldn’t stop you from trying anything. I asked about it yesterday. There are… measures we can take to make all the activities more disability-friendly.”
“Call me a cripple in front of everybody, would you?” House cries out loudly, drawing the attention of everyone in the room, and he takes his leg, his cane, and his good self away from Wilson to get some coffee. Not only is sporting prime partner-meeting territory, the very last thing he wants to do is step out into the cold, no matter how picturesque the snowy mountain looks.
Also, tobogganing? What is he, eight? It hurts his leg just thinking about it. For the entire time they are here, House will not set foot outside.
Wilson knows better than to force the issue over breakfast, and he disappears fairly quickly after that too to somewhere, while House is hesitating between going to the sauna or flicking through the channels again to see if they have any more English-speaking programs besides the news. He could even have another massage? Or a nice wank, provided that the only porn station is somehow inspiring. Maybe daydrinking. But no, that would look too much like he was moping that Wilson abandoned him after just one try, and crucially, he isn’t doing that.
Wilson actually turns up to sabotage his news/jack off plans, red in the face and rubbing his hands together, like he’s just been outside.
“How about another swim? I enjoyed myself yesterday.”
House shrugs.
“Go for it.”
“I’ve come to spend time with you, House. Hence the whole kidnapping thing.” Wilson steps closer to him and grabs his arm, which shuts House up completely. “I’ll drag you to something, I don’t care if you’re kicking and screaming- well. Screaming. While we do it.”
Wilson is so close. If House tries to analyze this situation, the out of the ordinary arm grab and the dig at how his kicking days are over are at odds with the way Wilson is staring at him.
“We’re finally gonna do it?” House whispers, entirely wrong tone of voice, way too husky, more horny than joking. Wilson lets go of his arm immediately, and he gets even redder in the face. But if anything, his gaze is harder. He is clearly not backing down.
“Not if you don’t spend time with me, we won’t. So choose while I’m still giving you options to choose from.”
They spend some time staring at each other - a battle of wills. House is calculating if he should push it further - or leave it for now, lull Wilson into a sense of winning, only to sneak out on him later.
“Sauna.” Is the only word he says, in the end.
Sauna was a terrible idea. Turns out there is a sight worse than Wilson in swim-trunks. It’s Wilson in swim-trunks, sweating.
An older man and a younger woman (clearly a couple) join them in the hot, humid cubicle, and the woman looks appreciably at Wilson behind her husband/boyfriend. She is decorative, too. House knows he was waiting for exactly this - he needs to find an excuse to slip out.
But Wilson is looking at him, not the silicone tits. He is wearing that expression when he just remembered something funny, and is trying not to burst into laughter.
He has to ask. Make him laugh. Then, he’ll go.
Correction. The worst sight ever is Wilson in swimming trunks, sweating and laughing with him. House cannot make himself leave, and eventually, the couple do instead.
Wilson dares him to jump into the pool. House does, ignoring the countless ‘no jumping’ signs. He jumps after him, too, and they are grinning at each other with tiny bubbles surrounding them, tickling their bodies, and Wilson is close enough to kiss, maybe just this once, in this perfect moment when they’re both so happy and so far away from home…
House swallows, and swims away.
Wilson doesn’t let him go to sleep after lunch, and steers him out the door again after grabbing their clothes.
“I’ve got a little surprise for us, actually.”
“Ooooh, hookers?”
“Almost.” Wilson is actively pushing him forward and towards the exit.
When they are finally there (just behind the main building, not too far, but House of course complained at every step), House can’t quite categorize what he sees.
There are two thigh-high walls made out of snow, maybe ten feet apart, and behind each wall a wooden chair, facing each other.
“Welcome to the sitting down snow fight,” Wilson announces with a flair that reminds House of their favorite Monster Truck Commentator Guy. “The rules are simple. You are not allowed to stand up from the chair until all of your snowballs have been fired. And try not to aim at the eyes. May the best man win.”
House can see it now, the row of neatly packed, pre-made balls. He checks Wilson’s hands next, but they are not red at all.
“You paid someone to do this?”
“Two teenagers. They were happy with the pocket money.”
House is deciding between throwing a tantrum for the clearly disabled-friendly activity and the pull of the senseless violence, which he really likes. With the distance between them, it's perfectly safe too, no chance of rolling around the snow homo-erotically together.
“Which one’s yours?” Just so House can accuse him of trying to influence the game.
“You choose.” Wilson says simply. His nose and face are turning a delightful pink, but that must be the wind.
House hisses as he lowers himself into one of the chairs. It’s absolutely freezing and slightly damp too. The snow has started slowly swirling in the air, and House is already an engaged strategist. Attack the wall first, or aim for Wilson’s chest right away?
Tragically, it’s great fun. It’s harder to not move from the chair than House first assumed, and of course he cheats by aiming at Wilson’s head from time to time, but he is only being a menace gently. Who thought tossing that red ball around all day would give him such exceptional skills with *cough cough* balls. House bites that comment back, struggles to change it to a breast-shaped pun.
Wilson’s holding his own, and they are wet and laughing, screeching at each other with delight. By the time the snowballs run out, House is freezing, his hands are so cold they actually feel hot - and he can’t remember the last time he felt so carefree, so full of joy it is warming him from the inside. He doesn’t even protest when Wilson drapes his arm over his back to help him back into the hotel.
The sudden heat of their bedroom lulls House into a trance-like tiredness, and he lets Wilson fuss around him, pull his soaked clothing off (House should make a comment about the undressing but thinks better of it at the last second, in case he couldn’t control the longing in his voice. He focuses on the annoying feeling of his itchy feet and hands as they warm up) and Wilson pushes him to the sofa in front of the fireplace that’s been started by some staff in their absence. It clashes with the modern look of the hotel somewhat, but who doesn’t like actual fire?
Wilson tosses him a thick soft blanket, and leaves House in front of the fire with only his underwear on. He probably disappears into the bathroom to take a hot shower and shrug off his own clothes, but House can’t be bothered to check.
He is swimming on a cloud of endorphins, and on his left there’s fingerfood and rich, festive-smelling mulled wine which he starts on. It’s so sweet his lips stick together, but strangely perfect still. He hasn’t felt this good in years. Exhausted physically, but not of his chronic pain, mind slower than usual. He actually lowers himself to the thick carpet to crawl in front of the fire, feeling grounded and not giving a fuck about how he’s going to get up for once.
Then Wilson is close again, joining him in front of the fire on the plush carpet and drinking from his cup without asking. Putting bites of food between those red lips.
House teases him without thinking,
“This almost looks like a seduction, Jimmy. You treat all of your ladies like this?”
Wilson swallows heavily, and when he meets his gaze, House’s heart actually skips a beat. Has Wilson ever looked at him like he wants to eat him alive before?
“Don’t start something you are too chickenshit to finish,” Wilson tells him quietly, but he doesn’t really wait for a response, gaining speed and getting more combative. “What are you so afraid of, Greg? You look at me like all you want is to climb into my bed, yet you don’t even mention the bed we’re sharing, in fact I think there’s been like a close to 80% decline of gay jokes ever since we arrived here. Is it not funny anymore, because it hits too close to home?”
House is like a deer in headlights, frozen and staring at him. They don’t talk like this. They never…
“We came to find you a new girlfriend.” He mutters, trying to hide away from Wilson’s intense gaze. He takes the cup back, drains the rest of the too sweet wine.
“What if the girlfriend I want… is more of a grumpy diagnostitian?” Wilson asks hesitantly, voice cracking, and when House looks up, he sees it.
“You’re terrified.”
“You’re terrified, too.” Wilson counters, but he smiles at him wryly, and they share a look of understanding like only they can. “Why not try, House? We’re so far from home. We don’t have to tell anyone if we fail.”
No problem, of course, it would just break House’s heart. Before Wilson can read that off his face he leans forward to kiss him quickly. Not like he could keep himself from experiencing it now, even if only once. He’s not good at resisting the good kind of drugs, and Wilson’s lips are top of the line.
It’s way too easy to lose themselves in each other. No lover caressed House with such attention before, no one he could tell his stupid ball-inspired jokes to has ever laughed at them between kisses.
House takes them both in his hands, works them with reverence while staring at Wilson’s perfect waistline. It’s even prettier than his cock, which strikes him as hilarious. Wilson is ticklish under his right armpit, but not under the left. House adores the smell behind his earlobe, and can’t wait to put his nose absolutely everywhere on his body. Now their growing passions limit him to exploring Wilson’s lovely parts with only his hands. He tries to not lose his mind completely at the sounds Wilson makes, at the way he gropes at him, how his kisses are rough and demanding and how he makes dirty comments into House’s ears.
To orgasm is to die a little, the French say - but the only thing House truly mourns is how the post-sex clarity makes them both oversensitive. He wants to do everything he didn’t in the past long, long years, but he is in a middle aged, disabled body, and he is restless, and this will go horribly, House will stay House and Wilson will lose his previously endless patience, and and and…
Wilson pokes him in the middle of his stomach. Somehow he already looks half asleep.
“Rest that big brain. Everything is going to be fine.”
He drapes himself possessively over House, who can’t help but believe him for now.
Well. Fine. If Wilson says so.
the end.
Happy Holidays! :)